Roswell Fanatics

Fatigue is a progressive process – but certainly not a linear one. After a certain period of wakefulness most people start to feel fatigued. Over the next ten to twelve hours, the fatigue becomes intense. But then it may relent for five or six hours – replaced instead by what psychologists call inappropriate affect. At first that may be hyperactivity or even euphoria. But eventually – despite the best the autonomic nervous system can do to flog the limbic system to maintain consciousness, the quality of the consciousness itself will progressively erode on a downhill path toward physical and emotional collapse. Max wasn't too far from that point.

As he looked down at the map – heck as he looked out at the world – Max wasn't even processing visual images normally. The paper – like the terrain around him – seemed colorless and grainy. There had been nothing wrong with the printer that had produced the map – there was nothing wrong with the surrounding desert – Max's brain simply wasn't resolving the visual images that well. To make matters worse, it wasn't only the visual cortex of the brain that wasn't working all that well. He'd reached the point where his ability to analyze situations was almost nonexistent – which was why he was looking curiously at the map and wondering which way 'north' was. In fact, he really wasn't up to any sort of complex task, even simple awareness of his immediate surroundings was marginal, which is why the voice behind him took him totally by surprise.

“You looking for the Parker ranch” asked Abernathy.

Max turned to see a man with a rifle casually slung over his shoulder.

Despite his impaired condition even Max knew that he was wearing a dayglo orange jump suit stenciled with the words 'Chaves County Jail.' His palms went out instantly toward the man. Even in his fatigue and confusion he had no intention of letting anyone keep him from Liz, armed or not.

“I have to see Liz... Liz Parker....”

Abernathy smiled when he saw the hands go up. “You don't need to surrender to me, kid, I'm not a cop. It's none of my business what you wear or....,” he said, smiling at the police car, “..what you drive either. If you want, I'll show you the way to the Parker place.”

“You will?” asked Max. The man seemed unthreatening despite the rifle. He let his hands drift slowly down to his sides.

“Sure. Get in your car there and I'll hop in the passenger side and I'll show you just how you can get to see your girlfriend. I sort of doubt you'll find her on your own.”

Despite his concerns about the man's real intentions, all Max could really think about was Liz and the risk she was in. 'Why couldn't she have had the surgery – not just a biopsy,' he thought to himself for perhaps the hundredth time. But that wasn't what he said. What he said was, “Sure, get in. Which way do we go?”

About two minutes later Max saw the ranch house … and the OTHER police car. He looked at it apprehensively. “Oh, don't worry about them.” said Abernathy, nodding in the direction of the patrol car. They aren't going to cause you any trouble. But that guy right there,” he said, indicating Williams who was only now stepping off the porch and coming toward them, a brown paper sack in his hand,”...that's Mr. Williams, and HIM you'd better pay attention to...”

A few seconds later, Max was getting out of the car and Williams was standing next to him.

“Max Evans, you have NO idea how happy I am to see you..,” he said.

“I need to see Liz,” said Max.

“...And see her you shall, my lad,” Williams said, looking over Max to make sure he was unarmed, He waved to the ranch house where McCarthy's face was in the window. The man twisted around abruptly and Max looked up at the window to see Liz's face … with a pistol under her chin. “Now if you don't want her to die, you'll do exactly what that man wants you to do,” Williams continued.

Max looked at Liz, too confused and fatigued to think clearly. If he tried to powerblast – or anything else through that window – there was no way he could keep Liz out of the shower of fragments from the window that would break in front of her. Even if he took down the two men near him he'd never stop the third from killing Liz in the time it would take him to get inside the building … and the clock was ticking. Every moment of delay was another opportunity for Liz to die a horrible death as the monster within her burrowed its way through her flesh. He couldn't help her from outside. If he surrendered, maybe they'd take him to her....

“I'll do whatever you say... just don't hurt her.”

“Very reasonable young man. In a moment we are going to be tying your hands behind your back. But before we do that, we need you to drink this – all of it.”

Williams pulled a bottle half full of amber liquid from the bag, then carefully wiped it with a cloth and – still using the same cloth – handed it to Max. He tasted it tentatively – remembering the smell from the night Liz had thrown something like this in his face. He hesitated as he remembered that night, drawing a warning from Williams.

“All of it – drink it down and we'll take you to see her. You don't and that man will put a bullet into her brain.”

Max looked at Liz and saw the terror in her eyes, He didn't blame her. She probably remembered what he'd done to her that first time. But the man with the pistol under her chin would kill her if he didn't – it wasn't like he really had any choice at all....

Liz's hands were duct taped behind her and her ankles were duct-taped together. Obviously she wasn't helping much as McCarthy lifted her from the floor and half-dragged and half-carried her to beside the window. On the other hand, she couldn't resist just a hell of a lot either. He peered out it watchfully as his hands and body kept her trapped against the wall. Finally, apparently on some signal from outside, he thrust her into the window and with his right hand jammed the barrel of a pistol up under her jaw. That's when Liz got her first look outside.

As she saw Max look at her - saw the expression on his face as Williams used threats against her to blackmail him, she felt a deep pain in her breast. No, it wasn't the pain of McCarthy copping a feel of her pregnancy engorged right breast as he held the gun under her chin with is right hand... that was happening too, but that she could ignore. No, it was the pain of knowing that she'd gotten him into this and that because of that Max was going to die. OK, she was going to be dying too, but unfair and senseless as that was, she wasn't responsible for that.

'Max is going to die because you went to him that night. You got him drunk... you started him down this road, ' she thought bitterly, hating herself as he took the bottle and with a sad look at her took a tentative swallow. She could see the fear in his eyes as he looked at her, but Williams screamed something at him and he swallowed the half-bottle of liquor without it ever leaving his lips.

"Well, he ain't bad at putting it down," said McCarthy, "...but he sure ain't that great at walking once he has it in him," he continued, as Max quickly became uncoordinated and stumbled to his knees."Must be a real cheap drunk, that one, too bad the boss wasted the good stuff on him." McCarthy lowered the pistol and put it in his waist band before groping Liz's breasts one last time,

"Too bad that we can't have any stray DNA in you for the forensics people to detect. I'd show you what a real man could do for you... ," he said, allowing his hand to descend from her breast onto her slightly swollen lower abdomen before continuing with a chuckle,"... although drunk or sober, apparently the kid did enough."

But even his taunting couldn't distract Liz from the drama of what was going on out by the driveway as she saw Max stumble and collapse, and Williams and the other man duct tape Max's wrists together behind him and his ankles together as he lay face down in the gravel. All she could think about was that Max was going to die, and it was all her fault.

"Well," said McCarthy, "...looks like the shows over." With that he dragged Liz back to the center of the room and dropped her onto the floor next to Diane.

By bending her knees and twisting her body Liz managed to hit without a lot of impact on her side, protecting her lower abdomen and the precious cargo she carried there - not that she expected to be able to protect what she already thought of as her children from what would soon be coming.

"Are you OK?" asked Diane.

"No - not really. They've got Max. They are going to be dragging him in here I suppose. They must be planning on blaming our deaths on him some how...and it's all my fault for getting him in to this..."

"Liz, you can't give up hope...," said Diane. She was, she knew, just trying to make the poor girl feel better. She was objective enough to know their odds were not good, but still ... if their destinies had been different, this young lady could have been her daughter-in-law and in any event, those were her grandchildren Liz was carrying. She couldn't bear the pain she saw in those beautiful brown eyes. "Tell you what... WHEN we do get out of here... I am personally going to take your father's old double barreled shotgun and march you and that son of mine down to the judge and get him to marry you."

The words seemed to have the desired effect. Liz got a shy smile on her face and looked up at Diane's face.

