They needed a new angle. Literally.
"Front door's out," Duo whispered. "Back yard's a death trap. But look—" He pointed down the block. "The other side. Kitchen windows face that alley. And someone left a curtain open."
They crept along the side of the house, keeping low, moving between garbage cans and recycling bins like the professional infiltrators they absolutely were not. The alley smelled of rotten vegetables and cat urine—an improvement, Bill decided, over the general aroma of 1982 Brooklyn.
A window. Ground level. Kitchen. And through a gap in the cheap yellow curtains, a view directly into the domestic heart of the York residence.
Bill pressed his face to the glass.
Karen York stood at the kitchen counter. She was attractive in that particular way that screamed money and maintenance—perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect posture. Next to her, much too close for a routine house call, stood Dr. Hastings.
The man who was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not a Viking. Bill's brain supplied the emphasis automatically now.
Hastings' hand rested on the counter near hers. Not touching, but close. The kind of proximity that suggested intimacy without quite crossing a line. He leaned in to say something. She tilted her head, listening. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. She didn't move away.
Bill pulled back. "They're—they're doing that thing."
"What thing?" Duo whispered, jostling for position.
"The close thing. The not-touching-but-wanting-to-touch thing. I've seen it before, on base, when officers' spouses got too friendly with—" He stopped. "She's married to Counter-Dirk. And she's doing the close thing with Not-Viking."
Duo peeked. His eyebrows rose. "Well, well. House calls. And here I thought medicine was boring."
"What?"
"House calls. Doctor visiting. Making sure the patient is... comfortable." He waggled his eyebrows.
Bill stared at him. The meaning took a moment to penetrate. When it did, his face underwent several contortions. "You think—they're—with Counter-Dirk in the same house?"
"Counter-Dirk is in the front of the house. Kitchen's in the back. Big difference."
"I don't think that's how walls work."
"Walls are suggestions, Bill. Haven't you learned anything?"
Behind them, a noise.
Not loud. A soft thump, like something being set down. Then the rustle of clothing. Then—footsteps.
They turned.
Counter-Dirk stood five feet away, a bag of garbage in one hand, his expression frozen in the act of processing something his brain couldn't quite accept. Three strangers. Pressed against his kitchen window. In broad daylight.
His mouth opened.
Bill's mouth opened too. Nothing came out. His brain, never the fastest processor, scrambled for an explanation—any explanation—that would make this situation normal.
"Ship," he heard himself say. "Gumption. Crashed. We're looking for—" His hand waved vaguely at the sky. "Wreckage. Debris. You know. Ship stuff."
Counter-Dirk's gaze followed the gesture. Upward. Toward the empty blue sky where nothing flew, nothing crashed, nothing had ever happened.
It was the stupidest possible answer. It shouldn't have worked at all. But their opponent took the bait. And they immediately rushed forward.
Through the alley, around the corner, across a street, through someone's yard, over a fence, into a park. They ran until their lungs burned and their legs screamed and the York residence was nothing but a distant memory.
Bill collapsed onto a bench. "Did we—did we lose him?"
Splock sat beside him, breathing with the measured control of someone who refused to acknowledge physical exertion. "We appear to have evaded immediate pursuit. However, the fact of our observation has been established. Counter-Dirk now knows we are in this temporal vicinity. That significantly increases operational risk."
Duo dropped onto the bench on Bill's other side, grinning like a maniac. "I think it's great. Now we've got a friend in the house."
"A friend?" Bill wheezed. "He caught us peeking in his windows. That's not how you make friends."
"Sure it is. Neighborly interest. Community watch. We're concerned citizens."
"He knows me, Duo. From the Counter-Gumption. From the antelope prods and the cauldron of fried chewing gum. He's not going to forget that."
Splock raised a hand. "Before we continue this debate, I have something to show you."
He pulled out his tablet—the same device he'd used to intercept Earth's primitive electromagnetic signals. His fingers moved across its surface. The screen flickered, then resolved into an image.
