1

The process seemed damnably slow. It was a struggle to recreate the world the way it had been back when he'd first begun the specific meditations in Tibet when he'd been much younger. His mind wandered and strange features arose or entire sections of the city blurred into bizarre formations. Now and then his mind was nothing but swirling patterns in stained glass, but at least he recognized what the phenomenon was and could wait it out rather than try and fight it. It seemed that time passed in the city he sought to build building by building and street by street, for sometimes he witnessed the sun's early rays warming the structures farthest to the east and at other times he watched the unfinished memory cool to blues and blacks while celestial bodies peppered the sky. Something was terribly wrong. That was the only thing he knew for certain: his failure indicated possible brain damage. What he did not know yet was its extent.

He imagined himself lying upon his own bed in the Beaux-Arts mansion on Riverside Drive in Manhattan's Upper West Side. It was strangely cold in the room. He shivered and failed to make himself comfortable. I must be gravely injured, he thought, wondering how much time had passed since he had last been conscious. Penumbra would have felt more comforting to him, and his suite at The Dakota would have made him feel more in control, but the old, rambling mansion was where he had last seen her, and so it was there that he decided to return.

Since their last meeting, he had dreamed of her fleetingly. He'd notice a presence lurking in the background that bore some vague resemblance to her, but if he attempted to pursue or question the apparition, it either coalesced into someone else or became belligerent, steadfastly denying it was whom he'd thought. She had become more a creature of his memory than his dreams and this disappointed him, for since their meeting he wished fervently that they would meet again so that he might fully explore every possibility she represented.

He had intentionally left the mansion unpopulated. Constance's presence would no doubt comfort him and perhaps even offer him clues to his malady. If he so desired, he could even conjure up the dead, famous figures, or even fictional ones. At the moment he was too weak to concentrate beyond convincing himself that he was someplace safe—at least within his own mind.

He drifted in and out of sleep, it seemed. His rational mind told him he was merely losing hold of his fantasy sporadically. He longed for sleep if it would return her to him. She had arrived the first time because she'd sensed a need within him to repair his psyche. She had been real, he knew, for there was actual footage of her recorded by various sources, he kept the clothing she had worn locked within a special box in his basement, and her hair had been analyzed for DNA.

Thus far no one could identify her, although plenty of people swore she resembled this person or that. When he sometimes replayed the recording of their sparring together in his gymnasium, he'd see enough of her to judge her features as perfectly symmetrical with an evenly pale countenance, dark lashes, and strangely deep black hair that almost appeared blue in the right light. It was said that humans appreciated the beauty of symmetry to the point that those judged to be the most physically attractive people really only had the most symmetrical, and therefore actually plain features!

She had been pretty for a girl her age. He had thought her his anima: the manifestation of his own feminine traits. But Constance and Vincent and Proctor had described a stranger appearing abruptly in their midst to claim her. He had deduced that she was the product of a dream research facility, and therefore not a thing he himself had created. Constance had spoken a name, and he had vanished from his seat, leaving this large, brown-haired fellow with a cleft chin in his wake that the girl had reacted strongly to. She had indicated to him that she'd had a partner, and so it was supposed the odd man had been he. At random moments he, too, had spoken the man's name aloud, but no one appeared as if by magic. He sometimes murmured her name, but it failed to kindle dreams of her.

The clothing he retained defied contemporary technology, the fabric seemingly grown as colored garments, manufactured not as woven threads but as something perfected to the molecular level so that the soft red short-sleeved top and the inky black denim-look leggings were without seams or hems of any kind, marred by not a single stitch! And the suede-like black boots proved to never have been part of any animal, but made of a material that simply did not exist anywhere on Earth!

The hair he'd had preserved intact, minus what had been used for the DNA test. Human? Yes, but matching no known databases. The strangest bit being that while it actually possessed deoxyribonucleic acid and ribonucleic acid, it was smooth to the cellular level and nearly impossible to destroy! Normal hair is made of miniscule overlapping scales or sheaths. The sample he prized might have been designed by a master geneticist attempting to improve on the human specie.

He'd nodded off and woke in a chair. This intrigued him, for it hinted that he was prepared to abandon the comfort of what he knew for the peril of what he did not. His shirt was partially unbuttoned and untucked, his loose tie askew, his belt seemed to be missing, and there were no socks between his feet and his shoes. It took considerable effort to motivate himself to push into a standing position, and then he'd had to lean against the arms of the chair until he'd felt strong enough to walk. He had to get over the bridge to where she had indicated. A place called ArtReal, or maybe StarNet. Places no one he had connections with had been able to find.

