A Gatchaman fanfic by Cal
All Gatchaman characters copyright Tatsunoko Productions
Brace Hoffman and Ceiran Morag Maragorm (Kai)
borrowed from Ennien Ashbrook



                       Childhood Memories


"This child was found somewhere in the sewer system. She is
carrying a passport, but doesn't seem to remember her name.
Evidence suggests that she has no parents, and is homeless and
traumatized. We are not clear on what happened to her; she has
mentioned `those men' a number of times and seems to have a deep-
rooted fear of the colour green. When asked where she came from,
she drew a strange kind of logo that none of us recognized. She
kept pointing at it and crying. Nevertheless, she doesn't seem to
have ended up in the sewer tunnels by accident, by falling into a
manhole or something similar; again, evidence suggests she used
them as an escape route from some kind of prison or mental
institution."

Derek Delancy re-read the short report that his fellow-welfare
worker had pinned onto the small child's grubby coat, and put it in
her file, that already contained said passport. Opening the
passport, which was a foreign one, he put a form in the typewriter
to fill in. No, wait; he would try something else first.
   "What's your name, little girl?"
   She stared at him balefully and refused to answer, her hands
held behind her back.
   "Go on... Don't you know your name?"
   She shook her head, her mouth tightly clamped shut. She was not
like the children that usually came in; she looked more well-fed,
for one thing, and she had a pale skin and lovely golden hair that
gave her an angelic look completely belied by her dark and sulky
expression. Her clothes were of relatively expensive cut, and under
the jacket she wore a money belt; an odd thing for a five-year-old
to possess.
   "You can trust me."
   She shook her head again, just as emphatically.
   "Okay then. If you don't want to say your name, you don't have
to. Where do you live?"
   This time she shook her head so hard that her hair flew about.
When she had finished shaking it, he could see moisture collecting
on the rims of her lower eyelids. This was going to be a tough
case.
   "Okay, okay," he said placatingly. "No more questions. You can
sit if you like," gesturing at an empty chair in his office. It was
a smallish office, containing only the bare essentials, but it was
still a luxury compared to the conditions under which the street
welfare workers had to function. And lately the cops were taking
aim at them, too...
   She refused to sit. He shrugged and opened the passport. It had
been issued six months ago and gave her name as "Jody Hunt", no
parents mentioned. One visa for Santo Domingo, valid indefinitely.
He filled in name, height, and date of birth, then hair and eye
colour. The eyes were a kind of light blue-grey, with long, pale
lashes. Despite the multicultural nature of Santo Domingo's
population, there was no way of getting around the fact that she
looked very Caucasian.
   "Where are you from?"
   Reluctantly, she mouthed a three-syllabic word he could not
understand. He bent closer to listen and motioned that she should
repeat it. She shook her head wildly, her eyes full of fear. He
tried something else.
   "How did you get here?"
   She emitted only one word, with a finality as if it were her
last.
   "Air."
   "You came by air?"
   She stared at him reproachfully, as if to point out that she had
said enough and he should figure the rest out for himself. He was
not sure he could.
   Then it occurred to him that she was still holding her hands
behind her back, as if to hide something. He had initially assumed
her stance to be indicative of shyness, but she didn't strike him
as shy; afraid, rather, and childishly defiant. He wondered what
she had seen and experienced that her infant's mind could not
process or express, but only recoil from. Had she been caught up in
the wave of terrorism that had swept the country like a plague only
months before, had her parents fallen under the activists' ban
declared on foreigners? There had been a number of assassination
attempts on embassy personnel, some of them successful. Certainly
she was dressed like an ambassador's daughter. The passport had
been found in her coat pocket... If whatever she was clutching
behind her back was a further clue to her identity...
   "Let's see your hands," he said, as gently as he could.
   "No." She glared with all the enmity a five-year-old can muster.
   "Come on." He stepped out of his chair and took a pace towards
her, his arms outstretched. She stuck out her chin and looked
daggers. Knowing this was a time to be firm, he took hold of her
elbows and exerted a gentle outward pull. Her hands came apart, and
she held them out to him with her palms upward and her fingers
splayed. They were dirty and scratched, but empty. Her glare was
now both accusing and triumphant.
   "Okay, you had me fooled. Sorry."
   This admission softened her glare to an expression of wonder and
suspicion. She cocked her head to get a better look at him.
   He smiled.
   She smiled back, hesitantly.
   He extended his arms again, this time for a reassurance hug. She
shook her head and backed away.
   She didn't want him to find the detonation capsules that she had
just tucked into her belt.

She was transferred the same day to the household of Marilu Mulher,
an acquaintance of Derek's who had helped the organization out more
than once. Mulher had always refused to adopt any children before,
on the principle that if she helped one, she must help all, and to
help all was beyond her means; but in this case she relented.
"After all, her parents might still be alive, looking for her. My
guess is, she was kidnapped."
   This made sense to Derek, who suggested they put an ad in the
paper to warn the parents. "Okay, but not just yet. I want to give
her time to settle down first. I'll go to the overseas embassies
first and check out the list of employees; those that are still
alive, at any rate." Derek felt sorry for Mulher. The political
climate of this ever-corrupt country was becoming more and more
unhealthy, and while he could pull out and go back to Utoland, she
was stuck here. He knew her father had been shot by a drunken
policeman, twenty years before. She and her daughter Joana now
lived in a relatively civilized neighbourhood, where these things
rarely happened. Still, he thought she was very brave, and had said
so more than once.
   He would have considered her even braver if he had known she was
a human rights activist who had taken a stance repeatedly against
both the government and the terrorist groups it spawned. This was
another reason why she refused to adopt any children; she had
stopped making public appearances and restricted herself to
underground activities to spare her daughter after her husband had
been arrested one day, never to return.
   "Alright, first things first," Mulher said after Derek had left.
"Let's get you cleaned up. How about a bath?"
   The little girl stared at her with panicked eyes. She gently
propelled her to the foot of the stairs, but then the girl balked
and would not move, even when Mulher tried to coax her.
   "What is it, Jody? Are you frightened?"
   She nodded vehemently.
   "Come on, there's nothing to be frightened of here. Don't you
want a bath?"
   An equally violent shaking followed.
   "But, Jody, you're all dirty. And your hands are bleeding. I'll
have to wash your hands, at least, or the wounds will go septic."
   Oddly, this she seemed to understand. Dragging her feet, she
walked up the stairs with Mulher following. Once inside the tiny
bathroom, she discarded, to Mulher's astonishment, most of her
clothing, and piled it up into a neat, albeit smelly heap, as if
this was something she'd been trained to do. She retained only her
underwear and the money belt, which she had taken off but still
kept in her grasp. Mulher's eyes widened in shock and compassion;
not only her hands, but her whole body was bleeding. She was cut
and bruised all over her back, chest, arms and legs, and some of
the cuts had re-opened. Even the white cotton of her underpants
showed rusty stains. Mulher tried to remove the last article of
clothing to check for lesions, but the child struggled and screamed
until she released her and stepped back. Still grasping the money
belt as if her life depended on it, the child backed away in the
opposite direction, pleading with her eyes.
   "Oh, all right. I suppose it doesn't matter..." She offered no
resistance as Muhler carefully lathered and rinsed her and towelled
her dry. Then Muhler fetched a bottle of Dettol from the bathroom
cupboard. She braced herself for another struggle; this would
sting, but it was necessary.
   To her surprise, the girl wordlessly took the bottle of
disinfectant from her and anointed her own wounds, grimacing a
little, twisting all the way round to reach her back; again, as if
this was something she had been trained to do.

When Joanita, as her mother lovingly called her, came home from the
office, Jody was fast asleep in an old nightshirt of Joanita's, and
her clothes were being churned in a creaking and groaning automatic
washer. Quietly, so as not to wake the child, Mulher explained the
circumstances to her. Joanita was instantly sympathetic.
   "And she doesn't talk?" she whispered.
   "She hasn't said a word since she came here. She hardly reacts
to the sound of her own name."
   "What a horrible thing to hurt a child like that! Do you think
kidnappers did it?"
   "That was my first thought. Now, I wonder if she was kidnapped
at all. Maybe the culprit is one of her parents. Maybe she just ran
away from home because she was being maltreated."
   "Ooohhh... What are we going to do?"
   "Well, the welfare worker suggested we put an ad in the papers
to warn her parents; but right now, I'm not sure it's the wisest
thing to do. I'm hoping she'll tell us what happened when she's
recovered. Then, if necessary, I'll see if I can arrange a foster
home. Preferably abroad," she added.
   "But how will we get her out of the country?"
   "Oh, that shouldn't be a problem. Surprisingly, she took her
passport with her."
   "That's funny."
   "Yes, isn't it? Not the thing a young child would think of... It
was in her pocket, actually, but I can't think why any parent would
leave an important document like that in a child's possession."
   "Maybe they were just queueing up outside Customs when she was
snatched... I read in the paper about child-snatchers who sell
children, I don't know why, there seems to be quite a market..."
The conversation trailed off as the two moved out of the room.
   Under the thin sheets - it was spring, but the weather was
already unpleasantly hot and humid - "Jody" moaned and turned. Hir
body was almost at the point where it would spontaneously Change to
regenerate, and the ugly nightmare that s/he was embroiled in was
further firing hir defense system. With a final shriek, s/he
Changed, and hir female body disappeared, taking all the cuts and
bruises with it. Jody was now a boy.
   Marilu and Joanita Mulher came running in, thinking she had hurt
herself. They found hir tightly rolled in the sheet, wide awake,
hir eyes dilated. Mulher lifted hir, sheet and all, and cradled hir
in her arms.
   "Jody, Jody... Did you have a bad dream?"
   The little head of hair that was still visible, nodded. "Poor
Jody..." Mulher hugged hir close. "Do you want to sleep in my
room?"
   The head shook, almost apologetically. The washer, having
finished the spin-drying cycle, creaked to a halt. Joanita rose to
empty it and peg its contents out to dry. She briefly held them to
her nose; no sewer smell, they had been properly cleaned. Good. The
washer was a dodgy one, and not always to be trusted. Extracting
the canvas money belt, she was amazed to feel lumps in it. Money?
It didn't feel like coins. Opening the zipper at the back, she
pushed out through the slit a number of bullet-sized metal pellets.
Metal pellets? She ranged them on the machine, intending to return
them to the mystery girl in the morning. Maybe she used them as
toys...?

