G
	I awoke slowly - more so than usual - and spent an
inordinate amount of time sorting out the memories of the previous
day.  Two fights, a big meal and a lengthy carouse.  OK... oh Christ,
did I really say that to Janet?  I hope she doesn't remember it.
	A quick systems check indicated that I'd managed to escape a
hangover, which was good.  In fact, I felt pretty good for a guy who'd
had the proverbial stuffing kicked out of him the day before.  That's
what comes of being drubbed by a considerate professional.
	I pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of decently unratty
shorts, brushed my teeth, and prowled into the living room, expecting
to find the last of our guests gone and the house quiet again.
Instead, I found Sakura Kasugano, who was just in the process of
pulling the drawstring on her duffel bag shut.  As I entered the room,
Zoner, who was standing near the corner, shot me one of those warning
looks, though the reason didn't register on me at the time.
	"Heading out?" I asked.
	"Yep," Sakura replied.  "Ryu left before I got up - I have to
get moving if I want to catch him."
	"Catch him?  You aren't going home?"
	Sakura snorted.  "I wouldn't be welcome, not after coming all
the way over here.  Not that I care much anyway... it was time I got
out of there."
	"You don't want to go back?" I asked, incredulous.
	"That's right," said Sakura, folding her arms and looking
determined.  "I don't want to go back."

                     Eyrie Productions, Unlimited
                               presents
 
              A Third Universe from the Right Production
                                 of a
                    Straight On Till Morning Film

                   STREET FIGHTER: WARRIOR'S LEGACY

		  BATTLE 04: THE GREAT PLANE ROBBERY

                         Benjamin D. Hutchins
                               MegaZone

          with the gracious assistance of The Usual Suspects
		and a bit of cadging from Warehouse 23
		<http://www.sjgames.com/warehouse23/>

               (c) 1998 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited


	"Wait a minute, what do you mean, you don't want to go back?
You have to go back, it's your home!"
	Zoner shot me a glare that said he wasn't buying that line,
and doubted she would either.
	"No it isn't," she replied, her eyes dark and serious.  "It's
just a place where I used to sleep.  Everything I really need is in
that bag.  I can take care of myself on the road... just like Ryu."
	"Won't your parents miss you?"
	Sakura snorted.  "Not likely.  My father would throw a party
if I didn't come home.  Half the time he doesn't even notice me, and
the other half he wishes he had two sons."
	"Well... "  I paused, realized I was at a loss, and sighed,
frustrated.  "Look, you can't just hit the streets.  Even for someone
with your skills, at your age it's just not safe."
	"So what do you care?"
	"You might just be surprised," Zoner interjected before
Sakura's look made him think the better of getting in the middle of
this one.
	"I don't want you to get hurt, believe it or not!" I replied,
then paused again, trying to calm down.  I didn't want to lose my
temper with her - that would just make her leave, and I really didn't
want her to get hurt.  She thought she was tough enough to hack it,
and it's even possible she was, but it wouldn't be a pleasant
experience for her either way.
	"Listen," I said after regaining control.  "Will you at least
let me call your folks?  I can't imagine any parent not wanting their
child to come home."
	She sighed and rolled her eyes.  "Fine, if you want, but I'm
telling you, they -don't- want me back."  She rummaged in her bag and
handed me a card.  "Dad's probably at work, go ahead and call him if
you want.  But you're wasting your time," she added.
	"Well," I replied, "it's my time to waste."  I picked up the
phone, dialed the number, punched the extension when a voicemail
system answered, and hoped.
	"Kasugano," a man's voice answered, gruffly, after two rings.
	Ack.  I hate opening phone conversations, and this one
promised to be more awkward than most.
	>Er... hello, Mr. Kasugano,< I said, frantically dusting off
my Japanese.  I probably sounded like an idiot, but I've found that
many Japanese will at least give you points for making the effort.
>My name is Benjamin Hutchins, I'm calling you from the United
States.<
	>Yes?< he replied, in a tone of voice that added, "Spit it
out, I haven't got all day."
	>Ah... yes.  Well, uh...  This is kind of awkward, but... I,
uh, I have your daughter here, and I'd like to send her home.<
	>If this is some kind of a joke - < Mr. Kasugano began, outrage
creeping into his tone.
	>No joke, Mr. Kasugano,< I replied.  >She turned up here
Saturday evening, and... well, now she's at a bit of a loose end.<
	Zoner cringed a bit; I suppose I could have phrased that
better.
	>You mean she's given up chasing after that lowlife street
fighter?<
	I suppressed my natural reaction at such an unkind
generalization, especially toward a friend of mine, and replied,
>Uh... In a manner of speaking... <
	>What is -your- connection, then?< he snapped.
	His peremptory tone was beginning to grate on me, so I'm
afraid I was less than 99-44/100% smooth, replying dryly, >I'm the guy
she came here to see that lowlife street fighter fight.<
	>I see,< he replied, his tone chilly.  >And she's been staying
with you?<
	>In my guest room,< I qualified, in case he was drawing -that-
conclusion.  >Since Saturday evening, yes.<
	>I see,< he repeated, tone even colder.  He paused, then
replied flatly, >Then I wish you well of her.  Good day.<
	I couldn't have been more shocked if somebody had cuffed me
upside the head with a large-mouthed bass.  >Wa, wah, wait a minute,
what?!< I blurted, managing to keep him from hanging up right away.
	>Sakura is no longer welcome in my home,< replied Mr. Kasugano
flatly.  >If you choose to take her into yours, then I hope for your
sake she is more thoughtful of you than she was of her own family.
Now, if you will excuse me, I am a very busy man.<
	>Hold it, hold it!< I replied.  My Japanese, I noticed, was
becoming smoother as I got more agitated - a good sign that I hadn't
let it get too rusty between visits.  >I don't know what issues you
and your kids have, Mr. Kasugano, but it's none of my affair!  She
turned up on the eve of my fight with Ryu and I gave her a place to
sleep because I'm not the kind of guy who puts little girls out in the
street, but I'm not looking to adopt a kid just yet.  She's your
daughter - you can't just give her away!<
	>She has been a constant source of disappointment and anguish
to me and to her mother,< Kasugano growled.  >And YOU PEOPLE are to
blame!  You street fighters have made her what she is - now she is
YOUR problem.  Not mine!  Not any more!  I wash my hands of her.  I
have no daughter.<
	>You can't DO that!<
	>Do not call me again,< said Kasugano flatly.  >Good day.<
	Click.
	I stared at the phone for several seconds in mute
incomprehension, which gave way slowly to a wave of red-hot rage that,
as it peaked, made me slam the phone into its cradle so hard the bell
rang.
	"Son of a BITCH!"
	"That could have gone better," Zoner observed.
	"See?" said Sakura.  "I told you."
	I looked at her, spread my hands helplessly.  I had nothing to
say to that.  She picked up her bag with studied nonchalance, threw it
over her shoulder, and headed for the door.
	"Well, so long.  Thanks for everything."
	"Wait," I said, trotting across the kitchen to keep up with
her.  "Where will you go?"
	"What do you care?" she replied.
	I shrugged, exasperated.  "Call it a character flaw."
	I hadn't noticed Zoner beside me until he spoke.  "We're just
caring guys.  Not everyone you meet is an asshole, just most.  Call us
crazy, but we worry about our friends.  Even if we have just met."
	"The bus station, if you must know."
	"I see.  How much money do you have?"
	"Umm... "  She pulled out her change purse and counted.
"Seven fifty-three."
	"Uh-huh.  Well, you should be able to make it all the way
to... oh... "  I paused and looked thoughtful.  "... the other side of
the bus station parking lot or so, on that."  She glared.  "OK, let's
take another tack on this.  Where were you planning on catching a bus
to, or had you worked that out yet?"
	She shrugged.  "I dunno.  Boston, maybe.  Or New York."
	"To do what?"
	"... I dunno, exactly.  What does it matter?  You don't want
me here any more than my father wants me back."
	"Would you believe me if I told you that wasn't true?"
	Would -I-?  Zoner's jaw was set, I took that to mean he agreed
with my statement.
	She looked long and hard at me, and for a moment, I thought
I'd really gotten through; but then her eyes narrowed stubbornly and
she replied, "Yeah, as if.  See you around."
	"All right, I won't try to stop you from leaving.  But I don't
think it's a good idea."  I dug one of my cards out of my wallet and
gave it to her.  "Keep this.  If you need anything, call me anytime."
I wished I had some money to give her, too, but as it happened the
previous evening's extravagance had left me cashless.
	She gave me a sidelong look.
	"Anytime," I repeated.
	She cracked the faintest hint of a smile.  "OK, I'll take it.
See you."
	"Hold it," Zoner added.  Sakura looked ready to fight if he
tried to stop her; Zoner held up a hand to show he wasn't going to
try.  "Here, take this - and I won't take no for an answer.  If you
won't stay, you're going to let us help you somehow.  There are few
ways an attractive underage woman can make money; none are very
pleasant."  With that he pressed a few bills into her hand.  Looked
like a couple of hundred.
	I showed her out, and as the door closed, I turned and slumped
against it, looking at Zoner.
	"She'll be back," he said simply, and went to his room.
	"Christ," I muttered.

	Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the den, staring
morosely out the picture window at the rain and thinking bleak
thoughts.  Considering the luck of the draw.  My parents love me,
although they don't really understand me or my need to do what I do.
My mother doesn't approve, but she would never turn her back on me.
Even if the unthinkable were to happen, I'm out on my own, fairly
well-established, with a sizable nest egg in the bank and a good
income from the interest.  Wipe that out and I'm left with a network
of friends, good friends, all around the globe.  What did Sakura have?
A pretty good grasp of something resembling Shotokan karate, a handful
of money, a passport and my telephone number.
	I couldn't help but feel that I had done the wrong thing
letting her walk out of the house like that... but if she didn't want
to stay, it was hardly right to make her... 
	... wasn't it?
	I sighed, turned away from the window and lay down on the
couch, draping an arm over the side to scratch Fury's ears.  He made a
contented noise and leaned a little closer to the sofa.
	I couldn't imagine how it must feel to be a teenaged girl
abandoned by her family, all alone in the world.
	But that didn't stop me from trying...
	I sighed again and got up, cursing under my breath.  Zoner
looked up from the kitchen table, where he was perusing his newest
issue of "Popular Mechanics", as I passed through the room, muttering
darkly and pulling on my outback oilskin, Fury trotting at my heels.
	"Can't leave it alone, can you?" he said matter-of-factly.
	"No," I replied, grabbing the matching hat from the hatstand by
the door.  "I can't."
	"Me neither," said Zoner, standing up and dropping the
magazine.  "I'll drive."

			THIRD-PERSON INTERLUDE
			MAIN STREET, WORCESTER
			NEAR THE FEDERAL BLDG.

        It started to sink in as Sakura walked up Elm Street, and by
the time she was halfway to the bus station, she was so mad at her
father that she couldn't see straight.
	Where does he get off? she asked herself.  I mean, it's not
like I do drugs or anything like that.  So I like the martial arts, so
I want to learn from the best there is.  What's wrong with that?  I'll
tell you this much, if it was my brother doing this, Pop sure as hell
wouldn't disown -him-.  He'd be overjoyed that his son was following
such a manly path.  But his daughter?  An embarrassment.
        To hell with him anyway, she thought as she turned the corner
onto Main Street.  Who needs him?
        Just then, the grey, threatening sky stopped threatening and
started raining.  Perfect, thought Sakura.  Just exactly what I
needed.
	She was so wrapped up in becoming steadily angrier at her
father that she didn't even see the guy walk out of the alley behind
the Federal Building until she ran into him.  That flustered her so
much she started apologizing in Japanese before she remembered where
she was.
	"Oh!  Gomen - er, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."
	"Well, hey there, sailor girl," he said with a smile, taking a
couple of steps back and looking her over.  Sakura didn't like the
look on his face.  Come to that, she didn't like his face much; it was
wide and oily.  In fact, "wide and oily" describes the whole person
pretty well; he had on a greasy t-shirt that looked too small for his
shoulder muscles and jeans that had seen better decades.  "New in
town?" he continued, and his grin changed to a leer.
	Harsh laughter from behind Sakura; she stole a glance over her
shoulder to see another, similar but shorter guy stepping around the
corner of the building.  She realized she must have walked right past
him on that side of the building before turning the corner herself.
	"Yeah," chortled the shorter one.  "New."
	Two to one, hmm? thought Sakura.  I've dealt with worse.
	"Not for long," she replied.  "Soon as I can catch a bus, I'm
out of this dump."
	"Aww, leaving so soon?" the one in front asked, stepping
closer.  Sakura stood her ground, concentrating on the rhythm of her
breathing, her heartbeat, her center.  "Hey, I've got an idea," the
man in front of her said.  "Why don't you stay a while and party with
my friend and me?"
	"Yeah," said the shorter one behind me.  "Party."
	Perhaps unfortunately, Sakura didn't feel she was in any
danger.  In fact, given the day she'd had, she was looking forward to
what was developing here.  She could feel her ki pulsing in time with
her heartbeat, so she gathered it.
	"No thanks," she said.  "Got a bus to catch and all.  Maybe
next time I'm in town."
	"Oh, well, y'know, how do we know we're gonna be in town when
you're here next?"
	"Yeah," said the shorter one.  "In town."
	That little habit was starting to get on her nerves.
	"You got anyplace else to be?" Sakura asked the taller one.
	"Not really," he replied.
	"Well, there you go," she replied.  "I do.  So if you'll excuse
me... "
	"Now honey," he said, and moved a little closer.  He was
trying to back Sakura into his friend, but she wasn't giving ground;
looking a little impressed, he backed up again and put his hand on her
shoulder.  "That's no way to be," he continued.  "All we want is for
you to stay and party with us for a while, and then you can go and do
what you want.  I mean, it's a dangerous city, Worcester.  You don't
play your cards right, you could get hurt."
	"Yeah," said the shorter one, "play," as the taller one
tightened his grip on her shoulder until it hurt.
	All right, I've had enough of this crap, said Sakura to
herself.  She took a half-step back, twisted her shoulder out of the
tall one's grip in the process of backstepping into a fighting stance,
and right on schedule she felt her ki surge and her hands tingle.
	"HADOKEN!" she cried, thrusting her hands forward, and the
fireball burst out, smashing into the tall one's chest and face and
knocking him sprawling on his back.  Stepping into the follow-through,
Sakura turned to face the short one.
	"Wha' th' fu' - ?" he blurted.
	Ooh, thought Sakura, handsome -and- articulate!  Just the way
I like them.
	He lunged at her and tasted one of her shoes as she snapped a
high kick under his chin.  Staggering back, he wiped at his bloody
lip.
	"Hey!" he cried.  "That hurt!"
	"Yeah," Sakura replied, "hurt.  SHO-OKEN!"  It wasn't quite a
perfect Rising Dragon Fist, but Sakura's version of the classic
Shotokan uppercut did the job anyway, drilling the short one straight
into unconsciousness.
	Dusting off her hands, Sakura turned to resume her journey to
the bus station.
	And skidded right back to a stop again.
	The tall one was back on his feet already, singed and dazed,
but conscious... and three other guys were filling up the sidewalk
behind him.
	-Now- Sakura was beginning to feel a little threatened, but
she put it aside as they rushed her.  This part of the brawl started
out pretty well for her, really, but her concentration started to fall
apart before she'd taken even one of them down - a combination of her
own rising panic as it began to dawn on her what they would do to her
if they won, and fatigue.  It had been a longer day, and a more tiring
journey, than she thought.
	Get it together, Sakura, she told herself as she barely
avoided getting clipped by one of their fists.  Get it together or
you're going to lose, and this is no friendly sparring match.  You
wanted to be a street fighter, girl... here you are.  Get it --
	Together!
	She spun on one heel, lifting into the air.  "Shunpuu -
KYAKU!"  Truth to tell, she wasn't entirely happy with this move
either - it only turned her around once, it wasn't much of a Rising
Cyclone Kick - but it worked well enough to lay out the one in the
orange shirt.  The one in blue lunged; Sakura caught his arm and swung
his face into the side of the Federal Building.  She turned and
squared off with the tall guy and his one remaining helper, this one
in a green t-shirt, and grinned.
	"Some party, huh?" she started to ask, but she only got about
as far as "par" before
	POW
	the back of her head exploded, or at least, that's how it
felt.  The world turned red and black, winking out entirely for an
instant, then returning as a huge, echoing chamber full of red fog and
pain.  Sakura felt a second impact in the small of her back, then a
third as she crashed to the sidewalk on her chin.  Waves of nausea
rolled over her like breaking surf.  She struggled to get up, keep
fighting, but she felt like she was chained to the ground.  She could
feel rather than see them close in on her...
	Somewhere nearby, there was the sound of a powerful engine, the
squeal of tires, and the metallic clunk of a car door, followed by a
voice Sakura hazily thought she recognized:
	"Back away from the girl right now and I won't hurt you."
	Tramping feet, defiant sounds.  Sakura dragged herself to her
elbows and knees and tried to open her eyes.
	"Fine, have it your way."
	As a strange coughing sound reached Sakura's ears, her eyes
opened.  She focused dimly on the sidewalk, then looked up in time to
see Shorty sprawl on his back, a two-by-four with its end oddly
splintered clattering from his slack hands.  A few feet away, MegaZone
was standing halfway out of the door of a black Suburban pulled up
onto the curb, a gun with what looked like a spray can on the end in
his hand.
	Then the wet pavement spiraled up at Sakura as she blacked out
again.

