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I used to really enjoy EARTH: FINAL CONFLICT. At its best, it always reminded me of the Cadbury's Caramilk aliens crossed with CHARIOTS OF THE GODS, just an overall fun, kinda cheap-looking, but always entertaining show with a bit of titillating mystery about it. Alas, it all went downhill in later seasons and I quit watching; however, I still have this fanfic to remind me of the way the series used to be and of how I felt about it. My ideas reference the nature of the Taelons are longer valid, obviously, but I still think I did a pretty good job of capturing that certain endearing ludicrous quality the show had back then. I believe I'm also pretty safe in stating that the following is the only E:FC/figure skating crossover story you're ever going to read...



THIN ICE

(a first-season EARTH: FINAL CONFLICT fan story written after watching the episode 'The Secret of Strandhill' AND Canada's National Figure Skating Championships...uh oh...)

Disclaimer: All those opinions expressed within this story are those of the respective characters, not the author.

"Commander Boone. Your counsel, please."

A simple request, softly voiced, gently phrased, yet imperious despite all that. It penetrated easily into the front reception office where its intended recipient, one William Boone, was engaged in mindless busywork at the computer with his fellow implant, Ronald Sandoval. The busywork had been Sandoval's idea. Boone would much rather have been back in his own office, doing something--anything--a tad more useful than reviewing old files which he personally considered outdated beyond belief. But that was Sandoval for you, anal to the core. The request thus resonated as sheer music in Boone's ear, an excellent and most welcome excuse to set aside his numbing chore, if only for a few blessed moments.

Boone strode down a short passageway and entered the chamber at its end. A Taelon chamber. Da'an's home. Or at least what the alien Companion most often used as a residence during his tenure on Earth. Da'an himself was presently seated in his usual resting area and was watching television. Being Taelon, this meant that he was viewing some two dozen screens concurrently, flickering as a ghostly grid in what appeared to be midair, but it was recognizable couch potato behaviour nonetheless and Da'an's occasional predilection for the activity always struck Boone as seeming rather...well...endearing. It was such a mundane, such a human pastime. And the opportunity to observe human behaviour was just what Boone suspected most drew Da'an's interest in the medium.

His interest on this day was uncommonly focused. Every screen showed the same image, that of a man in flamboyant clothing ice skating. Boone waited patiently. Anything to interrupt his work with Sandoval...

"Commander, what is this?" Da'an asked, gesturing at the multiple image.

Boone was a little surprised. Companion attendance was often requested for the opening ceremonies of major sporting events. Da'an himself had been scheduled for the World Friendship Games just past and Boone knew that the Taelon had well familiarized himself with every aspect of that bombastic, overbloated spectacle. But ice skating...a winter thing, right? Perhaps Da'an simply hadn't gotten around to that season's sports offerings yet.

"Ice--no, figure skating." Boone, no fan, struggled for facts. "You skate a routine to music. It's like floor gymnastics. Sort of."

"This skater is using Taelon music," Da'an informed him, and Boone, ex-cop that he was, belatedly realized with some embarrassment that it was true: the guy was hopping around to the wailing alien tonals that passed for easy listening in Taelon circles and more than a few human ones. Personally, Boone thought that the stuff sounded like somebody'd snoozed off on a keyboard, but who was he to judge? Ditto the skating guy, who looked like a secret fruit if ever he'd seen one.

Da'an, whose own sexuality was undeterminative at best, no doubt saw things rather differently. He continued to watch with great absorption, never taking his gaze away from the screens, yet letting Boone know he expected more with a slight tilt of his head. Boone searched his own memories frantically. Surely he knew something more about figure skating, had at least glanced at a telecast or a photo at some time in his past. His mind's CVI enhancements isolated a piece of footage. Oh yeah...Katarina Witt. He'd taken note of her because she seemed to be the only female skater around at the time who had boobs. He'd made the mistake of expressing this observation to his then-wife and she'd smacked him a good one upside the head. Not quite the sort of factoid Da'an was likely wanting, however. Oh...wait...the guy's routine was over. Marks were coming up. Ah--!

"This must be a professional competition," Boone offered. "The routines are marked by a panel of judges out of a possible score of ten, one set for technical merit, the second for artistic impression."

"His routine seems to have garnered favour."

"Yeah... Oh, hey!"

Favour was an understatement. The guy got perfect tens across the board, in both categories.

Da'an, still watching, appeared satisfied.



A few days later, William Boone found himself with time enough on his hands to chance a quick visit with the good folks at the Resistance cell he belonged to. His regular shuttle pilot, friend, and fellow sympathizer, Lili Marquette, went with him. Boone, always conscious of the thin edge he trod during his day to day dealings with Taelons and humans alike, happily relaxed the moment he stepped inside the Resistance headquarters. Marquette, however, normally under less daily scrutiny than he but a tenser person by nature, remained oddly jumpy; Boone guessed that she'd been having words again with the Resistance head, Doors, and didn't want to see him. To try and help put her at ease, Boone told her about Da'an watching the figure skating as they were helping themselves to coffee.

"Figure skating?" Marquette's face expressed disbelief, just as Boone had suspected it would. "Why would he want to watch that?"

"Dunno. Maybe 'cause one of the men was using Taelon music for background. He was pretty good. Got top marks."

"God, why not professional wrestling while he's at it," Marquette muttered further, making her own opinion of the Companion's viewing choice crystal clear, and Boone laughed. It was pretty funny, about on the same level, he thought, as Da'an suddenly becoming enamoured of velvet paintings or plastic scenic placemats as must-have decor. Thinking about the velvet paintings reminded him of something else and he laughed again.

"Elvis," he exclaimed. "The guy's name was Elvis something."

Marquette eyed him over the rim of her coffee mug as she sipped.

"You're joking."

"No, serious. Wait, it was Elvis...Elvis..."

"Aloha?" finished a new voice, and the two turned to witness the welcome appearance of one Dr. Julianne Belman. She offered a hand in greeting, then patted Marquette's shoulder, beaming a kind smile all the while, one of those rare people who could project an air of total professionalism and warm compassion, both at the same time. "Now what's all this about Elvis?" she continued. "Were you watching that rerun of his Hawaii special, too?"

"Actually, we're talking about some Elvis who skates--" began Boone, but was startled into silence by the doctor's instant, extreme response.

"Stojko!" she cried joyfully, her smile now brilliant. "Elvis Stojko! Oh! Wasn't he wonderful last week? And that spin combo he did at the end, it went on forever!"

She gushed on and Marquette and Boone, a bit flabbergasted, gawped at her. It took another minute or so before they could get a word in edgewise and confess that they weren't really fans or at all familiar with the performer in question. Belman received their admission with disappointment.

"I thought everyone knew Elvis Stojko. He's only the finest professional skater that's ever lived," she said, sniffing a bit.

"We-ll, maybe so," said Boone. "It's just not something I follow. The only reason I brought him up is because Da'an was watching him on television last week and I thought it was kind of funny."

"Funny?" Belman echoed, giving him a look. She paused for a moment, her expression growing more thoughtful. "Really, it's not funny at all, or surprising. Stojko has spoken out publicly in support of the Taelons many times. He credits them with saving his career."

"Figure skaters have careers?" Marquette murmured. Boone dug an elbow into her arm; he wanted to hear more. Luckily, Belman did not seem to have overheard Marquette's snide remark and obliged him.

"Elvis is--was--Canada's top male skater for years," she went on sadly. "He won everything--World's, the Championship Series, the Americas Cup--but he couldn't win at the Olympics. Four times he tried, seriously tried, and four times he got beaten out for gold by only a few artistic points. After the last time, Canada told him he was too old and wouldn't send him anymore. It broke his heart. He quit, just quit. Wouldn't do tours, never went pro, nothing. There were rumours that he became severely depressed and got into drugs for a while... ("That's a bummer," Marquette remarked, with a straight face, and Boone kicked her shin.) ...but nothing was ever confirmed. And then..."

Her listeners could almost see the starburst go off above her head. Her whole demeanour ignited with sudden empathic jubilation.

"The Taelons came! And once they were established, Elvis discovered their music and it inspired him so much that he began skating again. It brought out his true artistry, what he was fully capable of, for the first time, he says, and the rest, of course, is history. So that's why I'm not surprised that Da'an watched him. Every performance he does now, he dedicates to the Taelons."

Naive twit, Boone thought, but was he said aloud was, "That's quite the story, Doctor Belman. How come you know all this?" At which point the respected, distinguished doctor, oft consulted by medical peers and luminaries, human and alien, began gushing again.

"Oh, I've followed figure skating for years. I just love it. And I always try to get to a couple of the big competitions and shows every season."

Marquette, still staring, asked, "You spend actual money to see this?"



