PART ONE: GENESIS

Chapter One

The staccato bursts of the automatic pistol were deafening in the tight confines of the ventilation shaft. The spent casings of the shells clattered around Zorn against the sheet metal walls and floor of the vent system through which he'd sneaked into the building.

The terrorists kept coming, kept charging Zorn. He sprayed death from the shaft, but the bullets were swallowed up by the falling bodies. There seemed to be a never-ending flood of fanatics, young men and women suicidal in their self-assured righteousness. Unceasingly, they swarmed toward him.

And then Zorn was out of bullets.

He tried to reach for a new clip, but the terrorists were on him now, grabbing, clutching, crushing, tearing the automatic pistol from his hand, pulling him from the shaft, pinning him beneath their insurmountable mass.

Zorn still struggled as they held him down and beat him; he fought beyond the point of futility, demanding from his body more than it could deliver. In the end, however, there were too many, and Zorn could resist no more. As the ALF operatives dragged him by the arms up the stairs, they stepped over a dozen of their comrades' bodies that littered the way.

They took Zorn to the roof of the Anglopolis Tower, where he knew Kroaker waited with the forty-three hostages. Had Zorn waited and not sneaked into the tower on his own, the strike force would have arrived shortly, but Zorn knew that might be too late. He had been the senior Inquisitor on the scene, and so he had taken the responsibility for the hostages' safety upon himself. Besides, Kroaker wasn't a run of the mill heretic. There was a personal element involved. It seemed proper, somehow, that the confrontation should be between the two men.

The entire city was visible from the top of the tower — an expanse of monolithic structures, shimmering steel and glass radiating electric brightness, illuminating the night. Surely the Creator looked down favorably upon such monuments to His greatness. Surely He wouldn't allow so many of His children to come to harm at the hands of so vile an unbeliever, not in the face of such righteous opposition. Searchlights on the ground offered up expanding beams of light like prayers to the heavens. Strike forces had by now arrived and sealed the building, and Theocracy helicarriers passed nearby periodically.

Kroaker stood atop the tower ranting at the terrified hostages who huddled together, clinging desperately to one another as they shivered in the night breeze. The beams from the searchlights played through Kroaker's wildly frazzled hair, creating the illusion of a maniacal halo. He was exceedingly tall, yet even so his hands and feet seemed oversized for his body, giving the impression, as he walked toward Zorn, that he laboriously lifted one foot at a time which he threw forward and which the rest of his body was then compelled to follow. Across his elongated torso were strapped several strings of explosives, enough firepower to take off the top floor or two of the tower.

Zom was badly beaten and bruised from his encounter with the other terrorists. His left eye was already swelling; it would be completely closed soon. The flowing mantle had been torn from his shoulders, and the rest of his navy blue Inquisitor's uniform was ripped in numerous places. With at least a score of weapons leveled at him, Zorn shrugged aside his pain and stood tall as he was shoved forward toward Kroaker.

The heretic leader's face shone even more brightly than the city when he saw Zorn. Kroaker's bulging and bloodshot eyes were glazed over from drugs and adrenaline. He held an autopistol in one hand — the weapon seemed strangely miniaturized in his oversized grip — a detonator in the other. The timer read 5:09 and was counting down. "Inquisitor Zorn," he laughed as he spoke, "how good of you to join us." Ominous dark clouds were rolling in from the south. Thunder rumbled in the distance. "I know the good people all feel better now that Inquisitor Zorn is here. Isn't that right, good people?" The hostages, afraid to respond, afraid not to respond to the madman's query, pressed away from Kroaker as he motioned toward them. "What do you think, Inquisitor Zorn?"

"I think you're an abomination," Zorn muttered through his bloody lips.

Kroaker's smile abruptly vanished and his good humor with it. He smashed Zorn across the face with the barrel of the gun. A startled gasp escaped the hostages as Zorn dropped to one knee holding his freshly bleeding left cheek. Kroaker, uncontainable hatred contorting his face, stood above Zorn, snarling and growling at his fallen enemy. Handing the weapon and the detonator to a nearby comrade, Kroaker grabbed Zorn's left arm with both hands and brought it down savagely on his own knee with all his might. The audible snap echoed across the rooftop, eliciting screams from a few of the hostages. Zorn collapsed, clutching his disfigured arm to his body.

Kroaker retrieved his detonator and autopistol. He pointed the weapon at the prone Zorn. "I've had enough of you, Inquisitor Zorn!" Kroaker turned his face to the seething black clouds in the heavens. "I am the Apocalypse! I am the beginning of the end! There is no stopping me!" He assumed a more subdued manner as his attention returned to Zorn. Kroaker's voice was calm, his eyes lucid. "And now our meeting is at an end." He seemed almost sad as he fired three shots into Zorn's chest. Several more of the startled hostages screamed this time. Kroaker motioned to two of his comrades who grabbed Zorn and heaved his inert body over the guardrail at the edge of the roof.

I've won! I've won! kept running through Kroaker's mind. Zorn is dead. There's no one else to stand in my way, I've won!

The detonator read 1:48. Kroaker strutted around the edge of the building, gesticulating wildly in his excitement. "Zorn is gone!" he yelled to the night sky. "He is gone, and we will join him soon! We will strike the first blow against the abomination that is the Theocracy!"

Some of the hostages wept and held tightly to strangers for comfort, others numbly stared at the seconds ticking by on the timer. The weaklings! The fools! Kroaker loathed them. They knew so little, understood nothing. Couldn't they see the glory surrounding this moment? No. They're too scared for their pointless little lives.

The forces of the Theocracy completely encircled the tower, but they had no way of knowing the exact time involved. A rescue was virtually impossible now.

"The fireball from this tower will be seen around the world!" Kroaker continued to rave. "It will be the first of the explosions that will rock the Theocracy to its foundations before it crumbles to dust!" The timer was counting down: 0:32... 0:31... 0:30... 0:29. Raising both arms to the sky, Kroaker roared, "Armageddon is here!" and cackled in triumph. The other ALF operatives, still watching the hostages for signs of resistance as the end drew near, bowed their heads slightly out of respect. Some fidgeted nervously, perhaps not so sure of their choice to be here now that the end was merely seconds away. Others, resolute in their convictions, showed no signs of having second thoughts.

0:15... 0:14-..

What a glorious day! Kroaker watched the swirling clouds that seemed to call to him.

0:08... 0:07... 0:06....

The jerk on the back of Kroaker's shirt caught him off guard. He was off balance, being pulled backwards Not until he was being yanked over the guardrail did Kroaker realize that Zorn, his mangled left arm dangling uselessly, was hurtling him over the edge of the building.

But you're dead! You're dead!

Kroaker's eyes and mouth were stretched more widely than they should've been able to open; he flailed at the air as he plummeted through space.

0:02... 0:01... 0:00.

And then his time was up.

Despite the sun glaring through the wall-length window, the air in the Department of Orthodoxy office complex was crisp and cool. Max Zorn, impeccably attired in his double-breasted navy blue uniform, stood and surveyed the city of Anglopolis below. The buildings, the streets, even the people seemed to sparkle like the golden buttons on his chest in the midday sun. The reflective spires of the city topped with red and white flags of the Theocracy — the field of white for purity, the field of red for the blood of the defenders of the faith — thrust their way toward heaven. Yet there was a cancer eating away at the heart of the city. Zorn strove to cut away that cancer in a seemingly never-ending war. The entire nation of Anglia was threatened, possibly doomed, unless he and the other Inquisitors could successfully intervene. Zorn absent-mindedly smoothed down his short dark hair.

The door to the office opened and Jarvis, Zorn's assistant, entered carrying two cups of steaming coffee. He also carried several bulging files tucked precariously under one elbow. The slightly built youth reminded Zorn of a squirrel in Anglopolis Park that had found more acorns than it could carry.

The office was small and sparsely furnished — two wooden desks with padded chairs; two smaller chairs without padding, one next to each desk; several metal filing cabinets; and a short table covered with files and papers. The light blue walls were covered with various commendations: certificates of outstanding merit for bravery in the defense of Orthodoxy, an announcement of induction into the Brotherhood of Inquisitors, receipt of the Cross of the Order of the Theocrat, and numerous other citations. There was also Jarvis' diploma from indoctrination school, and, of course, the obligatory picture of Brady Trimmerhorn, the legendary Inquisitor, which was a staple of practically every Department of Orthodoxy office. The proclamations added a regal air to the office which was otherwise spartan in decor.

Jarvis was having difficulty maintaining control of the files under his arm and the two cups of coffee. As he set the coffee on Zorn's desk, the files slipped away from him and slid across the floor, spreading out under both desks. Jarvis quickly gathered the papers. "Here are those files you wanted, Mr. Zorn, on the ALF." The young man smiled nervously as he tried to get the files into some semblance of order.

"Jarvis."

"Yes, Mr. Zorn?"

"How long have you been my assistant now?"

"Approximately seventeen months, sir."

Zorn smiled. Jarvis was almost twenty. He had graduated at the top of his indoctrination class and was coming along nicely, but Zorn feared that the boy would never be more than an office worker or assistant to an Inquisitor. Although Jarvis possessed the intelligence and the determination, there were other qualities, tangible and otherwise, which seemed to be lacking. Not quite Inquisitor material, but there was always hope. Determination and perseverance could carry one a long way. "Jarvis, I think it's time that you called me Max."

Jarvis' eyes grew wide behind the wire-rim glasses which were sliding down his nose. "Yes, sir, Mr. Zom... Max... sir." He set the files on Zorn's desk, bumping a cup of coffee and spilling it. He pushed his glasses back up his nose as he hurried around the room searching for something to wipe up the coffee.

Zorn picked up the top file: Anglian Liberation Front. His pulse quickened with rage just from reading the name. How many brushes with death had he experienced, how many innocents had been injured or seen their loved ones killed, their lives ripped apart because of the monstrous ALF? These foul despoilers of Orthodoxy would destroy the very fabric of Anglian society, casting the country into chaos and a morass of moral degradation. Anarchists, foreign subversives, terrorists, criminals, disgruntled laborers, lunatics, all of them. They would destroy the structure and comforting stability that the Theocracy had nurtured for centuries. The very thought filled Zorn with righteous indignation. Pride swelled in his breast as he contemplated the vital importance of his job to civilization — protecting the good people of Anglopolis and Anglia as a whole, upholding the Orthodoxy of the Theocracy.

Jarvis must have noticed the far away look on his superior's face. "Are you sure you should be back at work already, sir... Max? I mean you were, afterall, in pretty bad shape for a while. I know it's been seven weeks since the explosion at the tower, but you just got the cast off your arm, and the bullet wounds and the other injuries must still be bothering you."

Zorn looked at his young assistant and chastised himself for his lack of humility. The reverence he saw in

Jarvis' eyes impressed upon him the importance of never setting himself or his position above the Orthodoxy which he was sworn to protect and propagate. He was an example, a role model, for the boy and for thousands of other conscientious citizens. "I'm well enough, Jarvis, and I owe it to the people of Anglia to be here doing my job. The ALF doesn't rest. Praise be to the Creator that I defeated Kroaker and survived, but there are more ALF operatives out there where he came from, waiting for us to grow lax, waiting for our vigilance to dwindle. Someone has to go after them."

"Yes, sir... Max." Jarvis held his chin just a bit higher than he had before, his resolve rejuvenated by such inspirational words.

Zorn returned his attention to the files as Jarvis finished wiping up the coffee with a role of paper towels he'd found in his bottom desk drawer. There were lists of known and suspected ALF agents, authorizations for phone taps and other electronic surveillance, records of calls, meetings, and travel itineraries. No doubt some of those observed, as well as some of those detained and "thoroughly" questioned, were not involved with the ALF, but the Department of Orthodoxy couldn't be expected to prioritize individual liberties more highly than something as fundamental as the safety and integrity of the Theocracy. Those citizens inconvenienced by the investigations and activities of the DO undoubtedly realized that they were actually making patriotic sacrifices for nothing less than the greater good of all Anglia.

Zorn continued perusing the files. After only a few minutes, the intercoms on both desks buzzed. Jarvis pressed a button on his unit and answered, "Zorn's office."

"Martin's office here," crackled the voice on the line. "The Senior Inquisitor would like to see Inquisitor Zorn."

Jarvis looked over to Zorn who nodded slightly. "He'll be right up," said Jarvis.

"Thank you. All praise to the Creator," crackled the voice.

"Amen," Jarvis responded and clicked off the intercom.

Zorn stood and walked toward the door. "Jarvis, while I'm gone, start compiling a list of the most prominent ALF operatives now that Kroaker is dead. Also, see which couriers and suspected information drops seem to have the most traffic."

"Yes, sir... Max." Jarvis delved into the stack of papers with enthusiasm.

As Zorn's long, powerful strides carried him through the corridors of the Department of Orthodoxy, he received warm welcomes and greetings from his coworkers whom he had been away from for almost two months while recovering from his injuries. "Welcome back, Max... Good work, Zorn... Good to see you, Zorn. Make sure to duck next time."

The hallways at DO were bustling with people. Zorn ran into Marlin Jaquobs and Ed Rollins, both fellow Inquisitors, and agreed to have lunch with Rollins at Evander's next week, although such social lunches subtracted from on-task time. An Inquisitor could wade through an extra hour of paperwork if he remained at his desk for lunch, but perhaps Rollins had a pertinent case he wished to discuss. Zorn also passed numerous office clerks, Inquisitor's assistants, and menial laborers including Burell, the friendly old maintenance man who seemed to live at DO, so often was he present. Everyone here, as did a large portion of the populace of Anglopolis, recognized Zorn on sight.

Senior Inquisitor Martin's office was on the twenty- seventh floor, a short elevator ride from Zorn's on the eighteenth floor. The secretary buzzed Martin and sent Zorn right in. "He's expecting you, Inquisitor Zorn."

"Thank you, miss."

Martin stood as Zorn entered and gestured toward a large padded chair in front of his desk. "Zorn, good to see you. Please sit."

"Thank you, sir."

Frank Martin was a large man who was muscular, though not quite as fit as he used to be. He was of the generation of Inquisitors directly preceding Zorn's, and quite renowned for his achievements against the ALF. Even so, Martin had never become the public figure that Zorn was becoming. The public acclaim and media frenzy that now surrounded the Inquisitors was a rather recent phenomenon, a cultural trend that both the Department of Orthodoxy and the Department of Propaganda recognized and encouraged, whenever possible, through the media.

"How are your injuries?" began Martin, concern visible on his face. "You took quite a beating from that Kroaker heretic before you were able to take him down. Are you sufficiently recovered to resume your duties?"

"Yes, sir," answered Zorn. "I'm one hundred percent and ready to take on the whole ALF."

"Good man, Zorn." Martin nodded vigorously. "Good man. We feel that following our great victory over Kroaker, in which you played so instrumental a part, we need to press the ALF as hard as ever: hand them additional serious setbacks, something the media can sink its teeth into, get the people on our side, make sure they know that we're winning. We want to kick these heretics while they're down. Give them a good one, you know, You're a thinking man, Zorn. What do you suggest? What do you have in mind?"

"Well, sir," said Zorn, "I had a lot of time to think while I was recuperating, and what I feel we need is a basic change in our strategic focus, a new way to attack this problem."

Martin rubbed his double chin, keenly interested in what Zorn had to offer.

"It seems to me," Zorn continued, "that ever since I became an Inquisitor, we've treated the ALF as merely another facet, albeit an extreme one, of unOrthodoxy. It's become a part of our daily lives that we try to combat. We try to minimize its effect on society, like traffic, or poverty, or bad weather. We treat the ALF like a problem that will always be with us, and we try to make the best of it. Even though we talk about this being a war, we maintain a network of informants and sources, some of whom are actually members of the ALF; we work with these people; we reward them for not being completely disloyal. What I propose is to transform our struggle from a damage-control operation to an all out crusade, a holy war, a jihad." Zorn pounded his fist on Martin's desk as he said these last words.

Martin, caught up in his excitement, pounded the desk as well. "Yes! Yes!"

"Kroaker was a major player in ALF operations," Zorn pointed out. "He's gone now. If we continue to react to what they do and go after one member at a time, there'll always be someone ready to take his or her place. We need to decimate the ALF leadership once and for all. We need to pull in those informants and sources off the street and strap them down in an interview chamber. No more pandering to the criminal element. We'll find out what we need to know. If we destroy the brain system, the rest of the ALF will fall apart on its own."

Martin was on the edge of his seat. "So how do we set it in motion, Zorn?"

"I was just having my assistant make a list of top ALF operatives whom we should go after next," Zorn explained. "High profile, lots of material for the Department of Propaganda; but those arrests could take some time to materialize, and we want some immediate results, so in the meantime I think we should hit their communications network as hard as possible — couriers, info drops, sympathizers." Zorn's blood was pumping faster at the thought of completely dismantling the ALF. "We could plunge their entire organization into chaos, keep the left hand from knowing what the right is doing, cut their units off from one another, and then wipe them out piece by piece." Zorn could see it all falling into place, destroying the subversive elements and removing the temptation of unOrthodoxy from loyal citizens. He could envision his righteous crusade bringing about an end to the war.

Martin slammed his hand down on the desk. "All praise to the Creator! I think it'll work, Zorn."

"Amen, sir."

"You'll be heading up this latest offensive, of course, in recognition of your unparalleled achievements and unquestioned loyalty and determination. I don't know what this department would do without you."

"You'd get along, sir."

Martin stood, as did Zorn. "Enough misplaced humility, Zorn." The Senior Inquisitor began shaking Zorn's hand enthusiastically. "Now go ahead and get started, and let me know what you need — anything at all."

"Yes, sir."

Zorn turned to leave the office but was stopped at the door by his superior's voice, full of concern.

"Zorn."

"Yes, sir?"

"Be careful, son. Those Front operatives are sneaky."

"Yes, sir, but we have Orthodoxy on our side," answered Zorn.

"That we do," said Martin with pride. "That we do."

Zorn headed back to the eighteenth floor reinforced in the righteousness of his purpose. When he arrived at his office, Jarvis was still energetically flipping through the stack of files on the desk, stopping only to make notes and then returning to the files.

"How's it coming, Jarvis?" Zorn took a portion of the stack and sat at his desk.

"Well, Max..." Jarvis was clearly finding great pleasure in his newfound familiarity with the man who was surely the most respected Inquisitor since the days of Trimmerhorn. "I got a little sidetracked. I was just looking over Kroaker's file." Jarvis shook his head. "He was a pretty rough customer. He had a list of offenses a mile long, and not little stuff either." Jarvis paused for a moment. "What was it like up there on Anglopolis Tower with Kroaker and the hostages?"

Zorn smoothed his hair down and thought back to seven weeks before. "Well, Jarvis, as you know, Kroaker had those forty-three citizens on top of the tower and was threatening to blow them up. I sneaked in through the ventilation system, but a mob of Kroaker's flunkies captured me and took me to him on the roof. He was a madman." Jarvis was already entranced by the story. "He was spouting platitudes about the revolution, but I think he was just drunk with the idea of killing all those people and getting his hands on me in the process. He broke my arm, shot me three times, and then threw me over the edge of the tower." Jarvis tapped his feet on the floor, he couldn't contain his excitement. "Praise the Creator, somehow I managed to hang on to one of the small ledges near the roof."

"But how," interrupted Jarvis, "with your arm, and the bullet wounds?"

"I'm not sure, Jarvis. All I can say is that the Creator watches over the pious. The bullets didn't hit vital spots — one ricocheted off a rib near my heart — and I managed to grab the ledge with my good arm. Luckily, none of Kroaker's men looked over the edge to watch me hit the pavement, or else it would have been like... like...."

"Like shooting a pinata!" offered Jarvis.

Zorn was a bit puzzled by the analogy, but nevertheless he continued. "Yes, Jarvis, exactly. Like shooting a pinata."

"How did you get back up? How did you stop him?" Jarvis realized that he was balling up the files in his fists and hurriedly released his grip.

Zorn's easy manner gave way to a more disturbed countenance. "This is the strangest part of all," he said. "I was hanging there bleeding, trying to figure out how to get back up, fearing that the Creator had chosen the time for me to end my work here (although He knows best, of course) when... when...."

Zorn wanted to go on. I suddenly felt this strange unearthly surge of energy and strength, he wanted to say. It was completely beyond me. I've never felt anything like it. It must have come from the Creator. I felt that I could have done anything for that moment. I could've reached out with my mind, it seemed, and somehow caused flame to engulf Kroaker, or to have made him explode without even detonating the explosives. So much power was revealed to me, was manifested within my body. Surely the Creator chose me to do his bidding.

But Zorn knew that he could share none of this with Jarvis. He could voice none of the thoughts that had disturbed him for the past seven weeks, thoughts that would not leave him alone. Zorn wasn't afraid that Jarvis would think he was crazy. If only that were the extent of the problem! Zorn had always been unabashedly extreme in his quest for righteousness. Secure in his piety, he'd never concerned himself with how others perceived him.

The problem lay in the fact that what Zorn thought had happened — the Creator reaching down and giving his lowly servant unimaginable power — was impossible; not just improbable, but, according to the Theocracy, impossible. Jarvis, so recently out of indoctrination school, undoubtedly knew what the Book of Orthodoxy said about such conjecture: "ExtraTheocratic communication with the Divine, in that it is beyond the prescribed strictures of Intermediaric expedition, does not exist. Theocratic Facilitators are solely the legitimate medium for individual interaction with the Divine."

There wasn't much room for interpretation.

"When what?" Jarvis was still waiting for Zorn's explanation. "When what?"

"I don't know," Zorn whispered. The shock and disappointment on Jarvis' face jarred him back into his public persona. He could not leave his audience dissatisfied. "I don't know," he said quickly but with untroubled confidence this time. "Somehow I found the strength and pulled myself back onto the rooftop. Then I caught Kroaker and his men off guard and threw him off the tower just before the explosion."

"Incredible," said Jarvis.

"I was knocked at least thirty feet across the roof," Zorn added, "but luckily I landed on some of the hostages, cushioning my fall."

"Simply incredible! But what about Kroaker's men?"

"Those who were left surrendered to me. They were too disheartened to continue once their leader was killed." Zorn sat back and put his hands behind his head.

"Wow!" Jarvis beamed with pride.

Zorn's expression was an impenetrable veil of modesty. He quickly pointed out to Jarvis that they were wasting valuable time that could and should be spent hastening the demise of the ALF. Jarvis promptly responded to Zorn's chiding, and, without further delay, both the Inquisitor and his assistant returned to the task at hand — determining which actual and suspected ALF operatives would be the Department of Orthodoxy's next targets. Heresy and treason were one and the same in Anglia, both forms of unOrthodoxy. This made Zorn's job of protecting and enforcing the doctrines of the T heocracy vital to national security.

Zorn picked out the most prominent ALF agents, terrorists with a high degree of name recognition: men and women whose apprehension or death the Department of Propaganda could proclaim as proof that the Theocracy was indeed winning this battle for the very soul of the nation. Drawing attention to these victories would, Zorn reasoned, not only undermine the will of the enemy but it would also improve morale among the citizens of Anglia and the DO staff.

Zom also listed several names as part of the suspected information network that was so important to ALF operations. Cut the lines of communication. Momentum — that was the real key. Once Zorn was able to break the chain at some point, he could follow the links, destroying them in rapid succession. The heretics would fall like dominoes.

About three hours after Zorn and jarvis first examined the files, a mailboy knocked and entered the office. The boy wore incredibly thick glasses on his long, pointed face. His jet-black hair was cut extremely short, and his uniform was a bit large. He pushed a cart overflowing with letters, bundles, and small- and medium-sized boxes.

"What's this?" asked Zorn.

"Mail, sir."

"It's been piling up while you were gone, sir — I mean Max," Jarvis added. "Letters, cards, presents — all from well-wishers who knew you were hurt. This must be the first cart out of how many? Nine, ten?

The mailboy nodded nervously. "Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll be," said Zorn, almost speechless. "This certainly is flattering. Makes the job that much more worthwhile, knowing the people on the street appreciate what we're doing." Zorn feared he might be exhibiting pride once again. "Creator be praised."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Jarvis asked the mailboy. "Go get the other carts! We might as well start going through some of these now. There may be food, and we wouldn't want it to spoil."

Never mind, thought Zorn, that the packages have been piling up for weeks, and any food is most likely spoiled already. At any rate, Zorn approved of the more assertive side of Jarvis' nature.

"Yes, sir!" The mailboy backed out of the room and shut the door.

Zorn sat at his desk watching Jarvis sift through some of the letters that had spilled off the cart. "This is incredible, Max," he said. "There must be at' least a thousand letters on this cart alone, not to mention the other nine or ten. I bet no other Inquisitor gets this much fan mail after a case."

"Remember, Jarvis," Zorn said in a serious tone, "we're working with the other Inquisitors. This isn't a popularity contest. If we don't all work together, cooperating to accomplish our tasks, if we don't each play our role, then it's the people of Anglia who lose. We're here, first and foremost, to protect them from maniacs like these." Zorn waved one of the ALF files in the air.

"You're right, Max," said Jarvis, "but still...."

The force of the explosion knocked Zorn backwards out of his chair into the wall. He opened his eyes to see swirling spots of light and color, which slowly gave way to dark billowing smoke. At first Zorn heard no sound at all, then ringing — alarms were sounding. The desk had tipped over, pinning him against the wall. Zorn groaned from the stiffness and soreness of his previous injuries as well as from the pain of this current trauma, but somehow he managed to push the desk away.

People were rushing into the room with fire extinguishers, spraying the desk, the floor, flaming letters drifting all about the room. The realization finally hit Zorn: a bomb. It was a bomb, here in the Department of Orthodoxy complex. But how?

Then Zorn saw the mangled figure lying against the far wall. Forcing his battered body to move by sheer willpower, he crossed to it, pushing aside concerned coworkers who wanted to make sure he was all right. Jarvis lay crumpled on the floor, ripped open from his knees to his chest. His eyes stared blankly out from his blackened face. Wide-eyed with wonder, thought Zorn. The boy's hair was all but burned away.

Zorn cradled the body in his arms. He fought to hold back tears. For this, he thought, the heretics will pay.

No, no. That's not quite right. Let's see

Zorn cradled the broken body in his arms. It took all his willpower to hold back the flood of tears. For this, he thought, there will be hell to pay.

No, that won't work. He's an Inquisitor, for Christ's sake. He can't be swearing. And I have to be careful about the crying. Maybe ....

Zorn gently cradled the broken body in his arms, barely able to hold back the manly tears of rage that were welling up in his eyes.

No, too much. And where else are tears going to well upI ... barely able to hold back his tears of rage. For this, he thought, the heretics will pay.

Yeah, that'll work. Lord! It's already seven-thirty. I'm going to be late!

F7

SAVE DOCUMENT? YES (NO)

Y

DOCUMENT TO BE SAVED: A:\Z0RN.2

ENTER

REPLACE A:\ZORN.2? NO (YES)

Y

SAVING A:\ZORN. 2

EXIT PROGRAM? NO (YES)

Y

C:\WP >

Ron Church turned off his computer. He rushed from the study into the bedroom over to his closet, stripping off his T-shirt and jeans as he went, throwing them in wrinkled heaps onto the floor. He glanced at his watch — 7:33 — as he rummaged through the suits in the closet. "Lord, she's going to be pissed." He chose a dark gray suit and a white shirt and tossed them onto the bed. He tried to dress quickly but, when he had finished buttoning his shirt, he realized that the buttons were misaligned and so he had to start over. Ron pulled on his jacket and checked his graying hair in the mirror. It would do.

He started toward the apartment door then stopped. Shoes, socks, belt, money. Back to the bedroom. He found a pair of navy socks without holes and a new pair of black dress shoes. He put on his belt, missing one loop the first try, then grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser and rushed out the front door.

After fifteen seconds or so, he bounded back into the apartment, rushed to the bedroom, pulled a tie from a hanger in the closet, and left once again.

Chapter Two

Ron had not yet decided whether or not he enjoyed owning a car in San Francisco. He had bought his sporty little blue Toyota Celica almost six months ago — it had been a present to himself when Death on the Tower hit the bestsellers' list — and since then, he could only remember three instances when he had been able to park within two blocks of his apartment. The apartment itself was new — another trapping of success. Although Ron had only moved north a couple of blocks, from Geary to Sutter Street, his new place was more fashionable and carried with it an equally fashionable high rent. At any rate, parking anywhere on Nob Hill — anywhere in the city, for that matter — was a nightmare.

After walking three blocks and aborting four attempts at tying his necktie, Ron reached his car. He was already fifteen minutes late picking up Irene and they had reservations at eight which they would be stretching. Irene was casual and easy-going in many ways, but punctuality was one of the grand ideals by which she lived. Unfortunately, Ron did not share this penchant for timeliness, or at least his attempts to follow a schedule were rarely accompanied by success.

For instance, at the present Ron had to contend with parking between two cars whose owners had obviously conspired to leave as little space beyond their rear bumpers and his as possible. Fortunately, he liked to think of parallel parking as parking by Braille — a little bump here, a little bump there. This could be distressing, however, when both obstacles had car alarms, as of course both the Volvo in front and the Jeep behind did. After a full fifteen minutes of bumping here and there, and of being nearly deafened by the electronic protestations of the two automobiles, Ron pulled away from the growing cluster of onlookers.

Luckily, traffic was not too heavy. However, it was already eight o'clock. She's going to be pissed! Ron headed north to California Street, over to Market, past the Embarcadero Center, then turned right onto Steaurt Street. He hated drivers who were impatient and zigged and zagged across lanes, but found himself, through necessity, transformed into one. A few blocks past Irene's workplace, Bayside First Mutual Bank, Ron pulled into a No Parking Zone in front of The Underground News Merchant Bookstore where he was supposed to have picked her up a half hour earlier.

Irene was standing near the curb. She was tall, almost six feet. When she wore heels, she was and inch or two taller than Ron. Today she wore flats, a long, billowy skirt, and a beige sweater. Under her black pillbox hat, her auburn hair was cut boyishly short. As she approached the car, she did not smile.

Good excuse, Ron. You need a good one here, he thought to himself. She opened the door and got into the car. Ron leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Hi, Irene." He braced himself.

Irene turned and stared at him without saying a word. "Sorry I'm a little late," Ron began. "I had some trouble getting the car..."

"An hour," interrupted Irene. "Almost an hour late. You said you would pick me up at seven-thirty."

"Around seven-thirty," he corrected her.

"At seven-thirty," Irene repeated tersely. "It is now almost eight-thirty. Even if you had said around seven- thirty, which you did not, eight-thirty is not around seven- thirty. It's around eight-thirty."

"Sometimes when a person says at, he really means more around," offered Ron. Irene, lips pressed tightly together, did not seem convinced. "At least you were at the bookstore, and you could...." His voice trailed away, cut off by her cold stare. Ron pulled out into the traffic, and they rode silently for a few minutes. "I hope they'll hold our table," he said finally.

"I called from a payphone and told them we would be late."

"Oh. Thanks," Ron murmured. "Did you wait until I was late to call, or did you just figure I would be?"

The faintest hint of a smile crept onto Irene's face. "I waited until I knew you were late, although I wasn't surprised."

There were a few more moments of silence, but Ron felt less tension in the air than before. "How was your day?" he asked.

"The bus was twelve minutes late, so I didn't have time to fix my coffee properly at work before we began."

"Maybe I should be a bus driver when I grow up," said Ron.

"When's that? When you turn forty?" Irene was now smiling, more or less.

"That still gives me a couple years and, besides, if this book sells anything like the last one, I may never have to grow up."

The dinner reservations were at The Waterfront. The trip from Steaurt Street north on Embarcadero to Pier Seven didn't take long. Irene tied Ron's tie as he drove — an adventure in itself. She made the knot, he noticed, plenty tight.

After Ron took his ticket for the parking and he and Irene headed toward the main door, she pulled him close by the arm and whispered into his ear, "Haven't you ever wondered about that?"

"About what?"

"The valet parking." She glanced back over her shoulder. Ron's car was zipping around the curve. "They could plant anything they wanted in your car — phony

evidence, drugs, contraband, a bomb."

"I'm a decent tipper," said Ron. "I don't think they'd blow me up."

Irene slapped him on the shoulder. "Not the attendant, you ninny. Whoever took his place."

"Excuse me, but did you call me a 'ninny'?"

"I most certainly did."

They approached the hostess. She was blonde and tan and wore a low-cut blue cocktail dress. "Name, please?"

"Ninny... uh, Church. Ron Church."

"Party of two?"

"Yes, that's right."

The hostess trailed her finger down the page of the reservation book and looked over at the seating chart. "It'll be just a few minutes, Mr. Church," she said, as she went to make arrangements.

"Thank you."

Irene pinched his arm lightly. "We probably wouldn't have had to wait if we'd been on time."

Ron turned to her and asked, "Now why is it that the bellboy wants to blow me up?"

"Not the bellboy, the parking attendant. And no one wants to blow you up, as far as I know."

"Well, that just shows how much you know. I'm sure there are lots of people who want to blow me up, who would be happy to blow me up, overjoyed...."

"Ron, be serious."

"Don't you think being blown up is pretty serious?"

"Oh, shut up."

The hostess returned. "Right this way, Mr. Church. Sorry about the wait."

Irene spoke before Ron could open his mouth. "That's all right, dear. He doesn't mind at all."

The table was on one of the upper levels and afforded. an impressive view of the Bay. Although low fog was beginning to roll in for the evening, light from the half- moon still sparkled on the water. Several tour boats and

small tugs puttered into view.

As they looked over the menus, Irene picked up where she had left off. "I'm sure the parking attendant doesn't want to blow you up, dear, but if someone changed places with the attendant, then he would have easy access to your car for at least an hour or two. The FBI could do it, or the Mafia. Think of all the restaurants with mob connections."

"But why," asked Ron, perplexed, "would they need to go to all the trouble to infiltrate someone's valet parking when they could just break into the car on the street at night or in a parking garage? What do you think you're getting?"

"Probably the Papardelle Milanese. There's too much chance of running into the police with a break-in," said Irene.

"That's ridiculous. The police never catch car thieves," Ron argued, glancing once again at the menu.

"The higher ups in the department are getting kickbacks from the local stolen cars that are shipped and sold in Mexico," Irene explained, "but that's another story. By working with the restaurant ownership, the Mafia or whomever can have one of their people hired as a parking attendant. Everything's legitimate, there's no risk. What are you having?"

"The smoked salmon, I think. Is that why you don't have a car?" asked Ron.

"Because you're having the smoked salmon?"

"No. Because valet parking is actually an insidious plot by space aliens to compromise our vehicular integrity?"

"I don't like driving in the city." Irene smiled sweetly at the waitress who was approaching. "Parking and insurance are outrageously expensive. The insurance companies are pawns of the Illuminati, by the way. Why should I buy a car?"

"I wouldn't have to pick you up all the time."

"You can stop picking me up whenever you like, Mr. Church, i suppose then I would get to places on time."

The conversation stopped, as conversations tend to do when a waiter or waitress arrives. The waitress, a bleached'blonde imitation of the hostess, brought water and took their orders. Ron realized, in the three months or so that he had been dating Irene, that time seemed to pass unnoticed when he was with her. She always had something to talk about, usually interesting if not always completely rational, and she didn't constantly pester him about his writing. He often was quite absorbed in his work, but when he was away from it he wanted to be just that — away. Irene, in fact, had not even gotten around to reading Death on the Tower until the past week or so.

Though The Waterfront was crowded, the young woman seemed to be back with the food fairly quickly.

"How's the salmon?" Irene asked Ron right as he put a large bite into his mouth.

"Mmmm... mmmm... good. Very good. How about the papardelle? Very Milany?"

"Excellent," Irene answered as the waitress took the empty salad bowls. "And I never said anything about space aliens."

"Excuse me?"

"You said something about space aliens and vehicular integrity. I never said anything about aliens, space or otherwise."

"Maybe not tonight," said Ron.

"Not tonight." There was a moment of silence as they both chewed, then Irene spoke. "But have you heard about the latest Air Force cover up?"

"I expect I will. Does it have anything to do with Elvis?" Ron took another bite of his smoked salmon.

"Of course not. Elvis is dead. It has to do with the Roswell incident," Irene said.

"Roz who?"

"Not who, where. Roswell, New Mexico," explained

Irene. "I know I've told you this before."

"I don't think..."

"I most certainly have," she continued. "It's only the biggest, most publicized United States government cover up, next to Watergate, of course."

"Of course. What about Nixon bombing Cambodia?" Ron thought he had her now.

"I lump all the Nixon cover ups together."

"Oh."

Irene pushed back her mostly empty plate. "In 1947 something crashed in the New Mexico desert near Roswell. The Air Force came in, cleared away the wreckage, and when people started to talk, they released some phony pictures of tin foil and metal rods. They claimed it was a weather balloon."

"Maybe it was a weather balloon." Ron took his last bite.

"You're so naive, Ron. No one believed it was a weather balloon, not even the people who didn't believe it was a spaceship."

"You really should stop reading the Weekly World News."

Irene smacked his hand. "This wasn't in the Weekly World News. This was in the Chronicle, The New York Times, The Washington Post, Newsweek, Time, everywhere."

"But I thought the media was controlled by... somebody who was distorting the news and not giving us the full story," Ron mentioned tentatively, remembering a bit of what Irene had told him before.

"Well, yes," Irene agreed. "The South American drug cartels — Brazilian and Argentine, not Colombian — greatly influence the reporting of international news in this hemisphere through their connections at the Pentagon, but this has nothing to do with them."

"Thank God."

"People were still asking questions about Roswell more than forty-five years later. Congressman Schiff from New Mexico was pressing to have the Roswell documents declassified and released, so the Air Force came out with this latest story."

"Which is...?"

"Which is that it was a spy balloon, part of Project Mogul to keep track of Soviet atomic testing in the Pacific."

"Sounds reasonable."

"Of course it sounds reasonable." Irene was becoming exasperated. "Everyone knew they were lying, so they admitted they were lying and substituted a new lie, figuring people would believe them this time since they seemed to be coming clean."

"So it really was a UFO?"

"No. That was just a diversion, a rumor the Air Force started itself to sidetrack conspiracy buffs. They released that picture of General Ramey and Colonel Whatshisname with the wreckage, denying that it was a UFO so that everyone would think that it was a UFO. It was really a shipment of arms to Quebec."

"Quebec, Canada?" Ron felt that he had missed something. "Masterminded by Alex Trebek?"

"No. Project Mogul was headed by a Dr. Maurice Ewing," Irene explained patiently. "He worked on Cape Cod during the war and later at Columbia University. His job ostensibly was as a geophysicist, but he was really funneling weapons to a paramilitary separatist group in Quebec."

"So this scientist, Dr..." Ron faltered.

"... Ewing."

"... Ewing. Dr. Ewing, with the backing of the United States government..."

"At the behest of the United States government," Irene corrected him.

"... was secretly inciting rebellion in Quebec. So Quebec could become the fifty-first state?"

"So Quebec could become the forty-ninth state."

"Forty-ninth?"

"Yes. Alaska and Hawaii didn't become states until 1959, January and August respectively."

There was silence for a few moments until Ron spoke again.

"I see," he said.

"What would you like for dessert, dear?"

"What?"

"Dessert. You know, what you eat after dinner," said Irene.

"Oh, yes. Uh... cheesecake, I think. With strawberries."

"Coffee, black?"

"Yes, sure." Ron was still deep in thought. "How did they ship weapons in the balloon?"

"It wasn't really a balloon, dear. They just said it was a balloon."

"Of course."

"What do you think about sharing that cheesecake?" Irene put her hands over her stomach. "That pasta really filled me up."

"Hmm? Oh, sure."

Like dinner, the cheesecake was excellent, and soon Ron and Irene were leaving the Waterfront. As the parking attendant opened the driver's side door and stepped out of the way, Ron tapped the young man on the chest and said sardonically, "Tell your bosses that we're onto them." The attendant stood befuddled as Ron

and Irene pulled out of the parking circle and drove away.

The noise on the street was incredible! Even had Tun Tzu not been looking for Ron Church specifically, the clamor caused by the small blue automobile would have attracted his attention. Tun Tzu had seen many vehicles during his three weeks in San Francisco — the larger buses (Muni), track-bound trains (BART), and monstrous metal airplanes that soared through the sky like giant birds —- such odd, and loud, forms of transport.

. Tun Tzu watched as Ron Church maneuvered his vehicle so that it bumped the automobile on one side and then the larger automobile on the other time and time again. What strange ritual is he performing? Tun Tzu wondered. Both of the jostled automobiles were emitting unpleasantly piercing sounds, as if they were wailing in pain.

Some passersby hurried past the noise, others stopped and watched with amusement. Tun Tzu blended in with the spectators, he made sure of that. Even in this eclectic city, his robes and bare feet, his long white hair, balding crown, and goatee would have attracted attention if not for the subtle proddings he gave the minds of those around him to conveniently notice other elements of their surroundings. Indeed, little prodding was necessary within the proximity of such a spectacle as Ron Church was creating across the street.

Tun Tzu looked at the picture on the inside back cover of the paperback book he held in his hands. The photograph matched the man who sat cursing within the confines of his automobile less than a hundred feet away. In life, Ron Church's dress was more formal, his hair a bit more gray. Perhaps it was an old picture. The text under the photograph began: "Ron Church was born among the terminal moraines of Gnawbone, Indiana. His writing career began early when, in elementary school, he made up stories during math class "

Even without the positive identification of the book cover, however, Tun Tzu would have known this was the man for whom he was searching, the tzu-jan. Ron Church stood out like a beacon from everyone else in the night. Tun Tzu could feel the urgency and frustration radiating from the subject of his observation, but no art was necessary to sense those emotions... just a little lip- reading.

Better not to reach too closely, Tun Tzu knew. Not yet.

But the cusp was approaching, and soon the time would be at hand that he must make contact.

Chapter Three

Zorn's flat was dark as he entered. He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment imagining that nothing else existed around him. He did not turn on the light; the darkness suited him well this evening. He walked through the small living room, past the couch, past the vid unit that invited him to spend his evening lost in mindless viewing. There would undoubtedly be reports of the bombing. Not even the Department of Propaganda could keep a terrorist attack on the Department of Orthodoxy quiet. Too many people knew what had happened. Better to use the disaster to foster fear and hatred against the ALF than to try to cover up the explosion. A news report was the last thing Zorn wanted to see. It had been hellish enough, after the obligatory medical examination, getting past the throngs of DP media agents without being noticed. Zorn was exhausted. He'd been mauled physically once again, but, more significantly, he was just plain tired of the carnage. He wanted to drive the entire problem completely from his mind, but he knew that would not happen.

A few steps and Zorn was in the compact kitchen. The room was briefly illuminated, light streaming from the open cold food unit which was empty other than the Theocracy-marketed and -distributed beer which he removed. The regulated sale of alcohol was a sizable source of revenue for the Theocracy. Zorn tossed the bottle cap onto the counter, walked into the bedroom, and, without removing shoes or holster, lay down on the narrow single-bed. He felt a profound sense of disquiet creep over him. Thoughts that were usually far from the light of day, feelings that never more than briefly flitted across his, consciousness before he pushed them back, were emerging, demanding to be noticed, demanding to be taken into account.

The walls in the bedroom, as in the living room, were bare: no paintings, no prints, no photographs. An Inquisitor's job was his life; time and energy must be focused. The Orthodoxy deserved nothing less, demanded nothing less. Zorn had never dated, much less petitioned the Office of Procreation and Compatibility for permission to marry. His family, never close, was gone, never to be seen again. The half-moon shining through the window shades created parallel bars of light across his chest.

Foremost in Zorn's mind was the image of Jarvis' blackened body. How many days, how many years, would that wide-eyed stare haunt Zorn's thoughts? Jarvis had died an innocent, even if he had chosen sides in the war. The boy should have been spared. It was Zorn, after all, whom they were after. Worst of all, perhaps, it was Zorn's own negligence and slow-wittedness that had allowed, if not caused, the boy to die. I should have known. I should have known! The boy's blood is on my hands.

Zorn wanted so much to give in to his spiritual exhaustion. Was the fight really worth the cost? But that would be letting them win; that was what they wanted. The only way the ALF could win, Zorn realized, was if faithful servants of the Orthodoxy like himself gave up. Righteousness was on his side, he was sure of that — but not as sure as he'd once been. That was what bothered him most. He expected that anguish and self- recrimination would eventually be put to use against the ALF. It would become, energy used to bring criminals to justice. For now, however, all he could see was that charred face full of surprise.

His thoughts shifted. How did I survive the bombing? Zorn's survival was nothing short of miraculous. True, the desk had blocked some of the blast's force, but, by all accounts, he should have been lying on a cold slab next to Jarvis right now, not lying on his bed drinking beer. He took a large swig. Where is the justice in that? Why does Jarvis die and I live? Because I'm an Inquisitor, and he was only an assistant?

'"Ask not the Creator's purpose, for his wisdom surpasses the comprehension of mortals,"' quoted Zorn from the Book of Orthodoxy. He could feel his thoughts slipping toward that dangerous line of reasoning everyone, even loyal citizens — perhaps even upstanding Inquisitors of unquestionable moral fortitude — surely could not help toying with at one point or another. Thoughts that bordered on — and even crossed over into — the sinister realm of unOrthodoxy. Thoughts that Zorn had arrested others for expressing. Thoughts that, even if repressed and denied, still hovered in the back of the mind, waiting like vultures for a moment of weakness.

Where is the divine justice in Jarvis' death? It is there whether I see it or not. People die. Innocents die in this war. There have been many. There will be many more. A boy dies in a bombing. A suspected ALF operative who's actually a loyal citizen doesn't survive questioning.

Innocents die.

There's a price for serving the Theocracy, for maintaining an earthly semblance of divine justice. It lies beyond my control. The responsibility rests with those I serve — the Theocracy and the Creator.

"... and no burden borne shall go unrewarded," he recalled words from the Book of Orthodoxy again, "for the Creator shall not forget the faithful, and the pious He shall not abandon."

Who am I, Zorn asked himself, to demand my reward now? His pride became apparent once again.

In the final analysis, he would accept Jarvis' death — there was little else he could do. He had long ago realized that the system worked, not always how he would choose for it to, but it worked. A boy died in an earthquake; a boy died from the blast of a terrorist's bomb. Whether from the result of a natural phenomenon or of a human choice, death was part of the system — the system the Creator set in motion, the system the Theocracy upheld. Zorn could accept Jarvis' death. What was more difficult to accept, however, what left him groping in the dark for answers, was his own survival in situations that should have claimed his life, and it was this that now led him toward possible spiritual oblivion.

Zorn had spoken to an Intermediary once. It was many years ago, after a shootout with an ALF operative in which a small boy, an innocent bystander, had been gunned down. "How could this have happened?" Zorn had asked the Intermediary.

"Tonight you did the work of the Theocracy, Inquisitor Zorn," said the short, corpulent but self-assured man, Zorn's only sanctioned avenue to divine knowledge. "The boy stood in the way of that."

"But he did nothing wrong. He was just there," Zorn persisted.

"He did something wrong; his parents did something wrong; his grandparents did something wrong. It doesn't matter. There was impurity somewhere. But most important, he stood in the way of the Theocracy. There is justice." The man smiled, not unkindly, smug in his spiritual security. "You serve the Theocracy. You are justice. You needn't ask these questions."

And so, seeing little alternative, Zorn had listened to the Intermediary. After all, that man, by virtue of his position, was Zorn's only medium for communicating with the divine. A citizen filled out a prayer petition form, and then somehow — mystery created the power held by those in the position — the Intermediary passed the message on to the Creator. It hadn't been too difficult for Zorn, encouraged by his moral and spiritual guide, to abandon questions that would merely have caused distress and unpleasantness anyway. For years he had not asked those questions. He had trained himself to put them aside, performing his duty zealously, nearly flawlessly, mercilessly. He had protected the innocent, the loyal citizens, by condemning the unOrthodox. There was not a clear indication of why the innocent suffered at times, but Zorn took comfort in the knowledge that there was divine justice, that he was divine justice. Only occasionally did doubts trouble him, and these he locked away, never to return.

Until now.

The explosions on the tower and in the office were minor compared to the upheaval that now threatened Zorn's theological belief.

Zorn sat up on the edge of his bed, set the empty beer bottle on the floor, and smoothed back his hair. His head was clear. He stood on the brink of a momentous decision, not one to be made through the fog of alcohol. Zorn was as sober as he'd ever been. He sat there on the edge of the bed for several minutes knowing what course of action he would follow but afraid to take the first step. The only sound was that of his heart beating faster and faster. Zorn's mouth was dry. He licked his lips. Finally, he slid off the bed and knelt on the floor next to it.

He remained in this position for some time. Although the bedroom was not particularly warm, occasional beads of sweat trickled down his face and his side. Zorn's thoughts were fraught with peril. On one hand, he risked censure and imprisonment by his own compatriots. To actually pray, to seek the Creator without the aid of an Intermediary, to circumvent the role of the Theocracy was blatant unOrthodoxy, treason punishable by death. On the other hand, he was faced with the possibility of divine retribution from an angry Creator displeased by the treachery of a once faithful servant. As frightened as Zorn was to go on, he couldn't stop himself. His hands, cold and clammy, were clasped in front of him. He looked up, then deciding otherwise, bowed his head and closed his eyes. Better to remember humility. Time passed. Zorn had no idea how long this elaborate, incremental process had taken. He felt as if he would explode — his head, his chest, the pounding, the pressure.

He spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. His voice shook. "Creator." The first word was spoken. There was no turning back. He had acted upon the most important decision of his life. He had pulled the first brick from the structure of everything he held sacred.

"Yours is unknowable wisdom. Yours is omnipotence." Zorn was increasingly struck by the realization that he, on his own, was attempting to speak with the Creator without benefit of an Intermediary of the Theocracy or a prescribed methodology. He was willfully violating Orthodoxy, violating that which had always been natural law for him. He was acutely aware of his smallness, the insignificance of his very existence. He faltered. Words escaped him momentarily, but he managed, in awe, to continue. "I do not seek to question your decisions, the great plan you have crafted for each of us. I merely seek to better understand it so as to further glorify you and uphold your will."

Zorn thought about this last statement for a moment. As he questioned his own motives, he saw duplicity in both the form and the content of his supplication. "Forgive me, Creator, for already I speak less than truth. I utter this prayer aloud so as to organize my thoughts, to present them to you in a polished, articulate fashion, but you, above any, know my tumultuous thoughts before I utter them, before I am even aware of them. I do not need to speak in the jargon of the Intermediaries." Not until this was spoken did Zorn recognize the inherent criticism of the Theocracy. He considered abandoning the venture entirely and repenting; but he had consciously breached Orthodoxy. To violate his loftiest ideals and then stop short would be the greatest cowardice. He was determined to be honest, both with himself and with the Creator, to accept what may come. His fingers trembled.

Zorn's voice was still a whisper. "In my pride and arrogance, I speak to you directly because I am weak." He felt layers of indoctrination loosening, slipping away, a strange combination of terror and relief. "I have spent my life serving you. You know this. I have sacrificed much, not that I seek gratitude, for it is right that we should make sacrifice in your honor. I have followed the tenets of Orthodoxy. I have risked my life, time and again, to preserve and strengthen the Theocracy." Zorn probed the most hidden recesses of his mind, questioning himself as he never had, removing the manacles from his imprisoned thoughts. "Yet, I feel this need to seek you out, not through the official Facilitators of the Theocracy, but directly, by myself. I feel this need to touch you, to make contact, to know first-hand. Never mind that I abandon my life's work. Never mind that in my arrogance I discard Orthodoxy as if it applied to others but not to me. This is wrong. This is against all for which I have ever stood, yet here I am tearing down the walls which I helped build."

It was unlikely, but not impossible, that Zorn's flat was bugged by his own department. No one was above suspicion. If he were under surveillance, the Inquisitors could burst in at any moment. They would've heard more than enough to condemn him to years of imprisonment or to death. A couple of agents through the door, possibly a strike force rappelling through the windows would not be difficult. Or they could wait and find out if there were others involved in this heresy; if he had been lured into spiritual degradation; if he, in turn, had lured others. Zorn had weighed this possibility before he began. There was no use stopping to save himself now.

"Creator, the boy is dead and I live. There is no explaining this. There is no accounting, except for the miraculous, and the Orthodoxy tells us that the miraculous, that intervention, is not spontaneous, but happens only by deliberate petition through the Theocracy." Contradictions abounded. How could this be? Or was his folly in his pridefulness, in assuming that he should be able to unravel the apparent contradictions? "And when I defeated Kroaker," he continued, "that power was not within me. That was not my strength that allowed me to climb back onto the tower in time. From where else could that aid have come, if not from you? For it was aid of some kind. What I have experienced is other than what I know to be possible. Am I insane? Is this my punishment for trusting myself more than what I have been taught to believe? Is there fault in my reasoning?"

Zorn felt his throat tightening. The words that had flowed so rapidly suddenly were constricted within him. He spoke only with great effort and pain. "I can't avoid these questions any longer! But everything I do depends on me avoiding these questions. Where is the justice in that? How do I continue?"

Uncertainties abounded. Were the contradictions newly actualized, or was it Zorn's realization of them that was new? What could he believe anymore? As he took stock of that which he had so long denied, a great wave of emotion began to well up within him. The discomfort in his throat was joined by pressure in his chest and a sick, burning sensation in his stomach. He felt the tide of overwhelming nausea; he involuntarily shuddered at the taste of bile in his mouth.

Zorn tried to compose himself. Even if he had questions, doubts, he could still live according to Orthodoxy. He need not toss it aside. He could still serve the Theocracy by his actions, if not wholeheartedly in his mind. He was not a theologian. He was an Inquisitor. He could still do his job.

But how long could he live with such a compromise? How long could he feel devoid of moral certainty and yet act from conviction? How long before enough water seeped through the wall of his beliefs where those few bricks had been loosened and removed so that the wall gave way entirely? Within that eventuality, within that inevitability, lay madness and death.

"Creator..." There were no words. They ran to hide as he reached out for them in the darkness. "Creator...." The wave of emotion encompassed him, pulled him under, covered him completely. Zorn lay on the floor and sobbed uncontrollably. He was lost, floating, cut loose from the moorings that had always held him. He mourned not the loss of his innocence, for he had taken this path willingly, although he felt that he'd had no choice — but there is always choice. The greatest cause for despair was the uncertainty which lay ahead. Every word, every action, would have new meaning for him now. Nothing that he did as an Inquisitor — no arrest, no speech, no warning, nothing — could be performed from a position of unquestioning authority any longer. How could he conceal his lack of moral certainty? For certainty had ceased to exist for him. The tears cleansed Zorn. He gave into them, held nothing back. He lay on the floor weak, uncertain, and broken.

It was then he felt the presence within him for the first time. Zorn's eyes were still closed, but he knew there was someone — or something — and that if he opened his eyes, he would see nothing. He felt not a physical presence but a spiritual one. A strange sense told Zorn that he wasn't alone. The presence was vast, both comforting and intimidating in its completeness. Zorn was speechless. He reached out to the presence within him. There was no discernible response, no reaction whatsoever, but it was there. He could tell it was there!

His jubilation wavered. It was there, all right, but what was it? Was it the Creator? Surely, it must be — the immensity! — but why didn't it respond? The Book of Orthodoxy spoke of demons that lay in wait for those foolhardy enough to attempt to ascend toward divine knowledge of their own accord. Zorn wondered if he had found one of those demons. He wondered if at any moment it would latch onto him with a monstrous tentacle and begin to pick apart his psyche like so many petals from a flower. Should he retreat before it became aware of him? Even if it were the Creator, it might not welcome an intrusion from an entity significantly lower in the metaphysical hierarchy. It might enforce the proscriptions of the Theocracy with a well-placed lightning bolt.

Zorn dithered only a moment before coming to a conclusion: How can I not take the chance? I have come this far.... So he continued on the slippery slope. Perhaps damnation lay ahead, perhaps salvation.

Zorn's contact with the presence was not of a normal sensory nature; that is to say, he couldn't see, hear, smell, taste or touch it, but he could most definitely sense it. In the past, Zorn had locked up heretics who had claimed to possess extrasensory perception. He had never believed in a sixth sense, but he was experiencing something similar now. Zorn had found... something, if not definitely that for which he was searching. He directed questions toward the presence in his mind: Are you the Creator? Can you hear me? Can you communicate with me? What are you? Who are you? He searched and prodded.

But there was no response. None whatsoever. No indication that the presence had any idea that Zorn was there — or that the presence had any ideas, period. Zorn, unwilling to give up, continued reaching out to his new discovery. Perhaps it wasn't ready to communicate with him. Zorn was not deterred, he was not dejected. He clung to the hope that this was, in fact, the Creator; that there was a mind present, that it was only a matter of time and persistence until it responded to him. He refused to believe that a huge, formless, mindless, glob of primordial psychic matter drifted, eternally unresponsive in the ether; he refused to consider the possibility that the presence was unable to respond to him (the Creator can't be less than omnipotent!). The presence possessed, Zorn realized, a peculiarity in form, of this there was no doubt. But Zorn could also see, somehow, that within the essence of this being was a connection with his world — the world of which Zorn believed it was the Creator.

Zorn continued to try to make direct contact by hurtling hopeful questions at the presence in his mind, searching for any sign of understanding. Not once did he note the slightest response, but he continued until exhausted, drifting off to sleep.

Ron's sleep was restless. Every few minutes, he rolled from side to side, occasionally mumbling incoherently. Irene awoke when one of his turns pulled the covers off her. She started to jerk the covers back to her side, but stopped when she noticed Ron's agitation. His eyelids and his fingers twitched, a soft moan welled up in his throat. Irene sat up, hugging the sheet to her body. She reached over and softly stroked Ron's hair. He mumbled something, not quite words; his eyes flickered and opened, stared blankly at her.

"Ron, are you all right?" she asked, concerned. Ron continued to stare at her but did not respond. He blinked several times as if trying to clear his vision. "Ron?"

"Yes?" he said remotely, seeming truly puzzled, more asleep than awake.

"Were you dreaming?" Irene was still stroking his hair gently.

His brow furrowed with concentration, and he nodded. "Yes... yes."

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the

forehead. "What about, dear?"

Ron thought for a moment, then he shook his head slightly. "I don't know." His voice was weak. "I don't know."

Irene kissed him again. "It's okay."

He nodded again. His eyes closed slowly, and he slept peacefully throughout the rest of the night.

Chapter Four

The tall redhead with the legs eased up onto the barstool to the left of Ron's. If the slit in her mini-skirt ran any higher, Ron couldn't help but notice, there wouldn't be anything left to the imagination. He smiled politely, but not too politely, and turned back to the bar.

Damnation!

He knew that if he weren't seeing someone, if he weren't involved with Irene, this woman never would've sat down next to him. That was the way of the world. It was one of those situations where he wanted to look — he really wanted to look — but he didn't want to be seen looking. Can't hurt just to look. You can read the menu without ordering any food. He risked an inconspicuous glance down at the crossed legs, the foot that bobbed gently so close to him.

Damn!

Ron shook his head and ordered another beer. Was it his fifth or sixth? Not enough to be more than pleasantly tipsy, just enough to have lost track of how many.

She's probably married anyway. He looked over at her left hand which was resting on the bar. No ring. Damn!

Ron had not slept well the last few nights. That was why he was here at Eddy's Comer Pub. Nothing aided restful slumber more than a few beers... except, perhaps, a few more beers. Generally speaking, Ron tried to avoid yuppified English-pub-wannabees, especially on Friday nights, but Eddy's was within walking distance of his apartment and it had Bass on tap.

Irene had not been up to going out tonight. She'd had a rough day at the bank. Ron wasn't clear on all the details of what it meant to be a construction loan servicer, but apparently one of Irene's co-workers hadn't realized that the insurance on a loan property had lapsed — a serious oversight in construction loan society — and, of course, the building in question had promptly burned to the ground, leaving Bayside First Mutual with nothing more to repossess other than ashes, which tend not to fetch top dollar. At any rate, Irene had been assigned the task of helping this now hysterical co-worker find some clause or loophole, anything that would show that the property was still insured, which, in fact, it was not.

So Irene had stayed home looking forward to a restful evening, and Ron was here in the bar next to this long- legged (and well-endowed, he could not help but notice) woman who had so cruelly sat next to him. He was both relieved and disappointed when she saw another woman she knew come through the door. The redhead got up from the bar and joined her friend at a table.

Probably a lesbian.

Ron knew that he wouldn't have been unfaithful to Irene. Not that they were married or anything, but more than a casual bond had formed. Neither of them, as of yet, had used "the L word," but Ron caught himself, to his dismay, thinking that he wouldn't necessarily mind a more permanent arrangement.

Good God, man. What are you thinking? With that, he swigged down the rest of his Bass and caught the bartender's eye. "Thank you, sir. May I have another?"

Ron turned back to his left and was surprised to see a wrinkled old man sitting on the bar stool the redhead had vacated. Hardly a fair trade. Ron hadn't noticed the man taking the seat, but then again there were lots of people in Eddy's, and somebody was always getting up or sitting down or brushing against you as he or she walked past. There was something odd, though, about the little man — his clothes for one thing: he wore a navy blue vest and long white robes that covered his entire body except for his bare feet. Bare feet? Whatever happened to No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service? But there was something else strange, something besides his clothes. His skin was tan and leathery. Sun worshipper. Must be from L.A. or San Diego. He had long shiny white hair that ringed his head except for the bald top, and a goatee just as white.

His eyes, Ron thought, were what were so intriguing about the old man. They were a rich dark brown, and they seemed at the same time to both draw Ron in and bore into him. Ron realized that he was staring at the man, and that the man was staring right back. Ron nodded and smiled self-consciously, then turned back to the bar.

His thoughts wandered to his work, the sequel to Death on the Tower. This book was becoming less straightforward than the last one. He had introduced the theme of Zorn wondering how exactly he had managed to climb back onto the Anglopolis Tower and defeat Kroaker. Where did that come from? That entire section, the self-doubt on Zorn's part, had been a spur-of-the- moment inclusion, but maybe Ron could run with it. He toyed with the idea of some supernatural element that had helped Zorn. Maybe the Creator did intervene directly, or some demon. At the very least, it was something else he had to consider since he'd already included it.

Ron's creative ideas fizzled and scurried away. They were replaced by the feeling that he was being watched. He slowly turned his head to the left.

The barefoot old man was sitting there watching Ron intently. "I am Tun Tzu," the stranger said with a straight face, as if Ron wanted to know.

The man's accent was hard to pin down, as was his nationality — Oriental, Pacific islander, Native American? Great, Ron thought. I'm going to get hit on by some homosexual Eskimo.

There was nothing overtly threatening about Tun Tzu, but Ron had learned from his years in the city to be wary of strangeness.

"I am not from the city," Tun Tzu said, his expression unchanged.

No shit, thought Ron. Slowly, it began to register in his mind, through the layer of Bass Ale, that Tun Tzu seemed to have responded to something Ron hadn't said, but to something he'd thought. He was quickly diverted from this line of reasoning, however, as he saw the old man reach down into his robes. Eddy's was a relatively safe establishment, but, with an odd character like this, who knew what he could be reaching for — a knife, a gun? Ron stiffened.

Tun Tzu found what he was looking for and pulled from the folds of his robes... a book. He lay the paperback copy of Death on the Tower on the bar. "You are Ron Church, the writer?"

Ron exhaled. He could hear his pulse beating rapidly in his ears. He laughed at his own paranoia, and not a little in relief. "Yes, I am." This, at least, was a situation Ron had dealt with before. The fan would want an autograph and ask, Where do you get your ideas? Or, worst case scenario, he would try to give Ron a manuscript to look over. Everybody and his uncle had a first novel in the closet.

Instead, Tun Tzu tapped the book with his fingers. His tone was conversational, but his deep eyes were serious, completely earnest. The background noise in the bar — the voices, the music, the glasses clinking, the chairs sliding — seemed to fade away as he spoke. "Your world is very real. I wanted to help your Zorn."

Ron was frozen by the gaze of those brown eyes. No flip response came to him. "Oh, I see," was all he could manage. There was something unsettling, something disconcerting, about the old man's stare. Ron felt briefly as if Tun Tzu were somehow tickling his brain. That was as close as he could come to defining the unpleasant sensation. Ron turned from Tun Tzu and eyed the mug of Bass in front of him. He pushed it away. Maybe that's enough. The old man was still watching him. Ron could feel it even though he didn't look to the side. This is too weird. I'm outta here. He left a twenty and a five on the bar and walked out into the San Francisco night without looking again at Tun Tzu. Ron's legs were just a bit wobbly. Surely it was the beer.

Chapter Five

"Nate, what the hell are you talking about?"

The phone had interrupted Ron's work. He had just hit that stride where he could churn out a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred words an hour, and then the phone had tweeted at him, that electronic buzzing sound that passed for a ring now that real bells were no longer fashionable. For Ron, modern phone rings were often indistinguishable from the sound of the microwave going off. A person should not have to make a concerted effort, he felt, to discern whether the phone was ringing or his dinner was ready.

Nathaniel Early, Ron's agent, was on the phone trying to tell Ron about some contractual complications which Ron didn't really want to hear. "I don't really want to hear about it, Nate. Isn't that your job? I think so. In fact, I distinctly remember that being the reason I hired you — so I wouldn't have to worry about stuff like that."

"Look, Ron," said Nate when he had a chance. "I'm not asking you to worry about it. I'm not asking you to fix it. Yes, that is my job. That is why you hired me. It is also my job to keep you informed."

"You're not asking me to worry," Ron smoothed back his hair. "You tell me I have contract problems, and you think I'm not going to worry?"

"I just want to let you know what's going on."

"What if I don't want to know?"

"Ron, listen. It'll only take five minutes."

"I could hang up," he said. "That would only take five seconds."

"I could call right back," responded Nate.

"I could take the phone off the hook."

"I could send a telegram."

"I could tear it up."

"Ron, this is asinine."

"Gotcha, didn't I?"

There was silence on the phone. Ron could almost see Nate sitting behind his desk, drumming his fingers and taking a deep breath. Nate spoke in a deliberately calm and measured tone. "Ron, will you listen to me for five minutes so that I may briefly inform you about what is going on? Then you can erase it from your mind, or whatever, and I will have fulfilled my responsibilities as your agent."

Ron figured that both his concentration and his momentum were shot at this point anyhow. "Well, for Christ's sake! All right, Nate, if it'll make you feel better."

"Thank you."

"Shoot."

There was a pause as Nate collected his thoughts. "Okay, this is what's going on. As you know, the numbers we came up with in the original contract talks with Andrews and Stern were fair, although we didn't agree to anything. We said we'd look them over. That offer was made before Death on the Tower hit the bestsellers' list. Andrews and Stern have, of course, upped the offer since then, but, in my opinion, not enough, considering how well the book is doing."

"Okay," said Ron. "None of this is exactly new."

"Right, but hold on." Nate continued, "I pushed them to up the numbers to a reasonable level, and they balked. It's ridiculous what they're offering for a guaranteed bestseller, so I started shopping the sequel around, testing the water with other publishers."

"You did? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did, Ron. You said, 'Go ahead.'"

"Oh... that's right. Never mind. Go ahead."

"Anyway," Nate went on, "I shopped around a bit. I checked with Knopf and then with Putnam, but they weren't very interested. So I called Bantam, and Tor, and Ballantine. No dice there either."

"Christ." Ron couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I know. It's bizarre," Nate agreed, "and it gets worse."

"Great."

"I called almost everybody, Ron. The only nibble I had was from my friend Otis McNeil at Fawcett, and he called me back a few hours later to say he'd changed his mind. No one's interested."

Ron was speechless.

"No one's interested. They gave me offers, of course," Nate elaborated, "but not one serious offer out of the whole bunch for a guaranteed bestseller."

"What do you mean by a serious offer?" Ron asked.

"I mean nobody even matched the Andrews and Stern offer."

Ron, who had been sitting back in his chair, was now leaning forward, head on hand, elbow on desk. The Andrews and Stern figure was unacceptably low, and Ron wasn't just being greedy. It was inconceivable that no one else would at least match such a weak offer. "Who else did you take it to?"

"Everybody. Everybody who's anybody, and a few up- and-comers even. No takers. It's the strangest thing I've ever seen. I don't know what to make of it. For a guaranteed bestseller."

All Ron wanted to do was to work on his book, but once again extenuating circumstances, events beyond his control, were seeking him out, had found him, in fact, and had arrived with a vengeance. "And I'm not supposed to worry? Shit!" Why me? Why do I have to deal with this? "You call me up, interrupt my work that is finally going well. 'Hey, Ron, no one wants to buy your book even though the last one is selling a zillion copies, and the next one would probably turn into a movie, but don't worry.' Shit, Nate. Why the hell are you working on Saturday anyway? Couldn't this have waited until

Monday? Like the apocalypse has to come on a weekend or something."

Nate jumped back into the conversation as quickly as he could. "Take it easy. It's not the apocalypse. We're not even dead in the water. I just didn't want you to be in the dark."

"We're not dead in the water?" asked Ron. He was tempted to rip the phone from the wall. "What do you mean? Did you find some Franciscan monks who want to transcribe several million copies of my book by hand? 'I want to be in the dark,' I say. 'No, you don't want to be in the dark,' he says. Leave me in the dark next time, Nate."

"Breathe, Ron. Don't forget to breathe." There was dead silence. "Ron?"

After a long pause, "Yes."

"Are you there, Ron?"

"Yes."

"Are you breathing?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now listen. I'm going to keep shopping around. I'm going to check back with some of the major publishers, go over the heads of the people I talked to before. Someone will realize that this is crazy. Don't worry. The absolute worst case scenario is we hold out for a better deal with Andrews and Stern. They're not going to let a gravy train go riding off into the sunset. Probably just knowing that we're looking around will scare them into giving us a better offer."

"Why the hell should they be scaredt No one else wants to buy the damn book! Look, if this..." Ron was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Hold on a second, Nate." He walked over to the door and saw Irene through the fisheye lens. Ron opened the door, and she entered carrying two brown paper bags of groceries.

"Hello, dear." She kissed him and walked past, her billowy skirt flowing behind her.

"What are you doing?"

Irene headed into the kitchen. "I'm making you dinner, lasagna. I knew you'd be holed up in this cave all day, and you probably haven't eaten a thing, have you? Have you had anything to eat today?"

"A... um... pop tart."

"Just as I suspected," Irene called from the kitchen over the noisy sound of unpacking. "Nothing at all. What would you do without me?"

Ron had lost track of his thoughts; they were scrambling away as he tried to rein them in. "What time is it, Irene?"

"Almost three-thirty, and you haven't eaten a thing all day, poor dear. I'll make you a sandwich for now, and the lasagna will be ready in a couple of hours." Irene stuck her head around the corner and nodded toward the doorway to the study, through which the phone was visible. "Your phone's off the hook. Are you talking to someone or trying to avoid talking to someone?"

Ron looked toward the study. Nate. Right. "I'll be right back." Ron headed for the study.

"Take your time," called Irene from the kitchen. "I'm just here to cook. Don't mind me."

Ron picked up the receiver in the study. "Nate, hi. I'm back. You were saying?"

"I was saying," said Nate, "that we've got everything under control. Most of all, don't worry. I only wanted to let you know where things stand. Okay?"

"Okay, all right."

"You just keep writing. Okay, Ron?"

"Yes, right. I write. You take care of the publishing mess. Sounds like a plan. Okay, what else?" Ron asked against his better judgment. He smoothed back his hair that seemed to be going gray by the minute.

"No, nothing else," said Nate. "I'll give you a call if anything changes... when things change."

"Gee, thanks. Okay, I'll talk to you later." Ron hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Contracts, percentages, advances, publishers — the seedy side of writing. He certainly appreciated the money that came in, but wished that it could be a less complicated, less messy process. He tried to put the entire affair as far back in his mind as possible. It was the last thing Ron wanted to think about as he walked into the kitchen and gave Irene a hug from behind.

"Who was on the phone?" Irene asked. She was browning the beef for the lasagna.

Ron sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Be careful this doesn't spit on you. Business?" she asked knowingly.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Accountant? Agent? Publisher? Fidel Castro?"

"No. Yes. No. And no."

"They're going to stage his death soon, you know."

"My agent?"

"No, silly." Irene stirred the beef around in the pan. It was almost done. "Fidel Castro. He has a secret deal with the CIA. They're going to fake his death, institute moderate free market reforms, and lift the trade embargo."

"What about free elections?" Ron asked.

Irene peeked at him over her shoulder. "Puh-lease. Do you think the CIA cares about free elections?" She turned back to the stove. "They're going to sneak him out of Cuba and probably into Costa Rica where he'll be a consultant for CIA covert operations in Latin America."

Ron couldn't help laughing. "Where exactly did you hear all this?"

"Never you mind." Irene drained the beef and scraped it into a bowl on the counter. "So what did your agent have to say?"

Ron moaned loudly. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it."

Irene turned, held his chin between her fingers, gave him a gentle kiss on the lips, and said, "Now you stop being an obstinate little peckerhead and tell me what's wrong."

Ron got a beer from the refrigerator, pulled one of the kitchen chairs back from the table and sat. "Does Fidel Castro have valet parking?"

"Don't change the subject," said Irene sharply. "What did your agent have to say? Nate, is that his name?"

"Yes." Ron sighed. "Nate. You met him at the dinner Andrews and Stern had for me when Death on the Tower hit the bestsellers' list."

"That's right," Irene remembered. "Oh, by the way, I've almost finished your book, but tell me about this first. Nate was the handsome black man at the dinner, yes?"

"Yes. Funny," Ron pondered, "he doesn't sound black on the phone."

"Does he prefer to be called 'black' or 'African- American?'" asked Irene.

Ron thought for a moment. "I think he prefers to be called 'Nate.'"

"What did he have to say?"

Ron sighed again, realizing that she definitely was not going to let the matter drop. "Contract problems with Andrews and Stern, exciting stuff like that," he said dryly. "Can I help you with anything?"

"No," Irene answered. "You haven't finished telling me what happened yet."

Over the next half hour, while Irene mixed the tomato sauce with the beef and spices then carefully, layer by layer, constructed the lasagna (meat sauce, noodles, ricotta cheese with spinach, mozzarella cheese — each layer repeated three times) Ron recounted, with many interrogations from her and subsequent clarifications from him, his phone conversation with Nate.

By the time Ron finished, Irene had come to her own conclusion: "Somebody's out to get you, sweetie."

"Wkat?" Ron couldn't believe his ears. "What are you talking about?"

"Someone is out to get you," she repeated as she pointed at him with a wooden spoon.

"Get out of here. You're crazy. Cute, but crazy."

Irene slid the lasagna into the oven and closed the door. "Tell me when forty-five minutes are up. What am I doing asking you to keep track of time? Do you have a timer?"

"What?"

"A timer, a kitchen timer. You know, tick-tick-tick- tick, ding!"

"Ah... no."

"Of course you don't. Never mind. I'll keep track." Irene folded her arms and stood leaning against the counter. "Now, what were we talking about?"

"A timer."

"Before that."

"You're crazy."

"Yes, exactly," said Irene. "Listen, you're selling more books than a pornography vendor in a state penitentiary."

"Thank you, I think."

"Why would publishers turn down a sequel to a book that is going to peak at least at number five on the bestsellers' list?"

"Or higher."

"Or higher," Irene agreed.

Ron gave up on trying not to think about it. He got another beer from the fridge. "Maybe Nate's just a lousy agent."

"You don't believe that, do you?" asked Irene.

"No. But then again, I don't really know that much about it. I don't want to know that much about it."

Irene ignored his jibe and continued. "Even if Nate were the world's worst agent, which in all likelihood he is not, would that many publishers be incapable of realizing that the sequel to a bestseller is probably going

to make some money? I wouldn't think so."

"I wouldn't think so either," said Ron. "But I wouldn't think that a marble and a brick would fall at the same rate either, but they do."

"Of course they do," Irene said quickly. "Laws of nature, like truth, once found don't change. They're immutable. Apparently there is some truth here that is not readily apparent to us. It is inconceivable that so many publishers have not given you a serious offer. Yet it happened. Inconceivable."

"I do not think that word means what you think it means," said Ron.

"Leave Mandy Patinkin out of this," Irene retorted. "According to Sherlock Holmes, if you eliminate the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"First of all," Ron began, "Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. Second, he was a cocaine addict. Are you going to listen to him?"

"Ron, there has to be a reason that those publishers don't want your book. Either Nate is lying or someone with enough influence is telling publishers not to work with you." Irene stared intently at Ron. "Who? Who has that kind of power?"

"Or why would they want to interfere with my book?" added Ron.

"Yes, why. Why could lead us to who."

"To whom."

"What?"

"No, whom."

Irene shook her head and frowned at him. "It could be the government," she said.

Ron could hear the wheels starting to turn in Irene's head. He was sure that JFK and Gandhi would probably be tied into the plot before too long.

Irene was off and running. "Perhaps your portrayal of an oligarchic, despotic state is too similar to the plans of high government officials or agencies. The FBI wouldn't mind running the country from a manual of prescribed activity and thought, like your Book of Orthodoxy."

"But in my books," Ron argued, "the Theocracy is benevolent."

"Our government thinks it's benevolent," countered Irene.

Ron stood and, shaking his head, walked toward the kitchen door. "I think you're reading way too much into this, Irene. Death on the Tower is an adventure book, for Christ's sake. It's not a social commentary, and I'm not a social critic. I'm an entertainer, not George Orwell."

"George Orwell," said Irene, "wrote about communism. Everyone knew communism was bad. Even the communists knew communism was bad. We, on the other hand, supposedly live in a democracy or, at least, a republic. That just means that our government has to be more devious. And yes, you are a social critic, whether you intend to be or not. Anyone who sells a million-and- some books is a social critic."

"Look," said Ron as he walked out the kitchen doorway, "first of all, a million is a bit of an exaggeration. Second, I didn't want to talk about this. I didn't even want to think about this, and now, as usual, I'm caught up in an international conspiracy to keep me from writing."

"No," said Irene. "To keep your book from being published. There's a difference. If they wanted to keep you from writing, they'd kill you."

Ron walked back into the kitchen. "Who the hell are 'they'?" he asked, irritation beginning to show in his voice. "What are you talking about?"

Irene was silent. She crossed her arms and looked at her feet, as if she were considering how much to say. "The FBI may or may not be involved, but even if they are, there's someone else even further behind the scenes — the Syndicate."

"What, the Godfather doesn't like my book?"

"Not the Mafia you're thinking of. They're just pawns," Irene explained. "I'm talking about the big boys who are running the underworld from way back in the shadows. They control the world's financial institutions — banks, national treasuries, insurance companies, publishing houses. It all fits."

Fits, my ass, Ron wanted to say, but that would've been somewhat less than politic. Not knowing quite how to respond to all of this, he turned his thoughts to other matters. "Yeah, whatever. How long before that wonderful lasagna of yours is ready?" Ron asked as he left the kitchen again.

Irene looked at her watch. "Thirty minutes, plus twenty uncovered. Almost an hour." Mercifully, she didn't seem intent on pushing her conspiracy theory any further.

"Okay," said Ron. "I'm going to try to write a few more pages before dinner." Ron sat at his desk in the study. Without looking, he couldn't even remember the last thing he had written before the phone call, so completely was his train of thought derailed.

Death on the Tower had not been a particularly difficult book to write. Ron had started with a basic outline and a relatively straightforward plot and just worked his way through. He had gotten enough of an advance from Andrews and Stem that he had been able to quit one of his two part-time jobs, and even though he had still been working at Radio Shack twenty hours a week while he wrote the first book, it seemed that he actually had had more time then than he enjoyed now with his full-time job: writing the sequel. With success came a seemingly endless number of commitments — meetings, phone calls, business talk, mail, interviews, speaking engagements (usually at those conventions for people whose most ambitious endeavor is to dress in costume and watch Star Trek). The appearance on the Today Show had been worthwhile. Ron had always wanted to meet Katie Couric. She was such an incredibly nice woman, and not unattractive.

Whereas Death on the Tower had been more or less easy to write, the sequel — which Ron had decided this very day to call Tower of Babel — had been a struggle from the start. All the external arrangements, like these contract problems, continually infringed upon Ron's creative process; and with the story itself, the basic plot Ron had started with — Zorn hunting down more heretics — had become increasingly complicated and convoluted as new ideas (Zorn using some unOrthodox supernatural power to defeat Kroaker, for one) presented themselves and demanded to be incorporated into the story. That was what Ron had been contemplating last night before that strange business with the old man.

Thinking in those esoteric terms, of an idea "presenting" itself to him, made Ron rather nervous, as did more concrete thoughts, such as the idea of negotiating a contract. The latter, in fact, made Ron inordinately nervous. Enough daydreaming. If I don't write the book, it won't matter who doesn't want to buy it. Back to the matter at hand.

Ron sat and stared at the computer screen. The creative juices were no longer flowing. All the interruptions and peripheral concerns had stymied him, and he knew, with dinner almost ready, that he didn't have much time. Finally, a few bits began to fall together, however slowly. Ron had moved on from the explosion to where Zorn was in the process of breaking down the network of ALF informants and couriers. Zorn had brought in several informants and obtained from one the time and location of an upcoming secret rendezvous:

Zorn crouched in the shadows and tried to ignore the stench of the surrounding garbage. The small alley was incredibly dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp around the corner.

This rundown portion of Anglopolis had been resistant to the anti-poverty campaigns of the Theocracy, many of the inhabitants content to wallow in their own misery. Slums like these were breeding grounds for filth, as made clear by the piles of refuse on the ground around him, and by the human trash whom he would soon surprise.

Zorn heard movement in the darkness nearby. It was too early for the contact to have arrived, and there was no way anyone could have sneaked into the alley without being seen. Zorn had searched the alley thoroughly upon arrival. He raised his autopistol and, looking through the infrared scope, scanned his surroundings — rubbish, overturned garbage cans, wooden and dented metal doors that were nailed shut on the dilapidated old buildings. The sound repeated itself. Zorn swung his sight to the left and saw a large rat rummaging in a pile of, rotten cabbage. He took a deep breath.

"Zorn took a deep breath, not the rat," Ron said aloud.

Zorn took a deep breath and relaxed. This was nothing new for him.

Footsteps. He could hear them around the corner, coming closer. Zorn crept farther into the shadows. The pace of the footsteps slowed as they approached the alley. Finally, a figure stepped into the opening of the alley from the street. Because of the light streaming in from behind the contact (if this were actually him); Zorn could only see a silhouetted figure — the newcomer would be practically blinded looking into the darkened alley. The figure appeared nervous, as such scum should be. Zorn, as usual, was calm under pressure, icewater in his veins.

A match flared to life in front of the contact, briefly illuminating a young face above a trenchcoat, undoubtedly concealing illegal firearms. The match was the signal. Zorn responded as instructed by the captured ALF operative. He lit one match and quickly put it out. Then he lit a second and with it lit a cigarette, being careful not to inhale so as to minimize

the risk of nicotine addiction.

Zorn knew that, if the ALF operative had lied and his own response proved incorrect, the contact would probably either flee or open fire. Wearing a bulletproof vest and crouched, ready to pursue, Zorn was as prepared as he could be for either reaction. Instead, the contact came closer, slowly, cautiously. Zorn knew he didn't have much time now. He wasn't sure if the contact knew by sight whom he was supposed to meet. That was one piece of information which the Inquisitors had not been able to extract before the captured ALF operative had expired, and the longer the contact was in the alley, the more his eyes would adjust to the darkness. Zorn had to act quickly.

The contact came closer, within ten feet. "Greetings, comrade," he said quietly with a voice that sounded younger than Zorn had expected.

Without missing a beat, Zorn pounced. He lunged at the contact, knocking him to the ground and landing on top of him. Zorn grabbed an arm and wrenched it behind the prone figure who cried out in pain. Zorn dragged the contact to his feet and slammed his face into a nearby brick wall, not letting go of the arm he twisted. The contact almost lost his footing on the garbage beneath him, but there was no struggle. He stood tensely, gasping for breath. "There is a mistake. There is a mistake."

"You bet there's a mistake, you piece of trash," said Zorn. "You and your friends are mistaken if you think you're going to take over this fair city. Thought someone else would be here to meet you, to help with your murderous plots, did you? Now that's a mistake!"

"Please," gasped the contact, his voice full of terror. "There is a mistake, i do not know what you mean. I am not..."

"Save it, buster," interrupted Zorn. "You and I are going down to the Department for a little talk."

Zorn must have inadvertently loosened his grip for a moment, because, before he knew it, the contact had jerked his arm free, shoved Zorn, and was running for freedom. Zorn stumbled backward from the push and lost his footing on the

trash. He couldn't let the contact escape!

As Zorn lasagna...

"What?"

"Lasagna's ready," called Irene. "Come and get it."

"Okay, okay. Hold on a minute," Ron answered. "For Christ's sake," he mumbled under his breath.

As Zorn fell, he drew his autopistol and fired several rounds. He wanted to incapacitate the contact, to hit a leg, so that the criminal could be taken in for interrogation. As Zorn hit the ground, he saw the contact go down. The Inquisitor had hardly landed before bouncing back up and running toward his now motionless enemy. Zorn's hopes dissolved when he saw the lifeless figure. Apparently, one of the shots had caught the contact in the back of the head at the base of the skull. There would be no interrogation.

"It's getting cold," Irene called from the kitchen.

"All right, all right. I'm coming!" Ron saved the file and turned off the computer.

He went into the kitchen thinking how less often he had been interrupted back when he hadn't had a girlfriend. He turned the corner to find Irene sitting at the kitchen table. Apparently, she had brought a white tablecloth with her along with candles and candlesticks. The lights were low. Two places were set with salads, glasses of red wine, and plates full of steaming lasagna. Ron stopped in his tracks. Irene had changed into a black velvet evening gown — Where did she get that? — complete with plunging neckline.

"Welcome to your kitchen," she said.

"Wow."

Irene ushered Ron to his seat and laid a white cloth napkin across his leg. Ron didn't normally have paper napkins, much less ones made of cloth. He usually tore paper towels in half. The aroma of the lasagna, the blend of the spices, was tantalizing. Ron's mouth was watering like Pavlov's dog. With the first bite, his mouth confirmed everything his nose had told him. "Irene, this is incredible. You're incredible."

Irene smiled. "Thank you." She was unusually soft- spoken.

They didn't talk much during dinner. That Irene didn't always have to communicate verbally was another thing Ron liked about her. She recognized that there were times when being together was enough, times when words became redundant. In the candlelight, her hair seemed to be a deeper, darker red like the wine in the glasses.

Every bite seemed better than the one before, every element of the evening fit perfectly with the others: the aroma of the food, the glistening of the wine, the faint trace of Irene's scent.

"Do you use a recipe, or is this magic?" Ron asked toward the end of the meal.

"A recipe, of course. Step one, step two, step three. That's the only way anything works."

Ron lifted his glass to his lips, then paused. "I thought you didn't like red wine."

"I prefer white," Irene picked at the last of her salad, "but pasta calls for red. It's one of those rules that should never be violated. It just wouldn't be proper."

"You're big on rules... and being on time, aren't you?" Ron teased her.

"Rules make the world go 'round." She poured him more wine as he poked at the last of his food. "More lasagna?" Irene asked.

Ron held up his hands. "No, thank you." He let out a deep sigh. "My mouth says 'yes' but my stomach says 'no.' I think I would explode. But what a way to go."

They sat quietly for a few more minutes, then Irene spoke. "How is your work coming, or would you rather not talk about it?"

Ron took a sip of wine. "No, I don't mind," he said. He didn't mind, this time. She was a perceptive woman. "It's coming along pretty well. I was going at a nice clip

earlier, before all the phone business."

"And me coming over and making you eat," said Irene.

"Don't be silly. That never crossed my mind," he lied. "This meal was worth many interruptions."

"I'm glad I weigh out favorably in your cost-benefit analysis." Irene smiled.

"Quite favorably," added Ron. He set down his fork and pushed his plate back a few inches. "I've been having trouble writing this draft anyway. Well, not trouble exactly. It's just... different."

"How so?"

"Well, I don't know. I was thinking about this earlier." Ron remembered what Irene had said before. "You finished reading Death on the Tower yesterday, right?"

"Yes. Last night."

"What did you think about Zorn?" Ron asked. "What kind of feel did you get for him?"

Irene held her mouth shut tightly as she thought. Her lipstick matched her hair. "Don't take this the wrong way, because I liked the book..." "But..."

"But Zorn struck me as... not particularly true to life, which was fine, because that's the kind of feel you were going for, I think. It was an entertaining book, not War and Peace, but entertaining. Zorn was your stereotypical action-adventure hero. He fit the story fine."

Ron absorbed these comments and nodded his head. "That's pretty much on target, I think. I'm not offended. I think you're right. And yes, that was the feel I was going for — and that's the feel I was going for in the sequel, in Tower of Babel — but something's different this time."

"What?" Irene seemed perplexed, but very interested.

"It's hard to explain," Ron began. He kept rearranging his napkin on the table as he spoke. "I wanted the next book to be the same type of book, a fun-loving, shoot 'em up, action-adventure. I wanted to go for the market that liked the first book so much. Why mess with a good thing, right?" Ron took another sip of wine. "But I keep having these ideas about how to expand the plot, to make things harder on Zorn, to make him more interesting."

"There's nothing unusual about a character growing as you write more about him," suggested Irene. "That's pretty normal, I should think."

"I know, I know." Ron was having trouble articulating the odd feelings he'd been having. "But I find myself unable to not use these ideas. Sometimes it's not even a conscious decision. Before I even realize it, they're already there. As soon as I have them... well, they've already become part of the story."

Irene took in what he was saying, considering it quite seriously. "Like you're not in control?" she asked.

"In a way. As though the story were writing itself, sort of." Ron shook his head. "But that's crazy. I think it's just the pressure of following up a book that's a bestseller. What if the next one flops, or what if your government conspiracy gets me before I'm rich and famous?"

Irene laughed. "Don't you put too much pressure on yourself. Now that people know your name, they'll buy anything. You could sell mint-flavored crap, and they'd love it. Rush Limbaugh is selling books, for goodness sakes. People will buy anything."

"I thought you liked Rush," said Ron.

"I think he is an interesting social phenomenon," Irene corrected him. "But he is a puppet of the establishment. He gives people a forum to gripe about something, and then they feel that they have actually taken part in the democratic process when they might just as well have stuck their heads into buckets and screamed, for all the good it did."

"I just thought he was a jerk."

"He's like a circuit breaker. He diffuses the excess energies of a disgruntled public. As long as he serves that purpose, they will let him continue, they'll even encourage him."

Irene waved her hands and stopped herself. "I'm rambling," she said. "Never mind me." She got up and began clearing the dishes from the table to the counter. "I had some questions I wanted to ask you about your book, about the first one."

Ron nodded. "Sounds fair enough. Shoot."

"This first question isn't as much about the book as it is about you."

"Okay."

She sat down again, put her elbow on the table, held up her chin, and squinted at Ron. "Is Ron Church your real name?"

"What?"

"Is Ron Church your real name? Yes or no?"

"Yes. Well, no." Ron was surprised by the question. "Ronald. Ronald Church. That's my real name."

"What's your middle name?" Irene asked.

"Jeffrey."

"Spelled with a J-E or G-E-O?"

"J-E."

"Ronald Jeffrey Church," Irene called out loud. "Ronald Jeffrey Church. I can believe that."

"What are you talking about?" asked Ron. "Why?"

Irene's smile widened. '"Ron Church' just sounds so much like a writer or a pulp detective. I thought maybe it was a norne de plume, but I believe you."

"Why, thanks."

"Okay, next question. The Anglian Liberation Front. Did you mean for its acronym to be a hairy TV space alien?"

"ALF? No, purely coincidental. Next!" Ron rather enjoyed Irene's strange brand of questioning.

"Kroaker. It's a silly name. Where did you get it? Did you make it up?"

"No," answered Ron. "I didn't make it up. I was on vacation in Virginia, and there were all these places with strange sounding names in the Tidewater area near

Williamsburg — Kroaker, Norge, Toano, Lightfoot, Lanexa."

"Yorktown? Virginia Beach?"

"Not quite the same ring."

The question-and-answer session went on for the better part of an hour. Irene had an incredible mind for details, and Ron enjoyed sharing some of the "how to's" and "how come's" of his writing process. Most of all, he was glad to have someone with whom to share his thoughts. Irene had listened to his odd concerns about the unusual turn his creativity was taking; she hadn't solved his problem — he wasn't even sure it was a problem — but she had listened. As early evening turned into late evening and then into night, Ron never did get back to his writing, but he didn't really mind.

As Zorn sat at the desk in his temporary office, his intercom buzzed. He pressed a button and answered, "Yes?"

"Is this Zorn?" a nasal voice asked.

"Yes."

"Senior Inquisitor Martin wants to see you in his office."

Zorn brushed plaster dust from his clothes and hair. "I'll be right up."

Click. End of conversation.

■ Zorn left his files, squeezed around from behind the desk, and headed for the elevator. The halls were relatively empty except for an occasional clerk hurrying here or there with files and papers, watching the floor so as not to misstep.

Many buildings in Anglopolis had new, high-speed elevators that made interfloor travel as quick and painless as turning on a light switch. The Department of Orthodoxy complex was not one of those buildings. The elevator ride from Zorn's temporary office on the sixteenth floor to the twenty-seventh floor was slow and bumpy, and it seemed to be getting worse, or was it Zorn's imagination? The archaic machinery grinded and clanked and jerked about, giving passengers the unavoidable impression that the gears would slip, the cable snap, and the little metal box in which they stood plummet hundreds of feet. Riding this elevator, along with other death-defying acts of bravery, was part of Zorn's job. He survived the sojourn and marched into Martin's outer office. The woman with a nasal voice sat at a desk, intently chewing gum and typing on a computer. She did not acknowledge Zorn's presence until he announced himself by clearing his throat.

"Is Martin free?" Zorn asked.

She stopped typing, continued chewing, and pressed a button on her intercom. "Zorn's here." There was a garbled response on the line, and then she said, "Go right in."

"Thanks," said Zorn as he walked past.

Frank Martin's office was a challenging place in which to breathe. Not only did he chain-smoke cigars, cigarettes, and a pipe (not all at the same time, of course), but Frank himself, a large, balding, greasy man who verged on obesity, possessed a distinct body odor which was somewhat less than pleasant. Zorn was not sure whether his superior disliked bathing, or whether nature had played a cruel physiological joke on the man. On this particular visit, the temperature in the room was stifling.

"Have a seat, Zorn," Martin said without apparently opening his lips other than to chew on the cigar that hung from the corner of his mouth. Smoke puffed out of the other corner of his mouth. "Sorry about the heat. Something wrong with the temp unit. Filter problem."

Zorn sat and stared through the haze of smoke. He didn't remember it being quite so bad in the past. "That's hard to believe."

Martin began to mumble something through his cigar. "... Harumph... wanted to talk to you about it."

"Yes, sir," said Zorn. He was used to piecing together the random intelligible bits of Martin's speech.

"How are you since the explosion? You took a beating."

"I'm well enough, sir."

Martin began mumbling something about the dead contact as he removed the cigar and wiped spittle from his chin.

Zorn sat quietly for a moment until he realized that Martin had finished speaking and wanted to be briefed about the encounter with the contact. "Well, sir, we had learned from the ALF operative captured earlier when and where this particular information drop was going to be made. We've been breaking in on their communications network, and using one agent to find the next, right down the line — with some success, I might add.

"At any rate, the contact showed up at the appropriate time and place and established contact just as we were told he would, except he turned out to be a she, a young girl, fifteen or sixteen."

As Zorn spoke, Martin chewed on his cigar, puffed out smoke, and muttered occasionally.

"When I confronted her," Zorn continued, "she ran. I shot to incapacitate, but accidentally killed her."

"Hmmph," grumbled Martin. "So, no more contacts? End of the line? No new information?"

"The girl wasn't carrying a written or taped message as far as we can tell. Her body and possessions have been thoroughly searched. It must've been an oral message, which makes it doubly unfortunate that I wasn't able to take her alive. The only item of interest found on her, really, was a book, From Righteous Beginnings: A History of the Theocracy, found in her coat pocket. The text had not been altered. There was no encoded message or chemical treatment. There was, however, a receipt with the book from a bookstore downtown on Angstrom Avenue, True Way Books. Supposedly it specializes in indoctrination texts, but the place has been under surveillance as an area frequented by various ALF operatives."

"So how do you plan to proceed?" asked Martin.

"Well, sir, with the information we've gathered on the bookstore already and this corroborating evidence of the receipt on the contact's body, we're going to raid the shop and shut down that link in the ALF communications network, seize the inventory and records, bring in employees and customers for questioning." Martin's eyebrows raised. He seemed impressed. Zorn continued. "We have the place staked out right now. The next time a suspected ALF operative goes in, we drop the boom. Take everyone present into custody. Judging by the reports on recent visitation by subversives, it should be tonight or tomorrow night, the evening after at the latest."

Martin shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other without using his hands as he contemplated the strategy. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Others raced down the side of his face. Zorn likewise could not help but to sweat in this room, and he didn't have to contend with the excess body weight that Martin did. Zom, the enveloping smoke burning his eyes and throat, felt the need to gasp for breath, but restrained himself.

Finally, Martin began to nod and patted his desk firmly several times. "Sounds good, Zorn," he mumbled through his cigar. "How dangerous do you expect the raid to be? Will we take losses?"

"The surprise factor should be practically complete.

We envision little or no resistance."

"So," Martin asked slowly, "we would be safe in sending along a video crew? We wouldn't be getting pictures of DO casualties in some ill-conceived raid on an unexpectedly heavily armed ALF base?"

Zorn didn't like the idea of a vid crew tagging along on a raid, especially an operation that depended on secrecy. Zorn also knew, however, the type of sensational story that Martin and the Department of Propaganda undoubtedly wanted, and that would, in fact, enhance the DO's image, but he was more concerned with the safety of his men. "There are never any guarantees, as you know, sir. Our intelligence doesn't indicate anything of that nature, but whenever a vid crew's involved, there's always the chance of them getting in the way, or something else going wrong, and...."