				  MZ
	While I encouraged the losers' retreat with my Glock, Ben ran
around the back of the Suburban to kneel by Sakura as she slumped to
the ground again.  She didn't look good - her skin was a foreboding
shade of grey, her school uniform torn and dirty, with a spatter of
blood down the front of the tunic from the cuts on her chin.  "Oh
bloody hell," I muttered, unscrewing the custom-made sound suppressor
from the end of the gun and putting both away as he carried her to the
truck and laid her gently on the back seat.
	I sat down on the edge of the seat and put my fingers to
Sakura's throat, looking for her carotid pulse.  I found it easily,
and was relieved to find it strong and regular, like her breathing.
If nothing else, she didn't seem to be in any immediate danger.  Her
color was bad, though, and who knew what could result from a head
injury like that?
	Sure, Ryu and Ben and their fellow fighters make their living
knocking each other out, and there's an obvious danger involved with
that.  But at their skill level especially, they have such an intimate
knowledge of their abilities and the way their bodies work that they
can do it carefully.  Any decent fighter on the circuit knows how to
take even a knockout blow with minimal damage, and the honorable ones
know how to throw a knockout blow with care as well, oxymoronic as
that sounds.
	A common street thug with a two-by-four, on the other hand,
isn't likely to be as careful or as skilled, and Sakura was both
inexperienced and taken by surprise.  Gryph I glanced at each other,
and didn't need to elaborate on the message we exchanged with that
brief eye contact.  We were both deeply worried.
	They'd only just met the day before yesterday... for that
matter, I'd only just met her the day before yesterday myself.  And
yet I was easily as worried as Ben.  Neither of us even like kids.
	We went straight to the maze of streets that crawl up Bancroft
Hill near WPI, as fast as I could safely get the Suburban to go, then
pulled up at a familiar house.  As I entered the house's foyer
(Gryphon behind me, cradling Sakura in his arms like a big rag doll),
the jangling bell on the door summoned Dr. Joachim Mueller from the
back of the house.  As he entered the foyer, he recognized us
immediately, and took in the sight of the three of us impassively.
Dr. Mueller has known Gryph and I long enough to take this kind of
thing in stride.
	"Well, well," he murmured, patting his large hands together.
"You find the most interesting things for old Doctor Mueller to
handle, don't you?"
	Tall, white-haired, and patrician, Dr. Mueller is from
Germany, and it still echoes in his English today.  He left Germany as
a young medical student in the late 1930s, just before Hitler plunged
the nation into the insanity that was the Second World War.  Now in
his late seventies, he was mostly retired, but as an old friend of my
family's, he still came out from time to time to patch me or Gryph up
after our less than reportable injuries.  I trusted his skills and his
discretion implicitly.
	"Well, what's the story with this one?" he asked as he led us
to the guest bedroom he used as an exam room for his infrequent
visitors and gestured for Gryph to put Sakura down on the bed.
	Gryph and I between us told him as much of the story as we knew.
Dr. Mueller raised an eyebrow when we got to the part about Gryph's
ill-fated call to Sakura's father, but he said only, "Mmm, your day is
just beginning to get complicated, then," as he bent over the guest bed.
"Pulse is good... breathing is strong.  Hello?  Young lady, can you hear
me?" He took a penlight out of his pocket, gently pried open one of
Sakura's eyes, and shone the light in. 
	She blinked, flinched, and then settled slowly into the
mattress and pillows with a long, descending groan.
	"Pupil reaction is good," mused Dr. Mueller to himself as he
returned the pen to his pocket.  "How do you feel, young lady?"
	"Like a Texaco tank truck ran over me," Sakura replied
weakly, "backed up, and ran over me again."
	"Well, you remember your English, that's a good sign," Mueller
replied.  "Whenever I get clonked on the head, first thing I do, I
start speaking in German again."
	"If I was speaking German," Sakura said with a wan smile, "I'd
really be in trouble."
	"Well, let's look at your head, now.  Sit up, but slowly, or
you'll make yourself sick."
	Obediently, Sakura sat gingerly up so Mueller could look at
the back of her head.  He gently moved the blood-matted hair out of
the way with one hand and used the other to wield the penlight again.
"Mmm... broken skin and a bit of bleeding, but the scalp is fine, and
you've got a good strong skull, young lady.  If there were anything
seriously wrong, I doubt I would have been able to wake you by simply
shining a light in your eye.  All right, lie back.  Are you hurt
anywhere else?"
	"Right now I hurt all over," she said, leaning her head gently
back against the pillow.
	"How does your head feel?"
	She considered, then reported with a slightly surprised tone,
"No worse than the rest of me, really."
	"Also a good sign," said Mueller with a smile.  "Well, I don't
think you've suffered any permanent harm."  He turned to me.  "Keep an
eye on her for the rest of today.  Don't let her go to sleep until you
turn in tonight, and only a light dinner is in order.  If she gets
overwhelmingly drowsy, passes out, or becomes incoherent, call me and
we'll get her over to UMassMed for some X rays.  I'll also leave
cleaning her up to you - I presume you have the medical knowledge
necessary to clean a few cuts, ja?"
	I nodded, his good humor making me grin.  "Thanks, Doctor."
	He waved.  "Don't mention it.  It's all part of the service."
Snapping his bag shut, he turned to Sakura again.  "Now you be good
and follow my instructions, and you'll feel much better in the
morning.  All right?"
	She nodded, kind of a lying-down bow.  "I will.  Thank you."
	Gryph and I helped Sakura out to the Suburban for the trip
back down the hill.  She was a little unsteady, but her strength was
returning fast, and she was getting her color back, too, by the time
we got home a few minutes later.  I felt a powerful urge to clean my
gun.  It's a habit of mine, when I'm upset and don't have anyone to
vent it on.  Gryph doesn't think I know I do it; the truth is, I do it
so I won't be able to do anything else with the gun.
	While keeping an eye on Sakura in the living room, Gryph and I
went to the kitchen to heat up some soup. 
	"Well, now what the hell do we do?" Gryph wondered.
	"I have no idea," I replied.  I paused before putting the
soup into the saucepan I had prepared.  "She could stay here for a
while, but... "
	Gryph nodded.  "But she doesn't want to."
	I sighed, dumping the soup into the pan and using a wooden spoon
to scrape out the few noodles stuck to the inside of the can.  "Right,"
I replied.  "After all, Ryu's her hero, not us," I added, handing Gryph
the can to be rinsed and put by the trash.  I'm fond of this whole
recycling thing, although Gryph thinks the stuff all gets thrown in a
big hole together after it's trucked away anyway.  "And just because
she's welcome doesn't mean she'll stay.  We saw proof of that this
afternoon."
	"She's got talent," Gryph observed.  "We were pretty far away
when the fight started, but I'm pretty sure I saw her throw a hadoken
at one of them."
	I looked hard at Ben.  "She's had how much formal training?"
	"None, as far as I know, unless you count Ryu's two-minute
explanation-in-layman's-terms of the technique last month."
	I blinked.  "Wow.  She's got a -lot- of talent."
	"And she's a good kid," Gryph went on, nodding.  "A little
narrow-focused, but... well... I'll have to talk with her about that.
She reminds me of Chun Li - "
	"I was just about to say that, yeah - "
	"Before her father died and she got all grim and
revenge-and-justice -"
	"Yeah.  Hopefully what happened to her today will open her eyes
and make her realize that street fighting isn't a game."
	"If she has enough dedication to work out the hadoken on her
own, she's serious enough to stick with it regardless," Gryph said, a
warning note in his voice.
	I nodded.  "All the better... but she'll need training.
Unfocused, that talent could become a danger to everyone... and in the
wrong hands, she could become something truly terrifying."
	Our eyes met, and Ben knew exactly whose hands I was talking
about.  Ryu had fallen into those same hands once, before either of
them was a World Warrior, and "truly terrifying" is a good description
of what he had become, for a time.
	"Ryu won't change his mind," Gryph said.  "You know how he
is."  He blew a breath out, puffing his cheeks.  "All right, look, why
don't we do it like this.  I'll get Rose to come down and look after
her tomorrow.  We can push the timetable on the Area 51 thing up, get
it out of the way.  Once we're back home, I can sit down and figure
out what the hell I'm going to do with her."
	"-We- can figure out what -we're- going to do," I corrected.
	"Her father didn't make her your responsibility," said Gryph.
"I don't want to drag you into the mess too... "
	"You're helping me out with this thing for Meg, aren't you?"
I shrugged.  "We're partners.  Your problems are my problems."
	He smiled.  "Thanks.  Have you got the cover story in place
for the sneak yet?"
	"Well, I -think- I've got it.  DARPA has requested Sky Dancer
and its contents for transfer to an undisclosed research project.  If
anyone digs into it, it looks like it's under the auspicies of the
CIA.  The CIA will pawn it off on NASA for administration.  NASA says
no, that project was transferred, now being run by the NSA and they
don't have any need to know where it is.  If they manage to get the
NSA to admit to anything, they thought the Air Force had it at Area 51
but had unmothballed it and was using it for research.  The Air Force,
of course, says no, it was taken for a research project.
	"Now, either they loop around again, or they find the second
level of misdirection.  Seems the Royal Navy wanted to test its
submersible capabilities.  But if you ask them, they don't know
anything about it, but they've heard MI-5 is up to something with it.
MI-5 has absolutely nothing to do with it, you must be thinking of
MI-6.  MI-6 sure doesn't have it, but the Royal Air Force and SAS have
been testing something.  Maybe you should check with them.  The SAS
will tell you to bugger off, but the RAF thinks the Royal Navy is
using it as a technology demonstrator for an SBS project.  No, been
there?  Sorry chap, don't know.
	"OK, so that's a dead end.  Back to Area 51 to try again.  If
they dig -really- deep they'll find an indication that it went back to
the manufacturer.  Of course, Lockheed hasn't had it since it left the
Works.  Maybe you meant the chief designer on Project Sky Dancer,
they'd heard that Mr. Hackenbacker was working on a new project.  Yes,
we have a business relationship with him.  Sorry, we can't give you
any details.  No, I don't care what clearance you have, I know it
isn't high enough.  Mr. Hackenbacker guards his privacy very
jealously.  Good day.
	"In light of what you set up the other day, I think I'll set
up a fourth level.  The Sky Dancer was transferred to the Quest
Foundation for an indefinite period of time, for research purposes.
As for who authorized that, well, I pity the person who'll follow that
path.  What do you think?"
	"I don't want to know how you set it up, but it sounds good.
As good as we're going to do anyway.  How soon can we go?"
	"The sooner the better, I'd like to have it out of there
before anyone gets curious about the paper trail.  But this may just
be an interesting exercise.  We still haven't heard from Meg, after
all."
	"I suspect Greer'll be pissed if we put him through this for
nothing," Ben observed.
	"He'll get over it.  He's knows what running an op is like,
things don't always come off the way you planned.  Sometimes they
don't come off at all."
	"Right.  I guess there's nothing much for it at the moment,
then."
	"Oh, one thing.  Can you call Quest back and see if they can
shuttle us back west?  I'd like to fly the Prince of Thebes out, but
we'll be flying Sky Dancer direct to Maine.  I'd rather not fly
commercial back to pick up the Prince.  It'd be much faster if they
can just shoot us back out."
	"I don't think it'll be a problem.  I'll call them up after we
eat."
	"OK... this afternoon, just to cover our bets, I figured I'd
set up the fourth level of the trail.  After that, I don't know.  I
was thinking about seeing if Meg wanted to go out for dinner or
something.  It'll give me a chance to talk to her some more."
	"Yeah, right."
	"Give me a break.  Of course I'm interested in her.  She's
funny, attractive, intelligent, and she didn't run screaming when she
met us.  All factors in her favor."  I was smirking again.  It really
is involuntary.
	"OK, whatever.  You can borrow the car, Johnny.  Be home by
midnight.  Have fun."
	"Thanks dad," I called over my shoulder on the way to my room,
"I'll be a good boy.  Oh, take over on this soup, would you?  Thanks."
	It didn't take long to arrange for the last redirection - it
is usually easier to work with the truth, or at least partial truth,
than to make things up from whole cloth.  When I returned to the
kitchen Ben had just started doling the soup out.
	We finished putting together the light lunch and took it to
the living room.  Sakura said her head was feeling much better, and
her appetite was undiminished, which was relieving.  She was quieter
this afternoon - it seemed clear that, between being disowned by her
father and the knock on the head, the day so far had given her some
heavy things to think about.
	After lunch, I fiddled with our network for a while, but I
knew what I was doing - I'm the world's best procrastinator.  I was
nervous about calling Meg, and I didn't want to admit it.  Aside from
personal issues, how would she feel about all the things we'd been
doing?  She never really said she wanted us to do anything, and here
we were setting things in motion already.  I mean, I knew we could
stop them, but it was going a bit far.  In my gut I felt she wouldn't
mind, but just a little doubt is enough.
	After an hour or so of tweaking things that didn't need
tweaking in the first place I decided there was nothing for it but to
call her.  If she wanted to go out I'd wait to tell her, I didn't want
to tell her everything on the phone.  I'm much better at that kind of
thing face to face.
	Of course, first I had to remember what I did with that
blasted card she had written her number on.  After silently watching
several minutes of my frantic searching, Ben picked it up from on top
of the TV and handed it to me without a word.  That was good, because
it saved me from acknowledging that I had looked right at it at least
three times.  At any rate, I finally dialed.  She answered after a
couple of rings, but the music on her end was so loud we couldn't hear
each other.  Once she turned it down below afterburner level we
managed to actually converse.
	Small talk ran out after a few minutes, and I decided there was
nothing for it but to jump straight in.
	"So, ah... have you thought any more about my proposal?"
	Ouch.  Smooth as broken glass.
	Her response was serious, though.  "Yeah... yeah, I have.  I,
uh... I talked it over with Mom and Dad.  They've heard of you through
some contacts they still have in the State Department.  You didn't tell
me you do jobs for IMF."
	"Didn't know if you'd been cleared for that," I replied.  "I
hope they haven't heard any of the really bad parts."
	"No, apparently you've got a good reputation on our side.  Anyway,
I've been thinking about it a lot and... well... I'd like to go ahead
with it, if you're still interested."
	I grinned.  "I was hoping you'd say that.  How'd you like to
talk out the details over dinner?"