It took forever to get to the front doors, and then he rested against them, weary. His disheveled appearance indicated only that there was something terribly wrong with his physical form and mattered not in this version of New York he had manufactured. When the door finally swung aside, he saw a strange orange sky marred with streaks of dark blue and green clouds. The Silver Wraith was parked beneath the porte cochere, and as he dragged himself toward it, he willed it to be something faster, something he could zip through town in. When he got to the side of the Maserati, he patted himself down in search of keys until the driver's side door popped open obligingly. He dropped behind the steering wheel, unable to suppress a grin at the nearly overpowering stink of new car aroma. He started the vehicle by depressing a button and there was a faint vibration followed by a subtle purr. The doors locked automatically, but he had to manually adjust the seat and mirrors to his liking. He put it in gear and removed his foot from the brake, allowing the car to roll forward. He reached the end of the driveway and pulled onto the street, heading for the George Washington Bridge.

Drowsy, his eyelids feeling like they each weighed a ton, he tuned in the radio to a classical station and was soon fast asleep behind the wheel.

Below him lay chill water, cracked and broken like the hide of a wallet. As he watched dully, a black sedan tumbled with unusual slowness and grace until it struck the leather-like surface, tearing foamy white rents in it. He gripped the handrail and squinted, the breeze strong, ruffling his hair. It had been a shocking moment. Inhaling deeply twice, he prepared to climb that he might dive after it. Would she be there again, in the nick of time, rescuing him from probable death? Did his current vision indicate that his physical form was in fact close to death? He glanced up for a final look at the city…and saw it was wrong. His mental state was clearly faltering. There were buildings with odd silhouettes and structures where there should not have been any and empty spaces that ought to've been filled with hotels or offices. The struggle lay in not giving up, not giving in. He was literally fighting for his life and had no idea who else he might turn to.

A horn blared, and he jumped, clinging to the rail as he turned.

"Hey, Buddy, you need a ride somewhere?"

The improbable figure gestured from within a warm yellow sedan with a checkered pattern along the sides.

Patting himself down, he wondered if he could talk his way out of paying the cab fare.

"Get in," the stranger grunted. "I seen what you was thinkin'. Not today, all right? Give it one more sunrise."

The man thought he'd been contemplating suicide. Grateful, he left the pedestrian walkway and climbed into the passenger seat when he saw that the back seat was occupied.

"Don't mind her," said the cabbie, an African-American just beginning to show hints of silver in his moustache and very short hair. "This is a weekly thing for her. Don't make the dog bark, and she'll never know you were here."

The man turned for a glimpse of an old woman, overdressed in fashions too youthful for her, dozing under a heavy layer of makeup and a stiff blonde wig, an aging Yorkshire terrier asleep on her lap. Large paper bags from the most upscale boutiques surrounded her. He could still smell the nail products she'd had applied during a recent manicure.

"Where you goin'?"

"I'm looking for a facility known as ArtReal or StarNet."

The driver's brow creased as he skillfully kept up with traffic. "That's a new one." As he drove, he pushed a button mounted on his steering wheel. A soft feminine voice acknowledged him and he asked aloud, "ArtReal."

There was a pause followed by, "At the end of the bridge, keep right."

The man shrugged. "Guess she found it. Is it some kind of club or somethin'? Not to be nosy or anything."

"I have been lead to believe it is a type of research facility."

"You're not from here, are ya?" The man grinned and shook an index finger at his passenger. "Let me guess, man, N'awlins, right? Am I right?"

"You are correct."

"Is this some kind of a business visit, then?"

"I may be touring the facility," came the reply.

"Yeah, I kind had you pegged for some kind of tight-laced, upscale CEO or somethin'. Hey…are you government?"

The man had glanced down to find himself neatly attired in his preferred custom-tailored dark suit, his shirtsleeves a tad stiff with starch and sporting muted silver abalone cufflinks. Patting his chest, he felt his badge wallet in place beneath the wool. Upon his feet he wore somewhat plain, but classic English leather shoes made to his specifications. He inhaled in surprise and was even able to detect a hint of cologne; green oranges with an undertone of talc. He lifted a hand and caressed the top of his head, finding every hair in place as though freshly styled. His cheek was smooth and free of stubble. "Something to that effect," he answered vaguely, with a faint smile.

The GPS directed them along the river until it said to take a right turn toward it, then a left at the end of the road. From there they could see a squat, grey building with minimal landscaping around it, a parking lot out front presided over by a guard shack. "You have reached your destination."

"I don't think I've ever noticed this place before," the driver mentioned, allowing the sedan to coast toward the tall, skinny structure beside a yellow and black striped gate. From where he stopped they could make out a semi-circle shaped logo featuring the name of the place topped with a pale starburst.

The guard was on the phone. "Dropping off or picking up?" he queried, covering the mouthpiece.

"Dropping off?" the cabbie asked, receiving a nod. He nodded as he turned back and repeated, "Dropping off."

"Right ahead," they were told, and the arm was manually raised, allowing them to pass.

