Trenton was back at the kitchen table. With the towels up over the broken windows, the temperature had become quite bearable. They all looked at the small pile of jewelry in the center of the table. His shirtsleeves felt odd because he had put in his cufflinks. Diaz had put in small earrings, as did Tyler, and Carlson and Tyler also put in watches. Diaz refused to give up her wedding ring. Nobody talked about asking the President to chip in.

  Diaz said, “How much longer?”

  Trenton checked his watch. “Maybe ten, fifteen minutes.”

  Diaz put her hand out, stirred the collection a bit. “Ran through a lot of scenarios when I was at the Rowley Training Center, years back. This is one that sure never came up.”

  Trenton said, “When we get through this, I’m sure they’ll change the syllabus.”

  “If,” Diaz said.

  “When,” Trenton said. “We get moving, we get Harrier underground, our job is done.”

  “Then what, boss?” Diaz demanded. “Have him make a speech saying everything’s now cool? That the drones are swept from the skies? That those who sent them over here have decided to hold hands with us and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

  “Not our job,” Carlson said sharply. “Way above our pay grade.”

  “Maybe it shouldn’t be.”

  Trenton said, “What’s on your mind, Diaz?”

  She defiantly looked at Carlson and then Trenton. “We’re pledged and vowed to protect the Man, whoever he or she is. Fine. But what if the Man isn’t worth it? We in this detail, we’ve seen how he operates, how he treats people, how he dumped us into this mess. Now I’m supposed to get killed, leave my kids without a mom, just like that? With everything falling apart? You and Carlson, you’re swinging bachelors, you don’t care, but—”

  Trenton said, “Forget it.”

  Diaz said, “What I’m saying is—”

  “Forget it.”

  She paused, and said, “What, you planning to pull a Tim McCarthy? The guy who took a bullet for Reagan back in ’81? Gonna catch an air-to-ground drone missile with your teeth?”

  “I’m doing my job,” he said. “And so will you, and everyone else.”

  Trenton stared at Diaz, wondered what she would say next, when Carlson spoke up.

  “Something’s coming up the road.”

  Trenton called out, “Tyler! Down here now!”

  They clustered together at the doorway. Trenton saw a vehicle moving slowly, parking lights on, gingerly moving toward the cottage.

  “Tyler, you cover me,” he said. “If you see me rub the back of my head, you’ll know it’s trouble. If shooting breaks out, then you’ll really know it’s trouble. Diaz and Carlson, go upstairs, help Harrier out of bed. If there’s shooting, get him out, head into the woods.”

  “And do what?” Diaz asked.

  “Your job.”

  * * *

  Trenton took a deep breath, walked outside, the air crisp and cold, the moonlight illuminating everything pretty well, especially with his night vision the way it was. He took his time. The vehicle looked to be an Oldsmobile, rusting, dented. A beater car.

  Definitely not a county police cruiser.

  He waited.

  The Oldsmobile rolled to a stop.

  Engine grumbling.

  The driver’s door opened up. The dome light had been disabled. Smart.

  A familiar voice from the car. “You the guy who called about section twelve?”

  Sweet relief flooded through him like a warm, comforting spring.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “Then move your ass,” she said.

  “Best thing I’ve heard all day,” Trenton said. “Come on in, we’ll settle up.”

  * * *

  The woman was in her fifties, heavyset, black wool cap on her blond hair, wearing a brown down jacket, blue jeans, and work boots. The parka was unzipped, revealing a shoulder holster containing a semiautomatic pistol. Trenton took her to the kitchen table and she scooped up the jewelry without saying a word. Tyler went back upstairs, shotgun still in hand. Diaz and Carlson stayed behind.

  “I was surprised to see your car,” Trenton said. “I was expecting a cruiser. All your cruisers out on calls?”

  She shook her head. “No, they’re all in the county garage. They’ve got too many chips and GPS tracking devices in them to use safely. Besides, I learned my lesson when I was a kid.”

  Carlson said, “What lesson was that?”

