Heroic Measures (continued)

It took some time, but their mutual hilarity passed. Walter was relieved to see that Abigail seemed to have forgiven him for his tardiness, along with whatever transgressions he had apparently been guilty of.

Abigail took a deep breath and her smile faded. Walter's heart beat hard in his chest as she took his hands once more. She met his eyes, but he saw no anger there, only concern and what might have been disappointment.

"Walter," she said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Walter wanted to look away, but was afraid that it might send the wrong message.

Well, he thought, there's this whole thing about secret identities. . .

"I . . . couldn't," he told her. He hoped that she interpreted the awkward hesitation in his voice as symptom of his embarrassment. "I didn't want you to know."

Abigail frowned. "Why not?"

Walter shrugged and finally looked away. He felt Abigail's hands tighten on his.

"Walter, I don't care whether you're a garbage collector or a research assistant, " she said. Her voice was soft and comforting. "I'd prefer research assistant," she smiled playfully, "but I understand."

Walter studied her dark emerald-green eyes for a moment.

Would you, I wonder? If you knew that truth?

Someday, he knew, he would have to tell her.

But not tonight. Not yet.

Abigail rose and gathered her plate. She smiled at him, looking every bit as much she usually did: cheerful and lovely. When she approached his chair to take up his dishes, Walter caught the scent of her perfume. It was light, subtle . . . and terribly effective. As she brushed past him to gather his plate and silverware, she gave him a soft smile. Walter suspected he read far more into it than was probably there—he did not care.

"I made something special for dessert," she told him as she turned away.

You, I hope.

Walter watched her retreating back as she headed back to the kitchen, aware that he was becoming aroused by the thoughts that now floated through his mind. He considered that he should banish them as being ungentlemanly, but then allowed them to linger.

It's not as though she can read them.

He suspected that she would not have been at all surprised by them if she could.

Abigail appeared a few moments later carrying a fresh set of plates. She placed one before Walter and then another before her place at the table. She granted Walter a soft, coy smile before returning once more to the kitchen.

She returned almost immediately bearing a short platter and a small container. She placed both on the table in front of Walter.

It was his one of his favorites: fresh peach pie and what looked to be homemade whipped cream. He knew that she preferred a small scoop of vanilla ice cream on hers, but he had never taken to that particular combination of textures and temperatures.

Abigail's mouth formed a pleased smile at Walter's grin. Walter stared up at her, more in love with her than ever.

Wow, he considered wryly. Maybe the way to a man's heart really is through his stomach.

He watched as Abigail expertly sliced the first piece out for him. Her perfume wafted in among the aroma of the still-warm pie. It was a delightful combination. She smiled at him again as she placed the slice on his plate. Walter desperately wanted to reach up and kiss her.

Abigail served herself next and then sat back down across from Walter again. She studied him for a moment and then smiled with amusement satisfaction.

"I believe you."

Walter blinked.

"About the job," she explained, laughing softly. "And there not being someone else." Her eyes turned down toward his plate. "You'd rather look at me than at your food."

Walter felt himself flush. It was true, and there seemed no point in offering even a mock rebuttal. Instead, he looked away and slowly began eating the dessert.

The dessert was every bit as good as he remembered it being in the past. It was, he decided, perhaps even better now that the tension had passed between Abigail and himself. He still felt a tickle of guilt a keeping his hero activities from her, but it detracted from his enjoyment of the meal—and Abigail's company—by only the smallest amount.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Better yet, he was fairly certain that he even knew the right ones.

Walter extended his arms across the table and reached for Abigail's hands. She watched his hands, but did not move. It was as if had become detached from her body and she no longer possessed the volition to move them. Walter gripped them lightly in his and stared deep into her bright emerald eyes.

"Abby," he said. Sincerity and honesty wrapped every word that followed. "You are the most beautiful girl I know," he told her. "And I love you very, very much."

It took a moment, but Abigail's features flowed into a smile. Tears still threatened to spill from her eyes, but Walter was sure that they were due to a much different reason than before. Her fingers tightened around his hands and she pressed them lightly against her lips. Abigail's eyes closed and she breathed a deep sigh.

Walter's mind buzzed and his body tingled. It felt a lot like when he built up a charge, but different—different in a much, much better way.

Abigail's eyes opened. She lowered Walter's hands, but did not release them.

"I don't understand," she offered softly. "You keep being late . . . or away."

Walter looked down toward the table, trying to think of an explanation.

I can't tell her . . . not yet.

"I . . ." he began, and then paused to gather his thoughts again. "I have another job."

"Oh," Abigail said quietly. Curiosity replaced the concern in her eyes. "Where? Doing what?"

"I, um," Walter said, trying hard to choose his words carefully, "help clean up stuff . . . around the city."

"Oh," Abigail repeated softly. Sensing his embarrassment in confessing this to her, she gave him a small, comforting smile. "I understand."

She released her hold on his hands, but let them continue to rest in hers. Her eyes remaining on Walter's, her expression was unreadable as she said, "You did wash them before dinner?"

Walter stared across the table at her for a long moment before Abigail's question sank in. He broke into deep laughter. Abigail joined him a moment later.

They both laughed until tears threatened to spill from the corner of Walter's eyes. It was probably quite as funny as all that, but it was exactly what he needed after the tension of the day and the past hour. Abigail grinned at him from across the table, clearly pleased with the impact her little joke had had.

