Kazza Malissk had always dreamed the surface world would be a wonder, and the universe beyond it more amazing still. The Subbit boards of Sol Selegna and the other sovereign enclaves of the Greater Ainrofilacan Reach were filled with details mined from endless hours of illegally-sourced broadcasts and streams from Terra Subterrene--the world above the world. She, like so many of her friends, drank in those images, speculated on their meanings, and dreamed of someday ascending to find the truth.
She'd ascended. She'd found the truth.
It tasted like cheap body spray and regret.
"Don't be so harsh," Neil deGrasse Tyson said in her ear holes as she peered through the opening between her tent and the one next to hers at the humans and humanish folk thronging Venice Beach and its boardwalk. "You're no credulous hatchling. You know what you grew up seeing of them was as much their dream of themselves as your dream of them."
The red-feathered utahraptor narrowed her eyes, refusing to look in the direction from which Neil's words seemed to come. She knew he was no more real than the dreams of which he spoke. No matter how his deep-toned voice soothed her thoughts, or made her remember his introduction to her of the universe above her world.
Her eyes scanned the beach and the boardwalk, stopping at the glinting form of the _Subtler Than Light._ She was far enough away that the damage caused by the bomb early that morning was not visible, though she knew from barely avoiding it that it had been substantial. When a figure flew past, she crouched down, her heart beating fast.
Was it the Galaxy Hunter? She'd been warned he might show. Only the Lady had said 'a' Galaxy Hunter, hadn't she? The days of 'the' Galaxy Hunter were past. And regardless of whether he was 'a' or 'the,' his objective would be the same: the Heart of Mu. The Heart she had stolen from the ship that had stolen it from the Hollow so long ago.
She turned away from the fence and regarded it where it sat within what appeared to be a burlap sack in the corner of the mostly junk-filled encampment. Again she thought of opening it, and contemplating the form it had taken the instant she had pulled it from beneath the floor of the _Subtler Than Light's_ engine room: a bronze-gold bust of Neil deGrasse Tyson, host of _Cosmos._
"But you won't," said Neil in her ear. "The demon monkeys may find you if you do. Mono Pantalon certainly will."
"I don't believe Mono Pantalon is real," said Kazza. "Why would Los Pantalones contain such a creature? What function does it serve?"
"You've read the Discourses of High Temperature," said Neil. "What do you think?"
Now she looked at Neil. The image of the famed surface-world astrophysicist shimmered before her, looking exactly as she had seen him in the show that had brought him that fame--in a shiny dark suit with a white shirt and a silver tie, smiling benevolently at her. She bit back the memories of seeing his face for the first time, or of seeing it form again around the Heart, or of how it might taste with a light wine braise.
He was not the astrophysicist. He was the voice of the Heart, and had taken Neil's form to kindle her trust. The Lady had warned this was possible. And even with the sack well-cinched around the Heart, screening it from outside detection, its previously-forged connection with her was strong. She hoped it was not permanent.
"I think I never want to know anything about Mono Pantalon," Kazza replied. "Once the Heart has been restored to its rightful Engine by the Lady, my dishonor will be redeemed, and I will be recognized again as the protector of Sol Selegna. I will never return to the surface where we might meet."
"Is that... all you want?" asked another voice. This one was nearly as deep, but felt warmer. Kazza looked around her nest amidst the tents of the unhoused, alarmed that she might have been discovered at last. Demon monkeys had been through here several times that morning, and assorted flying beings had flown past and peered in. None had found her since she'd been ready for them, rubber mask over her head, cloak over her red-feathered body, muttering to herself and swinging a machete so as to not look out of place. This, however, she was unprepared for.
"Carl," said Neil. "Don't do that. She's on edge enough."
Carl Sagan shimmered into apparent existence, his tan jacket and khaki slacks contrasting with Neil's cooler, more elegant look. An enigmatic smile played across his succulent-looking face as he spoke.
"You'll need that edge," said Carl, looking directly at her. "Especially for what you must do next."
"What are you?" Kazza asked.
"The voice of the Heart," Carl said. "Hasn't he told you?"
"*I'm* the voice of the Heart," Neil insisted. "Whose face did she pick for it, huh?"
"I've seen you both," said Kazza. "Your... shows... have been discussed and contrasted on the Subbits. I have... partaken... of the Discourses, and to my regret contributed to their escalating temperature. I believe my unconscious choice cements my position on... Team Neil."
"Ha," said Neil, sticking his tongue out at Carl.
"Billions and billions of punches later," said Carl, raising his fists at Neil, "you will come to know the truth--my show was better, and my eyebrows more expressive."
"Er..." Kazza started.
"Now is not the time," Neil replied, then glanced at Kazza. "Besides, I'm sure she knows my face is the most flavorful. I apply a buttery marinade to it every day."
"I baste my face with the most excellent vintages of pinot noir," Carl countered. "I am cosmically delicious!"
Kazza's stomach rumbled, and she realized she was salivating.
"I have to fight this," she said, not caring that they could hear. "I am a *civilized being,* not an eater of sentients, no matter how tender their eyebrows and cheeks appear!"
"Right on, sister!" yelled someone within one of the tents. Kazza cringed, then made sure her mask was secure. It would not hold up to close inspection, she knew, but she was among those on the surface that few cared to closely inspect. The transient humans in the space on the Venice Beach boardwalk they currently occupied were many, and varied, and didn't seem to mind keeping company with a feathered someone who had conversations with people they couldn't see. They'd made the perfect cover for weeks now.
The owner of the voice poked his head out of his tent, just as Neil and Carl vanished from her sight. One of his heads, at least. Kazza nodded to the white-bearded, oily-cheeked man who peered out.
"Hello, Nik," she said. "I hope the demon monkey incursions didn't disturb you."
"Ahhhh," Nik ahhhhd. "'Least they don't wreck our shit, unlike *our* monkeys. They look at you twice in that?"
Kazza pulled off her rubber mask and peered at it.
"They seemed confused," she said. "I don't believe they knew what to make of this green mask that is purportedly the face of a velociraptor. But I kept my body beneath my cloak and my machete sharp, and they moved on, as you said they would."
"Like Seaborn said they would!" another voice from inside the tent yelled. "'E just repeats everything that meatsack says!"
Nik spread the tent flap so that his second head, to the left of his first, also had a view.
"I remember," Kazza assured him. "Thank him for me when he returns from his walkabout, Kram."
"You're not gonna be here?" Kram asked, wrinkling his dirty, grey-bearded face.
"I will be moving on, soon," said Kazza. "I appreciate Seaborn's optimism, but I cannot return to... my home... the way I came," said Kazza. "It is held by forces working for... another power, one opposed to my Lady."
