“Honey, are you sure you followed the directions my dad sent?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Did you input the exact coordinates?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Did you remember to calibrate the navigation system before we left?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Stop saying that!”

John ducked as Sara threw a pillow at him from across the cabin.

“Now honey, you shouldn’t get upset in your condition.” He laughed as another pillow hit him in the chest.

“This ‘condition’ is partially your fault, so you’d better be watch out or it will be the last ‘condition’ that you ever contribute to!”

Sara shifted her very pregnant body in the seat, trying to look out of the craft’s small windows.

“Mom said they had a little bit of land at their new place, but this doesn’t look right.”

“You’ve never been to Aarthi 7 before – how would you know?”

“I could have sworn she mentioned the beautiful mountains, and a lake…”

John rolled his eyes. “Your mother lived in a desert flatland for the last 25 years. Anything more than six feet tall is a mountain and her definition of lake is a puddle too large to step across.”

Sara turned back to him, her concern evident. “Yes. But don’t you think it’s strange that we don’t see the houses?”

The planet beneath them was covered with lush vegetation. As they descended, he could make out massive trees with deep lavender trunks supporting smaller branches the color of a stormy summer sky. Leaves in hues of yellow and green fluttered in a soft breeze. Through it all wove a medley of flowers suspended from unseen vines, explosions of scarlet and cerulean, orange and magenta, and that purplish color Sara insisted was called mauve. But there wasn’t any sign of human habitation.

The ship sighed as it gently touched down on the surface. John checked the coordinates again, then compared them to his settlement guide.

“I can’t believe this. Your dad transposed the coordinates.”

“It looks so beautiful! Can we take a couple of minutes to stretch our legs?”

After a quick environmental safety check, John and Sara stepped from the ship. The small oasis where they had landed was clear of vegetation except for a thick covering of emerald green grass. They slowly walked around, enjoying the riot of color surrounding them.

They were nearly to the tree line when the first contraction hit.

“Honey? Is it – ” John asked as Sara struggled to breathe.

“Get me back to the ship,” she managed to blurt out.

They had only gone a few more steps when the next one hit.

“It’s too soon,” John stated. “It can’t be another contraction.”

Sara’s death grip on his arm said otherwise.

Suddenly vines burst from the ground around them. He grabbed Sara and started to pull her towards the ship but more vines blocked the way. She screamed in fear and pain as another contraction hit.

The plants surrounded Sara, twisting around her arms and legs. John pulled futilely at vines thicker than his arm. She screamed again as she was lifted her from the ground.

“Hold on! I’ll get a knife!” he cried.

But he’d only taken a couple of steps when he noticed a change. The vine had stopped growing; instead, it was twisting around itself, forming a dense structure just a few feet off the ground. He watched in amazement as Sara was slowly lowered onto a bed of green.

“John? What – ” Sara’s question was cut off as pain wracked her body.

“Breathe, honey. Breathe.”

As Sara struggled to control her breathing, the vegetation continued to shift. A canopy of leaves formed over her head, shading her from the dual suns. Another leaf opened near her face and began to sway gently, magnifying the light breeze.

Her childbirth progressed and the plant continued to alter. A leaf appeared that dripped cool, sweet liquid onto her parched lips. When the contractions became almost unbearable, another liquid appeared to ease the pain. And when the baby was born, his father’s hands were supported by leaves as soft as cotton.

Sara lay exhausted against the vines as John looked down at the tiny baby in his arms. Brilliant flowers bloomed around them, echoing his joy and amazement.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, lost in the moment. But eventually he became conscious of motion behind him. Turning, he watched as the grass undulated, each ripple moving the ship closer.

It stopped a few feet away. More vines appeared from the ground and opened the cabin door. Sara’s bed uncoiled and the long vines again lifted her into the air. But this time they softly placed her gently inside the ship.

When John and the baby had entered, the door was firmly closed behind them. Without a word, he handed the baby to Sara and lifted off. As they left the ground the clearing disappeared, engulfed by the forest.

“What just happened?” she asked.

The baby started to cry and Sara held him to her breast. As his son quietly nursed, John met Sara’s eyes.

“I’m not sure how, but I think nature joined us in the miracle of birth.”

“I don’t think I have any other questions for you tonight. Thank you for your cooperation and you are free to go.” I said. I breathed a sigh of relief as the lizard-like creature shuffled off into the night. Despite my dual degree in alien biology and criminal justice, there were some things you couldn’t learn in school; dealing with the stench of a Rexat was one of them. To be honest, if a teacher had told me that I’d need to get up close and personal with an individual who smelled like rotting flesh and cow manure, I might have changed my major.

But it was too late for that now. And the Rexat, while thoroughly repulsive, had given me some valuable information; the victim’s body had been cold before he became the creature’s midnight snack.

The victim’s name was Jimmy Chu and he was a regular at the dark side casinos. A small-time gambler, he made enough to keep himself in booze and females but not enough to move up to the light side establishments. I also knew that he occasionally supplemented his income by snitching to one of the detectives on the force – me.

Despite Jimmy’s self-destructive lifestyle, I suspected that his death was related to my latest case. The Rexat had done some serious gnawing on poor Jimmy, but enough was left to tell that he hadn’t died of natural causes. When I’d last checked, not even a Centaur could cut off his own head and tuck it under his tail. Centaurs weren’t easy to take down, so that narrowed the list of suspects.

