Author: Laurence Dahners
Date: 2022-07-21T18:00:00+00:00
Description: This hard Sci-Fi novel is the second book of the “Time-Flow Stories,” a series of tales about Witt Ryllin, a young man who abruptly gains the ability to psychically control the flow of time. It’s also the fifth story in a combined series of tales that begins with the novelette “Porter” and the two “Blindspot Stories.” In this book, by luck of the draw, Witt and Hax Buchry become roommates in their college athletic dorm. Through that connection, Witt meets Hax’s sister Roni (you’ve hopefully met Roni and Hax and learned about their talents in the Blindspot books). Elsewhere in the dorm, Witt en

Talents　and　Tyrants

The　Time-Flow　Stories

#2

Laurence　E　Dahners

Copyright　2022

Laurence　E　Dahners

Kindle　Edition

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

Other Books and Series
by Laurence E Dahners

Series

The Ell Donsaii series

The Vaz series

The Bonesetter series

The Blindspot series

The Proton Field series

The Hyllis family series

The Time Flow series

Single books (not in series)

The Transmuter’s Daughter

Six Bits (a collection of short length stories)

Shy Kids Can Make Friends Too

The Little Redheaded Boy and His Flying Saucer

For the most up to date information go to:

Laurence E Dahners website

Or the Amazon Author page

Table of Contents

Other Books and Series

Table of Contents

Prologue

Recaps

Our Story Begins

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

Author’s Afterword

Acknowledgments

Other Books and Series

Author’s Note

Though this book can “stand-alone,” please understand that it’s part of an overall series of stories that weaves in some of my other books.

If you’d like to read them in temporal order:

1. The first story in the combined series would be the novelette “Porter” which can be found in my collection of short-length stories called Six Bits

2. The second story would be The Girl They Couldn’t See

3. Third would be The Boy Who Couldn’t Miss

4. Fourth would be Fast Time at Aldmont High (The first book in the “Time-Flow” series)

5. Fifth would be Talents and Tyrants, (The book in your hand, which is the second book in the “Time-Flow” series)

6. Sixth would be the third book in the Time-Flow series (not yet written at this time)

7. Last would be the short story Guitar Girl, also found in my collection of short-length stories called Six Bits

I’ve minimized the repetition of explanations that would be redundant to the earlier books in order to provide a better reading experience for those who’ve read those stories.

Prologue

Recaps

For those of you who’d like some refreshers about the characters’ talents:

Regarding Allie (from the short story “Porter”):

She has a psychic power that allows her to perceive within objects and people and to form small ports from one nearby location to another. This ability will not be evident in this book but was present in “Porter” and will be again in the third time-flow book.

Regarding Roni (from “The Girl They Couldn’t See”):

Her telepathic talent allows her to keep people from noticing her (or other things/people), essentially making them invisible.

Regarding Hax (from “The Boy Who Couldn’t Miss”):

His talents include hyper-coordination, letting him throw and shoot with astonishing accuracy. Also, he has an ability to telepathically convince people of things. This gives him a powerful step up in leadership.

Witt’s talent in the Time-Flow Stories. This is quite complex. You don’t need to fully understand it to read the books but in case you’d like to better comprehend, here’s a summary of what Witt learned about it in the first Time-Flow book Fast Time at Aldmont High:

- He can speed (fast-time) or slow (slow-time) his personal time, allowing him (and objects or people he includes) to move very fast or very slow.

- When he goes into fast-time, colors shift toward red (red-shift) because light waves arrive at his eyes farther apart (lower frequency).

- He can tell how fast he’s going by the color shift of his violet school wristband (as long as it isn’t in his time bubble with him).

- At a 20% speed increase, the wrist band turns light blue-green. At 80% it’s red.

- When he’s going over twice the normal speed (2X - or more than 200%) the world goes dark (because, in our environment down here on Earth, there isn’t much UV light to be redshifted into visible light) and he can’t see the wristband.

- There is a bubble or transition zone surrounding him in which time slows back down to the 1X speed of the rest of the world.

- He can change the size/thickness of that bubble.

- That bubble can glitch electronics like computers/phones because different components of the computer are working at different speeds.

- He can go as fast as 400X normal.

- If he walks at 3 mph while at 400X, he’s traveling at 1200 mph, well over the speed of sound, however, his bubble muffles sound and prevents sonic booms.

- He can use a flashlight to see in the darkness he encounters when he’s beyond 2X.

- The light from that flashlight gets blue-shifted up into the UV and X-ray ranges as it leaves his bubble but is so low power that it should be harmless.

- When the light from that flashlight bounces back to him through the bubble, it red-shifts back down to the normal light range so he can see it. However, because UV and X-ray energy is absorbed/reflected differently from visible light, what he sees appears somewhat bizarre.

Please understand that this tale takes place in a world that parallels but doesn’t exactly replicate our own. Though Cyreea has similarities to Syria, the Union is similar to the United States and Ruchia resembles Russia, etcetera, they are not identical. I hope you can accept that this is fiction, intended to address similar situations, but that these are not historically or politically accurate representations of events, people, or places in our world.

Our Story Begins

Reiter’s News Service, Damakus, Cyreea— Today, Barras Anshed, President of Cyreea, issued an edict banishing all foreign journalists from his country.

The timing suggests this action is in response to intense media coverage of his security forces’ recent torture and killing of a small group of opposition fighters who attacked his convoy.

After killing them, his military police subsequently desecrated their bodies and dragged them through the streets. This show of brutality appears to have been intended to cow the populace. Instead, it seems to have inflamed even more vehement protests.

Since then, the protesters have used catapults to launch some Molotov-cocktail-type bombs into his presidential compound from neighboring tenements. While this attack was hardly more than symbolic, the Anshed regime responded brutally once again. After the catapult bombing incident, Anshed had his air force drop bombs that demolished the buildings where the catapults had been located. This killed hundreds of noncombatant civilians, many of them children, who had nothing to do with the attack.

Can no one stop his reign of terror?

Chapter One

Senior English was Witt’s first class on his last day of high school. Unsurprisingly, his classmates were rowdy.

Ms. Tierney, their English teacher, was having trouble getting them to settle down.

Everyone halted at a banging sound. It sounded like it came from down the hall. For a moment, Witt wondered what could’ve made such banging. Then he abruptly found himself in the dark. At first, he felt a little irritated to realize his subconscious had once again shifted him into fast-time.

Finding himself abruptly in fast-time without consciously intending it had been happening fairly often and he wondered whether he’d ever learn to keep it from happening. But after a few moments’ thought, he realized such subconscious decisions had almost always turned out to have been a good idea.

What could it be this time? he wondered…

Gunshots?! Was that banging the sound of a freaking school shooting? On our last day?!

He'd been about to take himself out of fast-time on the basis that he couldn’t see a threat in his English classroom that justified living at high time multiples. Now he realized that—if those were gunshots—being in fast-time could be incredibly important. Not just to keep me safe, but to stop the shooter if I can.

While leaning down to his backpack to find his headlight by feel, Witt made sure he was maxed out at about 400X fast-time.

At 400X, he didn’t need to rush, so he paused for a second, thinking about how he should approach this kind of problem. Thinking about the school’s training in how to deal with shooters, he realized he should get out of the classroom before Ms. Tierney closed and locked the door.

Getting up and out the door before she got to the door was trivial at his speed. Part way there, he realized that even if she had closed and locked the door, he would’ve been able to unlock it and leave, so it wouldn’t have been an insurmountable problem. But I wouldn’t have been able to lock it again after I left, and if I couldn’t stop the shooter, that would’ve left the classroom unsecured against entry.

Once he was out in the hall, Witt realized he had a non-trivial issue in that he had no idea where the shooter was. The best way to find the guy would be to go back to normal time and listen for the next shot. Unfortunately, that next shot might kill someone, so he considered such a strategy a non-starter.

Am I gonna have to search every room, looking for someone with a gun? he wondered, shining his headlight around as he started down the hall. Witt walked past a kid he thought was a freshman, apparently frozen—the way everybody looked when Witt was in fast-time. However, Witt got the distinct impression the kid had stopped walking before Witt went to fast-time. Wait! he thought, turning to shine his headlight on the kid’s face. The freshman looked weird because of the way the light from Witt’s headlight moved up in frequency to become UV and X-rays as they left his fast-time bubble. Those high-energy photons absorbed or reflected from human faces differently than ordinary light, making people look somewhat bizarre.

However, by now Witt had seen a lot of people from within fast-time. He didn’t have trouble recognizing the startled look on the kid’s face. He heard the banging, Witt thought, and recognized them as gunshots. And from the way he’s looking, the sound came from down the hall on the right. Realizing the kid’s shoulders were slightly turned, Witt thought, He’s about to pivot and run like hell in the other direction.

Witt’s impulse was to run toward the shooter—but he knew the increment in speed running would give him over the 400X he was already traveling would be inconsequential. So, he walked to avoid stupid accidents. This also let him check the faces of two other kids who’d been out in the hall. Their eyes also aimed down the hall to the right.

There were two rooms in the direction the kids were looking. Witt stepped to the first one and expanded his time bubble to include the door so he could pull it open.

Whoa! he thought, stopping suddenly. If the shooter’s fired a bullet toward the door, Witt realized, I might not’ve heard the gunshot because of the muffling effect of my time bubble. After a moment’s thought, he cast a slow-time barrier on the other side of the door in case there was already a bullet coming his way. Once he pulled the door open, Witt studied the barrier to see if a bullet was stuck in it.

Not seeing any, he looked around the room.

The students were all turned to look behind them.

Toward the wall between themselves and the next room.

The sounds of shooting came from the next room, Witt thought, releasing the barrier, closing the door, and stepping to his left. “Science,” he read on the door’s plaque.

Witt cast a slow-time barrier on the other side of that next door and gingerly pulled it open. He examined the barrier for bullets in transit and found it empty. His eyes swept the room. This class looked like frozen pandemonium.

The first thing Witt noticed as his headlight swept the scene, was the way a number of kids were suspended in midair, halted in the act of diving to the floor. Others leaned back in their seats, looks of terror and horror on their faces, evidently unable to think of anything better to do than cower away from whatever was happening at the front of the room.

Witt’s eye caught on one who’d leaned back, holding his backpack in front of his chest and head. That’s not an unreasonable strategy if it’s got thick books in it, Witt thought.

Next, he focused on a big, athletic-looking young man, up out of his chair and charging toward the front. For a moment, he thought the guy might be the perpetrator but then realized the guy didn’t have a gun. He’s gonna try to stop the shooter, Witt thought. Gotta respect that.

Then Witt’s eye found a guy in a wide stance at the front of the room, between Witt and the teacher’s desk, his back to Witt. From the position of the guy’s shoulders, Witt felt sure he held a gun extended out in front of him.

Witt started in that direction.

The guy’s shoulders had turned a little to the left. He’s seen the student charging the front, Witt thought, and he’s pivoting to shoot him too.

Witt strode forward and to the shooter’s right side. Seeing someone on the floor, presumably shot, Witt’s mind hiccupped a moment on the hope it wasn’t Mr. Teller, the pleasant teacher who’d taught Witt sophomore Biology.

With a grimace, Witt focused back on the critical issue of the moment.

Seeing that, so far, the gun hadn’t turned far enough to threaten the kid charging the front, Witt took a moment to think. He wanted to get the gun out of the guy’s hands. In the past, he’d performed such a task by pulling his long sleeve down over his hand to keep from leaving fingerprints, but it was almost summer and Witt had on a short-sleeved shirt.

He grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt, planning to pull it off and use the whole shirt to handle the gun, but then saw a box of Kleenex on the teacher’s desk. Expanding his bubble around the Kleenex, Witt plucked out several and stepped to the shooter’s side. He grabbed the shooter’s wrist with his left hand and draped a couple of Kleenex over the gun’s barrel before taking it in his right hand. Witt expanded his bubble around the guy’s arm, bringing it into fast-time. This temporally disconnected the arm from the shooter’s brain and the arm went flaccid. Witt lowered the arm about six inches away from the gun before removing the bubble so the arm went back into real-time and stiffened up.

Now, the gun, Witt thought.

Using the Kleenex to handle everything, the next steps took what felt to Witt like ten minutes. He put the gun on safe, then fumbled the magazine out of it. He stripped the bullets out of the magazine and put them in his pocket. Then he racked the slide to get the bullet out of the chamber and put it in his pocket as well. Putting the magazine back in the gun, Witt put the gun up beside the shooter’s hand, though not in it, and let the pistol go back to real-time. Letting go, he took his hand and the Kleenex away, leaving the gun floating next to the guy’s hand.

Witt felt amused at himself, because, even though he’d done this kind of thing many times by now, he still had a subliminal feeling that the gun should fall to the floor when he let go of it.

In fact, it was falling, just so slowly relative to Witt’s 400X time-frame that the half second it would take it to reach the floor—falling at a rate of 32 ft/s2 (9.8 m/s2)—would seem to Witt to be 200 seconds (three minutes and twenty seconds).

Witt put the Kleenex in his pocket while sweeping the front of the room with his eyes for a moment, trying to figure out whether the guy had shot anyone besides the teacher. Seeing no one else, he turned to the grim task of doing what he could for…

Mr. Teller, Witt thought with dismay as he leaned down over the person.

Giving himself a little shake to focus back on task, Witt pulled open the front panels of Teller’s lab coat and saw three holes in the underlying shirt. All three were clustered over the upper left side of Teller’s chest. Witt sent his sixth sense into Teller’s body, tracking the holes to see where the bullets had gone. After the incident where Jesse’d been shot—when Witt hadn’t known the injured structure had been a kidney—Witt had read up on anatomy. He’d markedly improved his understanding using his extra sense to three-dimensionally examine his own anatomy while correlating what he sensed with the anatomy images he found online.

He still didn’t know nearly enough but hoped he’d better understand what was going on this time.

His sense showed him that all three bullet tracks entered the far-left side of Teller’s upper chest, then tracked to Teller’s right, exiting his lung and barely missing the spine on their way out of the body. Rather than following a straight line through Teller’s body, the tracks jogged downward to go through the lung, then back up before they went out Teller’s back. This puzzled Witt for a moment before he realized the lung had partially deflated since the bullets punctured it. The collapse had pulled the tissue containing the bullet track down and inward, toward the root of the lung where the vessels and bronchi attached it to the wall of tissue between the lungs.

As if a deflating lung weren’t a bad enough problem, Witt sensed that the uppermost bullet had torn a hole in the big blood vessel to the arm as it ran beneath Teller’s collarbone. With irritation, he realized that learning the names of the organs was completely inadequate. He knew from the diagrams he’d studied that each of those blood vessels had its own name but he hadn’t memorized them. The vessel was bleeding into the space around the lung and quite a bit of blood had already pooled beneath the lung.

It's bleeding fast! he realized with horror.

There’s no way he’ll survive that kind of blood loss. Witt thought. He mentally outlined the lung and the hole in the vessel, then putting them in a 0.00002X slow-time bubble—a rate so slow it’d take weeks of real-time for Teller to bleed out.

Teller could survive on one lung but wouldn’t make it if he bled out into his chest.

But, for Witt to keep that slow-time bubble up so Teller didn’t bleed, he’d have to stay with the teacher until the man got to the hospital!

And, the ambulance people weren’t going to let Witt ride along with them. Not even if he told them he was keeping Teller from bleeding to death.

Because no one in their right mind would believe that!

He’d learned that, though the average human had about five liters (~5 quarts) of blood, losing more than two liters was usually fatal unless that blood was replaced almost immediately. At the rate the vessel was bleeding, Witt didn’t think Teller’d make it unless Witt stayed with the guy until the surgeons had him in the operating room to sew it up.

And just how the hell am I gonna do that? he wondered. I don’t even think I can stay with him in the ambulance!

One step at a time, he thought to himself.

Deciding to deal with the things he knew he could figure out, Witt looked over at the shooter. In the minutes of fast-time that Witt had used so far, the gun had fallen partway to the floor.

Trying to make the next events seem somewhat realistic to the real-time people in the room, Witt dug the wad of Kleenex out of his pocket and used it to lift the gun back up near the shooter’s hand. Then he put the shooter’s chest in slow-time. This would essentially stop the guy’s heart relative to the normal time the rest of his body was running at. Within seconds, he’d pass out from the lack of blood flow to his brain and fall to the floor semi-simultaneously with the gun.

Hopefully, the kids would think the shooter’d passed out from stress. They should be able to restrain him before he woke back up.

Witt turned, shining his headlight around the room, looking for a place he could hide. To stay with Teller until the paramedics arrived, he’d need to hide and go back to real-time. If he tried to remain invisible by continuously moving around in fast-time, so much time would pass for him that, by the time the EMTs arrived, he’d need to eat and sleep.

As he remembered from his own classes in this science classroom, there was a large locked closet at the back of the room for specimens and chemicals. He went back and checked it. Locked, he thought, frustrated. Gotta find the keys. Back at the front he reluctantly considered rifling through Teller’s pockets, feeling like he’d be abusing a body. He’s not a body yet, Witt reminded himself. Man up! You’re doing this to try to keep him alive.

To Witt’s relief, the keys were in the first pocket he checked.

Once he’d unlocked the big closet, he assured himself that he’d be able to maintain the slow-time bubbles in Teller and the shooter from within the closet with the door just cracked open. He sat down on the floor and, fairly comfortable, he made sure the bubbles were still okay, then took a moment to think through things. Don’t forget something stupid, he told himself.

Feeling as sure as he could that he’d thought of everything, he turned off the headlight and went back to normal time.

Like an explosion, the room brightened to normal illumination and color. The sounds of screaming washed over him. For some reason, Witt’s ear picked out the conversation of a girl near the back of the room. From what she said, he felt pretty sure she’d just started talking to a 911 operator on her cell.

During those changes, Witt watched the shooter fall to the floor.

The kid who’d been charging the front arrived and dove on top of the shooter. Because of all the kids and desks in the way, Witt couldn’t see what he did but in his mind pictured the kid with his arms around the shooter in a bear hug.

While Witt pulled his headlight down to hang by its strap around his neck, he watched another kid stand and kick something on the floor. From the sound of it bouncing off the wall, Witt felt pretty sure he’d been kicking the shooter’s pistol away from him.

Witt’d been pretty distressed since killing Vargas a few months ago. Even though it’d turned out that Vargas had been someone Witt thought deserved capital punishment, Witt had sworn he wasn’t going to kill anyone himself in the future. He might immobilize them for the cops but wanted to leave punishment to the law. So, about thirty seconds after he’d gone back to real-time, Witt let the shooter’s chest return to real-time as well. If he’d kept the guy’s heart and lungs from functioning much longer, the shooter’s brain would’ve died. Not only would Witt have done something he’d sworn not to do, but there would’ve been a lot of questions about what killed a physically healthy appearing young person.

Witt didn’t want anyone trying to figure out answers to those questions.

Witt checked to make sure he’d successfully maintained the bubble in Mr. Teller’s chest. Then, without much hope, he tried to use his sixth sense to determine how much blood had leaked into Teller’s chest from the torn vessel. Unfortunately, it was too far away for Witt to get much definition of the situation with his special sense. I’ll give it a few minutes, he thought, then go out there in fast-time and check him from up close.

While those minutes were passing, Witt watched a few kids bolt out of the classroom like the demons of hell were after them, a couple of them screaming. Most of the kids who remained settled down from their ongoing panic, though some huddled in their chairs or on the floor, apparently in shock.

Later Witt would learn that one of the girls who’d run out of the room had done it in a levelheaded fashion. She’d gone to the office, told the principal what’d happened, and asked them to send the school nurse up to help Mr. Teller.

One of the more rational kids went to the classroom door, opened it, and shouted, “Shooter’s down and we’re all safe. But Mr. Teller’s been shot. We need medical help in science classroom A!”

After a few minutes, Witt stood up and peered out the door, trying to see if anything unexpected was going on in the classroom. Seeing nothing surprising, he went to fast-time, turned on his headlight, and walked out through a room full of stationary kids to check on Mr. Teller again.

Getting close, he saw there were a couple of kids kneeling on either side of Mr. Teller. Trying to help, but not knowing what to do, Witt thought. He knelt at Teller’s head, his knees inches from the top of the man’s head. He leaned his head down over the man’s chest because his special sense worked better when his brain was closer to what he was trying to perceive. After a moment’s study, he decided he didn’t think the lung had collapsed any further or that the layer of blood behind the lung was any thicker. Of course, he couldn’t be sure since he had no way to measure the depth, nor any objective record of what he’d sensed before.

As he stood up, he noticed for the first time that Teller’s eyes were open and looking at the student on his right. Of course, Witt realized, nothing about his injuries would’ve caused him to be unconscious… not until he lost so much blood he couldn’t maintain his blood pressure.

Back, sitting in the closet in real-time and peering out the crack in the door, Witt found himself wondering why the EMTs hadn’t arrived yet. A look at the clock on the wall helped him estimate that less than five real-time minutes had passed since he’d first heard the banging. He supposed if they got here right now, that’d be pretty darned fast.

He’d just pulled out his phone to Google how long it usually took an ambulance to arrive when he heard someone shout, “Police!” It sounded like it came from the direction of the door. When he shifted to peer that way through the crack in the door, he didn’t see anyone. But then the voice shouted, “We heard the shooter’s down and in control. Is that true?”

Several kids shouted confirmation.

Two cops entered the classroom their guns drawn but pointing up at the ceiling. Witt was surprised, thinking that cops pointed their guns down when holding them ready but not wanting them aimed at anyone. Oh, Witt realized, we’re on the second floor. There’re people below the floor but not above the ceiling.

The policemen called in the ambulance crew and they entered, pushing a stretcher loaded with equipment.

Because Witt had realized it was a place his new talent could help people, he’d been wondering about a career in the medical field. Curious, he cracked the door a little wider to learn from watching what they did. One began starting an IV. The other looked Teller over while applying a blood pressure cuff.

Witt felt relieved when he saw Teller nodding in answer to some questions the medic asked.

“Tachycardic. BP 105 over 60,” the guy read off. “I’m calling it in.”

Curious, Witt Googled “tachycardic” and learned it meant a fast pulse rate. Blood loss was one of the causes he found listed for it, but fear could do it too. He had no idea whether the amount of blood he’d detected behind the lung could cause tachycardia or not, but Witt figured Teller had to be scared and hoped that was it.

But, the way he was bleeding, if I don’t keep the torn blood vessel in slow-time, blood loss is gonna quickly become a ginormous problem, he thought.

Witt felt quite surprised by how little time it took the ambulance crew to load Teller onto their stretcher. He pulled his headlight back up onto his forehead.

When the stretcher had rolled out of the room but the door still stood open, it was time for Witt to exit the closet and go with them.

Witt went to fast-time, flipped on his headlight, and left the closet, locking it behind him. He went back up and put the keys in Teller’s pocket, then squeezed out the classroom door behind the trailing ambulance guy who still partially blocked the opening.

He looked around the hallway. He’d worried there wouldn’t be a place for him to hide in the hall while the crew maneuvered the stretcher. However, the halls stood empty. It seemed the teachers were still holding the kids in their classrooms per the school’s shooter protocols.

Witt stepped to the end of a row of lockers and went to normal time. The lockers didn’t hide him very well, but the medics probably had a lot on their minds. In any case, they didn’t seem to notice the kid leaning against the lockers as they rolled by, so Witt had no trouble maintaining Mr. Teller’s life-saving bubble.

However, when they rolled the stretcher onto the elevator and the doors closed, Witt felt his connection to the bubble in Teller’s chest break. He’d expected it, but that anticipation hadn’t kept him from hoping that his talent might’ve gained the strength to penetrate the steel doors of the elevator.

Wondering whether he could reestablish the bubble if he was close, Witt went to fast-time and headed over to the elevator where he leaned his head against the door. He could sense a little bit through the outer steel door. He’d never thought about it, but now he realized there was a steel door on the hallway side of the opening and another steel door on the elevator itself. They opened and closed together, resulting in the impression Witt had always had that there was only one thick door.

In any case, his sixth sense could penetrate one steel door and sense the cavity between it and the next door, but only poorly. It certainly couldn’t penetrate both. I should’ve tested to see if I could maintain a bubble when my “line of sight” to it depends on sensing through an obstruction! he thought, feeling as if there’d never come a time when he’d have investigated his talent sufficiently to know what would be possible in all the situations he might encounter. If I can create bubbles wherever I can sense something, not just where I can see something, he thought, I might be able to do it through the wall of the ambulance.

Witt headed down the stairs, stepped behind another bank of lockers, and went back to normal time. A minute later he heard the elevator ding, waited to hear the doors slide open, then went to fast-time again.

He crossed to the elevator and climbed up onto the stretcher—which hadn’t started to emerge from the elevator yet. There he immediately formed a bubble around the torn vessel to stop the bleeding. Next, he extended that bubble around the collapsing lung to prevent further deflation.

After a moment’s examination of the situation, he decided the lung had—as he’d expected and feared—further deflated and had more blood behind it.

If I get separated from him for very long, Witt thought despairingly, there’s no way Teller’s going to make it. But he couldn’t think of a way to stay with his teacher. Even if I decide to give up the secrecy about my talent, no one’s going to believe I can do what I claim and let me ride the ambulance today!

Even though he was beginning to think his quest hopeless, Witt mentally vowed to keep going until he was absolutely certain he couldn’t find a way forward. Which’ll be when Teller’s dead, he thought grimly.

Getting off the stretcher, Witt went down to the doors at the end of the hall and took a position partially hidden by the staircase. There he returned to normal time. The principal, the nurse, and a few kids were in the hall by then, but no one noticed him appear beneath the stairs. I’ll bet the hall’s swarming with kids in another ten minutes, Witt thought, good thing the ambulance is getting out of here while the getting’s good.

When the crew with the stretcher had exited the main doors, they left the door to swing shut on its own. This allowed Witt to go to fast-time and get out the door before it closed. He looked around and saw the ambulance not too far away. Still in fast-time, he checked to be sure the bubble remained intact within Teller’s chest, then headed over to the big vehicle.

He climbed up on the back bumper—which was shaped like a step to help people get in and out. There he looked through the window in the door, hoping he’d see someplace to hide inside the boxy patient care area.

No such luck. The box on the back of the ambulance might look huge, but they’d packed it with gear. For a moment he wondered whether he could hide under the stretcher, so he turned around to look at it, however, at that distance his headlight didn’t illuminate it very well. Nonetheless, the process of turning to look helped him remember what he’d seen when it’d rolled by in the hallway. There was a complicated scissoring apparatus under it that let the ambulance crew raise and lower the top of the stretcher. Even without refreshing his memory, Witt knew there wouldn’t be enough room for a person to hide within such a mechanism.

He extended his special sense through the glass of the window and could readily sense the interior of the vehicle’s box with it. On the off chance he’d detect a closet amongst the cabinets that lined one side of the interior, he used his sense to probe the cabinet interiors. There were a couple of big spaces but various pieces of gear filled them.

If I can maintain a bubble through the glass of the window, Witt thought, maybe I could ride back here on the bumper?

He discarded that idea after realizing the drivers of other cars on the road would see him clinging there. Surely someone would call 911 and report a kid joyriding on the back of an ambulance.

Will my sense penetrate the wall of the box like it does the window? he wondered, sending it out. To his surprise, the wall seemed nearly transparent. Later he’d learn they built many ambulance boxes out of aluminum sheet metal sheathed in plastic and that his sense penetrated those materials particularly well.

Can I form a slow-time bubble through the wall?! he wondered excitedly, trying to form one inside the box. Yes!

Though he couldn’t help worrying he might’ve just imagined forming a bubble inside the ambulance, he couldn’t think of a way to test the concept until Teller was inside. However, he felt pretty confident he’d actually formed one and would be able to keep Teller from bleeding.

He supposed he wouldn’t be completely sure until Teller’d survived the ride.

Wait a minute. I haven’t solved this problem just because I can bubble through walls! There’s still no place to hide while the ambulance’s in motion! Witt hopped down off the bumper and bent to shine his headlight under the truck.

It didn’t show him a providently positioned shelf-like structure he could climb onto like he’d seen in movies.

He looked at the side of the ambulance box. There wasn’t anything to hang onto. Besides, there’d be the same problem with his presence there inciting other drivers to call 911.

Stepping up onto the bumper again, he jumped up, grabbed the upper corner of the box, and pulled up to look at the top surface. It was flat, the only feature being a row of flashing lights near the front.

If I get up and lie flat on the top, would I be able to hang on? Witt wondered. He felt dubious about the strength of the mounts for the lights. Worse, they hadn’t been designed to be gripped by a human hand. I guess if I’m thrown off going around a corner, I could survive the landing by going into fast-time. But, even if I survive, Mr. Teller won’t.

He blinked, realizing that once he’d landed, he could stay in fast-time and catch the ambulance at a walk.

Unless I get hurt.

Reaching up, he grabbed the upper corner of the box and did another pullup, intending to pull himself up onto the top of the ambulance. He couldn’t do it. He could get high enough to throw his arms out over the upper surface but it was too slippery for him to get a grip that’d let him pull his body up.

Lowering himself back down, he looked for something on the back of the ambulance he could use as a toehold. The lights seemed obvious, but even if they were strong enough, they only protruded a few millimeters.

Witt tried it anyway, but, as expected, he couldn’t catch his shoe on the lights well enough to push himself up. Frustrated, he looked around the corner at the side of the box, wondering whether it had any protuberances he could climb.

A moment later, he rolled his eyes and hopped down off the back bumper.

It was a short walk to the front bumper where he stepped up, climbed onto the hood, then on top of the cab, then onto the roof of the box. From there he looked in the direction of the crew and their stretcher. Deciding they might be able to see him on top of the roof as they approached, he climbed back down onto the cab of the truck and went back to real-time.

Once he was in real-time, he quickly looked around to see if anyone could see him on the cab. The headlight he’d been using to see in fast-time didn’t illuminate the building well enough to show him people looking out of classrooms, but in normal time, ordinary daylight let him see kids looking out the windows. None of them seemed to be looking at him, but he went back to fast-time and clambered down off the ambulance anyway.

Back in real-time, he listened to the clatter of the stretcher coming up to the back of the ambulance. He heard the doors open and felt the ambulance settle a little at the thump of the stretcher landing in the back and rolling on into the patient care compartment. He heard the medics talking but couldn’t understand what they were saying. Then there came a pair of thuds as the doors closed.

Witt went to 1.5X fast-time, and as soon as he glimpsed the head of the driver begin to poke around the back corner of the ambulance, he went to 400X fast-time and moved forward to crouch in front of the truck. Back in real-time, he heard the driver’s door open, felt the truck’s chassis shift as the man got in, and caught the sound of the door closing.

The engine started, the lights started flashing, and Witt felt a small thunk in the frame of the vehicle as it shifted into gear.

Witt went to 400X fast-time, then climbed onto and across the hood, over the cab, and onto the roof of the box over the patient care area. As he stretched out in a spread-eagle position, he suddenly remembered to check on the bubble in Teller’s chest.

It’d collapsed while he’d been thinking about all this other stuff!

Afraid he wouldn’t be able to reestablish the bubble from the roof of the ambulance, Witt immediately gave it a shot. It worked but from that distance and through the roof, Witt didn’t have the fine control he usually did. The first bubble he established didn’t completely stop the bleeding and he had to expand it. The newer, bigger bubble probably encompassed too much surrounding tissue, but he didn’t want to go smaller again, so he spent some time struggling to figure out exactly which structures he had in the bubble. Some of the bone of the spine was in it, but he felt pretty sure none of the spinal cord had been included. He had one of the vessels under the collarbone in the bubble, the one that was bleeding. He also had part of the other vessel. The distance was a little far for good discrimination, but after a minute of intense concentration, he decided the one that’d been bleeding was bigger with a thin wall and had to be the vein. The one he’d partly closed off had thicker walls and had to be the artery. Not being certain what the artery fed, he followed it some distance and confirmed it went into Teller’s arm.

Am I killing his arm? he wondered. Should I put the entire arm in slow-time? Putting the whole arm in slow-time would almost certainly catch the attention of the paramedic, so he was reluctant to do it. Then he remembered that, when he’d been trying to figure out which parts of the body he could safely cut off from their blood flow, he’d learned that doctors routinely used tourniquets to cut off blood flow in the arms or legs for several hours during surgery with only mild effects. He decided not to change anything. Besides, he thought, the arm’s blood flow’s only partly cut off. It should do fine.

Witt went back to normal time and the ambulance immediately began bumping off across the parking lot.

Holy crap! he thought as he got jolted around, This thing rides like it’s got square wheels! By the time they’d finished crossing the parking lot, Witt decided the chances he’d get thrown off were substantial.

When it swayed onto the road, he slid toward the edge.

Panicked, Witt went to fast-time to give himself a few moments to think about how to deal with the issue. As his time frame sped up, the world seemed to come to a halt around him. This arrested his slide and, wide-eyed, he tried to think of a way to get a grip on the smooth flat top of the vehicle.

Maybe if I crawled forward and got on top of the cab, I could wedge my feet in the gap between the cab and the box? Unfortunately, he realized, that’d make him grossly obvious to oncoming traffic.

He suddenly remembered his solution to attaching Jesse to his bike—when Jesse’d gotten shot a few months back. Feeling a little queasy about it he put his left foot in 0.00002X slow-time—a speed so slow that 50,000 seconds (14 hours) would pass there for each second in normal time. He hadn’t put just a part of his own body in slow-time before and found the way his foot just vanished from his senses off-putting. It left him wondering whether this was what it felt like to be an amputee. Probably not, he decided, but it’s a very freaky feeling. He enlarged the bubble around his foot until it incorporated the struts under the roof and the corner of the box. This solidly locked his foot to the ambulance’s box. He did the same with his other foot, then with his left hand.

He went back to real-time.

Sure enough, there was no more sliding around.

But there was plenty of vigorous bumping. This ain’t gonna be fun!

He checked on the bubble inside Mr. Teller and decided it was fine. Then he started worrying about whether the people in other vehicles could see him on top of the ambulance. Since he couldn’t see the surrounding cars very well, he decided they probably wouldn’t notice him. However, his right foot was close to the edge of the ambulance so he released it from slow-time, moved it closer to the middle of the box, and put it back in slow-time.

