UNDERGROUND

LONDON, ENGLAND
AUGUST, 2007

WITH ITS ERODED volcanic peaks, impossibly turquoise waters and singing waterfalls all now well in the past, Pohnpei was a dream of a tropical island. And if Pohnpei itself was a dream, then the brooding necropolis of Nan Madol was a dream within a dream. All subsumed in a romanticized mirage poking out of an ocean halfway around the world, another in a long line of the increasingly empty dead-end hopes Eisman had pursued for six highly controversial years.

They said he was mad. No longer a speculation confined to the business pages or the realm of eager political cartoonists, Eisman’s passion to find his daughter or at least some minuscule indication of what had happened to her had entered the lexicon of common cultural currency.

From actual news it had fallen over the years into cheap fodder for late-night comedians and former business competitors. By now even some of the latter had turned from laughter to pity.

Raef Eisman? Oh yes—brilliant fellow, once. But ever since that strange incident involving his daughter, well—poor chap. Claims to see her talking to him in windows and mirrors—surprising he hasn’t tried to step through one of them, like Alice. The blood loss might bring him to his senses. He isn’t stupid, though. Just, you know—eccentric. After all, he’s rich.

Oh, and remember the press when he bought an entire beach resort on the south coast of Brazil because some guests reported seeing the face of the Virgin Mary in some of the windows, and he’d rushed away from a conference to tear the place apart window by window, insisting it was his daughter they’d seen?

Then he’d attacked a camera team from the local television network. The old fool had gotten himself deported over that! Oh dear, those photos of him wide-eyed and babbling on and on about wild conspiracies and his ‘North Pacific Anomaly’.

What was it he had gone on about?

Something about how the Van Allen belt came closest to the Earth’s surface at certain spots so the planet’s magnetic field is weaker there. Protons get trapped in between dimensions, so why not his daughter? How sad. Although that bit about not even the Hubble being able to take pictures in those zones made it all sound a bit mysterious.

Such a shame, that Eisman. Poor man.

True enough, Brazilian Customs and Immigration didn’t care about magnetic dipoles, the consensus being that the raging Brit billionaire was in need of a little extra radiation shielding himself. He had been unceremoniously put on his private plane and told never to return. Let him reflect obsessively on his daughter elsewhere.

Not long after his forced departure, a private Foundation had bought the property that had so captivated Eisman and razed it to the ground, replacing it with an undeveloped nature preserve where the only reflections that remained were to be seen in the pale waves that broke on the new park’s perfect beach.

Pohnpei, Porto Velho, Osaka, Taupo—they were only a handful of the many locales where Eisman had pursued any hint of his daughter’s presence, alive or otherwise, his mania no longer confined to the route Ansett flight 888 had taken. Asked to account for such random searching, Eisman had sent tongues wagging anew when he cryptically gave one interviewer the sound bite: “The clouds; they move!” At considerable financial cost and still greater cost to his personal reputation, he had spent years crisscrossing the planet in search of any hint of Paige’s existence long past the point of reason.

When hard facts had failed to supply any kind of succor he had doggedly turned to less conventional methods. Psychics, conspiracy nuts, UFOlogists—no matter how outré the source, no proposal escaped his attention. If tarot readers were good enough for American Presidents, they were acceptable to him.

His pursuit was driven by love, the media correctly pointed out. The love of a widowed father for his only child. They praised him even as they mocked him as mad.

Eisman knew he had done nothing earlier this evening to diffuse that allegation. It was all the fault of the reporters. Freelance scum, soulless paparazzi, they had waylaid him outside his London home. He had taken unbridled pleasure in beating the crap out of the both of them.

But as he sped his sedan along the riverfront road he knew he could expect to see unvarnished images of himself in at least one of tomorrow’s tabloids.

“Boffo Billionaire Bonkers?” one headline would scream. “Eisman Erupts!” would cry another. Below would be pictures of him clad in tux and tie flailing at the microphone-wielding journo while the photographer sidekick frantically fired off shot after shot. Since he was no longer hot news, the pictures would probably sell in the low thousands. Then the two paparazzi would sue him for assault.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Now he was late for the concert. Hills would be disappointed. It had taken his assistant more than a month to line up an invitation for his boss to attend the post-premiere reception.

Eisman had progressively become persona non grata among London’s social set, for whom he had years ago generated so much wealth. His attendance at the after-party was intended to return him to the spotlight as an elegant and sane public figure, a patron of the arts and its charity de jour.

