When All Goes Bright
©2009 Jess Mowry

PROLOGUE

It could have been called a not-quite land. It was not quite in the center of Africa. It was far enough south so it wasn't quite steamy, and yet it was not quite a desert. Although it was tiny in terms of a nation, its borders had never been quite defined; its people knew when enough was sufficient, and when more than they needed was really too much.

The not-quite land wasn't much of a prize when the Europeans came to conquer. It was too far away from a river or coast to be a convenient source of slaves, who inconveniently tended to die if marched for hundreds of miles in chains, and it didn't have anything valuable such as diamonds, gold, or oil reserves so there was nothing much to steal. So, since the land had nothing or value and its people couldn't be used, it was merely taken because it was there and anything that wasn't possessed was a threat to those who didn't posses it.

Some said the French had first claimed this land, but were never quite sure what to do with it. Then as a sort of colonial joke they had bargained it off to the British for someone else's former home. The British loved to colonize -- at least they did at the time -- because even possessing a useless land meant one less threat to their empire. It was rather like moving into a house with a family who lived in the attic, and of never taking the time or trouble to climb up and make their acquaintance. Whoever they were, they made no demands and never complained if the roof might have leaked. And while it was true that they didn't pay rent, they never asked for anything, like running water, electric lights, or telephones to call their friends so they weren't really much of a bother.

One might have imagined a retired British Major reading his paper in robe and slippers and hearing something go bump in the night. He might pause for a moment, puffing his pipe, and wonder about those people up there, but perhaps it was better to just let them be. It was, after all, a tiny place and couldn't be used for anything.

One day the Major passed away and left the house to his children. He hadn't done much to keep it up, and repairs would have been expensive. Besides, there was nothing of value and the neighborhood wasn't desirable. No one else wanted the house, so it was returned to its free-living tenants.

The not-quite land was forgotten again, and decades passed away in peace while the rest of the world made various wars that came in many sizes. But, far away was a powerful land that still believed in empires and that anything that wasn't possessed was a threat to those who didn't possess it. The people who lived in this powerful place had never understood the idea of when enough was sufficient. They were only five percent of the world, yet they gobbled up twenty-five percent of all the world possessed. The purpose of power was power (they said) and the more you possessed the more you should have because that was the natural order of things and the way their children were taught.

The house of Earth could not be enlarged, but its wealthier children demanded more room, or at least more possessions to put in their rooms, because that was the natural order of things and the way they had always been taught. They started to think of remodeling, and so began to measure their house to capitalize on its limited space and demand that everyone pay rent.

The not-quite land was mostly flat, but here and there were huddles of hills, like scattered camps of sleeping camels, their humps outlined against the sky. Much of the country was dusty and dry, and yet it was not without life: there were groves of golden acacia trees, African oak, and thorny bushes, though never quite abundant enough to really be called a forest. There were even some places of not-quite jungle surrounding occasional water holes, or lining the banks of slow-running streams, which were never quite rivers except when it rained. These meandered their way across the plains in lazy loops with ox-bow lagoons, adding sinuous stripes and shadings of green to an otherwise golden-brown palette.

Some might have called the land barren in places, and yet it was never quite naked. There was hardy grass of amber hues that grew as high as a lion's shoulder. Yes, there were lions in this tiny place, though not quite as large as in other lands, and therefore not as interesting to those who studied or captured such things. It had also been this way in the past for those who came to Africa to murder something noble... one wanted the true king of beasts for a trophy, a lion who looked like a worthy opponent when locked in the sights of a high-powered rifle.

It was not quite the end of a long hot summer, but not yet time for the hard winter rains. One of the not-quite worthy lions had just downed a small antelope -- another species of life in this land that had never been worthy of notice -- and was dragging it into the shade of a tree when a distant droning invaded the peace. The lion paused to listen a moment, but then returned to eating.

The approaching sound was faint at first like a distant swarm of migrating bees. Then an airplane appeared in the southern sky, which today was as blue as a porcelain bowl and as clear as the eyes of a child. The plane skimmed the hump of a slumbering camel, thereby crossing an ancient border and blatantly breaking a brand new law.

The plane was a Douglas C-47 painted a tawny-golden shade very much like the coat of a lion. This wasn't a color one might have imagined for something meant to fly in the sky, but it would have been almost invisible to another airplane flying above. At the moment there weren't any other airplanes for hundreds miles in any direction, but far overhead, unseen up in space, the unsleeping eye of a spy satellite had spotted an unexplained shadow below and was frantically searching its memory files for a possible threat to its masters.

The C-47 was flying so slowly that a hawk could have passed it with ease in a dive and laughed at the foolishness of men who created such clumsy and noisy machines to go where they didn't belong. About every three minutes the plane's starboard engine would sputter and spew out puff of gray smoke. This would continue for several seconds and sometimes the engine would backfire, but at last it caught up with its portside brother to finally resume their droning duet.

The airplane's skin looked as crinkled as the foil of an old cigarette pack. Riveted patches showed here and there, and the sides of the forward fuselage were dented and scarred in a thousand places by ice being thrown off the spinning propellers in higher, colder altitudes. The engine nacelles were lathered with oil, and carbon soot blackened the wings' undersides, but there was a saying about these airplanes; they could possibly crash but would never wear out.

Painted on either side of the nose was the faded face of a snarling lion above the words, SIMBA AIR FREIGHT. The cockpit was like a tin camp stove with the sun blazing down on the lion-colored roof, though the windows were open and wind rushing past with the soft soothing roar of a waterfall. Dust seemed to coat every surface inside, including the glass of the instruments, their needles twitching and quivering, while the air was a stew of leather and sweat, hot engine oil, and hydraulic fluid.

A man lay asleep in the co-pilot's seat, a fine-boned man of not quite thirty. He was shirtless in trousers of lionish brown, while his skin was a dusky, lusterless shade like the deep satin-black of the instrument panels. He seemed a bit taller than only six feet, partly because of the cramped surroundings, but mostly because of his dancer-like build where every tight muscle was starkly defined like an artist's anatomy model. His chest was a pair of proud oval shapes above a stone-rippled stomach. His biceps were solid as river rocks even while resting relaxed. His face looked youthfully peaceful in sleep, with high rounded cheeks and a wide snubby nose. His lips were full and rested half open, revealing the gleam of shiny white teeth. His hair was bushy, indifferently kept, and powdered with dust to a lion's-mane color. His feet, resting clear of the worn rudder pedals, were clad in what seemed to be native-made boots with antelope uppers and truck tire soles. Unlike most pilots he wore no watch. A tuft of fur on a slim leather strip loosely encircled his neck. At his side was a heavy utility knife in a sheath decorated with beads.

In the pilot's seat was a boy of thirteen who was reading an anime magazine while a primitive, mindless, mechanical thing composed of gyros, gears and wires, with oil for blood and a pump for a heart attended the business of flying, mysteriously moving the twin steering yokes as if a ghost was guiding the plane. The boy, like the man, was deep dusky black, shirtless and shiny with sweat in the heat, which had muddied the leather beneath him. His hair, like the man's, was bushy and wild, shaded by dust to a lion's-mane brown and crowned with small yellow headphones. His face wasn't quite the same as the man's -- disregarding their difference in age -- but mostly due to its full rounded cheeks and the hint of a soft second chin. The boy, like the man, had long slender bones, but his body was rolly and soft. Sprawled in the narrow pilot's seat as only a boy of his age could sprawl, his belly spilled over his ragged blue-jeans and wobbled whenever he moved. His navel resembled a funnel-shaped cave, while his chest was a pair of melon-like shapes that bobbed to the bounce of the plane.

The boy had youthfully large feet and hands, the former encased in boots like the man's with antelope uppers and truck-tire soles. The latter were chubby and possibly clever when not resting paw-like and loose. His nose was wide, basically bridges, and rather aggressively snubbed. His lips were at rest in a half-open pout, displaying a pair of startling teeth that might have opened bottle caps. His onyx eyes had long silky lashes and were slightly upturned at the corners. This gave him a sly and foxy look, though they couldn't be seen at the moment, concealed by a pair of pilot's sunglasses designed for a far bigger face than his as well as a drastically different nose.

Unlike the man, the boy wore a watch that was almost cartoonishly huge and complex. On his other wrist was souvenir bracelet that might have come from a carnival. It was silver-plated but now showing brass, and engraved with the name, Dakota. Around his neck was a slim leather strip, and a tufted lock of lion's mane lay nestled between the orbs of his chest. He wore a headband of antelope skin, skillfully woven and beautifully beaded, which only partially tamed his hair but channeled the sweat from his eyes. A knife in a sheath, also handsomely-made, was secured to a loop on his jeans.

Like all things cherished in this tiny land, the plane was protected by powerful charms: a lion's fang dangled above the compass, along with a doll in the Akan tradition that smilingly swung and regarded the sky. Feathers, beads, and cowrie shells adorned the various levers and knobs. A souvenir photo was taped to the roof, looking down at the man and boy, the kind that were taken at carnivals. The boy was holding an ice-cream cone, his belly half bare in an underwear shirt that would have been tight on a much slimmer youth, while the man was clad in lionish brown and looked like a bumpkin come to a fair.

Dakota's headphones were plugged to a Diskman, and the volume was high with South African rock, yet Dakota glanced out about every three minutes whenever the starboard engine sputtered. Then he would lower his magazine and scan the dusty instrument panel. The airspeed was steady at 130 knots, but he'd fondle the starboard throttle a bit and tinker with the mix control. Then, his large and foxy eyes would roam the faces of other gauges... revolutions and temperatures, oil, fuel, and manifold pressures, altitude (about 1000 feet), flick to the compass (north by northwest), and then return to the starboard engine, which usually steadied and stopped spitting smoke as if sensing Dakota's annoyance. Then Dakota would gaze ahead through the bug-spattered glass of the grimy windshield. Finally, he'd reach between his legs where a bottle of Coke was nestled upright and take a sip of the hot sugar water. He also munched on Simba Chips bought that morning in Johannesburg.

The starboard engine sputtered again, belching a burst of gunmetal smoke as if sipping a beverage that didn't agree. The sleeping man stirred whenever this happened, as if the malfunction invaded his dreams. But Dakota performed his ritual of fondling the throttle lever, pampering the mix control, giving the engine a glare of reproach, and the roaring duet resumed its drone. Finally he drank the last of his Coke, tossed the bottle out the window, and gave the compass another glance. Then he studied the landscape ahead and a huddle of hills in the distance. He checked the altitude again, then set his magazine aside, slipped the headphones off his ears and hung them next to an ancient pair, huge and heavy, Bakelite and steel, that served the airplane's radio.

Leaving his seat was a minor struggle of dynamic muscle against static mass, and complicated by ergonomics designed in the 1930s. Finally reaching an upright position, his body rearranged itself, obeying the law of gravity, his belly plunging over his jeans and rebounding a bit like a bungee jumper. Muddy sweat drained from his cave of a navel to spatter the worn metal floor, while more trickled down from under his arms, channeling various rolly curves through a tawny-gold coating of dust. The soles of his boots made potato chip sounds in the gritty carpet of dust on the floor as he entered the sweltering cargo bay.

Sunlight streamed in through the rows of small windows. Dust motes danced in the broiling beams to the clattering beat of the engines. The cylindrical space was crowded with things, cardboard boxes of various sizes, many displaying labels of food, flats of tinned milk, a pile of rice sacks, barrels of fuel and kerosene, and a 1943 Willys Jeep born the same year as the airplane. The freight included roofing tin, lengths of plastic water pipe, a restless roll of chicken-wire, a truck engine banded to rough wooden skids and bearing a tag from Israel, along with shovels, axes, hoes, and a dozen machetes bound in a bundle that looked like a primitive killing machine.

There was also a coffin, classically-shaped in the old-fashioned British toe-pincher style. It gave off a rather ominous smell that suggested the plane had a passenger whose body should have been on earth... more properly below it. If scent had a color this would have been bronze, a dry, unpleasant, but tolerable smell.

Dakota's jeans were a little too small and more than not quite buttoned. The denim was thoroughly soaked with oil, which gave it the texture of leather. The pockets were ragged, and one knee ripped, but they might have been the only jeans for hundreds of miles in any direction. They rode comically low on his chubby bottom, hiding all but the toes of his boots, and revealing more than concealing a lot in regard to his teenage anatomy. Their ribbon-like cuffs dragged over the floor, leaving a trail behind in the dust as he wiggled his way through the trembling cargo.

Reaching the big double doors near the tail, he pushed the forward door open an inch and pissed in the rushing slipstream. He was fighting to fasten his unwilling jeans when the starboard engine sputtered again.

"Bother!" he said in Swahili, which could have meant damn or probably worse, then crunched his way back to the cockpit.

He paused to scan the instrument panel, then pulled another hot bottle of Coke from a rusty ice chest as dry as a desert. He settled into the seat once more, and was slipping the headphones back on his ears, when he noticed a rising column of smoke beyond the cluster of hills ahead. He squinted a bit in the savage sun-glare despite the deep green of his oversize glasses, and noted circling vulture shapes skirting the pillar of smoke. He frowned a little, leaning forward, his chest becoming roundly breasted, spilling over the steering yoke, and even his teeth seemed eager to see as his mouth slowly opened in wonder. Then he reached over the throttle quadrant and prodded the sleeping man's shoulder, his fingertip leaving an ebony spot in the coating of golden-brown dust.

"Nathi."

The man was awake in an instant. His eyes were as foxy and black as the boy's, flicking first to the instrument panel, checking the compass and altitude before giving Dakota a questioning look. The boy only pointed ahead. The man also frowned, then said in Swahili, "Take her up a little more." He reached for a pair of binoculars that had once belonged to the British Army.

Dakota unlocked the auto-pilot and took control of the airplane, planting his boots on the rudder pedals and gripping the steering yoke. He set the mix on auto-rich and slowly advanced the throttles. The starboard engine faltered, but quickly recovered and roared again. The airplane's nose tilted up. Clearing the hills by 500 feet, Dakota lowered the throttles once more while the man scanned ahead through the windshield.

Some might have said it was not quite a village but only a scatter of mud-plastered huts surrounded by fields of native crops: millet, maize, beans, and yams. It looked even less like a village today: the huts were roofless and smoking within, while flames still flickered here and there like angry red eyes in soot-blackened faces.

The vultures scattered away from the plane as it cut through the pillar of smoke. The smells of charred thatch and smoldering wood, of baking clay and burned possessions, blew into the cockpit then faded away as the plane burst out into sunlight.

"Shall I circle around?" asked Dakota.

"I don't see anyone," said Nathi, still intently scanning the ground. "No cattle, no goats. Not even a chicken."

Dakota scowled. "The Army would have taken them."

Nathi shifted the glasses. "They didn't bother to burn the crops. ...Maybe the people escaped to the hills." Then, his muscular body tensed. A long finger turned the binoculars' focus. "Bring her around and come in low."

Again, Dakota reached for the throttles, but paused to point ahead. "That must be the Army trucks."

Nathi aimed the glasses northeast where a cloud of dust rose in the heat-shimmered distance. "Probably two," he said. "Maybe fifteen kilometers. I doubt they can see us through all their own dust." He glanced at the fuel level gauge. "Go ahead and bring her around."

A few minutes later, the C-47 swooped over the village at seventy knots, man and boy scanning the ground.

"I see someone!" cried Dakota, half upright with his head out the window, his jeans slipping low on his bottom. "There in the shade by the chicken house. The one with still part of a roof."

The man only sighed. "A boy, and he's dead."

"Are you sure?"

Nathi lowered the powerful glasses. "Quite."

"Was he theirs, or ours?" asked Dakota.

"It doesn't matter to him anymore."

Dakota reached for the throttles again, about to pull up, then said, "They always welcomed us with a feast."

Nathi nodded. "Take her down."

There wasn't an actual airstrip, but the ground was flat and fairly smooth. The boy brought the plane to 500 feet, gently banked to circle around while carefully losing more altitude and lowering the wing flaps. Then he lined up the nose with the faint wheel tracks that marked their previous landings.

"Cross feed," he called, his hand on the throttles.

Nathi reached for the fuel selectors.

"Cowl flaps open. Gear down," said Dakota. He pulled back a bit on the steering yoke as the landing gear lowered with shuddering thumps and the airplane balked with the drag.

"Green and latched," called Nathi. "Tail wheel locked." He peered ahead at the oncoming earth. "Someone has been digging out there, but not enough for graves."

Dakota checked the airspeed again, noted the smoke still rising straight up, then lowered the flaps to full position, easing a bit on the trembling yoke as the airplane flared on ground-effect.

But, Nathi's eyes seemed troubled as he gazed ahead at the place of digging. Too small for graves...

The main wheels touched with a a firm double-bump, spewing twin clouds of golden-brown dust that fanned away behind the tail. Dakota reached to lower the throttles.

"Mines!" yelled Nathi.

"Full throttle! Full rich!" Dakota shouted, straining back on the yoke. "Gear up!"

Nathi considered for less than a second, then jerked the landing-gear lever, yanking the wheels from under the plane, which desperately fought to stay aloft... seeming to strain every creaking rivet, engines roaring at full RPM, gushing out solid black streamers of smoke, propeller blades pitched for maximum bite, frantically clawing the precious air so terribly close to the ground. Machine and boy battled together to fly, and then they were past the digging.

"Gear down!" yelled Dakota.

This time the thumps of the landing gear locking echoed the thuds of the wheels hitting dirt. "Green and latched," called Nathi.

"When all goes bright, don't look," puffed Dakota, shaking new sweat from his face.

Dust billowed over the ground once more as the airplane rattled and jolted along, a thing from the sky now awkward on earth. Dakota gently toed the brakes. The tail wheel dropped with a lesser thump, tilting the cockpit skyward again so the boy had to stretch to see over the nose. Finally, the airplane creaked to a halt a few hundred feet from the side of a hill and the village's ancient burying-ground. More tawny dust drifted in through the windows, furring the glass of the instrument panels and dimming the glare of the sun. The doll and lion's fang swung to and fro. Dakota bowed his head to the doll and murmured a "thank you," echoed by Nathi.

Dakota retracted the wing flaps, lowered the engines to clattering idle, studied the oil pressure gauges a moment, then stretched to reach the ignition switches above the windshield frame. Silence settled around the plane, except for the ticking and clicks of hot metal. Dakota flashed a sudden smile, displaying his bottle-opener teeth.

"How was that?"

Nathi sighed, stirring dust in the air. "We were ten knots below stall speed, yet you flew."

"Perhaps it was magic?"

"Or ground-effect. Though it shouldn't have worked in this heat." Nathi also smiled. "I could not have done better... but please never do that again."

Then, both faces, youthful, mature, hardened into grimmer lines.

"Do you think those mines were for us?" asked Dakota.

"Now they are for anyone."

Dakota wiggled out of his seat. Secured to a bulkhead by rubber cords was a pair of AK-47s with most of the blackness worn off the metal, leaving a dull silver-gray. Their bolts and triggers were shiny from use, their wooden stocks darkened by oil and sweat. He took down one of the rifles while Nathi uncradled the other.

Like Dakota's dangerous jeans, Nathi's trousers clung low on his hips as he slung his rifle over a shoulder and followed the boy down the now-slanted floor, their boots crunching dust in the sun-heated silence. He wrinkled his nose as they passed the coffin.

Dakota cocked and readied his rifle, setting it to full-auto fire and crouching close to cover the man as Nathi opened the doors. The creak of hinges was loud. Nathi blinked in the sunlight, shading his eyes as he scanned the hills, while Dakota poised ready to shoot.

"They would have known it was us," said Nathi.

"Should we wait?" asked Dakota. His own eyes behind their oversize glasses had turned to study the village.

"They would have known," said Nathi again. "And the trucks have been gone for at least an hour."

"Do you think the Army took the people?"

"There were only two trucks." Nathi unslung and cocked his weapon.

It was in the boy's nature to jump to the ground, but he comically landed and almost fell, his jeans slipping down to his knees. Nathi landed as light as a cat. Dakota recovered his jeans, then adjusted his glasses, which scorned his nose, while Nathi studied the port landing-gear where leaking oil was spattering dust like tiny atomic explosions.

"Shall I put in the pins?" asked Dakota.

"No," said Nathi. "We may have to leave in a hurry."

