[Excerpted from the diary of Javier Magana (translated from the Spanish)]

Arecibo, October 14, 2101:  Officially, I am not under orders to record anything, but the Patriarchate sent one of their minders here to tell me what a good idea it would be to start a diary.  As we could be on the verge of our first alien contact since the Serial Wars, I have come to agree with him.

I am Doctor Javier Magana, Professor of Astronomy at Gonzalo State University.  For the sake of historians who will be reading this, I note that radio astronomy is one of the few disciplines left untouched when the alien Guerratecs attacked the Earth in 2060.  As a result of that last Serial War, we have been left at a level of technology roughly equal to what we had in the middle of the Cold War.  Some areas of science, like mine, are at much higher levels, but others, especially weaponry, are no better than before World War II.

The war against the 'Tecs forced us to use our entire stockpile of strategic weapons.  That included nuclear weapons, most of which were detonated north of Cd. Guatemala and in Europe and Asia.  Being on Puerto Rico, the radio telescope at Arecibo is far enough from the Wastes to be habitable, but not for very long.  No one can stay here for more than a few weeks at a time, so I share this post with four colleagues.

Two days ago, we received a transmission from orbit.  There has arrived mounting evidence that the transmission is the real thing:  an extraterrestrial contact.  We are sure that it is an ETC because we could see the signals coming from the artificial satellites that have orbited the earth since the Wars ended.  (With a couple exceptions, prewar satellites could only receive signals from Earth.)  Until now, no signals had come in from them.

We were about to send word to the Ministry of Science, or Mindecien, when the Council of Bishops itself sent us a message.  It seems that their mystics had picked up odd signals at the same time as we got ours. If they are right, and the mystics rarely announce errors, this contact may be extradimensional as well.

Whatever is trying to contact us may be our salvation.  Or our doom.


Arecibo, October 28, 2101:  Our men in Cd. Hullaga are still going through the data we got two weeks ago.  The mystics in Cali, meanwhile, are sure that they are getting signs of contact themselves.

We are still waiting for another signal.


Ciudad Hullaga, November 8, 2101:  Three bits of news have sent me home early.

The Math Department at Gonzalo State here in town sent us word yesterday that the first signals we got on the 14th are the real thing.  There is no doubt now that aliens are trying to talk to us.

In Cali, the Patriarchate mystics believe that they are hearing from women.  Actual, live women, not the marincones who dress up as such. There are millions of marincones.  In a world that hasn't seen a live woman in almost fifty years, the marincones are fulfilling a need that remains desperate.  Although we have gotten cloning technology to a high enough level to survive the loss of real women, and though the Patriarchate condemns sex with the marincones, they flourish, especially in Brasil and Kenya.

Even more importantly, a second transmission has come in.  It was much clearer than the first.  We believe that the face and voice on the other end belong to a woman, but there was no way for us to be sure.  Thus, I have taken a recording of the transmission here for my friend Andrés Montoya to see.

Andrés is one of those radicals who believe that the Serial Wars were fought by design.  As the crackpot theory goes, men used the Wars as an excuse to chain women to their homes.  When they lost all their rights, it continues, women decided that death was preferable to life under the rule of God and man.  Of course, we men had given women all the rights they ever needed.  The fact that they wanted more just proved how corrupted they were by Satan.  Andrés says it's because we treated them so badly in the centuries before the Serial Wars.  But then, he also has the abominable belief that church and state should be separate. (Because that worked out so well before the Wars.)  I can't figure out Andrés, but he's still my friend.

And at this point, as we try to keep the contacts a secret, going to Andrés is a good idea.  If he says anything, well, nobody believes any of the radicals from the Department of Racial Memory.


Cd. Hullaga, November 10, 2101:  Andrés went nuclear.

He viewed the cinedisc over and over again, all day long, and he still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.  "Do you know what this means?" he asked excitedly.

"It's a woman," I intoned.  "We might get to make real babies again, instead of clones.  If there's more than one of her."

"Look," he snapped, "remember what I said about women?  About how much smaller they were than we are?  It would be suicide for her to come here all by herself.  Patriarchate propaganda aside, the fact is, we'd rough her up pretty good before she got out.  If she got out.

"So what's the big deal?"

"Look at her clothing," he instructed.

The woman was a rubia; she had light blonde hair, curled as though she had taken a hot iron to parts of her hair.  I had to admit that it made her prettier.  I can't really describe her clothing; I tended to avoid the skin discs that flourished despite the fact that there weren't any women around to pose for them.  (Ah, the wonders of holographics.)

Andrés, however, had hundreds of discs, all of which had women doing one thing or another, and some of them were skin discs.  He had let me view them many years back, and I recall getting a sickening feeling of arousal when I saw them.  That feeling came back the first time I saw the cinedisc we were watching now.

"So?" I asked.

"Oops," he responded, head down.  "Sometimes I forget that not everyone is a women's history scholar. Okay,  the hair is real, but the style was done with a curling iron, and there is specialized paint all over her face."

"Paint that makes women look good, like what marincones use today."

"Right!  Women stopped using cosmetics about sixty years ago; there weren't enough power plants left to make them.  So this message can't have originated before the Chicago Olympics.  But looking at the clothing, that's all from the late 1900s.  Those shoes with the spiked metal heels have to have been made in 1994, '95, '96, sometime around then."

"So you think this woman was alive before the Serial Wars began?"

"In all likelihood, yes.  I've been hearing rumors from Cali that the mystics have been going as nuts as you guys have at Arecibo.  So I figure there are two possibilities.  First, this woman is real, but she's probably dead.  It's hard to believe that anyone could look that beautiful after 80 to 100 years."

"And the second one?"

"We could be talking to a the 1990s themselves."

Both his theories were wrong, but telling him that would get me jailed.


Arecibo, November 24, 2101:  We are now in regular contact with the one we now call Esperanza.  She is beautiful beyond imagination.  I have relayed some of our conversations to Andrés.  Judging from her outfits, and from the old form of Spanish she speaks, he is now certain that Esperanza is from either our past or a parallel world.

He has come closer to the truth than the Patriarchate likes, though, so I had to stop speaking with him last week.  I can, though, reveal some of the contents of my chats with Esperanza.  She says that she is from a parallel Earth, in the year 1995, but that since time is a position, she can only communicate with us.  For reasons unknown, she cannot get to the 1995 of our world.  Her world has already deviated from the history which would bring about the Patriarchate.  She says that several of her comrades actually won at Point Liberty, and it fell in 1989.  The number of women and men are roughly the same in her world, and she believes that there is a looming population crisis.

