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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is a set-up chapter, of course. Much more to come.
PART ONE: DEPENDENT VARIABLES   

"I am She who dwells in all terror

the strength and the trembling."

—The Thunder, Perfect Mind



Chapter One

Dramatis Personae

 

Major General Mitch Michaelson sat back in his chair and scanned the news idly, yawning and attempting to feign interest. He looked up at the clock—only two, damn it. He couldn't leave before four. Not without arising the ire of General Shortgrass—and he hated when she laid into him. It was almost enough to cause him to resign his commission.

 

Almost.

 

He sighed, thinking for the eightieth time that day how things had turned on him, how he'd been so damned unlucky in Glenview. But it didn't matter now; all he had were the two stars on his shoulder and the paycheck that he received for hanging on long after his superiors—as well as the Secretary of Defense, for that matter—had let it be known that he was no longer welcome. He'd been demoted and shunted off into the bowels of the Pentagon, where he'd been handed a desk and a babysitter, and been ordered to keep out of trouble, and above all else, to keep out of the way of Sweeney, the Joint Task Force, and of course, the Society.

 

A different man would've quit by now, but Michaelson was the same as he'd always been. And when—he always told himself it was "when"—the Society screwed up and the JTF blew it and there was nobody between the White House and those giant bitches, then they'd come down and find him, and they'd have to apologize and eat their condemnations, and he'd have the recognition that he'd been denied.

 

There was a knock at the door.

 

Michaelson sat up with a start. Nobody came to visit him except Shortgrass—and then only when she wanted to reprimand him for sneaking out to the Ground Zero Café while he was supposed to be sulking at his desk.

 

"Come," he said, and the door opened.

 

A comely Naval Lieutenant Commander entered, in spotless Summer Whites. She wore her red hair in a tight bun, a not-uncommon look for female officers. She closed the door, paused, and saluted. "Good afternoon, General Michaelson, sir. Lt. Commander Elizabeth Stonewall, reporting."

 

Michaelson returned the salute, and said, nonplussed, "'Reporting,' Commander?"

 

"Yes, sir. I'm here regarding the Joint Task Force."

 

Michaelson leaned back. "Sit down, Commander."

 

The officer strode to the chair across the desk from Michaelson and eased into it. "Sir, I wanted to discuss the situation regarding the JTF with you."

"Really? What about?"

 

"General, it's important that you not discuss what I'm about to tell you with anyone. My C.O. let me know in no uncertain terms that you were the only one in the Pentagon I could trust on this."

 

Michaelson smiled. "Of course, Commander. I take it you're working with Captain Arakawa, then? He's the only one left who had any respect for me."

 

"Yes, sir. He told me to see you directly."

 

"Interesting, seeing as he's been dead for six months."

 

He had his hand on the phone. "Shortgrass must be slipping if she thought I'd fall for this. Get out, before I call the MPs."

 

"General Shortgrass didn't send me, Michaelson," said the Commander, who was now standing, right palm outstretched.

 

Michaelson looked up and saw the officer anew. She was familiar—remarkably familiar. It was as if he had studied her, had known….

 

He dove left just before she struck, and raised his service revolver in the general direction of his assailant. "Don't make me kill you," he said, hoping she wouldn't realize the gun wasn't loaded.

 

"I wouldn't dream of making you kill me, General. After all, I came here because we both have overlapping interests."

 

"Right. I'm supposed to trust you? Hell, even the Society has you labeled as Public Enemy number one."

 

"That's right," said the woman. "They do. And that doesn't make you wonder, General?"

 

Michaelson paused.

 

"I came to talk, General. I think you and I could benefit by combining our resources to destroy the Society. And then you'll have your sinecure, and I'll have my organization back, unfettered by my erstwhile friends."

 

Michaelson lowered the gun. "What are you proposing?" he asked.

 

Leah Jackson smiled. "Just a brief alliance, a bit of a morality play. In which you come out the victor. And the destruction of the Society and the JTF once and for all—and a return of the U.S. military to the primacy it deserves. The enemy of my enemy, right General?"

 

Michaelson furrowed his brow. "And afterward? When the alliance is done?"

 

"Why, then, General, we reach a détente—a few staged battles here and there, an agreement on spheres of influence and no-go zones—we reach a happy medium, with the League controlling GTS, putting it in its proper place, and with you, the hero who consigned us to our limited control. You'll get the Congressional Medal of Honor when we're through with 'em."

 

Michaelson sighed. "And if I refuse?"

 

"Why, then I kill you, and destroy the Society and the military. But it won't be as easy for me, and I don't relish the thought. Trust me, General, my way is better—for everyone."