"It's paid for," the driver told the man who exited, jerking a thumb toward the elderly woman in the rear. "Call if you need us," he added, smiling and nodding before pulling away.

The tall, lean man adjusted his attire and stood gazing at the structure. It looked basically rectangular with one corner chopped off to make a more aesthetically pleasing entrance. The front doors were glass. He pulled and found himself before another set of doors. The second set you had to push. The place was clean, sparsely decorated, with wood paneling behind two opposed receptionists' stations, one featuring the ArtReal logo again in brushed silver, the other a blue steel logo spelling out StarNet and featuring a pentacle in place of the letter A. He wondered if it suggested an occult reference like the old Nazi swastika, or merely indicated some type of law enforcement activities. There was a figure standing before the StarNet desk, leaning heavily against it, speaking softly to the young woman on the other side. To the right, the ArtReal receptionist watered a potted plant from a coffee pot, a small communication device nestled over her right ear. She noticed him and offered a quick smile and a finger of caution. "Just a sec, honey," she said.

How informal, he thought.

She was having difficulty with her footwear and nearly stumbled into her chair. "How can I help you?"

Clearing his throat, the man said gently, "I am here in reference to Quasar 169, Amanda."

The woman's eyes grew large and her smile broader, though blatantly forced. "I'm sorry, is there a problem you need to discuss? Has something happened? Something big been destroyed?"

She behaved as though she'd encountered queries of the sort before, and they generally didn't have positive outcomes. He was relieved she even knew to what he was referring. "I have no complaint," he assured her in his calm, buttery tones. "Would it be possible for me to speak with her?"

The woman registered confusion behind her faltering mask of professional courtesy. "You're not…a relative of hers, are you?"

"No," he answered, suspecting she planned to detain him there in the lobby unless he convinced her his visit was pertinent. He reached into his suit and withdrew the badge, flipping it open and offering it to her for inspection. "This is a business call."

She scrutinized the metal, turning it in the light, but he could tell she was thinking of something else. "O-kay…have you ever actually met this Quasar before?"

With a mild smile, he tilted his head and held his right hand out to his side, palm down. "This tall? Black hair to her waist. Very light blue eyes."

Now she stared at him blankly, her jaw a little slack. "I-I'm sorry…Special Agent Pendergast. Let me see who's available."

He noticed she'd indicated someone other than Amanda and inwardly frowned as he accepted his wallet back.

Touching her earpiece, she dialed a number on a pad before her, waited, and then spoke. "Dr. Halbot? I'm sorry to bother you, but there's a Special Agent Pendergast from the Federal Bureau of Investigations here to ask someone about one of the Quasars. One sixty-nine. Uh-huh, I dialed him, but got routed to you. Could you find him for me, please?" She smiled at Agent Pendergast. "Just a minute."

Halbot sounded more English than German, but he wasn't certain it mattered. Turning casually, he saw that the man standing at the next counter was openly observing him. He let his focus rest on the stranger without showing any emotion. The greasy-looking fellow nodded slowly, smiling, and looked the pale man up and down appreciatively.

"Dr. Sanders? I'm sorry to be a pest, but there's a man here from the FBI who wants to talk to you. He's alone. Says it's business. Quasar one sixty-nine? All right. I will. Thank you." She disconnected and nervously fluffed her short hair. "They're getting an escort for you."

He wondered if he should bother telling her that he was armed, then decided to see if it was necessary to mention it at all. She was an attractive, older woman who clearly watched her diet and exercised regularly. Her hair was colored, her nails lacquered, and her attire conservative sporty.

"You ain't from here," he heard from behind his back.

He turned toward the other male. "I'm out of the New Orleans branch."

"Huh," the guy said, smiling, chewing gum while grinning. Again he stared appreciatively at the agent, bouncing his head to the side as though listening to catchy music. "You got a bug problem down there?"

Pendergast was trying to fathom the meaning of this query when a uniformed man exited from a doorway behind the StarNet receptionist's desk and approached him. "Special Agent Pendergast? Come with me, please."

He kept up with the taller man, a blond with long legs and a Scandinavian appearance dressed in a crisp black uniform sporting a patch that looked like a depiction of the planet, an American flag, and the StarNet logo. The man said nothing further, and Pendergast refrained from questioning him. The hallways they traversed were empty, lacking art or signage indicating what lay behind each door they passed aside from the restrooms. They turned down a long corridor with tile flooring and plain, bisque colored walls. The uniformed man walked briskly, but wore heels that made only soft sounds on the hard floor. Pendergast altered his gate to make softer footsteps, recalling that this was allegedly a dream research facility and there might actually be people trying to sleep within it. They reached a short hall lined with handsome wooden doors on one side that Pendergast guessed were offices. The man halted before one and knocked gently.

Eventually, a male voice called, "Come in."