Rifles held ready, man and boy moved cautiously off toward the smoke-shrouded village, pausing once to look back at the plane, well camouflaged by its lion-colored paint... though far up in space the dust had been noted and pictures were being sent.

The vultures, disturbed by the landing, were only now spiraling back to earth. They hadn't quite reached the boy on the ground, who lay in the shade of a smoldering hen-house, the smoke casting rippling patterns around him. He was dusky-black and might have been twelve, naked and showing no body hair. He looked well-fed, even slightly round-tummied. His eyes, pure midnight and not yet sunken, gazed off in that strange and disturbing direction that no living eye can follow. His chest had been shattered by full-auto fire, though mercifully now it was covered with flies and the gleaming bones mostly concealed. One of his teeth was slightly chipped, which somehow made him look younger. Around his neck was a stainless-steel chain and a pair of shiny aluminum tags, the only things left to him in this world except his glossy, feasting shroud.

Dakota's eyes kept flicking around behind their lenses like emerald tears, scanning the scatter of smoking huts, the womanish swells of the lion-colored hills, and the empty sun-shimmered plains. His chubby fingers roamed the gun, though seldom strayed far from the trigger. But the only sounds were the buzzing of flies, the croaking and caws of the impatient vultures, the campfire crackle of burning wood.

"I thought they took one?" he said at last, his gaze coming back to the bright metal tags, which made the boy's body look like a possession... left-luggage, perhaps, to be called for later, although it was clear than nobody would. "To give to his parents, at least."

"Only an army with honor," said Nathi. "Which wouldn't have stripped and left him like this."

"Maybe they need the uniforms. ...That might be useful information."

"Someone fought back," said Nathi, kneeling to pick up a cartridge case. "This is from an AK."

One of the vultures, hungry or boldest, made a scuttling dart toward the body. Dakota swung his rifle, slamming the bird away. It retreated in fury, hissing, screaming, shitting itself. The others watching seemed to laugh.

"We should bury him," said Dakota.

Nathi rasied an eyebrow. "But, he's not one of ours."

"His spirit should not be left to wander."

Nathi nodded. "For now..." He handed his gun to Dakota, then pulled a sheet of rusty tin from what remained of the chicken house and arched it over the body. The vultures gave him angry glares. Then they moved on through the smoke-shrouded village, weapons ready, eyes alert, peering into each smoldering doorway, one always guarding the other's back, tensing at every soft sputter of flame or the crack of a charred rafter falling. Hut after hut lay gutted and empty, except for the ashes of household things. Bullets had ripped the mud walls, and the Army had used incendiary grenades to set every dwelling afire. Nathi noted this, saying, "They have more weapons than fuel."

Dakota nodded. "That is useful information." He went to the well and looked down. "They had enough fuel to poison the water."

"A few liters would have been sufficient."

"Why didn't they use grenades on the crops?"

Nathi was scanning around once more. "Perhaps they hoped to harvest them before the rains begin. But they seem to have left in a hurry. That's probably why we saw the mines." He aimed a finger here and there. "Most of these cases are M-16, though an AK or two fired back."

On the ground near the last of the burned-out huts, Dakota spotted an Army cap in a camouflage pattern of desert tans, which didn't quite work in this lion-colored land.

"Careful," warned Nathi. "The General has many new toys."

Dakota studied the sun-baked dirt before lifting the cap with his AK muzzle and flipping it into his hand. A tag inside read BARRYMORE CORP. HOUSTON, TX, USA. Dakota flung it away, then pushed up his slipping glasses again. "Maybe the people crossed the border? Or, maybe Rashawn took them to safety."

Nathi studied the cartridge cases. "A few hundred rounds, and maybe two rifles. Short bursts to conserve ammunition. Then they ran... there..."

Man and boy faced the last smoking hut. Then they approached it, weapons on point.

Two boys lay inside, one maybe ten. The other was close to Dakota's age, wearing a tuft of lion's mane on a leather strip around his neck. Unlike the round-tummied soldier, these boys were as lean as cheetahs. Both wore tire-tread antelope boots, though their only clothes were loincloths in a camouflage pattern of ambers and golds randomly striped with shadings of black.

Dakota's hands clenched on the gun. "I should be fighting with them!"

Nathi touched Dakota's arm. "You just fought a battle to fly and won. A truly great general once said that the three things most useful in winning his war were bulldozers, trucks, and the C-47."

"Mom? I think Freddy's dead."

"...Oh," said Nicole after a moment and not quite knowing what to say. The words had awakened an old memory, though she couldn't quite bring it to mind. She paused in her fight with a lipstick tube; she knew there was still quite a bit left inside, but the dammed thing wouldn't unscrew anymore as if cunningly crafted to cheat and retreat. She turned from a mirror steamed from her bath to the near-naked boy in the doorway.

Zackary was almost thirteen, with sandy blond hair in a spiky mop and the indigo eyes of his father. He'd always been rather charmingly chubby with chipmunk cheeks and a slight double-chin, but seeing him now clad only in shorts Nicole realized he had gotten quite fat. His stomach resembled a sack full of Jell-o that avalanced over his boxer shorts and wobbled in waves whenever he moved. His navel was like a funnel-shaped cave that tunneled away into shadowy depths, while his breasts were a pair of water-balloons that looked about ready to pop. His skin was as pale as vanilla ice cream, while his nipples, pink and disturbingly large, didn't do much to define his sex.

Nor did the small silver ring in one ear, the spiked leather bracelet he wore on a wrist, or the chrome-plated necklace of bright metal beads that looked like an oversize bathtub chain... although they were currently "in" for boys. As well as green hair, which she'd promised tomorrow. He'd dropped out of soccer the summer before and now spent most of his time in his room, either sprawled on his bed and watching TV, surfing the web for God knew what, or playing violent video games that featured mass-murder and nuclear wars, with blood and guts in full Technicolor, including grisly sound-effects of ripping flesh and breaking bones. Nicole wasn't sure how to deal with that -- or even if she should try -- any more than with Freddy's apparent demise.

She tossed the lipstick into the wastebasket, telling herself to remember the brand and never buy it again. ...Or, could its commercial chicanery be used to advantage somehow? Ours gives you all you deserve? But, her company didn't make cosmetics, at least no division she knew of. And what was the crap anyhow, she thought; colored grease to smear on her mouth to make it look wet and inviting to males.

"Er..." she said, feeling confused, a rather familiar sensation these days. "Are you sure, honey?"

Zackary shrugged as if still half asleep, though he'd looked that way for most of this year, even engaged in genocide on faceless hordes of terrorist orcs... sub-human things motivated by hate that one only wanted to kill. Orcs never had any families, no cute little orclings to cry for their daddies, or wives to weep for their slaughtered breadwinners, so nobody felt the slightest remorse about bombing them all to hell. Nicole had suspected drugs for a while as the source of Zackary's laziness, and had read somewhere that heavy dope-smoking in pubescent males could cause their breasts to become enlarged. But she'd never smelled any weed on her son, so she'd settled for lack of motivation and probably too many carbs.

"He's all stiff, mom," added Zack.

Nicole glanced again at the misty mirror, patted her golden-brown hair into place, and wondered if it was getting too long... too late to worry about that now. She almost guiltily checked her watch. Freddy had picked a bad morning to die, and she hoped it wasn't an omen. But, she made herself smile in a hopeful way. "Maybe he's just sleeping late."

"He's all stiff, mom," repeated Zack, without the slightest degree of hope in a slightly squeaky pre-teen voice.

Nicole took her son's chubby hand, noting his sloppily wobbling walk as she tried to hurry him down the hall without seeming overly stressed. Her morning commute was looming ahead like its own kind of video game from hell... Road Rage X, perhaps.

The house seemed depressingly dark and still, almost like a funeral home, as if Freddy's passing had set the mood. The air conditioner murmured, sounding a bit like organ music, combating the heat of a Houston June. Their feet were silent on deep pile carpet, Zackary's bare, Nicole's in new shoes that were stiff, unforgiving, and bought yesterday, along with another moderate suit. She caught sight of herself in a closet door mirror while passing the huge master bedroom; still rather attractive at thirty-four years, certainly not a Barbie doll but she'd never bought into the health-nazi hype that skinny was some kind of master race and fat was a terrorist threat. Her eyes were sky-blue, her cheekbones high, and her chin was determined and firm. Her complexion had always been clear and smooth, easily tanned with a touch of sunlight to the honey-bronze shade of a Malibu bunny; a look that Texans seemed to favor as much as the surfer-boys in L.A... even without blue eye-shadow. Her lips had a natural fullness and color, her lashes needed no lengthening, and her makeup was usually minimal.

Zackary's room was also immense and featured lots of free space, mostly thanks to Maria the maid, who shoveled it out three times a week in total indifference to Zackary's rage, something usually felt more than heard that could curdle the air like a sulky cat and fill the whole house with pubescent distemper. A scatter of junk-food and candy bar wrappers defiled the floor and mocked Maria. The shelving system was sagging with things, comics, CDs, and model airplanes, almost a hundred little aircraft, the older of many different types, the newer all fighters or bombers. There was a fifty-inch plasma TV, a new X-box, a million games, DVDs and assorted software, along with a massive stereo and a few old toys from Zackary's past... action-figures of muscle-bound males equipped with weapons of mass-destruction in every conceivable form.

Several were sold by her own company; the Defenders Of Democracy series with "fully authentic uniforms," though made in Communist China. One Defender was African, stripped to the waist in camouflage pants with a feral pattern of amber and gold. Nicole had suggested a few less muscles and more realistic proportions, but had been overruled by Marketing... "boys want masculine mass," they'd said.

There was also a Barney, an old Tonka truck, and a well-worn Tickle-Me-Elmo. The walls were defaced with gothic posters, some almost seeming satanic, while others depicted bombers in flight with savage explosions erupting below.

The TV clock showed 7:32, sparing Nicole a glance at her watch as she went to the Hamster Habitat, a plastic mini-universe of pipe-like runs and transparent chambers that probably gave an illusion of freedom while keeping its occupant safely contained. There wasn't much doubt that Freddy was dead, a very obese little ball of fur now sprawled beside his brimming food dish. But she opened the cage to make sure anyhow, forcing her finger to stroke, not prod, as Zack looked on with a sleepy expression. Rigor Mortis seemed to have passed, and the flabby furball was room temperature.

"I guess he was getting old," said Nicole, though she wondered how old was old for a hamster. Could you overfeed them like goldfish? If so, that was probably cause of death, but at least he had passed looking happy. Or was that rictus sardonicus? She tried to recall if Roger had bought him before or after the nasty divorce, when Zack had dropped out of soccer.

"I guess," said Zack.

"I'm sorry, honey," murmured Nicole, giving her son a comforting hug and almost expecting a squeeze-toy squeak. He felt like Freddy without the fur. "How do you feel about that?"

"Okay, I guess. He was gettin' old. ...Maybe I'll get me a rat."

"...We'll... talk about it," said Nicole, who had never liked rodents in any disguise. Rats smelled, she had heard, but so did Zack; that sharp, bitter bite of young adolescence, which seemed to saturate the room. Zack also whacked-off constantly, casually and carelessly; it was hard not to catch him at it, though so far she had managed. She pictured Maria crossing herself when changing Zackary's crackly sheets or vacuuming the crusty carpet under his computer desk. She had done her own version of course at his age, but had concentrated on quality while Zack seemed to go for quantity and never had enough. He had obviously done it already this morning, no doubt before finding Freddy dead, and his shorts revealed the evidence. She noted with a bit of surprise the few wispy curls under Zackary's arms, although it would likely be several more years until he'd start shaving his face. She supposed she would have to read up on that rite and be ready to offer advice.

"I guess we should bury him, huh?" said Zack. "Like, before he starts to smell?"

"We might have to do it this evening, honey. I have an important meeting, remember?"

"Are they gonna give you more money?"

"I guess it's possible. ...But we're not doing badly right now, are we?"

Zack reached for a half-eaten Milky Way bar next to the clock on his beside table. "I guess we got enough."

That was certainly speaking the truth: the settlement terms had been quite sufficient, mostly due to Roger's abuse... vicious and vile but thankfully verbal, as Zack had testified in court. Nicole's job brought in more than enough, and the rest was invested securely offshore in the hands of a cunning accountant. "We could put him in the refrigerator. Like they do in a... morgue."

Zackary's eyebrows arched. "With the food?" he asked, his mouth full of chocolate.

Nicole took note of the slight "U" in food. Zack had asked for a "pin" last week, and after she had found him one he'd given her a baffled look and said he needed to write.

"We'd put him in something," Nicole improvised. A disposable Tupperware tub came to mind in lieu of a hamster casket. ...She wondered if anyone made such an item. Surely there were coffins for pets?

Now, Zack's accent was pure Thousand Oaks: "Mom, that's gross!"

Nicole glanced again at the fat ball of fluff and mentally wished it in animal hell for skewing her mind from important things. "We can bury him in the flower bed. There's a shovel in the garage, I think. But we'll have to hurry so you won't be late. You don't want to miss graduation practice." Nicole realized with a flash of guilt that she hadn't yet bought him a gift.

Zack smiled a little, which seemed to prove that he didn't hate her for losing the only man in his life. His teeth, she noted, were flawlessly straight, thanks to a year of retainers and braces, a nasty ordeal he had really hated. Fortunately, he'd excelled at soccer, becoming a schoolyard star for a while, which had tempered the trauma of grinning in tin.

"I gots a box," said Zack, seeming to wake up a little more. "The one my old G.I. Joe came in. ...I guess it's okay to touch him all dead?"

Nicole smiled, too, as much at Zackary's innocence as the double-syllable he'd given to "day-ed." Like most Californians, she thought of herself as having no accent, regarding a drawl with amused reserve and a drawler as slightly inferior. Maybe more than slightly. Of course, she kept this under cover, dwelling here in drawler-land.

"I don't see why not," said Nicole. "He's still the same Freddy, just... not quite all there." She glanced around the raunchy room. The big new Dell PC was on, and she chose to ignore a soft-porn site. At least they were gothic girls. ...Or, were they called Emo these days? She made a mental not to check his browsing history... assuming he didn't delete it. "I'll get breakfast started."

"Okay, mom," said Zack, licking chocolate from chubby fingers that probably hadn't been washed. Nicole recalled her mother saying that boys were basically animals, and dirty ones at that.

She hurried down the shadowy hall and into the cavernous kitchen, a ranch-style room with a Spanish tile floor and a huge island range in the center. The fridge was a monstrous stainless-steel box that might have served in a morgue. It had huge double doors and a rabid ice maker she couldn't quite seem to control. The kitchen faced out on a vast patio through a virtual wall of thermal-pane glass, overlooking an almost olympic-sized pool with a tall water slide and a huge Jacuzzi in which a hippo might comfortably wallow. The sun, still brassy and low in the east, struck glittering sparks off the turquoise water, reflecting from rows of bright copper pans that hung above the six-burner stove. Maria polished them every week, though Nicole had little time to cook and usually brought home take-out meals or texted Zack to order food.

She took a breakfast out of the freezer and slid it into the microwave. The Mr. Coffee had already started, set to her usual schedule. She poured a cup of Colombian Blend, glasses of milk and juice for Zack, then switched on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV.

The face of a government leader appeared, the red-white-and-blue at his back as always, as if required to prove his allegiance to something besides a dollar sign. Raised by disillusioned hippies -- a term her mother often used -- Nicole wasn't very patriotic: a country was a concept and she hadn't asked to be born here. Still, she tried to keep up with the score; who the current terrorists were, why they threatened her way of life and had to be bombed off the face of the earth so she could have blue-jeans and Ronald McDonald. Not to mention plenty of gas at whatever price the traffic would bear.

She tried not to think about things like that, though she understood them well enough... being in propaganda herself. She usually recognized liars and lies, but her terrorist threats were closer to home in the constant intrigues of the office. She daily dealt with the petty dictators who plotted and schemed to destroy what she'd built, dropping their bombs in the boardrooms and lounges, booby-trapping her office P.C. -- or trying to give it a virus -- and setting trip-wires in her various projects in hope they'd blow up in her face. Everyone mined her road to success in a savagely civilized way.

She had once made a stab at "saving the world" and had found it rather ungrateful. In fact, it had booted her square in the butt and sent her running for home. Still, no one had given her anything, and she'd given back more than her share: it was time for her slice of American pie and she wanted it creamy and sweet.

She pulled her notebook out of a pocket and typed "pet coffins, lying lipstick," and "graduation gift for Z."

Zack waddled in wearing dangerous jeans that gave a new meaning to saggers. Their pockets were nearly down at his knees, while their cuffs dragged the floor and concealed his sneaks. Their rather ridiculous bagginess -- enough overpriced denim to cover three kids -- did manage to slim his appearance a little despite all the flab hanging over in front. I-pod headphones were plugged in his ears, and his feet were encased in expensive sport shoes, which seemed like a contradiction in terms, given the shape of his still-shirtless body. He set a small box on the counter top, then raided a cupboard for Pop-Tarts.

"Er," said Nicole. "Maybe you should put him out on the patio."

"It's pretty hot, mom," Zack wisely replied, locking and loading the four-slice toaster. He snagged a box of Mud And Bugs, then switched the TV to Cartoon Network where demons were more comprehensible, their evil motives transparent enough for even a child to understand. "I sealed him in plastic," he added, while filling a Lion King cereal bowl.

"I hope you washed your hands."

"...Yeah."

Nicole eyed the clock, a 1950s amber lion who twitched his tail and rolled his eyes to mark the relentless march of time... which seemed to be marching much faster these days. It had once belonged to Nicole's grandmother back in the decade of Leave It To Beaver. Then it had hung in her parents' kitchen, seeing Nicole through her Wonder Years from kindergarten to U.C.L.A. Her mom had been going to throw it away when age had made it senile, but Nicole had had it cleaned and repaired... at an astronomical cost by a jeweler who thought she was missing a marble for wanting to save such a stupid old thing.

She hoped Freddy's funeral wouldn't take long: she normally left the house by eight, and the drive was at least forty minutes... assuming no wrecks or road-rage attacks. Her meeting was scheduled for ten, which gave her a margin of safety. Still, she decided to cover her butt, and took out her company-furnished phone as Zackary drowned his Bugs in milk.

She got her boss's receptionist, who always seemed to be at her post with a finger firmly on company pulse. Jenny knew where the bodies were buried, yet seemed content with what she had, never back-biting or playing for power, which often puzzled people.

"Hi, Jenny," said Nicole. "I'm having a problem... I know, it would be today. ...No, not stuck in traffic again... not yet anyhow. ...It's... a... death in the family. ...Thank you. But, I'll be there in time for the meeting. I wanted to let Dwane know. ...Yes, it's sad to lose a loved-one."

She glanced at the box on the counter as Zackary crunched his muddy bugs and glassily gazed at the TV screen. She noted another Amber Alert, the third in two weeks; and though kidnapping kids was a horrible thing it was starting to seem as commonplace as terrorist threats, school massacres, and all the anti-obesity hype.

"But, we weren't very close," Nicole added. "Thanks, Jen."

The microwave beeped, and she took out Zackary's plastic-sealed breakfast of eggs, sausage, and hash-brown potatoes -- "Made country-fresh on the farm every morning" -- as the toaster ejected the Tarts. She set out a fork and a napkin. "Come and eat, honey. I'll go find the shovel."

Zack plopped down with his cereal bowl, his eyes intent on the TV screen, as Nicole went into the three-car garage. Her footsteps echoed hollowly across the spacious concrete floor. It was large enough for a Texas barn-dance with only her Chrysler Cruiser inside. The emptiness still surprised her without Roger's Lexus and Hummer H-2, prudently bearing American flags, though the stickers were made in Taiwan.

Her own car was unpatriotic, which had likely been noted by parking-lot cameras. Her yard was maintained by a weekly service -- a Mexican man and his two chubby sons who were democratically paid in cash -- and the big riding mower was shrouded in dust, along with her own garden tools. Nicole glanced down at her shiny new shoes as she picked up a cobwebby shovel. She wondered if she should change for this job, but how deep a grave did a hamster need? She found some old sneaks in a box of clothes that Roger had left for the Salvation Army... and which she kept forgetting to call. The well-worn Nikes felt good on her feet.

The garage was still fairly cool from the night, but the outside air was a sauna from hell when she opened the door to the patio. She hoped her antiperspirant worked as well as its claims on TV. A six-foot wall of faux adobe defended her sprawling back yard from its neighbors, each big enough for a small soccer game, with turquoise pools and brown-skinned servants to tend yellow roses and emerald lawns.

