"We have identified her as Elise Kim, one of the head biologists. She is the only human alive who can access this machine."

"Couldn't we send another chronman back to grab and synthesize a sample of her DNA?"

"We've already tried that," Sourn replied. "The sequencer requires a full-body DNA scan to authorize. We need the temporal anomaly, and we need her alive. Therefore, aborting the project is no longer an option."

Kuo had a sinking feeling in her stomach. This information effectively locked her into completion or total failure. "I understand, sir. I could use another thousand Valta troopers."

"We are resource-constrained as it is, Kuo. The war with the Radicati goes poorly. Make do with what you have. It should be more than enough."

"Could you at least follow up with ChronoCom again? The situation is desperate."

"I will see what I can do." Sourn sighed. "I am disappointed in you, Senior Securitate. This will reflect on your review."

"My apologies, sir," she replied. "I will not let you down."

"You already have, Kuo. This was supposed to be an easy project. The cost overrun has become criminal. How could you have failed so utterly, Securitate?"

"The savages have proven resilient, Liaison."

"Enough excuses!" Sourn snapped.

Kuo felt her chest tighten. "I will see this project to fruition, sir."

"For your sake, you had better. Remember, the fate of humanity depends on your success. Stop fucking up." Sourn downed the last of the vodka and slammed the glass on the desk. He activated his environmental suit; the liaison had an aversion to Earth's environment. "Have my ship ready. I'm getting off this tainted planet as soon as possible. Don't even think you ever will until you finish this project."

Kuo's eyes lingered on the door as Sourn slammed it shut behind him. This project had become an unmitigated disaster. Sourn had made it perfectly clear that her career within Valta was now at risk. Frustration bubbled from deep inside. These savages were not going to be the end of her. Kuo was going to complete this project if she had to kill every single last wastelander savage on this island.

FORTY-TWO.

WITHDRAWAL.

It was five days into James's Elise-imposed rehab and lockdown, and he was in hell. No, "hell" wasn't an adequate word for it. James had been through hell before. He had survived the excruciating training at the Academy, fought his way through hundreds of jumps into terrible times in the past, and had seen many of the few friends he had in his life perish one by one. Each of those afflictions had torn a piece of his soul apart, scarring him terribly, but none of that pain and suffering came close to the misery he experienced right now.

For the first time in nearly two decades, he was denying his body alcohol. Or more accurately, Elise and the rest of the Elfreth were denying it, and he hated them all for it. His tremors began two days after his last drink. At first, it was a familiar sensation, the slight shakes and feelings of anxiousness. It wasn't something he couldn't handle. He had dealt with it to varying degrees for years.

It hit him hard right before dawn of the fifth day. He had woken in a cold sweat. His body ached all over, though he wasn't sure if it was from the withdrawal or from that constant pain that had plagued him ever since his last jump. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, then nearly fell over. It was uncommon for him to have gone this long without a drink. In most of those cases, he had been focused on other matters, either on a salvage or some mission. Busy hands and a working mind helped keep the edge at bay. If push came to shove, he had discovered a little trick early on: that just a few small sips while on jobs kept the shakes down.

This wasn't the case now as he lay trapped in his room completely dry. He had all the time in the world on his hands and he felt every single second as he lay in a cold sweat. James's body screamed all over as if he had been beaten and tortured. He tasted blood on his lips, having chewed them while he slept. He rolled out of bed and staggered to the mirror on the wall, courtesy of Elise, who had it brought up yesterday.

"Good way to self-reflect," she said.

James saw his gaunt reflection and the redness in his eyes. He touched his trembling hands to his cheeks and noticed how badly they shook. Ashamed of what he had become and terrified that these awful sensations were only going to get worse, he looked away.

He ran his hands along his chest and pressed them hard against his body, trying to will them to stay steady. His fingers itched, and no matter how much he rubbed them together, it was as if he couldn't quite satiate an itching sensation that was just out of reach. It was too much. James let out a snarl like a wild animal, giving into the pressure building inside him, begging for a release. He wanted to claw and scratch his fingernails along the walls to distract his nerves from the pain twisting inside his body.

