Prologue 
 

      At the tip of his finger a single crystal emerged, as delicate and ephemeral as a snowflake. He concentrated, smiling now, as the crystals multiplied. Swiftly, a tiny winged dragon grew between his fingers, taking form from the air.

      The child held the crystalline figure aloft, in the hot beam of sunlight streaking through the window. The wee wings glistened in the sun, refracting the light into tiny rainbows, that brightened the room.

      The boy listened to the footsteps approaching his door...near-silent, as though to catch him out. Swiftly, one small hand swallowed the winged beast, and held it, till water drops spilled between his fingers and dripped down his wrist.

      “Good-bye,” he whispered, and for just a moment, lifted his face to the sun’s light. Then, humming a cheery off-key tune, he turned his back and ran out of the room. 

***

Chapter One 
 

      “Why do I ever listen to you?” Zachary Logan pulled the sweatshirt hood further down on his forehead.

      “You don’t,” Shane Merrick replied. “If you had, you would’ve brought rain gear.” He shrugged out of his poncho and tossed it to Zack. “Take it,” he insisted, burrowing in his daypack. “I have a jacket.”

      This time, Zack didn’t argue. He’d been getting progressively wetter for the last half-hour, and it was still a long way down the mountain.

      “Nothing like lockin’ in the moisture,” Shane said cheerfully. Zack didn’t like water. The closest he ever got to swimming was his bathtub. “If you start to steam, I’ll let you know.” Shane pulled out his compass. “I say, we save some steps. If we head due south, we’ll get me dry much faster.” He suited action to words and left the trail to head off through the bush.

      His compass must be off. Zack blurted, “Then we’d better go that way.” He pointed at a spot about twenty degrees to the right.

      “Damned insightful of you, but no thanks,” Shane retorted. “Compasses don’t lie—much, anyway.”

      Arguing will get you nowhere. Zack merely nodded, and followed Shane down an increasingly steep trail. What bothered him most was the way they were hitting rock now—shale which was becoming damned slippery with the water pouring across it like this. Shane was beginning to find it hard going. Worried, Zack gradually moved ahead, eventually taking over the lead.

      Shane couldn’t believe it. This was the first time he’d ever been hiking with Zack, and the damn fool seemed as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Shane had always figured the reason Zack didn’t come along on these hikes was some fear of heights, to go with his weird fear of water. Now, Shane knew he’d misjudged him.

      Fifteen minutes later, Shane was sweating, but it wasn’t with exertion. Zack was scaring the hell out of him. Shane’s stomach was in knots and it kept doing that queasy elevator thing. “Zack!” he yelled. Zack had to slow down, or they were going to end up peeling him off the rocks below. “Zack!”

      Zack came out of his reverie with a regretful, “Oops,” and an apologetic wave.  He’d been balancing on a narrow rock crest, and at Shane’s yell, he’d spun around and bounded back the way he’d come. Shane’s fists were clenched, his jaw tight. He didn’t know whether to punch the guy and haul him down the mountain, or try to talk some sense into him.

      He’d known Zack since he was nine, and he could still remember the way they’d met. He, Will Conway, and Harpo Hastings had gone to the pool for diving lessons, and Zack had been there, too, with his mom. His family were new in town and she’d come to sign him up for swimming lessons. Zack had just stood there, staring at the water, all tense and white. Shane had joked about what a dumbass he was, and, of course, he’d pushed Zack in.

      Zack had sunk like a stone. He’d kicked and flailed, but he didn’t come up, even once. There were just those endless bubbles...

      Shane and Will and Harpo had jumped in and yanked Zack to the surface, but he’d been limp, and for a panicked moment, they’d thought he was dead. It was as though he couldn’t tolerate the water...at all.

      He’d finally sucked in a big breath, then, coughed and choked, but even after he could talk again, he’d never said anything to his mom. And when the lifeguard had come bounding over, Zack had opened glassy eyes and forced a smile.

      They’d been friends ever since. Zack had somehow become their personal project, and even though he’d never become a swimmer, they’d managed to turn the nerdy newcomer into something of a sportshound. He became a maniac at gymnastics and fencing, and the coach said he had the best balance of anyone he’d ever seen. But, if it wasn’t an indoor sport like gymnastics or fencing or ice hockey or basketball, Zack wasn’t big on it.

      This hike was tradition. Shane’s tradition, anyway. He nagged Will and Harpo about it every year. Each summer, they’d explore a different trail, fish a little, and drink a lot. He’d nagged Zack at first, too, but he’d never come along, so eventually, Shane had stopped asking him. He’d figured Zack must be scared of heights, the way he was scared of water.

      This was the first year both Will and Harpo had been unable to go. It was usually one of them, sometimes both on their little trek, but it had never been Shane on his own. This year, though, the others had been too busy: work and women. Rather than give up his tradition, Shane had been preparing to go it alone when Zack had asked whether he wanted company. Shane’s grin had been enough of an answer.

      And, on Harpo’s advice, Shane had never said a word about how much coercive convincing he’d guessed it must have taken for Harpo to goad Zack into coming. The Harpie had admitted laying the guilt on thick, over missed opportunities and lost traditions.

      So, here they were. If Zack had been damning the rain which had soaked him to his skin, Shane was now damning Zack’s reckless careening down what seemed to him an impossibly steep slope.

      Zack, though, didn’t seem to realise what qualms he was causing Shane. His eyes, which Shane had always thought of as a weird hazel, had taken on a silvery cast, and his excitement seemed out of place, over the top. Great sense of balance or not, he was now perched on the lip of a ledge, idly staring out at the view, apparently unaware of the vast amount of space beneath his feet.

      “Zack,” Shane whispered, through a suddenly hoarse throat. “C-C’m here.”

      Zack wandered over. “Need a rest?” he asked carelessly.

      Shane grabbed the front of Zack’s shirt and shook him. “Are you out of your mind?!” he yelled, pointing at the drop. “What’s wrong with you?!”

      The silvery glint faded from Zack’s eyes, and he paled. There was a trace of something like fear in his expression.

      Good, Shane thought, satisfied. About time...

      But Zack’s next actions threw him. Zack shook off Shane’s hands, lifted his head, and forced a smile.

      Shane recognised it. It was the same smile Zack had worn at age nine, when he’d almost drowned.

      In that moment, Shane realised it wasn’t recognition of his lunacy which had brought that trace of fear to Zack’s eyes—any more than it was the daredevil height or the crumbling rock face.

      Zack was scared of him.

*

      They hiked the rest of the way down in near-silence. Even after the sun popped out, and the grey skies cleared, there was no talk of heading back up the mountain or finishing the camping trip. Shane had a feeling it was because both of them were just too scared. He was sure Zack would end up at the bottom of a cliff somewhere, and Zack? He hadn’t lost that dark look to his eyes—it was there whenever Shane looked at him. Every once in a while Zack’s steps would slow, and veer absentmindedly toward the drop, but Shane would nudge him, and set him back on track.

*

      “Maybe he’s one of those people with perfect balance, or no fear of heights,” Harpo told Shane reasonably, later that day. He shrugged, glad Shane didn’t have a VidPhone. He’d take the shrug personally.

      I’ve told Shane often enough he has a pronounced gift for exaggeration...

      Try as he would, Harpo couldn’t picture Zack traipsing along a sheer drop.

      “Maybe,” Shane replied darkly. He was glad Harpo couldn’t see his face. No way would he tell Harpo the rest—about Zack being scared of him. Hell, they’d known each other for years. That was crazy.

      “He’s a maniac at gymnastics,” Harpo reminded him. “You just introduced him to one more sport.”

      “Well, he was a maniac, all right. I was sweating more than he was.”

      “What’re you thinking, Shane?” Harpo asked incredulously. “Death wish or something? Are you crazy?” At Shane’s silence, Harpo prompted, “This is Zack, you dumbass.”

      “It was just so weird...” It sounded lame, even to Shane’s ears. Sounded like he was making way too much out of nothing, just because his camping tradition had been disrupted. Sour grapes.

      “Tell you what: I’ll go around and see him. Ask him about the trip...”

      “Good idea—” Shane began. The business with Zack was really bothering him.

      But Harpo wasn’t finished. His voice held just a hint of wry humour as he added, “...and then, I’ll tell Wilhelm to locate a psychiatrist who handles ‘hiking’ maladies. You know, things like a-phobias of heights. Let me see, what would that be called? Oh, yeah, aeroacrophiliacs...”

      Shane hung up on him.

*

      But the next afternoon, it was Harpo who phoned him. “He did come back with you, didn’t he?” He said it jokingly, but Shane knew he wouldn’t have called unless he was concerned.

      “Zack?”

      “Who else?” Harpo asked sarcastically. “He’s not home.”

      “What about last night?”

      “Uh-uh. Out.”

      “I have a key...”

      “So do I. He’s not there.” Harpo hesitated, then complained, “Why do I ever listen to you? He went out. Big deal. He’s at her house.”

      “Who?”

      “I don’t know! Someone he met at a bar. I’m merely providing content to a reasonable hypothesis.”

      “Unreasonable hypothesis, ya mean.” Shane’s impatience showed in his irritable, “‘Hike all day, fuck total strangers all night’ is not his style.” Zack was far more likely to have spent the night on the Internet than picking up strangers in a bar. “Get smart. Check the paper for a gaming tourney. He’ll be on-line somewhere.” Shane’d had a night to sleep on it. At the moment, his reaction yesterday seemed way overblown. He sniggered. “He’s just being a little more ‘gamey’ than usual. Big deal.”

      “He’s not answering his cellphone.”

      “So? Battery’s dead.” The “duhhh” was implied.

      Harpo’s teeth were gritted now. Shane could tell, even if he couldn’t see him. They’d known each other too long.

      “You’re—the—one—who—said—he—was—acting—strangely,” Harpo retorted. “Dimwit.” There was a lot of muttering under his breath, then a muffled, but still derogatory, “What are you doing here?”

      “Is he back?” Shane asked. “If you tell him I said ‘weird’—”

      “No, it’s Will. The voice of complacency...”

