*LONE GUNMEN: AS SOON AS POSSIBLE* *3 of 5 * *MAD JACK'S COMPUTER REPAIR, SATURDAY 6:15 P.M.* A week ago Edwina Norton had been watching television and feeling slightly numb and forlorn. She'd been flipping through channels, eating cheddar-flavored potato chips by the handful (always a sure sign she was either just about to start her period, or life had been getting to her), trying not to dwell on the fact that after this particular weekend, when Monday morning came, she'd have no reason to get out of bed and hurry in to work. She felt like she was drifting. She still had friends; she still had Sven. But the biggest, most satisfying part of her adult life had just been neatly boxed up and swept out. Surfing through the channels only deepened her discontent. Talk about a vast wasteland. Even a few minutes spent watching the latest, painfully silly, space opera failed to cheer her. When the nicely muscled black man with the beautiful eyes finished his few lines and was replaced by yet another babe in leather, Ed nearly turned the set off. But her finger still punched the button, to stop as a new commercial for a tarot card reader caught her eye. Ed loved Madame Lola's commercials, they were some of the most effectively produced bits of consumer baiting she'd seen. Not like that drippy wannabehip pop campaign that currently bugged the snot out of her. Madame Lola's producers had a crystal clear vision of their target audience, and knew the exact buttons to push. Madame Lola, herself, was the perfect focus for the message. Her commanding, autocratic physical beauty, her melodious voice, the sharp delivery of judgment that rivalled the acerbity of Judge Judy -- these abilities in tandem with her evident ability to see through phone lines direct to the hearts and lives of her callers ... more than once Ed had to stop herself from getting up and calling the 800 number, just out of curiosity. Her head said, scam here -- nobody can see the future. Prediction was another thing altogether; but prediction depended on the amount of information you already had in your possession, a degree of skill, and a degree of luck. Look at weather reporting, Ed had thought, wisely. Turning off the television, Ed had gone to spend some time polishing Cherry. It had never registered that she was suppressing the fact she knew someone who'd shown he could, possibly, do the very thing she'd just dismissed with a patronizing chuckle. Exactly one week later, almost to the minute, Edwina Norton was parking Cherry outside Mad Jack's Computer Repair. She'd dumped Sven, possibly fallen in love with a strange, complicated little man older then she was, and created a new job for herself. Just before she opened her door a kind of time-compression-deja vu-memory moment froze her hand on her keys, and Langly's voice -- which hadn't stopped since they got into the car -- faded. * Mad Jack, handing her a can of tire goo just before she left his office, when they were working on his first ad campaign. "Take it, if you want to get home," he'd said. It was true, Ed had noticed the right rear tire was low that morning; when she exited the shop and looked at it closer, she'd found a piece of metal driven tightly between the treads. And Mad Jack hadn't been outside during her entire visit. * Mad Jack, making her stay and have tea with him after hours. She'd heard him calling his wife, telling her he'd be an hour late for dinner. They'd chatted about inconsequential, but pleasant subjects; Mad Jack had frequently glanced at his watch. It was a strange visit, but Ed was willing to humor a client. The drive home had taken longer then usual due to a police blockade around the five-car pileup on her usual route. Ed was not blindly pragmatic; she'd filed the incidents under strange-but-true, and gone on to extrapolate the reason for Mad Jack's insistence on hand shaking. Perhaps he had premonitions; perhaps he was sensitive to picking up on information other people let fly over their heads, or out their mouths without thinking. It didn't affect their relationship, and wasn't something Ed spent a lot of time wondering about. She'd been a busy, happy woman with other things to occupy her mind. "You coming in?" Langly was half in, half out of the car. "Don't slam that!" she said, in answer, removing her keys from the ignition. Mad Jack waited for them near the front door, opening it himself and ushering them inside. He shook hands with each of the men, then stood and looked at them with an expression that Ed had seen once, just after he'd sold an AV system to an area private school. "You'll wanna see the crate," Mad Jack said. "We'd also like to see the contents of the crate." Byers stepped to the fore of the group, taking charge. *He'd be a good employee,* Ed thought, surprised by an unusual surge of maternal feeling. *He's the one who keeps them grounded.