Dr. Stone said something and looked up at Zoë. What had he said? She wiped the tears from her eyes. God, to lose one so young, it hurt. Physically. The pain was wretched, and dammit, she felt it every time. She could only imagine what the boy’s parents would go through now. She had heard Stone’s request — was it a request? — but his voice sounded like it came from far across a chasm. The sustained singular tone of the goddamned heart monitor was the first thing that ripped through the haze. Stone repeated himself, and this time, she heard him. “Dr. Deschain?” he said again. “Call it.”

Zoë Deschain sucked in a breath and let it out with a shudder. She checked her watch. “Time of death, nine-ten P.M. April the ninth, 2027.” She remembered the time of death of each of her pediatric patients. It was a ritual of self-torture she deliberately put herself through. She told herself that it made her a better doctor. She would never use this knowledge in her actual chosen field — Advanced Medicinal Biotechnology — but she told herself that knowing it, truly grasping the horror of each death, would make her a more responsible practitioner of Science.

“You didn’t have to give the date,” said Stone. “The time would’ve been enough.”

“I know,” said Zoë. She ran a hand through the dead boy’s hair. His skin felt cold. “But I wanted to remember it. He was only eight. Eight.”

“Zoë, listen to me,” said Stone, looking into her eyes. “It gets easier. It does.”

“No,” she said, looking down at young Dillon. He had died of kidney failure. He had brown hair and had dark chocolate eyes, like Gadget’s. She helped him close them now, for the last time. His face was already pale, his body so still, his flesh cold. “I don’t think I ever want it to get easier. I think I’ll have lost a piece of my soul if it does.”

“I understand,” said Stone. He sighed, and turned off the heart monitor, finally. The sustained, creepy flatline tone stopped, and the room was suddenly, eerily quiet. She could hear the absence of the boy’s breathing. “I think I lost mine a long time ago,” said Stone. “One piece at a time.”

Zoë pulled the sheet up over Dillon’s head, and he lay there, an inert, horizontal child-ghost.

She checked her watch again. Nine-fourteen, now. “Can I go?” she said. “It’s quarter after nine. I need . . . air. I need to — ”

“Yeah, you can go,” he said. He lifted his stethoscope and put it around his neck. “I’ll take care of the paperwork. But you have to tell the boy’s parents. I’m sorry, but someone has to, and the task falls to you.” Zoë’s heart plummeted into her stomach, a rock falling into a lake of oil. “After that,” he said, “you can go.” Gee, she thought, is that all? Fuck you. He folded his arms across his chest, still holding the clipboard. “Look, you’ve had a hell-night, but we all have them. This was your first, and you did a damn good job handling it. I’m impressed.”

“Why did he have to die?” she asked, the question practically leaping out of her mouth, unbidden.

“Well,” said Stone, “he died because his kidneys failed. He was on the waiting list, but we couldn’t get another kidney in time.”

“Exactly my point,” she said. “Why did he have to die. He didn’t.”

“I don’t get what you — ”

“No one,” she said, clenching her fists at her sides — she could feel the spark of anger igniting in her chest as she spoke, like flint striking against stone — “should ever have to die because somebody else didn’t die on schedule. And one day, they won’t have to. I’m going to make sure of that. You can damn well count on it.”

“Oh, right,” he said, looking over Dillon’s chart, and signing his name to one of the pages beneath it. “Your project for . . . uh, for school. For the Biotech program. Yeah well, I, uh, hope that works out for you.” He started to walk away.

“Don’t do that,” she said, the heat from the anger spreading through her chest cavity, rising in her throat like boiling water climbing the sides of a hot pan.

“Do what?” he asked, stopping, and turning around to face her.

“Just dismiss it like that,” she said. “I’m talking about saving lives, here. I’m talking about something that will not only save lives like Dillon’s, but will change the face of medicine for a hundred years to come! Something that will revolutionize the way we treat patients, the way we view disease, the way we do things here. Something incredible. A man-made miracle. A woman-made miracle. My miracle. A gift, to all of humanity.”

“Yes,” he said. “But right now, that doesn’t exist. You know what does exist? Sick people. Sick people who die every day. You have to get used to losing patients, Zoë. It happens.”

“I’m not going to be a doctor,” she replied. “I don’t have to ‘get used’ to anything.”

“Well if you want to get past this internship, you damned well better be a damned good doctor. And the thing of it is, you are already a damned good doctor. Except for this. Except for the fact that you can’t move past losing patients. We go through this every time with you. Especially with the young ones. And every time, I hear the same thing from you. About your ‘project.’ About how it will save lives ‘one day.’ About how wonderful it will be ‘one day,’ when we can ‘do this’ or ‘do that’ with ‘this technology’ or ‘that technology.’ You’ll say or do anything to make yourself feel less guilty about losing them. Well, here’s the thing. I lied earlier. It never gets any easier. Not really. It hurts every time. Every time you lose one, its another cut, another chunk taken out of you that it’s up to you to replace, and you’d better put it back soon, because there’s always another one going to die on you sooner or later. And you’d better get used to it, because you’ve got a year and a half left of this residency to go.”

Zoë choked back the tears. Don’t let him see any more of them. Don’t let him see, don’t you dare let him see. She looked him in the eye and wiped her eyes with her fingers.

“I see,” she said, coldly.

“If you really want to work a miracle,” he said, clicking his pen and putting it in his pocket, “and give a lasting gift to humanity then cancel your vacation plans for this week, stay here and help me, help us treat the patients we have now, not the ones we’ll have a hundred years from now.” He sighed, and handed Zoë Dillon’s chart. She took it. “I’ve got to go now,” he said to her. “I’ve got to have some kind of break before I collapse, and I’ve still got other patients to see to. I’ll see you later. Enjoy your vacation this week and enjoy that . . . er, that convention thing you’re going to.” He turned, and left the room, striding off, calling in a loud voice, “Hey, Carla! Can I get some of that coffee you made? Is there any left?”

Which of course left Zoë alone with Dillon’s cooling body beneath the crisp, white sheet she had just pulled over his head; he lay there, dead, as still as could be, not being of any help. This also left her to deal with the small matter of Dillon’s parents, who, before she could leave, now needed to be told that their son had just died of kidney failure, despite her best — and, ultimately, terribly fucking futile, and, somehow, trivial-feeling — efforts to save him. Goddamn it. Yeah, he got to get off light by doing her paperwork for her; she got stuck with the after-death monologue to the parents. Asshole. Stone wasn’t a bad attending, but he could be a bloodless prick, sometimes. She hoped she never became like him. She wondered what his nights at home must be like. There was no way he was getting any. Not from any sane woman, that was. Or at least one with decent taste.

But goddamn it, she had been right; her Physion Bio-Printer — and dammit, she was still proud of herself for coming up with such a catchy name — if she could’ve built one, would have saved this poor child’s life. The ability to 3D-print tissues, bones, nerve cells and neurons, maybe even limbs or even something as complex as a heart or kidney, out of rapidly-generated cell structures created from a genetic imprint, would revolutionize medicine as it was known. Hell, given an event-related optical signal scan, a magnetoencephalographic scan, a functional magnetic resonance imagining scan, some computed axial tomography, and some single-photon-emission computed tomography, together with a little large-deformation diffeomorphic metric mapping and a few advanced organic data-mining techniques, all combined and analyzed using artificial intelligence and generative algorithms, it might even be possible, one day, to replicate a human brain using the Physion. A living brain. One you could keep alive, via some sort of serum, and place into a bio-printed body. And with the advent of the NeuroScape — which yeah, she wasn’t supposed to know about, but hey, when your boyfriend worked for the company developing it, you got the inside scoop rather easily — it would be possible one day to transfer one’s consciousness into your new bio-printed body with its new bio-printed brain. The possibilities were limitless, the medical and philosophical implications profound. Perhaps one could even create new life with it. Perhaps she would be The Postmodern Prometheus. She liked that idea.

She and Gadget had already sketched out all the blueprints, equations, and designs back at the apartment, using MatLAB, Autodesk Inventor, AutoCAD, and PowerMill, after teaching themselves to use the software via YouTube tutorials and books; all that remained was to actually build the son of a bitch. If only she could secure some funding. She had approached the hospital’s board of trustees, but had been rebuffed — twice. Saint Mungojerry’s Kingdom Hospital was supposed to be a teaching hospital, a place where the top thinkers and practitioners in their fields came to bring new ideas and breakthroughs in medicine to life. “A birthplace for new treatments, standards, and practices,” said the brochure back in the Academic Affairs office at Morchatromik U. Heh. What a load of bullshit that was!

Zoë looked at her watch again, and then down at Dillon’s inert, sheeted form. Gee, that was another lovely task that awaited her, she now discovered as she glanced at his chart . . . she had to ask his parents if they wanted him to be an organ donor. How senseless. How tragic. If only those goddamn trustees would just give her the goddamned money, then this long, endless nightmare — for patients, for families, for doctors — could end. The merry-go-round of death could finally slow to a stop, and everyone could get off . . . and actually live.

Well, she vowed, one day I will stop it. No matter what it takes. But never mind all that now. The Smith family awaits. Dammit, Stone is right about one thing — it never gets any easier.

She walked away from Dillon, and the white sheet wafting in the currents of the room’s air conditioning, and turned out the lights in the room. She walked past the nurse’s station, right past where Stone stood drinking his coffee. She gave him a curt nod and dropped off Dillon’s chart. She straightened her scrubs — and glanced down to make sure they didn’t have any blood, snot, stool, saliva, piss, or vomit on them — and brushed a strand of her strawberry red hair from out of her face.

God, she probably looked awful. She knew she probably looked pale — working thirds did that to you — and that her cherubic, heart-shaped face made her look younger than her thirty-one years — and this job; God, this job — had made her. That often hurt her credibility with other doctors and her professors. “Say, little girl . . .” Or, “You there, little lady.” God that infuriated her. She worked out, stayed in shape, so she had an athletic frame but still had voluptuous curves; that too made her stand-out, made her look out of place among the less-physically-fit staff; she looked more like she belonged in a swimsuit competition than in these scrubs, according to one sexist old fart whose bowels she had disimpacted earlier today, and that also hurt her credibility. And now she had to go talk to the Smiths, another group of people who would, in the backs of their minds, probably second-guess her because she didn’t “look like a doctor.” Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic.

