Source: Labor

The dock area is vast and lined with the appearance of vitality under a blazing sun and endlessly folding bright clouds. Enormous machines shift slowly on the shoreline. Lan feels a powerful joy as he watches the towers and cranes draw closer. The wind carries the smell of salt and the tang of industry. But as they come within a mile of the dock, it is clear that there are only a few ships in port, and that the towers of the city rising beyond are stained and ruined.

They slide slowly past larger ships idled at the docks, finally arriving at their destination. Lan tosses his line to the mooring hands on the concrete dock and watches as they thread the ropes through mechanical bollards and ease the ship the final distance to close the gap. Taskov steps to his side. "I'll be sorry to leave this," Lan tells him. For a moment, he thinks he is talking to Clu - then he remembers, and his heart slams once, hard.

"Not me. I've had more than enough death and fighting. Personally, I'm looking forward to the city. A quiet job. A chance to blend in."

Lan shrugs. "I don't know why it makes me feel that way. But it was like not running for a while. Like we were going somewhere."

Taskov nods, as if a personal conviction is reaffirmed. He turns his back to the city, and leans on the rail with his elbows, looking across the deck and out to sea. "Well, we won't have to run for a while, not with that beard you've been growing."

Lan chuckles ruefully, scratching at the half-inch blond hairs. "Clu never liked me growing it out. Said it made me prickly. She was right, I guess." His other hand tightens to white knuckles on the railing.

The deck manager joins them. "Well, sailor, I hear ye're land bound now, is that right?"

"For now," Lan replies. He looks over, as the deck manager holds out a hand. Resting in the sun-browned palm is a pair of small gold earrings. "What's that?"

"For the two of ye, from me and the captain. When a sailor first crosses the equator, he gets the privilege of wearing one of these. Go on, now, take one."

Tentatively, Lan picks one tiny hoop from the two. Taskov steps around and takes the other. Lan eyes it dubiously. "But how do we wear it?" he asks.

"Ah, that's the hard part. Time for a little piercing of the ear, laddie." The grin has a mock evil character

Lan's earlobe is aching as he walks slowly down the gangplank to the shore. The earring feels odd amidst the pain - he frowns a bit, thinking of it as something earned with pain, reminding him of its source.

But it makes him feel rakish. He represses an extravagant urge to swagger, and tries to pace himself to Taskov's longer stride. In moments they are mazed by tall alleys of blank-faced buildings.

"So, where now?" he asks.

"Seaman's Tavern, where we'll make contact for a place to stay, and a job."

The foundry is an enormous dirt-floored building in the middle of the industrial sector. Lan stares at the ranks of huge machines, and the furnace which stands against one wall, slowly rocking back and forth, with a vivid golden glow occasionally visible through a small port near the top. Pale sunlight slants obliquely through the dusty air from narrow oval windows lined across the upper edge of the room. Men, tall and muscular anywhere else, but small in their surroundings, streaked with dirt and sweat, work the machines, intent on their incomprehensible duties.

In a moment, a short balding man with an extravagant mustache and a husky frame just slightly run to fat appears from the office beside the entry door. "Pierre Lagrange," he snaps, by way of introduction. His eyes rove from head to foot and then back again. "You're Libran and Fautelier?" They nod. Lagrange emits a sound of long frustration. "The stuff they send me. Well, at least you look fairly healthy. I don't suppose you have any damn experience, now do you," he asks rhetorically. "No, I suppose not. Well, we'll start you in the grinding room. Any damn idiot can grind, so you ought to be able to get started there without blasting the quota to damn. Come on, let's get you a coverall and put you to work." Taskov and Lan exchange glances that would be smiles if they had dared.

Grinding was simple. But it was grueling both in the need for vigilance, the noise level, and the annoying metallic dust that permeated everything with its own smell. Lan plucks another piece from the plastic box and holds the flashing against the spinning wheel. The goggles blur his vision slightly, while the sparks smell of ozone and fire. By the end of the day, his back is sore, and his mind is numb.

The bus lurches to its stop at the base of his pyramidial apartment building. Like most of the buildings on the ourskirts of the city, its facade is scored and blackened by the scars of the revolution, and many of the levels of windows are blocked with sheet plastic and wood. But as Lan hikes slowly up the stairs to the third floor, he is grateful for the home it represents. He passes Taskov's place, and pushes open the door to his own.

He lowers himself into the waiting tub of faintly steaming water. He leans back, and his eyes tear briefly. Not long ago he would have said that he hated a bath and would only accept a shower. But in the places he kept finding himself, there never seemed to be a shower, only baths - and they were warm only when he was lucky... What had he come to? Arrested, escaped, having killed, possibly twice, running, hiding, lying about his name. It seemed as if had gone on forever, but it was also a life which he was beginning to doubt could last forever. While the longer it lasted, the more impossible it seemed to be complacent, the more he felt himself twitch every time someone spoke to him.

He slaps his hand on the edge of the tub, and wonders about Clu. How can he find out if she is alive? Then he shakes his head angrily. She must be alive. He'd know if she were gone. The emptiness would be larger. If only he had found some way not to offend the authorities... he would still be home, and there would be no worry. But it had seemed a lark; he would never be caught. And there had always been the potential for a back door... could she have taken that way? Was that why Phil had thought her dead? His hand splashes the water. If only it were so. If only there were a way to find out.

He forces himself out of the now only faintly warm water into the cold air. The towel is stiff and rough, and it offers no warmth, but he uses it anyway.

In the main room, the reddened sunlight is slanting through the partly blocked windows, slicing large rectangles of orange across the carpet and meager furniture, hiding the shabbiness. He dresses quickly, and looks with distaste at the metal dust coating the clothes he had worn today. Clearly he is going to need to use his clothing and washing allotments to their fullest.

He sits with his back to the sunlight and thinks of Clu.

At work the next day, he notices that Lagrange periodically enters the grinding room and picks a few of the employees to go with him. The grinding is already deleriously boring. He works at the table grinder, and begins to see patterns in the dark sift of filings that shivers on the metal around the motor and wheel.

