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AWAKENING

CHAPTER ONE

September 16, 1989, 11 a.m.

The Crashdown, Roswell

"You Jeff Parker?" the truck driver asked.

Jeff hurried past an incoming customer, muttering apologies as he narrowly missed stepping on the man's foot. "That's me," he answered with mounting excitement, noting the size of the truck and the crane parked nearby. "Is this what I think it is?"

"I got no idea what you think it is," the truck driver answered in a bored tone. "I think it's one megawatt, gaudy-as-all-hell sign that's probably visible from outer space. That what you think it is?"

"Open it up!" Jeff said excitedly, ignoring the sarcasm. "I can't wait to see it!"

"I could," the driver muttered, hopping onto the truck's back platform and obliging nonetheless. Jeff squinted into the dark interior as the door rolled upward, waiting impatiently for his eyes to adjust.

"Oh, God," he breathed when they finally did. "It's beautiful!"

"Guess beauty really is in the eye of the beholder," the truck driver said. "Where d'ya want it?"

"Right where the old one is," Jeff answered with a wide smile. "Out with the old, and in with the new!"

The next thirty minutes were the some of the longest of Jeff's life. Impatient as he was, he still felt a lump in his throat as the old sign was slowly lowered to the ground. He was the third generation of the Parker family to have either a restaurant or a bar on this very spot, and the first to change the name. He'd taken some flack about that from his family despite the fact that his own father had reportedly considered changing the name back in the fifties, even holding a contest to pick a new one. Coming across the results of that contest when he'd taken the reins was what had prompted Jeff to forge ahead, choosing the 1959 winner as the new name.

"Oh, my."

Jeff turned around. A small crowd had gathered, including an unfamiliar woman directly behind him. "Why are they taking the sign down?" she asked anxiously. "Did someone else buy the place?"

"No, ma'am," Jeff said hastily. "We're just changing the name. Changed it awhile ago, actually, and now we're making it official. I'm Jeffery Parker," he added, extending a hand.

"Pete's son?" the woman asked.

"You knew my father?"

"More than knew him; I used to work for him," the woman answered. "Back in '59, when he first opened the restaurant. Before that it was just a bar."

"Dad always said that the best thing he did was go into the restaurant business, although he did keep the bar around," Jeff said. "I got rid of it when I took over in '84......wait," he said slowly, what the woman had said only just sinking in. "Did you say you worked here in 1959?"

"That's right."

"So....you were here for the contest!" Jeff exclaimed. "The one to pick a new name! I just found all the entries; Dad had tucked them all away in the back of a box. I never did ask him why he didn't change it."

" '59 was a busy year," the woman said lightly. "He probably just never got around to it." She paused, watching the crane operator detach the cable from the old "Parker's" sign. "So how is your father?"

"Fine, I hope," Jeff answered. "He died two years ago."

"Oh," the woman said, clearly startled. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Jeff shrugged. "Don't be. He was old and sick, and he wanted to go. He got what he wanted, in his sleep, no less, and he still lived long enough to see his granddaughter."

"You have a daughter?"

"Lizzie," Jeff smiled. "She started school this year. Hard to believe the time's gone so fast. How long have...." He stopped, eyes skyward as the crane hoisted the new sign which screamed "Crashdown Café" even without the lights on. "Dear God!" he breathed over the murmurs of the crowd. "I can't believe it!"

"I see it's a 'café' now," the woman noted.

"We've been a 'diner' for years," Jeff said. " 'Cafe' ' had a classier ring to it. Sounded better too. Alliteration usually does."

Everyone's necks craned upwards as the sign traveled slowly overhead to the roof where, after years of designing and saving and waiting, it was finally lowered into place, workmen scrambling to bolt it down. "Would you look at all those light bulbs?" a bystander commented. "Your electric bill is going to go through the roof, Jeff."

I don't care, Jeff thought happily. After five years with him at the helm, the Crashdown could afford it; he'd ditched the bar, changed up the menu, and added a lucrative catering business which had literally doubled his income. But the single, most controversial change he'd made was to change the name. Even now, years after he'd taken over, many locals still referred to the place as "Parker's" despite the big "Crashdown" sign in the window that he'd had a local artist letter for him, complete with aliens peeking over the tops of the letters. Having the old Parker's sign up above certainly hadn't helped, and with that gone, it was time to press the point. He'd always wanted to give the diner an overt alien theme, and the few steps he'd taken in that direction had been wildly successful, so much so that he was now ready to go all out. By the time he was done there would not only be a new sign, but a new décor, new uniforms for the staff, and alien-themed names for every dish on the menu. His extended family hated the idea, accusing him of selling out to the tourists. His wife was skeptical, but supportive. The locals could sway either way, being long used to and weary of living in the shadow of the proverbial little green man. But the tourists loved it, flocking to the diner in droves and snapping pictures galore of the little bit he'd done already. Just wait until they saw this lit up in all its glory. He should ask Eastman Kodak for a share of their profits, so many pictures would be taken.

"Nancy!" Jeff called, spying his wife in the doorway. "Come on out! It's beautiful!"

Nancy ventured out the front door, twisting around to look at the sign. "I don't know, Jeff," she said uneasily. "Isn't it a bit much?"

"No such thing as too much when it comes to aliens," Jeff said cheerfully. "Where's Lizzie?"

"Inside, moping. She doesn't like the dress I'm making."

"Really? I thought she'd love it."

"Yes, well, apparently her love of cupcakes has to do with eating them, not wearing them," Nancy sighed. "Jesus, but that thing is huge. Aren't you afraid it's a little too....."

"A little too what?" Jeff asked.

"Kitschy?" Nancy ventured.

"No such thing as too kitschy when it comes to aliens," the middle-aged woman said calmly. "Are you going to have a ceremony to light it?"

"I...." Jeff stopped, having been planning to just plug it in. "Do you think we should?"

"Absolutely!" the woman said. "Have a party. Make it an occasion. Better yet, have a raffle, with the winner getting a free meal and a chance to switch on the lights for the first time."

"What a great idea!" Jeff exclaimed. "Isn't that a great idea, Nancy?"

"I suppose," Nancy said. "It's here, so we may as well talk it up."

"Perhaps you could help organize it," Jeff suggested to the woman. "Having a former employee involved would be a nice way to connect the old diner with the new café."

"Oh, I don't know," the woman answered. "I....." She stopped, gazing at a light blue car which was idling at the edge of the crowd. "Is that.....who is that?"