I really need to marry this girl someday, Walter told himself.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter frowned. He knew he had been late, had not called, so this was his fault. The problem was: he did not know how to fix it. He had not even thought to bring flowers. Well, in truth, he had. The idea crossed his mind very briefly before being dismissed, as he figured that doing so would make him even later. In retrospect, though, adding those few extra minutes would probably have greatly diminished the impact of his tardiness.

He put his fork down and tried to find Abigail's eyes. They eluded him, but he spoke anyway.

"Look, Abby," he said with sincere contriteness. "I'm sorry I was late. Really sorry."

Now she met his eyes with a fixed gaze. Walter could see the pent-up anger within them. He swallowed hard, trying not to let it show.

"I . . ." He trailed off, not at all sure what he wanted to tell her.

Abigail placed her own utensils down on the edge of her plate and faced him. Her hands were folded together in front of her on the tabletop.

Walter swallowed again, hoping his voice would sound more confident than he felt.

"I, um," he started again. "There was something I needed to do."

Abigail stared back at him. Her mouth moved ever so slightly; her eyes narrowed.

Walter stopped. He did not know what else to say without revealing everything. The silence between them grew until Abigail straightened in her chair. Her eyes brightened—whether with tears or anger, Walter could not tell.

"Walter," she said. Her voice carried a thin edge. "Is there someone else?"

Walter found himself struck speechless. Of all the questions she might have asked him, that one had never occurred to him.

"Umm," he stammered, trying to find his voice once again.

He felt himself begin to perspire, convinced that she was interpreting his hesitation as a clumsy admission of guilt.

"No!" he managed to blurt out.

There must have been something in either his expression or posture that convinced Abigail of sincerity. Her features relaxed from their tight anger, shifting now into a gentle sadness.

"What is it then?" she asked him quietly.

Her eyes were bright and Walter could tell that she was on the verge of crying. They spoke to him the questions that she could not say aloud.

Am I not interesting enough any more? Not pretty enough?

Heroic Measures (continued)

She eyed him curiously for a moment before sitting down. It took Walter a second, but then he realized guiltily that he should have remained standing and held out her chair for her.

Bad form, Walter. Really bad form.

Walter was certain that his discourteous oversight did nothing to ease Abigail's already irritated mood. He gave her a vague, apologetic smile which, as he expected, was ignored. Without a word or another look at him, Abigail began eating her meal. Walter watched her silently for a moment and then started working on her own.

The delicious aromas wafting up from his plate made Walter realize just how hungry he was. He remembered breakfast (a bowl of oatmeal with peanut butter toast), but could not recall whether he had eaten lunch. As he fast-forwarded through the events of his day, he could find no gaps when he might have stopped to eat. His stomach gurgled its opinion and Walter snuck a quick look at Abigail, hoping that she had not noticed.

The meat was some kind of pork, he guessed. It was lightly marinated and spiced with ingredients that he could not identify. It did not really matter: it was good. The vegetables were a mixture of spinach and something else green that he did not recognize. These were lightly buttered and sprinkled with some kind of seasoned salt. The mashed potatoes were perfect and coated with melted butter. Walter would have wondered what wonderful surprises awaited for him for dessert, but he was too busy enjoying the meal in front of him.

Quiet filled the room as they ate. There were no sounds but the soft clatter of their silverware against their plates and the heavy sighing of the air conditioning. Finally, Walter could take it no longer. He felt the need to say something . . . anything.

"This is really good."

He was surprised at the lack of conviction that came across in his tone. His uneasiness over Abigail's silence had tempered it, but he truly had been sincere in his praise for her cooking.

Abigail paused in her eating, looked up from her plate, but did not meet his eyes.

"Thanks." Her voice was flat.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter knew that he was late. It was less than half an hour past the time he promised to be there, but he was still late. Unlike most women, Abigail tended to be punctual. If she said that she would be ready by eight-thirty, she would be—possibly even a few minutes earlier. For once, Walter envied the other men who complained that their wives and girlfriends always took much longer than they said they would.

He slowed his pace as he approached the house. When he reached the front door, he paused. He took a moment to calm his breathing.

It'll be all right. It'll be all right.

This brief litany for control also served to ease his anxiety . . . somewhat. Not for the first time, he was grateful to Sen for politely, but firmly, insisting that he participate in his training sessions with the other heroes.

Walter rapped on the door. He did so firmly, fearing that doing it tentatively might both rekindle and betray his apprehension.

There was a kaleidoscope of pastel colors beyond the paned and patterned glass of the front door. Walter heard the sounds of the locks being turned and then the door opened.

Abigail stood there. Her eyes met Walter's and he could tell instantly that she was not happy. Nonetheless, she offered him a polite smile and motioned for him to enter. Walter swallowed hard and moved through the doorway. Abigail closed the door behind him and then strode back toward the kitchen. Walter followed, taking her silence as a very bad sign.

From the doorless entry that led from the kitchen, Walter watched as Abigail filled two plates from several pots and pans. He was relieved to see that steam still rose from most of the dishes. Apparently his tardiness had not entirely ruined the meal. She placed each of them on the table, which Walter noted was set with good dishes and candles.