* A quick look around confirmed her opinion. Langly had wandered off to look at the equipment on the shelves; Jimmy stood in back of Byers with his arms folded, looking very much like the muscle of the group; Frohike had stopped avoiding her eyes ... he smiled at her, and Ed felt her train of thought take a sidetrack. He looked so cute in that black leather jacket and vest, with those fingerless leather gloves ... "No can do." Mad Jack shook his head genially. "Sight unseen, that's the deal." He turned and walked toward the back of the shop. "Will you assure us that this crate contains nothing harmful, or illegal ..." "Or dead," Langly said, interrupting Byers' careful phrasing. "Nothing dead," Mad Jack said. "At least ... not dead." "Hardly an answer that inspires confidence," Frohike said. He moved to stand beside Ed. "Why do you want to get rid of it?" "It doesn't belong here, and I've got a hunch you will figure out where it does belong." Mad Jack stopped in front of a large wooden crate. "Blondie will know what to do with it." "Me?" Langly shook his head, sending his hair flying. "We need a moment to consult." Byers motioned them to join him a few steps back from Mad Jack and the crate. "Ed? You're the only one here who knows this guy. Do you recommend we do this?" "Let me talk to him." Ed had employed ten people by the time she'd closed her business. She was comfortable with the responsibility of managing, cautioning, counselling, stroking and firing other human beings. The responsibility of recommending that her new employers take possession of Mad Jack's crate made her uncomfortable. This was not something she wanted to screw up. Ed took Mad Jack by the arm and walked him away from the group. "Give me a reason," she said quietly. "Why should I recommend that these men, who I'm barely acquainted with, take something you're desperate to get rid of?" Mad Jack smiled down at her. "So you dumped the stud for the troll, Ed? My wife keeps telling me that age and experience are far sexier than raw energy." "Jack!" Ed was glad she'd taken him out of the guys' hearing range. He patted her arm. "I didn't know if it would be okay, baby. But it will be. Your friends need to take that stuff out of here. It was meant. They'll be okay, you'll be okay. Actually, you're going to be more than okay by Tuesday morning." His eyes were dancing, and his mouth was twitching with humor. "You blush real nice, Ed baby." "I don't think six grand is going to cover this, Jack." Ed pushed his hand off her arm. Glimpsing the future was scarier then she'd imagined; also more exhilarating. "You're going to sign a contract for next year, too." She walked back to Byers, and nodded. "I think you should take it." "All right." Byers looked around at his friends. Langly nodded; Frohike nodded. Jimmy grinned a big, happy smile. "I'll be here first thing in the morning ..." Mad Jack took hold of Byers' shoulder, and steered him away toward the showroom. Langly and Jimmy followed. Frohike stayed back. Ed's pulse started to pick up speed. "Can we take some time next week, sit and talk again? I'd like to buy you dinner this time," Frohike said. "That would be great." He'd been shaken by Sven, Ed knew; from the cocky grin on his face, he'd gotten over it. "Friday night?" "Yes." With a feeling of disappointment, Ed wondered just what Tuesday Mad Jack had been talking about. That's the trouble with predictions, she thought, trying to maintain a casual exterior. You wake up in the morning looking for sun, and it's hailing on your tulips. *SUNDAY, THE GARAGE OF JIMMY BOND - 10:30 A.M.* The moving project had gone without a hitch. Frohike pulled the rental truck away from Jimmy's garage door, and turned off the motor. As he hopped down out of the cab he could hear Jimmy and Langly wrangling over possession of the crowbar. "Let Jimmy do it," Byers said. "You'll get blisters again, Langly." "Okay, but hurry up, man." Langly surrendered the implement of destruction, and took a step back as Jimmy wedged the bar under a board and torqued on it. With a screech of reluctant nails, the side panel of the crate slowly gave way under Jimmy's strong hands. "It looks like a load of junk." Frohike stepped up for a closer inspection. "What a mess." "Should we?" Byers asked, tentatively. Langly reached in to haul out an armful of cabling. "Ethernet stuff. Old scuzzy cables. Co-ax cable. It *is* a load of junk, man." "Guys?" Jimmy pulled out a small cardboard box and shook it. "What've you got?" Langly dropped the cabling and wrinkled his nose. "Diskettes to install RAM doubler?" "Little pills. Little beige pills," Jimmy said, poking at them with his finger. "Let me see those." Frohike grabbed the box. "No marks on them. We'll have to get them analyzed. I've never seen anything similar." "There are two more boxes like that," Byers said, moving a cracked, dusty monitor out of the way. "And ... Langly? What do you think this is?" "Good question." Langly took the black rectangle from Byers. He turned it over and over. "USB, Firewire, phone, and power inputs ... but I don't see any way to get into the thing." "There has to be a way to get in." Frohike took the box and walked into the daylight. He went through the same process Langly had. There were no seams. No screws. The hard enamel finish