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  A messenger, he’d said. But he’d refused to say what the message was or who Lewis was delivering it to. Trust Valon Kang? Hell No! The man was ruthless. And what had Valon said about an assassin? Someone was already trying to kill the bastard. Valon had said there’d been other messengers too. Lewis wasn’t the first Valon had done this to.

  Several blocks further and the Shoreline Municipal Library came into view. At last he had the name of the city. Shoreline was miles north of Seattle. It made Lewis wonder why the system… the Attistar… why it had elected to dump him in Shoreline instead of the University District or somewhere else. Was it random? There was no way to know.

  It wasn’t safe for him to be seen in public. Not like this. They probably had his face plastered all over the internet. Or… did the internet exist here? He looked at the car’s dash. It didn’t seem like they’d invented LCD displays, but they obviously had computers.

  Driving into the parking lot, he stopped the car in an empty spot facing a copse of trees. He’d have to change his outfit, get a disguise before entering the library. The probability interface wouldn’t change his appearance. Or would it? Lewis leaned the seat back to think.

  “Meooooooww.” The cat scratched at the door.

  “You want out?” Lewis rolled onto his side and opened the door, but one blast of the wind in the tabby’s face changed its mind. It backed up and sat on the seat staring at Lewis. He shut the door and crossed his arms. Without warning, the cat climbed onto his lap and sat down. “Mrroow,” it bleated. Noticing the tag on its collar, Lewis turned it so he could read. “Desaree Felicity. Hmphf. Okay, Dez, I guess you can stay.” Curling up in Lewis’s lap, the cat stared at him with its green almond eyes. He stroked its head absently. She reminded him a little of his childhood pet, Kitty-Kitty. He shook that aside, focusing on what he needed to do.

  What if… what if what? No one recognized him? That might work, but it might not. Maybe it would only affect those nearby, and he’d be safe until someone out of range dropped in. He’d really need to know the extent of the ability before he went trusting it with his life. Although, realistically, he already had.

  What were the odds of a travelling disguise artist showing up in a van right next to him and offering him a free makeover complete with clothing? Those seemed like pretty long odds. Fairly ridiculous too, but then what were the odds of a freak windstorm, a broken lock, a dry pipe in a reservoir on a rainy day, an unlocked car with the keys in the ignition? He hadn’t asked for the cat.

  “Why are you here, Dez?” he asked the cat.

  It purred happily, enjoying the attention he gave it.

  Concentrating on his desires, Lewis pushed his will into the Attistar and engaged the mental trigger.

  A Helping Hand

  In the center of a large round room filled with television monitors and slide projectors, a nearly naked woman floated in glass tank. A sealed black rubber mask covered her face. Tubes and wires ran from its optical connectors and feeds, terminating in leads at the top of the tank. Maps and images flickered over the screen. The slide projector clicked, and the map on the wall changed once more. Electrographs scrolled out of a paper reel, collecting in a basket on the floor. Illuminated dials twitched back and forth. Tape reels spun on spindles.

  With a heavy click and a deep buzz, the door to the room cycled slowly open, and a man in a black turtleneck sweater strode purposefully out of the elevator. Halting next to the glass tank, he moved his head from left to right, examining each of the monitors.

  “The library?” he grunted. “What does he want there?”

  A disembodied voice spoke through one of the monitors. A woman’s face appeared on the screen. Her lips did not move as she spoke, but her expression appeared bemused. “To know more about this world, of course.”

  The man frowned. “Tanandor wouldn’t do that.”

  “This isn’t Tanandor,” voiced the speakers.

  “You’re certain?”

  The woman onscreen closed her eyes. She tilted her head slowly, as if listening to something before opening her eyes once more. The corners of her mouth remained slightly curled, still amused, but less patient. “This man’s arrival was easily detected. His use of the Attistar has been limited. He appears to have a weather control interface, and perhaps something else. I haven’t figured it out yet, but this is not the work of a genius. That should be obvious, even to you.”

  Arsus clasped his gloved hands behind his back and sighed. “It is difficult to think in this form.”

  “You’ve been saying that for years. You should be used to it by now.”