I’d had the counterfeiting case for two months and I'd have been better off banging my head against a wall. Everybody knew that Georgi Yarusso was counterfeiting casino chips, but nobody had been able to prove it. Then last week, Jimmy needed some money and stopped by to see me. He’d dropped a name, I’d dropped some cash and we’d both walked away happy.

Thanks to Jimmy’s tip, I’d arrested Georgi’s lead artist that morning. The artist was tough, a mixed-race man who looked like his parents had been a little bit human and a whole lot of feline. His nose had twitched in disgust when I'd put him in the car with a human officer. At the station, he’d been immune to our standard interrogation techniques. I’d left him to simmer for a little while in holding; it was unfortunate for his sensitive nose that the only cell available was between a Rexat and a drunken tourist we’d fished out of the sewer.

Georgi had a lot of people like the artist on his payroll, but word on the street was that he prided himself on doing the dirty jobs himself. He was a big creature of indeterminate race, with massive arms and a powerful chest. He also had quick reflexes and no conscience; Jimmy wouldn’t have stood a chance.

I gave a nod to the coroner. “Bag him.” The assistant started to put Jimmy’s head in the body bag. Suddenly she screamed and dropped it. Jimmy fell in one direction while a fat rodent ran the other. As his head rolled past my feet, something about the position of the teeth caught my eye.

It took two of us to pry open his mouth, but what I found was worth the effort. Jimmy had done more than leave me a clue; he had left me his killer’s finger. It was the same shade of green as Georgi.

I found Georgi at Little Harry’s casino, one of the most popular on the dark side.

“You slumming it tonight, Georgi?” I asked. His grin was cold and heartless.

“Just relaxing, detective. You got a problem with that?”

“Not at all Georgi. Mind if I see your hands?”

Georgi’s grin widened as he spread his hands on the roulette wheel. My mind raced as I counted eight fingers on each hand – all present and accounted for.

“Something wrong?” The fake innocence in his voice taunted me.

The finger I'd found in Jimmy’s mouth was a perfect match to the ones before me. Same shape. Same size. Same color. The DNA would be a match – but by the time I got the results, Georgi would be long gone. I needed evidence now.

I flicked my wrist and extended my claws. Before Georgi knew what was happening I slashed them across his face. Four deep gashes appeared on his cheek as he roared with rage. A single drop of green blood appeared and then the cuts sealed. The entire casino watched as his body regenerated the skin I had stripped away.

“So, looks like you have a little of the lizard in you, Georgi. How long did it take for your finger to grow back? Twenty minutes? Still, I’ll bet it hurt like Hades when Jimmy took it off.”

“That little trick of yours gives me an excuse to hold you pending a DNA test.” I nodded to the team of officers with me. “Georgi Yarusso, you are under arrest for the murder of Jimmy Chu.”

I watched as the cuffs were slapped on his wrists and the officers led him away. It was too late for Jimmy, but at least I could see that his killer was brought to justice.

Official Report of Event 8901.15833

Date: 2 March 15833
Time: 0316 Standard Sphere Time
Event: Collision

Summary: An object sized 4 millimeters in diameter made contact with the sphere plating in section AA-35 of sector delta, coordinates **CLASSIFIED**. The object is composed of high concentrations of nickel and iron, with carbon, hydrogen, and silicon compounds detectable in trace amounts. The impact resulted in a breach in the outer plating and a power surge in the weather station located in North Naples, New Italy, interior section AA-35 of sector delta. Maintenance crews have been dispatched to the North Naples weather station and airlock AA-35-D for repairs. Copies of requisition forms and maintenance crew reports are attached.

Conclusions: While the damage was minimal and limited to a single section of the sphere, it is disturbing that the sensor grid could not detect the meteoroid until mere milliseconds before impact. It is entirely possible that larger objects capable of extensive damage could approach the sphere undetected. I recommend a complete overhaul of the sensor grid, with both software and hardware revisions.

Signed,
Amir Goetz
Engineer (level 3)
Office of the Exterior

*****

"I'm telling you, there's more to it than space debris. Have you even looked at the reports?"

"Yes, I've seen them. Typical government reports, thin on the details, heavy on the techno babble."

Gibbs huffed impatiently and planted his hands on his boss's desk. "But have you read them? Scoured them? Picked over every detail? If you were the man I used to know-"

"Let me stop you right there before one of us ends up with a bloody nose and a pink slip," O'Neill barked at the senior reporter, "and by 'one of us', I mean you!"

Gibbs pushed off the desk and began pacing, his spindly legs eating up the distance between the walls. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I spent the whole weekend drudging through incident reports and repair logs and maps and blueprints and, dammit, I think there's something there." He paused at the window; a pigeon strutted its way across the ledge, ignorant of the urgency on the other side of the glass. "I think it has something to do with the quakes."

"Of course it does." O'Neill sighed and sipped out of a mug emblazoned with the words, "Greatest Grandpa." "Anything hits the sphere, there are going to be vibrations. Earthquakes, tsunamis, you name it."

"Really? You believe that?" Gibbs shook his head, exasperated. "These quakes are being detected halfway around the sphere!"

