Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand; a book review

If I’d attempted to read Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand (Stars) when it was first published (1984), I would have undoubtedly thrown it across the room in frustration (I probably would have made it through the lengthy prologue, but the meat of the novel would have strained my patience to the breaking point). Thankfully, I’m a much different reader now than I was then: it is a brilliant novel, but it’s certainly not for everyone (one review I read declared that the title was the only enjoyable part of the book). Stars was Samuel R. Delany’s final major work of science fiction, possibly due to disagreements with his publisher, Bantam, after they declined to publish the final volume of his Return to Nevèrÿon saga (Mr. Delany still writes fiction, and is currently a professor of English and Creative Writing at Temple University). Stars is literate science fiction written by a science fiction author, as opposed to a science fiction novel written by a literate author.

I’ve read other books by Delany (Empire Star, Babel-17, Triton, Dhalgren, and Tales of Nevèrÿon, as well as his short stories in Aye, and Gomorrah) and enjoyed them, but Stars is a mature, literate work that has aged better than others; it is wonderfully written, and the immersion in alien worlds and culture is unlike anything else I’ve encountered (the Nevèrÿon saga — allegorical sword and sorcery— is somewhat comparable, but I found it more pedantic). Stars is filled with themes, including: cultural and social diversity as a function of hierarchical structure, gender, technology, the role of information on civilization, and sexuality (sex is a significant theme: if you’re prudish, or homophobic, you’d best give this book a pass).

Delany did a wonderful job with gender; sometimes it’s difficult, or impossible, to identify the sex of a character. All characters are referred to as she (her, woman, and womankind are also used) unless the person is sexually interesting to the narrator, Marq Dyeth, who would then refer to the character as him or he. The terms male and female are used, but they are often insignificant to Marq, who is a male from an affluent family, and is attracted to certain other males (in particular, those with bitten, dirty fingernails, a Delany trope). Fairly deep into the story, Marq meets an underprivileged male, Rat Korga (first introduced in the novel’s prologue), who is Marq’s ideal erotic partner (how and why they meet is an important plot-point). Rat Korga was a slave on the planet Rhyonon, and he was the sole survivor when Rhyonon was destroyed (presumably by cultural fugue, which occurs when a civilization’s culture and technology spiral out of control).

It is a dense book, filled with  ponderings and descriptive prose: the plot doesn’t move along quickly, but the patient reader is rewarded by the prose and the story’s construction (as an interesting aside, Delany uses subscripts to denote the relative importance of job-related words: Marq Dyeth’s vocation₁ is as a industrial diplomat₁ between star systems, but when he returns to his family home he is a docent₂ for visiting dignitaries; apparently, the subscript convention is based on an aspect of Alfred Korzybski’s theory of general semantics (see the style section in this Wikipedia article for more information).

Delany had originally planned the story as a diptych, but the second book, The Splendor And Misery Of Bodies, Of Cities was never completed (Delany’s motivation died due to two events: he and his partner (Frank Romeo) broke-up, and the AIDS epic began, which impelled him to work on Nevèrÿon). Delany completed 150 pages of the draft for the second book in the diptych; however, because of conflicting priorities, he suspects that he will never finish it); nevertheless, as a work of fiction, Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand, is able to stand on its own.

I didn’t find Stars too demanding, but I suppose some readers might find it dry and interminable: the novel is certainly not plot driven. Perhaps it is one of those novels that demand an acquired taste (a bit of postmodern between the covers), but I recommend it to readers who enjoy challenging, literary science fiction.

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An August Sunset

When I stepped outside last night, the sun was just about to disappear; sunlight was radiating through the clouds, which fanned the sun’s rays across the sky. I took a few quick pictures; the one below was the best, although a picture never quite seems to capture the aura and awe of the moment

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The Dieppe Raid Uncovered

On August 19, 1942, over six-thousand Allied-forces infantrymen (primarily Canadian, supported by the Royal Navy and Royal Air Force) endeavored to penetrate the German stronghold at the port of Dieppe, via a stone beach along the northern coast of France. The Operation was a complete disaster; within six hours, sixty-percent of the attacking infantrymen were dead, injured, or captured. Nine-hundred and seven Canadians died in the aborted raid.