"I can see why he'd look familiar to you," Jeff replied. "His father was sheriff back when you were here."

"So that's....."

"Jimmy Valenti," Jeff answered. "Jim Jr., to be precise. And as of next Monday, our new sheriff."

******************************************************

Can you say "gaudy"? Jim Valenti thought as he watched Parker's new sign lowered into place. No, not Parker's, or even "Crashdown", the new name Jeff had been trying to foist on the town for the past several years-now it was the "Crashdown Café", a pretentious moniker if ever he'd heard one. Referring to Parker's as a "café' was like calling the high school auditorium Carnegie Hall. Still, judging from the looks on most onlooker's faces, Parker's facelift was going to be a success. And that success would be good for business, and what was good for business was good for Roswell, and what was good for Roswell was good for....him. Because as of Monday morning, Roswell would once again be back where it belonged, in the hands of a Valenti. Come Monday, this would be his town.

And my station, he thought with satisfaction, leaving the sign-worshiping crowd behind and driving the few blocks to the sheriff's station. How many times had he been here? Too many to count, and yet today it looked completely different. My station, Valenti thought, trying out the phrase in his mind. My station. He'd heard his father say "my town" and "my station" all his life; it was weird to think that would now apply to him.

"Junior!"

Valenti winced as the station's front door closed behind him; not even all the way inside, and already he was hearing that hated nickname. When faced with the need to differentiate father from son, the powers that be had inexplicably passed up the family nickname of "Jimmy" for the infantile "Junior". Banning its usage would be one of his first official acts.

"Alvarez," Valenti nodded cordially. "Good to see you again."

"You too, Junior," Alvarez answered as Valenti winced again. "But you're a little early, aren't you? You're not sheriff till Monday."

"I'm aware of that," Valenti said patiently. "I just stopped by to have a look around, introduce myself, maybe take a few notes."

"Introduce yourself? Hell, everyone knows you," Alvarez chuckled. "How could they not after....."

Alvarez stopped abruptly, looking distinctly uncomfortable as his unfinished sentence dangled in midair: How could they not after what your father did? "Well, even though I grew up here, I still want to do things the right way," Valenti said lightly. "And that means formally introducing myself as sheriff even to those who've known me all my life. Like yourself, for example. Nice to meet you, Deputy Alvarez. I'm Jim Valenti."

"So you're a stickler for details," Alvarez said, accepting Valenti's outstretched hand. "Just like your daddy."

"Just like my daddy," Valenti agreed. "Is the office available?"

"Sure is; Sheriff Williams isn't in today. But don't you worry; he'll have it cleaned out tomorrow so it'll be all yours bright and early Monday morning."

"That's fine. I just wanted to sit for a minute and soak it all in. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Oh, and Junior-"

"Call me 'Jim'."

"But that's what I called your father-"

"Then call me 'sheriff'," Valenti broke in. "Or 'James', or 'sir', or anything, please, anything but 'Junior'."

Alvarez blinked. "Oh. Okay. I just....I just wanted to say that your father was a good man. He didn't deserve what happened to him."

"Yeah, well, the town council apparently felt differently," Valenti said.

"Listen to me," Alvarez said firmly. "I served under your father for almost fifteen years, and whatever he did, he had a good reason, even if it was a reason the town council didn't want to hear. And I think some of them know that. I think that's why they picked you to replace Williams now that he's retiring. I think they wanted to make it up to your old man."

Valenti's expression softened. "Thank you. I appreciate that." He gestured down the hall. "I'll be in the office for just a few minutes."

"You take your time, Jun-I mean Jim," Alvarez corrected hastily. "Geez, but that's going to take some getting used to."

"Don't worry about it," Valenti said dryly. "Come Monday, it'll be 'sheriff'. Or maybe just 'boss'."

Alvarez gave him a look which made it clear that something else which would take some getting used to would be working for the son of his former boss. There were only a few of his father's old deputies left at the station, all very near retirement. Valenti fully expected them to stay on for a polite amount of time before excusing themselves from what would undoubtedly be a weird situation for them, for all of them. Giving orders to men he'd grown up with would be downright strange.

The office door squeaked as he opened it. Gotta oil that, he thought absentmindedly as he took a seat in "the" chair, the same chair his father had sat in for so many years. Sheriff Williams had done little in the way of redecorating save for some family photos on the wall; all the furniture was the same, even the desk blotter was original. Valenti closed his eyes, taking a deep whiff of the familiar smells of a place he'd longed to occupy since boyhood; the leather chair, the wooden desk, the dust baking in the sun on the window blinds behind him. Why, if he really put his mind to it, he could almost imagine himself back in '59, that one summer his dad had let him work at the station......

"Sir?"

"It's not 'sir' till Monday," Valenti replied, his eyes still closed. "What is it?"

"Just Deputy Hanson saying hello...sir."

Hanson. Valenti opened his eyes to find a younger version of his father's trusted deputy standing in the doorway. "You're....are you.....you're Hanson's kid!" Valenti exclaimed. "I didn't know you were working here."

"Just started," Hanson said with a wide smile. "Always wanted to, but after what happened with your dad and my dad....well....just didn't seem right. But now it does."

Valenti nodded slowly. "You know, your father was always a right-hand man to mine. But quitting his job in protest over Silo was a bit extreme."

"He felt very strongly about that, sir," Hanson answered. "Felt your father had been railroaded."

"I understand the sentiment, but under the circumstances, I don't see what else the town council could have done."

"Not the council, sir. Hubble. My father didn't trust Everett Hubble. Said he was lying about something, something that would have cast a different light on what happened."

Valenti hesitated, letting the lump in his throat subside before speaking again. "That was very loyal of him. But my father never said anything against Hubble."

"Maybe not," Hanson allowed. "But that doesn't mean there wasn't anything to say."

"I know that. My father may have never said anything against Hubble, but that doesn't mean I agree with him."

"Of course not, sir," Hanson said quickly. "I just....I'm sorry. I just wanted to stop by and say how honored I am to be working for you, and that there's a woman here to see you."

"Thanks, but whoever it is can't be here to see me. I'm not even sheriff yet."

"She asked for you personally, sir. 'James Valenti Jr.' That's what she said. Wouldn't give her own name. Said you wouldn't recognize it, but that she knew your father. Should I send her in?"

Valenti hesitated a moment. He hadn't the faintest idea who this could be, but she had called him "James", something he'd be giving points for. "Sure," he said finally. "Send her in."