"IF we do get out of here, I'll take you up on that offer."

"Damn right you will," said Diane, "...if that son of mine would have just told you ... or me ... about this genetic thing, we could have had the tests done and found out what was going on before this ever happened. Then he could have leveled with you about this and you could have had some sort of a normal courtship if you still wanted him. So don't just blame yourself about this."

Further discussion was interrupted by the opening of the door as Williams and Abernathy dragged the already near-comatose Max in and dropped him unceremoniously on the floor between Liz and Diane. Then Williams went over to where he'd put the two service automatics from the Sheriff and Pemberton and brought them over, ejecting the clips and then cleaning them with a cloth before putting each in turn in Max's hands. He closed the limp fingers around each weapon, then carefully removed it and replaced the clips before putting the weapons back in their holsters.

"McCarthy,.." said Williams, motioning him toward the door,"...you need to get out here while Abernathy watches the ... prisoners. You need to unlock the shotgun in the front of that patrol car and we need to get the kids prints on it."

"I'm on it, Boss," said McCarthy as he grabbed his lock picks and headed for the patrol car...

A will to survive and some sort of a survival instinct is probably a necessity of any kind of life - human or otherwise. As consciousness returned it returned in erratic chunks as the brain - at last starting to process information again - fought to bring back the sort of memories that would make that information processing rationale. It was a spotty process and long before it was completed - at least in relative terms - what that consciousness interpreted as vision and hearing - or at least video and audio - came on line.

All parts of his brain definitely were NOT working, but the two creatures near him were obviously Terran and - defenseless as he was - they obviously constituted a threat. He set about rectifying that immediately.

Prior to the fusion chamber failure there had been over a metric ton of nanites on the vessel. Scarcely a hundred kilograms of them had managed to escape using the preplanned instructions he had given them - carrying his inert body and three of the four pods that had been the ship's only real cargo.

The nanites had used all of their stored energy - and all of the programming instructions he had given them - to hollow out the cave - set up the internal controls and build the disguised solar arrays on the surface. Then - having run out of instructions - they had simply gone immobile and dissolved into the thick dust that blanketed the pod chamber. But the nanites were there still, and even the modest power of the solar arrays over the course of a decade had built up a significant amount of power. Not significant enough to push a saucer through a wormhole in hyperspace certainly, but certainly sufficient to deal with a couple of the local natives.

The thing - creature or machine, Alex couldn't be sure which - seemed to come straight up from the floor with no warning whatever; a weaving, swaying mass like liquid metal that reached out with one pincer like appendage to grab at Isabel from behind and stopped only because he was able to kick it's pincer aside before it reached her. But that certainly didn't stop it.

It moved with the fluid-like grace of a serpent as a second appendage was flung at his face and he barely managed to duck it. As the creature turned on Isabel again, Alex hefted one of the empty pods and flung it at what appeared to be the head of the thing. There was sort of a splash and a few kilograms of the substance was splattered away from the creature, but that barely slowed it and even while it turned on him the splatters coalesced and flowed back to merge into the creature at the bottom.

"See if you can get the door open, Isabel," he shouted, "... and if you can, run for all you are worth. I'll try to hold it here."

It wasn't that Isabel hadn't heard what he said, but women in love just aren't like that. She'd brought him here. This was her responsibility. Whatever happened she had every intention of sharing his fate. Maybe he hadn't even been born yet when she'd been brought in to this world, but if he was going out .. well they were going out together.

The powerblast to what seemed like the head of the metallic creature didn't do a whole lot more damage than Alex hitting it had done, perhaps five kilos of nanites being blasted away from the parent mass to quickly skitter back into it from the walls of the pod chamber where they had splattered. The metallic creature was scarcely affected.

But powerblasting indoors was almost never a good idea. The rebound of the powerblast off the walls echoed back and knocked both of them off their feet to tumble together in a tangled mass against the wall, momentarily stunned and helpless.

But the powerblast did have an affect on the consciousness even though, being behind the screen alongside them, it had been missed by the blast entirely.

"Embryo four," came the voice, as the metallic beast first stopped and then dissolved harmlessly into the dust of the pod chamber, "...I didn't recognize you. You've really grown - and developed secondary sexual characteristics, too. Is this human protecting you your mate? He seems like an excellent specimen. When do you anticipate offspring...?"

As Williams and McCarthy returned Jim Valenti, Deputy Pemberton, and Jeff Parker watched them press Max's trigger finger against the trigger - the safety keeping the gun from firing - and his left hand on the forestock of the Sheriff's Department-owned riot gun from the stolen patrol car. The two law enforcement officers looked at each other with a growing sense of foreboding.

Yes, they were doing what they were supposed to do - in accordance with their training - in stringing out the conversations with Williams, trying to give the rest of the department time to miss them and start searching and ultimately rescue them. Both of them, however, were becoming increasingly doubtful they would actually live to see that rescue - if it happened at all. Looking into Jeff Parker's face, both of them figured he'd pretty much come to the same conclusion.

But there are expectations to live up to - both for law enforcement officers and for a father who is failing to protect his beloved child. It is de rigeur to be defiant - to drag the inevitable out as long as humanly possible.

Even as they were being verbally defiant they were working their hands behind their back, tearing the hair off their wrists by fighting the duct tape - tearing the skin itself in hopes that the resulting trauma would somehow convince the medical examiner as they lay lifeless on the slab that something strange had gone on - something that would warrant further investigation. Something that would warrant an investigation that would somehow implicate Williams, because even in death they didn't want the bastard to get away with this.

"You aren't going to get away with this," said Deputy Pemberton to Williams defiantly. "...nobody is going to stop until they get the person that kills a couple of law enforcement officers."

It was spoken with far more certainty than he really felt. Williams had already totally fooled him with his framing of the Evans-kid. Realistically, the man could quite possibly come up with yet another scenario that would fool the medical examiner as well. But if he could taunt him - get him angry - Williams was only human, just like everyone else - perhaps the man would make a mistake.

"Of course we are going to get away with this, Deputy Pemberton. No one here is going to be alive to tell what really happened, and - just as you were fooled by the evidence we planted to implicate the Evans-boy - the investigators of this scene will see what they expect to see based upon your own notes of the earlier deception."

Knowing how few investigators that there really were in the Chaves Sheriff's Department and just how inexperienced they were - it actually spoke volumes about that shortfall that Sheriff Valenti had entrusted the Liz Parker case to him at all - Pemberton half-expected that Williams was right. Still, there were appearances to be maintained - a Deputy Sheriff does not go quietly into the night....

"They are going to see a crime scene that you and your two goons have been in for quite awhile now," bluffed Pemberton, "... and they are going to find the fingerprint you forgot to wipe off, or the footprint that ought not to be there, or the wrong type of blood or a piece of hair follicle with the wrong DNA in it on one of the rifle butts or pistol, and they are going to know something is phony."

"Would you like to know what they are REALLY going to find?" asked Williams. Pemberton just glared at him.

"Sure," said Jim Valenti. He didn't actually expect to get out of this any more than Pemberton did. The three perps were already in so deep that there was no reason to NOT kill a couple of cops, if it gave them any chance at all of putting this behind them. Of course the bastards were going to go through with it. Nonetheless, you drag it out ... and pray for a miracle. That was all you could do. "As a police officer I'm sure I would be fascinated by hearing you explain how you expect to get away with this..."