Until recently, it was unclear why the Allied forces had followed through with the Dieppe Raid, which was a poorly planned assault. But a military historian, David O’Keefe, sifted through top-secret, British military documents until he discovered an answer that is like the plot of a spy novel, which makes sense, because Ian Fleming — WW II British Intelligence Officer and author of the James Bond books — was involved.

When O’Keefe confronted British Navel authorities with his evidence, they acknowledged that he had discovered the truth.

The Dieppe Raid was initiated as a diversion for a pinch operation; the raid provided cover for a commando unit’s infiltration into German Naval headquarters (intelligence indicated it was in Dieppe’s Hôtel Moderne) and to board specific boats within the inner harbor: the ultimate goal of the mission was to ‘appropriate’ German code-books and a code-machine. Ian Fleming was the head of the commando unit.

To me, that seems like a lot of lives to use as a diversion, but hopefully this will provide solace and meaning for survivors. The Dieppe Raid was poorly planned and doomed to fail: the troops arrived late, and the planned cover of darkness had dissipated.

A documentary of the Dieppe Raid, based on the evidence that O’Keefe uncovered, has been created; the documentary, Dieppe Uncovered, will be aired on History Television on Sunday, August 19 (the seventieth anniversary of the raid).

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The Olympics, social media, and an unselfish act

 I can’t believe how much communication technology has changed in my lifetime (I have fears of becoming the poor old guy who can’t work the newfangled whatchamacallit): with this year’s Olympics, smart phones provided a palpable, real-time experience. And we can post and tweet to our hearts content, and the world can answer back. We can know how an athlete feels almost immediately after the event. We no longer have to sit down, glued to the TV; we don’t even have to be at a computer, we can check our phones for instant updates and streaming: instant gratification, the opiate of the masses.

Sociolympics 2012 was a buzz of information: the Twitterverse was awash with messages; so much so, that newsworthy stories were replaced in rapid succession, making Andy Warhol’s ‘fifteen minutes of fame’ statement seem like an overestimate.

And sports has become a big business. When I was young (up until I stumbled out of my teens), the Olympics was truly inspirational to me; I was a competitive swimmer, and I dreamed of competing in the event some day (alas, my only claim to fame was losing regularly to people who medaled in Olympic events). Perhaps my eyes were dazzled with the inexperience of youth and I have become jaded, but my youthful dreams seem part of another lifetime; a simpler time, when the media coverage was focused solely on athletic endeavors, and not so much on winning. To be fair, winning was always a big deal; however, for me, the symbolic rings have been tarnished in the years since I dreamed of participating in the Olympics.

But every time my negativity reared its ugly head, a feel-good story would appear in the social media and wash away any traces of pessimism.

And, after the Olympics was over and done with, one final story rippled through the social media network. The story will fade away, to be replaced by other news, but it will stick with me for a while; it was an unselfish, empathic act by a ten-year old boy.

The 4×100 meter relay is one of the premier track and field races of the Olympics; an exciting, prestigious event. The Jamaican team won gold, the American’s the silver, and Trinidad & Tobago took the bronze. The Canadian team had crossed the finish line in third place (an exciting moment for Canadian fans), but they were disqualified because Jared Connaughton stepped out of his lane. And this is where the ten-year old boy from Paradise Newfoundland, Elijah Porter, enters the picture.

Elijah was watching and saw the replays of the Canadian runner step on/over the line: Elijah thought it was unfair that it cost the team the bronze, and he sent a letter, along with his Timbits soccer medal, to the team; and in particular, he wanted Jared Connaughton to feel better. Justyn Warner, a member of the Canadian relay team, tweeted about the unselfish act; and, at least in Canada, the news spread like wildfire (picture of Elijah Porter ).

When asked why he’d sent the letter, Elijah said, “When I saw that he touched the line, I thought, ‘Why are rules like that?’ Even though it’s unchangeable, I thought I could make him feel better by sending him a letter, and sending him my own medal.”

Nicki Power, a Tim Hortons spokeswoman (for those not in-the-know, Tim Hortons is a Canadian donut and coffee shrine), said the company will replace his Timbits soccer medal, and also offer him a Tim Hortons 21-speed mountain bike as a reward for his altruism.

