The Atropos Project
A Tomorrow's Future Story
by Wendy Kelley

DISCLAIMERS:

The Atropos Project (in part or whole) can be freely distributed with the condition that no part of the text is modified, and this notice is included with all copies. It cannot be sold or translated into any other form without written permission from the author. Some characters and elements of this story are the property of Thames/Tetra television, Nickelodeon, and Roger Price, used without authorization.

The characters of Rachel, Robbie, and Gabby Caplan, Brian, the members of OPUSS and the organization itself all belong to me. Any similarities to people or government organizations real or imagined is a coincidence.

The author receives no compensation from the distribution of this work.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

This story is set within the Tomorrow's Future timeline. It is not, however, a crossover piece. I started writing this story before TF existed, and if you look really close, you can probably spot our very first paradox. It is not necessary to have any familiarity with TF whatsoever in order to understand this piece.

The character of Rachel Caplan is severely, prelingually Deaf. I am hearing. The total of my exposure to Deaf people or culture is one introductory class in American Sign Language and several acquaintances. If anything in here is wrong, please forgive me and let me know so I won't make the same mistake again. Unless I specifically describe a sign, Rachel's ASL has been translated into English and is not meant to convey or imply the natural syntax or grammatical structure of ASL.

Thanks are due to Kyrie Daniels and Selma McCrory for betareading. Without their dedication to my purpose, this story probably would not have been finished. Thanks also go to Beth Epstein for helping out at the last minute.

As always, questions, comments, and constructive critiques welcomed and encouraged at ladyslvr@xmission.com.

THREE YEARS AGO

"Are you sure about him?"
"Don't be a fool. He's showing all the signs."
"He's just a boy."
"Shut up."
"Yes, Sir."

Robbie Caplan stood in the middle of the soccer field, morning dew soaking into his shoes and dampening his socks. He didn't notice that. He was having trouble noticing much of anything right now, fighting vainly to keep his attention focused on the match as this morning's nagging migraine grew worse by the minute. The coach wouldn't let him sit this one out.

"We don't fly our best player across the Atlantic for the championship match and then let him warm the bench. Get out there, kid. Show 'em what we're made of."

Funny, it didn't feel to Robbie as though he was made of anything more than knotted ropes of pain. Even the Ibuprofen he'd taken this morning hadn't done any good. How many had it been? He wasn't quite sure. He remembered dumping the bottle into his hand and holding the little brown pills cupped in his palm before downing the whole lot. Ten maybe. It didn't matter. The pills weren't working.

"Robbie!" someone yelled. Before he could even place a name to the caller reflexes took over. He found himself dribbling the ball down the field. Not far. Somehow the goal didn't seem as far away as it should have been. Sunlight glinted off metal bleachers, off the dew on the net, off the grass sprayed to look a healthy green. The light sparkled all around him, stabbing into his eyes, into his mind.

"Ten seconds," yelled the coach. "Come on, kid!"

Robbie drew his foot back and placed a solid kick to the ball, sending it flying through the light-splattered haze. He sunk to his knees, movement all around him stopped as team members and audience drew a collective breath. The breath sucked in even the sparkles in the air allowing Robbie's vision to clear. In the stands a child whimpered and was hushed. The ball coursed through the air. A bird chirped and another bird answered. The ball flew, straight to the upper left corner of the net. Straight into the goalie's hands.

"No," he groaned, burying his head in his hands. The team had counted on him to win this and he had let them down. He knew his family at home in the States were watching on cable. That they were seeing this hurt more than anything. The game had meant everything to them, to Coach, to the team . . . . He had let them all down.

He couldn't face them. Not after this. The team would never respect him again, Coach would never let him play again, his little sister would never let him live this down. The desire to run away and hide germinated in his embarrassment, growing, overpowering even the headache. The desire to go somewhere else. Anywhere was good.

Anywhere but here.

Robbie Caplan vanished with a flash of incandescent light, still cradling his head.

"Ready now. I think this is the catalyst we needed."
"Shame about him missing the goal."
"Shut up."
"Yes, Sir."

The world broke, split in half it seemed. Everything looked so bright, and clear, and . . . empty. Something . . . his headache . . . it was gone. 'The pills must have kicked in. Or maybe they killed me.' Time passed. Did it? It could have been two minutes or twenty years -- somehow it felt like both. It felt like a wall of sound all around his body, sound so loud he couldn't hear it. It felt cold and tranquil and accepting. He didn't belong here but he never wanted to leave. He felt calm: that strange calm in a nightmare just before the monster is about to GET YOU and you realise it's not too late to wake up. He felt absolutely terrified because he didn't know what direction "wake up" was in. If "wake up" was even a concept to which direction could be applied.

He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to know what was happening, to see the monster. He wanted to bring his right hand up and scratch the itch at the end of his nose, to wiggle his feet and find solid ground beneath them, to hear his own voice as he called for his mother. The signals were never received, or maybe never sent.

It seemed that should bother him.

It didn't.

Robbie felt vaguely like his body was moving, or ought to be, like trying to walk after removing roller-blades. Muscles moved: not much and not at his command. He felt as though he was playing that virtual reality game in the mall where minuscule movements translated to large actions on the screen. Playing the game without him in control. Yes, that was it. His body was moving but he wasn't the one moving it and frankly he couldn't remember where he'd left it. Nor could he remember why that might be important.

"It's done. Release him now."
"It worked?"
"Of course it worked."
"I dunno . . . this kinda makes me nervous."
"Shut up."
"Yes, Sir."

His world brightened again, an almost painful phosphorescent brightness. It was the only thing in his world. But the light didn't fade as before, it kept growing. Now he could feel his body. Not calm anymore. Not peaceful.

It hurt.

Everything hurt. His nerve endings sending frantic signals of burn-pain to his mind. Now he didn't want to wake up anymore. Now he wanted to go back to where he'd been because he had found the monster. He opened his eyes and shut them as quickly. This was the monster. Horrible, horrible, horrible burn-pain: can't see, can't focus. 'Who am I? Where am I?' Direction sense, balance sense, common sense obliterated as his body conducted electric pain. His body belonged again to him. He wanted only to give it back to whomever had taken it before. He'd never complain about migraines again if only this pain would stop. [Help me.]

Then it didn't matter anymore. The burn-pain consumed all until no more remained to be consumed. The bright turned inexorably to black, then to nothing.

TOMORROW

General Damon read through the report in front of him again. The rising sun streamed in through the windows banking one side of his ultra-modern office. His tosseled brown hair and rumpled tie gave mute evidence of how long he'd been staring at the sheaf of papers trying to find some meaning in them. He threw the folder down. Its contents spilled across the wooden veneer: three neatly typed sheets of description accompanied by more than a dozen grainy 8x10 glossy photos, blow-up stills from a security camera. It didn't make sense. For three years this folder had been passed through the various departments. No one knew or cared where it came from or where it went, as long as They didn't have to deal with it. Few but he could have made any sense of the contents anyway. He wished he could be one of the nameless many who just shook their heads and passed it on, never to concern themselves with it again.

In the folder lay the answer to a security problem that graced the front page of the newspaper for weeks and then slipped into silent obscurity. The folder had found its way across his desk last night with instructions for him to deal with it. He ran his fingers through his hair with one hand then rubbed the bridge of his nose with the other. It wasn't going to be easy. Not that it ever was, but this time he risked hurting too many people he loved.

Like his son.

How could he face Marmaduke -- 'Megabyte,' he mentally corrected -- and say he no longer believed him about something so fundamental. He did believe him. General Damon had seen too much evidence not to, which is what caused the dichotomy. The pictures told one story. His teenage son told another, one he'd accepted far too long to give up easily. So, knowing what he did, the events described just could not have happened.

Unless someone was lying.

Damon lifted the handset of his telephone and dialed in a long string of numbers. At the tone he entered a much shorter string and then replaced the receiver. Thousands of miles away, on an island somewhere in the South Pacific, a beeper went off. The dark-haired teenager who had it clipped to his belt didn't need to bother to check the number. Only one person ever used the pager, as only one person had any need of such a mundane method of contacting him. Adam Newman climbed out of his tent and zipped the flap shut just in case anyone should pop by during his absence. He closed his eyes and concentrated, disappearing to a flash of light and the bang of imploding air.

Seconds later, another flash signalled his arrival in the office. General Damon jumped, nearly spilling his coffee over the glossies. Adam smiled, a guarded smile that didn't reach his eyes, and took a seat in the empty chair across the desk from Damon.

"Can I get you a coffee?" Damon asked. He gathered the file back together, avoiding Adam's eyes. Here was a person who really could read his mind, and for the first time in years that bothered him. Adam had become almost a part of the family over the past three years. It was almost harder facing him than his own son.

"No, thank you," Adam replied, his Australian accent seeming thicker than usual. He laced his fingers and waited for the General to fill him in.

Damon nodded, his palm flat on the folder as he tried to figure out his next move. He slid the typed pages across the desk to the teenager. "Read these. Tell me they don't say what I think they say."

Adam took the papers. He skimmed through them quickly at first, then slowed down to muddle his way through the jargon. He was reading one paragraph for the third time, still not comprehending it, when he caught the General staring him down -- as though trying to stare into him and read his mind. Adam shook his head and placed the papers back on the desk. "Is it something about an assassination?"

Damon gathered the papers up and slipped them into his top desk drawer. He stood up. "Jeffrey Martin."

Adam traced the locked-diamond pattern in the carpet with his bare foot. He hadn't thought to put on his shoes before leaving the island. "And you think we can help?" He had the distinct feeling that he didn't want to know the answer to this question. In the past, questions such as these had brought only trouble to he and his friends. They had spent years trying to prevent discovery of their abilities by the various governmental agencies, yet they always seemed to get dragged into the activities of the one they had most tried to avoid.

General Damon paced across the room and back several times, walking in a straight line like a cat. "Martin was the prime witness in a trial, that if successful, would have broken an international espionage ring. He spent three days prior to the trial in a hotel room under full armed guard without so much as a maid entering or leaving. They found him, when they opened the door to take him to testify, stabbed to death.

"No one, repeat no one, could have entered or exited that room without being noticed. Yet someone not only did, they also murdered a prime witness."

"So what do you want from us?"

Damon's face went carefully blank as he fought not to show his doubts. Seconds ticked away, turning into ten seconds then twenty. He drew a breath then looked Adam square in the eyes. "The evidence," he motioned to the stack of photographs on his desk, "indicates that a teleporter was involved."

Adam met Damon's gaze, his eyes narrowing. "How?"

Damon pressed the photos into Adam's hands. They were grainy but still quite detailed. Numbers in the lower right hand corner gave the date and time. The whole group, from first photo to last, covered only three minutes worth of time.

