The maglev slowly cruised to a stop, tilting all its occupants to the side slightly as it bled off speed. It came to a rest in front of the platform, marked with the symbols of the London Overground. A few people on the platform checked watches and shook their heads, because the trains rarely ran on time.

The doors shifted open, and the passengers disembarked – one of them, out of habit, looking skywards, at the ceiling that was hung so very low. The London arcology was flooded with channeled light, filtered through glass and off strategically placed mirrors, and technically it was the sun... but it just wasn't the same.

Someone with a hat shaped like a ribbed condom elbowed past her, and she sighed, and made her way to the walkways. Her hair was stark white, tied back in a tail, having finally been tamed long ago. Her deep green eyes were hidden behind an angular visor which doubled as a microcomp, projecting a simple HUD over the lenses.

Around her, everyone was talking to themselves – their computer agents on auditory. She had one herself, but used it sparingly, preferring the HUD. At least the HUD didn't make you look like you were talking to yourself. It was a little distracting, but she could multitask just fine.

She walked through the streets, feeling the rumble of the ground as the city hustled and bustled on the levels below. It seemed inevitable that in a stacked arcology like London, the lower class filtered down – not to the extent that it did back home, of course, but then, she remembered a time back home when it was called the United States of America. There were few others who did.

She patted her coat pocket, and frowned – and then looked in the pocket, her eyes widening. She patted down the rest of her pockets, and it was gone, except she'd had it when she'd left her apartment, so where could it have gone?

Into the hands of someone with a hat shaped like a prophylactic, that's who.

She reached into the coat's hidden pocket, reassuring herself that the important stuff – the real ID cards, the real credit chits – were all there. Just the fake wallet with the token amount of credit chits inside. It still was lost money, though, and that stupid hat was too common nowadays. She looked out over the crowd and saw more than twenty people wearing one. If she hadn't been on the HUD –

You can track him, Roxanne. Very easily.

She pulled her goggles off, looking stressed.

The wallet smells like you do. Just track your own scent. Undorm and track your own scent and then get your wallet back –

She shook her head, her throat suddenly dry, then forced herself to keep walking.

You'll give in eventually. You can fight it but you'll give in. The Aberrant was bluffing. You'll be just fine.

"No, he wasn't," she muttered. "I'd have known if he lied." And it was true, too – no one could really lie to her, least of all herself. It wasn't the money that was the problem. It was the itch.

She refused to scratch it, and kept going.



The hospital was busier than usual – it was never quiet, being run by the Æsculapian Order, and even if things were calm there were those willing to pay a premium for vitakinetic healing.

Things were not calm today – a pair of EVAC floaters were at the emergency ward, red and blue lights flashing in staccato. Frowning, she picked up the pace, fishing for her ID card.

She approached the entrance, and slid the card into the security slot. She then put her palm on the plate, wincing slightly as it drew a small blood sample. Orgotek had refined the design from when she'd first encountered it, years ago, but she could still feel it when others did not.

The screen displayed the day's date: December the 19th, 2122. There was holographic holly trim around the edges of the screen.. After a few second's worth of analysis, it displayed her vital statistics:

Tabitha Lang
Sample Match: 99.9998%
Access Granted
Hello Tabitha You Look Great Today

"Not so bad yourself," she replied, withdrawing her card and pinning it on her shirt. She half–walked, half–jogged through the doors, nodding to the receptionist. "What's happening?"

"Æon business, love."

"Æon?" Oh. Great. "What do they want?"

"They're coordinating all the orders. Aberrant trouble in Wales." The receptionist chewed thoughtfully on the stylus for her datapad. She'd been working there for only a few months and Roxanne kept forgetting her name. "They hit a school."

"Oh God, a school?"

"University. Yeah. They're bringing some of the really badly injured up here. Going to be a busy day."

Roxanne nodded. "Okay. Thanks."

"One more thing, Dr. Lang?"

"Yes?"

"Someone from Æon called Jason Hirsch. Had some very impressive paperwork. He's waiting outside your office."

Roxanne groaned internally, but on the outside she simply nodded. "Thanks."

She made her way into the hospital, grumbling. Six different patients she had to see today. Six different people traumatized, physically, mentally, and emotionally, all broken up and needing help putting themselves back together, and she'd have to waste precious time with Jason Hirsch. She felt like putting a fist through a wall.

She felt like doing a lot worse.

After a few minutes, she approached her office. The man waiting outside looked in his early thirties, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a brown suit. He glanced at his watch. "Running a little late, 'Miss Lang.'"

"We have sick people coming in by the dozen, 'Mister Hirsch.'"

"Yes. Aberrant attack, I'm told. Terrible thing. Hit a university." His eyes met hers. "I'd hate to be an Aberrant right now. Phoenix Squadron is out for blood."

"I hope they get what they're looking for. Also, correct me if I'm wrong but didn't I see you just a few weeks ago?"

"Think of it as a Christmas gift."

"Oh, I feel loved already. Fine, step into my office." She pressed her hand to the plate, winced slightly, and the door slid open.

They entered. She sat down. "What can I do for you, Jason?"

"Mister Hirsch, please."

"Fine, Mister Hirsch. Why the visit? Is Æon just stepping up its monitoring?"

Jason reached into his pocket and slid out a small device, that looked a bit like a seashell. He pressed a button on it and left it on the desk.

"What's this?"

"Orgotek's latest little toy, the BK–418. Broadcasts psychic chaff as well as electromagnetic interference. No one tapes us or reads our thoughts."

"Handy."

"Very. Vixen –"

"Tabitha Lang." She tapped the name plate. "I haven't been 'Vixen' in over half a century and you know it."

"Tabitha it is. Have you heard anything from any other Aberrants?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Well, I might have run into Yog-Death on the street the other day but he looks so ordinary, it could have been anyone. Yes, Agent Hirsch, I'm sure. They don't talk to me any more."

