ã€ŠFiltersã€‹


 1 - Haze

    FILTERS 1

    HAZE

    A middle-aged man wakes up hungover from a night of celebration.

    He is Aikichi Kuboyama, the radio operator for a commercial fishing ship from Yaizu, a port city ninety miles southwest of Tokyo. In Yaizu, the fishing industry is booming in part because of the efforts of the shipowner Kuboyama works for, a man named Nishikawa, who at that moment on an early Friday morning in late January is boarding his fourth boat: Lucky Dragon #5.

    Today the Dragon sets off to fish the Pacific. As is custom, Nishikawa held a party the night before in send-off for the crew, which with its abundant drink means Kuboyama, now on his way to the ship with his wife and children, is not the only man to have arrived with a clouded head and weak legs; indeed, he arrives at the same time as Misaki, the fishing master, whose bloodshot eyes commiserate with a glance.

    The Dragon''s regular captain is medically absent so they have a substitute in the form of Tsutsui, a young man, freshly accredited, who has shown competence and initiative in their preparations. As a fishing boat, Tsutsui is at the helm, but decisions will be made by Misaki. He will order the deckhands, chart their voyage, and decide when and where to drop their lines. Kuboyama is the radio man and he will spend most of the voyage in the radio shack that also serves as his bunk. Kuboyama is soft-spoken and astute, and he notices when Misaki and Nishikawa meet and have a quiet conversation away from the crew.

    When they near the launch, several of the younger crewmen clamber up the stern and bow masts. They have colored spools of ribbon they tie to the rigging and send down the sides as children on the pier watch and laugh. Nishikawa departs his ship, and Kuboyama sets the speakers to play Auld Lang Syne. With goodbye cheers, the Dragon departs.

    The crew pass their weekend on rote checks of equipment and supplies. Sunday night brings a storm and rough seas that confine the crew to their quarters through the week. Reprieves are short and infrequent and the crew grows restless. On Friday the storm passes and they leave their northern transit on the sea lane to head east into open water.

    As the men idle on the deck, enjoying the weather, Kuboyama and the ship''s engineer, Yamamoto, climb the ladder to the raised deck and enter the bridge. Tsutsui and Misaki are there waiting, and the fishing master speaks first. "We are not going to the Solomon Islands. Nishikawa has advised us to fish near Midway, where fewer boats will be at work." Kuboyama watches Yamamoto shake his head and mutter "Predictable."

    Tsutsui leans over the charting table "We should have been informed of these changes before our departure."

    Kuboyama raises his concern "That is a long way for this old ship."

    Yamamoto concurs, "Those are bad waters for engines to fail, Americans or none."

    Misaki holds, "The Solomons will be full of longlines. Shall we return safe and poor?"

    Yamamoto grunts, "As if we would decline, and as if you would let us."

    Kuboyama follows Misaki as he informs the crew. They voice no dilemma. Kuboyama sees behind their eyes, he sees their need and their ambition. He sees how they respect Misaki more than they fear the ocean or the Americans. Kuboyama sighs, his hopes rising.

    The Dragon moves low over the water, and free from their confinement and out in the air and the light of the sun, what concerns the crew had wash away like the sea breaking over the deck. Misaki has divided the crew, one half prepares hooks, the other prepares buoys. Every hand moves expertly: steel hook connects to wire leader connects to cotton-hemp line connects to steel swiveling snap. These are coiled by the hundreds into baskets with hooks waiting on the rims, ready for rapid use. The buoys vary, some are simple glass floats, others are contraptions with bamboo flag poles or battery powered lamps. They prepare fifty miles of line in an effort that takes them through the last days of the month and into February.

    Kuboyama helps when he can, but he must keep to his station. He has just spoken to other ships on the same heading, and relays this to the fishing master.

    "Four boats from Yaizu head for Midway."

    Misaki nods, "Reports?"

    "One throws lines, nothing more."

    With winds aiding their engine, the Dragon finds itself two hundred miles south and west of Midway before the end of the week. Kuboyama has news. "A ship in the area reports good catches!"

    They continue south. It is just before midnight on the second Monday of February when Misaki''s intuition strikes and measurements confirm his feeling. He leaves the bridge for the raised deck and rings the bell on the bridge wall, calling "It''s time! Throw the lines!"

    Spotlights sweep over the water and the deck. Every man is at work as the thousand and half again hooks are lifted and baited with frozen mackerel and tossed, again and again, changing only for buoys. The night moves with the casts until the sun is high and the baskets are empty. Their work half-done, the engine is stopped and the men go in shifts to Hattori, the cook, who has soup and tea ready. Their eating fills the suddenly quiet air, the sounds of slurps and chopsticks tapping against plastic bowls.

    The engine is restarted and Tsutsui puts the ship about, ready to cover the thirty miles just laid. Kuboyama goes to the bridge with radio chatter, and there he finds Tsutsui looking through the small windows of the bridge, across to the bow where Misaki stands. A buoy soon appears that is moving erratically and Misaki calls for its handling. There are sounds of excitement with the big-eyed tuna brought over the side. "That''s more than a hundred kilo!" shouts one of the men as the fish is set in front of Ikeda, who is youngest on the Dragon but has more years on the sea than almost any of them. He deftly gills and guts the fish and it is carried to the deck brine tank where it will cool before being put on ice.

    It is night again when they are finished.

    The crew is exhausted but there is still energy in the air. They look at one another, the same question on every tongue. Suzuki, Kuboyama''s nephew, breaks the quiet. "How many?"

    Ikeda says "Thousands."

    Misaki appears on the raised deck, satisfaction evident. "Three thousand kilograms."

    They yell and cheer, Kuboyama laughs and when the news reaches the engine room even Yamamoto smiles. A good first catch is a good omen, and this is a great one. It is also a true omen, for though their success is not replicated exactly they have good hauls through the month, and Kuboyama reports this to other ships with joy.

    Hours before sunrise on the first of March, Kuboyama finds himself restless. He tosses, trying to fall back to sleep, but when it becomes clear sleep will not return, he gets up and makes his way to the bridge. Misaki is there, making notes of their location on the navigation table; he says "This has been a good month," and Kuboyama is about to agree when he flinches and Misaki drops to his knees from a brilliant light that fills the cabin.

    Misaki is ducking, a habit of war, for beyond gathering clouds the darkness has been split apart by dazzling white light. "The sun rises in the west!" shouts Suzuki from the deck. He shouts it again and Kuboyama can hear his dash to the bunks, rousing the crew who in moments fill the deck. The brightest of the light has gone, but a thing remains, morphing from yellow to orange-red, in hideous shape, growing into the sky.

    "What is it?" asks one of the hands.

    "Pikadon. Atomic bomb," says another.

    Kuboyama and Misaki stand on the raised deck, below them Ikeda calls up, "Kuboyama, what do you think?"

    He answers "An atomic bomb would have a mushroom cloud."

    Their eyes strain but see nothing rising, only the glow. Some of the engine crew has made it to the deck after hearing the commotion. The debate persists, that same word returning. Pikadon. Atomic bomb. But they do not know, so they bicker. In minutes the glow disappears, leaving an unsettling feeling.

    "It is trouble," says Suzuki.

    Hattori has breakfast ready and some of the men go to him for bowls. The crew is eating when a mighty tremor shakes the boat and fills their ears with a terrible sound. Their bowls clatter to the deck as they rush inside the boat, shouting in fear and confusion. The sound does not last, and when it ends they quickly return.

    "What was that?" one asks without answer.

    "Did you know that this would happen? another asks, pointing at Misaki.

    "Don''t be foolish," he replies.

    Kuboyama is recovering from his own surprise. He considers going to his radio, but has a feeling that would be a mistake. Instead he thinks and he listens as the crew returns to debate with that same recurrent line. Pikadon. Atomic bomb.

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    "What should we do?" asks a crewman.

    "Leave!" says several more.

    Kuboyama knows what Misaki thinks. A longline is out.

    The crew return to their stations, leaving Kuboyama, Tsutsui, Misaki, and Yamamoto. Misaki says "The line is dropped and goes away from the glow. We can gather our catch and cut the line if necessary." Tsutsui says nothing, but nods in agreement. Kuboyama says "As long as we are ready to cut and run." Yamamoto has the greatest unease, "Be careful. Strange things may follow. Heavy seas could be coming to us, even now." Misaki walks to the raised deck and rings the bell, "Start the engines, haul the lines!"

    The men work with haste, many wishing to run.

    "We are close to where the Americans tested bombs."

    "It could just be American target practice."

    "It sounded like something from Mr. B."

    "I haven''t heard any planes."

    The crew has mixed feelings with their catches, for each fish hauled adds to their success and to their fear of an avaricious fall. They could stop now, they had caught plenty and would have much to celebrate in port. Kuboyama has found a book in his small collection, a printing with scientific information. He goes to the fishing master, asking "How long do you think it was between the flash and the sound?"

    "Ten minutes." says Misaki.

    The crew agrees, and with that Kuboyama estimates their distance as no more than one hundred miles from what was surely an explosion. Misaki knows without consulting the table they are that far from the American Atolls, "Watch for planes."

    Kuboyama helps on the deck and makes quick scans of the sky whenever he can. Because of this, he is first to notice when an hour past sunrise, the sky begins to change. First it is gray, and then it rains lightly, with a peculiar dust coming down as well. It settles in their hair and on their ears and must be rubbed from their eyes. Kuboyama takes some of the stuff between his fingers and puts it to his tongue, tasting salt. Others do the same, some taste salt, some taste nothing. All are irritated by it.

    This longline is much shorter than others they have laid, and so they are able to finish their aggravated work by midday. The conversations on the explosion and the dust continue. Some remark that it seems like volcanic ash, it is Tsutsui who mentions that Americans test their bombs above coral reefs, and he wonders if it is coral ash.

    The men go again to Hattori, but bring their bowls back, feeling no appetite, and the chef notes the same with frustration. Their moods worsened, the crew return to work, brusque but still optimistic. Yamamoto has been awake since the morning before, including for several hours on the deck as ash fell. As he takes his full bowl back to the cook and returns to the engine room, he finds he has difficulty reading the gauges, so with reluctance he lies down to sleep. He awakens not long after and stumbles out of the interior to the railing, vomiting into the ocean. His eyes are now painful and have a discharge, and when he checks the gauges he finds his vision no better. What Yamamoto is experiencing is felt by most of the crew. Sore eyes, skin-sores, stomach sick.

    The only positive they find is finishing their work so they can rest, for as the evening comes almost all worsen. They sleep poorly, frequently awoken by moving onto a fresh sore or for need to vomit. Only Tsutsui, Suzuki, and the other engineer, Tagaki, are well enough to stand, but they have had little sleep over the last two days and their weariness weighs heavy.

    Late in the night, Suzuki is walking in laps on the main deck, not allowing himself to sit and be tempted to sleep. He must watch for the Americans. He looks frequently to the crescent moon as he tries to force alertness through constant observation. For his fatigue and for its slow gathering, Suzuki does not immediately see the haze. But it creeps forward and up, and fills more and more of the air until the horizon blurs and disappears.

    "Fog?" he says, but he sees how it hangs on the water, and even in his state he knows there is something unusual about it. "Strange fog," he says, and a fresh wave of drowsiness washes over him just as the haze envelops them, so he can see the Dragon and nothing else. With this he feels compelled to lie down. The last thing he hears before sleep takes him is the quieting of the engine.

    Yamamoto awakens again with pain from his sores and disorientation from eyes that will not open. He struggles, wiping away the crust and being rewarded with fresh pain and tears. He groans and retches into a pail and tries to steel himself on his bunk before the panicked realization that he cannot hear the engine. He stands and immediately staggers for a fresh wave of nausea, then goes a door farther to the engine room where he finds Tagaki sleeping on the floor. He kicks at his thigh. "Get up! Why are we stopped?! The Americans could be near!"

    Yamamoto limps back through the boat, concern rising as he checks the main deck. There he finds Suzuki asleep in front of the door, back on the gunwale. "Suzuki! What are¨Cfog?¡± He sees the haze. "Yama" mumbles Suzuki, who with Yamamoto''s hand gets to his feet and says "This came last night."

    It is strange to Yamamoto. How it hangs on the ship and how bright it is, a sun-lit white. He holds an arm into it, hoping this will reveal something, but he can determine nothing. They climb the deck ladder and finds Tsutsui asleep in the bridge, and though he knows something is amiss his American concerns override it. ¡°Tsutsui! We must go! Suzuki, wait here with the captain.¡± He hobbles back to the radio room and Kuboyama¡¯s bunk. He too is sleeping. Yamamoto touches lightly on a part of non-reddened skin, ¡°Kuboyama, you must wake!¡± Kuboyama does with difficulty. He groans with nausea and weakly grabs for his own pail¨Chis eyes have also crusted over. Yamamoto hands it to him as well as a cloth, and before the radio man''s eyes are open he notices "The engine?¡±

    ¡°Yes, I know. Please, there is something you must communicate."

    ¡°Of course," he pauses for fresh discomfort, "what is it?"

    ¡°It is just past seven. We are somewhere northwest of the American atoll, we are in fog. See what ships you can reach.¡± Yamamoto helps him to his seat and then exits as Kuboyama shakily checks the stack of his equipment. ¡°This is Kuboyama of the,¡± he stops, a wave of pain and fatigue hitting him like he had just been dragged under the ship. ¡°-Lucky Dragon #5.¡± He¡¯s met with acknowledgments. ¡°We are somewhere northwest of the American atolls. We are currently in fog. . .¡±

    Kuboyama removes his headphones and walks carefully to the engine room, which he hears start. There he informs Yamamoto. Yamamoto stops the engine.

    The four are on the bridge. Kuboyama, still feeling like he''s been keelhauled, is out of breath from climbing the ladder. ¡°This fog is over everything. . .The ocean, the land. . . Everywhere. . . Everywhere on Earth.¡± Tsutsui doesn¡¯t know what to say, but the other two clearly aren¡¯t at mood to speak. He only says ¡°Everywhere?"

    ¡°Everywhere."

    ¡°How is this possible?¡±

    Kuboyama weakly gestures confusion.

    ¡°What should we do?¡± asks Tsutsui.

    ¡°Stay until it clears. Rest. Set lamps. Play music from the speakers. The Americans will not bother us.¡± says Misaki, then exits out the bridge to return to his bunk.

    The crew embraces their strange opportunity for rest. The air on the deck has taken a pleasant coolness, the water is still, and the fog scatters the sunlight so it is not difficult to look into. One by one the crew move to the deck to sleep. Their eyes and sores still have pain and weep foul liquid and they can stomach nothing more than weak tea, but they feel better on the deck than in the stiff air of the quarters, and many sleep through the entire day.

    Kuboyama has slept less than most, he goes back and forth from his room to the deck. Other ships have little to report, only that the fog remains. By the second full night of fog the sense of apprehension and unease begins to build, but many have continued to worsen, and they are thankful for the rest. Kuboyama again sleeps less than most, with no more news than he had the day before.

    By the fourth day the feeling on the ship has changed. None have worsened, but the haze remains. A few, now seeming in good spirits, sit on the deck in lively discussion over the haze, what it is, and how it could linger. All felt it had something to do with pikadon. Kuboyama has not eaten in four days, and he looks longingly at his bowl of slices of tuna over rice. He slowly takes and chews a piece and swallows, and with relief feels no nausea and quickly consumes the rest. As he returns from leaving his bowl in the little galley, something crosses his mind. He holds his hand out over the water and into the fog, moving his arm as though stirring. He pulls back to examine, then takes a pole hook from the wall where it hangs and repeats the motion. He pushes the pole out, stirs it, and draws it back to examine. "No condensation." He says quietly. The crew near him has been watching, and their eyes now look up and down the metal pole, past brine stains and rust and fish blood and no droplets of water.

    "Perhaps the water is not very wet this morning." Jokes a crewman.

    "It is not water." Murmurs Kuboyama.

    "What do you mean?" Another crewman asks.

    ¡°Is it poison gas?¡±

    ¡°Or fine poison ash, hanging in the air like flour.¡±

    ¡°No. He means we are all dead. ¡±

    ¡°How could you say that? Think of my wife and child.¡±

    ¡°Think of them yourself.¡±

    ¡°No. This is the work of demons. We were too greedy, they seek our contrition!¡±

    ¡°Yes, American demons. Another bomb.¡±

    ¡°We aren¡¯t dead. My heaven is free of all of you.¡±

    ¡°Shut up, Ikeda!¡±

    ¡°You shut up Handa!¡±

    ¡°Fog here, on the ocean, for four days? With no smell, no taste, unaffecting sound? It isn¡¯t fog. It is the haze of yomi. We are together in death.¡±

    ¡°The people on the radio say it hangs the world over.¡±

    ¡°So voices in limbo share our status, unsurprising!¡±

    Misaki rings the bell, startling the crew. "That''s enough. We aren''t dead, and if we are you shall still serve me until we reach land. There you can seek your gods while I take our fish to market." The crew laughs, it is enough for the moment, but they are still in the haze, still unmoving, and with no sight beyond the boat itself, apprehension remains. By a week without change, the demand to venture exceeds the demand to stay. Kuboyama has confirmed that some boats are beginning a cautious move west. "The weather has not changed, the seas are calm. We could make our way west and hope by dead reckoning to arrive, or we could head east. We are not far from Midway. There are reports of the Americans helping ships."

    Tsutsui does not react. Yamamoto shakes his head. Misaki does as well, though he expresses hesitance rather than negation. "Our supplies are strong. We may linger still."

    Kuboyama says "This is the decision of the crew."

    On the morning of the eighth day, Kuboyama examines himself. His skin shows no sores, his eyes have had no pain or discharge for several days, and he feels like his appetite is without end. What''s more, every member of the crew seems to feel the same, invigorated, if suspended. After breakfast, Misaki has the crew gather. He asks "What should we do? Shall we continue to hold? Shall we try our way west to home? Or shall we try our way east, in hopes the Americans are truly showing pity?"

    The crew give their answer.

    Misaki rings the bell.

    Soon the engines start.

    Twenty fishermen

    awash in Pacific fog

    Will they find their way?

 2 - World Trees, Dire Beasts

    FILTERS 2

    WORLD TREES, DIRE BEASTS

    Climbing comes naturally to the boy. He likes trees and finding the right places to put his hands and feet on the branches and bark as he pulls himself up. The row of maple trees behind his house are best for this, their trunks fork and mingle in such a way he can cross between them without touching ground. Each tree has a nook where he can sit comfortably, and the tree closest to his house, taller than the rest, has a place he likes to stand. In warm weather this high spot is obscured by leaves and pleasantly secluded, and in cold when the leaves have fallen he can look out over the neighborhood. In all seasons he can see the roof of his own house, which he has always wanted to jump to.

    The boy''s mother often watches with concern. She thinks he''s too young to climb so high but the boy''s father says it''s fine, he did the same when he was young, and he''s not far removed from the kind of fear a tree could never evoke.

    It is the summer and the boy stands in the highest spot, one foot flat at the fork, the other at an angle on a rising branch. He looks at the edge of the roof, where the gutters stop and there''s a lip he could grab on to. He has spent enough time in the trees that he knows how age has made them easier to climb through, how his arms and legs are longer, how his grasp is stronger, and on this day, as his movements feel easier and more natural than ever, he decides to jump.

    He flies, arms extending out for the gutter and his fingers graze the eaves and grab onto empty air as he comes up just short. He falls unturning, not thinking of blocking his face. His hands hit the ground first, then legs, chest, and finally head.

    He pushes himself up, brushes dirt from his shirt and pants, and climbs the tree again.

    He jumps again, and falls again, and climbs and jumps and falls and climbs again.

    His mother has come into the kitchen and sees him through the window. She sees his fluid ascent, catching glimpses of spots and skin behind the leaves. When he falls, she sees that clearly. She screams and it catches in her throat as he hits the ground and gets up and runs back to the tree. She doesn''t see him fall again and by the time she''s in the yard he''s already climbing.

    She sputters concerns; the boy grins, cavalier. Worry and surprise stymie her response and the boy is so fast in the limbs that an order is only just beginning to form when his hands at last make the edge and he clambers over. The boy cheers and marches around the roof in self-satisfaction. Then his mother''s command charges over the house and he meekly returns to ground.

    She examines him for cuts and bruises, none are found. He is prodded, and when he does not react from pain but annoyance and embarrassment, she relents. When her husband is home she tells him about the boy and the tree and the roof and he laughs, happy and proud. She walks her husband to the tree and points first to the spot where the boy leapt and then to where he fell, and the boy''s father looks to one and then the other. He asks again if the boy is fine, and adds, "Do you think he should see the doctor?"

    The boy and his mother sit at the clinic. She assures him he isn''t there for a shot but he doesn''t listen. His arm is resting on a wooden table he looks intently at. His mother describes how the building and practice are new, and how very nice the walnut furniture is, with green velvet upholstery and tables with glass inlays below stylish lamps. There is even a color television¨Ca combination of words that make it through the boy''s ears, but he returns to idle when he sees the screen is off, and so he does not hear his mother say the physician is young and must know the newest techniques.

    The receptionist says "We''re ready for your son."

    There are two doctors at this practice, they are seeing the man whose name is first on the sign. The man looks about the age of the boy''s father, in white lab coat and shirt and black tie and a serviceman''s haircut.

    He asks "How''s the boy?"

    As the doctor moves his stethoscope and gives instructions to breathe, his mother speaks slowly, filled with strange uncertainty. She describes watching him fall from the tree, and how he fell at least once more before he reached the roof. She adds how her husband said he thinks the fall is closer to twenty feet than ten. Too high to fall twice, she says.

    The boy shakes his head and says "I jumped a lot more than that but I made it!"

    The doctor''s eyebrows raise. He presses and moves one shoulder, then the other, asking if this or that causes pain. The boy always answers no. Elbows, forearms, wrists, and hands, same question, same answer. He says his head feels fine, and his mother says he has been eating and sleeping fine, and has had no issues in the bathroom.

    The doctor stops writing and taps his pen on his board.

    "When was the last time he was sick?"

    The sun is low, and the doctor is at his desk finishing notes when his partner joins him for their daily recounting.

    "I had another one of those kids today."

    The maples the boy so loves produce samara, the whirlybird seed. These plant the first real idea the boy can remember. Most fall straight down in little spirals, but some catch the wind and travel great distances. He loves to imagine the seed traveling, taking to earth far away to form another tree, and for seeds from that tree to continue the chain. He develops an interest for trees that becomes a passion, and that passion drives him in school. He reads anything he can, from his teachers and from the library. In his adolescence he realizes with some melancholy that he will soon be too large to climb his childhood trees, but he knows there are larger trees to climb, and he will find them, for his life''s work will be trees.

    From Southern Appalachia he moves to Northern California in pursuit of dendrology. Before the move his only knowledge of Sequoia came from books, and learning their enormity from text and poor pictures did nothing to prepare him for his first real sight. He was stricken as if by God, an ineffable feeling of rightness, driven to that point, to see the forests, his purpose as solid as the quiet giants.

    The young man completes his studies, now himself a doctor, and goes to work for the university. When concerns over deforestation rise, a partnership is made with the Forest Service, and the doctor goes to national forests to oversee the mass planting of trees. The work brings him joy, but out of conviction that he can do more, he takes to guerrilla forestry, cultivating saplings of his own to spread in his many cross-country drives.

    On a trip home for work and his brother''s marriage, he reconnects with a childhood crush and they soon marry. His passion for trees inspires the same in her, and she joins his work as an assistant, keeping track of every sapling they plant in secret. They marvel at the thought of the many trees being appreciated by their children and grandchildren to come.

    Because of his field, the doctor hears the rumors first. Saplings purportedly growing faster than ever recorded, with relative infants showing the development of trees decades older. These rumors are difficult to substantiate and originate from commercial operations interested only in the principal; their books are accounting, not scientific.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    There is excitement in his department when the doctor explains his secret work, and how his wife has encompassing notes on what and when and where they planted. It is in California, close to the university, where the first true positive is identified. Sequoia Sempervirens, only a few years old, is now approaching thirty feet. Appreciative of the data, the government overlooks any hesitation it may have had about his work, and he publishes the first of many papers on the phenomenon. It is not limited to trees; vegetation of all kinds randomly exhibit rapid growth, and among fast-growing crops, they first observe gigantism.

    The doctor takes a professorial position in his home city, where his wife and now-young children are free to spend time with their relatives. He teaches a new generation, leading with his earlier work in planting trees, and following with his work in first identifying giants. Again because of his field, the doctor is early to hearing the rumors of the emergence of gigantism elsewhere: in animals. He recalls, with instinctive concern, of hearing and validating the claims of rapidly growing trees.

    When his Sequoia approaches ten years, the university invites him to return, to guide groups of the students to the tree and to lecture. With his wife and children staying behind, he takes a rare flight across the country.

    His preparations are abruptly halted, for just after his arrival, his old department head takes him to a meeting with the leadership of the school. A group of students had been in the forests when they encountered a great brown bear¨C"As large as an elephant."¨COne of the students was killed, the others fled. "The military is sending soldiers." says the head of the school. "Guardsmen?" asks one administrator, and the head of the school shakes his head.

    "No. Something else."

    The doctor sleeps poorly, uncertain of whether to return home or if he should offer his assistance. He reasons at first there are forest rangers who surely know the area better, but this sits unwell, he feels some sense of duty. It is only when he decides to offer his help in guiding them he is able to find rest.

    He arrives at the school before sunrise, joining the assembled group of professors and administrators. Forest rangers arrive in trucks and are followed by two military jeeps. The doctor observes with apprehension the six soldiers who have been sent, each who seems to bear the demeanor of his father. As they discuss their plans, the doctor offers his assistance. "He knows the woods as well as anyone." says the department head.

    The doctor feels ambivalence when they accept his offer, fear and obligation intermingling.

    The soldiers don their kits and give him a helmet, pistol, and vest, and they take the jeeps north into the forests.

    They reach his tree easily. Aside from orange markers and signage, it is now more than one hundred feet tall, dwarfing the thirty-foots around it. They move in a line, three soldiers ahead of the doctor, and the department head, forest rangers, and the remaining soldiers in the rear. With the doctor''s guidance they reach the place of the attack, with dried blood and massive paw prints. They follow the prints, through the wide spaces between the trees, into the hills. The ground here is rocky yet soft, and the prints are clear and deeply set.

    The doctor notices a stillness in the air when the soldier at the front holds up one hand that clearly means Stop, then a gesture that clearly means Move forward, slowly.

    They climb to the top of a small outcrop of rock, a steep slope is ahead of it, leading to a small pond and a recess in rock and their target. Awake.

    His heart has little time to pause; the soldier at the front snaps his fingers as the bear begins its charge. He fumbles for his earplugs, but even with them the sound is deafening, the thrum of pops and thuds from light and heavy automatic fire filling his head and chest. The bear does not falter, continuing up the hill, and now he finally appreciates its enormity. He fires the pistol they gave him, and with its obvious impotence he begins to feel he should run. The doctor realizes amidst the smell of gunfire and blood he also smells burning fur, and watches bits of gore explode violently from the bear. The soldiers fire unrhythmically, emptying and replacing the boxes attached to the sides of their weapons and firing again. The bear is at the crest of the hill when a bullet finds its eye and it drops in front of them.

    The group stands behind the carcass and pictures are taken, the doctor looking grimly at the camera. A craned military truck reaches them and lifts the bear onto an attached flatbed, and the group rides the truck to the jeeps and return to the university.

    At the school, the captain gives the doctor a tooth and claw, saying "Hell of a thing to stand down a dire bear without running."

    "Will you take one?" the doctor asks.

    "We have plenty." says a soldier.

    He drives, he flies, he drives again. He kisses his wife and hugs his children, and he shows them the tooth and claw. "What was it like?" she asks.

    "Too great, too terrible. I never want to see one again."

    When she was born, her mother knew her difference. She looked and smelled as cubs before her, but she had intrinsic strength, something that went beyond her mother''s milk. Males sensed this and would often try to kill her, and so she watched and learned as her mother became a vicious, pure protector. With the seasons came great growth, and when she surpassed her mother''s size, her mother made herself strange and they were apart. She would not fully mature until the seasons passed again. She was head-and-shoulders above any male she encountered, but they found a way to mate. Her first cubs did not have her strength, but she could protect them with ease. When they had grown and she chased them away and was ready again to mate, a strange presence was felt in her forest, a male of a size even greater than her own. Their meeting resulted in three cubs, and in one, a male, she felt the strength her mother felt in her.

    He grows. He goes apart. He kills other males and their offspring and he takes many mates, although none as large as himself or his mother. If he could understand it, he would know his life as one of great leisure, with sleep and easy foraging and mating as his only needs or wants.

    He does not know he is a target, and this day is closest he will ever be to understanding it.

    Two great sounds split the forest and he roars as much as he whimpers. He has been shot, and these jagged wounds at critical angles have not mercied him with swift death nor simple wound but has condemned him to misery as one pierces eye and shatters teeth and jaw bone and exits through tendons and the other shatters radius and ulna. First the bear flees, but in pain and primal ferocity the bear stops and awaits the next attack so that he might retaliate, but when nothing comes he retreats in fear and angst to his hollow.

    He sleeps, he wakes in pain, he sleeps again.

    He wakes to greater hunger and delirious pain, and he looks for food.

    He wanders far, struggling to find and eat enough for winter. He scrapes through warrens and digs in great fields, coming upon unfortunate wild dogs and lost livestock, but it is not enough. He becomes accustomed to the smell of men and the association of men with food, and he moves ever closer to a verdant city, sleeping in the day, foraging in the dark. But his options become more scarce until one night when he is overcome with hunger.

    He smells the man and something in his instinct tells him he is different.

    His instinct tells him to run, but the man is coming closer, and his pain and his hunger overpower his fear. He breaks through the trees, and the man is just ahead of him.

    He sees the man raise his hands to his sides, palms out.

    He sees the man raise his arms above his head and his fear is at its peak, but he must eat.

    He is upon the man when his entire body is halted as if enclosed by a great invisible hand. His mouth is clamped shut, and a growl comes out instead as a guttural groan. His pain and hunger vanish, with panic replacing them, and absolute fear takes him as life is crushed from him.

    The man is already running.

 3 - Andrew Black

    FILTERS 3

    ANDREW BLACK

    Andrew Black runs at night.

    It''s a new habit, a response to recently developed restlessness. In the late hours in front of his computer an unproductive guilt would creep over him. He ignored it at first, attributing the feeling to his body adjusting to a sudden change in lifestyle. When it did not improve, he looked for something new. Reading was his first solution, but it wasn''t enough. Exercise was the sudden, obvious choice. He started running.

    This was interrupted in less than a week. He would run until he was satisfied, and he would ride that satisfaction until the next sunrise. Then he was stopped by police. There was no hostility in the interaction, simply tacit, officerial skepticism. The encounter left him embarrassed, he should have known better.

    With badged circum-specters looming, he was again a shut-in. For one night. The difference in mood had been so great he immediately looked for a fix, and in a deliberate naivety of any-solution-is-better-than-circumstance, he wondered how he would be treated if he were conspicuously benign. He took his brightest clothing, sleeves rolled up, shirt tucked into his waistband-pulled-high. He thought it worked, in fact it had become irrelevant. The first patrol to pass gave him a nod, the second stopped and asked "Hey Andrew! What college are you thinking?"

    The clothing may have helped someone else, for Andrew it was his name spreading across dispatch. Now the police are friendly, greeting him by name and often stopping to chat.

    It could be worse.

    Andrew tries to think about different subjects when he runs, but he always returns to a single thought, continuous. The domination of his surroundings that become like limbs. He knows the houses, feels them in a timbre, their yards a stroke outlining the path of his run. Two-story houses with two-cars-in-garage, both cold. A car on the corner parked in front of a one-story no-garage no-occupant house. The sharp heat of boilers. Radiant heat beneath floors, or from water circulating through iron registers. The human warmth of beds, the voids within falling into each other. Animals are not voids, he knows their living brightness, in dens or burrows or at prowl.

    His sense of place has become more important than his sight. It makes him feel set right, on proper bearing, like the agile animal must feel of its tail. His tail is cosmic locale, it balances spatial ignorance.

    This thought does not motivate his running, even as he runs as its consequence. His motivation is the clock, though time ignored. The clock has set him on these roads, a loop around the city-suburb, home start and end. Many miles nightly, he supposes his endurance beneficiary. A cruiser passes, miles pass. A cruiser passes, miles pass. A cruiser slows. "Hey Andrew!"

    They talk (indeed. . .) football.

    His parents know he does this, of course.

    Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.

    It is the first Tuesday of February. His alarm will ring soon; he thinks about the day ahead. Andrew is a senior at a public high school in Atlanta and the first practice for spring baseball begins in nine hours. His bedroom is in one corner of the second story of a house in the quiet groves west of the city. His walls are pale blue, his window frames are white and rise to the ceiling, three-fourths curtained, clerestory quarter, un-shuttered and fogged-over in the morning cold. He sits up and one mirrored sliding door of his closet slips behind the other, his clothes for the day hang at the front of the rack.

    He walks across the rug covering hardwood to his now-opening door. In the hall he knocks on his brother''s door and sets it slightly ajar and enters the bathroom. The faucet turns and blinds draw over also-fogged bathroom windows and he strips. He brushes his teeth and steps around one blue outer curtain and one clear inner curtain and he turns his back to the water and closes his eyes and sees the world.

    His brother is in bed, staring at his phone.

    His mother is at the stove.

    His father is at the kitchen table, tablet open and on its stand.

    Neighbors to one side are in bed, unmoving. Neighbors to the other have already left for the day, their dog asleep in its crate in their bedroom.

    Andrew again wonders if to possess ubiquity is to deserve it.

    His father does not know this secret.

    A cloth runs over his back.

    Someone walking by could guess that someone is showering. They could guess that someone is in bed; that someone is at a stove; that someone is at a table, reading the news. Is it invasive to have certainty from strict options? He cannot see their faces or hear their thoughts or words. He cannot see their screens. He does not even truly apprehend the people around him, only the voids he cannot reach, the absences that denote presence. He lingers under the water for a time and then the faucet turns back and he dries himself and cleans the mirror.

    Modest, he knocks again on his brother''s door and pushes it open and walks across the run. His towel finds its hook, he reaches for his clothes. Brandless white t-shirt and black gym shorts. Red socks and red Solars and a white hoodie with Adidas large and in black across the chest. His bag is beside his desk, it finds his hand and his door closes as he''s in the stairwell. Andrew greets his mother, Anna, now in the living room, and greets his father, still at the table.

    James Black says "Good morning."

    His father is in his work coveralls, dark navy, two chest pockets, gold embroidery above one pocket reads BLACK''S MACHINING, the pocket above the other reads JIM. A United States flag is on one shoulder and on the other a yellow flag with a black snake and four illegible words. Andrew is eating when Michael comes down the stairs in a whirl, saying "Baseball today!"

    Andrew smiles slightly, casually replying "In eight hours, chill."

    Michael says "I''ve been chill all winter, I''m sick of the cold!"

    James chuckles.

    They leave, their mother waves at them from the back stoop.

    Andrew takes them through a quiet forest road, gently curving, itself still waking up, with few other cars and regularly spaced orange lights and steady green lights beneath a uniform wall of gray sky. A car stays behind him, then two, some fellows of the thousands at his school. He sees the heat of their engines, in their tires over the pavement. A tree they pass has an orange stake hammered into its trunk, and beyond it he sees deer, just invisible from the road.

    The school is on the crest of a hill, parking is at its base. As a senior, Andrew has a designated spot, and as he closes his door he hears people call his name. The path to the school is a scenic sweep, pebble-pavement, students marching up the incline. Andrew looks to the base of a different part of the hill, to a park with full creekbeds and dead brush on its banks.

    The path leads through the divided commons, and some students sitting at the exterior tables call out to him. The entrance is glass and metal, great windows, painted-blue steel double-double-doors. The chatter of the commons reaches them in the vestibule, and through the next set of doors Michael heads off with a "Later, bro." Andrew continues his little glances and nodded acknowledgements, he''s looking for Isaiah.

    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    The school is four wings in a square, with an open courtyard at the center, where more tables and benches have students occupying them as other students pass under covered paths. He stays inside, turning down a hall that has classrooms and stairs and lockers on one side and lockers and windows on the other, past more stairs, down another hall of the same. Blue lockers, pale yellow walls, beige and blue glossy vinyl tile, all subdued in the gray morning light. His locker unlocks and he''s found Isaiah''s void, his obvious height, his easy gait, lanyard hanging from his waistband, duffel bag at his side. He hears him before he says "Sup Drew."

    "Yo." Andrew shuts his bag in the locker.

    Isaiah signed to Mizzou in December; he benefited second-most from Andrew''s success.

    "You know how much I want to walk in tomorrow wearing the Florida hat? Fuck a suit."

    "Fuck a suit," Isaiah repeats, laughing, "yeah but your mom say so."

    "Gotta look good for five minutes on camera."

    They pass through the showers and into the gym and sit on bleachers looking at their phones until the bell rings and they fall into line for warm-ups. The class has an odd number of students, Andrew is pulled as usual to play the coach, badminton today.

    They don''t keep score, but Andrew wins.

    His second class is College Literature.

    Reading was the first habit found in restlessness. One night the feeling of wasted time became so much that he got up and wandered the house, eventually pulling a novel from the shelves in his father''s office. He enjoyed it greatly, and that enjoyment became a desire to take classes with more work and more reading. It challenged him at first, but after months of uninteresting assignments over books already read, the class turned rote. They are studying Shakespeare and taking notes on a text-literal film adaptation of Coriolanus. Andrew has liked text-literal adaptations of other works more.

    Isaiah''s second class is next to his, and they walk together to weights. Down the stairs, again to his locker, again through the showers, into the weights room. Shrugs, skull crushers, squats. Deadlifts, pull-ups, dead hangs. Curls, bench. Isaiah spots, grousing over Andrew''s head.

    "Where you get this lift from? I''m twice your damn size."

    "Two years," Andrew raises the bar, "carrying your ass."

    Weights ends and they go to lunch, their table full of football players.

    His final class is College Physics. It''s the only class he doesn''t breeze through, so he takes exact notes, recording every lecture and listening at night.

    He often wonders if it''s the only class he actually needs.

    At the final bell he finds Michael and they go to the team changing rooms. Andrew has played almost every sport the school offers, but Michael''s heart has only ever been for baseball. Michael established his status in pitching as a sophomore, and as a junior there is the full expectation that he will be the ace. The day is brisk but little wind keeps it tolerable, and as the brothers arrive at the field, Andrew notices the new faces. He can see their nervousness and their quiet energy, and from a few who shout his name, freshman braggadocio.

    Andrew stopped pitching before his junior season, self-preservation described in misdirection as "My future''s probably in football, coach." Catcher was never a question, he was too fast to waste behind the plate, but he could play everything else, so he''s starting centerfield. Scouts score his plays 8-often-with-a-star. Atypical leadoff hitter and an existential threat on the bases. First at the dish, the hardest out to get and the table-setter. His coach played briefly in the minors, but establishing an adult life of good decision-making left before languishing. Andrew is on good terms with him with only one point of contention: his coach thinks he would be better in baseball. Andrew''s unelaborated disagreement is lateral, he worries he''ll get caught in baseball. In football he just has to be fast.

    The older players have the relaxed camaraderie of hundreds of days of battle, their warm-up is easy, and they quickly progress to the jocular rookie hazing. The freshmen are given a lengthy head-start but still can''t beat Andrew around the track. Fungoes are hit and he catches every one. He hits sharp grounders to third or deep short and no throw beats him to first. The older players watch on and laugh.

    As they drive home, streetlights begin to come on.

    Their mother is at the stove, their father still at the shop. "How was practice?" asks Anna as Michael brushes past her, bags and cleats in hand as he runs upstairs. Andrew says "Good, typical. Nobody standing out yet." Anna titters, "It''s the first day," then, "did you show them up?" Andrew nods, "You know I did."

    "That''s my boy."

    Andrew lays out his physics work. Papers from the class go on his laptop, the playing-at-one-point-five-speed recorder goes on one side and his open book on the other. The recording finishes and he finishes the work and and he thinks about the class and the heat of the stove and of his brother''s television and his father''s truck as it turns onto their street. He stands and stretches and walks into the hall, saying through Michael''s open door, "Dad''s about home."

    Andrew sees the garage open from the kitchen, "Dad''s home." His mother says mhm and he sets the table. James comes into the mudroom, leaving his own heavy bag beside his boots. He kisses Anna and passes Michael on the stairs as he goes to the master bedroom to shower and change.

    Chicken is on the table, James is seated, now in shorts and t-shirt. "Boys," he says, "Dad," they answer. They eat, and James asks "How was practice?" prompting Michael to give a full recollection. They finish and clear the table, then return to it.

    Anna says "I have a cake after we''ve finished talking about tomorrow."

    Andrew thinks about the many schools that have approached him and the three that are left. Georgia, USC, and Florida. He thinks about the visits, he thinks about the coaching staffs, the players, the offerings. He wonders for well more than the first time if he should be doing something else.

    Andrew says "I''m going to Florida. I''ve compared every program to theirs, they''re the best."

    His mother asks "Why not California?"

    "It''s across the country, the team is worse, and Florida has better facilities."

    "Georgia?"

    "I''d be the backup, and it''s the same as USC, it''s a worse team and Florida has better facilities."

    "So," says his mother, "what else is good about UF?"

    "Gainesville is close, and Devaris Walker is the best quarterback in college football."

    His mother nods.

    James has been quiet throughout. He finally says "Florida also already guaranteed your housing requirements. This is the largest commitment of your life, until now, are you ready for that?"

    Andrew says "Yes, I am."

    James is again quiet, and the silence is unbroken until he says "We''ve said this many times before, Andrew, and we''re so proud of you that you''ve reached this night, so allow me to relish saying this for the last time, at least until next year with your brother: whatever decision you make tomorrow, we trust you, and regardless, your next school is just a step. In four years there will be things that you will have loved and hated about any school you attend, but you''ll be entering the NFL and that''s what your focus should be. School isn''t your goal, it''s what helps you reach it."

    Anna agrees, adding "and Gainesville is close."

    Andrew appreciates their reinforcement. No one else on the football team was even approached by Florida, but he isn''t looking for a place with friends, he''s looking for a place to play. Weather and his family being relatively close are fringe benefits.

    Florida, he repeats it in his head as he and Michael clean the kitchen.

    Florida, again and again.

    When his schoolwork is finished he opens his laptop. YouTube, Reddit, Instagram. Local news. Continued inquiry over the carcass of a dire bear. Basketball highlights, baseball forecasts. When he feels sufficiently unproductive he opens a digital copy of a book from the AP list. When he can no longer sit still, he pulls on a red Braves long-T and black Ultraboost ATR. He walks downstairs and outside through the mudroom. The door locks behind him.

 4 - Procession

    FILTERS 4

    PROCESSION

    Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.

    He stands and immediately wishes he hadn''t, willing the ground to swallow him whole. In eons of minutes he walks to the bathroom, showers, puts on his suit, and walks downstairs, where he listlessly browses the internet on his phone until it is time to leave. He drives Michael, his parents drive separately.

    He still feels the pull of the ground in his slow walk to the school. The brothers are dressed identically, same black shoes, same black suits, same black belts and ties, same black shirts. His father is almost the same except in place of a jacket he wears a gray sweater, arm held by his mother, wearing a black two-piece Andrew thinks is new. They have arrived well before the first bell, but there are still students who call out to him.

    They pass through the commons, down one hall, down another, and into the large gymnasium. Here it is busy, with many tables set for the players announcing their college decisions. The table for him is obvious, with cameras and microphones and many people around it, faculty, technical crew, and journalists. Faculty wear lanyards, everyone else has bright red stickers.

    A red sticker calls out to him, "Hey Andrew! How are you feeling?"

    "I''m feeling like I''ll answer all of your questions after the conference, thanks."

    Michael laughs. His football coach spotted them when they entered and has made his way to them. "Good morning Andrew, how''re you feeling?"

    He sighs, "Ready to get this over with."

    His coach grins, he expected this response, and the principal joins them and the two speak with his parents. Andrew and Michael slip around to the table, where the producer introduces herself. Andrew takes the chair and looks down the large camera ahead of him. A monitor on one side shows the feed of the table, a monitor on the other side shows the ESPN set, soundless. Three hats, one red, one blue, one black, all atop small stacks of paper. A single pen is already beside the letter for Florida.

    The producer and an assistant get him ready, and for all Andrew knows a full day might have passed. They go through the routine and they have him test the microphones and they give him an earpiece that connects to a black box that goes on his belt. They test again and again, Andrew''s annoyance rising. The producer says "Alright, Andrew, I''ll be standing behind the monitor showing your feed. I''ll cue you in, then Rece will take over."

    "Fifteen minutes, Andrew," says the voice in his ear. His parents and Michael stand behind him.

    It feels longer than that. Andrew''s hand begins to itch for the blue hat, and he''s just about to take it when he the producer points at him and hears the count and then the voice of Rece Davis.

    ¡°¡ªSchool in Atlanta. USA Today''s national player of the year and ESPN¡¯s number one recruit, the multi-threat wide receiver and free safety Andrew Black joins us. He¡¯s narrowed his selection to Georgia, USC, and the University of Florida. Thank you for joining us Andrew and congratulations on getting here, it¡¯s been a long time coming. What are your plans?¡±

    Andrew runs over his speech and skips to the end. He takes the blue hat.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be playing for the University of Florida.¡±

    There is light applause and isolated cheers from the small crowd before they quiet, thinking he will say more, but he doesn¡¯t. He hears laughter in the earpiece and then ¡°Alright, Andrew Black, cutting straight to the point. Swapping sides in that Georgia rivalry to go to the Gators. What made you choose Florida?¡±

    ¡°Devaris Walker is the best quarterback in college football, they need a wide receiver, and it¡¯s a quick flight between Atlanta and Gainesville.¡±

    Laughter again.

    Rece says ¡°You know I''m a big fan of Walker and I can confirm that it is a short trip. You¡¯re a funny guy Andrew, I love the candor, anything else?"

    Andrew shakes his head, "Nope."

    "Alright, well, congrats again. I''m looking forward to your highlights this fall. Good luck."

    The producer says "Great, good job," and Andrew is already standing, taking off the earpiece and box and setting them on the table and his jacket and tie and handing them to his mother, who hands him his bag. He walks across the gym hardwood, avoiding calls and the other tables of signees as he enters the lockers, kicking his shoes across the room and stripping down. He''s pulling another pair of gym shorts up as his brother comes in, also free of his jacket and tie, also with a bag in hand, saying "Damn bro, how do you feel?"

    "Glad it''s over."

    Michael snickers, "Why don''t you like being on TV?"

    Andrew has had one side of this conversation many times.

    "Mike, I don''t give a shit about TV. I''m in this to be the best who''s ever played. Everything outside of the field that isn''t about being better on the field doesn''t matter."

    Michael''s surprised, eyes-wide, "Really?"

    "Yes, really. When you''re on the mound, and you''re glaring at the guy at the plate, are you thinking about being interviewed by some whogivesafuck on ESPN?"

    Michael shakes his head, but then nods, "Well, yeah, man, sometimes."

    "Okay, what''s Mike Trout''s personality?"

    Michael says "He likes weather, and the Eagles. And pretzels."

    "Exactly, and he''s the best. No need for bullshit, just play."

    They return to the gym, a journalist is waiting, "Andrew, could you say a little bit more about your decision?"

    Andrew rolls his eyes, "You heard pretty much everything. But, ah, I am thankful for my coaches here, and my family through all of this."

    "What about the other schools?"

    Andrew says "They just wanted me to play football for them. That''s all, have a good one."

    His mother hugs him, ¡°I''m so proud of you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll have another one of these with Mike next year."

    Michael says "I don''t think they air college baseball commitments on TV."

    "For you, they might."

    Andrew feels free. His decision took a year and now that it''s made he has nothing left to do but show up. School, practice, home, running, school, practice, home, running.

    Routine, routine.

    Classes blur. Practice blurs.

    Home life blurs. Schoolwork blurs. Running blurs.

    Daylight lingers, days warm.

    Games bring fervor and haze. Games blur.

    Victories are more numerous but winning percentage is lower, he doesn¡¯t carry his baseball team. Not like Michael, who is neither at full height nor full ability to turn fools at the plate and still he chews through batters. Michael doesn''t appreciate this, he thinks he''s in the shadow of a .750 leadoff.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.Andrew loses any sense of time and rides the weeks into the months until he''s sitting beneath the closed iris of the Falcons'' stadium waiting for his name to be called and his procession made and diploma received. The grass spreads to four corners around him, the neat rectangle rich and green and the presence in every space not filled by voids. He wonders with rows of plastic and metal on uncovered turf the weather of the city of the team he is four years from and if their field is grown or laid.

    His name is Black, it will be called soon. Soon, state baseball finals in a week. Soon, moving to Gainesville in a month. Soon, walking onto the national stage like¨C

    "Andrew Black!"

    Like how he walks now onto this local stage to raucous adoration. He waves to the cheers and time firmly locks in place. Most names must still be called and where for that moment he was the focus of the crowd, now he focuses on them. Their seats, the platform, the podium, gowns over clothes and below caps and hair of voids and their dim warmth. The same in the audience.

    Voids.

    He thinks he should stop calling people "voids."

    The figures in the field, black and untouchable. He physically looks at his family.

    Pictures are taken with his family and with just his brother. With Isaiah, with other football players, with baseball players. With his coaches, with administrators, with many girls. He shakes many hands, many people tell him congratulations, many people wish him good luck. The girls want hugs, he wants to go home. They go to dinner first.

    His phone is full of invitations.

    He jumps up the back steps, the lock turning as he reaches for the handle and he''s up and changed and down and back out the door while his parents still talk in the kitchen. "Andrew," he hears his father say as his foot hits the driveway.

    "What''s up?"

    "Are you going out with your friends?"

    Andrew shakes his head, "No, just running."

    "Okay, be safe."

    He runs.

    When he returns he locks himself in the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror.

    He thinks he should have gone out.

    But how can he sit talking to some girl, how can he stand around as person after person talks at him, as if he isn''t what he is? As if they know anything about what he can do, as if they have any idea of his mind? Who else knows thoughts with no natural end and pushed aside or else distracted emerge again in endless day? It isolates.

    It isolates.

    Andrew and Michael practice outside of practice. He wants to leave a final trophy for his coach, Michael wants to set the tone: Andrew''s leaving, but Black remains the best.

    Andrew twirls the bat, swings, and runs the bases.

    In the bus home, the trophy sits beside him. Michael and his friends are talking about a party. Andrew''s already declined, he wants to get things ready for the move.

    He''s looking over his small bookshelf when Michael texts him.

    Hey. Ended up somewhere sketchy. Can you pick me up?

    Location Received

    omw

    Andrew drives to an area near a university. Gentrification has radiated out in different lines, splitting neighborhoods into new mild affluence and old destitution. Andrew parks on a brightly lit street and walks into darkness and squalor. These houses are quiet, with few lights on, each yard surrounded by fences, occupants almost entirely inside. Michael''s waiting, and they begin walking to his car when he finds the figures, just out of sight in an alley.

    "We should get out of here." Andrew says quietly.

    Their pace quickens, but the group has emerged, following them.

    "Hey. Hey! The fuck you doing with that hat?"

    Michael turns, confused, "It''s an Atlanta Braves hat?"

    "The fuck you wearing blue on my street?"

    Andrew shifts his posture to emphasize his height and size. "We didn''t know, we''re gone, don''t need to worry about us."

    "Nah, nah man, that''s not good enough. Give us your shit."

    Andrew shrugs, "Man, I got nothing on me." Turning out his empty pockets to emphasize.

    "You got your shoes."

    Michael says "Fuck them, I''m not giving them shit."

    "The fuck you say?"

    Michael takes Andrew''s pose, "I said we''re not giving you bitches shit."

    Andrew shoves his brother out of the way and throws a fist through the nose and cheekbones of the first charging figure. A second figure is moving to his right, Andrew''s right foot is already raising, kicking into their abdomen and his other fist striking their head before they react, they fall backward, their head slamming against the concrete. He effortlessly pushes aside the weak swing of the third figure, now fully looking at them, and his fist crushes into their chest, another head hits concrete. He only glares at the fourth and turns to Michael whose expression flashes from amazement to terror.

    Andrew hears it but doesn''t think, he turns back to see the gun as it fires again and he''s moving forward, his left hand out and the metal piece firing a third time before it''s ripped from their hand so violently that their fingers and wrist twist and break and his right levels between their eyes: lights burned out. Andrew is already finding the little flattened bullets and casings, still warm, he draws them with the gun, crushing them together, and puts the ball in his pocket.

    Michael stammers "Andrew¨C"

    ''We have to fucking go, come on."

    "Andrew¨C"

    "We have to go!"

    "But he¨C"

    Andrew grabs for his brother and Michael''s senses return and they run.

    They''re in the car and driving. Andrew notes idly that he isn''t shaking and his heart and breathing feel normal. Michael is shaking, his breaths are rapid.

    "You. He shot," tremors in his voice.

    "He shot. . . " Michael leans over his knees, his hands on his head. "He shot you! And the gun¨Cit''s like¨Cit¨Cit just¨Che fucking shot you! And you''re fine!"

    Andrew''s thoughts are elsewhere. "He was using FMJs in a neighborhood, what an asshole."

    "What?" says Michael, sitting back up, and Andrew can feel a finger poking through the hole in his sleeve. "Why are you not freaking out about this?" Andrew just starts to move his hand to his head, then puts it back on the wheel. "I guess I knew that would happen."

    Michael''s "What?!" is so loud that Andrew almost flinches. "This is impossible."

    "It''s not the only thing."

    The little pops of cooling metal are the only sound in the garage.

    An old baseball has drifted off of a shelf and hangs unturning in the air, over his car, which is in the air as well.

    "What the fuck. Andrew. What¨Cwhat the fuck, Andrew?!"

 5 - All-American

    FILTERS 5

    ALL-AMERICAN

    Andrew says "We need to tell dad."

    They go up the stairs, through the mudroom and the kitchen, to their father''s office, where Andrew opens the door without knocking. James is watching the little television, which he mutes, and Andrew knows when his father sees the holes, as his eyes convey in succession shock, fear, anger, relief¨Cand pride?

    "We got in a fight."

    He takes the amalgam from his pocket and sets it on the desk.

    "It was four guys. I took three of them down when the fourth drew that. Michael knows."

    Michael immediately says "Dad knows? Does mom know?"

    James says "Yes, your mother knows. I saw it the first time he ever used it. You were young, and¨C"

    Andrew interrupts, "I should have told you sooner, Michael. I''m sorry I didn''t."

    Andrew, age twelve, in their back yard and tossing a baseball up and running under it to catch. James is in the driveway, detailing his car. He waxes in rhythm with music playing from the garage, overhead door open. The music is quiet, little more than setting. Atmosphere; local; Outkast, record seminal (day. . . also seminal.) Andrew takes off his glove to catch barehanded. James watches but doesn''t think about it, he''s thinking about taxes.

    Finished waxing automotive, he''s in the driver''s seat, dashboard focus. Then the back-middle seat, his torso at skew in rotation. Door panel, window trim, a fine cloth runs over leather. Vacuum next. Floor mats drip-dry from garage wall-mounted alligator clips.

    Andrew juggles three baseballs. James watches amused, behind the wheel, considering driving around the block. Instead he shifts to neutral and with one foot on the brake and one foot on the driveway lets the car move slowly, slowly back. He vacuums again and returns the mats, looks the car over one last time and grabs his mitt and closes the garage.

    "Toss it to me," he says, Andrew drops two of the balls and throws a strike.

    "When I was your age, your uncle was still playing high school baseball for our tiny school in Ava. The school got them bats and uniforms, but your grandfather bought the team caps and helmets, and he said since he bought them, he would get to design them. So it was AB, to the town this was Ava Baseball, but to dad, to me, to your uncle, we knew it was Ava Blacks."

    He skies a ball, Andrew waits underneath, "Uh-huh?"

    "They had a new coach. He was the history teacher and a Vietnam veteran. Have you studied Vietnam?"

    Andrew catches the ball, "Yeah."

    "What do you remember?"

    Andrew throws it back, "Um, we talked a lot about ''Eidolon,'' the um, the raid?"

    James throws it back, "It was a raid on a military prison in Hanoi."

    Andrew says "Oh yeah, it''s that movie you said I can watch when I''m thirteen."

    James smiles and says "For most of the Vietnam war, America was losing. The North Vietnamese were highly effective, and many of our campaigns were total failures, losing materiel objectives and morale. By 1972 the common sentiment was that the war was lost, but in the summer of 1973 something changed and we started winning. The official line is that our understanding of the war improved, and we were able to effect that new understanding in better training and strategy. What actually happened is that within the next wave of young men enlisting and being drafted into service, there were a small though adequate number who were profoundly stronger and faster than those who came before them. They would take objectives with ease and without incident, and in the rare times they were injured, they would rapidly recover from wounds that would maim or kill other soldiers. To say it bluntly, those soldiers were significantly better at killing, and significantly harder to kill."

    Andrew doesn''t throw, he''s captivated by the story. James gestures for the baseball, catches it, and throws it back.

    "The generals found a way to identify them and went on to build entire divisions around those guys, selecting the best of them for the special forces. Operation Eidolon was a mission to recover American prisoners of war, it wasn''t planned as a raid, it became one when a bad storm turned everything ass-up. They decided to press on and made it to the prison. A team of six SEALs eliminated almost every soldier called in to stop them and exfiltrated with no casualties. It''s considered the turning point of the war, as they saved more than American POWs, those others they freed jump-started an insurgency in the north and Hanoi fell thirty years and a day after the Nazis signed their unconditional surrender. For his part in the Eidolon raid, a soldier named Raymond Fiore was awarded the Medal of Honor. Fiore was your uncle''s baseball coach, but everybody called him Coach Fire."

    Andrew says "Woah."

    "No one in town knew. Everyone knew he was a veteran, he and his wife still have a ranch in Bradleyville, which is just a bit more than a junction, southwest of Ava. My dad said he could still see the soldier in him, but none of us kids could think of him that way. Despite his nickname being ''Fire'' he was cool. Everybody loved his classes, he would spend them talking back and forth with us and he wouldn''t assign much work. I remember some of the parents being unsure of what to make of him, but he had been to war, so they gave him a pass. His coaching was a lot like that, he didn''t push competitiveness, he just wanted them to play their hardest, have fun, and be good men on and off the field. That team stormed into the qualifiers and won every game but the state championship. They won state the next year."