She walked out of the Intensive Care Ward and into the waiting area, where she saw Dillon’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Smith, sitting there, beleaguered, worn-out from grief, dark circles beneath their eyes. He was a tall man with a dark grey mustache, twinkling blue eyes, and crows’ feet, dressed in a plaid shirt and blue jeans. She was a short, plump woman in a flower dress and blue, silk blouse, with her blonde hair in a bun atop her head and large, worried, sea-green eyes. She clutched her purse as she stared out the window absently, her other hand clutching her husband’s for dear life. They had been grimly awaiting this moment that, Zoë could tell, they knew had to come eventually. She saw it in their eyes as they turned to her, saw the knowledge before she even said a word.

They knew. They already knew, but they didn’t want her to tell them.

Okay, goddamn it. Suck it up. No crying in front of the Smiths. Be strong. Be strong for them. They need their son’s doctor right now, his physician, someone to break the terrible news to them, not someone to take it hard along with them . . . a practitioner of medicine . . . not a weeping empath to feel their soft feelings for them. Be a Vulcan, goddamn it, be a Vulcan . . . well, maybe a half-human one. Be Spock, not Surak. Just don’t be James T. fucking Kirk and choke on the words as they come out of your mouth. Don’t eulogize. Just be factual, to the point. And be sympathetic. Be kind. Embrace them, comfort them. But don’t linger too long. Don’t hover like a creeping ghoul. Right. You got this. On three. One . . . two . . .

Zoë wiped away her remaining tears and sniffled as she walked out into the misty night air, and into the hospital parking lot. It had been raining, but had recently stopped. Good — at least she had missed the downpour. And it was good that she was finally out of that madhouse . . . the bad thing was, now she had to walk to the parking garage three blocks over. She didn't have a Doctor's Parking Permit yet; she was on the waiting list, and still hadn't been approved yet, damn the fucking bureaucracy. She zipped up her jacket and proceeded to get a move on, starting to walk past the hospital. Then it was across the street, and on down past the 7-11, and then another block, then on to the garage. God alone knew why the hospital hadn’t bought up the run-down apartment complexes between the hospital and the garage and just built the damned thing closer, but oh well; it was probably best that she take a walk anyway. It would clear her head, and God knew she needed that after what she had just been through.

She walked to the end of the wheelchair ramp, walked down the embankment to the road, and started her three-block sojourn by going around the side of the hospital. Halogen lamps lit the way on every corner, but still, it got dark between them. There was an alleyway just beyond the edge of the hospital. She passed it, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. Just a foursome of people, smoking.

Zoë had been looking forward to today, because now she had five glorious days off to look forward to . . . five awesome days at FantazmagoriCon XVIII with her boyfriend Mystikite and her best friend Gadget, partying her fool, fannish head off with the rest of the lunatics in attendance. She couldn’t wait. She had her cosplay all prepared, too; part Arthurian-knightly Gunslinger from the Stephen King fantasy realm of Mid-World and part crew-member of the Firefly-class smuggling ship Serenity . . . a woman who had a way with swords as well as six-shooters, and who lived dangerously, fought on the side of good . . . and wasn’t afraid to look good doing it, either.

As she passed the mechanical building, she got a closer look at the two figures in grey hoodies smoking cigarettes with one of the janitors and a maintenance worker. She didn’t recognize them. Oh well; probably just their friends. She kept on walking, paying them no mind. Huh, that was odd, though — she caught movement. She glanced back over her shoulder. The two figures in the hoodies had broken off from their conversation with the janitor and maintenance worker, and had fallen in on the sidewalk about half a block behind her, walking at a casual clip. Probably nothing; they were probably just headed in the same direction she was. She kept on walking.

It was a quiet night; very few cars drove by on the streets, which at this hour, were devoid of other pedestrians. The footfalls of the other two against the pavement were audible, even at this distance. They sped up a bit. Now that was odd. Zoë quickened her own pace, and heard them quicken theirs in retort. About a half a block later, one of them laughed a little, and she heard one of them call out:

“Yo, baby, you got company tonight?”

Uh oh.

"Hey yo baby my dick's itchin'."

She pulled out her iPhone from her pocket, and then remembered: Shit. It’s fucking broken. Goddamn it, Mystikite. He had bricked it while trying to “jailbreak” it from the Apple ecosystem. Oh well. She could maybe throw them off if she pretended to have a conversation. She put it to her ear.

“Hi babe,” she said, in a clear, loud voice. The footsteps behind her slackened their pace. She did not slacken hers, but hastened — across Bleecker Street, toward the 7-11. She recognized the clerk at the desk. He was reading a graphic novel. She hurried. Her heart beat faster. They were still following, but they had backed off. Thunder in her ears. “Yeah, I’m just on my way home. Yeah, busy day. You wouldn’t believe the shit they’ve got me doing. Well, I had to watch a kid die. Yeah, heartbreaking. Some fucked up shit. Truly. Yeah. Yeah, I know. You too?” Lightning in her nerves, adrenaline flowing. Could she stand and fight if they caught up with her? Two against one, and she was still only a yellow belt in Taw Kwon Do. “Well, damn. Sounds like you’ve had a day too. I’ll be home in just a little while. Yeah, traffic is pretty smooth, considering it’s four A.M.” Just keep talking, she told herself. Keep talking, loud like this, so they know someone is listening on the other end, and they’ll keep their distance. Her muscles tightened, and her heart beat even faster; faster and faster, a dull thudding in her chest. “Yeah,” she went on, “so what’s for breakfast, hon? What? You fixed that? Well, holy shit, well count me in, then!” Behind her, the punks increased their speed again. Shit. She had hammed it up too much; they had caught on. They knew there was no one on the other end, and they were closing in on her, now. Her heart positively slammed against her ribs, smashing into them like a jackhammer. Oh well. Might as well finish acting out the part. “Okay. Well. I gotta drive. Love you too, babe. G’bye.” She lowered the phone and shoved it back in her pocket, and broke into a run for the 7-11.

She ran, and the clerk in the 7-11 looked up, saw her running, and saw them running behind her. The minute the clerk looked up, they stopped their pursuit. Zoë did not stop running. She bolted through the doors of the 7-11 and shut and locked them behind her, panting for breath, every nerve alive, every muscle in her body taught and ready for a fight, her eyes wide and alert.

“Jesus, are you okay? You want me to call the cops?” asked the clerk — his name-tag read "Steve” — coming over to her, and looking back out the windows at the two punks, who now loitered around the entrance. Zoë could see their faces now beneath their hoodies. One was black, the other white; one was shorter, and both had buzz-cut hair; their facial expressions were a mixture of put-on toughness and lackadaisical meanness. They glared at her through the glass. The black kid reserved his angsty, menacing grimace for Steve the clerk, whom he peered at with a glower that could’ve melted steel. They shoved their hands into the pockets of their hoodies and waited, like sharks prowling the water, waiting for swimmers to enter. The white kid pulled out a cheap-looking cell-phone from out of his hoodie’s pocket, dialed, and put it to his ear and started talking. The black kid pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and put it to his lips. Apparently, they had decided to “hang out” for a while. Just fucking perfect.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” said Zoë, eyeing them warily. “And yeah, call the cops. I’m gonna need an escort to the parking garage down the street.”

“You got it,” said Steve. He put down his graphic novel, pulled out his cell-phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

“Uh, yeah . . . I’m in the 7-11 on Bleecker . . .” he began, and started explaining the situation to the operator on the phone. Zoë tore her eyes away from the two punks by the door and went to the refrigerated section, and grabbed herself a Coca-Cola. She dug in her coat pocket for two dollar bills. She never carried a purse; she considered them inefficient.

Steve got off the phone. “Okay, they said they’ll send a patrol car,” he said. “In the meantime, just try to relax.”

“Relax, yeah right. So.” She tried to calm her frantic heartbeat. She felt her own pulse; it was galloping like a Pandorican Direhorse on meth. “What’re you reading?”

“Oh,” he said, picking up the graphic novel, “Ultimate Avengers. Mark Millar.”

“Oh, wow,” she said, a smile coming to her face, “that’s a good one. They used some of that mythology in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, right? For Phase One and Two?”

“Yep,” he said. “They sure did.”

“I was disappointed,” she said, cracking open her Coke, and taking a swig, “that the movies went with Hank Pym as the older, mentor figure and not as the young hero who was part of the Avengers themselves.” She hopped up on the counter and glanced back at the punks outside. The white kid looked at her and gave her a “‘sup?’” nod. She flipped him off. He slammed his hands against the window and hunched his shoulders at her, in a “Come on!” gesture. She merely shook her head at him.

“Yeah, me too,” said Steve. “But Michael Douglas kicked all sorts of ass in the role, I will say that.”

“Oh God yeah,” said Zoë, turning back to face him. “He sure did. Michael D. was awesome in that role.”

“And the guy they got for Scott — what was his name? Paul Rudd? He was great, too.”

“Yeah, well, overall, I liked Ant-Man, but I thought the premise had problems. Like, what the hell keeps that formula from shrinking the container that it’s stored in?”

“Good point,” said Steve.

“Yeah, and,” she said, taking another swig of Coke, “why did the sleazy Corporate Guy — I don’t remember his name; Marvel was lousy with their villains until Hela in Ragnarok and Killmonger in Black Panther — why did he just do experiment after experiment on sheep without actually changing anything about his formula? That’s a small detail, but it irked me. It’s not how you do science. That always bugs me — movies never get the scientific process right.”

“Well, I know one movie that sorta did.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai: Across The Eighth Dimension, with Peter Weller and John Lithgow. Ever seen it?”

“Nope,” she said. “Never even heard of it. Sounds cool, though. When was it made?”

“Nineteen eighty . . . four, I believe. It got the scientific process right. The idea that research and dev takes years, that there are setbacks and failures, that experiments take time to set up, that there are unexpected results, all of that.”

“Well I’ll have to watch it sometime. It seems like the kind of thing Gadget would love.”

“Gadget?”

“Oh,” she said, and smiled nervously. She glanced at the two punks, still hanging around outside. They weren’t going away, and that worried her. “Gadget is my roommate.”

“And his name is Gadget? I thought it was weird enough that your boyfriend was named after Gary Mystikite, but — ”

“Oh no,” she said, “that’s not his real name. ‘Mystikite McKraken’ is just the handle he goes by on the Internet and the Neu — in chat-rooms and message boards and crap like that. His real name is Wayne. Just like ‘Gadget’ isn’t Terry’s real name. But, they spend so much time online, and in-game, that we just call them by their nicknames and gamertags instead.”