Martin broke in with a loud mumble as he chomped down harder on his cigar which seemed to be getting dangerously short. "I'm sure nothing like that... harumph... confidence in you, Zorn. Know you can handle it...." He trailed off into incomprehensible mutterings.

Zorn knew there was no point in arguing, and his lungs were beginning to ache. There was probably no oxygen left in them, he thought, just smoke. "Thank you, sir. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, there is, now that you mention it, Zorn." Martin snuffed his cigar in his ashtray, already overflowing with ashes, cigarette and cigar butts. The cigar smoldered and more smoke rose into the air, writhing slowly in the thickening haze. He reached for a pack of Theocracy- approved and -distributed cigarettes and lit one of them. "There's some sentiment in the department, not many people, but a vocal few," Martin smiled reassuringly at Zorn, "who feel that your involvement, especially your heading of the ALF task force, is counterproductive." Zorn could feel his anger rising, but he maintained a practiced, disinterested expression. Martin continued. "The feeling is that you're just too high profile to be effective, that we could more efficiently infiltrate and deal with the ALF if you weren't so personally involved, not that you're trying to grab headlines or anything of that sort. Those few people think you should step down. This whole bombing thing is just a symptom that you have too much of a personal stake in the matter, so they say."

Zorn sat motionless and looked, without discernible emotion, straight at Martin. The Senior inquisitor still smiled at Zorn for a few moments. When no response was forthcoming, Martin continued talking. "As for me, of course, I'm in your corner all the way. I think those people have valid but overblown concerns, and I've said as much. I have faith in you, Zorn."

"Thank you, sir. Is that all, sir?"

Martin's expression had slowly changed from an ingratiating smile to one of concern. "Yes, that's all, Zorn, and don't take this to heart. Just something to think about, bear in mind. We know you can do the job."

Zorn rose and walked toward the door. "Thank you, sir." He passed the secretary without comment and was soon in the elevator. There were two other passengers as the archaic machinery groaned and grumbled to life — a small female clerk and a freckled, red-haired young man wearing an Inquisitor's badge whom Zorn didn't know.

I bet Martin's in my corner all the way, thought Zorn, as long as I'm in the room, that fauassed, smelly son'ofa' bitch. He's a human smokestack, the bastard. I don't care if he was one of the first Inquisitors on the beat.

Zorn smoothed back his hair. His eyes and throat still burned. In the confines of the elevator, he couldn't help but notice the stale stench of cigarette and cigar smoke that clung to him. He almost apologized to the other two passengers. The least he could do, he thought, was stay to the other side of the compartment. He tried to think of who might be maneuvering against him. Zorn didn't consider himself naive or blind to departmental politics, but the revelation from Martin had come as a surprise. Why would Martin have even said anything? It probably was not as a favor or to help Zorn. More likely, Martin hoped that Zorn might step down voluntarily. That would make Martin one of the "vocal few." But who else?

The elevator came to a shuddering halt at the twentieth floor, and the clerk got off. Zorn and the red- haired Inquisitor continued their descent. Who, Zorn wondered, would benefit from his removal? Officials with less seniority hoping to move up, superiors tired of being upstaged by an underling? There was no way to know. Such in-fighting, Zorn felt, was a great disservice to the Theocracy, or perhaps the Theocracy, by virtue of its self- righteous and bureaucratic nature, bred such pettiness. Zorn glanced guiltily over at the young Inquisitor. Did that man suffer from such questions and doubts? Zorn always had the uncomfortable feeling that those around him could read his thoughts, that others could look right into his mind and hold him accountable. He cringed at the thought. He knew that, if it were true, he would not be walking the halls of the DO a free man today.

The elevator jerked and rattled to a stop at the sixteenth floor, and Zorn returned to his new office. It was small to the point of cramped, even for just one person. He felt pinned against the wall behind the large wooden desk which, he had discovered when he tried to move it, was in the only position in the room it could be in to allow the door to open and close freely. Zorn thought the room would make a fine and spacious utility closet, and it may have been just that, or perhaps a storage area, until recently, judging by the degree of neglect in the room's upkeep. It was musty, hadn't been painted in years, and a sprinkling of plaster dust fell from the ceiling each time someone in the office upstairs closed his or her door. Aside from that plaster dust, the desk was practically bare. Many of the files and the few personal effects that Zorn had possessed — a letter opener presented to him by the commissioner, certificates of commendation, a "Just Say No to unOrthodoxy" bookmark made by a young indoctrination student — had been destroyed in the explosion.

Zorn had spent most of the morning looking through the ALF information that was still intact and examining the autopsy report on the contact he had .killed. The contact, Zorn had realized upon closer inspection of the body that night, had been a young girl about fifteen. The coroner guessed sixteen. She had also been unarmed, but there had been no way to know that at the time, and he hadn't been trying to kill her. Zorn kept telling himself that she was an active participant in the game, if one could call this conflict of espionage and urban guerrilla warfare a game. She undoubtedly knew the risks of what she was doing. Or could she have been a "blind" carrier sent with a message that held no meaning for her, a young girl unknowingly enlisted? At the very least, she must have suspected that she was part of something illegal. No. She must have known. She must have. Zorn found little consolation in his ponderings.

For the next hour and a half, he made final arrangements for the imminent raid on True Way Books. He made calls to the "on alert" strike force and check ins with the surveillance team. Zorn also spent time sifting through the profiles of the twelve suspected ALF operatives who had been observed, at one time or another, at the bookstore. Which one of them would be the one, or ones, to arrive and trigger the raid? Would they be taken alive? Where would they lead him? What would be the next link in the chain? Zorn read the profiles, and he spent a good deal of time staring at the pictures, looking at the faces and their apparent innocence. They looked so normal, for the most part, like people he would meet on the street, people he lived near, people with whom he worked. On the especially well- defined pictures, he looked at the eyes. How could a face hide such monstrous thoughts of treason and death? Then he thought of what his own eyes concealed.

Shortly before noon, Ed Rollins stuck his head in the door. "Zorn! You're a tough man to track down."

Zorn looked up from his work. "That's why I've lived this long, Ed."

Rollins grinned. He sauntered in and plopped down on the edge of Zorn's desk. Rollins was a few inches shorter than Zorn but more muscular and broad- shouldered. He had short brown hair and a friendly smile that appeared frequently. He glanced around the small office. "Nice place you've got here. Glad to see you're going places." Rollins drew designs with his finger in the plaster dust on the desk. Then he stopped and sniffed the air. "Have you seen Martin recently?"

Zorn could not help but laughing. "As a matter of fact, I have. It was a very stimulating visit."

"If not healthy," added Rollins.

"What can I do for you, Ed? What brings you down to temporary housing?"

Rollins looked puzzled; he checked his watch. "We're going out for lunch today, right?"

Now it was Zorn's turn to be puzzled. Suddenly his eyes grew wide as he remembered. "Yes, you're right. Of course. It completely slipped... I've had so much going on... I... yes, today is lunch."

"If you're too busy, I understand," said Rollins. "We can do it some other time when you're not swamped."

"No, really," said Zorn. "Today's fine. I'd just forgotten. That's all."

"You sure?"

"Positive. Where do you want to go?" asked Zorn.

Evander's was a small pub in downtown Anglopolis only a few blocks from the DO complex. The interior was long and narrow. A dark oak bar ran the length of the room. The opposite wall was lined with large booths also of stained oak, and there were a few small tables wedged in unlikely spots here and there. The two Inquisitors picked one of the booths, most of which were empty during the day. The waitress, a woman probably in her mid-forties who looked like she'd been waiting tables or engaged in some equally demanding labor for quite a while, was with them rather quickly. Out of habit, neither man ordered beer with his lunch. Alcohol, in and of itself, wasn't frowned upon by the Theocracy, but an Inquisitor drinking during the workday would be straining propriety.

"Have you been here before?" asked Rollins.

"Not for the food," answered Zorn. "I stop by here once in a while after a late assignment for a couple of beers."

"Well, the food's pretty good. Best corned beef I've ever had."

"Never been much of a corned beef fan myself," said Zorn. "Reminds me of canned dog food. But you enjoy."

"Gee, thanks." Rollins grinned, then became more serious. "You're back pretty quickly after that bombing, aren't you? I would've thought you might take a little personal time, especially... you know, with Jarvis and all."

Zorn poked at the ice in his water with his straw. "That seems to be the general consensus," Zorn responded, "but it's either sit at home and think about it or come to work and do something about it. I'd rather do something about it."

"That makes sense." Rollins took a sip of his tea, grimaced, then grabbed a couple of packets of sugar from the table. "You weren't interested in getting out of town for a while, or visiting family, or someone? Just getting away for a while?"

Zorn still poked at his ice. "Nobody to visit."

Rollins was quiet for a few moments. His eyes didn't meet Zorn's. "So corned beef reminds you of canned dog food?"

"What's on your mind, Ed?" Zorn asked point blank. "Not to be rude, but this doesn't seem like a purely social call."

Rollins looked up at once, his easy manner grown solemn, his smile gone. A group of four businessmen had entered the bar and were moving toward a nearby booth. Rollins waited until they'd passed. "Max, I just want you to be careful."

"Careful of what?" Zorn wasn't going to make any assumptions. He wanted to hear exactly what Rollins thought was going on. I'm going to make him say everything that's on his mind.

Rollins shifted his position on the bench. His expression said to Zorn, You know what I'm talking about, but his words were less direct. "Careful of... just careful, Max." Rollins fidgeted with his glass. Only briefly did he meet Zorn's gaze. The man was clearly uncomfortable about something. Zorn said nothing. Rollins seemed compelled to go on. "Listen, you've made a lot of press. You've been very successful. I mean that whole mess with Kroaker made you practically a household name. Obviously the ALF is going to be gunning for you. They're not going to let things rest."

"As Jarvis found out," said Zorn with calculated defensiveness.

"That's not what I meant," Rollins added quickly. "Of course they're going to be trying to get you, but there are other things to watch out for." Rollins took a prolonged sip of his tea. "People get envious, Max, people in the department."

"I know, Ed," said Zorn. Rollins was only going to tell him what he'd already found out. "I know. I've gotten the spiel from Martin, more or less. He wants me to step down, although he would never come out and say so."

Zorn was irritated with the entire situation. "He's scared for his job, I guess, and the worst part is that I'm not even interested. He could keel over from a heart attack tomorrow, and I don't know that I would be interested in the job even if I were next in seniority, which I'm not. I'm just trying to do my job." Zorn's hands were both flat on the table in front of him. He stared directly at Rollins. "What do you want, Ed?" Zorn asked quietly. "Do you want me to step down? Are you looking to move up?"

Rollins' brow furrowed at the suggestion. His mouth opened, but before he could force any words out, the waitress returned with their food — corned beef for Rollins, ham and cheese for Zorn. The two men sat in silence as she refilled their glasses of tea and water.

"Thanks," said Rollins, never taking his eyes off Zorn as the waitress walked away. The sandwiches sat untouched. "Of course I don't want you to step down. I want you to nail those bastards. That's why I'm telling you this." Rollins picked moodily at some of the shredded lettuce hanging from the edge of his sandwich. He seemed hurt at the implication that he might be part of what Zorn now thought of as the "vocal few." Rollins, still watching Zorn, went to work on his corned beef.

Zorn picked up his sandwich. "I'm sorry, Ed. You didn't deserve that."

Rollins shook his head. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. You've got a lot going on." He took a bite, finished chewing, and swallowed. "It might be Martin watching his ass. It might be some younger guys looking to move up. It could even be something from higher up."

Zorn felt his food stick in his throat.

From higher up.

He thought of his first instance of prayer, the contact he had made, and of the attempts since then, never able to pry a response from the presence he'd discovered. Was he being punished? Was it the Creator? Was He subtly unraveling Zorn's life? Or was it some preternatural demon called forth through Zorn's pride to destroy him? Calm down, Zorn told himself. He made the effort to swallow his food. There were other, less grandiose and cosmological possibilities. Zorn looked at Rollins. Maybe he did know. Maybe the department had bugged the apartment and someone had observed the entire ritual. Rollins, with a hidden microphone, was here to worm a confession out of Zorn so that a strike force could burst into the pub and take him into custody. Normally, they would extract a confession during the "interview" session, but the repercussions from a faulty arrest would be more pronounced with an Inquisitor, especially one of Zorn's stature, than with a normal citizen. But why would they have waited this long, listened to so many nights of desperate prayer? Was it some twisted spiritual voyeurism, or were they just being sure that Zorn was alone in his heresy?

Zorn set down his sandwich. He almost expected the strike force to break down the doors any minute. No sign of betrayal showed on Rollins' face. He was incredibly calm to be springing a trap, but any competent Inquisitor was well-versed in masking emotions and thoughts. Zorn considered leaving. Making up an excuse and then casually rushing out of the restaurant, but that might just serve to set the trap in motion. Perhaps he should just give in to the inevitable. Perhaps he should go ahead and confess his transgressions to Rollins and accept his penance with a clear conscience.

"Max?" asked Rollins. "Are you okay? Is the food all right?"

Zorn came back to himself. His surroundings, which had almost faded away for a moment, became clear once again. "What?"

"Are you okay?" Rollins asked again. "You looked like you got a bite of something bad."

"No. I mean I'm fine," Zorn answered. Maybe Rollins was on the level. Zorn breathed deeply. Besides, he would be hard pressed to escape even if this were a trap. "I was just thinking about the task force... some things I need to do," said Zorn.

Rollins, returning to his corned beef, seemed satisfied with this answer. The two men ate in silence for some time. After the waitress brought the bill, which Rollins insisted on paying — he threatened to tear up Zorn's credit/debit card and gave the waitress his own — Rollins asked Zorn how the task force was going.

"Pretty well," Zorn responded, glad to talk about something other than departmental politics. "We've brought in several ALF ops, and we're tracing several others."

"I heard rumors of a raid coming up," Rollins mentioned casually.

Zorn was not pleased to hear that from someone not directly involved in the operation. He thought about denying it, but maybe, he thought, he could learn more. "That's not exactly top secret," he said, "but it's not common knowledge either."

"I realize that," said Rollins. The waitress returned his card which he slipped into his wallet. "That's part of what I'm talking about. You have to be careful."

"Where did you hear about the raid?" Zorn asked.

"I'm not trying to get anyone in trouble," Rollins glanced around the bar, "but is Marlin Jaquobs on your team?"

"Yes." In fact, Jaquobs was on the stakeout detail.

"I don't mean to imply that Jaquobs is involved in anything. He's a loyal man, I'm sure. He has a wife and kids."

"Did Jaquobs tell you about the raid?" Zorn asked point-blank.

"Not exactly," answered Rollins. "His office is near mine. I knew he was on stakeout, and I knew what type stuff you were working on, basically."

"So I confirmed your idea of a raid more than he did," said Zorn.

"I suppose." Rollins nodded. "Jaquobs is a good man, but there is one thing." Rollins took a deep breath as if he were trying to decide whether to go on or not. He did. "I'd prefer if you'd keep my name out of this. I'm just mentioning it so you'll know."

"Yes?" Zorn was growing tired of the lengths to which Rollins went to give the impression that he didn't want to say whatever it was that he really did want to say.

Rollins spoke quietly. "Jaquobs has been spending a lot of time in Martin's office. Not that it necessarily means anything, but I thought, especially if you have suspicions about Martin, that you might want to know."

"How do you know he's been seeing Martin?" Zorn asked.

"How did I know you had seen Martin? Like I said, Jaquobs' office is near mine. He walks by, we talk a lot. I can smell him." Rollins tapped his nose. "For somebody who doesn't smoke, he sure smells like cigarettes a lot."

Zorn wasn't sure what to make of this. Jaquobs had no reason to report directly to Martin, unless there were problems with the task force stemming from Zorn himself, in which case it would be necessary for Jaquobs to bypass him. But there could be other explanations. "Maybe he sits around the lounge all the time. Everybody smokes in there."

"Like I said," said Rollins, "I'm not accusing Jaquobs of anything. I just thought it was something you should be aware of. Most of all, though, we need to watch out for those ALF creeps. You wouldn't want to end up another Trimmerhorn."

"No, certainly not," Zorn agreed. Inquisitor Trimmerhorn had enjoyed great success against the ALF many years ago. In fact, he'd been the person who had originally uncovered the group's existence. He'd foiled plots and brought in operatives with ceaseless vigor, and then one day he vanished without a trace, never to be heard from again. There were many stories and jokes about him being under the south endzone in Anglopolis City Stadium or at the bottom of the Graylin River, but no one actually knew what had happened to him. "Thank you, Ed," said Zorn. "I'll keep it in mind." He checked his watch. "I need to get going. Are you heading back to the complex?"

"Sure am." Rollins grinned. Both men slid out of the booth and, as the waitress began to clear the table, left Evander's.

Zorn knelt beside his bed as he had on many of the nights since Jarvis' death. He felt dirty, in a way. He couldn't hide his hypocrisy from himself as he did from others. Through his every public action he professed Orthodoxy, yet here in the privacy of his own quarters he knowingly and willfully committed unforgivable sins against the state. Privacy was a major factor in the temptation of unOrthodoxy, Zorn had decided over the years. People constantly in public or official view, people with no opportunity to hide, would have nothing to hide. Perhaps that's what was needed — a vast electronic observation system, vid cameras and units everywhere, a mechanical parent or older sibling constantly on watch. Perhaps that was what the Theocracy would become.

At times, Zorn wished that he would be caught, that he would have the strength to confess or turn himself in. Everyone, once in custody, eventually confessed. That did not take courage. He longed to be released from this internal debate, from this infernal debate. He wanted to be free of the doubts that plagued him day and night, that made him a liar and a traitor. He longed to be, once again, whole of heart.

But he knew he would not turn himself in, and he knew the questions would not go away.

Light trickled in through the shades onto his bed. The bare walls stood around him, a prison of their own, for Zorn's defiance never left this room. How long could he think one way and live another? But he could do it. His doubts need not undermine his entire life, he kept telling himself. He could still serve the Theocracy; he could still hunt down the treasonous terrorists who had killed Jarvis. Surely their crimes were greater, more profound, than his. But the Book of Orthodoxy made no qualitative distinction between sins of thought and sins of deed.

Zorn bowed his head and reached out for the presence. Not once had it responded to him in any way, but he believed, firmly if without reason, that it would. He only hoped that when it responded, it would be as a Creator to His creation and not as some astral beast swatting a gnat. Zorn stretched out his mind. The path was easier to follow now that he knew what to look for. It was there! He felt the fleeting euphoria he knew each time he found the presence, each time he re-confirmed that he was not insane, that he had not imagined it all.

Zorn had begun to connect a visual image with his prayers. Where once there had been only blackness and an abstract presence, Zorn now saw himself atop a lofty mountain, the vibrantly blue sky and blowing clouds almost close enough to touch. He knew the Creator was somewhere in the heavens above. He could still sense the presence.

From the first time Zorn had seen this vision, he'd been building a stone tower upon the mountaintop, and each night that he returned to his prayers, the tower was a little taller. Except when Zorn stopped to attempt contact with the Creator, he was continually adding stones to the tower. It was high enough now that he was building a crude staircase around the outer edge so he could stand on top of the tower. He would continue adding level after level until the tower was high enough that he could get through to the presence he'd discovered, until he could speak with his Creator.

Zorn had halted his laborious construction and begun, once again, to reach out to the presence, hoping against hope that it would acknowledge him somehow, hoping that he was right. But the entire vision suddenly blurred and then faded as he was interrupted by the ringing telephone.

Zorn jumped to his feet. The meditative calm that his contacts with the presence induced gave way instantly to panic and the renewed realization of his crime. He didn't breathe. He could hear the incessant buzzing of the fluorescent light in the kitchen. After what seemed an eternity, the phone rang again. Even though Zorn was expecting it this time, the jarring sound still startled him.

Was this the precursor to the end? Were they calling to inform him that his secret was revealed, that he might as well come down to the department peacefully? "We know everything. The game's over," they would say. Was he so well-trained that they could expect his compliance? Certainly they would give him no chance to bolt. They would burst in and apprehend him as he wallowed in his guilt. He considered flight, but if they were watching, there would be no point. He would not get far.

The phone rang a third time.

Zorn could not force himself to move. His feet were attached to the floor. His entire body, every muscle, was tense, a coiled but immobile spring. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, running down his side.

The fourth ring.

He had to answer. He could not think above the pounding at his temples. His panic gave way to numbness. He functioned as an automaton, a human husk void of all volition. The receiver was in his hand, raised to his face. "Yes?" He heard the voice of a dead man answering his executioner.

"Zorn?"

"Yes?"

"Jaquobs. We've got a live one in the bookstore," the voice hissed urgently. "We're moving in."

"I'll be right there," Zorn heard himself say. Then the phone was out of his hand, back in its cradle. He became aware of the tautness of his muscles, the dryness in his mouth. His lips felt as if they were shriveled. He licked them.

The stakeout. The bookstore. "I'll be right there," he said again. Zorn reached for his jacket and was out the door.

It took almost fifteen minutes to drive to the bookstore. Along the way, Zorn was able to calm his nerves for the most part, thanks to a couple of shots of bourbon. His excitement that the raid was taking place was overshadowed by his relief that he hadn't been found out by the Theocracy that he served — that is, as far as he knew. Traffic was stopped and had backed up going toward the store on Angstrom Avenue, so Zorn zipped along in the left-hand lane which had cleared out as people left the area. He passed the barricade and parked among the various DO vehicles, their red lights flashing, making the street look like a war zone. He also passed a short line of suspects, hands bound behind them, being led into a DO transport van to be taken to the complex for questioning.

Zorn entered True Way Books. One rack of paperback books near the door was overturned, but otherwise there was no sign of conflict — no bullet holes, broken furniture or glass, bodies, or blood. The major source of confusion and turmoil was the number of DO personnel milling about performing various functions. Directing the technicians and junior Inquisitors on the scene was Marlin Jaquobs. Jaquobs was a thin, rat-like man with a large nose. He seldom went more than a minute or two without blinking several times. He had always demonstrated a high level of competence, but Zorn could not help wondering if that was a whiff of cigar smoke he smelled as he approached his subordinate.

"Zorn." Jaquobs nodded, acknowledging his superior's presence.

"What's the scoop, Jaquobs?" Around the two men, other DO officials searched through store records, sorted through and catalogued inventory, and rummaged around shelves and drawers looking for hidden compartments.

"Well, sir," Jaquobs began to flip through his small notebook, "We were observing the store, waiting for any of the people from our list of suspected ALF ops to appear, as per your instructions." He looked around on the nearby counter but apparently did not find that for which he was looking. He turned from Zorn briefly. "Gentry!"

"Yes, sir?" responded a nearby uniformed DO patrolman.

"Get me that file on the main suspect."

"Yes, sir." Gentry hurried out the front door.

"At approximately 8:50 p.m., we observed a customer entering the store who matched the photo description of a suspected operative. We immediately blocked off the street, entered the premises, and took into custody the suspect, a bookstore employee, and one other customer who was present. I also sent units to round up the manager and the owner of the store for questioning."

"Good," said Zorn. He tried not to stare as Jaquobs blinked repeatedly in quick flurries. "Any corroborating evidence yet?"

Jaquobs blinked more. "Not yet, sir. We're just going through everything for the first time. We're looking for anything suspicious, cross-referencing customer and mailing lists with our op list."

"What about the structural engineers?"

"I'm bringing them in tomorrow morning," said Jaquobs.

"Tonight," growled Zorn. "I want them here ASAP. I want this place ripped apart and any arms or subversive propaganda found." Jaquobs seemed taken aback by Zorn's outburst. Most everyone in the store looked their way. "I want complete inventories and analyses by your people on my desk first thing in the morning. I don't plan on letting this opportunity get away from us." Zorn stared directly at jaquobs. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Zorn turned and stomped out of the shop. Maybe that would give jaquobs enough to keep his mind on official business.

Chapter Six

The smooth, unblemished, bark of the luira tree glistened in the light of the setting sun. Its trunk split close to the ground, forming several groupings of strong, thin branches. Diminutive, shiny, green leaves crowded around clusters of red berries. Tun Tzu sat on the ground and leaned against the lower branches of the tree which seemed almost luminescent in the dusk.

Three weeks ago, it had taken him an entire day to trace and follow the ley lines, the paths of power, to this grove. The shimmering stillness of the nearby frog pond, the serenity of the fish, the trees, the bushes, the flowers, all soothed Tun Tzu's mind which had been uncharacteristically on edge in this strange land of San Francisco.

Creating the luira seed had not been overly difficult — a manipulation of the spheres of life and prime. Tun Tzu had planted the seed three days ago, after the meeting in the bar, his first direct contact with the tzu- jan. For those three days while the tree grew to maturity, a cycle that normally would've taken years had Tun Tzu not stretched the sphere of time, he'd sat on the stones circling the frog pond, explored his surroundings — probing with his mind the plant life, the animals, the very aura of the grove itself — and meditated on his course of action. There had been too much death already, too much pain, but Tun Tzu was filled with an imperative need to aid the Zorn; it was a sense of urgency the likes of which he'd never known before. And the sacrifices of the others must not have been in vain.

Supported by the finely textured strength of the luira tree — a connection to the home that he'd left and to which he was unable to return — and surrounded by the indigenous flora of this strange land, Tun Tzu reached out with his mind, this time beyond the grove. The city was brimming with minds of various levels of awareness. Such a concentrated population had been something of a shock to Tun Tzu initially, but he'd grown accustomed to much that was different from his homeland in the past few weeks. He was conscious of these other minds, but he passed over them as he projected himself astrally to the northeast, to that blazing presence that could only be the tzu'jan, Even had Tun Tzu not conducted the basic mental probings four nights ago at the bar, he would've had little difficulty in locating Ron Church, so brilliant was his aura.

Tun Tzu saw only a washed out, blurry image of the apartment building as he drew near. In this astral realm, all other shapes and colors were subdued, indefinite, next to the glow of the tzti-jan, the creative essence of the Nameless, of the Infinite, that flowed through this person. Tun Tzu paused only a moment upon recognizing the sleeping form of Ron Church within the building — the power he felt was immense! — before continuing down into the psyche of the tzu-jan.

Tun Tzu came to an abrupt stop. There was a barrier. The deepest, most intimate recesses of Ron Church's mind were closed to Tun Tzu.

Tun Tzu had touched the Zorn once, had attempted to directly aid him, and found that the Zorn was bound by a similar barrier. In that instance, Tun Tzu, supported by the other six sages of the bamboo grove, had been able to penetrate the barrier, to pull the Zorn beyond it ever so briefly, had allowed the Zorn to exceed that which was possible in his restricted paradigm. Now, however, Tun Tzu was alone, and Ron Church's mental energies were to the Zorn's what a crocodile's are to a salamander's. Tun Tzu would have to settle for a more superficial link.

Ron Church's sleeping mind remained active. Myriad thought patterns operated independently of one another, performing various functions of which the sleeper was completely unaware.

Ron Church, Tun Tzu called out.

He noticed multiple thought patterns coalesce to form a single mental entity, like streams flowing in different directions coming together to form a river. The streams of thought joined for a single purpose — to investigate this disturbance, this intrusion, within the mind.

Ron Church, Tun Tzu repeated from the astral plane. WHO THE HELL ARE YOU ?

Tun Tzu had established contact. I am Tun Tzu.

THE OLD CODGER FROM EDDY'S?

I suppose that would be me, yes.

ARE YOU IN MY BRAIN? WHAT THE HELL?

Allow me to explain. Tun Tzu could feel Ron's tension mount, and as the tzu-jan became agitated, the barrier correspondingly became more constricted, threatening to destroy completely the tenuous mind-link. Tun Tzu might not have much time to get across what he'd planned to say. I come from another world — a world of your making, Ron Church, and the world of the Zorn.

WHAT? GET OUTTA TOWN!

The barrier was tightening further. Only Tun Tzu's strenuous effort maintained the connection. There is a stasis that threatens both our worlds, that threatens both you and the Zorn. We must help each other if we are to survive! Tun Tzu had not counted on so much resistance; he hadn't been prepared to fight the barrier, and the barrier was created in part by the incomparable strength of the tzu-jan, the Creator. What could he, by himself, do?

I leave you with knowledge of how to find me. The barrier was pressing down upon Tun Tzu, choking off communication. The fabric of his mind could not stand such strain and remain intact for long. Come to me when it is time.

The pressure was unbearable!

I only hope...

The link was broken.

... it will not be too late.

The severing of the connection flung Tun Tzu away from the tzu-jan. The pain and swirling images (the blurry apartment building receding in the distance, the city falling away below, a complete spectrum of colors warping and twisting around one another) were overwhelming. All sense of stability and order was scattered to the wind. There had been no hope of resisting the Creator. Intense bursts of anguish, chaos, and then...

Darkness.

Pounding.

Tun Tzu's eyelids fluttered. He awoke on his back beside the luira tree. The sun was just cresting the mountains to the east. Birds greeted the morning with song. Hours had passed. Was it the next morning or the day after?

The pounding was at his temples; it was even louder than the birds. He focused on the pain, drove it away, willed it to disappear. His entire body ached. Ron Church might not even remember the brief mind- link, not even as a dream. But the message was planted. Later, Tun Tzu would watch... watch and hope. Sow the seeds. Trust the promise. For now, however, he closed his eyes again and slept.

Chapter Seven

Zorn continued to build the tower in his mind. Every night, he dragged stones across the broad crest of the mountain and added them to the increasingly elevated platform from which he sought an audience with the Creator. It was a spiritual process, yet Zorn awoke in the mornings with a back and muscles as sore as if the experience had actually been physical.

This determination and perseverance was not, however, rewarded or even acknowledged. The presence, although Zorn could definitely sense the proximity of what he believed was his Creator somewhere in the heavens, never addressed him or responded to his entreaties in any way. Even so, Zorn was singular in his purpose: he kept building, and the tower reached higher into the heavens every day.

Combined with the frustration and failure to contact the presence, however, were comfort and stability. Not once since he had discovered the presence had it been absent when he sought it. Never had there been a void, a vacant space where the presence had been, where the presence should have been. And Zorn latched onto this certainty. It replaced the certainty that he had known in his life, of walking straight ahead, of living wholeheartedly, the certainty that had fallen to rubble when he found the presence.

Zorn thought about what he had read in the Book of Orthodoxy: "Build your tower upon the solid foundation of the rock that is the Theocracy. All other ground is transient, merely the shifting sands of human fancy." Ron built his tower on a different foundation. He no longer trusted that rock as the basis for his life.

Isn't rock transient as well? Mountains are worn down by small streams and, over the millennia, deposited among the lowlands. The foundation is less important than that for which I'm striving. My goal, the Creator Himself, easily transcends the Theocracy; next to Him, the rock of the Theocracy is less than a grain of sand on a beach. The Theocracy sees itself as the end rather than the means. Is certainty found in an institution of humanity or is it found in that ivhich we conceive?

Zorn's growing repudiation of the tenets of Theocracy was based in the noncommunicative example which he now sensed. In the presence there was a purity, a connectedness to life that Zorn had felt and found nowhere else before. He saw in the presence a reflection of himself, except that it was without doubt or desire. It was himself as he would like to be. He saw a reflection of the Theocracy in the presence as well, arid it was a benevolent, right-minded institution, not an unwieldy bureaucratic monstrosity full of pettiness.

From the top of his tower, Zorn saw these reflections and images within the presence, and the images were more real than reality, more real than what was. They were pure of essence and of form. It was this purity of which Zorn so desperately wanted to partake. He had thought himself pious once, but he had found a higher piety.

How can I reach you? he asked. Will you ever respond to me? Will you ever answer me?

And then there was movement, a stirring within the presence. That which Zorn had only known as an incomprehensible and static monstrosity moved, and even though it was the very reaction for which he'd hoped, Zorn was as shocked as if a building had sprouted feet and walked down the street. He was as amazed as if the ocean had parted before him. Zorn involuntarily held his breath. Was this to be the sign, the contact for which he had been waiting? He dared not hope. The motion did not last long. It was a glimmer of life, but it was so much more than anything he had seen to this point. This could be the beginning of everything of which he'd dreamed, or it could be the first step along the path of his destruction, but surely even destruction from some divine source was preferable to endless questioning.

After the stirring ended, all was as it had been before. There was no indication that anything had changed. Maybe there is some change that I can't see. Perhaps all of creation is but the result of some restless stirring like this. Perhaps I have witnessed, without knowing, the creation of some completely new universe. Or maybe this presence is merely some great cosmic slug suffering from indigestion, or constipation. Zorn's heart sank at the thought. No. I refuse to believe that life as I know it could be the result of what might be nothing more than a bowel movement to this being. In some way, this is the Creator. It must be. There must be a consciousness lurking in there somewhere, if only I can find it.

Zorn once again observed the quiet that, until moments ago, had been all he had experienced of the presence. Are you aware of me? Can you respond? Zorn hurled his thoughts at it. I know you must possess some way to communicate with me. I can feel the connection you have to this world. Would it all be the same again? Would there be more unresponsive silence? Zorn couldn't stand the idea of it going back to how it had been. He thought of the chaos his life was becoming because of this uncooperative being. How long am I supposed to wait? Is my entire lifetime nothing more to you than the blink of an eye? Do you see the movement of glaciers as rapid? If so, what good are you to me, even if you are the Creator? Had Zorn thrown away his previously content life for nothing? He pounded the walls of the tower with his fists. Answer me! Speak to me, damn you!

And then there was motion again. Zorn was taken aback. Perhaps he had spoken hastily, a bit too forcefully. He could sense the presence changing. A metamorphosis was taking place. Strange visions forced themselves upon him, swirling images as disconnected from reality as the previous images had been part of it — squares changing to diamonds changing to flowers changing to fish to horses to diamonds and then squares again, to lizards to hexagons to triangles to doves to a honeycomb to bees to hummingbirds to cubes to a city that was incredibly huge, but then the buildings were small game pieces on a board. The images rushed in, crowding one another. Zorn could not stop them.

When the visions eventually receded, the presence was with Zorn. It had been with him from the start, or he had been with it, but now he could sense a consciousness. He could tell, somehow, that it possessed a sense of self. It was still immense and largely incomprehensible, but it was also anthropomorphized, not physically, but in mind. With euphoria and trepidation, Zorn waited atop the tower of his faith to be recognized, to be enlightened or annihilated. The presence, however, gave no sign of acknowledgment.

Zorn was awed by the scope of that which he confronted. He was exhilarated and at the same time terrified, but he could not turn back. There was only forward. Abandoning any ideas of attempted flight in the face of such power, Zorn risked fire from the wrathful skies by trying again to contact the presence. Creator?

The presence's attention shifted. Zorn could feel its gaze turning to him, examining him, turning him over in its mind. He felt small and insignificant under its scrutiny. How could he have possessed such audacity? Surely he would be crushed like an ant at any moment.

And then He spoke. WHAT?

Not lofty thoughts for a first contact from the Creator, if that was, in fact, whom he had contacted. Having longed so desperately for any type of response or communication, Zorn did not feel that he could quibble over such finer points, however.

He tried again. Creator1

ARE YOU TALKING TO ME? WHO THE HELL

ARE YOU?

Forgive my presumption. I am but one minute fragment of your great creation. There was no response. I imagine you have weightier concerns than hearing from one so insignificant as I.

WHAT'S GOING ON? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

Zorn realized that unlike the indoctrination instructors of the Theocracy who spoke in rigid pronouncements, the Creator wished to teach him by asking questions. Forgive my impatience, Creator. There is no excuse for the anger and disrespect I have shown you. In my pride I grew impatient, even though I have sought you out for only a matter of weeks. I would not be worthy to speak with you even had I devoted years to the search.

There was another pause. THIS IS A DREAM. I MUST BE DREAMING.

So, do you say that all reality is but a dream to you? That our world is a product of your subconscious wanderings? An accident of your slumber? But surely the order we see around us must be intentional, planned. Or does the structure flow inherently from your being, and therefore does not require intent? No disorder could proceed from you.

OKAY. The Creator seemed reluctant to continue. I GUESS I'M NOT GOING TO WAKE UP. I'LL PLAY ALONG. WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHO ARE YOU?

But you know my thoughts before they even enter my mind? Why do you ask who I am?

HEY, BUD, THIS IS MY DREAM. ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTION! WHO ARE YOU?

Zorn was cowed by divine indignation. My name is Max Zorn.

WHAT?

M} name is Max Zorn.

I HEARD YOU. I HEARD YOU. BE QUIET.

Once again there was silence, but Zorn could tell that ■he Creator was not removed from him. The communication link was still open. Zorn could not believe that his dreaming and searching had paid off. The Creator seemed a bit irritated, but not particularly enraged at having been contacted. Of course, He had allowed Himself to be contacted, or it could not have happened.

YOU ARE MAX ZORN.

Yes.

This was followed again by the contemplative silence of the Grand Being. Zorn was not sure what was happening. Perhaps He is unaccustomed to being contacted by his creatures. Maybe He is deciding how to deal with me, what reward or what punishment would be appropriate.

QUIET, ZORN. LET ME THINK.

Sorry.

Apparently, the Creator reached a relatively quick decision. THIS IS A DREAM. YOU ARE PART OF THE DREAM, ZORN. YOU'RE A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION. I'M GOING TO WAKE UP NOW.

Zorn felt a surge of panic. No! Please, don't abandon me!

WHAT?

Don't leave me! Not after I've searched so hard and thrown away all certainty in my life. The Creator couldn't go. Not yet. There were so many questions. Zorn had already sacrificed so much to reach Him. And what of the world? What if this were all a dream?

YOU'RE A PERSISTENT BUGGER, I'LL GIVE YOU THAT. WHY SHOULDN'T I WAKE UP? WHY SHOULDN'T I END THIS DREAM?

If I and this world are but a dream to you, what will happen when you wake!' Will we be gone? Will we be destroyed?

BUT I GO TO SLEEP EVERY NIGHT AND GET UP EVERY MORNING.

It could be that your one night of rest has been thousands of years to us. Now that I've roused you, if that is the case, then I may have called down destruction upon my whole world. I decided to risk my own personal destruction, but I never considered this possibility.

LOOK, IF I DREAM LIKE THIS ALL NIGHT, I'LL WAKE UP IN THE MORNING AND FEEL LIKE I NEVER EVEN WENT TO SLEEP IF YOU'RE HERE TONIGHT, MAYBE YOU'LL BE HERE TOMORROW NIGHT. BETTER YET, MAYBE YOU WON'T BE, AND I'LL GET SOME REST.

Such words of rejection struck Zorn deeply. He felt mounting terror at the thought of bringing an end to the entire world through his pride, but if he had finally found his Creator and then the Creator rejected him, what reason was there to go on?

If you decide to end all of this, then of course there is nothing I can do or say to change that. You are the Creator. But why set all this in motion just to crush it at some arbitrary moment?

The Creator was growing exasperated. Zorn could tell by the sharp tone and quick pacing of His thoughts. ZORN, I DIDN'T SET ANYTHING IN MOTION. I WROTE A STORY, AND YOU WERE IN IT. THAT'S IT. YOU'RE THE ONE WHO'S POKING AROUND IN MY DREAM, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. YOU'RE NOT GOING TO MAKE ME FEEL RESPONSIBLE FOR YOU OR YOUR WORLD OR WHATEVER. I'VE GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT — CONTRACTS AND TAXES AND DEADLINES....

I'M TALKING TO A DREAM. I DON'T BELIEVE THAT I AM ACTUALLY TALKING TO A DREAM, EXPLAINING MYSELF.

Creator, forgive me if...

GIVE IT A REST, ZORN. LOOK, I'M GOING TO WAKE UP NOW. I'M NOT PLANNING ON DESTROYING YOUR NICE LITTLE WORLD, BUT THEN AGAIN, I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO

WITH IT, OR MAYBE I DO. I DON'T KNOW. I WISH YOU THE BEST OF LUCK. I HOPE YOU'LL BE ABLE TO GO RUMMAGE AROUND IN SOMEBODY ELSE'S DREAM, BUT I'M GOING NOW.

Zorn was resigned to whatever fate the Creator might bring. All his hopes had been pinned on this moment, and now that he had found the Creator, or the Creator had found him, there was only repudiation. Zorn had rejected Orthodoxy, which had always governed him, and his Creator had rejected him. Possibly all of creation might be undone because of Zorn's straying from the true way. Zorn had searched for divine justice, and he had found it.

If that is Your will, then it will be so.

Ron sat bolt upright in bed. It was all fantastically clear to him still — the dream, the conversation, the desperation in Zorn's voice. Amazing. Normally, Ron didn't remember much about his dreams. There would be hazy reminiscences when he first woke, but if he reached for a firmer grasp of any details, the entire dream dissipated like fog in the wind. This dream, however, was different than others. Ron's heart raced in his excitement. He had talked with a character from his book. Incredible.

Ron's dramatic re-entry into the conscious world startled Irene, who had been sleeping beside him in an old Darth Vader T-shirt of his. She clenched one hand over her heart and grabbed Ron's shoulder with the other. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

As he became fully awake and the realization sank in more completely that he had been dreaming about having a conversation with a character from his book, Ron's excitement turned to annoyance. His sleep had been troubled recently. He would awake in the morning almost as fatigued as he'd been the night before. I need some time off. But there was so much more writing to be done, and the contract problems to straighten out.

"Are you all right?" Irene asked again, her short red hair, rubbed by the pillow, sticking up.

Ron turned to her and nodded, acknowledging her concern. "Yeah, I'm fine." The dream was still clear, and Ron didn't want to waste this odd opportunity. "You're not going to believe the dream I just had."

But just as he opened his mouth to tell her about his discussion with a fictional character, everything else came rushing back to him — the message from the old man, Tun Tzu, the warning.

I come from another world — a world of your making. There is a stasis that threatens both our worlds, that threatens both you and Zorn.

"I'm going crazy."

"What? What is it?" Irene, sitting up, was wide awake now.

Ron's thoughts were running wild. Zorn was talking to me... I mean, I had a dream about Zorn. Of course he wasn't talking to me. He's not real. Was the old geezer talking to me? Or was that just a dream tooI Ron was out of bed and pulling on jeans over the boxer shorts in which he'd been sleeping.

"Ron, what are you doing?" Irene's voice was tinged with exasperation. She was reaching for him, trying to get his attention, but he shrugged away.

Ron did not respond. He barely heard her. Maybe I had more to drink than I realized at Eddy's the other night. That's probably it. I'm just getting my conversations mixed up. Why would Tun Tzu say anything about Zorn? Why would Zom say anything at all? Unless I'm going crazy-

"I am going crazy," Ron mumbled as he grabbed his car keys, a T-shirt from the floor, stuffed his feet into his old bedroom slippers, and rushed out of the apartment ignoring Irene's questions and protestations.

On the cold sidewalk along Sutter Street, Ron glanced at his left wrist, trying to look at the watch that he hadn't thought to put on before he'd left. It must be 3:00 a.m. Anytime something in a book happens in the middle of the night, it's 3:00 a.m.

Ron stopped. He stood motionless for a moment, took a deep breath, and spoke aloud to himself. "Calm down." He took another deep breath. "I am not in a book. Zorn is in a book. I may or may not have talked to him, but that's okay, because I'm going crazy."

The Celica was about two and a half blocks away. The clock on the dash claimed that it was 10:23 a.m., which was obviously incorrect. I really have to read the manual and figure out how to set that damn thing one day.

Ron wasn't sure how he knew where he was going, but he did. The route was intuitive — Steiner Street to Fulton to Golden Gate Park. He parked at the Asian Art Museum — the lot was deserted except for a janitorial service truck — and walked toward the adjacent Japanese Tea Garden. Strangely enough, the gate into the garden was unlocked: it swung open easily at Ron's touch. Within the garden, he somehow knew which paths to follow, which turns to make. Ron was shivering in just his T-shirt and bedroom slippers.

I'm walking through Golden Gate Park in the middle of the night by myself. "I am crazy," he said out loud. "I am crazy. I am crazy," he repeated, shifting his emphasis to see which arrangement carried the proper tone of insanity.

"You are less crazy than you might think." It was the voice of the old man from the bar, but as Ron whirled around, no one was in sight. He glared suspiciously at the shrubs around him. The moon was half-full tonight, but the shadows were deep in the garden.

I'm not just crazy, Ron decided. I'm stupid. What am I doing here? He'd known but not believed that Tun Tzu would be here. How did he know? He had hoped to prove

this newfound knowledge wrong.

"Ahead and to your right," the voice instructed him.

Ron followed the directions — if he were going crazy, which seemed to be the case, he might as well listen to little voices in his head — and sure enough, just ahead on the right was a small path which he turned onto. After only a dozen or so steps, he emerged into a sheltered grove within the heart of the garden. In the center of the grove was a small frog pond surrounded by smooth, gray stones. Only a few feet away stood Tun Tzu, next to a sprawling, thin-branched tree that somehow seemed out of place. It must've been a trick of the moonlight, but the tree almost appeared to radiate a faint light of its own.

"I am glad you came so soon." Tun Tzu bowed slightly as he spoke.

This was all too much for Ron to absorb. I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week. I'm having a breakdown. That's all there is to it. I was dreaming about my book. I'm probably dreaming now. Ron pinched himself several times on the arm, but he didn't wake up in his bed again. Okay, maybe not. Maybe this crackpot hypnotized me at the bar.

"Hypnosis, as you call it, is a rather crude art," said Tun Tzu.

Ron pointed at Tun Tzu, stabbing violently at the air with his finger. "You stop that! Stay the hell out of my head. Do you hear me?"

Tun Tzu bowed slightly again. "I apologize if I cause you discomfort."

"Discomfort? So far, you're one big pain in my ass!" Ron's ire began to subside more into befuddlement. "Who the hell are you anyway? What am I doing here? And don't tell me I'm not crazy." He tapped his chest with his index finger. "I'll decide if I'm crazy or not. I think you're crazy."

Tun Tzu raised his hands in a placating gesture. "This grove is a place of serenity. Let us sit, and I will answer your questions." Tun Tzu took a seat on the stones

surrounding the pond.

Ron approached hesitantly and situated himself on the rocks near Tun Tzu. There was too much happening that Ron didn't understand. He was by no means a control freak, but he was uncomfortable having no idea of what was going on.

Tun Tzu sat silently for a moment stroking his goatee. "There are three people of whom I must tell you — myself, the Zorn, and yourself."

"How are you going to tell me..." Ron began to ask, but Tun Tzu raised a finger and Ron stopped short. This better be good.

"There is much to explain," Tun Tzu began. "You knew how to find this place because I left that knowledge in your mind four nights ago. I had hoped to tell you more then, but my contact with you was... more difficult to maintain than I had expected."

"The message I remembered tonight?" Ron asked. "That wasn't some jumbled memory from the bar?"

"No." Tun Tzu shook his head. "That first night I observed your mind, but I did not create a link until the night of the message. Your deeper mind was very resistant to my presence. That is why I was so brief. That is also why you did not remember the message until tonight. Why tonight, I do not know."

Ron was skeptical but intrigued by all this mind-meld mumbo-jumbo. He felt as if he were sleepwalking. Why am I talking to this man? "I had this dream about Zorn, and when I woke up, everything just came back to me."

"Hmm." Tun Tzu nodded, deep in thought. "This may be difficult for you to believe, Ron Church, but it is truth as I know it. I am not from this world. In my world I lived with other sages in a bamboo grove. We are part of the Akashic Brotherhood, protectors of a mystical art handed down for centuries from sage to sage."

Tun Tzu stopped and scratched his head. "There is so much to tell, so much for you to understand. Recently we realized that our grove was being threatened by a stasis... an aura that, if it grew too powerful, would prevent the use of the art my friends and I practice. At that time, I also became aware of the presence of the Zorn to the north.

"The Zorn's was a beautiful mind to behold. He was a Pure One. At first glance, I could see how directly he partook of the Lzu-jan, the creative aspect of the Nameless which is responsible for the translation of anything from the realm of potentiality to the realm of actuality. Zorn was attuned to the very fabric of our world. He was, indeed, a beautiful sight."

Ron's head was spinning as he tried to keep up with everything Tun Tzu was throwing at him — Akashic Brotherhood, Pure One, the Nameless, tzu-jan.

"The Zorn was not aware of his pure nature, however," Tun Tzu continued. "The society in which he lived did not accept such spirituality, and he was restricted by a barrier of the beliefs of his fellow people. Even though he possessed many times the power necessary to transcend such a barrier, he lacked the knowledge to do so. At my request, the other sages helped me try to free the Zorn from the barrier." Here, Tun Tzu's voice faltered momentarily. He cleared his throat. "In the end, we failed, and many of my friends, perhaps all of them, lost their lives in the attempt."

Part of Ron was struck by the undeniable emotion with which Tun Tzu told the story; another part thought the old man needed serious psychological counseling. And I thought I was crazy• "Look," Ron said as he stood, "I'm glad you liked my story, and that you've taken to Zorn so strongly, but that's a book, and you need help."

Tun Tzu didn't seem distraught that Ron was about to leave, but he did gesture toward the rocks. "Please, let me finish."

"But this doesn't have anything to do with me," Ron insisted.

