Disclaimer:

Copyright: Xena, Gabrielle, Cyane, Callisto, and everybody else X:WP are not my property, but that of the respective copyright holders. The same applies to all other copyrighted things that may or may not have found their way into the story. I write only for my own fun and healing, not for money. Consequently, no copyright infringement is intended.

I would like to thank everybody involved in creating the show, you folks are heros.

Subtext: Something, that's different? See below... far below.

Strong language: 42. Hey, that's life... Don't panic ;)

Special Guest Credits: First of all, to Ian Anderson and everyone Tull for all those songs, from the Wood, from Rock Island, and of recently, from j-tull dot com. I owe you a round for some props I borrowed to decorate my dreams, and another for the song that's winding through my head when I finally wake up. Can I hold on to the rein of polished leather a little longer? Oh, and my very best regards to the mouse police, of course. Then there is Jeanette Atwood, T.G., of TG Studios (.com) to whom I owe a sixpack stomach from laughing, ROC Hard Abs, Godlike Pecs and a cheese grater. The cartoons, of course, what'd you think?! And to Carl Sagan, a true voyager at heart, for Our Demon Haunted World; I think of you, can you hear me out there? Enjoy the Billions and Billions. Next, to John S. Lewis, an intrepid weatherman, reporting Rain Of Iron And Ice. Also, to some chaos of Ivars Peterson's Newton's Clock, which is ticking through here, as well. And to the unknown stuntman who picked Plate 225 in NASA's SP-360, Landsat Views The World, this is a picture I am willing to accept, and the others, too. Plus the author of one of the shittiest essays on cloning I've ever read, putting shame on my parent's favourite newspaper. Shock your editor, read a book! But thanks anyway for the sudden rush of adrenaline. Your nightmare has become part of an inspiring dream, somehow. Did I forget my design consultant, suffering from Capitalitis Britannica? No, apparently not. Neither my tribe of weekend warriors, closer to home. And... Last, but not least, the incomparable Hordettes, who've made it to involuntary idea donor status, although I turned that sidekickin' thing around, a little :)

Wonder what you'll make of it.

Soul Survivor

by Jürgen Anders

Your mother she protected you

and soften'd every blow

and brought you up to fear the worst

to be careful as you go

and the learned and educators

with grit teeth lash they fill

you up to here wih reason

well meaning overkill.

If you find yourself up growing

to be old before your time

get off the endless corridor

set your soul out on the line

and drive on the young side of life...

Drive On The Young Side Of Life - Jethro Tull, Nightcap, Your Round, #13, 1981/1993

Paces

Not everything that's different is good. This was different. Gabrielle had had this impression during the last few days again and again. Her friend seemed to be, well, not quite possesed by some demon, but sometimes there were these short moments, only seconds at first, but then getting longer and longer, when she did things she never ever would have done a week ago. It was just... strange. Nobody but someone who's been very close to her for a long time could have noticed. There wasn't anything missing in her ways, as far as Gabrielle saw, and who could possibly see more than she did. Just Xena at her best. All her skills, and there were many to be sure, were still in, her memory was as clear as ever, no sudden aggressions, nothing even close to the Furies' rage, not even the slightest trace of dazedness. Her subtle macho displays and the odd one-liner still came up as if on cue and, well just about everything else that made her such a lovable being. Gabrielle trailed into thought as she watched Xena train a platoon of the nomadic herdsmen they were staying with for the time being. These were peaceful people who had lived on the steppes here, not quite half way from Chin to Greece, for as long as their traditions and tales could remember. During the last year they had suffered a succession of raids from a southern warlord's army. All they needed was some training to cover their people while they moved the camp to another, supposedly safer place whenever another raid was looming. The land was worthless to the warlord, only what their animals busily collected on it, and brought home as wool and meat, and the products made thereof, were of any value. So it was enough to safely get out of the way of evil neighbors, Xena had concluded, and suddenly the comfort of defence became affordable to the tribe. They had picked the strongest dozen of their men to undergo a rapid training in the trade of the battlefield, held by the Warrior Princess herself. A week into the training, Xena did have to watch their moves with a little more attention, but she still fought all of them in a wild mock battle. Absolutely no sweat... on her. Gabrielle could watch her in action for hours. The power, the passion, the grace. For almost one and a half hours now. The twelve little would-be warriors looked as if they were on the brink of collapsing after jumping out of a waterfall in flood. Not that they were just sweating... it was more like it was raining on the dusty floor of the makeshift arena, inside the fence of the paddock. She thought of her first fights by Xena's side. Just thinking of the muscular ache on the day after made her cringe... and chuckle. Seeing these guys crawl from their round tents - they called them jurts - early in the morning, very early indeed after Xena's wake-up battlecry really gave her an idea of the amount of everyday training that you get thrown in for free, living with Xena. With an early bird like her you could just admire their stamina and esprit de corps, all the more when they had to rise and shine at early dawn, well before sunrise. No-one had dropped out so far, despite a well-controlled good measure of bumps and bruises. This was to Xena's experience in the trade, she had run whole armies before. Training a few well motivated volunteers to mount a reliable self-defence was like going on holidays to her. She had that way of raising the stakes without anyone noticing. Only when looking back you'd notice how far you had come along. The first of the herdsmen dropped out of the battle, totally exhausted, just to join in again after a few extra gasps of air. Xena pretended not to notice. If you'd see them first just right now, you'd think they would be finished in a blink of an eye. But they were nimble, tough and tenacious. Two times one and a half hours, and still going on. Xena had set up a silent schedule. Gabrielle had to watch the hourglass hidden in her inner pouch from time to time and give her a subtle signal, just in case she got carried away a little too long. But to the trainees it would look as if there was not very much of a plan, nothing they could prepare for. And no schedule at all. Xena didn't like giving the impression of an »Asian Academy of the Aspiring Warlords«, as she had put it. Well, at least there were no shabby dorms under this wide open sky. This way, it looked a lot like a chance lesson or two picked at random from the inexhaustible experience of the two travelling warrior women. There was a warm-up and exercise lesson in the morning, then a break for breakfast, a techniques and moves lesson, one and a half hours each, more or less. That last one ended with an half-hour mock battle, which was just raging, well, a raging battle as far as the men were concerned. It was more a relaxing battle to her tall friend, towering more than a head over the men in the arena. But a high point of the day for all of them, Gabrielle included. Try your hands on the Warrior Princess and see how much more there still is to learn. The sand had run out just moments ago. Now, Gabrielle was waiting to catch her eye for the signal. She had suggested blowing a little kiss, just moving the lips a bit, but Xena wanted something loud and clear. And less ambiguous, probably, though she hadn't said that. So she rubbed her nose and scratched her neck immediately after, as soon as she'd caught the attention of her friend's shining blue eyes. An extremely disappointed look like that of a kid looking into an empty box of sweets came back, as Xena mouthed »Who's turned the hourglass?« followed by a wide grin and a twinkling of an eye. And you don't want me to blow a kiss, Gabrielle thought. She did like fighting, as long as it wasn't about killing or hurting somebody... intentionally at least, no matter what she says. »Xena, I know you well, I really do,« Gabrielle whispered quietly to herself.

»Something's wrong with your friend.« Gabrielle turned in bewilderment. For the last minute of the battle, while Xena waited for a nice occasion to finish the lesson, Gabrielle forgot about the most important part of her task, watching the trainees to provide them, and Xena, of course, with feedback on their progress. That was why she was up here, half standing on the paddock's fence, her feet on the lowest bar and her elbows wedged in on top of it. Watching from the outside, to get the big picture.

Before Gabrielle could reply, the old woman who had approached her so quietly that she couldn't say for how long she'd been standing next to her, continued »I'm... I wasn't quite sure, but your reaction tells me I'm not quite wrong either, am I?«

»I could have said that, as well. I really don't know.«

The old shamaness put on a warm smile. She was well shorter than Gabrielle, and she stood on the ground, barely looking over the fence. But she had just as much energy and determination as the bard. She was neither the leader nor the matriarch of the tribe, or the local family for that matter. The centres of action and communication lay elsewhere, and with younger people. But she was the centre of gravity, her warmth and inspiration shining out equally to everyone in the camp, as was her advice cherished and respected.

»How about we try to find it out after both of you are through with the day's work? What's next, by the way?«

»Oh, uhm... Lunch break, right now...«

As if on Gabrielle's words as a command, Xena sent four of the men crashing to the ground, careful not to bruise anyone more than it's necessary to help to remember the lessons of the day.

»All right, I think everybody's getting a little tired now. Let's have a break. I'll see you in... three hours?...« - no one had the breath to object - »...then? Fine. Well done.« and then she added a comment or a »everything okay?« to everybody, as she helped the four to get up again. Always the mindful warrior.

»Hey, you two have same scale and sense of time, do you?« The shamaness lifted an eyebrow.

Gabrielle swiftly flashed the hourglass in the inner pouch of her brown and white winter coat towards her, and added a little sly smile as an answer. She wondered, though, how Xena always managed to look towards her more or less exactly the same time after the sand had run empty. She always lost all sense of time in a real battle. Probably Xena did it exactly the same way as Gabrielle herself managed to squeeze out an extra turn of sleep every morning, while Xena was out and about to wake the men and check the camp's perimeter.

»Oh, and I thought you were such a perfect team,« the old woman answered with visibly faked surprise.

»We are.« Gabrielle answered with a more thoughtful smile, then she lowered her head and turned towards her friend, to look up again, »We really are.«

The shamaness put her weathered but gentle hand on her shoulder to give her a reassuring pat or two.

»I know. It shows. And it couldn't be better. When will you finish today?«

Gabrielle thought for a second, then answered »I think, Xena will want to do a somewhat lighter moves and knacks lesson, and then an afternoon break, and I'll do some archery and staff drills for the evening lesson, so Xena can play audience, for a change. Mostly like yesterday. Perhaps a light run in the evening before dinner, if they're not too tired. And the tales and adventures part around the camp fire, of course.« Her face brightened with that.

»You like to tell stories, do you?«

»Yea, very much.«

The shamaness put on a very firm and reassuring look, »And you're just as good at that, as your friend is at fighting! It's only that you get your audience too tired during the day to listen for any length of time after nightfall. Why don't the two of you come and see me after the kids start to snore, impolite as they are?« Chuckling a bit, she gestured towards the trainees who had gathered around Xena, who obviously enjoyed the attention. Usually, the men she'd beaten up only ran and didn't come back to ask how she could have done that even better yet.

One of the men said someting in their local dialect, prompting Xena to ask »What was that?«

The perpetrator felt a little caught in the act, so one of his comerades was quicker to answer »He said, that you'd just said 'Everyone's getting a little tired', and then, 'Everyone but her.'«

»Yea, takes just fifteen winters to get as good. You'll all get there in time.«

With that, she turned around, walked away from the group and mouthed »Dismissed!« towards her friend and the shamaness, followed by a silent laughter. Army traditions stick. Looking back, it's fun. Been there, done that, does still work.

Gabrielle thought for a moment, that she'd been chasing fireflies. What could possibly be wrong with her friend? Totally at ease with herself. Then, the shamaness grabbed her hand, as if to alert her to something. At that very second, Xena turned back towards the group of men, »And don't forget, in peace time, a platoon constantly has to operate as closely as possible to conditions simulating actual war.«

»See? That's absolutely not like her...« , Gabrielle said a little disappointed, dazed and confused.

The shamaness scratched her head, looked at Xena, said »Well, see you tonight. I slowly get to grips with this.« and then left towards her tent for some unfinished business.

»Did I really say that? '...actual war' ?« , Xena wondered half aloud. Gabrielle passed her the long black winter coat, the one she had worn when she was expecting Eve. Xena put it on, over her armour, as it was for the break, only. Really, only for the way to the next jurt.

»They can go on for hours like that... but it's not really their way. I mean they lack the range to fight off tall people,« that remark got her a critical look from her friend »like those raiders they're afraid of.« Xena trailed off into professional thoughts for a moment, while she was huddling deeper into her coat »I wonder what they could do on horseback. They've got all these small horses around. Smaller than ours, but nimble and with stamina. Just like they are. Like they could ride from here to Greece non-stop. Light armour... bow and arrows. Gabrielle, we should try that! Archery is your turn, today. But first let's warm up a bit.«

»Getting nippy, eh? I mean, if you'd get a real sweaty exercise, just half as much as one of those poor guys, you'd be much warmer,« Gabrielle observed mockingly. Xena turned towards her, leaning on the paddock's fence from the inside. She looked definitely no longer at ease with herself.

»Gabrielle, ...«

»Right. We've got to talk, Xena.«

Dawn at dusk

The audience was very tired, indeed. Xena had insisted on »just a little run to loosen them bones a wee bit for the night.« Took half an hour. And half an hour after dinner for most of the eyelids to become really, really heavy. »Oops, I'm sorry«-heavy. After the first found his courage or tiredness to win over traditional courtesy, one by one, the men bid good night to everybody, and after a few words with the headman to arrange for the next day, Xena and Gabrielle made their way to the shamaness.