"Stop exaggerating. A quake like that would be catastrophic. It would mean the end of all human life, trillions of people shaking loose of the sphere and out into space." The newspaperman waved his arms in mock terror and chuckled.

"Alright. Fine. So they're all just localized events. But they're not even supposed to be happening! The sphere is the finest piece of technology in the universe, remember?" Gibbs held up his hands in surrender. "Know what? Never mind. I have an appointment anyway – guy says he has proof the quakes aren't being caused by itty bitty meteoroids."

O'Neill shook his head and slurped at his coffee. "Course you do. Get back to me on that, would you?"

*****

The parking garage was a dank and vile place, smelling of garbage, rust, and excretions. Gibbs strolled down the aisle, humming tunelessly and tensing at every sound, his boots clicking on the concrete sounding very much like the ticking of a clock. Twice he saw a rat mosey across his path. He hated that word; it made him think of cheesy westerns from the Earth of long ago, in which unwashed men wore giant unwashed hats and shot at each other for sport. And yet, mosey the rats did, their beady little eyes giving off that same steely glint he had seen in the glares of those ancient gunfighters.

He reached the end of the aisle and turned back. It was the third time he had paced the length of the garage, and he was beginning to think he'd been had. Gibbs sighed. There was no sign of his source, but a few yards ahead a red exit sign beckoned to the weary reporter, enticing him out of the gloom and doom of his dreary mood, not to mention the stinking garage.

His mind made up, Gibbs aimed his boots towards the stairwell.

"Marcus Gibbs?"

Gibbs jumped at the nervous whisper coming from behind a station wagon. "Yeah. You my source?"

A small dark man in black jeans and a blue polo shirt ducked out from his hiding place. "I- I'm not so sure this is a good idea."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Then why did you ask me here? Huh? Why are you wasting my time?"

"I found your trail. You hacked into the government. I should turn you in," he threatened shakily.

"Then do it. I'm out of here." Gibbs started to walk away.

"No, wait!"

Gibbs slowed. "Give me a reason."

"I saw what you were looking at. You only found the official reports." The man held out a photograph.

*****

Gibbs sat across from O'Neill, the photo on the desk between them. "That's not a meteoroid."

"No sir, it isn't."

"If we publish this-"

"Panic. Riots. Chaos."

"The people have a right to know."

"It's your call, boss."

"Go ahead. Walk down to the end of the beach, then walk back. You'll see what I'm talking about."

"I'm busy," I replied, wiping down the bar.

"I'll watch the bar," P'og slurred. Behind him, sunlight glittered on the surface of the Great Sea.

"No thanks."

"Just do it," P'og insisted. "I'm too drunk to steal anything. Walk to the end of the beach, then walk back, and look at the sand. You'll see."

What the heck, I finally decided. I'll humor him.

I walked down to the sand. Behind me, at the counter of the seaside bar I own, P'og mumbled to himself. I strolled along the beach, enjoying the warm light of the ever-present Sun.

When I got to the dunes, I turned and walked back, looking at the sand as P'og had instructed. I saw a few seashells; a hunk of bone-white driftwood. A green crab scuttled across my shadow. There was nothing out of the ordinary, except —

I paused. My shadow.

What in the world?

I hurried back to the bar, where P'og had helped himself to another drink.

"Did you see it?"

I ignored him, turning on the radio next to the cash register.

"— hour ago when the phenomenon was first reported. We are now going live to M'aro Malkez on the western shore, who has further details on this strange occurrence."

"Scientists all over the Island have confirmed that the Sun is shifting its position," another voice said. "More alarming is the fact that it shows no signs of slowing ...."

I didn't hear anything after that. The only thing I could think of was finding my wife, S'andara.

"Where are you going?" P'og called after me. "I'm still thirsty, you know."

I got behind the handlebars of my bicycle and made my way up to the road, my shadow getting longer and longer on the pavement. Cars were stopped along the highway; people were clustered at the roadside, looking up in awe.

The usually brilliant sky had begun to darken on the eastern horizon. Clouds were forming to the west, and the Sun's fading rays had stained them a pink color that was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying.

The city was in chaos. I saw a woman on her knees, screaming up at the sky in fear. "The Sun is falling into the Great Sea!" she wailed. There was a thunderous crash to my left as the roof of a car caved in, and I realized with a kind of detached horror that someone had leaped out a window in desperation.

The security desk at S'andara's building was unoccupied. I stopped a fleeing worker and learned that the most of the building's occupants had gone to the roof to watch the spectacle.

The elevator rose over a courtyard that is always bathed in blazing sunlight. But now it was as though I was peering at everything through a black lens.

By the time I got to the roof, the Sun was a hazy blob on the horizon. The Great Sea shimmered like gold, and the sky was suffused with a yellow glow. The air, usually warm, had chilled noticeably.

I pushed my way through crowds of office workers until I found S'andara. She hugged me fiercely.

"I'm cold," she said, trembling.

"Don't worry," I whispered, choking back my own fear. "Whatever happens, we're together."

The crowd gasped as our fiery god vanished from sight. There was a final, brilliant flash as it dipped below the horizon, seeming to sink into the Great Sea.

Someone had a radio, and we huddled around to hear a message from President H'tal.