    Andrew has a large grin.

    "In my senior year I wrote a paper for his class on Vietnam and that''s when I discovered that Fiore of Eidolon was Coach Fire. He said one thing when I asked: ''Yes, that was me.'' I was graduating, and I didn''t have any good choices. Your grandparents couldn''t pay for school and although Don was going into the majors I couldn''t take money from him. Maybe it was sour grapes but at the time I didn''t feel like college was right even if I could go. You know your grandfather and his father served in the Navy, so the thought was I would join as well. At my graduation I asked Coach Fire what he thought about me enlisting and he said ''There are worse things you could do with your life.'' The next day I went to the Navy recruiter, and Coach Fire was there waiting to tell me ''If you''re going to join, join the Air Force.'' So I did."

    They throw the ball back and forth again.

    "I liked it at first, but when it turned, it turned bad fast. People are finally starting to find out about those soldiers, I''ve known about them for a long time and that''s because at some point at camp they figured out I was one of them. Everything changed after that. I was getting a lot of attention, which I hated, and opportunities began to unfold for me that only a few others also got. They deliberately hide all of this from soldiers, but there are always rumors, so I talked to everyone I could, and eventually I found books with accounts of the men who served throughout Vietnam, describing the changes firsthand. After boot camp I went to what was basically a second boot camp made entirely of guys like me, and as soon as some of them got a hint of the power in the bureaucracy, they changed. There was only a half-camaraderie in the second camp, and a treacherous undercurrent, because being the best in that group was a big deal. Today, the highest officers in every branch of the military are those guys."

    Throw, catch, throw.

    "For most of history, having a bad leader meant you''d probably die, so having a good leader was important, in war and in peace. The military was once like that, but after Vietnam and the Second Korean War something changed. We became complacent. Some say it was because the companies that make money from war, the Military-Industrial Complex, got their claws into our government and they changed things for their own profit. That is part of it, that''s why the US has clandestine operations in so many countries. I think that leaves something out of it, and it''s that when leadership no longer risks death as its consequence for failure, leaders stop rising because of competence, and start rising because of their ability to navigate within bureaucracies. That''s what I saw, I saw good men backstabbing each other because their thoughts were filled with starred epaulettes, and the twisted thing about that is knowing that some of these guys, who were greatly lacking in intellect and character, were abundantly skilled in lies and manipulation. So I had a choice, I could become a pilot and dive into that arbitrary game of bootlicking and subterfuge for ten or twenty years, or I could do just enough, work on planes instead of fly them, and get the hell out."

    Quiet but for ball hitting glove.

    "I''m saying this so that you understand, Andrew. Everything I have done has been for you and your brother, so that you can go to college, or work in my shop, or go learn a different skill, or do anything else productive that you want, so that you aren''t left with the military as your only option. Because you and your brother are like me, you''re like those soldiers who came before me, like Coach Fire, and if you joined, you would have to face the same decision I faced, but in an even more incompetent and corrupt hierarchy. The military turned out okay for me, it was the best I had in my situation. For you and your brother, there are few worse things you could do with your lives than join the military."

    Andrew nods enthusiastically, "Yeah dad, I won''t. I''ll go to college."

    James throws the baseball in a long, tall arc.

    Andrew runs below, his read is off and he doesn''t have a glove on it, he raises his bare hand and it just misses¨Cuntil it doesn''t. James sees the baseball, clearly beyond Andrew''s hand, clearly arcing away, clearly slow and move into his hand. As if drawn there. Andrew cheers, saying "I finally did it!"

    James knows what he''s just seen, but he still feels compelled to ask "What do you mean, ''finally''? Is that some kind of trick?"

    Andrew shakes his head, exuberant "No! I kept feeling like I could do this and I finally did! Look!" He tosses the baseball up and holds his hand to the side, where it slows again before being drawn to his palm.

    James feels his heartbeat. He says "Come on, let''s go to my office."

    James is behind his desk.

    Andrew gazes intently at the baseball in his open palm, and it rises.

    James almost finds the thought amusing that a demonstration of profoundly novel physics is his twelve-year-old son playing with a baseball. "You''ve been trying to do this for a while?"

    Andrew says "Yeah!"

    "When did this start?"

    Andrew has to think about it, "I always had this feeling, and then on my birthday it, um, got louder? It''s really loud when I try to reach for something."

    "How did it happen just then? What did it feel like?"

    Andrew shrugs, "It just does?" He moves his arms up and down, "Like this. Um . . . reflexively?"

    "But you have control over it? So you don''t have to do it if you don''t want to?"

    Andrew says "I guess" and he tosses the baseball up and reaches it for it and it falls to the floor. He repeats, toss, fall.

    "Good. Is it just your hands? Could you try it with, say, your elbow?"

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Andrew pivots slightly, moving his elbow toward the ball until, once again, at about a hand''s length, the ball moves to it, and hangs, as if stuck. Andrew keeps his arm tucked and sets the baseball in the space where his forearm meets his upper arm, and again the ball lifts.

    James sits down, a hand on the side of his face. Fingers tapping his desk.

    He calls out "Anna? Could you come into my office?"

    Andrew is holding the baseball when she enters, James says "Show your mother."

    Andrew again holds his hand out, again the baseball rises.

    Anna laughs, "That''s a neat trick. You''re learning magic now?"

    James says "It''s not a trick. Take the ball from him and look it over."

    Anna says "What do you mean?" and as she grasps the ball and runs her hands over it, her expression changes. "How were you doing that?"

    Andrew looks at his father, who nods, and the desk routine repeats, now his hand moving closer until it''s pulled to his open palm. He holds up his other hand and the ball moves back and forth in the air.

    Anna says quietly, "That''s impossible. James, what is this?"

    Andrew speaks up, "Um. I know the word for it."

    James doesn''t quite smile, "Yeah?"

    Andrew says uncertainly, "Telekinesis?"

    James smiles, "Seems to be. Have you talked with anyone about this other than us?"

    Andrew shakes his head, "No."

    "Good. Nobody can know that you can do this. Your brother can when he''s older, and that''s it. Nobody else."

    Andrew understands the seriousness in his father''s voice. "I won''t tell anyone, dad."

    James has Andrew help him clear a room in their basement. It''s full of old furniture and boxes and they push them to one wall, stacking them as best they can and leaving the rest of the room open. James says "In a few years, if you''re still playing sports, we''ll add some workout equipment. For now, if you''re going to practice with your gift, I want it to be here or your bedroom, and nowhere else. Okay?"

    "Okay, dad."

    "And it is a gift. I''m glad you have it, and I''m glad I get to see it."

    Andrew spends much of the summer in the basement, and as he practices he improves. His hand''s length reach becomes an arm''s length, his baseball-sized grasp grows enough to move boxes and crates. He shows his parents, who congratulate him.

    Anna leans back in her chair, avoiding eye contact with her husband. "James, what are we going to do? I thought¨CI¨Chow is this even possible?" and finally looking at him, "You always seem so calm about this. Why?"

    "If you saw someone fly like Superman, how long would you marvel at the impossibility of it before it became just another part of life, and instead you just marveled at the vicarious thrill of it in light of your own envy?"

    Anna says "I think I''d marvel at the ''impossibility'' of it every time I saw it."

    "Maybe. Maybe I would too, maybe being able to move a milk crate around is just easier to accept. But this is what our son can do, so what we thought we knew about the world is wrong, simple as. Or maybe I was primed to expect this. This is what I''m sure of: he''s going to keep improving, which means he''ll eventually be able to move larger things at farther distances, which means we''re going to start hearing about people like him, and unless there''s too many of them for the government to keep track of, at some point they''re going to find out he has this, and stick him in a lab."

    Anna has fear in her eyes, "What will we do?"

    "Hope it''s so widespread that he''s lost in the crowd."

    She takes a heavy breath, but then looks confused, "What do you mean ''primed''? What could have possibly made you think this could happen?"

    James was always going to tell her this, he just didn''t know when. "There''s a story I''ve never told you about my great-grandfather''s service in the Navy."

    Anna says "He was on a ship during the Haze, right?"

    "He told me what caused it. Or at least what the United States government thinks caused it."

    Andrew, age fourteen. Far removed from the day in his yard. What once seemed like an invisible arm now seems like an entire invisible body. Every exertion he makes has become easier, from chores, to sports, to playing with his brother, to simply climbing a tree.

    High school football, freshman varsity. Week six and phone calls. Strangers watch practice. He''s often tapped to talk to cameras. His gift is like breathing, he wonders if it''s actually in his breathing. It''s in his sprint explosively, it''s in his block absolutely. He''s threats plural, two-ways at his own insistence, "You want to win, right coach?" Wide receiver, free safety. Get the ball in his hands and it''s there for good, give him a window and he''s uncatchable, an open quarterback and he''s already sacked. The only year his team loses a game. More phone calls, more phone calls. Watch this kid, he''s inhuman! Watch skeptically, his coach has no ability and now you see, with your eyes in-person-in-person, no need to pad the stopwatch.

    Andrew, age fifteen. Football over, baseball in-swing. The best athlete in the state of Georgia, already destined for every All-American list. Colleges line up. The NFL or MLB a matter of when. He''s played basketball, soccer, even a season of hockey, but he lost interest. He''s not going to be quite tall enough to ball and his speed doesn''t help on the court like it does on the field. Running down deep flies, sprinting ninety feet to first or stretching a triple. Or a hole in the defensive line to run his jets. He doesn''t enhance his swing for fear of hitting a baseball six hundred feet or the pitcher six feet under on a comebacker, but his reaction time is more than enough, and he quickly resembles a second coming of Teddy Ballgame.

    Still fifteen, with his parents in his father''s office.

    James says "When you discovered your gift, I thought it would be a matter of time before it was everywhere. That hasn''t happened. In three years of crawling the news, conspiracy sites and random forums and boards I haven''t found a single comment even hinting at something like what you have. Maybe you''re the only one, or one of a few, and the others like you have had the sense to hide it, or maybe they live somewhere remote where it''s gone unnoticed. I don''t know. . . I don''t know. But with what you''ve done in sports, I think we finally have a solution."

    "What''s that, dad?"

    James says "If things stay as they are, if nobody else has your gift, in seven years you''ll be graduating from a D-I school and getting ready to play whatever sport you want professionally. You''re going to be famous, Andrew, and you''re going to make a lot of money, and celebrity and wealth are the best protection you can have if and when the government finally comes knocking."

    Andrew says "I can''t play go pro right out of high school because of the Chipper Jones rule, right? What is that, anyway?"

    James shakes his head, "Not exactly. In baseball, as you know, Chipper was drafted by the Braves as the first overall pick in 1990. He was the top of fifteen players who spent less than a single season in minor league ball before they were called up to the Show. All fifteen of those players¨Clike Manny Ramirez and Donovan Osborne¨Cyou know as some of the greatest players of all time, every one of them is in Cooperstown. There were players here and there before them like that, like your uncle Don, but that was the first real wave. All these teams were discovering half of what the military had kept secret for so long as top draft picks uniformly came through as the best players in baseball. In 1994 there was a strike and part of the reason why was older players were getting carted out so teams could bring in kids. One of the terms that ended the strike was the requirement that players couldn''t enter the draft until they were a full four years out of high school. The NFL already had their three-year rule, they changed it to a four-year rule, same for basketball and hockey. Association football doesn''t have it and neither does the PGA¨C"

    Andrew interrupts, "I don''t like soccer and golf is okay but I''d rather play baseball or football. So I have to play in college."

    "You could play in an independent league if you really wanted to, or go play in Japan, or play here in the XFL. Or you could go to college for free."

    Andrew, age sixteen, the winter of his junior year. His father thought his gift would keep improving; it stalled at the crate. He''s in the room in the basement, leaning against an old desk, looking at the fateful baseball a foot above his palm, asking again "Why is it limited to this?"

    Again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

    How many times has he thought this? How many times has he said it aloud?

    The baseball moves up and down above his hand. Neat trick. He stares a hole into it. He wonders, in none of these exact words, if reality has some perspective-flexibility, physical principles irresolute at a whim. When the baseball is in-his-hand-above-his-hand, does it behave because he expects reality to accommodate? Except he controls it with reflex, not with conscious thought.

    The immediate difference between the yes or no of this cosmic question are little. The yes is exciting, but he is precociously skeptical of such a conclusion. Besides, the no is obviously right. Yet isn''t it just an equivocation to say he''s only moving things in reality and thereby changing it, rather than reality itself changing according to his will? He thinks no, he thinks it''s the former, whether the former is still essentially the latter is beyond him.

    Baseball, desk.

    Something, sometimes¨Cwhen he so chooses¨Cmoves objects toward or away from his skin. Why is it limited to the shape of his body? Is it because it''s intrinsic? What relation does "intrinsic" have with telekinesis and the shape of his flesh? Well why wouldn''t they have such a relationship, since it''s intrinsic? He thinks this passes the buck.

    He wishes he were taking physics. But what area would this be? What''s the gap of understanding? Surely the knowledge difference between the present paradigm and whatever this is would be the kind not typified by time so much as whatever breakthrough it takes to reach an entirely new paradigm that may not be conceivable until humanity''s next entirely new paradigm. But he exists, right now. The ball is hovering in the air, right now, this thing emanates seemingly from his body, right now. If humanity is on the P paradigm then his existence is a necessary portent of the Q paradigm, regardless of anything they think they know, or suspect they don''t know. Maybe they''re close, maybe simply knowing that he can exist is enough for someone to figure out how.

    He''s pretty sure that isn''t how science works. He also thinks his timeline is off. Regardless, they''ll know it exists soon enough. How could he be the only one?

    That would be nice. He knows better.

    He thinks about how casually this seems to work, albeit as if casual can appropriately describe telekinesis. What''s the spatial difference between his hand and the desk? Why would he assume spatial relation matters? Here he laps well-worn paths around the forest he is finally about to see.

    The baseball spirals around his arm, he thinks about it coming off his body.

    "Why can''t I do more? Why do I feel like I''m borrowing it rather than creating it?"

    He thinks. He thinks.

    Again and again.

    Until a new thought comes.

    "Does it not come from me at all? Am I tapping into something?"

    Gentle ringing.

    What if there is no trick? What if there is no switch? A gift, yes, but no box hidden in the mind needing unwrapped. What if it isn''t practice? What if it is a decision? What if it is conviction?

    If he is using some of it, then he will simply choose to use all of it.

    As clear as if spoken. Can you control it?

    "Yes," he says, affirming epiphany, "and it''s as simple as this."

    His hands relax at his sides and the baseball remains in the air above the desk.

    Not above his hand, not above his arm, not above his skin. In the air, on its own.

    His hands and arms go numb as they follow the rest of his body to the ground.

    He hasn''t lost consciousness, but he has lost something, and gained something else.

    He stands slowly, feeling no complaints from the parts that fell hardest.

    He thinks "What happened?"

    He walks around the spot, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms and his legs. With each movement a new feeling grows. With each step his concern rises. Something is amiss, there''s a ringing in his ears, a disconcerting itch over his body. His heart is pounding, his pace falters, step left, step right. A million hands pulling on his skin. "What is this? What is this?!" His movements worsen, his vision darkens, he walks to the door and tries to reach for the handle but now his arms won''t respond. "What is. . . what am. . ." and he turns around.

    The baseball is motionless in the air above the desk.

    The sound of thunder fills his ears and he staggers.

    He feels it. Understands it. Implicitly and totally knows its existence. The sense fills his mind, the quiet tone of his environment. A resonance. He knows the baseball is in the air, where he set it, the air around it, the desk beneath it. The resonance hums on, it saturates and pervades, he sees it and knows it in the air, the room, the objects, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. The house. The street. The forested neighborhood. The baseball lowers as the desk raises to meet it.

    Andrew asks himself, not for the first time, but for the first time in earnest, the first time he actually appreciates what he''s asking, "Why do I have this?"

    He stands in the doorway of the office. He tosses the baseball to his father, who prepares to catch it when the ball halts, stuck in the air.

    "I always wondered." says James.

 6 - The Blind Spirit

    FILTERS 6

    THE BLIND SPIRIT

    Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.

    His brother sits cross-legged, television on.

    His mother is in the living room, his father is in his office.

    His mind is above the houses and the trees.

    Figures all around him, dark shapes and clothed outlines. He sees a car nearby and follows it away. It takes a familiar route, and now he imagines his own car, winding through the groves. Projected lights in front of it, but itself in darkness. He sees it reach the well-lit street, and himself park and walk away. Beside the new apartments, mostly empty still. Down the alley, rough houses now, no obvious signs of destitution yet apparent all the same. No cars on cinder blocks, none parked in weedy lawns. Gravel drives and weathered pavement next to chain-linked yards. Something else, ineffable, underlining thrift. Maybe the rarity of porch lights, maybe the grime on windowpanes. Maybe the way the houses sit so closely, yet devoid of intimacy. He can hear the air conditioners, see them hang from windows, he sees their little draining runs of water, vinyl green with growth of mold. He sees new figures now, parents and their children.

    Who did he inflict this on? Who did he deprive?

    Who set the candle on the sidewalk, lonely bead of light?

    He sees his brother join him. He sees the group of four.

    He sees his ruthless movements, one by one they fall.

    Did someone dial when they heard?

    Were police nearby already?

    And when they arrived, what did they find?

    No gun for one, no bullets or shell casings.

    Four figures on the ground, but only three are stirring.

    Lights and sirens come, a crowd begins to gather.

    Did you see what happened? Did you hear the shots?

    I see a broken nose, I see a broken jaw.

    I hear labored breathing, and from one nothing at all.

    He reads the headline.

    He thinks about his brother, he thinks about his parents.

    He leaves his room and knocks hesitantly, entering after a moment.

    "I didn''t want that."

    His father shakes his head. "You protected your brother. You did exactly what you were supposed to, never be ashamed of that."

    "I''m not ashamed, dad. I wish it didn''t happen."

    His father makes a point of closing his book. "It is tragic."

    Andrew frowns.

    "It is tragic that the events in the life of that man brought him to that place, to make that decision. But that does not absolve him, nor does it condemn you. It is good that you were not looking for a fight, and it is good that you did not start it. But when they did, and when he drew that gun, you were not only right to stop them, you were obligated to. Whatever it took."

    He says nothing.

    His father asks "Did anyone see you?"

    "No."

    His father presses this. "Are you certain?"

    One last secret.

    "Yes. I know where everyone is around me. Mom is in the hall, Michael is in bed but he''s awake. I have a second sight of what I can and can''t affect with this, and what I can''t is people. I don''t need to see something to move it, I don''t need to be anywhere near it, but I can''t use this on people, dad. No one was outside near us, no one was looking out a window at us. Some moved when they heard the shots, and that is it."

    His mother is sitting on the little bench in the hall. She''s been crying; she''s crying still.

    Andrew sits beside her.

    After a time she stands and kisses him on the head, and places a hand there and holds it.

    Then she goes to bed.

    Andrew is sitting at his desk, blankly gazing at a screen.

    Michael stands and walks into the hall and knocks on his door. "That guy with the gun . . ."

    "I know."

    Michael stands there, swaying slightly, "They should have all died."

    Andrew only looks at Michael, nothing more to say, and his brother leaves.

    He sees blood on his hands.

    He''s out the door, running. Farther than he has before, mechanical responses to the cops who greet him. He lies in bed. Sunrise. He runs. He reads. He talks with his father. His brother talks to him. His mother hugs him. Sunset. He runs. He reads. Sunrise. He runs. He talks, he reads, he runs, he talks, he reads, he runs, day into night runs into day into night runs into day into night into day. He begins to feel better.

    He packs little; his dorm is a furnished apartment in athlete housing. He has several plastic tubs of clothes, books, and sundries. His bag has his computer and what small things are left. His bed is made, his closet half-empty. The pinboard beside his desk is still full, the posters on his wall remain, a room in stasis until his parents decide what to do with it.

    He puts on the backpack and sends the tubs into a stack that follows him down the stairs, through the kitchen, into the mudroom. He lets the stack fall into his hands and carries it to the driveway where his father helps him load them into his car.

    They talk over the final plans for the route and they leave, the brothers first.

    Michael keeps to his phone. They''re out of the city, still on the 75. Andrew listens to a podcast.

    Past Macon, Michael finally talks. "Do you ever worry, like thinking that your gift is cheating?"

    "No. I''ve never used it in games, that would be cheating. The cameras would eventually catch something, anyway."

    "Would you use it if you could get away with it?"

    "Tough question. If I didn''t care about cheating and I thought I could get away with it? Then I''d probably use it in golf."

    Michael scoffs, "Golf?"

    "Hell yeah. Tiger Woods has made a billion dollars and the PGA doesn''t have the four-years-out rule, so I''d make the tour as soon as I qualified."

    Michael asks "So why not play right now?"

    "Every stroke would be a chance to use it wrong."

    Michael laughs, "Yeah, you go on tilt and you mess up a putt and the ball takes a hard right."

    "Yeah, exactly. In football I just have to be fast, and I''m already fast. Get me the ball, that''s it."

    Michael''s playing chess on his phone. "Do you think you would be slower without it?"

    "When I was younger I felt it when I was playing sports, but when I, ah, opened it, the feeling went away. I''m even faster now, so if it''s helping me, I can''t tell how."

    Michael asks "What if you were?"

    "I asked dad that and he said it doesn''t matter. He said ''You can''t just choose to be a world-class athlete, you''re born with the talent and you have to develop it. If you didn''t have your gift, or you didn''t know you had it, and you still ran that fast, it would be no different than if you were knowingly using it to run that fast.''"

    Michael laughs again, "Yeah no shit of course dad would say that."

    "But he''s kinda right. I didn''t ask for this. If I ever meet someone who can run faster than me and they don''t have this, what''s the difference? But. . . I do know I have it. But I don''t use it knowingly. So if it''s making me faster, I don''t know how, so I couldn''t stop it even if I wanted."

    The conversation slows and stops. They pass Valdosta and the state line. At a rest stop Andrew looks at an adboard reading THE PANHANDLE''S ONLY CAGED MEGAGATOR:''JURA''CKSONVILLE PARK''

    Michael eventually talks again. "Do you think I have it? Like you? But I don''t know it?"

    Andrew shrugs, "Dude I have no fucking clue. Have you always had some weird feeling at the back of your head you can''t explain?"

    "I don''t know, if it''s always been there would I notice?"

    "I could always tell something was going on. It was like¨Cyou know when dad taught us about cars and the machines in his shop, and then the next time you heard a car making a sound like that you recognized it and remembered all the times you heard it before? It was like that. One day this thing I''d always quietly felt resolved into something I could actually touch. But who knows? Maybe that''s just how it worked with me. Dad''s sure I''m not the only one, and I am too, but it''s been six years and we still haven''t heard the faintest rumor of someone doing what I can do. Not that we''re searching for specific words, but we''ve both spent a lot of time looking for weird stories and we''ve never found any."

    "You''ve never read any like the bear. What was that like?"

    "It was running at me. I''d do it again."

    Michael says "So that''s what you meant in the lockers on signing day. You want to be the best so everyone knows your name and you make a ton of money and if the government tries to fuck with you, you can throw money at people to help."

    "Yeah, exactly."

    They pass Lake City.

    "I¨C" Andrew hmms.

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Michael looks at him, "What?"

    "I''m worried about this. The gift."

    "Why?"

    "Bullets don''t work, and that wasn''t the first. . . ''protective'' aspect I discovered. Last summer I was outside, no shoes on, and I stepped on a nail, but it bent over flat. Then last Christmas I was helping mom before dinner and I grabbed a skillet that had just come out of the oven. I didn''t know, I just took it and moved it. I should have burned the hell out of my hand, I remember thinking it was obviously dangerously hot, but my hand was fine. Do you remember that fight we had with Parkview? A guy tried to punch me and I think he broke his hand. Dad thinks explosives might not work."

    Michael says "Dude, if bombs don''t work either what are you worried about?"

    "Well even if I couldn''t be threatened, you and and mom and dad could be. But that''s not it. What happens if someone comes along with this who wants to do bad things? What if they''re criminals, or terrorists? What if they can''t be stopped?"

    Michael offers "Electricity? Poison?"

    "What if those don''t work? There''s more, I told you that I''ve tried to move myself, it''s not that I think I can''t, it''s that I think I can''t right now. If a guy has all of that, and he can fly, what do you do to stop him?"

    "What if you tried to stop him?"

    "What if it doesn''t work like that? What if we''re both equally unstoppable forces and immovable objects? I either can''t tell if someone has what I have, or I haven''t actually met or ever been near someone who has it. If someone has this and has been around me, and there''s no way for me to recognize them, then it''s possible they could use it and nobody would ever know. They could sit in their living room and rob a bank. It would be obvious what happened, except you wouldn''t know who did it."

    Michael says "That''s a wild thought, bro."

    They reach Gainesville and stop at a supermarket. Andrew calls his mother, "Hey, we got to Gainesville, we''re at a Publix. Where are you guys at?" The conversation doesn''t last long, when Andrew pockets his phone Michael asks "How far?"

    "Thirty minutes or so."

    They walk through the parking lot. The sun is high and the air stifling, few cars parked. Tuesday just past noon, nobody''s shopping. The lot is a pristine black, the smell of fresh asphalt hits them, the markings solid satisfying lines of stark yellow, stark red, stark blue, stark white. In the field, Andrew sees rippling heat, black asphalt almost white, the air above it a pleasing gradient of the currents of heating and cooling air. The store is comparatively freezing and almost empty but for the staff. They enter, immediately appreciating the AC.

    Michael looks at a rack of UF apparel. "I get more of this stuff for free, right?"

    "Right."

    They get pre-packaged sandwiches and Gatorade. When they go to check out, the cashier says "You''re a tall one. Do you play for the school?"

    "This''ll be my first year."

    She says back "That''s nice, what''s your name?"

    "Andrew Black."

    She smiles, "Well it''s good to meet you, Andrew, I''ll be keeping my eye out for you on TV. Good luck!"

    They eat at tables outside the store. Michael says "They''re all going to recognize you soon."

    "Yeah."

    Michael says "I like it here."

    "What, this Publix?"

    "Shut up."

    They walk up and down the small strip mall talking until Andrew sees his parents pull up beside his car. James says "We''ll follow you to campus."

    His legs and the car feel much better for the final stretch.

    Michael''s face is turned to the window, looking at the trees.

    Andrew enters and exits administration with his mother.

    The athlete dorms are nine identical orange terracotta four-floored squarish buildings in two staggered rows with a university-appropriate exterior design philosophy where aesthetic paid for efficiency. A tenth single-floor same-bricked widely-windowed building is in the relative middle of the complex without immediately apparent purpose. Its surroundings are obviously residential: balconies and parking and also signage prefixed with a proper noun and suffixed with HOUSE. Andrew knows the one-story to be the local office, though exterior proof of this must be oblique because he doesn''t easily see it even as he approaches it.

    He opens a glass door that says COMPLEX OFFICE and RESIDENT LOUNGE and CAFE in three lines of small white text and enters a lobby that stretches out into stubby wings: the lounge has couches, desks, and televisions, the cafe is full of tables. Michael wanders to the lounge.

    "Hello!" says a woman in a university shirt behind a white counter atop a tall and wide orange desk with large, white-stroked blue letters that say THIS IS GATOR COUNTRY. Behind her is a doorway and window with blinds drawn and a figure at a table, not visible where Andrew stands. Andrew steps up to the counter and holds out his papers, "Hi, I''m Andrew Black, I have these letters from the school and Coach Miller on my housing, the administrative office said this is already all in the system."

    She''s enthused, "Yes it is! We''ve been waiting for you, welcome to the University of Florida, Andrew, we''re thrilled to have you here! I can''t wait to see you on the field. I''m Susan, I''m what''s called the area clerk for this complex, so any questions you have moving forward, feel free to send them to me, either in person or at any of my contact methods, and I''ll give you those in just a moment, but first I need you to fill this out!" Clearly routine, she hands Andrew a clipboard and a pen. When he hands them back, Susan thanks him and calls out "Emilia!" and the figure at the table rises and walks to the doorway and says "What''s up?"

    "Emilia, this is Andrew Black. Andrew, Emilia is a student and on the complex staff, and Emilia if you would, please guide Mr. Black to his dorm."

    Emilia says "Yeah, of course, follow me."

    Michael has heard and rejoins them ("This is my brother") as they walk through the back of the building, past doors marked OFFICES and STORAGE, to another glass door and a covered path. The office is like a hub, and covered paths spread to each building like spokes. Emilia is talkative, Andrew is quiet. "Everyone usually walks across the grass, but the walkways are nice when it rains." Andrew notices her legs and her shoes and waits for her to pause and asks "Do you know any good areas to run around here?" He knows from satellite pictures the little thickets that dot the campus, but not what they look like beyond that. Emilia says "There are paths in the trees, but they''re pretty short. I just go to the student fitness center. Do you run a lot?"

    "Yeah, outside practice, depends on how I''m feeling."

    His parents join them, and the brothers and James each take tubs from the car. Emilia holds the door open, then leads the family up the stairs. There''s a concrete floor and concrete steps which seem at odds with the enclosure, Andrew can see through the space to the ceiling, four floors up. As they''re on the stairs, Emilia says, "These used to be open, but something with how they were built caused too much water to get in so they closed them up."

    At the door Emilia says "Oh yeah, the one bedroom. You can see everything in here, then."

    The dorm opens to a navy blue carpeted living room with a couch and table and four chairs and a glass door to a balcony. The dorm is at the back corner of the building relative to the rest of the complex, and Andrew can see through slightly-open shutters one such campus thicket, branches and leaves almost immediately ahead of the balcony. A television is mounted to the wall with a table beneath it. To the right of the living room is a small kitchen, which Emilia points around. "Everything you need." Past is the bedroom, which shares a wall with the living room, and the bathroom, which shares a wall with the kitchen. Entering the bedroom gives Andrew a mild feeling of home, as like his old bedroom there is a mini-hallway made from partitioning space for the closet, windows on two sides, and the room even seems the same size.

    Emilia leaves. Michael, who''s had a grin since they entered, says "Solo. Sick."

    "It was the only way I''d come, because of. . ."

    Michael says "Oh yeah. Man, what''s that like?"

    "Thought I''d go crazy. Haven''t yet. I don''t miss feeling tired."

    Michael says "You could pitch every day."

    "Nah, man. You know how great it feels to get the ball and know nobody''s catching me? Or to be in the backline waiting for whatever poor guy has to try to dodge me? I like baseball, but I''m not meant for it."

    Michael rolls his eyes, "You ain''t meant for football either."

    "Ain''t that the truth."

    Michael looks at his feet, "I wish I had it."

    "Me too."

    James takes the bag of toiletries into the bathroom, Michael turns on the TV.

    His mother says "Let''s get your clothes put away."

    As she''s putting shirts on hangars, she says "I wanted time so just you and I could talk."

    "Yeah, mom?"

    "You''ve come a long way, Andrew. I''ve thought for so long about that day in your father''s office, I''ve been worried that you were . . . that things weren''t going to end well. I''ve been so afraid that sometimes I think I didn''t even get to enjoy watching you play, but¨C"

    Andrew''s thoughts have often strayed to this broader subject, but his mother fearing for him wasn''t part of that. "I''m sorry, mom."

    She smiles, "Don''t be. I wouldn''t trade it. This is who you are, and that night with your brother. . . Everything was leading to that, Andrew. Whether it was God or just good luck, you saved him as much as you saved me. I don''t feel worried about your gift anymore. When I thought football could be your way of getting away from it I couldn''t be happier. Now I wonder if you shouldn''t run away from it, and if football shouldn''t be your life after college."

    "I wonder that too, like maybe I should be helping people. I said that to dad last week."

    "What''d he say?"

    "That it''s my decision, and I don''t owe this to anybody, and whatever I choose to do with it is my right. But he also said that if I really wanted to help people there''s no better way than money. I can''t be everywhere. So if I want to change the world, I should start a charity when I go pro."

    His mother laughs a little, "Your father''s a very smart man."

    "Is he right?"

    She says "Philosophically? I''m sure. But philosophy has a bad track record head to head with real life. You could start a charity right now, people would donate to you if they knew what you can do. But I don''t think it''s the right time for that, for all sorts of reasons."

    "I know whatever I choose it''ll be after I play my four years here. I made this commitment, I owe it to the school. Maybe I''ll figure something out along the way. Or maybe people like me will finally start showing up and I won''t have to feel guilty about playing football."

    She says "That''s good, you need to honor your commitment, but you shouldn''t feel guilty even if no one else ever appears. People will love watching you play, you''ll make the world a better place by playing football, even if that''s all you ever do. So, game plan. Camp''s in August, what will you do to prepare?"

    "Aside from class I''ll be working out every day. Devaris has been texting me, I''m sure he''ll have advice."

    She hugs him, "That''s good. I am as proud a mother as there is on this Earth, Andrew, and I''m not just saying that because there''s no one like you, even though it''s true."

    "Thanks, mom."

    Andrew likes Emilia. She recommends a restaurant.

    They pass the track and field complex, the baseball park, and the arena, and they turn at the football stadium. "Good planning," remarks James. Andrew''s mind is elsewhere, above, at the top of the massive concrete bowl. From the lighting pylons, down the great incline of bleachers, to the field. To the tunnels, through closed doors into hallways, the obvious home lockers and offices, figures suffuse, even with games months away. More halls. More tunnels. Staircases and elevator shafts, long ramps with parked and charging golf carts and trolleys, to the fan concourses, the hollows of bathrooms and concessions between pillars and beams and walls of concrete, covered in brick. Level to level, from the artificial caverns to the seclusion of private suites and press boxes.

    "I really like it here." says Michael.

    "I do too."

    Michael shakes his head, "No, man, I''m going here. For sure."

    "It would be cool to have you on campus. A lot of schools want you, though, you have a lot of choices."

    "Yeah, but if I''m here I''ll convince you to play baseball."

    "If you play here, I''ll think about trying out."

    Michael says "They''d let you walk on."

    At the restaurant a man behind the counter recognizes Andrew.

    They eat. They talk. They walk back and say their goodbyes.

    James says "So we''ll get to St. Augustine tonight, spend the day there tomorrow, and then tomorrow night we''ll drive to Tybee island, I''ll keep you updated."

    "Yeah, dad, have fun."

    Andrew hugs his mother.

    In the morning, he joins a group and tours the campus.

    Andrew is sitting in his dorm. The lights are off, his television on but muted, laptop open to a finished YouTube video. A breeze comes through the open balcony door, screen shut. A text from Emilia is left on read. He wants to run; he ignores the clock. He''s on the little spartan couch, legs kicked out, head leaning back against painted concrete blocks. His eyes are closed, he roams the city.

    A blind spirit.

    He sees the life within the trees. The roads that intersect, cars and their passengers. One moves from thoroughfare to neighborhood. A turn down one side-street, then another. A garage door opens, a sleeping figure rouses, a dog sits in front of a door. The blind spirit returns to the sky; below, two figures embrace.

    The door locks behind him.

    He''s down the stairs, through the door, jogging across the grass.

    It is humid, dark, and cool, and as it begins to rain he hears birds and insects and the wind in the trees. He is in no hurry, on the other side of the track, the park, the arena. He laps the stadium, a pause at the front of Heavener, the great glass and steel and brick facade, and swipes through a side-door, on to the conditioning wing.

    There is a single occupied treadmill; offices with few people at desks.

    Andrew goes to work.

    Farmer walks, deadlift holds, chin-ups.

    The treadmill stops. The figure walks across the floor, approaching him.

    Devaris Walker says "Andrew Black, already getting at it."

 7 - Flight

    FILTERS 7

    FLIGHT

    "Always." says Andrew.

    They shake hands, they workout and talk. Other players arrive, subjecting Andrew to a chain of greetings and fresh introductions. He already knows the only other two who stick out, both in their final years, both destined for the draft. The agile running back Faars and the hulking safety Marques.

    They go to breakfast.

    Classes start. Andrew has a full slate, physics, chemistry, calculus.

    Devaris often texts him, often knocks at his door, pulling him to gatherings with the other players and off-campus, to parties full of people Andrew couldn''t care any less about talking to.

    He likes talking to Emilia.

    She often texts him.

    They often meet and talk over her lunches in the complex cafe.

    He takes her to dinner. He sees her, dark hair a mess around her shoulders, bangs low to her brow, above dark eyes, above high cheeks, above pink lips, a perfect bow.

    They sit on his car. They talk. They kiss.

    Dark figure touching light.

    Andrew is obvious in the field.

    Where he has known all others as defined by their absence¨Cthe void behind clothing, the slow radiation of body heat¨Chis form is different. His is the luminescent center, the golden origin, the lens of relation, fundamental context for objects as he moves them. From the first day of his true gift, he knew himself apart from all else, and while he could move his clothing, his backpack as it hung from his shoulders, the phone in his pocket, he felt feedback when he tried to move himself. A vibration he could clearly interpret as not yet.

    "So when?"

    There have been few nights when he didn''t prod the feeling. In his old bedroom, in his room at the beach or alone in hotel rooms his parents would pay for when athletics brought overnight stays. He would try it in different positions and different states of mind, the little attitudinal changes day to day. Always not yet.

    Even now, with phone, wallet, keys, pen, unplugged lamp and baseball in an odd, slow orbit around him. He could go outside and do the same with parked cars, but still, not yet.

    He pushes into the feedback.

    "When?"

    Clearly, as if spoken to him. Not yet.

    "Why not?"

    He pushes into the feeling until he feels all but physically knocked back.

    It can kill you.

    From the height? No, that isn''t right. He wouldn''t suddenly forget how to control himself unless he rose so high that he risked hypoxia, and he wouldn''t do that. Could he lose the ability somewhere in the sky? He would rather die. What else could it be? He would move his body, same as a baseball, same as his father''s truck, same as a shipping container. Simple, surely?

    He thinks. He thinks.

    Gentle ringing.

    "If I am moving my body, I am using this on my body. I could crush my organs or shatter bones. I could do to myself what I did to the bear."

    Yes.

    He feels the change at once, mental and physical weight lifting as he rises into the air, but in his surprise he relinquishes control and falls onto his bed and bounces to the floor where his little satellites collapse on him from above, but he doesn''t notice. He''s already focusing, reaching for his brilliant center where now he finds no feedback, only his own excited apprehension as his grip surrounds his form and he is weightless again, objects rolling off of him except his phone, his body moving up and over his bed and falling onto it.

    He sits up and silently roars in success, beating his fists and pounding his chest and rising again. He loses himself in it and does not return until his arm rings.

    He jogs to his workout where he''s almost frantic, his warm-ups intense, his every movement as hard and fast as ever. Gerome, his trainer, says "Hell yeah man, get at it." But his demeanor shifts as Andrew''s ferocity persists in every set.

    Bench. "Another fifty." The trainer checks his tablet and with hesitation adds the plates. Andrew feels no difference, his reps continue all the same.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Gerome asks "Are you okay? Something happen?"

    "I feel great, really pumped today."

    Gerome says "That''s great, but you can''t get hurt."

    Andrew laughs, "When was the last time a player injured themselves working out?"

    When this is met with silence Andrew says "Yeah, that''s what I thought. Another fifty."

    Gerome adds it. Andrew continues, no different. "Where do you get this from? Jesus."

    "Gotta be ready."

    He showers and jogs to class, but there''s no chance he''ll focus. His recorder is out, next to a notebook he doesn''t expect to fill. The hall is large and newly remodeled and bright by hanging lights. Each row is a single long table almost the width of the room and blue like the sound panels on windowless white walls and he thinks if he could see the sky he couldn''t stay. The class moves slowly and is unhelped by his absentmindedness and when his professor finishes he leaves immediately.

    Marques finds him at a table and he remembers talking, just not what he said.

    His afternoon is in a windowed lab, but there''s balance in being on his feet.

    He''s out as quickly as before, jogging across campus. Through the plaza, past the main auditorium and the stadium, to his dorm, up the stairs and to the door with lock spinning and his hand hits the handle as it''s already starting to open and the door shuts and he''s in the air. The now-familiar weightlessness upon him, he moves in a hover, legs crossed, hands on his knees, relaxed. His pose is not static, he can move his arms and pivot, flip upside down and feign walking on the ceiling, no disorientation. The ceiling is down. But directional movement comes the same as anything else in the field.

    8-foot ceilings and 500 square feet are not an ideal practice area. It was fine for a week, by the eighth day Andrew would rather be caught than be stuck another day in his dorm. No way around it.

    Somewhere no one will see him.

    Somewhere close to jog.

    Somewhere he can rise quickly.

    He has found trail cameras in the field before, little boxes in boxes, tiny components slightly brighter than their surroundings. Street cameras are obvious even outside the field. Two obstacles remain: planes and radar.

    Planes are simple, he will be small and dark and he has two ways of seeing their approach.

    Radar is also simple, unexpectedly so, a sudden certainty¨CYou don''t need to worry about radar¨Cthat he does not question for his excitement but he will return to when his head isn''t in the clouds.

    The many forests in the city are his candidates, and he examines each. One swath of conservation is ideal, with subdivisions to its north and south but uninterrupted verdance within. A short run takes him to the woods and he finds a spot where the fences are bowed from weathering and overgrowth, and when the road is clear he jumps into the brush. He pushes through branches and leaves until he feels he''s far enough, and again checks his surroundings. No figures anywhere close and no cameras. There are no full towers in Gainesville, the stadium is the tallest large structure, and even if it were day and the sky were clear, someone on top of the stadium looking at this exact spot might still fail to see him, or fail to distinguish anything meaningful about his shape beyond an errant blur. He has no way to measure altitude, but with the stadium as reference he can make an estimate.

    "I have to get that high, first."

    He hesitates. His dorm practice has been useful, he''s comfortable with movement, and he knows the field makes no distinction in height or distance, as he has before moved objects so far away or high above that his center was tiny when he would contrast the distance. No difference in being forty feet up in the trees or his fourth-floor dorm. He doesn''t fear heights, but this is time for caution.

    He rises, already so accustomed to weightlessness that he''s relaxed, legs slightly bent and arms in a loose drift at his sides. He realizes he feels no wind, but still the rapid change in scenery is satisfying, and now looking just over the canopy he can see no lights except those of the stadium and a distant radio tower. He looks up, checking carefully for planes and when he sees none he appraises himself a final time.

    "Rise until I''m high enough."

    He launches.

    He was prepared to force his ascent until he was certain of his invisibility, now he continues because he does not want to stop. The great dark mass of trees falling away as the city spreads until the cars are flecks of light and a thumb with arm outstretched covers most of the stadium. He soars, always keeping the city in view as he goes into a rise and fall, and now as natural as breathing he relinquishes his grasp, bringing weight and the feeling of wind back to his body and sending him into a dive that he repeats until he knows the sensation.

    He again loses himself in it; returning only when he notices the darkness on the horizon lessen. He starts, seeing how far he is from campus, but the stadium is still obvious, and he soon finds where he started from. Again he holds himself in the trees, again checking for any who might see him.

    He runs back to his apartment and changes. He should already be at the gym.

    He wonders if he smells like the sky.

    Gerome greets him near the door, "Morning, Andrew, not like you to be late."

    "I was out on a run and lost track of time."

    "Going to be too tired for weights?" asks Gerome, a knowing grin.

    "Do I ever seem tired?"

    "Don''t know, can''t tell with you. Do I?"

    "No clue."

    By the following evening he has a digital watch¨Clong velcro straps, very secure¨Cand black-tinted goggles branded for use in skydiving, though he leaves the latter behind. His routine is the same, he jogs to the forest, timing his arrival with an empty road, and makes his way through. Waiting in the canopy again, checking for aircraft again, and just before he rises he thinks he needs to find more places to launch from.

    Weeks pass. A Thursday night, dinner with Emilia. She invites him to her apartment but he declines. His summer conditioning is complete, his classes have finished. August camp starts in ten days that are otherwise his to use. With the watch he has an idea of his speed: variable, seemingly as fast as he wants. He will easily reach Atlanta, as he has already taken a dead sprint west, far over the gulf, the lights of the coast small in the distance. Tonight he will go northwest, and he has studied the route and made notes of landmarks. A paracord compass wristband is next to his watch, and out of some sense of prudence he''s added an insulated mask to go below the goggles.

    The watch and compass help, but the only useful landmark is the Atlanta airport. He finds his suburb, and the area he planned to drop to. He lands and jogs a familiar route.

    His father is in his office, there''s heat from the small television. Andrew''s up the stairs, through the mudroom, past the kitchen, knocking on his father''s office door.

    "Andrew? I didn''t hear your car. . ." thoughts connect.

    "I can fly."

    James runs a hand over his scalp. "Are you hungry?"

 8 - Munich

    FILTERS 8

    MUNICH

    The little muted television has the Braves game on, west coast, Padres.

    His father asks "How long?"

    "A few weeks. I broke through the feedback. I practiced in my dorm at first and when that wasn''t enough I found a forest I could launch from. There''s no difference, it works exactly the same."

    "How high do you go?"

    "My guess is a few thousand feet, based on the apparent size of the stadium."

    His father says "You could use an altimeter. How did you navigate here?"

    "I thought we''d get one while I''m here. I left everything there, I followed the highway until I could see Hartsfield-Jackson."

    "What about radar?"

    The wrinkle shows, "I thought about that, and as soon as I did I had this certainty that radar wouldn''t be a problem."

    "What, like whatever surrounds you absorbs it?"

    "Must be."

    His father says "If it can absorb radar. . . could it do that with other forms of electromagnetic radiation?"

    "I hadn''t considered that. Maybe."

    They watch the game until it goes to commercial, and his father asks "You left your phone?"

    "Yeah. I know it''s Librem, but I thought it might still somehow give the wrong kind of data point. It seemed like what you would tell me to do."

    His father frowns.

    "I have warned you about the government spying on people, but I don''t want you to be afraid of men in suits, Andrew. I imagine that''s why you came here to get an altimeter and why you only brought a compass and a watch and I don''t want it to be because I made you live in fear."

    Andrew says, "Well, you did, dad. Isn''t that prudent?"

    "I don''t know anymore."

    Andrew knocks and opens his brother''s door, who doesn''t hear him until he says "Hey, sup man." Michael glances and double-takes, his eyes going quickly between Andrew and the game. "Oh shit! What''s up? Braves at Padres, just into extras. They fucking blew it bottom ninth. How''s training?"

    "Done til August."

    Michael says "That''s right. Man we''re about to be watching you play on TV. You just get here?"

    "Yeah, I''ve been talking to dad."

    "He watching the game too?" asks Michael.

    "Yeah, we had it on, but he went to bed."

    2 AM. Top 14. Bottom 14. 15, 16, Top 17, crushed to center, Bottom 17, double, popout sac, popout sac to score, groundout to go to Top 18. Michael groans, "What the fuck." 19, 20, 4 AM, Michael''s drifting, Andrew''s lost in it. Top 21, single, single, double to clear the bases. Padres go 1-2-3. Michael mumbles a cheer and slumps over. Andrew prods him to get into bed then goes to his old bedroom. He lies down and looks up, staring into the formless void of the ceiling.

    He runs before sunrise.

    When his father is up, the two go to breakfast and then drive to a warehouse in Marietta. It is clean and gray, nothing indicative of its contents besides a small sign on a brown metal door that says AQUINO SURPLUS. The interior is like Andrew expects, fluorescent lighting, concrete floor. A long counter in an L runs down an entire wall of the building and continues down part of the next. Parts of the counter have glass displays filled with items, the rest is burnished wood. James walks to the counter and shakes the hand of the man standing at it. Grandfatherly, stout, white-bearded, smiling.

    "Andrew, this is Jan. Jan, my son Andrew." They shake hands and Jan says "You''ve got that Gators shirt on, you play football for them?"

    "Yeah, well this''ll be my first year."

    Jan says "You sure are built for it."

    Andrew shrugs, "You served with my dad?"

    Jan says "Not exactly, but we met on base. I was in Pensacola for I don''t even remember why."

    James cuts in, "Jan was a chop, a supply officer on a nuclear sub." Jan points proudly to a flag on the wall, Navy in navy, with a symbol in gold Andrew vaguely recognizes and now assumes must be for submarines and USS SPRINGFIELD in large gold letters. "You''d be hittin'' your skull, fit me and my son just fine."

    Andrew laughs, more out of courtesy, "Yeah, real cramped, right? I''m going to look around."

    Another figure is in the shop, and when Andrew sees him the resemblance is strong. Same build, same face with fewer wrinkles and same beard, though black.

    "Hey, I''m looking for an altimeter."

    The man grins and claps his hands, "Andrew Black, going skydiving?"

    Andrew should be used to this by now, his pause is enough for the man to notice.

    "I went to Florida, still a big fan. I''m Nick, I heard you talking to my dad."

    "When were you at UF? He mentioned you served in the military."

    Nick says "Well before your time. I graduated in 05, I was already in when 7/7 happened."

    "Your dad said you were also on subs?"

    Nick gives a "sort-of" shaking nod. "Sometimes. I was in the SEALs."

    "Wow. What was that like?"

    Nick says "Hard, but worth it. Spent time in Afghanistan, then when I came home I did work with the National Guard in Texas in the second feral hog campaign." again reminiscent of Jan, Nick points back, to a pair of tusks mounted on a plaque.

    "SEALs hunt dire hogs?"

    Nick nods, "After Mansour was installed we got out of Afghanistan and I had the option to stay in the States and do that, so I took it. That''s a lot of what the military has been doing for decades, it''s what I was doing before I was deployed to Afghanistan. Up in Canada helping with dire grizzlies and polar bears."

    "Jesus. What did you use to hunt them?"

    Nick grins, "Grenade launchers and special jeeps we called ''Warthogs'' built around M61s, those are very heavy, typically aircraft-mounted machine guns. Anyway, you need an altimeter?"

    "Yeah, ah, I saw watches online that measure altitude?"

    They check out and leave, Andrew carrying the watch-altimeter. His father is in a good mood.

    "Was good to talk to Jan. He served a long time, he saw a lot of the world on those boats."

    "Yeah, I can''t imagine, can''t imagine being stuck in one of those. Any mistake and you''re dead."

    James says "Subs are safe, none lost in a long time."

    "Wouldn''t want to be the first. That guy''s son was in Afghanistan in between hunting dire grizzlies and dire hogs, what am I doing? I could do that, I have done that. I''m bulletproof and I can fly and I''m spending my time playing football and hovering around Gainesville and using flight to get out of driving."

    James is shaking his head, "It isn''t that simple, Andrew."

    "I could be saving lives, dad."

    His father sighs. "Yes, you would be able to save lives if you served in the military. But first of all, the military has about fifty years of experience hunting dire fauna, and where a country wants US expertise but can''t directly ask for it, they just hire an American Private Hunting Corporation full of former soldiers. It''s an ongoing issue but it''s not one without an existing solution and while you would be better in single instances PHCs are a multi-billion dollar industry with people in almost every country and they cover far more ground than you could. As for war, today? We''re out of Afghanistan. If you joined, you wouldn''t be protecting people, you would be helping belligerents, because that''s what we are. Almost everywhere the United States has soldiers right now is in defiance of the sovereignty of those nations and aggressing upon the will of the peoples of those nations who do not want us there. Look at Afghanistan, the United Kingdom justified their coalition because of 7/7 and we helped ultimately install a genocidal tyrant who makes Saddam Hussein look peaceful and nobody cares because they can''t use it for politicking. You already know what really helps people, Andrew, and it''s economic assistance, especially in rebuilding after disasters. Maybe it sounds circuitous, maybe you wonder why you should pay for bulldozers when you can move debris yourself, or why a country should hire a PHC when you can handle a bear yourself. But I''ve said all of this before and it''s true even now that you can fly. You can''t be everywhere at once. You could pay for dozens of PHC teams, you could pay for construction crews to operate around the clock in multiple countries, if you had the money. So if you want to help the world, it could very well be that the quantifiably best use of your many talents is for you to play your hardest, get a major contract and major endorsements and put that money into a charitable organization that can hire enough people and donate enough money to be felt everywhere. Then in the offseason you could help directly. But you should not feel a comparative and arbitrary pressure because of what other people choose to do with their strengths in their lives. Would you make a good surgeon?"

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    "I don''t know. Probably."

    "How about a chemical engineer, or geneticist, or theoretical physicist? Do you think if you dove into those fields, you''d be good at them?"

    "Not particularly."

    His father says "Yet those fields have been responsible for technology that has improved the lives of billions. Genetics research will define this century as the population of individuals like us, those with the UQ-Marker, increases. As the Marker becomes more prevalent and better understood, humanity will experience a paradigmatic shift in health that will do far more than what any one person could do. It''s true, you would be the perfect soldier. But is the perfect Andrew a soldier? Or do you think it''s something else? When the world finally knows that people like you exist there will be a cacophony of demands that you pledge your service for the greater good, for free. Some who will advocate that, most, will be genuine in their belief that you should do good, but please, and I know you''ll remember all of this, but remember this the most: the loudest voices will be there artificially, because those will be the people who want you under their control for their own purposes. Think about this, we could sell our house, move to a one-story with two bedrooms, donate all of our spare income to charity, and you could do the same, keeping only enough to live. Is that what you want? Are you obligated to just because you could?"

    Andrew says "You''re taking an extreme position to make the idea sound less appealing."

    James says "You''re right. This is what I''m trying to say: you can enjoy your life and the fruits of your labor while still helping people, and what is best for your life, what is the best use of your abilities, is something you must determine for yourself, and that might take a long time. So be patient, Andrew, because you are more intelligent than anyone who would specifically seek you out to tell you what to do. When the time comes, you will know, and I know that you will make whatever decision is right for you."

    Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.

    It is the first Friday of August and the first day of camp. He runs and showers and walks to Heavener. He meets Devaris along the way, who greets him with a "Sup, Drew."

    "Yo."

    The quarterback says "This is my last year. When my dad got drafted by Kansas City players only had to be three years out of school. I should already be out there getting paid."

    Andrew remembers the conversation with his father about the rule. "Yeah my dad''s talked about that."

    "You should too. But we''re here instead. Faars is probably going in the first round and you''re going to go out there and make him look like a fucking kid. You know how long I''ve waited for a guy who can keep up with me? God damn, I am glad to have a receiver who actually fucking knows¨C" Devaris looks at the other players now approaching them.

    "''What''re you saying D?" asks Marques.

    "I''m saying I''m ready for this fucking season to start so we can win every fucking game."

    "Hell yeah man, that''s right." says Marques.

    The energy is in every player, it''s in the chatter of the hall.

    Soon.

    Miller gives the welcome.

    Andrew stands at the twenty in the indoor facility, the football field-containing warehouse. Hanging below the roof is a catwalk that runs along every wall. One long side has a dozen roller doors, each metal and glass, large enough for a truck to pass through. The other long side is solid metal covered in blue padding well up the walls and above the padding hang celebratory banners. One shorter wall is also covered in padding and the other short wall is windows, through which Andrew can see the conditioning center. Practice hasn''t quite begun, but he''s in gear, almost entirely school-provided: blue Nikes, white socks, orange shorts, a blue practice jersey with the number 27 on both sides and BLACK on the back and a solid orange helmet. Another practice field sits just outside the facility and he can see players in white jerseys placing sleds.

    Devaris is jumping in the end zone with FLORIDA text and he shouts at Andrew, "You ready to run those jets?"

    "Are you going to throw it far enough?"

    Andrew is making short jumps to a count of ten and bouncing foot to foot to a count of twenty.

    "Just say when."

    He runs. In the field he sees figures turning to watch as the ball leaves Devaris'' hand and moves into its rise. He makes a quick glance back and is on the intercept, continuing without looking, he turns, catches, and in a moment is on the A of the GATORS end zone.

    "Holy shit." says someone on the catwalk, loud enough for Andrew to hear as he drops the ball out of habit.

    Practice blurs. Practice, class, practice, Emilia, flight, practice.

    Gameday.

    Light run before dawn. In the lockers, first pre-game huddle. Gear on, lacing up his cleats. Last pre-game huddle. Marching through the tunnel.

    Andrew stands ready.

    Eighty thousand voices roar.

    Eyes lock on the goal.

    Andrew is sitting in the recliner of his locker bay.

    Devaris is in the bay beside his. He says "One down."

    Andrew says "Fourteen to go."

    They''re at someone''s house, music loud from the floor above where Devaris the center of attention, figures surrounding him. Andrew is on a couch in the basement, baseball game on, Emilia beside him.

    Braves at Cards.

    Adam Wainwright has a one-hitter through 8. "Imagine if he''d been a Brave." Andrew says.

    "What do you mean?" asks Emilia.

    "This guy pitching was drafted by the Braves, who traded him to the Cardinals when he was still in the minors. It''s still a sore spot for Braves fans."

    "Are you a Braves fan?"

    "Kinda split. My dad is from Missouri and my uncle, his brother, spent his entire career with the Cardinals. But my mom is from Georgia, and all of her side are Braves fans."

    "I see. Do you like baseball more than football?"

    Andrew laughs, "Absolutely."

    "Did you play baseball?"

    "Yeah. My brother still does, he''ll probably play baseball here next year."

    "Why don''t you play?"

    Andrew grins at her, "What you saw today is why."

    She laughs and kisses him.

    Even in the game he was waiting for this moment.

    He says "Hoy te pens¨¦ mucho."

    She smiles, "Eras magn¨ªfico."

    "Estoy m¨¢s feliz de estar aqu¨ª contigo."

    Happier here, with you.

    She kisses him again.

    The game ends.

    She''s asking about his classes when he sees it, then he feels it.

    "Did you feel that?"

    Her hand is still on his neck. "Feel what?"

    A pulse.

    A tumultuous wave he saw propagate across his entire sense of the field. He felt it as it passed, now there''s something from whence it came. A distant pressure. His mind racing, he throws himself into the field, over the city and east, until he''s far over the ocean and he realizes with sharp apprehension that this pressure must originate on another continent.

    "Andrew. Andrew. I can feel your heartbeat," says Emilia, her hand pleasant on his chest. "What happened? Are you okay?"

    Andrew says "Yeah, ah, nothing. It''s fine."

    Something has just affected the field so greatly that he felt it the world away.

    Someone.

    Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling. Emilia is asleep beside him.

    His phone vibrates, a text from Devaris.