Although she settled in without any problems, Jody still refused to
talk. It was not that she was deaf, or too retarded to understand;
she acknowledged everything that was said to her with a smile, and
a nod or shake as applicable. Joanita had quickly taken a liking to
her and, when she was at home, plied her with sweets and toys and
prattled to her continually, hoping to elicit a verbal response.
Mulher, too, put in an effort, even trying to take Jody out for a
walk in the park, but the child stubbornly refused to leave the
house. She had healed surprisingly quickly, Mulher thought. And
that wasn't the only puzzling thing about her; the frenzied
reaction when she had seen the pellets lying in the open on the top
of the washer, her extreme reluctance to undress, her nightly bad
dreams that sometimes woke her shrieking, her silence, her
attachment to the belt she wore... As an active member of the Union
Humanita, Mulher had recorded testimonies of various victims of
torture and brutality for reports to submit to the UN, and some of
the child's behaviourisms seemed familiar to her. But others left
her in the dark.
   "My name is Joana. Can you say `Joana'?"
   Joanita was talking to Jody while Mulher was in the kitchen,
preparing dinner. Spicy and peppery smells floated down to them.
Jody obediently mouthed the name, but no sound issued from her
lips.
   "But my mother calls me Joanita. And sometimes she just calls me
Jo. And sometimes I call you Jo. So you see, we have the same
name."
   Jody smiled.
   "You have a beautiful smile. Will you smile for me again?"
   Jody smiled a smile of such magnitude that her face seemed lit
up from inside.
   "My little Jo..." Joanita hugged her. Jody squirmed to free
herself and pointed upwards. "What is it? What do you want to show
me?"
   Jody walked up to the room she shared with Joanita and returned
with her box of crayons and a sheaf of paper. Jody always used the
unprinted sides of the used sheets that Joanita took home from the
office. Now, on the back of a stencilled letter about budget cuts,
she drew a rough figure of a man with a helmet obscuring half of
his face, and coloured it green. Next to him, she drew a curious
logo. When she had finished, she pointed to the logo with a pained
expression and mouthed three syllables. Joanita frowned, trying to
understand. Whatever it was, it was obviously important; Jody's
face was twisted and contorted with emotion.
   "What does it mean? Is that the bad man who hurt you?"
   She almost choked as she mouthed the three syllables again,
without making a sound. She snatched another sheet and very crudely
drew a dismembered human body. It was naked, but face down and
there was nothing to indicate its gender. Joanita's mind went back
to the day she had given Jody a doll. Jody's reaction had both
shocked and intrigued her mother and herself. Grasping the doll by
the head, Jody had gone to her room and proceeded to tear off the
doll's clothing strip by strip with an air of intense
concentration. This finished, she had deliberately and methodically
dismembered the doll, and, as a final touch, wrenched its head off.
Joanita had decided not to scold her, as she did not seem to be
conscious of doing wrong; but a second doll presented to her by way
of experiment underwent the same fate. Why? Had she witnessed some
kind of atrocity, that she was mechanically reproducing?
   Joanita didn't know what to make of it, and said what she hoped
would be the best thing to say.
   "Don't worry. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you."
   Jody abruptly fastened onto Joanita's waist and started crying
as if she would never stop again, the sobs shaking her small body.

Later that night, Mulher settled down to some Union work. A letter
had to be typed and stencilled and distributed to all members
within the city about a meeting to discuss a peaceful action
against the pollution of the Amareno's waters with a mercury
compound, by one of the larger state-financed electronics
corporations. The distribution, fortunately, would not be her
problem. Also, she was drafting a letter on behalf of Welfare's
child-care unit to send to a major rep. of the UN about alleged
cases of torture and murder; it appeared that several dead bodies
of street children had turned up, none of which had died a natural
death, and the director of the children's shelter had been
receiving anonymous phone calls of an unpleasant nature.
Allegations, allegations... Never any proof... She knew the UN did
not care to inquire into such matters. They were too busy securing
their own power.
   Upstairs, Jody lay wide-eyed, not daring to sleep. After
Changing a second time she had not been plagued with any further
transformations, but she had learned not to trust her own body, and
the dreams in themselves were bad enough. She remembered the pills
she always took, bitter and nauseating, but these people had no
pills. There was nothing to blot out the memories. Best not to
sleep at all, then.
   Joanita was fast asleep. Her breathing was deep and regular, and
comforted the child. Slipping noiselessly out of bed and down the
stairs, she stole to the living room and, attracted by the sound of
typing, down to the little cellar where Muhler, with the aid of a
rather dim light, was doing her bit for justice and democracy.
Muhler, seeing her, smiled briefly; probably she'd had one of her
nightmares again, and Muhler would see to her as soon as she had
finished.
   "Whereas you may be more concerned with the lives of rich
industrial and political figureheads than with those of poor
orphaned children who have no weight to swing..." No, that was far
too acid. It was the damn truth, but she had learned that saying
the truth can be lethal. She thought about Elena, fourteen and
mother of a baby, found not far from the embankment where she
usually huddled with her belly slit open; Luiz and Manila, four and
five, riddled with bullets... The poverty was bad enough, but the
brutality coming on top of it was even harder to bear. To be
honest, the violence came from two sides; these children begged and
stole their food, most were armed (if only with sticks and knives)
and the larger gangs had already committed several murders. Thank
heavens that Joanita...
   Jody was standing on tiptoe in the oversized T-shirt, trying to
look at the typewriter on the table. Muhler lifted her on her lap;
she needed to pause and reflect anyway. Leaning over to the paper
protruding from the typewriter, Jody followed the lines with a
forefinger, mouthing the words. Muhler stared.
   "Don't tell me you can read that."
   Jody turned a very serious face to her and nodded.
   "You can read?"
   A nod.
   "And write?"
   Another nod.
   "Then why can't you talk?"
   Jody turned to face the typewriter again and started to hit the
keys. Muhler sighed and let her have her way; the letter was only
a draft, anyway. But when she saw what the girl had typed, she sat
up startled.
   "galactor"
   The girl pointed to the word and mouthed the three syllables,
tears filling her eyes. Muhler had a fairly comprehensive knowledge
of the underground movements operating in her country, and she knew
what Galactor was. Not a terrorist organization, really... A large-
scale crime syndicate, rather... She knew of people who had had
their tongues cut out to silence them, and this was certainly a
Galactor method, but she knew that no such thing had happened to
the girl. So what *had* happened? Was it shock that had made her
mute, or a psychological barrier? Or had she been threatened "not
to talk"? Children sometimes take threats very literally...
   Jody started to hit the keys again. This time, her message left
Muhler in the dark.
   "berg katze"
   Mulher didn't get more than a glance at the cryptic words, for
Jody, once she had finished, pulled the paper from the typewriter,
and started to shred it methodically and matter-of-factly, again as
if this was something she had been taught to do.

The phone rang. Muhler was ironing in the middle of the room; Jody
was sitting on the ground sketching, the opened box of crayons by
her side. Joanita was at work. Mulher lifted the receiver; it was
Mina, one of the welfare workers from the homeless children's
centre.
   "Marilu." This was the name Mina always used to indicate there
was trouble.
   "Yes."
   "That girl we found in the drainpipe... Is she still with you?"
   "Mmh. Why?"
   "I think you're going to get visitors."
   "Visitors?"
   "Some strange types came to the shelter yesterday, asking about
a little blonde girl. They were fairly rough, but not enough to be
government people. They went to Derek's and put a gun against his
head."
   "Madre mia! Is he still alive?"
   "Yes, but they took the passport. They say they want to take her
to her rightful owner. Marilu, they're coming your way."
   "Thank you. I'll be leaving."
   "Take care of yourself."
   "Don't worry. I know their methods. I have friends."
   Turning to address Jody, she saw that the child had already
closed the box of crayons and tucked it under her arm. She tied a
scarf around Jody's head to hide her hair.
   "Now, Jody, we're going outside."
   The little girl nodded gravely.
   "And you must follow me without looking back. I'll be walking
ahead. We have to pretend we don't belong together, but you must
stay close to me so you don't lose me. Do you think you can do
that?"
   A nod.
   Five minutes later, the two were threading back alleys on a
roundabout way to one of the Union's fortified hide-outs.

Hir smallness was both a help and a hindrance in the wild chase
that Muhler led hir on. No one noticed hir because s/he was so
small, but s/he also had trouble keeping the large woman in sight,
and s/he was constantly buffeted by a wake of human bodies.
Sometimes s/he had to break into a run, gasping and sobbing to keep
up with Muhler's stride.
   They were being followed.
   S/he could not tell how s/he knew this, but s/he knew. Dropping
the crayons, s/he put hir hands behind hir back and fumbled in hir
belt.
   Only six left. S/he had grabbed two handfuls when s/he had
escaped, but a child's hand is not very big. S/he hoped that they
would still work, after all the times they had been soaked.
   Muhler, hearing the metal box crash on the pavement, looked
round. The girl had stopped following her, and was running in
another direction.
   "Nina!" she called, not daring to use the girl's own name; she,
too, was conscious of being shadowed, and had continually been
trying to foil their pursuers. The girl stopped, turned round, and
said the first and last words Muhler ever heard from her.
   "Go away! They'll kill you!"
   Then she was off, running with a speed surprising in a five-
year-old, ducking under legs, squeezing between tightly packed
bodies, veering off to a relatively quiet and empty street where
she would have room to manoeuver. Her legs were short, and her
strength was failing. The Galactor agents charged with her
recapture bore down on her in a body.
   She threw two capsules.
   Unfortunately, her child's arm did not have the necessary swing
to throw them out far enough. S/he was caught in the blast and
slammed into a wall.
   A building toppled over hir, burying hir in brickwork.

                            *   *   *

"I confide this boy to you for further education and
resocialization. He is intelligent and eager to learn, but has been
living in the streets for some time, which has interfered with his
schooling as well as his general upbringing, making him unsuitable
for his future position. I trust you will knock some civility and
common sense into him. He will remain in your care for one year,
after which I will see him and evaluate the results. During this
time, he will attend school with your children and be treated as
part of the household, but you are not, repeat NOT to allow any
emotional bonding. He will also be given additional, private
assignments through my auxiliaries to develop his own particular
talents.
   One thing: while corporal punishment is permitted and even
recommended, I would remind you that he is the result of a
genetical experiment, and as such extremely valuable. Therefore,
however much you may be tempted, do not wring his neck.

