


Codes: nosex viol




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*        WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING        *
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* For the love of SPOONS no one under the age of twenty-one (21) or the age of *
* consent for their geographical location (whichever is HIGHER) needs to be    *
* anywhere near this.  This is a story meant for legally-adult readers.  Don't *
* let your kids read this.  Don't let your dog read this.  Don't let your      *
* religious leader within the same postal code as this.  You know, really, YOU *
* probably shouldn't even read this horrible, nasty, terrible story.           *
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* Hopefully it goes without saying, but if you ever even vaguely ponder the    *
* SLIGHT idea that MAYBE you would CONSIDER doing anything even REMOTELY like  *
* anything depicted herein--GET HELP.  NOW.  Therapy is a wonderful thing.     *
*                                                                              *
* This story can (and probably does) contain one or more of the following (bet *
* your last nickel on "more"): Incest, pedophilia, watersports, extreme female *
* domination, bestiality, psychological torture, and who knows WHAT other      *
* sick, perverted, dirty, terrible, and disgusting things I can come up with.  *
* Really, you ought to stop reading.  Right now.  I'm serious.                 *
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* ...still here?  You sure?  This is bad-bad mojo.  Last chance...             *
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                              THE POISON CHRONICLES
                          Chapter Five:
                                       by
                          Forbidden Fantasy Storyteller



        The sounds of work filled the air.  Chainsaws, tractors, men shouting to
each other, occasionally a tree falling to the ground.

        It was an overcast morning, the air chilly enough to turn skin to ice
even under numerous layers of clothing.  Four or so dozen men in this logging
camp, all working hard.  It was illegal, yes, cutting where they were, but they
were paid damn well--and that money meant food in cupboards that would otherwise
be empty, children attending school when they would otherwise become ignorant
beggars.

        It meant the difference between life and death, for most of them.

        The beast calmly strode out of the mist and stopped next to a tree, not
making any attempt to hide itself but not announcing itself, either.  It was a
good half-minute before anyone noticed.

        The closest man happened to glance over--then froze.  He was less than
ten yards away from what, by all rights, should NOT exist here.  Siberian tigers
should not be anywhere near the conifer forests of Mongolia's Khangai
Mountains--yet there it was.  The large, adult cat's orange and black fur was a
striking contrast to the deep greens and soft browns.

        He stared at the cat--and the cat stared right back.  The logger dropped
his chainsaw and fled, screaming in a Mongolian language.  His co-workers were
startled, and they first watched the man flee through the camp, then back from
where he came.  When all eyes were on him, the tiger flattened his ears and
roared, baring his teeth menacingly.

        A big brute of a man--the kind who could have given Arnold
Schwarzenegger a run for his money in his prime--grimaced and picked up a
sledgehammer.  He was probably thinking of his pregnant wife, or the rising
taxes in his home province.  Either way, he wasn't going to let this creature
keep him from the money that kept his family fed.

        The tiger didn't back down, even as the bulky man lumbered over, hands
automatically sliding on the shaft of the sledgehammer for the perfect grip.
The tiger roared again, and the man replied with a roar of his own as he swung
the hammer around to bring it over his head--but it was suddenly stopped.

        By me.

        I clung to the tree, holding the hammer by the head, glaring down at the
worker through white, pupil-less eyes.  My symbiote and I had chosen the usual
look--black, skin-tight suit, gold armor loosely inspired by ancient Rome.

        "<Bad choice,>" I snarled in the man's language, then yanked the
sledgehammer out of his hand.  Leaping from the tree I somersaulted and lashed
out, slamming my foot into his face with a sickening yet satisfying SPLURCH.

        He fell over into a sagging heap a I landed on the ground in a crouch.
the other men stared at Agrippa and myself, most jaws open in shock.  I roared
at the top of my lungs, and Agrippa joined me.

        That proved the motivation the loggers needed, and they dropped whatever
they were doing--literally--to turn tail and run.  Too bad for them we weren't
going to let them.

        Agrippa and I took off running, splitting up.  He went right while I
went left.  He tore through tents and slaughtered the cowering workers, while I
ripped men out of bulldozers and cranes, to flatten their skulls or rip their
spines out.

        Some managed to get to the other side of the camp--but they quickly
skidded to a stop.  Two spotted hyenas stood before them, each wearing spiked
collars.  From each collar led a thick chain, each link bigger than a man's
fist, the ends held in one hand of the woman who looked more fearsome than I
did--and that's saying something.

        Scourge grinned at the men, her pupil-less red eyes narrowing.  She was
of course clad in her shades of red--bright scarlet on a near-black crimson.
The two male hyenas barked at the men, the sounds high-pitched and varying in
volume.

        They tugged on the chains, making Scourge grin wider--wider than a
normal human should be capable of.  Then--she dropped the chains.  The hyenas
bolted at the group of men, while Scourge cackled behind them.

        In twenty minutes the camp was in shambles, every last man hunted and
slain.  Scourge found the last on, who was cowering in a portable latrine.  She
ripped the door off and grabbed him by the throat, her elongated and sharp
talon-like fingers curling all the way around his neck and cutting into it
deeply.

        The last thing he saw was her grinning face, and two bloody-muzzled
hyenas on either side of her.

        I was across the camp though I watched her, smiling.  My smile was
unseen as, unlike Scourge, we didn't have a visible mouth.  There was something
more fearsome in a blank face with only two white eyes under a helmet, we
thought.

        Scourge cackled as she dropped the body, then shook her hands to flick
the blood from them.  She strode toward me with her hyenas trailing behind her,
and as Agrippa approached from another direction they gave him a wide berth.
They hadn't gotten along with the tiger from day one, though they all learned to
work together when they needed to, and mostly ignore each other the rest of the
time.

        "Another camp destroyed," she said with a satisfied tone, placing a hand
on my bicep lightly, caressing my arm and my symbiote.  "Only a handful left,
then the forests will be ours, our King."

        My "mask" and "helmet" melted away, so she could see my smile.  She was
right.  Soon this would be ours.

        It had been four long years since we entered into business with the
founders of the Delphi Project.  They were looking to expand, and I was looking
for more space for my family.  With the combined resources of the Project,
Scourge's business contacts, and my own more shadier contacts, we were able to
sift through the possible locations until we chose the conifer forests of the
Khangai Mountains.

        It was remote, unpopulated by people, and vast.  There was more than
enough biodiversity to support the couple-thousand people we would eventually
hit.  We would start with just a few hundred, but one must plan for the future.

        Agrippa, Gaius, and Lucius (the hyenas were so named since, in ancient
Rome, they were the sons of the general Agrippa) had plenty to eat, even close
relatives of prey they were used to.  They were trained to not eat humans, even
if humans were killed in the line of work.

        Scourge scritched her hyenas behind their ears, and they enjoyed the
attention.  I did the same for Agrippa, and we all spent a moment or two in
silence.  We had gotten rid of most of the miners that were plaguing the
forests, so we were turning our focus to the loggers.

        "The hairless monkeys will fear this land," I said quietly with a
savage smile.  Scourge took the extra step to let her nestle against me, her
"mask" and "crown" melting away to reveal the human face beneath.  I grinned at
her, then kissed her deeply, squeezing her breasts firmly.  "Are you happy, my
Queen?" I murmured against her lips.

        She smiled and nuzzled her nose to mine.  "Yes, our King.  Our vision is
coming true.  These cool lands will serve your family well, we think."

        I closed my eyes and indulged myself in resting my forehead against
hers for a few minutes.

        I continuously marveled at the difference between bonding experiences.
I and my symbiote were a team, sharing thoughts and feelings and dreams, but our
personalities remained separate and distinct.  The human woman Marie and the
spawn of my symbiote who, together, made Scourge had blended even on the level
of personalities.  A not-unforeseen by-product of the spawn bonding with a host
when it was freshly birthed, it was.

        While the woman who stood at my side was not, strictly speaking, the
same woman first met nearly five years ago, she was in a way much better.  Much
MORE.  Scourge had Marie's cunning, ruthlessness, and tactical planning, but the
spawn's bloodlust and contempt for humanity.  All in all, Scourge was everything
Marie was--and more.  More sensual, more sexual, more carnage-driven, more
beguiling, more crafty.  More of everything I loved and adored.

        Her choice of attire reflected this.  In our Poison guise, we took a
base of black, mimicking spandex, with some pieces of golden armor.  Her look
amounted to body paint, so very clearly defined were her nipples, navel, and
pussy.

        The human's bond with the symbiote was so complete, no matter how they
looked, they were always Scourge.  "Marie" was a moniker, now, something closer
to a "code name".  This didn't displease me, and by now I was rather used to it.