    Check this shit out RIGHT NOW

    A Twitter link and another link in the tweet. The live camera feed from a helicopter, a banner running across the screen: INEXPLICABLE DISASTER ONGOING IN GERMANY

    He sits up.

    Even for the resolution of his phone and the distance of the helicopter, he can see the devastation. A massive ring is cut into a city, many miles across. He sees buildings that have perfect slices through them, he sees buildings that have fallen. He sees how the ground has obviously shifted, where buildings that were spared the spectral scalpel have instead sunk down.

    He sees the center.

    A sphere of debris, half-buried, tearing through buildings and ground. Throwing great masses of rock and earth and concrete hundreds of feet into the sky. Growing larger.

    He stands and goes to the living room. He flips through the channels.

    Same show on every station.

    He calls his father who answers without a ring. "Andrew."

    "You''re watching this?"

    "Yes."

    "I think I felt it start. I didn''t know what it was."

    His father says "We always knew."

    He''s stuck standing.

    The sphere continues its terrible churn. The camera shows cars piled at the edge of the great ring¨Cit is a barrier, and the camera now focuses on a group of people on either side. Emilia is up and walks into the bathroom. Then she''s standing at the end of the hall.

    "Andrew? What are you watching?"

    He says nothing. She comes to him and looks at the screen.

    "Oh my God, what is this?"

    He says nothing. He feels her arms wrap around him.

    The camera shows people trying to push through the barrier and failing, their skin passes, but their clothing hangs. One strips nude, and the camera pulls back for their modesty, enough to show flesh-colored pixels make it to the other side. More follow.

    The sphere continues until it reaches the barrier. It seizes and falls, sand filling the crater and raising dunes, and some billowing out as the barrier disappears, covering buildings and streets beyond the ring.

    Andrew slowly lowers himself to the floor.

    He leans forward, almost prostrate, hands on his head.

 9 - Broken

    FILTERS 9

    BROKEN

    Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.

    Emilia has her arms splayed, one across his chest.

    He sees the sphere. The dunes. The people who escaped.

    He thinks about those who didn''t.

    He wants to stay beside her. He wants, so desperately, to sleep.

    The churn. The sands. The lost.

    He can''t stay still.

    He gets up and changes. He''s out the door, running.

    He finds Emilia sitting up when he returns, but her eyes are closed. When he gets into bed she asks "What are you thinking about?"

    "Everything. . . I''m afraid more of those are going to happen."

    She leans over, her head on his shoulder, her eyes still closed. "Why?"

    "Call it my father''s pessimism."

    Emilia hmms as she falls back to sleep.

    She''s still sleeping when he leaves for the gym. Earbuds in, news on.

    PRESIDENT RYAN DECLARED TODAY THAT THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT HAS NO KNOWLEDGE OF THE CAUSE OF THE DISASTER SOME ARE NOW CALLING A "SEISMIC SPHERE." HE FURTHER GAVE THE NATION''S CONDOLENCES TO THE GERMAN PEOPLE AND ISSUED AN EXECUTIVE ORDER FOR A PROGRAM TO DETERMINE THE CAUSE OF THE DISASTER. FLAGS HAVE BEEN ORDERED AT HALF-MAST AND CANDLELIGHT VIGILS ARE BEING PLANNED FOR THIS EVENING ACROSS THE UNITED STATES AND SEVERAL MAJOR AMERICAN CORPORATIONS HAVE ALREADY PLEDGED FUNDS TO AID AND RECONSTRUCTION. MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL AND THE NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE WILL NOT SUSPEND PLAY, WITH PRESIDENT RYAN ENCOURAGING NORMALCY AND COMMUNITY IN THE WAKE OF THIS TRAGEDY. AS FOR THE EFFORTS AT RECOVERY, THE EUROPEAN UNION HAS¨C

    He would rather listen to the other players'' banter.

    Later in the morning, Devaris sends a livestream. Andrew looks skeptically at the link before opening it.

    "¨CCraziest shit I''ve ever seen. Thanks again for doing this on such short notice, guys."

    "I still can''t believe it. When you called me last night and said ''there''s some alien shit happening in Germany'' I thought yeah okay, he''s on DMT again. What are you hearing people say happened?"

    "They''re saying it''s aliens! Listen, there was a force field around the sphere and buildings were going flying. Obviously it''s some weapon that can really fuck with gravity. Did you see how people got through the force field?"

    "No, how?"

    "It''s bizarre, they could get through¨Cpull that shit up¨Cbut only if they were naked. Yeah, watch¨CArm goes through, shirt gets stuck, he takes his shirt off, pants get stuck, okay now he''s naked and he gets through, but look, all his hair got pulled out, it''s still on the other side! Full Brazilian."

    "What the fuck?"

    "Right? Ain''t nothing natural about that."

    "Freaky shit."

    "But you know what? After what Ryan said today a lot of people think it was a government weapon. Some people online dug up these old patents the Navy has. Right? What were they?"

    "Uh, it was a bunch of things, there, it''s up."

    "Look at that. ''Spacetime modification weapon!'' Lotta fingers being pointed, guys. Like they''re asking why there wasn''t a joint statement by world leaders. The United States and Russia and China all made their own statements. I think it''s entirely possible it was one of them. Why wouldn''t they speak together unless they think one of the others did it?

    "What was it Ryan said? We should act like everything''s normal?"

    "Exactly! They know more than they''re letting on, that''s all I''m saying."

    As Andrew walks to one of the dining halls, he sees a pair of students inside, taping lines of black, red, and gold paper hearts to the windows. Lunch is a complicated relief.

    "What the fuck was that?" Devaris says, landing across from Andrew.

    "It was awful."

    Devaris says "Yeah, no shit, man. You watch that vid I sent?"

    "Yeah."

    Devaris is nodding, "Yeah, so, it''s gotta be a weapon, or some government lab blew itself up working on a weapon. Twitter says it''s aliens, but I can''t figure out what aliens would get out of that. Nah, gotta be something we did."

    "Yeah, maybe something gravitational, like those Navy patents."

    Devaris laughs, "Shit man, that''s the best you got? You''re the one taking all those science classes."

    Andrew scoffs, "Introductory-level, and while we''ve talked about imaginary scifi shit it''s never been about things like that sphere."

    "So what do you think did it?" asks Devaris.

    "I don''t know. But they''re right, aren''t they? What options are there besides some government or aliens?"

    Andrew is thankful for that distraction and those that follow. School, practice, Emilia, and the rare nights he can get away to fly. The sphere drifts back, another game arrives. Weeks pass, speculation mounting, Andrew reads everything he can, but there''s nothing useful. More games, only wins.

    November. Andrew is in the bus after yet another win, his head leans against the window, his legs are on the empty seat beside him. Devaris sits a row forward, looking at his phone. Marques sits a row back, on a call, talking to his parents about the game. He is about to reply to Emilia when he feels the pulse.

    Twitter open. #SeismicSphere

    Just now. CDMX.

    He refreshes, the feed slowly filling with dark pictures and videos. One is striking, a picture from somewhere elevated. A harrowing order as he sees the effects of the sphere not by damaged buildings but by the blackout it has caused, a blackout that extends beyond the boundary of the barrier and so must instead insinuate its size by contrast of darkness against light. His heart weighs heavy. He messages his father and pockets his phone and closes his eyes.

    Eventually Devaris shifts, leaning forward in his seat, face close to his phone. He sits up and turns, leaning over the back. "Yo, Drew, there''s a sphere in Mexico City."

    "Yeah, I just saw."

    His phone vibrates, Devaris says "Sent you a stream."

    Andrew looks at it for a long time before opening it. He hears panicked voices and sees little sad jittery beams from flashlights.

    "¨Cm¨ªo."

    "Dios m¨ªo, ?qu¨¦ vamos a hacer?"

    "Dios m¨ªo, Dios m¨ªo."

    Messages race at the bottom.

    Get to the barrier. You can get through if you''re naked.

    DESNUDO PARA PASAR!

    Llega a la barrera! Si est¨¢s desnudo puedes pasar!

    DESNUDO PARA PASAR!

    DESNUDO PARA PASAR!

    "Dicen que podemos pasar la barrera si estamos desnudos"

    "??C¨®mo?! ??Si estamos desnudos?! ??Y c¨®mo vamos a llegar all¨ª?!"

    Run! Correr!

    DESNUDO PARA PASAR!

    Andrew thinks "Yeah, run through darkness and several miles of collapsed buildings and sunken roads and sinkholes while meteors fall all around you."

    He hears Devaris quietly say "God."

    Emilia is waiting at Heavener. Andrew can barely look at her, can barely say "Hey."

    "?Qu¨¦ est¨¢ mal?" she asks, hand on his arm.

    "There''s a sphere in Mexico City."

    She hugs him.

    She drives them to her apartment. It''s a studio, he''s only been in passing. It feels nice. Laminate flooring, rich faux-wood to the far wall, entirely a window, glass sliding door to a balcony, all covered in sheer white curtains. He''s sitting on her sofa, he wonders if it''s pleather, his bare feet on a black-white-gray-hexagonal area rug. The television is on, a panel discusses the sphere. Emilia is at the stove. She hasn''t cooked for him before. He would rather watch her than the screen; he does.

    Delicate motions. A saucepan on a burner, blue, set low. She melts butter and mixes in flour and stirs it, to him, almost hypnotically. She adds milk and salt and stirs again. She removes it from the heat and grates parmesan into it. On a burner, orange, set high, a pot boils. She opens a paper package and adds pasta to the water. It cooks quickly. She drains it and adds it with the sauce and ground pepper to a large ceramic bowl and tosses them together, then repeats with parsley and prosciutto. She takes smaller blue ceramic bowls from the baking sheet in the oven where they have been kept warm and fills them, and carries them on a handled tray to the couch.

    Andrew thanks her, she smiles at him.

    They eat, he washes dishes.

    They watch the sphere until Emilia says enough and changes to a show. They watch an episode, she falls asleep during the next, stretched across the sofa, her legs resting on his lap. He changes back to the news.

    He thinks. He thinks.

    Two spheres. One in Germany, one in Mexico. What could be the cause? Is it someone like him doing this deliberately? What could be their purpose? If they wanted to hurt people they could surely do worse. Is it, in some twisted way, for show? To inspire random horror? Could there have been a hidden objective? What objective could justify such action?

    Could this be the government after all? Was he the result of some great conspiracy finally making its existence known? If the government created him, they must be keeping tabs on him. They would know everything. They could appear at any time¨Cshould he look for men in dark suits after all? Or the conspicuously benign approaching out of the blue? Again, if this is deliberate, what could justify so many lives lost?

    Would the world look this way if some government had labs working on something like this? "A lab accident" is overly broad, thought-terminating, as if someone could just accidentally enter the wrong command into their reality machine and give some fucking kid psychic powers, and, oops, another wrong command leveled a sixth of Munich. Oops, another wrong command leveled a twentieth of Mexico City. Oops, we blew up the fucking planet.

    Months apart and nearly the world apart. No real way for him to determine motive. Could it be distinct labs in different countries? He thinks that unlikely. What could he expect? If it is a weapon, if he is a weapon, why would their work only encounter this issue now? They never happened before Germany, unless they were in places far from civilian eyes, places the results could be hidden. But why suddenly cities? Could it be a faction at war with itself?

    Could it be that he is doing it? Less than two months after he first flew Munich happened, except it didn''t happen when he was flying¨Cit did happen after games. Could there somehow be an interaction there? The pulse propagates thousands of miles across the field. What does that mean? He draws on the field, he must intersect with some great extradimensional edifice. Is it at all possible that spheres are a consequence of his use?

    Does the field exist naturally, or did someone make it?

    Is this some pinch of the divine? Was he chosen by God?

    Was he chosen by something else?

    He has it, there must be others.

    Could it be someone like him? Could someone have reached too far and broken a final limit? The thought chills him. What would he do, never use it again? Unthinkable. Should he take flight and flee, finding somewhere remote to live out his days? As if running from the thought he takes to the field, an aimless drift into the gulf, focusing instead on the distant pressure he still feels from the sphere. Soon he can hear it.

    He hears basal tides and distant thunder, the tempest in the reaches.

    Pressure brings storms, this storm is pressure; sound joins pressure, but what is sound but pressure? Split signals, first signal pressure, second signal sound, a cogent flicker: pressure without pain can signal cancer.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.Something surging forth, ineffably wrong.

    Spheres claim what they can, they stop at the wall. "Could the barrier be protective?"

    The pressure ceases, and as he imagines the sphere collapsing and the sand fanning out into the streets he understands.

    The sphere isn''t the center. The sphere is around the center. Around the source.

    He lifts Emilia''s legs to stand and sets them back on the sofa. A few steps away is her bed and he pulls the covers and sheets back. He takes her in his arms, one drowsy hand trying to reach for his shoulder and instead landing on his face, and he carries her to her bed and sets her in it, pulling the covers over her. Her eyes still closed, she murmurs "Qu¨¦date conmigo."

    But he can''t stay. He shakes his head and kisses her, and he leaves her apartment.

    PRESIDENT RYAN HAS AGAIN EMPHASIZED NORMALCY. . .

    Thanksgiving evening. Emilia talks with his mother in the living room. Andrew is with his father in the office.

    "I think I know what causes the spheres."

    "You mean specifically," says his father.

    "Yes. I think it''s people not entirely unlike me."

    His father says "Elaborate."

    "I connect with what I call the field, it is not something that I generate, so it must be externally tangible. Obviously I don''t think it''s what I''m about to say, but I have to acknowledge the possibility, and so if it exists externally that must mean there could be research studying it and trying to tap into it. But it''s happened twice and both times were in major cities and I think if they had any idea of what they were dealing with those labs would be far away from people. It''s possible they didn''t know the first time, and maybe the second time they were trying to shut down when everything went wrong, but again I don''t think it''s any of this. If a whistleblower came forward that would be proof, and if no spheres happen, or none for a long time, maybe that''s weak evidence that it was a scientific accident. But no, not research, and not the government, and I don''t think it''s an alien civilization either."

    "I connect with this. So maybe it''s possible for people to be almost like me, but whose connection with the field is flawed, and that connection can turn unstable. Not easily, not when they try to use it for the first time, and not some point after they''ve used it for a long time. Maybe they don''t even know what they have. Until the worst day of their life, when whatever handle they have on their connection breaks off and like a faucet pours out until¨CI don''t know. Until the only thing left for the power to consume is themselves, I guess."

    "if that is what you believe happened, then that is what I believe happened." says his father, continuing, "Until it consumes themselves. . . you are unable to use it directly on others, but you can use it on yourself, which I suppose means that you can harm yourself with it, which you must already know."

    "Yes. Understanding that was what allowed me to fly."

    "Do you think you could use it on other people who have it?" asks his father.

    "I don''t know."

    His father rubs his chin, "If those individuals have a flawed connection, could it be assumed to be a lesser connection as well? If so, it could be that your power is superior to theirs. You told me that you can move objects far away from your body. Is your range greater than theirs?"

    "I have moved things much farther away than the radius of a sphere, but those were single objects, not everything around me for miles. If I tried, maybe I would hit that limit."

    His father says "If they are using all of their power, and they are doing so unwillingly, then could it be that they would be unprepared for you flying in? You said you are enveloped by the field when you fly, could that allow you pass through the barrier?"

    "Well, if it didn''t, I could always go in naked."

    His father''s eyes search the room for thought, "If we assume that you are a superior user of the field, what could you do to test that?"

    Andrew thinks, then says "I could fly to just outside the barrier. Unless they can affect my sight in the field I would know before I arrived if someone was at the center, and I could try taking over. Either they would wrestle with me and I would see that, or if I''m more powerful, maybe they couldn''t do anything. So if a sphere happens close enough that I could fly there in time, I could try to stop them indirectly, and if that worked, take everything away from them, fly to the center, and see if I could help them, or if I had to, stop them."

    His mother likes Emilia. Andrew drives them both back Friday morning.

    Saturday is Seminoles at Gators. Emilia is with his parents and Michael in the crowd.

    December. SEC championship and finals. Andrew is on the honor roll.

    The night before they leave for the holiday, Andrew takes Emilia to a theater. Afterward they go to her apartment and she cooks him dinner, the same dish she made the first time she cooked for him. He gives her a necklace, she gives him a kiss and Pedro P¨¢ramo. He stays with her as she sleeps, her arm across his chest as his mind wanders the field.

    In the morning he takes her to the airport and she flies to Texas. In the evening he jogs into the forest and flies to Georgia.

    Christmas is spent in Missouri with his father''s family.

    The last Thursday of the year. Peach Bowl. Andrew stands again underneath the lens at Mercedes-Benz. His family again in the crowd, Emilia flew back early.

    January. Andrew flies to New York. He''s in a suit, slight smile as he holds the trophy destined for a case in Heavener. JFK to IND for the National Championship. Fifteen up, fifteen down.

    February. Michael, on a locally televised conference, announces he will attend Florida.

    Andrew is in class when he feels the pulse.

    Twitter open. #SeismicSphere

    Nothing for a half-hour. Then: Zhengzhou, CN.

    March. Andrew is at dinner with Emilia when he feels the pulse.

    She notices his sudden change as his hand darts to his pocket to check his phone.

    Twitter open. #SeismicSphere

    Just now. Baku, AZ.

    "What happened?"

    He shakes his head.

    He can''t lose himself. Unending day after unending night.

    Some small solace in Emilia, who knows something is wrong, but he doesn''t explain. What could he say? "I know when spheres happen. I guess I''m kind of psychic, because I can fly, and I''m bulletproof, too, and I could try to stop them, or at least help people escape, but I''m too busy being worried about. . . what? What am I fucking worried about? I''m a coward."

    ?

    When she finished school, she could only find work outside of her desired field. She moved to a part of the country she had never visited, to a city with more people than her home state. She lived in an apartment that was nice enough but left her with a long commute. Her work was stressful, and her superior treated her with contempt, but she persisted. She joined a young-and-single group for the city and met someone. The relationship was nice at first, but she soon felt apathy from her partner and began to worry he was seeing other women and only using her.

    Work worsened and her relationship worsened. When she told her partner to leave and not return and threw closed her door with a slam that was in symphony with the scraping of wooden table legs across ceramic tile and of wooden chairs clattering from upturning, she looked at her furniture and for lack of superstition dismissed it, put everything back, and slept.

    When she awoke from fitful sleep and remembered what happened and sobbed, she noticed that belongings from her dresser were now on the floor; again she entertained and accepted denial.

    When she met someone else and they finally went to bed and her partner laughed and said "We moved the bed." she looked around and thought "And my desk, and my dresser, and my vanity, and probably the clothes in my closet" and she also thought that she should speak with someone. This took time. Her first choice would not be covered by her insurance, her next had no space for new patients. Her dozenth resort was busy and it would be months before she could see them.

    Her appointment came and she met with the counselor and explained how occasionally things around her seemed to move without her touching them, she was worried something was wrong with her memory. The therapist, a skeptic not only in that context, thought it might be something it wasn''t. She was seen weekly, she always felt better after her visits and would have continued only to work through her professional stress when she was advised to see her doctor. She made another appointment, this one at least coming soon. At the visit she had labs drawn and a follow-up was made to be seen by a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist referred her to a neurologist, the neurologist referred her for an MRI. The scan showed nothing of concern, and since there were no other physical or cognitive problems she complained of, and since time had passively hardened the skepticism of all parties involved, most of all her, she was given a prescription to balance her mood. It seemed to work.

    Had her response been subject to greater scrutiny it would obviously be anomalous; outwardly she showed confident stoicism in the face of stress. Inwardly she found herself incapable of voicing discontent.

    Her mood plummeted, but when asked she would say she felt fine. She felt duplicitous, she felt worse, that she was living in the second person, like she was observing someone else living her life. Someone who would not show frustration and sadness in unfair treatment in her work and distaste and opposition in romantic encounters she wished to forego. She didn''t want to do that, why did she do that? But still she maintained routine. She saw her therapist and complained mildly of work problems as though this someone else controlling her even cared about her as they lied to each hand involved in her treatment, and since nothing seemed to move since she started the medication, it must be working.

    She began to feel a rising pressure.

    She would be berated at work and abused at home and when she desperately wanted to lash out she found the place in her heart. It was different. A dissonance that built until crescendo, rumblings in her soul. Whenever she was screamed at, when her partner arrived drunk and belligerent. When she held the pill between her fingers and knew she needed to throw them all away but of course swallowed it instead.

    Life fluctuated. There were nice weeks, even a nice month, but she went to a job she did not want to be at, and came home to a person she did not want to sleep with, and saw a therapist who she now felt she had only ever lied to all while taking pills she could not once refuse.

    The pressure grew.

    One night with him above her, she looked at her dresser and suddenly wondered if maybe it wasn''t her own problem at all. Maybe when those things moved it was because she moved them, because she now stares at a picture on her dresser, and the more she focuses the more it shakes, until it shatters, sending metal and glass in every direction but hers.

    She drives to work, the commute is fine. She parks in the garage underneath her building and walks through badge-swipe doors and takes an elevator to her office. She walks to her desk on the open floor and sits at her computer where she sees a message from her superior to see them immediately. There is an issue with a project she has done to exact customer specifications and yet her superior is unsatisfied. Her superior says that she failed, that she had done the exact opposite, and her superior wonders aloud about her incompetence and her lifestyle and why she''s still employed. She apologizes and takes notes and on leaving looks pleadingly to the HR staffmember who she cannot actually bring herself to ask for help but she knows they heard and knows they could help, but still she just can''t ask. In her superior''s parting shot for their own half-day, they inform her she will be coming in the following morning, a weekend day she would normally have off, to "Clean her mess."

    In the evening she arrives at an apartment she gratefully finds empty. She sits on her couch and wants to cry but can''t, staring into nothing, hour after hour, until her partner arrives. He is drunk, and angry, and he demands she come to him and she does, but this time her agreeableness is not good enough, and she is struck and turns and falls and hits her head on the table and collapses to the floor.

    When her mind returns and she finds her legs spread and her dress around her hips and sees her partner she finds herself finally able to cry out her refusal, but he is hitting her again and now takes her head in his hands and hits it against the floor and her vision is wavering and her very sense of self seems to, seems to¡ª

    A chair catches him by the neck and lifts him up and throws him back and as he gags and coughs with great confusion the heavy table spins up into the air above his head and is his end.

    She stumbles into her bedroom, and as she falls unconscious every object in the room tears itself apart.

    She awakens on an incline of soft material. She blankly looks at wooden fragments embedded in the walls and feels the breeze from an empty window. Her wardrobe is in splinters and she thinks nothing of the tatters of once-clothing. She walks over the destroyed box springs, frame, and stuffing, and over the remnants of her dresser and her vanity. She looks at her bloodied self in the reflection of her untouched bathroom and absentmindedly wets a cloth and cleans her face and automatically reaches for the orange bottle and swallows the little pill.

    She ignores her table and chairs and steps over the body to put on her slippers by the door. She does not remember closing her door and she does not remember going to her car, driving, and parking. A glass door shatters when it does not open for her, and she takes an elevator to her floor, where she sits at her computer and pushes keys.

    Eventually she feels a hard press on her shoulder, and she does not register the presence of her superior except that they have said something loud and cruel. She nods and turns and continues pushing keys when she feels a claw of a hand grip her shoulder.

    "I said¨C"

    The pressure breaks as she stands. She has been gone for so long, and her quiet self screams that she can''t let it free, but there is nothing else that she wants, and nothing else to be done. Her hands shake as little weaknesses rush over her body and her breath catches in her throat as she so very needs to tell them, to show them. . .

    She screams, and it leaves her with such force that her clothes are torn from her body and her hair from her skin and where a person was before her they have been thrown by desk and segmented by steel between windows, out into the open air with the shattered glass from walls of windows from the building that has exploded.

    But the debris does not fall, it hangs in the air around her and begins to turn.

    ?

    Andrew is in his dorm.

    It is the first Saturday and he sits on his couch, half-finished oatmeal on his little coffee table, his phone floating above it. He finally decides to wash the bowl. He''s at the sink when he feels the pulse.

    Twitter open. #SeismicSphere

    Nothing. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

    Just now. Tampa, FL.

    His heart is in his ears.

    His breath comes quickly.

    He sends a message to his father, then calls him.

    "Dad¨C"

    "Morning, Andrew, what''s up?"

    "Dad, check Signal."

    Silence.

    "Do you have a plan?"

    "Yes. Like we talked about."

    "There is no going back."

    "If they can''t stop that, how are they going to stop me?"

    "I sent you a message. We''ll talk soon, Andrew."

    "Yeah, bye dad."

    Approach from the gulf. Mexico after.

    Good luck.

 10 - The Father

    <h4>FILTERS 10

    THE FATHER</h4>

    It begins to rain.

    Two cameras snap from their brackets and land softly in shrubs. He runs out of his dorm, leaping landing to landing, and in few strides pushes through the back door of the building, to the quiet corner of the lot. The thicket is empty, a pair of figures move quickly on the far side, fleeing the weather.

    He runs into the trees. He opens his bag and strips. The black jumpsuit is first, then black boots. Black mask, black goggles, white rain jacket. Watch-altimeter, compass. Inhale. The thicket falls away in a blink, the university rushing to fill the space, then the city, shrouded in heavy rain. He sees lightning and hears thunder.

    He looks at his hands, at the gloves that cover them. He watches the downpour fall on open palms. The water doesn''t stick or streak, it bounces off, some back into the air, some rebounding onto his arms or his chest before returning to the air. He looks at the city. The sight is beautiful and strange, for his map was made in darkness, and this territory is in daylight, though rain-and-cloud obscured. He looks to the stadium, then to the streets around the campus. To cars, crawling on, headlights just visible.

    His memory adjusts, implicit recognition returning. He looks at the clouds that run to the south and west. He thinks about the storm that surrounds him, yet cannot touch him. He feels an odd, reaching gratitude, and then his purpose snaps him from his saunter and he moves.

    West to the coast, the rain continues. He is stricken by the deep blue of the ocean, but he doesn''t linger. South along the coast, the rain continues. Sea starboard, port hazy and green. He can just see the little foaming wakes of boats as they move, some toward land, to dock. He knows barrier islands lie ahead of the sound, and when he can finally see them he sweeps into the gulf. He knows the geography well enough to reach Tampa without assistance, but the sense of pressure gives him perfect bearing, and it grows as he approaches.

    Soon he hears a second storm, the tempest and the tides.

    The rain continues.

    When he is ahead of the bay, positioned as though his origin could be Cuba, he turns to face the pressure and begins his descent. He looks beyond the rain and the waters. Beyond forested neighborhoods, between towers, to the sphere. To the root. He finds a figure, black and untouchable. First question answered.

    He passes above the Skyway and slows. There are boats in the bay, and he might be low enough to see the individual occupants were they not sheltering under covered decks or within the craft.

    The rain continues.

    Where the rings in Germany and Mexico cut through closely set buildings and narrow streets, most of this ring has cut through suburbs. The worst he sees are fallen roofs, one on a large supermarket. He sees people reaching the barrier and disrobing and passing through. He feels amazement as he sees some passing through from the other side, toward the sphere.

    He looks at where the barrier must lie and focuses on its presence in the field. His vision wavers and blurs and as he blinks quickly he begins to physically see the barrier, an intuitive apprehension of the space it occupies.

    He thinks. He thinks.

    Can he project barriers? He can, and he does, conjuring a small circle ahead of himself that like the barrier is invisible yet perceptible. He has destroyed objects with his gift, and the sphere of debris does the same, while this barrier seems impregnable. Can he surround objects with this unyielding force? He can, and he does. He looks to the split roof, taking the half outside the barrier and drawing it to himself. He halves it again and gives one half this quality, and as he pushes the pieces together, only the piece without buckles.

    On a whim he pushes both into the barrier, and both pass without issue. Considering this meaningful, he takes the section of the roof within the sphere, and moves all back and forth through the barrier. Then he crushes them into a ball he sets beside parked cars.

    He looks again at the center. The sphere has touched ground, it now drags chunks of concrete and earth into the air. He takes them, one by one, forcing them into a separate sphere.

    No change in the sphere; no shift in the figure; no resistance. Second question answered.

    He passes through the barrier. The rain stops.

    He hears something else: the destruction of the churning sphere, still miles away.

    He moves forward, over neighborhoods and businesses, over a university campus, across a river and past towers that still stand. He finds figures in stairwells and in garages, running to their cars. Some stand without moving, in the high floors, watching the sphere.

    Some are watching him.

    It is great and it is terrible. The surface like water, chunks of metal and rock slowing the current in places but still moving with it. His skin is protected, and he was able to pass through the barrier without issue. Is what envelopes him like the barrier? Will it protect him?

    He looks across the surface and finds a rock and frees it. He carves a slab from it and sends it back, imbuing it with the quality and facing it to the incoming debris, holding it there for several seconds and watching as debris hits it and that part of the current slows before flowing around it. Then he draws the slab back, the surface still clean, free of any marks. He moves close enough to the sphere to touch it, his open hand, palm down, inching toward it. His hand is angled and his ring finger just touches the surface¨Cand there it remains, small pieces sometimes catching on it before being pushed forward. He pushes his hand farther in and feels nothing, not even the movement of debris. He pushes his arm in, then both, then enters the sphere completely.

    He sees her.

    In the air, mouth agape, arms loose at her sides. No clothing, no hair.

    Andrew frowns. No fingernails.

    Third question answered.

    Something was wrong from the start. She never had what he has, and that inadequacy set her on the path to this destruction. It wasn''t that she went too far, it wasn''t that she needed more time. She might have lived her entire life without issue, but something broke her.

    He has this power. His is greater.

    "Caught in a wave," he says softly.

    His mind spreads to the barrier and he dismisses her grasp. The barrier disappears and the sphere halts and he takes it, allowing it to fall gently into the streets. Then he flies to the woman.

    "Hello?" he asks.

    She does not respond.

    "Do you need help?" he asks, moving closer.

    She does not respond.

    He touches her shoulder, and suddenly he hears nothing but crashing tides and thunder, and sees nothing but her. She is no longer in the air, she stands in an ocean, the waters just below her knees. She lifts one hand, offering to him, and he takes it. She seems like she wants to say something, but her mouth does not move, and she makes no sound. With sudden understanding, he places his hand on her head.

    His eyes open and he returns to the world. Tears fall from her closed eyes and stream down her cheeks, and in an instant she falls as dust to nothing.

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    This too, he understands.

    He does not need to move debris when he can turn it to dust, dust he captures within a sphere of his own. Plaster and metal and concrete are wiped away, and he carries bodies to a park as they emerge.

    He finds another woman, dazed, mumbling. Her face is bloodied and swollen and her knees and calves are twisted. She sputters and groans and continues to mumble and he holds a hand out and says "It''s okay, I''m here to help you," and carefully takes her in his arms. As he descends again to the park he feels her heartbeat, and as she trembles, her fear. She looks at him, arms in torn sleeves tight to her chest, and she asks "What are you?" and falls unconscious.

    He does not realize how swiftly he has worked.

    He compresses his sphere until he feels something change within and it becomes solid, and he sets it in the park, where a crowd has gathered, and upon seeing them, his self finally returns.

    They watch. Waving, cheering.

    Andrew raises a hand back in greeting, and then he hears the aircraft.

    One near him, a helicopter. News, two passengers, camera mounted to the front.

    One far above him. Military, empty metal, a drone.

    Mexico after.

    He''s gone, over the ocean.

    He passes the keys and what he knows as Havana, he passes the narrow part of Cuba and the Isla de La Juventud, then moves toward the Yucatan. He follows the coastline back into the gulf until it shifts north and he breaks off into the interior. He flies above sprawling farmlands and vast forests and mountains when he reaches the valleys he knows that if he continues northwest he will reach Mexico City.

    When the sun is directly overhead he arrives at the capital. He looks into the field, his mind spreading over the largest city he has ever seen, figures endless in every direction but one.

    He sees the ring, and in its harrowing dunes he feels self-disgust.

    There are roads in the sand, some beaten by traffic, some paved. He sees a facility he imagines must be for research, with elevated trailers, Mexican flags, and towers he thinks must be for drilling. He sees a quarry in the sand, with cranes and massive trucks, and he sees the beginnings of reconstruction. All are empty.

    He sees a small platform set beneath a cross, close the edge of the ring. A lone figure sits before it.

    He lands near the platform, where a road that was beyond the sphere meets sand. He looks at the buildings around him, most have been repaired, with new rooms and walls erected. He sees places that remain untouched, still bearing their scars from the sphere.

    He looks at the platform, and he walks toward it.

    He reaches it soon enough. He sees simple wooden chairs on either side of an aisle. He sees a single car that is old but looks well-maintained, the tires covered in sand. He sees tables full of candles and pictures, and he sees the man whose back is to him, who reads a book, who wears all black but for white collar.

    The man has heard him, and he stands and closes his book and says "Hola," and as he sees Andrew, he says "ah. . . hello."

    "Hablo un poco de espa?ol, se?or."

    "But would you be more comfortable in English?" asks the father.

    "I didn''t want to impose."

    The man shakes his head, "You do not impose. I have seen you today, what you did, so please forgive my forwardness: why have you come here?"

    He looks up, to the cross. "I don''t know," and he walks up the aisle, past the man, to the table of pictures. So many.

    The father asks "Are you looking for something?" Andrew looks back to him, to the book he carries. It is bound in dark leather that shows wear, but something about the pages makes Andrew think it may not be a Bible. The father takes his silence as answer, saying "You do know why."

    Andrew weakly shrugs. He turns back to the tables, and his eyes fall on a picture of a woman who reminds him of Emilia. "Regret. Regret I didn''t stop this."

    "Regret. Did you come here to apologize? Do you feel this burden is yours?" asks the father.

    Andrew''s thoughts are still on Emilia. "Whose else would it be?"

    "Are there others like you?" he asks.

    Andrew says "I don''t know. I''ve always believed there are."

    "Yet you are the only to have intervened."

    Andrew looks again at the man. "Why did you assume I speak English?"

    "Because the first of these to be stopped was in America, and when you spoke Spanish your accent sounded American. It is a quite American belief that the weight of souls who here departed should fall on your shoulders."

    Andrew looks away, into the ring, where he sees sand catch in the wind and blow from the tops of the dunes. "I could have stopped this and I didn''t. Who else could say that?"

    The man''s gaze follows his, then he looks back. "Who is to say that you should? Who is to say that these events are not justice for the inequities of man?"

    Andrew is taken aback, "How could you believe that?"

    The man says "Why do you assume that I do? And why do you esteem yourself as the necessary savior?"

    "I don''t! But if I''m the only one who can stop these, shouldn''t I?"

    The wind rises, sand billows from the dunes, approaching them. Andrew raises a shield.

    "Then why didn''t you?" asks the father.

    "Because I didn''t know I could!"

    The father points at him. "So now that you do, will you bind yourself? Will you make an oath to stop these forevermore?"

    "Shouldn''t I?"

    The father turns his head, "I can hear your doubt."

    "I don''t know if I could reach all of them in time."

    He nods, "And you feel guilt because you worry that even if you could, you might not want to."

    "I have a life beyond this. People would notice if I disappeared every time a sphere hit."

    "What, then? You intervene when you feel like it, and reassure yourself with your guilt when you don''t?" and now the father speaks slowly, "No se revuelque en su culpa, es orgullo disfrazado de autodesprecio." Your guilt is disguised pride.

    Andrew crosses his arms. "I don''t know."

    The father sits down. "You have a choice. It needs not be made today, but the day will come."

    Andrew is far above the ring.

    He looks back to the platform, but he finds no figure there.

    It''s late.

    Up the stairs, through the mudroom, past the kitchen. His father is at his desk, his mother is sleeping. His brother is in his bedroom, phone in hand, television warm. He sees his father getting up and walking to the door and he''s about to reach for the handle when it opens ahead of him. "Dad¨C!" interrupted as his father embraces him.

 11 - Psychics!

    FILTERS 11

    PSYCHICS!

    Andrew is seated, his mother stands behind him, her hands on his shoulders.

    His father watches footage of the event play on the television. "I saw rumors that you were seen in Mexico City."

    "Yeah. There''s a memorial near the edge of the ring. I spoke with a priest there."

    "What about?"

    Andrew shakes his head. He was right. He was absolutely right. "He. . . he said that I." he stops himself. "He knew who I was, and I apologized for not stopping the sphere there, and he asked if I was going to stop every sphere from now on. He said that if I didn''t, then the guilt I feel is actually pride, I guess like a twisted magnanimity where it''s okay if I don''t intervene sometimes as long as I feel bad about it."

    His father quietly says "What a thing to say. . ."

    His mother says "You do have to intervene, Andrew, whenever you can."

    His father adds "But if you can''t fly fast enough to reach a sphere in Europe or Asia, then you aren''t choosing not to intervene, you truly can''t."

    "After today I know I could have reached the sphere in Mexico City. Other than that, even if I could, dad, I don''t know that I would, and that man knew I felt that way."

    "Andrew, why wouldn''t you?" asks his mother.

    "I have a life that I need to protect. Am I supposed to drop everything every time I feel it happen? What if I''m playing in a game? What if I''m in a bus, or in an airplane? Do I just stop playing football? What then? Do I stop going to school, too? Become the flying ascetic?"

    His mother walks around the desk to stand behind his father. They remain quiet.

    "You think I should, don''t you."

    His father taps his chin and turns off the television. "No, I don''t. Not yet. Football doesn''t start in full until August and your classes are about to end. In the summer, if and when a sphere occurs, other than if you had to run out on Emilia, there won''t be a game or bus or plane keeping you away. That gives time, not just for you, but for the world, because when the next sphere hits, someone else like you might appear to stop it."

    Andrew almost rolls his eyes, "You still think there are others out there like me?"

    His father confidently nods, "As much as ever."

    "Then where are they?"

    "Waiting, like you were. There''s a story I''ve never told you about my grandfather''s service in the Navy."

    Andrew says "What, like, when he was out during the Haze?"

    "He knew what caused it."

    Andrew''s mouth drops, "What do you mean he knew what caused it?"

    "My grandfather served on a ship called the Patapsco. At the end of February in 1954 his ship was in the Marshall Islands and they were ordered to return to Pearl Harbor with great haste. They received that order because on March 1 the United States planned to detonate a thermonuclear bomb and they needed to be clear of the fallout. History books say the bomb test, part of a series of tests called Operation Castle, began in June, and that is a lie. The ship suffered mechanical issues that left them close enough at detonation to witness the fireball, your grandfather said it was like a second sun. They were well within the trajectory of the fallout, and radioactive coral ash covered the boat. This was 1954, the understanding of radioactivity was nothing like it is now and the ship had no equipment to detect radiation and they believed the ash was safe¨Cuntil they fell ill. Much of the crew, your grandfather included, suffered greatly as they experienced the onset of acute radiation poisoning. They couldn''t eat without vomiting, they couldn''t walk without stumbling, fatigue weighed on them yet sleep did not come easily. But in those first few days as they were stranded in the fog and they slept above-board on the deck, they rapidly recovered, and in the following weeks when they were still stuck in The Haze, they showed no lingering illness. If you described this to a physician, they would tell you that the extent and swiftness of their recovery would be impossible, even with intervention. The Haze cleansed that ship and its crew, who were never told what happened. Your grandfather realized later in his life that he had witnessed and been poisoned by the nuclear bomb on March 1 that was officially recorded as happening on June 1. The Haze was triggered when humanity detonated that fusion bomb. The Haze changed us by imbuing some with the genetics we now call the UQ-Marker, The Haze gave us world trees and dire beasts, and The Haze gave us you. That is why I am certain you are not the only one."

    "Why did you never tell me?"

    His father says "Because until I saw you today, I still had doubt."

    Up the stairs, to his brother''s bedroom.

    "Hey, Mike."

    Michael jumps up, "Drew! Holy shit! Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!" and he''s shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief and he says "You gotta see this."

    Michael has clearly been waiting for this, Andrew can''t help but smile, "See what?"

    "You!" and he holds up his phone.

    Twitter open. #PSYCHICS

    Every picture. Black jumpsuit, white rain jacket, Adidas large and in black on the back, "Like a fucking billboard." he mutters. Rainy shots from boats in the bay and as he was at the barrier. Clear shots as he crossed the ring, from where he passed between buildings, from where he entered the sphere. Of the woman, of him beside her, and of his disintegration of destroyed buildings.

    Michael asks "What was it like?"

    "It''s strange, thinking about it, because thinking back it feels like I was on autopilot. I flew there, I tested some things at the barrier to see if I could get through, and I did, and I flew to the center and you''ve seen the rest."

    "Did you know that woman was going to be there?"

    "I thought there was going to be someone at the center, yeah, and when I was close enough I was able to look inside the sphere, and sure enough, someone was there."

    Michael''s laughing, "Wow. Dad said he told you to go to Mexico, and I read rumors that you were there on Twitter, but people were saying that all over the place and that just turned into memes."

    "That''s funny. Yeah, I did, I went to Mexico City."

    Michael''s still laughing, "Dude it is fucking wild that you just casually fucking flew from Gainesville to Tampa, stopped the sphere, flew to Mexico, and flew back.

    "Well I went over Cuba, too."

    "Fucking smartass."

    Andrew laughs.

    "Drew, bro, what you did was incredible. God. You''ve always done that stuff in sports, but. . . I''ve never been so proud that you''re my brother. I''ve also never wished more that I had it too, but, man. It''s crazy. It''s fucking crazy."

    Andrew puts his hand on his brother''s shoulder, "Thanks."

    His father is up early, having insisted the night before on driving him back. The highway is busy for what would have otherwise been an ordinary Sunday morning; Andrew wonders how many cars around them are headed for Tampa. They talk, they don''t talk, they listen to the news and to music.

    Gainesville has come alive, a revelry in the air appreciable even before they reach campus as everyone in the city seems to be outside. They arrive at his dorm, a familiar figure sitting at a table in the empty cafe. He walks to his building, awash in feeling as his hands touch the door. There are many outside here as well, many in the halls and gathered together in rooms, many balconies and front doors open. He hears televisions and conversations, every sound part of the whole, every sound one subject: him.

    The people in the halls on each floor cheer when they see him, as they cheer when anyone comes up or down the stairs. He can''t help but cheer back. His door is locked until he touches the handle, and once inside he empties his bag. His jacket goes back on its hangar, his boots on the shelf above, his jumpsuit folded and tucked at the bottom of a drawer. Mask and gloves underneath his socks, goggles with his underwear. The compass and watch go on his nightstand, beside his phone, still sitting on its charger. He picks it up.

    There are texts from Emilia, Michael, Devaris, and what looks like everyone on the football team. There are two missed calls from Emilia and eight missed calls from Devaris, the most recent only minutes before. He reads the messages from Emilia.

    hey, did you see there''s a sphere in tampa?

    i never thought it would happen so close to us

    oh my god. Andrew, are you watching this?

    i''ll come over

    . . . do you not want me to?

    where are you?

    Andrew?

    He reads the messages from Devaris.

    Drew, sphere in Tampa, bad fucking break

    People keep saying sports are gonna have to stop

    WHAT THE FUCK

    WHAT. THE. FUCK.

    ARE YOU WATCHING THIS?!

    CHECK YOUR FUCKING PHONE

    WHY DO YOU NEVER CHECK YOUR FUCKING PHONE DREW

    ANDREW

    ANDREW

    ANDREW

    ANDREW

    ANDREW ANDREW ANDREW ANDREW ANDREW ANDREW I''M AT YOUR DOOR DREW WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU DREW WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS DREW GODDAMMIT CHECK YOUR FUCKING PHONE DREW

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    Michael sent two pictures and one word. The pictures are of high quality, the work of a professional with a high-power telephoto lens. Him in black and white, first ahead of the sphere, then in front of the woman, Michael''s caption:

    P U L I T Z E R

    He responds to Devaris¨CUnbelievable! I went home for the weekend and I forgot my phone but after yesterday I had to come right back¨Cand looks again at Emilia''s texts. He thinks about what to say. He thinks about messaging her. He thinks about calling her when the figure in the cafe begins to move. He takes his phone and leaves his dorm, again passing the boisterous floors. She is walking out of the office, toward her car, his pace quickens, crossing the spokes-paths, to the small parking at the back of the office. She comes into sight, he''s not quite running, she hears his steps and turns and her eyes widen and she begins to smile and begins to say his name and he picks her up and she''s laughing and he''s kissing her.

    She''s still in his arms. She asks "Where were you?"

    "I went home and forgot my phone, but after all that I had to come back a little early."

    She''s smiling, not serious as she says "Don''t you remember my number? You could have called."

    Andrew says "Yeah I should have, I''m sorry, I should have known that you would prefer a phone call over a boring surprise."

    She takes one hand from his shoulder and runs it over his head to the side of his face, one finger running over his lips and the rest gently pressing into his neck and she kisses him. She says "I think I¨C" but she stops herself. He says "Yeah?"

    "I think I can just leave for the day, if you want to spend it with me."

    Andrew sets her down, "My dad''s here, we were going to get lunch before he went back, do you want to go with us?"

    Same show on every screen. Andrew goes to the bathroom.

    Emilia says "It was nice of you to drive him back. Why didn''t he drive himself?"

    James says "Well, as I''m sure it''s come up, I own a machine shop, and I had an order to pick up in Jacksonville, so I offered to come here after."

    Emilia says "That''s nice. That''s a long drive, though, right?''

    "Atlanta to Gainesville is about five hours, but that meant an extra ten hours to spend with my son. In a few years these opportunities will go away, I''m glad to do it."

    Emilia smiles, "That''s nice," but there''s something thoughtful in her eyes, and she says "he''s really going to be someone, isn''t he."

    James says "He already is. But yes, he will be. He cares deeply for you, Emilia. You could be there beside him."

    Andrew returns, saving her from having to respond to this. Instead she says "I still can''t believe what happened yesterday."

    Andrew says "Yeah, finding out all the other spheres must have had a person at the center, that''s scary."

    Emilia gazes at him. "What do you think about that. . . person who stopped it?"

    "I hope he''s just the beginning."

    She tilts her head, "You think there are more?"

    "I hope there are, yeah. I think my dad has a better way of putting it, though," and he thinks "Might as well keep lying" as James starts to speak.

    "If that is an individual from an extraterrestrial race, then perhaps all members of that race possess those¨Cwell, psychic¨Cabilities, or else possess the technology to imbue that power in themselves. If that individual is human, then they are either the result of technology humans possess, or this emerged naturally. Many science fiction authors have written about humans eventually developing and exhibiting psychic abilities; maybe they drew from something known instinctively, or subconsciously, from ancient wisdom, from stories of great heroes that are considered myths, but that are in fact true or only slightly embellished accounts of those who were simply ahead of the curve. Whoever that individual is, each possibility indicates that we should expect more."

    Emilia still looks only at Andrew, but she listened, and she says "Or they were an angel."

    James says "That''s true. Divine power must be considered. What happened yesterday could absolutely be described as a miraculous intervention. So if that individual comes forward and says they were blessed by God, whoever their God is, I imagine many will listen."

    "Which do you believe, Andrew?" asks Emilia.

    "They''re human."

    She rubs his arm. "I think so too. And. . . you must hope they''re the beginning so when other spheres happen those are stopped too."

    "Yeah. Tampa was the fifth time. China hasn''t released any information but there''s speculation based on the density of where it happened in Zhengzhou and the total lost could be in the millions. I hope someone shows up every time it happens from now on, and if not, I hope we figure out a way to stop them ourselves."

    James gets the check. Andrew says "I need to talk with my dad about some things before he leaves, so I''ll ride with him and he can drop me off at your apartment."

    She smiles at him, "Okay."

    At the register, James watches them.

    His father drives, and once they''re on the road he says "Emilia is a lovely young woman. She''s very sharp, you two go well together."

    Andrew says "I like her a lot, dad."

    "I did not enjoy lying to her."

    Andrew thinks "That''s what you taught me to do, dad," as he says "Me neither, but what else are we supposed to say?"

    "You stop stringing her along."

    "What''s that supposed to mean?"

    "She is profoundly in love with you. I could feel it just sitting at the table with you. She is ready to be beside you for the rest of your life. Do you feel the same way about her?"

    Andrew does, but he can''t find the words, so he says "I don''t know. I''m nineteen, dad."

    "You are physically nineteen, but your unique experience of day and night has clearly matured your mind. Your gift, and burden, have only furthered that. I believe you are capable of answering that question."

    He thinks of her voice, her eyes, her lips, the quiet nights in her apartment. "I. . . I can''t imagine life without her. She''s been my constant in all of this."

    "Then you owe it to her to decide if you are going to marry her and tell her, and I would suggest in that order, no matter how duplicitous that would be¨C"

    Andrew is stunned but he still interrupts, "How could I do that to her, dad?"

    "You still wrestle with your personal sense of duty in balance with your life. You relate yourself to the spheres and the destruction they bring, but it seems that have not yet considered your relation with and greater significance to the world beyond the spheres."

    "You''re the one who told me I can wait to choose."

    "You can wait. As her life becomes ever more intertwined with yours, the consequences of your existence will loom ever greater upon her. If you cannot trust her with knowing who you are, then you should no longer see her, for her sake."

    Andrew says "If I can trust her, then why wouldn''t I tell her before?"

    "Andrew, you saved many thousands of lives yesterday, but what the world saw was the existence of the most dangerous weapon on Earth, and they only caught a hint of what I know you can do. I am moved every day that you remain so grounded in the height of your ability, but you must give your position its due respect: humanity has entered a new era and the secret that you hold, and that we hold, is of unprecedented importance."

    Andrew shakes his head, "''Grounded'', huh? How could a grounded man lie so deeply to the woman he loves? Sometimes I think you can''t see what is for your beliefs of what ought to be."

    "This secret that binds you, and myself, and your mother and Michael, is as significant as anything on this Earth. Emilia cannot know if you do not intend to marry her. If you believe that she will consider herself bound to this secret, as we are, before she has your name, then tell her. But if you have any uncertainty, then you can either hope that marriage ensures it in light of the revelation, or, as I said, stop seeing her. This is not out of fear that she will run and tell, it is from a proper understanding that for her, this secret would be a hardship. You will not have told her the truth, you will have inflicted her with it. To be married first would be deceptive, but it would also demonstrate intent. To tell her before is to say ''I understand you may leave.'' To tell her after is to say ''I have proven the depth of my commitment to you, I am bound to you for the rest of my life, and I will always protect you.''"

    Andrew says "No. I don''t like the idea of being that kind of person, dad. That''s not right, no matter how many words you put in front of it, no matter how entirely logical your argument probably is, it''s not right. I know what I am and what I can do, and I know that in this, I can define the rules. I don''t have to be that person, I don''t want to be that person, and I am not going to be that person."

    They reach Emilia''s apartment building. Before he gets out of the car, his father places a hand on his shoulder. "I love you, Andrew. I trust you completely."

    She makes him dinner.

    They eat. They watch a film.

    They go to her bed.

    Her head is on his chest, her hair is on his skin.

    Emilia is drifting off when she murmurs "Te amo."

 12 - Denver

    FILTERS 12

    DENVER

    Concrete and metal fall to nothing. A bolt from a forest, of black and white, in blue, above blue, from blue, to seek ruin and deny it. He has wondered little on reach that laughs at man and scoffs at nature and would question the creator''s dominion. Dominion. . . this bolt, set apart, this bolt, unbolted, yet emphatic on his tether! Love tethers, not loves tethers, unfettered. Dominion. . . do not be afraid. He is the same as you in my sight; he too is a piece of clay. No fear of him should take you, his hand shall not be heavy upon you.

    ?

    Devaris raises a barbell and then drops it to the floor, "Stellar fucking timing to leave your goddamn phone, Drew."

    "Sorry I''m not tied to a phone like you are."

    Andrew hears more strikes of metal, other weights dropped. The energy in the gym is different from the fall, the passion has been refocused, as football has passed, for some for good. Some here drive dumb machines with anger, hard in every lift and press, as if they can will a spot in the draft, as if this effort now will somehow bring greater luster, to be bright amongst diamond dregs and lifted to the pros. Devaris remains cool, his fate is sealed, and he says "It''s a new world."

    Andrew thinks about his father''s truck. "So I hear."

    "Feels shitty that I thought about sports and not about all the people who would have died."

    Andrew''s doing shrugs, "It''s hard to think about disasters that happen somewhere else. You know they''re bad, but you don''t have any connection. What do you say about a hundred thousand people dying? It''s awful, but you didn''t know any of them, and you''d never been that country let alone the city, and you couldn''t have done anything about it. Imagine if there were some plague in China, what could you say? At least it''s not here? There''s no context."

    "Funny hearing that from you. I bet you haven''t thought about football for days. I bet you were really torn up when you heard about Tampa and then you had the biggest relief when that guy showed up."

    Andrew shakes his head, "We''re different people, we think about things differently, you shouldn''t feel bad. A lot of people thought what you thought, a lot of them were probably more happy that their house wasn''t destroyed or their dog was saved than that their neighbors survived.

    "Yeah, and a lot more probably felt like you."

    He feels her weight in his arms. He hears her say "What are you?"

    No, they did not.

    "I''ve always been like this. I bet if you could personally stop the spheres, you would. That''s what matters."

    Devaris says "You''re right, I would. Thanks, man. God damn. I keep thinking I should feel even more blown away by that guy, but after months of these fucking psychic spheres I guess it dulled the surprise when someone finally showed up to stop one. I wonder what took him so long."

    "Maybe he was flying in from space and that took a while," Andrew says, grinning.

    Devaris laughs, "You think he''s an alien? Lotta people think that."

    "Nah, probably not."

    "if he is, aliens must really love Adidas. I guess I just assume this is the government up to something," says Devaris, "but it''s such a jump. It would kinda make sense, though, right? A bunch of governments discover this shit after the US has been working on it for a while, so when it goes wrong here we already had a guy ready to fly in and stop it."

    "That''s not unreasonable."

    "Man. If that is just some guy, what couldn''t he do? . . . Nah, it''s the government. It has to be."

    That would be. . . what would it be? He doesn''t know, and it doesn''t matter, he knows the truth.

    He finishes his sets, he showers, he walks to class.

    He meets Emilia for lunch.

    She says "It was nice yesterday, with your dad."

    "Yeah, it was. You know we have a game in November in College Station, maybe I could meet your parents."

    She bites her lip but she''s smiling, "Or you could visit this summer."

    He thinks. "What would she say if she knew? Would she tremble in my arms? Would she look at me in fear and ask ''What are you?'' Would she accept me? Could she accept me when she realizes I could have stopped the other spheres? Should she?"

    He looks around the room, not exactly feigning thought, and then back into her eyes. He says "I''d like that."

    She sleeps in his bed. He sits on his couch, watching cable news. A woman is speaking.

    "I want to know what the United States Federal Government is doing to find whatever or whoever that is. This is an entity who is capable of flying faster than jet aircraft and who, seemingly on a whim, just ''turned off'' a force field ten miles in circumference and carefully slowed to the ground more than two hundred thousand tons of rubble. And what happened to the woman at the center of the sphere? They touched her and she disintegrated as easily as all the other debris. We have a word for this and it''s superweapon, and even that feels inadequate. If that''s a superweapon then nuclear weapons must be playthings. What are their limits? How is it possible that they can do any of this? How do we know they aren''t going to go city to city destroying everything they come across, or just making people disintegrate? How does democracy survive when something like that exists? The government says it''s not ours, whose is it? Russia? China? Who? The Mexican and Chinese governments sent in groups of fighter planes launching salvo after salvo of rockets at the barrier and they did nothing. Air Traffic Controllers in Tampa say they saw nothing on their systems. Nothing. Is it even possible to track this entity without seeing them? And, God, what happens if there are more of them?"

    "I have never in my life wished as much as I do now that the government, that President Ryan himself, is lying to the American people and the world, and this actually is ours and they don''t want to set off the arms race to end all arms races. So I will ask again: Secretary Petraeus, what is the Department of Defense doing to identify this entity? General Nakasone, what is the National Security Agency doing to identify this entity? Director Morell, what is the Central Intelligence Agency doing to identify this entity? Secretary Pekoske, what is the Department of Homeland Security doing to identify this entity? And Director Pistole, what is the Federal Bureau of Investigation doing to identify this entity? This isn''t your job on the line, this isn''t your ass on the line, the world is on the line, and we¡ª"

    He changes the channel, different cable news. Commercials. Wrap up. Next hour. A man speaks.

    "The top and only story of the night, month, and century, is the appearance of the remarkable individual who stopped the seismic sphere in Tampa. Many now call the spheres ''psychic'' spheres, just as they refer to that individual as ''The Psychic.'' I will talk more on that individual in a moment, but we have a breaking development tonight on the possible identity of the woman who was at the center of the sphere."

    "We have received a list of names, however these names are not public, and there has been no official identification made. This is what we know: in Clearwater a deceased man was found in a strangely ruined apartment. The apartment is leased to a woman who worked at the now-destroyed SunTrust Tower in downtown Tampa. Again, she is not officially considered the woman who was at the center of the sphere, but we can say that she is missing. Accompanying this, local social media pages have users claiming that they know the missing woman and saying that they believe she is one and the same as the woman at the center of the sphere. There have also been posts elsewhere online claiming to show physical similarities between the two. We have further learned that the missing woman sought treatment for what may now need to be described as ''Acute Telekinetic Episodes.'' Whatever the truth is, we will keep you informed."

    "As for the individual referred to as ''The Psychic.'' What we know hasn''t changed since yesterday. Cameras caught the initial explosion of the sphere at 8:31 Eastern Time on Saturday morning. The first tweet, now shown on screen, was posted at 8:32. Exactly one hour later this tweet was posted, and I''ll read it: "Holy [expletive], something just flew over my boat, it looked like a man in a rain jacket." More posts like this followed with blurry pictures of the figure. Moments later this picture we now show captured the individual above a Publix, which is part of a chain of supermarkets in the southeastern United States. The individual spent several minutes lifting two sections of a roof split by the barrier and they passed the roofing back and forth between the wall of the barrier. They then crushed the roof into a ball and set in the parking lot, and the United States government has since obtained that ball for research."