Belman's words came back to haunt Boone after all. He'd filed her information away in his mind in case Da'an should ever want it, nothing more came of it, the whole silly business seemed to fade away. A month went by. Stuff happened. No one had time to watch television. Then one day Boone arrived at Da'an's home and found the Taelon again immersed in a private perusal of you-know-who. Elvis on ice. Clad this time in some frothy pastel blue number that made him look like a birthday cake and once again skating to something Totally Taelon.

Boone hung back and watched Da'an watching Elvis. The Companion was no doubt enjoying the performance, but it was hard to judge just how much he was enjoying it. Taelon emotions could be subtle, muted almost beyond detection, and Da'an seemed among the most serene and gentle of his kind. Even after months of close observation, Boone still found it difficult to assess his mood and impossible to guess what he was thinking. All that was left was the direct approach. Boone sighed and edged forward until he was standing close to the seated Companion's side.

"That Elvis guy again," Boone remarked.

"Yes," Da'an replied in his measured, almost dulcet tones. There was a long pause, then he added, "He interprets our music...most beautifully."

Boone suppressed a start and rolled one eye to surreptitiously study the Companion's face. Was that a smitten look? Could a Taelon even be smitten? If so, surely not by some measly human in flowing pyjamas! To add to Boone's unease, Sandoval chose that moment to make his own entrance, frowning the second he determined what it was Da'an was watching onscreen. He shot Boone a sour glance, as if suspecting that the security liaison was somehow to blame for the choice of subject matter.

"Figure skating," he said, with an undertone of disgust, seemed about to say more, then looked closely at Da'an and wisely decided to withhold any further comment. The corners of Da'an's mouth drew back very slightly. He'd caught Sandoval's immediate reaction perfectly, Boone realized, and also his swift retreat and was entertained by it. Boone wished once again that he could better understand the Taelons, at least as well as they seemed to comprehend human behaviour.

"Do you know of this individual?" Da'an inquired of Sandoval, and to his credit, the FBI agent did indeed. Boone was inwardly astonished to hear him rattle off much the same story that Dr. Belman had recited, although without the personal touch, as well as provide details reference the skater's residence and current whereabouts. Stojko must've been some pro-Taelon, thought Boone; Sandoval had evidently already accessed or himself compiled a file on the guy. Da'an received his briefing (and it was a briefing, the way Sandoval presented it) without comment and without once looking at either human. He didn't reply until Elvis had finished his skate on screen and was receiving his marks.

"Such tribute should not go unacknowledged forever," Da'an proclaimed at last. "Perhaps we could begin with a call upon my colleague, Le'eh."

"The Canadian Companion?" Sandoval said, a tad suspiciously. "Le'eh is currently off-continent, visiting with the Australian Companion, G'dae. He isn't expected back until next Thursday."

"Ten days hence. Then we shall proceed to the true purpose behind such a call. I wish to meet with this Elvis and observe him practising his art."

The special agent immediately turned antsy, appalled by the very notion. Boone, who'd already anticipated Da'an's decision, was no less happy with the security aspects of such a request, but knew better than to try and protest. Mild though he appeared, the Companion's word was law. Boone knew from experience that he disliked having his words questioned and so kept his mouth shut.

Sandoval, more ruled by his implanted imperative to protect Da'an than tact, felt less constraint.

"But Da'an, there's no need for you to go to Canada. We can have Stojko brought here."

"I wish to see him skate."

"One of our local arenas then. You could meet there. He can perform--"

But Da'an was already turning his face aside, eyes closed, in the gesture he used in lieu of a negative shake of the head. "This is to be a social visit, not an officious engagement," he expanded. His eyes opened to gaze into Boone's own and the human felt a twinge of communion with the alien, one of those rare instances during which everything divisive and unique to their respective species fell away and they suddenly understood one another after all. "To so use our music, it is most unusual," Da'an went on. "It was not composed to be expressed in this manner and yet, with it, this human excels. Thus the question: how is this achieved? Inspiration, we have found, is best observed in the environment most conducive to the one inspired."

"Home ice," Boone said thoughtfully, and Da'an rewarded the man's comprehension with another tilt of his elegant head. Then the moment passed. Remarks modulated back into orders. Sandoval slunk away shortly afterwards, gritting his teeth as he formulated security plans, and Boone followed in rather better humour, although no less occupied in thought. Still...figure skating? Boone wished, not for the first time, that he and the Taelon could learn to commune on subjects other than those utterly trivial.


* * * * *


Elvis flung his heart high into the air and his body followed.

It was how he'd always jumped, first the mental image of himself soaring gracefully over the ice, and then the physical exertion to attain that illusion, neck stretched and chin lifted to wring every last bit of elevation out of the effort. He rotated, once, twice--it was a simple double--then the touchdown and a sweeping follow-through. Stojko's muscles stood out tautly as he glided. A long-standing cause for criticism, those muscles. Certain people had sneered at Stojko's too-obvious athleticism for years...still did. Well, screw them, thought Elvis Stojko. The judges liked what he was doing, he liked what he was doing, and that was all that mattered anymore.

The skater straightened up and let his momentum carry him to a slow and gradual stop while he turned off and then unclipped the soundcard he'd been wearing attached to his collar. The card contained two new tracks he wanted to work up into new programmes. One would do well as a technical piece once shortened by thirty seconds or so. The other, still indescribably lovely to Stojko's ears even after listening to it dozens of times, had exciting artistic possibilities. Stojko no longer needed a choreographer or even a coach. The music drew all the knowledge he needed from deep within himself.

The soft and beautiful ice stretched out all about Stojko like a sea of chilled milk. No hockey blades or boards laid down for a damn wrestling card would ever touch this surface! The Old Toronto Heritage Skating Club Arena had been designed for figure skating and figure skating only, and Stojko, as the major shareholder behind the new venue's construction, would see that conception upheld no matter what. His investment had bought him a special indulgence as well: the luxury of having first ice every morning. While commuters scrambled for their downtown jobs just outside and before the club's hoards of skating hopefuls began arriving for their daily lessons, Stojko had the arena all to himself and would practise in serene isolation, sometimes listening to his music, other times accompanied only by the whispery slish of his stroking blades and the odd far-off thud, clank or raised voice as the discreet arena staff prepared for the day. It was a magical time which Stojko treasured. All his best work had been composed during these hours.

Thus it was that the appearance of a small knot of people by the rink's main mid-entry area instantly attracted Stojko's attention. And they weren't regular arena folk either; they looked like suits, business types, about half a dozen or so. Stojko could see their faces turned towards him and some of them putting their hands up to their heads, big rugged guys, all of them. Somebody'd let them in so they had to be legit, but Stojko didn't like it. He hated being pestered during his special time and assumed that the visitors were stockholders or some such.

A much paler face, almost as white as the ice itself, revealed itself as the two front men drew apart. Stojko was staggered. A Taelon! And not just any Taelon, a Companion; only they appeared in public attended in such zealous fashion. The scene fell instantly into place. Not suits, but security. Those men, milling and agitated, were putting their hands to their ears to work some sort of discreet communications gear and their fussy tailored jackets no doubt hid an arsenal of deadly hand weaponry. The Taelon by contrast appeared unadorned and unassuming. He wore only the simple purplish jumpsuit adopted by all Companions and stood quietly by the very edge of the ice, looking Stojko's way.

A wave of hot emotion surged through Elvis. So--it had finally come. The Taelons had at last taken note of his homage to them and had sent this acknowledgement in the form of their Canadian representative. It was a moment he'd dreamt of, yearned for, almost since the aliens' arrival. Yet now that it was here, he felt the same mix of awe, deference, and vague fear as did most humans who found themselves unexpectedly in the presence of a Taelon. He had to force his feet to start moving, to propel him forward, and the closer he got to Le'eh the more reluctant and stilted his movements became, as though his own body were warring with his heart's desire and mind's commands.

It was not Le'eh, it was the American Companion, Da'an! Stojko was astonished anew. Da'an was perhaps the best known and best loved of all the Taelons. He had a huge following amongst the American peoples and was, indeed, well supported around the globe. That this fantastically important person should come to see him seemed inconceivable to Stojko, yet there he stood. Stojko's strokes grew shorter still. He slowed almost to a halt, torn between his mesmerized desire to approach and a panicked feeling of unworthiness.

Da'an, who was well familiar with such feelings of ambivalence in humans meeting him for the first time, stepped forward and down onto the ice, pausing before he did so to motion back the over-anxious Sandoval. It was a move meant to reassure the skater and it worked. The man's hesitation lessened and he came forward with more confidence. To Da'an's surprise, Elvis in person seemed considerably smaller than he appeared in the sports broadcasts. He stood barely taller than the Companion himself and that was with the augmentation of the metal blades beneath his feet. It was a pleasing discovery.