"Citizens of the Island," she said, her voice grave. "I share your fear and uncertainty. Please know that at this very moment, top scientists are working to discover the cause of this phenomenon."

There was a long pause, and a shuffling of papers.

"I have just been informed that, according to forecasts, the Sun will return to the sky within 12 hours."

There was applause across the rooftop. Whoops of jubilation drifted up from the streets below.

"It appears that the planet's orbit has been altered by the pull of a passing comet," President H'tal explained. "In consequence, our world has begun to rotate. If these projections are accurate, the Sun will sink beyond the western horizon approximately every 24 hours, plunging the Island into darkness. It will return about 12 hours later, rising from the east."

More murmurs from the crowd; panic this time, and disbelief.

"I know that the idea of a periodic loss of sunlight seems unthinkable," H'tal said. "But until such time as our orbit rights itself, this is something we all must accept."

"Of greater concern," the president continued, "is the fact that while we are shrouded in darkness, the Sun will shine on the blighted wastelands on the planet's opposite side. The foul inhabitants of those regions remain blind and primitive, but in time, and with the help of the Sun's energy, they may develop technologies capable of waging war against the Island. You have my assurance that our armies will remain vigilant ...."

She may have said more; I didn't hear. My body was numb. I knew I had to stay strong for S'andara, but it was more than I could fathom.

12 hours of cold and darkness ... a sky without sunlight.

How would we survive?

The flight of gryphons leapt skyward, light from the twin suns gleaming off their steel-shod talons. Prince Haldred thrust his hand outward and a bolt of energy crackled after the retreating dragon. The troops gathered below cheered their prince and began to regroup around their company standards in preparation for a final charge. The Prince widened his stance and held both arms aloft, outstretched. The wind whipped his midnight blue cloak.

“I am Death come to wreak vengeance on those who dare attack us!” His cry boomed unnaturally from the surrounding hills. The army gave voice to another raucous, rolling cheer that ebbed and flowed until it resolved into a mighty chant.

“Haldred! Haldred! Haldred!” they went on and on. A golden aura wrapped the Prince and drove his followers to even greater ecstasy.

“To the attack!” Haldred ordered. The army turned as one and charged after their enemy who was already in disarray. The aura subsided and the Prince lowered his arms, but he remained planted on the edge of the hill, resplendent in power.

“Excuse me, my Lord,” a small voice said from behind. Haldred turned to see his father’s oldest advisor, Malarol, perched like a child on a giant roan charger.

“What is it,” the Prince sighed, turning his back on his triumph.

“Your father requests that you return to him. The battle is won; we have carried the day. Let the army finish their work.”

“The army needs me, Malarol. The people need me. Tell my father I will return when I have personally sealed the victory.”

“Your father, the King, orders that you return to him at once, my Lord.” Malarol turned his head away, glancing sidelong at the Prince, and hunched as if ready for a blow.

Prince Haldred studied Malarol for a moment in thought, then turned his back on him to survey the field below. Malarol dismounted and scuttled around to face the Prince.

“Well?” Malarol queried with equal parts supplication and exasperation. “Shall we go?”

“A warrior belongs with his army, Malarol. Not behind the lines hunched over a bunch of maps scratching about like a hen, waiting for others to report what he should be seeing with his own eyes.”

Malarol straightened at this last remark. Haldred thought he seemed taller than he remembered.

“You are right, my Prince,” Malarol almost sneered at him. “It is always good to see with one’s own eyes.”

Malarol raised his hand to cover his face for a moment, and as he lowered it with a practiced gesture, Malarol’s features dissolved into those of the King, who grew even larger still. Malarol’s foppish courtier’s clothing changed into the King’s famous silver chainmail, with an ermine cloak matching the white hair that swept from his brow. The hilt of Sunspear, his mighty greatsword, protruded over his left shoulder, twin suns engraved upon the ends of the quillon.

“Father,” Haldred exclaimed, with a slight nod of the head. “Forgive my hasty words. The heat of battle still rages in me and I spoke rashly.”

“Heat of battle?” the King snorted. He reached a hand toward Haldred’s forehead and parted his golden hair. A simple leather band circled his head, and at the front pulsed a blood red jewel, power seething in scabrous veins running throughout. “How could you?” he whispered.

“How could I not?” countered Haldred. “Would you see our lands in ruin, vanquished? One of us had to do what was necessary, and we both knew it would not be you.”

“Fool!” the King roared. “You have no idea what you have done!” He turned and marched towards the Prince’s field pavilion. The Prince scrambled to deflect him, attempting at each step to interpose himself between the King and the tent, but the King brushed past him.

Ten paces from the tent, the King thrust his hands, palms out, towards the pavilion. The cloth ripped away from the ropes as is from a mighty tornado, revealing a gruesome scene. Haldred’s mentor, the Wizard Embry, stood drenched in blood. A smoking brazier smoldered with the remains of his horrific sacrifices. Three enemy soldiers stood: bound, blindfolded, and shaking. The rest of the space was filled with the bodies of enemy soldiers, each one with a gaping hole in his chest. The flicker of the dying flames in the brazier mirrored the pulsing jewel on the Prince’s forehead.