"The secret," said Williams, "...is to build on the previous work. With the death of both the Parker-girl and the Evans-boy there will be no real need for anybody to go back and look at who was really behind the previous attempts. Your assumption that it was indeed the Evans-boy will be good enough. Nor will his mother be around to attempt to clear his name after his own demise. No, the scenario is a simple one. Domestic violence - aggravated by an unplanned pregnancy - finally culminating in multiple attempts to kill the girl that nearly succeeded before the Evan's lad was locked up. But then he escapes and comes searching for the girl. A stroke of luck, that. Not only breaking out of jail but armed and dangerous at that. He sneaks onto the ranch and catches you each by surprise - knocking out the three of you and tying you up with the duct tape. Then he finds that his own mother is conspiring with the young lady against him. In a fit of rage, he ties her up as well as the girl. He starts drinking - a young lad with known psychiatric problems

"It happens all the time - a murder suicide. How many times have you seen THAT in a newspaper or police report? He gets drunk and kills you all, then puts a bullet from one of your service automatics through the roof of his mouth to finish the whole mess. A perfect solution."

"It won't work," said Jim Valenti. "That's my professional opinion. There's just too damn many things to go wrong. You are going to kill six of us? Without getting DNA on yourselves? Or having a wound at the wrong angle? Not going to happen. They'll figure it out, and when they do you'll" And Jim Valenti realized as he said it that his statement wasn't just bluster. The scenario Williams had spelled out WAS too complicated for him to carry off with any certainty of success. But apparently Williams was undaunted.

"Actually, Sheriff, it won't be near that complicated. You see, there isn't going to be all that much of anyone left - except for the boy. The five of you are going to be in this ranch house - or what little is left of it."

Jim's eyes widened slightly. 'I REALLY don't like the way this conversation is going,' he thought. But it only got worse.

"Abernathy and I are going to go over to my place. I have three or four five-gallon jeep cans full of gasoline. When we come back with those, we take the Evans kid out - carefully clean any residue from that tape off of his wrists and put him in the driver's seat of that stolen patrol car. While Abernathy and I make sure he doesn't go anywhere, McCarthy will be in here spreading that gasoline - and another ten gallons of diesel fuel that Jeff has for that old tractor of his in the barn - over everybody in the house. Then we take a couple of the flares from the trunk of that car - put the kids prints on them, and then light one and toss it through the door into that puddle of gas and diesel oil. Finally we take one of the service automatics that already has his prints on it and use it to put a bullet through the roof of the boy's mouth.

"We are a good forty minutes from the volunteer fire station out here. That's forty minutes from the time someone calls. Except I'm the only one out here. I'll wait a half hour or so - then call from my home. By the time the fire truck actually gets here the fire will have been raging for an hour. If there's much left but the foundation and five badly charred torsos, I'll be greatly surprised.

"At autopsy, the ME will have five crispy critters - one pregnant - who were clearly the victims of a mass homicide and one escaped prisoner, armed and dangerous, who apparently tied everyone up - got drunk - and then set fire to the place. Then he committed suicide by swallowing a bullet himself.

"I haven't actually decided if I will just let all five of you burn to death, or if I'll put a bullet through the back of each of your skulls, perhaps two for the girl - execution-style - before we set the fire. The bullet in the brain would be more humane and I'm tempted to do it - this really isn't personal - but I have to ask myself - is that something an angry boyfriend would do? Or would he rather hear the screams of the girl that has pissed him off? Or perhaps, he does hear the screams and they are what drives him - in a fit of remorse - to do himself in?

"No Jim, I'm going to have to think that one over on the way over to my place. Don't worry though. I'll have an answer for you by the time I get back. Do you have any 'professional opinion' about what you think I should do?" asked Williams with a taunting sneer.

Jim Valenti gritted his teeth and said nothing. It was quite likely - with THAT scenario - Williams could pull this off and emerge unscathed, purchase the ranch from Nancy Parker and end up winning. But that belief he wasn't sharing with Williams. As for 'professional opinions'...

'I've got an opinion about what you should do, you bastard,' he thought, '...but there's nothing professional about it...'

"Well gentlemen, it's time for Abernathy and me to be getting on the road. We'll try to not keep you gentlemen too long...," said Williams, unable to restrain himself from tormenting Pemberton one last time.

"You'll never get away with it," said Pemberton.

"Of course we will," countered Williams. He turned and looked at McCarthy. "Watch them closely. If they give you any trouble, kick them in the gut. If they give you any further trouble, take one of the cops pistols and put a bullet into the back of their head ... or into the back of the head of the girl over there. We'll be back in fifteen minutes or so, and we'll call you on the walkie-talkie before we drive up."

With that Williams and Abernathy went out the door.

"This is your chance to get out of this without looking at life in prison, McCarthy," said Jim Valenti, "... just cut through this duct tape and hand us back our guns and we'll tell the prosecuting attorney that you helped us. Chances are you won't get more than twenty years and with good behavior you'll be on probation in seven or eight."

Jim grunted as McCarthy kicked him savagely in the stomach.

"I'm not an idiot, Sheriff, and I'm not interested in small talk. Lie to me again and somebody is going to get a bullet."


While the adrenalin and testosterone were flowing on one side of the room as the law enforcement guys and ex-Marine conversed with Williams, the conversations on the other side of the room where two women and the young man they loved - each in her own way - were laying next to each other, were decidedly more introspective.

Diane looked at the son that it seemed like she'd adopted only yesterday. Ten years - such a short time - and it had passed so quickly. But even so, the happiness those two children had given her in that brief time had meant the world to her. Not only had they given her so much, but they had clearly saved her marriage as well, so even the last ten years with Philip she owed to them.

She would always be grateful for that time - even as she would regret never living to see Max and his sister have their own spouses - their own children. But one never stops being a parent, and mumblings from Max's mouth instantly brought her back into full maternal mode.

"So warm......," mumbled Max, ".... too warm..."

"Max? What's wrong....?" asked Diane, but got no response. At least not from Max. Liz responded though.

"It was like that that night back at the school. When I tossed the alcohol in his face - when he got drunk then. He must have felt terribly warm. He wandered off ans started stripping his clothes off before he collapsed. That's what gave me the idea to.... Dammit, he shouldn't even be here. This is all my fault."

"What does that mean...? The alcohol dehydro-business?"

"It means he can't metabolize alcohol normally. Not just to get it out of his bloodstream, but within his cells too. Practically, it means he gets drunk easier, faster, with less alcohol, and will stay drunk for a long long time. "

Of course, that was somewhat of an oversimplification. There were what were called dilutional effects in the alcohol distribution. Unlike most drugs which are absorbed in the small intestine, alcohol is absorbed directly from the stomach, and hits the general circulation almost immediately. That had put a large surge in the blood alcohol and that had severely affected Max's brain. In those first few minutes he had actually been at risk of dying from alcohol poisoning. But there was 165 pounds of Max there, and all of that mass had started with no alcohol at all. Even though he wasn't metabolizing the stuff, it was being diluted out as the alcohol that was absorbed into his blood stream spread out more evenly into his muscles and other tissues. Even now his blood alcohol was falling - at least a little.

The good news was that Max was going from a state of almost not being able to continue breathing because of alcohol poisoning to a state of just being drunk. The bad news was that even after dilution of the alcohol, he was really really drunk.

"Like I said, my fault. He shouldn't have been here at all.," said Liz, looking at Max sadly.

Diane shook her head and blinked away her tears. "It isn't your fault, Liz. You couldn't have known, and even if you had, you certainly couldn't have predicted it would lead to ... this. If he'd only of told me though... His sister said he's loved you for years. If only he'd have known that he really wasn't all that abnormal. If only either one of those two had told me about this..."

"Momma....?" Max said, reacting to his mother's voice. "I'm sorry, momma... I'm so sorry.....,"

Diane looked at her son, his eyes still closed, his face feverish looking, and clearly not anywhere close to real consciousness...

