Slow, flickering, as the last faint currents take hold of her. He hangs below her, drifting into the distance, almost all his skin bare to the wind. Half-healed scars across his belly, crows-feet deep around his eyes. His face at peace, lost at last in the ocean of sky.

Then she dives into the currents and rides them straight down to the water.

Splashdown, feet first, arrowlike into churning dark. Driving upwards, breaking the surface into sunlight before the water makes her new fire falter. Already back in the air, eyes sweeping the sky, reaching for any sign of him.The sky is empty.

On a sc.r.a.p of beach west of Akrotiri, the waves wash over his wings. She finds them just ash.o.r.e in the sand, twisted, half-melted. The crystal, peeks out of the shallows, its wires scattered along the sh.o.r.eline. Of his body there is no sign.

She plucks a blue silken feather and holds it close chilled now, soaked through. She stands, watching where the land, sea and air all meet.

Around her, she hears a strange fading grinding: mechanical wavecrash, a mis-blown wind. Perhaps this was all one final sleight-of-hand on his part, a last dramatic exit. Maybe he's still running from those he burned, maybe he faces them with every action in the world he's made. But whether he lives or not makes no difference; he is gone. And she is here.Slowly she lets the currents lift her; they falter and fade like a summer breeze, and she has to circle to gain alt.i.tude. No longer master of the currents, she must follow their flow, set her own course as she can within them. The summer sun warms and dries her.

Ahead there is smoke over Akrotiri, but no fire. Down there they will be trying to make sense of a world where the G.o.ds' favour can no longer be taken for granted, where neither kings nor heroes can be trusted, but both still are needed. With luck there will be mercy there; if not, she will do what she can to make it. She has fallen so far, but she's the only one who can pick the pieces back up.

She settles to land, walking alone towards the sunset. It makes her think not of endings, but of all the days to come.

AcknowledgementsThere's no reason why most of the people whose words and actions shapedthis book will notice its existence in the slightest and anyway, someone like Jimmy Carter would probably be rather more interested in his n.o.bel Peace Prize than an endnote. Still, a tip of the hat to U2 for 'Kite' which became the end credits music.

Thousands of thanks to our readers: David Carroll, Sean Corcoran, Royce Day, Rob Hood, Rachel Jacobs, Annie Marshall, Andrew Sh.e.l.lshear, Cat Sparks, Marsha Twitty, Jim Vowles, Kyla Ward, Jeff Weiss, and Matt Wolff.And infinite thanks to Lloyd Rose for reminding us.

About the AuthorsJonathan Blum and Kate Orman have been married for five years,writers for ten, and collaborators since some point in between. Together and apart, they've produced eleven novels, a couple of audio plays, one direct-to-video feature film script, and an a.s.sortment of short films and short stories. Between the two of them, they have been nominated three times for the Aurealis Award for best Australian SF novel, and once for the Ditmar Award.

They live in Sydney, Australia, with occasional returns to Washington DC. Far more can be found out about them at their website, at: www.zip.com.au/~kormanNext up Kate is working on an original SF novel, while Jon is cowriting a novel based on the Patrick McGoohan TV series The Prisoner, The Prisoner, for release in 2004 by Powys Media ( for release in 2004 by Powys Media (www.powysmedia.com).