"Don't get lippy with me, Doctor Richardson – "

" – Lang – "

Jason ignored her. "You know everyone's flying blind and crippled since what happened to the ISRA – the clairsentients whom, I might add, were invaluable in telling us when Aberrant attacks were imminent. We get our intelligence where we can now, and that includes Aberrants in hiding, and that includes you. So I'll ask you again and if I'm not satisfied with the answer I'll haul you in for Ministry scans: have you heard anything from your fellow Aberrants?"

Roxanne ground her teeth. She tried to ignore images of Jason's head exploding with a gout of blue flame, or his senses rewired so he saw everything in photo–negative, or placing one careful bite and letting him try to walk out of here with fur and tails...

"Doctor?"

"Nothing. Not a blip. I don't talk to them, Agent Hirsch. A lot of my friends died in the war. A lot more of them went insane from whatever was eating at us long before that. A lot more still never understood why I did what I did in the end, and that was the end of our friendship. And the few I had left after all that, I fell out of touch with over the years."

"I find that hard to believe."

"You never fell out of touch with pals from high school? Or college?"

"My friends couldn't chuck meteors like baseballs or turn pepper to plutonium."

"Lots of mine couldn't either..." She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I haven't heard anything, Hirsch. I live on this planet too. I don't want it to die any more than you do. I swear to you – if I knew of any kind of incoming Aberrant attack you'd be the first to know."

He pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded. "I'll let you get back to work."

"I appreciate it. Don't forget your whatsit..." She waved towards the device on the desk.

He stood, palming the device. "Merry Christmas, Doctor."

"Right back at'cha."

He shut the door. Roxanne leaned back in her chair, and sighed.

Jason Hirsch hadn't been the first Æon agent assigned to keep tabs on her, of course – that honor had fallen to a young agent named Ruth O'Connor, and for forty–five years that was how it was. She had helped them through thick and thin, and spent a lot of Christmases together. Roxanne knew Ruth as a friend first and her 'minder' second, and didn't need telepathy to know that Ruth thought the same way.

But then she'd retired, and not long afterwards she'd died when her house was broken into and she'd gotten in a firefight with the burglars. Another agent had been assigned, and Jason Hirsch wasn't like Ruth at all – he'd grown up entirely in a time when the Aberrants were the devil, and in nearly twenty year's time he hadn't changed his attitude one iota. Hirsch had to have known about Project Rewrite to be assigned to such a sensitive case...

Maybe he just didn't care that not everyone with a Mazarin–Rashoud node was a raving lunatic. You could know not all dogs were rabid to still be scared that one would bite you.

Roxanne stood, and grabbed her coat off the rack in the corner, making sure the name 'Tabitha Lang' was straight. It had been one of Ruth's presents – after several years of good behavior, she'd persuaded her superiors to get new legal identities fashioned. It was as close to her real name as she was allowed, and she was grateful for it.

She reached for the door just before her microcomp beeped. Puzzled, she pulled it out.

The holographic agent flared to life, a bit fuzzy around the edges despite her attempts to fine–tune it. It was a bald–headed man with sunglasses, who attempted a smile – and despite being a computer program, he did a good job. "Sorry to trouble you, Doctor."

"It's all right, Chris. What's the problem?"

"They are asking me to rearrange your schedule for the next few weeks."

"Why? The influx of new patients?"

"Partly. One of them is a young exchange student from Rome, who might need your psychological expertise."

"What's wrong with her?"

"It's 'D.'"

Roxanne went pale. She turned away, squeezing her eyes shut. "Are they sure?"

"She is already showing the early signs. And Doctor Dorozio has already confirmed traces of 'taint' radiation. In the opinion of Doctor Dorozio, she will need help coming to terms with what the future holds."

"What's her name?"

"Samantha DuClaire."

"Give me her vitals."

Chris faded into the background, as fields of holographic light sprang up in front of him. She was nineteen years old, studying political and social sciences... her mother from England, her father from France, until the Esperanza eight years ago...

The hologram blurred, and after a moment Roxanne blinked away her tears.

"Doctor Lang?"

"Give me a moment, Chris." Memories swam through her mind. A man with eight insect eyes and his skeleton on the outside of his body. A young teenager not in control of himself, locked inside a titanic, feathered, winged body. A withered recluse who his eyes fused shut, and a girl made of titanium.

She half–expected the itch in her forehead to come back with them.

But it never did.



"Samantha?"

The young woman in the bed slowly turned to look at Roxanne. "That's me," she said weakly.

"I'm Doctor Lang. Call me Tabitha."

"Nice to meet you, Doctor. ... have you been crying?"

"I..." She bit down on her words: no, I'm fine. Why lie? "A little."

"Me too."

"Has anyone told you what's wrong with you, Samantha?"

"No. Not even when I asked the nurse. It's bad, isn't it?"

Roxanne took a seat. "It's called 'D.'"

"That's it? 'D?'"

"It's short for 'decay.' It's noetic. Basically... how do I put this..."

"I read a little bit on noetics in my first year, if that helps."

"Okay. There's a field of noetic energy that's basically a map of your psychic imprint. What happens with 'D' is that the field gets corrupted by spoilt quantum energies, and the field begins to break down..."

"Spoiled quantum? You mean taint."

"... yeah."

"Is there a treatment? A cure?"

"I'm sorry, Samantha, but no, there isn't. All we can do is make you a bit more comfortable."

Samantha turned away, and said nothing, staring up at the ceiling. Roxanne watched her quietly. She was so young... black hair and sharp features and brown eyes. She studied, that much Roxanne could still tell. Even a century later, you could tell the real university students from the pretenders.

Sam's face crumpled, and she blinked, tears dripping down the side of her head. "How long have I got?"

"It's tough to say. But... they say your noetic field was badly corrupted. It could be a few weeks, or a few months..."

"But not longer than that."

"No."

