After two weeks, Ross had gotten so used to the White Sands daily commute – up at 0500 hours, get The Slayer, fly to White Sands, work on the Slipgate, back to Denver by 1900 hours, drop off The Slayer, rinse and repeat – that he was reluctant to pass on the message when it finally came.

"So, uh …" he began as they boarded Garcia's beloved aircraft that evening to fly back to Colorado. "Dr. Hayden wants to speak with you, sir."

There was a faint squeal of twisting metal as The Slayer's hand tightened on the overhead strap and the fastening started shearing off the bolts.

"It's not what you think," Ross was quick to assure him. He'd gotten a feel for The Slayer's dislike of Hayden over the last few weeks. "Hayden doesn't run the ARC – at least not yet – because he doesn't want UAC cultists infiltrating the Coalition. Each ARC is small enough to fully check their employees every day. I mean, that's half the UAC's problem, isn't it, they've got half a billion employees throughout the solar system, so it's almost impossible to –"

The strap's bolts started squealing again.

"Ross! My helicopter!" Garcia pleaded.

"Right, sorry: getting to the point now. Director Oppenheim respectfully requests that you at least listen to whatever Hayden wants to say. He has a feeling the UAC might not be so generous with their funding and materials if we stall Hayden any longer, and without their proprietary 8623 alloy we can't keep building the mega-mechs. He's kind of got us over a barrel."

The Slayer gave no outward indication that he was listening, but the overhead fastenings stopped shrieking.

"Okay, thank you. We'll get it over with as soon as possible, I promise."


Hayden was already online when The Slayer plowed into Oppenheim's office, nearly overturning the director's huge marble desk as he faced the vid screen.

"I hear you've been working on a Slipgate at White Sands," Hayden began without preamble.

The Slayer said nothing.

"I wasn't aware you had a degree in advanced subspace physics."

Again, there was no response.

'What a shock,' Ross mused wryly. 'This guy hasn't said a single word in two weeks, and it sounds like they've met before, so Hayden should know he doesn't talk. What's he expecting this time, a nice fireside chat?'

"By all accounts you are reasonably intelligent, Slayer. You've doubtless learned a significant amount over the … years … but I don't believe you're at the level of creating a functional Einstein-Rosen bridge. That would require an advisor."

Michelangelo's statue of David had more movement than The Slayer at that moment.

"You copied VEGA, didn't you?" Hayden scolded in that long drawl that always made Ross wonder if the cyborg had been a Southerner before his full-body transplant. "I should have guessed. You are the least risk-averse person I have ever encountered." Hayden was pacing from one side of the screen to the other as he talked. "We never tested that option due to the danger of a transcription error creating an insane artificial intelligence that could wipe out all life on Earth. And you're walking around with it in your pocket. So to speak."

'Boy, does he love the sound of his own voice,' Ross thought, not for the first time.

"Given that he's a sentient being and I had custody of him, I could make the argument that you've kidnapped my ward …" Hayden trailed off threateningly.

The Slayer slowly rotated a fist into view. When the supersoldier had Hayden's full attention, he extended the middle finger.

Ross covered his snort of laughter with a cough. He saw Oppenheim close his eyes wearily.

"Yes, I thought you might say that," Hayden answered with derision. "I could also take the stance that you saved his life, so to speak."

Hayden stopped pacing.

"I'm here to make you a deal, Slayer. Confine your scope of operations to North America, and I won't broadcast VEGA's kill-switch signal."

Ross could barely keep the surprise off his face. Hayden was going to let The Slayer keep the most advanced AI in human history? Since when did Dr. Samuel Hayden negotiate with soldiers, even supercharged ones? He made deals with world governments, not individuals.

"You may also have Denver and its ARC."

Ross was not able to hide his shock this time. Did Hayden really have that kind of authority? Was he just handing out principalities now? Making independent city-states with the President's blessing? It sent a chill down Ross's spine to think of a megalomaniac like Hayden having that kind of power.

With the smug satisfaction of a high-school gossip divulging a secret, Hayden added, "Your very own Taras Nabad, here on Earth. Maybe you can save your city from itself this time."