        When we finally stepped back from each other, we looked around at the
bloody carnage surrounding us.  Not bad for a day's work, really.  And by now
word would be spreading that this forest was unsafe.  Out of the few dozen
logging camps we'd destroyed by that point, we let two or three loggers live--
though the "quality of life" issue was up in the air, considering we ripped out
their eyes, one logger losing his tongue in addition.

        It couldn't be said that we weren't thorough.  We were going to make the
next company head who thought about logging here piss their pants.


                        *              *              *


        Greenwich, one of the oldest and most prestigious parts of London.  A
good bit past ten o'clock in the evening, the doorstep of a Victorian-era home.
The family had owned it and lived within it ever since it was new.  The butler
who answered the door was one of those stuffy types, who had a look about him
somewhere between contempt and boredom.

        I was, as they say, dressed to impress.  My symbiote and I affected a
look of a fine silk suit, warm-colored tie complete with stick-pin, bowler hat,
wingtip shoes, and a walking stick with a faceted glass handle.  It was a look
designed to impress, though that wasn't the only trick up my sleeve.

        I asked to speak with the master of the house, apologizing for the late
hour of my arrival, and when the servant asked who was calling, I simply smiled
and pulled a small, black case from an interior pocket of my suit coat.  From it
I withdrew a calling card, and the servant produced a small, silver platter.  I
was shown to the hall, then asked to wait.

        Interesting history, the "calling cards".  At first glance, one would
assume they served a purpose that is now fulfilled by business cards.  While one
would be forgiven for such an assumption, it is quite incorrect.

        In the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, social interaction was
a richly cultivated, well-mannered affair.  The tool that facilitated these
interactions was the calling card.  Calling cards streamlined introductions and
helped remind people of new acquaintances and needed visits.  The calling card
also served as a way to brand your social identity.  The way your card looked
and felt or the way you handed it to someone communicated your standing and
relationship with the receiver.

        The practice of "calling" upon or visiting one's relatives, friends,
and acquaintances was a middle and upper class social ritual governed by
countless rules and traditions.  Central to visiting etiquette was the use of
the calling card.  Every gentleman kept a ready supply of calling cards with him
to distribute upon his visits.  When calling upon a friend, a gentleman gave his
card to the servant answering the door.  The servant would be holding a silver
tray and the card would be placed upon it.  If the person the gentleman was
calling upon was home, the servant would take the card to them and they would
come meet the gentleman.

        There are many, many rules of etiquette regarding what a gentleman would
put on his card, when it was left, how it was given--even so far as to what
folding over this or that specific corner meant.  It's a practice long since
fallen by the wayside, in lieu of "e-stalking" someone's Facebook or Twitter
accounts, and other such banal past-times.  It's a practice that really should
come back into vogue, as useful as it is.  It's less formal than a business
card, but more personal than solely contacting someone on-line.  Plus, handing
one to someone gives a wonderful initial topic of discussion, and makes the
other person much more interested off the bat.

        I was taken from my thoughts by the discrete arrival of the butler.  He
had his gloved hands clasped behind him, and requested I follow him.  I was led
through the manor to the lounge, where my host got to his feet and smiled, all
but demanding I accept a drink as he showed me to a chair.  I asked what he was
having, and he said Scotch, so I asked for the same.

        Reginald Cornelius Zanders was a tall but portly man, nearing his sixth
decade.  A ring of white hair, a mustache that reminded anyone at once of a
walrus, and a twinkling smile that was most infectious.  He had a taste for
traditions, to the point where he rarely dressed in a suit-style more recent
than what his great-grandfather would have worn.  My business of using a calling
card never failed to impress him, along with my older-style of dress.

        Of course, history wasn't the only thing he had a taste for.  His other,
less well-known, passion was for children, young boys specifically.  A pederast
through and through.  Zanders was a valued contact because for the price of
movies of my son, he provided me with information.  A family as old and wealthy
as his, he had contacts all over the world, in most governments and militaries.

        We chatted amiably until his servant brought the drinks, and after the
man left, Zanders' features obtained a hopeful and impatient quality, like a kid
asked to sit through breakfast on Christmas morning before opening any presents.

        I chuckled and retrieved my briefcase, setting it on my lap and opening
it.  I smiled at Zanders over the lid, pausing to draw the moment out.  He
laughed, saying, "Come now, old boy, don't keep me waiting.  It does my heart
bad."

        I chuckled and withdrew a D.V.D. case.  It was one of those that held
two discs, one in the back as expected, and one in an insert that one could turn
like a page in a book.  The two discs were double-sided, full to the brim with
movies of young boys.  Some included my son, though were far "tamer" than he
generally liked.  I reserved the role of slave for females, though even the more
tender moments of my girls with my son he enjoyed.  Thankfully, I managed to
keep a strong alliance with the Delphi Project, so was willing to barter for
movies with various young boys, movies that, obviously, Zanders had never before
seen.

        He took the case and opened it, looking at the blank discs with
undisguised glee.  That look didn't linger long, however, and it soon settled
into a more apologetic arrangement.

        "I am afraid I can only offer as payment news you may find--
distressing," he said, peering into my eyes through his bushy brows.  I motioned
for him to continue, and he did.  "It seems that certain officials of the
American government are, as the Americans say, 'on the look-out' for one Tobias
Moore.  While I wouldn't otherwise mention this, it seems their investigations
led--to you."

        I arched a brow, thinking on that.  Of course, Zanders knew of me only
under a false identity, one Thaddeus Mandrake; every contact I met personally
with only had access to a complicated assumed identity, complete down to command
of the language and the expected accent.

        "Well," I said at last, opening the briefcase once again, "I confess it
isn't anything I hadn't expected.  When I partnered with Moore, I knew he, as
the Americans also say, brought a lot of baggage with him."

        "Quite so," agreed Zanders, apparently pleased I was taking the news so
well.  Of course, inside, I was planning with my symbiote.  We had believed that
the government didn't really erase Moore, not fully, so expected that they would
one day try and find us again.  We'd managed to be discrete that long, but the
closer we came to our goals, the less discrete we could be.

        On the other hand, knowing what to expect let us plan for it, plans
which we now needed to put in motion.

        I withdrew another calling card from my pocket and a silver pen from my
briefcase.  I scrawled on the back of the card, then handed it to Zanders,
saying, "An associate of mine will meet you on this date at this time.  Ask no
questions and do as they ask."

        Zanders took the card and looked at it, then cocked an eyebrow as he
looked back to me, the question written plainly on his face, though he had the
decorum to not ask it.

        Smiling, I withdrew a plain card from my briefcase, scrawled upon it as
well, though added my stylized phoenix-and-fire symbol.  I passed that to
Zanders as I said, "There is a cruise I happen to know of.  If you meet a man
at that place and time--and remember to present that card--you will have a tour
of the ocean you will never forget."

        That brightened the man back up, as well it should.  Such "cruises" are
becoming a rarer event, the few that remain cloaked under numerous layers of
secrecy and security.  I would have to contact the proprietor of the one I had
in mind, but as I told Zanders, it would be quite an event for him.  Though,
what I would be asking of him, it would be worth it.

        We chatted awhile longer, exchanging stock tips, philosophy, and other
random things, then I took my leave.  I feigned a lamentation at having to
leave, though, obviously, I wanted to rush right out.

        I headed home as soon as possible, to start planning and gathering what
I would need.

        My alliance with the Delphi Project was strong enough to where, if I so
asked, they might have been able to buy off certain government officials--but I
didn't want to chance it.  For one thing, that would mean I would owe the
Project a large debt--though I would actually consider it if I was confident
they could even help.

        If you deal with the levels of sociality and, even, reality that ninety
percent of people don't even realize exist long enough, you get a "feel" for it
all.  Considering all the money floating around, it was plausible for the
various governments of the world to ignore pedophilia and even the slave trades
that go on in--I am completely serious--nearly every nation in the world,
including most first-world nations.

        However.  An alien life-form, the first real contact with an
intelligence not of this world (don't believe the conspiracy theorists' hype
about Roswell, the patterns in the fields--any of it), that won't be let go of
so easily.

        It was only a matter of time before they found me.  That was beyond my
control.  However, what WAS in my control was when, where, and how.

        The first thing was to find out what, exactly, was known about me.  For
that, I'd need to break into a fusion center.

        A fusion center is, basically, a place where every major government
agency with an acronym comes together and pools information for the purposes of
counter-terrorism.  Every major state and local police departments provide space
for them, and the analysts can be drawn from any number of sectors.

        My symbiote and I were, to be sure, classified as a "terrorist", since
that term is such broadly applied.

        Now, on the one hand, the only other place to get the information would
be an F.B.I. center, or C.I.A., or whatever other such thing, so it would be
comparably simpler to break into a police station.

        On the other hand, it was still a police station, and I was damn sure
going to uphold my record of not giving the police a reason to draw their
weapons on me.  Having a reputation as not giving authorities an ounce of
trouble helps more than you might believe.