Yours sincerely,

X"

Urs Erling folded up the typewritten letter, re-inserted it in the
stamped envelope and examined the child that stood before him: a
boy of about ten or eleven, thin, sharp-faced, rather tall for his
age, with pale colouring and fair hair that was cropped very close
to his head, but already revealed its tendency to stand out like a
hedgehog's spines. A boy very much like most Halvatian pre-
adolescent schoolboys, except that as opposed to their standard
clean, innocent "juegend" faces, his was very wily, devious, and
androgynously ambiguous. Erling wasn't sure he liked this last
assignment from his mysterious patron, but he couldn't very well
refuse it. He looked again at the false identity papers that had
come in the envelope: birth certificate, inoculations booklet,
passport showing a photo of the boy with a very bland, almost
drugged expression - but the photograph was so small, it was hard
to tell - everything needed to convince the Halvatian authorities
that this was Karl Erling, born ten years ago on 12th April as the
third child and second son to Urs and Maria Erling, Kaiserstrasse
51, H-97001 Berndt, Halvatia. He had been sickly for most of his
childhood and had been kept under observation in a private hospital
in Tuericht, the capital, for the first nine years of his life;
now, his health had improved sufficiently for him to lead a normal
life, although he was still to be exempt from Phys. Ed. and any
kind of physical exercise. Urs stroked his moustache and nodded. As
an alibi, it came close enough to the truth to be convincing.
   "Karl Erling", likewise, examined the portly, but still Nordic-
looking man who would be his father for the coming year. With the
insight of a child judging adults, s/he estimated that Urs Erling
was loyal, autoritarian, placid with fits of rage, and not very
smart. A man with a large income, to judge from the size and
decoration of his home; a man with a family. A respectable man. A
little smile curled the corners of hir mouth.
   "Well, Karl, welcome to your new home. I am your father. Have
you had a good trip?"
   "Yes, sir," Karl replied with a politeness that was almost
biting.
   "Would you like to see your mother?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "Maria! He's here!"
   Down the stairs came scuttling the plump, red-cheeked, aproned
type of woman Karl had come to know as "maternal". She hugged him
affectionately and with gusto, then took him by the shoulder and
held him at arm's length to examine him also.
   "And such an unhappy little boy! Never mind," she pinched both
his cheeks, "You will soon forget your unhappiness. You will be my
own little darling." Karl squirmed slightly. Oh gawd, he thought,
she's got five of her own... You'd think that'd be enough to
satisfy her.
   He was saved by Herr Erling, who was mouthing something at his
wife. What it was Karl couldn't quite make out, because he couldn't
turn his head far enough, but her face fell.
   "Oh, well," she said disappointedly, "at least he will have
brothers and sisters..." More mouthing. "Oh..."
   "I'll show him his room," Mr Erling said, taking control of the
situation, and hold of Karl's arm. "You take care of dinner. The
children should be home in an hour or so, and I'm sure Karl here is
very hungry. I'll speak to you tonight."
   What an incredibly stupid woman, he thought as he was being led
up the stairs to a clean, airy, well-lit room with bands of pink
roses on white wallpaper, grey-white wall-to-wall carpeting and the
inevitable cuckoo's clock nailed up beside the bookcase, facing his
bed. How did she ever get to be a Galactor? Does she even realize
she's a Galactor? Oh gawd, and these are the people I'll be
spending a whole bloody year with. Let's hope their brats are not
too bad... Well, at least it'll be comfortable, he decided, sitting
on the eiderdown spread over his bed to take a look around him. His
room was just under the roof, so one of his walls sloped, and a bay
window projected from under the roof tiles to give him a wide view
on the slate roofs far below him, and misty mountains visible in
the distance. The Erlings' house was at the top of a slope, at the
fringe of one of Berndt's more luxurious suburbs; the road ran down
to the suburb's centre on one side, and continued levelly to
uninhabited woods and meadows on the other, finally sloping up to
the extended mountain ridge that formed one quarter of the
country's natural border. No, not a bad place to be...
   Left alone to inspect his new living quarters, he opened the
doors of the wardrobe and the drawers of his desk, checking the
contents. He had come entirely without luggage; the only thing he'd
taken with him over the border was the meal that was presently
digesting in his stomach. Clean clothes, such as those he had been
outfitted in on leaving the base; lots of shirts and creased-leg
trousers, some blazers and a tie. His heart sank; school uniform.
Pens, pencils, paper, compasses - he thought he knew a use for
those compasses, and sniggered - books: biology, chemistry,
physics, economy and mathematics, plus Halvatian and the other two
languages spoken in Halvatia that were compulsory subjects at every
school. Geography. History. Computer science. Computer science?
   His heart jumped again. Basic design. Aerodynamics. Programming
in PASCAL, COBOL and C-lang, a semantics-oriented language
specifically designed by Galactor to cater to the wide variety of
human languages spoken within the organization. Advanced
electronics. Chemical weapons. Now that was more like it. Was he
going to cover all that in one year? His head was spinning. He
pulled open the flat, wide drawer just under the desk's top
surface: yes, a pop-up laptop.
   He ignored the toys that were ranged in his room to make it look
like an ordinary children's bedroom: the kite, the rounders bat,
the "Hellrider" comics, the "Galactic Superheroes" action figures,
the roller skates and the boardgames. He completely ignored the
little transistor radio standing on a shelf. By the time the front
door had opened and slammed shut again and his name was called, he
was deeply engrossed in the source code of the little computer's
operating system, jotting down ideas for improving it.
   "Karl!"
   Damn. Stupid grownups.
   "Karl!! Come down and meet your siblings!" Yes, his ears had not
deceived him; that was exactly what his stepfather had said. He was
beginning to hate the language already. By now he knew a score of
languages, and most of the foul words in them, and there was
nothing he hated so much as pompous verbiage. However, it seemed to
be part and parcel of becoming the leader of Galactor, and his
guardian had given him a long lecture on poise, good manners and
the correct use of language before sending him off. Cursing
inwardly, he exited, turned off the computer, closed the drawer and
descended, taking care not to slouch.
   On being presented to his "Geschwister" (the word suggested to
him a type of vermin) he saw that this was going to be war. Apart
from "Hanna", a big wet-eyed mushy type like her mother with a
sizeable bust, the Erling children, to judge by their cold grey-
eyed stare, had taken an instant dislike to him, and the feeling
was mutual. There were three boys of approximately his own age and
a little girl who had probably just started to go to infant school;
she carried her little satchel with pride, but to judge from her
size she probably didn't do much more, in her school hours, than
draw and colour the letters of the alphabet and have stories read
to her. And he wondered what the boys would be doing besides
skinning sparrows in recess, pulling wings off flies and whispering
about last night's episode of Dragon Masters (or the Halvatian
equivalent thereof) during Calculus. Oh lord, and he was going to
have to be *civil* this year? This was obviously a test.
   "... and Jorg and Heidi. Now, all of you, introduce yourselves."
   "I am Hanna," the eldest said, putting an odd emphasis on the
first syllable of her name, "and I am sixteen. I am going to the
domestic science school." She smiled, lowered her eyes, and folded
her hands. Her accent was quite charming, actually. Now for the
others.
   "I am Hektor, and I am twelve," the eldest boy said levelly. "I
am a secondary school pupil and I take Latin, Russian and Ancient
Greek." This amounted to a declaration of war. Apparently they had
heard about his amazing powers of mind, and were dead set on
bringing him down a peg or two. Did they think they could? He
smiled contemptuously.
   "My name is Helm, and I am nine. I am in class five, and also in
the school football team."
   "I thought your name was Wilhelm," Karl remarked, still wearing
his contemptuous smile. "Isn't that what your father calls you?"
   "My name is *Helm*," the boy reiterated in a surly tone. He
disliked his own name? Ah. Interesting.
   "I am Jorg, I am eight and I go to primary school. I am a Boy
Scout," the one-but-youngest piped up, glaring at Karl.
   "I am Heidi, I am six and I go to primary school too," his
little sister rejoined. She stuck out her chin at him. He ignored
her.
   "I am called Karl," he said icily and politely. "I am ten years
of age, and will be attending secondary school, class one, as of
tomorrow. I will be taking whatever subjects you are," looking at
Hektor, "but I will not be joining in any football team," looking
at Wilhelm, "because my health will not permit it. I will be
staying with you for one year, after which my guardian will decide
whether I have learned anything from you or not."
   "Very good!" said mama Erling, who didn't seem to have noticed
the venom dripping on both sides. "Now that you have become
acquainted, you will play together. Hektor, Wilhelm, show him your
rooms. I will call you when dinner is ready." She bustled out,
followed by Hanna. Papa Erling also left, as did Heidi, and Karl
was left behind alone with the three boys in the expensively
carpeted and velvet-upholstered living room.
   "Yah, girl-face," Wilhelm spat at him, giving him a hard jab in
the solar plexus.
   "Girl-face yaself!" Karl spat back, and aimed his knee at
Wilhelm's crotch. Wilhelm let out a high-pitched squeal. Hektor
grabbed Karl by the scruff of his neck and pushed him face down
into the deep pile of the carpet, while Jorg danced around him and
kicked him in the ribs. Wilhelm, recovering from the worst pain,
sat on Karl's back and ran his nails over his cheeks. Karl twitched
convulsively, trying to bring Hektor down and free himself. Papa
Erling re-entered, a towering mountain of paternal authority.
   "And what do you think you are doing???!"
   The three flew apart, leaving Karl spluttering and sitting up to
rub the dust out of his eyes and nose.
   "We are playing, papa."
   "The hell you were!" Karl said angrily, the red scratch lines on
his face lighting up.
   "Language, Karl."
   "Screw language! They were trying to strangle me!"
   "Now, Karl. I am still your father. That means you must listen
to me when I speak, and be quiet when you are spoken to."
Furiously, Karl clamped his mouth shut and crossed his arms.
"Uncross your arms. And don't look at me that way." Karl uncrossed
his arms, biting his underlip, and directed his gaze at the carpet.
"Don't look away from me when I am talking to you." Karl lifted his
eyes with as meek and obedient an expression as he could manage in
his present temper. "That's better. Jorg, Hektor, Wilhelm... I will
talk to you later." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
Soundlessly, they departed.
   "Now, there is one thing you must understand..."