When he leaves the shop, the rain is spotting the pavement. He rides home with Taskov, and later they stand in line together to combine their allotments for toilet paper and food.

Lan sets himself targets to keep his interest high. Grinding yet more precisely. Working faster through a box of parts. Near midday, he feels a tap on his shoulder. It is the foreman. "C'mon. I've got something for you to do." Lan shrugs and follows him out onto the floor. He is led past rectangular arrays of cubes of moistened dirt.

The furnace is tipping more slowly but more deeply. Lan can see the metal boiling orange deep within it. A huge ladle sits in front of it, as if waiting.

Lagrange leads him past the furnace to a corner of the shop. The largest, most muscular man Lan has ever seen is standing there, waiting, leaning on a metal pole that ends in a bucket. "This is Oloron," Lagrange says. "Here's Michel Libran, Oloron. Oloron will tell you what he needs."

"Hi," Lan offers. Oloron looks him over, and completes his scrutiny with a somewhat dissatisfied but speculative look. "Haven't worked much, have you?" he rumbles.

Lan shrugs. "I was at sea, before." Oloron eyes the earring. "Hmm," he replies. Then, rhetorically, "What'd you do, cook?" He laughs at his witticism. "All right, here's how it works. You see these molds. In a little while they'll pour the ladle, and then I'll get my first share. I'll come pour this first row, and as I pour each one, you need to follow along, and pull them back to make a space so I can walk down the next row. Pull too hard and you break the mold. Do that, and I won't make my quota. Pull too softly, and you'll be too slow, and I'll have to wait on you." His voice shows his displeasure at the thought. Then, perhaps noting Lan's somber expression, he relents, and grins. "Don't worry, I know this is your first pour, so I won't be too hard on you. Yet."

Oloron suddenly looks out onto the floor. "It's time. I'll be back. Be ready."

Lan eyes his boot toe ruefully as the bus lurches down the street. The material is charred slightly, and there is the beginning of a hole. The mark of his first day accident, which had cracked a mold, and left time for the molten iron to run out and set his boot on fire. He had thrown dirt on it and moved on - there was no time to wait - Oloron was a demon.

Oloron walked the line of molds with the grace of a dancer, tipping the ladle just enough to fill the mold through the slot in the top and then stepping to the next one with no motion to waste. The iron glowed and boiled in the ladle, and in a pool on the top of the mold. Lan was frightened by it, but he knew better than to give in. After all, he thought, it was probably safer than being shot at by pirates.

Then, three rows done, and Oloron returned to the main ladle for a refill, leaving a little time for Lan to catch up, and a little more time for him to watch the brilliant color and sparks of the ladle tipping to pour the molten metal for the waiting men.

Lan sighs and looks out the window of the bus at the bleak cityscape. It had been fascinating in its own way. But now another day was gone. Another day during which he had done nothing to help Clu.

Lan manages to spare some of his allotment for a beer from a fellow on the lower floor who ferments his own in casks that lend a yeasty odor to his quarters.

He sits hunched over the windowsill, staring at the streets below.

There is a knock at the door, and he nearly leaps. He stands, and slowly approaches the door as an animal would a suspected trap. "Yeah?" he asks, tone cautious.

"It's me," comes Taskov's voice.

Lan opens the door slowly, admitting the older man. Taskov's face is downcast, and he clutches a fistful of papers. "What's the matter?" Lan asks.

Taskov thrusts the papers toward him. "It's a... newspaper of sorts. From sources which are usually good. I think you should read this."

Lan shrugs and takes the papers. He walks back to the center of the room, then looks around. "Hey, have a beer." He gestures at the tiny cooler beside the window. Then he starts to read. Taskov fishes a bottle from the icy water. Lan throws the papers down on the narrow couch. "So?" he asks. "So it says she died in a space battle. We knew that's what they were saying."

Taskov turns toward him. He throws back a drink. "Yes, but this information is better. You see how it says she went to Rendor? She must have been told you were there."

"Look, I don't need to go over this with you. I do it enough by myself. There's no wreckage recaptured, except for the patrol ships damaged in the battle. I knew that. It still doesn't mean she's dead, and damned if I know why you keep trying to convince me she is." He walks impatiently to the window and stares out. The breeze from the opened panel beside it ruffles his hair. Taskov's glasses are opaqued with the reflection, and Lan wonders how he dares wear them, except that he knows Taskov doesn't dare try to get a new prescription, even assuming he could afford it - and that he can barely see without it. Taskov sets the bottle on the sill.

"I don't want it to be true, kid. It just is. There's nowhere she could have gone. They blew her out of space, and you need to move on."

Lan sips his beer, and his lips curl with the acid, unfinished flavor. "Move on to what..." he muses in a slow voice. "Maybe you think its time to tell me some of the things I haven't needed to know?" he asks bitterly.

Taskov sighs. "There's nothing to tell you right now," he replies. "Because for the moment, we are persona non-grata. At least until the government gives up looking for us. So far, that hasn't happened. So except for stuff like that little piece of samizdat I'll shred later, kid, there is nothing I'm getting that you aren't."

The two stand silently in the warm breeze, looking out over the city.

Lan sits in the break room, idly staring across the hall, as he does every day. Then he sees Legrange framed in the doorway. "Hey, Libran," he snaps. Lan blinks to awareness. "Yeah. Yeah, uh, sorry. What's up?"

"Come in to my office."

Lan pushes to his feet, suddenly terrified. Could they have found him out? But he controls his emotions and diverts them from his face with a mask.

Legrange's office is a small glass walled room that looks over the floor. The panes are slightly filmed, and the desk is old. A flat panel display sits idle nearly submerged in a pile of papers. Clearly it no longer functions. Legrange drops into his chair and pulls up against the desk. He looks up at Lan with an odd expression.

"Libran, I've been hearing things about you." His hands twitch, but Lan says nothing. Then Legrange continues. "Good things." Lan feels the tension drain from his arms. He smiles, wanly.