        All I could do was copy information; the data is too widespread to allow
for me to replace it.  Any changes I made would be detected quickly, which would
only raise more flags than I really wanted raised.

        It was a bright, Spring day when I got out of the taxi and headed into
the Santa Barbara Police Station.  I'd had Scourge call and arrange a meeting
between myself--as Anthony Bradley--and Detective Barnard, regarding a case he
was working on.

        I wore a ball cap and windbreaker over a T-shirt that I left un-tucked,
with jeans and sneakers to finish the outfit.  I placed my wallet, sunglasses,
keys, and such in the plate then walked noiselessly through the metal detector.

        I'd originally pondered choosing another police station, one not so
close to home, but I knew Santa Barbara as a town rather well, and any larger
station would have more complicated security procedures.  So, Santa Barbara's
station was it.

        I headed into the directed elevator, and quickly my symbiote altered to
adopt a suited look.  Hair pulled back and tucked into my collar, government-
issue sunglasses formed themselves on my face, and I affected a more stern
expression.  The elevator stopped, and I was met by a uniformed officer who
extended his hand.  I quickly brushed him off, saying he must be looking for
someone else, then pressed the button for the next floor up.

        I'd managed to look through the blueprints--though that cost me more
than I was really comfortable with--so I knew right where to go.  I kept my
attention straight ahead, as if I knew exactly where I was going and dared
anyone to stop me.  Once I got to the door, I brought out a set of "keys", which
were of course the symbiote, extended through my hand.

        I fished through the keys for a moment, then fit one in the lock.  After
a moment, my symbiote had managed to unlock it, then we did the same for the
other locks.

        Once inside, we were faced with a security panel, but I knew better than
to waste time.  I headed right to the filing cabinet against the far wall and
started going through it.  I was thankful that paranoia kept the officials from
putting too much on the computer, instead relying on paper.  Made it easier on
me.

        I finally found the folder--and I have to admit, I was pleased with how
thick it was--and scanned the contents, turning pages quickly.  Thanks to my
symbiote I had an eidetic memory, so I could pore over the information later, at
my leisure.

        Then, of course, I had to get out.  I closed the door behind me and re-
locked it, just as the buzz started.  Officers started hurrying around, and I
stopped a young-looking one, a woman who looked like she hadn't been out of the
academy long.  Using an old trick, I flashed a federal badge and asked her what
was going on.

        "There's a civilian unaccounted for in the building," she replied
immediately, standing at attention.

        "Then I suggest you go FIND him!" I barked.  "Start with a sweep, room
by room, leaving NO room untouched.  Check every broom closet, every toilet
stall.  No telling what a crazy could do."  I paused a beat, then adopted my
most stern expression.  "What are you still standing here for?!"  She gave a
tiny nod as she ran off.

        In any confusing situation, people automatically look for authority,
someone to tell them what to do.  This is truer in situations of strict
hierarchy, such as the police force.  Flashing a federal badge and acting like
you could have their ass served to them will usually get you what you want--as
long as what you want is them to get away from you.  No disguise will hold up
under scrutiny forever, and for all you know, the person you're trying to order
around is fishing buddies with every authority figure in the building.

        As I left the building I continued barking orders, right until an
"unmarked" black sedan (you know the kind, that all but scream being in federal
service) screeched to a stop in the parking lot.  I ducked behind a hedge--and
was gone.  Being strong, fast, agile, and have a shape-shifting alien able to
make up nearly any sort of clothing you need comes in handy.

        When I got home, I found Scourge and we spent time on the veranda,
Agrippa at my side,  Gaius and Lucius on either side of her.  We sat at the
table, idly picking at our lunch while we talked.

        I told her about Zanders, what I wanted her to do, then what I was going
to do to avoid the government "cracking down", as it were, on my estate.
According to the information in the fusion center, they didn't as yet know about
the mansion, but it would only be a matter of time.

        So, I had to let myself get caught by them, far away from the estate.
That wasn't as easy as it sounds, however.

        They knew I'd been around the world, but they already guessed that I
called Central California home.  Just WHERE, they weren't yet sure, but they
were closer to figuring it out than I liked.  So I had to not only let myself be
captured somewhere else, but I had to make it appear as if wherever I was caught
was my actual base of operations.

        On top of that, I couldn't be caught under my real identity.  That would
draw too much attention right off the bat, and make it a certainty that I would
quickly have little control over the situation.

        This is what led to my creating Jacob Allen Greene in North Texas.
There are plenty of small-ish towns only a few dozen miles south of Oklahoma
where I could craft an identity and few have any clue as to the truth.

        Sherman, Texas, was where I ultimately settled.  Jacob became a drifter,
staying in no place for longer than a night or two, all while Scourge carefully
crafted business ties to that area--lumber was sent to a small mill there,
leather works ordered sent to a P.O. box, and other such things.  At first
glance, nothing would seem out of the ordinary, but when the government realized
I was there and started digging deeper, it would make it appear as if I were
building another home there.

        A few dozen acres was bought under a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a
subsidiary.  When all was said and done, "Marie" would have to leave Thatcher-
Greggs, International, but that was a price she was willing to pay.

        We were embarking on one of the riskiest plans we'd concocted yet.  If
it succeeded, we wouldn't need her business ties anyway, but if it didn't,
well--the vernacular "screwed without lube or courtesy reach-around" would be
most appropriate.

        I spent two months as Jacob Greene, becoming familiar to the local
shelters and food banks, until I allowed myself to be arrested for criminal
trespassing.  A ballpark, just outside of town, had a small but cozy announcer
booth where I spent the last week or so.  I let trash and other signs of illegal
habitation accumulate before I called the owner of the park anonymously as a
"frightened patron", mentioning that I'd seen a disheveled, scary-looking man
hanging around at odd hours.

        It was, by my reckoning, somewhere around half-past seven o'clock in the
evening when the flashlight beams started sweeping the exterior of the booth.
An authoritative male voice called out for me to exit the booth with my hands in
the air, which I complied with.  I gave the police absolutely no trouble, of
course, even smiling lopsidedly and joking with them as my hands were put behind
my back.

        Police officers tend to be good, decent sorts, willing to give you as
much respect as you give them.  You're the one who broke the law, and if you
keep that in mind and don't, as they say, give the cops shit, they generally
treat you well enough.  That said, the ride to the police station was as
uncomfortable as it always is.  They can't risk cuffing your hands in front of
you, so you're sitting in the back in an odd position, slightly arched so you
don't press your hands into the back of the seat, and thus the cuffs into your
wrists.

        I had my photo taken, and I acted like I was confused about my "right"
and my "left", though I remembered to kindly thank the officer who patiently
pointed me in the directions she wanted, then it was off to get my prints taken.

        It was done with one of those new scanners, my interest in which was
unfeigned.  The last time I'd been printed, it was with the older style ink-and-
card set-up, but this--I can only describe it as a mutant form of a photocopier.
The officer sticks your finger or whole hand on the thing, and a soft light
glows briefly.

        After that came the questioning.  "Do you have any medical conditions?"
("Mild diabetes.")  "Do you hear voices?" ("I hear you; does that count?") So on
and so on.  Questions on my physical condition, my psychological condition, and
so forth.

        Then comes the part I've ALWAYS hated the most.  The waiting.  You get
stuck in a small cell with only a metal slab to sit or lay on, and wait.  If
you're lucky, you don't have to wait long, but even my symbiote started losing
track of time.  THAT is how boring it is in a cell by yourself.

        However long it was, I was finally retrieved and handed over to another
pair of officers.  This time I got the full shackle treatment--wrists locked to
a chain around my waist, ankles cuffed together with a too-short chain, itself
chained to the one around my waist.  Shuffling along like that isn't easy if
it's your first time.  It's actually rather counter-intuitive.  You have to kind
of shuffle along on the balls of your feet, and you can't move your legs too
much or you fall right over.

        Of course, I let myself take a spill, twice, on the way to the police
car, and to their credit the two officers patiently helped me back to my feet.
Another ride, this time in a van, and I was taken into the county jail.

        Every jail differs in certain details--color of uniforms, how to address
the guards, and such.  In the case of Grayson County, men wore bright orange
jumpsuits, and it was customary to address guards as "Mister" or "Miss".

        I was shown to a holding cell while I was processed, which led to an
even longer, and far more boring, wait, then I was taken to a small room to
shower and change into the jumpsuit.  I found humor in my shoes being Crocs.  No
joke.  Most jails have plastic flip-flops and such, but Grayson also had Crocs.
Makes sense, if you think about it purely from the point of view that they are,
basically, only solid pieces of rubberized plastic, much like the normal sandals
prisoners wear.