      Will must have yanked the phone out of Harpo’s hand because it was his voice next. “What time did you get back?”

      “Around four. Plenty of time if he wanted to go out.”

      Will was obviously thinking something else. “Harpo, here, says he played mountain goat.”

      “Scared the shit out of me. I thought I was gonna have to pick up the pieces.”

      “Anything else?”

      Shane was quiet. “Like what? He was happy—crazy happy—until I talked to him about it.”

      “Altitude sickness,” Will suggested. “It could account for his confusion.”

      Shane avoided pointing out that although they’d been high above the ground, they really hadn’t been all that high sea-level wise. Altitude sickness was, at least, an explanation he could live with. “Maybe he’s super sensitive to it.”

      He could hear Harpo agreeing in the background, “...hit him the way alcohol would hit someone else.”

      “So, do we look, or leave him alone?” Shane asked. If Shane Merrick was going to act like a fool, he preferred it to be in company. “It’s a Sunday afternoon. Where do you think he is?”

      “I’ve got a friend in the police department,” Will told him, but his words were for Harpo, too. “He’ll make some discreet inquiries at the clubs...”

      “—and Net cafés,” Shane insisted.

      “...and Net cafés,” Will agreed, “just in case. No problem. We’ll take care of it.”

      Apparently, he must have left then, because Harpo hissed into the phone, “Speaking of odd behaviour...”

      “Does he really believe Zack went clubbing?” Shane asked, surprised. It wasn’t Zack’s style.

      “No,” Harpo told him bluntly. “I think he believes the same thing I do—that Zack went back up the mountain.”

*

      I’m the only one who knows where we were.

      Shane held off for two more hours before he did anything about it. He couldn’t believe Zack would be fool enough to head back up the mountain on his own. Sure-footed was one thing; knowing the out-of-doors was another. Give him an indoor challenge, and Zack excelled, but he hated getting wet. He’d never go back up, after the rain they’d had. Especially today. After those fleeting sunny moments, the weather had gone bad again, with the promise of worse. Too much storm, and too little shelter.

      Zack was smart. He’d never do something so stupid.

      Shane grabbed his coat, rain gear, first-aid kit, and pack. Then, he ran out to his car, tore out of his driveway, and roared out of town.

      Only to find that he wasn’t the first one there. Shane couldn’t believe it: Zack’s car, yes, but there were six others, too. One of them was Will’s.

      Shane recognised one of the people in Will’s office. He couldn’t believe Will would recruit Pete Aranson for a Search and Rescue before he’d enlist him or Harpo. Nor was Pete Will’s only co-worker here. Shane recognised four other people. Hell, even Will’s receptionist was out here!

      A little miffed, he stomped over to Pete. “Where’s Will?” he asked grimly.

      Pete gave him what could only be called a considering look. “In the helicopter,” he said, shouting over the buffeting wind. “But they’re gonna have to bring it in soon...”

      Helicopter? At least, whoever Will’s friends were in the police department, they were doing the thing right—even if they had elected to leave him and Harpo out of it. “Is Hastings here?” he asked.

      Pete shook his head. “Not yet.”

      Nebulous. No admissions. He may or may not have been invited. Shane fumed. “Which way?”

      “Take your pick...” Pete told him, with a trace of sarcasm. He might as well have said it was a wasted gesture.

      “Thanks,” Shane retorted, just as sarcastically. “I will.” He’d turned to go when Pete called him back.

      “Here!” Pete tossed him a gadget that looked a lot like a miniature cellphone. “Homing beacon—no reception here on your cell.”

      Will nodded, went to his car, pulled out his pack, and headed back up the slope he and Zack had descended the day before. 

*

      A prickling at the nape of his neck warned him he was being observed.

      No friendly eyes. The silvery glint in his own became more pronounced than ever. Objectively, he knew he should feel fear, but instead, all he knew was exhilaration. Zack was actually smiling as he raced along the cliff face.

      There was a loud whup-whup behind him and he turned, perilously poised on a shallow shard of shale. The helicopter’s occupants apparently saw the hazard their artificial wind was creating, and were weighing the cost. Nature’s own version was buffeting their quarry enough.

      Zack looked a little vacantly at the helicopter. Couldn’t they just leave him alone?! He raised a hand in his own defence, and the helicopter shook, rattling the occupants on a sudden surge of wind. The machine dipped slightly, then rose and retreated. Zack spun back around and began to climb again, as casually as before.

      Where am I going? Deep inside, there was an argument going on, as though some of his good sense had wafted in on the remnants of the helicopter’s exhaust. What am I doing?! Panic filled him. After all these years...

      He was destroying the only life he knew. The illusion he’d so painstakingly created for himself—so painstakingly, in fact, that he’d come to believe it himself. And now, he was blowing it away in one afternoon’s folly.

      You should have eaten...

      It was his fatal flaw, as much a part of his physiology as his aversion to water. If he didn’t eat regularly, he was like a diabetic gone bad. He’d figured it out once; determined it was a product of hypoglycaemia and endorphins. It was actually very simple: if he didn’t eat, he lost his mind—let it all hang out.

      And God help those on the receiving end...

      He clung there now, face against the rock, riding the giddy amusement. Harpo complained when he missed a meal, because he got a migraine...

      Zack snorted with amusement, then began laughing out loud. He doesn’t know...and if I can get back in time, he never will.

      He’d already forgotten the helicopter and its occupants—forgotten everything but a confused elation at the gusting blasts of wind in his ears, the glistening of rainbow droplets on the dull grey rock, and the not-so-distant dance of the low-hanging clouds. “Woo hooooo!” he bellowed to the windswept world.

      There was a clatter of rock above him, and several chips bounced and rattled against his head. Zack scowled, his reaction overblown, and glared in annoyance at some men, rappelling down the rock face.

      Damn it! he thought. Why didn’t anyone ever leave him alone? Sometimes it seemed like he was watched, wherever he went...

      He skittered along the rock almost gleefully, as he made his escape; nearly jogging along the perilously jagged stone. There were yells behind him, but he ignored them.

      Free. He stared out at the distant reaches of dark green trees and purple mountains, trapped in an icing of mist and fog. Panic momentarily surfaced as a familiar voice commandingly shouted his name.

      “Zack! Zack, come here!”

      He’ll think I’m crazy, Zack suddenly realised, in a moment of clarity. In the same moment, he knew the man would be right. Crazy? he chuckled, all reason vanishing. Damn right I am. Zack balanced on his perch, and released his hold on the crumbly shale. He spread his arms wide and lifted his face to the skies. I even think I can fly...

      The next second, he was gone.

*

      “Oh, Jesus!” Will clung to the cliff face, and buried his face in his arm. He had a sudden flash of Zack, when they were kids. Arguing over superheroes. Will had liked The Flash, but with Zack it had always been Superman. In Zack’s mind, it hadn’t been worth being a superhero unless you could fly.

      He couldn’t move. Greg Tracy put a hand on his shoulder, but Will wouldn’t look at him. Taking action meant they’d have to finish this—pick up the pieces, because “They” would want every last fuckin’ one. Zack wouldn’t be left in any more peace dead than he had been alive.

      “Why d’you suppose...?”

      “He jumped?” Will asked bitterly. “Ya mean, was it our fault?” He saw the regret in Greg’s eyes and some of his anger faded. You couldn’t watch over someone like Zack for very long without getting involved. Greg was really asking whether they’d blown it—whether their “watching” had pushed Zack over that edge.

      Will wiped his eyes. “I think he forgot to eat. Made him flip out.”

      “Maybe it was the taste of freedom. Did you feel him rock the chopper?” Greg gave the hint of a smile, but his eyes were red. “He died happy, Will.”

      All Will could do was give a curt nod. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

*

      Shane didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was because their path, which had been relatively untouched yesterday, was so well tracked now. In the distance he could hear dogs barking, and one gave that peculiar hound dog howl. Obvious the searchers didn’t really need any help. With all the people, and the dogs, they’d have Zack out of here within the hour.

      But he wanted to help. Nothing the others could do would change that. So, he left the beaten-down path and headed at an angle, across the shale. He was about to angle back up, figuring it looked to be a likely route for a mountain goat like Zack when he saw it: a rainbow. It was just one more weird thing in what had been the strangest weekend in his life. The rainbow wasn’t an arch, spanning the heavens like Shane had come to expect—nor was it an outpouring from the split light of some crystal. It angled oddly, like a spike...or a beacon.

      He remembered Zack had once told him that rainbows could only be viewed by human eyes at a forty-two-degree angle. Shane had always wondered whether it was possible to actually view a rainbow’s end, or whether it disappeared when you came close. He was to have his answer in a minute.

      Clinging tightly to the rock with one hand, Shane leaned out, over the edge, to peer down onto the slope below. It was a hilly valley of near-level ground spiked with rocks. The rainbow started somewhere down there.

      Odd refraction of light, but then, that place appeared to be a wind tunnel, too. He balanced carefully, and stared down at the ground.

      End of the rainbow. The grass was flattened in a mat, almost like a crop circle. The body in the middle was slightly sunken, its weight having depressed the grass into the mud.

      Of course, Shane thought, stunned into numbness. Lots of rain last night...

      Just then, the body shifted, one arm flopping over before it went still once more. As the same time, a gust of wind stirred up a low-hanging mist, and the rainbow shifted, momentarily brightening.

      Shane didn’t want to think how Zack had arrived at that spot. Peering up the cliff, he could see one possible point of origin, but if that were the case Zack would be buried in the mud—not lying on top of it.

      Unbelievable. Shane triggered the emergency beacon and scrambled down off the cliffs, nearly as recklessly as Zack had done the day before.

***

Chapter Two 

      Will sat in the dim light next to Zack’s bed and wondered how he was going to handle this. One of his primary responsibilities was reporting any unusual phenomena surrounding his subject—any phenomena which may have been generated by him. Will had tread a careful line for years, ever since he’d returned to Wenatchee. His reports had been thorough enough to cover his ass, and Zack’s neck, but this time it was going to be more difficult. He had to account for his failure to discover Zack’s dilemma before he’d gone into crisis mode.