»Ah, there you are... a little early. The kids are really tired, then? Fine... Welcome to my humble home, anyway. Siddown, for the ancient's sake! I don't have guests here for any longer than a few moments, so don't mind the mess. I need all of that, and it's critical, thank you. But you're not my camel with whom I have to argue whenever he has to carry it, then,« she greeted them without really looking, walking agitatedly around in her small home in search of some thing or other, obviously well hidden in the mess. Finally, she quit the search and turned around towards her guests for the evening.

A lot of the tiny jurt was filled with all kinds of, well, everything a shaman needs. With the packing skills of her people, and the light-weight, collapsible and fold-away structures, everything would fit on a strong camel, though. She got out two more large cups, poured the customary strong mixture of tea and mare milk up to the rim and passed them carefully to the friends. Both politely took a sip, then Xena started to talk,

»I think you noticed it yourself today. Sometimes I say things or do things in a way I would never do. I mean, on my own, sort of. Afterwards, it is as if I had just thought of saying this or that, or thought of doing something, and I'm not really sure if I did what I remember. Or the other way around.«

Xena talking about her inner self, Gabrielle thought, suppressing an audible sigh, and no option to bale out. She felt sorry for her friend, and decided to pitch in. Although Xena was not of the strike first, ask later kind, she usually needed the short time her defensive moves took to come up with a coherent punch line.

»As far as I remember, it started about a week before we arrived. Are there any demons or something around here, who could do that? I mean, it's just like...«

Xena took over, »Like somebody steps inside my body, tries out something, and leaves immediately afterwards. Just a blink of an eye, a move or a thought. Nothing that causes one to feel ill or get a headache or ...«

»Or to make you go crazy, ...literally? The day before yesterday, Gabrielle told us about your brush with the Furies...« the shamaness turned towards Gabrielle »...that's what they're called, right?« Gabrielle nodded. »Xena, I think impressions like that can drive one crazy, figuratively speaking, of course,« the old woman added with an understanding, if slightly sly smile.

»No, it's just like I'm daydreaming for just like that,« Xena snapped her fingers »and it's over.«

The shamaness leaned back looking at the ceiling and played with the warm cup in her hands. The milky tea started to slosh around the hemispherical cup slightly, tracing the circular movement of her hands. »Hm... I've just heard of that once... my teacher told me of...« she fell silent again for a short while.

Xena and Gabrielle looked at each other. Not good.

»It's not that bad. And it will go away sooner or later, rather sooner than.« the old woman said determinately, and unexpectedly, like a bolt from the blue.

Sometimes there is a clueless expression on the faces of even the most seasoned warriors and experienced bards. At least, there must have been one, for the shamaness continued with a bemused smile, »Look, sometimes, if some soul is not at ease with the place it is in, then it starts to drift into other's bodies, other lives, times, when its own is asleep. That happens all the time. What it takes home from this trip is a very real dream, or a distant memory of a different life, a gut feeling during the waking hours about some skill or idea. Just as if it had seen and felt the moments of its presence in you and what was in your mind, just as much as you felt what you did and thought. Nothing within you is lost or taken away, and usually neither one notices what's really happened. But if you're awake at that same moment, and if you're relaxed, and, most importantly, if it's a soul very akin to yours, and used to a similar body or has had the same kind of training, anything that's identical at a first glance, then it can distract yours for a short time. It is like you have set up a new camp and you walk accidentally into somebody else's jurt in a foggy night, at first it looks like yours, but then at a closer look, the things in there look unfamiliar, that is, to that soul, your body and your skills and experiences are not as familiar as its own. Then you notice your error, and leave immediately. And a bit startled or irritated by your mistake, perhaps. Then, as you get used to a new camp, this will no longer happen. That, in your case, means that the other soul will accept something that at first causes it to roam around, and then it stays at its own place. In its tent, if you like. There is... something like a saddle for a soul in everyone of us, and sometimes some soul shares a ride with yours, although you don't like that to happen, because it slows your horse down. Then you tighten your grip on the rein, tell it to look don't touch, or you might as well push the unwelcome guest off the steed and ride on. There are many ways to think about it, but words cannot really tell all we are and feel.«

»But couldn't that be dangerous? If that rogue soul says 'twist your arm', and Xena chops off one of your kid's heads in the training lessons?« Gabrielle interjected, somewhat alarmed.

»Well, you're using wooden arms, right? And I think in that much action, with twelve men around, you are alert enough to have full control,...«

Xena scratched her head, and that guilty sheepish grin wouldn't quite go away as she'd pleased,

»... are ...you?« the shamaness finished her sentence slightly uncomfortably.

»Uhmm... Y'know, I do this for a ... well, not training, and not for a living. But, see, that's just what happens to us all the time. And then, the people usually want to hurt or kill you, and they have real weapons. And more experience than the boys... But I can be that alert. Doing the exercises. I think. Yes,« with that she managed to put on a most confident look, as she pressed her lips together to form a tight line.

»That's fine.« The shamaness beamed with delight. »The firmer you close the curtain to that soul, the sooner it will leave your tent alone. Just wait a few days and you will see. Think of it as a pulled muscle. You are careful for some time with a few moves, and it goes away sooner than you'll notice.«

Gabrielle and Xena thanked the shamaness, and the three of them slowly drank their cups over some gossip about the men's performance during the training. As it turned out, they all liked to see the fast progress of eager beginners. The shamaness had brought this up carefully. Gabrielle wondered, whether the old woman was steering the conversation just as smoothly and skillfully as Xena held her exercises in the afternoon. Xena, for one, was pleased to talk about something she was very comfortable with, for a change. Then they bid good night, since a long day was ahead of all of them. Or a long night for two of them, the shamaness thought quietly to herself.

»I almost hurt one of the men today. Wooden sword and all, I don't like that.« Xena said, leaving Gabrielle startled, as soon as they were a few yards from the jurt.

»Why didn't you...?«

Xena turned around, »I think she got the message. It was so strong, but it's really only when I'm getting sloppy with my work. She is right, I think. I can hold it, her, whatever, back as soon as I notice. And it never happens when I'm fully in business. But at that moment... that soul must have felt very comfy inside my tent, I can tell you. Completely unskilled, though. Shabby. That annoys me most,« she added with a raised eyebrow, and the trace of a smirk.

Gabrielle put her arm around her friend, as they walked towards their beds through the cold night. Some heavy snoring echoed through the camp. Twelve tired men...

Wide asleep

Xena and Gabrielle continued to use their bedrolls, although the nights got bitterly cold on the open steppe up here in the wide valleys beneath snow-tipped mountains. But it was always dry at this time of year, the winter snows a mere month away. For now, the night sky was too clear and brilliant not to be admired for some time before falling asleep. Xena almost fell asleep before she'd hit the bedroll. No sweat, but... Gabrielle couldn't sleep. After some time, she got up to see the shamaness again. There was still candlelight in her jurt. Xena woke up. Of course.

»Mbho w're u mumbh 'oo?«

What am I up to, Gabrielle thought, »Uhm, I get some water. I always had a dry throat in the morning. The cold air.«

»Mbhed om leebh...« - »Yea, I'll get some sleep in a minute, Xena.« - »Mbph....«

The Warrior Princess. Play hard, party hard, sleep hard ... like a stone. A dead stone. Gabrielle waited for a while, until she was fast asleep again. The well next to which the camp was set up, was the other way. Xena would notice. She wouldn't wake up when she came back with water, so sharp were her senses even in the deepest slumber, but she'd know faster than you do, when you were to play a trick on her. Not that she would complain every time.

On the way to the illuminated jurt, Gabrielle bumped into the shamaness. Hard to see in a moonless night. Without a noise, they disappeared into the tiny jurt.

»So, now, what is this really all about?«

»Shhh! They're all asleep, now,« the shamaness filled another cup, and continued to whisper quietly »It's just as I said. Most people wouldn't notice. It's a little tough on her, with her finely honed skills it is probably as subtle to her as a camel, my camel, stomping through some groundhog's living room.«

»Tough on her? I... it's ... It may be dangerous to your folks there, tomorrow!« Gabrielle got a little agitated. Revered shamaness or not, this was about her soulmate.

»Yea, I know, I should have put that differently. Have mercy, I'm a strange ol' shamaness, and I don't want to change that on my old days... Look, it's going to go away on its own. For sure. Believe me. I felt the day that you came into the camp that you, both of you really love and care for each other. That's why you're here. I was sure that you'd come back, I was just checking whether you could see the candle from the outside, because you didn't return sooner, when you bumped into me...«

»Xena woke up again; I didn't want to trouble her any more than that.«

The shamaness sat down, and Gabrielle followed, accepting the cup. »That's fine. She has to rest for tomorrow's training. The last day of the cycle?«

»Yup, she likes to do four in a row, and then rest a for day. Not that she needs it...«

The shamaness smirked, »But the men do.«

Gabrielle looked at her waiting for her to begin. As she was ready to ask by her impatient self, the shamaness took a sip from the cup, and started,

»There is a way to get that travelling soul to settle down. Funny thing to say for a nomad, isn't it? It has to be reconciled with its life, or body. Or find a way of living to get into such a state of mind, whatever trouble it is in.«

»And that would be...?«

The shamaness took another sip, »Sit back, and listen. That's what young people do here, when the old speak.« Gabrielle instantly realized, what she had only noticed unconsciously so far.

»No need to feel guilty, young lady, I wouldn't know any better in your country. The cure... ah, yes. You have to travel back with that soul. That is, we have to catch it here, don't worry, I'll notice the presence, and I'll then send you along with it.«

»Her.«

That caused the shamaness to sit up a little, »How...?«

»Xena told me just as we left. She wasn't sure, though.«

The shamaness smiled that smile only old and wise people can put up, when a puzzle of pieces of experience falls into the picture they've done a successful experienced guess about.

»Wonderful! So... she's in there in some of her dreams. She couldn't know this otherwise. Yea, it's not wonderful to her. It's annoying. Don't look at me like that, I'm trying to help. I know that stuff as well when I see it, as you know a sword from a quill. I help you to go into trance, and then this comes into action. It's a dreamcatcher.« Puzzled look, courtesy of Gabrielle, again »Yea, don't let that worry you.«

The shamaness held up a ring made out of spirally wound strips of leather on a few rounded pieces of bone. In it, there was a kind of a spider's web of the finest of woolen threads. One of them went through a tiny hole in a small whitish gemstone. On top of the ring, some fine long strips of leather continued from underneath those which made up the ring itself, and on the opposite end, several feathers were attached by similar, but much shorter strips. There was a golden pearl at the quill of each feather, and dried blossoms of corn-flowers were carefully placed into the web.

»The stone is from right underneath Polaris, the guiding star of the world, as you know. It is only found in a land, where the night lasts half a year and water turns to stone even longer. Just as it catches the movement in the water, it catches fleeting dreams and holds on to them for a blink of an eye. And that's where you come in. Or rather, I'll send you in, then. First, you have to fix this over your friend's bed, and only with or on parts of your friend's bed. Nothing strange there to distract her dreaming spirit. Got that? Then you have to get into trance... where's my ceremonial hat... ah, here,« she pulled on what seemed like antlers of a reindeer buried under the piles of stuff around, » You were in trance before?«

Gabrielle nodded, though she'd rather not fight Alti again. The shamaness collected the necessary tools of the trade from the mess around the cushions they were sitting on. Even without Xena, this was still a full place. Stuffed.

»One thing I have to ask from you, first, though. I need a token to get you back before dawn. You will most likely enter one of your descendants close in place and time, or even your reincarnation contemporary to whoever that is, we are following. Yours will be close to Xena's, and the stranger is probably close to hers, too. The threads of fate always come a bit in a bundle. Follow them. And maybe, it will take a very long time to find that soul, too long perhaps. I will follow you, a bit, at least, but your only chance of ever returning to your present self is that whoever your soul is in touches the token. For whatever reason. Before our night here is over, or Xena awakens. Only you and the soul who's body you join can see the token. It's not really there. You'll have just as little control in that person as that poor soul that visits Xena has over her, but you'll be there all the time, like a silent witness. Save your strength for when you really need it. You'll be mostly watching. And for your later, earlier, whatever self to touch the token, you'll have to chance upon mine, or at least the next akin I can enter temporarily. Find a family of straws in the steppe. Still want to go?«

Gabrielle gulped and hesitated for a moment, »Yes.«

»Let's go. I get in touch with you later... yea yea yea, just kidding.« She's really hot-blooded about her friend, the old woman thought. If looks could kill... Can't stand a professional's joke.

