Longer

–FOUR–

The cliff was several hundred meters high, and from a distance appeared unclimbable. Dashaud knew from experience that this wasn’t necessarily true. From a distance the great Vatnajökull looked like a cozy white blanket, when in fact it was a minefield of crevasses, icefalls, and sudden, blinding storms.

There were small clumps of green and some stunted shrubs scattered on the cliff, meaning there was soil. Cracks and ledges to hold the soil, meaning potential hand-and footholds. A large colony of fulmars nested on the cliff, but they had bred, and were gone. He wouldn’t be disturbing them, or the other way around.

The cliff had been a lifelong dream of his. It spoke to him in the language of dreams, larger than life, unreal, seductive, forbidding. He’d been wanting to climb it since boyhood, but one thing or another had gotten in the way. When he finally found the time, was finally ready, he couldn’t do it. He was old, and physically incapable of something so arduous and demanding. Now he was young again, and could do anything he wanted.

He crossed the road, then picked his way through a field of weathered basalt to the face. He saw a faint trail and took it. When it petered out, he blazed his own trail, which quickly steepened. He passed an abandoned fulmar nest made of grass. Then another in a shallow rock depression. An unseasonably late-to-migrate bird glided by, squawked at him, then disappeared.

The climb grew steeper and more difficult, but his arms and legs were strong, and his balance, a must, gymnastic. He had his father’s Nordic build, long limbed and wiry, and his mother’s sturdiness and endurance, and was halfway up the face before he had to stop to catch his breath.

Below him, stretching east as far as he could see, was a narrow strip of lush green farmland, bracketed between glacial moraines and the windswept sea. He could just make out the red-topped silo of his grandparents’ ancient horse and sheep farm, where he’d spent much of his youth. To the west was the Gray Lagoon, fed by melt from one of Vatnajökull’s once mighty tongues, now thinned and shrunken. The lagoon, by contrast, was vast, as large as it had ever been, home to an equally vast quantity and diversity of brackish life.

This pleased him, and he was already pleased: with the climb, with his fine new body, with his supple, firing-on-all-cylinders, ready-for-anything brain. The world was not just a beautiful place, it was a playground, or anything else a man with his gifts dared it to be.

He felt a mild breeze on his face. He wore gloves, not for warmth, but for protection. Since his recent enhancement he was careful to keep his hands covered at nearly all times. He’d added a second layer for the climb, and on a whim removed both.

His fingertips seemed to waken. They whispered to him of a hidden world, swarming and newly minted. The breeze was like a chorus of secrets. He noticed subtle variations in its pressure—peaks, lulls, eddies—that translated sometimes into words (swift, strong, retreating), sometimes sound (warble, bellow, screech), mostly neither, but rather the pleasant, informative, highly personal, and often electric feeling that came from being touched. Present previously, now so much richer and more complex.

He touched his lips, traced their faint corrugations, felt their turgor: firm but not too firm, pliant but not too much of that. He nudged a blade of grass, aware of its own pressure. He could feel it in the way it resisted and opposed his applied force, stubbornly but easily overwhelmed. A friendly, compliant blade, eminently floppy; a pushover, though not to a small ant that was climbing on one of its neighbors. To the ant the blade was strength itself, bending only the slightest amount, and springing quickly back to attention when the ant moved on.

The world was governed by touch, by feel, by push and push back, weight and counterweight, resistance and accommodation. He was aware of this as never before. There was a constant undercurrent of motion surrounding him, with a language all its own; a shifting, speechless tongue, perhaps the most ancient one of all. It was smooth, acrobatic, choppy, graceful, precarious, and it filled him with awe. His merkelized, piezo-powered fingertips understood it instinctively. They were his eyes, ears, nose, tongue, but he had to be careful. They could be damaged by overuse.

Any sense could be. Overstimulation sooner or later led to exhaustion. There was only so much information a body—and any part of a body—could absorb before shutting down and signing off. Recovery was the rule, but not always.

Hence the double pair of gloves, which blunted sensation and protected him. He was not about to squander his gift.

Not everyone was so prudent.