      “I blew it,” he whispered.

      “No, I did,” Zack retorted. “Blew the damned stuff all over the place...” His voice tapered off, the words fading to a happy smile. He was asleep again. Will doubted that Zack had been awake in the first place. He was talking in his sleep, responding to Will’s whispered comment.

      Bad habits, both. Voicing your thoughts aloud and talking in your sleep. Good thing we can trust each other.

      Not that Zack was aware of it. If he’d realised he’d talked about the incident, he wouldn’t be smiling. Will knew his propensity for somnolent chatter—it was the reason he’d taken this shift, though God knows, after all the hiking today he could use some sleep.

      There was no way to cover what had happened. All the reports had already been filed, and the expense of the search was on the books. For an office that spent most of its budget on information processing and surveillance (of which Zack’s case was only a minor part), this expenditure would be “noticeable”, and the fact it featured Zack would be noteworthy. Will needed to find some way to make this appear to be an isolated incident. Zack wasn’t a runner, and there was no need to increase the surveillance. This was merely a quirk in Zack’s physiology, due to some alteration in his diet. Will would get Ryeson, the Company doctor, to back him up.

      What worried him most now wasn’t their ability to cover, or a write-up on his negligence—it was the possibility Greg had mentioned: “Maybe it was the taste of freedom.” What if today was a sign of Zack’s dissatisfaction? What if he was breaking out of the barricades Will and the Company had erected to make all appear normal?

      I’d know. Zack would have hinted at it, given it away in somehow. I would have figured it out.

      I’m his friend, for crissake...

      Friend, paid to protect him, to spend time with him. To watch him for symptoms of physiological problems, and signs of hazardous behaviour. The friend who would stop his sorry ass if he ever tried to leave town, on the sly or otherwise.

      Friend. Zack might not see it that way—not if he knew. Neither would Shane or Harpo. And Shane would sure be wondering after today. The rescuers had answered to Will Conway, not some token policeman. At the time, Will couldn’t afford to worry about it—he’d needed to get Zack airlifted before dark.

      He knew Shane would also be wondering why Tara, his “receptionist”, had been carrying a gun.

      Screwed. I’m screwed. We’re all screwed.

      If Zack hadn’t wanted freedom before, he damn well might now...if he remembered. There was no way he could have, or should have, survived that kind of fall. Whether by virtue of wind, pressure, or power of prayer, Zack, in his Superman scenario, had somehow found a way to fly.

*

      Harpo walked into Shane’s apartment unannounced. He held up his cellphone, told it, “Shane”, and made a point of listening to the ringing of Shane’s phone. It did, loudly and repeatedly.

      Shane made a point of ignoring it. He took another swig of Vodka. “I didn’ think it propishus to anser,” he said.

      Harpo hadn’t seen Shane swig out of a bottle since they were teenagers. He figured Shane must be really upset by today’s events. “I just came from the hospital,” Harpo assured him. “Zack’s doing great. Slight concussion, a few broken ribs. He’ll be out on Wednesday.” Shane didn’t say anything, so Harpo said, “Will’s sitting with him tonight.”

      “R-Reaaally,” Shane said. He turned bleary eyes on Harpo. “Th-Thick as thieves,” he pronounced.

      Harpo wiped the spit spray off his arm. “Yuck.”

      “Pack o’ liars.” Shane lifted the bottle in a toast. “Yo’ jes’ wait.” He nodded wisely. “Yo’ll see.”

      “So will you—double.” Harpo snatched the bottle. “You’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”

      “Know wha’ else?”

      Harpo tugged him out of the chair and hauled him down to the bedroom. “Haven’t a clue,” he said. “Walk a little,” he ordered.

      Shane was splayed across the bed before he spoke again. He beckoned Harpo over and spoke in a conspiratorially drunken whisper. “I thin’—really thin’—Zack can fly.”

      “Well, he did some flying today, I’m told,” Harpo said calmly. “Lucky he’s alive.”

      “Know wha’ else?”

      Harpo sighed. “You said that.”

      “Will knows it.”

      “Right,” Harpo replied.

      Shane snored loudly, snorted even louder, and rolled over on his side. Harpo shook his head, tossed a blanket over him, then went down to get a bucket out of the kitchen cupboard. He had a feeling Shane was going to need it. He set it on the floor near his head, then nudged his leg. “Hey, Shane!” It took a lot of nudging.

      “Wha’?”

      “I’ll call your work for you tomorrow. Ring me when you come back to life.”

      His only answer was another loud rumbly snore.

      Harpo grinned and strolled out of the room.

*

      Zack awoke abruptly. He’d been having one of those dreams of falling. He was toppling through the air, and the ground was coming at him. The instant he hit, Zack jumped—and jarred himself awake.

      Will was there, asleep in a chair. For a moment, Zack’s brow furrowed, and his heart pounded. Hospital...this is a hospital.

      What the hell did I do?

      He looked at the IV in his arm, then experimentally flexed his arms and legs. He was stiff, bruised, and his ribs hurt like hell, but given the fact nothing else was stitched, wrapped or bound in a cast, he guessed he was basically fine.

      He sat up, then immediately wished he hadn’t. His head pounded, and the room around him swam. There was a high-pitched, annoying wail in the background...

      Then, Will’s hand was on his shoulder, pushing him back against the pillows. The next moment, a bunch of people were there, and Will was talking to them, but Zack was too tired to look. “Hi,” he muttered. He fell asleep again, to dream about mountain climbing and lingering, perched on the lip of a precipice.

*

      After Will followed the others out, he grabbed a coffee from the machine in the waiting room, then wandered back in. Zack was smiling in his sleep.

      Will just hoped Zack’s dreams would be more pleasant than his own had been.

*

      When Greg arrived at the hospital, Will took off. He’d spent most of the night worrying; wondering about the best way to handle this. If it were anyone else but Shane, he’d say the hell with it, and figure things would blow over in time. Most people found excuses for what they couldn’t accept, and he hoped Shane would be no exception. But Shane would expect Will to level with him.

      What Will didn’t want to think about too deeply was how much Shane’s opinion mattered to him.

      You can take the man out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the man. Shane, Harpo, and Zack would always matter to him. Hell, they’d grown up together.

      Experience told him it’d be best if he confronted Shane first thing, before he could brood. Will rubbed tired eyes, gave a rudimentary knock on Shane’s front door, and walked in. He found Shane by sound: he was hanging over a bucket, urping his guts out.

      No confrontation this morning, but maybe that was better. Will wasn’t feeling particularly clever, and the look on Shane’s face yesterday had made him realise he’d used up his allotment of lies. Any more words at the moment would only confuse things more, and neither one of them was really up to it this morning. Instead, Will went to the bathroom for a towel, the kitchen for some aspirin and water, and yawning, headed back into the bedroom.

*

       “I don’t get it. How come she’s in trouble and we’re not?” Will asked Greg later, at the office. He’d had a sleep, a shower, and a shave, lingered over lunch, and walked instead of driving to work. Anything to delay his appearance. He still hadn’t figured out how he was going to cover this.

      “Because she didn’t stop him. Zack dropped by her house the night before and left his laptop with her.”

      “His dutiful son monthly visit. Big deal.”

      “Right. Nobody thought anything of it.”

      “Why his laptop?”

      “All those burglaries in his neighbourhood.”

      Will nodded. “Go on.”

      “He told her he was going on the hike, but she didn’t report it—to anyone. Now she’s pissed off that they’re blaming her. It lets us off the hook, but she wants a transfer.”

      “Shit...”

      “Yeah. Ann says she’s played ‘Mom’ long enough. He’s a grown man. He can accept her taking a job out of town.”

      “Where?” Will didn’t really care. He’d disliked Ann Logan ever since he could remember. She’d been the perfect mother, and he could still picture the fresh-baked cookies that were always waiting for Zack and his friends after school. A farce. He wondered whether Zack would be surprised to discover his mother had a PhD in meteorology.

      No, he’d probably be more surprised to discover her name wasn’t Ann Logan.

      “She doesn’t care, but she’d like it to be some place prestigious. According to her, she’s paid her dues.”

      “Does Zack know?”

      “Not yet. She visited him this morning, and hinted at her discontent—at how she was thinking about taking a job overseas. She said enough so he won’t let her forget it. He’ll want to make sure she follows through.”

      “Knowing Zack, he’ll probably push her to send out her resumé.”

      “Ann’s smart. She knows we can’t interfere unless we want to blow the rest of our cover.”

      “The damn thing is, she timed this right. The Company sees her as superfluous to this operation now.” Will’s eyes met Greg’s. “I wonder whether her failure to mention Zack’s hike was intentional.”

      “You’d never be able to prove it—not without jeopardising things further.” For once, Will didn’t bother hiding his feelings, and Greg said with surprise, “You hate her, don’t you?”

      “Best mother on the block,” Will said. “To the letter. She did everything right, but none of us kids really liked her.”

      Greg chuckled. “They say dogs and kids can tell.”

      Will smiled. “Nobody wanted to visit Zack’s house, so she upped the ante. Zack had more toys, games, and equipment than any kid you ever saw. It worked, too—but only after Zack got the attic for his rec room. No Ann, but lots of stuff to do.” He leaned back in the chair. “Hate’s too strong a word. She dished out the requisite number of maternal hugs, but not one of them had any real affection behind it. It was the reason Zack turned into such a rotter in his teens.”

      Greg had read the dossier. “Wild, eh?”

      “Every chance he got—which wasn’t often. The beer and drugs had a way of disappearing. We’d barely get loaded and then the stuff would vanish. Now you see it, now you don’t.” He shook his head. “He was the last of us to settle down.” He added slowly, “Y’know, Greg, I wouldn’t be surprised if underneath that calm exterior all the wildness is still there.”

*

      He was on the edge of something, but it wasn’t a precipice. When Zack opened his eyes Wednesday morning he had a feeling of anticipation. It was the kind of enthusiastic, adrenaline pulsing, gooseflesh rising, shivery emotion he’d only experienced a few other times in his life, but he had sense enough to know it shouldn’t be wasted. It was a chance to step beyond all those self-imposed limits, to what lay beyond.