        After all was said and done, I was handed my bedding and a few pieces of
paper, and told to go to cell A-Three.  No, I wasn't accompanied.  Why would I
be?  I was, as far as they knew, a low-rate "criminal", barely worth the term,
and it's not like they could spare guards to play tour-guide for every prisoner.
On top of that, I was in the jail.  Even *I* wouldn't have been (easily) able to
escape.  My symbiote made me a lot of things, but "bullet-proof" was not on that
list.

        I found my way to the cell in question and handed the guard my
paperwork, and he glanced at it before unlocking the outer door to the cell.

        For reason of protection and control, each cell--or "pod" as they're
called--had two doors, similar in procedure to an airlock, without, obviously,
the actual mechanics of it.  The guards would physically unlock the outer door,
then the prisoner would enter the small room-like chamber.  The guard would lock
the outer door again, and press a button that unlocked the inner door.

        I entered the pod and looked around, nodding as the guard told me which
bunk I'd have.  It didn't matter; prisoners generally obtained whichever bunks
they wanted based on different factors.  The bunks were laid out one atop
another, set in varying angles around the pod.  All told, each pod could house
twenty-two inmates.

        At the back (taking the doors as "front") were the showering and toilet
facilities, all stainless steel contraptions.  Near the doors was the one
television, mounted high in a corner, and two picnic tables.

        I headed toward a bunk in the back, looking at each inmate in turn.

        Incarceration, no matter what else might be told about it, is truly
another society, with its own rules and customs.  The MOMENT you enter the pod,
you are subject to them, and they cover EVERYthing, including looking at each
other.  Look at an inmate for too long, and you're being overly aggressive.  Too
little, and you become prey.  Each jail--even each pod--operates a little
differently, but a good rule of thumb is to make eye contact for only one
second, then look away.  Not DOWN, but away.  Never down.

        I knew what kind of image I presented; long hair unkempt, shaggily
sitting on my head like a nest made by a psychotic bird, a month's worth of
beard on my face.  I had to be seen as nonthreatening, but not as prey, either.
It's a delicate balance, one that even I had to consciously think about every
moment.

        I made my bunk quietly, nodding to the man sitting on the bunk below
mine.  I noticed he was reading a tattered book that, according to the cover,
promised to contrast and compare Kant with Freud to find the truth.  Not a bad
choice, and not an unexpected one.

        People who know of incarceration only from television and movies have
this idea that inmates are an uncouth, barbaric lot--which in a way isn't
untrue.  However, the same variety of mentality you find outside of jail or
prison you'll find inside.  Granted, there tend to be more extremes, and you'll
usually find more forms of aggression, but--again, incarceration is its own
society.  If you learn those rules and work with them, you can carve out a not-
terrible life, just as you can "out in the world."

        I finished making my bunk, and looked around again.  All I had to do was
wait.  I estimated it would take three or four days before my prints caught the
right attention, then a week or so before they came for me, so I passed the time
being a good, if a little odd, inmate.

        I played Spades for trays (food trays, which are the highest form of
currency in jail because they are the one thing EVERYone has.  Smoking had long
since been done away with in the jail, and not everyone has money for
commissary--the thrice-weekly cart that comes around with outrageous prices on
things.  Everyone has their food trays, though), making sure to lose more often
than I won, generally stuck to the walls when we were out in the recreation
yard, and in every other way tried to just fit in without being obtrusive.  That
is harder than it sounds.

        My second day, just as I finished shaving myself clean, I was told I had
a visitor, and pulled out of the pod to be directed to the visiting area.  When
I arrived, Scourge was waiting for me on the other side of the Plexiglas, and I
had to hide a smile.

        She looked not too dissimilar from her normal appearance as C.E.O.,
though the suit was a little less expensive-looking, and there was the addition
of the "brooch" in the design of the stylized phoenix rising from flames.  She
was my court-appointed attorney, I was told, just before we each picked up the
solid, black handset.

        Technically, discussions between an attorney and their client are
supposed to be privileged (within certain boundaries), and I highly doubted a
small county like Grayson would have cared enough to spend the money on any sort
of eavesdropping system--but you never know.  I didn't get to where I was by
throwing caution to the wind.

        We spoke in code, substituting legal terms for non-legal ideas, and it
was in this method that she told me she had heard about government agents
starting to investigate the "trails" in Sherman, how things were going at the
estate, and such.  I was somewhat disheartened to hear that Agrippa was taking
my absence particularly hard, but my favored pet was doing her best to console
him, so that was pleasant news.

        The conversation only lasted for about fifteen minutes, the length
allowed by the jail, then I headed back to my pod.

        I had finally figured out who was allied to whom and why.  It's not
quite how one would expect; while the races generally kept to their own, it
wasn't as strict in jail as it was in prison.  I myself allied with the only two
Mexicans, who themselves were allied with the four blacks.  They were tied
through their small numbers and similar charges (drug-possession and the sales
thereof, while the whites were variations on "disorderly conduct").  I was
fluent enough in Spanish, and we would chat now and then, with them
diplomatically ignoring my random outbursts of anti-alien (in the
extra-terrestrial sense) ranting, so spewed to keep up the illusion of being
vaguely crazy.

        I was careful to cultivate a reputation of just being crazy ENOUGH to
make an attack an undesirable proposition, though without seeming too crazy to
get along with.  When someone is a few tacos short of a combination platter, you
can never REALLY know whether you'll win in a fight against them, even if you
have five guys behind you.  Also, attacks in jails have to be swift, else
they're broken up before you, as the attacker, get your "message" across.
Further, inmates are housed according to their status; I was kept in a pod
devoted to those who were relatively low-risk.  Everyone generally wanted to
stay in that status, as the higher the risk you were deemed, the fewer
privileges you had.

        Almost a fortnight after my admission to the pod, I was told I had
a visitor.  This--was odd, though odd in an expected way.  Being just after
supper, it was well past visiting hours, so I knew who it had to be.

        I was led to the recreation yard and not-too-politely "encouraged"
through the door.  The only other people out there was a man and woman in
government-issue suits, complete with the plain tie and square sunglasses.  The
female agent stood near the wall by the door I entered through, with a
deferential mien about her.

        I studied the man as carefully as he studied me while I slowly walked
toward him.

        The "rec yard" was a square hole of a place, enclosed on all sides by
cinder block walls, the top open to the elements.  Each wall had numerous
windows and one door, though the windows had blinds over them.  At the moment,
the blinds were closed.

        "'Jacob Greene', eh?" said the man, smiling at me.

        "It fits," I replied, stopping a couple of yards away from him and
letting my hands dangle loosely at my sides.

        "And let me guess, none of the ties you have to Sherman are legitimate."

        I only shrugged.

        "Man of few words, eh?  Well, glad to see you haven't changed."

        "What do you want."  Phrased as a statement, not a question.

        "You, of course."  He actually chuckled.  "You didn't think we'd let you
get away THAT easily, did you?  Of course you didn't.  Your profile says you're
far too intelligent for that.  My partner here--" he gestured toward the female
agent, "--thought you had tripped up, thought you made a mistake, which landed
you here."

        I glanced at the woman, noticing now that she was a good few years
younger than the male agent.  "I trust you corrected her," I commented as I
looked back to the man.

        "Of course.  I told her that you had finally realized we were going to
find you, so you decided to make it happen on your own terms, as far away from
your base of operations as possible.  Tell me, though--where IS your real base?
London?  California??  Australia?"

        I allowed a tiny smile to form on my lips as I said, "Surely you don't
expect me to answer that."

        That smile was returned, a friendly look that belied the power play at
work.  "No, I suppose I don't."

        His partner, until now immobile and stone-faced, altered her position
just slightly.  This caught the man's attention, and he gave her a placating
smile before looking back to me.  "Agent Harrison there wants me to hurry things
along, and I can't argue with her."

        "Fresh out of the academy, I take it?" I asked, noting that just the
FAINTEST hint of color came to the blonde's cheeks.

        "Indeed," replied the man, smiling a touch wider.  "You're a special
case, so she can be forgiven.  There are so few like you, you know, as 'special'
as you are."

        "What do you mean?"  That had caught my interest.  I didn't think he was
talking about Scourge, but even if he were, he wouldn't have said "few".

        "What, did you think you were the only--well, I guess we can only say
'super-human' around?"

        I scoffed and crossed my arms over my chest.  "Please.  You've been
reading too many comic books."

        "Oh, it's true that we don't have Superman and Captain America and
whatever else.  In fact, we--as a planet--have something much--different.  But
that's not something you should worry about right now."

        I arched a brow again, though stayed silent.

        "What you should concern yourself with is why we're here."

        "It's not that hard to figure out.  You want me back--you want my
'friend'."

        "Well.  Yes and no.  We do want you and your 'friend' back, but we're
quite willing to co-operate with you.  We could, of course, take your friend
back by force--but why should we?  You work well as a team, better than we'd
ever imagined.  On the other hand, we can't have you running around doing as you
please.  Sooner or later, you're going to get into a situation where the world
at large knows about you, and we can't have that.  Further, there was a REASON
we wanted you and your friend together in the first place."