"Shhhh," she said, "It's OK Max, everything is fine. You didn't do anything wrong. Everything will be alright very soon now," she said in her most comforting mom-voice. That always worked with him when he was a little boy. Apparently not today though. He seemed to just get more agitated.

"I'm sorry I had to lie, momma. Sorry that I couldn't have been like Pinocchio. I wanted that so badly... wanted to be a real boy."

"What's he saying," asked Liz.

"When he had just learned to speak I used to read the story of Pinocchio to him nearly every night. He would get so happy at the end of the story when the Blue Fairy would turn Pinocchio into a real boy of flesh and blood. I stopped reading it to him though when he was about seven."

"Why?"

"Isabel told me that it made Max sad. That he would cry himself to sleep every night after I left. I didn't want to upset him, so I just found another book to read. After awhile he was reading by himself," Diane sighed, " He grew up so quickly...."

"Momma...?"

"Yes Max..?"

"You deserved a real boy..."

"You are a real boy, Max. A fine young man, and I'm so fortunate to have known you."

"Not real. A monster. Spit out of a pod....," said Max, with increasing agitation. His eyes were still closed, but you could see from the movements of the lids that he was agitated.

"Max, calm down," said Liz. "You aren't making any sense. It was my fault what happened that night. You didn't rape me..."

But far from comforting him, her voice seemed to make his agitation grow. His eyes apoened wide, and he stared unseeing at the distant wall, babbling to himself.

"Liz? Liz! Have to find her.... She thinks it's a baby .... thinks it's going to be human.... Oh God, what have I done to her? I love her so much... Why couldn't I be human? Why?"

Liz and Diane looked into each others tearful eyes. Both of them were worried. This agitated delirium was - if anything - even more worrisome than when he was comatose.

"He's so upset..." said Diane. Liz nodded her head and blinked away her own tears.

"It's called alcohol disinhibition," said Liz. "I learned about it in the class I had to take to get my license back, after my DUI. Although alcohol is really a depressant, in some people it hits the inhibitory centers of the higher functions harder than the rest. They kind of lose there ability to stop from babbling whatever comes in to their heads. A lot of cultures have sayings like the Roman 'In vino veritas,' because they believed that people who were drunk couldn't keep secrets - but Max just seems to be telling us his nightmares."

"Liz....? Liz...! It's not a baby. It's a monster... a monster like me. You have to get it out now, before it kills you..."

"Max, I'm alright," she said,"... you can trust me, there's nothing wrong. You can trust your mom..."

"That's right, Max," agreed Diane, "... there's nothing wrong with Liz," she said reassuringly - well as reassuring as she could be considering that she figured none of them had much more than fifteen minutes left, "...and the tests came out fine. A son and a daughter."

"They gave me some ultrasounds when they did the procedure - they are over in my purse. I wish I could show them to you. I mean, they are tiny but already you can see that they are beautiful little human beings, just like their daddy..."

"Not a human being ...an alien ... alien like me..."

A strange shiver went through Diane as she heard her son say that. And as she looked back at the last ten years she could think of a number of times that strange shiver had gone through her. Times when she'd thought something was wrong, but just couldn't make herself believe she'd seen what she'd thought she'd seen. Like the time Max had chased down a pigeon with a broken wing in the park and she had told him that he needed to bring it to her so she could have a vet put the poor thing down. Max had looked at the bird in his hands and looked up at her with those big brown sad eyes and shaken his head in refusal, not defiantly but sadly. She'd insisted and he had tossed the bird into the sky ... and it had flown away. And that wasn't the only thing.

"There's something about this that just doesn't make sense. It's almost like Max isn't hallucinating - like he's trying to give us some message, but he's too confused to do anything but babble."

"What do you mean?" asked Liz,"... do you think Max is really illegal? I mean, if the state let you adopt him, he'd have citizenship anyway, wouldn't he?"

"I don't know... I mean, yes, he'd still be a US citizen ... but it's not about that...I think it's something Isabel said when we were arguing - about you actually. Something she said that didn't really make sense... I mean Max is gentle like you said...He'd never hurt anybody. But what else could she have meant..."

Alex was very likely the premier computer geek in Chaves county – possibly in the whole state – and he was sort of in shock and awe of the fact that he was in the presence of an actual artificial intelligence (AI), literally a sentient computer. This was a sentinel event in computer science – as Alex certainly appreciated. Despite his initial stunned disbelief - that let Isabel make the first response to the AI - there was practically nothing that could have possibly distracted him from this historical event. 'Practically nothing,' however, did not include Isabel's actual response to the questions the AI had posed.

With the AI's questions ringing in her ears, 'Is this human protecting you your mate? When do you anticipate offspring...?' These were not actually questions that Isabel had expected to be confronted with by the first AI in this historical first conversation. Her cheeks warmed and reddened as she sputtered out her response.

“We haven't mated – yet.”

It was the wistful way she said 'yet' that pulled Alex's attention away from the AI, who had now become a minor issue in the background of something far more important than historical computer science breakthroughs. The way she'd said it had left little doubt that she intended for that to occur. Alex's head swiveled and his eyes came to rest upon a blushing Isabel.

Isabel recognized the Freudian slip nature of her comment almost immediately. This wasn't an area that she and Alex had really discussed, and as she saw his head turn and his eyes gaze into hers, it was obvious he had picked up on her assumption that it was only a matter of time. The blush in her cheeks suddenly became deeper as her embarrassment increased. Perhaps this Freudian slip could have been somehow passed over. Unfortunately, this was an important topic for the AI. It was among other things mission-related and AIs tend to be very mission oriented. Also somewhat uninhibited.

“Oh dear,” said the AI, “...and I interrupted your precoital grappling – do they still call that foreplay? I greatly regret the inadvertent interference in your mating ritual caused by my defensive response. If you wish, I can provide a more comfortable mating platform.” The last comment was associated with the nanites coming back up off the floor in the form of a pretty fair approximation of a bed.

Isabel's blush deepened further, and she was totally speechless. Bravely Alex stepped in to the pause in conversation to respond.

“Uh, next visit maybe...”

That didn't have quite the desired effect on Isabel, earning him a sharp elbow to the ribs, the rebuke somewhat lessened by the quirky smile on her face.

“In your dreams, Alex,” she said, the voice pure Ice-Princess when it came out. But the flip retort was apparently instantly regretted, at least if the following sentences were any indication.

As Alex looked at her with sudden uncertainty, Isabel did a masterful job of backtracking.

“What I meant to say, Alex, was in your dream-orb,” she said, taking hold of his hand, “.... at least until I can get on the Pill. I think that Liz and Max have given mom and dad all the surprises in the unplanned baby department that they can handle for right now...”

“Isabel, I'm not pushing....,” started Alex. The words were stopped by a finger held to his lips and a loving smile.

“Is one of those two – the Liz and Max pair that are anticipating an offspring – a mature hybrid embryo as well?” asked the AI.

Isabel turned to the screen and responded, “That would be my brother Max. That's his pod over there,” she said, pointing to it.

“Oh, embryo number one has started to reproduce? Why that's wonderful. Are you quite sure the two of you wouldn't like to do so? According to my internal clock, this mission is almost a half-century behind schedule....”

"I think it's probably a little early in our relationship to do that," said Alex, smiling at Isabel. Isabel smiled back and intertwined her fingers in his. She reached up and gave his lips a gentle kiss.

"But that might be open for reconsideration if you explained to us just what the mission is," Isabel said with a smile, her eyes never leaving Alex's face.