      He didn’t know what had brought it on. Maybe it was because he was being released today, but he thought it owed more to that hike. He didn’t recall much about it except the sensation of freedom. For a short while, he’d been absolutely self-governing, and free to be himself. Whatever lunacy he’d indulged in had broken down some of the barriers, and Zack felt better than he had in years. Objectively, he knew he should be more concerned about camouflaging himself once more, but he was too damn happy to care. The truth was, he didn’t want to relinquish the thrill.

      Will was coming by to take him home, but Zack didn’t want to see him. If he did, he’d have to play staid, predictable, sane Zack once more, and the effort of it would bring him down. And if he couldn’t play his part, then he’d spend the rest of the day afraid that he’d somehow ruined the facade. It was something he couldn’t afford to do. He needed his safety net of friends and family, but he didn’t want to try their good natures too much. He suspected this morning he would be very trying...

      It was cowardly, but rather than phone Will directly, Zack left a message with Will’s secretary. Worse still, he waited to do that until the nurse told him his taxi had arrived. Will had this knack of turning up, and Zack didn’t want to be reasonable.

      So he wasn’t. Before he could think too much about it, he had the cab go to his office at the DMV. It was boring, repetitive work, which he hated. He didn’t know why he’d taken it in the first place. He walked directly to his boss’ office and quit.

      He strolled out, back to the taxi, and then to the university library. He had some research to do. Stuff that had nothing to do with his herpetology or math degrees, and everything to do with his bad habits. He needed to figure out what made him tick—whether it was a genetic anomaly, mind over matter, or some kind of weird physiological connection with his surroundings. Was he the only one? Or were there other people with a similar physiology? Maybe a group of people exposed to fallout or prenatal drugs? If he could document even one other case, Zack knew he wouldn’t feel like such a freak.

      This was something he’d wanted to do for years. Meteorological research. But he’d never cracked the books because he’d been too afraid about what he might find.

      He’d been at it fifteen minutes before he realised his cautious side had been right. He should have been afraid.

      He turned the page of an old Science journal, and found himself looking at a familiar face. A meteorologist, who’d done some controversial work thirty years before on weather-control experiments with military applications. A scientist who was both famous, and well-respected.

      It was his mother. And her name wasn’t Ann Logan.

*

      He was naive enough to wonder first why she’d changed her name. Sick of the controversy? Or had it been one of those classic cases, where a beaten woman takes the kid and runs out on her abusive husband? That one made the most sense to Zack. It would account for her reluctance to talk about his dad, and explain the pseudonym. Given her notoriety in the scientific community, it would have been all too easy for her ex to track down Dr. Maureen Mitchell.

      The words began to dance before his eyes, and his head to throb in time to his pulse. His enthusiasm of the morning had waned, but it had served its purpose. He had been on the verge of a discovery. He just wasn’t sure what to do with it.

      He forced himself to work a while longer, but found himself nodding over the book. During one of these micro dreams, the words “weather-control experiments” popped into his head. As his head slipped off his hand, and he jerked awake, he decided to delve a little deeper. Here was Mom with her experiments, and here was her son, who, given his weird physiology, could have been the subject of a few. A coincidence? Or had Mom’s research been more controversial than anyone knew?

      His suspicions made him feel more rotten than he had before. His stomach churned as he ran her name through the catalogue and came up with a series of articles.

      It’d be easier if I just asked her...

      Easier for whom? He didn’t know which would be more tolerable: the lie or the truth.

      He wondered whether the concussion was giving him delusions.

      He forced himself to carry the journals to the photocopier. It was no easy task—they were all bound in books, and his mother’s research had been a popular topic. Spots were dancing before his eyes, but he finished the job. Then, on a hunch, he grabbed the bound journals and stood them on an empty shelf, so they’d blend. He hid the photocopies in the midst of some dusty tomes, squinted to focus on the adjacent titles, then beat a hasty retreat.

      He made it out of the library and struck out for town. If they’re watching you they’ll track the cab. They’ll know where you went.

      Excuse. Excuse. What’s a good excuse?

      A job. Taking some classes. Student job search. Retraining...

      His head felt like it was splitting. Zack latched onto the branch of a street tree and lost his breakfast in the gutter.

      Shit!

      “You’re just being paranoid...” He remembered his mom saying it, because he’d thought some people were following him to high school.

      She’d laughed. Not the response of a woman worried an abusive spouse might be tracking her down.

      Zack had never felt less like laughing in his life. But as he toppled to the concrete, he swore he could still hear her laughter in his ears.

*

      Shane had been avoiding both Will and Harpo, but he decided it was time to visit Zack. He stopped by his house after work, but Zack wasn’t there. A little concerned, because he knew he was supposed to come home today, he punched in Harpo’s number.

      “Maybe he’s staying another day.”

      Ann hadn’t known either, which struck Shane as strange. He’d have thought she’d be doing a better job of following her only son’s recovery. Of course, this was Ann. Shane’s own mother would probably be bugging Zack with hot soup and homemade bread as soon as she knew he was home.

      Not Ann.

      There’s one person who’ll know. Shane wasn’t certain why he was so sure, but it was also the reason he didn’t call him. Instead, he put in a call to the hospital.

      Zack had left, but then been readmitted in critical condition. Before Shane hung up, the receptionist had checked with a nurse, and relisted his condition as serious, but stable. Shane gave Harpo a call en route to the hospital, then, almost as an afterthought, phoned Zack’s mom.

      He didn’t bother calling Will.

      But then, maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe Will would already know.

      Shane sighed. Dammit.

*

      Will’s phone blipped and he stepped out of Zack’s room. He’d been here since Zack had come back from surgery. “Keep it short,” he advised Tara. “Hospital equipment.”

      “He’s here,” was all she said. “Getting into the elevator.” The phone clicked off.

      Will headed for the stairs. Shane was angry enough already. Suspicious, too, but since he wasn’t sure exactly what he was being suspicious about, he was sitting on his anger. After Will had cleaned him up yesterday, Shane had remembered he had a grudge to nurse, and had practically thrown Will out of the house. Now Will was in one of those “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situations. He couldn’t have called Shane today to inform him about Zack with incurring more scorn and “sneak” comments, and if Shane were to find him here, and realise Will had known about Zack and hadn’t bothered to tell him, he would have earned himself a punch in the nose. Either way, it was getting too close. If he didn’t watch it, Will was going to be looking at a transfer, and that was what he didn’t want. It had been tricky enough convincing them to let him take a friend’s case, but Will didn’t want to see Zack stuck with anyone else.

      Will went out to the doctors’ lot and climbed into his car. His ID bought some privileges, and a discreet parking spot had been one of them.

      In a sudden burst of frustration, he slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. He was disgusted with the deception, fed up with the liar who stared back at him in the mirror. Who was he fooling?

      Not Zack, he guessed. Hell, Zack hadn’t even waited for him this morning...

      That one hurt. It hurt more when he thought about Zack’s reaction if he ever found out Will’s role in this.

      Whereas he’d once seen himself as one of the good guys, and thrived on his status, Will was now seeing himself through his friends’ eyes: cunning and sly; a master of pretence.

      Tiredly, he headed home, to shower up and wait for Shane’s call.

*

      Zack was hot and drowsy, floating on painkillers. He remembered the blinding pain in his head and couldn’t believe it was gone. He wanted to relax, but someone had tossed a couple of extra blankets on his legs, and he was breaking out in a sweat.

      He lifted one foot, and tried to kick at the offending covers, but it was too big an effort. He dozed off, and only jerked awake when some tickly sweat ran down his back.

      Zack couldn’t stand it. He shifted fretfully, but couldn’t surface enough to take care of it.

      Put out the fire...

      So, he did. Opening bleary eyes, he peered at the dim reaches of the room.

      Think cold...

      The first streaks of white cirrus formed high, against the ceiling. Zack smiled,  wearily watching the white clouds multiply, layer, and shift. As the white masses chilled, they drifted down, and more warm air was drawn in to take their place. In minutes the convection currents had became so pronounced that the sucking of air through the air vents produced a high-pitched shrieking whine.

      Zack didn’t care, though. The snow was falling rapidly now—snowflakes on his nose, his cheeks, his forehead. So cool, so refreshing. At first the tiny flakes melted, dripping water down onto the pillow and sheets, until his skin grew cool enough for them to stick. The first flakes to settle were rapidly joined by more. As the temperature plummeted, Zack dozed off, finally comfortable under his soft fresh blanket of newfallen snow.

*

      Shane headed for the nurses’ station first, then wandered down to Zack’s room. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the increasing moisture in the hall till he skidded on the damp floor. Annoyed, he was cursing the cleaner’s carelessness when he hit Zack’s room—and saw white vapour venting out from under the door.

      Fire!

      His panicky squawk of “Fire!” didn’t reach the nurses’ desk, so he yelled again, but there was nobody in sight. He ran partway up the hall, realised it might be too late for Zack if he didn’t do something now, and tore back down to his room.

      The expulsion of smoke was so violent now the door was actually shuddering in its frame—knocking with a low thud thud thud.

      If you think there’s a fire, put your hand on the door, to see whether it’s hot—before you open it.

      Shane rested a shaky hand against the surface—and instantly jerked it away. His fingers, prepared for intense heat, had been just as startled by the intense cold. He didn’t know what it meant, and he couldn’t afford to wait to find out. Flinching, he pushed open the door.

      Or, that was the idea. It opened a crack—just enough for Shane to assure himself there weren’t any flames. Whatever was happening had nothing to do with fire.

      Something was blocking the door. With a grim wish that it wasn’t Zack, Shane hit the door at a run—and suddenly realised he wasn’t alone. There were two other people with him now, and in Shane’s befuddled state he registered them as hospital staff. The three of them went at the door a second time, and this time it gave.