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The Selfish Gene, a book review

Richard Dawkins became famous due to the success of The Selfish Gene (1976), which is now a classic popular science book. Its main theme is that natural selection develops at the gene level, not at the level of the individual. In fact, he goes as far as to say that “…we, and all other animals, are machines created by our genes.” [p. 2]. The replicators (the genes within DNA) developed longevity, fecundity, and high-fidelity, and  they drive the robotic machines.

The ‘selfish’ aspect of Dawkin’s thesis is meant in a metaphoric sense: genes are not consciously selfish, but it would appear as though they are to an outside observer. And, indeed, Dawkins points out that altruism is a required element for the continuance of the replicator (Dawkins biggest hurdle with many critics was the term selfish; in retrospect, he admits — in the introduction to the 30^th anniversary edition — that The Immortal Gene may have served him better as a title).

Later in the book, Dawkins explains that the evolution of the brain has created beings that are able to rise above the control of the ‘selfish gene’, and he coins another term for beings that have attained this level of evolution: the selfish meme.

Dawkins is a persuasive writer and he builds his case well by using scientific examples in layman’s language, but at times his tautologies feel top heavy, as if they were built on an invisible foundation (a certain behavior must be due to selfish genes because all behavior is due to selfish genes).

There are some fascinating facts sprinkled throughout the book and there is an abundance of food for thought, but I cringed when Dawkins began to philosophize (he admits he is not a philosopher, yet this does not stop him from moralizing); in particular, I found his diatribes against religion off-putting. I’m not going to spend time here arguing for (or against) religion, but I think Dawkins could have let his thesis stand on its own (he should have made his points and moved on) without attacking a belief system that is not truly disprovable; after all, Dawkins’ theory is really just another belief system.

If you plan to read the book I would recommend acquiring at least the second edition (updated with corrections and extra material, including excellent Endnotes), which enriches the reading experience.

The Selfish Gene is an enjoyable read, with a few sections I had to slog through, and some unfortunate sections I could have done without, but it was intellectually stimulating.

Recommended.

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The Caddis Fly Larvae

I spent a great deal of my childhood hiking through the rainforest on the side of Grouse Mountain. In particular, my friends and I explored the areas around Mackay Creek, a small stream that burbled over a rocky bed. The creek was filled with small trout, crayfish, and caddis fly larvae (apparently a sure sign of pollution-free water: we often drank the cold, clear water in cupped hands with no noticeable deleterious effects). About a decade ago I visited my old stomping grounds and I was so distressed with the loss of habitat to the burgeoning suburbia that I haven’t been back since; fortunately, my memories are, for the most part, intact.

Remarkably, the caddis fly larvae left one of the greatest impressions on my memory. I didn’t know what the creatures were at the time (I had no idea they were a larval form of a flying creature: to me they were aquatic bugs), but they fascinated me, and it was the caddis fly larvae, I think, that helped spark my life-long interest in biology (and, now that I think about it, the time I spent peering into the crystal water — long after my friends had gone home — was possibly my initiation into meditation).

There are over a thousand species of caddis fly in North America, and the Pacific Northwest is home to nearly two-hundred, but there is a particular species that attracted my attention.

Caddis fly adults are nocturnal and look like small moths with long antennae and silken hair on their wings; but they are not moths, they are in the Order Trichoptera (from the Greek for hair and wings). The adults are a favored snack of trout and are commonly used as models for fly-fishers. The caddis fly’s adult life is brief, just long enough for reproduction. Some adult female species deposit their eggs on the surface of the water and others dive underwater to lay their eggs.

As I mentioned, it was the larvae stage that fascinated me as a boy. A caddis fly larva is a long, segmented creature: its head and six legs are packed into its anterior end and two grasping hooks are situated at the posterior end.

Some larva species live like underwater spiders, spinning webs as a home and as a means to gather food, but most species build homes around their bodies. The habitats are constructed from various materials; some use slivers of wood, tree needles, or grains of sand, but there is a small group of species that uses miniature stones to create a cylindrical structure (the larvae secret a cementing chemical and laboriously build a house of pebbles around themselves), and it is this variety — two or three centimeters long (about an inch) and about a half-centimeter in diameter — that caught my attention while wading in and around Mackay Creek.