Bending over his schnitzel and creamed potatoes, he mulled over
what his "father" had said. Never to lose his self-control. Never
to fight back, even if he were being attacked; to allow himself to
be scratched, kicked and bitten rather than to lift a finger in
defense. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of it.
   "Sit up straight, Karl."
   He could hear sniggering to either side of him. Eyes blazing, he
straightened his back like a soldier and stayed in this unnatural
position throughout the meal, taking extreme care not to drop
anything off his fork.
   "You too, Jorg."
   Ha.
   "Heidi, you have not finished your sprouts."
   "But papa..."
   "Eat them. They are good for you."
   Apart from these admonitions and some talk of domestic matters
between Mrs Erling and Hanna, they ate in silence. Mrs Erling
collected the plates and brought them away to return with dessert,
walking as upright as if she were in deportment class. He wondered
if she was wearing a corset. Well, he thought, as large slices of
chocolate walnut cake were being passed round, at least he wouldn't
starve.

He had missed about a month of school. Therefore, with the catching
up he had to do and the additional "assignments" he received on
diskette, he was busy enough to completely ignore the Erling boys,
and they, mercifully, ignored him. His stepmother, too, ignored
him, although she sometimes gave him a wistful and apologetic smile
to show that this was not as she would have wished it. He
shuddered; she would probably ooze all over him, given half a
chance. His stepfather still found occasions to correct him, but in
general, he had prepared himself pretty well, and had so far
avoided any real punishment.
   But as he caught up and entered into the rhythm of learning and
more learning, he actually found himself with time to spare. The
playthings he had been provided with held no amusement for him. He
wrote a simple tennis programme for the computer and kept himself
occupied with that, but soon tired of moving one of two white bars
from square to square on one side of the net to intercept a
bouncing white dot. He wrote a checkers programme, and gave up on
it when he found himself continually beating the computer. In
desperation, he ventured downstairs one evening after dinner to
watch whatever children's show there was (and yes, they *did* have
a Halvatian equivalent of Dragon Masters) and was punched by Helm
for wanting to change the channel. Hanna came to his rescue by
asking him to help her clean windows. She was rinsing the outside
surface of the bedroom windows and had to stand on a ladder to do
so; but, she said, the ladder was shaky, and she needed someone to
steady it for her.
   That was how he became involved with Frau and Fraulein Erling.
It happened gradually, almost unnoticeably; certainly he would
never have sought their company voluntarily, obvious as it was to
him that in the Erling hierarchy, they were the underdogs. But -
although he would have died rather than admit it - he was lonely.
Unbeknownst to him, the toys he had been provided with were
intended to stimulate his social instinct, as they were suitable
only for group use; he had nothing, possibly apart from the radio
and the children's comics (which annoyed him, anyway) to keep him
occupied alone; no fiction books, no paints and sketchbooks, no
multi-level computer RPGs (and anyway, on the little B&W LCD laptop
screen they wouldn't have been worth playing). But his character
was not a social one; his by now habitual coldness, contempt and
mistrust of others prevented him from soliciting anyone's
friendship, while his ambiguous appearance, constant high marks and
dislike of any form of physical exercise excited an almost
instantaneous revulsion in his classmates, and his teachers were
not sure they liked him, either. Worse, Helm - whom he had taunted
about his name once too often - had let on to a brother of a friend
of Hektor's, who was in the same class, that his "brother" liked
helping in household tasks; at a Halvatian all-male secondary
school, this was just about the most damning comment he could have
made, and Karl found himself more and more harassed, if not
actually bullied.
   Not that he ever did, of course. Conscious of his future role,
he refused to do anything that might get his hands dirty. He was
much more a silent presence: leaning against the doorpost listening
to mama Erling at her ironing, trotting by her side as she carried
home her shopping bags, bringing his homework down to a room that
she happened to be vacuum-cleaning. Papa Erling was off to work
during the day, being a banker (who also arranged various illegal
financial transactions involving Galactor funds), and rarely
returned before seven; Helm often passed directly from school to
football training, while Jorg and Heidi played outside. Hektor was
a bit of a radio amateur, and usually locked himself into his room.
This left Karl with only Hanna and her mother for company; and it
occurred to him, as he followed them around the house, that they
spent an inordinate amount of time on cooking, cleaning, mending,
washing, more cooking and more cleaning. They had no servants of
any kind to help them, their staff being compounded of exactly one
person, the chauffeur that drove the children to their respective
schools in the mornings, and he was even colder and more
dislikeable than Karl himself.
   It became clear to him, as he listened to Frau Erling's
continual and abstracted ramblings, that even the chauffeur had
been employed specifically to cater to his presence. Frau Erling
tolerated no personnel around the house, as they would have to
either be or become Galactors; she hated Galactors, she said, they
were all spies and informers; she hated Galactor itself; she had
only married her husband because, as a child of Galactors, she
could not hope to find a life beyond Galactor, and she had wanted
at least a family. It was a constant source of upset to her that
Urs worked for Galactor; she feared for his life; she hated the
idea that one day her own children would become pawns of Galactor,
as she was, and did not want to drag any third parties into it.
Nevertheless, she did not seem to hold it against him personally,
or at least she never turned on him; maybe she thought he was a
reluctant victim of Galactor like herself. It surprised him,
however, that she should be so frank with him when she was so
worried about spies; but then again, he thought, she was a bit soft
in the head. No doubt she talked to her toothbrush in the mornings.

It was Tuesday morning, and the spacious Post Office was filled
with customers. Frau Erling sighed and parked the shopping-bag-on-
wheels that could hold a small child when empty (it was true; Heidi
had climbed inside one day to demonstrate), but was now bulked out
with edibles. The little screen over the counters only said 765,
and her number was 801. Karl, at her side as always, whispered:
"What if I set up a smoke bomb? That should clear them out fast
enough."
   "No, Karl, you mustn't."
   He shrugged. Since last Thursday, Karl had been excused from
school on account of combined flu and laryngitis with a touch of
bronchitis thrown in for good measure, and had remained bedridden
for five days in a state of extreme misery, coughing and retching
and going through an average of three boxes of Kleenex a day; the
Halvatian winter climate had come as a bit of a surprise to his
system. "I thought people came here for their health!" he
complained to Hanna, who brought up his broth and medicine in the
evening. She smiled and said, in her charming way, that in winter
people came to Halvatia to ski and break their legs. This made him
laugh - his illness was rapidly breaking up whatever reserve he
had, anyway - and wonder whether he could wield enough power
already to prise her and her mother loose from Galactor, as this
seemed to be what they both wanted, and already he felt
uncomfortably indebted to them. For the time being, however, most
of her antipathy, and that of the other children, seemed to be
directed at the chauffeur, whose job was not only to transport the
children, but also to monitor the parents and see to it that they
raised their future leader correctly. And, of course, to prevent
any harm from befalling him.
   On the sixth day, Karl felt well enough to rise (although not to
face school) and was following his stepmother about as usual. He
was still feverish, blew his nose constantly and sounded as if his
voice had broken three years too soon, but with Halvatia's famous
herb pastilles and a lot of aspirin, he felt himself on the way to
recovery. Consequently, she had allowed him to accompany her to
Berndt's urban centre (getting on and off a lot of trams; Frau
Erling had no car of her own, and wouldn't have known how to drive
it anyway) and, although this was not strictly necessary, they had
visited some of the larger stores, wasting time admiring their
elaborate Christmas decorations and hanging round quite uselessly
in the toys and confectionery departments. She had bought him a
historical novel and a chemistry set (which he promised not to show
anyone) and treated him to cinnamon buns and a slice of
Schwarzwalder in the tearoom. These were rather lost on him, as,
due to his condition, he still had no sense of taste; indeed, it
was with some difficulty that he managed to cram them down his
throat at all, and he did so only because he knew she was watching
him. In return, he had pushed the trolley for her in the
supermarket, and they were currently standing in line in the Post
Office, waiting for their number to flash on the screen. He felt
dizzy; the long day had taken its toll.
   "Why do we always have to be driven to school?"
   He knew what the answer would be before she spoke. "Because we
live too far away, and there are no buses that early."
   "So why doesn't dad take us?"
   "Because he leaves early, and comes home late. You would have to
wait too long."
   These, he knew, were lies. Before he came, the children had
always gone to school by bicycle, treating the long uphill ride on
the way back as invigorating exercise after a dull day of Maths or
Geography; when the weather was bad, their father had taken them in
the car, and they were quite used to waiting for his return,
spending the time at the houses of friends. He had a phone
installed in his car, and they would call him from wherever they
would be staying. Karl's arrival had ended this happy state of
affairs.
   "What about the driver?"
   "What about him, my heart?"
   "What if he doesn't show up one day?"
   "What do you mean, if he comes late?"
   "No, if he doesn't show up at all."
   "That would be most irregular. I'm sure he would be in trouble."
   "Would he be fired?"
   "Well, maybe."
   "And what if the car broke down?"
   "He should know how to fix it. And if not, he can call your
father to pick you up."
   "And if the phone system broke down?" he insisted.
   "Well! I don't know. I'm sure your guardian would be very angry
if he brought you into such a dangerous situation."
   "What's so dangerous about it? Nobody wants to kill me, right?"
   Frau Erling looked around, then drew Karl close to her and said
in a lowered voice: "I hear people are looking for you."
   "Who?" he whispered back. She shook her head as a signal that
they shouldn't talk further. He tried once more.
   "What if I ran away?"
   Her eyes widened in such shocked alarm that he discarded the
idea immediately.

Hektor slipped down the stairs just as he was mounting. That meant
trouble. Those stairs only led up to one room. His.
   "What have you been doing in my room?"
   "Why are you always sneaking around the house, mama's boy?"
   Karl considered throwing a punch, and decided it wasn't worth
it. On entering his room, he saw a little effigy of himself nailed
to a wooden cross, the cross itself stuck on the wardrobe door. One
nail passed through its head, the others through its hands and
feet; little rivulets of blood had been painted on. Revenge for his
sneezing into Hektor's face yesterday, or what he had done to
Jorg's skateboard? He prised it off and descended to Hektor's room.
   This latest little exchange of hostilities had been initiated a
fortnight ago, when he had inadvertently kicked Heidi under the
dinner table. He had no quarrel with her - in fact, he barely
acknowledged her existence - but for the Erling boys, it was the
provocation they had been waiting for. He knocked. Hektor opened,
and Karl threw the little figurine in his face.
   "Is this what you spend your art classes making?" he managed to
get in, before the door was slammed.
   Thunderclouds hung over the dinner table that evening.
Apparently Mr. Erling had caught on to something: his face had that
tell-tale stern expression.
   "Karl."
   "Yes father." Karl lowered his eyelids and prepared himself for
the blow.
   "I hear you were well enough to go shopping yesterday."
   "Yes father." Yeah, right?
   "So tomorrow you will resume school."
   "Yes father." Fine by me.
   "And as for you, Hektor..."
   Uh-oh.
   "I will not have you nosing around in other people's rooms."
   Oh, great. Now Hektor thinks *I* told him.
   "Yes papa."
   Except I didn't. So how does he know all this, does he have a
secret camera rigged or what?
   "Jorge, finish your spinach."
   No, because if he did, he would know about that funny little
statue and the presents. So...
   "Please, papa... It's too much..."
   "Eat it!"
   Someone must have told him.
   Someone is spying on me.
   Damn you, Galactor.