James screamed at the top of his lungs, feeling the energy release. It felt good, briefly. A minute later, the sensation returned just as badly as before. James let loose in cries of misery until all the air had escaped his body and his head felt light. By now, his throat ached, and it hurt to breathe. He collapsed, weak, and the shakes returned. He sweated profusely, his body flashing hot, cold, and then hot again. He got back to bed and under his covers, shivering until his teeth rattling was the only noise he could hear.

Sometime in between all that-he was too busy suffering to notice when-some people came into his room. They were blurry figures, standing close by, observing but not making any moves to help. He wasn't sure if they were actually there. Could they be more hallucinations, figments of his diseased mind?

At one point, though, one of the figures approached him and laid a warm, damp rag on his forehead. "Elder," a young woman said. "Be at peace."

"Bria?" James asked, his voice barely a whisper. He recognized her only after several attempts, her wild mangy hair wrapped around her forehead coming into focus, a style of the Flatirons, something many of the Elfreth women had adopted. Beside her were Hory and Laurel, both looking worried and uneasy. They looked at him as if he were laying on his deathbed. "What are you three doing here?" he asked.

"We stand watch at the stairwell entrance, Elder," Laurel said.

A punishment. Another slight. These were his people, his wards, and now they were forced to be his wardens. He took a few deep breaths and sat up. He looked out the window and noticed that his sheets were soaked and realized it was still dark out. How could it not be morning yet? How could time be moving so abyss-damn slow? All those terrible moments he had just experienced, the tremors, pains, and sweats: Had time slowed to a crawl just to torture him, forcing him to experience every excruciating, painful second?

He tried to crack a joke. "Did the entire crew get shafted with having to watch over me? I'm sorry to have to put you through this."

They exchanged looks. "Elder," Hory said, "all of us, the flyguards, we demanded to watch over you. Oldest Elise had forbidden it, saying you wielded too much influence over us and that we were too close to you. She said that we would cave in to your demands."

"We told her it was because we were close to you that we would not," Bria said, dabbing him once more on the forehead. She wet the towel in a warm basin next to her. "Chawr would not accept their answer when they said no. We took our place at the door and forbid others from entering."

Laurel nodded. "As far as we're concerned, this is flyguard business."

For a second, the itching and shakes stopped as James looked back and forth among his three young wards. He honestly hadn't realized how much they cared. As far as he was concerned, they had just wanted to learn about ships and engineering, and he needed their labor. It was a fair trade, which was how things were at ChronoCom. "Thank you," he said simply.

"Don't thank us yet." Hory grinned. "We should get back to our posts. Is there anything we can get you?"

"Water." What James really wanted to ask for was whiskey. "Something to eat."

"I'll bring you breakfast once the kitchen rises," Laurel said. "We'll be right outside if you need us."

The flyguards left the room and closed the door behind them. He heard the click of the lock, and then he was alone. James forced himself to get out of bed and dragged himself to the balcony. The sweat on his body made the night feel even colder than it was. A blast of wind from below swirled the mist around him. It was strange to him that no matter how strong the air currents were, they never seemed to be able to push the fog away from the island. He inhaled and felt the coolness enter his lungs. It stung and shivered his body, but it momentarily calmed the craving eating away inside him. He took a few more deep breaths, bent over the banister of the balcony, and heaved. His insides seized and cramped as he suddenly felt like he was having a heart attack.

"Help," James moaned, turning toward the door. It seemed so far away. The booming in his chest felt like it was rocking the entire building as he got onto all fours and crawled his way to the exit. Leaning on the door for support, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. He banged on the door.

"I need help," he said, louder this time.

Immediately the door opened and he saw Bria and Laurel looking worried just outside. "Are you all right?" Bria asked.

"Listen carefully," he said. "This isn't working. I know you all mean well but I've been drinking for twenty years. Quitting like this isn't healthy. I'm going to die. Please, you're my wards. Get me just a little. Weaning my body off is the right thing to do. Just a little, a drop."

Laurel shook his head. "I'm sorry, Elder. Oldest Franwil and Elise said-"

"I know what they said!" James growled. He caught himself before his agitation got the best of him and reigned it in. He wasn't going to get what he wanted by being an asshole. "I'm just saying: I know my body. I just need a little to balance myself out. I feel like I'm having a heart attack right now."