 

Michaelson looked at her, sizing her up. He knew that he should go down swinging—that he should fight her at all costs.

 

He knew that. But that wasn't what he did. Instead, he stared her down for a long minute.

 

"All right," he said, finally. "What's the plan?

 

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"Excuse me, ma'am, but you're not allowed up there."

 

A young man jogged across the interior plaza that marked the entryway to the headquarters of the society. He wore the blue shirt-and-slacks combo that had become the uniform of the organization in the past year or so; his right arm bore two stripes, his left a Canadian flag.

 

The woman in question turned, and smiled. "I'm sorry, Trooper. I wasn't thinking. I'm—"

 

"No—I'm sorry," the trooper stammered as he saw her face. "Commander Thiessen—I didn't realize…"

 

"No apology necessary, Trooper—James, is it?" she said, reading his ID badge. She gestured absently. "I just hadn't seen it since the dedication ceremony. It's a good likeness."

 

The trooper followed her gesture to the statue behind her. The sculptor had chosen the moment right before The Coed had struck; it was a wise choice. He was simply standing, serious, arms outstretched before him, waiting to receive her blow.

 

The only thing missing, Teri thought, were the eyes—the sculptor had left them out. No doubt there's meaning in that, she thought. But she wouldn't have minded gazing into them again, even if they were only stone.

 

"I wish I'd had the chance," the trooper said. "Master Adept Chelgren speaks highly of him."

 

"He and Scott were best friends," Teri said simply. Then, "At any rate, I'm here to meet with the Chair; can you direct me?"

 

The young man took her to the elevators; as she walked to them, she looked over to the other side of the entryway, where they were working to ready another setting for another statue.

 

A few minutes later, Commander Teri Thiessen (Isis, inactive) was sitting in the office of the Chair of the Society, who was pacing by a window looking down thirty stories on the city of Chicago.

 

"Thanks for coming, Teri. It's good to see you—I haven't since Ronnie's funeral, you know."

 

"I know. It's been nuts—what with planning, and packing, and house-hunting…."

 

"How are the plans coming, by the way?"

 

"Good, thanks. It's not going to be a big affair—second time around for me, and Mike…well, he's not big on ceremony."

 

"You'll find a spot for me, won't you? I promise, I'll get you a decent gift."

 

Teri laughed. "No gifts, Sarah—and of course you'll be invited. I was planning on asking you to be Matron of Honor. Which reminds me—what do you think of silver?"

 

"Love it," said Sarah, smiling at the ability to talk about something other than force-status quantities, training for the Southeast Asia sector, the fallout from Laughlin, or any of the other ten thousand things on her plate.

 

"You don't think I'm rushing this? I mean, we've been dating for a couple years, and—well, I mean…."

 

"Five years this Friday, Teri," Sarah said with an emphatic nod. "Jake wouldn't want you to be alone. You know that better than I do."

 

"Right," Teri said, wincing just a bit. "It's just—well, it's hard to plan a wedding when…you know."

 

"I don't," Sarah sighed. "God willing, I never will."

 

"I hope not," Teri said. "We'd miss Scott."

 

"Yeah, me not least. Anyhow, I don't envy you that. But the times I've met Mike he's seemed like a great guy."

 

"He is. You know he's already told me he doesn't want Trina calling him 'Dad?' 'I'm not her dad,' he said. 'I'll be Mike. Doesn't mean I don't love her—I do, she's great. And I'm looking forward to parenting. But her dad was Jake, and I want her to know that.'"

 

Sarah mirrored Teri's bittersweet smile at that; but the pleasantries needed to end at this point. There was much on her plate.

 

"I didn't call you down to Chicago just to reminisce, you know," Sarah said, quietly.

 

"I know. What's on your mind?"

 

"I want you to rejoin the Society as an active officer."

 

Teri leaned back in her chair, just a bit. She'd been expecting this. "I don't think so, Sar. I've got a kid, and I don't want to go into field work. She's already lost her dad; she needs me to stay alive."

 

"I don't want you in the field," Sarah said. "You're too valuable to me here. I want you to come back as my Adjutant General. Bump you straight up in rank to Master, full pay plus a command bonus in the six-figure range, and a house in the Chicago suburbs."

 

Teri picked her jaw up off the floor. "Sarah—Master Adept Kensington-Chelgren—I've been out of the game since Madison. I mean, I have lunch with you now and then when you're in town, baby-sit Brit for Anon and Jessie off and on, but—I mean, isn't there someone else?"

 

"Oh, there are others—of course there are. But I don't want to pull Wollstonecraft off of field duty—she's too valuable there. Scott could—but it wouldn't be right. And with me somewhat out of circulation, we need him there anyhow. Chikara could someday, but she's been busy getting the Tokyo office up-and-running. And there are others, but…Teri, I need someone I can trust. Someone I can count on. Someone who I know will always have the Society's best interest in mind."

