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  Analog Science Fiction and Fact (Astounding), Vol. CXXVIII, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2008. ISSN 1059-2113, USPS 488-910, GST#123054108. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. One-year subscription $55.90 in the United States and possessions, in all other countries $65.90 (GST included in Canada), payable in advance in U.S. funds. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within eight weeks of receipt of order. When reporting change of address allow 6 to 8 weeks and give new address as well as the old address as it appears on the last label. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. (c) 2008 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without express permission is prohibited. All stories in this magazine are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Any similarity is coincidental. All submissions must be accompanied by a stamped self-addressed envelope, the publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork.

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  * * *

  Serial: TRACKING: PART I OF III

  by David R. Palmer

  * * * *

  Illustration by William Warren

  * * * *

  "There's a fine line between preparedness and procrastination...."

  * * * *

  Warning: This story has scenes that some readers may find disturbing.

  * * * *

  Volume I

  Mayfly, Trout, Hook

  Excerpted from the Journals of Candidia Maria Smith-Foster:

  Day I

  Yes, Posterity, your Humble Historiographer does feel guilty about this—but what was Teacher thinking? What did he expect? What else could I do...?

  Oops, forgetting manners. (There's a surprise.) Sorry. All right; let's start over:

  Hi, Posterity; Candy Smith-Foster here again—Plucky Girl Adventurer, Intrepid Girl Aviatrix, Spunky Savior of Our People, etc., etc.—at your service.

  To all appearances (with single, gastrolepidoptrosis-inducing exception), day had begun normally enough—for one of my days...

  * * * *

  F'rinstance, had wakened, as usual, looking forward to almost spiritual fulfillment intrinsic to starting day at chow hall, wrapping self around one of my Adam's routinely world-class breakfasts.

  (Hmm ... That sounded possessive, didn't it. Well, am his “discoverer": Adam second living human being turned up during post-Armageddon exploration. Plus boy is my favorite proof-of-concept, show-and-tell exhibit for proposition that Y chromosomes are A Good Thing. And between times, exhibiting no hint of teasing, Adam does refer to me as “my woman.” Not to mention, unblinking gaze, on occasions when holds me close, causes tingly sensations in interesting places.)

  Naturally, not every morsel of food emerging from kitchens actually product of cleverest-boy-genius-in-whole-wide-world's own incredibly talented hands, but clearly finest of coequals in charge of food preparation these days; ergo, have every confidence will have influenced production, thereby assuring, at minimum, all dishes represent gustatory perfection.

  Plus, under normal circumstances, Adam times culinary duties to make possible spending most meals with me, breakfast included, which never fails to launch day on endorphin high....

  On top of which, being focus of unambiguous love radiating from entire population of recently adopted-into Homo post hominem community, all of whom (tiresome but true) owe Yours Truly their lives, does enhance outlook generally.

  Normally, positive attitude established by breakfast flows seamlessly into day's real fun—classes: academics (usually one-on-one instruction in college-level math, physics, chem, geology, agronomy, psychology [normal and ab-], etc.); as well as practical mechanics, electronics; regular proficiency maintenance and/or additional type-rating flight training sessions; plus daily advanced karate instruction (currently honing sixth-degree Black Belt skills; seventh still well beyond horizon) coupled with—probably most entertaining of all—personal tutoring in selected elements from Mossad field agents’ mayhem manual.

  * * * *

  Apart from routine expectations, however, this morning not remotely normal. Awoke to ominous realization that that vague, recurrent disquiet, which, despite fiercely protective, almost crechelike environment in which have been enveloped since medical discharge (following treatment for side effects stemming from most recent round trip across River Styx) was back in force. Last time awoke to such depths of foreboding was morning of Daddy's departure for Washington—the day before Khraniteli turned capital, surrounding suburbs, into fine, black, glowing-in-dark ashes drifting in breeze, ending World As We Knew It, as well as reign of H. sapiens.

  Clearly, in retrospect, from moment eyes opened today, chain of events resembled ballistic curve: foreordained progression, leading directly from bed to Teacher's announcement to Yours Truly's reluctant but immutable decision—thence to current AWOL status.

  Well, a girl's gotta do what a girl's ... Etc.

  As turned out, however, anarchic decision, subsequent obviously proscribed actions, took healthy bite out of unease dogging heels since morning's first awareness. Perhaps qualms more a function of psychic feedback spawned by own upcoming brash actions echoing back down timeline rather than intangible warning of yet another impending doomy threat.

  In any event, Posterity, been some time since our last travelogue, hasn't it. Truthfully, though, hadn't expected—certainly never intended—ever again to do another travel, much less logue.

  And not without justification: Even briefest reflection upon Yours Truly's conspicuously absent vital signs, to say nothing of generally bent, broken, and/or toasted medical condition by conclusion of events chronicled in most recent volumes of The Journals of the Life & Times of Candy Smith-Foster, Plucky Girl Adventurer,[1] should motivate thickest observer toward sober deliberation regarding wisdom of such endeavors.