The first showed a man asleep in bed, the covers kicked to the floor. The second was mostly white, although faint images of the bed and man could be made out as Adam tilted the picture into a shadow. The third revealed a blond teenage boy, dressed in a soccer uniform, in the middle of the room, a kitchen butcher knife in his hands. The next dozen described the scene of the boy approaching the bed, driving the knife into the sleeping man, and vanishing in another burst of light.

Damon leaned against the bookcase, crossing his arms across his chest. Despite the rumpled hair and clothes he was still a commanding presence. Adam stared at the handful of photos, his eyes wide and face rigid. He shifted his gaze slowly to Damon's face.

"That's not possible." He stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Tomorrow People can't kill . . ."

". . . not even to save yourselves." Damon finished, his face also rigid but for a different reason. "I've heard it before. Now I'm not sure if I believe it."

****

Rachel Caplan entered the hospital room, silently closing the door behind her. She stood just inside the doorway for several minutes, gathering the nerve to go forward. She always felt strangely self-conscious here as though her movements would somehow disrupt the machines keeping her brother alive. Rachel crossed the small room on the balls of her feet and took a seat in the chair by her brother's bed.

Robbie looked so fragile these days, more so than she could remember him looking. It was a fragile look she couldn't quite define: a pale, collapsed, helpless look that made him look much younger than his 18 years. Yet he bore no resemblance to the younger version she remembered, the one who would wake her up early on Saturday mornings so they could watch cartoons together.

Their parents had tolerated this ritual with amusement. It had taken Robbie years to warm up to Rachel, to accept her differences, and to realise she hadn't done it intentionally just to draw attention away from him. The parents even consented to moving the tv in the basement. It was the only place in the house where the volume wouldn't prevent the rest of the family from sleeping in, especially their sister Gabby who couldn't even function before noon. The two, Rachel and Robbie, would wrap a sleeping bag around them against the chill of the basement and settle in for hours of serious tv watching. He never objected to the volume, sometimes even cranking it up farther. And when their laughter forced Rachel to miss dialogue, Robbie would happily sign it to her. Sometimes this caused even more laughter as he tried to improvise new signs for ones he either didn't know or had forgotten. Blue-Face is the one he invented for 'Smurf' before either were old enough to know how to spell the word.

She wondered if he would still like cartoons when he woke up. She still watched them, even though it wasn't nearly as fun without him. Gabby still couldn't function before noon.

Rachel propped her elbows on her knees, leaning forward. She ran a tongue over her lips. "Happy birthday," she spoke. Her voice, strangely flat and uninflected, was still recognizable. Despite years of resistance at learning to speak "for the hearing world", she had thrown herself into the studies after Robbie's accident. More specifically, after one of Robbie's doctors had said that the best thing they could do for him was to talk, to let him hear their voices.

She studied his face for any signs of response. His lashes fluttered softly against his cheek, but that was nothing new. Only the steady pulse of the line on the heart monitor proved he still lived.

Rachel leaned back in her chair and through slitted eyes watched her brother's face. She told him about school and the family, about all the little details of life that failed to even be mentioned in her diary. Even though she couldn't hear it, her watch ticked loudly, slightly faster than the beat of the heart monitor. The two settled into the same rhythm for awhile, gradually moving apart then back together. An IV dripped something clear into Robbie's arm. Rachel kept talking, first with her mouth and then with her hands until finally falling asleep in the chair.

****

Kevin sat up in bed, almost hitting his head on the headboard. His eyes focused on something only he could see and his mouth worked in a silent yell. After a moment, he shook his head then blinked. Headlights from the occasional car passing on the street outside his window provided the only illumination to his room.

His furnishings were sparse, his room surprisingly clean for a fifteen year old boy. He chose his decorations with care, making sure to maintain a veil of normalcy. The posters on his walls of the musical groups and telly shows reflected the tastes of his acquaintances at school. As did the partially assembled airplane model on the table beneath his window. This for his mother's benefit. She never had accepted his abilities, especially after they had proven to be so much more than just mind reading. Sometimes he could still see a hint of fear in her eyes, even as she denied it with her mouth. So he did his best to not court the issue, trying to at least look as though he lived the life of a normal teen.

Kevin climbed out of bed and walked to his door, grabbing a bathrobe on the way. He closed and locked the door before teleporting to the island.

****

Samantha Rowan closed the locker door in the bus terminal, slipped the manila envelope into the inner pocket of her black long coat, and boarded the bus for Chicago.

Two hours south of Chicago the Greyhound made another stop. Of the handful of people who boarded, only two drew her notice, although she took care to only observe them through their reflections in the windows and mirrors. The older, a fortyish looking man with a greying beard and a toupee that didn't quite match his hair color, took a seat two rows behind her. He carried a small suitcase and gave a decent impression of a tired business man going on a work-related trip. He turned his attention to a copy of the _Wall Street Journal_.

The younger, a twenty-something man shouldering a stuffed duffle bag and a backpack, sat down directly across the aisle from her. Other than slightly carbuncular cheeks, he looked no different than a thousand other young men his age. He took out a copy of _Archaeology_ and started reading.

By the time Samantha departed the bus in Chicago, the younger man was in possession of the manila envelope. She knew that somewhere along the line he would deboard carrying a mock version of the envelope and the older gentleman would continue on to his destination with the real one.

"Again?"
"It's necessary."
"How do you know? Three years --"
"It's necessary."
"But. . ."
"Shut up."

Adam sat cross-legged in his tent, staring intently at one of the security photos. General Damon had reluctantly let him borrow it. Very reluctantly. Adam argued until the General gave in. Something about the boy in the photo nagged at his memory. If he could just figure out what.

Light rain -- a sun shower -- fell on the island. The rain drops dimpled the fabric of the tent with steady precision, the resonating patter lulling Adam into a near trance.

The photograph lay on the ground in front of him. He propped his chin on folded hands as he searched the picture for the one detail that would trigger the memory. He closed his eyes, and tried to reconstruct the picture on the back of his eyelids. Tried to reconstruct the scene from all the pictures. He couldn't quite do it. He couldn't quite get his pacifist mind to recreate the murder, to fill in the blanks between camera shots.

"Who's that?" The voice broke through Adam's trance, his head snapped up as the almost assembled thoughts scattered.

"Wish I knew," Adam replied, shaking his head.

Kevin sat down across from Adam and grabbed the photo. "Don't know 'im," he said after a moment. "But he does look familiar." He inspected the photo again. "Kinda like the person in my. . ." His voice trailed off and he looked away, blushing.

Adam's forehead furrowed. "You're having dreams again?"

Kevin glanced down at his bare feet and pajama-clad legs that stuck out from his dark-blue bathrobe. He nodded. The dreams still made him uncomfortable. It helped a little knowing what they were and why they came to him, but not much.

"What's his name?" Adam enquired. Kevin didn't dream about every new Tomorrow Person, but the ones he did dream of never failed to arrive. The dreams didn't offer exact indication of when they would break out. That was dependent on the individual in question, on the forces in their lives acting on them. But the intensity of the dreams could allow them to estimate if the breaking out was a matter of days or weeks. Adam appreciated that, because it allowed him to know to be on hand for the new arrival, just in case.

"Her." Kevin answered absently. He focused his gaze inward, willing the dream forward. A girl, about Kevin's age, in the water. Blonde hair streamed behind her, eyes squeezed shut. She was wearing denim cut-off shorts and converse hightops and a tank top. "Rachel . . . Rachel Caplan."

"Are you sure?" Adam asked, a bit more forcefully than he intended.

"Yeah." Kevin searched Adam's face for some sign of what he was thinking. Adam's was the only mind Kevin couldn't read, unless Adam allowed it.

Adam snatched the picture up. He mentally tested the name against the boy in the picture. [Help me] The cry reverberated through three years of repressed memories. A small gasp escaped Adam's lips as the pieces finally fell together. "Come on." He stood up.

"Where are we going?" Kevin asked.

"To see General Damon."

****

The young man threw his bags on the hotel bed in room number 472 of the Sleep Inn in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He disappeared into the bathroom for several minutes then emerged rubbing a damp washcloth across his face. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he retrieved the manila envelope from inside his Archaeology magazine in the backpack. He inspected the outside first for any marking that would need to be duplicated on the new envelope, and smiled a toothy smile when he found none. With a jack-knife, he smoothly slit the seal and withdrew the sheaf of papers that made up its contents.

The diagrams would have been nonsense to all but trained scientists. And him, of course, because he'd dedicated the last decade of his life to learning enough of the various sciences to read these diagrams. On the other hand, the reports would have been intelligible, but hardly sensical, to anyone who tried to read them. They babbled in dense language about a group of people -- possibly aliens or of alien seed -- with special powers. Past reports had given information on what types of powers these people had, who was likely to have them, and means of "encouraging" these people to use their special abilities for the benefit of mankind. More specifically, for the benefit of the Organization.

He knew this because he made a point of always knowing what information he couried, by whatever means necessary. For all their, usually silly, security precautions the Organization never did anything to mark the envelopes. And one manila envelope looked just like any other. He was careful never to let his tampering be noticed.

Except for this time.

This time was his last courier mission for them. He didn't need them anymore. No reason remained to continue playing their games. He had the last of the plans. Now he could do whatever he wanted.

He retrieved a walkman from his backpack and settled back to he tunes of Concrete Blonde to puzzle out the diagrams. He had an appointment in a few days with the new recipients of the plans, ones who had offered him so much more money for his trouble. He wanted to be very familiar with the details by then. A little knowledge never hurt. Especially when it might raise his value in Their eyes.

****

"Robbie Caplan," Adam announced immediately after appearing in Damon's office.

"What?" The General gazed up at Adam with bleary eyes, his hands clenched around a cup of coffee. A throbbing was starting in his temples and his throat felt parched, despite how much coffee he downed. He hadn't slept in close to forty-eight hours. Sleep just didn't fit on his agenda until he solved this case. Damon had the sneaking suspicion that he was getting sick. He only hoped his body would hold out until after this was all over and the superiors stopped breathing down his neck. He wondered if Adam's healing powers had returned and if they could cure whatever flu he had this time. A part of him insisted that a good night's sleep would take care of that problem. If only he had the time for such luxuries.

Adam slid the photo across the desk. "The boy," he said, stabbing at the picture with his forefinger.

Damon sighed. "How do you know this?" Try as he might, his efforts at tracking down the boy's identity had come to nothing. It seemed the boy had appeared out of nowhere and disappeared right back into nowhere. The only real clue they had towards identifying him was the soccer uniform, but that had failed to pan out. The pictures just weren't clear enough. It would have helped considerably if they even knew what country he was from. Searching for one particular blonde teenager in the world was, well, like searching for the proverbial needle in the proverbial haystack. The three year delay didn't help matters either. So much potential information had been lost or destroyed in that time.

"I know." Adam's tone left no room for argument.

Kevin stood next to Adam, his arms folded. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of events. All he knew is that he wanted to get back home and finish sleeping before he had to wake up for summer school. He doubted his mom would call him in sick. She generally didn't believe him to be sick unless he threw up a lung or something to prove it. And she wasn't very happy with him having to be in summer school either. Kevin didn't mind too much since Megabyte also had to go. How the teacher caught them cheating on that test, he still didn't understand.