To try to take his mind off the rough ride and how he felt like a triple amputee, Witt decided to focus on how he was going to manage to follow Teller through the ED (Emergency Department) and up into the OR.

~~~

When the ambulance backed up to the loading dock at the ED, Witt went to fast-time and jumped off the back of the truck and onto the dock.

He stepped over behind one of the big carts sitting on the dock and went back to normal time.

The two medics unloaded Teller from the back of the ambulance and headed into the ED. Witt went back to fast-time as they were rolling in the door. The opening was wide and he easily slipped past them into the busy facility. There he stepped behind one of the curtains that fronted the patient treatment bays. Back in real-time and peering through a gap at the edge of the curtain, he watched as they rapidly rolled Teller’s stretcher past. It turned in at a large bay stocked with a lot more equipment than the one Witt was in. A sign over its entrance said, “Trauma Bay 2.”

Witt hesitated. Now what the hell do I do? he wondered, trying not to gawk at all the busy, scrub-clad people hustling from one place to another. Quite a few were coalescing around Teller in Trauma 2, calling out urgent orders. If I step out into the hall, Witt thought, it’ll only be moments before someone asks me who I am and what I’m doing back here. His shorts and t-shirt definitely didn’t belong.

Knowing he was about to lose Teller’s bubble anyway; Witt didn’t bother to check whether it’d survived the interposition of the trauma bay wall between himself and his teacher. Instead, he went to fast-time, put his headlight back on, and headed down the hall, hoping to find scrubs and a place to change. Six and two-thirds minutes here in 400X fast-time, he reminded himself in an attempt to soothe his sense of panic, is only one second of real-time bleeding for Mr. Teller.

He pointed his headlight at the small sign beside each door, hoping to find a place where they might store scrubs. He doubted it’d be labeled “Scrub Storage” but hoped it’d have a name that suggested such supplies.

However, Witt didn’t have to go far before he realized all the rooms in that area of the ED were for patient care.

Doubting they’d have scrubs, Witt nonetheless turned into one of the empty patient care rooms and looked around. He found a stack of patient gowns—the embarrassing kind that opened in the back—but couldn’t picture being accepted into the trauma bay wearing one of those.

Coming to a side hallway, he turned into it in hopes of finding something more promising. The label on the second room said, “Call Room.” He stepped inside.

There were two slept-in beds, both of them empty. An athletic bag stood on the nightstand by one of the beds and had a small corner of cloth hanging out of its opening. Material that looked like the cloth of the scrubs he’d seen out in the ED, though in fast-time he couldn’t tell the color. Witt dug in the bag and confirmed it was part of the leg from a set of scrubs. Shaking the scrubs out, he decided they looked about the right size. They were wrinkly but not gross. Most importantly he couldn’t see splotches that might be bloodstains. He started to pull off his t-shirt but stopped. What am I gonna do with my clothes? he wondered, not wanting to leave them in the call room. After a moment, he pulled the scrubs on over his shorts and t-shirt, hoping nobody’d notice.

He stepped out of the room and headed down the hall, back toward the patient care area. As he passed people in scrubs, he looked at them, wondering what he might do to blend in better. To his relief, t-shirts were evident under some people’s scrubs. Almost all of them seemed to have pens in their pockets, an issue Witt quickly remedied by stopping at a desk and swiping one. A bigger problem was that they all had name badges dangling somewhere. Some were on lanyards, some clipped to pockets, some attached to belt clips, but everybody had one.

First, Mr. Teller, he thought, stepping back into the big trauma bay. Since he’d been gone for less than two seconds of real-time, nothing much seemed to have happened. The people still seemed frozen in about the same positions they’d been in when he’d left.

Witt stepped into a small gap between the people standing around Teller and sent in his sixth sense. His previous bubble was gone, of course, but he quickly cast another one, once again encompassing the deflated lung and this time more precisely bubbling the tear in the big vein, but leaving the artery alone.

Not knowing anything else he could do, he planned to step back near the wall. However, there were a couple of other people standing there. Witt assumed they were observing and thought it might be a good place for him to stand, but it wouldn’t be a great place to appear out of thin air.

He looked around. This room had curtains that ran on a ceiling rail around the area where the stretcher was located. Presumably to give the patient some privacy, though at present privacy was taking a back seat to saving Teller’s life and the voluminous folds of curtain were all pushed to one end of the rail. Witt went over and stepped mostly behind the big cluster of curtains, then went back to normal time. When he stepped back out from behind the curtain, a nurse glanced curiously at him but evidently decided a person in scrubs must belong.

Witt walked over and stood beside the other people near the wall. They were indeed watching. He glanced at the badge of the young woman next to him. It said, “Diane Evans, Medical Student.”

She glanced at him and asked, “Are you a premsom?”

Wondering what in the world a “premsom” might be while trying to come up with an answer that might not proclaim him an outsider, Witt glanced at the young guy next to her and saw the guy’s badge said, “Pre-Medical Society of Merica.” Witt realized an acronym for the society could be PreMSoM and might be pronounced “premsom.” Looking back at the med student, Evans, Witt nodded, hoping there wouldn’t be any follow-up questions.

She said, “You’re supposed to wear your badge at all times here in the hospital. Some of the nurses are gonna jump on you for not having it on.”

Witt purposefully widened his eyes and started patting his pockets as if looking for it. Where am I gonna get one of those? he wondered. He had a strong impulse to walk away as if to go find his badge but knew he couldn’t leave Mr. Teller to bleed without the bubble. Giving Evans an apologetic look, he said, “I don’t know what happened to it.”

Evans glanced at one of the nurses, then quietly said, “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but you should stay and watch this. You can look for your badge afterward.” She promptly launched into a description of what’d happened. That there’d been a school shooting and this was the only victim. The victim had three gunshot wounds in the upper left chest and had a high heart rate suggesting blood loss.

Witt nodded along since he knew all that, then realized he should be looking appalled and tried to gradually shift his expression. The med student explained they were typing and crossmatching blood and getting ready to put in a chest tube.

“Oh,” she said, pointing, “They’re doing it now.”

Witt looked and saw someone injecting something into the skin over the left side of Teller’s chest.

Evans told them that, since the patient was awake, they were numbing him before putting the tube in.

Witt wondered why they were injecting the medication so far from the bullet wounds. He didn’t ask since he shouldn’t have known where the wounds were.

To Witt’s surprise, someone in medical gloves rolled a tray up next to Teller. She swabbed the numbed-up area, presumably with antiseptic, then used a scalpel to cut into the flesh there. She inserted some kind of instrument and seemed to be stretching the hole she’d made.

Teller groaned and squirmed away.

Witt thought, He’s not numb! while feeling appalled they weren’t putting in more anesthetic.

The med student said, “Looks pretty brutal, huh? But the man’s life depends on getting this stuff done in a hurry so they can’t take a lot of time to be gentle or wait for it to get completely numb.”

The woman was shoving a tube as big as her finger into Teller’s chest through the hole she’d just made.

Witt watched aghast until he suddenly remembered that he had a slow-time bubble in there. “What is that tube?” he asked, sending his sixth sense into Teller’s chest to see if his bubble was blocking the tube’s entrance.

Thankfully, since he only had the bubble around the lung, which wasn’t filling the entire left chest cavity, it wasn’t in the way of the tube.

“They call them ‘chest tubes,’” Evans said. She pointed. “That nurse in the green scrubs is hooking the other end of the tube up to suction. The suction’ll pull out blood or air that’s accumulated around the lung.”

Witt could see blood start rushing out into the tube. His sense showed him that the tube had deflected behind his slow-time bubble and the end of it had submerged in the blood behind the lung. He released the bubble around the lung. He left the part of the bubble around the rip in the vein intact.

A moment later Witt sensed the lung starting to reinflate as the big tube sucked the air out of the space between the collapsed lung and Teller’s ribs.

The woman who’d put in the chest tube said, “Lotta blood comin’ out! No wonder he’s tachy! Chris, you gonna take him to the OR for exploration?”

A tall blond guy responded, “We’re not going in there blind. He’s gotta go for a vascular study so we know what’s bleeding!”

“The bleeder’s under the upper bullet hole the blood’s drippin’ out of!” the woman snarled. “He’s been tachy for a while and now his BP’s dropping! If you don’t get his ass to the OR he’s not gonna have a life left to do vascular studies on!”

In consternation, Witt turned to Evans. “What’s all that about?”

The med student shrugged, “I’m no expert. I know it’s always good to know exactly what’s wrong before you go to the OR, but sometimes taking the time to do the studies…” she trailed off a moment, then shrugged again. “Sometimes the patient can bleed to death while you’re screwin’ around.”

Witt had assumed doctors always knew exactly what to do and hadn’t contemplated this kind of disagreement. They don’t know how bad the injury is, he suddenly realized, because I’ve been keeping it from bleeding! But, if I let it bleed so they’ll know how bad it is, Teller could bleed to death before they can fix it! He turned back to Evans, “What’s this ‘vascular study’ he wants to do?”

“I don’t exactly know how it works,” Evans said uncertainly, “but somehow they inject stuff in the blood vessels, um a kind of dye they can see on X-ray. Then those X-rays show them where the blood’s leaking out of the vessels. That way they know which vessel they need to fix and where the hole is.”

Witt blinked, “But isn’t the woman right? It’s gotta be right beneath the bullet hole, doesn’t it?” Witt knew it was right under the bullet hole but also knew no one would believe him if he said it out loud.

Evans looked at the woman who’d inserted the chest tube, and said, “Probably. Dr. Kearney’s really smart. Um, the big guy, Dr. Eastman, has a rep for being a little timid… something that’s… unusual in surgeons.”

“Why doesn’t Kearney take him to the OR herself?”

Evans shrugged, “Doesn’t have the union card. She’s an ER doc, not a surgeon.”

While Witt had been quizzing the med student, Chris Eastman had gotten his way. They were getting ready to take Teller to “Vascular Interventional.”

“Interventional?” Witt asked. “Does that mean they can do something besides just tell Eastman what’s bleeding?”

Evans frowned again, “Maybe? They can do some pretty amazing stuff in there. They thread little catheters through vessels all around the body, stretching some and unplugging others. They can patch some of them that’re bleeding but I don’t know how it’s done.”

“They’re gonna thread a catheter through that big-ass vein that’s bleeding!” Witt asked unhappily, realizing that if they tried to do that they’d run into his bubble and he’d have to let it down. Then the bleeding would be awful if they couldn’t plug it themselves.

Only after he’d said it did he realize he shouldn’t have known the bleeding vessel was a vein, nor that it was big. He certainly shouldn’t sound like he objected to what they were going to do.

Evans frowned at Witt a moment, then said, “What?!”

Horrified by his faux pas, Witt stared back trying to figure out how to justify his question. After a moment he mumbled, “Sorry, I’m just excited.” Which didn’t explain what he knew, but she probably wouldn’t be able to accept the notion that he even thought he knew what was going on.

Witt turned back to watch the action, his mind working furiously. Trying to ignore the sense that Evans was staring at the back of his neck, Witt thought, There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep Teller from bleeding massively if I let down the bubble for them to do their study!

What if I leave it up? It’ll block them from passing their catheters and then they’ll have to take him to surgery, won’t they?

Maybe not, he realized with frustration. They might assume it stopped bleeding on its own and decide not to do anything.

Witt narrowed his eyes. Could I let the bubble down just long enough to convince them he’s bleeding fast and needs to go to the OR?

Feeling like he was playing God, Witt dropped the bubble and sent his sense into Teller’s chest to see what happened.

Blood started pouring out and running down behind the lung. Oh God! he thought with horror. The hole’s gotten bigger! Deciding that if he let it keep bleeding at that rate Teller would quickly be dead, he cast a bubble that blocked the bleeding again and tried to think.

He suddenly realized there was still quite a thick layer of blood back behind the lung. After a moment he realized the chest tube wasn’t sucking out blood anymore. The chest tube was stiff enough that it’d straightened to lie along the direction the doctor had pushed it in, rather than staying back behind the lung where Witt’s bubble had initially deflected it. When this straightening had lifted it up out of the very lowest part of the chest, it’d stopped sucking out any blood. The blood that’d just run into the chest was collecting back by the spine, several centimeters below the end of the chest tube. A lot more blood would have to run into the chest before it’d submerge the end of the tube and start coming out the chest tube again.

Not much of the blood that comes out of the vein comes out of the bullet wound on the front of the chest because it’d have to flow uphill to do it, Witt realized. It’s naturally running downhill into the chest. Maybe I could change that?

Witt edged closer to the crowd of emergency personnel surrounding Teller so he could construct another bubble with finer control.

Evans tugged him back, saying, “You’re getting too close.”

Witt stepped back but he’d already built a slow-time bubble surrounding the tear—but not blocking it. One that had a tube leading up out of it and into the bullet hole on the front of Teller’s chest wall.

For a moment, as blood flooded out of the vein and rose up in the tube toward the surface, Witt thought he’d had a great idea. But the level of the blood in the tube stopped rising before it could pour out of the front of Teller’s chest the way he’d hoped. The pressure in a vein isn’t high enough to push it out, he realized with frustration. Can I pump it up out of there somehow? he wondered.

He tried building a separate bubble beneath the column of blood in the tube and pushing it up toward the surface like a piston, but that didn’t work either. Slow-time bubbles were great at stopping things, but it seemed he couldn’t apply any motive force to push stuff around.

What the hell am I gonna do now? he wondered.

Turning to the med student, Witt asked, “Why haven’t they leveled up Mist…” he broke off before he finished saying “Mr. Teller,” another thing he shouldn’t know. “Um, why haven’t they leveled the patient’s stretcher?” Shortly after Teller’d arrived in the trauma bay the head of the bed had gone down so the gurney was slanted, head down. Witt had thought it was accidental and expected them to fix it but so far they hadn’t.

Evans looked over that way. “That’s called the ‘Trendelenburg’ position. When patients have low blood pressure, especially from blood loss, they do that so the blood drains out of the veins in the legs and toward the heart to give it something to pump. They’ll keep him in that position until his blood pressure’s better.”

Witt stared at Teller. If I blocked the flow from the legs, would it drop his blood pressure enough that they’d think he’s too bad off to go for studies? Would they take him directly to the OR then? Or would lowering his blood pressure be harmful enough that I’d just be killing him myself? He reached out with his sense, feeling for the vena cava, one of the few blood vessels he’d learned the name of. It was by far the biggest vein in the body and carried most of the blood from the legs back to the heart, so if he blocked it…?

He blocked it, totally unsure whether it was the right or the wrong thing to do.

Witt had a sudden thought. He looked for a blood pressure cuff but couldn’t see one. Turning to Evans, he asked, “How’re they measuring his blood pressure?”

She rose onto her toes and shifted back and forth, looking at Mr. Teller between the people surrounding him. “Oh,” she said, glancing at Witt. “They’ve put an art line in his wrist.” She must have seen the confusion on Witt’s face because she explained. “It’s a little tube in his radial artery. An arterial line or ‘art’ line. They connect it to a pressure monitor. It’s more accurate and gives you the BP every second, instead of just whenever the blood pressure cuff goes up.” She pointed at a screen hanging above Teller, “The third line down on that monitor is the BP. The bouncing line going off to the right of it is a second-by-second graph of the pressure. The numbers displayed at the left end of the graph are an average of the peaks and valleys of the pressure over several heartbeats.”

“Oh,” Witt said, thinking, Maybe I don’t have to actually lower his blood pressure. Maybe I can just lower the reading to convince them to go to the OR? Reaching out, Witt sent his sense inside Teller’s arm, finding the main artery above the elbow and putting it in a bubble of mildly slowed time. The slower blood flow sent the graph of Teller’s BP trending down. The numbers on the left dropped from 102/68 to 91/61 over about five seconds.

Evans had evidently been watching the BP too because she said, “Oh, no. His pressure’s dropping!”

Witt slowed time a little more within the bubble and the BP reading dropped further to 85/52.

Someone on the team around Teller reacted, pointing out the decreased numbers to Dr. Kearney.

Kearney shouted, “Chris, dammit! He’s crashing! You take him to vascular and he’s gonna die!”

Dr. Eastman’s jaw tightened as he turned to look at the numbers himself. He started barking orders, “Call the OR! Tell them we’re bringing the patient NOW and that we need the crash trauma room!” He turned to the team, “Get him ready to move, pack up the blood, and switch to the portable monitor! Elaine, get up to the OR, tell them what’s happening and that we’re gonna have to explore the subclavian vessels and possibly open the chest. Then scrub in and get ready to prep.”

Witt thought, Subclavian! as he remembered the name of the vessels under the collarbone (clavicle). To Witt’s astonishment, they had Teller rolling down the hall in about thirty seconds. Which is great, he thought, but now how am I gonna get into the OR with him? He turned to Evans, “Can I go to the OR with him?”

She shook her head. “Premsoms aren’t allowed in OR, but there’ll probably be plenty more excitement for you to watch here in the ED.” She glanced at his chest again. “You better go find your ID badge before somebody jumps your shit.”

“Good idea,” Witt said, following Teller’s gurney out of the trauma bay and trailing it down the hall. He hoped the med student wasn’t watching or, worse, following him, or worse yet, going to the OR with Teller. However, he didn’t want to look back to see what she was doing for fear he’d look guilty. He quickly checked to be sure the two bubbles he was maintaining in Teller were still up but then realized the team pushing the gurney was speeding up to a run! It rolled around a corner.

Witt, fearing Evans was watching and would rat him out, resisted the impulse to run to catch up.

As he walked around the corner, he went to 400X fast-time and walked up to the stretcher. As he’d feared, his bubbles had collapsed and he had to reestablish the one on the subclavian vein. Now what? he thought, wondering how he might get into the OR with Teller. If only there were a way to stay invisible without being in fast-time, he thought.

He sighed and went back to the corner to see if Evans was following and might be about to tell someone he shouldn’t be going with Teller to the OR. He didn’t see her but worried he just didn’t recognize her in the weird lighting of fast-time. He resisted the temptation to go back and look for her since he’d lose Teller’s bubbles again. Sure, he could check, then come back and reestablish them with less than a second passing in real-time, but he decided he was just being paranoid. She probably had better things to do than follow a premsom around. After making sure he hadn’t lost Teller’s bubbles when he was screwing around, Witt looked at everyone in sight to be sure they weren’t looking toward where he was about to reappear. Satisfied, he went back to normal time and started trotting after Teller’s gurney, hoping inspiration would strike.

As the team hustled the gurney down the hall, people stepped aside to give them room.

Witt hadn’t been giving them much thought until they rolled past a young guy with dark hair similar in color to Witt’s. Witt turned and gave the guy another look, thinking, He’s not my twin by a long shot, but…

The guy turned away from watching the gurney and continued on his way.

Witt again checked to make sure no one was looking directly at him, then went to fast-time. He had quite a bit of experience now, going in and out of fast-time. If people didn’t have him in the center of their field of sight—i.e., if he was out at the periphery of their visual field—they didn’t notice him appearing or disappearing. Or, if they did, they seemed to accept that they’d just missed something in the lower acuity area of their vision. He walked back to the young man and carefully unclipped the guy’s ID badge. Returning to about the same location in the hallway he’d disappeared from, he went back to normal time and looked at the badge.

The guy, Steve Carter, was a med student. His badge photo didn’t look a lot like Witt, but he’d had long hair when the photo’d been taken and Witt thought there was a good chance people would think the difference in appearance was mostly due to the haircut that resulted in Witt/Steve’s much shorter hair. Unless they know Steve, Witt realized. I’d better be sure I answer if anyone says his name since it’d look suspicious if I didn’t notice my name. Steve, Steve Carter, he thought, repeating the name several times to be sure it’d catch his attention.

He hurried a little to catch up to Teller’s gurney, then spent some time trying to recognize which was the blood pressure line on the portable monitor’s display. Alarmingly, when he found it, it read 46/12, but Witt almost immediately realized he’d probably overdone the slowing of time in the arm-artery bubble. He eased off and a couple of seconds later it was reading 65/44. Unsure as to whether that was low enough to keep them hurrying to the OR, or might be so low they’d give Teller up for dead, Witt decided not to change it again.

The gurney turned a corner and they slammed open doors labeled “OR Attire Only.” Witt slowed, wondering what the hell “OR attire” could be. When everyone else kept rolling, he decided to brazen through and kept walking. If I screw up, no one’ll be surprised because medical students probably mess up a lot, he decided.

They rolled past a big desk staffed with people. One of them saw the team and stretcher coming and got up to hit a button that power-opened the next set of doors. As Witt followed the gurney through the doors, the woman reached out and grabbed his arm. “You need a cap!”

Panicked, Witt looked around. He immediately realized that everyone had on one of several kinds of disposable hats.

Her eyes went to his ID badge and she rolled her eyes. “They showed you this stuff in your orientation!” She pointed to a shelf that held boxes of the different types of surgical caps. “This case’s probably gonna be messy so you’ll want to wear shoe covers. They’re on the floor.”

After a quick look down the hall to see where they were taking Teller’s gurney and check to be sure his bubbles were still up, Witt ran to the shelf and got the first hat he came to, jerked it on, and bent to start pulling on shoe covers. A few seconds later, Witt ran past the nurse who’d stopped him, uttering a quick, “Thanks!”

She said, “No need to run. You won’t miss anything important.”

Not able to go to fast-time under her gaze, Witt ran anyway. The gurney had turned into the second door down the hallway and Witt tried to follow it in. Somebody stopped Witt with a straight arm and said, “Mask!”

When Witt glanced wildly around, the guy pointed to Witt’s right. Witt ran that direction and found an open doorway into a little room with sinks and masks and eye shields. Knowing Teller’s bubbles had to be down, Witt grabbed a mask and darted back to the big OR door he’d just left when he went to search for the mask.

While figuring the mask out, Witt watched through a glass window in the OR door. An even bigger team of people was transferring Teller onto a narrow bed. Witt sent his sense in to check and found his bubbles had indeed collapsed when he lost line of sight. He reestablished the one on the torn vein, then stepped into the room and sent his sense in again.

In the room, he drew a sharp breath as his sense showed him how much more blood had collected in Teller’s chest. The end of the chest tube was in the blood and sucking it out again. Witt’s eyes tracked the tubing to a flat rectangular canister on the floor. It had a lot of blood in it. Teller’s gonna die! he thought with dismay.

Witt looked up at the monitor screen, found the blood pressure, and saw it was only 56/31 without him slowing the arterial flow into the arm at all. Crap! he thought, I’m pretty sure that’s low enough I don’t need to make it seem even worse.

“You! Steve Carter!” someone shouted, then waved a hand in front of his eyes.

With horror, Witt realized she’d already said his assumed name a couple of times but—as he’d feared—the strange name hadn’t triggered his attention. “Sorry! What?” he said, giving his head a little shake as if to clear it. Is she gonna run me out of here? he worried.

“Get the damned gurney out of here!”

Witt glanced at it and realized the wheeled stretcher had become an obstacle for the people in the room once the patient was off of it. And I’m a warm body capable of moving it. One who’s not capable of doing anything else useful. Grabbing it, he said, “Where should I put it?”

“Out in the hall!” she answered with a distracted wave. Witt pushed it out the door, then, while holding the door open with a toe so he could maintain the bubble on Teller’s subclavian vein, wondered where in the hall it should go. He twisted to swing the gurney up against the wall and left it there, thinking that probably wasn’t where he should’ve put it but knowing he should stay with Teller to maintain the bubble.

Having no idea what he should be doing, Witt backed up against a scrap of wall and watched, wide-eyed. He sincerely hoped no one decided to throw him out or give him a task that sent him out of the room.

Once he caught his breath, he looked around the room, astonished by the sheer volume of equipment and appalled by how little of it he recognized or understood. What is all this stuff?! he wondered.

Everyone in the room was rushing around and a lot of shouting made it very noisy. A woman, probably Elaine—the woman Eastman had sent up from the ED—was slopping what Witt assumed was an antiseptic solution all over Teller’s chest. Dr. Eastman had on a surgical gown and someone was putting sterile gloves on him. The people at the head of the table had some device in Teller’s mouth and were stuffing a tube down his throat. Nurses were tearing open packages and throwing their contents on a big table covered with instruments.

In a matter of seconds, Eastman had used big sheets of sterile draping to cover all of Teller but his chest and left arm. A couple of minutes after that, Eastman had made an incision along the collarbone, extending from the center of Teller’s chest all the way to the shoulder. It went through the bullet hole and blood welled up out of it. Moments later Eastman had stuffed a big wad of gauze into that part of the wound and had Elaine—now also wearing a surgical gown and gloves—holding pressure on it with one hand. Eastman started working in the end of the wound out near the shoulder, using a large pair of scissors to spread and cut his way down through the muscle.

Elaine used a tube held in her other hand to suck the blood out of the area Eastman was working in.

Witt checked on the bubble he had holding back the bleeding vein, wondering whether the pressure on the big wad of gauze might be stopping the leak. The gauze had pressed the overlying tissue down against the bubble but he couldn’t tell whether it would stop the bleeding if he let the bubble collapse. If it’s stopped the leak, I could head back to class, he thought, recognizing for the first time that there’d probably been a post-shooter roll call at the school and they might be trying to find him.

Witt felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and suddenly recognized he’d ignored quite a few text message notifications since he’d arrived at the hospital. He dithered a moment about whether to pull out the phone and look at it but didn’t know if they allowed cell phone use in the OR.

Instead, he let down the bubble on the subclavian vein. The sponge suddenly depressed as the space filled by the bubble went soft.

Witt could tell the sudden change in the consistency of the tissue beneath her fingers startled and alarmed Elaine. He’d decided she must be some kind of junior doctor. “Oh!” she said, her eyes widening and darting to the hand she had on the sponge.

Eastman didn’t look at her, he was plenty busy. Instead, in an irritated tone, he asked, “What?!”

Elaine was looking up at the monitor, Witt thought checking the BP reading. “Um,” she said, “something shifted under my fingers.”

“What?!” Eastman asked, sounding even more irritated. “How the hell could something shift?”

“I… don’t know… His vitals didn’t change, so I guess it probably wasn’t anything bad.”

Eastman had already moved on, “We need someone else in here holding retractors. Is there a student available or something?”

Icy fingers grabbed Witt’s gut. He hoped everyone had forgotten he was standing against the wall, but in case they hadn’t, he looked around, hoping to see a place he could hide the way he had in the science classroom.

No such luck.

Trying to ignore the people in the room, who he feared might be remembering his med student ID, he focused on the torn vein again. He figured he could bolt out of there if the pressure from the gauze had stopped the bleeding. His sense told him it wasn’t bleeding full-on the way it had been, but it still seemed to be oozing blood through and around the sponge.

Witt applied a smaller bubble to the tear and the bleeding stopped.

“You!” The nurse was back, poking Witt in the chest. “Carter! What the hell’s your problem? Zone out some other time, we’ve got an emergency here!”

Damn! Witt thought, realizing the nurse had been calling his fake name and he’d missed it, again! “Sorry, what?” he said, for a second time shaking his head as if to clear it.

“Dr. Eastman needs you to scrub in and hold retractors!”

Now Witt was shaking his head in consternation. “I haven’t… haven’t… Um, I came up with the patient from the ER, I don’t know how to…”

The nurse turned, “Dr. Eastman, this student isn’t on a surgical rotation and doesn’t know how to scrub in.”

Without looking up, Eastman said, “Is anyone else available? ‘Cause, this’s an emergency. If we don’t have an extra nurse or scrub, Marty can gown and glove the student and I’ll put his hands where I want ’em. All he’ll have to do is stand there and hold the retractor where I position it.”

“I’ll call the desk,” the nurse said and strode over to the phone on the wall.

Eastman said, “Elaine, does our team have anyone? That intern maybe?”

Witt looked at the young woman, thinking she looked pretty anxious herself.

She said, “Both the other residents scrubbed in on Dr. Cole’s emergency. There’s a couple in the clinic, but it’d take them at least thirty minutes to get here and leave a lot of pissed-off patients waiting in the clinic.”

“Shit!” Eastman muttered, evidently of the opinion that thirty minutes wouldn’t be soon enough.

The nurse hung up the phone and turned to the surgical team, “Dr. Eastman, the desk says with all the emergencies this morning they don’t have anyone to spare. You want me to get this student scrubbed in?”

“Yeah,” Eastman said. “Sorry, but we need a body. The Dean and the Chairman are probably gonna crawl up my ass, but our patient’s life depends on me being able to see better.”

By the time Eastman finished talking, the nurse was pushing Witt out into the little room with the big sinks. Fortunately, there was a big window in the door so Witt could keep Teller’s bubble going.

Rather than teaching him how to scrub in, she had him squirt some antiseptic gel on his hands and rub it in as she walked him back into the surgery room. She yelled at him when he started to drop his hands down to his sides, telling him to keep them up and away from his body.

Witt had seen surgeons doing that on TV, so he got the idea pretty quickly.

The nurse practically pushed Witt into place, telling him that “Marty,” the guy manning the big table full of instruments, would gown him.

Marty turned, unfolded a blue gown, and held it out by the shoulders. “Push your arms into the sleeves until they come out the cuffs,” the man said gruffly.

Witt did so, causing Marty to dance away from his hands with a curse, “Don’t poke your hands out so far they touch me! They’re not sterile.”

A few seconds later Marty had pulled gloves on over Witt’s hands and all the way up onto the sleeves of the gown—essentially sealing him into his own little sterile environment. Then the man led Witt over to the surgical team, telling Eastman, “The student’s scrubbed in but he doesn’t know anything about the OR.”

They chivvied Witt up until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Eastman, whereupon Eastman had Marty hand him a couple of retractors. Eastman placed the business ends of the retractors in the wound and held the handles out to Witt, “Pull on these just enough so they stay where they are.”

Witt began pulling, not hard enough at first, but soon Eastman was back at work with a relieved comment, “I can see!”

A couple of minutes later Eastman had cleared the tissue from around the vein and artery and put what he called a “vascular clamp” on each of them.

Witt wondered why Eastman clamped the artery, but then realized that without it, blood would continue flowing into the arm without being able to come back out through the vein. I should’ve bubbled the artery too! he thought, frustrated.

Witt blinked, wondering why Eastman clamped the vessels so far from the area that was bleeding but by then Eastman was stuffing some gauze around the clamps. Still sounding pressured, he spoke to Elaine, “Okay, we’ve got distal control, let’s see if we can get proximal control.”

Control? Witt thought, then realized that the clamps had stopped the return of blood from the arm to the area of the tear in the vein. “Proximal control,” he thought, probably means he wants to clamp the vein on the heart side of the tear too. With both clamped, blood won’t be coming into that segment and trying to pour out while Eastman sutures the vein. Damn! I could’ve stopped the bleeding with bubbles proximal and distal to the tear in the vein rather than right at the tear!

Eastman was reaching into the end of the wound where Elaine was holding pressure on the tear. He said, “Let’s see how much we’ve slowed the bleeding with distal control alone.”

In a panic, Witt realized Eastman was about to remove the gauze, possibly exposing the bubble to their gaze. He used his sense to follow the vein back toward the heart and quickly blocked it with a bubble.

Witt dropped the bubble on the tear just as Eastman pulled out the gauze.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Witt saw blood dribble rather than pour out of the rip in the vein.

Eastman, however, sounded concerned. He said, “Crap. Has it clotted or something? It oughta back-bleed more than that.”

Afraid they might waste time searching for a blockage, Witt shifted his bubble to 0.5X slow-time.

Just as the increase in the bubble’s time flow resulted in more blood coming out of the tear, Elaine said, “His pressure’s really low, maybe that’s why?”

Eastman seemed focused and Witt didn’t think he was paying attention. It was as if his own question had been rhetorical. He put the sponge back on the tear in the vein and positioned Witt’s retractors to give himself a better view. He said, “Hold them in this position, young man. Marty, I need a sponge on a long-curved clamp.”

For a moment, Witt failed to recognize that he was the “young man” Eastman was talking to—then he took the handles of the retractors and applied gentle traction.

Eastman held out a hand and Marty put the handle of an oversized, curved, hemostat/roach-clip kind of tool with a folded gauze clamped in its jaws. Eastman put the gauze end of it against the tissue just to the heart side of the tear in the vein and then lifted the sponge he’d been holding on the tear itself.

It hardly bled.

“4-0 Prolene,” Eastman said, holding his hand out to Marty again. “Elaine, you’re gonna control the bleeding with pressure from this clamped sponge. Gentle pressure. Just enough so it doesn’t bleed, not enough to tear the vessel yourself. Keep running the suction with your other hand so I can see.”

To be sure Elaine didn’t have to put too much pressure on the clamped sponge, Witt took his bubble back to the maximum 0.00002X slow-time.

Marty placed another instrument in Eastman’s hand, this one with a needle and suture clamped into the end of it. He put a long pair of tweezer-looking things in Eastman’s other hand. Moments later Eastman was deftly suturing the tear in the vein closed.

In a quiet voice, Eastman asked, “Elaine, do you know who’s doing our anesthesia?”

“Dr. Kwang,” she said just as quietly.

Eastman lifted his voice and asked, “Dr. Kwang? How’s our patient doing?”

“His pressure’s coming up,” a voice from the other side of the drape said. “It was touch and go for a while. We’ve given him eight units of type-specific uncross-matched blood. We’re waiting for platelets and fresh frozen plasma. Am I right in assuming you’ve got the bleeding under control?”

“Yeah,” Eastman said. “A few more stitches in the vein and we’ll be closing.” He snorted softly and said, “Elaine? You realize a patient with a hole in his subclavian that’s this big shouldn’t have lived to get to the hospital, don’t you?”

“Um, yeah, I was wondering about that. How did… Um, why didn’t he bleed out?”

Eastman gave a minuscule shake of his head. “Damned if I know. You see lung right there below the vein, right?”

“Right here, yes?” Elaine said, pointing at a bloody, slightly blue mess with her suction device.

“Bingo,” Eastman said. “So, we can tell this hole connected to the chest cavity, one of the five places big enough for a patient to bleed to death into. You know the other four?”

“The abdominal cavity, the retroperitoneal space, the thighs from bilateral femur fractures and the outside world.”

“Right, bleeding into your brain can kill you from pressure, but those places are the ones that can hold enough blood for you to bleed out. If your patient seems to be in shock from blood loss and you don’t see that blood out where you’re standing in the outside world, you need to figure which of the other four spaces it’s in.”

Eastman shook his head. “A hole in a vein this big should’ve been found by the coroner at autopsy, along with a left chest cavity full of blood.” Eastman paused and then continued musingly, “Hell, he should’ve been dead before the ambulance got to him. There’s no way he should’ve made it to the ED with only a mild drop in pressure.”

“How did he make it?” Elaine asked, sounding curious.

“I haven’t got a clue. Normally you’d think there was some pleural membrane keeping the blood from getting into the chest, but you see this?” Eastman pointed with his long tweezers. Witt only saw a bloody mess at their tips.

“Uh-huh,” Elaine said.

“That’s a pleural tear. One that sure as hell looks long and linear like a bullet tore it.” He sighed, “Maybe this patient said his prayers to the right god this morning. There are always mysteries we can’t figure out but usually, those mysteries are why the patient died, not why they lived.”

Witt felt good, realizing his bubbles had indeed kept Mr. Teller alive but wondered why Eastman hadn’t said “Mr. Teller,” rather than “this patient.” He wondered if Eastman had been avoiding thinking about Teller as a human being. Then Witt realized Eastman had simply been so busy trying to keep Teller alive that he’d never had time to learn his unconscious patient’s name.

A few minutes later, Eastman had closed the hole in the vein. He released the clamps out by the shoulder and had Elaine take the pressure off the other end of the vein.

The sutures held and kept the vein from bleeding, even after Witt remembered to collapse his bubble proximally.

After washing the wound out with saline, Eastman and Elaine started suturing the wound closed.

Gathering his courage, Witt said, “Um, Dr. Eastman? Do you need me anymore?”

“We can get by, but would you like to try cutting suture?”

“Um, I don’t know how.”

“Elaine, show him on this one,” Eastman said, finishing a knot and holding the tails of the suture up in the air. Marty handed her a scissor and she demonstrated sliding one blade of the scissor down until it touched the knot, rotating a little, then snipping.

“Give it a shot, young man,” Eastman said, sounding much more relaxed than he had a few minutes ago. “What’s your name?”

“Um, Steve, sir.”

“Okay, Steve, cut Elaine’s stitch next.”

Witt did so.

“You cut that one too short, Steve,” Eastman said.

“Oh! My God. I’m so sorry!” Witt said, feeling horrible.

“Relax, Steve,” Eastman said with a chuckle. “It’s long been said that medical students can only cut suture to two lengths…”’

“Too long, or too short,” Elaine said with a snicker. “Welcome to the club, Steve.”

Witt kept cutting sutures until they were almost done. During that time his phone vibrated three times.

Finally, Eastman said, “We appreciate your help Steve, but it sounds like someone really wants to talk to you. You’d better scrub out and answer that phone before it detonates. You did a fine job, I hope you’re going into surgery?”

Startled, Witt said, “Um, I don’t know yet, sir.”

“Well,” Eastman said, “life’s better if you’re doing something you’re good at and I can tell by the way you use your hands that you’d be good at surgery.” He gave a little snort, “You’re so good I had a hard time telling whether you’d cut the sutures too long or too short.”

“Thank you, sir,” Witt said wondering whether Eastman was merely kidding. It didn’t seem like cutting sutures was something complex enough that you could say someone had a talent for it. He slowly backed away from Mr. Teller’s side. If Eastman wasn’t just joking about it, he felt proud they thought he had good hands. And, also, terribly worried that they’d find out who he was.

Marty grabbed Witt’s elbow and steered him backward until the nurse said, “Stop there. I’m gonna teach you how to take your gown off.”

She showed him how to pull off his gown and gloves without getting any blood on himself. With concern, Witt realized she was eyeing him suspiciously.

Then, to his horror, she said, “This time of year, you’ve gotta be at the end of your third-year rotations. How’ve you not done your surgery rotation yet?”

“I, ah, was just observing down in the ED and someone said I should follow Mr. Teller to the OR, and…”

She cocked her head, “This is some kind of first or second-year observing program?”

Witt slowly nodded, not sure what she meant or whether the answer would get him out of trouble or dig him in deeper.

The nurse narrowed her eyes, saying, “If you see the person that sent you up here, remind them that students aren’t allowed in the OR until they’ve done their orientation and learned how to scrub in, okay?”

“Um, yes, ma’am,” Witt said, then turned and hurried out the door. Not wanting to answer any more questions, as soon as he was through it, he went to fast-time, put on his headlight, and started looking for an exit.

Finding his way out of the hospital was far from straightforward, the place was a maze. Searching for an exit gave him time to ponder how he should feel great that he’d saved Teller’s life. Unfortunately, it’d been so frantic he hadn’t had time to appreciate the experience.

He took a deep breath and tried to think peaceful thoughts but kept coming back to wondering what was going to happen when he got back… Where do I go? he wondered, To school or home?

As soon as he got outside the building, he encountered a street he recognized. One that’d take him close to the high school. Still in fast-time, he trotted beside the apparently stationary vehicles that were going the direction he wanted to go until he came to a pickup. He climbed in the back of it—right behind the driver so he’d be hard to see. There he went back to normal time.

As the truck rolled along, Witt pulled out his phone. After waiting for it to connect to a cell tower he started looking at his messages. He’d missed a bunch of texts and some phone calls. There were even a few voicemails. There were texts from the principal’s office, Jesse, Rachel, his mom, his dad, Cinna, and Ms. Tierney, his English teacher… Damn, he thought, this’s a real mess. What am I gonna tell them?

He couldn’t claim he’d been sick; a lot of those people had seen him at school this morning. Could I say I got scared and ran the hell away as soon as they let us out of lockdown? he wondered. Or did they take attendance before they let us go? Or maybe they didn’t let the kids go? For all I know, everybody might be in the gym getting counseling…

I can text Jesse and find out what’s happened, he decided.

Witt fired off a “call me if you can” text to Jesse.

His phone rang seconds later. When he accepted the call, Jesse asked, “Where the hell are you?! People are going insane!”

“I, um, went with the teacher…” Witt said, not wanting to say Teller’s name because of Jesse’s paranoia about how the government listened to everyone’s phone calls.

Jesse did not read between the lines. “What teacher?!” he asked. “The teachers and the administration are in a panic about you. Everyone else’s accounted for.”

“Teller, you dumbshit,” Witt said scathingly. “I went with Teller.”

Jesse being a man of many words, the long period of silence that followed Witt’s reply told him just how disconcerted his friend was. The silence stretched so long Witt began to think the call had dropped, then Jesse said, “Ah… You’ll have to tell me about that sometime.”

“For now,” Witt said, “What do I need to know about what’s going on at the school?”

“Not much. They sent everyone home except the ones who wanted counseling or needed a place to stay until their parents could get off work. There’s a crapload of people at the office who’re trying to figure out what happened to you though.”

“Shit, what am I gonna tell ’em?”

“That you got scared and ran away? You’re such a weeny, nobody’d have trouble believing that.”

“Thanks a lot,” Witt said, irritated. “Didn’t they lock the classrooms as soon as they heard the shots?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How am I supposed to have run away then?”

“I don’t know!” Jesse said, exasperatedly. “Jumped out the window?”

“I was in English. They’re not gonna believe I jumped out a second-story window!”

“What do you want to tell them, then? How did you get out of there?”

Witt sighed. “I guess I’ll claim I went out the door as soon as I heard the shooting, which is what I did. I’ll I say got out before Ms. Tierney closed the door and I just kept running as fast as I could.”

“They’ll believe that, Mr. Track Star.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for all your so useful help. I’d better call my mom.” Witt hung up that call and touched his mom’s icon.

“Witt!” she said, sounding immensely relieved, though Witt thought he heard notes of frustrated fury waiting to be unleashed. “Where are you?! Are you okay?!”

“I’m…” Witt cursed himself for not having planned out an appropriate answer to such a basic question. “I’m on my way home. Where are you?”

“I’m at the school. They’ve set up a command center just for finding you! For God’s sake Witt! Where’ve you been?!”

“I…” Witt said, pleased to hear his voice break. “I panicked. Sorry. I ran out of English as soon as I heard shooting. Then I just kept going. I’ve just been… wandering around, wondering what to do.” Feeling guilty, he tried plucking at her heartstrings. “Maybe I’ve inherited a little of Dad’s PTSD?”

“Oh, Witt…” she said sadly. “I’m sorry. Do you want to come here to the school? They’ve got counselors coming in.”

Witt suppressed his horrified reaction to that idea and tried to sound tired as he said, “I’d rather go home and rest. This’s been… kind of a bummer.”

“Okay,” she said with sudden resolve. “I’ll tell them you’re okay, then meet you at home.”

“Don’t you need to get back to work?” he asked. “Being in a new job and all, you can’t afford to take a lot of time off.”

“I’m not going back without seeing you,” she said resolutely. “I’ll be home as soon as I can get away from here.”

“Okay,” Witt said, gratefully realizing the call had gone much better than he’d expected.

His call to his dad went much the same. He called Rachel next.

When the call connected, Rachel’s tone was stony, “What’s your problem?”

Taken aback, Witt wondered why she’d be angry. Does she suspect something to do with my talent? Does she know where I’ve been? Hesitantly, he stuck with the story he’d given his mom, saying, “When I… heard the shots, I just panicked and ran out of the school. I’ve just been wandering the streets in a kind of daze. It’s like I just came back to myself a few minutes ago.”

“Asshole,” Rachel muttered quietly as if she didn’t expect him to hear it.  Then in a clear tone she certainly did mean him to hear, she said, “And what about your girlfriend? Did you worry about her? Did you think she might be scared too? Did you think she might be worried about you? NO, you didn’t, did you?”

Stunned, Witt was still trying to think what to say when he realized she’d hung up on him. Have I just been dumped? he wondered. He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop for a long time. He’d never thought a guy like him should have a girlfriend as smart, pretty, and popular as Rachel Wood in the first place. But if he was losing her…

The thought of it gave him a deep ache in his chest.

For a moment he wondered about the talent that allowed him to modify the flow of time. Whether it was worth it. He’d used it to save someone’s life today, yet the accomplishment of that feat looked like it was going to cause him a lot of misery.

And no one was gonna know what he’d done for Teller but Jesse, who’d only give him shit about it…

Witt lifted his head to look out of the bed of the pickup and see where he was.

Damn! he thought, realizing the truck had already gone past the street where he’d intended to get out. He went to fast-time and hopped out of the apparently stationary truck. He’d only gone a few blocks past the street he wanted, so he trotted back to it, rather than trying to find a truck going the other way.

Back at the cross-street, Witt didn’t see a pickup but did see a step van headed the right way. His headlight picked out a big step-type rear bumper and hand grips intended to help the driver climb in the back door. He stepped up on the bumper, grabbed one of the handgrips, and pulled off his headlight. Then he went back to normal time.

The world brightened and the street got noisy again, but something was wrong… What the hell? Witt wondered. The truck felt wrong. Then he realized it wasn’t bumping up and down over rough spots in the pavement. Next, that it wasn’t going past anything. All these thoughts took less than a second, then segued into a realization. Dumbass! He thought about himself with a laugh, You just climbed on a parked truck! Shaking his head in amused frustration, he thought, I was bound to do it someday.

Since a vehicle going forty miles an hour would only seem to be going 0.1 mph—a very slow walk—to Witt when he was at 400X, they pretty much looked stationary even when they were moving. That’d made it easy for him to think he could catch a ride on one that was truly stationary.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Witt went back to fast-time, pulled on his headlight, and trotted on down the road until he caught up with a pickup going his way.

Riding in the back of that pickup, he wondered what to do about Rachel. At first, he tried to think of an excuse for his behavior she might accept. There was no way he was going to try to tell her he’d disappeared because he’d been saving Teller’s life. Or that he’d known Rachel was safe because he’d already taken down the shooter. In the first place, she wouldn’t believe such extravagant claims. In the second place if —because he rubbed her nose in evidence proving his claim—she did believe him, she might give his secret away. He was already worried enough about the fact that loose-lips Jesse knew his secret.

Essentially, there was no reasonable excuse for his behavior.

After quite a bit of thought, Witt texted her, “Rache, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have panicked. I realize there’s no excuse for the way I behaved. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ll understand if you don’t.” He didn’t send it immediately, holding it until it was time to go to fast-time and get out of the truck.

Once he was out of the truck and back in real-time, he read his message again, made a couple of minor edits, and sent it.

A chime announced her reply so quickly he didn’t think it could be a reply. He looked at his phone expecting to see he’d received a text from someone else, but it was from Rachel.

He opened it.

It said, “I don’t.”

Witt had to look back at the text he’d sent her to understand she was saying, “I don’t forgive you.”

His throat locked up and he struggled to swallow, thinking, I guess I’ve been dumped.

Chapter Two

Witt’s mother, Lindsey Ryllin, drove home, torn between dismay that there’d been a shooting at Witt’s school and irritation at her son for exacerbating the day’s drama by running out of the school. She also felt shocked by his plausible-sounding self-diagnosis of PTSD. Is he going to turn into an emotional cripple like his dad? she wondered.

Although, she thought, Syke’s doing a lot better.

Witt’s dad, Syke Ryllin, had kept his promise to stay away from booze for months now. He’d gotten a desk job with the police force and thought he might be able to go back to active duty at some point in the future.

Lindsey wasn’t sure what to think about his improvement. Syke said at first it’d been all willpower that’d let him stop drinking. However, he felt strongly that he’d gotten the active ingredient, MDMA, in the PTSD study group he’d been in. He felt like it’d loosened his ultra-tight, barbed-wire personality. At Witt’s request, she and the kids had had Syke over for dinner several times and he’d been a completely different man. Not just better than he’d been before he and Lindsey separated and started their divorce proceedings, but, she thought, a better man than he’d been when she’d married him.

Witt’d been staying over at Syke’s apartment several nights a week and he thought his dad was doing great. Though that may be wishful thinking on his part, she thought. Boys do love their dads.

I think.

Lindsey had an uncomfortable sense that using formerly illegal psychoactive drugs to treat Syke’s PTSD smacked of taking the easy way out, but… If this school shooting has given Witt PTSD, she wondered, would I want him treated with MDMA too?

Not until we’ve tried everything else! she decided. Besides, I didn’t think he sounded all that traumatized on the phone. Just… tired.

Lindsey opened the door and lifted her foot to step into their tiny apartment but Witt’s sister Claire was getting up from the kitchen table. As she walked to meet Lindsey at the door, Claire had her finger to her lips in a silent request that Lindsey not say anything.

Lindsey backed out of the door and Claire followed her through onto the stoop. “What’s going on?” Lindsey asked, alarmed.

“It’s Witt,” Claire said. “He’s acting… I don’t know. He just got home about ten minutes ago. I went out to give him hell for going AWOL this morning and stirring everyone up, but…” Claire glanced back as if she could see into the apartment, then said, “It’s weird, Mom. He’d been crying!” She shrugged, “So, I didn’t give him any shit. I uh, wound up giving him a hug, which was pretty strange. He hugged me back, then got on the couch and covered his head with his sheets.”

Lindsey’s heart plummeted. “Did you ask him what was going on?”

“No. You know we don’t get along all that well. I was afraid if I talked to him, I’d make it worse. Whatever it is. Do you know where he went today?”

“Um,” Lindsey said, hesitating because she wasn’t sure whether she might be breaking a confidence. “I don’t want you to tell anyone, okay?”

Claire nodded, and Lindsey got the feeling she meant it.

“He said he panicked when he heard the shots. That he ran out of his classroom and then left the building before the teachers got the school shut down. Then he just walked the streets in a daze until he called me.”

Claire’s expression had turned incredulous. “Really?”

Lindsey gave a little shrug, “That’s what he said.”

Claire shook her head, “I don’t believe it.”

Lindsey blinked in surprise, “Why not?”

“He’s the…” Claire’s voice broke, then came out hoarsely, “He’s the bravest person I know. He… he…”

“He what, Claire?”

“Um, you probably don’t know about some of this stuff. Can you promise not to come down on him over it?”

“Sure… well unless it’s something horrible, of course.”

“Well, you know how he tutored those girls in calculus?”

“Yeah,” Lindsey said. The proceeds of Witt’s tutoring had bought many of their meals over the past few months, helping immensely with Lindsey’s efforts to get her little family out of debt so they could afford to move out of their shabby one-bedroom apartment. Now she had a sense of dread that Claire was about to tell her Witt hadn’t been tutoring after all. That he’d been bringing in the money through some unsavory means. Selling drugs perhaps.

Claire said, “The first girl Witt tutored, Cinna, was the girlfriend of one of the football players. That guy took exception to Witt talking to her and tried to punch him.”

“Why didn’t I hear about this?!” Lindsey asked angrily. “The school’s supposed to have a zero-tolerance policy for fighting.”

“Witt didn’t fight him. He just dodged the punch and the footballer went flying down the stairs. He broke his wrist in the fall.”

“Oh!” Lindsey said, hand over her mouth. Then, doubtfully, “You saw this?”

Claire shook her head. “I didn’t see it, but I heard about it from a lot of people who did. They were all in awe of how slick Witt was, not fighting, yet still taking Ballidge out. Anyway, the principal decided Witt hadn’t done anything but dodge a punch, so he didn’t get suspended. Ballidge got suspended, but not for the full two weeks since he hadn’t actually hurt anyone.” Claire gave her mother a look. “Believe me, if you saw this guy, you’d expect him to smear Witt into paste. He’s all muscle, and huge.”

“Well, I wish you’d told me about this before, but that doesn’t make Witt sound brave, just quick.”

Claire shook her head, “That’s not all, Mom. While he was out of school, Ballidge sent Lance Richards, one of his oversized football buddies, to teach Witt a lesson. Witt kicked the guy’s ass.”

“Wait a minute. Why didn’t I hear about this fight?!”

“It wasn’t much of a fight. The guy attacked Witt, and Witt kicked him in the balls. One kick and the whole thing was over. While this big dude was down on the floor, Witt asked him something about whether there were going to be any more problems over him tutoring Cinna and the guy said no. Then, while everyone was staring at this big guy blubbering on the floor, Witt backed away and took off without anyone noticing. When the school’s security cop showed up, the big guy claimed he’d accidentally hurt himself. That way he wouldn’t get suspended.”

“Still,” Lindsey said unhappily, “Witt was fighting that time. I don’t like it.”

“He doesn’t fight. Mostly he just dodges out of the way. That second time he defended himself, but the girls who were there said Lance talked about Cinna like she was Ballidge’s property. Lance needed someone to make him regret that!”

“Wait,” Lindsey said, still alarmed about this whole thing. “He only dodged the first time, right? That’s not ‘mostly.’ Once he dodged and—”

Claire interrupted her. “There was a third time. Ballidge tried to attack Witt again when he got back to school. Witt just dodged him. Ballidge wasn’t treating a girl like a piece of meat that time so Witt just stepped out of the guy’s way like a bullfighter. The asshole fell and rebroke his wrist.”

“Claire! I wish you wouldn’t use that kind of language.”

“If you knew Ballidge,” Claire said, grimly, “you’d be saying ‘asshole’ yourself. Enough about Witt dealing with those… jerks. I only told you about them so you’d understand Witt doesn’t scare easily. Hel—heck, you’ve been there when he’s dealt with a crisis yourself. Remember over at Dad’s apartment that first time? How we came out and found that gang stealing our wheels?”

Lindsey nodded, wondering where Claire was going with this.

“Did you notice it didn’t even faze him? You and I ran back into the building in a panic, but Witt stayed out there to see what was happening. A minute or so later he came in to get us because something scared the gangbangers away. Remember, he told us to get off the phone and led us back out to the car.”

“Well, I don’t remember it exactly that way…” Lindsey began.

“Whatever happened, Mom, Witt was calm. He was calm handling Dad when Dad was being such an asshole.”

“Calm? I don’t think so. He was upset too and—”

“Yes, he was upset! But, Mom, he wasn’t panicked! He wasn’t random. He came up with a plan! He dealt with Dad, and then when I started to go off, he hugged me until I settled down. Despite a gang trying to steal our wheels, Witt got us home!” Claire shook her head disbelievingly, “It’s like he’s got ice in his veins. I do not buy the idea he panicked because there was a shooter at the school.”

Lindsey snorted softly. “What? Are you gonna tell me, you think Witt left his classroom to go stop the shooter?”

“No, I can say with certainty that he never got to the science classroom where the shooter was. His showing up there would’ve had everyone at the school talking. But, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why he left his classroom. Then, once he got there and saw they’d already neutralized the shooter, he left the building. Why? Because kids weren’t supposed to be in the halls and they’d locked down his classroom so he couldn’t get back in.”

Narrowing her eyes, Lindsey asked, “If that’s the case, why didn’t he just say that?”

Claire stared at her a moment, then broke out laughing. A few seconds later she stopped and, with a surprised look on her face, said, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Lindsey nodded.

“You really think Witt’d tell you he left his classroom to go stop a shooter? I mean, sure, I’m always saying he’s stupid, but he’s not, you know?”

Lindsey snorted, “I guess you’re right. I would’ve gone ballistic. I’d better go talk to him.”

Claire blocked the door. “You remember you promised not to tell him I told you any of this stuff, right?”

“Yes, Claire,” Lindsey said, rolling her eyes as she stepped around her daughter and entered the apartment.

She walked out of the corner kitchen and across the main room to the couch Witt slept on. As Claire had said, her son had his sheet pulled up over his head. He didn’t move or say anything when Lindsey approached. Is he really asleep? she wondered. Or, just hoping I’ll go away and leave him alone? “Witt?” she said quietly, thinking maybe she should leave him alone if he didn’t respond, but not wanting him to think she didn’t care.

“Uh-huh,” Witt said, in the flat tone of someone who didn’t care if they lived or died.

“Um. What’s got you so down?”

“Rachel dumped me,” he said, agony seeping out of him in the sound of his voice.

Oh. Not just the school shooting, but an emotional dropkick too. Lindsey knew better than to say something about how first loves seldom lasted, but that didn’t mean she knew what she should say instead. She sat on the floor next to the couch and, taking his hand in hers, said “Sorry.” She intended to say something more but couldn’t think of anything that didn’t feel trite.

So, she said nothing, just sat by her son, gently squeezing his hand.

After a bit, thinking of all the nice things Witt’s sister, of all people, had said about him, her eyes welled with tears and her nose began to run. There weren’t any tissues nearby so she had no recourse but sniffling.

A few moments later, Witt pulled the sheet off his head, looked at her, and said, “What’s the matter, Mom?”

Lindsey cleared her throat and scratchily said, “Just feeling bad about my son’s broken heart.”

“Oh,” he said thoughtfully. “Can you get me another one?”

“Another…?”

“Heart.”

Lindsey looked at him suspiciously.

He’d formed a weak grin.

She nodded, “Sure, but you know we’re short of money. It’d have to be a cheap one.”

He shuddered. “I dunno. I think I’m gonna need one that can stand up to bitter disappointments and crushing humiliations a little better than this one did. Maybe I should wait till you can afford a high-quality one?”

She thought a moment, then softly said, “Problem… With an invincible heart, you won’t care… You should heal that soft one you’ve got.”

***

Witt’s last day of class had been Thursday, with graduation scheduled the next night, on Friday. Because of the shooting, they’d postponed graduation, and now they planned to hold it Sunday evening.

This was good because Witt had lined up a summer job that started on Monday. He wanted to get the ceremony over and done with.

He and Rachel had planned to go out Saturday night for a last fling before she left town. Her dad had arranged a summer internship for her out west before she went to school back east the next fall. Witt had been worrying their relationship would fall victim to distance as time went on. Not because he could imagine it happening, but because everyone said high school romances didn’t survive when young lovers attended different colleges.

Since they’d broken up way before Witt’s expected romance expiration date, he figured he had Saturday evening free to try busking. This was something that’d vaguely featured in the deep recesses of his mind ever since his band teacher had told him he had a real talent on the sax. It’d picked up after he heard Eva—the lead singer of Eve of Destruction—busking anonymously earlier in the spring.

As he packed up his saxophone and guitar, he had visions of playing before an admiring crowd that’d gathered on the same corner Eva’d played. Counterbalancing those optimistic mental pictures were ones in which no one even slowed as they walked by, many of them frowning.

In the worst imaginings, a nearby store owner came out to complain that Witt was driving away customers and asked him to move along.

Nonetheless, he thought of this as a way to get an unbiased assessment of his play. Not opinions from family or friends. Because, of course his mom thought he was great. He should expect his band teacher to tell him he had talent with the sax.

He wanted to see how he fared with the man on the street. With those who had no reason to pat him on the back just because they cared about him.

He also needed to avoid those who’d, on principle, tell him he was terrible—such as his sister Claire or friend Jesse.

With his sax case securely strapped to the rear rack on his bike and his guitar slung over his back, Witt started riding toward downtown. He planned to set up near the corner where he’d seen Eva busking. Not the same corner, since he thought it was too close to his mom’s new office and he didn’t want her to embarrass him if she happened to walk by.

He hoped there’d be a good spot a block or two away. One that’d be safe from Mom-encounters.

Witt’s best route downtown took him kind of close to his high school and he self-consciously found himself wishing he’d detoured away from it. Then he considered going to fast-time so no one would see him ride by on a bike loaded with musical instruments. He stifled the urge since it was a Saturday and the day after the school year had ended. There shouldn’t be many kids around the school. Besides, doing too much fast-time left him feeling a little off—he thought due to the effect that inserting a bunch of extra minutes into his day had on his circadian rhythm.

As he rode, he once again thought about how stupid it was to be taking two instruments when he could only play one at a time. But, he reminded himself, this is an experiment in finding out whether the public likes my music. He got a lot more compliments on his sax improvisations, but he felt an instrument like the sax, played alone, wasn’t the kind of thing that’d attract a crowd to a busker. It needed accompaniment. Singing and accompanying himself on guitar seemed a much more reasonable form of street entertainment.

Plus, that was what he most often saw buskers doing.

Unfortunately, he didn’t think of himself as an excellent guitarist.

Nor as a great singer.

Better than a lot of people, maybe, but not a standout. So maybe this isn’t a good test either, he thought. I need a band.

But, in a kind of catch-22, he didn’t want to go to the trouble of trying to form a band unless he thought he had the kind of talent that’d mean he had a chance of success.

Arriving in the downtown area, he started checking out street corners, trying to find a good spot. Most of them didn’t have much sidewalk space.

When he passed the one Eva’d been busking on, he could see why she’d chosen it. The building on the corner was set back a little, leaving more space, not only for the performer but for an audience.

He circled several blocks near there, looking for something similar, then unhappily decided he should take a chance on encountering his mother.

He returned to what he thought of as “Eva’s corner” and chained his bike to a post. Opening his guitar case, he leaned the guitar against the wall and tossed a couple of dollars in the case to attract tips. He got out his sax, intending to start with it and work his way up to the guitar and vocal pieces he’d been planning. At the last moment, however, he chickened out over a sudden certainty that no one wanted to hear solo sax. Picking up the guitar, he tuned it and started playing.

At first, Witt couldn’t bring himself to sing, but to his astonishment, several people tossed bills in his case during his instrumental improvs on well-known songs. From what he’d read, covers brought in the most money but instrumentals didn’t do well so he felt surprised. Eventually, he gained enough confidence from those tips that he started singing.

Not liking the sound of his own voice, he felt astonished to get even more tips when he sang. This gave him the courage to occasionally play one of his own compositions, however, as he’d been led to expect—though not as he’d hoped—tips significantly decreased when he played his own stuff.

Do my songs just suck? he wondered. Or is it just that people respond better to things they’ve heard before? He knew that in his own case he often liked a song better after he’d heard it a few times. But how do you ever get folks to give your song those initial listens?

He'd just finished playing Maroon 5’s, “Memories,” when he looked up and realized Eva was standing in the little crowd he’d attracted. She had on her blond wig. An electric guitar rode a strap across her back and she had a small amp in one hand—as if she were ready to busk herself.

Feeling embarrassed to have appropriated what Witt thought of as “Eva’s corner,” he gave her a wide-eyed look and mouthed “Sorry!” Unslinging his guitar and stepping away from the center of the little space, he held out a hand to it, indicating she should take her spot.

She shook her head and said, “These spots are first-come, first served. I’ll just listen. Or, if you like I could play along? You can have the tips.”

Still feeling stunned, he stammered, “I… I’d be honored. You can have all the tips, I’m not in your league.”

“Is somebody gonna start playin’?” an irascible member of Witt’s little audience grumbled. “Or should I go get a beer?”

Witt snorted a little laugh, having noticed that the guy had been there for quite a while without any indication he might add to the tips in the guitar case. However, Witt felt far too excited about playing with Eva to dream of complaining. He started strumming the intro to CCR’s, “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” because it was one of the few covers Eva’d played when he’d listened to her before.

This made him realize she’d had the courage to play her originals.

Eva gracefully unslung her guitar, mouthing, “Go through the intro twice.” She gently plucked each of the strings on her guitar, adjusting the tuning of two of them. When Witt’d almost finished the second intro, she jacked in the guitar and came in, somehow seeming to play two parts at once.

Astonished, Witt forgot to start singing.

Eva noticed and started picking out the melody as if they’d fully intended to start with an instrumental solo. Leaning close to him, she softly said, “When it comes around again, you sing lead. I’ll harmonize.”

Even if she was pretending not to be Eva, he knew who she was, so Witt’s heart was in his throat at the thought of singing with his hero.

Well, heroine.

Am I gonna be able to sing? he wondered. Is there an Eve of Destruction show in town tonight and I didn’t notice? Then he realized he was about to miss the start of the song again.

Here I go, he thought, opening his mouth and trying to sing, “Long as I remember,” though his voice croaked.

Eva gave him an amused but encouraging smile and he managed to sing the next line, “The rain been comin’ down.”

On the next lines, “Clouds of mystery pourin’, confusion on the ground,” Eva sang a gorgeous harmony part.

It sounded so good that Witt, thinking about how he wished he’d set up a recorder, nearly overlooked the beginning of the following two lines. When he did come in, he stuttered a little, “G—good men through the ages, tryin’ to find the sun,” Eva didn’t sing along, making him wonder if she was disgusted by his vocal clumsiness.

But on the next two chorusing lines, “And I wonder, still I wonder. Who’ll stop the rain,” she harmonized beautifully again.

Witt wondered, Am I imagining how good this sounds?! He worried he was getting distracted again, however, he managed to come in on time when the next verse began, “I went down Virginia…”

Eva kept filling in amazing harmonies, then ripped out another fine guitar solo after the next set of chorused lines.

After the third verse and its chorus lines, Eva soloed again while Witt kept playing rhythm.

This time their little crowd applauded and bills rained into Witt’s guitar case. They were small bills, but it still felt awesome.

He turned to Eva, “Thanks! Thanks so much for letting me play with you. I’ll—I’ll remember this for the rest of my life! I’ll clear out and you can have your corner…”

Witt paused because she’d been shaking her head. She said, “As I said, it isn’t my corner. If it belongs to anyone, it belongs to you today. But I’d like to keep playing with you if you don’t mind.”

If I don’t mind?! Witt thought, incredulously. Trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth, he choked out, “Um, that’d be great.”

Witt played two more songs she’d played the last time he’d heard her play on the street, but those were the only ones he felt sure of. The crowd responded favorably and grew, as did the amount of money in his case.

After finishing their third song, he asked her what others she might be able to play.

“You have a set list?” she asked.

Realizing she meant a list of the songs he’d been planning to play, he pulled out his list of the covers he thought he did best. He had a secondary list, but he didn’t play them well enough to be worthy of Eva.

Eva glanced at it and said, “Lead off.”

Witt blinked, “Which one?”

“Any of ’em. I’ll play along.”

He stared at his list, thinking, Any of them?! She can’t know them all, can she? After a moment, he started Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.”

Eva played lead to his rhythm guitar and, once again, harmonized beautifully.

He found himself gaping at her as she played purposefully, not as if she were feeling her way through a song she’d heard but hadn’t played. He kept thinking, I think she really does know all of them!

They played three more songs—all chosen randomly by Witt and performed perfectly by Eva. Meanwhile, he hoped his mistakes were minor enough that no one noticed.

Then Eva leaned closer and asked, “You have another instrument in that case over there?” Eva asked, nodding at his sax case.

“Um, yeah…” he said brilliantly.

“What is it?”

“A saxophone.”

Sounding impatient for the first time, she asked, “Can you play it?”

Witt nodded.

With a little laugh, she said, “For God’s sake, get it out! What’s got you so flustered?”

As he stepped over to his sax, he passed close enough to mumble, “Because, you know, you’re Eva!”

While he knelt, unlatching the case, she leaned in behind him and quietly but intensely asked, “What gave you that idea?!” She didn’t sound happy.

Standing, his sax clenched in his hand, he uncomfortably said, “I’ve heard you play on this corner before…”

“Yeah, I recognize you. So?”

Shit! Witt thought, She probably recognizes me because of the way I gawked at her! Embarrassed and trying to get her mind off the way he’d looked at her before, he said, “Then I went to your show at Zen’s Arch…”

“I haven’t done a show at the Arch.”

“Eve of Destruction has. The first EOD show I went to was the one you halted because people were getting crushed.”

She stared at him a moment, then spoke intensely, “Your asshole friend asked me for an autograph while they were doing CPR, but you dragged him away.”

Sheepishly, Witt said, “Yeah, sorry about him. He really is, uh…”

She shook her head, looking both disgusted and amused. “You gonna play that thing?” she asked, nodding at his sax.

“Um, yeah,” he looked down at his list, “Which song?”

“One you’ve got a good sax part for. You can play rhythm and sing the rest of the time.”

Confused, Witt said, “Ah… how?”

A moment later, she’d shown him how to sling his sax and guitar so he could swing one out of the way while playing the other. As they turned around to play and Witt wondered whether he’d be able to make the instrument switching work, the grumpy guy in their little audience asked, “Are you gonna play any more? Or you packin’ it in?”

Eva flashed him a big smile and asked, “You gonna leave a tip?” She stared at him until he looked away, then pleasantly said, “Then you’re gonna have to settle for what you get, aren’t you?”

The little byplay gave Witt a moment to look at his list and think. He started blowing the sax solo for Pink Floyd’s, “Shine on You Crazy Diamond,” choosing that one because he’d worked out a way to play it that he thought would sound good without accompaniment.

Then realized he’d started in the middle of a nine-part song, since part five had the sax solo. The song wasn’t on his set list, he hadn’t told Eva what he was playing, or that he was playing it in a different key than Pink Floyd had recorded it, or where, in a very long song, he was starting! This would surely be the first song she couldn’t play!

Just as he started to pull the mouthpiece out to tell her what he was doing, Eva started playing along, perfectly in key, thumping the guitar to fill in for a kick drum, and cracking it with her ring to substitute for a snare. As if this wasn’t astonishing enough, she leaned close and said, “When we finish part five, why don’t we segue back to part four so the crowd’ll know what we’ve been playing. You’ll play the organ part on rhythm guitar, I’ll play lead and we’ll both sing.”

Witt gave her a wide-eyed nod, realizing that the lyrics of part four repeated the title “Shine on You Crazy Diamond,” thus identifying the piece for their listeners. But I’m not sure I know it well enough! he was thinking. What if I embarrass her?! How are we going to transition from part five back to part four?! And, how the hell am I supposed to play the organ part on an acoustic guitar?

He needn’t have worried. As he wound down the sax solo, she started gently strumming the chords the organ played in part four. It was different, yet okay. As soon as Witt pulled his guitar around and started playing the chords, she faded out her part and started picking out the lead guitar part. Giving him a nod, she sang, “Shine on you crazy diamond…” Witt harmonized, blissfully submerged in the sounds they were creating.

They played a couple more songs, then she leaned close and asked, “You know anything by EOD?”

Everything! He wanted to say. Instead, he said, “Seven Soldiers,” because it was his favorite.

She immediately started strumming the intro, giving him an eye until he took over the rhythm part. At that point, she started playing both a jangly complementary rhythm part on the lower strings of her guitar and picking out a lead part on the high strings. What they played was a version very different from the EOD arrangement but it still sounded great. It wasn’t different just because of their limited instruments, but also because she sang it differently than she did as the lead singer of EOD.

So people won’t recognize her! Witt realized. She voices everything differently on the street than she does when she’s on stage with her band! Not just the EOD songs, everything!

Eva leaned closer and said, “Think you can improvise a sax part for the third chorus?”

Thinking, Holy shit! Witt shrugged and said, “I’ll try.”

When it came around, he closed his eyes and let his mouth and fingers do as they would. To his surprise, he thought it sounded good.

When he finished the solo and opened his eyes, Eva gave him a wide grin, then started singing the vamp at the end.

He pulled his guitar around and played rhythm.

When “Seven Soldiers” wound down, Eva gave their little crowd a bow and a wave, saying, “I gotta go. See you again sometime.” Turning to Witt, she said, “You’re pretty good on vocals and guitar, but I love that sax. Let me know if you’d like to try playing with my band someday.”

By the time Witt had processed what she’d said and decided that the band she was inviting him to play with must be EOD, she’d picked up her little amp, snapped her short rack of pedals to its side, and started walking away, guitar once again slung over her back.

“Wait!” he called after her.

She glanced back, called, “Sorry, late,” and kept walking.

How am I supposed to let you know? he wondered. For a moment he considered running after her, but he didn’t want to leave his instruments unattended.

I’ll just have to figure it out, he thought. Then he wondered if he should stay and keep playing without her.

He decided he didn’t have the heart to play alone anymore. After all, he’d answered the question of whether people would like his playing. Also, the one about whether they’d like him better as part of a band. Apparently, they’d like me best if I were part of a band that has Eva in it, he thought.

He looked at the little crowd, significantly smaller now that she’d left. Some had departed when Eva did, others looked uncertain. He said, “Looks like the show’s over folks.”

The rest of them turned and went, some saying something about how they’d enjoyed the music. One stepped closer and told Witt he should find an agent because he had what it took to make it in music.

Witt asked this last person if he knew such an agent. The guy shook his head, “No, sorry,” and he left as well.

As Witt finished packing up, his phone chimed with a message. When he looked, he saw the message was from Rachel. “I guess you didn’t care enough to fight for what we had. Bye, Witt.”

What the hell does that mean? he wondered, slumping down to sit on the concrete, leaning back against the wall. Was I supposed to beg her for forgiveness? Is she hoping I’ll do that even now? Does she want to go out tonight after all?

After thinking for a while, he decided he didn’t know what she meant. But it ended with a final-sounding, “bye,” not a request for more communication. Her last message on Thursday, rejecting his request for forgiveness, had seemed final enough to him and this one appeared to cap it off.

With blurry eyes, he responded using the same word she had, “Bye.”

When he could see again, he did a search for contact information for Eve of Destruction or its manager.

There wasn’t any such info for EOD. He found a manager listed but it didn’t give a contact email. All he found was a “manager contact form” on EOD’s website, It was for people wanting to book shows and not at all set up for Witt’s inquiry. With little hope, he used the comments section of the form to try to identify himself and leave his contact information but didn’t have much hope Eva’d ever see it.

Though he couldn’t believe it’d be fruitful, he did another search for Eva’s contact info.

There wasn’t anything, not even a personal website or Facebook page.

He checked to see if she or EOD had a show tonight.

They did, in the next town. Witt sighed. Not only didn’t he have a way to get there, but the show’d been sold out for months.

She must’ve known there’d be no way for me to get in touch with her, Witt thought. Maybe this is her idea of a practical joke?

Still, next time EOD plays here, I’m gonna get a ticket and try to contact her after the show.

I’d better learn their songs. Just in case…

***

Sitting in the dressing room behind the stage at The Beat, Allie waited to start EOD’s show. She idly played her guitar for relaxation. Joe Randal sat across from her, noodling on his bass. They monitored their instruments on headphones so they wouldn’t bother one another. The door opened, admitting Davis and Shaun. She glanced at them, assessing their sobriety.

When she’d realized how much the two enjoyed getting buzzed, she’d laid down a hard rule against trying to play stoned or drunk. She’d decided that EOD could get another drummer or keyboard player but they couldn’t rescue their band’s reputation from sloppy performances. She liked the guys, but she liked being part of a great group even more. So, if one or more of them decided getting high was more important than the band, they’d have to go.

Or she would.

She felt pretty confident she could form an entirely new band if she had to, but she’d rather work with them. The devil you know, she thought.

Having decided from the way they were moving that they had to be sober, Allie said, “Hey. What would you guys think about looking for a sax player?”

Predictably, Davis shook his head, “Don’t need one.”

“Why not?” Allie asked, trying to keep irritation from creeping into her voice.

“We’re already booked out the wazoo, so there’s no reason to think we need to sound any better. Thus, there’s no reason to spend any of our money on a sax player.”

“Davis,” she said, trying to sound patient rather than irritated by his focus on the money instead of the music, “if we sound better, we’ll win more fans. If we have more fans, we’ll get booked into bigger venues. If we’re booked in bigger venues, our share of the door will be bigger. Therefore, paying a sax player won’t reduce our earnings because that cost’ll come out of a bigger pie.”

He shrugged dismissively, “Any sax solos you want, I can play on the keys with those new Prozoe samples.”

Allie wrote all their songs, but Davis thought of that process as a simple matter of stringing notes together into a series, then writing them down for him to play. To Allie, her writing consisted of imagining performances and fitting them together in her mind, then stringing notes that could be used in those performances. Some would call a big part of what she did “arranging,” but to her, it was a matter of picturing what could be in her mind. Eventually, yes, she did write down the notes for Davis and he did play them faithfully, but she wanted the inspiration that’d just oozed out of that kid on the street corner. She didn’t care exactly which notes they played. She’d prefer bandmates who didn’t have to have all the notes written for them. Ones who could just feel what should be played. Who could improvise on what she wrote and come up with something even more inspired.

She understood there might be musicians out there who could imagine their own performances and that those performances might be something she didn’t like. Conceptually she knew such differences could result in arguments. But, she thought cajoling performances out of her bandmates was more difficult than it would be to argue about what should be played with someone who’d been moved to create a part of their own.

She even thought such arguments might be stimulating in their own right.

She said, “Each of the sampled notes in Prozoe sounds good, but as a performance, something you play on the keys is never as good as a great sax player sounds with a real instrument.”

“But we’ve already got the Prozoe samples. I don’t want to spend a chunk of my share on a sax weenie’s salary.”

She sighed, “If we want this band to be the very best it can be, saving money by using a sampler isn’t the way to go.”

Davis opened his mouth to continue the argument, but a knock on the door told them the venue was ready. EOD had a hard and fast rule against keeping their fans waiting, so they got to their feet and started for the stage.

Allie’s last thought as they walked out was, I hope that kid from the corner contacts me…

***

Azim turned tearfully to his uncle Nabil. “Who dropped the bombs on us? Was it the Christians?”

His uncle shook his head sadly, “President Anshed.”

“Our president?! He’s the one that killed Umm and Abb?!”

Nodding, Azim’s uncle said, “Our president is a… a terrible man.”

After staring at nothing for a while, Azim turned to his uncle and spoke with resolve, “Then, when I am older, I will kill the president.”

His uncle nodded again and squeezed Azim’s shoulder.

When Azim looked up at him, his uncle was wiping a tear from his eye.

***

Hax hadn’t been surprised that he had to prove himself again on reaching football at the college level. However, he’d expected to get some credit for leading Lareta—which was not a football powerhouse—to the state championship three years in a row.

But, at the early summer conditioning camp, one of the coaches had taken him aside and recommended he reconsider collegiate-level football. “I’m sure you were hot shit in high school, but someone like you…” he’d shaken his head. “You’re gonna get crushed. You’re gonna be playing against people who’re faster and… not taller of course, but still, they’re bigger in the way that counts. They’re just packing more meat, son. They hit you and you’re gonna be hurtin’ for certain.”

Hax said, “I’m hard to tackle, Coach. Maybe you could have some of the guys try to take me down?”

The coach had shaken his head, “This is conditioning camp. We’re not allowed to do stuff that looks like we’re practicing football. But, trust me, son. I’ve been doin’ this a lot of years and tall skinny guys like you never make it. There’s no point in puttin’ yourself through the pain of all this conditioning when it ain’t gonna pay off.”

Hax had told the man he’d take his chances.