He’d once had a patient who, first juve, had his vision enhanced. Ponied up, took the risk. The result was beyond his wildest expectations. What he saw, in his words, was “unbelievable,” “indescribable,” “kaleidoscopic” … and “nonstop.” He couldn’t turn his eyeballs off. Closed his lids, and the film kept running: real images, synthetic images, phantom ones, his retina working ’round the clock. An embarrassment of riches, a bombardment, an enfilade, until at length he lost his sight. Couldn’t see a thing. Blinded by extravagance and overabundance.

Had no choice but to swap his retina out for a new one: standard issue, boilerplate, unenhanced. Solved half the problem. Sought out Dashaud to solve the other half, which rested not in his eyes but in the brain behind them—the optic nerve, geniculate bodies, and visual cortex—which had also been damaged by overuse. These were the source of the ghost and phantom images, the hallucinatory misinformation and random visual events. Their repair involved some extremely delicate surgery, which Dashaud happened to be doing at the time.

He no longer did this surgery. There was less and less brain surgery being done all the time. Less surgery all around. More bio interventions, letting cells and parts of cells do the repair and cleanup themselves.

Surgeons were a dying breed.

About time, some people said. Dinosaurs. Butchers.

Until you needed one.

The good ones still had work. Still had a place.

Dashaud Mikelson was a good one. And now better than ever.

But not if he blew out his sense of touch. Who would come to a surgeon whose fingers were numb?

He slipped his gloves back on.

The inner glove was made of Pakkiflex,[2] and was like a second skin. The outer glove was leather: tough and grained. He resumed his climb, secure in the knowledge his hands were protected. He planned to summit, then take the backside down, which was a longer route, but more gently sloped. Descending the cliff itself would be quicker but dangerous.

The lone fulmar reappeared, and dove at him, coming close to impaling his head before veering off. It squawked and dove again, hovered, then deposited itself on a nearby rock, and proceeded to read him the riot act. He soon discovered why.

Huddling in a shallow saucer of grass was another fulmar. A male, and obviously unwell.

He stopped immediately, crouched down, and held that position. The female fulmar squawked, flapped its wings, and shifted uneasily. The male made not a peep. Its eyes were clamped shut. It was shivering.

Dashaud removed his gloves and inched a hand toward the bird. He felt vibrations in the air before even touching the creature. He felt much more when he laid his palm gently on its back: a huffing and puffing, an ebb and flow, a back and forth, but something more purposeful, too, like a tug-of-war, with life on one side, death on the other. Death appeared to have the upper hand.

Instinctively, he enfolded the trembling bird in his palms.

Its mate eyed him uneasily.

Fulmars mated for life. If the male died, the female would be a widow. Her mate’s death would be the signal; she’d know widowhood by the presence of his lifeless body. If Dashaud took him away in an effort to save him, she’d have a widow’s life without knowing how or why. Without certainty. She might wonder: was he still alive? Doubt might gnaw at her peanut-sized brain.

A gnawed-at brain, whatever the size, was the source of countless troubles. Dashaud had taken a solemn oath to cause as few as possible. He could leave the dying bird, and let nature take its course. Finish his climb, his ambition since childhood. He could see the summit from where he crouched.

Any hope of saving the poor creature rested on doing something soon. He peered down the way he’d come: the face was nearly sheer, the drop hundreds of feet and precipitous. It had been steep getting up, but it would be steeper going down. Always steeper and riskier descending.

He loved life. How could you not? And fulmars were plentiful.

What should he do?

He thought of Cav, his friend and mentor, whom he admired above all men, and would soon be seeing in the flesh. Cav would be slow to intervene. He would wait and observe.

He was waiting now. For what, he wasn’t sure.

“A sign? An epiphany?”

They had spoken not two days earlier. Pleased to hear from his orbiting pal, Dashaud had become concerned when the conversation took a turn.

A dark one, in his opinion. Suicide was dark.

“You’re depressed,” he said. It was the first thing that came into his head.

Cav considered this. “Am I? I don’t feel depressed. I feel quite sane.”

“You want to end your life prematurely. You want to do something totally unnecessary. And not just unnecessary, but damaging. Hurtful. Harmful. How can that be sane?”