"Sit down," Abigail told Walter. "It'll get cold."

Walter obeyed, looking at Abigail, but deliberately avoided meeting her eyes. He seated himself and waited politely until Abigail came back to the table.

Heroic Measures (continued)

"We'd better call it in," Torino said. His voice still trembled slightly.

"It already was," Walter reminded him. "You heard it on the radio."

Torino gave Walter a blank look and then flushed slightly. "Yeah," he said softly. "Right."

He looked in the direction of the shredded corpse.

"We'd better get out of then," Torino added. "They might think we did it."

Walter stared at Torino and tried hard not to laugh. He was successful—barely.

Still, Walter realized, the young hero might have a point. While it was most unlikely that the police would suspect either of them of committing this heinous act, they would probably keep them there for questioning. While neither of them knew anything about the brutal murder, the interrogation, however friendly, might detain them here for hours. Too much of a delay would be difficult to explain to Abigail.

"You're right," Walter agreed. "There's nothing we can do for him."

Torino cast a glance in the direction of the body without looking directly at it.

"Let's go," Walter said, rising to his knees and handing Torino back the flashlight.

Torino studied the flashlight suspiciously, as if it had become contaminated merely by being pointed at the corpse, before finally accepting it.

Walter stood for several moments, looking at the dark shape that had once, only a short time earlier, been a living human being. He knew it was an image that he would not soon forget.

"Let's go," he whispered.

He turned and headed out of the alleyway, back toward the street. Torino was a pace ahead. Neither of them said a word.

Heroic Measures (continued)

In the fields near his parents' house, he had often seen small—and sometimes not so small—wildlife shredded by predators. Mostly it had been field rodents caught by one of the variety of birds of prey that inhabited the region. The discoveries had always made him queasy, but he had learned to expect to stumble on them occasionally.

Although somewhat larger in scale, this did not appear to be exactly like that. He had seen creatures ripped apart. This looked similar, but also different. It took him a moment to figure out exactly how.

"I don't think so," he said, swallowing down a new lump of nausea. It burned the back of his throat, but he forced himself to ignore it.

Walter played the flashlight's beam along the length of the torn body.

"It looks like it's been slashed."

"Like with a sword?"

Torino's voice wavered slightly. Walter could understand that. As if finding a sliced body was not enough, it meant that a blade-wielding maniac might be on the loose. Whoever it was might still be nearby, as the body still seemed to be moist.

Walter looked down the alleyway and then turned his head to check the entrance behind them. He saw nothing but darkness. He guessed—hoped?—that whoever had committed this deed had long since fled. If they were still hiding within the shadows of the alley, they had managed to remain quiet enough to escape detection.

Although Walter was certain that he and Torino were alone in the alley, except for the presence of the shredded corpse at their feet, he played the flashlight down the length of the alley. The yellow-white beam revealed only brick and masonry along the walls, and the occasional bit of scattered debris along the gravel-strewn ground. No mysterious shadows danced suddenly away. Not even a startled rat made an appearance in the miniature spotlight.

Walter relaxed slightly. He heard the stiffness of Torino's posture ease as well. As he remained kneeling before the ravaged body, he tried to think of who or what might have done this. He could not recall hearing any reports of similar attacks, but then he was not informed of every situation that the city's heroes encountered. While this might seem exceptional to him, and therefore worthy of mention, it might be all in a day's work for a more seasoned hero and receive no more notice an official report filed somewhere.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Torino's head moved slowly, as if it had suddenly become a tremendous weight. His eyes searched the darkness before they finally settled on Walter's. Walter had seen the look before; he had probably carried himself more than once during his early days as a hero. Although it was almost impossible to tell in the dark, Walter was certain that the young man's complexion was only slightly less pale than the beam that issued from the flashlight.

He fixed his gaze on Torino's own, silently offering reassurance.

"I'll go," he told Torino softly. "You stay right here."

Torino stared back at him. His eyes blinked slowly, almost mechanically.

Walter fought back a sigh and began to rise.

"No."

Torino's voice was a hoarse whisper.

Walter paused and turned back toward Torino. The young man was rising to his feet, although none too steadily.

"I'm with you."

Torino swayed for a moment and then recovered some of his earlier confidence. He bent down and scooped up the flashlight, checked it, and then pointed it down the alleyway. Walter noted that he did not aim it directly at what they had found. With Torino at his back, Walter moved back toward their gruesome discovery.

Walter held his breath as they approached it, taking small sips of air through his nostrils. Now that he knew what it was, he was even less inclined to want to breathe its aroma.

"Dogs?" Torino whispered.

Walter grimaced and stared at the shape on the ground, parts of which still glistened in the reflected light.

"Maybe," Walter murmured, probably not loud enough to be heard. "Give me the light," he told Torino, gesturing toward the flashlight.

Torino surrendered it without even the slightest protest. His eyes turned away as Walter shone its beam on the dark mass.

Walter swallowed hard, tempted to turn away himself. Instead, he played the light over the length of the shape, studying the damage that had been done to it.

It had been a man. Although, there was nothing that Walter could immediately see that told him that it had once been male, he could not bring himself to believe that a woman would have come to such a vicious end. Giving credence to Torino's guess, it did look like something—or a pack of somethings—had torn the poor man apart.