Nicole's own grass was wet from the sprinklers, making her grateful for changing her shoes. Wisps of steam like infant ghosts rose up to haunt her ankles. She selected a spot in a flower bed, and found the earth was thankfully soft as her shovel clove deeply beneath Roger's sneak.

She heard a faint rumble of sliding glass as Zack waddled out on the patio, bearing the box and a Pop-Tart. He started to sweat almost instantly, and reached her all shiny and smelly. He had shown an increasing reluctance to bathe, though Jenny had said that was normal, having raised three sons of her own. The gardener's boys were around Zack's age, but seemed to possess no particular scent -- flowers and earth more than anything else -- whenever Nicole had offered them Cokes. She often felt guilty, seeing them sweating while skimming the pool and probably longing to go for a swim, but they were getting paid by the hour. Three shovelfuls later the grave was dug, and Zackary solemnly lowered the coffin. Amusingly -- or maybe not -- the box displayed an American flag.

Here lies Freddy, thought Nicole, a patriotic American rodent who gave his all for consumerism.

Zackary added a bit of Pop-Tart to see Freddy through on his journey beyond.

"He was a nice hamster," said Nicole, feeling a few words were needed.

"Yeah," said Zack. "See ya, Freddy."

The wireless beeped in Nicole's pocket.

"I'll do it, mom," said Zack, as Nicole extracted and un-flipped her phone. Except for his toddler days at the beach, this might have been the first time in his life he'd ever used a shovel.

Dwane Barrymore's face appeared on the screen, Texas-tanned and steely-blue eyed, with just the right etchings of weathered crows feet to remind everyone of the Alamo. Naturally he "ran a few cows" and threw barbecues on his "acre or so."

"Y'all havin' some trouble this mornin'?" he asked. He wouldn't have said 'little missy,' but it seemed to be rather implied.

"No problem," replied Nicole, while noting the digital time on the screen. "I'm just getting ready to leave."

"Jenny just told me you lost a relation. I'm sorry, Nicole. Are you all right?"

"Thank you, Dwane, but I'm fine." Nicole glanced at Zack, who panted and shoveled, his bitter sweat scenting the air. "We weren't very close."

"When's the service? I'll send some flowers."

"...Er," said Nicole. "He didn't want one."

"Well, look here now, I don't want you drivin' all bereaved. I sent somebody to pick you up."

"...Oh," said Nicole, as Zackary, puffing, completed the grave. His saggers were dragging the shorts off his bottom, now almost transparent with sweat which had activated a seminal smell. Nicole didn't envy his classmates today. "I'm really all right," she insisted.

"It's already done, so you just never mind. Matter of fact, he should be there by now. We can't have you missin' this meetin'."

"...Oh," Nicole echoed, a little surprised and doing the math... an ambulance couldn't have made it that fast. Then she heard an approaching drone, and the thrashing chop of propeller blades. Zack looked up, wiping sweat from his eyes, as the small silhouette of a helicopter appeared above the suburban horizon.

"Woah, mom!" cried Zack. "Check it out!"

"Y'all better wave," chuckled Dwane on the phone. "Them houses out there pretty much look alike. Hope you don't have any clothes on the line."

Zack was already waving, his boxers and jeans at an indecent level.

"...Oh," repeated Nicole once more. Her mother still hung out her clothes on a line, but in this neighborhood that was likely illegal and maybe a hangin' offense. "This is really too much. You shouldn't have, Dwane."

Dwane only chuckled again. "Enjoy the ride, Nicole. Might be a lot more in your future."

What did that mean, Nicole wondered? She took hold of Zack's arm, mindful of the menacing blades as the aircraft settled itself on the lawn with the pompous grace of a fat bumblebee. Like all flying things Nicole had seen, it looked brand-new and hospital clean. BARRYMORE CORP. showed bright on its side, along with a gaudy American flag.

"This is so cool!" exclaimed Zack, displaying more life than he'd shown in a year. "Hey, mom, you're really important!"

Nicole kept her grip on Zackary's arm, which felt like pudding contained by skin, until the rotors had slowed to a stop and she'd measured their circle of steel. She admitted to feeling a little important, knowing her neighbors were all taking notes. No one had actually said anything, but it seemed to have been assumed in these parts that she wouldn't be able to keep the house without a man around. Even the director at Zackary's school had tactfully mentioned "other academies," whose standards were almost as high as their own... though "assistance was sometimes available in certain deserving cases."

Zack had been scanning the aircraft. "It's only a Eurocopter, mom. An' kinda old. But it's still cool."

Well, thought Nicole, old or not -- and that was a relative term to Zack in a world where things were obsolete by the time one got them home from the store -- this was better than a roomful of puppies on curtains, something that Dwane often said. And all because Freddy was dead. She suddenly wished him in hamster heaven with brimming food dishes of rodent delights and effortless treadmills that powered themselves.

The pilot looked like every pilot -- mostly from movies or striding through airports -- Caucasian, of course, and inspiring trust; a rather indefinite young middle-age, with closely-cropped hair and a lightly-tanned face. His eyes were concealed by shiny sunglasses, reflecting the world in bright mirror tears. He was clad in dark slacks and a sky-blue shirt. His narrow knit tie, of the type pilots wore, was pinned with a tiny American flag. His Rolex chronometer gleamed in the sun, as did his professionally pleasant smile as he opened the door and stepped down.

"Miz Neale?" he asked in a southwestern voice above the idling whine of the engine, which left a kerosene scent in the air.

"Yes," said Nicole, stepping forward as if to receive a diploma. Then she glanced down at her ratty old shoes. "I'll just be a minute..."

"Mom!" yelped Zackary, breaking loose.

"You're going to be late for school," warned Nicole, restraining herself from making a grab that might have looked overprotective.

The pilot smiled at Zackary. "How far is your schoolhouse, son?"

"I dunno," said Zack, his eyes roaming over the flying machine. "The bus takes about ten minutes."

"They have a big playin' field?" asked the pilot.

Comprehension lit Zackary's face. "Yeah! It's for soccer. ...Cool!"

"Is that all right?" asked Nicole. Maybe it was silly, but she wondered if she was being tested.

"Oh sure," said the pilot easily, as if he could do what he damn well pleased as free as a bird in the sky. He glanced at his watch, which had multiple dials. "We'll have you there in no time. ...Name's Ted Baxter."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Baxter." Nicole took his hand. He smelled like soap and aftershave.

"Ted."

"Ted." Nicole felt cool air flowing out of the cockpit where Zack was raptly peering inside. It was good to see him excited again after months of virtual nothing. "I'll change my shoes and get my things. ...Come on now, Zack. Go get a shirt and your books. Hurry up."

"Okay, mom." Zackary lumbered back to the house as fast as he'd moved in his soccer days, though he had to hold onto his jeans with a hand and looked like an earthquake in flubber. Nicole hurried after him, leaving the shovel upright in the earth over Freddy's sealed-in-plastic remains.

The sun had grown ruddy and low in the west but the heat of the day hadn't lessened. The earth had been hard and defiant, resisting shovels and even a pick as if weary of death and accepting more children. Attacker, defenders, it made no distinction, giving no quarter to iron and steel, or the dreary labor of man and boy to return what it had nurtured.

Dakota and Nathi were muddied with dust, and even their sweat couldn't wash it away, though the earth seemed eager to drink of them, maybe accepting that as payment as they filled in the second of two small graves in the village's hillside burying-ground. The site was extensive, centuries old, and most of its mounds were ancient and weathered, telling a tale of long tenancy and of lives lived out in not quite abundance but seldom with less than sufficient. The headstones were mostly pyramid shapes, some of rocks, others of clay. The oldest were melting back into the earth like empty castles of termite cities after their empires had fallen. Most of the graves were adorned with treasures, a beloved old pot, a favorite basket, a knife, a machete, a necklace, a toy. One grave boasted a radio, a first-generation transistor type. On another small mound was a toy airplane still hopefully poised to fly.

Dakota's jeans had refused to stay on as, panting and puffing, he'd plied the pick, so he'd finally stripped naked except for his boots, his lion's mane charm, bracelet and watch, and his sweat-sodden bright-beaded headband. He wore the sunglasses high in his hair like the flying goggles of a cartoon squirrel.

Nathi's own trousers clung low on his hips as he shoveled the last of the dirt into place. Wiping sweat from his eyes, he measured the sun, which was nearing the hilltop above. Dakota leaned on his shovel, ignoring his watch and doing the same. Neither had spoken for several hours because there was nothing to say. The only sounds had been their digging, their panting breaths as they'd opened the earth, and a few murmured curses encountering rocks. They had often paused to scan the horizon and listen for voices or engine sounds, but nothing had broken the graveyard silence except for whispers of breeze in the grass. Then they would drink from a battered canteen as the earth was thirstily drinking of them. The vultures had sulkily watched their work, surrounding the site in a rustling circle and muttering curses beneath their own breaths as the last of the bodies were hidden from view. Even then a few had remained, eying the diggers in speculation as if it was only a matter of time.

Dakota cleared the dust from his throat, spitting brown mud between the two graves, then sloppily gulped more water. "It will be dark when we get there," he puffed, passing the canteen to Nathi.

Nathi drank. "You need the practice of landing at night."

"I still find it scary."

"So do I. But, a little fear is a healthy thing." Nathi smiled. "Some pilots are old, and some are bold, but very few are both."

He turned to look down at the ravaged village where yesterday's children had waved at the plane while chasing its southern-bound shadow. The fires had all burned out, though smoke still ghosted from blackened doorways and drifted through windows like empty skull eyes.

Dakota murmured, "Even if the people return they will never rebuild on the site."

Nathi nodded. "A thousand years of tenancy ended in less than an hour."

"Perhaps that is part of the General's plan?"

"Perhaps," agreed Nathi. "We should leave a warning. The Army may have laid mines in the crops."

Dakota scanned the hills again while sweat trickled brightly from under his arms to channel the mud on his body. More dribbled out of his cave of a navel to sink in the earth of the graves. "Where do you think the people have gone?"

Nathi considered. "Rashawn must have known there would be an attack or he wouldn't have left defenders. Maybe he did help the people escape. Took them across the border, perhaps. He has a few trucks and a Land Rover now."

Dakota looked down at the airplane, a tawny shape in the amber grass beneath the redly sinking sun. "And soon he will have a Jeep as well, along with the engine he needs."

"Thanks in part to you," said Nathi.

Dakota recovered his ragged jeans and pulled something out of a pocket. "I took one," he said, displaying the shiny aluminum tag.

Nathi sighed. "Maybe someday there will be an accounting. When the world has learned the value of life."

"I think he was brave," said Dakota, looking down at one of the mounds. "He was shot in the chest, not in the back."

"Or simply a bit too bold." Nathi gathered the shovels and pick, then slung the canteen by its hand-woven strap. Dakota studied the tag once more, then lay it on one of the graves. He slung Nathi's rifle over a shoulder but kept his own in hand. They walked down the hill through the whispering grass, both scanning the ground for mines.

A few minutes later they reached the plane. Its wing shadows stretched out graceful and long. Far up in space their shapes had been noted, waiting for someone to correlate them with the dust of the landing a few hours before.

Dakota went to the port landing-gear and looked up into the wheel well. "It's still leaking a little," he said, ignoring the oil that dripped from the engine.

"It should be all right," said Nathi, sliding the shovels and pick through the doorway. The coffin now gave off a horrible stench after baking for hours in the cargo bay. Assuming a scent could have a color, the bronze-hued reek, which had seemed rather dry, had turned to a slimy and wet yellow-white. "We'll put in the new seals tomorrow," he added, backing away and catching his breath. "I'll get the engines warmed up."

"What of the mines in the crops?"

"There is red paint in the tool box. Leave a few warnings and hope nobody goes into the fields."

"A hungry child might," said Dakota.

"Speak then as a child to a child." Nathi boosted Dakota aboard by grabbing the back of his jeans. "We'll deal with the other mines ourselves. Hurry before it gets dark."

Dakota clamped a hand to his nose, leaned from the doorway to suck a deep breath, then wiggled his way through the jumble of cargo. He quickly returned with a small can of paint and trotted away to the village. He drew the warnings on bullet-pocked walls... a disk-like shape and a menacing skull. On the disk he painted U.S.A.

The engines were idling, spitting out smoke, as Dakota came panting back to the plane. Nathi took him under the arms and hoisted him through the doorway again. Both held their breaths as they squeezed past the coffin and crunched their way up the sloping floor. The sun was sinking behind the hills as Nathi slid into the pilot's seat and checked the various gauges.

"Tail wheel unlocked," said Dakota, plopping into the co-pilot's seat. "Cowl flaps, trail. Mix, auto-rich."

The starboard engine sputtered a bit as Nathi swung the plane around, the toe of his boot on the portside brake, and lined up the nose with a distant hilltop, avoiding the place where the mines were laid. He held both brakes while testing the engines and running up the pitch controls. Dakota watched the instruments, calling out pressures and RPMs. He switched fuel tanks to draw from the fullest, then locked the tail wheel.

"Twenty-seven-hundred," he called above the rumble of rising power.

Nathi took his boots off the brakes. The plane surged forward, gathering speed, rocking and jolting over the ground, propellers eagerly clawing the air, engines roaring, rivets creaking, a cloud of dust fanning away from the tail. Dakota called more instrument readings, holding the throttle handles in place while keeping an eye on the gauges. The clatter of cargo and creaking grew louder. The doll and lion's fang trembled and danced. The ancient aircraft gained more speed, bouncing across the dusty terrain. The tail rose gently off the earth, tilting the cockpit level again. The plane rattled past the corpse of a village and finally climbed thundering into the sky.

"Gear up!" called Nathi.

Dakota pulled the landing-gear lever as Nathi eased back on the steering yoke and the airplane cleared the hilltops. "Get ready," said Nathi, banking to starboard. "The light's going fast."

Dakota centered the lever, then took one of the rifles. He set the switch to full-auto fire as Nathi circled the plane around, adjusting the flaps and coming in slow, banking gently to starboard again as Dakota took aim out the window. The rifle bucked in Dakota's hands, its butt driving deep in his chubby shoulder. Orange muzzle flame licked out toward the earth. Smoking brass spewed from the hammering gun, bouncing off the quilted padding that lined the inside of the fuselage. One of the mines exploded below with a muffled WHUMP and a scarlet flash. Dirt and metal blasted skyward, jolting the plane in the air. Another mine burst like a flower of death, erupting more dirt and flinging up rocks, along with slashing shreds of steel designed, devised, by civilized people to razor flesh and shatter bones, to kill and maim, to cripple and blind.

A third mine exploded, and finally two more as Dakota grimly reaped a harvest. The stink of gunpowder, reek of cordite, the smells of hot steel and bright bitter brass, filled the cockpit and burned his eyes.

They circled around for another attack and three more mines exploded. The eye in the sky took note of them all as if fretting over the waste. Now recognizing a definite threat in the fiery blossoms erupting below, it frantically signaled its masters.

The light was too dim for a third approach, though the sun reappeared for a lingering moment as Nathi climbed to a thousand feet and brought the airplane back on course, north-by-northwest in the deepening dusk.

"How was that?" asked Dakota, pulling the empty clip from the gun.

"It should be sufficient," Nathi replied. He lowered the engines to cruising speed and their rumbling thunder faded a bit. "The craters will be a warning." He switched on the instrument panel lights as the sun disappeared below the horizon, but left the wing-tip and tail lamps off.

Dakota reloaded the smoking gun, then racked it back in its cradle. "There are two Cokes left."

"Maybe you should check the Jeep. I feel it shifting around."

Dakota switched on the cargo bay lights and went back to tighten the nylon straps that held the Jeep to rings in the floor. He inspected the other restless freight, including the hideous coffin, then returned to the cockpit and uncapped the Cokes, handing a foaming bottle to Nathi while plopping into the co-pilot's seat. The auto-pilot was back in command, sensing the world through gyros and gears. The airspeed was steady at 130 knots, the altitude a thousand feet. The nearly-full moon had not yet risen, and the sky was black velvet studded with stars. The engines droned their pounding duet, the starboard sputtering now and then but soon catching up to its brother. The wind rustled past with its waterfall sound, cooler now as night settled in, and the ruby lamps of the instrument panel provided the only light. Dakota trailed a hand out the window. The other fingered the charm on his chest. The coffin's reek was fainter now, behind the wind like an unburied ghost, masked by the smells of hydraulic oil, upholstery leather, and weary sweat.

"Sometimes I wish we could stay up here."

Nathi glanced at Dakota, a scarlet-eyed demon with bloody red teeth. "I often wish that, too."

"Who started the war?" asked Dakota.

Nathi considered, at ease in the seat, his boots resting clear of the rudder pedals, the steering yoke making its ghostly moves. He gazed ahead at the ebony sky beyond the ruby glow of the compass. "If you mean who fired the first shot, then it's easy to blame the General. Still, he's only a puppet whose strings are pulled from far away."

Dakota drank from his bottle. "He dances for America, and kills for its President-General. ...But, why does America help him? And what does it want from us?"

Nathi shrugged. "Greed only wants what it doesn't possess."

"But, how did the General come into power?"

Nathi regarded the airplane's charms as they gently swung on their leather strips. "Mostly because we let him. We didn't heed the warning signs." He sipped from his Coke and considered again. "There was little violence at first. Laws were passed with no one's consent. Laws the General said would protect us, but really just gave him more power."

"And we did nothing to stop him?"

"At first the laws seemed reasonable to make us more secure. He said we needed an Army to defend ourselves from terrorists."

Dakota shook his head. "Instead he brought us terror."

The starboard engine sputtered again. The instrument needles quivered and twitched. Then the portside engine faltered. The airspeed needle began to drop, along with the nervous altimeter. The auto-pilot creaked in surprise, sensing a wrongness as best it could and mindlessly trying to right it. Nathi unlocked it, taking control. Dakota's hand went to the mixture knobs.

"Use the auxiliary tanks," said Nathi, dropping the nose to bring up speed while sacrificing altitude.

Dakota clicked the fuel level gauge, reading each of its quadruple faces. "The auxiliary tanks are low."

Nathi searched the horizon ahead as both engines spit and backfired, blowing out fistfuls of yellow-orange flame that flared beneath the wings. The moon was slowly rising now, silvering the nighted land. A huddle of hills had appeared in the distance. "It should be sufficient. We'll filter the main tanks tomorrow."

Dakota fussed with throttles and mix. The port engine steadied and roared again. Then its mate rejoined it. "Do you think they gave us bad fuel on purpose? Hoping we would crash? Perhaps in league with the General."

"I don't want to believe it," said Nathi, returning the plane to cruising speed after climbing back to a thousand feet. "You can't live your life thinking all are against you and everything is a plot. Then you become your own enemy, suspicious, hateful, and frightened of shadows."

Dakota regarded the man. "You don't like fighting, do you?"

"Only boys fight when there is no need."

Dakota looked thoughtful. "The British said we were children. Fila said that in a history lesson."

"The British were giving up their empire. What is called 'downsizing' today. They had taken all they could from us, and 'children' are an obligation. But, other lands are building new empires, and greed is never satisfied."

"But, what use are children to greedy empires?"

Nathi shrugged. "Some people can't tolerate idle children. Perhaps they think it is energy wasted when children aren't doing something 'constructive'." Nathi adjusted the trim wheel a bit, then guided the airplane in silence a while, both engines droning steadily now, drinking their untainted fuel. The moon had also gained altitude, lighting the land and the hills ahead with its softly silver glow. "We're almost there. Do you want to land?"

Dakota drank the last of his Coke and tossed the bottle out the window. "I still get scared."

Nathi got up. "Take me to your scary place."

Dakota squeezed into the pilot's seat, took hold of the yoke, put his feet on the pedals, then studied the slowly approaching hills. "Should we cross-feed again?"

Nathi clicked the fuel gauge selector, reading the port and starboard tanks. "There should be enough. ...If you make it the first time."

Dakota snorted. "Please note the amused expression that didn't cross my face." He rechecked all the instruments, then eased the yoke forward a little, descending toward a gap in the hills that widened into a valley. Lights shone ahead among shadows of trees, the pale glimmers of kerosene lamps and yellow flickers of cooking fires. The silvery sparkle of moonlit water traced the vein-like course of a stream.