Samantha sighed, staring at the ceiling. "I feel stiff. Is that a symptom?"

"It is."

The room was silent a moment. Roxanne took her seat, feeling dreadful. This was the worst part of her job – normal trauma could be eased and aided, but how did you help someone comes to terms with their own imminent mortality? The best job you could do is send them to the grave with a sense of peace, and that never felt like a victory to her.

Samantha sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. "I shouldn't feel upset..."

Roxanne blinked. "You have a fatal disease – you're allowed to be upset – "

"I've lived in arcologies all my life. Did you know that the average lifespan of someone in an arcology is 32% longer than someone outside? And that statistic hasn't changed in thirty–five years. I..." She shook her head, and sniffed. "I shouldn't be upset. There's so many people who didn't even get what I have – what I had, out of life."

Roxanne said nothing. In her mind, the years fell away, and the Comm Crash and the Urban Schism were made real once again. She remembered the food riots, so much worse than the food riots at the start of the 21st century, because this time novas weren't the solution, but the problem. There were reports of cannibalism, not from nova cults or religious fanatics, but because there simply wasn't anything else to eat. So many years the two of them had spent, trying to heal the scars, and things were better now, sure...

But they still weren't good enough.

"Doctor?"

Roxanne shook her head. "Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?"

"Are you a vitakinetic?"

Roxanne shook her head.

"Just a regular person?"

"Yeah," she lied. "Therapist, actually."

Samantha nodded. "For a while – when I was younger – I would go in every year for latency tests. See if any order had a use for me. First two years, nothing. Third year, they had this nebulous result... did all these tests, and I hated the tests, but I just gritted my teeth and bore through it because I wanted to be one of the orders more than anything. But they couldn't figure it out, and after that, it never showed up again."

"Why did you want to join the orders?"

"Who wouldn't? Flying... controlling fire and lightning, reading thoughts, changing shape... traveling around the world in the blink of an eye. Seeing things no one else had a name for. Helping people who needed it. Did you ever want to do stuff like that?"

"You have no idea." She smiled.



The hours passed, and eventually, Roxanne's day came to an end. She returned home late, at almost nine o'clock, and turned on the bath the first thing. She dropped a few tablets of time–release bath oil, and sunk into the tub.

She felt the stress of the day bleed out through her skin, and let out a long sigh. She pushed the though of Jason out of her thoughts, and focused on Samantha.

Even in this day and age, the sad fact was that they still hadn't cured everything, so she had to handle a lot more cases like Samantha's than she wanted. Normal therapy – helping people cope with post–traumatic stress disorder, or reconcile themselves with cybernetic limbs – that she could handle. But the terminal cases were tough. She didn't always know what to say.

No, that wasn't it. It was the guilt.

She looked down at herself, noting that she didn't look a day over forty – not bad for someone in their mid–130s. She would probably grow old and die eventually, but not any time soon. Even dormed as she was, she was still immune to many of the diseases and poisons of the age. She tried not to let it be a barrier, but some days it still was.

"Drain," she said flatly. The tub obliged her, and she stood, toweling herself off and grabbing a robe. She tied her hair back and appraised herself in the mirror.

Over the next few weeks, Samantha's skin would wither and wrinkle. Her muscles would atrophy and her nerves would crumble. Her memories would fade and then, at the end, she would die.

And despite all that, she still felt bad about the people in the world worse off than her.

"Yeah," she said to her reflection. "Think about that the next time you feel low."



"Play."

The holodisc player was about forty years old, and dragged the rest of the devices in the room back in time with it for the sake of compatibility. Once upon a time she'd been such a gadget freak – first to buy a chip player, first to buy a high–capacity chip player, first to buy a video game system the day it came out.

She could have had the holo converted to modern storage media, of course. Keep everything up to date. But that would mean that someone might peek at the contents of the message, and thanks to the joys of digital rights management she couldn't do it herself. So this old, dusty holo player, kept alive by love and a trio of converter cables stretching back three generations, stayed with her.

The microphone was temperamental, and it stayed inert. She sighed, and spoke more clearly. "Play."

It clicked, and the holographic projectors hummed to life, flickering slightly, resolving itself into the picture of a man who looked to be in his seventies. His hairline had fully receded, his frame paunchy and stooped. He smiled at her.

She smiled back. "Hello, Mitch."

"Hi, Roxanne. I wish you could be viewing this under better circumstances, but if it's playing that means I'm gone. I can imagine what you're going through, because I thought the same thing, after our run–in with Bastian the first time, or when you got stuck in the rainforest, or all those times during the war that I'd heard unconfirmed reports on the OpNet that you'd entered the fray..."

Roxanne nodded, rubbing her eyes at the sensation of familiar tears. She remembered the same feelings, from the night before he'd proposed... from when he'd been taken hostage in a bank robbery... from the war itself, when he flew an ambulance. And those dark, dark days he'd never liked to talk about, with their marriage on the rocks over that stupid, stupid law. And that gnawing fear in the back of her head, of outliving him... that had resolved itself, briefly, in the hands of a nova with power over time itself, who had dialed them both back to a fit and trim 19...

But there were no such novas left. Not where she was, anyways.

"... it's funny. If you're viewing this I'm dead now, and that's hard for me to think about. But I'm not getting younger – not more than once – and I have to look to the future, even if I might not be there any more. We had good times together, Roxanne, and I'm proud of what we did before and after the War. I was proud to be your husband, and so damn happy that you were my wife.

"But if you're seeing this, them I'm gone – to whatever happens next. And you're a good scientist, and a good headshrinker. And you've got to go on, for as long as life will let you. There are people who need help and you can give it to them. I'll see you soon enough. Trust me on this. I know you never really believed like I did, that we all went on to somewhere else... but trust me on this. Nothing really dies, and nothing is truly destroyed. Water evaporates into the air, condenses as steam, rains down, freezes, melts, and runs and joins the ocean. That's where I'm going, Roxanne. The ocean. And..."