  The woman rubbed her hands together. “From the TV footage when Katrina hit New Orleans. Most of the city was cut off. Rumors, mass chaos, shootings. There was a news reporter standing on a bridge next to a dead body. New Orleans police cruiser came by, the reporter flagged him down, and he asked the cop to do something about the dead guy. The cop sped away.” She shrugged. “That wasn’t going to happen to me, by God. If I drove here in a county cruiser, wouldn’t have gotten more than a half mile before being stopped by people looking for help. These days, you’re on your own, sorry to say that.”

  “Give us a minute or two, we’ll be ready to go,” Trenton said.

  She raised her head like she was trying to peer through the plaster ceiling. “So, the President, he’s really up there?”

  Trenton ignored her question, started thinking about things. “Wait here. We’ll be back. Diaz, come with me. Carlson, stay behind.”

  He went up to the bedroom, with Diaz close behind, and Tyler was there, shotgun leaning against a bureau. Candles on the bureau gave off a flickering light. “Sir,” Tyler called out. “Time to go. We really need to move.”

  Diaz helped her pull the covers off, and the President’s wrinkled dark blue suit was revealed, along with muddy black shoes. He had on a white shirt with no necktie. He coughed and coughed, and he seemed to have aged even more since Trenton had last seen him.

  Tyler said, “Sir, let us help you up.”

  The President extended an arm and Tyler started pulling him off the bed. Trenton stepped forward, grabbed a cold hand, started to help as well, and the President’s shirtsleeve and coat slipped up his wrist. Trenton spotted something on the wrist. A splotch?

  A small scar?

  Oh, no.

  Shit, no.

  Trenton said, “Diaz. Get over here. Right away.”

  Diaz came over. The President looked up at him.

  He asked, “Sir, please, have you been chipped?”

  “Eh?”

  “Has a chip, a tracking device, been inserted in your wrist?”

  The President looked confused. “I … I don’t think so. I mean, some months ago I received some routine booster shots.… I thought it was odd that one went into my wrist.…”

  Diaz said, “Oh, shit.”

  “Check it out,” Trenton said.

  Diaz said, “Excuse me, sir.” She took his wrist, pulled the shirtsleeve up further, gently stroking and manipulating his skin. She paused, looked up, her face stunned, and Trenton didn’t have to ask the question.

  Tyler said, “You have got to be shitting me. And we didn’t know?”

  Bitterness in her voice, Diaz said, “Need-to-know. Even though we’re in the PPD, somebody thought we didn’t have the need to know. And those who did have the need to know are probably all dead now.”

  Tyler said, voice shaking, “All this goddamn time we’ve been dumping vehicles, weapons, and our own chips to protect Harrier, and it turns out he’s been merrily transmitting all along. Christ on a crutch.”

  “Take it out,” Trenton said. “Now.”

  Diaz said, “Damn it, somebody could be tracking him even as we’re sitting here. We can be dead in seconds.”

  Tyler said, “What, you want to run away?”

  “It’s a thought,” Diaz said angrily. “We were never told that POTUS was chipped. We’ve been betrayed. Why should we repay that betrayal?”

  The President coughed and coughed some more, his breathing ragged.

  Trenton saw it all slipping away. “Chances are, his chip is high up the encryption ladder. Unlike our vehicles and our own chips. His chip hasn’t been hacked or detected yet. Diaz, grab your gear. Then cut the chip out.”

  Diaz flashed her eyes at him, stood up, went downstairs, feet sounding heavy on the wooden steps.

  Tyler looked over. “You think she’s coming back?”

  “If not, you’ve just been promoted.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Harrier’s voice was weak. “Is … is something wrong?”

  Footsteps back up the stairs. Trenton briefly closed his eyes in relief.

  “Sir,” Diaz said, coming up to him on the bed, black case in her hand. “I’m so sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

  * * *

  Some minutes later, the President had stopped sobbing and was helped to his feet. Diaz took the small propane torch out of the bag and Trenton said, “Hold on.” He reached over, scooped up the bloody gauze with the President’s chip in the middle.

  “What the hell are you doing? I was about to scorch that.”

  “Another minute or two won’t make a difference.”

  “The hell it won’t.”

  “And debating will only make it worse. Get a move on.”

