I was handed a reviewer copy of this book, Evil Star by Alexander Horowitz; it is billed as the second book in The Gatekeepers series. The first, Raven’s Gate, escaped my notice despite being on the New York Times’ Best Seller list at some point. (That has more to do with my inattention to such lists than with any lack of merit in the book.) It is entirely accidental that I received this book. It was tossed in the bag with my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, because the bookstore was celebrating the release of the book and looking for things they had around that they could give away. The person who gave me this book had no idea that I was a reviewer (he did know I was an author, and had read my novel), and no expectation that I should review it. However, I read it, and since it was a pre-release “early reader edition” copy I thought I would write a review.

I am sorely tempted to call this series, “Harry Potter Meets Cthulu”. The connections seem to scream at me.

The hero of the series, Matthew Freeman who prefers to be called Matt, is in this book fourteen years old; that makes him a bit older than Harry was in his second book (he had just turned twelve). It is not clear to me, however, how old Matt was in the beginning of the first book. Like Harry, Matt is an orphan, although it seems his parents really did die in a car accident and not until he was eight. That tale is told, apparently, in the first book. Like Harry, Matt has powers he does not understand and cannot always control; he was aware of the car accident before it occurred, and he sometimes has similar premonitions here. He also sometimes causes telekinetic events, but through severe emotional upset, not intention. He is even described as thin with unkempt dark hair and blue eyes.

The similarities to Harry don’t end there, though. We are told that there are seven gates, and apparently each book revolves around the effort to keep the next one closed. first grade math says that means there will be seven books in this series, just as there were in the Potter books. Matt is the hero, the focus of the stories; his friends, young and old, help him, but in the critical moments he is the one on the line.

In fairness to Horowitz, at least some of these are the tropes of the genre: fantasy books for adolescents have adolescent heroes. Cry of the Icemark was similar in some ways. Matt does not have a group of adolescent friends; he has the friendship of a young adult reporter, and the support of a secret international organization, but he is completely estranged from his peers. No one is helping him learn to use his powers. He is not exactly unique; there is much in the book about “the five”, of which he is the first to be identified, and he dreams about the other four trying to reach him. Still, in this book one of the others does reach him, recognizing him from his own dreams. He, too, has powers he does not understand, but they are very different powers.

As to Cthulu, he is never mentioned; however, the series revolves around a set of gates through which the “Old Ones” threaten to return to bring darkness to the word, and this book focuses on an ancient newly discovered book which tells how to open one of those gates. A wealthy reclusive businessman is the evil monster attempting to get the book and open the gate.

I did not feel that Matt was as familiar a character as Harry. It was a weakness of the book that I had trouble identifying with its hero. Harry stayed with family members who did not like him, but Matt had an insane former foster mother trying to kill him. Harry was alone at school but for a couple of friends, but Matt was alone on the streets of the Peruvian slums with a boy with whom he shared no common language. Harry meets creatures of fantasy and learns to control his power through the mentoring of those more experienced than he, while Matt meets Incan survivors and struggles to work through his own use of his powers. Where Harry’s powers made us feel that he was special, Matt’s powers make us feel that he is different; we want to be like Harry, but not like Matt. Even the fact that Harry goes to school in what seems a very ordinary way (despite it being a school for wizards) gives us a point of contact; Matt is behind in his education, because his life is constantly interrupted and he has to move to another school. It just never felt like Matt was a sympathetic character.

On the other hand, the author takes us on quite an adventure. Matt is the reluctant hero here; he wants to be a normal boy, but he’s not normal, and fate will not leave him alone. In his new school he is the outcast, and the fact that he pulls the fire alarm before the explosion that would have killed almost everyone only makes him less accepted. The Nexus, the organization that is fighting this battle, wants and perhaps needs his help, but he is trying to avoid getting involved–and yet gets pulled half way around the world and into the midst of the trouble as events unfold. It is not always clear who are the villains and who the allies, and more than once he flees from those who would have helped him. Scores, maybe hundreds, of people are trying to help him, but at the critical moment he stands alone but for the other, younger, boy.

The book is laced with some wonderful images, many of them descriptions of Peru from its ancient wonders to its modern slums. If there is a fault here, it lies in the interlacing of fantasy elements–a hidden Incan city, secret passages in those preserved wonders known only to the surviving Incans–with the hard facts. Even I am not certain where the facts ended and the fantasies began at times. That is only a fault because of the wonderfully clear portrayals of the realities of Peru, the author’s skill at bringing us into that place, and because (being published by Scholastic) it is targeted at a teen or pre-teen audience who will benefit greatly from the look at that society, if they can sort out the reality from the rest.