Not that he really cared one whit about what people thought of him, but there were to be some people in that circle who might, if suitably inveigled, be able to aid him in his continuing search.

How was he supposed to show himself to them now, with his expensive shoes scuffed and his formalwear torn and mottled with dirt?

Even if an express drycleaner or suit retailer could be found at this hour on the A3 into London, he simply didn’t have the time to stop, already horrendously late for a social set that prized punctuality so much they had built the world’s tallest clock tower in the very center of their capital. He had brushed and wiped at his dress ensemble as best he could, but the figure he presented had plainly spent some time on the ground in less than salubrious circumstances. Despite his strenuous efforts to clean up, his appearance was sure to occasion sideways glances and murmured asides.

Raef Eisman? Oh yes, poor fellow. One who lies down with dogs, you know.

He gritted his teeth as his fingers tightened on the wheel of the Jaguar. It was his regular driver’s day off. He should have listened to Hills and hired a chauffeur. At the least, a driver could have run interference with the paparazzi and he would not now be speeding through the rain a little too fast.

Either the wipers on the Jaguar needed replacing or this midsummer storm had begun raining much harder than the bureau had predicted. Water clung to the glass as the twin blades scooped back and forth like a pair of road workers with shovels, the one on the left throwing water onto the section of windshield just cleared by the other, an ongoing exercise in futility.

At least there wasn’t much traffic on Upper Thames Street. He glanced down at the car’s clock. He was good and late, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Where was he? Had he gone past Southwark Bridge, or somehow detoured off onto the Blackfriars underpass? If so, he was going to have a devil of a time finding the access to New Bridge Street and working his way back to the Tate after crossing the river. Not so much of a problem during the day and in good weather, especially on a weekend. But in this kind of slosh, tired as he was from the day’s frustration and fighting, he found himself increasingly disoriented without any red taillights to follow.

Sensible drivers had stayed home, or parked to wait out the unseasonal cloudburst. Already delayed, he did not have that option.

Winding through a concrete canyon of one-way streets and restrictive median strips, he was sure London’s great river was somewhere off to his left: even in the increasingly difficult downpour he knew that much.

Masked by what were now sheets of rain, a sign loomed just ahead. It had to mark the onramp for Southwark, or at least lead in the bridge’s general direction. There was no other reason for a left turn access to be here.

Unless one was going to park just beside the small quay where boat tours plied the river.

In the downpour and the dark he missed the signs. He also missed seeing two boats berthed for the evening immediately in the path of his silver hood ornament as the Jag mounted the curb. Fighting to brake and wrestle the car to a stop he suddenly felt a burning sensation in his pants. Startled, he spun the wheel with one hand and dug into his pocket with the other.

From then on everything happened in slow motion.

Given the speed at which he hit the end of the quay it was doubtful the car could have stopped in time on the slick concrete even had he realized the peril sooner.

Hydroplaning, it skewed slightly sideways as he frantically spun the wheel. Then he was upside down, crashing through the top of one boat as wood and steel sprayed across the river.

With the almighty thud that followed, the dash illumination flickered and went out, leaving him in total darkness.

But not silence.

Water gulped into the passenger compartment. It entered from multiple entry points: the underdash air vents, the engine compartment, the floor in front of the rear seat. All the while the car continued to move—downward.

He was sinking into the River Thames.

Fumbling in the darkness he popped his belt restraint and tried the door handle. It moved, but with the pressure of water against it the door wouldn’t open. There was probably an emergency tool somewhere but since he rarely drove himself he had no idea where it was stowed.

As water began to rise around him, flooding the interior, he found and opened the glove compartment. It was full of papers, small unidentifiable objects, a flashlight . . .

The casing was not large, but it was solid. Using both hands and putting his weight behind it he began slamming the butt end of the torch into the passenger side window. The water was up to his waist now and it was hard to get any leverage. So intent was he on trying to break out the glass that he had no time to wonder why Paige’s necklace, which he had kept on his person since her fateful flight, continued to burn in his pocket even though it was now as wet as the rest of him.

He heard the glass crack.

Dropping the light he raised his legs, slid back to brace himself, and kicked sharply at the window with both feet. Though no longer young, he was in excellent condition.

A second crack sounded.

The cold water was up to his neck. Maddeningly, the safety glass refused to give. Taking a deep breath preparatory to kicking out again, he inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of river. Choking, coughing, water now blurring his vision, he fought to gather his strength for still another leg thrust.