"Oh, the mission... of course, had there not been technical troubles you would have been born decades ago and I'd have explained it to you all as you were growing up. We DO have some catching up to do. I can give you the full explanation which will take several days - or sort of a brief summary that will take perhaps ninety of your minutes - depending on your questions - and will permit you to more promptly get back to your practice precoital grappling. Which would you prefer?"

"Uh.... the short version," said Isabel and Alex in unison.

Duct tape is a rather amazing invention. It has been used for repairing a lunar rover fender, for merging CO2 absorbers from the LEM and the Command module to help a crippled Apollo XIII get back to Earth, people have made tuxedos out of it...people even occasionally use it to tape heating and air conditioning ducts, although that's against code in many localities because duct tape isn't fireproof. You see it didn't even start out as 'duct tape,' that name was a corruption of the REAL name. It actually started out as 'duck tape.'

Before anyone starts calling the SPCA or a hit-squad from PETA, the 'duck' in duck tape does not refer to our feathered friends, it refers to a substance called cotton duck. Cotton duck was a common maritime store back in the days of sailing ships. It was used for the sails themselves, for tarpaulins, for sea bags and sleeping hammocks, anywhere some flexible but strong fabric was needed. It is an interesting textile, having twice as many threads of yarn in the warp as in the woof, giving it exceptional longitudinal strength. 'Duck' was a corruption of the Dutch word 'doek' which refers to linen canvas. No feathered creatures were involved in the creation of either 'duct' or 'duck' tape.

Duck tape was developed to seal the water out of ammunition cases by a British Navy gunner's mate by taking some strips of that old light canvas, painting it on one side with a rubbery adhesive, and slapping it on the ammunition cases. It has a breaking strength of over sixty pound per layer and by the time you wrap someone's ankles with five or six windings and wrap their hands behind their backs with five or six layers they are pretty firmly immobilized - all of which is a rather long way of saying that no matter what the two sheriff's deputy and one ex-Marine did, there was no way in hell they were going to get out of the tape without assistance.

Of course, that wasn't going to stop them from trying to influence the course of events. Law enforcement guys don't quit easily and an ex-Marine wanting to protect his daughter and his unborn grandchildren is no slouch either. So despite the recent attack on Jim Valenti, that didn't keep the three of them from quietly plotting against their three assailants anytime McCarthy was checking on the other three captives or – more frequently – looking out the window to watch for any evidence of other intruders.

The plan wasn't much of a plan – none of the three had much mobility – but the general plan was this;
1.Gradually roll or crawl toward the door when McCarthy wasn't paying attention until he'd have to step over one of them to go outside.
2.When McCarthy stepped over one of them, that guy would try to trip him and roll on him, while.
3.The other two tried to impede him and grab his gun. Of course, with their hands behind their backs, that wouldn't be easy.
4.But if one of them DID get the gun and put a bullet into McCarthy, they could then at least take a few shots at Williams and Abernathy. Maybe they'd get lucky and hit one of them too, or maybe they'd realize their plan had fallen apart and just take off.
OK, so it wasn't a great plan and it didn't have much of a chance of working, but it was better than just giving up an dying. It had the virtue of being a manly plan, even if it had no realistic chance of being successful.

On the other side of the room a totally different sort of conversation was going on. One of the people tied up there wasn't holding up his end of any conversation. The alcohol had equilibrated in his body and its primary effect - that of a central nervous system depressant – had finally quieted him down completely. He was in a deep and heavy sleep, without the rambling talk that had characterized his actions a few minutes ago. Mainly what was going on was girl talk.

“Liz, have you ever heard stories about when people are faced with death, their entire life passes before them?”

“Uh, huh. I think that already happened to me a few minutes ago... I remember thinking that my life hadn't been nearly long enough,” said Liz with a sad smile. “I even ran the memory of my night with Max by a couple of times. I still feel guilty about getting him into this, but in its way it was still a high point.”

Diane smiled sadly. She was coming to love this girl more with every passing moment. 'If only it could have been different,' she thought.

“Well, when I looked back on my life I see some things that are really strange – although I sort of ignored them at the time.”

“Strange? Like what?”

“Max and Isabel were about six when we adopted them. They didn't know... anything. Not how to speak, not how to use a spoon or fork … even what a spoon or fork was … or a cup. I mean, how do you get to be six without knowing what a couch or a bed or a chair or anything is?”

“I don't know. That is strange, but... what are you getting at?”

“When they were about seven, they got me the first mother's day gift that I ever got from them. Of course they didn't really get it by themselves, Philip helped them pick it out and get it engraved. It was a mother's necklace, a pewter disk with their names engraved on it. I wore it constantly but one night Philip and I went out to a formal party and I left it on a counter in the little bag it had come in. When we got home the kids were in bed, but the babysitter told me what had happened. Isabel had been trying it on – you know – just dressing up in mom's jewelry like all little girls do. Except that apparently she and Max had gotten to playing and somehow the chain had gotten snagged on something and broken. I looked at it and it was broken – about six inches from the clasp. I had other chains but none of them pewter, so of course they wouldn't match. The next day I took the little bag down to the jeweler to get it fixed and before he even took it out of the bag he told me he couldn't help much. Pewter is mostly tin and he said he could solder it but you'd always see a lump at the break. That just wasn't the sort of thing you could really fix. He suggested that I order another one and so I took the pieces out to measure them ….”

“And....”

“And there was only one piece.... the chain was fine. I'm wearing it right now.”

“What happened?”

“I never figured it out. My two kids who were almost speaking English at normal seven year old level prior to that were suddenly stricken dumb. Phil swears he had nothing to do with it. Eventually I just forgot about it...”

“Weird.”

“That's only part of the story. When Max was eight we were at a park. I'm not sure just how the pigeon got it's wing broken – perhaps a car hit it – but it was obvious that the wing WAS broken and it couldn't fly. Max ran up to it and caught it under a bunch of trees and I told him to bring it to me. I said we'd take it to the vet and get it put down so it wouldn't suffer any more than it already had. It was the only time in all these years that he ever really disobeyed me. He ran away from me – away from the trees and into a clearing, with his mother in hot pursuit. Just before I was able to catch him he threw the bird up into the air.”

“What did you do to him when you caught him?”

“What did I do? What COULD I do. Liz, the bird flew away...”

“You must have been mistaken about the wing being broken.”

“Could be... I've been telling myself about that for the last eight or nine years. But when I think back and relive that day in my mind Liz...”

“Yes..?”

“That damn bird's wing was broken.”

Liz didn't say anything but her eyes got a little wider.

“But the other thing, just recently …. that bastard Williams really did do a masterful job of framing Max. He had me believing my own son was trying to kill you... not that he was willfully trying to kill you, I'd never believe that, but that Max had somehow slipped a cog or something and he was mentally unbalanced and when I told Isabel she just blew it off completely.”

“I'd have blown it off completely, too. I told you, Max wouldn't anaesthetize a frog in biology class to kill it. He's not that kind of guy.”

“That's.... not what Isabel said.”

“What did Isabel say?”

“She said that she knew he hadn't tried to kill you because he cared too much for you but also she said that if he ever DID want to kill you you would have died three second later and he wouldn't have needed a rifle to do it either. We were just arguing and I thought she was just upset but....”

“But...?”

“But Liz... could Max really be an alien?”

“An alien? That's so ridiculous....”

“Look, Max has never been sick...not once in the last ten years … not Isabel either. Not a cold, not the flu, not anything...”

“OK, that's statistically really weird but even so...”

“It's not just those times, Liz, it's a dozen other times when little things have happened – little conspiratorial looks between my children. No, I am not flipping out, it's just that if Max were telling the truth – that he is an alien – it would explain a lot of little things...”

“Mrs. Evans...”