Back outside, Gabrielle slowly put up the dreamcatcher over Xena's head. Nothing on a bedroll can do that, so she took Xena's sword, which is always as close as her bedroll to Xena's. Should do as a part of the bed. She carefully jammed it in between some of the larger stones next to their lair and then bound the dreamcatcher on the handle. It swayed slightly in the light nocturnal winds. The shamaness nodded and pointed towards her jurt. Xena did not complain, if she'd noticed. Her breathing was very calm and regular, just with the faint trace of an etheral snoring. But... you never know. Then she took out the lamb Xena had once given to her as a solstice present from her bag and handed it over to the shamaness, together with the hourglass she still had in her coat.

They sat down in the jurt again. The shamaness started a regular drumbeat on a tiny hand-held drum, and both of them sagged ever deeper into that netherworld on the brink of times on her subdued chant. You can feel the trance creeping up inside you, but you must miss it, lest you fail to make the flight. Only without conscious realisation you can pass into the great free yonder inside yourself. All time is lost.

No way to tell how long she was gone, when suddenly Gabrielle was thrown into the world. A world. More like being pushed on her back by an irresistible force, she found herself rushing into, then through another woman's neck, sort of, her strange world opening up through a strangers eyes.

The shamaness and Gabrielle collapsed from their cushions in the jurt. They lay motionless as the candle flickered.

Digging for Soul

Katherine Brent felt a sudden push on her back. As she turned around, nobody was on the sidewalk within tens of yards. Her purse was still there, and full. Cars and taxis still continued to drive along the road that led around the park in the distance, a small portion of which could be seen across the junction. Perhaps a sudden gust of wind. Not really a surprise at this time of year, with the turbulently spinning winds in the concrete gorges of central London. Well, with the local weather, no surprise at any time of year, and even less a reason to ponder, when you have an urgent appointment with one of the leading geneticists of the country and a deadline to meet for your next book. Although the push had strangely travelled like a shockwave through her body, only stopping at her fingertips and toes. Beaverbrook House Hotel on her right was one of the few Victorian buildings that still defended the right to stand a little detached from the street, behind some greenery. It was built seemingly aeons ago when property prices allowed for this waste of space, and by some architect who'd clearly spent part of his internship at a confectioner's. Like so many other streets still running in parallel to one of the City's main arteries along Oxford Street and Bayswater Road far off in the distance, this quiet one benefitted from being wedged in somewhere between Hyde Park and St.James's Park. Katherine had just made her way from Hyde Park Corner's Underground station to the hotel in time to get into a sales promotion event of Pet Again, the company of which Dr Francis St.John Ladbroke was not only a co-founder, but also a major share holder, and the most valuable public relations asset, as he was well known from his frequent appearances on the Corporation's news and science programs. One of the New Market upstarts, their business was just as the name said, to get their estimable customers their beloved pet, again. The same pet, as they said, only younger. This was achieved by genetic cloning. All you need is a few cells, not necessarily living ones, though that made things a lot easier if not cheaper, but alltogether with a complete set of chromosomes of the organism you want to copy - Pet Again would say, you want to keep a little longer - and a couple ten grand, and about three months, plus the time the pregnancy of the respective species took. The hotel's cafe was quite full already, but Katherine decided, that she would have enough time to powder her nose. She would be two or three minutes late, but this would make sure that Dr Ladbroke noticed her. In front of the mirror, she carefully adjusted her hairstyle, as closely as possible to the condition it had before it was ravaged by the local weather. She never wore that much make-up. She didn't like to fake things, and she could afford it.

Gabrielle thought, this tent looked a tartarus of a lot like hers, in five years time or so, maybe.

Katherine frowned at the sudden thought of Mongolian settlements. Wherever that came from. Discovery Channel, probably. Her choice of clothes had drifted a little to the nonchalant side of the scale, for she'd exercised more for several years, and it had long since started to show, a bit at least, if you knew where to look. As she knew, she now preferred light blouses, combined with a thin silken scarf, and comfy trousers made of fine suiting, altogether either in a blue-and-black mix, or in lighter, natural colours, like today. At least as long as she was touring the City for interviews and research, because people tend to judge books by the cover, and therefore writers as well. Apart from sleek shoes made of exquisite leather, she happily accepted to climb down a bit on stylishness in exchange for more of the peculiar kind of meditation that comes with a good sweaty work-out. For one, because she liked it a lot, and for another... well, time to go. Time to fill in the blank pages between the covers. She pulled her light khaki coloured trenchcoat into the proper position and left for the cafe. Dr Ladbroke was just heading for the same entrance door, perfect timing.

»Oh, Ms Brent, how kind of you to attend the meeting. You'll like it a lot. This will give your work a positive edge,« he greeted her as they met at the door. Whatever that meant, she thought behind a friendly smile, as he opened the door for her. Ladbroke looked just like a seasoned university professor is supposed to look like, when he's about to apply for the next big grant at the Ministry of Education. Tall and skinny, baldening but definitely not whitening hair above a not too high forehead, with glasses that were chosen without even the slightest thought of fashion or style, his very best undyed Icelandic-... style - if you dare call it - sweater, leaving only a small opening to see the bleached white shirt and a dark tie, a well kept, but definitively nineteen-seventyish pair of brown corduroy trousers, and of course, Birkenstock's finest gracing his feet hidden by long woolen socks, probably of the same proveniece as the sweater. Understatingly expensive and overstatingly free of artificial chemistry. She wondered, whether his wife went on regular countryside shopping trips up north, to Broadford Bazzar and events the like. The room was mostly full of elderly ladies, some of which had brought their beloved and pampered dogs and cats for the occasion. Some even had thought of bringing their husbands, as well. Dr Ladbroke and Katherine herself were probably the youngest in the room by far, that is if you discounted the waiters who just had entered to take orders, and the pets, of course. Well, probably not, again, if you were counting in the sevenfold increase of dog years. Whatever, it was hard to make out who was up for an involuntary cell donation sooner. Gabrielle felt a little dizzy at the lavish candy cream style of the decoration.

That is a difference to the place she'd just been moments ago. Where she still was, somehow. Whatever.

Katherine had another Discovery Channel flashback. Mountains, grass, fresh air, a crystal clear starlit night... very tempting in this maze of senility. Focus, she reminded herself, is a very important word.

Hey, I know that, Gabrielle thought. Good idea.

The audience could have been waiting for an electric blanket sales pitch, telling by their looks. But looking at their clothes and the likely few extra zeros in their bank accounts, they definitively weren't. They probably had servants for that, as they could well afford some. Dr Ladbroke wellcomed everybody and started with his presentation, speaking from a small desk, like those provided by hotels for TV interviews as a microphone stand and to get a free plug for their logo on the small screen. This one had Pet Again's on it. The presentation was so sweet that Katherine felt she wouldn't need any sugar with her tea for the next fortnight. A very cunningly compiled collection of slides about the very basics of genetic engineering, always with a friendly looking pet on them, sentences as short and crisp as if they were written for The Sun, but with a lot more poshinese. This was the old guard listening, or their widows, at least. People who could still remember the war. The presentation was concluded by a short video, of the highest quality, nothing you'd get within a few days from a creative agency, and recorded on DVD probably, of course. Dr Ladbroke thanked everybody for their attention, and recieved a polite applause from the audience. This generation did not have to be flattened by efficient diagrams, advertisement hype and the like. Nor was it necessary to tell them that a brochure was waiting for them at the exit. They expected and politely accepted it when offered one by the hostess. One by one, the couples, human only, or human and pet, finished their cake and tea, and left the cafe, not without missing the opportunity to shake the intrepid young doctor's hand - Ladbroke was barely approaching sixty - and communicate a few words of respect and encouragement. This was also the generation who had won the war, ration cards and all. As the last group of elderly women left, the hostess started to collect the leftover brochures and packed the multimedia equipment which was carefully hidden away between some plants. Dr Ladbroke lent a hand with the bulkiest parts, but finally everything disappeared into a single small suitcase. He told the hostess to take a taxi back to the company headquarters, and then home at his expense, and finally saw her off at the cafe door.

»I'm sorry, we still have to wait for the manager to return the keys. He will be here in a few minutes. Would you like to start here with your interview, or should we wait to go to a quieter place?«

»If that's more comfortable to you, I've no other appointments for today,« Katherine replied with a reassuring smile. Nothing could be quieter than a room just left behind empty by the barely living, although those sitting on her table were very nice indeed, once you got through all the re-runs of their life's story. Really amazing what had happened to the British Empire in the last century, and how much of it was still alive and kicking. The wives and daughters of half the world's ex-administration, together with their 101 dalmatians. But now she'd accept almost every offer that would get her out of the lingering cloud of surplus wartime Eau-de-Cologne and Churchill's favourite smoke.

Ladbroke smirked, »Thank God, money doesn't smell like that.«

»Doesn't it?«

He rose, »Ah, I see, you get right down to business. Excuse me, for a minute, please. There comes the manager,« he then greeted the random looking suit-and-tie creature who entered. Apparently, he did regular business with the man, a top contender for the race to mediocrity, and therefore at the hotel.

»How about a cup of tea at my place? My wife, too, would enjoy talking to you, I'm sure, and as you probably know, she contributed a great deal to the technology used by Pet Again.«

Katherine had done her homework. Dr Esther Ladbroke had pioneered several livestock breeding techniques, and though neither of them was at the very forefront of cloning at the time, they were often called upon by the media as experts, back then. That's when they actually met, after a panel discussion at the BBC, and fell in love. Although she was over ten years younger, they were a match to make their respective in-laws proud of their own kid's achievement. Esther had also contributed most of Pet Again's start-up funds, by selling shares to her wealthy family. Now, extremely wealthy family. Because some of her relatives had been rather old at the time, it was now her company by heritage, and by the majority of shares, although she kept herself in the background, or more correctly, firmly at the helm of the research lab.

»Doctor, that would be a pleasure. I feel deeply honoured.« After teatime, she would still reach her everyday appointment at Inverness Terrace Gate, right across Hyde Park from the hotel. Well, it was not exactly an appointment, but... She knew that Ladbroke lived here somewhere, but his private adress was a closely guarded secret for fear of fundamentalist attacks. So there was plenty of time until 8:30 p.m.

They took a taxi for a short diversionary ride. Ladbroke had become careful after he had been hit by half a green-grocer's store full of vegetables over the years. Pro-lifers weren't necessarily vegetarians, apparently. To her surprise, they arrived at his place just a few corners from the hotel, less than the distance to the next Underground station. They were greeted by Esther at the door. A slender woman in her mid-forties, wearing comfortable clothes with a slightly greenish touch like her husband's. You wouldn't be surprised if she'd turn up at a RSPCA meeting, or be seen around a Greenpeace event. She wore absolutely no make-up, and no artificial colour disgraced her darkish grey hair. No chemicals to spoil the contents of test tubes. Contrary of what one might expect based on the company's value on the stock market, their flat was not luxurious. Everything was solid, durable, and expensive, to be sure, but nothing was extravagant. Right next to the dining room was a kitchen made in Germany or Sweden, judging by the name on the labels, all stainless steel. Lab culture, Katherine thought, just the way she's used to. On the other side was a study, with tons of books, the typical covers of the medical literature looked cheap in the place, though there wasn't a single book that would cross the counter under thirty quid. The table at the far end of the room was graced by a shiny new top notch Mac, nothing like Katherine's trusty ages-old iMac model. The table was laid out with Fürstenberg's latest designer tableware, called Basic Reflex. Katherine bit her lips. She'd an irresistible urge to ask whether they'd a Merc or a BMW downstairs in the garage. No, probably, it was an Audi TT. So much for the pride of British genetic engeneering, and their taste for German design. Lukewarm Britannia.

Esther entered from the kitchen, after Dr Ladbroke, Francis, that is, had led her to the table. On the tray she carried was a pot of fresh tea, not the stuff you get in tea bags, cream and sugar.

»How'd you like your tea, Ms Brent?«

»With a spot of milk, please,« Katherine wondered for a second why she'd just asked for milk, but then thought about the other Ladbroke's presentation for a second, and added, »no sugar, thank you.«

No servants here, she thought. No wonder when you're hardly at home between university lectures, research and company management. A small place is easy to run.

To her surprise, the door opened. In came a young girl, long reddish blonde hair, probably fourteen or fifteen, still in school uniform. Okay, TT is out, A8 is in, she thought. This was a surprise! The Ladbrokes had managed to keep a daughter secret, well at least secret enough, that nobody had dared to tell her.

»Hi honey, want to join us for tea?« - »No thanks, mom. Hi! I'm Alice. How are you?« The girl held out her hand.

»Fine, thanks. I'm Katherine Brent. Pleased to meet you.« and the taste for the simple, straightforward things in life continues. No fancy names in Wonderland. Francis Ladbroke was probably suffering from the St.John squeezed in between first and last name. At least, he never used it in public.