Damon sighed again, then took a sip of his coffee. He screwed up his face, looked at the coffee cup as though it had somehow betrayed him, then used the eraser of his pencil to push it to a corner of his desk out of reach. "Fine." He wondered if he would regret this decision. Probably. But Adam's name was the only thing they had to go on right now, even if it was an extreme shot in the dark. "I'll have someone run a search and see what they find."

Adam rocked back on his heels and smiled. "Thanks."

Damon stood up to get a fresh cup of coffee, and noticed Kevin for the first time. He took in the pajamas, bathrobe, and mussed hair then looked at his watch. "Don't you have school today?"

Kevin turned and looked at the wall clock behind him, then vanished. Adam looked at Damon, who had one eyebrow cocked. "I'd better go too."

Damon nodded. "I'll page you if we find anything."

****

The ringing phone jarred K.C. awake. He fumbled for the receiver, accidentally knocking the papers on the nightstand to the floor. The room was still dark, but a quick glance at the bedside clock showed the morning to be well advanced. With a groan he picked with the receiver.

"What?"

"It's time." The voice on the other end didn't seem the least put off by K.C.'s manner.

"Now?" His voice came out almost as a whine.

"Now."

He groaned again. "Can't it wait?"

"No."

"Yes, Sir."

He replaced the receiver, then collapsed back into bed, closing his eyes for a few seconds while he forced himself to wake up. 'Four hours of sleep,' he moaned. On the bed next to him, the walkman still played. Faint music poured from the headphones, a beat that exactly didn't match his mood.

"Yeah. Right," he spoke to the empty room. He yawned loudly then rocked to his feet. It only took a few minutes to clean up and gather his things and head out. His key was in the lock and his foot between the door and wall -- propping it open while he did a mental inventory to see if he was forgetting anything -- when he made a decision he was sure he would regret.

With a curse, he walked back into the room, picked up the telephone, and dialed. The phone was answered on the second ring.

"Sam?" His voice shook, though he wasn't sure why. He seemed to be defying a lot of people this week. What was one more? Might as well go out with a bang. Make sure they never forgot his name. Might as well, since he'd be picking a new one anyway. They didn't like Their operatives to keep any ties with their former lives.

"Speaking."

"He just called."

Silence.

"Thanks."

The reception cut out with a click. K.C. smiled, then replaced the phone on his end. He never really cared one way or another about Samantha or Sean. Sean was such a peacock and Sam was so anal about following orders to the letter. Yet, warning Sam made him feel good.

That bothered him.

This business didn't have room for love or loyalty to anyone but yourself and the people with the money. He slammed his fist into the wall, then stomped out of the room. The force with which he twisted the key in the lock almost bent the metal. He slipped his earphones on as he walked downstairs.

****

Rachel leaned against her front door, face turned to the sun. She closed her eyes, relishing in the warmth on her face after the cold basement. A breeze sporadically gusted through the yard, tugging strands of blonde hair from her headband. The wind carried the aromas of a hot Chicago summer: hot dogs and bratwurst burning on someone's grill, chlorine from her neighbour's pool, and the faint scent of roses from those climbing the trellis by the garage. The wind cooled her face as the sun warmed it, an invigorating tingle on her skin.

It was still morning, an hour her sister would have considered unholy, but Rachel had been awake since dawn. She woke up to see the sun rise as usual, then retreated to the basement. There, reclining in a beanbag chair wrapped in an old afghan, she watched and rewatched the tape of Robbie's last soccer game. She was especially fascinated with the end, where he disappeared. This she viewed on still frame, again and again.

She had developed an obsession with the event. For awhile, right after it happened, she had been convinced that Robbie had been abducted by aliens. Rachel still didn't know what happened, or how, but the alien idea quickly got discarded. She didn't believe in aliens. At least, not the kind from other planets. That she once had made her blush. Gabby was the science-fiction person, not her. Except for this one event that so thoroughly captured her interest. Gabby had called it teleporting -- a word gleaned from one of those stupid shows she insisted on watching. The ability to go from one place to another without traveling the distance in between. Gabby thought there might be some connection between the teleporting and Robbie's headaches. Not that they were likely to ever know for sure.

Rachel remembered Robbie disappearing, then the call from the police two days later saying he had been found on the soccer field, in the same place from which he'd disappeared. Unconscious. No one knew where he had been for those two days or what happened to cause the coma. Since then, he'd never so much as opened his eyes. For three years, nothing changed. Now he seemed to be getting progressively worse. She wished she knew how to make him wake up. Her parents had been through so much with the three of them. They didn't need anything else -- most especially their son dying.

A rumble in her stomach reminded Rachel that she hadn't yet eaten today. 'Later,' she promised herself. 'First, the bike ride.' She slipped on a pair of sunglasses, wheeled her prize thirteen-speed mountain bike from the garage, and started off on her daily ride. A few dried leaves yanked from their trees by the wind tumbled in the gutters, wrapping around the spokes of the bicycle.

Ten minutes into the trip, she removed her hearing-aid, slipping it into the pocket of her cut-off jeans. Silence closed around her. For a time, she thought she could still hear birds chirping. Then realised how ridiculous the notion was, despite what her parents thought. They had been remarking recently on her sudden improvement in speech, going so far as to wonder if somehow her hearing problems were going away. She scoffed at the idea. Although . . . sometimes she found herself responding to speech she couldn't have heard, either because she was not watching the speaker or because of high background noise. It also seemed easier to make herself understood. No sounds were affected by this change except for speech and only when spoken by a person in her immediate vicinity. No complaints, but she was most definitely curious.

"That's the one."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Get the equipment set."
"She's not ready . . ."
"So, we make her ready."
"How?"
"Do what I say."
"Yes, Sir."

She pedaled away from the house, cycling through the subdivision with the wind at her back. The shadows of the trees lining the curb crisscrossed her path creating an almost strobe-like flicker as she moved from light to shadow and back again. Squirrels played at the base of these trees, retreating in panic to the branches as she approached. In the gutters, small birds searched through the swirling leaves for food. The scene offered serenity, a relief from the hectic highschool life, from trying to fit in where she knew she didn't belong. She made it a point to ride every day, weather permitting. Out here she felt accepted. Here the distance, the perpetual feeling of seclusion even in the largest of crowds, disappeared.

Robbie would have understood. He had once admitted to the same feeling. "I'm alone out there," he'd said, spreading his arms wide. "It's like watching yourself in a home movie. You know that's you up there with everyone else, participating, having fun. Yet, at the same time, it isn't." He shook his head. His eyes had that same far away look as when he first exited the field after a soccer game. The 'look' made Rachel feel as though he was seeing wonderful things no one else could, and didn't know the words to express them.

A crow alighted in her path. It observed her with one eye for a breath before flying off. A few minutes later it returned and hopped along next to her bicycle for several feet before taking to the air again. Rachel followed it with her eyes as it flitted from the branch of one tree to the next. Each time it landed, it would take a second to stare at her. She became so engrossed with its activities that she failed to notice her bicycle drift across the yellow line on the road.

****

"You could save us a lot of trouble if you'd just learn to teleport." Sean Love stared straight out the windshield. His voice was monotone, yet still managed to convey a feeling of annoyance. A wooden toothpick stuck from the corner of his lips. His mouth worked at he gnawed at the end between his teeth.

K.C. sighed, looking up from the little black box that sat in his lap. They'd only had this conversation a million times over the past five years. "I've tried," he reminded Sean. "That just doesn't seem to be one of my talents." Not for lack of desire either. Of all the known powers the kids -- or aliens or whatever they were -- possessed, teleporting was the one he most wanted. He could read some minds if he concentrated and every now and then he'd hear a piece of conversation no one else heard. Usually it belonged to the same voice, one with an Australian accent. He suspected he was picking up telepathic thoughts, but could never do it intentionally and could never make himself heard. Sean didn't need to know about that.

"Try again."

"I don't think so." K.C. threw a sharp look at Sean. "We don't know all the rules for these powers and I'm not about to find myself splattered all over the pavement because you wanted me to teleport from a moving vehicle. Assuming, of course, that it even works. Look," he changed the subject, "do you want her or not?"

Sean pursed his lips as he looked between the houses for a glimpse of the girl bicycling down the street parallel to their's. He nodded. K.C. leaned back in his seat, shut his eyes and reached out with his mind. It took him only a moment to find an available bird, and even less time to take over its mind. Only with avians did this trick work, though he'd tried it with every creature he could. Then he set about the task of drawing the girl's attention away from the road. That didn't take long either.

K.C. returned to his body with a smile on his face. "She's all yours." He fiddled with the dials on the electronic device. It screamed, a loud squeal pitched at just the cycle that most made him cringe. He flicked his index finger against one of the more delicate dials, and the squeal turned into a low-pitched thrumming. That accomplished, he shut his eyes again and gave himself over to the device.

"Excellent." Sean sped up the car to gain distance, rounded a corner then another corner so they were driving towards the girl on the same street as she rode. He drove straight at her, fast enough to scare her but slow enough not to cause too much damage. Her attention was on the trees, probably looking for K.C.'s bird. At only thirty feet to impact Sean slammed on the brakes.

She focussed on the oncoming car and tried to yank her bicycle back into the correct lane. The front tire hit a small pothole in the pavement, sending the bicycle over on its side. Just before she hit the ground, she vanished.

K.C. slammed his hand against the passenger-side window. "Dammit."

"What?" Sean turned to the younger man, mild alarm in his voice.

K.C. continued to play with the dials, trying to hide the panic growing in him.

Sean's eyes narrowed, his mouth forming a lip-less line. The car had stopped moving.

"Lost her." K.C. massaged his forehead with one hand. This was not good.

"What!"

"But . . . I think I can get her back . . . when she teleports again."

****

"Dad . . . Dad . . . ." Megabyte shook his father. General Damon slept with his head propped on crossed arms on his desk. A soft snore escaped his lips. Yet, even in his sleep he looked tense, on edge. Megabyte stepped back from his father's chair. He looked at the man standing in the doorway and shook his head. "Doesn't look like he's going to wake up, Jim."

Jim licked his lips. "Look," he said, "Try again. When he wakes up, give him this." He handed a sealed manila envelope to the young red-head. "It's pretty important, but I don't think five minutes one way or another will make much difference after this long." He left the room, closed the door then opened it again and stuck his head inside, "Oh, and don't tell him I told you to wake him."

"Sure, Jim." Megabyte answered with a smile. He waited until the door was again closed before turning back to his father. When Jim called him at home to get him to wake his father up, he knew it had to be big. General Damon often spent multiple days at the office, usually crashing on the couch in the lunch-room. He didn't often spend multiple days awake. But, when he did, his staff knew to move with care around him.