"Think of your dream, of the Zorn, and tell me this has nothing to do with you." Tun Tzu held Ron in his gaze. "I think I can tell you what is happening."

Under normal circumstances, Ron would've left. But then again, under normal circumstances, he realized, he wouldn't have been here in the first place. He grudgingly sat back down.

Tun Tzu nodded thanks. "I must explain to you some aspects of magick."

"Magic? Give me a break."

"Please." Tun Tzu held up a restraining finger once again. "Quintessence is that which makes my art possible. It is the spiritual raw material of reality, if you will; it is that by which the tzu-jan produces change. There is Quintessence all around us that a sage draws on to perform magick. There is also a finite supply of Quintessence within each of us." Tun Tzu tapped his own chest, then reached over and tapped Ron's. "In the attempt to free the Zorn, I exhausted the supply of Quintessence within me; I was extinguished like a used up torch within my world. By all accounts, I should be dead, but instead I found myself shifted to this world."

Ron couldn't believe he was listening to this.

Tun Tzu continued. "I said that the Zorn partook of the tzu-jan. I believe that is what brought me here. As I burned out of existence in my reality, I was dragged along the path of the creative essence which is connected to this world, connected to you."

"Me?" Ron felt accused.

"Yes, you," Tun Tzu repeated.

Ron didn't flinch this time as Tun Tzu reached into his robes and pulled out the copy of Death on the Tower. The old man held the book out to Ron. "You partake of the tzu-jan as well. You created the Zorn's world, which is also my world. In some way, you are a manifestation... a personification of the tzu-jan for my world. The same stasis that threatened my grove and restricted the Zorn affects you also. We must free the Zorn and try to reverse, or at least slow, the stagnation. The tzu-jan cannot be forever contained. It must flourish or wither."

"Hold on just a minute here." Ron was standing again, taking a step back. Tun Tzu's logical conclusions were running circles around Ron. "I wrote a book. I'll grant you that. Are you saying that everything I wrote is real?"

Tun Tzu didn't miss a beat. "Yes."

Oh, boy. Here we are in fruitcake land. "Look. Even if everything I wrote is real, which it's not, who the hell are you? I never wrote about you." Ron had found the hole in the old wacko's argument.

Tun Tzu handed the book, held open to page fifty- four, to Ron. The self-pronounced sage pointed to the fourth paragraph:

"... Zorn had once heard of strange lands to the south where witchcraft and black magic and cannibalism held sway."

"That's it?" Ron asked incredulously. "That's pretty weak to base your whole existence on one off-hand comment." He eyed Tun Tzu suspiciously and took another step back. "Are you a cannibal?"

"Fortunately, your reference is not a completely accurate description of my homeland," Tun Tzu explained calmly, "but with the power of the tzu-jan, even such a brief mention was sufficient, I believe, to breathe life into my land."

"Another thing," Ron challenged him. "If I created your world, how can your... Nintendo Brotherhood or whatever..."

"Akashic Brotherhood," Tun Tzu corrected him.

"Okay, Akashic Brotherhood. How can your Akashic Brotherhood have existed for hundreds of years? I only wrote the book three years ago."

"That is an intriguing question," Tun Tzu conceded, "and one that I have considered much since arriving here and reading your book." He shifted his position on the rocks. "There are three explanations that I consider to be possible. First, it may not be the case that the passage of time in one world corresponds to the passage of time in the other. I can offer no proof of this, but it seems an unfounded assumption to believe that time necessarily functions identically in variant realities, or that there is even a consistent corollary ratio.

"Second, it is possible that your creation of my world consisted not only of the present moment, but extended into the past; that my world came into being with its history intact."

Tun Tzu held up his finger again, as if to say, Just a little more. "The third possibility concerns the origin of the Brotherhood in my world. Our tradition was founded centuries ago by a Pure One known as Chuang Tzu. He was a sage from another reality, perhaps from this reality, although that question is not completely relevant for us. This alternative becomes rather complicated."

Ron butted in. "Like the other choices were simple?"

"The sage's world, you must understand, deals with potentiality and perception. It is conceivable that a powerful sage, especially one with knowledge of the sphere of time, could affect events in a potential world, one that does not even exist yet." Tun Tzu folded his hands in his lap.

Ron reflected on the suggestions Tun Tzu had set forth. "So you're saying that either your world has had centuries while we've had three years, or that I created your world's entire history, or that some old sage started your Brotherhood before your world even existed?"

"Yes."

"You're serious. I mean this isn't a joke. I'm not on Candid Camera or something?"

"I am serious," Tun Tzu affirmed. His deep brown eyes held the weight of his conviction.

"You're a fucking fruitcake."

Tun Tzu cocked his head a bit. "I am not familiar with that particular idiom, but I perceive your meaning."

Ron threw his hands up in exasperation. "I'm outta here. This is too weird. I listened to you, and now I'm going." Ron began toward the path out of the small grove.

"Why are you here, Ron Church?'''

The words pit into Ron, pierced his resolve to leave. He stopped in his tracks without even realizing at first.

"Why are you here," Tun Tzu said again, "if on some level you do not believe and understand what you are hearing?"

Ron turned back to face the old man again. That's what he'd been asking himself all night. Why am I here in the park in the middle of the night listening to this crazy person? Only, what Tun Tzu wits saying wasn't that much crazier than everything else that had been happening to Ron. The conversation with Zorn hadn't seemed like a normal dream. It felt different — the clarity with which Ron remembered it, the passion of Zorn's entreaties. And now here was someone offering possible explanations of what was happening. But I did listen to him, and I still don't believe it. However, Ron could not completely disbelieve what he was hearing.

"Let me ask one more thing of you," Tun Tzu offered, "and then if yoy wish to leave, I will trouble you no more."

The old man's apparent reasonableness swayed Ron's indecision but didn't erase his skepticism. Tun Tzu rose, walked to the strangely shimmering tree, and plucked a handful of berries from its branches. Ron watched warily as Tun Tzu approached him.

"These are the fruit of the luira tree =— a tree of my world, a tree of the world you created." Tun Tzu popped a couple of the berries into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "They are not poisonous. Their taste is pleasant, in fact. Eat the fruit of your own creation, and I will ask no more of you." Tun Tzu held the berries out to Ron.

This is crazy. This is crazy■ Why am I doing this? Ron took the berries from Tun Tzu. He cupped them in his hand. The berries were the size of large marbles; like the tree, they seemed to give off a faint glow. Ron stared at them for a moment. Let's get this over with. He put one in his mouth and chewed. Its juice was a strange mix of sweet and bitter, a pleasant flavor, like Tun Tzu had said. Otherwise, nothing happened.

"There. I've eaten your..."

And then the world shifted.

Ron felt the fruit's vapors in every pore of his body. They seeped through his sinuses, making his eyes water. His vision blurred. The earth was no longer stable, it came rushing to meet him. Swirls of color flashed before Ron. He was no longer in the Japanese Tea Garden; he was in a different grove, surrounded by luira trees and bamboo. Tun Tzu was there, standing by a large black cauldron, and then that image fled. Ron saw a city — he recognized Anglopolis — towering edifices of sparkling steel and reflective glass. And then this image also disappeared.

More significant than the images themselves was the accompanying sense of reality, of realness, that Ron felt upon seeing them. Even from such brief glimpses, he knew deep in his gut that this other world was, in fact, what Tun Tzu claimed it to be. Ron also knew, without question, that he had created it. He could see the patterns of his own mind inherent in the land.

MY God. He was right.

Ron found himself face down in the grass, the frog pond to his left. Cautiously, he raised himself to his knees, fighting off the last traces of vertigo. He expected Tun Tzu to be standing there looking at him, but the old man was nowhere in sight. Ron glanced around the grove a bit too quickly. The scene before him faded; he tasted bile in his mouth. He lowered his head and the discomfort receded. Tun Tzu was not there, nor was the tree — there was no indication that it had ever stood in the grove. Ron looked around on the ground. Even the berries that he must have dropped were nowhere to be found.

The entire night, everything that had happened, had been surreal, and now there was no proof that any of it had actually occurred.

But Ron knew. His uncertainty was replaced by clarity and astonishment. Lord! Zorn needed me, and I told him to bugger off. Ron looked slowly around the grove again, but his mind was on the other world. It's real, he kept saying to himself. It's real. As he sat alone in the grove, the first traces of the morning light appeared in the eastern sky.

Tun Tzu held the berries out to Ron who hesitantly accepted them, held them in his hand and examined them. Finally, he raised one to his lips and put it in his mouth. He chewed for a moment.

"There," said Ron defiantly. "I've eaten your..."

Tun Tzu could see the transformation taking place. The indirect link that Ron held to the other world through Tun Tzu was becoming a direct link through the fruit of the tree. Ron's eyes opened. He would no longer fail to see his relationship to the other world.

And then the world shifted for Tun Tzu.

He could feel Ron's mind, the tzu-jan from within the barrier, reaching out into the grove, permeating every inch. The tingle of the tzu-jan coursed through Tun Tzu's own body. Ron was subconsciously examining him, just as he'd consciously examined the berries only minutes before. Tun Tzu could sense the realizations that were striking Ron — that Tun Tzu, the tree, the berries, were all functions of his own mind — and then Tun Tzu felt the tugging. As Ron's mind expanded to more clearly perceive his surroundings, there was nothing Tun Tzu could do. He tried to anchor himself in the physical reality of the grove, but the unleashed power of the tzu- jan was overwhelming. His vision wrinkled, then faded completely. There was no more tactile sensation, no vision, no sound, no smell; only the taste of the luira berries remained. Tun Tzu, helpless, was sucked into Ron's mind, to become once again a mental figment of the Creator.

PART TWO: JOB

Chapter Eight

"Sit down, Zorn."

The smoke was thick in Martin's office even this early in the morning, but at least the temp unit seemed to be working properly. Zorn had barely stepped into his celllike office before being summoned to Martin's. The call from the nasal-voiced secretary had been curt as usual, and there seemed to be a certain foulness of mood, as well as odor, behind Martin's actions today. Zorn almost expected Martin, distracted in his agitation, to bite his cigar in two and choke on the half in his mouth.

"We've got trouble, and you've got some explaining to do." Smoke shot in short blasts from Martin's mouth.

Zorn took a seat. "Yes, sir?"

Martin held up a thick file from his desk and waved it in the air. "In my hand, the report on last night's raid on True Way Books. I... harumph... an explanation," he said as he bit down on his cigar.

Zorn had come in early today to see the report but had not gotten a copy yet. How did Martin get it so quicklyI Did jaquobs drop it off with him first? That's not procedure. "I haven't seen the report yet, sir."

"What?" Martin was incredulous. "Weren't you there for the raid?"

"I stopped by shortly after, as soon as I was notified," said Zorn. "Certainly the report mentions that." Martin was asking about things he must already know, trying to make Zorn look incompetent. "I left the interviewing and cataloguing of inventory to my men."

Martin let out a meaningful "harumph" and slapped the report down on the desk. "Know what they say, if you want something done right I hope some

important facts were overlooked."

He hopes facts were overlooked? What is he talking about? "May I?" Zorn indicated the report.

Martin grunted and slid it across the desk to him. Zorn began to flip through the pages. Everything seemed to be there — interrogation transcripts ("interview" transcripts in official DO parlance), inventory of merchandise, copies of store records, lists of what was in the office, in drawers, under the counter, in the safe. The structural engineers had virtually gutted the place looking for hidden compartments, rooms, anything. There were photos of the resultant chaos.

"It all seems to be in order," Zorn said as he turned a page.

"It's in order, all right," snapped Martin. "It's all there, everything except the first shred of incriminating evidence!" He slammed his fist on the desk.

What? That's not possible. It should have just been a matter of sorting out who was guilty. That there was guilt involved was never in question. Zorn turned to the analysis section at the end of the report:

... and although one customer had been under surveillance for suspicious activities, and the business was being watched as a place frequented by suspected ALF operatives, there has been no evidence of criminal wrongdoing uncovered based on items found on the premises (See: Sections 3-6) or based on suspect or participant interviews (See: Sections 8-9).

It is possible that further examination may reveal connections not noted at this time, or that additional evidence will be discovered; however, at this time it is recommended that all involved detainees be sworn to silence and released pending recall.

-Inquisitor M. Jaquobs

Zorn was stunned. Everything had fallen into place up to this point. He had been so sure, and the damn vid units had been there! He realized that Martin was glaring at him through the smoke hanging in the air. "Stop the vids," said Zorn.

"They started running last night on the late news," Martin growled, "and here's today's Anglopolis Monocle." Martin picked up a newspaper that had been on the floor out of Zorn's view and dropped it on the desk.

Zorn didn't pick it up. He didn't have to. Across the top of the front page in print large enough that he could have read it from across the room was the headline: Biggest Bust Since Days of Trimmerhorn. Zorn stared blankly at the paper. Invoking Trimmerhorn's name — Trimmerhorn, the most daring and spectacular Inquisitor before his disappearance — was a sure way to raise expectations to a point that they would be impossible to fulfill. Zorn couldn't bring himself to read the article. "Who authorized this?" he asked.

Martin's face was red now. His overstuffed body was perched on the edge of his overstuffed chair. "You said there wouldn't be any problems. You said that we would break their communications network and wipe up the whole bunch. That's what you promised."

"I never promised anything!" Zorn could see it coming. They were going to try to pin the entire mess on him. It could all be coincidence, but Zorn was trained to see meaning behind coincidence. Someone wanted Zorn to take a fall. He was sure of it. But who? Could this be Martin's baby? Probably not. Although Martin was relatively competent, he had always struck Zorn as being a typical administrator — long past his unOrthodoxy- fighting peak, no longer particularly innovative or even bright. No, if Martin were involved, he was just a middleman.

"Read it right here." Martin tapped the newspaper. "They may not be your words, but it's your promise."

"Bullshit."

"Tell that to the citizens out there who worry when they go to the grocery store because of ALF bombs." Martin had taken the cigar out of his mouth. His words came furiously now. "Tell that to the mother whose little boy gets caught in the crossfire."

Zorn was out of his chair, his fists clenched on the edge of Martin's desk, actual rage mixing with strategy. "Did you authorize this? The vid units were your idea. Was all this your idea?" Push him. Maybe he'll give something away.

Martin glared angrily at Zorn but managed to calm himself somewhat. The Senior Inquisitor sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. His exhaling forced the smoke in the air into new winding patterns. "I passed along what you told me to the vice-commissioner, and I imagine he passed it along. DP had the green light to go all the way on this one. I didn't authorize anything. It came from higher up."

Higher up.

There it was again. Zorn was taken aback. His rage diffused as he considered the implications of Martin's statement. How high up? The Creator had just rejected Zorn the night before. Was He punishing him for his insolence? He would have considered it egotistical before to think that the Creator might take notice of him individually, but since his contact... but there were other possibilities. Had someone in the department decided that it was time for Zorn to go down? Who, and why? The same questions seemed to be popping up again and again.

"This is what it all comes down to." Martin's words broke in on Zorn's thoughts. "The media machine is already in high gear. We have to catch up. You have to catch up. You have a day, two tops. That's already pushing it. We should start releasing details as soon as possible. You have that long to find something, or if you can't find

something, to make something. Understand?"

Zorn wanted to stuff the newspaper down Martin's throat, but was pulled back to the immediate matter of the raid and its lack of results. He would have to deal with the ineffectual tangle that his task force had become before sifting through the deeper implications. There has to be something there. "I understand. I'll find something." Zorn took the report and stood. "Anything else? I have a lot to do."

"Nothing else." As Zorn left the office, Martin called after him. "I want to know what you've got by 5:00 p.m., Zorn."

Zorn slammed the door and stalked past the secretary who, he knew without looking, was sneering at him. He barely noticed the rumbling of the elevator as he rode down to the sixteenth floor. There has to be something they missed, he thought. Something had to have been overlooked. Zorn was so absorbed in the case when he got off the elevator and turned down the corridor that he almost ran over the young redheaded Inquisitor whose name he didn't know. Zorn slammed his office door (creating a veritable snowstorm of plaster dust), edged around his desk, and dialed Jaquobs' office number on the intercom.

"Jaquobs," said Jaquobs' mechanically distorted voice.

"Jaquobs, this is Zorn. I need you in my office. Bring all your notes from last night. Everything."

"Yes, sir." Jaquobs sounded tired — a stakeout, a long night of data collection and analysis, and nothing to show for it.

He'll be more tired before we're done.

Irene was still at the apartment when Ron returned later that morning. Sitting on the couch wrapped in a

blanket and sipping coffee, she watched him, hawk-like, as he closed the door and leaned against it with his eyes closed. Ron could smell the coffee. Irene had always complained about the cheap instant coffee that he bought, so she'd started leaving cans of General Foods International Coffees at his apartment for mornings when she was around.

"Are you all right?" Irene asked with forced calmness.

Ron opened his eyes. He could see the concern and bewilderment mingled on her face. "I think so." He walked slowly over to the couch and then collapsed on it, resting his head on Irene's lap, and let out a long sigh. She arranged the blanket so it covered his shoulders and chest. "Don't you have to work today?" Ron asked.

Irene tried to sound nonchalant, but she couldn't quite hide her understandable confusion about last night. "I called in sick. I wanted to make sure you were okay." She paused. "What's the deal with running out in the middle of the night? Are you all right?"

"You're not going to believe me."

"Try me."

How do I tell her that I believe something that makes me think I'm crazy? The clarity that Ron had experienced sitting in the grove was already giving way to doubt and rationalization.

Irene began to stroke Ron's hair lightly but prompted him no further.

Ron didn't know where to start. "It doesn't even make sense to me."

"Just try to tell me what you can," she offered.

He took a deep breath. "Okay, last Friday I went out to Eddy's—" Ron started with the odd encounter with Tun Tzu at the bar, then told her about the dream conversation with Zorn — the fictional character's hope and confusion. He told her about waking up and remembering the impossible message from Tun Tzu, about - knowing how to find the old man, and all that had been

said concerning Zorn and the Pure One and the tzu-jan, along with Tun Tzu's subsequent disappearance. He told her about sitting in the grove for God knows how long, shivering, watching the sun come up, wondering why this was happening to him.

Through Ron's entire story, Irene, surprisingly enough, didn't interrupt him once. She listened silently and continued to stroke his hair, speaking only to calm him when he started to become overly excited. She didn't rush him along, she didn't interrupt or draw premature conclusions. Finally, when Ron was done and the story had brought him back to the apartment, Irene quietly asked him, "What do you think about... all this?"

Ron sat up and faced her on the couch. "It can't be real. This couldn't have happened." He wanted her to say, Of course it can't be real. You're right. There's no way this could've happened. He wanted her to confirm what he wanted to be true.

Instead she responded, "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"I am trying to convince myself!" Ron got up and began pacing around the living room. "None of this can be real. It can't be."

"So this old man... Tun Tzu?" Irene ventured.

"Yes."

"He claims that he is from Zorn's world, and that both he and Zorn, that whole world is, in fact, real."

"Yes." Ron was still pacing.

"And that you created their world."

"Yes."

"And after he told you all this, he disappeared without a trace."

"Correct." By now Ron was pacing back and forth across the room like a caged animal.

"Will you sit down?" Irene burst out suddenly. "You're making me dizzy."

"Sorry." Ron sat on the couch again.

"'The most obvious assumption," Irene suggested, "would be that this Tun Tzu character is unstable and a bit overly fond of your book."

"I know. That's what I want to believe."

"But you don't."

Ron slumped back into the couch, dejected, completely defeated. "No. Somehow I can't." The memory of his moment of epiphany in the grove wouldn't allow him to believe what was logical, what would make sense. Instead he was forced to consider possibilities that were so unlikely, so outlandish, that he wouldn't even include them in one of his own books, filled with improbabilities as they were.

Irene reached over and pulled Ron to her, cradling his head against her chest. "Stranger things have happened," she said reassuringly.

"Like what?" Ron asked. "No, stop. Don't answer that," he decided as she opened her mouth.

For a long time they just sat there holding one another. Ron couldn't drive the chaos of the past few days from his mind, but he found comfort in the soothing rhythm of Irene's heartbeat. Even though the questions would not go away, at least they receded a bit.

By the time Jaquobs arrived, Zorn was delving into the report, absorbing details, cross-referencing testimonies and inventories. Jaquobs stood blinking in the doorway. He held a thick pile of papers under one arm. Zorn looked up. There were only his desk and chair squeezed into the room.

"Find a chair. We've got work to do."

Jaquobs set the stack of papers on the desk and left the office. He returned a few minutes later with a folding metal chair that he set up jammed in the corner across the desk from Zorn, who continued working as he spoke.

"So, Jaquobs, tell me how it is that Martin gets a copy of the report from last night's raid before I do, even though I'm heading up the operation."

Jaquobs cocked his head and blinked. He really does look like a rodent, Zorn thought.

"What?" Jaquobs seemed genuinely confused, of course.

"How did Martin get the report?"

Jaquobs looked at the desk, at the open report, and then back at Zorn. "I left it on your desk this morning. Did Martin get a copy too?"

"Not 'too.' He got a copy, and I didn't." Zorn watched Jaquobs carefully. The man was perplexed, but did not seem particularly alarmed as if he had been found out in some plot. His coloring didn't change. His breathing was still fairly regular. Perhaps he was blinking a bit more rapidly. It was difficult to tell.

"I left it on your desk. I don't know how Martin would've gotten it," Jaquobs reiterated.

"Absolutely no idea?"

"No, no idea." Jaquobs shook his head.

Zorn could see no value in pursuing this any further. If Jaquobs had given the report to Martin, then he stood warned. He knew that Zorn was onto him. If Jaquobs hadn't given the report to Martin, then Zorn was wasting his time anyway. Jaquobs, for his part, looked concerned but puzzled.

"About this report," said Zorn. Both men let the last topic drop without comment. "There has to be something here that you've missed."

Jaquobs sighed. "I've been through it all at least five times," he said, his voice full of exasperation.

"Then we'll go through it a sixth time — together." Zom smoothed back his hair. "And this time we'll find something." Jaquobs let out a small groan. "Let's start

with the interview transcripts "

For the next several hours, the two men combed through every detail in the report. They checked testimonies for inconsistencies and categorized inventory, jaquobs drank cup after cup of black coffee; he'd already been up all night. Aside from the matter at hand, Zorn was irritated by the lingering odor of stale smoke from his visit to Martin's office. The only thing that emerged from the paper mountain of facts was the total lack of any discernible pattern.

Dana Norris, the suspected ALF operative whose presence in the bookstore had triggered the raid, was an indoctrination instructor, which would be a particularly insidious position for a subversive to hold; but aside from an accusation from an anonymous informant, she was a model citizen. She had never even received a parking citation, a nearly miraculous achievement in Anglopolis, and she was a member of YAF, Young Anglians for Freedom.

The other individuals brought in for questioning — one customer and one employee — in addition to the manager and the were all relatively clean. No offenses of unOrthodoxy, no criminal wrongdoing. The owner had filed a financial suit with the magistrate's office to straighten out a billing discrepancy, but even probing this monetary avenue proved to be a dead end.

The cramped office grew stuffy with two occupants, and the proliferation of plaster dust eventually made breathing almost as difficult as in Martin's office.

"You know what we have to do," Jaquobs said as he flipped yet again through the inventory lists. "We arrest the Norris woman and let it drop at that. Perhaps a bit more surveillance at the bookstore, but I expect the ALF will be scared off from there by now."

That was the conclusion that Zorn would have reached had this fiasco occurred several weeks ago. bu: now he was painfully aware of the unpredictable relationship between suspicion and guilt. One did not necessarily follow the other. Zorn himself was not under any suspicion, as far as he knew, yet he had committed unOrthodox acts of the highest order. Norris was under suspicion. She was a suspect, but whereas before Zorn would have considered that tantamount to guilt, he now realized that the connection was not necessarily that direct. "She's probably not involved," he said.

"We make an arrest, the public is happy, the brass is happy." Jaquobs spelled it out. "Sure, it's not the great spectacle we had hoped for, but it's a happy ending." He held his hands up in the air. "Everybody walks away happy."

"Everybody except Dana Norris and her family," Zorn added.

"Zorn," Jaquobs almost scolded him, "we serve the Theocracy. 'The people serve the Theocracy so that it may serve them,'" he quoted from the Book of Orthodoxy. "Even if this woman is not exactly guilty, her sacrifice strengthens the Theocracy, even if only through perception, and makes Anglia safer for everyone. It's the least any loyal citizen should do."

"What if it were your wife?" Zorn asked.

"It's not my wife," Jaquobs replied without missing a beat.

"Is it really that simple?" Zorn asked. "I don't know any more." Jaquobs sat and stared at Zorn in silence. Zorn felt that he was playing into his enemy's hands. It seemed clear that Jaquobs was connected to Martin in all this — Rollins' warning, the shoddy results from the raid, and then the report going to Martin. All coincidence? Zorn had intended to be tough on Jaquobs but had gotten caught up in his own doubts. The departmental infighting didn't seem as important to him as Dana Norris' life. He had spoken with the Creator, not an Intermediary's version as guided by the Book of Orthodoxy but his own. And although he still had many questions for and about the Creator, the Theocracy was no longer the single, irrefutable guide to his life it had once been. He didn't want to sacrifice this woman if he could help it. After all, that's what it really was — the sacrifice of an individual for the greater good, just like the bloody rites of primitive civilizations. This time the sanguine deity was the Theocracy.

Jaquobs was still quiet. Why doesn't he jump on this chance? What Zorn had already said was enough grounds for dismissal. Jaquobs probably hadn't been prepared, wasn't wearing a mike. No doubt he wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

Zorn could feel the tower crumbling. His outer resolve was falling away, and his internal turmoil, never far from the surface these past few weeks, would be visible to all.

"We should go over this report one more time," said Jaquobs. "There may still be something we missed."

So he's going to ignore it. Either he's not wearing a mike or he's just not the type to gloat. But why continue with the facade of the investigation if he's just going to turn me in, unless he wants to see me squirm?

Both Inquisitors turned back to the report, wading through that which had already been gone through time and time again. They communicated in terse questions and grunts for answers. Lunchtime came and went, but neither man moved from his desk. Time crawled by as they examined each excruciatingly minute detail again. At one point Jaquobs suggested relocating to his office, which was larger and had a window, but Zorn didn't want to move. They remained in the tiny room and gradually became coated with plaster dust.

Zorn tried to push his earlier indiscretion from his mind. He was desperate to find evidence that would incriminate Norris, something that would firmly tie her to the ALF, so that his duty and that which he felt to be true would no longer be in conflict. It wouldn't solve the underlying problems, but being able to arrest Norris with a clean conscience would allow Zorn to extend the compromise he'd reached between duty and doubt.

But there was nothing! The only damning evidence was the word of an anonymous informant, enough for an arrest, granted, but the DO generally preferred to have some form of corroborative evidence as well, and Zorn wanted indisputable proof.

Zorn was distracted. He could hear the voice in his mind, the voice of his interrogator when Jaquobs — or whomever -— turned him in. Certainly Zorn would slip up again. He could hear the voice of the interrogator who would inject the chemicals into his veins; he could smell the odor of disinfectant in the interview chambers where he had stood many times before. Only this time Zorn would be the one strapped to the chair.

At 4:58 p.m. the intercom buzzed. Zorn and Jaquobs both looked at it, but neither one moved. It buzzed a second time, and a third. Finally, Jaquobs reached over and pressed a button, his eyes locked on Zorn's, unwavering.

"Yes?" said Jaquobs into the box.

"Zorn?" asked Martin's gruff voice.

"No, Jaquobs."

"Give me Zorn."

Zorn could not move. He knew that decisions were being made for him, that the next words spoken could end his career, even his life, but he could not respond.

"He's out right now," said Jaquobs.

"Figures," Martin grumbled. "What's happening with the True Way Books raid?"

Jaquobs continued to hold his gaze. Zorn, however, had abandoned free will. He could not take action.

"Zorn decided that the Norris woman should be apprehended," Jaquobs said. "He found some connections that we'd missed in our earlier analyses. She's definitely tied in to the ALF, possibly directly to some of the higher- placed operatives — Norge, Toano."

Zorn moved at last. He put his head down on the desk. There was still time to save the woman, but only if he had the courage. He knew he did not.

"Tell him it's about time," growled Martin. "Has he sent a unit out yet?"

"No, sir," answered Jaquobs.

"I'll take care of it." Click, and Martin was gone.

The two men sat quietly. Zorn, his forehead pressed against the table, slowly shook his head back and forth. He did not look up when he heard Jaquobs stand. One bullet, right there, back of my skull. Go ahead. Why bother with formalities?

"I'll leave all these notes in case you want to look them over again." Jaquobs folded his chair and leaned it against the wall. "You did a good job, Zorn," he said and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

For three entire days, Ron didn't write a single word. From the time Irene left for work late Thursday after lunch until this Sunday morning while she was out running errands, he had not done so much as turn on his computer. How could he, knowing that Zorn was real, knowing that every word was tampering with someone else's life?

But how can he be real? That was the question that wracked his brain.

Since Ron's meeting with Tun Tzu, Irene had spent practically every minute of her free time at Ron's apartment trying to soothe his raw nerves and encouraging him to write, but to no avail.

Ron did everything except write. He washed several days' worth of dishes. He scoured the oven. He cleaned the inside of the refrigerator and threw out food that was past its prime. He wiped out the microwave and mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors. He vacuumed, dusted, washed the windows. He alphabetized his bookshelves. He also did his laundry, washed his car, and had the oil changed. He ironed clothes, returned a shirt bought eight months ago that was too small, shopped for groceries, and called the dentist to make an appointment.

Aside from not having written a word, they were perhaps the most productive three days of Ron's life.

Whenever Ron was in the study, or when he walked past the door, he eyed the computer warily. He dared not touch the instrument of his discontent.

He hadn't slept well Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night. His dread of dreaming again had kept him from sleeping deeply. By the time Irene left that morning, Ron had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. For three days he'd eaten only that which Irene had forced him to, so as to keep up his strength, and even then his queasy stomach hadn't always been able to hold the food down.

At some point, Ron realized that he wasn't just being timid; he was being pitiful. And that made him angry. Enough is enough, he decided, and as the clock ticked closer to high noon that Sunday morning, he approached the computer. There it sat on the desk under the Escher print, staring blankly, innocently, at Ron. But he knew better. "This is your fault," he growled as he moved closer to the pernicious machine. Ron sat watching the computer intently for any signs of life or independent volition. Something about the chair didn't feel quite right, or maybe he was just uncomfortable being in front of that monitor again, knowing what he did now.

The computer hummed and beeped to life as Ron turned on the power and inserted his disk. There. This isn't so bad. But activating the computer, on the one hand, and actually writing again, on the other, were two very different beasts. How can I keep writing when it's somebody's life I'm messing with? But it's just a book, and I have to finish writing it if I'm ever going to sell it. That made him wonder whether or not Nate was having any luck with the contract negotiations, but one problem at a time.

I'm going to write. I am going to write. Ron smoothed back his hair as he accessed the most recent chapter of Tower of Babel. During his last writing session four days ago, he'd still been working on Zorn tracing the ALF information network, following other leads after the accidental death of the contact, and preparing for the upcoming bookstore raid. From there, Zorn would—

Ron gawked at the computer screen. He double- checked to make sure that he had opened the correct file. It was the latest chapter, but the words on the screen were not familiar:

The two men sat quietly. Zorn, his forehead pressed against the table, slowly shook his head back and forth. He did not look up when he heard Jaquobs stand. One bullet, right there, back of my skull. Go ahead. Why bother with formalities?

"I'll leave these notes in case you want to look them over again." Jaquobs folded his chair and leaned it against the wall. "You did a good job, Zorn," he said and then left the room, closing the door behind him,

"What the hell?"

This was not what Ron had written. He scanned the preceding paragraphs. Entire pages were new. But I didn't write this! What was going on? Had Irene tampered with his manuscript? She wouldn't do that, especially knowing the problems he'd been having. Ron read the mysterious additions. He was quite surprised to discover that the bookstore raid had already taken place, and that it was a total failure!

What's going on?

Zorn was having a breakdown, apparently. He'd spouted off blatant heresy at Jaquobs and allowed an innocent woman to be arrested.

Whatever's going on, Ron decided, I'm not putting up with it. He selected a large block of the new material and hit delete.

Nothing happened.

He stared at the screen for a few moments waiting for something, anything, to happen. No change. What the hell? He hit the delete button again, held it down. It made no difference.

Damnation!

Ron selected different portions of text to delete. The parts that he had actually written were easy to erase. The phantom additions, however, remained impervious to change. They resisted every attempt to edit or delete them. Zorn was writing his own story, or at least living his own life, recorded here on the computer, and Ron was powerless to change it. He slapped the side of the monitor.

Piece of...!

He restarted the computer.

Son-of-a...!

As his fury mounted, Ron tried everything he knew to remove the offensive material, all without results. He could not get rid of the intrusive pages. Finally, Ron raised the keyboard over his head. It remained suspended there in his hands for a moment before he realized what he was doing. Very gently, he placed the keyboard back on the desk, then rested his head on the desk beside it and sighed. He took a minute to collect his thoughts.

This is not a computer glitch. I can delete my own material but not this new stuff. It's connected to all the other... weirdness. Things are going on in my story that I'm not writing! Zorn is not going to get away with this.

When Ron raised his head from the desk, he'd chosen his course of action. There was a determined gleam in his eyes now that guilt had been suppressed, for the time

being, by his outrage at this latest affront.

He thinks somebody's after him? He wants to find the ALF so bad that he can't wait for me to write the story? Well, he's got it! I'll show him who's running this story.

Ron's fingers flew across the keys with newfound vigor.

Evander's had been growing increasingly crowded all evening. Zorn had left the office shortly after Jaquobs and had come here with the large stack of notes from the raid. Maybe a few beers will help me concentrate. He didn't really think so, but he liked to pretend that they might. What was one more rationalization among the rest in his life?

The customers at Evander's were relatively well-to- do. Most probably had credit ratings higher than Zorn's, and he was paid well for an Inquisitor. They were largely professionals with jobs downtown who stopped in for a late dinner or who came back downtown at night for a few drinks. Many people eyed Zorn's booth enviously. He had arrived early and his work was now spread out, occupying at least four seats. His waitress, a young woman with sharp features and dark hair, seemed irritated that he was costing her customers. She brought him a fresh beer each time he was done with the last one but ignored him otherwise. She spent as little time and energy on him as she could.

As the evening wore on and more people entered, a haze of cigarette smoke began to form. It hung in the air and constantly reminded Zorn of Martin's office. There were too many thoughts and emotions careening wildly about inside him, making it difficult to concentrate as he ploughed through all the lists and testimonies from the raid of the night before, searching for the one essential fact that would make everything fall into place the fact that would prove Dana Norris' guilt to him,

the fact that would ; vindicate the violation of her life, the fact that would redeem what the Theocracy had demanded, what he had done, or what he had allowed to happen.

Zorn had been searching for something similar in his spiritual explorations. He had thought that in finding the Creator through his own efforts, rather than through those filtered by the Theocracy, the institution and his life serving it would be either legitimized or discarded. But neither had been the case. Not only did he still harbor critical doubts about the role the Theocracy played in his and everyone else's lives, his doubts were even more pronounced now that he had actively taken hold of unOrthodoxy. In addition, he had developed serious concerns about the Creator who had been so unreceptive and disinterested in Zorn. Why serve such a Creator who does not care in the least for those whom he has created? Perhaps this is blasphemy, but what difference is blasphemy added to other blasphemy? Before, he could have fled Anglia, fled the Theocracy and lived the rest of his days in exile. Maybe that's what Brady Trimmerhorn had done. Maybe he hadn't been abducted or killed by the ALF. Maybe he had been overcome by hypocrisy and escaped. Zorn could only wish as much for the Inquisitor. Now, however, Zorn could not even run. Where could he flee from the Creator? There were questions to be faced, not evaded, and the answers could lead Zorn to condemn Dana Norris, or they might force him to share penance. Zorn resented his doubts. He wanted to be pure of thought and deed once more. He blamed the Theocracy for not being enough, for allowing him to slip into doubt, yet he blamed himself for betraying the sacred trust of the Theocracy, for being woefully unworthy of the responsibilities and the trust placed in him.

These thoughts, among many others, raced through Zorn's mind as he searched for the essential fact among the reams of paper in his booth. The alcohol dimmed the problems that plagued him, but only superficially. It also made concentrating on facts and arranging them nearly impossible. Jaquobs had been unable to find any substantive connection between Norris, the bookstore, and the ALF. Together they had fared no better. Alone, Zorn could find no connection. Yet Norris was in custody, probably undergoing additional questioning which conceivably could prove fatal, while Zorn, the worst type of heretic, to his mind, sat drinking beer.

Divine justice or divine irony ?

Why should I have taken the word of the Theocracy for so long, especially when it began to contradict reality and that which I felt to be true? The thought stuck. Something nagged at Zorn, but through the haze of alcohol he couldn't tell what. The thought began to replay, as if recorded word for word. Why should I have taken the word

... taken the ivord...

... take the word...

The fog began to roll back as if sucked away by a vacuum. There was something there.

The informant.

When the Theocracy's version of reality began to contradict what I saw around me and that which I felt to be true, I questioned. I knew about the source that I already had and its limitations, so I searched for another source, another avenue of input. What I have learned about Dana Norris contradicts our previous information, information from an anonymous informant. Anonymous. I don't know this source's limitations. I don't know the first thing about him. He could be Kroaker speaking from beyond the grave. He could be the Creator yanking my chain. Anonymous can be good or bad, it can save your ass or kick it. Better to know.

The crowded interior of Evander's was once again part of Zorn's conscious thought. He flung his head about, looking around the room — bodies packed tightly in a small area, smoke, shadows. He knew there was a payphone near the door somewhere... there! Zorn lurched to his feet. His drinking had affected his balance as well as his thought processes. The room tilted violently, but Zorn was able to catch himself on a smartly dressed man standing nearby talking to two young women. Much of the man's drink spilled, and after curses and apologies were muttered, Zorn headed toward the phone. He tried to weave his way carefully through the crowd, and in fact the swell of bodies was such that it helped keep him upright. The only way he could move was by sliding sideways with short, shuffling steps. There were numerous bumps and tight squeezes before he reached the telephone, but no other major collisions.

Zorn slid his credit/debit card into the slot on the phone and, with intense concentration, dialed Jaquobs' office number from memory. Four rings, then the answering service. He hung up. Next he pulled out his pocket notebook. Zorn knew he had Jaquobs' home number somewhere, although he couldn't recall having used it before, or maybe he could? He wasn't sure at this point. There. He found it. Who the hell scribbled this mess? Zorn held the page up to his face, almost touching his nose. The last digit was either a seven or a four. It was hard to tell. One way to find out. Zorn dialed, trying first the seven.

Jaquobs will know. Zorn hadn't done much work with the original files of the suspected ALF ops. Jarvis, and then Jaquobs, had handled much of the legwork. What Zorn had seen were largely compilations of previously gathered information with little information concerning sources, anonymous or otherwise. Sloppy methodology.

Two rings.

"Hello?" It was a woman's voice.

Zorn, expecting Jaquobs to answer even though he knew it might be a wrong number, was caught off guard for a moment, "jaquobs," he mumbled. "Is Jaquobs there? Marlin?"

If the woman thought Zorn's faintly slurred speech odd, she cloaked her reaction with politeness. "Just one moment."

Zorn waited. He could imagine Jaquobs' wife walking into another room where Jaquobs might be sitting smoking a pipe, scratching his rat-like nose, his children (were there two or three?) gathered at his feet, all blinking in unison at the vid unit.

"Jaquobs," said the voice from the other end of the line.

"Jaquobs, you saw the files." The words wanted to come out at once.

"What? Zorn, is that you? I can barely hear you. Where are you? What are you talking about?"

Zorn tried to ignore Jaquobs' questions, but, with the background noise in the bar, he too could barely hear. He covered his left ear with his hand and pressed the receiver more tightly to his right ear. "You saw the files," he said loudly.

"The report files?" Jaquobs spoke loudly as well. In his quiet home he probably sounded as if he were shouting. "Yes, of course. We worked on them all day at..."

Zorn cut him off. "No, not the report." Of course Jaquobs had seen the report. He'd written the damn report. "The original files, before compilation."

It took a moment to register with Jaquobs, or perhaps he was still having trouble hearing Zorn. "Yes, yes I did," Jaquobs said.

Good. Now we're getting somewhere. "The informant," said Zorn. In his mind the meaning was clear.

"I can't hear you," responded Jaquobs. Was it getting louder in the bar, or was there something wrong with the phone? "Which information?"

"No! The informant!" Zorn was almost yelling now. He forced himself to slow down, to enunciate each word. "Who bagged the informant?"

There was silence on the other end of the line. Had Jaquobs misheard Zorn again? "I did," Jaquobs finally answered. "It was my contact."

That would simplify matters tremendously. Zorn would not be forced to track down another Inquisitor, possibly one with whom he had never worked, and then convince him or her to reveal the identity of an informant. Instead, Zorn could just ask Jaquobs. "Who is the informant on Dana Norris?"

There was another pause. "I can't tell you."

Zorn felt the room tilt once again, but he held on to the phone. His stomach began to churn. Maybe he had heard him incorrectly with all the noise. "You what?" He has to tell me! It's the only possible lead. It may already be too late for Norris.

"I can't tell you, Zorn," Jaquobs repeated what Zorn had hoped he hadn't heard before. "I can't compromise my informant."

Damnation! "What do you mean you can't compromise your informant? You have to tell me!" Those near Zorn in the bar began to edge away as he grew more animated in his outbursts. "I'm your superior, dammit!"

"And if you would like to go through the proper complaint channels, I will probably be compelled, in a month or so, to release that name to an oversight committee which will then decide what to tell you, by which time it'll be too late for Dana Norris anyway." Jaquobs spoke with precise words in measured tones. He was calm, which infuriated Zorn even more.

"Who's your informant, you rat-ass son-of-a-bitch!"

"We can talk about this tomorrow," said Jaquobs. "Have you been drinking?"

Zorn ignored the last question. "You're damn right we'll talk about this tomorrow!" He slammed the receiver down on the hook forcefully enough that the phone gave a half-hearted ring, and then he stomped back to his booth. If anything, the bar was more tightly packed with people than it had been earlier, but whereas before Zorn had squeezed through the crowd, now the patrons of Evander's moved out of his way. They stared at him but avoided making eye-contact.

Zorn sat and pounded his fist on the table, rattling the half-empty beer mug he had left behind. He quickly finished the drink and slammed the mug on the table. Such histrionic displays didn't solve his problems, he knew, but they were productive at least in the sense of venting some of his anger and frustration so he could concentrate on other things, like the report spread out before him. Perhaps there was some vague reference, now that he knew what he was looking for, concerning the identity of the informant. Zorn began to turn through the pages once again.

Before he was a fourth of the way through the report, a waitress, different from before, approached his table. Zorn looked up from his work. "You're not my waitress."

This woman was older than the earlier waitress. She was vaguely familiar somehow. "Tracie had to leave. I'm Lorraine. I'll be finishing up for you." Lorraine was probably forty. Her face had hardened, sharp features, small brown eyes, small nose, tight lines around her mouth, and she had straight, shoulder-length brunette hair, pulled back for work in the restaurant. Zorn realized that she was the same waitress he and Rollins had had when they came in for lunch. "Can I get you some coffee? You look like you could use some waking up. Helps with your studies." She nodded toward the table covered in paper.

There was plenty more work to be done yet, and Zorn knew he needed to clear his head if he hoped to accomplish anything productive. "Coffee sounds good.

Thanks." He turned back to the report. He flipped quickly through the inventory lists but looked more closely at the testimonies. Then he looked through the pre-raid files. There were only the briefest mentionings of the informant in the compiled file and none at all in the report on the raid itself. He definitely needed to look at the initial files before compilation of the information diluted the facts, but those files would be locked in Jaquobs' office. That can be taken care of easily. Zorn settled the check with Lorraine, gathered up the huge mass of papers that had spread across the table and benches, and then abandoned the booth. He forced his way through the crowd of patrons and staggered into the cool night.

It was not pleasant being sucked into someone's mind, even if that someone was the Creator.

When Tun Tzu regained his senses, he felt as if he'd been boiled in a large pot to the point that his flesh and skin were ready to slide off his bones. Fortunately, they did not. That pliant, queasy sensation was the first thing he noticed. Next were the smells... smells of home. The forest smells that he'd missed without quite realizing it crowded in, competing for his notice — the richness of moist soil, the clean crispness of bamboo and luira trees, the pungent brackish water. Even in the park in San Francisco, where trees and grass held sway, there were always the smells and sounds of the city hovering on the outskirts of consciousness. There was a freshness and a purity to the smells Tun Tzu experienced now. Even the odor of the stagnant water brought forth memories.

Taste (the moist air) and sound (gulls calling to one another in the distance) returned, or had Tun Tzu already possessed them and only now noticed?

Finaily, sight returned as well and confirmed Tun Tzu's initial sensation that he did, in fact, retain his physical form. The body was not required in the landscape of the mind, but it had been Tun Tzu's experience that mental constructions were best housed in forms that could be identified by humans. He could certainly feel the wobbliness in his legs as he stood and surveyed his environs.

Fun Tzu was in the center of a grove quite similar to the one in which he'd lived for so many years with the other sages. The flora and features his nose had identified were evident. Amid the comforting familiarity, however, Tun Tzu understood that this was a mental configuration similar to the home he'd known; it was not home itself. He suspected still, as he had related to Ron Church, the Creator, that he was forever banished, metaphysically, from the land of his forefathers.

This grove was bordered by a steep rocky hill to the... what direction was it? Tun Tzu wondered if there were directions in this landscape of the mind — north, south, east, west — or if such distinctions were purely relative to whether Ron Church were standing or lying down? Atop the hill, Tun Tzu could see a structure, a low bamboo tower. It would not be a difficult climb, and even had the tower been across an endless sea and chasms of fiery destruction, Tun Tzu knew that it was a journey that must be taken.

From Tun Tzu's earliest days as a student of the Way, he'd learned to be sensitive to the various permutations of the tzU'jan, a task both simple and difficult. Simple because traces of the tzu-jan run through everything. All things are one within the Nameless. The Nameless is within all things. There is nothing that does not reflect the creative essence of the Nameless. Maintaining awareness of the tzu-jan was, at the same time, difficult. Just as the presence of air is not often in the forefront of a breathing person's thoughts, so absolute does it seem

to be, one can become dulled to the presence of tzU'jan.

Tun Tzu's life had been devoted to recognizing the subtle differences in the emanations of the tzu-jan around him. He had spent years observing the mental aspects of inanimate objects and living beings, bathing in the ever present glow of the tzu'jan.

The first time Tun Tzu had seen the Zorn, or the Zorn's mind, rather, the sage had been amazed by the brilliant radiance, the extent to which the Zorn partook of the tzu-jan. All else on the astral landscape was pale and listless by comparison. This made the Zorn a Pure One far above anyone or anything Tun Tzu had ever come into contact with before. The same was true of Ron Church, but even more so. It was what had drawn Tun Tzu to him in a city of strangers.

Now Tun Tzu sensed equally powerful emanations from the tower atop the hill. Of course, one would expect to find the Creator's mind permeated by tzu-jan, but the sensations that Tun Tzu perceived from above were even more potent than those he felt around himself in the grove. He began up the hill with patience and determination. The climb was nothing less than a

continuation of his ascent toward the Nameless.

The coffee, the brisk night air, and the walk of several blocks to the DO complex all helped to sober Zorn a bit. He greeted the night duty officer in the lobby and got onto the elevator which ground and sputtered its way to the eighteenth floor. As Zorn ascended, his anger abated. He wondered why Jaquobs would refuse to reveal the identity of an informant. It was his right, of course, and Zorn had recourse to the normal channels of obtaining the information, but generally that confidentiality right was overshadowed by the importance of maintaining a comfortable working relationship with one's superior. It has to be some type of political maneuvering within the department. The informant is a fake and Jaquobs, like Martin probably, is part of the "vocal few." The entire True Way Books raid was a set up from the start, designed to discredit me. But Jaquobs didn't sound very shaken that I was onto him, if that is the case. There's a big difference between sounding shaken and being shaken, though.

Zorn hunted through the mostly deserted halls for a few minutes before finding Burell, the old hand on the maintenance crew who always seemed to be in the building. He had been around much longer than Zorn, and they had shared many a late-night pot of coffee. Zorn explained that he had left some files in a colleague's office on the seventeenth floor. Could Burell let him in? Old gray Burell shuffled downstairs with Zorn and then fumbled with his overburdened key ring for a minute. He opened Jaquobs' office and flicked on the light. "Just pull the door shut when you're done," he told Zorn, and then went back to work.

Except Burell and the cleaning crew, there were few staff members on these floors at this time of night. The Inquisitors with less seniority a few floors down were more likely to draw night duty than someone of Jaquobs' or Zorn's rank, although it was certainly not unheard of for any Inquisitor to work through the night.

The early files were in a box on the floor next to Jaquobs' desk. Zorn set the original Dana Norris file on the desk before him in addition to files that contained information on the other suspected ALF operatives and activities at the bookstore. He examined the Norris file first. There was no new information about her, but, as he had expected, all the damaging facts had come from the anonymous informant, codename: Alfonse. And who had entered the information? Jaquobs.