"I got the same problem with opening tuna cans," Nik said. Kazza elected not to pursue this non-sequitur, as Nik sniffed the air. "Hey, you smell hot dogs?"
"That's us," Kram opined.
"Huh," said Nik, as it side-eyed the head to its left. "Well, it's our shift down at the pier. Safe travels to wherever yer goin', Clever Girl."
Kazza blinked. "Why do you call me that?"
"Y'got powers, right?" Kram said, as the bulky body he and Nik co-piloted emerged, stood, pulled on a trenchcoat, laced up his rollerblades, and waved a cardboard sign that proclaimed his status as a veteran of the battles of the Industrial Revolution. "Y'got powers, y'got to have a name. S' Superhero Guild rules, right?"
"But why *that* name?" Kazza asked. Nik/Kram shrugged and roller-shambled away.
"Is he gone?" Neil deGrasse Tyson asked as he shimmered back into appearance-of-existence.
"Yes," Kazza answered. "Why do you care? I thought only I could see you."
"We were merely being cautious," Carl Sagan said, as he reappeared. "Telepathic sensitives can sometimes perceive us. Also, have you never watched 'Jurassic Park?'"
"I have seen the name in the Subbits," Kazza said. "But I know little of it."
"Never mind that," said Neil. "Focus on being ready to seek the Sunken City."
"The what now?" Kazza asked.
"*The Sunken City,*" Neil and Carl said together, giving their voices a rumbling reverb.
"I knew that," said Kazza. "I just wanted to hear you do that again."
"Wait 'til you hear about the Path of Bone," Carl said.
Kazza sighed, and elected not to request a reverb-repeat, though it sounded like it deserved one. The Lady had told her how to find the Sunken City, but had said nothing about what came next, save to listen to the Heart. "How... exciting."
"Your Lady knows of your peril," Neil said. "She has renewed an old acquaintance," Carl said. "Or, rather, the new holder of an old acquaintance's office. She has called in a debt of that office."
"The *Charnel House* will incarnate tonight," Neil and Carl chorused, giving 'Charnel House' some hefty reverb. "Deep in the dead black hollows beneath the *Sunken City.* The *Path of Bone* will open, and through it we will go to your Lady, and from there, Sol Selegna. We will lead you when night falls."
Before Kazza could respond to this news, Neil and Carl vanished.
Kazza exhaled, and rubbed the feathers around her eyes.
All she had to do was stay hidden for the day. And then... she would walk to where her Lady waited. On a *Path of Bone,* if she had to.
Neil reappeared, nearly causing Kazza to jump.
"One more thing," he said, sounding highly embarrassed and slightly confused. "Would you happen to have *eight bucks* on you?"
***
SUBTLER THAN LIGHT
Episode 4
[Hidden Hearts, Part Four]
"So Calling My Superhost"
by
Gary W. Olson
***
The portal above Cendra Seconds irised open, and she hovered up into the California sunlight. A moment later the lift system shuffled her to the left, and she dropped an inch to the deck of the _Subtler Than Light._ Then Psywave appeared, and was shuffled to a space on the other side of the hole before being released from the suspension field. The portal closed, leaving what would have been no trace had blue paint not been employed to indicate with a rough circle to the current crew where the portal was.
"Wow," said Psywave, shielding her mask-covered eyes with a hand, as her shoulder-length red hair waved in the breeze from the Pacific. "It's sure... bright up here."
The deck of the _Subtler Than Light,_ made of the same bronze-gold metallic nectarisite as the rest of the ship, gleamed harshly in the late morning sun. Cendra put on her sunglasses to temper the glare, and focused on the gaping hole in the center of the main deck, where the bomb set by the faction of demon monkeys working for The Programmer had done its work. Several crew members stood by the hole, while a couple more twiddled with a piece of bronze-gold machinery the size of a snack trolley.
"Ms. Seconds!" one of them called. He was tall, pale, and looked as though he should have made an audible 'gangling' noise with every movement. What looked like a hose with a narrow-pointed attachment was in his hand, the other end connected to the machine. The machine itself--at least the portion resting on legs on top of the 'trolley'--was in motion, wheels turning and pushing what looked like an amorphous blob of nectarisite around, with the blob fighting back and occasionally striking levers. It looked at once laughably antique and inscrutably alien. Everyone on the maintenance crew called it 'the Lathe,' though only the portion on top of the trolley was even vaguely lathe-like, and its functions within the trolley were opaque even to the crew.
"This'll just take a second," she said to Psywave, and gestured to a structure that projected from the far end of the deck. "The bridge is that way, and my office is off the entrance there. I let the crew knew you'd be showing up."
"Gotcha," she said, and took to the air, flying over the hole toward the bridge. Cendra frowned. There was something about the way she flew that was familiar, but just out of conscious reach. The Mask Principle was in effect, she knew. Merely by wearing a partial mask on her face, Psywave kept Cendra--or almost anyone, or almost anything--from recognizing her true identity. Physical features that ordinarily might have helped to make a connection--height, body shape, the exposed part of the face, the sound of her voice--were somehow made unhelpful by that little understood yet quite vexing universal law. And unlike with Mighty Guy, Psywave's features were not so pronounced and unique as to override the Principle.
All Cendra was left with was the look... the somehow *familiar* look... that had passed between Psywave and Esteban down in the lobby of the _Subtler Than Light_ after they saw Lemon for the first time, and a nagging sense that knowing the truth about it and about her was more important than observing the usual niceties about not prying into the secret identity of a superguy. But for now, all she could do was watch... and think.
"How's the work coming, Hector?" she asked, forcing her attention back to the maintenance work.
"We've refit all the small pieces we could, here and on the two floors below," Hector Marcowicz said, gesturing with the attachment at the hole. "Johnny was here. We sent him to get the big piece that crashed on the beach. With his strength and mass-negation abilities, he'll have a lot easier time getting it up here."
"After that," the dark brown woman in the green jumpsuit next to him added, "we'll patch the lower floors. With the Lathe, here, we should be done by day's end."
"Nice work, Trice," Cendra told Beatrice Maddox, her Chief Engineer, who was working the pedals at the base of the 'trolley' as they spoke. "Glad the Lathe is one of the things that still work with the Heart gone."
"Stored energy, my guess," said Trice, a frustrated smile briefly breaking across her weathered face. "We'll probably exhaust it fixing all this, until we get the Heart back from wherever it's been taken."
"Any nausea issues?"
"Ha," said Hector. "I tossed my donuts over the side the instant she started it up." The other jumpsuited workers nodded ruefully.