“It’s my life,” said Cav.

“You took an oath to do no harm.”

“It’s a paradox, isn’t it? A thorny riddle.”

“It’s not a riddle at all.”

“A dilemma then.”

“No harm includes no harm to yourself.”

“Does it? I’m not so sure. And what constitutes harm? What I’m contemplating feels more positive. More an acknowledgement. An acceptance.”

“You ask too many questions. You spin them out of thin air. You love to stir things up.”

“I’m a troublemaker?”

“Yes.”

“But am I crazy? That’s the question. Tell me the truth.”

Dashaud had no trouble with this. “Yes.”

“In what way? Be precise.”

“You’re bullheaded. Argumentative. You love to provoke. You go off on tangents.”

“Guilty as charged. But crazy?”

“You make me crazy.”

Cav grinned. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“Likewise. Though I’m not thrilled with the circumstances. Please tell me it’s just talk.”

Cav deflected the question. Enough for now. “You juved.”

“You knew I was going to.”

“How was it?”

“Not bad. Fine. Easy.” Not true, but considering the topic of conversation, Cav hardly needed to hear it. “I feel good.”

“You look good.”

“You look old.”

“I am.”

“How’s your ticker?”

Cav shrugged.

“It could be brand new.”

“Understood. And then?”

“Sixty more years,” said Dashaud.

“Of what? Doing the same thing over again. Looking in the same mirror day after day. You reach a point of diminishing returns.”

“Not my experience.”

“True nonetheless.”

“That’s possible. Also possible: you’re full of it.”

“I’m not afraid of dying,” said Cav.

Dashaud was neither surprised nor particularly impressed. He’d seen his share of dying; his line of work guaranteed he’d see more. More men and women who met death fearfully, but many more than that who, for better or worse, welcomed it.

“Good for you,” he replied. “But this isn’t about that. It’s about taking your life.”

“It’s about taking control of my life.”

“By committing suicide.”

“By letting nature run its course.”

“You know something, Cav?”

“What’s that?”

“I hate talking to you.”

Cav threw up his hands. “I understand completely. I get tired of listening to myself. Days go by when the only thing I wish for is silence.”

To Dashaud, an ominous choice of word. “Do you have an actual plan?”

“A number.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m mulling things over.”

“Yes or no?”

“Am I serious? Yes. Am I ready to pull the trigger? No.”

“So there’s hope.”

“Either way. Yes. Always.”

Dashaud felt better. Worried, yes, who wouldn’t be worried, but not quite so alarmed. This was a Cav he knew. A familiar Cav, tossing out an idea, inviting reaction. The discussion could last for months. Years. Humor sometimes helped. Close-mindedness rarely did.

“So. Two and out.”

“It’s an option.”

“It’s a waste, you ask me. But you’re not.”

“Helps to talk.”

“Glad you called.”

The two of them fell silent.

At length Cav cleared his throat. “There’s something else. I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Tell me.”

“You can start by describing this enhancement of yours.”

“I’m still getting used to it.” He described his experience so far. “Sometimes it feels like a whole new sense. Not merely an improved one. I recognize things that I couldn’t. That didn’t exist to me.”

“Such as?”

“Pressure gradients. Vibrations. Big and little energy fluctuations. Nothing’s at rest, Cav. Nothing. Everything’s in motion.”

“I believe it.”

“Motion and countermotion. Back and forth. Peaks and valleys. Steady streams. Though mostly not steady.”

“Transitioning. Balancing.”

“Yes.”

“The song of life.”

“Not just life. Everything.”

Cav leaned in excitedly, until his face took up the whole screen. “Can you distinguish living from nonliving?”

“Easily. Who can’t?”

“There’s some disagreement on board.” He explained what they had, and what they’d done. What they knew, and what they didn’t.

“You believe it’s alive,” said Dashaud.

“Not only alive, but a new form of life. One we’ve never seen.”

“Sentient?”

“Unknown.”

He had a look. Dashaud had seen it before.

“I need you here,” said Cav.

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“How?”

“It’s been arranged.”

“Excellent.”

“But first there’s an errand I want you to run.”