of the box was only broken by the oval and circular ports. "How'd they put this baby together?" he wondered aloud. "This is what Mad Jack wanted us to have," Byers said. "Cool! This is so cool!" Jimmy was putting something on his head that looked like a cross between shooting range ear protectors and night vision goggles. "Can I have this ... I think it's broken. I can't see anything." "Give me that." Langly grabbed the device off Jimmy's head. "Let's take this stuff back to the office. I've got an idea ..." Frohike let Langly sort out the pieces he wanted, and watched as Byers and Jimmy loaded them into the back of the truck. He was tired; he'd spent the night writing his column and reluctantly doing more research on genetically altered seed. He hadn't learned his lesson from the salmonella series they'd done, back in the mid-90s. He still couldn't eat hot dogs after exposing some of the meat industry's more egregious practices; resentfully he wondered how many more pleasures of the table would disappear from his life purely because of the pursuit of knowledge. It was like Eve and that apple, Frohike thought; after the first bite she'd realized what the little hole meant. No wonder she'd handed it to Adam. Jimmy was tossing leftover junk back into the crate. "We done here?" Frohike asked. "I want to get this truck back, and grab some shut-eye." Byers slammed the rear door. "Jimmy and I can do that," he said. "We'll drop you and Langly off at the office first. You look tired." "Thanks." Frohike crossed around to the passenger's side, feeling suddenly old, creaky and cranky. "Then you can drive. Langly can ride with Jimmy." *LGHQ - SUNDAY, 6 P.M.* "Want another one?" Jimmy was standing near the stove, holding a flipper, obviously hoping Byers would agree to let him make another grilled cheese sandwich. "No thanks, Jimmy. I'm full." The air was thick with the smell of vulcanized margarine and bread, but the sandwiches hadn't been bad. Byers made a mental note that Jimmy seemed to be mostly harmless in the kitchen. "Yeah, me too." Jimmy's voice was disappointed, but he shrugged, grinned, and came to join Byers at the table. "Should we check on Langly?" "Not just yet." Langly was off in his own world. He'd been gone with the bus when Byers and Jimmy got back to the office after returning the rental truck. He'd shown up just after 1:00 with his arms, and the back of the bus, full of computer equipment. They'd helped him unload and set up in a corner of the workroom. Byers hadn't taken offense at Langly's subsequent instruction to "get lost." He knew the best thing he could do was take Jimmy out of the way. They had other projects to address. Noises came from the direction of the bathroom, and Byers glanced at his watch. That would be Frohike. He'd probably shower and ... Frohike's appearance in the kitchen, unshowered, unshaven and still looking like he could use a good night's sleep, surprised Byers considerably. His friend had been taking extra pains to stay presentable during the last week. The power of Ed, Byers thought. "Frohike! Want me to make you a grilled cheese?" Jimmy was gleeful at having a new customer. "No thanks." Frohike stumped over to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, then dumped a couple tablespoons of sugar into the thick, acridly black beverage. "Langly still working?" "Yes," Byers said. He saw Frohike's mouth twist as he took the first sip of coffee, and decided against inquiring after his state of health. "He went out and got a Mac; he hasn't said anything yet. Jimmy and I took one of those pills over to Butch." "Butch!" Frohike shook his head. "I hate using that guy. He's not 100% reliable." "He's the best we've got right now." Butch worked for a private lab, and required small tokens of appreciation that bore pictures of dead presidents. "Doggett would probably have tried to do it for us, but he's got so many problems of his own ..." "Yeah. Good call. I just hate using Butch." Frohike sighed, a sound that seemed to start at his toes, wind tunnel through his body and exit with theatrical projection. "When did he think he could have the results?" "You know Butch. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. We don't appreciate him as much as he appreciates himself." Frohike translated easily, although Jimmy's mouth was moving. It meant petty cash was nearly empty again, something they didn't talk plainly about in front of Jimmy. "I'm going to see how Langly's doing." Langly was sitting with his head thrown back, eyes closed, holding the visor headset in his lap. Frohike whistled when he saw the setup arrayed around the black box. "Where'd you steal this stuff, Langly?" It had bothered Byers, too. The shiny new 733 MHz Mac with its 22 inch LCD display. "Kimmie." Langly opened an eye and looked at them. "He uses it to make videos. He's visiting his grandma." "He's gonna kill you. You break it, you'll buy it, Langly. If we have to replace this stuff, we can kiss Mad Jack's six grand goodbye," Frohike said. "I know, I know ..." Langly moaned. "I needed an independent