    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    "After that they proceeded to the sphere, pausing again, this time at the wall of debris, and then entering it, and just after that the sphere fell and the woman was revealed. As we understand it, at the same time the sphere fell the barrier disappeared as well. We have these stunning pictures from Sam Rosen, a professional photographer, including this moment as the individual touched the woman and this frame appearing to show her body turn to dust. There is speculation that the individual did that to the woman, but others, myself included, think that it may have been self-inflicted after the individual broke her out of a ''trance,'' as it were. The individual then went to the damaged buildings surrounding the former SunTrust Tower and appeared to disintegrate the debris while collecting the dust in a ball, much like they did with the roof. All throughout this they were carrying victims to a nearby park. When they were done, they set the second ball in the park, and again, that has also been taken by the government for research, and we''ll now play this footage provided by ABC Action News in Tampa. As you can see, they set the sphere down and then look at the crowd who is waving at them, and they wave back before flying off."

    "We know the individual approached from the south and departed the same way. While reports came in from around the world of people claiming to see the individual, the only credible pictures and reports came from Mexico City, as you can see these pictures show the figure above the Mexican capital. As you''ll recall, last November a psychic sphere occurred there, and based on these reports, the individual stopped briefly at the site of the disaster."

    "I will be honest. I think it is natural to look at what this individual did and feel fear. They can fly with no visible means of propulsion and they can move massive amounts of rock and metal with no visible indication of how. They can even turn that rock and metal to dust. But consider this: at the barrier and the sphere, they spent time looking at them, like they were evaluating them, like they didn''t know what they were dealing with and wanted to make sure it was safe for them to enter. Think about that incredible picture, of their hand on the woman''s shoulder. They didn''t strike her, they didn''t show any aggression at all. Do you know what I see? Compassion. What did they do next? They cleared debris and carried victims to a park. What did they do after that? They waved to a cheering crowd. We don''t know what they did at the site of the sphere in Mexico and I''m not confident enough to share my thoughts on that, but I am confident about this: this individual at every opportunity did the right thing, so I''m not afraid of them. I''m thankful they appeared and saved so many lives, and I''m hopeful that if, God forbid, more spheres happen, that individual stops them."

    He shuts the television off. He closes his eyes and imagines he can hear Emilia''s breaths. He wants to lie down beside her, to pull her tight against him and feel her skin. But he stops himself.

    "I don''t deserve her."

    He jogs to the gym, he works out, he showers, he walks to breakfast.

    Devaris still talking up a storm.

    He walks to class. Back of the hall, seated on the aisle. Shoes tapping on the rubberized floor. Notebook, recorder, pen. He texts Emilia. His professor goes through slides and writes on the board.

    He feels the pulse.

    "Fuck," he whispers.

    Twitter open. #PsychicSphere

    Nothing. Refresh, refresh, refresh.

    Just now. Denver, CO.

    "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

    Maps open. Gainesville to Denver: 25 hour drive, 4 hour flight from JAX. 20 minutes at Mach 6. Good luck moving a mile a second, try not to hit the mountains.

    He needs to stand up. He''s in the back, he could just leave. He could email his professor and say he had a family emergency. He''s acing the class, he''s Andrew Black, he would be given a pass. Okay, just stand up. Stand up, Andrew. Stand up and leave. You''re not putting your things away, you''re not getting up, why aren''t you getting up?

    Stand up and fucking GO, Andrew.

    He hears phones throughout the room vibrate.

    STAND UP AND GO, ANDREW.

    A student in a lower row says "Doctor Batton, there''s a psychic sphere in Denver. Oh wow. . . someone on Twitter says CNN has a crew inside, they''re broadcasting."

    His professor says "Oh really? Excellent¨Cerm, well, you know what I mean," and he walks from the board to his desk and changes from lecture slides to a browser, to CNN. Nothing on the front page, the same student says "I emailed you the link."

    The broadcast opens. A reporter stands in a busy parking lot beside Coors Field, cars behind her are crowded at the exit to a busy street, racing to be closest to the inevitable jam at the barrier. Some pedestrians are running, a truck stops, a man gets out and shouts and waves at the crowd to fill the bed and cab. In the distance, far above and behind her, a tower is consumed.

    ¨CLESS THAN A WEEK. LAST SATURDAY THE FIGURE IN WHITE INTERVENED, AND WE CAN ONLY HOPE THEY APPEAR AGAIN TODAY.

    Hands shaking, he begins to put his things away. Notebook, recorder, pen. The camera adjusts, centered on the sphere, its zoom increasing until it fills most of the screen. He looks at it, noticing the little differences. The sphere in Tampa rotated east to west, this one rotates in reverse. The currents as well, in Tampa they were chaotic, these pulse with a rhythm. He''s slowly reaching for his phone, slowly getting ready to stand, when he notices a speck pull from the sphere, hang in the air, and return. His eyes widen and strain.

    He waits for the reporter to say something. He waits for someone in the class to say something.

    Did no one else see that?

    Did he imagine that?

    The same student from before says "Oh shit! They''re saying someone''s flying in!"

    His phone slides from his hand, hitting his knee and spinning through the air and landing on matte blue rubber with a dull thump.

    ¨CWORD THAT SOMETHING HAS BEEN SPOTTED FLYING TOWARD THE SPHERE

    Hard spin and pull back on the camera, a blur is caught and lost, the camera tracking, catching, and losing, until it stops at the sphere. Too small to show real detail, only enough to show colors: red, white, black, and blue. The figure moves in a close circle around the sphere.

    Every second drags.

    He thinks. "Did it take me this long to figure it out? Maybe this is just reasonable apprehension. Would they know they''re bulletproof? Sure, reasonable, they don''t want to die, they don''t want to make multiple assumptions about things they may have had no concept of before Saturday. Saturday. . . how many does this make? Two in the US, two in a few hundred million? What are the odds they were that close and ready to intervene? Did I give this one the confidence to act? Two in three days? Close to fifty, right?"

    He watches the screen. His phone makes noises into the floor, loud enough for him to hear, but not important enough for him to care.

    Unlike Tampa, this sphere falls with the figure still outside of it, the camera offers just enough to suggest a nude man at the center. The figure flies to the man, and now like Tampa, the man disappears, and again like Tampa, the figure clears the debris that remains, carrying bodies to the ground as they find them. But when they''re finished, they don''t fly away.

    He lands in front of the camera and says "Good morning! What questions do you have?"

 13 - Control

    FILTERS 13

    CONTROL

    Red hat, US flag. Mirrored sunglasses over the narrow slit in a black ski mask that covers the rest of the head of this other. Wisps of hair just visible, light brown, maybe blond. Black t-shirt, toned arms fill the sleeves. Blue jeans and brown boots.

    Someone in the class says "What the fuck?"

    The reporter stutters, "C-can we put you on with our studio?"

    The other says "Sure, just a moment."

    The camera follows him walk toward a group of police, who even some distance from the camera, and Andrew some distance from the screen, are obviously unnerved. Quiet, vaguely orchestral music plays as the stream cuts to a title flash: BREAKING NEWS

    Andrew looks into the field. Same everywhere in the building. He looks farther, same everywhere on campus. He looks into the city, some cars are moving, otherwise the same everywhere. Everyone is looking at a screen.

    "Look at that guy!"

    "The one in Tampa had that jacket and jumpsuit on, you couldn''t see any of his body"

    "Yeah, this one you can see is a white guy¨C"

    "He kind of looks like a farmer"

    Laughter, "Yeah, he does."

    The screen changes to Wolf Blitzer.

    "Good morning. For those just joining us, a psychic sphere that struck Denver has been stopped by the remarkable individual who now speaks with us live. Thank you for your help, and thank you for speaking with us. What may we call you?"

    The other says "I don''t care what you call me, but you''ll need something, so I guess it should be Second."

    "''Second'' ¨C you''re saying you aren''t the individual who intervened in Tampa?"

    The other shakes his head. "Wasn''t me."

    "Do you know that individual?"

    "No, but I bet a lot of people think I''m lying. I''m not, if that matters."

    "That''s fair. How do you possess these abilities? Are you human?"

    The other laughs. "That''s blunt. Yeah, human as far my human parents know. I won''t go into specifics, but the literal description of what I can do is psychic telekinesis, right? But don''t worry, I can''t read your mind, it''s just a coincidence that I know you''re thinking ''He wouldn''t admit it if he could.''" He laughs again. "I''ve never called it telekinesis. I call it Control. I control objects, I control myself, it''s how I fly."

    "Why did you decide to speak with us?"

    "Why not? What''s the harm?"

    "You wear a mask, that would seem to indicate some concern over your identity."

    "Yeah, but not in the way you think, this mask is just convenience. If I showed my face I would never be left alone for the rest of my life. Obviously I don''t care that you know I''m a white guy, and I''ll happily tell you that I''m not rich, I''m not famous, I''m a normal guy and I love my country, but for celebrities, it can be a bit much."

    "That''s true, it can be a lot. Do you understand why these spheres have been happening?"

    "Yes. There are certain people, like myself and like the First, who have, frankly, a bastard relationship with Control. There was something fundamentally lacking in that unfortunate man and the woman in Tampa. They never had, and they would never have, what I and the First have. They cause these disasters, but it''s not deliberate."

    "You make it sound as though, for lack of a better phrase, they are waiting to go off."

    "No, it isn''t like that. I know there''s been no official identification made of the woman in Tampa, but everyone assumes she was from the destroyed apartment with the dead man in it. He was a known domestic abuser and he probably attacked her and he might have been trying to kill her when she stopped him, and that''s what caused the sphere. Like that woman, I think something terrible must have also happened to this man, and that''s happened with every sphere, where every time it''s a person being driven to the very brink of their life. If this is a lesson in anything it''s not to be afraid, it''s to be more compassionate."

    "Well said. What happened at the end, when that man disappeared?"

    Andrew watches the man in the red hat sigh.

    Redhat he thinks.

    "He disintegrated himself."

    "You''re saying that it was self-inflicted?"

    "Yes. When he was driven to that point he underwent, ah, I''ll call it psychic break, and his unstable connection with Control began to consume everything around him. When a sphere can go no farther, at that point I think the person at the center is the last thing consumed. I think I interrupted that process, and it cut to the end."

    "Fascinating. Do you believe there will be more spheres?"

    "Do you not? How many are we at? At least six, with two in four days. I doubt the rate continues like this, but on the other hand, how do we know these haven''t happened in places where the news never got out? Like a remote village that''s wiped out and nobody''s checked on them for months. I''m sure someone has an idea of exactly how many spheres have happened, but even if it is just six, no matter how optimistic I am, I have to think more will happen. But I''ll intervene every time I can."

    "Wow. Well, thank you."

    "It''s truly the least I can do. I''m good on questions, so here''s the reason I''m talking to you: to all other Controllers, if you had any doubt after Saturday, this should clear that up¨Cyou''re not alone."

    He turns back to the police, but seems to change his mind, as he rises and disappears into the sky.

    The projector shuts off and the lights come up and the class fills with chatter. Andrew''s gaze is locked until his professor speaks over the noise. "Holy shit that was cool! Also maybe a little terrifying! Where are we at?" He makes a show of looking at his watch and says "Don''t care, everything will be online, enjoy your lunches or whatever."

    Andrew reaches for his phone without looking, fingertips grazing rubber. In his hand he stands and pockets it and in rote motion stows notebook and recorder and walks down the row and out of one hall for another. He knows his phone has messages from Emilia and Michael and Devaris and he has everything in the world to say but no idea where to start as he walks down a flight of stairs, into the entrance hall, through double-double glass doors with vestibule in-between and into the brightness of midday. He could sprint to lunch.

    Andrew sits on a bench outside one of the food courts, face to the sun that''s pleasant on his closed eyes. He distincts a large and obvious Marques-shaped figure in the field.

    "Sup Drew, you see that shit in Denver?"

    "Yes I did." says Andrew, eyes still closed.

    The identity of a less-obvious figure is unknown until he speaks, Devaris, "World''s crazy, what''s up!"

    They go through the lines and find a table, Devaris ignores his plate. He recounts his interrupted workout, how he was in the squat rack when his music went silent for the pop-pop-lull-pop attenuations of notifications. "Y''all, my phone vibrated off the bench. He says he''s not psychic," accusatory finger in front of his grin, "then he says of course he''d say that he couldn''t read your mind. He''s fucking with us! The government was trying to make psychics forty years ago, now they got them!"

    Andrew thinks "Yeah, he is fucking with you. He knows exactly how many spheres there have been, same as me." He reads the messages from Michael, a single long BROOOOOOOO at the top.

    Devaris, finger still out, pivots to point at Andrew. "What''d you think of that guy?"

    Andrew, distracted, says "Who, Redhat?"

    "''Red Hat?''" Devaris'' confusion is brief, then his fingers snap. "Redhat!" he''s on his phone, tapping away.

    "He was incredible. He just saved so many lives, not to mention all those buildings, not to mention Coors Field."

    Devaris laughs, "Yeah, and Mile High. You would be thinking about baseball, but you''re right. Jesus. Jesus. He says those people have ''psychic break,'' what do you think? Made up sob story from some super black CIA-DOD Manhattan Project shit? He called it ''Control,'' you know that''s exactly the kind of name some spooks would cook up. So they start making these guys, some are like, sleeper agents, or secret test subjects who have their memories wiped and have no idea what they are until. . . boom."

    Andrew says "I hope not," as he reads the lone message from his father: We''ll talk when you''re home.

    "They''re all fucking scary," says Faars, "they''re living weapons. What are normal people supposed to do about that?"

    Devaris tisks and sets his phone down. "Bro, what''d I just say? The government made these guys, so the government must be able to turn them off. Look at them! Tampa wearing an Adidas jacket and this Redhat motherfucker has a USA hat and Ray-Bans. You think it''s a coincidence the first sphere was in Germany and ''The First Controller'' was wearing Adidas? You know what this is about? The tech is getting out, all these other countries are about to have it, so we need to show ''Confidence in Capitalism and the American Way!'' It''s subliminal! Look at what he said, there are other Controllers, and it''s going to keep happening. Of course it is, they''re all in on it!"

    The table laughs, even Andrew.

    Faars says "Yeah, okay."

    Andrew walks to his next class. The energy from Sunday is back in the air, he sees groups gathered everywhere, talking about and watching the sphere and the interview. Again he can''t help his own feeling of excitement, glad greetings to the people who call out his name. He reaches a street that divides the campus and the city and pauses to look across at new construction.

    Fences surround the building that covers a full block, its exterior the same red as the university buildings. He admires the grand facade with tall blue mirrored windows set between deep red marble columns with white plinths and corniced molding below gables decorated with alligators in low relief. The fences have two repeated logos that read UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA and CANTON CENTERS FOR REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH.

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    He looks within, the building could be in use already, with figures in almost every room and hallway. They move and place equipment, they stand on ladders in ceilings, working on ventilation and running cable. He withdraws and notices a man taking a picture of the building, and close to that man he notices a young woman shaking her head. He turns back, his pace picking up, and texts Emilia. His afternoon is in physics, his professor deviating from his plan to spend the hours talking about Control. A spookish name, Devaris is right about that, but a far better name than gift.

    He works out, he jogs to Emilia''s empty apartment and showers.

    A washcloth hangs on his shoulder. He stares through the illusion, a horizontal plane manifested in the stream of the shower, water droplets bouncing off so energetically they turn to a second spray. He dismisses the plane and starts again, from a point he expands as a sphere until it blocks the water. He changes it to a cylinder, to a cone, pyramid, cube, and sphere again. He dismisses half of the sphere and watches droplets again bounce vigorously off the inverted dome, then he hollows the dome, beads sliding around the invisible surface they cannot wet.

    He greets Emilia with a kiss, they walk to dinner. Her heel is light on his foot, she taps his shin as she smiles at him across the small table and says "You were right!"

    "Yeah, it''s still so weird to think about. But I''m glad."

    She says "Me too. It''s crazy that it happened again so quickly. The sphere and another. . . Controller. That''s a funny word, I like psychic more."

    "I don''t know, it''s growing on me. Whatever the word is, it''s great. Two stopped so far, maybe the next time it happens another one will show up. And the time after that, and after that."

    She says "Or, hopefully they stop completely. Maybe those poor people who cause the spheres subconsciously understand what they can do and they''re afraid of it, but knowing that people are out there who can help will make them feel better and give them, well, control over it."

    He feels the urge to lean across the table and kiss her, and he does. "You''re brilliant. I never considered that. God, I hope so."

    They eat, he gets the check. When they''re outside he asks "Hey, have you seen that Canton building going up just off campus?"

    Emilia shakes her head, "Canton, like that boxer?"

    "Yeah, same guy, John Canton."

    She says "I''ve driven by it, but I''ve never really looked at it."

    "It''s beautiful. We''re not that far from it, do you want to go look at it?"

    She takes his arm, "Yeah, let''s go."

    Their path takes them to the back and along the side, where storeys of red brick are punctuated by narrow bands of concrete that continue the alligator motif. The entrance is partially obscured by the fence, but he can see the upper halves of columns of the same stone as the side that faces campus, supporting a covered drive that has metal lettering on each side with soft orange backlighting: CANTON CLINIC ¡ª UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA. He sees fewer figures than he did in the afternoon, but it''s not by much. Andrew says "They''re putting in a lot of work on this."

    Emilia says "It shows. This is beautiful."

    "The front is the best part."

    On the next street Andrew sees a woman ahead, near the center of the facade, carrying a sign. When they get closer to her she turns, and Andrew realizes it''s the young woman he saw before. He reads the sign. UQ = EUGENICS

    He considers stopping at the edge, but decides to continue on to the center, close to the protester. Emilia says "Wow. I really like the alligators."

    "It''s a good touch."

    "Do you want to go back to my apartment now?" she asks.

    "Yeah. . . actually, one moment." He walks to the woman. "What are you protesting?"

    She looks a little surprised at this, "Oh, um. I''m not that good at this, I don''t have any pamphlets yet and that would tell it better. You could Google UQ Eugenics and our page would show up."

    Emilia joins him and adds, "Well, I don''t know anything about this, I''m sure you''ll do fine."

    The young woman looks away and then back at them, "Okay. So some people have this thing called the UQ-Marker, it''s genes that make them like, really healthy, and good athletes. So these Canton Clinics offer sperm, and eggs I think, that are UQ-Marker, and they''re getting really popular, but what about all these people who don''t have that? It''s like saying they aren''t good enough, like that they don''t deserve to have kids like them, and no one here is doing anything about it. And the University partnered with them, which is like a public endorsement that only people like that should get to live and procreate."

    "Huh." says Emilia.

    "Thanks for the explanation." says Andrew.

    When they''re far enough away from the woman Emilia asks "What do you think?"

    "I''ve actually read a bit about this, I was just curious what she was going to say. Have you heard anything about the family of David Owen and the Harvard and Johns Hopkins study on him?"

    She says "I''ve heard the name but I can''t think of anything specific."

    "There''s this guy named David Owen, he''s still alive, he''s spent time living between West Virginia and Maryland, his family lives in both. He was born in 1955 and he has sixteen children, and all of them are still alive, and now he has hundreds of grandchildren and great-children. Every time one of the Owens becomes pregnant or impregnates someone the pregnancy is carried through to term without issue. In the mid-90s someone finally noticed that all these Owens have clockwork perfect three trimester pregnancies, perfect births, and perfectly healthy kids. Every time. No congenital conditions, no stillbirths, no dangerous complications, perfect every time. Harvard and Johns Hopkins studied them and a few other families they identified, and twenty years later they announced their results as the existence of the UQ-Marker, UQ as in Upper-Quartile. It''s more than just ''really healthy'' like that girl said, there was a natural cause mortality rate of zero during the study. That''s part of the thought of why it took so long to notice, these people never need to go to the doctor and for a long time the population was small enough, or seems like it was small enough, that the odd highly healthy person didn''t stand out, but their numbers keep increasing, and that''s probably the second biggest discovery of that study. The UQ-Marker is inherited perfectly every time. Someone with it has children with it one hundred percent of the time, and the same for their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

    Emilia says nothing, a focused look on her face. Andrew adds "I''ve known you for almost a year, I don''t think I''ve ever seen you under the weather."

    She says "I''ve never been sick. That''s how my mom is, and my grandmother. They''ve always said we''re blessed, I guess that''s what I thought it was."

    "A blessing seems like the right word for it. It''s the same for me, my dad has it. He actually told me about it when I was a kid, before the study had been published. The military has known about this for a long time, and they sort-of told him he had it in when he was in the Air Force."

    She says "So. . . since this passes on perfectly, and all of our children¨C" the double meaning hits both and Emilia blushes while Andrew grins at her "¨Cwill have it and so will their children, there''s nothing stopping it, right? Eventually everyone will have it."

    Andrew nods, "And that''s my thought. It''s a snowball, or more like an avalanche. There''s no stopping it. I''m not unsympathetic to the argument of that girl. I can''t imagine what it must be like for people who don''t have it and know that. But that''s why what Canton is doing is necessary, so that a person who doesn''t have it can ensure their child does. It''s still shitty that they have to make that choice, but it''s better than not having that choice, especially since in however many generations everyone is going to have it no matter what anyone does."

    "Do you want kids?" asks Emilia.

    "Yeah, I do."

    "I do too. I want a bunch of them," she says.

    "That would be nice."

    Her cheek is warm against his chest.

    The blind spirit wanders through construction. Through atrium and long corridors. To elevator shafts, basement tunnels, to a large room with rows of metal chassis, slowly filling with servers. Clinic rooms to offices to a hidden courtyard. He could stay all night; he does.

    Gym, breakfast, class. He goes for a run before sunset, a different route than usual, one that takes him past the future clinic. He looks across the city as he runs. He sees Emilia standing at her stove, he sees the figures around her, through wall and floor and ceiling. He returns to himself but stays in the field, lingering now on a figure close to him on a side street making sweeping motions in front of a wall. Curious, he jogs toward them. They''re finished when he arrives, still standing in front of the spraypainted wall they take pictures of. Red hat, US flag. Sunglasses. Black ski mask. "Sup," says the masked artist.

    "I like this."

    "Thanks," they say, and they grab their bag and run off.

    Andrew reaches for his phone and takes a picture of the mural, sending it to Michael. He gets a response when he''s walking into Emilia''s building. Haven''t seen any graffiti of Tampa ;)

    Gym, breakfast, class. An afternoon run, the same route as the day before. He knows the crowd well ahead of his arrival, unsure of what to expect and unsure of what to think when he sees and hears them. Signs and many marching, chanting magnified by bullhorn. Maybe this is healthy, maybe this is right. A futile cry against fate, but against inequity as well. This may be our future, but do not forget who we were. For lots cast before birth, before your parents'' birth, before your grandparents'' birth. If asked, who would decline? He didn''t choose, his father didn''t choose, his grandfather didn''t choose. They were, they are, he is. His children will be. He can see them, the dark hair and eyes and high cheeks of their mother. Would they have his gift? Should they? Would it be better that none had it and the world be free of spheres as well? He suddenly wants to laugh. This gift, Control, and he only reacts. He could shape the world, and he only reacts, and only once at that.

 14 - Faceless

    FILTERS 14

    FACELESS

    One week.

    Finals. Spring practices. He runs, he flies, he runs again.

    Two weeks.

    Spring practices. He runs, he flies.

    He feels the pulse.

    Fuck.

    He lands, he runs again. Up the stairs, into his dorm. Phone and remote flying to his hands.

    Twitter open. #PsychicSphere

    30 Minutes. Singapore.

    The sphere churns on. Just as clouds insinuate an afternoon shower a speck of red appears in the sky and the sphere freezes. Andrew, heart pounding, moves to an arm''s length from the screen, eyes straining for detail, but the camera offers no more. The red speck connects with a tan speck and the former flies away after the latter vanishes.

    He sits down on the floor, then lies down, eyes wandering the ceiling. The moment of excitement and relief has passed, there''s something different now. A growing feeling that presses on his mind and emerges as challenge. Only ten figures in damages, how philanthropic. Only five figures in deaths, praise and thanks be to you, savior. Our refuge and our fortress, our shepherd who delivers us, for only ten thousand perished. Yea, you heard their cries, you raise the dead to the heavens, greater in the glory they bring to you, LORD.

    Andrew sits up and wipes his eyes and chokes and coughs and breathes deeply and is back out the door, running.

    Three weeks.

    Year-end meetings, the last of the spring practices, the last team gathering, and last conversation with his coach. The championships are cheered, expectations are laid. Many look at Andrew.

    There''s a watch party at Heavener, the theater goes wild as Twelfth Overall Pick¡ªDallas Cowboys¡ªDevaris Walker flashes on the screen and cameras show casinos through windows in the Nevada hall where Devaris, swaggering and sparkling blue-suited, makes his way to the stage in front of another raucous crowd, to dap with the commissioner and wink and grin as he holds the white-and-blue 1 jersey, a single finger pointed up.

    Andrew glances at a clock and falls to sudden thrall. He sees the summer in front of him, of the trip to Texas and hugs and shaking hands with dark-haired dark-eyed faceless figures, Emilia beside him. He sees autumn, the ball spinning slowly through the air as his hands take hold and he runs, easy jaunts left and right to beat pathetic defenders better called statues and drops the ball in a great white rectangle, slate gallery forty yards behind. The winter that will not find him here. Spring and Fall, again, again. Standing suited in the antechamber at some venue in some city, waiting again for his name to be called and a procession made, to put on a hat and to dap with the commissioner and grin at a faceless audience.

    Do you know what I am? Let me tell you. Will you hate me? I may hate myself, now. No, you see, I signed my name on a piece of paper when I was eighteen and when broken souls weren''t taken by terror to swallow cities. I owed it to a school to catch a ball, and now that these old men promise me fortune I could rend from the very Earth my God-damned self I''m going to sign my name to another piece of paper and redshirt disaster as a red hat saves the world, thirty, forty, hey sometimes even sixty percent at a time. I slide the ring up the finger of a faceless figure and build my faceless family. At least I didn''t get caught.

    At least I didn''t get caught.

    He runs, and runs.

    Four weeks.

    Graduation. No spheres. Andrew stands for pictures with Devaris and Marques.

    Devaris slaps his back and says "You made this happen."

    Andrew brushes him off. "You did all the work, I just had to catch."

    Devaris says "Yeah, I did all the work. That''s why you got that trophy in Heavener."

    A warm breeze follows them off-campus, to the house Devaris and Marques will soon no longer share, where jackets and ties are left and Andrew swaps Oxfords for Ultraboosts and an Uber is called that the three barely fit inside. The driver recognizes them and talks energetically, Andrew ignores this, and with knees force closed by the extended position of a brown leather seatback he instead looks at his phone.

    They''re dropped at an intersection of a street of another neighborhood and walk to a tall but not particularly wide three-story house, white with a large porch in the front. Devaris is mobbed at the steps, Andrew stays outside, walking around the house to the back where he''s thankful to receive casual greetings by a group around a pointless fire. He reads a message from Emilia, she''s at another house, another gathering.

    Devaris comes out, Marques following, and the group cheers their arrival. He gestures a "Let''s go" and leads them back toward the university, to the row of fraternities, endless figures at every one. Andrew again stays outside, there''s a lit basketball court and a lonely ball and as he takes shots others join. Andrew considers going inside just in time for Devaris to find him and say "Let''s get food" and now they''re at the restaurant Emilia recommended so many months back, busy not-rush, Andrew with his back to the door, Devaris every-so-often looking up to wink and grin as he talks about pre-season camp. Another Uber. Another house. The one Emilia is at.

    He''s sitting next to her on a couch in the basement, baseball game on. Emilia says "So. . . you''re going to be looking for an apartment soon, and I was thinking¨C"

    Andrew feels the pulse.

    Twitter open. #PsychicSphere

    Just now. Bern, CH.

    Andrew falls into his head, hearing nothing, eyes processing little.

    He says "There''s a sphere in Switzerland."

    Emilia says something and squeezes his arm.

    He fixates on the score bug, runs, base positions, outs represented as three transparent baseballs, none opaque, no outs. Bases transparent, no runners. Ball. Strike. Grounder through the hole at second. First base turns yellow. Next up, Ball. Strike. Looped into left, the runner was going, first and third are yellow.

    Andrew says something. He can''t remember what.

    He feels her nails press lightly into the back of his neck. It could feel pleasant. She says something else. First-pitch swinging, base hit, a run crosses the plate, corners still lit yellow.

    Her hand is on his thigh. She says something else. His phone is back in his pocket, his arm around her waist. Base hit, runners on the corners.

    She says something pointed. Pop fly, runners can''t advance. One out.

    Andrew says "I''m not ignoring you."

    "Maybe Redhat''s on his way."

    He feels her warmth. He sees the line where he cannot reach, where her skin begins, where heat flows and falls away. Strikeout. Two outs.

    She says "Andrew?"

    He looks at her and into her eyes and she leans forward and he begins to accept this but he stops her in a start, waking in a plummet, sudden panic, his mind finally breaking through to say THIS WILL NOT END WELL.

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.He pushes her back and stands up and says "I can''t be here right now."

    Emilia stands and says "Why?"

    He turns toward the stairs and says "I''m going home."

    She misses in a grab for his hand and pleads, "Ll¨¦vame contigo."

    He stops at the base of the stairs and looks at her and says "I can''t."

    He''s up the stairs and out of the house, running.

    A block over when he hears "Hey, Drew!"

    He doesn''t stop.

    "ANDREW FUCKING BLACK!"

    Devaris is behind him and gaining. Andrew considers sprinting, but he slows and stops. Devaris reaches him and without pausing begins to shout, "What the fuck was that? I see you tearing up the stairs and I look down them and I see Emilia crying."

    Andrew is pacing, he can''t speak.

    Devaris'' eyes narrow. "What''s going on?"

    Andrew shakes his head.

    Devaris curses. "Seriously, what is it with you? You hate parties, you hate chilling with us. You just made your girlfriend cry. I hear you''ve been running like fifteen miles a day. Man I was pumped when you announced last year but, what, who are you? All this, and what¨C"

    Andrew is suddenly angry. "''And what?'' And we won every game. You''re about to be starting for the Cowboys, and fucking what."

    Devaris looks at the ground. "Yeah man, I know. You got that trophy. But the season''s been over for months, I figure we''d, y''know, be friends in the meantime."

    Andrew says "Dev, you''re a good guy, and a great football player, but football is the only reason I''m here."

    Devaris looks at Andrew, his own anger rising, "Wow, thanks. Football''s it? Really? Why do you want to play so bad? What''s the point of being who you are if this is what you''re going to do with it? You might as well be a robot that''s only switched on for games."

    "That''s not it."

    "Then what is?" asks Devaris.

    "Didn''t you feel your phone go off? The sphere in Switzerland? How long can this go? Hopefully Redhat''s blasting through the sky to get there but is that what we have to do now? Wait and pray a single guy shows up while everyone else stands around completely fucking helpless?"

    Devaris says nothing.

    Andrew says "Don''t you get it?"

    Devaris looks away again and shakes his head, but it isn''t disagreement.

    "This isn''t the government and you know it. Maybe, maybe it was at first, but it''s gotten away. Even if other Controllers show up and stop the spheres, so fucking what? How many more people are going to die?"

    Devaris looks at him. "Why is this your problem?"

    "It''s everyone''s problem. We have to find a solution, that''s what I have to do. It''s better than nothing. Play football and make money and fund a solution. Or something. . . anything else."

    Devaris has an incredulous look, then he''s bent over, laughing, "You want to save the world! I been calling you a robot all year and it''s because you fucking are! Sent from the future to play football so good you bring peace to all mankind. Jesus, you''re making me feel bad because I like to fuck."

    He keeps laughing, and he walks up and puts a hand on Andrew''s shoulder. "I don''t understand you, but when we finally play each other for real and I kick your ass, I''ll write a check to your foundation. No joke."

    They go back to the fraternity, there''s a mob around a television. Yankees at Rays, packed house. Five in the top of the eighth, bottom eighth, two answered so far, bases loaded. Crushed to the far catwalk. Both houses erupt.

    Marques catches up with them at a diner. They stay until the bar crowd shows.

    Outside, Devaris says "Answer your texts," and sticks a hand out, "Thanksgiving?"

    They shake, Andrew says "Yeah, Thanksgiving. Good luck at big boy camp, guys."

    Andrew stands outside Emilia''s apartment building. He sees her figure, lying in bed, her form curled, he thinks her knees must be pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. He could stand here and open the balcony of his dorm and put everything in the bag and bring it here and go to her apartment and show her. He could simply walk into her apartment, opening every lock along the way, and actually show her. Or he could look again at the message already typed on his phone and press send and never see her again.

    He runs, he flies, he runs again. Up the steps, through the mudroom, into the kitchen. The house is quiet, his family sleeps. He leaves his bag on the kitchen island and skips the stairs on the way to his bedroom. He lies down and stares at the ceiling.

    His mother''s alarm rings. As she makes her way to the kitchen and examines his bag, he joins her. "Hey, mom." he says, walking into the kitchen.

    She hugs him. "Good morning, when did you get here?"

    "Last night."

    She makes coffee and sits beside him at the table. He enjoys the quiet next to her. Eventually she asks "What''s it like up there, when you''re in the sky?"

    Andrew smiles. "It''s incredible, every single time." He repeats. "Every single time. I''ll never get tired of it, I could stay up there forever and it''s just Gainesville. I have these silly fantasies where I''m in a real city like New York or Chicago or even Los Angeles. I got a taste of that when I was in Mexico City but I didn''t get to appreciate it. Maybe I''ll get too again soon. I want to."

    His mother places her hand on his cheek. "I love you so much, Andrew."

    "I love you too, mom."

    She finishes her coffee. He talks about Devaris and Marques, about tickets for the Thanksgiving game¨C"He''ll be able to get you tickets?"¨C"Yeah, he''s going to be starting for them."¨Cand about his exams, the spring practices and end-of-year meetings and plans for his apartment. He doesn''t talk about Emilia.

    "Dad''s up."

    James comes down the stairs and into the kitchen. His parents kiss, his mother goes back up the stairs. The conversation with his mother mostly repeats with his father.

    They eat, his father watches a recent clip of Redhat and says "We knew you weren''t the only one."

    "Yeah." says Andrew. "I just didn''t think it would break like that."

    "What do you think of him?" asks his father.

    "He''s doing everything I should be doing." says Andrew.

    "Now that he''s out there, your burden has lessened¨C"

    Andrew cuts his father off. "No, dad, it''s raised it."

 15 - Other

    FILTERS 15

    OTHER

    Sight falls on another man. Physically gifted but indifferent to sport. When he was young his parents saw athleticism without joy. He felt no call to prove himself, he had no concept of having something to prove. His parents pushed him to other endeavors but he wouldn''t sit for piano or stand for violin but he would read and think. Youthful idling wonder about his soul and the souls of those close to him. Naive consideration of success without proof and of failure and the unrequited and the strange feeling of control.

    He had good parents. He loved them but he never told them that last truth. His father had a troubled home and mostly raised himself, he took such life for granted, as if all sons made their way with little from their fathers. His mother had no brothers and held in faith they were doing right. They were Christians and they did as Christians did. He had the Book for morals and his parents for example. His examples were better than most but from circumstance comes responsibility and that loving home and easy life did not temper his ability. When his nights extended and became his subject he hid away to read and think on questions of power and greatness. He could have told his clever father, but his father was not cautious like he was. He could have told his clever mother, but she would tell his father.

    Long nights in books and screens, light always edged his door. Insomnia he explained, I''m fine. His grandmother had it too. His grades were good, his teachers loved him, he never seemed to struggle. All the easier for his parents to ignore. The sleepless elite his mother once said, executives and generals need less sleep than most. Yes mother, less.

    He finished school at the top of his class and went to college. Easy in his mien and attractive to his peers. Taller than most and better physique, the latter was also unintended. Those around him could feel his conviction. He is different than you. He wasn''t justified by his power, he still had no concept of what it meant to prove. But he had moral certainty that he was different and that brought indelible change. Shared experience fruits compassion and offers an escape from despair. Others did not feel what he felt, he found nothing in years of search and soon he could not stand being alone. He needed to know he was not alone. They could feel it. When he talked to a woman and looked in her eyes and could not hide that conviction as if God said You will not be enough. It pushed some, it drew others. One among the many who looked and felt dismissed out of hand and became unrequited. She yearned and leapt and lost herself to the throes of his silence.

    He was not cruel but he was honest. He told a truth. I am not your one he said, and in time despite his promise of fleeting attention she asked for what he would not give and one more joined the many. He had good friends and he loved them. They might spend days together, but he could hide the truth, so they would never notice and they would never ask. One more secret. He did not talk about adolescence and he did not talk about control. He thought there was nothing he could say. If he were in their place he would be afraid.

    He finished college but didn''t quite join the world. He worked at home and lived alone, but he had a dog to keep him company. He would be God to his dog even were his dominion figurative; she would believe he walked on air even if he couldn''t. His house was in a forest close to a town that was far from any city and he would walk into the trees and raise into the sky where he screamed to the heavens God, don''t let me be alone.

    He waited.

    He was standing at his desk when he felt the crashing wave. A wave, a pulse, a call¨Cof meaning, of proof, of greatness. His mind took to search his sight and he found nothing. He held his dog and typed. I scheduled this because something came up and I could be gone awhile. If you''re reading this please take care of my dog.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    It was summer, he had flown in daylight and he knew the countryside. He passed the farmlands of the plains, rolling runs of maize split by roads and windbreaks. Past alluvial land on the Missouri and then the Mississippi, to great concrete webs and Chicago and Lake Michigan and the border, Toronto somewhere east, to Quebec and for¨ºt bor¨¦ale and bouclier canadien. But he felt no closer and still found nothing in his sight and he screamed again now to the sun and made the journey home. He said sorry to his dog and at his desk finally saw what he had felt and in that destruction and loss of life he wondered if he too would have died.

    He was cautious. He did not feel earthquakes or storms but he felt that because he could wreak calamity himself. He feared he had already. What ill servant but creeping hunger that formed a maw and bit earth and sky and devoured difference itself until only sand was left. They were different, we now are joined as victims of this power. The righteous some who would want him dead before the first; then there were four. Then there were five.

    I could reach that he thought. I could see it. And what of death? asked a voice. Yes, what of it. Fly when I want, and what? And what. Stand away in evening and morning and wait and wait. Love no one. Sow nothing. Be nothing. What of death? Don''t you know who you ask? Yes, I''ll let the sun spin on until I won''t leave my dog when I go. That my talent which is death to hide, lodged with me useless¨Cbut a voice replied "Another."

    In rain a flash of white above the blue. Above spanning bridges and the bay and little jutting inner peninsulas with lines of trailing wakes of boats that rushed to spectate or evade. He had a glimpse. In the city a second glimpse. A third above a campus. Another between towers and finally in full sight at the teeth. Another. An other. He saw and understood but was still dumbfounded. He could do what they had done. He could do what they had done. In white and black and through the teeth into the very throat that could not harm them, only fall around them and with a final lash strike revelation of a third. Then he saw the woman perish. No he said, two of us, the other five were broken.

    He wondered about this other, about this First. Every inch concealed before the white rainjacket. He wondered if it was some last need to express themselves, or perhaps German camaraderie. He felt foolish, he should have known someone was at the center. Did they know this too? And did they know it couldn''t harm them or did they only guess? Maybe they were also tired of a life spent waiting. Maybe when they felt the pulse they too took flight and at some post over the ocean screamed as well and turned. Did they worry they were alone, or did they even care? I make two, there must be others. But where? Have they found ways to spend their light? That one has, he stopped destruction.

    I can stop it too. I can stop it too.

    He ran with his dog and ate with his friends and fell into bed with a woman. For the first time he thought maybe I can tell her. Not this her but that Her. There must be more. There must be someone for me. He stood and read and watched everything he could find. Footage of the other at the barrier and then their work in the city. Razing buildings and recovering those within. His approach from and return to the gulf. Reports of sightings everywhere but only one compelling: the ring in Mexico. This gave him pause then troubled question. If they knew what they could do, why hadn''t they before? Was it curiosity¨Cor was it contrition.

    He waited unburdened. He would stop the next. Of course, he did not wait long.

    He held his dog but did not write a message. West this time, still over verdant plains, but soon he saw the mountains. Fresh eyes beheld destruction, the swarming mass of teeth. He saw the person that stood within and took their power from them.

    Then he found the camera.

 16 - Giants!

    <h4>FILTERS 16

    GIANTS!

    "What will you do?"

    "Finish school and find someone I can help research this."

    "I didn''t know the scale of your ability until Tampa."

    "I didn''t know myself."

    </h4>

    Andrews bangs on the door as he opens it. "Good morning graduate, get up!"

    Michael startles awake in the bed that Andrew realizes must be new for lack of feet sticking over the end. "Shit, Drew, what''s up."

    "You''re up! I''ll go to school with you and then we''ll get lunch."

    Michael doesn''t move. The bedframe raises and drops.

    "Bro, I just got this bed, don''t break it."

    "And you can''t get used to it, you''re about to move!"

    The comforter is tossed as if by wind and Michael rolls his head up with a scowl. "You''re real fucking cool."

    Michael drives Andrew''s route, who does not follow the warmth in the engines and the tires and the little radiation into the clothing of the figures in the cars. They park in Andrew''s spot, students still call out to him on the path and in the outer commons and inside Michael shakes his head and walks off with "Later, bro." Andrew ignores more calls of his name and steps around the little huddles and pushes through the door to the offices where the receptionists greet him by name and a commotion builds for pictures that goes through the ringing of the bell. Into the windowed halls under blue sky morning light, into the small gym, a bright yellow sticker on his shirt. His old coach blows a whistle and spots him. "Hey, Andrew!"

    They talk and follow the noticeably lessened class outside around the track. With another whistle the group gathers and the coach passes a basketball and says "Alright, go do whatever, just keep active." The football players linger.

    "What''s college ball like?" one asks.

    "Busy. I could give you the gist." They nod.

    "So last summer I started with summer conditioning, all the freshmen have to, but everybody''s there working out. I''m in the gym before sunrise, go to breakfast and then summer class which we have because the fall is so busy they don''t want the players too distracted. Then August camp begins and everything kind of blurs as you''re headed into games, but then you''re on the field at Lucas Oil or Mercedes-Benz and it''s all worth it."

    More pictures, with the coach and the players. Andrew stays until the end of the period and follows the students back through the small gym and to the head coach''s office who greets him with "I heard the Heisman was in the house!"

    "Hey, coach."

    "Great damn season, Andrew. No surprises here."

    Andrew doesn''t think his laugh conveys his annoyance as he looks over the now-small-to-his-sensibilities trophy case in the office. "When Walker wins the Super Bowl in a few years maybe people will finally listen when I tell them he''s the best. He was turning miracles at Florida and it''s like me and Jerry Jones were the only ones who noticed."

    "I should have known better. How''s it been? How''s it looking?"

    "Good. We got that Smith Kid from Harvard-Westlake. He should be able to manage."

    Andrew watches the end of the mock procession in the large gym, his brother the tallest of the group where some wear red hats with US flags and others wear white Adidas rain jackets. Michael drives them to a sports bar where day baseball has started and they watch and eat and leave and listen to play-by-play in the car and finish the game at home, then it''s time to leave again. James avoids the freeways, taking the shaded roads with few intersections and traffic as sparse as spotlights until they near the stadium. Someone recognizes Andrew at the giant steel bird and he politely waves and then they''re past the long wall of doors where Michael is guided off by a chaperone he''s a head above. Andrew watches in the field, his brother down the concrete ramps and through the caverns to the gathered mass of students. Above they find their seats. When they''ve settled a hand touches his shoulder and a voice says "Pardon me young man."

    Andrew''s smile is automatic but it fills as he turns to a man whose wrinkles fit the faded Braves hat snug behind his ears, a fray on the edges and worn marks where the man''s thumb and forefinger must have pulled to adjust a thousand times. A woman beside him has wrinkles too and a ring and a jacket hanging over the armrest onto the man''s thigh but her soft sideways glance is what speaks familiarity of every time this man has invited himself to converse with strangers. "Would you happen to be Andrew Black?"

    "Yep, that''s me."

    "I thought so. You''re quite the football player."

    "Oh, thanks."

    "Why aren''t you playing for the Bulldogs?"

    "They didn''t try that hard, probably because their offense is so good already. And I wanted to play with Devaris Walker, so."

    "But he''s graduated." The man looks off. "He''s going to the uh, Cowboys, right?"

    "Yeah, but the kid we''ve got coming in looks good."

    "Compared to Walker?"

    "He just has to get me the ball."

    "I suppose that''s true, isn''t it."

    Andrew looks below again, to the students walking through the tunnels. He easily finds his brother, taller than the rest who walk in¨Cwell, all his shadows. Shadows. . . Andrew wonders if his brother will become the more famous Black in-name, the one who strangers recognize and ask for pictures and friendly seniors wonder why he isn''t pitching for a local school and once his skill is proved which team might tank in hopes their draft pick is close enough to the top to grab the next 6''7 Uncle Charlie from Georgia. It would be cool to have you on campus. It will be cool to have Michael on campus, someone he can finally talk the truth to without a dark flight or unfulfilling cryptic texts, someone who will understand when he asks him what the fuck he''s doing running all the time and treating Emilia like that and hold him to something better. Andrew shakes his head and takes a deep breath and in his greater sight he suddenly sees someone different. Standing behind railing in a section that might be for wheelchairs, a man whose chest and shoulders are above everyone around him, massive arms with massive hands resting on the railing. He finds their position relative to himself and looks across the stands and can just see the giant.

    After pictures with his family Andrew gladly stands for another with the elderly man but his annoyance grows as Michael''s friends and lowerclassmen Andrew doesn''t recognize group around him for more. In the field he sees the giant trod through the concourse until he''s in sight and unexpectedly talking to Michael. The giant makes Michael look short and small for no lack of muscle anywhere on his body but now Andrew can see his face and finds a curious youth. He walks to them.

    "Hey."

    "Aw shit, Drew Black." says the giant.

    Michael says "This is Marcus, Jerome''s little brother."

    "''Little!'' How old are you?"

    "I''m fifteen." says the giant.

    "Damn. You playing football?"

    Even this slow nod from the giant looks like it could concuss. "I just started at the end of last year."

    Michael says "Milton''s got two freshmen like this."

    "Two? Just like this?"

    "Yeah." says Michael.

    "Jesus."

    The giant holds a phone comically disproportionate in his hand. "Could I get a pic with you, Drew?"

    "Yeah, man." and Michael is handed the phone and takes the picture and this invites a last pair of students to ask after and Andrew apathetically agrees. "That doesn''t happen as much at school. They don''t give a shit."

    Michael says "I don''t give a shit either."

    Their mother sees them laughing and elbowing each other.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    After dinner Michael is in and out of the house quickly. Andrew reads until the pages drag and stands and stretches and goes to his father''s office, who glances at him and then back to the little television. "Have you seen this?"

    "Seen what?"

    James turns the television.

    The title chyron reads CONNECTION FOUND BETWEEN UQ-MARKER & THE HAZE

    "¨Conce we learned that UQM passes every time from parentage it was a simple matter of tracing the lineage to its oldest occurrence. Uniformly, the oldest individuals who bear the UQ-Marker were conceived in March of 1954 which was of course during The Haze."

    "What does that mean?"

    "We couldn''t begin to speculate. As we know, when The Haze disappeared on April 1 all samples taken disappeared as well and the rudimentary techniques used to study the substance at the time fruited nothing. Nothing is known about The Haze. There has always been speculation that the emergence of megaflora and megafauna was connected with that event but the research produced no chronological link like we see in this. This is the closest we have come to something concrete."

    "A fascinating conversation, thank you again for your time, Dr. Cuevas. Coming up at the top of the next hour is John Canton, who will be speaking with us on this discovered link between UQM and The Haze and the fresh controversy this has brought in the work of his clinics. Stay tuned."

    James mutes the television. "The next obvious assumption is that controllers have UQM parents. That''s a filter, Andrew. Your name is going to be on a list if it is not already of potential controllers."

    "I''ll be careful, but I assume it''s a matter of time now."

    They watch muted advertisements until the show returns.

    "We continue our discussion on the the Harvard-Johns Hopkins researchers who have found a possible link between the UQ-Marker and The Haze. Earlier this week the German anti-UQM fertility interventions movement DEB issued a statement freshly condemning the work of John Canton while lawmakers in the states of California, Oregon, and Washington are set to discuss such interventions in the coming weeks. Speaking on this now, John Canton himself joins us live from his office in St. Louis. ''King Canton'' is of course the retired-undefeated world heavyweight champion in boxing and the founder of Canton Holdings, you know him of course for Epitaxial Foundries and the Canton Centers for Reproductive Health, the first and largest fertility clinics exclusively working with UQ-Marker donors. Thank you for joining me, John, what do you make of this discovery and the response to it?"

    "Sure¨Cmy first inclination is dismissal. UQM research has been aware of a possible link with The Haze since the Owens study. The conclusive data is great but this shouldn''t change the world''s approach. If UQM had been found to predate The Haze movements like DEB would find a different reason to pointlessly oppose our work just as they''ve slanderously called it eugenics."

    "Why do you describe their opposition as pointless?"

    "Because UQM is inevitable. The trait passes every time from UQM parents to their children. Even if my centers disappeared overnight or never existed, women who are not UQ-Marker who wished that for their children could simply find a UQM father and naturally reproduce with them. UQM fecundity is well-established, they are highly potent and after conception birth is guaranteed. We saw that in the Owens study and we have seen that in six years of Canton Center-involved births. With successful conception there have been zero miscarriages and stillbirths¨Czero!¨Cthat were not induced by acute injury. In a few hundred years every single human alive will be UQM. My clinics are simply accelerating the process."

    "And of the American lawmakers discussing your operations?"

    "I welcome their discussions and I know that when they''re finished my centers will be that much more secure against future opposition."

    "I see. You mentioned as well that DEB has described your work as eugenics. You call this ''slanderous''¨Cwhy doesn''t it apply? Are you not essentially focusing on the creation of a ''better race?''"

    "It doesn''t apply because we know for a fact UQM exists. This isn''t a disastrous ideology from a century ago, our work is the logical conclusion of the Owens study. UQM individuals are objectively and profoundly healthier and more physically capable than those without. On a demographic level, I happily point to the numerous American minority advocacy organizations who have endorsed our work in the United States. We ignore arbitrary superficial differences, what matters is UQM. That''s it. And on that note, look no further than the data of the study continuation where there is a natural mortality rate of zero. The only UQM individuals who have died have died from external injury. This is a population with a quantifiably zero rate of physiological and neurological illness, disease, and cancer. The oldest UQM individuals are in their sixties. What''s DEB''s worst case scenario? They die on the spot at seventy? Well you know what? A lot of people would take seventy years of perfect health."

    "My mother died in her sixties, I''m sure she would have taken that trade. Earlier in the spring you opened in your forty-eighth state with New Hampshire. You also have international clinics and I''d specifically like to talk to you about your work in Singapore."

    "Of course. We have partnerships with foreign health systems, yes. Canada was our first international partnership, quickly followed by Japan and Mexico, then South Korea, Taiwan, Sweden, and Switzerland. The site in Singapore is still under construction and thankfully it was beyond the boundary of the sphere so it wasn''t at risk even prior to Redhat''s intervention, but that crew is currently assisting in some of the recovery efforts, so the project has been delayed, but it will be back on track soon enough."

    "Yes, the sphere is why I brought it up. While there was already speculation of a relationship between The Haze and controllers, this discovery has caused a surge in social media posts on the connection. What do you think of this, and more broadly, of controllers?"

    "It¡¯s a reasonable conclusion. Just as people have speculated on a connection between The Haze and the changes in plants and animals, we now see this possible connection with UQM. Control could absolutely be a part of that. In the world, I see, to say it as a tremendous understatement, intriguing possibilities. Epitaxial Foundries is one of the contractors researching methods to approach Psychic Break, but with Redhat''s promise to intervene in all future spheres he appears to have bought us time. Between his work and the work of the First I am highly optimistic, just as I saw that you were. There are endless possibilities to these violations of fundamental physical principles. The amount of work that can be done, the possibilities of energy generation and megastructures, the possibility of advancements in spaceflight and solar colonization¡ª"

    "You believe that control could be used to get to space?"

    "These individuals can fly and can lift hundreds of thousands of tons of material. They might not be able to go to orbit, but however high they can go, if they can take rockets that high, it''s that much less fuel that has to be spent. If they can go to orbit, if these individuals can fly to space, then we could escape the tyranny of the rocket equation. These controllers, yes, absolutely. If they can hang craft in orbit themselves we could be colonizing the moon and Mars in a timeframe we never thought possible. I cannot understate how excited I am for the future."

    "These are indeed extremely intriguing possibilities. Great comments, John. If you''ll stick around, we''re going to break."

    James turns the television off. Andrew says "That reminds me, did you see Michael and me talking to that giant at the stadium? He''s fifteen and he''s got to be a foot taller than Michael, and Michael says Milton has two guys that tall."

    His father nods. "You know about this?" asks Andrew.

    "Yes." and his father taps on the tablet and spins it around, showing a group of soldiers, a giant behind them. Shirtless and twice the height of the shortest man and more broad than two of the men combined. "This popped up a couple weeks ago. I would have thought it was a fake if I hadn''t read so many stories lately of unusually tall young people. The popular guess is the gigantism observed in plants and animals has finally made its way to humans."

    "So it''s a matter of time before we regularly see people walking around who are twelve feet tall?"

    "Could be. They''re going to be quite the athletes."

    Andrew shakes his head. "They''re going to have to make a new league for them."

 17 - Summer

    FILTERS 17

    SUMMER

    Space. There''s a thought.

    Andrew hears cicadas. Fruit flies have been to space. And ants. And honeybees. Cicadas haven''t. He sees them in the trees, soft breeze and song of summer, chorus warm with katydids. He could take one and send it high, maybe even to space.

    "My physics professor speculated on the applications of control to space travel, I have the notes and everything, but I should have taken it more seriously."

    James shrugs. "You''ve had a busy month."

    "Yeah, and I''m considering it now. How easy is it to get a spacesuit? Actually. . . what if I don''t even need that? The barrier protects me. Maybe I''d only need oxygen. Maybe I wouldn¡¯t ev¨C"

    "When we thought you were bulletproof you didn''t feel the need to go get shot. You are resilient, but that might end in the cold vacuum." James puts one hand up to his neck and plays the gasping cosmonaut. With the other he reaches out to Andrew, who smiles distractedly.

    "I don''t know. Think about this. I can stare at the sun without issue, I don''t sweat anymore, I can hold my hands in fire and when we were at Don''s for Christmas you saw me outside in the snow in shorts and bare feet and I didn''t feel any discomfort. It was like the pan I grabbed, I could tell how cold it was, it just didn''t register as something I needed to care about. You said The Haze cleansed radiation, well since I gained control I haven''t been sunburned. Maybe radiation doesn''t affect me, so maybe that cold vacuum won''t."

    James is in thought. "I guess we must consider that, but without a safe method to verify the extent of your protections it would be best to avoid the risk."

    ¡°You sound like a lawyer.¡±

    They laugh.

    "I agree, of course,¡± Andrew continues, ¡°Canton could get me a spacesuit."

    "Yes he could, but¨C"

    "But we don''t know if he can be trusted. I could go to him in disguise. I bet he''d still give me one. What do you think about space?"

    "If you can take equipment to orbit, let alone farther, then space would be a powerful use of control; indeed it could be the very best."

    "The best?"

    "As-is, a manned expedition to Mars will happen in the next few decades, but projects at the scale that Canton believes is possible with control would take a manmade solution to the rocket equation without, and there is no guessing the timeframe on that. If you can regularly put ships in orbit before they have to spend fuel? The good of that is in the best sense undefined. You would facilitate rapid colonization of the Moon and Mars, and your impact on posterity would be as unique as it is profound."

    "So I should work for Epitaxial."

    "I''m sure Elon Musk would love to have you, but we already know what Canton wants."

    "There''s still that question of trust. Assuming I can trust him, which I do not, it would be obvious if a controller is working for him. When I''m done with school I''m going to have to announce I''m not playing professionally and that''s going to be news, and then everyone will connect the dots once I''m at Epitaxial."

    "Canton''s one of the wealthiest men in the world and he surely did not reach that place without the ruthlessness you can see in his fights, but there is a difference. He is a man. You have infinite leverage relative to him; you could tear Epitaxial to the ground with him inside, and he will know that. I also think he has the right temperament. I''ve watched his interviews and listened to him on podcasts and he is quite active on social media. He strikes me as trustworthy even without a sword above his head. Furthermore, if you''re working for him, you will be helping him achieve his dreams, he would want to protect you if anything, and as he is a man of considerable influence, having him as your ally could be the greatest way to protect your identity. He will easily be able to compensate you without knowing who you are, if you chose, and if you did divulge your secret, he will no doubt have a way to pay you without anyone knowing it''s through him. Or he may have another solution we have not yet thought of."

    "You''re right. I guess I''m going to work with John Canton."

    James nods, then hmms.

    "What?" asks Andrew.

    "All those things you don''t have to worry about that everyone else does? Are you sure you need to eat? Or drink? Or breathe?"

    Andrew exhales and waits.

    Cicada song fills the office.

    State championships. Michael allows 4 hits in 5 games. Finals against Loganville at Truist, Andrew eyes the pennants. Metal, white text, blue league flags and red world flags ¨C 1995 ¨C 1996 ¨C 1997 ¨C 1998 ¨C 2021 ¨C and he sees the pitch and his brother''s final victim of the day leave the box shaking his head and the team vaulting the dugout rails and throwing their gloves up in the outfield and meeting on the mound to celebrate. Pizza after, packing Piu Bello and overflowing into parking where boxes sit on cars and parents pull out camp chairs, some with faded covers from years spent in the backs of vans and SUVs. A single napkin dances over asphalt; it came from none of the players. These really are the boys of summer, they''re covered in dirt and streaks of eyeblack, add a little grease to the glory. Michael''s grin doesn''t leave his face, the team uproariously recalling every out-of-their-league batter crossed blind at 98 heat into 80 breaking. In another time he would have looked destined for early Tommy John but arms don''t fall off anymore.

    In the cooling cab of his father''s truck Andrew watches the team file into the bus. He can see the heat rising from the seats in the field but he could have guessed it from his few years spent in those stifling boxes. The players quickly pull down windows, he watches one reach for the release handles and whip his hands off hot metal. They all return to Truist, the team taken into the lower tunnels to stand behind home plate, cameras showing the state champions on the jumbotron as Brian Snitker and the rest of the Braves congratulate them and stand together for the anthem before a 7-0 routing of the Marlins. They stand to leave, Andrew sees birds circling, waiting to descend on the seats for the popcorn peanut and sunflower detritus of the crowd and he sees a young woman with a white Adidas rain jacket tied around her waist and he sees a young man in sunglasses and a red hat with US flag.

