I stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, listening to the music. I didn't feel like facing anyone, talking to anyone. A dry martini eased the too-emotional ache in my throat and allowed me to consider the situation a little more objectively while my mood slid back up toward that do-something-now quasi-optimism which seems to follow the bad moments.
    If Travis' presence represents an elaborate trap, they now know everything I do, or pretty close. Whether or not they try to kill me again would serve as an indication of how close I am to something important. If Travis is nothing more than he claims to be, he may very well be in danger himself, but I've done what I can on that count. With luck, he's paid close attention to those spy novels.
    I want to trust him.
    Instead I turned my half-empty glass slowly by the stem and thought about what happened yesterday. There are things I should do about that, I suppose—talk to this "Excellent Woman," maybe finally talk to Trent. It hadn't actually occurred to me to wonder until then, is whatever he hit me with still there? I've gotten used to the idea of the shadowy mirror-mes in their neat little boxes, but I don't at all like the thought of having Felix Javelin lurking in my head somewhere.
    Then there's that memory of Zed. That's a new one. Did I just not notice it before, or is it something that was added somehow by Javelin? The latter possibility is beyond frightening; I actually don't think I can contemplate it right now. I really hate thinking about that time. I mean, I suppose it shouldn't be any different from a normal human being thinking about themselves as an infant—alive but unaware. It shouldn't bother me the way it does. I'm finally starting to come to grips with what I am, I think, at least on the physical level. But whenever I think about what they've done I find my own emotions... disturbing, to say the least, and thinking of him brings me face to face with all of it.
    Assuming it was real, or if not real, somehow meaningful, let's analyze yesterday.
    Remember what you're supposed to be doing. That's almost enough to make me laugh. Which part did he mean? In the Three's original plan, I was supposed to end up as the flight component of Tempest's new mind. Zed overwrote that program with a new one. Was he referring to the original program, the new one, or their ultimate motive? If they want me to do something, why not just tell me what it is? Unless making it clear would somehow make it impossible for me to do it. Which makes me fear that it's something I wouldn't do if I knew the situation fully.
    House of cards. Referring to the Three's plot, most likely. Having built the tools they'll use to reach for power, he also built one which might ruin everything for them, and sees equal enjoyment in both.
    Shannon Burkowski. Two people mentioned her. Zed put some part of her into me—what and why? Another good reason to talk to Trent again, no more excuses. Lucky may have all the emotional tact of a rhinoceros, but she had a point or two today. Anthony Taurus, too. What the hell was that about? I can't believe our meeting was a coincidence. Was it a warning? A threat? An offer of assistance? I wish my head had been a little clearer at the time. Maybe I should give him a call in a few days. Heck, maybe he really does just want some input for the Manhattan Project and nothing more. And maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and find out that the past three months have been a bad dream.
    I finished the drink and looked wistfully at the empty glass. It doesn't take much to get me drunk; it does take a lot to keep me that way for any length of time. Stupid variant metabolism. I get massively wicked hangovers, too, now. Not fair.
    Maybe I just need more sleep. Maybe yesterday just rocked me more than I thought it did, and I'll feel better tomorrow. I went back to base and found Dr. Scott there, making his farewells.
    "Thank you, all of you, for your help," he said. "I don't know if my son mentioned, but I've got a job offer in Seattle. With Gabriel Michaels behind it, it should lead to interesting opportunities."
    "Keep 'em honest over there," I suggested.
    "I'll do my best," he smiled back. "But thank you all for your assistance and your understanding."
    "Thank you. We wouldn't have been able to deal with half this stuff as well without you around... we'll miss you."
    "Thanks for your help with the Blood Boards," Lucky added.
    "Who knows? I might even look into this as a career someday."
    "It's exciting," I admitted. He's got a really nice smile.
    Scott gave him a lift back to the mainland, and we all settled down with a sense of looming dread around the television for our weekly dose of abuse at the hands of Holly Shapiro, brought to you by Star Krunchies and Korean Ghost Nose Cereal.

[Perspective switch: A Mystery]

    I've had occasion to note, in the past, how little time it takes for one's life to crumble around one. I've seen it from the outside now. None of us are unaffected, of course, but I think it means less for me than for any of the rest of the team. Less to lose. I feel extremely calm right now, after the ups and downs of the rest of the day; a faint edge of anger is starting to spread through me, but for the moment, at least, I suppose I'm still in shock.
    It was the usual night's routine, the usual opening sequence.
    "... Shapiro Show!" Fade-in.
    "Hello Boston, and good evening. I'm sure you're expecting me to go off on one of my usual discussions about the nature of the variant activities in our community. There are many of you who think that I've gone overboard, that they act as appropriate and just defenders, and some of you may be right. We're going to overlook the events of the last few days, the disastrous attack at Quincy Market," a photo of the scene she wasn't going to discuss flashed up on the screen behind her seated form, "because there will always be those defenders that say we have to accept these things, that policemen and variants lead dangerous lives, and this sort of calling-outs, the use of the public as innocent hostages has to be expected in this day and age, that we have to allow for these sorts of things."
    Say what you like about her, she has a certain compelling intensity. Maybe insanity.
    "You can believe that if it makes you feel better about the fact that you're putting your life in the hands of people you don't know, and that you may be suddenly snuffed out as part of a vendetta by forces you don't understand. We'll skip that, for now, because the information I have in my possession is by far more damning." Her gaze suggested just what she thought of people who held the aforementioned mistaken beliefs nevertheless.

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