It turned out to be a blockage in its gullet, a little external growth of tissue that closed it like a purse, making the bird unable to swallow. Dashaud removed it that evening, in a delicate operation made easy by his magical fingers. He released it the next day at the cliff, the female nowhere in sight. As he walked away, it took to the air, wheeled in a lazy circle, as if to test its wings, then headed out to sea. The day was overcast. The water, gunmetal gray. A mist hung in the distance, and before long its small white solitary body was swallowed by it.

The following day he left Iceland and flew to Denver, got a car and drove south along the Front Range, then farther south, then west. Cav had given him an address outside a town called Cinder Knife. The way it worked, he’d talked to someone, Cav had, who’d talked to someone else, who’d talked to a third person, who’d contacted the seller and confirmed. Making the trail all but impossible to follow, in the event someone got a stick up their ass.

The town was one block long and all boarded up, swept by the gritty desert sand and mummified by the hot, dry air. It could have been a hundred years old. Could have been two hundred. Dashaud blew through it, then had to slow down as he wound his way across the high plateau, past scrub, black rock, and a labyrinth of rutted dirt and gravel roads to a mailbox that sat atop a twisted and charred juniper stump. Behind it a tall pole with a security cam. Beside it a crushed rock driveway. He drove to the end of the driveway and got out.

The sun nearly knocked him over. The heat was brutal. He got his cap, then looked around.

In front of him was the back end of a double-wide, with a short flight of stairs leading to a door. Off to the side was another, larger building with cinder-block walls and a corrugated sheet metal roof, topped by a swivel-mounted cam. The place belonged to two brothers, he’d been told. One was a successful writer who had died some years earlier, under somewhat shady circumstances. Suspicion had fallen on the surviving brother, but nothing could be nailed down. In the end no charges were filed.

The brother was said by some to be reclusive and misanthropic, though others pointed out that three-quarters of the local citizenry fit that description. Chances were he was perfectly likable, to someone anyway. He made a living designing and building things: water towers, personalized surveillance equipment, computer arrays, and, most important for the purpose of Dashaud’s errand, cooling systems.

He materialized silently, like an apparition. He was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a holstered pistol. Asked for ID.

Dashaud handed it over.

He studied it, then gestured. “Your cap. Off.”

Dashaud removed it. Got his photo taken for at least the third time. SOP, he guessed, though his size and the color of his skin still made some people nervous. Not many, not now, not here in the twenty-second century, what some were calling the Age of Yes, Finally. The Age of About Time. The Age of Long Overdue.

The guy flicked his eyes from the fish-eye nestled in his palm to his visitor, awaiting confirmation. He had deep-set eyes, a wiry frame, and a pendulous beard. At length he gave a nod and pocketed the device.

“You’re the guy who made them,” he said.

“One of the guys. There was a team.”

“You headed it.”

He’d been criticized and demonized in the past, more times than he could count. Used to defend himself, in shouting matches if necessary. Finally learned to thicken his skin and not rise to the bait. Ignorant people didn’t come to learn. Hypocrites didn’t want to be educated. All they wanted was to point the finger of blame.

“Long time ago. Unique situation.”

“You did what you were told.”

“I did what was right.”

“You volunteered.”

Actually, he was picked. “Yes.”

“No questions asked.”

The guy had it all figured out. Dashaud had heard it a hundred times before. He glanced at the holster, which appeared to be homemade, then the gun.

Cav had mentioned the man was eccentric. He’d said nothing about the prospect of being shot.

“You alive during the Hoax?” he asked.

A dip of the chin.

“Then you know how it was.”

“Not much different today.”

An interesting observation. Save for two small clouds, three buzzards, and a faraway plane, the sky was clear. Not a thing in it you wouldn’t expect. Had been that way for over fifty years. Smart money said it would stay that way. You had your skeptics, naturally. Your holdouts. Your crazy-ass contrarians.

“You know something I don’t?” he asked, hazarding a friendly grin.

The guy’s eyes narrowed. His finger twitched.

“Let me try that again.”

“You’re making a joke.” He looked bewildered. Slowly, comprehension spread across his face.