A wordless scream leapt from the King’s lips. He pulled Sunspear free with a single fluid motion and grabbed the hilt with both hands. The three soldiers fell to the ground at the great sound. Embry cast a quick spell and his body became shrouded in a shimmering green haze. Haldred stood helplessly by, feeling himself once again a child at his father’s knee.

The King rushed the tent while Embry added to his defenses, shining as brightly as the twin suns. Sunspear whilred overhead in a might arc and cleaved Embry and his defenses in two as easily as a scythe reaps the summer grain. Embry’s falling body knocked the smoking brazier into the dirt.

The King sheathed Sunspear, which was already spotless, having burned off all traces of the foul Embry. He walked slowly to where Haldred remained rooted and puts his hands gently on his son’s shoulders.

“I fear that this victory has come at too great a cost.” He turned, head bowed, and walked away.

Wally opened his eyes to a familiar sight. He was back in his bar in south Philly! But. . . ?

How could this be? He hadn’t felt the impact of those pellets hitting him, but he definitely remembered Death standing there, saying good bye. OK, he was dead, but back in his bar? Something’s amiss here, he thought. The place was full of . . dead people having a good time?

“Hey Wally, let me have another,” said a woman.

Another of what?

“Sorry, I’ve forgotten what you were drinking,” moving towards her, wiping his hands.

”Stoli of course, silly.” She giggled, flashing a smile.

“Coming right up.” Wally turned and looked at his stock behind the bar. All familiar bottles of various liquors stood there. Among them, a strange colored vodka. It said Stolichnaya on the label, but opaque, dark cream colored? He quickly tried a small taste. Honeyed nectar? He turned to fill her glass.

“Thanks, you’re a dear,” smiling again. He returned the bottle to its spot and checked the others. Each one, regardless of the label, held the exact same liquid.

No money was offered, and strangely, he wasn’t asking for payment either, just pouring, cleaning glasses and humming to himself as he worked. He never hummed before. Why weren’t they paying? The bottles never emptied either.

The lights suddenly flickered and everyone brought their glasses to the counter and smiled goodbyes as they filed out.

“Weird, but nice too,” he thought and he began washing out the glasses, still humming to himself when he realized everyone had been wearing white robes. He checked himself and sure enough. Quickly adding up the clues, Wally figured he was in Heaven. How, he didn’t know. He was never a religious person, never thought about going there or anywhere after he died. Just lived his life and rolled with the punches as they came. Now this? What about St. Peter and the pearly gates thingy? He didn’t remember any of that stuff that you heard was supposed to happen, happening.

Even those encounters with Seymour before hadn’t brought thoughts of the afterlife much more into focus for him. Pouring punch for eternal happy hours was his destiny? It wasn’t that bad a job for him when he was alive, kept him content and gave him purpose.

“So, OK! I’m the bartender of a juice bar in Heaven, I guess.”

“Hello Wally.” A familiar voice toned behind him. Wally’s shoulders jerked almost imperceptibly and he turned to see Seymour standing there, then a slightly smaller figure, equally dark robed, nothing visible but glowing eyes under the hood, red this time. A quite ominous looking fellow.

“I brought along Charon - told him about your enquiry about the souls he carries across the Styx, so we came to see. Doesn’t look like much has changed for you except your wardrobe. Set up two whiskeys, will you?” Two stacks of silver dollars appeared on the bar.

“I’m not sure about this Seymour, there doesn’t appear to be any . . .”

“Just pour us two shots of Crown, Wally, it’s OK. We can only stay for a minute anyway.”

Wally set up two shots and poured the bottle. Amber liquid filled the glasses. Two bony hands scooped them up and drank them down. Wally collected the coins and slipped them into a pocket on his robe.

“What’s going on here, Seymour? Am I dead or what?”

“Oh, most assuredly you’re dead, Wally. Remember Ernestine and the shotgun? You’ve got a real head on your shoulders again!” The smaller figure chuckled a little at the remark.

“That’s why I like to hang with Charon, he’s the only one that laughs at my jokes.”

“Is this heaven then, and how is it you’re here, and, and him?”

“It is all what you make of it, Wally. There’s no definite this place or that. Heaven, HeII, Paradise, Nirvana, Celestial Kingdom, whatever. Where would we put them all? You die, you open your eyes to what you are expecting to see. Except, maybe for Paradise. Some of those Muslims are being really misguided. They die regular, sure, it’s Paradise and 72 virgins running around to chase. You blow yourselves into pieces, you arrive in a bucket and all you can do is blow bubbles forever. Lots of buckets there. I can’t even get a whole soul out of them, so we just bring everything. You’ve even got a few buckets in here, you just can’t see them. Everything overlaps. If you don’t believe it, you don’t see it. Simple and space saving.”

“Makes a mess outta me boat,” Charon chimed in. That voice gave Wally the shivers.

“So that’s the strange smell?”

“No, Wally, that smell is from the ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ area. A rumor started that Richard Gere is coming soon. I think they’re sacrificing gerbils. We don’t need to explain that do we? We really gotta scoot here, Wally. A California cult just went all wonky and 244 people are expecting their lunch to transport them to another world. I’ll be back when I can, you’re looking good!”

“But my questions!” Too late, the figures were gone as quickly as they came.