The copy I have has a number of errors in it which caught my eye as an editor, which may also have caught the eye of Scholastic’s editors before the finished version went to press. Most of these are minor typos, a wrong but similar word here or there. The mistake which most bothered me involved a description of the actions of a minor character, a truck driver on his way to be beaten and robbed. Before the incident we are told that he is thinking about asking a certain waitress at a certain truck stop out on a date; after the incident we are told that his wife was contacted and gave them important information. I prefer to think that the author overlooked part of what he was doing, rather than that he perceives married truck drivers commonly asking women out on dates; I hope, at least, that this was a mistake, and that it was corrected before the final copy.

I am tempted to attempt to obtain a copy of the first book. After all, it is often the case that one book in a series is weaker than the others, and this might be the weaker book. It is not a bad idea for a series; the Lovecraftian horror concepts are present but not terrifyingly so (although I’m probably not the best judge of that–Lovecraft has never frightened me). There is madness, there is betrayal, there are evil people working toward evil ends. Matt does not always emerge victorious, does not always make the best decisions, and is not always eager to do what he must do. However, he proves the hero through his efforts, and moves an epic story forward a significant chapter. I wouldn’t expect this to be the stuff of a best seller, but then, such things are determined by factors other than how they appeal to fifty-something author-reviewers.

Just another day in this Hell on Earth.

I rode towards Junkyard, the fuel gauge skimming the bottom o’ E. No
sign of bandits, but if the monsters don’t getcha, the human ones do.
Before the war, you could get from Sacramento all the way to Ol’ Salt
Lake City - that’s Junkyard now for all o’ you who haven’t been paying
attention for the past thirteen years, in a couple o’ hours. Not
anymore. Go any faster than twenty and you’re askin’ to fall into a
pothole the size o’ Missouri.

Ridin’ along, mindin’ my business, when I saw the birds. Now, I know,
they’re just birds, but NOTHIN’S “just birds” in this world no more.
It’s a sign o’ trouble, those little black birds circlin’ around. Birds
don’t just circle for no reason. They only circle when there’s
somethin’ to circle around, usually a buncha people that got shot up.

This time, it was Doomsayers.

How come I can never just go from one place to another and have nothin’
go wrong on the trip? Is it too much to ask for a nice, leisurely trip,
when I don’t have to shoot nobody or worry ’bout how many people I have
to kill to get from one freakin’ city to another? ‘Cause the world’s
gone straight to hell, that’s why.

Could see the smoke risin’ up from the city not long after I first
noticed the birds. I pulled out my trusty binocs - the right lens is
broken, but the left one works fine. Maybe when I get to Junkyard I can
get someone to fix it - and chewed on a Jerky Treat while I looked the
place over.

Big skull, hangin’ over the town, looked like a nuke fer sure. Now,
there’s nothin’ I hate more than indescriminant nuking. I mean, it
totally destroys the scavengin’ possibilities, and we’ve gotta make do
with what we can find. So if there’s any Doomsayers out there readin’
this, relax that nukin’ finger and kill people like a civilized person.
I mean, we’ve gotta rebuild the world, right? And if ya keep blowin’ it
all to hell it’s gonna be damn tough to do.

There might still be people there though, so I had to check it out.
It’s gonna kill me someday, but I feel I’ve gotta make the world a
better place or somethin’. There’s enough people tryin’ to take over,
or just blow everythin’ up, someone’s gotta work the other way.

I was hopin’ to stay the night in that town, “New Hope” they called it.
Well, don’t look much like there’s any hope there any more, so I checked
my shotgun. Both barrels loaded, plus five spare shells I traded for at
the last town. SA Sidearm - check. And a crowbar in case things got
messy. I ditched the bike off the road a bit, and snuck towards town -
it was gettin’ dark, so I figured I could crawl up ’til I could see the
whites o’ their eyes, or whatever color the muties had. I ducked behind
a wooden fence and looked around.

The Doomies were stayin’ in town, looked like. Three greenrobes, with
what looked like a pair o’ three year olds - if you grow your three year
olds ten feet tall. Grundies. One o’ Silas’ crew was a girl, looked
pretty normal. One was a guy around seven feet tall that looked like a
duck. He had these flaps o’ skin runnin’ down his side. Weird. The
other was wrapped all up in bandages. He looked like their leader.

