The thing about Stockard that pissed Knife off was his ability to deliver a line like that without giving himself away. Anybody overhearing him undoubtedly thought he was being sincere.

Mack knew otherwise. But there was no real way to answer him, or at least Mack couldn’t think of anything snappy. He compensated by making sure the airman cut him an extra slab of beef from the rare side of the roast, then helped himself to the rest of the spread. Known colloquially as the Red Room, this mess and the fancy food had once been reserved for special occasions. Bastian had thrown it open with his “all ranks, all the time” decree. Interestingly, most of the base personnel had responded by using the Red Room only for special occasions.

Mack decided he’d eat here until his next assignment was settled. Might as well. Odds were he’d end up getting shipped out to Alaska, or perhaps the Antarctic.

Bastian—whom he’d actually had to make an appointment to see—had pretended to be gracious after Mack turned down the Megafortress. He’d told him he could stay on as an “unassigned test pilot,” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Obviously a career crusher. When Mack had said that was no good, Bastian had pointed out that the MiG project would live on for only a few weeks more. After filling out some odds and ends and collecting data for future simulations of next-generation Russian planes, the plane would head for deep storage. If Mack couldn’t snag something before then. he might very well find himself assigned to something he didn’t like, almost certainly not at Dreamland.

Things did look bleak. The only assignment Mack’s preliminary trolling had turned up was as a maintenance officer for a squadron of A-10A Warthogs.

It was possible, maybe even likely, that the brass was trying to get him to glide into the sunset. The fact that he’d gotten waxed over Somalia probably embarrassed them. They just hadn’t dared admitting it to his face at the time.

Bastards. Let them put their butts over a few dozen ZSUs and SA-9’s. If he hadn’t hung around there, an entire company of Marines and at least one helicopter would be Somalian tourist attractions right now.

Knife took his tray into the paneled eating area, his flight boots tromping on the thick red carpet that gave the room its name. Madrone sat by himself at a table for four in the corner. Mack walked over and put his tray down.

“Penny for your thoughts, Monkey Brain,” said Mack. When Madrone didn’t respond, Mack started humming the start of the John Lennon song “Mind Games.”

Madrone shot him a glance, then put his head down, staring at his food.

“Silent treatment. I get it,” said Knife.

Zen rolled across the room, tray in his lap. “Mind if I sit here, Kevin?” he asked.

“I’m kind of thinking,” said Madrone softly.

Smith started to laugh. “What the hell are you thinking about?”

“Leave him alone, Smith.”

“Come on, Zen, Kevvy can fight his own battles. Right, Key?”

“I would like to be left alone,” said Madrone, his voice a monotone so soft it was difficult to hear even in the quiet room.

“Hey, that’s okay, Kevin,” said Zen.

“Guess he doesn’t like you today,” said Mack.

Stockard said nothing, rolling backward and then across to the next table. Madrone stared down at his food.

Mack liked the guy, he really did. Maybe he shouldn’t have busted his balls quite so hard.

“Hey, look, Key, I didn’t mean nothing, okay? Just bustin’ your chops. If I was out of line, I’m sorry.”

The Army captain raised his head slowly. His face had changed—his eyes were squeezed down in his forehead, under a long furrow.

“Go away, Major,” he said.

Mack laughed. That’s what he got for trying to be nice.

Madrone stared at his food for a few seconds more, then slowly pushed back his chair, stood, and walked from the room.

“See ya, Microchip Brain,” said Mack, looking across at Jeff. “They got to him already.” He shook his head. “They ought to bag ANTARES.”

“For once I may have to agree with you,” said Zen before turning back to his food.

ANTARES Bunker

27 January, 1555

THE CHAIR POKED INTO HIS BACK. HIS LEGS WERE LEAD. A thick snake had wrapped itself around his head.

“Relax now. Kevin,” said Geraldo. “Do your breathing. You’ll find Theta when the time is right.”

What did it take to breathe? What muscles did he use?

Poor, poor Christina, lying so helpless in the hospital bed, smiling at him. She’d been born with anaplastic thyroid cancer, a rare, nearly inexplicable, and always fatal cancer. It could only have come from the radiation he’d been exposed to at Glass Mountain and Los Alamos. Poison.

No. He’d gone over all that, buried it a year after burying his daughter, after his wife left. Colonel Glavin helped him get a transfer. That was five long years ago.

He was the helpless one. Impotent.

That wasn’t him, just a part of him. Once he’d been tough, once he’d been brave. The bullets splattering around him. He ran with the grenade in his hand.

Shit, the tape is gone. I pulled it, it’s live.

Screw these bastards. Screw them all!

Knives, red and sharp, poking from every direction.

“Try to relax, Kevin,” said Geraldo again.

“The music,” he said. “Could you, could you change it?”

“The music’s bothering you?”

He felt his heart pounding in his chest. “Yes. It’s killing me.”

“Carrie, the music.”

“I’ll get it, Doc,” said Roger. There was some static in the background, then a loud click. “Oh, shit,” said the techie.

A loud hush filled Kevin’s ears, a kind of wind sound that must have come from some malfunction in the equipment, a crossed wire or something. There was a light popping noise in the background, a set of footsteps, and then a sound like thunder, two peals, three. The noise gave way to a storm, rain coursing down from enormous clouds, bursting overhead, then trickling slowly across and through a thick canopy of leaves. Light burst across his eyes, then darkness again, shapes receding.

He stood in a thick forest. Rain fell all around him. His pants were wet.

Alone in the middle of a vast tropical rain forest, alone and at peace.

“You’re in,” whispered Geraldo from far way. “You’re in.”

The forest felt beautiful and empty. Could he stay here? A jaguar circled nearby. A snake slithered through the trees. It was more jungle than forest.

Rain. Storm.

“Kevin?”

Madrone felt something snap below his head, a sharp pain as if he’d overstretched a ligament. Someone pulled off the glasses.

Geraldo was standing in front of him, smiling. Her assistants were peering over her shoulders, expressions of awe on their faces.

“You were in Theta-alpha for twenty-eight minutes,” said Geraldo. “And you responded to the computer.”

“I was in Theta?”

What had the computer said to him? What had he seen? What had he felt?

He didn’t remember anything except a vague, restful pleasure.

And danger at the edges, beyond the trees.

“Are you sure I was in Theta-alpha?” he asked again.

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. You were in Theta and you responded to the computer. Just a pulse, but it was definitely there,” said Geraldo. “I can’t believe it. We’ve never, ever had results like this. Never. Not this early, not this long or fast.”

“Let’s do it again,” Kevin said.

“So soon?” said Geraldo.

“Let’s do it again,” he insisted.

“Your pants,” said Roger, pointing. He’d lost control of his bladder as he entered Theta.

It was immaterial. He had to get back there.

“Again,” Kevin said sharply.

Dreamland Commander’s Office