“Ah, okay,” said Steve. “I get it. So what’s your handle? Your ‘nym?”

“Oh, well,” she said, and smiled. “My parents were geeks back in the eighties and nineties, and they named me ‘Zoë’ after the girl in The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy. So my actual name is ‘geeky’ enough to be a handle. So I don’t have one, per se. I’m just ‘Zoë.’”

“Oh, wow, cool,” said Steve. “I never knew that about you.” He stuck out a hand meant for shaking. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Steven Spielberg. And yeah, I know. No relation to the big man himself.”

Zoë grinned. “Sorry about your luck Steve.” She shook hands with him. “Pleased to meet you.”

“So you and Mystikite . . . how long’ve you guys been together, anyway?” he asked.

Zoë had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. She had known this was coming. On top of everything else — those two punks hanging out in front of the store looked way too comfortable there for her taste; something was up, and it wasn’t good — she didn’t need Steve Spielberg the 7-11 Clerk coming onto her while she waited for the cops to show up. Speaking of which — where were they?

“Well, I was a teenager when the original Marvel movies came out. Y’know, Phase One through Phase Three. Mine and Mystikite's first date was Avengers: Infinity War.”

“Wow, you guys have been together that long?”

She could see his hopes sinking as he said this. That was good, but it was also kind of sad.

“Yep,” she said. “Well, on again, off again. But yeah.”

“Well congrats on that,” he said. “Totally. I don’t think I could ever hold it togeth — oh shit.”

“Oh shit, what?” said Zoë. She turned, and followed his gaze. Outside the 7-11, an old Ford STD — a huge, battered old clunker of a car — pulled up to the gas-tanks outside; its windows were tinted, its chassis sat low to the ground, and its wheel-rims were gold-plated. The two punks hurried over as one of the windows rolled down. Pot smoke rolled out, and inside, another white kid — he couldn’t have been older than seventeen — stuck his head out and clasped hands with the white kid in the hoodie. Zoë heard, “Whazzap!” and “Hey bro, let’s do it!”

From out of the driver’s side, there stepped an enormous black man wearing a black jacket and jeans. The back passenger door and driver’s side doors opened, and two more, older white kids got out, both of them wearing turtleneck sweaters and jeans. The white kid in the hoodie changed places with the one in the front passenger seat. All four of them pulled out guns, including the black man . . . who pulled out — and Zoë could scarcely believe this — an actual goddamn AK-47 — and then turned toward the 7-11, and promptly opened fire.

“Get down!” screamed Steve. Zoë hit the floor hard, her hands over her head. She forced her eyes to remain open so she could see what the hell was going on. The glass in the front store windows shattered; the hail of bullets shredded the front counter; the magazine rag got shredded as well; the cigarette slots above the counter came crashing down onto the registers; sparks flew and smoke fizzled. The drink machine got shot up, spewing and spraying Coke, Sprite, Lemonade, and pieces of styrofoam cups everywhere; ice chunks flew out of the ice machine; bags of chips went hurtling, spilling their contents, ripped and torn open; bullets struck metal, ricocheting and pinging back. She heard Steve scream and then stop screaming, writhe quickly and then lie still. A stray bullet had struck him. She knew instantly he was dead.

And that was just within the first ten seconds. Then the gunfire ceased. Then came the sound of laughter. Laughter. At this slaughter! Anger flared in her along with panic, adrenaline, the fierce feelings of fear and terror that now squirted into her veins. Jesus, what the fuck was going on! What was happening? Why were they doing this? What was their goal? Didn’t they have to know that the cops were on their way? And where were the goddamn cops? What the hell was she going to do? What should she do? Play dead? Hope they didn’t notice she was still alive? She closed her eyes and lied still as the grave, not moving, trying to breathe in shallow, small breaths so they didn’t see her back rising and falling, her body stirring as she did so. She heard footsteps crunching on broken glass and the rustling of paper. She tried to lies still, stop herself from quivering.

“Heh. So just these two Mortals, and one of ‘em I just killed,” said a deep voice. “Hardly seems worth it.” The black guy, probably. “But if the boy is still fresh, he can probably be fed upon.”

“He looks like some douchebag geek,” said one of the white kids — at least, it sounded like one of them — “I wouldn’t Turn his white, punk ass.”

“ But the girl,” said a reedier voice. One of the other white kids, most likely. “Told you, she’s hot. King’ll wanna taste of her. He gonna wanna make her his toy. Maybe might e’en give me a taste. Mmm-mmm, damn but she’s fine. Can I Turn her, can I? The Hand tol’ me I could Turn anybody I wanted, so long as I brought ‘em to the King.”

“Maybe later,” said the deep voice. A pause. “Well, what do you know. She’s still alive.”

Dammit! They know! Now what did she do? She couldn’t play dead; they knew she was alive. And what the hell were they talking about, anyway? King? The Hand? Some kind of gang hierarchy? And what did “Turn her” mean, exactly? Her stomach twisted itself in knots. There was only one thing she could do, now.

She rolled over and looked up at the big black guy. He glared down at her, and their eyes met. He had a derisive, almost dismissive look on his face as he and two of the white kids — the other two were busy robbing the cash register and safe, stealing cigarette packages, and swiping booze from the shelves — stared down at her.

“What . . . what do you want,” she managed to croak out.

“Just you, baby,” said the big black man, grinning at her. His teeth. Vampire fangs. God help her, he was into the same shit she and Mystikite were. Vampirism. “Now get on your feet.”

Zoë tried to move, but found herself glued to the spot. Her body wouldn’t obey her. She trembled all over, and sat there on the floor, helpless, immobile. His eyes. Something about his eyes held her . . .

“I said now, bitch!” yelled the man. He pointed the AK-47 at her, and Zoë flinched, the spell broken suddenly. The jolt of terror and adrenaline that shot through her got her moving. She managed to sit up and then slowly got to her feet and stood a few in front of him, still shaking, her stomach twisted in her gut, her nerves frayed, her muscles tight. She didn’t want to look him in the eyes again. Yes, something about those eyes . . . something unsettling, powerful . . .

“Oh — okay, n — n — now what?” she said.

“Now,” he said, cupping her cheek in his palm — she winced away from his touch — forcing her to look into his eyes again. Deep eyes. Eyes you could get lost in. His gaze made her uncomfortable; it made her sick to her stomach to gaze back, because all she wanted to do right now was run. But she didn’t want to run. Run. But she didn’t want to. Run, but she couldn’t. Because she couldn’t look away. Run. But she couldn’t . . . “Now you come with us, baby,” the man said.

His voice sounded far away, the way Dr. Stone’s had earlier, when Dillon had flatlined and died on her. Like she was on a raft at sea, and he was calling to her . . .

“Is she under?” asked one of the white kids. The same one who had talked about “the King” and “the Hand.” He seemed antsy. Where were the cops? What cops? Had someone called the cops? Where was she? What was happening, again? “Well, c’mon, Luke! Is she?”

“Yeah, she’s under,” said Luke. “Quit pesterin’ me, Josh!” Zoë blinked a few times. She had trouble focusing on their words. They sounded muffled, like she had headphones on, or something.

Focus up, dammit, focus up! What’s wrong with you? Her own stream of consciousness pounded inside her skull like a hammer against the bars of a steel cage; and it had been caged, for the moment . . . it felt like being jailed inside her own head. She wanted to break free, to kick this asshole in the testicles and grab for his gun — it would’ve been easy — the gun was right there — right there — and so was her knee — and she was right in front of him — right in front of him — but she couldn’t. Maybe this was what it was like to be “in thrall.” As in, “in thrall to a Vampire.” Ha! She must’ve been getting lightheaded from all the adrenaline. She stifled a laugh. Yeah, right. Vampires really existed. Sure, pull the other one.

Then she noticed the white kid’s — Josh’s — teeth. Fangs. He also had fangs. And was pale, just like the others kids. Very pale. And all over, too — his face, his neck, his hands. What she could see of his arms when parts of his sweater-sleeves moved. And the big black guy, Luke . . . he wasn’t exactly black. More ashen than black. Yes, definitely ashen. And his eyes. Weird eyes, a brighter blue than she had ever seen. They almost glowed. And they mesmerized. Yeah, that was the right word for it. Mesmerized. Whenever he looked away, she could think more clearly. Just for a second . . . it was like coming up for air. All of their eyes were like that, she noticed. And it was during the next of these moments, when her consciousness came back up for air, that she stopped smiling stupidly and realized just how deep the pile of shit she was standing in actually was. Or maybe could be. She wasn’t sure.

I mean, come on . . . It can’t be . . .

“Time for an early morning snack!” said one of the other kids. He knelt down next to Steve, bent over him, and sank his teeth into his neck and his back began to heave, as though he were . . . suckling. Blood poured out from between his lips and ran down Steve’s neck and spread across his t-shirt.

No, it couldn’t be. Vampires. Real ones. Well, could it be? For real? How? She had always loved the vampire myth; had romanticized vampires, had idealized them; had pretended to be one with Mystikite in the bedroom for years. Had dressed the part, had been heavily into the whole goth aesthetic. Had cosplayed as one, had dressed in dark, Viktorian garb out in public on her days off — just to fuck with the Mundanes, mostly — and had read every vampire story she could get her hands on: Stoker, Rice, Hamilton, even that stupid Twilight bullshit. Had seen every vampire movie or TV show. She’d had naughty dreams about both Angel and Spike, and had wanted to be both Buffy Summers and Lestat de Lioncourt. Had played Vampire: The Masquerade and Vampire: The Dark Ages with friends and colleagues. However, she now realized — with painfully-crystalline clarity, the kind that only a moment like this could provide — that she had never once entertained the possibility that vampires were real. Truly, really real. That real-life, holy-shit-my-paradigm-of-reality-just-fucking-pissed-itself Vampires actually existed and drank the blood of the living. Until now. Zoë shivered. Reality seemed to have been turned on its ear for the moment. Vampires: A real goddamn thing. And they had her captive. FUCK.