      Shane, still caught by the impetus of that last push, went tripping into the room, skidded on a sheet of ice and went sliding across the floor. The man at his back cursed and toppled, slamming into Shane who did a forward flip over a chair.

      The third man hadn’t been any more prepared. In that initial rush, his feet slid out from under him. Shane cringed at the solid thwack of the man’s head hitting the floor.

      The room was filled with fog. It billowed overhead like clouds, the eerie flow caught in the weak glow from the light over the bed. Shane felt sick and disoriented, but at floor level the chilling humidity was so thick he couldn’t see. It was rising now that the door was open—the sudden warmth filling the room with dense vapour.

      Zack—

      Now that he knew it wasn’t fire, all he could think was that the heat pump or air conditioning or some other recirculating system had gone horribly wrong. Shane disentangled his legs from the toppled chair and, cradling an aching arm against his chest, pushed himself to his feet, and limped awkwardly to the bed.

      Zack was shivering, and his lips were white with cold. Shane brushed the snow off his face with numb fingers. He couldn’t believe Zack was lying here, under a frosty blanket.

      I’ve never seen anything like it—

      His thoughts froze right there. Ann Logan had a reputation as a lousy cook. It had nothing to do with the quality of her cookies, or the quantity of her baking, but it had everything to do with the smoke which frequently filled the house. Dark grey smoke, that never stunk of fire...

      It wasn’t smoke.

      And Ann Logan wasn’t the one responsible.

*

      When Harpo arrived at the hospital, he was intercepted by Ann Logan. She took his arm, and dragged him off to the cafeteria. “No visitors,” she told him apologetically. “Except immediate family.”

      “He’s that bad?” Harpo asked, distressed. The last he’d heard from Shane was that Zack had been upgraded to “serious” rather than “critical”.

      She nodded. “It was a subdural haematoma. They thought the operation was a success, but now...” She lowered her head so he couldn’t see her face.

      Harpo had the sudden impression he was in a bad soap opera.

      It’s shock, you dick. Show the proper compassion...

      A little awkwardly, he patted Ann’s shoulder. “Did you tell Shane yet?” he asked.

      “He knows.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a handkerchief.

      Who carries a hankie these days? he thought sarcastically, and then, almost angrily, Fully equipped for mourning...

      He had to get his thoughts back on track. The only reason this little scene was so unbelievable was because he didn’t want to believe it. No way Zack could die.

      No way.

      He had a sudden urge to get away from her. She might be his strongest tie to Zack, but she felt more like an obstacle in his path. He’d much rather be sitting in the hall outside Zack’s door, waiting for an opportunity to see him, than drinking coffee with her.

      Her phone blipped as Harpo was preparing to do just that. As she was answering he stood quickly and gave a brief wave good-bye. Ann reached out quickly and grabbed his arm. “Oh, no,” she said. “Wait, Will—I’ll put Harpo on.”

      Harpo looked confused, but reluctantly took the phone. “Will?”

      “Yeah. Look, I’m in ER with Shane. He took a header down the stairs, as he was leaving Zack’s floor.”

      “Shit!”

      “Yeah,” Will agreed, then hastily assured him, “It’s not bad. The doctor said dislocated shoulder, maybe a sprained ankle. The shoulder’s back in place, but he’s gonna be sore.”

      “I’ll spell you—” Harpo began.

      “No need,” Will interrupted. “They gave him a painkiller, but it hit him hard. He’s out for the count.” He hesitated. “I hate to ask, but can you call Lisa? Maybe Rose, too?”

      Harpo sighed heavily. Phoning people with bad news was his least favourite task. Better coming from him than a stranger, though, and Will had been stuck telling him and Ann. My turn. “No problem,” Harpo replied. “Did you hear about Zack?” Bad news, everywhere you looked.

      My friends are dropping like flies...

      “Ann told you?” Will took Harpo’s silence for an answer. “I don’t want to talk about it, Harpo.”

      Harpo nodded. “Know how you feel. Will?” he said.

      “That’s me.” It was an old joke. He usually followed it with “where there’s a Will, there’s no way”.

      Harpo gave a trace of a smile. “Be careful.” At Will’s silence, Harpo added, “Just that.”

      “I, Will,” he retorted. Another old joke. Will’s voice was muffled as he added, “You, too.”

*

      Harpo stopped by Zack’s house on his way home. The truth was, he was depressed for the first time he could remember, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He had this terrible feeling of doom, and he wondered if it was some precognition warning him of Zack’s impending demise. Then, he tried to put it out of his head, because if precognition was true, that bio-PK stuff might be, too, and he didn’t want to influence Zack’s recovery with negative thoughts.

      His thoughts seemed to jump from a shockingly black void to a crammed headful of memories and what-ifs. If he couldn’t come to terms with it, he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.

      Maybe I shouldn’t. It could be Zack’s last night on Earth...

      There it was again, and he booted Zack’s old couch, sending it scraping loudly across the beat-up linoleum. Positive thoughts, positive thoughts...

      But somehow, all he could see were things that moistened his eyes, and constricted his throat so tightly he could barely swallow over the lump. Every tabletop held a cactus. They were Zack’s “pets”, and each one had a name. The big Agave on the floor was Harpo in his honour, and the extra prickly one on the table was Shane. Will? It was a divaricate, rather than a cactus, and it changed its growth pattern depending on its environment. Harpo figured Zack had that just about right. If anyone was adaptable, it was Will.

      The place was coated with dust and detective stories, books on fencing, and journals on minerals, math, and botany—Zack’s other “hobbies”. Harpo wandered over to the cupboard and opened it. They were still there. Zack’s comic book collection. Harpo smiled and quietly clicked it closed.

      Over the mantle were two épées. Zack had used one of them to win a regional fencing competition. His coach had claimed Zack could have qualified for the Olympics, but Zack had never tried. Winning the regional seemed to spook him, and he’d withdrawn from the sport. Harpo knew he still exercised, and he’d caught him practising more than once, but he never did it out in public any more.

      Zorro, Harpo thought, remembering the comic books. When Zack had realised he was unlikely ever to fly, he’d gone for the swordplay stuff instead. He’d even had a “Z” inscribed in his sword hilts. “Z” for Zorro—or Zachary.

      Reverently, Harpo removed Zack’s winning foil from its perch. Funny, he thought, his lips twitching, but the foils were the only things in Zack’s house not covered with dust.

      It was a foolish gesture, but if there would ever be a good luck totem to encourage Zack to mend it was this. Harpo knew it was stupid, but it was something he needed to do—if only to make himself feel better. He grabbed the velvet bag Zack had had specially contrived for carrying his duelling gear, and then, on impulse, went into the closet in Zack’s bedroom and pulled out the cape and mask Zack thought nobody knew about.

      Grinning, and feeling good for the first time since he’d spoken to Will, Harpo deftly wove his way through the cacti, saluted with the sword to its mate above the mantle, and went swiftly out the door.

*

      He had every intention of waiting until the next morning. The sword, mask, and cape, which had seemed like such a good idea in the swashbuckling contours of Zack’s lounge, now seemed like a dramatic bit of foolishness. Walking into the hospital at this time of night, sword in hand, would only be interpreted one way. Disguising the length in a bag would only make it appear more like a rifle than a duelling weapon. However he did it, the security people wouldn’t be too happy. Possession of the mask would only set the seal on his lunacy.

      Depressed again, he started the car and headed for his house. He was halfway there when he noticed the lights in his rearview mirror. Right on cue, the vehicle switched lanes and turned off. Seconds later, a motorcycle had taken its place.

      “Right on cue” because it wasn’t the first time it had happened, but this was the first time Harpo had consciously noted it. The motorcycle was what gave it away. The motorcycle was a frequent visitor in his rearview mirror, and yet nobody in a three-block radius drove a bike.

      “Thick as thieves,” Shane had claimed. “Pack of liars”.

      For all his claims to artistic fame, Shane wasn’t usually prone to flights of fancy—that was Zack. What was Will prone to?

      “Will knows it,” Shane had claimed. He was angry with Will—disillusioned. It had taken Harpo by surprise, but he’d put it down to Shane’s worry about Zack—and his snubbed feelings because Will had coordinated the rescue without him. Shane’s reaction had seemed overblown, and a little foolish.

      Which is the way Will had intended it to seem. “Tell Shane I’m sorry I didn’t call him. It’s just that Greg’s had some experience in Search and Rescue.” Which was the reason Shane had shut up, and refused to talk about it any more.

      But Shane had been fine earlier, and it was unlike Shane to go toppling down the stairs. Hell, it was unlike Shane to take the stairs. He’d loved elevators ever since they were kids—and Harpo could still remember going to the city with Shane’s parents and having to ride the elevators to the top of every skyscraper in town.

      Shane Merrick would never take the stairs—not unless the building was burning down, and even then, they’d have to make him.

      Which meant Will had been lying.

      “Pack of liars.” Only, why the hell would Will or anyone else lie? What was the point? 

      About a block from his house the motorcycle dropped back, and Harpo watched to see whether he’d been wrong—and whether it was about to slide into some driveway. No, it was dropping back for another reason altogether. As Harpo did the expected—went through the silent intersection, and drove slowly down the block—the motorcycle slowed nearly to a crawl. When Harpo put on the brakes to stop at his house, the bike rounded the corner and sped out of sight.

      It was then Harpo did the unexpected: he stepped on the gas and yanked the steering wheel away from the curb. With a recklessness born of fury, he roared down the street, and wound a circuitous way back to the hospital.

*

      Bitch. A tingle of fear raced down his spine. I’m in charge of this operation...

      Or was he? Ann Logan had been in this longer than he had. He sometimes had the impression she still saw him as the boy he’d once been, instead of the trained operative he’d become.

      He had to admit if there had been any way to avoid informing her about tonight’s events, he would have. But she was the resident meteorologist, and had dealt with episodes before. All of them had involved transient, but brief, humidity changes. Nothing the extent of tonight’s episode.

      Ann was excited over the ramifications. For years she’d viewed her own job as interminably dull—until tonight, that is. She was wondering whether the surgery, or possibly swelling in the brain, had triggered the effect. What worried Will were her enthusiastic theories about whether it could be triggered again. It was as though all her life she’d been waiting for this moment.