  He and Diaz worked to get the President down the stairs. Tyler went ahead, shotgun in hand. In the kitchen the woman whistled and said, “By God, it is him.”

  “Shut up,” Trenton said. “Let’s get going.”

  “Where to?” the woman asked.

  “Mount Spencer,” Trenton said. “A government facility is located there.”

  The woman laughed. “Only thing at that mountain is a farm with high fences around it, belonging to the Department of Agriculture.”

  “The President likes potatoes,” Trenton said. “Outside.”

  He and Carlson each held one of the President’s arms, helped maneuver him up the snowy walkway to the car. He turned once to Trenton and said, “One of the last, aren’t you. One of the last.”

  Trenton didn’t say anything.

  They put him in the rear and the woman went to the driver’s seat, and Diaz said, “Not to be ungrateful or anything, but we have a number problem here. There’s four of us and only room for three more.”

  Carlson said, “For Christ’s sake, we could all squeeze in.”

  Tyler said, “She’s right, that’s a problem. We pack the car, we’re going to be conspicuous, going to be slow.”

  “Got it covered,” Trenton said, breathing in the sharp air, still hearing the thrum of deadly motors overhead in the darkness. “I’m staying behind.”

  Carlson said, “Doesn’t make sense. I’m low man here and you’re head of the detail. You’ve got to go.”

  “No, I’m staying.”

  Diaz said, “You thinking of pulling a Jenkins?”

  “No,” Trenton said. “I’m staying behind, but I need you to do one thing before you leave.” He held out his arm, and with his other hand held out the gauze containing the President’s chip.

  “You’re going to put the President’s chip in my wrist.”

  * * *

  After he slapped down the discussion and comments, Trenton said, “We don’t have time. These chips either have a radioactive source or some thermodynamic process from the body that powers them. I’m not a goddamn scientist. I’m a Secret Service special agent, trying to protect my charge. If we torch his chip, then some hacker might figure this was the last place Harrier was, and decide to hit any moving vehicle in the area. If we leave it behind, it might run out of power because it’s left his body, with the same result. A hacker will then hit a moving vehicle in the area. Either way, the best chance to get Harrier to safety is for me to stay behind. With his chip in me.”

  Tyler and Carlson both tried to say something but Diaz talked to the driver, retrieved a flashlight and her black bag, and in a few minutes, the job was done on the hood of the Oldsmobile.

  So many things on his mind, Trenton hardly even felt it.

  With her bag packed away, Trenton said to Diaz, “You’re now senior officer. Do your job. Get the President to safety.”

  The driver’s flashlight was on, allowing Trenton to see tears in the woman’s eyes. “You can count on me.”

  Trenton lied to her. “Never had any doubt.”

  * * *

  With everyone gone, Trenton felt so very alone. He only stayed in the cottage for a few minutes before he decided to leave. The unknown family who deserted this cottage had provided him, his detail, and Harrier with a place of safety. He wouldn’t repay the favor by staying inside as a target.

  He walked out through the snow, hands in his coat pockets, now noticing the incessant throbbing in his wrist. In his mind’s eye he saw the crowded Oldsmobile move slowly and safely away, heading up to the FEMA retreat center that pretended to be a farm.

  Trenton stopped a few yards out on the frozen lake, looked up again at the hard stars. Memories came to him, especially those bull sessions that always popped up when your job was done and the drinking began. There was always a little game that was played, about who you were, how tough you were, what kind of agent you’d turn out to be if and when the shooting started.

  Would you be Lancer’s driver, the guy driving JFK’s limousine in Dallas, or would you be McCarthy, Rawhide’s agent in DC back in ’81?

  Poor Lancer’s driver. When he heard Lee Harvey Oswald’s first shot, the story was that he thought it was a firecracker. A fucking firecracker. How history would have changed if he had put the pedal to the metal, or swung the steering wheel hard left and then hard right, spoiling Oswald’s aim for follow-up shots.

  And there was McCarthy. First shot fired by Hinckley, he didn’t think it was a firecracker. He spun around, splayed his arms and legs to make a big target, and he took one for Reagan, aka Rawhide. The starfish position, it was called.