The passenger window exploded. As he turned his head away and inhaled a last desperate lungful of air, the Thames crashed inward. He threw up his arms to protect his face, both from the rush of water and the broken glass it contained. Within seconds he was completely submerged.

Twisting his body he kicked toward the door, hoping that in the darkness he didn’t shred himself against the shards of window billowing around him. With his fingers he felt for the opening, attained it, and pulled himself forward.

Though the Jaguar did not have large side windows he was able to pull his head and torso through. The air in his lungs would send him upward. Once that direction had been established he would start kicking.

It would be all right, he told himself. The Thames wasn’t that deep and he had not hit bottom. He would make it. Meanwhile the chained amulet in his pocket unaccountably burned against his leg as the current swirled wood and glass around him.

Kicking upward, weak but still aware, he thought he could see a light overhead and off to one side. From a bridge, maybe, or a boat, or even a streetlamp on the river-walk. It didn’t matter.

The light gave him a direction, and a direction was a destination. Using his arms as well as his legs he swam frantically for the surface.

Focused on the light, already exhausted, he didn’t see the looming underside of the boat overhead. He hit it hard, headfirst.

Blinking from the concussion, his mind shutting down from lack of oxygen, he drifted in the water. The current swept a plate-sized piece of shattered glass across his failing line of sight.

Though it was most surely a figment caused by stuttering neurons, he thought he saw a face mouthing silent words in the passing glass. An outline, an image. A comfort.

“Paige?”

The night and the river erupted. From being confronted by nothing more than cold wet darkness his eyes were abruptly filled with a thousand pinpricks of brilliant white light. They overwhelmed his senses completely, rushing in and along his optic nerves to expand explosively in his benumbed brain.

Balanced on the knife-edge of unconsciousness, for a period of time measured in nanoseconds he perceived a million scenes and feelings from a thousand lifetimes crashing down on him.

Then the light went out, and so did he.

COLD. Cold and wet. Cold and wet and hungry. the first two he understood instinctively. The third did not sink in right away. He inhaled sharply, and choked. Half air and half water entered his lungs: a bad combination.

Hacking up river, he turned slowly in the dark. Reflexively treading water, he turned slowly to survey his surroundings. Through the rain he could make out lights on opposing shores. Striking for the nearest he swam clumsily, weighed down by clothes that ballooned around him. At least the shoes fit. He considered kicking them off, then decided he might need them to climb out of the water. Since he had no idea where he was or how he had come to find himself in the middle of a slow-moving river, he had no way of knowing what the shoreline might be like.

As he neared the dimly lit bank it struck him with sudden horror that he had no idea who he was, either.

Name? He could not remember it, nor could he recall the names of anyone else. Or any places, or any times. A black fog of terror descended around him, threatening to smother all thinking, to drown him as completely as the river promised to do. Searching his mind he encountered nothing. Where memory ought to lie was only vacuum, nothingness, a sensation of thoughts paralyzed and standing still. He struggled, fought to remember. Something, anything. Where was he, other than floating in a river? At least he knew what a river was, he told himself as he fought back tears that would have been lost in the rain anyway. The realization gave him motivation. He did not know where he was going except that it had to be out of the water and rain. After that . . .

Reaching the shore, he was confronted by a wall of brick and concrete that served as a bulwark on the river-bank. It proved too high to get a handhold. He let himself drift along the brine and mollusk encrusted barrier until he came to some stone steps that marched down into the water. Dragging himself out, he lay recovering his strength as multiple rivulets coursed away from his soggy bulk.

Crawling up the old stone stairway brought him to a paved walkway. A long line of buildings of diverse age and architecture stretched off left and right, fronting the river. There was no sign of life. Why would there be, he thought to himself? What fool would be out in weather like this?

The banners on buildings and neon letters in windows meant nothing to him; they were shapes his mind could not decipher. He found shelter beneath an awning and looked down at himself. A black jacket hung in reptilian folds around his slender chest. The matching pants, he noticed, had fallen to his ankles.

Pulling them up, he was unable to secure them in place with the belt. There were not enough notches to accommodate his thin waist. Frustrated, he ended up tying the belt in a knot to keep his pants from falling down.

Maybe there was something in his clothing that would help remind him of his identity, he thought suddenly. He began searching his person. But though they might once have contained useful material the waterlogged pockets were now empty. Whatever they had held had been lost to his struggle with the river. All that remained was something small and smooth in his right pocket that was too heavy to be easily swept away.