~~~

Then, in the August football training camp, most of the coaches had acted like they didn’t know what to do with Hax. One had frowned at him and asked, “You trying to walk-on?’

Hax knew a “walk-on” was someone who hadn’t been good enough to be offered a scholarship. There were “recruited walk-ons” who were good enough that the coaches wanted them on the team, but for whom they didn’t have an open scholarship. “Unrecruited walk-ons” were kids who hadn’t even been considered for a scholarship but who wanted to play so badly that they showed up anyway. Mostly they served as practice fodder for the scholarship players. He answered the coach honestly, “I’ve got a scholarship, Coach, but just barely. I was on the bubble.”

“You’re a freaking twig!” the coach said. “What position are you thinking you’re gonna play?”

“Quarterback, Coach.”

The coach’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You know, on every play, there’re gonna be linemen and linebackers that’re trying to crush you, right?”

“Yes, sir. I played QB in high school.”

“These guys are all bigger and faster than anyone you faced in high school!”

“I’m still gonna give it a try, Coach.”

The coach shook his head and walked away.

You coulda asked to see me throw, Hax thought, irritatedly.

~~~

But then the quarterback coach showed up. Coach Ryan had been out with an illness the first few days of practice. On his first day back, he’d started last year’s quarterbacks on some drills, then taken what seemed to Hax to be a surprisingly large group of six QB candidates to a corner of the field to set what he called “realistic expectations.”

“I know quite a bit about you guys from recruiting season and from watching tape of your games. You’re each good athletes in your own way, but look around. We do not need this many quarterbacks. Unless a whole lot of people get hurt, most of you are never gonna play that position. So, even though you may think you’ve got a spot, you’re all still trying out. Coach Jackson’s gonna tell me I have to drop some of you from the QB roster. Some will get offers to play other positions on the team. A few will stay on as deep backups. Some are gonna get cut or will only serve on practice teams.” He sighed, “Prepare yourself for reality, boys. That way reality will only slap you in the face, not deal you a crushing blow.”

Coach Ryan set the freshman QB-wannabes up with some drills to work on, then left to work with his three more senior and established quarterbacks. “I’ll be back before the end of practice. I’m going to want to see how well you can perform the drills I just gave you, so practice hard while I’m gone.”

The drills had them throwing passes to each other. Hax thought they should be throwing them to the team’s receivers, but those guys were apparently over taking passes from the three established quarterbacks. Hax felt chagrined to realize he was still a lousy catch. However, as always, he had no trouble throwing the ball wherever he wanted. Several of the other candidates caught well, which Hax thought would mean that, if they got cut from the QB squad, they had a good chance of staying on the team at some other position. One was fast, so he probably had a great chance to play receiver if he didn’t make it at quarterback.

But, if I don’t make it as a QB, they won’t be able to use me at all and I’ll lose my scholarship, he thought. They only guaranteed scholarships one year at a time. He'd have to be valuable to the team or they’d use his slot to recruit someone else next year. And that’s okay, he reminded himself. After all, they still had most of the money they’d taken from Romano’s crime ring. Their only limitation on spending it was the rate at which they could launder it.

He had an amused moment, picturing himself at the university cashier’s office, trying to pay his tuition with a $10,000 bundle of hundred-dollar bills.

Hax didn’t need the money to go to school, but he’d found leading a football team… rewarding. To him, his incredible passing accuracy merely provided a means to enjoy the satisfaction of such leadership.

~~~

Coach Ryan had an impossible amount of work to do with his existing quarterbacks, so he didn’t get back over to the freshman quarterback candidates until the practice was almost over. After all, these guys almost certainly wouldn’t contribute to the team this year. The Wildcats had some decent quarterbacks with experience, so none of the freshmen were going to get tapped unless there were a lot of injuries. Working with them was something that might help the team in a few years, not now.

Therefore, he felt tempted to blow them off.

However, he knew that giving them short shrift would leave a bad taste in their mouths. He at least owed them his promised look-see at the end of practice.

He shook his head as he walked up. Six of them this year! he thought.

High school quarterbacks were often the best athletes on their teams, so Minnouri usually issued a higher proportion of their scholarships to QBs. But usually, that meant they took one or two quarterbacks per year and then expected several of them to wind up playing other positions in the end. But this year…! He shook his head again. The way luck goes, probably not one of these guys is ever gonna take a snap in a game and some of them won’t turn out to be good for anything else!

As if to put an exclamation point on his thoughts, just as he stopped to watch, one of the other guys threw a pass to the impossibly tall and startlingly skinny kid. For a moment Ryan envisioned the tall kid dragging in passes that’d been thrown high over the head of a defensive back. If that scrawny frame can take a tackle, he might be useful, Ryan thought.

But the kid wasn’t running very fast…

The ball got thrown high—probably by mistake…

Despite the high pass, the tall kid easily got his hands on it…

He just didn’t hold onto it.

Ryan swore under his breath. Could this get any worse? he wondered.

They continued their rotation, one going out and another one throwing him a pass. With the next pair up, the pass was wide of the mark but the receiving QB managed to catch it with a surprising leap. And, that kid’s fast! the coach thought. I’ll bet we recruited a receiver there.

The next pair were pretty good. A decent pass and a good catch. But they didn’t look like standouts. They probably won’t be good enough to play much, Ryan thought. Then chided himself for predicting these kids’ college careers after watching one pass.

Then the tall string bean was up to throw. Ryan saw him say a few words to the one acting as a receiver who nodded, then took off downfield, cutting a hard slant at fifteen yards. He looked back as he crossed the twenty… and the ball floated into his hands! Had to be a fluke… Buchry! Coach Ryan’s eyes narrowed as he suddenly remembered. He’s the one who’s supposed to be so damned accurate.

Ryan shook his head. But even if that wasn’t a fluke, it won’t make up for the fact the kid’s slow—and way too skinny to take a beating in a game.

As he’d ordered, the six candidates shifted their pairs so they’d be throwing to different guys. Ryan watched them go through another couple of cycles. The fast kid continued to be fast and kept catching balls that looked like they were out of his reach. The other four seemed okay. And Buchry kept putting the ball exactly where it should be. When he was paired with the fast kid they were a joy to watch.

The coach gave them a pep talk salted with doses of reality and told them that they’d soon be practicing with the older quarterbacks, then sent them on their way.

On his way home Ryan kept thinking about Buchry. How he was so tall he’d find it a lot easier to read defenses and find receivers. How he seemed to be, not just more accurate than anyone Ryan had ever coached, but more accurate than Ryan had thought possible. Could we use him in a game? the coach wondered, Without someone destroying his slow, scrawny ass?

***

With the first game of the year coming this weekend, start-of-season jitters were afflicting Coach Jackson. He narrowed his eyes when he looked at the scrub team Ryan had put together to give his first-team defense some looks at what they might face Saturday. The quarterback coach had that unbelievably-tall, frighteningly-thin freshman playing the QB position.

James turned to Ryan, “I thought we recruited the tall skinny kid because we hoped he’d gain enough weight to play by his junior or senior year? I know he can throw the ball, but surely he isn’t the best you’ve got?”

Ryan nodded, “We did. And he is. I think you’re gonna be surprised by what you see from him today.”

James snorted, “Hell, he looks even skinnier than I remember.”

With a little laugh, Ryan said, “He hasn’t lost weight, he’s just grown another inch. He’s 6’10” now.”

“Even more reason we shouldn’t be risking him. I know this is, in theory, practice, but a fragile kid like that could get hurt by some linebacker who’s trying to prove how shit-hot he is. Besides, if we want this to help the first team, we need someone with enough experience to understand the offense he’s running.”

“Oh, he understands it all right,” Ryan said, an admiring tone in his voice. “I swear that kid’s the Einstein of football. He can read a defense in a microsecond and he’s not afraid to call an audible. That freaked me out at first,” Ryan shook his head, “but the plays he calls… they’re always the perfect antidote to the look the defense’s giving him. He calls those audibles before I’ve figured out what the defense is showing. I’ve tried telling him not to call audibles, but he just goes ahead and does it anyway. When I’ve gotten on him about it, he’s said things like, ‘I knew you wouldn’t want me to run that play against the look they’d just given us.’ Or… and I liked this one, ‘The guys wouldn’t respect me if I sold them down that river.’ Tell the truth, what I’m worried about is what he’s about to do to the first team’s confidence.”

James stared at his quarterback coach for a moment, then barked a little laugh, “That ain’t gonna happen. The first team’s athletes are just too much better. But if he does give them a little trouble, it might be just what the boys need. I think they’re looking past the Mountaineers ’cause they’re division 2, but that team’s good enough to give me ulcers.” The offensive practice team had been waiting out on the field for a while. Now the first-team defense trotted out. Jackson turned to Ryan, “What play are you having them run first?”

Ryan shrugged, “Don’t know.”

James blinked, “Don’t know?!”

“I decided to leave it up to Buchry.”

James stared at Ryan for a moment, unable to decide whether the QB coach was abdicating his responsibility, or thought he was giving a gifted player an opportunity. Uncertainly, he said, “Buchry’s the skinny QB’s name?”

Ryan nodded, his eyes on the field.

James looked that way and saw Buchry calling the practice team into a huddle. They broke and the scrubs trotted to the line with… confidence. I’ll be damned if they don’t look like they think this play’s gonna beat the first team!

Buchry ran a draw play but his handoff to the running back was clumsily obvious. The defense handily piled onto the running back as he hit the line. Jackson felt his tension melt away as he realized this freshman quarterback wasn’t, in fact, going to embarrass the first-team defense.

Then Buchry threw the damned ball! Somehow the kid had made it look like he was clumsily trying to draw the defense into chasing him while faking the handoff to the running back so well that Jackson himself had been fooled. Where the hell did he hide the ball?! Jackson wondered, thinking that he’d watch the tape later, then realizing they weren’t filming this practice. He must’ve held it down low like he wasn’t protecting a ball, Jackson decided, because his hand’s probably so damned big that holding it down there doesn’t risk a fumble. He watched the perfectly thrown pass land in the hands of a receiver who had no one in front of him; because everyone on the defense except the guys who were climbing off the pileup on top of the RB thought the play was over.

The next play Buchry called had the scrubs lining up in a way that’d enable one of the Mountaineer’s dangerous trick plays. From the way the defense reacted and started barking at each other, Jackson could tell they saw it and were going to be ready for it. Jackson felt some tension leave him, then he realized Buchry was calling a damned audible! The defense suddenly looked uncertain. The offense hiked the ball and Buchry fell back with it, looking to pass. Fortunately, the pass defense was covering all his receivers…

Jackson cursed. Buchry’d just thrown the ball across the field to his fullback, who’d been blocking a pass rusher, but whose man thought he’d gotten away from the FB. They gained nine yards!

Vince Young, the middle linebacker and captain of the defense was livid. He was yelling and punching the air as he tried to motivate his guys. Jackson wondered if he should call a pause for tempers to subside. As irritating as Buchry was at the moment, the coach didn’t want the first team to hurt the kid.

Buchry looked like he held a lot of promise.

Dithering, Jackson didn’t halt the action. In the next play, the defense blitzed and the guys looked like they were out for blood. Jackson lifted his whistle to his lips so he could blow the play dead as soon as someone looked like they might go too far. Vince Young broke through the line and charged Buchry.

James expected Buchry to throw the ball away or just take a dive to keep from getting crushed by the onrushing Young.

Instead, Buchry extended that extra-long left arm and pushed off of Young. He didn’t deflect the much more massive Young, it was more like he used the force provided by Young’s oncoming train to move himself out of the way. That force sent Buchry flying, but as Young went past behind him and Buchry flew out almost horizontally, the kid threw a sidearm pass that hit one of several uncovered receivers.

Right on the numbers.

That receiver turned and ran. Would’ve made a touchdown if the play hadn’t been blown dead because it was only practice.

To his astonishment, after two more plays, Jackson found himself walking out to ask Buchry to take it easy on the first-team defense so continued drubbing wouldn’t break their spirit.

Buchry simply said, “Sure thing, Coach.”

“Don’t go back to the huddle and tell the rest of the… practice team,” he said, stumbling to avoid calling Buchry’s ad hoc team scrubs. “We don’t want the first team to hear we took it easy on them either, okay?”

“No problem, Coach.”

“Don’t make it obvious either, right?”

“That won’t be hard, Coach. It’s a lot harder to get a play perfect than to flub it a little, right?”

And Buchry did exactly that. Play after play, little things went wrong that let the first team stop the scrubs—barely.

In bed that night, Coach Jackson kept thinking about the maturity Buchry’d shown in easing off.

And about how he was going to have to put Buchry in the game Saturday night to see how he fared outside of practice.

And about the feeling in his gut. The one that said Buchry was going to be their starting quarterback by the time the second game of the season rolled around…

Chapter Three

Witt trotted back to his Mom’s car. Pointing, he said, “You’re right, it’s the big grey building.” He opened the back door and reached in. “I didn’t see any open parking spots in front of the dorm so I’m gonna take two of my bags and head in. Maybe you can keep circling around till you find a place to park? If not, I’ll be back to get more of my stuff as soon as I get a key to my room and can drop this stuff off.”

He pulled out the bags and turned to hustle back into the dorm, but stopped when his sister, Claire, climbed out of the car, “Wait, doofus. Tell me what to bring and I’ll carry some of your crap in for you.”

Witt gave her a falsely wide-eyed look, and pointed, “The guitar and the sax.” He’d been getting along with Claire a lot better over the summer. Sometimes he wondered if she might even miss him when he was gone.

Claire reached in, grabbed the two instruments, pulled them out, and turned. She kicked the door shut and stepped out alongside Witt as their mother pulled the car away. “Why’re you bringing these?” she asked, giving him a side-eyed glance as they headed to the dorm. “You know you don’t play well enough to make time with the girls as a musician, don’t you?”

Witt gave her another wide-eyed look, this one of amazement, “You think, if I keep practicing, I might?”

Claire snorted, “No!”

“Aw, I think you do! Thanks for the lady-killer advice!” He tracked her eyes, then said, “Ah, now I see why you volunteered to help. You’re just here to check out all the hunks that’re livin’ in the athletic dorm, aren’t you?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding!” She swept her eyes over Witt’s frame. “I’ve seen your physique, you know? If you’re representative of the U’s athletes, I’m gonna be sorely disappointed.” She paused, her eyes fixed on a leanly muscular guy walking the opposite direction with his shirt off, “Though…”

“Oh, God, please don’t finish that thought,” Witt said.

To Witt’s surprise, while he stood in line to get checked in, Claire offered to make another run out to the car for more of his stuff.

She left his instruments leaning against the wall for the trip and hadn’t gotten back by the time he’d finished checking in.

Witt considered leaving his bags in the lobby and taking the instruments up but decided to wait instead. He texted his mom with his room number in case she found a place to park, then leaned back against the wall, people-watching.

His eyes mostly followed pretty coeds but did get distracted by a very tall, whip-thin guy who walked through. Basketball player, Witt decided, a relatively safe bet for someone standing well over six feet and living in the athletes’ dorm.

Claire came back and he headed up the stairs to his room, dumping the two biggest bags in the middle of the floor while Claire guarded the instruments and the rest of the stuff she’d brought in from the trunk of their mom’s car. A few minutes later he returned to the lobby and they got the rest of his stuff.

When he got back up to the room the second time, Witt felt astonished to see the tall skinny guy standing in the middle of his room, looking around. Dropping his load, he said, “This your room too?” he shook his head with frustration, “Of course it is.” He stuck out his hand, “Witt Ryllin. I must be your roommate.”

The tall fellow shook his hand. “Hax Buchry.”

Claire piped up from behind Witt, “You a basketball player?”

Witt cringed at a question that evidenced so many assumptions about tall people.

Buchry, however, just smiled and said, “No.” He arched an eyebrow, “Football. What do you play?”

Claire shook her head, “I’m still in high school and not any good at sports. Just came up here to help my dweeb brother move in. How tall are you?”

Buchry grinned, “You’re not shy, are you? I’m six-ten. Tall enough I have to duck my head to get in the doors,” he said, nodding at the doorway. “Too long for a twin XL bed and way too long for that standard one,” he said, indicating the bed. He shook his head sadly. “’Tis a terrible burden I bear.”

“This dorm’s for athletes,” Claire said dismissively. “I’m sure they’ll have longer beds if you ask. Aren’t you way too skinny for football? The football players at my high school could break you in half.”

Buchry laughed, “It does seem that way, I’ll admit. But I do okay.” He shrugged, “Maybe I’ll get broken here in college? I barely got a scholarship ’cause none of the teams thought I’d be able to take college-level punishment. Even though my coach spent a lot of time talking me up with college coaches, this is the only one that bit.” He shrugged, “We’ll just have to see.”

“I’m worried about you,” Claire said.

With a smile, Buchry said, “Thanks, Mom. My real mom’s worried too. She’s gonna be pissed when I tell her you’re playing in her zone.”

“Why aren’t you playing basketball?”

Shaking his head, Buchry glanced at Witt. “Does she ever let up?”

Witt rolled his eyes, “No! I wouldn’t be going to college if I hadn’t needed to get away from her.”

“I sympathize, man.” Buchry turned back to Claire, “In answer to your question, I’m far too lazy to run the length of the court every play, so, no B-ball for me. But, if I get cut from the football team, I should be able to walk on to the baseball team.”

Claire gave him an astonished stare. “Why don’t you just go out for baseball now?!”

“Too boring. I’m a pitcher, so all I’d get to do is throw the ball till my arm’s sore.”

“A sore arm’s gotta be better than a broken body,” Claire said, shaking her head as if she thought he was insane.

“Why don’t you go see if Mom’s found a place to park?” Witt interjected, staring meaningfully at his sister.

Claire rolled her eyes. “Always tryin’ to get rid of me,” she said but turned for the door nonetheless.

As soon as she was gone, Witt turned to his new roommate, “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Buchry said with a shrug. “I was the pain-in-the-ass younger sibling in our family, so I sympathize with her.”

“Your older brother play football too?”

Buchry shook his head. “Sister. She’s the smart one, but not very athletic. And, so you don’t have to ask, she’s five foot eight. Tall for a girl, but no freak of nature like I am.”

Witt drew back, trying to look offended. “I wasn’t wondering that!”

Buchry grinned, “Yes you were.”

“Yeah,” Witt said with a laugh. “I was. Thanks for not making me ask.” He glanced around the room. “Which bed do you…”

“Neither of these. Sleeping with your legs hanging over the end’s a pain in the ass. But, assuming they get me a longer one, it’ll need to be over there where there’s room for it.” Buchry pointed, “You mind taking the other one?”

“No problem. Which desk?”

“Don’t care. You pick. What sport do you play?”

“Um,” Witt said hesitantly because he still didn’t think of himself as an athlete. “I’m a sprinter. Hundred-meters.”

“Ooh,” Buchry said with a grin. “Sprinting a hundred meters per meet’s almost as lazy as pitching baseball.”

Witt drew himself up to say, faux indignantly, “Is not! I have to run a hundred meters every day in practice too.”

“Uh-huh,” Buchry said. “Well, as much fun as it’s been shooting the shit with you, my sister’s not gonna help haul my stuff over from my summer dorm, so I’d better get on my way.”

“Summer dorm?” Witt asked, turning toward the door. You were in summer school…?” he broke off at the sight of a pretty girl in the doorway, a box in her arms.

Like Buchry, she had dark skin, but her eyes were bright blue! Those eyes glared at Witt’s new roommate. In a threatening tone, she said, “What do you mean, your sister isn’t gonna haul your stuff?! Should I take this stuff back to your other dorm?”

Hax gave her a wide-eyed look. “You’re here, Roni?! You’re gonna help me?!”

“Pfft. Probably not, after the way you were trash-talking me!”

“Wait, did you hear the part where I said you were the smart one?”

Roni turned to Witt, “He’s lyin’ like a lion, right?”

Witt put his hands up. “Nope. It’s the gods’ honest truth. He said his sister was the smart one. Told me his IQ’s half of yours.”