"Well, fleer, kid, don't stand there lookin' like you're about to be run over." Legrange leans back in his chair and swivels back and forth. He pauses and points a finger at Lan. "Oloron says you're doing a good job. The last time he did anything but complain about his puller, I was a young guy with a lot more hair than I've got now. Grinding foreman says you're helping him make quota. That's good too." He leans forward confidentially. "I'm not supposed to do anything about that, you know. Officially. The regs say, treat everyone the same, pay them the same, promote them based on seniority. I can't promote you. But you'll find a little extra in your envelope, outside the allotment, OK? But I expect you to keep this quiet. It gets around, you're out. Got it?"

Lan nods. "Yes, sir." He breathes a relief.

"Listen, I gotta tell you - I need guys like you who can pull their weight. The crap they send me, I'd swear they thought I was a prison. So, I don't want you thinking you can hold this over me, but if there's something I can do once in a while, you let me know, OK?"

"Yes, sir." Lan hesitates, his eyes roving the bookshelves. "There's just one thing."

Lagrange's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Oh?"

"I wonder... would you mind if I borrowed a book from here, once in a while, when I'm on break?"

Legrange falls back in his chair in mock surprise - or perhaps it is genuine shock. "You want to borrow a book?"

"That's right. There's chemistry, and some stuff about metals. I don't know much about that, but I can only sit there and read the newspaper for so long. Sir." He flushes.

Legrange shakes his head slowly, in disbelief. "Never had a guy who wanted to read." He looks up. "Ok, Libran, you can borrow a book once in a while. They stay in the factory, you read 'em on break, and you keep 'em clean, right?"

Lan nods. "Yes, sir." He tries not to smile.

The days are longer and the weather is warm. Too warm for the bus. Lan and Taskov walk slowly through the industrial district on their way home. Large clouds shift shadow across the buildings and narrow alleys. Transports rumble down the roadways past them and in the distance. For a moment or two, they think the sound they hear is merely a continuation of that. Then they see what is happening down the street ahead.

A building tilts slowly and begins to shatter. Windows spin and fly outward from the walls as they twist. Steel adds its groan to the grinding of stone and the scream of smashing glass. A horrible sound of people crying echoes down the road. A transport is caught in the flow of debris and is smashed up against the front of the building across the street. Volatiles bloom with flames, and a burst of fire surges up from the vehicle. Gas mains to the collapsing building break and blow dust into the air; there is a sudden thump and a sheet of quickly exhausted flame. Then with a quiet sigh and rumble, the event is over.

As one, Lan and Taskov are running toward the building remains. Closer, they can hear screaming and weak moans of shock. For a moment, they stop, staring aghast, unsure of where to start. Then Lan spots a bleeding arm thrust from the cascade of bricks and concrete. He stumbles toward it and begins to pull at the debris. Until the sight of a head smashed nearly flat stops him in shock. He stumbles backward, crouched, and then makes himself stand.

"Over here," Taskov cries. "This one's alive!"

The sun is low and paints the facades an icy red as they step silently from the street into the open entryway of their building. Lan stops and leans back against the dirty glass. He rubs his face and then stares out over the road. Taskov touches his arm. "Come on, kid. Bath'll make us both feel better."

But Lan cannot bring himself to bathe. The sight of his flesh would just bring back thoughts of how vulnerable he is to the sort of death he saw again and again today. He stands by the side of the tub, immobile, and finally turns to the washbasin, to flush the stink of blood and dust from his hands.

As he throws the cold water over his face, he hears a knock at the door. For a moment he stares at his face in the cracked mirror. It looks thinner and older, somehow. But his eyes are reddened.

He answers the door.

"Hey, Lan," his downstairs neighbor, Denis, the brewmeister, grins. "There's a dark party tonight, how about getting out with me and Liese?"

He takes the bus to work early. The sun is just rising beyond the buildings. He doesn't dare walk. His eyes are sandy with the effects of last night's beer, and his mind keeps swerving from the memory of the loud music and colored lights to the horrible sight of a building tearing itself to pieces. His stomach heaves briefly - but whether it is the methane smell of the bus, the effects of the drink, or the memory, he cannot tell.

The musty corridor from the entrance of the plant is darker than usual. As he passes Legrange's office, he suddenly realizes that it isn't empty - Legrange is early today, also, standing at the window that looks out onto the floor. Lan raises a hand in greeting, but Legrange merely stares. Lan slumps at a table in the break room, resting his head on his fist. Suddenly Legrange is standing uncertainly in the doorway as Lan looks up.

"Heard you and Fautelier helped with the building crash yesterday."

Lan nods.

"Thanks," Legrange continues.

Lan forces a self-deprecating smile.

Legrange gestures. "I used to work for them. Five years."

"Oh."

Legrange leans back against the doorframe, looking down the hallway. "Herau was making a go of it, staying ahead of his quota, making a little on the side, but look what happened to him. Piece of shit building."

Lan lays his hands flat on the table and stares at their backs. "Yeah." He pauses. "Your friend OK?"

"Dead." Legrange replies in the same flat voice.

"I'm sorry."

Legrange shrugs. "Yeah." He turns and walks out onto the floor.

"A building fell in the industrial district the other day. It wasn't knocked down - it just fell. It wasn't old - it had been built eight years ago. It didn't fall because the government didn't inspect it enough. It fell because when it was built, it was built by someone who cared for nothing but the government order to produce a certain number of buildings in a certain period of time, whether they were wanted or not. It was built by someone who had forgotten, or had found obliterated the concept of connection to those who would use one's work. It was built by someone who received the same allotment regardless of whether the building was a good one or a poor one. So he built a poor one.

"Inside that building were men and women who died or were injured. They trusted in others who they thought were trustworthy. They were wrong."

Taskov looks up from the paper and his eyes are sharp. "Nice job, Lan."

"Just see if Samizdat will publish it. Then we'll see."

"I think you have a real talent for this."

"It's not a talent I want to exercise."

