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She knew things.

The elevator bell rang. She waited for the doors to open then stepped inside. It was empty except for the drone of musak and the holoback display. It must have been a shock, she mused, for the first person who stepped into one of these new elevators and found the entire back wall alive—a pseudo-holographic display that seemed to stretch back as far as the eye could see, as though the elevator was a doorway looking out on a silent woodland glade. She could see the wind moving through the trees, a deer grazing in a distant clearing. She wondered how many drunks had banged their heads trying to walk into the forest only to find a solid holoframe projector. And wasn't it a design flaw placing the display on the back wall? People always faced the doors.

She pressed the button for the lobby and watched the numbered lights descend. Behind her, something moved.

It ran along the forest floor, smoking and spitting, sending flames shooting up into the trees, running along their branches, charring the wood and curling their leaves.

Fire; swift, destructive and silent, the wind whipping it from tree to tree, branches cracking, flaming brands falling on tinder-dry underbrush. An advancing line of fire surging across the ground like an incoming tide.

The musak played on, random riffs rising above the fire and smoke and the silent screams of the woodland fauna as they scurried for their holographic lives.

Suzi Martinez watched the eighth floor flash by, oblivious to the predatory tongue of virtual flame that flicked up and down her back.

By the sixth floor there was no woodland left. A black pall of death had descended. Smouldering trunks pointed skyward like charcoal fingers from a blackened palm. And the fire? Starved of fuel, the fire had spread underground, racing through the leaf mould, seeping through the layers of peat.

Searching . . .

The elevator slowed at the third floor as the deceleration program kicked in. Suzi felt the sudden pressure on the soles of her feet. Behind and below her, something moved—pushing out from beneath the forest floor into the metal structure at the base of the elevator. Fingers of cold flame tugged at the panels, explored the crevices, caressed the struts; and slid through—upwards—into the elevator floor. A tongue of flame curled around the heel of Suzi's left shoe, burnishing the soft shiny leather, caressing, waiting . . .

Two floors to go.

She didn't have time to scream. Or the oxygen to sustain it. A pillar of flame burst out from the floor with such speed that she was consumed within the flickering of a second. Her life extinguished in one hungry searing instant.

Behind what was left of her, the hologram forest awoke to a new cycle of life. Green shoots pushed through the forest floor, dancing into the daylight, their leaves unfurling. By the first floor young saplings towered above a dense underwood of shrub and fern. By the time the lift stopped, the forest floor was dappled beneath a canopy of mature oak and beech. Only the smouldering black corpse propped up against the elevator doors looked out of place.

Louise bit into the thick piece of toast and felt the hot butter run down her chin. Food. She'd forgotten how good it could taste . . . and feel . . . and smell. The tang of a mature cheddar, the gooey sensuality of a rich chocolate cake, the crunch of toast leading to that hot, yielding middle, the drool of melted butter. She could eat for the rest of the day.

"Lou," shouted Nick from the lounge. "I think you'd better come and see this."

Not yet, thought Louise, her eyes darting along the food shelves. Let me have one more minute of escapism. She threw a bag of peanuts onto the tray and a packet of biscuits—chocolate digestives. How could higher dimensional life forms exist without chocolate? Definitely an inferior species.

The two trays piled high with food, she took one in each hand and glided through into the lounge. Nick was staring at a holonews broadcast. Louise braced herself for the bad news.

"Another murder," he said. "Suzi Martinez, a campaign worker for John Bruce."

He let the newscast fill in the rest. Spontaneous combustion in an elevator, the police were calling it. The press took a more sensational line. Republicans under fire. Assassin strikes again. Second slaying in a week. John Bruce seconds away from death. Most of the media were convinced that Bruce had been the target; young Suzi had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If Bruce hadn't stopped off at the cloakroom it would have been him getting into that elevator not Suzi.

Not that that stopped the tabloids from covering their pages with pictures of Suzi. She was young after all, and pretty, and dead. A heady mix. Suzi Martinez smiled and pouted from every e-news page across the globe.