        "You want an assassin."

        He pursed his lips, though there was a twinkle in his eyes, just barely
visible behind the dark lenses of the sunglasses.  "I wouldn't use such an--
aggressive--word, but I suppose it fits close enough."

        I scoffed again.  What IS it about the government and their word-games?
Back during the Clinton scandal, everyone laughed or mocked the near-pedantry
in defining this or that word--but it's closer to the truth of the American
government than many people realize.

        "What word WOULD you use?" I asked in a mocking tone.

        "Mmmm--'agent'?  I think that fits pretty well.  We want an agent to go
where we can't but must, to do what we can't but must."

        "Don't you have trained spies for that?"

        "Oh, of course, but the whole 'we will disavow all knowledge of you if
you fail' isn't as productive as you might think.  It's not easy, or cheap, to
train an operative, and if we do that only to turn around and burn them--well,
you go through operatives quite quickly, in some cases needlessly.  In other
cases you create an enemy who will use everything you gave them against you."

        "So you want someone who you don't have to pretend you don't know
anything about because even if he doesn't succeed in your 'mission', he'll
always be able to return to you."

        "Precisely."

        I scoffed a third time.  "And why should I be your 'agent'?"

        "Why shouldn't you?  You'd have the backing of your own government in
whatever--almost--you wish to do on your own time, and you'd be proving your
patriotism."

        "But I'm not patriotic, at least not to YOUR government."

        Another smile appeared on the agent's face, this one more patronizing.
"Well, true, but we could make it so life here in the United States would be--
shall we say--an undesirable prospect?  We have ties to every first-world nation
on the planet, so you would find no home for yourself nearly anywhere save a
third-world nation--and I really don't see you accepting Sharia law.  You--well.
You are your own man, let's say.  And you'd have to yield to others at every
turn, something I don't see sitting all that well with you."

        He had a point.  I barely tolerated the "rule" of the guards in the
jail, and that was only because I knew it wouldn't be long, and it was a means
to an end.

        I looked squarely at the man for a few long moments.  I half-thought
about making a stink about how I didn't really know they were agents, but that
would have just been an insult to my own intelligence.  While someone COULD have
managed this little visit who wasn't an actual agent of some initialized agency
or another, the odds against it were extreme as to be ludicrous.  It would,
really, only be my effectively stamping my foot and holding my breath.  Such
behavior was far beneath me.

        Finally, I said, "What do you want?"  This said more inquisitively, to
which the agent smiled anew.

        "Wonderful.  Your first assignment will be one Ejaz Arbab.  It's long
since stopped being a name and has become a title instead.  Suffice to say, the
current Ejaz Arbab has information we want, information about the Taliban.  Your
job will be to convince him to give us that information."

        "How?"

        "All in good time, Mister 'Greene'.  For now, suffice to say that you
will have, for you, pleasurable company while you're there, though you mustn't
of course forget your job.  You'll be freed from here tomorrow, and taken to be
briefed."

        I didn't get a chance to say anything else.  His partner lightly rapped
on the window behind her, and a different guard entered to lead me back to my
pod.  The last thing I saw was the male agent's smile.

        True to his word, the very next day I was released, though not quite in
the fashion I expected.  I was told I was being transferred to another facility,
but when I got into the back of the van, I saw a man about my build, with a damn
close copy of my face, in an orange jumpsuit.  There were three federal agents
in the van as well, and the other inmate looked from me to them.  Apparently,
while he wasn't told much he did have some intelligence, as he started thrashing
and screaming.

        An agent shoved a syringe into his neck, and in five seconds he slumped
over, unconscious.  We rode for a little while, then stopped.  I was let out
into an alley, my shackles removed and a set of clothes tossed to me.  After
changing, I was "escorted" to a nondescript station wagon, the kind you wouldn't
expect any agency to use.  I was glad that the "unmarked" cars seemed to be a
ruse against the public in general, and that they used truly unremarkable cars.
Certainly made more sense.

        Driving the car was the female agent I'd met before, with the male agent
in the passenger seat.  Surprisingly, no one got into the back of the car with
me.  I questioned that.

        "Where would you go?" said the male agent.  "You would either lead us
back to your base of operations, or stay on the run.  Neither of which is a good
idea, obviously, so why waste the manpower?"

        I had to admit it was a good point.  On the other hand, they didn't know
just how well a team my symbiote and I made, so I was confident I could lead any
pursuers on a wild goose chase if it came to it.  But to what end?  I would be
right back where I was before, waiting for them to knock on my door.  No, it was
better to deal with this now.

        We rode in silence, until the male agent looked at his watch then
switched on the radio.  After fiddling with the tuner, I heard a news report of
a fatal car accident on the highway.  The only casualty was an inmate from
Grayson County Jail.

        The male agent caught my eye over his shoulder and flashed a smile.  I
had to return one of my own; I appreciated the ruthlessness with which the
affair had been carried out.  I even--though I would never have said this
aloud--had to admit to a bit of respect for this operation.  They were serious
when they said they wanted me.

        We headed into Dallas, eventually arriving at a small skyscraper.  Agent
Harrison parked in the underground structure, then we all exited the car and the
male agent motioned me toward an elevator.

        "It occurs to me," I said conversationally to the male agent as we
waited for the elevator car to arrive, "I don't even know your name."

        That brought another smile to his lips, and he said, "Agent Harold
Richards.  You can call me Harry, if I can call you Toby."  I gave a short nod,
along with a small smile.  "Good.  I do want us to be friends, Toby."

        Eventually I was taken to a conference room, with men and women of
various ages.  Three chairs were conspicuously empty--two to the left of the
apparent leader, and one to his right.  Harrison and Richards took the seats to
the man's left, leaving the one to his right for me.  I took it, looking at each
agent in turn.

        The table was large and long, seating nearly thirty people.  Behind the
apparent leader was a laptop hooked up to a projector.  Introductions were curt,
and none of the other agents were as friendly as Richards.  At least the
leader--a rotund man by the name of Morris--shook my hand, though that was where
the friendliness ended.

        We got right to work.  As an agent tapped on the laptop's keyboard, on
the screen behind Morris appeared maps and photographs.

        "This," said Morris, "is the current Ejaz Arbab."  He was a man looking
to be in his late-fifties, with the bright outfit and warm demeanor one usually
expects of the Pakistan societies, if one only knows of the people from the
various series on the Travel Channel and the like.  He was shaking hands with
another man, pointing somewhere off-camera.

        "Ejaz Arbab--once known as Rafae Sohail Malik--is one of the largest
slave traders in Jamrud.  He has ties to everything from drug-smuggling to arms-
smuggling, though himself sticks to slavery."

        The screen changed to what I would have called an auction.  People sat
behind a long, low table, as nude girls were on a dais.  An elderly woman behind
them was frozen with her hand in the air.

        "This is the auction house in his compound, where girls of all ages are
sold.  Up until last year, he stuck to his part of the world, but we recently
discovered that they have been smuggling the girls into the United States."

        The screen changed again, this time to show Arbab with--I managed to not
let my jaw drop, but it wasn't easy.  Arbab was seen chatting with the guide
from the Delphi Project, at J.F.K. International Airport in New York City.
Thankfully the other agents were focused on the screen and not me.  I'd managed
to retain my composure in the milliseconds it took for any attention to leave
the screen and return to me.

        "We don't yet know who this man is, but we're convinced he's a person of
interest."  Government-speak for someone who would effectively be a prisoner if
and when caught, though not called such.  I had to warn him, and--thankfully--I
knew just how to do that.

        More photographs, a few short movies.  I was given detailed information
on Arbab and his compound, including a full psychological profile on him and
every major player who worked for him.

        Agent Morris turned back to me.  "You leave tonight and--"  I cut him
off.

        "Can't do that.  You want a team, but you only have half of the team," I
said, hiding my pleasure at the surprised looks I got.  I glanced at Richards.
"As I'm sure Agent Richards here can tell you--I'm not stupid.  I didn't let
myself be captured with my 'friend'.  He's somewhere safe, waiting for me to
pick him up."

        Morris' jaw set firmly, though after a beat it relaxed again.  "And you
expect us to let you go to some undisclosed location to retrieve him?"

        "Of course not.  You're not that stupid, either.  I will happily let
agents accompany me to the location, though I will go inside alone.  However,
I will be in plain view at all times, and I'm quite sure you can have a bullet
in my skull the moment I even THOUGHT about fleeing."

        Morris looked around at the other agents, then turned back to me and
said, "Wait outside."  It wasn't a request.

        A pair of armed agents arrived and escorted me out to the hall, where I
leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, simply waiting.  I was, of course,
lying through my teeth when I said I didn't have the symbiote.  They couldn't
detect it, and they didn't know I'd been sneaking chocolate at the jail.  Trays
traded to pod-mates who were friends with Trustees (the term for prisoners who
worked in the jail and had privileges--such as real chocolate bars from vending
machines) meant my symbiote was good and stocked up on phenethylamine.