“God grief, Liz, call me Diane. It's a little late for the two of us to be formal about our relationship – especially since you are carrying my two grandchildren.”

“Diane, the fact that I am carrying those grandchildren pretty well means Max can't be an alien. I mean there are theories of parallel evolution – that aliens might actually look like us even – but interbreed? That's so close to impossible it might as well be.”

“So the things in Max's DNA – the junk DNA – it couldn't be alien?”

“Max is human, Diane, but that DNA replacing the junk DNA...? I don't know. I guess it COULD be alien – if there were aliens – but it would more likely just be modified human DNA.”

“What do you mean... modified?”

Liz's eyes opened wide in surprise. “That's it... the only thing that makes sense. Max is human but his DNA almost certainly has been modified. Part of him is … artificial.”

“Artificial? Who has that technology?”

“I'm not sure that anyone does even now. Sixteen years ago … nobody had that sort of technology. The human genome project didn't get started until 1990.”

“Nobody...?” asked Diane.

“Well, nobody on Earth...”

“So Max and Isabel might be made from human material that was modified …. by aliens?”

Liz did her best to shrug her shoulders – impaired somewhat by having her hands taped behind her back.

“I don't know. We'd have to ask Max … when he's sober. We probably don't have that much time.”

“I don't understand that either. You say Max was drunk and didn't know what he was doing, but I didn't notice when he came home that night that he was at all intoxicated – just sort of reclusive and depressed.”

“Uh, Max was sobering up by the time I drove back to the party to help Kyle.”

“Sobering up? How is that possible? I thought he couldn't metabolize alcohol?”

“Well, he can't,” she said, her face showing confusion, “...but he did.”

“But what could have sobered him up?”

Liz sighed deeply, remembering that night. “I did.”

“You did? Well how did you do it?”

Liz rolled her eyes skyward and started to blush, “It doesn't matter... it's not something I could do now anyway.”

“Liz, this is no time to be coy...”

“It's not being coy, Diane, considering the circumstances, I'd even forget about modesty and do it right here in front of Daddy and everyone if I could, but Max is sound asleep and anyway my legs are taped together.”

“Oh dear....” said Diane, her eyes widening, “...I don't suppose that would work, would it...?”

“The short version,” said the AI, “...is that there exists in the Milky Way galaxy a Consortium of races with the capability for interstellar flight and they have sponsored this mission.”

“And what exactly are they after?”

“In physical terms, nothing. It's pretty much in the nature of interstellar flight – at least as anyone in the consortium is aware – that almost anything physical you could possibly export or import could be more economically constructed at the destination rather than transported from one solar system to another. The energies and costs of interstellar travel are such that the actual physical transference of matter – particularly organic matter – is rarely ever attempted. What is mostly transferred is information – one race trading ideas and discoveries with the other races.”

“So how does that apply to – all this?”asked Isabel, indicating the pods.

“This mission is the exception that proves the rule as the Terran expression goes. At the time it was decided to put aside the non-interference policy and sponsor this mission your world simply lacked the technology base that would have allowed it to make use of the information that would certainly have been much easier to provide than the transport of embryos halfway across the Milky Way. Transport of actual organic life forms is exceedingly difficult because – unless protected by a stasis field like those in these pods – invariably results in the death of the organic life form during wormhole transition. But the resources involved – economically that is – are proportional to the ninth power of the radius of the portion of the pod that needs to be made into a stasis field. The embryos themselves in this case each required a stasis field of approximately 0.25 millimeter to survive that transition.”

“But that means that for a full-grown adult, the cost would have been...,” said Alex,

“Astronomical,” finished the AI, “... of course even the four small embryos we sent were astronomical by Terran standards, but to send even one organic adult of even one of the smaller Consortium species would have been 10 to the ninth the resources.”

“A billion times as much...?” asked Alex in disbelief.

“But why – why was this Consortium doing this at all?” asked Isabel.

“The motivation? Quite simple, really. In the hope that – on some distant future day – the human race may join the other interstellar races in their Consortium. You see, the Consortium has been in existence for over three thousand of your years. The information that is traded is done almost exclusively by non-organic means. Most Consortium member races developed artificial inorganic lifeforms like myself in their race to the stars – artificial intelligences you would call them. We can traverse wormholes without the need for stasis fields that – for all practical purposes – slow time to a crawl. For almost four thousand years my predecessors and I have scouted this galaxy. There are about 400 billion stars in this galaxy and we have scouted less than 2 million, but even so there are generalities that we have discovered. Life is common. Of worlds like your own with liquid water, almost all will have lifeforms. Evidence that intelligent life had ever existed on a world was found on less than a thousand worlds.”

“If life is so common, why is intelligent life so uncommon?” asked Isabel.

“Intelligent life requires a particularly uncommon niche,” said the AI. “Meaning no disrespect, the development of intelligence requires a life form that's too slow to run away from its predators, too big to hide from its predators, too weak to fight its predators, and too stubborn to simply become extinct. It requires a niche where without tools it would most certainly become extinct, but with tools it could not only survive, but in time become the dominant species on the planet. It requires a species that HAD to evolve for greater intelligence or become extinct. Apparently such a niche occurs rarely, even on two million planets.”

“So, you are saying that two thousand planets have intelligent species?” asked Alex.

“No,” said the AI, and even the mechanical voice seemed to take on a tone of sorrow, “I said that approximately two thousand planets have developed intelligent species. Exclusive of the races of the Consortium, only forty-two of those planets still have their intelligent species. Most became extinct before they were ever discovered by the Consortium. Two of them we arrived just as they were dying. It was the loss of those two that we actually witnessed that decided the Council to undertake this mission, although all nine races agreed.”

“Nine races? That's your entire Consortium?” asked Isabel.

“Space is vast and intelligent life is rare. The races of the Consortium decided that we could not sit idly by and allow it to happen next to Terra and it was only a matter of time. A few thousands of years at most, so we set aside the non-interference policy and decided to interfere. You and your three creche mates were that interference ...”

“Four? But there were only three...?”

“I was damaged in the mishap as we exited the wormhole. According to the nanites, they took what they could with the energy they had to work with. Unfortunately, one of your creche-mates – the other female – was in a part of the wreckage that was removed by elements of your local national government before the pod could be removed.”

“So this wasn't the plan? For Max and Michael and me to be in stasis that long?” asked Isabel.

“Far from it. The nine races of the Consortium have spread to over three hundred worlds. Early on, these were sublight ships that took generations to get there. With the discovery of faster-than light travel through the wormholes it was at least possible to insure that these ships were sent to worlds that were appropriate for colonization, but with the discovery of the stasis pod it became possible to send fertilized embryos in a matter of years rather than generations. A small ship with a cargo of one AI for teaching, a few tens of fertilized ova in uterine replicators such as these, and a standard workgroup of nanites – approximately five times the number in this chamber – for doing the initial colony construction. and you could have a viable colony in a few generations. But lacking orders to bring you to term, the stasis chambers kept working until they exhausted their power and then started the uterine replicators. Lacking orders to release you, they kept you inside - and growing - until THEIR power was exhausted. Except for the accident, you and your creche mates would have been born in 1948.

“But there were only four of us...?”

“But ample human genetic material already existed on this world. We needed only to introduce the modifications in the human genome that were required.”

“What modifications … and why?” asked Isabel.

“Let me answer the second question with a question of my own, Isabel,” said the AI, “if you devoted maximum effort to the attempt, how long would it take you and Alex to have an offspring?”

“Probably at least nine months,” said Isabel, blushing, but smiling back as she saw the way Alex was smiling at her

“Smaller organisms reproduce faster,” said the AI, “... under the right conditions, in fifteen minutes or less. The first scout ship that detected radio waves from this world was actually scouting a world almost twenty light years away. It came here as quickly as it could and arrived in 1918 and it found that your world was at war – and the intelligent species had just sustained eighty million fatalities.”