Heroic Measures (continued)

It took his mind a moment to process the image. At first, it insisted on maintaining the fiction he had been carrying in his thoughts. In the end, though, reality won out and Walter saw what was really there.

What he had thought had been shiny plastic was not. It was blood, still wet and fresh. And other things.

He turned away abruptly, barely managing to quell the instinctive urge to vomit.

That explains the smell . . . he realized with a sick detachment.

He tried to force the image from his mind. It helped somewhat, but he knew he would have to look back again. From somewhere behind him, he heard Torino gagging. The beam from the flashlight danced crazily as Torino struggled for control. The sight made Walter dizzy, which helped matters not at all. Walter closed his eyes and forced the sound from his mind.

Walter swallowed hard. He coaxed himself to take slow and deep breaths as Sen had taught him. Using the same technique, he somehow managed to ignore the odors that filled his nostrils with each breath.

It took a while, although Walter was not certain exactly how long, before he felt as if he had regained enough control to deal with the sight before him.

Some role model you are . . . he scolded himself.

He turned his head to find Torino, half-expecting to find that the young man had fled.

The young hero was still there. He had retreated several paces back. He knelt hunched over with both arms wrapped around his belly. His head was bent down, his chin pressed into his chest. The flashlight lay on the ground before him, its beam shining at an angle to the wall to his right. Walter could understand. It was solely by some unknown strength of will that prevented him from being in the same condition.

He moved toward Torino, silently glad to put some distance between himself and the gruesome sight behind him. Kneeling before Torino, Walter put a gentle hand on the young man's shoulder. His eyes searched Torino's, waiting for the young man to lift his head.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Taking a deep breath to recover his composure—and convince his heart to stop racing—he stared into the darkness, but could see nothing.

"There," Torino said, coming up behind him and pointing.

Walter looked again. It all appeared to be a thick blanket of darkness to him. He took a small step forward, seeing if that would help.

It did not, at first. Then he managed to make out what he thought was a dark, irregular shape on the ground near the right-hand wall. It seemed to have soft edges. He relaxed, convinced that it was probably piles of rubbish abandoned in the alley.

"Come on," he told Torino, motioning him deeper into the alleyway.

Torino looked less than reassured, but followed Walter a very close distance. Walter continued into the alley, less cautious now, but moving slowly because he could not see what might be underneath his boots. He kept his eyes fixed on the irregular shape, for it was the only object he could make out in the darkness of the alleyway.

When they were within a few yards of it, he slowed to a halt. Torino bumped into him, nearly knocking him forward. Walter turned to face Torino, deeply annoyed, but held back on actually swearing at him when he realized that there no way that the young man could have known that he was about to stop.

"What is it?"

Torino's whisper betrayed his nervousness.

In answer, Walter shook his head once and stared hard at the dark shape. Sections of it seemed to glisten in the dim reflected light from the streets at either end. The reflections were dark, making him think that he had been right before: garbage bags left behind by some scavenger.

He took another step. His eyes remained fixed on the dark mass. He took a tentative sniff. It did not smell like garbage. Rather, he decided, it smelled something like garbage, but not like the dumpsters and canisters that they usually encountered. Still, it was vaguely unpleasant and . . . yet familiar in some way that he could not immediately identify.

Walter moved in a bit closer. He heard Torino doing something behind him and then a muted click. A chill shot through Walter and then a searing white light blossomed in front of him. He was blinded for a moment and turned away, staring at Torino.

The young hero wore an embarrassed smile. He waved the flashlight slightly, grimacing with sincere chagrin.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot I had it."

Walter's eyes narrowed, but he bit off his remark. He turned back toward the shape on the ground . . . and immediately wished that he had not.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He found that he had to jog hard to keep up with Torino as they two ran through the streets.

I can't be getting that old, Walter wondered as he picked up his pace once again as the gap between he and Torino lengthened once more.

He's toying with me. Yeah. That's it.

Even with that unsubstantiated reassurance, he was grateful when they reached the corner where the alley was located.

Torino paused before the alleyway entrance. Walter tried not to pant. He felt as though his eyes bulged from the effort of not gasping. Giving Walter only a momentary glance, Torino peered into the alley.

"I don't see anything," he whispered loudly. He took a very small, cautious step forward. "Wait," he amended. "I do see something." His head shook. "But I can't tell what it is."

Having managed to get his respiration nearly back to normal, aided by a few large gulps of air while Torino's back was turned, Walter moved closer to the alley's entrance.

He peered inside. It was heading toward dusk. Walter had difficulty making out anything within the shadows of the alleyway. He tried to listen for telltale sounds, but the ambient noise of the traffic and other city sounds made it difficult for him to even hear his own breathing.

Glancing over at Torino, Walter saw that the younger man continued to study the depths of the alley, but he made no efforts to move further inside it.

"Let's go," Walter told him, and took a careful step into the shadows.

Walter heard something crunch lightly under his boot. He tried not to think about it, telling himself that it was most likely a leaf and some other kind of debris. Taking another step forward, he fervently wished that his eyes would hurry up and adjust to the darkness.

The brick and masonry walls served to dull the sounds from the street. Walter believed that he might be able to detect the presence of someone—or some thing—within the confines of the alleyway, providing it made an effort to be heard.