A living room. Modestly furnished. Expensive couch. Coffee table with magazines. And on the floor, Delia York sat with Ryder the dog.
The picture was slightly fisheye, slightly grainy—clearly from a concealed lens.
Bill stared. "Is that—did you—"
"I deployed a microsurveillance unit while we were at the window," Splock said calmly. "Adhered to the frame. Passive power. Undetectable by contemporary technology."
"When? I didn't see you do anything."
"You were preoccupied with the kitchen tableau. It was a simple deployment."
On the screen, Delia was absorbed in her new companion. Ryder sat before her, tongue hanging, drool pooling on the expensive carpet. Every few seconds, the dog would lean forward and lick her face with the enthusiasm of something that had found its life's purpose. Delia giggled and pushed him away, but always pulled him back.
"She actually likes that thing," Duo observed.
"Children form attachments to unlikely creatures," Splock said. "It is a documented phenomenon."
The kitchen door opened. Dr. Hastings emerged, adjusting his sleeve. Behind him, briefly visible, Karen York stood with an expression that suggested she was composing herself. Slightly flushed. Slightly awkward. The look of someone who'd been caught doing something she shouldn't, even if no one was catching.
Hastings walked through the living room. His path took him past the dog.
He stopped.
His gaze fell on Ryder. Held. Something flickered in those too-smooth eyes—a microexpression that might have been recognition, might have been calculation, might have been something else entirely. The dog looked back at him. Drooled. Scratched.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Hastings continued toward the front door. His foot came down—
Directly on the window frame where Splock's bug was hidden.
The screen went black.
Duo swore. A long, complicated string of words in at least four languages.
Splock's ears flattened. His expression remained neutral, but something in his posture suggested deep, personal offense. "He stepped on it."
"Accidentally?" Bill asked.
Splock considered. "The probability of a random foot placement precisely on a one-centimeter surveillance device is approximately one in seventeen thousand. The probability of deliberate targeting given his earlier reaction to the canine—" He paused. "Insufficient data."
"Your bug got stepped on." Bill's voice cracked. He was trying not to laugh. Failing. "The great Splock. Master of logic. Prince of surveillance. Brought down by a shoe."
"It was a calculated deployment."
"He stepped on it. Just—crunch. Game over."
"The loss of one monitoring unit does not constitute mission failure."
"No, no, it's beautiful." Bill was openly laughing now. "This is the guy who gave me lectures. Hours of lectures. Thurlow-Yonce methodology. Jenkins Correlation. Farthingale Protocols. And a guy with a robot foot just—squish."
Splock's ears twitched. "Your amusement is noted and will be filed appropriately."
"File it under 'Reasons Bill Is Never Letting This Go.'"
Duo leaned back on the bench, grinning at the sky. "So we're zero for three. Lost one Disruptor to a toddler. Lost surveillance to a shoe. And Counter-Dirk knows we're here."
"That summarizes our current status accurately," Splock admitted.
Bill wiped his eyes. "And this is the guy who wrote academic articles about surveillance."
"I did not write articles. I delivered lectures. They were well-received."
"By who? People who'd never seen a shoe?"
Realizing his question would remain unanswered, Bill began furiously wiping at the stain on his sleeve. It had dried now, a small white spot against the olive-drab fabric that seemed to glow with its own accusatory light. Every time he looked at it, he heard the toddler's gurgle of contempt.
"You know," Ham Duo said, nudging him with an elbow, "you could think of that as a medal. A badge of honor. The first space trooper in history to be spat on by a potential Antichrist vessel. That's got to count for something."
"It counts as an insult to the uniform."
"The uniform's had worse. Look at that tear from the fence. And that stain from—what was that, garbage juice?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"No, no, this is character building. In twenty years, you'll look back on this and—"
A flicker of light caught Duo's eye. He turned.