“World War I? Did we really have eighty million casualties in WWI?” asked Alex.

“As tragic as the preceding war amongst your political groupings was, it posed little threat to extinction of your species. Females and immature forms were largely spared altogether. I was referring to a smaller but more deadly foe. Your race sustained eighty million fatalities during a worldwide influenza pandemic. Three percent of the entire human population of this world died in a three year period of a disease that had not previously been so deadly. It is ironic, really. One of your early writers of Science Fiction, Mr. H' G. Wells, theorized that evil invading aliens might be stopped by the microorganisms native to this world. But that isn't what really happens. All of these dead worlds that once held intelligent life … every single one of them … had their own intelligent races rendered extinct by the evolution of microorganisms native to their own planet. It nearly happened to each of the races of the Consortium in their own development. It was almost certain to happen to the Earth in the future. That is the 'why in answer to your question. You and your creche mates were brought here to stop the coming extinction of your species by the microorganisms native to this world”

“But … how could that happen?” Isabel asked.

“Your race – like most intelligent races – required almost 50,000 years to go from small scattered bands of hunter gatherers to the first large town of a million inhabitants. Advances in everything were required for that to happen – agriculture – transportation – engineering. But technology – at least the technology necessary for developing interstellar flight – rests on a pyramid. A million people in a town called Imperial Rome are not enough. Billions of people must live and learn and die and pass on their information to their children and grandchildren and their grandchildren. It was 2000 years after that first large city when that pandemic struck. And that is the mathematics of the situation that has destroyed those other two thousand intelligences – and likely countless more. The microorganisms breed faster – and mutate faster – but to reach the stars the race must itself grow – becoming more numerous – more crowded – more vulnerable. Your race is following a path worn smooth by countless other intelligent races. The very increase in people that leads to higher technological development must inevitably lead to a conflict. You become the prime target for the microorganisms of your world, and they grow and mutate far more quickly than a highly evolved organism can do. Ultimately it is little more than mathematics. Left alone the odds greatly favor the extinction of the human race in less than three thousand years.”

“But what has that to do with Isabel and Max and Michael?” asked Alex.

“They, and the fourth one if I can find her” said the AI, “... will be the firebreak that stops the forest fire from consuming the forest,” responded the AI.

“And how would she do that?” asked Alex.

“By having offspring. Judging by the way each of you reacts to your practice precoital grappling, I would judge the probability high that she will receive considerable assistance in that endeavor from you in the not-too-distant future, Alex,” said the AI. "I would say the probability of that approaches unity, based upon the precoital arousal pattern each of you is exhibiting...."

It had taken less than six minutes to get from the Parker homestead back to the far larger and more prosperous Williams Ranch. Of course, despite the better natural water supply – and the well on the property – the Williams Ranch was more residence than working ranch. But it did have a few dozen head of cattle and several riding and pack horses – the latter used mainly during hunting season – and working ranch or not, that meant hay to carry and sh....., that is, …. stuff ... to shovel. Moreover, that meant not just one but several tractors.

Like many rural farms and ranches, the Williams Ranch had fuel deliveries through the local co-op. He had two tanks – diesel for the larger of the two tractors and gasoline for the smaller tractor. The gasoline tank was also used by several ATVs, the ranch pickup truck, and – on occasion – the car driven by Williams to and from town. Upon arrival at the ranch the truck had driven directly to the fuel pumps.

“I think there's a container for diesel in the barn next to the John Deere,” said Williams, “and there should be several jeep cans with the ATVs. You start filling this empty one while I go get those. We need to be fast but thorough – I don't want McCarthy left there very long even if everyone is tied up. He's way too outnumbered. I want you to to top all of the cans off so we can get that old ranch house of Parkers – and everyone in it – burned badly enough that they'll only have the charred bones for forensics. ”

“Right away, Boss,” answered Abernathy as he started pumping gasoline into the first jeep can - the one they'd taken from the Parker Ranch. Long before he had that filled Williams was back with three other empty jeep cans. Abernathy fully topped off the first and began filling the next one that Williams handed him as Williams screwed the top down onto the first jeep can which was so full that gasoline trickled down the side as he closed it.

“We have to remember,” said Williams, “that the first one there is the one we use to run a gasoline trail from the ranch house to the stolen patrol car. That's where we'll stage the suicide for the Evans kid. All of the rest of these gas cans need to come back here and get put back in their original places. We'll fill each of them part way full when we get here – just as if they've been slowly being used...”

It took only minutes until Williams and Abernathy had the fuel in the back of the truck and were started back to the Parker place.

“Do you think that old log ranch house will really burn – enough to get rid of our fingerprints and everything?” asked Abernathy.

“Oh yes. I've seen what happens to these 100 year old log ranches before. It takes a fair amount to get them started but then they burn REAL well. Oh, and don't forget. We need to pick up the wirecutters we used on the telephone when we go by Diane Evans car. We need to put them in the car with her kid...”


Back in the pod chamber, the two teenagers were getting the rest of the short version of why the podlings were there:

“I don't see how just the three of us would be able to stop some worldwide epidemic,” said Isabel.

“Well, had the mishap not occurred, all four of you would have been of reproductive age in 1967. After that it's simply a matter of geometric progression. If each of you produces three offspring per generation, and each of them the same, we would have already have over a hundred fifty hybrids with 100 of those still yet to produce offspring. At roughly four generations per century, thirty centuries ,would be 120 generations, 100 times 3 to the 120th power is effectively everyone on Earth. Of course, with this delay we will only have three individuals unless your missing creche sister survives.... and only 117 generations.”

“That's not much time,” Alex whispered into Isabel's ear, “...when should we get started?”

That earned Alex another elbow in the ribs and quirky smile from his blushing mate-to-be. That smile alone more than offset any deterrent value of the blow. She knew he'd only meant it as a joke but the very thought was a pleasant distraction – just one she didn't need right now. Apparently the AI's auditory sensors were pretty good though.

“Feel free to initiate your coital coupling at your discretion although the need is not immediately urgent - 3 to the 117 th is for all practical purposes all the future population of Earth as well. What is important is that the early part of the process gets started before any of you are beyond your reproductive years.

Nor is it truly necessary for your progeny to be all the population of some future Earth. Realistically, of course, that degree of interbreeding is improbable. Fortunately it is also not necessary.

There is something called herd-immunity. It is unnecessary for the hybrid genome to completely replace that of the human race. Theoretically at least, hybridization of as few as one thousandths of 1% of the human population would reduce the likelihood of a killer-event pandemic to almost negligible since all the hybrids would survive and they would – by themselves – be enough to repopulate the world. Raise that number to five percent and the herd immunity effect would be great enough to preclude a major epidemic from happening at all.”

'Now that's a relief,' thought Isabel, '...at least Alex and I don't have to become the ancestors of a third of the population of the world,' she thought, although as daunting as that prospect would have been, she was wondering how much she might actually enjoy the attempt - at least doing her part for this generation... 'First things first, though....'

“Which gets me back to my first question,” said Isabel, “...what modifications?”

Back at the small area of trees and brush across the road from the Parker ranch driveway, the truck carrying Williams and Abernathy lurched to a stop. They had the keys from Diane's purse, and even without the lockpicking skills of McCarthy had little difficulty retrieving the wirecutters they'd planted in the car. Carefully they wiped the area down ... and everywhere else they might have touched in the car - to deny the forensic investigators any clue that they might have been there. The wirecutters went in the back of the truck - with four five-gallon jeep cans filled to the cap with gasoline, and one filled with diesel oil.