»Are you a doctor, as well?« Obviously, tea time was more of a business meeting here.

»No, I'm a writer. I'm working on a book on cloning,« this was greeted by a skeptical look. Katherine waited for a moment, and then added, »more like popular science. So I'm really not a doctor.«

The girls face lit up, »Cooool. A writer. Do you do novels or short stories as well?«

Katherine knew, she was causing a disappointment next, but she faced the truth, »Ahm, no, not really. I tried my hand on a few short stories ages ago, but I think I'm a lot better doing the popular science stuff. At least good enough to pay the rent.«

Alice's disappointment was hardly noticed. She put on a brave face. Katherine was about to ask wheter, or rather, what she was writing. That idea had instantly taken hold of her, she all of a sudden felt as if she could smell a fellow poet miles ahead, but Alice was faster to say goodbye.

»Mom, I'm at Lucille's place. We want to do some homework and later...«

Esther turned around with a little smile, »And later watch a video? Just be back in time for dinner, darling. See ya.«

The door closed behind the girl. Katherine wondered if she still got around with a Filofax or whether she already had a PDA like daddy's.

Francis Ladbroke started the conversation, »She's a bit of a dreamer, you know. She's doing fine in school, but every minute she can clip off, she'll be off watching movies, reading novels, and stuff. She and her best friend Lucille are really into that... what is it called?...«

»Fantasy. Or science-fiction.« , Esther pitched in, »a whole different world to us. But she's happy. The last of that I can remember was called 'Star Wars', I think. Or 'Trek'. The one with space ships and princesses. Or queens. I don't have a clue,« she smiled a little wryly, »but let's talk about stuff we're really comfortable with. I thought your book on BSE was quite good. Without the political part, it would have made a superb introductory book to the subject.«

Get a life, Katherine thought, Esther was closer to her age than to her husband's. Hey-ho to the ivory tower.

»It was never printed. How'd you get that?« This had caught Katherine off guard. They were the experts a publisher would ask, she thought just after the words were out, »well, how did you like the politics part, then?« Block and strike, she thought to herself.

The Ladbrokes looked at one another, their faces simultaneously lighting up »Well, don't quote us on that, but I think you were as right on the money as anyone not directly involved could possibly be, ...about one year before the scandal broke, was it?« Francis said with a wide grin. Sometimes you noticed that they were accustomed to some kind of direct questions from their students, »I'll have to kill you personally, if you tell this to anybody, but we both had a field day reading it. It was a shame the book project was quashed by your publisher. Could have saved a couple of hundred lives, and cost a few dozen careers, the right ones in both cases. Right on the money, to get into Americanisms. But I hear you got a better company this time.« This was true, after half a dozen other books on subjects as diverse as the decrepit infrastructure of the capital or the danger posed by near-earth asteroids, she had found a reliable publisher for the last three of them. But to sell an investigative book on BSE to an agricultural lobbyist's publishing house like Horse and Hound, Inc. was an act of desperate folly. You be broke, and you do it. The advance payment had saved her little flat up in the northwest of the town, and they didn't want it back, as the story was soon overrun by the unfolding events. And they thought that was a favour.

The remainder of the conversation revolved around details of the cloning process as far as non-disclosure agreements could be stretched, the motivations of Pet Again's customers, and various moral issues surrounding genetics in general. Katherine had to admit that her ivory tower prejudice was just that. The Ladbrokes not only knew what they were talking about, they also reflected on it very thoroughly. The interview was very informal, since her book was mostly written already. It was more to get a feel for the people behind the progress, and the facade of public relations and shareholder value spinning announcements.

Gabrielle was disappointed. This had led to nothing. The shamaness was right. All she had heard was too different from her world, although the moral questions seemed to be of the same kind familiar to her. Only seeing the little Alice's eyes shine on the idea of meeting a writer, a bard essentially, she thought, offered a little relief.

After a most inspiring interview, though including more off the record than on, and a very extended tea time, Katherine was accompanied downstairs by Francis Ladbroke. As they arrived at the door, he stopped. »Esther and I have decided to let somebody in, uhm, who is not part of our families or the company, to our secret. That is, if you promise to keep it until both of us have died, whatever happens. And I'm not going to joke about killing you this time, if you don't. It is a kind of a life insurance for Alice.«

»You remember you're still talking to a professional investigative journalist?« Katherine thought for a moment, and remembered the candid off the record comments during the interview, »alright, I promise to shut up, for Alice« she wondered what was so important to be entrusted to a complete stranger, »how comes that I deserve that honour?« she asked.

»Well, in the words of another author... I regret I don't quite remember who it was, 'Two or three pages suffice to convey the truth; it is passions that make books.'«

It was not often that Katherine blushed, but the doorway was fairly dark, so she got away with it, »Thank you very much, indeed... now, what am I supposed to forget for the time being?«

»We are not Alice's parents, biologically speaking.«

»Well, that's not exactly uncommon nowadays, is it?«

»Uncommon is, that neither of us is. Let me explain... Somebody might try to disinherit her after something might have happened to us, and they could very easily claim that she's been illegaly adopted, or something like that only lawyers can come up with and tell you exactly what it is all about.«

Katherine was startled.

»Who might be after your life?«

»People are greedy. Or religious fanatics. Or both. I don't care. We have been threatened more than once. Thank God, nothing ever materialized.«

»And...?«

»Do you remember the archaeologist you once interviewed for your book on science funding?«

»Sir Frederick Wilbury? Right?«

»Right, and his excavations in Greece, the ones that earned him that 'Sir'?«

»Sure, he found the Amazons of Amphipolis. That was a biggie, twenty years ago or so.« Something made her twitch at that name. She was not quite sure. Had she actually moved, or not?

»Twenty-three. By the way, there were some men in that graveyard as well, several families, probably, and that Amphipolis name is just based on legend. He never called it that way, to him it was just Site #627. I did all the genetic fingerprints, if you like, on the remains found there. They were remarkably well preserved. Well, I nicked several sets of DNA, with his consent, they were complete. I wanted to look for traces of unknown viruses and he agreed to shut up about it, as to avoid to cue in others to the general idea. A long term project with no immediate goal or process in mind. Real science, that is. Some viruses that might have caused legendary plagues, for example, they may still be out there somewhere, only resting, after all. Or as an additional dating method, you know, like a C-14 clock based on evolution. So any complete set of DNA from that time was just a Godsend. Most of the biological materials decay, even leather, and heavily modified and conserved materials, and this site was as good as it gets. Miracules happen. Now get investigative, journalist.« A few tiny droplets of sweat appeared on his forehead.

»You are not... do you? Are you trying to tell me...?« Katherine had to take a deep breath.

»I am. Alice is the younger 'Amazon', if you are fond of romantic terms. DNA-wise, only, of course. You may have noticed during your research that I had quite a reputation as a student. Womanizing, I mean.«

Katherine had. But she was not into the tabloid kind of investigative journalism, that she loathed from the depths of her heart, and she had found a perfect reason for that in her own life, a few years ago. Prejudices and false moralism can kill careers, preachers vs. presidents, witch-hunter vs. writer. And it had nothing to do with the topics of books she wanted to write.

»I can't have children. Thank God, I quit the habit before AIDS came along. Esther is fine, and so we tried it out. We are nothing but mammals, you know, that's not a bad touch. I think of it as a blessing.«

»I thought it would happen some day, but I didn't think that day was fifteen years ago. You got me, Doctor...«

»Francis. This makes you kind of part of the family. Four people know of this now, again. The former fourth died last week. Wilbury had a heart attack, as you probably have heard.«

Katherine had, Wilbury had been well over eighty. The Site #627 find was the peak of his career when he was still teaching at university. He soon retired and continued to write books on archaeology, and he continued to pester government ministers for a less 'application oriented' approach to science funding. He had been a great inspiration for her book, and a modern oracle, providing off-the-record clues to the inner workings of government and industry.

»So that makes me replacement godmother, then?«

»No obligations. Just be there in case... By the way, the auspicious date was twenty-one years ago.«

»Alice is not that old, is she?«

»No. I used another set, that of the tall woman, for a couple who we couldn't get an ordinary IVF to work for. They were very much in love, and the counselling went well, but it .. just .. didn't .. work .. out. .. It was heartbreaking. I tried it as a last resort. The egg seemed to cling on at first. But they never came back again for follow-up counselling, and moved to an unknown place soon after. So I guess that one failed, too, like most natural conceptions, even in healthy people two thirds don't get very far. Try to tell that Pro-lifers, and add the hit-and-miss quotient of sperms and you'll get more vegetables thrown in for free than you like. But it was a first. The other three know that, too.«

Gabrielle's mood had changed completely. She saw the photograph flashing through Katherine's mind, with the two skeletons, and the sword and armour on 'the tall woman', and she couldn't think of anything involving Xena that wouldn't work, whatever it was, Amphipolis was real as she knew too well, and the young girl upstairs was like a real look into the mirror. Not just from the outside, a bit from the other side, too. She took a chance to get a little help through, to her unknown little friend.

»Can I ask you something? Is Alice alright? She seems to be a happy girl.«, Katherine said as if out of a half-baked thought.

»She doesn't know. We're not sure if we'll ever tell her. And apart from her constant dreaming, she's just fine. Or with it, just as well. And as far as parents can tell, she's a happy girl. We are very lucky to have her, and we try not to push or pamper her too hard. The DNA is a blueprint, all right, but just for a body, not for a being. There's much more to it, all that you experience, all you remember and know, and, well, you are skeptical towards this, I know from your books, but I believe, there's a something like a soul too, in every living thing. Something, if you can accept that, that's by definition not measurable, but at the same time no fleeting delusion. That commands respect and care, and room for personal development, too. Like in science, you'll always be surprised. Expect the unexpected. Thank God, our customers don't realize this,« he took a second to think about how to explain it for the public, »Think of a craftsman and a toolbox. The DNA is a shopping list to compile a toolbox, but even the best toolbox doesn't make a master craftsman. Perhaps, there is a toolbox for carpenters, and one for painters. Or writers, or biochemists,« he added with a smile, »But they all look alike. You can't tell them apart, and I've been trying for decades, I tell ya.« His stressed look had changed into a very relaxed smile.

Gabrielle was happy with that, »Hey, I'll send her some of my ol' stories. As I get it, she likes fiction,« did I really say I'll send my stories? Nobody has ever read them, not even... I must be nuts, Katherine wondered.

»Thank you, I think she'll really appreciate this. As soon as your book is in print, could you send me a few copies?«

»Sure. I think you were right about the positive edge.«

»Hm?«

»What you said this afternoon, when we entered the cafe.«

»Oh, yes, yes, ...I hope so. If I can help you in any way, or you need some technical expertise for other projects, feel free to call.«

»I haven't made my mind up about my next project, but thank you anyway.«

»Oh, can I call you a taxi? I'm sorry, I got a little used to having a secretary around.«

»No, thank you. I'll take a little walk across the park, to let the impressions settle down a bit. My tube line is on the nearest station, by the way.«

»Well, then... It was a pleasure to talk with you,... Katherine.«

»Thanks. See ya, and my regards to your family.« with that, she stepped down on the sidewalk and headed off to Hyde Park. As soon as a visibly relieved Dr Ladbroke had closed the door, she accellerated her pace to the fastest that wouldn't make her sweat. She was almost running.

Gabrielle would have looked very content with herself, if she'd been in her own body. There was a trace to follow, and the threads of fate were well bundled, indeed. And she had met two fellow bards. Or perhaps even made them. That's something, at least.

Hyde and find

Katherine hurried along westward on Bayswater Road. It was twenty past eight, already. As she approached Inverness Terrace, she saw a tall figure in the distance, turning out of Queensway. Dressed in a long and rugged, anthracite coloured woolen coat, which reached down to halfway between her knees and ankles, its wide belt only tightened by a single loosely tied knot, and with her long dark hair, held in place by a thin hair-slide over her neck, she gave the impression of something very close to the brand name on her grey running shoes. Her flowing motion was accentuated strangely by the shining white, extremely wide pair of trousers, barely visible in the shadow beneath the dark coat's seam, except for the brief moment when a leg was extended all the way forward before the foot settled down on the pavement, and the grey shoes that blended in with its colour. Like the white paws of a black cat on mouse patrol.

Alexandra Wren moved with the elegance of a puma, and the style of a panther, even when she was just walking leisurely towards the place on a very busy city street where she met almost daily after work with her girlfriend for the way home, at some time around 8:30. If they didn't meet immediately there for any reason, everyone would continue homeward separately. She had spotted Katherine a minute earlier, for all the feline elegance was only a luxurious frame for the watercolour blue of her eyes, as sharp as those of a condor, and both timed their pace to arrive simultaneously at Inverness Terrace Gate, entering Hyde Park. The walk through the park was their way to release all the day's trouble before they got into the tube together at Green Park. This station offered access to three lines, all leading towards the Northern at different junctions, which was an advantage if one was delayed or service on another was halted due to mechanical problems. Writing books on, among other niceties, rotten rails didn't mean that anyone would bother to change things, at best, the management only bothered to complain to the customers about the writer. The smiles on both their faces widened, as they approached one another, and finally turned to walk through the gate together. It was always the same procedure, after all these years, and yet, it was always new.