      He supposed she had. She’d had a lot of notoriety at one point in her career, and had probably seen Zack’s genetic potential as the next step to earning an international reputation. At the time, she’d realised there might be a wait, but she had never dreamed it would be this long.

      Now, she was shaken over how close she’d come to leaving, and losing out to someone else. Zack’s brush with death made her realise how much her future could depend on him. It made her want to rush to substantiate his activities. Whatever it took, it was time to get him to produce.

      “Maybe it’s chemical,” she was saying now. “I’ll need a list of anaesthetics, antibiotics, analgesics,” she continued, almost gleefully.

      Vampire.

      “We’ll need to duplicate the effect.”

      “‘We’?” Will asked calmly.

      “You don’t really think we can keep him here now,” she said reasonably. It wasn’t a question.

      “Shane’s a minor problem.”

      “Zack’s a major one. He’s had two episodes in less than forty-eight hours. It could be he’s undergoing some kind of transition.”

      “I have to discuss this with Ryeson.”

      She shook her head impatiently. “There are contingency plans. Koppel set them up...”

      “He’s dead.”

      “That’s not the point. He designed the criteria—engineered and modelled it for a specific outcome. Now that the outcome is finally according to design, it’s time to act.”

      “We’re not talking about an ‘outcome’—we’re talking about a human being.”

      “If you like,” she retorted. Her eyes narrowed. “I told them it was a mistake to involve you—so they made contingencies for that, too.”

      Will felt a tightening in his gut. “Sounds like I don’t have much choice. Is this a threat, Logan?”

      “Not from me.” She smiled, and it was somehow worse. “Zack’s been hospitalised, listed as critical, and the prognosis is poor.” She looked at her watch. “If you can arrange a transfer, we can get him out of here tonight.”

      Errand boy...

      “Don’t you think that’ll look suspicious?” He avoided mentioning Shane’s attitude. At this point, he was afraid to have him brought into it. There might be a “contingency” for that, too.

      “Brain damage,” she provided. “Zack’s being sent elsewhere for assessment. His mother is going with him, to provide support.” She saw the doubt in his eyes, and shrugged. “All right, then—hold a funeral. The problem with that is I won’t be able to leave town when he does.” It was obvious this solution didn’t hold much appeal. “It would definitely squelch the questions, though—and give him some recovery time before we begin testing.” She patted Will on the shoulder and offered him a sweet smile.

      The academic pandering to the pedestrian...

      He remembered seeing that same smile looming over a plate of cookies. Lucky he hadn’t known then how much she hated them all.

      “Who says you don’t have any choices?” she said.

*

      Harpo parked down the block, and hiked across the hospital grounds. He’d decided to carry the sword. He was spooked; there was no other way to describe it. As dangerous as the bagged sword might make him look, he felt safer having it in hand.

      He argued with himself every step of the way. This was stupid, paranoid. He was being influenced by stress, he was suffering from shock, he’d seen too much TV. He felt angry at Shane for mixing things up, and guilty as hell for even considering Will might be involved in some conspiracy. Mostly, he just felt damn sad because Zack was so sick, and he might never be right again.

      This is crazy. Harpo vowed he’d never tell anyone about tonight. It would only add to Shane’s paranoia, and Will—well, Harpo knew how he’d feel if someone suspected him of conspiring against one of his friends. No, Will didn’t need to hear about this.

      Harpo shoved the sword down his leg and the cape under his shirt and walked stiffly into the ER. He knew better than to mention Zack or take a direct path to his room. Fortunately, it was busy, and it didn’t take much acting ability to improvise concern over a friend who’d been injured. Heck, he’d had enough experience at that over the last few hours.

      He watched for a while, then saw a teen with a painful ankle being whisked away in a wheelchair. Minutes later he went to the desk. “Pete Joskins was sent up to X-ray. Can I...?” He was ushered through, and directed to the elevator.

      There was nobody in the hall on Zack’s floor—probably because they were all in Zack’s room. Harpo slipped into the room next door, being careful not to disturb the occupant, and put an ear against the wall. He was just in time to hear Will’s, “Shane’s a minor problem.”

      Harpo stood, listening, for five minutes more. It was all he needed, to tell him far more than he’d ever wanted to know.

*

 “Contingency plans.” “Assessment.” “Two episodes in less than forty-eight hours.”

      “Designed the criteria”?

      Shane was right.

      No—maybe they’re talking about therapy...some new procedure to save Zack’s life. The “hold a funeral” Ann suggested was the threat—a reminder of what could happen if they don’t give him treatment.

      Harpo wanted to believe it. All I have to do is stroll in there right now and ask...

      Would it make him a “minor problem”, like Shane? One more thing to circumvent?

      Things like this don’t happen.

      Yeah, they do. Terrorists move in, run local businesses, blow up buildings...

      And if I really thought I could “stroll” in, I wouldn’t be hiding in the room next door...

      Will? He didn’t just “move in”. He’s always lived here...

      He likes to be in charge. Maybe this was the only way he could. They offered him a deal that was too sweet to refuse.

      Harpo’s lip curled with revulsion. Will was slime. Total slime. He’d grown up with Zack and turned against him.

      What about Zack’s mom? The words may have been slightly muffled, but the intonation was clear. Ann Logan had spoke of herself as “his mother”—objectively, in the third person. Like an actress, tiring of her role...

      The massive proportions of the deception hit him. It was too much to take in. For an instant, everything went black, and Harpo slid down, to sit on the floor.

      It’s a horror movie...

      These people weren’t the ones he knew. These were cabbage people, replicates from outer space.

      What about my own parents? And Shane’s?

      Once he’d admitted the impossible he couldn’t close it out—all he’d known, all the things he’d based his life around were suddenly in doubt. How could he believe in anything now? How did you know what was real?

      Evil. It was real, and it was here.

      It was only after Harpo had sat there for an eternity that it occurred to him to wonder why. Why Zack?

      How could Ann do this? She’s Zack’s mom.

      Or not his mom. He remembered Zack’s face when he showed Ann his report card. She’s his mom. She had to be.

      The cookies, the birthday parties. She was in the PTA, for crissake.

      Zack thinks she’s his mom.

      Harpo’s chest tightened, and his eyes filled. No matter how many lies Zack had told, no matter what secrets he’d hidden, he didn’t deserve that. No one did.

      His so-called mother wanted him shipped, so she could “act on the design”, and “begin testing”. Hell.

      Harpo knew he needed to act on this, too, before it was too late. The foil lay across his lap, and he fingered it, filled with a sudden urge to don mask and cape and run next door, wielding his wild blade.

      But, that would get him nowhere. He’d merely join Shane, as one of Will’s minor problems.

      Or maybe, if he caused too much trouble, he’d become a major one, like Zack.

      Only, Harpo had a feeling cold-blooded Ann wouldn’t hesitate to hold a real funeral—for him.

*  

      Shane awoke the next morning to find Harpo by his bed. Harpo’s eyes had dark circles underneath, and his expression was grim. “Good. You’re awake,” he said.

      Shane’s expression cleared and his eyes widened. “You’ve gotta hear—!” he began.

      Harpo held a finger to his lips and shook his head warningly. “Later,” he mouthed. Aloud, he asked mockingly, “Hear what?” He’d had all night to figure out how he was going to play this. “About your swan dive?”

      “You mockin’ me, Man?”

      “Somebody has to.” Harpo’s smile was strained. “As soon as you get the okay, I’ll take you home.”

      “How’s Zack?” Shane asked.

      Harpo averted his head. He hated this bit.

      I’m doing a Will, he thought disgustedly.

      “Zack didn’t make it,” he mumbled.

      Shane’s eyes widened, then filled. He looked confused, angry, bereft. “There were clouds...in his room. I-I thought...”

      You thought Zack had been lying to you all along. And for a few minutes there, you hated him for it...

      Harpo decided it was time to finish this conversation. “You never made it to Zack’s room, Shane,” he said grimly. “Those clouds you dreamed?”

      A stroke of genius, Harpo.

      “Just think of Zack floating on ’em, right now.”

***

Chapter Three 
 

      Harpo swished the sword idly through the air, accidentally tagging the chair. He ran his fingers over the small slice.

      Nothing that a little glue won’t fix.

      It was what he had told Shane yesterday, when he’d accidentally ripped his shirt.

      He paced the room, absently swishing the air. Everything and everyone is suspect.

      But at least it created a climate you could work within, Harpo thought practically. You just had to overcome your initial paranoia. Once you got past the fear, it was like one of those strategy games he used to play on the computer.

      All a game...

      The only problem was recalling what normal felt like. Harpo had a feeling he blew it sometimes, and let his anger show through, but he supposed they’d put that down to grief. Just as the long hours tinkering in his garage could be taken for mulling, and any time he took off work could be excused.

      Will wasn’t around. He’d taken off on a business trip right after the funeral. It made Harpo sick when he heard his own mother mentioning how distraught Will seemed. Harpo felt like running him through with Zack’s sword.

      That was something Shane was covering right now—the disposition of Zack’s belongings. Ann had demonstrated her maternal feelings by ordering in a dumpster the day after the funeral. Apparently, Zack (wherever he was) would have no mementoes of his boyhood. Shane had gone over there, asking if he could keep a few things to remember Zack by. Ann had struck a deal with him: he could have whatever he wanted, as long as he dumped the rest. Shane had said there’d been dollar signs in her eyes, and he guessed that she really wanted to make a little money on the deal. Then, Shane had laughed as he’d told Harpo how sappy he’d been: wandering aimlessly around the room, picking up Zack’s herpetology book and moping about how Zack had been reading that, just last week.

      Ann had tried to draw the line with the furniture. It was all old and shabby—nobody could possibly want it. But by that point, Shane had been steaming. Ann had tossed out “Harpo” and “Shane”—chucked the big cacti, pots and all, into the dumpster. Shane had carefully fished them out and repotted them, while Ann stood there impatiently, obviously fuming. Shane had almost made a mistake then. He’d admitted to Ann, “I can’t let him go...yet.”