In turn, I have explained the evolution of the Serial Wars, and how the next to last one resulted in a plague that killed off our women in 2054. Esperanza has taken an interest in our plight, and has promised to arrange for the transfer of several dozen women to our world.  If things go well, she promises that more will come afterwards.  That way, we can begin to reproduce again, and her world can see relief from its pressures.

When I mentioned the last Serial War, the 'Tec invasion, she said that she is familiar with the 'Tecs.  She called them a dangerous foe that her world has already fought off.  ("No," she told me when I asked about it, "the United Nations hasn't collapsed yet."  It's another major historical deviation.)  She would also see if she could bring construction equipment to repair some of our cities.  "That way," she promised, "if the 'Tecs come again, your cities will be harder to destroy."


Arecibo, December 13, 2101:  I am near the end of my term here.  I won't be back until next September, and I go home just before Holy Week. Esperanza and I have developed quite an affection for one another, and the Patriarchate has approved construction of a satellite link in my apartment in Ciudad Hullaga.  So Esperanza and I will be able to continue our relationship.  She thinks that she and the other women, several of whom I have now met (and are almost as gorgeous), will be ready to come in the late spring.  We can hardly wait to meet.


Cali, December 20, 2101:  As a vitally interested party, I was invited to attend today's emergency session of the Council of Bishops.  The Executive Council is bitterly split as to when to announce the existence of new women to the world.  One faction has no problem with Esperanza's sudden demand for a Christmas Day notice.  Although she has taken great pains to assure me that our relationship will survive, she has been adamant about this.  If there is no official word by then, Esperanza says the other women will have to make alternate plans, and no one will come.  The other side in the argument is afraid that a public notice will rob the Patriarchate of the strategic advantage it now has over Brasil and Kenya.

It took thirty-one hours, but the Council agreed to Esperanza's request.

I just got off the line to tell Esperanza the good news.  She smiled. "Javi," she asked, "do you know about kisses?"

"I don't give very many of them," I answered with disdain.

"Listen, my dear little one:  they're much sweeter coming from a woman. In a most sensual fashion, she gave her fingertips an affectionate kiss, and touched her screen.  It left a touch of lipstick on my screen.  "I love you, little man."

"I love you too, big lady," I smiled.  I couldn't doubt it -- I was in live with this beautiful woman.  I couldn't say why I called her 'big,' though.


Cd. Hullaga, December 24, 2101:  Word of the announcement leaked almost the second the Council approved it, and has been spreading like bad coca plants.  Here in the state of Gonzalo, those in poor and rural areas have been streaming into the city.  A few men are staying home, willing to listen to the radio; but most want to see Esperanza on the TVs.  (I am one of the best paid scientists in the Patriarchate, and I can barely afford a fully equipped color TV.  Most men can't afford anything but a black-and-white TV, and maybe a cinedisc player to go with it.)  There have been scattered riots in town, as men fight to see who can see Esperanza on the color TVs at the best bars.  To make matters worse, all the gas-guzzling cars coming in from the countryside have been crowding the streets and filling the air with noxious exhaust. The freeways, which can usually get you across town in a few minutes, are every bit as jammed as the regular roads.

When I told Esperanza about this, she sighed in fake regret.  "I'll send some probes across the gateway," she replied.  "That way, everyone will get to see us on video."

"It's too late now, hon," I informed her.  "Don't worry too much about it; we'll live.  You should start sending probes, though.  It may be that the gateway allows signals to get through but not people.  And don't forget to mention them tomorrow; you wouldn't want to scare anyone."

"Of course I wouldn't," she smiled.


Cd. Hullaga, December 25, 2101:  I invited Andrés to come watch at my house.  He accepted, and brought over some beer and chips for us to consume.  It is just as well we are inside.  Outside, the streets are as packed as I have ever seen them, and it is hard to see through the suffocating smog.

At 1300, the big moment came.  Esperanza, along with three other women standing behind her, appeared on the world's broadcast receivers.  For most men, it was the first time anyone had seen a woman.

The announcer from Mindecom  was going on in the background, giving Andrés time to rave over the women.  "My God," he gasped softly, "they're beautiful!"  He took a breath, then resumed.  "Look at the dresses, Javier."

"Dresses?  What dresses, Andrés?  They're wearing almost nothing at all!"

"Well, yes, but now I'm sure that these women are from our past.  The leader, the blonde --"

"That's Esperanza."

"She has a dark red, one-piece outfit on.  She has huge, almost spherical breasts, which were very popular before the Wars.  The top is cut low so that they are highlighted.  The cut on the bottom is called a Belgian cut, or a French cut; I don't remember which one it is.  The idea is, again, to make her look like the ideal for the late 20th century.  She has some weird leggings, and the shoes have high, narrow heels. She's also wearing gloves that go halfway up her arms.  The fabric isn't very familiar, but that could be the reception.  But all in all, she and her friends look very much like they're from the 1990s. The other women are dressed similarly, but their outfits are black, and they're wearing stockings on their legs, made of thin, blackish nylon."

"Nylon?  The stuff that costs a hundred pesos a gram?"

"Back then, it was dirt cheap.  The most expensive stockings did cost a hundred pesos, but that was for all the fabric.  Most women could get a pair to cover everything below the waist for maybe a peso and a half."

"You mean women dressed like that in public?  That's sick!"  But there was that damned feeling in my groin again.  Why are you doing this to me, Esperanza? I asked to myself.

"No, not usually.  There were a lot of outfits worn in private, though. The idea was to arouse their male partners, usually their husbands. I'll have to look, but there was a lot of popular fiction of the time in which women did wear this stuff in public."

"So this is expensive stuff they're wearing!"

"For us, yes.  Only the high class marincones can afford it.  But then, most women in even the middle classes could buy one or two outfits.

"They're very sexy," he concluded.  "They'll be very powerful once they come here."

At long last, Esperanza spoke.

"Men of the Three Nations," she started, smiling.  "Merry Christmas!  My name is Esperanza Arroyo.  My colleagues and I represent what you would call a parallel version of your world.  History has evolved differently here, and the Serial Wars will not occur here.

"I would like to send my love and thanks to Doctor Javier Magana, without whose assistance and support our communication would not be possible.  Dr. Magana has apprised me of the situation on your world; I deeply regret the loss of your women in the Wars."  Esperanza frowned ruefully, and paused respectfully. The other women bowed their heads, too.