A moment later a woman appeared in the doorway, attractive in a rugged sort of way in slacks, sensible shoes, and a utilitarian hairstyle that bespoke a woman who begrudged time spent on her appearance. "Sheriff!" she said promptly, wearing a wide smile. "Or should I say soon-to-be-sheriff? Congratulations on your appointment."

"Thank you," Valenti answered warily.

"I knew your father when he was sheriff," the woman went on. "And long before that, actually. I understand he retired some time back."

Retired. The word hung in the air like a bad joke, although the woman didn't seem to be aware of it. "Well, I guess that's one way of putting it," Valenti said, his voice heavy with irony.

"I'd love to see him, perhaps catch up a bit," she said. "Is he still living at the same address?"

"No," Valenti said. "He moved quite awhile ago."

"Then could you give me his new address?"

"That wouldn't be a good idea. My father's health isn't the best."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," the woman replied, sounding sincere. "Perhaps he'd welcome a visitor, then? If you'd give me his new address, I could-"

"No," Valenti interrupted firmly. "The last thing he needs is to dredge up old memories. And the last thing I need is to have those memories dogging me right as I start his old job. I'm sorry, but your timing stinks, ma'am. Maybe some other time."

The woman regarded him in silence for a moment before nodding. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. Congratulations again, sheriff, and best of luck in your new post." She paused. "You know, sitting there, with the sun behind you.....you look just like your dad."

The woman left, and Valenti sat back in his father's chair with a sigh. He'd known the specter of his father would haunt him here, the twin ghosts of his indiscretions and obsessions. He'd almost turned down this post because of those ghosts, ultimately deciding that enough time had passed for them to have faded somewhat.

But I guess not, he thought heavily. His first test had just walked out the door, and he'd failed miserably. And he couldn't make amends because, to top it off, he hadn't even gotten the woman's name.

*****************************************************

Evans residence

Anthony Evans took a deep sniff as he stepped inside his son's new house and set the box he was carrying on the kitchen counter. "I don't smell paint," he said casually.

Across the room, his son, Philip, shot him an annoyed look as he struggled to hook up the new refrigerator. "Yes, Dad, I know you told us to paint before we moved in. It was a great idea, but we just didn't get around to it."

"Your grandfather gave me the same advice when your mother and I bought our first house, and we didn't get around to it either," Anthony chuckled. "Still haven't. That house has needed painting for the past twenty-five years."

"Then the earth won't stop turning if we miss painting now," Philip said impatiently. "Damn it! This hose is the wrong size. The hardware store is going to think I live there."

"Just leave it," Anthony advised. "Make a list of things you need because, believe me, before the day is over, you're going to need a lot more than just a hose."

"Thanks for the pep talk," Philip said, "but I can't just 'leave' the fridge unless we want to live on Beefaroni and bottled water. Especially if I can't find what I need in Roswell and they wind up having to order it."

"Pessimist," Anthony teased. "But just in case, why don't I go to the store," he added hastily when Philip gave him a look. "Where's Diane? She may need something too."

"I've got the kitchen, the garage, and the yard, she's got everything else," Philip answered. "Try the bedrooms."

Anthony headed for the back of the house, stepping carefully on the newspapers splayed on the carpets to keep them clean during the move in. Philip was very much like his mother: uncompromising, impatient, and a stickler for details. One way or another, the refrigerator would be up and running by nightfall even if he had to drive to Santa Fe to get the part.

"There you are," Anthony said, pausing beside one of the smaller bedrooms. "I'm off to the hardware store. Need anything?"

"Oh, Dad, come look!" Diane exclaimed, pulling him inside. "Wouldn't this be perfect for a nursery? The sun doesn't come in too strongly, and it's right across the hall from the master bedroom so we'd be able to hear the baby when it cried."

"Trust me, you'll hear it from anywhere on the property," Anthony said dryly. "But I agree it would be perfect for a nursery," he added when his daughter-in-law's smile faltered. "Let's hope it's occupied soon. Have you heard from the agency?"

The smile disappeared altogether. "Nothing yet. Everyone wants infants, it seems. But we're on the list. They promised us we're on the list."

Even if it is a mile long, Anthony thought privately. Philip and Diane had been married for several years before the doctors had decided she could never have children. Their subsequent attempts to adopt had been frustrating; everyone, as Diane said, wanted babies, little babies, and there were precious few of those to go around. When Philip had taken on a retiring Roswell lawyer's practice and they'd gone house hunting, he'd relented on his wife's desire for a three bedroom house even though it was more than they needed. Philip said that just seeing those empty bedrooms gave her hope that someday they would be filled.

"I thought we'd put the crib here," Diane continued, brightening as she always did at the thought of a baby, "and the changing table over there. And a rocking chair here. I saw some baby furniture at a garage sale when we drove in, so I thought I'd stop by and check it out."

"Wait-you're actually furnishing this room?" Anthony asked.

"Well....sure. Why not? Especially if I can get a good deal on expensive things like furniture." She paused. "Do you think I shouldn't?"

"I didn't say that," Anthony said quickly. "I was just....surprised, that's all."

Diane crossed her arms. "It makes me feel better," she said defensively. "Like we're doing something....making some kind of progress. Like it might actually happen. Someday."

"Of course," Anthony said gently. "And like you said, furniture is expensive, so buying it second-hand is smart. Did you need anything while I'm out?"

"No. Nothing, thank you."

Anthony let out a long slow breath as he headed back to the kitchen. Children, or the lack thereof, was such a sore subject with Diane that it was all too easy to put one's foot in one's mouth, as he very nearly had.

"Everything okay?" Philip asked when he saw the look on his face.

"I just....well, I'm afraid I set Diane off. Without meaning to, of course. Did you know she was planning to actually furnish a nursery?"

Philip was quiet for a moment. "Not until we arrived in town yesterday and passed a garage sale with baby furniture. Then she got it into her head that we could save a bunch of money by buying used stuff, and she was off."

"Do you think that's wise?" Anthony asked doubtfully. "I mean, in the short term it will give her something to do, but if it turns out to be a while before you can adopt, she could be looking at that empty nursery for a very long time."

"I know," Philip sighed. "I just don't know what else to do, Dad. She's so down about this, and as it stands now, we've done all we can; the application's in, we've had the interviews, and the tests, and all the other rigmarole the agency wanted. Now we wait....and that's the hardest part. So if buying a used crib or whatever makes the waiting easier, I'm fine with that."

"Okay," Anthony said. "It's really none of my business. I'll go get you your hose. What size did you want?"