system; and I think the box was built to run off a Mac. I also think I'm going to throw up," he added. "What's wrong?" Byers took Langly's complaint seriously. There'd been too many recent instances of Langly's whining ending in upchuckage. "I got the thing wired into the Mac; I put on the goggles to see where that would take me ... they fit into the USB port. I got some kind of very weird, very faint display. Then I slipped in one of the CDs ..." They all stared at the screen. It was showing a lush, tropical lagoon. A cocoanut tree was shading the sugar sand, and rhythmic breakers advanced and retreated like the froth on a milk shake. "Yeah?" Frohike prompted. "I get a ghost image of that now, too. But I had to take off the goggles ... I got a monster headache. My eyes feel like they've got knives poking into them." "Let me see!" Jimmy made a grab for the goggles. "NO!" Byers heard two other voices echo his protest. "You ever see Videodrome, Jimmy?" Frohike asked. "Thanks, man." Langly grimaced. "Frohike's right. Minimize the exposure." "What's Videodrome?" Jimmy asked, frowning. "Guys?" Byers sighed. He'd been explaining a lot of things to Jimmy lately. "In case there's something about that device that affects Langly's sense of reality, or causes mental instability ... well, we don't want anyone else exposed until we know more about the box." "Makes sense," Jimmy said wisely. "You're a brave guy, Langly. How will we know if his brain's melted?" "Good question," Frohike said. He turned and walked away from the workstations and disappeared toward the kitchen. "What's wrong with him?" Langly asked, squinting at Byers. "I'm not sure," Byers said; while the issues Frohike was wrestling with might seem obvious to him, he was going to draw the line at explaining to Langly and Jimmy how love sometimes affected more mature men. "Take a break, Langly. Shut that thing down; it makes me nervous." "I'm going to take some Tylenol and check my e-mail." Langly began pulling wires and powering down the Mac. "It's been a full day for you," Byers gently suggested to Jimmy. "You've been a great help. If you want to take off now ...?" "No way! I've got nothing going tonight. We could watch some TV." It was worse than having a little brother tagging along. "Maybe Frohike will play poker with us," Byers compromised. That would keep both Frohike and Jimmy busy for a while. It was Sunday night, which meant there was nothing good on TV. They worked too much as it was; Byers couldn't remember the last time they'd played poker together. He could hear the faint sound of either music or the TV in the distance, so Frohike wasn't doing anything important. "Come on." "Okay." Jimmy agreed. "What's Langly's computer doing, anyway?" Byers backtracked. The black screen and red words were back. "I saw this a couple of days ago. Langly?" "Crap. That's impossible." Langly slid into his chair and began tapping keys. "Some wiseass sent me a bit-o-java last month. I thought I'd dumped it." "It's asking for help," Jimmy said, pointing at the line of letters. "Get.Me.Out. Help." He looked at Byers. "It's a prank, Jimmy." Langly's screen cleared. "If I was to name a suspect, it'd be Kimmie." Jimmy looked disappointed. "A call for help, Byers. Someone held against their will, in distress ..." "With access to a computer, but not enough intelligence to include who they are, and where they're being held?" Byers pointed out. "Even a monkey managed to include that much. If it were real ..." "Oh man!" Langly banged his palm against his head. "This can't be real." He sounded like he was going to cry. "What is it? Your computer?" Byers asked in alarm. "No, man. Joey Ramone. He's dead." Langly's fingers clutched the keyboard. "I can't believe this." "I'm sorry, Langly." The distant sound of music grew louder. Byers felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. "Um, Langly?" "Yeah." Langly let go of the keyboard, and wiped quickly at his eyes. "I hear it." "What?" Jimmy's head bobbed back and forth between them. "What?" From the direction of their tiny living area Frohike's voice rose clearly above the background music. "I-I-I want to rock your gypsy soul-oul-oul ... just like way back in the days of ol-ol-old ... then mag-ni-fi-cent-ly we will flo-o-oat ... into the mystic ..." "Shit." Byers looked at Langly. "He's playing vinyl," Byers heard Langly say the words at the same moment he did. Poker would have to wait. *LGHQ, SUNDAY - 8 P.M.