        After about thirty minutes, Agent Richards exited the conference room
and beckoned me back inside.  I sat back down next to Agent Morris.

        "This is the deal," he said, tone making it quite clear that this WAS
going to be the deal, with no room for negotiation.  "You will be accompanied by
four agents at all times.  When you leave their company, it will be for no
longer than they deem appropriate, and if you do not follow their instructions
TO THE LETTER, you WILL be killed.  Am I clear?"

        "Yes, sir."

        He nodded, then glanced at Richards.  "Everything set?"

        "Yes."

        "Alright.  Go.  And I want him--" he nodded to me, "--on that plane as
soon as possible."

        Richards got to his feet and I did the same, then we left.

        Richards, Harrison, and the two agents who had taken me to the hall all
left, to go back to the underground parking structure.  This time we headed to
a minivan, and I was directed to the middle seat, with Richards and Harrison in
front, one of the nameless agents beside me, and the other behind me.

        I directed them to a U.P.S. Store downtown, and after they had a look at
the place, let me go in unaccompanied.  I was told that there was a strict time
limit, and I would be in their cross-hairs--literally, as I was shown when one
of the nameless agents pulled out a sniper rifle--the entire time.

        I made my way inside and talked to the woman behind the counter--who
was, of course, Scourge.  She looked nothing like "Marie", here, to the point
where if I didn't know beforehand, even I would have been fooled.  She acted
quite normal for an employee of the store, as I quietly filled her in one what
was going on, and what else I needed her to do.  It would be up to her to warn
the guide of the Project that they were coming under federal watch.  I was
confident they had the ability to brush it aside, through their various contacts
with high-ranking officials.

        Scourge handed me a package and I took it to a side counter to open it,
making sure to inhale deeply and arch my back a little, so the agents watching
from the van would assume I was re-joining with the symbiote.  I then pulled out
a couple of candy bars and gave Scourge some last instructions as I tossed the
box away and headed back out to the van.

        "Ready?" said Richards as I slid back into the middle seat, one of the
nameless agents sliding beside me again.

        "Yes, we are," I said, smiling.  I had to remember to use the plural
personal pronouns, to keep up the charade.

        Richards just nodded and pulled out a cell phone, then as he confirmed
my re-joining with whomever was on the other end, we headed to the airport.

        During the flight, I was given a compact-disc player and a series of
C.D.s to help learn the languages I would be expected to use, as well as a few
on items of cultural interest.

        I was awoken by Richards when we landed at Jinnah International Airport,
and he gave me directions for where to pick up my baggage, and what baggage I'd
be picking up, then I was sent off.

        In the baggage claim area, a young man approached me rather hesitantly.
"Mister Henderson?" he said in heavily accented English, using the pseudonym I
was given by the agents.

        "<Yes,>" I replied in Urdu, making the young man grow more relaxed.

        He shook my hand firmly, saying, "<I must offer the most humble
apologies on behalf of Ejaz Arbab, for his being unable to meet you, personally.
He unfortunately had a meeting he could not leave.>"

        I grinned and went to grab two suitcases, but the young man was quicker
and took them for me.  "<I am pleased to know that Ejaz Arbab takes his duties
so seriously,>" I said pleasantly, making the young man smile widely as he led
me through the airport.

        Outside, I was led to a white sedan; an older model, but in impeccable
condition.  He put my suitcases into the trunk, then hurried to open the back
door for me.  I grinned when I looked inside.  On the seat was a candy bar.
That meant my plans were in place and proceeding smoothly.

        I sat down and idly munched on the bar as the young man drove through
the city, pointing out interesting sites.  He asked if I was hungry, and said he
knew of many places visitors liked to eat.

        "<My friend, please--I am a guest of Ejaz Arbab and do not wish to
insult him by eating anything but what he and his people would eat.>"  That
pleased the young man as well, and we ended up going through some back roads
until we arrived at what in my home country I would call a hole-in-the-wall.

        It was a small establishment, with wooden tables and stools that one
would check for splinters before sliding in.  I gave my guide--whose name,
incidentally, was Muhammed Saleem Irfan--the direction to choose my meal for me,
and, being lunch, he went with the traditional "aloo gosht" (a meat and potato
curry) with chicken qorma and qehwa (a traditional green tea) to drink.

        If one has the chance to eat an authentic Pakistani meal, I cannot
endorse it strongly enough.  The flavors are rich--no fast food and certainly
most American restaurants can ever compare.  If you've had real home-cooking,
even in America, you know what I'm talking about.  It's the difference between
a taco made in an authentic Mexican kitchen and something from Taco Bell.

        After the meal we relaxed, and my companion was pleased that I wasn't in
a rush.  If there's one major complaint the rest of the world has about
America--leaving out the political complaints--it's that we have no sense of
patience, no appreciation for spending time on anything.  Rush-rush-rush, that's
what the rest of the world sees, with a sad shake of their heads.

        I was nothing if not patient, however, so it was quite easy to relax
into my chair and sip my tea.

        We chatted about the state of Pakistani politics, though I, of course,
took a position of uninformed outsider, since that's exactly what I was.

        Eventually we headed off again, heading toward Jamrud.  It would take
the rest of the day to drive, and though we'd miss the traditional time for
supper I was promised a hearty meal in Ejaz Arbab's compound to make up for it.

        The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time we made it
to the compound, and I saw that it boasted all the traditional amenities one
would expect: Thirty-foot-high walls of baked mud and brick studded with broken
glass, machine-gun nests mounted on squat corner towers, murder slits placed
above the entrance, and a heavy steel gate complete with surly, machine-gun-
toting guards.  Little differentiated it from other compounds that lined the
dusty Khyber Road to Afghanistan.  I knew that while not all the compounds were
owned by criminals or slavers, most were, and Arbab was one of the wealthiest by
either standard.

        Inside, of course, it was far more welcoming.  A wide courtyard with a
tall fountain in the middle, a mansion on other side of the fountain from the
entrance, a warehouse-like building off to the side.

        Ejaz Arbab himself was descending the steps from the mansion, arms
spread wide in welcome.  "<Mister Henderson!>" he called out jovially as Irfan
opened my door.  "<I am most pleased to welcome you to my humble home!>"

        I stepped out and grinned, going to him and offering a light embrace.  I
knew him to be a man whose bonhomie to friends was surpassed only by his
ruthlessness to enemies.  A man after my own heart.

        He ushered me inside, saying, "<You will of course have time to rest and
'settle in' as you Americans say, then we will feast!  It is a joyous time, to
have a man of your stature here!>"

        My "cover story" was that I was a slaver, myself, looking to create an
alliance with Arbab.  I couldn't help but admire whichever federal agency I was
a pawn for.  Something like that must have taken MONTHS to set up--and they did
it without yet even knowing where I was.  They were certainly a determined,
strategic group.  I realized I was, at best, only one full step ahead of them.
That very evening would tell me for sure.

        I was taken to a large bedroom--almost as large as my own bedroom in my
own mansion--where Irfan put my suitcases at the foot of the large bed and left,
then Arbab took my hands in a friendly gesture and told me to come down when I
was ready.

        There really wasn't much to do in the bedroom; I put my clothes in the
armoire then looked out of the small window.  It faced the back of the property,
and I could see what looked like barracks for the guards of the estate.

        I'd only been in the room about twenty minutes before I headed back
down, where I was met by a young woman covered in the traditional Shalwar
Qameez, complete with the scarf that covered all but her eyes.  Silently, she
motioned for me to follow her, and she led me out of the mansion into what I'd
thought of as a warehouse.

        I saw I was mistaken; though it had the squat stature of warehouses in
America, inside it was rather opulently decorated.  It was the same room I'd
seen in the photographs in the conference room of the agency, though those did
not do it any justice.  Bright silks hung along the walls, incense providing a
faint but pleasing flowery aroma.

        Near one side was the long and low table I had seen in the photographs,
and in the middle sat Arbab, cross-legged.  At my arrival, he got to his feet
and beckoned me over to sit at his right.  It was a most revered position, and I
caught hints of jealousy in the looks of the other men.  They had surely known
Arbab for quite a while, so for a newcomer--and a foreigner, to boot--to be
given such a position of respect, well.  I was sure they didn't like it.  On the
other hand, I was confident they would do nothing but give those looks, and when
I proved I was their friend, they would become more amicable.

        Once he and I sat down, he clapped his hands twice, and women of
indeterminate ages started bringing out food from a door in the far wall.

        Kebabs of various meats and vegetables were brought out, along with
"matar pulao" (a rice dish with peas), three different kinds of breads, four
different curries, and a host of teas and milks to choose from.  It was a
banquet, really, and after a short invocation by Arbab, we dug in.