"I wrote it down," Philip answered, handing him a slip of paper. "And Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Could you....." Philip paused, shifting uneasily. "Could you talk to Mom about this? I know what she's going to think, and for that matter, she's right. But Diane isn't like Mom. Mom would just face this head on and get on with her life, but Diane....she's different."

Anthony smiled faintly. Dee was practical to a fault, to the point where she could be a bit insensitive to those who weren't, and Philip's wife fit that description. She also tended to be a bit emotional, something that Dee, who was allergic to tears or any other signs of weakness, found extremely annoying. Mindful of her conflicts with her own mother, she usually managed to keep her comments in check, with rare exceptions. But she would no doubt find the notion of furnishing a room for a nonexistent child to be nonsense, so perhaps some intervention was in order.

"I'll talk to her," Anthony promised. "Where is your mother, anyway?"

"She went out to pick up some groceries, although at the rate I'm going, I'm not sure we'll have a fridge to put them in," Philip said with a dark look at his stubborn appliance. "Come to think of it, she's been gone for awhile now. Groceries shouldn't take that long."

"Don't worry about your mother," Anthony advised. "She probably just ran into an old friend."

*****************************************************

Valenti residence

"I'm home!" Valenti called, letting the front door bang closed behind him. "Kyle? Dad? Where is everybody?"

The babysitter appeared from the back yard with a grim look on her face. "Mr. Valenti," she said severely. "You're going to have to do something about that father of yours. I was hired to watch your son, not a senile old man."

Not again, Valenti thought heavily. "What'd he do this time, Sarah?"

"He walks around the house blinking all the light switches on and off," Sarah complained. "Which sounds harmless enough except when you're in the basement, like Kyle and I were earlier today. He turned the lights off on us, and we could barely see our hands in front of our faces. I'm telling you, he's nuts!"

"Okay, I....I'll speak to him," Valenti said. "Please don't quit; Kyle likes you. Let me talk to him."

"Make sure you do," Sarah said severely. "I know you said I was to look after Kyle and your father could take care of himself, but honestly, I spend more time looking after your father than I do your son."

Valenti sighed and leaned against the sliding door, which led to the back yard where his kindergartner was running through a sprinkler, his dour grandfather sitting silent and motionless nearby. Fate had seen fit to leave him alone with an aging parent and a young child, and many was the day where he thought he couldn't do it anymore. They'd been through a succession of babysitters in the past year, all of whom had left because of his father. Perhaps it was time to look at other living arrangements for him.

The thought of having the house to themselves, just him and Kyle, was so appealing that he didn't hear the car pull up outside or the footsteps approaching the front door. He didn't hear anything until a knock pulled him from his daydreaming.

It was the woman from the station, wearing a bet-you-thought-you-could-get-rid-of-me smile. "You don't take 'no' for an answer, do you?" Valenti said dryly. "Probably wasn't hard to find me."

"Not at all," the woman replied. "I waited until you left the station, and then I followed you."

"So you're a stalker. Always good to know."

The woman smiled faintly. "Let's start over, shall we? I used to know your father, and I'd like to see him. May I?"

Valenti regarded her levelly for a moment before opening the screen door. "Well, you're here, so why not? Whom shall I say is calling?"

"Dee Evans," the woman replied, stepping inside. "He'll know who I am."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 2 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER THREE



September 16, 1989, 2:30 p.m.

Crashdown Café



Brivari waited while Anthony blinked rapidly and looked him up and down, no doubt trying to reconcile the familiar face with the unfamiliar clothing. And no wonder; his leather jacket and black jeans were a far cry from the fifties-style baggy trousers and narrow neckties he'd been wearing the last time they'd seen each other. Humans put such an emphasis on hair and clothing that it was almost as easy to hide by changing those attributes as it was by changing his face.

But this time he'd been careful to make everything from the neck up exactly the same, including the lack of hair which brought so much comment. "Incredible," Anthony said, shaking his head. "You haven't changed a bit. Wait a minute.....what am I saying? Of course you haven't. Why would you?"

But you have, Brivari thought sadly. He'd seen Anthony enter the diner, and it was instructive how long it had taken him to see past the thinning hair, the wrinkled skin, and the declining physique to be certain it was who he thought it was. Even after he'd made a positive identification, he almost hadn't approached; the rapid aging of humans was frightening to watch even in strangers. Still, despite being faced with one his worst nightmares, he hadn't been able to stay away. That nightmare also represented a connection, one he'd denied himself these many years, and the memory of which had ultimately propelled him into this booth to face a middle-aged man who bore only a slight resemblance to the young man he'd taken leave of so many years ago.

"I have aged," Brivari assured him. "You just can't see it."

"Like you can with me? It's okay," Anthony added when Brivari's eyes dropped. "I'm well aware I don't look the same at 51 that I did at 21. Must be something of a shock for you, though."

"It is....disconcerting," Brivari admitted.

"For you and me both," Anthony chuckled, sobering suddenly a moment later. "Is that why you stayed away? Why we haven't seen you in all this time?"

"Hey there, boys! What'll it be?"

It was a waitress, the slanted eyes on her massive button surprisingly accurate. "I'm sorry," Anthony said, "but I haven't had a chance to look at the menu."

"I'm partial to the Saucer Salad and the Alien Blast," Brivari noted.

"All right, then, I'll have a Saucer Salad and an...'Alien Blast'," Anthony said. "Whatever that is."

"I'll have the same," Brivari added, "with extra lemon."

"Com'in right up," the waitress declared, bellowing, "Two Saucers, two Blasts, one with extra lemon!" in the general direction of the kitchen at a decibel level which would have turned heads on Antar.

"I gather you've eaten here before?" Anthony asked after the waitress had retreated.

"Many times," Brivari replied. "Parker's remained one of the constants in my life until a few years ago, when the proprietor's son took over the business and introduced a few changes."

"A 'few'? Bit of an understatement," Anthony commented, glancing at the brightly colored mural on the wall nearby. "Although it seems to be going over well with the customers." He paused. "If you've eaten here 'many times', should I take that to mean you come back here a lot?"

"Regularly, although I don't know if you'd call it 'a lot'. Three decades is long enough for even infrequent visits to qualify as 'many times'."

"And how are they? Are they all right? Are they still too small?"

Brivari looked around briefly, but no one was within earshot; no one, that is, who would have any idea who the "they" in Anthony's query referred to. "Much too small," he answered heavily, "although they are still thriving; I am grateful for that, at least. Still, Antar should not look for the return of her king any time soon."