“Hey, roomie, you’re goin’ too far there,” Hax said indignantly. “I did not say that last part. I mighta said my IQ’s half a point lower than hers—” He dodged a shoe she threw at him.

~~~

Hax’s sister, Roni, did carry some of his stuff over from the dorm he’d been in for the fall football training camp he’d been in since early August. As did Hax’s mom, Tansey, who’d driven up from Lareta to help out.

Witt’s mom, Lindsey, finally found a parking place and helped carry a few things in as well.

Hax contacted someone in the athletic department who told him where to get a longer bed. Witt helped him carry the frame and mattress to their room and set them up.

While they did so, the women put stuff away for the two young men. Initially, Witt thought this was a kindness. Later—when he couldn’t find any of his stuff because he didn’t know where they’d put it—he wished they hadn’t.

Once the room was set up, the two families went out to dinner together. Having gotten along well, Tansey and Lindsey had decided the two families ought to get to know one another. To Witt’s relief, they went out to a popular pizza place Roni recommended. Having learned that the Buchrys owned a business, he’d feared they might want to go somewhere expensive enough to strain the Ryllins’ meager budget.

Over pizza, he learned Roni was a senior in computer science at the University. In her view, Hax’s football abilities were world-class. This made Witt jealous, not because he believed Hax might be that good—he knew a lot of star high school athletes learned they couldn’t compete when they got to the college level—but because Hax had a sister that believed in him. Witt’s sister did nothing but roll her eyes in regards to his sprinting talent.

It doesn’t matter, he reminded himself, ’cause I have a secret. I know I can compete at the college level. All I have to do to win races is go farther into fast-time if it looks like I might lose.

***

Allie sighed. She’d advertised for sax players and just finished auditioning her eleventh prospect.

Some had been rank amateurs. None even came close to the talent of the random kid she’d encountered on a Carson street corner in early summer. There was none of the swooping invention the kid had come up with when she’d asked him to improvise. One had even asked her if she had sheet music for the improvisation he was supposed to play.

Maybe if I advertised for a sax player to join EOD? she wondered. Could that attract a higher caliber of player than an ad looking for someone to join an unspecified band?

She didn’t want it to get around that EOD was looking though. Partly because Davis would have a fit. She hoped he’d come around once he heard what a good sax player could do for their sound, but she knew he’d drag his feet at the thought of holding auditions when he didn’t want the group spending money.

Or worse, dividing the pie five ways.

She also didn’t want to advertise for someone to join EOD because far too many people were trying to reach EOD already. Putting out an ad in EOD’s name would make the crush of messages far worse!

I thought surely that kid would get up with me, she thought morosely. My impression that he was a fan of our stuff felt pretty strong.

She sat back thinking, then closed her eyes and swore, thinking, Of course, he can’t get up with me! I didn’t give him my number. I’m an idiot! If he’s been trying to reach me, he’s been getting blocked by the people I pay to block unsolicited contacts!

She racked her brain for the kid’s name, but the more she thought about it, the surer she became that she’d never asked his name and he hadn’t given it. I’m just gonna have to stop on that street corner every time I’m near Carson, hoping he’ll be there again.

Oh, and I need to tell our manager that if he gets contacted by anyone who claims they played sax with me on a street corner, he should put ’em through.

***

Looking to socialize, Witt walked into the lounge at the end of his dorm’s hall. Seeing it empty, he turned to leave but hesitated when he heard a small sound. Turning curiously in that direction, he didn’t see anyone. For a moment he wondered whether it’d been a mouse or something, but then a tiny shift in a cushion on the back of a couch facing away from him attracted his attention.

He heard another small sound.

Is that someone crying? he wondered. Should I let them have their privacy? Or am I just thinking that because I don’t want to deal with someone’s emotions?

He sighed. One of the school’s students had committed suicide two days ago. The university’s announcement had offered counseling and pleaded with people to seek help if they were having trouble. It also urged others to do something if they thought someone was depressed. I can’t just leave, he decided.

Reluctantly, Witt crept toward the couch. He felt as loath as if he were approaching the monster in a horror movie.

Peering over the back of the couch, he saw it was a girl, about his age. So, probably another student.

And she was crying.

The noises he’d heard before were tiny sniffles and sobs. She had her eyes closed and seemed oblivious to his presence.

Not wanting to frighten her, he slowly walked around to the other side of the couch so he wouldn’t seem to be sneaking up on her.

Despite scuffing his feet slightly so she’d know he was coming, she didn’t seem to notice his arrival in front of her.

About six feet from her, he squatted down so as not to loom, then gently cleared his throat. When her eyes fluttered open, he softly said, “Hi.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Sorry you’re upset. Can I help?”

Her eyes widened slightly and she gave a small, sharp shake of her head.

A flooding sense of relief was Witt’s first reaction. He so hadn’t wanted to deal with a lot of agonized tears. Starting to stand, he thought, I’ll call Student Health. Maybe they can send someone over to deal with this. Someone who’ll know what to do.

He hesitated. What am I gonna tell them? he wondered. That a girl’s crying in the lounge of my dorm? What if she just broke up with her boyfriend? That didn’t seem like the kind of problem that required professional help.

He squatted back down, then sat on the floor. The girl had closed her eyes again when he’d stood a moment ago, so he felt like he had to announce his intention. “I’m just gonna sit here until you feel up to talking about it.”

Her eyes flashed open. “You don’t need to stay here!” she rasped. “I’d rather you go.”

“I can go,” he said gently, “but first you gotta tell me why you’re crying.”

She sniffed and new tears formed, “It’s not your problem.”

Noticing she hadn’t said it was none of his business, he said, “I know. But I’ve heard sharing a burden makes it lighter.”

She stared at him a while, then snorted, “You’ll be sorry you asked.”

Since he was already sorry he’d asked, Witt felt sorely tempted to make a joke about that fact. Humor sounded like a horrible idea in her present state though. He said, “Perhaps. But, even so, I’m willing to listen.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, making him feel as if she knew the thoughts that’d passed through his mind, but then she gave a small nod and sat up. “Okay. The first thing to understand is that I’m a Cyreean refugee… and an orphan.”

Witt swallowed, thinking about how his situation in coming from a broken and poor family didn’t sound all that bad in comparison. He nodded solemnly at the girl, “Saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ seems inadequate. When did you, um, escape?”

“Over four years ago, on a small boat across the sea to Grice.”

“I’ve heard that’s… dangerous. Was that when your parents died?”

She shook her head. “My dad arranged for me to flee the country with my older brother. My brother drowned when the boat hit a rock and he fell out,” she said, her finger rising to wipe at the corner of her eye. “My parents were killed a few months ago when Barras Anshed bombed their building.”

Damn! Witt thought, closing his eyes. He mumbled, “I’m so sorry.” Why can’t I say something… something that’s more eloquent than “sorry”?! Opening his eyes, he saw hers had closed as well. Her throat worked as if she couldn’t seem to swallow. I’d like to just hold her but that seems like it’d be inappropriate, even here in Merica. It’s probably more forbidden where she comes from.

The seconds ticked by, Witt desperately wanting to do something. His mother had once told him women just wanted someone to listen, not necessarily solve their problems. But damn, he felt like he wanted to do something. He got more and more on edge as time passed without his having done anything to help. Finally, he got off the floor and moved over to sit on the couch. As he moved closer, he dithered about how close he should sit.

Not so far as to seem as if he was distancing himself from her problem, yet not so close as to seem overly familiar. Whatever that distance might be. He knew different societies had different customs regarding personal space and physical proximity, especially between men and women. He had no idea what her customs were. In the end, he sat about eighteen inches from her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, he thought with trepidation.

“Um…?” he said in a stroke of conversational brilliance. When she said nothing in return, he said, “I’m sorry. Here in Merica, it’s, um, common… er accepted… to give someone in distress a hug. I, ah, don’t know whether that’s a… thing that’s appropriate where you’re from.”

She gave a little shake of her head. “In Cyreea, men do not hug women they don’t know. They greet strange women by putting their hand on their own chest and saying, ‘Hello.’”

“Oh, well, good thing I asked,” Witt said. “Is it okay if I just sit near you and commiserate?”

She nodded, then seemed to have a change of heart. “I’ve lived with a Merican family for three years now. I learned to accept hugs from them.”

“No need,” Witt said. “I was only offering in case it might provide, um, comfort.”

She looked down. “It would.”

“Oh,” Witt said, surprised. After a moment he scooted closer and gently put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into an awkward side-hug. Appalled at how clumsy it felt, he thought, I’m doing this all wrong! However, turning to face his body toward hers seemed… wrong. Trying to turn her to face him seemed even worse. He had no idea what to do so he just sat, giving her the worst hug he’d ever been a part of. Trying not to pull too hard, but worried that if he didn’t tug her toward him at all it wouldn’t be a hug.

She sat inertly. If she’d frozen up or pulled away, he would’ve known he’d done something wrong and could’ve let go. If she’d leaned into him, he could’ve felt better about what he’d done and stuck with it or pulled a little harder.

Moments passed, then her shoulders jerked slightly under his arm. She’s sobbing! he thought, turning to look at her. The track of a dried tear did show on her cheek but the corner of her mouth had turned up. Her shoulders jerked again. She’s laughing! he realized. What the hell…!

She turned her face a little toward him, sniffed, and gave him a crooked little side-eyed grin, “This’s gotta be the lamest hug anyone’s ever given me.” Then she leaned her head against his shoulder and snuggled her shoulder under his arm. Her arm slowly reached around his back and onto his waist. She said, “There. That’s better.”

“Sorry,” Witt said, unsure as to whether humor might be appropriate in view of her little grin. He decided to go for it. “I didn’t realize I was auditioning for hug-of-the-year.”

She giggled, then sat in silence for a while. She cleared her throat and said somberly, “Everything I’ve told you so far was old news. Today I’m crying because Anshed’s men arrested my uncle. My little brother, Azim, was too young to leave with me and my older brother so he stayed in Cyreea with my parents. After Anshed killed my mom and dad, Azim moved in with my uncle’s family. I was trying to find a way to bring him to the States, but now I can’t even figure out what’s happened to him. Or, what’s happening to my uncle and his family.”

Oh my God! Witt thought. This just keeps getting more and more horrible. He wanted to ask what he could do but knew she’d have no answer for that. He settled for just sitting there, holding her, and letting his mind race.

Could I use my talent to help her somehow? he wondered. Or help her by helping what’s left her family? After some thought, he realized there was no way he could do something for someone across the ocean in Cyreea when he was still in the Union. My talent can do a lot of things, but it can’t get me across the ocean. And, even if I could afford the airfare, I’d probably need a passport or something.

The more he thought about it, the more hopeless it seemed. He felt flabbergasted to realize he had nothing better to offer than a shoulder to cry on. Even if I could afford airfare and had passports and whatever other documents would be necessary, he thought, I couldn’t leave school to go over there… He blinked, The hell I couldn’t! What good is it to have this ability if I won’t even skip school to help somebody?!

Witt’d been so focused on his own thoughts it surprised him when the girl shifted under his arm. He looked down at her and saw her peering up at him. “You look pretty upset,” she said. “Sorry to have burdened you with my problems, but your hug, bad as it was, has made me feel a little better.”

Witt snorted, “I’m going to have to upgrade my hugging app. The one I’ve got has no guidance for crying Cyreean girls.”

“Yeah,” she said, thoughtfully. “That’d have to be a major upgrade. You probably couldn’t afford it.” Then, in a seismic shift of their conversation, she asked, “What sport do you play?”

Witt blinked, having trouble with the non sequitur. “Um…”

“’Cause you live in an athletic dorm, right? You must play something.”

“Um, I’m a sprinter.”

She leaned back and looked him up and down. “Really?”

He snorted again. “Really.” He rolled his eyes. “I know. I don’t have a ‘sprinter’s body,’ but I do okay.” He shrugged, “You’re not the only one. My coach doesn’t think I’ll be able to compete either.”

“Okay,” she said doubtfully. “What’s your name?”

“Witt Ryllin.”

“I haven’t heard of you.”

“Do you follow track?”

“No, but I was thinking that if you were a famous sprinter, I might’ve heard of you.”

“I’m not famous. What sport do you play?”

“Soccer. My, uh, older brother was amazing.” Her voice broke a little, “I played with him a lot when we were younger.”

“I didn’t know women played soccer in Cyreea.”

She shook her head. “Most don’t. If it weren’t for my brother…” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“What’s your name?”

“Maja Salman.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of you. You’re supposed to be really good.”

She looked slyly up at him from beneath her brows, “That’s because I am good.”

“I’d heard you were modest too.”

She poked his ribs, “And I’ve heard sprinters are jerks.”

“That’s true,” Witt said. “Sorry.”

After an uncomfortable period of silence, she said, “A jerk wouldn’t have tried to lift my spirits.”

“If I weren’t a jerk, I would’ve lifted your spirits, not just tried.”

“You did okay,” Maja said, snuggling her shoulder back under her arm.

“Um… my mom says…”

She gave him a wide-eyed look. “You shouldn’t tell a girl about your mother on your first date!”

“This isn’t a date. It’s a commiseration.”

“Well, still. You shouldn’t tell a girl about your mother on your first commiseration either.”

Witt rolled his eyes. “My mom says when women are sad, I shouldn’t try to solve their problems. I should just listen. But I can’t help wondering whether I can help somehow.”

She looked away. “What could you do? You can’t bring my family back to life.”

No, I can’t. Witt thought sadly, thinking he should’ve followed his mom’s advice. “I was thinking more along the lines of helping you find or rescue your little brother.”

“What, your dad’s a diplomat or something?”

Witt shook his head. “No. Sorry. It was a stupid thing to say.”

Maja leaned back to look at him appraisingly. “Really? In my experience, men don’t admit to saying stupid stuff.”

Witt grimaced. “Most of ’em haven’t done as much stupid stuff as I have. I’ve had lots of practice.”

“Well,” Maja said softly, “if you can figure out how to find my brother, I’d truly appreciate it.”

“I’ll keep thinking then,” Witt said, “I’ll probably epically fail.”

“As have I, Witt,” she said, looking into the distance. “As have I. I’ll appreciate your efforts, unsuccessful though they might be.”

“I’ll do what I can. I’ve got plenty of experience beating my head against the wall. Um…” he hesitated, wondering whether it might suggest he was tired of sitting with her, but then went ahead anyway, “would you like me to walk you back to your room?”

Maja studied him as if she were measuring him somehow. “No… My roommate’s a bitch. I hate being around her when I’m upset. She makes anything worse.”

“Oh,” Witt said, wondering what to do now. “Should we get our stuff and study together here in the lounge? Maybe that’d take your mind off…” he trailed off, appalled that he’d started down a conversational track that led unerringly to her family’s disasters.

“…my family,” she said softly, finishing his sentence for him. “It’s okay to say it. I don’t want to forget them. But, yes. I’d like to study with you. Could we go to your room? I don’t want to study out here where…” Now she trailed off.

“Where people could see you associating with a sprinter?” Witt asked, getting up. “I can see how that’d be bad for your reputation. My room it is. I just have to check to be sure my roommate’s got his clothes on.”

Arriving at the room he shared with Hax, Witt knocked, then opened the door a little. Hax was sitting at his desk, glancing curiously at him. Opening the door a little wider, Witt said, “Is it okay if Maja and I study in here?”

Hax stood, looking a little surprised, “Yeah, uh, sure. You guys need some privacy?”

“No!” Witt and Maja said simultaneously.

Hax raised his hands apologetically, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Witt said. “We just want to study together. This is Maja Salman. She plays soccer.”

Hax gave Maja a sly grin, “You should hang out with more upscale friends than Witt.”

She looked over at Witt, then back at Hax. “Don’t disparage Witt. He’s been a good friend and a shoulder to cry on in a time of need.”

Hax winced, “Sorry again. I seem to have stuck my foot in it twice. Can I help with whatever’s wrong?”

Witt turned to Maja. “Is it okay if I explain it to Hax? He’s a football player, so he doesn’t have all that many IQ points to add to the discussion, but sometimes just talking things over helps the smart people in the room find a solution.”

Maja’s eyes went back and forth between the two guys a moment, then she said, “Guys wouldn’t be guys, I suppose, if they weren’t saying mean things to one another.” Her eyes went back to Hax. “Are you Hax Buchry?”

Hax nodded slowly.

“You know who he is?” Witt asked. “How can that be when you haven’t heard of the school’s best sprinter?” He put his hand on his chest in case it wasn’t obvious who he was talking about.

Eyes still on Hax, she said, “I’ve been hearing about a Hax Buchry that’s the new starting quarterback. That’s you, right?”

Startled, Witt looked at Hax, expecting him to deny such an outrageous claim, but his roommate only hesitated before nodding. Reluctantly, it seemed. “What?” Witt said, “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“It’s not a big deal,” Hax said with a shrug. “I’ll probably get busted back down to scrub after the next game.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Maja said. “I hear it’s a very big deal indeed.”

Witt turned back to Hax. “When did this happen?!”

Maja answered for Hax as if reciting something she’d read in the news. “The first game of the season was against a division two team, the Mountaineers. The Wildcats were supposed to roll over them but their offense kept getting stopped and the defense let a couple of trick plays get past them for big gains. The Mountaineers were suddenly up fourteen to zero but everyone still thought it was crazy and desperate when Coach Jackson put Buchry, his fourth-string quarterback, in late in the first quarter. However, under Buchry’s leadership, the offense suddenly got their act together and marched down the field for a TD.” She turned to look at Witt. “They marched to a touchdown every time they got the ball. The defense got their act together and, between the two, the Mountaineers got the drubbing everyone had expected.

“But a whole lotta people think Buchry’s now the starting QB and that he’s gonna lead the team to its best season in decades.” She turned back to Hax. “Me included. That was an… awesome game you played.”

Hax shrugged, “I led a good division one squad against a good division two team. The outcome wasn’t all that remarkable. The fact that our first team struggled was the surprising thing. This Saturday we’ll be playing a good division one team and that’ll be a whole ’nother can o’ crap.”

Maja turned back to Witt and said, “I think Hax is brilliant and an astonishing leader. If he has any time to spare, I’d love to hear his thoughts.”

Witt rolled his eyes, then turned to Hax and sighed. “I guess I’m gonna have to start following the football team, huh?”

Hax shook his head, “Don’t waste your energy on that. You’re gonna need it to figure out what we can do for Maja.”

Witt stared at his roommate and friend, thinking the guy’s humble outlook made his accomplishments a lot more impressive. Giving himself a shake, he said, “Maja’s a Cyreean refugee…” he began, going on to explain what’d already happened to her family and how much she wanted to find her little brother and help her uncle.

***

Reiter’s News Service, Kvg City, Ucryn— Satellite data provided by NATA confirms that the military exercises Ruchia is conducting near Ucryn’s eastern border are much larger than they’ve undertaken in the past. In view of a marked uptick in the chronic unrest amongst ethnic Ruchians in the Donas region of Ucryn, rampant speculation has broken out.

Some contend the exercises are simply a means to place military forces close to the Ucrynian border and that Ruchia intends to invade in support of the ethnic Ruchians within Ucryn.

Others say the Ruchians are actively provoking the unrest in Donas as a pretext for impending military adventurism.

The Ruchians counterclaim that while they, of course, support the Ruchian peoples within Ucryn’s borders in their fight for independence, their military has no intention of crossing the border at present.

The president of Ucryn points out that Ruchia’s carefully selected words “at present” leave open the possibility of an invasion as soon as tomorrow. He says Ucryn would be happy to release ethnic Ruchians within its borders to emigrate into Ruchia and invites Ruchia to welcome them with open arms.

He’s trying to set up talks about the situation between his country and Ruchia.

In other news involving Ruchia, the World Court claims to have obtained evidence that the rogue country provided the banned neurotoxins (chemical weapons) used by Cyreean President Barras Anshed in his attacks on the populace of Cyreea’s own city, Dainier. “Ruchia was the only country ever known to have manufactured that particular neurotoxin,” the court says. “Though Ruchia claims their chemical weapons arsenal has been completely destroyed—per treaty agreements—a delivery canister found at the site has now been confirmed to be of Ruchian manufacture.”

***

Feeling mildly confused upon leaving a state of deep concentration, Roni looked up. Confusion often reigned briefly at the end of intense hacking or programming sessions. “What?” she asked, mildly irritated. She felt famished.

Madison, Roni’s roommate since freshman year, stood in the doorway. “Hax’s here.”

Getting up, Roni asked irritably, “Why didn’t he text?!”

The question had been rhetorical, but as Madison walked back to their living room, she answered anyway. “Probably did, but if you were in one of your states you wouldn’t have noticed.”

As she got up, Roni checked her phone and saw she had an unnoticed text. She didn’t say anything about it but neither did she complain to her brother about how he hadn’t texted her. “What’s up, Hax?” As she said it, she noticed Hax’s roommate Witt just behind him. “Hey, Witt—" Knowing he didn’t like it, she self-interrupted to keep from calling him ‘Wittless.’ However, the nickname stood on the tip of her tongue, dancing around and begging to jump off.

Hax grinned, “We were thinking you probably didn’t have anything better to do than take a couple of poverty-stricken freshmen out to dinner.”

“Hah!” she replied haughtily. “My social calendar’s far too tightly packed to wedge lowly frosh into it.” She picked up her purse, “But I do need to eat, so if you two would like to tag along, perhaps I could buy you a couple of burritos at the Cosmic Cantina.”

Witt replied that he could buy his own, he just liked going out. However, Hax had told Roni a little about the state of Witt’s family’s finances so she intended to spend some of her ill-gotten cash buying him dinner—despite his protestations.

They hadn’t gone far before Roni began to wonder what they were doing there. Having saved each other’s lives, she and her brother had become quite friendly. And, she’d gotten to know Witt well enough to speak to him when she encountered him on campus. But them dropping by Roni’s apartment and wanting to go out to dinner was… unprecedented. Still walking, she glanced over at them. “What’re you guys really up to?”

Hax glanced at Witt, then turned back to Roni. “Witt’s got this idea that something should be done about Barras Anshed.”

“The creepy dictator of Cyreea?”

Witt nodded, “They call him a ‘president.’ But, yeah, ‘dictator’ or ‘tyrant’ describes him better.”

“He’s the guy who poisoned a bunch of his own people, right?”

Witt nodded.

Roni shrugged, still walking. “I agree.”

Witt and Hax looked at one another uncertainly. Hax turned back to Roni. “You agree someone should do something about Anshed?”

“Uh-huh. So?”

“So,” Witt said, frustration in his voice, “no one is doing anything about him. He’s not only killed a lot of his people; he’s tortured a bunch of them too. He used sarin nerve gas on them, an awful way to die. Not too long ago he had his air force bomb some apartment buildings, killing hundreds of innocents because a small group launched Molotov cocktails from the area of the apartments.”

Before Roni could say anything, Hax said. “Witt’s gotten to be friends with a refugee from Cyreea. Her brother died trying to flee Cyreea with her. Then Anshed’s bombs killed her mom and dad. This left her little brother living with an uncle and now Anshed’s arrested her uncle and she has no idea what’s happened to her brother.”

“Hmm,” Roni said distractedly, failing to understand the dynamics of this conversation. She thought Hax had broken in to tell her about Witt’s friend because he was afraid she’d stick her foot in her mouth by saying something dismissive. Slowly, she said, “So, what’re you two thinking you’re gonna do? Start a petition? Demonstrate to raise awareness? Some other socially conscious but ultimately futile effort?”

“No!” Witt replied, almost hotly. “You’re right that those kinds of things won’t accomplish anything. We’re, uh, thinking of something more substantial. Uh, more… active.”

“Raising money?” Roni asked. “You wanting to fund some revolutionaries? The problem with funding someone is that you’ll probably find out you funded scammers instead. They’ll hold a party, not the revolution you thought you were paying for.” She shrugged, “Not that you could raise enough money to fund a revolution. You probably couldn’t afford to buy them a single weapon. A party’s more in line with the kind of money you could bring to bear.”

“Um, even more… direct.”

Roni gave them a wide-eyed look. “More direct? You two idiots thinking you’re gonna go over there and volunteer to join the revolution yourselves?” As she said it, she wondered, I used to dream of grand gestures. When did I join the old, unimaginative, stick-in-the-mud, generation? How did I get to be the kind of person who tells young people to be sensible?

Witt gave Hax a desperate look and Hax turned back to Roni. “We were thinking of something as direct as hacking into Anshed’s accounts and taking his money. Evil empires run on money just like everything else.”

She stared suspiciously at Hax. “You couldn’t hack your way into a wet paper bag.” She turned to Witt, “Are you a hacker?”

Witt shook his head, but said, “Hax says you’re awesome at it though. And, you’ve almost got that shiny new computer science degree.”

“It’s a degree in computer science, not computer hacking.”

“But you were already good at hacking. A degree like that’s gotta make you even better.”

Roni rolled her eyes. They were turning into the Cosmic Cantina. She gave them an intense look, “Do not talk about that kind of stuff in here!”

An uncomfortable silence reigned as they ordered and collected their burritos. Since the weather was gorgeous, Hax suggested they eat outside.

Roni knew this was a pretext for eating out where the guys could keep badgering her about Witt’s idea while they ate. Despite feeling like such a discussion was going to ruin a nice meal, she agreed. A sense of guilt about her lack of revolutionary spirit pushed her willingness over the edge.

Sitting under the trees in a little park near the Cantina lifted her spirits. However, the guys soon started pushing their ideas for an IT attack on Anshed, and that quickly brought her down. Most of the things they proposed she do, either couldn’t be done by Roni or likely couldn’t be done by anyone. She repeatedly pointed out that if bank accounts were as easy to hack as they seemed to think, hackers would be the wealthiest people on the planet.

After a bit, Hax said irritatedly, “You keep shooting down our ideas but you’re not offering any alternatives. What do you think we should do? Train as snipers or something?”

As he said that Hax gave her a hard look she understood to mean he envisioned Roni going with him to Cyreea to keep Hax invisible while he used his talent for hyper-accurate shooting to permanently remove Anshed from the presidency. Witt would have to stay home since they wouldn’t want him to know about their talents.

And that plan’s a far worse idea than me trying to hack into Cyreean computer systems, she realized. Exasperated, she said, “Let me look into this, poke around on the net, and see what it takes to access Cyreean systems. Then we can talk some more.”

The two guys looked like they’d won the lottery. Witt expressed his appreciation over and over and Hax hugged her.

Roni had to remind herself that they weren’t trying to do this for themselves, but rather for Witt’s friend’s family and the people of Cyreea.

Roni said, “Hey, hey. This is far from a done deal, remember? I’m just exploring the edges. I’m probably gonna come back with a suggestion that you set a more reasonable goal.”

“Such as…?” Witt said, his eyes narrowed.

She looked into the distance as she tried to think of a plausible goal. “Maybe…” she said, thinking. She looked back at him, “We’re a lot more likely to be able to hack into a system that would tell us where her uncle and her brother are.”

“Oh, that’d be awesome! Whatever you can do,” Witt said enthusiastically, “will be so much more than we can do. And, it’s in such a good cause.”

She narrowed her eyes at them. “How in the world did a couple of college freshman get interested in helping a refugee from another country anyway. You’re supposed to be all about parties and pranks, not charitable gestures.”

Hax shrugged uncomfortably, “The girl lives in our dorm. Witt found her crying in the lounge and since then she’s told us a lot about what’s going on over there. Her personal tragedies have made it… much more immediate.”

“Are you two idiots,” Roni said suspiciously, “thinking this is gonna be the kind of grand gesture that’ll get you in her pants?”

“No!” Witt said hotly. “We just wanna make a difference in the world!”

“But if you think all that we freshmen are good for is a prank or two,” Hax said with a grin, “you could just think of it as a prank we’re trying to pull on Anshed.”

“You mean a monster prank you’re trying to get me to pull for you,” Roni said unhappily. Then, struck by a sudden thought, Roni said, “Wait… So, your first suggestion was to take a bunch of Anshed’s money, right?”

The guys nodded.

“Assuming we get past the incredibly tight protections that banks typically have on accounts, especially big ones, and we do manage to transfer a significant chunk of wealth out of their holdings, what’re you gonna do with it?”

“Donate it to a charity that helps the Cyreean people.”

Roni rolled her eyes. “Do you know of one? Have you vetted it to be sure that what it collects actually goes to the people it says it’s helping?”

“No,” Hax said, still smiling, “but you get us the money and we’ll figure that out ASAP.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not wasting my precious time on any harebrained, half-assed idea you haven’t thought through better than that. You need to prove to me you aren’t just thinking up crap to try because it’ll be me who has to do all the work. I need to know such a charity exists. I want to know how you think we’re going to get stolen money into said charity. I, for God’s sake, especially want to be sure you know that this mythical ‘Benevolent Cyreean Charity” you choose isn’t something Anshed set up himself!” Having a sudden thought, she said, “And you’d better be able to convince me that taking his money will set him back, not his people. I can picture his cash shortage merely inciting him to raise taxes on the poor bastards you think you’re helping!” She shook her head wearily. “Really, we’d better shoot for getting information on her uncle and brother, not robbing his bank. You got their info?”

“Um, no,” Witt said, having the grace to look embarrassed. “What do you need?”

“Everything your friend knows. Complete names, ages, birthdates, ID numbers, schools, addresses, phone numbers… Everything! In English and Arabic.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Roni rolled her eyes. “Shoulda been on it,” she said under her breath.

~~~

When they got back to her apartment, Roni was still unhappy about the whole thing. Hax and Witt were still walking with her since her apartment was kinda on the way to their dorm. She’d just started shooting down another of their absurd ideas when the door of her apartment opened and her tall, gregarious friend, Indigo, stepped out. Roni began, “Hey Indigo, what’s—”

Eyes on something behind her, Indigo interrupted Roni, “Holy shit! Who is this beautiful specimen?!”

Curious as to who Indigo might be excited about, Roni turned in puzzlement to find… only Witt and Hax were behind her.

Her eyes widened in horror, She’s looking at Hax! Because he’s even taller than she is! Whipping back around she spoke warningly, “Indigo! That’s my little brother. He’s much too young—”

Indigo threw out a long arm and used the back of it to gently but firmly sweep Roni out of her way. “I like younger men,” she said sweetly, looking up at Hax. “You’re eighteen, aren’t you…? what’s your name?”

“Um, Hax,” he said, an expression halfway between bewildered and amused on his face.

“Ooh! Like the football player. That’s cool!” Indigo said. “Let’s go somewhere and get acquainted.” She linked her arm in his and turned him back the way he’d just come. “Do you know,” she asked, “that you’re the only man on this campus tall enough to make a woman like me happy?”

As they walked away, Hax cast a look back over his shoulder at his sister. He still looked amused, but there was a hint of trepidation on his face as well.

`

***

Fall practice was underway and Alton Lang, track coach at the University of Minnouri buzzed his starter horn and watched Ryllin come out of the blocks… unimpressively.

How in the world did a kid that launches that badly win state and post all those record-breaking times in high school?! Lang wondered.

When Ryllin had arrived at the university, he hadn’t looked like he’d kept himself in good shape, especially for a hundred-meter sprint specialist. Those guys were typically pretty muscular. Lang hadn’t even tried having him run, he’d just assigned Ryllin to spend time with the strength and conditioning coach. That work had improved Ryllin’s physique somewhat, but the kid was still hauling extra pounds around.

Lang watched Ryllin finish the start and acceleration phases of the hundred-meter sprint, hitting what looked like his transition to maximum velocity early. His feet were moving rapidly but just didn’t seem all that explosive in driving him down the track. It was as if the kid was trying to use a higher stride frequency to make up for a lack of strength.

Great sprinters were typically lean because they just couldn’t carry excess baggage and perform at the high end of their sport. Ryllin was far from obese but when he had his shirt off Lang had noticed small layers of fat here and there. Deposits elite sprinters didn’t carry.

Lang thought, A slow start, lousy acceleration, early transition to max velocity, and now he’s got a short, high-frequency stride. There’s no way… The coach looked down at the stopwatch built into his starter horn and shook his head, 12.5 seconds! Pitiful!

Realizing Ryllin wasn’t going to be able to compete at the Division 1 college level, Lang felt dismayed he’d wasted a scholarship on the kid. He probably had a parent pushing him in high school, Lang thought. Now that he doesn’t have anyone cracking the whip, he isn’t putting in the work. Despite his dismay, Lang called Ryllin over to do some coaching. After all, he couldn’t drop the kid out of the program without even trying. He lifted his chin at Ryllin, “How d’you think you did?”

Ryllin shrugged, “I don’t know, Coach. I never know how I’m doing unless I’m running against someone else.”

“Come on! Did you give it your all or not?”

The kid shrugged, “Sorry, Coach. Like I just said, I’ve gotta be running against someone else. Coach Dameron, my high school coach, said he told you that. There’s just no point in having me run against the clock.”

“That’s bullshit! Coach Tate says you’ve been doing the minimum in the strength and conditioning sessions.”

Ryllin sighed. “Coach, what you care about is winning, right? You put me up against someone else and I’ll beat ’em every time. It doesn’t matter what kind of training you have me do, I’ll win races for you.”

“So,” Lang said, barely controlling his temper, “you want me to have you run against our senior contender, Charley Smits, even though you just ran a 12.5?!”

Ryllin winced. “Was it that bad?”

Lang nodded slowly, astonished by the question.

“Sorry, Coach,” Ryllin said. “But yeah, I’ll beat Charley if you let me run against him, instead of the clock.”

“Come on!” Lang scoffed, thinking of Charley Smit’s almost perfect, mesomorphic, muscular, large-thighed body with its slender calves. A body that only carried about 4% body fat. “You’re not even in his class!”

Ryllin shrugged, “I know, Coach. Just lookin’ at him, he oughta win. But he won’t.”

Lang turned and looked for Smit, finding him high-stepping around the track. And, Smits puts in the work, Lang thought. He turned back to Ryllin. “I am not wasting Charley’s time so you can try to prove that someone who doesn’t even break twelve seconds can compete against someone who consistently runs in the low tens. Next time Charley’s gonna do a timed trial, I’ll call you over to run against him. In the meantime,” he gave Ryllin an icy look, “I’d suggest you put in better effort on the strength training with Coach Tate.”

~~~

Witt watched Coach Lang walk away, pissed. That went well, he thought sarcastically to himself, wondering if he should try to up his speed if the coach insisted he run another non-competitive timed trial. No way, he decided. It’d be better to lose my scholarship than to accidentally run a sub-eight-second 100-meters that led to all kinds of uncomfortable questions.

With a sigh, he started toward Coach Tate, ready to ask the strength coach to heap some more misery on him. Once again, he thought, There must be some way to more precisely estimate how many times the normal speed of time I’m at!

He thought about it throughout another miserable session with the weight machines but didn’t come up with any ideas. His ability to judge the color of his wristband wasn’t accurate enough. Besides, since his bubble naturally tended to fade away rather than stopping at a sharp boundary it was hard to be positive he was completely keeping it from extending out around something that was on his wrist.

I’m gonna have to keep Coach Tate happy with my effort on the machines, he thought, until Coach Lang lets me prove I can win races. He sighed and tried to cheer himself, Maybe I’ll get ripped from all this weight work and Maja will fall all over me the way Indigo did Hax.

***

Roni emerged from one of her states and stretched. That was surprisingly easy, she thought.

She’d expected the information systems of a sovereign nation to be sophisticated and nearly impossible to crack. Instead, the systems of Cyreea were outdated and under-protected. It isn’t a wealthy nation, she realized, so, it can’t afford top-notch systems or IT personnel. Also, it probably don’t think it’s cost-effective to hire high-end people to protect systems that outsiders seldom try to hack.

Using Google translate, it’d taken Roni essentially no time to find Maja’s little brother Azim. The government listed the boy as living in what Roni thought was some kind of school. She couldn’t say for sure because she lacked local perspective, didn’t understand Arabic, and didn’t trust some of the translations to be accurate.

She’d also found Maja’s uncle Nabil but, due to the language barrier, it wasn’t at all clear what kind of place they had him in.

The most astonishing thing was that she’d managed to hack into Anshed’s personal computer and thereby into his email. Its protections were pitiful, making her think of some Merican officials who’d found using secure technology a hassle and had circumvented policy by using their own devices. Interestingly, quite a few of Anshed’s emails were in English. Among the rest, some of them were to or from the “governor” of Masrif Cyreiat Almarkazi which Google told her was the Central Bank of Cyreea. Translations of those emails didn’t make a lot of sense but they contained a lot of figures preceded with CYP or LC which were symbols for the national Cyreean currency known as the Cyreean Pound.

She sat back. It’s time to talk to Witt’s Cyreean refugee. She rolled her eyes, Probably his girlfriend. With her to translate we should be able to figure out what some of this stuff means.

Roni snorted, I’m gonna be so pissed when it turns out she’s already dumped him and he doesn’t want to do this anymore…

***

Having noticed that one of the students in the back row wasn’t paying attention, Dr. Rand looked down at his seating chart, saying, “Mr.… Witt Ryllin?” He looked back up and saw he had the young man’s attention. “Can you give me the answer to the fifth problem?”

The kid looked down just long enough to read the question, then looked back up and gave the answer.

“Ah… correct,” Rand said, trying not to let his irritation show as he wondered, Did Ryllin actually do the work, or did he download a set of answers somewhere? Downloaded, Rand decided. To Ryllin, he said, “Can you come down to the board and show us how you worked it, explaining your work as you go?”

As if completely unintimidated, Ryllin got up and walked down the steps to the E-board. Picking up an E-marker he unhesitatingly wrote out how he’d solved it.

Elegantly.

Without referring to notes.

All the while keeping up a steady patter of explanation uncluttered by a single “um” or hesitation. A clear and concise elucidation of a solution that didn’t follow the book’s recommended method but was correct, shorter, and easier to understand.

When the young man turned around Rand said, “What year are you in, Mr. Ryllin?”

“Freshman, sir.”

Rand frowned, “How did you get into this junior-level class?”

“A combination of AP classes and testing out, sir.”

“Are you going into math?”

“Oh… No, sir. I’m shooting for engineer.”

What a plebian goal for a brilliant mind, Rand thought.

Chapter Four

Maja didn’t know what to think about Witt’s invitation to visit Hax’s sister. A sister Witt claimed might be able to figure out where her little brother Azim was located. It seemed terribly unlikely that a girl here in Merica could do or learn something within Cyreea. When Witt said he wanted to help, Maja had envisioned a process in which someone helped her find someone to contact in Cyreea. Someone in the underground movement who’d help her find and possibly even retrieve Azim. Someone who’d do so for money they’d use to support the resistance. Or would keep the money for themselves.

Someone whose services she almost certainly couldn’t afford.

It was hard to countenance the thought that a young woman in the Union, using a computer, could learn about or do something for Azim from here.

Witt knocked on the door of an apartment just off campus and a moment later Hax opened it.

Soon Hax was introducing Maja to his sister Roni. She couldn’t stop staring at Roni’s eyes and the girl finally said, “No, they’re not contacts. I really do have blue eyes.”

Mortified, Maja said, “I’m so sorry. I’ve never heard—"

“Hardly anyone has,” Roni interrupted, “but it’s not impossible.” Roni waved a hand at her dark face and brilliant blue eyes. “It’s just an unusual gene combination. You ready to talk about your brother?”

Maja nodded eagerly. “Witt says you’ve found someone by his name?”

Roni sat down in front of a computer with several screens, waving Maja toward the chair next to her. “Yes. Not just a boy named Azim Salman, but one with the same birthdate. His parents are listed as having the same names as yours. In other words, he is your brother, not someone who merely happens to have the same name.” She indicated the chair next to her again. “Sit.”

Maja sat, feeling dazed.

Roni moved ahead, “Here’s his listing. As you can see, this is where he’s living at present. Do you know what kind of place it is?”

Maja studied the entry, then slumped. “A reformatory,” she said, dismayed. “It’s got a reputation as a terrible place.”

“How do we get him out of there?” Roni asked.

“I don’t know. It’s probably not possible.”

“Come on, Maja. Buck up! You don’t quit when you get a couple of points behind in a soccer match do you?”

“No, but… I don’t know. What could we possibly do from here?”

“Maybe someone will have to go to Cyreea, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, but you know that society and we don’t. What do you think might work? Bribes? Falsified papers? False orders in the governmental system? Paying the resistance to break him out? You’ve got to give us some guidance here. Surely you know whether bribing of government officials is a common thing in Cyreea?”

Maja stared at the young woman, thinking, She thinks this could happen. I should tell her… Maja closed her eyes and choked back what she’d been about to say. Instead, she firmed her voice and said, “False papers would help a lot. I don’t know how much electronic orders are used or trusted by the government, so maybe not that. Bribes are common. I think the parts of the resistance that might take on such a job for money might also just take your money and disappear.” She sighed, “If my uncle hadn’t been arrested, he’d know a lot more.”

Roni turned back to her computer and pulled up more documents. “Your Uncle Nabil’s in this place, but I’m not sure what it is. Do you know?”

“Sajn Cednaja,” Maja read with a sinking heart. “It’s the worst kind of prison,” she said. “People who’re taken there seldom return.” She hesitated, then spoke in a quavery voice. “I don’t mean they stay there until they die of old age. I mean Anshed’s goons kill them to make room for more prisoners.”

Maja saw Roni look up at Hax and he gave her a little nod. She turned back to Maja. “You willing to put in innumerable hours translating stuff so we can figure out what might be possible?”

Wondering what the silent communication had been, Maja nonetheless nodded eagerly. “I’ll do anything!”

“What about you getting a passport in case someone has to go to Cyreea for anything to be done? None of the rest of us speak Arabic and we couldn’t trust a translator we hired there.”

Maja frowned, “As a refugee, I’d have to apply for a ‘refugee travel document.’ Um, they function pretty much like a passport.”

“If I were you,” Roni said, “I’d get on that. We don’t want to get everything worked out, then find out your uncle died while we were waiting for that document.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll apply today!”

~~~

Hax started to leave with Maja and Witt, but as he began to go out her door, Roni stopped him with a hand on his wrist. He looked down at her.

“We need to talk,” she said tersely.

Hax nodded and called after Maja and Witt, “See you back at the dorm. I’ve gotta talk to Roni for a bit.”

They nodded and kept walking.

Probably happier I’m not with them, Hax thought as he closed the door. For a moment his thoughts turned to Indigo who’d been… educating him. He thought he had the grin off his face by the time he’d turned back to his sister and asked, “What’s up?”

She studied him intently, then said, “Have you given much thought to how we’d rescue Maja’s uncle and brother? ’Cause we sure as hell can’t do that over the internet.”

Oh…! Shit. Hax thought, doing more than glossing over that problem for the first time. “Um…” he began, hesitating.

“You haven’t, have you? You and Wittless just thought you’d have your hacker sister solve this problem for you, right?”

“He doesn’t like being called that.”

“And I won’t call him that to his face, but the two of you just mounted up on your white horses and rode off to save poor little Maja with no further thought than that it’d be a cool thing to do. Let me clue you in. I like her. I feel bad about what’s happened to her family. I’d like to help. But I’ve got my own life to live. I don’t want to blow off school for weeks to go to Cyreea and rescue her family; how about you?”

“Well, there’s football and…” he trailed off at the look on Roni’s face, wondering what was making her so hostile.

“That’s right. There’s football. Now that you’re the quarterback you couldn’t possibly leave your team, could you? You don’t mind asking me to commit day after day of my time, but what about yours?”

Hax sat down on Roni’s low couch so as not to tower over her. After giving it a moment, he took a deep breath and softly asked, “Why’re you so angry? Is this all about Maja and her family?”

“I don’t want to be the one who tells her we’ve found her uncle and brother and they’re in a horrible situation… but we’re not gonna do a damned thing about it!”

Hax put his arm out and Roni sat down next to him for a hug. He said, “That’s why you were kinda short with Maja, isn’t it?”

Sniffing and wiping at her eyes, Roni nodded.

He merely sat, holding her until she looked up at him questioningly. He said, “If I were to go over there, could you give me IT support long-distance?”

“You can’t go over there alone!” she said indignantly. “I’d have to go to keep people from seeing you!”

“And that’s pretty scary, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.

“No!” she said emphatically. “I’d be invisible! So…” She slumped a little, then sat silently while Hax continued holding her. Finally, in a creaky voice, she said “Yeah, it’s scary. Damned scary…” She looked up and gave him a crooked grin. “Good thing you can’t go because of football. That way I don’t have to go along and risk my life trying to keep your useless carcass alive.”

Hax held her a while longer, then, when the silence had stretched long enough, he said. “We don’t have to do anything. But I want the option, so I’m gonna apply for a passport just in case.”

Roni sniffed. “I’ll apply for one too,” she said in a monotone.

“You don’t need to.”

“The hell I don’t. If you got yourself killed over there, I’d never forgive myself for not going along to keep you hidden.”

Hax leaned back and peered down at her. “It almost sounds as if you care about me.”

She picked at some lint on her pants without looking up. “I just don’t wanna have to tell Mom and Dad what happened to you.”

Softly, he said, “I wouldn’t want that either.” He let the silence stretch again, then, just as it got uncomfortable, he said, “But I can’t help thinking that someone should do something about Anshed. He’s a monster.”

Roni nodded. “And we could probably do it when no one else could, couldn’t we?”

“With less risk to ourselves anyway,” Hax said.

Another silence stretched between them. Hax ended that one too. This time by saying, “One problem to consider is that Witt’s gonna want to come along.”

“See! There you are talking like we’re going!”

“I’m not,” Hax said as calmingly as he could. “I’m just saying that if we decided to go, we’d have a hard time leaving Witt behind. He’s saying that he’s the one who’s got to go. Doesn’t want me tagging along to ‘screw everything up.’ Claims he’s got some kind of advantage that’ll make him safer than any of the rest of us.” Hax shrugged, “Probably’s done some kind of martial arts training.”

~~~

After Hax left, Roni felt surprised to realize that a lot of her anxiety had left her. Something’s calming about talking to Hax, she thought, wonderingly.

She got up, thinking, I guess I’d better look into the passport thing.

~~~

When Hax got home, Witt was alone in their room. “Where’s Maja?” he asked.

Witt gave him a sad smile. “Says she can’t study with me anymore ’cause she doesn’t get enough done. She’s gone to the library.”

“You pester her too much, right?”

Looking embarrassed, Witt nodded.

“Too bad her roomie’s a problem too.”

“Yeah,” Witt said with a sigh. “Look, I don’t know how you’re fixed for cash…?

“I’ve got some…” Hax said reluctantly trailing off to make it obvious he didn’t want to say how much. He and Roni still had hundreds of thousands left from taking down the Romanos and Castanos, but he suspected he wasn’t going to like Witt’s request.

“Could you loan me enough for tickets to Cyreea?”

Hax felt relieved to learn his friend—even in the brief time they’d been living together, he and Witt had gotten to be close friends—couldn’t get to Cyreea. To Witt, he said, “There’s no need for you to go. If someone needs to go, Roni and I’ll do it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No.”

“No, what, Hax? No, you didn’t answer, or no, you don’t have enough money?”

“No, I’m not gonna loan you the money for something you shouldn’t do.”

Witt studied him a moment. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“If someone has to go…” Hax said slowly, then stopped. He took a different tack. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Absolutely.”

“Roni and I’ve done something somewhat like this in the past. If anyone can do it without getting hurt, it’d be us. Therefore, you shouldn’t risk your butt, no matter how useless it is.”

Witt studied him thoughtfully for a few moments. Apparently reaching a decision, he asked “Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure.”

“No. ‘Sure’ is not good enough. You gotta say ‘absolutely.’”

Hax snorted, “Is that a better promise than ‘sure’?”

Witt nodded. “Absolutely better. To me, it’s the ultimate promise. I hope it holds that kind of strength for you too.”

Fully realizing how important such a promise was to Witt, Hax solemnly nodded, “I promise to keep your secret absolutely.”

Witt vanished. But he immediately whispered from behind Hax’s ear, “I’m really fast.”

Goosebumps sprang up on Hax’s scalp and neck. He can hide the way Roni does! was Hax’s first thought. But how the hell could he have gotten behind me so quickly?! Hax slowly turned to see Witt behind him, leaning down close to his ear. “What the hell?!” he whispered in return.

“I can speed up time around myself,” Witt said. “That’s how I win races. I speed up my own time so I’m living about thirty percent faster than my opponents. If I speed time the maximum I can, I could run the hundred meters in about 0.03 seconds.” He shrugged, “So, running such a race in ten seconds is trivial.”

Hax blinked a couple of times and gave his head a sharp shake. “I find this a little hard to believe.”

“Yeah,” Witt said, walking around to sit in front of Hax again. “It’s way unbelievable, nonetheless it’s true.”

“Wait. You just vanished from in front of me. How’d you do that?”

Witt shrugged, “Went to 400X and walked around behind you. I was gone from in front of you so fast that it just seemed like I vanished. Then I went back to 1X and whispered in your ear.”

“400X? Is that supposed to be a multiple of normal time?”

Witt nodded. “Uh-huh. 400 times normal. So, you can see how I could rescue Maja’s brother with a lot less risk than you or Roni could, right?”

“Why? ’Cause you could go so fast they couldn’t see you?”

Witt nodded.

“So,” Hax said slowly as he thought his way through what Witt’s talent would allow him to do. It renders him invisible like Roni, but what else? “You’re thinking you could go to 400X and enter this reformatory when someone who works there opens the door for himself…”

Witt nodded again.

“At that point, you’ve got the run of the place as long as you don’t slow down, yes?”

“Yeah, but remember that I’d have to stand still for 400 seconds to make myself visible as a blurry spot—because of fidgety movements—for one second. That’s more than six and a half minutes of trying to hold still before I’d be fuzzily visible to slowbies for that second. Essentially, in fast-time I’m invisible unless I make an effort to be visible. Honestly, if I want to be seen, it’s much easier to slow down to 1X.”

Hax said, “Let me think through this. You find Azim. Now what? He’s at 1X, so you still can’t get him out of the building without people seeing you do it, right?”

Witt rolled his eyes. “Come on, Hax. I’ve been living with this ability for a year now. Don’t you think I’d know what kind of things I can and can’t do?”

“Okay, how do you get him out of the building?”

“I bring him into my 400X bubble and we walk out with the next person that leaves.”

“Bubble?”

“Yeah. How about if I bring you into a 400X bubble? Maybe once you’ve experienced it for yourself, you’ll stop questioning everything I say.”

“You can do that?”

“Jeez, Hax!”

“Okay, okay.  Yes. Take me into a bubble or whatever.”

Witt bent and snagged his backpack, digging in it. He pulled out a device with straps dangling from it and started putting it on his head.

“What’s that?” Hax asked, thinking it was some kind of time-flow altering machine.

“It’s a headlight,” Witt said. “When you get up past 2X it’s dark because the light in our environment gets redshifted so far down there just aren’t enough photons to see with.” He reached out. “Here’s a flashlight you can use to see with. You’ll probably want to look at stuff my headlight’s not pointing at.”

“Okaay,” Hax said, taking the small LED flashlight.

“Figure out how to turn it on before we go,” Witt said patiently. “It’s gonna be very dark in the bubble. You don’t want to be fumbling around figuring the flashlight out. I’d recommend you just go ahead and turn it on.”

Starting to feel like this was all some kind of elaborate prank, Hax did so.

The room suddenly went very dark except where Hax’s flashlight was pointing. A moment later another light came on. Hax could tell it was coming from Witt’s forehead. Witt said, “Let’s go somewhere,” and headed for the door to their room.

“Wait!” Hax said. “We’re going out in the hall? People will see us!”

“No… They won’t.”

Moments later they were walking down the hall, passing people who looked like eerie statues. Hax slowed to look closer at one. She looked bizarre like some kind of zombie statue! “What’s happened to them?!”

“Nothing,” Witt said. It’s just that the light from your flashlight gets blue-shifted way up into frequencies high enough that they reflect differently off her than the way normal light does. The light gets red-shifted back down when it comes back into your bubble. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to see anything, but everything you see at high time multiples looks weird because it reflects differently. Like X-rays. You wouldn’t expect them to bounce off people the way regular light does, would you?”

Dumbfounded, Hax mumbled agreement, not knowing that Witt was skipping over the fact that some of the photons from the flashlight were, in fact, up in the X-ray range at 400X.

Witt stopped, his headlight illuminating a girl who’d just opened her door and was about to step into her room. “So, here,” he said to Hax, “she’s got the door open so she can enter, but so can we.” Witt squeezed past the girl and into her room.

“You shouldn’t go in there!” Hax said, curious as to what he’d see if he did, but feeling like Witt’s effect was bound to disappear at any moment and not wanting such an event to strand him in a naked coed’s room. This feels like a dream! he realized. It was full of events that just weren’t possible. He wondered how he could check to see if he was dreaming. Even though he’d thought it sounded ridiculously implausible, he tried pinching himself because he’d read of people doing that in stories. The pinch didn’t wake him. Is that because such a strategy’s just as implausible as I’ve always thought, or because I’m already awake? he wondered.

The answer wasn’t forthcoming.

Witt was still just inside the doorway. “Her roommate’s not naked in here, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said, guessing at Hax’s concerns. Witt edged back out past the girl in the door, saying, “Though the only thing that matters is that you can see I can get in here. You don’t have to do it yourself. Let’s head back to our room.”

Back in the room, the lights came on as soon as the door closed behind Hax. Witt pulled off his headlight and took back the flashlight Hax had been carrying. Hax said, “Wait. We just walked down that hall at 400X, right?

“Uh-huh.”

“So, if this isn’t all just a load of bullshit you fed me, we went down that hall at about 1,200 miles per hour. That’s well over the speed of sound! The sonic boom should’ve broken all kinds of stuff out there.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t happen. I have a bunch of theories as to why not and they’ve all got something to do with the transition in and out of the bubble smoothing things out somehow.” Witt shrugged, “Nothing’s proven though.”

“This just doesn’t make sense!”

“Agreed. I don’t understand it either. You wanna lean back out in the hall and see if everyone looks shook up the way they would if a fighter jet just flew past them?”

Hax didn’t answer, just stepped back over, opened the door, and had a look. A guy looked at him curiously, but no one looked shocked the way you’d expect if a sonic boom had gone off out in the hall. He closed the door and went back over to sit at his desk and think.

Witt said, “Anyway, you can see that, if anyone’s gonna go to Cyreea and intervene, it’s gotta be me.”

Hax gave his friend a look, then said, “What I can see is that you’ve been cheating in your races.”

“Because I use this freakish talent I have?” Witt asked.

“Yeah, you’re not running fast, you’re messing with time.”

“So, you gonna start playing football on your knees?”

“What?”

“’Cause, you know, you’re freakishly tall. That’s not fair to ordinary, much less to short players. You can see right over them and find your receivers.”