Mitch's face contorted, and Roxanne laughed – because Mitch's impression of Gandhi never failed to crack her up, and it was one of his favorite quotes. "You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty."

The holograph smiled, waiting for her to get her breath back. After a few moments, she did, and he continued. "Have I told you lately, how much I love you?"

"Not this century, no."

"I'll tell you one last time. I remember the first time I saw you, tied into your wheelchair, fumbling at the controls, your head in a brace. I remember that brief little shiver in my spine. That reminder of how easy it is to slip and fall. Then we got to working together, and I saw the brilliant, beautiful mind buried in a body that didn't work right, and I felt so guilty for judging you on that first impression... so guilty that I never said anything about it, about anything I felt. I would have grown so old and miserable, if you hadn't erupted, and if you hadn't seen it without me saying anything. And everything bad that happened since... with Tabitha, which I admit, still hurts... I wouldn't have traded away a minute of it. You were my life, Roxanne, and I loved every bit of it, and every bit of you."

Roxanne swallowed thickly, and rubbed her eyes. Mitch gave her a moment's pause, then continued. "I still wish I could show you, how much I love you – but I'd hate for Aquarius to make good on his threat. All I can do is hope that this one last time... that I don't have to show you. That you know."

"I know, Mitch." She buried her face in her hands. "I know."

"I'll see you when your time comes, Roxanne. I hope every day until then is gold."

The hologram flickered, and faded. Roxanne choked back a sob.



"It's over, Vixen."

Vixen tried to force herself calm, but it wouldn't work – her heart jumped all over the place. She was staring down death in liquid form.

The man in front of her – and despite everything that had happened, it was just a man as far as she was concerned – was made entirely of a pale blue liquid, semitransparent, with a smell that reminded her of street cleaner mixed with Jello. There were indents where the eyes were supposed to be, and a sickly red glow from some point in the forehead. He floated over the withered, rust–flecked husk of a man wearing the uniform of the Æon Covenant.

This was Aquarius. He was one of the most dangerous of Divis Mal's immediate inferiors. They whispered about what he was capable of – that he could do things that made the original Bahrain incident look like brain surgery with a stapler.

She hovered in place, and spared a look around. The Æon base had gone on full alert as soon as she'd gotten the message an hour ago. It had gone beyond sight and sound, beyond mere telepathy, to a rumbling message that resonated with the very structure of her Mazarin–Rashoud node.

Divis Mal had spoken to them all. He said that they were leaving.

She'd told the others, and they'd gone on full alert. She'd been contacted by a young agent named Ruth O'Connor, still nervous and scared. Ruth told her that Divis Mal had just incinerated the Secretary of the United Nations, and had made one of his trademark speeches while bullets atomized around him. The Aberrants were leaving, and Æon had made it clear – when they said 'Aberrants' they meant everyone with a Mazarin–Rashoud node.

Ruth had told her there was room for compromise. That already there were talk of colonies, where human and nova could both start over. She didn't have to leave him behind.

Vixen took it all in and then asked for a moment alone. She'd gone into a forgotten corner of the base, away from blaring klaxons and shouted orders, and had told Mitch everything.

Mitch was in the middle of evacuating San Francisco when the psychic call had come in. He'd divided his attention, stabilizing a ten year old girl whose ribcage had been disintegrated, and listened to every word Roxanne had said.

He'd told her how much he loved her.

Then he'd showed her.

That was all they had time for, before the intruder alert. Vixen had said goodbye, and then cut the link. She'd arrived just in time to be too late.

The man had been a low–level officer. He always smelt a bit off, but Vixen had never said anything, and now she never would. He'd burst open, all the water in his tissues condensing to form a liquid body to host the consciousness of Aquarius.

"Did you not hear me?" he rumbled. "You have heard the proclamation of our patron. Doubtless one of these scurrying dogs – " He waved towards Ruth, who shrank back. "Has told you this means all novas, those who believe and those who have sinned."

"I heard you."

"Then come. Let us away from this fetid interstellar armpit. Let us leave the womb."

Vixen was silent.

"You have been informed that you can keep your precious monkey pet, yes?"

"No. I've been informed that my husband can come with me."

"As I said."

"Sorry, Aquarius, but the answer is no."

A roiling ripple crawled across the surface of the nova's body. The voice bellowed in the rage that Aquarius was legendary for. "You do not get to say 'no!' This is beyond you! This is beyond you and your pathetic attempts to fit in! This is beyond even me! This has been debated on levels even my glorious aspect has yet to evolve into! All those of the One Race! ARE! LEAVING!"

Everyone in the room had weapons out and pointed at Aquarius. Normal bullets wouldn't do a thing, but bullets loaded with fast–transmit Eclipdisol–3 would be a different story. A last resort, though, because no one wanted to think of what would happen if Aquarius lost control.

"I'm sorry, Aquarius. I'm sorry, Ruth." She turned to the young agent, who was trying so hard to stay calm, with a dead man and an angry nova in front of her. "I'm sorry if this upsets your plans, but this is my home and I'm not budging an inch."

Ruth coughed, clearing her throat. "Vixen – Roxanne – this has to be done."

"Does it?"

"You can't live here any more. I'm sorry, but you can't. People will just look at you and see the millions that died. The OpNet's gone – just gone. All that history and it's dust. Can you promise that you'll never turn out like that? And I mean, really promise?"

"The law doesn't punish based on what you might do. Only what you did do."

"The law…!" Aquarius made a noise not unlike spitting. "Even with all the evidence plain to see you still cling to – "

"Not having this argument with you. Christ… what about the chips the Directive has?"

"They still don't work. They dissolve unpredictably. It would poison you over the course of years if you ever had one put in."

"Got another suggestion? I'm all ears." She flicked her ears to demonstrate.

Aquarius rumbled. "You speak of the chip – the violation invented by the Directive – as if it were… desirable?"