        I knew, from the very first bite, that I was ruined for "fast food".  I
had thought my earlier lunch was delightful--but it was nothing compared to
this.  This meal must have been started that morning, or perhaps even the
previous day.  The meat was simply WONDERFUL--beef, lamb, and chicken, all
seasoned differently but I would have been hard-pressed to say which I
preferred.

        I conversed in Urdu with the others, which they found pleasing.  I made
no attempt at English, respecting that it's their land, so their language.  I
was even given friendly advice on how to pronounce certain vowels, and some of
the men found humor in my attempts, though it was a warm sort of humor.

        About halfway through the meal, once the initial hungers were sated, the
auction began.

        Arbab walked up to the dais, acknowledging his more prominent guests on
the way.  The side door at the other end of the room opened, and a wizened older
woman in black brought a small girl up to the stage.  She was slight and shy,
and couldn’t have been more than fourteen--though few present knew the real ages
of the girls.  Her skin looked a little red, like it had been scrubbed too
vigorously with a loofah, and her hair still looked damp.  She wore only a
Qameez--a knee-length tunic common in that part of the world.

        Arbab fingered his prayer beads as he gave a short history of the girl.
Not only was she a virgin, he noted, but she was "untouched," meaning that she
had not had anal sex with her previous Master--a common practice.  The fact that
the girl was "untouched," combined with her lighter skin and blue-green eyes,
made her particularly prized.

        The bidding started quickly.  About fifteen minutes into the bidding,
one of the buyers asked for an inspection.  The elderly woman removed the girl's
tunic, fingered the child’s breasts, and then shined a flashlight into her open
mouth to show that she had a good set of teeth.  Bidding resumed with a certain
intensity; I noticed some of the men rubbing themselves.

        Of the fifteen or so girls sold before the first "intermission", only
four were "untouched."  All were virgins, because, as Arbab said, "<I only buy
the best.>"  And I knew he made piles of money doing it.  Though his agents
would buy the girls for between the equivalent of eighty and a hundred dollars
at the borders, the prices at the auction was considerably higher.  The
fourteen-year-old was sold for one hundred and sixty-five thousand Pakistani
rupees, or nearly two thousand American dollars.  I heard it whispered that the
girl was going to Dubai (presumably to become a member of a harem).

        Others were not so lucky.  Another girl, a tall eighteen-year-old virgin
with long black hair and light eyes, was sold to a prostitution ring in Lahore.
Though a virgin, she had been "touched," and so sold for the equivalent of only
about a thousand dollars.  Although men at the auction ostensibly are paying for
the right to marry the girls, few, if any. do.  Most of the girls would become
prostitutes; the lucky became domestic help.

        At the intermission, men pulled out pipes and cigarettes, chatting
amongst themselves as Arbab's servant girls cleared the plates.  There was talk
of a special surprise amongst the men, and I hid my smile; I knew what the
surprise would be, and I was relieved.  It meant that everything really was
going according to plan, and I was indeed at least one full step ahead of the
federal agents I was ostensibly working for.

        Arbab was busy talking with the man to his left, so I chatted with the
man to my right.  Like most of the buyers present, he was distantly related to
(the current) Arbab, though unlike most he was well-traveled.  We discussed the
cultural differences between Pakistan and America, England, and such.

        Eventually Arbab called for everyone's attention as he headed back to
the dais.  He was most pleased and honored, he said, to announce a special
guest, and he gave a short summary of all the man had done for Arbab.  They had
quite a history, one of the few Americans who shared Arbab's vision and goals.

        From the side door in the back entered the guide from the Delphi
Project, and I didn't bother hiding my smile.  He stepped up next to Arbab,
looking somewhat uncomfortable at the attention.  He was a man used to being in
the background, so having the proverbial spotlight on him was a somewhat
different experience.

        After he introduced himself, a herd of twenty or so girls, none older
than thirteen, were brought out.  They wore the traditional tunics, which
contrasted nicely with their pale skin tones and lighter hair colors.

        The bidding began almost ferociously.  None were "touched", all were
virgins, and the cheapest girl went for the equivalent of over five thousand
dollars.  The most expensive went for nearly twenty.

        It was a rather exuberant affair, the last half of the auction, and saw
Arbab's eyes twinkle in pleasure.  I wondered how much of the sales he received
as his "cut".  Judging the Project's guide as a people-pleasing sort, preferring
keeping friendly contacts over money, I wouldn't have been surprised if it was
nearly fifty percent.

        When it was all over, the men started to leave with their prizes in tow,
the ones with the American girls positively radiating happiness.  The girls
would be quite the status symbols, I knew, especially as well-trained as they
were sure to be.  They bowed respectfully to their new Masters as the leashes
were handed over.

        As the night edged toward morning, Arbab bid the Project guide and
myself to accompany him.  We were taken to the rear of the mansion, where there
was an awning and comfortable chairs waiting.  We were offered tobacco pipes,
which I accepted only because I didn't want to offend my host, and in such a
country as that, it was always preferable to accept anything your host offers.

        As we got settled, I noticed the Project guide conversed in Urdu quite
easily.  I, symbiote to help or not, still had trouble with certain sounds, but
the guide spoke with no trace of American accent.  He must have studied for most
of his life, I decided.

        Eventually the topic turned to me, as I knew it would.  Arbab would have
been filled in nearly completely about the truth of my presence, but I was
counting on his friendship and alliance with the Delphi Project to let him not
have me attacked or whatever else.  My trust was well-placed, I was relieved to
see.

        "<My good friend here tells me you are in a bind,>" said Arbab, to which
I nodded, allowing a sheepish look to color my features.

        "<That is true,>" I agreed.

        "<He also says you are here to gather information your would-be
'employers' wish for their war with the Taliban.  With thanks to Allah, this is
easy.>"  He snapped his fingers at a nearby woman, who brought over a thick
manila envelope.

        I took it and glanced at the contents.  Names, dates, phone transcripts,
photographs; all sorts of information relating to the current whereabouts of the
Taliban.

        "<I am most thankful for this information, Arbab,>" I said sincerely.

        The man waved a hand dismissively, taking a deep drag of his pipe.  "<It
is nothing.  I have no friends in the Taliban, since their war with America has
brought too much of I and my friends' activities under too much attention.>"

        The guide spoke up, then, saying, "<Of course, my old and dear friend,
you will be repaid for your help.  My friend here and I will not hear of your
refusal.>"  This made Arbab smile, and the guide made a motion to one of his own
nearby girls.

        She rushed off around the mansion, and I could see the anticipation in
Arbab, though he tried to hide it.  In a few minutes, the guide's girl returned,
accompanied by five young girls, looking to range in age from around seven to
ten.  They wore nothing but collars, each attached to the next with a thick
chain, the foremost attached to a leash.

        The guide said, "<These, my friend, are for you.  As you can see, they
are the choicest of the lot I've brought.>"

        Arbab nearly leapt to his feet and inspected the girls, testing their
breasts, pussies, and mouths.  "<Delightful!>" he exclaimed as the leash was
handed to him.

        "<Only the best for you, my oldest friend.>"

        I wondered just how old their friendship was.  They had an easy way of
interacting, what I'd never seen before in men who weren't closely related.
Yet, they displayed no physical traits I would expect from actual relatives, not
a one.

        Arbab had his girl take the "gifts" into his mansion, and eased himself
back into his chair, clasping the Project guide's hand tightly.  "<This is far
more than I deserve, old friend, but I shall not insult you by refusing.>"  That
made us all chuckle.  He turned more serious--though only a little--as he
focused his attention back onto me.  "<You--are in a most precarious position, I
understand,>" he said as he re-lit his pipe.

        I nodded, saying, "<This is, unfortunately, true.  I have been pressed
into service against my wishes.  I am thankful we have a mutual friend, so you
could know the truth.>"  Truth and respect were more valuable than money in
Jamrud, especially to a man like Arbab.

        "<Ah, this is true,>" replied Arbab, grinning to the Project guide.  "<I
have known this man since he was but a boy, and I am honored and pleased to help
him--and thus you--in any way I possibly can.>"

        I glanced to the guide who discretely nodded, then I leaned toward
Arbab.  "<I am glad to hear you say this, my friend, for I need some help.  Too
much longer being under the American government's thumb, and they will cease
with even the pretense of my 'co-operating' with them.>"  Arbab nodded in
agreement, and the three of us started to plan.


                        *              *              *


        Three weeks later, I was walking out of the plane into L.A.X., with
Agents Richards and Harrison accompanying me.  They were looking through the
most recent files I'd brought back, both quite pleased.  There had already been
quite a few mid-ranking members "obtained" and held who-knew-where, thanks to
the information I'd funneled to them during my stay.