With luck, the greenrobes spent most of their juice “pacifying” the
town. They were probably hangin’ out tryin’ to regain their mojo before
finishin’ off the townspeople an’ returning home to do whatever it is
bad guys do when they’re not doin’ bad guy stuff. Three doomsayers,
and two grundies. If I did this right, I could pull it off, if luck’s
on my side…

I double-tapped at the mummified one, and he spun and went down,
bleedin’ and squealin’. That’s when everythin’ started happenin’ at
once. The girl pulled out an SMG and sprayed the wall I was hidin’
behind, taggin’ me in the left arm, as the duck came waddlin’ my way.
The two grundies looked around, startled by the noise, lookin’ to the
girl for directions.

She was pointin’ my way, so I started sneakin’ down along the fence,
holdin’ the blood in. Three gunshots rang out behind me. I froze a
second, but I wasn’t dead, so they must’ve missed. Lookin’ back, I saw
the ugliest thing I ever seen. A six foot tall cockroach in a bad
suit. Dunno where the Reckoners thought that one up from, but it musta
been a SERIOUSLY bad dream. There was another girl, maybe fifteen, with
messy blonde hair and an SA Sidearm. She cut it down from behind as it
was sneakin’ up. Remind me to thank her later…

I don’t rightly remember exactly how it happened next, but I took the
duck down with both barrels from my shotgun as he started glowin’. I
knew that was bad news, and it had to end right quick. I ducked back
’round the fence and almost ran right into the other greenrobe. Now, I
couldn’t rightly shoot a lady, so with my good arm I whacked her one
across the noggin with the crowbar, and said goodnight. One of the
grundies sat down an’ started cryin’, an’ the other ran an’ hid.

Everythin’ went dark as I passed out, I guess I took a worse hit than I
thought. The grundies ran off after a while, and I woke up bein’ cared
for by a couple o’ the townsfolk. They gave a gallon o’ spook juice and
three days o’ canned dog food in thanks for savin’ their skins. In the
mornin’ it was off to Junkyard…

Just another day tryin’ to survive in this little place we call Hell on
Earth…

NOTE: The Fading is the third installment in a five part series of fiction based on The Nearside Project. Taken as a whole, these five stories are known as The Thirteenth Hour.

* * * * *

“Chaos must have passed in front of God’s eyes

in just this way before the creation.”

Nikos Kazantzakis (1961)

Earth⁹, 23^rd August, 1993.

It was a hot sticky night in the mid-west, the mosquitoes were busy spiking Jock’s tee-shirt, trying their damnedest to get at the blood that lay beyond. His sweat ran in a multitude of trickles, collecting in the small of his back, serving to accentuate his feelings of anticipation. He was certain he was onto something, all his careful planning was coming to fruition. He felt the by now familiar churning feeling in his gut. Although it was very faint he was certain that he was drawing close. He’d been travelling now for over two days systematically checking every building with a factor of thirteen along Blue Springs, Kansas City, Missouri. He finally revelled in the implication of his nausea.

Jock was a reporter for an underground group of what were termed ‘Nearsiders’, they called themselves G.A.N.T. (Group Against Nearsiders Threat). He gathered information on the Nearside and posted reports to the journal for all and sundry concerned to read. As the journal was electronic the information would appear on the Internet - a new fledgling information superhighway. Of course the government were attempting to trace where the information was coming from but they hadn’t copped onto the fact that it was posted through electronic ‘broken rooms’ in the information superhighway itself and of course, this made the bulletins impossible to trace.

Before him lay a house that could only be described as big- he wasn’t sure how big, though only big houses had driveways to these proportions. Its number was 169 …so it was true! The Nearside also operated in factors of thirteen! Glancing around for watchers he moved silently across the heavy air. When he was certain of his solitude he approached the closed gate, he’d had too many close shaves with government agents in the past, although they were not onto him - yet. Walking along the ten foot wall he searched for his path to reveal itself, it was as though he was being beckoned by some supernatural will, the Nearside had a way of working its puppets.

Following the wall he arrived at a corner and proceeded up off the footpath into dense undergrowth. The scent of leaves brushed his face and soon the smell of rotting humus surrounded him. Bushes pressed closer, he cursed as every twig snapped beneath his feet, the arms of undergrowth scraped at his face, pulling him back. It was as though nature herself was willing him to remain, to go no nearer. As he proceeded deeper into the undergrowth nature gave up and the boughs began to thicken, the space between them widening.