Taskov smiles thinly. "I know. Still, its good. No direct attacks on the Leadership Council, but... the implications are there. Too bad it's anonymous."

"Don't make it anonymous, then. Make up a name."

Days later, he takes an absurd pleasure in seeing his words in print. On the roof, he reads the entire Samizdat, looking out over the city, wondering if anyone understands anything from it. He sets the paper afire and pushes it into the metal can. He wonders, as he watches it burn to ash, whether Clu would be proud of him, or whether she would be worried that he was risking too much for too little. Probably both.

The sunset throws giant shadows across the street like a hand. He can hear the sad call of the sea insects as he stands frantically pulling at the blocks of concrete and the yellow piles of bricks. He seizes a rebar and pries at a heavy piece. It falls away with a grotesque clanking, and below it, in a pocket, is yet another crushed body. He can feel the tears streaming down his face, blurring his sight. Something desperate makes him continue to dig past the body on the surface. There is another cavity below. Inside it, he can see a face, eyes closed, as if it were sleeping. And he realizes that he recognizes it - his hands are shaking as his mind races after what seems to be the answer to an impossible desire. It is Clu. He pulls back, afraid to lift the stones - afraid that if he does so, he'll cause the rest of the cavity to collapse. But he has to do something...

So he awakens, thrashing under the thin sheets, the cooler night breeze icy on his sweating face. Instantly the memory of the dream evaporates, even as he struggles to hold it. Nothing is left but the image of Clu, sleeping entombed, then nothing but her face alone. He sits suddenly, bolt upright, ready to run, ready to do - but with nothing at hand.

The sheets on his bed remind him of the sheets laid over the bodies that had lined the street by the time night had come. He shivers and throws them off. He walks to the window and stares out over the darkened city. Even the streets are unlit, as the Power Conservancy requires. The stars are bright, and Lan recognizes a constellation. It is the place in the sky where once, long ago, he had told Clu that one might find Prometheus. Now, he wonders if it were true. He had never asked Rennart to tell him the truth. Perhaps he preferred his own myth.

He notices an edge of color at the horizon. Day is coming. Another day at his job. A job that seems to be getting him not at all closer to his desire.

At lunch he pores over the advanced metallurgy text. He carefully spoons his soup as far away from the book as possible.

There are things in this book that are familiar. Lan knows convection and heat transfer like few others. But his knowledge is the knowledge of abstract fractal matrices describing idealized spaces hundreds and thousands of miles across consisting of either rarefied or degenerate materials. But now he senses the complexity of what can happen in an area the size of a cup, a basket, or a small room with materials at close to normal density - and in his present situation, this is as close to fascinating as it gets.

A chair across from him scrapes back, and a large white paper bag crunches onto the table. He pulls the book back protectively, and looks up - to see Oloron settling down for lunch. "Hi," he says.

Oloron is rummaging in his bag. He looks up and smiles. "Hey, Michel. What're you reading?"

"About metals," he replies.

"I figured you had some on deck. Looking at Legrange's job?"

Lan laughs nervously, closing the book and setting it to one side. "No, just tired of the same old newspapers with the same old good news. Thought it would be interesting."

"Don't know why you'd want it anyway. Not like the allotment's any bigger, whether you grind, pour, or run the whole thing."

"I think that's just a myth. I don't expect Legrange lives in a tiny place like mine. I bet you don't."

Oloron leans back and munches a breadmeat roll. "Well, of course not. But I have a wife, and a child on the way. They wouldn't let me live in a place that'd fit a single guy."

"I suppose they don't care you're about the only reason they make quota every week."

"Only 'cause I've a good puller. You're making me speed up, I think, staying close behind me as you are."

Lan likes the thought of respect from Oloron.

So he shakes his head and replies, "Why do you think I'm reading this stuff? You're wearing me out. I figure maybe I can get off the floor before you work me to death."

Oloron puts his elbows on the table and looks straight at Lan. "I've been meaning to ask you. My wife and I would like to have you for dinner. What do you say?"

Lan shrugs. "Sure. When?"

"How about the day after tomorrow?"

Though he isn't sure what to expect, or what might be appropriate, he waits in line for a hour to use some of his allotment on a gift for Oloron's family.

As always, the shelves are sparsely stocked and dimly lit. He wanders toward the back, vaguely recalling some toys. He finds stacks of cloth diapers, some feeding bottles, and, on the lowest shelf, dusty dolls and blocks. He squats and his eyes travel across all of them, unsatisfied. Finally he roots at the back of the shelf and produces a small stuffed animal.

The dusk is starting to settle as he walks the street, following Oloron's hand drawn map. Surprisingly, they live within a mile of his home, and, since the air is warm and the trees are in full bearing over the streets, he walks, enjoying the sounds of the various creatures that live in the trees, and the more pervasive sounds of the inhabitants going about their business.

Finally he stops outside their apartment building, a narrow structure of patterned concrete block, stained by the weather, with the newer multi-paned windows that are available through Board of Architecture allotments to replace broken large pane windows. Most of the windows are apparently intact, at least on the second floor. The former storefronts of the bottom floor are boarded up and silent.

Up the stairs, which are remarkably clean, to the second floor. The door to the apartment is unusual - a laminated plank of some complex wood, patterned with knots and a distinctive grain. He taps gently on the surface and the door opens on a pretty, though clearly pregnant woman, dressed modestly in a patterned dress of a lightweight fabric. "You must be Michel," she says smiling. "Welcome. I'm Lyra." Her hair is a pale brown, long to the shoulders, as Clu had liked it; her face is simple, with long lines and barred eyebrows. Fortunately, her eyes are blue, so there is nothing there to remind him of Clu.

"Hi. Thanks." He is suddenly uncomfortable. He has had no real social life for a long time. He had been with Clu, and that had been enough for both of them, especially with every free moment used to produce Stellar Interiors. Now he realizes that this occasion is actually intimidating.

But she has stepped aside and he follows her in.