        We walked through the airport and had just stepped outside when a group
of men and women stepped up.  The leader flashed her badge--another nondescript
federal badge--and pulled Richards aside.  I could only grin.

        Thanks to the Project guide as well as Ejaz Arbab, I'd discovered that
my would-be "handlers" worked for the National Security Agency, or N.S.A.  Next
to nothing about them is known to the public, and they answer to NO ONE.  Quite
the agency you want when you need something done that even the C.I.A. or F.B.I.
can't handle without getting a proverbial black eye.

        However, they also were generally disliked by pretty much every other
initialized agency out there.  As I was funneling information to Richards and
his fellows, I was funneling other information to the C.I.A.  They found it
quite interesting that the N.S.A. had operatives involved in such things as
child slavery.

        Arbab was kind enough to sacrifice a few shipments to the C.I.A., to
give them enough evidence to go after the N.S.A.  He was a man I believed I
would come to truly value as an ally.  Tales of what he did to enemies were
legendary; he was far more creative when it came to enemies than friends.  I'd
hoped I never had to find out how true that was first-hand.

        The C.I.A. had received flash drives with photographs and recorded phone
conversations between Richards and myself.  There was, of course, nothing that
would have held up anywhere NEAR an actually judicial court, but agencies that
dealt in situations not altogether dissimilar could read between the lines, as
it were, and know what was going on.

        Richards and Harrison were "escorted" toward a waiting sedan, as the
female agent in charge pulled me off to the side.

        "Hey," I said, calmly but sternly, "I'm a ghost.  That was the deal.  I
hand you those who can lead you to high-ranking officials in charge of all these
illegal activities, and you let me go."

        She took off her sunglasses and without hurry folded the stems closed
before slipping them into her breast pocket.  I found I liked her with the
sunglasses on better.  They helped provide a nice contrast to her shoulder-
length black hair.

        "Look, Mister Greene, how do I know you're not going to rabbit as far
away from us as you can?"

        "You don't.  In fact, that's EXACTLY what I'm going to do.  But you've
been given gigs and gigs of information against Morris and his underlings."  I
adopted a firmer tone.  "Besides, you don't want me.  You want them.  With me,
all you'd get is more hassle than you want to deal with."

        She arched a brow, looking perhaps a little surprised that I would be
so brusque.  "Are you threatening us, Mister Greene?"

        "No.  Just making sure we both understand the situation.  You leave me
alone, I fade away far away from you.  You don't, you're going to get a public-
relations debacle that will make Watergate look pathetically small in
comparison.  All I want--ALL I want--is to be left alone.  They--" I nodded over
her shoulder to the departing sedan with Richards and Harrison, "--made the
mistake of thinking they could control me.  OWN me.  You, as yet, don't know who
I really am--and there's a reason for that.  I'm not a serial murder, I'm not
some major drug-lord.  ALL I want is to be left alone."

        She smiled at me, then, though it wasn't by any stretch a friendly look.
"You think we don't know you, hmm?  Tobias Jeffrey Moore, not-so-recent prison
inmate on numerous counts of rape both statutory and otherwise, suspect in four
arsons and three unrelated murders.  That about cover it?"

        I didn't bother suppressing the grin.  "Not even close."  That made her
brow arch a tiny bit higher.  "You'll get all the information you need from
Morris and his people, I should think.  After that, you can tell your superiors
that letting me go and honoring our deal was the right thing to do."

        She narrowed her eyes, as if looking upon me in a new light.  I couldn't
tell if it was anger or respect in her eyes, but I'd take either one.  I didn't
care.  Soon enough I'd be out of the United States, and far from any country
with anything LIKE an extradition agreement.

        After a few long, tense moments, she smiled once more and stepped aside.
I nodded to her as I walked away, forcing myself to keep a nonchalant pace.  I
used a pay phone to call a cab, watching as the C.I.A. agents took to their cars
and left.  I ALMOST missed the female agent tapping her sunglasses as she looked
at me.  The message was clear; she'd be watching me.

        When the cab arrived I hopped in and threw a few hundred-dollar-bills at
the driver (from the wallet I nicked from Agent Richards) to get him to step on
the gas and take me to Santa Barbara.

        I watched the ocean as we traveled up the One-Oh-One, not even wanting
to think about how long it had been since I'd been home last.  And there was
still so much to do.  I wouldn't be able to really relax for some time, yet.

        I had the driver let me out downtown, since it was well after dark, and
I sped the rest of the way on foot.  I knew to head around the mansion to the
back of the property.  My arrival was first noticed by Scourge, though her
turning toward me had alerted our favored pet.

        The teen flew across the grass and leapt into my arms, making me laugh
as she smothered my face in kisses.  "YOU'RE HOME!" she screeched into my ear,
and though I was sure I'd be a bit deaf in that ear, but it was worth it.  I was
home.

        I kissed the fourteen-year-old deeply, enjoying the feel of her naked
flesh, bronzed and taut from years of being bared to the elements, against me.
she had grown quite well in the years since I first collared her, quite fit and
toned from years of healthy eating and regular exercise.

        Scourge jogged up to me, hugging me fiercely.  I freed a hand to squeeze
her ass under the deliciously-short skirt.  This moment of home-coming joy
couldn't last, however.

        "Are we ready, my Queen?" I asked Scourge as my pet nuzzled into my arm.

        "Almost, our King," she replied, motioning ahead of me.  Dozens of
crates of every size were being loaded into the back of a moving truck.  "This
is the last.  The horses are already loaded onto the plane."  I had hoped
Scourge's research into safe tranquilizers for horses was thorough; I certainly
didn't want the horses to come out of the journey worse for wear.

        "What about--?"  My question was cut of by the answer thundering toward
me at full-tilt.  I barely had time to dump my pet into Scourge's arms.

        On the list of things to avoid in life, being tackled by a full-grown
tiger running at full speed has to be somewhere near the top.  Even my symbiote
couldn't protect me as I was shoved onto my back and skidded a good yard.  It
was only thanks to my symbiote that I was even able to BREATHE.  In a fit of
petulance, Agrippa leaned most of his weight on my chest, and it was only due to
a proverbial mad scramble of the symbiote that I could get enough air in my
lungs to wheeze and try and shove the cat off of me.

        Naturally, I was quite ineffectual in that attempt, and it was only when
he was damn good and ready did he finally move.  Just before he did, he snorted
a warm breath into my face, making sure I understood that he was Very Not Happy
at my prolonged absence.

        "Yes, you big oaf," I muttered through a smile as I got to my feet.  "I
know I've been gone a while.  But, with luck, that won't happen again."

        "Master, he wouldn't even PLAY, until you came home," said my pet,
reaching out to scritch Agrippa behind the ears.

        "Well, I'm here, now."  I did, though, have to spend a few minutes
scritching the tiger, and he slowly lost his displeasure.  I was quite confident
he wouldn't let me forget my long absence for quite a while, but at least he
wasn't being a jerk about it.  I'd get the feline version of the cold-shoulder
for a while when I wasn't absolutely bathing him in attention, but I was
prepared to accept that.

        Not long after I was at a private airport just outside of Santa Barbara,
watching the last of the crates being loaded onto the large cargo plane.  Our
favored pet led Agrippa into the plane, with Scourge walking up the ramp behind
them.  I'd just shook the Project guide's hand and watched him and the truck
disappear--when a bright fireball blazed through the skies.

        I shielded my eyes against it, and marveled as, of all things, it
descended toward me.  I could just barely glimpse what looked like a humanoid
figure in the center of it.

        The figure landed, and the flames dissipated with a WHOOSH.  I saw that
the man looked almost Egyptian, though he had certain Greek qualities about his
face that didn't quite seem as if he'd had both in his heritage.  Then my
attention was caught--flame-orange hair and eyebrows to match.  The most
disturbing thing, however--wings.  Large wings protruded from his back, though
they didn't quite look like any birds' wings I'd ever seen.

        Weirder still, he wore a costume that covered him completely from the
neck down.  Bright green and cyan, reminding me of ancient depictions of
Egyptian Pharaohs.  Upon closer inspection, he even wore make-up that gave that
impression strength.  The weirdest, most unexpected part of it all--upon his
chest was a depiction of a bird, judging from the flames behind it a phoenix.
Unlike my stylized symbol, this bird had its wings outstretched, each feather
arcing subtly.  It was wreathed in flame, the reds and oranges mingling together
with surprising visual force.  Surprisingly, from a design standpoint, it didn't
clash with the blues and greens of the rest of the get-up.

        "You defile my world with your very presence," growled the man lowly,
glaring at me with eyes the odd shade of burnt sienna.  "Your human host may yet
be allowed to live--but your alien parasite WILL leave."

        His fist was suddenly engulfed in flame, and I got the sudden,
inexplicable yet undeniable impression that whoever and whatever this man was,
he meant what he said.



                              END OF CHAPTER FIVE