Above him the tendrils of the evergreen bush were stretching upwards they seemed to reach almost to the top of the wall. A three foot gap between the bush and the edge of the wall presented itself to him invitingly. It was as though the bush shunned the wall. To the rational mind in the interests of security they had been cut back by a more mundane power. He shook his head and focused upon the task ahead, feeling the kick of adrenaline. Before he could think about it anymore he was looking over the wall from his new vantage point.

The branch swayed uneasily under his weight as he prepared to jump the gap to the wall. Kicking downwards, the branch yielded beneath him, he failed to gain any height, although he made it to the wall …just. The air hissed from his lungs as the wall lunged toward his chin. His arms were firmly braced on the wall, his hands trapped between his chin and the wall. He slowly eased himself up, and a blast of musty air assailed his senses as he regarded the darkness before him. Waiting for a moment to catch his breath he strained himself to view the other side. There were some trees before him. As he began to breathe easier, he considered with relief that he would at least have cover to aid in his initial reconnaissance of the house.

Bracing himself with the same gritty determination that had saw him through college into the football team, and subsequently into University, he closed his eyes and jumped. Later he was to reflect on these events wandering if it was closing his eyes or actually jumping that was the mistake. Before the ground met him in a manner that suggested that it was only five feet down he was almost encased in thorns. His attempted roll stopped abruptly as the thorns began to tear every piece of clothing he had. Cursing he painfully stood up, half of the undergrowth decided to follow him. Gathering his fury he surged out of the undergrowth and into the relative safety of the trees, relative because in the process of doing so he almost left himself blind. The branches tore at his face and he quickly realised that the trees he was entering were evergreens.

The reconnaissance mission wasn’t to take as long as he imagined, the house appeared to be empty, although the alarm indicator light was clearly visible. Noting the tugging at his stomach lining he was certain that there must be a broken room here, not only this but the tugging had an urgency, time was short. He casually picked up a moss covered brick and moved to the front of the house. Like most houses in this part of the country it was almost entirely made of wood, the only bricked area being the lower five feet of each wall. He walked to the nearest window, noted where the latch was and then smashed it unceremoniously. At once he was assailed by the combined noise of the alarm and the strong scent of lavender. Hurriedly he opened the window and hoisted himself inside.

He didn’t have time to adjust, although in retrospect he ought to have at least allowed his eyes grow accustomed to the darker interior of the house. Moving quickly forward he stumbled into a chair, the scraping noise of its legs across the wooden floor upsetting the by now familiar rhythm of the alarm. He paused for some time, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath he gathered his composure. He guessed that he had about ten minutes before the security company arrived. Gingerly he picked his way around the shadows in his path and moved to the door, turning the handle in anticipation he shoved his shoulder into the door. To his horror the door did not consent to open.

His composure disintegrated, in panic he made his way back to the window and jumped into the facade. Rushing to the front door, he brought the full force of the brick in his hand to bear on the small pane of glass. He withdrew a pace and fed his arm through the gap, into the blackness, he found the latch. The door opened abruptly inwards, tripping on the threshold he was dragged inwards by the force of his own weight, he winced in pain as shards of glass bit into his arm.

Removing his arm from the door he rounded on the hallway, quickly taking in his surroundings he looked for the area with the greatest concentration of doors. A wide stairwell spun upwards to his left, with the hallway continuing toward the back of the house. Without hesitating he grabbed the first door handle, it moved as expected, catching his breath, he pushed, the door grinned back at him. Slamming his fist into the door in frustration, he then proceeded to frantically check each door along the hall. He couldn’t imagine that he could be so stupid, the doors were all locked.

The blood rose to his head, beginning to feel dizzy he wiped the now frothing sweat from his brow and tried the final door in the corridor, it remained frozen in its frame. He screamed in anger at his failure and beat his fist in fury against the door’s solid surface. Spinning around he was up the stairs in a flash, a light to his left caught his eye as he ran past the front door. Surely a car couldn’t be here so soon it had only been about four minutes!

Reaching the top of the stairs the nausea swept over him, he collapsed to his knees. Something moved over his flesh its tendrils taunted the sweat on his brow, curled around his ears and it seemed, enveloped him in a frame of terror. He opened his mouth trying to scream but the thing, whatever it was entered and froze his vocal cords, he felt it probe his being, licking his emotions, taunting everything he was, as if it was searching for something.