"Why it should disrupt our digestive systems when no other machinery on this ship has that effect," Trice said, "I've never been able to figure out. But it's earned our calling it 'the Lathe of Heaving' today."
There was much still not known about the Lathe, and the _Subtler Than Light_ in general, even after sixteen years of study. The discovery of the Lathe, at least, had made repairs possible, letting them rework the structure and systems and gradually discover their functions, transforming the ship from a grounded wreck to a functional--if still grounded--battleship that hailed from a dimension that didn't quite agree with how hers did things like 'physics.' Cendra would've felt better if it wasn't the only one in their possession.
"Just don't turn it on until I'm through that door," Cendra replied, as she started toward the bridge. "I'm hungry enough after transforming into a dragon and back. I'd like to keep my omelette..."
A jagged shadow abruptly blotted out the sun.
"...down!"
"Incoming!" Hector yelled.
"Incoming what?" Trice yelled.
A shirtless figure in black track shorts landed on the deck and sprinted toward the hole. As the thing above--a large bronze-gold slab, Cendra realized--plummeted toward them, the figure stopped a foot from the hole's edge and raised an arm.
When the slab struck the new arrival's hand, it abruptly stopped. The figure held it aloft, as if it was lighter than styrofoam. The figure grinned.
"Johnny," said Cendra, exasperation nowhere near in check, "what did I tell you about showing off?"
"It's the technomagic mites that Bonnie zapped into me," said Johnny Clark, tossing the vertical slab from one hand to the other. "They're working in me like crazy."
Cendra looked for Johnny's shoulder wounds, only to see they were fully healed, with only a thin line indicating they had ever been there.
"Can you bring it horizontal," said Trice, recovering smoothly, "and keep it steady in the hole while the Lathe reunites it with the rest of the deck plating?"
Johnny replied by letting the bronze-gold slab fall sideways, and catching it between his hands just above the hole. It was his mass-negation abilities, Cendra knew, not merely his strength alone, that made the move appear so easy.
"Don't push too hard," she counseled. "We don't know the full effects of Bonnie's... novel... approach to spurring your unique biology's self-healing."
"Nonsense," said Johnny. "Though I do have an appetite now. Maybe there's some Spam in the commissary? I could fry it up and add some Velveeta..."
At this, Hector ran for the railing and started heaving, though nothing came out.
"We didn't even start the Lathe up yet!" Trice called to him.
Cendra shook her head. "Just let me know when the work's done, people. I'll be in my office."
She managed to get to the door to the bridge without losing her omelette.
Inside, three crewmembers were going back and forth between monitors, talking into headsets and waving their hands at luminous projected rectangles. A cart that had held bagels just earlier that morning was overturned, with empty bags and emptier cream cheese containers scattered on the floor. Psywave was leaning against the wall next to the door to Cendra's office, drinking from a bottle of water taken from a box by the door, though she stood when Cendra approached.
"Galaxy Hunter'll be here in a few," she said. "You're sure this is necessary?"
"If we're going to work together instead of at cross-purposes," said Cendra, her hand on her office door latch, "I've got to know I can trust you. And that means I've got to know how you fit in to what happened this morning."
"Your party," said Psywave.
"So everyone keeps telling me," Cendra said, rubbing her temples. "I should've kept the receipt."
The door slid open.
"Hold still, Erin," a child's voice instructed. "You nails won't look right if you scuff them on something before they dry."
"I dunno, kid," said Erin McCavish, who was seated in the chair opposite the nine-year-old werewolf girl, examining his right hand. "They look good to me... but I don't think black is my color."
"You'll never understand fashion, Erin," Camila told him.
"Hey, beautiful," said Erin, looking up at Cendra. "You're missing your salon treatment."
On seeing her mother enter the office, Camila immediately abandoned her efforts to improve Erin's fashion comprehension. Cendra had only a few moments to lift her arms before her daughter landed in them and kissed her nose.
Cendra hugged Camila close and closed her eyes. The fur of Camila's snout brushed her cheek. Cendra tried to speak, but felt the words catch in her throat.
Not long earlier, Camila Veracruz had been in danger. She'd been in the bookstore when ki Kazza Malissk--the sentient, red-feathered raptor who had stolen the Heart of Mu from the _Subtler Than Light_--had gone in. While the details still weren't clear, Camila, either not understanding the danger, or understanding it and applying the enthusiastic desire to join in that came from her father's side, had been part of the chaos that followed when Lemon Rydell's demon monkeys tried to capture Malissk. The thought of what could've happened then was one Cendra could barely stand to contemplate.
The world kept on taking. The idea that it could take her daughter was one that never entirely left her mind, and sometimes threatened to overwhelm it. She hugged Camila again, and inhaled the scent of her fur. Camila giggled.
"Your nails are lookin' fine," said Psywave, from her vantage point looking past Cendra's left shoulder. "Black is definitely your color."
"Thanks," said Erin. "Have we met, ah... Psywave, is it?"
"I'm new in town," she replied.
Erin nodded. "Erin McCavish. Pleasure to meet you."
Cendra looked at Psywave's face as he said this, but saw nothing to indicate recognition.
But why did I expect her to recognize his name, she thought. Could she be...?
"Erin," she said. "Have you seen Miguel? His pack wants him to..."
"They already called," said Erin. "He checked out a jetpack and left for Emerson Park ten minutes ago, after making sure I'd watch Camila until you got here."
Cendra nodded. "I need the office for a few minutes to talk to Psywave. Ordinarily I'd ask you to stay, but... can you join Bonnie's group that's taking a translocation jaunt out to Malaga?"
"I thought we were out of those portal stones Shadebeam used to supply us with," said Erin.
"Bonnie's calling up a translocation service she's familiar with, and it looks like Lemon's managed to attach himself to the trip as well. I need someone I can trust to ride herd over them."
"Sickbay work is mostly done," said Erin. "Nurse Kamau's following up with a few crewmembers, but I'm free now. Where's Bonnie at?"
"Reception."
He nodded, then leaned in for a kiss.
Erin McCavish, she'd discovered, was different from her ex-husband Miguel in many ways. He was in shape, but nowhere near as muscular as Miguel. He wasn't as brash, though he was even more self-confident. He also didn't have a roving eye, or if he did, his hands didn't rove with it. He was a younger man, thirteen years younger than Miguel and eleven younger than Cendra herself. He was gentle where Miguel was bold, and slow where her ex-husband was quick. He wasn't a man her younger self had ever pictured as a lover, and were it not for a long night, a bottle of spiced rum, and an earnest need for a non-judgmental ear six months ago, she wasn't sure she ever would've realized the differences had virtues of their own.