  “I dislike it.” Staring at the steel floor with his dark eyes, the thin man paced the room, walking a circle around the tank as he considered the woman’s words. “What have you learned since we last talked?”

  A male face appeared on the screen. Data scrolled rapidly in green letters next to the image. “The host is Michael Garibaldi, a veteran of the Brazilian war suffering from Combat Related Acute Psychosis. Until yesterday he was a patient in the Veteran’s Administration C.R.A.P. Treatment and Recovery facility in Shoreline Washington.” A list of awards and commendations appeared onscreen. “During the war, Staff Sergeant Geravaldi served as a member of the Green Berets, and was involved in several key campaigns. His training is extensive. Once this jumper accesses them, we can expect familiarity with military weapons and tactics.”

  “Why couldn’t he have been a janitor?” grumbled Arsus. “If we take him, will it tip our hand when Tanandor arrives?”

  “We need to take him,” said the woman. “If Tanandor sent him then he may have part of the key, or maybe a map. Besides, he can manipulate weather. He’s too dangerous to let him wander unrestricted. He could trigger a recalibration. And if he jumps, it may not be possible to find him again.”

  “Why not? He’ll just re-route to this simulation. Or do you think he can avoid Valruun’s trap?”

  “No, he’ll return here, but I won’t see his host until he uses his interface again. And if he figures out that’s how we’re tracking him, he may not use it.”

  “Then we’ve got three days, max. What about Tanandor? You think he’ll still jump?”

  “Yes. He’ll have to. In his current partition, his host should have been dead long ago. The Attistar will be trying to correct that, giving Heticus quite an advantage. He’s held off for too long. Now that he’s achieved his goal and sent this messenger, Tanandor’s arrival is imminent.”

  “He might suspect a trap.”

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s only one place to go, and Heticus will ensure he jumps.”

  Arsus nodded. “Fair enough. Will Shanzea have any trouble taking out this new messenger?”

  Randuu laughed. “From the looks of things, the poor bastard is a neophyte. He’s blind and lost. If we play this correctly, we may even be able to turn him. We should consider him a gift, really. He’s Tanandor’s mistake. Never waste a gift. Ah!” The image onscreen closed her eyes and tilted her head. “He’s making another change.”

  “To what end? Weather again? A tornado?”

  “Impossible to say until we see the results. I’ve arranged for the police to move in. Shanzea may not be necessary to capture him. He’s a small fish in a big ocean, and has no idea where he’s swimming. Tell Shanzea to back off. Let’s see what he can do against the police. I can edit their records later.”

  Arsus stomped over to one of the desks grabbed a radio handset. Its long curly black wire swung below him. He keyed the mic and transmitted to Shanzea’s vehicle. “Sigma Bravo 1, to Sigma Delta 2, do you copy, over?”

  After a second, the speakers sputtered a static filled reply from a woman’s voice.

  “Sigma Delta 2 copies. Requesting an update.”

  “The subject’s name is Michael Garibaldi. He’s got a weather interface. He’s not our primary target, probably a new jumper. Hold your position and wait for further orders, over.”

  “Negative, Sigma Bravo
1,” came the terse response. “Sigma Delta 2 is in position. Don’t tell me I can’t handle an amateur. I’m moving for pickup now.”

  Arsus lowered the handset and threw his head back, groaning in frustration. “Sigma Delta 2, you are to hold back. Let the locals manage the retrieval. We want to see him in action.”

  After several seconds of static, Arsus glared at the woman in the tank and shook his head. “Dammit, Sigma Delta, do you COPY?”

  The speaker crackled. “Go fuck yourself.”

  From the computer screen, Randuu laughed. “Shanzea isn’t very creative with words, is she Arsus? Let her have her fun. The Attistar will clean up the mess.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered Arsus.

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

  After several minutes of waiting for something to happen, Lewis began to doubt himself. Maybe there were rules to the ability Valon hadn’t covered yet, but a wandering disguise artist had yet to appear, and he began to suspect he’d asked for too much. It wasn’t just the odds of the event, it was the changes required. Scratching Desaree behind the ears, he imagined how the system might process such a request.