In Stojko's eyes, the Companion seemed immense; his presence filled the very arena. A being from another galaxy! Incredible! And he was so beautiful, the long refined face radiating the very essence of intellect, wisdom and ethereal grace. It was the first time that Stojko had ever gazed upon a live Taelon, that he had been close to one--an arm's length away!--and the experience so unnerved and moved him that he felt suddenly faint. Overcome, he bowed his head and dropped to one knee before the alien. The pose was difficult and awkward to maintain on skates and a part of him was sure that he was behaving like a dope, but he knew that it was something that he had to do nonetheless.

"You honour me," he mumbled, staring down at the ice.

Da'an looked down upon the human's hunched body. People had reacted more extremely given similar circumstances--by babbling gibberish, by swooning dead away, by becoming hysterical--but this humble, almost courtly gesture was one of the most strange and yet oddly touching he had witnessed to date. A pang of almost-regret stirred the Companion. He did not want this human to fear him. Gathering his compassion, willing it to exude, he held out a hand to the skater and waited.

Stojko did not dare look up for several long seconds. Well behind Da'an, the Taelon's primary protectors began shifting restlessly, Sandoval with plain irritation, Boone with a certain embarrassment. Trust the little fruitcake to drop a curtsy, the ex-cop thought. I mean, sure, Da'an deserves respect and all, but come on! The two watched as Stojko finally registered that the Taelon wanted him to stand up. The skater looked dumbfounded as he placed his hand in Da'an's and rose catlike back onto his feet...or was that onto his blades? Boone suppressed a groan and let his attention wander into a perusal of the arena rafters. He could sense a major love-in coming up and knew too much about the aliens' dark side by now to find such displays of human gullibility anything but painful.

On the ice, Earthling and Taelon continued to regard one another, their hands still clasped between them.

Da'an said, "Tell me about skating."

Elvis Stojko's face lit up with a brilliant smile.



There was a luxurious heated glassed-in viewing balcony high above the north end of the rink and Stojko took the Companion there so that they could converse in comfort. The suits approved of his choice. It was a secluded, isolated area that they could easily secure and they allowed the skater to remain alone inside with Da'an, although they never stopped watching through the door's small window. Frankly, Stojko never even noticed them. He was already far too enthraled by his visitor to have noticed anything short of a nuclear blast.

It would have amazed Elvis had he known that the Taelon was likewise somewhat captivated. The difference was, that whereas Stojko's response was understandable by any standards, Da'an's was not, at least not by Da'an's own objective opinion of himself. Even now, although he could see for himself that this Elvis was simply another human, no more and no less, he still felt drawn; it was most puzzling. There is some effect even when he is at rest, thought Da'an, studying the seated man's form dutifully. Why should this be so? He decided that he would monopolize the human and observe him as closely as possible for the next several hours. It would no doubt please the man and might offer Da'an some insight into his own recent, vaguely troubling behaviour.

Stojko had been speaking of the circumstances that had led to his initial involvement in the sport of skating and of his earlier career, but now trailed off into silence. Da'an waited. The human's face was so open and trusting (the sort that indicated the most malleable will, as Zo'or might smugly maintain) that it was easy for the Taelon to interpret his expressions and determine that the man had become all of a sudden embarrassed. "You have become reticent," Da'an remarked. "May I inquire as to its cause?"

"The next part, it's--I'm not proud of it."

"Why?"

Stojko squirmed, his distress transparent. "I--gave up, I guess. The pressure...and then the association didn't want me skating for Canada anymore..." He averted his eyes, the same eyes which had been gazing adoringly into Da'an's for the past ten minutes, and minutely examined the backs of his hands in his lap. "It just--I felt--useless."

"I grieve for your past pain," the Companion said softly.

"I know. You--" The human's hands suddenly wrung together in a spasmodic snarl. "Mum got cancer," Stojko blurted out, then snatched his palms up and over his face. "Oh God, I can't believe I just said that to you! Nobody knew, except family..."

His voice choked off into silence again. The Companion, no stranger to confessions made to him by distraught humans, said nothing this time. When Stojko finally let his hands drop, Da'an could see that his eyes were leaking fluid in the way that indicated extreme emotional upheaval in the species. It was a lamentable sight. Da'an felt a recurrence of the nebulous regret he'd experienced earlier.

"It was--the end for me," Stojko went on in a halting voice, pausing now and then to draw a hitching breath. "I'd lost my skating and now I was going to lose her. The doctors--there was nothing they could do. They sent her home. We knew she was dying. I quit everything to stay with her. Everyone thought I was just too depressed to skate and I let them think that. Not even Doug and Uschi knew the truth."

"I understand," Da'an, genuinely saddened, said. "It must have been very difficult, knowing that you could do nothing."

Stojko emitted a nervous laugh. "You might say that." He sat up straighter, his emotional storm fading. He dabbed at the tears on his cheeks as he pulled himself together.

"One night--this was when we could all see she didn't have much longer--Dad relieved me and I went out in the garden and just sat in the dark for hours," Stojko continued. "And I remember thinking how peaceful it was and how nice it would be to maybe slip away with Mum, go with her, like. It sounds crazy now, I know, but that's the state I'd got to, thinking about offing myself when Mum went, and the more I thought about it, the better idea it seemed and I went to bed feeling happy for the first time in weeks because I had this plan now, see, and she wouldn't be alone, only I never--I didn't have to--well, the next day, your ships came."

Arrival Day. What cognitive human would ever forget it? Elvis did not have to complete his story. Da'an already knew how it ended. The cures for cancer and other similar miserable afflictions of the flesh had been among the first gifts the Taelons had offered to humankind. "I am pleased that our knowledge was of benefit to your family," said Da'an. "Your mother, she is well again?"

"Completely," Elvis replied, beginning to regain his composure and no small measure of idolatry. He was still a bit embarrassed, he'd certainly never meant to break down and confide all that he just had, but the Companion's response had been so kind, so sensitive, so very much what he'd subliminally hoped for, that his transgression seemed more minor by the second. He found the courage to gaze again into the beautiful alien eyes and was seized by the certainty that Da'an was looking not merely back at him this time but into his very soul. It was a notion Stojko found--exhilarating.

Elsewhere, out in the hallway by the viewing balcony's door to be exact, Da'an's two faithful implants, Sandoval and Boone, were experiencing less positive emotions. Sandoval in particular had already seen enough that he could barely watch anymore without sneering (not that it stopped him from hogging the window).

"What're they doing now?" Boone insisted for the twentieth time.

"Just sitting, looking at each other. He's stopped crying, at least." Frustrated, the agent made a fist and smacked his other hand palm-down onto it, a blow that would have rattled his little scrill's brains, if it had had any. "Damn it! Why does Da'an bother with this man? He's not worthy."

"Well, that's for the Taelons to judge, I suppose." Boone slid up to the window to take his own peek while Sandoval was still turned away in disgust. Sure enough, the tableau inside was as described and Stojko seemed to have resumed talking. After a moment, the skater began waving his hands in the air like a demented baboon swatting at flies and Boone saw Da'an express the sweet almost-smile he sometimes managed when he was exceptionally pleased. For a Taelon, it was the equivalent of a whoop and a holler. Boone withdrew and turned away, depressed.

"What now?" demanded Sandoval.

"Talking about skating again, I guess. I think he's acting out a routine or something."

Sandoval looked for himself. He smashed his hands together this time and then crossed his arms over his chest with such violence that the scrill symbiont nestled on his forearm was moved to squeak in weak protest. Boone, soft-hearted and fond of all animals, even translucent little alien beasts that resembled a flattened squid crossed with a half-baked hunk of plastic vomit, shot his co-worker a dirty look.

"Ron, be careful! You're hurting Raven."

"Who--? Oh. I thought yours was Raven."

"No, mine's Condor. Take it easy."

"Sorry. It's just--it makes me mad, you know? A great being like Da'an wasting his time speaking with a figure skater."

"I don't like it either," Boone soothed, "but that's not for us to decide. Our job is to serve and protect. Maybe Da'an has some ulterior plan for Stojko; you did determine that he's a big Taelon sympathizer."

Sandoval eyed the other man, his thoughts clearly speculative, then relented and relaxed.

"You're right," he admitted. "It's not our place to question Companion policy." He mulled a bit more, then added, in a much warmer tone, "Thanks for reminding me of that, Boone. My concern for Da'an's safety is such that it sometimes extends to my wanting to protect him from what I'd personally consider mundane and undeserving. But yes, Da'an undoubtedly has his reasons for being here. We'll just have to wait and hope he shares them with us."