"I think I see something," Torino whispered.

Walter tried not to jump. He had forgotten that the young hero was still behind him.

Heroic Measures (continued)

"I'll call it in," Torino said laughing.

The thief they had captured, after a fierce chase across the west side of town and three alleyways, glared at them. He struggled half-hearted against the bindings that held his arms and wrists in place. It was merely a symbolic gesture of defiance, Walter knew. Even if he somehow managed to work free of the restraints, (something Walter had not even seen Orlovsky been able to achieve), it was not likely that he would get very far before they simply captured him again. Torino would probably not exercise as much restraint during the pursuit this time.

Walter looked toward the alleyway. He saw the flickering of dark silhouettes as people walked past, all of them probably blissfully unaware of the minor drama that had just concluded.

"It's in," Torino announced. "They'll be here when they can. Some kind of demonstration near City Hall, or something."

Walter released a small sigh. He knew what the protests were about: it was an election year and at least one of the ultra-conservative candidates was once again demanding controls over the activities of the heroes. The crowds grew smaller each time, but it was, Walter felt, an unneeded distraction from the necessary work that he and the others did. He recognized the necessity for free speech—he just wished that it did not have to be so loud.

"Hey," Torino called out. "There's something new coming over the police band."

Walter walked to where Torino stood, playing with the dials on a portable police band radio. He heard mostly rough static, but the dispatcher's words occasionally broke through. Most of it, though, sounded like just so much acid rock to Walter—and about as appealing. He was about to shake his head in defeat when Torino spoke again.

"Alley near Fourth and Concord," he said. "Someone found a body, they think."

Walter looked toward the alleyway entrance. Fourth and Concord was only about two blocks south of where they were. He looked back at the sporadically wiggling thief.

"Leave him," Torino said impatiently. "The cop's already been called for him."

Walter continued to look at trussed-up figure. There really was not much more they could by hanging around here until the police decided to arrive, he decided. He nodded his agreement and he and Torino headed for the alley opening. Behind them, there was a long silence and then the thief started pleading to them not to leave him alone. His voice held a high-pitched, whining tone that did not particularly make Walter want to change his mind about leaving the man behind.

He'd be better off if he'd shut up, Walter considered silently. He'd definitely have a better chance of someone not finding him and beating him further if he stopped calling attention to himself.

Walter felt a small pang of guilt as he heard the thief's shouts behind him. It faded as he and Torino reached the street and Walter realized that he could not hear the man's cries any more. If he could not, it was unlikely that someone else would unless they were listening for it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He could sense Abigail studying him. He felt that he should look up at her. He did not dare, certain that his eyes would betray him and then she would know.

After a moment, Walter heard her leave and return to the kitchen. He let out a slow, quiet breath. Not for the first time, he envied his Catholic acquaintances. Like them, he could attend confession, seek forgiveness, and hopefully be purged of these inappropriate thoughts.

You're not in high school any more, Walter.

The silent scolding served only as a minor and momentary distraction. It was too easy to remember those days, especially when looking into those eyes. They had not yet witnessed many of things that he had seen.

Maybe that's all it is . . . I just want to protect her.

The rationalization helped only a little. He found it curious, though, that thoughts of her, although they stirred strong feelings within him, did not bring arousal.

What did that mean? he wondered.

It was a new sensation for him to harbor those types of feelings for someone without some deeper urge. Yet, he realized, it was not the same kind of emotions he felt for close family members.

Abigail placed a hand gently on his shoulder. She said nothing for a long moment and then pulled a chair closer and sat down. Taking his hands in her, she stared into his eyes.

They bore a grave concern and Walter felt guilty for putting her through this.

“Walter,” she said softly, squeezing his hands ever so gently. “I know it wasn’t easy for you, but I have to ask.”

Walter met her eyes. He shook his head slightly to indicate his lack of understanding.

“Our children,” she whispered. “What about our children?”

Walter frowned and then glanced at the door where Jeremy slept.

“Jerry should be fine,” he said. “I don’t Dr. Raynes would have let us go if he thought we might still be dangerous.”

Abigail nodded and gave Walter a small smile.

“That’s not what I meant, my sweet love.”

Walter stared at her, still not grasping what she meant. He watched her swallow and then her lips moved, but it was a moment before she spoke.

“The next ones,” she said. “Will they be okay? Or will they be . . . different?”

Realization blossomed in Walter’s mind. He felt some relief that he knew the answer.

“Dr. Raynes doesn’t think so.”

Abigail visibly relaxed.

“But he doesn’t know for sure?”

“There’s no way to know for sure without testing.”

Abigail gave him a quizzical look. Walter found himself annoyed. He had been through enough today without getting drawn into a technical discussion about radiation-induced birth defects.

“You know,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of his groin. “Testing.”

Abigail’s eyes followed the motion of his hand. Her eyes widened and she lifted a hand to cover her mouth. She did not look shocked. Instead, her eyes grew bright.

Walter stared at her, feeling his cheek begin to burn. An instant later, he began to giggle.

A surprisingly unladylike noise issued from behind Abigail’s hand. It fell away and Walter could see her grin, and then she succumbed to outright laughter.

Walter joined her.

It was light-hearted at first, embarrassed amusement at his own awkwardness. Within moments, it grew into deep-rooted belly laugh that brought them both to tears. It was exactly the catharsis that they both needed after the toll the day had taken on them both.