A television set stood in the corner of the park. Not on a bench or a table—just standing there, plugged into nothing, its cord trailing away into grass that showed no sign of an outlet. It flickered to life.
On the screen, a city burned. Skyscrapers toppled. Tanks fired uselessly at something enormous, something scaly, something with teeth the size of cars and a roar that shook the speakers.
A giant lizard. Crushing buildings. Breathing fire. Eating people who were too slow to run.
Bill was on his feet instantly. "Chingers! They're here! They've—they've grown! They've figured out how to—" He grabbed Splock's arm. "How big do Chingers get? I thought they were seven inches! That thing is seven hundred feet!"
Splock's ears were flat against his head. His complexion had taken on a distinctly pale cast. "That is not a Chinger. Chingers are reptilian but they do not—they cannot—the scale is wrong. The biology is—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Unless the Alien Historian has accessed the Mesozoic era. Retrieved a specimen. Brought it forward. Modified it."
"A dinosaur," Duo breathed. "He's got a dinosaur."
"Possibly. The temporal mechanics would be complex but not impossible. The energy requirements alone—"
"If we have to fight that thing," Duo said, "I want to formally state that I am not qualified. My skills are in infiltration, theft, and occasionally piano. Giant lizard combat was not in the job description."
Bill wasn't listening. He was pacing, muttering, gesturing at the screen. "I knew it. I knew the lizards were trouble. First the seven-inch ones, now this. It's a conspiracy. It's always been a conspiracy. They're probably related. Distant cousins. The little ones spy for the big ones. The big ones—"
He stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
"Wait."
Duo looked at him. "Wait what?"
"That thing." Bill pointed at the television. "Where did it come from? How is it plugged in? What's it doing in the middle of a park?"
The question hung in the air.
And then the world answered.
A spotlight snapped on. Not a small one—a massive, theatrical searchlight, the kind used for movie premieres or prison escapes. It blazed directly into their faces, blinding them, even though the afternoon sun was still bright overhead.
Bill threw up an arm. "What the—where is that coming from? There's nothing there!"
But there was something there.
A figure emerged from behind the light. Tall. Well-built. Moving with that too-smooth, too-fluid grace that they'd seen before.
Dr. Hastings.
His neck elongated as he walked, then retracted, then elongated again—a nervous tic or a deliberate display, it was impossible to tell. The servos whirred with each movement.
In his hands, he carried two Disruptors.
Bill recognized his immediately. The scuffs from the banana peel. The faint discoloration where fruit residue had marred the casing. And—was that a spit stain? Right next to the F1 key?
The other Disruptor was Splock's. It looked worse. Crumbs clung to its surface—cookie crumbs, Bill's nose told him. And something else. A smudge. Reddish. Waxy.
Lipstick.
Ham Duo squinted at it. Then his face split into a grin.
"Well, well, well," he said. "Look at that. The toddler's got a crush. Lipstick on the Disruptor. She's marking her territory. Very romantic. Very 'I would kiss the sand you walked on.'"
Bill stared at him. "What?"
"Old Earth expression. Lovers say things like that. 'I would kiss the ground you walk on.' She kissed the Disruptor. She kissed his Disruptor." Duo pointed at Splock. "The three-year-old is in love with pointy-ears. This is the best mission ever."
Splock's ears twitched violently. "That is not—the residue could be from any number of sources. Lipstick is not definitive proof of—"
"It's proof," Duo insisted. "She stole it, she kissed it, she kept it under her pillow. She's going to marry you when she grows up."
"Children do not marry strangers they have met once."
"You don't know that. You don't know anything about love. You're from Fortinbras."
Splock opened his mouth to argue, but Hastings chose that moment to speak.
His voice was... wrong.
What came out was not quite a voice.
"—love!" said a baritone, slightly warbled, backed by synthesizers that sounded like children's toys being fed through a malfunctioning blender.
Hastings frowned. Adjusted something in his throat.