Suddenly he could see himself, he was suspended in space, only able to watch helplessly as everything that appeared to make him human was slowly teased away. When the last shred of humanity was torn from his figure a primordial scream escaped his throat. With the fury of a whirlwind he exploded into the corridor on all fours and dived through a simmering in the crackling air.

NOTE: The Long Game is the first installment in a five part series of fiction based on The Nearside Project. Taken as a whole, these five stories are known as The Thirteenth Hour.

* * * * *

Earth¹ 12^th October 1996

Belfast

Kelsey wiped the blood from his eyes. Used his free hand, right hand still holding the Ruger. Still holding it steady and pointed at Doctor Wolfe’s head.

His eyes were stinging. These doctor types were tougher than they looked, sneaky with it. Got all those amiable bedside mannerisms to lull your sense. Just so they can smack you with their medical bags.

Okay. Hurry things along.

Doctor Wolfe, sprawling and struggling in the doorway where Kelsey’s snap kick to the knee had sent him. He didn’t look too chirpy now.

“Money,” said Wolfe.

Kelsey’s ears kept buzzing, like something inside his skull was knocking itself out to escape. He tried to focus his attention. Managed a quizzical look.

“I can give you money. Anything. I. Just. Don’t.”

“Look, Doc,” Kelsey really didn’t have time for this. He shifted closer, not very steady on his feet, jammed the revolver’s barrel hard against Wolfe’s ear. Could feel the man trembling, cornered rat heartbeat making the gun shudder in sympathy. “I don’t want your money.”

Wolfe’s eyes went wide, like he caught a glimpse of something dark and dangerous. Something too close.

Got to bring it down, thought Kelsey.

He eased off the pressure on the trigger. Lowered the hammer slow and gentle. It made an all too solid metallic click. Coffin catches closing overhead. Held the weapon down low at his side. Tried his best non-threatening pose. Armed, blood-spattered nutjob in the underground car park `round midnight. He hoped the Doc was reassured.

“I’m here to change your life,” Kelsey stopped, realised that sounded final. Tried a wry smile. “First. We’ve got to have a little talk.”

Earth² , 10^th October 1996

Belfast

He was almost killed by a magpie in the Botanic Gardens.

Kelsey was sitting alone on slabs of ice, staring out across a chill emptiness of leafless trees and tumbles of jagged bushes. Here and there a glowering figure, shuffling and shivering through the midmorning glooms. Everything was slow and silent. Breath steaming off as he thought about things.

The one thing. All that ever mattered.

Caught sight of a black white flicker and flash. Looked up as the bird hop skip stepped from the snowpeak rooftop of the Tropical Ravine. It dropped. Wings spreading wide. Black white green blue, and straight for his head.

Banking sharp left inches from his face, landing dead stop on a nearby wooden railing. A single magpie. Turning in circles on its perch. Peering at him.

Oh, you know, said the magpie. For Sorrow?

Kelsey watched it. “You’re just taking the piss, aren’t you?”

The magpie simply smiled.

* * * * *

“And what of Lieutenant Kelsey. Will he make it?”

“I should think so, Sir. There’s every chance.”

“You’ve given him some time?”

“As you suggested, Sir. He’s headed back to his home town. Relative quiet there at present. I should think he will manage all right. Put it behind him. Move forward.”

“I hope so, Dawson. He’s a good man. And of course one understands his feelings…”

“We all do, Sir. The War has damaged everyone.”

* * * * *

Kelsey was not insane. He was single minded. Dedicated and cold focused on his goal. Not quite mad. Not yet.

Here he sat in the bleak midwinter, with the dead and dying landscape all around a perfect barometer of his mood, while an alien army ravaged the world.

He had better things to do at the moment. Other battles to be fought.

Start by thinking positive, he decided.

His daughter Beck was lost. As if she had wandered off to the Woolworth’s toy department, while he was prowling Household Goods. That was the way to look at it. Lost.

Not dead. Not trapped in the K`thari cattle pens. Misplaced. That was all.

If only he had kept her from the army, she would be safe. Kelsey shook his head. He should have argued stronger. Couldn’t think of anything to say to stop her joining up. The human race was being crucified. They needed everyone, and Beck had dreamed of this forever. It was the fire in her soul. Without the heart and courage that took her to the front-line, she could be with him now. Just wouldn’t be the same.