"That's too bad," Anthony said. "Dee had hoped that maybe it was just a quirk in their development and they would age more rapidly as they got older. So how big are they now?"

"About the size of that child," Brivari said, nodding toward the proprietor's young daughter, who trotted after her father as he made the rounds of tables.

"My goodness," Anthony murmured. "So small after all this time." He was quiet for a minute, watching the little girl with the dark hair and billowing dress. "So why haven't we seen you in ages? Where have you been?"

"Initially, nowhere.....and everywhere," Brivari answered, choosing the second and easier question. "I moved from place to place for quite some time, never staying long in any. Too much had happened, too much had been lost to make the notion of settling down anywhere appealing."

"I sense a 'but' coming," Anthony said.

Brivari smiled faintly. "But I make a poor nomad. Eventually I grew tired of wandering."

"And?"

"And I found my way to Hollywood."

"Hollywood? Isn't show business a bit too high profile?"

"Not at all," Brivari answered. "It's a mobile community of people who appear and disappear with regularity, who use pseudonyms as a matter of course, who pay little attention to one's background because that background is likely invented. Illusion is not only their business, it's an accepted way of life, and the relatively high percentage of 'colorful' personalities makes it harder to stand out. It's the perfect place to hide. And besides....."

"It reminded you of her?" Anthony finished gently.

"Two Saucer Salads, two Alien Blasts, extra lemon," the waitress announced, swooping around the corner and depositing salads, glasses, and a plate of lemon wedges. "Anything else, boys?"

"No, thanks," Anthony answered. "Jesus," he muttered after she left. "Who does she think she's kidding? It's been awhile since I was a 'boy'."

"I was never a boy," Brivari noted, grateful for both the interruption and the chance to change the subject. Even after all these years, talking about Audrey was still painful.

"What's with the lemon?" Anthony asked, watching Brivari squeeze wedge after wedge into his drink.

"An affectation I developed in Hollywood," Brivari said lightly.

"I still can't see you in Hollywood," Anthony admitted, shaking his head. "Are you still clapping clapboards?"

"I own a production company."

"Really?"

"Really. I function in the background as the owner few ever see."

"Wow," Anthony said, impressed. "So you're....wealthy?"

"By Earth standards. Although you're not doing badly yourself, what with being named Chairman of the Physics department at your university. And Dee made quite a name for herself locally, especially during the civil rights movement."

"She understandably feels strongly about any kind of discrimination....." Anthony stopped, his fork poised over his salad. "Wait a minute. How would you know all that?"

"I've made it my business to keep track of various people."

Anthony set his fork down and stared at him. "You mean you've been watching us? All this time, you've been watching us, and yet you never bothered to stop in and say hello? I can't tell you how many times we've wondered what's happened to you, to both of you, and now it turns out you've been around all along. If you were there anyway, why not show yourself?"

Brivari held Anthony's gaze even though he didn't want to. It was understandable that his friends would be angry with his choice to stay away. That was one of the many reasons he'd seriously considered passing Anthony by, as he had so many times before with all of them; the inevitable demand for an explanation would be awkward in the extreme. Just like it was now.

"Because I felt we had disrupted your lives enough," he said finally, opting for a partial truth. "Knowing us, befriending us, carries risk. Both Audrey and Atherton fell victim to that risk. Granted James brought it on himself, but only to an extent; it cannot be denied that had he not met me, he would not have found himself in a position where it was difficult to deny temptation. This was made all the clearer when we attempted to rescue Courtney and her father, and your wife joined the fray."

Anthony's eyes dropped. "Yeah, I remember that."

"I am no stranger to war and the price it demands," Brivari continued, "but this war has gone on far longer than any other I've experienced. I grow weary of losing people, people whose worst offense seems to be proximity to me."

"And yet you watched us," Anthony said. "All of us?"

"Your son graduated with honors from the same law school as his mother, married several years ago, and recently purchased a law practice here in Roswell. Your parents reside in Florida, and your in-laws still reside at the same address, with David retiring eight years ago, albeit reluctantly."

"But....why?" Anthony asked. "Why watch if you were never going to talk to us?"

Brivari kept his eyes on his food. "Why do you think? My lack of enthusiasm for placing you in danger means I have an interest in your welfare. Hence the watching."

"You could have at least dropped in from time to time," Anthony protested. "Or called us on the phone so you didn't have to look us in the eye."

"Which may have very well started the whole cycle again," Brivari said, "although my life has been mercifully peaceful these past many years. Jaddo appears to be the only one drawing attention since we left this place."

"You've kept up with him?"

"It wasn't hard," Brivari said, irritation wreathing his voice. "He did exactly what he set out to do-left a trail for our enemies to follow. And follow they have, every single one of them, obediently lurching hither and yon every time he snaps his fingers."

"Is that a bad thing?" Anthony asked.

A young man appeared at the end of their table. "Afternoon, folks! I'm Jeff Parker, owner of the Crashdown, and this is my daughter, Lizzie. Say hello, Lizzie."

"Hello," said the dark-haired little girl.

"Nice to meet you," Anthony smiled. "I like your dress, Lizzie. Do you like cupcakes?"

Lizzie's eyes fell, and she didn't answer. "Bit of sore subject," Jeff confided. "Her mom made it for her, but she's not thrilled with it. How are your meals?"

"Just fine, thank you," Brivari answered. "If you don't mind my asking....how old is your daughter?"

"Five years old," Jeff replied proudly. "She started kindergarten this year, didn't you, Lizzie? Well....if everything's to your liking, we'll leave you gentlemen to your lunch. Let me know if you need anything."

"Five years," Brivari murmured as the proprietor and his daughter moved on to the next table. "Our Wards should have been full grown twenty years ago, and they're approximately that child's size. Which is precisely why Jaddo's approach is a very 'bad thing'. Given the length of time we'll need to be here, keeping us in our enemies' sights strikes me as a very bad idea."

"They can't identify you," Anthony noted, "but they do know you're here, so they're going to keep looking. Why not keep them busy?"

"Because of the consequences of 'keeping them busy'," Brivari answered. "Nicholas will never stop looking, of course, but the human framework functions differently. Absent clear direction, the FBI's Special Unit would have faded into obscurity at least, disappeared at best."

"Let me guess-Jaddo has given them 'clear direction'?"

"You could say that," Brivari said darkly. "He executed Agent Lewis back in '62, and Lewis' replacement, Agent Del Bianco, a few years later in '67. Since then the Unit has undertaken a series of security measures which have made access more problematic, so subsequent Unit leaders lasted somewhat longer before suffering a similar fate."