"What's the..." Another fragment, spoken by the same voice. Synthesizers swelled. A beat tried to establish itself.
He cleared his throat—a sound like gravel being fed through a woodchipper.
"I have come..." he suddenly began in a deep bass voice, completely unlike the baritone that had preceded him.
"—not sure, you see..." he sang again in the same voice, accompanied by synthesizers.
Hastings' eye twitched. He slapped the side of his own neck. The whirring intensified.
"To destroy you," he muttered in a bass voice.
"I've never..." the baritone countered.
Bill blinked. "Did he just—"
"Shh." Duo held up a hand. "He's monologuing. Let him monologue."
Hastings continued speaking, apparently unaware that his voice was distorting, becoming either a bass or a baritone with the musical background. "The child is... what's the... secure. The Disruptors are... not sure, you see... mine now. You have no hope of—"
The voice cut out. A burst of static. Then, clearly, a full musical phrase:
"Pam-param-pam-pam... The meaning of..."
Hastings looked down at himself, confused. He tapped his throat. The music stopped. Resumed. Stopped again.
"Technical difficulties," he said, his voice almost normal for a moment. Then: "I've never..."
"LOOOOOVE!" The final fragment boomed across the park, accompanied by a triumphant arpeggio of bubblegum synth.
Bill had heard enough.
"That's it," he announced. "I've had it. I've been chased, arrested, court-martialed, spit on, and I've had it with this guy. I've had it with his neck, I've had it with his not-Vikingness, I've had it with his stupid voice that can't decide if it's talking or singing." He took a step forward. "I'm going to—"
Hastings laughed.
It was not a good laugh. It was the kind of laugh that villains in bad movies attempt when they want to seem menacing but only succeed in sounding like they have respiratory problems. It went "Mwa ha ha" but with a glitch in the middle that turned it into "Mwa—(what's the...)—ha ha."
While he was laughing, Splock began to move. Slowly. Incrementally. Edging around the side of the bench, trying to get closer.
Hastings noticed.
His neck extended six inches in Splock's direction. His eyes tracked the movement with mechanical precision. And without looking away from the creeping Nocturnian, his thumbs pressed both F1 keys simultaneously.
The air began to shimmer.
"No no no no—" Bill lunged forward.
He grabbed Hastings' arm—the one holding Bill's own Disruptor—and yanked with all the strength the Space Troopers had beaten into him during basic training.
Something tore.
Not flesh. Not exactly. It was more like the sound of very expensive tailoring giving way under extreme stress. A piece of Hastings' forearm peeled back, revealing what lay beneath.
Metal tendons. Fiber-optic filaments. And there, nestled among the circuitry, a row of vacuum tubes that glowed with warm amber light—the kind Bill's grandfather had told him about, from the before-times, when machines were big and slow and needed to warm up before they worked.
Hastings looked at his exposed arm. His face registered something that might have been annoyance. The same expression a person might wear when they discover a tear in their favorite jacket.
He opened his mouth to speak.
Nothing came out. Just static. A faint whine. Then—
"—pam-param-pam-pam, the meaning of..."
His vocal circuits had given up entirely.
Bill stared at the glowing tubes, the sparking wires, the whole impossible anatomy of a creature that was not a Viking, was not a doctor, was not anything they had ever encountered.
"Bill!" Duo screamed. "Let go! The vortex—"
Bill looked up. The air around them was twisting, folding, becoming something else. He was still holding Hastings' arm. Still gripping the exposed metal and glass.
He let go.
Too late.
The temporal vortex grabbed them all—Bill, Splock, Duo—and yanked them skyward. The park dissolved. The city dissolved. Hastings' annoyed face dissolved into a swirl of color and noise.
A second passed. Or five years. Temporal physics was never Bill's strong suit.
They hit the ground hard—a tangle of limbs, torn foliage, and muttered curses. Bill's face planted directly into a rhododendron bush, and his first instinct, honed by years of military survival training, was to eat whatever was in his mouth.