                                   G
	Groom Dry Lake Air Force Base.  The United States Air Force
Advanced Technology Research and Testing Center.
	Area 51.
	Zoner, Meg and I sat in an idling Humvee less than a mile from
the gates of the most restricted place in the United States of America
- possibly the world.  We wore freshly laundered, nicely pressed,
completely fake United States Air Force uniforms, with freshly minted,
nicely laid out, completely fake United States Air Force ID tags.  If
traced, those would be connected to freshly entered, nicely formatted,
completely fake entries in the USAF personnel computers.  Along with
long, distinguished, and completely fake service records.
	No problem.
	"Are you sure our IDs are OK?" I asked Zoner as we approached
the gates.
	"Will you relax?" he replied.  "We're not applying for a
-job-, we're just here to steal some stuff."
	"Of course.  Silly me."  He had a point, though.  With us
coming in as visitors, the guards at the fence would assume the deep
digging had already been done by the people who issued us the IDs and
travel plans in the first place.
	Or at least, that was the theory.
	"Here we go... I hope to Christ this works," Zoner muttered as
we drove up to the gatehouse.  Then, sliding down the window, he put
on his most serious military face and returned the guard's salute, as
did Meg and I.
	Guards circled the Humvee as the man in the booth scanned our
IDs.  One of them probed under the Humvee with a mirror.  I reminded
myself not to grin at the one who was looking in the side window at
me.  I don't think I looked nervous; in the course of adventuring with
Zoner I've gotten pretty good at covering that.
	"Everything checks out, Major Zorn," said the guard, handing
Zoner back the passes.  "Welcome to Groom Lake."
	"Thank you, Lieutenant," said Zoner, punctuating his words
with a brisk nod.  The guards got out of our way and we drove onto the
base unimpeded.
	"Piece of cake," said Meg.
	"Yeah, Gryph and I have gotten into and out of places a lot
more heavily guarded than this," Zoner replied.
	"We have?" I asked, eyeing the sixteen-foot perimeter fence
and fortified buildings.
	"Oh, yeah," said Zoner.  "Remember the Nonsecuadoran Embassy
in Brasilia?"
	I considered it.  "I guess that might have been more -densely-
guarded," I allowed.
	"Anyway, it's time to see if that map I pulled off the Milnet
is worth anything.  Which building does it say the Bionic Six gear is
in?"
	I pulled the printout from the inside pocket of my Air Force
uniform jacket, unfolded it, and perused, then chuckled.  "You're
gonna love this.  It's in Building 19."
	Zoner chuckled.  "You're right, I love it," he said, making a
left-hand turn and following the numbered buildings.
	We left the Humvee parked in front of Building 10 and walked
the rest of the way, three career officers, a major and two captains,
striding purposefully in a tight triangle formation.  We looked
neither right nor left.  There were no soldiers walking round in this
part of the base, anyway, which was just as well, since I was half
convinced that I had NOT A REAL OFFICER painted in glowing orange
letters on my back.  I wished, not for the first time, that we were
ripping off the Army; Air Force uniforms are made of a dreadful blue
polyester blend.  I hate the way synthetic dress slacks feel, to say
nothing of the way they ride up.
	Buildings 1-12 were low, gray-sided buildings, office blocks
and barracks, by the look of them.  13 on were much larger, corrugated
aluminum structures - Butler buildings, part hangar, part warehouse.
They reminded me of the decommissioned Nike missile hangars at Presque
Isle Regional Airport in northern Maine, where my aunt's common-law
husband kept his crop duster.  The differences were primarily matters
of scale.  We didn't go all the way down to Building 19, though; our
fake orders gave us no reason to go into the super-classified section
that began at Building 15.  Instead, we stopped at Building 12.  The
late afternoon sun cast long shadows of the buildings and colored the
desert in bright oranges and pinks, and with no personnel in evidence
outside the buildings, the base looked deserted.
	"Now what?" Meg asked Zoner quietly.
	"Now," replied Zoner, "we hide and wait for dark."
	There are few activities more tedious than hiding behind a
Dumpster for two hours waiting for nightfall to complete itself.
After about fifteen minutes, we started getting very bored.  Finally,
we seemed to reach a silent consensus, mutually said "the hell with
it," and started looking for a way to get into Building 13, just to
see what was in there.
	We left our hiding place, the lapels of our uniform jackets
Velcroed over one another to cover the white of our shirts (an idea
Zoner got from the sniper scene in "The Living Daylights", no doubt).
A short, tension-filled scramble across the open alleyway separating
the smaller buildings from the hangars brought us to the man door at
the back corner of Building 13.
	"Hm," Zoner murmured, lifting the padlock that secured the
door in the palm of his hand and peering at it.  "I'd expected a
slightly more sophisticated security system."
	"Don't tell me you didn't bring a lockpick."
	"Um... just my electronic lock decoder.  I never thought
they'd use something this primitive... "
	Meg sighed.  "Allow me," she said, pushing Zoner gently out of
the way and delving into the lock with the toothpick and tweezers from
a Swiss Army knife.  As she worked at it, she muttered wryly,
"No-brand lock, probably cost the Defense Department sixty-five
hundred dollars.  It's just as well... Master locks are a pain in
the... "
	Click!
	"There."
	"Where'd you learn to pick locks?" Zoner asked, a note of
appreciation in his voice.
	Meg shrugged.  "Richard Feynman's autobiography," she replied,
handing him the padlock and pushing the door open.  "I'm hell on
safes, too."
	Zoner just stood and looked at the space where she'd been
standing for a few seconds, a disbelieving look on his face; then he
turned to me, grinned, and said,
	"I am -definitely- in love."
	"How nice for you," I replied, stepping into the doorway
myself.  "Coming in or staying out?"
	The interior of Building 13 was a dimly-lit confusion of
cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and mysterious shapes underneath
tarpaulins.  None of it was all that interesting, though; most of it
seemed to be files, which might reveal the secrets of the universe or
the identities of the conspirators who really control the world, but
were more likely to be commissary reports from 1974.  We kept moving
down the line, hopping surreptitiously from building to building.
Building 14 was more of the same.
	We expected when we got to Building 15, where we'd heard the
super-highly-classified section of the warehousing area began, we
would be confronted with an elaborate and sophisticated security
system, which we would then have to work out some way of getting
past.  Instead, all we found was another slightly rusty no-brand
padlock.
	"Y'know, for such a highly-classified facility, there really
isn't much security here at all," I mused as we slipped into Building
15.
	"Yeah," Meg agreed.  "I was expecting all kinds of brightly
lit tile corridors, power doors, guards in servo armor... all the
stuff we used to have in the really secure parts of OSI bases.  This
is just... like a regular Air Force base's junk storage."
	"Maybe they don't think anybody would ever get this far," said
Zoner.  "Or maybe there's just nothing interesting here... "
	"I always figured all the good stuff was at Wright-Patterson
anyway," Meg replied.
	"You'd think if this -was- hyper-classified national-security
stuff, they'd at least file it a little bit more coherently," I said,
crouching and squinting at the label on a crate.  "Lot Number
19473... "  I moved to the next one over.  "... Lot Number 4921.
Yeah.  This is organized."
	Zoner tried the top of Lot Number 19473; it was hinged - the
crate was more like a box - and he had no trouble opening it and
peering inside.
	"Hmm.  Bunch of advanced-looking rifles.  Wonder if they'd
notice if I took one... "
	We scattered around the hangar, opening crates, poking and
prodding at stuff, and having a general ill-advised good old time
acting like kids at an antique market, calling out our findings to
each other.
	"Hey," said Meg, reaching into a small box and coming out with
a gleaming item.  "You guys know what this is?"
	I took my mini-MagLite out of my pocket and shined it at the
item.  It was a golden medallion about five inches across, with an
off-center hole bearing an amber crystal.
	"Headpiece to the Staff of Ra," I said.
	Meg regarded it curiously.  "Are you sure?  It looks kind of
like a Valley of Shadows medallion, except for the markings... "
	"Ark of the Covenant," said Zoner from halfway inside a large
crate across the way.
	"Nope, it's the headpiece to the Staff of Ra," I said.
	"Oh," said Meg, putting it back.
	The first crate I tried myself was something of an
anti-climax; though quite large, it was almost empty, and what was in
it was a disappointingly pedestrian item.  "Oh, whoop-de-do, a
Mannlicher-Carcano rifle.  How exciting."
	From behind me stereo voices chimed in "Lee Harvey Oswald -
huh?!"  Turning, I found Meg and Zoner, separated by about twenty
feet, holding open crates which were brimming with what appeared to be
fog.
	Zoner looked at the side of his crate.  "Lot 1138-A."
	Meg checked hers.  "Lot 1138-C."
	"What happened to B?"
	A quick search of the area failed to turn up Lot 1138-B.  So,
with a collective shrug, we moved on.
	"Hey," Zoner's voice called out from some distant corner,
"Hitler's brain!"
	Shortly thereafter I had opportunity to add, "Here's the rest
of him... "
	"Ewww!" Meg remarked.  "Hey, does anyone know what 'Aruchot'
means?"
	Meg was holding an ancient, dusty book with a plastic embosser
label bearing this single word affixed to the cover.
	"No idea," Zoner remarked.  I shrugged.
	After long moments of finding nothing but file folders and
outdated manuals, Zoner called Meg and me over.
	"Hey, you guys have -got- to see this."
	Inside a large crate, packed in straw, was a slab of obviously
ancient sandstone.  Clearly visible in the center of the stone was the
imprint of a large, three-toed, reptilian foot.  Just off to one side
was another imprint, clearly that of a running shoe.
	"I'd love to know the story behind this one."
	"So would I," Meg commented.
	"I bet it ends with someone getting sacked," I observed.  "Or
worse."