One after another, Zorn checked the thirty-one suspected op files. Four others showed Alfonse as a source of information, and only one file appeared faintly suspicious. Alfonse connected these four and Norris to the bookstore in one way or another. Four were apparently frequent customers, and the other one a loiterer. What connection did Alfonse have to the bookstore? Was he an employee? A competitor? Only one employee, along with the manager and the owner, had been questioned. Zorn could bring in all the others if Jaquobs remained uncooperative. There was something developing, but five suspects weren't enough to set up a raid that was destined to fail.

He double-checked the "suspected op" files for any other references to Alfonse. There were none. There was no mention of him in the bookstore file either.

The intensity of Zorn's concentration joined with the receding effects of the alcohol to produce a fierce pounding in his head. He rubbed his temples as he searched the files. Where do I go now? There is an Alfonse connection, but it's not big enough. Maybe the bookstore connection.

Zorn reached for the list of suspects whom the stakeout team had been watching. Any one of them entering the bookstore would have triggered the raid. This would narrow the field from thirty-two. Including the five Alfonse-related suspects, there were twelve on the stakeout list, all connected to the bookstore one way or another.

"Working late?"

Zorn jumped in his seat, startled to see Ed Rollins leaning in the doorway watching him. Ed smiled warmly. Zom took a deep breath. His heart rate began to slow once again to a normal rhythm. "A bit," he answered. "How about you?"

Rollins nodded and yawned. "Just picking up some notes for the McGuinn case. I didn't mean to scare you. You looked so hard at work, I hated to disturb you." Rollins scanned the office. "Where's Jaquobs?"

So much for secrecy, but Zorn was more concerned with figuring out what was going on than keeping Jaquobs from finding out that he'd looked through the files. He could have gotten the files without much trouble tomorrow morning, but there was an apocalyptic sense of urgency beginning to consume him, the feeling that, if he didn't take control of matters now, they would take control of him, that he would be powerless against the tide of events.

"Home for the evening," Zorn answered. "He's had a tough couple days."

Rollins looked down at his feet. "I imagine you have too." He looked up at Zorn again. "Only one arrest from your raid? I thought it was supposed to be a death blow, according to vid news and the paper."

Zorn didn't want to get onto the subject of news coverage. "It had that potential, or so I thought." Zorn smiled, maybe for the first time this long day. "There's a huge difference, I'm reminded, between potential and actuality, and the actuality here is that the arrest is wrong." Zorn could hardly believe what he had said. He had barely thought the words before they were out of his mouth.

Rollins, his eyebrows arched, was surprised as well. "You mean the wrong person was arrested?"

"No." Zorn couldn't stop himself. Against his better judgment, he continued. "They arrested who they wanted to arrest, but I don't think she has anything to do with it." I couldn't pin anything to her except the word of someone called Alfonse. I wanted her to be guilty, but I can't make myself believe that she is.

"But didn't you order the arrest?" Rollins was growing more confused by Zorn's abrupt, explanation-free responses.

Zorn couldn't help but remember himself face down on his desk several hours ago, paralyzed by indecision, allowing Jaquobs to make the call that he hadn't had the courage to stop. "Yes, I did." I might as well have signed her death warrant.

Rollins let: all of this sink in for a moment. He nodded gravely and said in a sisfter voice, "Sometimes random people get in the way, hut we're here to uphold the Theocracy."

Zorn had heard all this before. He had said as much himself. The same thoughts had run through his mind for years. He had come to realize that they were merely justification, rationalization, but this time he couldn't let it go. After the past few weeks, after this day in particular, because in part of what Dana Norris was undoubtedly going through right now, he could no longer play the game. "Why should we uphold the Theocracy if it doesn't uphold the people, if it plows them under?"

Zorn could see Rollins' body tense, even though he still leaned against the door frame with a fairly relaxed manner. Rollins took Zorn in with a long, steady gaze. "What else is there?" he asked quietly, looking bemused, afraid to hear the answer.

Zorn met Rollins' gaze, held it. "What would you say, Ed, if I told you I had spoken to the Creator?"

Rollins still smiled, waiting for the punchline, but quickly came to the conclusion that Zorn wasn't joking, The bemused portion of Rollins' expression faded away. "Everybody sees the Intermediaries, Max, to..."

"Not through an Intermediary, Ed," Zorn cut him off. "I, Max Zorn, have personally spoken with the Creator. I can contact him again." Or at least I hope I can. Zorn couldn't believe the overwhelming sense of relief that swept over him as he voiced these thoughts to another human being.

Rollins finally changed his stance. He looked up and down the corridor, closed the office door, and sat in the smaller chair at Jaquobs' desk. He held his hands in front of him as if he were trying to hold something back. "That's enough of that kind of talk, Max. You need help.

You need a vacation, and counseling. This talk will get you nowhere except in deep trouble."

Zorn chuckled. "It's too late for that. There's no turning back." He couldn't believe what he'd done. He couldn't believe that he'd said these things to Rollins. Had he signed his own death warrant as well as Norris'? In a way he didn't care. It felt liberating to get this out.

"It's never too late, Max. You're alive, there's hope. You can salvage your career. You can salvage yourself, for the Creator's sake. It's not too late."

Salvage, maybe. But redemption would be better. I probably can't help Norris, but I can find out how it happened and make sure it doesn't go that way again. Rollins was right about one thing. Spouting off heresy would get Zorn nowhere except locked up or dead. If he wanted to set things right, in his mind at least, he needed to finish examining the files. What was the best way to do that? "Maybe I do need some time off," Zorn agreed.

Rollins seemed to relax somewhat at Zorn's admission. "You do, Max. You didn't have any real downtime after the bombing. Getting over that sort of thing takes a while. I know you were close to Jarvis." Zorn just nodded and stared down at the desk as Rollins spoke. "And it came so close on the heels of that Kroaker business. No one's going to think any less of you if you need some time away, just to get your head together."

"Maybe you're right," Zorn said to appease his colleague.

"Of course I'm right," said Rollins. "Listen, let me take you home. You take tomorrow off. Sleep in, relax, then come in the day after and we can talk and figure out where to go from there."

Zorn mulled over the suggestion for a minute, then nodded acceptance. "You're right, Ed. That sounds good." He looked up at Rollins. "But I can get home okay. I need to finish up what I'm working on."

"What's so important? You need to get away from all this."

"I know. I know. You're right," said Zorn. "I just want to finish a few notes to leave for Jaquobs, save him some time tomorrow."

Rollins hesitated. Zorn wasn't sure how convincing he'd been. "How are you going to get home?" Rollins asked. "You smell like you've been drinking."

"I was earlier," Zorn admitted, "but I'm fine to drive now. I need help, but I'm not suicidal." Zorn smiled reassuringly.

Rollins seemed slightly relieved by Zorn's more relaxed manner. "Are you sure? I don't mind dropping you off."

"Positive. I'm fine."

Rollins sat still for a few moments watching Zorn, trying to decide if the latter's self-assessment was correct. Finally Rollins stood and inched toward the door. "Day off tomorrow?"

"And we'll talk on Thursday," Zorn added.

Rollins, his face tight with concern, smiled and edged out the door, closing it lightly behind him.

Zorn's head was pounding more intensely than it had been before. He let go a huge sigh of relief. He'd told Rollins that he was not suicidal, but the more he thought about this, the more he realized that this was not true. He was suicidal. Twice today he had directed heresies at fellow Inquisitors. Jaquobs was ignoring it for the moment, and Rollins wanted to help him. Zorn had invited destruction by divine means upon himself and, failing that, he had set out to destroy himself in a more mundane manner. For two Inquisitors to ignore blatant heresy — on the same day, no less — was more than anyone could dream or hope for. There would be consequences for his actions, of course, but it appeared they would be far less severe than he had any right to expect. Is my life charmed after all? Am I invincible? I used to feel that way.

Zorn forced himself to return his attention to the files. He had the twelve names on the stakeout list, all with connections to True Way Books, five ratted on by Alfonse. Of the other seven, information on four had been provided by an informant called Desmond, three by an informant called Maria — both codenames. Almost all the incriminating information about all twelve was provided by anonymous informants! Zorn feverishly checked the entries. Yes, it all fits. All the entries with informant data were processed by Jaquobs. He bagged all three informants: Alfonse, Desmond, and Maria. What are the chances of that happening, on one case especially? Impossible. Jaquobs faked the damn entries! The informants probably aren't real at all, or if they are, they're saying exactly what Jaquobs wants to hear. There's no way Jaquobs can be a dupe in this. He's behind it all, I'm sure, but who's he working with? Martin, more than likely, but I have a feeling it goes higher up than that. Otherwise, Martin never would have hinted around. If it were his ass on the line, he would've kept his mouth shut.

Zorn's plan formed of its own accord. He would confront Jaquobs about the informants. That could serve to keep the rat-like Inquisitor quiet about the heresy, should he have decided to no longer ignore Zorn's indiscretion. They would each have something over the other's head. At worst, Zorn would take down Jaquobs with him.

That still left Rollins to deal with, but Zorn felt that he could smooth that over easily enough. He might let himself be persuaded to enter counseling. He didn't think Rollins would turn him in, especially not if he were cooperative. In the meantime, he would take tomorrow off to rest and recuperate. His nerves needed soothing.

It had been early when Zorn had started drinking, but it was past midnight now. He stuffed the files back into the box, then scrawled a note on a blank sheet of paper, which he left in plain view on top of the desk: "Jaquobs, meet me at Evander's at 9:30 p.m. — Zorn." He used the intercom unit as a paperweight, and then took the box of files, his proof, with him.

The climb had been more difficult than it initially had appeared to be. Nevertheless, Tun Tzu had methodically worked his way up the rocky face, approaching the hill not as an enemy to be attacked and overcome, but as a medium of transport, a path to be joined with and to follow. As he reached the crest, he rested on a boulder and savored the exertion that had brought him this far.

The tower loomed above him, maybe thirty feet tall. The interlocking bamboo poles formed an airy frame that allowed the wispy breeze to pass through, redirected but not impaired. Tun Tzu could see the underside of the floor of a partially enclosed room at the top of the tower. He left his rocky perch and began climbing the bamboo ladder which leaned against the side of the structure. After just a few minutes, Tun Tzu stepped into the room he'd seen from the ground.

"I've been waiting for you," said the man seated at a table in the center of the room. On the table was a tray of intricately woven slender bamboo shoots with a tea pot and cups. Next to the table was an empty chair identical to the one in which the man sat. The chairs, the table, all were constructed of lashed bamboo.

Tun Tzu bowed respectfully. The emanations of the tzu-jan which he'd sensed were channeled through this room, through this man. The young man — much younger than Tun Tzu — had light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and a kind, angular face. He gestured toward the unoccupied chair. "Please."

Tun Tzu sat.

"Would you care for some tea?"

The old sage nodded and the young man began to pour from the black porcelain pot into one and then another small round cup.

Tun Tzu was not often overcome with awe, but he had to force himself to speak. "I am Tun Tzu."

"I know." The young man smiled and handed one cup to Tun Tzu. "I'm John."

John wasn't sitting at a bamboo table in a bamboo tower on a hill near a bamboo grove. He sat at a desk in front of a computer. His portrait of Stonewall Jackson stared down at him. John watched the monitor before him:

I am Tun Tzu. I KNOW. I'M JOHN.

The next words popped up on the screen. You have been waiting for me?

John typed his reply. YES. I'VE BEEN WATCHING YOU SINCE YOU APPEARED IN SAN FRANCISCO, IN RON'S WORLD.

The tzu-jan that flows through the Zorn, and that flows more strongly through Ron Church is even more powerful in you. A statement, not a question. You are Ron Church's Creator, the Creator of the Creator of my world.

YEAH. GETS CONFUSING, DOESN'T IT? Within his mind's eye, John could see Tun Tzu sipping his tea.

This tower, this room, the grove — this is all for my benefit?

YES. I WANTED YOU TO BE COMFORTABLE, TO HAVE A FAMILIAR PERSPECTIVE.

Your perspective is different? QUITE DIFFERENT.

I see. A pause. The computer screen remained unchanged, then more words appeared. I have spent most of my life in a contemplative manner. Recently, however, I have felt an urgent need to take specific action. I have been through a great deal these past weeks attempting this action.

Can you help me free the Zorn?

I PROBABLY COULD, ALTHOUGH ZORN IS A CREATION OF RON'S AND NOT MINE DIRECTLY. BUT THERE'S A TIME FOR ALL THINGS, TUN TZU.

And the Zorn's time is not yet?

THE ZORN'S TIME IS NOT YET.

But so many of my companions have suffered. My six friends from my world may all be dead, and a mere boy in San Francisco who I ivas training to help me did not survive his Awakening. I had chosen another man...

... NAMED ALLEN TO TAKE HIS PLACE, BUT YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T WANT TO RISK ANOTHER INNOCENT LIFE.

Yes.'

I KNOW. I WAS PLANNING TO HAVE ALLEN AS A SIDEKICK FOR YOU, BUT MY EDITOR DIDN'T LIKE THE CHARACTER. ALLEN DIDN'T MAKE IT OUT OF THE FIRST DRAFT; HE DIDN'T SURVIVE THE REVISION PROCESS.

I do not fully understand.

YOU READ RON'S BOOK, RIGHT?

Yes.

WELL, ZORN, OR THE ZORN, AS YOU CALL HIM, IS PART OF RON'S BOOK. I'M WRITING MY OWN BOOK, AND RON'S PART OF IT.

As I am?

AS YOU HAVE BEEN SINCE YOU POPPED INTO SAN FRAN.

Then why am I here within Ron Church's mind?

IT'S FUNNY YOU SHOULD ASK. THE WHOLE THING KIND OF CAUGHT ME OFF GUARD TOO. YOUR APPEARANCE IN SAN FRANCISCO IN THE FIRST PLACE WAS A RANDOM ELEMENT I'VE HAD TO DEAL WITH, AND NOW SO IS YOUR BEING HERE. I TRIED TO EDIT YOU OUT AT ONE

POINT, BUT YOUR STORY LINE KEPT WORKING ITS WAY BACK IN, SO I HAD TO SETTLE FOR REVISING YOUR RELATIONSHIP TO RON'S STORY.

You were unable to remove me?

UNABLE TO REMOVE YOU COMPLETELY, YES. THAT'S WHERE I GOT THE IDEA FOR RON HAVING TROUBLE EDITING ZORN, BUT YOU DON'T KNOW ABOUT THAT. YOU'VE ONLY READ RON'S BOOK, NOT MINE. NOW THAT YOU'RE HERE, THOUGH, I WANT TO KEEP YOU AROUND FOR A WHILE. RON'S STORY NEEDS TO PLAY ITSELF OUT A BIT WITHOUT INTERFERENCE. YOU DON'T MIND, DO YOU?

Do my wishes carry any weight here?

John drained the last of the tea from his cup. "I don't want you to feel like a prisoner, if that's what you mean." He returned the cup to the tray. "I would rather you think of this as a relaxing vacation from fiction. But no, I can't let you go back just yet. Be patient. You should find everything you need in the grove, and I'll be here when you want to talk."

Tun Tzu pushed his chair back from the table. He bowed again to John, then turned toward the ladder. "I have much to contemplate," he said as he began climbing down.

In front of his computer, John leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. That was all pretty odd, he thought, but I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Mess around with fictional characters long enough and they'll catch up with you.

Zorn stood atop the completed stone tower. So high had it climbed, that the mountain was barely visible far below. In his mental image, Zorn now wore the bright red robes of the Hierophant, the archaic precursor to the Theocracy's Intermediaries, of whom Zorn had learned from his indoctrination history years before. It was an intriguing subconscious choice of raiment. The Hierophant had long ago directed the people toward understanding of the divine, a task that, for himself at least, Zorn had now taken upon himself.

As always, the Creator was on hand.

SO, YOU'RE BACK.

Yes, I am.

EVERYTHING DIDN'T GO POOF WHEN I WOKE UP LAST TIME?

No, it didn't. Did you actually wake up1

SURE DID, ALTHOUGH I HAVEN'T SLEPT WELL SINCE THEN. I GUESS THIS HAD TO HAPPEN AGAIN. LOOKS LIKE YOUR WORLD DOESN'T END WHEN I WAKE UP. I GUESS YOU HAVE NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.

Ma^be not on that count. I told people about you.

THAT'S FUNNY. I TOLD PEOPLE ABOUT YOU, ONE PERSON ANYWAY. AND ANOTHER PERSON TOLD ME ABOUT YOU. SOUNDS LIKE WE'VE ALL BEEN BUSY.

Zorn was confused by the Creator's comments; he thought of those in the department who might have been informed of his crimes, the higher ups. The Creator had already rejected Zorn once. Had He also sabotaged Zorn's life by informing some Theocratic official of Zorn's illicit prayers? How high up did this go? Surely someone like Martin didn't converse with the Creator. Did it go all the way to the top, to the Theocrat? Do you approve of the Theocracy ?

I CREATED THE THEOCRACY.

Does it serve your purboses?

IT'S CONVENIENT.

Zorn quickly decided to abandon his circuitous questioning in favor of a more direct approach. In contacting you, I have committed serious crimes against the Theocracy. Have you revealed this to my superiors?

HAVE I RATTED ON YOU? NO. WHY WOULD

I?

The Theocracy is your vehicle. It exists to serve you, and I have gone against its teachings.

THE THEOCRACY EXISTS SO THAT YOU'LL HAVE A JOB, SO I'LL HAVE SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT.

So I am your chosen one?

SURE, MORE OR LESS. YOU COULD SAY THAT. YOU'RE MY HERO, ZORN. YOU'RE THE PROTAGONIST. THE STORY REVOLVES AROUND YOU.

What am I chosen to doI

THAT DEPENDS ON THE STORY. IN THE LAST ONE, YOU WERE CHOSEN TO DESTROY KROAKER.

To uphold the Theocracy? To protect the citizens of Anglia!

YOU'RE CHOSEN TO HAVE PROBLEMS AND TO BE DRAMATIC.

I wouldn't mind serving you non-dramatically, if that were your will.

BUT THAT WOULDN'T BE VERY INTERESTING. IT WOULDN'T BE ENTERTAINING.

So I am in your story to provide entertainment value? I am chosen to suffer?

THE WHOLE STORY IS FOR ENTERTAINMENT VALUE.

But what about me?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN ?

What about the hardships I endure? What about the doubt, the pain, the suffering that I go through, that I cause for others?

COMES WITH THE TERRITORY, BIG GUY.

YOU'RE THE LEADING MAN. YOUR JOB IS TO PERSEVERE THROUGH SUFFERING, TO OVERCOME OBSTACLES. THERE HAS TO BE CONFLICT OR ELSE — POOF! — NO STORY.

But it's not just me! Zorn insisted. There's a boy who was blown up, and a woman who's been imprisoned and tortured. Why? I've had enough of conflict. I don't want to be your leading man. Let someone else do it. Give me a normal life. I want to just live and be content.

EVERYBODY'S GOT PROBLEMS. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE IS DEGREE. YOURS ARE OF GREATER SCOPE. THAT'S WHAT MAKES YOU A HERO. YOU WOULDN'T WANT JUST BORING LITTLE PETTY PROBLEMS EVERY DAY WOULD YOU?

Yes, I want that very much.

WELL, IT'S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.

Let someone else be your protagonist.

I CAN'T, ZORN. THIS IS A SEQUEL, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. YOU'RE IT. GET USED TO IT. I'M TRYING TO BALANCE BETWEEN WRITING MY STORY AND RESPECTING YOUR RIGHTS AS A... PSEUDO-FICTIONAL CHARACTER. YOU JUST KEEP DOING YOUR JOB AND BLOWING PEOPLE UP, AND I'LL HANDLE THINGS ON MY END. I'M RUNNING THE SHOW HERE.

Why should J listen to you? You rejected me and sent me away the last time we talked.

LOOK. I'M SORRY ABOUT THAT. I'VE HAD A COUPLE ROUGH WEEKS. I KNOW YOU'RE REAL NOW, I THINK, AND WE'RE PROCEEDING FROM HERE.

Zorn was not completely reassured as he turned to walk down the tower steps. There was to be no rest yet.

Chapter Nine

Ron awoke from his dream to see a green light directly in front of his face. The light jerked away as Irene jumped back from him with a startled gasp. As Ron raised himself to his elbows, he saw the blinking green light on the small electronic device in Irene's hand.

Irene, for her part, had jumped out of bed and was hurriedly fumbling around in her purse on the floor. When she stood and faced him, Ron thought for a split second that she was pointing a .38 caliber revolver at him.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

She was pointing a .38 caliber revolver at him! "Irene! What are you doing?"

Her feet were shoulder-width apart; she held the gun with both hands, her arms extended. "I didn't want it to end this way."

"What are you talking about? What are you doing with a gun? Put that thing down."

Irene cocked the hammer. Ron flinched at the clicking sound. "You woke up too quickly, Ron. You saw the dream scanner. I can't take any chances." She was panicky, shaking.

Ron didn't know what to say. He was utterly confused. He stared ahead, dazed.

"Remember I told you about the Syndicate?" Irene asked.

Ron managed a nod.

"That's only the beginning. The Syndicate is part of a larger organization, the Technocracy. That's who I really work for, the New World Order."

Ron looked back and forth between Irene's desperate eyes and the barrel of the revolver. "Hold on a second, Irene." He tried to speak in a relaxing tone but failed miserably. "Calm down." Don't shoot me by accident, for Christ's sake!

"I've been monitoring your dreams," Irene blurted out. "There's a pocket realm beyond this reality, and my superiors want to know if you created it, if you control it."

This was stranger than waking up to Tun Tzu's message. Pocket realm, dream scanner, Technocracy?

"I think you did create it." Irene didn't sound quite so rattled now; she was breathing more regularly. "But I'm not convinced that you're in control anymore, although that doesn't matter as much now, because I have to kill you."

"I think you did create it." Irene didn't sound quite so rattled now; she was breathing more regularly. "But I'm not convinced that you're in control anymore, although that doesn't matter as much now, because I have to kill you."

I don't believe it. My God. What's going on? First I had to deal with Tun Tzu, and now Ron wakes up when he's not supposed to and finds out that Irene is an agent of the Technocracy. The scenario just kept scrolling across the screen, line after line, until I cut the power. At least I caught it before... I don't want to think about it. Who knows what ivould've happened if Ron had gotten shot? I might not have been able to change anything at all. What else could go wrong? Bad question. First things first. Ron can't find out about Irene, not yet. Not to worry.

Ron awoke from his dream to find Irene sitting next to him stroking his hair. "Were you dreaming again, dear? You were talking in your sleep."

Her fingertips moving across his scalp soothed him.

"Mm hmm." He felt as if he hadn't completely climbed out of his dream. He'd thought for a second that he'd seen a green light, but his eyes must've been playing tricks on him in the dark.

"Would you like to tell me about your dream?" Irene asked, her concern apparent.

"In the morning," Ron mumbled and began to roll over.

"You might not remember it in the morning, and you might sleep better if you tell me about it, get it all out."

That didn't necessarily sound like a bad idea to Ron, and if Irene cared enough to lose sleep over his dream....

He forced himself to stay awake until he'd told her about the latest dream conversation with Zorn, and then they curled up in each other's arms and went back to sleep.

Zorn arrived at Evander's at 8:45 p.m. He stepped inside, out of the heavy rain. He knew the bar wouldn't be crowded on a Wednesday night, especially relatively early in the evening, so he didn't need to be too early. He waited fifteen minutes for a booth away from the door and sat where he could see anyone who entered. The lighting in the bar was low already, but Zorn blew out the candle on his table and sat back in the shadows of the booth as much as he could. He was surprised to see Lorraine, his waitress from last night, come over to take his order. "You work all the time, don't you?" he asked her.

"Try to," she said with a wry smile. "Gotta pay the rent. Gotta eat."

"I know what you mean."

"Let me light that candle for you." She reached into her apron pocket for matches.

"It's fine as is, thanks."

"Okay." Lorraine took her pen from its perch behind her ear. "What can I get for you tonight?"

"Just coffee," said Zorn. "Black."

"Coming right up," and she was gone.

No beer tonight. Zorn never had cared for mixed drinks or hard liquor, except for an occasional bourbon, but he did have a weakness for beer. There was something about the smooth thickness and bitter edge of good beer that he found soothing, but this sometimes became problematic when he was forced to function under high levels of stress, like last night. He couldn't afford to make more senseless mistakes, so, for now at least, it was coffee. Discounting the possibility of divine intervention, which seemed relatively safe to do at this point, Zorn had only his good fortune to thank that he was not already locked away with the heretics he normally tracked down, or tucked away in a padded cell somewhere.

Lorraine brought his coffee and quickly moved on to see to her other tables. As Zorn warmed his hands on the mug, he couldn't help but wonder about his actions of the day before. The more he thought about it, the more irrational and desperate his indiscretions seemed. His comments to Jaquobs questioning the meaning of it all were borne out of frustration, certainly, and of the knowledge that he had little viable choice at that point, aside from terminating his own career, but to condemn Dana Norris. He had made similar decisions before, however. What was different about this time? Two related explanations came to mind.

First was his spiritual searching. Zorn knew from the day the small boy had been caught in the crossfire that he harbored questions, reservations, about the very Orthodoxy which ruled his life, but he had always been able to deny the questions. If he couldn't unmake them, he could ignore them, and that he did. Something about the bombing and Jarvis' death, however, had destroyed in him the capacity to ignore the questions any longer.

Here again, Zorn had suffered other losses, loved ones gone who would still be here if he were not an Inquisitor — his family, several partners. It was the blessing of a charmed life turned into a curse. When Zorn looked back at all the catastrophes he'd survived over the course of his career, it was absurd — the bombings, the shootings, the beatings, the stabbings, the slightly flawed assassination attempts. No one could have survived all of them. Yet he had.

How were the latest bombing and Jarvis' death different? He didn't know, but somehow they were. Perhaps it was just the accumulation of atrocities, a pressure building and building over the years until his faith was bound to come undone. And come undone it had, and Zorn's spiritual quest had been born.

While the search continued, he had still been able to repress the doubts, to keep them separate from his daily life. He felt guilty but continued to live and function as he was expected to. That could, perhaps, have gone on indefinitely, living a divided, half-hearted life, except that he had found the Creator. Suddenly all the doubts and questions from which he had derived nothing but guilt and uncertainty were legitimized. They were given weight by the fact that the Creator did exist and, contrary to every teaching of the Theocracy, Zorn had contacted Him on his own. The house of cards had come tumbling down. His spiritual searching had forced Zorn to alter his view of reality, and the new paradigm could not help but be manifested some way in his life.

The second reason, connected to the first, involved institutional decay. Not only was Zorn questioning the underlying principles of the Theocracy, but its agents were not living up to those principles. The validity of Theocratic morality was arguable, but if no one fulfilled or even attempted to fulfill those morals, except perhaps in appearance, what was the point of the argument? The politics, the infighting, the departmental bickering all led

Zorn to feel that his internal struggle to find the principles by which he could live was of negligible importance. This marginalizing of ideals made a mockery of the sacrifices of those like Dana Norris which should have been regarded as noble acts.

The encounter with Rollins, although stemming from a common base, had been even more irrational and more damaging. Whereas Jaquobs could possibly play off Zorn's comments as a case of misinterpretation if he chose to do so, what could Rollins do? I, Max Zorn, have personally spoken with the Creator. That didn't leave a lot of room for interpretation. All it would've taken would have been a few congenial words and then Rollins would've been on his way, but no. It had been a case of fatigue, stress, alcohol, and despair — a maddening and dangerous combination of factors.

Lorraine was back at the table refilling Zorn's coffee mug. No small talk, just efficient service which he acknowledged with a nod. Zorn glanced at his watch: 9:18. The bar was a bit more crowded than it had been when he'd arrived. The booths were filled. The small tables and the barstools were mostly occupied. Zorn noticed one face in particular as he looked around the room. It was a young man with a bright topping of red hair who had turned away when Zorn looked in his direction. The young man sat at the bar, only his back visible now. He looked familiar. Where have I seen him? After only a moment, it came to Zorn — in the hall at DO. I almost stepped on him. He was an Inquisitor, one of the nameless youngsters.

Certainly there could be a reasonable explanation for why the redhead was present. This was, after all, a bar at which Inquisitors hung out quite often, and maybe it had been Zorn's taxed and overactive imagination that told him the other Inquisitor had not wanted to be noticed.

Maybe.

But could Zorn take that chance? Could he take the chance that Jaquobs hadn't decided to go for all the marbles, to bring in his superior? Zorn was calm, his mind clear. This was a type of situation he was used to being in. Only the participants were different. Had Jaquobs decided not to let yesterday's comments go unnoticed? Was he alarmed by the fact that the box of files that could link him to the botched raid was missing from his office? It's a set up, Zorn thought. Just like the raid was a set up. How many are here? He looked around the room. He was supposed to be waiting for someone. He could inspect his surroundings without arousing suspicion. There was one more Inquisitor he thought he recognized, a tall fellow with short brown hair and a heavy rain-speckled jacket that he hadn't taken off, sitting at one of the small tables reading a menu a bit too intently. Johnson or Johnston or something like that. There may be one or two more, and others watching the exits. Zorn looked down at his watch: 9:21. Was jaquobs going to try to bring him in? That was the most likely scenario, and Zorn had given him the perfect occasion for it. I should've just showed up at his office, or at his house. Caught him off guard.

Zorn picked up one of the menus that were propped between the salt and pepper shakers and then caught Lorraine's eye as she walked nearby. She ambled over to the table. "More coffee?"

Zorn opened the menu. He smiled pleasantly but spoke in a very low, serious tone. "Lorraine, I want you to write down any type of order you want for me: burger, fries, steak, I don't care." She stared at him, not sure what he meant. "Don't look at me. Look at your pad."

"What are you talking about, hon?"

"Do it, and no one will get hurt," Zorn said, his voice calm but menacing. His eyes met Lorraine's as he leaned over ever so slightly, just enough that she could see the holster on his belt. She hesitated for a moment, but then looked down and started to scribble on her pad. "Good. Now try to relax and keep writing," he instructed her.

She kept writing. "In just a second, I want you to look up and answer a question for me. Okay?"

"Okay." She didn't look up. Her hands shook just a bit as she wrote.

"Good," Zorn said. "This is the question. Is there a back exit to this place?"

Lorraine tentatively looked up. Zorn hoped she didn't look too nervous to anyone who might be watching. "Yes, at the end of the back hall, past the bathrooms."

"Smile, Lorraine. Remember, you're talking to a customer, friendly." Her expression perked up a bit. "Is there a kitchen exit?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And the door to the kitchen is...?"

"The first one past the bathrooms, on the left."

"Thank you," he said. "Now go place the order as you normally would."

She nodded, swallowed, and walked away toward the bar. Zorn sat for a moment watching Lorraine in case she panicked, then, making an effort not to look around, he got up and walked toward the bathroom, leaving his rain jacket in sight on the table. As soon as he rounded the corner into the back hall and was out of sight of the front room, Zorn quickened his pace. He went past the bathrooms, opened the door to his left, and walked into the kitchen. He strode purposefully past the line cook and another waitress as if he were on his way to do something important. The kitchen was at least ten degrees warmer than the rest of the bar, and it smelled strongly of grease from the fryer. Aside from odd glances from the pantry worker and the dishwasher, no one gave him much notice. He went out the back door, quickly closing it behind him and ducking down by the dumpster that was to his immediate left.

The rain had almost stopped, and Zorn barely noticed the Cold wind that tugged at his shirt and his hair. He was in the grip of adrenaline now, functioning through instinct and training. As he squatted by the dumpster, he realized that there was an exterior light almost directly above him, so his eyes would not adjust much to the dark beyond. He couldn't see any Inquisitors, but he imagined that Jaquobs would have covered the exits. With any luck, whoever was watching this door was toward Jordane Avenue, on the other side of the dumpster. Otherwise, Zorn might be in full view even now, especially with the light above him. Hopefully, the door opening and closing just looked like someone throwing something in the dumpster.

The sidestreet in front of him that intersected Jordane was narrow and mostly dark except for the inconvenient light above Zorn. He wished he could break it without attracting attention. About fifty feet to the right, toward the back of Evander's, on the other side of the street, was a small alley. It would have to serve as Zorn's avenue of escape. Hopefully, again, there were no DO personnel hiding in the alley, but Zorn didn't have many alternatives at this point, and he didn't want to squat here in the floodlight forever.

Zorn removed his Benton automatic pistol from his belt holster, took a deep breath, and then sprinted for the alley.

"Hey, you! Stop!" he heard a voice yell from near the front of the building.

Yes! A lazy stakeout. The looker was at the front of the building; Zorn would be in the alley before his pursuer could get off a shot, more than likely. That was when he saw the other Inquisitor step out of the shadows from the alley toward which Zorn ran. The man had his weapon leveled at Zorn. Without breaking stride, Zorn dove to his right and squeezed off several rounds at the Inquisitor who blocked his escape route. The other Inquisitor fired as well, and then fell to the ground. Zorn rolled and was on his feet moving almost instantly; he was past the prone Inquisitor, who didn't move, and into the alley. There were shouts and more shots behind him now. Zorn was around the next corner and into the night-time streets of Anglopolis. Behind him he could hear pursuing footsteps.

Chapter Ten

"I'm sorry. I don't have a number where Mr. Hardy can be reached. I'd be happy to take a message."

"Look," said Ron, trying to keep irritation out of his voice. Afterall, it wasn't this poor woman's fault. "I've been trying to get in touch with Ben for days now. He's my accountant. I just found out I'm being audited, for Christ's sake. I have to talk to him."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Church. I wish I could help you. All I can do is take a message," the woman reiterated.

"Let me speak to someone else. Is your supervisor in?" So much for being patient.

The woman paused briefly. "My supervisor is at lunch at the moment, but I would be happy to have her return your call when she gets back." Apparently, the answering service operator was secure enough in her company's policy that she didn't mind passing on problem customers like Ron to her superior; she didn't fear repercussions.

Ron knew he probably wouldn't get anywhere with the supervisor either. "Fine. Do that please. In the meantime, I want to leave a message for Mr. Hardy in case he happens to check in."

"Yes, sir." Her tone was still formally polite, but the accommodating and apologetic manner was gone, destroyed by Ron's aggressiveness.

"Tell Mr. Hardy," said Ron, "that Ron Church needs to talk with him immediately — make sure you underline that — immediately, and that he damn well better get in touch with me or I'll be finding a new accountant. Got that?"

"Yes, sir. Does Mr. Hardy have your number?"

"Yes, but it doesn't seem like it sometimes."

"All right. I'll give him the message, and I'll have my supervisor call you when she returns. Your number is... ?" Ron gave her his number. "Is there anything else, Mr. Church?"

"No. That'll do it."

"Have a nice day."

I wonder what she'd really like to say. "Yeah, thanks." Don't sound so damn cheerful, Ron wanted to tell her. He hung up the phone forcefully. It was infuriating how people insulated themselves — answering services, answering machines. That reminded him that his answering machine was blinking, and he'd been ignoring it all morning. He pressed the message button.

"Good morning, Ron. This is Nate Early," the machine played back. "I'm calling to let you know that... uh... well, I'm not having much luck so far with the contract negotiations or with the inquiries with other iirms. In fact, Andrews and Stern have rescinded their earlier offer, but I'm sure it's just a bargaining ploy. They can't be serious. Don't worry about a thing. I'll keep you posted. Bye."

The machine beeped several times and began to rewind.

Don't worry. Famous last words.

Ron repeated to himself one of his personal mantras: paperwork sucks. Contracts, estimated income, taxes — he was being audited, for Christ's sake! He'd gotten the letter from the IRS Monday morning, two days ago. Something about irregular transfer of funds and inaccurate reporting. There was mention of tax evasion. The language had been so filled with jargon that he wasn't even clear about what it was that he might have done wrong, or what he might not have done that he was supposed to have. Ron didn't know anything about it. He wasn't supposed to have to know anything about it. Jesus Christ! I hire an accountant who apparently can't pay my taxes right and is gone when I need him, and I hire an agent who can't sell the sequel to a bestseller. Why does every decision have to come back and haunt me? Zorn thinks he's got it bad.

In his mind, Ron pictured himself locking all of his financial records and contracts and tax forms in a metal box and throwing it off a dock into the bay. Then he pictured himself locking a larger chest, this one filled by Ben, Nate, and some nameless IRS employee, and pushing that off the dock.

Ron broke off his daydream and turned to his computer. He needed to keep plugging away at the book. All the contract mess would certainly get straightened out somewhere along the line, so he might as well keep working.

It was ironic that publishers were balking at reasonable figures because this book was going to be so much better than Death on the Tower. Ron could just tell. After all, it was more realistic. Hell, some of it's happening without my input at all!

That's what Ron had been trying to change over the past few days, when he hadn't been busy not being able to reach his accountant. Having a fictional character claim to be real and invading your dreams was one thing. Disconcerting, yes, but Ron could come to terms with that, although he still felt like he was going crazy when he thought about it. Having his own story continue without him —- that was another thing; it was infuriating. How inconsiderate could a fictional character be? The fact that Ron was incapable of editing work on his own computer, that the keys refused to respond when he pressed them, was inconceivable. Instead, he was taking the story lines that he evidently couldn't undo and directing them where he wanted them to go. He'd decided that: if Zorn thought people in the DO were out to get him, then so be it. There was mileage to be gotten out of that. Ron would show Zorn who was in charge.

And what's the deal with Tun Tzu? The old man had appeared, dropped his cosmological bombshell, and then — poof! — disappeared without a trace. Maybe I was sleepwalking in the park. Maybe that whole second run in with him was just in my head.

Ron stared absently at the Escher print, Reptiles, that hung above his desk. The picture was of a sketch pad under a couple of books, a plant, and other objects. Drawn on the pad were interlocking lizard figures — a division of the plane piece, one of Escher's major stylistic trademarks. The lizards, however, weren't confined to the sketch pad. Several were escaping from the paper. Others were completely free and three-dimensional. They crawled over the objects on the pad, forming a circle back around onto and into the paper.

I think I'd rather have lizards coming out of my computer than what I've got. I never knew writing could be this stressful. Look at me. I'm competing with one of my characters, and I think I'm meeting people on the street who claim to be out of my book. I need a vacation.

Irene had been very supportive throughout these last odd days. Sure, at first she'd had her Syndicate conspiracy theory, but life, for Irene, was one big conspiracy theory. No, check that. Life, for Irene, was an infinite web of interlocking conspiracy theories. Since Ron's surreal powwow with Tun Tzu, however, she'd spent less time advancing her theories, and more time comforting Ron and encouraging him to keep writing. Always looking out for my best interests, that woman is.

Included in those best interests was someday finishing his new book.

Back to work.

Ron went as far as to turn the computer back on, but then he was overcome by what he thought of as his dark side, his procrastinating alter ego. There'll be time to do it later. Actually, the procrastinator was more his dominant personality than an alter ego. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for the bank and then Irene's extension.

"Good morning. Bayside First Mutual Construction Loan Office. May I help you?"

Ron recognized Irene's voice instantly. "Yes," he said. "This is the Lunchtime Loan Servicer Census Bureau. I'm compiling figures on exactly how many loan servicers in San Francisco have eaten lunch already today."

"Are you now?" Irene responded. "Well, this particular loan servicer was about to step out the door when, against her better judgment, she decided to take this call."

"Good decision. This is your lucky day, ma'am!" Ron continued. "How would you like to have lunch with a dashing, incredibly handsome, wealthy, best-selling writer?"

"Not interested."

"Oh, please."

"All right. You talked me into it," Irene relented. "Who's buying?"

"We're providing the dashing author. You should probably provide the lunch."

"No deal."

Ron responded with exaggerated exasperation. "Oh, all right. You drive a hard bargain, but I'll treat. I mean he'll treat."

"Fair enough. How long until he'll be here?"

"Fifteen to twenty minutes," said Ron.

"So, half an hour." "Right."

"See you then."

Ron hiked the three-and-a-half blocks to where the Celica was parked, made surprisingly good time on his way to Bayside First Mutual, and then, amazingly enough, found a parking space right in front of the bank.

Irene was incredulous when she looked up and he was standing by her cubicle... early. She glanced at her watch, looked suspiciously at Ron out of the corner of her eye, then looked at her watch again. "Who are you, and what

have you done with the reai Ron ?"

They opted for a quick bite someplace nearby. "There's usually a little hot dog stand this way," Irene suggested as they left the building and turned toward the docks. They stopped at the Red Hots corner hot dog stand and then headed on toward the Ferry Building.

"Have you ever thought about getting a nose ring?" Ron asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"The hot dog girl had one. Have you ever been tempted?"

Irene's smile faded away. "I refuse to respond to such an unenlightened patriarchal comment."

"What?"

Irene didn't answer. Ron realized, to his chagrin, that this was one of those situations when he'd apparently said something wrong, and now it was his job to figure out what it was and correct his mistake.

"Uh... nose ring... hot dog." Irene continued to ignore him as they crossed Embarcadero. "Unpleasant associations of mucus with beef. What? I don't know. What'd I say?"

She stopped when they got across the street and turned to him, bearing a stern expression. "That hot dog vendor isn't that much younger than you or I, if at all. It looks like she runs her own business. She may run a household as well. You, however, feel compelled to refer to her as a hot dog girl."

Ron didn't quite see her point. "I don't quite see your point. I don't feel compelled to..."

"How many," Irene cut him off, "of your male acquaintances do you refer to as boyl Not many, I imagine." She began walking again.

Ron threw his hands up in the air, then jogged a few steps until he caught up. "Look. Can we not argue about this right now? I called you because I had a bad morning, and I... well, I just thought it would be nice to see you."

Irene stopped again. After two or three steps, Ron realized that she was no longer by his side. He stopped also and turned back toward her. "That's a very sweet thing to say," said Irene, her irritation melting away, "and you have had a rough time of it recently. I temporarily forgive your socially inculcated chauvinism."

"Thanks. I think."

They found an empty bench in the sun near the Ferry Building within sight of the Oakland Bay Bridge. Irene sat down very close to Ron. "So why have you had a bad morning?" she asked, rubbing his arm with one hand while trying to unwrap her hot dog and keep her napkin from blowing away with the other.

Ron examined his one unwrapped hot dog. "Didn't I ask for mustard?"

"No, just ketchup, dear." Irene used her drink to weight down her napkin.

"I could've sworn I asked for mustard too. Oh, well. I told you about the letter from the IRS, right?" Ron took a bite of his mustard-free hot dog.

"Yes. The audit thing?"

"Mmmm." He finished chewing and swallowed. "Yeah. I've been trying to get in touch with my accountant since I got the letter Monday and I can't get him, and he hasn't returned any of my calls. What the hell's the point of having an answering service if they can't reach you and you don't check your messages?"

"It's kind of like having an answering machine and not checking your messages," Irene mentioned pointedly.

"Completely different. This is an emergency. I have to talk to him."

"Is he on vacation or something?"

"I don't know." Ron accidentally squeezed his hot dog out of frustration and ketchup dripped on his leg. He hunted around for the extra napkins. "All anybody seems to know, or to say anyhow, is that he can't be reached."

"I guess he wasn't anticipating any financial

emergencies while he was gone."

Ron finished the last bite of his first hot dog. "Still, you would think he would make some kind of arrangements just in case something did come up."

"You would think," Irene agreed.

Ron unwrapped his second hot dog. "No mustard on this one either."

"That's because you didn't ask for any, dear."

"Are you sure? I know I asked for mustard."

"No, you didn't. If you'd asked for mustard, I'm sure she would've given you mustard."

the breeze started to pick up a bit. Several seagulls hopped about nearby searching for crumbs from other picnickers. Other gulls played at flying into the wind. They hung almost motionless in the air, as if in suspended animation.

"On top of all that mess," Ron continued, "Nate called, and he still can't sell the book." He sat and stared without much appetite at the last few bites of his food.

"It wasn't a particularly cheerful morning, was it?"

"No, it wasn't." Other words popped into Ron's head.! don't want to be your leading man. Let someone else do it. They were words from his dream, from his fictional character. That meant they were his words, right? In a way, he could see Zorn's point. Ron supposed that he preferred a safe, predictable life, as opposed to a more crisis-filled, interesting one. But what right did a fictional character have to argue with him?

"... don't you think?" Irene was saying.

"What?" Ron was jostled back to the present conversation. "I'm sorry. I missed that. What'd you say?"

"I said," Irene repeated, "that it all seems conveniently coincidental. I mean think about it: inexplicable contract problems, not just not many but no publishers at all wanting to buy what should be a hot commodity; and then IRS trouble and an AWOL accountant. There has to be some connection."

"Maybe it's bad karma. I must've been Hitler last time around."

"Don't joke about that."

"Yes, Eva."

"There's just too much going on," Irene said. "Each of those problems is believable in and of itself. None of them are impossible, but the fact that they're all happening at once seems very odd."

"Maybe."

Irene must've sensed that Ron had had enough talk about his problems. She let the matter drop. The two sat silently on the bench for a few minutes. The seagulls still played in the wind, casting shadows on the reflective water below. The lunchtime crowd was beginning to thin out, although the stream of traffic on the bridge was fairly constant.

"Let's go to Tahiti," Ron suggested out of nowhere.

"What?"

"Let's go to Tahiti," he repeated. "I definitely need a vacation, and we can tell the bank that your entire family was killed in a freak accident with a troop of escaped homicidal circus clowns or something. We could be on a plane within the next day or two."

"Homicidal circus clowns?"

"Whatever. Let's not get hung up on details." Ron's enthusiasm for this sudden idea was blossoming. "I just want to get away for a while, and it'd be a lot more fun to get away with you."

Irene busied herself with collecting the hot dog trash. "I doubt that I could get vacation time that soon, and besides, I thought that you wanted to try to finish up your book and then maybe go on a cruise."

"That's what I was thinking, but I think I need to be gone from here. I've got a laptop in my closet for when I'm traveling, and I bet I'd feel more like writing on a sunny beach than here keeping up with contract disputes, even if my characters do talk back to me."

Irene sat silently.

Something about her manner alarmed Ron. She's trying to think of reasons not to go. "You don't believe me, do you? You don't believe that Zorn is talking to me." He was caught off guard by his own sudden need for validation.

"I believe it's possible."

"Which means you don't believe it's actually happening," Ron interpreted.

"Ron," Irene took hold of his arm as she spoke, "you're not sure yourself that it's happening. How am I supposed to be sure? I believe that it is possible that you have somehow created a work that is more than fiction. I believe that you have experienced everything that you say you have experienced, but I am resisting drawing any definite conclusions until I have more empirical data to go on."

Ron was taken aback somewhat by the systematic conviction evident in Irene's words and tone. "Do you have 'empirical data' for all your theories?"

"Theories and truth are not the same thing. Theories are potential realities. Truth is reality; there's only one." Irene's smile softened her words. "When I think that I know for sure what's going on, you'll be one of the first to know." Irene glanced up at the clock on the Ferry Building. "I need to be getting back to the office," she said, but neither of them moved. Irene leaned closer to Ron's ear. "If you want to go to Tahiti, I will work it out so I can go with you," she relented, "but you have to promise me you'll keep working on your book. I don't want you to let little problems keep you from discovering your true potential."

It seemed like a small enough concession to Ron, especially since he probably would have kept working anyway. "No problem."

"Good," Irene smiled sweetly and kissed him on the cheek. "Besides, you need watching."

Ron walked Irene back to the bank, and then started for home to get some tr;ore work done, his procrastinatory instincts mollified for the time being. His thoughts were full ot warm sunny beaches and brightly colored drinks with miniature umbrellas protruding from them.

Most of the family dwellings were located on the western side of Anglopolis, a classic case of suburban sprawl hampered only by the mountains that circled to the north. Zorn had made his way in this direction very slowly and cautiously over the past two days, which had been like none he had experienced before.

He had continued to evade his pursuers after escaping from the bar Wednesday night, running directly for the seedier section of town where shadows abounded and Inquisitor patrols did not. Those first few hours especially had been a nightmare of tension, paranoia, and constant movement. The rain had continued sporadically all night, and Zom, his raincoat still in the bar, had quickly become soaked through. That next morning he'd actually stolen a heavy coat and some food from a cart left unattended in a grocery store. He knew he couldn't use his credit/ debit card. The DO would track that in an instant. Surely his code had been entered on the Alert System, and anywhere he used the card would be swimming with Inquisitors within ten minutes.

That next day, Zom had tried to keep moving and keep a low profile as he'd thought about what to do next and where to go. There was no chance of going back to his flat or even getting his car. They would certainly be watched, the car probably impounded. He'd taken a newspaper from a bundle on a streetcorner, but, for whatever reason, there had been no mention of him or his predicament. Perhaps the Theocracy wanted to bring him in quietly to avoid public embarrassment. At any rate, he was a criminal now; there was no doubting that. No matter what they knew about his earlier unOrthodox activities, which must have been at least enough to authorize his apprehension, now he had shot and possibly killed a fellow Inquisitor. Not much room for salvaging a career at this point.