"I should get down to see Bonnie before they leave without me," said Erin, after breaking the kiss.
"Bonnie means well," Cendra answered, "as far as I can tell, but she might not know what to ask. And with Lemon tagging along... well, let's just say I'm glad you'll be there."
"Does Lemon know... about..."
"I imagine he's up-to-date on your Mastodon feed," she said. "Beyond that... I don't know."
"Then let the game begin," he said, kissing her once more before heading for the door.
"Take a seat," said Cendra, when he was gone. She gestured toward one of the chairs. Psywave started for it, but Camila hopped on before she could get there. When Psywave moved for the other seat, Camila hopped over to that one as well.
"Is that how it's gonna be, squirt?" Psywave asked.
"You gotta be quick, superlady," said Camila.
Psywave moved for the unoccupied chair. Camila leaped...
...then bounced off of what looked like empty air, and fell back onto the chair she'd earlier occupied. Psywave sat down and stuck the tip of her tongue out at Camila. Cendra tried to contain her reaction, but a snort of amusement escaped her.
"Moooom," Camila complained.
"Know your opponent," said Cendra. "If you don't... you see what happens."
"Hmph."
"I've got to talk with... Ms. Psywave... about a few things," said Cendra. "You can listen if you want, but please don't interrupt." She looked over at Psywave, who was taking another sip from her water bottle. "I expect this will be important."
"Ohhh-kaaay."
Cendra watched as Camila took a seat on the fluffy silver couch on the far side of the office between the door and a trophy-packed bookcase. In a blink, her phone was in one clawed hand, while the claws of her other tapped away.
Psywave again made a move toward her seat, then stopped, her eye caught by one of the framed images on the wall behind Cendra, who turned to look.
It was a picture of three perspiration-slicked people and a bronze-gold bonobo reclining on a stage, lit by a single overhead spotlight. All save the bonobo appeared exhausted and strangely giddy. A stratocaster guitar, a Fender Jaguar bass guitar, and a pair of drumsticks were mixed in with their casually intertwined limbs.
It was a good photo, one Cendra had taken herself. Even so, she wondered why it, of all there was to look at, had caught her guest's eye.
Her hope as to what that reason might be surged.
"That's El Guerrero de Los Pantalones, aka Esteban Veracruz, in the center," she said, gesturing at the young man with unruly long black hair who wearing a red Jane's Addiction t-shirt, a bronze-gold headband, a bronze-gold belt, and black shorts. "Pantalones hidden in that moment, though, and his keyboards were out of shot."
"He's the one I came in with," said Psywave, as she peered at the image. "But he looks a lot younger."
"It was taken back in '16, when he was... let's see... twenty-four. He's put on some muscle, and some wear and tear since then."
"And the monkey...?"
"Bonobo, name of Coco," Cendra corrected, her eyes moving to the grinning metallic creature on Esteban's shoulders. "Though really an imitation one, made of the same stuff as El Guerrero's armored trousers."
"What's with the Prince Valiant hair?"
"Coco's self-expression has grown through the years. Especially after discovering how to exist independently of Los Pantalones. He's kind of an AI--a real, sentient intelligence, not a GPT-style whatchacallit--but... kind of more than that, in ways I'm probably not even remotely qualified to discuss. The drumsticks are his."
Psywave nodded, and started to turn away.
"On their left is the Trickster," Cendra hurriedly said, indicating the blond man with the scruffy beard, an eye-hurting tropical shirt, black shorts, and headphones hooked on his neck. "Bass guitar guy. You met him too, just today."
Psywave peered at the picture again, and frowned.
"Not... the guy in the black suit," she said, finally. "I... oh, yeah. I guess I can see it, if I picture him without the beard. 'Trickster,' you say?"
"Call sign he chose. He was ground support for those two, mainly, whenever they and any superguy they could round up on a given evening were out fighting supervillains. Pretty damn good at it, though I never could figure out how he got half the info he seemed to pull out of nowhere."
This wasn't entirely true. She *did* know. She watched Psywave's expression, wishing she could also see her eyes, but it betrayed no similar knowledge. But all she saw was a polite mask.
"Purple hair, there on Esteban's other side," said Cendra, "that's 'Valley Girl.'" Her eyes lingered on the violet-spandex-clad woman who was resting her head on Esteban's shoulder. "The stratocaster was hers. Psychokinetic powers, a bit surly, but kind-hearted. Managed to keep her secret identity secret while she was active, but it leaked out after. Rumi Moroboshi."
"Moroboshi," said Psywave. "As in..."
"As in Joe," Cendra confirmed. "Her dad. Superguy from back in the day who called himself 'Rad.'"
This seemed to renew Psywave's interest in the photo.
"They look... close."
Cendra exhaled. So she was going *there,* was she?
"You have no idea," Cendra said, and sighed. "They were as tangled in their lives as they are in that pic. To call it a love triangle would be an insult to geometry. A glorious, beautiful, sad tangle."
She gauged Psywave's still-opaque expression, then took her best--and last remaining--shot.
"If she hadn't been so insecure... they might've stayed that way forever."
This time, Psywave did respond... by arching an eyebrow.
"Huh," she said, before turning away.
Temptation surged through Cendra to dive into Psywave's mind and pull out the truth with her telepathic abilities. She could feel the faint edges of technologically-assisted mind-screening coming from her, though, and knew that, even if she lacked the ethical judgment to hold back, a direct invasion would likely fail.
But she didn't have to fall back on either principles or fear of failure to refrain. The truth was now clear.
Whoever Psywave was, she wasn't Rumi Moroboshi.
Cendra bit back a surge of sadness at the bitter realization, before it could bubble up to her eyes. Rumi Moroboshi was gone, fled out into the galaxy soon after her tangle with Esteban and Lemon collapsed, taking their individual and collective secrets with it. No word at all outside of her parents in the seven years since, and all they would say was to wait for her to come around.
"So," she said, forcing herself to turn around to her desk, to begin the conversation she should have led with. "How about you tell me what the hell happened this morning?"
Psywave flopped at long last into her seat.
"What's going on is a Hidden Heart was stolen," she said, "and I found out why, and what it meant. And warned you too late."
She'd ascended. She'd found the truth.
It tasted like cheap body spray and regret.
"Don't be so harsh," Neil deGrasse Tyson said in her ear holes as she peered through the opening between her tent and the one next to hers at the humans and humanish folk thronging Venice Beach and its boardwalk. "You're no credulous hatchling. You know what you grew up seeing of them was as much their dream of themselves as your dream of them."