"It's got to be the missing alien," said Nick. "He's latched onto Bruce and is killing anyone who gets in his way."

He could see it all. The alien exhales its memory, becomes a blank canvas, and—like a baby chick—latches onto the first thing it sees—John Bruce. What could be more natural? He was drawn to Earth by the early SHIFT flights. He had to have seen John Bruce. And it all fitted. Who else would feel so protective of John Bruce? Who else would have the ability to kill so . . . bizarrely? Who else would feel so threatened?

Imprinting—it had to be the answer. And couple that with paranoia, a penchant for the bizarre, and the gradual discovery of his alien powers and you had a recipe for a one-man killing machine ready to protect its 'mother' from every threat—real or imaginary.

And he'd need to be part of John's team. Someone close. Part of his inner circle. Someone who saw John every day.

Louise stopped chewing. "Why would he kill a campaign worker?"

Nick shrugged. "Because she saw something she shouldn't? Or maybe to throw suspicion off Bruce. If our colonist friend plans to kill off every one of Bruce's rivals he's got to do something to make Bruce look innocent."

Louise cut herself a chunk of cheese. She was going to enjoy this meal. "Couldn't we talk about something else?" she said. "It would be nice to have five minutes without thinking about death."

"Shall I set my watch?"

"Only if it's slow. Aren't you hungry?"

She looked at his tray. He hadn't touched his food. His hand still clutched the HV remote. What was the matter with him? Didn't he want to relax? They'd just come back from a week in hell. If anyone deserved a break it was them.

He smiled, but not with his eyes. "Ten minutes," he said, then bit into a slice of toast and started flipping channels on the HV.

Louise tuned them out, let the world wait for me for a change. I'm busy.

Nick checked Bruce's itinerary again. There was time. If they moved fast. He glanced at Louise. She looked so happy, leaning back against the box, licking crumbs off her face.

"What?" she said. "Have I got chocolate all over my face?"

"No," he smiled. "You look perfect."

He looked away and quickly changed the subject. "John's in Florida today."

"Oh, yes," she said, reaching out and taking another biscuit.

"In Orlando. I've got his itinerary here if you want to take a look. Just the one engagement. I've memorised the map."

She put the biscuit down.

"You're not thinking of going there, are you? Today? We've only just got back."

"Which is why there isn't much time. Think about it. The colonist is on his way back to his people. How long's it going to take him to collect some friends and come back? Have you thought what's going to happen next?"

Nick had. He'd thought about little else since their return.

"He'll look for his friend," said Louise, narrowing her eyes.

"And how will he do that? The truth is, Lou, we have no idea what's going to happen when he returns. He might not even be allowed to return. Consensus might say 'no, we don't want to interfere, it's against our isolationist principles.' Or they might take several years to make up their minds. Or worse still, they turn up in force. Have you thought what might happen to the world if a couple of thousand colonists descend upon us?"

Louise looked worried. "Wouldn't they have sensors? Wouldn't they just locate their friend and leave?"

He threw up his hands. "You tell me," he said. "The truth is, we haven't a clue. They might do just as you said. Or they might conduct a mass interrogation. You saw what it was like up there. Do you want to trust your future to them? And what if our alien friend gets wind of their arrival and escapes . . . or hides. The colonists could be here for years."

"So, what's your plan?"

"Finish what we started. Get John Bruce back together."

"How does that help us with the colonists?"

"It doesn't," he said, sighing, "but it does get rid of one problem. And it might stop the killing. If you're right about John being at heart apolitical then maybe he'll drop out of the election and if he does, the alien will have no need to clear John's path for him. And if we don't act now, who knows when we'll get another chance? We might be trapped inside a Colonist interrogation chamber tomorrow."

Louise glanced towards the window. "It's too late to do anything today. It's afternoon. It'd be dark by the time we got to Florida. And how the hell do we get John away from Pendennis?"

"Florida's five hours behind—plenty of time to get there and back."

"And Pendennis?"

"I have a plan . . ."

"You had a plan last time. Hypnotise Peter. It didn't work."