He thought of two possible courses of action. First, he could follow up on the information he already knew and try to track down the ALF agents who had murdered Jarvis. That would be complicated by the fact that he was also being hunted. Second, he could try to find out who was responsible for the departmental maneuvering against him, and then what? Exact revenge? As appealing as that idea was on one level, it was definitely risky and not particularly productive. As far removed as he was from the system now, it wasn't likely that he could set in motion any type of constructive change or reform within the DO. Besides, unauthorized reform was the same as heresy. Regardless of which path he chose, for the time being, both led to one person: Jaquobs. The contacts that had made the case for the disastrous raid were his, and he was in league with Martin and whoever else within the DO had set this madness in motion.

Actually, it's the Creator who set all this in motion, Zorn realized. I bet He wants me to find out and stop whoever's out of line in the DO. I think it's time I went out on my own. I'll find the ALF killers and stay away from the Theocracy as much as I can. Why should I entertain Him? I'll do what He wouldn't expect me to do.

And so Zorn had made his way to Jaquobs' home. He'd never been there before, but luckily he'd jotted down the address in his pocket notebook Wednesday afternoon before leaving his apartment for the bar. He could even remember the phone number when he hadn't been drinking. Just after 5:00 p.m., as the late fall sun started to dip behind the western mountain ridges, he found the house* Watching a house in a residential area during the day without attracting attention would've been difficult at best, so Zorn had returned to a small wooded park he had passed about a half-mile back to wait until dark. He'd found a secluded spot, sat down against a tree — the ground had mostly dried out over the past two days — and promptly fallen asleep. He'd only had a couple hours of sleep since the confrontation at Evander's.

It was now several hours later, almost 11:00 p.m., when Zorn awoke from his hard sleep feeling as if he hadn't really slept at all and could sleep for another three days nonstop. He tried to shake himself awake. Hopefully, Jaquobs hadn't gotten home yet. If there were a manhunt on, Zorn figured everyone was probably working late hours.

He made his way through the wide suburban streets, quickly traversing the half-mile back to Jaquobs' house. The neighborhoods were quiet. Until a few days ago, Zorn couldn't help thinking, he would've been considered the inhabitants' ultimate benefactor. Now, he might possibly be shot on sight by Theocracy officials.

Jaquobs' departmental issue vehicle wasn't in the driveway, Zorn was pleased to see. On the carport end of the one-story house was a side door and an outside light which was on. Zom didn't want to be too close to that light, but it was probably where Jaquobs would enter. There were numerous rooms with lights on inside the house. As far as Zorn could tell, no neighbors were staring out of their windows at him. He edged around the side of the house to where the bushes bordering Jaquobs' and his neighbor's yards were thick enough that he could remain hidden from view from both sides fairly well.

Zorn was extremely relieved that Jaquobs hadn't gotten home yet. Otherwise it might have been impossible to avoid involving and threatening Jaquobs' wife and children, and that was one line Zorn hoped he would not have to cross.

As he waited in the dark, Zorn never got a good look at anyone in the house. He could only see movement through the cracks in the drawn curtains occasionally. He pictured the inside of the house in his mind. There was a fire blazing; he could see the smoke from the chimney. At that thought, Zorn pulled his stolen coat more tightly about him. Although the bushes were sufficient cover, they were little insulation from the chill of the night.

He also pictured Jaquobs' family inside. He had met the wife once or twice a long time back, Brenda or Beverly or something like that. The children were faceless and ageless and nameless to him, but they were a family, something he had not experienced in many years.

Other images, unbidden, came to mind also. Zorn could see his own family, his parents and his brother, being led away, hands bound, into the Theocracy detention transport vans. He could see, all so clearly, the mournful expression on his father's face just before the van doors closed with the resounding crash that had echoed through years of nightmares. Maybe that was why Zorn had stopped remembering dreams, even if he couldn't stop himself from having them.

Such introspection ended abruptly when approaching headlights turned into the driveway. Zorn pressed down further into the bushes. The headlights went out, the engine stopped, and Jaquobs got out. Before Jaquobs reached the side door, Zorn left the protective cover of the bushes and stepped into the light holding his gun in plain view.

"jaquobs," Zorn said in a low, menacing voice that wouldn't carry far.

Jaquobs didn't jump or seem startled, but he did stop in his tracks. He turned slowly to face Zorn, saw the gun, then looked up at Zorn's face. "Max, what's going on?"

Zorn approached slowly. He knew he must be quite a sight — unshaven, rumpled clothes, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, the little he had gotten having been on the ground. He patted Jaquobs' chest, then reached under his jacket and removed the standard issue Benton automatic from Jaquobs' shoulder holster. "Get back in the car." Zorn motioned with his gun.

''Let's talk." Jaquobs was calm, trying to be reassuring for the benefit of the man pointing a gun at him.

"Back in the car. Now." Zorn nodded toward the house. "Before they notice. I don't want your family involved."

Jaquobs nodded and walked to the driver's side door.

"Get in, unlock my door, then start the engine. In that order, or else they find your body in the driveway," Zorn instructed.

Jaquobs complied, and in a moment they were backing out of the driveway, Jaquobs driving at gunpoint.

"Max..."

"Shut up. I want to meet Alfonse. Take me to him."

There was no mention of proper channels or informant confidentiality this time. The pistol pointed at Jaquobs' side made all that immaterial. Zorn tried to plan his next moves step by step, but he was constantly distracted by the knowledge that he was abducting an Inquisitor.

Hell. I already shot one. Why not add kidnapping to the listi' Think, Zorn, think. Okay. I'll see Alfonse and find out from him who his contact was and just keep following that down the line. But what if somebody doesn't talk? Even threats and torture can go wrong, like that last dead contact. No information there. I'll just have to make sure nothing goes wrong, no other choice. I'll have to find out who Jaquobs' other tivo informants are too, Desmond and Maria. That'll give me some breathing room in case one line of information breaks down.

There was still the question of what to do with Jaquobs once Zorn had gotten the information he needed.

He couldn't let loose an Inquisitor who knew what was going on, but, despite his threats to the contrary, the idea of shooting his former colleague in cold blood repulsed Zorn. He forced himself not to think too far into the future. First things first.

They were heading east, back toward the center of the city. "Don't try anything stupid, like driving us back to DO," said Zorn. "Where are we going?"

"Landon Street. Alfonse should be home now." Jaquobs was on edge, white-knuckling the steering wheel, his facade of calmness wearing thin. He probably didn't want to agitate Zorn, who was obviously extremely fatigued and under a great deal of pressure. Eventually Jaquobs spoke. "Gifford is going to live."

"What?"

"Gifford," Jaquobs repeated. "You did shoot him Wednesday night?"

"I shot somebody," Zorn admitted irritably. "I guess it was him."

"Well, he's going to live. They had to transplant a kidney, but he's going to make it." They drove in silence for a few more minutes. Zorn was ready to spring if Jaquobs tried anything. "Max, what's going on?" Jaquobs asked for the second time.

"You tell me," Zorn snapped. "The trap at Evander's — was that a department operation or were you and Martin working freelance with the others, hoping to drag in my body so you could move up a rung?"

"Me and Martin? What are you talking about?" Jaquobs' face was wrinkled with anger and confusion. He was blinking rapidly even when there were no approaching headlights.

"I know about you and Martin and your little schemes."

Jaquobs was looking at Zorn more than at the road. "You are crazy. I didn't believe it, but I do now. You think I was running that operation? I wouldn't take anybody in the middle of a crowded bar. That's just asking for lateral casualties."

Zorn held the gun to Jaquobs' face and pointed at the road with his other hand. Jaquobs turned his head forward. "You were the only one who knew I'd be there," Zorn hissed.

"I didn't know!" Jaquobs started to turn to face Zorn, saw the gun again, and turned back.

"What about the note?"

"What note?" Jaquobs' composure was beginning to crack. He didn't seem to understand any of what Zorn was talking about. At the western edge of downtown, Jaquobs turned north onto Arrowhead Pike. He took a couple of deep breaths, forced his fingers to hold the steering wheel not quite so tightly, and visibly tried to calm himself before continuing. "I found out about the shooting Thursday morning. Martin had a senior staff meeting, real hush-hush. He said you had flipped out, post-traumatic stress syndrome or something. He told us you'd been under a lot of pressure since the Kroaker thing and then the bombing; that an intervention team went to talk to you, and that you went berserk and opened fire on them. That was the first I knew about any of it."

"Intervention team, my ass. That was a hit squad."

"Did you open fire on them?" Jaquobs asked.

Zorn thought back. It had all happened so quickly. There had been other shots, but he had fired first. "They were going to take me down. I didn't have a choice."

"Maybe they just wanted to talk."

"Why in Evander's?" Zorn countered. "Like you said, why in a crowded public bar?"

"I don't know," Jaquobs admitted. "Maybe poor judgment, but that doesn't mean they were trying to kill you."

"No!" Zorn had enough of Jaquobs' suppositions and rationalizations. "Someone in the department, at the very least, wanted me taken into custody. You were the only

one who knew where I was that night."

"But I..."

"Shut up! And with what I said to you the day before, you knew enough to set all this in motion." The towering structures of downtown Anglopolis loomed off to the right. Zorn's vision blurred momentarily. Too little food, too little sleep, too much uncertainty and pressure, "just drive. Shut up and drive." He knew that he wasn't thinking clearly, but what jaquobs told him just didn't square with what he already knew. The circumstantial evidence of the report and the note, along with what Rollins had said, all pointed at Jaquobs. Rollins was another one who knew a good deal about the situation and his precarious state of mind, but the note and the report had nothing to do with him, unless he and Jaquobs were working together against Zorn. But then why would Rollins have warned Zorn about Jaquobs?

The information and suspicions all banged around painfully in Zorn's head. Whatever happened, he desperately needed to get more sleep soon. A different line of thought occurred to him. "Jaquobs."

"Yeah?"

"There's been nothing in the papers the last two days about all this, and I haven't seen a lot of increased DO activity, granted I've been trying to stay out of their way. What's going on?"

Jaquobs looked at the gun that was still pointed at him and then back at the road. "They're working under the assumption right now that you have freaked out and that it might be temporary. Martin said he hoped you might come to your senses and turn yourself in, so they're holding off on a manhunt."

"Hopes I'll turn myself in," echoed Zorn. "He doesn't want all the negative publicity. If they go full-scale, there's no way they can keep that quiet."

"I think you're right," agreed Jaquobs, "but either way, right now manpower is concentrated on the city perimeter, in case you try to slip out. They really don't want another Brady Trimmerhom, especially one they know is alive and a renegade who could come back to haunt them. What are you trying to do, Max? You can't take on the Theocracy and the ALF at the same time."

"Don't worry about it."

Landon Street was in the Bolan Hills district of the city, northwest of downtown. There were certainly worse sections, but it was made up of hard-edged working class neighborhoods with several Theocracy-provided high-rise housing projects, an area where life was difficult and resentment of the Theocracy might flourish despite the attempts to provide for the citizens.

Jaquobs pointed out one of the large tenement buildings to Zorn. "Alfonse lives there."

They parked, and Jaquobs led Zorn, pistol tucked under his gray coat, up flight after flight of stairs. The stairwell was dimly lit, the light blue walls covered by extensive graffiti. Zorn could only imagine the sense of oppression that must accompany living here, walking past such blatant signals of social decay, day after day. His and Jaquobs' steps echoed up and down the otherwise silent stairwell.

At the twelfth floor, they stopped, took a moment to catch their breath, and then turned down one of the hallways lined with doors, all identical except for the stick on apartment numbers. Jaquobs stopped in front of flat 1224. Zorn leaned his head toward the door. "Knock," he said quietly.

"Take it easy, okay?" Jaquobs cautioned.

"Shut up and knock," Zorn whispered urgently.

Jaquobs stood in front of the peephole on the door. Zorn was off to his right, out of sight with the gun trained on his captive. Jaquobs knocked three times. There was movement inside, footsteps coming toward the door. The floor inside the flat creaked. Zorn could imagine Alfonse seeing Jaquobs through the peephole. The knob turned, and the door opened a few inches, a chain still latched on the inside.

Zorn grabbed Jaquobs' jacket by the back of the collar and slammed him into the door face first. Before Alfonse could respond, Zorn kicked the door with enough force to tear the chain out of the doorframe. He shoved Jaquobs and rushed in behind his stumbling form, shutting the door behind himself.

Jaquobs lay sprawled on the floor holding the right side of his face which had taken much of the brunt against the door. Standing a few feet away, not yet comprehending what was happening, was Lorraine, the waitress from Evander's. Seeing her here in this setting was incongruous for Zorn at first, then his immediate thought was She set me up. Also in the flat was a teenage boy across the room in front of the blaring vid unit. He stood now, startled by the commotion of the forced entry.

"Don't anybody move!" Zorn shouted more loudly than he meant to do. He didn't want to alarm the whole floor.

Lorraine took a step back closer to the boy who still hadn't moved. Jaquobs tried to stop the flow of blood from his nose.

"What's going on?" Lorraine asked fearfully.

"Shut up! Over here and sit down!" Zorn's eyes darted from person to person, making sure no one was reaching for a hidden weapon. No one moved. Zorn pointed the gun directly at Lorraine. "Sit down. Now." She did. He pointed the gun at the boy to get his attention. "You. Over here. Sit." The boy came closer and sat on the faded couch next to Lorraine. The flat seemed to be well-kept, but the furniture was worn and the walls were in bad need of fresh paint.

Jaquobs had eased his way up into a chair but was still holding his face. "Let me explain," he mumbled through the blood.

"That might be best," Zorn answered. He remained standing.

Keeping his eyes shut tightly, Jaquobs said, "Lorraine, this is Inquisitor Max Zorn."

"I know who he is," she muttered resentfully.

"Max," Jaquobs continued, "this is Lorraine Darnell. She works at Evander's."

"I know," said Zorn.

"Through her work, Lorraine has come into contact with several ALF operatives. They recruited her and used her to pass information on to other operatives. She has chosen, at great risk to herself, to share that information with us." Jaquobs opened his eyes and gestured toward the boy. "This is Lorraine's son, Alverston, who we had been keeping out of all this, but I guess that's a moot point now. Alverston is... thirteen, fourteen?"

"Fourteen," Lorraine answered, putting her arm around her son. The boy seemed angry at the babying and that his mother was being threatened, but he didn't know what to do about it. He looked at her with a questioning gaze. Apparently the news of her ALF connections was a revelation to him.

"Don't hurt them," said Jaquobs. "They've done nothing but try to help us."

"I'm not here to hurt anyone I don't have to," Zorn responded.

"Oh, right," said Jaquobs, patting his face gingerly.

"Why are you here?" Lorraine asked tentatively.

"Jaquobs," said Zorn. "Lorraine is Alfonse from the reports?"

"Yes," Jaquobs answered.

Zorn took a deep breath and turned to her. "Lorraine, I admire what you've done, but the information you gave us about True Way Books and several people there was inaccurate. At least one innocent woman has been imprisoned."

"Is that what all this is about?" Jaquobs gawked incredulously. "You can't let that drop?"

"All I did was tell him what I was told," said Lorraine. "That's all I know." Alverston was tensely watching everything that transpired.

"Max, you have to let this go. It's too late for the Norris woman," Jaquobs insisted.

Rage swept through Zorn, and before he realized it, he'd stepped next to the chair and raised the Benton to Jaquobs' temple. "It may be too-late for her," Zorn muttered through clenched teeth, "but I want to know how it happened. I want to know why it happened. If I have to leave your body lying in the gutter to find out, then I'll do it." What am I doing? What am I saying? I don't want to be responsible for any more deaths.

Jaquobs remained silent, sensing perhaps that reason was not the route to take at this point. Zom felt strangely distanced from his own actions; the combination of tension, fatigue, and hunger was rapidly propelling him toward a fanaticism that was far from premeditated or calculated. He pulled the gun back and turned again to Lorraine. "I need to know who you got your information from."

"Mom," asked Alverston, "What are they talking about?" His helpless anger was surpassed only by his confusion, His voice seemed to suggest, It can't be true. You can't be part of the ALF.

"The Theocracy will protect you," Zorn uttered the half-truth that he had told informants for years. It seemed even less plausible considering Jaquobs' blood on the carpet.

"After I've been an ALF contact?" Lorraine wasn't convinced. "Doubtful. They'd yank out my brain and pick it apart in a heartbeat, looking for anything I might've forgotten to tell them, even if I did cooperate."

Zorn, desperate, his patience at an end, could think of no more reasonable arguments. If that's how you want it. He raised r.is weapon and pointed it at Alverston. "I need to know who you got your information from. Period." vY'ha: am I doing? Tell me what I need to know. I don't know what else I might do. Zorn began to tremble; he felt as if he were coming unglued.

Jaquobs stiffened in his chair. Lorraine shielded her son. She and Jaquobs exchanged a horrified glance. Alverston was frozen in his seat.

"No.' Don't:" she pleaded. "I don't know his name or where he lives," she confessed, "but I can take you to where I've met him."

Zorn considered his alternatives. He didn't seem to have many. "All right."

"Just leave the boy here," added Jaquobs.

"Yes, leave Al," Lorraine pleaded.

I could leave him here, Zorn thought, but I don't know what might happen. I need to keep everything under my thumb. And they want me to leave him. It must be a trick. "No."

Jaquobs still pressed him. "But this could be dangerous. Tie him up, but leave him here."

"It would be more dangerous for me to leave him here," said Zorn. i don't want to take him. I have to take him.

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here!" Alverston yelled, full of rage. "I'm not staying behind. What's this all about, Mom? You're part of the ALF?"

Jaquobs and Lorraine both started to comment.

"No!" Zorn cut them off sharply. "Everyone comes. This is what's going to happen. Listen closely." Now that the decision was made, Zom set forth the ground rules. He tried to speak calmly, but his hands were still shaking. "We'll walk down the steps to the car, Lorraine and Al side by side, then Jaquobs, then me. Jaquobs will get in the driver's side and unlock all the doors, starting with the passenger's side, then the back two. I will sit up front. You two," he indicated Lorraine and Al, "will sit in the back. You," to Jaquobs, "will drive. If anyone tries anything," he looked around making eye contact with each of the three, "I will shoot Jaquobs, then Al, and then you and I, Lorraine, will still take care of business." Don't make me hurt anyone. Don't make me. "Is everyone clear on that?"

Silence.

"Good." Zorn wasn't sure that he could bring himself to shoot any of them, especially the boy. He prayed (to whom, he wasn't sure) that the threats would be

sufficient.

The eleven flights of stairs down to ground level seemed endless. On one hand, Zorn expected to be ambushed by an ALF squad. On the other, he expected to find the entire building surrounded by DO personnel. He also anticipated that young Alverston might make a foolish break for freedom, so he kept an extra close watch on him. However, none of his fears materialized.

Jaquobs' car was just as they'd left it, and soon the four were heading east, without incident, skirting downtown once again. It was just after 1:00 a.m., and these less central areas through which they were traveling were much less active than the heart of the city. Lorraine tried to describe where they needed to go, but she said she'd only been there a few times, and some of those times, until they'd trusted her more, she'd been blindfolded.

They continued east until they came to the waterfront and then turned south onto Shoreline. "It was a run down warehouse near the docks, somewhere between 32nd and 44th," was how Lorraine described their destination. "I don't remember exactly."

That didn't narrow it down a great deal. Zorn hoped that the "run down warehouse" would be on a relatively major road that would be open this time of night and not some blocked off service lane. He didn't relish the idea of searching up and down twelve blocks of the waterfront on foot with three hostages at gunpoint, but if that's what it took....

There was also the possibility that Lorraine wouldn't be able to find it. What would Zorn do then? They had several hours to work with, and that was one scenario that he didn't want to add to his burgeoning number of concerns.

They drove slowly on Shoreline Avenue, passing only an occasional car. Lorraine intently examined the west side of the street, away from the docks. Alverston, not able to help with the search, stared straight ahead. He was fuming, probably enraged over the news about his mother's ALF connection and a bit scared at the fact that they were being held hostage. Zorn, exhausted and having trouble concentrating, tried to keep an eye on Jaquobs and the others. He knew if this went on too long that he might start to nod off, which would be disastrous.

The first pass from 32nd Street to 44th Street, driving south, Lorraine saw nothing. On the return, heading north, she spotted a possible candidate warehouse but told jaquobs to keep driving.

"Is that it or not?" Zorn snapped.

"I don't know!" she responded almost frantically to his sharp tone. Alverston flinched at the outburst, smoldering with anger and concern at his mother's distress.

Heading south, again, she told Zorn that she was fairly sure the warehouse in question, between 38th and 39th, was the one. jaquobs pulled over.

"Remember," said Zorn, looking in turn at each of the other three, "anybody runs or tries anything, people start dying," Alverston gazed hotly at him. "Jaquobs, do you have a flashlight?" Zorn asked.

Jaquobs nodded. There was one in the glove compartment, and he had a small penlight as well.

The night, especially along the waterfront, was much cooler now. The gusting wind revived Zorn a bit. He walked behind the other three. Jaquobs carried the flashlight, Zorn the penlight. The warehouse property was bordered by a chain link fence topped with rusted barbed wire. The cargo gate was chained, but strangely enough, the personnel gate was not locked. Zorn ushered them through.

The building itself had no signs or identification of any kind. There were no lights on the grounds.

"You know if they catch us here, they'll kill us all," Lorraine half-whispered, her voice almost lost in the wind.

"Keep moving," Zorn responded.

"Let AI go. He doesn't need to be here," she urged him.

"I'm okay," said Al.

"Keep moving," Zorn repeated. "Everybody."

"I thought you were supposed to be some hero, but you're worse than the ALF ever was," Al sneered.

"Shut up and move, kid."

The warehouse doors were locked. Jaquobs found a discarded pipe and used it to break the chain on one of the smaller doors. Zorn was careful to stand back out of striking distance while Jaquobs had the pipe, and then made sure that the potential weapon was left outside. The noise of Jaquobs breaking the chain was less than if it had been shot off, but it was still plenty to alert anyone who might be inside.

But that didn't seem to be a problem. There was no light inside the structure. Zorn pulled the door shut behind him and instructed everyone to stand still. He hoped that his eyes might adjust to the darkness, but it was no use. It was just too dark. Zorn told jaquobs to use his flashlight.

"There's probably no one here," whispered Lorraine. "It was just a meeting spot."

"Where did you meet him?" Zorn asked.

There was silence for a moment. "Downstairs," she said finally.

"Take us."

The flashlight beam seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness in the warehouse. On either side of the aisle they were walking through, large crates on wooden pallets were stacked on shelves that reached up out of sight. Every hundred feet or so, there were small openings on both sides, other corridors between the crowded shelves leading into darkness.

Zorn hoped that none of them would try to dart off into one of the openings. He didn't want to be forced to shoot anyone. Lorraine he still needed, in case this plan didn't pan out. Killing Alverston would be as senseless as jarvis' death, or that of the small boy caught in the crossfire, jaquobs had been a major contributor to the imprisonment of Dana Norris, but then so had Zorn, for that matter. Zorn also had forgotten to find out the identities of the other two informants, Desmond and Maria, so jaquobs could still be useful. Most of all, since his break from Orthodoxy, Zorn no longer possessed the unerring moral certainty that had always justified his actions before. He desperately wanted to avoid doing anything else for which he might have to accept blame.

Lorraine led them forward into the heart of the shadow- filled warehouse. She made one left turn, then forward again, until they came to the far wall and then turned right. With just the one light on, everyone stayed close together, except for Zorn who brought up the rear a couple of steps behind. Lorraine led them on until they came to a large wooden door across what seemed to be a staircase leading down.

jaquobs looked at Lorraine, who nodded. He pulled back the door revealing the cement steps, then he, Lorraine, and Alverston glanced back at Zorn who motioned for them to continue.

The stairs led down to a narrow passageway, its ceiling so low that even Alverston had to stoop a bit to get through. The hall opened shortly into a larger room, again filled with stacked crates. There had to be another entrance, Zorn thought, because the crates could never have fit down the stairs and through that hallway.

It was then that he heard the sickening noise of shotguns being cocked. The lights burst on, blinding Zorn and the others, all of whom froze in their tracks. As small specks of light danced in front of his eyes, Zorn could see at least four or five armed men behind cover. He could possibly have taken out one or two of them, but it was just as likely that with his first flinch they would have gunned him down without hesitation.

Zorn cautiously loosened his grip on his Benton until it dangled upside down from his index finger. Then he slowly raised his hands. It was fortunate that he'd acted as he did, because now, as his vision cleared, he could see that there were closer to ten armed men and women hidden around the room. Jaquobs and Lorraine stepped away from Zorn. Alverston followed his mother's lead.

The men in the room were definitely not DO. That was encouraging at least, except for the fact it meant they were probably ALF. I don't guess it really matters who it is that kills you, Zorn thought. You're still dead. Two of the men, one extremely tall, came over to Zorn, took his gun, and jerked his arms behind him. They frisked him and found Jaquobs' gun as well. The last thing Zorn saw was the tall man handing a gun to Jaquobs. Then a shotgun butt came down on the back of Zorn's head and

everything was darkness.

After lunch, Ron went back to his apartment and sat in front of his computer. Contract and accounting problems notwithstanding, he was a writer, and a writer, he pointed out to himself, cannot make a living unless he writes. He turned on the computer and brought up the latest chapter:

Chapter Ten

For two days Zorn had sought sanctuary throughout the city, but the Theocratic forces had dogged him relentlessly. He was full of remorse that he had been forced to gun down thirteen Inquisitors in making his escape from the bar, and that several others had fallen to their deaths chasing him across the rooftops....

Ron was determined to wrest control of his novel from the characters who were in it. In his desperation to assert his sovereignty, he ascribed to Zorn actions that were particularly atypical for the Inquisitor — fits of nervousness and rage which led to threats and brutality and fallacious reasoning. Ron told himself that it was dramatic license and not petty vengeance that led him to toss Zorn from being hunted by his own former associates to being a prisoner of the hated ALF.

One consideration constantly tugged at Ron's conscience. If Zorn were real —- and Ron hadn't been able to shake that feeling since the night in the park — then Ron was creating a living hell for someone he should be protecting.

But it's my book, and I'll save him in the end.

His embattled rationalizations held for the time being.

For most of the afternoon, Ron mixed car chases and explosions with crises of conscience that the "old Zorn," the two-dimensional action-adventure hero, never would've had to face. How far should Zorn go in torturing the treacherous Jaquobs to find out what he needed to know? And then with Lorraine — Ron hadn't even thought of her character when he'd started the book — should Zorn really shoot her son in the kneecap to force her cooperation? Ron had second thoughts and moderated some of these excesses. Sure, things were bad for Zom already, but they could always get worse, Ron thought as he went back and rewrote several scenes, trying to keep in mind that he would have to extract Zorn from his tribulations at some point. Certain phrases and sentences leapt into Ron's mind completely unbidden, as if they'd formed on their own, and these seemed to be the best, most believable parts of his story.

Ron felt occasional twinges of guilt. What must Zorn think? He already was of the opinion that his Creator had abandoned him, and now Ron was throwing him out of the proverbial frying pan. He's probably thinking, "Why me?" Ron instantly recognized this echo of his own thoughts of the past week or two. Zorn's earlier comments made more sense in this light: "I've had enough of conflict. I don't want to be your leading man. Let someone else do it. Give me a normal life. I want to just live and be content."

Ron decided that if their places were reversed somehow, if he were a character in somebody else's book, and his contract problems and the IRS trouble were just plot devices, that he would be really pissed. "But them's the breaks, kiddo," Ron said to Zorn through his computer screen. "I'm the writer; you're the writee." just for good measure, he looked up to a hypothetical novelist Creator and held up his middle finger. "Screw you. I'm going to Tahiti."

The phone rang. Of course if he were having a productive afternoon someone would feel obliged to call, but that's what answering machines were for. Just after the third ring, a significant thought which had been lurking around the edge of his consciousness jumped into the foreground of his mind: Hardy! The accountant was supposed to call him back.

Ron lunged for the phone, but as he picked up the receiver, the answering machine was already shifting into

action. "Hello. You have reached...."

Ron fumbled at the buttons. "Wait! Hold on a second! Don't go away!" he clamored over his own voice. He accidentally pulled the machine and the phone off the table on which they'd sat. The receiver was yanked from his hand. "Damn!" Finally, he got hold of the receiver again and the answering machine seemed to have finished its business. "Hello? Hardy?"

"Sorry. Just me," said Irene.

"Ah, dammit."

"Excuse me?"

"No, no, no, no," Ron tried to recover. "I didn't mean that. I mean I did, but I didn't. I thought you might be Hardy — or that he was calling."

"Well, I am certainly not he, and I take all this to mean that he hasn't returned your call yet."

"Right on both counts."

"I wouldn't hold your breath, Ron."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that I don't think Hardy is going to return your calls any time soon."

"What are you talking about? Why not?"

Irene paused. When she spoke again, her voice was much quieter, as if she didn't want anyone on her end to overhear. "I did some poking around on the computer today after lunch, and I found some interesting tidbits."

"Such as..." Why couldn't Irene ever just say what she had to say without it turning into some elaborate story?

"Such as," she continued, "I found out that your accountant, Mr. Benjamin Hardy, has all of his accounts, business and personal, at Transamerica, so I tapped into their files and took a peek."

"How did you manage that?" Ron asked.

"I have my ways," answered Irene. "Besides, if I told you all my secrets, you might not love me any more."

"Was it legal?"

"More or less."

"That means 'no,'" Ron guessed.

"Hush up and listen. I should've said that Hardy used to have all his accounts at Transamerica, because he's closed them all out."

"And..." Ron waited for her to go on but was met with what he imagined was supposed to be an ominous silence. "So?" he prodded.

"So?" Irene was incredulous.

"Yeah, so what?" Ron asked.

"So he closed out all his accounts. Gone."

"Okay. So he changed banks. People do that sometimes, Irene," said Ron. "It's more frequent than, say, a solar eclipse."

"Hello, Ron. Real world here. Reality check," Irene grumbled. "Do you mean to tell me that you find nothing suspicious, or even odd, about your accountant closing out all of his accounts and disappearing?"

"When did he disappear?" asked Ron.

"You haven't been able to get in touch with him, in an emergency situation, for days now," she pointed out.

"Irene, dear," Ron said calmly, "there is a distinct connotative difference between being out of the office and not taking calls, on the one hand, and disappearing, on the other. It's probably some obscure federal holiday, or a Jewish holiday. Is Hardy a Jewish name?"

"He doesn't work at the post office, dear," responded Irene. "He is not a federal employee. Accountants don't take obscure holidays off. And shame on you for perpetuating a stereotype of Jewish moneychangers and swindlers."

"I did not..."

"Regardless," Irene went on, "Hardy is not a Jewish name."

"Irene, I have a headache."

"It's from sticking your head in the sand, dear."

Ron bit his lip out of exasperation. He smoothed back his hair and took a deep breath. "I appreciate your concern," he explained, "but I really think you should stop watching Hard Copy and Inside Edition."

There was silence on the line, but Ron could almost hear Irene seething. Perhaps he'd taken his teasing a bit too far.

"I will pretend you did not say that," she said in a very measured tone.

"That would probably be best," Ron agreed.

"Best for you, yes."

Ron thought it might be advisable, at this point, to change the subject. "So, aside from electronic espionage and committing multiple federal felonies, how was work today?"

"Don't change the subject," Irene shot back. "I haven't finished yet. Tell me, Mr. I Trust Everybody, have you made any sizable withdrawals from your checking and savings accounts recently?"

"How sizable?" he asked.

"About $250,000 sizable."

"No, of course not."

"Well, someone has. Perhaps someone who has disappeared and can't be reached."

"That's impossible!" Ron protested.

"Possible and done."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Ron's heart sank to his stomach. He couldn't believe it. $250,000! Sure, he was making good money from the earlier book, but he was by no means a millionaire. This easily overshadowed his contract problems.

"Why didn't you tell me this right away?" he asked frantically.

"I was getting to it, but you got me sidetracked," Irene answered innocently.

"Have you called the police?"

"I can't," she explained. "I'm not supposed to be digging through these accounts. That's why I called you. I've got it all figured out. You need to call the bank for a balance inquiry. Otherwise you wouldn't know about any of this. Then call the police."

"Holy shit."

"No need to be crude, dear. Listen, you should probably get on this right away, okay?" she asked.

"Right," said Ron distractedly. His thoughts were racing in fifty different directions, two hundred fifty thousand different directions, to be precise.

"I have to go," said Irene. "I'll check on you tonight. I'm sure the police will keep you busy for a while. Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, dear."

He nodded his head, forgetting she couldn't see him. "Thanks." The significance of Irene's last statement was lost on Ron, swept away with his rapidly vanishing dreams of Tahiti.

He sat for several moments with the receiver in his hand before he thought to look for the police number. Not exactly a 91I emergency. Wait. I'm supposed to call the bank first. He started to dial Irene's number out of habit but caught himself. Not the Construction Loan Office, stupid. He found the main branch number in the phonebook.

This can't be happening to me. How much worse can it get?

Chapter Eleven

Zorn stood atop the tower that he had laboriously constructed, stone by stone, in this prayerful realm of his mine. The great craggy mass of the mountain was far below, the foundation upon which his ascent toward the heavens and his Creator had begun. Ominous clouds were scattered across the dark sky. Is this storm my doing or His? Zorn wondered. He no longer wore the scarlet robes of the Hierophant. They lay folded on the wall at the edge of the tower. Instead, he wore the drab gray of the imprisoned. His feet were manacled and chained together as were his hands.

The Creator was near, although His attention was not directed this way at the moment. Zorn had inexplicably been able to recognize and distinguish such subtleties from the beginning. It was like the difference between standing in the dark and having a powerful searchlight turned on you. Probably the Creator would turn His energies toward the tower eventually, but Zorn was not in a patient mood.

Creator!

His ontological attention shifted toward Zorn. YOU

RANG?

Zorn raised his arms into the air brandishing the chain that bound his hands together. Look what has become of me. The Creator was still in contact, Zorn could feel, but there was no response. I may risk your wrath, Creator, but I don't know what harm it could do me anymore. From the beginning, I have tried to serve you as I was told I should. I sacrificed so much, everything that would've made my life more comfortable, more pleasant, more fulfilling perhaps, although I never suspected that until recently. When I could've been secure with my family as a boy, I cast that aside because I saw my duty. While I studied and learned the Orthodoxy, I never let friends or enjoyment or anything so frivolous hinder my advancement. I was chosen to be an Inquisitor, and I poured all my energies into the job. I saw myself as upholding a sacred trust. It was an awesome responsibility, and I was singular of mind and purpose.

I NEVER ASKED TO BE SERVED. I NEVER ASKED YOU TO DEVOTE YOUR LIFE TO ME.

You never asked? Can you disavow responsibility so easily? Doesn't the Theocracy exist to serve you? Didn't you create it? You've told me as much.

I CREATED THE THEOCRACY AS... AS A SETTING, A BACKGROUND FOR CHARACTERS, FOR PEOPLE TO LIVE IN AND INTERACT WITH. ITS PURPOSE WAS ALMOST SECONDARY. THE FORM IT TOOK WAS INCIDENTAL IN A WAY. I NEEDED SOME BENEVOLENT ENTITY.

Benevolent? Is it benevolent now? I used to think it was, but it's changed, or maybe, out of weakness, I've changed. Maybe all my troubles sprang from my own pride, but I started to question — the first and greatest of sins because it leads to all the others. I began to doubt, and to search for individual rather than communal spirituality, that which the Theocracy cannot tolerate. And when I started to question, everything changed. Even as I built this tower, the rest of my world crumbled. Those with whom I'd worked, those next to whom I'd quested for righteousness, were pursuing me.

My certainty was gone, the status quo was irrevocably destroyed, but I had found my Creator, and so I didn't lose hope completely. But my Creator turned out to be callous and uncaring, so I set out on my own. Damn the Theocracy! Damn the Creator! Maybe I could uphold some sort of justice by finding the killers who took Jarvis. Look where that got me.

Zorn rattled the chain that hung from his wrists.

Apparently I was acting out of pride again, and I've received what reward I am to receive. Is this what I deserve?

I sit roi'.ing in a cell of the people who would destroy everything you've built.

LISTEN FOR A MINUTE, ZORN. I CREATED THE THEOCRACY TO SERVE A CERTAIN PURPOSE, BUT I DIDN'T ZAP IT OUT OF EXISTENCE AS SOON AS THAT GOAL HAD BEEN REALIZED. IF THAT WERE THE WAY I WORKED, YOU WOULD'VE BOUGHT THE FARM ON THE TOWER WITH KROAKER. BUT THAT WOULD'VE LEFT ME WITHOUT A SEQUEL, WOULDN'T IT? YOU SHOULD KNOW, AS I'VE BEEN REALIZING RECENTLY, THAT JUST BECAUSE YOU LEAVE SOMETHING ALONE DOESN'T MEAN THAT IT STAYS THE SAME. OTHER DECISIONS HAVE BEEN MADE. YOU'VE MADE SOME; OTHERS IN THE THEOCRACY HAVE MADE SOME.

IS THAT WHAT YOU'RE COMPLAINING ABOUT, THAT ALL THESE DECISIONS HAVEN'T BEEN MADE AS YOU WOULD'VE LIKED? WELL, THINK AGAIN, BUDDY, BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT IN CHARGE OF THE WORLD. I CREATED IT, ASSUMING THAT IT REALLY EXISTS SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN IN MY NOGGIN, WHICH I'M NOT CONVINCED OF YET, AND I'M FINDING THAT I'M NOT IN CHARGE OF EVERYTHING.

Zorn was at a loss to interpret what he was hearing.

You mean what happens is beyond your control?

YES AND NO. I SET A STORY IN MOTION. I CREATED THE PLACE, THE PEOPLE, SOME OF THE DYNAMICS. I THOUGHT I CREATED THE PLOT, BUT I FIND NOW THAT, IN SOME WAYS, IT'S RUNNING ON ITS OWN AND I'M JUST WATCHING. AND YOU KNOW WHAT? IT'S MORE REAL THAT WAY. I'M JUST STARTING TO FIGURE OUT HOW REAL.

WOULD YOU RATHER BE A MINDLESS SLAVE

BLINDLY FOLLOWING EVERY ORDER YOU WERE GIVEN BY THE THEOCRACY?

The only sound on the tower was the wind pushing the huge banks of dark clouds.

ANSWER ME. THIS ISN'T A RHETORICAL QUESTION. WOULD YOU RATHER BE FOLLOWING STEP A, STEP B, STEP C, THAN MAKING UP YOUR OWN MIND?

No, but...

BUT NOTHING. DON'T BLAME ME FOR THE DECISIONS YOU COME TO AND THE ACTIONS YOU TAKE. BE WILLING TO ACCEPT RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR ACTIONS. MAYBE THE THEOCRACY'S AS CROOKED AS A THREE DOLLAR BILL...

A what?

NEVER MIND. LOOK. DON'T WHINE WHEN EVERYTHING DOESN'T GO YOUR WAY. YOU DON'T KNOW HOW EASY YOU'VE HAD IT UP TO NOW. YOU ACCOMPLISHED A LOT AS AN INQUISITOR, BUT THERE WAS NEVER A CHANCE YOU'D FAIL.

But on the tower with Kroaker, I almost...

GIVE ME A BREAK. I HAD YOU THE WHOLE TIME. YOU'RE STILL ALIVE.

The threatening clouds, churning and full of dancing flashes of lightning, had reached and extended beyond the tower; they were on the verge of blotting out the entire sky. Zorn shook his chains at the heavens once again.

If that's the case, then what good are you? he railed at the Creator.

EXCUSE ME?

If there is no reward for piety, if I am on my own and must accept my lot without the possibility of attaining divine favor, then what is the point in serving you? If all that is true, then you are worse than a petty tyrant. You're not only

callous and uncaring, you're impotent.

On one hand, you say I am part of some story, which leads me to believe that you have chosen my path for me. Then you tell me to accept responsibility for my actions. You speak of control, yet disavow responsibility in the same breath. Which is it?

THERE'S A BIT OF BOTH INVOLVED. TRUTH, I THINK, IS NOT ALWAYS STRAIGHTFORWARD.

Of course. How convenient. So I am of negligible importance and value as a mere character in your story, a trivial bit of entertainment. But I am also responsible for my own suffering and all the pain I've been through and inflicted on others.

There's a boy dead, caught in the crossfire. There's another boy dead, blown to pieces. There's a woman, an innocent woman, imprisoned, if she's still living. There's an Inquisitor in critical condition with a new kidney to replace the one ruptured by a bullet. Which of these are my fault? Which are parts of your story that I was caught up in? You can't have it both ways.

WHEN I STARTED THIS STORY, YOU WEREN'T REAL TO ME. ANGLIA WASN'T REAL. MAYBE THAT'S WHY THE FIRST BOOK WASN'T AS GOOD AS OTHERS THAT DO HAVE THAT REALITY.

So, we are not even a good story for you.

BE QUIET AND LISTEN. IN THAT WAY, WHAT I'VE DONE TO YOU IS JUSTIFIED. I WASN'T DOING IT TO A PERSON. I WASN'T HAVING TERRIBLE TRAGEDIES FALL ON SOMEONE REAL, JUST ON AN IDEA. SOMEHOW, YOU'VE GROWN BEYOND THAT INITIAL IDEA, AND I HAVEN'T KEPT UP. EVEN AFTER YOU CONTACTED ME, WHEN I STARTED TO REALIZE THAT SOMETHING DIFFERENT WAS GOING ON, IT WAS STILL A GAME TO ME. LIKE YOU SAID, EVERYTHING HAS GOTTEN WORSE, AND I'VE EITHER CAUSED MOST OF THAT OR AT LEAST

PLAYED RIGHT ALONG. I'M NOT SURE WHICH. DID THE IDEAS COME TO ME AND I MADE THEM HAPPEN, OR DID THEY COME TO ME BECAUSE THEY'D ALREADY HAPPENED? I DON'T KNOW.

I'VE BEEN TOO BUSY TRYING TO MAKE SURE THAT I'M IN CONTROL. THAT'S WHY EVERYTHING'S GONE HAYWIRE FOR YOU; THAT'S WHY YOU'RE LOCKED UP RIGHT NOW. ONLY RECENTLY I'VE STARTED TO FEEL REGRET AT WHAT'S HAPPENING, AND THAT'S WHAT LEADS ME TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE REAL, THAT I FEEL REGRET FOR WHAT I THINK I'VE DONE TO YOU. DO I FEEL THE REGRET BECAUSE YOU ARE REAL, OR DO YOU BECOME REAL BECAUSE I NOW FEEL REGRET?

Word games. Nothing more.

MAYBE. MAYBE NOT. ALL I KNOW IS THAT I CAN'T STOP THE STORY, AND EVEN IF I TRIED TO, IT MIGHT NOT STOP. YOU MAY HAVE TAKEN ON TOO MUCH LIFE. BUT I AM GOING TO TRY TO HELP.

Zorn dropped to his knees on the tower. The wind picked up as large raindrops began to attack him and the tower and the great stone. Unlike the gentle beginnings of a refreshing shower, these were the frenzied harbingers of a merciless tempest.

Empty promises. How can you be the CreatorI You're neither omnipotent nor wise.

SORRY'TO DISAPPOINT YOU, BUT I'M IT. LOOK. YOU DON'T HAVE TO SERVE ME. JUST LIVE YOUR LIFE. DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO TO GET BY.

An existence without purpose. What a noble goal for a worthless creation.

FIND YOUR OWN MEANING, ZORN. DON'T WAIT FOR ME OR THE THEOCRACY OR SOMEBODY ELSE TO HAND IT TO YOU.

This is nonsense. I was content when I was genuinely a part of the Theocracy. For whatever reason, that ended, and I'll never be able to go back to that again. But you are not the answer for which I've been searching. You offer me no solutions. If you are the Creator, then perhaps I will search for my own meaning, because you aren't worth serving. I think what is more likely is that, in my longings, I have created you in my mind, that you are a figment of my imagination, and not the other way around.

A PIECE OF UNDIGESTED BEEF?

I wanted to find something out there so badly, to justify the doubts that had arisen in my mind, that I constructed you. I found the Creator of my own making, but since you are of my making, your shortcomings are not that far removed from my own: uncertainty, pridefulness, trying to apply simplistic solutions and circular reasoning to complex problems. I have truly made the Creator in my own image.

YOU'VE LOST IT, ZORN. I THOUGHT I WAS WACKO FOR TALKING TO A DREAM. I DECIDE THE DREAM IS REAL, AND NOW IT'S ACCUSING ME OF BEING IMAGINARY. GO FIGURE. YOU'RE THE ONE WHO CAME LOOKING FOR ME, BIG MAN. NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND. IF YOU DON'T LIKE WHAT YOU'VE FOUND, THEN THINK WHATEVER YOU WANT. I MIGHT JUST STOP TRYING TO SELL THIS BOOK AND LET YOUR ASS ROT IN SOME CELL. BUT THEN I WOULDN'T BE A VERY BENEVOLENT SUPREME BEING, WOULD I? YOU FIGURE IT ALL OUT FOR YOURSELF, AND WHEN YOU DO, LET ME KNOW. I DON'T NEED THIS FROM MY OWN CHARACTER.

And then the Creator was gone. For the first time since Zorn had stumbled across His presence, there was emptiness, not attention turned elsewhere but rather void.

The wind was still increasing in intensity and violence. It whipped at Zorn's gray shirt and pants. Even his chains swayed from the force of the gusts. As the last of the light fled from the monstrous clouds that dominated the sky, the temperature dropped dramatically. Had Zorn been looking beyond the tower, he would have seen the wall of rain approaching, the drops so large and dense that it looked like a wave about to crash down upon the tower. As it was, Zorn looked only at the tower floor, head bowed, body wracked by convulsions of rage-filled and self-pitying sobbing.

The structure shook as the fury of the storm swept about it. A small stone on the uppermost portion of the wall was pried loose and carried away by the wind. The rain, now mixed with small hailstones, pummeled Zorn, stung the exposed back of his neck, bounced off his body from the ferocity of the impact. The tower swayed slightly.

Again Zorn raised his chains toward the heavens, shaking them furiously. His tears mixed with the rain that streamed down his face, collecting in puddles about his knees on the tower. "Go then!" he yelled above the storm. "I would rather have a distant unapproachable Creator than one so hypocritical and impotent! You are a reflection of my own mind! You have only led me from one set of chains to another!"

Lightning flashed and struck the tower within feet of Zorn. Fragments of stone bit into his arm and the right side of his upturned face more sharply than did the hailstones. A second bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, and a third and a fourth. One after another, in rapid succession, they tore into the side and the base of the tower. Sparks and splinters of stone flew into the air. The tower shuddered and pitched to one side. Zorn was thrown over the edge of the now leaning tower by the blast. As he began to fall, the chain between his feet caught on a promontory of stone that jutted into the sky from the disintegrating tower. All around him, chunks of stone were jarred loose and plummeted into the darkness.

"Kill me! Crush me! I don't care!" he bellowed as he hung suspended upside down. "I do not care!"

The wind pulled at Zorn. It snatched the words right from his mouth and carried them away. One final flash of lightning pierced the fractured tower, destroying the will that held it together. The tower gave way completely. Zorn's precarious support crumbled beneath him and, like just another stone, he fell into the darkness, his howls

of rage heard only by the wind.

Ron's nap was interrupted around 10:30 p.m. by Irene arriving at the apartment. Normally, pontificating over the necessary evil of Muni buses was her first order of business after utilizing that particular form of mass transportation, but this evening there were more important matters.

After letting Irene in, Ron plopped down on his reclmer in the living room with the beer he'd been nursing before he'd fallen asleep. His foot knocked over the two empty beer bottles on the floor beside the chair. It had been a hellish evening for him. He had called the bank and then the police, as Irene had suggested. About an hour later, the detectives had shown up, Ward and Stowe. Ward had asked most of the questions. Ron had never before met a person who looked so noticeably average — not short, not tall; not too thin or too fat; brownish-blond hair, not completely straight but with some curl; normal skin coloring, not too light or dark; everything average. The man could probably blend into a crowd, Ron thought, even if he were the only person in a room. The larger of the two men, Stowe, had skulked around the apartment looking at everything, picking up everything, and making

Ron particularly uncomfortable in general.

Irene sat down on Ron's lap and curled up against him as he told her about the interview.

"It was odd," he said. "I got the feeling, for some reason, that they thought that I had done something wrong."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it was like they thought that maybe I had just lost the money somewhere, or that I was trying to pin the blame on someone else for something I had done. They never said as much, but it was the feeling I got from them. Maybe it's just how anybody feels guilty when you're talking to the police. You start thinking about how you ran a stop sign or parked illegally or were speeding. Priests too."

"Priests feel guilty when they talk to the police?" Irene asked skeptically.

"No." Ron patted her on the face, a soft slap. "People feel guilty when they talk to a priest. Haven't you ever been at a party or a dinner or somewhere, and somebody who's a priest gets introduced to the little circle of people you're talking with? Whatever was going on stops. Everybody starts thinking about how they haven't been to church recently, or how they really shouldn't have slept with their boss's wife, or how they never mailed the check for that Jerry Lewis Telethon pledge, and they don't want to think about this stuff. So they all start asking the priest questions. How big is his church? How long has he been there? How does he manage to write a sermon every week? I know those dinners and things are superficial anyway, but it becomes a very forced, very intentionally superficial setting all of a sudden, instead of naturally superficial."