The furniture is simple, inexpensive, and shows signs of wear. But it is well arranged and covered with throws that display bright patterns and shapes. The walls, however, are the greatest interest. They are hung with large canvases and those canvases are crisp views of the cityscape as it might once have been - in the daylight sun and glowing with lights against the sunset and the evening. One corner of the open floor is filled with painting materials and an easel, on which a canvas in progress is standing. At another corner, it is clear that the wall has been removed to reveal the kitchen. Oloron stands at the gas stove, and gives a wave. "Hi, Michel. I'm just getting dinner started. Then we can sit and share some grey market refreshment." A brightly patterned shirt rides his hard square physique and seems to make it festive.

Lan smiles and turns to Lyra. "Are these paintings yours?"

She blushes. "I suppose I have an active fantasy life."

"They're beautiful. Oloron is fortunate. I suppose you've used your talents on this place as well, am I right."

"Thanks."

Oloron arrives, a cold drink in each hand. Lan takes his gratefully and sips it, then looks up in astonishment."Cola!"

Oloron nods. "I know someone who knows someone."

"Phew," Lan exclaims. "I'd hate to have to turn you in. I haven't had this since I was a kid."

"Oloron tells me you read a lot at work." Lyra says.

"Hmmm? Oh, I got the plant manager to lend me books on metals and metallurgy. It's tough to get books." He wishes that he could talk to her about Stellar Interiors, show her that he was not just a laborer.

"Would you like the tour?" Oloron asks.

"Sure."

"Well, you've seen the living room and the kitchen and the studio. That's most of it." He walks with Lan to a door beside the kitchen. Beyond it is a smaller room that is obviously the bedroom, but in the far corner is a small table with some brightly colored tubes, and tools. "That's our room."

"What's the stuff?" Lan asks.

"Oh, that? That's my hobby. Rockets."

"You make rockets?" That had to be illegal.

"Just little ones. Toys. I make my own fuel from some of the coke and sulfur at the foundry and a few other things. Go out to the seashore once a month to launch a few. Usually don't get them back."

Lan shakes his head in mock disbelief. "Sir, you are full of surprises."

Oloron chuckles. "Come on, let's go have a seat in the living room. We'll have dinner in just a while."

"... but all around us, the people of Cocteau retain their complexity and their ability to do just about anything they set their mind to doing. The only problem lies in the baroque post-Revolutionary government that regulates everything from a single central web, forces everything into its molds of quotas, and somehow makes scarcity a virtue. Of course, what else could it be, but a virtue? They pay everyone the same, except for those with the political pull to command the rest of us to work as what is in everything but name only, slavery. They choose our jobs, our careers, our advancement, pretending that they are doing it for us, even as they do it to us."

Taskov wags his head in admiration, the light glinting from his lenses. "That's some polemic there, kid. As a teacher I could pick some problems with your grammar, but it's still good. I think they'll like it, Monseuir Messenger."

Lan sighs and leans further back into the old smelly chair. "Well, it's something I can do instead of just sitting here. I don't know about this Messenger thing, though."

"It's the words that make the name, not the name the words. And from what I hear, your second piece got some good reaction from the readers."

"Hey, you suppose I'll get a book contract?" Lan grunts bitterly.

Taskov shrugs and takes a pull from the beer. "From what you've told me, I'd think you'd had enough of publishers."

"What I've had enough of is grinding and piecework to meet quota. Hiding my mathematics so I won't give anything away. Other people - like Oloron - can have their 'eccentricities', but not me. And I can't even find out if my wife is alive or dead."

"Don't start that again."

"What else am I supposed to be thinking about? I can't just cut her out of my life, pretend she never existed."

Taskov frowns and leans forward to rest his forearms on his thighs and wrap his hands together. "You know, the problem with self-pity is its ignorance. Maybe you ought to remember - you could be in a labor camp instead of free; you could be dead, not alone. And you know, I left a life, too. I was a teacher. OK, I was a bad one - or certainly not the kind of teacher I should have wanted to be. I'll never have a chance to change that. There were people who I cared about, and if I'm lucky, they think I'm dead. And I'm doing the same thing you are, except I spend more time in the grinding room than you do." He pushes himself to stand.

"Wait!" Lan asks. "I'm sorry. You're right, of course."

Taskov breathes a long, frustrated sigh and looks down. "And so are you, my friend. I don't blame you for feeling how you do. But right now, we're doing all we can. We're staying alive. That has to be enough. For now."

Lan nods and sips at his beer. He looks out the window as the door closes behind Taskov.

The sea insects drift on the air currents above the bay, their wings and legs rubbing the familiar song of the sea. Lan watches them as he walks the cobblestones of the aged streets that lead to the docks.

He is there on a mission, one which he suspects Taskov would not approve.

No citizen of Cocteau, other than the patrol, is allowed to be armed. But Lan remembers the frightening night on the sea where he finally defended himself. The strength it gave him. And he is worried about the complacency which has overtaken him. He is enjoying life as if he were safe - as if his false identity were absorbing him. As if he would never be found. And he wonders if he will slip so far into it as to become Michel Libran. Powerless. Hidden.

But that is not possible. Someday, someone will recognize him. Or his papers will fail inspection. Or he will have to provide bioscan information to some authority capable of penetrating the false validations.

Then, if ever, he will need to be prepared.

But, he reasons, if one crew had access to weapons, others might.

The ring is secure in his ear, glinting as it swings in the sun. His body has been hardened and roughened by his work in the foundry. And his face is thinner and lined in a way that he hopes will convince anyone who he might approach that he is a man to be reckoned with.

Of course, he is not sure of that himself, and he is even less sure how he intends to make his approach. He wishes Taskov could be here to offer advice.

He starts in a wharf tavern. Such establishments are illegal, but tolerated. They float beside the dock, sequestered in a barge here and there, relying on reputation rather than advertisement. Lan, however, relies on sharp vision and reasoning, which leads him to the barge Illustrious Ancestor. Before he boards, he takes the time to walk a half mile down the dock to spy out the most disreputable ship he can find, and learn its name and schedule.