He chewed.
Leaves. Dirt. Something that crunched and tasted vaguely of fertilizer.
Ham Duo extracted himself from a rose bush with remarkable dignity for a man who now had thorns in places thorns should never go. He patted his pockets. His Disruptor was still there. He breathed a sigh of relief that turned into a grumble.
"That not-Viking has some nerve," he muttered, brushing leaves from his shoulders. "Using my own equipment against me. Equipment I built. With my own hands. With molybdenum I had to bribe three different spaceport officials to get. Do you know how hard it is to find grade-four molybdenum in this quadrant? And he just—" He made a vague gesture. "—presses buttons. Like he owns the place."
Splock was already on his feet, meticulously removing invisible dust from his jumpsuit. His tablet emerged from an interior pocket. He tapped it. A shrill electronic ticking filled the air—the kind of noise designed to be annoying, the kind that made you want to throw the device into the nearest body of water.
"We have ninety minutes," Splock announced.
Bill spat out a mouthful of vegetation. "What? Ninety minutes until what?"
"Until the temporal window closes. Until the Galaxy stops waiting for us to solve its problems. Until—" He paused, consulting his tablet. "Until we run out of time. Approximately."
Ham Duo stared at him. "Since when do you do deadlines? You're the guy who takes three hours to explain why you're going to take five minutes to do something. What happened to 'logical progression of events'? What happened to 'the mission proceeds at its own pace'?"
Splock's ears twitched. "I have conducted an empirical analysis of heroic narratives across seventeen galaxies. The data is conclusive: good triumphs only when operating under a clearly defined temporal constraint. Without a deadline, heroes meander. They explore subplots. They develop feelings for local inhabitants. They—" He glanced at Bill. "—eat shrubbery."
"That's not—" Bill started.
"Additionally," Splock continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, "we have arrived in 1990. The final year of the decade. The climax of the Historian's timetable. It seemed... appropriate to impose a structure that reflects the cultural milieu. Ninety minutes. A dramatic limit. A countdown." He paused. "I thought it was funny."
Bill's face went through several colors. "You—you gave us a deadline because you thought it would be funny?"
"The comedic potential of a ticking clock is well-established in narrative theory."
"You pointy-eared bastard! We're running through time and space, being chased by not-Vikings and toddler pickpockets, and you're—you're doing bits?"
"I prefer to think of it as enhancing the dramatic structure."
Bill lunged for him. Duo caught his arm.
"Easy, soldier. He's right about one thing—1990 is here. Look."
He pointed. Beyond the hedge, the York house stood exactly as they remembered it. But the details had changed. The lawn was immaculate—perfectly trimmed, geometrically precise, the kind of grass that looked like it had been measured with calipers.
Bill forgot his anger for a moment. "Who does the gardening in this family? Counter-Dirk? The not-Viking? Because that's not normal lawn care. That's obsessive. That's—"
A gust of wind whipped past them. A newspaper, caught in some urban current, sailed over the hedge and smacked against the fence. It hung there, flapping, its front page visible to all.
The headline screamed:
"TALKING BEAR ELUDES POLICE FOR EIGHT YEARS!"
Below it, a blurry photograph showed a familiar furry figure racing across the Brooklyn Bridge, one paw raised in what might have been a wave or might have been a rude gesture—it was impossible to tell at that resolution.
Ham Duo stared at the image. A slow grin spread across his face.
"Chewgumma," he breathed. "He's alive. He's—" He squinted at the photo. "He's having the time of his life, by the look of it."
Splock examined the paper. "Dated three months ago. The trail is cold. And—" His ears flattened. "This is problematic."
He pointed at the streetlight beside them. And the one across the street. And the fence. And the garbage can.
Campaign posters covered everything.
"GENE YORK — YOUR MAN IN WASHINGTON!" the signs proclaimed, accompanied by a professionally airbrushed image of Counter-Dirk smiling in a way that suggested he had never tortured anyone in his life. His teeth were too white. His suit was too perfect. Everything about the image screamed politician in a language that transcended species.