  Would a disguise artist need to be available? Maybe this world had no such thing as a disguise artist. They weren’t exactly common on his world. To ensure a timely manipulation of chance, maybe he should alter the request to something that matched the environment – ran parallel to it. A uniform delivery truck might have been better, or a hairdresser making a house call to a wealthy client.

  As he pondered the operation of people in a closed simulated environment, a brilliantly colored van clanked over the curb and bounced into the parking lot. On top, a huge clown head bobbed over a single rusty spring. The side read “Bobo and Zobo – Birthday Parties, Events, and Entertainment.” Two widely smiling maniacal clown faces leered from the side of the van. One had bright red hair jutting from the sides of his head, and a too-small fez sporting a flower. The other clown’s hair was blue and stuck straight up.

  “A disguise artist,” muttered Lewis. He set the cat in the passenger seat. “This must be the closest match. I guess I shouldn’t complain. It’s something.”

  “Meow?”

  As the van came to a rest in the empty parking spot next to him, Lewis opened his door. The driver hopped out of the vehicle and bounded to the rear where he crouched next to a flat tire. It was the red-haired clown with the fez.

  “Son of a gun.” He kicked at the flat tire. “What else can go wrong?”

  “Need some help?” asked Lewis.

  The potbellied clown spun around. “Yeah, buddy. If you can help me fix this flat I’d owe you one.”

  “Where’s your jack?”

  Opening the back door of the van, the clown scrambled to push a collection of boxes and bags out of the way. “It’s in here,” he grunted, opening a panel in the floor of the vehicle. Lewis helped him pull the spare tire out. The jack lay directly beneath it.

  “I’m Bob, by the way,” he told Lewis. “Hence the name, Bobo.”

  Lewis set the jack in place beneath the truck. “Where’s Zobo?”

  “Donny,” Bob answered with a grunt. “He didn’t show up for work today. Probably too hung-over.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and drank. “Hair of the dog,” he muttered, raising the flask in a toast. “I’m not feeling great myself.”

  “I’m... uh…” Lewis thought of his ID card, “Mike,” he stated. “And I don’t actually have anything to do right now. Job-wise, I mean. Clown work pay anything?”

  Bob laughed and looked at Lewis’s car. “You own a Patriot 5000 and you’re looking for work?”

  “I was recently laid-off from my accounting job,” explained Lewis. “I’ve got enough left to make my mortgage for another month, but if I don’t find work by then, I’m looking at bankruptcy court.”

  “I can pay you fifty bucks,” said Bob flatly. “Enough for a couple bottles of booze and a half tank of gas. Clown work doesn’t pay shit. I don’t suppose you can juggle?”

  “No,” admitted Lewis. He pumped the jack and the van lifted. “I might manage a magic trick or two.”

  “You’re hired. I’ve got Zobo’s suit in the back. When you finish with the tire, I’ll do your makeup.” He checked his watch and shook his head. “Twenty minutes. That’s how long we got. The kids will wait, but their parents is another story. We gotta hurry.”

  Grabbing the tire iron, Lewis unscrewed the lug nuts. “Hold the wheel, will you?”

  Bob stuck his foot on the flat tire to keep it from moving. In the distance, Lewis heard sirens. He paused for a moment and looked up. Meeting Bob’s eyes, he shrugged and returned to the tire.

  Across the street and on the other side of the van where Lewis couldn’t see, the door of a black sedan opened and a woman stepped out. Dressed in a flawless blue Navy dress uniform, her heels clicked over the asphalt in perfect rhythm. The sound clued Bob and Lewis to her approach as she neared. The clicking stopped right behind them.

  Lewis reached down and pulled the tire off, rolling it to the side.

  “Excuse me,” said the woman. “I’m looking for someone.”

  Bob raised an eyebrow and took another swig from the flask. “Well, you found someone, Miss.” He lifted his fez revealing his bald head before setting the tiny hat back into place between his flaring red hair.

  “Captain,” she corrected. Her nose wrinkled and she sniffed.

  “Miss Captain,” said Bob. He smiled at her with crooked dirty teeth. “I ain’t much fer women’s lib.” He tossed her a salute with his left hand. “But don’t take insult. I’m a clown.”