Next thing Dashaud knew, his hand was being gripped and eagerly pumped up and down.

“Cantrell. Abel. It’s an honor to meet you. Didn’t recognize you at first.”

“Do we know each other?”

“Skin color didn’t match. You look lighter than your photo. Threw me off. You know how it is. Can’t be too careful. Let me show you around.”

Dashaud turned out to be something of a hero of his. Once over the recog hump, he got the red carpet treatment, beginning with the house, then the grounds, an acre and a half of high desert with an unobstructed view of more of the same, all the way to the horizon. The tour ended in the other building on the property, the workshop, which was the jewel box, and dwarfed the house.

Big, airy, neat, and bright, with four large stainless-steel tables on the ground floor, two more on the upper, equipment of every sort hanging on pegboards, resting on overhead racks, standing on edge against walls, and hidden in meticulously labeled cabinets and drawers. On one of the tables was an open metal box stuffed with wires and circuit boards, with a sleeve jutting out that connected to a jointed arm that ended in a cup with a rubber ball. (A game of catch? Batting practice? His host didn’t seem the type. Of fetch? More likely, but with what? He’d seen no pets.) On another was version 3.4 of his patented, custom-made, automated feline feeder, adapted to the outdoors to service ferals, and equipped with mo detection and facial analytics to exclude skunks, raccoons, opossums, rats, and other party crashers. It was working well except for the opossums, which were somehow eluding the software.

“Maybe they’re playing possum,” suggested Dashaud.

Cantrell gave him a look. “What else would they be playing?”

Industrious, inventive, and literal to a fault. Dashaud loved the guy. He was there for a reason but didn’t mind putting it off.

Cantrell moved the metal box, then returned to the table, which was bolted to the concrete floor. He pulled out his handheld, entered a code, and a tawny, green-eyed tabby appeared on-screen. He touched one of the tabby’s eyes, swept his finger to an ear, then a paw, then repeated this in reverse. After the third time the tabby mewed, and scampered offscreen. Cantrell stepped back. Four previously hidden seams appeared in the floor, which opened like a door. The table swung up and over to reveal a set of stairs.

“My hideaway,” said Cantrell.

“They’re down there?”

“Safe and sound. Go ahead. Light’ll come on by itself.”

He hadn’t set eyes on one for years. Had made his peace. You did what you did. In hindsight everyone was guilty of something.

He started down.

The light came on.

Water under the bridge.

He reached the bottom.

The losers were the ones who never did anything.

The room was cave-like. A refrigeration unit sat on the floor in front of him, connected via hose to a cupboard-sized stainless-steel panel mounted on a wall.

They were in the panel. Had to be.

His heart was in his throat.

Cantrell was right behind him. “Excited?”

He shrugged.

“Guess that’s a yes. Let’s not prolong the suspense.”

He strode forward, put his hand on the panel, then paused, prolonging it. “Not that there is any. Don’t get the wrong idea. They’re in tip-top shape.”

“I’m sure they are.”

“You bet they are. Couldn’t be better.” He ran his finger along the panel’s edge with evident affection. “I check them regularly. I have a system. You don’t want to take too long. Don’t want to risk disturbing them.”

One by one he released the panel’s clamps, and slowly removed the cover. There were three of them nestled behind a thick plate of glass, curled like commas, barely touching, suspended in translucent fluid, with no room to spare.

Dashaud’s stomach lurched.

His mind rebelled. He took a step back, repulsed.

What had he done?

And yet.

When was progress ever black and white? How else did men and women advance?

They were hideous. Appalling.

But beautiful, too.

Beautifully conceived, designed, and executed. He couldn’t forget the day they came to life. His pride and joy.

His creations.

Cantrell was champing at the bit. “So? What do you think?”

“They’re hibernating?”

“Of course.”

He had a welter of emotions, which he cloaked behind a professional veneer. “Fully functional?”

“Will be, once they’re thawed out.”

Naturally, he’d say this. “How cold do you keep them?”

“Cold as I can without harming them. Just above freezing. Never lower than point-three, higher than point-seven. Narrow range.”

“You made the cooling system?”

“All of it. Cooling, housing, electronics.”