Oh shit. Her thoughts raced. I’m not going to live through this. They’re going to kill me, and goddamn drink my blood. I’m dead. I’m a dead woman, standing here, I just haven’t died yet. It’s my time to die, the clock just hasn’t run out yet. Oh holy shit. Mystikite, Gadget, I’m so going to miss the two of you. Shit, I hope I was at least slightly off-base, being such an ardent atheist and materialist all these years. I hope there actually is some kind of afterlife, because if there is, I’m headed there, very soon. They just haven’t gotten around to killing me. Oh dear fucking God, I am going to die, here, in this 7-11. The cops won’t find me until . . . speaking of which, where are the goddamn . . . Unless . . . the Vampires somehow control the cops. Yeah. Exactly. The Vampires control the cops in this city. It’s the only explanation. Right. Because of course they do. Josh — well, okay, Josh the Vampire — called his friends, told them where he was and that they had a place they wanted hit, and then they told their “King” or “Hand” or whatever, and then he or she told the cops to cancel the call to this 7-11, and then they came and lit the place up. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

“You’re gonna come with us, now, pretty thing,” said Luke. Her heart beat wildly, and she trembled. He took her by the arm, and yanked her. Zoë stumbled, and tried to dig in her heels to counteract her forward momentum. It didn’t do any good. He dragged her instead, her feet sliding on the broken glass, pain shooting up her arm like wildfire as he nearly twisted it out of its socket. She cried out in agony and kicked her feet and tried to yank herself free from him. His grip was like iron. He tossed the AK-47 to one of the other Vampires and punched her in the head. Stabbing pain shot through her face and skull, and she saw brilliant stars and splotches of color, her head ringing, seeing double, the world spinning. She stumbled away, and then he grabbed her with both hands, and hauled her into the parking lot. Zoë felt pavement under her shoes and tried to kick at him — though it did no good — and curse, and scream as he dragged her toward the car.

Then, something even weirder than a Vampire attack happened.

The parking lot suddenly filled with the booming sound of a loud, echoing female voice that cried out, in a rather cheerful, playful tone: “MEND-ACITY! WHY ARE SQUIRES LIKE YOU ABUSING A DAME LIKE THIS?”

Luke stopped hauling her toward the car, and the other four Vampires — who had been headed toward the car as well — stopped dead in their tracks.

“Wha — what the fuck?” said Josh. “Luke?”

“Quiet!” commanded Luke, looking around. He called out, “Whoever you are, show yourself!”

“THE WEED OF CRIME,” said the loud, echoing girl’s voice, “BEARS BITTER FRUIT, LUKE. LET THE GIRL GO, AND I’LL LET YOU AND YOUR BLOODSUCKING FIEND-FRIENDS LIVE FOR ANOTHER NIGHT. IF YOU CAN CALL WHAT YOU GUYS DO LIVING, THAT IS. I MEAN, REALLY, CAN YOU? I DUNNO. ANYWAY. LET THE GIRL GO, DIPSTICKS. OR I’LL GET ANGRY. YOU WOULDN’T LIKE ME WHEN I’M ANGRY.”

“Who the fuck . . . ?” said one of the other Vampires, looking around for the source of the voice.

“We ain’t givin’ up shit!” shouted Luke. He yanked Zoë close to him. His hot breath whistled in her ear. She winced at the loudness of his voice. “Show yourself, whoever you are!”

“OH I DON’T THINK SO,” said the booming voice. “THERE’S FIVE OF YOU, AND ONLY ONE OF LITTLE OLD ME.” The voice chuckled. “IT WOULDN’T BE FAIR TO YOU.”

“Oh yeah?” cried Luke. “Well why don’t you come on out here and show me, bitch! Come on! Come on out here and show me, you fuckin’ whore! Come on!”

“WELL, OKAY, IF YOU INSIST,” said the voice. “BUT DON’T DAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU FIRST, BLOODSUCKER.”

Zoë jerked her head to look upward at the crashing noise from the roof of the 7-11 and the jet-engine whining sound. What the hell . . . ? A woman — the owner of the voice, presumably — dressed in what appeared to be a steampunk-like, electromechanical, form-fitting robotic Evangeliojaeger of some kind suddenly leapt off the roof from out of nowhere, the boots and gauntlets of her outfit emitting some kind of purple-white, fire-like thrust that kept her aloft. She landed about six meters away from where Zoë and Luke stood, the weird electric fire from her boots causing the pavement beneath her feet to buckle and crack as she slammed down on it feet-first. The gears, pistons, and rotors of the woman’s Evangeliojaeger churned and whirled as she stalked toward them and then stopped three meters away.

“Let. The girl. Go,” she said, her voice still amplified through a speaker, but not nearly as loud now.”Luke, listen. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

“Oh yeah?” said Luke. “Well you look like you’re ready to kill me. Bitch, I helped you. I helped you track down that Ravenkroft asshole.”

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“Yes, you did,” said the woman, her tone calm and measured. “But now you’re being a bad blood-monkey, and so now I have to spank you. Please don’t make me spank the monkey, Luke. Not in public.”

“Bitch, you don’t know the half what goes on in this city. If the King or the Hand knew about you — ”

“But they don’t. And they don’t need to. Do they? Just hand over the girl, Luke. I value our unique . . . working relationship. Your cronies here . . . egads, the Vamps they’re not. Ha! Get it? That boy-band was popular when I was . . . Ahem. Never mind. Anyway. Just hand over the girl, and we can both forget this ever happened.”

“Heh,” said Luke. “But I can’t. You think this was an accident this place got hit up? That she was followed tonight? Nah, nah, bitch. Like I said, you don’t know the half of what goes on in this city. My boys here called me in as backup when they couldn’t snuff this bitch on their own. I figured, have a little fun and do a little vandalism, what the fuck. Then you show up. You know what I think. I think I been set up.”

“Uh, no,” said the woman. “No. I don’t have many contacts in . . . your world. And I certainly don’t work for any of those I do have. So you’re clear. Just give me. The darned. Girl. Luke.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you just fuckin’ make me, bitch?” said Luke. His fingers painfully dug into Zoë’s arm as he pulled her closer to him. The other Vampires had stopped dead in their tracks and were all staring at the woman in the Evangeliojaeger and at Luke. Zoë heard only the sound of her own quivering breaths.

The woman in the Evangeliojaeger shrugged her armored shoulders and sighed. “Every frakkin’ time I try to be nice, where does it get me? Absolutely frakkin’ nowhere. Fine. Have it your way. Say buh-bye . . . to Random Vamp Numero Uno!”

She thrust out her left arm and made a metallic fist with the fingers of her gauntlet and aimed the — ray gun? Was that a ray gun on her wrist? — at the Vampire that Luke had called Josh. Josh dropped the plastic bags full of cigarettes and money he was carrying and turned to run, and the woman in the Evangeliojaeger fired. A bright purple bolt of . . . something . . . flew out of the ray gun, and hit Josh, and Josh’s scream echoed for a second and a half as he evaporated into firefly-like tidbits of glowing cosmic dust, and then was gone. The other three Vampires all turned and ran for the car using some kind of Vampiric super-speed; they became blurs to the eyes for a second or so. A second later the car peeled rubber and headed toward the road. The woman in the Evangeliojaeger fired her ray gun again; this time, the purple bolt slammed into the rear of the vehicle. The car’s gas tank exploded. It went up in an enormous orange fireball, the doors blowing off, the roof shooting skyward, the frame catapulting up off the ground and flipping over and crashing sideways onto the road, the tires on fire. Soon the whole street smelled like burning rubber and gasoline.

Luke pulled Zoë even closer. He was breathing hard, panicked, his eyes peeled wide.

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well fuck you, bitch!” he shouted, right in Zoë’s ear. “I’ll just feed on this bitch, then! You can’t save her! You can kill me, but you can’t kill all of us! We will rise! Our time is comin’, bitch! You hear me? Our time is comin’, and soon! Things are gonna change, real soon! So go on, kill me! KILL ME, BITCH! BUT YOU WON’T SAVE HER! Feedin’ on this bitch will be the last thing I do! I DEFY you, MORTAL! WE ALL DEFY YOU!”

God, she hated the feeling of his fingers in her hair. She gasped, and reared away from him, still struggling to get free, as he grabbed the right side of her head with his left hand and pushed it over, bending her head to one side. His hot breath upon her neck — Jesus, it was awful! — and then she winced as she felt two sharp, hot needles suddenly sank into the flesh there; the warmth of blood flowing on her skin; a pair of lips descending around the wound. Zoë screamed.

Zoë fought for freedom, but Luke’s grasp remained as tight as steel bolts holding her in place. Her own throaty cries echoed in the darkness. Then came a noise — metal clanging against pavement, over and over . . . growing closer, and closer . . . and then a sound she knew from living with Gadget: The sound of photo-strobes, charging . . . then a loud, electric BLAM! Like a circuit-breaker blowing, right in her ear . . . and a hot, wet mess, splashing all over her hair and face, covering her in stickiness and warm, grotesque, sliminess . . . then the fangs in her neck slipped out gently; Luke’s hands let go of her; his hold on her vanished. Then there came a dull, wet thud from behind her, the sound of something large and muddy sloughing off of something else and smacking the ground softly. She opened her eyes. The woman in the Evangeliojaeger was standing beside her, her “ray gun” aimed at the spot where, previously, Luke’s head had been, but . . . wasn’t anymore.

“There, by gods,” said the woman, nodding assuredly. “Fixed his vampy arse good, didn’t I?”

“Uh . . .” began Zoë, staring at the woman. She looked down at herself. A heavy slick of blood covered her top. Blood, bits of bone, brains, sinew, muscle, and . . . more brains. She sucked in a half-screaming breath, and shuddered. “Oh god,” she said, and grimaced. “This is . . . I . . . You blew up his head!”

“Well, let’s be honest,” said the woman. “He left me little choice. The Disruptophazers aren’t precise enough for me to have aimed at just his head from a distance without there being the danger of hitting you too, so, I had to get really close. Sorry.”

“You . . . blew up . . . his head.” The wound in her neck continued to bleed. Luke hadn’t pierced an artery, otherwise she would have bled-out by now. Thank God for small favors. Yeah, and the stupidity of a Vampire who was in a hurry to prove a point.

“Yep,” said the woman. “Sure did.”

“You. Blew up. His head.” Blood trickled down from her neck and formed a tiny rivulet that ran down her chest and between her breasts.

“Yeah, we’ve covered that.” The woman seemed to study her for a moment, and then smiled. She stuck out a robotic-gauntleted hand, meant for shaking. “Hi. I’m Doctor Desirée ‘Dizzy’ Weatherspark. And you are — if I’m not thoroughly discombobulated — the one and only Zoë Astro Deschain. Pleased to meet you. I’m a huge fan of your work.”