The red-feathered utahraptor narrowed her eyes, refusing to look in the direction from which Neil's words seemed to come. She knew he was no more real than the dreams of which he spoke. No matter how his deep-toned voice soothed her thoughts, or made her remember his introduction to her of the universe above her world.
Her eyes scanned the beach and the boardwalk, stopping at the glinting form of the _Subtler Than Light._ She was far enough away that the damage caused by the bomb early that morning was not visible, though she knew from barely avoiding it that it had been substantial. When a figure flew past, she crouched down, her heart beating fast.
Was it the Galaxy Hunter? She'd been warned he might show. Only the Lady had said 'a' Galaxy Hunter, hadn't she? The days of 'the' Galaxy Hunter were past. And regardless of whether he was 'a' or 'the,' his objective would be the same: the Heart of Mu. The Heart she had stolen from the ship that had stolen it from the Hollow so long ago.
She turned away from the fence and regarded it where it sat within what appeared to be a burlap sack in the corner of the mostly junk-filled encampment. Again she thought of opening it, and contemplating the form it had taken the instant she had pulled it from beneath the floor of the _Subtler Than Light's_ engine room: a bronze-gold bust of Neil deGrasse Tyson, host of _Cosmos._
"But you won't," said Neil in her ear. "The demon monkeys may find you if you do. Mono Pantalon certainly will."
"I don't believe Mono Pantalon is real," said Kazza. "Why would Los Pantalones contain such a creature? What function does it serve?"
"You've read the Discourses of High Temperature," said Neil. "What do you think?"
Now she looked at Neil. The image of the famed surface-world astrophysicist shimmered before her, looking exactly as she had seen him in the show that had brought him that fame--in a shiny dark suit with a white shirt and a silver tie, smiling benevolently at her. She bit back the memories of seeing his face for the first time, or of seeing it form again around the Heart, or of how it might taste with a light wine braise.
He was not the astrophysicist. He was the voice of the Heart, and had taken Neil's form to kindle her trust. The Lady had warned this was possible. And even with the sack well-cinched around the Heart, screening it from outside detection, its previously-forged connection with her was strong. She hoped it was not permanent.
"I think I never want to know anything about Mono Pantalon," Kazza replied. "Once the Heart has been restored to its rightful Engine by the Lady, my dishonor will be redeemed, and I will be recognized again as the protector of Sol Selegna. I will never return to the surface where we might meet."
"Is that... all you want?" asked another voice. This one was nearly as deep, but felt warmer. Kazza looked around her nest amidst the tents of the unhoused, alarmed that she might have been discovered at last. Demon monkeys had been through here several times that morning, and assorted flying beings had flown past and peered in. None had found her since she'd been ready for them, rubber mask over her head, cloak over her red-feathered body, muttering to herself and swinging a machete so as to not look out of place. This, however, she was unprepared for.
"Carl," said Neil. "Don't do that. She's on edge enough."
Carl Sagan shimmered into apparent existence, his tan jacket and khaki slacks contrasting with Neil's cooler, more elegant look. An enigmatic smile played across his succulent-looking face as he spoke.
"You'll need that edge," said Carl, looking directly at her. "Especially for what you must do next."
"What are you?" Kazza asked.
"The voice of the Heart," Carl said. "Hasn't he told you?"
"*I'm* the voice of the Heart," Neil insisted. "Whose face did she pick for it, huh?"
"I've seen you both," said Kazza. "Your... shows... have been discussed and contrasted on the Subbits. I have... partaken... of the Discourses, and to my regret contributed to their escalating temperature. I believe my unconscious choice cements my position on... Team Neil."
"Ha," said Neil, sticking his tongue out at Carl.
"Billions and billions of punches later," said Carl, raising his fists at Neil, "you will come to know the truth--my show was better, and my eyebrows more expressive."
"Er..." Kazza started.
"Now is not the time," Neil replied, then glanced at Kazza. "Besides, I'm sure she knows my face is the most flavorful. I apply a buttery marinade to it every day."
"I baste my face with the most excellent vintages of pinot noir," Carl countered. "I am cosmically delicious!"
Kazza's stomach rumbled, and she realized she was salivating.
"I have to fight this," she said, not caring that they could hear. "I am a *civilized being,* not an eater of sentients, no matter how tender their eyebrows and cheeks appear!"
"Right on, sister!" yelled someone within one of the tents. Kazza cringed, then made sure her mask was secure. It would not hold up to close inspection, she knew, but she was among those on the surface that few cared to closely inspect. The transient humans in the space on the Venice Beach boardwalk they currently occupied were many, and varied, and didn't seem to mind keeping company with a feathered someone who had conversations with people they couldn't see. They'd made the perfect cover for weeks now.
The owner of the voice poked his head out of his tent, just as Neil and Carl vanished from her sight. One of his heads, at least. Kazza nodded to the white-bearded, oily-cheeked man who peered out.
"Hello, Nik," she said. "I hope the demon monkey incursions didn't disturb you."
"Ahhhh," Nik ahhhhd. "'Least they don't wreck our shit, unlike *our* monkeys. They look at you twice in that?"
Kazza pulled off her rubber mask and peered at it.
"They seemed confused," she said. "I don't believe they knew what to make of this green mask that is purportedly the face of a velociraptor. But I kept my body beneath my cloak and my machete sharp, and they moved on, as you said they would."
"Like Seaborn said they would!" another voice from inside the tent yelled. "'E just repeats everything that meatsack says!"
Nik spread the tent flap so that his second head, to the left of his first, also had a view.
"I remember," Kazza assured him. "Thank him for me when he returns from his walkabout, Kram."
"You're not gonna be here?" Kram asked, wrinkling his dirty, grey-bearded face.
"I will be moving on, soon," said Kazza. "I appreciate Seaborn's optimism, but I cannot return to... my home... the way I came," said Kazza. "It is held by forces working for... another power, one opposed to my Lady."
"I got the same problem with opening tuna cans," Nik said. Kazza elected not to pursue this non-sequitur, as Nik sniffed the air. "Hey, you smell hot dogs?"
"That's us," Kram opined.
"Huh," said Nik, as it side-eyed the head to its left. "Well, it's our shift down at the pier. Safe travels to wherever yer goin', Clever Girl."
Kazza blinked. "Why do you call me that?"
"Y'got powers, right?" Kram said, as the bulky body he and Nik co-piloted emerged, stood, pulled on a trenchcoat, laced up his rollerblades, and waved a cardboard sign that proclaimed his status as a veteran of the battles of the Industrial Revolution. "Y'got powers, y'got to have a name. S' Superhero Guild rules, right?"