Using the grasping hooks at their anterior end, they hold fast to rocks in the stream and maneuver about using their six legs. I studied the creatures and, though they were all obviously quite similar in structure, each home was composed of tiny pebbles that were unique in color, size and shape. I tried to imagine each tiny creature choosing pebble fragments as they flowed downstream within reach: the creature would presumably grasp a stone, turn and spin it this way and that, and then mysteriously fasten the stone to the outside of its body (perhaps they forage for construction material and assemble their homes in an area of the creek that has no current, but I preferred the image of creatures plucking boulder-sized (to them) rocks from the stream’s current). I suppose the construction is instinctual, like a spider’s web, but it baffled my young mind.

At a glance they appeared to be sessile creatures, but I watched long enough to observe them as they crawled across small boulders in the middle of the current. I marveled at their tenacity: their petite black heads could be observed bobbing out the top of their homes, and their dark legs moved slowly and carefully across the rock surface: it appeared as though the legs helped anchor the larva for motility in the current. The cylindrical structures waggled in the current, but I never saw one lose its grip (I tested their resolve by plucking some of the creatures off of their boulder: they held on tenaciously, but I was able to tear them off. I tried to place them back on the boulder, but they had retracted their legs, probably fearing the worst. I have no idea whether I had injured them; I hope not).

Apparently, the larvae writhe inside their home, which enables oxygenated water to flow through fissures in the pebble-structure and along the gills that are located on the creature’s abdomens.

Before pupating in late summer, the larva attaches itself to a rock and seals its casing; within two weeks an adult emerges from the pupal enclosure, makes its way to the water-surface and searches for a mate in order to continue its genetic heritage by contributing to the succeeding generation.

I’m almost curious enough to go back to Mackay Creek and check for larvae, but I think my memory will suffice.

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Work after vacation

I attempted to extract the joy out of each moment of my final day before going back to work; but I’d been staying up much later than I usually do, so I attempted to adjust my bedtime to a more reasonable hour; unfortunately, I couldn’t sleep and was restless into the early morning. When the alarm woke me I smacked the whiny thing onto the floor; thankfully, the batteries spilled out and the dreadful cacophony ceased. I went back to sleep, but woke up in a panic: I felt like I’d overslept for hours, but it had only been a few minutes.

The world was oddly distorted through my half-opened, puffy eyes, but I managed to perform my morning ablutions and dress myself without falling down.

I pretended to read the paper; finally, after I’d finished a cup of coffee, the black marks on newsprint transformed into pseudo-meaningful messages (the only thing I really cared about was the yellow orb on the front page (which indicated that I wouldn’t require an umbrella) but the patio drapes were opened and — in case a passer-by peered in — I wanted to look the part of a morning person).

One of our cats was drinking out of the water dish on the patio, so I got up to let it in, but then I noticed it was a skunk, so I turned abruptly and went to the kitchen, where I toasted a bagel for breakfast (the lid on the cream cheese container put up a fight and the butter was too hard, so I consumed the bagel unadorned). I then made a Spartan lunch (banana, cheese sandwich (pre-sliced havarti on multigrain bread: I wasn’t going to revisit the butter or cream cheese experience), and two cookies (after all, I deserved a treat)).

I grabbed my keys, cell-phone and garage door opener, but I couldn’t find my wallet. After an exhaustive search of at least two minutes I found it on the dining-room table (it had been hiding behind a novel).  I was pleased to notice my shoes almost immediately: they were under the dining-room table; unfortunately, my depth perception hadn’t kicked-in and I smacked my head on the table as I bobbed down to recover the shoes. That hurt, but it had the encouraging side-effect of waking me slightly.

The drive to work was uneventful (although I can’t speak for anybody who may have crossed paths with me). I eased into my usual, shady parking spot, but couldn’t find my parking pass: and then I remembered that I hadn’t renewed my pass for the month; instead, I’d decided to park on the street and enjoy a twenty-minute morning walk the rest of the way (the $100 a month savings was somewhat less appealing at that moment). I re-started the car and drove to the closest free-parking spot.  The twenty-minute walk was refreshing and, even though I was going to be slightly late to work, the day finally seemed to be heading in a pleasant direction.

But when I got to work a curse may have escaped my lips.