Only, today, it seemed to be somewhat newer than usual to Katherine, and she couldn't quite take her eyes off her tall friend. Strange, different, but not bad. Not bad.

»Hi, how's your day?« , Alexandra started. She was, as always, just a little bit shy in public, despite her appearance. Before Katherine could say 'fine', a boy on rollerblades lost control and careened in towards them, coming in from Alexandra's side

»X..Al..Watch out!« Katherine yelled at her friend, but she continued to walk on stoically. Only at the very last moment, barely a second later, she moved out of the way. And this just by the very inch really absolutely necessary. Less than half a step backwards, and her left arm shadowed the stumbling boy's motion in front of her body without ever touching him, the right one moving from a protective position next to the right of her body to an almost ballerina-like pose stretched out above and slightly forward. It was as if she had just outlined the contours of a perfectly fitted imaginary tunnel, in which the skater was falling, flying or crashing through the air, with the silhouette of her body. The boy hit the ground hard, and stopped to slide within two feet from the gate's post. It would have caused a dangerous head injury had he slid any further, even with the helmet on, which he wasn't wearing anyway, but here he got away with a few hefty abrasions on his knees and elbows. Needless to say why.

»Fine, thanks...« Katherine replied puzzled. She had jumped backwards about three feet.

Alexandra finished the turning movement of her body after standing perfectly still for a second like a video on pause, and twisted suddenly as if she was only fist and muscle, to land a blow on the imaginary positon of the boy's back, just where he had hurtled past her a second earlier.

There was a way to tell if somebody was lying. If he told you, he'd just bumped into Alexandra Wren, he was. Martial arts, archery, swordsmanship - you name it, she teaches it. She's head trainer at a school she'd founded with a few other enthusiasts from college, back in the ol' days when everybody was Kung-fu fighting. And she's faster than lightning, and still accelerating.

»Don't panic, Kat... Just be lazy and get out of the way, a wee little bit. And always watch from the corners of your eyes, as well as head on,« she said as if she was talking casually about preparing a turkey for dinner.

»Yea, I remember. How could I ever forget half a word you taught me,« Katherine answered laughingly

They both turned to one another, and performed that little respectful bow with which a lesson or a fight in most kinds of martial arts starts and ends. As they both stood upright again, they burst into laughter.

A man next to them, perhaps fifty-five years old, in considerably worn greyish brown clothes, and laden with shopping bags, just caught his breath again. He stood about five feet from the path the ill-fated teenager had taken.

»'Oi ma'e, tha' was close, was 't? Goo' show, though, laydies, goo' show.« He picked up one of the bags he had lost in the turmoil, nodded politely, and continued on his way.

»Good show,« the skater groaned, as he disentangled himself from the tarmac, »Fuck off! Sucker!«

Alexandra turned around, and calmly walked a few steps closer towards him, pushing her fists into her sides as she stopped with her toes closely under his nose. She looked all the more impressive from one foot above ground, when she was towering some additional five feet higher.

»Hey, YOU .. don't .. run .. with scissors. Someone might lose an eye. And don't you .. DARE .. to use a woman as a buffer again! .. Not .. even .. your .. girlfriend! .. Got that?! I can tell all the dumb faces like yours apart, especially in the .. dark. .. Have .. I .. made .. myself .. clear on that?« With that icy agressive hiss in her voice, she could have talked a tyrannosaurus rex jumping at her from the bushes into vegetarianism before it had a chance to touch the ground again.

The boy was about to retort with another four-letter example from his minute vocabulary, when he realized that her white trousers, clearly showing beneath the coat, were not an eccentric fashion statement, but a Ju-Jutsu Gi, and that there was another black belt dangling out from underneath the coat's one. Clear enough.

Alexandra pushed her hands back deep into the huge pockets of her coat, and returned to her friend. They continued along their way across the park, as if nothing had happened.

»You think he's okay?« Katherine asked after a while

»Sure. Just a few bruises and a lesson for life. They don't do that politeness thing anymore in basic training.«

Katherine just had to giggle, »Maybe he was trying to show off... 'Hey, I bumped into Alex Wren' or something,« with that, she slowly and softly, but forcefully pushed her friends upper arm, by leaning against her side with all of her weight she could muster, and added snappishly »just like that.«

Alexandra faked a loss of balance to the other side, »Hey! Nooobody bumps into Alex Wren! Wahey!« and she returned the push.

Soon, they were ping-pong pushing one another all across the wide park way as they walked on side by side, to the bewilderment of passers by, and to their own amusement, in loud laughter.

»Hey, wait, slow down,« Katherine cautioned, as she almost tripped into some bushes »that's my good trenchcoat I'm wearing.«

»Chicken!« Alexandra called, »You just don't want to get arrested again.«

Katherine burst out with laughter, »Waah! Don't remind me of that! That was .. so .. brilliant, when you shook that officer's hand. I still get a six-pack stomach from laughing, just thinking of it.«

»See, laughing makes you beautiful, indeed. After all, it's true what it says in the tabloids.«

They continued in a more orderly fashion, and Katherine let the infamous events pass before her mind's eye.

Since they'd first met at Alexandra's school, when she had booked a self-defence training for women, their relationship had accumulated a couple of years under the belt. The colour of hers had darkened considerably over time, as she fell in love with exercise, and above all, with the best martial arts trainer there was, and soon upgraded to a full training. Alexandra had about every degree and honour there is in her trade, but being a professional writer somewhat restricted her spare time. At the time, she was finally preparing for her black belt in Ju-Jutsu. It was the art of her choice, since the rules were not that tight as the stiff choreography in other styles, and it left some more space for creativity. They had met in the Park as every day, then. Alexandra had just picked up a nice knack from a master of the trade on a tour of friendship-training sessions, and she couldn't wait to share it with her friend. They had a room at home, always ready and laid out with mats, but the lawn here was just perfect in its elasticity, after it hadn't rained for a week, or so. They were both in rugged and comfortable clothes, so why not try it out immediately? A level patch of lawn was quickly found, surrounded on three sides by bushes, and as quickly cleared of anything that might cause any harm. Not that there were any pebbles to speak of on England's favourite park grounds, but the national sport of vandalism could have left the odd smashed bottle or twisted tin can in the grass. They had warmed up a bit, and then proceeded from some easier moves, for calibration as well as additional stretching, to Alexandra's new ideas. And since they were greening their jeans anyway, the weather was perfectly cool, the air was fresh, and they were in the mood, and so on, they got a little carried away into a friendly contest. While Katherine tends to fight quietly, apart from the odd sound familiar to most people from tennis matches on TV, Alexandra really gets into multimedia, when she's going full throttle, battlecries and all. This excited the tired microphone of an old-fashioned hearing aid and, after a very short and cautious peek around the bushes, the old lady who wore it, herself. She then immediately excitedly used another newfangled contraption she'd probably gotten as a Christmas gift from her grandchildren to call the police. Right away! Because there were two raging women on the loose, trying to kill each other. Cell phones make people talk faster than they think. That's why the operators get so rich in selling them. Well, two officers assigned to this particular area arrived quickly and were given directions by the old lady. Not that they needed them, since Alexandra continued to make herself perfectly clear, out of sight behind the bushes, and neither of them was hard of hearing. They carefully approached the source of the noise, and promptly found two women rolling around like in a mad bundle of limbs on the lawn. As it happened, they were approaching, a) Alexandra, b) cheerfully carried away in her full-fledged battle mode, c) from behind her back and were d) distracted for half a second by the tidy row of four carefully arranged sports shoes with socks in them, plus a neatly folded sweatshirt on top of each pair, as the one nearer to the action said,

»This is the police. ... Would you please explain what this is all a...,«

For short, they were guilty of a deadly combination of mistakes. In the less than half the time it took to speak these solemn words, Alexandra had untied herself from the living knot in the grass, jumped up in a roll and turn backwards to stand up like an oak growing in a millisecond about three inches from the officer's nose, perfectly facing him with a winning smile, grabbed his hand as if to shake it, said »Good morning, officer!« and then turned it on his back into a position of excellent leverage, passing through below his arm in a move she'd teach early in the beginner's course of Ju-Jutsu, while giving the other confused officer standing behind a twinkling eye - thumbs up, »Did I teach you to be that sloppy?« she finally asked standing behind the first man, completely relaxed, with a dead-pan expression as thrilled as if she was watching the daisys grow. At this moment, he stopped in his introductory line, because it was too late anyway, and Alex had pushed his arm up to just below the point of pain. The other officer had already recognized her, as his very dumb face turned into a very amused dumb face.

A voice slightly subdued by the immediate threat of pain came from below, »Alexandra Wren, I presume?«

»My pleasure, officer...« with a wide grin suddenly appearing on her face, she waited for another second - »oh, sorry« - to release him from his unfavourable position. He slowly stood up again, slowly and carefully stretching his arm again.

»How about I throw in a refresh quickie, free of charge especially for the Metropolitan's best, o'course?« she added with her widest shameless smile, while Katherine and the other officer tried desperately not to burst into loud laughter. The second officer approached them, »Hey John, I wouldn't mind, as long as the uniform doesn't suffer...« John was not ready yet for being the target of jokes, and left it at a grunt. Alexandra still smiled, but with raised eyebrows, her chin slightly raised towards the approaching officer, who was definitely five years younger and much less overweight than his recovering colleague.

»Sure,« Alexandra said casually, and the younger officer was flying over her back faster than he could realize, and landed, or really, was put down right and firmly back on his feet, again. Alexandra steadied him for a second, as long as it took for his inner ear to try frantically to catch up with all the turns around each and every of three axes of space, »I'm always ready when Queen and country call me.«

The two had had enough, clearly, but they took it with dignity. And later, they came back to her school every time the Metropolitan Police offered additional training. Some way to win over fresh customers.

Their feathers were seriously ruffled, but not soiled, as requested. When they finally came out from behind the bushes, they had forgotten about adjusting their dress before leaving the arena in the green. The old lady was anxiously waiting on the nearest trail, and was seriously troubled by the sudden appearance of what seemed to her to be the legs of a Metropolitan Police force officer above the bushes. An impression that had caused her to clean her glasses thoroughly, and thereby missing three more guest appearances of standard issue police shoes in the realm of birds. The older officer took a deep breath, adjusted his uniform a little, and spoke with the most casual and reassuring voice he could muster,

»Nothing to be worried about indeed, ma'am. Just two good ol' friends of ours having some nice, healthy, clean and decent fun in this wonderful breath of spring,« saluted and turned slowly to leave the scene of disaster as quickly as the dignity of his rank allowed him. The second officer momentarily lost his balance again, but managed not to stumble, as seconds later, Katherine and Alexandra ermerged from the bushes, walking barefooted across the lawn, holding their shoes and stuff in one hand, and each other's with the other. Sweaty, Katherine's t-shirt slightly torn, with absolutely messy hair and lots of grass on their clothes, and, of course, grinning from ear to ear, they passed through between the officers and the old lady, purring in their sweetest voices,

»Hi-ii! ... Madam, ... And a nice evening to you too, gentlemen.« as they nodded politely in every direction. The old lady was never seen again, and probably you can empty the flats in her neighbourhood now, before she'll ever call the police again.

That's a good story, Gabrielle thought, I should write it down.

»That was a good story. I should write it down,« Katherine chuckled, as they turned into Green Park station, after walking in silence.

»I thought you were giggling about something, Kat,« Alexandra remarked »but nobody ever will believe that. You thinking about a change into fiction?«

That was a chance as good as any, »Hey, I did fiction, years ago, but I never put it up for print in the end.«

»Hey, you never told me, how should I ever know?« Alexandra replied, immitating the same tone.

Katherine turned around, »It's never too late to start again, is it?«

When they got on the escalator, they soon changed into the left lane to walk down faster, more out of a habit, because they weren't used to standing still and moving at the same time, as most other people apparently were. Not because they were in a hurry. The twenty-odd year old girl standing next to them was. She switched lanes without looking over her shoulder just a split second later and bumped into Katherine, who apologized, just to hear a torrent of abuse from behind. The girl had lost a few coins she was holding in her hand and bent down to pick them up under the disapproving looks of the bystanders. Then she followed behind the two, in some distance.

Gabrielle had heard that voice before, but she couldn't bring Katherine to turn around, since she was now running behind Alexandra to jump on the northbound Victoria train that was about to close the doors on her. Only now she turned around to sit down, looking back to the platform, on the seat on the opposite wall of the carriage, next to Alexandra. The doors closed, as the girl hurried onto the platform, out of breath from the short run. Gabrielle couldn't believe her eyes, well Katherine's. She couldn't either, as she looked at Alexandra to her right, and immediately back at the girl.

