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hope. If there were others, she could take safety among them. They would help protect her and

the baby.

“Hello?” she called into the shadowy lobby. No one answered.

On tables and in transparent cases, strange contraptions were on display, spindles and

pulleys, specialized industrial stitching devices and models used by homemakers from days

past. One battery-powered demonstration unit slowly bobbed up and down, pumping its

needle endlessly through a patch of cloth like a mechanical mosquito.

“Hello?” She crept around behind a desk where an attendant would have waited fruitlessly

for paying visitors who never came. She found a small file room, a broom closet, a cold

coffeepot and a packet of stale crackers, which she wolfed down, but no hidden passage that

led to the underground vault. Of course, if this secret had endured undetected for centuries,

the door or hatch would be well hidden. She wandered back out to the display room, at a loss

for what to do next.

The baby was restless in her arms, and she felt a thrumming inside her skull. Another

Porgrave signal was coming from here, a pinpointing beacon like the one transmitted from

inside the archives vault. The infant could not speak, could not direct her, but she could sense

things through him. Anthea was not entirely on her own.

The vibrations seemed strongest in the main museum room, surreptitious scanners or

detectors that no human would notice. She continued to search, tapping on walls, looking for

hidden doors. She walked from one old sewing machine to the next, from the bulky and

old-fashioned to the sleek and modern.

Anthea felt drawn again to the battery-powered demonstration model that continued

pumping its needle up and down. When she touched it with her outstretched hand, she felt a

thrill of
rightness
about this machine. The baby’s tendrils waved in the air, and the beckoning

signal grew stronger. She heard a click, as sensors detected the baby, accepted him.

The sewing machine stopped, and Anthea froze as well. Then she heard a whirring release,

and the display stand moved slightly. She stepped back, fumbled around, and realized that the

whole podium rested on a clever pivot. When she pushed it, the stand slid easily on lubricated

tracks to expose a hatch in the floor—the entrance!

As she bent down with the baby, a metal covering whisked back to reveal a ladder leading

down into a narrow chamber. Weak-kneed with relief, Anthea wrapped one arm around the

baby and painstakingly made her way down seven rungs until she found herself in a small

metal-walled room. She could make out no doors or hatches. A dead end.

Overhead, the covering slid back into place, sealing her inside. With a whirring noise, the

sewing machine display case pivoted back into its normal position. She held the baby against

her; this felt like a trap.

Anthea could find no controls, no windows, no posted instructions. “Well, now what?” she

asked, a rhetorical question.

Then the whole room fell into a stomach-lurching plunge. Cables hummed and the walls

vibrated as the elevator shot downward. In her arms the baby cooed and gurgled happily,

sensing no danger.

Because the machinery still worked, because of the well-maintained sewing machine

museum overhead, she was sure they’d find another population of slans inside the

underground base. She would ask them for help. She could be at home among the other

refugees, who would protect her.

When the elevator finally stopped, one wall whisked aside to reveal a huge, warm, and

well-lit cavern. Anthea formed her most welcoming smile and stepped out, carrying the infant

and expecting to be greeted by a group of slans, people who would help her, protect her baby,

and explain everything to her.

Instead, she found only skeletons.

«
^
»

As the angry mob grabbed for him in the wreckage of the palace, Jommy was precariously

caught in the vault door gap. He had dropped the disintegrator, and now hands clutched at

him, seizing his arms, his hair. He tried to let himself drop back down into the chamber, but

somebody grabbed his collar, dragging him back up.

If he struggled too much, Jommy feared he might jar loose the tracking device wired up to

the door mechanism, and then the thick pistons would release the heavy door. Or, the whole

armored chamber might collapse into the unstable rubble. As a trick, he went limp, forcing the

scavengers to drag him out; they would underestimate him, believe he was weak. As soon as he

was free, though, he flew into a frenzy.

Jommy punched the nearest man with strength that surprised his attackers, knocking him

back head over heels. Then he flung two more far away as they threw themselves on him. Like

a pair of rag dolls, they tumbled into the rubble, smashing into the jagged stones. One slipped

and fell into a wide gap, dropping deep into the unseen lower levels; a rumble of a cave-in

accompanied his fall, cutting off his screams.

The murderous scavengers circled, wary now. “Dirty slan!”

“Careful, he might fry your brain.”

“You didn’t have a brain to start with, Jerome.”

One scrawny man who wore several layers of mismatched clothing was much more

interested in the vault Jommy had been investigating. Ducking away from the fight, the

scrawny man shouted, “Looks like a treasure room! I bet he was hiding something in there.

Slan treasure.” He started to crawl headfirst into the vault.

Jommy fought each attacker that came at him, but more and more people swarmed over

the rubble, at least a hundred, all of them carrying makeshift clubs and pipes; a few had

firearms, but they did not shoot. Jommy could tell they wanted to tear him apart with their

bare hands.

When a man jumped on his shoulders, Jommy clawed to get the attacker away. A

red-haired man sprang at him as well, but Jommy spun, knocking him with the other

attacker’s thrashing feet. Pinwheeling his arms, the redhead stumbled against the door controls

and knocked loose the device that powered the unlocking mechanism.

The scrawny treasure hunter had crawled halfway through the gap, peering into the

darkness of the chamber. When several tons of vault door dropped shut on him like a

mammoth guillotine blade, he made a sound more like a cough than a scream. On the outside,

separated from the rest of his body, his legs kept twitching.