  He stamped his feet. Checked his watch. Give them an hour, at least, to get up to the mountain.

  At least an hour.

  He smiled to himself, looked up at the moving lights and shadows and stars, held his arms out wide, and waited.

  The Promise of Space

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  Sometimes getting back together with your ex is harder than at other times … and a lot stranger!

  James Patrick Kelly made his first sale in 1975 and since has gone on to become one of the most respected and popular writers to enter the field. Although Kelly has had some success with novels, especially with Wildlife, he has perhaps had more impact to date as a writer of short fiction, with stories such as “Solstice,” “The Prisoner of Chillon,” “Glass Cloud,” “Mr. Boy,” “Pogrom,” “Home Front,” “Undone,” and “Bernardo’s House,” and is often ranked among the best short story writers in the business. His story “Think Like a Dinosaur” won him a Hugo Award in 1996, as did his story “1016 to 1,” in 2000. Kelly’s first solo novel, the mostly ignored Planet of Whispers, came out in 1984. It was followed by Freedom Beach, a mosaic novel written in collaboration with John Kessel, and then by another solo novel, Look Into the Sun, as well as a chapbook novella Burn. His short work has been collected in Think Like a Dinosaur and Strange But Not a Stranger. His most recent books are a series of anthologies coedited with John Kessel: Feeling Very Strange: The Slipstream Anthology, The Secret History of Science Fiction, Digital Rapture: The Singularity Anthology, Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology, and Nebula Awards Showcase 2012. Kelly was born in Minneola, New York, and now lives with his family in Nottingham, New Hampshire. He has a Web site at www.JimKelly.net, and reviews Internet-related matters for Asimov’s Science Fiction.

  CAPTURE 06/15/2051, KERWIN HOSPITAL ICU, 09:12:32

  … and my writer pals used to tease that I married Captain Kirk.

  A clarification, please? Are you referring to William Shatner, who died in 2023? Or is this Chris Pine, who was cast in the early remakes? It appears he has retired. Perhaps you mean the new one? Jools Bear?

  No, you. Kirk Anderson. People used to call you that, remember? First man to set foot on Phobos? Pilot on the Mars landing team? Captain Kirk.

  I do not understand. Clearly I participated in those missions since they are on the record. But I was never captain of anything.

  A joke, Andy. They were teasing you. It’s why you hated your first name.

  Noted. Go on.

  No, this is impossible. I feel like I’m talking to an intelligent fucking database, not my husband. I don’t know where to begin with you.

  Please, Zoe. I cannot do this without you. Go on.

  Okay, okay, but do me a favor? Use some contractions, will you? Contractions are your friends.

  Noted.

  Do you know when we met?

  I haven’t yet had the chance to review that capture. We were married in 2043. Presumably we met before that?

  Not much before. Where were you on Saturday, May 17, 2042? Check your captures.

  The capture shows that I flew from Spaceways headquarters at Spaceport America to the LaGuardia Hub in New York and spent the day in Manhattan at the Metropolitan Museum. That night I gave the keynote address at the Nebula Awards banquet in the Crown Plaza Hotel but my caps were disengaged. The Nebula is awarded each year by the World Science Fiction Writers.…

  I was nominated that year for best livebook, Shadows on the Sun. You came up to me at the reception, said you were a fan. That you had all five of my Sidewise series in your earstone when you launched for Mars that first time. You joked you had a thing for Nacky Martinez. I was thrilled and flattered. After all, you were top of the main menu, one of the six hero marsnauts. Things I’d only imagined, you’d actually done. And you’d read my work and you were flirting with me and, holy shit, you were Captain Kirk. When people—friends, famous writers—tried to break into our conversation, they just bounced off us. Nobody remembers who won what award that night, but lots of people still talk about how we locked in.

  I just looked it up. You lost that Nebula.

  Yeah. Thanks for reminding me.

  You had on a hat.

  A hat? Okay. But I always wore hats back then. It was a way to stand out, part of my brand—for all the good it did me. My hair was a three-act tragedy anyway, so I wore a lot of hats.

  This one was a bowler hat. It was blue—midnight blue. With a powder blue band. Thin, I remember the hatband was very thin.