Dakota maintained a slow descent, aligning the nose with the stream. He flashed the landing lights once. At the valley's far end stood the tallest of hills, a huge rounded bulk that was not quite a mountain but towered impressively under the moon. A tiny spark winked from its crest for an instant, maybe a flashlight aimed at the plane. The altimeter needle showed eight-hundred feet as the plane descended into the valley, the not-quite mountain looming ahead. Dakota peered out though the bug-spattered windshield, his chest overlapping his hands on the yoke. "Bother, dammit! Where are the lights?"

Nathi repled, "One should not rely on lights. The world has often been dark."

Dakota's eyes stayed aimed ahead. "Are you taking me to your scary place?"

"They will have heard us," said Nathi. "The children are probably having their suppers."

Dakota's eyes flicked to the fuel gauge, then to the towering not-quite mountain, its mass now cutting off part of the sky. "I wish I was." He shot a glare over his shoulder. "I could probably smell it except for that stink!"

"All the more reason to make it the first time."

"Maybe we should switch tanks again? Bad fuel is better than none."

"You are the pilot," said Nathi.

"No, wait," said Dakota.

Below in the valley, to the left of the stream, other small sparks were flaring to life, one by one in a line.

"Saved by the lights," said Nathi. "...This time."

"Not funny," murmured Dakota, his face gleaming wet in the instrument lights while trickles ran shiny from under his arms. "Am I allowed to use ours?"

"In light of the fact that we're low on fuel."

The plane was well into the valley now and below the tops of the smaller hills. The brawny bulk of the not-quite mountain seemed to be blocking escape. Dakota switched on the landing lights, their bluish beams stabbing the darkness ahead. "Auto-rich. ...Gear down." He glanced at the speed, easing back on the yoke as the landing gear lowered with shuddering thumps. Then he reached for the flap control. The stench from the coffin was mounting again as the airspeed continued to drop.

Nathi centered the landing gear lever. "Green and... No green."

"That's not funny, dammit!"

"Please note the amused expression that didn't cross my face."

"Shit!" cried Dakota, darting his eyes to a red panel light above one that should have been green. He scanned the rapidly uprushing earth. Then the looming not-quite mountain. "Maybe the light switch is stuck again?"

Nathi half rose to look out his window. "The starboard gear is down."

Dakota peered out his window. "So is the port. But, did it latch? Maybe because of the oil leak?"

"No way to tell."

Dakota's eyes narrowed. "Dammit, I'm tired and hungry! It's not the time to be testing me!"

"One is seldom able to choose the time for real tests in life," said Nathi. "But this is not one of mine. I want to be home as much as you. You can still pull up and circle around. We can raise and lower the gear again. We may hear the sound of it latching."

Dakota frowned. "It made the same sound it always makes. The lamp switch is probably stuck."

"You are the pilot."

Dakota's eyes went to the ground once more. Then to the airspeed. Then to the mountain. "To pull up and circle we'll have to switch tanks and use the bad fuel."

Nathi glanced at the fuel gauge. "Yes."

"Should I be bold?"

"A good pilot makes quick decisions. If they happen to be the right ones he often lives to be old."

"What would you do?"

"Rely on my pilot's quick decision."

Dakota spit out the window. "I hate that bloody coffin!"

"So do I."

Dakota's hands clenched on the yoke. "Put out that light, it bothers me."

Nathi turned the lens control, dimming the lamp to a tiny red dot. "It's still there, you know? A possible danger."

The helicopter settled to earth at the edge of the huge playing field. Nicole had been worried about the kids, who'd been staring up with open mouths when they realized the machine was landing, but they seemed aware of the dangerous blades and didn't approach until they had stopped.

"TV and movies," said the pilot as if he'd been reading her mind. "Kids learn a lot and they don't even know it."

He scanned the digital displays on the pulpit-like panel before him, while Zackary noted his every move as if watching a super-hero at work. The pilot had seated Zack in front, crowning his mop with a Star Wars headset, while Nicole had been cradled in soft luxury in the well-padded passenger section. The leather was real, she'd found with surprise, but reminded herself this was Texas. Ted had professionally made her feel welcome, pointing out seat-belt and satellite phone, the built-in bar -- also furnished with snacks -- along with a stereo, TV and headphones, as well as a port for laptops.

"This is quite a command-post," she'd said.

Ted had replied, "Gotta keep you VIPs in touch. The world can change a lot in a minute."

"I've noticed that," Nicole had said, thinking of airplanes hitting buildings.

Zack had beamed at her with pride, and Nicole had passed him a Hershey bar just to prove she could.

Now back on earth, Nicole leaned forward to kiss her son, forgetting that might not be cool. But Zackary seemed too happy to care, allowing Nicole to buss his cheek -- soft as down but salty with sweat -- then struggling with his safety-belt beneath his sprawl of stomach.

"I won't be late," said Nicole. "I promise."

"It don't start till seven." Zackary traded the pilot's headphones for the smaller pair of his I-pod, then paused with his hand on the door latch. "An' my party tonight? With Austin an' Dillon?"

"I haven't forgotten," said Nicole, recalling her own junior-high graduation, which hadn't been sober. She wasn't sure about Zackary's plans, though hers were to keep him safely contained. "I'll order the pizza before I leave work and have it delivered at ten."

"Three extra-large large combos," said Zack, grabbing his pack with its laptop and phone, spare batteries and power converters, along with candy bars and snacks like a civilized kid's survival kit. "With extra cheese. See ya, mom. Thanks, Mr. Baxter!"

"Anytime, son."

Zack climbed rather clumsily out, almost missing the step on the landing gear strut because he couldn't see his feet. But none of the other kids laughed, probably awed by his airborne arrival. His jeans had tumbled indecently low by the time his feet were back on the ground, but his triple-X T-shirt hung down to his knees and provided a margin of safety.

While none of the children were less than well-off, and many were really quite "weller" than Zack -- at least in terms of financial status -- arriving by air was the coup d'etat and several young faces showed envy. Most were boys who'd been on the field, possibly sharing forbidden smokes that probably weren't tobacco, though a handful of girls had joined them. There were several green heads, plus a purple and blue, which the school had finally permitted this year, though painting one's face like a corpse was still "out." A soccer game had been in progress, and most of the players were shirtless in shorts. Few of the kids looked less than well-fed, and none were skinny except two girls who might have been anorexics-in-training. Four kids were poised between chubby and fat. "Obese" was a word Nicole seldom used because it was basically hate-speak these days, but one of the boys was so mammothly fat that, puffing and panting, his face glowing red, he still hadn't reached the landing site. He was Austin Colt, one of Zackary's BFFs and a savage slayer of video foes. He was kin to the famous gun-maker whose products had proudly slayed millions, though his father owned a dozen McDonalds and only slayed billions of cows. He often slept-over with Zack on the weekends, installing himself in front of a screen -- PC, TV, or electronic carnage -- and staying immobile while eating all day.

Zack seemed to fit well in this well-fed place, though Nicole wasn't sure what to think about that. On one hand, he wouldn't be dissed for his weight, the latest American terror threat: there was Dillon Barrymore, shirtless and muscled in soccer team shorts, a boy-god of gold despite his green hair, and Zackary's other BFF trotting proudly to stand with Zack and bask in his airlifted status. On the other hand, what of Zack's health? He'd seldom been sick in Nicole's memory, but he'd really gained a lot this year and a checkup might be wise.

Nicole also noticed with some surprise that, besides being nothing less than well-off, none of the kids were less than white. The school had been recommended by Dwane, but Nicole hadn't noticed its lack of color and wondered why she noticed it now.

"Ready, Miz Neale?" asked the pilot.

"...Oh," said Nicole. She hadn't considered herself in command as if this were only a flying limo. "Yes. And please call me Nicole."

"Have you there in a jiffy, Nicole." Ted checked the door latch then gripped the controls. "Mighty nice boy, your son," he added, above the engine's rising whine. "Knows a few things about aircraft, too."

"Thank you. He builds airplane models."

"Built a fair number myself," said Ted. "Teaches a boy a lot of things an' keeps him out of trouble. Idle hands... you know?"

"Yes," said Nicole, though thinking Zack's hands were seldom idle with keyboards, controllers, remotes and himself. She raised a hand to wave to Zack, actually feeling a little surprised when he and the others waved back.

"Looks like a nice bunch of kids," called Ted, as the helicopter tilted a bit and seemed rear backward into the sky. The earth dropped out from under the skids as if the planet was spinning away, while the children shrank to colorful dots on a small patch of green in a toyland town, and then just seemed to disappear.

America's future elite, thought Nicole. Defenders of Democracy and inheritors of the New World Order. She settled back into buttery leather that gave off a strong and manly aroma above the scent of hot kerosene. The latter awakened old memories of warm summer evenings in Thousand Oaks; a breeze drifting down from the grassy hilltops, charcoal lighter, tiki torches, and sizzling steaks on the backyard grill. Her parents had been into "love and peace," but that hadn't included the beasts of the field. In fact, they owned a shop at a mall that specialized in leather goods; trousers, coats, and handmade boots. She remembered her mother's childhood tales of exploring the M*A*S*H filming set with her friends, which had been just a few miles away. Once they'd been chased by a helicopter, and had actually thought it would shoot them.

She tried to get her bearings by searching for earthly landmarks, but she wasn't familiar with Houston, even after nearly two years, and wasn't sure if the freeway below was where she might have been right now if not for the death of a rodent. She remembered this wasn't a sight-seeing tour and was costing her company money. She pulled out her notebook and typed a memo: pizza and checkup for Z.

She opened and ported her laptop, noting its time agreed with her watch: 8:41. A search for pet coffins got hundreds of sites with thousands of models and styles, including caskets for rats and mice. That probably' surprising in a nation that cherished its pets. Most of the stuff was from home workshops, and the quality varied a lot. There were ostentatious caskets for dogs, some with crosses or Stars of David, that would have been suitable for kids, while others were only rough pine boxes for simple "disposal" in pet potter's fields. She wondered about a retail chain with mass-production overseas and outlets at upper-class malls. Maybe "The Happy Hunting-ground?" Or, would that sound too predatory? Nice people buried their pets in coffins, and nice people didn't hunt.

On the other hand, there was WalMart, though its customers probably dealt with their dead in less extravagant ways... like a G.I. Joe box in a flowerbed. But, people could always be taught to want things... Fido was more than fertilizer. Pamper your pooch right into the grave.

"Here we are."

"...Oh," said Nicole, surprised again. She peered from a window, slightly confused, not recognizing her building at first in the glittering jungle of glass and steel that seemed to be rising to meet her. She saw an obvious helipad, and also a huge American flag, which many other buildings displayed. Was it really patriotic pride? Or more like chips on corporate shoulders daring somebody to knock them off?

Or, knock them off, again?

"That was fast," she added, fighting a moment of vertigo as the aircraft tilted and sank toward the roof a little faster than she would have liked.

Ted handled the controls with no more concern than a limousine driver approaching a curb. "The only way to travel."

"That's for sure," agreed Nicole, thinking of all her time in traffic... hours, days, months of her life, wasted in getting from here to there. Like pitiful motorized lemmings.

"I know what you mean," said the pilot; and Nicole realized she had spoken her thought. A senior moment?

The sky went white!

A stab of terror shot down Nicole's spine. She frantically blinked and found she could see, though fireballs danced on her retinas. She braced herself for she didn't know what... bombs bursting in air, a shattering crash, the end of all life as she knew it. Absurdly, she thought of Zack's gift.

But, Ted apparently hadn't been bothered, his eyes defended by silver tears. He muttered something that sounded like "bastard" and brought the aircraft murmuring down. Nicole saw another helicopter -- smaller, sleeker, and gleaming black -- off to one side of the landing pad. Its windshield and windows were blazing mirrors, probably silvered to keep out the sun but also creating a hazard. It bore no company markings or name, and reminded Nicole of a kid's muscle-car, a little self-consciously arrogant and adolescently menacing. Compared to its lean and dangerous shape, her ride was only a family sedan. She pictured it pulling up alongside and challenging Ted to a drag. Ted gave it a glance of annoyance as his machine touched gently down. Nicole decided to buy sunglasses before going corporate flying again.

She unplugged, cased, and shouldered her laptop as Ted got out to open her door. "Thank you," she said as he helped her down. "And thank you for dropping off Zack."

"No problem, Miz Neale. Hope to see you again real soon."

Nicole was about to remind him of their former informality, but then considered surveillance cameras and probably hidden microphones. People tended to let down their guard in parking lots and garages, often discussing results of meetings or planning final strategies. Her suspicion seemed to be confirmed when she answered with, "thank you, Ted," and he winked; an almost imperceptible twitch behind his inscrutable mirrors.

She gave him a quick appraisal... athletically trim with a confident stride. Despite the sweltering rooftop heat, he didn't seem to be sweating. He ushered Nicole to a boxy structure a hundred feet from the helipad. It was an elevator shaft, topped with enclosed machinery and guarded by armored doors. One of the building's security staff, packing a pistol, a club and Mace, smiled a greeting then fingered a keypad. A few moments later the doors rumbled open.

"Have a nice day, Miz Neale," said Ted, who was obviously staying on duty up here, or maybe soaring away on a mission. Would he be flying her home? But, a company car seemed more realistic.

The Barrymore Building was only ten stories, and not impressive for Houston, though Nicole seldom soared above floor number nine, above which one needed a special key card. But, that was normal security in a nation threatened by terrorists... religious fanatics, usually faceless, although their complexions were generally brown.

The guard, whose face was brown and cheerful, his name tag reading J. Sanchez, inserted a key in a panel and tapped a button for floor number seven, sending Nicole on her way. Just for grins she punched number ten -- after all she was descending -- but wasn't surprised to be ignored. The elevator continued down without the slightest hesitation. She supposed her experiment had been recorded.

"Habari ya asubuhl, Bibi Neale."

"...Er...?" said Nicole, as the doors slid back with a Star Trek sound, opening into a large, pleasant room with a lush profusion of tropical plants. There was a rather impressive desk in a virtual glade of green rubber trees. As when Zack had reported that Freddy was dead, the words awakened an old memory. Then she smiled. "Habari ya asubuhl, Bibi Walker."

Jennifer Walker was fifty, full-figured, and still quite attractive despite growing gray at her post. Her complexion was glowing ebony, enhancing the snowy-white gleam of her smile. But, except for a necklace of red, black and green, and providing the room with its African plants, she had never shown any "ethnicity."

"Hey, Jen," said Nicole. "I don't know why I remember that. It's been almost sixteen years." She wondered a moment how Jenny had known, but of course it had been in her resume.

"I guess it's like riding a bike," said Jenny.

"I never thought I'd use it again, so I haven't kept in practice." Nicole had a feeling of being appraised, just as she'd rated the pilot. She automatically glanced at her watch: 8:58. Then, Jenny's face showed concern.

"I'm sorry about your loss, Nicole."

Nicole hesitated, but she trusted Jenny. They seemed to have clicked nearly two years ago, like one of those met-in-another-life things. Nicole flicked a glance to a small panning camera mounted discreetly high in a corner, though warning it watched with a tiny red eye. Jenny's eyebrows arched a bit. She powered up her pencil-sharpener, feeding it a new Number Two as Nicole crossed the room and leaned close to the desk beneath its shelter of rubber trees.

"It was a hamster. Zack's."

Jenny laughed. "Oh, my god!"

"Dwane wanted to send flowers."

"No!"

"I swear. Then I couldn't tell him the truth. Not after sending the helicopter."

Jenny, still chuckling, wiped an eye. Then she pulled out the stub of a very short pencil, composing her face as the camera swung back. "Do you need any help with the arrangements?" she asked, with a suitably somber expression.

"We've already taken care of that. But, thanks anyway."

"Burial at sea?"

Nicole almost cracked. "Old family plot."

"How's Zack holding up?"

"Better than I expected. ...But he doesn't show his feelings much."

"Boys don't at that age," said Jenny. "When they're young they have womenly qualities, and usually the best of those. But then they're taught that men don't feel." She glanced at the pictures adorning her desk, some showing three boys, others young men, in various poses at various ages.

"Well," said Nicole. "I always got the impression that Freddy..." She glanced at the camera. "Uncle Fred, as we used to call him, really meant more to Roger than Zack. A stab at quality-time that missed... though a pit-bull might have worked." Let Security figure that out!

"Zack's graduating tonight, isn't he?"

"Yes. And his friends are sleeping over. They're having a pizza party." Nicole glanced again at the camera. "I'm sure that will help ease the sorrow."

"Only pizza?" asked Jenny.

Nicole lowered her voice. "Dillon is probably bringing the beer, but it's better than all the alternatives."

"Seems crazy, doesn't it," said Jenny. "We make it hard for kids to get beer, but they can buy drugs anywhere."

"Especially at his school." Nicole wondered if anyone actually listened. They would have to be pretty damn bored if they did. "Half those kids are on something, though some of it might be prescribed. But, so far I guess he's just said no. ...And I still haven't bought him a gift."

"I'll cover that if you like," offered Jenny. "You might be in the meeting past lunch."

Nicole glanced up at the ceiling. "Nobody's said much about it. Which makes me think it's important."

Jenny's eyes, like liquid obsidian, held Nicole's blue for a moment. "It could be," she said, then smiled. "But no one tells me anything. ...Nice outfit."

"Thanks," said Nicole. "But the shoes pinch a little. I should have gotten the next size up."

"Any ideas?"

"About the meeting? Not a clue."

"I meant Zack's gift."

"Oh. ...I don't know. He already seems to have everything."

"How 'bout a watch?"

"Three. ...At least."

"Shoes?"

"Tons. But they go out of style before he outgrows them. And I wouldn't dare buy him something like that unless he picked it out himself."

"Has he given you any hints?" asked Jenny. "It might be hard to believe, but boys can be subtle at times."

Nicole tried to recall conversations with Zack.... meaningful ones, anyway. "Sometimes I think he'd like a..." She caught herself before saying "machine gun." And even something totally absurd like "stealth bomber" or "nuclear missile" would probably rattle Security. "A rat," she finished.

Jenny looked right at the camera. "Most of them are running the country."

Nicole laughed. "I have to think about it. They smell, don't they?" Then she almost kicked herself... why would Jenny know about rats?

"They poop their own nests," said Jenny, not seeming the least offended.

"Zack wants to dye his hair green."

"Go Emo like Dillon?"

"I guess. But I promised him that anyhow. After graduation."

Jenny scanned her pictures again. "I went though the same things with Keeja back in the days of eraser-heads. ...Does Zack like sports?"

"Not since he dropped out of soccer."

"Games?"

"Sometimes I think they're his anti-drug. Games, junkfood, and model airplanes." She stopped before saying his other pastime, though Jenny could probably guess. "He did say something the other day... Death Merchant, I think."

"We've come a long way since Pong, haven't we?"

"I remember Pac Man... first-generation."

"It's the same with my grandsons," said Jenny. "Violence, war, and killing things. All the American values we pretend to abhor but teach to our kids. I can pick it up if you want? Our new game's out, too. Based on the Defenders of Democracy toys. Pretty graphic, I hear. Got a Parental Advisory, so naturally all the kids want it."

"Thanks, Jen," said Nicole. "And anything else you might think of."

"Terrorist Threat Ten is out."

"I guess he'd like that. He's got all the others. ...Oh, maybe a model airplane, too. Something with bombs and missiles."

Jenny smiled. "Consider it done. ...How'd you like your ride?"

"It's the only way to travel. ...I guess he's married?"

"Ted? Very. White picket fence and two-point-five kids."

"The good ones always are." Nicole saw her reflection in Jenny's pictures. "Especially at my age."

"You're still a kid to me." Jenny sharpened another pencil. "He's not your type anyway. Gulf War vet. Beat the Bible and bomb the bastards. Don't get him started on terrorists or he'll probably start to foam."

Nicole glanced again at her watch. "I'd better check my mail."

Jenny reinserted the pencil. "Dwane's still in a breakfast meeting."

"Thanks. ...Do we have a cosmetic division?"

"Not yet anyway." Jenny inspected her menacing Mongol, then fed it to the machine again. "But, we might be branching into shoes."

Nicole raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't seem very smart. There must be a million brands already. Just like jeans. Hard to be new and different. And even harder to sell."

"There was the Pet Rock," said Jenney. "And Mood Rings back in the 1970s. Those were new and different."