* When the dark came for Byers, it was as if sun and moon were in eclipse, and earth turned into a void of pointless, repetitive activity that anger, laughter, sorrow or joy did not touch. His sense of touch, taste and smell seemed blunt and dull. Even his friends seemed to lose substance, and waver in and out of his day like apparitions. The dark liked to coil deep in his gut, radiating cold despairing need, like some injured, slowly starving animal gone to den. These depressions had been few, and far between, but serious enough that Byers knew his friends watched with half-an-eye for signs of resurgence. Langly buried himself in gaming and concerts when he needed to howl at the moon. He'd come home with eyes like obsidian quarters behind his lenses, reeking of the scent of human bodies, smoke and sweat; or he'd squat in front of his computer for hours without speaking, driven to proving himself in some outrageous hack. When the dark came for Frohike, it wore bell-bottoms and a fringed vest, and carried -- at the very least -- a stack of records and a bottle of scotch. Simultaneous depressions had been rare during the years they'd lived together, although spiritual malaise was a frequent weekend party host. Byers usual role was that of designated driver, or sympathetic distributor of morning juice, coffee and pain relievers. With the four of them crammed into the living room, Jimmy on the couch next to him, Frohike in the recliner, Langly sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, Byers wondered if "The Night of Joey Ramone's Wake" was going to occupy a special place in Lone Gunman mythology. They'd listened to everything from Aretha Franklin to Dylan, (Jimmy singing a mean "Mr. Tambourine Man"), interspersed with some of Langly's favorite Ramones tunes. During a break between songs, Langly had given them the long, wandering version of the first Ramones concert he'd ever attended. Byers had heard him speak of it before, but tonight Langly included enough previously unheard details to render it an almost new story. Jimmy had left at one point, and returned with popcorn. It was such a considerate act that Byers almost forgave him for everything inept he'd done in the filing cabinets, until he pulled the Broadway Cast version of Jesus Christ Superstar out of the record stack. Frohike had been drinking scotch when they joined him, a freshly cracked bottle that slowly receded as the music changed. Jimmy was helping with the scotch, and Byers had accepted a small glass. Langly's poison was a quarter-bottle of tequila that no one else seemed interested in, possibly because there were three worms in the bottom instead of the traditional one. When the last strains of the musical faded, and the record arm click-swoosh returned to its resting place, Byers felt quiet drop over them like a fleecy blanket. They sat relaxed, buzzed, and comfortable with each other. "I was in Ohio when Kent State went down," Frohike said, breaking the quiet. He stared into his glass of scotch, swirling the golden liquor around gently. "Visiting friends at Antioch College." "Four dead in O-hi-o," Jimmy said, nodding. Everyone looked at him. Byers wondered, not for the first time, how the mnemonic links in Jimmy's brain had been forged. "Yeah." Frohike emptied half his glass. "We were sitting in this nice park, toking and rapping ..." "I've never heard rap from the 70s," Jimmy said, frowning. "Are there any golden oldies you'd recommend." "They were talking, Jimmy." Byers wondered if Jimmy would notice if his scotch was replaced with ginger ale. They had no idea of Jimmy's tolerance for liquor, and with his personality it might be too late when it became apparent he'd had one too many. Byers was already feeling light headed and glowy, but he knew his own limit and rarely exceeded it. "Somebody had a portable radio. We were listening to an AM station, maybe the college station, I don't remember. They broke in with the news. National Guardsmen had fired on protesters at Kent State. They had dead." Frohike's eyes were unfocused, staring inward at something Byers never wanted to see. "They say kids have no concept of mortality, that's why they do stupid, risky things. I don't know about kids today, but we knew about mortality. We knew about the empty spaces in church pews, around dinner tables, in first-string football lineups. There wasn't one of us sitting there that day who hadn't lost family, friend or acquaintance in a war no one could explain to us. There wasn't one of us sitting there that day who didn't wonder which road was in his future: job, home and family, or flag draped coffin." Frohike poured himself more scotch. "It's ironic. When anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'd say 'a journalist.' I think that day in May was the reason I abandoned writing for such a long time. Byers, here," Frohike reached over and poured more scotch into his glass in spite of Byers demure, "he believes in a Golden Age of Bureaucracy, although he might deny it. He thinks that in a perfect world government is good and kind, dedicated to ensuring all citizens the quality of life they deserve in an enlightened country like the United States of America." "I believe that," Jimmy said, holding out his glass, and nearly tipping off the couch. "I don't know if you get this, Jimmy," Langly said from his position on the floor, which was now horizontal. "You're gullible. That whole blind football thing ..." "It was a good idea!" Jimmy looked hurt. "At a formative age I was shown that our government could order its peace keepers into a situation where they would make the choice to gun down its citizens in cold blood, and not be punished. What was the difference