"Yikes," Anthony murmured. "Law enforcement doesn't take kindly to it when one of their own goes down, never mind multiples."

"Lewis I could understand," Brivari said. "His was a constant, malevolent presence while Jaddo was captive. But Agent Del Bianco was merely a footnote, as ineffectual as he was fawning. Left alive, the Special Unit would likely have faltered under his oversight. Dead, he became their second martyr, another rallying point for the Unit, and another mandate for not only its continuance, but its growth."

"Growth? You mean the Unit is bigger?"

Brivari sighed. "As a result of Jaddo's....'activities'.....the Unit now has an active and sizeable presence worldwide, making it difficult for any alien activity on this planet to go unnoticed. Which suits him just fine, of course, because he wants to be noticed. Although he's been unusually quiet of late."

Anthony raised his "Alien Blast", the straw bobbing up and down as he did so. "Then let's have a toast to continued peace and quiet, and not so much as a whisper of 'alien activity' for anyone to notice. Not here, not anywhere."

Brivari smiled faintly and raised his own glass. "Hear, hear."





******************************************************





FBI Academy,

Quantico, Virginia




"Danny, you're done," the instructor said. "You can stop now."

Sweat running down his back, Daniel Pierce ignored him, pulling himself into another sit-up with agonizing slowness.

"You don't have to keep going," the instructor insisted. "You've passed the test, and then some. No sense killing yourself when you've still got munitions testing later on today."

Yes, there is, Pierce thought, lowering himself to the ground. He needed to do much more than merely pass the physical fitness test, merely qualify-he had to be the best. After waiting years to become an agent, he wasn't going to settle for graduating anything less than at the very top of his class.

"Enough," the instructor said firmly when he attempted another sit-up. "Hit the showers. You blew past the record five sit-ups ago, so that'll have to do."

Maybe it will, Pierce agreed privately. Every muscle ached from an afternoon spent on sprints, push-ups, pull-ups, and now sit-ups, breaking academy records in all. His shoulders would probably mutiny after munitions testing. Recoil could be a bitch even when they weren't already screaming.

"Daniel Pierce?" a voice demanded.

Pierce opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face loomed over him, short hair, dark suit, even darker expression. "Yes?"

"AD Skinner wants to see you."

"Who?"

"Now," Dark Suit clarified.

"What'd you do to piss off an Assistant Director?" the instructor chuckled, holding out a hand to help Pierce to his feet.

"No idea," Pierce mumbled, self conscious in his sweaty clothes next to the impeccable suit. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

" 'Now' is a simple three letter word, Mr. Pierce," Dark Suit replied. "What part of 'now' don't you understand?"

"But-"

"This isn't a beauty pageant," Dark Suit barked. "The AD doesn't give a damn what you look like. Follow me."

Pierce shot his instructor a pleading look, but he merely shrugged. When an AD called, you went, whether you were sweaty, naked, in flagrant delicto, whatever. Simple as that.

Ten minutes later, after winding their way through the campus, past the athletic fields, the dormitories, the library, and the rec center, they arrived at the administration building. Pierce's eyes widened when Dark Suit pressed the button for the top floor. He'd never been to the top floor, had no idea what was even up there. What could he possibly have done to merit an audience in the clouds? Or maybe it wasn't merit, but..... No, Pierce thought fiercely. After all this time, after all these years spent in the shadows, they were not going to take this away from him. Whatever he'd done, whatever he'd fallen short on, they'd just have to let him try again. He had friends in the Bureau, people who'd worked with his father, even. He'd pull every string he could find if he had to, but they were not kicking him out.

The elevator door opened. Outside was a small hallway with yet another elevator at the end, this one requiring a key. Pierce grew increasingly nervous as the second elevator glided upward only a short ways and stopped. If he had to argue his place here, he would have preferred to have been properly dressed, not clad in a sweaty track suit and muddy sneakers. Maybe they'd wanted him to look like this? Was it easier to dismiss someone when they looked like hell?

The elevator door opened, this time directly onto a paneled office befitting the Director of the FBI's training facility at Quantico. That's who it belonged to judging from the name plate on the very large, very polished desk Dark Suit led him toward, indicating one of the chairs in front before disappearing through a side door. Alone now, Pierce took an uneasy seat in the chair, grimacing in embarrassment as his damp clothes stuck to it. What on earth had he done to land him here?

The door Dark Suit had exited through opened, and a much older man stepped inside. "Daniel!" he exclaimed, extending a hand. "So good to see you. I'm Assistant Director Skinner. I understand birthday congratulations are in order-happy birthday!"

"I....thank you, sir," Pierce stammered, accepting the handshake. "I must apologize for my appearance; I was just-"

"Think nothing of it," Skinner broke in with a dismissive wave, settling himself behind the desk. "I know this is short notice; I'm due in Washington, and you're in the middle of assessments, so that couldn't be helped. Besides, there's nothing wrong with a good sweat, eh?"

"No, sir," Pierce replied faintly. "I....do I....have we met, sir?"

"We have not," Skinner confirmed. "But I knew your father, and I've been following your career from the beginning. Now that you're about to make agent, it was time for us to meet."

"My 'career'?" Pierce repeated. "With all due respect, sir, I haven't had much in the way of a 'career', although not for lack of trying. My father put some very specific strictures on my involvement with the Bureau even though I qualified for field training years ago."

"I know he did. And I know why." Skinner paused. "And now it's time for you to know why."

Pierce blinked. "So...I'm not in trouble? I haven't failed?"

"Failed?" Skinner chuckled. "From what I hear, everything you touch turns to gold; you ace every test, break every record. Yes, I know you're not quite done yet, but when you are, I'm sure nothing will have changed. You can't fail, Daniel. You never could."

"I....don't understand, sir."

"Haven't you ever wondered why your father went to such lengths to keep you in the background? Insisted you attend college under a pseudonym? Kept you in desk jobs and teaching positions until your thirtieth birthday?"

Pierce's face clouded. "Of course I've wondered. All anyone would ever tell me is that he had my best interests at heart. And since he tied all that money to my following the plan, and all his friends here seemed to agree, there wasn't much I could do about it."

"We were happy to follow his wishes," Skinner agreed. "Your father is a legend at the Bureau. It's said he had the ear of J. Edgar Hoover himself. A private line to the Director. Unrestricted access. Very rare."