Kelsey remembered her, years gone. Still a child and racing around her grandparents` sprawling townhouse. That awkward age flurry of long blonde hair and clumsy limbs. Trapped in a maze of antique artefacts and bric-a-brac trash.

Every day brought a new disaster. Another toy mutilated in destructive testing gone astray. A different ornament consigned to splintered oblivion.

Few items survived the onslaught. Beck’s all time favourite, untouched by her chaotic play, was a cheap ceramic tableau of some peninsular engagement. Two rough figures standing on a badly moulded rutted farm track. The mediocre wash of paint long worn faint by Beck’s loving clutches.

She could stare at it for hours.

Kelsey’s dad called it boot-sale rubbish. Thought of controlling Beck’s antics by threatening to dispose of it, if she did not for heavens sake calm down and take more care. He only tried that once. The despair in Beck’s eyes was too great a shock. From then the vulgar piece took up favoured ornament status, a new position in the centre of the mantel. Always in view, safe from harm.

The Soldier’s Daughter Carrying His Musket.

Beck said that was cool. Ever so.

Stood there in the dark panel hallway one morning. Grubby clothes, scuffed shoes and gathering up the cold seriousness of all her nine years.

“When the war starts, Father, you’ll be sure to let me help you. Won’t you?”

Kelsey frowned and sagely shook his head, because parents know best.

“I don’t really imagine there will be another war, Rebecca.”

So maybe she knew something even then, and now the reality was science fiction nightmares walking tall. Walking the world.

An alien force was biting deep into eastern Europe. A ragged all nations army strung itself out across the low countries, testing and skirmishing, waiting for a Zero Hour that never came.

And Beck was gone.

NOTE: The Hunt is the second installment in a five part series of fiction based on The Nearside Project. Taken as a whole, these five stories are known as The Thirteenth Hour.

* * * * *

Meetings

He came from another version of this world, searching for someone for a reason he had long had taken from him by the throaty chuckle of madness. Still, he wandered and searched. Hunting, perhaps.

The well dressed man, in his early thirties, walked sternly into a vast glass and steel office building. He walked up to the reception desk, and evaluated the girl sitting behind it with a long steady gaze. He cleared his throat with a cough.

“I’m looking for myself,” said the man simply. The girl looked at him.

“Very eighties of you, sir,” she smiled. He glared at her.

“Yeah. Well. Thanks for nothing,” he muttered, walking away from the reception desk. He looked around the foyer of the office buildings. He remembered when it had looked like this on the other world, before a lump of rock the size of Pittsburgh had made an impression upon the place. Now he knew what seven years looked like. It looked- boring. Nothing had changed. Except… no one seemed to remember him. The bimbo on the reception desk was a new face, so maybe it was too soon to decide. The headaches hadn’t come, though. The pain was usually the first sign that a version of himself was already here. Three weeks, without even a twinge. Odd, odd. But he knew that there were reasons and memories that were lost to him, for the time being. Travel did that.

He walked towards the glass doors that led outside. The New York streets were strangely comforting to him now, especially considering the alternative he was used to.

“I can’t believe I came all this way for no reason !” he yelled, and a few passers-by gave him a fearful glance.

He fell to his knees, clutching his head as the dam broke, and the madness that he had been containing, for a short while, washed across him, filling his heart and soul with anguish and fear. He was so far away from home. The tears came next.

“Max ?”

The voice was that of a woman, in her late twenties- Max looked up into her face, searching for her eyes. He caught her gaze, and she was frozen. He tried to think if he had seen her before. She was attractive, with short cropped black hair. Her blue eyes were cold, though. Like they had seen too much, too quickly.

She was afraid. Did he remember- no, that would be impossible. But maybe he had found out. Yes. That could happen.

“Who… who are you ?” he stammered. She smiled, as best as she could with this madman’s eyes drilling hot black holes in her own eyes. She recognised the stare.

“I’m Susan. I… we’ve met before, Max. This really is a surprise.”

Max stood, holding onto her gaze to help him up. He attempted to put a stronger lid on the seething mess that lurked below his smile.

“I don’t remember… sorry, I’ve been a bit Distant lately.”

Susan shook her head, the smile disappearing with disappointment.

“Don’t be so obvious, Max. It’s how they find us, how they search us out, hunt us down. They’d kill us like dogs if they found us. Doesn’t that worry you ?”