Under the bow of the Illustrious Ancestor, after a few drinks paid for by bartering some iron chunks salvaged from work, he beckons the bartender. "Maybe you can help me, here," he asks. "I'm shipping out soon on the Wood Screw, but, I'll tell ye, we're docking in Myrmicon, and I hear that's a tough port."

"True enough."

Lan lays a brass timepiece obtained through and earlier intricate barter on the counter. "Maybe there's a place where a man looking for protection could lay hands on a firearm for the right price."

The bartender wipes the counter slowly, and then finally pushes the watch over the edge into his palm. "I suppose its possible that the right amount could find such a thing. Maybe a twenty caliber? But the barter, I imagine, would have to be substantial."

Lan had thought carefully on this point.

"I've a pair of steel-toed work boots with sea cleats sitting here in my sack. I imagine that might cover it."

The bartender's dark face seems to light up with his broad smile. "Let's have a look."

Lan swings the sack up over the edge of the bar. The bartender reaches in and takes out both boots. He turns on a brighter light on a gooseneck and scrutinizes them under it. Then he reaches under the bar and rummages around until he produces a small four shot revolver and lays in in front of Lan. Lan tries to put on his most skeptical face, even as he feels a surge of excitement at his success. "So how do I know this'll even shoot?"

The bartender snorts. "Come on, sailor, ye think I run a shooting range at the stern?"

Lan snaps out the cylinder - empty - snaps it back in, cocks the hammer and pulls the trigger. The hammer snaps down. "I suppose you don't expect I can use this when I've not a single bullet for it."

The bartender puts on an expression of mock tolerance. He disappears behind the bar and resurfaces with a stained box of ammunition. "OK? I mean, how much do ye want for a pair of boots. They've even got a hole in the toe."

Lan eyes the ammunition in the box. He pulls one out and pushes it into the cylinder. The bartender looks alarmed, but Lan drops the bullet back out and slaps the cylinder home. He drops the weapon into one pocket and the ammunition into the other. "Done," he concludes. The boots are swept off the counter into the hidden stock behind. Lan finishes his beer and nods to the bartender, now at the other end of the bar. Outside, in an alley, he pauses and slides four rounds into the cylinder. He closes it with a snap, and drops the pistol into his pocket.

Legrange sighs, looking at anything but Lan. "I was worried we'd end up with something like this when I lent you those books. I can't have you doing 'experiments'. That sort of thing is for the Council research labs, not a little foundry like this."

"But sir, if my idea lets you thin the melt, and still get the same hardness, or maybe even better, you'll have less waste and you'll make quota even if the supply drops. I'll use scrap and racks until I can prove it, and I don't need the main furnace, just a little help to set up a small air pump and oven section so I can make a small pot or two for testing. I'll work in off hours - morning or night, and keep out of your way."

Legrange stares at him for a while, and Lan manages to resist a restless movement. Finally, "All right, Michel. We'll give it a try. But I want you to explain the whole thing to me, and I'll be keeping an eye on it. This is just between us, you understand?"

Lan grins. "You bet."

At the end of a day off, they step into the darkness from the bus - Oloron, Lyra, and, last, Lan. Oloron has a pack slung over his shoulder which, unknown to the driver, had carried a set of rockets and engines. Lan had been startled and delighted by the spectacle of the tiny missiles hurtling into the sky, and then returning to earth or sea under a brightly colored parachute. They had snacked on fried mollusks.

Suddenly, stepping under the dim streetlight ahead, Lyra gasps and doubles over. "Oh, my," she cries. Oloron whirls, face wild with concern. "Lyra, what is it?"

"My water broke," she gasps. "It's time."

"Oh, no," Oloron stands shocked, pack at his feet.

Lan is at his side. "Quick, go up and call the Ambulance Ministry. I'll stay with her here."

Oloron nods sharply and races for the door.

Lan stands with Lyra, whose expression slowly returns toward normal. "I'm OK," she assures him.

Suddenly she doubles over again. She emits a tiny cry. "Oh, that hurts," she hisses. "It's OK," Lan tries to console her. She shakes her head. "I think something's wrong," she chokes.

"No, no, Oloron will be back in a minute, and the ambulance will be here right after. Don't worry."

Oloron dashes out of the entrance and over to them. "Michel, what shall we do? The ambulance can't be here for over two hours. That's what they think. What if they're wrong?"

Lan looks around. The bus is still parked behind them, perhaps waiting on schedule, perhaps the driver is on break. "The bus," he says. "Come on." He leads the way.

Behind him, he hears Lyra shriek briefly. He turns in the doorway to the bus. They are coming, but slowly. He looks at the driver who sits slumped in his seat, smoking a cigarette. "Listen, we need your help. My friend's wife is having her baby and the ambulance won't be here for hours. We have to get to the hospital."

The driver eyes him with studied indifference. "Sorry, pal, but I'm on my break. Can't go off the route, anyway. Besides, it'll be hours before she'll have the baby. I know, I've had one. You can wait for the ambulance."

Lan is stunned, and backs slowly down toward the road. He bumps into Oloron, who whispers, "Michel, we've got to go. She's bleeding. Something's wrong, I just know it."

"He won't drive."

Oloron leans past him to shout at the driver. "Damn you lazy bastard, my wife's bleeding, we've got to get her to the hospital."

The driver hardly stirs. "I'm on my break. Now either get off my bus, or..."

But Lan has had a look at Lyra's pale and faint face. He pushes up to the driver, who pulls back toward the window. "I don't care about your break. Drive this damn bus now, or I will!"

The driver is shaking and has dropped his cigarette. He turns toward the wheel. "You'll be in big trouble. I'm not taking the blame for this."

"Come on, Oloron, Lyra."

Oloron helps Lyra up the narrow stairway. Lan is shocked to see the trickle of blood down her leg. Her face is barely controlled, but it is suspended between agony and sleep in a way that terrifies him. "Thank you, Michel," she mutters as Oloron helps her past him. "It hurts so much..."