»Alex, do you have a twin sister?«

»No, I've got two brothers. You know that.« Alexandra replied with a frown, »Why d'ya ask?«

»Look,« Katherine nodded into the direction of the girl, who mouthed 'What the fuck?!' at her repeated stare, as the train pulled out of the station.

A young child in some folkloristic Central Asian dress walked into Alexandra's line of sight, and asked, »We band, spare some change?«, as a traditional band started to play to entertain the passengers of the train. She held an empty hat in her hand, Alexandra smiled at her.

»Too late,« Katherine said disappointedly.

Gabrielle was near desperation. This must have been the one she came all the way, or time, to look for, and she really looked sick and skinny in her dirty clothes. No wonder she wanted to leave.

»What was that?« Alexandra asked, noticing the strange expression on her friend's face.

»That girl just looked... just like you. Maybe half your age, skinny, pale, like too many cigarettes or something, just a little sick, or so. Different, and yet not different. What? Oh!« The little girl came up towards her. Alexandra was going to ask her friend, whether she had a few coins, but to her surprise found her friend reach into the empty hat the child was holding out in front of her.

Gabrielle hesitated for a moment, before she moved Katherine's hand with all her strength towards the hat. But it was now or never, she had to return. She couldn't take the chance. They probably wouldn't travel with the band for too long, after all.

Katherine wondered, why in all the world somebody hat given a toy lamb and an hourglass to the Mongolian band. How'd she know, it was Mongolian, there were more Asian peoples looking remotely alike in their traditional dresses. While wondering about this, she bent forward to take a closer look. Perhaps the child was going to sell them. She looked up, but was only met with a blank expression in the child's face. She reached out to touch the stuff inside the hat, when she was suddenly thown back by a huge bump in the rails or something.

Gabrielle had the impression of being yanked violently back from out of and through the carriage's walls. But she was holding on to her lamb and the hourglass.

Katherine recovered in a blink of an eye, but as she looked into the hat again, it was empty. She quickly checked the floor, whether anything had fallen down, but everyone was standing as if no vibration at all had occurred. She reached into her pocket and put five pounds into the child's hat. The little girl politely nodded, and smiled »Thank you.«

»Uh, I didn't know that you liked Mongolian folklore that much.« Alexandra interjected with a sly smile, wondering whether everything was still in order with her friend.

»Hm, I think I wrote too much of lately. I think I'll cool down a bit for the next few days. Maybe looking over some of my old fiction stories isn't a bad idea, after all.« With that she turned towards her tall love, and blew her a kiss, just a tiny movement in her lips, but enough for Alexandra to smile again. She then smiled, too. Whatever it was that had affected her today, Katherine somehow knew it was over, and that it was good.

The Mongolian band approached them to play an extremely improvised version of the Beatles' 'We Can Work It Out.' Alexandra thought that they ultimately would, but for the time being, even she and her friend could have sung the tune a lot better than they played it, but she decided to listen politely, as she put her arm around Katherine's shoulder. Who had payed for the party after all. Katherine let go a deep sigh, not because of the music, but of relief.

Left before

Marilyn Gamble was pissed off. Furious. Stark raving mad. About the only positive thing she had managed to do today was to pick-pocket an All-Day Travelcard for all zones from a dumb-ass tourist, instantly doubling her wealth. In instant compensation, she had promptly lost seventy-odd pence, as that shitty blonde economist in a hurry or whatever successful profession she had, ran her over on the escalator, and on top of that, she was now caught for five minutes... four minutes, as the information panel was just updated, until the next train arrived on this platform. If big brother's ever watchful eye had noticed her little redistribution of property, she'd probably be in for another attempt with the collision on the escalator. CCTV was just too good evidence not to be trusted. Just don't panic and stay where you are. The fat tourist was only going to notice after he'd photographed Buckingham Palace with his obscenely expensive camera, and wanted to return to his luxurious suite. Three minutes. And the platform is empty enough to make it easy to attract unwanted attention by a quick run to the other one.

»'Xcuuse me, ... do you know where I can change to the Northern line?«

After a short jolt of perspiration, Marilyn turned around to face a pizza sized Maple Leaf flag, red and white, hastily stitched on the top cover of a huge camouflaged backpack, and next, after a lowering her sight a little, a friendly face framed by a wild fluffy waterfall of hair on the blondest end of the scale of natural colours, spraying out towards her shoulders a little.

»Warren Street or Euston, depending on the branch you want to take,« Marilyn replied slightly annoyed, »see that black signs on the map?« she pointed to the large poster opposite the platform, showing all the stations on the line in the lighter blue that symbolized the Victoria line.

»Yea, I got that. I just want to make sure I get the right one. I'm just here today and want to get to a youth hostel in, ahm« she pulled out a small piece of paper, »Burnt Oak.«

Although she didn't know, and never would, only now the ever watchful eye of the local big brother branch finally caught up with Marilyn, as he was trying to find the Canadian backpacker, a sight to behold, he thought. He was momentarily distracted by an elderly man who collapsed near one of the ticket counters and had lost her trace while he was directing an officer and the local paramedic towards the old fool. Another incident for the 'Yet another delay that didn't happen because we are so busy watching your every step'-campaign presently filling a lot of the vacant billboards in the tube's stations. But he could take notes on that later, there was a prize draw for these reports, to be held by the advertising agency that ran the campaign later this year. There she was again, as he zoomed in. Obviously, she was given directions by the less spectacular, but taller girl. From the moment she had entered the station, he had followed her every step indeed. Regular and springy, as if she wasn't carrying that enormous backpack, and the voluminous kangaroo pack attached to the lower strap, at all. He could tell that it was heavy by the way she banked into every turn along the corridors at considerable speed. And the all-Goretex outfit as well as what was visibly moving beneath it, meant that she did carry it around a lot. What a pity, the train rolled in.

»Ahm, that's just on my way. Follow me if you can,« Marilyn half lied and boasted. The Travelcard meant that she could go wherever she liked on the network, at least for today, and there was only one station beyond Burnt Oak, which was Edgware. The train stopped, doors opened and several passengers streamed out of each one. As Marilyn started to get in, the Canadian jumped past her and secured two seats, the last unoccupied pair. Marilyn just arrived in time to help her put down the backpack. She was going to say something on the lines of 'It's only two stations,' as she got hold of one strap, and was promptly overwhelmed by the enormous weight attached to it. It felt as if she tried to stop a seriously overweight elephant from falling.

»Gosh! Are you smuggling lead?!«

The backpacker laughed up aloud, »No, just a tent and some gear for six or eight weeks on the Isle of Skye, North West Highlands, Lake District perhaps, and places. I haven't really made up my mind yet, as far as the route is concerned« , as she sat down. She had to rise her arm above her shoulders to be able to lean on top of the backpack, »I didn't introduce myself... Hi! Cynthia Annabelle Nevers,« the last name sounded French, but everything else had the typical North American twang. She opened her dark green, and slightly worn North Face raincoat a little, »Cy-Anne, for short, Cynthia to my family, but there's another one where I work,« she added with the instant openness that puzzles most Europeans when they first meet people from beyond the big pond, Marilyn included.

»Marilyn,« she answered and extended her hand, and added »Welcome to London,« as they shook hands. She skipped her last name whenever possible, though it was her mom's maiden name which she preferred from her father's 'Smith', as he had deserted her when she was ten weeks pregnant. It was just too ridiculous a combination to be taken serious.

»No offense, but I get ready to leave it as soon as possible. I don't like cities, and I'll take the six-thirty to Inverness, tomorrow morning.«

»None taken, do you do a lot of that, travelling, I mean?«

Cynthia hesitated for a moment, quite pleased by the fact that she was blissfully unknown here, »Yea, sort of...« but running the ops side of a well known company in the trade back home meant nothing here, and these were city folks, not hikers.

»Oops, Warren Street, we have to get off here, can I...«

It was no longer neccessary for Marilyn to lend a hand, since the backpack had already flown into its place as if it was weightless. Cynthia followed Marylin at what seemed to her to be quite a leisurly pace, while her City guide worked herself to sweat walking through the station to the Northern's platform. They found their way to the northbound branch, just as a train arrived for Edgware. It was emptier than the one on Victoria, and they easily found two seats as they entered. Cynthia had to duck a little to move the backpack through the doors of the older train. When Marilyn tried to help again with the backpack, she noticed the heavy army-style boots, and tough pair of camouflaged trousers, which her companion displayed proudly soon after, by stretching out her legs and placing one's heel on the other's tip. Quite relaxed, sinking a little into the seat, she read the headline item on the newspaper. It was kindly held up high, by the African-Englishman, as they would probably say in politically correct Northern America, sitting opposite to Marilyn. But not out of politeness, more like a protective shield against the exotic beast in camouflaged Goretex fur, stretching out its claws across the isle. It said:

SHOOTING IN TOOTING

One Killed, Five Injured, 42 Arrested

In Shoot-out Over Indian Vegetable Mafia

Extortion Money - Jihad Palestine Offers

Vigilante Volunteers, Says Give Us Arms,

We Keep Streets Safe - Foreigners Escape

Flat Dodging Bullets After Calling Police

A frantic call by a foreign design consultant shocked by the colour

of blood in the street alerted the police to a shooting incident in south-east

London. The call was suddenly interrupted, as the caller had to flee with his

three flat-mates in a hail of bullets, escaping through the kitchen window and

over rooftops. One soon re-called on a shaky mobile connection, to confirm

that this was real, but was interrupted again, courtesy of BT, apparently as her

phone bill was not balanced. Their whereabouts or identities are unknown,

presumably they have fled the country. Eyewitness Bangladeshi shopkeeper

and owner of Nawabganj Fruit Ingraj Bazar across the street, who would

rather not see his name in print, insisted that pork, beef and now vegetables

................all too hot to handle. A representative of the nearby Islamic Cultural

....................................declined to comment. The Ismaili Community spokes-

.......................................................consent of the Russian Orthodox priest and

...................................................................that all was not kosher in this part of

..................................................................................................................Shinto

At this point, the fold in the paper stopped her from reading on, and she turned to Marilyn, half in disbelief, and half mockingly, »Jeez! And I thought I'd gotten all over my worst prejudices of city life. I'd be running as fast and far as I could. I mean, you'd rather commit suicide than to live in...«

Marilyn collapsed, sobbing like a child, as she leaned forward, holding her face in her hands as her elbows slid into the emptiness between her knees. Cynthia, for a split second, at first thought, she was laughing her head of, but when her sobbing became quieter, and tears were streaming from her fingers, she realized, that she had somehow touched a very soft spot here. She felt that she had to find out which one it was. But Marilyn left her no time to ask or even say sorry, as the story of her life burst out of her.

How she'd been raised by her mother who hardly could feed herself after her husband had deserted her for another, because he thought she couldn't have children, and that her lawyer had recommended to withdraw an alimony claim, based on expert opinion, saying that her father wasn't the man her mother was married to, and how they tried to get along, as her mother worked as a barmaid while she was helping out as news-girl. Her school career didn't suffer much from this, but was soon ended after she slipped into the local gang life, yes, Tooting local, caught between violent videos, back street wars, petty crimes and bad company. Over time, she herself had become bad company. Despite this, she had managed mostly to stay clear of the basic evils of life, such as the police, drugs and hard liquor, but apart from the short episodes of relief offered by odd jobs, she was mostly living on fish and chips, coffee and cigarettes, the last pack of which had run out yesterday, and now she was down to what she wore, plus some four... three quid, and a Day Travelcard, as her mom had kicked her out last week, tired of co-sponsoring her so-called friends who had promptly closed their doors on her, as well, not without severely beating her up as a farewell statement. Life is tough, and the endless corridors of the Underground were heated, at least. She skipped the part on how to gain admission to that cosy place, though.

»Hey, come on. It's time to get off the train,« Cynthia finally said, after the girl's impressive CV had settled down like a lump of lead in the pit of her stomach, »There's a shower, a dinner and a bed waiting for you at the youth hostel. Don't argue, they don't have single rooms in places like that, and I get it for miles and more, anyway. There's no reason for false pride, and you know as much as I do, you need it.« With that, she carried a hunky backpack and dragged a skinny woman on the northbound platform of Burnt Oak station. She then and there resolved to make sure that the bridges to another life got burnt as well.

Childhood's end

»Hey, Alice, aunty Helen is on the phone. She asks whether you want to visit her again next summer?« Esther Ladbroke stuck her head into her daughter's room through the door left ajar.