Damon's temper when sleep deprived was infamous. No one wanted to be responsible for waking him up this time and invoking that temper. They figured he'd be more lenient towards his son -- it wasn't as though he could fire his kid -- so Jim called him over. Now Megabyte just needed to figure out exactly how to accomplish the task. The General wasn't responding to any normal measures. He had gone without sleep long enough that he'd probably sleep through the end of the world at this point. How to wake him up? Megabyte's smile turned into a smirk. His eyes narrowed in concentration. He needed to focus exactly right, and he wasn't even sure if it would work. But, it was worth a try.

[Dad,] he shouted, mentally.

Damon jerked and groaned.

[Megabyte,] echoed several annoyed voices in his head.

[Sorry,] he answered. [Had to wake up Dad.]

"Come on, Dad."

The General lifted his head, massaging his temples. "What is it this time?" His voice was gravelly and he spoke with the slowness of one far from coherency. 'The old man really needed to take better care of himself,' Megabyte thought. 'Not much of a role model of health, there.'

Megabyte set a coffee in front of his Dad and waited a moment to let the Columbian aroma do its job. Damon grabbed it, took a large gulp, and yelped as he burned his tongue. 'Well, that woke him up,' Megabyte thought, watching his father wave a hand in front of his open mouth to ease the burning. "This just came for you." Megabyte interrupted the fanning to hand him the envelope. He sat down in the other chair and waited to be either be filled in or told to leave.

Damon slit the seal with his pen nib and pulled out a sheet of paper. He read it quickly, as it only contained a couple of lines of text. Without looking up Damon said, "Can you get Adam? I'm going to need both your help. And, Junior, don't ever do that again."

Megabyte translated the summons. He blushed at the second command, and wondered for not the first time if his dad wasn't perhaps just a little telepathic. All his friends were, why not his parents? Seconds later Adam appeared in the middle of the room.

Damon pushed himself to his feet, one hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other holding the paper. "We need to go to Chicago," he said. "We just got a message from someone who knows what happened to Jeffrey Martin . . ."

[Who?] Megabyte flashed the question at Adam.

[This case your dad is working on. Martin was killed.]

[Tell me something I don't know.]

[The person who killed him was one of us.]

[Couldn't be.]

[I know.]

[You're sure?]

[No. Yes. I don't know.]

[Right.]

". . . And I want to make sure she stays alive long enough to tell us."

****

Kevin leaned up against the fence in Jade's backyard. She was throwing a frisbee to Jesse, in hopes that the dog would get tired and go away. They wanted to eat in peace. A paper bag with sandwiches and drinks rested against the fence near his feet. Mrs. Weston had bribed them out of the house with a picnic lunch. She said a little fresh air would be good for them. Really, Kevin knew, she just wanted the television for herself.

Jade had been less than eager to try the new video game he brought over. It took him some serious playing time to convince her to try it, then she wouldn't be torn away from it to save her life. Mrs. Weston finally had it up to here with the theme music and all but kicked them out. Besides, she wanted to watch her soap. Sometimes Kevin loved being able to read parents' minds. It almost made them seem like real people. It certainly made it easier to understand why they always got angry at him.

Jesse bounded through the yard in hot pursuit of the frisbee. He had invented a new sort of game. He'd catch the frisbee, then carry it away from Jade. Jade would teleport after him, wrestle the toy from his mouth, then throw it again. Jesse didn't appear to be tiring of this. Kevin swallowed. He wished he could read the dog's mind -- better, influence the dog to just leave them alone. He didn't want to have to share his sandwich with the dog. He didn't like the cur that much.

He watched Jade playing with the Jesse. She was an interesting girl. No matter what she was doing, that is what she wanted to be doing. Single-minded to the point of annoyance, yet extremely funny. Her jokes were better than Megabyte's any day. She had a unique way of looking at things. Kevin rather liked having a Tomorrow Person his age a girl about his age around. The others couldn't double-team him so much, couldn't leave him out of everything because he was younger than they. Jade wouldn't go for it. She'd throw herself in the water into whatever she wanted involvement in, with or without Adam's permission. She had so much reckless energy. He liked that. Kevin wondered if maybe Jade Rachel would go to the pictures with him sometime. They could even get in for free.

Kevin straightened up. The dream flashed through his mind. Rachel. [Jade, we 'ave to go.]

She stopped in mid-throw. [What?] Jesse barked once at the frisbee then nipped at her heels.

Instead of answering, he vanished. Jade dropped the toy, Jesse jumping to catch it as it fell, and followed.

They appeared on the island. A full moon shined overhead, the light making the palm trees appear as though they had been cut out and pasted onto a picture of the beach. "What are we doing here?" She raised an eyebrow at him. Kevin gestured for her to wait a moment.

A splash sounded offshore.

"Rachel's 'ere." He answered. "And she got the bath you were lucky enough to miss."

"I'm just special, I guess," Jade responded with a laugh.

Jade and Kevin squinted at the water, the moonlight providing the only illumination. Daylight it certainly wasn't, but except for the inky expanse of ocean, they could see nearly as well as during the day. Almost better, as the sun's glare was gone. A sodden teenager paddled to the shore and crawled onto the beach. Long, blonde, wet hair framed a face that wore such a look of shock and confusion that Kevin wanted to laugh. Did he look that way after splashdown? Jade sniggered beside him. He planted an elbow in her ribs, accompanied by a mental shove to knock it off. She had no right to be laughing when she hadn't gone through it.

"You must be Rachel," Kevin announced. He took a step forward and introduced himself and Jade. "I'll bet you want to know what's going on." He glanced back at Jade, who was holding her arms out to show she wasn't a threat.

The teenager didn't respond. She scanned the beach with quick jerks of her head. Her shoes, knees, and hands were covered in sand from where she crawled to shore. Water dripped from her shorts, etching trails of cleaner skin down her legs. She absently rubbed her palms against her jeans, scrapping off the worst of the sand. Her eyes finally settled on Jade and Kevin. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, her teeth grinding. With a gasp she fell back to her knees, hands pushing against her temples. She whimpered -- a soft, plaintive noise that almost went unheard -- then vanished.

"Well, that was a little rude," Jade stated.

"She'll be back, sooner or later. The first time can be frightening when you don't know what's going on." He looked pointedly at Jade. For a moment, Kevin felt so much older than she. Jade might be his age biologically, but she had a long ways to go psionically. He'd have to teach her, help her catch up. Rachel, too, when she came back. Of course, there was something important to do before she returned, whenever that may be. He remembered the sandwiches back at Jade's. His smile belied his age. "Let's eat."

They returned to Jade's backyard. The shredded remains of a paper bag decorated the grass. Neither Jesse nor the frisbee were anywhere to be seen.

****

Worn magenta and green curtains, in a floral pattern that had never been in style, blocked most of the sun from the motel room. The masking tape holding the curtains shut helped block the rest. Room 742 of the Sleep Inn on the northern outskirts of Chicago, Illinois had been cast into an early twilight; a level of brightness K.C. found soothing.

He sat, cross-legged, on the dresser, his back to the mirror. In his lap he cradled the black box, his fingers splayed across the buttons and dials on it. There was something about holding the box that made him feel powerful. Maybe, it was because of the five people who even knew of its existence he was the only one who could use it. The other four knew its workings inside out, granted . . . they could probably build one from memory, but he was the sole person who could make it work. That put him, by default, in charge of every operation that utilized it -- despite his lack of seniority.

That was also why the Organization would be far less than willing to let him go.

And why They were so eager to get him on Their side.

'The things one could accomplish when playing two sides off against each other,' he mused, happily. It was almost like growing up with divorced parents. A few choice words could get him anything he wanted. The ultimate game of one-upmanship. He just had to pretend absolute loyalty to whichever one he was talking to at the moment, pretend that he really wanted nothing to do with the other despite all the incentives otherwise. And hope the other one didn't find out.

That thought ruined his good mood.

He forced his attention back to the task at hand. On the queen sized bed in front of him sat the girl, the "volunteer" for this part of the project. She was soaking wet, a state common to all the volunteers. K.C. wondered where it was they disappeared to that they all returned drenched. Sean said not to worry about it because it didn't matter as long as they came back.

They always came back.

She was no more than fifteen years old, another common denominator. And she looked strangely familiar. Something about the shape of her face; or the unusual shade of green-brown eyes -- a shade that reflected the light in such as way as to make it appear as though she had an orange ring around each iris. He felt like he should know her, even though he didn't even know her name. Didn't want to know her name. That might make her seem too much like a real person.

He had run across her quite by accident while driving aimlessly around the suburbs of Chicago. She had been bicycling. As soon as he saw her, he knew what she was going to become. Perhaps his biggest talent. He had followed her home, set a watch on her house to learn her habits, then forgot about her until Sean suddenly announced that they needed another one.

Now he had her: the kid who was going to have the honor of killing Sam; the kid who represented something that scared the bejeezus out of everyone who knew about the powers of her kind; the kid with the familiar eyes.

The most unnerving part of the project, seeing the utter lack of anything behind her eyes. K.C. didn't know what happened to the soul, or mind, or whatever it was that made the person, when he used the box. It's like it just went away, or stopped existing.

He knew all the technical specifications for the device. But reality often had nothing in common with the words put on paper. The specs didn't make any mention of how exactly the box did what it did. No one knew for sure. They just knew it worked when and only when K.C. used it. And all K.C. knew for sure is that once he used the box, the person's mind was his.

****

"So, you're telling me that you think your friends are going to try to kill you." General Damon did his best to appear in control. It wasn't easy. Fifteen minutes with a comb and toothbrush in the men's restroom and a half-pot of coffee had gone a long way towards making him presentable, but the dark pouches beneath his eyes and pallid complexion undid most of that work. At least he had a wall to lean against.

Samantha sat back in the desk chair and crossed her ankles. She wound a piece of string, formerly from her sweater, around her left thumb until it turned bright red, then unwound it and started over. Her thumbnail was probably going to end up permanently bruised. "Sean is just a colleague. We've had the . . . pleasure . . . of working together for five years. In fact, Jeff is the one who recruited him."

"Jeffrey Martin?"

Samantha dropped her gaze to her hands. "Yes."

"What happened to him?" Damon took a seat on the corner of the bed, facing Samantha. His son leaned back against the headboard, remote control in hand, idly channel-surfing. The one thing Marmaduke most often bemoaned missing about America was having dozens of tv stations instead of just four, even if most of them only showed "Wings". Fortunately, Damon thought, because of the conversation going on the room, he had to have the volume muted.

"He was murdered." She yanked the string around her thumb hard enough to snap it, then started searching her sweater for another loose thread. "By Sean."

Damon showed her one of the security photographs. He needed evidence more solid than Samantha's phone call to the office saying she knew something and needed his help. At least Jim had answered the phone. He knew the difference between 'this had to be done right now' important and 'this can wait a while' important. "Is this Sean?"