Bill's face darkened.
He stared at the posters. At that smile. At that suit. At the sheer, overwhelming confidence of the man who had once threatened him with antelope prods and a cauldron of fried chewing gum.
His fists clenched.
His breathing quickened.
His jaw tightened until his teeth creaked.
"That," he hissed, "is a class enemy."
Splock blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Look at him! Posing there! Pretending to be one of the people! He's a lawyer! He's rich! He probably owns—" Bill gestured wildly at the neighborhood, "—multiple suits! And he wants to go to Washington? Washington is where the government is! The people who make the rules that keep people like him on top and people like me—" He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "—chewing leaves in bushes!"
Duo exchanged a glance with Splock. "Is he okay?"
"Class rage," Splock observed. "A common emotional response among agrarian societies encountering political propaganda. His home planet, Phigerinadon II, has a history of aristocratic oppression. The posters are triggering a conditioned response."
"I know what it is! I'm from a farm!" Bill was pacing now, still staring at the posters. "My mother wrote me letters! On edible paper! One of them turned into a VOTE FOR HONEST DEER banner when I put it in soup! I had to eat cardboard because she bought the cheap kind! And this guy—" He pointed at Gene York's perfect smile. "This guy probably has custom stationery!"
Duo squinted at him. "You're mad about stationery?"
"I'm mad about injustice! About the system! About—" He stopped. Looked at the poster again. His expression shifted.
"You know what?" he said quietly. "I'm going to eat this."
He grabbed the poster and tore it off the lamppost. He folded it carefully. Then he bit into it.
Paper. Ink. The faint chemical taste of 1990s printing technology.
He chewed.
Swallowed.
"It's not even good cardboard," he said sadly. "Mother would be ashamed."
Duo watched this display with the fascination of a naturalist observing a rare species. "You know," he said, "you react to political advertising like a bull to a red flag. It's almost beautiful."
"Shut up."
"No, I mean it. Very passionate. Very—" He searched for the right word. "—feral. But I have to admit, these posters are tacky. Really tacky. The only thing I've seen that competes with them is—" He paused, a memory surfacing. "There was this planet. Can't remember the name. But they had this neon billboard. Huge. Blinking. It said 'DUKE NUKEM MUST DIE!' in letters ten feet high. Stayed up for years. No one ever explained what Duke Nukem did to deserve it."
Bill stopped chewing. "Who's Duke Nukem?"
"Some guy. Super-agent type. Fought aliens. Lot of lizards, now that I think about it. Big guns. Big muscles. Always had a one-liner ready." Duo looked Bill up and down. "Come to think of it, he looked a bit like you."
Bill straightened. "Really?"
"Same build. Same general attitude. Same—" Duo paused, choosing his words carefully. "—unfortunate relationship with extraterrestrial reptiles."
"Unfortunate relationship?"
"Well, you know. The Chingers. The alligator foot. The—" He gestured vaguely at Bill's left arm. "The hand situation."
Bill looked down at his hands. His right hand. His other right hand. The one that was supposed to be a left hand but had never quite gotten the memo.
"At least he had two normal hands," Duo added cheerfully. "And I don't think he ever had foot problems. Definitely never grew an alligator foot. Probably never got court-martialed either."
Bill looked at the crumpled poster in his hands. At the perfect smile of Gene York. At his own mismatched limbs.
"I hate this century," he said.
A flash of movement caught their attention. The front door of the York residence burst open, and a small tornado erupted onto the lawn.
Delia.
Eight years old now, all gangly limbs and dark hair that cascaded past her shoulders like a waterfall of ink. Her dress was—there was no polite word for it—alarmingly short for a child her age. Red. Frilly. The kind of garment that would have caused Bill's mother to reach for a shawl and a wooden spoon.