"Not until they solve the problems with it – "

"But the idea behind it? You would live here, dormed, crippled and helpless amongst the monkeys, rather than explore the cosmos itself?"

"Given the choice? Yes."

"HOW!?" Aquarius roared, and even Vixen rocked back slightly. "How can someone so intelligent be so stupid? How can someone so perceptive be so blind? You were from the first generation! You have seen what they are like for sixty years!"

"I have. That's why I want to stay."

"When will you grow up? When will you admit that you and they are not the same and never will be? That they are our enemies, blind and deaf and dead, crawling in the darkness cast by our very shadows? When will you learn, Vixen? When will you LEARN!?"

"What makes you think I'm the one who has something to learn?"

The room was dead silent. Vixen fought to keep her stomach down, and noted grimly that she didn't have to fight as hard as she used to. There was a time when the smell of death nearly drove her to vomit, but the past decade had given her lots of opportunity to get used to it.

Finally, Aquarius moved. He grabbed her, and before she could turn intangible she felt a sensation like a lead blanket thrown over her powers. Aquarius pulled her inside of him, and she had time for one last breath before she was covered.

"No one fires, or she dies."

Ruth looked to Aquarius, and then to the others. "Let her go."

"Or what?"

"We'll have to shoot. We'll kill both of you but we'll have to shoot."

Aquarius chuckled, a wet sound that make Ruth's skin crawl. "Of course. What other solution are your frail minds capable of, besides violence? But worry not. I will be gone from here soon enough. She will live. That will not change unless you fire."

The color of the pinpoint of light in Aquarius' head pulsed through a spectrum of colors. Inside his form, Vixen grabbed her head, gritting her teeth. Her green eyes flashed once, and then she changed shape, returning to the fully human form of Roxanne Richardson.

Aquarius let her go, and she fell to the ground, next to the dead man Aquarius had formed himself out of. "There."

Ruth knelt beside Roxanne. "What did you do?"

"There is a charged packet of energy within her third eye. It will never harm her, as long as she keeps it closed. The moment she opens it, it will cascade throughout her brain, killing her in minutes. She has this planet now – she has her 'life.' For however long she can resist temptation. If this is not enough to satisfy your masters, then you can kill her yourself."

With that, the light faded, and the water cascaded to the ground.



The next few days were hectic. Some difficult patients, sure – she hated it when they closed themselves off and wouldn't let her help – but much of it was her fault too, she realized. Her thoughts kept drifting back to Samantha DuClaire, and she found herself looking forward to those sessions with her more and more.

By the fifth day, Samantha had started to show. She needed a wheelchair to get around in, and could only talk above a whisper for a few minutes at a time. The remarkable thing was, she was dealing with it incredibly well – and so, many of their sessions, they just talked.

Samantha had been born in Paris, in 2103. She'd lived much of her life inside the giant Paris arcology, well inoculated, and well fed. She'd grown up with an older brother she never got along with – Laurence was his name – and a dog. Her father was into real estate – her mother was an accountant.

When the Esperanza crashed over Europe, she'd lost her brother, her father, and her dog. She'd been trapped under a hundred tons of rock for five days. She'd drank contaminated water that tasted like aluminum out of a burst drain pipe, for which she'd needed to be extensively detoxified, a hospital stay in London that had lasted for months. Her mother visited her every day, and she'd heard her praying for her to get better, to please get better, that she'd lost a husband and a son and could not bear to lose her too.

She never forgot the experience, or the feeling of utter relief when the light broke through and the search and rescue team rappelled down to retrieve her. After that, her mother moved back to London, greasing a few palms to get them a spot in the arcology.

Through her teen years, she had picked up and dropped pet causes at a rate of one every three months. Samantha's voice cracked as she described the arguments she'd had with her mother over the ethics of biotech, exploiting a living organism for the sake of a few so–called 'gifted,' and how could her mother justify handling the tax services of a division of OrgoTek?

Five months after that her mother got hit by a car. It didn't seem so important afterwards.

Samantha had bounced around in social services until she'd hit the age of majority. She said that her mother's passing was a wake–up call, that there just wasn't time to waste on stupid things because life could end with the snap of someone's fingers. She studied like mad and got a scholarship, and wound up studying political and social sciences, engineering new ways for people to live.

That, she said, was it. That was life. Not much of one, but there was always someone knocked down when you were standing, just as there was someone standing when you were knocked down. Always someone better or worse off than you, and really, wasn't the point of human society to eliminate that?

Samantha sat in her chair for a few moments as Roxanne collected her thoughts. She tapped her stylus on her datapad, which was blank except for the time organizer's vital statistics. 4:18 in the afternoon, no more appointments left.

"Samantha…" she said slowly. "Don't answer this if you don't want to…"

"Don't be afraid to ask."

"How do you feel about the fact that you're going to die – soon?"

Samatha's gaze drifted towards the ceiling. "I… ha. This is going to sound corny, but… I'm at peace with it."

"Honestly?"

"Yeah. I was upset at first, but… it comes for everyone. Everything ends. Even if you go through life without 'D,' everyone dies. You can get an extension but it's just adding a few more years. You should measure like by quality, not quantity, shouldn't you? And quality–wise… I had it pretty good. Not perfect, but whose life is?"

Roxanne nodded. "That's a good attitude to have."

"I had a lot of time to think about it – not much else to do in that room besides watch 'Far Side of Forever.' And I won't find out how it ends."

Roxanne laughed. "No. No, I guess not."

"Is our time up, Doctor Lang?"

"In a few. I'll wheel you back." Roxanne stood up, and stretched, reaching around and grabbing the wheelchair handles.

She pushed the chair down the hall, and a few minutes later they arrived back at Samantha's room. Roxanne helped her up and back into bed.

"Are you okay, Tabitha?"

"I'm fine. I…" Roxanne exhaled, feeling shaky.

"Is something wrong?"