      Harpo just hoped Ann hadn’t interpreted it the way Shane had really meant it.

      If Will was on a business trip to Emoryville, he’d detoured five hundred miles out of the way. Harpo had attached a GPS to his car, and stashed one in Will’s tyre well, too. He was also running three of those mini cams you could order off the Net. The problem was, the range was too short, and any scramblers or EM interference could disrupt transmission.

      That had happened almost immediately. Harpo had one more backup plan, and he didn’t think it had a prayer. He’d stopped by to visit Will before he left, and cheerfully poked a series of tiny holes in the recharger for his phone.

      Will would be staying at a hotel. Harpo knew, because Will always filched all the shampoo and coffee packets and brought them home. If Will couldn’t use his own phone, to answer an urgent call from “home”, he’d be forced to use the motel’s.

      That one had stumped Harpo for a while. How would Will know he had an urgent call if he couldn’t use his phone? Then it came to him: he’d pick up his messages, in case the bad guys had more dirty work for him to do.

      Harpo had sat there, waiting for the call. Will’s phone had the caller ID feature blocked, but the motel didn’t. Harpo’s hands were shaking as he’d jotted down the number. He was so tense he guessed he sounded damn upset about the way Ann was acting. “We’re worried about her, Will. She’s having trouble dealing with it. She’s ordered in a dumpster—just tossing all Zack’s stuff away...”

      Will had sounded upset, too—really upset—and Harpo marvelled at the man’s acting ability. But then, he thought cheerfully, it was no better than his own.  He held up the pad and looked at the number. Will hadn’t been worried about blocking the phone number because this was Harpo, who hadn’t had caller ID when Will left.

      He did now.

*

      “She’s leaving town Thursday.”

      Harpo chewed loudly. “Told ch’ou,” he said. “She’s put on the show, and now she’s outa here.” He was eating chocolate, always guaranteed to stimulate the brain. “Two days. Hm-m.”

      “I’m taking leave from the University,” Shane said, breaking off a chunk of Harpo’s chocolate bar and popping it in his mouth. “Death of a close friend...” He sighed theatrically and grabbed another chunk.

      Harpo pulled the bar out of reach. “Get your own.” He studied Shane for a moment then asked, “Taking leave from Rose, too?”

      “She didn’t like my ‘inappropriate levity’. Zack’s death hit her hard. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was only seeing me to get to him.”

      “Those DMV guys are really hot,” Harpo sniggered.

      “Not the last time I saw him,” Shane retorted. “Before we barge on in, it would be good if we sorted some things out—so we know what we’re getting into.”

      “Second thoughts?” Harpo had been having some of his own. Some complacent part of him wanted to accept that what was happening to Zack was for his own good. That if Zack had been born with genetic anomalies, then he’d been lucky to be adopted, and raised as a “normal” kid.

      “It’s only reasonable. We could be putting other people at risk, you know.”

      Harpo nodded. “I just need to know that what they’re doing for him is better, Shane,” he said quietly. “I can find all these reasons to make it okay, but until I know, I can’t let it go.”

      “Yeah,” Shane agreed. “I keep telling myself Zack prefers the indoors anyway, so if they lock him up, it shouldn’t matter. Then I remember his face that day, when we were hiking. It was the freedom, Harpo. And I wonder if that was more Zack than the guy we knew.”

      He swallowed hard, and Harpo relented, and passed him a big chunk of chocolate.

      “Thanks,” Shane chomped out. “I figured out why he chose cacti,” he blurted.

      Harpo looked a little confused. “Why?”

      “Biofeedback. I checked out the species. All Agaves—but all of them intolerant to cold. Zack knew if he let down his hair he’d kill them. It helped him keep control.”

      “Shit.” The idea that Zack knew so much about his problems, but kept them hidden, was really disturbing. Harpo tried to picture himself in a similar situation. “I wouldn’t tell anyone either,” he sighed. He took a generous bite, chased it with a big swig of Coke, and waited for the rush. “Ah-h. Better.” He plopped his feet on Shane’s table. “I did some research on climate at an Internet café.”

      Shane kicked his feet off the table, then nodded. “Good thinking.” One topic it wouldn’t have been safe to research at home.

      “About thirty years ago, during the Vietnam War, there was a lot of work on weather manipulation. It involved cloud seeding over Laos to flood out the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and ended in Congressional hearings, with lots of blame being passed. The idea was to make the weather work on your side. Then came a UN ban on weather modification for military purposes. It’s been in effect ever since.”

      “But if it wasn’t for military purposes?” Shane suggested darkly.

      “That’s what I think. There’ve been a number of cultures with religious practices ‘designed’ to influence the weather: raindances, cannon blasts, rituals, rockets, sacrificial offerings. Some of them claim to be quite effective. There are also people like dowsers who can predict water movement in the soil, mineral deposits, things like that. Now, maybe that’s clairvoyance, maybe not. A positive result to a raindance might reflect some kind of PK.” Harpo looked doubtful. “I could see it working in an enclosed space, like a room, but it’s hard to imagine PK influencing a high cloud layer.”

      “Psychokinesis. Mind-over-matter.”

      “Right. Maybe all it takes is formation of a few ice crystals, to stir things up.”

      “So, you’re suggesting the mindset, or chemical balance, or whatever it takes for PK, could be part of Zack’s physiology.”

      Harpo shrugged. “His problem with water? It may be because his system absorbs it so readily.”

      “Hydrophilic.”

      “He has no positive buoyancy underwater.”

      “But we don’t know that—any of it.”

      “Of course not. It’s all supposition.” Harpo grinned. “You don’t see me casting aspersions on your snowstorm.”

      “We’re big into genetic engineering now, but it’s been trial and error for years.”

      “That would go with Ann’s ‘engineered for a specific outcome’ comment.”

      “There’s more.” Shane looked really pleased with himself. “When I left the department, I wandered over to the library, and did some research, too.” He pulled out a photocopied sheet and handed it to Harpo. “Recognise anyone?”

      “It’s Ann. Younger, but definitely her. She still dresses the same.”

      “Yep. Ann Logan, AKA Maureen Mitchell, PhD.”

      Harpo was looking stunned, so naturally, Shane rubbed it in. “Her specialty? Meteorological modifications to the local environment.”

      “Fuck me!”

      “No, thanks.”

      “Here, wa-ay back in my depraved mind,” Harpo said dismally, “I was thinking maybe Zack was lucky to have somebody adopt him, especially if he had genetic problems.”

      “I think we have to look at this differently. If Ann the Sham conceived him, it may have been as a product.”

      Harpo bristled at that one. “He’s human—as much as any of us!”

      “I’m not saying he isn’t, you fool! But he may have had his genes ‘influenced’, or been bred for this result. And they’ve been waiting years to see it happen.”

      “Zack will never go along with it. He’s too busy trying to hide. Look how long he held off on that hike.”

      “i.e., how hard it was for you to talk him into it,” Shane said sarcastically. “He knows he’s different. It’s why he was scared of me, up on the mountain.”

      “Of course he does, but I bet he doesn’t know how different, or how many people are involved. He won’t go along with anything unless they make him.” He considered it for a moment, then asked quietly, “Do you really think he had a haematoma?”

      “Don’t do this to me, Harpo!” Shane complained. “What d’you think? Frontal lobotomy?” He looked angry, but then admitted, a little sheepishly, “Actually, it occurred to me, too. I chatted up some of the nurses in ER who were there when they brought him in. They didn’t seem to have any doubts. One of them even spoke to a surgical nurse for me. What they did was standard procedure.” He looked sick. “Burr hole and all.” He shuddered slightly. “I looked that up, too. He should be back on his feet by now. Tired, maybe, with a few headaches, but barring any complications, he’ll be ready for anything they throw at him.” He nodded wisely. “Hence, the Sham’s departure.”

      “Sounds like we need to liberate him soon.” Harpo looked at his watch as though he were discussing an appointment he’d scheduled. “Before they have a chance to wreck his life any more.”

*

      Will didn’t know how to handle this. Ann Logan was flying in tomorrow, and he’d hoped to have established himself here, but he was running out of excuses. He’d worked like hell to get the assignment back in Wenatchee, so he could monitor Zack, but now he was stuck there. If Zack had agreed to work with him here, the way he was hoping, Will would have had the leverage to secure a transfer. But Will wasn’t allowed to see him. No chance to secure his cooperation.

      Zack was up and around now, but he hadn’t been told where he was or why. And, since no one else was being particularly revealing, Zack wasn’t either.

      Ann didn’t know him very well if she thought this was any way to acquire his cooperation. But then, she’d never really known him at all. Will recalled his own mother’s sympathy for Ann’s single-parent status, especially when Zack was running wild, but Will’s mom hadn’t really understood the situation any more than Will had. Ann had never needed to handle Zack alone; she’d always had plenty of back-up. When Will’s and Shane’s and Harpo’s parents were worrying about where their kids were, Ann Logan had always known. She’d never had any financial worries, nor had to handle any crisis alone. She’d had psychologists and doctors, chemists and physicists to consult. Zack’s files were full of their notations, and his behaviour charted and plotted. He’d been defined as a subject, but never as a person, even though things like his report cards were on file, too, as were his teachers’ comments. All of it had been analysed both psychologically and statistically. If Ann Logan had ever nursed any doubts, she’d had plenty of advice.

      Will had read it all, of course, which had seemed like an almost overwhelming violation of Zack’s trust. It had told Will what to expect in the way of interference, though, and prepared him to counter anything that he considered would have a negative impact on their “client”. Of course, since he’d let his client escape the hospital, Will’s opinion had been worth jack shit, but it didn’t stop him from trying. Even the blame for Zack’s mountain climbing had drifted away from Ann’s door, to land at his own.

      I let him get away not just once, but twice...