"I'm not sure I see the connection," Irene said apologetically.

Ron sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. I guess I felt like they expected me to confess something."

"But you called them for help," Irene pointed out.

"I know. I know. That's why it was so weird. It was probably just me, all in my head. I'm just being paranoid."

"I wouldn't say paranoid." Irene traced her finger along the line of his jaw. "At least not severely so."

Ron was in no mood for teasing. He started to stand up, almost dumping Irene onto the floor, but she managed to steady herself and hold onto him. "Sit down. Sit down," she laughed. "I'm sorry." Her joviality implied that she wasn't completely repentant. "You've had a bad time of it today, and here I am making fun of you. I'm sorry." Ron settled back down into the chair. "What did they ask you about?" she asked.

"My relationship with Hardy. How long he's worked for me. If we've had any foul ups or miscommunications before."

"Is that what they think, that this is just a big miscommunication?"

"I think they just wanted to get as much background information as they could before they went poking around. They even asked about my work with Nate, and if I had many projects in the works now." Ron took a swig of his beer.

Irene gnawed on her finger as she thought. "I guess they figured if you did have a lot of other deals pending, that it would be silly for Hardy to run off with your money now, when he could wait and get lots more."

"Maybe that'll make them believe me then. It's not like I do have hundreds of other projects paying off." Ron chuckled. "I told them if Nate didn't get my contracts in order soon that I was going to shoot him."

"So did they seem sympathetic overall," Irene wanted to know, "other than making you feel guilty?"

Ron glared at her for a moment. "It sounded like they were going to look into everything."

"I just hope it's not too late," said Irene.

"Me too," Ron agreed. "Me too. At any rate, Tahiti's out. They want me to 'remain accessible.' I mentioned Tahiti, and got the distinct impression that they didn't consider it overly 'accessible.'"

"Well, it would have been difficult anyway, logistically at least, with me trying to get off work." Irene slid off Ron's lap and picked up the beer bottles on the floor. She held out her hand for the bottle he held, from which he promptly drank the last swallow and handed it to her. A few moments later she returned from the kitchen with a fresh beer for him and one for herself as well. "You certainly keep well-stocked," she commented.

"All the essentials."

She settled herself on Ron's lap again, kissed him on the cheek, then leaned back from him a bit and folded her arms. "There's something I need to tell you about,, Ron."

Ron didn't like the sound of that introduction. It smacked uncomfortably of "I've been thinking...." That was the last thing he needed right now. The possibilities began to race through his mind. He was certain that Irene wasn't the duplicitous type to be seeing someone else. He would know. But wasn't that what every duped lover thought? Maybe she didn't feel like putting up with his problems any longer. Maybe she wanted a simpler life to share than what his had become. He hadn't really thought about iosing her before, and the idea disturbed him.

All these thoughts assailed him, but he responded only, "Okay."

Irene stared at her beer bottle and took a deep breath. Ron caught himself noticing the rise and fall of her chest. Hon; can you think about that right now! he admonished himself.

"Have you ever heard of the Technocracy?" Irene asked.

"The what?"

"The Technocracy."

"Not the Theocracy, from my book?"

"No."

"Can't say that I have." What is she talking about?

"Some people believe that the Technocracy is a type of shadow government. Not just in the United States, around the entire world."

"Like the Illuminati?" Ron asked.

"Similar to the Illuminati, except larger, more powerful. The Technocracy makes the Illuminati look like kindergarten," she explained. "The Technocracy controls numerous aspects of our culture and everyday life through government agencies, corporations, regulatory commissions, various law enforcement groups."

Ron breathed a sigh of relief. He'd expected some type of personal trauma on top of everything else that had already gone wrong. Instead, it was just another conspiracy theory. Maybe he was paranoid.

"What they want, basically, is to destroy chaos, to codify every decision that humans are faced with, to create a society that is completely structured and free from the inherent uncertainties of free will," Irene continued.

"Have they tried the religious right?"

"Be serious," she admonished him. "A lot of that is already a part of it all. Televangelism, reactionary talk radio. Do you think it's a coincidence?" Her eyes bore straight into Ron. He had never seen her this serious, this intent about one of her theories.

Ron nodded thoughtfully. "I have one question."

"What?"

"Where do Atlantis and JFK fit in? They have to be in here somewhere."

Now it was Irene's turn to be irate. She twisted around and tried to slap him. Ron managed to deflect most of the blow. "I'm trying to help you," she insisted.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry." He set his glibness aside. "There's a reason you're telling me this."

"Yes." Irene began to count off on her fingers. "One: contract problems to an extent that is far from normal. Two: problems with the IRS, the ultimate regulator and government enforcer. Three: your accountant apparently embezzles a large amount of your money and runs off. Four: law enforcement officials who, you say, seem to be more interested in what you've done than the man who has broken the law. Can you sit here and tell me that all that together doesn't create the feeling of a conspiracy against you?"

Ron, counting on his fingers, imitated her as he rebutted her arguments. "One: yes, the contract stuff is weird, but that could just be Nate's personality conflict with publishers..."

"With every publisher he's talked to?" Irene pressed. "I wouldn't think he could've made a living this long."

"Regardless," Ron continued, "it's not impossible. Improbable yes, impossible no. Maybe it's just time for me to get a new agent. Maybe Nate's time is up. Two: lots of people get audited. And three: Hardy has screwed up in a big way. Hopefully, I'll get my money back, and he'll rot in jail for the rest of his life. Four: it was probably just my imagination about the police. I could easily have misread everything with all that's been going on."

Irene held her hand up, fingers extended. "Five: it all happened at the same time."

"Sure, it's incredibly coincidental..."

"There's no such thing as coincidence." She had that fierce expression again. "It's just a clever excuse."

Women, thought Ron. There's just no arguing some things with them, and you never know what those things are until they blow up in your face.

Maybe a different approach at deconstructing Irene's argument would be more productive. "Okay. Never mind for a minute whether it is or is not like you say, okay?"

"All right."

"Answer me this. Why would a world-ruling, super- secret organization give one rat's ass about me?"

Irene shifted in his lap, digging an elbow into his ribs. Was i: an accident? "First of all," she answered as he gasped in pain, "the Technocracy doesn't rule the world, not yet anyway. It wields a tremendous amount of influence. There's a difference." Ron nodded, accepting her stipulation. "As far as why they're paying attention to you, think about your first book, the Theocracy. Like you noticed, they're very similar: the names and, in a way, the purpose. Maybe the Technocracy thinks that the book is a thinly veiled reference to them, and they're not pleased."

"But that's crazy!" Ron stretched out his right leg; his foot was beginning to tingle. "Ah. I have to get up. My leg's going to sleep." They both got out of the recliner. "I made up the Theocracy. Even if the

Technocracy does exist, it's just a coinci- " Seeing

Irene's glare, he decided not to continue with that train of thought. "Whoops! Almost used the C word. Look, even if I did know all of this and it were true, so what? Why should they care if I know? You seem to have heard a good deal about them, and no one's sabotaging your life."

Irene finished her beer. Ron realized he'd fallen behind.

"I had to do a lot of digging and reading to come up with this information," Irene explained. "It's not like all this came out of Reader's Digest. And if I went around publicly expounding these ideas or publishing best-selling novels about them, I'm sure they'd take notice."

Irene sat on the couch as Ron took her empty bottle this time and went to get more beer. "I don't know, Irene." He came and sat next to her, grabbed a pillow, and put it on her lap where he rested his head. "I don't know what to believe anymore."

She began to stroke his hair gently and slowly, running her fingers from his temple over his ear and down to his neck. "There could be even more to it, you know," Irene suggested.

"More? Like what?"

"Like, remember me telling you about the Syndicate? They're part of the Technocracy, and there's another organization, the New World Order, that's also a part. They could easily be behind your IRS troubles, and they control some law enforcement agencies also. These two detectives could be Technocracy operatives."

Ron sat up. He had to know if Irene was as serious as she seemed to be. "Do you really, honest to God, think some devious secret organization is out to get me? Do you really think that's what's happening?"

Irene spoke in calm, measured, rational tones. "I think there are too many factors involved in everything that's been going on with you for them all to have been separate, isolated incidents that just happened to hit at the same time."

My God, she does believe it.

"I think what I've suggested," Irene continued, "goes a long way toward explaining events."

Ron's shoulders slumped. Irene's ideas, wacky on the surface, weren't anymore far-fetched than what he believed was happening with Zorn. "For the sake of argument, let's say this Technocracy is out to get me. What would you, being so knowledgeable in these things, suggest that I do?"

Irene ignored his sarcasm and thought for a moment. "If they're trying to keep you from writing, there must be an important reason that you should go ahead and finish your book, although I couldn't tell you what it would be."

"But you yourself said," Ron pointed out, "that they weren't trying to keep me from writing, just from publishing. Maybe I should just stop writing."

Irene grimaced just a bit. "Well, you don't want to cut off your nose to spite your face. I mean you want to publish your next book someday, and you can't publish it if you don't finish writing it."

"But if what you think is true, Irene, then I may never be able to publish it anyway. So why bother?"

"Could you just give up like that?" she asked. "I would think having someone trying to stop you would make you more determined, being the contrary person you are."

"I am not a contrary person."

"And what about Zorn? Aren't you curious to find out what's really going on with that? If he's real, don't you think you have some responsibility to... I don't know... to help him out? Don't you owe him anything?"

Ron couldn't believe what he was hearing. How dare she suggest that he owed anything to a fictional character whom he had created, and who was helping to make his life hell? Especially after Zorn's defiant behavior tonight, Ron wasn't inclined to concede such a point. "I don't owe him a thing. If anybody owes anybody, he owes me! He owes me for his very existence." Who did Zorn think he was anyway? Ron was sick and tired of people trying to make him accountable for everything — Zorn did it; the police seemed to be doing it; and now even Irene was trying to evoke feelings of guilt in him. "I never promised him an easy time of things. Why should he expect that? Nobody else gets special treatment. It's not a case of bad things happening to good people. It's just things happening to people — bad things happen to good people; bad things happen to bad people; good things happen to good people; good things happen to bad people. It's a fact of life, fictional or otherwise. You don't have to like it, but you do have to live with it."

Irene was cowed by Ron's tirade. He was a bit surprised himself by the outburst and chuckled. "It does kind of make you stop and think, doesn't it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Ron stood up from the couch and began taking slow, methodical steps around the living room, the movement lending rhythm to his thoughts, "my mother always used to tell me that she hoped I grew up and had a son who was just like me. I don't think she meant that in a complimentary way. Maybe Zorn is that son, in some way. I mean in some capacity — whether he's flesh and blood, or my neurosis, or a computer glitch — Zorn is real."

Irene sat and listened attentively, allowing Ron to wander with his thoughts, to carry them to some conclusion.

"I could see myself," Ron explained, "wishing that Zorn had to put up with some fictional creation of his own just like I do with him, just like my mom wished for me. Don't you see?"

Irene didn't respond, but Ron could see from her expression that she didn't see. "Zorn may not realize it, but he's rebelling just like an adolescent would. He's exerting his own free will, expanding the domain of his responsibilities." The pace of Ron's steps quickened. He felt as if he were onto something. "Instead of being resentful of him and trying to stifle his growth, I should encourage him; I should help him!"

"So you're going to keep writing?" Irene ventured.

To Ron, the question seemed beside the point. "Of course I'm going to keep writing. But there's more. Just think of it. Zorn never suspected my true nature. He wanted some lofty, omnipotent, benevolent Creator. Instead, he got stuck with me." Ron, still pacing, tapped himself on the chest with both hands. "Think of all our religions that worship some lofty Creator. Maybe our Creator is just some hack writer trying to pay his bills!"

Irene was deep in thought, tracing the implications of Ron's suggestions.

"This whole city, the whole world," he went on, "could be a library... books in a different form, each person's life the story of some cosmic writer. Some stories are good, uplifting; some are depressing,

or juvenile, or a waste of time."

"Don't you think you're making a bit much of this?" Irene asked skeptically. "Are you searching for truth, or are you trying to mold God into your image?"

Ron raised his hands over his head to accentuate his point. "But Zorn is the proof! All these philosophical proofs for God's existence amount to nothing more than semantics: people trying to justify what they already believed. Pascal had the right idea. He was a betting man. Well, I'm a betting man too, and I know for a sure thing that Zorn has talked to me. I may have created him and his world, but I know damn well I'm not the end-all-and- be-all of everything. Don't try to lay that kind of responsibility at my feet."

Irene fidgeted on the couch. She grabbed his hand as he walked past and pulled him over to the couch. "So where does all this leave you?"

Ron sat beside her again. "I don't know exactly. But I do know that I didn't do anything wrong. I don't care what Zorn thinks or what the police think." He paused to think for a moment. "Tomorrow I'll start helping Zorn out, not because I owe him anything, mind you, but because he's been through enough. It's time to straighten things out for him." Now it was Ron's turn to grab Irene. He held her by the shoulders and shook her mildly, barely able to contain his newfound enthusiasm. "Just think. After I finish this book, I can give Zorn his head and just write down what happens. I won't have to make up the stories. Of course, if he decided to settle down, get married, and live a quiet, boring little life, I might have to prod him a little, but we'll cross that bridge if we come to it." A grin crept across his face. He kissed Irene lightly, then released her.

She started to speak, but Ron had already left her and gone into the study. "Maybe I'll go ahead and write for a few hours before I go to bed."

Chapter Twelve

Once again, Tun Tzu pulled himself up onto the rocky outcropping at the top of the hill and rested in the shadow of the bamboo tower. There was no discernible means for reckoning the passage of time in this mental realm. Perhaps in portions of Ron Church's brain that were closer to the surface, that interacted with the outside world in a more conscious manner, there would be day and night. But not here.

The sky remained light; day and night did not trade places. Luckily, Tun Tzu had never had any trouble sleeping during the day, so when he was tired he made a pallet from some blankets and laid down to rest. Likewise, when he was hungry, he ate from the baskets of fruits and granola and vegetables that invariably appeared whenever he thought of food. He spent countless hours following and observing salamanders and cranes and the tiny insects that burrowed in the swamp mud. The majority of his time, however, Tun Tzu spent in meditation, pondering the events in which he had become entangled, contemplating all that the Creator's Creator had told him. Among these things the promise "I'll be here when you want to talk," and now Tun Tzu wanted to talk.

The sage pried himself from his resting place on the rock and climbed the ladder a second time. At the top, John, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt from a restaurant called Baja Bean Co. — there was a little desperado bean wearing a sombrero and playing a guitar on the front — greeted Tun Tzu with a smile. "Hello."

Tun Tzu nodded. The table and chairs were the same, only instead of a tea pot and cups, this time two brown bottles sat on the table in front of John.

"Would you like a beer?" the Creator's Creator asked amiably.

"Yes. Thank you."

John twisted off the caps and pushed one bottle toward Tun Tzu who casually sniffed at the beer before trying a sip. The drink was slightly bitter but much milder than the muliana wine which he was used to drinking.

"Have you heard of Germany?" John asked. "It's a land of strong beer, not like this stuff. My friend Jens, from Germany, always told this one joke. I think it was the only one he knew in English. What do American beer and sex in a canoe have in common?" Without waiting for Tun Tzu to reply, John answered, "They're both fucking close to water."

Tun Tzu smiled politely and nodded. Somehow the humor of the particular phraseology had eluded him.

"It's probably funnier if you're American," John suggested, "or German... or from this world." Judiciously moving on to other matters, he set down his bottle, rubbed his hands together, and asked, "So, what can I do for you today, Tun Tzu? Are you finding everything you need in the grove? I hope you're not too uncomfortable."

"This place is not unpleasant," Tun Tzu took a large swig of his beer, "although I was curious as to when I might be permitted to leave."

John winced, his smile shifting to an expression of concern. "I know, I know. I'm really sorry about bringing you here and keeping you. Personally, I've never been sucked into someone's brain, but I can't imagine that it would be much fun. Truth is, though, I can't have you running around loose, complicating my story. I've had to fix enough weirdness already. Ron's characters were supposed to bug him, not me. I don't mean that disrespectfully, but when it comes right down to it, I don't have anything else for you to do for another four or five chapters, so I need you to stay here, out of the way."

Tun Tzu sat quietly. He hadn't expected to be released. John had been honest about needing to keep him here, and why shouldn't one so directly empowered by the tzu- jan be honest? That Tun Tzu could affect him through magick was inconceivable — it would be like assaulting the ocean armed only with a bucket of water.

"Look what's already happened." John began to count off on his fingers. "First, you pop up and try to reveal too much to Ron too soon, and I have to keep you in here because I can't just delete you. Second, I have to rewrite a whole scene so Ron won't figure out that Irene is part of the Technocracy. That's my surprise at the end of the book; he can't find out in the middle. Then what does Ron decide to do? To go to Tahiti! Can you believe it?" John pushed his chair back from the table and began pacing around the elevated bamboo room. "And what happens when I try to edit this fool idea out of his head? I can't do it. just like Ron trying to edit Zorn, the keys just don't respond. I can't do it. I guess I'm having the same problem with Ron that he did with Zorn. He's taken on too much a life of his own, and I can't control him completely anymore. I can add elements to the story to push it in the direction I want it to go, but I can't just erase what's come about that I didn't write. So I have to bring in the police, who are controlled by the Technocracy, and they tell him not to leave town. That seems to have done the trick."

Tun Tzu was intrigued by this inside look at how the world was run, although it seemed a bit haphazard to him. He sipped his beer as he listened.

"I'm sorry. You came here for a reason, and I've been rambling on about my problems," John apologized. "What's on your mind?" He sat back down and took a sip of his beer.

Tun Tzu allowed a thoughtful silence to fall between them, then spoke. "I have thought at length about that of which we spoke at our last meeting, that Ron Church has written a book about the Zorn, and that you are writing a book about Ron Church. Have you considered the possibility that there is less distinction between the Zorn and Ron Church, and also between Ron Church and you, than you might believe?"

"I don't follow."

Tun Tzu tried to rephrase his question. "What if the differences among you and Ron Church and the Zorn are less actual than they are functions of disparate perceptions of reality?"

"Are you talking about the subject-object distinction?" John clarified. "You think that the three of us are basically a unified entity, and..." — he sought words to articulate the concept — "... that... we're perceiving different realities, or creating different realities through our differing perspectives?"

"Each of you experiencing differing manifestations of the same story," Tun Tzu added. "From what I have experienced and read, and from what you have told me, there are certain parallels. Both Ron Church and the Zorn are threatened by dangers unidentified to them; both you and Ron Church are harried by creations having overstepped what you see as their bounds."

John smoothed back his unruly hair . He took another sip of his beer and swished it around in his mouth. "Sounds plausible enough, except Ron and I can't be the same person. He's got an IBM; I've got a Mac."

"Ron Church thought he was creating a picture. He didn't realize that he, too, was within the frame. You create a picture also. Is it not possible that the frame is more encompassing than you are aware?" Tun Tzu finished his beer and set the bottle on the table.

"Anything's possible."

"The tzu-jan flows through you, but it does not begin with you."

"Look." John studied the last bit of liquid that he jiggled around in the bottle. "You can follow your t?u- jan wherever you want. Me? I'm not that worried about it. Maybe some day I'll realize that I'm just an icon on somebody else's computer screen, but, for now, I just need to finish my book."

Tun Tzu could see that this line of reasoning was one that John would not pursue much further, so he allowed his curiosity to wander. "What will happen to the Zorn?" he asked. After all, it had been Tun Tzu's quest to free the Zorn that had plunged him into this otherworldly escapade.

John thought about that for a minute. "I don't know. That's up to Ron, although I would think Zorn would survive. I'm sure Ron wants to write another sequel. I don't mess with Zorn, but Ron I have all figured out, or I thought I did, anyway, before he started going Lone Ranger on me."

Even though Tun Tzu highly valued quiet repose and contemplation, he also appreciated companionship. He had never lacked for discussion with the other six sages in the grove of his home world, the real bamboo grove. Ever since his journey had begun, however, and he'd appeared in San Francisco, such camaraderie had been noticeably lacking. For that reason, this conversation was particularly comforting. "How does such an aberration in your story, a character creating his own direction, complicate matters for you?"

"Well, it's not the end of the world, really. It mainly just keeps me on my toes." John finished his beer and set the bottle down forcefully. "Ahhh. You see, there are other mages in San Francisco. Just as you and the sages hung out together, mages in this world, Ron's world that is, tend to congregate. Only Ron doesn't know about these other mages. He doesn't even know that he's becoming a mage. All this magick with creating your pocket realm has been subconscious for him up until now. He's going to come to the attention of some of these mages, and they're going to attempt to contact him.

That's going to bring everything to a head. None of that is changed, but I do feel like I need to keep a pretty close watch on things to make sure they don't get too far out of hand." John played with his empty bottle on the table; he blew across the opening making a low, hollow whistling sound. He reached down behind his chair and produced two more unopened bottles of beer.

"Care for another?"

Tun Tzu weighed his options then nodded. "I am in no hurry to go somewhere else."

Chapter Thirteen

Zorn had awakened once during the night., and, finding himself surrounded only by darkness, had decided to pray again — not that it would do him any good. Look where his contact with his so-called Creator had gotten him so far. This stormy prayer, full of anger, accusations, and the violent destruction of his tower, would, it seemed, be his last communication with his Creator, a being that Zorn suspected he'd created out of his own despair to rationalize his growing mental instability. Even as he doubted his sanity, however, he knew he could never return to the fold of the Theocracy, in practice or in belief.

He awoke again when the single lightbulb flared to life. The cell was about ten by twelve feet. Its only accommodations were the foot-high concrete slab which served as a bed, the blanket Zorn used to cushion and cover himself, and the toilet in the corner. The thin coating of plaster on the walls seemed to cover rows and rows of cinderblocks. There were no windows. Zorn had no way of telling what time it was — his wristwatch was gone, and there was no window in the cell. He knew, however, that he wanted more sleep, regardless. He closed his eyes again, but despite his mental and physical exhaustion, sleep did not come.

At least now, he comforted himself, all the responsibility of decisions had been lifted from his shoulders. Zorn had discovered that there was no righteousness of purpose — not in serving the Theocracy, certainly not in serving the Creator he'd found — and he was absolved from all responsibility or accountability for following any prescribed path. Perhaps he should feel a new sense of freedom, but for Zorn there was only emptiness and apathy. Even the bleak prospect of a truncated future didn't stir him toward action.

In all likelihood, he would be questioned, probably tortured, maybe used somehow for ALF propaganda, and then shot. A bullet to the back of the head. Maybe they would just move straight to that. Don't count on it, he told himself. Certainly he was the most important catch to come up in their nets, not a resource to be squandered with a quick execution.

No more decisions. Who cared, at this point, if he believed in the Creator, or the Theocracy, or anything?

Zorn wasn't sure how much time had passed when the door opened. It didn't really concern him. Those who were in positions to influence what happened could keep up with the burden of time. He lay still without opening his eyes.

"Get up," said the voice, a trace of bitterness evident.

Zorn opened his eyes. There was one young man standing just inside the cell, two others right outside the open door. All three carried submachine guns. They held their weapons not with the lackadaisical indifference of career soldiers, or with the nervous uncertainty of raw recruits, but rather with the alertness of trained killers. Zorn was used to seeing armed men in uniform, but these three wore civilian clothes, thick sweaters against the cold that Zorn attempted to keep at bay with one threadbare blanket.

"Come on," said the one in the cell, the same voice as before.

Zorn followed the speaker out of the cell and down a hallway that was made of the same plaster and cinderblock, although in many patches the plaster lay crumbled on the floor. Periodically, wooden beams and braces lent support to the walls and ceiling. The other two guards fell in behind him, and Zorn could somehow feel that they were ready to gun him down at the slightest provocation. If he had courage, that would be the quickest way out, but again he lacked the will to be an active participant in determining his fate. Better to let someone else make the decisions. He could always provoke gunfire later.

As he walked down the hallway, Zorn experienced a brief vision of his bullet-ridden body lying on the floor of the corridor, an expanding pool of blood mixing with the dust. Then, just as quickly, he saw the same bloodied body slouched forward on the desk in his office, plaster dust sprinkled on his back and in his hair. For now, however, there was only the hallway as it was, and the echoes of footsteps off the concrete floor.

As they walked and made turn after turn, one part of Zorn's mind was telling him that he should be memorizing their route, formulating some plan of escape, but he watched only the heels of the guard in front of him.

Eventually, they came to their destination. The first guard knocked on the large metal door, and someone opened it from the inside. Zorn almost expected to see a gloomy torture chamber complete with rack and manacles and other ancient devices of persuasion, similar in spirit if not in form to the sterile "interview chambers" of the Theocracy. What awaited him, instead, was a small dingy room that had been converted into a conference area of sorts, again lit by a single naked light bulb. There was a rectangular table under the suspended bulb, and several chairs about the room.

What forcefully captured Zorn's attention as he stepped into the room, however, was one specific person of the six or seven inside — the long angular face, the sharp nose and jutting chin, the eyes that almost seemed too small for the rest of the face.

Zorn was standing in the same room with Brady Trimmerhorn.

How many years had it been since the great Inquisitor's disappearance? Zorn tried to count. Fifteen, twenty? But the distinguished face was similar still to the pictures Zorn had seen. The skin under Trimmerhorn's eyes sagged a bit more perhaps, and he wasn't quite as thin as in his earlier days. The wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth were more pronounced, and his hair was more gray than the youthful chestnut brown Zorn had seen in the archival photos. But there was no mistaking the face.

Was this to be Zorn's fate, to be held captive for twenty years, long past any hope in the outside world for him to still be alive? But Trimmerhorn didn't look particularly ill at ease. He didn't look the part of a prisoner. The legend was leaning against the opposite wall talking to Jaquobs.

jaquobs.

Zorn had also betrayed the Theocracy. He'd even shot a former colleague, but somehow Jaquobs' duplicity seemed more treacherous: calculated and reasoned whereas Zorn's was more spontaneous, irrational. Does that really make him any worse? Zorn wondered.

Zorn was ushered to a chair by the table, and he sat. The others — jaquobs, Trimmerhorn, two other men, and a woman — watched him, and then they sat around the table, all except for Trimmerhorn who remained leaning against the wail two or three feet behind the table, his face lost behind the blinding glare of the dangling light bulb. The guards left and pulled the door shut.

Zorn looked from one face to another. They all met his gaze. None looked away, not even Jaquobs.

"I've watched your career, Zorn," said Trimmerhorn. His voice wasn't as deep as Zorn had always imagined it.

"I've read a good bit about yours," Zorn responded.

Trimmerhorn stepped forward and leaned on the empty chair across from Zorn. His face was not unkind. "You've been the DO's rising star," Trimmerhorn continued. "Up through the ranks, promoted to full Inquisitor as soon as technically possible, awards, commendations." Trimmerhorn held Zorn's gaze continuously as he spoke. The older man's eyes, like his hair, were mostly gray with flecks of brown. They were intense, piercing, yet disarming. "Jaquobs," he said without looking away, "what is Inquisitor Zorn's status within the Theocracy currently?" Trimmerhorn stepped back behind the glare of the light again.

"A writ has been issued for Zorn's arrest," Jaquobs recited. "He is charged with flagrant unOrthodoxy, heresy, and high treason; spreading of libelous, incendiary, and seditious information; and intent to murder an official of the Theocracy, among other lesser offenses."

The room was silent. Zorn could feel all eyes upon him. Only jaquobs now looked away.

"How is it," Trimmerhorn spoke from his obscured position, "that such a celebrated figure within the Theocracy comes to be regarded as a heretic?"

"How is it," Zorn mimicked, "that such a celebrated figure within the Theocracy disappears for twenty years only to turn up amidst the terrorists and killers he hunted?"

Trimmerhorn stepped forward again. "We're all killers, aren't we, Inquisitor Zorn?" He turned the empty chair around and sat on it backwards across the table from Zorn. "The only difference is why."

Zorn glared at Jaquobs. "I guess you're in fine company."

"Let's dispense with our sanctimonious posing, shall we?" said Trimmerhorn. "What do you know about me, Zorn?" he asked.

Zorn took a deep breath. If they wanted to play games, he'd play games. "You were a high-profile Inquisitor twenty-odd years ago. You were the first to uncover the Anglian Liberation Front, and were responsible for the capture of many of their early leaders. You were a public hero, the likes of which has never been seen since.

Twenty years ago you disappeared without a trace, presumably kidnapped by the ALF, although they never took advantage of the propaganda possibilities of such a coup."

Trimmerhorn nodded, raising his eyebrows as if impressed. "You receive an A+ today on your indoctrination history, Inquisitor Zorn, although your account does contain a few popular misconceptions that I would like to correct. Do you mind?"

Zorn shook his head. "I don't have anywhere pressing to be."

"Good." Trimmerhorn smiled politely. He stood up and began to slowly walk around the table. As Trimmerhorn paced, jaquobs and the other three alternately watched him, watched Zorn, or looked at the table or various points on the wall.

"You see, it's not completely true," Trimmerhorn began, "that I uncovered the ALF, because at that point in time, there was no ALF to uncover."

Zorn wasn't sure what Trimmerhorn was talking about.

"There was no organized resistance to the Theocracy. Yes, there had been other little splinter groups of dissent — the Sons of Liberty, the Brotherhood of the Emerald Isle. I'm sure you've read of them too, but they were nothing, scattered gangs of criminals, corrupted remnants of a will to resist at best. I think the only reason a big deal was made about them was to justify the DO budget, to tell you the truth."

There was something compelling about Trimmerhorn's voice. His movements, the way he carried himself with a natural confidence and grace, were captivating. But the words he spoke were disturbing. Zorn felt that another upheaval was being forced upon him, as if he hadn't experienced enough in the past weeks already.

Trimmerhorn had completed one relaxed circuit around the table. He sat again and stared directly ahead at Zorn. There was no escape from the gray-brown eyes.

"I created the ALF, Zorn."

The words rang in Zorn's mind. I created the ALF.

The meaning behind the words seeped into Zorn's consciousness. Brady Trimmerhorn created the ALF. It can't be true. It can't be.

"There was no ALF until I 'uncovered' it."

"What?" It was the only word Zorn could force out. He felt the world shifting beneath him again.

Trimmerhorn's voice became fatherly, full of concern. "I had come to the conclusion, Zorn, that the Theocracy wasn't making life better for the majority of Anglians. Maybe that realization wasn't scientifically based or tested; maybe it was arrogance on my part that led me to be judgmental, but it was a feeling that I couldn't shake. I looked at the people I was arresting, the people I was depriving of their freedom and property, sometimes of their lives. Some of them deserved it. Make no mistake about that. Some of them were common criminals, but a lot of them were suffering, were being persecuted," his voice rising in anger at that one word, "because they wanted to live differently than a book said they should."

Zorn stared across the table as if into a mirror.

"I was persecuting them, Zorn, and I couldn't take it anymore,"

All the indecision of the past weeks was clamoring inside Zorn to be released. Yes, I understand! he wanted to shout. He wanted to embrace this man. But there was also fear. Throughout the recent uncertainty, as Zorn had come to doubt both himself and the greater purpose he'd served, almost the only thing that had remained stable had been the image of the enemy, and now that picture was wavering as well.

"I decided that I couldn't do it any more," said Trimmerhorn. "I couldn't keep causing those people pain for purely ideological reasons."

Zorn could see the struggle in Trimmerhorn's eyes, the deliberation and the strife being relived.

"I decided that not only couldn't I go along with the Theocracy any longer, but that I had to do something to try to stop it, something that would make a difference. I think I wanted redemption for all the innocents I had dragged in from the brightness who never again saw the light of day." The faraway look faded from Trimmerhorn's face. He was seeing only Zorn again. "Those first arrests were all set ups — manufactured evidence, trumped up charges. I went after real criminals. I went after Inquisitors who were, in my opinion, overly zealous, only I was careful to avoid the appearance of political maneuvering. I was very opportunistic in choosing my targets. And it all stuck. The Theocracy was hungry for an easily recognizable villain to sharpen its claws against. It's easy to expand a conspiracy in people's minds once they're wary of it."

This is the enemy, Zorn thought. They see what I see, want what I've decided I want. But he couldn't get over that first thought. This is the enemy. He couldn't forget Jarvis' charred body. Conversely, he couldn't forget Dana Norris.

"I suspected," Trimmerhorn said, "that if there were a publicized enemy malcontents would flock to the cause. It was just a matter of leaving subtle clues so that I could gather people together. I had to form a secret network and then recruit carefully. A botched encounter with a prospective member could've brought everything down at that point."

It's all been a lie, Zorn thought. The supposed benevolence of the Theocracy is an excuse for domination, and even the enemy started out as smoke and mirrors. "But you made the Theocracy stronger," he mumbled.

Trimmerhorn sat back in his chair. He crossed his arms, reflected thoughtfully for a moment, and nodded. "Yes," he admitted. "That's true, in a sense. I did provide a focus, something against which the Theocracy could marshal its forces, but can't you see? I had to act."

Trimmerhorn's next words were spoken slowly, each one emphasized. "I had to do something."

Zorn was still in shock. The ALF created by an Inquisitor — not just any Inquisitor, but the mighty Brady Trimmerhorn. "But don't you think the Theocracy will die under its own weight eventually?"

"Perhaps." Trimmerhorn still sat back with his arms crossed. "But I couldn't wait for history to act for me, Zorn. I wanted to help speed the process along. I could see the signs of decay within the Theocracy, as I'm sure you've seen them, but how many more decades or centuries would it take for it to collapse on its own? How many more innocents would suffer?"

Except for jaquobs' brief report, everyone other than Trimmerhorn and Zorn had remained silent up to this point. They had barely reacted to what was being said, or if they had, Zorn hadn't noticed, so intent had he been upon the expressive Trimmerhorn. Now, however, the woman at the table spoke. "All this philosophizing is fine," she said. The smoothness of her voice, pleasant to hear, contrasted with the harshness of her tone. Her features were young and soft, her gaze cold. "The question remains, though, what are you doing here? Why are you running from your people? Or are you?"

She would kill me, Zorn realized. She would put a bullet in the middle of my forehead.

Trimmerhorn watched Zorn carefully but said nothing. Zorn also said nothing.

The woman took Zorn's silence as proof of her point. "I still think the whole thing is a set up."

I can tell you about set ups, Zorn thought. Jaquobs can tell you about set ups.

She didn't take her eyes off Zorn. "What he wants us to believe is all nonsense. He wants us to think he's turned, that he's sorry about killing so many of us. Then he's going to take us all down."

jaquobs spoke again. "The hunt for him is real. It's not a game the Theocracy is playing. If it is a set up, it's only between Zorn and someone at the highest levels. Everyone else is after him."

"But it's possible, isn't it? It's possible that this manhunt is all arranged by Theocrats over your head, that the Theocracy would like nothing better than for us to trust Max Zorn." The woman turned her hard gaze to Jaquobs. Despite her beauty, Zorn couldn't imagine tenderness on her face.

Jaquobs nodded slightly and blinked rapidly. "Possible."

She looked at the others. "Even Toano agrees it's possible."

Toano? Jaquobs was Toano? He'd been that close all along.

"If there's even a chance that he's not genuine, we have to dispose of him," she urged them. "He's too dangerous."

"I agree," said one of the other two men, the one with cold blue eyes.

"There's always the chance that someone's not genuine," Jaquobs pointed out. "If we follow Urbana's advice, we'll never accept a new recruit."

"This isn't a new recruit," she snapped at him. "This is the man who's done more to cripple us over the past five years than anyone else." Blue Eyes concurred.

The other man, with short dark hair, spoke. "We don't know what they might've done to him. There could be a tracking beacon implanted under his skin somehow. The Theocracy could be on its way here right now. The sooner he's gone the better." He looked at Zorn as if the prisoner carried some fatal communicable disease, as if he were a harbinger of death.

"At the very least," Jaquobs argued, "he's a valuable source of information." Even though the others were pushing for Zorn's extermination, Jaquobs looked directly at him less often than they did. "I can't offer you irrefutable proof — I don't think there is any — but I

believe he's left the Theocracy." Jaquobs had seen Zorn's uncertainity and helplessness.

He can't take the chance," Urbana emphasized,

He could help us tremendously," suggested Jaquobs.

"Or he could destroy us," she responded.

Zom had been listening to all this as if from a great distance, disinterested although they debated his fate. He 'was partially drawn back by the sincerity of Jaquobs' defense of him, but even this could not give direction to Zorn's drifting. These people are just as self-righteous as the Theocracy. "Even if I've left the Theocracy," Zorn muttered, full of acerbity, "it doesn't mean I want to work with you bastards."

Jaquobs slumped back in his chair. What could he do if Zorn were going to argue for his own destruction?

"We question him," said Urbana, "then leave his body in a public place so they can't keep it a secret."

"They can keep it a secret." Zorn sneered at her. "You're out of your league, little girl."

The muscles in her jaw tightened; her hands, on the table, clenched into fists. "I'll put the bullet in your head myself."

"No," said Trimmerhorn softly, and the debate ended. All eyes turned to him. He still sat with his arms crossed as he stared down at the table. " I will speak with Mr. Zorn further. Later." His tone was even, revealing neither emotion nor intent. His accessible manner of earlier was no longer evident. "Right now, we have other matters to discuss."

Jaquobs stood, walked over, and rapped on the door. It opened, revealing the three guards who had escorted Zorn from his cell. The senior guard stepped into the room ana waited.

As Zorn left, he didn't look at any of the ALF leaders.

Once again, footsteps echoed down the hallways, and then Zorn was back in his cell. He heard the bolt slide into place.

Of one thing Zorn was glad — there was nothing to be done. Part of his brain still urged him to develop some ingenious plan of escape, but he knew it would be futile, merely occupying his mind and wasting time. At long last, and thankfully, he embraced helplessness. He could ignore his weakening internal call to action.

They would make the decisions.

He lay down on top of the blanket on the concrete slab and stared at the water stains on the ceiling, but that wasn't what he saw. He saw Trimmerhorn's eyes and his face; first fatherly, then expressionless; filled with remote anger, then expressionless again, as at the conclusion of the interview.

The father of the ALF was the most revered legend of the Theocracy. Unbelievable. Zorn could tell that Trimmerhorn wanted him to join, to follow in his own footsteps. Was that why Urbana was so adamant that Zorn should be destroyed? Did she fear that her leader's good judgment would give way to nostalgia and doom them all?

Zorn considered his options. He could continue antagonistically and more than likely hasten his execution. That would bring a release from suffering, but he hated to give Urbana the satisfaction of seeing him die.

He could cooperate. Trimmerhorn and jaquobs had indicated that mercy was not beyond the realm of possibility. Of course, it could just be a ploy to extract information — the old "good Inquisitor, bad Inquisitor" routine — but Zorn didn't think that was the case. Trimmerhorn seemed too genuine, although that could be part of the act, and Jaquobs, despite his treachery, seemed sincere in his defense of Zorn. After all, it was probably mercy and compassion for the victims of the Theocracy that had led Jaquobs into his treachery. Even if Zorn cooperated, though, he could still end up as a corpse in a conspicuous, public area. Trust wouldn't come easily from people whom he'd hunted for years, people he'd caused so much pain. It might not come at all. His cooperation might not earn him anything more than the right to a quick, painless death.

There was another possibility. He could play along with Trimmerhorn and, if he survived and was taken in, he could betray these killers to the Theocracy at the first opportunity.

He laughed out loud at the very idea.

They were all killers, himself included, just as Trimmerhorn had said. He was no different, and certainly no better. And why would he turn these people over? Did he seek redemption or absolution from the Theocracy? That was absurd. No matter what he did, they would never take him back, and he didn't want to go back; he couldn't, even if allowed. It was a nauseatingly humorous and desperate idea, a lashing out at whomever was closest.

Zorn's mind was full of images from the past. He saw the van doors close, heard the echoing crash that had pursued him across the years, as his family was driven away. He saw the small boy lying in a pool of blood. He saw Jarvis' blackened body and the picture of Dana Norris staring up at him from an open file, soon to be closed. Nothing he did could bring any of them back.

He returned to his only comforting thoughts: It doesn't matter what I do. There's nothing worth serving. There's nothing to be done.

Time lost meaning to Zorn as the images came to him again and again. Hours? Days? He wasn't sure. The guards brought him food. One entered while another stood outside the cell, submachine gun at the ready. Zorn had no doubt that both he and whichever guard was in the cell would be riddled with bullets should he try to escape. He could take someone with him. But such cruel thoughts didn't spur him to action. It was apathy, not compassion, that held him back.

He rose from his concrete bed only to eat and to use the corroded toilet. He didn't speak. His days were when the light bulb in the cell burned brightly, his nights when it was out. Whether these periods corresponded with actual day and night, he had no idea. Through both darkness and light, he drifted in and out of sleep. It made no difference. His nightmarish visions were not confined to his subconscious mind. They were with him always.

That was how time passed for Zorn, until one day — day for him, at least, because the light was on — he opened his eyes and realized the door was open and a figure stood in the doorway. Lorraine stepped into the room and nodded to the guards outside. The door swung shut, the bolt slid into place.

She stood there looking at him, stepping no further into the room. Zorn looked back silently. He slowly raised himself to a sitting position. He was used to the silence. He waited.

Finally, she spoke. "I know what you're thinking."

Zorn suspected that she had no idea of what he was thinking. His mind acknowledged her presence, but otherwise his thoughts dealt with her only tangentially. In her face, he saw other faces — his mother, Dana Norris — three images blending and shifting one to the other.

"You're wondering," she said, "how I could've led you into this."

Zorn nodded absently in agreement, although to himself he was saying, No. I know how you could do it.

She stood waiting again for a response, but Zorn just looked at her still. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and cleared her throat. "Whenever I saw you at the bar recently, you always seemed... troubled. There was a lot on your mind, more than your job."

True.

"You didn't look like the same swaggering hero that you were on vid or in the paper," she continued. "You looked human. You looked hurt."

I believed the public persona for a long time too.

"Toano and I improvised that night that you burst into my apartment, but we had talked about you before. We both wanted to bring you in alive if we could. We thought that, given a chance, you might help us."

Toano... Jaquobs.

Was Lorraine trying to trick him into joining them? Isolation then compassion. A woman. He didn't care. Zorn wasn't going to be pushed into making a decision. He had relinquished responsibility.

The events of that evening came back to Zorn: kidnapping Jaquobs, breaking into the apartment, exposing Lorraine's activities to her son.

"Where's the boy?" he asked. It was strange to hear his own hoarse voice after days (were they really days?) of silence. The three softly spoken words thundered in his ears.

Lorraine remained by the door. As she regarded Zorn, she frowned ever so slightly, sadness mixed with her expression of concern. "Al's at home."

Zorn remembered the look on Alverston's face when the boy had realized that his mother was working in some capacity with the ALF. "He knows. He'll tell them," Zorn almost whispered.

"Who?"

"The Theocracy. He'll tell them — about you, about this place, about me."

Lorraine's stare hardened. She wanted to dismiss Zorn's warning as mere paranoia. "He won't," she said. "I know my son."

The earliest images came flooding violently back for Zorn — the strike force breaking down the door on his house; his mother, his father, his brother being led off in chains. He had watched the door slam as the Inquisitor had patted him on the shoulder. Good work, Max. You'll make a fine Inquisitor some day. The Theocracy transport vehicle had driven away, and Zorn had never seen his family again.

Zorn met Lorraine's eyes. "I did," he said. "I betrayed my family to the Theocracy because I thought it was the right thing to do." it hadn't been a matter of revenge for his mother not giving him dessert, or anything childish. I thought I was saving their souls. Zorn felt that he should cry, but there were no tears, no anything. He was empty, drained. There was a hollow regret, but he couldn't really care anymore — about his family, about Alverston or Lorraine, about himself.

"You're wrong," Lorraine insisted. Zorn knew she'd had more to say, but it was all washed away now. She knocked on the door, and the guards let her out. But Zorn was not to be left alone again just yet.

Trimmerhorn stepped into the cell, and once again the door slammed shut. Zorn remained seated on the concrete slab. Trimmerhorn moved to the opposite wall and crouched down on his haunches. His face was definitely a bit more rounded than in the pictures from his early days. "Lorraine wanted to see you," he said. "I think she felt guilty even though she had no choice but to bring you in."

Zorn didn't respond; he just stared at the gray-brown eyes. They were expressive again, sincere, full of emotion. How had they become cold so quickly at the last meeting?

Trimmerhorn leaned back against the wall as he crouched. "She and Jaquobs think you'd be invaluable working for the cause."

The cause. Zorn would have no more of causes.

The two men sat silently for several minutes watching one another. Trimmerhorn was wearing jeans, workboots, and a heavy gray wool coat buttoned up to his chin. Zom couldn't even remember what Trimmerhorn had been wearing when he'd first met him; those eyes were practically all Zorn had noticed. Right now Trimmerhorn's eyes were friendly, accommodating.

The ALF leader glanced around the cell. "I'm sorry this room is so uncomfortable. We're on a pretty tight budget these days," he smiled casually, as if discussing the weather, "and my own quarters are hardly more luxurious."

Against his own will, Zorn saw a potential ally in this man. They shared so much in common. Surely Trimmerhorn would understand much of what Zorn had gone through. Still, however, Zorn said nothing.

"I spoke before," said Trimmerhorn, "about what led me to leave the Theocracy and to begin the ALE" He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "I don't know if you've experienced similar feelings."

I have! I still am! Zorn wanted to yell. But would such an admission be tantamount to commitment? Would it be the first step toward reclaiming the responsibility that Zorn had relinquished?

Trimmerhorn was watching Zorn again. "From what Jaquobs tells me and from what I've seen, I think you probably have. It may be that, in time, you'll decide you could work with us, that you want to do that."

Here was an opportunity to belong again, a chance to be part of something and to regain purpose. As attractive as the proposition seemed, Zorn balked. I can't. I don't know. I'm against what you're against, but I don't know if I can be for anything again. How much of his turmoil was apparent on his face, how much Trimmerhorn could guess, Zorn didn't know. But he felt, for some reason, looking into those gray-brown eyes that the words were already spoken.

Trimmerhorn stood and stretched his legs but came no closer to Zorn. "It may be that you need time. Changes like this don't happen overnight. I want you to know that you have time. I'm not going to torture you; I'm not even going to question you — partially for your benefit, partially for mine," he explained forthrightly. "I think I can get just as much DO information through Jaquobs, and I offer this to you as a token of my good faith, in hopes that you will want to join us."

Faith, good or otherwise. I may never have it again. What good am I to you? Can't you see, Trimmerhorn, that I'm empty? That I have no faith? Is that what you want?

The words stuck in Zorn's throat. He couldn't say them, and now Trimmerhorn was turning to leave. Why couldn't Zorn bring himself to say anything to this man who was trying to help him?

Trimmerhorn tapped on the door. The sound of the bolt sliding free was followed by the door swinging open. "Changes take time, Zorn," and then he was stepping out the door.

"The boy," Zorn called out.

Trimmerhorn stopped and turned back around. He cocked his head slightly.

"Alverston will bring the Theocracy," Zorn warned. A token. This is my token. Would Trimmerhorn understand?

He nodded and smiled patiently. "I trust Lorraine," he said, "but thank you." He nodded once again to Zorn and then was gone.

Chapter Fourteen

Late Friday morning, the phone rang. When Ron heard Detective Ward identify himself over the answering machine, he picked up. "Hello, Detective Ward? Hold on a second." Ron managed to turn off the answering machine. "Hello. What can I do for you?"

"Good morning, Mr. Church. We've been doing some checking at the bank and with your accountant Mr. Hardy."

"Did you actually get to talk with him? Where is he?" Ron asked incredulously.

Ward's voice was bland. "Mr. Hardy's been very cooperative, and we've come across some interesting information. I'm afraid we need you to come down to the station and answer a few more questions."

"More questions?"

"Yeah, you know, fill in some details around the edges, so we can get a better idea of what happened," Ward explained. "I know you're a busy man, but it would help us out a lot. Otherwise, I'll have to come out there, and I've got somebody waiting here to see me right now."

It wasn't like Ron was getting a lot of work done anyway. "Sure, I can do that."

"Great. That'll be a big help." Ward sounded very appreciative. "You've got my card with the station address. Just ask the officer at the front desk for me. Forty- five minutes, an hour?"

"Okay. No problem."

As Ron hung up the phone, there was a pounding at the door. He opened it, and Irene pushed her way past him into the apartment. They both began to speak at once.

"Isn't it kind of early...?"

"My God, Ron. You have to...."

They both stopped, waited for the other a moment, then began at the same time again.

"I'm sorry. What were you,..?"

"Have you seen the...?"

They stopped again. Ron started to laugh, but he noticed Irene's worried expression, her short nervous movements. She raised one finger, placed it over his lips, and led him to the TV.

Her tone was urgent. "Look," she said as she clicked on the TV. A local lunchtime newscast was just beginning. The young, squeaky-clean anchorwoman stared straight at Ron. Irene turned up the volume as the intro music faded.