You'll blow your cover, she thought to herself. She doesn't need to know.

It was true. Samantha didn't need to know. No one really needed to know. Hell, some days even she didn't want to think about it any more. But Samantha was a good person, who'd reminded Roxanne of a few things she'd forgotten, and maybe she deserved a tiny bit of honesty before the reaper came.

"My name's not Tabitha, Samantha."

Samantha arched an eyebrow. "It's not?"

"I took the name on a while ago. Tabitha was my… my daughter."

"Your daughter?" Samantha read Roxanne's face, and her expression softened. "Oh, Doctor… what happened?"

"We adopted her. My husband and I. We couldn't have kids, you see. My fault. I would have trouble carrying a child to term. Injury from when I was a kid. So we adopted her… she was two years old when we did. God, I loved her. So did my husband, Mitch. And then, three years after that, we…"

Well, after some genius with a node and a grudge wound up killing five hundred people in the heartland of America, new laws were passed. New attitudes swept the country, and one of them was that novas were kind of 'danger attractors.' Tough place to put a kid in, don't you know? Social Services showed up, and wouldn't leave us alone, and we fought and fought and fought, and it wasn't enough, and we…

"… we had to give her up. Social Services wouldn't let us keep her."

"Why?"

"Sorry, Sam. I can't say."

"It's okay…" Sam glanced briefly to Roxanne's fingers. "You don't have a…"

"My husband and I… it just about killed us. We fought all the time, because we were so upset and frustrated. We went through a trial separation, and then…"

Roxanne left the end of the sentence dangling in the air. She looked at Samantha, and her dark hair, and brown eyes, and Samantha reminded her of Tabitha – it was so obvious now. Roxanne felt old, and wanted to tell her everything, that Mitch had gotten back together with her, and they'd survived everything else the world would throw at them until one night when he just passed mercifully on in his sleep…

"I'm so sorry, Doctor."

"It's okay. It's an old hurt."

"What's your real name, if you don't mind me asking?"

Roxanne blew out, drumming her fingers. "… oh, what's the harm? My name's Ro – "

The sentence was cut off by the hospital shaking, with a sound that shook the teeth in Roxanne's head. She lurched, and so did Samantha, her head lolling uncontrollably to the side.

Roxanne fought to steady her feet, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She felt her blood run cold. No.

She checked Samantha quickly for injury. Samantha groaned. "What was – "

"I'm going to check. Stay quiet." Roxanne stood back up, satisfied that Samantha wasn't going to die ahead of schedule, and then bolted out into the corridor.

She didn't get ten steps in before she stopped, staring at the ever–widening hole in the ground – twenty feet long, cleaving the floor out of the hallway. It played doorway to a woman covered in black oil, with a distended skull and sharp teeth.

The woman looked at Roxanne, and smiled, and a wave rolled out from her forehead, washing over the corridor with a cold, sick horror. Roxanne felt like throwing up, but kept standing through sheer willpower.

"Now, that's odd," she remarked. "I sense a node in there… and that white hair… my God, it's you. It's the Vixen."

"What are you doing here? Who are you with?"

"You don't need to know that, now do you? No, don't think so. No. Oh, what the hell. I'll tell you anyway. It'll piss off Nixla and she's so adorable when she's pouty. We're here for the docs, Vixen. The vitakinetics. After the strike last week, a lot of highly trained Æsculapians are here, and we're gonna kill them all and let Mal sort 'em out."

"These people – "

"Yes, yes, they're sick and need help. So are we. Our sickness is lots of meddling little humans with powers we're not quite sure we know what to do with. We have to operate… aggressively." She smiled lopsidedly. "Ha, that's good. I'll remember that one. Oh relax, Vixen, we're not here for you…"

"No?"

"No. You're one of us, even if you've forgotten. We only target human facilities. So relax. Go back in that room and wait, and we'll be gone. You'll be safe and sound. We're only here for the humans, Vix. You're fine by us."

The oily woman turned, and floated down the corridor, across a twenty foot gap, and towards Doctor Dorozio's office. Klaxons rang throughout the hospital, and she didn't hear them. Sirens flared and she didn't see.

They're not here for you.

Roxanne slowly rubbed her temple, and looked back towards Samantha's room.

They're just here for the others. If you try to stop them they'll kill you.

"Not if I open my eyes."

Then you're dead anyway! Dead. You're a nova and your life span's indeterminate. You're a doctor and there's plenty more people you can help. Just run and hide and wait. Think of all the good you could do later on…

"I am."

Then why aren't you in that room?

She looked towards the room, and thought of its occupant, stuck in a withered shell of a body, thanks to an affliction that was supposed to stay with people like Roxanne. She thought of the notion that life should be measured by quality, not quantity. She thought of the strength it took to keep on living in a body that didn't want to let you… because once upon a time, she had it herself.

She felt a charge in the air, and a complex world became simple.

There's a lot of good you can do later, if you survive. Why aren't you in that room?

"Because there's a lot of good I can do right now."

She sucked in a deep breath, and ran towards the hole in the corridor, twenty feet long with the next floor a hundred feet down. She jumped, and felt the familiar tingle wash over her, a rush she would never forget. Her body distended, her clothes tearing, as the tails – all five of them – poked their way free. Her eyes glowed green as her head changed shape, becoming sleek and vulpine, with pointed ears, a long muzzle, sharp teeth and thick fur. The fur washed over her in a wave of orange and white and black.

In midair, she stopped, briefly, getting her bearings. It was true after all. Flying was just like riding a bike – you never forgot how.

She zoomed down the corridor. She rounded it, and saw the door to Dorozio's office start to melt at the touch of the corrosive aberrant, the wood liquefying and turning black.

Vixen coughed loudly. The aberrant turned around, eyes widening.