Hax snorted. “Got me on that one. I’ll stay on my feet. You win races however you want, okay?”

They good-naturedly argued about who should go to Cyreea for a while longer, concluding nothing, but both sure they were in the right.

***

Alton Lang had been working with Charlie Smit on his stride. “Before we wear you out,” he said, “let’s have you run a timed hundred to see if this’s making the kind of difference we’re hoping for.”

Smit started toward the starting blocks at the beginning of the track. As Lang turned toward the finish line, he surveyed the field to see what the rest of the team’s members were working on. Quite a few were in the weight room, building power, but the distance runners were circling the track and the jumpers were practicing their thing.

Lang’s eyes caught on Witt Ryllin, over by the long jump where he’d evidently been getting in some reps. Ryllin’s eyes were following Lang and he looked pissed. Why’s he got a bug up his butt? Lang wondered, then remembered that Ryllin claimed he could prove himself in a competitive run, but not in a timed one. Lang rolled his eyes but waved at the kid. “Yo, Ryllin, get down to the starting line with Smit. We’ll see how you do.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Ryllin called back and started hustling over to the hundred-meter starting line.

Smit already had blocks set up to his satisfaction and Lang worried his senior sprinter would be upset at having to wait around while the freshman got ready. Lang slowed his stroll toward the finish line so Smit could blame some of the delay on him instead of Ryllin.

Ryllin arrived at the blocks, got down in the set next to Smit, then stood back up without adjusting them, signaling he was ready.

Lang frowned. I’m pretty sure Ryllin wasn’t the last one to use those blocks, he thought. Is he the same size as whoever did? Lang wondered. Not my problem, he decided, jacking his starting horn into the photocell at the finish line. He turned. Smit and Ryllin were both down in the blocks, so Lang triggered the horn.

Smit got off to his typical excellent start. Lang wasn’t surprised to see Ryllin start poorly, but he still felt dismayed by how poorly. As always, Smit looked as if he accelerated well. In contrast, Ryllin rose too quickly to vertical, then, like before, seemed to be trying to make up for a poor start with a high-frequency stride that Lang knew wouldn’t generate the power needed for a fast run.

However, as they transitioned to maximum velocity, Ryllin didn’t seem to be falling behind the way Lang would’ve expected. Instead, to Lang’s surprise, he seemed as if he were just behind Smit. Might be worse than I think, Lang thought, since I’m looking at them head-on and can’t see their separation very well.

As the runners got closer, Ryllin still looked as if he were right behind Smit. Lang had a momentary thought, Maybe Ryllin is better when he’s competing against another athlete.

Then, in the last fifteen meters, Ryllin upped his stride frequency even more and passed Smit!

Agog, Lang watched them coast to a stop, Smit staring at the freshman in dismay.

Lang looked down at the clock. It read “9.91 seconds.”

Smit’s record was 10.12. The collegiate record was 9.82. The world record was 9.58. A freshman running a sub-ten-second race was almost unheard of. What the hell just happened here? How could anyone go that fast with such lousy technique?!

The two runners had reached him now, still breathing hard. Looking resigned, Smit bent and put his hands on his knees. “What was his time, Coach?”

“9.91,” Lang said, resisting an impulse to apologize to Smit. He turned his eyes to Ryllin and gave him a nod, “Great race.”

Ryllin nodded and said, “Thanks.”

His eyes said, “I told you so.”

Smit, always the gentleman, shook Ryllin’s hand and congratulated him, then took off for an easy lope around the track. Lang thought he wanted to think.

Lang turned back to Ryllin. “So…?”

Ryllin nodded again. “I can win every race you put me in.”

“I doubt that,” Lang said. “But if you can keep up that tempo, you’re definitely going to win some.”

“Coach, I know you gave me this scholarship because of the times I turned in on the hundred. But I can win the 200 and 400 too.”

Narrowing his eyes at Ryllin, Lang said, “Let me time you on them.”

Ryllin shook his head, looking a little exasperated. “You gotta let me run against somebody. I can’t explain it, but just like in the hundred, I won’t be able to turn in competitive times unless I’m racing.”

Lang rolled his eyes. “Okay. I’m gonna go work with Okubo and Williams on the 400. You wanna come along?”

Ryllin gave him a reluctant look. “Can you just call me when you’re gonna do a timed trial with them? That way I can keep working on the long jump. Practicing there will make a difference.”

“You don’t want any coaching on the 400,” Lang said, neither a statement nor a question.

Ryllin shook his head, said, “Don’t need it, sir,” and turned toward the jump pits.

Lang watched a moment as Ryllin walked away. If this kid can deliver on those promises, he thought, I’m gonna get a reputation as a great coach—without doing any coaching.

~~~

A little while later Okubo, pushed from behind, turned in his best time in the 400 so far this year.

But, in the last thirty meters, Ryllin came from behind to beat Okubo by two meters. Williams trailed both of them.

Okubo wasn’t quite the standout Smit was, but Lang had been counting on him for a few ribbons this season.

And, Lang thought, if Ryllin can beat him that handily… He looked at the time again. 47.2 seconds. Good, but not close to record-breaking. Will he do even better in meets against high-end opponents? Lang wondered.

I guess we’ll find out next month at the indoor invitational.

***

Coach Jackson fretted unhappily on the sidelines of their biggest game so far this season. The Iona Hawks weren’t exactly rivals. However, they were perennial BCS (Bowl Championship Series) contenders and, for the last three decades, had always beaten the Wildcats.

Thanks to Buchry, the Cats were undefeated this year and Jackson had been hoping this might be the year his Wildcats took the Hawks down.

But the Hawks were too big, too strong, and too fast.

In the face of such a dominating opponent, Buchry had performed unbelievably, marching the Wildcat offense down the field every time. However, there’d been a couple of hitches. One had been when a perfect Buchry pass had bounced right off his receiver’s numbers and into the hands of one of the Hawks’ defensive backs. That particularly fast DB had broken loose, running the ball all the way down to the goal line for a touchdown.

The other hitch had been a fumble on one of the Wildcats’ kickoff receptions, turning the ball over to the Hawks a mere seventeen yards from their end zone. The Hawks had quickly taken advantage and made another TD.

So, the Wildcats had failed to score on two possessions.

On the other hand, the Hawks had been rolling over the Cats’ defense. They’d scored every time they got the ball.

This meant the Wildcats had a two-touchdown deficit from those two times the Cats had failed to capitalize when they got the ball.

This isn’t a problem Buchry can solve, Jackson was thinking. He’s performing as perfectly as he always does, but the defense is letting him down. Jackson looked over at his young quarterback, astonished to see the guy wandering the sidelines, talking to his teammates. He’d slap a guy on the back, then chat with him a minute or so. All the while he had a big smile on his face.

The guys he talked to, who’d been drooping with despair, always bucked up after Buchry spoke to him.

Iona made another touchdown, going up by twenty-one again. The Wildcats’ dispirited defense trotted off the field as the kick return team went out.

Buchry happened, perhaps purposefully, to be near where Vince Young, the defense’s team captain, came off. Smiling as always, he slapped Young on the back and leaned in close as if to say a few encouraging words.

James worried that Young would find a “buck up” speech from a freshman irritating, but Young shrugged and gave what looked like a self-deprecating laugh.

Then Buchry was pointing across the field, still talking.

Young started nodding thoughtfully.

The Hawks kicked off and the Wildcats took a fair catch which brought the ball out to the twenty.

As Jackson wondered what kind of game plan could rescue his team, he looked at Buchry. The QB was talking to a couple of the defensive backs. Then he headed out onto the field.

Not having had any inspired ideas, James decided to see what Buchry did without his input. Probably even better than he’s been doing when I screw with his ideas, Jackson thought glumly.

The team spent a little longer in the huddle than usual. Long enough Jackson started to worry they were about to get a delay of game penalty. Nonetheless, Buchry got them up to the line just as the back judge lifted his arm to indicate five seconds remained. If Buchry decides to call one of his audibles, Jackson thought, we could be in trouble.

Buchry didn’t call an audible.

The center hiked the ball in time.

Buchry fell back, handing off to the running back… No! He still had the ball!

Fooled, the Hawks were piling into the line to stop the RB.

Jackson scanned the field for Buchry’s receivers. Two of them were screaming downfield!

The Hawks aren’t gonna give him time for a long pass! Jackson thought, feeling like his head was about to explode.

Minnouri’s fullback had stopped an Iona defensive lineman who’d figured out Buchry still had the ball.

Still watching his receivers, Buchry planted his hand on the back of the shoulder of another lineman who’d broken through and was shooting a low tackle.

Using his arm like a pole, Buchry vaulted over the lineman!

Landing on his feet, Buchry heaved the ball.

He’s going for a long bomb! Jackson realized as he felt the entire stadium rise to its feet.

With despair, Jackson could see Buchry’d thrown the ball yards to the left of his receiver. Banfield had no idea the throw was wild since he was still hauling ass downfield, gradually leaving the Hawk’s defensive back behind. Why does this pass have to be Buchry’s first bad throw of the season? Jackson wondered.

Then, without looking back, Banfield suddenly cut left.

He looked back and up.

The ball dropped into his hands as he crossed a hash mark on the field.

Banfield raced for the goal line.

Touchdown!

The stadium erupted.

Jackson pumped his fist, as excited as anyone. Then reality set in, We’re still two touchdowns behind, and our defense can’t stop those bastards.

But the defense—despite being tired, having just gotten off the field two plays ago—looked energized by the sudden TD. The kickoff team trotted onto the field; heads held as high as if dawn had broken. Should we try an onside kick and hope for a miracle? Jackson wondered. He studied the field and recognized—from their brand-new uniforms—that the Hawks had a couple of green players up front on the right side of the field. A moment later he signaled the kicker.

The onside kick was a thing of beauty. Tumbling, spinning, and bouncing unpredictably, it bounded over one of the Hawks’ newbies. The kid jumped up to grab clumsily at it, instead knocking it into another newbie who also failed to gain control of the ball.

Then one of the Cats arrived and dove on the ball.

We’ve got it! Jackson thought, looking around for Buchry.

Buchry’d been talking to Vince Young again. Now he slapped the big linebacker on the shoulder and trotted back out onto the field, putting on his helmet. I hope to God he doesn’t try another long bomb, Jackson thought, willing it so, but not going so far as to send in a play.

Buchry ran the same exact fake draw play he’d thrown the bomb from!

Jackson’s heart stopped as Buchry dropped back and the running back plunged into the line. Buchry’s receivers ran downfield, but the Hawks’ covering backs were tight on them this time. Jackson glanced back at Buchry. Holy shit! he thought as he saw that, hidden from the other team behind his hip, Buchry’s hand was empty.

Jackson’s eyes darted back forward and saw that Rogers, the running back, was plowing downfield.

Iona stopped Rogers, but only after he’d gained twenty-eight yards.

The Cats were on fire now! Buchry marched them downfield for another touchdown and suddenly they were only seven points behind.

Buchry and Young had another discussion while the kick return team was out on the field.

The defense went back onto the field, no longer dragging. While they waited for the Hawks offense to huddle, Young was talking to them. Motivating them.

The thing Jackson noticed was that Young exhorted them as a team the same way he usually did. But he also spoke to them individually. As if he had particular instructions for many of them. The way I hear Buchry has suggestions for individuals on the offense in the huddle, Jackson realized. As Young finished talking to each of them, Jackson could see them looking at the Hawks as if they had some new understanding.

Young’s passing on Buchry’s ideas, Jackson realized, astonished that a senior would listen to a freshman. That the defensive captain would listen to the quarterback. That Young seemed to believe, the way so many members of the offense did.

Iona ran a play up the middle but Young and his guys were ready for it, stopping them for a one-yard loss!

They tried a draw play with the runner trying to follow behind the Hawks’ big left tackle.

Young and the line were ready for it again. They didn’t stop them for a loss, but the Hawks only gained two yards.

It’s third down and nine! Jackson thought, ecstatic at the possibility the Wildcats might finally stop a drive.

Not unexpectedly, Iona tried a pass on third and nine. However, ignoring the play sent in by the Cats’ defensive coordinator, Niemann, Young had them blitz.

The Hawks’ QB threw the ball away when he came under pressure. A light came on as Jackson realized the other team’s quarterback had thrown the ball away once before. Buchry could tell the Hawk quarterback’s afraid of getting hit. He told Young to blitz in this situation, Jackson realized. Jackson looked over at the defensive coordinator and could see the man looked furious.

The punt return team trotted onto the field. As they did Jackson wandered over and intercepted Nieman, catching him by the arm as he stalked toward Young. “Joe, hold up.”

Nieman turned angrily to Jackson, “I didn’t send in a blitz, Art! I gotta straighten that son of a bitch out!”

“But it worked, Joe. Don’t mess with success or they’ll lose confidence in you.”

Nieman looked away. “Okay. I’ll talk to him after the game.”

Jackson pulled him back around to look him hard in the eye, then said, “You’ll talk to him next week… After you’ve talked to me again.” To himself, he thought, Now’s not the time to explain to Nieman just what Buchry’s doing out there. Monday, when Nieman’s cooled off and I can show him tape is soon enough. Besides, I can have Coach Ryan there to give Nieman his “Buchry’s the freaking Einstein-of-football” spiel.

With the Hawks’ drive stopped, they punted. Buchry went back in and marched the team down for another touchdown.

It felt like destiny, and that nothing Iona could do could stop the Cats’ drive.

When Jackson sent the extra point team in, Buchry called a time out and came over to ask if he could go for a two-point conversion. Despite being irritated that Buchry’d “wasted” a time out, Jackson agreed. Then, instead of tying the game, Buchry took them up by one, late in the fourth quarter.

The Hawks were the dispirited ones now, despite the fact they were only down by one. They received the kick, but then Minnouri’s defense held them again! From there it was mostly a matter of running out the clock, so Buchry marched the Wildcats slowly down the field to make one more touchdown just before time was about to run out.

They made the extra point and were up by eight, effectively putting a win out of reach for the Hawks.

As people enthusiastically congratulated Jackson afterward, he kept thinking that Buchry had not only played but coached that win. I’ve got to learn from this kid while he’s here, Jackson thought, hoping Buchry didn’t go pro.

He’s gonna get offers though.

***

Like the other players, Hax had four complimentary season tickets to the football games. Witt had watched the game from one of his friend’s seats. Hax’s dad, Roni, and Indigo had had the other three seats.

They left the game in elated moods. Partly happy because of the win, but much of the happy atmosphere had to do with what Hax had just accomplished. Witt had the sense that all four of them knew Hax was carrying the team on his back, but none of them wanted to say it out loud.

Ravinder, Hax’s dad, had turned off to the parking area for his drive back to Lareta. Witt and Roni had walked Indigo down to meet Hax where the team would exit their dressing rooms. Not wanting to put a damper on the young lovers, he and Roni had left the area and were walking the campus’s brick paths toward Roni’s apartment.

Roni said, “Go, see Maja. You don’t need to walk me home.”

Surprised that a young woman wouldn’t be somewhat fearful of walking home alone in the dark, Witt stuck to his guns. “Sorry, Miss, but that’d be a violation of campus policy.”

Roni frowned, “Violation of what policy?”

“That, after dark, female students shouldn’t walk alone.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” She pointed imperiously in the direction of his dorm. “Go!”

Putting his hands up in surrender, Witt said, “Okay. But you’ll be to blame when the hero of that football game rips me limb from limb.”

Shaking her head, Roni laughed, but kept pointing.

~~~

Roni felt relieved when Witt finally turned and started in the direction of his dorm. She continued on toward her apartment. After walking about a block in distance, she looked around to see if anyone was watching. The only person she could see was a girl walking ahead of her. The girl was walking the same direction, so she wasn’t looking at Roni.

Roni went invisible to keep herself safe. Because I’m not as foolish as I led Witt to believe, she thought. Besides, I’m walking with that girl up ahead.

~~~

Witt started in the direction Roni’d directed, but then, deciding it was insane for her to insist on walking home alone, doubled back to follow her at a distance. Hax’d be pissed if I didn’t stay with her, he thought. Rather than follow the brick walkway Roni was on, he stayed off to the side so the grass would silence his footsteps. Also, in hope that, if she looked back, the trees and other greenery would make him less noticeable.

He’d been following Roni for about a block when he suddenly realized he couldn’t see her! What the hell just happened?! he wondered, trotting forward a bit to look urgently around in the dimly lit surroundings in the area where she’d vanished. Wasn’t I paying attention?! He pulled out the flashlight he carried and shone it into some of the dimmer areas off the path while he kept moving up to where he thought he’d last seen her.

She was nowhere!

Witt considered going to a faster time flow so she wouldn’t get farther from him while he searched. However, he could see more broadly in the dim campus lighting than he’d be able to with a flashlight in the dark above 2X.

Where the hell could she be?! he wondered exasperatedly.

~~~

Roni hadn’t walked very far when two guys stepped out from behind a tree and onto the path in front of her. Startled, she wondered, Can they see me?! But they turned and walked the path in the same direction, just a bit in front of her. They were walking faster than she was, so they began to pull ahead.

Coincidence, she thought, I wonder what they were doing behind that tree. After a moment’s thought, she decided they might be lovers—which was none of her business.

Then, with a sick sensation, Roni realized the guys were gaining on the girl in front of her.

Roni sped up.

~~~

Roni was nowhere to be seen; Witt realized. Neither was anyone else. Could she have just sped up without my notice? he wondered, upping his speed to a jog, and hoping he was following the same path she had. Could she have turned off on another walkway? Despite that thought, Witt felt certain no path had diverged from the one he was on and also that it was the shortest path to her apartment… Maybe she cut across the grass to visit a lover we don’t know about?? Could that be why she was so eager to get rid of me?

~~~

At the last moment, Roni could tell the girl sensed the two guys behind her. She tried to run. But then they were on her, wrestling her to the ground. Aw crap! Roni thought, looking around for a weapon. Where the hell’s a handy tree limb when you need one? she wondered, not seeing anything. Since her encounters with the Romanos her freshman year, she’d carried a Taser in her purse. Unfortunately, she’d taken it out earlier this evening because the stadium screened for weapons and they’d have taken it away from her. Besides, she’d reasoned, my invisibility will protect me. Now she thought, But, it isn’t protecting that girl. Pissed at herself, she angrily thought, I could’ve just used my talent to keep the screeners from noticing the damned Taser!

The two guys dragged the girl to her feet. She squeaked in a muffled fashion, leading Roni to think the struggle on the ground had mostly been about gagging her. Now the girl began to lunge back and forth as if to get away, or at least to impede their progress. The guy on her right turned and punched her viciously in the stomach.

She collapsed.

One on each side, they dragged her around the corner.

The area they entered was better lit, leading Roni to hope someone else might see what was happening and help. She wondered if she should scream to attract attention.

Holding on to the scream idea, she scanned the new environment near the street, still hoping to see a weapon.

She stumbled.

Looking down she saw that a root had heaved one of the bricks up out of the path and caused it to catch her toe. She realized the paving bricks of the path weren’t mortared, just laid tightly onto a sand bed.

For God’s sake! She thought as she bent and pulled the brick free. I’ve been walking on weapons this whole time!

Hefting the brick, she trotted after the girl and her assailants.

~~~

Feeling more frantic, Witt tried to reassure himself by thinking about how pissed he was going to be when he figured out where Roni’d actually gone, Witt came to a street that crossed the walkway he and Roni’d been following. He paused to look around in the better lighting coming from the streetlamps…

Two guys were manhandling someone into a van!

Witt went to 400X and trotted that way. Do they have Roni?! he wondered in horror.

When he arrived, he saw the victim was female, but not Roni. He studied her a moment longer to be sure that the bizarre appearance people had in the blue-shifted light of his flashlight at 400X wasn’t throwing him off.

He decided it wasn’t her.

First, he felt relieved it wasn’t Roni, but then he realized that helping this girl was going to delay him from finding Roni. Don’t be ridiculous! he thought to himself. Roni probably just turned off the path and you lost track of her. This girl’s actually in trouble.

And, I can mostly stay in fast-time, then get back to the search for Roni without losing much in real-time.

As he began to consider how to handle the situation, he studied the two guys. One of them was mostly inside the van, pulling the girl inward by her arm. The other perp was outside, gripping her other arm and pushing.

He pondered bubbling their hearts into slow-time. That’d stop the blood flow to their brains and they’d pass out. But then how do I explain what happened to the girl. And to the cops? he wondered.

If I had a gun, I could threaten them… He didn’t have a weapon but realized the guys might be carrying guns. Even if he didn’t borrow a weapon from them, he’d better find out whether they had any before he did anything else. He stepped up closer to the perp outside the van, thinking to pat him down. Suddenly he realized the guy’s hand wasn’t quite touching the girl’s arm! This seemed bizarre since from further back it’d looked like he was controlling her with an aggressive grip.

Puzzled, Witt stepped back to study the perp. He’s sure holding his head strangely… It had tilted forward, down, and to the left. And, the guy’s hair was flying up to the right as if the perp had just violently moved his head down-left.

Stepping forward, Witt patted the guy down, finding a pistol in a holster at the small of his back. Witt had on long sleeves so he pulled them down far enough to keep from leaving prints, then pulled out the gun, popped out the magazine, and jacked the slide to remove a bullet that was in the chamber. Tossing the gun, magazine, and bullet out onto the lawn, he climbed into the van and disarmed the other guy. This one had a gun in the same location. This time he kept the weapon so he could use it to threaten them while making them wait for the cops. As he started to climb back out of the van, he wondered why it was that he’d squeezed into the van on the rearward side of the guy in the doorway. There’s a lot more room on the forward side of him.

Then he saw why and almost crapped his pants. A fourth person’s blocking that side of the doorway! How did I not notice… he wondered, shining his flashlight on the person’s face… Roni?!

After a moment, he climbed back out of the van on the same side of the guy that he’d climbed in on. He surveyed the situation again, feeling stunned. How in the world did I not see her?! He knew the field of his flashlight was narrow, which gave him a bit of tunnel vision but… But she was in my way! he thought. I unconsciously worked around her to pat the perp down. I climbed into the van on his left instead of his right. And, what the hell’s she doing?! Could she be helping these guys?!

Deciding to shelve that issue, Witt took a minute to inspect the gun, making sure it had a bullet in the chamber and learning how its safety worked. Putting it back on safe he stepped back from the door and took a shooter’s stance aimed at the guys. He made sure Roni was well clear of the line of fire then put his flashlight back in his pocket and let time go back to normal.

To Witt’s astonishment, as he shouted, “Hold it right there!” the perp outside the doorway collapsed to the ground as if he’d been clubbed!

What the hell?! Witt wondered, putting all his attention on the startled-looking guy inside the van.

~~~

Roni caught up with the guys as they were dragging the girl into a van.

She wondered if she should give them a warning before hitting them. Then what? she wondered. Me threatening them with a brick isn’t going to give them pause. Besides, I’ve already witnessed them committing a reprehensible crime. With a mental shrug, she clocked the guy outside the van with her brick.

Not being positive these guys deserved to die, she held back compared to the crushing blows she’d dealt Romano’s wise guys a few years ago. From the feel of the impact, she didn’t think she’d smashed a fatal dent into the guy’s skull the way she had the wise guys. Though maybe I should’ve? she wondered, thinking it might’ve saved the justice system a lot of trouble and expense.

As she thought this, Witt’s voice came from behind her, shouting, “Hold it right there!”

As tense as she was, the shout scared the crap out of her. She had to remind herself he couldn’t be shouting at her because he couldn’t possibly see her.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Witt in a shooter’s stance, aiming a gun at the guy inside the van. He forcefully said, “Let her go!”

Roni carefully stepped further out of the line of fire and wondered what the hell to do now.

~~~

Witt watched as the guy inside the van let go of the girl and slowly raised his hands. The girl jerked back away from him and began to struggle violently with something on her head. Witt spared it a glance and realized it was some kind of ball-gag and blindfold arrangement. He wanted to help her get it off but didn’t want to take his eyes off the perp in the van. The other perp lay on the ground, appearing unconscious.

Stepping closer, he spoke calmingly to the girl, “I’ll help you out of that in a minute. First, I have to secure the guy who had you, okay?”

Suddenly Roni stepped up beside her, saying, “I’ll help you get it off.”

Wide-eyed, Witt stared at Roni, suddenly remembering she’d been outside the van when he’d been at 400X. Somehow, when he’d gone back to real-time, he not only hadn’t been seeing her anymore, but seemed to have forgotten she’d been there in the first place.

Murmuring reassuringly to her, Roni started working on the girl’s headgear.

The girl herself still seemed edgy but no longer frantic.

Witt wanted to ask the girl what was going on, but just then the guy in the van dodged out of Witt’s view toward the back of the vehicle. I need to go back to fast-time, he thought, but he also didn’t want Roni to know about it. However, when he checked on her, she had her attention focused on the girl’s headgear, so he went to 400X and felt for his flashlight.

Shining its beam ahead for guidance he stepped past Roni and the girl to look in through the van’s sliding door. The guy had started opening the back door to get out.

Presumably hoping to escape capture by Witt.

Witt walked around to the back of the van and took up his shooter’s stance, gun aimed at the opening door.

Witt went back to real-time and watched the door finish opening.

The guy was looking back over his shoulder—where he expected Witt to be coming after him. He burst through the opening, then halted when his eyes turned back to the front and saw Witt was already there.

“Down on your knees,” Witt ordered, putting a disappointed tone in his voice.

The perp’s shoulders slumped and he slowly got down.

Keeping the gun aimed at him, Witt edged to the right so he could check on Roni.

Roni had the headgear off of the girl and her arms around her. She seemed to be speaking reassuringly but quietly enough that Witt couldn’t distinguish the words.

“Um, Roni?” Witt said, trying to keep his words pacific so as not to frighten the girl.

“Uh-huh,” Roni replied without turning to look at him.

“Have you called 911?” he asked.

She shook her head, still talking to the girl.

Frustrated, Witt wanted to say, “Well, would you?!” because he wanted someone to call and he didn’t want to take his eyes off the guy in front of him. Instead, he decided Roni would’ve called if the girl wasn’t having some kind of crisis. And, he thought, after all, I’m the master of time.

He walked around behind the kneeling perp, checked to be sure the guy hadn’t turned to watch him, then went to 400X and leaned into the back door of the van. Shining his flashlight around he looked for something to tie the guys up with. Almost the first thing he saw was a big blister pack of disposable zip-tie restraints. It looked as if there were about ten in the package. He ripped it open and took a large handful, stuffing one end of the wad into his back pocket.

Back out the door of the van, Witt knelt and loosely applied a set of cuffs to the perp’s ankles, then went back to 1.5X time, intentionally staying somewhat fast to give himself an advantage. As soon as he changed time flow, he immediately pulled the first ankle tie tight.

This startled the perp who tried to surge to his feet—apparently in hopes of escape. Though the other tie was loose, it was too small to let the guy’s foot slip through its opening. The hobbled perp came crashing back down, sprawling full length.

Witt finished tightening the second ankle tie, then stepped around to look down on him. He growled, “Don’t try to fight me, I’m holding all the aces.”

The guy glared up at him but said nothing.

Brandishing another restraint, Witt said, “Hold out your hands.”

The perp held them out, but only a little way.

When Witt took a knee to apply one loop of the restraint to the guy’s wrist, the fellow threw a punch at him. Glad he was already at 1.5X, Witt managed to dodge, though it was a close thing. He went to 400X. With the perp apparently stationary, Witt slipped the restraint’s loop over the punching and thus outstretched right hand, then considered. The guy had pulled his left hand back to balance the kinetic energy of his punching right.

Witt thought about how, if he put the guy’s left arm in 400X—which would disconnect it from the perp’s brain and leave it floppy—then moved it up and fastened it into the restraint, it would seem to the guy as if something truly bizarre had happened. Witt didn’t think it mattered very much what this guy thought, but he’d like to know how to do things without them seeming bizarre to their victims and this seemed like a good time to experiment…

Witt grabbed the guy’s left wrist and the empty loop of the restraint, then went to 1.8X. This was a compromise speed that made him very fast but still let him see without a flashlight. The perp immediately noticed his right wrist was in a restraint and thrashed around holding his wrists apart, a strategy that Witt’s increased speed did little to compensate for. Finally, Witt went to 50X and put the guy’s left arm in 400X, divorcing it from his 1X brain. As the arm fell flaccid, he pulled it up next to the right wrist, tightened it into the second loop of the restraint, then went back to real-time.

The perp stared at him, “What… how’d you do that?!”

“Like I said,” Witt repeated, deciding no one was going to believe anything this guy said about him, “I’m holding all the aces.” Considering the possibility that, even with his ankles restrained to one another, the perp might get to his feet and hop away, Witt decided to bind him even further.

Once again, the guy fought against it.

Witt looked to make sure no one was watching him, then put the guy’s brain in a slow-time bubble that dropped all his limbs flaccid so Witt could pull his ankles and wrists close to one another. Then he used a third restraint to bind the wrist restraints to the ankle restraints.

When he let the guy’s brain come back to normal time, the guy stared, “What’re you doing?! Knocking me out?”

Witt grinned and nodded, thinking it’d add to the confusion in any story the guy told others in the future. Saying, “Don’t go anywhere now, okay?” Witt pulled out his phone and, while dialing 911, stepped around the corner of the van to check on Roni.

Roni was still holding the victim.

The operator came on, “What’s your emergency?”

Witt said, “We’ve stopped a couple of guys in the act of abducting a girl. They were armed with pistols but we’ve managed to get their guns away from them. One’s unconscious, though I’m not sure why…” Witt trailed off as he stared at the spot where the second perp had been lying. The guy was gone!

Hanging up on the 911 operator, Witt swept the area with his eyes while stepping closer to Roni. Not seeing the guy, he urgently asked, “Roni! Where’d the other guy go?!”

She glanced down where the guy’d been laying, then shrugged and said, “Dunno.”  She turned back and resumed speaking softly to the girl. Witt trotted around the van without seeing the guy. He checked on perp number one, finding the guy very much alone and struggling with his restraints. “Where’d your buddy go?” Witt asked without much hope of a response.

He didn’t get one, but his phone started ringing. It was a callback from 911. He didn’t answer it but assumed they were getting GPS location data from his phone anyway.

Thinking, The guy couldn’t’ve gone far, Witt checked to be sure no one was looking right at him, then went to 400X. He trotted a block further down the street to the south, then went back to real-time to look around with a wider scope of vision than he had in the narrow beam of his flashlight.

He noticed some motion near the pathway on his left. Fixing the spot in his mind, he went back to 400X and trotted to where he thought he’d seen it. When he dropped back to 1.5X, there the guy was, shambling east. Not really shambling, Witt thought, but not walking quite normally either.

The guy slowed on seeing Witt in his path, then glanced toward an apartment building on his left.

Pulling out his last set of restraints, Witt stepped forward and grabbed the guy’s arm, “You can’t outrun me. You’d just as well come along.”

The guy was big. Rather than trying to run he tried to punch Witt.

Witt felt glad he was still at 1.5X and able to dodge well enough that it only grazed him. He went to 400X and repeated his strategy of applying one cuff of the restraint to the outstretched arm. Then he brought both of the guy’s arms to 400X and when they fell limply to the perp’s sides, Witt pulled them close to one another and applied the second cuff.

He stopped on finding that he’d used the last of the cuffs he’d had dangling out of his back pocket. He didn’t have any more cuffs he could put on the perp’s ankles to keep him from leaving the area. For a moment Witt thought about how he should’ve cuffed the guy’s arms around a tree, but the guy was big enough that he’d have been hard to move into position for it without his cooperation.

Eventually, Witt stepped back and pointed the pistol at the creep before going to real-time. “Okay, dude, turn around and start back the other way.”

The guy stared, stunned, at the cuffs on his wrists. His eyes raised to focus on Witt. “You don’t know what you’re messing with, man,” he said in a flat tone. Not a vicious quality, more of a hopeless one. “Unless you’ve got a death wish, you’ll let us take the girl and forget you even saw us.”

Witt frowned, suddenly thinking his assumption that these two were rapists who worked together might be incorrect. “Who sent you?” he asked.

“You don’t wanna know.”

Witt waved the gun at him. “Turn around. We’re goin’ back to your van.”

“It’s your funeral, man,” the guy said dispiritedly. He turned around and started back.

Witt and his captive were still most of a block from the van when a bunch of police cars started arriving and pulling up around them. A cop stared out his window at them, “Did one of you call in an abduction…” his eyes had narrowed and focused on the plasticuffs around the perp’s wrists. “What’s this?”

Sounding frightened, the perp said, “The guy behind me’s armed! He attacked me and tied me up.”

Startled, the cop scrambled to get his weapon out.

By the time he had it pointing out the window toward Witt, Witt had gone to 400X, safed the pistol, ejected the mag, and racked the slide to empty the chamber. He tossed everything into the hedge and went back to real-time, raising his hands as the cop’s weapon came to bear. He nodded at the big guy, “This here’s your perp. He and another dude abducted the girl you’re here to rescue.”

The cop rolled his eyes, “Both you guys, down on your knees.” By then, police had climbed out of other cars and soon surrounded Witt.

***

Hax—treated by the station cops as a hero for his role in the football game earlier that evening—picked Witt and Roni up at the police station several hours after the failed abduction went down. As soon as Witt and Roni were out of earshot of the cops, they immediately turned on one another and semi-simultaneously said something to the effect of, “Where the hell did you come from?!”

To Witt’s astonishment, Hax laughed and put his arms over both their shoulders. Still walking, he said, “The jig’s up for both of you. Let me explain what happened to both of you at the same time. This’ll save me time so I can get back to the dorm and get my beauty rest.” He turned to Roni first, saying, “Witt can modify the flow of—"

Hotly, Witt interrupted, “Hax! You swore you wouldn’t—”

Hax interrupted him in his turn, “I didn’t swear. I promised ‘absolutely’ not to tell anyone your secret. But Roni’s not anyone. You and Roni both have secrets. And, you each have a ‘need to know’ about one another. Therefore, you must take each other into your confidence.”

Furious, Witt opened his mouth to vociferously object.

Roni was doing the same.

Hax pulled them around in front of him and, looking alternately into each of their eyes, said, “Trust me on this.”

Witt realized he did trust Hax. I trusted him with my secret in the first place, he thought with a great sense of confidence. Now I need to trust him to know what to do with it.

They took an Uber to Roni’s apartment where Hax explained Witt’s time-flow ability to Roni and Roni’s “blindspot” talent to him.

After some testing, they determined that when Roni was invoking her invisibility, Witt couldn’t see her. However, after he went into fast-time, her telepathic command that he not notice her wore off due to the temporal disjunction. That’d been the reason that—while he was in fast-time—he hadn’t seen her at first, but she’d suddenly become apparent after a bit.

At a pause in the conversation, Hax looked again at each of them and said, “You two need to consider how your abilities complement one another’s. If we have to go to Cyreea, you’re going to have to accept the fact that we’ll be far safer with both of you than with either of you alone.”

Witt narrowed his eyes at Hax. “‘We?’ Are you thinking you’re going to Cyreea too? That’s ridiculous.” He snorted, “We may be able to hide, but someone your size’s going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

Hax chided him gently. “Come on, Witt. You can take me into fast-time with you, thus hiding me. Roni can hide me too.” He winked, “No one’ll even know I’m there.”

Witt looked over at Roni, “Can you hide him too?”

She nodded and said, “Something else you need to know. Hax’s just as accurate with a gun as he is with a football.”

Witt’s eyes widened as he turned to stare at his roommate.

Hax acknowledged the truth of Roni’s statement with a diffident shrug.

Accepting that, Witt turned to Roni. “What was the girl’s deal?”

Roni shrugged, “It was a horribly traumatic event for her, what do you expect?”

Witt said, “I get that, but what did she think those guys wanted?”

Rolling her eyes, she snarled, “To rape her! What do you think?” Glaringly obvious was the undertone that she thought Witt had to be an idiot for needing it explained to him.

Rather than objecting to her assessment of his intelligence, Witt said slowly, “That’s not the impression I got from perp number two…”

Roni stared at him a moment, “What do you mean?” she asked in an ugly tone, then narrowed her eyes, “And, who’s this ‘perp number two?’”

“The guy who passed out,” Witt said. “The one who got up and wandered away while you were talking to the girl.”

“Her name was Erin Stone,” Roni said frustratedly, as if she couldn’t believe Witt hadn’t learned it. “And, he didn’t ‘pass out.’”

Witt considered pointing out that no one had told him the victim’s name, but decided he didn’t need to make an excuse for himself. “Why’d he go unconscious then?”

“I hit him with a brick!” Roni said in a near-shout, as if it were obvious.

“Please don’t yell at me,” Witt said calmly and softly. “We’re on the same side here.”

“Yeah, Roni,” Hax said with a grin, then arched an eyebrow. “Why’re you barking at Witt?”

“Because,” she said, exasperated, “Erin had a really tough time and Wittless here couldn’t even take the time to remember her name.” She winced a little as if remembering Witt didn’t like that nickname.

“Roni,” Witt said, as patiently and calmingly as he could, “I didn’t get to talk to Erin. I never heard her name. No one ever told me her name… I don’t think you’re mad at me. More likely you’re mad about what happened to Erin. However, taking it out on me probably won’t make you feel any better.”

Roni stared at him a moment, lip trembling, then her eyes flooded with tears, “You’re right. You worked just as hard on her behalf as I did. I… I’m sorry… so sorry for jumping your shit.”

Witt stepped closer, then hesitated, “I’d like to give you a hug to say I’m sorry… but I’m not sure how you’d take it?”

She closed the distance and hugged him instead. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” she said with a sniffle.

“I do,” Witt said softly. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t smart enough to stop it. I’m sorry you’re upset. I’m sorry—”

“That’s enough,” Roni said, thumping his chest with the edge of her fist and producing a sniffling chuckle. “I get it. You’re sorry. What was that you were saying about how you thought it wasn’t rape?”

“Um, perp number two…” Witt stepped back and looked at her askance, “Sorry I didn’t get his name either?”

Roni sniffed again, “Now you’re just trying to give me a real reason to be pissed at you, aren’t you?”

Witt grinned, “Well, yeah, maybe. Anyway, the guy said something about how we didn’t know who we were messing with, and, if we didn’t let them take her, we were gonna be sorry. Made me think he was just a cog in someone else’s machine. After that, I started thinking about how I’d never heard of rapists working in pairs.” He shrugged, “There’re probably a few, but I’d assume it’s rare.”

“Oh,” Roni said, wide-eyed. A moment later she turned and sat at her computer station. Her search for Erin Stone determined the girl was an heiress. Roni looked up, “Maybe they were after her money?”

“Or, wanting to extort her family,” Hax said ominously.

“Damn!” Roni said, sounding distraught.

“I should’ve made him tell me what he meant,” Witt said.

Hax put a hand on Witt’s shoulder, “I don’t think you’re the kinda guy who’d torture someone for information. Besides, that kind of info’s supposedly unreliable.”

“We’ve gotta warn Erin,” Roni said.

“I’m sure she’s already figured out the heiress angle,” Hax said.

“There’s a difference,” Roni said tightly, “between wondering whether they wanted to rape you or kidnap you, and knowing which one it was…”

A little silence stretched, then Witt said, “I think it’d be better if you were the one—”

“Of course, I’m the one who’s gotta tell her!” Roni snapped.

Hax pulled Roni in for a hug, quietly saying, “Sis, you’re barking at someone on our side again.”

A silence stretched again, then Roni said, “Sorry, Witt. I need one of those assholes here to give me a legitimate target for my rage.”

Witt said, “I have the feeling that, if that guy’s just a cog in someone else’s machine, his boss is the one who should be your legitimate target. I think he may be somewhat of a victim himself.”

“I was there! I can’t feel sorry for a guy who’d attack a girl that way! What’s he afraid of? That they’ll dock his pay?”

“Maybe his boss is threatening his family if he doesn’t perform to standards?”

Roni put her hands over her ears. “Oh, gods! Stop complicating this! I need someone to hate!”

“Roni,” Hax said, “your righteous anger will not make a complex situation simple. And, once again, I’d remind you that yelling at your allies is unlikely to win the day.”

She looked up, tears in her eyes, “I’m so sorry guys. I know I shouldn’t shoot the messenger and that my own angst is not an excuse.”

The three discussed the situation a while longer, agreeing that Roni would talk to Erin about what Witt had learned and offer to help her.

They also debated the ways they might use Witt’s and Roni’s talents synergistically while trying to rescue Maja’s family. Roni said she had enough cash to pay for four flights to Lebannan when the time came. The real problem lay in figuring out when they could go.

None of them had open spots in their schedules, much less simultaneous openings.

Roni said, “I think the best time would be right after finals. Our families will probably be upset if we miss the holidays but…”

Hax said, “The team’ll probably be practicing for the post-season then.”

“Post-season?” Roni asked in puzzlement.

Hax cleared his throat and looked a little embarrassed. “Um, if we keep winning—”

Witt blew a raspberry, “As if that’s in doubt.”

Hax went on, “If we keep winning, we’ll probably be invited to a bowl game and Coach’ll expect us to keep practicing until after that game.”

Roni frowned, “Do you need to practice?”

Hax shrugged, “Well, no, not really. But team morale would take a hit if—”

“Surely they can get along without you for a few lousy practices…?”

Looking mulish, Hax said, “I can go then if that’s our only window and everyone’s got their passports…” He looked meaningfully at Witt who’d screwed up his first passport application.

Chapter Five

On a Monday, Hax walked out of his first class of the day and saw Roni waiting for him. “Problem?” he asked, seeing the expression on her face.

Roni nodded, “Nabil, Maja’s uncle, has been moved to sharie almawt.”

When she didn’t follow that up with anything, Hax said, “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“Oh, sorry. It translates to ‘death street.’”

“Is that like death row over here? They’re about to execute him?”

She shrugged. “Almost no one that’s taken to Sajn Cednaja, the prison Nabil’s in, ever leaves. At a minimum, tens of thousands of political prisoners have died there during Anshed’s reign. It’s likely the total’s in the hundreds of thousands. They torture many to death, but most are likely dying of disease. Mainly infections their bodies can’t resist because of malnutrition or outright starvation. I get the impression that once they’re moved to sharie almawt they usually don’t live much longer.”

Hax chewed his lip for a moment, then said, “Okay. I’m gonna go home and pack.”

She drew back, alarm on her face, “What about your precious football?!”

Hax shrugged, “There’re a lot worse games I could miss. The team we’re up against this Saturday’s pretty weak, so Coach probably would’ve taken me out early to let some of the other QBs get some playing time. They should be fine without me.”

“What’re you gonna tell the coach about why you’re not there?!”

Hax shrugged again, “That I need some personal time. It’s not like I’m a slave or anything. He and the team’ll just have to deal with it.”

“What if he…” Roni ran down as she began to realize the coach wasn’t the one with the power in their relationship.

If there was any doubt, Hax confirmed the situation. “He can’t throw me off the team. Too many powerful people want the Cats to keep winning. Even if he did toss me, I could just transfer to another school. There’re plenty of teams that’d take me.”

“What am I supposed to do about my classes?!”

“You don’t have to go with us.”

“We’ve talked about this. I’ve gotta go if you do. What about my classes?”

“Please!” Hax said, rolling his eyes. “You already do most of your stuff online. Just up it to a hundred percent till we get back.”

“We’re gonna have to take Maja to translate. I suppose you want to take your lamebrained roommate too?”

“Come on, Roni. He’s a much better person than you give him credit for. And you saw some of what he can do the night of the abduction. He and I’ve talked. What he did around you was only the tip of the iceberg. He’d massively improve our chances of getting back alive… something I’m kinda in favor of.”

“You think this is that dangerous?!”

Hax only shook his head and started down the path back toward her apartment and his dorm. “Let’s get on our way while you’re doing your vacillating.”

“Should we even be trying to rescue one man if it’s that hazardous?” Roni asked plaintively.

He looked down at her. “Says the girl who chased down a couple of guys she thought were rapists! Besides, Nabil’s only a small part of the issue. I believe you said they’re torturing and killing hundreds of thousands of political prisoners?”

She looked away, looking lost in thought. Hax sent a text while they walked in silence.

She looked up, “Who’d you text?”

“Witt. Let him know that he and Maja needed to mobilize. What’s happening with Erin Stone? Was it a kidnapping for ransom?”

Roni nodded. “She’s still pretty distraught.”

“What’d the nod mean, kidnapping for ransom, extortion, rape, what?”

“Extortion.”

“So, we’re gonna need to deal with those people too, right?”

She shook her head again. “I found them and their bosses online and emptied all the bank accounts I could get to… which I think was all of them. Their money was anonymously donated to a charity for battered women and all their information went to the FBI. I think they’re dealt with.”

Hax drew back to stare at her. “Look at my sister! Mild-mannered coder by day, caped avenger by night!”

She frowned. “I’m not a comic book character, Hax.”

“Oh, I think you are! I can see an illustrator depicting you in tights and goggles while you stroke your keyboard and things blow up on the other side of the world!”

She glared up at him. “This isn’t an occasion for humor, little br—” A twitch lifted the corner of her mouth, then spread across her face, interrupting her complaint. “‘Code-girl,’ they’ll call me.”

***

The cost of plane tickets to leave that evening appalled Hax but didn’t faze Roni. When he kept bitching about it, she reached up, grabbed his ear, and pulled him down close enough to whisper, “You’re making them feel bad!” Her eyes indicated Maja and Witt. “We’ve got plenty of money and we don’t have anything better to spend it on, do we?”

“Okay, okay,” he said rubbing at his ear. “You’re awfully bossy sometimes!”

“Besides, your business class seat cost significantly more than all three of our economy class seats combined.”

“Really?!” he said, scandalized again. The only plane flights he’d taken so far in his life had been on chartered flights for the football team when away games were too far for a bus. As a freshman, they’d put him in the economy section of the plane, but to make room for his extra-long legs, the seat next to him had been kept empty so he could sit obliquely.

“Really,” Roni said flatly. “You’re gonna get to sleep on the way over there while the rest of us suffer in the cattle section.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I was graced with this magnificent bod,” he said, waving at himself.

~~~

Getting through security was a potential problem since they thought buying weapons in Cyreea would be problematic. They’d put three pistols in Witt’s carry-on backpack. Two of them were the Springfields that Hax had used before and was familiar with. The third weapon used the same ammunition. Plenty of that ammo went in the carry-on as well. Witt carried them on the theory it’d ensure he’d be close to them in the event TSA did detect the weapons and searched his bag. In that event, the plan was that Witt would go to 400X and slip the guns and ammo out of the bag as soon as the agent opened it. He’d hide them somewhere nearby until TSA was satisfied, then put them back in.

~~~

Maja worried about having a problem with her refugee travel document. She feared the agent checking passports wouldn’t have seen such a document before and wouldn’t know it served the same purpose as a passport.

She’d worried a lot about nothing. The agent accepted it as if he saw them all the time.

She didn’t know about the guns in Witt’s carry-on backpack, so didn’t have the opportunity to feel anxious over that issue.