Several of the scavengers stepped back with expressions of queasy disgust. Two men began

to laugh like hyenas at their comrade’s misfortune.

Jommy slugged an oncoming attacker in the chin with enough force that he heard both the

man’s jaw and his neck snap. Then he snatched up chunks of rock at his feet and began to

throw them like cannonballs, smashing several more scavengers in the face. But still they kept

coming, swinging their clubs, closing in.

Jommy couldn’t possibly fight them all. A heavy pipe smashed down on his left arm,

numbing it from the elbow down, and another caught him a glancing blow on the temple. He

reeled, but kept fighting.

A square-shouldered man with a scabbed cut on his left cheek drew a long knife and came

at the stunned slan. Jommy threw another sharp-edged chunk of rubble at the knife-wielder,

but his aim was off and the burly man ducked to one side. Jommy held up both fists, ready to

fight, barely keeping his feet on the shifting ground.

The knife-wielder was apparently the leader of the mob, judging from the way he barked

orders and how the others deferred to him. The rest of the mob backed away to let the leader

have his chance. He slashed designs in the air with his dagger, taunting Jommy. The scavengers

hooted and chuckled roughly, enjoying the show, while more vermin streamed over the ruins

of the palace, coming from side streets. While Jommy defended himself from the dancing

blade, more attackers seized his arms—far too many for him to throw off. The leader with the

knife just smiled, letting the others do the work for him.

One of the scavengers swung a wooden club that struck Jommy squarely in the forehead.

The blow would have killed a normal human, but even Jommy’s slan strength was not enough.

His legs went limp, and he fought to remain conscious. The men surrounding him laughed,

grabbing his arms and holding him.

“What shall we do with him, Deacon?”

“Hey! I’ve got an idea! Let’s break him into little pieces, just like he chopped Thompkins in

half.” The scavengers glared at the partial body severed by the falling vault door. The detached

legs continued to jitter, as if impatient to be on their way. The redheaded man squatted beside

the lower half of the bloody torso, clearly wondering what might be inside the vault, but

unable to open the door.

Deacon, the knife-wielder, was unimpressed. “If he’d been busy fighting alongside us, he

wouldn’t be in two pieces now. Thompkins got what he deserved.” He tapped the dagger tip

against his cheek as he considered possibilities. Jommy then noticed the leader wore a

gruesome necklace from which hung several discolored and shriveled strips of flesh. They were

unmistakable.
Slan tendrils
—as trophies!

Still struggling weakly, Jommy cursed his stupidity. He should have been watching more

closely, aware of other dangers. He’d been so excited to find the disintegrator at last, and the

thick vault walls had shielded him from outside thoughts and senses. He’d forgotten about the

human mob mentality.

“Shall we take turns killing him?” said one heavy browed young man. His voice was eager

and high-pitched.

“We can only kill him once, Jerome. Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh. I meant kill him partway, lots of times.”

Deacon fingered the blade. “As long as I get to keep the tendrils.” He stroked the disgusting

strands at his neck. “I hate slans as much as the next man, but I do like my collection.” Jommy

could barely focus on the man who paced around him, toying with his knife, drawing out the

moment. “As much as I’d enjoy torturing this snake for the next week or so, there’s too much

loot to be had. So let’s get on with it.”

Jommy found a surge of energy, fought furiously, and threw off two of his captors. Then

someone pummeled him again with the thick, wooden pole. He staggered, barely able to think

straight. The pain rang in his ears.

“Knock him down and turn him over, then hold him real still.” He stroked the discolored

tendrils on his necklace. “I don’t want to get ragged ends.”

The men did as they were instructed. Jommy barely remained conscious. “I’m not your

enemy,” he croaked. “You don’t need to hurt me.”

The scavengers snickered and guffawed. “Oh sure, slans aren’t our enemies. The whole

city’s blown up around us, but that was a slan gesture of friendship, wasn’t it?”

Deacon bent over with his long knife, whispering in his ear. “You slans think you’re

superior to us because of your tendrils. They give you some kind of super mind powers.

Doesn’t seem fair to me. I think you should feel like one of us mere mortals for a few minutes

before you die.” Deacon yanked Jommy’s thin golden tendrils, pulling them straight.

A sudden icy fear plunged down Jommy’s back. “No, don’t!” With heroic strength he

nearly knocked aside the four men holding his shoulders.

Deacon made a quick slash. The knife blade cut swiftly, severing the tendrils in a single

sweep.

Jommy felt an indescribable blaze as if a lightning strike had gone off in his mind. The pain

was incredible. He felt suddenly blind. Deafness roared in his ears and in his thoughts, but he

could still hear laughter echoing in the background. He heard a low moaning sound that

warbled higher, then lower, and he realized that it was his own voice expressing his agony. He

couldn’t move, couldn’t fight any longer. He felt utterly helpless.

Deacon stood up with an evil grin, holding his hand high. In a clenched fist, he held

twitching fleshy tendrils. Tiny droplets of blood oozed out of the amputated ends. He waggled

them in front of Jommy’s glazed eyes.

Jommy groaned, seeing only red confusion. Deacon and his gang could easily kill him now.

He couldn’t find the will inside of himself to resist.