“Impressive.”

“The premade stuff is junk. Even the good stuff is never quite what you need. Doing it yourself saves time in the end. Saves money.” He touched the glass, traced the outline of one of them. “I’m quite fond of this particular system.”

Dashaud leaned in to study it closer. An intricate puzzle of hoses, filters, gauges, housing, and circuitry. Ingenious and original, though his eye, understandably, kept wandering to the living contents.

“It’s a work of art,” he said.

“Does the job,” replied Cantrell, basking.

“How long have you had them?”

“Ten years next month.”

“Like this?”

“Pretty much.”

“Long time.”

“They’re worth holding onto.”

Not what he was getting at. “How do we know they’re still good?”

“It’s a good system. Works on mice, rabbits, monkeys. All your basic vertebrates. No reason it’s not going to work with these. Would have been easier if you’d engineered them with an eye toward longevity. But they’ll be fine. Warm ’em up, you’ll see.”

He replaced the cover, clamped it down, and ushered Dashaud upstairs. In the workshop he pointed out a similar-looking panel, this one portable.

“Longevity wasn’t our aim,” Dashaud replied defensively. “Our concerns were more immediate.”

“Knee-jerk,” said Cantrell.

“Urgent.”

“Ecologically unsound.”

“How so?”

“You made them disposable.”

“Readily available and easy to use,” said Dashaud. The description the makers preferred.

“Not saying it was a flaw in the design. In the planning, more like. Strictly short-term. Not seeing the forest, et cetera, et cetera. What governments do.”

“What’s the forest?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Completely different reason. There’s no threat, real or otherwise. No danger. No anything.”

Cantrell wasn’t buying it. “You’re just spending money for the fun of it? You’re a collector maybe? A dealer in rare things?”

He was fishing, and wasn’t far off. In a way they did belong in a museum.

“Research,” said Dashaud.

“On what?”

“Classified. Sorry.”

Cantrell nodded knowingly, a gleam in his eye, then escorted his guest out of the workshop. In the house he offered him shark and Aquavit.

Dashaud was touched: the guy had done his research, and gone out of his way. But shark? In the desert? A thousand miles from any ocean, not to mention the chill waters of Iceland, where proper sharks were caught, beheaded, fermented, and hung to dry. Nothing could touch them for flavor and taste. He’d been spoiled by perfection, and took a pass.

“A drink would do nicely.”

Cantrell poured them each a glass. Dashaud removed his gloves.

“Something wrong with your hands?”

“Not a thing.” He explained his recent augmentation.

“Nice. So now you’re a super surgeon. I guess that’s what it takes these days.”

“Takes?”

“To hold the line. Keep the robots at bay. Personally, I’d take one of them over a human. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Better outcomes. Steadier hands.”

Dashaud glanced at his own. Steady as a rock.

“Had one once,” said Cantrell. “Did a great job.”

“How was its bedside manner?”

“Very professional.”

Dashaud could imagine. Now and then he toyed with becoming a veterinarian. Maybe the time had arrived.

“Can we get down to business?”

“Sure thing.”

He was surprised to learn that Cantrell did not own the HUBIES.[3] Had somehow missed the law declaring that ownership was a crime, while using was not. A strange disconnect, not unheard of in the annals of ethics and morality. Use alone was problematic for the vast majority of people. There was a fine line, some said no line at all, between use and abuse.

“So what does this mean? You’re lending them?”

“Sharing,” said Cantrell. “Passing them along.”

“For a price.”

“Cost plus expenses.”

“No profit?”

“Lots of profit. Just not monetary.”

Dashaud was pleasantly surprised. “That’s very generous of you.”

“I have what I need. As long as I can keep inventing things. Making them, then making them better. Doing my part. Giving progress a nudge. Step by step. Circuit by circuit. Forward, out of the dark ages, into the new age.”

“What’s the new age?”

“Science, Doctor. Intelligence. Rational thinking. Our age. Yours and mine.”

Dashaud raised his glass. “To intelligence.”

“So you’re using them for research,” said Cantrell. “I won’t ask what, but I’m curious. Does Dr. Gharia happen to be involved?”