Laurel began to close the door. "I'm sorry, Elder."

James blocked the door from shutting with his feet and grabbed Laurel's wrist. "I'm serious. I'm in a lot of pain here." The young man froze and tried to pull his arm back. James held on to it and stared intently at him. "I'm not fucking around. Just a little and I'll be fine."

Bria put one hand on James's shoulder and the other on his wrist. "Just a little," she said soothingly. She gently pulled his hand off of Laurel's arm. "Laurel, get the flask. The one behind the shelf. Just make sure Chawr and the rest of the guys don't see you."

"Thank you," James said, never meaning it so much in his life. He relaxed and leaned against the door frame. Just the very thought of knowing a few drops were going to touch his lips physically helped his body calm down. His eyes didn't rest until he saw Laurel turn to go. He shifted his attention to Bria, trying as hard as he could to appear casual and collected. "I'm going to need you flyguards to keep me up to date on what's going on with the Elfreth and the fight. I know you're all looking out for me, but the sooner I get back to the fight, the better. You know that, right?"

"Of course, Elder." Bria told him of the past few days he had been holed up. The Manhattan forces had really taken it to the Co-op, hitting them hard and taking several of their scouts and outposts captive. The Co-op was unprepared for a coordinated and organized enemy and was, for the first time, retreating. The Manhattans were losing three to one, but that couldn't be helped. The monitors were so much better armed and trained than any of them, and the Valta troopers even more so. Regardless, they were finally chalking up victories, no matter how Pyrrhic they were.

"I'm proud of..." James's voice trailed off when Chawr and the rest of the flyguards walked into the room.

"I'm sorry," Bria said quietly and stepped away.

"Elder," Chawr said, hands raised. "We've sent for Dr. Titus. Go back into your residence."

"I trusted you..." James began to see red.

They were looking out for him. A small voice repeated it over and over again. Smitt appeared next to Chawr and shook his head. "Don't do it, my friend. Listen to that voice."

"You punks are trying to kill me," he snarled. "Get out of my way. I know where you ingrates stashed it."

Chawr shook his head. "We're dry, Elder. Oldest Elise spoke with us and we threw the rest away."

The thought of not having any within reach pushed James into a panic. He charged out the door, only to be surrounded by all six flyguards as they grabbed his arm and restrained him. They were children, though, all in their teens or early twenties. He threw them aside as if they were no more than nuisances, pushing them onto the floor, using his experience and skill to pull them off balance. That small voice in him was begging him not to hurt any of them, and he tried to listen, but he was slowly losing his sanity.

The flyguards continued to fight him, redoubling their efforts and throwing themselves at him every step of the way. Slowly, James tired. It had been two days since he'd eaten, and the shakes had taken a toll on him. He looked on in panic as they, step by step, pulled him farther from the door. A few moments later, he was back in his residence. And then pushed onto his bed. He thrashed as they piled on top of him, but it was futile.

"I'll..." James saw Chawr's puffy right eye. James must have struck him. It would be a beautiful black eye by tomorrow. He stopped struggling. "... I'm sorry."

They held on to him for several more minutes until Titus, huffing and puffing, walked into the room. The old man, face thunderous, scowled as he saw the pile of flyguards sitting on top of him.

"Do you know what flaming time it is right now, you junkie?" he said. "Couldn't you have an episode at a more godly hour, you inconsiderate ass?"

Smitt appeared over Titus's shoulder. "That was pretty inconsiderate, James."

The old man looked him over and felt his chest. "I'm surprised your heart hasn't burst out of your ribs and run laps around the room." He chuckled. "You, boy, run to the infirmary and tell them I want a beta blocker and benzodiazepine." He saw the blank look on Dox's face. "Oh, never mind. Fetch one of their healers." He looked at James. "Get some restraining straps, too. Just in case."

"You're not tying me..." James tried to scream.

Titus pulled out a rag and stuffed it into James's mouth. "You talk too much. It's still going to get worse, so here's the deal. You're my flaming patient now. I'll tie you down if you act up. I have terrible bedside manner, chronman, so don't piss me off. Are you going to behave?"