"No." Her forehead furrowed in thought. "That's Roger, Ro . . . Robert somebody . . . ."

"Robbie?" Damon shot a glance at Megabyte, then turned around and wrested the remote control from him. Megabyte returned a hurt look, then gave a defeated nod. There was no way Damon would give back the 'mote until the interview was over. Megabyte was not here to be watching tv. He could do that on this own time.

Megabyte's eyes glazed over in the way that indicated he was talking telepathically with someone.

"Could be. Sean never gets his hands dirty. He always finds someone else to take the blame. The kid just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"We have evidence to show that Robbie is the one who killed Jeffrey. . ."

"I don't doubt it."

". . . yet you claim that Sean did."

"All I know is that the kid may have done the actual murder, but he didn't commit the crime. He had no control over his actions. Sean was using him . . . the same way he used Jeff and me and K.C."

"Who's this K.C.?"

She turned her attention to the flickering screen. A commercial was playing about the upcoming pilot of some new show about werewolves or vampires or something. It didn't look particularly interesting. The commercial was replaced by one with some some blond guy in a kilt trying to stare down a bowl of cereal. Damon switched off the tv and tossed the remote far away from his son. Samantha drew a deep breath then looked Damon squarely in the eyes. "My brother."

****

Adam leaned against the wall outside room 472 of the Sleep Inn in Chicago. He could hear Damon talking within, but couldn't make out the words. He wasn't trying to. Megabyte had finally started doing his job of keeping Adam up-to-date on the conversation inside.

The hum of the ice machine around the corner and the clatter of ice against plastic broke the silence in the hallway. The first real sign of life in this building. Adam held his breath as he waited for the person to appear, but instead came the creak of the stairwell door opening and the sound of footsteps on concrete until the closing door cut off the noise. He prayed no one would come along to whom he'd have to explain his presence in the hallway. If the discussion in the room proceeded well, he could leave before that became an issue.

He waited only for the clue that would lead him to Robbie. Adam felt a strange connection to the boy, even though he knew nothing more about him than could be gleaned from a few poorly-taken photographs. Adam could empathize with what Robbie must have gone through these past three years.

Robbie had killed.

Even if the woman in the room spoke the truth, Robbie had still killed. The worst thing a Tomorrow Person could do, the one thing that they supposedly couldn't do no matter what, had been done. The greatest rule broken, and broken in such a way that Robbie couldn't even fight it. They all knew first-hand about mind-control after what happened with Sam Rees. It had failed then, but not by much. Adam didn't doubt that someone, somewhere could find a way to make them do the unthinkable. And Adam remembered with frightful clarity what he had gone through when he only thought he might be responsible for the death of another.

He didn't wish that fate upon anyone.

Especially someone who didn't know the rules to begin with. Someone who didn't have the friends he had.

He needed to track down Robbie and explain to him what had happened, and why. No one deserved to live with the guilt of crime they hadn't committed. Robbie had lived with it for three years. Maybe Adam could even help Robbie recover -- become a Tomorrow Person again. There were so precious few in their ranks as is. They couldn't afford the loss of another.

Maybe, Adam hoped, he could get that cry for help out of his head.

****

Sean sat in a corner table at the bar of the hotel across the street. He nursed a glass of water and pretended to read a newspaper. He barely folded back the front section in the twenty minutes he'd been sitting. The ring of newsprint beneath the water glass had long since smeared beyond readable. He chewed resolutely on the toothpick sticking from the corner of his mouth. It gave him something to do that didn't require taking his attention off the door.

The bar lights were dim, the bar empty. Even the bartender was conspicuously absent -- a well placed hundred dollar bill could work wonders. K.C. would be meeting Sean here when finished with his business. They'd have plenty of time before anyone discovered Samantha's body. At least a day. And once she was gone, the only remaining problem would be K.C. -- more mundane methods would have to be used to take care of him, though. What a loss, one with his unique talents. Efforts to find another with his abilities had been underway for some time, but had as yet proven futile. K.C. appeared, regretfully, to be one of a kind.

In a few days, K.C.'s body would show up in some local hotel room, an apparent suicide. There'd be enough evidence to connect him to the deaths of both Samantha Rowan and Jeffrey Martin. No one would ever be able to argue otherwise. Those who tried would find their paths blocked with red tape by those at the top. Allies made with more conveniently placed . . . contributions, or perhaps some incriminating photographs or a letter that should have been burned instead of thrown away. Allies who would make sure that certain secrets would never come to light. Their reputations depended on it.

Should Robert or Rachel Caplan, or any of the others, ever wake up, someone would deal with them too. No worries there. For whatever reason, each volunteer could be used only once before they lapsed into coma. A connection had been postulated, but no one really cared to know why. The coma eliminated a potential security leak. One less problem to have to worry about, one less dead body to have to explain away.

Even the most bribable law-enforcement officials still had limits to what they'd conveniently ignore. The slower those limits were reached, the better for everyone, Sean mused. It made him nervous leaving unfinished business, especially with so many alternate methods like brainwashing and reprogramming to choose from. But no one knew if brainwashing or reprogramming would work on the kids in question. The only sure-fire way of making certain they couldn't talk was to kill them, and then resurfaced the problem of making the law look the other way. A problem better avoided with so many others around to occupy time.

The Organization always took care of their problems. For months they had suspected that K.C. hadn't exactly been on their side, but had only had that suspicion confirmed recently. Invisible ink might sound childish, but it was really quite effective for marking envelopes. It didn't take long to notice that envelopes that left one end of the transfer properly marked arrived at the other unmarked. It took less time to find the culprit. In one of the rare attempts at alliance, They were the ones who planted Their suspicion of K.C. They didn't like double-crossers any more than the next secret organization. Double-agents can't be controlled.

Sean took a sip of water and leaned back in his chair. From his angle, he could easily see the entrance. He felt quite honored that he had been chosen over the others to continue in the Organization's employment. Samantha had been considered as highly as he, but he'd managed to plant suspicion on her by pointing out the connection between her and K.C. Besides, she just didn't have the drive to make it. When it came down to it, Samantha just had too much conscience and too many morals to ever climb the hierarchy. Sean felt that at any time she could just snap, and take the whole organization down with her. No, he thought, she definitely couldn't handle continued employment.

And with Samantha and K.C. gone, the possibility of advancement to the next circle became quite real. Soon, he'd be much more than just an operative. Eventually he hoped to work himself into the ranks of real power.

****

Rachel was in trouble.

Robbie knew this with uncanny certainty before even knowing what caused the trouble.

He loped through his backyard, returning from a baseball game at the school which ended abruptly when Robbie struck out Brian, who promptly announced that he didn't want to play anymore and was going to take his bat and glove and go home. The other players watched him walk off the field in a huff, then slowly dispersed.

Robbie rounded the corner of the house in time to see a rock fly over Rachel's shoulder. She was sitting at the edge of the garden, a small pile of lava rocks pushed to the side. Her hands were dirty and she clenched a fistful of wilting dandelions, which matched the dandelions in a chain around her neck. Rachel was always picking the flowers from the backyard and trying to replant them in the front. Then she'd cry when they died.

Brian stood in the driveway with a fistful of the ubiquitous lava rocks that decorated every yard on the block. "Hey, idiot," he yelled, "I asked you a question." He threw another rock at Rachel, narrowly missing her.

She didn't notice.

"What are you doing?" Robbie moved to stand between them.

"Teaching your dumb sister a lesson. She needs to learn to answer when I ask a question."

Robbie glanced back at his sister. She was softly buzzing the "V" sound. She told him once that she liked that sound because it made her lips tickle. It was the only 'speaking' sound he had ever heard her make. "She can't. She doesn't know how."

"She's seven years old and she can't talk? What kind of retard is she?" Brian shifted from foot to foot and curled his fingers around another rock as though ready to pitch.

"Rachel's not a retard. She's deaf. And she can so talk. She just can't speak." She talked in sign-language all the time. The whole family had made an effort to learn ASL once it was confirmed that Rachel couldn't hear. They felt it was much easier, and made more sense, for them to learn sign than for her to learn to speak. Why keep Rachel intentionally isolated from the family? Sometimes now, though, they joked about what a mistake it had been to teach Rachel sign because once started, no one could get her to shut up.

"That doesn't make any sense," Brian sneered. He tossed the rock at Robbie, hitting him on the left side of his face. "You must be a retard too." He began chanting "retard, retard" at the top of his lungs as he advanced towards the siblings.

Robbie wiped the blood from his cheek. He fought to hold back tears. The rock had narrowly missed hitting his eye. He crouched, ready to tackle Brian and beat him up. No one got away with calling Rachel retarded.

Rachel was in trouble.

Robbie's eyes snapped open and he struggled to sit up. He felt so weak. Hungry. Wanted to sleep, keep sleeping, but Rachel needed him. He swung one pajama clad leg off the bed, then the other. Sweat glistened on his forehead by the time he managed to stand up.

He looked around the room, taking in the antiseptic white on white; the machines beeping and humming; the body on the bed. A teenager, blond, eyes closed in sleep. The boy breathed regularly, but the breaths seemed to catch in his throat. The struggle for life evident in the lines on his face.

His face. Older than he remembered, but definitely his. Robbie compared his hand with the identical hand of the boy. He touched his face, tracing the curve of his jaw, then reached out to touch the boy's. His hand passed right through. The beeping seemed to grow louder, the sunlight in the room brighter. Every sense sharpened with surprise. 'Oh, God.'

Panic swept through him, dispelled by the realization that he couldn't be dead. His body on the bed still breathed. The heart monitor still registered a beat. Then he remembered the thought that pulled him out of his sleeping memories. He had to find Rachel.

****

K.C. slowed his breathing and forced his shoulders to relax. His fingers splayed across the dials on the black box. He manipulated the controls with practiced precision, gradually increasing the power until a faint hum began to emanate from the box. As the power increased, his own latent telepathic abilities were grabbed and fed back through the circuits within. A loop was created. The feedback fed back on itself, increasing exponentially, until K.C. had all the abilities and talents of those who represented the next stage in human evolution, and none of the restrictions.

The nearly magical effect resulting from just the right combination of human ingenuity and superhuman ability -- working on a level that most people cannot even imagine -- led to the one thing humans have always overachieved at: the creation of a new weapon.

He reached out with his mind and found Rachel's. Inch by inch he wormed his way in, forcing her's back. Her powers were suppressed with her mind. A few minutes more and he had full control of her body. His own powers flooded through her flesh, his mind through her brain. Awareness of himself, of the K.C. sitting on the dresser with his back to the mirror, dropped to an almost imperceptible level in the background. For all intents and purposes, her body was now his.

K.C. stood up. He had work to do.

****

Samantha stood by the window, alternately gazing out over the roofs of the city below and inspecting the nail imprints on her palm. At this point, she could do little but wait. That her death would be the next move was obvious: the questions were how, by whom, and when. She could easily have fled, tried to escape, but she knew Sean. Eventually he would find her.