"Uh huh," Boone replied, trying to pretend that he didn't notice the FBI agent's quick concluding grateful smile. Not that Sandoval's occasional clumsy attempts at camaraderie weren't welcome, especially when contrasted with his former hostile suspicion, it was just that Boone knew that Sandoval's growing trust was based on a massive lie, the belief that Boone had done for him what Sandoval had once done for Boone, ie. had his wife murdered. The ideal shared experience to base a budding friendship on, yes siree-bob, Boone, chagrined, always thought at such moments. He wondered what Sandoval would do if he ever discovered that his once and former mate was still very much alive, thank you, and doing just fine courtesy of the Resistance.

A turn of the door knob switched both implants back onto high alert. Stojko opened up and then stood back to let Da'an precede him. The Taelon still wore his soft look of having been well done by and the skater appeared likewise flushed with pleasure. The two security men regarded their master glumly.

"Elvis has offered a tour of further portions of this arena and will then conduct a demonstration of his skills," the Companion explained. "I trust that our seclusion will continue?"

Sandoval, though he looked ready to shit bricks, of course agreed, then tried to get some time estimate out of Da'an without sounding too pushy about it. Boone, meanwhile, studied Stojko. He'd taken his skates off a while back and now he and Da'an were of a size; Boone figured he could take the little wuss easy, despite his surprisingly ripped physique. But any need for that was already highly unlikely. Elvis and Da'an had become chums, they had.

Figure skaters! Never had any use for 'em. Still don't. Bleh!



William Boone gave himself a break after that by volunteering to go out in person and pass along Da'an's new itinerary to the troops outside. Sandoval's number one, a sincere, efficient guy who'd proven himself in the past but who was so shy and unassuming that Boone kept forgetting his name and knew him only as Blondi, had been left in charge of coordinating the bureau boys and the local cops, and Boone briefed him first. He went looking next for Lili Marquette and found her still with Da'an's shuttle, which she'd landed out of necessity in the microscopic above-ground parking lot (in the handicapped zone) right up by the main arena doors. The ship was drawing a lot of attention from so-far unassigned police personnel and Marquette had been having the dickens of a time keeping them at bay. Boone chased them all off with the order to go report to Blondi. At least the public was being kept under good control--so far. The sighting of a Taelon shuttle descending through the early morning haze over downtown Toronto must've circulated like wildfire. Boone could already see thousands of rubberneckers behind the hastily erected barriers and the cops had long ago given up trying to keep traffic flowing on the arena's main street. It hadn't taken the crowd long to put two and two together, either. Everyone and his dog knew that the American Companion, Da'an, was visiting Elvis Stojko.

"Cripes, look at 'em all," Boone muttered to his pilot pal. "Who's the idiot who sited this arena, anyway? Aren't skating rinks supposed to be out in the sticks or something?"

"Don't look at me, I was into track. It would have been a lot easier if you could've convinced Da'an to let himself be driven here incognito, you know. I could've landed up at the airport, it's not that far away."

Boone shook his head. "I know, you're right, but the Taelons won't do that. I don't think they trust our transportation."

Marquette snorted at that. "Our primitive transportation," she amended sarcastically.

The two took advantage of the momentary calm to sit down on the arena's front steps, ostensibly to mind the shuttle, more to grab a quick break. One of the bureau boys just inside the entrance, a sharp one, ran them out some coffee which they accepted with surprise and gratitude, and they turned it into a real break. Boone smiled when Marquette downed half her cupful in a long gulp, then vented a huge sigh.

"Give that agent a medal," she proclaimed of their alert benefactor. "Ohhh, that's better."

"Little busy out here, was it?" Boone asked, regarding her with affection.

"More like nuts. You'd think they'd have a little experience with Companion visits. Isn't Toronto a major city in Canada? Le'eh must've come here before."

"He has, but I'll bet Le'eh's not into figure skating." He paused, then added, in a very serious tone, "Hockey, maybe. Or snowshoeing. Dog sledding. Snowmobiling."

It got Marquette laughing. Some image, a Taelon on a snowmobile. She'd never seen one do anything more physical than walk. "So how's it going in there?" she asked, motioning back at the arena with a toss of her head.

"Ah, Lili, it's--well, Stojko, he drooled all over Da'an, as expected, but Da'an, he's just--strange."

"What do you mean, strange?"

"I dunno, kinda like, he's enthused over someone--a human, I mean--for the first time. Not that he's excited to meet him, not jump up and down excited, but in a Taelon way, I think maybe he is."

Marquette was giving him The Look. "Over a figure skater."

Boone shrugged. "I can't explain it."

An unusual clatter drew their attention to the blocked-off street where a contingent of mounted city police now arrived to shore up their foot-bound colleagues. The horses trotted briskly to take up their stations and were greeted by the swelling crowds with exclamations of pleasure, especially from the younger set. Boone wondered again where the hell all the people were coming from; didn't they have jobs or school or kids to look after or something? But such was the thrall the Taelons held on the consciousness of the human race. They fulfilled, gave, represented too much. Even dissenters like Boone and Marquette felt the attraction and sometimes, at the very worst of times, they despaired of ever finding evidence enough to convince others to fight the aliens' allure.

Marquette, too, had been observing the crowds. "I suppose this is frontpage news by now," she remarked.

"Major headline for every Canuck newsshow on the air," Boone, who'd been monitoring communications on his headset, confirmed.

"Doors is going to freak if he sees this."

"Probably."

A bunch of mangy-ass street pigeons swooped down into the parking lot and started pecking around. Two of them, tiring of their unproductive search, sprang up and flew to the roof of the Taelon shuttle, where they paced and cooed. Boone eyed the birds, eyed Marquette; couldn't resist.

"Lili, check it out," he said. He raised the arm housing the scrill and sighted it on the strutting pigeons on the shuttle. "Watch me shift those suckers."

"Boone! Jesus!"

Just as he'd hoped, she grabbed wildly for his arm. Boone, unresisting, began laughing as he crumpled sideways.

"I'm kidding, Lili."

"You jerk!"

"You really thought I was going to fry them," he chortled. To add to his glee, he saw that she'd dropped her coffee in her panic. He reached past her legs to retrieve the fallen paper cup, then stood up, still grinning. Marquette glared up at him.

"That wasn't funny, Boone."

"Yes it was. Hey, look, I'll getcha another coffee."

"Fine. You do that. Jerk."

She turned her face away as if in disgust, but not fast enough to hide a sheepish smile of her own. Boone, reassured, went for the coffee. He made sure it was decaf, though.



Marquette's premonition reference Jonathan Doors turned out to be bang on. Not that he was freaking, not yet, but he was already monitoring Da'an's visit on the giant video screen set right at the foot of his bed in his headquarters hideout, the sort of indulgence only a real obsessive would install. The automatic search had pulled up the infoshow CANADA A.M. as soon as Doors had switched on the TV earlier and he'd been watching ever since, still camped out in bed, nude, with a plate of Eggo waffles balanced on his stomach and a cup of steaming coffee in hand. Beside him lounged Dr. Julianne Belman, equally unclad, nibbling on a bit of toast. Doors had apparently gotten into the habit of breakfasting in bed while he scanned the news some years ago and, as habits went, Belman had to admit that this one wasn't bad. Fact was, it could get downright cosy. If only Jonathan didn't yell at the screen so much...

Like now. Waffle in hand, Doors waved contemptuously at a panning shot of the waiting crowds. "Look at them. Idiots! Hoping to catch a glimpse of their messiah when he comes out." He jabbed a corner of the waffle into the pool of syrup its mates were floating in and stuck it in his mouth. "Hmph. Watch Da'an--when he does come out. (gulp) He'll suck right up to them. Any opportunity, huh. Fools."

Belman regarded her lover with some exasperation.

"Jonathan, dear, have you heard of cutlery? I do recommend its use."

"At eight in the morning, my pet, I'm disinclined," Doors fired right back. He finished a last mouthful, then licked his fingers clean. "Waffle?"

Belman accepted. Together they polished off the plateful of waffles, then snuggled while they finished their coffee. On screen, the news camera zoomed in on Da'an's shuttle parked up by the arena, then panned left to reveal Boone and Marquette sitting on the steps and they were having coffee, too. Cute. Where would the Resistance be without that almighty elixir, coffee? Being arena coffee, it was probably lousy, though. Not like the good Columbian stuff Doors got shipped in.

"They look relaxed," Belman commented, indicating their friends.

"They got her in hand," Doors opined. "Left Sandoval inside. Smart." His momentary approval vanished as the camera angle switched back to a perusal of the mob waiting across the street. Some of the crazies were starting to show up, nuts wearing tee shirts with Taelon depictions on them or waving placards picturing some Companion or other. A row of little kids sat on the curb clutching Companion dolls and way in the back, a pack of nutballs with shaved heads, dressed in purple jumpsuits, were dancing around in a circle. Oh--and one fem guy was wearing an Elvis Stojko button. It was enough to make Doors feel like upchucking his waffles.