  “Indeed you are,” she agreed. “But I’m not looking for a clown.”

  “Well I’m a clown too,” said Lewis, sliding the spare onto the bolts. “I’m just not dressed yet.” He pointed to the side of the van. “Zobo, that’s me. What can we do for you, Miss Captain?”

  “You can come with me before the police get here.” Her eyes fixed on Lewis. “Or you can go through all the messiness of being arrested, incarcerated and interrogated.” The sirens grew louder. “Decide quickly. On the up side, if you say no, the police will at least give you a bath.”

  Forgetting the tire, Lewis straightened and looked at her. Brushing his hands off, he gave her a concerned look and tried to play it off as nerves. He had a sinking feeling she knew exactly who he was. “Why are you interested in a, um… clown?”

  Narrowing her eyes, she moved her lips to the left in obvious disgust at Lewis’s poor attempt at subterfuge. “Don’t play stupid. We’ve been watching you since you got here. There’s nowhere you can run, and you can’t leave. Think about it.”

  Lewis pinched his lips and looked at Bob. “Bob, if you’d only arrived a few minutes earlier,” he sighed. Scratching his head indecisively, he asked the woman, “What is it you want from me?”

  “I’m here to help you. You’re lost, aren’t you? You’re confused. That’s normal. You aren’t alone. There are many of us, and we can provide answers.”

  Bob leaned in close to Lewis and whispered in his hear. “This is weird. I’m not an expert, but I don’t think she’s firing on all pistons. Watch your ass. She might be part of a cult or something.”

  The Captain snapped her fingers and Bob froze in place, as still as a statue. Her white-gloved hand reached out and pushed him. He fell onto his back with a heavy thud, still stuck in the same pose he’d been - his hand cupped next to his mouth, a suspicious look of conspiracy on his face.

  Lewis stared at the frozen clown. “Holy Shit.” He turned to the Captain. “What did you do to him?”

  “Locked his coordinates out of phase with the system’s clock-rate. I can do that to anyone or anything in the ring. What can you do?”

  Lewis glared at her. “Who sent you? Valon Kang?”

  “Yes. It was Valon Kang.” Her voice rose. “Would you like to meet him?” she asked politely. “He’s waiting for you. Come with me and I’ll take yo
u to him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Close. In a building nearby. He only just arrived.” She waved her hand. “The police are almost here. Follow me before it’s too late. Don’t get too close, though. You smell like you’ve been sleeping in cow shit.”

  Uncertain and unsure, Lewis walked slowly behind her. The doubts spinning through his head threatened to spill over into paranoia, and he struggled against it, knowing the dangers it would bring if he let it take hold. Realizing a simple verification could ease the battle, he asked her a question – one she should know. “What did Valon Kang say my name was?”

  “Michael Garibaldi.”

  “My real name.”

  “He didn’t mention it.”

  Unlikely, thought Lewis. Valon would have given it to her, if for no other reason than to prove herself. His worry grew to new heights, towering like a stack of blocks at the precipice of his consciousness. If he left with her, he had a strong feeling he’d be in very deep shit.

  A police car squealed around the corner of the block ahead. Its lights flashing and its siren wailing, it barreled toward them. Two more followed in its wake. Reaching the sidewalk, the woman stepped off into the street, directly in their path. She seemed not to care. Lewis felt his jaw clench. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he didn’t want to go with her either.

  What were the odds of her failing to notice one of the three police cars? What were the odds of one hitting her? What were the odds of it rendering her unconscious without killing her? The odds were one.

  Lewis pushed.

  As the flush of energy swept over him, the woman halted in the center of the street and turned toward the three onrushing vehicles. The first one slowed. She held out her hand, and it stopped dead where it was. The car behind it, still moving at a good clip, slammed on its brakes and crashed into the rear of the frozen cruiser. The one next to it swerved around, lifting temporarily on its two right wheels. As it fell back on all four tires, the woman raised her hand, but it was too late. The vehicles skidded to a halt, ramming into her. She flew a few feet and landed hard on her back, lying still on the ground.