"What – but – but – "

Vixen's eyes glowed, exhuming green ethereal smoke, and the corridor breathed. The walls grew arms and grabbed the Aberrant, changing composition to the most acid–proof alloy Vixen could think of. They held the slick aberrant fast, and Vixen raised her arm, blue fire licking at the tips of her fingers.

"We're not here for you! We're here for them!"

"I know."

"Then why!?"

"Because I'm one of them."

The blue ball of flame streaked through the air, and struck the oily Aberrant square in the chest. She gave out a brief yelp of pain before she was consumed, going up literally in smoke that charred the walls.

Vixen listened carefully, for Doctor Dorozio – his breathing was labored, scared, shaky, but alive. She nodded, rainbow colors rippling through her fur, and she slipped through the floor.

The Aberrants were, thankfully, being far from subtle. They were rounding up the vitakinetics for public execution in the center of the hospital – a massive atrium, with waterfalls and a giant statue, filled with screaming people and terrified doctors. She sniffed the air, the scents overwhelming her, that sharp tang of tussled water in the air, that smell of fear, that crawling sensation when something was near that, biologically speaking, shouldn't work. She faded from view, and watched what looked like the ringmaster – a man who looked like a wax dummy set too close to the fire, coordinating the formerly human, now sub–Aberrant stock as they rounded up every vitakinetic they could find.

She recognized the central figure, a man who preferred his 'true name' to be expressed as a complex atonal sonic resonance. The others must have been what she'd been hearing rumors about – that to bolster their numbers, the Aberrants had begun using normal people as proxies of a sort, a process she was all too familiar with herself…

She swooped down, and let loose with a bolt of lightning. It cascaded through the mutants, sending them flying. The wax like man dodged out of the way, and looked skywards, his eyes widening.

"This is in the name of the Colony! You have no right!"

"Yes, I do."

His eyes flared, and he screamed – a sound that sent her tumbling end over end, clutching her ears. The ground shook, and he was borne aloft, on waves of sound that made her bones ache. They maneuvered through the air, and she stated on the defensive as best she could…

"You know nothing of the new war! Nothing of what has happened here. Nothing of the Four–One–Eight. Nothing of the future! You have spent decades stuck on this miserable orb – "

" – which you're so keen on attacking – "

" – and you know what you are, Vixen? A joke. A punch line among the One Race. What do you know?"

"I know how to make soundproof super foam."

The Aberrant paused, and then a large, grey glob – carved from the ceiling – fell straight onto him and encased him instantly, sending him plummeting to the floor. He screamed – or tried to – and then he hit the ground with a dull thump.

Vixen wasted no time. She became visible, and her eyes flared green, and she winced at the collective screams of her coworkers below. But she shut them out and went into the Aberrant's mind, taking control of his senses and his thoughts.

The Aberrant found himself in the middle of a soundless vacuum, unable to shout, unable to scream. He noticed light on his skin, and realized that was the least of his concerns. He turned, and stared at the sun, which doubled in size, every second…

No one heard his scream, muffled in the foam. Vixen shivered as she felt his heart seize, and then he was gone.

She gave the atrium a quick once–over, to make sure that the mutants were staying put, and then she flew back upwards.



She looked in the doorway, at Samantha – who was rolled over on her side, unable to turn and look. She sucked in a deep breath, and tried to dorm…

"Arrrrghhh!" She clutched her head, gritting her teeth.

"What's that? Who's there?" Samantha's voice was barely a whisper, sounding terrified.

Vixen wiped her nose, staring at the blood on her arm. Even thinking about it was like a white–hot knitting needle in the eye. She could feel it, roiling and boiling inside of her. Like a pressure valve that would buckle any second.

It wasn't an indefinable number of years off any more. It was right here.

She was dying.

"It's me, Sam. It's Tabitha."

"Tabitha? Your voice sounds so strange…"

"I know. Listen. We haven't got much time. My real name is Roxanne Richardson. And people, once upon a time, called me the Vixen."

"Why?"

"Promise me you won't get upset."

"I…" Samantha swallowed. "I promise."

"They used to call me a nova, Samantha. Now they call people like me Aberrants, except we're not all Aberrants. Some of us don't want to destroy the world or its people. Some of us aren't drunk on our own power. Some of us are like me, Samantha. Just living our way through life."

Samantha was silent. Vixen sighed. "Are you scared?"

"No."

"Thank you." She walked closer. "I'm going to turn you around. I can't go back to the way I looked a few minutes ago, so I'm going to look a little strange. Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

Vixen rolled her over. Samantha gasped as her eyes met Roxanne's, a reaction that Vixen would never really get used to. "Oh my God…"

"Yeah. I know."

"… your nose is bleeding. You're hurt."

Vixen blinked, wiping her nose unconsciously. "… usually people say, 'oh my God, oh my God, it's a monster.'"

"What was that sound? What happened?"

"Other Aberrants. Don't worry, they're not a threat any more. But I'm dying, Samantha. The condition of me staying on Earth when the War ended was that I could never use my powers again, or I'd die in minutes."

"Why did you use your powers? You could have just hid."

"I could have. But they'd have killed all the doctors, Sam. They might have killed the patients. And…" She coughed on her sleeve, leaving a crimson stain behind. "And I would have been dead inside, if I'd let them do that."

"You stopped them?"

"Yeah."

Samantha was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke. "Come closer, Doctor."

Vixen obliged. Samantha lifted first one arm, then the other, cradling Vixen's head in her hands. A little blood dripped on her neck as she pulled her close, kissing her on the forehead. "Thank you."

Vixen smiled. "It was worth it."

"For the record, Doctor, you look magnificent."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all century." Vixen winced, and raised a hand, rubbing her temple.

"How long have you got?"

"Minutes." She looked at the clock on the wall. "It's so strange… everything feels so different than the last time I undormed."

"Undormed?"

"I can sort of 'suck in' my superpowers and internalize all the energy. When I do that I look normal, but I don't have my powers and my senses aren't as sharp… something's changed." Roxanne got up, looking around the room. "I can feel it. Something's different now. There's a charge to the air."