    He calls Emilia from his bed. He listens to her describe her day, laughs when she shouts esa perra cerrarse. He wonders if she knows the fear he feels, and wishes he could fall asleep to the sound of her voice.

    Another drive to Gainesville, another stop at Publix to wait for their parents, another drive to the dorms and cheery conversation with Susan who asks "You''re moving out, Andrew?"

    "Yeah, special dispensation, part of me coming."

    She''s wearing the national championship shirt. "I''d say it paid off!"

    He carries his belongings in two trips to his car, then makes the short walk to the complex building with his brother''s dorm. Andrew takes a box from Michael''s car and passes him in the hall on the way to the suite four baseball players will share, one of whom is already there and recognizes him.

    "Hey, you''re Andrew Black! Oh, Michael Black, duh. My little brothers play baseball but they''re a lot younger than me. Oh, um, I''m Javier."

    Andrew smiles and sticks his hand out. "Michael''s got all the talent, I just gotta run fast." something familiar hit in the name that Andrew now recalls. "Javier Hern¨¢ndez? You''re the catcher, right? Are you Jos¨¦ Hern¨¢ndez'' son?"

    "Yeah, yeah, that''s my dad." he says with a smile.

    "Wow. I saw him crush a home run when he was with the Cardinals, like ten years ago right after they won the World Series."

    "Oh, yeah! Don Black''s your uncle! I got to meet him back then. He was towering over me. Man you really got a family."

    "Hey, your dad''s still one of those quiet favorites in St. Louis, and I''ve seen that clip of you on YouTube catching that kid trying to steal second. You got it too, man."

    Javier waves his hand and says "He wasn''t fast enough."

    "No kidding." says Andrew as Michael comes back in. "This is that guy you sent me that Jomboy clip of¨C"

    "Yeah I know!" says Michael, "Cool, right? I can''t wait for next spring."

    Andrew says "Me too. I fucking hate football."

    Javier laughs nervously, "What, really?"

    "Nah, I like playing just fine. It''s everything else. But it''s what I''m good at, so."

    Andrew drives behind his parents to the condo they purchased on Bivens, truck pulling a U-Haul trailer full of Ikea boxes. The condominium development could be called a complex but really it''s a single split column of townhouses slightly offset with the curve of the east shore of the lake. A narrow parking lot is ahead of the garages that are the same light blue as the three-floor condos, mid-century modern with concrete accents that just evoke Brutalism. He carries two furniture boxes by ratchet straps, walking over neat and faded but clean red tile, around well-cared-for bushes and flowers and young palm trees in pots, down a short staircase with wrought iron railing. He hears the life that surrounds the lake and sees it in the field and he sees something else. Something half-buried in mud in the marsh banks near the trees, shrouded in water-clovers. How did it get there? How has nobody noticed? He passes sliding glass, entering the open living space-kitchen that continues through the ground-entry semi-basement unit to the lakefront side where his mother stands in the sunroom. They''re at the northern edge of the terraced housing, where the condos meet a small forest that Andrew has been in before, its far side to the back of the veterinary college. A group of canoes drift languidly across the water. Still far from it.

    "I''m glad we purchased this." says his mother.

    "Thank you again, although it feels like saying thanks isn''t enough."

    "Well, with you and your brother earning those scholarships we had the money. . . and your father is right, this is a good investment."

    "Yeah, people here love to mention how property values keep going up."

    "Mmhm. Is Emilia going to move in?"

    "I don''t know. I''d like her to, but if she lived with me, she would notice."

    "If you think you''re going to get married you have to tell her, Andrew."

    Andrew thinks of the way Emilia¡¯s voice gets thick when she whispers du¨¦rmete.

    His father is still at the truck. "I don''t know if we are. I love her, but I keep thinking about what dad said about this being a burden to know. He''s right. I don''t know if I could push that on her. I already don''t like the risk it poses to all of you, adding someone to that feels wrong. You can''t fly away from this. So I think sometimes maybe I should break up with her. Really I think I should have never dated her to begin with."

    His mother shakes her head. "All that extra time to think and you''re being twice foolish."

    It almost stings. "What do you mean?"

    "You would ruin what you have because you might get caught? Who''s to say the world is ever going to learn who you are? Yes, many powerful people are trying but that doesn''t mean they''ll succeed. You are one person in seven billion, Andrew, and they''re not just looking for you, they''re looking for Redhat, and given there are two of you, they may know of others who haven''t been so high-profile. So you would end it on that chance? And wallow in that mistake every day and long night as you imagine what could have been? And that''s not even the big thing that you''ve ignored. When you tell her, she will want all the more to be with you. She will not care if you are caught. She will not care if people know. She will understand why and love you more when you tell her."

    "She''ll be afraid of me."

    "Of course she will. But she will love you for it."

    "Do you?"

    His mother laughs and this makes Andrew laugh and they hug.

    They assemble the furniture. Dining table and chairs, coffee table and couch. The mattress that will see little use rolled-out and off-gassing beside the boxes of the bed frame and desk-dresser and office chair. They finish mounting the television to the living room wall and leave for a late lunch, then his parents are back on the road, headed again for their house on Tybee Island.

    He opens the sliding glass of the sunroom, the warm and humid air floats over him. He has held it in place since he found it, and he walks into the trees, flashlight in hand. He doesn''t hurry, this building also has cameras and there''s no sense in breaking them. Let this look like a casual summer stroll, which it will be when his work is done. He can see the flows of the marsh in the field and he walks carefully to avoid the water. Through bushes and tall grass, the night full of the sounds of tree frogs. Eventually he can go no farther without entering the water, and he clicks off the flashlight and takes himself without flight. He''s in shorts and his feet are bare and he doesn''t mind the mud, but this convenience takes no effort. With the barrier around him he takes quicker steps, through deep growth that falls unyielding to his strides until he finally comes upon the alligator.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    He turns the flashlight on again, prepared for its size as he draws it to the surface but still impressed by the scaled monster longer than his father''s truck. There is a protocol to this for others, call the police, who shout call the fuckin¡¯ governor, who sends the state guard and suddenly it¡¯s a jurisdictional circlejerk of whose job is it to shoot the fuckin¡¯ gator. He can do better. He didn''t want to kill the bear, but he doesn''t regret it, and he would do it again. The bear didn''t deserve to die and neither does this alligator, but if it hurts or kills someone as it so easily could, well that would be his fault and besides, if he doesn''t kill it now he will just call the police which would lead to Dante¡¯s bureaucratic circus. The carcass would be collected for research, but such creatures have been studied for fifty years and they''ll collect others this summer. The here and now is his prerogative: he doesn''t want a circus, and he thinks it best no one ever knows, best no one ever fears.

    He turns the flashlight off and severs the head and sends the body as dust over water-clovers he stirs with a foot before walking back. He watches as a car parks near his condo before a figure walks from it to the sliding glass doors of his unit, peering inside and knocking and raising a phone and knocking again. He walks more quickly, the figure waits, turning back to the steps and sitting, phone still raised, then they abruptly stand again and walk around the back. He knows it''s Emilia before the flashlight catches her. He says "Hey!"

    "Andrew! I was just trying to call you."

    "I thought I heard someone, I''ve been out walking, I left my phone inside."

    "I wanted to surprise you."

    He feigns shock by making his mouth into a big ¡°O¡± then grins. "You have surprised me. Do you want to go look out at the lake?"

    "Yeah" she smiles and puts her arm around his waist, and they continue to the back where they better hear than see the water, no moonlight cast upon it, summer¡¯s song upon them. Emilia turns and looks up at him, and he down at her. She wants to say something, he says nothing, caught in her eyes.

    "That night you made me feel like you stopped loving me all at once. That was the worst night of my life. But you do love me, right?"

    He looks out to where the water should be, unsure, wanting to pick the right words.

    "Yes, I love you,¡± he says, watching her finger scratch a line into the dirt.

    "Then why sometimes do you act like such a bastard?"

    "I can''t tell you."

    "You won''t tell me."

    "Yes."

    "I feel like¨CI know I should be mad and say that''s not good enough, so why don''t I feel that way? Why is that good enough for me? Is it because there''s something wrong with me and I would let you treat me however you want? Or is it because you''re the only person I''ve ever been in love with. Maybe I¡¯m just crazy. I can hear my mother saying to me ''Emilia that g¨¹ero is acting like a cretino, he won¡¯t tell you things, you¡¯ve never even seen him sleep Emilia, something is wrong with him and you think you can fix it and that means you are the one who is stupid.''"

    Andrew says nothing.

    "I have never met anyone like you and that sentiment is so¨Cso common, so vapid¨Cbut true in a way I can''t explain. What is it that I see in your eyes? Sometimes I want to drag one of my friends to you and have her stare in your eyes because I think then she would finally get it when I tell her, but I guess I''m afraid she really would get it and she would fall in love with you right there and what then? What is it that I feel with your arms around me, no. . . it''s always here. It''s always here."

    Andrew says nothing.

    "It''s always when I think of you, it''s here right now, just standing with you. God, damnit, Emilia. What is wrong with you? Andrew what is wrong with you? What is wrong with me? What is that? How do I know that you know exactly what this feeling is and exactly why I feel this way, and somehow I know that''s exactly why you won''t tell me. What is that, or why is that? Do you not tell me because you don''t trust me?"

    "I trust you. It''s everybody else."

    She shakes her head. "What are you talking about? Why¨Cwhy would that matter? Who cares what people think about you?"

    "It matters."

    "You say you love me and you say you trust me, if you think there''s some point in the future you could tell me this then why can''t we just skip the wait? What could it be that other people matter to us? Is it football, is¨C"

    "It''s not fucking football. Coming here is the best thing that ever happened to me. Because I got to meet you. But once I graduate that''s it. I''m not going into the NFL."

    "That¡¯s all my mother talks about. He¡¯s crazy but he¡¯s going to be rich, Emilia. I tell her I don¡¯t care and she says Why? But really, Andrew, why?"

    "I don''t quite know how yet, but I will find a way to meet John Canton and work with him at Epitaxial."

    "Psychic break. Is that why? Is everything about that?"

    "Yes, and no. It''s part of why."

    "Do you promise you''re going to tell me, eventually?"

    "Yes, I promise. But if that''s not good enough," he shakes his head, "I understand if you want to end things"

    "It shouldn''t be, but it is. But I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m going to tell my mother.¡± She wraps her arms around him and he feels somehow small, but still right.

    They''re in the living room.

    "How was your day, with all the moving?" she asks.

    "Well, took everything out at the dorm this morning, helped Michael move in, then¨C"

    She kisses him and pushes him back, her hands move to his face and his hands to her hips, pulling her close.

    Andrew sits back on the couch, the television on but muted. Emilia is asleep, her head touching his thigh. He showers and changes and takes the white-marked key and hooks it into her keyring, then kneels beside her.

    "I need to go to the gym, but after that I want to spend the day with you."

    "Okay¡± she mumbles.

    "You have a key now, it''s on your ring. It''s got a white band on it."

    Her eyes open and he leans down and kisses her and leaves. Out jogging in the rain, 13th to 16th, Archer to Center Drive, past the hospital with endless figures, across the north lawn to the stadium and Heavener where he swipes-in at the front and grabs a towel in the lockers and strips, his clothing placed inside one machine and his shoes hung on another, reading his phone while he waits for everything to dry.

    He greets the trainers and gets to work. Stretches to start, then shrugs and skullcrushers, he sees a figure in the distance entering the building and heading to the lockers, changing and out on the floor and coming into sight as he''s doing deadlifts. Andrew has seen pictures and watched scouting videos but Robert Smith''s similarities with Devaris are more apparent in person. Minus the confidence, same build, complexion, hair and beard. Same stare. "What''s up, Drew!"

    "Hey, Robert."

    He drops the weights and sticks a hand out and as Robert takes it Andrew sees a flash in his second sight and hears a single peal of thunder and where there was the human-shaped void there is now a form most faintly gray in a moment he knew at once only was one-sided.

    "You just get here?" says the gray figure. Black to gray, gray and white, what does that mean? Time might have slowed, time might have stopped. He knows he needs to do something or he might be frozen for good.

    "Yeah, pretty much," he says, lifting the weights again. Slow movements to impress false exertion.

    "You always here this early?"

    Slowly down. "Yeah, what else would I be doing?"

    "Sleeping for another hour?"

    Slowly up. "Not my style."

    Robert says "Yeah, same actually. I need like four hours and sometimes that''s too much. You like that too?"

    "Something like that."

    "Cool, man, well I''m going to go talk to my trainer and get at it."

    Andrew nods. He looks into the field and focuses on the gray, waiting to hear something else but nothing comes. He thinks about the woman, the tempest and the tides, the moment alone with her in that place. Is he a potential broken?

    Clearly, as if spoken. Not broken. Lesser.

    Lesser? Less than what? Me? What does that mean?

    He spends the day with Emilia, wishing he could force out of mind the gray figure in the distance.

    Routine resumes, jogging every morning to workout, breakfast and class. Most afternoons and every evening with Emilia, the time between spent with Robert, who joins him now on his evening runs. Andrew using them to watch constantly, waiting for something to finally show. On the fourth of July Andrew feels the pulse. Barranquilla, Colombia. Redhat interdicts in less than an hour. The words in his mind every day flash again. Not broken. Lesser. If broken are almost controllers, could there be almost broken? Some lesser form of control? Some weaker form of control?

    He''s watching fireworks with Emilia when his father texts him.

    Major uptick in rumors today for obvious reasons. India and Japan.

    He taps a reply then pockets his phone.

    Something happened. Can''t easily explain. ''Weak ones'' might exist.

    His phone vibrates but he doesn''t check it until late that night when Emilia is asleep beside him.

    Will look into.

    Another evening, another run with Robert who struggled at first to keep up but has rapidly improved over two months of conditioning. From the condo to the campus, to Lake Alice and a stop at the Baughman Center for Robert to take a drink and catch his breath while Andrew admires the chapel, to the empty field they''ve started using to practice throws and catches.

    Robert opens his bag to take another drink and asks "How many miles do you think you''ve run over the last year?"

    "I don''t know, couple thousand at least."

    "You ever run a marathon?"

    "Nah, but there were some nights where I realized after I was doing half-marathons just on normal runs."

    "Damn. I guess that''s what it takes to be the best."

    Andrew shrugs. "You ready?"

    Robert loudly exhales and nods, taking the football from his bag. Andrew does a few short hops then sprints, just seeing the ball in the twilight before catching it. This repeats, then they move to faster drills, short throws where Andrew catches and throws back and catches again. In the midst of this he throws it and he can just see Robert''s hand sliding across the football and meeting air before the football that he had clearly lost was clearly drawn back into it.

    Andrew runs up to him. "What the fuck was that?"

    "What was what?" says Robert.

    "I just saw the football move back into your hand. Are you a controller?"

    "I don''t know what you thought you saw, man¨C"

    "Robert don''t bullshit me. It''s my job to spot the exact movements of a football fifty yards away and I saw you almost lose it and I saw it get pulled right back into your hand. Are you a controller?"

    "Why''s this fucking matter, man?"

    "Because if you did that on primetime the least of your worries would be getting your ass banned from football and expelled."

    Robert shakes his head and raises his arm and spikes the ball. "You can''t snitch."

    "I''m not a snitch."

    "You cannot fucking snitch."

    Andrew raises his hands back to emphasize, "I''m not going to snitch. We''re a team, man, we''re in this together, every bit of it. We don''t have to talk about this but you can''t fuck around."

    The gray figure picks the ball back up. "I''m not a controller. I don''t know what this is but I can''t fly or lift buildings or any of that shit. I can just look at things and if I really want them to they move around."

    "What do you mean, want, like a reflex?"

    "Nah, man, I don''t feel anything. It''s like when I was a kid I''d pretend I was a Jedi and that maybe if I just wanted something enough it''d move to my hand. But it actually works."

    Andrew remembers pretending he was a Jedi after he could actually move things. He laughs, "Yeah, I did that too."

    "After that guy in Tampa I tried it again and it worked. But nah, I don''t feel anything. It''s just wanting it."

    "Have you ever tried pushing it?"

    "Yeah, but nothing happens. I can''t move anything much bigger than a football, like one of those reusable bags for groceries is about it, but it''s so slow, it''s not like I could really use this to cheat, I can throw faster."

    "Prove it."

    "How could I prove it?"

    "Exactly. They have no way of knowing you can''t do more. You have to get a handle on it."

    The first Thursday of August, the last night before fall camp. Andrew is showering before he takes Emilia to dinner. His phone chimes with an image message from his father.

    Found him.

    Dinesh Deshpande. They call him "Shajangali." He''s in the middle.

    A group stands behind a carcass. Andrew counts thirteen men shoulder-to-shoulder, together long as the dead tiger tip-to-tail. At their center is a man taller than the rest. He does not cover his fine beard and he does not cover his wild brown-and-black hair. He wears a navy shirt and beige pants and his feet are bare. Andrew looks at his face and something grows, something alongside his apprehension of another. A third. For all the recordings of Redhat he has known there is another thing here, a blooming, ineffable. Finally a face, finally a name. The screen dims from inactivity and as he taps to brighten it there''s a flicker in the display and for a moment it''s like everything that surrounds the man is static except for his eyes.

    Andrew sees the bear and the alligator. In the flickered eyes Andrew sees himself.

    Andrew knows. Grim satisfaction.

 18 - Shajangali, Suraj, Mondai

    FILTERS 18

    SHAJANGALI, SURAJ, MONDAI

    Andrew looks up at the speckled patterns of his ceiling. Emilia is beside him but turned away, her arm hanging over her side of the bed, marionette-esque. Michael texts him.

    I''m up early.

    You got time for a run before camp starts?

    Yeah omw

    He sits up and reaches for his shoes, pulling them on and double checking the laces. His movements haven''t woken Emilia, and he glances at the clock and decides to let her sleep, grabbing his bag in the living room as he jogs out the door. Michael is outside at the dorms and runs up to join his brother''s pace.

    Andrew asks "Dad send you that stuff last night?"

    "Yeah. Twitter''s blowing up."

    "That why you wanted to run?"

    "Kinda. What do you think about ''Dinesh?''"

    Andrew laughs a little. "A lot. More than anything I keep coming back to numbers. He''s the third known, but if there are two Americans couldn''t there be eight in India? Eight in China, eight in Africa? At least four in Europe? There are those rumors in Japan about the Yakuza¨C"

    "The ones Japanese people are calling a larp."

    "Yeah, but shouldn''t they have at least one? I know there''s no specific reason to assume an equal distribution, but with broken in so many countries isn''t that some kind of evidence of a genetic component? And if so, shouldn''t there be more than forty? Where the hell are they?"

    "Unless the rest are hiding. . ." Michael starts, "If you think there should be more and they aren''t around, maybe you''re wrong. There are those people who''ve cut up every second of Redhat''s interview and say there are moments where it sounds like he''s faking his accent. What if he''s from Europe?"

    "Unless he can fly a hundred miles a second he had to be in the US when Denver happened. It''s still possible, but why would he go to that length? Why even give the interview?"

    Michael shrugs in his stride. A little movement that would have gone unnoticed by anyone who hadn¡¯t spent a lifetime next to him. "Maybe he''s just that paranoid. Maybe he''s got one of those super unique accents that would give away the exact town he''s from. So he fakes it and wears a USA cap and gives an interview and now they''re looking for him here and he''s not even from here. It''d be a good bluff."

    "He''d have to be more paranoid than dad."

    "You''re the one who said he took so long going into the sphere that it seemed like he was still worried he wasn''t protected. Maybe he''s been assuming someone is going to try to kill him, which is probably true."

    Andrew shakes his head. "It was true, but he knows better now, and with Dinesh being public people are going to start learning a lot of things about controllers."

    "Oh. Fuck. Nobody''s noticed that with you, right?"

    "Em''s made comments but never asked me directly. I was lying down beside her all night before this. I guess hoping she''d finally ask directly."

    "You gotta tell her, but I know it''s gonna be shitty."

    "Yeah."

    They run in silence, still in darkness.

    "I''m going to tell her. But. . ."

    He goes quiet and they fall into the shared silence of siblings.

    "Look at Dinesh¨C''Shajangali''¨Cpeople saying he''s spent months just walking. Helping people. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s true but someone on Twitter said whole villages were following him. People are giving him offerings, bringing their sick grammas to him¡­¡±

    "Yeah, yeah,¡± Michael scoffs, ¡°I saw that too. Fuck that."

    Andrew laughs, "What?"

    "Fuck that. He can do it for free, same with Redhat. You get paid. That''s why I''m glad if you''re not going pro you''re at least going to work for Canton. Shit, he might pay you more than football, and that''s what you should be doing. Spheres are one thing, but otherwise? What, you gotta be a slave just because you''d be good at it? Fuck. That. You want villages following you around begging you to save them? You know I don''t agree with dad about everything but he''s right about this. You didn''t ask for this, you just have it. Might as well get paid. And you''re assuming those guys think exactly like you. For all we know they''re really fuckin'' vain and Redhat does it just because he can and Shajangali does it because he loves the attention. Why else doesn''t he wear a mask? After today how many people in the world are going to know his actual name? Meanwhile you get paid and you can do a hundred times as much as he does."

    "It feels selfish."

    "That''s just the overactive conscience mom instilled in us."

    They run without talking until Andrew''s phone shakes with his alarm.

    Michael asks "Camp or Em?"

    "Camp, gotta peel off. This was fun, you should run with me more."

    "Way easier for you bro, but yeah whenever I''m up at asscrack dawn I''ll text you."

    "You can come watch, I''ll let them know."

    Michael nods. "Yeah, that''ll be cool. I''m going to grab breakfast first though."

    Andrew stands on the turf inside the warehouse, orange helmet hanging from one hand, watching the other quarterbacks in their token trials. Robert needs no test, every movement showing the subtle differences that mean he has it. Every little glance and gesture down to the exact way his hands move to get on top of the ball before curving around it, perfect spiral every single time.

    A whistle, "Black, receivers, you''re up."

    He buckles his helmet and gets to the line and runs, practice juke left, right, turning in a continuous movement back to catch a throw from a different QB and forward to run and he''s in sunlight on the field at Ben Griffin, skirting the defense in red stripes, in a blink they''re in checkered blue and in another the last of them is in green, all left behind as he stands at the end, dropping the ball as a gray figure pumps an arm forty yards back and the slot and tight end run up to clap his back and helmet and the Swamp''s eighty thousand roar.

    Andrew reclines, cool towel on his face, eyes closed.

    "Three fuckin'' down!" says Robert.

    Andrew says "Three weak teams. Brag when we beat Georgia."

    Andrew showers and changes and turns on his phone. In the locker room he can hear Robert leading a ¡°fuck them dawgs!¡± chant as dozens of texts come in, full of the usual ¡°gg¡± or ¡°it don¡¯t mean shit unless you beat Georgia.¡± He scrolls through until he sees one from Dad:

    There''s a second Indian controller. Also isn''t hiding his face.

    "Suraj, the Lord Shiva."

    He''s arrived at city called Varanasi. Claimed a temple there.

    Great play today.

    This isn''t photomanipulation. How is he doing it?

    A picture, so different than Dinesh. A man in red robes with no adornments. Long hair that flows back and down to his shoulders, three long white lines painted on his dark forehead, a red mark at their center. Thin eyes and round cheeks, a long and large nose above a long and slightly upturned mustache and great pointed beard, and all of these glowing at the edges from the halo that hangs behind his head as he hangs in the air.

    Andrew wonders what preceded this picture. No news before this, did he only now reveal himself? Varanasi on Ganges, Andrew imagines a river pilgrimage, a long and narrow boat moving under the power of the figure standing aft with townspeople watching unrealizing until he reaches land. Or did this red-robe instead journey over land, walking between villages, until at last he saw the city and rose into the air for his glorious arrival. He hears Emilia say Or they were an angel and he hears his father say Divine power must be considered¡ªSo if that individual comes forward and says they were blessed by God, whoever their God is, I imagine many will listen. Optimistic in hindsight, almost naive. This individual has said they are God, and many will listen. Rejecting the grasp of Earth, anointed in light. Divinity, apt.

    Andrew starts to reply and stops. He starts again and stops again and shakes his head and pockets his phone before taking it back out to text Emilia, who he knows is waiting in player dining with other girlfriends and families. Andrew finds her talking to Michael and they sit at a table as they wait for the fans to disperse.

    "Dad probably sent you the same stuff right?" Michael asks quietly.

    "Yeah."

    Michael shakes his head, "I don¡¯t know why we don¡¯t just have a group chat. It drives me crazy thinking about him copy-pasting the same thing twice. He would have been a shit coder.¡±

    Andrew smiles and starts to say something, then realizes the thought is wandering away from him. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s a wild picture" he says at last, still a ways away, thinking of his dad watching him torch the safety.

    "What is?" asks Emilia.

    Andrew turns to her, blinks, refocuses "There''s a second controller in India, dad sent me and Mike a pic.¡±

    He begins to take his phone out to show her but she cuts him off "Oh, yeah, Sofia sent me a link but I hadn¡¯t looked at it yet."

    Andrew hands her his phone. She quietly says "¨²jule."

    "How''s a psychic making light appear like that?" asks Michael

    Emilia is still looking at the picture, Andrew holds his hands up in a clear sign of No fucking clue.

    Andrew has learned if he squints his eyes just right the speckles above him begin to look like swirls. After long enough it¡¯s almost like an all-beige Starry Night. It is the last Tuesday of classes before fall break, but days are just days, or every day is any day the way it is when there is no real demarcation between days, no delineation, no true dawn. He thinks about the word break like how when people say they need a break what they really mean is I need some fucking sleep.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    They beat Georgia, and everyone else. Fuck them dawgs.

    Michael texts him.

    Run?

    He lifts Emilia''s little puppet arm lightly. "Michael and I are going running."

    She mumbles back "Have fun."

    They''re passing the row of fraternities a second time when Andrew feels the pulse. He stops and says "There''s a sphere."

    Michael says "Shit."

    Twitter. #PsychicSphere

    Just now. Kyoto, JP.

    "It''s in Japan."

    Michael has his phone up. "Redhat stopped Singapore, he''s on his way, right? Or maybe even Shajangali?"

    "Redhat should be."

    "Do you wish it were you?"

    "Even if I sprinted back and changed he''d beat me there, and unless I stayed until it was night again here I''d be moving across so much of the country some kind of camera would be bound to catch me. . . but I don¡¯t know if I even care about them catching me anymore. I don¡¯t know man. Let''s just run."

    They haven''t passed Lake Alice when Andrew feels the pressure cease. He stops again.

    "What?" asks Michael.

    "It stopped. The sphere''s been stopped."

    "Already? It''s been like five minutes!"

    Andrew refreshes Twitter, the latest is in Japanese and it translates with a tap.

    #KYOTO #PSYCHICSPHERE Sounds like finished?!

    He refreshes again and reads the translation of the next, same message worded differently. He tries #Control

    Sphere in Kyoto appears to be over, no reports of a controller #PSYCHICSPHERE #KYOTO #CONTROL #CONTROLLER

    "''No reports of a controller,¡¯ says this rando, for whatever that''s worth. But it''s night there, harder to spot a controller flying in."

    Michael says "Those rumors in India were true, looks like they''re true for Japan."

    Andrew swipes into the training center at Heavener, Michael behind. The desk clerk looks up at the two and nods as Andrew points his thumb back. The gym televisions all show a split feed of George Stephanopoulos and a helicopter view of Kyoto, a swath of the city in darkness with pockets of light from emergency vehicles and building backups and the spotlights of other helicopters, one fixed on the epicenter. A single building is in ruins, the thoroughfare beside it looks largely spared while the buildings around it show hits to their facades but nothing that gives immediate impression of serious structural damage. The scrolling banner reads BANK OF KYOTO HQ DESTROYED; NO REPORTS OF CONTROLLER. Andrew sees the distinct lack of rubble covering everything. There''s your report.

    Robert is already in the gym, he sees the brothers enter and walks up beside Michael. The height difference between the two though not significant gives Andrew a flash of seeing his brother talking with the giant. Robert says "This shit is so crazy."

    "Right?" says Michael, "Japan''s joined the party."

    Andrew starts his workout, trading off spotting with his brother who copies his sets. Robert''s near them, working with his trainer, and he says "Excited for that Cowboys game, Drew?"

    Andrew''s memory flashes again to the giant and then he sees a line of them, wearing Dallas white-and-blue, a ten-foot tall quarterback''s booming READY-HUT! and now two lines of titans crash into each other with such strength the nosebleeds know to cringe. "Yeah, definitely. The field passes came in the mail yesterday. It''ll be great to see Devaris."

    Robert''s own odd excitement is apparent, "Devaris fuckin'' Walker! What do you think he''d say about me? Damn, Robert, wish I could make it spin like that!"

    The trainer snorts and says "Probably ''good job managing to pass to Drew every other down.''"

    Michael laughs, Robert says "How about you throw the ball, then. . ."

    At the first hour his chemistry professor calls a break. "Go and stretch your legs, we''ll resume in ten."

    Andrew takes his phone from his bag and searches Japan controller. Top story.

    CONTROL-RELATED THEFT AT TOKYO NATIONAL MUSEUM

    TOKYO, 3 HOURS AGO[2100 UTC+09:00] (REUTERS)¡ªTen minutes after the still-unexplained dissolution of the psychic sphere in Kyoto, the Tokyo National Museum, some 400 kilometers away, had a masked individual force their way onto the premises. Building security and Tokyo police reported being unable to subdue the individual who they described as using control[telekinesis] to hinder their movement and access locked areas and displays. The museum has reported the theft of two pieces, a blue N¨­-men mask, worn in the traditional Japanese dramatic form of Noh, and a white sagemono, a small container traditionally worn on the person. Tokyo Police are¡ª

    Michael has sent a link to the same story on a different site.

    You see this?

    "Hinder their movement"

    What, were they grabbing the cop''s clothes?

    Andrew messages back.

    Could be

    Immediate reply.

    Controllers can move that fast right?

    So they stopped the sphere and booked it to the museum?

    There are timestamps on all this stuff

    It definitely happened after the sphere was stopped

    So there''s one at a minimum obv

    They could steal anything

    Why a mask and a box thing?

    Maybe they want to wear them

    Lunch with Michael, labs in the afternoon. A jog before dinner back to Heavener to run the track and clear his head, a decided failure when every television in the gym changes to the same thing: CONTROLLER IN KYOTO

    A figure sits cross-legged in the morning sky. The first camera is distance and shows little detail; when it changes to a second view it is far closer and shows everything.

    "I was right." Andrew says to himself.

    Blue indeed, like the sky behind it, with perhaps once white but now yellowed fibrous tufts stuck to the wooden mask as a long wisp of a beard and thick eyebrows. The expression is comedic, a smile hinted, with fat cheeks and nose and delighted eyes, feeling cantankerous yet good-natured, the same that might sit on an old man were he as aged as the carving. The man otherwise looks far more youthful; the skin he shows is smooth, unblemished, his arms resting on his knees, out of large elbow-length sleeves of a hip-length open jacket that''s white with large blue-and-gold koi. He has bands around each wrist that Andrew suspects are watch and compass. A gold chain around his neck that hangs to the close-fitted plain white shirt underneath the thin jacket, and black pants that stop below his knees, white high-tops, white shoelaces, blue soles.

    The man looks at one wrist and stands, a visually peculiar movement that Andrew thinks at first is a perfect act of miming until he walks and Andrew realizes he stands on a barrier. He makes a show of his strides, turning in step, almost a dance, his arms and hands following, accentuated by the flow of his jacket. In standing he has revealed a belt that''s more of a sash and a small white box that hangs from it onto his pants, occasionally hidden by his movements. In his descent treetops and the magnificent roof of an obvious historic building come into sight. The camera and banner change, a view now directly in front of the building, and the banner quickly changes a second time.

    CONTROLLER AT SHISHINDEN HALL, KYOTO IMPERIAL PALACE, JAPAN

    The man appears to stand at the top of the roof, though Andrew wonders if this is another optical trick. The station adds a second view from a helicopter. Much of the palace can be seen, which Andrew admires only a little as he instead looks at the crowds. An inner courtyard sits ahead of the hall, and but for a line of police it is full of people. There are outer courtyards that go to the palace walls and these too are full, and the wide paths outside the walls have yet still more. The man''s exaggerated movements have ceased, his mask turns upon the crowd.

    He leaps from the roof and lands, just ahead of the police, just ahead of the camera, and then he bows. No comedy in this movement, no double-meaning. It is low and it is held and it is of unmistakable good-faith. When he raises he points to the sky and the camera moves at his direction to first show nothing, then a growing speck that resolves as a sphere, but a small one, that stops directly above his head before falling to the space he has just stepped back from. Andrew recognizes it, he made the same in Tampa; compressed remnants of the destroyed building, but this one looks more perfect, its gray more consistent and somehow glossy, bearing kanji.

    ¤ª•rÒË

    The man again bows, Andrew smiles when the police bow back in turn. Then the man looks one last time across the crowd and rises, first slowly, to the height of the helicopter, then swiftly, above, beyond, and out of sight.

 19 - Maite y Ernesto

    FILTERS 19

    MAITE Y ERNESTO

    Andrew''s watch beeps. He counts several seconds then rolls to his side, one hand passing underneath Emilia''s shirt to rest on her back as he leans close. "Em," she turns slightly, "it''s four, we need to get ready."

    "Okay."

    He walks into the bathroom and turns the shower faucet. Emilia calls to him from the bed, "When do we need to go?"

    "Five-thirty." he says, removing his shirt and tossing it through the doorway to his hamper.

    "As¨ª que tenemos un poco de tiempo. . ."

    He raises an eyebrow, she''s looking at him, sleepy smirk.

    Andrew drives them to Gainesville''s tiny airport, carrying their backpacks into the terminal where passes are checked and bags are placed on the belt while wallet, phone and keys go into plastic tubs before they walk through metal detectors. Emilia looks longingly at the coffee kiosk but shakes her head and they sit at the quiet gate, her eyes closed, head on his shoulder as his sight is in the clouds. The hall fills with passengers and boarding is soon called, they''re second on the plane after a wheelchaired man and his companion. Seated at the front, Andrew stows their things while Emilia unwraps the plastic around a blanket and covers herself with it. She''s asleep before takeoff, before the plane is full, before the stewardess places coffee on the tray table beside his phone, a clip of Kyoto playing, the dancing walk, the bow, the inscribed orb.

    An hour into the flight the man across from Andrew and Emilia receives yet another drink from the stewardess and glances at Andrew and does a double-take. "Holy shit, you''re Drew Black!" Andrew recognizes but can''t place him and the man keeps talking. "I have to tell you that watching you is so great but it also fucking sucks sometimes because you''re so good but I went to Florida State so I had to watch you demolish us last year and I''m going to have to watch you do it again on Saturday."

    Andrew laughs. "Sorry, man," then he recognizes him, "oh! You''re that comedian! You had the show in Gainesville last¨C"

    The man barges through, "Were you there?"

    "No, uh, sorry. Did it go well?"

    "It was so great. Florida audiences are the best. What are you going to Dallas for? Cowboys game?"

    "Yeah, kinda. Thanksgiving with my girlfriend''s family, but then we''re going to the game."

    "Me too! Nice! Maybe I''ll see you there!" and he turns back to his drink.

    "Is he that comedian?" whispers Emilia.

    "Yeah, Bart something."

    "I think it''s Brent. How close are we?"

    "It''ll be another hour, you can go back to sleep."

    She does, faint smell of shampoo coming from her hair against him.

    Andrew continues talking to the comic, darkly fascinated by the amount of alcohol he consumes without showing effect other than florid cheeks. He is indeed funny, but cumbersome, something that must be exhausting outside of a plane. He also knows his stuff, he''s watched almost all of Andrew''s games, and there''s a novelty to hearing experiences on the field recounted from the perspective of a fan.

    They land and taxi. The man holds up his phone and says "Drew, say cheese!"

    Emilia turns to the window, Andrew habitually smiles for the selfie.

    The comic bobs his head. "Thanks, man. It was great talking to you. Oh, hey! Wanna give me your number?"

    "Uh." Andrew has to let the bizarreness of the hours of conversation wash over him. So many strangers have his phone number already, what''s one more? "Yeah, sure."

    SUP DREW!

    Skylink to the next terminal, Emilia looking through the tinted glass to planes preparing for takeoff, Andrew the same but focus elsewhere, on the movements of figures at DFW that alone might be more numerous than all of Gainesville. The automated voice announces their stop and they turn around. Two pilots are outside the doors and one of them, a blonde, smiles and mouths Andrew Black and he nods at her but feels Emilia''s hand on his waist pushing him forward. He''s recognized again at Starbucks, a pair of young women call his name and run up to him to take pictures, Emilia turning away. After they leave she pinches his arm from underneath his sleeve. When he looks at her she''s stone-faced, drinking her coffee. He laughs, she laughs.

    He reads news at the gate, a breaking story of Redhat in South America, loudly announcing his hope of finding another controller. Andrew notices a boy peeking at him nervously from behind a Switch and looks back to his phone, but then the boy is standing in front of him. "Um, Andrew, could my mom take a picture of us?"

    He looks past the boy to his so-clearly exhausted mother. "Yeah, of course."

    "Thank you, Andrew!" says the boy and Andrew says "Hey, give me a high-five," and when their hands connect he hears thunder and in his other sight the boy is no longer black but gray. He looks at the boy''s mother and she mouths Thank you but the nicety of the exchange quickly leaves him, forced to dwell on power. He looks around the terminal, to Emilia holding her cup with both hands, to another family beside the gate, to crowds avoiding a slow-moving cart, to standing in line in restaurants and newsstands. He draws back to see the terminal, the airport, the city. How many would turn gray with a handshake or high-five? And if it were a broken or someone like him, what then? He wonders about the boy''s future, about his life as he might soon enough reach for a toy lightsaber and pretend he''s Luke or Obi-Wan. Andrew suddenly laughs, "I''m a Jedi, mom!"

    "What?" asks Emilia.

    He isn''t lying when he says "It''s surreal."

    "You made that little boy''s day."

    "It''s not always bad."

    Bombardier to Embraer, no A380 for their puddlejump to CLL. Assisted passengers again embark first, again Andrew and Emilia are seated at the front. A young man coming in points at him and says "Andrew Black!" and he''s recognized twice more, the last in the most preferable way as an older black man nods at him and only says "You''re a hell of a football player." Andrew thanks him and shakes his hand and soon they''re airborne.

    His laptop is open to a high-resolution picture of the orb at the Kyoto palace with text explaining the kanji¨C¤ª•rÒË¨Cquickly translated as "Timely" but more specifically "The opportune timing to do something." Opportune timing indeed, like stopping a sphere then breaking into a museum. He changes pages, reading through old rumors. Is Japanese organized crime really so different? Are American notions so naive such audiences accept implicitly someone with superpowers would fight crime? Must fight crime? Funny, Japan might match America in success of media franchises, their popular canon full of stories of the lives of the empowered. A seminal work about psychics, no less, although perhaps exactly what set expectations apart. Was it that they called every rumor a larp, all too American? Maybe that''s another under-translation. They didn''t reject the possibility in whole, rather they were skeptical of certain claims and a feedback loop of negative impression pushed popular misperception as All-American Bullshit, not the truth of fair criticism.

    "Firefight in Kumamoto!"¡ªAmerican indeed, gun violence in Japan is almost nonexistent, even among Yakuza.

    "Bloodbath at Fukuoka fishing depot, a dozen gangsters decapitated!"¡ªCulturally closer, but nothing more than tweets, and that would have been major news, c''mon.

    "Lightning heist, bosses lose millions!"¡ªthat was dismissed, but a controller would certainly have the ability, and one did just steal from Japan itself. Attached is an article reporting a slight increase in crime in Kyushu. Financial destruction could be the cause, but this might call back to American sensibility.

    "Traffickers of the underaged found dead, victims freed"¡ªthis is actual news, the criminals showing apparent gunshot wounds, but the police found no evidence of firearm use. It could have been a bearing ball, but that''s thinking zebra; bullet wounds with no bullets recovered, don''t think controller, think fastidious killer. Still, it happened.

    "Nagasaki pub destroyed"¡ªthis one has pictures. Though the building stands the interior looks like it''s been bombed, with concentric shrapnel from the once-bar counter. The report says no evidence of an explosive device and it''s suddenly obvious. An explosion without explosives, yes, think zebra. Andrew shakes his head, he would have recognized this for what it was had he only looked, evidence as clear as the lack of debris in Kyoto. The Japanese controller must have taken a sufficient volume of air contained at high pressure and released it in the middle of the pub. He feels a sharp pang of an old thought, pushed back first for lack of knowledge of others and since for their generally upstanding behavior. What if someone wants to do something bad with this? The debauchery of Suraj would be welcome over a controller choosing mass destruction. Andrew rubs his eyes, wishing he could run.

    Andrew returns to the page with the orb and scrolls to a high-resolution picture of the man.

    "I like what he''s wearing. What do you think?" asks Emilia.

    "Yeah, I like his jacket, and his routine in the air was visually neat. Mike sent me a meme of one of those alignment charts that has him as ''chaotic neutral.'' I get the literal meanings of the words but not whatever the deeper context is other than knowing it''s Dungeons & Dragons stuff. He stopped the sphere but broke into a museum. He did a whole performance showing himself off but bowed and left a gift. Even the meaning of what he wrote on the orb, ''Timely,'' it''s comedy. It''s like he''s just having fun."

    "What were the others labeled as?"

    "Redhat was lawful good, Shajangali was neutral good, the First was true neutral, and Suraj was neutral evil, but Mike said there''s been big debates about all of these except the First and Shajangali."

    Emilia says "I get it. I used to like reading those D&D books. Redhat said he would intervene every time and he has except for Japan, but he was probably on his way. It''s kind of like he''s an emergency responder, so his label is fitting. Shajangali has been helping wherever he can, and that''s just what a good person would do. The First only showed up once and hasn''t since, that seems totally neutral, and Suraj, hmm. Suraj claims he''s Shiva, but none of the others have claimed to be gods. He hangs around that temple and takes tributes and people come and worship him," she lowers her voice, "and I read he just has sex all day." Then says "But I think it''s lazy to call him evil, or too easy. Look at everything he can do, what if he''s telling the truth and the others aren''t? Not that I really think that, but I understand how someone who could do all those things would believe that. It''s too easy to call him evil, he is hedonistic, but he could be doing worse things than that, and how many people would do the same thing he is if they had control?"

    "A lot." says Andrew.

    "Mmhm. But I do like Shajangali more, and since that guy in Japan is real maybe those rumors you had up are also real. I kind of like the idea of a mix between them, flying around, helping people, messing with organized crime, but having, I don¡¯t know, fun while you''re at it? Like dancing in the sky. Why do you think Shajangali doesn''t fly?"

    "Maybe he can''t, or doesn''t know how."

    She frowns, "Why wouldn''t he know? All the others can fly."

    "Random thought. There must be some reason he walks everywhere."

    "Yeah. Maybe he doesn''t like it, maybe he''s afraid of heights! Or maybe he feels he would be losing something. I think about how he must feel so alone, like for so long thinking there''s maybe a couple people like him in the entire world but they''re in America and they wear masks so they might as well not really exist, but then one shows up in India and they don''t wear a mask either. I bet he was excited, I wonder if that changed. Maybe he feels even more alone now. I think that''s why he doesn''t wear a mask and why he walks everywhere instead of flying, and helps anyone who asks. Because he doesn''t like it, or isn''t happy about it, so he takes this thing that forces him to be so completely different from everybody else and uses it to make everybody else happier."

    "That''s a great way of looking at it. But I wouldn''t want to walk everywhere."

    She laughs. "No, you''d run!"

    He laughs and their gaze meets and soon her cheeks flush and he kisses her and she bites her lip.

    "So you''re going to meet my family, soon. . ."

    "Yeah, I''m excited."

    She''s still biting her lip. Andrew asks "What are you thinking about?"

    "You meeting my parents and what they''ll think when they finally see you, and that makes me think about them arguing after we moved back, and that whole thing with my mom saying she would be fine if they stayed and he''d been a writer but he didn''t act like his heart was in it, and my dad being sad about that but trying to hide it. And now for some reason I''m remembering looking across to the boys'' campus at Irish and seeing them sometimes in those suits with the green ties. I liked those ties. And now all that just makes me think of my grandparents'' house and the orange doorframe and their dog and all those days I know I spent there but how little I can remember it."

    "Would you like it if I wore a green tie?"

    "Yeah."

    He wants to tell her. He needs to tell her. And yet.

    Easy and wrong to call her speculation ignorant or naive, he would do the same if he were anyone else. But it''s easy to talk about control and easy to speculate on the motives of men far away and scorn one and praise the other. Easy to imagine what-if when you can reset for the night and wake up human. Her perspective is good just as she is good, but it enjoys freedom as hypothetical. Not like long conversations with his father, especially after the fifth-and-first, when options were laid bare and "if" was replaced with "should" and then "did," which was to stay and play football while leaving the constituent elements of the truth pushed away the same as making a firm decision on his life. That''s something she didn''t mention, the advantage Dinesh has. Not hiding himself frees him in his service to others. He has made himself entirely real, to see him is to know him. She knows Andrew just shy of best, she has talked with him and touched him most, seen the most of his interactions with others, all while feeling some hint of who he is without comprehending. What does the First actually mean to her? Easy to compartmentalize that entity in the air as apart from the human beside you, to rationalize and forget, to think of the thing in the mask as "not really existing." But when she can''t? She will be afraid, why wouldn''t she be?

    And¨Ceasy to want to end inequities, but which? Murder in one city, maybe. Narcotics? The generations of UQM, the enhanced, can barely get high and show no chemical dependence. Who gives a shit about drugs anymore? Fighting human trafficking would be unquestionably noble, but consider what it would take. Find every sex worker in every city and make sure they aren''t being exploited by pimps? Crime is antifragile, suppress it now and it will reappear quickly enough, likely worse than before. Extreme measures could work but at what lengths? Kill every criminal you find? Stop crime by becoming the worst criminal of them all, hear yourself speak. Yes, he has options others don''t, why bother with footsoldiers when he can hit the leaders? Because he can''t be everywhere at once. Threats won''t be enough, they''ll challenge him to prove it, and in some places that would be the government challenging him to prove it. He could, but that would throw countries into chaos. Half a million global deaths from overdoses, oh, he can do better, he can set continents on fire. Cut off blow and Los Zetas and Mara Salvatrucha and Envigado aren''t just going to pack up, they''re going to fight like hell and might move from being beneficiaries of state corruption to just becoming the state¨Cafter a million or two or ten are dead, because so many understandably but incapably ask if and he has to ask should-and-then-what? No, I should not. That refusal may be an inequity, but unique, set apart truly from all other inequities visited after that most ancient: having more fists-clubs-swords-guns than the poor bastard dead.

    Of course the saved wouldn''t think the same. It''s not like the victims in Japan would say "Oh but he didn''t save everyone in bondage so better he never tried." He rejects this. There may be a time for such measures, but it is not today. Like sicking Superman on muggers. Better to have him turn a crank or lift ships to space; unbounded good. Especially now, when a little bit of compressed air can blow up a pub or a little bit of psychic break, a fraction of power can turn a city to sand. Now is the time to get humanity off this rock, then he can worry about getting them out of the box.

    Emilia had to book the rental car. Best she drives in her hometown, anyhow.

    She detours through the A&M campus, Andrew thinks man Manziel was an idiot as they pass Kyle Field. He knows more than 100,000 people can fit in there but he wonders if his mind is tricking his eye or if it really does make The Swamp look small. She talks of her parents'' work there, her mother as an accountant, her father as a professor. Late nights in her bedroom when she could hear the faint flutter of papers on their kitchen table and her father pacing the room below hers. Once hearing the pop of a cork and clinking and then breaking glass and her mother''s footsteps down the hall and muffled scoldings change to muffled laughter and two sets of muffled steps going to bed. "Ohhh, c¨®mo escond¨ª mi cabeza debajo de mi pillow. Pero ahora pienso. . . ahora los aprecio, sus pasi¨®n."

    "Eso es lindo."

    She glances at him then back to the road, he sees she''s waiting to say something, then she does quickly. "What about us, Andrew? Es ese nuestro futuro?"

    They''ve been together for a little more than a year, and for his experience of time and the passage of days it is a true year with her on his mind. Full days spent with her and beside her, morning to evening and morning again, and this effect of power no longer isolates. She was right again, Dinesh took that which set him apart and gives it to others, and what set Andrew apart gave him this year with her, to learn her best, to talk with her and touch her and see her interactions with others and to want to continue to experience all of that for the rest of his life. Es ese nuestro futuro¨CIs that our future? Yes, of course, if¡ª"Do you want it to be?"

    She doesn''t immediately answer, naming buildings instead. "The Albritton Bell Tower"¨C"the old YMCA." Andrew faces her while she faces forward, they pass "Milner Hall" and briefly a street that exits campus where on a large building beyond he reads CANTON CLINIC. Past the utilities complex and more halls and the East Lawn and they park at the Polo Fields. She points to a concrete installation partially obscured by a low hill and explains the Bonfire Memorial, then she goes quiet.

    Eventually she says "I do want that to be us."

    But the air changes in the car. College Station is small, end-to-end it''s shorter than some of his runs. This detour wasn''t taken for fun, it was delay. It was to have this conversation. Because she''s crying.

    "Emilia¨C"

    She holds up a hand. He waits.

    "My parents are going to want to talk to you, and I know you want to talk to them, and I know what about. I know you''re going to tell me eventually what you''ve kept from me but I don''t care because whatever it is can''t mean more to me than you already do. I''m yours, Andrew, there''s never been anyone else and there will never be anyone else. I don''t. . ." She''s shaking her head and her eyes close, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I don''t care. As long as you stay. Qu¨¦date conmigo."

    He holds her cheek. She wipes her eyes and blinks quickly and looks at him, and he says "As long as you want me, there is nothing in this world that can keep you from me."

    She holds his hand in both of hers and they stay, content in silence.

    Then she drives them to her house, her family waiting.

    "?Esta es mi familia! Mi padre, Ernesto"¨Cher father is almost as tall as Andrew, with white hair and white beard, closely trimmed, and blue eyes behind glasses¨C"mi madre, Maria Ester"¨CEmilia is her mother''s daughter, the resemblance remarkable, eyes, cheeks, brow, he knows her smile, he knows her expression, he has seen both so many times before¨C"y mis hermanas, Sofia, Julieta, y Elodia." Though Emilia''s young sisters all more resemble their mother, Sofia takes the most after their father, his eyes, but no glasses. Andrew smiles at her and she returns it politely but she stays where she stands while Julieta and Elodia surprise Andrew by running up to hug him together. Andrew laughs and says "?Mucho gusto!" and as the youngest step back he turns to Maria. She places her hands on his arms and looks him over in bald appraisal, then says "Llamame Maite, Andrew." and she too hugs him.

    They exchange pleasantries about the flights then Emilia takes Andrew through the house, through the kitchen and dining room that opens to the living room and to a hall with bedrooms, up a staircase at the back. Even as he could see the house and what lay within he had no standard for a girl''s bedroom, but he sees her in it. Bookshelves his eyes wander over, finding Pedro P¨¢ramo amidst Harry Potter and Pratchett. A pinboard above a white desk with pictures and papers, and postered walls, Natalia Lafourcade, Carly Rae Jepsen, Motion City Soundtrack.

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Andrew is smiling.

    Emilia says "You can sleep in here, Sofia and I are going to share her bedroom."

    "Okay."

    "And, um, my mom will want us to go to mass tonight."

    "It''ll be in Spanish, right?"

    "Yeah."

    "That''ll be fun."

    They don''t stay long, taking their bags from the car then leaving again. Emilia drives them around the city, to her middle school and her high school, to the library she would spend hours at when she was younger. They have lunch at In-N-Out, Andrew''s first time, then return to her house. As expected, Maite calls to Andrew from the garage. "Andrew, ay¨²dame, por favor."

    Not that she needs help with anything.

    "We''ll speak in English, I want to be sure there''s no misunderstanding."

    "Okay."

    "I know you haven''t been here long, but what do you think?"

    "Your family is wonderful, I''ve been looking forward to talking books with your husband, and College Station is nice. I didn''t get to see it much when I was here for football. Kyle Field is beautiful and Texas is definitely a change, but a pleasant change from Georgia and Florida, although I''m reminded in little ways of UF. I saw a Canton Clinic earlier and Gainesville just had one open."

    Maite nods and leans back against the hood of one of the cars.

    "We didn''t like Emilia choosing the University of Florida. You know her father and I work for A&M, it would have been so much easier for her to go here. That''s probably why she left.¡± With this she gives Andrew a little glance as if to say you know her well enough to know that, right? ¡°Not that we had any say since Florida is paying her to go,¡± she continues, ¡°but being so far away with nobody she knows. . . she had a hard first year, Andrew, which I told her would happen, but she persisted and even as she was being paid to go she got a job and not even a week into it she met you."

    Andrew nods.

    "She calls me one day and tells me that she''s met a boy, well that''s the first time that happened, and the boy is so tall and so handsome and reminds her of her father, and oh, the boy plays football." Maite loudly hmms, "American football. She told us how everyone she worked with was excited that you were coming and she sent us pictures of you on the cover of that sports magazine and, well, we were concerned even more."

    Andrew says nothing, Maite clearly has more to say.

    "I imagine you enjoyed a great popularity in high school and that''s only increased in college. People recognizing you everywhere, eyes lingering on the handsome and famous g¨¹ero. We know you are going to be rich, and it will be nice if our daughter and our future grandchildren live in comfort¨Cbut we know you keep things from her. We know there are times when you are laughing with her one moment and cold to her the next, and we know there are times you have been completely unreachable. And when Emilia has rightfully held you accountable you refuse to explain yourself. She has been so happy with you, she has never been this way before, she tells me she doesn''t even mind the ambiguity as long as you''re beside her. So tell me, Andrew. Are you beside her? Because I worry your eyes have lingered elsewhere and that with so much attention you might one day leave her behind."

    Andrew feels a touch of anger at her insinuation. Of course he''s received attention, endless attention, as other women on the campus looked him up and down and tried to flirt with him, apathetic to or emboldened by Emilia''s presence, as if they would be better, as if they could ever be better when the most they read is tweets and the most they see him as is opportunity for attached status. Their presence may be physically enjoyable for twenty minutes, but nothing there to make laying beside them through the night worth it, nothing to make them the bright point of a year of endless thought. Be it dumbstruck luck or providence, Emilia fits where he thought no one could.

    "My eyes do not ''linger elsewhere.'' They never have. All that popularity? Sports Illustrated and ESPN interviews? I hate it all. I hate football, every bit of it. I know what you mean by enjoy but I don''t enjoy it, no. By the time I was old enough to drive I stopped hanging out with people at my high school. In Florida I only spend time with Emilia, my brother, and sometimes other football players. I don''t usually dislike the people themselves who want to be friendly with me, I understand why, and it''s flattering, but I''m not interested in them. Yes, there have been girls who have tried flirting with me even with Emilia standing right beside me and I ignore them to their face. They aren''t her and they could never be her, because meeting Emilia has been the only truly good thing to come out of football. She''s your daughter, who could know her better than you? I hope with what you say you see in her for knowing me, you believe me when I say I cannot imagine life without her, but if not I will be fine with however long it takes to prove it to you."

    "Then why do you sometimes behave so contemptibly? What do you hide from her?"

    He lowers his head slightly to emphasize his look in her eyes. "Why? Control and my fear for the future of our world. Those times I''ve gone cold? Those times she can''t reach me? It''s when I get the alert that a sphere has happened somewhere and every time after the first I could do nothing but think about every single person trapped inside. Then controllers appeared and that was nice for a few days, but today on the plane I started thinking again about what happens when one of them wants to do worse than enjoy their little debauched life in a temple and I wonder what are we going to do about that? So sometimes all of that hits me at once, not being afraid for myself, being afraid for my parents and my brother and Emilia and sometimes I leave my phone behind and I run and run until I feel just a little bit better, but even that''s temporary. But my feelings for Emilia are not."

    Her look is frozen and he could believe in that moment she saw to the depth of his soul and recognized who stood before her. She looks aside, ashamed. "I fear that as well. I''m¨CI''m sorry for what I suggested. Please forgive me, Andrew." Then she says "You are committed to her, aren''t you."

    She spoke rhetorically but Andrew still says "Completely."

    "I''d like to speak with you more this evening. With my husband."

    Andrew turns toward the door but she says "Una cosa m¨¢s, vamos a misa esta noche. ?Te gustar¨ªa ir con nosotros? Emilia nos ha dicho que t¨² tambi¨¦n eres Catholic."

    "Ah. . . si, de mi madre. Mi hermano y yo, nosotros fuimos¨Cbaptized¨Cen La Iglesia." Lapsed of course, only showing for Christmas and Easter mass. His most religious quality is his name, Andrew Peter.

    "Si, tus nombres. Santos, Andrew y Michael, ap¨®stol y ¨¢ngel. Por supuesto, tu padre James. ?Y ¨¦l?"

    "Mi padre va a misa con mi madre, cuando mi madre quiere ir, pero ¨¦l no es Catholic."

    "?Entonces qu¨¦ es ¨¦l? ?Es ateo? Atheist?"

    "No. Es complicado, pero no."

    "''Complicado?'' D¨ªgame."

    Andrew looks at her with hesitance. She reads him and says "Conocer¨¦ a tu padre, si? ?Cu¨¢ndo asumes la responsabilidad? Mejor que lo sepa ahora, o ahorita?"

    Andrew doesn''t quite understand the last of it, but the tone is clear. She will meet his father soon enough, and she seems the type to ask James directly if Andrew doesn''t explain it now. "Bueno, mi padre se describe a ¨¦l mismo como Christian, pero ¨¦l dice que theology es un viaje en solitario y ¨¦l no puede dar direcciones."

    Maite looks at him with clear and rising skepticism until she smiles wryly. "Oh, of course. You learned this habit of strange behavior from your father. Will you go with us tonight?"

    Andrew supposes he and his father deserve that. "Si, ir¨¦, I''ll go."

    "Good. But we don''t have room for all of you in our car, so you and my daughter will take yourselves. Don''t be late."