At least now they played on her territory. General Damon had moved to the hall where he purported to be protecting her. When she held her breath, she could hear his snores. His son had pleaded starvation and was in the process of acquiring food for everyone from the McDonalds.

Their absence made her distinctly uncomfortable, but she had no doubt Damon would keep his promise of guarding her. Both she and the General wanted Sean's arrest, and using her, and her knowledge, was the only way it would happen in this lifetime. Sean had to pay for killing Jeffrey and stealing away K.C. He had to pay for the kids' lives he had stolen. It took too long -- and only for the knowledge of her own impending murder -- to make her step forward. Much too long. She wasn't about to change her mind now.

Samantha knew he wouldn't be coming for her directly. He'd never do something like that. No doubt he'd acquired another of the children. Another life ruined, another life gone. But she hoped they'd be able to use the child to trace back to him. If K.C. was the driver, and she knew he had to be, she felt the chances were good that she could talk some sense into him.

****

Kevin waited for Adam at the spaceship. He sat on the dais around the central column, munching a chocolate bar and drinking a glass of the mysterious fruit juice made by the ship. He kicked his foot repeatedly against the column until a low hum reverberated forth. "Sorry," Kevin mumbled, felling his face grow red. The ship wasn't a living being, but sometimes it acted like one. He wondered for a moment if it actually felt pain or anger or disgust

/Let's get guns and blow those blokes away/

/I don't think the ship liked that/

or if it was just programmed to make the Tomorrow People think it could. He dismissed the thought, then found himself wondering what was taking Adam so long. Surely the page had gone through by now.

His heel thumped against the column again, an unconscious reaction. It seemed Adam and Megabyte weren't answering calls. When Kevin tried to find them telepathically, he found only an emptiness. No, more of a vacuum. And he felt that if he tried to get too near, it would suck him in too.

Adam and Megabyte weren't dead. He'd know if they were. They were just . . . not there. It creeped him out. Kevin rubbed at the goosebumps on his arms. It was cold in here. Why didn't the spaceship turn up the heat? All it had to do was let in some of the heat from outside.

Kevin stood up to teleport to the beach when the back of his neck started to tingle in the way that indicated an incoming teleport. A flash of bright light and the tingling stopped.

The spaceship remained empty of any people, but for himself.

"Who's there," he asked, both verbally and telepathically. No answer. Kevin pivoted in place, scanning the ship. "Stop it. This isn't funny." The ship moaned. "Jade? Is that you?" The ship moaned again, louder, and strobed. Kevin felt he should understand whatever it was trying to communicate, but he'd never been too good at that. The lights dimmed to darkness until only one place by the wall facing into the ocean still glowed. The glow solidified into a boy about Megabyte's age wearing a hospital robe and pajamas and gazing around the ship with both confusion and worry etched on his face.

The boy's lips moved silently, then stopped. He shook his head and tried again. Still no sound.

[Who are you?] Kevin tried to not be afraid. He figured the ship wouldn't allow anyone dangerous inside, but it wasn't easy to keep down his own fight-or-flight instinct. He's just learned about that instinct in school, and had nearly gotten into an argument with the teacher about it. "Can an instinct be broken in some people?" He'd asked. He wanted to find a way to broach the subject of his own non-killing instinct without revealing too much. The ship wouldn't tell them why they couldn't kill, just that they couldn't. He hoped his teacher might have an idea. The teacher only glared at him for speaking out of turn, then answered with a curt, "Don't be stupid."

[I need to find Rachel,] the boy said, his lips not moving this time. He appeared to be a fast learner. [Do you know where she's at?] The boy raised his hands in a pleading gesture, appropriate of any ghost in a bad movie. [She's in trouble and I need to find her but when I tried I ended up here wherever 'here' is.]

Kevin sucked in a breath. Well this was certainly interesting. It seemed as though he was always missing out on the fun stuff, and now he was caught right in the middle of it. Then the realization of who - what - he was talking to began to sink in. [You're the one Adam was talking about earlier,] Kevin stated. He fought down a shiver. [Robbie Caplan.]

The specter nodded.

[Are you dead?] Kevin took a few steps closer to Robbie. He wasn't afraid anymore, but there was something else he needed to know before he agreed to help.

The form flickered like an old film and a look a doubt flashed over the boy's face. He tried to shove his hands into his pockets, but finding none, held them awkwardly at his sides. [I don't know. I don't think so.]

'Good enough,' Kevin thought. 'At least he's telling the truth about that.' [I think I know where Rachel might be.] He really didn't. He hoped she was with Adam and Megabyte, wherever they were. Last he heard they were going to some hotel in Chicago with General Damon. They were still working on that thing about the Martin guy.

With any luck, they were still there.

****

The nail imprints faded slowly. The tingle diminished long before the red crescents paled back into the color of her palm. Samantha constricted her fist again; didn't notice the pain. The heat of the summer sun focussed through the hotel window was making her regret the decision to wear a sweater and slacks. She'd forgotten about the extreme temperatures Lake Michigan caused the city. Even with the air-conditioner blasting away at her legs, the room had grown uncomfortably warm, and seemed to only be growing warmer. Trickles of sweat rolled down her arms and back. Her face felt greasy. She rubbed the back of one hand across her forehead, then pressed her face against the glass. She observed with absent interest the styrofoam cup skitting down the sidewalk outside her window, four stories down. Samantha toyed with the idea of jumping out the window to escape; tried to compute the odds of surviving the impact whole enough to escape.

She wouldn't -- couldn't -- give Sean the satisfaction of winning. He may well turn out to be the victor, but she was going to make it the hardest and most painful victory in his life. Her fist clenched again, unbidden. Nothing happening here tonight surprised her. This was her job. She knew the rules. She knew most of the players. She even knew the game. The problem was the next move wasn't her's and she needed it to be. She could change the outcome -- if only she could stop K.C. She closed her eyes in defeat.

"Stupid woman," she murmured into the glass. There was something . . . something she was missing. Something important that she felt she should know; a thought half formed in her head; a word on the tip of her tongue. She began to mentally play back the circumstances that brought her here, tried to pay attention to the details of the players and events.

Sean? He might think he was God, but that's as far as his holiness went. K.C? A child with delusions of grandeur who always hung around the fringes, pushing the limits until he finally learned more than he was supposed to know and had to be brought inside the team. If he hadn't been able to do . . . what he could do . . . he would have been killed instead of recruited. The Organization? That brought a tense smile to her lips. Their full name was the Organization to Protect United States Superiority. And this, all this that was happening here today, was the direct result of some misguided attempt at protecting their own superiority. K.C. called the black box their Magnum Opus. To make a Magnum O.P.U.S.S.

Which brought her back to K.C. again. As much as she wanted to place all the blame on Sean, it didn't all belong there. K.C. was her younger brother; she knew how he thought, what he was likely to do next.

Why couldn't she stop him?

She knew he had to be somewhere in this hotel. Five floors of rooms with one hundred rooms per floor. How difficult could it be to find him? Just pick a floor and start knocking on the doors. Sooner or later she had to find the right one. All she had to do to stop K.C. was to find him. Right. How difficult indeed?

'Not impossible,' she realised as that forgotten piece of knowledge surfaced. 'Not so difficult at all.'

****

Adam stood opposite General Damon outside the hotel room door, arms crossed. Damon sat against the wall, asleep, chin pressed to his chest. It didn't look like he'd be waking up anytime soon. He really needed to take better care of himself. Adam couldn't understand why this case was more important to the General than his own health. The hotel room door slammed open. Adam jumped. He'd let his thoughts wander off when he should have been standing guard. The General didn't even flinch.

Samantha stormed out. She glanced at the sleeping General then, turning to face Adam, grabbed his arm and pulled him down the hallway. "I'm going to assume you're with him," she stated, gesturing back to the General. At Adam's nod she continued, "Good. Then I'll also assume that you know who I am, why I'm here, and why he's . . ." a snarl crept into Samantha's voice as she again gestured at the General, ". . . here. Save on some of the explanation, at least."

Adam yanked his arm free. "What do you want? General Damon told me you were supposed to stay in the room until Megabyte got back."

"And let them kill me without even putting up a fight? Look, I've seen sleep deprivation before. I know your General is going to be useless as anything except a doorstop for, well, until it's too late to help me. So I'm asking for your help instead." They turned the corner at the end of the hall and found themselves standing next to the elevators and staircase, across the hall from the niche holding the vending and ice machines. Samantha pushed the call button and tapped her fingers against her thigh as they waited for the car. It seemed to be stuck on floor three. Adam noticed that she was pivoted in such a way that allowed her to keep an eye on both the elevator doors and him.

Adam didn't like this. He wasn't supposed to be involved in this case at all, but now that he was it seemed he was also in charge of it. General Damon had gone and made himself useless, and Adam didn't know who else in WorldEx he could trust. And where was Megabyte? He should be back from the restaurant by now. Adam felt this woman was going to need more help than he alone could provide. If she was in the kind of trouble it sounded like she was. He did not like the way events were shaping up. It was a fact of life that things got worse before they got better, but this was really ridiculous. If they got any more worse, if he did nothing -- didn't do everything in his power to prevent it -- he'd have Samantha's death on his conscience. He couldn't handle that responsibility. "I'm listening."

Samantha reached out to grab Adam's arm again. He reflexively jerked away and took a step back to be out of her range. Samantha closed the gap, pushing him into the vending niche, up against the Coke machine. "Then listen good." She stood with her nose almost touching his. She was shorter than he, but not by much. Her eyes narrowed and turned stony. "People are killed for knowing less than what I'm about to tell you."

****

K.C. fought to exert his will over Rachel's body, to make her remove the thumb pressed against the Door Open button on the elevator. It took more effort than it should. This mind-transfer wasn't like the others. K.C. had taken over her mind, but it seemed she hadn't given it up. Almost like the stories about split-brain patients he had heard, how the dominate side of their brain could still control the body, but the other half could also control the body without having to defer to the dominate side. So the body would sometimes do things the person didn't want it to. Out of control.

He stared through her eyes at the licence form framed on the wall over the control panel. As long as she didn't remove her thumb from the button the elevator would stay on the third floor and he wouldn't have to make a decision about which way to go. A part of him didn't want to make a decision. He knew he had a job to do, only now he was having doubts about it.

Or was Rachel the one with the doubts?

K.C. wasn't sure. He didn't like not being sure. It made him nervous. He hadn't 'not been sure' since that time just over three years ago when he had to capture that boy -- his name is Robbie my brother Robbie -- for Sean. Sean quickly showed him the error of that, and he'd been sure about every move he'd made since then. Until now.

He had to get back in control.

The lift had carried Rachel only as far as the third floor before K.C.'s resolve snapped. Her hand had flashed out and hit the emergency stop button, and then taken up residence on the door open button, all on her own. So now on the third floor she stayed until he could find a new resolve. Or get rid of hers. Samantha was one floor up, Sean two floors down. One Rachel was supposed to kill, the other K.C. wanted to kill.