He narrowed his eyes, and let the echoes of Distance come to him. There was silence- his own madness wasn’t being reflected by the Distance in this woman’s soul.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t a Nearsider. It just meant that if she was, she was a damn careful one. She must carefully control her Travel, never overextending herself. She knew the lingo. That was enough for the time-being

“No… we have our own problems. No one could be bothered taking us back,” he explained. He allowed himself a deep breath, and felt the twinges of Distance fade slightly. Max looked back at Susan and smiled wryly.

“Are you just paranoid, or what ?”

Susan slapped him, hard, and Max’s eyes watered with the sting.

“Don’t be so fucking flippant. Let’s go.”

She took his hand, and dragged him towards the street. She hailed a yellow cab, and they both climbed back in.

“Central Park,” she told the driver, and the taxi pulled away into the lunchtime traffic.

Susan

“There’s a problem, you see,” she explained, “A few people in charge have found out about us- about the Nearside. This is a bad thing, since they want us to work for them or die. There’s no choice in that matter. ”

Max listened to Susan as they walked through Central Park. They were walking towards the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and he was distracted by the crowds of tourists and holiday-makers that swarmed around the paths. Like ants.

“I used to work for a government agency that was employed to search down Nearsiders. We were called, ironically, The Nearside Project. I had been told that they - we - posed a threat to humanity. Bullshit, as I soon found out. No sooner than I found out the truth - that not only were they not enemies, but that I too shared the HBA - then they sent my colleagues out to get me. I spent some time travelling, but I discovered that the more we travel, the easier it is to be ’sensed’ by other Nearsiders that I decided to find one world, and settle down there. As soon as my Distance returned to normal, I would be virtually undetectable.”

Max nodded. “So this was where you chose ? The First World ?”

She smiled. “No one would imagine that I would come back here.”

Max looked around, suddenly uneasy.

“Listen, ” he said, a wall of panic falling on him, “I’m pretty fucked up here…. aren’t you in danger even being with me ?”

She nodded.

“Yeah… but I thought I should help you find out what happened to your Variant Self here. That’s why you were in the building, yeah ?”

He nodded.

“Mmmm. Yeah.”

She smiled as they entered the MMA. She led him upstairs through the quiet, busy museum towards the art gallery.

“You stopped working there late in 1995. Stopped working altogether.”

Max was listening carefully, yet he still didn’t hear what was behind her words.

“How do you know ?” he asked.

“Because, Max, I was in charge of the operation that went after you. To recruit you.”

Max stopped dead in his tracks.

“You ? I don’t understand,” he stammered, confused. The Distance came back, and screamed in his mind.

“Not here ! Not yet !” she hissed angrily into his ear. Max allowed himself to be dragged into an anteroom, with white sheets hanging over unexhibited statues- a room full of pretend ghosts. She closed the door quietly, and shoved a large statue across the door, blocking it very effectively.

“Shut the fuck up ! You prick !” she screamed at him, and threw him against the wall. The impact winded him, and he lay against the wall, silently gasping. Susan showed the effects of years of military training. She had yet to break a sweat.

“I killed you myself, Max, because you refused to join us. You had your reasons, and by god, I loved you for them. You told me, just before you died, that somewhere out there, I was killing for the same people who would kill me whenever my usefulness to them ended. You warned me, and I listened. I couldn’t have realised that you might be a useless fuck on another Variation.”

Max listened- he had no choice. As she spoke, however, his breath returned, and he felt his cheeks grow red, angry at her words.

“Fuck off, ” he told her. “You have no idea what the other world is like.”

Susan finally smiled.

“That’s more like it,” she said. “Get angry. Get really angry, because when they come for you, they’ll kill you and laugh about it later.”

Max, from where he sat, slumped on the floor, glared up at her.

“I don’t give a shit. Let them come. ”

She shook her head. “I don’t intend to die with you. Believe it or not, I’m trying to save your life.”

He laughed. “What, because you feel guilty ?”

There was a heavy silence.

She nodded, and Max felt a bit ashamed at his hasty laughter. After a moment, he stood, and walked over to her. He offered his hand.

“Sorry, okay ? Let’s try and get out of this intact. No hard feelings.”

She measured his words, and carefully took his hand. She squeezed it firmly.

“Just don’t be tempted to repeat old mistakes,” he said softly. She smiled, but said nothing. Max felt a shiver travel down his spine.