    They arrive ahead of her family at Iglesia Cat¨®lica de Santa Teresa, a warm and idiosyncratic take on the traditional form. No ornate carvings, no grand towers with abutments, but the shape is there, the long chambered hall and nave roof with stained glass lit from behind. The entrance is a spot of subtle beauty, with columns that flank large arched doors, nativity already set in the lawn beside, with lit Christmas lights on the straw and wrapped around the simple wooden frame. There are people gathered who warmly greet Emilia and she introduces Andrew to old friends. Her family arrives and they sit together near the front and when the father enters Andrew has to blink and rub his eyes, so strong the fleeting impression that despite different attire he saw the man from Mexico City.

    When the service is finished Emilia speaks briefly to the father then rejoins Andrew and her family as he''s introduced to more members of the church. Some recognize him still, though fewer than he feared might, and they are polite when they mention it, none asking for pictures, let alone running up unbidden. As the numbers dwindle and Maite and Ernesto are among the last still talking, Emilia whispers to Andrew "I need to take care of something," and he nods and watches her walk to an alcove in the hall and enter the confessional. He looks within for just a moment but then pulls back, closing his other sight completely, some ineffable sense of impropriety perhaps instilled by the hours in that place.

    After their late dinner, Andrew watches YouTube with the sisters while their parents talk in the kitchen. Ernesto soon comes in and says  "Mijas, Andrew and I are going to have a chat."

    "Okay, papa." says Elodia.

    Maite has gone to the bedroom, they enter the room beside it, another bedroom but repurposed as office and library, busy with two couches and a small desk and large shelves with more books than his parents'' entire house. Ernesto gestures to a couch and walks to a place in the shelves with glass-inset cabinetry, saying "Emilia has said you''re an avid reader."

    "Yeah, when I was a kid, and then I picked it back up a few years ago. My dad has a lot of books, but not this many."

    "What did you think of Pedro P¨¢ramo?"

    "I enjoyed it! But I did come away from it wishing I had a stronger foundation in Spanish literature, because I feel like there was so much I wasn''t able to appreciate properly."

    Ernesto nods. "If you would like I could find something for you, although I would need to think about it."

    "Yeah, please."

    He opens the cabinet, Andrew can''t see through the pane for light cast on it from a corner lamp, but he knows the shapes inside all the same. Two bottles, two glasses, and three books. Ernesto sets the bottle and glasses on the coffee table between the couches then goes back to the cabinet to lift a hardcover held within a lime green slip case. The spine is blue with the same lime green in font, another copy of Pedro P¨¢ramo. Ernesto angles it such that the book slides enough to take the spine, then hands it to Andrew. The cover is the same green, but without words, only an illustration in the same blue, a two-faced man, half in flesh, half in bone. Andrew turns pages written in English until he comes upon an illustration, a curious but compelling sketch of idyllic Mexican scenery of hills and agave, cast surreal with the heads of two mustachioed men, one above the other, floating in the sky. "This is beautiful." says Andrew.

    "Isn''t it? That copy is signed by the artist, though not for me specifically¨C"

    Maite joins them, Ernesto continues once she''s seated.

    "Emilia found it very meaningful that you speak Spanish well enough to converse with her. You and I are both g¨¹ero, but I was born in Mexico; my mother had quite the same complexion as my wife. Emilia said you have no Spanish heritage, so we''ve been curious what drove an American football player to it, to attract our daughter with it and to warrant Spanish literature as a Christmas gift. Did you put in special effort in high school? Are you gifted in language?"

    At the second mention of gift Andrew realizes he has never considered his proficiency beyond the casual thought though earnest appreciation of it being a serendipitous effect of the time afforded by his, yes, gift. But four years of foreign language in high school is no usual source for that skill but more often time wasted, especially when witnessed and felt in vicarious embarrassment for the clumsy well-intentioned ordering fajitas.

    "I guess I must be. I had never really thought about that before now. I had three years required in high school and I opted for a fourth, and in my senior year my teacher had us find Spanish YouTubers and transcribe their videos and then write our own ideas as scripts for their videos, and that was actually a lot of fun. When we were finished I just kept watching them. Now I read and watch Spanish news, and Emilia and I watch some shows, lately it''s been Los simuladores, and that''s been fun. I guess it just clicked with me. I definitely don''t have any heritage, my uncle was pretty good at it when he was still playing baseball, but not so much anymore, and of course he never taught me anything." Anything other than Puerto Rican profanity, that is.

    Her father nods. "Do you know how mezcal is made?"

    Maite looks across at him, "No lo aburras, Neto."

    Ernesto says "Esto tendr¨¢ sentido, mi amor."

    Andrew says "I know that tequila is a form of mezcal, which is made from agave, but that''s it."

    "Yes. It is a humble spirit. I hope you have a better idea of what Mexico looks like than most Americans, but one might think of the agave as a plant persisting in barren desert, and it does grow in the desert. But in Tequila, in Jalisco, the blue agave or Weber azul spends many years growing in the shadow of Volcan de Tequila, and that is no desert, but vibrant highlands, the hills a soft-sweeping blue from the agave.

    When the years have passed and they have matured and it is time for harvest, the workers, los jimadores, spread through those hills with their axes, la coa de jima, to prune the thick leaves and reveal the heart, la pi?a, and take them to great hornos to be roasted and then crushed por la rueda, llamada ''la tahona,'' and that sopping fibrous mass is gathered for distillation and finally bottled." He removes the cork and inhales. "I do love the smell. Agave can grow quite large, this bottle would have been one of several made from a single plant. Volcanic soil is a famous medium for growth: in Italy, on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, wonderful tomatoes are found and there are of course vineyards, but I care less for wine. There is something to it, an arbitrary elevation. I do not disrespect the craft, but I sometimes feel something has been lost."

    Andrew''s father is a skilled storyteller but nothing like this. Even Maite, with her warnings of boredom, shows fondness for his words.

    "When I smell this I smell the plant and the sun and the years and my homeland and if mixed with the bitter notes there is also the scent of sweat from the plebeian hands involved in its creation, all the better to be reminded. I do not find that in wine, there are cheap bottles in supermarkets meant for mass consumption but there are also far more expensive wines that I think forget their place. Divorced from so necessary, so vital commonality. I will use no euphemism for mezcal, ''affordable,'' it is cheap! Es barato, o quiz¨¢s, mezquino. Jalisco''s bounty, favored for partying and taco Tuesdays with discount margaritas, getting ''tequila drunk''¨Cas if¨Ctaken advantage of by so many American celebrities spinning up Tequila brands of their ''own,¡¯ although sung of pleasantly by Jimmy Buffett. But vintage wine. . . even expensive tequila is not expensive. No French Laundry heist to abscond with a sum worth of a?ejo that could buy a house, though not if it were in Napa Valley. And why? Because of arbitrary esteem by people¨C" he pauses, "who do enjoy it. Like professional sports. I love my family and I know that we are common. You, Andrew, I understand your father is good with his money but I know you do not come from wealth, you were common but you are no longer, and so I fear for my daughter as you carry her into your world. Maite tells me she believes that you are committed to Emilia, do you intend to marry her?"

    Andrew hears his father say Inflicted her with it. "Yes."

    "And was part of your motivation for coming here to gain our blessing?"

    Andrew has had something of the same conversation with his father. Maybe it''s because I only have a brother and I only have sons, but blessing a marriage has never been something I believe in. I asked your mother''s parents for their blessing, but she told them she would marry me regardless. Emilia''s family may expect it; you don''t need it, but it will be easier for her, which means it will be easier for you, if they approve, and they will.

    "Yes."

    "Emilia always listened to us until she met you, I don''t think it is ours to give anymore. You are the only man she has ever spoken of who is not family or an educator. Has she told you how lonely she was in her first year? Has she told you how she almost moved back so she could go to school here so she could at least be with her family? What if taking her with you only worsens that? What if your celebrity further isolates her?"

    Andrew shakes his head, heart heavy at the thought of her cut off, alone, and the thought of her having returned after all, that they would never meet, that he would have faced the last year alone. Maybe he would have done as Dinesh, running one night and never stopping, leaving Gainesville to drift place to place.

    Maite breaks the silence, "You told me before that you hate football. What will you do when you turn pro?"

    Andrew looks to the bottle, label turned away, then back to her parents. "I''m not going to play in the NFL. I''m still playing for the school because that''s what I promised. Maite, as I told you, I''ll always be thankful for the opportunity because I got to meet your daughter. But once I graduate, that''s it. I''m going to work at Epitaxial, with John Canton, whatever it takes. I don''t know if Emilia has told you, but materials science is what I''m studying toward, and I''m good at it."

    They show great surprise. Maite asks "You hate it that much?"

    "More than I can even put into words. I used to say I only hated all the fanfare and playing was fine, but that''s not even true anymore. I don''t enjoy it, I just happen to be good at it. I hate people recognizing me everywhere I go, I hate them calling out my name and running up to me to take pictures and even asking for my phone number. I don''t have any hope left in it. You''re right, Ernesto, that commonality, that appreciation for my fellows? if I stay in football I will have none of that. But it''s there in what Canton''s doing. Getting into space and researching ways to stop spheres? That''s for the good of all. I understand why we''re all marching on even with the disasters but those and controllers, that''s what I worry about. It''s nice that people have a distraction, but it doesn''t work for me, not anymore. I would hate myself if I could be doing something better than catching a ball, no matter how big the paycheck."

    Maite''s hands are on her cheeks, Ernesto''s hand is on the back of his head and he asks "You would throw away millions for that?"

    "I am going to, yes. But for what it''s worth, Epitaxial pays well."

    Maite says "Are you sure they''ll hire you? You convinced me that you are committed to our daughter, and it is good, since she will follow you without our approval. But to say you''re choosing this? Is your hatred of fame pushing you to do something foolish? I think it would be better if you''re uncomfortable in football than if you''re pursuing recklessness.. But this. . . are you giving your future and our daughter''s future proper consideration?"

    He hears the tide and he hears thunder. He sees the sphere and the woman inside, feels his hand on her head and the call in the field as he turned buildings to dust. He feels the weight of the bodies he carried and the injured woman''s gaze. The weight of the dead he freed only so they could be buried again. He wishes he could consciously impress this on her parents, that they might hear a whisper of to whom they speak. Maybe he can, didn''t Maite see what Emilia sees in his eyes? Emilia says she feels something when she''s with him, what else would it be? It''s always here¨Cyes, not suppressed, but not encouraged. Andrew looks upon the room, sees it in his other sight. He doesn''t take it, but control is there, it''s always there. Hand open but grasp threatened. No, I am not common. Know to whom you speak.

    "I am making the best decision for our future."

    Ernesto leans back as Maite''s head tilts and in each Andrew can see their chests move in sudden heavy breath. "This must be your famous air of ambiguity." says Maite, "Okay, stand up."

    She walks around the table and hugs him tightly, no, motherly. "Okay, Andrew, okay," and she kisses him on the cheek and leaves the room.

    Andrew understood the purpose of the box Ernesto carries, but that does not lessen the feeling when it is revealed and given to him. "This belonged to my mother. It already fits her."

    The box is heavy in his hand. "Thank you, Ernesto."

    "You are welcome, and it is not of nothing." He pours into the two glasses. "Now, drink with me, I know it will have no effect on you, but there is still much to discuss and I do not wish to drink alone."

 20 - Sonal & The Sundarbans

    FILTERS 20

    SONAL & THE SUNDARBANS

    Little glow-in-the-dark stickers cover Emilia''s childhood ceiling. Andrew is lost in them, looking for recognizable shapes, constellations like his father once pointed out to him and his brother at their uncle''s Ozarks manor, but there''s nothing familiar. Emilia placed them by her own hand, an Orion of her and her mother and her father. His phone is on his chest, warm from mundane use, he considers texting his father to ask. . . is he too old to ask about the stars? He sees Emilia as a girl, moving into this house after years in Mexico, held up by one of her parents or standing on a chair or her bed to place wan green dots and stars and the way all would have twinkled when the door was shut and the lights went off and her room came alive.

    He thinks about the conversation with her parents and the box stowed in his backpack. He thinks about Emilia, through the wall behind his head, asleep beside her sister. He thinks about her holding a little her up to a ceiling, placing stars of their own. His sight wanders until he smells coffee and hears the faint movements of Maite, up at dawn to cook. He''s ambivalent about running, but he packed thinking he might, so he does. Closing the door and walking softly down wooden stairs that don''t creak.

    Maite greets him warmly if brusquely from the kitchen table. "Good morning, Andrew. How did you sleep?"

    He stifles a response in Spanish, still feeling his place as a stranger. "''Morning, Emilia''s old bed was very comfortable, thank you. I thought I''d go on a run before she''s up."

    "Of course, enjoy."

    "And, ah, I''m happy to help with any of the preparations today."

    "You can help by staying out of the kitchen," she says with what he hopes is kindness, "but there will be things for you later. Go on, enjoy your run. Don''t get lost, I won''t come to save you."

    Lost, referential to this maze of suburbia, "aesthetically" winding roads that often split and end in cul-de-sac courts. He walks to start, replying to a non-cosmic text from his father, then a slow jog, then a run. No worry for route when his map is the territory, the neighborhoods brightening. He nods to another man out running, the man gives him a thumbs-up. He passes three women jogging who greet him with "Happy Thanksgiving!" He runs down a narrow street, the back door of a house opens and a smallish dog runs out and dashes to a short white picket fence, following him up the street. He stops and walks to the fence and looks to the bathrobed man standing at the door, who waves. The dog jumps up on the fence, a little brown Collie mix or Blue Heeler. The man calls out in a deep drawl "You can go on and pet her," so he does, then waves to the man and resumes. Out of the neighborhood and onto a long parkway with a single car headed in either direction, one that turns into parking for a golf course, a humble little country club, if country clubs can ever be humble, tennis courts and pool hidden behind tall hedges and trees. A few cars are in the lot, Thanksgiving tee-times at daybreak. A good warmup for the day, Andrew thinks, better than running. He wonders who works behind the walled garden, who woke up earlier than Maite to mow down fairways and roll greens for the insistent holiday golfer.

    He thinks about the little exchange he just had with Emilia''s mother. He intimidated them, Maite and Ernesto. Use no euphemism, yeah¨Che scared them. Scared them right, or maybe scared them good. Ignorant about what he truly conveyed, what they actually felt, so they could rationalize ambiguous threat, make external with context, for our daughter. Maybe that''s what Maite just showed, a willingness to still be distant, to show she would still draw the shield around her family. Even as he would die for, kill for, just like. . . He shakes his head and runs faster. Turning at an intersection with a forest on the other side that reminds him of school and down another long parkway until he''s beside a bank and a dark Whataburger and he sees cars on the freeway, then back.

    Andrew removes his shoes in the entryway. The sisters are still in bed but Ernesto is up, helping Maite in the kitchen, bringing her raw ingredients from where they''ve been busily arranged on the kitchen island. He says "Buenos d¨ªas, Andrew. ?C¨®mo fue tu carrera?"

    It''s the best he''s felt after a run in some time and he says as much. "Fue estupendo, creo que realmente me gusta estar aqui." Friendly people, friendly dog, pleasant area. He does like it here.

    "Eso es bueno. Puedes ir a mi oficina hasta que se despierte." A very polite way of saying "You can leave us now." Andrew does as Ernesto suggests, going to the library-office. The door slowly pulls closed behind him, a quirk of the house, not his doing. The bottle and glass have been put back, the table is covered in the books Ernesto pulled the night before. Andrew looks at the stack of Octavio Paz, El laberinto de soledad at the top, and beneath it a copy in English, The Labyrinth of Solitude. He takes that copy and turns it to the back, but stares blankly. Emilia still sleeps. It''s funny, he thinks, are other relationships like this, always one person the sleeper? He could look at his phone, but there is no real news anymore, he feels the news before it happens. Nothing to do but wait. Might as well read.

    . . .The adolescent, however, vacillates between infancy and youth, halting for a moment before the infinite richness of the world. He is astonished for the fact of his being, and this astonishment leads to reflection: as he leans over the river of his consciousness, he asks himself if the face that appears there, disfigured by water, is his own. The singularity of his being, which is pure sensation in children, becomes a problem and a question. . .

    He reads, aware as always of his surroundings, but not focused on any part of them. The younger sisters are up first, and Emilia rouses, checking her phone, then she gets up and goes to the bathroom and looks inside her old room. The bed is made, his packed bags on the covers. She walks down the stairs, hand hanging at the end of the rail, one foot still lingering on the last step. She can hear her parents in the kitchen with her sisters, and nothing from the living room. She looks up the hall, to the closed door of the office, and chooses that.

    Andrew hears her enter, he says "Hey, good morning."

    She sits beside him. "How did the talk go last night?"

    "It went great."

    Andrew helps Ernesto carry a long white folding table from their garage. It''s set on a long sheet of vinyl above the carpet of their living room, wooden folding chairs placed around it. They return to the garage for wooden leaves to insert in the dining table, doubling its length, and a last trip for more chairs to fill the added spaces. Long golden tablecloths go on each, then Andrew helps the sisters with the last of the tidying, though in this spotless house he isn''t sure what''s left to clear in their sweeping, dusting, and vacuuming.

    The smell of the cooking fills the house. Familiar, like what Emilia has made for him, and unfamiliar, to experience it here, and most of all on Thanksgiving. In his family fridge there is without a doubt an enormous bird still sleeping in its brine, in its turkey purgatory, the space between its death and the deep fried finish that will guide it beyond limbo. Maite briefly breaks from cooking to examine the house, and finding it to her satisfaction frees them until the guests arrive. Emilia and Andrew take their bags to the rental car, then go on a late-morning run. She knows the dog he pet earlier, she coos to her and scratches her behind the ears. Andrew sees how much more the dog likes her than him, he thinks about the sticky stars.

    They''re in her old bedroom. Emilia is lying down on her bed while Andrew sits on the floor beside it. She has one hand on her chest, the other runs through Andrew''s hair. "So what happened, exactly, when you talked to my parents?"

    "I told them I wasn''t going to play in the NFL."

    Her hand stops. "What did they say?"

    "Your mom was concerned that I''m being foolish and I couldn''t read your dad at first, but I explained myself and I think they respect my choice."

    She takes her pillow and turns around on the bed, her head now just behind his. "How did you manage that?"

    "I told them what you mean to me, and I told them that this is the right decision."

    She leans over and kisses his cheek, then her phone makes a chirping sound Andrew recognizes as a text from her sister. "What''d Sofia send you?"

    "Um. . . oh wow. Shajangali has a woman traveling with him, she''s writing about it."

    "Want to send me the link?"

    "I have it open, I could just read it."

    He turns to face her and says "Yeah."

    Emilia begins.

    "Hello, my name is Sonal. I know you are not here to read about me nor am I one to boast, but I believe a preface is in order. After all, these are my words typed on my laptop from events I witnessed, so please forgive and feel free to frame as self-indulgent this poor introduction to my travels with Dinesh. I promise it shall not take long.

    I am the fifth child of six and the third daughter. My two older brothers are doctors, my father is a doctor, his father is a doctor, his father was a doctor. . . I am technically still a doctor. I was an "actual" doctor for only one year¨Cafter my formal education and a year''s internship I was supposedly qualified and provisionally certified, freed under nominal oversight of a senior physician and thrust into the crucible of Indian public healthcare (my place there is another story, but I am not here to boast!) I believe I thrived, I believe I helped more than I hindered, but I am writing this rather than practicing medicine, so questions of my fit feel self-answered by my self-sorting out. Still I must protest, I did not hate my work in those busy wards. You can see them well enough, you have surely been in crowds and visited a zoo or else been in a place where animals ran free. Combine those and add the sick and dying prone and now you know that place. You are already in my head, please step forward to my eyes. Watch me stop to shoo a mutt who marked a corner. Hear a pleading mother beside her dying son while two tomcats struggled beneath his bed over a slain rodent. Smell excrement from one of our animal cohabitators and read my thoughts: at least they provided a service to the hospital, the dogs and cats would eat the rats."

    Emilia grimaces.

    "I say again, I believe I thrived in that place! (That you no longer work in, Doctor Sonal.) I will surely return when Dinesh wishes to be free of me. Do not think I was looking for an escape, I was not, fate appeared and I followed. I do not know if he saw something in me or if I found a lapse in his resolve, for others had tried to follow him only to be sent away. I remember his arrival especially well I think. It was not the fanfare he received at his entrance to Indore, the parade that followed him through the streets with the city as his entourage. No, I felt his presence in the ten thousand rats in a mad drive around and over my feet, fleeing the inevitable end as that shuddering host was struck suddenly, seizing and turning to nothing. Surely few have experienced this; if you have, well we must have worked together, so I hope you have some understanding of what made me so possessed to leave."

    Andrew laughs. Emilia smiles at him and continues.

    "I remember vividly the compulsion that took me, to chase after him, the feelings of urgency and haste, hurrying to change from my clinical attire and gather some of my things. (I would be reckless with my work, I was not trying to be too reckless with my life as it would follow.) I joined the procession, enthralled in the great revelry. People were singing and there were spontaneous expressions of emotion in laughter and shouts and cheers. I still moved with purpose, I pushed through the crowd, saying little pardons and apologies, until I reached the front, but still a little to the side of Dinesh. I followed him out of the city, all the way to Khudel, where he thanked what few of us were left and took the hands of all who proffered and wished us good returns home, which caused most to turn back, but still a handful stood or sat on the spot, content to witness his departure. Only I continued. Vehicles would often stop as passengers greeted him. I stayed at a distance, but he had long since noticed me.

    We arrived at Chapda with the sun low, and there he finally addressed me. He said ''You were at one of the hospitals.'' That surprised me! So great was the crowd I still do not know how he noticed, but I suppose such awareness is one of his many gifts.

    I answered ''Yes.''

    He asked ''What do you do there?''

    I answered ''I am a doctor.''

    He frowned, I think, I could not easily tell for the low light and his beard. He said ''Following me is foolish. There is nothing I can offer, and nothing to be gained.''

    I looked at my boots and the edges of my pantlegs, well-covered in dirt. I said ''Foolishness is why I have done this, I think. I was there when you dispatched the rodents, they were all around my feet. I used to write when I was younger, and I would like to write about you.''

    He looked at me for some time, enough that my cheeks flushed in embarrassment and I had to look away. I think what has followed has colored my memories, for I surely must have felt anticipation and fear that he would insist I leave. But as I write this now I remember none of that. I remember my cheeks and how my feet felt and I remember his face in the evening shadow, but the only emotion I recall is certainty. Yes, we would have this rote conversation, but when it finished I would continue walking behind him.

    He asked me ''What is your name?''

    I said ''I am Sonal.''

    He said ''It is good to meet you, I am Dinesh. You are not the first to ask to write about me. I suppose more will try. . . Come, walk beside me. I will find rooms for the night.''"

    Emilia puts down her phone. "That''s the end."

    "That''s incredible. I''ve seen pictures of the crowds that follow him but hearing about it hits different."

    "She''s a doctor and she ran out on her own life."

    "Yeah. Hard thing to do."

    Emilia rolls back onto her bed and looks up at the ceiling. "To see that. . . of course she would want to follow him."

    Andrew looks at her, at her cheek, down her long yellow shirt, to her jeans, to her yellow socks. He thinks. He thinks. Then shakes his head very, very slightly.

    The first guest arrives at twelve. The padre of their church, Gabriel. He carries a dark green bottle sealed with wax.

    More from the church at ten past. Isabel and Hector and their son and two daughters, all children, roughly the same ages as Emilia''s sisters.

    The last guests at fifteen past, once again from the church. Pablo and Rebecca, who is visibly pregnant, and their three young sons. Pablo is as tall as Andrew and was one of the few who recognized him the night before. His greeting is the same, firm handshake, good smile.

    Maite wastes no time. After a few minutes of chat she calls everyone to the kitchen. The padre blesses their meal, their gathering, and the children stand first in line at the island where Maite fills their plates and waves them off to the living room. The spread is incredible, no carved turkey, but stewed with potatoes in mole negro, served with corn tortillas brought by one family along with cornbread with peppers and cheese. Another bowl is lined with foil and roasted corn, brought by the other family, who also brought a plate of pan dulce, sweet bread, and at the center Maite''s hard work, an iron-ceramic pot filled with squash soup and a platter of tamales, butcher''s string tying the husks.

    Andrew eats and he does not speak, listening to rapid conversations that jump between subjects and little banters. He pulls out his phone under the table and texts Michael, There¡¯s always one gringo at Thanksgiving. "Ya tenemos lista su cuarto!"¨CThe words begin to blur together, his ear and head having increasing trouble keeping track¨C"Unpeque?o enamoramientodela ni?ez"¨Cuntil it''s almost unintelligible¨C"Treshermanosasitresprotectores"¨Cand he closes his eyes, longer than a blink, trying to focus on the words of only one person. On Hector, on each syllable, until he hears a low, gentle ringing, and the blurring of words slows and stops and he hears clearly, as if it could all be in English.

    "Desaparecidoyantidemocraticoysimplemente, simplemente injusto!¡ªUnaccountable, undemocratic, and simply unjust!" says Hector

    "And the reverse of those have worked so well for Mexico, huh?" says Pablo.

    "That is not what I am saying."

    "I''ve forgotten, when is your daughter due?" asks Ernesto.

    "Christmas. Well, Christmas Eve." says Pablo, "Rebecca''s family is coming in from Arizona."

    "That''s wonderful." says the padre.

    "Yes, in a few years we''ll have a very busy little gathering here, Nestor''s grandchildren, we''ll need another table." says Hector.

    "Perhaps." says Ernesto, Andrew thinks he can see a slight smile, and notices the other men are looking at him. Pablo winks, Andrew can''t help but grin.

    The table is cleared, everyone helping except for the priest who is given five small glasses by Maite. He cuts the wax from the bottle and uncorks it and pours clear drink into each glass, then places them together on the table. The women go together to the living room, the men stay in the kitchen, returning to their seats. None of the others ask about the drinks.

    "What were you saying then, Hector?" asks Pablo.

    "There have always been ways to keep power accountable. We may not agree with it, or even have a say in it, like the world under the threat of nuclear destruction when our parents and grandparents could hope the Americans and Soviets would keep their fingers away from the button. But who keeps them accountable? What system is there to regulate their behavior? There isn''t one. I think we are hostages again, reliant on the magnanimity of those few. They seem good, they seem good."

    "We''re already hostages, we always have been. More hands in the bureaucracy is just more links in our chains." says Pablo.

    "Links that we chose to insert. They increase our leverage, give us more to pull on."

    "Yeah, more for private interests to pull on too, to slow things down and get nothing done. Such that those economic abstractions hold more weight, slowing the tangible. The few represent an ultimate tangible action¨Cjust as Porfirio got things done."

    "Yes, quite effectively for his private interests¨C" says Ernesto.

    "¨CUntil he left no chance for peaceful succession." adds Hector.

    Pablo shakes his head, "He still helped Mexico leap forward. Imagine what he could have achieved with ninety-seven years like Don Fidel. Imagine a century of Porfiriato. We talk and talk about a frozen bureaucracy that does nothing good for the people, as if it''s okay just because we have a say. Strong leadership works, and can work for the people. Look at both Roosevelts. Imagine such leadership!"

    "Yes, fine," says Hector, "maybe there is the possibility of good, but I fear a much greater possibility of terror. Revolution still threatened the others, as the people''s final method of denying mandate. Those great men always knew their mandate was in peril. What happens if it is not?"

    Pablo again shakes his head, "And maybe that hindered them. Dictators fear loss of power, that''s why they purge ranks and massacre civilians, it''s all done in fear. So I wonder, what if certainty of power inspires temperance?"

    The padre speaks, "What if it inspires even grosser hedonism and largesse? It has in one already."

    The men are silent, but each show little gestures acknowledging it. Ernesto finally says, "You two talk as if they cannot be harmed, cannot be killed. As if they have no need to fear a knife in the dark."

    Hector and Pablo look to one another, then to Ernesto. Pablo says "Look at Mexico City, Nestor. Look at the sands."

    "What of it?" asks Ernesto.

    Hector says "A trick is being played on us." Andrew sees Pablo nod, Hector continues, "Those. . . few, may be nominally human, but what is human about what they can do? Something has elevated them above so many human concerns, why would it leave them susceptible to a dagger?" He laughs, "They can fly and lift buildings, but I have a sharp stick. Wanting and struggling for power is intrinsically human, possessing it unconditionally is not. Besides, that ''man'' in Florida passed through the rock-and-metal rapids of the inner sphere and his clothing wasn''t even torn, assuming it is clothing and not some essential spectral garb. In a fair world they wouldn''t exist at all, but the world is unfair, and this is a trick, a cruel joke, and the punchline is mankind entirely at their mercy."

    Ernesto frowns. Pablo says "I almost agree with you, Hector. I also believe it is a trick and a joke, but a good trick. One God himself is playing on the wicked. God is merciful¨Che sends his archangels among us as examples while every sphere is a message. This is his power, ye mighty, look upon his works! They''re his heralds, performing miracles that leave no room for doubt, so everyone can see and believe and repent. And if they don''t, well. . ."

    "Maybe we agree more than we think. What do you believe, father?" asks Hector.

    The padre takes a glass and sniffs it. "I have heard the First spoke to a priest in Mexico City. Maybe they are an angel¨Ca herald¨Cand they delivered some kind of message, but I don''t know, maybe it is all hearsay. I know that I have faith, and that is all I need. Even the grandness they show does not compare to the infinite, they too must be formed from his will, more pieces of clay. They exist because he allows them to exist. Whatever happens, I will not be afraid." He sniffs the glass again. "These are ready." and he pushes a glass to each man.

    "Cheers to that," says Pablo.

    Ernesto raises his glass and looks directly at Andrew, "Family and fellowship. Up¡ªdown¡ªand in."

    They leave early, after drawn-out goodbyes. Emilia still drives as they go up the state and through Fort Worth and on to Arlington. A stop at their hotel to check-in and for Andrew to hang his suit and Emilia her dress and then a short-distance but relatively long drive for stadium traffic to AT&T. Parking passes came with the lanyards and badges, the lot is steps from the stadium. Easy to get in, but Andrew can already see the nightmare of getting out. He pulls on a Braves hat and sunglasses, knowing in this crowd he might be recognized a dozen times and asked for just as many pictures before they even reach the doors. To a private entrance, cap and shades off already, badges checked but not IDs. A rare perk, perhaps.

    Andrew re-reads the text Devaris sent that morning. YOU READY FOR A FUCKING SHOW, DREW?!

    Through the clubhouse halls, past fans waiting at Miller Lite to cheer the players who will soon follow. He hears calls, of course¨C"Oh shit, Andrew Black!"¨C"Drew! Drew!"¨Cand ignores them. This entrance opens on the fifty, Andrew looks up at the full seats in the nosebleeds, already packed house. The club behind them clamors, Emilia takes his arm with both hands. The cheerleaders first, past metal arches and fittingly ostentatious prop stars on the field that shoots jets of smoke into the air, the women forming a V on the field as the cowboy flag team runs in next. Andrew is amused by the more-than-a-few whose bellies hang over large belt buckles, white shirts tucked, blue jeans, black boots, black Stetsons, the grand banners releasing fountains of sparks as each man reaches the star in the middle of the field and they form a line on the away side, flags and stars still in the pyrotechnic display. Finally the team, the announcer bellowing the introduction over the stadium''s roar, the stars producing flames and previously quiet boxes on the field sending up fireworks.

    The Bucs fight well, matching score for score across the quarters and finishing with a field goal at a minute in the fourth, but that''s more than enough. Dallas running a lightning drive until ten seconds at second and goal and a bad read leaves the defense open for Devaris to carry it himself. He tosses the ball and runs and vaults the rails of the field boxes behind the goalpost, raising his arms to the crowd, a dozen hands from the fans around him clapping his helmet and chest and back. Andrew laughs, fuckin'' Devaris. Emilia laughs too, pointing to the jumbotron, "Hey, look who it is." The comedian from their flight is one of the fans around Devaris.

    Post-game rituals, coaches and players in a mass, shaking hands and dapping and hugging. Devaris is interviewed, then as he walks to the sidelines he''s approached by a very tall black woman, instantly obvious as a model, who kisses him. He''s already noticed Andrew, and he holds his arms out and calls out "I promised you a fucking show, Drew!"

    "Yeah you did, and you delivered. That was fucking great, man."

    "You''re goddamn right!"

    They shake hands, a photographer already taking pictures of Devaris recognizes Andrew and has them stand for more. Devaris introduces the woman, Reinauda, then says "Alright, we''re going back to my place to change and then we''ll pick you up."

    Back to the hotel, traffic lessened for their time on the field after the game. Andrew texted Devaris on the way.

    Can you bring me a green tie?

    Def want a pocket square too?

    Yes please

    Black suit, black shirt, belt with gold buckle, Oxfords. Emilia in black dress, high neck, long sleeves, skirt just above her knees, gold necklace and the gold earrings Andrew gave her, black coat, black flats. Devaris calls, they wait in the lobby for the eventual black SUV. Three doors on each side, RR on each wheel. Two of the back passenger doors open, four seats with two facing two. Andrew takes the seat beside Devaris, Emilia beside Reinauda. Not a limo, better.

    Andrew makes a show of looking over the interior, "Man, what is this?"

    "What can I say, Mister Jones loves me."

    "Dev, I can''t be meeting Jerry Jones."

    Devaris snickers, "C''mon bro, you know better."

    They''re taken somewhere modern, every inch of the exterior saying equally great; overpriced. The women exit, Devaris has the driver go around the block and presents Andrew with a thin box, green silk tie inside.

    "You''re the best."

    "I know."

    Devaris opens the first heavy wooden door, Andrew opens the glass door in the vestibule. Emilia sees him and her eyes widen in surprise then soften with her smile. Andrew points at Devaris'' back, she nods and takes his arm. They''re seated at once, drinks are ordered and brought and then food. Devaris of course takes over the conversation. Aperitifs and starters, each expectedly excellent. The women excuse themselves before mains.

    Devaris says "I really like her, Reinauda."

    "I bet. She''s beautiful, Dev."

    "I know. And I see you and Emilia¨CI guess all this time you''ve been a couple of role models."

    "I don''t know about that."

    "She''s it though, right? You two for good?"

    "Yeah. I don''t know when exactly, but yeah."

    Devaris grins, playfully shaking his head. "Drew Black, so fucking good at everything from the first day! Marrying the very first girl you met at school. That''s fucking funny. Put me down, hopefully for two. I''m going to be one of your groomsmen, okay? I mean it. And we will fucking party."

    "Wouldn''t have it any other way."

    They eat, they talk, Devaris stepping back so Reinauda can talk candidly and to Andrew oddly engrossingly of her life in modeling. They group together for final pictures for the night and they''re driven back to the hotel for last handshakes and hugs and goodbyes.

    "Reinauda was interesting." says Emilia.

    "Quite a life."

    "Yeah. Same with Devaris. Same with you."

    "Maybe." Andrew''s phone chimes, a new change for a very specific email alert. He grabs for his phone and grins at the subject line, "Sonal posted again."

    "Read it!"

    Andrew does.

    "Hello again! This second post comes quickly after the first but it did not happen so quickly in reality! To be honest I would have rather published them together, but such is my life, and I will dally no longer.

    Dinesh stayed on the little roads of the countryside. Visiting towns who were not quite so boisterous as the cities but the people there still recognized him and were happy to see him. They would gather around him, to touch him and speak with him and have pictures taken, and he always stood for them, always smiling and going to each, asking if there was any way he could help them.

    We would take rides when offered, I became quickly accustomed to riding in the backs of trucks and unfamiliar cars, friendly strangers asking Dinesh about his travels. They loved to ask him about the tigers he had encountered, but I quickly realized in his words Dinesh did not enjoy to talk of them. But he was polite, and he said a little sadly the details of whatever they asked. How when he had done it twice and his name spread, people began to approach him and ask for help with other things, until sometimes it was soldiers who approached, to ask him to hunt great beasts.

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    As we walked we would talk of our families. He grew up in Mumbai, his three brothers and three sisters still live there. He spoke of his childhood and his adolescence, of his growing understanding that he had been set apart, and how one day his gift truly came upon him. He had been a student, almost finished with university when his restlessness finally became too much and just as I would later do, he walked from his life, though he at least told his family of his intentions. He wandered north, sometimes taking little work that he could quickly drop. He did not elaborate, but an event transpired when he reached New Delhi, and after that when he heard another story of a great tiger attacking men in the north, he walked until he reached Uttarakhand and hunted through the mountains until he found the tiger and slew it. He did not enjoy it, but he knew it was necessary.

    It took two weeks across the little towns for us to reach Mandla. The town knew he approached, and held a celebration. For this I was more thankful than Dinesh, I felt the people were being so unnecessarily kind to me, I had purchased more clothing and been gifted it, but the simple dress sewn by the women there specifically because they knew I was coming¨CI could not and cannot thank them enough. We stayed for two days, and on the evening of the second as the sun fell beyond the horizon and we approached Amanala, a car played its horn at us.

    It was a little black-and-yellow sedan, a taxi, but there were strips of black tape on its doors that must have covered its markings. The driver slowed to match Dinesh and rolled his window down. "Mister Shajangali!" he called, and Dinesh pointed to the shoulder, inviting him to park.

    ''Mister Shajangali, hello!'' said the driver. ''I am Balram, I can take you wherever it is you are going.''

    Dinesh turned his head about in the dark, reaching his hand out and tapping the roof of the taxi. ''A moment please, Balram. Sonal, it may become uncomfortably bright.''

    I closed my eyes and soon felt light on my eyelids, but no heat. I looked down and opened my eyes and finding the illumination not unpleasant, lifted my head until I saw the small glowing sphere. It was bright indeed! But not so much to leave a lingering spot in my sight when I looked back to the car. The driver''s head was going back and forth between Dinesh and the light upon the taxi, he was clearly impressed.

    Dinesh said ''That is better. I am grateful for your offer, but I must tell you I have no money or trinkets.''

    ''What is your destination?'' asked Balram.

    ''Dindori next, but my wish is to quickly reach Ambikapur.''

    Balram showed his toothy smile, in the little ghost-light I could quite easily see his gums. ''Ambikapur! My brother lives in Ambikapur! Well he lived there, anyway. . . that''s fine, very fine. I will take you all the way, I didn''t drive so far already hunting for a fare!'' His enthusiasm was infectious!

    Dinesh said ''If you are certain¨CI am no stranger to these treks¨Cyes. Sonal, what do you think?''

    ''Whatever you choose.'' I said.

    ''Then we shall, thank you, Balram.''

    The light waned and disappeared and Dinesh took the front passenger seat, I sat behind him. I thanked Balram as well and he pulled back onto the dark road.

    ''So!'' said Balram, ''Why are you traveling to Ambikapur?''

    Dinesh said ''I have not visited before, and I would like to see the great tree.''

    Balram nodded energetically. ''The evergreen-and-yellow Ginkgo! I saw it when I was a boy, far smaller than it is now, I understand.''

    The exertion of the day weighed heavy. I laid across the seats, listening to Balram talk of his brother, and I soon fell asleep. I did not sleep for long, it was night still when the car stopped. We had reached Dindori, we were in a little square adjacent to a hospital. I could see Balram looking at Dinesh, and when I raised I saw him leaned over, head resting on one hand, the eye that I could see closed. I knew what he was doing, and I whispered ''This will take time.''

    I laid back down and Balram reclined his seat. I slept lightly, waking when Dinesh said ''I am finished.''

    Balram asked ''What were you doing, Mister Shajangali?''

    ''Clearing rats from the town.'' said Dinesh.

    Balram made a little humming sound. ''Some of our countrymen venerate rats. Has that ever worried you?''

    Dinesh nodded, but it was not in agreement. He asked ''What do you think of Suraj, Balram?''

    Balram frowned. ''He claims he is Shiva. I see what he can do, what you can do, and I think. . . what do I know?''

    ''I am a man, Balram. I was not the product of a virgin birth nor did I come from heaven. I was born of my mother and my father just as my siblings who followed. I am blessed, and I do sometimes wonder when I hear little whispers if it is the Gods who speak with me, but if so their manner for such is in their wisdom, it is only what I need and nothing more. Suraj, I assure you, is the same.''

    ''But what if you too are a God, and you do not know it?'' replied Balram. (Even for what Dinesh has said, I cannot help but sometimes wonder this myself.)

    ''I am not. I know this as plainly as I speak with you now. There are four of us yet only Suraj makes this claim. More shall follow, and I know even now none will say the same as him.'' (And now a fifth has indeed appeared!)

    Balram was quiet in thought. ''So what of the rats?''

    ''Indeed. I shall say it like so: the worship of our Gods is holy, but it is often twisted. By him, for example. The devoted who believe he is as he says, they truly feel they are doing right, that they are in communion. For them I feel sadness at their faith exploited, twisted. Love is holy, but it is so often twisted. Charity is holy, but it is so often twisted. Our fellow creatures, yes even rats, are holy, but they are twisted in our poor shepherdship, allowing them wanton proliferation. I do not eradicate, I do not wish to, nor could I if I wished. I send back but I do not unmake. Even now rats in the countryside smell the difference, in here and at Indore far behind us, the scents of empty burrows and unmolested grains. They will return quickly enough, but the little effort it takes to bring even brief respite is worthwhile.''

    Balram laughed softly. ''You say you are a man, but your wisdom would be worth recording, yogi Shajangali.''

    ''No.'' said Dinesh, ''This is not my wisdom, it is what I have read from others who are wise. I am engaged in action, that is my blessing and my obligation, just as we are all obligated to action. So I act on the ideas of others who would do the same if they could. Just as you would do the same if you were in my place.''

    Balram waved his hand, as if to push away the words. ''You think too highly of me, Mister Shajan¨C''

    Dinesh interrupted, ''Please, call me Dinesh.''

    ''¨CYou think too highly of me, Mister Dinesh. Desire is my sin, it is good that I cannot indulge.''

    ''You think too little of yourself, Balram." said Dinesh, ''Though I do not converse with heaven I feel its hand. I know what I must do, and I know what Suraj shows, his aberration is meant as an example, at least for now: his acts are wicked, he cooks for himself. And yes¨C'' he turned to look at me, ''I know these words may find his ears, and I hope they do. None are beyond this path.''

    Again Balram stayed quiet in thought before speaking. ''Well then. . . what if he is doing right after all? What if your offerings are your wealth of ability, and his offerings are his presence to the devout who come to him? You say you are blessed, then he is also blessed, yes? What if you both were righteous souls and in rebirth you were justly rewarded? But your soul is still so humble you believe you are undeserving. Maybe Suraj accepts what he earned.''

    Dinesh looked back at me, I know he wanted me to give my opinion. I shook my head, but he pressed. ''I do not have a phone, I know the world through those who speak with me, through what Sonal tells me. Doctor, what does he do in that temple?''

    I relented and spoke. ''He never leaves. He is brought food and drink and. . . young women come to him. He does not always wear a halo, but there is always a great ring of light above the temple, keeping it as if always under the sun. He sometimes walks about it, and sometimes hovers, but he always stays, sometimes greeting those who come to see him, but often leaving them waiting for days. It is said he speaks wisdom but what I have read are just paraphrasings from the Mah¨¡bh¨¡rata. Miracles are claimed but I do not believe them, because, well. . .'' I looked at Dinesh.

    ''Because many come to me, thinking that touching my shirt or my hand will free them from ailment. I truly wish it could, but it does not. That is why I know I am blessed but not divine¨Cwhy that hermit is blessed, for whatever reason, but certainly not divine. If we were being rewarded we could have born into wealth or freed from Sa?s¨¡ra. We were born with power, but he only acts for himself.''

    ''I suppose.'' said Balram. ''But it would be nice. . . I guess that is what I think, to have such certainty of the Gods.''

    ''It would. But that is not the point.'' and at that Dinesh leaned his head back and closed his eyes and said ''You two should sleep. The morning will be very busy.''"

    "Wow." says Emilia. Andrew can only nod.

    "In the day Dinesh helped the people of Dindori as I observed. As always, whatever they asked that he could effect, he would. In the evening a meal was prepared for us, and in the night rooms were offered that we each took, although Balram declined and slept in his taxi.

    With our kind driver we passed between towns quickly, listening to cheerful American music he played from a sleeve of discs. At each one Dinesh met the crowds then went house to house. I remember many things, but most fondly are Amarkantak, where he leveled an uneven field so the children could better play cricket and football, and Manendragarh, where a great pile of refuse had been raised ahead of his arrival, and he turned it to dust and reformed it as a fractal cube. It was there he directed Balram to drive through the coming towns straight to Ambikapur, and in the morning when we left, Dinesh again laid his head back.

    ''He often does this, hm.'' said Balram.

    ''Yes, he has in every vehicle we have traveled in.''

    ''The world on his mind, no doubt!'' said Balram. ''Shall I play music?''

    Dinesh spoke, ''Feel free, always.''

    Balram laughed. ''Ha, yes! The world on his mind indeed, and this little taxi in it too.'' I watched his hand leave the wheel and reach under the dash, tossing the blue vinyl disc case to me. ''Look through, it is time you chose one!''

    I had been very curious about it, so it was a funny little moment of happiness to finally hold it. Balram added ''I have turned the ones already played to their backs.'' (Oh Balram, I hope you are doing well, wherever you are.)

    I pulled the zipper, it was a satisfyingly heavy little toggle, and I turned through the sleeves, looking at the covers that were still visible. I did not ask, but each disc had writing and little marker drawings that were so cute I wondered if someone other than our ebullient driver made these and gifted them to him, like a sister or a niece. One disc had the head of an ape, another with books and glasses and musical notes, a third with briefcases and little sheet-ghosts, and one had only fat letters in English¨CSATURATION3. I laugh now thinking about how I chose that! I lifted it on one finger and Dinesh, whose head was still back and his eyes still closed, reached to take it and hand it to Balram, who glanced at it and said happily ''Do not worry, the sirens are part of the music.''

    I did not expect that!

    We listened all the way through the album and when it was finished we traded discs, me handing him the one with the little sheet-ghosts. Again it was quite different from my expectations, a completely different genre that brought a darker ambience to the taxi, an introspective feeling.

    Dinesh returned to us once that album ended. ''We are close to the city, but the Twins stand not far ahead. The sister blocks the road, be prepared for the traffic to slow and stop.''

    ''Yes, Mister Dinesh.'' said Balram.

    We could soon see the Twins, the pair of great cattle each several meters tall, the bull with his tail to us, the cow indeed blocking the road. Balram pulled to the shoulder and when we were parked Dinesh left the car and I ran after him, nearly stumbling as my bag swung around my neck. A crowd was gathered around her, and they gasped and clamored when they recognized the arrival of Shajangali. Their calls brought even more to join us, and once he had greeted enough, they stepped back so he could attend to this unexpected task.

    Dinesh grinned at the cow, I did not expect him to show such joy!

    He said ''I have not had the pleasure of meeting these beautiful siblings.'' He raised his right hand and held it near her head, waiting for assent that he saw and I did not, as soon enough he placed it on her wide cheek. ''I do not know the wisdom that placed giants among us, but maybe it is the feeling they inspire. Perhaps my gift is a lens through which I may better see and appreciate my fellows, and maybe she too has been magnified by a lens-of-sorts, made large so all may better see and appreciate living things.''

    The cow licked his head! Dinesh and I laughed and so too did the crowd."

    Andrew glances at Emilia, who''s grinning.

    "''Yes, I am also glad to meet you!'' said Dinesh, ''But please, these people must be on their way, so you must leave the road. Don''t make me do it for you, I worry that will surely be unpleasant. Come, come, I suppose I need a rope¨C'' Heads turned in the chattering crowd, but Dinesh raised his left hand and a rope came out of the pasture beside us (I had to push back the thought of a flying serpent!) It landed gracefully upon her neck and he grasped both ends and when he pulled she followed. He lead her to the bull, her brother, slightly shorter than she but with magnificent horns and hump. I found myself amused not only by the sight of Dinesh between the giants, but by my wandering thoughts, imagining a family of confused elephants approaching the cattle and the farcical exchange they would have.

    Dinesh returned to the taxi for only a moment. He said ''Balram, I am going to walk into the city proper. I am sure you will have no trouble finding me.''

    Balram grinned and said ''Yes of course, I will see you soon!''

    I stood beside him. He looked at me. ''You can take the car ride.''

    I said ''I would rather stay with you.''

    He looked at me and smiled very slightly and said ''Very well.''

    I had witnessed crowds form so many times, and I had myself been in the great crowd at Indore, but I had not seen one come together in a populous place. Even as Dinesh kept to smaller roads, people of every age would recognize him and call his name and run from houses and fields. ''Shajangali! It is Shajangali!'' they cried. Hundreds, then thousands walking behind him, until even the small roads were completely full of people and some drivers would angrily honk until they too recognized what was happening, and they jumped out of their cars and would run up to quickly shake his hand or touch his shoulder, then join the rest of us.

    I could at almost all points see the great tree, the evergreen-and-yellow Ginkgo. It rose high above Ambikapur. Mind you, though the city is very populous, do not envision a place with towers across an imposing skyline. Ambikapur spreads out rather than up; the tree spreads out and up!

    The tree, as I have learned, found its place by luck. Ginkgo biloba is already uncommon in India, it feels quite right that the tree whose presence would alone be unusual further distinguished itself by such size, and oh how it did and how it does! Between a cricket stadium and a government office a field is set apart for the majesty himself. I felt such wonder, this king of trees, his body his own crown and castle. Two hundred feet tall and its branches spreading out such that I could believe it was almost as wide! The massive trunk, I thought of how many of us in the crowd it would take to wrap our arms around it, and its last flourish, the little fan-leaves, a wave of green-and-yellow that blended together, and the field at our feet, covered in fallen leaves as a golden carpet.

    Dinesh worked and I followed. In the evening Balram rejoined us and we ate in a grand hall with many townspeople and the mayor, and at night we were given accommodations. Even our driver acquiesced (I was glad to know he was finally sleeping in a bed!) As I typed notes from my recollections I heard Dinesh pacing in the room beside mine, until he walked into the hall and knocked at my door.

    He said ''I am thankful that you followed me. I am going to send Balram away tomorrow.''''

    I said ''I am thankful you allowed me to. He will decline, but that must be why you intend to.''

    ''Yes,'' said Dinesh, ''but he will relent. He has already done too much. As have you, though I think if I tell you to go, you would ignore me.''

    I shook my head, ''If you truly wished for me to leave, I would.''

    He shook his, ''Yes. . . and I do not. You have seen me most of all. I ask this in earnest and I want candor. What is your impression of me?''

    I said ''I think back to Indore. It was the same day I always had, so busy, so loud. But I enjoyed it, or I tell myself I enjoyed it. I ran out, I left my duty, not even telling them what I was doing. But when the rats were all around me, I was used to them, seeing them even when I never wanted to, seeing cats pounce on them and dogs shake them to death. When so many were over my feet and then gone just like that? In that moment I had to know you. And that was the right decision. Seeing you help however you can, raising walls, digging trenches, clearing fields, all at a whim, and hearing you speak your thoughts. How you truly never take rewards, how your actions are never done for the fruit they bear. I could not describe myself as religious, but. . .''

    ''Nor can I. Not truly.'' said Dinesh.

    I was stunned by this.

    ''It has always seemed a contradiction. I know it is trite, a child''s verbal trick, but it resonates with me. Wanting nothing is still wanting nothing. I want nothing in return for my actions because the only cost is time and that I have in abundance. I am in perpetual perfect health, my strength never falters, I never tire, I am never bored of this. It takes nothing of me to lift earth, to move air itself. I simply can. So I think what fairness is me charging for what costs me nothing? I hear these praises, like from Balram, who is so kind, but this isn''t wisdom. He is a true man of indifferent action, he only does it for the act itself, not concerned of the fruit he might reap. I am unconcerned, but why would I be concerned? I need nothing, I want nothing, not because of enlightenment, but because of what I am already. I. . . I fear these words, because I believe it is truly wrong to dismiss faith, to guide others away from it, because faith is good, and I know I have faith myself. But in what, I do not know, in existence, I suppose. A great hope of something more. A yearning.''

    ''You are something more, Dinesh.'' I said.

    ''Yes, exactly. I describe myself as blessed because I am blessed, but I do not think is from the divine, and that gives me doubt. And I think, ah¨Cthe doubting man is never happy. But I do not doubt my action, I know it is good that I do something at least over nothing. I do not doubt there are even greater things I could do. But I must accept my place blindly? When this is my place? Look at what I can do, Sonal. Behold.''

    He rose into the air in that little room. I had always wondered but never asked.

    ''But what good is this? That I can travel a little faster? I already have so much time. I do not know what I fear in this. I am already treated as if I walk on air. What good is this. . . only to set me further apart. To further push me away. From others, from you. An even greater reminder of inequity that I guess the Gods must tolerate, but it is not of their hands, it is from something else, and I go to the depths of my reason in search of why. I do not doubt my action. I doubt my purpose.'' He lowered to the floor and turned away from me.

    ''But you can do all of these things. . ." I said softly, and he turned back to face me. "What good is it for you to worry about why? You said you have heard little whispers, but that they are not directives?''

    ''Little hints from something, yes, but no calls for specific action.'' he answered.

    ''Then doesn''t that mean it is for you to make your purpose? That for whatever reason you have this, it was accompanied with a lack of direction, so you could choose your own? And you have done that so admirably. None of the others are like you. The American does a little, but you have impacted far more than him, all while taking nothing in exchange. Regardless of faith I do believe you are righteous. And like you said, you do not doubt your actions, maybe that is enough. Maybe doubt is bad, maybe it has sapped your happiness, because you have already found purpose.''

    ''Maybe.'' he said.

    He sat down on the floor, but just as quickly raised and walked to the window, peering beyond the curtains. "Soldiers have just arrived, I am sure there are here to speak with me. Please wait, I will return.''

    He left and I went to the window, looking to the dark entrance of our hotel. I could just see the jeep the three men arrived in, too dark for me to see details beyond the berets worn by two, and the turban worn by the third. They spoke with Dinesh quickly, then left, and I sat on the bed until he returned.

    He stood in the doorway and said ''In the morning we shall go West Bengal. There is a man-eater in the Sundarbans, near Kalitala.''

    ''My eldest sister lives in Kolkata.'' I said.

    ''Then I would like to meet her.''"

    Andrew says "That''s it."

    Emilia has a hand on her cheek. "Makes everything from tonight just seem. . . so small."

    "Yeah."

    "I, um. I feel weird after last night at church and. . . the confessional. I don''t feel any guilt about us, and I don''t even feel like I should, but I¨C" she laughs but it seems more of a response of uncertainty, "I feel like I feel like I should? Like what my mom would say."

    "That''s fine, Em. We didn''t sleep in the same bed last night."

    "I wanted to. Something about you being in my bed makes me happy. . . I just wish I''d been there with you."

    "It''s okay. I''m right here, it''s just sleep."

    She gets under the covers and he clicks off the lamp. She tosses and kicks around but eventually he hears her breathing slow with sleep. His sight rises and drifts, over the interstate to the amusement park. He sees the few guards on duty, mostly stationary. One at a desk looking at monitors, one in a break room, legs kicked up, obviously dozing. One standing, smoking a cigarette, and the last on patrol, walking beside a long roller coaster, one earbud in, one dangling.

    It is not long before Emilia wakes and turns back and forth, then pushes herself up. She moves around to sit on the side of the bed, her head turned in the darkness toward him. She places a hand on the nightstand and gets up, reaching in the dark for Andrew''s bed, finding it and then his covered arm and his partially covered chest, which she rubs slightly. "Andrew."

    "Yeah?"

    "Move over."

    Skiplagged itinerary, their return flight late the next morning. Emilia sleeps in, they eat at the hotel then drive to the airport. Andrew keeps his cap and sunglasses on, no one recognizes him, no one runs up and asks for pictures. He reads Sonal''s posts again on the flight, then searches Sonal + Shajangali. There are many pictures, some from afar with her beside him, some in the crowds as she stood to the side.

    Sunshine Showdown on Saturday in Tallahassee. Emilia with his parents and brother in the crowd. The Seminoles stand no chance, the Gators winning in a blowout. Repeat a week later in Atlanta for the SEC championship. Alabama shows better than Florida State, Andrew still runs away with it. He tries to remember the last football game he lost but nothing comes.

    Finals approach. Classes end. Reading days ahead of the week of exams. Early Friday morning Andrew is at his desk in the living room, reading over his notes while occasionally clicking to check the news. Suraj still a hermit, Redhat still in South America, more rumors of Mondai but nothing Andrew can interpret as evidence of his action.

    His phone chimes, a new post by Sonal. The subject line reads The Tigress.

    <hr>

    In Kotulpur a nice family offered us a ride to Kolkata. Their several sons sat with us in the bed of their truck and asked Dinesh many questions about the tigers he had seen and of his thoughts on Suraj. He was gracious, but the boys did not hear the pain and contempt in his voice.

    The woman and man were quite insistent on delivering us to my eldest sister''s house in Alipore. Rather than masking himself, Dinesh laid down in the bed and pulled on my sleeve to follow. There we were stuck, our backs to straw and boards. The boys looked down at us, grinning and giggling, and once Dinesh started laughing I joined him. My sister knew Dinesh was close to the city and that I was accompanying him, but she was not expecting Shajangali to so suddenly appear at her door! We ate with them, with each again asking Dinesh questions, my sister and her husband of his travels and of Suraj, my nieces and nephews of stories of tigers. In the morning my sister''s husband enthusiastically offered extra food and the use of his car. Dinesh drove us through the countryside, on roads he had walked before. We passed more than one mural of his face, and sometimes people noticed him and we would have to stop for the crowd.

    At Kalitala a captain and his soldiers waited. They were so joyful! They surrounded him to take turns shaking his hand and laying their hands on his back and shoulders and chest. They insisted he should eat before the hunt but Dinesh politely declined, the work would come first. The commotion from the soldiers brought villagers and the affair repeated, the handshakes and laying of hands, the offers of food and sundries and of treasures. He always smiled and always declined. I remember their faces, I remember most of all the older woman wrapped in white sitting on a closed basket, only watching. When he had stood for this to his own satisfaction he asked them to wait and the captain took us to the river shore, pointing across to the mangroves, saying of the wall of sea-trees "She swims across." Dinesh waded into the waters and drew a little gondola that we climbed inside and when we were moving the soldiers called "Shajangali, good luck!"