Wally returned to the glasses and frustrated, began to ponder what Seymour had said.

“Do you have any wine?”

“Jesus, you scared me.” Wally faced the bar again.

“I’m sorry, how did you guess it was me?”

I blame the mouthwash.

My wife always buys the super-sized bottles in bulk from the local warehouse store and keeps them on the top shelf of the linen closet. They must have been on sale because she had bought one more than would safely fit on that shelf. I wanted a towel; I got a bump on the head.

I know that the logical move would have been to go to the hospital. As a matter of fact, that’s what is required by law. But to be honest, I was looking forward to a romantic dinner with my wife and I didn’t want to swap it for the sterile antiseptic ambiance of the local emergency room and a myriad of government forms. So I popped a couple of aspirin, put on my Sunday best and headed out on the town.

It was while we were deciding between the brie and the calamari that I became aware that something wasn’t quite right. I suggested the brie and my wife agreed. I changed my mind and suggested the calamari; again, she agreed. I changed my mind again, and again she acquiesced.

When the waiter came, I went through the same routine. No matter how many times I changed my order, he merely smiled and adjusted the ticket.

Throughout the night I tried to force a response from somebody. The sommelier, waiter, chef – I challenged each of them. And each time they smiled, accepted my criticism and accommodated my request.

I asked my wife about it on the way home.

“Jenny, did you notice anything strange at the restaurant tonight?” I casually asked.

“No, I thought it was wonderful. Why?”

“You didn’t think that there was anything strange about the personnel?”

She thought a moment. “Well, I did notice that the pattern of the sommelier’s tie was made up of little dancing penguins. I thought that was a tad unusual.”

“Didn’t they all seem too…agreeable?”

Her puzzled silence was the only answer I needed.

“I’m just teasing, I thought they were all wonderful tonight.” Then I changed the topic.

That was how it started. As I went about my daily routine, everybody was always courteous, always helpful. I never heard a harsh word, people never disagreed. Everybody got along.

It seemed too good to believe, so I ran some small tests. I stepped out into the middle of traffic; the drivers stopped, smiled and let me cross the street. I waited until it was my turn at the cash register, then took an “emergency” phone call, holding up the line; the other customers patiently waited. I sat through three traffic light cycles; not a single horn honked. It was like I was in the middle of a strange river; no matter what I did, the current continued to flow around me, but without a ripple.

The total complacency grated on my nerves. I tried to ignore it, tried to enjoy it. But I craved something more than surface interactions; I wanted real emotion, spontaneous emotion.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I finally confided to Jenny. I explained to her my experiments and observations and was rewarded by the look of horro on her face. I felt a wonderful sense of relief knowing that she understood what I was saying, that I wasn't alone.

They came to get me that night. Jenny smiled and told me that it was for my own good, that an “illness” was to blame for my delusions. Everybody agreed with her.

The doctors here have expanded on her theory. They think I might have sustained a severe head trauma at some time in the past that has caused a severe psychological disorder. I deny it. I point out the lack of emotion in the population. I plead my case. I argue. I pray that they'll argue back. Like everybody else, they smile and agree with me.

And keep me locked up.

I’ve had a lot of time to think in here. Prior to that fateful night, I can’t remember a single time in my life when I felt strongly enough to disagree with anybody. Or to fight for anything.

I have my own theory. I think that the bump on my head unlocked an area of my brain that is dormant in the rest of the population. I think the government knows about it, and that’s why head trauma is treated so seriously. I think they are perfectly happy with a complacent population.

I think I’m forever trapped in world of agreeable people.

For as long as I can remember the city has always stank. As soon as I step out of the clinical, controlled atmosphere of the air-conditioned shopping centre I’m hit with the unwavering stench like new plastic, solvents, and chemical fire; around me swarm an oblivious ebb and tide of shoppers spilling back and forth through the imposing, corroding doors of the MegaMall, happily spending while I fight the urge to gag and run back inside.

Yet no one else notices. You ask any Random Joe and he'll think the air is as pure and as sweet as can be. “The filters,” he’ll say, pointing up to the patina of grime on the thick glass above. Beyond the dreary, concrete-and-plastic-turf suburbs The Dome rises up to supposedly protect us from the suffocating smog and insatiable acid rain outside: the products of a century of rapid, rabid industrialisation and the resultant factories that rise like monoliths outside the curved glass. But nobody notices that The Dome is useless; while I fill my apartment with additional fans and purifiers scented like "fresh meadow" (like anyone knows what that smells like), everyone else lives unperturbed, unable to sense the harm they inhale.

Well, not everyone. There’s only one other I know, and as I walk through the car park with its seemingly endless rows of grey three-wheelers, I head towards where I know I'll find him. Over the river with its ornate footbridge, past the muted terraces decorated with iron lacework, beyond the miserable line of aging restaurants and pubs with their forced hubris and anaemic waiters, I find the narrow alleyway, almost obscured by a permanent guard of aluminium rubbish bins: it's here, down the back in a little basement hovel of stained white tiles and tarnished chrome, I find Antony.

I always find Antony, a permanent fixture at the table in the back corner with the dusty plastic pot plant and large fan beside him, immutable with his paper in one hand, coffee in the other and cigarette constantly in the corner of his lips. We met by chance four years ago, two strangers seeking sanctuary from the fumes, and we’ve been close ever since. Every day after work I join him, sipping impossibly potent espresso and talking about life and everything else, Antony forever riding a manic line between ambivalence and passion.