"But why *that* name?" Kazza asked. Nik/Kram shrugged and roller-shambled away.
"Is he gone?" Neil deGrasse Tyson asked as he shimmered back into appearance-of-existence.
"Yes," Kazza answered. "Why do you care? I thought only I could see you."
"We were merely being cautious," Carl Sagan said, as he reappeared. "Telepathic sensitives can sometimes perceive us. Also, have you never watched 'Jurassic Park?'"
"I have seen the name in the Subbits," Kazza said. "But I know little of it."
"Never mind that," said Neil. "Focus on being ready to seek the Sunken City."
"The what now?" Kazza asked.
"*The Sunken City,*" Neil and Carl said together, giving their voices a rumbling reverb.
"I knew that," said Kazza. "I just wanted to hear you do that again."
"Wait 'til you hear about the Path of Bone," Carl said.
Kazza sighed, and elected not to request a reverb-repeat, though it sounded like it deserved one. The Lady had told her how to find the Sunken City, but had said nothing about what came next, save to listen to the Heart. "How... exciting."
"Your Lady knows of your peril," Neil said. "She has renewed an old acquaintance," Carl said. "Or, rather, the new holder of an old acquaintance's office. She has called in a debt of that office."
"The *Charnel House* will incarnate tonight," Neil and Carl chorused, giving 'Charnel House' some hefty reverb. "Deep in the dead black hollows beneath the *Sunken City.* The *Path of Bone* will open, and through it we will go to your Lady, and from there, Sol Selegna. We will lead you when night falls."
Before Kazza could respond to this news, Neil and Carl vanished.
Kazza exhaled, and rubbed the feathers around her eyes.
All she had to do was stay hidden for the day. And then... she would walk to where her Lady waited. On a *Path of Bone,* if she had to.
Neil reappeared, nearly causing Kazza to jump.
"One more thing," he said, sounding highly embarrassed and slightly confused. "Would you happen to have *eight bucks* on you?"
***
SUBTLER THAN LIGHT
Episode 4
[Hidden Hearts, Part Four]
"So Calling My Superhost"
by
Gary W. Olson
***
The portal above Cendra Seconds irised open, and she hovered up into the California sunlight. A moment later the lift system shuffled her to the left, and she dropped an inch to the deck of the _Subtler Than Light._ Then Psywave appeared, and was shuffled to a space on the other side of the hole before being released from the suspension field. The portal closed, leaving what would have been no trace had blue paint not been employed to indicate with a rough circle to the current crew where the portal was.
"Wow," said Psywave, shielding her mask-covered eyes with a hand, as her shoulder-length red hair waved in the breeze from the Pacific. "It's sure... bright up here."
The deck of the _Subtler Than Light,_ made of the same bronze-gold metallic nectarisite as the rest of the ship, gleamed harshly in the late morning sun. Cendra put on her sunglasses to temper the glare, and focused on the gaping hole in the center of the main deck, where the bomb set by the faction of demon monkeys working for The Programmer had done its work. Several crew members stood by the hole, while a couple more twiddled with a piece of bronze-gold machinery the size of a snack trolley.
"Ms. Seconds!" one of them called. He was tall, pale, and looked as though he should have made an audible 'gangling' noise with every movement. What looked like a hose with a narrow-pointed attachment was in his hand, the other end connected to the machine. The machine itself--at least the portion resting on legs on top of the 'trolley'--was in motion, wheels turning and pushing what looked like an amorphous blob of nectarisite around, with the blob fighting back and occasionally striking levers. It looked at once laughably antique and inscrutably alien. Everyone on the maintenance crew called it 'the Lathe,' though only the portion on top of the trolley was even vaguely lathe-like, and its functions within the trolley were opaque even to the crew.
"This'll just take a second," she said to Psywave, and gestured to a structure that projected from the far end of the deck. "The bridge is that way, and my office is off the entrance there. I let the crew knew you'd be showing up."
"Gotcha," she said, and took to the air, flying over the hole toward the bridge. Cendra frowned. There was something about the way she flew that was familiar, but just out of conscious reach. The Mask Principle was in effect, she knew. Merely by wearing a partial mask on her face, Psywave kept Cendra--or almost anyone, or almost anything--from recognizing her true identity. Physical features that ordinarily might have helped to make a connection--height, body shape, the exposed part of the face, the sound of her voice--were somehow made unhelpful by that little understood yet quite vexing universal law. And unlike with Mighty Guy, Psywave's features were not so pronounced and unique as to override the Principle.
All Cendra was left with was the look... the somehow *familiar* look... that had passed between Psywave and Esteban down in the lobby of the _Subtler Than Light_ after they saw Lemon for the first time, and a nagging sense that knowing the truth about it and about her was more important than observing the usual niceties about not prying into the secret identity of a superguy. But for now, all she could do was watch... and think.
"How's the work coming, Hector?" she asked, forcing her attention back to the maintenance work.
"We've refit all the small pieces we could, here and on the two floors below," Hector Marcowicz said, gesturing with the attachment at the hole. "Johnny was here. We sent him to get the big piece that crashed on the beach. With his strength and mass-negation abilities, he'll have a lot easier time getting it up here."
"After that," the dark brown woman in the green jumpsuit next to him added, "we'll patch the lower floors. With the Lathe, here, we should be done by day's end."
"Nice work, Trice," Cendra told Beatrice Maddox, her Chief Engineer, who was working the pedals at the base of the 'trolley' as they spoke. "Glad the Lathe is one of the things that still work with the Heart gone."
"Stored energy, my guess," said Trice, a frustrated smile briefly breaking across her weathered face. "We'll probably exhaust it fixing all this, until we get the Heart back from wherever it's been taken."
"Any nausea issues?"
"Ha," said Hector. "I tossed my donuts over the side the instant she started it up." The other jumpsuited workers nodded ruefully.
"Why it should disrupt our digestive systems when no other machinery on this ship has that effect," Trice said, "I've never been able to figure out. But it's earned our calling it 'the Lathe of Heaving' today."
There was much still not known about the Lathe, and the _Subtler Than Light_ in general, even after sixteen years of study. The discovery of the Lathe, at least, had made repairs possible, letting them rework the structure and systems and gradually discover their functions, transforming the ship from a grounded wreck to a functional--if still grounded--battleship that hailed from a dimension that didn't quite agree with how hers did things like 'physics.' Cendra would've felt better if it wasn't the only one in their possession.
"Just don't turn it on until I'm through that door," Cendra replied, as she started toward the bridge. "I'm hungry enough after transforming into a dragon and back. I'd like to keep my omelette..."