Walter hugged Abigail closed, gasping against the remnants of his laughter to find breath. Abigail pressed close against him. Her chest convulsively pleasantly against him as she also fought to regain control. He stroked her hair, taking in the familiar scent of her. He placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head and then turned her face to his.

He stared into her eyes and saw no one else. Her eyes burned with life and humor and he kissed her.

It was not a long kiss, but it reminded Walter of every reason that he loved Abigail. She looked up at him and smiled. Walter would see the happiness in her eyes. He bent to kiss her again.

When they parted, but just barely, he whispered to her, "Maybe we should test it out now."

Abigail's eyes widened, her expression masked by a playful coyness.

"Walter," she laughed. "The dishes . . ."

"Can wait."

Abigail just smiled, keeping her eyes on Walter's. He smiled in return and lead her firmly away from the kitchen.

Sometime later, Walter rested drowsily. Abigail was snuggled against him, one arm draped across his chest. She breathed softly, sleeping lightly.

Walter smiled and closed his eyes. The only face he saw was hers. There might come a time when that might not be so, but for tonight he was content.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter realized that he was toying at his meal with his fork. He looked down and saw that he had only taken a few bites. As with most of Abigail's cooking, it had been fabulous. It had cooled now and had become a bit less appetizing. Walter also realized that Abigail was speaking to him.

"Walter?" Her voice held a high pitch of concern.

Walter placed his fork down on his plate and looked across at her. She wore a frown. Her forehead was creased with fine, delicate wrinkles.

"Walter?" she repeated. She raised her voice just slightly louder, hoping to penetrate whatever fugue he was in.

He forced a smile.

"I'm fine, Abby," he said. "Just tired. It was a rough day."

Abigail nodded slowly. Her features relaxed, but her eyes still studied his face.

Walter had told her about the bomb and the cleanup afterward—both to the surroundings and to the heroes involved in it. She had grimaced with sympathy throughout it all, even offering to start a warm shower for him. He had declined, quietly explaining in the gentlest way that he could find that it would be some time before he could face a shower again.

The truth was, his mind had been far from the thorough washing that he and his companions had received. Every time he allowed his thoughts to drift, they were filled with the image of Vivian's face and the memory of the sensation of her lips pressed against his. It was not that he found the thoughts arousing, necessarily, but he could not banish them. If he were with Vivian right now, he was certain that he . . .

Walter looked down at his plate again. He felt a wash of guilt at seeing that it was still mostly filled, but he could not find the drive to pick up his fork again.

"Do you want some coffee?" Abigail asked him gently.

Walter shook his head. What he really wanted was to go to sleep, but he feared that his dreams might be filled with Vivian as well—and his dreams might not regulate themselves to his will.

Heroic Measures (continued)

"You can't?" she said. "Or you won't?" She paused and considered him for a moment. "Do you want to?"

The tingling in his cheeks was replaced by a warm burning sensation. He was certain that it showed.

"Vivian . . ."

Vivian stared up at him. Walter found that he could not look away. Her eyes held his. He found himself frozen as she lifted her face to him and pressed her lips against his. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to pull away, but was terrified to move, afraid that she might misinterpret any movement on his part as interest.

The problem, he knew, was that was interested. Were it not for Abigail, he might have been more than a little tempted to see where this might lead, even with the difference in their ages.

Walter heard the outer door bang open. His paralysis became frozen panic. He did not want to caught like this—even if he knew that it was not his doing.

To his relief, Vivian moved away. She did so, though, in no particularly hurry. Her eyes never left his and Walter was convinced that they had betrayed him. He thought he spied a satisfied smile dance across her lips, but she turned away before he could be certain.

She moved toward the opposite door and was gone. Walter remained standing there, transfixed, staring at the door even after it closed.

"Walt?"

Grant's coarse voice penetrated his paralysis.

Walter turned to face Grant. It felt as though his flush had faded. He suspected, though, that he now looked as pale as a sheet.

"You okay, Walt?" Grant eyed him up and down. "I know the washdown can be kinda rough . . ."

Walter shook his head slowly, hoping to clear it. It felt heavy and coated with a heavy mist.

"I'm . . .," he replied. He managed to find his voice, although it came out at a higher pitch than he would have liked. "I'm fine."

Grant studied him for a moment and then shrugged. "Whatever you say."

Walter looked away. He stared down at his hands and was surprised to find that they were not shaking.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter did not recognize her at first. She was still the same size, so he did not really know why failed to identify her immediately. Her hair, cut in its usual short style, was still damp. It looked as though she had toweled it dry the best she could, but it had gone spiky rather than soft. Her face was completely clean, devoid of any makeup. It took Walter a moment to realize that was what had thrown him off more than anything.

She was dressed in lightweight tank top, barely more than a camisole. It did almost nothing to hide her figure, nor the fact that she wore no bra underneath it. Walter tried not to stare, but he knew instantly that she had seen him look.

Although he knew that she was less than ten years younger than he was, she looked much younger. She moved forward slowly, stopping when less than a few inches separated them. Her face turned up toward his.