Alice jumped up as if she was sitting on a catapult instead of her ergonomical revolving office chair. »Sure, gimme the phone... Hi-i, how are you? ... Oh, I'd love too ... Sure,... No, I don't mind the weather. ... I'd love to see some of the castles again, they are so beautiful. ... When?« she looked towards her mom, »wait, I'll ask her.«

»We'll attend a congress in Edinburgh then, and Helen could pick you up there. So we could travel together, for a change. By train? How's that?« , Esther said without waiting for the question.

Alice beamed, and returned to the wireless handset, »You get that? ... Great! ... Can you spare a day or two for Edinburgh, castles and all? ... Hmmm, hugs and kisses, auntie ... bye!« She handed back the handset to her mom, who left the room, as Alice returned to her homework, which apparently hadn't quite disappeared during the visit at her friend's place.

Esther turned into the corridor, »You know, she loves it ... Yea, I guess pretty much the whole summer break, again. ... Same procedure as every year, Helen,« she added with a chuckle, »We'll keep in touch, bye ... yea, he's standing right next to me ... sure, bye.«

Francis had waited next to the door, and asked »And..?«

»All the best from your sister, everything's okay.«

»I thought, perhaps this time she'd rather go with her friends to Ibiza, or some place with a discotheque.«

»Not Alice, she's dropped a little out of the race for mediocrity, I'm afraid,« Esther objected, not displeased at all, as they walked towards the living room.

»Incurable romantic,« Francis said as he put his arm around her, »Our little princess and her castles, wherever she got that from.«

»The grandparents.«

»Huh?«

»That's where all the other ordinary parents put the blame, I hear.«

Rumble in the bronze

The opulent fake Indian-style chandelier quivered again. It had survived thousands of these tremors, but hadn't lost its polished fake gold plating due to vibration, but to a fire in the previous location of the 24-hour grocer's. The young shop assistant was so used to this, that she didn't even look up from her astrophysics textbook. Only the slightly irritated look in the eyes of the elderly customer who stood at the counter, paying the purchases of his wife, prompted her to include one of the leaflets from the stack resting next to the cash-register with the receipt. She was increasingly amused by the fact that more and more senior citizens changed to ethnic food, that is, all kinds of food you don't get at McD's or a fish-and-chips stand. This could only please her, since her grandparents had come from Mumbai with a load of traditional recipies and connections to suppliers of the most exotic - even by their standards - ingredients. Now they were able to support the best education for all of their grandchildren, in exchange for a little help on the nightshift. All eighteen of them, they were still willing to accept challenges to prove the best of their energies and skils that most of the young, gifted and white native Brits would pass on gladly to pursue other courses with less to learn for more to earn. The man adjusted his glasses to read the leaflet. After several lines, he noticed that one of the adresses given for request of further information was identical with that of the store, except for the 'Upper Flat' line. As he had no immediate urge to apply to the Kilburn School of Martial Arts, he returned the leaflet to the others.

Twenty-five minutes later, Alexandra climbed out of the shower, drying her hair with a large bluish towel, as she walked over to her friend, who was sitting in front of her computer again, busily typing along. Both wore white fluffy bathing-gowns. Katherine, as always, had forgotten about everything as inspiration hit her, she hadn't taken the time to change into something more comfortable and had dropped the towel on her chair's back, impatiently waiting for the computer to boot up.

»I thought you were going to slow down?«

»The ideas inside are raging, and threaten to break out,« her favourite writer and sparring partner answered, with a chuckle, and without looking up, »and nothing gets me going like a good sweaty hour of meditation with you, and fresh oxygen blasting through my brain.«

»Call me when your brain needs another shake-up,« Alexandra said, ruffling her friend's hair tenderly. It was still wet from the shower, and had a fresh and clean sturdiness to it. What a development. Alexandra had to pinch herself from time to time. Years ago, when they first met, her friend could hardly trip somebody, and now she sent her humble teacher flying high with skill, precision and grace, in many ways. And never expect her to yield. Breathtaking. »What are you writing, now?«

»I think I have finally come up with a suitable epilogue for the book. Wanna take a look?«

»Sure. I just get a cup of tea, want one, too?« she asked as she poured a second already.

»Yup,« two more mouseclicks, and that funny little watch spinned its hands while the old machine and QuarkXpress struggled to bring her lines into a remotely printable shape. Alexandra put a small cup next to her friend's mousepad, while she held her giant mug, standing behind Katherine. She took a first huge gulp as she rested the other hand on her friend's shoulder. Katherine sometimes kidded her about not taking the teapot instead, to which she replied that she would gladly walk the extra mile for refills, additional exercise combined with the useful. The layout previews came up, and Katherine selected the pair of pages last but one, and leaned back. She knew that Alexandra could read 10pt comfortably on the old grayscale 21'' screen from much more than the four or five feet away she stood from it right now. She quietly enjoyed the feeling of her friend's body touching her neck. Something she always admired was her way to seemingly barely touch whatever she was forcefully throwing around. Her grip was always as strong as necessary, to be sure, but it gave the impression of just being gentle brush with a hand, as it never even came close to hurting her, so precise were her moves, that stopping an instant before the onset of pain sufficed completely. Even when they both wrestled one another to the ground, it was as if she was either just floating above or offered the comfort of a rounded sandstone covered in thick soft moss below. And she never gave up. She started to ponder about how to write that police incident story. Alice,... how would she like that. First, she needed great names for the characters. Alexandra... Alex... Sandra... Xandra... kids go for an X more than anything else... Xela... Lexa... Xara... tough one. Sounds all too artificial. Her own 'character', she giggled at the thought, was even tougher to name. Katherine... Kat... everyone who knew of Alexandra, too, knew that one, and Alice knew her full name, at least... Erin... Thera... yuck! She shook her head, and Alexandra noticed,

»What are you thinking about, my angel?«

Problem solved, Katherine thought.

The pages popped up on the monitor,

{{

... I have to confess that, having spent over a year researching this book, and having had the chance to speak to many of the shakers and movers in this industry just come of age, the experience leaves me still slightly puzzled, but just as well far more relaxed, compared to the state of mind with which I started out. I have found on my way a maze of hopes and desires, as old as mankind itself, as well as a shiny new branch of engineering, science and technology, carefully unfolding its buds and leaves to the harsh sunlight of life. We all want to hold on to the memories of our childhood, the desires of our youth, or the thoughts of our creative life. And people all through the ages have striven to conserve them by all means available to them at the time. Myths and legends not only tell tales of this, but their existence alone is proof enough for the desire to remember and leave behind.

After papyrus and parchment of the bards and poets, there came the recording and copying of sounds, first on paper, then on phonographs and their descendants, and finally stills and moving pictures. But, all of them fail to convey the full impression of a night at the opera, much less the magic in your grandchild's first steps. But the records of past deeds also inspired new generations of explorers and like-minded people to set about other roads in old accustomed ways to find new ideas or new worlds, like the Viking and Iberian sailors of the ninth and fifteenth centuries, or the space travellers of the last.

Now, it is within the grasp of human beings to, lets call it by name, copy organisms, not only bacteria, but mammals as well. And again, people find it irresistible to try and hold on to what is dear to them. As, for example, the customers of companies that offer to regenerate their beloved animal companions, as we've met them in Chapter 12. And others are inspired by the discovery of a new language, spelled only in the letters nicked from the latin alphabet, A C G T. They try their quills at short stories, like molecules for new medications, as in Chapter 8, or more recently at compilations, like the transgenic plants and animals of Chapters 9 and 10. But as of now, even daring to attempt a novel is a task beyond the realm of wildest dreams. Looking back at history, we'll once be there, looking back on the ones that remain like today we look at the legends of the ancients. In wonder and lack of understanding, but full of compassion, for we share the same physical world and still breathe the same air, and we are still as mortal.

But for now, the moralists, well known by their provenience, as described in Chapter 2, fight their ever retreating, but gruesome trench war over a chapter, that to the best of our knowledge, is not even written yet by reality, and therefore not included in this book, as it is not do deal with fiction.

Resembling priests from a time of ancient and draconian acts of god looming over the heads of mankind, and in a strange reversal of the battle over transplants from human organ donors, they claim to have absolute certainty again about a threshold, mankind cannot be allowed to cross.

Then, well over thirty years ago, they claimed it was immoral for man to 'make one out of two', when an organ taken from another human being offered a slim chance of survival for one. Taken from a donor, who sadly in most cases has still to die by accident or far rarer natural causes before being able to fulfill his solemn oath to save a life.

There is a common understanding among soldiers and warriors, as well as firefighters and medical staff, that to become a hero, you either have to die for the Greater Good, or save a life. I think, I don't have anything to add to or take away from this statement. Nor would I want to.

Nowadays, often the same self-appointed guardians of eternal truth tell us, that it is utterly wrong to 'make two out of one', as it would be the case with human cloning. But they are guilty not only of this inconsistency. They suddenly forget about the specialness they all assign to humans more or less implicitly. The soul thing. Nothing ever has pointed to the fact, that such an etheral and, by their own definition, unquantifiable being, indetectable to science, is of all ways imaginable, coded in DNA, which is a mere shopping list for complex proteins, that in their complex reactions form an organism. They are much quieter about the third pillar to found a stable being, personal experiences and impressions, something that severely shakens the concept of a determined fate, determined from above or ever since some kind of a beginning, they like so much. Experiences, which are notably different for identical twins, natural identical clones, and even Siamese twins as well. More blows to a simplistic view of the world.

In a reversal of Darwin's idea, that we are nothing but mammals, animals, living things, I have come to believe that living things are nothing but what we are. Perhaps a soul, or consciousnes are just other forces similar to gravity, which remains barely understood, much less explained to this day. Only that they increase with complexity, delicacy, refinedness or beauty, instead with the bulk amassment of baryonic matter.

Perhaps we are helplessly flung around in a system of these forces overwhelmingly dominated by godlike planets of fate, like the tiny worldlets called asteroids, you may remember from one of my earlier books, bound to crash into and be devoured by the shining giants of our Newtonian Solar System, or we are all equally light - or heavy - dust particles, stardust of other dimensions, orbiting a shiny new, warm young star in a cosy protoplanetary disk, attracted mutually by strange forces and getting in touch gently to form a cosmos of new worlds, driven by an otherworldly equivalent of gravity.

I have a gut feeling, that there is as much chaos in that mechanism, too, as there can be, plenty of space for the Freedom of Man, and that it will take far more again than another Newton to tease out the few special cases accessible to intellect from the Beauty of Nature, if you like, the solutions to the two-body problem of the soul.

Whether they or anything else exists, frankly, I don't care a bit. I couldn't even care less. But given the power of desire, that makes things happen, and human ingenuity, and above all because I cherish politeness, I would like to take this last line to say to the artificial twins, wheter you are here or to come,

Hi! Welcome to your world. Now get ready to enjoy it.

}}

Alexandra read it swiftly, but carefully, and again. Katherine noticed that she became more relaxed, as time continued.

»What do you think?«

»I like that part about your other book. Ummm... Are you a little confused with the shift button? G-words, and so on?«

»No, I don't think so,« you had to pull everything out of her, really, »...and??«

»The soul thing. And...« she bent forward to point to something on the screen, Katherine followed her fingertip, but couldn't quite find out what she was pointing at, as Alexandra yanked her out of the revolving chair by pulling her up at her knees, and lifted her up on her shoulder in half a loop. Katherine let go a shriek of surprise. As she had found herself dangling up high over her tall friends shoulder, she looked deep into her eyes, waiting for whatever came next. Expect the unexpected. Alexandra's smile widened as Katherine's feet kicked the air behind her back, then she asked,

»Go for orbit?«

The answer was a kiss.

Doubtful sound

Gabrielle had slowly recovered from her nightly adventure. She and the shamaness sat in the jurt, sipping a good night cup of tea and mare milk in disillusionment. Gabrielle had jerked back into life, and she had held onto the token, as had the shamaness before they went, who rose more slowly. They had but seen the one wandering soul's bodily home. Finally the shamaness spoke, »Let's wait and see, Gabrielle. You said that you touched her briefly. The threads of fate are always close, and they are easily deflected or twisted. Maybe, it was all that was needed. The flap of a butterfly can move a lot in this etheral realm. Why then, not a collision with you?«

»You should have heard the hurl of abuse she let go. I think we'll see her again. Let's hope for the best.«

»Get some rest. You're still shaking from the ride. Tomorrow will be another busy day,« the shamaness said as she held Gabrielle's hand reassuringly.

»Yes, I think that's all I can do for now. Good night... Oh, can I take the cup over to...?«

»Sure. See you in the morning. Hey, can I join you for the staff lesson?«

Gabrielle yawned, »'course. Be my guest.«

»Good night then.«

Gabrielle woke up as a very familiar arm stroke over her cold shoulder in not quite the typical motion, pulling back to Xena's side instead of being tenderly put down on hers. She had apparently been to tired to get all the way down under the bedroll. Half asleep, she heard several hasty sips.