A jagged shadow abruptly blotted out the sun.
"...down!"
"Incoming!" Hector yelled.
"Incoming what?" Trice yelled.
A shirtless figure in black track shorts landed on the deck and sprinted toward the hole. As the thing above--a large bronze-gold slab, Cendra realized--plummeted toward them, the figure stopped a foot from the hole's edge and raised an arm.
When the slab struck the new arrival's hand, it abruptly stopped. The figure held it aloft, as if it was lighter than styrofoam. The figure grinned.
"Johnny," said Cendra, exasperation nowhere near in check, "what did I tell you about showing off?"
"It's the technomagic mites that Bonnie zapped into me," said Johnny Clark, tossing the vertical slab from one hand to the other. "They're working in me like crazy."
Cendra looked for Johnny's shoulder wounds, only to see they were fully healed, with only a thin line indicating they had ever been there.
"Can you bring it horizontal," said Trice, recovering smoothly, "and keep it steady in the hole while the Lathe reunites it with the rest of the deck plating?"
Johnny replied by letting the bronze-gold slab fall sideways, and catching it between his hands just above the hole. It was his mass-negation abilities, Cendra knew, not merely his strength alone, that made the move appear so easy.
"Don't push too hard," she counseled. "We don't know the full effects of Bonnie's... novel... approach to spurring your unique biology's self-healing."
"Nonsense," said Johnny. "Though I do have an appetite now. Maybe there's some Spam in the commissary? I could fry it up and add some Velveeta..."
At this, Hector ran for the railing and started heaving, though nothing came out.
"We didn't even start the Lathe up yet!" Trice called to him.
Cendra shook her head. "Just let me know when the work's done, people. I'll be in my office."
She managed to get to the door to the bridge without losing her omelette.
Inside, three crewmembers were going back and forth between monitors, talking into headsets and waving their hands at luminous projected rectangles. A cart that had held bagels just earlier that morning was overturned, with empty bags and emptier cream cheese containers scattered on the floor. Psywave was leaning against the wall next to the door to Cendra's office, drinking from a bottle of water taken from a box by the door, though she stood when Cendra approached.
"Galaxy Hunter'll be here in a few," she said. "You're sure this is necessary?"
"If we're going to work together instead of at cross-purposes," said Cendra, her hand on her office door latch, "I've got to know I can trust you. And that means I've got to know how you fit in to what happened this morning."
"Your party," said Psywave.
"So everyone keeps telling me," Cendra said, rubbing her temples. "I should've kept the receipt."
The door slid open.
"Hold still, Erin," a child's voice instructed. "You nails won't look right if you scuff them on something before they dry."
"I dunno, kid," said Erin McCavish, who was seated in the chair opposite the nine-year-old werewolf girl, examining his right hand. "They look good to me... but I don't think black is my color."
"You'll never understand fashion, Erin," Camila told him.
"Hey, beautiful," said Erin, looking up at Cendra. "You're missing your salon treatment."
On seeing her mother enter the office, Camila immediately abandoned her efforts to improve Erin's fashion comprehension. Cendra had only a few moments to lift her arms before her daughter landed in them and kissed her nose.
Cendra hugged Camila close and closed her eyes. The fur of Camila's snout brushed her cheek. Cendra tried to speak, but felt the words catch in her throat.
Not long earlier, Camila Veracruz had been in danger. She'd been in the bookstore when ki Kazza Malissk--the sentient, red-feathered raptor who had stolen the Heart of Mu from the _Subtler Than Light_--had gone in. While the details still weren't clear, Camila, either not understanding the danger, or understanding it and applying the enthusiastic desire to join in that came from her father's side, had been part of the chaos that followed when Lemon Rydell's demon monkeys tried to capture Malissk. The thought of what could've happened then was one Cendra could barely stand to contemplate.
The world kept on taking. The idea that it could take her daughter was one that never entirely left her mind, and sometimes threatened to overwhelm it. She hugged Camila again, and inhaled the scent of her fur. Camila giggled.
"Your nails are lookin' fine," said Psywave, from her vantage point looking past Cendra's left shoulder. "Black is definitely your color."
"Thanks," said Erin. "Have we met, ah... Psywave, is it?"
"I'm new in town," she replied.
Erin nodded. "Erin McCavish. Pleasure to meet you."
Cendra looked at Psywave's face as he said this, but saw nothing to indicate recognition.
But why did I expect her to recognize his name, she thought. Could she be...?
"Erin," she said. "Have you seen Miguel? His pack wants him to..."
"They already called," said Erin. "He checked out a jetpack and left for Emerson Park ten minutes ago, after making sure I'd watch Camila until you got here."
Cendra nodded. "I need the office for a few minutes to talk to Psywave. Ordinarily I'd ask you to stay, but... can you join Bonnie's group that's taking a translocation jaunt out to Malaga?"
"I thought we were out of those portal stones Shadebeam used to supply us with," said Erin.
"Bonnie's calling up a translocation service she's familiar with, and it looks like Lemon's managed to attach himself to the trip as well. I need someone I can trust to ride herd over them."
"Sickbay work is mostly done," said Erin. "Nurse Kamau's following up with a few crewmembers, but I'm free now. Where's Bonnie at?"
"Reception."
He nodded, then leaned in for a kiss.
Erin McCavish, she'd discovered, was different from her ex-husband Miguel in many ways. He was in shape, but nowhere near as muscular as Miguel. He wasn't as brash, though he was even more self-confident. He also didn't have a roving eye, or if he did, his hands didn't rove with it. He was a younger man, thirteen years younger than Miguel and eleven younger than Cendra herself. He was gentle where Miguel was bold, and slow where her ex-husband was quick. He wasn't a man her younger self had ever pictured as a lover, and were it not for a long night, a bottle of spiced rum, and an earnest need for a non-judgmental ear six months ago, she wasn't sure she ever would've realized the differences had virtues of their own.
"I should get down to see Bonnie before they leave without me," said Erin, after breaking the kiss.
"Bonnie means well," Cendra answered, "as far as I can tell, but she might not know what to ask. And with Lemon tagging along... well, let's just say I'm glad you'll be there."
"Does Lemon know... about..."
"I imagine he's up-to-date on your Mastodon feed," she said. "Beyond that... I don't know."
"Then let the game begin," he said, kissing her once more before heading for the door.
"Take a seat," said Cendra, when he was gone. She gestured toward one of the chairs. Psywave started for it, but Camila hopped on before she could get there. When Psywave moved for the other seat, Camila hopped over to that one as well.
"Is that how it's gonna be, squirt?" Psywave asked.