He couldn't bring herself to do either. The fluorescent bulb illuminating the elevator flickered and threatened to go out. A moth silently flapped around the light, attracted either by the flicker or by the corpses of its dead mates in light casing. And the body of the girl who used to be Rachel Caplan slumped against that lift wall. Her right hand and arm had gone white and started to tremble. The fingernail on her right thumb had started to turn a ghastly bluish colour. Her left hand was wrapped around her right wrist, trying in vain to keep it still. He could feel the watch on her wrist ticking in the palm of her hand.

K.C. fought to exert his will over the body; fought to complete the simple act of sliding her thumb a mere inch in any direction. One inch to remove it from the Door Open button he couldn't remember pushing. He'd never had this much trouble controlling anyone before, not even his first time out. He thought he'd experienced every type of will in his years riding the Atropos Project. Somehow Rachel was different. She didn't seem to be fighting back, yet he was still losing control. For whatever reason, the farther the body moved from his room on the seventh floor, the less command he possessed. It felt as though his mind and Rachel's mind were moving out of sync, one notch at a time, one minute at a time. He couldn't figure how her will had held out this long, or even why it was still part of her. She had to be near the breaking point. He figured he had only to win this battle of wills to break her completely. It shouldn't be this hard. Move the thumb . . . one inch.

The elevator doors stayed open.

****

Megabyte strolled through the hotel lobby trying to eat a Big Mac with one hand, while holding a container of drinks and a large sack of food in the other. Not for the first time he wished he was telekinetic so as to not have to struggle like this. The delicate balance of paper cups and the ill-packed paper sack, the bottom drenched in grease, settled in the crook of his arm threatened to topple over at any second. To make things worse, his Big Mac was dripping special sauce, lettuce, and cheese all over his hand. He was not prepared for surprises, like Kevin appearing out of thin air into the middle of the lobby. Usually people flashing in and out of existence didn't surprise him, but with his concentration on the task of not dropping the food, Megabyte missed the tell-tale tingle.

The food started to upset. Only quick reflexes saved it, but at the expense of his partially eaten burger. The Big Mac splattered on the hideous hotel carpet, the special sauce blending right in. Megabyte followed the burger's descent with his eyes, unable to do anything to stop it. "Kevin!"

"Megabyte?" Kevin glanced around the lobby, down at the burger, then up to his friend. "You're here. I didn't think you were here. Why weren't you answering calls?"

"What are you talking about? I haven't heard anything from anyone but Adam." Megabyte pointed at Kevin. "You're the one who wasn't answering. And when you do decide to show up, you make me drop my burger." Megabyte stared mournfully at the carpet. He wasn't about to pick it up and keep eating it. Who knew when this carpet was last cleaned, or who had walked on it since. Fortunately, the hotel attendant was nowhere to be seen, so no one had seen him drop the burger, which meant he didn't have to clean it up. "I need to get the rest of this upstairs before Dad calls the police to find me." He took a step towards the elevator, then turned back. "Wait a sec. What are you doing here?"

"We've got to stop Rachel."

"Who?"

"Come on. I'll try to explain." Kevin headed to the lift, then decided the stairs would probably be faster. "Will you come on?" he spoke over his shoulder at the lagging Megabyte.

"Why don't we just teleport?" No one was in the lobby, and he knew where to find Adam. If it was an emergency, teleporting would be faster than the elevator. Besides, he didn't want to contend with climbing stairs while carrying what remained of the food.

"Can't. Won't work."

"Why not?"

"Dunno. Ask Robbie."

"Who?" Megabyte glanced around the lobby again and still didn't see anyone else. Whomever Kevin was babbling about was either invisible or on the other end of a telepathic link. If the latter were the case then he must be an awfully new Tomorrow Person since Megabyte didn't know about him. "What are you talking about?" Megabyte pleaded as he followed Kevin up the stairs. "Who's Robbie?"

****

"That's it?" Adam couldn't believe how ridiculously simple this whole operation had just become.

"That's it." Samantha confirmed. "It's obvious once you put all the pieces together." She and Adam reached the seventh floor. She had explained the whole thing on the walk up, stopping sometimes on landings to make sure he heard a particular point. "It's all paint by numbers." She pushed her weight against the fire door and the two stepped into the seventh floor hallway. This one was done up in shades of beige with a magenta and green floral carpet. Abstract oils in magenta, blue, and green adorned the walls. Gold numbers on beige doors identified the rooms. The walls had been repainted recently, as the stink of fresh paint still hung in the air.

"But it can't be that simple," Adam protested. "Are you sure you're not forgetting something?"

"Positive. Unless Sean decided to do something original. But I don't think he has an original bone in his body."

Paint by numbers, she had said. A painting with each section assigned a number and each number assigned a colour. The painter knew which colour to use by the number of the section. Just the way Sean and his team operated. Every move in every mission was determined by the number or numbers assigned to it.

O.P.U.S.S. appointed all it's operative teams an identification code, Samantha had explained. Sean's team's code was Bravo-7-Delta; Bravo and Delta were the second and fourth letters in the Military Alphabet. So everything the team did used only the numbers 2, 4, and 7. Samantha had been staying in room 472, which left only five other combinations for room numbers: 247, 274, 427, 724, and 742. Then she pointed out that in this hotel the second floor was dedicated to patron services, not rooms. That left only three other rooms K.C. could be in. And since two of them were on the seventh floor, she suggested starting there first.

[Who's Robbie?] Megabyte's question broke into Adam's thoughts. He stopped suddenly in the hall.

"Hang about." Adam grabbed Samantha's arm and pulled her to a stop. "I've got to fill my friends in. We may need their help."

"Excuse me? How do you plan on doing that?"

"K.C. isn't the only one with special abilities."

Samantha considered that for a moment, then nodded. "I've heard something about this. I think it's better if I don't know any more."

[Megabyte,] Adam called. He waited until he knew he had his friend's attention, then filled him in as quickly as possible.

[Okay,] Megabyte responded, [Then if this Robbie person is in a coma in some hospital how am I supposed to ask him anything?]

[He's not in a coma,] Kevin interrupted. He sounded annoyed. [Or maybe he is, but he's here too.]

[I don't follow.]

[What?]

[Well, he's a telepath, but he can't talk directly to you right now. He needs to work through the Ship since he's, well, sort of a ghost. But not a dead-person type of ghost. He's still alive. He's just . . . a ghost.]

[Yeah right,] Megabyte replied. [And I'm the Pope.]

[I'm not kidding!]

[Pope Megabyte the first. Nahhh . . . doesn't work.] Adam thought about what Kevin said. He had no reason to disbelieve Kevin and plenty of reason to believe him. He remembered Robbie. Well, he remembered Robbie's yell for help. He remembered the form in Damon's security photograph, and he thought he might remember something about Robbie in the newspapers a few years ago. And they had had run-ins with ghosts before. [I believe you, Kevin.]

[His sister, Rachel, just broke out, like I dreamt about. But she got captured. We have to find her.]

[Look, Samantha's with me and we think we know where Rachel might be. It can only be one of three rooms, and we've got two of them covered. Why don't you two check out room 427?]

[Right.]

[Okay.]

Adam unfocussed from his internal conversation, looked up to find Samantha studying him intently.

"Are you done?" She looked like she wanted to know a lot more than that, but Adam figured that after working so long for O.P.U.S.S she knew when not to ask. He wasn't sure how much he could trust her anyway. They were working together now, but that would only last as long as they shared a concern. Afterwards . . . Who could predict?

He nodded. "They're going to check the other room."

"Good." She turned back around, facing down the hallway. "I wish I knew where Sean was," Samantha mused.

"I thought you said he was in one of these rooms?"

"No. I said K.C. was in one of these rooms. Sean could be anywhere, and not knowing where he is worries me. It means we can't prepare for him."

"We'll be okay."

Samantha paused in mid-step, looked to the ceiling, eyes closed, and drew a breath. "It's not us I'm worried about."

****

Their steps echoed in the concrete stairwell as Kevin and Megabyte climbed the stairs.

A floor and a half below them another set of steps echoed, these faster as the runner took the steps two and three at a time.

Kevin heard them first. He backed a few steps down the stairs to see around the corner. An older man with graying mustache and beard was running up the stairs, gaining ground quickly. He seemed to be in pretty good shape for his age, hardly breathing hard at all. He quite obviously wasn't on their side. It wasn't that he looked particularly menacing. He looked average, the kind of person who would always be forgotten about, except for a bearing of extreme confidence, as if he knew he'd always win, because it never occurred to him that he could lose.

And he was carrying a gun.

It seemed to Kevin that he and the others were always getting chased by someone carrying a gun.

It was becoming rather old.

"Run!" Kevin pushed past Megabyte. [Run!]

"Stop," commanded the man. He didn't yell; he didn't have to.

Megabyte stopped, turned around. The man appeared on the half-floor landing below him. Megabyte concentrated to teleport, then remembered that it wouldn't work as long as the black box Adam mentioned was in operation. Above, the third floor door handle rattled as Kevin pushed it. Megabyte hefted the drinks on his arm and lobbed them at the man. The aim was sloppy, but the distance short. Three large Cokes and a large coffee drenched the man, distracted him. Megabyte twisted around, bolted up the stairs, heading for the fourth floor. He hoped to distract the man further by giving him two people going in two directions to chase. He heard the man swear, and smiled. For once the large coffee was working in his favour.

Adam lightly touched the doorknob of room 742, as though afraid it would burn him. The metal was chill to the touch, normal metal, except for a feeling of unreleased energy about it, like the instant just before a static charge. He grasped the handle completely. And froze. The energy tickled his hand, the skin raising into goosebumps as he felt it leaking up his arm. Without turning his head, he spoke down the hall to Samantha. "This is the room." He heard her steps drawing closer, didn't hear any acknowledgment. Raising his voice a notch he spoke again. "Sam, I found him. I found K.C."

A low hum surrounded them. Adam hadn't noticed it before, and he still wasn't sure where it emanated from; it seemed to come from everywhere at once. It made him feel tense, on edge. And now that he recognised it, he couldn't tune it out again.

Samantha drew close to Adam. "Do you hear that?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"That's the machine," she explained. "The telepathic connection isn't enough. K.C. has to use an audio signal too, but it utilizes a pitch so low that one can only register hearing when the machine is close by."

Adam withdrew his hand from the doorknob, shook it to stop the tingle. "How do we get in?"

"Easy," she replied, producing a magnetic key-card from somewhere. "This should work on all the possible rooms." She slid the key-card home and pushed the door open. The humming grew louder, thicker, as though trying to suffocate him. Adam recognised a slow oscillation in pitch.