"Can you believe this? I'd like to slap the lot of them, that guy with the button twice. Probably loves Taelons and figure skating."

"Really, Jon, now what is wrong with figure skating?"

"What's right about it? You want to tell me?" Playfully, he poked Belman in a rather sensitive area. "You're not the one who turned Da'an onto this nonsense, are you?"

"Of course not. I had no idea." She paused to let out the giggle she was suppressing. "Not that I'm all that surprised, you realize. Taelons are highly evolved when it comes to appreciating art."

"Is that what you call it? Art? You saw that bio they just ran. Your Elvis is as duped as the rest of them. Worse so--he's an out and out sympathizer."

"But he doesn't know. You can't blame him for--"

"An imbecile," Doors proclaimed, on a roll now. "A brain-dead, compliant imbecile. A wool-headed sheep, just like those other sheep out there. Hell, he even looks like one."

"You take that back,'' Belman demanded hotly. "He does not!"

"Yes he does."

"Does not."

"Does too."

At which point the good doctor jumped him and smothered any further protestations. After a bit, a hand snaked out to silence the sound on the screen, then the two got down to serious business. Monitoring the stealthy invasion of Earth would just have to go on hold for a while.



Elvis Stojko--the genuine article, not an image on a button--thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Not only had Da'an asked for a most thorough inspection of the arena, he'd obviously been able to appreciate everything he'd seen. Even the ice had gotten its share of attention. The Taelon had at one point bent to touch it, then had contemplated Stojko in the strangest way. "This is your canvas," he'd declared, and Stojko, ashiver with delight, had felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. How often he'd felt the same way, only he'd never dared voice it for fear the wrong person would overhear and ridicule him for saying such a girly thing. But said by a Companion, it didn't sound girly at all. It sounded wonderful!

Now Elvis was taking Da'an to his most favourite place of all, aside from the ice itself: the private dressing rooms and suite where he kept most of his costumes, athletic gear, and an extensive library of music for his programmes. It was a great place, way at the end of a old-fashioned tunnel down under the west side of the seating and, to make Stojko's happiness complete, Da'an intuited the moment's importance early on and made the suits tagging along stop at the tunnel entrance. The creepy Asian guy who seemed to be Da'an's head security flunky looked especially pissed when ordered to stay put and shot Stojko the most vicious glare. Elvis just smiled sweetly back. He'd felt that the Asian guy had had it in for him from the very beginning, no doubt just itching for Stojko to try something. Yeah, right. As if he'd harm one cell of the Taelon's body.

Da'an swivelled his head, examining the walls of the miniature underpass with interest as they walked. "This is unusual, is it not? To site your sporting quarters so?"

"It's another kind of indulgence," Stojko admitted. "See, when I was growing up, all the rinks had these old- fashioned sorts of tunnels under the stands leading back to the dressing rooms. They were always concrete or stone or something and really cold and damp." He laughed shortly. "They always made me think of those Roman coliseums, the kind of tunnels they must have driven animals or warriors through to get them into the arena. It got so that I sometimes felt like a warrior too, an ice warrior, walking out for the competitions. Dumb, huh?"

"Not at all. I understand your association."

"Yeah, well, when I had this arena designed, I insisted that they excavate down far enough so I could have one of those old tunnels to walk through again, just to remind me of the old days. The service staff hates it and some people won't even come here 'cause it makes them claustrophobic, but I love it. And it's really private. I can crank my music right up and no one'll hear a thing."

"Curious. I have observed before that human artists appear to benefit from a state of solitude. I presume that isolation from external distraction encourages the creative process?"

"I guess. Yeah. It does."

"Interesting," commented Da'an, who was, in a sense, incapable of solitude.

Stojko beamed. God, Taelons were so cool! Why oh why had he ever thought to be fearful of them? They arrived at his suite's door and Stojko undid the lock and they went inside. The skater stood back humbly as Da'an began an immediate careful perusal of the items on display on the walls and shelves.

"You appear very youthful here," he said, indicating one photo.

"I was twelve," Stojko confirmed. "That's at the junior championships, the first year I made it to the national level."

Da'an studied the photo's pose, a frozen action shot of a spin. "Already you display your uncommon grace. And this rendition?"

"Um. My first senior competition."

"Again, your bearing exhibits much elegance for one so young." He paused to regard the living model for the photographs, who seemed to be slowly collapsing in place. "Are my words upsetting you?"

Stojko offered a feeble smile. "I'm not upset, no, just-- I mean, people used to knock me back then because I wasn't elegant. I'm just kind of--overwhelmed--hearing you say all that."

The Companion's soulful gaze rested upon him more kindly than ever. "Those people evidently could not see in you what I see," he said gently.

Overwhelmed was now putting it mildly. Elvis, in a daze of pure joy, came close to bursting into tears again. When at last he could trust himself to speak without weeping, he turned to the subject of his private performance for the Taelon and asked if Da'an had a preferred routine he wished to see--anything--as long as it was in his repertoire.

"And if there's a special piece of music you like," Stojko went on earnestly, "something I haven't done yet, I'd love to try and interpret that for you too."

"Perhaps for the future," Da'an agreed. "For now..." He cocked his head, considering, eyes closed. "Several weeks ago, you competed at an event in Winnipeg. You dressed all in white and skated to a selection of music we call Rauch'isch Sou'va."

The skater grinned. "I know just which one you mean. The tall ships piece."

"Ships?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought of as soon as I first heard that music. Old sailing ships, like the ones Columbus used, with all their sheets spread, running before the wind. I tried to convey that in the programme, how wonderful that would look, all the white sails and the whitecaps on the waves, and the ships moving so smooth and powerful, like."

A melting softness came over the Taelon's face. His lips parted slightly. His skin appeared to glow blue.

"Rauch'isch Sou'va, we also call it the launching song. It is about our first exploratory starships and how we sent them forth with hope and longing."

An intense silence, more profound than any words, descended upon the little room. After a moment, Stojko, his own face flushed, excused himself and left to change into his costume. Da'an watched him go. The skater appeared visibly shaken and Da'an expected that it would be some time before he saw the human again.

There was a short couch against one wall and the Taelon moved to it and abruptly sat down. The truth was, he was himself shaken and had been under increasing pressure for the past hour to successfully hide his agitation. The fault was all Stojko's, or more precisely, it was the fault of his sheer proximity. Da'an had never before been so keenly aware of a human's body or so sensitive to one's physical nearness as he was with Elvis Stojko's. The experience was proving to be quite daunting, substantially disturbing, and more than a little (dare he admit it?) exciting.

Ah yes, the human body...the exotic, alluring, confounding human body. The Taelons had learned centuries ago that the human species found it difficult to interact with Taelons in their natural state and were much happier when they covered their glittering translucence with the semblance of a solid body. Establishing the illusion had been easy enough, a simple matter of reactivating specific dormant genes to recreate the integument all Taelons had once worn in more primitive times and then adjusting certain features (the glowing neon eyes had to go) and incorporating some form of clothing in deference to human sensibilities. It had been interesting to witness how each Taelon's individuality had initially been reflected by the recreated exteriors. Just as humans found it almost impossible to differentiate between Taelons in their natural state, so too had the Taelons found it difficult at first to distinguish between their disguised fellows; one had to learn to associate familiar voice with unfamiliar face until both became one and the same. By now, of course, the matter had become routine. Taelons assigned to Earth were given the requisite knowledge and donned their facades as casually as humans pulled on a suit of clothes. And just like humans, whereas some Taelons simply bore the wearing of their suits as an annoying and unavoidable work requirement, others sported them with enthusiasm and flair, and studied human behaviour in an effort to incorporate the mannerisms and postures that would put humans all the more at ease. Da'an was one of the Taelons that had tried hardest to learn how to manipulate his body and emote in a human fashion.

The problem with such zeal had begun insidiously enough. Da'an at first had simply become aware of things he had never before given much thought to; the warmth of the alien sunshine on his skin, for example, or the sensation created by rain trickling over it on those rare occasions when he had been forced to walk a few meters out in the weather. Not that Taelons were in any way lacking in the ability to perceive tactile sensations, even in their natural state, it was just that they never dwelt upon them. Sensual feelings were considered atavistic, to be ignored in favour of the input from their far more highly evolved aesthetic and communal senses. But what Da'an felt could not be ignored and it soon became intrusive, even distracting, to the point of causing him to commit certain small indiscretions. The problem never emerged when he was interacting with his fellow Taelons. It was only the presence of humans, either actual or lingering, that caused it to surface, and these days it was surfacing with the reckless fervour of a starved pike to a crippled duckling.