    The boat moved quietly in the wide rivers of the estuary. I was again in awe. There have been discomforts in this journey, but they do not compare to the unexpected pleasures, the beauty of the country I had appreciated so little of, that I still feel I appreciate so little of. We saw a herd of deer running in the shallow waters amidst trees, we heard the growls of predators hidden from sight, and as we moved from one stretch of water to an even larger one, I could see a spot of orange on a distant shore, a tiger surveying our little boat.

    He found a dry place beyond Golpata palms where he raised the gondola and laid it in a row of silt grass. We walked through the grass until it stopped abruptly at a different kind of wild growth my eyes apprehended as a living cave. The Sundari trees its pillars, spaced so perfectly I could believe it was by hand, the curious root field that raised into the air its ligneous stalagmites, the canopy its flowing ceiling. Leaves often brushed his hair and I was afraid, but he shook his head when I asked if the tiger was somewhere above us.

    We reached a clearing, a skylight in the cave, where the roots went no further and more grass rose around a salt pond. Dinesh stopped, I think in admiration, because I admired it too. When he next moved it was to run and he disappeared into the leaves. I was afraid again! I would have been lost were it not for a sharp wind that pushed me toward him, revealing his back through brush to clear and barren ground. He was cross-legged on the dirt, ahead of him was a tree so enormous a tiger might look like a housecat in its branches, and she sat between.

    I fell at once. I could not speak! I could not breathe! She was so beautiful and so orange and so terrible! She would have been small for an elephant! The left of her face was a masterpiece of the gods and the right was a travesty of man, eyeless and scarred. She only looked at him!

    Eventually Dinesh spoke. "Do you know they once called me abhibh¨¡vak? It was an accident, but I suppose many names have started as misunderstanding. It was an exciting time; in my excitement I misspoke, in their excitement they took for granted. If they must call me something other than Dinesh I am glad it is now Shajangali. Still, I am the obligate guardian, the necessary hunter, no matter how sorry this need is to kill the man-eaters. Look at her, beauty beyond beauty. I feel no joy in this, she would keep to herself if she could. What is crueler nature than who deprived her of the strength to hunt? What is crueler nature than who drove her to be of such size¨Cand hunger?

    Tiger and man have an ancient armistice. Each fear the other and like ship and ship in the waters of the night we cross under noses in the tall grass. Unknown and unwanting to be known. But paths do cross, you know. A tiger takes a goat, must we accept this? The tiger wishes to live, but so do we. The goat surely wishes to live as well! So that excited shepherd who, shaking, aimed his rifle¨Che too, abhibh¨¡vak¨Cstruck and maimed her. The wounds closed, but her sight, her jaw, forever less. The deer eludes her now. Should we expect her to starve? We should expect a better shot! Or at least a prudent one. We must finish what we start, but, a-ha. . . so easy for me to say, as tigers fear me. Her teeth and claws would break on my skin, I may place my hands on her carelessly. She knows what I am, perhaps because all beasts recognize divine blessing or perhaps because I stink of fate. What would I do without this? Please do not mistake what I do as a sign of courage, I have none. Silly to chastise the hunter who lacks courage as well. ''Follow the great tigress, Rama, with your rifle and your testicles!'' Alas, that poor hunter made this poor hunter and thus did man spurn nature. She was hungry and tired and surprised by that tragic woman."

    He raised his hand. Her head bowed to meet it!

    "I wish so terribly that I could return fear to her heart. She fears me! I am a man, but I am not man. She would fear the queen elephant, but she does not fear all elephants nor does she fear all men. Yet this man will be her terror as I take the air as her harness and find her heart and stop it. Were I to sit through day and night to stare in her eye, would she find that fear again? Gods, do I feel such sorrow, and do I share this creature''s consternation at our circumstance! To be made to bow before this mere flesh! But! Would she avoid man? No, I think not, and when she took another life it would be on my hands. Do you understand? Those who ask me why I bloody myself when I could live like that pretender Suraj¨Cwe both have chosen blood, I have chosen less. Yes, this is my purpose, Sonal. To use this blessing in self-interest is to blaspheme the Gods or whomever it was that in their wisdom, brought prosperity to our hands¨Cif we forge it!"

    Truly, I know so little. But maybe now I understand that.

    We sat until night. I soon had to lie down, using my bag as a cushion for my head. I tried to stay awake, but I was overcome with sleep, and when I awoke in the morning light I found Dinesh with her head on his lap and against his chest, his own head bowed, his cheek to the scarred cheek of the tiger, his hand where her eye would have been.

    The people of Kalitala wrapped and lifted the tiger to the pyre. They did not ask for his help and he did not offer. When the old woman saw Dinesh (I still worry she was out the entire night until his return,) she went to him, murmuring. I could not hear, I only watched, but I felt something as her hands raised and his head again bowed so she could reach his face. One of her hands was empty but the other was covered in blue dye. When she left him he turned and looked at me, one eye surrounded by his olive skin, the other eye surrounded by indigo. Not the handprint I expected but solid from above his right eye to his hair, down to his bearded jaw. As the beauty was held in immolation, he raised his hand to beckon me, and I took it and stood beside him.

    <hr>

    Andrew closes his laptop and picks up his phone. Dialing, ringing, ringing.

    Emilia answers from her sleep. "Andrew? What time is it?"

    "Almost sunrise. I need to see you."

 21 - Cloud Generator

    FILTERS 21

    CLOUD GENERATOR

    Drenched instantly in the storm whose thunderclaps feel like nature''s exhortation, Andrew runs. Alongside a few slow cars, headlights cast brilliant in tire spray. Emilia is walking out of her apartment, down the hall to the elevator, taking it to ground, through the lobby to the glass door. He can see her, and she can see him, and he feels the pulse.

    He fumbles with his slickened phone, slowed in habitual motions to open the VPN and browser to Twitter. #PsychicSphere

    Fuck.

    Andrew looks up at Emilia and back to the dark street. She opens the door and calls his name.

    Redhat is five thousand miles away. You''re up.

    He looks at her again, then at his shoes, water flowing around and off his head. He turns, at full sprint in a stride, Emilia''s rising cry lost in his footfalls and the storm that only worsens, so heavy his surroundings are almost invisible, not that he needs his eyes. Down side streets into little woods that will have to be good enough. His phone is turned off and flung into the rain, a great arc to fall through the open window of his bedroom where drawers are tossed and clothes are piled together and pulled out and up. He meets them in the clouds, tearing off shirt and pants and shoes that turn to dust and concealing himself, white jacket last. Over the ocean and above the storm.

    He moves in relation to himself, the glowing origin locked-static in the field. Speed is arbitrary, however fast he moves becomes baseline, a rolling frame of reference. He doesn''t experience gravity, momentum, or inertia when he flies, but neither did he tumble through walls when he first held his form on this celestial body moving 30 kilometers per second. Control doesn''t ignore, it takes account and compensates. However fast he moves, it seems he can move faster still, finding old caution about hitting mountains or planes causeless, baseless, his greater sight expanding until his form is a bright point, runaway up the coast. He feels his heartbeat, Savannah and Charleston, he feels his heartbeat, Wilmington, he feels his heartbeat and faster still until Virginia Beach and over Chesapeake Bay, feeling instead a flash of aggrandizing wish that some system monitoring capital airspace pinged the comet already past Philadelphia. The island is in his sight, the sprawl of towers filled with figures, and so is something else. A score of small spheres dark for lack of heat and buried within a wall of clouds approaching the city from the west. Their certain cause, a flying void, a figure. Another.

    <hr>

    An old man wearing the half-fatigue uniform of the long-ago-enlisted patiently climbs the steps from the subway station on 33rd. His gloved hands are buried in his camo pockets and he''s thankful his glasses don¡¯t fog as he begins his walk up Park. His mouth is covered by the scarf but he''s smiling and you can see it in his eyes, at lit trees and great red baubles and his breakfast to come and the chance to talk simply to the girl at the restaurant. There are few stories he knows that don¡¯t end in blood so he hides them from her, makes himself plain, asks her questions about herself, says thank you with his mouth and his eyes. He pulls his hand from his coat so he can be sure they¡¯re open. He knows it¡¯s perfect, he knows his time.

    A young woman reties her hair and covers it in a knit cap as she walks through the restaurant, giving it a final once-over before they open. Jellies filled, sugar topped off, bowls ready, the floor and tables as clean as they get. For a moment she considers how few of those coming in really see the undirt, what she does for them in the hours before they come, but pushes it away, noticing a straw wrapper stuck under the iron of one of the booths against the wall. As she crouches to pull it out she hears the staff in the back shouting and laughing and she smiles, picturing the face of one in particular. She gets up from under the booth and takes out one airpod to charge it in her apron next to pens and loose change and now a straw wrapper. She walks to the door, no need to check the time, the old man is her clock and his time is perfect. When she sees him she unlocks it and when he''s close enough, opens it.

    He hurries through, saying "Good morning, Rochelle, how are you?"

    "I''m doing fire, Yuri, how about yourself?" She lets go of the door handle, then grabs at it to hold open for two more customers.

    He pulls off his scarf, "I''m good, cold though! How''s Shavon?"

    "I bet! My sister''s doing fine, just like yesterday, Yuri."

    Yuri fiddles with a pocket, withdrawing his wallet. "That''s good. She''s a good one, you all are. I realized this morning, I been walking around under all these lovely decorations. You have Christmas coming up, right? Do you have plans?"

    Rochelle adjusts her apron and taps the single airpod (Children growing, women producing) as she walks behind the counter "I do, my boyfriend will be spending it with me."

    "That''s wonderful. Well you know what I came here for."

    Nikos, already slicing a bagel, says "Of course, Yuri, we''re on it."

    Yuri pays the cashier, Adi, and backs from the line.

    Nikos passes her the sliced bagel and as he hears "One blueberry, one everything, and also¨C" turns around to pull them from the baskets on the wall. She adds cream cheese then deftly separates lox from parchment paper and adds it in layers. She''s bagging the sandwich (No more askin'', "Who really are you?") when all of the lights shut off, the restaurant plunged almost entirely into darkness if not for the dim exit signs.

    Yuri hums. The second customer stands at the window and says, "Hey. . . lights are out all across the street. It''s so dark," and they leave to the sidewalk. The third customer joins them.

    (You cray? We cray, too)

    Rochelle says "Yeah, must be a¡ª" her heart skips, she understands. Her hands begin to shake, she drops the bag and raises a hand to the airpod (You pray? We pray, too¨CNever too late for) but her hand convulses and she drops that too, hearing it bounce at her feet and hearing in the distance something deep.

    Adi has his phone light on, reaching into the cabinet below the cash register to retrieve a flashlight. Rochelle taps him, "Adi¨Cit''s a¨CJacob¨Cthe guys¨Cwe have to¡ª" but she sees Jacob and the others come out of the back, all holding their phones-as-flashlights.

    "What''s going on?"

    "Blackout, look across the street."

    "Hasn''t been one since I was a little kid."

    "Do you hear that? What''s that sound?"

    "Yeah, damn, what is that?"

    "Construction? They hit something major?"

    "Kinda sounds like demolition."

    Outside, one customer has their hand on their head, the other has both on theirs.

    "What are they looking at?" asks Yuri.

    One shakes the shoulder of the other. Both turn and run.

    "Why are they running?" whispers Yuri.

    Several cars, one after the other, speed through the intersection, making U-turns. More figures run past. Rochelle takes the bag and pushes it into her apron pocket and as she walks down the counter she can see her fallen airpod in the lights from the phones and she puts her shaking hand out toward it and it pulls itself to her palm. "We have to get out of here."

    "What is it, Ro?" asks Jacob, but their phones collectively sound with an emergency alert and he reads it and he says "Oh. God."

    Stolen story; please report.

    When the alerts finish she can hear the faint wail of air raid sirens.

    Adi holds the door as they run out of the restaurant. She doesn''t want to look at it but her gaze still moves toward the sound. Toward the building she''s only seen but still associates with so much, the little nicety of a finished commute, the drag of work, the joy of who she works with. Now she can only see the ruined profile of the MetLife building, the edges of the sphere that started in what she might guess is its upper quarter. The cover of the morning Post comes perfectly to mind. REDHAT IN BUENOS AIRES.

    "Redhat''s in Argentina."

    "How many thousands of fuckin'' miles away is that?"

    "Wha¨Cwhat about the others, what about the First?"

    "Pray like hell someone''s on their way but we gotta fuckin'' run!"

    The others run, primal, away from death they cannot see but know comes for them. Jacob still holds Yuri''s arm. She sees something fall in the shadows beneath the sphere and hears a great crash. Grand Central. . . and she has a most terrible thought of subway cars colliding with the barrier and the people within¨Cshe violently shakes her head, trying to reassure herself. Failsafes. There are failsafes. There are failsafes¨Cbut it''s pierced. No failsafe for the barrier cutting through the middle of a train. Or bus. Or apartment building. She feels tears in her eyes. Jacob touches her shoulder, "Come on, Ro, we have to move."

    "Yeah¨Cyeah."

    They walk as quickly as they can but they''re slowed by helping Yuri. "I appreciate what you''re doing but I''m an old man, so if I tell you to leave me and run, you run, okay?"

    "We''re not leaving you, old man." says Jacob.

    "Don''t give me that. If I tell you to leave me, you leave me!"

    "I''m not going to hear that right now, okay Yuri? One of them is on their way."

    Cars fill the roads and as the trio approaches 36th they see a wreck in the middle of the intersection, then as others try to swerve around it a blue Honda clips the back end of a pickup and slides into a light pole. The drivers in the collision get out and run and drivers in cars caught on the other sides of the jam begin to do the same. All around them people run out of buildings and join the masses, hundreds, thousands. Most see the direction of the crowd and follow it without looking back. Some turn to see the sphere, then run. A few stop completely, frozen, staring. They almost hit one, a man, Yuri prods him angrily¨C"You! Stop gawking! Run!"¨Cand the man shakes himself off and does. Rochelle sees a young woman curled up and rocking on the concrete at the corner of the next intersection, she runs to her. "Hey baby, hey, you need to run, come on, I''ll help you up."

    "I can''t. I can''t."

    "Don¡¯t be stupid, take my hand."

    "I can''t. I can''t!"

    Rochelle shakes her shoulder. "Take my hand or you¡¯re gonna die, honey"

    The woman sits up. Jacob''s beside her, they both take a hand and pull her up. "Th¨Cthanks," and she runs.

    Rochelle hears another crash from behind but she ignores it, all thoughts on moving forward. They''re past 34th when she hears the shouts and screams in front of them change in waves¨Care they cheering?

    Something awesome in the sky. A blur beyond all colors, past them.

    <hr>

    Andrew projects invisible walls as four revolving sets of three words.

    I SEE YOU

    They respond.

    HANDLE SPHERE THEN TALK

    Unnecessary direction. He''s between buildings in final approach, already dismissed the outer barrier and wiped away the debris ball and hands-raised to halt instantly and lay them upon the man at the center. The man who for that moment is no longer black and not then gray or white but all, like old static, and soon none, as he finds himself again in that different place, the man looking to him from within the waters, and as he again watches a human die beneath his hands. To the building beneath, sending off entire floors as he finds the trapped, as he finds the dead, his hands reaching through evaporating concrete, sheetrock, and steel to lift figures and deliver them to first responders whose expressive gamut of fear and relief and astonishment he looks past, and back, to other damaged buildings, to other trapped and other dead, again and again. But that was only the center, and this is not Tampa. More destruction was wrought by the barrier, he sees the cleanly sliced towers, where their fallen more-or-less-than-halves have collapsed into more buildings still. The wall of clouds has reached the island, a thick fog, a haze rolling through the streets as the other joins his effort, though so differently. Clearing buildings for the trapped but staying far above, shaping walls and floors like skiffs for ferrying casualties to ground while reaching underground to stopped or damaged subway cars to push them to the nearest stations.

    Again Andrew has little awareness of how swiftly he works, but there was still much to cover and overcast light comes through the waning haze when they have finished. He drifts into clear air, the Met directly below, knowing exactly how many faces and cameras are on him: all who can see. Let them look, then. Let them record and find the perfect picture to cover every front page. Here over the museum, or somewhere further south, eyes and phones pressed to windows up and down every supertall on 57th, or further south still, past MoMA and winter-dead living roofs and lit evergreen beneath the Top of the Rock, until he is again at the root, the ruins whose name he does not know but will soon enough. Helicopters approach, but no drones surveil from far above. Content, he could think, of the thousands of images already uploaded and of live footage from sky cameras. Yes, look at this. Not Sports Illustrated, not ESPN, not pictures from the last time he was in this city to be handed a piece of metal for being the best among men in a contest of strength and speed when he is at his least on the field. See your son, see your brother, and though you do not know it, girl, see who he is and know him by his deeds and fear not.

    The other waits. Andrew ascends.

    Through clouds, through a barrier he knows thoughtlessly will not hinder him, to the other. They wear a jumpsuit as well, tucked into boots and with long gloves pulled over the sleeves and a helmet that covers their entire head. Every inch a uniform color, all appearing to be made of or covered by the same strange silver material, mirror-like, distorted patterns reflecting in it from the movements of the clouds.

    They say "Well done."

    Andrew says "You too. I guess you don''t want people to know you exist, but after all of this. . ."

    "It''s inevitable, but even a few more hours of ambiguity about my existence is to my advantage."

    Andrew hears something in the voice. "That''s quite a take. I like your getup, is it camouflage?"

    "Yes, thanks, though there''s nothing to become iconic with this like your jacket, ''First.'' I have a question for you."

    Something familiar. "What''s that?"

    The other removes their helmet. Their head is still covered in silver hood and white mask but he can see their eyes and they ask "Do you believe your future is still in football, Andrew?"

    Andrew might have left that instant if their hood wasn''t coming down and their mask wasn''t lifting. Fresh shock ejects panic. He knows this man''s name.

 22 - G.O.A.T.

    FILTERS 22

    G.O.A.T.

    ¡ªAND OUT OF THE RED CORNER, WEARING RED TRUNKS WITH GOLD TRIM, STANDING SIX FEET SEVEN INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN POUNDS. PROUDLY REPRESENTING ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI, USA, IN HIS METEORIC ALL-TIME CAMPAIGN OF FORTY-NINE WINS, NO LOSSES, NO DRAWS, WITH ALL FORTY-NINE CRUSHING WINS COMING BY KNOCKOUT. LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, THE REIGNING UNDEFEATED, UNDISPUTED, UNDENIABLE HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD, INTRODUCING HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, KING JOHN CANTON!

    John Canton raised his gloves to the crowd. Matching red and gold, Winning logo, gold crown decal below, gold KING on one thumb, gold CANTON on the other. Pointless red compression wraps around his hands, beneath the gloves. At least this was the last time.

    The referee called the opponents forward, he watched black latex gloved hands check their waistbands. "Okay, gentlemen, your trunks are looking good. We went over the rules in the dressing room¨CI want to caution you to keep this fight clean at all times, protect yourself at all times, and what I say you must obey. Good luck and touch ''em up!"

    They touched gloves, a single firm tap. He would not patronize; his opponent would not be arrogant. Entourages, cameramen, and the announcer left the ring and he looked at Clare, who blew a kiss. He felt the crowd, the arena, the casinos beyond. Felt the rising clamor until all fell silent in his ears when the bell was struck. He walked forward, his opponent rushed.

    Always so slow, he thought. Always so weak. The outcome always known except how many hits this next and final man will tolerate after they miss and miss and their best shots do nothing. "Unfair," yeah, literally correct. After all the fair bouts they won to bring them to this ring of family history, the proud descendent of legendary bareknucklers, a little closer to their hotblooded forefathers than most. He wondered again about his own biological parents, never met. Maybe he materialized from nothing, the baby in the ward with no corresponding mother, his manifesting as some lesser consequent of the demiurge. If he had not seen his blood in pre-fight labs he could believe he has none. His opponents bled, it''s the only reason he ever watched their film. Replayed now, no need to anticipate, only wait for them to try. Dodged as one green glove moved right, his left struck their open ribs. Dodged as they tried a hook in return, his right struck their face. They slowed, they bled, left ribs, struck once again. They fell and quickly stood.

    First round finished with another strike of the bell. He sat in his corner, Nnamdi''s hands rested on his shoulders as Zack pressed the symbolic enswell to his jaw and asked "What do you think?"

    "What do you think?" he replied.

    "He''s not making it to three."

    "No."

    Their blocking improved. Temerity yielded to the unconscious, jolted realization in the shocks that rolled through their hands and up their arms when their fists met his skin, unyielding. Growing recognition of futility, obvious hesitance to become vulnerable in attack. When his opponents still ran their mouths before fights he would give them hits, let them feel his chin and smile to show they could touch him but they could not hurt him. His opponents still tried, this opponent still tried, and like the forty-nine before them was always punished. Their resolve waned, coming to a close, their last gasp easily dodged. No good, he thought. Too slow. Always too slow. Side, jaw, twice more. They grimaced and shuddered and with the last dropped. He stepped back, the crowd roared, the referee waved off. The light fell fully into his eyes, caught in his entourage and many he didn''t recognize clapping every part of his back and chest they could get a hand on. One shouted Rocky fuckin'' Marciano can eat his chicken parm out! but he didn''t look, didn''t care. 50-0, fifty knockouts and zero moments of fear. Fifty knockouts and zero thrills from earned victory. He looked instead at Clare climbing into the ring, down the deep neck of her red dress, at her dark hair as it passed over the ropes, at her hands as she firmly pushed back well-wishing orbiters to stand beside him. The bell was struck several times, his left arm raised above his head by the referee, the announcer''s voice so quickly returned¨C50-0, THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME¨CIt could be cheating, he didn''t care, doesn''t care. These contests were for finding the greatest in the ring, he was and is the greatest in the ring. If it was ever cheating he would do it again. Nothing regretted, but now relieved.

    Nnamdi hugged him and said "It''s been an honor, John."

    "Likewise, Nnamdi. Thank you for everything."

    Zack held his hands behind his head. He had a half-smile, wistful. "No point dragging it out."

    "Wouldn''t have been right. And," he whispered as he leaned down to kiss Clare''s cheek, "All I could think about was how much time I have to waste before I get to take you home."

    She rolled her eyes, but he could feel her heartbeat change.

    He showered. He no longer produced sweat but he knew there were specks of blood on his body the towels didn''t catch. Tailored ensemble, black suit, white shirt, black tie. Black FP Journe last, returned to him from one bodyguard, Hamir. Nnamdi led them into the auditorium for the post-fight conference and stood to his right. Zack to his left, the room full to standing. They knew what was coming.

    "I would like to open with thanking Mr. Luke. He is an incredible boxer and he is going to be back. I am aware of the media attention that surrounded this fight, the accompanying billing and hype despite my never making an official statement. I will make that statement now: it was all true. This was my last fight. I am retiring from professional boxing."

    There were isolated exclamations from the few who somehow didn''t expect this.

    He turned to Nnamdi, "I must thank my trainer and coach from day one, Nnamdi Obiakpani. I would not be here without you." He turned to Zack, "I also need to thank my cutman and team chief Zack Kennedy as well as all of our boxing team members at Canton Holdings. And of course, my wife Clare." He saw her in his other sight as she changed from her dress. That''s a shame, he thought. "I''ll now take a few questions." He pointed to a reporter in glasses. "Yes, Mr. Lance?"

    "Thank you, John, and congratulations on your, ah, final victory. Was breaking Marciano''s record your motivation for retiring?"

    "Yes, primarily. Boxing has made me who I am. If it were not for the day I walked into Nnamdi''s gym, I don''t know where I would be. The amount of good this has done for me, the people I have met, the friends I have made, meeting my wife. It''s all because of this. But now I have done enough, and I believe it is time for new blood to hold these belts, like Mr. Luke." He pointed to a brunette. "Miss deBoer?"

    "Thank you, John. Will you be involved in boxing at all?"

    "Yes, at a distance. Nnamdi is reopening Obiakpani''s Gym & Academy and we will be an incredibly proud partner." He pointed to a blonde he recognized but whose name he was annoyed to not recall. "Yes?"

    "John, do you think it''s inappropriate to have fought tonight knowing you were going to effectively immediately abdicate your title?"

    "No," he laughed. "I was ready to fight and it would have been wrong to deny Mr. Luke the challenge he earned. Delaying this announcement until months later would be inappropriate. Besides, everybody knew this was coming. I''ll take two more questions." He pointed to a bearded man, "Yes, Mr. Maina?"

    "Do you have any more thoughts on the fight?"

    "As I said, Mr. Luke is an incredible boxer, I fully expect him to compete for multiple titles in the coming years. Otherwise, Sunday''s Post-Dispatch will feature my full retirement announcement and that will include my thoughts on the fight in greater detail. Last question." He pointed to a bald man, "Mr. Basil?"

    "Thank you and congratulations John. What are your plans following your retirement?"

    "My businesses. When Canton Holdings started nine years ago we were in fast food and real estate. Now with the Canton Center for Reproductive Health we''re in UQM research and IVF treatment, and at Epitaxial we''re in rocketry, energy, and advanced materials. I know this is a boxing crowd, but some of you will have read and all of you should read how Dr. Henry Batton, Epitaxial''s co-founder, has along with his team developed an immediately implementable method for the mass production of high-quality graphene. This is a landmark breakthrough with applications in every market sector. Our tower under construction in St. Louis will utilize Henry''s work, just as our first large-scale manufactory will when it breaks ground in September. Epitaxial Foundries is the only company in the world with this technology and where we were already a leader in engineering applications for graphene, we will quickly expand that to being the majority global supplier of graphene, especially in graphene composites. In a decade our products will be in everything. And all of this ties back to boxing. I will always be grateful to have had this opportunity and I will look fondly back at my time fighting, just as I now look forward to putting my energy into working with Henry and overseeing my businesses. But that is enough from me. Thank you all again, have a good evening."

    He waved to the audience and ignored the breakout of shouted questions. Hamir lead them out, exiting to the service corridor.

    "I''ll get to McCarran," said Zack, and he jogged off.

    Nnamdi remained. "All good things. . ."

    "You''ll be back here in no time."

    "Maybe, but they won¡¯t be like you.¡±

    "Who knows?"

    Nnamdi looked at his phone. "My daughter''s flight landed, they''re all on their way to the hotel."

    "That''s great, I hope you all have a wonderful time. If you need anything¨C"

    "I know, John." They shook hands and hugged again and Nnamdi left.

    He turned to Hamir. "What did you think about the conference?"

    "I thought you made your points very well."

    "Thanks. It''s done, anyway. My wife''s still changing?" She was partially clothed, taking pictures in front of a mirror. Her assistant, Mei, stood out of shot.

    "Yes, sir."

    Tal, his second guard, blocked the door of the little locker room. Their eyes met, Tal acknowledged him with a nod and faced forward. He turned to Hamir. "What about the fight?"

    "That was a good hit on your jaw, all things considered."

    "Yeah. He''s very fast."

    "Not fast enough."

    "No."

    "But your finish might be the best I''ve seen. A fitting way to end it."

    "Damn, thank you. We''ll be going back tonight."

    "Yes, sir. The car is ready."

    The women joined them. Hamir positioned as the lead, Tal at the rear, Mei next. He looked over his shoulder and saw as Clare ran at his back and jumped up, her arms slipping around his neck, her hands crossed on his chest, her legs held in his arms. Gold Apple Watch, gold hinged bracelet. Red Adidas tracksuit, black Yeezy 350s. "I liked your dress more."

    "I couldn''t jump onto you in heels," he felt her breath on his ear as she whispered, "and the dress might have torn and fallen off."

    He whispered back, "Yeah. Save the show for me."

    He felt her silent laughter, felt her heart flutter. He whispered "We still have the villa, and we could do some more here tomorrow."

    "I''ve done enough. Let''s go home. And. . ." she whispered something else.

    He reclined on the bed in the jet''s little suite, feet and calves over the edge, Clare seated across from him.

    "I''m glad to be leaving," she said. "I don''t know about this city."

    "I like Las Vegas."

    She perked, "You never told me that."

    "Something about it makes sense to me."

    She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin on her hands, tilted in playful incredulity. "Proud excess? Capitalism''s most perfect shithole?"

    He couldn''t deny it, "Yeah, or maybe second after LA. I do like the excess, and I like how it''s shitty. I miss when I could walk through a casino and I didn''t need guys with me because nobody noticed me."

    "They noticed you."

    "Fine, recognized me. Now I need a full escort because everybody wants to meet King fuckin'' Canton."

    "But you love that."

    "I do. But I liked when I could casually play at casinos. I love the Wynn, now going there is an ordeal. I miss when I could anonymously join in on partying, miss when I could just watch people reveling or knocked sober after their busts. There was this night years ago, I was here to watch the second fight between Marquez and Vazquez. Vazquez won in a TKO, still one of the best matches I''ve ever seen. After, I was at a craps table at the Wynn. Everybody around it was definitely from a bachelor party. I had my Cards hat on and this real bro in khakis, Penguin shirt, sunglasses and a Dodgers hat grins at me and says ''Fuck the Cardinals,'' but he was joking around and of course I gave it back, ''Fuck the Dodgers,'' and we both laughed, and the shooter was on fire and everybody kept winning. It was a blast. At some point I noticed this old guy beside us, nice suit, big silver tourbillon TAG, playing alone at a blackjack table with a pit boss behind the dealer. He was rolling multiple hands and dropping flags. He was crushing it, winning every hand almost every time. When he finished he gave the dealer a flag and she thanked him but she was so reserved, so calm, like a five grand tip was nothing special to her. Both sides of that interaction were shocking to me. A new guy sat down, he was in jeans, a yellow-and-pink Hawaiian shirt, white Nikes and a calculator watch. He took out a dinky stack of black chips, so like two thousand dollars, and he played and busted every hand straight out. This was in August and this huge hacker convention called DEF CON was going on, so for all I know he''s some rich tech guy and fine with pissing away a couple stacks in minutes. But I think about the people on the floor pissing away stacks who couldn''t afford it, who I''m sure went home and wondered What the fuck was I doing, I''m never going back, I''m so stupid, that place is bullshit. I don''t think it makes sense to them. But I think of that old guy."

    "You think of how he represented everything you wanted and everything you were working toward. And since this is where you''ve won so many fights, you can''t help but associate it and him with all of your success."

    "Yeah." He smiled at her. "It can be beautiful here. I know you see it."

    "I do. I like the Mansion, as clich¨¦ and aesthetically out-of-place as it is. All this wonderful, dissonant architecture, overrun and not at all appreciated by tourists except to show they were also part of the transience. But maybe there''s something redemptive in that." She tapped her phone, his phone vibrated. "I do like the mountains, and I like the air."

    "I do too." He looked at the pictures she sent, several from when she was getting changed. "I also like that."

    She unzipped the tracksuit jacket and let it fall behind her in the seat, plain white shirt underneath, and joined him on the bed. "I never thought I''d fall into such a strangely romantic view of a ''shithole.'' But you saw promise, and you got it." Her hand ran down his chest. "You said we would. . ."

    "I did. What about¨C"

    "That was my appointment before we left St. Louis."

    He should have guessed. "But we''ve. . . how long after?"

    "A month at most."

    "I''m ready."

    "I know you are. Do you still think they won''t be like you?"

    "They''ll be tall like me, and beautiful like you. They won''t have my gift."

    It was less than a month.

    His left hand rested on her bare abdomen, his head held by his right. He looked at her dark figure in his other sight, his golden beside. He could see their children, birthed as he was birthless. He knew what she feared: one or both of his parents must have died violently. As truly as she knew it would never happen to him it only meant her anxiety was increased in kind, free to keep her awake or in fitful sleep over children she will have. Why don''t I feel this way, he thought. Why such confidence? This power speaks to me but I think I alone hear another voice, higher even than this power. Demiurge, d¨¥miurg¨®s, craftsman, artisan, God. Hello, father. I know why I am here. I see shadows before me, your word informs me. Set apart even in those set apart, to be king¨Cmagnate¨Cto be emperor. To guide, as you guide me, while I will soon guide others away from the heart. Better at least not away from my heart or hers. Or worse? Does your heart ache at what is to come? I know only as you have hinted, still mine does not.

    Beneath his hand he saw light form within her and he saw the light spread, until she was bright like him and with sharp breath she awoke. Her hands fell upon his, light touching light. She did not see but she understood. He saw and understood. She cried and she laughed and they kissed and he enveloped her.

    He still watched her sleep in the morning, and with the shimmer of light in the room from sunrise he saw also a shimmer in his other sight, felt it pass like a breeze. He could laugh at such reciprocation. Their joy in the conception of one who would not be like him, returned so appropriately by this herald of the true birth of the Third like him.

    He left the bedroom to the loggia above the private garden and called Henry.

    "Three now."

    Henry said "The chamber is ready."

    The cold chamber was a metal box, elevated and insulated. Weeks of testing his response to lower and lower temperatures brought them here. He became amused watching the liquid oxygen that swirled in his bare and cupped palms, felt almost tickled as nitrogen and then oxygen solidified. Toxins, radiation, electrical current, vacuum or gigapascals, warm matter and now ultracold. They found nothing that affected him. After the chamber''s long warm-up he descended through a hatch in the floor, a laser thermometer coming to hand. 37 every time.

    "One test left,¡± he said, staring still at his hand.

    "When?" asked Henry.

    "Tonight."

    Clare stood beside him in the center courtyard of the manor. Henry lit a cigarette and pushed up his glasses, then took a notebook and pen from Zack. Black jumpsuit, boots, gloves. Clare held his black full helmet. Epitaxial-built camera in a zippered pocket on his chest, lens in a zippered pouch on his leg. Omega Speedmaster he finished setting.

    "Let''s hear it again." said Henry.

    "Five minutes as far as I can go, take pictures, come back."

    "Last words?" asked Zack with a grin they both believed.

    "With so much at risk I couldn''t justify going from what I had done to what I''m about to do, so I''m glad we proved it, because I have no doubts left. Space is the point of everything we have done. Space is why I have this." He leaned down to Clare but she stopped him.

    "You can kiss me when you get back."

    "I won''t be long," he put on the helmet, "watches ready?"

    "I''ll count off," said Zack. "Ten. . ."

    ". . .One."

    Launch.

    Ten seconds and he saw the curve of the Earth. Not enough, faster, faster. His other sight grew beyond any time before, his form a faint star, shot into the void. His heart high as he held the heavens in full glory. Still not enough, he thought. Faster.

    He saw. He ran through the roll of film. He returned.

    Glad to reenter the atmosphere and again draw breath so he could release it in his first truly triumphant yell. He hugged Zack and Henry and tossed away the helmet before lifting Clare in an embrace. She developed the film and when she brought the first image her cheeks were flushed, her eyes red. He looked briefly and gave it to Henry, who sat down on the courtyard sand and wiped away a tear, then raised his arm, holding the picture out for Zack, who took it and said "God above."

    "You can do this with ships." said Henry, now lying down.

    "Yes."

    "We''ll need so much money. We should hasten the release of the next battery series."

    "Yes, and move into the next stage with the clinics."

    Epitaxial composites saw use in everything. Construction materials, like at the spreading Canton Centers. Cars, jets, phones. Rockets. Their bearings and batteries as well, demand always outpaced supply. The best kind of problem in absence of competition; difficult to bootstrap a process whose integral machinery''s foundation was an impossible mechanism few on Earth knew existed. Epitaxial joined the private space race, from test rockets to delivering satellites to orbit, rapidly.

    He knew more like him would come. That was why he needed Zack. To find them. Whispers and ghost stories in Nigeria led him to meet the second, then the whispers stopped, their temperance improving. Nothing he did, he respected them, admired them, knew he would have done exactly as they did, were he in their place. Nothing ever about the third, and every year his confidence in his place rose even ahead of his net worth, especially when it took five years after his retirement to finally feel the Fourth.

    He knew more would come. He knew something else was coming.

    He still feels he should have guessed the timing.

    "When John and I started Epitaxial Foundries, making enduring contributions to human spaceflight was always our goal, but there were developments we knew were necessary prior to pursuing that. Thus all of our advancements, everything we have done, has been as-peripheral, working toward reusable vehicles capable of taking humans to orbit. While our first launch vehicle, the Kyto 1 rocket, was not reusable and only delivered two payloads, our advancements continued and we achieved our second launch vehicle, the first-stage reusable Kyto 2 rocket. We have been immensely proud of its perfect service record during our partnership with the Swedish Space Corporation, but like all efforts that preceded it, even a perfect record with satellites was not good enough for us. Our fully-reusable Kyto 3 launch vehicle is what we have strived for. It has a perfect test record and it will eventually be used to carry humans to space; but its first payload, another Swedish satellite, will launch from Cape Canaveral on Tuesday, August 24, 2021."

    It launched, it delivered its payload, it landed safely. A corporate party followed that Friday; a small celebratory dinner at his manor that Saturday, in part though unspoken because Clare was again pregnant. He was speaking with their chef when he saw something different pass through the field. No shimmer, no soft breeze. A crashing wave then distant pressure, held, felt. He looked beyond until he saw Chicago in his other sight and found nothing there.

    "Sarah, please wait to serve dinner."

    "Of course, Mr. Canton."

    He reentered the smaller dining room and said "I need to speak with Henry and Zack in my office, this should only take a moment." He gave a look to Clare and the men followed him outside, through the private garden and the concealed door into his office. Two televisions were already on, his computer monitors active. In his other sight he watched Clare leave the table.

    "Did you feel it again?" asked Henry.

    "Clare''s coming," and when she joined them, "I felt something different, I can still feel it. It''s to the northeast. Like an explosion, or one of our rockets taking off.

    "How far have you looked?" asked Zack.

    "I didn''t see anything out of place in Chicago. I don''t think it''s Detroit, and if I continued that line it would run far into Quebec. Maybe it''s in Europe?"

    Zack and Henry looked at their phones, Clare walked to his computer, he saw her open Twitter where she was the first to find it. "There''s been some kind of explosion in Munich."

    Her hand rose to cover her mouth at the image. When a video appeared he took the mouse and set it to play on one television. Clare didn''t linger, didn''t look, only said "I need to check on the kids."

    "Is it someone like you?" asked Henry.

    "Must be."

    "Could you stop it?"

    There was a pause, Canton in thought. Like a question of him had been asked in another language, where the foreigner hearing it knew only something was being asked by the lilt at the end of the line. ¡°Could I stop it?¡± he wondered, not of them, maybe not even of himself. Bits of fifty bouts flashed but went by unfelt, passing by as if only there to remind him he never felt afraid. Never fought someone who felt like something of him. East of St. Louis, he thought, there are fields upon fields of nothing. He thought of the drills that would pump up natural gasses, gas, the poorer cousin of the south, of oil, and even a man most base, one without the blessing of his sight could stare and see a hundred miles. But if it were him, in the fields of Illinois looking up to see something screaming like a star and knew its hands too were adamantine and that its eyes beheld a lover left behind in another world could he really know he could fight, a real fight this time. To overcome the thing he always knew he had but had never had to confront inside another.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    "I don''t know."

    If they didn¡¯t know the words the others felt the change in him. Their dinner was subdued. Henry stayed late into the night, they watched together until the sphere collapsed.

    He said "This is only the first. More will happen, everywhere."

    "What will you do?"

    "What do you think I should do?"

    "Leave them be unless one happens in the US."

    "I agree."

    He could have reached Mexico City, China, Azerbaijan. Instead he watched spheres collapse again and again, the sand as it fell.

    I ask, is this still what you want from me? I ask but I know how you would answer. Mine a different burden, I stand, I watch. While I know plain whatever lurks within is not me, not like me, could not stop me. You show¨CI know¨Cshadows set before me. Shadows, shadows¨Cshades, oh! Are you a shadow? I think you are, no words, no touch, "Knowledge!" Pressed upon me, I know it is not mine. Pressed upon me across these all-long nights. "Long nights," long night, long day of eighteen years. I see the thousandth clearly as the first. Do you have respite from this? Oh how cruel. I bet you do, thy little God''s delight. You think you want this, you think you want this. But night finds you linen-covered, having bathed away the self. I do not envy, this belongs with me¨Cand you ensured no cost of sanity! (He says to the walls and floors and ceiling.) Perhaps I am afraid; I would protest. Risk, to leave them, to leave her, to leave all. Protest weakness; there is a danger here. If I can be bled, this will be the knife. This is not my burden? No. . . I am afraid. To meet my equal, and my maker. Or do I deceive myself with these thoughts? My thoughts, a room of the conversating. I point to no man and call "liar" but I hear hypocrisy on every tongue.

    Tampa.

    He watched Henry hurry through the tunnels, watched him take the private elevator to his office.

    "Are you going?"

    He was quiet.

    Then he said "I won''t need to."

    A bolt of black and white, from the blue.

    On a Monday in September, Zack waited in his office before he arrived.

    "I might have found the ''First.'' Are you familiar with Andrew Black? Won the Heisman."

    "Biggest name in college sports, plays for Florida. And he''s Don Black''s nephew. You think it''s him?"

    "Yeah. Have you read how fast he runs?"

    Canton shook his head.

    "As a high school sophomore in Atlanta, Black was running a four-two forty and that was confirmed by scouts because of course they thought it was bullshit from his coach. In his senior year, again with scouts watching, he ran what they placed as a three-nine forty. Today the record in the combine is four seconds and the world record pace is in line with a three-nine forty. As a high school senior he was the fastest man on Earth."

    "That''s his nickname."

    "Exactly. There hasn''t been an official measurement since he started college ball but I''ve been reading comments online estimating his forty has dropped to three-seven or even three-six. Have you seen his highlights?"

    "No."

    "I have. I started watching the Gators this year because of him. Last Saturday he was playing Tennessee. It''s unbelievable watching him. Tennessee''s a powerhouse this year and he''s still making them look like kids. I''ll send you this highlight from the game."

    ¡°They are kids.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, yeah. Just watch.¡±

    Another highlight from, you guessed it, Drew Black¨C

    ¨CYeah, we might as well start calling the weekly highlights "Drew Black''s Top 10"

    Tennessee kickoff, but it''s short¨C

    Not enough to pass the goalposts, he caught the ball in the end zone.

    ¨CYou think Black''s gonna take a knee? Wrong. Never does.

    Sprinting up the middle of the field, slower tackles missed cleanly, faster tackles dodged easily. A last defender ahead and just as their helmet lowered ahead of contact, he effortlessly hurdled them.

    Look at that leap!¨C

    ¨CHow can you stop this guy?!

    Clear window, he sprinted. Touchdown in seconds.

    "That was impressive."

    Zack held up his hands, what''d I say? "He smashed just about every college single-season receiving record as a freshman. I''ve been watching interviews and he always deflects, always says the team is doing all the work and he just has to catch the ball. But watching all these games, seeing that?" Zack gestured to the television, "It gave me this feeling, but I couldn''t put my finger on it. So after Lo and I had dinner that night, Clare called her, and that''s when I realized it''s the same feeling I got watching you fight. That''s how much better he is than everybody else."

    "It makes sense. Given broken psychics, controllers are probably born, and since there must be a precise alignment of genetics that are prerequisites for full control it could be reasonable to assume all controllers are naturally unparalleled athletes. It lines up with the ones we know. All tall and strong. Good work. It''s a starting point, so let me think out loud. Enyi activated May 2011, the third was July 2015 and the fourth was January 2020. The fifth is Shajangali, the sixth activated the day of Tampa and the seventh the day of Denver, so we know the third and fourth are Redhat and the First, in either order. How tall is Andrew?"

    "6''5, in line with estimates of the First."

    "And Redhat is 6''3. The sixth and seventh are probably Israeli and Suraj, the eighth is whoever blew up the bar in Japan, and the ninth is in Chile or Argentina. So if Andrew is a controller, he has to be the ''First.'' He would have been very close to Tampa."

    "I have a short list of news items from Atlanta between January 2020 and June 2021. I¡¯ll send that."

    "Please, and also if you would, get a setup in one of the tunnels so we can measure my forty time. Great work, Zack. Let''s talk more over lunch."

    "On it." and he left, holding a thumbs-up.

    "Would-be robber blinded after firearm malfunction"¡ªPlausible but improbable. Malfunctions happen, especially given the likelihood of a poorly maintained handgun being the only sort a felon could find.

    "Dire bear carcass found in Atlanta"¡ªPromising. The bear showed permanent injury from prior gunshots, otherwise it appeared to have been hit by a heavy truck moving at considerable speed, yet no debris was found.

    "Atlanta bank heist getaway thwarted after engine dropped"¡ªAgain something a controller could do, but reckless driving in a lemon was more likely.

    "Suspected murderer dead, others critically injured in unclear circumstances"¡ªAlso promising. The deceased suffered catastrophic injury to his skull, the coroner describing the wound as resembling one inflicted by a sledgehammer. Three men were found with him, each surviving similarly-appearing injuries including head trauma. None were able to recall what happened. Neighbors reported gunshots but otherwise saw nothing, and no evidence of a firearm was recovered other than gunshot residue on the mangled right hand of the deceased.

    Lunch was on the meeting table in his office when Zack entered. Pappy''s, which he noticed and said "Hell yeah." He was through two ribs before he said "We''ve got everything but the turf and that''s coming tonight. What''d you think about what I sent?"

    "The two robberies could have been a controller, but that''s too improbable. The dead guy is intriguing and the bear is the most difficult to explain, which makes it the most promising."

    Zack spoke quickly so he could take another bite, "That''s what I thought. Looks like it got hit by a truck but no debris found? What else could it be?"

    "I agree. But the dead murderer, the mangled hand and crushed skull, the neighbors not seeing anything, the other guys all beat to shit. That tells me whoever they encountered was very fast and very strong. With no bullets recovered and no blood found on the scene other than the criminals'', the dead guy could have fired at an angle where the bullets fell too far for the police to find, or he shot someone who was bulletproof. That''s still a big fucking leap, but I know why you chose that."

    It was why Zack was quiet, why he took advantage of eating to not respond.

    "What do you know about his family?"

    Zack swallowed. "One sibling, his brother Michael who''s a freshman at Florida, he''s going to pitch for them. Tall as you, scouting says he''s really fuckin'' good, high school numbers like Kershaw. Andrew played baseball too in high school. Scouting''s hazier but in his senior year he was regularly batting a thousand in games while hitting leadoff, had a crazy ratio of times-on-base to runs scored, pretty much every Georgia high school hitting record is his. I read a while ago actually, his interview in Sports Illustrated when he was on the cover. He said he pitched the first two years but stopped before his junior season because he liked playing outfield more. The article was calling him the next Bo Jackson."

    He wondered why Andrew wasn''t playing both sports. "What about their parents?"

    "James and Anna." Zack slid a tablet across the table, "Here''s a pic of all four at the All-American Bowl."

    Andrew a taller version of his father, almost the same face, his mother''s eyes.

    "There''s very little on Anna, maiden name of Stewart, parents and two sisters and a brother, all still living, born in ''77. James is pretty much a ghost, just business and military. Born in ''75, honorable discharge from the Air Force in ''99. Both of his parents are still alive. They live in Ava¨C"

    "¨CJust outside Springfield."

    "Yeah. I found an interview with Don where he mentioned his brother had been a mechanic in the military and after he left opened a machine shop. It''s called Black''s Machining, this is it on Google Maps. Check out the flag behind the counter."

    Bright yellow, black snake. "It''s on the work coveralls of the employees, too." added Zack.

    "So his dad is enough of a libertarian to put on the wall of his shop and on his coveralls."

    "Yep."

    "Interesting. Whether or not he''s a controller, Andrew is an enhanced, and since Don was the greatest Cardinal pitcher since Bob Gibson it''s reasonable to assume James is enhanced. The Air Force would have known that and selected him for special camp, and that would have put him on the fast track to flying F15s, or probably given pilot ages, F22s. That means he chose not to fly planes. That''s a big thing to give up."

    "Must have hated it."

    "Lot of hate to reject being a fighter pilot. Hard to do better than that, and you can''t do better than being an astronaut, which he might be if he had stayed. I would think someone running a machine shop for twenty years has the exact disposition to have excelled in the orderly life of the military. If he did hate it, it must have been profound. What about social media?"

    Zack opened a different page on the tablet, "Andrew''s on Twitter but it''s very basic. Only retweeting postgames and little things like congratulating Michael. I got the vibe it could be one of his parents following a checklist of what to do on the account. Michael''s more active, he actually tweets, but it''s all baseball except for Andrew and Gators stuff."

    "Alright. Always good work, Zack"

    The turf was ready, five yards wide and a hundred long, with markings and cameras every ten, and a laser velocity tracker Zack stood behind. Canton readied at the line. He sprinted.

    Zack called out "Three-nine."

    Repeated, same result, again and again.

    Two weeks with a sprinting coach shaved to 3.8. Never lower, always slower.

    "Three-eight again." called Zack.

    He shook his head. Fine, fuck it. He focused on control, enough to enhance his movements, then sprinted.

    Zack said "Holy shit," then looking at the tracker, "three even."

    "I can''t beat him without control. Let''s get Henry in here."

    Henry watched a side-by-side of Andrew sprinting versus Canton.

    "Gotta say, that''s not the usual build for a wide receiver." said Zack.

    "Yeah, look at him. Of course it''s him. He''s built like a fucking tank. He¡¯s like me. Like he should be in battle charging uphill swinging a fucking claymore. So we''ve got a kid whose dad probably raised him to be paranoid, fitting especially if his dad knows what he can do. Andrew''s on Twitter but it''s anodyne, inoffensive shit, like his mom could be running it. Zack found people mentioning he''s always out running at school, so maybe he''s been doing that since high school, since he activated and was figuring things out. So he''s out running a year after, and since he''s clairvoyant he finds the dire bear and wants to see it, because if he wanted to kill it he would have just killed it. But it charged him and then he had to kill it. In May after his baseball team won the state championships he''s out at a party in a shitty neighborhood and, whatever, decides to run home, and that''s when he encounters the group of muggers, maybe they tried to jump him. This is a controller, they have no idea what they walked into. He drops three in the amount of time it takes him to hit them, fourth realizes he''s fucked and tries to shoot him. Now this last guy knows he''s bulletproof. Well his father has probably taught him this is the exact situation where lethal force is justified, so he kills the guy. Dead guy''s hand was fucked up, techs found residue from the gun. If he used control to rip the gun out it could have caused that injury, and because Andrew knows he couldn''t possibly explain what happened, he took everything from the gun and ran. It''s Atlanta, nobody gave a shit some criminals got fucked up, case got shelved. He moves to Gainesville, plays football, keeps feeling psychic break, until Tampa. There was major cloud cover over Florida that day and it''s a hundred miles south so he positioned like he was coming in from the gulf and left the same way after, showing in Mexico City, maybe deliberately, then waits until it''s dark to fly back."

    He went quiet.

    Zack said "I''ve been thinking about something because I''m not sure what to make of it. Last night I read a tweet by Daniel Faars, he graduated from Florida last year, now he''s a running back for the Bills. He was replying to whoever and said ''Everybody knows Drew loves baseball way more than football.'' And for whatever reason that made me look into his decision to go to Florida. I watched his announcement way back and thought it was great because of how straightforward he was, just ''I''m going to Florida, Devaris Walker is the best.'' No bullshit. But I watched it again and it felt different because he made it sound like he wouldn''t have a spot at Georgia and that''s bullshit. So I searched around online for people talking about his decision when he announced and again when he won the Heisman and both times commenters made it sound like, and these were rumors, but they made it sound like Georgia courted him pretty hard."

    Everything fell into place. "What was it he said? ''His team does all the work, he just has to catch the ball.'' He doesn''t have to do anything special in football, he just has to run fast. He doesn''t play baseball because when he activated in high school he became worried he''d have a bad moment where he used control and it would be obvious. So why didn''t he go to Georgia? He went to Florida because even in high school he knew he didn''t belong in sports and that was the closest he could come to running away from it. That''s why he was the first to show, the first to intervene. There were four of us who could have, but he was the first. Doesn''t that mean he was the most distraught? The most obsessed with figuring out what was going on with them, or so troubled he was willing to die over letting one more happen? He''s ''The First,'' I always think of that in quotes, because I''m the first, but he was the first willing to risk everything and let the world know we exist so he could at least do something good. Redhat, too, that fucking interview. Credit to him. But he wasn''t the first. I''m not satisfied with having a pretty good guess. I need to know it''s Andrew, so I can meet him, because if it''s him, we can trust him."

    "What are you thinking?" asked Henry.

    "I need to go to Gainesville. Is he still on campus?"

    "Lives in a condo owned by his parents." said Zack.

    "Anyone with him? He have a girlfriend?"

    "Yes to the girlfriend." said Zack, "She was also hard to find anything on, but I eventually got a name: Emilia Cruz-Amador. Maybe Facebook and Instagram, both private. She has an apartment, not far from his condo."

    "If she knows, or doesn''t. . . doesn''t matter, I''ll find out quickly enough. He''s in Gainesville right now?"

    "Yeah, home game this week."

    "I''m leaving tonight."

    He flew in a Cirrus jet he piloted. He watched. He flew back the morning of the fourth day.

    Henry and Zack waited in his office.

    "It''s him."

    "Well done, Zack." said Henry, and they shook hands.

    "What next?" asked Zack.

    "Figure out a way to meet him."

    He was deep beneath the tower, watching staff prepare for their day of work around a tokamak, when he felt the crashing wave of psychic break. He glanced at the sphere-light beneath the digital clock and pressed the button concealed within his office desk. At fifteen seconds the sphere-light turned orange and the staff noticed, their breaths held. At thirty seconds the light turned red.

    He took the private elevator into his office. He looked to the monitor that displayed tweets. #PsychicSphere

    Shit.

    St. Louis to Manhattan, nine hundred miles. If the sphere touched ground, five figures in casualties and eleven figures in damages per minute, increasing. He tapped his desk. Five known. Nine total. Redhat five thousand miles away. Andrew. . . Andrew surely knew Redhat was in Argentina, would he finally make a second appearance?

    Couldn''t risk it.

    Two wall panels opened, one to the niche with his jumpsuit, coming toward him, the other to the empty column, he let himself fall to its base and opened the lens above. High-hypersonic into the thermosphere, beyond that on the descent. He started his watch. Ten seconds and he saw the curve of the Earth. Twenty seconds and he pointed toward the pressure. One minute. Ninety seconds. Two minutes. He took the air and compressed it into spheres until they were radiant and he removed the heat until they were almost voids for the cold and finally a controlled release as jets to create great clouds. Then¡ª

    I SEE YOU

    <hr>

    Fucking stupid. Smashing milestones since high school. Youngest Heisman winner. So-far undefeated, blowing past the receiving records. Go ahead, make the excuse, say boxing isn''t the same as team sports, say you had no reason to figure out your performance was hitting the exact same beats or better punches King fucking Canton retired from five years before you even had control.

    Shock is gone, something else unfurls. Every thought of approaching Canton had inequality as its base, that no matter how well they worked together, they would never truly be equal. Five years. How many years before that? The First, was Canton the first with Control? Control. . . he sees the dead. "You boxed with control. That''s cheating."

    "Maybe. If it''s cheating, so is you running down that field when the handful of us who can keep up with you don''t play football."

    "I didn''t say you''re right."

    "You don''t have to. I know who you are, I know when you activated, so I¡ª"

    Andrew cuts him off, "What do you mean you know when I ''activated?''"

    Canton shows surprise. "When a controller activates I feel something similar to the wave from psychic break. You must not."

    "Is it because you''re the actual first?"

    "Could be."

    "What number am I?"

    "The third I felt, so the fourth."

    He finds something oddly nice about knowing the number. "How many have you felt?"

    Canton doesn''t respond immediately. "Eight."

    "So nine total and four unknown. Do you know who the other three are?"

    "I have also met the second, Redhat was the third. I know the locations of the other two but nothing more. And, like I said, I know who you are. You''re faster than me, and no one has ever been faster than me at anything, but it wasn''t your running. It wasn''t finding those guys you beat the shit out of, or the bear you killed. It wasn''t your timing with Tampa. It was going to Gainesville and watching you in the sight. That we have in common."

    No point in keeping the fa?ade. He lifts the goggles to his forehead and rolls up the mask. "Do you ever feel like you''re spying?"

    Canton shakes his head, "No. Why would I?"

    "I''ve just wondered if possessing it means I deserve it."

    "If anyone has shown they deserve this it''s you and Redhat. Do you think you''re undeserving?"

    "Not anymore. You never thought that?"

    "Never. I exist to have control. If control did not exist, I would not exist."

    Andrew sees the dead again, feels them in his arms. "Why didn''t you stop the first spheres?"

    "Before you intervened in Tampa I still considered them a risk."

    "How? You had to know your defenses."

    Canton points down. "I knew my defenses against what men could throw at me. While I knew the spheres were control I had no way to evaluate their threat. The risk I would enter and die was unacceptable. I would have gone to Denver but Redhat beat me to it and said he would stop other spheres, which he has. Am I not here?¡±

    Andrew wonders if it''s that simple. He looks at the cold spheres, cloud generators? and thoughts connect. Compression of air would have increased the temperature. Stupid. Why else would the field show that?

    He forms a torus and shrinks it. As the air within brightens slightly in the field he focuses on the brightness until he feels the subtle pushing-through, then he takes it like anything else, raising the heat until the ring is bright in both sights: a halo, disconnected. "I didn''t know this worked on heat. What else can it do? I''ve had professors talk about the manufacturing techniques Epitaxial''s pioneered. That must be you, using control directly in fabrication."

    "Among other things."

    "So there are people who know you''re a controller."

    "Yes, very few. There is something I want to know, because I''ve wanted to meet you as the First. There were several of us who could have intervened, but it was you. Did you go into the sphere thinking you could die?"

    "No. My¨Cdad and I talked about it. Our guess was I''m more powerful than the person at the center."

    "You guessed both facets? How about that. I thought someone might be at the center but I was worried it was one of us. Does your entire family know?"

    "Yeah."

    "That must be nice. My wife does, my family doesn''t, but I am famously an orphan."

    Andrew doesn¡¯t know what to say to that, so he says "My future isn''t in football."

    "Of course it isn''t."

    "I wanted to find a way to meet you and offer to work with you."

    Canton laughs. "That''s exactly what I wanted to offer you. Two of us working together, the things we can achieve. And hell, I''ll certainly pay you better."

    "You must already know if this works in space."

    "It does, completely. Have you discovered you don''t need to breathe?"

    "Yeah."

    Canton, helmeted again, says "Follow me."