What the hell was "Taras Nabad"? Where? And what did he mean by "this time"? Ross's puzzle-loving mind started churning.

"And if you don't interfere with my research into creating synthetic Argent, I won't investigate your … extracurricular ... activities."

Activities? What activities? Hayden already knew about the Slipgate. Was this super-marine working on another project? Was that why he kept coming back to Denver every evening?

Ross felt a low buzzing through the soles of his shoes. It seemed to be stronger on the side nearest The Slayer. Was he … growling?

"Let's give it a month," Hayden said with an air of self-satisfaction. "See how it goes. Meanwhile I will send Dr. Oppenheim your 'personnel file.' They should know who they're dealing with." The pitch of Hayden's voice dropped very low near the end.

Well, that wasn't ominous or anything.

The Slayer turned and left without a backward glance. Ross wasn't sure if that was an indicator of agreement or not.

Ross found himself almost salivating at the thought of finally getting some answers about The Slayer. He had a passion for mysteries. Or for solving them, rather. As a schoolboy he'd driven the local police department half mad by calling in with crime-solving tips several times a day. Ross had almost always been right, but his long-suffering local sheriff had spent more time passing the information on to the relevant federal authorities than he had on policing his own county. Eventually they'd hired an intern just for handling "Ross Reports."

Speaking of interns …

"Dr. Hayden, sir."

Ross could have sworn Hayden was holding back a sigh. Maybe that was easier to control when you were 95% robot.

"Yes, Mr. Friedmann. What is it now?"

"If we're going to be hosting The Slayer long-term, and he's building stable wormhole technology, wouldn't it be appropriate to have more physicists here watching? So we could build our own Slipgates eventually? I'm sure you know that humanity's attempts at interdimensional Gates have been … less than successful." The large crater where the UAC's El Paso Research Complex used to be still hadn't had any plants grow back.

"True," Hayden said in a more genial tone. "Anyone in particular?"

Ross could not help grinning. "Send me Philips, if you wouldn't mind. And Jessie to handle the tech. Darren, too, if you can spare him."

"Done."

Oppenheim cleared his throat loudly, glaring at Ross.

"Oh, right. If that's okay with Dr. Oppenheim, I mean."

Not being 95% robot, Oppenheim wasn't able to suppress his own sigh of irritation.

"Yes, of course," the director said through clenched teeth. "We would be happy to host a few more of UAC Switzerland's staff, as long as they pass the cultist screenings."

"That reminds me," Hayden added. "Friedmann, I am permanently transferring you to the Denver ARC. You report to Dr. Oppenheim now. Do at least try to follow the chain of command, hm?"

Ross asked eagerly, "Am I getting a promotion? A salary hike? A title?"

Hayden said quickly, "No, you're still an intern," and hung up.


The only reason Lizzie didn't shriek and drop her basket when the huge figure stepped into the clearing was that she'd seen the glint of Ayers's chrome a moment before. She still had to put a hand to her chest to calm her racing heart.

"Jeez, you scared me."

He raised a palm in apology.

"No, it's okay." She gave him a nervous smile. "You've come a long way in the stealth department."

Ayers nodded his thanks. He looked around the grove as if wondering what she was doing in the middle of a tiny forest.

"I was feeding the skunk."

She saw his eyebrows rise behind the visor.

"That's not a metaphor for anything," Lizzie insisted. "There are real skunks out here. The one living in this grove is named Veronica. She's having a litter soon, so I brought her extra veggies and protein."

He nodded. I believe you.

"That's how Vincent kept people from getting nosy about his bunker all that time he was building it: he had a skunk farm on top of the entrance." She settled the empty basket on her hip. "Not even the local animal rights activist wanted to deal with that. Which is a shame, really; they love meeting new people." She started walking back, babbling now because of his close proximity. "Obviously Vincent had to set them loose when the demons attacked so they wouldn't get eaten in their pens. But they're domesticated. Natural instinct will only help them out with making a burrow and finding plants and bugs to eat. They're still figuring out how to hunt lizards, frogs, birds, things like that – Oh, no thank you, I'll carry this. It's empty anyway," she said when he held out a hand offering to take the basket for her. Frankly, she needed as much buffering space as possible between her and Ayers, and the large wicker basket helped. It also helped that he had his helmet on. The semi-opaque visor only showed the barest outlines of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. And 50% of the time the reflected moonlight fully obscured even those.