She continued, then.  "I have recently spoken with the heads of all Three Nations.  With their permission, I have arranged for the eventual return of women to your world.  With hard work and the grace of God, we women and you men can rebuild Terra.  Perhaps one day in the not too distant future, we may all even reclaim the Wastes in the North, and all the technological marvels that were lost in your struggle with the Guerratecs.

"I am addressing you through something called a Gateway, a point that could allow travel, and one day trade, between our worlds.  Your present technology does not permit you space travel, but ours does, and we will first confirm that the Gateway is, in fact, safe for human travel.  To that end, we are launching a series of probes to map your world and establish a permanent route there.  In the next several days, most of you will see a number of large spheres fly through your skies.  Do not be alarmed, and do not attempt to interact with them.  These are our probes, and will not harm you in any way.

"We are familiar with the 'Tecs, and the damage of which they are capable.  Therefore, when we have established a path to your world, we will be sending large robots to repair your major cities, and give you the opportunity to improve your infrastructures.  When these robots have completed their task, your major cities will be well protected in the event of a second 'Tec attack.

"The repairs should be completed by the end of the spring of 2102.  At that point, a party of thirty-six women will arrive in your major cities to begin the process of rebuilding your genetic stock.  As many of you know, the years without women have done great damage to your gene pool. These women will be selected on the basis of their ability to improve your pool.

"We ask only that your governments prepare you for our arrival. Thirty-six women cannot handle over a billion and a half inhabitants of your world all at once, so we request that you select men, perhaps seventy-two from each of the Three Nations, to be the first to interact with us.  As we grow accustomed to each other, more and more women will come, and more of you will be able to meet us, but at this point, you should begin to select the men for first contact.

"We will be speaking to you again in the near future.  For now, have a safe Holy Week, and our kindest regards.  May God bless you all."

The transmission ended, and Andrés turned to me.  "Something's not right, Javi.  The way the women in black moved:  there was something they weren't telling us.  And Esperanza had an odd look on her face."

"Like?" I asked.

"I don't know.  For all I know, it could be a misreading.  The historical records of women in the 1990s could be wrong in a way.  But the looks on the women's faces say that they have something else in mind.

"But then, too," he shrugged, "I could be another crackpot at the Department of Racial Memory."

    
Cd. Hullaga, January 22, 2102:  Esperanza's probes came and went, leaving in their wake crowds of awed men.  All they did was fly from one point to the next, stopping as though to take pictures of the ground below.  In the Andean backcountry, some of the peasants swore that they shot laser beams late at night, but our boys at Arecibo detected nothing of the sort.  (Neither did the Brasilians or Kenyans.)  Other than the fact that their stops formed a hexagonal grid, there was nothing to suggest that the probes did much of anything.

Esperanza herself seems rushed and tired.  "Things go much faster than you think," she explained to me. We have spent a lot of time discussing, of all things, sex.  "It is so wonderful," she keeps telling me, and then proceeds to tell me just how nice it is in explicit detail.  I always found the idea disgusting, but as she keeps pointing out to me, "How else are you supposed to make babies, little man?" as though she wants mine.  I have finally gotten used to exchanging kisses with her over the link, but I'm not sure I want to go farther than that.

Even worse, that feeling has appeared again in my groin.  Esperanza has been wearing less and less since her speech, and I am sure that is what is causing it.  I think she is doing this to me on purpose, and I am afraid to explicitly mention it to her.

And she keeps calling me "little."  When I ask why, she explains that she is an unusually tall woman. Maybe she's just teasing me, but she hasn't told me just how tall she is.


Fortaleza, January 29, 2102:  I am on vacation in Brasil, or more precisely, off the coast.  I brought my link with me, so Esperanza and I can keep in touch even as I fish the Atlantic Ocean.  The construction robots she promised have arrived in the Patriarchate's big cities. They're so loud, nobody can hear himself think.

Esperanza has been detailing the repairs underway.  Basically, the 70-meter-tall robots from across the Gateway are reinforcing the major streets and buildings of the city.  The numbers she has been quoting to me regarding the strength of the new infrastructure are astounding. Personally, I think that it is overkill to make buildings that can support masses of almost three thousand tons, but "that's how heavy some of the 'Tecs are," Esperanza assures me.

I made the mistake of standing up during one of our conversations.  That funny feeling was more intense than ever, maybe because today Esperanza was wearing one of those skimpy outfits Andrés described for me.  (I do admit to rather liking the shoes she was wearing; she called them "stiletto-heeled pumps" or something like that.)  She noticed the bulge in my crotch through the pants, and giggled at me.  "Better get used to it, little man," she warned slyly.  "Once we women are across the Gateway, you'll have to deal with the big crotch all day!"  At that point, she went on about how most of the women coming here will find me a particularly attractive sexual partner.  I am not sure whether to be flattered about this or frightened.


Cd. Hullaga, March 19, 2102:  I am back home now.  The huge robots are still working, and it is incredibly noisy around here, but Andrés assured me that it was much worse when I was gone.  Most of the robots have moved on to Brasil; I even passed a couple while coming back on the Amazon River Ferry.

Now that I've finally accepted the fact that Esperanza's very presence arouses me these days, and that I am going to have to actually engage in sex when she and her friends come, she has toned down her clothing, and our conversations have returned to more comfortable subjects, like the complications involved in coming across the Gateway.  She is not only sure that travel across it is safe for both us men and her people, but also prepared to move up the date on which the women will come here. They may be here before the beginning of May.

She has also selected a preferred site.  Although Cali and Sao Paulo both thought that Esperanza would land at the old Chilean rocket site in the Atacama Desert, she has instead chosen Arecibo.  Brasil doesn't like this, but as Esperanza said, "Tough bananas.  I can't wait to meet you in person!"


Cali, April 30, 2102:  The approval finally came for the women to land at Arecibo (after lots of horse trading with Brasil), and Esperanza is close to choosing a date.  The negotiations are secret, but that is the way the Patriarchate works.  The government spent two weeks having me introduce Esperanza to some of the senior Cardinals, only to leave me out when Esperanza called to make the final arrangements.

More disturbing is the way Esperanza has treated me lately.  Her tone has become more and more patronizing as the days pass.  I am beginning to wonder if she hasn't been stringing me along all those months.