And then, one morning, the chauffeur didn't show up. The children
were lined up on the porch as usual with their satchels and
lunchbags, muffled in coats and scarves, their noses red, their
breath hanging in clouds around them; but no sleek car drew up to
open its doors to them. Karl coughed. They waited ten minutes.
   Mama Erling, still inside, was pacing about the hall. After
fifteen minutes, she called the children inside and rang Mueller's
home number. Mueller, the dislikeable chauffeur, lived in a small,
isolated house not far off, close enough to reach by bicycle if
necessary; ideally he should have lived in the servants' quarters,
but Frau Erling would have died at the idea of living under the
same roof with him, especially as he was exactly what she believed:
a spy and an informer.
   The children stamped off the snow that had collected under the
soles of their boots and silently stood in the hallway as their
mother clutched the phone, which steadfastly refused to be
answered. At last she put down the receiver, her hand shaking a
little, and went to the children.
   "Take off your coats and come to the living room. I don't think
you will be going to school today. I will call your father and see
what is going on, then I will contact the principals and explain
matters to them."
   The children disrobed and sat themselves in a jumble on the
couch, keeping very quiet. Karl smiled bitterly. "Explain matters
to them?" he thought. "How? `Please mister principal, we are a
criminal organization harbouring a genetically engineered specimen
that the ISO would love to get its hands on, and we fear his
whereabouts has been discovered by the government; so I'm afraid he
can't come to school just now.' `Oh, that's alright then. I'll pass
it on to the teacher concerned. What class did you say he was in?'"
Well, at least there was no real danger.
   She had put a call to Erling's bank now, and was waiting for the
operator to put her through to her husband. Then, a few hushed
words, and: "Yes. Yes, I'll do that." She hung up. "Papa is sending
a few men to investigate. You are to wait until he comes home." She
set about activating the alarms and the defense systems. Karl had
a fairly accurate notion of the scope of these systems; he'd had to
sneak through them more than once. Innocently opulent though the
Erling's mansion appeared, it was a small fortress, an above-ground
bomb shelter. The doors were of a strength that belied their
appearance, the windows were all bullet-proof (even the windows of
the cars were bullet-proof, he knew, and one switch sufficed to
bring down screens over the windows and lock all doors from within)
and the ceiling was built to resist even if the upper storeys
should collapse.
   The hours that followed were among the hardest in Karl's life so
far. Erling soon joined his family with an escort of three heavily
armed guards in civilian clothing, and kept contact with five
others over what appeared to be an innocuous transistor radio,
while Frau Erling sat very pale and upright with Hanna at her
shoulder. Two had followed his normal route, while three had gone
over to investigate at his house.
   "He was what!? Describe to me exactly what happened."
   The children exchanged glances of silent understanding as the
tinny voice over the radio explained the situation; Mueller had
been found near death close to his home, locked into his own car.
The keys were missing. Someone (and a very clever person it had
been) had somehow located Mueller, gotten inside the car with
Mueller in it, disconnected the communication system, jammed the
transmission, sabotaged the locking system and managed to get
outside again, leaving behind a bomb of some sort that emitted a
highly toxic sulphurous gas. Mueller, unable to get out through the
doors or windows, had tried to shoot a hole in the side with his
gun, but had been overwhelmed by the gas and now suffered severe
brain damage. Traces of the culprit had not been found, but there
was nothing to indicate a forthcoming attack on the Erlings. "We
suggest you carry on as before. We will arrange a replacement for
Mueller."
   "What do you mean, nothing indicates that we will be attacked?
If they know about him, they must know about us!"
   The tinny voice explained that this was not a standard UN
assassination attempt, especially as UN agents would have preferred
to catch the victim alive for questioning. Moreover, there were no
traces of vehicles moving towards his house, and no messages
referring to the incident had been intercepted by any of the spies
in the various key offices of the UN's defence department. It was,
more likely, a private settling of scores, possibly even by a
fellow-Galactor. Erling nodded. Mueller did have enemies within the
organization, and some gambling debts. "And this bomb thing - it's
far too primitive to be UN material. Why, it looks as if it was
constructed with a children's chemistry set. No, this was obviously
an amateur." But a very clever one, the tinny voice reiterated. And
obviously someone who knew Mueller well.
   "Someone who...?" Erling cast a puzzled glance at his family.
Then something caught his attention. The children were ranged on
the couch in their usual silent hostility, but it seemed that a
subtle change had come over them. The hostility, it seemed, was now
directed outwards, the mutual enmity replaced by - yes -
solidarity. They were now a group, with Karl at their nucleus. The
metaphorical coin fell.
   He swallowed hard, remembering the last line of the letter that
had come with his charge.
   "Karl. The keys, please."
   Furtively, hesitantly, Karl dug into his trouser pocket and held
out his hand, presenting two shiny car keys.

                            *   *   *

"To M. and Mme. Lacroix;

The child will be transferred to you at the end of July, shortly
before the beginning of the school year. She will be travelling
alone, as she has shown herself capable of avoiding dangerous
situations, and of defending herself if need be. She will attend
school with your daughters, and receive her extracurricular
training from you.
   The great X has made it clear that she is not to join the ranks
of the Masked Assassins, but that her training should be all the
stricter for it. Also, she should on no account be permitted to
reveal her true identity.

Yours sincerely,

Mr. Ming Lyong"


Sitting in the touring bus with a blaring radio amongst a crowd of
mainly adult holiday-makers were a skinny, youngish girl and a big,
burly, though also youngish man. Holding a cigarette between the
fingers of one hand and drumming on the armrest with the nails of
the other, she was singing along with the rather catchy polka song
that had been dredged up from the previous century as a result of
the Mediterranean folk revival; well, it still rocked.
     `Marcelle Ratafia
      la madonne de la mafia...'
   The man, who had laid a protective arm around shoulders so thin
they threatened to cut him, kept quiet, partly because he had a
high, squeaky voice that invariably made people stare, and partly
because he didn't know the lingo. His charge, having a better
memory than he did, had picked it up in a matter of months; but
then his charge had an almost unreasonably high intelligence, for
all hir age, and he put nothing beyond hir. Putting his mouth to
hir ear to avoid being overheard, he said in Modern Greek:
   "What do we do when we arrive, little sister?"
   "We introduce ourselves," she returned matter-of-factly, with
the air of someone firmly in control.
   "And what if they don't accept me? They didn't receive any
orders to accommodate me."
   "Look, if you're not staying I'm not staying. It's as simple as
that. And if I'm not staying, they'll be in serious trouble. So I
don't think they'll be difficult."
   The man wasn't quite so sure. She grinned widely and kissed him
on the cheek, and he twitched a mouth corner and squeezed her hand
in response. Faces focused on them, then turned back to the windows
where the scenic, mountainous panorama slid by. Hir eyes narrowed
knowingly. S/he knew what those faces were thinking: young girl off
to spend romantic holiday at the Riviera with lover. No way.
Firstly, they would not realize exactly how young s/he was, nor
guess the true nature of hir being. Secondly, Brace - the man
beside hir - was now past loving in any but the most general sense.
And thirdly, s/he'd had enough "love" to last hir for a long time.
No, this outing was of an entirely different nature...
   "Relax, Brace. Enjoy the scenery. See that big fissure over
there? What I wouldn't give to climb down to those caves
sometime...  I read they look like a cathedral inside, with all
that lime and stuff dripping down..."
   "I thought you didn't like being inside closed spaces."
   "Not when they're Galactor bases, no, and certainly not when
they're off-duty Shangri-La come-and-get-laid-here Galactor bases,
I should think. Still, we blew it up, didn't we?"
   "Uh-huh."
   "Hey. This is supposed to be a holiday."
   "Is it? I understood this was just going to be the next phase in
your training."
   "Well, they can't *make* me do anything. Heck, I've deserved a
break."
   She drew on her cigarette, exhaling elegantly through her mouth
and nostrils. No one, she knew, would give her fifteen; with her
length, her make-up and her long, red nails, she looked seventeen
at the very least. Older, even, to anyone who disregarded her
boyishly slender figure and slim hips. She knew that even as an
adult, she would probably not get much more curvaceous than this.
No matter. She knew from experience that people can be attracted to
other things than curves. Examining her sharp, hungry face in a
small mirror she had drawn from her handbag, she wiped away a stain
of scarlet where her lipstick had started to bleed. Then she
smoothed back her hair and, lowering her tinted eyelids, tried on
a sophisticated expression.
   "Perfect," Brace complimented her. "Very feminine."
   Pleased, she gave him a fearsome, shark-like grin that was
anything but feminine, and put the mirror away.