 

Teri rocked back a bit. "I'll need to talk to Mike. He'd have to leave 3M…he likes his job."

 

"I'll find him a job in the Society if he wants it," said Sarah. "Teri—remember what I told you about the Laughlin raid?"

 

"You said it was the worst debacle you'd ever been a part of."

 

"That's an understatement. I can't tell you everything—not unless you're back. But I can tell you that it's not the ferocity of the battle that concerns me."

 

"You have a mole."

 

Sarah wheeled, startled. "How—"

 

"—did I know? I don't know. I've always been perceptive."

 

"Hmpf. You've always been psychic, Teri. I shouldn't be surprised. But this is why I need you back. And as soon as possible. I trust you, and more than that, you have skills. This isn't charity."

 

"You wouldn't ask me back for charity, Sarah. All right, let me talk to Mike. Just promise me if I say yes—and I said if, so don't get your hopes up—that you folks will try to welcome Mike in. I mean, if I move him down here…."

 

"You don't want him constantly living in the shadow of Jake. Don't worry. I meant it when I said he seems like a good guy. And if you think he's husband material, he obviously is. You're one-for-one so far."

 

"Yeah," said Teri. "Thanks."

 

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He lay on the floor underneath the chair, heart racing, lungs heaving.

 

He couldn't believe he'd taken this chance. Stupid, he knew.

 

But he had to know.

 

"So," the voice filtered in, "what do you think of Charles?"

 

His ears perked up. That would be Kate's voice—which meant Lilavati would be under cross-examination.

 

"Ugh! He's such a prat. Do you see the way he always looks past you when he's chatting you up? Always looking for the next girl? One date was enough with him."

 

He sighed. Thank God. He'd just about panicked when he'd heard about Lil's date—Charles was handsome, and….

 

"I knew you'd say that. You only have eyes for one man anyway, don't you?"

 

He stopped dead.

 

"Whatever do you mean, Catherine?"

 

"Don't play dumb, Lil. I've seen how you look at Lloyd."

 

At that statement, Lloyd went numb.

 

"Lloyd and I are friends. That's all."

 

"Right. Like if he would ask you out, you wouldn't go in a second."

 

"Yes, but he isn't going to ask me out, is he? It's not like I haven't dropped hints. He doesn't like me that way, that's all."

 

Lloyd smacked himself on the forehead, hard.

 

"He's obtuse. And a bit shy, if you hadn't noticed. Maybe you could try asking him out."

 

"Well, I don't want to wreck our friendship…."

 

"Aha! And maybe he doesn't want to wreck your friendship either. Ever think of that?"

 

Lloyd was jotting down mental notes as fast as he could.

 

"Look, if he likes me, he'll ask me, won't he?"

 

Kate sighed. "Whatever, Lil. Oh, bollocks—it's almost nine. We need to get going if we're going to meet up with Liz and Lula."

 

Lloyd watched as the two mountains of women rose and got going. He couldn't help but notice Kate's short skirt afforded him a good view, but his eyes were on Lil's bare feet, on which balanced her smooth cinnamon legs, which arched into the heavens where they came together inside a pair of red shorts.

 

As the girls left, he slid out from under the chair, and grew to five inches tall. It was easy for him—he'd been able to do so without thinking about it since his eighteenth birthday—almost five years now, he mused. He sat on the floor and sighed, and resolved to ask Lil out when he saw her at work tomorrow.

 

Having this power was helpful, to be sure. He waited twenty minutes before he left their flat, making sure to sneak out under the doorway.

 

 

Hopefully, if it worked out, she might actually let him explore her at this size. He thought he'd enjoy that. He thought maybe she might, too.

 

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The sun had already set, and the Medina of Fes es Bali was dark. It was an unusual place for a Westerner to be at any time, and most especially at that particular time of day.

 

But that was exactly who was walking purposefully through the narrow winding streets of the old marketplace, as a nervous local walked on beside him.

 

"You don't know what you're doing!" the local said, quietly but urgently. "These women—they're like nobody you've ever seen. They have powers…dark magic. The leader is a succubus, I have seen her do things that are not possible in the ordinary world!"

 

"I understand what you're saying. Trust me, I know what I'm doing as well."

 

"Rahimullah. You are going to get us both killed, Mr. Chelgren."

 

"Perhaps, but it will be an interesting way to go, won't it?"

 

They came to a blind corner in the medina, and there Scott espied the group of women, sitting on the ground, listening to a standing woman explain to them, quietly, her view of the world.