Pulling it out, he studied it intently. The amulet of metal wheels within wheels glinted in the dark orange of cloud-reflected light, its short chain sliding from his pocket as he held it aloft. The markings around its rim made no more sense or evoked no more memory than the street signs of the rain-drenched city gave direction. But it was in his pocket, so it must be worth keeping. He shoved it back into the crease and returned his attention to the river.

Did it never stop raining in this place, wherever it was? Was it raining harder upstream or down? Perhaps he could hike out of it.

Walking got his muscles working and warmed him slightly. Trying to keep under cover as much as possible he started upriver, pieces of debris sliding downstream in the opposite direction. Though he encountered various objects on their way to a distant and unseen sea he was unable to identify any of them. His ignorance, his lack of recognition, was total.

He passed more buildings, more signs. Why couldn’t he interpret their meaning? Was he unable to read? At his age, he ought to be able to do that. And what age, he inquired of himself, might that be?

Pausing, he gazed into a shopfront window and studied his face intently and with satisfaction, though he wondered if his baldness indicated an illness. Staring back was a very wet boy clad in drooping, drenched, unaccountably oversized clothes.

I’m about fourteen, he told himself. Maybe fifteen. So at least that was settled. But who am I?

No doubt as time passed and he recovered his senses, memories would return. One thing that did return abruptly and with a vengeance was a gnawing hunger. Surviving in the river, swimming to shore, and hauling himself out had burned his energy reserves. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of . . . of . . . Or a bite of . . .

He shook his head, sending droplets flying. He couldn’t even remember the names of food.

He followed the walkway that paralleled the river because it was the only path he had. Beyond beckoned buildings clustered tightly together. Lights shone from within only a very few. It was late and people were absent from the office buildings or they were home sleeping. Sleep—he recognized that term too. It was something else he needed, but not as much as he needed food and his identity.

He acquired the first by breaking into a small riverfront stall. Mounted on wheels, the portable booth was too modest to have an alarm. As he tore open small packages of processed food and devoured their contents hungrily he tried, and failed, to interpret the names on the labels. The best he could do was distinguish them according to colors. There was white food, and green food, and best of all, brown food. The bottles that provided cool clean liquid to drink also came in colors. Again, he favored the brown.

Stuffing packages into the pockets of his oversized black jacket he resumed his trek upriver, leaving the raided stall behind. As it turned out it was a good thing he had eaten well.

Directly in front of him was a flashing, flickering conflict, a battle bizarre and incomprehensible raging in full fury before his eyes.

A dozen or so individuals ranging from slightly younger than himself up to their late teens ranged around a writhing monstrosity. The peculiarly high-collared long black and brown coats they wore were adorned with a variety of metal tags and clips. Gaping at them, he was unable to identify the material. It looked like leather, it might have been plastic, but for all he knew it could have been woven wrought iron.

The weapons they wielded were no more recognizable. None was larger than a typical pistol, though they were anything but typical in appearance. Handgrips and triggers he recognized somehow. Beyond those familiar fittings the various assemblages of dials, readouts, cones and antennae might as well have been garnered piecemeal from some obscure electronics clearance.

Several of the weapons fired explosive shells or tent-sized nets of razor wire. Others laid down streams of focused flame or beams of coherent light. One appeared to do nothing more than distort the air in front of its muzzle.

Every bit of this exotic ordnance was being brought to bear on a two-story tall mass of writhing tentacular gelatin. Within the semi-transparent shell of quivering protoplasm he could discern several eyes and at least one, possibly two fanged maws. All drifted about like berries in aspic, occasionally rising near the surface, sometimes retreating for safety deeper into the molded slime of which they were a part.

Each time a shot from one of the darting, dodging youths harrying it struck home, the creature let out an unearthly reverberant howl that sounded like a pack of monstrous hounds baying in the distance.

The entire shocking tableaux was being played out in the center of the river, in the pouring rain, as if the water beneath the combatants was as solid and stable as the pavement on which he was standing.

Absorbed in this infernal curiosity, the amnesiac boy in baggy clothes momentarily forgot his own travails, forgot the ache and anxiety that filled him, forgot that he had forgotten.

Annihilating light and bone-shaking sound clashed in the center of the river, no doubt interpreted by those who might overhear it as lightning and thunder. Though burst after burst from their weapons struck home, the attackers’ weapons were having little effect on the gelatinous life form in their midst.