The entire Lacroix family was waiting for her, gathered on their
doorstep as she walked down the road to their house in her short
summer dress and sandals, carrying a suitcase. The house was
medium-sized, whitewashed, with cast-iron grates covering the
windows and a roof of orange-tinged tiles. Behind the grate of what
she deduced must be the kitchen window, herb-type plants grew in
pots on the chalk-coloured windowsill, and a laurel tree stood at
the base of the stone steps leading up to the front door. All in
all, a house like many of the houses she had seen in this part of
the country so far. And placed not too far from a bustling centre
on the fringe of a deep blue bay, where ships docked and departed,
and a ferry left at regular intervals for B.C. Island, one of the
main training grounds for Galactor agents. Perfect. She remembered
the words of her strange guardian, who had summoned her prior to
her journey: "I THINK YOU WILL FIND THE ATMOSPHERE OF YOUR NEW HOME
MORE CONDUCIVE TO YOUR FURTHER DEVELOPMENT." It had better be, s/he
had thought rebelliously, but hastily blotted the words out in hir
head; hir guardian had an uncanny way of guessing hir thoughts, and
could mess with hir mind more nastily and effectively than any
brutal Galactor guard. Besides, s/he didn't really want to disobey
him - after all, he meant well with hir, he was the only one who
cared; but his way of caring often threw hir off balance. "If only
he wouldn't make things so difficult," she said to herself.
   Before mounting the steps, she put down her suitcase and
scrutinized the group of five standing at the door. Papa Lacroix,
a little man with startling black eyebrows and a paunch. The sight
sickened her: "Why is it middle-aged men always get pot-bellied?"
she asked herself. Mama Lacroix pleased her better: little also,
with greying hair drawn back in a bun, but lightly built and with
the deadly air that befitted a woman wearing the Assassins'
uniform. A long, sloping scar on her forehead testified to her
years of active service. Three pretty girls of varying age, two
with their mother's dark hair, one blonde like herself. All three
wore shorts and sandals, and looked as if they had been out in the
sun a lot.
   The Lacroix family, likewise, scrutinized the newcomer, this
tall, gangling teen with her pale skin and long lizard-like hands.
She mounted the steps and, as she had been instructed, handed the
sheaf of her falsified personal documents over to Monsieur Lacroix,
the passport on top. He opened it to see what her name was.
   "Ah... Babette." He held out a hand in greeting. A snicker went
through the line of girls. "Babette" glared at them, her eyes
furiously narrowed. This only amused them more.
   "I am your father. This is your mother," the short, petite woman
acknowledged her with a nod. "These are your sisters, Lorraine" the
blonde girl curtsied, much to the hilarity of the younger two,
"Tazette," the next in line bowed deeply, "and Meline. Lorraine,
take her luggage." The blonde girl took the smallish suitcase from
her; she now saw that the girl's hair was dyed, still dark at the
roots. "Come in. Is this all the luggage you have?"
   "No, I..." She turned to look over her shoulder. About halfway
down the street, but drawing nearer to No. 28 was Brace, toiling
with two suitcases considerably larger and more stuffed-looking
than the one she had carried. She hailed him.
   "Hey! Over here! What kept you?" she asked as he came ambling up
and dropped the suitcases at the foot of the steps.
   "These," he indicated, pulling out a big white handkerchief to
mop his sweating forehead. The mid-day sun was blazing, and
although he was used to these temperatures, his regulation black
suit was considerably warmer wear than her skimpy dress. The
Lacroix family stared.
   "Hum," Mr Lacroix said at last, "This is the porter, no? We will
give him a tip, and he will leave?" The thick black eyebrows were
drawn up inquiringly. She shook her head triumphantly.
   "This is Brace Hoffman, my personal bodyguard. Where I go he
goes." Brace smiled at them rather sheepishly, and waved.
   "But this is impossible! We have not received orders to... Come
inside, my child, we must discuss this in private."
   "No," she said, descending to rejoin Brace. "Either he stays or
we both leave."
   "But you will have all the protection you need..."
   "Yeah but I'm used to Brace."
   "We have no room for him here, little one..."
   "No prob. We can share a room. We can even share a bed. I'm not
staying here without him."
   "You don't need a bodyguard here," the woman said curtly. "You
have us." She pointed at the three girls who, in their present
state, didn't seem capable of defending a plate of spaghetti; but
that might just be outward appearances. After all, neither she nor
Brace looked particularly dangerous, yet they could both break
bones.
   "So? He can do something else."
   "Like what?"
   She shrugged. "He can cook."
   A thoughtful expression stole over the woman's face. She glanced
towards her children, then towards her husband. Both sides answered
her glance, and Tazette even nodded.
   "He can cook?"
   "Yeah. Only Greek food, though. He's Greek."
   "Andre...?"
   "Hum, is your bodyguard a, I mean, member of the organization?
I mean, what is his affiliation?"
   "Same's mine," she answered casually.
   "And you have received permission to bring him?"
   "Yes," she said brazenly. No, but she had not been expressly
ordered to leave him behind. Some orders have to be interpreted
creatively, she thought.
   "Very well, you may come up. Both of you."
   "Great!" She hugged her partner. "Brace, gimme a hand."
   Tazette and Meline descended to help Brace and the newly
christened Babette lug up the suitcases, exchanging remarks over
Brace's head about the possible contents.
   "I think she has lead in her suitcase, no?"
   "I think it must be gold. Gold is heavier than lead. Maybe she
has lots of jewelry?"
   "No, that would be lighter. This feels like solid bars."
   "Bars of gold! But of course! She must be very rich."
   "Babette" grinned in spite of herself. This year might actually
be fun.

She was escorted up to what was to be her room - furnished with
natural materials, like most of the house, and consequently
coloured in various hues of ochre, the only patch of contrast being
the black-and-white zebra blanket on her bed. Even the floor was
ochre, being tiled with curious carpet squares of string sown into
rough circles with a rectangular frame. The room was so close under
the roof that either wall sloped, and the bed had been snugly
fitted under the slope at such an angle that she knew she was going
to be bumping her head in the mornings. At one end was a small,
jammed-looking window with a lace curtain, admitting a softened
yellow light. Lorraine flipped over the blanket to reveal the
white-and-black zebra on the back, a perfect negative of the first
one.
   "Wow. That is just too cool."
   "And now, where will your bodyguard sleep?" Tazette asked
mischievously. "I do not think the bed will be big enough for
two... I think you will just fall through it, like this!" Cleverly
avoiding the wall, she jumped and flipped on her back in mid-air,
landing squarely on the bed, whose springs dipped almost to the
ground. "Oh, I am drowning, I am drowning!"
   "Heck, I might just sleep on the floor," Babette said,
fascinatedly tracing the whorls of string on the ground with her
fingers.
   "Oh, but you will wake up with aches and pains! No, we must
bring out the mattress. Bring out the mattress," Lorraine ordered.
The other two chorused "Bring out the mattress! Bring out the
mattress!" and left on their errand. Babette could hear them
giggling and splitting their sides with laughter on the stairs.
Then there was the chafing, swishing sound of something big and
shapeless being dragged up, and the three proudly presented The
Mattress, large and thick enough to use for a gymnastics session.
She turned to Brace.
   "Well?"
   "Looks comfortable enough..." He tested it by pushing his palm
against the surface. "Yep, nice 'n soft."
   "We practice our throws on it," Meline piped up.
   "But if your bodyguard is not pleased, he may consider sharing
a bed with us?" Tazette suggested with a wink. Babette laughed.
   "Forget it. He's not interested in girls."
   The three exchanged excited and meaningful glances and made some
oooh and aaah sounds.
   "You mean, he is interested in boys?"
   "No," she said proudly. "He isn't interested in anything at
all!"
   In the brief silence that followed, the three girls frowning
with incomprehension, Babette became unsure whether this remark had
raised Brace in their esteem, as it had been intended to. Brace,
for his part, hadn't understood any of it, and, feeling the need to
break the uncomfortable silence, asked:
   "Hey, boss, where do we stow the explosives?"
   "I dunno..." There was a table and some wickerwork chairs, a
very irrelevant birdcage without a bird in it, a wardrobe and an
open bookcase which didn't offer much beyond a space to put her
textbooks. "Under the bed?"
   "Nuh-uh! *Not* good policy. Guns and cartridges yes, explosives
no."
   "What is your big, handsome bodyguard talking about?" Lorraine
cooed, reaching way, way up to hook an arm over Brace's shoulder.
Tazette and Meline had already begun to break into the larger of
the two suitcases.
   "Hey, *hang* on...!"
   "Oooooohhhhh!" the two gurgled delightedly; they had found her
break-in kit, which had accounted for most of the weight.
   "Perfect," Lorraine said critically. "Where's the dynamite?"
   "You want dynamite? Here's dynamite!" said Babette, happily
zipping open a side compartment. A stream of bullet-shaped pellets
ran out. "Doesn't need a fuse, doesn't go off in your hand, here -
stamp on them if you like, they're perfectly safe. Detonation caps!
Love 'em."
   "Mmmm," Lorraine said. The other two had suddenly become
serious. "Mama will not allow you to keep these things in your
room."
   "Why not? They won't do any harm. And I won't blow the roof off,
I promise."
   "They are highly illegal. If the house were to be searched...
No, I will tell mama and she will put them in the safe."
   "Oh. Drat." Her face fell. "Do I get them back when I leave?"
   "When you leave," the smile was returning to Lorraine's face,
"you will be able to make your own!"
   Babette broke into a grin. The younger two did a war dance
around her, then suddenly jumped on her. They fell to the floor in
a tussling heap, screaming with laughter. Brace raised an eyebrow,
and sighed.

For the remainder of the summer holiday, Lorraine, Tazette and
Meline - aged, respectively, seventeen, fifteen and thirteen -
lavished all their attention on their foster sister, dragging her
to the beach, trying clothes on her, playing music to her, taking
her out to their favourite hot spots and inviting her on their
survival trips and spelunking expeditions. She rapidly broke all
her nails and even acquired a light tan, although her pale hair and
eyebrows still marked her an outsider. Standing slightly taller
than Lorraine herself, with a longer, straighter nose, colder eyes
and a sharper jawline, she looked like a distant cousin rather than
a sister, and her new name hardly suited her. For all her bony
height, she found that the club of male acquaintances that the
Lacroix sisters hung out with were, for the most part, quite
interested in her, but she had a chilling stare that quite
effectively repelled them. The Lacroix sisters themselves appeared
incapable of gravity; Lorraine had but to say, in her prim way:
"Babette, if you do not pass me the sugar NOW I shall hit you with
my baguette!" for the other two to collapse in helpless laughter,
and the repartees continued all day long.
   Brace had been all but banished to the kitchen. He spent the
evenings with Babette in her room, she trying to teach him the
rudiments of French, or alone if Babette chose to watch T.V.
downstairs with the sisters. Her foster parents ignored him,
although her "mother" was forced to hold communion with him on
kitchen and household matters, frequently calling on Babette to
translate for her. Babette was beginning to like this Madame
Lacroix more and more; she had an air of quiet capability which was
far removed from the coarseness and stupidity of the common
Galactor privates. To her, the Masked Assassins - second in
reputation only to certain rescue squads - were almost a myth, and
she was extremely pleased to be actually living with one.
   She was even more pleased when she realized the Lacroix children
were actually assassins-in-training, coached by their mother and by
the owners of a Galactor institution posing as a fitness school,
located in a town further removed from the coast. She was tickled
pink when she was first invited to join them.
   The first workout was a bit of a disappointment. Babette was no
weakling, but it was obvious she hadn't had the kind of exercise
that the Lacroix girls had been enjoying. She even fell behind
Meline, who was most satisfied at this. "You must practice more,
Babbbette," she gloated, hatefully stressing the b's. Babette
glared at her and continued her pushups with grim determination.
   "That's enough!" said the ratty little blonde woman who was
their fellow-coach, and in all likelyhood a retired Assassin also.
"Straining your muscles will get you nowhere. Build it up
gradually. Remember, you're no cannon fodder." Likewise, although
she knew her share of dirty tricks and was fairly proficient with
a knife, the martial arts were new to her. She was amazed, and
delighted, at what her body could achieve in the way of defence.
"Now, if I'd known this ten years ago..."