»Good idea, that ice tea in the morning, thanks, Gabrielle.«

Her friend rose, while Gabrielle blinked at this new dawn's early light. Her throat was dry and the cup was presumably empty. Xena did not do small things. Gabrielle mustered all her strength to ask a favour, »Could you leave the wake-up call to the rooster, just once please?«

»Oh, Gabrielle, it's such a beautiful morning, just see the stars fading away, and I just have to say Hi to it,« her friend said bursting with energy, »and I feel like I could battle all the Titans at once. The shamaness was right, just wait and sleep.« She stretched, and put on her armor, »If the rooster's scared by the prospect of a sudden end of his career in the frying pan, he should get up earlier. It's a men's world, they say. Been there, done that, did wake. By the way, what's that thing that stuck two feathers in my eyes when I got up?«

»An eye-catcher, what else?« Gabrielle groaned, muffled from within her bedroll.

Xena covered Gabrielle, who drifted into sleep again, and whispered, »But I'll be a nice girl and go over to the boy's jurt first, and on it's far side,« her eyes bristled with wantonness »and to within one inch of its outer skin.« If there was another camp within fifty miles, they would wake up as well, as soon as the sound got there, she thought.

Mist in your hair

The two backpackers rested on top a gently rounded mountain, only covered with yellowish deep grass and enjoyed the first sunshine in three and a half weeks. It had rained more or less continuously, except for a few misty spells and several sleety snow storms. A gale force wind, gusting to storm strength, was painting undulating patterns on the tough grass with a bold brush stroke, as it was pushed flat down on the ground. Far in the east, one could see the anvils of individual thunderstorms, strung out along the cold front, racing away towards the North Sea. They had endured a flood of rain of biblical proportions just about half an hour ago, finding just a touch of shelter next to a rocky cliff. Here and now, the sky was crystal clear, with individual cumulus clouds, their base only feet above the hilltops. The weather up here changed as fast and suddenly as the northern Atlantic could brew it up. Across the glen, the clouds piled up in front of one mountain just to decay in its wake, as they did over the one they were on. High above, there were beautiful and brightly shining white lenticularis clouds, one over each massif in the distance, outlining the larger undulations of the land. The view reached from horizon to horizon, so clear and unpolluted was the air made in Greenland, that only in the farthest distance there was a bluish tinge on the silhouettes. A pureness of beauty to make grown men cry.

Marilyn was close to tears, overwhelmed by the impression. And by the starkly contrasting feeling of guilt.

»It's wonderful.« she said, lying dead tired on her backpack, looking up at the racing clouds in the sky.

»Hmmm.« Cynthia continued to look at the horizon, as she was sitting upright, her backpack not even touching the ground, her arms slung around the knees for balance.

»The hiking... I never ever did this before. Anything remotely like this. It means so much to me.«

»What's so special about this? Humans have been walking through the world in families and tribes for two million years or longer...« Cynthia's eyelids closed a little, in a drowsy way, as the wind picked up again.

»Guess so, but...«

»Welcome to the tribe. You are made for this life.« Cynthia interjected with a light-hearted giggle.

»That's a small tribe, the two of us...«

»But I've come to like it, haven't you?«

»Cy-Anne, I have to make a confession.«

Cynthia looked up from her gaze into the great blue-tinged yonder. »What?«

»When I first entered the train, I thought I could perhaps steal your camera, or something of value. Credit cards. I was going to jump and run from the train at the next station.«

»And you wait to walk through twenty-four rainy days with me to tell me that?« Cynthia replied in some amusement

»I... I don't know what to say. You are so kind to me, and... and I don't know how I could ever make amends for that. I just continue to die of shame,« she looked down between her boots.

»Easy. Accept a job. It takes perhaps two or three years of practice, but you can do it.« she looked over to Marilyn for a moment, then returned to gaze in the distance, »And for heaven's sake, pick your jaws up again. I wasn't perfectly honest either. First the camera,« she leant back a little and loosened her kangaroo pack, the one that had 'Canon' written all over it, and opened the zip fastener. It contained only a few cans and packs of freeze-dried food, stuffed with space blankets, a roll of grey tape, her medical emergency pack, and, the only optical product, compact 15x20 binoculars, »see, looking through a seeker is a waste of time when you can use your eyes and remember. Want a photograph? Send a postcard to yourself. Professionals do that a hell of a lot better. But the bag is perfect deception for ... your former self, and the like,... I guess. And I can ditch the backpack, if I get into a bad situation dangling from a cliff, or something. Second, this is what I do for a living. Not right now, but I work as a backpackers' tour guide for Neagh Trekking Tours of Lethbridge, Alberta. That's the central office. We have branch offices about everywhere people don't go all-inclusive. Like Whitehorse, Uranium City, Pond Inlet in the Canadian High Arctic, Fairbanks and Cicely, Alaska, Norilsk and Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy in Russia, Ulaanbataar in Mongolia just opened this spring, and places. I thought we could perhaps expand into the European market. So I'm here half on holiday and half scouting the terrain. That's why I have all the time in the world for you to slow me down. And, well, I kind of get around in the community, and have earned myself kind of a name by getting a bunch of city slickers out of a mess I shouldn't have gotten into in the first place. It was shitty, because they wanted to see value for money and the company was small at the time, so I took a risk, but, well it hit the media, and there you are, stuck with fame. So no credit card either. Just a little cash well distributed in all the pockets.«

»I thought that the miles and more excuse was wearing pretty thin when you got me all the gear in Inverness. Guess, everything but my naked body up here is owned by the company then, huh?«

»No, I buy my own gear,« Cynthia had to giggle, »and my body happens to own one third of the company. I take that as a yes, then,« she looked to the northwest, »there comes the first squadron of the cavalcade of showers that like to chase a storm front. We better get going. How's your muscular ache?«

»Fine as ever. What makes you think that I can do the job... or get as far as the next hut before the flood rises again?«

»One, when I first met you, you were out of breath riding on an escalator. Now, you're up to a third to almost half my speed for travelling alone. On a tough hike in the worst weather by far I've ever had around here. That's pretty close to easy tours for city slickers, in fine weather again. But you'd have to do all the navigation, provisions planning, laying depots and management while walking, too. Just takes some time to learn. Besides, I like to have locals run the branches. Two, there's not a hut, but my favourite hotel here down that slope. Some half a mile,« she pointed towards a half collapsed sign post on a trail down on the other side of the valley, about two miles away. Marilyn could clearly spot it, but hadn't the slightest idea how to find it by herself in the first place, »Can't see it right now, it's behind that green bump over there. I see by your eyes that you slowly get an idea. Shower, dinner, bed. Let's go. Still like the tribe?«

»More than ever,« Marilyn replied, waiting for somebody to wake her from the dream, as it always happens with the good ones, »and it's not that small then, after all.«

»True. Welcome, anyway.« Cynthia spoke as they saw the hotel appearing down nestled into the slope of the hill.

»How in heaven did you get the idea to... well, put up with me?«

»Well, ... I kind of had the feeling that you had set your soul out on the line,« she played with the sudden thought laughingly, »Victoria, or Northern, or both. Whichever, you won, on that day, and here's where it got you,« she spread out her arms and pirouetted around her backpack, as if spreading the beauty from the horns of plenty formed by the sleeves of her raincoat, »Who knows what might have happened, if I hadn't picked you up. It was a gut decision. I didn't think. I just did it. And once I got started, well, I would have chained you to the train to Inverness, if necessary.«

»I was so lost, I didn't want to be me anymore.« Marilyn felt the tears rising again, as she looked around, »I just don't know what to say. You saved my life, I think.«

»Ah, don't exaggerate. But I guess, we shouldn't have met a day later. Perhaps not earlier, either.« Cynthia added, slightly tired of the praises.

They continued downslope silently as the clouds to the west built up to the edge of the stratosphere, dropping their water in surprise after stumbling over the first piece of mountainous dry land since Iceland. Marilyn was in a high mood, if this had been the worst kind of weather, and a south London girl still passes as a local north of Inverness, it might work after all. Soon they arrived at the hotel.

The sign read 'Ladbroke's Inn - Hotel - Restaurant - Stables - Rent-a-Horse.'

They walked past a dozen horses on a paddock next to the stables, some local Heavy Horses, all impressive Clydesdales, each an energetic black muscular ton of sheer power, gently floating on four white feathers, and some lighter Palominos, good-natured, tenacious Californian horses, descendants of Spanish-bred Arabs and Berbers, often known as Western Horses.

One of the Clydesdales approached, as did a sturdy woman of undefineable age, but considerable weathering. Marilyn was flattened by looking at the huge Clydesdales, as Cynthia had an idea.

»You've ever been on horseback?«

»No, this is all new to me,« Marilyn answered somewhat warily.

»Well, lets take it easy. Not too many new things at once,« she turned towards the approaching woman, »Hi Helen,« they hugged each other across the fence, »I see you still got the ol' Amazon,« the giant horse approached and demanded her share of caresses.

»And she still remembers you, I think,« Helen answered with a deep Scottish accent.

»Can we stay for a few days? My friend Marilyn here would like to learn to ride a horse.«

Helen turned to her, »You don't look so convinced about that, do you?«

»Well, it's all a little new and surprising to me. I've never really been out of the City.«

»London?« , Helen asked with some disbelief, »you look healthier than that,« she added with mocking laughter, »don't panic, you don't have to start with my dear ol' battlecruiser, she's already been booked a minute ago, and for indefinite time, because our little Cy-Anne here can't wait to thunder through the glen.«

»Go on joking about my height!« a perky voice objected from underneath an agitatedly shaking maple leaf, half torn off the backpack's top, as the yarn didn't survive being sandblasted by sleet for too long, »get me whiskey in the jar and hot-pot on the table!«

»Right, let's go inside. It'll start to rain again any minute,« Helen said, looking up at the black clouds approaching, »ahm, Marilyn, my rooms are not quite like in the big city, but...«

»You have no idea what my city standards are,... were like,« Marilyn interjected happily

»I see we've got a lot to talk about around the fireplace. Never been out of town, and then get dragged across the North West Highlands right away. In that kind of weather. By Cy-Anne, of all mad hikers. You two get the best room I have...«

»They're all the same, except for the room number,« Cynthia threw in snippishly.

»Shut up! You moose-eating colonist! There's a shower, one warm shower, Cy-Anne, I'm waiting for a comment on that, available on every floor ...and I have a good beer, too, not just whiskey, and I'll hold back the easiest horse for you, Marilyn, in case anyone should venture out here tomorrow to rent one. Should keep the shock of the new small enough. Right? Don't be afraid. It's only a few things different from all the other places, out here, is it, Cy-Anne?«

The first rain mercyfully hid Marilyn's tears, as she couldn't hide them any longer, and everybody looked down on the ground, to shield the faces from the sleety squalls mixed in with the rain, as she finally managed to clear her throat enough to speak in a slightly shaky voice,

»Never mind,... really. ... Everything that's different is good.«

A short afterthoght, instead of an epilogue...

Soul Survivor was written in the long nights between Monday, February, 5^th to Thursday, February, 8^th 2001.

Server problems at my internet service providers' during the following weekend stopped me from submitting this story for several days thereafter.

On Sunday, February 11^th 2001, from 17:00UTC on, the following appeared on BBC World's World News on the publishing of the complete sequences of the human genome:

[...] But now the code is being read, we discover it's simpler than we thought. So, ironically, as our genetic foundations are revealed, many scientists are emphasizing the importance of nurture over nature. [Dr Craig Ventre of Celera Genomics:] »We think it means we're not hardwired. There's not this genetic determinism of, y'know, you are what your genes are, and nothing else. In fact, it's all the combinations that happen after the genetic code that determines who each of us are.« Genetically, we are quite similar to this worm, [a tiny nematode in microscopic view is shown] we only have three hundred more genes than a mouse. [...] Like all people, the genes in this group of children will be 99.7% identical [...]

The very same programme also contained, in broadcast order, a segment on the identification 'beyond a reasonable doubt' by DNA testing of a 'disappeared' Ukranian journalist's body found without his head, chopped off by his murderers, another segment on the restoration by technicians of the British Library of a recently found tape recording of Nelson Mandela's frequently quoted speech during the 1964 trial of ANC activists which so forcefully inspired the struggle against Apartheid and racial discrimination, and finally one on Africa Hinterland, an overland tour operator for European backpackers, set up in London by the ANC as a cover for arms smuggling to support this struggle in the 1980s.

I think it is true, that human beings are, as Douglas Adams pointed out in an interview by the BBC last year, very much geared to find patterns in the real world, even in their faintest traces.

Probably this makes it such a delight, when we actually do find them.

As I said above, ...read a book. Or just watch the news.

Miracules will happen.

J.A.

all stories, elements, designs, and other products of creativity not previously copyrighted or otherwise documented (c) J.A. 2001-2005

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