      He’d seen his own name mentioned in Zack’s file more than once, always in a negative capacity. And it shocked him a little to discover that Harpo’s dad’s visits to China on business had made Harpo a questionable companion. Shane? Shane’s own brush with cannabis dealing (Will remembered it as Shane selling one joint to a friend) had nearly excluded him from Zack’s company altogether.

      Zack must be going crazy, Will thought. Wondering whether his head surgery had affected his brain. Will pictured himself, coming out of surgery, and waking up in a strange place. No visitors he knew, and no one willing to answer questions. Ann’s orders. Because she’d raised Zack, everyone assumed she’d know how to handle him best. Will guessed this was also payback, for all those times Will had pulled rank to keep her in line. Now that Zack had demonstrated something notable, Dr. Maureen Mitchell was in charge, and Will was supposed to know it.

      For him, it was like being back in training. Will was a field agent with an overabundance of the “field” about him. He’d spent the last eight years in a small town processing information and monitoring the unremarkable. Now that Zack was gone, eliminating part of his responsibility, he’d be looking at retraining, or a cut in pay. There was no reason to maintain him at his present level without a “client” to occupy his time.

      But it wasn’t concern over his job status which was keeping Will here. It never had been. He was worried because he knew a side of Ann Logan no one else did. She prided herself on her objectivity, but held a cold approach toward life. She was bitter about the wasted years, and eager to make a name for herself—to recoup some of what she’d lost. She’d use her “maternal” status to manoeuvre, but after that she’d do whatever was necessary to remind her employers that she was a professional, employed to maximise the profit on their investment.

      Will decided that before Ann got here he’d find a way in.

      He didn’t dare think too deeply about the other idea which was churning inside—he was too afraid it might show in his expression.

      He might even find a way to get Zack out.

*

      It must be the Near Death Experience. He’d heard people came out of it different ways.

      Or maybe I lost part of my mind when they operated on it...

      He snorted with amusement, then grabbed a tissue and blew his nose gently, to cover the inappropriate flash of humour. He was still getting headaches and he didn’t want to blow too hard.

      Might blow my brains out.

      He snorted again.

      He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he had to get some control over his levity. It was as though someone had flicked a switch, so he was always “on”. Nothing seemed to faze it: not the pain, not the fatigue, not the weakness. He was still sleeping part of the day away, but he went to sleep feeling happy and awoke positively euphoric.

      Drugs. It must be drugs.

      Only, he wasn’t on the painkillers any more. Unless they were spiking his food, but he didn’t think that was likely. The food was so bland he referred to it as pablum. He’d almost welcome a little spiking right now, as long as it added spice, too.

      He was in some kind of special rehab centre, and so far, he hadn’t seen anyone he knew. It was, essentially, a prison, with decorative bars on the window and locks on the door, and he wondered if he’d done a few things he couldn’t remember—something insane or unnatural. At the thought of the “unnatural” he had to cough again to cover.

      His memory seemed intact, and if the newspaper was current, he could account for most of his time since he’d left the hospital. He remembered quitting his job, the trip to the university library, and the first time he’d woken up here. There was a foggy period in-between, but chronologically speaking, it was short—one day, maybe two. Surgery, recovery, transfer.

      There were no “Get well” cards, and no flowers. Nothing that had been in his hospital room the day he’d left. Nor were any of his personal possessions here.

      It was as though the old Zachary Logan had ceased to exist.

      The frisson of fear did a lot to tamp down the euphoria, and he wondered once more whether the haematoma had damaged his brain. But they’d done CT scans, evaluated his motor skills and annoyed him with memory tests and matching exercises. The most recent “quizzes” had been psych tests, but Zack had refused to take them. If he wasn’t permitted any answers, then neither were they.

      But that didn’t stop them from trying. The latest was the heating system, which was supposedly on the blink. His doctors came in tieless, and mopping their foreheads—roasting within their white coats. It hadn’t taken Zack long to suspect there was some other plan at work here—that maybe they were hoping to trigger a reaction.

      They did. Zack stripped down to the nude, and strolled nonchalantly around his room. To their startled looks, he’d merely said, “Well, you’re all doctors, aren’t you? It’s hot in here.” The heating was repaired pretty quickly after that.

      He was still weak, but frankly, he was getting a little bored with all this. Unless he’d committed a crime, they had no right to lock him up. If the situation didn’t change soon, he’d find a way to take himself for a walk.

      Then he discovered things were...changing, that is. His mother was coming. Tomorrow.

      Only, she wasn’t his mother. He had a photographic memory when it came to things he’d read, and they’d already proven his memory hadn’t been impaired. He wasn’t imagining her picture or the field in which she’d excelled. Filial gratitude faded fast when you realised your parent wasn’t covering your ass, but inducing it to perform. And once you’d accepted that your parent was lying to you—about everything—there wasn’t much loyalty left.

      Mom was coming? That meant Zack was going.

      Tonight.

      He could hardly wait.

*

      If they can substantiate the agents’ reports with testing, they’ll never let him go...

      There’d been many incidents through the years, but they were all transitory cloud-generating episodes. Nothing that couldn’t be upstaged by a fog machine. If Zack could drop out of sight, there’d be only minimal pursuit.

      He’s not a hazard...

      But they want him to be. It was the only reason to spend so much time and manpower on surveillance. An undetectable weapon in the weather war.

      Will had thought about it—a lot. Zack going in undercover, snowblasting the cameras and freezing the guns. Fog for his getaway, and a mini cyclone to throw off the troops. Assassinations with icicles, death by freezing, rainbows to signal troops in or arrange a pickup. Destroying data on hard drives, creating sheets of ice to span distances for his getaway, and sending car wheels spinning uselessly. Coercion with no visible weapon, threats of blindness and frostbite, frozen locks and damaged security systems.

      Shane had mentioned a rainbow. According to Will’s calculations, it must have topped twenty metres. Was that merely a tweaking of resident moisture, or was Zack able to extend himself further than any of them had thought? If so, how much damage could he do? Was a mini cyclone generated in one spot enough to produce a twister of serious proportions?

      Zack wasn’t a killer. Or, he wouldn’t be until they taught him to confuse accident with intent. The loss of a few nameless faces would be inconsequential against a greater good. Not to Zack...at first. But if they gave him the freedom to act on what he’d always been forced to conceal...

      Will knew how it felt. He’d grown up in a peace-protester household where all weapons were suspect. The first time Will had held a gun in his hand he’d felt free—as though what was wrong or evil in others was acceptable in him. He was one of the good guys. If his intentions were pure, even if his activities were questionable, then it must be right. He must be right.

      It had taken him a while to learn. This was what they’d do to Zack, only by the time he learned, the damage would be too extensive for him to ever retreat. Because Zack’s “gifts” were a lot more lethal than manipulating a small, hot pellet of lead.

      Will needed to get him out tonight, before Maureen Mitchell could administer her first test.

*

      More tricks. Zack was disgusted. Dinner had been a nearly inedible hash of some kind of turnip, liquefied meat and puréed green beans. They’d served him up a third the quantity they usually gave him. Considering the quality, he should have been grateful, but somehow, that wasn’t the emotion which came to mind.

      Everyone, especially his mother, knew how much he ate. He had a metabolism that wouldn’t quit, and kept a constant supply of nutty chocolate bars on hand. He could never get enough food, but the outcome of a missed meal was a lot different for him than one of Harpo’s headaches.

      Since he’d arrived, they’d been feeding him the minimum, and he was always hungry. At the hospital in Wenatchee, he’d fortified himself between meals with all the foodstuffs friends had brought him as gifts. They all knew any kind of candy, cookie, or pastry was the perfect gift for him.

      But here, somebody was priming him for action. Maureen Mitchell, AKA Mom the Meteorologist, was coming tomorrow.

      Maureen knew how he tended to lose track of things if he didn’t get enough calories. Only, in his naive past, he’d thought they—he and Mom—were trying to hide it. The emphasis had been on learning control. He’d always known he was abnormal, but Mom had taught him to keep it hidden—warned him that he’d be ostracised by everyone if they knew what he was.

      There’d been times when it had been damn hard—when he’d wanted to spill his guts to his friends. But the price of betraying his and Mom’s “secret” had been too high. “We’ll send you to a special school,” she’d warned. “Move some place else. You’ll never see those boys again.”

      She’d always used the royal ”we”, but he’d thought she was including him in her decisions. Now, he knew better.

      There’d been a lot of times when he’d been really grateful to her, for training him to function in society. It would have been a lot easier on her if she’d sent him to some special school, or turned him over to some government department for disabled individuals, who could have dealt with his problems. He could vaguely remember some discussions like that when he was really young—only, now he wondered who’d been at the other end of the phone. For years he’d hoped it was his dad, because he wanted to think the father who’d abandoned him still cared enough to keep tabs on his well-being. Looking at things now, he realised his mother would never have used words like “Phase One” to a not-so-doting father. She would have been much more likely to refer to a phase he was going through. “Phase One” had another implication entirely.

      “Phase One”. Teach him to function in society—to pass for normal. Anything beyond this seemed absurd, until Zack noticed the headlines in the paper. Another terrorist satrap, planted thirty years before in a Dry Cleaner’s shop, had just been uncovered, and its operatives arrested.

      Zack had been “passing for normal” for nearly thirty years. While he was contemplating the ridiculous, he might as well examine the other suspicions that were bothering him. As long as he knew they were ridiculous, it wouldn’t hurt him to consider them more fully.

      “Phase One”, where his mother was no blood relation, or even an adoptive parent. That she’d never been a doting one he’d already accepted years before, and by the time he’d hit sixteen, he hadn’t cared about the rest. He’d been focussed on growing up and getting out—leaving the nest as soon as possible.

      Only now, he was thinking of that “nest” more like a “web”. Extended, invasive. Not that the invasion wore her face, but it somehow wore her permission. The only time he’d ever truly felt alone was in his house. Whenever he went out, there were eyes at his back. Watching. He remembered wondering if that’s what it felt like to be haunted—that brush with prescience; the touch of the not-quite-there. The phone with the extra clicks and buzzes, the familiar faces with no excuse for familiarity.

      Interesting, he mused. It would have been damn costly to monitor someone for