For a few moments, the sirens were the only noise in the room. Vixen delicately walked around, looking at dust on the endtable, hands on the clock, and counting the tiles on the floor. She muttered to herself, low enough that Samantha only caught scraps.

"Doctor? What's floor wonate?"

Vixen smiled. She turned back to Samantha. "I see it now."

"See what? Doctor? Roxanne?"

"Samantha. It's my time. I… I accept that. I'm from one age and it's over now. A new one's starting. The signs are everywhere." She waved around the room. "In the early years of my time… of my era… I was a lot like you. I wish I had half your strength back then, but that's beside the point. I was a lot like you, and someone… something… saw that in me. Someone thought I was worth saving." She strolled around the room as she spoke, staring at something only she could see.

"Who saved you?"

"It's not important. I don't even know if I could explain it to someone else." She wandered, half–distracted, back to Samantha's side. "My God, I can see it now. What it was about all along. I see what it was all for. Samantha?"

"Yes?"

"Once upon a time, someone saved me. Now… I'm going to save you."

Vixen lunged, too fast to dodge even if Samantha could. She sunk her teeth into the young woman's neck. Samantha cried out, mostly from shock, for the nerves were half–dead already.

Then her eyes widened, as Vixen's eyes glowed, and she felt the charge in the air, just as Vixen did. It sent tingles through her skin and her muscles, like she'd cut off the circulation to everywhere and the blood was just now flowing back in. She gasped in shock. "Oh. Oh."

Vixen held on, as the green light began to dim. Inside her mind, she prayed. She didn't pray often, but when she did, she meant it.

Finally letting go, Vixen flung herself back, gasping for breath. Samantha reached a trembling hand up to the base of her neck, feeling for blood… and finding none. "Roxanne… what did you do?"

Vixen smiled lopsidedly. "Come on. Stand up."

Stunned, Samantha lifted herself up, her muscles listening once more. "Oh my God… I feel great! I feel wonderful! What happened? What was that?"

"Once upon a time it may have been how kitsunes made new kitsunes." Vixen twitched. "Then it was the triggering of a latent genetic sequence through telepathic suggestion and the transfer of quantum energy." She held out her hands, and took Samantha's in them. "Now… it could be another quantum trigger of another genetic sequence, giving you what it takes to live with a little bit of taint. Or it could be anything. Who knows, right? It's all new from here on out."

She squeezed Samantha's hands tightly. "Listen. Things are going to get weird for you. But weird can be wonderful. I hope it's wonderful for you – half as wonderful as it was for me. I hope it's a tenth as wonderful. I hope it's ten times as wonderful. It's all your time now, Samantha. Love every second of it."

"I don't understand…"

"You will. Take the quiet time to listen to yourself. It all became clear for me, and it'll become clear for you. Oh. Do you smell that?"

Vixen sniffed the air. Samantha did likewise, her eyes widening. "I do smell something! What is that?"

Vixen grinned, ear to ear. "It's the ocean."

Her left eye twitched, and without a further word, Vixen crumpled to the floor.

And that was her life.



"So what happened here?"

Agent Jason Hirsch surveyed the atrium, noting the deceased form to his left, and looked up at the high ceiling, and the hole that was missing. The man to his left was an older man of African descent, whose nametag read Doctor Dorozio. Around them both, dozens of men in blue uniforms buzzed.

"Well, Agent Hirsch, I was in my office so I can only tell you what I myself experienced. The first thing I felt was a queasy feeling in the back of my mind, that I did not know the meaning of until it was too late. Then the large noise, which I can only assume was the sonic cry of this gentleman over here – " He waved towards the blob.

"His name is Henry Fuchs. His birth name, at any rate."

"Mister Fuchs, then. Then I felt a cold, sick horror that I can only describe as wanting to vomit from every pore. I regret to say that I could not move for at least a minute. While paralyzed, I felt a terrible Aberrant force outside of my door… and then it was gone. I inspected, and found black smoke stains on the wall, the hallway melted away. I managed to make my way down through the emergency exits, and here I am."

"So you didn't see anything?"

"All I saw, I told to you. What conclusion are you drawing?"

Jason Hirsch stared up at the ceiling again. "They say that witnesses reported some kind of fight between Fuchs and another Aberrant?"

"That is the rumor I have heard."

"One of them must have had a change of heart."

At that moment, another man in uniform walked up to Hirsch. "Sir! We've inspected the room. It's clean. It's ready for your inspection."

"Thank you. Doctor, I must be on my way." Without a further word, Hirsch and the other officer made their way up several floors, to the same floor Dorozio's office was on. Hirsch noted the massive hole in the floor, and then entered the room.

It had been thoroughly recorded onto high–grade holographs, every inch stored in computer memory somewhere. There was blood on the floor, and on the body, which wore a lab coat with the name Tabitha Lang on it. The inhuman muzzle had blood on the nose, and the green eyes stared at nothing.

Hirsch knelt, looking Roxanne's body in the eyes. One pupil was exploded, which was consistent with death by brain trauma. No sides of a struggle – all the blood seemed to be hers…

"Anyone else in this room?"

"Patient named Samantha DuClaire, sir, but no sign of her anywhere. Maybe the Aberrant vaporized her or abducted her?"

"Possible. If so, good luck finding her." Hirsch stood back up. "Okay. Bag the body. The one downstairs too – if I'm right, that glop should be reverting back to ceiling plaster within a few hours, so don't be surprised if that happens. Ship them back to base and we'll do the autopsies there."

"Aye, sir."

Hirsch stepped out into the hallway, staring at the melted hole in the floor, as in the room behind him, he head a cryobag unzipped and the freezer unit cycled up.

"Well. The way I add it up, that's one less of her kind in the world."

Jason Hirsch was exactly wrong.



It was as high as someone without upper level access could get.

Someone in hi