between us and our enemies? Did our highest elected officials rush in to prosecute the men responsible for this crime?" Frohike shook his head. "Nixon despised protesters. Hoover thought they were scum and deserved to die; he used his position to slant news coverage of the massacre. Not a single guardsman -- or protester -- did jail time over the incident. Thirteen shot. Four dead." He hadn't realized he was drinking it, but his glass was empty. Byers felt his head spin, and leaned back against Jimmy. "I'm so sorry, Frohike," he heard himself say. "Yeah. Me too. I went into electronics instead of writing, for a time. I got older, and didn't go down either of those roads we thought led from the fork of childhood. Look at me -- I'm not dead yet. But I'm a 52-year-old man living in a basement with two other lonely men." "Man. I love you guys! You're not ever going to be lonely again!" Jimmy's head dropped back on Byer's shoulder. "Jimmy ... Jimmy ..." Byers shook him; Jimmy only sank deeper, more bonelessly, into the corner of the sofa. "Lightweight," Langly said, looking up at the ceiling. "How many people are going to know my name when I'm gone? I coulda gone dotcom, I coulda given Gates a run for his money. A monkey could design better software ..." "You make it sound like you can't still accomplish those things, Langly. If that's what you want -- then do it. Everyone in this room knows you could make your name an icon if you put your mind to it," Byers said adamantly. "Everyone awake knows it," Frohike said, laughing at them. Byers was relieved to see the balance back in Frohike's eyes. Sometimes it seemed like the man could drink himself sober and sane. "What we're doing, it's worthwhile," Byers said, carefully scooching away from Jimmy. "You returned to writing, Frohike, and every week we do our part to make sure abuses by people with power aren't overlooked. You help with that, Langly. I know that sometimes it doesn't seem like we make a difference ..." "Hah!" Langly snorted. "Try never, FCC." "But we do," Byers said, with great dignity. He tried standing up, and was pleasantly surprised to find his sense of balance intact. "I have to go to bed now. Please throw a blanket over Jimmy." *LGHQ, MONDAY 8 A.M.* The distant sound of a ringing phone, and the buzz of their door alarm, brought Frohike disagreeably awake. He rolled to the edge of his bed, sat up slowly, and tried to scrape the fur off his tongue by rubbing it against his teeth. He badly wanted a cool drink of juice or water. Scrounging through his laundry for a clean shirt, jeans, boxers and socks, Frohike woke enough to wonder who was dropping in so early on a Monday. Ed's name had frightening potential; peering down the hallway to make sure it was clear, Frohike hurried to the bathroom. It was empty, but the damp shower curtain seemed to indicate that at least Byers was probably keeping to his normal schedule. Hot water, lots of hot water felt good this morning. By the time he'd showered, shaved and dressed, Frohike was wide awake and hungry. Eggs -- sunnyside up -- and toast. That sounded great. A lumpage was still occupying their couch. Frohike decided to leave the kid in peace, and went into the kitchen. Byers had indeed been up and about; fresh coffee waited, and pitchers of tomato juice and acid-free orange juice. Frohike felt a sudden upswelling of affection for all of his friends. He really was a lucky man. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then followed the sound of voices into the workroom. Their visitor surprised Frohike; Butch had always phoned in results, never came in person. The barrel-chested, bald lab tech was looming over Byers. *Something going on here,* Frohike thought, reading the body language. He set his coffee on Byers' desk, just in case he needed both hands free. "Back off, dough boy," Frohike touched Byers' arm, and moved him aside. "To what do we owe the dubious pleasure of your presence, Butch?" "Hey! Byers came to me, Paul Williams; you wanna take off, rejoin the rest of the Lullaby League, and leave the grownups to do business?" Byers made a strangled noise. "I can deal with this, Frohike." "Did he do the work you paid him for?" Frohike asked, without moving. "Yes. And Butch has, very thoughtfully, brought the test results to us this morning," Byers said stiltedly. "Very thoughtfully." "You said ASAP, Byers. I'm a man who takes pride in delivering the goods. ASAP you wanted, ASAP you got," Butch said, hooking his thumbs over his massive leather belt. "So why are you still here?" Frohike asked. "I know Byers doesn't understand most of the jokes you like to tell, so why are you still here?" "I had a few questions of my own." Butch leaned forward. "Wondered where you got the sample. Wondered whether there might be a place to find more of it." "Sorry. That was all we had." Frohike shook his head and pointed toward the door. "Vamoose." Butch shrugged. "Okay, but don't come to me next time." "Make a note, Byers." Frohike followed Butch to the door, locked everything behind him, and watched the monitor until Butch