				  MZ
	The anachronistic fossil was quite intriguing, but I doubted
we'd ever figure out the story behind it.  We went back to our
haphazard exploring.  I quickly discovered a crate of paperback novels
entitled "Catch 23".  I pocketed one for later reading.  Meg
discovered a crate labeled "Lot 49" - I advised her not to open it,
just in case.  Most intriguing was the crate labled "Lot 31416 Grails,
Holy" (one of the few crates to be labeled with anything other than a
lot number).  Inside was a fairly standard moving pack full of what
appeared to be about a dozen Holy Grails, all alike.
	"Uh, hey guys?"  Ben's voice summoned us over.
	"What's up?"
	He gestured into the open end of the large crate he was
standing before.  Inside was a bed, a chemical toilet, a chair, a
large stack of MREs, a water cooler, and a bank of computers.  The bed
looked recently slept in.
	"Who do you think lives here?" Ben asked.
	"I have no idea.  But I doubt they're sanctioned by the base
commander."
	"Well, maybe we should leave their stuff alone then," Meg
suggested.
	"Good idea."
	Ben resealed the crate and we continued poking around.  I
checked my watch, amazingly an hour had gone by already.  Exploring an
old warehouse full of weird stuff made time go by a lot faster than
crouching behind a dumpster.  Of course, it also raised the
possibility that we'd be caught (or worse), but that's life.
	I spent some time reconnoitering without finding anything of
note, then I noticed a cool breeze coming from a large crate.  I had
to pry the front open, allowing clouds of billowing vapor to roll out
across the floor.  Inside was a large metal door with a display in the
middle.  Scraping away the frost I could just make out what it said.
"Hey Ben!  I don't know what this is, but this display says 0.001
Kelvins!"
	"Whoa!  Put it back, someone is saving it!"
	Seeing as I'd left my thermal undies back in Massachusetts, I
decided not to follow the fabled feline, and resealed the crate.
	Suddenly, the warehouse was filled with the sound of wind
howling through a yawning emptiness.  A breeze plucked at my
clothing.  Wandering around the corner toward the noise, I found Meg
staring blankly into an open crate, into which loose debris from the
surrounding area was being sucked.  As I watched, her uniform cap was
sucked in as well.  This was all quite fascinating, as the crate was
about the size of a refrigerator box and stood clearly alone, some
distance from the nearest wall.
	"Um, Meg, what's in there?"
	"nothing," she replied, her voice flat.
	"You mean it's empty?"
	"no... it's nothing."
	"Ah, staring into the abyss and all that.  Well," I said,
edging over to her, "why don't we just close that little box up then,
shall we?"
	"ok."
	Quite deliberately -not- looking into the crate, I swung the
lid closed.  It got about halfway there before being grabbed by the
wind and sucked shut with a jarring BANG, the latches falling into
place automatically as it closed.  Meg continued to stare blankly for
just long enough for me to start to worry, before blinking and
staggering back slightly.  "Whoa, what was I doing?  Hey, what's in
this crate?"  She reached for the latch.
	Quickly moving to block I replied.  "Oh, it's nothing.  Just
an empty box.  Why don't you check out one of those?"
	"Uh... OK."  She moved off in another direction, shaking her
head.
	While I stood their pondering the purpose of a box full of
empty, I was interrupted by a cry of "Hey, neat!" from Ben.  I found
him holding a colorfully decorated tiki mask, complete with feather
fringe.  
	"What's with the mask?"
	"I don't know, but isn't it cool?  I think it would look great
on the wall in the den."
	"Look, the thing is probably cursed, or something.  I don't
think we need to be hanging anything we find here on our walls.  I
just pulled Meg away from a box full of /dev/null.  I'm wary of
bringing this stuff home."
	"Oh, but..."
	"Fine.  I have my curse, you can have your curse.  Enjoy."
Anyway, my curse looked a lot better than the mask, nice though it
was.
	"Hey Zoner - what the hell's Wumpa Fruit?" he wondered,
examining the crate next to the one where he'd found the tiki mask.
	I just scowled.
	"Ok, just asking."
	We had barely scratched the surface of the warehouse
contents.  The place seemed much larger from the inside than it did
from the outside, with long rows of crates in a bewildering range of
sizes.  I had just happened upon one large crate marked Props, Apollo
11, Misc" when Meg called out from near the door:
	"Hey guys, it's dark."
	Well, maybe I'd come back someday to check out the rest of
this place.  But right now it was time to go.