"Drive, damn it," Lan yells at the driver.

"Where do you want me to go?" the driver asks.

"The hospital, moron! Drive!"

The bus lurches into gear, unbalancing Oloron as he helps Lyra onto the long bench at the back. Lan leans over the driver's shoulder. "I'll be back. You had better not slow down or go the wrong way, hear me?"

His body feels cold from the inside as he stands over her and beside where Oloron sits on the edge of the bench. Her face is pale. "Help me," she says, so quietly, and so desperately. Lan strips off his light jacket and lays it across her chest. He can see the blood starting to pool on the seat between her legs, shivering as the bus rocks across the uneven pavement. He turns toward the front of the bus. "How far?" he calls.

"It's ten minutes across town, for crying out loud. I'm going as fast as the speed limit."

"Go faster!" Oloron bellows. Lan walks unsteadily to the front. He leans again over the bus driver. "You heard him. She's bleeding, damn it. Get us there, I don't care how."

Oloron is now sitting even closer to her, clasping her hand tightly, eyes fixed on her flutting eye lids. She groans, and a contraction can be seen across her belly through the dress.

"Maybe the baby's coming," Lan tells him. "Have you checked?"

"What do I know about having a baby, man?"

"You're her husband. You've got to check."

Oloron shakes his head, but he stands, and shifts past Lan, who takes his place holding Lyra's hand. The hand is cold, and Lan can smell the scent of her hair mixed with the sour smell of blood. He nearly gags at the contradictory sensations, but tries to smile as he sees her eyes roll toward him, even as the night feeling crawls up his shoulders. "Don't worry, Lyra, we're almost there. Oloron's just going to check on the baby." Suddenly her lovely face contorts with agony, and her whole body twitches as she screams and yet her hand does not clench harder. Oloron stares at Lan across her body. His hands reappear, red with blood. "I don't see anything," he says hoarsely. "I don't know what to do."

Lan digs into his pocket, but can find nothing. Finally, he tears off his shirt and hands it to Oloron. "Your hands," he says. Oloron stares down at them. He scrubs ineffectually. The bus slows. "All right," the driver calls. "We're there."

Lan stands. "I'll get someone. Wait here." He stumbles toward the front. "You wait till I get back with someone," he menaces. He runs into the night.

But by the time a nurse can be pried from her work to return with him, it is too late. As they push the gurney through the emergency room doors, Lyra has died, and with her, the baby.

Together, they ride another bus back to Oloron's. They both stare ahead, and both their faces are streaked with tears they never felt arrive. Lan looks over at his friend. "You should stay with me, tonight," he says. Oloron shakes his head, mute. "Then I'll stay with you. You shouldn't be alone, right now." Oloron shrugs and stares out the window and the slowly passing lights.

At the door to the apartment, Lan is frightened by the paleness of Oloron's face. In the light of the lamp above, that face has a dangerously cruel look, but the hands move normally to unlock the door.

Oloron walks directly across the room to his bedroom through the dimness. Street lighting lays a swath across the ceiling. Lan can barely see the paintings on the walls. Then the bedroom lights flare and Oloron emerges with a bundle of blankets and sheets which he tosses on the couch. "Sorry, that's the best I have." He stands behind the couch, eyes wider than usual. "Something to drink?"

Lan shrugs. "Sure."

Oloron roots around in the coldbox for a while, finally pouring into two glasses from a bulging glass bottle. Lan wonders if this is a good idea. But he notices that Oloron hasn't turned on the living room lights. He takes a seat in a chair across from the couch, instinctively withdrawing slightly from a situation he isn't sure he understands. Oloron hands him a glass, and lowers himself onto the couch. Lan sips the drink and nearly chokes on the heat of the distilled spirits. Oloron drinks deeply and the breath hisses from his throat.

"You don't have to stay, Michel. Really, there's no problem. I can handle it."

"I don't mind," Lan replies.

Oloron stands and throws back the last of his drink. "I'm going to bed."

Lan nods in reply.

Then it is dark, except for the light from the window and the slot under Oloron's bedroom door.

For a while, Lan is shivering as stress unwinds under the silent warmth of the distillation. His eyes feel sandy, and he rubs at them, but the sensation becomes worse. He tries not to remember what had happened, he tries to forget meeting Lyra, her pretty face, her hair like Clu's, her agonized face, the blood, and not being there as she slipped away. He wishes he had gone home. He hasn't been able to do anything for Oloron. He is angry at himself, at Lyra, at the bus driver, at Clu for deserting him. He crosses to the couch and throws himself down, pulling the blanket around his shoulders and slumping down across the cushions. He can smell a faint perfume and a stronger scent of oil paints. The perfume reminds him of Clu, and suddenly tears are running down his face, as if Lyra's death is Clu's as well, and the occurrence of one made him present at the other. He is swallowed by sleep with the blanket pushed up under his chin, his mind held forcefully on his mathematics.

He sleeps badly. In his dream, Clu is giving birth, something he had never imagined, and which terrifies him as it occurs. Her face is in a dim agony that somehow seems impossible for her. But the doctors take her behind the doors and the doors slam shut before he can pass through. He beats at them in an utter silence and finally slumps at their base in tears. Then the doctor is standing above him. "She's dead, Mir Masson," he advises, eyes hidden behind mirror finished glasses. Lan is enraged - he leaps to his feet and strikes the doctor across the side of the head.

And startles awake in a dimly lit room with the first light tinging the midnight blue beyond the glass. He is facing the paintings, and for a moment, it is as if he is still dreaming and sees the city that should exist.

But it was the soft closing of the outer door that had awakened him. He hesitates, and then slides off the couch and steps quickly to the bedroom door. It is ajar, and he pushes slightly. The bed is still neatly made, as if it had never been slept in; the rocket table has been cleared. Lan stares in astonishment at the rocket models cast carelessly into the wastebin. But then he thinks of rage, and he runs to the front door - afraid.