~~~

Hax, on the other hand, worried a lot about it. He’d insisted they go through the line on the far left so—since the screens faced to the left—there weren’t as many TSA agents who might see the images displayed by the X-ray system. Reminding him that he’d helped her check to be sure she could keep people from noticing things more than a block away, Roni had said not to worry about it.

Sure enough, Roni kept the TSA agent—and anyone else watching —from noticing the guns and ammo in the X-ray images when they came up.

Witt didn’t have to work any fast-time magic; they just boarded the plane.

***

Nearly twenty hours later, they debarked in Beruyt, Lebannan, the country adjacent to Cyreea. Because Maja’s refugee travel document didn’t allow her to return to Cyreea, the country she was a refugee from, they couldn’t fly directly to Damakus.

They’d arrived in the evening and Maja felt horrible from the effects of jetlag. Witt teased her mercilessly about it, but Roni insisted they spend the night in a cheap hotel to help her recover so she wouldn’t be useless. In the morning, Maja tried to arrange transportation to Damakus in Cyreea because she was the one with a command of Arabic. She met a stone wall. Offering an absurd number of Merican dollars still didn’t find them a taxi driver willing to take them across the border.

This didn’t surprise Roni.

Maja hadn’t given this part of the trip much thought because she’d easily crossed the border with her family when she was younger. She hadn’t realized Cyreea had recently closed the Lebannan border except in special circumstances.

Roni, however, had researched the issue and expected problems.

“How are we going to get across?” Maja asked, distressed.

They’d been talking to a friendly taxi man. Roni indicated him, “Ask the driver if he can take us to the border.”

When she asked the driver that, he readily agreed, enthusiastically when they offered to pay more than he’d asked. They got in and he started on his way, saying that if they were allowed through the Lebannan side of the border, he could drive them across the “no-man’s-land” between the two countries. But then they’d have to cross through the Cyreean border station on their own and find new transportation on the other side.

Maja felt more upset as she relayed these facts to her companions. “We came all this way but we aren’t going to be able to go the last little bit!”

Hax turned around. He was in the front seat because it had the most room but still looked terribly cramped. He spoke to her calmly, urging her to control her surface emotions. “We’re going to be able to do this, but you don’t want to seem upset while talking to our driver. That’ll make him fidgety too.”

On the face of it, telling her to calm down seemed ridiculous, but somehow, she understood Hax was right. They were going to be able to do it and that feeling calmed her and let her speak cheerfully to their driver. She could tell the man felt more settled as well.

Roni turned to Maja, “The border’s not fenced. Ask our driver if he knows a way to get around the official border crossing.”

The driver started shaking his head as soon as she started to ask, claiming it was far too dangerous. Hax said, “Offer him a thousand dollars.”

Before she could formulate the request, Roni said, “No, Hax. We don’t want this guy dying to further our project.”

Hax subsided, looking embarrassed.

Roni turned back to Maja, “Can he take us to Helwih?”

When Maja asked, the driver hadn’t heard of Helwih. Roni handed Maja her phone with the tiny town pulled up on Google Maps. He pulled over to look at it but it still took him a bit to comprehend the location. After looking over the route he said he could take them there but advised against it.

“He sees Helwih’s close to the border,” Maja said, “and assumes we’re planning to cross no-man’s-land on foot. Is that right?” she asked Roni, a little frightened by the idea.

Roni nodded. “Unless you or he knows a better way to do it. Or… if you think it’s too dangerous and want to turn back…?”

Maja pulled back, wide-eyed. “No! I will do anything! But this is for my family, I shouldn’t ask you three…” She wiped at her eyes, torn between two wrongs.

Roni patted her arm. “We’re with you all the way. Go ahead and ask him if he knows a better way.”

Relieved that Roni hadn’t decided to accept her implied offer to turn back, Maja resumed her conversation with the driver. He suggested finding a smuggler, since such people frequently crossed the border illegally, carrying goods and people. However, their driver didn’t personally know any smugglers and didn’t know how to find them. As she explained this to Roni, Maja said, “He says walking over the border looks easy on the map, but the land’s open so guards and soldiers can see you from far away.”

Roni calmly asked if they could bribe such guards.

“Some, certainly,” the driver said. “But if you ask the wrong one…”

Roni said, “Hax, Witt, what do you guys think?”

As if completely unconcerned, Maja’s new boyfriend, Witt, said, “I have excellent night vision. I can lead you guys across in the dark, no problem.”

Roni looked doubtfully at him, then turned to stare at Hax.

Hax gave her a tiny nod and she shrugged. To Maja, she said, “Ask him to take us to a restaurant. We don’t want to get to Helwih until it’s getting dark. Tell him we’ll pay for his time and his lunch.”

***

Maja noticed that her friends, though quite amicable to him, nonetheless didn’t let their driver out of their sight. When he called home to let his wife know he would be late returning, Roni nudged Maja and urged her to pay close attention to be sure his conversation couldn’t be a call to the police.

It fit a call to his wife. Besides, Maja had the impression the driver approved of them stirring up trouble in Cyreea if they could. He just didn’t want to get caught when they—inevitably—did.

Reading this sentiment from him didn’t improve her emotional state.

~~~

Their driver was as good as his word, dropping them off beyond Helwih and only just short of where the narrow dirt road crossed the border.

As they started walking along a road they could barely see in the deep dusk, Hax talked briefly to her and somehow managed to restore her confidence.

The moonless, overcast night got very dark but, Witt led them unerringly onward. He’d pulled a length of rope off a coil in his backpack that they held onto to be sure they didn’t lose him.

They stopped every so often for Witt to put his phone in his backpack and use the opening of the backpack as a shroud to let him check their position on its map without leaking light out around them.

During one of these stops, Maja was close enough to hear Roni ask Hax how he was finding his way in the dark. “And,” she said, “don’t give me any crap about ‘excellent night vision,’ this is way beyond that.”

Hax replied quietly, but Maja still heard, “It’s part of his talent. He can sense things around him.”

This bizarre answer seemed to satisfy Roni but left Maja with a lot of questions.

What talent? being first among them.

~~~

Maja felt like they’d only walked three to five kilometers before she felt pavement under her feet. They turned right and started walking along this larger road.

She asked Roni, just ahead of her on the rope, “Shouldn’t we walk off to the side of the road? If someone drives by, they’re sure to see us in their headlights.”

Roni spoke loudly enough for everyone in their little group to hear, “If a vehicle with lights comes by, crouch down in a group beside the road so we don’t look like people. They’ll think we’re a big boulder.”

Maja wanted to protest that Roni’s idea couldn’t possibly work because their clothing didn’t remotely match the local geology but Roni had said it with such confidence that she didn’t. After walking a little further, she’d just decided to point out how foolish the idea was when a glimmer of light came from behind them.

Roni stepped just off the road and said, “Hunker down around me, backs to the truck. Don’t look at it, your eyes will reflect.”

They did.

The truck drove by without slowing.

They had to have seen us! Maja thought, unable to fathom how the people in the truck could’ve missed them. They must not be paying attention, probably because they’re bored out of their minds. Or, maybe they weren’t border guards?

~~~

Maja thought they’d gone another four to six kilometers when Witt halted them. “The gas station should be over this tiny hill. I’m going to creep up and have a look over. Be back in a minute.”

Returning, he said, “The gas station’s over this rise alright, but the lights are out and there’s no one there.”

Maja couldn’t know that when he got to the top, he’d gone to fast-time and walked over to the station to thoroughly check things out.

Witt continued, “My phone says it’s going to get down into the forties tonight so I don’t think we want to sleep out here. The station’s got a little shack out back that’s…” He paused. After clearing his throat, he continued, “I’m thinking we can probably sleep in it and catch a ride in the morning?”

“How—” Roni began but subsided, giving Maja the impression she’d realized something. Or that Hax somehow shushed her.

Maja felt disappointed because she’d hoped Roni would ask how Witt could be sure no one was at the station.

As if no one had said anything, Hax cheerfully said, “Let’s go check it out.”

That seemed reasonable, so Maja picked up the rope and rose to follow the others. Glints of starlight let her see vague hints of the outline of the station. It certainly wasn’t lit. It’s probably empty like Witt says, she thought, but I don’t know how he could be sure of it.

Witt led them unerringly to the shack behind the station, then, huddling about him to block the light from his flashlight, they all peered in the small window. It looked empty. The door was locked, but Hax pulled a small tool kit out of his backpack and used a glass cutter to remove a small half-circle of the window next to the latch.

Roni put her smaller hand through the opening and undid the latch, then climbed in the window. Shading a flashlight, she unlocked the door.

With Maja holding a flashlight in her fist and letting just a little light leak out onto his work, Hax managed to fit the piece of glass back in place so it stayed.

Sleeping on the hard floor was uncomfortable, but, with their jackets still on, four bodies kept the small space warm enough.

***

The sound of someone outside the shack’s door woke Witt in the morning. Blearily startled, he jerked to a sitting position, eyes on the door as he tried to figure out how to deal with whoever was about to enter.

Roni softly said, “Calm down. He won’t notice us.”

“How can he not?!” Witt said. “We’re completely covering the floor!”

“Stand up to make room for the guy’s feet,” Roni said patiently as a key slid into the lock.

She and Hax were already rising, so Witt did too. Maja scrambled up beside him and he put his arms around her. Realizing there’d be no way to keep her from noticing their talents—something he, Roni, and Hax had agreed to attempt to keep secret—Witt tried to anyway, pulling her tight against him and turning their bodies so she faced away from the opening door.

A guy came in, his eyes sliding right past the four people in the shack as he stepped to the far wall, picked up a can of coffee from a shelf and a key ring off a hook.

He turned again and left, seemingly unaware of the way he’d had to step around Witt and Maja, both coming and going.

He pulled the door closed behind him.

Witt opened his mouth, about to vent his disbelief but Roni stepped close and got in his face, finger over her lips.

As Witt forced himself to subside, Maja whispered, “Is he gone?”

Witt almost answered but Roni beat him to it. “He just stuck his hand in the door and grabbed a key ring. Didn’t even poke his head in to look around.”

Maja vented a little “Oh!” of relief. She turned away from Witt and said, “That was really lucky.”

Witt just stared at Roni.

She shook her head and he realized if he wanted secrets kept he’d better act as if nothing other than luck was responsible. “I think we’re about due for a little luck, aren’t we?” he said to Maja.

They took turns at the window, watching for a vehicle that they could ride to fuel up at the pumps.

This went on for over an hour before a stake-bed farm truck full of farm produce stopped while Hax was at the window.

“Here’s our ride to Damakus,” he said, opening the door and leading them out.

Walking out to the truck in full morning light with several people about gave Witt the creeps, but he followed. Though he knew it was what was supposed to happen with Roni there, it was hard to believe no one paid them the least attention.

Hax stopped at the back of the truck and bent to join his hands. “Witt, you’re first so you can help pull up the ladies.”

Witt stepped into the stirrup Hax was making and scrambled up on top of the farm goods in the truck. Turning, he helped Roni up. She grumbled that she did not feel like a lady after sleeping in the shack.

As she came up, Maja gave him a peck on the cheek—which made Witt feel a lot better.

He turned to offer Hax a hand but the tall man had stepped on the bumper and was already most of the way up onto the truck.

As the truck pulled out of the station and got on its way, Maja leaned close and said, “I can’t believe no one made a fuss over us getting on this truck.”

Witt shrugged, “Maybe rural Cyreeans just like to help each other out?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied slowly, “Maybe. But I’d think they’d expect you to ask, not just climb onto their truck.”

“Well, if they get upset when they notice us,” Witt said, “we can offer them a couple hundred bucks.”

Maja gave him a side-eyed glance, “You’re pretty liberal with Roni’s money, aren’t you?”

***

The truck drove directly to an open market in Damakus and, without event, they climbed down off the back while the driver spoke to his customer.

Maja felt weird to be in Damakus wearing the kind of clothing western tourists typically wore. The kind of clothing she’d thought weird when she’d lived there herself. Despite the troubles of recent years, there were still some tourists in the market area, so she and her friends didn’t look that much out of place. Cyreea had seldom enforced Muslim garb for women and in fact, at present they didn’t allow veils or burqas. This meant she and Roni didn’t stand out over that issue.

However, despite going without them for years in Merica, Maja felt strange without a headscarf. Before she’d left, almost all the Cyreean women in the market wore them.

She remembered the market they’d arrived at from when she’d lived in the city. She took her friends to a stall she’d liked. There she bought them a traditional Cyreean workman’s breakfast. The government here value-tied Cyreean pounds to the Merican dollar, but dollars had been sought after when Maja had lived here. Uncertain as to how they’d be received now, she covertly showed the stall owner a hundred-dollar Union bill.

His eyes widened, then darted about. The man made her bill vanish, then gave her change in Cyreean pounds before passing over the food she’d ordered. She thought he shorted her, but didn’t think it was by much.

“Would you like more local money?” the man asked somewhat eagerly, making her suspect he dealt with smugglers who preferred dollars.

The man was able to exchange two more hundred-dollar bills. They ate and walked while looking around. Maja bought a couple of headscarves to assuage her discomfort.

Seeing this Roni asked, “Should I be wearing one? Did you get that second one for me?”

Shrugging uncomfortably, Maja said, “It’d be polite.”

“Show me how to put it on?” Roni asked.

With Roni’s headscarf on, Maja looked for a stand that carried local pay-as-you-go cell phones and bought four so they could each have one in case they needed to contact one another. While she was doing that, she saw Hax at a hardware stand buying a heavy-duty pry bar. She blinked, wondering, Surely, he doesn’t think we can get Nabil out of Sajn Cednaja prison with a prybar, does he?

Next was a taxi that could take them to see her aunt.

Maja’s aunt Jamila was Nabil’s wife, not a blood relative, but still dear to her. When they imprisoned Nabil, Jamila had moved in with her brother, Hamza.

In case the taxi driver was one of the many who reported to Anshed’s security forces, Roni suggested Maja have him take them to a nearby business. They walked from there.

When Maja finally knocked on the door of the correct address, the teenage boy who answered it greeted her with suspicion. “You’re who?” he asked for the second time.

Patiently, Maja said, “I’m Maja Salman. May I speak to my aunt Jamila Salman?”

He shook his head. “There’s no one here by that name.”

Going with a guess, she ventured, “Then, my young cousin, may I speak to your father and Jamila’s brother, Hamza Awad? Or Hamza’s wife, and your mother, Rabia Awad?”

The young man’s eyes widened slightly. He said, “Wait here,” and closed the door in their faces.

Maja looked back at her friends, chagrined. “Probably harder to help these people than you expected, huh?”

They chuckled at her little joke, but it seemed strained. Roni turned and swept the street with her eyes, feeling like a group of Anshed’s goons might come around the corner at any moment.

Then the door opened and Maja found herself looking into the eyes of her Aunt Jamila.

Jamila’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She wiped at them, then turned a suspicious gaze on Maja’s friends. “Who are these?” she asked.

“Friends of mine from Merica. They’ve come with me to help get Uncle Nabil out of Sajn Cednaja.”

Jamila staggered back and began to collapse. Maja stepped forward quickly enough to catch her. Witt quickly got a chair and Maja lowered her aunt onto it.

Roni and Hax slipped inside as well, Hax softly closing the door behind them.

Jamila looked up at Maja and spoke with fury in her voice, “Why are you trying to frighten me?! You can’t know Nabil’s in that place! The resistance has connections and they haven’t been able to find him.”

Maja thought despairingly, Of course she’s angry. I’m destroying all her hope!

Witt said, “She sounds mad?”

Maja realized—because of the language barrier—her friends had no idea what was going on.

As Maja began to explain, Roni lowered herself to the floor where she sat cross-legged and pulled her laptop out of her backpack.

Realizing what Roni intended, Maja began to tell Jamila a little about Roni’s hacking capabilities. A couple of minutes later, Roni passed over the laptop and Maja was able to show Jamila the prison system logs showing Nabil in Sajn Cednaja and Azim in the reformatory.

Jamila lifted her eyes to the boy who’d been rude to Maja and sent him to get his father, Hamza Awad.

When the boy ran from the room, Hax asked, “What’s going on now?”

~~~

Hamza arrived in a decidedly displeased state, having just learned four tourists were in his front room. “What’s this?!” he asked harshly.

Jamila showed him what the Merican girl claimed to have found in the state computer system regarding Nabil and Azim. His first thought was that she must have fabricated the documents. Stating it was a test, he demanded she show him the location of one of his friends, another resistance fighter Anshed’s goons had picked up. One Hamza knew had been sent to a different prison called Tagmar.

The Merican said she couldn’t do it without access to Hamza’s wi-fi. He provided the wi-fi password against his better judgment only after his sister Jamila begged him. In a few minutes, the Merican witch-girl had pulled up a document on Hamza’s friend that showed he was at Sajn Cednaja as well.

“No!” Hamza crowed. “He’s at Tagmar. You’re just making this stuff up!”

His niece, Maja Salman translated his words for the woman. He expected her to look embarrassed that she’d been caught in such a transparent deception. Instead, she turned the computer toward him again, then scrolled up a bit and pointed.

When Hamza looked, he saw that now it listed his friend in Tagmar. He looked at Maja, “What’s this prove? That she can quickly change the location her computer displays for him?”

“No, Uncle Hamza. Check the dates. She’s showing you that your man was listed at Tagmar four days ago.” Maja said something to the witch, who scrolled the page again. Maja said, “This page shows that he was transferred to Sajn Cednaja three days ago.” The woman scrolled again and Maja said, “This is the page she showed you first. The one locating your friend at Sajn Cednaja.

“That’s where he is today.”

After a few bleak moments, Hamza scrolled up and down the pages himself, confirming Maja’s words. Then he began to realize what it could mean for the resistance if they had this hacker woman on their side. “Can she get into other state computer systems?”

After a few words with her Merican friend, Maja turned back. “Most of them. Would you like to see Barras Anshed’s emails?”

Alhamdulillah (Praise be to God)! Hamza thought. He started asking questions. Then more and more of them. He became more demanding as the Merican witch easily found answers to questions the resistance had puzzled over for years. She had soon compiled unbelievably large quantities of data onto a jump drive and was still downloading more. He began envisioning the coup this would be for the resistance—and for his position within it.

He’d just asked for Anshed’s schedule for the next several weeks when the girl calmly closed her laptop. She sat looking at him for a few moments then arched her eyebrow at Hamza. He turned to Maja, “What’s going on? Can she find Anshed’s schedule or not?”

Maja spoke to the Merican a moment, then turned back to him. Softly, she said, “This needs to be a two-way street, Uncle Hamza.”

Incongruously he thought, I’m not her uncle. My sister’s married to her uncle but the relationship doesn’t extend to me. He shook his head to clear it of such nonsense and, clearly displaying his irritation at being denied by a woman, asked, “What does that mean?”

“We came over here to rescue Azim and Nabil. We’re also interested in seeing what can be done about Anshed. She’s happy to help you more, but wants answers to some of our questions first.”

Irritated, Hamza said, “For a fee, the resistance can get Azim out of that reformatory. That wouldn’t be terribly difficult.” He glanced around to be sure his sister—who’d left the room a few minutes before—hadn’t returned, then continued. “I’m sorry to say that no one can do anything for Nabil. Sajn Cednaja is impenetrable. As to ‘what could be done about Anshed?’ She could keep giving me information until I have enough that the resistance could plan a successful assassination! Now’s not the time to stop working her little magics!”

Maja sighed. “My friends would appreciate help, but they think they can free Nabil and Azim by themselves.” Hamza barked a laugh, interrupting her. After a moment, when he said nothing more, she shrugged and continued, “If you answer their questions, Roni might help you obtain more information from the state’s computer systems.”

Hamza crossed his arms and gave Maja a stern look. “I can answer some questions, but there are limits. I must protect the secrets of the resistance.”

Maja consulted with the Mericans, then asked, “What are your plans for the time after Anshed’s assassination?”

“We’ll go into hiding until things settle down!” Hamza said, finding it hard to believe he had to explain something that obvious.

Maja stared at him a moment, “No, Uncle. They mean, who will govern Cyreea after Anshed’s struck down? Who will keep order and protect the people from a battle to fill the void?”

Hamza stared back. “That’s not our problem! Our task is to get rid of a tyrant! Elections will have to be held and—”

His niece had the temerity to halt him with an upraised hand. “Does the resistance have a plan for maintaining the peace while such elections are arranged?”

Barely controlling his fury, Hamza bit off his words one at a time, “Stopping, that, that, psychopath, is not enough?!”

“Not if he’s replaced by someone even worse. Not if battles fought over the presidency kill tens of thousands of innocent people…” When he didn’t say anything, she gave an ultimatum, “They won’t help you if you don’t have a plan for the next steps.”

Spluttering, Hamza stepped close to her and, glowering, said, “You think we need the help of, of…” he waved at her friends, “children?! Of, infidels?! Of foreigners who know nothing of Cyreea and its problems?!”

She didn’t back away, just eyed him, and said quietly, “It seems to me… that you do.” She waved a hand at Roni’s laptop, reminding him of the dark girl’s power. “Especially if you don’t even have a plan for what happens after Anshed is deposed.”

Splutteringly unable to think of a cogent response, Hamza stormed from the room.

~~~

Jamila watched her brother leave the room with trepidation. He had two states; filled with love… or filled with hate. He spent little time between those extremes. Unfortunately, his default setting of late seemed to be hate.

She turned to her niece, “Maja, you’ve forgotten how things work here. You can’t talk to a man that way. And, you must give your elders more respect.”

Maja sighed. “Aunt Jamila, I’m a Merican now. Men don’t tell me what to do anymore. And if someone, young or old, wants my respect, they must earn it, not demand it.”

Jamila felt stunned by this proclamation. At first, because it seemed so… rude, but then more and more because she realized that she agreed with those rebellious words. After a period of silent contemplation of her revelation, she said, “That might be, but the four of you can do nothing without Hamza’s help.”

Maja glanced at her three friends as if uncertain, but then turned back to Jamila. “It would seem that way, wouldn’t it? But I’ve learned not to underestimate my friends. They can often do things that are… difficult to believe.”

Narrowing her eyes, Jamila said, “Such as?”

“You’ve seen the girl hack computers. The tall boy, he’s an astonishing athlete who can throw a ball with accuracy beyond belief. The other boy runs races. He’s set many records.”

Jamila snorted, “You can’t overthrow a country by running fast and throwing balls, Maja!”

“Ah, yes,” Maja said, “but their goal, because they’re my friends, is to free Nabil and Azim. Helping depose Anshed is something they might help with, but only if they’re convinced the battle afterward won’t be even worse for the people than leaving him in power.”

“Much as I pray for Nabil’s freedom, running fast and throwing balls won’t get him out of Sajn Cednaja!”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t think so either,” Maja said, glancing at her friends again. “But somehow… they seem able to do things… I can’t explain it, but I think they’ll be able to accomplish much more than either you or I would expect.” In a seeming non-sequitur, she asked, “Who do you think would succeed Anshed if he died?”

“I don’t know!” Jamila said, surprised to be asked.

“Just make a guess. It’s got to be better than our guesses.”

“That’s true,” Jamila said, thoughtfully. “If I understand it correctly, what’s supposed to happen is that Vice-President Mansour would take over until elections could be held. The last elections have only accepted votes cast in the segments of the country already under Anshed’s sway. That’s guaranteed his victory, though the reports that 97% voted for Anshed… That’s not possible even in those sections. The same would probably happen again. Anshed has been grooming his son Gazef to take over. At present Gazef isn’t old enough under the constitution, so if Anshed died in the next few years they’d have to amend the constitution to permit his election.”

~~~

When Maja relayed this assessment to Witt, Roni, and Hax, they boggled at the idea a country might amend its constitution to allow the election of an otherwise ineligible dynastic son.

One of Hamza’s daughters brought them some dishes and they took a break from weighty thoughts to eat some excellent Cyreean food.

While she ate, Maja thought about what everyone had said.

When they’d mostly finished eating, she said, “While I agree that the resistance should have a plan for what happens after Anshed is deposed, I’m a little surprised by how hard you’re pushing for that…” She tilted her head curiously, “I’m not sure why you’re essentially refusing to help them unless they have a plan in place. Isn’t it most important that someone remove Anshed? Can’t the country deal with the question of the succession after the dust settles?”

Witt and Roni looked to Hax. After a moment he spoke thoughtfully. “That’s what I thought…” He paused a few moments as if gathering his thoughts. “Then I started wondering why horrible leaders aren’t assassinated more often.” He produced a wry smile, “So, with such a cogent question, I went to the all-knowing Google. There, of course, I found scads of answers. Often, such answers strongly disagreed with one another.

“However, the most common and concerning responses had to do with how frequently such slayings lead to terrible outcomes.”

“Bad outcomes? You mean the assassination teams got killed or something?”

“No, no,” Hax said, “these were unhappy outcomes of successful assassinations. In countries ruled by dictators, when someone removes the dictator, there are often no precedents to guide the peaceful transfer of power to someone else, unless it’s the familial inheritance of a monarch-like position. Anshed got his position that way and apparently, he’s been grooming his son Gazef to inherit his post upon his death—which he and his people presume is many years away. In countries where there isn’t a well-established precedent for a peaceful transition, especially with the sudden and unexpected demise of the leader by assassination, there are often several unsavory characters waiting in the wings. They stand ready to fill the leader’s place by coup, destroying any contemplated peaceful transition.

“What you hope for,” Hax continued unhappily, “is that one of the contenders is so strong that the others don’t undertake to contest him. Or, if they do, that the primary contender’s power is sufficient to quickly dispatch the other challengers. Of course, you’re hoping that the winner of this battle will be a good and just leader, unlikely if they’ve decided to take the post through open warfare. But, most importantly, you hope that the ensuing fight for supremacy doesn’t drag the country into a prolonged, even-sided civil war that kills or maims large numbers of people, engenders generational hatred, and destroys the economy.

“A bad leader is far better than that last outcome, and if you assassinated one bad leader to have him replaced by another horrible person after a war that decimated your country, you’ve done no one a favor.”

Considering these possibilities had generated a knot in Maja’s stomach.

But Hax relentlessly continued, “Another thing to consider is that almost every leader has those who favor them and those who despise them. Even Merican presidents—none of them who have been dictators or despots—are always disliked or even despised by some portion of their populace. Whether or not a leader is a despot often depends upon whom you ask. Some people will hate him or her, others will love them.

“Lest you think I’m speaking abstractly; you should understand that millions of Cyreeans love Anshed. They are among his base and his policies have favored them. Of course, millions haven’t done well under his regime, or have suffered persecution. They hate him.

“But know this,” Hax said, “if we were to depose him, there would be a significant percentage of the population who would feel we had done them a great disservice.

“Especially if we eliminated him when no solid trajectory toward democracy stood available.”

Hax shrugged, “In the end, my reading leaves me unwilling to consider Anshed’s assassination if there isn’t a plan to put someone decent in his place.”

Maja had seldom heard the usually quiet Hax say much. He gently joked with others or otherwise cheered them up. He seemed to help everyone get along better. Now she felt astonished by his dismantling of the simple idea that just because Anshed was evil, his death would necessarily benefit the people of Cyreea.

His little speech appeared to strike the others hard as well. When he stopped talking, they all sat in silence.

After a moment, Hax cleared his throat and dropped a final thought. “The mere fact that killing him would be easy should have no bearing on a plan that would likely bear ill fruit.”

Maja stared at him in astonishment, thinking Hax may have taken leave of his senses. How could he think killing Anshed could be easy?! she wondered. The man’s so heavily protected that the resistance hasn’t succeeded in assassinating him despite innumerable attempts! They know the country, the language, and the people. They even have supporters amongst Anshed’s security forces. Maja could imagine the possibility that Roni and Hax might have some training that would allow them to kill Anshed when the resistance couldn’t—but she couldn’t conceive of anyone thinking it’d be easy.

As Maja pondered this, Jamila broke into her introspection to ask what the Mericans had been saying. Before she could work out how she should respond, Hamza returned.

Maja didn’t like the look on his face.

Chapter Six

Hamza had consulted with some leaders of the resistance before he returned to his own front room to interact with Maja and her Merican friends again. The leaders he’d been able to reach had all been astonished by the capabilities of the dark girl with the blue eyes. In fact, like his own initial reaction, they all assumed she must have been faking her knowledge of the state’s internal workings and records.

Hamza had convinced them of her ability by describing how she could pull up innumerable typical government documents on her computer. Both records he knew were correct because he already knew the answers to the questions he’d posed, and many, many records that furthered his—and therefore the resistance’s—knowledge of the state’s plans by leaps and bounds.

The fact that she could access Anshed’s personal email account would provide a gold mine of actionable intelligence all by itself.

They’d demanded he have her download Anshed’s calendar so the resistance could plan another attack.

At that point, he’d had to tell them she’d already balked. How she’d said she wouldn’t help them eliminate Anshed until they convinced her they had a viable plan for the succession.

They’d urged him to simply demand results. An undertone to the conversation assumed it should be easy to cow a mere woman.

One had proposed simply locking her up until she gave them what they wanted.

This talk made Hamza uneasy. Upon realizing why, he pointed out to them what he’d just realized; that given a computer and an internet connection—without which she could hardly fulfill their wishes—a girl with such skills could easily call for help without their knowledge. In fact, it seemed possible she could destroy the resistance that’d angered her. At a minimum, he’d realized, she could do the resistance immeasurable harm by releasing records and publishing lists of its members on the net.

On consideration of those possibilities, the other leaders had quickly backed off, suggesting instead that he cajole and seduce her. That he offer her whatever she wanted. That he could make this evident by asking how she’d like to be reimbursed for her services. They even discussed how much money they could afford to pay for her services, though an undercurrent of this discussion seemed to be that they could always dispose of her once they’d gotten what they wanted and before making payment.

Hamza had a sense that the girl cared little for money and would continue to demand to know how they envisioned the succession after Anshed’s death before she would help them.

He felt a little embarrassed to realize how little thought he’d given the succession himself. Worse, he felt uneasy about the way the leadership had breezed over the succession, telling him to simply reassure her there was a plan in place but that it was secret.

As the discussion went on, Hamza became more and more sure that they had no plan. The resistance had never had a genuine chance at a successful assassination, so most of them had never contemplated how events might proceed afterward. Like him, they didn’t seem to have considered the possibility that Anshed’s death might result in a battle over the succession.

Worse, he’d gotten the sense that Tawfik had a plan, but that the man didn’t want to disclose his plan because he knew it’d meet resistance of its own. Hamza suspected that in Tawfik’s plan, he intended to replace Anshed himself.

Hamza considered Tawfik one of the necessary though unsavory members of the resistance.

One he wouldn’t want to see on the seat of power any more than Anshed.

That realization had been quite unsettling.

When Hamza stepped into his front room, Jamila, Maja, and the Mericans turned to look at him. Maja seemed apprehensive. He wondered why, then realized his concerns over Tawfik were probably showing on his face. Breaking a smile, he asked, “Did Rabia bring you food?”

This indeed seemed to relax her. She nodded and complimented his wife’s cooking, expressing the little group’s appreciation for the hospitality. Then unprompted, she said, “I asked why they’re so interested in the plan for Anshed’s succession. Hax,” she indicated the very tall young man, “has just finished explaining their concerns. Jamila asked what he’d said and I was about to describe why they feel this is so important. Would you like to understand their concerns as well?”

Hamza nodded, wondering whether their disquiet about the succession was similar to the worries he’d discovered he had himself.

Maja launched into a little speech, saying she was paraphrasing what Hax had told her as best she could. As she went along Hamza found himself more and more uneasy. Thinking that he should long ago have realized the potential for internecine fighting over the succession. That he should’ve recognized the devastating potential of such a feud.

He began to have a queasy sense that deposing Anshed could be worse than leaving him in power…

Maja seemed to be winding up her translation of Hax’s speech when she hesitated and said, “Uncle Hamza, he finished by saying that we shouldn’t let the ease with which Anshed could be killed lull us into undertaking an effort that could leave our country worse off.”

“The ease with which he could be killed?! I concurred with this boy’s speech as you’ve related it to me. But, saying we could easily kill the man demonstrates an utter lack of comprehension! Does he not know how many times we’ve attempted it?! How well protected the man is?! Does he have a plan for how to get past Anshed’s extensive security forces?!”

Maja turned and spoke in English to the Mericans. Hamza had only a limited comprehension of English but it was sufficient to be fairly sure she was presenting the question he’d just posed in an unvarnished fashion.

When she turned around, she shrugged, “He can’t tell us how they’d do it, only that it wouldn’t be difficult for them. He acknowledges that it would continue to be difficult for the resistance.”

Hamza wanted to scoff at such a preposterous claim but restrained himself because the resistance desperately wanted the blue-eyed girl’s help. Nevertheless, after a moment he began to wonder whether the claim could be true. Could blue-eyes make it easy for them to enter the palace? Perhaps she can electronically open doors and spoof their security systems and cameras? After a moment, he said, “Let’s talk more about what the girl’s hacking might accomplish. Assuming she won’t accept our assurances that we have a plan for the succession after Anshed’s death, would she be willing to do some hacking for hire? The resistance does have funds they could allocate to paying for such intelligence.”

As Hamza had feared, the Merican girl was uninterested in remuneration. Maja said they’d only come all this way because they’d befriended her. Their main mission had been to help her free her uncle and brother. However, after evaluating the situation they’d thought they might be able to help all the people of Cyreea by replacing Anshed. Unfortunately, they’d eventually concluded that the turmoil after such an assassination could be even worse than his continued leadership.

On the other hand, they would be quite interested in removing Anshed if they thought there was a good chance the power of the presidency would pass smoothly to a democratically elected successor.

Despite Hamza’s limited ability to understand their words, something untranslatable about their thoughtful confidence left him feeling that they could indeed remove Anshed and do it without difficulty.

Anytime he thought about it logically, that confidence seemed preposterous.

But when he listened to the tall young man… Hamza felt certain their claims held substance.

***

When her Uncle Hamza left to talk to the resistance again, Hax took Maja aside. “Hey, we need to talk about how to achieve our primary goals.”

She blinked, “Primary?”

He nodded, “Getting your brother out of the reformatory and your uncle out of the prison.”

Her eyes widened, “We can’t talk about that yet! We need more time to learn more about their situations and the institutions they’re in! Before we can discuss getting them out, we’ve got to figure out how we could enter those facilities! We’ve got to ask whether anyone in the resistance has friends inside. Maybe they at least know some insiders we might bribe—"

Hax brought her to a halt with a gentle touch, “Maja, we don’t need all that. Roni’s acquired pretty much everything we have to know from state records. It’d be great to take more time checking everything out, but we’ve got to get back to school soon. We just can’t afford to spend a lot of time working out all the angles.”

“But…” she hesitated, reluctant to rain on his parade, “getting into those places seems impossible. Do you really think we’ve got a chance?”

He nodded solemnly. “We’re… able to do some things you’re not aware of. Things we don’t want people to know about so we keep them secret.”

“So…” she hesitated, puzzled, “you’re going to go off to do this on your own because you don’t want me to know your secrets either?”

He wordlessly chewed his lip for a moment, then said slowly, “On the principle that no secret is safe when more than one person knows it, yes, we’d like to limit your knowledge. But, in this case, we can’t completely keep our secrets from you because we can’t rescue your brother or uncle without your help. We can’t speak or read Arabic, so even though we can enter a building, once inside we’d probably have a great deal of difficulty finding or even recognizing your relatives.”

“So… you’re saying that if I’m along, I’m gonna see you cutting holes in walls or something?”

He gave her a Cheshire smile. “Or something, right.” He tilted his head and his expression became serious, yet questioning. “The reason we’re having this conversation is because we’re hoping you’ll promise to keep those of our secrets that you unavoidably learn.”

“Of course!” she said. “I promise to keep your secrets till the day I die!”

Hax nodded thoughtfully and thanked her.

When he made as if to get up without saying more, she said, “Wait. So what is your big secret? Some kind of ray gun?”

He frowned. “It’s more like a series of small secrets. Um, we’re still hoping we can carry this off without confronting you with all of them.” He shrugged, “Admittedly, I find that possibility remote, but after discussion and considerable disagreement we’ve agreed to follow the principle of ‘need to know.’ When it seems you must know how one of our tricks works for the next step, we’ll tell you then. Otherwise, we’ll hope a few of our confidences remain intact at the end of the process. Personally, I find that impossible to imagine, but—"

She interrupted, “Wait, what if there’s no time to explain something when I need to know it?!”

“Um, our little tricks’ll still work, whether you understand them or not. If that happens, it’s conceivable you still won’t know what we did when it’s all over… That, um, could still be good from our viewpoint.”

“What? How can I not notice what you did?!”

He shrugged, “You probably don’t understand everything your cell phone does, but you can still use it, right?”

“Okaay…” She shrugged, “So, what’s next?”

“We think we should get Azim out of the reformatory tonight. Roni says it’s walking distance, but maybe there’s a reason we should take a taxi?”

It turned out to be a long walk and they decided they should use a taxi in case Azim wasn’t in shape for the return trip.

To reduce uncertainty, Maja used her prepaid cellphone to call a service. She requested a minivan taxi since they’d have five people if they got Azim out of the reformatory. She had it meet her several blocks from Hamza’s house. Getting in the taxi, which did prove to be a minivan with seats for six passengers, she had the driver take Witt, Hax, Roni, and herself to a business near the reformatory. During the ride, Maja quizzed the driver about whether they’d be able to get a taxi late at night for a return trip. Eager for business, he gave them a card and asked them to call him directly, presumably hoping he could cut the taxi service out of the loop.

Arriving a couple of blocks from the reformatory, they got out. Maja gave the driver a hundred-percent tip which brought wide eyes and copious thanks.

They walked around as if they were shopping, managing to gradually circumnavigate the juvenile institute’s building and get a look at it from all sides.

Maja got a lump in her throat at the thought her little brother, one she hadn’t seen in almost five years, was somewhere inside the walls. She desperately wished she had a way to communicate with him, but when she asked Hax, he said their tricks didn’t extend to that kind of thing.

Done with their reconnoiter, they called their taxi man.

He returned quickly and enthusiastically, proving the large tip had been a good investment. On the way back to Hamza’s place, the taxi man, Samir, told them he’d be happy to pick them up anytime and anyplace. Even after midnight and on into the early morning hours.

***

Late that evening, their driver—as they thought of Samir, the taxi guy who’d befriended them—took them to a late-night café near the reformatory. It served wine and pastries. Like most of the few night-life establishments, it featured the smoking of water pipes and the playing of backgammon.

They only went in long enough to see Samir drive from the area, then headed back out onto the street for the short walk to the reformatory.

Maja’s nerves got worse and worse as they walked, reaching a crescendo as they arrived at the building itself. She’d expected armed guards, but it appeared the facility mostly relied upon locks at night.

Hax walked up to the door and tried the handle. “Locked,” he said, glancing at Roni.

Roni gave him a small nod while Witt pulled out a small headlight, put it on, and leaned forward to peer through the window set into the door. He stepped back out of the way and pointed to the lower corner.

To Maja’s astonishment, Hax broke the window with the heavy steel prybar he’d bought at the market that morning. Breaking windows?! she thought, her heart sinking. This is Hax’s secret way of doing things?! A group of juvenile delinquents from the south side of Blayton could’ve done as well!

Wide-eyed she looked around for someone responding to the sound of the breaking window. Surely, they were about to raise the alarm. She felt surprised the lights didn’t come on inside in response to the sound.

Roni reached in through the broken window and unlocked the door.

She and Witt started trooping in, Hax waited for Maja to enter.

Maja hesitated in the opening and voiced her concern, “What if that set off alarms?”

Evenly, Roni said, “Don’t worry. This place doesn’t have any alarms.”

“How do you know? Just because you couldn’t find an internet connection for them? They could set off locally in a guard station!”

Hax had just walked across the entry chamber and broken the window of an inner door. Roni was reaching through to unlock that one next. She pulled her arm back out and opened the door, then, before she herself started down the hall to the right, she pointed down the hall to the left. To Maja, she said, “The guard station’s ten meters that way but they won’t notice us.”

Hysteria rising, Maja said, “Ten meters?! They don’t even need an alarm over that distance! They would’ve heard the window break!”

Hax was unhurriedly leading the way down the hall to the right.

Roni was just behind Hax. She turned to Witt and, as if the words had special meaning, said, “You’re going to have to explain this part to her.”

Witt put an arm around Maja’s shoulders, softly saying, “Roni’s keeping the guards from hearing anything.”

Maja shook off his arm, snarling, “That’s ridiculous!” She glanced ahead and behind her down the dimly lit hall, wondering if there was anyplace she could hide when the guards arrived. All she saw was a long hallway, lined with widely-spaced, closed, stout-looking doors.

Witt said, “You’re going to have to show her, Roni.”

Maja turned to the front to see what Roni might show her but Roni wasn’t there. Thinking someone had popped out of a room and snatched her, Maja glanced at Witt expecting him to look frantic.

He seemed completely calm.

“What…?! What happened to Roni?!” Maja sputtered.

Tranquilly, Witt said, “She’s right in front of you. It’s just that she’s demonstrating how she’s keeping the guards from noticing us.”

Despite the preposterous nature of Witt’s claim, Maja looked down the hall ahead of her.

Roni was not there.

The hallway was dim, but it certainly wasn’t dim enough that someone could hide in one of the shallow doorways and there wasn’t any place else to take cover. Maja turned back to Witt. “She is not in front of us!”

“Look again,” he said calmly.

When Maja’s eyes darted to the front, Roni was walking serenely along in front of her the way she had been before.

Witt said, “Her talent’s an ability to keep people from noticing us. It’s kind of like telepathy, except she can’t talk mind to mind. She just makes your brain ignore stuff.”

Before Maja could protest the impossibility of that, Roni looked back over her shoulder, and said, “Azim’s supposed to be in ward eight. The building plan says it’s on our left.” She stopped at a large heavy-set door and pointed to a plaque beside it. “Is this the right one?”

Helpfully Witt shone his headlight on the plaque, labeled only in Arabic numbers and text.

Heart still in her throat from witnessing what seemed like some kind of magic trick or hypnotism, Maja said, “That says ‘ward six.’”

“Must be the next one, then,” Roni said, continuing unhurriedly down the hall.

What about ward seven? Maja wondered, then realized the odd-numbered wards were probably on the opposite side of the hall.

When they arrived at the next door, Maja glanced at the plaque across the hall. It was hard to see in only the reflected light of Witt’s headlight, but she felt pretty sure it was indeed number seven. The one on the left was number eight.

Hax tried the door. “Locked,” he said again. He looked at Roni again and got another nod. A moment later he’d violently forced the end of his prybar between the door and its frame. To Maja’s astonishment, one heave on the bar broke the heavy wooden door open. The other three unconcernedly walked into the ward.

As if the fact the guards hadn’t arrived yet wasn’t sufficient proof of Roni’s ability to stay under the radar, the noise of the breaking door hadn’t wakened any of the kids in the ward! Of course, a few of the approximately thirty boys looked as if they were awake, but not because they were looking apprehensively at the people who’d just broken into their ward. Instead, in the dim lighting of the ward, Maja could see the whites of the eyes of a boy who seemed to be staring at the ceiling. Another boy was up, walking down an aisle between the beds, apparently on his way to the bathroom.

Roni turned to Maja and quietly said, “Since you haven’t seen him for years, trying to find your brother in this dim lighting may be hard. Come with me and we’ll ask the boy who’s awake where Azim is.”

They walked over to the bed of the boy who lay awake. Hax came with them and took a knee at the bedside. Roni turned to Maja, saying, “He’s only going to notice you, okay?”

Having become somewhat used to this, Maja managed to accept that bizarre statement, but said, “Wait. There probably aren’t any women working in the reformatory. He might be a little freaked out to see me.”

“Ah,” Roni said, considering this complication. “I don’t think it’s a problem. I can probably make him not notice you’re a girl.”

“Probably?” Maja said, finding it hard to believe Roni didn’t know what she could or couldn’t do.

Roni shrugged. “I can make people ignore a lot of things. I’ve never tried to get someone to not notice another person’s gender, but I don’t know why it wouldn’t work.”

Maja looked down at the boy, thinking Mericans were a lot more blasé about gender than Cyreeans. She looked at Hax, still on a knee at the opposite side of the bed, “Are you going to clap a hand over his mouth if he starts to cry out?”

“Um, I was going to put a hand on his shoulder to keep him calm, but I guess if he looks like he’s going to shout I could try to keep him quiet.”

Roni sighed, “Hax’s ability lets him calm people and convince them of things. It’s much cooler than just keeping them from noticing things the way I do.”

“Maybe,” Hax said in a doubtful tone. “If it works the way you think it does.”

“Oh, it works,” Roni said. “Watching the way other players react to him in the huddle could make a believer out of anyone.”

Sounding like he was frustrated by this argument, Hax said, “Let’s move along. I’d like to get some sleep.”

Roni apparently agreed, saying, “Okay, Maja, he can hear you now but shouldn’t notice you’re female.”

Maja looked down at the boy who she thought looked about twelve—a year younger than Azim’s present thirteen—and whispered in Arabic. “Hey, do you know which bed Azim Salman’s in?

Not looking at all surprised to see either a woman or a stranger—as if he didn’t notice either of those facts—the boy got out of bed and led them down the aisle to a bed across the way. When Maja saw Azim, she both knew him immediately, and also knew she would’ve had doubts if she hadn’t had a guide. He’s grown so much! she thought. But he looks thin, as if they haven’t been feeding him.

Taking a knee, she shook Azim’s shoulder. “Azim, it’s me, Maja,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion.

Without opening his eyes, he knocked her hand away, “Get off me, Zahid!”

With a sudden catch in her throat, Maja considered for the first time that Azim might not just be suffering at the hands of the reformatory staff, but that some of the other boys could be bullying him as well.

Hax took a knee on the other side of the bed and put a hand on Azim’s shoulder.

Maja saw the tension in Azim’s muscles melt away. She thought with some surprise that Haz must truly have some ability to calm people. Her mind strayed to how Hax had somehow settled her when she’d been upset back at Hamza’s home. Shaking off those thoughts, she cleared her throat and gripped Azim’s shoulder more firmly this time. Giving it a sharp shake, she said, urgently though still quietly, “Azim! Wake up! We’ve come to get you out of here!”

Azim’s eyes flashed open to stare at her. At first, they were frightened. Then puzzled. Then he whispered, “Maja?”

She nodded, tears in her eyes.

He sat up and threw his arms around her, clinging desperately. “Abb and Umm (Mom and Dad) are dead. Did you know?”