James nodded. He knew when he had lost. He tried to say something through the rag.

Titus pulled it out. "What's that?"

"I'm calm now. I'm sorry." He'd had to say that a lot recently.

"I'm sure you are, James." Titus grinned. "In fact, I'm going to move up here for a few days. You, girl, go to my room and pack some of my clothes and my bedsheets. And get a bunch of my pillows too. You two boys go move a bed to a nearby room. One that's heated and clean, damn it. I'm going to stay here with this junkie tonight, but it'll be a cold day on Venus if I'm going to let you interrupt my sleep. I'm an old man."

James sighed. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse. "Can you at least tell them to get off of me?"

Titus shook his head. "Not until the boy gets back here with the restraints."

"But you said you'd only use them if I acted up."

"I changed my mind. When you become a Grand Juror, you're allowed to do stuff like that."

"Listen, you grouchy old bastard, there's no way in hell you're tying me up for the next few weeks!"

Titus stuffed the rag back into James's mouth.

FORTY-THREE.

FAMILY.

Levin was surprised James didn't meet him at the landing deck. The former chronman was usually waiting for them once they disembarked, either inquiring about the status of jumps or directing the flyguards on Frankenstein's maintenance. It was as if the man couldn't fully let go of his previous life, no matter how much he wanted to. That, or he had too much time on his hands.

Both Bria and Chawr acted cagey when he asked them where James was. Chawr pretended not to hear and ignored Levin completely while Bria mumbled something about Elder James not feeling well. Stranger still, they refused to tell him exactly where he was. When he pressed them, they apologized and nearly tripped over themselves running away from him.

Levin wasn't particularly surprised with how most of the tribe treated him. As far as they were concerned, he was a complete outsider, a stranger who had just appeared one day and now dropped off caches of supplies every few weeks before disappearing again. Why would they answer his questions? The Elfreth, the flyguards especially, were James's people. Levin would have done the same thing if he were in their shoes.

His curiosity piqued, he set out trying to unravel this little mystery. He and James had important things to discuss, not only about Levin's role, but this entire mad operation. He first checked the three main Elfreth floors, and not finding him there, went down to the infirmary, and then to the barricade floor. When he asked about James, no one would give him a straight answer. Something had to be wrong with James Griffin-Mars. It wasn't until he ran into the boy who was friends with James's sister-Sammy or Sammuia or whatever-that he was able to coax, or scare, the news out.

"Elder James is very sick," the boy said. "No one is allowed to see him."

Levin grunted. "Sick" was code for only one thing. Due to the nature of their work, all chronmen were heavily immunized with every sort of vaccination imaginable. James couldn't catch a cold if he swam in a pool of the virus. No, the only real sickness he had was completely self-inflicted.

He proceeded up to the sixty-sixth floor, which was now completely quarantined for the chronman's rehabilitation. Two flyguards, Laurel and Hory, guarded the door. At first, they tried to tell him that James wasn't there. Then they tried to say that he couldn't see anyone "at this time."

"Get out of my way," Levin said.

They got out of his way.

Levin walked down the hall of the building to James's main living quarters and found him standing near a window looking out into the night fog with a heavy blanket wrapped around his body. Half of the blanket was soaked with sweat. He looked a shell of who he usually was. His face was deathly pale, and his cheeks were sunken in. Levin wondered when the guy had last been able to keep down food.

"You look like shit," said Levin.

"So I look a little better than I feel, then."

"At least you still have your sense of humor."

James turned and gave him a flat stare. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

Levin fought the urge to tell James about all the hundreds of times he had warned him about his bad habit. Instead, he got down to business. "How many days?"

James eyed the wall to the side. Four vertical marks with a diagonal line crossing through them and three more. Levin involuntarily made a face. The guy was in the worst of it right now. Not a good mental or physical state for anyone to be in, and even worse for someone with a job to do. As glad as he was to see James clean up his life, they had more pressing matters to attend to than his personal demons.

"Listen," he began. "Not the best time, but I need you functional. As much as I hate to say this, if it means you need to drink a little to balance your shit out, then do it. This is more important."