Much of Da'an's unease had to do with his suspicion that he was the only Companion having such difficulty. Zo'or, the new United Nations rep, was the only other Taelon Da'an knew who routinely wore his facade for any length of time, but when he'd attempted to bring up the subject of heightened sensual awareness, Zo'or had just stared at him as though he'd sprouted hair. He'd never dared address the topic with his colleague again, could in fact just imagine the repercussions of such discussion and Zo'or's lofty remarks to his successor: Da'an? Ah yes, I knew him. Had to put him away, poor fellow, after he went native on us. He'd next tried what most of the other Companions did, remaining au naturel unless actually interacting with humans, only to discover that the effects were cumulative and didn't fade one bit over time; what's more, the constant shedding then reassuming of the body only seemed to render it all the more responsive. The topper had come one recent evening when Da'an experimented with erasing the apparel's grid. He'd come to his senses to find himself standing before a mirror with his human body fully bared, head cocked to admire his skilfully crafted limbs and feet, one hand stroking over his smooth expanse of chest. Even now he tried to tell himself that it had all been done out of mere curiosity, but deep within he knew the shameful truth. Touching and viewing himself had been...pleasant.

The memory of that particular incident came back with such a rush that Da'an was moved to blush; his covering faded for an instant, enabling his true exterior to gleam through, then it reestablished itself. Clear evidence of my continuing deterioration, as Zo'or would say, Da'an thought with glum resignation. I do not know how much longer I can keep this from the others. The worst of it was that there was no escaping his situation, not since his race had decided to reside on Earth permanently.

The worst of it was that he now coveted Stojko's grace, his ease, his kinetic command, and wished to be close to him in ways Da'an could not begin to comprehend.



Outside the arena, Boone was having his fun with the pigeons again, tossing them bits broken off the rim of his paper coffee cup, then laughing at their confusion when they rushed in only to discover that the so-thought bread was bogus. Marquette watched without participating. Her face had that long-suffering expression she seemed to be assuming a lot lately, whenever she got stuck with the ex-cop liaison for any length of time.

"That's real nice, Boone. You like tying tin cans to cats' tails too?"

"Aw, it's not hurtin' 'em. Look, they're spitting it out. Dumb birds."

"Speaking of dumb--oh--whoa. Whoa!"

Boone whistled. "Ride 'em, cowboy."

Out on the street, one of the policehorses had suddenly begun backing, fast and uncontrolled. The cop aboard did his best, signalling the animal to move forward, to halt, anything, then got rougher and pulled its head sharply around. The horse whirled and pitched, fighting the restraint of the bit, and it turned into a battle royal betwixt man and beast as the two wove in great plunging leaps away from the front of the cheering crowd. The further out into the open the horse got, the wilder it seemed to become. Even the pigeons became affected and abruptly roared up and away in a rush. It was really quite the show.

"Wow, you don't see that too often. They're usually so well trained," Marquette said.

"Guess that's the horse version of calling a strike," Boone added.

Actually, it was the horse version of trying to draw the stupid humans' attention to a disaster in the making. Deep, deep within the earth beneath, two mammoth cakes of bedrock had just slipped past one another, ever so slightly. As seismic events went, it was nothing: the geological version of a fart in the wind. But the repercussions...

The policehorse, desperate, finally grabbed the bit between its teeth, wrenched its head round and tore the reins right out of its rider's hands. It took to its heels and charged off like Secretariat possessed, the cop aboard, all sensitivity training forgotten, reduced to clinging to its mane and screaming vile curses. Only later would he reflect that his normally faithful steed's deliberate disobedience had in all likelihood saved both their lives.

A van-sized section of pavement in the middle of the street abruptly dropped. The depression deepened, then expanded in all directions. A dull subterranean roar groaned forth. A whole huge square of street, framed by the barricades holding back the crowd at one end and the exterior wall of the arena at the other, suddenly up and collapsed before anyone even had time to scream (aside from the runaway cop).

Boone and Marquette jumped to their feet, mouths wide open. "Ho-lee..." Boone began.

"That's apt!" said Marquette.



Elsewhere, Doors and Belman were panting off the last of their exertions. This had become something of a habit too, just the sort of aerobics they needed to work off the calories from the waffles, or so Doors always claimed. Belman never argued the point. However he did it, the old boy kept himself in pretty good shape and she had no cause to complain.

She stroked his back, enjoying his comfortable weight on her as they both recovered. The flashing images on the video screen caught her eye. Oh yes, the visit. Perhaps Da'an had finished up inside by now and was working the crowd. If he was, guaranteed Doors would launch into an immediate round of blistering commentary on the united idiocy of the human race. It was just as well he was on top and couldn't see a damn thing, at least for a while longer.

Belman could see and directed her idle attention on what the screen was depicting. And saw people stampeding. Emergency vehicles careening. An enormous jeezly hole in the middle of the blocked-off street, belching dust.

"Oh my gosh! Jonathan, the earth moved!" she cried.

Doors nuzzled his face into the side of her neck. "Mm, you said it, baby."

"No, no, in Toronto! Look, Jon, the street collapsed!"

"What the--" He caught a glimpse of the screen and that was all it took. He rolled off and lunged for the volume control, and the two of them sat up, stupefied, as they tried to make sense of what they saw. It didn't help that the announcer was in hysterics.

"...forecast such a calamity! We still have no word on whether this unprecedented disaster has impacted on the people inside the arena and can only pray that the American Companion has been spared. But if he hasn't, if he should have been--oh dear God, I can't bear to think about it!..."



The same unbearable thoughts had already struck Boone. He reached over and tapped Marquette's wired ear.

"Power up, now. Damn it, I think--wait."

"Were they affected inside?" she asked as she reactivated her own headset monitor.

"I think, maybe yes. Come on!"

They ran inside. The kind FBI guy who'd brought them coffee was already coming to meet them.

"Did you guys feel that?" Boone exclaimed. "The street collapsed!"

"Did it?" the agent said. His face was pale, his expression grim and set. "We felt something, but it was here, inside. I mean, not here on this level, but one of the lower ones."

"Which one? Show me!"

They sprinted for the steps that took them to the maintenance levels, under the rink itself. As they descended, they immediately noted a powdery odour, the smell almost of a sidewalk being jackhammered into bits, and saw a halo of haze around the closest light. Suspended dust...but from where?

"Where is Da'an?" Boone demanded.

"He--Stojko was taking him to his dressing room. It's--I'm sorry, sir--it's further down, I think."

Boone closed his eyes and heard Marquette behind him murmuring, "Oh no." Her tone expressed his own feelings perfectly: bewildered, helpless apprehension. Then it passed. He asked the agent to lead them on as best he could.

Sandoval's shouting voice guided them over the final hundred meters. They found him emerging from yet another stairwell, his usually immaculate clothing covered with grime, into the waiting support of half a dozen or so of his men. He started like a frazzled jackrabbit as Boone and company came charging up and Boone saw in his eyes the wild, obsessive concern that utterly consumed the FBI implant whenever his master was in mortal danger. It was the worst sight that could have greeted Boone, short of the Companion himself lying injured.

"Where is Da'an!"

"He--I think he--" Sandoval was so distraught that he had to stop and suck in a few steadying breaths. "The tunnel below, the floor just broke up and fell. Da'an was in--in a room at the end, with Stojko."

"Damn! What about our own people?"

"Da'an asked us to wait, right by the stairwell. We all had time to get up and out."

"So you don't--Da'an's status is unknown?"

"Yes. I've been trying to contact Qo'on, to see if the Taelons can communicate with him."

Boone by now needed a steadying breath of his own. He started for the stairwell, but Sandoval jumped to intercept him.

"Don't!" he warned. "It's too dangerous just now. Wait until they bring ropes, then we can climb down and see."

"What the hell happened here, Sandoval? What caused this?"

"I don't know. It was very sudden. I think it's the only level that collapsed."

"Yeah, well, there's a whole goddamn street out there that's just acquired the biggest pothole you've ever seen in your life."

"I don't know anything about that! I'm only concerned about Da'an!"

"Yeah, okay, we all are," Boone soothed. He turned to Marquette, who'd been alertly following their conversation. "Lili? Maybe you could go follow up on the sorts of equipment we'll need? Take some of these guys with you?"

"Will do," she acknowledged, then issued a few crisp orders and left with four of the agents, including the bright guy who'd led them downstairs. Boone watched them go. If he knew Lili, she'd take the initiative of serving as spokesperson once she got the rescue effort coordinated and would try to keep the media off their backs. One less problem to worry about...