“Yes,” she croaked. “I came as soon as I could find a way.” She pulled back. “Get up now. Quickly. We’re taking you out of this place.”

After a moment’s wide-eyed stare, he scrambled out of the bed, slipped into sandals, grabbed a few things from a small case at the foot of the bed, and said, “I’m ready.”

Maja said, “This way,” and turned to lead him out of the ward.

The boy who’d brought them to Azim’s bed startled her by asking, “Can I go with you?”

“Do you have a place to go?” Maja asked him.

He nodded. “My family will hide me.”

Maja told Roni what he’d said. Getting a meaningful nod from her friend, Maja turned back to the boy and waved him onward, “Come along.”

The boy practically dragged another kid out of bed. Maja feared he’d try to rouse the entire dorm, but just he and the other boy trotted quietly along behind them.

A few minutes later they were on the street outside. The boy who’d helped them said “Thanks,” then he and his friend took off at a run.

As she and her friends walked away from the reformatory, Maja called Samir, their driver, asking him to meet them outside the café where he’d dropped them off.

Part way through the taxi ride back to Hamza’s place, she realized the whole thing had been so easy it felt anticlimactic. However, when they got back to Hamza’s house, her uncle-in-law looked shocked when he saw Azim. This abruptly reminded her that the rescue would’ve been very difficult for someone unaided by the Buchrys’ strange abilities.

Hamza congratulated them but was very fidgety and nervous. Maja was about to ask what was bothering him, but before she could formulate her question, he said, “As soon as they realize Azim’s gone from the reformatory, they’re going to send police here. This’s where they arrested Azim in the first place. It’ll be the first place they look.”

“Is there anyplace else we can hide?” Maja asked.

Hamza glanced away, “There’s a hotel that doesn’t ask questions… It isn’t in the best neighborhood.”

“Will they want to see passports or other ID?”

With a grimace, Hamza said, “Not if you offer a bribe. Can you afford it?”

They shortly found themselves back in Samir’s taxi and heading downtown. When the desk clerk asked for ID, Maja slid a hundred-dollar bill out onto the counter. The clerk stared at it long enough that Maja almost put a second hundred beside it. But then he put a paper on top of it, asking her to sign it. After she’d signed and he took the document back, the hundred was gone.

He began issuing them a room key.

They’d taken one room that had two double beds. They all intended to stay in the one room, not because they couldn’t afford an additional room, but so they’d be together for mutual support if something happened. Maja and Roni took one bed. Maja had expected Witt and Hax to take the other, putting Azim on the couch, but Hax started pulling the cushions off the couch and side chair, lining them up on the floor for himself.

Maja said, “You should take the bed, Hax. Azim can sleep on the couch.” She’d turned to explain this to Azim when, sounding sad, Hax said, “The bed’s too short for me, Maja. I’ll be more comfortable on this long line of cushions.” He gave a little chuckle, “Don’t worry, I learned to bear this cross long ago.”

Embarrassed that she hadn’t recognized the problem his height created for him, she said, “Sorry. Um, do you want to get a room to yourself?”

He gave Maja an astonished look, “Roni wouldn’t pay more for me to have a room all to myself!”

Maja glanced at Roni who was rolling her eyes. “The money’s half his. He’s the cheapskate.”

***

In the morning, Maja called Samir and hired him for the entire day, something that pleased the driver greatly.

First, Roni and Maja went to Hamza’s house. Having Roni with her made Maja feel much safer but left her worrying about her brother. As before, they parked blocks away and walked from there. During this walk, Maja experienced another disconcerting facet of Roni’s talent when Roni disappeared. “Roni!” she hissed, suspecting that Roni’d made herself invisible.

Though she still couldn’t see her friend, Roni’s voice came from right beside her, “I’m here. Don’t worry, you’re invisible too. I just don’t think we should arrive at your uncle’s house while he could be under suspicion. I don’t know if they’re watching him, but assuming they’ve got eyes on his place won’t hurt us.”

As they walked up to Hamza’s door, Maja thought of a problem. “So, when we knock and someone looks out, they aren’t going to see anyone?”

“Whoever answers the door is going to see us. No one else is gonna see the door open.”

Oh, Maja thought, reminded that Roni wasn’t really making them invisible, just impairing other people’s ability to see.

The same teenage cousin who’d answered the door the day before answered it again. He looked greatly cowed but made a show of imperiously pointing away down the street and telling Maja to leave—as if he didn’t know her. However, in doing so he managed to slip her a note.

Maja’s initial impulse was to tell her cousin no one could see them. She paused, remembering she’d promised not to tell anyone about Roni’s ability.

Roni, apparently having gotten the gist of the boy’s message from his body language and pointing motion said, “Let him send us away. We’ll read the note, then decide what to do next.”

The note proved to be from Hamza. The police had indeed come and searched the house the night before—which explained the apprehensive look on her young cousin’s face. Hamza recommended they stay away but gave them a location in the market where they could leave him messages and get replies.

Roni let them become visible again just before they got back to their driver’s minivan. He took them back to the hotel.

Once in their room, Maja asked, “What’s next?” Having asked the question, she suddenly felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. It’s as if I’m just along for the ride, she thought. Instead of asking them, I should be the one figuring out what we’re doing. Pondering the situation though, she realized that what they could do depended almost entirely on Roni’s talent. And perhaps on Hax’s ability, though she didn’t see his possible ability to influence people as a game-changer like Roni’s invisibility.

No one else seemed surprised to have her asking rather than directing.

Hax said, “We need to get eyes on Sajn Cednaja prison. You think your buddy Samir would drive us around out there without telling the secret police what we’re doing?”

Maja frowned, “Can’t we go shopping somewhere nearby and scout it out the way we did the reformatory?”

Hax slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. Best I can tell there isn’t any good reason to be out there except to be driving past it on our way to somewhere else. Let’s look at the Google Maps satellite view of the prison. Maybe you’ll see something we can claim we want to visit.”

She studied the map briefly, then frowned, “There’s a Sheraton hotel near the prison?”

Hax looked surprised, apparently not having noticed it. “I guess so. Does that help?”

“Maybe we should move there. We could walk to the prison from the Sheraton.”

Hax studied her. “What are we going to tell Samir about why we’d want to stay in a hotel in such a little town…? Much less the people at the hotel.”

She shrugged, “Why would anyone go there? I’ve got an uncle in the prison, so I have an excuse. I want to stay there a few days, trying to figure out whether the people at the prison will let me visit my uncle? That might be the whole reason there’s a hotel in such a tiny town.”

Witt gave her a wide-eyed look. “You think anyone’s going to buy that?”

“Samir’s probably gonna tell us it’s impossible, but if he seems sympathetic, I could ask him for a drive-by on the way.”

Roni’d been looking thoughtful, “I don’t think we can stay there. Hotels want to see IDs and ours won’t pass muster. I can make the people at the desk think our IDs are okay, but they may forward images of them to the police.”

Maja frowned, “So?”

“So,” Hax said gently, “Roni can only fool people who’re within a block or two of her, Images sent electronically to other locations won’t deceive anybody.”

***

A few hours later they drove past the prison on the way to the Sheraton. Samir had also been surprised there was a Sheraton near a prison in a small town that didn’t seem to have much else to offer, but agreed that it might be for families trying to visit loved ones.

The problem was that he didn’t think they allowed Sajn Cednaja inmates to have visitors.

Samir had proved to be quite sympathetic to Maja’s plight regarding her uncle. Sympathetic enough that he’d said he’d ask other drivers about where someone would go if they hoped to see an imprisoned relative.

She felt pretty confident he wouldn’t turn them over to the police, though no one could ever be sure about such things.

As Samir dropped them off, Maja asked, “If you think there’s a chance a bribe would get me in to see him, can you ask about that?”

He frowned, “We’ll see. I don’t want to get arrested.”

“No, no,” she said, “don’t ask if you think there’s any danger.”

They had a nice lunch in the hotel restaurant, ordering a takeout meal on the side. As they’d hoped, their waiter enthusiastically told them that paying cash for their lunch was more than acceptable—presumably so the restaurant could avoid the credit card fees.

When they’d almost finished eating, Maja took the takeout meal and headed out to ask Samir what he’d learned. The others ordered desserts, not because they wanted them, but to give themselves an excuse to hang out in the restaurant a little while longer.

~~~

Samir studied the girl as she walked across the parking lot toward his van. She claimed to be a Cyreean who was living in Urope, back for a visit—frowned upon but not illegal.

But, she had an uncle in the prison here which was suspicious, suggesting as it did that her family was on the outs with the government.

Also, he felt sure her friends were from the Union in North Merica. While he didn’t doubt she was originally from Cyreea, he suspected she now lived in Merica like he thought her friends did. He thought she claimed Urope because Uropean citizens were, in theory, welcome in Cyreea while those from the Union weren’t.

Like all taxi drivers in Cyreea, Samir was supposed to report on the doings of foreigners.

Especially if the legality of their actions seemed questionable.

He was in no hurry to submit such a report because these particular foreigners paid him so very well. But he had been making notes of their behavior. That way, if the secret police showed up to ask him questions, he’d be able to claim he’d been unsure of the legality of their activities, but had been recording them with the intent of reporting them if and when it became obvious that they were working against Cyreean interests.

If the police never showed… he’d probably let it slide. He liked the girl and she was, after all, a fellow Cyreean. Even if she associated with people who weren’t.

She knocked on his passenger door, holding up a sack. She didn’t pass it in through the open window, suggesting she wanted to do more than just hand it to him. He leaned across and opened the passenger door, indicating the seat with a hand and lifting his eyebrows questioningly.

“I brought you some food,” she said, getting in and passing the sack to him.

He could tell from the smell it was chicken shawarma, but politely opened it and peeked in, making appreciative sounds. His mouth watered, but he felt sure she wanted to talk business rather than watch him eat or she wouldn’t have gotten in. He provided her the opportunity to do so by saying, “Thank you. It’s kind of you to think of me. I love shawarma… Um, I, learned a little about the prison from talking to other taxi drivers…?”

“Oh,” she said eagerly, “what can you tell me? Is there any chance I could visit my uncle?”

Samir frowned and shook his head, “They said that’s not at all likely, but told me that there’s an office at the main processing gate where you can apply to do so. If they did grant you permission, it would probably be at a date months from now.”

With a smile, she said, “Thank you so much for checking! I would like to make such an application. Can you take me and my friends to the gate once they’re done eating?”

She didn’t seem at all disappointed, making Samir think she’d expected to learn she couldn’t visit. He felt puzzled, wondering why, if she’d known she couldn’t visit, she’d come all this way from Merica—or Urope. Especially if, as he suspected, she was in the country illegally, it would seem foolish to make an application to see her uncle. An application that would bring her to the attention of the authorities. Tentatively, he tried to warn her of the dangers by slowly saying, “You’ll, um, have to provide identification to make an application.”

“That’s not a problem,” she said cheerfully. “Anything to see my uncle.”

He frowned and tried to increase the warning tone in his voice, saying, “They’ll probably send your documentation to the central police for validation…” He trailed off at the end in the hope that she’d recognize the problem.

She studied his face a moment then said, “You’re worried they might discover some… irregularities… if I let them look at my papers?”

He nodded seriously. “It’s up to you, of course. You know how… good… your documentation is, after all. I’m just worried that, coming from Urope, as you say, they may find something objectionable?”

She nodded solemnly. “I suppose that’s possible. You’re thinking that if they don’t like my documents, they may do worse than turn me away?”

He cleared his throat, “Sometimes such… misunderstandings… can become serious problems in their own right.”

She sat, staring silently out the window for a couple of minutes, so Samir got out his shawarma and had a bite. It was every bit as good as it smelled.

Just as he was about to take another bite, she seemed to come back to herself and turned to him. “I think we’d like to go on over and ask them how it’s done. Perhaps we won’t make an application, but after coming all this way, I can’t turn back without at least asking them how it all works.”

“It’s up to you,” he said doubtfully, trying to make evident his sense that it would be insane.

“Okay,” she said, “no time like the present. I’ll go find the others and, if they’re done eating, be right back. Can you drive us over to the prison?”

“I’d, uh, rather not enter the grounds,” he said, “but I could take you to the entrance.”

She gave him a taut grin, “I have a feeling you’d like to be paid before you drop us off, right?”

He thought of denying it but instead nodded. After all, it strengthens the warning I’m giving her.

She said, “It’s a deal. But I’d like to leave my brother with you in the car. If we don’t come back, I’d like you to take him back to Damakus, okay?”

For a moment he considered protesting that it couldn’t be that bad but realized it might and she needed to know that. Instead, he said, “The young boy?”

She nodded, “He’s thirteen. I’d want you to take him close enough to his uncle’s home that he could walk there. He knows the way. Okay?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly, “though I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“I’ll go get them then,” she said in a bright but strained voice. She got out of his van.

Should I have tried to make it even more obvious how foolish she’s being? he wondered as he watched her walk back toward the hotel.

No, he decided. If she can’t figure it out from what I’ve already said, she’s just refusing to see.

***

When Maja got back to the Sheraton’s restaurant, the others had finished their desserts. Roni was on her laptop. Hax was talking cheerfully with Azim, helping her brother practice his limited English.

Azim’s mood seemed better, making Maja wonder whether there was something to the idea that Hax could somehow influence people.

Witt stared out the window and into the distance. When Maja touched his shoulder, it startled him. She wished Hax would take some time to settle Witt the way he had Azim.

Then, uncharitably, she wondered why they’d brought Witt along. Roni’s hacking made her by far the most important member of their group. Maja herself was essential for her ability to speak Arabic and her knowledge of Cyreean customs. Hax, if he really could influence peoples’ attitudes, might be important in some situations, though his size was a liability because he couldn’t possibly fade into a crowd. And, Witt can sprint, she thought. Which is unlikely to make any difference at all. Is he only here because he’s my boyfriend? Well, and because he’s the one who recruited Roni and Hax for me? The ethical thing to do would be to ask him to stay in the van with Samir and Azim while we’re visiting the prison.

The waiter came and took her money for the bill. As he went to settle up, Roni turned to Maja and said, “I’ve managed to hack into the prison’s records and insert you as an expected visitor today.”

Maja couldn’t help exclaiming, “You what?!”

Roni rolled her eyes, “You heard me.” She held out a laminated card, “What do you think of your new ID?”

To her astonishment Maja found herself looking at the same kind of laminated ID she’d had when she’d lived in Cyreea before. One with her name and birthday on it, plus her old address in Damakus. She knew her home had been destroyed, but most people wouldn’t. “How… how did you get this?!” She glanced around. She knew hotels back in the Union had business offices but she’d be surprised if a Cyreean Sheraton did. Especially not one that could laminate what you printed.

Roni said, “Look again.”

Maja looked at the ID in her hand and saw it was her own Merican driver’s license. Staring at it, she said, “What the hell…?”

“I picked your pocket,” Roni said. “Then I handed you your own ID and made you think it was a Cyreean ID.”

“Picked my pocket?!”

Roni shrugged, “It’s pretty easy for me to do. I just make you not notice me doing things like digging around in your purse or pocket.”

“Okaay… but how do you make me think my license is a Cyreean ID when you don’t even know what they’re supposed to look like?!”

“I looked them up on the internet,” Roni said making Maja feel stupid since any idiot would know you could find that kind of stuff with Google. “Besides, I picked Samir’s pocket too,” she said, handing over their driver’s ID, “to make sure I had an approximate notion of what they look like.” She shrugged again. “I don’t think I need to know what one looks like though. Mentally, I’m just telling the person’s mind that it looks like a typical ID and I think they fill in the rest. For instance, I don’t know your birthdate or address. What’d you see in those boxes?”

“Damn…” Maja said, “you’re right. My mind filled in my correct birthdate and my old address from before I left the country.”

“How about my ID?” Roni asked, handing over another typical Cyreean ID card.

“It’s perfect!” Maja said, astonished.

“But what’s my address?”

Maja looked at the card again, then back at Roni. “The address looks good.”

“But what was it?”

Maja looked again, “Um…” she laughed, shaking her head. “When I’m looking at it, I feel sure it’s a perfectly normal Cyreean address, but as soon as I look away, I can’t remember the damned thing!” She looked back at it, “Wait. Let me try to read it out loud to you… Hah! I can’t.”

Roni looked unhappy.

Maja said, “I’m not sure why you look so dismayed. That’s still an amazing trick.”

“I have to focus a lot of attention to achieve it and it still isn’t going to fool anyone who’s supposed to record the information from an ID. I suspect they’re going to want to do that if you try to get into the prison for a visit.”

“How about if you intentionally put an address in my mind? You could try planting your own home address on an ID to see if I’d read that off to you.”

They tried it on Azim instead of Maja. He promptly read Roni’s home address in Lareta off Maja’s ID.

Maja said, “I’m still hoping you won’t have to give them anything to write down, but if it’s necessary, you could give them my childhood address. They bombed the building, but its address sounds perfectly ordinary.” She repeated the address to Roni a couple of times to help her memorize it. Roni wrote it down in case she should have trouble remembering it in the heat of the moment.

Then they were off to meet Samir and try a visit to the prison.

Chapter Seven

Samir drove them past the entrance to the grounds and was able to point out the office where—in theory—Maja could make an application to see her uncle. Then, after once again promising to take the boy to his uncle should they not return, Samir drove away with Azim.

Once Samir was out of sight, Maja looked at her friends. To her surprise, she saw Hax had a backpack. She frowned, thinking Hax didn’t trust Samir with their valuables, so he’d brought them along. Still, the prison wouldn’t let him carry in something that size. Indicating it, she said, “They’re not going to let you bring that. Why didn’t you leave it in the van?” She glanced around for someplace they could hide or bury the backpack so Samir wouldn’t have to come back and get it.

Hax smiled and looked at Roni. Suddenly Maja was alone outside the gate. Hax’s voice came, eerily, from where he’d been standing. He said, “As far as the prison’s concerned, you’re the only one who’s going in. The backpack has some, uh, stuff, we might need if bad things happen.”

Alarmed, Maja said, “What if I need you, or want an opinion on something?”

Roni said, “We’ll be right there beside you, talking to you as needed. They won’t hear us but you will. If you want to talk to us, clear your throat first. I’ll make it so no one but us hears what you say in case you want to say something rude about their looks.”

Maja snorted about Roni’s little joke. Because of her stress, it hadn’t struck her as funny but had nonetheless eased her tension. Roni’s ability goes so, so far beyond invisibility! she thought. She started through the gate. It was just a gate through an outer perimeter of fencing around the prison. Samir had told her that people came and went through that gate during the day, doing business with the offices that stood outside the prison wall but inside the fencing. No one bothered her during her trek across the exterior compound to the office where Samir had said she could make an application to visit Nabil.

The men in the office were rude, carrying on personal conversations and ignoring her. When one finally deigned to notice her, he engaged in a lot of eye-rolling regarding her request to see her uncle. After a good deal of badgering, he looked and confirmed that she did have an appointment in their system but claimed it meant nothing.

Roni’s efforts with IDs turned out to have been pointless. The man stubbornly insisted Maja simply couldn’t see Nabil and repeatedly demanded she leave.

Dispirited, Maja was about to go when Roni’s voice came from somewhere across the room, “Drag it out a little longer Maja. I’m trying to pull some information out of their computers.”

Maja turned back to the man who’d been frustrating her and asked him for instructions on exactly what she’d have to do to be able to see her uncle.

He continued to stonewall and she kept asking questions. Eventually, she began to feel certain the guy was about to have her physically removed or arrested.

After a couple more go-arounds with the clerk, she began to suspect he would have had her tossed out but that Hax was standing invisibly at her side, mentally pushing the guy to go along with her.

Unknown to Maja, the official himself felt surprised he hadn’t taken any extreme measures to rid himself of her. However, he attributed his lenience to Maja’s good looks.

Finally, Roni said, “I’ve got what I could. Let’s go.”

As soon as they exited the office, Maja, feeling frustrated, started across the external compound toward the gate.

Hax caught her elbow. “Wait up. Roni’s got stuff for us to look at.”

When she turned, her friends were visible, at least to her, and were stepping into the shade of the prison’s wall.

Roni was handing each of them a copy of a map of the interior of the prison. She’d apparently made the people in the office ignore the sound of her printing them out on a prison printer. She started pointing out the prison’s features and explaining Nabil was supposed to be located in the big central building. She’d been deep in one of the prison’s computers almost the entire time they ignored, insulted, berated, and told Maja to leave.

“Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?” Maja asked, irritated.

“I thought you were doing great,” Roni said distractedly, still looking through some of the other papers she’d brought out. “I thought if you were faking your efforts, he might’ve seen through you.” She looked up at them, “We can’t do squat until we’re inside, but…” she pointed at a truck driving across the external compound toward the heavily fortified vehicle gate in the main prison wall, “I’m betting that truck’s either delivering supplies or prisoners. Let’s see if we can sneak through the gate with it.”

Maja’s heart rose into her throat as she jogged after the truck behind the others. Her back itched with the sense someone in a guard tower was about to start shooting at her. She felt as if they must be insane to voluntarily try to get into a notorious prison like Sajn Cednaja.

Then she began to worry the truck would get through the gate before they caught up with it, but that didn’t happen either. When they arrived at the back of the truck, it was still idling before the massive vehicle gate. A minute later, a rollup gate rose slowly up out of the way. They all climbed up on the truck’s bumper and a few minutes later the truck drove on in.

Maja glanced back and saw the massive gate closing behind them.

It gave her a sinking feeling.

She expected the truck to drive over to the imposing concrete building centered within the massive walls. Instead, it drove over and parked against the interior of one of those walls.

Puzzled, Maja got down off the bumper with her friends. The guards got out of the front of the truck and came around to the back. The Mericans shuffled farther away to keep the guards from bumping into them. Maja wondered what was going on.

Witt pointed. When she turned, Maja saw a substantial group of men wearing prison guard uniforms striding toward them. All of them, the men from the prison and the men from the truck, carried what she thought were assault rifles. Maja assumed AK-47s.

Soon the guards were opening the back of the truck. This revealed men packed in it so tightly they would’ve had to stand for their entire trip. As soon as the opening door gave enough room, one of the men unconsciously tilted out of the door like a falling tree, except, because of the height of the floor of the truck, he pitched over far enough to land head first with a sickening crunch.

He twitched violently, then lay still. One of the guards cursed and kicked him. When the man didn’t react, the guard said, “Dead,” in a disgusted tone.

He didn’t confirm that opinion with anything so sophisticated as a taking of the man’s pulse.

The guards began jerking and dragging men out of the truck, cursing them and causing many more to fall. Several landed badly, falling to the ground clutching ankles or knees.

Holy shit! Maja thought. It’s as if they don’t give a damn if these guys get hurt. It seemed to Maja that they’d be more careful simply to avoid the cost of medical care for the prisoners. Then she realized the guards were laughing. They started kicking the ones who’d fallen, demanding they rise and move away from the truck to positions along the wall.

One of the guards who seemed to be in authority had a clipboard with a list on it. He used it to sort the prisoners, a few he sent farther along the wall. The majority he ordered to line up against the wall near the truck.

Maja wondered what’d caused some strange pitting on the wall behind the guys near the truck.

One of the men who seemed to have broken his leg falling out of the truck was slowly crawling toward the wall. He wasn’t moving fast enough for a guard who kept yelling at him. The guard stepped up behind him and pointed his rifle at the back of the man’s head.

As Maja heard Witt’s voice say, “Oh my God! It’s a firing line!” the guard’s weapon fired.

Blood sprayed from the front of the prisoner’s face and onto the ground.

The man’s body flopped and twitched.

Maja’s heart froze and her head felt light.

Afraid she was passing out, Maja sank toward the ground thinking she should sit.

Remembering the big gate closing behind them, she wondered whether they’d be able to get out of this hell-hole.

Why did we come in here?! she wondered, distraught, having forgotten her uncle’s plight.

Then the world went black and silent, except for a bright beam of light beside her.

In her intention to sit, she’d lowered herself somewhat but now lost all orientation in the silent darkness and began to fall.

A hand caught her under the arm, steadying her and lifting her back to her feet.

The beam of light swung around wildly as this happened, disorienting her despite the lifting hand.

The light steadied when she did.

Witt’s voice said, “You okay?”

She nodded, realizing he had on his headlight again and that it was the source of the beam of light. She said, “Yes,” in a voice suddenly gone raspy. “Why’s it dark?”

“Um,” Witt said hesitantly. Then he said, “Let me give you a headlight. Then I need to find Roni and Hax and give them lights. I’ll explain this when… we’re um, safer.”

He shone his light on her hands, then pressed an object with a strap on it into them.

Headlight, she thought, searching for the switch, and snapping it on. She pulled the strap over her head and couldn’t help staring at what it happened to be pointing at. The beam had caught on the man who the guard had just shot in the back of the head. The guy was strangely frozen.

Maja realized he should be on the ground, twitching perhaps, but essentially dead. Instead, he looked as if he were still in the act of flopping about after being shot. Parts of his body remained elevated into the air. Only inches off the ground perhaps, but not down at rest the way they should be.

The guard’s weapon, a cloud of smoke around its muzzle, was only a few inches from the back of the man’s head.

The guard stood frozen in place as well.

And the silence persisted. The only thing she heard was Witt, some distance away, saying, “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t let it continue…”

The guards and prisoners should be freaking out, Maja realized. Why aren’t they all yelling, screaming, and shouting? She shook her head, trying to clear it of a sense of overwhelming confusion.

A headlight came toward her and a moment later Witt said, “Hey. You probably have a lot of questions, huh?”

“Yeah. Do you have any idea why it’s so dark? Well, and quiet? I swear I wouldn’t be hearing anything if my ears weren’t ringing from that gunshot. And why isn’t anyone moving?”

“I, uh… it’s because I can slow down time… or speed it up, depending on your viewpoint.” Apparently unaware of the fact that she thought he’d just gone crazy, he continued, “So, I’ve sped up our personal time frames a bunch. To about 400 times normal. So fast everyone else seems stationary. And, it means 400 times less light and sound are arriving per second. Plus, what is arriving is frequency shifted so far down it’s not perceptible to our eyes or ears. Um, maybe I can explain better some other time. For now, what you need to know is that we’re moving so fast that the people here in the prison essentially can’t see or stop us. Unfortunately, if they start randomly firing bullets and they hit us by chance, those bullets will still be moving fast enough to hurt us. Fast or not, we’ve got to be careful.

The arrival of two more headlight beams told her Hax and Roni had come up.

“How’re you holding up, Maja?” Roni asked.

Maja couldn’t hold back a hysterical giggle. “Witt’s been feeding me a line of bullshit about how he controls time.”

Hax put a hand on her shoulder. “He really can speed and slow time, Maja. The evidence of it’s all around you.” Hax turned and swept the immobile prisoners and guards with his headlight.

It was as if hearing it from Hax made it real. Everything clicked into place. Rather than protest it couldn’t be true, she turned to Witt. “So… you’ve stopped them killing the prisoners, but as soon as you let time go back to normal, they’re going to line those guys up against the wall and shoot them anyway?”

She didn’t have her headlight directly on his face, but it was close enough she could see him wince and nod. He said, “Unless we do something about it, yeah. So, I hope we’re about to put our heads together and figure out what we can and should do. Um, we don’t know what the guards were saying before they shot that guy. Is there anything you can tell us about that?”

“It was… pretty chaotic,” Maja said. “But there were a lot of threats aimed at getting the prisoners to do what they wanted. And,” Maja felt sick at things she’d heard but hadn’t processed until this moment when she had time to think, “They were laughing at the prisoners. Telling them how bad they were gonna have it. How most of them were going to die, some of them right now. It was as if they enjoyed terrorizing them.” She could hear the dismay in her voice, “Those guards, they’re… despicable.”

Roni asked, “What can you tell us about the prisoners? Are they criminals? Murderers, rapists, and the like? Political protesters? Foreign agents?”

Maja’s eyes widened. “How would I know?”

Roni handed her the clipboard the head guard had been using to sort the prisoners into two groups. “Does this help?”

Maja scanned down it with her headlight, then sighed, “They’re all listed as political protesters. I’m not sure it’s true, but that is something Anshed would probably see as sufficient cause to have them executed…”

“Murdered, you mean,” Roni said loathingly.

“So, should we help them escape?” Hax asked.

“How can you ask that?!” Maja cried, “We can’t even get ourselves out of here!”

Hax put his hand on her shoulder again, gently taking the clipboard from her hands, “Maja, your boyfriend can stop time. That gives us a lot of options.”

Hearing it from Hax made Maja feel it had to be true, but she couldn’t see how. Her world felt so… dislocated. She squeezed her eyes hard shut and held them that way, hoping that when she opened them, the world would once again make sense. It’d be noisy, full of light, and all this craziness would be gone.

But as she stood with her eyes tightly shut, the very real recognition seeped in—that the world had been insane right before it went dark and she didn’t want to go back to that moment either.

Not at all.

A sick feeling welled up as she remembered how the men in the truck had already looked malnourished and fragile. Were the ones they were ordering off to the side going to be spared the shooting squad because someone thought they were strong enough to bury the rest? she wondered.

She snapped her eyes open, suddenly flooded with fear she would be back in the moment when the guards had been about to line up the prisoners and start shooting them.

The world remained silent. And dark except for the beams of the four headlights.

Her spirits soared.

Hax asked, “Better now?”

She gave a firm nod. “You were going to tell me how we’re going to get out of here?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, taking her arm and leading her away from where she’d been standing. “First thing to learn is that if you move around, you’re essentially invisible to people in normal time. But if you stand still too long, the people still in normal time might notice you.”

“Oh! How long is too long?”

He said, “At 400X, where Witt has us now, we’d have to stand still for 400 seconds, or six minutes and forty seconds, before we’d seem to be in that place for one second of normal time. They’d barely notice you then. But if they were actively looking for you, you need to remember that people’s typical reaction times are on the order of a quarter of a second. It’d take longer than that for them to react, then aim a gun, and shoot you so you’ve got more time than that quarter second, but… Essentially, I try not to stand still more than a minute.”

“Um, gotcha,” Maja said, wondering if she hadn’t already stood still for a minute. She decided it was too late to worry about that. “Back to my question. How’re we getting out of this place?”

“Well, Witt’s started taking the weapons away from the guards, and Roni’s going to lean them up against the prisoners. The guards will suddenly find themselves disarmed, while the prisoners find they have weapons, all within a second or two. That should provide a major distraction when Witt takes us back to real-time.”

Maja felt a shiver run over her at the thought of what would likely happen but she steeled her nerve. “Should I start helping Witt take weapons from the guards?”

“Um, Witt’s the only one who can do that because the guards are essentially frozen in time, usually with solid grips on their weapons. Witt can put their arms in fast-time with him so he can pull stuff out of their hands…” Maja thought he paused to give her a moment to process this idea. Then he went on, “I’m gonna start getting any pistols, nightsticks, and other weapons the guards have in their holsters or on their belts. You could do that too, but it’s probably more important that you skim through the rest of the papers on the clipboard.” He handed it back to her, “We can’t read it, but it seems like we should make as sure as we can that there isn’t evidence that some of these prisoners are terrorists, murderers, or something else we don’t want to unleash on the Cyreean populace, agreed?”

“Um, yeah,” she said, remembering how, when her emotions peaked a bit ago, she’d been about to hurl the clipboard away. Did he take it because he knew what I was about to do? she wondered, thinking she’d need to ask him when things calmed down. She turned her headlight onto the papers and started skimming them again.

Hax moved away, presumably to help disarm guards.

Maja followed him as she read. The darkness of fast-time might be keeping her safe, but it didn’t feel that way. She wanted to be near Hax because she felt secure around him. Though, she thought, it sounds like I’d be safer near Witt.

By the time she’d finished quickly going over the papers, the others had pretty much finished taking the weapons from the guards and giving them to the prisoners. Witt had helped Hax take a couple of pairs of pants off of some guards. He’d tied off the legs and stuffed them full of pistols, batons, and other small weapons so they’d be easier to carry.

Maja told them, “Almost all these guys stand accused of inciting unrest. I suspect that’s a generic citation for working against Anshed. Some of them might be terrorists, but I doubt it.”

“Okay,” Roni said. “We’ll leave them with the weapons and the keys to the truck. Hopefully, they’ll be able to escape. At the least, their attempt to do so will provide us a distraction.”

“Can’t we help them win free?” Maja asked, unhappy about leaving them on their own.

Hax snorted a laugh, “Just a few minutes ago you didn’t think we could get out of here ourselves! Now you want us to shepherd the prisoners out too?!”

“Well…” Maja said slowly, trying to think of a justification for spending time trying to help the prisoners. “It seems to me that if they get out, that’d provide a country-wide distraction, won’t it?”

“One that’ll alert all the police and make it hard for us to get out of Cyreea,” Roni said grumpily. “But I agree. Let’s do what we can to help prisoners escape, as long as it doesn’t keep us from getting out ourselves.” She turned and started toward the big concrete buildings they assumed held the prisoners. Just loud enough for Maja to hear, she muttered, “And, let’s hope it doesn’t bite us on the ass.”

Maja took a couple of quick steps to Roni’s side. Softly, she asked, “How would it bite our asses?”

“Oh, let’s see,” she said, “They could steal all available transport including our taxi. Or, what if it turns out some of them are horrible people imprisoned for appalling crimes and they go on a thieving, murdering, raping rampage. Or, in reaction to their revolt Anshed drops one of his sarin gas bombs on the prison before we get out of here. Perhaps in reaction to the escape, security gets so tight they start shooting anyone on the roads, including us.” She paused a moment, then said, “There’re probably a whole lot more awful possibilities I’ll think of later. However, I’m gonna hope that what I’ve been reading is true. The stuff I’ve had access to says virtually everyone in this prison is here for disagreeing with Anshed and that they’re almost all scheduled to die.” She’d kept striding rapidly toward the buildings though frequently turning her head toward Maja during this diatribe. Now she faced front again and grumbled, “I don’t think disagreeing with the government should be a capital offense.”

Roni’s concerns had Maja second-guessing herself but by then they were entering the building. They immediately encountered a control point staffed by a cluster of guards behind wire-reinforced glass. Maja assumed the guards had a system for remotely locking and unlocking the doubled, airlock-style doorway from within the station.

Maja was thinking there’d be no way for them to get in or out when Hax stepped up to the reinforced window and slammed a nightstick into it. She expected him to fail spectacularly when the wire-strengthened glass resisted the impact. Instead, it shattered, big chunks falling out of it and onto the floor.

Hax went to work clearing the rest of the window glass from the frame with his nightstick. When he had most of the window cleared, he reached in and grabbed a couple of books off the desk. Opening them, he draped them face down over the bottom of the frame so they covered the remaining small glass fragments that still stuck up. He turned to Maja. “Can you climb in and figure out how to open the doors?”

Surprised, she asked, “Why didn’t the wires keep you from breaking the windows?!”

Hax shrugged, “Roni and I’ve dealt with wired glass before. Turns out the wire reinforcing in glass is only supposed to keep the glass from falling apart when it breaks during fires. That helps keep the fire from spreading. Surprisingly, that kind of glass is even more fragile than regular glass but a lot of buyers assume the wire will keep the glass from breaking under impact. So,” he shrugged, “they use it in places like this.”

Maja found it creepy, climbing in and over the guard at the desk—who sat frozen through the entire maneuver. Once inside she looked around for the door controls.

Her headlight showed her four large, worn, buttons labeled “Open” in Arabic. Their positioning was such that people out in the hall couldn’t see them or their labels. A button labeled “Alarm” sat between each pair of open buttons and didn’t show much wear.  She got the distinct impression she’d have to press two of the “open” buttons simultaneously to open one of the airlock doors—part of a system to prevent unintentional openings. A guard ordered to open the doors against his will could easily activate the alarm while merely pretending to push the door-opening buttons.

Unfortunately, when she pressed the open buttons, either alone, together, or in other combinations, nothing happened.

Hax asked, “Any luck?”

She shook her head, “The buttons are obvious and well-labeled, but nothing happens when I push them.”

Witt leaned in, “What’s not happening?”

“I’m pushing a couple of buttons, labeled ‘Open’ but the doors aren’t moving.”

“Um,” Witt said, sounding like he was having trouble suppressing a laugh, “that’d be because they’re not in fast-time like we are. Just a second… Okay, try it again.”

Thinking that it was pretty hard to keep track of all the effects of altered time flows, Maja pushed the buttons again, first together, then one at a time. She shook her head, “Still nothing.”

“I was afraid of that,” Witt said. “The buttons almost certainly just switch on electrical power and that’s what opens the doors. Even though I’ve put the doors in fast-time with us, there aren’t enough electrons per fast-time-second flowing through the grid to power the motors. We’re gonna have to go back to normal time to open them.”

For a moment Maja feared Witt was about to immediately dump them back into normal time, not thinking about the fact that she was in the cubicle with several guards who’d immediately go apeshit.

But the next words out of Witt’s mouth were, “At a minimum, we’re gonna have to climb in there and disarm the guards. It’d be a lot better if we could find a place to lock them up.”

Roni and Witt climbed through the broken window to join Maja. Hax gave it a shot, but his size made it almost impossible. He waited outside the doors while the three who were inside disarmed the immobile guards and took keyrings off their belts and out of their pockets. They found a large holding cell standing open just off the hallway—presumably waiting for new arrivals. They dragged the guards down and put them in the cell, then closed the door, locking them in.

Roni made their little team invisible, then Witt briefly took them back to normal time.

With power available in normal time, the buttons worked. They opened the doors into the building and held them that way until Witt could put the team back in fast-time. Then they propped the doors with furniture from the office so they couldn’t close.

Ominously, though they were in normal time for less than thirty seconds, they’d already heard gunshots outside the building.

Roni’d been invisibly watching the guards in the holding cell during their normal time interlude. Now she reported their panicked response to finding themselves in the cell. They’d searched themselves for keys or weapons and now looked frightened and despairing. “I’m pretty sure they won’t be able to get out,” she told the others.

They headed down the corridor to try to find Maja’s Uncle Nabil. The prison had three wings laid out in the shape of a “Y.” Reaching the central fork, Maja interpreted the signs on the walls. It seemed likely that the room number, “3236,” Roni had extracted from the prison system’s computers meant he was on the third floor in the second wing in room thirty-six. They climbed the stairs to the third floor and headed down the wing to the right, labeled with a big “2.” Room thirty-six was near the end of the corridor, but none of the keys on the guard’s ring Maja had would open it. “How are we going to get it open?!” she asked, on the edge of a freak-out. So close yet so far, she thought.

Hax touched her shoulder, calming her like he had several times before. “Relax, Maja, we’ve got plenty of time.”

Feeling better but still on edge, she irritatedly asked, “What’s the solution this time?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know. I just think we’ll work it out eventually.”

She looked at the door. “You have your crowbar?”

“No,” he said, bending to look at the door’s mechanism. “But I don’t think it would’ve been strong enough anyway.” They’d each gotten a set of keys from different guards as they’d put them in the holding cells downstairs. He got out his own set, saying, “First, let’s try a different set of keys.”

Maja stood, shifting her weight back and forth while Hax tried each of the keys on his ring. No luck. He stood back, “Witt, you wanna try the keys on your ring?”

Maja suppressed her irritation. She wanted to shout that all the rings must have the same keys but reminded herself that as long as Witt could keep them in fast-time, there was indeed no rush.

Witt’s keys didn’t work and neither did the set Roni had.

Maja feared Hax would want to go back downstairs and get more key rings. Instead, he said, “Maja, before we spend too much time on this, can you look at the guys in this room to make sure your Uncle Nabil’s in there?”

Her heart skipped a beat, but she stepped up and peered through the bars. The six men in the overcrowded cell looked weird in the strange lighting of fast-time, but she didn’t see Nabil. She took time to look carefully again at each of the six again, then turned, “He’s not here! Do you…?” She suddenly pictured Nabil killed in a firing line. Despairingly, she asked, “What’s happened to him?”

Hax patted her shoulder, “Maybe cell 3236 is in the third wing on the second floor rather than the second wing on the third floor. Let’s go have a look down there before you get too upset.”

When they got down to the third wing on the second floor, they were surprised to find four guards frozen in the act of marching a set of six prisoners down the hall at gunpoint.

Saying, “I’ll bet these guys have keys to the cells,” Roni stepped forward and started patting one of the guards down.

She found a keyring, but, distressingly, it looked much the same as the keyrings they’d already tried.

As Roni stepped to the nearest cell and started trying keys, Hax said, “Let’s each pat down one of the other guards. Maybe one of them has a separate set of keys.”

About the time they’d concluded that every guard carried the same keyring—and probably the same keys—Roni irritatedly said, “None of these keys work either!”

Maja was despairing, but Hax still sounded relaxed as he said, “Okay, plan B. Witt, can you loosen these guys’ hands up so we can disarm ’em? Then we can threaten one and make him tell us how to unlock the doors.”

In a couple of minutes, they’d disarmed the guards. Hax shone his headlight on each of their faces for a moment, then pointed to the one bringing up the rear. “Let’s talk to this one. Witt, if you don’t mind?”

A moment later the frozen guard moved.

Maja’d been watching his face. The first thing she noticed was a look of panic blossoming across it. He looked down at his hands for his gun.

She backed up, expecting some kind of violent response.

Not noticing that Hax had a weapon trained on him, he lurched to the side and tried to dash past his frozen fellow guards and their prisoners. Hax tripped him as he went by and the guard sprawled full length down the corridor. It didn’t slow him much though. He scrambled to his feet and started running again.

Then he froze in place. It took Maja a moment to realize Witt had simply let him go back into normal time.

Hax patiently said, “Maja, since none of us have the words, you’ve got to talk to him for us. Point out the guns we’ve pointed at him and tell him we’ve got questions, okay?”

Feeling stupid that Hax had to point this out to her, but appreciative of the way he’d said it pleasantly and without sounding like he thought she was an idiot, Maja said, “Yeah, sorry.” She studied the guard, frozen while leaning forward into a sprint. “How’re we gonna get him to stop and listen to me?”

Witt stepped up to the guard’s side and gripped him by the upper arm. With a glance at Maja, he said, “I’ve put his upper spinal cord in slow-time. When I put the rest of him in fast-time with us, he’ll fall because of the paralysis in his legs. His arms’ll also be weak, so I’m going to lift him by this arm to keep him from smashing down onto his face. You’ll be able to talk to him ’cause he won’t be able to run away or even get up. He should be terrified of permanent paralysis but you can tell him that if he’ll show us how to unlock the doors, we’ll restore the function in his legs.”

Maja stared wide-eyed at her boyfriend. She felt horrified by the powers his ability gave him Yet, at the same time, grateful for his talent too.

She gave herself a little shake and tremulously said, “Okay, I’m ready.”

The guard suddenly fell, but as promised Witt pulled up on his arm, keeping his face from hitting the floor. Witt pulling up on his arm turned him onto his back.

Maja stepped forward and saw a terrified look on the guard’s face. Resolutely, she spoke in Arabic, “We’ve paralyzed you. If you cooperate, we’ll give you your legs and arms back. If you resist, we’ll leave you paralyzed forever.” As she finished speaking, she noticed the guy seemed to be having some difficulty breathing and wondered whether Witt had unintentionally paralyzed some of the breathing muscles.

But then the guy started nodding frantically. “Whatever, you, want!” he said, making little gasps between the words.

Maja had thought she’d have Witt leave the guy paralyzed until he told them how to unlock the doors but found herself uncomfortable with the sense that she was suffocating him. She glanced up at Witt, “Can you catch him again if he tries to run?”

Witt nodded.

“Then unparalyze him,” she said turning her attention back to the guard. She’d been expecting the recovery of his spinal cord to be slow. Instead, it was sudden.

The guy jerked, then looked around. Maja found herself expecting him to scramble to his feet and try running again. Instead, his eyes turned fearfully back to her. “What do you want me to do?”

“Teach us how to unlock the cell doors.”

Still on the floor, he patted his belt where they carried their keyrings. Looking alarmed, he said, “I can’t! My keys are gone!”

Wordlessly Maja held out the keyring she’d been so unsuccessfully using in her attempts to open the doors herself.

“Can I get up?” he asked. When she nodded, he rose and took the keyring from her. “Which door do you want me to open?”

“All of them, eventually. But for now…” she trailed off and beckoned him to follow her down to cell 36. Stopping in front of it she shone her headlight through the bars. Her breath caught in her throat when she immediately recognized her Uncle Nabil. He looked thin, though not much worse than the other prisoners. She pointed to the door and said, “This one.”

The guard stepped to it, inserted his key, turned it, and pulled the door open.

Behind her, she heard Witt say, “What the hell?” indicating she wasn’t the only one feeling puzzled.

To the guard, Maja said, “We tried that key and couldn’t get the door to open. How did you do it?”

He pointed at the steel box containing the lock’s mechanism. “You have to push this button or you can’t turn the key.”

She blinked. It didn’t look like a button. More like a large rivet head. Wondering why there was a button, she tried it herself and found the latch worked easily when she held the button depressed. She looked back at her friends. They all looked as puzzled as she did. Roni was rolling her eyes and shaking her head in frustration.

Maja looked at the guard and saw he’d frozen again. Witt had let him go back to real-time. She wondered if they owed him more than that, but decided they didn’t.

She turned to Witt, “Can you unfreeze my uncle so I can talk to him?”

“Sure,” he said. “Which one is he?”

Maja pointed.

Like Maja had, on finding himself suddenly in the dark, Nabil jerked in a startle reaction.

Maja moved the beam of her headlight off Nabil’s face and said, “Uncle Nabil. It’s Maja. I’ve come to get you out of here.” As she said it, she realized for the first time that there were six men in the cell, but only two cots, plus a mattress on the floor. They have to double up on the beds, she realized, thinking how much that would upset most of them. The low men probably have to sleep on the floor.

Her eyes went back to Nabil who was staring at her. “Maja? Maja Salman?” he asked, uncertainly.

Realizing that not only was the light weird, but she’d changed a lot in the four-plus years since Nabil last saw her, she pulled off her headlight and shone it on her face while taking a knee in front of him. “Yes, Uncle. It’s been almost five years, but I’m your niece.”

“But…” his eyes darted about, “How…?”

“I’ve got friends… They can… do stuff. Can you come with us?”

He pushed himself up and stood, frowning, “Yes, but we’re in a prison. How are we going to get out?”

She was pulling her headlight back on, saying, “It’ll be much easier to show you than to explain. We do have an important question though?”

He nodded.

“We’re thinking of releasing all the prisoners. Do you think that’s a good idea? Or are there some prisoners in here who deserve prison? Criminals who’d harm people outside? Ones that we should leave in their cells?”

Nabil shook his head, “A few, I’m sure, but very few. I assume you don’t have time to sort them?”

Maja shook her head in return.

“Then I’d let them all go,” he said. “The good the political prisoners will do far outweighs the harm a few criminals might cause. To say nothing,” he continued darkly, “of the fact that this prison’s going to murder them if they stay here.”

Maja told her friends what he’d said and Hax organized the team.

They traveled down the halls, unlocking cells. When they encountered guards, they locked them in cells they’d emptied and put the guards’ weapons out in the corridors where the prisoners would find them.

Maja asked if they should split up, going to other wings or floors to speed the process but Witt told her he couldn’t keep them in fast-time if they got too far from him. “Essentially, if you can’t see me, I can’t modify your time flow,” he said. “There are exceptions but they’re complex, so try to keep me in sight. Another thing. If I wasn’t with you, expanding the fast-time bubbles around the doors you were trying to open, you’d have a hell of a time moving them through the essentially immobile normal-time air that surrounds them.”

Maja had noticed that the doors sometimes resisted her first attempt at moving them. She realized they were doors Witt hadn’t bubbled when she tried to swing them. Then she saw that Witt wasn’t unlocking many doors himself. Rather, he walked along with them, only occasionally using a key to open a door himself. Concentrating on bubbling things for the three of them keeps him busy enough.

Oh, she thought, recognizing that, since this whole trip started, she’d been thinking of her boyfriend as fairly useless. Because he doesn’t say or do much. But he’s been making things happen all along, just not taking credit for what he’s done!

Maja got a warm, appreciative sensation about Witt.

Nabil followed along with them, deeply disturbed by the darkness and the silence, and the way everyone but them seemed frozen in place. Maja could tell he had a lot of questions but didn’t want to rock a boat that might get him out of Sajn Cednaja prison. Though recognizing them in the strange light was problematic, he did point out a few prisoners he considered to be criminals they shouldn’t release.

Prisoners that they left locked in cells.

Though she had no idea how much time passed, with three of them steadily unlocking doors, Maja thought it seemed like it only took them about an hour to unlock the cells on the three floors of all three wings.

Then they were on their way out of the prison. They left the building through the checkpoint they’d come in through. Arriving at the truck gate, they were surprised to find one of the gate guards had opened the control station’s door into the prison grounds. He was standing in the opening and grinning down the road the truck had taken when it came in.

Maja glanced at her friends. “What do you suppose he’s grinning about?” she asked.

“The shooting,” Hax said grimly, reminding her that they’d heard shooting from the direction of the truck when they’d briefly been in real-time. “He thinks his buddies are massacring the prisoners we came in with.” He shrugged, “And he’s the kind of asshole who thinks that’s entertaining. He’s gonna be surprised when he figures out what’s really happening, but he’s done us a big favor by holding this door open.” Hax pulled the door open further and Witt dragged the guy out of their way.

As before, though they needed electrical power to open the gate, the buttons for doing it were obvious once they got inside the guard station. They disarmed the guards and dragged them outside into the yard, then locked the door.

Witt took their little group to normal time and they immediately heard the rattle of gunfire from the direction of the truck. The shots were coming closer together now, suggesting that more of the prisoners were getting their weapons working.

Maja quickly pressed the buttons to open the gate but, like on the way in, the gate was slow opening.

They hadn’t been in normal time very long before the first prisoners came out of the prison building through the guards’ checkpoint. They were carrying weapons. Presumably the ones the team had left for them.

They looked angrily bent on doing harm.

Maja watched the prisoners start across the yard toward the gatehouse with some alarm, wondering whether they really were political prisoners or whether they’d just freed a bunch of vicious criminals.

She wondered what they might’ve unleashed on an unknowing Cyreean populace.

She wondered whether the prisoners were about to kill all the guards, and whether every one of the guards deserved it.

“Hey, guys,” she said to the team, though she directed her words toward Hax—who she by now thought of as their leader. She pointed, “We might not want to be in this guard shack when those armed prisoners get here.”

Hax said, “Good point,” and turned to look at the gate.

The gate had only come up about two feet. Maja thought it wasn’t going to get high enough before the prisoners arrived.

Hax said, “Witt, take us to fast-time. We’ll crawl under the gate.”

Maja found herself in the dark again. She’d forgotten to turn off her headlight when they went to normal time, so she could still see. Moments later Hax’s light came on and he started moving, then Roni, then Nabil. Witt has to bring us into fast-time one at a time, she realized.

Hax started for the door but Witt caught him by the arm. “Hold up, buddy. Those guys,” he jerked a thumb toward the building where the prisoners had been coming out, “have been firing at this guard shack.”

Hax gave him a puzzled look. “But we’re in fast-time,” he said, indicating he felt safe there.

Witt said, “AK47 bullets travel close to 2,400 feet per second in real-time. With us at 400X, that means they’re traveling six feet per second relative to us in fast-time. They’ll cross the yard out there in about fifteen seconds and some were already on their way. They’re probably still firing more of ’em.”

“Can they hurt us going that slow?” Hax asked, tilting his head in concentration as he thought through the ramifications.

“Um, they’d punch through us like a fast sword at six feet per second. That wouldn’t be as bad as getting hit by a high-velocity round but it definitely wouldn’t be good. However, as soon as they enter your bubble, they’ll speed right back up to 2,400 fps and actually would hit you at that very destructive velocity.” Witt shrugged, “We do not wanna get hit by a stray round.”

“You’re telling me we’re stuck in here?!” Maja asked, alarmed.

“No,” Witt said, looking out the window as if estimating where everything was. “I’m gonna throw up a slow-time barrier two feet thick. It’ll slow the bullets enough that they’ll take four seconds of real-time to go through it. Here in fast-time, that’d give us about fifteen minutes to get out there and go through the gate. I think the barrier’s gonna fragment a lot of the bullets too.” He looked meaningfully at Hax, “If that kind of shrapnel hits us, it’ll still do damage, just not as bad.”

“So,” Hax said thoughtfully, “once you set your barrier, it sounds like we should have plenty of time to get out this door, across the fifteen feet to the truck gate, under the rollup barrier, then over to the left so any bullets that go under the door after we’re out the other side don’t hit us, right?”

Witt nodded.

“So, why do you seem hesitant?”

Witt shrugged, “I’m pretty sure the physics are correct, but I’ve never done this before. I’m wishing I had some way to test it out.” He looked at Hax, “I’d better go first so I’m the one who dies if I’m wrong.”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Roni said scathingly. “If you get killed out there, the rest of us won’t stand a chance.”

“That’s for sure,” Hax said. “How about if you put up your barrier out there and we watch to see if we can see the bullets slowing down?”

Witt shook his head, “We won’t see much with flashlights.”

“Put us in real-time to watch.”

“Isn’t this slow-time barrier gonna be dark?” Roni asked. “No light’s gonna be getting out of it, right?”

Witt shook his head. “Light goes so fast that, even slowed by 50,000X, it’s still going six kilometers per second. We probably won’t be able to tell anything happened to the light that passes through the barrier.” He looked at the window, “I’ll cast it right outside the window so we can see whether we can tell bullets are hitting it. Three, two, one…”

Maja and the others found themselves back in normally-lighted, real-time. Outside the window, she thought she saw a flicker, then everything looked normal again except… She could hear gunshots and simultaneously see the bullets splatter against a plane that seemed to have formed in the air.

Then they were back in the darkness of fast-time.

“It’s working,” Witt said.

“Those splats were bullets hitting the barrier?” Hax asked.

Witt nodded.

“I thought they were just being slowed down?”

Witt nodded again, “Suddenly slowed 50,000 times. That’s the kind of deceleration you’d get hitting a concrete wall. I thought they’d fragment and I guess I was right.” He looked out the window, “The prisoners are running toward us so I don’t wanna go back to real-time again. I think we should get outta here.”

“Agreed,” Hax said. “The barrier’s still got plenty of time left on it, so let’s head out.”

“Wait,” Witt said. “Okay, I let that barrier down and put up another one. Um, we should have plenty of time, but I’d feel better if we hustled.”

Roni and Hax led the way. Maja waved Nabil after her as she went out the door. He spoke some English but had to be pretty confused by all this.