"They're really very sweet, especially to me. I think maybe it's my skunk stripe." She gestured to the pure white strip of hair running horizontally back from her left temple. The doctors had done their best to sew up that head wound without pulling on her face too much, but there was nothing they could do to make the hair grow back in its original black. She'd gotten tired of buying whole boxes of hair dye just for a single lock, and had given up dyeing it several years ago.

They neared the bunker entrance as Lizzie kept prattling on about skunks making great pets, without really hearing what she was saying. She hoped it didn't sound too dumb, because he seemed to be listening to every word.

With a tiny spark of panic she realized that she didn't have any reason not to invite Ayers inside. Vincent would be happy, Harry would be thrilled, and Charlie had apparently decided that Ayers was his new best friend.

"Thankfully the demons have thinned out a lot, so it's much safer to be out here taking care of Veronica," she heard herself add. "They seem to have moved south or east for some reason. Can't be because of all the skunks in the area; the little guys can be stinky, sure, but they have a limited amount of sprays before they have to recharge, so to speak. I don't think you have anything to worry about with Veronica and the others, though. You seem to have a way with animals. Granted, I've only seen you with Charlie, but –"

Ayers casually pressed the decon chamber's intercom like he'd done it a hundred times. For some reason that made her stomach do a couple of little flips. 'Stupid stomach. You settle down in there.'

"Melvin!" came Vincent's voice from the hidden speaker. "So good to see you again."

Ayers shook his head, eyes crinkling.

"Damn, I really thought I had it that time. Anyway, decon spray incoming, you two. Hold your breath, Lizzie."

After decon she kept babbling about skunks and skunk-related facts until they got through to the main bunker. She used the distraction of Vincent, Harry and Charlie swarming Ayers to slip into the little tool shed on the side of the house and put the basket away. Then she started sorting the zip ties by color. 'Been meaning to get to this,' she lied to herself.

Vincent had painstakingly re-created a little farmhouse down here, even going so far as to make a small four-pane window through which Lizzie could see the guys in the front yard. She started to calm down as they chatted, and was considering coming out to join them, when Ayers took his helmet off.

Well, shit. She was hoping her memory had been exaggerating his good looks, but: nope. He was just as handsome as last time, dammit. What the hell was she going to do in this tiny shed for the next three hours while they shot the breeze and played cards?

Lizzie scooped all the zip ties together again and began re-sorting them by size instead.

Ayers showed Harry how to use the racing lure he'd brought for Charlie, and the boy ran an almost perfect grid pattern on the front lawn, which was great because both he and the dog had an excess of energy after not seeing the mercenary for several days.

Vincent was feeling especially generous today, so he offered, "Beer, Ayers?"

Ayers declined with a shake of the head.

"Water, then?"

Yes.

When Vincent returned, Ayers had already set up the poker table and chairs. He was sitting on the top step with his helmet in his hands, peering at the tool shed with an expression of slight confusion.

Knowing Lizzie, she'd find some very reasonable excuse to stay in there all evening if he let her. Vincent would have to do something about this.

He was fairly certain it wasn't just the friendly dog and the cute kid and the poker games that Ayers kept coming back for, so he decided to admit, "You're making her uncomfortable."

That got the biggest – relatively speaking – reaction he'd seen from the merc: Ayers looked mildly concerned.

"She says she doesn't like being around handsome men."

The hired soldier blinked in surprise.

"I won't go into detail, but she's had some bad experiences."

Ayers looked down at the helmet on his lap. The visor reflected his scarred face, which he studied as if it were someone he'd just met.

"She wouldn't want me telling you this, but you need to understand why she's suddenly acting this way. It's nothing you've done, and she doesn't want you to go away or anything. She needs time to get used to the way you look, that's all."