"Welcome to Channel Five News at Noon," the woman recited. "I'm Wendy Ivres. Today's top story... Literary agent Nathaniel Early was found dead in his Marin County home early this morning." The words took a moment to sink in before Ron realized that the inset on the screen was, in fact, a picture of Nate. "Early was shot several times by an intruder late last night or early this morning." The picture shifted to the interior of Nate's house. Ron recognized it. He'd been there two or three times over the past few years. Lying on the floor of the front hallway was a body covered in a sheet. Spots of blood soaked through the cloth.

"Oh, my God." Ron didn't realize at first that it was he who had spoken the words.

"Police refused to comment," the broadcaster continued, "but a source close to the investigation revealed that best-selling author Ron Church, Early's most well-known client, is being sought for questioning." The anchorwoman was on screen again, and this time the inset was a picture of Ron, the one from the back cover of his book. "Early was reportedly mired in tense contract negotiations with several publishers for Church's upcoming sequel to his well-received novel, Death on the

Tower." The newscast moved on to another story, and Irene clicked off the TV.

"What the hell?" Ron muttered. "Nate's dead."

"And the police think you did it."

"What?"

"'... being sought for questioning.' What do you think that means? They never would've said that if they didn't have a high-profile suspect." Irene was holding his arm tightly with both of her hands.

Normally, Ron would've dismissed her explanation as the product of an overactive imagination, but with everything else that had happened recently, he wasn't so quick to jump to that conclusion. "But I just talked to Detective Ward. If I were a suspect, he..."

"You did? What did he want?" Irene broke in. "What did he say?"

Ron wished she would calm down. The reality of Nate's death was starting to sink in, and other manufactured problems weren't what he wanted to deal with right then. If they are manufactured, he couldn't help thinking. "He just wanted me to come down and answer some more questions about Hardy. They got hold of him, believe it or not."

"Did Ward say the questions were about Hardy, specifically?"

"Yes."

Irene began to pace around the room nervously. "Of course he said they were about Hardy. What else could he say? He didn't tell you about this because he didn't want you to run." She was talking to herself as much as to Ron. "It fits together now. It makes sense."

"What makes sense?" Ron wasn't sure what she was talking about, but her increasing panic was contagious.

I told them I would shoot Nate.

Irene walked back quickly to Ron. She held him by the shoulders. "We have to get out of here."

Ron blinked at her, uncomprehending, trying to

fathom her meaning.

She shook him roughly. "We have to get out of here, now! Get what you need, and let's go."

Ron made a supreme effort to control himself and speak calmly. "Why? What are you talking about?"

"Ron, the police are involved in this whole plot, the whole set up!" Her eyes darted frantically around the apartment, as if she expected someone to jump out at her.

Now it was Ron's turn to shake Irene by the shoulders. "Calm down! Tell me what you're talking about."

"There's no time. We have to go, now!" she pleaded.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on." He couldn't stand the sight of fear on her face, but he couldn't go running panic-stricken into the street for no reason.

"I lost my job," she blurted out.

"You what?"

"Not fired — suspended, because of the police." Irene took a deep breath. She tried to slow down. "They found out about the looking around I did on the computer. I'm suspended while the investigation's pending. They've frozen my accounts, yours too. They've connected you and me, and they're trying to tie us to Hardy. I'm sure of it. And now to Nate." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It's the Technocracy, Ron."

All the stress and frustration of the past weeks had been building to this moment. Ron's hands began to tremble. He wasn't sure if it was anger or fear. Maybe Zorn is getting back at me, he thought. Or maybe he was having a nervous breakdown, but what were the chances that he and Irene would have simultaneous breakdowns? Zorn, Nate, Hardy, Ward, Irene, the Theocracy — no, the Technocracy. It was all too much. The faces were spinning. Which one of these things is not like the others? He could hear the children's music in his mind. What wasn't real here?

"They can't just freeze..." he began.

"They can, and they have." Irene was pacing again. "It's not just the police, Ron. They're going to say you killed Nate. You know and I know that we were together, so I have to be discredited too. Something about your book has set off the Technocracy, and now I'm caught up in it too." She came back to him, held his face in her hands. "They have to get us both. It's real, Ron. Nate is dead."

Their eyes were only inches apart. Ron could feel her breath. It did fit together in a warped way. Maybe Ron was crazy, but he'd already decided that his fictional character was real. This was only one more step on this insane road. If nothing else, the terror in Irene's eyes was real, and Ron, unable to trust his own mind any longer, trusted her.

"All right," he said.

Re4ief swept over Irene. The muscles in her face relaxed; her eyes opened a bit wider. She kissed him fiercely. "How much money do you have?"

The sudden practical question caught Ron off guard.

"How much money do you have?" she repeated. "Our accounts are frozen. We can't get any more, and we can't use credit cards or they'll track us down. I have about seventy-five bucks."

Ron pulled out his wallet and looked quickly. "One fifty, two hundred."

"Good." Irene's face was hardened with concentration as she made internal calculations. "Grab your toothbrush and whatever, and let's go. Your disk! Bring the disk with your new book and your laptop computer. They might come in handy."

Ron went into the bedroom and got a small blue gym bag. He stuffed inside it a couple of shirts, socks, underwear, and then toiletries.

Irene followed him while he gathered his belongings. "When were you supposed to meet Ward?" she asked.

"In an hour. That was just before you got here."

She glanced at her watch. "That leaves us a half hour or so, maybe another hour until he gets suspicious. Except with the TV coverage, they'll come sooner. We've just got to get away from here and figure out what to do next. Are you all set?"

"Yeah, I think so." They were walking toward the door.

"Do you have your disk?"

"No. Hold on."

Ron ran back into the study, grabbed his Tower of Babel disk out of the computer, got his laptop out of the closet, and caught up with Irene at the door. The Celica was actually parked within two blocks. As they pulled out into traffic, Ron thought he heard a police siren in

the distance.

Another "day" and "night" passed in the cell after Trimmerhorn's visit. Zorn ate the food the guards brought him, used the cold toilet, and slept. To break the monotony, occasionally he would lie on his left or right side and stare at one of the walls instead of at the ceiling. At times, he became aware of his own body odor, his bad breath, greasy unwashed hair and skin, and the thickening stubble on his face, but mostly he didn't care.

Changes take time,

Zorn barely noticed that time was passing. Did that mean he wouldn't change?

He was tempted by Trimmerhorn's offer of fellowship. Zorn couldn't deny that. But he was mired in the inertia of indecision. How long would that take to escape? The seeds of hope were struggling to survive Zorn's apathy.

During the second night after Lorraine's visit. Zorn awoke. He didn't know what time it was, but he felt as if he'd been sleeping for quite a while. The only light in the cell came from the hall, through the minute cracks around the door. He wasn't sure what had roused him until he heard the distant rumble. The sound reminded him of a huge metal warehouse door being slid open or closed. He'd almost forgotten about the warehouse that he, Jaquobs, Lorraine, and Alverston had entered. Was he beneath that, or had he been taken farther away after being knocked unconscious?

Zorn heard similar noises several moTe times over the next few minutes. As they came closer and became more distinct, he recognized the sounds as explosions. Soon gunfire and frantic voices added to the mix of sound which sometimes seemed closer, sometimes farther away. Zorn didn't know what had happened to his guards. He never heard shots from just outside his cell.

Eventually, the commotion died down. There was still sporadic shooting, but no more large explosions, and fewer voices.

When the cell door finally opened, Zorn was still lying on the concrete slab wrapped in his blanket. He had not tried to find out what was going on; he hadn't pounded on the door or even gotten up to listen more closely. He had listened passively where he lay. Zorn blinked involuntarily at the amount of light from the hallway that invaded his darkness through the open door.

"There he is." Ron recognized the voice. "The boy was right."

Two men in the black, armored uniforms of a Theocracy strike force lifted Zorn by his arms and dragged him from the cell. Ed Rollins stood by the doorway. "Hello, Max." His voice was friendly, but his usual smile was absent. "Long time no see."

Zorn was not surprised. There was no more time. The hope that had briefly dangled before him was dead.

He got his feet under himself and supported his own weight once he was in the hall. His new guards pulled his arms behind him and handcuffed him. Rollins stepped past him and strode down the hall, the guards following close behind, guiding Zorn roughly. Very little had changed, really. Zorn knew he should be alarmed at falling into the hands of the Theocracy. With Trimmerhorn, there had been a chance, however slight, for deliverance. With the Theocracy, he knew, there was none. Needles and chemicals and less advanced forms of persuasion lay ahead for him, but he felt no dread or fear. He was numb. One group of people making decisions for him had been exchanged for another. That was the extent of his feeling.

The guards followed Rollins along the twisted corridors, alternately shoving or dragging Zorn. One hallway looked like another, and Zorn had no idea where he was in the ALF complex, or where the conference room to which he'd been taken before was. There were numerous spent shells along with pools and streaks of blood on the floor, but no bodies. Shortly, however, Zom was taken through a large room where the bodies were being collected. He saw one of his ALF guards, the leader, lying in one pile. Urbana was there. Was it lipstick or blood smeared across her face? Jaquobs was apart from the others, his clothes covered with dark bloody splotches. Lorraine, too, lay sprawled on the floor, her eyes still open.

Does your son think he saved your soul? Zorn wondered. Will he be haunted by my dreams for the rest of his life?

Zorn stopped for a moment among the bodies past which he was being led. He could run. Maybe one of the strike force members would lose his head and shoot, and it would all end here with the others. But then the guards were pushing him forward again, and that fleeting glimpse of resistance dissolved.

PART THREE: REVELATIONS

Chapter Fifteen

The steam rose all around Ron. He felt slightly better, but he couldn't ignore the pounding at his temples. He'd never suffered from migraines, and had always been a bit skeptical when people he knew claimed to be in agony to the point of incapacitation from such pain. Next time, he concluded, he would be more genuinely compassionate. The hot water massaged the back of his neck as he hung his head forward and leaned against the front of the shower.

He and Irene had decided, after fleeing his apartment, that they weren't up to a lengthy sojourn, and besides, with less than three hundred dollars, they couldn't have stayed on the run for long anyway. They needed to stop and plan their next move, see if things might settle down on their own. It could all be a huge misunderstanding that would sort itself out, but Ron didn't believe that. Too much had happened.

There's no such thing as coincidence.

Irene claimed that the Technocracy was after them. Why did Ron believe her? It seemed ridiculous on the surface, but after inexplicable contract problems, Hardy going AWOL, Nate being killed, Ron coming under investigation from allegations he had made himself, Irene losing her job, and, most disturbing of all, Ron talking to a fictional character who seemed to have taken on a life of his own, the idea of some conspiratorial organization being out to get them wasn't that hard to swallow.

They had stopped at the Starlight Lounge and Motor Lodge. Not the normal environs of a best-selling author, but Ron and Irene were short on cash, and the bright purple trim in the room did lend a... colorful, if not tasteful, air to the decor.

Irene had suggested the hot shower as Ron had sat on the edge of the bed massaging his scalp.

"Good idea."

Ron imagined how soothing it would feel to fall asleep here in the shower, assuming that he didn't fall and break his neck, which, with his luck, he decided, would probably happen. If only they hadn't frozen my accounts, he thought, we could've just taken off to Tahiti or Costa Rica or somewhere, and I could've been happy with Irene and never had to publish another word.

Thinking about publishing brought Zorn back to mind. All the conversations Ron had had with Zorn had been in his own dreams. Zorn had always been the one to make contact. If I did create him, which seems to be the case, and there is some link between us, then I should be able to contact him, right? He waited for some independent portion of his brain to confirm his theory, but there was only the sound of the water and the rattle of the bathroom fan.

Only one way to find out.

Ron wasn't sure how to go about contacting Zorn. Maybe he had to be asleep. Maybe it was a one-way connection. In his mind, Ron pictured the cover of Death on the Tower with its picture of the Anglopolis Tower skyscraper and Zorn and Kroaker clutching at each other's throats as they fell over the edge — an example of artistic license if there ever was one. He tried to visualize Zorn — strong Roman nose, distinct browline, short dark hair, defiant jaw — to connect the image with the angry mentality from the dreams. Ron pictured the tower and Zorn standing atop it arrayed in red robes, but these were merely mental phantoms. They weren't real. Eventually, Ron's concentration succumbed to his exhaustion.

The water pattering on the back of his neck was slowly but surely starting to cool. It would turn cold soon, and Irene would be upset that he hadn't saved her any hot water. He opened his eyes, and the dingy white of the shower seemed uncomfortably bright.

Ron turned off the water and dried himself with the purple postage stamp of a towel that the Starlight Lounge and Motor Lodge provided. He wiped the mirror with the wet towel, then brushed his teeth and put on deodorant. As he combed his hair, he thought he noticed a few new streaks of gray.

Steam billowed into the main room when Ron opened the door. Irene lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. She took a deep breath. "I didn't know this place was so ratty when I picked it," she said. "It's a shame we had to end up here."

Ron noticed the small metal box on the bedside table. "At least it has Magic Fingers," he nodded toward it.

"It doesn't work. I already tried it," Irene confessed.

Wearing only the towel which barely fit around him, Ron flopped on the bed next to her. He moaned a long, exaggerated sigh. "Why me?" he mused. "Am I somebody's hero, somebody's main character, so all this stuff has to happen to me to make the story interesting?"

Irene reached over and brushed her fingers through his wet hair. "Do you feel a little better after your shower?"

"Very little," he answered. "I feel exhausted, but I know I'm too keyed up to sleep. Everything is running through my mind. I couldn't sleep if you hit me over the head with a baseball bat." He held his hand up in front of his face. "At least my hands have stopped shaking."

"Hold on one second." Irene dragged herself from the bed. Ron could feel her skirt brush against his leg as she passed him on her way to her purse, which was on the round table by the front window. She carried her purse into the bathroom and returned with a cup of water. "Here." She offered him the cup and two small blue pills in her other hand.

"What are they?"

"Mild tranquilizers. They'll help you relax."

Ron wasn't a big fan of sleeping pills or tranquilizers or medication in general; he'd had too many friends who'd become dependent on various substances. But considering that he was a fugitive from the police and from some alleged secret organization bent on world domination, he decided to make an exception in this case. Without the little blue pills, he might stare at the cracks and stucco patterns on the ceiling for hours.

He took both pills at once.

Irene bent over him and kissed his forehead. "My turn for a shower. Did you leave me any hot water?" she asked as she headed toward the bathroom.

"Yeah," he lied.

She shut the door. The pipes in the thin walls groaned as if in horrendous agony as the water began to run. Ron felt a wave of exhaustion washing over him, but he was still a bit anxious. He sat up, turned on the TV — a rerun of Magnum P.I. was on. Before Ron knew it, he was flat on his back again. He pulled himself up so that his legs and feet weren't hanging off the bed. The pillows weren't the most comfortable in the world, but in his condition it didn't matter. Within a very few minutes the sounds of

the TV and the shower were only distant memories.

Ron could see the book again. It was open, and he was plunging down into the pages with blurring speed like a roller coaster car racing down the first hill. He called out as he went, "Zorn! Zorn!"

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Instead of the rush of motion, he was surrounded by stillness, silence, and darkness. Have I died? he wondered. Did my heart stop, and now I'm dead? But his attention was drawn to the vague figure he could see in the gloom. It was Zorn. He stood against a wall, manacled at the wrists and ankles. His head lay to one side. He was stripped to the waist. Maybe we're both dead.

Zorn's head rose. He peered out through his bloodshot eyes, his pupils enlarged in the darkness. "Who's there?" he asked in a weak, cracking voice before being overcome

by a spasm of coughing. "Where are you?"

"Here I am," said Ron. Although he could sense no physical form of his own, he felt that he was moving ever so slightly as his view of Zorn shifted inch by inch.

Zorn looked around. Ron could see the bruises on his character's face, the burn on his cheek, the lacerated forehead, the right eye swollen shut. Zorn didn't seem to possess the strength to hold his head up any longer. He stopped trying.

"Zorn, it's me," Ron said quietly.

Zorn raised his head again. He smiled and coughed out a sarcastic chuckle. "I guess your story's about over."

"Is this the ALF cell?" Ron asked. It was a bit more draconian than he'd pictured it.

"You're asking me?"

Ron couldn't believe that this defeated, broken man was his heroic main character. What did I set in motion? "Tell me what happened," said Ron. He'd finally tried to help Zorn. What had gone wrong?

"The boy," Zorn responded. "He brought the Theocracy to the ALF hideout."

The boy. Lorraine's boy. Ron had included that character almost as an afterthought. This was the result?

"This is one of the Theocracy holding pens, deep in the bowels of the DO complex," Zorn mumbled. "It doesn't, matter. I won't see the sun again. There's not really anything to be done." His tone lightened a bit, recapturing his earlier sarcasm. "So, what've you been up to, hanging out in my brain?"

"You didn't make me, Zorn. I made you. You can blame me for all this," Ron said. They'd only argued before, never just talked. Was it too late now?

"I'm not worried about blame," Zorn said slowly. "It won't change anything." His head hung low again. The words sounded as if they were dragged out of him.

"I never wrote this," Ron explained. "More has been going on than what I've written. I created this, set it all in motion, but I'm not in control anymore, not of your life or of mine." Did Zorn understand any of this? Did he believe it, or did he hate Ron? "What happened with Trimmerhorn? I brought him into the story to help you. He was supposed to help you." The words echoed weakly.

There was no response.

Ron thought the spark of Zorn's consciousness might have faded completely. "Zorn."

Zorn's head rolled to one side. He couldn't quite focus in the darkness, couldn't hold his head up; it swayed back and forth.

How had everything gone so wrong? "I can still help you, Zorn. I'll go back to the hotel room and write a rescue for you. The whole ALF will come charging in, or I'll just pluck you out of here myself." Ron was growing frantic as his view of Zorn began to fade. I can still help him!

There were noises outside the cell — echoing footsteps, the rattle of keys. The door opened and light streamed in revealing a silhouetted figure, but the scene was almost completely faded for Ron now. Zorn was farther and

farther away, and then gone.

There was still a figure in the doorway, but it took Ron a moment to realize where he was, and that the light streaming into the room was coming from the bathroom. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open, and even when he succeeded in that struggle, his vision was blurred, the images swimming and stretching in ways that couldn't be explained by extreme fatigue.

Have to help Zorn.

"It's the pills, dear," Ron heard Irene's voice say.

He tried to focus on her, but he couldn't raise his head or keep his eyes open for long. She stood in the doorway wearing a purple towel wrapped around her and tucked under her arm. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. For a moment there he'd thought she was holding a gun,

pointing it at Kim.

"I'm sorry, Ron. Our time's up."

In a very distant and disinterested way, Ron realized that she was, in fact, pointing a small pistol at him. He knew that he should be alarmed, but neither his brain nor his body would respond. Mostly he felt puzzled. He tried to speak, but saying the words was like Sisyphus rolling a boulder up the side of a mountain: each word became a separate struggle. "No... hot water?" Ron thought for a second that he'd seen her smile, but that must've been a trick of his shifting vision. His thoughts were dancing, doing somersaults and cartwheels.

Have to... help....

Irene stepped closer. She still held the gun, still pointed it at him. "They'll be here soon. We had to move our timetable up. We learned that a group of mages was going to try to contact you."

They. Always the mysterious they.

"You were right, Ron," said Irene. "Your dreams are real. That world is real, and they want to know how it happened."

The proverbial they. They as in them and not us.

"They can't have people running around creating universes somewhere out in the umbra. It's too chaotic. And I've confirmed for them that you're in contact with inhabitants there, that you created it. It only makes it worse that you can't seem to control what happens there. If you could, we could use you."

Them, they, swim, sway. We, see, free, bee.

"As it is," she continued, "they'll pick your brain apart, piece by piece, to try to figure out how it happened. And they will figure it out, but by then there won't be much left of you, at least nothing anyone would recognize, nothing you would recognize."

Ron's vision cleared for a instant. He could see more than feel her running her fingers through his hair.

"I can't let them do that to you, Ron. I love you too much." Irene raised the gun toward his head.

Rollins stepped into the cell flanked by the young, redheaded Inquisitor, whose name, Zorn had learned during his interrogation, was Andre. They were accompanied by another dark-skinned, nameless Inquisitor. The interrogation had been a brutal affair. Whereas Zorn had always viewed "interview sessions" as necessary and had never been overly sympathetic toward the subjects, he'd never taken any pleasure in the process. Andre, however, reveled in the pain he had inflicted. He'd exceeded the routine chemical inducements and enthusiastically proceeded with more primitive physical methods. Andre had tortured Zorn mercilessly and enjoyed every instant of it. The entire episode was, thankfully, a fog to Zorn; he didn't want to remember.

Zorn had told them everything. He'd known that he would. He hadn't harbored any heroic illusions about gritting his teeth and riding out the pain. He knew too much about the process. He had tried to parcel out the information he revealed. Otherwise one ran the risk of telling everything up front and then having nothing left to reveal, and interrogators never believed there was nothing left to reveal. They took it as a matter of professional pride that they could pry every scrap of information from a subject, and even if there were nothing left, they would keep probing. Better to let them think you were resisting and that they had broken you.

Andre had been less interested in what he could learn than in what he could do to Zorn. For the most part, Rollins had stood in the background and given his protege free rein, but occasionally he would provide clues when he wanted Andre to pursue a particular line of questioning.

Zorn had told them of his personal transgressions, his pride and unOrthodoxy, of praying to and contacting the

Creator, some of which Rollins already knew. He told them about tacitly authorizing Dana Norris' arrest, even though there was no proof. Ironically enough, that was the one action for which he wouldn't have been reproached. Zorn told them about stealing the files from jaquobs' office. Jaquobs... who had been dumped into some unmarked mass grave by now.

Rollins had stepped forward at that point. "Those offices just aren't very secure, are they, Max?" Rollins wore a cloak of superficial concern and compassion, never mind what he was putting Zorn through. "I can think of several occasions when I found interesting items on people's desks — oh, say, a report on an unsuccessful raid, a note telling when somebody wanted to be met at a bar. We really should have tighter security." Rollins had smiled and stepped back into the shadows, leaving Andre to his excesses.

I should be furious. The thought echoed in Zorn's mind, but there was no corresponding emotion. He didn't really care who had betrayed him. Rollins, Jaquobs, Martin, Lorraine, Alverston, Trimmerhorn, his Creator — it just didn't matter any more.

Zorn told them everything about his encounter with the ALF: about Jaquobs and Lorraine, the false anonymous sources, about Trimmerhorn and the other ALF leaders. Had Trimmerhorn survived? Zorn hadn't seen his body after the attack, but Rollins never gave any indication one way or the other.

The interrogation had gone on and on, and even when Zorn had exhausted his pool of information and told numerous falsehoods, Andre continued with his sadistic games.

It was over now, and Zorn tried to push the whole experience as far from his mind as possible. All he was waiting for was the end. They couldn't hope to squeeze any more information out of him. Would they execute him quietly? He had never seen any publicity about his flight.

Maybe they would want to keep the embarrassment quiet. Or would they make a spectacle of him? Public execution in the city square just in front of the site of his greatest victory at the Anglopolis Tower. They would have to explain somehow his exit from service, so why not make an example of him?

Either way, Zorn thought as they unhooked him from the wall and fastened the manacles behind him, I hope it's soon. I hope this is it. Never mind the Creator's pledge of help. Too little too late.

The three Inquisitors led him without a word from the cell to the elevator. As it shuddered to life and they began their cacophonous, jarring ascent, Zorn felt no burning hatred or desire for revenge against Andre or Rollins, who had apparently set the trap for Zorn at Evander's and probably taken part in the larger scheming. Zorn was tired. He counted the floors as they passed. The elevator stopped at several floors, but each time when the doors opened, the prospective passenger, upon seeing Zorn, decided to wait for the next lift. At the fifty-second floor, the four men changed elevators and continued upwards.

"Too bad about Jaquobs," Rollins said finally, his fake amiability turned on again. "Family man and all. They're all in custody. I guess they can be re-attitudinized eventually, the kids at least. The wife had to've known. She'll never get out." If Rollins was attempting to evoke some response, Zorn didn't comply.

Zorn lost count of the floors somewhere in the eighties. The elevator continued ascending well beyond there. Zorn had never been this far up, to the loftiest perches of the DO complex.

Having broken the silence, Rollins seemed unable to abide it any longer. "Not many Inquisitors get to meet the Theocrat. Might have been better for you not to."

Zorn was reminded of children on a playground. Boy, are you in trouble.

"I know the first time I met the Theocrat, I was ready to piss in my pants," Rollins said. "Of course, that was quite a while back."

The implications of Rollins' prattle, his bravado, the hints at a conspiracy that reached much higher than Martin or the vice commissioner, were unimportant to Zorn. He'd long since stopped worrying about who exactly was involved in orchestrating the events that had helped him dig his own grave. After all, he'd met his Creator and round Him lacking. Who else is there in whom to believe? Who; else is there to blame? Blame was as irrelevant as responsibility. Zorn's passion for vengeance, as well as his passion for life, was drained.

When the elevator doors finally opened, there was a long, straight hallway, empty except for the two black-clad guards at the far end in front of tall double doors. The walls of the hallway were constructed of bright steel and dark green opaque glass. Zorn absently wondered who was on the other side of the glass. Who was watching him as he was led down the corridor?

The guards opened the doors, revealing the immense audience chamber beyond. As Zorn and the three Inquisitors crossed the threshold into the cavernous room, the sound of their footsteps changed from the sharp staccato taps of the hall to softer reverberations muffled by additional echoes spreading out into the open space.

Around the edges of the room, among the regularly spaced columns and pedestals with busts of Theocratic personages, were over a dozen guards dressed, like the two at the doors, in black from hat to boots, sidearms conspicuously strapped to their right legs. There were two chairs in the room. The first, in the center, resembled a dentist's chair. It was padded, with both head and footrest, and was angled back so its occupant would be partially reclined when seated. It was this chair to which Zorn was led. He sat.

The second chair, at the far end of the chamber from the doors, more closely resembled a throne. The seat, its massive steel armrests and back sparkling in the light of the metallic chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling, rested upon a dais. Seated there, watching Zorn as he reclined, was the Theocrat.

Chapter Sixteen

The trees around the grove had at first been swaying gently in the breeze. Now they were flailing about, leaves ripped from the branches by the violent gusts of the increasingly powerful wind. Dark, churning clouds blanketed the sky. This was the first variation in lighting, much less in the weather, that Tun Tzu had experienced in Ron's mind. The storm had blown in quite rapidly. The previously unchanging sky had shifted from calm to tempestuous in a matter of minutes.

Tun Tzu could sense upheaval in the gathering storm. The psychic emanations of the tzu-jan tickled his mental sensitivities like static electricity dancing across his scalp. As he climbed again to the tower to inquire about the nature of the coming storm, the first speckles of rain began to dampen the rocks around him. Tun Tzu had abandoned a lifetime of wu wei, actionless action, existence without striving, in his attempt to aid the Zorn. That had been the first step onto the slippery slope that had led him here. How appropriate it would be, he mused, if he were to end by falling from these slick stones.

But Tun Tzu didn't fall. As the intensity of the rain increased and the storm began in earnest, he crested the hill and climbed the bamboo ladder.

The tower room, swaying in the fury of the wind, was empty.

The table and chairs were still there, but John was not. There was a piece of paper weighted down by an empty beer bottle on the table. He picked up the paper. On it, written by hand, were two words: "Good luck." Nothing more. Tun Tzu suddenly felt more starkly alone than ever before.

He was thrown to the floor as the tower lurched beneath him. Almost after the fact, he heard the sharp snap of bamboo poles. The rain blowing into the open- walled room was lashing Tun Tzu's face; at the same time, the lashing holding the tower together was being twisted and torn asunder as the howling wind bent the structure one way and then another. A portion of the thatched roof tore away, and then, a second later, the entire roof was gone, flung over the cliff. Unprotected, bracing himself against the table, Tun Tzu faced the storm. As the beer bottle was blown over and off the table to the floor, the note took flight into the turbulence. The sense of torment fueling the storm was oppressive. It struck Tun Tzu more forcefully than did the tangible rain drops.

He fought his instinct to cower in fear, and, instead, reached out to the storm; he touched its raging heart with his mind, and in that instant, Tun Tzu experienced completely the tzu-jan.

The tower, the hill, the grove, even the storm, all fell away, simply ceased to exist — they were relics of an obsolete universe, one governed by an idiom of sensual perception. The barrier, too, fell away; the barrier that had denied Tun Tzu access to Ron's deeper psyche and kept him in this shielded realm of thought.

Tun Tzu could no more control himself than could a leaf floating along a roaring river, but, at long last, he was

drawn completely into the deepest realms of Ron's mind.

"Strap him." The Theocrat's voice was cold, emotionless, almost mechanical in its self-supposed objectivity. She surveyed Zorn, a microcosm of her domain, from atop her throne.

Rollins, Andre, and the other Inquisitor began to fasten straps and buckles attached to the chair around Zorn's arms, legs, chest, forehead, and chin. He didn't resist. Even had he felt inclined to do so at this point, there would have been little use. Secured to the chair in this position, Zorn directly faced the Theocrat. She stood, her thin form like an iron rod, and then descended the dais steps. The diadem resting on her severely short, richly auburn hair, as well as the flowing cape that trailed behind her and her embroidered tunic, were all purple velvet. Her reflective black boots rose to her knees.

Zorn knew he'd never met her before — one didn't forget meeting the Theocrat — but he felt an odd sense of familiarity as she confidently walked toward him. Rollins and the others instinctively took several steps back as she circumambulated the chair, slowly, deliberately. Her nose and mouth were small. Her eyes, a fierce blue, were compelling, hypnotic, predatory. As she circled behind Zorn, he felt as if he were being stalked. He expected at any moment for her to pounce, to wrench his head sideways and rip into his throat with her teeth, but she continued to circle and regard him with her calm steely gaze, the assurance of the victor.

"You have already told us all we need to know," she said quietly. Her voice, at this proximity, was seductively powerful, as if it stored a potency that was not often revealed to lesser beings. Zorn could believe that she might be a goddess, here among the loftiest heights of the city, exerting her will over its ant-like inhabitants. Power was here, not with the impotent Creator whom Zorn had sought. Regardless of cosmological origins, here was the being who controlled Zorn's fate, and all he hoped was that she would bring it to an end.

"We wanted to see you for ourselves," she said, stopping next to him and, for a long moment, examining his every feature. Zorn could feel the burning intensity of her blue eyes. "We have issued a report that you led a massive assault on an ALF stronghold. Tragically, you were mortally wounded. You will die a hero to the masses. You have served us well." Then she was done. "Enough."

The Theocrat gestured with her right hand, and one of the guards came to her with a small tray from which she removed a hypodermic syringe. The guard returned to

his post.

"You have strayed too far." Her voice seemed at the same time sad and bored. "No more." She slid the needle into the skin of his forearm.

Before, when Tun Tzu had been pulled into Ron's mind, he'd lost his physical independence. He had ceased to exist except as a mental construct of the Creator. Now, drawn more deeply into Ron's psyche, Tun Tzu was threatened with the loss of his mental independence as well. His very identity, that which distinguished him from other beings, was slowly and inexorably being sublimated by the surrounding flood of thought patterns. It wasn't a painful experience, but it was disconcerting as he struggled to maintain who he was as his own thoughts, once strong and ardent, became increasingly mingled with those of the Creator. The distinctions between subject and object became blurred to the point of being almost nonexistent.

Ron was reaching out desperately for something that was missing... for Zorn. And Tun Tzu was the Creator's direct link to that world, the Creator's indispensable link to himself. This, Tun Tzu saw, was his role, and it frightened him. His being was spread thin, his essence stretched out and every molecule examined... or was he examining the old man? But I am the old man. Memories, experiences merged. I remember the old man — the bar, the park. I am the old man. I am Tun Tzu. I am...

There was sensory perception, at the same time both new and familiar: a woman with short red hair wearing a purple towel; a bed, a TV; a gun. Irene. Why? The words were unspoken. They were in his mind, or he was in the words?

Tun Tzu could not remain distinct from the well of empowered creativity swirling around him, that from which he had sprung, that to which he was returning.

I am... the old man... the old man is here.

Ron knew the connection to the other world. He felt it. He could taste the berries again. What did Tun Tzu call the tree? Luira. I am the old man. The world was alive, the other world, given life through Ron's mind. It had taken life of its own as well.

I am... the old man is....

Zorn... Zorn is....

More sensory perception: straps, a woman with short red hair wearing purple; a needle in his arm; poison coursing through his veins.

... dying... Zorn is... the old man... I am... dying.

Irene. Why?

The old man is here. Zorn is here.

The barriers that restrained Zorn (or perhaps Ron) were melting away. Self-imposed limitations fled. Zorn melted into a greater consciousness; he was a manifestation of the tzu-jan.

The old man is here.

The old man was initially a by-product, in finality a catalyst. Ron-Zom. Brought together. Unified.

Now the reflection and the image were one.

Zorn was whole; Ron was complete. Tun Tzu was gone.

Zorn opened his eyes. The Theocrat cocked her head in bewilderment. The injection should have completed its work by this point. Not only did Zom open his eyes, but a certain presence of mind, as opposed to the previous vacant stare, was visible in his expression.

"We thought you'd given up long ago," said the Theocrat. "Go ahead. Struggle for your life. It will do you no good. Your soul will be reclaimed in the end."

Zorn didn't acknowledge her presence. He looked down at his hands strapped by his sides and curled his fingers into a tight fist. The right corner of the Theocrat's mouth began to twitch. As she raised her pale hands to her lips, other facial muscles began to spasm and convulse. The straps holding Zorn down were vibrating also, jerking back and forth violently until they pulled free from the chair.

Rollins rushed forward to secure the straps, but those that had held Zorn's arms leapt through the air and wrapped themselves around Rollins' neck. The leg straps did the same to the nameless Inquisitor. Rollins tried to call out to the guards, but the words were choked off in his throat, and the guards now were stone, like the carved busts next to which they stood.

Andre turned, screaming, to run, but the remaining straps fastened themselves around his chest, and bis collapse to the floor was accompanied by the sounds of cracking ribs and breath being squeezed from punctured lungs.

The Theocrat's entire body was wracked by convulsions. Blood ran from her nose and ears. As she

slumped to the floor, her last sight was of the empty chair.

Ron opened his eyes and saw the water stains on the ceiling of the motel room. He'd been lying on the bed absorbed in the mental expansions taking place within his psyche. He had touched that other world that only recently he'd come to accept as real. Only then had he realized that Zorn was more than a irritable and irritating fictional character gone wild; he was an integral part of Ron's inner being, a manifestation of his self. Ron embraced that inner nature. He felt reunited with a part of himself that before he hadn't even known was missing. He had created the other world itself with his mind, not in his mind. It existed on its own somewhere in reality and, as evidence suggested, functioned on its own beyond his control.

Does this world mirror the one that I created? Ron wondered briefly. Set in motion by a Creator and then run amuck? But thoughts of his everyday world brought Ron back to his immediate circumstances.

He was lying in the same position that he had been since... the drugs, since he'd taken the blue pills that had incapacitated him, left htm helpless. Irene.

Where was she?

Although Ron's body was still on the bed, his muscles ached as if he'd finished a marathon. He propped himself up on his elbows, fighting his soreness and stiff joints to do so. He felt weak, lightheaded, even though he could sense the drugs had been burned off, neutralized in his system during his transformation.

Immediately upon sitting up, Ron saw Irene. She lay on the floor by the bed, trails of blood running from her ears and nose. Clear jelly-like liquids dripped from her empty eye sockets. Her skin —• face, shoulders, chest, arms, legs — was split and cracked like a windshield. The small, snub-nosed revolver rested next to her on the floor.

Dear God!

Ron couldn't remember exactly what had happened. His mind was clouded with images of Irene wearing a regal cape rather than a simple towel. He felt stirring within himself the remnants of radical empowerment, of weeks of frustration and helplessness incredibly reversed by a hidden fury that lashed out at all that threatened him.

M y God. I killed her. What's going on? I killed her!

He looked again at Irene's broken form. He depended on her. He... loved her. Too much truth had been revealed for him to deny this. I love her... I killed her. Nausea swept over him and he felt himself purged, his throat burned by the bile and the former contents of his now empty stomach. Finally, he wiped his mouth on the bedspread and tried to breathe deeply to clear his head.

The Technocracy. Irene wasn't kidding. She was part of it. Dear God, she's dead. I killed her, somehow. Think about that later. The Technocracy exists. It's after me. Have to get away from here. They're coming. Irene. Why?

Ron forced himself up from the bed and carefully stepped over Irene to get the clothes that he'd left piled on the floor. Despite his violently shaking legs, he'd just gotten his pants on — he could feel the computer disk in his pocket against his leg — when there were three solid knocks at the door.

He held his breath, his previous exhaustion forgotten, replaced by terror of imagining who was on the other side of that door. Ron glanced around frantically, but there was no other exit from the room, not even a bathroom window. There was only the bed and the other furniture and Irene's body. Regardless, before he could take a step, the door crashed open, slamming against the wall. Both the chain and the deadbolt ripped chunks from the doorjam. Into the room strode two wide, towering men dressed completely in black — jackets, shirts, ties, pants, shoes, sunglasses. Each carried a black leather briefcase.

The men in black moved with preternatural quickness. Ron had intended to flee. Perhaps he was immobilized by his own trepidation, but, before he could move, one of the fearsome men had dropped his briefcase on the bed and seized Ron by the shoulders. The other knelt by Irene.

Ron stared into the face of the menacing figure that lifted him several inches off the floor. The eyes were hidden by the dark glasses, but the expression was the beginning of a snarl frozen in place, pure loathing and disgust.

It can't end like this! Ron thought. Taken away to be the human guinea pig in some devious experiment when he'd just discovered so much about himself. Unintentionally, he allowed his fear to reach down into the newly unified center of his being. Zorn was there, full of fear and anger and restored vigor. Ron reached into that completeness that insured that his life would never be the same again... and the man in black exploded!

Ron dropped to the floor, and then stood transfixed where he landed, having been instantly pelted with skin and hair and blood and shards of human matter that normally only a medical student or a coroner would see. The black suit, now containing only loosely connected masses of flesh, toppled over.

The second man in black bolted upright, but Ron hurled his fear and anger at him also. As if pulled from behind by a giant rubberband, the man flew backwards through the air. His path carried him into the bathroom, where he smashed into the shower with such force that the plastic wall shattered. He slumped into the tub and didn't move.

Whether the man in black was dead or merely unconscious Ron didn't know, and, as he grabbed his shoes and other clothes and fled from the motel, he didn't care.

Chapter Seventeen

The San Francisco Chronicle book review section, March 15, 1995:

It has long been apparent to critics, if not to the majority of readers, that there is no necessary correspondence between the best-sellers' list and literary merit. In fact, the relationship is, often as not, an inverse one. Take for instance San Francisco's own Ron Church and his previous novel, Death on the Tower, a novel which spent an entire summer on the list. It was less a novel and more a movie script waiting to happen.

Mr. Church's current effort, Tower of Babel, however, is remarkable in two respects: first, in the oddity of the circumstances surrounding its publication; and second, in Church's surprising departure from the contrived and formulaic plotting of his earlier work.

Disputes between authors and publishers are not uncommon. Andrews and Stern, publisher of Death on the Tower, refused to work with the best-selling Church again, citing unreasonable contract demands by the author although no details have been released. In November and December of last year the unfortunate turned to the bizarre when Church's accountant, Benjamin Hardy, who was suspected of embezzlement, disappeared, and Church's agent, Nathaniel Early, was murdered in his Marin County home. Church, who is still wanted by the police for questioning, disappeared himself and hasn't been heard from since. The story would be strange enough had it ended there, but in the past month crates of Church's sequel have begun arriving, unsolicited, at retailers across the country. The book is published by Apocalyptic Press, a company absolutely no one seems to know anything about. The retailers have not been billed or contacted about payments. Many are selling the book regardless, caving into the demands of the public as news of the strangeness has spread.

Church's action-hero protagonist, Max Zorn, has a tough act to follow, considering the exploits of his creator. The story itself is enjoyable enough, and Mr. Church occasionally transcends the hackneyed prose of his last book. He seems to have found a better feeling for his characters, presenting Zorn as a creature of doubt rather than as an invincible superman. Unfortunately, Church may have succeeded in upgrading his work merely enough to lose the interest of his action-adventure following, though not enough to gain a wider audience. Perhaps Mr. Church's next book should be about his own adventures.

Brady Trimmerhorn stood on Central Boulevard as the ALF troops stormed what was left of the Department of Orthodoxy complex. No one knew for certain what had caused the huge explosion that had completely destroyed the top twenty or so floors and ripped apart much of the rest of the complex, but it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The Theocracy raid from which Trimmerhorn had barely escaped had been damaging. He had lost several of his top people, but the ALF knew better than to centralize their activities, in case of just such a catastrophe. With the fiery eruption at the DO complex, however, the Theocracy would potentially be paralyzed if not permanently crippled. Trimmerhorn wanted to transform the explosion into a death blow to the Theocracy.

The mobilization of the ALF forces had been rapid and efficient, the attack swift and merciless. So much

Theocracy manpower had been directed toward containing the blaze and rescuing survivors where possible that any effective defense had been slow to materialize. So slow, in fact, that victory for the ALF was no longer in question, only the degree of how complete it would be.

Trimmerhorn smiled grimly as more explosions blew out the windows of the eighteenth floor. He imagined that Zorn had indeed had some part to play in the great conflagration; although how, he didn't know. Probably the rebel Inquisitor had perished in the explosion, but Trimmerhorn hoped, in a way, that his men would find Zorn alive. Trimmerhorn had seen much of himself in Zorn, and had hoped to be able to convince the man to work with him — but time and circumstances had not cooperated.

The flames licked upward from the eighteenth floor as Trimmerhorn watched and planned for the future.

F?

SAVE DoCUMENT? YES (NO)

Y

DOCUMENT TO BE SAVED: A:\TRIMMER,CHl

ENTER

REPLACE A:\TRIMMER.CH1? NO (YES)

SAVING R:\TRIMMER.CHl

EXIT PROGRAM N (YES)

Y

C:\WP >

Ron turned off the new laptop computer that his benefactors had provided him and stuffed it in the gym bag under his beach chair. This is more like it, he thought, as the ocean breeze cooled him. He could feel his nose starting to burn despite the globs of sunscreen he'd slathered on before coming out. He'd have to head in soon.

Three more days of heaven in Tahiti, and then back to San Francisco. Back to a life completely different from what he'd lived before.

It was ironic, Ron thought, that as much trouble as he'd gone through trying to find someone to publish his book, the people who'd finally published it had found him, and they'd done that when he was hiding from everyone. Guess I did a piss-poor job of going underground.

Ron never would've believed it before... everything else. There were those in San Francisco —- mages, practitioners of magick, tinkering with reality —- whose main objective was to thwart the Technocracy. The mages had adopted a corporate model with member groups from various traditions. The particular mages who'd approached him, Shantei and ]im Woo, both young, well-groomed, neatly-dressed Asian Americans, were members of the Akashic Brotherhood of which Tun Tzu had spoken. They were aware of what Ron had been through and wanted to help him, and they wanted him to help them. They talked about the oppressive stasis that the Technocracy would impose upon humanity.

Apparently, the creative chain of events that Ron had set in motion — creating a pocket realm, another whole world, when he'd thought he was just writing a story — had contributed a significant amount of dynamic energy to the equation that is reality. Such an influx of primal creativity was anathema to the Technocracy and had attracted their notice.

Oppressive stasis, primal creativity, hocus pocus. The technos want life to be a series of forms in triplicate, tab A in slot B. Everything in its place. Hell on earth. Philosophy aside, Ron knew that the Technocracy — it was still strange to believe it was real, but how much more proof could he ask for? — had seriously screwed up his life. Bastards.

The mages had helped Ron piece together what had happened — how the Technocracy had combined financial manipulation with kidnapping and murdet to tear his life apart, not to mention having utilized agents within the police department, and broadcasting a doctored news report directly to Ron's TV that no one else saw. According to the mages, Ron was incredibly lucky to have escaped from the men in black at the hotel. They were the super-powered thuggies of the New World Order, and their presence usually meant death, or worse, for opponents of the Technocracy.

I still don't believe it all. Ron stretched his legs and buried his toes in the warm sand. The hardest part to accept was Irene's role in all of this. She could be here with me right now if it weren't for those bastards. But would he have ever met her if it hadn't been for her mission? Ron had loved her. He realized this without reservation now that she was gone. For weeks he'd woken up, bathed in sweat, his heart about to jump out of his chest, from dreams of her broken body. It wasn't my fault, he kept telling himself. I didn't mean to hurt her... to kill her. If she weren't dead, I would be. The mental strain she'd been living under, leading her at the end to defy her masters, to try to save Ron by destroying him, must have been tremendous. That was something else for which the Technocracy should answer — Irene's destruction.

Ron had decided to follow the advice of Shantei and Jim Woo, who were sheltering and teaching him. He would strike at the Technocracy by continuing to write. "Infusing dynamic change into reality," the mages had called it; they seemed to think it would do some good. Already, he'd begun a third book, in which Trimmerhorn pursued his quest to dismantle the Theocracy. In his mind, Ron heightened the parallels between Technocracy and Theocracy as he gutted the latter. He imagined himself twisting the knife. The literary activity provided him a certain satisfaction, vicariously fulfilling his need for revenge.

Sales of Tower of Babel were racing along, thanks in part to the publicity from Ron's disappearance. If only he were getting any of the money! The brotherhood, which had arranged this brief vacation, had set up the publishing house Apocalyptic Press for one specific publication, Ron's book, then dismantled it just as quickly until a time when it might be needed again; perhaps another printing of Tower of Babel, maybe the new Trimmerhorn book. The operation would definitely be conducted from a different city —- too dangerous to try it again in San Francisco. At any rate, the book was only printed and distributed by Apocalyptic Press, not sold; the retailers were making all the money. Ron was just doing what he felt he needed to do, striking back at those who had stolen from him his old, prosperous life, those who had tried to silence him and would have destroyed him had he not begun to realize the magickal potential that had remained latent within him all these years.

Ron shook his head. Too weird.

He began to gather together his possessions and stuff them in the gym bag with the computer: towel, sunscreen, Eric Griffin fantasy novel, wallet, hotel key. Enough sun for one day. Too much sun probably. His shoulders, too, were a bit pink. Besides, I'm ready for one of those ... whatever

those drinks with the umbrellas are.

"So what do you think?" John asked expectantly. He sat cross-legged on the ground near the large black cauldron.

Tun Tzu closed his copy of Tower of Babel and set it on the ground next to him. He slowly climbed to his feet, picked up a nearby branch and stirred the bubbling, reddish liquid in the cauldron. He was careful to keep his robes away from the fire under the pot. "I think the muliana wine is ready." Once again, Tun Tzu was in a facsimile of the bamboo grove in which he'd originally lived.

John stood also. He brushed his jeans off and straightened his light green sweater. "Good. I'm more than willing to try your potent potable of choice. . . but I was talking about the book."

"I know." Tun Tzu grinned. He set down the branch and dipped a wooden spoon into the wine for a sample.

"After all," John said, "you had to go through all that mess. I thought you might like to see the finished product."

"I found it quite enlightening." Tun Tzu blew on the spoonful of wine, tasted it, then closed his eyes and smiled with the contentment of a well-fed cat stretched out in the sun. He scooped out a cupful and handed it to John.

"I felt bad keeping you cooped up like that," John reiterated, "but Ron might not have awakened if you hadn't been wandering around in his brain. He needed that push in the right direction, that little umph, if he and Zorn were going to become unified." John took a sip of the wine. His eyes began to water. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

Tun Tzu acknowledged the compliment by raising his cup and drinking. "So," he asked, "where do matters go from here?"

The box of Kleenex was in the other room. John left the computer briefly and returned blowing his nose. He set the box of Kleenex by the computer and checked the monitor again:

So, where do matters go from here?

IF YOU CAN BE PATIENT WITH ME JUST A LITTLE BIT LONGER, I'LL START A NEW STORY FOR YOU, SO YOU WON'T BE SITTING AROUND BY YOURSELF TWIDDLING YOUR THUMBS.

That would be very considerate of you.

IT'S THE LEAST I COULD DO. ENJOY YOUR WINE.

Don't worry.

John turned off the computer and then blew his nose again. I need drugs, he decided. Antibiotics, cold medicine, something. Then again, I guess I'm not going through that much compared to Tun Tzu. Imagine... burning out of his world, getting sucked into Ron's brain, being a super-conductor for Ron's Awakening, and then burning out of that world and ending up in my mind. At least once I start this next story, I'll be able to keep him busy. I'll have to take it easy on him for a while.

Ron doesn't know how good he's got it, going to Tahiti. I've never even been to Tahiti. I'm such a softy.

John reached for another Kleenex. I am so sick of blowing my nose. A cruel thought popped into his head. It would really piss off Ron if he were in Tahiti and had a cold. After all, he did flick me off, the cocky bastard. He turned the computer back on again. I still have a few days before I have to send off my final draft, and surely adding something as minor as a common cold couldn't create any major plot distortions....