School was half-an-hour's trip by bicycle. Babette was allowed to
use an old bicycle of Tazette's father, because if she rode
anything smaller her knees kept hitting the handlebars. She was
always accompanied by Tazette and Meline - Lorraine, who was doing
her "Bac.", went to some other school called "lycee" - and followed
the same classes as Tazette. Most of it was new to her: due to her
frequent change of address and her recent line of work, she had not
been able to attend any kind of classes regularly; but with her
phenomenal intelligence and memory, she soon picked up, and her
marks moved up from lowest to highest in class in a matter of
weeks. This worried Tazette: "You can maybe fail a test or two,
yes? To avoid notice..."
   In the evenings, the four did their homework together at the
dinner table in the living room, in the light of the great window
that gave on the garden. There was no way to enter this garden from
the living room except through the kitchen, a relatively small and
narrow room which was a nuisance to manoeuver around in, although
Brace did this uncomplainingly. His duties had now been extended to
laying and clearing the table also, and lately Mme Lacroix even
trusted him with the shopping, so that the sight of the burly,
squeaky-voiced giant pushing a trolley at the local "monoprix" was
becoming a common one. Babette was usually finished long before
Brace came out with the tablecloth and plates, and would then dig
her toes into the Persian rug and peer at the sisters' work, trying
to see if she could help them. But they refused to be helped.
   "Go away, Babette. Go play with your bodyguard."
   "He's busy." She sighed, gathered up her things and went
upstairs, leaving a space at the table. She was bored. Normally,
she would be having extra assignments in fields like programming
and mechanical construction, but here she didn't even have access
to a laptop. All she had in the way of extracurricular activities
was the training she shared with the sisters, and that was all very
practical; shooting, hand-to-hand combat, the making and defusing
of simple explosives and the installation of bugs. Nothing she
could practice outside hours in the privacy of her own room.
   She sighed again. Affixed to the door of her wardrobe was her
school timetable. Not that she needed it to remember, but the
sisters had pinned up their timetables in the same way, and she
thought it was a quaint idea. She did a few stretching exercises to
kill time until dinner, then tried to walk on her hands; a neat
little trick that Meline could pull off, but her attempts to teach
Babette had been failures so far. Just as she fell for the fourth
time - sideways, this time; if Brace could hear her, he must be
wondering what she was up to - she heard a car pull up in front of
the house. She remained perfectly still on the ground, listening.
It had stopped exactly in front of the house. It was not the usual
milkman's van, nor was it one of Lorraine's motorcycle friends. She
jumped up and bounded to the small window, which from the very
first day had resisted all her attempts to open it, but the car (or
whatever it might be) was parked below her line of vision. Curious
and apprehensive at the same time, she descended.
   On the lower flight of stairs she came across the Lacroix
sisters, who had apparently been sent up. "Visitor for you,
Babette," Lorraine said breathlessly, then disappeared into her
room. The other two darted past her without a word, or even their
customary giggles.
   Her stomach tightened as she came to the hall and entered the
living room. The big window facing the garden was open as usual,
the lace curtain drawn to keep out the flies. Her foster parents
were there, sitting around the table with three men in black suits.
Two of them had dark hair and olive complexions, and looked as if
they might be from B.C. Island; the third had a parchment-coloured
skin and distinctly Asian features. They wore signet rings with the
Galactor symbol.
   "Ah, Babette," M. Lacroix said. "Do sit down."
   "This is the girl?" the parchment-skinned Galactor asked.
   "What do you want?" she inquired defiantly. The three ran a
cursory glance over her, then ignored her.
   "This is the girl," Mme Lacroix affirmed.
   "How is she doing?"
   "Very well."
   "Physical condition?"
   "Optimal."
   "Fighting skills, unarmed combat?"
   "Level six."
   "Armed?"
   As the Asiatic type and Mme Lacroix worked their way down the
list of accomplishments, Babette tapped her nails on the table's
surface with growing irritation. When she judged the list to be at
its end, she suddenly snapped: "Finished?"
   Four heads turned to her in surprise - Mme Lacroix's head turned
also, but expressed nothing. The Asiatic-type Galactor was the
first to respond; in all probability, the other two didn't even
know the language.
   "I beg your pardon?"
   "You heard me! And you can stop talking over my head when I'm
around. You know who I am! Now I'd like to know who you are!"
   M. Lacroix raised his eyebrows in shock, but the three Galactors
smiled; the two Sicilians even commented to each other in their
native dialect. Babette crossed her arms, looking progressively
angrier.
   "We are agents of Galactor--"
   "I am *so* surprised."
   "...sent by your illustrious guardian to take care of you..."
   She'd heard that one before. "I don't need taking care of."
   "...and to monitor your progress."
   "I'm doing fine, *thanks*."
   "Babette, contain yourself!" Mme Lacroix said with unexpected
sharpness. Chastened, she hung her head, but still glared at the
three black-garbed Galactors.
   "We will be visiting at various intervals," the Asian continued.
"Also, we will pass on to you" addressing the Lacroix couple; "any
further instructions, both general and relating to your charge. We
will leave now. Overlord X will be very pleased."
   "Yeah, sure. Give him my regards."
   "Babette!"
   This time, she refused to hang her head. She was still angry.
She had hoped that maybe these men had come to hand her her
customary "homework", and instead they had discussed her as if she
were a promising new firearm prototype. She wondered whether her
stay at the Lacroix household served any purpose at all, or whether
she was simply being rendered inactive for one year as a punishment
for her recent escapade.
   Brace came out of the kitchen carrying a pile of plates, just in
time to see them re-enter their car and drive off. Depositing the
plates on the now empty table, he went up to her and laid a
protective arm round her shoulders.
   "Who were *they*?" he asked in Greek.
   "Nobody. Just a buncha creeps."

Knowing that she was being watched, Babette redoubled her efforts
at self-improvement. Physically, she had already outstripped both
Meline and Tazette, who did not have the drive she had; she was an
expert saboteur and technician, and could handle any gun. If, as
she suspected, she was to be an Assassin, prematurely demoted as
punishment for her recent disobedience, she might as well be a
successful one; and if her guardian saw her achievements, he might
reconsider and return her to her rightful position.
   And maybe it was better this way. Whereas being "leader of
Galactor" had not, as yet, meant anything more than hard work and
continual hiding, Assassin training was actually fun. The basics
being mastered, they had moved on to the more subtle skills:
shadowing, disguises, blending in with the crowd. Being female,
they were at an advantage; their disguise kits had the look of
simple vanity cases, although beauty was not always what they aimed
at.
   "God how ugly," Babette commented, inspecting in the mirror the
half of her face that she was not covering with her hand.
   "Yes, but sometimes duty demands that you must be ugly," said
Lorraine, who had done the disguise job on the left side of her
face. "Now, you do the other half. And remember, the two sides must
match exactly."
   They shadowed a number of unsuspecting civilians in play, and
together Babette and Lorraine stalked a rather handsome specimen
called Guillaume. "But our victims do not always look like that,"
Lorraine sighed. "Oh no, more often they look like our papa." The
girls were quite fond of their parents, but by no means
uncritically so, and they were all agreed that Brace was a great
improvement over their mother as far as cuisine was concerned.
   "Our mama is a very good mama," Tazette said, "but," she pouted,
"she cannot cook. And our papa is the type who, how do I say, will
quite readily make soup out of a packet..."
   Likewise, although they were kindness itself to her, they could
show a keen edge when irritated, and Meline especially tended to
punish her with her name. In general, she didn't mind; she
preferred it this way. She didn't like people coming too close, and
in a tacit way the sisters respected her boundaries.
   The three "creeps", as she steadfastly kept referring to them,
paid monthly visits to No. 28, always turning directly to Mme
Lacroix, making it necessary for Babette and the sisters to hide
upstairs while they talked. Squinting through binoculars from the
window of Tazette's room, Babette followed them as they left the
house, mounted in the car, radio'd something to their base and
drove off. This fascinated her; she wondered what they had to say
about her, and decided to bug their car at the first opportunity.
   Brace disliked the Galactor agents too, and felt no fascination
for them whatsoever. "I just hope we don't get any trouble, boss."
   "Trouble? How so?"
   "Well, a few days ago I was just coming back from the
supermarket and there was this blue car at the door. It was them,
the creeps I mean. I don't know what they were doing here, but they
sure as hell weren't glad to see me. Asked me what the heck I was
doing here, an' everything. I had to tell them who I was."
   "Hm." Brace was still a Galactor - once a member of Galactor,
you couldn't leave until you died - but officially he was also
guilty of damage to Galactor property and anti-Galactor activities.
She hoped that, her rank having been lowered, she was still
important enough to protect him.

A joyous day was approaching; Lorraine, having recently turned
eighteen, was about to join the ranks of the Masked Assassins and
embark on her first mission. She had already received her mask and
uniform, and now displayed it proudly to her sisters in the
changing rooms of the Centre Belle Jeunesse, or, as they simply
called it, the gym. The workout had been a tough one, the ratty
blonde instructor picking particularly on Babette, and reminding
Lorraine constantly of her new responsibility. But after showering
and changing, curiosity had overcome fatigue, and, with her sisters
and Babette cheering, Lorraine turned and strode along the centre
of the room in her tight khaki suit like a mannequin on the
catwalk, the mask lending a sinister touch to her normally gay and
lively face. Tazette and Meline clamoured to try them on.
   "Nononono. It isn't your size, and the suit is far too big for
you."
   "Pleeeeeeeez..."
   "Very well. But you will look ridiculous."
   And so they did. But they were too happy at getting a taste of
the real thing to care.
   "Me too!" Babette cried. "It'll fit on me - I'm big enough."
Lorraine was surprised: "Are you sure?" but the other two were
instantly full of enthusiasm, Meline eagerly peeling off the
uniform and passing it to Babette.
   It did fit. It fit her almost better than Lorraine. Bundling up
her hair and drawing on the mask, she examined herself in the
mirror. The effect was astounding. Far from hiding who she was, the
mask seemed to bring out the very essence of her nature. Staring
back at her from the mirror with dead, flat, narrowed eyes was an
impersonal, inscrutable, ruthless killer. Rearing up to her full
height, she whirled round and bore down on her foster sisters; they
shrank away from her in mock terror and made "ooooo" sounds. A
sense of power washed over her. Yes, this was definitely it. This
was what she wanted to be.
   On coming home, her state of exaltation was punctured like a
tyre by the sight of the hated blue car at the Lacroix doorstep.
Snarling with frustration, she stamped up the stairs to absent
herself from yet another listing of her virtues. "But this time,"
she thought, "I've got something to get you back." As soon as she
was in her room, she moved a chair against the door, gathered a pen
and notepad, pulled out a radio-like device from one of the
suitcases she kept under her bed and started to fiddle with the
switches until she had a clear signal. Knowing she might be
overheard, she turned down the sound until it was barely audible,
and scribbled down what she heard as fast as she could. It was
Japanese, but she knew the lingo.