He tells me he has a job, but I still haven’t worked out what he does, nor have I worked out how old he is; with his greying, untidy mop hair and his youthful, expressive face, he seems almost ageless. Tall and spindly, he holds his shoulders in a constant shrug and when he talks his hands articulate with fine, fluid gestures. He says his family is from the Alps but it isn’t as glamorous as it sounds, and I have no reason to doubt him. “At least the air was clean there,” he tells me and I try to imagine what that must be like.

But today, the typical slouch and leisurely flip of the paper has been replaced with a tense hunch over the table. “Ah, Millicent!” he calls as I walk through the door, sending the little bell tingling and I notice a breathing mask, like the ones the men in the factories use, sitting on the table. The waiter wordlessly places a tiny cup in front of me as I settle in the vinyl chair. “C’mon, Antony, something’s up.”

“Millie, can I ask you something?” he says and I nod. “I’m leaving. I can’t take it anymore. Come with me.”

“That wasn’t a question, Antony,” I say but he doesn’t smile.

“I mean it. I can’t breath anymore. The air, it’s too much. Can’t you smell it in here?”

“Yeah, a little . . .”

“But it’s not a little, not for me. For me it’s a lot and it’s drowning me. I have to get out and you too. Come with me. I have a van, we can drive until we find somewhere clean again. I don’t want to leave you behind!” He clutches my hand and I jump – in four years of intense friendship it’s the first time we’ve ever physically touched.

“Hang on, it’s not that simple. What about my life? What about my job?” I say, prying my hand free.

“You hate your job.”

“Yeah, I know but . . .”

“Come on, Millie! You hate it here, I hate it here . . .”

“But I can’t just leave! And they’ll never let us out of The Dome, not in a van. We hit one rainstorm and it’ll be corroded through and we'll die!”

“But it’s reinforced! Millie, I don’t want to leave you. What’s happening to me now, it’ll happen to you. Think about it. Please,” he says as scribbles something on the newspaper. “My address. If I don’t get an answer from you I’m leaving in a week anyway.” And I’ll never forget the look in his eyes as he pressed the torn page in my fingers and left . . .

----------------------------------------

There’s grass. Real grass. And the air is light and fresh and the clouds are white like clean cotton and I’m running down the hill, spinning, laughing. I turn to look at Antony leaning against the van, a sly smile on his lips and his wild hair blowing in the breeze and, finally, I’m happy.

The sensation of cold metal against my left cheek woke me, and I opened my eyes cautiously. This wouldn't be the first time that I had found a weapon pressed against my face, and I wanted to appear less alert than I was.

I tried to hold back my breath of relief at finding the truth: it was simply the metallic implant in the right arm of the woman that currently shared my bed. It was likely a new modification where the skin hadn't completely healed. Though who knew -- maybe she had an odd sense of humor and liked literally giving people the cold shoulder.

She called herself Angela. And maybe it was her birth name; that would be refreshing. She had multi-colored angel wings tattooed onto her back which jutted out into the third dimension, depending on what angle you looked. Her hair reached the back of her neck. It was striped in streaks of copper, lime green and indigo, as that's all the rage this year. She probably had other adjustments, but that's all that was visible, even with her clothing hung over the nearby end table.

It was a statement of the times -- April 22nd 2517, 7:07:14 am according to my internal clock courtesy of Samplison Industries -- that these things made her neither unusual nor truly normal. You had to go far out of your way to completely avoid technology being part of you, and since it meant a longer, healthier life, mostly hermits or some with strange religions fought it. Plus it was a status symbol to many: the more you could afford to do to yourself and the newer the tech in your bloodstream, the more upper crust many felt you were.

I didn't believe that myself, but I certainly embraced it. Most of my body was sculpted in a reptilian aspect, and all of it paid by the sweat of my hard work. It was just part being me, Snake Garrett, drummer for Organized Chaos, still one of the more popular and influential bands in the land! We worked our way up from nobodies to superstars, and I've got to say that even the ride back down has been a heck of a lot of fun. I'd had more than my share of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll.

Ah, yes, the women. A lot of them were interested in me for the money -- that life of jewelry, vehicles and exotic food. Some wanted the fame, either the paparazzi or the bragging rights of being with someone famous. A few wanted safety from the gritty and unforgiving streets, needing a life among the clouds or even a fresh start on another planet.

None of them were like Angela, though. She seemed to have a rare trait for today's age: she cared. I've had people of several species and genders lie to me. One's true emotions can be the hardest thing to detect, in an age where voice chips, lie detectors (and counter-detectors) are added to simple deceit. I didn't need technology to tell me that she was sincere about wanting to spend time with the man behind the legend, behind the mask.

I sighed. I hated getting older. It left me feeling like I was getting too sentimental. Too philosophical. Asking too many questions that had no real answer. #1 on my list: I think she was in love with me -- was I with her?

Advances in technology allowed me to do any number of wonderful things. It translated my words -- and probably my thoughts -- not only into a language they would understand, but into a simple, even polite dialect. It could take me anywhere and show me anything, even if it had to be through one of a multitude of virtual worlds. It made sure I and everyone I knew were healthy, fed, and kept in the level of contact we wished.