The man opened the door and gestured for the agent to precede him. Once Pendergast was inside, he closed the door over quietly and departed.

Behind a simply designed, handsome cherry desk sat a small man of mixed ethnicity. He did not rise to introduce himself, busy as he appeared to be with a slim computer. He wore small, wire-framed glasses and held the eraser end of a pencil against his lower lip. As though he'd forgotten that he had a visitor, he blinked up with mild surprise, and then gestured for Pendergast to sit. Unused to such treatment, the agent took his time sidling before one of the two chairs in front of the desk and lowering himself into it. He remained silent, taking in the details of the room while the small man worked. This was someone important, or at least someone who fancied himself so. It was possible he was merely overcompensating for what he lacked in physical intimidation. Pendergast guessed his height to be well under five feet.

Removing the eyewear and placing it in a pocket of his white lab coat, the small man finally addressed his visitor. "Well," he intoned gently, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on the felt blotter before him, "how may we be of service to you today?"

"Special Agent Pendergast, New Orleans branch," Pendergast said, flashing his badge briefly. "I am here to speak with Amanda."

"Amanda," the man repeated indulgently.

"Quasar one six nine."

"You wish to speak with her?"

"It is a matter of utmost importance."

"Really?" The small man, whose nameplate identified him as Dr. Sanders, swiveled his chair to the side and leaned back in it as though he could clearly see the view beyond the closed blinds that covered the office's sole window. "In regards to?"

"Is she unavailable?"

Sanders eventually brought the chair back around and rested his hands on the blotter again. "I'm guessing there's been an incident?"

"There has occurred an incident," Pendergast conceded, "that she may be able to assist me with."

Merriment lit the doctor's features. "Really? How intriguing. And I suppose it deals with aliens?"

The pale man's brow furrowed. "It has nothing to do with illegal immigrants," he said.

"Illegal immigrants. Is that what you guys are calling them? Hmm."

"Is she available?"

"Why her specifically?"

"I have dealt with her before," the FBI agent told him.

"In what respect?"

"She assisted me with an attempted kidnapping case some months previous."

The doctor finally appeared to be taking him seriously. "Did she? I was unaware of that."

"It was not broadcast to the media in any official capacity."

"You're very evasive," Sanders accused.

"No more than yourself, Doctor."

"Can you give me details-"

"I'm afraid not," Pendergast interrupted smoothly. "The investigation is not yet closed."

"I see. Official FBI business?"

The pale man displayed his palms.

"I really wish I had known something like that had occurred…we strongly dislike getting tangled with outside agencies. I would like to comply, but-"

"I'm afraid that you must."

Sanders let an eyebrow rise. "Does it…somehow involve, say…national security?"

Pendergast folded his hands upon his lap. "I wish I could provide you with more details, but at this time everything remains classified."

"Why wasn't this done through official channels?"

"Circumstances have forced me to come to you on my own. I am in dire need of Amanda's assistance as soon as humanly possible."

The man's brown eyes narrowed. He pinched the flesh at the top of his nose, and then reapplied his spectacles. "I'm afraid, that given the circumstances, extraordinary as they might be, I simply cannot loan any of our property out on the word of a rogue agent."

Pendergast didn't care for the adjective. It suggested he was operating outside of normal parameters, which of course he was. "Is she here in this building at this time?" he asked abruptly, sitting straighter in the chair.

Sanders cocked his jaw, and then answered, "She is not."

"Have you any other Quasars that might assist me at this time?"

"This isn't like a library."

"The library is far more helpful."

"You're a cocky one, aren't you?" Sanders stared at the strange fellow, his nearly morbid attire, his cadaverous appearance. "How long have you been with the Bureau?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because every one of you should know how our facility operates. I can offer you backup from StarNet if you suspect aliens are involved, but we do not loan out Quasars to just anyone who comes asking."

Pendergast inhaled sharply. "Then how does one usually acquire a Quasar from your facility?"

"Through their partners. Now, if you'll-"

"Then I will need to speak with Alex," he interrupted.

"Yes, but Alex answers to me."

"Please summon him. I will need to see him immediately."

Sanders asked, "Would you care for some refreshment? You seem a little tired."

The pale man mentioned, "A glass of water would be nice."

Sanders glanced at his watch. "What about dinner?"

"My time is limited," Pendergast assured him.

"Officer Roglitz is not present at this time. It will take a few minutes to contact him and get him in here."

"I will wait."

"Of course," Sanders said, easing down from his chair and walking around the desk with a smile. "We have a cafeteria downstairs. I can have him meet you there."

The word cafeteria was as unappealing to Pendergast as fast-food joint. He sighed with displeasure. "Do they have tea?"

"They have all kinds of things. Let me find you an escort while I attempt to contact Alexander."

"I cannot be kept waiting," Pendergast insisted.

"I'll be sure and let him know," the other man said.