As he looked on, a pair of its pulpy tentacles snatched up a teen too slow to dodge and ripped him in half without fanfare or hesitation. For an instant the boy’s final despairing cry rose above the rain and the clash of battle. Then it was gone, whipped away by the storm even before the torn halves of his body were flung away to sink into the water.

Grim-faced, his equally youthful comrades redoubled their assault.

Their intent was clear. Throughout the course of the fight it was evident that the creature was struggling to leave the river and move to dry land. Clustering the bulk of their forces before it, they strove with increasing fire to block the monster’s approach and herd it toward the youth whose weapon appeared to shimmer the air. Clearly, preventing the creature from reaching the shore was all-important.

The young spectator in soggy oversized attire unexpectedly found himself rooting for them to succeed. Especially as it was his side of the river the seemingly invulnerable creature was lurching toward.

For the first time since he had taken notice of the otherworldly confrontation and stopped to watch, one of the frantic combatants took notice of him.

“Run!” Looking back over her shoulder, the girl shouted over her high collar. “Get out of there, kid!”

He might have complied, except not knowing where he was, he could think of no safe place to flee. So he continued to stand on the shore in the rain, paralyzed more by indecision than by fear, while the lethal syrupy tentacles and exotic gunfire that ranged and roared in front of him continued to edge closer and closer.

As he continued to gawk in fascination he wondered how they were supporting themselves on water. Though he was no weapons master (was he?) he doubted seeing anything like the diverse devices that were being wielded against the swaying, amorphous life form. For all their range and variety, however, they appeared to be doing little more than irritating their target.

As he looked on, the creature’s massive upper body swung toward him like a falling crane. Seeking further deadly contact with its agile tormentors, the creature’s tentacles flailed wildly in all directions. As the thick glutinous mass smashed into the river, several of its youthful assailants were sent spinning and tumbling to land on the water nearby.

Not in, but on.

Scrambling to their feet atop the rippling waters, they resumed firing as soon as they could reposition their weapons.

Uncertain as to whether what he was witnessing was real or a product of a waterlogged brain, an icy splash from the river energized him in a way the continuous drizzle had not. Wiping the film from his eyes, he jacked backwards as the creature suddenly lunged for dry land, a snout of teeth thrusting out to find purchase on the concrete sidewalk that hugged the Thames.

The apparition filled the boy’s view, and for a moment there was a relative quiet, punctuated only by a sickening wheeze as bubbles of white phlegm spurted from around where the creature’s baseteeth had dug in, inflating with every heave.

Then, as tentacles the size of tree trunks curled around lampposts along the riverfront and drew taut, it was clear the monster that had so drawn the attention of the youthful militia was only the head of a much larger creature that was now emerging from its watery crib.

As its beak gored hungrily at the flagstones to adjust its hold, the vague shape of a ponderous orb rolled from within the cavernous barn of a body to burst through the slimy dermis right in front of the sodden youth’s face.

He stared at it. The two-meter wide eye stared back, then narrowed, the lines in its iris opening like a lotus to reveal a disc of serrated fangs that abruptly snapped forward on a long stalk.

No time to run. No time for thought. One second from death.

His reaction took only half that time.

A distant spectator as his body drew on some deep reflex, his vocal cords contorted in a manner that would have astounded a laryngeal specialist, as he dropped smoothly into a low crouch with one fist clenched and the other palm up.

A single perfectly modulated sound escaped his throat. He had never heard it before and could not recall it later.

Part word, part song, it teetered on the edge of audibility; precise, beautiful, devastating.

The consequences were profound.

The monster froze like shocked jelly, its tentacles spastic against the death rattle that blew through the semi-fluid body. Eyeteeth and beak froze in a roar that never came. Then every atom of its being exploded.

Fine tendrils and tiny blobs of pale green protoplasm erupted high into the night, fanning away from the boy whose whisper was sharper than any weapon forged by man. The bulk of the creature still concealed in the water swayed and toppled backward to begin a slow, unseen slide to the English Channel.

WHILE THE RAIN WASHED alien goo from their clothes, the youths who had failed to bring the monster down slung weapons beneath their coat flaps and called in their injuries by routine. Save for the one who had been halved, there was no damage the rest couldn’t walk away from. This established, all turned quickly to the odd and faintly absurd figure standing alone on the riverside.

Strolling across the water, the half dozen survivors gathered in a semi-circle around him, bands around their ankles supporting them silently an inch above the ground on cushions of manipulated air.