“How do you . . . How do you know who I am?” asked Zoë. “And what was all that crap about you knowing who they were — and about this not being an accident? That this was somehow . . . planned, or something? That they weren’t just following me randomly?” Hot anger boiled in her veins like molten silver, bubbling up within her; she didn’t even try to contain it. She let it boil over and run loose. “And wait just a goddamn second. Vampires. Motherfucking Vampires are goddamn real! And you know about it! What the fuck! What! The! Fuck! Lady!” She stomped her foot in time to the words. “I demand — I fucking demand! — to know what the ever-loving shit is going on here! Who are you! Really! What the fuck was going on with these ass-clowns you just wasted? And what . . . what . . . what the hell are you wearing, anyway?”

She stood there, letting herself huff and puff, letting the stare she gave the woman pierce her. Had she said her name was “Dizzy?” What kind of a name was “Dizzy?” And wait a second, the rest of her name rang a big bell, didn’t it? Right now, she didn’t care. She was fucking angry, goddamn it. The fire didn’t dim or cool with her rant, but smoldered hot, ready to flare up again. This whole thing would probably give her PTSD, which would mean fucking therapy. Great, just great; utterly fantastic. More shit to distract her from her work, the Physion Bio-Printer, and her degree. And now she had to explain all this to Mystikite and Gadget — how else would she explain the ruined clothes and the blood? And of course, hers and Mystikite's love-life had to fucking change. Her new “therapist” — whoever that ended up being — would probably agree. No more Vampire shit. Ever. Hell no. Not in a million years. No way. She didn’t even think she could play Vampire: The Masquerade again and not get sick. Hell, even the word “vampire” made her anxious.

“Look,” said Dizzy. “I can see that you’re a tad stressed out here. And I can sure understand why. But I don’t know why those Vampires were following you tonight. Sorry, but I am tee-totally clueless in that department. However, the reason I came looking for you is that I’ve got something I wanna talk to you about.”

“Oh yeah?” said Zoë, trying to wipe some of the mess that had been Luke’s head off her face. “And what might that be?”

“Well first,” said Dizzy, “lemme show you to my ride for the night, and let’s get you cleaned up and calmed down a bit. Then we can talk like rational beings.”

“No,” she said, and held up her hand in a “stop” gesture. “Just wait a goddamn minute, okay?” She held her hand firmly in front of her. She meant fucking business, goddamn it. Her heart pounded; sweat beaded on her brow; she breathed in deep, heavy sighs. She still felt the electricity of panic sparking in her nerves. Zoë glared at Dizzy. She may have just saved her life, but that didn’t also mean she wasn’t an equally dangerous threat. She had just blown up that car full of Vampires. And had just shown up, out of nowhere, looking for her. Just like the Vampires had been looking for her. So that meant she had been following her, too. Dammit, why were all these people fucking tracking her movements, looking for her, all of a sudden? “I’m a huge fan of your work.” That was it . . . It had to be . . . The fucking Physion Bio-Printer. Dammit. That was why. But why kill her over it? Why the Vampires? And why had this woman saved her from them? Goddamn it! She needed answers! Zoë clenched her fists, then unclenched them, and tried to control her breathing. Well, if she wanted answers, there was only one way to get them, and this woman “Dizzy” seemed like she had some, and seemed willing — at least so far — to provide them. Maybe cooperating with her might bear fruit.

Okay. Calm. Breathe. Just breathe. It’s over now. It’s over. They’re dead. Dead and gone. It’s over Zoë . . . it’s over sweetheart . . . just calm yourself. That’s it, that’s it . . . calm. Breathe. Okay. Now, see what she wants. See what she means by her “ride.” See how and where. See where she wants to go before you go anywhere. And see what it is she wants to “talk” about.

“Alright, alright,” said Dizzy, raising her mechanical hands in a gesture of peace. “Look, I understand you’re in shock from being dragged around like a chew-toy. Ooh, sorry, bad choice of words. How about, ‘being dragged around like a rag-doll?’ Better, right? Ah crap, well, I can tell by your facial expression that that particular turn of phrase did nothing for your mood. Okay, let me try again. Ahem. I would like, if I may . . . ‘To take you . . . on a strange journey!’ HA! Rocky Horror reference! Couldn’t help myself! Anyway. I would like to show you to my ride for the night. My car, that is. Whereupon you can call your roommates to let them know you are okay. I will then show you to my humble abode in Martha’s Vineyard, where you can shower, towel off, and put on some clean clothes — you and I wear the same sizes; yeah, I know a lot about you; I admit it, I’m like a total frakkin’ stalker — okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. But we do need to talk. About your work. About your Physion Bio-Printer. About how it could potentially benefit all of humankind, and how you and I might bring it to life . . . not in ten years, or five years, but right frakking now. Today. And, about how I need you for a special team of scientists and engineers I’m assembling . . . a team that will do great things for this planet, and for the human race in general. So. You in, Zoë? Or should I just leave you here, alone, and unprotected . . . and let the next round of Vampires try again tomorrow?”

“Excuse me,” said Zoë, “but was that a veiled threat I just heard?”

“Oh no,” said Dizzy, and she smiled and shook her head. “It’s just that I can’t constantly follow you around . . . and the fact that they will try again, you know. Not tonight, but definitely tomorrow. And if they don’t succeed tomorrow, then the next night. And the next. Wherever you go at night, they’ll be there. Waiting for you. And I can’t always be there to protect you from them. Is that how you want to live? If you come with me, I can arm you against them. Give you some fire-power, maybe.”

“My . . . my room-mate Gadget can do that, too,” she said. “At least I think he can.”

“I know he can. But he can’t do it as well as I can. Not yet, anyway.”

“What — what do you mean, ‘not yet, anyway?’”

“Come,” said Dizzy, gesturing onward with her hands. “Over here, behind what used to be this 7-11. And I’ll show you. Oh, wait, I guess that doesn’t sound creepy at all, does it. Hmm, I guess that now that I think about it, that does sound really bad. Look, I promise not to hurt you, okay? I mean, c’mon, why would I save your life and then do something really awful to you? That just doesn’t make any rational sense. And like I said; you can go ahead and call Gadget and Mystikite when we get there. You can use my phone if you like. Tell them you and I bumped into each other, that we hit it off, and that we’re going out for breakfast. I have a job offer for you, if you’re interested.”

“A . . . job offer?” Zoë took a step back from her. She hesitated a moment. It didn’t seem like too much to ask. She wondered: Could she trust this woman. She didn’t seem like she was exactly threatening her. “Bring your ride out here, where I can see it first,” she said. “Then I’ll trust you. Then I’ll go with you.”

Dizzy sighed. “Sure thing. I can be flexible. Hey Astrid!” A two-toned “ding” came from inside the helmet of her Evangeliojaeger. Dizzy said, “Call Misto, on speaker.” A female, computer-generated voice answered her, saying, “Alright Dizzy. If I have to. Calling Misto, on speaker.” telephone ringtone echoed from out of her helmet. It rang once, twice, three times. Then a voice answered.

“Yeah Diz?” said the disembodied voice. Male . . . Sounded . . . somewhat, probably, African-American . . . And, older than either of them . . . And, familiar. Very familiar. Zoë had heard it somewhere before. Heard it often, too. But, she couldn’t place it right off the bat. Oh, it was right there. Right there. Oh, who was that?

“Yeah Misto, could you bring the car around?” said Dizzy.

“You sure it’s safe? No more Vamps or any civilians?”

“Yeah I’m sure,” she said. “We’re clear here.”

“Alrighty,” said the voice. “Comin’ around now.”

She looked toward the corner of the 7-11. A jet-engine revved up for take-off and from out of the shadows, there pulled the weirdest goddamn vehicle Zoë had ever seen: An old, jet-black 1940’s-era gangster sedan with two pylons fanning up out of its rear-end, and attached to those, what looked like the warp nacelles of the starship Enterprise, almost. Okay. Definitely weird. The forward engine compartment was made of glass, and inside, Dizzy had mounted some kind of odd-looking machine that spun, whirled, and threw off electric arcs that hit the glass occasionally. And, she had bolted what looked like a high-energy laser onto the roof. What the hell was that for?

“Well, heeeere ya go,” said Dizzy, gesturing toward the car. “Just like I told ya.”

“Alright,” said Zoë. Reluctance gnawed at her. Her heart still thumped, the panic subsiding, but not gone. Her breathing had slowed. A little. She still had the shakes. Had to knock that off, somehow. It was like a panic attack that just wouldn’t give it up and go home to wherever panic attacks went when they stopped. “Fine, I’ll go with you,” she said, though every neuron in her head told her this was not necessarily a terrific idea.

“Cool,” said Dizzy. She marched toward the car, opened the rear passenger door, and held it there as Zoë sucked in a breath, and walked toward the car. She got into the — rather spacious, and leather upholstered — back seat of the car, and Dizzy closed the door. As Dizzy walked around the front of the car, the driver turned around and spoke to her, startling her.

“So, Zoë Deschain, I presume?” he said. He smiled at her. And boom — she knew him. An aging African-American guy, he looked about fifty-something. He had a friendly face that seemed used to smiling, and crinkled eyes that seemed to study her even as the smile-lines around them deepened. He stuck out a hand meant for shaking. “Hello Dr. Deschain. My name’s — ”

“Dr. Joseph Michaelson,” she said, smiling back. She shook his hand. “You teach Quantum Chemistry, Quantum Biochem, and Elements of Nanotechnology Fundamentals, at Morchatromik U. I’ve taken your classes. To your credit, I haven’t fallen asleep once during any of your lectures. They’re pretty fun, actually.”

He grinned. “And to your credit, you’ve always passed my class with a solid ‘B’ average. Why no ‘A,’ though, I wonder, Dr. Deschain? Could it be my lectures lack something?”

“Uh, well, you’ll . . . excuse me . . .” she said, rather suddenly uncomfortable, “but I’m not exactly in the right mood to talk school right now.”

“Fair enough,” he said, nodding. “Well, as for our now-much-more-personal introduction . . . My Ham radio callsign is N9ZLI, and my friends all call me Misto. Buckle up, Dr. Deschain! We have a ride in store for you!”

Well, if they were going to kidnap her, or hurt her, they were sure as hell being pretty damned friendly about it. To her left, Dizzy opened the driver’s side rear door, and got in beside her. The ungainliness of her mechanical Evangeliojaeger barely allowed her to fit in the backseat. Gears whirred and interlocks tumbled, and Dizzy removed the helmet from her head. Her purple hair in a bob cut made her look like a cartoon Russian spy.