"For all the good it did him," Pierce said bitterly. "I don't care if he was Hoover's lover; he still wound up murdered, and I wound up an orphan. And the Bureau stepped in," he added hastily, suddenly worried he'd sounded the wrong note. "The Bureau raised me, sir, and I'll always be grateful for that."

Skinner smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. Because we need you now, Daniel. We need you like we've never needed you before, and we're counting on your loyalty. Do we have it?"

"Of course, sir," Pierce answered, mystified. "But what do you need me for?"

Skinner regarded him in silence for a moment. "What if I were to tell you that you could help catch your father's killers?"

Pierce went rigid. "What?"

"You were young when your father died," Skinner continued. "And because you were so young, there was a lot we didn't tell you. An awful lot. And what we did tell you was not.....entirely accurate."

"How so?" Pierce asked warily.

"You father did indeed die at the hands of his quarry," Skinner confirmed, opening a folder, removing two photographs. "Quite literally, in fact. But it wasn't gunshots. Take a look. Take your time," he added gently when Pierce glanced at the photos and flinched. "I'll warn you right now you won't like what you see."

Pierce's hands clenched into fists as he willed his eyes to return to the photographs. "Do you know who these men are?" Skinner asked.

"Of course," Pierce said tightly. "That's my father. And his closest deputy, Agent Del Bianco."

"Each of these were taken only minutes after we found them," Skinner said. "Look closer, and you'll find out what killed them. Both of them."

I don't want to, Pierce thought, feeling guilty for even having such a thought. He'd only been three years old when his father had been murdered, so his memories of him were hazy; Del Bianco he remembered somewhat better as he'd been murdered five years later when Pierce was eight. Due to his age, no one had discussed the particulars with him; he'd simply been told that both had died in the line of duty, always a risk for any law enforcement officer, and he'd accepted that explanation without question as any child would.

But you're not a child any more, Pierce thought fiercely, pulling the photos closer, doing his best to ignore the faces. Turned out it wasn't hard; his attention was completely captured by something on the chest of each victim, something large and glaring and wrong even in a black and white shot.

"What is that?" he whispered.

"That, Daniel, is a silver handprint," Skinner answered, "left behind by the murderer. It fades away hours or days later, but by then it's already done its damage."

"What does it do?"

"We're not sure," Skinner replied, "but every victim bearing this mark has died from having their internal organs heated to an impossible temperature. Simply put, they were cooked from the inside out."

Pierce's mouth opened and closed. "But....how?" he demanded, leafing through the medical records. "How is that possible? It says there were no burns on the body, or-"

"I know," Skinner interrupted. "We don't understand the mechanism, but that's how these creatures kill."

" 'Creatures'?"

Skinner hesitated as though he'd just said the wrong thing. "Your father spent his life pursuing these....people, Daniel. That made him a target, and eventually they caught up with him. The reason he kept you hidden when you were young was to protect you because he believed they would come after you too."

"Then why let me in the Bureau at all? Wouldn't it have been safer to have me as far away from it as possible?"

Skinner came around to the front of the desk, perching on the front edge. "Because he knew the day would come when we would need you, when he would need you, and he wanted you to be ready. He left specific instructions as to your training and the timing of that training, and we've followed them to the letter. And now you're ready for the final phase."

"But why now?" Pierce asked in exasperation. "This doesn't make any sense. My father's will was written when I was a baby, which means he put all those weird stipulations in it long before he died. What's so special about turning thirty, especially if I could have been chasing his killers all this time?"

Skinner was quiet for a moment. "What do you know about your biological father?" he asked.

"Almost nothing. He was a doctor, and he died before I was born. And I have his name. That's it."

"Yes," Skinner murmured, reaching for the folder again. "Do you know what he looked like?"

"Why should I care? Like I said, he died before I was born. He was just the sperm donor."

Skinner pulled another photo from the folder, handed it to him. It was another black and white photo, this time of an unfamiliar man lying on the floor of what looked to be an office. "Wait a minute. Is that.....is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's another silver handprint, then yes, it's what you think it is," Skinner said gently. "That's your birth father, and he died at the hands of the same assassin as your adoptive father."

Pierce felt his heart begin to pound. Not for the man in the photo, whom he had never met and for whom he felt nothing, but for the fact that these killers had pursued his family so relentlessly for so long. "But....why?" he asked, bewildered. "My birth father was a doctor; he wasn't chasing anyone. Why would they kill him?"

"Because he knew how to fight them, how to control them," Skinner said. "And he willed that information to you, his only son, to be delivered on your thirtieth birthday should you live to that age, and to be lost forever should you not. Today is your thirtieth birthday, Daniel. At some point in the very near future, someone will deliver your legacy to you, and at that point, you will have the means to bring these killers to their knees." He paused. "These aren't their only victims. And the Bureau isn't the only one chasing them. Lots of people, lots of other agencies would love to know what you're about to learn. I need to know that, when you come into your inheritance, you'll let the Bureau act on it no matter what other offers you may receive. I need to know we have your loyalty. Do we have that?"

Pierce said nothing, his mind whirling from all this new information. So this was why his father had protected him so fiercely, insisting he use a different name in college, allowing him to join the Bureau but not go into the field until he turned thirty. They were after him too, after what he knew, or what he would know if he managed to live long enough.

"We need you, Daniel," Skinner pressed. "We need to know that you'll do the right thing by these men, these victims of criminals we've pursued for decades now. And in return you'll have the resources of the entire Bureau at your disposal, a Bureau that very much wants to make this right. Tell me that when you receive whatever it is that's coming your way, you'll bring it to us and not someone else."

Pierce's eyes rose to meet Skinner's. "The Bureau has been mother and father to me," he said firmly. "Whatever I have is yours.




******************************************************



Roswell



It was late afternoon when Brivari found himself on the rock formation which housed the pod chamber, gazing across the empty desert. Visiting this place had long since ceased to be dangerous as Nicholas had pulled out long ago, and he'd come here once a year without fail since he and Jaddo had left. It was a journey always undertaken with a heavy heart; most times he could almost bring himself to forget, immersed as he was in the life he'd made for himself, so busy creating illusion that he forgot the simple fact that he was an illusion, his occupation merely a way of "killing time", as the humans would say. Killing time, that is, until his true purpose reasserted itself, a purpose which reared its head in only two instances: His yearly pilgrimage here, and whenever news of Jaddo's escapades reached him. But he'd heard nothing of Jaddo in the past year and a half, allowing a blissful period of detachment between visits to the pod chamber. And causing a difficult time now, when he once again had to come face to face with the likely length of his exile here and the ever present fear that all this was for nothing.

