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Campbell’s voice cracked, full of betrayal. He shouted at Joanna. “You! You’re one of
them
!”

The vanguard ship swooped in and opened fire with a blaze of energy bolts, disintegrating

Captain Byron Campbell and his lifepod. Joanna caught her breath, but did not speak out. The

damage was done. The man was dead, the lifepod destroyed.

“I need to get down to the surface,” she said, cold and businesslike. “I have orders from the

Authority.” She watched the burning debris of the lifepod, chunks of glowing metal slowly

drifting apart. “I don’t require an escort, so long as you guarantee me clear passage to

Centropolis.”

The vanguard pilot transmitted a verification, and she plunged down toward the main cities

of Earth. In the turbulence of war she wasn’t sure how she could ever find Jommy Cross, but

she had an idea where to start looking. She and Jommy had already begun to make plans

during his last hours in Cimmerium, but now all those had fallen apart, thanks to the

impatient and brash violence of Jem Lorry.

She
had
to find him if she had any chance of stopping this disaster. She was sure Jommy

was the only one who could pull a solution out of the air.

With a sinking heart, Joanna cruised over the smoldering ruins. He was down there

somewhere, and she knew he must still be alive. Tendrilless ships criss-crossed the air, hunting

down any remaining resistance, though Centropolis looked sorely beaten. Rooftops had been

blown apart, anti-aircraft guns and defensive measures entirely removed from the equation.

Zooming in closer, she was dismayed—yet not entirely surprised—to discover that the

grand palace had been utterly leveled. Now, nothing remained of it.

Joanna set down her ship in the vicinity. This was where she would concentrate her search.

Amidst the continuing explosions and the chaos in the streets, no one gave a second glance to

her small craft. Angular invader ships still scattered occasional bombs to maintain the

heightened state of fear.

Joanna stepped out of her craft, brushing curly brown hair from her forehead. It had been

some time since she’d breathed the fresh air of Earth. Curls of smoke from burning buildings

rose into the sky, adding a sour, raw smell. She stood in the rubble and looked toward the

collapsed fragments and the burned-out zone.

Nothing could have survived that devastation.

In her heart she wanted to believe that Jommy had found a way out. But even if he had,

how could she link up with him? He wouldn’t know that she was searching for him, or that

she had come to Earth at all. How could she find out for sure?

As she stared around the obliterated palace, she had no idea where she should start to look.

«
^
»

“Not one step closer,” the old woman said. The barrel of the shotgun in her hands did not

waver. “You have a lot of nerve to come back here. Granny intends to protect her home.”

Jommy smiled at her, unintimidated by the weapon. “I believe it’s
my
home, Granny. I paid

for it.”

“My home!” She swung the shotgun around, pointing at all of them. Petty dove for cover

behind the car, while Gray stood next to his daughter, placing a protective hand on her

shoulder.

Through his tendrils Jommy sent questing thoughts, soothing emotions. During the four

years he had lived here with the old woman, he had done much work to alter her personality,

to smooth over the corruption in her twisted mind. He had changed her into some semblance

of a normal human being, but she had been through much recently—and he hadn’t been

around to reinforce his work. The old woman certainly didn’t know how to show

compassion—at least not naturally.

“Granny, is this any way to say hello?”

“I would prefer to say goodbye. Or better yet, rest in peace.”

Still smiling, Jommy was sure he could do this. No one in the world knew Granny and her

weaknesses better than he did. The greedy woman had manipulated him when he was just a

boy, coerced him into committing many crimes. But she had also saved him from killers like

Petty. He had owed her a debt of gratitude, though by any reasonable measure, he had already

paid her back a thousand times over.

“Well, for my part I’m glad to see you alive and healthy. After the tendrilless almost

destroyed this valley, I wasn’t sure just how you had recovered.”

The old woman cackled, still gripping the shotgun. “Oh, Granny’s good at surviving. Do

you have any idea how much misery you put her through? How much work it was to rebuild

this house?”

In all the time he had known the old woman, Granny had been allergic to physical labor.

He stepped closer until the shotgun barrel was only a few feet away, still pointed directly at his

chest. “And it looks like you did a fine job.”

“Damn right I did.” Four of her chickens strutted around the yard in front of them. One

scuttled under the big car. “I went through a lot of hard times because of you, Jommy Cross.”

Maintaining her huffy act, she glared at Kier Gray and Kathleen. “And if one slan wasn’t

enough to cause me misery, who are all these people? Are they slans, too?”

Petty barely poked his head up from behind the car. One of the chickens pecked at his

ankle, and he cried out in pain, kicking at the bird. Feathers flew as it ran squawking toward

Granny.

Jommy extended a hand behind him; Kathleen came forward and took it. “This is Kathleen

Layton. She’s the love of my life.” The young woman blushed.

Granny grew misty eyed for just a moment, then forced her wrinkled face into a scowl.

“How sweet. And what about the other two? And you better impress me. Otherwise, why

should I keep you here on my property? Granny’s got enough shotgun shells for all of you.”

“That man cowering behind the car is the great slan hunter, John Petty, chief of the secret

police.”

Granny grinned with her papery lips. “Oh, Mr. Petty! I’ve admired your work.”