The tallest, a lean but strongly built young man whose skin was nearly as dark as the night, cocked his head slightly sideways as he studied the much smaller and younger figure before him. Somewhat incongruously, the jacketed inspector sported speed stripes in his clippered hair and a suave pencil-thin mustache.

“My name’s Lion, little man.” He jerked a finger back in the direction of the river. “How did you do that?”

The smaller boy pushed out his lower lip and shrugged pensively, still processing what he had done. The lethal blast had not come from one of the hand cannons the others wielded. It had come from his own mouth. He may not have known who he was, but he knew enough to know that what he had just done wasn’t normal.

“I . . . don’t . . . know,” he volunteered at last, searching for words that were safe, unsure what might launch from his throat next. Seeing no effect, he relaxed a little. “Maybe . . . maybe . . . it was a delayed reaction to what you fired into it?” He wasn’t convincing himself, so he doubted there was any way his hesitant words would convince the others.

“No, mate,” another older boy countered, also dark skinned. “You went all Merlin on it. I seen you with me own mince pies. You know what that thing was?”

“Selagote,” replied the kid matter-of-factly. The word surprised him as much as it provoked animated discussion among the fighters, and he scowled at the frustration of not knowing how he knew. When Lion raised a hand and the others quieted, it immediately identified him as the leader.

“We call that one a Kraken, because we don’t have real names for them. Just a bunch of types.” His gaze narrowed. “But you—you know its name. Are you from one of the other Longcoat cells?”

The younger boy struggled to remember. He cajoled his own mind, did everything but hit himself in the head. When he spoke again the anguish in his voice all but overwhelmed the confusion.

“Longcoats—what? No, I don’t know. I woke up underwater, swam ashore, found some food, and came across all of you fighting the selagote.”

Even through the dimming downpour, the coated girl who stepped forward flashed a bruised beauty. Her shoulder pad was blue. Sniffers wore blue, their technology designed to track and reveal what could not be seen with normal sight.

Her visor display winked out and retracted under her hood, revealing dripping ringlets of dark brown hair and a mauve burn that snaked downward from her left eye to disappear into her neckline. A metaphorical blowtorch had also burned away the softer aspects of Jax’s personality and roughed them up to match her hardened visage. She had no time for small talk as she addressed the group in her brogue French accent.

“Guys, it speaks like us, but its brain is fragged like everything else that tumbles through the seams. This is no Longcoat. What it was able to do just now, and knowing the name of a creature no civvies ever heard of, it can only mean one thing.”

She stepped forward and pressed metal to the boy’s throat as she began to pat down his pockets. “It’s obvious this one came through, too. We send it back.”

A thickly muscled arm attached to a crimson epaulette and an equally massive body pushed Jax’s arm down.

“That’s right, babushka, blow to hell everything you don’t understand. Come on, give me Rosen’s toys.”

Jax handed over her weapon and several other pieces of equipment to the Russian. So did the others, wrestling the more unwieldy hip cannons together with their mounting belts over to the moose of a young man.

As soon as the handover was complete he pressed a button on his chest and his red shoulder pad winked green. He was the Toymaster now, custodian of the team’s gear since Rosen was gone. Without ever taking his eyes off the young stranger he dropped the items into a flat pocket of his sleeveless coat. One by one they disappeared into the fold of fabric as if they were weightless and devoid of mass.

“They call me Hummer.” He jabbed a thumb at his sternum. “Built like American truck.” By way of illustration the young Russian gunned an enormous shirtless arm. “The nice French lady want to blow you to next dimension. So you tell me, buckaroo, you are human, da?” He prodded an apish finger into the boy’s chest, testing the flesh. It struck like a small hammer.

Wet and shivering, the boy stammered a reply. “Y-y-yes, I’m human. N-n-no, I don’t know my n-n-name or what just happened. Yes, I’m cold, thanks for asking. Good luck with whatever this is all about, but I’m not staying.”

With that the strange youth turned and, hands thrust into soggy pockets, started walking briskly away. His fingers curled tightly around the now cold metal he found in one crease, the only familiar thing in his brief store of moments.

The others exchanged glances. One paused to spray-paint a circle and stylized ‘LC’ on the pavement, an indicator to others of their kind that the site was a weak seam to be cautious of, then broke into a jog to keep pace with those following the boy, their feet now on the ground instead of floating above it, rings retracted behind their heels. They surrounded the boy but didn’t get in the way of his stride.

Much smaller than Lion and with hands in constant motion, the other dark-skinned boy spoke up. His blue collar identified him as a Sniffer, like Jax.

