Jacob was sitting in the break room, apparently lost in thought. His eyes, half closed, faced the wall. His hands were placed on the table. His fingers moved slightly,like a typist finding home row without looking at the keyboard.

Vanessa looked up from her magazine to watch Jacob. What a slacker that kid was!

"I heard you went to MIT," she said.

"I did," he said, and stifled a sigh. He could guess where this was going. Vanessa was an empty nester who worked at Whole Foods more out of boredom than anything else. Jacob could understand that much. But her tendency to mother the younger crew members was annoying.

"So...what are you doing here?" she asked. "I bet you could be doing great things, if you just applied yourself."

The Sphinx Club was a bump and grind joint that had the strange distinction of elevating the neighborhood. A block down the road the Strip got sketchy, but the Sphinx Club projected something resembling class. From outside it looked like a miniature casino, its entrance flanked by two golden sphinxes and bathed in soft spotlights at night. Inside, the decor was tasteful-minimal in red and brown and gold. There were Egyptian touches, but not enough to be kitschy.

It was two minutes till the museum closed, and Jerry at the security desk gave Nick a stern look. Then he smiled and waved him along. Nick responded with a big grin, dropped a bag of his aunt's cookies on the desk, and boldly pushed open the door marked Employees Only.

"You're killing me with these," Jerry groaned.

"Tia Dolores will kill you for real if you don't eat them all," Nick called over his shoulder.

He hummed as he took the stairs down two at a time. Once on a school trip his class had gone backstage at a theater. Being in the museum after hours gave him that same feeling, that he was going to see where the magic was made.

Megan was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.

Silence hung over the cathedral, the deep dark quiet that creeps up some time between midnight and dawn. The fluorescents in the sublevels had long since cycled into low power mode, and shadows gathered in doorways. Sebastián's footsteps sounded strangely soft on the industrial carpeting, even though he was almost trotting just to keep up with Usman. The security guard was very tall and very brisk.

Strangeways sprinted across the roof, his feet pounding in time with the dubstep blaring in his earphones. He grinned like a maniac and launched into a handspring that ended with him perfectly balanced on one foot on the edge of the roof. He held the pose as long as he could. Down below, across the motorway, a few people pointed at the figure on the roof.

"Respect," he murmured, and fell forward.

Someone screamed. Others looked away from the sight of a young man about to splatter all over the A4. Strangeways never stopped smiling.

He moved slideways - -
 

"I'm getting to be an old man," Thomas Quayle said to his empty parlor. Just moving an armchair to face the window had left him winded. He sat down, sighed, and peered down the lane in the direction of the Corkill farm. It was none of his business, and the good book said spare the rod and spoil the child, but he was going to have to have a word with the boy's father. He was going to have to have a word with Colby Corkill.

Mo wasn't in the mood for conversation, but the waitress always wanted to practice her English.

"Here! Are your noodles!" she announced happily. "Please enjoy."

"Xie xie," he replied pointedly. As usual, she ignored the hint.

"Happy New Year!" she chirped.

"Uh? I thought New Year was a month away."

"American New Year is now." She checked her watch. "Literally! Ball dropping in New York. Champagne! Y2K!" She beamed at the other person seated at the bar. "You want a beer? Let's celebrate!"

Absyllea, Predator-Class Cyborg, Soldier of Enlar, War Scout Prime and Scourge of Chardis, methodically made her way to the computer core at the heart of the Justice Patrol headquarters. Tri-steel doors tore like tissue paper in her mighty hands. She tossed aside duranium struts like balsa wood. Finally, with a grunt, she wrenched open the last hatchway and strode into the data center.

The room teemed with a strange array of jerry-rigged equipment. Most of the machines appeared to be of Earth manufacture. Others had obviously originated in Consortium space. And some, intriguingly, were unidentifiable. She duly recorded it all with her enhanced eyes.

On the third day of the sickness Rory stopped screaming. Uncle Colby was the only one well enough to notice. He stood in the small garden out back, eyes closed, gripping a shovel, and savored the quiet.

The sickness had left his ears overly sensitive, and long after Rory had screamed himself hoarse Colby could hear the choking, gargling noises the boy made. Now there was only the breeze and the bees. Colby wiped the sweat from his brow, tucked a dark curl behind his ear, and returned to burying his wife. What was left of her.

When the job was done he leaned on the shovel and stared at the churned earth for a long time. It was a fine spring day, and with the wind carrying all the smells of the farm he could almost pretend it was a day like any other.

      
     
There is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman.
-Arthur Conan Doyle
              
 

          
Detective Cruz looked up from the dead man sprawled on the asphalt and saw another dead man walking towards her.

"I'll be damned," she muttered, and then, "Edison Palmer! You're under arrest!'