Ayers's brow was slightly furrowed.

"Don't look at me for an explanation. I haven't dated since Erika's mother passed away in '37. I've got no idea what appeals to women Lizzie's age. Or why. Be right back with the cards."

He noticed Ayers using the helmet like a mirror and touching the large scar on his right cheek as if he'd forgotten it was there.

Lizzie was still in the shed when they had all the drinks and poker items arranged, and Harry was still running elaborate patterns in the grass with Charlie hot on his heels.

Ayers's body was half-tensed, as if he was debating going over to the shed.

"It's okay," Vincent said quietly. "I know how to deal with this."

He said loudly, "So, Ayers, as you can see from the sales of Led Zeppelin's third album, 'Immigrant Song' makes them the greatest –"

From the tool shed they heard a muffled protest of "Lies!"

"– classic metal band of all time –"

"Blasphemy!" There was the rustling and thumping of someone trying to clamber over a pile of tools.

"– especially if you include their most famous song, 'Stairway to Heaven', which was an instant success –"

"That is an outright falsehood – Ow, shit, why is this right in the middle of the goddamned –" Lizzie stumbled out of the shed, fending off a wire rake that was trying to start a retirement career as a hairbrush.

Her face was flushed by the time she'd disentangled herself from the lawn tool. She pushed the frizzy lock of white hair out of her eyes and shook a finger at Vincent.

"You know very well that Led Zeppelin is hard rock. 'Stairway to Heaven' is a ballad, for crying out loud, and the greatest classic metal band of all time is Metallica." She jabbed an emphatic finger into the table. "Don't listen to him, Ayers. He's old and confused and doesn't know what he's talking about anymore."

"Liz, Metallica is thrash metal, not classic. And all reputable music historians agree that Led Zeppelin not only is classic metal but invented the entire heavy metal music genre to begin with."

She would have gasped less dramatically if Vincent had dumped a bucket of ice water down her back. "I can't believe you'd poison his mind with this … this … this … slander!"

"Lizzie, you can't say that having a slow rolling start to their most famous song makes a band 'not classic metal,' because by that token 'War Pigs' makes Black Sabbath a rock band."

She stared at him, wide-eyed and muttering in shock, "You did not just say that to me."

"Okay, you know what, Liz? We're going to settle this right now." He turned his back to Lizzie and gave Ayers a quick glance as he stood up. "Let's get my music player out here, because we're going to listen to some examples and let him decide for himself."

"I think that would be best."

"Starting with Guns N' Roses."

"Vincent, if I were a violent person, I would slap you right now."

"Fine, we'll do Deep Purple first."

"No," Lizzie protested as she followed Vincent into the house. "No-no-no-no, you cannot start off with 'Smoke on the Water' as the groundwork for a true appreciation of classic metal! You have to start with 'Enter Sandman'! It's tradition!"

"Overrated. 'Back in Black' is clearly a superior song."

"Why, you –"


An hour later, Lizzie finally insisted on an answer.

"Ayers, you have enough information now to make an informed decision." She held out a hand like offering an object. "Metallica." She held out the other. "Or Led Zeppelin."

He narrowed his eyes a bit, looking back and forth between her hands.

She felt something moving the air behind her.

"Vincent," she warned, "stop giving him hand signals. This is an important decision; he has to do it on his own."

Ayers drew in a slow breath, and let it out even more slowly.

He pointed to the Led Zeppelin hand.

"Woo!" Vincent cheered. "Another convert!"

Lizzie stared down at her Led Zeppelin hand in disbelief. "I can't believe you've betrayed me like this."

Ayers shrugged. You like what you like.

"Tomorrow we're doing hard rock," Vincent promised.

"Led Zeppelin is hard r–" Lizzie interrupted herself with raised hands. "You know what? I can't even handle the two of you right now. I give up." She stood indignantly. "I am going to go make an accurate hard rock playlist and tomorrow you'll learn the difference between the two."

Vincent winked at Ayers. See?

Ayers nodded.