“Okay, Misto,” said Dizzy. “Take us back to the Batcave.” She turned to Zoë and elbowed her with her mechanized right arm, grinned, and then whispered: “I love saying ’back to the Batcave!’ It sounds so much cooler than saying ‘back to my house!’ Now. About that job offer I mentioned . . .”

Okay, so she’s definitely insane, thought Zoë as she stood there next to Dizzy. And then it hit her. Who this woman was.

“Oh my God,” said Zoë. The suddenness of the realization washed over her like an electric shockwave. “I know who you are! Not Dizzy . . . Desirée. You’re Dr. Desirée Amelia Weatherspark! Daughter of Dr. Walter Weatherspark. Founder and CEO of Mechanology! Jesus!” She gasped, putting the pieces together. “My boyfriend — his name is Wayne, Wayne Schmidinger, we call him ‘Mystikite’ — he works for you. In Mechanology’ Special Projects Division! Contract employee. Does software design.” And then suddenly, she ran out of words. She fumbled. What the fuck did you say in this situation? She tried to put her thoughts together but forgot to close her mouth. “I . . . I mean . . . I gotta . . . Jesus, I . . . What the fuck are you doing running around the city in that . . . that suit, fighting fucking Vampires and . . . and . . . and rescuing people in distress? What — what are you, some kind — some kind of superhero in your spare time? Or what?”

Dizzy smiled. “Something like that, yeah.” The car lurched lower to the ground. Zoë jumped, and grabbed onto the door. Then it lurched upward, and a second or two later, the scenery outside was falling. Zoë looked out the window, and saw the 7-11 below growing distant and small as they ascended and moved forward. A sudden pang of vertigo hit her, and her stomach heaved. She grabbed onto the door handles and the seat cushions.

“Oh god, I think I’m gonna hurl,” she said, clutching her rebellious abdomen. Yeah, she was going to be sick. She could feel the vomit surging in her gut. She rolled down the window — the crisp morning air rushed past her and blew through her hair — and leaned her head out. They were almost to the cloud cover, and below her, the squares and patches of light that made up the city of Cambridge looked like intricate, glowing puzzle-pieces. She retched; the remains of her dinner came up and hit the side of the car and blew away in the wind. When she had finished — or at least she hoped she had — she brought her head back inside and rolled up the window, and collapsed back onto the seat. She wiped her chin with her sleeve. “Sorry about your car,” she said, feeling dulled.

“S’no problemo,” said Dizzy, waving away her apology. “I understand. You’ve just been through major trauma. I just feel bad for whoever that lands on.” She smiled mischievously and uttered a small laugh, and Zoë smiled too despite herself, and for a few seconds, they laughed together. It felt good to laugh.

“Would you like a drink?” asked Dizzy. She opened a compartment built into the rear of the driver’s seat. It was a tiny refrigerator, housing just four cans of Coca-Cola.

“Sure,” said Zoë. She was thirsty, and a Coke sounded delicious. She had dropped the one she had had at the gas station when the shooting had started. Goddamn Vampires.

Dizzy handed her one, and took one herself. Zoë cracked the aluminum top and took a swig. It tasted wonderful.

“Here,” said Dizzy, handing Zoë a cell-phone that she retrieved from a small bag tied to the forward armrest. “Call ‘em. Mmm. Jedi master, I am not. But true to my word, I am.”

Thanks,” said Zoë. She took the phone and dialed Mystikite's number, put it to her ear. It rang three times. Then, Mystikite answered.

“Uh, hello?” came the voice on the other end of the line.

“Wayne?” she said. “Haaaay there sweetie.”

“Zoë? Zoë! Oh thank God! Where the seven hells are you, girl? Are you okay? I was worried sick — ”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m . . . I’m fine. Right as raindrops. Yeah, listen, you’ll never guess what happened. I . . . uh . . . I sort of . . . ran into your boss from work.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” she said. “Mystikite? You still there?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah I’m still here. It’s just . . . you mean you ran into my workgroup manager Ken, right?”

“No, I mean your big boss. Desirée Weatherspark.” Dizzy shot her a frown from where she sat. “Excuse me. I meant Dr. Desirée Weatherspark.”

“Oh her. Hmm.” Silence again. “Listen, Zoë. It’s very suspicious that you ran into her, of all people. We’ve . . . got a lot to talk about when you get home. Listen, Zoë, are you okay? You sound shaken.”

“I’m . . . I’m okay. Had a little trouble on the way home. I’ve got a lot to talk to you about when next we see each other. Did you know that Vampires are real?”

Silence again. “Uh, what?”

“Yeah, Vampires. The kind you and I cosplay as. Y’know, Vampires. Blood sucking fiends. Creatures of the night. The kind that are allergic to sunlight and have fangs and that live on human blood. Have to rest in the Earth. Y’know. Vampires. They’re real.”

“Uh, no . . . no, they’re not. Vampires are not real, Zoë.”

“Yes, they are. They’re real as fuck, dude. A bunch of them attacked me on the way home. One of them sank its fangs right into my neck. I’ve got the bite marks to prove it.”

“Jesus! Zoë! Listen, Gadget is — ”

‘”But Dizzy was there. She saved me from them. Dusted them right in front of me. Did you know her Evangeliojaeger has weapons on it? Really powerful ones. She blew up the lead Vampire’s head with them. Blew the fucker’s head clean off. Blood everywhere. Got it all over me. Real mess.”

“Jesus, Zoë . . .” he breathed. “Listen, Zoë, you definitely don’t sound okay. Where are you, can I come and pick you up?”

“Dizzy is giving me a ride home,” she said. “I’m with her right now.”

“Zoë,” he said. “Listen. Dizzy is . . . Well, she’s dangerous. At least, I think she might be. I don’t know. Gadget and I ran into her earlier in the NeuroScape, and . . . well . . . she offered us both a job. A full time position, working for her company. Some kind of special team she’s building, some special off-the-books project. Listen, Gadget — ”

“Did you say yes?”

“Well, uh, yeah, kinda. Listen hon, what I’ve been — ”

“But you just said she might be dangerous!”

“Hey!” said Dizzy. “I resemble that remark, thank you very much!”

“Is that her in the background?” asked Mystikite.

“Yeah,” said Zoë.

“Oh! Well don’t tell her I said she might be dangerous!”

“Too late,” said Zoë.

“Yeah, well,” said Mystikite, “at any rate, yeah, Gadget and I both said we’d sign onto her team, but that was after she tied us up and threatened our friend, an artificial lifeform named Astrid. Like I said, lots to talk about. Anyway, listen, I have to get off of her. Gadget is hurt — ”

“What?” she said. She sat up straighter. “Gadget is hurt? Well why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

“I’ve been trying to,” he said. “Gadget and I were testing the improvements to the Dr. Manhatten Helmet — y’know, the fusion between it and the NeuroBand Headset hardware we’ve been working on? — and, well, we got all the way to Phase Three and something . . . well, something happened. Some kind of telepathic-telekinetic backlash hit him, and he’s . . . well, he’s . . . well, don’t panic when I say this . . .”

“I’m not going to panic,” she said. “Tell me.”

“He flew across the room, hit the wall, and now he’s sorta in a coma.”

“He’s what?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, yeah I did,” she said. “Okay. Listen. Is he lying down?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s his pulse?”

“Uh, normal, I guess?”

“Okay, good. Do his pupils dilate when you — ”

“Uh, well, they respond when I shine I light in them — ”

“Okay. Good. Is he running a fever?”

“No.”

“Okay. Is his breathing normal?”

“Uh, yeah, steady. Normal.”

“Alright. Did you hook him up to the EEG machine he keeps in his room? What do his brainwaves look like?”

“Your friend Gadget keeps an EEG machine in his room?” asked Dizzy. “Far out.”

Zoë shot her a look.

“Jesus hon, do I look like a fucking neurologist?” asked Mystikite.

Zoë sighed. “Spiky and jerky, or bumpy and wavy?”

“Uh, some of them are bumpy and wavy, some of them are spiky,” said Mystikite.

“Hmm, interesting,” said Zoë. “That’s . . . ununusal. That’s indicative of a lucid dream state. He’s dreaming, but he’s in control of the dream. Or something similar. Does he respond to touch? To pain?”

“Lemme see.”

Silence for a moment.

“Yeah, when I pinch him his face twitches.”

“Okay, good. He’s just sleeping then. He’s not ‘in a coma,’ hon. I’ll have to check him out when I get there. Just keep an eye on him, okay? Hook him up to the EKG machine — the way I showed you, that one time — and keep an eye on his heart function. And prep a syringe full of adrenaline in case things go south in that department. I keep it in the medicine cabinet next to the facial cream and the toothpaste. Please don’t confuse it with the mouthwash. It’s in a similar bottle is why I say that.”

“Okay. Please hurry home, hon. Love you. Mystikite out.”

“Bye,” she said. She pushed the button to end the call.

“Wow,” said Dizzy. “You two must have an amazing relationship. I often wonder what life would be like if I had the time for one of those.”

“Well, I guess we do,” said Zoë, and she shrugged. “I suppose you make time. So. Dizzy.” She handed the cell phone back to her, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap. “What I want to know is this . . . Why is the daughter of the wealthiest men in the world — and one of the top scientists in the country — and the head of one of the largest tech companies on the planet — doing looking for me at a run-down 7-11 in the middle of the night? And fighting off real-life fucking Vampires in a battle-ready mecha-Evangeliojaeger?” She managed a smile, despite the way she felt. “Like the old saying goes: ’Looo-cee? You got some ‘splainin’ tooo dooo.’”

“Indeed, I do,” said Dizzy. “The world is a strange place, Zoë. Far stranger than most Mundanes want to deal with. Or should ever have to deal with. Most people want — and should be able — to just live their lives, and should never have to deal with the world as it really is, in all its weirdness. You saw a glimpse of that weirdness tonight. Vampires are real. But other things are real too.”

“Such as?”

“What if I told you . . . that back in 2001, my father’s company, Mechanology, fished a spaceship out of the Arctic ice . . . An alien spaceship, one that had been frozen there for nearly 30,000 years. And that onboard, they discovered technology beyond the wildest dreams of Thomas Edison, Nikolai Tesla, or Elon Musk? Well, dead alien popsicles too — eww, gross, am-I-right? — but mostly kick-are tech. And that they had later reverse engineered some of that tech, and that at least a little of the results have found their way into at least, well, kinda a few of Mechanology’ inventions over the past twenty-five years or so? In fact, tech from their ship is what powers the Reactor in my suit, as well as its Repulsivators and Disruptophazers. Just sayin’.”