Nicole nodded. "We studied those in Marketing. But the timing was right for silly stuff." She considered the camera, then added, "People were sick of a war without end."

"And rats in high places stealing the cheese."

The elevator softly bonged like the stewardess call in an airplane.

"'Mornin', ladies."

Dwane Barrymore could have played J.R. in the 1970s Dallas soap; though Nicole remembered the actor more as the rather charming but slightly buffoonish master of a nubile genie. She could never take him seriously as a calculating villain. Dwane's suit was typically western-cut, his dagger-toed boots like mahogany mirrors. His watch, belt buckle, and silver-tipped tie were adorned with an Indian thunderbird in coral, onyx and turquoise. Naturally he doffed his Stetson and bowed a bit from the waist, still rangy and lean at forty-eight years though showing the bulge of a cowboyish pot from too many Lone Stars at lunch.

"How y'all holdin' up, Nicole?"

Nicole exchanged glances with Jenny. "I'm fine, thanks, Dwane. Really. Like I said, we weren't very close."

"If there's anything I can do, just ask. ...Enjoy your ride?"

"It was very considerate, thank you."

"I didn't want you drivin' upset. Lost me a second-cousin last month. We wasn't real close, but I darn near cried."

"I'm really all right."

Dwane glanced at his watch. "Meetin' was scheduled for ten, but since I knew you were on your way I sent everybody up. ...No calls, Jenny, 'less they're important."

"Right," said Jenny.

"Oh..." Dwane pulled a key card I.D. from a pocket and handed it to Nicole. She had seen a few Visitor cards but this was brand-new and her very own. Even her company photo looked good. Jenny smiled significantly.

"Sorry about these things," muttered Dwane. "I never wanted to bother with 'em, but Security said it was safer since we got that government contract."

"Do I need anything?" asked Nicole. "I've got the new stats on Defenders."

"Nope," chuckled Dwane. "Just your own capable self. But how are they doin' these days?"

"We haven't slaughtered G.I. Joe, but Mattel might be getting a little nervous. Of course, we don't have their distribution. Or their advertising budget. But since we got into WalMart..."

"That's mostly thanks to you," said Dwane. "The woman's touch... them genuine little uniforms. You were right about boys bein' real clothes-conscious. We been sellin' an average of three new outfits for every doll off the shelf. An' that African Ally Defender of yours has been our best-seller in toys this month."

"Captain Keto was Jenny's suggestion."

"An' she's gettin' the standard bonus for new employee ideas." Dwane smiled at Jenny. "Accordin' to the customer cards, there's just as many white boys buyin' it as... well, anybody else's kids. I even gave one to Dillon."

"Er?" said Nicole. "How do we know that?" She glanced at Jenny. "We don't ask about... race, on those cards."

"Research figured it out," said Dwane. "Names, addresses, parents' jobs. Other toys, hobbies, interests an' music." He chuckled. "If your name is Leroy Washington we're pretty sure who you are or ain't ...Guess we better be goin' on up before the natives get restless."

"How'd you come up with that uniform pattern?" asked Dwane as the elevator stopped. He inserted his key card into a slot and punched the button for ten. "Real eye-catchin', that yellow an' black. Jumps right off the shelf at you. It's been the best sellin' outfit for all the Defender dolls."

Old memories awakened again. "I saw it in Africa," said Nicole. "It just seemed to fit Captain Keto."

"When you were in the Peace Corps?" asked Dwane. "I saw that in your file."

"Yes," said Nicole.

"An' you still speak the lingo?"

Nicole remembered Jenny's greeting and wondered again what was up. "I'm not really sure anymore."

"Probably like ridin' a bike."

Dakota's body was shiny with sweat that glistened like blood in the instrument lamps. Its bitterness masked the coffin's reek as he brought the airplane gently down, aligning its nose with the flickering sparks that beckoned to safety below. The approach appeared to be perfect, and the artificial horizon agreed, but then he tilted a wing to the left.

Nathi turned his eyes to the boy as the moonlit ground came rushing up, defining itself in the landing lights as rutted dirt and amber grass unrolling at 70 knots. But, Dakota's eyes stayed fixed on the fires, the line of yellow sparks ahead. His chubby hands clenched on the steering yoke, overlapped by the spherical shapes of his chest. His mouth was open, his eager teeth bright, the sunglasses riding high in his hair. Not taking his eyes from the oncoming ground, he replied to Nathi's silent question.

"Welcome to my scary place. We still may need to switch tanks."

Nathi reached for the fuel selectors.

The port wheel struck with a jarring thump, spewing dust and clumps of grass that tumbled away behind the tail. The airplane tried to roll to the left, but Dakota corrected instantly. He bumped the portside gear again, then yanked the steering yoke back to the right bringing the starboard wheel to earth with another thud and a billow of dust. Finally, he lined up the nose with the lights as the airplane rattled along.

"It seems to be latched," he said.

"Sufficiently," Nathi agreed.

The tail wheel kissed with a smaller thump, and Dakota gently toed the brakes as the plane neared the last of the flickering lights that paralleled the stream. Ahead was a village of softly-lit huts with cooking fires glowing before them. Dakota brought the plane to a stop, its brakes protesting with dusty squeals, then swung it around by gunning an engine, which backfired loudly and suddenly died. Then, the other engine quit, clattering into silence.

"The last of the good fuel," said Nathi.

Dakota switched off the ignitions. "How was that?"

"Any landing you can walk away from is usually a good one."

Both bowed their heads to the still-dancing doll as children's voices were heard outside. Small figures ran to surround the plane, along with the romping shadows of dogs.

The stench of the coffin was horribly vile, flooding the cockpit with death and decay like a wave of liquid putrescence. "Forget the rest," muttered Nathi, quickly shutting off other switches. "We'll check things out in the morning."

The air itself seemed slimy and wet in the small glaring globes of the cargo bay lights as Dakota and Nathi, holding their noses, made their way back to throw open the doors.

A group of children and youths awaited, along with a capering pack of dogs, their teeth gleaming bright in the moonlit shadows. Their eyes reflected electric glow as it spilled in a fan from the doorway. All, from the smallest, five and six, to the tallest, no more than a few years older, were similar shades of lusterless dusk, their bushy hair adorned with bands and some decorated with feathers. Most of the younger had healthy round tummies, and none were skinny or frail. The dogs were also sufficiently fed, of medium size and lionish tan, their tails held high in looping curves while frantically fanning a welcome.

All the children wore antelope boots, and some little else but bracelets and beads. Older boys wore trousers or jeans, while others were clad in various shorts, though their small-bottomed, long-bodied, narrow-hipped builds were seemingly never designed for clothes. The girls were dressed in colorful skirts, though bare as the boys above the waist.

The boys had gathered around the doors, the dogs darting joyfully here and there, but the girls remained at the edge of the group. They were just as eager to greet and be greeted, but bound by ancient custom; pretending, at least, they were being protected behind the milling mob of males.

But, the crowding suddenly changed to retreat as the coffin's stench burst into the night. If smell had a sound, this sound would have roared! The younger boys scattered like leaves in the wind, unashamedly joining the girls in everything but horrified cries. Each was armed with an AK rifle, but smell was a terror that couldn't be fought. Only the two eldest boys stood their ground... and only to rescue Dakota, who'd leaped from the doorway and almost fallen while comically losing his jeans. They grabbed Dakota and dragged him away. The dogs also bristled and fled.

"Lion of God!" cried one of the boys, the oldest who looked like a bushy-maned god in nothing but jeans and boots. He wasn't actually massive, only approaching his fifteenth year, but seemed to be made of nothing but muscle, his chest jutting starkly like small paving stones and deeply entrapping his lion's-mane charm in the shadowy cleft of its valley. His rifle was slung by its strap, and a heavy knife hung at his side.

"Lion of Death!" yelled the other boy. "What in god's name do you have in there?" He was fourteen and padded with fat, his tummy his most heroic feature, far overlapping his uncertain shorts. His rifle was also slung by its strap, and like his companions he wore the charm. He kept hold of Dakota like something precious, gripping him under a sweat-slicked arm.

"It's Rashawn's coffin," Dakota panted, his jeans at his knees while he sucked fresh air. The two other boys pressed tight to him as if they were bound in a bundle of three.

The muscled youth glanced at the airplane, where Nathi was checking the landing-gear. The younger children were venturing back, most of them holding their noses. The dogs seemed less inclined to return. "It never stank like that before!"

"We were delayed," puffed Dakota, still held as if he might fly away. "It sat in the sun for several hours."

"It smells like several weeks!"

"What happened?" asked the big-bellied boy.

Dakota sighed. "I'm tired and hungry. News can wait."

The muscled youth called to the group of children. "Put out the lights!"

The kids hurried out on the landing field to douse the line of flickering lights... food tins filled with gasoline.

"Did you get all the things?" asked the muscular boy

"Everything, Thabo," Dakota replied.

"And the beer?" asked the fat boy.

"Yes, Kobe."

"And cigarettes?" queried Thabo.

"Yes," said Dakota. "Now let me breathe."

Thabo and Kobe released him. "Are you sure you remembered it all?" prodded Thabo.

"You didn't ask for much," said Dakota. "And there was money left over." He pulled a bundle of Rands from a pocket.

Kobe's mouth dropped open. "Is all that for us?"

Thabo's jaw had also fallen. But then he frowned. "What good is that here? It's nothing but paper."

Dakota shrugged. "What else could I do? Start you an account?"

"What's an account?" asked Kobe.

"Like a credit card," said Thabo. "But without a card."

"You could have gotten more beer," said Kobe.

"You didn't ask for more beer," said Dakota. "Am I expected to read your minds?" He took Thabo's hand and plopped down the money. "There, and it's done!"

"What can we do with this?" grumbled Thabo. "Use it to wipe our asses?"

"If you are asses," said Dakota. "Put it somewhere safe. I'm sure you'll find a use for it once you're in Johannesburg."

"My sisters made more boots," said Kobe.

"You don't need them now," said Dakota. "You have enough money to buy what you want."

"Anything?" asked Thabo, staring down at his money-filled hand.

"If you know when enough is sufficient."

"You keep the money for us," said Kobe, taking the bills from Thabo and holding them out to Dakota. "My sisters allow me no secrets."

"Neither does my wife," sighed Thabo. "She tidies, you know. Worse than my mother!"

"Do you keep secrets from her?" asked Dakota, not taking the bundle of money.

"Nothing of any importance," said Thabo. "But with money I would. She would want to buy something useful... a green enamel teapot."

Kobe slowly counted the bills. "I'm sure you could buy many teapots with this."

"Perhaps I will buy her one," said Thabo.

Dakota said, "Everyone keeps their own money. If not, it causes trouble." He took the the bills from Kobe's palm, divided them into equal piles, then slapped a stack in both boys' hands. "There," he said. "You both have money. Buy each other while I go eat."

"No, no," said Thabo, taking Dakota's arm again. "First get the things."

"Yes," said Kobe. "I'm tired of maize beer."

"More likely you drank it all," said Dakota. "First unload that bloody coffin!"

Thabo turned to the group of kids who were walking and chatting with Nathi. They were moving off toward the firelit village beyond the glimmering stream. "Tindo! Bilal! Malik!"

"Good," said Dakota, as three smaller boys came running back, rifles bouncing on their shoulders. "I'll go eat while you're doing that."

"Bother!" muttered Kobe.

Another voice spoke. "I brought you supper."

All the boys turned as a girl approached. She was around Dakota's age, clad in boots and a knee-length skirt of amber, black, and leafy green. Her hair was adorned with a beaded band, and a cowrie bracelet encircled a wrist, but her dusky body was otherwise bare. Her breasts were proudly round and full, her midnight eyes upturned at the corners, and dimples accented her smile. She carried a wooden platter, piled with juicy slices of meat, a mountain of beans, and two sweet-potatoes.

"Salamu, Akili," said Dakota.

"Oh, I think he will melt," Kobe cooed.

"Shut up, hyena-face!" growled Dakota.

Akili ignored the other boys' grins. "I knew you'd be hungry." She glanced at Thabo and Kobe. "But, the business of men is much more important."

"Go do it, men," ordered Dakota.

"Bother!" said Thabo, then added, "come on," shooing the smaller boys off toward the plane, then nudging Kobe who lingered. "The sooner it's out, the sooner our things."

"And the beer," Dakota reminded, when Kobe considered the platter of food. "I need to wash," he said to Akili, after Thabo and Kobe had gone.

"You don't smell bad to me," said Akili.

"I smell like the Lion Of Death to me."

Akili took Dakota's hand. "Let's go to the pond." They walked around the airplane's tail, ignoring the muffled curses inside as the other boys battled the coffin.

The stream was only a few meters wide and less than knee-deep to a child in most places, flowing slow and quietly from a cave within the not-quite mountain, past the village and through the valley to dwindle away on the amber plain. Its shallow banks were lined with trees, mostly scrub-oak and acacia, grown uncommonly large, while bushes, ferns, and leafy foliage spread out in the grass on each side. An earthen dam had been built long ago to guard the people from summer drought, and its pond provided a peaceful place.

Thorn bushes also cherished the water, gorging themselves to magnificent size with splendidly ferocious spikes, and these had been tempted away into hedges, protecting the village's crops. They also defended the quiet pond from all but the smallest of creatures. Wooden-slat gates with leather hinges guarded various paths.

Dakota opened such a gate and entered ahead of Akili who followed him to the tree-shadowed pond while he scanned the path for danger. Patches of moonlight dappled the water, filtering down through branches and leaves. A mossy sluiceway out on the dam provided a background of liquid music, while insects chittered and clicked in the foliage. Somewhere in the surrounding hills a lion's roar trembled the air; but Akili only smiled at Dakota, waiting for him to choose the place, a moon-silvered spot by the trickling sluice.

"What do you think he's roaring about?" asked Akili.

Dakota washed his hands in the pond. "Maybe he smelled your delicious cooking." Dakota plopped down with his back to the sluce. He accepted the wooden platter, then sank his teeth into well-seasoned meat.

"Perhaps he is young?" said Akili, settling beside Dakota. "And calling for a mate?"

"Probably several mates," said Dakota, caught between ripping and chewing. "That's how it is with lions. And some people in other lands. For them it makes sense because children die."

Akili's face saddened. "Our children kill each other."

Dakota sighed. "We buried three more today. At the village near the border. The Army attacked and burned it. Two of them were Rashawn's."

"I hate this war," said Akili.

Dakota glanced up at the moon. "The sky is always so peaceful and pure, but men fill the earth with pain and death. Sometimes it makes me ashamed to be one."

Akili touched Dakota's arm. "You're not like those men. ...What of the village's people?"

"I don't know. Rashawn may have helped them."

"Is that why you were late? ...The burial?"

"Yes."

"You must be tired. I saw the landing."

"That was a mechanical problem. I usually make better landings." Dakota set the platter aside and reached in a pocket of his jeans. "I brought this for you from Johannesburg."

He pulled out a small piece of cloth and unwrapped a necklace of glittering beads that looked almost black in the silver moonlight. Then he dug in his pocket again, producing a little flashlight.

Akili drew a breath of surprise as the necklace burst into crimson brilliance. "How beautiful! Are they rubies?"

"I would they were, but, alas, only glass."

"Who would care?" asked Akili, holding the necklace up to the light so it sparkled like drops of red wine.

Dakota smiled. "A civilized girl knows the value of things."

"I only know what is beautiful. Does that make me a savage?"

"No, it makes you beautiful." Dakota leaned close to fasten the beads around Akili's neck, the orbs of his chest softly brushing her breasts. The feeling was mutually startling as if an electric spark had jumped. They hesitated a moment. Then their arms went around each another. Their lips met gently, their breaths grew quicker.

"Dakota!" called Thabo's voice. "Hurry up!"

"We want our things!" Kobe's voice added.

"Bother!" muttered Dakota.

Nicole had seen many corporate boardrooms and wasn't impressed by Barrymore's. Its paneling of walnut veneer could have come out of a good mobile home, and its Western decor of leather and wood had been tamed to a more international taste, except for a pair of Texas longhorns and an oversize painting of End Of The Trail. There was also a portrait of Seth Barrymore, who'd converted his "little ol' blacksmith shop" to manufacture railroad lanterns back in the 1880s. The company still had a Brightway division producing flashlights of various types, though now they were made in Malaysia. Of course, there was Lone Star beer at the bar, but also Kirin and sake, plus the usual vodka, scotch, and rye, as well as fruit and energy drinks.

The table could have seated twenty, but only five people were present this morning and leisurely sipping generic coffee. Four Nicole knew from working acquaintance and Dwane's barbecues on his ranch; a flabby and fortyish balding man, Pete Malone from Development; a late-twenties lean and cowboyish type, Jefferson Brill from Advertising; and a pale and furtive Aaron Steele who oversaw Foreign Production.

Steele resembled Uriah Heep with thin reddish hair and sun-yellow eyes. The former was longish, the latter alert. He basically set up children's sweatshops; and he gave Nicole a defensive look as if she might not approve. There was also a fiftyish woman, Meg Tanner, who resembled Belle Star on a bad hair day and chain-smoked unfiltered Camels. Her smile was an open wound with teeth; and she jealously guarded the corporate coffers as if every cent was her own. "Nice job on Defenders, dearie," she rasped.

"Thank you, Meg," replied Nicole.

The fifth figure looked like a Man In Black, except he was dressed in moderate gray. His blond hair was short but not severe, his face somewhat tanned and not from a tube, and he surely must have lifted weights, though he wasn't cartoonishly bulked. His black sunglasses seemed over the top, but Nicole forgave him for that. She wished she'd been wearing a pair herself so she could have checked him out on the sly. He was maybe mid-thirties and drop-dead handsome, a perfect example of Caucasian male. A more stylish suit would have made him look flashy and he seemed to have the sense to know it. Even his watch was gunmetal gray with a simple strap of black nylon webbing.

Dwane introduced him as Tom Reynolds -- "no relation to aluminum" -- a joke he accepted but clearly thought lame. He rose to maybe six-feet-three in a wide-shouldered, narrow-hipped athletic wedge, and smiled at Nicole with perfect white teeth that had probably never needed braces. She assumed his hidden eyes were blue. His hand was firm, neither rough nor soft, though he might have climbed mountains or done extreme sports. His watch was a twenty-four hour type, and his manly scent was neutrally nice with a slightly mysterious hint of leather.

"Tom's with the government," added Dwane. "He consults with us on our overseas work."

Nicole asked, "Like our Defenders uniforms?" She caught a frown from Aaron Steele.

Tom's accent was also neutral, with possible shadings of mid-Altantic. "I approved that arrangement, Ms. Neale. It helps our relations with China. ...I hear you've lived in Africa. Namibia, right?"

"Only about a year. There was a revolution."

"I know," said Tom. "You were lucky to get out alive."

Nicole resisted raising an eyebrow. "Was I?"

"Yes, Ms. Neale. Other Americans weren't so lucky."

"...Oh," said Nicole. "I'm... sorry to hear that." Tom's tone of voice had been matter-of-fact, but she wondered if he was being dramatic.

"Well, that's Tom," chuckled Dwane, while pouring two cups of coffee. "Always Mr. Gloom an' Doom."

Tom's smile stayed neutral; a man possessed of confident power without any need to prove it. "I guess it's my job to look on the dark side."

"An' he does it real good," agreed Dwane. "I been tempted to call him the Grim Reaper the way he's killed some of our projects. ...Oh, sorry, Nicole." He handed Nicole a steaming cup, though she would have preferred a Snapple. "Nicole lost a loved-one today."

There were appropriate murmurs.

"We weren't very close," said Nicole.

"Y'all know everyone else?" asked Dwane.

"Yes," said Nicole, nodding to all and feeling appraised. She took a chair across from Tom, where she hoped to do some appraising herself.

"All right," drawled Dwane. He took his place at the head of the table below the portrait of Seth Barrymore, who seemed to regard him doubtfully, as if his heir could have done a lot better than only ten stories and walnut veneer. Dwane nodded briefly to Aaron Steele, who seemed to be guarding a box. "What do you think of these, Nicole?"