				  G
	Building 19 was a fairly long hike down the dusty tarmac, and
if we had tried it in daylight, even discounting the detection aspect,
we'd have been sweating like pigs.  As it was, we kept up a brisk
walking pace that kept the chill off, and had a pleasant evening
stroll, if you disregard the nerve-shattering tension.  It took us
half an hour to reach the man door at the back of Building 19, and a
minute ten for Meg to pick the cheap padlock in the dark.
	The hangar was dimly lit and smelled of dust, metal and stale
kerosene, and though it was enormous, it was entirely dominated by a
single item.
	Unlike Zoner, I had never heard of the Bionic Six before
meeting Meg.  Living a sheltered life in the woods of Maine, not often
watching the news, isolated from all but the most pervasive marketing
efforts (hey, we missed 'Robotech', too), I'd never seen a picture of
Sky Dancer, which, I think, made seeing the real aircraft there in
front of me all the more impressive.
	It rather resembled a Concorde SST, though a bit blockier.  I
don't know how big a Concorde is, so I couldn't make a guess as to
relative scale - I'm lousy at judging that kind of thing by eye
anyway.  It was, anyway, a big plane, longer than the Prince of
Thebes, although with faster and less spacious lines.  We did a slow
walkaround, silently taking in the aircraft's graceful, sweeping
lines, while Zoner's practiced eye examined the control surfaces and
the ship in general for airworthiness.  At length, after a complete
lap around the plane, we stopped underneath the rather tall landing
gear, near the nose.
	"Think you can get the belly ramp open?" Zoner asked Meg.
	"If they didn't change the security codes, I should be able
to," she replied.  She pushed back the sleeve of her uniform jacket -
that wrist computer was back - and tapped a couple of keys.  Then she
frowned thoughtfully at the display for a moment, brightened, and
tapped a few more.
	Sky Dancer thought about it for a moment, and then the ramp
began to descend.  Zoner grinned, took off his uniform jacket,
loosened his tie, and started up the ramp with Meg right after him.  I
followed, and stood near the back of the flight deck as Zoner strapped
himself into the pilot's seat and Meg took co-pilot.  I wasn't miffed;
she knew the aircraft a hell of a lot better than me or Zoner, so the
seating arrangement made sense.  I busied myself by finding a storage
locker and tucking my tiki mask into it.
	She gave him a quick run-down of the controls as she
remembered them, and Zoner's instincts took care of the rest.
	"This is a good instrument layout," he remarked.  "Very
intuitive, everything's well-marked and easy to reach.  Ahead of its
time."
	"Everything about us was ahead of its time," Meg replied, a
bit wistfully.
	Zoner called up a full diagnostic on the center video display
unit.  "Looks like they stored her ready to run.  Good, I was half
afraid they'd have formally mothballed her."
	"We didn't have a support staff," Meg explained, "so they
built her to be self-maintaining.  Automated systems keep her ready to
fly under pretty much any conditions."
	"Amazing," said Zoner.  "Howard Hughes would've loved that
system."
	"I think he invented it," said Meg.  "I know he was on the
project... "  She looked momentarily alarmed, then sheepish.  "Uh, you
weren't supposed to hear that."
	"My lips," said Zoner with a smirk, "are sealed.  Guess it's
time to see if she'll start up."
	"Shouldn't we open the hangar doors?" I wondered.
	"Hmm... y'know, that might be a good idea," Zoner replied.
	"Yeah... I'm new at this whole aeronautics thing, but I kinda
suspected that would be a useful thing to do."  I went back down the
ramp and surveyed the huge door at the front of the hangar, hoping
like hell I wouldn't have to open it by hand with a chain-fall or
something equally obnoxious.  But no, there was the power actuator
control, in the corner - a typical industrial-green metal box with a
green button and a red button.
	I hit the green button a half-second before I noticed the
security keypad in the shadows next to it, and a howling alarm
promptly filled the hangar.
	"Ahh, shit!" is a fair summation of my reaction.
	I ran back up the ramp.
	"What the hell happened?" Zoner asked.
	"I fucked up," I replied.  "The damn door control has a
security keypad next to it and I didn't see it until it was too late."
	"Shit!" Zoner growled, his fingers flying over the controls.
"Well, let's hope she's ready to roll in a hurry.  Think you can get
that door open?"
	"I'll try," I replied, and ran back to the control.  There
wasn't time to be clever with it, so I grabbed the conduit running
down the wall and into the keypad box and yanked it off.  The wires
sparked a bit, graciously identifying the live lead for me.  I took it
and its mate by the insulation, jammed them together, then hit the
green button again and hoped.
	Another siren joined its voice to the first, and a red
strobing light filled the hangar as the door began to open.  Still
holding the leads together, I looked around the corner as the door
swung up.  A few hundred yards down the flightline, I could see
headlights swerving out of the Building 9 garage, heading this way.  I
turned back and watched the door.  Behind me, Sky Dancer's engines
rumbled to life, and her flashing marker lights and whining engines
added to the visual and aural cacophony.
	Zoner slid one of the cockpit windows back - a feature not to
be found on the Concorde, I'd guess - and hollered, "That's good, we
can clear it now!"
	I let go of the leads - and to my dismay, the door started
closing again.
	"Ahh, shit!" I repeated, and pushed them back together.
	"What's wrong?" Zoner cried.
	"The goddamn door won't stay open unless I hold the leads!" I
shouted back.  "Go on, get going!  I'll find my own way out!"
	"Are you sure?" he replied.
	"Look, if you hang around, we'll -all- get caught, now get
moving!"
	He looked at me for a long second, then nodded and closed the
window.  Sky Dancer's engines spooled up from a whine to a shriek, and
she eased out of her place, rolling out onto the tarmac.
	The second her tail was clear, I let go of the leads and ran
like hell for the other end of the hangar.  There were a few crates
lying around the periphery of the space that had once held Sky Dancer,
but nothing big enough to hide among.  Under the howl of the alarm I
could hear the sirens of the approaching security vehicles, the squeal
of tires on tarmac as they stopped outside.  The door slammed down.
One piece of good fortune, anyway - they probably wouldn't be able to
open that one from outside now.
	I looked at the door we came in through, then immediately
disregarded it.  Air Police, or worse, would be coming through that
door any second now.  Struggling to keep calm, I looked around for
another escape.  Outside, I heard gunfire, then the roar of Sky
Dancer's engines as Zoner threw in the afterburners and took off.  It
occurred to me that they probably didn't know anyone had been left
behind.
	Then I spotted it - a manhole, no, more like a storm drain
grate, set in the middle of the hangar floor.  It must have been put
there to provide drainage in case aircraft were washed inside the
hangar or some such.  I didn't know if it would offer an escape route,
but at the very least, if I could get it open, it represented a place
to hide.  I knew there was no way it ran off base.  That only worked
in the movies, in real life they never did something as stupid as
running a drain tunnel to the outside world.  But I figured at least
it would give me a lead on the APs, and some distance from ground
zero.
	I was lifting the grate out of place when the door we came in
through opened, but only one man came in.  To my shock, it was even a
man I recognized, and as he spotted me, the same startled recognition
flowered in his own eyes.
	Captain William F. Guile, USAF.  Former test pilot, now a sort
of free-range security and intelligence agent attached to the Joint
Special Forces Command.  Charlie Nash's best friend - and a fellow
holder of the World Warrior ranking in the World Circuit Martial Arts
Tournament Series.  We'd met a couple of times on the circuit, fought
once back before either of us was a World Warrior.  He won.
	We stood there regarding each other for a few seconds, trying
to figure out what to do next; then Guile turned, leaned out of the
doorway, and told someone I couldn't see that the hangar was deserted
and that he'd secure it himself.  Then he stepped back inside, closed
the door, set the inside bolt lock, cracked a sardonic grin and spoke.
What he said wasn't exactly comforting.
	"Well, well," he said.  "You, my friend, are in serious
trouble."
	"Really."
	"Really," he replied.  "I've suspected you and Zoner weren't
all some of our intel people think you are ever since I found out you
use the same style as M. Bison.  Tell me, was it on his orders that
you came here to steal Sky Dancer?"
	"Don't be an idiot," I replied scornfully.  "I've never even
-met- M. Bison, and if I did I'd do my damnedest to take him down.
We're students of the same master, but we're not on the same path."
	"So why is it you're the one who's breached security at one of
the most tightly guarded places in the United States?  And by
impersonating an officer, too.  That's a serious offense in and of
itself."
	I shook my head.  "This is above your level, Guile.  It's not
your job to interfere with an operation you don't need to know about."
	"It -is- my job to enforce the security of this base," replied
Guile evenly.  "I don't care what you claim you're up to, it can't be
legitimate if it involves breaking into and out of Area 51."
	"You've got a lot of repressed feelings, don't you, Guile?" I
observed.  "Must be what keeps your hair up."
	"You aren't funny, bud," replied Guile, flat and humorless as
always.  I could see the uncertainty in his eyes, though.  He was
wavering... I just had to find the right key.