Down on the street the cold of morning hits hard on his sleep-warmed face. He pushes a hand through his thatch of hair, untidy and moist from a restless night, and now fingers of cold follow his hand. Back and forth he looks, and he finally spots a figure walking slowly in the distance, just as the faint dawn light reaches the threshold for the pylon floods at each corner - the figure nearly disappears again in the distance as the lights switch off.

Lan runs after him. He pulls up behind Oloron. It is him - a pack over his shoulders.

"Hey!"

Oloron turns. Lan feels the odd shock of being seen, but not noticed. It is as if Oloron looks at him out of duty rather than interest. Finally, Oloron nods. "Hi, Michel. I didn't want to wake you." He seems slightly annoyed.

"Everything OK?" Lan asks.

Oloron looks at him, something stirring behind the glossy surface of his eyes. "Fine," he replies. "I just have some errands."

Lan looks incredulous. "At dawn? On a free day? What's working?"

Oloron frowns. "I don't have time, right now. Why don't you go back to the apartment and let me take care of things?"

Lan finds himself getting a little annoyed himself. "Like what?" he asks again. "Where are you going, and why won't you tell me about it?"

Oloron scowls. "Fine, come with me if that's what you want. I'm going to the Ambulance Ministry to complain, for what damn good it will do."

Lan sets his pace to Oloron's. The distance is long, and Lan wonders what good he is doing, when Oloron won't even look at him. The sun slips over the buildings and casts shadows ahead of them. Buses begin to rumble past sleepily, mostly empty.

Up the long granite stair, past the shiny statues of the Transport Guild Board of Directors. At the door, Oloron peers through the glass. He shrugs. "Nobody here, I guess."

Lan shakes his head and starts back down the stairs. Oloron joins him. "Stupid trip," Oloron states.

Lan nods. He wonders if it had been simple restlessness and grief. "You should listen to me now. Come to my place. Stay for a while."

"Maybe."

They cross the street - just as there is a loud clap behind them. Lan turns swiftly and sees a billow of smoke and hears the sound of glass fragments shattering. From the doorway comes a sound of screaming. Lan realizes in a moment what is going on, and he grabs Oloron by the arm. "You come with me," he grates, tugging Oloron toward the side street. Finally, reluctantly, Oloron seems to yield.

At a side alley, Lan pushes Oloron back into the shadows. "Damn you," he cries, "what have you done?"

But Oloron is still large and muscular, and he just laughs. "I punched back, for once." His smile is bitter.

"That was stupid! What were you thinking?"

Oloron leans forward, threatening. "I was thinking that they should be dead, instead of Lyra. They decided they wanted to kill off the ambulances. They hired that damn bus driver. They killed my wife. You can't understand what that feels like. I know they did it. I don't know which one, I'll never find out, but every one of them had something to do with it."

Lan doesn't retreat. His voice is as hard as his features are immobile. "Yeah, maybe I don't know anything about it. What I do know is that blowing up a building, killing random people, that's not revenge." He snarls with disgust. "Let's get as far away from here as we can."

As they climb the stairs to his apartment, Lan's legs suddenly feel heavy, and it seems that there is a pervasive smell of a bitter burning. But he knows it is the stench of the bomb lingering on Oloron's clothing, drifting down toward him. "Keep going," he hisses.

In the hallway, Oloron bulks indecisively; Lan pushes past him "Stick with me." He pushes the door open and beckons Oloron through, looking back and forth, seeing no one, then he pulls the door behind, sealing them inside.

He looks around again, but there is nothing, only the muted roar of the buses and trucks in the street below. "Get in the bathroom," he orders. "I want you to shave off that mustache and sideburns. Anyone could recognize you with that. Then we're going to get rid of those clothes." He sighs, exasperated. "And take a bath. Don't put those clothes back on, you smell like... well, never mind. I'll be back."

He closes the door carefully and steps to Taskov's. He slaps the door a couple of times. A muffled acknowledgement, then Taskov is looking at him, bare eyes narrow. "What is it, kid?"

"I need a favor. Can I come in?"

Taskov shrugs. "Sure." He is holding a bound book, which he sets aside on the dining table near the door. "What do you need?"

"I need some clothes. Just a simple shirt and pants. It's for Oloron."

"Oh?" Taskov picks up his glasses from the table and puts them on, looking carefully through them at Lan.

"Yes, well... there was... an incident... this morning. I think this will help."

"I think you're being more than normally opaque, kid. Exactly what sort of incident are we talking about?"

Lan takes a deep breath. "A bombing. At the Transportation Board."

Taskov looks like a man who had been struck from a most astonishing quarter. His eyes do not widen, his mouth quirks wildly and then freezes, and his hands twitch. Then he turns slightly away, and removes his glasses, as if he cannot be sure they are passing the correct images.

"I see," he replies softly. His eyes return to Lan, suddenly aggressive. "And you want, for some reason, to be involved in this?"

Lan frowns. "I wasn't offered a choice. He left his place this morning. I followed him, made him let me walk with him. He said he was going to complain. He left a backpack on the steps when no one would let him in. We were halfway across the square when it happened. It's not his fault. He's been driven mad by grief."

"It's always someone's fault. In this case its his, yours, and you're about to make it mine. Do I have to remind you about our position here? Things which wouldn't matter as much to others can be the end for us. Who knows what sort of coverage they have on that area. Who knows who saw whom doing what? It's like thrusting a stick into a warhive."

"Fine, don't help me. Never mind. But you know, he's wrong, but he's right, too. We can't keep sitting here. We can't keep hiding in the shadows, lurking and running from them until we're as cowardly as they need us to be. I can't do much, but I can take one more step. I can help my friend like you helped me, even if, for now, it's just helping him to hide. After that - I have more thinking to do. If it means the end for us, then so be it. I can't change you, and I'm tired of changing me." He turns and stalks out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him, a sound he instantly regrets. But it doesn't stop him from returning to his room.

Taskov stands, semi-crouched, as if he has been punched and is only beginning to recover. All of the plans. All of the time and effort. Is this the end?