The box was surrendered and passed to Nicole, a Nike box that looked well-traveled. She lifted the lid, smelling leather and rubber, though somehow different from new sport shoes... a rather primitive, earthy aroma. Inside was a pair of ankle-high boots, maybe size 10 or 11. Their uppers were crafted of supple leather, soft as golf gloves but tough like buckskin. She thought of Native-American work, but they didn't have moccasin toes. The soles were made of truck tire rubber, reminding her of Mexican craft and tire-tread zapatas. But their upper edges were decorated with beautiful ebony cowrie shells, suggesting another culture. She thought of her parents' leather shop with its wide selection of imported work as well as American Indian boots, but she'd never seen anything quite like these. They were very nice things, she thought. They'd be perfect with jeans, out in the woods, or strolling along a seashore.

Everyone seemed to be watching her, so she studied the boots a bit more. She had seen enough tourist-trap junk in her life -- "Indian moccasins" made in Taiwan, "Eskimo Mukluks" from Singapore -- to know these were the real thing in whatever culture they came from. Maybe from Finland, or Tibet? But, they would have been made of reindeer hide... or possibly yak with the fur still on. Aleuts worked with sealskin, and cowrie shells weren't used in Peru. The stitching was heavy like sailor's twine, natural fiber instead of nylon, and seemingly waxed so it wouldn't rot. Attaching the soles had been hard work; a machine could have done it easily, but everything here had been done by hand. Children's work, she wondered?

Her eyes flicked over to Aaron Steele: there were rumors he liked children very much -- especially boys in Thailand -- but that might have been office envy. His expense account was legendary.

He seemed to be watching her carefully, while Tom, she noted, was looking attentive behind his Men In Black glasses. What was this all about, she wondered? Why would the U.S. Government have any interest in somebody's boots? Had they been made in a terrorist country? Surely not in Iran... though their style was rather desert boot, and their soles would offer good traction in sand.

Well, she thought, since her opinion was obviously wanted -- an opinion considered important enough to fly her in by helicopter -- she'd better get on with the show. Donning a carefully critical face, she removed her shoes and put on the boots. In the way of most primitive footwear they didn't differ from left to right, yet they welcomed her feet like long-lost friends. She walked across the room several times. Even though too large for her, they were comfortable and fairly light. They had a natural kind of feel as if made by someone who understood feet. She felt as if she could run in these boots, though she hadn't run anywhere in years.

She noticed Tom was smiling, as if guessing her dog-and-pony show, but the five other faces, including Dwane's, seemed to await a judgment call.

"They're very well made," said Nicole, sitting down and replacing the boots with her brand-new hundred-dollar shoes, which now felt more like torture devices. "Attractive in a casual way." She examined the stitching again. "They must have been labor-intensive to make."

"Definitely," said Aaron Steele. "And I know good work when I see it."

"Quite unique," Nicole added. "Where did they come from?"

"I picked them up in Johannesburg," said Aaron while glancing at Dwane. "I'm always looking for original things. ...Even on unscheduled stopovers. But, I wasn't able to trace the source." He seemed to give Tom a look of annoyance.

"They were made in Kiwanja, Ms. Neale," said Tom.

"Is that one of the newer African countries?"

"Might be one of the oldest," said Tom. "If you could call it a country at all. We don't know much of its history. Like most of the little mud-hut states, the people never learned to write, so they didn't keep any records."

Nicole found herself resenting this as classic American arrogance, but Tom's tone of voice had been neutral again, simply condensing information, though everyone else cracked a smile. Tom's hidden eyes seemed to search her own in an almost apologetic way.

"They must have an oral tradition," she said.

"I'm sure they do," agreed Tom. "But that doesn't work with computers." He took a remote-control from the table and lit up a titanic plasma TV. A map of Africa appeared. Rising, he went to the five-foot screen, zoomed in the focus and pointed.

Nicole leaned forward and squinted a bit. "I don't see it."

Dwane, who was closer, chuckled. "Looks like somethin' a fly left behind."

"Best map I could get," said Tom. "About the size of Los Angeles, though."

"How big is that?" drawled Jefferson Brill.

"Around 469 square miles."

"How big is Houston?" Dwane nearly demanded.

"About 594. And Kiwanja is sparsely populated."

This seemed to bring several sighs of relief.

"Well," said Dwane. "Oughta be enough people to make a few boots." He swung around in his chair to Nicole. "Supposin' we bought a bunch of these things, what do you think we could sell 'em for? I remember you sayin' your folks had a shop."

Nicole warned herself to tread with care. "That would depend on the wholesale price."

"I paid twenty dollars," said Aaron.

"That was retail?" asked Nicole.

"Yes," said Aaron testily as if admitting a shameful thing. "And I couldn't get the shop owner to tell me how much he paid."

"Y'all sweeten the pot?" asked Dwane.

"It was a black slum district," said Aaron. "You never know what offends those people."

Dwane laughed. "Now who'd get offended by money?"

"It wasn't a place to flash it," said Aaron.

Nicole turned to study the TV screen, buying time to make calculations. Who might wear these beautiful boots? "Of course I'd have to do some research..."

"'Course," said Dwane. "But give us some women's intuition, like you did with Captain Keto."

Tom spoke: "You said they were good boots, Ms. Neale."

He was trying to help, thought Nicole. But he'd only increased the pressure on her to make a decision without enough data. "They are," she said with sudden conviction, picking up one and enjoying its feel. "But they're probably common wherever they came from. Made for everyday use. With a little more trim they'd be artifacts. African souvenirs, at least. But, what we have here are someone's work boots."

"Well," said Jefferson Brill. "Lots of rich folks like poor people's stuff. We sold tons of Mexican ponchos."

"And Mao Tse-tung hats," said Pete Malone. "Back when they were in style."

Dwane nodded. "My daddy sold coonskin caps," said Dwane. "Back in the 1950s, after that Davy Crockett movie."

"Anyway," Nicole went on, "I'd market them as exotic but practical. ...Maybe call them Lion Hunters. ...Just off the top of my head."

"I don't know about that," said Brill. "The animal lovers might get upset. We couldn't sell coonskin caps today."

Dwane chuckled. "Guess we couldn't call 'em Jungle Bunnies."

Nicole smiled politely while others laughed, though Tom might have rolled his eyes. She tapped the boot's sole with a fingertip. "The recycled rubber is environmentally friendly. That would appeal to a lot of people."

"Call 'em Tree Huggers," cracked Pete Malone.

"But let's have some figures," said Dwane.

Nicole had been using the time to think. "We might price them around eighty dollars. ...They might catch on with younger consumers. Possibly alternate teens." She wondered if Zack would wear such things... he was definitely drifting toward alternate something.

Dwane frowned a little. "Y'all talkin' about that 'Emo' stuff?"

Pete, Meg Tanner and Brill looked blank, but Dwane seemed slightly annoyed. "My boy Dillon's been messin' with that, but I guess it's one of them teenage phases."

"It's a growing market," ventured Nicole.

"I'm listenin'," said Dwane.

"They'd probably wear pretty good," said Pete, who'd been inspecting the other boot. "My kids go though shoes like a hurricane through a trailer park."

"Of course," Nicole added, "the price would depend on what they cost us, plus import and advertising."

"Don't forget distribution," said Brill. "An' we sure couldn't sell 'em for eighty bucks if they're costin' us twenty a pair."

Aaron spoke: "I'm sure I could get them made for much less. Maybe five dollars a pair." He glanced at Tom. "Definitely in China."

"Well, yes," Nicole said carefully. "And that's a good point, Mr. Steele."

"Aaron," said Aaron with a graciousness that may have been ironic.

"Aaron. But then we'd lose their exotic appeal."

Dwane took the boot from Pete. "Couldn't ride a horse in these things. Probably not a zebra, either." He waited for the chuckles to die, mostly from Pete and Jefferson. "But, who's gonna pay eighty bucks for Chinese copies of African boots? Like Nicole said, 'African' sounds exotic... like a safari an' shootin' a lion. 'Made in China' just sounds cheap... even if everything is these days."

"I agree, Dwane." Pete faced Aaron. "Too bad you didn't find out where they came from, and what the retailer paid."

"We know where they came from... now," said Aaron. "Thanks to Mr. Reynolds." He waited a moment, maybe for Tom to say "Tom." When Tom said nothing, he added, "I wasn't sure there would be any interest. I pick up a lot of things in my travels. Those candle lanterns from India..."

"Right," said Dwane. "A mighty fine seller."

"Great profit margin," agreed Meg Tanner. "Even at WalMart."

"Thank you," said Aaron. "But I hadn't been going to Africa. The plane was rerouted." He frowned at Tom. "More terrorist threats. It's getting harder for Americans to travel. Everybody hates us."

Tom only shrugged. "It's the price we pay for our freedom at home."

Dwane held up a hand. "Now let's not get into politics, folks. This is good ol' American business here."

"Well," said Aaron. "I don't imagine the shopkeeper paid much more than five dollars a pair, considering his slum location."

"Now that's more on target," said Dwane.

Nicole asked, "Did have any children's sizes?"

"There were smaller boots, yes," said Aaron.

Nicole turned to study the map on the screen. "Johannesburg is a long way from... er..."

"Kiwanja," said Tom, who'd been standing with arms crossed over his chest.

He would have made a cool action-figure, stripped to the waist in camouflage pants, a sight Nicole would have liked to see. He was probably bored, she decided; a man of action surrounded by fuddies... and maybe that included herself. "Thank you, Mr. Reynolds."

"Tom."

"Tom. ...It's a long way from Johannesburg. And I don't see any roads."

"None that show on this map," said Tom.

"Aren't there satellite photos?"

"We don't watch that part of the world," said Tom. "It's basically still in the stone-age, and they can't throw spears across the ocean." He turned to the map again. "The British built a rail line in from what used to be called Rhodesia... there was a rumor in the 1890s that Kiwanja had some coal reserves. But, the trains aren't reliable these days, and the roads all flood in the rainy season." He seemed to pause significantly. "Which will probably start in a week or so."

"They must have an airport," said Aaron.

"Dirt," said Tom. "And a lake when it rains. In the capital city... the only city. But it's hardly even a town. Used to be called Victoria's Hope. Should have been called Victoria's Secret."

There were chuckles from all.

"It's called N'dila now," Tom went on. "In honor of the President."

He clicked the remote to show a photo; an incredibly fat and dusky-black man who was stuffed in a camouflage uniform. Its mottled colors of "sand-and-tan" were familiar to most Americans thanks to the war in Iraq. He was probably in his early thirties, but looked like an overgrown kid playing soldier.

"He looks more like a General," said Nicole.

"President-General N'dila," said Tom.

Nicole smiled. "Or Baby Doc from Haiti. In his younger days."

Everyone looked confused except Tom. "I thought so too when I saw his picture, but we believe his intentions are good."

"Not like ol' what's-his-name?" asked Dwane. "The one who ate his own people."

"Idi Amin," said Tom. "And that was never proven... though he killed about 400,000 of them."

"Population control?" chuckled Dwane, drawing some rather nervous looks, though Tom's expression stayed neutral.

"Opposition control, anyway." Tom clicked the remote and a wide view appeared of a dirt-streeted town. It looked like a set from an old western movie, partly Dodge City and part Mexico yet somehow foreign to both. There were a few wooden buildings, sadly weathered and crying for paint, but most appeared to be plastered brick, and rusty tin roofs were the norm. Tumbleweeds would have completed the picture, along with horses hitched to posts, but a cargo truck was parked in the street; obviously an Army truck, painted desert camouflage.

"Population, about three-hundred... no census, of course," Tom continued. "No scheduled flights from the airport. Small-time freight and bush pilots. ...Might be how those boots got to Johannesburg."

"Sounds like the ass-end of nowhere," said Dwane. "Beg pardon, ladies."

"I take it Kiwanja is poor?" asked Aaron.

"By our standards, painfully poor," said Tom. "No valuable resources. There was some coal, but barely enough for the railroad, and it's still dug by hand. Subsistence farming... yams, corn, African stuff. Cattle, goats, and chickens. Supplemented by hunting and fishing. Not the kind of population a government can tax. Which keeps a country poor." He seemed to consider, then added. "We've been sending some aid."

"Tourism?" asked Pete Malone.

"Nothing to see," Tom replied. "You've just seen the capital city. I think there's one hotel, and I doubt if it's a five-star. No rivers or lakes of any size." He might have glanced at Nicole. "Except when it rains. Land mostly flat and semi-arid. Animal life pretty ordinary, at least for that part of the world. Even their lions are small and scruffy. No phones, except in the 'city,' and I doubt if they work half the time. No paved roads. Hardly any transportation. A few antique civilian trucks, worn-out Jeeps and Land Rovers."

"No industry at all?" asked Aaron.

"They seem to make beautiful boots," said Nicole.

Everyone laughed, but Nicole went on, "What I meant was, if someone makes something this well, they can usually make other nice things."

"Good point," said Meg.

Nicole turned to Tom. "What kind of aid are we sending?"

Again, Tom seemed to consider. "At the moment it's mostly military."

"Are they having a revolution?" she asked.

Everyone looked surprised except Tom. "Just normal internal affairs, Ms. Neale. Policing their little country. We're mostly giving them trucks and fuel so their Army can get around." He looked at Dwane. "And uniforms made by your factory. ...I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

Pete Malone looked thoughtful. "Are they pygmies?"

"Pygmies?" asked Dwane.

Pete consulted his laptop. "Most of the uniforms are small."

"But they cost just as much to make," added Meg.

Tom shrugged. "I guess they are small by American standards. Environment tends to shape a people... natural selection. Small people don't need a lot of food."

Nicole asked, "What about the people? Small or not, don't they need anything besides trucks, fuel, and army stuff?"

Tom shrugged again. "They haven't asked for anything else. They could probably use more productive crops, and we've sent them a few tons of seeds, but they don't seem to have any problems with food."

"I'd guess not," said Jefferson Brill. "After seeing the President's picture. He's sure as hell no pygmy!"

Even Pete Malone laughed, but he looked rather skinny compared to the General.

Nicole said, "It's fairly common in Africa for a chief or an elder to be fat. If a leader is wise and his village prospers, the people reward him with shares of their crops. Or cattle or goats."

"Then he must be a helluva leader!" laughed Brill.

"Here they just take our money," said Dwane. "An' whether we like 'em or not."

"True," said Tom. "But they never had an Army before, and that's expensive for any country."

Nicole didn't want to press the point, but asked anyway, "Why do they need an Army now?"

"They never had a government. At least in the way we know it." Tom clicked the TV back to the map. "Consider the size of the country, Ms. Neale..."

"Nicole."

"Nicole. ...Scattered villages, each with its chief, and all apparently lived in peace. More like a feudal system, though there never seems to have been a king to centralize a government."

Nicole felt like asking, "So, why a General?" But this was a business meeting.

"Is the government stable?" asked Aaron.

"Yes," said Tom. "And we intend to keep it that way."

Dwane asked, "So, what's your advice on this one, Tom? Should we set up a boot factory?"

"It would help our relations," said Tom. "Give them something to export. And open up a new market."

"Pretty small market," said Pete Malone, squinting at the televised map. "Even if they're not pygmies."

"Every little bit helps," said Tom, drawing more chuckles.

"What about power?" asked Aaron. "They can't play games or watch TV unless they've got electricity."

Dwane winked at Nicole. "They could always play with Captain Ketos."

Tom said, "The British built a plant for the town. ..In 1923. But you'd probably want your own generators."

"Costly," said Meg.

"'Specially with air-conditioning," Pete added.

"Those people are used to the heat," said Aaron.

"I'm sure Uncle Sam would help," said Tom.

"What about shipping?" asked Pete. "If they don't have a decent airport, and the railroad isn't dependable...?"

"We're planning to help them improve the airport. And probably the railroad, too. But not until after the rainy season." Tom looked at Nicole. "I'm sure you know what those rains are like?"

"Yes," said Nicole, though wondering why he had asked. "Everything virtually comes to a stop."

"Any other incentives?" asked Dwane. "Like a break on import taxes?"

"I'm sure we could work something out," said Tom.

Dwane faced Nicole. "Y'all think you could sell those boots?"

Everyone's eyes had turned to her. Aaron Steele's looked predatory. Of course, she couldn't see Tom's... but had he nodded encouragingly? Nicole still held the boot in her hand; it just felt good somehow. "I'd like to give it a try," she said.

"Glad to hear it," said Dwane. "How soon can you leave for Kwanzaa?"

"Kiwanja," said Tom.

"...Er?" said Nicole. Aaron Steele looked as stunned as she suddenly felt. "You'd want me to set up production?"

Dwane waved a hand. "That would be jumpin' the gun, Nicole. All we got here is one pair of boots. Which could have been made by a little ol' shoemaker all by himself in his little mud hut." He looked around the table. "I think it'd be wise to scout things out, an' our Miz Neale speaks the lingo."

"Everyone speaks English somewhere," said Aaron. "I've never had any problems."

"Aaron, you've done a fine job," said Dwane. "An' nobody's tryin' to steal your thunder. But I think we should see if the natives are friendly before sittin' down to palaver."

Tom nodded. "I agree with Mr. Barrymore. We know very little about Kiwanja, and we've made a few screw-ups in foreign relations that started with misunderstandings." He faced Nicole. "You've read The Ugly American?"

"...Yes. Back in college." Nicole thought for a moment. "Ignorant, arrogant American Imperialism. Complete disregard for another culture." She glanced around at questioning faces. "It was written in the 1950s. About how America makes itself hated."

Tom nodded again. "We haven't gotten prettier." He took off his glasses, revealing blue eyes. "There are some people in government who want to change that image. Dwane and I talked it over at breakfast. We think it would be a good idea if someone like Nicole, someone familiar with African culture, would go in and... well... see if the natives are friendly."

"Just don't end up in a stew pot," laughed Dwane.

Tom looked slightly pained. "At least you'd know if those boots were made by more than one little old shoemaker. And, speaking for the government, we'd really like to make a new friend."

Nicole smiled. "Are you sure you work for our government?" This drew chuckles from all except Aaron.

"But," said Aaron. "Do you think Ms. Neale has the experience? I've been doing this kind of thing for years."

"We've checked her background." Tom's eyes held Nicole's for a moment. "You did a good job in the Peace Corps."

"Thank you," said Nicole.

"Yes, but..." Aaron began.

"We check everyone's background," said Tom, smiling very brightly at Steele.

"Of course," said Aaron, coloring slightly.

"An' besides," added Dwane. "She won't be settin' up production, just lookin' around for the source of them boots an' gettin' a feel for the place. For all we know the people are lazy. Might not even want to work. They had their country all this time an' never did nothin' productive with it." He turned to Nicole. "So, what do you think?"

"It... sounds very interesting," said Nicole. "But, there's my son..."

"He's graduating eighth grade?" asked Tom.

"Right along with my boy," said Dwane.

"Congratulations to both of you."

"Thanks," said Dwane. "Tough school too... book-learnin', I mean."

"Thank you," echoed Nicole. "But there's summer vacation..."

"Couldn't he could stay with his grandfolks?" asked Dwane. "Out in California? Naturally we'd pay for the flight. An' you'd only be gone..." Dwane glanced at Tom. "What? About a week or so?"

"Probably," said Tom. "It's a tiny country. And Nicole could hire a bush pilot if she wanted to visit a village."

"Get receipts," said Meg.

Nicole's mind was suddenly flooded with things... none of which she'd anticipated. "It's just, er, unexpected."

"Sorry about that, Nicole," said Dwane. "We been keepin' them boots undercover till we got us a chance for a pow-wow."

"There'll be copies, of course," said Nicole. "The minute they hit the market."

"Always are," agreed Dwane. "Just like our Defender dolls. But, like you said, if people can make somethin' good like those boots, they can make other things, too. Once we set up a factory, those people will realize they need us." He smiled at Tom. "An' America, too." He took a sip of coffee. "Sleep on it tonight, Nicole. ...Matter of fact, take the afternoon off an' spend some time with... er..."

"Zackary."

"I like that name, it's down to earth. Got me a cousin named Zack somewhere. ...Or he might've been the one who died. But graduation's important. Dillon's makin' the speech, you know? Top of his class this year, in spite of all that 'Emo' crap."

"Zackary told me. Congratulations."

"I was gonna throw him a party, but he wanted to bunk with your boy tonight so we're havin' a barbecue this Sunday." Dwane looked around the table again. "Hope y'all can be there. ...Nicole, let me know what you think tomorrow, an' if you're willin' we'll set up your trip."

Tom gave Nicole another smile. "Sounds like good advice to me."