Walter swallowed hard, finding a sudden lump in his throat. His skin along his face tingled. It was like that moment right before he discharged energy, but different. He became uncomfortably aware that he was dressed in little more than she was. It had not particularly bothered him a few moments before, chiefly because it had been out of necessity, but now . . .

"Walter . . ."

Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, but absolutely clear.

"Vivian."

His voice answered hers in a soft tone every bit as quiet.

Her face tilted upward and her eyes closed. Her intent was clear. Walter watched her, his lips moved. Whether they formed words or not, he did not know.

"Vivian," he repeated. His voice was barely more than a breath.

Her eyes remained closed, but a faint smile moved her lips. They parted slightly and Walter sighed.

"I can't."

The words caught against the lump in his throat, but he got them out.

Vivian's eyes opened and her head lowered. Still, she remained staring at him.

Walter saw no anger there. Nor, as he expected, did he find disappointment. Instead, he saw determination.

Emerald Flight: Wildest Dreams (continued)

Westin stared across the desk at Devereux.

"Are you sure about this, Christine?"

Devereux's eyes were on the tablet in Westin's hand.

No, she admitted silently to herself. I'm not sure. But it's the right thing to do.

When Devereux did not answer him immediately, Westin's eyes followed hers toward the tablet.

"I mean," he went on, "he's not even really an officer." Westin tapped his finger against the tablet's display surface. "And his civilian record . . ."

"He's one of the best qualified engineers I've ever seen," Devereux countered. She willed her tone to one of objective flatness. She did not want to sound pleading or, worse yet, that she had ulterior motives involving her selection of her Chief Engineer.

"Let's face it, Daniel," she offered, sounding a little more light-hearted now. "None of the Fleet engineers want to anything to do to this with this ship . . . except for those who want to take it apart."

Westin nodded grimly in agreement.

Fleet engineers were, Devereux knew, a proud and dedicated lot. Nearly all of them had been driven to serve in the Fleet solely through a desire to work with latest and greatest that space drive technology could offer. The number who would be willing to serve on a vessel with a drive that could barely meet current specs was small indeed. Devereux guessed that they could probably be counted on the fingers of one hand.

Even fewer than that, she decided. Considering that I haven't even seen that many qualified candidates.

"Do you think you'll have trouble getting it through?"

Westin seemed distracted, but then returned to the matter at hand. "No," he replied. "No, it shouldn't be a problem." He glanced at the tablet one more time and then placed it back on the desk in front of him. "I can authorize it. Since there's no real competition for the post, I suspect it will sail right through."

"Thank you, Daniel," Devereux smiled.

Westin looked skeptical. "I hope you still do after a month out of dock."

Devereux chuckled. "By that time, you'll be far out of range."

"Until your next shore leave," Westin deadpanned in response.

"You'll have plenty of warning." Devereux fought back a grin. "Seriously," she added, becoming more serious. "Thank you."

Westin only nodded. Any remark that he might have planned was interrupted by the intercom signal. His frown as he tapped the display told Devereux that her time was up. She rose and, with a quick salute, left the office.

As she stepped into the corridor, Devereux realized that she felt a strange sort of relief. She had been prepared to put up at least a token fight in order to get the officer that she wanted. That part had been easy. Any doubts she thought she should carry about her decision, she could not find. That made her feel even better about her choice.

Emerald Flight: Flotsam (continued)

She found the intercom switch and tapped it.

"Devereux to bridge. Report."

No even a background sigh of digital static answered her. She tried again.

"Devereux to Main Engineering."

Again, there was nothing.

She tried again using the connection on her tablet, but achieved no better results. Holding the tablet out for light, she headed for the hatch, realizing that she would most likely have to open it manually.

She had taken only a few steps before she stopped, feeling a warm flush fill her cheeks. While she was dressed in a suitable tunic, below she wore only her panties.

Probably not the best image for the Captain to project in a crisis situation.

Without too much fumbling around she managed to locate a pair of long workout pants. Not exactly regulation on-duty wear, she decided, but they at least sported the Fleet Academy logo.

Feeling a bit less conspicuously undressed now, she lifted the tablet again and headed for the hatchway. She checked its time display, frowned, and then checked that of the main clock in her cabin. There were synchronized.

Devereux's frown deepened. In her groggy state upon reawakening, she had misread the clock. It had not been only an hour since she had lost consciousness—it had been thirteen. That explained the cold, she realized. If there had been a ship-wide power outage, thirteen hours was plenty of time for the temperature to dip to chilling levels. The outer compartments, closest to the hull, had probably already dipped well below zero.

She dug into her closet and retrieved a hooded sweatshirt that matched the pants. That was merely coincidence, as warmth was her primary concern, not fashionable correctness. She shrugged into the sweatshirt, gritting her teeth against the pain in her right forearm as she slid it up and into the sleeve. Feeling warmer now, and mildly more protected, she worked the manual override lever for the hatch.

Devereux breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the sound of the locking mechanism disengage. She pulled the hatch aside and paused. There was no audible hiss of escaping atmosphere. The hull in this section of the ship did not appear to have been compromised. The air outside felt no colder than it had in her cabin.

Cautiously, Devereux moved out into the corridor.

Emerald Flight: Flotsam

- 1 -

Captain Christine Devereux awoke in darkness.