"You gotta be quick, superlady," said Camila.
Psywave moved for the unoccupied chair. Camila leaped...
...then bounced off of what looked like empty air, and fell back onto the chair she'd earlier occupied. Psywave sat down and stuck the tip of her tongue out at Camila. Cendra tried to contain her reaction, but a snort of amusement escaped her.
"Moooom," Camila complained.
"Know your opponent," said Cendra. "If you don't... you see what happens."
"Hmph."
"I've got to talk with... Ms. Psywave... about a few things," said Cendra. "You can listen if you want, but please don't interrupt." She looked over at Psywave, who was taking another sip from her water bottle. "I expect this will be important."
"Ohhh-kaaay."
Cendra watched as Camila took a seat on the fluffy silver couch on the far side of the office between the door and a trophy-packed bookcase. In a blink, her phone was in one clawed hand, while the claws of her other tapped away.
Psywave again made a move toward her seat, then stopped, her eye caught by one of the framed images on the wall behind Cendra, who turned to look.
It was a picture of three perspiration-slicked people and a bronze-gold bonobo reclining on a stage, lit by a single overhead spotlight. All save the bonobo appeared exhausted and strangely giddy. A stratocaster guitar, a Fender Jaguar bass guitar, and a pair of drumsticks were mixed in with their casually intertwined limbs.
It was a good photo, one Cendra had taken herself. Even so, she wondered why it, of all there was to look at, had caught her guest's eye.
Her hope as to what that reason might be surged.
"That's El Guerrero de Los Pantalones, aka Esteban Veracruz, in the center," she said, gesturing at the young man with unruly long black hair who wearing a red Jane's Addiction t-shirt, a bronze-gold headband, a bronze-gold belt, and black shorts. "Pantalones hidden in that moment, though, and his keyboards were out of shot."
"He's the one I came in with," said Psywave, as she peered at the image. "But he looks a lot younger."
"It was taken back in '16, when he was... let's see... twenty-four. He's put on some muscle, and some wear and tear since then."
"And the monkey...?"
"Bonobo, name of Coco," Cendra corrected, her eyes moving to the grinning metallic creature on Esteban's shoulders. "Though really an imitation one, made of the same stuff as El Guerrero's armored trousers."
"What's with the Prince Valiant hair?"
"Coco's self-expression has grown through the years. Especially after discovering how to exist independently of Los Pantalones. He's kind of an AI--a real, sentient intelligence, not a GPT-style whatchacallit--but... kind of more than that, in ways I'm probably not even remotely qualified to discuss. The drumsticks are his."
Psywave nodded, and started to turn away.
"On their left is the Trickster," Cendra hurriedly said, indicating the blond man with the scruffy beard, an eye-hurting tropical shirt, black shorts, and headphones hooked on his neck. "Bass guitar guy. You met him too, just today."
Psywave peered at the picture again, and frowned.
"Not... the guy in the black suit," she said, finally. "I... oh, yeah. I guess I can see it, if I picture him without the beard. 'Trickster,' you say?"
"Call sign he chose. He was ground support for those two, mainly, whenever they and any superguy they could round up on a given evening were out fighting supervillains. Pretty damn good at it, though I never could figure out how he got half the info he seemed to pull out of nowhere."
This wasn't entirely true. She *did* know. She watched Psywave's expression, wishing she could also see her eyes, but it betrayed no similar knowledge. But all she saw was a polite mask.
"Purple hair, there on Esteban's other side," said Cendra, "that's 'Valley Girl.'" Her eyes lingered on the violet-spandex-clad woman who was resting her head on Esteban's shoulder. "The stratocaster was hers. Psychokinetic powers, a bit surly, but kind-hearted. Managed to keep her secret identity secret while she was active, but it leaked out after. Rumi Moroboshi."
"Moroboshi," said Psywave. "As in..."
"As in Joe," Cendra confirmed. "Her dad. Superguy from back in the day who called himself 'Rad.'"
This seemed to renew Psywave's interest in the photo.
"They look... close."
Cendra exhaled. So she was going *there,* was she?
"You have no idea," Cendra said, and sighed. "They were as tangled in their lives as they are in that pic. To call it a love triangle would be an insult to geometry. A glorious, beautiful, sad tangle."
She gauged Psywave's still-opaque expression, then took her best--and last remaining--shot.
"If she hadn't been so insecure... they might've stayed that way forever."
This time, Psywave did respond... by arching an eyebrow.
"Huh," she said, before turning away.
Temptation surged through Cendra to dive into Psywave's mind and pull out the truth with her telepathic abilities. She could feel the faint edges of technologically-assisted mind-screening coming from her, though, and knew that, even if she lacked the ethical judgment to hold back, a direct invasion would likely fail.
But she didn't have to fall back on either principles or fear of failure to refrain. The truth was now clear.
Whoever Psywave was, she wasn't Rumi Moroboshi.
Cendra bit back a surge of sadness at the bitter realization, before it could bubble up to her eyes. Rumi Moroboshi was gone, fled out into the galaxy soon after her tangle with Esteban and Lemon collapsed, taking their individual and collective secrets with it. No word at all outside of her parents in the seven years since, and all they would say was to wait for her to come around.
"So," she said, forcing herself to turn around to her desk, to begin the conversation she should have led with. "How about you tell me what the hell happened this morning?"
Psywave flopped at long last into her seat.
"What's going on is a Hidden Heart was stolen," she said, "and I found out why, and what it meant. And warned you too late."
(continued in part two, following...)
--
Subtler Than Light #4 (c) 2023 by Gary W. Olson. All Rights Reserved.
For behind-the-scenes notes on this episode, visit my posting in
the Superguy List community on LiveJournal:
https://superguy-list.livejournal.com/41580.html
Gary W. Olson LinkTree: https://linktr.ee/gwox
Superguy List: https://lists.eyrie.org/mailman/listinfo/superguy/
Superguy/Sfstory Discord: https://discord.gg/xuhYChvAPK
Superguy/Sfstory LinkTree: https://linktr.ee/superguysfstory
Subtler Than Light #4 (c) 2023 by Gary W. Olson. All Rights Reserved.
For behind-the-scenes notes on this episode, visit my posting in
the Superguy List community on LiveJournal:
https://superguy-list.livejournal.com/41580.html
Gary W. Olson LinkTree: https://linktr.ee/gwox
Superguy List: https://lists.eyrie.org/mailman/listinfo/superguy/
Superguy/Sfstory Discord: https://discord.gg/xuhYChvAPK
Superguy/Sfstory LinkTree: https://linktr.ee/superguysfstory