Zoë gaped. Realized she was doing it. Forced herself to close her mouth. The woman couldn’t be serious . . . Could she?

“Damn, Dizzy,” said Misto from the front seat, “when you hit people with a truth-bomb, you really hit ‘em with a Fat Man. Just breathe, Zoë. It’s okay. Yes, she’s telling you the absolute truth. And no, you haven’t just stepped into an alternate dimension. I promise.”

Zoë thought this over. Mystikite had worked for Mechanology now for three years; surely, if what Dizzy said was true, he would’ve known about this . . . wouldn't he? Confidentiality agreements be damned, if something that big were going down there, he would’ve blabbed to her and Gadget about it, right? She loved him, but yeah, he was lousy at keeping secrets. Then again, would he have even known about it? Probably not. Big companies tended to be like the military: They compartmentalized information; one department didn’t know what another was doing. If this was true, it was incredible; it could reshape Humanity’s paradigm of reality. It could change the face of Humankind’s perception of itself; the idea that there was intelligent life elsewhere in the galaxy . . . it inspired so much hope and optimism, and yet at the same time, so much dread and fear. It tells us we’re not alone. It reforges our sense of identity. It reaffirms the notion that there is a meaning to life. And it tells us that maybe we might one day make it; maybe we, as a race, can get there, just like “They” did . . . But then, there was the colossal existential terror that “They” might not want company or competition “out there,” and that “They” might be watching . . . and awaiting us not as potential friends, but as foes. To be either conquered and enslaved, or fought and won against. But for Zoë, Dizzy’s secret instilled pure hope, pure joy . . . if it were actually a reality. Finally, the Dream had come true. If it was true. Hopefully, Dizzy wasn’t bullshitting her. Please let this be real. Please.

“Dizzy . . . what you’re telling me . . .” she began, “it’s . . . incredible. On it’s face it’s . . . a little unbelievable. I mean — I — I don’t know. It’s . . . a lot to accept . . .”

“It is,” said Dizzy. “But believe it, girlfriend. You’re in a flying car kept aloft and motivated by space-warping, antigravity Repulsivators! You got rescued by a chick wearing a mecha-Evangeliojaeger powered by zero-point energy . . . one that uses neural interface tech that wasn’t invented here, and that’s made of a metal that can’t naturally occur on Earth, and that can’t be synthesized without alien tech, as well. Get the pictcha, soul-sista?”

Zoë blinked, and continued to think. What Dizzy had said — that “my father’s company,” not “the military” had found the ship — unsettled her. Dizzy seemed to imply that no one but Mechanology — including the government — knew of the ship’s existence. That it was a corporate secret, not a government secret. It always made her suspicious whenever big corporations got involved in shit. She knew their involvement was pretty much inevitable — damned well inescapable — in today’s world. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. Or ever trust said corporations as far as she could throw them. No sir. She felt herself tensing up again.

“And,” said Dizzy, “what would you say if I told you that right this very minute, there is a crazy man loose in this city who commands a Cybertronian Evangeliojaeger — one exactly like mine — and a host of other inventions that he mostly stole from my father’s company — who is hellbent on ‘evolving’ the Human Race toward some imaginary ‘apotheosis’ of organic and psychic development, some pinnacle of biological and mental evolution that he thinks exists, using a technology my father invented along with him thirteen years ago, and that has turned poor Misto here — ” She reached up and patted Misto on the shoulder as he piloted the car through the clouds; Misto responded by half-turning, smiling, and nodding — “into a part-time werewolf? And that it’s getting to the point where I can’t stop him by myself?”

Zoë nearly spit up her next mouthful of Coke. “Wait,” she said after swallowing. “First you tell me there are aliens out there. Real, actual aliens. From outer space. Right?”

“Right, yes.”

“And that they crash-landed here on Earth, thirty-thousand years ago.”

“Yep.”

“And that we don’t know if they’re friendly, or if they’re hostile, because the only ones you’ve encountered were dead, right?”

“Um, I do believe that is correct, yes.”

“Is she going to be this pedantic and rhetorical all the time?” complained Misto from the front seat. “Because the file you compiled on her didn’t say anything about her being this rhetorical.”

“Oh shut up,” said Dizzy, and she kicked the driver’s seat with her Repulsivator boot. “You’re pedantic. Asking rhetorical questions is part of the Socratic Method!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll lay off,” grumbled Misto, and then went back to driving through the clouds.

“Okay. So,” said Zoë, ignoring him. “We know that there are aliens — well, your company knows, but hasn’t told anybody; way to be socially responsible, there, Dizzy — but we don’t know if they’re good or bad. And your company has hold of the aliens’ technology.”

“Um, right.”

“And you haven’t figured all of it out, although you’re trying to.”

“Yeah.”

“And some of it, you have figured out.”

“Right.”

“And you used some of it in that . . . outfit you’re wearing right now.”

“Correct once again.”

“Including — and let me get this straight — an actual Zero-Point Energy Reactor. A thing that sucks electrical potential from out of the quantum vacuum.”

“You got it.”

“And that there’s this evil dude out there, who you let steal that, the suit’s tech, and other tech, too, and who has it in for you and Doctor — for Misto here, who’s a fucking werewolf — and apparently, for the entire Human Race, as well. And he’s out there, right now, and only you can stop him . . . except, you can’t, because he’s getting to be too much for you to handle, so you want to bring more people in on the problem.”

“Er, uh, yeah.”

“And you want to bring people in on the alien thing too . . . and not just to figure out their tech, either, which so far, you can’t, because the people you’ve hired — so far — aren’t worth what you’re paying them . . . But also, because you’re worried that there might be more aliens out there, somewhere. And that the law of averages states that if there are more of them, then at least half of them won’t be friendly. They’ll be hostile. And so you need a response team.”

“Uh, yeah, kinda-sorta, that as well. Wow, you’re really knockin’ these outta the park.”

“So,” said Zoë, “exactly how have you not botched this up?”

Dizzy blinked at her a few times. “Well now, I wouldn’t say ‘botched.’ I would say maybe ‘rolled a two or a three,’ at the worst.”

“I dunno,” said Zoë. “Sounds like you’ve botched it up to me. First, your company charges in and digs up this alien spacecraft, all willy-nilly, without knowing if it came from a friendly or a hostile alien race, and hordes it all to itself, without at least sharing the fact that fucking aliens exist with the government or the media. Then, you go hacking into its technology, heedless of the danger. Then, you figure out some, but not all, of its secrets. Then you go off all half-cocked, and incorporate it into everyday commercial products, and that suit. Which, by the way — amazingly, I might add — gives you the ability to walk, when you’ve been paralyzed from the waist down since you were age twelve! But, like the alien ship, you’ve neglected to share that technology with the rest of the world! Specifically, my world! The world of Medicinal Biotechnology! And, that suit includes a piece of tech that could probably solve the entire fucking energy crisis all by itself! And, what’s more, you let some deranged psychopath get ahold of the suit, the Reactor, and the alien tech inside both, and now he’s out there, getting ready to terrorize the whole goddamned planet with it! Oh, and there might be more aliens! In fact, there probably are more aliens! And chances are, they’re not friendly! And oh yeah. VAMPIRES! Did I forget the fucking Vampires? Yeah! I left out the goddamn living dead, the fucking Vampires! Shit! Can't forget the Vampires! Now did I leave anything out?”

“Only the part,” said Dizzy, “where I used the Mark XIII Evangeliojaeger to save your life. From the Vampires.”

“Well yeah I guess I did gloss over that,” said Zoë sullenly, leaning back in the seat.

“The point is,” said Dizzy, “I need help. And that’s the reason I tracked you down tonight. I’m putting together a crack team of individuals — on the company payroll, no less! — to help me do extensive work with alien technology, and to help me deal with existential threats to planetary security. And I think you would make an excellent addition to that team, Zoë. In fact, you’re the third person I’ve talked to. You and . . . two others . . . were at the tip-top of my recruitment list."

"I'm, uh . . . I'm . . . flattered, I guess?" said Zoë, genuinely at a loss for words. What the hell had just happened? Had Dizzy just offered her a job? Sadly — or so she thought — the first thing that occurred to her was that she couldn't take on any additional responsibility right now; her internship at the hospital was crushing enough on its own, and after that was over in a year, it would be back to the grind of the Biotech program at Morchatromik U. And yet, the idea was appealing. Fight Vampires. Or learn to fight them. Do stuff with alien tech. That idea alone beckoned, fascinated. Did Dizzy seem trustworthy? Hell no. But after what she'd seen tonight . . . were aliens really that big of a stretch? Hell no on that note, too. She bit her lip. She knew what she wanted to ask, but didn't want to betray the insecurity behind it. She hesitated. Fuck it. She continued: "But . . . why me? Look, you're rich. You're famous. Your company is one of the top research and development firms in the entire world. Mechanology makes everything from microwaves, to medical equipment, to military hardware . . . it's a household name. And you're obviously a brilliant scientist and engineer yourself. So why the hell would you want or need me? Why pick me for any of this? What makes me so special? Or even necessary?"

“Because for one thing, even as brilliant as I, by definition, am,” said Dizzy, “even I couldn't dream up something as incredible as the Physion Bio-Printer. You’re totally gifted, Zoë. As Jem, she of the holy Holograms might say, you're ‘Truly outrageous!’ Let's recap. As an undergrad, you published more papers in the Journal for Undergraduate Research than anyone else, second only to one person — your friend Gadget. And he only beats you by a slim margin. You came from a poor and broken home — your dad left when you were three, and your mom worked overtime as an extra in TV commercials and sitcoms to provide for you — and yet you managed to make straight A’s in middle and high school. Then you went to college at Morchatromik U and worked your arse off to graduate Salutatorian, with honors in Biochemistry and Microcellular Biology.”

“And a damn good showing in Quantum Chemistry,” said Misto from the front seat. “If I do say so myself. No ‘A’ though. Just a ‘B.’ I still wonder why.”

“If you have to know,” said Zoë, “and if I’m remembering right, it’s because my mom got sick that semester and I had to pull a lot of long hours working and taking care of her. So I wasn’t at my best academically.”