She was first aware that she was cold. That alone would not have alarmed her. Finding that she was lying on the deck raised her level of concern considerably. She turned her head, finding only a single faint source of light. It was her clock, illuminated by its own internal source of reserve power.

Devereux remembered returning to her quarters after her shift had ended. She tried to focus on the clock, but found the image blurry. Through sheer force of will, she managed to determine the time.

One hour. Whatever's happened, I've only been out for about an hour.

She tried to rise, but her arm refused to support her. At first, it tingled as though numbed from the pressure of her resting on it. Then the pain started, worse than the usual pins and needles from a reawakening limb. This felt like she imagined a metal stake and hot pokers might.

After several attempts, she pulled herself into a sitting position on the deck. She wondered whether she had any analgesics in the lavatory storage. Using a combination of her uninjured arm and leg muscles, she slid slowly across the deck, feeling out with her hand for something that might tell her where she was within the confines of her cabin.

That's assuming that's where I still am.

Her fingers encountered a metal post. It was surprisingly cold to the touch. Running her fingers up along it, she guessed that it was one of the two supports for her desk. When they reached the underside and then the edge, she was certain. Slowly and carefully, she rose, using the edge of the desk to pull herself upright.

Blindly, she groped along the desk's dark surface until she found one of the tablets she knew had to be there. It activated upon her touch, momentarily blinding her in the near-perfect darkness.

The tablet's glow cast an eerie illumination across the interior of her quarters. Strange washes of color danced along the bulkheads.

Nothing appeared to be damaged, nor did anything appear to be displaced. Whatever had happened to her did not seem to have affected the contents of her quarters.

At Death’s Door

- 1 -

I watched her die.

They brought her in, stripped naked, and chained with her arms raised toward the ceiling. Her legs remained free. She looked scared and embarrassed. Her eyes darted frantically around the room and at the two men and one woman who had escorted her inside the room.

Her lower lip trembled and I could tell that she wanted to cry. I'll give her credit for that. She must have been terrified, but bore it surprisingly well.

The slick-clad woman rolled the mounted box into position in front of the girl. Its blunt, innocuous-looking nozzle pointed at her torso. I swallowed against a tightening lump in my throat.

I stared through the transparent barrier that separated me from the girl. Her eyes found mine and she pleaded silently for me to help her. If I couldn't free her, then at make her to understand why this was being done to her.

I didn't look away, knowing that the truth would do little to comfort her.

In the small chamber from where I observed these proceedings, I was not bound. There was no need. Two guards, both as heavily armed as muscles held positions behind him at the door. With considerable effort, and even larger amounts of luck, I might be able to defeat one of them. Against two of them: I had no chance.

In the booth next to me, secure behind shatterproof glass, the old woman studied me. She said nothing. I don't think she planned to. This was intended to be a lesson to me—a punishment for my failure to tell them anything of significance.

The problem was: the young girl knew nothing. She had been nothing more than a passing dalliance on my way to my next destination. I had been careless, not noticing my shadows until much too late. Unfortunately, she was one who was going to pay the price for my lack of attention.

The old woman turned her head toward the chamber where the girl was being held. She gave a slight, silent nod to the woman. The woman's fingers moved at the controls of the machine.

I heard a faint hum, barely audible through the thick barrier. The young girl whimpered, trembling and fidgeting as if bothered by an immense itch. A moment later, the pitch of the sound changed. It was less audible, but yet more noticeable.

The young girl moaned. Her thigh and abdomen muscles tightened and flexed. At a gesture from the old woman, the woman adjusted the controls again.

The young girl screamed. Every visible muscle in her body contracted.

They held her like that for several long moments. Her head thrashed, causing the flow of her copper hair to dance like manic lightning about her head.

Her scream because a high-pitched howl. She threw her head backward, exposing the thick cord of her head. I kept my gaze fixed in her direction, but forced my awareness elsewhere. Her scream transformed into a thick gurgle before fading into silence.

I let my mind witness the scene in front of me once more.

Her head fell forward. I knew that she was dead and had not simply passed out from the pain. There is a definite difference between a body that become relaxed from unconsciousness and one slack with death. Most people tell the difference; I have seen it too many times not to know.

A thin drooling line of blood ran from the girl's mouth. This was followed a moment later by thick ghastly mucus of yellow, green, and brown.

I might have still saved her: if an emergency evacuation team was waiting right outside the body, if they could put her into stasis immediately, and if the best surgeons in the world were available and ready. If she survived, I doubt that she would thank me—not with the kind of life that she would have with most of her lower organs reduced to gelatin.

The old woman looked away. I think even she was disgusted by the sight. I couldn't be sure through the refracted light that separated us.

In the chamber in front of me, the two men released the chains that held the girl upright. They let her fall into a soft heap onto a tarp that had been placed beneath her. Both looked unnerved. I could see hesitancy in their movements. They were not at all pleased with their task. I would let them live. They were only following orders. I knew how that was.

The woman at the controls shut down the machine. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. They kept watching the motions of the dead girl's body. I was certain I saw satisfaction masked in her expression. Her I would kill—in as similarly suitable a manner as I could manage.

The two men finished covering the girl's body with the tarp. They dragged it from the chamber, showing a respectful amount of care. This reinforced my decision that they might not need to die when it came time for me to leave this place.

Unfortunately, it was not yet time to do so. I still had much to do.