“Gunjita Gharia?” He kept his voice level.

“That’s the one. Your old boss.”

“I haven’t spoken to her in nearly a century.”

“Really? A whole century?”

“Half a century. Fifty years at least.”

“You worked in her lab.”

“Briefly.”

“You left.”

“People do. It’s expected. This was all very long ago.” He was ready to move on.

But Cantrell had his teeth in it. “What was she like?”

“I barely remember. Smart. Successful.”

“Like you.”

“It was that kind of lab. Competitive. Highly prized. People killed to get into it.”

“Was it hard? Working side by side with her? Elbow to elbow. Two superstars, sharing the spotlight.”

“I was her student. Hardly a superstar. She mentored me.”

Cantrell nodded. His attention seemed to wander.

“I worked in a lab once,” he said. “I had a mentor, too. He stole my ideas. When I complained, he got rid of me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I got blacklisted.”

“How awful.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Not at all.”

Cantrell gave him a sly, conspiratorial look, as though he recognized a kindred spirit, a comrade in arms. “She got rid of you, didn’t she?”

Dashaud was speechless.

“We’re not so different,” Cantrell added.

Dashaud felt otherwise, as though a gauntlet had been tossed. “I got an offer from another lab. A very generous offer. She told me to take it. She was doing her job.”

“Told you, or asked you? Forced you maybe?”

“She guided me. That’s what mentors do.”

“I was told, too. I wasn’t asked. I wasn’t thanked. I was coerced.”

For Dashaud, an old wound, long since healed. He’d hated her for a time, but for a much longer time had understood the wisdom in what she had done, and admired her for it.

He would not stand idly by while her reputation was dragged through the mud.

“She gave me an option.”

“The HUBIE lab?”

“Wasn’t called that then. But yes. There was a core group. It was a good move.”

“Good? Career, Dashaud. Career. May I call you Dashaud?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Best thing that could have happened. Trust me on this.”

“Look. Abel. May I call you Abel?”

“My friends call me Spud.”

“Spud then.”

“Like the potato. I built a satellite when I was a kid. A little one, with a tiny hollow space inside. Named it Sputnik, in honor of … well, you know what. Later on, I changed the name, in honor of its first payload. Know what it was?”

“A potato chip.”

“How’d you guess?”

“Listen, Spud. Just to be perfectly clear. I’ve got no ax to grind. No grievance. Dr. Gharia’s the best there is. She’s in a class by herself. I’ve got nothing but respect for her.”

Cantrell looked like the cat who swallowed the canary. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“What secret? There is no secret.”

Cantrell made the motion of zipping his lips.

Dashaud felt the blood rise. He had an urge to rearrange the man’s face. This came as a surprise to him, as the days of uncontrolled impulses and outbursts were behind him. Far behind, or so he thought.

Cantrell was not a small man, but Dashaud Mikelson towered over him, and was half again as broad. His fists were like hams. His chest and biceps strained against the seams of his shirt.

He eyed the man, considering his options. Age and experience had taught him the value of restraint. Now he was young, with a young man’s sense of indignation and urgency, and a young man’s refusal to be straitjacketed.

He raised his hands, feeling mighty and righteous, intent on wringing the man’s neck.

Cantrell froze, then went for his gun. Quick, but not quick enough. Dashaud got to him first.

It was over in a second.

“Hey!” Cantrell yelped. “You’re crushing me.”

It was true. Dashaud had him pinned in a fierce, manly, beefcake embrace.

“Let me go!”

Dashaud released him. “So how did it taste?”

Cantrell gave him a wary look. “How did what taste?”

“The chip. When it got back.”

Puzzlement. Suspicion.

Dashaud grinned. “Crisp?”

“Is this a joke?”

“Salty?”

“You’re messin’ with me.”

“Cosmic?”

Cantrell’s wariness deepened. All at once he broke into a grin. Then a laugh. Here was the brother he’d never had. Fate, or foresight, had brought them together. The HUBIES, whom he’d faithfully nursed, were theirs together. He and Dashaud were their custodians. Their guardians. He and Dashaud: inextricably bound.

“Out of this world,” he said.