“Oh. Well now I feel like crap,” said Misto. “Never mind, forget I said anything. Your ‘B’ in my class is even more impressive, now. Looks like you had to work even harder than I imagined for it.”

“See?” said Dizzy. “Gifted. Talented. Not to mention loyal. And dedicated. So what do you say, Zoë? Do you want to consider the offer?”

“What offer, though?” said Zoë. “I don’t know the . . . the hours, or the pay, or the specific job duties, or the requirements, or . . . or the details of the position, or anything! You haven’t made me any kind of real offer! You’ve just gone on about aliens and supervillains!”

“Let me spell it out for you, then,” said Dizzy. She cleared her throat. “You’ll continue to work at the hospital like you do now, and go to school. But secretly, you’ll be working for me — and for Mechanology. You’ll retain all the rights to anything you invent or come up with, or any ideas for any inventions . . . but you have to give Weatherspark Dynamics and myself the first crack at implementing or co-patenting them with you, with you receiving a super healthy reimbursement if we choose to. You’ll also be given a souped-up, hyper-tricked-out laboratory at Weatherspark Dynamics in which to do . . . well, whatever the heckin’ balls you want to, whenever and however you wanna do it, however often you choose . . . but it’ll be mandatory that you work there at least three times a month, and report to me at least once a month. Also, you’ll meet with me to discuss the things I mentioned earlier. Aliens, supervillains, yada yada. And at least some of your work in your lab will be directed toward helping me. You’ll have a full benefits package, of course — health, vision, dental, the woiks. And you’ll be paid bi-weekly, around, say, nnnyeeeaaah . . . six thousand dollars per pay period sound okay?”

Zoë’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and she choked on her next swallow of Coke. “Say how much now?”

“You heard me, silly rabbit,” said Dizzy. “And Trix are for kids. And if I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.”

“Wow,” said Zoë, finishing off her Coke. “That . . . that sounds . . . Really, really good, actually. And all I have to do is agree to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement, I’m guessing. Right? Agree to keep Mechanology’ dirty little secrets from the rest of Humanity. Forever. For instance, I have to agree not to tell anyone about the single, greatest discovery in the whole of Human history. That we are not alone in this universe, and that there is other, intelligent life out there among the stars.”

“Hmm. I’m sensing you have a problem with this,” said Dizzy.

“You’re damn right I do,” said Zoë, putting down the empty plastic bottle beside her, and glaring at Dizzy. “I certainly have a problem with it. Your company is sitting on the truth. The truth about something that could change the face of Humanity. That could change the fate of Humanity. Something that could spark a revolution in philosophy, religion, free thought, art, the sciences, medicine . . . the way we view ourselves, the lens through which we look, the way we see the cosmos . . . Everything! And there it sits. Locked up. Behind closed doors. Not doing anything for anybody except for you. And what’re you doing with it? Using it to improve a mechanical suit that lets you fight a bad guy that you helped create. A suit that, by the way, could help thousands of disabled people walk again, just like it helps you, if your company wasn’t sitting on that secret, too. So forgive me if I don’t want to sign away my right to tell the whole goddamn world the truth about you, and your company, and how you’re screwing the rest of us out of the truth about the world, about the universe, and the wonders you’re keeping locked up and hidden away from us. Now then. Dr. Michaelson — Misto — whatever — land this car, now, so I can get out.”

“Wait,” said Dizzy. She reached out and put a hand on Zoë’s arm, and Zoë flinched. Goddamn it, was that how it was now? She was going to flinch every time someone touched her? She couldn’t have that. She refused. How could she go through life like that, being afraid to have people touch her? Maybe it would wear off; maybe things would go back to normal, eventually. But was there such a thing as “normal?” What was “normal” after something like that, anyway? How did you put your world back together after something like that shattered the border between what was real, and what wasn’t . . . and after someone like Dizzy tore down other walls of what was real and what wasn’t right after that? Maybe all she needed was a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. Or maybe a good therapist and a grueling few years full of torturous sessions in which she relived tonight over, and over, and over again . . . and eventually learned to deal with it, somehow. She still didn’t know what to tell Mystikite. How to tell him she couldn’t play “Vampire” with him anymore — the game, the role in the bedroom, the lifestyle, the clothing, any of it. She wanted nothing to do with it, now. Nothing.

Zoë paused reaching for the door handle in a demonstration of wanting to leave as Dizzy put her fingers on her arm and said, “Wait.” Zoë turned toward her.

“Why,” she said. “Why should I. Or rather, why shouldn’t I. Leave, that is. Leave and tell the whole goddamn world.”

“Listen,” said Dizzy, and she sighed. “First of all, who the heckin’ balls would believe you, Zoë? You’d be one of a gazillion picketing protestors who march in front of the doors to the company every day demanding that we stop testing drugs on animals . . . or that we be friendlier to the environment . . . or that we stop making weapons of mass destruction . . . Jeeze Louise, don’t get me started. And second of all, don’t you think we have a reason for keeping it secret? Yeah, okay. You’re right. There would be a revolution. But it wouldn’t be peaceful. You know how people are, Zoë. C’mon. Think about something: fourteen percent of Americans believe the sun goes around the Earth. Fourteen percent! Forty-seven percent believe in the literal Creation story from the Bible. As in, the Garden of Eden was a real frakkin’ place, with a real talking snake and a magic apple and everything! Really. They do. Most people can’t name all nine Supreme Court justices. Eighty percent of American households have not bought a book in five years. Eighty percent. Forty-seven percent of high school graduates never read another book in their lives. And these are the people you want to march in front of and yell, ‘Hey ya'll, guess what! There’re aliens out there! Real-life, actual aliens! Things a lot more different than you than foreigners ever could be! And they have technology — including guns — far superior to yours! And we don’t know if they’re friendly or not! And who knows how many there are! Anyway. Just wanted to tell you that! Have a nice day! And oh by the way . . . this means your religion, that you love so much, is total and utter horse-crap! G’bye now!’ Can you imagine, Zoë. Can you imagine. The panic. The riots. The murder rate, the crime rate. The suicide rate. The cults that would spring up. The political uproar. The religious backlash. The stock market fluctuations. The runs on banks and stores. The looting. The total and utter chaos it would unleash! No. No way. It’s better if we keep the thing locked up. Secret. Hidden. And kept far, far away from the eyes of the stupid, stupid people it would cause to go into full-on batshit-crazy mode and unleash the full, toxic wrath of their demonic idiocy on Human society at large!” She shivered.

Zoë opened her mouth to say something. Closed it. She thought about the evangelicals, neo-nazis, militia nuts, apocalypse cults, the generally ignorant, and the criminals out there. And not just in America — all over the world, the same groups in every society. The Islamic jihadists in the Middle East weren’t exactly good candidates for an excellent response. Neither was the fucking Vatican, nor the Jews in Israel, nor their Palestinian neighbors, or the folks in Pakistan or the Ukraine. North Korea . . . now there was a sack full of cats. God knew how the Chinese and the Russians would react . . . especially to news that an American company had been in control of the ship for so long and had covered it up. Would they buy the lie that Mechanology had always intended to share? Or that the American government had “always known?" Of course not. They were smarter than that. And the American government wasn’t going to take this lying down, either. Once the Feds found out, they would exercise imminent domain, and forcibly take the ship — along with any other discoveries and inventions they wanted — and then shut the company down and absorb it. And then there would go a pillar of the economy, as well as any good that might have come from the ship and its secrets. Instead it would all just disappear down a deep, dark hole and would never be seen again. Along with Dizzy, and her father, and everyone who worked for the company. Including Mystikite.

“Okay fine, I admit it,” she said with a sigh, “You do have a point. Misto, forget I said anything about landing and getting out.” Ahead of her, in the driver’s seat, Misto turned and nodded once. She turned to Dizzy. Somebody had to keep an eye on this situation. Someone responsible. Someone like her. She braced herself for the words about to come out of her mouth. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it. I accept your offer, Dizzy. I’ll join your team. But only under three conditions.”

“Name ‘em, soul sistah,” said Dizzy.

“Well, one — ”

“Not to interrupt back there,” said Misto suddenly, “but we’re here. Martha’s Vineyard, Diz. Home sweet home.”

Zoë looked out the window. She hadn’t been paying attention to the car’s surroundings, but now that she looked, she saw: They now rolled up the driveway of a gorgeous — if dilapidated — three-story, gothic Viktorian mansion. The yard looked impressive — hillocks of grass that rose and fell over two acres, with rhododendrons in rows that spread out from the house in a spiral — and, of course, fractal — pattern, dotted with tall, frightening looking trees that looked positively ancient; they had been here longer than the house had, probably. The grounds had probably been built around those scary-looking trees, in fact. The house itself spread out from a central tower — featuring a large, ornate rose window that spread over the top two floors, emblazoned with (of course) the triangular Starfleet insignia in stained glass — into two wings, each with three rows of tall, black-shuttered windows adorning them, with scads of dark vines crawling up their stately, scarlet brickwork from below. The black, tattily-shingled rooftops tapered upward toward the heavens like witches’ hats atop both wings and the tower, with the tower culminating in a wrought-iron-wrapped parapet topped with an array of satellite dishes and a large mechanized telescope assembly. A light burned behind the rose window, making the Starfleet insignia glow a fierce crimson and yellow. Various lights were on throughout the mansion, and the porch lights — two blue-white globes set into the mouths of two large gargoyles mounted above the large, black wooden doors of the entrance, styled to look like the animal robots from the cartoon TV series Voltron — came on as they rolled up the driveway and pulled into the cul de sac that wrapped around in front. The house looked old; older than any other house in Martha’s Vineyard. It almost looked organic, as though it had grown here, like the trees.

Misto turned off the engine. The glowing machinery the forward compartment of the car went dead, and the hum and whine of the engines ceased and began cycling-down. The door locks all popped open.

“You can tell me your conditions inside,” said Dizzy, smiling at her, “once you've washed all the blood and grime off, put on some of my clothes, and had nice a cup of tea. Deal-eo?”

“Er, alright,” said Zoë. “Fine by me.”

“Alrighty then, it’s decided!” cried Misto, grabbing his door handle and twisting. “Let’s go, hepcats! And, your preconditions notwithstanding — welcome aboard, Dr. Deschain! From here, there is no going back. You’ve reached the point of no return. Abandon all hope, all ye who enter here. Yada, yada, yada. Standard contract and such. I’m sure you’ll like working for Dizzy. Now everybody, outta the damned car; your resident theoretical physicist has gotta take a leak!”