“Here, moosh. Wot you know about divergent harmonics, mate? Because that’s wot you just made.”

“Nothing.” The stranger in their midst spoke honestly and helplessly. “Everything.” Stopping, he put his hands over his eyes and pressed hard. “I don’t know.”

“Leave him be, Vector.” Another girl, this one a short-haired blonde with war paint sprayed across both eyes, who wore a red strip that designated her a Bouncer. Like Hummer, she was team muscle. Reaching out, she put a hand on Lion’s arm. “Whoever he is, he’s suffering, Lion.”

The team leader sniffed, wiped rain from his nose. “We’ve all suffered, Tucker.” He turned briefly to stare at the flowing Thames and lowered his head. “First order of business: a time-out for poor Rosen.”

All heads dropped in honor of their fallen comrade. They knocked knuckles together to break the moment, not given to extended remorse.

“Well”, declared the dark-haired Jax, returning to the matter at hand, “he says he can’t remember his name or his home. Crazy Ivan here wants to keep him as a pet. So . . .” She eyed her companions. “What’ll we call him?”

“How about ‘Shrek’?” cooed Castle, who among the group came the nearest to qualifying as scrawny. He jutted a finger at the green slime that still coated the boy’s face despite the cleansing efforts of the steady rain.

Tucker shook her head. “No, ‘Tramp’ fits him better. Look at those clothes.”

Lion gazed down at the baggy stranger. “Is that a tuxedo you’re wearing? Who’d you mug? With that fit it’s clearly not your clobber.”

“I’m telling you, he came through the same seam as the Kraken—the selagote,” Jax insisted, trying on the new word for the creature. Stepping forward, she commenced a professional pat down of the nameless visitor. Flinching, he eyed her uncertainly.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking to see if you’ve got a Holepunch on you or if you’re just an aimless wanderer. We get those sometimes.” Encountering a piece of metal in one pocket, she started to remove it. He immediately clapped his right hand over the pocket and drew back. Jax raised her hands and straightened.

“Whoa, easy there, no-name! Just checking for vile.” She looked over at the group’s leader. “Whatever I felt, it’s not badness. He’s clean.”

Lion nodded sagely. “Still remains the matter of whether he’s from our side or an Inter-D. Given he speaks English, I’m thinking he’s probably one of ours.” He then looked thoughtful. For the first time that night a smile creased his face. “Given the seam has closed and we can’t leave him here, he’d better come with us. And he needs a name that’s better than ‘Shrek’ or ‘Hey You’, right? We’ll call him ‘Eastwood’. The Boy with No Name. That all right with you, kid?”

Eastwood.

Searching his mind, the freshly christened subject wondered why the coat-clad fighters were smirking. No matter. He would be Eastwood.

Vector nodded sympathetically in the shivering boy’s direction. “Tucker’s right. He needs some dry gear.”

“That,” the newly clept Eastwood agreed, “would be really nice.”

Jax was eyeing him cautiously. “Let’s get going. We’ll find out who you are. Just as we’ll find out your other secrets.” Her tone darkened. “Watch your step, copain.”

“Monarch will know what to do with him back at the Chimney. Coats down, let’s roll,” said Lion.

As the group followed their leader, Eastwood’s mind was racing with questions. “What’s a ‘seam’?”

Vector spoke up, folding his collar and pressing a stud that shortened his coat into a sports jacket. “Seams are portals wot join Earth Prime—our Earth—and the other ones. Different dimensions an’ all that. But if you’re from one of ‘em, you already know this stuff.” He shook his head. “And I never seen anyone do wot you just did, mate. I know words can cut sometimes, but bleedin’ heck!”

Eastwood shook his head, frustrated. Indeed, how had he done that? Crossing a footbridge next to rails over the river, he cast a baleful glance at the water below, one of the few people in London who knew what lurked below the waves.

“That thing was from a different Earth? That’s impossible.”

“Da, impossible,” Hummer agreed pleasantly. “And yet, here we are. More creatures every week, and now you with your voice. Impossible would be nice, yes?” He suppressed a chuckle. “There is old Russian proverb: when you take away the improbable what is left, even if it fantastic, must be truth.”

“That was Sherlock Holmes, you git,” chimed Vector.

“Yes—based on old Russian wisdom.” Hummer flashed a challenging smile.

“So the people in this place are all fighting monsters from other worlds? Where is it I’ve woken up?” asked Eastwood.

Castle, on his right, called forward. “Lion?”

“May as well,” came the reply. “We can always wipe him later.”