Cd. Hullaga, May 11, 2102:  A great fear has suddenly developed in the Council of Bishops, even as the arrival of the women approaches.  I have been told that all of the mystics have been having nightmares lately. One report says that three of them have killed themselves, but that is still rumor.

In the streets, though, there is no fear, only anticipation.  The Arrival, as it is being called, is scheduled for May 21, at 1500, and the level of rioting all over the world is mounting.  This is making all the waiting that took place before Christmas pale in comparison.


Cd. Hullaga, May 19, 2102:  Esperanza has stopped talking with me altogether.  I don't think she took my reaction well.  The Select 72, those men slated to be the first to meet the women, were picked, and I didn't make the list. I was angry with the Tri-National Commission for not choosing me, after all the work I'd done in arranging for the meeting.  And I was doubly angry with Esperanza for not stepping in on my behalf.  Anyway, the six dozen men are on a three airplanes to Puerto Rico even as I enter this in the log.

The Council showed me a copy of the autopsies of seventeen mystics who have died in the last month. The Church Coroner can find a proximate cause of death -- they all died of brain hemorrhages -- but cannot figure out what caused those.  Naturally, this news is a state secret; I have not even told Andrés, though he senses something wrong, too.

Cali, May 20, 2102:  Something horrible has happened at Arecibo.

Mindecien called me in at about noon today.  They sent two Internal Security officers to make sure I boarded the 1400 train from Cd. Hullaga.  Normally, I would have flown the 600 kilometers north; the fact that we had to take the train ride over the Northern Andes suggested something disastrous had, in fact, happened.  When I arrived at Gran Central in Cali tonight, the station was packed.  I asked around, and found out that PSI had closed down all the airports in the Patriarchate.

I kept my mouth shut once I learned that.  There wasn't a choice; I was one of the few men who knew that those eight puddle jumpers that had taken the Select 72 to Arecibo represented almost a quarter of the Patriarchate's commercial airline fleet.

When I arrived at Mindecien HQ, I saw the Ministry of Science's top brass, along with most of the Arecibo crew and several military officers.  Security was extremely heavy, as though the government was about to go on an emergency alert.  I was escorted to the main assembly room, where everyone spoke nervously, in hushed tones.  Nobody knew what was going on, but everyone was expecting a disaster.  "Perhaps the Gateway has collapsed," was the most common speculation I heard.

Finally, the Minister of Science himself waddled onto the podium, accompanied by the equally pompous General Mondragon, Chief of Internal Security.  He spoke into the microphone.  "Gentlemen, the situation involving the Arrival has deteriorated rapidly.  The best thing for me to do is show you the last feed we received from Arecibo.  As you view and listen to it, be advised that the Department of Geology registered no -- I repeat, no -- seismic activity anywhere in the Northern Sea Basin.  Without further ado," the Minister gave a signal.  The lights in the assembly room dimmed, curtains opened behind the Minister, and a videotape began.

The show began with a shot inside the Sala Central de Observatorio (SCO).  It was shaking violently, as though an earthquake were in progress.  In all my years in that room, I had been through quakes, but now I finally had an idea what it must have been like in Saint Louis back in 2014.  The signal was (excuse the pun) shaky; static popped in and out of it.  It was obvious that most of the communications equipment had already been damaged.

It was Etchiberry at the console, yelling for help.  Behind him, other men were scrambling for cover.  The audio was jumbled; we could only hear bits and pieces of his plea, as the room fell apart around him. "Please help," he begged.  "The men... gone... huge... attacked us... telescopes destroyed... took the planes... still under attack.  You must use the warheads... Please!  --s on top of us now-"

Etchiberry's words were stopped as the room started to collapse.  A large chunk of rock one meter wide crashed through the ceiling and struck the man, killing him instantly.  All that appeared on the snowy screen now was the room.  And then, it came crashing down through the ceiling:  a long, smoothly grooved golden cylinder, 25 to 30 centimeters in diameter, with a dark, rounded tip.  As it moved though the room, the cylinder seemed to last forever.  When it had penetrated nearly two meters in, it suddenly turned a solid red.  As more of the cylinder moved through the ceiling, its diameter steadily increased, and its cross-sectional shape became that of an oval with its side cut off. While the cylinder continued its rapid descent to the floor, another section of the roof gave way.  There, a gigantic hole was forming in the shape of a gently rounded pentagon.   Through that hole, another huge object, with a dark base that had plainly created it, came smashing down.  The base was three and a half meters wide at one end, flared out to four meters near its center, then flared back into a rounded tip at the other end.  First the sides, then the top of this second object became visible; both were as brightly red as the top of the still-falling cylinder, whose cross section continued to grow.

Finally, the bottom of the cylinder hit the ground, and the whole area shook violently.  The camera fell to the ground, but somehow managed to keep operating.  We could see, after that, the cracks in the 20- centimeter concrete that radiated outward from the point of impact. Still the cylinder kept going, coming to rest only after it had so thoroughly pierced the floor that only half the golden section remained visible.

All the while, the ceiling continued to fall apart, and the second object proceeded downward.  It fell to the ground, as well, causing an even bigger shockwave than the first.  The ceiling had now fallen from where the cylinder had first pierced to all the way past the second object.  On the camera, looking at the ruined room, one could now see the truth -- it and the cylinder were at opposite ends of the same thing!  The red "top" was a cloth of some sort, and at the front, there was another color change -- this time, to a light flesh color.  The boundary between red and flesh curved upward past the ceiling, and the flesh part extended far past that.  The last thing on the tape was the colossal thing turning on the cylinder, tearing up everything it touched.  Its rotating motion finally trashed the camera -- but not before we heard an unearthly laugh coming from far above the devastated room.

Something about the giant object looked familiar, but I couldn't quite tell what it was yet.  It was only during the subsequent briefing that I put it all together.

The General showed some pictures.  "These," he intoned, "were taken two hours ago by crewmen of the Naval carrier Bentacour.  As you can see, there is little left of the observatory."  He was right about that; the buildings looked as though Guerratecs had simply stepped on them, or kicked them over.  The telescope array itself looked as though one of those 20th-Century movie monsters had pulled them out of the ground and casually tossed them.  Large sections of cloth covered the ruins. Edificio C, which housed Arecibo's massive computer center, was the only building left standing -- and even its roof had collapsed under a pair of red objects. They looked suspiciously luke the things that had literally crushed SCO and everyone inside.