~~~

Out the door and under the gate. Everything worked fine.

Then across the outer yard and through the fence around the outer perimeter.

~~~

After all the stress, the fast-time walk back to the hotel where Samir had said he’d wait with the taxi seemed long and tedious. Maja nudged Witt, “Can’t you do something with time to make this hike go a little faster?”

“I am,” he said, “It is going fast, but only in real-time.” She thought he winked though she didn’t have her headlight aimed close enough to his face to be sure. He continued and she could hear a grin in his voice, “You, however, are making it seem longer by complaining about it.”

~~~

Arriving back at the hotel’s parking lot, they had Nabil—in his prison garb—hide between a couple of vans while the rest of them went to real-time and walked the last bit to Samir’s van.

Samir looked up, “That didn’t take long!”

Maja looked at his dashboard clock and realized that what’d seemed like a very-long, high-stress afternoon to her, had taken much less than an hour of normal time out in the rest of the world. She followed the script they’d agreed on, “Yes, I hardly got to talk to them. They were still in the midst of treating me rudely when something happened and they made us leave. From what I heard, I think some kind of prison break had started, but whatever it was, they hustled everyone off the grounds.” She glanced toward the back of Samir’s van and saw Nabil, his prison garb gone, wearing western clothing.

Per their plan, while she’d talked to Samir—Witt, still in fast-time—had gone back to get Nabil. He’d dressed her uncle in some of his own clothing.

Nabil in western garb struck her incongruously. Maja waved Nabil toward her and Samir, “On our way back past the hotel we ran into an old friend of my family’s. We’d like to give him a ride back to Damakus, is that okay?”

Samir was agreeable, which he should’ve been for what they were paying him.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maja saw Azim turning to look at Nabil. His eyebrows rose and he opened his mouth, Maja suddenly realized he was about to shout a greeting to his uncle. Wishing she had control of time, Maja barked, “Azim!” This successfully turned the boy’s eyes back onto her, “We need to make room in the van for our old friend, Mr. Salman,” she flicked her eyes at Nabil. “Can you climb into the very back?”

Azim gave her a surprised look, but then seemed to get it. Without argument, he nodded and climbed over the very back seat, taking up a position in the luggage area. Fortunately, they’d left almost all their luggage at the hotel in Damakus.

In another minute or two they were on their way, Maja having spurred Samir to action with her concern that, if there had been a prison break, it might snarl traffic around the prison.

That could be a big problem since they had to drive past Sajn Cednaja on their way back to Damakus.

Chapter Eight

Back at the Damakus hotel, Maja found it very irritating to learn she had to bribe yet another desk clerk to get their rooms again, then bribe the bellhops to rediscover their luggage—which they initially “couldn’t find.” Just as she was about to explode, Hax showed up at her shoulder and quietly reminded her, “Keep calm. We can’t afford to piss these people off. What’s the problem?”

She explained, and he soothingly said, “Pay them what it takes. We can afford the bribes but we cannot afford to have these guys call the police.”

She closed her eyes and took a breath. “I just hate getting screwed.”

He touched her shoulder, “Better to get screwed out of some money than to get screwed by the secret police, right?”

Finding herself calmer, Maja nodded. She gave the bellhop a bright smile and a big bribe.

With six of them this time, they took two adjoining rooms, putting Roni in one and Witt in the other to distribute their talents in case an emergency required a quick reaction. Maja and Nabil went into the room with Witt. She spent quite a bit of time quietly telling Nabil what they were doing, though little to nothing about how they were doing it.

Nabil, extremely grateful for his rescue, enthusiastically expressed his appreciation. She got the impression he wanted to protest the impossibility of the events that’d enabled his freedom but had decided not to look this gift horse in the mouth.

She got Nabil to promise not to speak of how he’d won free in the future. In case he might be forced to explain some part of it, she made a few remarks she hoped would misdirect him toward thinking his freedom was won through some kind of advanced technology rather than psychic talent.

Hax and Roni came over for a strategy session. Nabil and Azim stayed for a bit, Azim decided he’d like to escape Cyreea to the Union with Maja. Nabil wanted to flee to Lebannan with his wife and their child. Then Nabil and Azim agreed to go to the adjoining room so the team of four could consult privately about their next steps.

Maja’d decided it would be impossible to fulfill Nabil and Azim’s requests. Wincing as she rubbed a nascent headache between her eyebrows, she said, “How did I not think about how we were going to deal with such obvious desires?

Hax shrugged, “Getting Nabil, Jamila, and their daughter across the border into Lebannan shouldn’t be difficult. We have to get ourselves back there and they can tag along. Getting Azim back to the Union’s not impossible, but he’d be an illegal immigrant.” He studied Maja, “You’ve been through the refugee stuff. Do you know how to get him legal status?”

She sighed, “I had a lot of help.”

“Can we get him home, maybe put him up with the family that took you in when you arrived, then figure out the legal stuff later?”

“I don’t know if they’ll want to take him if he’s illegal,” she said slowly, “but I could work on it once we got back. How are you thinking we could get him back?”

“Have Roni work her magic where people think they’re seeing good documents even though they aren’t.”

“Oh!” Maja said, once again seeing Roni’s ability in a whole new light.

After they’d discussed that a bit longer, Roni addressed the elephant in the room. “So, are we gonna do something about Anshed while we’re here…?”

“I’ve had some ideas about that,” Hax said.

***

They went out and ate street food for dinner, then came back to the room, where to Maja’s astonishment, they all got eight hours of sleep before they started their mission at midnight.

It turned out that—after some effort—Witt had learned to keep himself in fast-time while he was asleep. He’d had little reason to do it because it screwed with his circadian rhythms.

But he’d used it to study once. At 400X fast-time he could get eight hours of sleep in 1.2 minutes of real-time, then study for sixteen hours in another 2.4 minutes. When he went back to real-time, his rhythms remained unaffected by those few minutes of dislocation. He was, however, a day older than the date would suggest, so he didn’t do it a lot.

And, it was a pain in the ass to study in fast-time because his laptop couldn’t be online, so he had to keep coming out of fast-time to download stuff from the internet.

But, in Cyreea, so they’d be fresh for their mission, he took them all into fast-time for 1.3 minutes so they got eight hours of sleep.

When everyone was awake and fully rested, it struck Maja that sleeping in fast-time seemed old hat to the others. She gave them a suspicious look. “Wait a minute. This’s why you guys didn’t have any jet lag after our flight to Lebannan, isn’t it? When you had yourselves covered with blankets you were getting enough extra sleep on the flight to align your circadian rhythms with local time, right?”

They nodded sheepishly.

She turned on Witt, “Some kind of boyfriend you are! When I got befuddled, you teased me about being weak!”

“Well, we were trying to keep it a secret…” he said, trailing off in the heat of the glare she was giving him.

***

The four of them dressed as ninjas against the likelihood they’d be showing up on video cameras and recordings.

At that time of night, they had to wait a while before someone exited the compound around Anshed’s presidential palace. However, once the gate opened to let someone exit, Witt put them in fast-time making it easy to walk in past the exiting vehicle.

There were quite a few guards on the grounds, but walking around them in fast-time was as easy as one might expect.

The biggest difficulty came from their lack of current copies of the building plans. They wandered the palace, exploring and trying to figure out where Anshed and his family might be within the massive building. The fact that they had to stay together for Witt to keep them in fast-time made this much slower than it would’ve been otherwise. Eventually, they realized they’d encountered heavy-duty, locked doors every time they neared a central area that probably served as Anshed’s residence.

Now, the question was how to get through those doors.

Jokingly, Maja said, “Can’t one of you just download an add-on talent that lets you open doors?”

“Got it here,” Hax said, pulling out his prybar.

Maja rolled her eyes.

A minute later, Hax had wedged the prybar into the doorframe. In an ominous tone, he said, “This is my talent,” and heaved a few times. The door creaked, then gave way with a loud pop and they were in.

It made a frightening amount of noise and Maja had to remind herself that, because of the pitch shift to ultrasonic, no one would hear those sounds out in normal time. Besides, Roni was keeping anyone from noticing them.

Hax stayed outside a moment to see how obvious the damage to the door looked, then came in. He said, “We’d better stay in fast-time. Any guard that glances at that door’s gonna turn on the alarms.”

Searching the immense residential section was no mean feat of its own, but eventually Maja opened a door into a vast bedroom where a tall man and an ordinary-sized woman slept in an oversized bed. “Here he is,” she called to the others.

***

Barras Anshed woke suddenly, the room utterly black around him. Not even the glow of tiny LEDs on the electronics. Is it a power outage? he wondered. Next, he irritatedly wondered, What’s happened to the emergency generators? His irritation segued into a spike of fear that an attack of some kind might be underway. But if this were an attack, he thought, relaxing, I should be hearing shouting, maybe gunfire.

He listened for a moment. The silence was bone-deep, just like the darkness. Far too quiet.

“Masra?” he called out to his wife.

She didn’t answer. He reached out to his right, feeling for, then shaking her. His hand encountered a hard, unmoving mass. His heart skipped a beat as he realized she felt as if she’d died and rigor mortis had set in. Masra! Murdered?! He wanted to gasp in shock and cry out for help but realized it was too late to help Masra. He decided he should look out for himself. Is the killer still here in the room?! he wondered.

Anshed slowly sat up, then, still unable to see a thing, bellowed for the guards.

A light came on, shining upward at a man’s face that floated beside the bed. A bizarre face, though Anshed couldn’t decide whether it looked weird because of the bottom-up lighting, or whether there was something else that made it so strange. He felt quite certain it wasn’t anyone he’d ever seen before.

As Anshed drew breath for another shout, the man spoke in English, a language in which Anshed was almost fluent, “Yell as much as you want. No one will hear you.”

That claim was self-evidently true since none of his guards had responded to his earlier shout.

As ice flowed in his veins, Anshed coldly growled, “What do you want?”

“To, with your help, convert Cyreea into a true democracy.”

“It is a democracy.”

“That’s laughable. You hold elections, but the only citizens allowed to vote are those who live in the sectors that benefit from, and are therefore loyal to, your regime. You’ve killed or disenfranchised everyone who disagrees with you. If you want to live, you’re going to have to use your power to set up real elections within nine months. You will follow the current Cyreean constitution. Every person living in Cyreea will get a vote. International observers will monitor. You will stop imprisoning or killing those who nonviolently disagree with you—"

Appalled by the insolence, Anshed swung his legs out of the bed as he barked his interruption, “That’s not going to happen…!” he broke off as he suddenly noticed he’d lost all feeling below his waist. He only realized he’d also lost control of his legs when, without them to balance him, he found himself falling back in the bed, wondering what’d just happened. He caught himself on his elbows as panic roiled his composure, “Wha…” he heard himself say, then break off, uncomprehending.

The underlit face still floated within his visual field in the utterly black, otherwise completely soundless room. The man said, “I had planned to tell you about the carrot first, then about the stick. Are you familiar with the idiom?”

Though his mind gibbered, Anshed nodded.

“So, now we’re going to go back and start with the stick. Part of the stick is the fact that we can easily shut off the function of your spinal cord, rendering you paraplegic… as we just did. As you’ll soon find out, you’ve already soiled yourself. You’ll learn this because, for now, your paralysis is temporary. Before we leave, we’ll restore your ability to feel and move below the waist. When we do, you’ll be able to feel what’s happened down there.” The face cleared its throat, “We can also render you blind.”

Anshed’s right eye abruptly went dark. Having trained as an ophthalmologist before his father began grooming him for the presidency, Anshed immediately winked his left eye to confirm he was only seeing the face with that one. A little moan of fear escaped his throat but he ruthlessly suppressed it.

Just as suddenly, his eyesight recovered.

The face said, “Now, let me tell you about the carrot. If you hold a truly democratic election, per our requirements and those of the international observers, and you win, you may remain in office. However, should that happen, you’ll have to stop robbing the national treasury to enrich yourself and you cannot keep killing anyone who disagrees with you.” Though Anshed couldn’t see the man’s shoulders, he got the impression they shrugged. “On the other hand, it seems unlikely that you’ll win such an election. If you lose, you may retire comfortably, either in Cyreea or in another country. By comfortably, we mean that you may take twenty million dollars with you. You will find you’ve already returned the remainder of the billions you’ve pirated from your people.”

“I haven’t—” Anshed began hotly, but suddenly something blocked his throat.

The face said, “Aaand, there’s a little more stick.”

Anshed felt frantic by the time the blockage to his breathing abruptly vanished, leaving him gasping frantically for breath.

When he’d gotten his wind back, the face went on. “You have stolen… you’ve stolen billions. You’ve moved the money to your personal accounts. We’ve moved that money back out of your accounts, for the most part back to the Cyreean treasury. Some has gone to a holding account that’ll fund Cyreean charities for the impoverished.”

Furious, Anshed grated menacingly, “We’ll track you down and—” His throat closed again.

The face gave him a disappointed look. “Surely, you must realize by now that killing you would be trivial? In fact, the easiest way for us to deal with you would be by assassination.”

The blockage in his throat resolved after a minute, again leaving him desperately gasping.

Serenely, the face continued, “The only reason you aren’t dead is because we want a peaceful and orderly transition of power from you to your successor. We think you’re the best person to orchestrate that transition so Cyreea can avoid a battle over succession. This is why we’re willing to let you live… for now. We’re offering this carrot to motivate you to make this peaceful transition happen, understand?”

Afraid of choking again, Anshed nodded. He thought, I’ve got to agree for now. But as soon as they leave…

Precipitously, Anshed’s arms went partly numb and he collapsed from his elbows back onto the bed. Though his throat didn’t feel blocked again, he had trouble breathing. The face said, “Or, we could make you quadriplegic… Consider this. If you’re paralyzed from the neck down, have trouble breathing, and depend on others to feed you and wipe your butt… how long will you be able to control your power-hungry subordinates?”

Knowing how quickly those below would rise against a cripple, dread rose in Anshed’s soul, but then the numbness left his arms and he could breathe better.

“So, what do you think?” the face asked cheerfully. “Elections in nine months?”

Anshed nodded, suppressing a tendency for his nodding to grow frenzied.

“Okay then. We’re going to leave and restore your world to normal. You’ll find your wife is okay. You should wait to summon your guards until you’ve had a shower. Otherwise, you’ll be embarrassed by what’s in your pants and they’ll see you as weak. We won’t be watching you all the time, but we’ll expect to hear that your country’s making progress according to a printed list we’re leaving you. It says that announcements of elections should come by January and the elections themselves by the first of August. The world should learn that Cyreea’s going to become a one-person, one-vote representative democracy. The treasury should start spending on infrastructure. Taxes will not go up. If you fail in these goals, we’ll be back, and… this time we’ll have no mercy, understand?”

Anshed nodded, hoping against hope they’d leave without any more talking!

Suddenly, the lights came on.

The room stood empty!

His wife Masra rolled toward him, looking confused. “Why’d you turn the lights on?” she asked muzzily.

Anshed sat up, then realized with horror that, while paraplegic, he’d indeed had a bowel movement and was sitting in it! He scrambled to his feet, tugging upward on his pajamas in the hope that he might keep it from running out at the ankles while he hurried cross-legged into the bathroom.

~~~

Maja sat with Witt on one of the couches in Anshed’s bedroom. Roni and Hax were on upholstered chairs to either side of them. Roni had said they were all invisible and the fact that Anshed’s wife hadn’t noticed them seemed to confirm it.

Unbelievably, Roni and Hax were studying for their classes back home!

Though Maja thought the tyrant’s desperate run to the bathroom should’ve been funny, it wasn’t. Instead, the odor had made it disgusting.

As they waited for Anshed to clean himself up, Maja’s thoughts kept returning to how much she hated leaving him alive. Cerebrally, she could agree that a peaceful transition was worth some sacrifice, but this was the man who’d given orders that killed tens of thousands of his people.

Including her parents.

And she felt certain he wouldn’t keep his word. Sure, they could come back and frighten him again, but the trips were just so damned long!

It seemed wrong that, in the midst of saving her country, she kept worrying about the classes and soccer practices she’d missed. She’d, to some extent, been keeping up with her classes online, the way Roni and Hax were now, but worry kept her from concentrating as well as she’d like.

The shower went off.

Anshed had kept his wife from entering the bathroom while he was dealing with his embarrassing situation, but now she got up and entered.

About twenty minutes later they came out, fully dressed. To their surprise, the murderous despot stopped and tenderly hugged his wife for a moment.

Then he bellowed for his guards.

When the first pair of guards arrived, the more senior one exclaimed, “Mr. President, one of the security doors is broken!”

“Of course it is!” Anshed screamed furiously, as if he were speaking to imbeciles. “They were in here! You think someone just walked through the doors?”

As time passed, more and more of his guard cadre arrived, apologetic, cowed, and frightened. Some left to search the palace for perpetrators. Others went to review videotapes. The ones who searched the grounds returned to report that no unauthorized persons were present.

The ones who checked the videos returned a little later, also saying that they hadn’t seen anyone.

Puzzled, Maja turned to Roni, “Why didn’t they see us?”

She shrugged. “In fast-time we would’ve only shown up as occasional very brief blurs.”

Duh, Maja thought to herself. Speaking with Roni, Maja missed some of the drama between the dictator and his guards. However, she didn’t miss the incredibly loud reports of a gun in the enclosed space of the large bedroom. Nearly frightened out of her wits, she turned to look and saw Anshed holding a smoking gun in his hand.

The video monitoring guards sprawled on the floor in front of him, dying. Apparently he didn’t believe anyone could’ve gotten in without showing up on video.

Maja sat, full of incandescent rage, loathing the man who’d ordered her parents’ deaths and so blithely executed his guards. She turned incredulously to Roni, “We can’t let him live, can we?”

Roni looked as sickened as she felt. Voice shaking, she said, “Turns out it’s a lot easier to say, ‘for the greater good’ than it is to live it… eh?”

Hax distracted her, “Maja, what’s he saying now?”

Focusing back on Anshed, she listened in growing dismay, “Uh, he’s threatening to kill all of them and their families if they don’t find us.”

Hax turned to Witt, “I think we should block his airway again, how about you?”

Witt nodded but Anshed was already grasping at his neck and dropping to his knees.

Witt’s put his windpipe back in slow-time, Maja realized with satisfaction, wishing they could just leave it that way.

Getting up, Hax said, “Roni, let me talk to him again.”

Though Roni nodded, Hax was walking over to Anshed rather than watching her. Presumably, Roni was making Hax audible to Anshed but not his men. Hax said, “We thought there was a good chance you might disregard our admonitions once you thought we were gone. Should we leave your throat blocked this time?”

Anshed’s eyes were bugging out as he suffocated. He frantically shook his head.

Hax turned and gave Witt a nod.

With a heave, Anshed drew a massive breath. He shook off the men who’d grasped his arms to keep him from falling. His words for them were caustic rather than appreciative.

Then, still staggering a bit, he swiveled, sweeping the room with his eyes, looking for perpetrators. The rage on his countenance was frightening.

Ruminatively, Hax asked, “Should we leave you blind?”

Maja could tell by the way Anshed suddenly froze in place—slowly putting his arms out a little as one does in a dark room—that Witt had slow-timed Anshed’s optic nerves.

Anshed’s expression looked more and more panicked the longer he remained blind.

But then, on Hax’s request, Witt restored the man’s sight.

Maja saw the instant change in the man’s expression when his vision came back. She could tell that—despite all reason given what’d been happening—the return of his eyesight had restored his confidence.

Hax said, “Or perhaps we should paralyze a leg?”

Anshed’s leg buckled. The men who’d caught him before—but suffered rebuke—let him fall.

This time they endured a tongue lashing for the opposite failure.

As Anshed, struggling to rise from the floor despite his paralyzed limb, took a breath to continue castigating his men, Hax broke in. “Barras!” he said in a peremptory tone. “It seems as if you haven’t been listening! They can’t find us, so you’d better stop badgering them to do so!”

Anshed shut up. His eyes darted about, but Maja thought his inability to see the person speaking to him from what sounded like a short distance was probably all to the good.

Hax said, “We’re going to leave now. You’ll find the list of things you must accomplish in your bedside drawer. If you don’t make progress in the next three months, we’ll return to paralyze or blind you. If you haven’t held fair elections in nine months, and your people haven’t killed your despicable… blind… paralytic… sniveling… self, then we’ll be back to kill you. Understand?”

Anshed nodded.

This time Maja thought the dictator finally appeared cowed.

Suddenly, the man Maja had thought was the head of the guard cried, “Allah Akbar!” while drawing his pistol and starting to aim it at Anshed.

Then he suddenly collapsed to the floor unconscious.

Astonished for a moment, Maja then realized Witt had done something to knock him out. For a moment she thought it a kindness to have disarmed the man without killing him.

Then she recognized Anshed would probably kill the man as soon as Hax and his friends left.

His voice still unbelievably calm, Hax said, “Well, Barras, we saved you once, but only because we’re still seeking that peaceful transition of power. However, we’ll be perfectly happy to end you if you don’t accomplish the items on our list. Understood?”

Hax turned to the three of them. “Let’s go,” he said quietly and turned toward the door.

Witt said, “Wait. You don’t think he needs any more reinforcement?”

Hax stopped as if considering, then slowly shook his head. “I’m so disgusted with this guy I want to leave before we’re forced to save him again. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to follow our list and we’re going to have to come back and kill him.”

Witt said, “If you’re going to push your agenda, don’t you need to lean close and touch him?”

Hax’s shoulders slumped. Then he turned and walked over to Anshed, now climbing to his feet. Putting his hand on Anshed’s shoulder, Hax spoke quietly to him for about two minutes.

All the other men in the room stood uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot as they watched Anshed standing motionlessly.

Then Hax turned and led his three friends from the room.

~~~

As they made their way back to their hotel, Maja wondered whether there was anything to this theory that closeness and touch amplified Hax’s obvious leadership skills into something far more than simple leadership. Whether its effect would be bigger and last long enough to enforce the transition to democracy they were pushing for.

Mostly as a way to get her mind off of what she thought Anshed was doing now that they were gone, Maja wondered what they should do next.

She realized she’d have to ask Samir to recruit another taxi driver. That way they’d have room for the four of them plus Azim. The other taxi could take Nabil, Jamila, and their two daughters. The taxis could take them back to the border and they’d walk across it like they had when they’d arrived. They’d have to find two more taxis to drive them to Beruyt.

Nabil, Jamila, and their daughters would stay in Lebannan and try to make new lives.

The four friends would fly back to Merica with Azim.

Roni had reassured her that if she couldn’t force the airport authorities to accept Azim’s IDs as authentic, she could simply smuggle Maja’s brother invisibly onto the plane, then hide him in an empty seat. She even thought she might be able to keep Azim from recognizing that any funny business had occurred.

Then we’ll be back in classes… How many days have I missed? It felt like it’d been weeks but she had to think her way through each event to figure it out because she hadn’t been keeping track of what day it was. They’d decided to come over here on Monday but hadn’t left until early Tuesday morning. They’d arrived in Beruyt on Wednesday at mid-day. They’d crossed into Cyreea Wednesday night and broken Azim out of the reformatory Thursday night. It’d been Friday when they’d broken Nabil and the other prisoners out of Sajn Cednaja, and Friday night that they’d headed for the Presidential Palace.

But, by the time we had our little talk with Anshed, we were into the early morning hours. So, this is Saturday, she realized. We should be able to get back to Beruyt by Sunday morning when flights normally leave going west. Because of the time change, we could be back in Blayton late Sunday night.

So, she thought with surprise, I could be back in class Monday morning, not even a week after we left!

Hax’s definitely missed the game this weekend though.

Epilogue

With great trepidation, Maja climbed the steps. She pointed to one side and told Azim, “Stand over there.”

He did.

She checked his appearance, then rang the doorbell.

Maja’s foster mom, Susan, opened the door. Her face immediately blossomed into a big smile. “Maja! Why’re you ringing the doorbell? You know that as far as we’re concerned you live here!”

“I know that, Mom,” she said, “but…” she waved at Azim.

“Oh!” Susan exclaimed, bringing her hands to her face. She’d been so focused on Maja that she hadn’t seen Azim.

Maja’s heart sunk. She knew that when George and Susan had offered to foster orphaned refugee children, they’d specified girls, worried that boys would be trouble. Susan’s reaction suggested dismay on seeing a boy.

But Maja’s heart lifted again when Susan excitedly asked, “Who’s this?!”

Her voice suddenly raspy because of a frog in her throat, Maja said, “My brother, Azim.”

Susan’s eyes flashed wide, “Oh, my! Come in! Come in!”

Maja and Azim shuffled in. Susan, apparently not sure how to appropriately address a young Cyreean man, gave him a tiny bow and said, “I’m so sorry about your parents.”

Azim produced a small nod in return, saying nothing.

However, Maja saw his eyes were glistening. He knew how important it was to make a good impression on this woman, but didn’t know how to greet her either. The reminder of his parents while he was in a strange and somewhat inimical new country had choked him up, making it hard to speak.

“Come along now,” Susan said softly, turning and leading them from the entry and into her home.

Maja felt far better about their prospects when it became evident Susan was taking them to the kitchen table. Susan seated people she didn’t like in the living room.

As Susan bustled about in the kitchen, getting them cookies and milk, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell us you’d gotten permission to bring Azim over to Merica?”

When a silence stretched, Susan turned to look at Maja. A moment later her eyes widened with understanding. “You didn’t have permission, did you?”

Maja gave a tiny headshake.

“Oh… my…”

Silence stretched again and Maja had no idea how to deal with it.

Then Susan gave herself a little shake and said, “Oh, well. Of course he can stay here with us.” Completely glossing over all the other problems with his illegal status, she asked, “I assume we need to register him for school?”

“Um, yeah,” Maja said, only a slight raspiness betraying the emotions raging through her. “That’d be very nice. Do you think it’ll be a problem?”

Susan shook her head, “You don’t have to be a legal immigrant to go to school here. I don’t want to imply it’ll be all peaches and cream, but… we can get it done.”

***

It was Monday practice.

With sensations of both relief and frustration, Ryan, the quarterback coach, saw the unmistakable long, slender frame of Hax Buchry trotting out onto the field and turning his way.

When Buchry arrived, Ryan grated out, “Where were you last week?!”

“Family emergency,” Buchry said with a shrug. “What’s the agenda for—?"

“That’s funny,” Ryan interrupted, “after the game, your dad asked me why you didn’t play.”

“Not that part of my family,” Buchry said unconcernedly. “What’s the plan for today’s practice?”

“Some part of your family your dad hasn’t heard of? He didn’t seem to have any idea—”

Buchry interrupted him. “Coach, let’s just take it as a given that I’m not going to explain my absence to your satisfaction. If you want to punish me, have me run laps or something, but that won’t contribute much to beating Hayo this Saturday—which I’d hope is our ultimate goal.”

Ryan eyed Buchry balefully for a few seconds, irritated but realizing that the kid’s astonishing play and leadership skills—and the way he’d won game after game after game—might well get Ryan a head coaching job next year. Do not shoot this golden goose, he thought to himself. “Okay,” he said aloud, “but be aware that Coach Jackson’s pissed about your no-show. We barely squeaked by with a win Saturday. You’d better have a better excuse than this for—”

“Sorry,” Buchry said, interrupting again, “Since I’m not gonna make up a lie, I’ll just have to trot out the same crap for him. Are we ready to talk about Hayo yet?”

Ryan snorted, shaking his head and giving in to a grin. “Okay,” he said, mentally adjusting his rudder to run with the wind instead of against it, “Hayo could be a problem because they’ve got a massive defensive line…”

***

Reiter’s News Service, Kvg City, Ucryn— Though Ruchia has frequently conducted military exercises near Ucryn’s eastern border in the past, this year they are simultaneously conducting combined maneuvers with the Bellaruchan military to the north of Ucryn. Satellite imagery now documents that the total assemblage of forces exercising around the borders of Ucryn this year is more than double the size of the largest force that’s operated in the region in the last six decades.

Ucrynian diplomats are vigorously protesting these maneuvers as a deplorable and transparent attempt to intimidate Ucryn.

For its part, Ruchia says every polity has a right to protect its borders and that an integral part of such protection is the exercise of such forces as may be needed to provide such protection.

***

Witt was standing around at a small invitational indoor track meet, waiting his turn at the long jump, when a familiar voice came from behind him. “Still cheatin’, I see.”

He turned to see Jesse’s wiseacre smile. “Hey dipshit, what’re you doin’ here?”

Jesse grinned, “Runnin’ the 1500 meter for Miani,” he said, naming a division 2 school that was participating in the meet.

“Whoa, do they know you’re practically ineducable?”

“They haven’t figured it out so far,” Jesse said with a laugh. “You missin’ me yet?”

Shaking his head, Witt said, “Sure, but it’d take an electron microscope to see how much.”

One of the judges called, “Witt Ryllin, you’re up.”

As Witt got to his feet, Jesse said, “I love you too, asshole.”

Witt snorted as he pulled off his sweats, “Same here.”

“Hey, bud, I still owe you big time. Call if you ever need anything.”

“I will,” Witt said and turned to the judge. “Ready,” he said.

***

Reiter’s News Service, Damakus, Cyreea—To everyone’s astonishment, Barras Anshed, President of Cyreea, issued a statement today proclaiming that the country will hold fully democratic elections next summer. He says that the political situation is finally stable and ready for the restoration of complete democracy, rather than the abridged form that’s been in effect since the uprisings more than a decade ago.

Though his detractors are dubious, Anshed claims the entire populace will be eligible to vote, rather than the limited segments that have voted in the most recent elections. He also states that while he will run for the presidency again, if he fails to win office, he plans to retire to another country in order to avoid accusations that he might be jogging the elbow of the new president.

Regarding the impetus for this sudden and deeply unexpected change, speculations abound…

***

Wearing night-sight goggles, Ed, her favorite roadie, guided Allie out onto the dark stage. Leaning close, he quietly said, “You’re only about eighteen inches from the edge of the stage, so don’t step forward, okay?”

“Gotcha,” she replied, taking a wide stance and adjusting the position of her guitar strap. She could hear the murmuring and rumbling of the crowd out there in the dark, just beyond the edge of the stage.

She loved these moments just before a show started. She always had butterflies, even though it seemed that by now she should feel confident the crowd was going to like the show.

It might be that she shouldn’t have butterflies, but she hoped she’d never get so blasé that she didn’t.

A rumble, as of thunder, came from behind her on the stage. It wasn’t thunder—it came from dissonant notes played on the bass and synth—but it sure sounded like thunder. Then a small flash of the stage-left strobe popped off. The guys rumbled thunder five seconds after the flash, as if the lightning had been about a mile away.

A seven-second gap, then another flash, brighter this time, followed only a couple of seconds later by the powerful crack of the snare drum with a louder subsequent rumble.

A five-second gap, brighter flash, louder snare, and a rumble that included a few beats of a roll on the low toms.

A three-second gap, and an even brighter flash. This time she glimpsed the people crowding the stage in front of her. The snare crashed and the rumble had a louder, more sustained tom roll.

Then a two-second gap, a flash that lit the hall, and the snare almost immediately cracked loudly. The bass and synth were more in tune. The toms thundered, rolling over everyone. The sound of rain swept in from the back of the stage.

Allie stroked a power chord on her guitar and sent her slide along its strings for a screaming, descending note.

When the final eye-searing strobe went off, she could’ve seen almost everyone in the venue pointing at her. Instead, her eyes had fixed on the sax-playing kid she’d busked with on a street corner in Carson.

He was right there, in front of the stage!

She started strumming. Over the next few seconds, the rhythm section gelled their thundering beat around her. She leaned into the mic and started to sing. All the while, she kept her eye on that kid. She wanted him to climb up on the stage and play his sax with them but didn’t know how to tell him that while she was leading Eve of Destruction along a musical path that had the crowd bobbing in time. She owed it to the fans to keep going.

During the guitar solo, she turned, caught Ed’s eye, and jerked her head, calling him up to her. Then she quickly turned front and put eyes on the kid again, thinking anxiously that she couldn’t let him get away again.

They’d reached the bridge, where Allie/Eva ominously intoned “Storm bringer, harbinger; sun ringer, war singer,” and repeated it. In the gap between that and the last chorus, she held the mic away from her mouth and turned to Ed, “The kid I told you about. The one that plays the sax. He’s down there.” She pointed with her chin. “Can you bring him backstage?”

“Which one?”

She pointed with her chin again and the kid diffidently lifted a finger, showing he knew they were talking about him.

“I’ll get him,” Ed says.

“Give him that damned sax I’ve been dragging around with us.”

Ed gave her a strange look, then nodded.

~~~

When EOD took its break, Allie practically ran back to their dressing room. Bursting into the shoddy little room, she saw the kid, his back to her, playing the sax she’d bought for him.

He turned, taking the sax from his lips and giving her a curious look.

“What’s your name?!” Allie asked, a little out of breath. “I’ve been kicking myself for not getting it the day we played together on that corner.”

“Witt Ryllin,” he said. He looked at the sax. “This is a really nice instrument.”

“I bought it for you,” Allie responded, suddenly embarrassed. It seemed a very forward thing to have done for someone she’d only met once.

His eyes widened, “Really?!” He looked down at the sax again, “Wow! Thanks.”

“Would you play it?” she says almost pleadingly. “In the second half of the show, I mean.”

“Um… sure. Which song?”

“Whichever ones you know!”

“I… ah, I know them all, but I’m sure you don’t want me to—” he broke off as the door opened. Joe, Shaun, and Davis came in.

Seeing a stranger in the room with a sax in his hands, Davis’s eyes flashed with anger, “What the hell, Eva?! We talked about this and you agreed—”

“No. I didn’t agree,” she said, glaring at the cocky keyboard player. “I think someone who plays as well as this guy could take us to the next level! I want him to join us on the second set.”

“You’re not paying him a nickel out of my share!” Davis said, seething.

“I’ll pay him half of my share… this time. If Witt’s as good as I think, and he agrees to join us, you’ll have to decide whether we give him at a full share, or I leave EOD.”

Davis’s eyes widened with surprise. He glanced at Joe and Shaun. Mouth tight, he turned back to Allie and said, “We’ll see,” then slammed back out the door.

When she turned back, she found Witt staring at her. “Sorry,” she said, slumping. “I’ve been trying to find us a sax player who could do what you do and there’s been some tension about it.”

“But…” Witt said, looking confused.

Taking a deep breath and trying not to seem upset by what’d just happened, Allie said, “Can we just take things one step at a time?”

He shrugged, “Sure.”

“So, what I’d like you to do is play a little improvisation at the end of the lyric in some of the lines in some of the songs. There’re spots where the singing doesn’t go the distance. You can pick spots where you think you can add something interesting. Then, whenever I play a guitar solo, I’ll give you a nod and after I finish, you play a sax version that takes off on my solo. If it isn’t working, we can always abandon it, okay?”

He looked thoughtful for a second, then asked, “Can we modulate up one for the sax solo in Seven Soldiers?

She cocked her head, thinking. “Sure. That could sound great!” she said and looked at Joe. He nodded to indicate he got the idea of the modulation and felt sure he could handle it.

Joe said, “I’ll tell Davis about the modulation, okay?”

“Thanks,” Allie said, glad not to have to talk to Davis herself. She turned to Witt and said, “Can we talk a little about what you might do on the other songs?”

~~~

When the second set started, Allie could see some of the crowd looking askance at the fact they had a guy on the stage with a sax. But as soon as he started adding occasional licks at the end of lines, they started glancing appreciatively at one another.

When they got to the end of the guitar solo in Seven Soldiers, the modulation and Witt’s performance raised the hairs on her scalp.

The people in the crowd looked like they were melting down…

The End

Hope you liked the book!

To find other books by the author try Laury.Dahners.com.

Or his Amazon Author page

Author’s Afterword

This is a comment on the “science” in this science fiction novel. I like science fiction that poses a “what if” question. Not everything in the story has to be scientifically plausible, but you suspend your disbelief regarding one or two things that aren’t currently thought to be possible. Essentially you ask, “what if” something such as faster than light travel (or time travel, or a reactionless drive) were possible, how might that change our world?

I think the rest of the science in a science fiction story should be as real as possible.

Therefore, in this story, the central question revolves around the question “what if control of the rate of the flow of time around oneself were possible?” What might someone with this power accomplish?

Such stories—often called “time-stoppers”—where a character (frequently an antihero because of how such a power lends itself to unsavory endeavors) can control time are not new in science fiction, though most involve completely stopping time in the world around the character while they carry out various shenanigans. I’ve always been bothered by such flights of fancy because the limits of such a power are seldom addressed. For instance, if time in the world around them is stopped, how do they move objects in that world (for instance to remove someone’s clothing—in jest or with evil intent). Clothing that’s time-stopped should be immovable. And, if you’ve fully stopped time around you, aren’t you moving infinitely fast relative to that world? Wouldn’t that cause some disastrous side effects?

One side effect that concerned a few readers of the first book in this series is the way that—at high multiples of normal-time—the light emitted by Witt’s flashlight gets frequency boosted into the high UV or low x-ray range, which sounds terribly toxic. However, toxicity famously depends on both dose and duration. With a two-watt flashlight as the emitter, the energy (dose) is very low. If you argue that the amount of energy emitted per second is very high, you must consider that, out in the normal-time world where such x-rays are arriving, they arrive for an extremely brief period (low duration)—and that, therefore, the total dose to the person struck by the beam remains low. This assumes that a character doesn’t shine his flashlight on a victim for an hour of his fast-time in an effort to cause harm, (which still would only be nine seconds, or eighteen watt-seconds, which remains a small dose).

This second book in the time-flow series looks at how such a power might be used to help humankind. Even though the ability to go into fast-time would be of great help in emergencies, the likelihood is low that a hero would be present at a disaster, or otherwise find out about such a calamity in time to go into fast-time and work miracles (the way Witt does at the beginning of this story—when he’s present at a school shooting).

However, such a talent might be used to remove evildoers from power because the time constraints wouldn’t be so short. Unfortunately, as with everything in this world, nothing’s as simple as we might hope. In this kind of endeavor, the potential for unintended and adverse consequences of the assassination of an evil tyrant would be exceedingly high.

The characters in this book struggle with these possibilities and come up with an inelegant solution. We must recognize the solution they chose still has an inordinately large chance of failure. This is because their antagonist would likely continue actively working against them and they could only be there intermittently to redirect him.

Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge the editing and advice of Gail Gilman, Nora Dahners, Jerry Aguirre, Scott McNay, Michael Scott, Abiola Streete, and Stephen Wiley; each of whom significantly improved this story

Other Books and Series
by Laurence E Dahners

Series

The Ell Donsaii series

The Vaz series

The Bonesetter series

The Blindspot series

The Proton Field series

The Hyllis family series

The Time Flow series

Single books (not in series)

The Transmuter’s Daughter

Six Bits (a collection of short length stories)

Shy Kids Can Make Friends Too

The Little Redheaded Boy and His Flying Saucer

For the most up to date information go to:

Laurence E Dahners website

Or the Amazon Author page