A little background is necessary here. I work in a restricted area, which, from the outside, looks like a minimum security prison: nine-foot high chain-link fence all around. To gain access, an electronic access-card is required: my card gets me in the first door, then through the front gate and another door, then into the building where I work (my card also allows me access to other restricted areas, but that wasn’t of immediate concern). It’s virtually impossible to get in the front gate without a card: the gate will only allow one person at a time to enter (it may be possible to ‘tailgate’ another person through the gate, but you’d have to be extremely agile and squeeze flat against your co-conspirator; and, even if another person would allow you to ‘tailgate’ (perhaps a hunched-over piggyback maneuver would suffice), an alarm would sound and the area is monitored by security cameras, so unless you want to gain access for illegal means, it’s really not worth the effort).

I keep my access-card in the locked glove compartment of my car (probably against site-policy, but that way I can’t forget it at home), so I walked back to the car to get it. As I was opening the car door, my memory began to function: during my holidays I’d taken everything out of the car and had the interior detailed. After looking in the glove compartment (the access card wasn’t there, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure), I decided to walk back to work and try phoning security.

Security asked me a bunch of questions on the phone and then they met me at the front gate and asked more questions and asked for my ID. I was beginning to fear a cavity search was imminent, but they finally let me in and granted me a temporary access-card (I should mention that I start work earlier than most: my job involves a maintenance/support role, and it’s handy if I arrive early. There were no co-workers available to vouch for me: the Company’s product is extremely time-sensitive and anyone at work at that time would be very busy).

Once I got to my desk I started my computer; even though everyone had known I was away on vacation, over five hundred e-mail messages were waiting for me, many of which I could delete without reading, but I hadn’t finished slogging through them before lunchtime. The afternoon dragged; my lack of sleep was causing a brain-fog, and as the end of the day approached I began to dread the walk through the afternoon heat to my car, which would surely be like an oven when I crawled into it.

I like to feel like I’ve accomplished something useful after a day’s work, but I completed nothing significant all day; nonetheless, when it was finally time to go home, I was at least happy to have survived my first day back.

When I was leaving at the end of the day a coworker said, “Did you know that your shirt is inside-out?”

Retirement can’t come soon enough.

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Greenland; the world’s largest island

I was looking at a map the other day and noticed Greenland, which appeared as little more than a white-colored land-mass. I was fairly sure there were Inuit residents and there was some Norse history, and I imagined a lot of ice and snow, maybe mountains and some polar bears; instead of guessing, I did a little bit of research:

In pre-historic times Greenland was populated with the Saqaqq people (a Paleo-Eskimo culture). Around 800 BC the Saqqaq were supplanted by the Dorset, who lasted until the Thule (closely related to the Inuit) migrated from the North American Arctic mainland about 900 AD, before the first Norsemen arrived. According to legend, Erik the Red was banished from Iceland and found the rumored land to the north-west, which he and his extended family settled and called Grœnland (Greenland is so named, I assume, because  the Norsemen landed on the southern shore, in a sub-arctic region).

A Norwegian priest, Hans Eged, arranged an expedition to Greenland in 1721, which marked the beginning of colonialism. In 1953 the people of Greenland became Danish citizens, with a home-rule government and two representatives within Danish Parliament (the Folketing). Currently, approximately eighty percent of Greenland’s population is Inuit and the rest are Danish.

Greenland, the world’s largest island (with the world’s largest park), is located where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Arctic Ocean, and the island’s arctic climate is generated by relentlessly cold ocean currents and chill emanations from the inland ice cap.

Greenland’s ice cap contains ten percent of the Earth’s fresh water, covers eighty-five percent of the Island’s land area; and, at its center, the ice can build to a thickness of 3 km (almost ten thousand feet). If Greenland’s ice cap completely melted, the Earth’s oceans would rise by seven meters (twenty-three feet). The ice caps are forbidding to most species, but the island is home to diverse varieties of flora and fauna (these plants and animals live in a delicate niche and are highly vulnerable to global warming).

There are sub-arctic regions within the confines of Greenland (at the island’s southernmost tip and within the interior fjords) and it is in these locations where the most plentiful flora is found. But the mountain regions are home to vegetation similar to various plants in Northern Scandinavia, and in arid, inland regions the vegetation is similar to certain species in central North American mountains.