Boone turned his attention back to his colleague. Sandoval had calmed down somewhat, but still looked devastated. In fact, with his dust-smeared clothes and face and his hair in disarray, he appeared about as woe-begone as a human could be, and Boone felt sorry for him. It was the damn implant, of course. It left him little free will of his own and made all of Da'an's problems his problems.

"Don't worry," Boone said to him. "For what it's worth, I don't think a Taelon can be physically damaged in a permanent way."

"You really think so?"

Sandoval's hopeful doe-eyed stare would have put a basset hound pup to shame. Sad, really. Boone couldn't meet his gaze. At such times, even the merest scraps would do.

"Yes, I do think so," Boone replied. "And the Taelons would know if Da'an were seriously hurt. They can sense a change in one of their people's life force, remember?"

Sandoval mulled that one over. "Yes," he said, "you're right." A large part of the agent's cloud of misery suddenly dissipated. The forecast was not sunny, not yet, but there were breaks in his overcast. "Thanks, Boone," he added, almost brightly.

"Hey, any time..."

Significantly, neither of them had voiced the slightest shred of concern for Stojko.



As her colleague expected, Lili Marquette got the pandemonium outside into lickety-split order in no time and then went to round up the media people, all of whom converged on her like vultures on a putrid carcass the instant they discerned that she had the goods. Not that Marquette enjoyed a public role, but it was better and safer than letting them mill around unsupervised, spreading idiot rumours and getting in the way. They still tried, though.

continued below...

continued from above...

"And when do you expect to reach Da'an's last known location, Captain Marquette?" demanded the most aggressive reporter, some jerk from the CBC, thrusting a mike into her face.

"I can't make that estimate until I hear more from our people inside," she explained for the umpteenth time. "And when I do hear from them, I will tell you."

"So you are in touch with the rescue party, are you?" another reporter asked, and Marquette had to suck back and reload before she could answer.

No, you moron, I wear this headset to keep my hair back! What she said aloud was, "Yes."

A couple of people near the back of the pack seemed to confer amongst themselves. One called out, "Elvis Stojko was with the Companion, is that true?"

"Yes. Stojko is missing also."

Excitement rippled through the media crowd, rather to Marquette's bemusement. While they seemed preoccupied, she excused herself, promising to brief them again within half an hour, then got the hell away while the getting was good. Some of the media people left too. Moments later the first headlines began transmitting.

TAELON TRAGEDY! ARENA COLLAPSE TRAPS DA'AN, STOJKO

COMPANION CRISIS--DA'AN ENDANGERED BY TORONTO DISASTER

AMERICAN COMPANION, SKATING SENSATION SHARE CANADIAN CATASTROPHE

ICE RINK HORROR! ELVIS IS UNDER THE BUILDING!

(That last for a tabloid, of course...)



It wasn't much better on television. By the time Doors and Belman had gotten themselves dressed and out into the operations area, the international broadcasts had already composed a cute logo and were hawking the story under the tagline TORONTO TRAGEDY: HOUR ONE. The welfare of Da'an and Stojko remained the focus. Apparently, the creation of the sinkhole outside, though spectacular, had not caused a single injury, thus was barely worth covering. It did make a neat backdrop for innumerable person-on-the-sunken-street interviews, though.

Doors harrumphed when they brought on an avowed expert to theorize on possible causes for the collapse.

"Imbecile," he declared. "There's no limestone anywhere near that site."

Belman regarded him shrewdly.

"Are you intimating that you know what caused this?"

Doors allowed himself a small, smug smile before he answered.

"As a matter of fact, I do. One of my companies bid on the job to build that arena last year. One of the things disclosed during the site inspection was that the rink was going in smack over an abandoned subway tunnel."

"Abandoned tunnel? What do you mean?"

"I mean, a project the city jumped the gun on then tried to sweep under the carpet. Some years ago, they wanted to put in another subway line. Well, they started it. Built a whole new connecting station under the Bloor complex and started carving out the tunnel running west-bound. Only problem was that somebody didn't do their homework. They ran into a patch of pure sediment, the softest, worst stone you could imagine, the kind of stuff you'd have to shore for all round, and shoring a tunnel for a subway train--huh! You can imagine the cost. So they mothballed the whole thing and tried to pretend that they never got past the planning stage. Wasted millions. Quite the embarrassment all round. Most people don't know that the station and partial line even exist, but they have to let the odd contractor know, if there's any construction or work going on nearby."

Belman pondered his revelation, then shook her head ruefully.

"I was going to say I'm surprised," she remarked, "but after living in Washington for three years, I'm not. How come you lost the bid?"

"Got beat out by some rubes from Halifax," said Doors. "And considering what's happened, I think I know why. Cheap bastards no doubt skimped on the foundation reinforcements. I know our estimate got bumped sky-high just because of the tunnel problem and there's no way they should have been able to underbid us." He paused to inject a derisive snort. "So much for my suspicions of patronage."

Belman gave his closest arm a sympathetic pat. "And now Da'an and Elvis are paying the price."

"Yes they are," Doors affirmed grimly.

Back on the news, the so-called expert was finished and some loon wearing a purple jacket with a photo-screened Companion on the back and about a kazillion pro-Taelon buttons elsewhere was sobbing out her anguished apprehension for Da'an's life, then launched into her own teary rendition of How The Companions Changed My Life. It was exactly the sort of thing that usually sent Doors through the roof, but he held onto his cool in deference to the other resistance folk watching close by. It affected him, though. Belman could feel the muscles of his forearm tightening under her palm.

She lowered her voice and leaned closer to him. "What happens if Da'an is in fact dead?"

"We go on." He flashed her a glance. "It wouldn't be the kind of death that'd impact on our movement. I'd be worried about who the Taelons would put in Da'an's place, but that...we could live with that. For what it's worth, I doubt if he is dead, though. I've never heard of a Taelon being so much as injured...have you?"

"Actually--no."

"Well, there you go."

He watched the loon on TV for several seconds in almost respectful silence before speaking again.

"Of course your Elvis probably got squashed..."



A state of vigil swept the world. So great had the Taelons' influence become, that mankind's affairs now took second place to the aliens' own. All over the globe, people set aside their work, their hobbies, their everyday pursuits, in favour of tuning in to follow the rescue efforts for the trapped American Companion Da'an. It was as if the entire human world had gone on essential services only mode. In the view of dissenters like Jonathan Doors, it was all pretty sickening.

It would have surprised Doors to know that someone of like mind existed within the enemy ranks. In New York City, the personnel working at the United Nations complex were in a state of total uproar and the morning's business had been put on hold in order to enable all to monitor the crisis. Most of the ambassadors, diplomats, and assorted heads of states assembled around the largest video screens they could find, and there they remained, glued in place by their anxieties, united in their concern. Companion Ambassador Zo'or, standing with haughty aplomb near the back of one such watching pack, thought it all rather pathetic.

"Such a tragedy! Such a tragedy!" the nearest human, a representative from the country of France, kept repeating between moans. "If only we knew how Da'an was faring. If only we knew if he were uninjured! This uncertainty, she is so very hard to bear."

"Yes," Zo'or agreed. "It is unfortunate that they have not yet discovered a body."

The Frenchman, startled, stared at the alien ambassador out of huge, wet eyes.

"The uncertainty. It would then be ended," the Taelon added, and his mouth, normally sulky, drew up into a smile.

It was not a particularly reassuring smile.

It reminded the Frenchman of the way Kang and Kodos smiled, on that cretinous American TV show, THE SIMPSONS.

Elsewhere, the world just kept on holding its collective breath.



Da'an remained still and watched the last of the dust and debris settle down about himself. Taelons had long ago lost their panic flight or fight responses. Their instinct now when beset by calamity was to freeze and assess, and Da'an did just that, lying quietly and examining his surroundings while his body efficiently repaired itself, then regained its proper contours. The shock of the sudden fall had stressed him out of his human facade and into his natural state, a bioluminescent humanoid form overlaid with a translucent mauve film mapping the location of his facade's apparel. He shimmered through a multitude of shades as he recovered, an eerie yet strangely lovely sight amidst the shadows and ruin.

As soon as his structure had been restored and his stability assured, Da'an rose to an upright position in order to better survey his circumstances. It was clear that some geological disturbance, either manmade or natural, had instigated this collapse, but he was unsure as to the nature of the chamber he now found himself in; the rock faces about him had been artificially levelled though unfinished, there were inlaid conduits, even dimly glowing emergency lights set at intervals, yet it all had about it an air of disuse, even abandonment. He gazed upward, trying to estimate the distance he'd fallen. Fifteen meters? Perhaps twenty? It was difficult to discern where the ceiling even began, so buckled and broken had it become, with concrete slabs still hanging by their reinforcing rods like neanderthalic chandeliers. A long fall, by any estimate. Still, it was nothing for a Taelon. For a human...?