That latter fear was calmed somewhat only seconds after pressing his hand to the handprint lock. He entered slowly, in no hurry to ruin the reassuring sight of the soft light in the chamber ahead by actually seeing the hybrids within those glowing pods. This was always a two step process: Elation that they still lived, followed by disappointment that they were so small. Forty-two years he thought sadly, hovering just out of sight of the pods. The hybrids should have reached adulthood in twenty, and twice that many years later, they were no larger than the child in Parker's. Unless, of course, a miracle had occurred, something which would be most welcome at this point....

But it hadn't-one glance told him the hybrids were no larger than last year. Their growth rate had never changed significantly, it still taking several years of incubation to equal one year of human development. Brivari ran a hand along Zan's pod, the dark hair fanning out around him a sharp contrast to Ava's yellow curls. What are you? he wondered. What will you be when you emerge? With all the time that would have passed, would Zan even know who he was? Would any of them? Had anything else been compromised or miscalculated as badly as the growth rate, and if so, was there any way to reverse the damage? Were there any scientists left of Valeris' caliber who knew anything about this process?

Doesn't matter, Brivari realized. Valeris had made it clear that once the process had begun, there was no way to affect it, and further made it clear that this was the very first attempt to create Antarian-Human hybrids. The odds that anyone on the five planets would have anything useful to contribute were small, if not non-existent. They would just have to wait and see what happened. And while they waited, he would be treated to the sad process of human aging, the fear of which had kept him from the Evans family until today, and kept him from River Dog and the Proctors still. If the changes in Dee and Anthony were disturbing, the changes in David and Emily were even more so, with both in their early seventies, young by Antarian standards, old by human standards. They would likely not live much longer, and the thought of losing them was enough to make him regret the promise Anthony had extracted from him before they'd parted earlier today. But perhaps it was best he show himself now, while they were still relatively intact. Wait much longer, and......

Brivari's mind suddenly went blank as a previously unnoticed detail brought his thoughts to a screeching halt. "It's clear," he whispered, bewildered. The pod which housed Zan's hybrid was now crystal clear, his features more visible and vivid than ever before. The same was true of Rath's and Vilandra's pods, but not Ava's, hers displaying the same milky appearance which had marked the pods for the past four decades. When had that happened? More importantly, why had it happened? He vaguely remembered Valeris telling him something about the pods becoming clear at some point, but couldn't recall exactly what had been said. But it was pivotal, he thought with alarm. The pods becoming clearer signaled a sea change, something terribly significant, something.....

Brivari stepped backward, panic mounting as more of that conversation with Valeris came back to him. They'd been standing here, right here, and Valeris had said....It can't be, he thought wildly. Not now, not when they were so young, so small, so....unfinished. He must be wrong, must be misremembering. He should consult Valeris' notes. Hopefully they contained something which would settle this.

Twenty minutes later, Brivari pushed open the double doors of Roswell's library. It had been new back in '59, and one of his first acts after leaving town had been to become a generous donor or "friend" of the library, meaning he would be notified of any attempts to renovate it or tear it down. Every visit to the pod chamber had also included a visit to this library and the cave near River Dog, making certain that what they'd hidden in each place for safekeeping remained there. Tonight marked the first time in thirty years that either had been disturbed.

A gaggle of children ran past, nearly knocking him down; the place was crawling, mostly with adolescents toting stacks of textbooks. Perhaps it had been a weak attempt at humor which had induced Jaddo to create a hiding space in the "rare book" section, but "rare" or no, that section was no less busy, and Brivari stood in the center of the aisle, eyeing his target with frustration as patrons squeezed past. He needed a distraction, one that would not draw the authorities. The last thing he needed in here was more people.

A moment later, the huge fish tank which graced the children's section on the other side of the library began visibly leaking. Children shouted and older patrons ran to see what was happening, leaving the aisle mercifully free of surveillance. Moments later Brivari left the library with the book Valeris had created, the book they had secreted here against the possibility that the pod chamber would be discovered. Sounds of chaos within the library faded as he retreated to a bench on the grounds and opened the book, impatiently scanning the written section of notes. There was a declaration of who and what the hybrids' were....God help them all if they were addled enough to need that....instructions for ignition of the Granolith, the use of the healing stones, notes about their enhanced abilities....and about the process of incubation. Brivari hesitated, closing his eyes briefly. If he was wrong, he of course wanted to know that. But if he was right....

Unfortunately, he was. He read over the confirming section once, twice, three times, ten times, and still couldn't believe it. Why hadn't he thought of this? Why hadn't he realized this would be a problem when he'd first discovered the slower growth rate? Because I didn't remember, he thought heavily. He hadn't remembered that conversation with Valeris only hours before his capture and death until he'd seen the changing pods. Scientifically, it made perfect sense, but in practical terms, this was yet another nightmare, the latest in a long line.

Fifteen minutes later, Brivari headed out of town, the book still in his possession. He'd have to break his promise to Anthony to visit old friends tonight, but he would still be visiting an old friend.

Just not one who lived in Roswell.




****************************************************



Columbia Medical Center,

New York City




"I'm off," Marie announced to her secretary, still toiling away at the word processor. "You should go home, Estelle. You work too hard."

"I just want to finish these letters, Dr. Johnson," Estelle answered, tapping away.

"Honestly, weren't those computers supposed to make our lives easier?" Marie sighed. "Why does it seem like we work harder than ever?"

"Same reason the introduction of the vacuum cleaner didn't really make housework easier," Estelle chuckled. "When cleaning became easier, our standards rose, and we spent more time cleaning, every bit as much as we did when we had to take the rugs out and beat them. Same goes for typing."

"Well, don't stay too late," Marie warned. "This place can eat you alive if you let it."

"I won't," Estelle promised. "When the Chief of Neurology tells me to go home, I listen."

Chief of Neurology, Marie thought as she entered the elevator. Nearly five years had passed, and her title still made her smile. A woman in such a male-dominated field was relatively rare, but here she was, having shattered that fabled glass ceiling not only for herself, but for those who would follow her. It was one of her proudest achievements, and she was still smiling when the elevator stopped and an unfamiliar man entered, standing beside her, waiting patiently for the door to close.

"Good evening, Lieutenant," the man said.

Marie's smile evaporated as she glanced at her fellow passenger....and suddenly the man was no longer unfamiliar. "What on earth are you doing here?" she said in astonishment. "You should have gone home years ago!"

"We should have," Brivari agreed. "But circumstances intervened, and now....I need your help."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 4 next Sunday.