"An' there's no rush," added Dwane. "So don't go feelin' pressured."

The children surrounded Nathi like a cheerfully chattering escort of youth. A boy carried Nathi's flight bag, an artful object of antelope leather. The dogs romped about escorting them all as they crossed the footbridge over the stream and entered the moonlit village. Cooking fires were flickering low, but scents of suppers still sweetened the air.

The village consisted of twenty-three huts, built of mud brick and meant to last. All were protected by coats of white plaster that seemed to glow in the silver moonlight. Once, their roofs had been made of thatch but this had been mostly replaced by tin, the older rusted to ruddy earth tones, the newer fading to pearly gray. Fans of candle or kerosene light spilled out across their little front yards from open doorways and unshuttered windows. Acacia trees shadowed most of the dwellings, and these, like others that lined the stream, had all grown uncommonly large. There wasn't an actual village street, but a path led off toward the largest hut, which naturally belonged to the Chief. It stood favorably close to a bend in the stream where the tallest of trees kept it cool in the summer and guarded its roof from the winter rains. Most of the yards had chicken coops, along with sheds or wooden shelters where goats and pigs were kept. Of course, the Chief's were the finest, his sheds as large as family homes, his garden spread along the stream and first to get the water.

Women called greetings from doorways, while men, mostly grandfathers, asked for news. They, along with their wives and daughters, hoped to hear of husbands and sons. But, Nathi had nothing to tell them.

His own hut was small and recently built, at least in terms of time for this land. Its yard was cluttered with boxes and crates, barrels of engine and hydraulic oil, and salvaged parts from other airplanes; a dismantled motor, a landing-gear strut, propeller blades and several tires. Reclaiming his bag and thanking its bearer, Nathi bid the children goodnight then opened the door and went in. Taking a match from a box on a shelf, he lighted a kerosene lamp. The hut was one room about six meters square, with a smooth dirt floor and two small windows. The floor was acacia-dusted with gold, and the white plaster walls reflected the glow as the lamp took flame from the match. In the middle of the room was a wooden table along with a pair of village-made chairs. Two iron-framed cots stood against the far wall, and a battered British Army locker held some clothes and personal things. A dry-sink and counter lay to the right, sharing the space with a boxy tin stove that stood spider-like on long slender legs. On various shelves around the room were piles of smaller aircraft parts, instruments, switches and flight controls, including a dismantled auto-pilot and intricate bits of a gyro-compass. The walls were adorned with airplane pictures, mostly cut from magazines and showing C-47s in flight. The cots were covered with blankets, also lightly powdered with gold.

The air was warm from the heat of day, and Nathi left the door open. He set the lamp on the table and tossed his bag on one of the cots. A galvanized bucket sat by the sink. Nathi plucked out a few insect corpses, then splashed his face and sweaty chest to wash off the stench of the coffin.

"Salamu," called a voice from the doorway.

Nathi turned to a girl of eleven, one of Akili's sisters. She wore a skirt of greens and golds, her young breasts bare in the gentle lamplight.

"Jambo, Nafia," said Nathi.

"Father asks if you and Dakota will join him for supper?"

Nathi glanced at a few tins of food near the stove, then said, "Yes, we'll be right along."

The girl smiled and left.

Nathi went to the door and looked toward the airstrip, then toward the pond, but didn't call Dakota's name. Returning to the bucket, he stripped himself naked and thoroughly washed, leaving the water a dark coffee shade.

A boy of eleven strode into the room, quiet as cats in his antelope boots. He was clad in tan shorts so tightly outgrown they were more of a decoration than clothes. Although he was packing a prominent tummy, the AK rifle slung on his shoulder gave him a dangerous look. Diskman headphones were clamped to his ears, the player itself like a yellow breastplate defending his tight little chest. "Salamu, Nathi. Do you have any batteries? Type AA?"

"Yes, Abu," Nathi rummaged about in his flight bag and handed the boy a battery pack. "Are you on the hilltop tonight?"

"I was," said Abu. He replaced the cells in his CD player as if he was arming a mine... the shapes were disturbingly similar. "I flashed the signal when you came in. Damu is on watch until midnight when Tindo will take his place." He snapped the battery cover shut and tossed the dead ones out the door. "Rashawn was here today," he added. "He left quite angry, I think."

Nathi put on a clean pair of trousers then sat on a cot to pull on his boots. "He probably thought we'd be back a bit sooner."

"Yes," said Abu, coming to stand before Nathi. "He wanted his Jeep and the coffin. But, I think he wanted the older boys, too, and Jumbe Chane refused."

A woman's voice said, "Rashawn has our men, he doesn't need you." A graceful shadow appeared in the doorway, a bare-breasted, beautiful woman of twenty with skin like obsidian velvet. She wore a skirt of greens and golds, a necklace of ebony cowrie shells, and colorfully beaded antelope boots.

"Salamu, Fila," said Nathi.

"Salamu, Nathi. How was your flight?"

"...Uneventful. Please come in."

Fila crossed the room to the cot. "You must be hungry. I cooked quite a bit..."

"Thank you, Fila," said Nathi. "But I've been asked to Jumbe Chane's."

"...Oh." Fila turned to Abu. "If you went with Rashawn you would only learn war."

"But I have to learn war," said Abu.

Fila faced Nathi. "There is no money for books and paper. The General refuses to fund village schools. His soldiers learn nothing except how to kill."

"War is manly," said Abu.

"War is childish!" Fila snapped.

"Do you think I'm a man, Abu?" asked Nathi.

Abu looked surprised. "Of course."

"Then I tell you war is a childish thing, even when it's necessary. Men fight only when they must, boys fight just because they can."

"I don't understand," said Abu.

"You will when you're a man." Nathi took note pads out of his bag, along with a box of pencils.

"Thank you," said Fila, taking the things.

"Make a list of what you need."

"I can still teach from the radio, but..."

"I'll get batteries, too," said Nathi.

"Thank you again. ...Perhaps supper tomorrow?"

"We have to deliver some freight to the town as soon as Rashawn's supplies are unloaded."

"Oh," said Fila. "Lala salama, Nathi."

"Goodnight, Fila."

Abu watched as Fila left. "She's really quite pretty, you know?"

Nathi ruffled the boy's bushy hair. "Even for a teacher?"

"Some of her lessons are quite difficult."

"What comes too easy is not valued much."

"But, what use is knowledge of numbers and books if I may be killed in this war? And whether I'm a boy or a man."

Nathi gripped Abu's shoulders. "Real men think of the future. And the future of their children."

"Perhaps I will fly like you and Dakota?"

"With knowledge of numbers and books, you may. Without it you'll stay on the ground."

"Fila should marry, you know," said Abu.

Nathi smiled. "I would not tell her that if I were you."

"It seems a manly kind of thought." Abu put his hands on Nathi's shoulders.

Nathi nodded solemnly. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

Abu hesitated, then said, "Inaya's father was killed yesterday while capturing an Army truck. And Shani's older brother was wounded. ...He too later died. Rashawn brought them back. We buried them before sunset."

"I'm sorry," said Nathi.

"I... haven't heard from my father in weeks."

Nathi drew the boy close. "I wish I had news of him for you."

"This is enough," said Abu, pressing his face to Nathi's shoulder. "My mother hugs me but it's not the same."

"Wakati gani ndege ijayo yaenda Kiwanja?" asked Jenny.

This time it took a only moment before Nicole understood. Maybe it was like riding a bike? "When's the next plane to Kiwanja?" she echoed, stepping out of the elevator. "I might be asking that question a lot from what I just heard of the place. ...Or maybe whens the next plane out?" Then she raised a curious eyebrow. "Why do you speak Swahili?"

Jenny smiled at the panning camera. "It was ethnic back in my day. Black Power and the Panthers. Revolution and Roots. When we thought we were finally going somewhere. When our kids weren't idolizing thugs and killing each other for bling."

"You should be going, not me," said Nicole.

Jenny laughed. "I'm a little too old for safaris, Nicole. Mud huts and yams don't seem so romantic when you've got elderly aches and pains."

"You, 'elderly'?"

"It's not the years, it's the miles," said Jenny. "And sometimes I feel like I've walked a million."

"Did you get where you wanted to go?"

Jenny regarded her leafy glade. "Close enough for this life. Ask me again the next time around. ...Should I start planning your trip?" She studied her monitor screen. "Plenty of flights to Johannesburg, but nobody seems to go to Kiwanja. It's like the place is Jumanji Land."

"I know," said Nicole. "I just saw a map. Wouldn't someplace in Zimbabwe be closer? ...Assuming I wanted to go."

"I don't think you'd want to be there now. Americans aren't very popular."

"I don't think we're popular anywhere except with ourselves in our minds."

"It's the price we pay for our luxuries at everyone else's expense. It might be hard to believe, but ninety percent of the world's people have never ridden in a private car, or even made a phone call."

"I believe it," said Nicole. "I guess I've just forgotten I did."

"I thought you might want to visit the shop where Aaron bought those boots. Maybe find out how the storekeeper got them. Could save you some time in the bush."

"...That might be a good idea."

Jenny tapped keys like machine-gun fire. "I found a flight to Maun, Botswana. Then another to Selinda. ...I've heard it's very pretty there. At the head of a delta. The Selinda Spillway. The lions hunt hippos."

"Must be big lions." Nicole crossed the room through its jungle of plants. Ducking under a rubber tree, she peered at Jenny's monitor which displayed an African map. "I don't see Kiwanja."

Jenny pointed to a dot, hardly more than a pixel or two. "It's still listed here as a British Possession, but I've been doing my homework."

"Can I borrow a pencil?" asked Nicole.

"I'll get you a new one." Jenny engaged her sharpener.

"I'm not sure about this," said Nicole, as the sharpener ground away.

Jenny smiled. "Opportunity knocks but once. Then it catches the next plane out."

"You're making it sound like a career decision."

Jenny seemed to consider. "There's a lot of people in this building. But only one woman so far, Meg Tanner, can get on Floor Ten whenever she wants. I still have to use a visitor card, and I've been here for twenty-two years."

Nicole glanced up. "The good old glass ceiling?"

"Well, isn't Dwane a good ol' boy? And he's raising his son in the same tradition."

Nicole laughed. "That's hard to believe with Dillon's green hair."

"Hairstyles come and go," said Jenny. "But it's hard to change the minds under them."

A boy's action-figure stood near the screen, stripped to the waist in camouflage pants in a pattern of ambers and golds. The colors went well with his dusky skin and gave him a sort of lionish look enhanced by his bushy mane. Jenny regarded the muscled man-toy. "You got Captain Keto out on the shelves. That was pretty significant, even if you don't know it. You rattled a lot of cages here."

"And hung a sword over my head?"

"Until our little man made money."

"He's still got too many muscles."

Jenny laughed. "Boys will be boys, they like manly toys. Missiles look like penises. Tanks are always erect. Guns and cannons shoot. When it comes to 'mine is bigger than yours,' some boys never grow up." She examined the needle-like pencil but found it not quite to her liking. The sharpener ground away once more. "It's Zackary, right? He's why you don't want to go?"

Nicole nodded. "Mostly." She fingered a rubber tree leaf. "Mud huts and yams don't bother me. I had almost a year of both. Plus a taste of a revolution. And maybe I was lucky to get out alive." She glanced at the ceiling. "Or so I was told. But, Zack has been... well... maybe feeling deserted. Maybe even betrayed. Confused, I'm sure. First the move, then the divorce. And now he's alone so much at home. I'm almost sure he's not doing drugs, but he's not really doing anything."

"Most kids get confused at his age," said Jenny.

"You mean about sex? Hence all the penile symbols? Rockets, missiles, things that shoot?"

Jenny smiled. "That might be getting too Freudian. Sometimes a gun is just a gun. But, kids don't have many role-models now, and boys are the most confused. Look at all the white ones who idolize our thugs... a man is an ignorant monkey who takes what he wants and shits on the rest." She picked up the muscular doll. "All the good cowboys done rode out of town. And Superman died a long time ago."

"Along with truth and justice?"

"Which leaves us with The American Way."

Nicole studied Jenny's photographs. "Did your sons have any problems?"

"Lots." Jenny returned the doll to its place beside the glowing monitor. "Keeja played thugger games for a while. Even joined a gang for a week. Took me six months to get that off his back, and I had to buy a shotgun. Jamar wanted to play professional basketball, even though he wasn't that good. And Bilal tried being a 'player' in his junior year of high-school. Bitch became his favorite word until I went upside his head."

"Any problems with drugs?" asked Nicole.

"I'm sure they all experimented, but I used to tell them that smoking weed was the perfect pacifier for slaves. It lets you accept your slavery."

"What are they doing now?"

"Bilal is a cruise ship officer. Jamar's an attorney... civil rights. And Keeja's a pediatrician."

"Congratulations. ...Could I schedule Zack for a checkup?"

"Consider it done."

Nicole sighed. "I don't think Zack has any clue about what he wants to be."

"What did you want to be at his age?"

"Raising a herd of My Little Ponies."

"I'd say you did all right."

"Thanks," said Nicole. "But, I have to talk this over with Zack."

"Why don't you take him along?"

"To Africa?"

"It could give him a whole new perspective. Let him see how most people live, not just the lucky five percent. ...I'm sure you haven't forgotten."

Nicole remembered how Zack had looked, panting and sweating with shovel in hand while digging a grave for a hamster. It was hard to picture him anywhere but sprawled in front of a screen. "That would cost the company money."

Jenny wasted another new pencil. "You're in a good position, Nicole. I know for a fact Tom wants you to go, and he packs a lot of power."

"I noticed that," said Nicole. "Who is he anyhow?"

"Probably Homeland Security. They're in everyone's business these days. But with his kind of power you don't ask questions."

"Zack doesn't have a passport."

"I'm sure Tom could take care of that."

"...Well... I still have to see what Zackary thinks."

"I got his gifts and a card," said Jenny. "Including a new stealth bomber. They're all wrapped up and on your desk."

"Thanks, Jen. That was sweet. I could have done it myself, though. Dwane gave me the afternoon off." Nicole glanced at her watch: 11:31. "That was fast."

Jenny smiled. "Friends in low places."

For a moment Nicole was eighteen again, feeling the challenge of saving the world. ...Reality-check, she told herself: what was she actually doing? Or at least considering doing? Furthering her own career? Making more money she didn't need while boosting her company's profits? And all because of a pair of boots, probably made by a hungry child in a country she'd never heard of. "At least I can spend some time with Zack before his graduation. Maybe take him to the mall. ...If I can figure out how to get home."

"I'm sure there's a car and a driver," said Jenny. "If not, I'll bump somebody's butt and they can walk to lunch for a change."

Nicole laughed. "Like that joke about Las Vegas... people arriving in private jets but leaving town in Greyhound busses."

"Ted had to fly to the airport to pick up somebody's luggage, but if you want to wait a while I'll have him fly you home."

Nicole smiled. "I should have been afraid of you."

"The good have nothing to fear from me."

The elevator bonged and Tom stepped out. He hadn't replaced his sunglasses, and looked less mysterious without them. "Can I give you a ride anywhere, Nicole?"

Nicole hesitated: Jenny was doodling with a pen, and "single" appeared on her pad. "Well," said Nicole. "If it's not too much trouble..."

Tom tipped an invisible Stetson. "Mighty glad to oblige, ma'am."

A few minutes later, with Zackary's gifts in a plastic bag, Nicole said good-bye to a smiling Jenny and boarded the elevator with Tom. To her surprise he tapped the Roof button.

The air was like a dragon's breath as the armored doors rumbled open. Nicole squinted her eyes in the savage glare from the towering castles of glass all around. Tom put on his glasses and escorted her to the black helicopter. She supposed she might have guessed it was his; he seemed like a man whose battles in life were a lot more important than traffic. She found herself feeling awed once more by this privileged world above the earth where people came and went as they pleased, with no speed limits or metering lights, and no time lost in a plodding commute with proletarian peasants. She remembered an ancient sci-fi book predicting a flying future for all, when everyone's family would be like the Jetsons. It seemed as if that future had come, but only for a few.

Tom opened a door and heat poured out, no different from a car in the sun and smelling about as familiar... upholstery fabric, metal and plastic; a kid's muscle-car in a Burger King lot. As she'd noted when landing a few hours before, the helicopter displayed no markings, but there was a sticker on one of its windows: "Area 51 Parking Permit." It showed an almond-eyed alien of the Little Gray variety... which Nicole assumed was a joke.

"Give me a minute," said Tom. "I'll get the air-conditioner going." He shed his jacket, revealing a handsomely well-muscled shape in a form-fitting cream-colored shirt, though jarring Nicole when she saw the gun... a sizable black automatic. She supposed it shouldn't have shocked her; his terrorist threats were probably real. And it explained his slight hint of leather; a finely-crafted shoulder holster.

She noted his underarms were wet, though his scent was cleanly male. That seemed to make him more human somehow; at least he wasn't immune to heat. She glanced at the sharp rotor blades overhead, which seemed to be drooping uncomfortably close.

"Am I all right here?" she asked.

"I think so," said Tom, climbing into the cockpit and seating himself at the console. "Let's see... I know I have to push something, but what?" Then there was a whine like starting a car, but steadily rising in volume and pitch as the rotors began to revolve, lifting and straightening as they did. The scent of burning kerosene rose above the city smells, and a wavering haze billowed back near the tail.

A few minutes later Tom helped her aboard, up front with him in a sleek cockpit that hinted of fast foreign cars. There were seats for three in the rear, one occupied by a small travel case. The instrumentation was alien, seemingly hundreds of switches and dials, knobs, buttons, and flashing displays like one of Zackary's video games. But the air-conditioning was down-to-earth and furiously efficient. Tom helped her unscramble the seat belt, then fitted her with a light headset like Zack had worn that morning.

"Gets a little noisy," said Tom, as the engine's whine continued to mount like an airliner poising for takeoff.

Nicole adjusted the headphones, which didn't muss her hair too much, while Tom scanned various instruments.

"Any place out your way to get lunch?" he asked.

"There's a Chilis."

Tom made a rather boyish face. "I'm not a big fan of southwestern cooking. Or just about anything else down here. Including most of the natives." He grinned and lowered his glasses a bit, his blue eyes disarming above the black rims. "To be totally honest... and putting myself at your mercy... if I wanted to give the U.S. an enema, I'd stick the nozzle up Galveston Harbor."

Nicole laughed. "Are you testing my loyalty?"

"Loyalty isn't my department. That's up to the Homeland Gestapo."

"Meaning you're not one of them?"

"My job is defending Democracy, not suppressing it."

Nicole glanced out at the jungle of glass, its glare suppressed by the silvered windshield. "I like Texas people in general. They're usually open and honest, at least, though it took me a while to adapt. But, that's a long story."

"Too long for lunch?" asked Tom.

"There's a Denny's near my house. But I don't think you can land on the roof. We could take my car... But I don't know if I can find my house from up in the air."

"No problem," said Tom, pointing to a digital screen. "Got your address on the GPS."

"Oh," said Nicole. "My... ex-husband had one in his Hummer."

"Handy gadget," said Tom.

"Men hate to ask for directions."

"Ouch!" Tom gripped the control stick. "Shall we...?"

Nicole smiled. "Please be gentle. I don't know anything about helicopters, but this one looks like a hottie."

Tom laughed. "She'll barely do 300."

The engine's murmur rapidly rose, making a whirlwind howl. The machine lifted off, tilting nose down, soaring above the taller buildings, which seemed to shrink and spin away.

"You fly a lot?" asked Tom, his voice now reaching Nicole through the headset.

Nicole adjusted her microphone. "Mostly commercial, but small planes don't scare me."

"Because of your time in Africa?"

"One of Roger's... my ex's... friends had a small plane. A Piper, according to my son. We flew to Las Vegas a couple of times. I only flew in to my village once... then out again about a year later after the revolution started."

"Revolutions can be inconvenient."

"Thomas Jefferson said that a revolution every once in a while is probably a good thing."

"Depends on whose side you're on," said Tom. "And whether it wins or not. If we'd lost our revoultion he and all our founding fathers would have been hung for treason."

"Am I still being tested?" asked Nicole. "I can save you some time: I'd give the U.S. an enema by sticking the nozzle up the Potomac."

"Not my department." Tom grinned again. "And none of this is being recorded."

"Could you do that?"