"The rescue crews count no survivors," the general continued, "but nor is there any sign if the 72 men who were supposed to meet the women. Moreover, aerial reconnaissance shows huge deposits of cloth stretched out over the ruins.  Preliminary analysis shows that the materials are some form of nylon, with silk also scattered throughout."

That was all I needed.  The big red thing crashing though the SCO -- was it a shoe?  One of those high-heeled things Andrés loves so much?  And the loud, booming laugh, and the nylon and silk!  All at once, it came together.  All that, and all of Esperanza's references to me as a "little man." Could it be?  Could these women coming tomorrow be huge giants, ready to treat us as toys?

After the meeting, I talked to Mondragon and the Minister.  It took less time than I thought to convince them to let Andrés in on this.  They put me on the Papal Aircraft itself, and I was home before midnight.  I tried to sleep for a few hours, but then Esperanza called over our link... .

Salvación, Aguasfrescas, Earth-247:  5 December 1994

Too small for use as a naval port, and hundreds of kilometers from any metahuman who could realistically interfere, the small Caribbean nation of Aguasfrescas was the perfect meeting place for two major international terrorists.  Near the center of the sea, the island lay north beyond the reach of La Patrona, but also beyond the prying eyes of Uncle Sam.  La Patrona, the gigantic sorceress who had usurped control over the infamous Colombian cocaine cartels, and Patricide, the great Quèbèçoise metavillain, could meet here in the open.  Even if anyone could identify them through their disguises, Salvacion was too small a town, and its 3000 residents much too timid, to tell the world about it.

When meeting a potential ally (usually someone from one of the great organized crime families in Europe or Asia), La Patrona often dressed in something both elegant and provocative.  Such displays of feminine pulchritude, however, only offended women like Patricide.  Accordingly, La Patrona wore a black dress trimmed in yellow.  It was an elegant outfit, and very pretty, but nothing that would send many men into a frenzy of lust.  The yellow belt glowed, indicating to La Patrona that it was still working; and so it was that she was no taller than a typical basketball player.

She sat at one end of a table in the town's most elegant restaurant, a cozy little place backed by one of the few Sicilian mafiosi whom she had not yet either infuriated or terrified.  Across from her, munching nervously on a few pieces of shrimp, was a woman who bore a striking a resemblance to the dead wife of a certain former American football star. Each woman had a laptop computer on the table.

"It would be nice," chimed La Patrona in Bogotá-accented English, if I knew what to call you tonight."

"This is neutral ground, Patrona," answered the other blonde, in Spanish that rivalled La Patrona's.  "You can call me 'Patricide,' but if you insist on a pseudonym, take a good look at me, and see if you can guess whose form I've learned."  Whereas La Patrona sounded like a telenovela villain, Patricide sounded regal, like a woman who had been in charge all her life.

"Clever power, that," replied La Patrona. "You find a female murder victim, and once you touch her body, you can assume its form.  Let's see."  After a few seconds of silence, La Patrona made her guess: "Nicole!"

"I see the trial is also seen in Colombia," grinned Patricide.

"Not really.  I had the signal from Los Angeles banned last month."

Patricide grinned briefly.  "So, mon cheri Espèrance," she queried, using the French for of La Patrona's real first name, "what is it you're so anxious to show me?"

"Two things, really," responded La Patrona.  'Espèrance' halfway wanted to take offense at Patricide's phrasing, but that would be pointless. Instead, she started an application on her laptop, and a common screen now appeared on both hers and Patricide's.  While she waited for the program to actually start, she reached into her purse for something that looked like a large battery charger.  It was white, cold to the touch with a frosted plastic door on top.  She placed the box on the table between the laptops, and pressed a button.  Slowly, the frost on the door receded, revealing the tiny, dormant bodies of eight men inside, all of them smaller than the jumbo shrimp 'Nicole' was eating.

She opened the door and pointed at the men, her gesture inviting Patricide to touch them.  "They're men, Nicole, not dolls, and they are very delicate" she warned softly.  "Be careful when you pick them up."

Patricide reached in and, using a long crimson fingernail as leverage, gingerly lifted one tiny man into her hand.  He stirred slowly into consciousness as he lay in her palm, removing any doubts she might have had about La Patrona's claim.  Astonished, she gasped, "How have you done this?"

"That, my dear Nicole, is why I have had you connect our computers.  Why don't you listen in on our conversation?  It should answer some other questions you might have, as well.  The little guy's answered on the other end.  I trust you understand Spanish?"

"Don't patronize me, dear," said Patricide, annoyed at La Patrona's attempt at humor.  Patricide was a mistress not only of computers but also of languages.  She could threaten men in 21 languages; for her, Spanish was child's play.

On the screen of either computer, a man appeared, dragging his way out of bed.  He appeared to be about fifty years old, with a relatively full head of gray hair.  "Esperanza!" he cried.  "What's happened? You know I'm asleep at this time!"  To Patricide, his Spanish was understandable, if a bit odd.

"Sorry, Javier," cooed La Patrona.  "I heard about the disaster at Arecibo today."

The man's expression contorted in anger.  "That was a woman who attacked that place today, wasn't it?" he declared accusingly.  "Why didn't you tell us how big you women were?  Why did she attack Arecibo?  And what about the mates?"

Out of Javier's vision, Patricide stifled a giggle.  Her reflexive motion pressed the tiny man in her palm between her palm and her.  His squirming tickled, so she kissed him before loosening her grip on him.

"Questions, questions, little man," cooed La Patrona.  "So many of them you didn't bother to ask all these months.  Didn't you wonder how we knew so much about the 'Tecs?"

"No," Javier Magana said guiltily.

"Oh, it was such sweet revenge.  I found your world fifty of your years ago.  Your grandfathers thought they were so smart, releasing that plague to target women.  The women had seen that your precious Serial Wars were a ruse to keep yourselves in power, so you killed them.

"No!" pleaded Javier.  "It was an accident!"

"That's what your government told you!  They lied to you to cover up their crimes!  So, I decided to pass judgment on your world.  I know about the Guerratecs because I created them.  I sent them over to destroy you.

"But then, I found out that time in your parallel passes 37 times faster in your universe.  And," La Patrona paused to give a wicked grin, "space is 37 times as small.  So I thought, 'Why kill you when there's an even more deserving fate for you?'"

"Th-that was you who destroyed Arecibo today, wasn't it?" stammered the man.

"Oh, it was a pleasure.  Did you like my shoes?"  La Patrona grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

Patricide, unable to any longer restrain her amusement, burst out in laughter.