Hunting — recreational and as a fundamental food-source — is ingrained in Greenland’s culture, and whaling was, at one time, a major industry. Depletion of resources (in particular, the right whale population) has resulted in a steep decline in the whaling business. The narwhal and the walrus have also been over-hunted — for their tusks — and their populations are now predominantly located in the north and east coastal regions.

Most of Greenland’s two-hundred and twenty-odd avifauna species are migratory, but the island is home to about sixty species of breeding birds. There are a number of resident land animals, including musk-ox, reindeer, Arctic fox, polar-bear, Arctic hare, Arctic wolf, collared lemming, and ermine. And, aside from the many (~ 300) species of fish, the marine species that populate the coastal waters include hooded seals, grey seals, walruses, and whales.

Whale-watching is a popular eco-tourism option because the waters surrounding Greenland are home to abundant species: fin, blue, humpback, narwhal, white, lesser rorquals, sperm, and pilot.

Some other popular activities are snowmobiling, skiing (pristine cross-country trails, some alpine, and heliskiing), fishing (in particular, river-fishing for Greenlandic char, and ice-fishing for halibut), kayaking, hiking, and perusing cultural museums and exhibitions.

Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the Northern Lights.

Autumn in Greenland showcases the extraordinary sights of the Aurora Borealis, but the summer months provide poor viewing; during the summer, beyond the Arctic Circle, daylight lasts around the clock and the Aurora Borealis light-show is projected on the bright sky of the midnight sun.

[Image found at theguardian]

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The redundant male

The Selfish Gene, by Richard Dawkins,  is an intriguing, popular-science book; as I was crawling my way through it yesterday, I came across a brief blurb concerning the female greenfly; a species that can produce asexually:

“Female greenflies can bear live, fatherless, female offspring, each one containing all the genes of its mother … … an embryo in the mother’s ‘womb’ may have an even smaller embryo inside her own womb. So a female greenfly may give birth to a daughter and a grand-daughter simultaneously, both of them being equivalent to her own identical twins…” (from Chapter 3; Immortal coils, p. 43 in the 30^th anniversary issue).

For any and all ultra-feminists out there, you may want to delve into a book cited by Dawkins (in his excellent Endnotes, on p. 275): The Redundant Male, by Jeremy Cherfas and John Gribbin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Rifts in the Stream V; Agent Fujara

“What seets thou else

In the dark backward abysm of time?“

William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Act 1, Scene 2)

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Tashi Fujara was stunning; and she knew it: she had wrapped her Amazonian body in an immaculate, tailored, slate-grey suit (which displayed, without flaunting, her attributes), and she walked on sensible, but exorbitant, shoes. Her hair had been recently coiffed short, with copper highlights, which accented the sienna flecks in her grey eyes. She didn’t wear make-up.

She surveyed the crime-scene quickly, walked through the parking lot, and stopped beside her partner, Marvin (actually little more than an executive assistant), who handed her a file that contained a newspaper proof for the New Vancouver morning edition. She read it quickly and crossed out imprudent information (she harbored  suspicions that Marvin included careless details to annoy her):

There was a multiple-homicide in an extensive warehouse district in New Vancouver last night. Investigators are sifting through the remains; the victims were shot, and their faces obliterated, before a purposely set fire destroyed any useful evidence.

So far, none of the bodies have been identified (neither finger-prints, nor dental records matched records of missing persons, known criminals, or et cetera). The warehouse district opened into a colossal, underground complex; a warren of living quarters and laboratories.

This was the kind of puzzle Tashi savored. She was determined to make rapid progress before the CIA caught-wind. They would eventually assume control and assign her an adjunct role — the CIA, like most American institutions, assumed superiority over foreign matters, and they treated CSIS Officers like feeble-minded cousins. But she’d worry about the CIA later; for now, her main concern was the locals: the policewoman was going to be uncommonly difficult. Inspector Hornbeam seemed competent, but she’d get in the way. Tashi had read the Inspector’s file on the flight from Ottawa. Hornbeam’s superiors were  complimentary, but Tashi read between the lines: Hornbeam had a tendency to defy her superiors; she must be good, because she’d never been officially reprimanded.

Tashi leveled her gaze at the Inspector and said, “Could I have a word with you?”

The Inspector followed Tashi away from the others.

“So, Hornbeam—”

“Aradny. Friends call me Rad. I suppose I should call you Tash? I read your file too.”