	I sighed.  "Don't be such a hardass, Guile!  This thing is
way over your bushy head, and if you take me in, when the paper
chase is over the only fingers pointing anywhere will be pointing at
-you-."
	"It's my job," he repeated, firmer. 
	"Ahh," I replied, gesturing dismissively.  "Do me a favor.
Show a fellow World Warrior some professional courtesy."
	Guile snorted.  "Some World Warrior.  You got into the bracket
by beating up on a teenage girl."
	"You've obviously never met Cammy," I replied.  "And while
we're on the subject, which of us was it that got his ass kicked by
Chun Li last month?"
	Guile flushed angrily.  "She's no girl," he said darkly.  "I'm
not 100% sure she's human."
	"You are -such- a paranoid," I replied.  "What is she, then, a
warrior android from the Hunan Galaxy?"
	"Forget it," Guile said.  "I was trying to make a joke."
	"Oh.  Y'know, it would help you get that message across if you
were to smile."
	"I'm on duty," replied Guile stolidly.
	"Of course."  I sighed.  "Look, I'm not going to just let you
take me in.  I've got things to do, and they don't include spending
time in the cooler at Area 51.  Frankly, the sooner I'm out of this
desert the happier I'll be."
	"You don't have any choice.  You're under arrest."
	I rolled my eyes.  "All right, fine.  If you want to handle
this like we're back in fifth grade, fine."  I took off my uniform
jacket and threw it aside, loosened my tie, rolled up my sleeves, and
stepped toward Guile, settling into a ready stance.  He narrowed his
eyes at me and readied himself as well.
	On the occasions I'd had to watch him fight, I'd formed the
opinion that Guile's style was mainly generic Special Forces training,
with a smattering of what looked like Muay Thai he'd picked up while
stationed out that way - that is to say, lots of knee and elbow
attacks, most of them cheap shots.  He was faster than me, but that's
not all that uncommon.  I was pretty confident I could handle him, as
long as I stayed clear of his elbows.
	He sidled toward me, fists up in a boxing guard, shoulders
rolling, and shot a jab at my face; I weaved a bit to the left and
launched a snap kick at his knees.  It didn't do much damage, but it
pushed him back a little bit; undaunted, he used the extra room for a
roundhouse kick.  I blocked it with a flared forearm, feinted, and
swung into a three-punch combo, left jab-right hook-left uppercut,
unloading the flare in my left fist on the uppercut.  All three
landed, and Guile stumbled back a step.
	"SONIC - BOOM!" he shouted, bringing his fists across in front
of him in a sweeping crossover that threw a dazzling arc of energy at
me.  Hmph.  Where'd he figure out how to do -that-?  Maybe they teach
it to everybody in the Joint Forces Task Group.
	I tried to jump over it, but a little too late; it caught me
in the ankles like a clothesline and hurled me to the tarmac
face-first.  I hadn't quite roused enough neurons to get up after that
when he thumped me in the middle of the back, which seized up my lungs
for a second and hurt like hell.  That was good; it made me mad, which
is the surest way I know of to clear out the cobwebs.  I scrambled
sideways to my feet and launched my double kick at him, left, right,
two solid hits, and it was -his- turn to sprawl.
	I was tempted to give him a good stomping while he was down
there, but I try to avoid doing stuff like that to anyone who hasn't
-really- ticked me off, and he hadn't earned it yet.  So I let him get
back to his feet in peace, and we more or less started over.  The
glint in his eyes had changed a little since we started.  I'd like to
think the new element I saw was respect, but it might also have been
annoyance.
	He came at me with a double-punch-and-knee combination which I
mostly avoided, taking the punches glancingly on my shoulders and
blocking the knee completely; while I was busy doing that, though, he
caught me in the side of the head with an elbow that almost dropped me
back to the ground.  I stumbled and he followed up by sweeping my feet
from under me; I fell face-first.
	Guile hadn't expected me to recover so fast, though; I caught
myself on my hands and turned the facefault into a handspring, and
brought my doubled fists down squarely on the top of his flattop
hairdo with a resounding KLONK that smacked his teeth together.  He
stumbled back a step, and I helped him back with a flat-palm to the
middle of his chest that knocked him over with a deep "whoof" of
out-knocked wind.
	He was a quick recoverer, too; he caught himself on one hand
and did a spiffy pommel-horse-like spin that was supposed to be a leg
sweep, except I saw it in time and jumped over it.  Then he was back
on his feet, then off them again as he came at me in a curious jumping
sideways spin kick that turned him, at one point, completely upside
down.  I got tagged pretty hard by that one, but it was worth it to
see him do it, the move was that neat.  I wobbled back a step, and
steadied my stance in time to see him hurl another Sonic Boom at me.
	I took one running step toward it, turned my back, then
drifted left with the little dance-step I'd learned from Cammy to add
to my spinning backfist, letting the Sonic Boom pass harmlessly by.
The backfist connected hard with his jaw, and was flared, to boot; the
impact lifted Guile completely off the ground and spun him halfway
around before dropping him heavily to the pavement on his side.  He
got to his feet, but a lot less snappily than before.  As I
approached, he dropped to a crouch, and the little alarm bells in the
back of my head started sounding.
	A little too late, I tried to Ler-slide inside his attack arc
and get in a few face shots.  Just as I did, he burst upward
from his crouch into his trademark flash kick, doing a complete
somersault and leaving a trail of dazzling energy behind his kicking
foot.  A few inches too far away, I was just at the perfect spot for
him to unload all that energy into me.  Time stuttered for a moment,
and I came back to myself maybe a half-second later, landing on my
back and turning completely over with the momentum.  He tried to
trounce me in the back again, but this time I rolled out of the way,
grabbed his arm, locked my legs around it and threw him.  Something
made a nasty crack, he sprawled, and when we both got to our feet, his
right arm was hanging.  I'd dislocated his shoulder.
	He didn't seem fazed by that; instead he moved in with a kick
series, battering at my guard and driving me back, then breaking
through my guard with one particularly good high kick.  I heard the
crack as my nose broke, and felt the warm gush of blood down the front
of my formerly white shirt.  Shaking the flashing lights out of my
vision and swallowing the pain, I tried to counter with a backfist,
but miscalculated his position and swung past him.  As I missed, Guile
tried to get a grip on me, the better to throw me, but I dug in my
feet (and my Ler) and stopped, then used an elbow strike to break his
one-handed grip.  I spun inside his guard, bringing one knee up under
his chin, and WHACK he was going up, over, and crashing to the ground
on his back.
	He brought up his feet, flexed, and managed to get to
something approaching a standing position in a sloppy kippup.  I
capitalized on this momentary lapse by landing another three-puncher;
it seemed to snap him to, and he actually did manage to suplex me
one-handed, which impressed me mightily.  I was too busy being
impressed to do very much about it, and ended up boosting the fiber in
my diet with the floor.
	I knew it was starting to go bad, but there wasn't much I
could do about it.  I hadn't come into this prepared to fight.  I was
tired, stiff from lurking around the desert for so long, hungry,
thirsty and in the wrong time zone.  My concentration was minimal and
my energy level poor.
	Bah.  I'm making excuses.  No doubt Rose would tell me that if
she were here.  The bottom line is that I proceeded to get my ass
completely, thoroughly, professionally kicked.  With Guile, one
mistake is all you get, and I'd made my second one.  It fell apart
quickly from there, and if I'd had time to think about it as
everything went dark I'd have wondered whether I would wake up under
guard in the base hospital, or just in the corner of a cell in the
stockade.
	When I awoke, I was momentarily confused to hear the
continuing sounds of a fight.  A quick check of my own current state -
lying on my back on cool concrete, dizzy and in a great deal of pain -
led me to conclude it wasn't -me- who was still fighting.  If not me,
though, who was it?  Maybe I was just hallucinating.  But no, as I
tried to concentrate on it, I had to believe I was really hearing it.
-Somebody- was doing some righteous ass-kicking.
	Convinced I was hearing it, I felt no great impulse to
investigate further.  Instead, I decided it would be best if I stayed
where I was, taking a small amount of comfort from the coolness of the
concrete floor.  It was really quite comfortable there.  Comfortable
enough that I wandered back out of consciousness again.
	When I came to the second time, someone was shaking my
shoulder and whispering.  It took me several seconds to put together
the basic fact that they were whispering to -me-, and a few more to
get the language they were speaking sorted.
	"Can you stand?" the voice was saying, softly, in a tone and
accent I found familiar.  "We've got to get out of here."
	I pried an eye open, winced at the pain as the light outside
invaded my skull, then tried, slightly successfully, to focus on the
person speaking to me.  I knew her, I was sure I knew her... a cute
little blue-eyed blonde with a forelock and braid, British Isles
accent, dressed in an Air Force uniform, yes?  Air Force?  Only woman
I know in the Air Force is a brunette.
	You idiot, it's Cammy.
	Oh!  So it is.
	"Hi," I said.
	"Hi," she replied.
	"Say," I declared, frowning suspiciously.  "You're supposed to
be in Scotland."