 

This was, of course, unusual in the extreme for this part of the world. Sliding into the shadow, Scott whispered, "My Arabic is non-existent, Dr. Bouzoubaä. Can you translate?"

 

"These things—it is blasphemy to say."

 

"I understand. But would not God want us to fight it, then? I must know what she is saying if I am to defeat her."

 

"Ustugh fer Allah. She is telling the story of how she came to be here. She says…she was being stoned to death…and Allah (peace be upon him) rescued her and gave her power beyond power. A lie, of course."

 

"I don't need the editorial comments, Doctor. Please."

 

"She says she will show them how to use this power, how to rise up against the men who have abused them."

 

Scott nodded. This was what he expected her to be doing. This would be her role for Leah, above and beyond that of adept. She was an evangelist.

 

He didn't tell his guide that in some ways, he sympathized with her message.

 

"She says they will take over the world."

 

"That is their goal," said Scott, calmly. "All right, we've hung around long enough. Let's get back."

 

He waited a good ten minutes before calling in and confirming visual identification of Wafia. He wondered as he did if she was alone.

 

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Zoraida frowned as she made her way through the maze of tourists and clubbers beginning to pack Plaza Santa Ana. She had come here after finishing at the University of Castilla la Mancha; where better for an aspiring playwright to live than the Barrio de las letras? Her parents had given her a loan, she took a job as a waitress in a snooty tourist-trap restaurant, and in the mornings she wrote. In between, she'd managed to work in a few tragic-yet-deep relationships with horribly flawed (but irresistible) men. None had worked out, but she wasn't particularly concerned about that. Instead, she used the disappointment to fuel her writing. She trusted her skill with the Spanish language. And she was right too—she had skill.

 

But like other talented playwrights and novelists the world over, she had discovered that talent alone was not enough to sell a story. She'd had short stories published a few places, had one one-act play produced by an experimental theater to mostly blasé reviews, but nothing concrete. She was still working as a waitress four years after graduating from University, and she didn't feel any closer to achieving her dreams.

 

So as she turned onto the sidestreet and away from the crowds, she hoped that when she got back to her apartment she might find some inspiration to write something, because it had been three weeks and she hadn't written a sentence. And she was beginning to think it was because she had nothing left to write, and it was time to go back to school and learn to teach, or go into the corporate world and become a drone, or find a less-scarred man and become a mother. And none of those options excited her very much.

 

A few buildings before her flat, she passed an alley, and saw something out of the corner of her eye. A man, a knife—it was a mugging. Not unusual—Madrid, like every big city, had its crime. But still, the woman who was being held up looked scared.

 

She wanted to pass by, but she didn't. Instead, she turned and walked into the alley.

 

"Hey!" she shouted at the man. "What are you doing? Leave that girl alone, give her back her handbag!"

 

The mugger turned. "This isn't any of your business, but if you want, I can ask you for your purse too, lady."

 

Zoraida sighed. She really didn't want to do this.

 

"Leave her alone," she said. "Don't make me hurt you."

 

At that, the mugger laughed, a wheezing cough of a chuckle. "Hurt me? With what, your consolador?"

 

Zoraida shook her head. "No. My foot."

 

"Right, lady. I'd like to see you try."

 

"As you wish," Zoraida replied, and furrowed her brow.

 

The man suddenly dwindled to about 20 centimeters tall.

 

Zoraida took four quick steps and kicked him across the alleyway. He landed, sprawled, unconscious.

 

"Are you all right?" Zoraida asked the woman. She replied in English, prompting Zoraida to say, "Slow down, my English is not that good."

 

"It's better than my Español. Thank you so much. You saved my life."

 

"He was going to rob you."

 

"No. He said he was going to rape me."

 

Zoraida's eyes narrowed at that. She looked at the unconscious man, and stared him down until he was but three inches tall. She walked over and rearing up, stomped down on him hard, feeling him crush beneath her weight.

 

Pulling back, she spat on the ground. "He will trouble no more women."

 

The woman nodded. "How can I thank you?"

 

"Just—please, tell no one about me. Nobody knows I can do this. And I do not want anyone to."

 

"Why not?"

 

Zoraida shrugged. How to explain that she'd always been embarrassed by this? That she'd hated how she could change things just by thinking about it, that it made her different in a way she hated? Even Raul, who had claimed to be interested in such things, had looked on her differently when she dared reveal this side of her.

 

So she simply sighed, and said, "Just—please, promise me."

 

The woman nodded, and gave her a quick hug. "I will tell nobody—but I will never forget, and I will always thank you."

 

The tourist left the alleyway and headed out into the night, and Zoraida did as well, turning toward her apartment, knowing full well that she would write no more this evening.

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