“I see,” Tashi replied. “It seems we understand each other, Hornbeam”

“Yes; I believe your right, Tash.”

Tashi smiled: “It’s possible that I could learn to tolerate you; unfortunately, as of now, you’re removed from the case. I anticipate complete cooperation.”

Inspector Hornbeam gazed into Special Agent Fujara’s eyes, turned around, and sauntered toward the warehouse.

“God damn it!” Tashi said. “For Christ sake! Hornbeam! Stop right there or — so help me — I’ll shoot you in the God-damn back!”

The Inspector stopped, turned back around, and said, “Bullshit. Your best bet would be to accept my assistance until I’m dragged away kicking and screaming; and, even then, I’ll stick my business up your ass until it hurts. This is my town, Fujara: don’t forget it! You need connections.”

“Okay, Hornbeam. Until I get my team up to speed, I’ll pretend you’re important.”

Aradny snapped her right hand up, palm toward herself, fingers splayed toward the sky: “Fine,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tashi asked, pointing at the fingers of Aradny’s hand: “Is it some kind of local sign-slang?”

Aradny smiled, rearranged her hand so that only the middle finger pointed up, and said, “It’s a bouquet of these.”

Tashi heard muffled laughter from the group of Special Ops men behind her: she spun around quickly, but the laughter stopped abruptly, and all agents were surprisingly busy.

Tashi turned back to Aradny, who was wearing an accommodating smile: “I really hate to repeat myself,” the Inspector said, “but I prefer to be called Aradny. What could I help you with?”

Oh, for Christ sake, Tashi thought; I’m surrounded by imbeciles; and, as an added bonus, I have to deal with a bloated ego. She sighed: “Fine,” she said; “let’s make our way into the depths of the warehouse. You never know: some day I may even be glad I met you.”

The Inspector’s smile grew brighter: “And I look forward to working with you too, Fujara.”

They descended six flights of stairs and pushed through a door to a sterile hallway. They split up; Tashi went to the left, Aradny to the right.

Tashi walked past six doors: three on each side, which offered a view into flame-induced disaster; the eighth door was ajar — she pushed it open and walked in.

Some sort of electronics had been suspended from the ceiling, but only a tangled mess of wiring remained. A block of equipment had also been removed from the floor, beneath the wires.

The room was seamless, wall-to-wall stainless steel; clinical, except for the half-dozen dead bodies that littered the floor. Two of them were naked, the rest were in various stages of dress. Five females and one male; their faces had been obliterated by gun-shots, at close range.  The victims were young and in excellent shape, and none wore socks or shoes. Two of the victims matched victim one — from the parking lot — too closely. Two other victims were also of a type. The hairs on the back of Tashi’s neck stood up. She smiled.

She left the room and continued down the hallway. Only one other room had escaped the fire: there were eight people in the room’s vestibule; five males and three females. Again, Tashi noticed phenotypic similarities. As in the other room, the victim’s faces were obscured by bullet-wounds.

She searched further inside the twisting hallways of the room and discovered a woman who didn’t harmonize with the other victims; she was middle-aged, and clothed in a lab-jacket over scrubs. She had been wearing comfortable, soft-soled shoes. Her body’s posture looked unnatural; possibly due to how she fell when shot, but something looked odd.

Outwardly, Tashi remained calm, but her curiosity was aroused as never before. She’d dreamed of the day when a scene would dumfound her. She called back the photographers and had them take dozens of additional close-up and odd-angle shots (they were not a happy bunch, but knew better than to complain).

Tashi met Aradny at the stairwell, where they exchanged information; their observations had been similar. They examined many more levels, but both were satisfied with their original survey. They returned to the parking lot.

Aradny smiled at Tashi and said, “I suppose you’re Tech-Team is on their way: I’m going to grab some sleep — be back in the morning.” Then she turned to walked away.

Tashi called after her: “Hornbeam! I’ll search you before you go.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes,” Tashi replied, and checked Aradny carefully before waving her away.

“Power is transitory,” Aradny said.

“And yet,” Tashi said, “I think you’ll find it very difficult to return to the crime-scene tomorrow. Here, have my superior’s card, in case you want someone to complain to.”

Aradny’s efficient, rhythmic steps echoed off of the warehouse walls.

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