"And look, Javier!"  I have something for you!"  La Patrona cast a silence bubble, then turned to Patricide on her right.  "Patricide, be a good girl and give me a couple more little guys."

Patricide held back her laughter long enough to delicately hand three of the Lilliputian men to La Patrona.  In turn, the Colombian brought the hand close to the screen.  Cupping it slightly, she shook it, sending her male toys bouncing against its sides and waking them up.  She lay her hand flat, and now Javier could see three of his former co-workers sitting in her huge palm, dazed.

Javier gasped in horror.

"Oh, yes, dear little Javier," mocked La Patrona.  "It's your precious little friends.  I rounded them up into a couple of trucks and took them with me.  Those men who flew in from the mainland never got back on the ground.  Four of my friends took a plane in each hand, with the men still inside.  My other friend filmed me as I did a striptease all over your little lab."

"That's mean, Patrona," deadpanned Patricide.

"What's a striptease?" asked Javier, confused.

The two women laughed again.  Patricide, who had been handling her tiny charge so well, lost control. Her reflex action left the man in her hand no time to even consider escape as it closed around him.  There wasn't even time for him to feel anything as she crushed him to death. Patricide felt pulp where he had been; instinctively, without looking at what she had done, she dropped her tiny victim to the ground. She looked down at the dead man at her feet, and could only manage a sickened "Ewwww, rèpugnant!"

Javier recoiled in horror.  "How could you?  You're a--a monster!  And how come that other woman called you 'Patrona?'"

"Oh, that's what they call me on my world:  'La Patrona de los Mentirosos.'  See how well I lied to you all this time?"

Javier looked shocked.  "What -- what now?" he asked, even though he really didn't want to know the answer to that question.

"There's one thing I didn't lie to you about:  the women are coming.  On schedule.  Tomorrow.  And they'll be as big as I was today.  I imagine they'll trash a few of your cities before they're through gathering the first batch of you.  You see, here the men are a little bigger than we are, but they're more brutal. There are thousands of women who would like nothing more than a tiny male slave they can control. You'll be pets, and much, much more!"  There was a definite leer in La Patrona's grin as she pronounced the second 'much.'  And we'll make lots and lots of money off you!

"I hope you enjoy your last night of freedom, little man."  She conveyed the three toy soldiers to her lips and pinned them between her hand and her moist lips.  After what the men felt as three excruciating seconds, she released them (though she did have to peel off the one glued to her lips by her lip gloss).

Finally, she blew the kiss across the screen to her erstwhile contact. "Good-bye, Javier Magana!"  With that, she cut the signal, and her grin grew ever wider.

Lima, May 23, 2102:  I am in Santa Fe hospital on the Pacific coast, recovering from the injuries I sustained two days ago.  Javier was released yesterday, and has kindly offered to stay with me until I am well enough to go to Cali.  Mostly, he has been speculating about the women who visited Ciudad Hullaga. I am now able to tell, say, a teddy from a bodice.  Given what happened two days ago, that is a small consolation, but with faith now in such short supply, it is about all we survivors have.

After I heard Esperanza's threat two days ago, I knew that I had to get out of Ciudad Huallaga.  I could've tried to warn everybody of the imminent attack, but who would believe me?  For weeks, street preachers were claiming that the women who were coming were actually vampires, or werewolves, or worse.  (Only one speculated that the women were actually 15-meter-tall giants.)  The ladies weren't coming to mate with us; they were going to eat us.  Or something.  The point is, nobody listened to them, either.

What I could do, maybe, was convince just Javier about the danger, and get him to leave town with me.  Of course, I didn't sleep well, but out of sheer urgency, I called Javier at 0500, and told him to meet me at the Terminal Bolívar.  Good friend that he is, he agreed.

We met at the city's main train station a bit after 0630.  The daily commuters had started rolling in, blissfully unaware of what was coming. Some left the station, but most just boarded other trains that took them closer to work.

After picking up coffee and tamales, we sat at a bench near the main departure board, looking for a train that would both leave soon and head to a suitable destination.  As we scanned the board, I told Andrés about the attack on Arecibo and Esperanza's personal message, but he was not quite convinced. "Javier," he asked, "if she lied to you about her intentions, how do you know that the women are coming at all now?  How do you know it was really her at Arecibo, and not another 'Tec?"

"Maybe she was lying, Andrés," I retorted testily, "but you didn't see either the feed from Arecibo or the way Esperanza spoke to me this morning.  'Esperanza!'" I sneered.  "What a hypocritical name!"

During that talk, we found a good train to board, a mountain transport that would scoot east across the highest Andean passes before turning south.  Heading to its final destination in La Paz was out of the question -- it would probably come under attack, too -- but the big construction rigs never visited Cusco or Juliaca, so those cities were safe.

Then, at 0745, as we boarded the train, it started.

A powerful tremor shook the building, as though a nuclear weapon had gone off.  The next thing we heard was the air-raid sirens going off. Then, the televisions in the lobby flashed from the usual morning cartoons into a live news report from the Hullaga International Airport. Our jaws, and those of everyone else in the crowded lobby, dropped at the sight.

An enormous hemisphere of shimmering scarlet light, well over a hundred meters in radius, had formed over the airport runway.  We could see a shockwave radiating from its center, knocking down the few service vehicles that remained on the tarmac.  After a few moments, the shimmer faded, revealing five humanoid figures.

Esperanza hadn't lied about the women -- the five of them were gargantuan!  The smallest, a woman with soft curls of pale blonde hair falling over bare shoulders well over seven meters wide, stood just over sixty meters tall.  The largest of the giantesses, seventy meters from head to toe, had light orange hair which flowed luxuriously down her back, almost halfway to her waist.  The other three women all had brown hair: the darkest skinned one looked like an African, the lightest one had her hair cut so that her neck was bare, and the other one's hair bounced freely down to the top of her shoulders.  All of them were stunningly beautiful, with full breasts, hourglass figures and powerfully gorgeous legs.  Each of them was wearing the cosmetics of which, as Andrés kept reminding me, made them even more lovely.

"Jesus," muttered Andrés, "these are more women from the 1900s. Actresses, models, or more likely, prostitutes."