Williams scanned carefully up and down the road, then grabbed the walkie-talkie to call McCarthy.

"We are back at the driveway to the ranch. We should be there in a minute or two. Don't get trigger-happy," he said, looking back at all the fuel cans in the back of the pickup.

In the heat of the sun the fuel was expanding and wet streaks of gasoline or diesel were already staining the area immediately below the sealed caps. The containers were as full as they could get. But that was no worry. They'd be dumping them inside the Parker ranch house soon enough.

"I'll be watching for you," replied McCarthy.

"Any difficulty with your ... guests?" asked Williams.

"Naww... at least nothing I couldn't easily handle," said McCarthy.

As they got back in the car Williams looked at Abernathy. "You know, I think the thing a crazy young man like that would do, would be to not put a bullet in the brain of any of those police. I think the right scenario is that the good, honorable, officer of the court and mother of the disturbed young man tried to stop him and he shot her...then in a fit of rage at the others, burned them alive .... before eating a bullet himself. What do you think?"

"That sure ought to work. Pity though ... that young one going to waste and all though..."

"I already told you...," said Williams.

"I know, I know, the only DNA we can afford to have found in her is her own and that of the kid. Still..... if her body is going to be burned to nothing but bone anyway....?" Abernathy said suggestively.

It was a tempting idea Williams thought, even if she was a little old for his taste. But even though the risk of someone else coming along was low, it wasn't zero. And even a quickie took time - especially since it would almost certainly have to be repeated twice.

"No, when this is over I'll treat you and McCarthy to a weekend down south. I'll call ahead and we can get some girls that are totally untouched... maybe twelve or fourteen. You want a pregnant girl, you can get them pregnant maybe. We'll deserve a celebration after this. We are all going to be rich, and I'll be back on the road to becoming governor and in a few years after ... perhaps even Vice President."

"And then I suppose you are going to want McCarthy and me to take out the President so you can run the whole show..."

Williams smiled. He hadn't actually been thinking about that .... until now.

"The idea is not without merit," said Williams, nodding his head and contemplating the future that lay before him.



Back in the podchamber:

“Which gets me back to my first question,” said Isabel, “...what modifications?”

“In all the ways that matter, very little. In multiple portions of your obsolete DNA – areas that were formed during the early evolution of your species – areas that are no longer needed or even functional – the obsolete portions were replaced by genes copied from each of the nine races of the Consortium. Genes from species that have already survived near mass-extinction events – genes that will protect your species from retroviruses – bacteria – parasites – prion disease and all the viral mediated types of neoplasm. They've also activated genes that were already developing in your human genome that simply had not yet totally evolved.”

“Like what?” asked Alex, suddenly interested.

“Telekinesis, the ability to move matter - including the powerblasting your not-yet-mated used on my nanites earlier, some degree of telepathy... varying in degree from only between mated pairs to – in rare instances, the ability to actually push the minds of total strangers toward certain actions. The telepathy can have surprising range in the dream-plane, but otherwise is usually limited to a few tens of meters at best. Very limited precognition - no more than a educated guesses about future outcomes. A few relatively minor improvements to pre-existing faculties really - except for the ability to manipulate matter. That was actually a designed gene - copied from one of the Consortium races that found it useful in curing others of disease - even cancers NOT involving other bio-organisms."

"You mean, our kids are going to be able to cure cancer?" asked Isabel, holding on to Alex's hand. Alex just smiled. He was really enjoying the 'our kids' part of this conversation.

"Well, your 'kids' will not get cancer certainly. Just how effective they are at curing others will vary from individual to individual, but certainly SOME of your offspring and that of your creche-mates will be able to cure cancer in others... and given prolonged and intimate exposure... even your mates may have some degree of powers ... depending of course on how frequent and close that contact is. That's not so much a conscious power - it rest primarily with the unconscious mind. That power was the only one that was actually difficult to fit into your genome without complication."

"Complication? What complication?"

"Well, fitting it in compromised the integrity of your gene controlling something called alcohol dehydrogenase. The gene normally helps metabolize carbon molecules with hydroxyl groups - like alcohol containing beverages."

"We can't handle alcohol? But that explains it. That's what happened to Max. He must have gotten some alcohol. I knew he couldn't have done what he thought he did."

"He encountered an intoxicating beverage? But that should have made little difference. Once his unconscious mind realized it was being anesthetized, it should have rapidly eliminated the offending toxin," said the AI.

"Not," said Isabel, looking suddenly very somber,"...if his subconscious mind wanted him to be anesthetized. Not if wanting something ... someone .. so very badly, but knowing you will never have her ... not if that was so painful to you that your subconscious mind WANTED you to be numb to the pain. That's how subconscious minds work. They don't necessarily live in the here and now."

"But why would your brother... Oh, I see. I wasn't there to guide you as to what you really where ... what the mission was ... he wouldn't have known. My failure to get the saucer safely through the wormhole has resulted in unnecessary pain for your brother .. and yourself as well."

"I only wish I could blame it on you," said Isabel. "I think it probably had more to do with my brother's sister telling him for eight years that he could never get close to her ... that we were different and she could never know. Then when he does prove that we are human... human enough at least, instead of figuring out what was causing him such grief I go running off and doing just what I told him for all those years he could never do....," she put her head on Alex's shoulder as he comforted her and then looked up into his eyes, "...making my own dreams come true."

"That is a possibility that we did not consider in the work-around to the loss of your alcohol dehydrogenase - that the unconscious mind itself might be emotionally impaired. Your theory is logical ... and may well be correct. Your basic DNA structure was copied from the DNA material of four individuals who ... did not survive the flu pandemic. It was thought by the ethicists of the Consortium that it would be appropriate to give these individuals that we had failed to save this chance to have their DNA sequences have a chance of surviving. We never actually brought any members of your species past the point of embryos - and only the four of you even that far. We obviously erred in not considering this possibility."

"Well, don't beat yourself up. You couldn't have known that he'd have a sister who'd be such a bitch to him all those years. Someone who'd practically drive him insane by keeping him away from the one he really loved. The blame is far more mine than yours."

"The good news though," said the AI, "...is that if your theory IS true, once the underlying psychopathology is corrected, the process should work as designed. You must contact your brother and tell him the reality of his situation. That alone may correct the psychopathology and allow his ability to manipulate matter to work unimpaired."

"At least he's safely locked up," said Alex. "He definitely won't be getting any alcohol in jail."

"Unless mom gets him bailed out today. We'd better get back and let him know the truth."

"Then get him over to talk to Liz, if Jeff Parker will let him get near her," said Alex.

"Oh, he'll let them talk," said Isabel, "...no one is going to keep my brother away from the girl he loves ... and his child ... while his sister is around. I played a big part in making this mess. I can certainly help clean it up. I'm going to jail to see if I can get in to see him. If not, I'll call mom from there and get her to get me in... if she's still speaking to me."

"Isabel," said Alex, holding her tightly to him. "It wasn't your fault ... you couldn't have known either."

"Your not-yet-mate is correct. But perhaps it would be better if you went and resolved this issue. You can come back and we can talk further then. You as well, Alex. Mi casa, su casa, as the saying goes... and this might be an excellent place for you to practice your precoital grappling..."

"Uh, we'll definitely keep that in mind," agreed Alex. This time Isabel didn't elbow him - she just smiled. Clearly she wasn't opposed to the idea all that much herself. But first she was going to see her brother ... and make everything right.


But although Isabel was determined to undo the damage she had done, but it wouldn't happen. It would all be over at the Parker ranch long before she even became aware that Max had escaped from jail.