"That's because I didn't take into account his other personalities. I realise that now. I have to hypnotise them all . . ."

She shook her head. "Won't work. Jack can't be hypnotised."

"Which is why I've come up with Plan B."

"What's Plan B?" she said, slitting her eyes.

He told her.

"No way!" she said, sitting up.

"But it'll work. I know it."

"You don't know anything of the kind. What . . ." She looked lost for words, lost for words and desperate. "What . . . what if Peter's the alien. He's powerful enough. And mad enough."

"You've changed your tune."

"And so've you. Last week you were convinced Peter was behind everything."

"That was last week. Look, Lou, what do we know about this alien? He's a scientist. A rule-bending, obsessed scientist with a streak of curiosity a mile thick and a love of the unusual. I know the type. I am the type. He's drawn to Earth by the early SHIFT mission and he sticks around. Hence the link to John Bruce. He's drawn to the man."

"Couldn't he be the man? Wouldn't that explain John's personality change? In which case we don't want to go within a million miles of John. Why don't we call the colonists now and get them to check?"

"We've been through this, Lou. And anyway, the alien's not John Bruce. Think about it. The alien's a body hopper. It's his MO. One person wouldn't be enough for him. He'd want to know what it's like to be everyone else."

"How can you know that? You're just projecting your own personality onto his."

"Maybe, but we know he body hops. Think about it. Bruce couldn't have killed that burglar or Karen, he'd have been seen leaving his hotel or boarding a plane. Presidential candidates get noticed especially when the press camp outside their doors. Far easier for the alien to disconnect from his host, cross the Atlantic out of body then search for a new host."

He could see it all. All the alien had on Nick was a name and address—the college—so he called there, asked to see Professor Stubbs and got referred to the Hall. When he arrived he surprised a burglar who, not unnaturally, made a run for it. The alien takes that as a sign of guilt, chases after him and kills him.

Louise interrupted Nick's monologue. "Why didn't he read the burglar's mind?"

"Maybe he did," said Nick. "But as we found out, the colonists don't always trust what they find. And this one's unstable and paranoid. So he kills the burglar convinced he's me. Then he thinks to himself, 'what if this Stubbs guy ain't working alone?'"

Louise raised her eyebrows. "The alien thinks with a New Jersey accent?"

Nick smiled back. "My alien does. Anyway, he comes up with a new plan—your plan. He cuts up the corpse and places body parts where they'll be found. Some at the college, some at my home. Covering all the bases. Anyone else in the Stubbs gang can't fail to see the warning. Mess with John Bruce and this'll be you."

"The Stubbs gang?"

"The meanest, orneriest gang west of the Pecos—wherever they are."

"So," said Louise, taking up the commentary. "Our alien disconnects and leaves one confused host wondering where the hell he is and where all the blood came from."

"Exactly. And let's hope he didn't bother to wear gloves. Not that I want the unfortunate host charged with murder but a bloody fingerprint not belonging to me or the victim would be a life saver."

"You think that's possible?" said Louise, brightening.

"I think it probable. I can't see our alien caring about putting on gloves. He's bound to have left traces. And then—back on story—off flies our alien only to find that the evil Professor Stubbs is not only alive but querying SHIFT again about Bruce's brain scans. So back he comes and during a search of my house he finds a name—yours—and panics."

"Why?"

"Because he's been inside John Bruce's mind. He sees the name Louise Callander on my fridge door and thinks, 'shit, Stubbs is delving into John's past.'"

"But why did he mistake Karen for me? If he's been in John's head he'd know we don't look anything like each other."

"He'd only know what you looked like as a schoolgirl. As John remembers you. He wouldn't know what you looked like now. And, anyway, he's paranoid and unstable, you could have had plastic surgery and a memory graft."

Louise looked down at her feet.

"It's equally possible he realised she wasn't you," said Nick, softening his voice. "And killed her because she couldn't tell him where you were. I don't think he needs much of a reason to kill."

She turned towards him, her eyes misted over. "You don't know if one word of what you've just said is true," she said, quietly. "You don't even know if the alien's still on the planet."