He stepped into the room. The curtains were drawn, the room dark. On the dresser sat a young man. This had to be the mysterious K.C. sitting crosslegged, supporting the black box on his lap. He didn't look that much older than Adam. He was brown-haired and lanky built, probably around six feet tall. His eyes were closed and his mouth pressed in a grimace of concentration. He was dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt. A pair of cheap looking sunglasses were perched on his head.

Adam watched with fascination as K.C.'s fingers moved over the controls on the box. He worked the machine like an expert. "How many times has he done this?" Adam whispered. He was horrified at the process he knew was going on in front of his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. Somewhere in this hotel, a new Tomorrow Person was being controlled by the young man sitting on the desk, to commit murder. Somewhere in this hotel, a new Tomorrow Person was about to have their destiny stolen before ever learning it existed. He was standing just over a meter away from the box, a meter from being able to shut down the whole operation and he couldn't. He didn't even know why.

"Too many." Samantha pushed past Adam, crossed the room in a few quick strides and ripped the box from K.C.'s hands. A flash of light jumped between them and seemed to sparkle around K.C.'s body. His eyes flew open. He had blue eyes, from what little could be seen of the iris around the dilated pupils.

"Sam!" K.C's voice cracked. He lurched to his feet, stepped forward. Samantha stepped back and to the side, out of K.C.'s reach. Another flash of light jumped between the box and K.C. He jerked. "Oh God, Sam. What did you do?" The humming seemed to grew louder, almost unbearable, then faded away. K.C. took one step forward. His body convulsed. He collapsed on the floor. Pinpoints of light played around his body.

Adam and Samantha knelt down on beside him. Adam passed his hand over K.C.'s face, closing the eyes, while Sam felt for a pulse.

"He's alive," she announced, counting slowly under her breath. "But I'd imagine he's going to be as functional now as the kids he used." She leaned back on her heels and scrutinised the body of her brother. "I can't say I'm sorry," she added finally. "I wish I could . . . but I can't."

"I can," Adam responded. "No one should have to live like this, a shell."

"Exactly," Sam replied. The two sat in silence for a moment, then Samantha pushed to her feet. "We have to find Sean."

****

For Kevin the chase came to an abrupt end on floor three, when he found himself once again face-to-face with Rachel. With all that had happened, finding her unscathed and virtually unchanged shocked him. Her clothes and hair were still damp, a few traces of sand clung to her knees and shins. She smelled of salt water and open air.

She was standing in a lift with her eyes closed and one hand on the control panel. Kevin called her name. She didn't respond. He called again and took a tentative step into the elevator. She still didn't respond. He reached out a hand to touch her arm, hesitated, pulled back.

There was a weird tingle in the air, a sense of something about to happen. Rachel's face was flushed and beads of perspiration dotted her deeply creased forehead. Kevin stared at her, trying to figure out what to do. He felt slightly miffed that she was ignoring him, but he knew so much more was going on here than it appeared.

Robbie had told him that.

Robbie had also told him to take care of Rachel and to say good-bye for him. Despite his youth, Kevin had no illusions about what that meant. And, despite his only brief contact with Robbie, he knew what that promise would mean . . . to all of them.

"I will," Kevin whispered, to no one in particular. He knew that if Robbie were around in any form, he'd hear.

Kevin touched Rachel's arm; the barest brush of his fingertips on her wrist. It was enough.

Whatever had been waiting to happen, happened.

The world blanked out.

****

Megabyte stood his ground a scant fifty feet from Sean. He had run onto the fourth floor with no more thought than getting as far away from Sean as possible. It didn't occur to him until he was about to round the corner that his Dad was still unconscious in front of room 472. He wasn't about to lead the bad-guy right to his temporarily helpless father. So, he turned and faced Sean straight on.

If it wasn't for the gun pointed at him, Megabyte would have been hard-pressed not to laugh. The formerly pristine suit was now rumpled and wet. A large coffee stain marred the white dress-shirt, and his tie looked like one of his sister Millie's failed attempts at art. Sean's beard dripped onto his shoes, and the man looked anything but calm and collected now. He looked like a wet dog.

Megabyte forced back a grin at the thought. He wasn't as successful at holding back his tongue. Something about the whole situation smacked on ridiculous, and for the first time Megabyte realised he wasn't afraid. By all rights, he should have been. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the knowledge that his dad was right around the corner and would undoubtedly find a way to save him at the last minute. Maybe it was just that it was difficult to be afraid of someone who couldn't be taken seriously, despite the firearm in his hand. Maybe it was the special sauce. For whatever reason, Megabyte starred straight at Sean and asked, "What? Did you want fries with that?"

Sean's eyes narrowed, his features hardened into grim lines. At that moment, Sean looked totally capable and willing to destroy anyone and anything that stood in his way. He raised his foot to take a step closer to Megabyte, but got no farther.

The space between the gray-haired man and the red-headed teen shimmered like heat off asphalt. The shimmer shrunk in on itself and resolved into the shape of a teenage boy wearing a pajamas and a hospital robe. He was facing Sean, but it wasn't difficult for Megabyte to narrow down who it had to be. Especially when Sean's face paled. Megabyte managed to resist the urge to make a comment about seeing a ghost.

Sean's hand spasmed, opened. The gun hit his foot with a solid thunk that made Megabyte cringe in sympathy. Sean didn't appear to notice the damage. His eyes were riveted on the specter.

[Kevin? Adam? Where are you guys?] Megabyte 'pathed. He didn't know what was going on in front of him, and he didn't really want to stick around to find out.

[Samantha and I are on our way down,] Adam answered. [Hang on.]

[No,] Robbie interrupted. [Everyone get out now.] He didn't sound panicked or scared, as Megabyte expected. For that matter, he didn't sound at all like one his age should. He sounded like someone who had seen way too much, doing what had to be done regardless of his own safety. Although, he supposed, safety probably wouldn't be the first consideration for a ghost.

[Adam?] Megabyte could almost see the expressions pass across Adam's face as he worked out the pros and cons of staying. Megabyte began inching his way backwards down the hall, hoping that his movements wouldn't regain Sean's notice. He had to get to his father.

Robbie broke in again. [This all started with me. It's going to end with me. Besides,] his tone changed from resolute to accepting, [there's nothing more you can do. Please?]

No one argued.

The battle was quick. Robbie had been waiting for this chance for a long time. He was almost disappointed by how easy it was to beat the man whom he'd built up in his mind to being almost a demi-god. He was prepared for the worst and he hoped to spare the others like him by sending them away. It was, afterall, his fight and for most intents and purposes he had lost it three years ago. But, the bonds of the family are among the strongest, and this was most definitely about family. He needed to protect Rachel. That was enough to give him the edge.

Which it turned out he didn't need. When it came to edges, Sean's mind was balanced precariously on one. The shock of seeing a ghost come back to haunt him was enough to upset that balance. He dove to the floor, retrieved his gun, and opened fire. The bullets passed harmlessly through Robbie's form. His corporal body still remained at the hospital, and while it was alive, it wouldn't be for much longer. Maintaining the astral projection had sapped most of his remaining energy.

"You know you can't win," Robbie announced after the last of the shots were fired. The words were without sound, either vocal or telepathic, but the meaning was clear. He knelt down and rested a ghostly hand atop Sean's.

He smiled and vanished.

But, he only vanished from sight. He stuck around to see the end.

General Damon stumbled blearily around the corner. He stopped in the middle of the hall, took in the sight around him, and straightened. Writing a mental IOU to his body, he turned on his professional mode.

He was greeted less than a minute later by Samantha, who arrived alone in the elevator, alerted to the right floor by the gunfire. She was also in professional mode.

She marched straight up to Damon and said, "Looks like you managed to come through in the end." She allowed a note of respect to creep into her voice. "I guess I made the right choice, afterall."

Damon knew the credit didn't belong to him, but he didn't know who it did belong to. He could guess, though, and his own estimation of his son and friends rose a few notches. They were growing up. He was amazed to realise that that didn't worry him as much as he expected.

"What should we do with him?" he asked, gesturing to Sean, who lay prone, his gun clenched to his chest. He was looking about wildly, head moving with quick jerks. His eyes glistened. In a savage whisper, he called over and over, "Where are you? I know you're there."

"I have a couple of ideas," Samantha answered. "Mind if I make a phonecall?"

Robbie didn't need to see anymore. He had done what he needed to do; the rest was out of his hands. Rachel was safe, and that's all that mattered.

He closed his eyes and let go.

****

Rachel opened her eyes to the sun-filled version of the beach she'd seen the night before. Her head hurt. She couldn't decide if it was because of the sun or because of whatever must have caused the odd hole in her memories. She remembered everything up through the bike ride. After that, only stray images and occasional words made themselves known. And something to do with Robbie. What, exactly, she couldn't say . . . but she did know one thing: he had made his peace.

If she hadn't spent all her tears over the last few years, she would have cried. But she recognised that there was nothing worth crying about, now. He'd even had a chance to say goodbye. That was all she ever wanted, and more than she hoped for.

In a loose semi-circle around her sat four youths: two familiar, two not, yet she knew all their names. Shielding her eyes with a hand, she peered around at them and smiled.

That seemed to break the ice, for instantly all their mouths began moving. Rachel watched in amused silence for several minutes. She didn't feel up to trying to read their lips.

Their exuberance petered out when they noticed that she was staring at them blankly.

[Maybe she doesn't speak English.] A female voice reverberated in her head. Rachel matched it with the long-haired girl, Jade, who had turned to the older boy on her left, Adam, as though expecting an answer.

[Does it matter,] Rachel answered. [if you talk like this?]

All their attention immediately fell back on her. She brushed the sand off her hands and signed, "My name is Rachel. R-Sunrise".

They looked quizzically at her. Then, the red-head, Megabyte, turned his left hand palm perpendicular to the ground. He fisted his right hand except for the index finger which he used to touch the left hand: "Repeat". Rachel smiled again and spelled her name slower. He said something to the others. [Sorry,] he continued, switching to mind-speech. [That's about all of my American Sign Language abilities. We had to learn the alphabet and a few other signs in boy scouts.]

Rachel nodded, pleased that he even remembered that much, then switched the topic. [What happened?]

Kevin answered first. [Too much.]

Adam spoke up then. [K.C. is in a coma. Sean is in a mental hospital. Ironically, he was committed by his boss. Samantha agreed to testify against all of them. It's over.]

[Is it?] Rachel questioned.

The others exchanged worried glances. No one knew the answer to that question, or to any of the others that had been asked over the last few days. They'd already paid an incredible price. They didn't even want to know the price of further knowledge.

Adam touched Rachel's shoulder in a comforting gesture. [We all feel his absence.]

She could feel the warmth and companionship the others projected. She could also feel the emptiness Robbie's death left. Rachel accepted Adam's words quietly -- there was nothing to say.

"Excuse me?"
"We will leave them alone."
"They know too much."
"They know only what I told them."
"You're sure?"
"We will wait."
"It could be dangerous."
"Shut up."
"Yes, Ma'am."

END