The slan hunter blinked at her, then stood to his full height. Ashes and soot from the car

smeared his chest, cheeks, and jacket.

“And this is Kier Gray, the President of Earth,” Jommy said. “Is that impressive enough for

you?”

Cradling the gun in the crook of one arm, Granny fumbled in a pocket of her apron and

withdrew a ten credit note, flapping it to unfold the paper. She held it up with her bony

fingers, stared at the portrait on the money, comparing it with Gray. “Yes, that’s him all right.

You haven’t aged a bit, Mr. Gray.”

The President couldn’t shake Granny’s hand because she was gripping the shotgun too

tightly. Jommy could tell the old woman was relaxing, but she wanted to maintain her

semblance of power for as long as possible. It was Granny’s way.

“From what the wireless says, he’s not President of much anymore. I wasn’t surprised to

hear about those evil slans attacking. I always knew there were thousands of them just waiting

to come after decent, law-abiding humans.”

“They aren’t slans, Granny. They’re a different breed—”

“They’re all slans to Granny! And I wouldn’t be surprised for a second to find out that you

and all your ilk were behind this.”

Kathleen looked indignant. “We most certainly aren’t! We’ve been hunted down. The

grand palace is destroyed.”

“Don’t excite yourself, Missy. This is a peaceful valley, and I intend to keep it that

way—through force of arms if necessary.” She looked down at the shotgun, then finally rested

the stock on the porch beside her. “And having you folk here increases Granny’s danger. Who

knows how many people are after you? Could be angry mobs, could be assassins … maybe

more slans, maybe even secret police.”

Then her eyes got that familiar greedy gleam. “Hmm, on the other hand, there’ll be a big

reward for you. Could be enough money to put a nice addition onto the ranch house.”

Gray’s rich familiar voice was very regal. “I’ll make you a proposal, ma’am. As the President

of Earth, I could dredge up a ransom a lot larger than any reward offered by those hunting for

us. Consider it your reward for services rendered.”

“It would be more money than one woman could imagine,” Petty said.

She turned her steely glare at him. “Granny has a very good imagination, Mr. Petty.” The

wheels were turning in her head. “But if the world is overrun by slan traitors, how can even

President Gray
pay me anything? Sounds like your wallet could very soon be empty.”

The President turned on his charm. “Think of it this way: If the world is destroyed by our

enemies, how could you spend a reward even if you have it? It makes much more sense to help

us out, and then send us a bill.”

Granny considered for a long moment and then, in a fluid motion as fast as a snake

striking, she reached down and snatched up the chicken pecking around the flowers at the

porch. She lifted it into the air and wrung its neck. The bird barely had time to squawk.

“All right, you can stay for supper.” The old woman grinned. “Then I’ll show you how I

welcome my guests.”

«
^
»

Once she entered the library’s archive vault, the lights came on automatically, powered by the

emergency generator. The stale air had a metallic flatness of recyclers, filters, and

dehumidifiers.

Anthea saw a maze of wonders, historical treasures beyond her wildest imagining. Even

with her new speed-reading ability, she had a lot to study. Standing inside, she just stared for a

moment; her baby’s small hazel eyes were hungry, looking around him.

Metal shelves were stacked high with bulging and yellowed boxes of documents. Books

bore red-and-white
Classified
and
Restricted Use
stickers; many of the volumes seemed

incredibly old. One small table held a stack of polymer-coated papers, preserved newspaper

clippings from when slans had first appeared. Some clippings quoted outspoken supporters,

while others declared that these new “terrible mutants” posed a severe danger to humanity.

The dates on the newspapers came from a different calendar entirely; she couldn’t tell how old

they really were.

After finding a safe and comfortable place for the infant to rest, Anthea turned her attention

to the old records. When tendrilled children first began to be born—unexpectedly, it

seemed—they were treated as freaks, oddities, and misfits. By the time the public began to

suspect the powers of the new race, a flood of slans had been born all around the world. Was

the emergence of mutations an accident or part of a carefully coordinated plan? The records

were unclear on that point.

As the first generation of slans grew to adulthood, the reports became darker and more

disturbing. New radical groups formed, in particular a masked and black-robed society calling

itself the Human Purity League. Bloodthirsty vigilantes, they hunted down and lynched slans.

Some brave first-generation slans acted as spokesmen on television and radio talk shows,

begging for understanding and acceptance. The spokesmen claimed that slans did not choose

to be what they were, but that they could not give up their birthright. They simply wanted to

live in peace like any other human, to go about their business.

Their detractors, however, insisted that “slan business” was to destroy “inferior” humanity

much the same way that modern man would have hunted down and eradicated Neanderthals.

“How can a slan not feel this way?” claimed the leader of the Human Purity League. “They

must believe themselves to be superior—and if they believe themselves superior, then all

humans need to be concerned.”

This attitude sparked protests from militant slans, who retaliated against the prejudice and

persecution by standing up for themselves. “We
are
superior. We are the next step in human

evolution. Why should we be ashamed of our skills and abilities? We should use them, not hide

them.”

Absorbing information as swiftly as she could sift through the records, Anthea read with

growing horror. In four separate incidents, black-robed vigilantes dragged outspoken slan

advocates out of their homes in the middle of the night, then drugged them into a stupor to