Castle nodded, gathering his words.

“People go about their business. They think the world is safe. They think our world is the only one, and look to the stars for signs of new life. I don’t know all the tech, but we’re told several Earths exist around each other, clinging to the same real estate but kept separate in different dimensions . . .”

“Because of harmonics,” put in Vector. “Different vibrations and wavelengths and all that. A multiverse.”

“. . . right,” continued Castle. “And usually they’re kept apart, not bumping into each other. Only, the Earth is on a schedule with,” he chose his words carefully now, “. . . with what you might call its destiny?” He glanced at Hummer and Vector, who both nodded their agreement.

Vector picked up.

“They say we’re flying through space at, wot, ‘alf a million miles an hour? And the whole solar system’s about to fly through a line of scrimmage . . .”

“A line of judgment,” Hummer corrected.

“Yeah, judgment, right. But if we’re judged the wrong way, it’ll be scrimmage, a real turf war for the planet. At least that’s what they say, them Cassandrans.”

Eastwood cocked an eyebrow. “Cassandrans? They’re the judges?”

“No, the judging is done by the Builders.” He paused, looking at the others who shook their heads in response. “Actually, that’s a long story for another time. No, the Cassandrans, they’re our benefactors.”

Castle spread his hands wide. “It’s the Cassandra Foundation that funds our little show. They’re like a research institute; part museum, part science lab. Run by a lady actually named Cassandra. They know stuff. And when each of us had nowhere else to go, their people found us around the city, gave us a home, warm food, these tricked-out clothes, and trained us for a purpose.”

“What’s the purpose?” asked Eastwood.

“Save the planet.” Castle’s matter-of-fact response left no doubt he was genuine.

Vector put an arm around Eastwood’s shoulder and pointed at the amber squares in buildings they passed in the night.

“Check it out, mate. People get up, go to work or school every day, and ‘ave no idea wot’s really going on right under their noses. Talk to anyone and they’ll all say they think there’s summink coming, summink important is on its way. But no one can tell you wot it is. Like they all feel the ripples but can’t see the splash.”

“And that monster is a splash?”

“Yeah, but that nastie was just one in an ocean full. The things that keep the dimensions apart . . .”

“Membranes,” offered Castle.

“Right, the ‘branes wot keep things in their place,” Vector continued, “they’re stretched real thin at the best o’ times. And now, as we get closer . . .” He nodded skyward. “The membranes are startin’ to rip, and things come spilling through.”

“Splash,” concluded Eastwood, understanding.

The Russian took up the refrain again. “I was found in orphanage, like your Frenchie friend up front with Lion. Vector here was, how you say—picking pocket?”

“Yeah, a right little Artful Dodger I was. But wot’s a kid to do on the streets? The point is, the Foundation picked us up, dusted us off, and gave us a nudge in the right direction. Recruited us. Out there the governments, the suits and the soldiers run the normal world as far as anyone knows. Then there’s us, the glue between the cracks. Teams of us all over the world.”

Eastwood’s mind was spinning with new information. Or was it the cold? He was really shivering now. “You c-c-an’t keep this secret. People must see you—see those creatures all the time. Is that why there’s nobody on the streets—they’re all in hi-hiding?” He looked around at the windswept road as they left the bridge behind.

“No mate. It’s London, near midnight on a Tuesday, and the weather is shite,” laughed Vector. “Ain’t nobody in their right mind out in this but us.”

A lone mo-ped zoomed out of a side street and disappeared around another corner toward a ring of red flashing lights that silhouetted the London Eye against the dark.

“Us and that geezer,” the dusky youth corrected. “The thing is, you shouldn’t have been able to see us fighting Mr. Blobby back there. Not while our Longcoats are charged.”

He fingered a metal tab hanging from his right sleeve. “As for the creature, it hadn’t fully phased into our dimension yet. Sniffers like me and Jax spot ‘em using our gear. But you saw it clear as day. Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Eastwood muttered. “And I saw you all walking on top of the river. That’s not n-normal either.” He shook involuntarily.

Vector lifted his coat flap away from his feet to expose a metal ring mounted around both ankles. “Mercury Boots. Bladeless fans; air goes down, you goes up.”

The buildings were denser now they were across the river, and the immense curved roof of Waterloo Station loomed before them, Big Ben faintly visible to the right.

Tucker eyed Eastwood’s dripping, comical shape up and down.

“S’truth, the little bugger’s frozen through. Let’s get him downstairs.”