	"Little detour on my way home," she said, then repeated her
question: "Can you stand?"
	"I dunno," I replied honestly.  The punch-drunkness was
fading, I was becoming aware that my body was not, in fact, one solid
hurt, but rather a network of pain composed mainly of a badly bruised
shoulder, a headache the size of Texas and a broken nose, with
everything else registering a background-noise-level hum of aches and
soreness.  "I'll give it a shot."
	As I worked at remembering how to get all these aching parts
to work together as a whole and shambled to my feet, I became aware of
my surroundings in greater detail.  Cammy -was- dressed in an Air Force
uniform.  The hangar was still right where I'd left it.  The storm
drain was open.  The crumpled pile of USAF Air Police fatigues over by
the big crate marked 'Hamdingers' was Guile.  He looked like I felt.
Actually, he was still unconscious, so it's more accurate to say he
looked like I would rather have felt.
	"Hey," I observed.  "You beat up Guile."
	Cammy smiled a little as she briskly helped me on with my Air
Force uniform jacket.  "The job does have its fringe benefits from
time to time."
	"That wasn't a nice thing to say," I chided her as she guided
me toward the door.  OK, so maybe the punch-drunkness wasn't fading
all that fast.
	"I'll write him a letter of apology."
	"Well, that's OK, then."
	"Right, now just follow my lead and let me do the talking, and
we'll get out of here.  All right?"
	"Ten-four.  You look great in uniform, y'know."
	"Thank you.  Now hush."
	"Oki-doki."
	We'd limped, arms over shoulders, to the door by that time.
Shooting back the bolt, she shoved the door open, and we went right
out into the group of APs, who were still standing tensely around the
doorway, wondering what to do.  They'd set up a couple of bright
floodlamps, and I restrained an impulse to cringe and hiss,
vampire-style.
	"You lot, see to Captain Guile and start a search of the drain
and transport tunnels!" Cammy barked in an impressive voice of
command.  "I'll get Captain Hudson to the infirmary."
	I considered protesting that my name isn't Hudson, then
remembered that the tag on my uniform jacket said it was.  Who am I to
argue with the guys who make name tags for the Air Force?
	The APs didn't even think to argue.  Soldiers are trained to
obey authority.  Here was a woman in the uniform of a major in the
United States Air Force, a full-access visitor's pass clipped to her
lapel, confident, assured, supporting a badly battered fellow officer
and speaking with a tone of complete authority.  They did what
soldiers do: they obeyed their orders.  With much hustling and team
spirit, they went to see to Guile and start that tunnel search.
	Cammy and I, meanwhile, set off in what I would assume was the
direction of the infirmary.  As soon as we were out of sight of the
APs, she pushed me behind a dumpster - the same one, I realized, I'd
begun my evening hiding behind.  I hadn't noticed the black duffel bag
lying on the ground next to it.  Maybe it hadn't been there at the
time.
	"Not much time," she observed.  "We'll have to get you cleaned
up a bit, you'll draw too much attention looking like this.  Here, let
me set your nose for you.  We can't have it healing up all crooked,
can we?" she added with a grin.
	"No, I guess we can't," I replied, sitting down with my back
against the building wall.  She knelt before me, pulling
a first-aid kit from the duffel bag, and got out gauze and tape.
	"This will hurt a bit," she admitted, gingerly taking hold of
my battered snout.
	I didn't really have anything to say to that, so I shrugged,
and she straightened it.  I think it actually hurt more being fixed
than it had being broken; I let out a muted grunt as tears sprang to
my eyes.  Any trace of remaining daze vanished in the pain, which was
actually good.  I might be in pain, but at least now I was completely
lucid.
	"Sorry," said Cammy apologetically as she packed my rebleeding
nostrils with gauze and reinforced the bridge with tape.  "There, that
should do it," she said as she finished up.  "You should see a proper
doctor when you get home, but that will hold you for now."
	I blinked away the tears as the pain receded.  "Tch," Cammy
went on, shaking her head and getting out a large gauze pad.  "You
look a fright," she went on, wiping at the tear tracks and blood on my
face.  As she worked, she leaned closer, then closer still, and it
didn't occur to me that she was going to kiss me until our lips
actually met.
	Considerate of the fact that I couldn't breathe through my
nose, she kissed me gently and undemandingly.  Confused by the turn of
events, touched by her consideration, it took me a moment to respond,
but I quickly abandoned whatever plans I might have had for the
evening.  Her arms found their way around me as mine encircled her.
We'd kissed before, of course, but something about this moment - this
incongruous tenderness in the United States' most secret of secret
places - would be burned into my memory forever as one of the key
moments in our early relationship.
	It was a comfortable, unhurried sort of intimacy we felt.
There was no heavy breathing, no furtive fumbling with fasteners, no
sense of urgency - just a warm feeling of contentment.  As I had the
first day I knew her, I felt a little drunk with her nearness.
	"Cammy?" I murmured when I got an opening.
	"Mm?" she replied.
	"What are -you- doing here?"
	She chuckled, breath warm against my lips.  "I -was- here to
steal an aeroplane, but your lot seems to have carried it off before
I arrived."  Standing, she helped me up.  Now that I was starting to
feel like I lived in my body again, it wasn't as hard to stand up as
it had been last time.
	"Lose the shirt," said Cammy, her businesslike briskness
returning.  Obligingly, I removed my bloody dress shirt and tie and
consigned them to the dumpster.  "Put the jacket back on, for now,"
she continued.  "We're not out of here yet."
	Someone had considerately left a Humvee standing parked in
front of Building 10, so we took it.  We pulled up to the guard
station where Zoner, Meg and I had entered the base about a year ago.
	"Sorry, Major White," said the guard as Cammy presented her
ID.  "We're under lock-down.  There's been a major security problem -
someone's stolen one of the experimental aircraft.."
	"Don't I know it," said Cammy severely.  "We're going to have
another if you don't let me pass, soldier.  Captain Hudson here is the
only person on this base who knows the codes for that aircraft's
weapons security system, and if I don't get him to Cheyenne within the
evening, we're going to lose whatever chance we may have of getting it
back."
	The guard wavered.  "I haven't been informed of - "
	"Of course you haven't," said Cammy impatiently.  "This is a
national security matter, Airman.  That aircraft is equipped with
thermonuclear weapons, and if I don't get Captain Hudson to Cheyenne
in time to change those codes, whoever stole it might just decide to
use them.  They could be over Chicago in two hours, Washington in
three.  Do you want millions of deaths on your conscience?"
	"No, ma'am!" said the airman, saluting.  "You may pass!"
	"Thank you, Airman," said Cammy, and as the gate went up, she
returned his salute, then floored the accelerator.  I'm sure we made a
merry sight, bouncing away up that narrow desert road that leads to
one of the loneliest places on Earth.
	It wasn't until two hours later, as we were pulling into Las
Vegas in a BWM sedan and street clothes (the Humvee abandoned by
the side of the road an hour or more behind us), that I felt I could
finally get away with relaxing, letting out a deep breath, and saying,
	"I can't believe that worked."  As Cammy looked over,
grinning, I added, "Of course, now the Air Force thinks Zoner intends
to nuke a major city, but we didn't get shot, so I'm willing to call
it a moral victory."
	"Doesn't matter much," said Cammy.  "Even if they go on full
alert, they'll never be able to touch Sky Dancer.  What do you and
Zoner want with it, anyway?"
	I told her.
	"That's wild," said Cammy.  "Say - how soon is he expecting
you back?"
	"Well, he has to fly back out sometime tomorrow to pick up the
Prince, which is at the airport in Needles... we weren't really
expecting me to get left behind, so we don't have a contingency plan."
	"Well, look, why not let him head home on his own?  I've got
to go do a little business in San Francisco tomorrow and then I'm at
liberty for a week.  I -was- planning to head to Worcester and look
you up, but since you're here anyway, well... "  She smiled.  "Ever
been to San Francisco?"
	"Can't say as I have."  Is she inviting me to spend a week
with her in San Francisco?  Just the two of us?
	"Well, then, let's make a week of it," she said.  "Just the
two of us, and San Francisco."
	I guess she is.  Unfortunately... 
	"I'd love to, but I can't.  I have to get back as soon as I
can."
	"What for?"
	"Well, uh... I have a houseguest."
	By the time I finished that explanation, I was feeling
distinctly fuzzy around the edges; the length and excitement of the
day were taking their toll.
	"What are you going to do?" Cammy wondered, her face
thoughtful as she turned the Beemer onto the garish expanse of the
Strip.  "She can't stay with you forever."
	"No... I suppose not.  Although... "
	"What?"
	I started to reply, but it turned into a yawn.  "Sorry," I
said.  "Long day... "
	"No worry," said Cammy.  "Pick out a place to stay - we've no
shortage of choices."
	"How about that new place I read about a while back, the one
that's shaped like a pyramid... "
	"The Luxor?"  Cammy grinned.  "I thought that might appeal to
you.  The Luxor it is!"

	It is my distinct pleasure to inform you that, even if you
have been soundly and professionally beaten up, the beds at the Luxor
are of a high standard of comfort.  I was asleep within minutes.
	Respectfully submitted,
	--G.

			    END BATTLE 04