The entrance remained locked, using yet another magnetic bolt operated by a keypad. The hatch in the middle was locked by a simple latch, reinforced with titanium. This was the entrance used for the sheep and the one Race took when he'd been in the habitat on those previous occasions. It was too small for Bub to fit through, but Sun still paused before opening it.

Now that Bub was talking, it made him more menacing to her, rather than less so.

She went a hard round with her fear, then pushed it away and opened the small hatch.

“Fooooooooood,” Bub said.

He was squatting directly in front of the opening, and his breath, warm and fetid, blew against Sun like a sewer breeze. She felt an adrenalin jolt, like something had run in front of the car and she had to slam on the breaks. It was accompanied by instant sweating and a small cry that died in her throat.

The sheep tried to buck, but one of Bub's massive talons lashed out and gripped it by the head, dragging it through the hatchway.

Sun watched, transfixed, as Bub twisted the sheep in half only a few feet away from her, a tangle of intestines stretching out between the pieces like hot mozzarella on a pizza. Some blood spattered onto her pants. The sheep’s legs were still kicking as Bub jammed them down his throat, not even bothering to chew. Then he uncurled the glistening entrails that hung around his shoulders like Mardi Gras beads and shoved them into his maw, smacking enthusiastically.

“Gooooooooood,” Bub said to her.

He licked his talons and belched.

Sun kicked the hatch closed.

For a moment she stood there, her heart playing bongos inside of her ribs, trembling so violently her knees were knocking. She became aware that she was holding her breath, and tried to let it out slowly to regain some control.

He’s just an animal, she said in her mind, over and over again.

Her mind wasn’t buying it.

Sun forced composure to return, and then left the hallway and reentered the main room, willing herself to look at Bub through the Plexiglas.

The demon was almost done eating, his hairy chest matted dark with sheep's blood. He picked up the severed head and wedged it into the corner of his mouth. It cracked like a walnut. He chewed with a sound similar to a cement mixer, his eyes following Sun as she walked to the center of the room.

The door opened behind her, and Sun turned to see Race, Andy, and Frank rush in.

“He's talking?” Race asked Sun, his attention on the demon.

“Yes. He told me I was late for his lunch.”

Andy came up beside Sun but didn't meet her gaze.

“Hello, Bub!” Race said, a wide grin on his face and a hand raised in greeting.

Bub glared at the general, and Sun noted it didn’t seem friendly.

“Raaaaaace,” Bub said.

Race scratched the back of his head. “I’ll be damned. What else did he say?”

“He pointed to things and named them, like me, himself, his lunch.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Andy leaned closer to the Plexiglas. “Do you speak English?”

Bub closed one eye and the other locked onto Andy, as if scrutinizing him.

“Hal tafham al arabiya?” Andy asked.

“Lam asma had min zaman,” Bub answered.

“What?” Race asked. “What did you just say to him?”

“I asked him if he understood Arabic. He said he hasn't heard it in a long time. Qui de Latinam es?” Andy asked.

“Latinam nosco. Multos sermones nosco. Mihi haec lingua patria quam dicis est nova.”

“He says he also knows Latin. But you probably figured that out. He also knows many other languages, but English is new to him.”

Sun checked the corner of the room where the video camera was, reflexively making sure it was still there. It was, red light blinking. This was all being digitally recorded.

“Okay,” Race said, “there are questions. We've got a book in the Octopus for when this would happen, a hundred years of questions to ask. I've got to call the President. And the holies, they'll want to be here.”

Race turned to leave, moving double time.

“Ubi sum?” Bub asked. “Quis annus hic est?”

“He wants to know where he is and what the year is,” Andy translated.

“It looks like Race isn't the only one with questions,” Sun frowned.

Bub glanced at Sun and squinted, his elliptical eyes narrowing in a way that she could only describe as demonic.

CHAPTER SIX

One Star General Regis Murdoch tried to keep his excitement in check as he walked briskly down the Red Arm. This had been an exciting week indeed. He could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, the conclusion to over three decades of waiting.

Forty goddamn years, and he was almost out of this hole.

He reached the Octopus and sat down at the main terminal. The computer took forever to boot up. Once he was online, he accessed CONTACT, the President's portable internet receiver. The President carried it on him at all times, and almost everyone thought it was a high tech pager. Actually it was a mini computer, capable of receiving and storing more than 40 gigabytes of information: pictures, spoken words, text, computer files and programs, even perfect digital copies of music and video.

Eight orbiting satellites controlled its transmissions, so the President could instantly receive information while anywhere in the world. It was waterproof, shockproof, and bullet proof. The President could even use it to launch a nuclear strike.

Deciding that the current situation didn't warrant an interruption, Race contacted him with one beep. That would tell the President that he was receiving a message, but it wasn't of immediate urgency. The unit would either beep or vibrate once, depending whether or not it was on silent mode. Two beeps and the President would check the message immediately. Three beeps and he'd plug a tiny ear piece into the CONTACT unit and speak into it like a portable phone.

When the connection was made, Race clicked on the microphone to speak. His typing skills were considerably lacking.

“Mr. President, this is Race. Our subject is currently able to communicate. I'm going to begin the interrogation. I'll keep you updated, and remember what was promised to me.”

Race hit the Send icon. The spoken word message would be translated into text, encrypted, and sent to the President's CONTACT unit within seconds. Even though the encryption code was the most complicated in the world and deemed unbreakable, Race still was leery of codes and always kept his messages somewhat vague. The Germans never thought ENIGMA would be cracked either.

The Roosevelt Book, as Race's predecessor called it, was in the table drawer next to the main terminal. It was one of Race's responsibilities at Samhain to maintain and update the information it held. Since Theodore Roosevelt began the Project in 1906, a list of questions had been compiled to ask Bub should he ever awake and be judged sentient. There were many, some scientific, some historic, some theological.

Each successive President added his own questions to the book, and questions were dropped when they became outdated—for example, they no longer needed to ask Bub the 1918 question “Is it possible to split the atom?”

The book still had its original leather binding, though it had faded and cracked over the years. The first several dozen questions were typeset, but Roosevelt was wise enough to know that more questions would come up, so bound after the printed pages were two hundred blank ones.

Race had read through the book many times, and had even added several questions of his own. Now, after a century of sowing, it was time to reap.

With the book tucked firmly in his armpit, Race picked up the phone and hit the intercom line.

“Attention, this is Race. Our permanent guest is now talking, so it's show time in Red 14. Will everyone please meet me there.”