    Andrew follows, to where the horizon curves and beyond. He could have cheered, he could have wept. His purpose absolute as he sees the Earth as it truly is, in the stars'' eternal silence.

 23 - Emilia Cruz-Amador

    FILTERS 23

    EMILIA CRUZ-AMADOR

    Rain hits car roofs, washes down storm drains, sounds around the building, sprayed by the commute. Emilia tries not to cry. She thinks Why? Her clothes are stuck to her, her hair flat against her ears, her cheek, her neck. She doesn''t want to cry, but little word, little thought, pushes up. Her hands over the knot that forms beneath her breast, it rises to her throat. Why again? A gasping sob, her eyes closed, arms tight around her chest. "Why?"

    She climbs into bed, tears lost in her wet hair against the pillow. She calls him, knowing he won''t answer, hearing his voicemail from her phone on his pillow. She turns shaking into his smell and falls asleep.

    Her back is on a tiled porch, she hears conversation.

    "Ella est¨¢ enamorada de un americano. Un g¨¹ero, pero. . . no s¨¦ si es¡ªbut. . . I don''t know if he''s agreeable."

    "He''s a famous college athlete, mother. American football."

    "Oh?"

    "Yes, they call him ''The Fastest Man on Earth.''"

    "Bah, typical Americans, so arrogant."

    "I wondered that until I saw. I have never seen someone run like him."

    "Yes, Neto, like when he spends all his time ''running around'' and away from our daughter. He just did it again."

    "Perhaps he had good reason."

    "He woke her up before sunrise and left her standing in the rain."

    "Perhaps he had very good reason."

    "What sudden obligation could he have that would justify abandoning our daughter yet again?"

    She tries to read her phone, vision hazy in waking, the dream falling away except for an orange doorframe and her grandmother''s voice. She scrolls unreading past messages of Mama and New York City and Sofia and First and with none of Andrew lets the phone slip from her hand and pulls his pillow close and goes back to sleep.

    "I''ve always wanted to go to New York."

    "I feel like I still haven''t been. It was just the hotel and the ceremony and the interviews. The pizza we had was great, though."

    "We should go."

    "We should, in a few years, when the recovery work is done."

    "Recovery from what?"

    He doesn''t answer.

    "Recovery from what?"

    He runs, she follows.

    "Where are you going? I miss you."

    "You just saw me."

    "Why do you always run?"

    "I''ll show you."

    She''s lost, in trees she more feels than sees. Then a glimpse of him in white.

    "Do you see, Em?"

    "I can''t see anything but you."

    "Try."

    But she''s paralyzed, fighting until she wrenches and wakes, rolling over his pillow and forgetting the dream. She still hears rain, still hears thunder. She pulls her phone from under her back but with her thumb to the screen it doesn''t respond; dead. She rolls back and looks at the charger, then puts her phone beside it. Slightly superstitious abstinence, a little electronic fast, that she''ll see him more quickly if she doesn''t check, and she needs to see him first, so he can see her. When she screams, when she cries. So when she relents she can touch his cheek and feel his stubble when she kisses him.

    She rubs the hem of her drying shirt, hanging in the bathroom. She looks at her hair, a mess from rain and sleep, and ties it back, staring at her eyes, unsteadily from one to the other. She washes her face and sees her keys on the counter in reflection, lingering on the one with the white band. She dresses and takes her umbrella and drives to his complex, unlocking the door without ringing. ¡°Andrew?¡± she calls, seeing the tray in the kitchen with his wallet and keys, knowing he won¡¯t answer.

    His bed is made, bedroom always tidy. Canton biography on his nightstand, a few multicolored highlight flags in the pages. His closet is open, she sees her own clothes on hangers at the front. He laundered these, he placed them here. She pulls the sleeve of one of his many Florida shirts to her nose but only smells detergent. His hamper is in the closet too, she takes a white shirt from the top and smells him in it. Her hand runs over more of his shirts, to the bag with his suit, looking at the shelves above. On the top shelf she notices something small, black, and squarish. When she reaches for it her fingertips push it back. When she reaches again it¡¯s too far.

    There¡¯s a heavy chair in his room. Too heavy, but the chairs at the table won¡¯t be. She carries one into the closet and standing on it retrieves the object, his phone. Always a little odd to her, reading Librem5 USA on one side and turning it over, flipping each switch Andrew has explained as physical component disconnects, ¡°The only way my dad would get us smartphones.¡± She turns it on, still locked, but it makes a series of pops, texts. So many it could be important, maybe whoever¡¯s messaging him will try to call. She pockets it.

    She doesn¡¯t feel like eating but she knows she should, and she does want a distraction. She checks the pantry, a little bare ahead of the end of term. She checks the refrigerator, almost-empty milk, two eggs, a clipped bag of salad. But there¡¯s half an onion, butter, a last bit of cotija, and a package of chicken sausage. Good enough. Back to the pantry for an apron, chicken stock, crushed tomatoes, and penne. Then to the spice cupboard for salt, olive oil, cumin seeds, and a bulb of garlic¡ª

    Where is he, Emilia?

    I don''t know. It must have been important.

    Couldn''t he have told you?

    I think he was about to.

    Why do you let him treat you this way?

    I think¡ª

    Why do you let him treat you this way?

    "I don''t know! Because no matter what I think, when I''m with him I feel like every single thing he does has a good reason! And I don''t fucking know why!"

    She almost slams the cupboard, stopping her arm mid-motion, and takes last a mortar and pestle. She sighs and sees the stack of CDs beside his small Sony stereo¨C"Have you thought about a Google Home or something?"¨C"Nah. I like CDs, and you gave these to me. That''s way better than a Spotify link."¨Cshe finds the spine of Hasta la Ra¨ªz and changes it with Good for You and presses play.

    Frying pan first, low heat on the ceramic-topped electric range, swirling cumin until the smell is right and tipping the toasted seeds into the mortar and grinding them down. Garlic next, peeling, slicing the tips, and smashing each clove with the back of the knife. She adds the cloves with salt to the mortar and grinds all to a paste. She finely dices the onion half, singing with the stereo, and uses a spoon to pull butter in layers from the tub to drop in the pan. She adds the paste and the onions and as they begin to brown, pours them into a bowl. Olive oil and sausage next, using a spatula to break the meat into small pieces, then adding cayenne and stirring until it¡¯s browned through. Onion-garlic-salt-cumin mix back, and last the crushed tomatoes and chicken stock, heat on high until it¡¯s at a simmer, then on low, the timer set for an hour.

    His phone continues to receive texts.

    She looks at the television, then at his bookshelf, ordered by author. Where does he get the time? Top row has Coetzee, she brings Michael K to the couch, sitting cross-legged and opening to the middle.

    . . . A nest of vice, men and women all together. The way they talked, there should be a fence down the middle of the camp, men on one side, women on the other, dogs to patrol it at night. What they would really like¡ªthis is my opinion¡ªis for the camp to be miles away in the middle of the Koup out of sight. Then we could come on tiptoe in the middle of the night like fairies and do their work, dig their gardens, wash their pots, and be gone in the morning leaving everything nice and clean . . .

    His phone continues to receive texts. She tries her birthday as the code, it fails.

    Is he still running? Surely not, but then what? Who¡¯s messaging him, and what¡¯s so important they send so many yet don¡¯t call? And. . . and why am I not worried? Why am I so certain he¡¯s fine? Anybody else would be worried he¡¯d been hit by a car or fallen off a trail somewhere, right? Right? I almost wish this were indifference after all the indifference he has shown me. ¡°Is that our future?¡±¨C¡°Do you want it to be?¡± God, Emilia, what is wrong with you? Why do I know he¡¯s fine? And I do know, I¡¯ve felt it in everything he says, everything he does. What is that? How do I feel it here, even in his absence? Is it his family texting him? Don¡¯t they know what¡¯s going on? Could that explain why they text and don¡¯t call, they aren¡¯t worried either? They know what I only feel. But why would they text him?

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    They know what I only feel. They''re his family. . . I do want that to be us. . . but I''m going to be. Is that the difference? It shouldn''t be. I guess it is.

    She checks the sauce then returns to the couch, to the book.

    The front door unlocks, she jumps up, but Michael enters. He says "Oh, hey Emilia," and calls "Drew?"

    "He''s not here."

    "Is he out on a run?"

    "I thought he might be hanging out with you."

    Michael looks at his phone, "Nope, haven''t talked since yesterday. Why?"

    "Because he''s been gone since before sunrise, when he woke me up and left me standing in the rain."

    She wished but didn''t think this would draw a response. It doesn''t. "Why are you not worried? Where is he, Michael?"

    Michael shrugs. "Sometimes he runs all day. I was just stopping by, since he''s not here I gotta go."

    She scoffs. "You''re both good liars."

    Michael says "This isn''t my business," and leaves, locking the door.

    She reads until the timer rings, tasting the reduced sauce and adding a little more salt. She takes another pan and fills it with water and brings it to a boil then adds the penne. She tries a piece, more time. She waits. She tries another piece, just right. She adds the pasta to the sauce, letting the water carry over, and tosses it all together. She grates cotija and tosses again. She fills a plate, reading at the table while she eats.

    . . . Is that the moral of it all, he thought, the moral of the whole story: that there is time enough for everything? Is that how morals come, unbidden, in the course of events, when you least expect them? . . .

    She empties the pan into tupperware and puts it in the refrigerator, then washes the few used dishes. Where is¡ª¡°I don¡¯t know. I just have to wait.¡± She looks at the entryway, thinking of his absent blue shoes, seeing her own black shoes. In his closet there is a pair of red Ultraboosts, one she now holds up, lying in his bed. Sometimes she thinks she can see all of a person in their shoes. Not a story, a flashing impression. The thought of her father sitting on his bed, bending over to pull on a brown boat shoe, her mother with black flats over nylon, the thought of a custodian loosening the laces on his boots, the thought of a child pulling velcro straps. The littlest struggle to start the day, humble, humanizing, universal yet so personal. Shoes are a favorite target of ridicule for cruel children, antagonists hopefully oblivious but probably all too aware of how that mocking so indicts a person¡¯s worth. ?Lindas zapatas! In what carries you through the day you-are-not-good-enough! Winds back to leaving for school, back to putting them on, back to getting out of bed. Might as well not get up, you¡¯re worthless. Look at you, so pathetic in the rain in your little rubber slippers while he abandons you again.

    She doesn''t wipe her eyes, she pulls on the edge of the comforter and rolls herself into a cocoon.

    She''s in his dorm. The television shows the sphere in Munich.

    "Andrew?"

    She looks in the bedroom, he isn''t there. She lies down. Her mother appears and speaks to her.

    "What are you doing in that boy''s bed, Emilia?"

    "His name is Andrew."

    "''Andrew,'' who you are having sex with."

    "No, mom. But it wouldn''t matter if we were because I''m going to marry him."

    "''Marry him,'' the boy you''ve known for three months! What if he''s stringing you along, esperando tu castidad, while he sleeps with women behind your back since they give him what he wants?"

    "That''s not who he is. We''ve already slept together. Just slept."

    "You have slept. You have not seen that boy sleep."

    No longer her mother; herself.

    "Why have you never seen him sleep?"

    She hears him open the door. She runs to him, finding him in a white rain jacket.

    "Do you see, Em?"

    Her eyes open into darkness, moonlight on trees through the windows. She rolls out of the blanket, knocking his shoe to the floor. She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror and unties her hair, trying to relax as she brushes out the tangles. She moves to the couch, looking at the bookshelf, at the television, at Christmas lights near the lake. The door unlocks, she jumps up again, Andrew enters. Different clothing than the morning. Black sweatpants and shoes instead of white and blue, white Adidas rain jacket, white shirt underneath.

    She should scream at him. She hugs him. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen you in this jacket in a while.¡±

    She feels his hand, warm on the small of her back. He says "I only wear it when I need to. It''s conspicuous."

    "You should have worn it this morning."

    "I should have. I''ve been wearing it all day, now."

    "I have your phone."

    "I couldn''t bring it with me."

    "Bring it where? And what do you mean you only wear that jacket when you need to? I see you wearing other jackets. No¨C" She pushes him back. "No, no. No. You ran away again! I walked out in the rain thinking you might come back and I don''t know why. I love you and you say you love me but how you can so easily make me feel worthless? God, I love and I hate this feeling with you, right now. That somehow I know you always have a good reason to do something, but why? That''s what I hate, it''s like I''m being told I deserve this! Or¨Cor it''s like I''m being told I don''t get to feel bad when you treat me this way, but that''s not right! Just because you had to leave me? To do what? And I have to accept it? Have you been running all day, Andrew? What could drive you to do that when you could at least try to talk to me? I feel like things have been so great since the summer but I can''t take this anymore. I can''t take you making me feel this way, I can''t take you leaving me alone, you don''t even let me see you sleep! Why have I never seen you sleep?"

    "Because I don''t sleep. I haven''t in three years."

    She shakes her head, hands running through her hair to her neck. "What do you mean? That''s impossible."

    "It''s not the only thing. I called you this morning because I was going to tell you everything. When I ran it was because I felt a sphere hit, and when I saw where it was I had to stop it."

    Her breath catches.

    There¡¯s humility and self-doubt from nascent wisdom. She¡¯s not oblivious, she¡¯s sensible, if a little naive. She has wondered about the few but it¡¯s idle thought, grander than others but still fantasy. What do they represent to her? Power, unobtainable and incomprehensible. She knows she has obtained Andrew, she knows she almost comprehends him, but the shadows in her picture? She would have never considered those expressions of power, not consciously. She has amused herself with the thought of Andrew having it, as she has with herself, with her sisters, with anyone she has seen. Vignettes of their lives, humors of professional tedium breaking to flying exhilaration. Helping when they feel like it and when they must, and having fun while they¡¯re at it. But that¡¯s wonder, fantasy. She wasn¡¯t being literal when she said of the masked it¡¯s like they don¡¯t really exist, but there was wisdom in that little flourish of thought. They take off the mask, they shed what visibly sets them apart, and in joining the masses they go into nonbeing, which is to say, everything¨Ceveryone. When it can be anybody it¡¯s nobody in particular. She has never thought she could tell if someone possessed it, and though she now wonders if she should have, she knows she has the benefit of knowledge. Without, concluding from the two signs she has seen but not perceived as truth would be the same as concluding that from any of his behaviors: senseless. That¡¯s not how she thinks, that¡¯s not how people think. He¡¯s especially concerned about spheres¨Cjust as all should be. He goes on long runs, he¡¯s an athlete. He¡¯s detached from his phone, she finds it admirable, attractive, something she wishes she could do more often than just today. He¡¯s in bed late and up early, the most successful share that trait. His every step, glance, movement, his everything shows absolute confidence, indomitable spirit¨Cyes, and she saw it from when he first asked her about places to run. She saw it in his eyes when he first looked over his dorm. She heard and felt it in their first conversations in the caf¨¦ and when they began to date, everything telling her He is different than you. He is different from anyone you have ever met. He is set apart. Crush, infatuation, love. She cared what made him that way and she didn¡¯t, and now that she knows, she still only wants to be with him, only wants him to stay with her. Qu¨¦date conmigo.

    Of course she would have put it all together, if she had her phone.

    Her hands are on his chest, on his jacket, and she looks in his eyes, finally understanding. She doesn''t feel foolish, nor should she. She does feel fear, but she loves him more for it. He raises his right hand and she sees something small come through the air and settle in his palm. He opens the box.

 24 - Outside-Context Problem

    FILTERS 24

    OUTSIDE-CONTEXT PROBLEM

    Clouds again surround them. Andrew looks at his gloves. Kevlar-woven just as his father uses, but a different brand and a different color, black running under his sleeves past his elbows. He rubs one thumb and forefinger together, feeling the fabric. Have I been sleepwalking? How much have I ignored, how many small things have I overlooked because my sight is my dominion? He looks at Canton but only sees Earth. Gaze on infinity, imagine dominion. I am nothing, this is a cantrip. He looks at Canton, on whose silver clouds shift dark and strange. So dependent on his sight he ignored his eyes¡¯ protestation, This isn¡¯t right. He tries to find seams but no lines resolve, he missed wholly how the silver bleeds into the air, how this other seems made of mirrored haze. He thought his gift balanced ignorance; he buried himself in it.

    ¡°For all the good today¡±

    If he only had his eyes he wouldn¡¯t see Canton shake his head. ¡°For all the good today some will see what we did as a kind of flaunting ourselves in the capital of the world. They will demand more. The government will have to increase their efforts and the visibility of what they are already doing, even as they can do nothing.¡±

    Andrew wonders what sounds he has ignored. ¡°With who you are, do you know why they¡¯ve been so quiet?¡±

    Canton says ¡°I know little of their work. There is a list of enhanced Americans they assume contains controllers so it is accurate insofar as our names are on it, but I don¡¯t think this surprises you.¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Yes, acting outside the government seems our default; skepticism of authority our common temperament, regardless of our upbringings. Tell me, what have you guessed on their silence?¡±

    Regardless of our upbringings, of course Canton saw the flag in the shop. ¡°I¡¯d call it naive bullshit, but I guess in some fairness to me they don¡¯t really have many options. I¡¯ve been so sure they would find me and come to me that¡¯s all I let myself consider. All summer I waited, thinking I¡¯d see them at my door or inside my house while I was out. Every day that didn¡¯t happen I got a little more hopeful they hadn¡¯t found me, like I really convinced them I wasn¡¯t American. I can¡¯t believe that after today. How many people on that list are my height, a few thousand? I pretty much buzzed DC on the way, if they spotted me¨Cif they didn¡¯t know before, I think they might know right now.¡±

    Canton says nothing, Andrew doesn¡¯t wait. ¡°If they don¡¯t show after this, I think my father¡¯s most pessimistic guess is right. Obviously they would want something when they came. When I was young we thought it would be to stick me in a lab, then when I knew they couldn¡¯t keep me in one, to use me as a weapon. Now my father wonders if they¡¯ll show as little as they can until they¡¯re sure they can kill me, but¨C¡± but this termite¡¯s cantrips are still more than any marvels of man, such marvels, ¡°I wonder sometimes if they¡¯ll ever be able to.¡±

    If he only had his eyes he wouldn¡¯t see Canton nod. "What does it mean to do more about a phenomenon that shattered all paradigms? Easy for those outside and on the periphery of power to make demands when that¡¯s where their thought-to-action ends. ¡®Do something about them,¡¯ like what? Find us if they haven¡¯t and approach us when they have? Then what? They wouldn¡¯t come to us only to say they know, yes they would want something. Their desire is great but it is matched by their unknowns. This is part of why they have been quiet: they don¡¯t know how to ask. They will not take us as amenable or good because of these interventions, nor should they. Prudence is assuming the worst, the closest they have to precedent came in dealing with groups, not individuals. The strength of the majority is history¡¯s lever and we upend that. No man has ever simply possessed power, so how do they ask? They cannot offer status. Our country, with all its enlightened trappings, still has status essentially supported by authority. What man holds authority over us? Ourselves, we are truly our own authority. Our place is asserted by our existence, we are our proof of status. Do they offer wealth? It would take no small sum and it would be the same question. Real wealth is still the lesser of power so we could accept their money but they would know we weren¡¯t bought. What remains to persuade us? Finding something we agree with? That¡¯s the most difficult question of all.¡±

    ¡°Axiomatic status. . . I¨CI feel ridiculous actually saying this, but I also hoped, when they came, they would offer some kind of peaceful cooperation, where they would help me as I helped others. I know though, anything I did while carrying the flag would be seen as an empty gesture. Hard power masquerading as soft power, and I know that¡¯s exactly how they would want it.¡±

    Canton says ¡°And we are already helping others. You have twice quite notably, and that is the point of my entire work. That sort of cooperation could have wonderful results, but even if we acted as plowshares, even if they called us great peace-bringers, no one would mistake that poor fig leaf. Yes, they want us as weapons, for we are the ultimate deterrent, each of us an army¨Cand yes, their greatest desire is our deaths, the end to what we represent. There is no doubt a project orchestrated in Special Access depths whose purpose, translated from bureaucratic euphemism, is finding how to kill us. It would exist even if we carried the flag, and if we were anyone else we would want it to exist, so fair enough.¡±

    He once would have found those words so cavalier. Unsettling heard in clouds. Denying, unneeded and performative to ask ¡°Why doesn¡¯t that bother you?¡±

    Canton says ¡°You know why. You already said it. What you wonder is true and you didn¡¯t need years of tests for confirmation. After what you have now done and witnessed you see it all, you feel it implicitly. Proof of this new paradigm might as well be proof of God for the good it does their understanding. Nothing man wields can harm us. Whatever ends we are meant to achieve, we are with certainty meant to be free from capricious rule. If we could be stopped, there would be no point in having this.¡±

    There would be no point in having this alone. Andrew is thankful his expression is hidden. ¡°But we have families.¡±

    Canton points down. ¡°So do they. What can they threaten that we couldn¡¯t repay to nine relations? For their plans, ours is a scarce and inconvenient vulnerability they would only try to leverage in desperation. We aren¡¯t criminals or terrorists reliant on the shadows and whose families could be turned against us under threat of superior force. We are nation-states in flesh, targeting our families would be an act of war and your justified disintegrations of skyscrapers would take no more time or effort if repeated on the Pentagon. Despite this, they aren¡¯t motivated by fear, they¡¯re motivated by envy and jealousy. Our precedent is diplomacy, and this is what has driven them to being apparently lethargic. They are quiet because they do not want our weight in politics. In becoming public the nature of our celebrity would make our very selves political, and when we took a side, who would oppose? As long as we only show like today, or Redhat hopping cities or Mondai dancing in the sky, they can delay taking hard moves on the political implications of our existence. For this they may be more interested in our secrecy than ourselves. The security-minded among them especially, who recognize the grave strategic disadvantage of an American controller¡¯s family being known to the world, least of all because they would become accompanying celebrities. Though for obvious reasons likely less for me. I have also always assumed I will be found. With who I am I don¡¯t know if I will be outed or approached. If I am approached, I may go public myself.¡±

    His father has said so much of this. His father suggested the same. He looks at his shoes and beneath, through a gap in the clouds to the consuming twilight white of the Arctic. Maybe it¡¯s good I can still be made to feel like a child. Is, ought, I ought not have been so arrogant.

    If that¡¯s true, why would they ever approach me, and why would I go public?

    If they cannot harm you they will, in some sense of the phrase, learn to live with you. We are long past this country¡¯s flirtation with realpolitik, so while it would be nice if learning to live with you means our leaders shine as your presence is a pressure that strengthens their reason, I am wary of cracks. Movements that make demands beyond logic are growing precipitously and your presence may instead aggravate their unreason. Knowing they can do nothing about you could be a dark liberation, freeing them to whatever they feel is necessary to maintain their place. A meeting may be forced, and if the public does not know who you are, that meeting necessarily connotes threat of it being revealed. In the best case, they will understand that threat and how you may choose to go public in response, and though they do not want it, they will be prepared. In the worst, they will not appreciate how your secrecy benefits them and, blinded by their great conceit, they will believe that threat advantages them. Going public would be the first reminder, and warning, of how they are beneath you.¡±

    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°My father suggested that. I understand his reasoning, but I still have to ask: why would you go public?¡±

    Canton says ¡°Like yourself, what it took for me to reach New York may have given me away entirely. Even if it hasn¡¯t, I must assume it has, or that something else has or will. It would be reckless to assume I have been perfect and will continue to be perfect at hiding myself. Certain errors of one of us may apply to all of us, and as they accumulate, the probability of our discovery will only increase. It could be the government, it could be shockingly effective crowdsourced research, or it could be one lucky civilian in just the right place. If somehow the government were ignorant of our identities before we were public, they would approach us when we were public. The rational belief is they will know before, they will assume the information will not be contained, and they will want a meeting anticipating that. I see government officials often enough no one meeting would appear unusual, but those officials have staffs. Every link in the chain is a chance that information reaches someone who does not understand its importance and leaks it in some bastard sense of duty. And since they would want something, they may treat my identity as a chip in negotiations. If so, the chaos caused by my going public would disadvantage them as from that point they would have to engage me on clear ground. That change would remind them of the disparity between us, and with such people, that is crucial. As I said, they are motivated by envy and jealousy, their envy of our power and their jealousy as our power threatens theirs. If they approached us it would carry a threat, but our mere presence at the table is a threat. We will always be considered a challenge to their authority and when they learn of their futility some will find us that much more intolerable.¡± Canton sighs, ¡°They¡¯re not all bad. There are good people among them, the righteous who fear us for their love of humanity. Intelligent enough, thoughtful, funny, often the best of us. They want to change the world and we complicate an already terrible game. A game that corrupts for it is inherently corrupt. A game that attracts the spiritually bankrupt and washes them together with those righteous few who are turned myopic and exploited in the essentially lesser¡¯s inexorable drive to power. The less we challenge theirs, no matter how just it would be, the more time we have to establish ourselves off this planet. There is nothing that matters more, Andrew.¡±

    What is this feeling?

    Silver-ethereal Canton, is it that material, or is it this power? That which evokes this feeling, the same he evokes, when strengthened over wakeful decades would even light respect him? Still Canton dismisses Earth. ¡°Unbounded good,¡± sow the stars with man and no one catastrophe could annihilate, but fine to destroy ourselves here as long as some survive elsewhere?

    Yes¨Cundoubtedly yes. Take that threat from tyrants and leave all with perspective of greatness.

    But we could take everything from tyrants and force ascension. Canton ignores Earth when he could be a king, when he could be an emperor?

    ¡°Then why not become King Canton for real?¡±

    Canton raises his arms. ¡°Am I not already a monarch? My companies are my kingdom, there my word is final. The government is no obstruction, nor would they be if my power were known. My greatest obstacle is gone with your help. What more could I gain? Or should I ask, if you were the only one of us, how would you change the world?¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t. Not in that way. I don¡¯t want that kind of power.¡±

    ¡°Save for one each of us has independently arrived at using our place to help others. I think you have a better answer than that, First.¡±

    Andrew says ¡°That is my answer. I don¡¯t want that kind of power, I don¡¯t want to use this for control. But if I used this to advocate for something, power would be expressed in every word. It would happen because of it, but only because people would be afraid of me. Good governance needs to fear the people, every peaceful way to ensure accountability is still based in the threat of revolution. I¡¯d have nothing to fear, so I¡¯d be throwing everything out in my own arrogance. It would be the worst coercion, people would be paralyzed, powerless to stop me, only able to hope I¡¯m making the right decisions. I can¡¯t, I don¡¯t know enough, and who could I trust? So many would come to me, trying to convince me of what I should do, and I don¡¯t think I¡¯m a good enough judge of character to know good people from snakes every time. The smallest decision could have consequences people would be dealing with a hundred years from now. I¡¯d be bound, I would have to be there to make up for every wrong decision. One choice would become all of them, and eventually that means I¡¯m king. That might work, or it might only seem to work as the groups competing underneath me got worse and worse and someday destroyed everything I worked toward. Or just everything. Of course there are things I say I would like changed, but the certainty I can change something has to be treated as the weapon it is. For me, for who I am, that means standing back. My plan before wanting to help you was to be a poor imitation of you. Make enough money in sports to invest and start a charity and help people that way. I know using a bank account to effect change can be full of problems, but against hard advocacy that would become a chain dragging me to the throne, I choose the first.¡±

    Canton asks ¡°Why do you think I would do any better?¡±

    Why do I think that? What is this feeling? This isn¡¯t his words. This isn¡¯t control. This is something else. ¡°I think if anybody could, it¡¯s you.¡±

    Canton laughs. ¡°Well, Andrew, I appreciate your confidence, but I am also disinterested in that kind of power. We may be set apart, we may find ourselves detached, but we haven¡¯t forgotten our humanity. That¡¯s why we met today, that¡¯s why you¡¯re the First. I have no desire to coerce others or abuse what I have. This tool of our ascension must be tempered, because ensuring a future for humanity that doesn¡¯t require our presence is how we shall prevail. I cannot however leave you with a false impression. If there were no other option, I would take power.¡±

    Andrew now wishes his expression could be seen. If I was detached, at least my actions weren¡¯t. What is this feeling? Clarity, set apart. He knows why he should mistrust Canton, more for that last statement, but doubts fall to nothing, his character clear. What are you? ¡°That¡¯s why I want to work with you. What you¡¯re doing is inspiring.¡±

    Canton nods and he can see it. ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear that. We¡¯re going to achieve great things.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t wait,¡± and now that Andrew knows, he can ask. ¡°You spent years trying to find something that could harm you? You found nothing?¡±

    Canton says ¡°Nothing.¡±

    ¡°Five of us are known, you said there are nine. The others seem good, even Suraj is harmless compared to what we¡¯re capable of. What happens when one of us doesn¡¯t want to help people, when one of us isn¡¯t merely discontent with the way of things? What do we do if one of us becomes a destroyer?¡±

    Canton tells him.

    <hr>

    He flies, he runs. He stands at his door and uncovers his jacket from where he¡¯s hidden it around his waist, beneath his shirt, sleeves tucked into his sweatpants. He looks at the letters on the back, then turns it over and puts it on. He takes the bolt and rolls it back and opens the door.

    He sees her, dark hair a mess around her shoulders, bangs low to her brow, above dark eyes, above high cheeks, above pink lips, a perfect bow. His fingertips drift over her collarbone to where it¡¯s covered by her light sweater, his hands run up her neck to hold her cheek. She fits, his constant. All thoughts on and of her. Conversations so far, morning runs, how dogs look at her. Time spent in books, that she would gift him books. Her pace aloof, detached in ways from the worldly, waiting for her him to invite to her own world. Not any, all. All this time my balance. I overlook nothing when I am with you. He takes her hand and feels the ring on her finger and her other hand on his unshaven cheek and Emilia pushes onto her toes to kiss him.

 25 - Moirai

    FILTERS 25

    MOIRAI

    <hr>

    Can you hear that?

    Concrete and metal blast apart, thunderclap-chased, explosion. Flicker of Phaethon, wind rushing from the meteor that cracks the sky, tearing the grand vault¡¯s stars to bloody shattering stone. Chorus screams. Tires over asphalt and sirens. Then¨Ccheers.

    You see him, you do not hear him. Faster than sound would describe but should not provide comparison where the concept of parity could be wrongly impressed. Rather as light departs and arrives in one moment from swiftness beyond time, he is beyond. He does not hear, feel or move air. Movement would impress need, it would compare. He is beyond.

    His withdraws are performative, he knows his place. He does not shy for sensing inadequacy in himself, his confrontations show his character. He shies as he should, as he would be unfit if he did not understand the wrongness of his place. His fellows also. (The hermit is a lesson.) He withdraws at each ascension. Oh, to worry over small things. He ignored what he could afford to ignore. His unease will be brief. He is beyond. Air, sound. Sight, inevitably.

    They lie beside one another on the living room floor, each staring at the ceiling.

    Emilia asks ¡°How do you have this?¡±

    Whence Clotho?

    ¡°I wish I knew. I always had this feeling, and when I was twelve it became being able to move things. Little things, like a baseball.¡±

    ¡°When did your family find out?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s funny, the first time I ever used this, my dad saw me. I guess it couldn¡¯t have been any other way. We were playing catch and I just missed his throw, and that¡¯s when the feeling changed and I pulled the ball into my hand. He told me to show my mom,¡±¨CHe sees his mother¡¯s face, hears her crying in the hall; feels her different fear, strange to him, unlike Michael falling from a tree. Did she always know?¨C¡±I used this every day but it never really changed, not until I understood it better. I was sixteen, that¡¯s when I grew, it grew, together all at once. Mike found out after I graduated.¡±

    ¡°What did you understand?¡±

    ¡°I thought this came from me, so I wondered why it wasn¡¯t improving like I had in sports. I was getting stronger and faster but this never did. What I realized, what I really truly knew, was I only connect with this. This is everywhere, so I could put a baseball anywhere, or a desk, or a car.¡±

    She says ¡°Or yourself.¡±

    ¡°Or myself, eventually.¡±

    ¡°Did you know there were others?¡±

    ¡°No. We always thought there were, but we didn¡¯t know until Redhat.¡±

    She says ¡°I guess you don¡¯t know how it exists.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t. I¡¯ve sometimes had thoughts that feel like this is telling me something, but those are about what I can do with this, never how or why this exists.¡±

    He watches her look at her left hand. He listens to her breathing.

    He asks ¡°What are you thinking?¡±

    She says ¡°About how I¡¯m a little happy Mike was left in the dark too, but I don¡¯t like that, it¡¯s petty. And how you haven¡¯t slept for three years and for some reason I feel more hung up on that than you being able to fly.¡±

    ¡°Harder to imagine?¡± he wonders.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± she says, ¡°but everyone has nights where they just can¡¯t sleep. It would be funny to say I¡¯ve had nights where I just can¡¯t fly.¡± He smiles, she says ¡°You said eventually. Is that why you wondered if Dinesh didn¡¯t know how to fly, you couldn¡¯t always?¡±

    ¡°It is, I couldn¡¯t. I figured it out the night we first kissed.¡±

    She laughs a little and puts her hand on his chest and pushes as she sits up. She says ¡°I¡¯ve imagined so many times what it¡¯s like, but you can actually do it.¡±

    He sits up. ¡°I did too, I fantasized every day and tried every night, then I actually could. I know nothing sets me apart more, but being up there is when this makes the most sense. Seeing world trees outside the city. Seeing different houses, buildings, even cars. If I didn¡¯t have a reason to be on the ground I might just drift. Go everywhere, see everything.¡±

    She says ¡°Like Mexico.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Why did you go?¡±

    ¡°I could say it was for misdirection, but I went because I wanted to see it. The city, and the ring.¡±

    ¡°What did you think?¡±

    ¡°I thought about how massive it is, I still think about that, New York didn¡¯t feel like that. And I thought about the pictures you¡¯ve shown me, I liked seeing those neighborhoods built with the foothills, all the houses and streets climbing up the mountains. It was hectic and beautiful and I wished I could go down there and see it like anybody else. I want to go back.¡±

    She¡¯s glowing. ¡°Yeah, we should go. We could see the capital, and if we were there we¡¯d have to fly to Guadalajara so you could meet my cousins. Then we could fly or even drive to Puerto Vallarta and stay there, or wander up to Bucer¨ªas and get a cabin on the beach.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d love that.¡±

    Her happiness fades as she says ¡°And then you went to the ring.¡±

    He nods.

    She asks ¡°What was that like?¡±

    He hears his footsteps on the sand. Too great, too terrible. . .

    He says ¡°It felt wrong. I felt disrespectful just by being there, but I knew it would be more disrespectful to not go.¡±

    ¡°Did you really speak with a priest?¡±

    Or he was dressed as a priest, he thinks. ¡°I did. He was at the memorial in the ring.¡±

    Her eyes drift from his, pushed to the corners with her thoughts. He watches her right hand run through her hair and rest on her neck. She asks ¡°What did you say to him?¡±

    And Lakhesis?

    ¡°He recognized me, he said he saw what happened in Tampa. I explained how I didn¡¯t know what I could do before that day, and I apologized. I would have stopped that sphere if I had known.¡±

    Her eyes return to his. ¡°You didn¡¯t know? Did you go to Tampa with a guess? Did you think you might¡ª¡± She falters.

    ¡°I thought I might be able to stop it, but really, it¡¯s not that I was certain I wouldn¡¯t die, it¡¯s that I didn¡¯t care if I did, as long as I had tried.¡±

    She hugs him.

    She asks ¡°What did the priest say?¡±

    Words that echo. ¡°What I deserved, an admonishment. He saw my doubts.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t want this?¡±

    ¡°I do. I don¡¯t want this to exist. Since it does I¡¯m glad it¡¯s me. Who could say no? Would you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m glad you have it too.¡± She sighs, ¡°This is something I¡¯m supposed to say no to, but who could see what you can do and still say no? I¡¯ve imagined what it¡¯s like to be, well, to be you, but isn¡¯t that how this unravels? I¡¯m imagining a choice, just like I¡¯ve imagined having it. But you just have it, and I just don¡¯t. No matter what I think I¡¯ll know I don¡¯t have it.¡±

    He hears melancholy. ¡°You¡¯re disappointed.¡±

    She laughs and grabs his hand and says ¡°Of course I am! Who doesn¡¯t want to fly? I¡¯d miss sleeping but you can fly, Andrew. You can fly. You can fly!¡± She laughs again.

    He laughs. ¡°What?¡±

    She says ¡°I imagined my mother asking me ¡®Why do you treat that boy like he walks on air?¡¯ Because he can, mam¨¢, because. . . you really can.¡± Her hand grips his tightly and her breaths are suddenly quick, she seems to fight with herself, her eyes flitting back and away. She whispers ¡°Why me?¡±

    Andrew frowns. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    Her hand is still tight but she pulls her knees close and turns her face into them and her voice is muffled as she again asks ¡°Why me?¡±

    Andrew smiles, he could have laughed. He knew she would be afraid, never jealous. With his other hand he reaches for her waist and pulls her across the carpet back into a hug and says ¡°After I stopped sleeping, every time a girl tried to give me attention all I heard was white noise. I knew what she wanted and in that moment all I could think of was the empty silence being awake beside her. I didn¡¯t think that was going to change, I didn¡¯t think it could change. Then you and I started talking and I could really hear you, and in those long nights alone in my dorm I realized I would be more than okay awake beside you, I wanted that. That¡¯s why.¡±

    When she lifts her head to look at him he pushes her hair back and kisses her.

    She reheats the pasta and they eat. They say nothing, only looking at each other.

    They sit on his couch, television off.

    Emilia asks ¡°Do you¨Cdoes it feel like one long day? Do you remember everything like it¡¯s just happened?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know about my memory, what can I compare this with? But the days, sometimes. I do have a little feeling at sunrise, I think it¡¯s the closest I get to waking up. But sometimes I¡¯ve been so stuck in my head everything blurs together and I only know where I need to be because of my calendar. Never when I¡¯m with you.¡±

    She rubs his thigh. ¡°Is that why you run so much?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, and it¡¯s why I started reading again, and part of why I¡¯m taking the classes I am. With the time I have, no excuse to not have perfect grades.¡±

    She says ¡°You can use that again, you don¡¯t have to lie beside me all night.¡±

    Andrew shakes his head. ¡°Running and reading and studying, that¡¯s what I resorted to. Being beside you is the closest I get to sleeping. You give me peace.¡± He sees her crossed legs and bare feet and thinks of her standing in her slippers in the rain. And I have given you pain, he thinks. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he bows his head and leans into her. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for keeping this from you for so long. I¡¯m sorry for how I¡¯ve lied to you and how I¡¯ve hurt you. I hope with time I can make this up to you.¡±

    He feels her arms slide around him and her head rest on his, her lips and breath on one ear as she says ¡°You know I¡¯ve forgiven you. I understand why you felt you needed to hide this. It¡¯s why I¡¯ll have to with my parents.¡±

    He turns over, the back of his head on her lap. ¡°No, Em, I didn¡¯t tell you this thinking you would be forced to lie to your parents. If you want to tell them, or if you want me to tell them, then we will.¡±

    She smiles but he sees her conflict. ¡°I don¡¯t know, when could possibly be the right time?¡± Her fingertips press on his ears and she asks ¡°If you want this, then what do you doubt?¡±

    ¡°My purpose. Broken are a responsibility but even after Tampa I felt spheres weren¡¯t the point of my having this. I¡¯ve struggled with that. It would make no difference to the lost if my interventions somehow stopped me from doing something arguably more important. Redhat has been a complicated relief, I admire him, but what he¡¯s done has raised what I need to contribute. I¡¯ve doubted my reasoning. I knew my feelings, I didn¡¯t want to walk out on my life, I didn¡¯t want to leave you. I worried those feelings were affecting my judgment, that I was rationalizing my selfishness, twisting logic so I could keep doing what I wanted instead of what was right. But that changed today.¡±

    She asks ¡°How do you mean? Are you going to intervene every time now?¡±

    ¡°I will where necessary, but no, not that. Let me sit up.¡±

    When they¡¯re facing he says ¡°I wasn¡¯t the only controller today in New York. I stopped the sphere but he helped far more people than I did. He¡¯s the actual first but nobody knows he exists, not in that way. He¡¯s John Canton.¡±

    Emilia gasps. ¡°No. What happened?¡±

    ¡°He knows who I am. He called me by name just before taking off his mask.¡± Andrew laughs, ¡°He wants me to work with him.¡±

    Her hands are on her cheeks, he sees a flash of her mother doing the same. She says ¡°This day. . . how did he know?¡±

    ¡°You know how people have guessed we have a kind of clairvoyance¡ª?¡±

    She quickly says ¡°You really do? What¡¯s that like?¡±

    ¡°I know where everything is around me. I know what¡¯s behind doors and through walls, I know what¡¯s in containers and drawers. I know what people have in their pockets, but I can¡¯t see people, not exactly.¡±

    ¡°What do you see?¡±

    ¡°In my other sight I see you and others as dark figures. I¡¯ve always assumed that¡¯s because other people can¡¯t be directly affected by this. That seems to be the common rule between us and broken.¡±

    Emilia shakes off a thought and asks ¡°So how did he know?¡±

    ¡°He know what he was looking for, so my athletics stood out particularly to him, but he knew specifically because at some point he came here and using his second sight saw I don¡¯t sleep.¡±

    She frowns. ¡°Does that make you uncomfortable?¡±

    ¡°Who am I to judge? Does it make you uncomfortable I can do that?¡±

    She¡¯s quiet.

    She says ¡°No. Not when it¡¯s you. I know you, I know you would never use it to spy on a specific person, not unless you had a reason I would agree with. I don¡¯t like that the others can, but I guess I don¡¯t really like any of the things they can do.¡± She shakes her head again. ¡°Of course he¡¯s so wealthy. Are you going to work with him?¡±

    ¡°I am, after I finish school.¡±

    Emilia still frowns. He looks down her sweater, pale olive with a sheen, subtle in the low light. He can find the seams of the shallow V-neck, at her shoulders, the hem at her waist, pulled back enough to just show her navel. He closes his eyes, closing everything to her, until she speaks.

    ¡°I know this is what you¡¯ve wanted, but does knowing this about him change that? Now he¡¯s more than just one of the wealthiest men in the world. Whatever you thought about him before today, whatever you think about him now, there are so many things people with that kind of wealth hide. We know how self-serving they are, how ruthless. Just think of his connections and the influence he has. The sorts of people he knows and the deals going on behind what we ever see. And he has this power? I know he might seem good, but can you trust him?¡±

    He sees the Earth. He feels his doubt fall.

    ¡°Yes, I am. I knew before every reason I should doubt him, everything you¡¯ve said is true and that¡¯s what I was thinking as he spoke, but that fell away. For as long as he has had this, he could have already made himself a tyrant king. Instead he¡¯s using everything he has to move humanity forward. His conviction, his certainty of self and purpose, his knowledge he is doing right is so profound I could feel it. I didn¡¯t feel like I was talking to a man, I felt like I was talking to a force of nature, and I know beyond doubt he¡¯s good. Like. . . it was bleeding into the air.¡±

    Emilia laughs softly. ¡°That¡¯s how you make me feel.¡±

    He¡¯s content looking in her eyes.

    She asks ¡°How long has he had it?¡±

    ¡°I think close to twenty years.¡±

    ¡°Twenty years without sleeping,¡± her side slips to rest against the back of the couch. ¡°You¡¯re really okay with that?¡±

    He mirrors her. ¡°I¡¯m used to it. Whatever this is must make it work. I¡¯m never tired, my head never feels foggy, I never have muscle aches. Some days I only stopped running because I needed to be somewhere, some nights only because it had gotten too late. I do want to sleep, it¡¯s why I still try sometimes when we¡¯re in bed. It just never comes.¡±

    She kisses him, her fingernails pressing lightly on his neck. She says ¡°I don¡¯t think I could sleep now if I tried. I want to see what happened. I want to see you.¡±

    The television turns on, muted commercials.

    ¡°I never looked up videos from Tampa. I¡¯m sure I¡¯ve seen it all with how often clips are shown, but I always avoided it when I could.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°I would feel vain.¡±

    The news returns, the banner reads WAS THERE A SECOND CONTROLLER AT MANHATTAN?

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    Cyclic coverage. He watches himself above the park; drifting toward the waterfront; his departure. It restarts. Arrival, video and stills of him with his hands on the man, his descent into the tower and recovery of the trapped. Fog covering the city, his work within as he carried casualties while parts of buildings descended to the streets. Phone video at a station of a shorn subway car, one part sliced perfectly, the other mangled. Above the park again, and finally his ascent.

    He feels her rising heartbeat. She knew him as other; now that other sits beside her.

    She says ¡°¡®It matters what everybody else thinks.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Do you think the government knows who you are?¡±

    ¡°I think if they didn¡¯t know before today, they do now.¡±

    Through the fog, above the park, rising.

    She asks ¡°Do you think they¡¯ll want something from you? What happens when they come?¡±

    ¡°We think, and hope, it¡¯s if they come: that they want things to stay as they are now. For us to only show at disasters, and only in our masks.¡±

    She asks ¡°Because they¡¯re afraid of you?¡±

    A different perspective of him and the broken man, then a cut to him and empty air.

    ¡°Indirectly. Or effectually.¡±

    Phone video of sections of a building moving slowly through the air.

    She says ¡°Indirectly, effectually?¨COh.¡±

    Emergency workers carrying injured.

    She says ¡°Ryan is always talking about how proud and grateful he is of help from you and Redhat, but it¡¯s always accompanied by ¡®marching on,¡¯ always ¡®emphasizing normalcy.¡¯ They¡¯re acting like you don¡¯t exist, at least as well as they can, because they don¡¯t want to deal with you.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯ve thought, and that¡¯s exactly what Canton said. He wants it to stay that way. He believes the quieter he is¨Cthe quieter we are¨Cthe better for our work. I agree.¡±

    ¡°What is that work? What will you be doing?¡±

    ¡°Contribute to everything he does at Epitaxial. Manufacturing, research, and spaceflight.¡±

    She says ¡°Space. You can stop spheres yourself, is that what you meant when you said psychic break was part of why you wanted to work with him? It¡¯s space, isn¡¯t it? Space is what you think is most important.¡±

    ¡°Yes. It is.¡±

    She asks ¡°Why?¡±

    He knows she doesn¡¯t ask from doubt.

    I could tell you, I wish I could show you. Your faith would feel like doubt and the strongest skepticism would fall. Not as dust, less than dust, less than a mote suspended in a sunbeam. I wish I could show you infinite majesty so you too could be struck with most terrifying cosmic frailty. To be so small. I would understand if you collapsed and withdrew, your ego crushed by weight of impotence. But it is a gift, this weight uplifts. It is the burden that makes robust. Nowhere to go but up.

    Or would it be you couldn¡¯t follow? Would you look at me and only see abyss? Would this make us strange, would this be our final difference? Yours as human, mine as greatest other.

    He asks ¡°If you had this, what would you do?¡±

    She doesn¡¯t smile.

    She says ¡°I¡¯m supposed to say what anybody would. ¡®I would do good. I would stop spheres, and help in natural disasters. I would fight crime and intervene in wars.¡¯ I¡¯m supposed to say I would work with the government and other groups. None of you have done that. Almost all of you have chosen good, but all of you have done that on your own. I know why, and it¡¯s not because of something I subconsciously understood from you. I think everybody knows, but they know they¡¯re supposed to say certain things, even when they¡¯re lies. You can stand in the sky, how could you bow to anyone? When you can go anywhere and see anything, when soldiers would ask you to hunt, how could a person¡¯s perspective not seem small?¡±

    ¡°I do care.¡±

    ¡°If you advocated for something, would it happen?¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t answer my question.¡±

    She smiles, ¡°You ignored mine first! If you advocated for something, would it happen?¡±

    "I think it would."

    She asks ¡°What¡¯s stopping you? With you loudly standing for something, wouldn¡¯t the world follow?¡±

    ¡°I would have to be perfect, and I¡¯m not.¡±

    She says ¡°Our leaders aren¡¯t perfect. They have to compromise, or they get to use that as an excuse. You wouldn¡¯t need to compromise.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s why I would need to be perfect. How many things would change only because my jacket was behind it? One might be too many, and stepping in like that. If I spoke to crowds, wouldn¡¯t I just be scaring them into compliance? I would be forcing myself over the blood and will that built everything. I can¡¯t do that only hoping I could do better.¡±

    She says ¡°None of us can pass through spheres unharmed. None of us can fly. What if you could do better, even if it meant putting yourself ahead of all of that?¡±

    ¡°It would be wrong.¡±

    ¡°Even with the good you can do?¡±

    ¡°The assumption it would be good is exactly why I can¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°What about something unquestionably right? Could you stop conflict?¡±

    ¡°I could take their rifles, would I need to take their knives? Their hammers? They might just use their fists. I could force sides to negotiate, but what if none of them wanted me there, shouldn¡¯t I abstain? If both or every side wanted me, what then? I could choose the winner, but what if I chose wrong? What reaches us passes through so many filters. All the ignorance, the assumptions and biases from voices whose standard for goodness is common feeling. They might drive me on, cheer as I brought harm to good people, people who only ¡®deserved¡¯ it in a perverted sense of turnabout. Because good is absolute, I need to be. There is no rebalancing, there is no compromise. Absolute or nothing at all. But a goal that seems good, when I have to leverage myself for its achievement, could become a disaster of its own later. I would need to go and learn for myself¨Cas if it¡¯s so simple¨Cand that would take time. All for a problem in a small part of a world of billions. I do care, and that¡¯s exactly why I know this requires temperance. This requires that use which benefits the most, and I know that does not mean making myself king.¡±

    Emilia says nothing.

    She quietly says ¡°If it¡¯s good, it¡¯s good.¡±

    She stands and walks to the sunroom doors.

    She turns. ¡°If it¡¯s good, it¡¯s good, isn¡¯t that what you just said? Wouldn¡¯t what matters be making the right choice even and especially if bad follows? How often have bad decisions been made knowing bad would follow? Or even supposedly good decisions knowing bad would follow? You could choose good and see to it that good results.¡±

    Andrew says nothing.

    She says ¡°I know you¡¯re saying exactly what you should be saying, and not out of expectation, but because it really is the right take. I know this is that thing again, where I¡¯m imagining what I could do, but I don¡¯t have it, so no matter what I think and how I feel, I will never take these questions as seriously as you. Because you do have it, so with everything you have to ask and then what?¡±

    Andrew is smiling but he says nothing.

    She says ¡°But so often it¡¯s clear they don¡¯t ask that, unless they¡¯re asking and then do I keep power? You wouldn¡¯t have to. Until you power was always numbers. Money and words, but really how many other powerful people were in agreement. There are so many more of us, but it¡¯s not like we matter. They listen just enough to keep power, if they even have to anymore when they can just manufacture consent. We¡¯re lead along and exploited because we actually care about each other. We want what¡¯s best for each other. It¡¯s not that following is our nature, altruism is, but there is nothing easier to corrupt than the drive to be a good person. So we chase power¡¯s tail, or chase its shadow, but we never chase power itself. You are power itself. You worry about ignoring people, that¡¯s all they do. It¡¯s the foundation for so much of what I read now, eloquent bickering over which prestige group will do a better job babysitting the serfs. ¡®When the serfs decide, they always choose wrong. They can¡¯t be trusted, they¡¯ll only demand ever-more for themselves, consequences be damned, they¡¯ll raid the coffers while the empire falls. We know what¡¯s best, we must guide their lives so we can raise civilization as it ought to be. With us at the top, of course, we¡¯re meant for it. Everything we do speaks our superiority. Our habits, our families, our culture, our tastes. We appreciate existence in a way they are forever incapable of. So if they suffer while we luxuriate, oh, well good I suppose. Their lot is suffering. Besides, we don¡¯t really exclude, we¡¯re actually shepherds, and we welcome the bright ones to join us¡¯¨Cyeah, the soulless ones¨C¡®they should rest easy knowing a descendant or two of theirs will join us. Ah, but of course we¡¯ll take any of their women who are to our liking, so nice we can carelessly indulge, eat them up and toss them out! They¡¯re nothing after all, who cares if they¡¯re ruined?¡¯¡±

    Her cheeks are flushed. She rubs her eyes.

    ¡°We are common but we aren¡¯t less, we have been made less because that is how they want us. I find myself so apathetic over some things, over some ideas, because all I can see is how the person is ignored. I believe in people. What a tired thing to say, I know. The cop-out for politicians dodging questions. But I do. When our leaders fail all I see is corruption and incompetence. They want to shape us because they know success or failure comes entirely from us while they only ride our coattails. When we unite, things happen, good and bad. But the bad? Every single time, every single time the bad has demagoguery behind it. What would I do with this? I would teach. They couldn¡¯t silence me, I could speak to everyone and help lift them up. And I would be okay with that, because it¡¯s okay if people listen because they feel they must. They¡¯ll know the enemy of unaccountable power and take it from the undeserving. They couldn¡¯t stop us, they couldn¡¯t poison us with ideas they use to subvert and dominate because I could silence them, and I would every time.¡±

    She pauses. He¡¯s still smiling.

    "I know unaccountable power is what you are, but I know you don¡¯t want to be, and that''s what makes you different. You would choose this only to stop them, you would choose this because you hate this in a way you can¡¯t put into words. Well the best never want it, right? Because they know true evil is wanting control over people. They can¡¯t be shaken of their fundamental recognition and appreciation, their love for their fellows, even their enemies! Where in worst necessity they might do things that are wrong, but they never excuse themselves and they never celebrate others¡¯ misery. They never deceive themselves into thinking their misdeeds were good. They live with their regret and accept it over losing themselves and if their souls are still judged lacking they accept it, they say so be it. Love defines them. Love defines you. And hate defines those who want power, because that¡¯s the only way they can exist. Hate to the degree it sometimes feels like they view us as a lesser species, only meant to be their slaves, and all justified by noblesse oblige bullshit. You aren¡¯t that, you don¡¯t want that, but Andrew, you do know better. You wouldn¡¯t ignore the people, you would ignore the wails of every aspiring tyrant. You could right their misdeeds, you could force them to account, and there is nothing they could do to stop you. What could be more important than that? You. . . You, Dinesh, Redhat, Canton. I know now, I know this is exactly what the others would say, because what else is this power but your collective mandate?¡±

    He wants to carry her outside and show her the sky.

    Thus, Atropos.

    Andrew says ¡°There have been two moments my father has almost shown awe at what I can do. The night I flew to Atlanta and the night I came back from Tampa, but both were so brief. It¡¯s made me wonder sometimes if he¡¯s changed at all, even seeing what I can do. It doesn¡¯t seem like he has, he¡¯s always been so cynical. It¡¯s made me sad, not at myself, I know he¡¯s proud of me, but sad because I thought he was trapped in his own pessimism. So when he saw what I could do that meant he had to think about the next bad thing that could happen, because that¡¯s all he ever thinks about, like there¡¯s a voice in his head always whispering This will not end well. He never said outright how afraid he was of me getting caught, but I could tell. I thought he let that fear control him. He thought I would be disappeared into some government facility, that wouldn¡¯t have happened. I¡¯m sure I would have been studied, but occasional trips to the lab would have been the worst of it, not the comically unrealistic of me being blackbagged and unpersoned. Still, I¡¯ve found myself thinking the same line, all the time. This will not end well. I didn¡¯t want that to be true, so I would question what he said, sometimes to his face. Then today a man in the clouds said so many of the things my father has. I felt like such a child.¡±

    ¡°I know where my father has been wrong. I know specifically the things he has been wrong about, but he was right to raise me to hear that whisper, because it is exactly what I needed. For the powerless, it makes a sad sense to assume the worst. It¡¯s made my father successful, it¡¯s stopped him from building up hope and being crushed, or caught exposed when it fails. But it also makes sense for me, because with this power, all I ask, all I ever ask, is if something I do will end well. It means I¡¯ll never give in to whim. It means temperance. You asked why space is most important.¡±

    Emilia nods slowly.

    ¡°Space is our destiny. Our history is calamity, disasters and self-destruction. Yes, we are trapped and mislead on false inequities because terrors beyond comprehension are already coming for us. There is nothing I could ever do that is more important than helping free us from this lonely, fragile world, because if we are not prepared when something comes, humanity will be the cost. If all of us joined together and personally delivered Earthly paradise, what good would come if we were destroyed in the hundred-and-first year? Those evils covered in the haze of power need to see justice, but not before this. Space unites us, it is the unquestionable common good, it is that something most great everyone can work toward, knowing what we¡¯ve done is for the good of all to come. So in a thousand years when we¡¯re on a thousand planets, free forever from a single stone flung through space being our end, that all began here. When people see what we will achieve, I think they¡¯ll stand collectively, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll need to advocate anything. But if not, if they¡¯re silenced, if they¡¯re mislead, I will intervene. You¡¯re right, there is nothing that can stop me, and I will not tolerate opposition if they try. This will end well, because my purpose is to ensure it does.¡±

    She falls against him.

    They lie in bed, her arm across his chest.

    She asks ¡°What happened when you touched that woman, and that man?¡±

    ¡°I saw them in a different place. I actually saw them, it wasn¡¯t my other sight. We were standing in water that spread to the horizon. I wish I knew what that means, I only understand it as I¡¯m waking them up, but by then they¡¯ve already lost control, so they lose themselves.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t know there were others, does that mean you can¡¯t tell if someone has this?¡±

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t always, I can now. There¡¯s a third kind, different from me and from broken, they¡¯re much weaker. Before, if they touched me, in my other sight their figure turned gray. Today, when Canton and I were finished talking, we were about to shake hands when I mentioned the gray. He hadn¡¯t experienced that, we think because he hasn¡¯t touched a broken. So we shook hands, and his figure turned white, as mine did for him, and now I can see gray figures who I haven¡¯t met. There are three here.¡±

    ¡°So my sisters. . .¡±

    ¡°They don¡¯t have this.¡±

    She pulls tighter.

    She¡¯s close to sleep. ¡°What¡¯s the point¡ª¡±

    ¡°Hm?¡±

    Murmuring, ¡°What¡¯s the point of being immune to this when you can do so much to us anyway?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    She¡¯s asleep. He closes his eyes.

    He sees Robert standing at his computer. He sees the second at the university hospital, seated at a floor station. He sees the third, a sleeping child. He sees his brother pacing. He lifts Emilia¡¯s arm from his chest and gets out of bed and calls Michael from the sunroom. ¡°I¡¯m home.¡±

    Michael says ¡°On my way.¡±