What it couldn't do is handle emotions. It could give me the definition of "love". It could produce examples of writings on it from Shakespeare's sonnets to the latest romance novel. It could talk about the variety of relationships and chemical responses and on and on.

What it couldn't do is tell me how I truly felt. And the worst part, was, I didn't have the answer. Maybe it was wanting to spend more time together. Looking after each other; even helping if some new illness slipped past the biomedical defenses. Maybe, just maybe, I already had it and just didn't realize it. Though I couldn't complain about life now, I'd had my share of rough times and hurt. It could be that I'd forgotten exactly what I was looking for.

Angela stirred, and woke. She turned to me with an impish grin. "Don't you look pensive. What are you thinking about?"

I blinked. According to my internal clock, I'd been staring at her for 37 minutes and 4 seconds. I partially opened the blinds, letting rays of sunlight shine on us both.

"Breakfast," I said, kissing her on the cheek. My questions would wait some more, I supposed. "And whether to go out or stay in."

Jent and Clary stepped out of the tube. The door slid closed as the two of them stood silently watching while the tube slid back out of sight without a sound. This was the end of the line, and they’d been the only ones left on board for the last few stops; but it wasn’t until they saw the tube disappear, that they realized how isolated they really were.

Clary swiped her sleeve across her forehead in an inadequate attempt to staunch the rivulets of sweat that were already running down her face. “Wow,” she said, “it is really hot out here.”

Jent smiled encouragingly at her as he dug in his pocket for a piece of paper “That’s for sure. We’d better get going.” Jent glanced up at the sky and then down at his map. “It looks like about three hours until sunrise and I think it will take about two hours to reach our stead.”

They began walking, looking around at the bleak, barren landscape as they wended their way in a generally southward direction. They didn’t speak much, but mostly conserved their energy for the tiring journey. Once, when they crested the top of a small hill, Clary turned to look back and then whistled softly. Jent turned, followed her gaze, and smiled. “City sure looks pretty from here, all lit up like that.”

“It’s something,” said Clary. “I remember my granddad talking about the first outpost when he was a kid, and now Newton is self-sustaining and even starting some settlements.”

Jent grinned again as he resumed walking at a brisk pace. “It’s the chance of a lifetime.” He kicked a clump of hard, red rock. “They give us a prefab, some tools, and a square of land. If we can live on the edge for five years and terraform 45 percent of our land, then we earn our citizenship and get to keep our homestead.”

Clary didn’t answer him. Partially because she was having a difficult time breathing and keeping up with him, and partially because she wasn’t so sure she shared her husband’s enthusiasm. Applying to stead had sounded good when he talked about it in the relative comfort of their apartment, but as she looked around the desolate landscape, she really found herself wondering if they would be able to survive.

“Wait for me,” she called as she ran a few steps to catch up with Jent. She’d almost reached him, when her foot caught on a rock and she went sprawling.

“Are you OK?” he asked with concern.

Clary could only shake her head and cradle her throbbing ankle. “It looks sprained,” said Jent. “There’s our water pole right there, and here’s where they’ve precut the irrigation ditches. Our place should be just beyond that pile of rocks.” He managed to pick her up and stumble a few feet forward, but then he was forced to set her back down.

“I’ll go get the wheelbarrow from our settlement kit. It shouldn’t take long at all.” He took off at a brisk pace

Clary looked at her wrist monitor. It was almost four in the morning and the temperature was already 125 degrees. She hoped Jent would hurry.

As she lay there panting, she found herself thinking. She remembered how surprised she’d been to learn that the old Earthers had thought that the biggest problem with colonization would be breathing. They hadn’t realized that the universe was full of Oxies once they got outside of their own solar system. The problem was the heat.

Humans could thrive near the poles of most planets; but beyond that they had to fight to survive. All across the universe, steaders like Clary and Jent struggled to plant genetically modified trees and grasses, bring in water, and slowly expand the inhabitable area. They might not be able to make a whole planet livable, but they would push it as far as they could.

Hints of pink were tingeing the horizon by the time Jent got back, and Clary was barely conscious. He dumped her into the wheelbarrow, and took off running. “Come on, come on, “ he whispered. “Stay with me.”

Clary stirred slightly and moaned in pain as the wheelbarrow bounced across the rock. “Just a little bit further,” he encouraged. “You’ll love our prefab. There are three rooms and it looks huge.” He glanced nervously at the sky and then back down at his wife. Jent knew they should have been indoors half an hour ago. Now he had mere seconds until the sun slipped over the horizon

He was running on pure adrenaline as he pushed onward over the craggy rocks and patches of scorched earth. “You’ll see it in a minute. It doesn’t look like much from the outside. It mostly looks like a bunch of mirrors with all the solar panels. But once you get underground, it’s perfect.” He kept babbling as he ran.

The first streaks of early dawn were breaking through when they finally cycled through the airlock into safety. Clary stirred as she felt the 90-degree air hit her like an arctic blast. “You’d better get me a wrap for my ankle,” she smiled up at her husband weakly. “There’s a lot to be done, and I’m not going to be much help around here until it heals.”