In her arms, she carried a bundle. A baby. Pink-cheeked, bald, blowing spit bubbles with the enthusiastic concentration of someone who had recently discovered this new hobby.
Alexander.
The child destined to be... something. Bill still wasn't clear on the theology.
Delia's eyes found Splock immediately. They widened. Her lips curved into a smile that no eight-year-old should have been able to produce—a smile that suggested experience, knowledge, and intentions that would have made a prison warder uncomfortable.
She drifted toward the fence. Her hips moved in a way that hips should not move at that age. It was deeply, profoundly wrong.
"Oh," she said, her voice carrying notes that belonged in a smoky lounge rather than a suburban lawn. "You have such interesting ears. Are they real? Can I touch them?"
Splock took a step backward. His ears flattened against his head—a defensive posture.
"That would be inappropriate," he said. "I am a Fortinbrasian. My ears are sensory organs. They are not for tactile examination by minors."
"Ooh, a sensory organ." Delia's eyes sparkled. "What do they sense? Can they sense... me?"
Ham Duo made a sound like a dying engine. He had one hand clamped over his mouth, and tears were streaming down his face. He elbowed Bill in the ribs.
"She's got a type," he wheezed. "Pointy-eared. Logical. Emotionally unavailable. This kid's gonna be trouble when she grows up."
Bill shushed him, but he was grinning too. The little monster who had spit on him, who had stolen Splock's Disruptor and kissed it, was now trying to seduce the same target. It was cosmic justice.
His gaze drifted to the baby.
Alexander gurgled. His face—impossibly young, impossibly innocent—creased into a wide, toothless grin. Tiny hands reached out toward Bill, grasping at the air, making grabby motions that bypassed all rational thought and went straight for something primal in Bill's hindbrain.
"Oh," Bill breathed. "Oh, look at him. Look at the little—he's so—"
He reached toward the fence, toward the baby, his expression melting into something unrecognizable.
Splock's voice cut through the moment. "Bill. You are experiencing a biochemical reaction designed to ensure the survival of offspring. Human infants are genetically programmed to trigger protective responses in adults. This does not indicate that the infant in question is benevolent, nor does it negate its potential role as an eschatological figure."
Bill wasn't listening. "He smiled at me. A real smile. Look at those tiny fingers."
"He could be smiling because he recognizes you as a future obstacle to his rise. Infant expressions are not reliable indicators of moral alignment."
"He's making bubbles. Cute bubbles."
"Saliva mixed with swallowed air. A purely mechanical process."
"You're a robot," Bill muttered. "You have no soul."
"I am a Fortinbrasian. There is a difference."
"Could've fooled me."
Delia, apparently deciding that Splock was a lost cause, shifted her attention. She moved closer to Bill—too close, invading personal space with the confidence of a born manipulator. Her head tilted. Her eyes went wide and innocent.
"Do you like children, mister?" she asked.
Bill's face went red. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I—that is—I'm a Galactic Hero. I don't have time for—I mean, children are fine, I suppose, but—"
Behind him, Duo was making gestures. Obscene ones. The kind that suggested Bill was about to be arrested for thoughtcrime.
"A likely story," Delia purred. Or tried to purr. It came out slightly garbled, as if she'd heard the concept described but never actually heard a cat.
"Delia!" A woman's voice cut across the lawn. Karen York stood on the porch, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "Inside. Now."
Delia's face flickered—a momentary loss of control, a flash of the child beneath the mask. Then she smiled, turned, and walked toward the house. At the door, she paused. Looked back. Winked at Splock.
The door closed.
Splock made a note on his tablet. "Subject exhibits signs of premature sexual maturation combined with what appears to be a predatory instinct. This may be a side effect of the embryo's presence, or a deliberate modification by the Historian. Further observation required."
Bill wiped his forehead. "That kid is terrifying."
"You just said she was cute."
"I said the baby was cute. Not her. Her I want to put in a box and launch into space."