I stared at him.  He was fascinated by the sight, and was obviously concentrating on their apparel. "All of them are wearing high heels, just like at Christmas," he informed us all quite loudly.  "The blondes are wearing things called 'teddies;' the big one is in purple, the other one is in red.  Both of them have stockings on; the smaller one is wearing black ones, the big one's are also purple.  The one with the short hair is in a gold bodysuit that hugs her body.  The last two are wearing short-shorts and halters.  The dark one is in red, with demi-boots on, and the light one is in pink.  From the way they're surveying the area, they expected to be as big as they are.  Judging from the way they're dressed," he added ominously, "they came to play." Each of them carried a case of some sort.

As though they expected a camera in the helicopter, the women turned to it, and struck a rather provocative pose.  Each of them spread her feet at least thirty meters wide, planting their hands on their curvy hips. All but the one in pink wore short, open-fingered gloves that highlighted well manicured fingernails.

"HELLO," said the big, purple-clad blonde, with a grin wider than I was tall.  "MY NAME IS IMELDA."

"I'M TERESA," announced the dark skinned woman in the red two-piece outfit.  "I AM NAMED ANDREA," declared the brunette in pink, the one with the bouncy hair.

"CALL ME CRISTINA," smiled the small blonde in red.

"AND I'M ROSA," offered the short-haired titan.  "AND WE CAME TO TAKE SOME OF YOU.  I PROMISE WE WON'T TRASH THIS PLACE COMPLETELY," she smirked, "BUT THIS IS OUR FIRST TIME OUT HERE."

And at that all five of the giant women boomed in menacing laughter.

The only helicopter in town belonged to the television station, and someone in it was now giving us an aerial view of the titanic females. They were now milling around the airport, looking for men.  Three of them peered inside the terminal, and saw no one.  To the surprise of one of them, the building did nothing when she sat on it; it had been reinforced by the robots in January.  Bored and frustrated -- the airport was closed, so there were no men there -- they stepped on several on the carts on the runway, flattening them under their stiletto heels, and headed away, followed by the helicopter.  Having reached the tollway that led from the airport downtown, the titanic beauties started on separate paths.

At the terminal, there wasn't a single man among us who didn't have that sickening felling of sexual arousal.  Andrés, the expert on women, was relatively calm, but many of us were grabbing at our crotches in a vain attempt to relieve tingling that none of them had ever felt before. Several men wet their pants, and I myself felt that odd, milky fluid coming out of my own stiff penis.  Overall, it was a disgusting sight.

On the crowded tollway, Andrea put down her case and started a deadly game with the men travelling along it.  Rather than stepping directly on the cars, she stepped in between them with the front of her foot, and waited for the car to helplessly crash into the sole of her shoe. Letting the back of her foot down, she allowed her weight to settle on the roof of the car, stabbing it with her spiked heel.  After a few rounds of this, Andrea had three cars impaled on each heel.   The men in those impaled cars had survived, but surely perished once Andrea lifted each shoe up fifteen meters in the air, reached down, and slid the cars off her heels, sending them crashing onto the ground.  Men in other cars finally had a moment to stop and scramble on foot from their deathtraps before Andrea started her second cycle.

"TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM ME, ARE YOU, LITTLE MEN?" Andrea boomed mockingly, as now she started stepping on men as well as cars, but didn't crush them into the augmented pavement.  Instead, she applied just enough pressure to the ball of her foot to pin one or two men between it and the hard surface.  The first few men she toyed with in this way perished, but with practice, Andrea learned to step on her (mostly) unwilling pets just hard enough to immobilize them.  "I'LL BET YOU'LL FEEL GOOD INSIDE ME," she propositioned lewdly, "BUT THIS IS ALL I CAN DO RIGHT NOW!"  She was still playing her two games -- impaling cars on her heels and stepping on men -- when the helicopter camera turned elsewhere.

The roads taken by Cristina and Rosa as they approached the toll booth were not reinforced.  These two women, the helicopter showed, were careful not to step on anyone, but their spike heels dug well over a meter into the earth, and simply destroyed the pavement as they walked. Their shapely calves tore through the telephone and power wires suspended over the streets as if they were made of thin paper. Sparks flew, and a few fires began where the wires hit the ground.

"WHAT A BACKWARDS WORLD," commented Rosa.

"YEAH," concurred Cristina.  "THEY STILL USE SILLY STRING TO TRANSMIT POWER!"

They reached the toll booth, packed with commuters.  They could see the men getting out of their cars, so naturally, the women found other targets.  "LOOK!" noted Cristina.  "A CUTE LITTLE TOLL BOOTH!"

"WHY DON'T WE ROB IT?" Rosa suggested mockingly.

First, standing at opposite ends of the booth, they bent down and lifted the roof.  The booth, not reinforced, gave way too easily, falling apart like cheap crackers in the hands of the giantesses as they pulled it up. For some men, that was the last of their lives, as pieces of the roof fell on them.  But the toll collectors had all survived, and Cristina and Rosa plucked them into the sky, inspected them, and placed them in their now-open cases.

Done with the toll booth, the titanesses picked up the commuter buses, whose passengers were never able to get out of them.  On the first attempt, each of the women crushed a bus in her titanic hand. Lacquered, blood-red fingernails the size of coffee tables punctured the sides of the buses as though they were made of cardboard.  "THESE BUSES ARE SO DELICATE!" observed Rosa.

"AND THE LITTLE PASSENGERS ARE SO CUTE!" giggled Cristina, as she placed her damaged bus up to her bright blue eyes.  "I WANT THEM NOW!"

"PATIENCE, MY DEAR CRISTINA.  WE'LL HAVE OUR CHANCE."  With that, both women placed the buses in their cases.  Each of them took six more buses before moving on.  Rosa looked back at Andrea, still playing her dangerous games, and yelled at her to "GET BUSY!  YOU CAN PLAY WITH THEM WHEN WE GET HOME!"  Cristina and Rosa shut their cases and moved on to follow the progress of the others as they headed downtown.

