expression of concern. "Are you okay?"
The tone of his voice
made Mary wince
. It was a tone she had heard all too often lately. No matter what the words, anytime her parents asked her a question in that tone, she knew what they were really asking--was she on drugs?
"I'm fine," Mary said. "Just fine." She backed into her bedroom and closed the door.
THERE HAD TO BE A BETTER PHRASE
than jet lag. Jet lag sounded so harmless. "Oh, I'll be okay in a little while. I just have a touch of jet lag."
A Little Piece of Paper
What Tom Moore felt wasn't jet lag. This was something more like jet flu, or jet attack, or
maybe jet coma
.
For almost twenty hours he had been on a series of planes. Moscow to St. Petersburg. From there to Munich. Munich to London. And finally on to New York. By the time the small government Starcraft jet taxied onto the tarmac at JFK, Tom had to look up at the sky to tell if it was day or night. He felt like someone had beaten him on the head with a rock or drugged his coffee. Or both.
As usual, there had been men in dark suits waiting as soon as he stepped from the plane. The debriefing had gone smoothly. Tom's mission in Russia had gone reasonably well--despite a few setbacks and that botched rendezvous right before he'd left. And despite the fact that the whole trip had been overshadowed by memories of the time he had spent there in the company of his wife. The agency people weren't interested in Tom's memories. All they cared about were the dry facts. They wanted to know about the contacts he had seen and the timetable of the assignment.
Tom stayed awake long enough to accept dry congratulations on the completion of the latest mission, then fell into the backseat of a bland government-issue sedan and gave the driver directions to his latest apartment. Before the car even started to move,
Tom fell into a gray haze
.
Even in the backseat of the sedan, his mind was haunted by images of Katia. Moscow had been her home and the place where she and Tom first met. Going back there left Tom with a heavy weight of memories that clung to him like cobwebs. He wasn't even sure he wanted them to go away. Katia was gone. Memories were all Tom had.
At least he could still see his daughter, even if it did have to be at a distance. Meeting with Gaia wouldn't be safe for either of them, but Tom
had
to
see her and make sure that she was all right.
See Gaia
. That thought cheered him as he climbed out of the car and walked the last couple of blocks to his apartment.
The apartment wasn't much, just a small one-bedroom place tucked above a corner fruit stand. It was far from fancy, but it provided an adequate base for Tom--especially since he was rarely in town. When he considered some of the other places he had called home over the last few years, it was practically paradise.
The fruit stand was doing slow but steady business. Tom waved at the owners as he walked around the building and made his way up the wooden stairs along the side. Even in December the air was scented by peaches and limes from the store.
Tom was nearly asleep on his feet
, but he wasn't so tired that he didn't check the door before he went in. Before leaving, he had placed a small scrap of paper at the bottom of the door. Nothing special, just a little piece of newspaper that he had torn off and wedged against the door frame. If someone wasn't looking for it, they would never know it was there. Which was exactly what Tom was counting on. If someone had opened the door while he was away, the paper would have fallen out. He had fancier methods of detection available, but Tom was a great believer in simple methods.
He bent and inspected the door. The paper was still in its place.
Tom smiled in relief. The bed, and eight hours of solid sleep, were waiting inside.
Except.
Tom had his hand on the doorknob before something started to
tickle at his brain
. For a half a second his tired mind tried to sort out what was wrong. As he did, his
The tone of his voice
made Mary wince
. It was a tone she had heard all too often lately. No matter what the words, anytime her parents asked her a question in that tone, she knew what they were really asking--was she on drugs?
"I'm fine," Mary said. "Just fine." She backed into her bedroom and closed the door.
THERE HAD TO BE A BETTER PHRASE
than jet lag. Jet lag sounded so harmless. "Oh, I'll be okay in a little while. I just have a touch of jet lag."
A Little Piece of Paper
What Tom Moore felt wasn't jet lag. This was something more like jet flu, or jet attack, or
maybe jet coma
.
For almost twenty hours he had been on a series of planes. Moscow to St. Petersburg. From there to Munich. Munich to London. And finally on to New York. By the time the small government Starcraft jet taxied onto the tarmac at JFK, Tom had to look up at the sky to tell if it was day or night. He felt like someone had beaten him on the head with a rock or drugged his coffee. Or both.
As usual, there had been men in dark suits waiting as soon as he stepped from the plane. The debriefing had gone smoothly. Tom's mission in Russia had gone reasonably well--despite a few setbacks and that botched rendezvous right before he'd left. And despite the fact that the whole trip had been overshadowed by memories of the time he had spent there in the company of his wife. The agency people weren't interested in Tom's memories. All they cared about were the dry facts. They wanted to know about the contacts he had seen and the timetable of the assignment.
Tom stayed awake long enough to accept dry congratulations on the completion of the latest mission, then fell into the backseat of a bland government-issue sedan and gave the driver directions to his latest apartment. Before the car even started to move,
Tom fell into a gray haze
.
Even in the backseat of the sedan, his mind was haunted by images of Katia. Moscow had been her home and the place where she and Tom first met. Going back there left Tom with a heavy weight of memories that clung to him like cobwebs. He wasn't even sure he wanted them to go away. Katia was gone. Memories were all Tom had.
At least he could still see his daughter, even if it did have to be at a distance. Meeting with Gaia wouldn't be safe for either of them, but Tom
had
to
see her and make sure that she was all right.
See Gaia
. That thought cheered him as he climbed out of the car and walked the last couple of blocks to his apartment.
The apartment wasn't much, just a small one-bedroom place tucked above a corner fruit stand. It was far from fancy, but it provided an adequate base for Tom--especially since he was rarely in town. When he considered some of the other places he had called home over the last few years, it was practically paradise.
The fruit stand was doing slow but steady business. Tom waved at the owners as he walked around the building and made his way up the wooden stairs along the side. Even in December the air was scented by peaches and limes from the store.
Tom was nearly asleep on his feet
, but he wasn't so tired that he didn't check the door before he went in. Before leaving, he had placed a small scrap of paper at the bottom of the door. Nothing special, just a little piece of newspaper that he had torn off and wedged against the door frame. If someone wasn't looking for it, they would never know it was there. Which was exactly what Tom was counting on. If someone had opened the door while he was away, the paper would have fallen out. He had fancier methods of detection available, but Tom was a great believer in simple methods.
He bent and inspected the door. The paper was still in its place.
Tom smiled in relief. The bed, and eight hours of solid sleep, were waiting inside.
Except.
Tom had his hand on the doorknob before something started to
tickle at his brain
. For a half a second his tired mind tried to sort out what was wrong. As he did, his
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