was gone. "What was that about?" He found Byers sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee. His eyes looked smudged, but his grooming and apparel were in order. "You feel okay this morning?" "I'll live." Byers managed a wan smile. He offered Frohike a slip of paper. "Those pills are basically muscle relaxants, combined with a narcotic and an herbal cocktail that Butch wasn't too specific about." "Interesting." Frohike looked at the list. "Addictive." "If you took enough of them, yes. Butch thought the dose he tested would send a 300-lb. man to la-la land for a good six hours," Byers said. "Umm. Who was on the phone?" "The press." Byers rubbed his eyes. "They've got a web down and wanted to know if we could print a couple of hours early this week. They're rearranging jobs." "I don't see a problem with that." Frohike retrieved his coffee. "I'm going to fry eggs. Want some?" Byers shuddered. "No thank you." "Toast?" Frohike touched Byers' shoulder, briefly. "You could manage toast." "All right. But I'll stay in here while you cook." "Yeah." Frohike paused. "You know how much I admire you, Byers. You get your head wedged up your ass sometimes, but you're a role model for us all. And I value your friendship. Thanks." He'd felt uncomfortable saying it, but it was something that needed to be said. Byers' drooping eyes were wide open by the time Frohike finished, and he sat up straighter in front of his desk. "That means a lot, Frohike." "Yeah, yeah. Don't get sloppy on me." Frohike whistled while he fried the eggs and made toast. He brought Byers a plate and the obligatory napkin, then sat down to eat. "I'll just make myself some toast, and skip the eggs." Jimmy stood in the door, beaming at him. His eyes were a little pink, but his enthusiastic good humor seemed unmarred by the previous night's activities. "Great wake, man. What are we going to do today?" *LGHQ - MONDAY, 5:00 P.M.* Byers let her into the office. His suit coat was missing, and his sleeves were rolled up, but his tie was still tight and centered. Ed thought his face looked tired. "Rough day?" Ed asked. "Me too." "We're working on the contents of Mad Jack's crate," Byers said, over his shoulder. "Do you want to see?" "Yes." Ed followed him past the workstations to the dim farback of their cluttered space. It was a strange sight, Langly, Jimmy and Frohike hanging over a huge monitor that showed a mammoth waterfall raining prismatic spray over an emerald green lagoon; Langly and Frohike were arguing, filling the air with arm waving and profanity. Jimmy was wearing sunglasses, and appeared to be doing a Ray Charles impression. "I'm telling you, whoever built it planned to be hardwired into the goggles," Langly said. "You saw the port, just under the earflap. What do *you* think goes there?" "Say you're right ... there's no way we can duplicate that. Although drilling a hole in your skull ... Ed!" Frohike stopped shaking his fist at Langly and stepped away from the tight group. "We're pretty sure it's some kind of virtual reality gizmo, but Blondie's having a rough time finding the interface." "Up yours," Langly snarled. "I'm risking *my* melon. All you're doing is criticizing." "It gives him a headache," Byers explained in a soft voice, next to her ear. "We haven't got a clue about how it works with a user, but something happens when he wears the headset." "Nothing useful, though." Frohike had heard Byers. He stood by her side, nearly touching her. "That," Ed pointed at the black box, "was in the crate? Why would Mad Jack be scared of a game?" "Whatever it is, it's not a game," Frohike said. "You said virtual reality?" Ed felt too conscious of the fact she only had to move an inch and she would be touching his arm. "It's a guess," Byers said. "The box appears to have been encased in ceramic, similar to the type of ceramic they use for shuttle tiles. How they could have applied it without leaving a seam, and without damaging the internal machinery, we don't have a clue." "We've got 20 CDs of background scenery. Langly thinks if he could access the interface, those goggles would put the wearer smack dab in the middle of whatever you see on the monitor. Unfortunately it's starting to look like whoever designed this gear had a permanent port stuck in his own head." Frohike leaned over and ejected the CD. The waterfall disappeared. "That's possible?" Ed saw Langly shrug. She opened her briefcase and pulled out a handful of papers. "Byers ... Here's the contract Mad Jack signed for next year; here's your check; and here's something he asked me to give you, along with his thanks." Byers set the contract and check aside, and opened the folded note. "Gillian M'biswo," he said. "Where have I heard that name?" "She died two months ago in Paris," Frohike said. "I remember because six people attending an Ethics of Cloning Convention croaked from eating contaminated seafood. M'biswo was originally from Cote'd Ivorie, but went to school in the states. I could find out more about her." "Mad Jack didn't say where he got the name, or why he wanted us to have