The helicopter then followed Teresa along Calle 6.  That street was not important enough for the robots to have reinforced, so it crumbled under Teresa's high heeled demi-boots, but it did lead to the University. More importantly, it led to the dormitories.  Her target, a building six stories tall, reached halfway up her thighs.  She stopped, and bent down to look inside.  Seeing that it still had students in it, she stood up, gave a moan of lustful anticipation (at least that's what Andrés called it), and straddled it effortlessly.  After a pause, she sighed, savoring the moment, and looked at the helicopter.  "HEY, LITTLE GUYS," she cooed, "WATCH ME SEDUCE ALL THESE YOUNG MEN AT ONCE!"  Smiling seductively at the helicopter, Teresa reached down, and, with her black, gloved hand, stroked the sides of the building as though it were a lover's head of hair.  She pointed to her hips as she rotated them over the building, inviting the camera to leer at them.  Once it did, Teresa slowly, sensuously, began to sit on the unreinforced structure.  The moment her buttocks touched the roof, it caved in, and as she proceeded her way down, her vast weight collapsed floor after floor.  It was clear that Teresa wasn't using all her mass, but she wanted her audience to understand what she was doing -- and so it was that about five seconds passed before each of the levels gave way.  Finally, only the lowest two levels were left standing.  Once fully settled, Teresa, surveyed the remnants of the floors before her, looking for survivors.  Gazing inside the remains of the highest floor, she smiled at the men there, then cupped her hands at the edge.  "Y'ALL HAD BETTER COME WITH ME," she threatened, "OR I MIGHT DESTROY YOU, TOO!"  Immediately, men leaped into her huge palms, and dumped them into her case.  When she was done with the sixth floor, Teresa didn't have to say anything to the fellows on the fifth -- they quickly dived into her ponderous, waiting hands.  She must have taken a hundred men from that hapless dormitory.

Finally, we got to see Imelda in action.  As the most destructive of the women, Imelda didn't bother with the formality of streets.  She simply plowed through buildings, proclaiming, "RENTS ARE TOO DAMN HIGH!".  In most cases, she simply crushed houses, apartments and shops underneath her purple stiletto-heeled pumps, not in the least concerned that anyone would be inside them.  When she crossed a street, she made sure to kick any vehicle that got in her way ("OUTTA THE WAY, LITTLE MAN!" she screamed), sending it flying into a nearby tenement and setting a vicious fire.  The first of the giantesses to reach the central skyscrapers, Imelda walked through one, and survived without a scratch. Another, she levelled by slamming her ample hips into the side of the ninth floor.  The twenty-story hall broke in two at impact, the upper half falling apart and showering her with glass, steel, concrete and dead men.  Laughing maliciously, she insultingly brushed off the stuff that had gotten stuck onto her fabulous body, and moved on.  To her annoyance, several of her targets were reinforced, and she had to content herself with playing 'tag' with the terrified men inside a seventeen story structure.  Though she had to stretch, Imelda found herself able to even reach the highest level as she grabbed man after man and placed them in her case.  After capturing a couple dozen victims (and, judging from the blood on her hand, crushing several more), Imelda became bored, sat on a reinforced five-story office, and waited for the others.

It seemed fortunate that the train to La Paz was ready to leave. Realizing what these women might do to us, we scrambled onto the train. In the fifteen minutes it took the other four women to join Imelda, the train was crowded, and ready to go.

We needn't have bothered.  Even as the train accelerated out of town, the ground was shaking as the giantesses strode into view, and I could see four of the invaders from my window seat.

In the distance, Cristina and Rosa, the last to reach the central area, were visible behind some ten-story apartment complexes.  They were looking over the scene, and I was even able to meet Cristina's eyes directly (though I doubt she noticed me).

Behind us, Teresa had reached the station itself.  "HEY, BOYS, SORRY YOU MISSED THE TRAIN!" she said with sarcastic relish, and, reaching across the station with one mighty arm, tore its roof off.  "DON'T WORRY, I'LL TAKE YOU OUT OF TOWN," she promised, and started scooping men from inside and placing them into her case.

To my left, Andrea had resumed her games, but was now stepping on the streetlights, as well. She was also reaching down and taking cars in her hand, and putting them in her case.  Occasionally, she used one mighty pink-coated fingernail to rip the doors off a car and dump its human contents into hand.  The luckless men were inserted into her halter and shorts, trapped between the pink clothing and her breasts and crotch.

It was all I could take, sitting in that seat.  Figuring that we were dead, anyway, I reached inside my pants and started stroking my penis, which had never been so hard in all my life.

Andrés wanted to be disgusted with this (I certainly was, though I couldn't stop myself), but instead he was amused.  He smiled at me and started on an insult:  "You should've watched skin disks when you had --"

Suddenly, the train violently stopped, sending us all bouncing off the walls and seats.  Those of us who survived the wrenching impact then felt ourselves being lifted rapidly, as though we had just been put on the world's fastest elevator.  The moment the ascent stopped, our bodies, dead and alive, fell to one end of the car.

I heard a booming, feminine voice cry out, "HEY, TERESA!  YOUR LITTLE MEN CAN GET ANOTHER CHANCE TO CATCH THIS TRAIN!"  Peeking out the window, I found to my terror that Imelda had caught the train in her immense hands.  She was crushing the car behind ours in those purple-gloved monsters of hers.  I could only imagine what the men in there were feeling as their world collapsed about them.

Imelda squeezed so hard that the car in her hands broke in two.  She caught the falling halves of the train in each hand, then, smiling "ADIOS, AMIGOS!" at our half, dropped it.  We bounced off the ceiling, Andrés' body and mine cushioned by the bodies of several men who were killed when Imelda first grabbed the train.  We felt ourselves falling to the ground, only to slow down when the car before ours crashed into the elevated tracks.  Finally, we stopped, our car maybe a meter from the ground.  Outside the nearest window of the ruined car, I could see Imelda's lovely legs, capped with those luscious, purple stiletto-heeled pumps, bending over towards the tracks.

My body filled with pain, and I could feel myself losing consciousness. The last thing I saw was the beauteous Imelda tearing the roof off the cars still in her hand, and dumping the passengers into her case.

Andrés tells me that the giantesses disappeared not long after that. They assembled in the City Park and formed another monstrous hemisphere around themselves, and were gone seconds later, along with perhaps a thousand men.  The devastating beauties killed half that many, and left large parts of the city in ruins.  Ten thousand were injured, and with Ciudad Hullaga Hospital packed, many of those, like myself, have been sent as far away as Buenos Áires and Caracas.

The spiritual damage, however, is even worse, and it has, no doubt, spread all over the Patriarchate.  What kind of God lets something like this happen?  The mystics have all died, too, and there is talk that God has sent the women here as angels of judgement.

At long last, I am beginning to accept Andrés's view of history.  Maybe we did kill our original women, after all.  Maybe Esperanza and these giantesses are their sisters, coming here for revenge.  And maybe, if there is a good God, they have finished punishing us.  But the passing hours are making faith a difficult proposition, and I fear our troubles have just begun.

END