   "Whaddaya mean I don't get to be an Assassin?"
   She had broken in on the Galactor agents' monthly conference
with blazing eyes and a total disregard for decorum; but, she
thought, the circumstances justified it.
   "Where do you get these ideas, child?" Mme Lacroix asked,
unshockable as always.
   "I heard them say it!" She pointed an accusing finger at the
three men in black. "As if I'm deaf or anything!"
   "My child, you must not listen at doors. As to whether you will
be an Assassin or not, that depends on the wishes of your guardian.
Currently, he wishes you to apply yourself to your studies, and
keep out of his affairs."
   "To hell with my guardian! I worked hard for this!" Her cheeks
were unusually flushed; Mme Lacroix made a mental note to request
a medical check-up for her charge. Babette, though physically sound
as a dollar, had a recurring hormone problem that could worsen
dramatically if not treated at an early stage. But sending her to
an ordinary doctor was out of the question. 
   "Well?"
   "Well what, child?"
   "I demand an explanation!!"
   The Lacroix couple cocked an eyebrow at the Galactor agents, who
nodded imperceptibly.
   "All right then... Your guardian has decided that you are not to
be a member of the Masked Assassin squad..."
   "Right..."
   "You are to be its leader."
   The impact left her petrified for exactly thirty-five seconds.
Then, her jaw dropped open, an expression of delight spread
gradually across her face, and a grin widened itself from ear to
ear as the implications of the last statement fully dawned on her.
So that was X's plan...
   Tears of happiness sprang from her eyes, and she impetuously
hugged first Mme and then M. Lacroix. She was about to rush off to
the kitchen to tell Brace, when her foster mother detained her.
   "Now, child, you must not tell anyone of this."
   Another secret. "But I can tell Brace, can't I? I mean, he knows
so much already..."
   "Very well. But quietly. If your sisters knew about this, they
would be in great danger."
   "Okay." She disappeared through the kitchen door. "Hey, Brace,
listen to this..."
   She waved off the Galactor agents with her foster parents, still
grinning insanely, then bounded up to her room and dragged out her
listening device. Warned by her revelation, they had now driven
some distance away before transmitting and coded their message.
"Piece o' cake," she said contentedly to herself, noting down the
bleeps and decoding them.
   However, what she decoded was not the happy confirmation she
expected. No, not at all. Her eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.
   "No you don't, you sons of bitches. Not while I'm alive."

Life continued very much as before, except that Babette was
becoming increasingly moody; she even snapped at Brace. An
appointment with a Galactor medic was arranged and she was given
some pills to suppress the activity of various glands while
stimulating others, but they barely helped. She was often in her
room, tuning the receiver, but the family were not aware of that,
and neither did they know that she'd cracked the safe to get some
of her gear back and try on Lorraine's mask again. She slid her
fingers over the mask's edges and sighed; after this, she was sure,
all her chances of becoming either the head of Galactor or the
captain of the Assassins would be blown. Still, she had to do it.
She couldn't let this happen. Cursing Galactor and its absurd
security measures, she tried to picture Brace and herself as
civilians, making a living in some obscure seaside resort. Yes, she
could work. They would be hunted, of course, but she had learned
enough by now to be able to keep them both out of trouble. Yes,
they might be quite happy...
   The three Galactor agents were dropping in more frequently now,
often involving Lorraine in their private conversations with the
Lacroix couple. Only two weeks now, she knew. Only two weeks, and
they would all be called down to the living room.. and then...
   But they hadn't counted on her.

And then the fateful day arrived, on which all members of the
Lacroix family - except herself, of course: "No, Babette will stay
upstairs, she has one of her migraines", - were called down to the
living room by the Galactor trio for a solemn goodbye. Lorraine
received a hug from her father and a handshake from her mother and,
carrying a duffel bag, rose to join the men in black, her sisters
smiling and waving at her from where they sat at the table. The
Galactor agents laid their hands on their holsters...
   "Not so fast!"
   A grand total of eight heads turned. Babette was standing on the
threshold with a revolver in one hand and small detonator in the
other. Two wires ran from the detonator to a crack in the floor.
   "Everybody freeze or this place blows up! And I mean it!!"
   "Babette!" Tazette and Meline cried out. She ignored them. Mme
Lacroix's eyes narrowed, as did Lorraine's, and the girl tensed her
back, ready to spring. The Galactor men drew their weapons.
   "Don't bother. I removed the bullets."
   "Babette, what is the meaning of this?"
   "I've been waiting for you," Babette said to the three Galactor
men, deep hatred choking her voice. "You thought you'd get away
with it, didn't you?"
   The Asian-type remained inscrutable, but the other two looked a
bit nonplussed. Without taking her eyes off either the gun or the
detonator, Mme Lacroix asked: "Get away with what?"
   "They were going to kill you. Don't move!" One of the men had
shrugged apologetically at M. Lacroix. She swung the revolver at
him. He froze where he stood.
   "I bet you're thinking I can't take all three of you out with
just this." She tilted the revolver, then pointed it at the Asian.
"And you'd be right. But I also wired this floor so it blows if I
push this button." She moved her fingers aside to display the
detonator's switch, without dropping it. "You try anything, and
you're dead. So don't."
   The Asian made no reply. Speaking in the quiet, reasonable voice
commonly used to address dangerous lunatics, Mme Lacroix said:
"Please explain yourself, Babette."
   "Gladly. I've been listening in to these creeps for over a month
now. Guess what? They want to eliminate you. All of you. They saw
Brace and figured he was a spy. They weren't sure whether you were
involved, but they decided to get rid of you anyway, just to make
sure. Didn't you, you bastards?" she spat at the Galactor trio.
"Don't worry, I'll get you out of here safely. Please, take Brace
and the girls outside. I'll deal with these three."
   "What makes you think they want to kill us, Babette?"
   "That's what they said! Possible defection, one child involved
with outsider, unsure what part the parents are playing, proceed to
total elimination. Their plan was to lure you all into one room and
then mow you down with silenced shotguns."
   "That is correct," Mme Lacroix remarked drily. "Only they were
referring to the Joubes family, one of whose children has foolishly
implicated himself with members of the ISO staff. Lorraine is to
accompany them on the mission by way of initiation, and has been
preparing for it over the past weeks."
   Babette's face lit up with surprise, her eyes widening. "So that
means..."
   "Yes. This is her first mission. Our lives are not in danger."
   The arm holding the revolver sagged as Babette, overcome with
mortification, slumped on the sofa. Tazette, being closest, deftly
extracted it from her unresisting fingers. Mme Lacroix gently took
the detonator out of her other hand and swiftly wrenched off the
wires, rendering it harmless. The three Galactor agents looked much
relieved.
   "I told you not to listen at doors, child."
   "I thought it was because of me..." Her voice trailed away.
Hatefully, Meline chirruped: "Fancy, our little Babbbette thinking
she is sooooo important!"
   "I am too!"
   She stood up straight and proud, holding back the tears that
pricked at the back of her eyes.
   "And my name is NOT Babette! It's Be--"
   The three men instantly rose and made for her. Realizing she had
gone too far, she dashed to the window, screaming, and vaulted out,
landing in the garden.
   "Braaaaace!!!"
   The three ran through the kitchen and out the back door to catch
her. Brace, who was in the kitchen, flung down the carrots he had
been scrubbing and pursued them, in his turn followed by Mme
Lacroix and her girls. Babette had reached the fence and was
working herself over it.
   "Braaaaaaaaace!!!!"
   The foremost man threw himself forward and managed to catch her
ankle. She went down, still screaming, and was dragged back into
the house, where the other two advanced on her with truncheons.

   "It's not *fair*," she sulked, sitting on the floor of her room
in a half-fetal position, chin on knees. Her dress was torn in
places, her face was bruised and tear-streaked, blood oozed from a
split lip and weals decorated her back and limbs. Brace made a
humph-like sound to express his sympathy. Having been ordered to
keep out of it, he had of course ignored the order and had
consequently been set upon by Lacroix and her daughters. He now lay
stretched on her bed with a bandaged neck and a black and puffed-up
eye, his right wrist and leg in plaster casts. His injuries, unlike
Berg's, would take a longer time to heal.
   "Just you wait," she continued darkly, speaking to no one in
particular. "Just you wait. One day, I'll blast this whole bloody
world to bits. You'll see."

                            *   *   *

Katze and Kai had snuck out for a bite (and, in Katze's case, a
much-needed cigarette) and were now sitting in the snow outside of
Galactor HQ, looking down on the base and reminiscing about their
respective pasts. Katze was unmasked, but with the coats, scarves
and goggles they were wearing, nothing was visible of him anyway.
   He pulled down his scarf, unmittened his hands and felt around
in one pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. Finding both, he lit
one, inhaled deeply, and blew out a huge quantity of smoke. Kai
grimaced and waved a mitt to fan it away from her.
   "Your fingers'll freeze... So what happened after?"
   "Well, you know that. I finished college and took a few degrees.
And I completed my training. Same as the Masked Assassins, only a
bit more intensive. No more yucky stuff, though. They'd reserved
that for my tender years."
   "Ummm."
   "Which is not to say that it was all bad... Some people were
kind to me, in a way. So I tried to repay them, as well as I
could."
   He smiled, losing himself in reverie, and took another long
pull. A billowing cloud of smoke enveloped them both.
   "Of course, none of them ever showed any gratitude."