A peculiar wrench went through the Companion. He cast his attention downward and found Stojko almost at once, lying crumpled upon his back mere meters away. The human had been caught in the act of disrobing and his upper body was unclad. It exposed his wounds with cruel clarity, particularly a terrible injury inflicted upon one arm, which dangled broken and torn.

Da'an reassumed his human veneer, in part because he knew that Elvis would not recognize him otherwise, in greater part to better facilitate physical contact between them, and knelt down beside the man's body. He forced himself to touch the bared chest and was instantly alarmed to find the heart within galloping wildly, as if it sought to burst right through its battered shell. Then the flesh beneath his hand quivered and heaved and the human emitted a weak cough and his head lolled sideways towards Da'an. Stojko's eyes opened. He regarded the Taelon calmly, almost with detachment, then, quite amazingly, smiled.

"You're all right," he murmured.

"Elvis," the Companion intoned. He sounded more hurt than did the human, almost as if their inflections were a reversal of what they should be. A thread of blood began to trickle unheeded from the corner of Stojko's mouth. For a few seconds more he gazed at the Taelon, drinking in his unearthly presence, then his eyes wearily closed for good.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I guess I won't be skating...for you...after all."

He fell silent. "Elvis?" said Da'an again. He lifted a hand to Stojko's face and stroked it, but could elicit no response. "Elvis?" No use. The man's consciousness had retreated too far. The Taelon sat there alone.

There was so much blood, escaping from rents in the human's skin, dribbling from his mouth, pouring from his arm; blood enough that Da'an already knelt in a pool of it. It was easy to forget what physical bodies contained until they were in fact rent open and spilled their contents and the sheer messiness of this spillage was agonizing to endure. Intellectually, Da'an knew that what this body was leaking was its life fluid and that it existed within each individual in a finite quantity. Should enough be lost, death was inevitable, and such was as applicable to Stojko as to any human. There were other problems, none of which Da'an could do anything about, but those would soon become inconsequential. Da'an was sure that the skater would lose enough blood that it would kill him.

It was suddenly unacceptable to merely sit and observe any longer. Reining in his distress, the Taelon settled himself and pulled the forepart of Stojko's body onto his lap. The man was heavy and the task difficult and Da'an became further drenched with the draining blood before his feat was complete. The feel of the hot living liquid on his own reconstructed skin proved particularly disturbing for the alien. It awoke yet more atavistic sensations, ones that had to do with horror and dread, and Da'an had to fight a brief, confusing urge to drop his burden and flee. By holding the back of the human's shoulders against his own body, Da'an discovered that he could cushion the man's head in the crook of one arm yet still have his hands free. He used one to again stroke Stojko's face and hair and spoke to him softly in the Taelon language.

The skater's broken, bleeding arm was uppermost and Da'an took it between his hands to study the mangled flesh. Blood was still pulsing out of the midst of the area--being forced out by the pumping of the human's heart, Da'an realized--and he moved a palm to cover the wound. Nothing altered. The Taelon set his other hand opposite the first and tried squeezing the flow shut. It helped, but only somewhat. Taelons were disinclined towards physical exertion and Da'an's grip was very weak. But still, it helped.

Having done all that he could for the moment, Da'an shut his eyes and sought to calm himself. His life essence flared as a beacon to reassure his fellow Taelons of his own well-being, then settled again, soothing and at last enveloping the disturbance contained within even the human's torn disrupted form. For a time, Da'an felt Stojko dwindle, the currents of what energy was left in him drifting with sluggish reluctance, then came a sense of resistance and the forces in his body abandoned their downward trend and regrouped to bank one last persistent spark. Da'an determined that he would guard that spark until the end. He couldn't feed it nor would he be able to fan it back into existence should it begin to gutter, but he would guard it.

The blood still welling up beneath the Taelon's hands began to gel. It clotted between the slim alien fingers and within the lacerations and choked off the flow of precious fluid. Da'an felt a great lassitude descend about him. The defense mechanisms of the human's flesh had done their best and had exhausted their strength. They shifted now into the last phase, the deep unconsciousness that mimicked death and made the fewest demands. The Taelon looked down upon the sad thing in his lap with sorrow and pity. In this final struggle, all humans were alone.

Da'an was so concentrated on monitoring the man's condition that he remained oblivious to his protectors' efforts to reach him until they in fact broke through the ruined level above. Even then it was the fall of small particles rather than the noise that broke the Taelon's reverie. He looked up into the glare of a sudden spotlight.

"Da'an!"

Sandoval's voice. And his flashlight. Boone pushed in beside his colleague and both men peered anxiously through the small opening at what the wavering light revealed.

The Taelon, kneeling, his upturned face glowing whitely in the beam, his steady eyes gleaming. On his lap, the body of what could only be Stojko cradled in his arms. Both of them splashed and smeared with blood. Red human blood.

"Boone. Sandoval," Da'an exclaimed gladly, and the men relaxed.


* * * * *


A lovely day for a flight. So thought Lili Marquette as she piloted good old Boone and his Taelon shuttle through an expert touch-down in yet another cramped city parking lot. Da'an's shuttle, piloted by his own Taelon flyer, had already arrived and she took care to land in neat formation beside it, then had a few friendly words with the Taelon pilot before running off to catch up with Boone. The two of them joined up with the waiting party by the hospital entrance just in time.

The entrance doors slid open and two women exited, one of them pushing a wheelchair, the other well known to the onlookers: one Dr. Julianne Belman. The chair's occupant had likewise become well known. It was Elvis Stojko, looking fine, and a mite embarrassed. He'd wanted to walk out on his own, but Belman had forced him to adhere to hospital policy. Even now, she wouldn't allow him to get up out of the chair until the doors had shut behind them, and she insisted on offering a supportive arm as the skater struggled to his feet.

"Honest, I'm fine!" he protested. "You know that."

"What I know is that you're still shaky. You listen to your doctor, young man," Belman admonished. Her eyes sparkled as she embraced her star patient. It was obvious that she was having the time of her life. She helped him take a few strides, then let him go once the nurse and chair had returned inside.

Stojko regarded his small waiting audience with pleasure and a degree of shyness. It was the presence of Da'an which made him bashful. He had shared much with the Companion and was still coming to terms with all the Taelons had done for him since the accident. Without their medicine...well, he wouldn't have been getting up out of that wheelchair, ever.

He stepped forward to face his greatest benefactor. The skater's movements were stiff, hesitant, unpractised, a pale ghost of what once was; but there was already strength behind each motion and he held himself as well as ever. Da'an encouraged him to come close with his sweet almost-smile.

"I understand that you are returning home?" he asked Stojko.

"Yes, to Richmond Hill. I should be able to finish my therapy and get back on the ice in a month or so."

"I am gratified to hear this." He paused to look the human up and down, warmed by the sight of his restored mobility. "Perhaps, when you are fully recovered, it would be possible to attempt another visit."

"I'd love that," Stojko replied softly.

Da'an acknowledged his words and nodded his head in dismissal. Stojko turned away, took one step, stopped, then swung back to his starting position. For a long instant he gazed into the Taelon's eyes with great intensity, then quite suddenly leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

"And thanks, thanks for everything!" he added, and started away again, much relieved, his halting gait now almost jaunty. He was a good ten meters away before Boone and Marquette could shake themselves out of their shock and trot after him to accompany him to their waiting shuttle. They never would get up the nerve to address Stojko reference his unexpected action during the flight to his home, although both of them badly wanted to.

Sandoval, as expected, was left furious over the skater's outrageous impudence. Belman thought it one of the sweetest gestures she'd ever seen. As for Da'an, he merely lifted a hand afterwards and touched his fingertips to his lips thoughtfully. Human affection...how curious. Da'an decided that he liked it.



Three months later, Elvis Stojko skated the Rauch'isch Sou'va number for Da'an at the Old Toronto Heritage Skating Club Arena. It was a most private performance, with only the Taelon and his human protectors as audience, and the music soared unhindered amidst the very rafters with not one cough or rustle to interrupt it. As always, Elvis flung his heart high when he jumped. The difference was that he no longer leapt alone. Da'an now shared in his mastery for Da'an had mingled his life essence with that of the human on that morning Stojko had lain dying and some remnant of that bond remained for the Taelon to reclaim at will. He did so now and the sensations were glorious. And Elvis, although unaware of Da'an's small piracy, felt the most wonderful glow...

Power. Grace. Precision. Stojko completed his programme in a state of bliss, every step exquisite, every movement pure perfection. Even Boone had to admit that the little fruit skated pretty good.

---END---