it?" Byers asked hopefully. "Sorry." Langly untangled himself from the mass of cables. "I want to go out for Chinese. My head is going to explode." "Jimmy will drive you," Byers said. "I don't want you off by yourself right now." "Frohike can go with me ..." Langly protested. "Not tonight, Frohike can't. Sorry buddy," Frohike said. He touched Ed's arm. "Let's go sit down. You can tell me how your first day on the job went." They left the squabbling behind, although choice bits of name-calling rose and fell above the masking hum of the workstations. "You're turning out to be a good employee," Frohike said. He smiled at her as he sat down in a chair directly across from her at the kitchen table. "You've already paid for the next six press bills." "With my commission deducted?" Ed smiled back. He was such a cutie. It struck her that he looked as tired as Byers. She had a quick fantasy of holding his head in her lap, stroking his hair and massaging his shoulders. The resulting hot flash startled her. "You haven't slept all day?" "No. My schedule got screwed up -- we had a little wake last night." Ed waited for an explanation. He was staring at her, thinking hard about something. *Come on, Melvin. All you have to do is open your mouth ...* She reached for his hand across the table. "Somebody died?" "Joey Ramone. It was a guy thing," Frohike said. His fingers covered hers, and began to stroke the skin on her wrist. "I was thinking, it's a long time until Friday." *Damn straight, Melvin.* "You're tired, I've had a tough day being rejected by everyone but Mad Jack ... would you like to come back to my house instead of going out? I've got fresh vegetables, everything we'd need to make a stir-fry." She saw him hesitate, mouth the worm then spit it out. "I don't know ..." "Sven's not going to be there," she said. "He's spending the night with friends." Hooked and landed. Frohike pushed away from the table. "I'll tell Byers I'm going, and be right with you." *BACK TO BEYOND * *BACK TO X-FILES* Contents copyright Kate Swan 2001 - all rights reserved, it's not public domain stuff Please do not link without permission. kateswan@triton.net will answer your questions. *EDWINA NORTON'S HOME, MONDAY - 6:30 P.M.* It was deja vu all over again, Frohike thought, listening to Marrakesh Express rattle through Cherry's dashboard. He drove carefully, conscious of Cherry's well-being, painfully conscious of Ed's closeness. "I've been wondering why you changed your mind about us having a relationship; I've been wondering about Sven," Frohike said, trying not to let his voice reveal the importance of these wonderings. "Sven and I share the house now. That's all. We haven't shared a bed since I met you, Melvin." Ed pushed at her hair nervously. "Fortunately, Sven understands. I'm not sure I do. I'm not usually thoughtless or impetuous about romance." She touched his hand where it rested on the wheel. "When I'm with you, I feel young ... and I feel old ... and I feel ageless. The chemistry is remarkable." Frohike could feel his heart thudding against his ribs. It was the conclusion he'd reached last night while drinking and thinking; she made him feel ageless. The drive seemed longer then usual. The CD finished by the time Frohike pulled the VW into Ed's garage. He followed her into the house, admiring her quick, long-legged stride, and the way the top three buttons of her blouse had come undone since leaving the office. Ed closed the front door behind them, and turned the locks. "How hungry are you, Melvin?" The stupidity of the question left him speechless. She dropped her brief case and jacket into a pile and stepped into his arms. Kissing her was better then some of the sex he'd had, Frohike thought. When Ed's mouth left his, Frohike opened his eyes and tried to find enough breath to protest. She put her fingers on his lips, took his hand, and led him up the stairs. Her bedroom was simple, warm looking. Ed shut the door, then stood close laying her head on his chest. "I don't talk a lot during, but I'm noisy," she said, with a smothered laugh. "Perhaps, a demonstration?" Frohike lifted her chin so he could meet her eyes. "You have to know how much I want you." She began unbuttoning her blouse. "It's mutual." Her bra followed. She reached for his hands, and slid them up over her breasts. "I know there's a temptation to rush ... but I want to do this very, very slowly." She unbuttoned his vest, eased it off, then started on his shirt. "Okay," Frohike agreed, cautiously, as his shirt joined her blouse. Ed was making little circles around his earlobe with her tongue, and her hands held his hips firmly against her pelvis. His entire body was begging him to throw her on the bed and quit wasting time. "But if the record jumps from 33 to 45 all of a sudden ..." Ed's mouth moved over his neck, down to his nipples. "That will be all right, too." Her fingers found his zipper, and Frohike closed his eyes and sighed. "Trust me, Melvin," she said, "I'll still be singing along. Just one thing ..." "Umm?" Anything. He'd die trying. "Don't take off your gloves."