"I've got all the war-on-terror toys. There's a torture kit somewhere in back with bamboo splints and a water board."

"You like vodka martinis shaken, not stirred?"

Tom shifted their course a little after glancing at the GPS. "Please note my lack of cloak and dagger. I haven't caught any terrorists yet, but you usually don't catch the real ones. They believe too much in what they're doing."

"Not just in it for the money?"

Tom seemed to consider. "Guess if I was a kid, and saw my family killed by bombs... 'collateral damage'... I'd want to bring America down." He flashed his boyish grin again, a Tom Cruise kind of naughty face that dared someone to slap it. "I don't have a flag on my car either. Even though it's a Ford."

"Oh," said Nicole. She wondered if there was an angle to this, but then decided she didn't care. Like most intelligent people, she assumed her e-mails were monitored, and her past was probably filed away in some Orwellian memory bank.

Tom's chuckle came over the headphones. "If the government wanted to get you, it wouldn't need to bother with facts."

"How did you know I was thinking that?"

"It's the usual progression of thought."

"I guess it would be," agreed Nicole.

"So, how did you end up in Houston?" asked Tom. "Excuse the rubber hose."

Nicole glanced down at the freeways, not quite as crowded at this time of day though still looking crammed to capacity. She thought of the millions of similar scenes repeated all over the civilized world. "Roger grew up in Galveston and never really liked California. Too Liberal, I guess. So, like Green Acres, 'I was his wife' and he moved us here. I listed myself with a head-hunter, and Barrymore made me an offer. They haven't been bad to work for, and they're small enough where you can be noticed."

Tom smiled. "They noticed Captain Keto. And this trip to Kiwanja could score you more points."

"I'm starting to get that impression."

"But, you don't really like it here?" asked Tom.

"Does it show?"

"Only when someone says howdy, then you wince a little."

"My son is almost thirteen," said Nicole. "A boy his age needs stability. It wouldn't be fair to move him again."

Tom nodded while altering course a bit to avoid a police helicopter, which seemed to think it owned the sky. He might have traded words with its pilot, switching his mike to another channel. The other machine veered away.

"My dad's in the Army," said Tom, switching back. "So I think I can relate. We never stayed more than two years in one place. Makes growing up hard for a kid. You just make friends then lose them again, so after a while you stop trying. ...He's why you're not sure you want to go? Zackary, I mean?"

Nicole nodded. "I'd hate to leave him right now, even for a couple of weeks. ...You don't think it would take longer than that to find who made those boots?"

"Don't see why it would," said Tom. "I'm sure President N'dila would help. And, I'm sure he'd welcome some industry so his people could have a better life instead of surviving on yams and goats."

"Then he'd also be able to tax them."

"But he wouldn't need any more help from us."

"I guess that makes sense," said Nicole.

"You'll have a letter of introduction. And we gave him a helicopter, so he might be able to show you around."

"That's a little more than trucks, fuel, and uniforms."

"It wasn't armed."

Nicole smiled. "I didn't fall off a truckload of yams."

"Excuse me?"

"You're painting a picture of an unarmed Army. Or maybe they carry spears? Like in The Mouse That Roared?"

"What's a smart woman like you doing in a place like this?"

"We covered that already."

Tom glanced at the GPS again. "We've given them a few old rifles. Leftover junk from the Vietnam War. But, I don't think Kiwanja is going to roar. So far it hasn't even squeaked. But, weapons are always available to any country that wants them. And they're usually cheaper than trucks and fuel. Especially flying them in."

"So, better ours than somebody else's?"

"That's a healthy way of looking at it."

Nicole looked down at the earth. "The world must be full of old war junk for new generations to play with."

"Here we are," said Tom.

Nicole was surprised again... how fast you got from here to there when free as a bird in the sky. Although they were low and hovering, she found it hard to pick out her house from all the other clones below, each with its manicured lawn and a pool. "It's the third from that corner... I think."

"Right on target," said Tom. He pointed to another screen as the helicopter swiftly sank, hatching a flock of butterflies in Nicole's unwary stomach. "We could drop a bomb in your Jacuzzi from halfway around the world."

"That's comforting to know," said Nicole. "How about in my bathtub?"

"I could have the floor plan of your house in five minutes."

"Don't you find that a little scary?"

Tom lowered his glasses, his other hand guiding the aircraft. "I do. ...But, so could a lot of other people, from a real terrorist to an teenage hacker. And if your life was fairly routine they could guess when you'd be taking a bath. ...Or when your son would be in his room. And they'd know that for sure if he was online. They could even send him an instant message to keep him at his computer. I could find out the model and serial number of all the locks on your doors. If you had them changed and didn't pay cash... and only poor people and bad guys pay cash... I could find out who the locksmith was and what he replaced them with." Tom seemed to sigh as the ground rose up. "The genie got out of his bottle, Nicole. Just like in Our Friend The Atom."

"They used to show that in schools," said Nicole. "Back in the 1950s and 60s. My mother bought it on VCR to teach me about propaganda."

"Were you home-schooled?" asked Tom.

"In my early years. So I wouldn't be brainwashed, according to mom. ...Isn't that in my file?"

"That'll teach me not to skim." The helicopter's skids kissed the grass.

"Nice landing," said Nicole.

Tom laughed. "It's one we can walk away from. ...Looks like we've got company."

Nicole saw the gardener out in the flowers, a straw hat shading his coppery face. He might have been puzzled about the shovel and the fresh little mound of Freddy's grave, but now he looked ready to run. His two shirtless sons were poised by the pool; chubby brown boys in old sagger jeans. Each held a long-handled skimmer but also looked about to bolt.

"My yard service," said Nicole.

"Hope they don't think we're INS." Tom shut off several switches as the rotors slowed to a droopy stop and the engine's whine faded to silence.

Nicole had lifted a hand to wave, forgetting she couldn't be seen. "I'm sure they're legal."

Tom laughed again. "I saw nothing... nothing, mien Colonel!"

Nicole opened her door and the heat burst in like a nuclear blast in her face. "Buenos dias, Francisco," she called.

The gardener seemed to relax a bit, though his answering smile was wary. He called to his sons, who resumed their work, clearing the water of insect corpses. "Enough to be respectful. ...You really did skim."

"Big Brother isn't quite as efficient as he'd like everyone to believe."

"Does that apply to missiles, too? ...Such as where they land?"

"Fortunately not my department. ...Nice pool," said Tom. "You swim a lot?"

"I'd swim a lot more, but there never seems to be any time."

"How about Zack?"

"He hasn't been very physical lately. He used to be a soccer star, but Roger... my ex..."

"I think you established that," said Tom.

"...Encouraged him. Maybe too much."

"The Little League Syndrome?" asked Tom. "Where the fathers get off a lot more than the sons?"

"It could have been that," agreed Nicole, removing the headset and smoothing her hair. "Sports were really Roger's thing, though he'd never played much himself. And when Roger became... well... nasty to Zack... so did sports, I guess. Zack's always been kind of passive, and I've never been much of a pusher."

"It's usually better to lead," said Tom.

"But, leading takes time, and I haven't had much. Eight hours a day, plus two more in traffic. And those are the good days." Nicole hesitated, hoping she wouldn't be misunderstood. "And Zack's at that age where he needs a male figure."

"I'd like to meet him," said Tom.

"You're welcome to come to his graduation. He'll be home by four."

"You think he'd like it if we picked him up?"

"You mean in this?"

"Sure, why not?"

"He'd love it. You should have seen his face this morning when the company helicopter came. I could call the school. He gets out at three-thirty."

Tom checked his watch. "Leaves us plenty of time for lunch."

Nicole slung her laptop over a shoulder while Tom took the bag of Zackary's gifts. Tom put on his jacket, hiding the gun -- possibly for the gardener's sake -- then helped Nicole to the grass. She considered introducing him, but Fernando was gathering up his tools while his sons had edged away to the gate, still warily eying the aircraft.

"I'd guess Nicaragua," said Tom, as they reached the tile of the patio. "So helicopters would scare them."

"You must travel a lot," said Nicole.

"Comes with the job."

"Are the sweatshops really that bad in some places?"

"Sweating is better than starving to death."

The water slide had been turned on for cleaning and made a musical liquid sound. Nicole remembered a brook in the hills a few miles away from her parents’ house, and a rippling pond on a sweltering day. The place had vanished long ago, the pond filled-in by suburban sprawl, the brook now part of a sewer drain, but its memory lingered clear and bright. When people dreamed of "going home" it usually meant to a time not a place. She tried to read Tom's expression as he gazed at the sparkling pool... was it actually wistful? "Doesn't sound as if you have much time yourself."

Tom wiped sweat from his face. "A commute's a commute. Ten miles, ten-thousand. Time down the toilet you never get back."

Nicole watched the gardener leave with his tools after setting her shovel beside the garage. She would have offered sodas, but the boys had already fled the yard to a battered pickup in the driveway. "There's plenty of food in the house. Nothing up to Denny's standards, but I make a mean chicken salad. I could even shake up a vodka martini."

Tom smiled. "You wouldn't have any plain old beer? ...Hopefully not Lone Star?"

"Zackary seems to prefer Heineken."

"Sounds like an All-American boy."

Nicole didn't want to seem blatant, but Tom had turned back to the shimmering water, which radiated a pleasant coolness. "I think one of Zackary's swim suits would fit you."

"Must be a big boy at twelve."

"He's almost thirteen and a little fat. ...Actually more than a little."

Tom smiled again. "You didn't say obese."

"I don't use hate-speak, especially when it's government sanctioned."

Tom took off his glasses. "That pool sure looks good."

"I suppose you're on company time?" asked Nicole.

"It's only taxpayer money. If I don't waste it, somebody else will. ...Am I being tested?"

"I'll shut off my cameras," said Nicole.

Nathi walked through the moonlit village beneath the tall acacia trees that dappled the earth in silver and shadow and scented the air with their musk. The children had come to escort him again, along with the ever-inquisitive dogs who capered ahead raising dust. The Chief's front yard was defended by thorns, a hedge more efficient than razor barbed wire. A ten-year-old boy stood guard at the gate with a bright bayonet on his rifle. He cheerfully greeted Nathi, who lifted the latch and went in.

Nafia answered the door to his knock, her younger sister, Aisha, beside her. The girls bowed Nathi into the room, which had woven straw mats on its hard earthen floor. Draperies decorated the walls, along with hangings of shells and beads. There were also a few British rifles that dated back to the First World War, but were clean, well oiled, and ready for use. Here and there were pictures, most showing lions at rest or at play. There were also several shelves of books. The room was no larger than Nathi's hut, but the house of the Chief had several rooms, the foremost reserved for living and dining, its table now set with a feast. It was custom for wife and daughters to serve, butJumbe Chane's wife wasn't present and his daughters now quietly left.

To have called Jumbe Chane enormous would have been understating his size. He was only a few months older than Nathi, but easily weighed at least four times as much, his body a mountain of dusky rolls enthroned upon a gigantic chair, an ancient heirloom of noble strength and no less heroic proportions. His mass proclaimed his leadership; and except for the tuft of lion's mane he wore no other adornments.

Three kerosene lamps were lighting the room, including one in the rafters above with a circular wick and enameled shade that was almost electrically bright. The table could have seated a dozen, itself an ancient artifact with a crescent cut out for a gigantic man, while the food it displayed could have fed as many with goat, pork, roasted chicken, a steaming platter of fish from the stream, beans, corn and sweet potatoes, along with various delicacies imported in packets and cans. To drink, there was beer in a pitcher.

"Salamu, Nathi!" boomed Jumbe Chane in a voice befitting his size. His face was like an ebony moon partly eclipsed by a nova of hair, while his chest spilled over the table top amid the abundance of food. "Come and sit down. How was your flight?"

"We were delayed as you know," said Nathi, taking a chair across from Chane.

"Mechanical troubles?" asked Chane.

"Water in the fuel."

"Sabotage?"

"I'd rather think it was accidental. Careless filter maintenance at the Selinda airfield."

"Will you report it?"

"They would want a flight plan." Nathi offered a box of Nestle bars he'd bought that morning in Johannesburg. "Your favorites, if I recall?"

The huge man chuckled, his body an earthquake of ripples and waves. "How could you have forgotten? Has it been that long since we hunted together?"

"Sometimes it seems only yesterday. Other times, a thousand years."

"I'll give the prayer."

Nathi bowed his head for a moment as Chane thanked the spirit of harvest.

I know of the border village," said Chane after completing the prayer. He served himself from platters and bowls, and Nathi did the same.

Nathi took a bite of roast goat, tender and pungently spiced. "Rashawn told you?"

Chane nodded. "He said there had been an attack... what the General would call a 'relocation'."

Nathi poured a tall glass of beer. "Destroying people's homes so they have no choice but to go to the city and work on the General's 'Social Improvements'." He sipped the thick brew. "Rashawn left defenders. Both were killed." He lay down his food, though his stomach protested, having been empty for most of the day. "Two against about fifty soldiers, one of whom was also killed."

"You landed there?" said Chane. "Do you think that was wise?"

Nathi shrugged. "Probably not, but it's done. And at least we discovered the mines."

"Still, you shouldn't be taking such risks."

Nathi began to eat again. "The world is full of dangers, if one feared them all they would get nothing done."

Chane helped himself from a platter of pork. "Did you learn anything more?"

"No more than we've suspected," said Nathi. "The General has more weapons than fuel."

"Anything else?" asked Chane.

"Uniforms may be in short supply. They stripped the fallen soldier."

Chane sipped beer. "That could mean they have more soldiers." Then he frowned. "They didn't bury him?"

"Perhaps they feared a counter-attack. We buried all three with ceremony."

"Thank you, Nathi."

"Did Rashawn take the people away?"

"Yes, across the border," said Chane, spearing a roasted fish.

"Leaving two of his fighters to die."

Chane spread his hands. "His trucks are slow. The Army's are faster. They would have caught him in a chase before he reached the border. He had to delay the Army somehow. ...What would you have done, my friend?"

Nathi considered. "Rashawn knew there would be an attack. He could have set up an ambush. There's a narrow place in the hills nearby where the Army trucks had to come through. The trucks could have been destroyed or captured. And the village might have been saved. Now its people are refugees, and refugees are never welcome."

"They will return when the war is over."

"To find their village destroyed," said Nathi. "Along with everything they owned. And, I'm sure Rashawn recruited the boys as payment for their rescue."

"They still have their lives," said Chane.

"They could have stayed and lived in peace by meeting the General's demands."

Chane shook his head. "By growing crops that do not reproduce so they have to buy new seeds each year? And by giving their boys to the Army?"

Nathi shrugged. "You asked what I would have done, my Chief. May I ask the same?"

"I might have considered an ambush," said Chane. "But, it may have been a matter of time. Faster to take the people away than to prepare a defense."

Nathi speared another slice of goat. "You could lead us as well as Rashawn."

Jumbe Chane smiled. "Thank you, loyal subject. But, the same could be said for you."

Nathi shrugged again. "I only fly an airplane, and sometimes not very well."

"And I am not a warrior," said Chane. "Nor was my father, nor his father's father, nor generations of fathers before. I know when to plant our crops. I can predict a drought or a rain. And marriages I can perform."

"And burials," said Nathi.

Jumbe Chane sighed. "Too many of those in recent times. But, I know nothing of planning battles."

"You used to plan our hunts well enough."

"Animals I understand. But not the minds of men who make war." Chane sipped beer. "How is Dakota?"

"He still has the humanity to decently bury the dead."

"Akili prepared him supper," said Chane. "They seem to be very good friends."

"They have always been friends," said Nathi. He touched the tuft of fur on his chest. "Akili prepared him to face the lions."

"I'm sorry his mother could not," said Chane.

"Thank you."

"No doubt they are down at the pond."

Nathi smiled. "It's a peaceful place. Remember? We used to go there often."

For a moment the gigantic man looked wistful. "I've not been there for too many years. To drink beer in the moonlight and dream. To talk until dawn of the future. Of all the things we would do. ...And you were able to fly away."

"Haven't your dreams been fulfilled?" asked Nathi.

Chane shrugged a huge shoulder. "I always knew my future."

"You could have refused and come with me."

Chane shook his head. "One cannot live a privileged life and then deny their obligation to those who provided that privilege. Our people made an investment in me and I am bound to return it." He turned to gaze through a moonlit window. Beyond loomed the mass of the not-quite mountain, above it the star-studded sky. "You're blessed with a son like Dakota. He's more of a warrior than both of us."

Nathi took a sip of beer. "He has only known war in his life. But so have most of our children."

Jumbe Chane looked thoughtful. "I have, as you know, only daughters."

"As wise and kind as their father."

"Thank you. But, I must think of the future."

"Maybe you'll still have a son."

"But if not, my son-in-law will be Chief. Whoever marries Akili."

"Unless the people choose another."

"Which they haven't in a thousand years."

"I see where this trail is leading," said Nathi.

Jumbe Chane shrugged. "I have a responsibility to think of our children's children. Dakota is wise for his years, and yet there is a wildness in him. Perhaps from being raised in the sky. How could he ever be bound to the earth after knowing such freedom?"

"He could always refuse to be Chief," said Nathi.

"He could," agreed Chane. "Though that's never been done."

"Would it be an insult to our past?" asked Nathi.

"The past should serve as a guide," said Chane. "Not a set of commandments that must be blindly followed." He gazed out the window again. "I've opened my mind to you, Nathi."

"Thank you, Chane," said Nathi. "But what do you want of me? Is Dakota forbidden to see Akili?"

"Of course not."

"Dakota would know these things," said Nathi. "I'm sure Akili does, too."

"Of course." Chane was silent for several moments. "Let the matter rest." He poured another glass of beer. "How is Fila?"

Nathi cocked his head. "As well as can be, I'd imagine. With our children losing interest in school, and no new books or supplies."

"She has spoken to me about that," said Chane. "Books and paper require money."

"Dakota has been selling our boots."

"I've noticed," said Chane. "The CD players and other toys. All of which use batteries, which seem more precious than gold. There have been several fights over batteries among the younger children... as if we didn't have enough trouble."

"You could forbid such things," said Nathi.

"One does not lead by suppression. A strong and good society does not fear new things or ideas." Chane glanced at the antique rifles, then at the lamp overhead. "We accepted the best of the British ideas and they have made our lives better. We have better lights, our roofs do not leak, and our food supply is sufficient. We have medicines to cure disease and knowledge to help the injured. Our children learn to read and thus enrich their lives." He smiled. "We have even improved our boots." Then he considered. "There are people who buy our boots?"

Nathi finished his food. "Dakota found a shop to sell them. So far he's bought only toys and beer, but we could buy books with the money."

"Or guns and bullets," said Chane. "We've never made more than we've needed, but I will consider the matter." He paused, looking thoughtful again. "Fila should marry, you know?"

Nathi smiled. "Abu seems to think so, too."

"Wise boy." Chane sipped more beer. "Fila is not a girl any longer..."

Nathi rasied an eyebrow. "Where are you leading, my Chief?"

"Don't you like her?"

For a moment Nathi was down at the pond beside an enormous boy. "Don't be an ass!"

Jumbe Chane laughed. "I suppose that was foolish of me."

Nathi shrugged. "I suppose you're thinking about the future."

Jumbe Chane turned to the moonlit window. "I have many things to think of these days that my father never prepared me for... such as losing a whole generation." His face grew troubled. "How long will the Americans support the General and keep our people at war with each other? Why do they help him, and what do they want?"

"I don't know," said Nathi. "But they have a saying: There's no such thing as a free lunch. And the General has been dining well."

Chane regarded the remains of the feast. "So has Rashawn. We've given him almost unlimited power as well as most of our men and boys. Assuming he can defeat the General, will he then become our President... for times have changed and it's clear that we need one. Or would he also become a General to force his will upon us? Today he asked for our older boys... a request I refused... but tomorrow he might simply take them. How could I prevent it? Order my children to fight his children?"

"We chose Rashawn," said Nathi. "By council of all village Chiefs. I suppose we must trust in our wisdom as well as the good in his heart."

"We chose him because of you," said Chane. "Because of the blood that beats in his heart."

Nathi frowned a little. "I had nothing to do with that decision."

"Not in words," said Chane. "But, we know what speaks louder than words."

"I..."

"Yes," said Chane. "'Only fly an airplane.' But, you went out in the world and saw what it has to offer. Yet, you came home to your people."

"So did Rashawn."