  [1: Archivist's note: This is a reference to Volume III, Part III, Finale, from the first collection of Candy Smith-Foster's journals, which have been assembled under the overall title, Emergence. ]

  Take, for instance, side effects of saving Adam from wrecked, flaming automobile: Psilly pseudo Walter Mitty had achieved spectacular crash while indulging race-driver fantasies on deserted downtown Baltimore city streets. Ultimately, hysterical strength overuse required to extricate comatose boy from four-wheeled pyre, carry him at a dead run draped over shoulder to van, remain conscious long enough thereafter to suture young idiot's sliced femoral artery, resulted in your Humble Historiographer's heart joining ranks of flatlined.

  Granted, own willful disregard of onrushing metabolic burnout symptoms spotlight descriptive limitations of reckless. Still, extra effort seemed warranted at the time: Had reason to fear lad might be sole other surviving human being on Planet Earth.

  Happily, wasn't. Quite.

  However, barely recovered from physiological deficits incurred during that girlish prank before found self in spacesuit, flambeing like lobster while being battered to pulp by unyielding interior structural members of decidedly non-passenger-rated, End of Days-bomb-carrying, Khraniteli winged missile during programmed-in, high-g, evasive acrobatics portion of incande
scent atmospheric reentry. This event, too, capped by cessation of Plucky Girl Adventurer's cardiac functions.

  Clearly, campaigns offering such potential direness not to be undertaken lightly. Odds too high that Closing Credits may have to be superimposed over marker under which bones have taken up residence at Our Lady of Perpetual Dandelions Memorial Landfill—or, more likely, just strewn willy-nilly across terrain, wherever carrion-disposal fauna lose interest.

  In any event, none of those experiences ranks high amongst memories back upon which your Humble Historiographer looks most fondly—or has any difficulty not raising hand, joyously caroling “Again...!”

  * * * *

  But damn, Posterity! Really—what was Teacher thinking...? I mean, right after breakfast, even before leaving chow hall, practically skipped up, beaming ear-to-ear, gave me big, happy hug, and, straight out of blue, announced, “Candy, the Urals scouting expedition got in last night...”

  Okay, I knew that. Actually, everybody knew that: Hominem community, slowly growing around Mt. Palomar blast/earthquake shelter, still in no danger of challenging New York, Moscow, Beijing for title of World's Majorest Metropolis (even after H. sapiens' effectively total extinction). As spin-off benefit of settlement's cozy dimensions, airstrip located practically next-door—where seismic-level thrust-reverser sound effects from pair of C-17 Globemaster IIIs (aviation's answer to Monster Trucks) braking to stop just after sundown not that readily overlooked.

  So standing alone, beloved pedagogue's breathless proclamation hardly qualified as news, let alone bombshell. Still, enthusiasm level suggested other shoe already in pattern, probably on final, if not actually preparing for touchdown...

  And indeed was. Radiating what, for him, equated to gleeful intensity of Olde Tyme TV game-show host introducing prize lineup, Teacher continued, “And while they were there, they acquired information suggesting that your father is probably still alive, as well as where the Khraniteli may be holding him.”

  * * * *

  All right, Posterity; that part exceeded “bombshell” threshold!

  In fact, as joyous revelation's universe-reshuffling internal echoes faded, Terry expressed concern from habitual perch on big sister's shoulder by swinging head around to front, turning cranium upside down, peering one-eyed up my nose. Fortunately, however, this time retarded adopted twin brother limited comment to wolf whistle's long, low, closing diminuendo—as opposed to customary practice of sharing sapient sibling's innermost cerebral contents with world at window-rattling volume.

  Shushed silly symbiont by reaching up, gently stroking tiny soft feathers on head, cheeks, upper neck area just under huge clamshell beak.

  And focused ki flow into effort required to maintain calm thoughts, serene, interested expression as world rocked, spun around me—and abruptly, cause of, solution to, morning's amorphous disquiet snapped into sharpest focus....

  * * * *

  Even if Terry hadn't felt elder sister turn to stone, Posterity, I knew featherheaded twin unfooled. Birdbrain alone, out of planet's entire remaining population (okay, arguably Lisa, too), equipped fully to appreciate shock Teacher's announcement had delivered. No one doubts anymore: Foster twins share one-way telepathic rapport. Despite being Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus (i.e., Hyacinth Macaw), Terry can read my mind—and from quite a distance: last count, 32,500 miles; geosynchronous orbit height plus Earth's full diameter.

  All of which demonstrated conclusively a few months ago when Intrepid Girl Astronaut found self trapped in orbit aboard crippled space shuttle (while saving all that remained of Humanity, she tossed in casually). On that occasion, thoughts apparently passed through planet's substance as if so much vacuum.

  * * * *

  In any event, notwithstanding smarty-mouth id's internal sarcasm, Teacher now had Plucky Girl Savior of Our People's undivided attention. But then, with typical clueless preoccupation borne of Overlapping Deep Thoughts, complicated by Weight of Responsibilities, dear old thing continued blithely, “And at this point, it looks as if it won't take much more than six months to put together another expedition back into the area to check into it....”

  * * * *

  Really now, Posterity.

  As long as Teacher's known me (what?—almost whole life?), could not have expected favorite (known to be impulse-control-challenged) student to hear that, then just sit around, waiting patiently while Daddy languishes in Khraniteli dungeon, no doubt being tortured, probably scheduled for execution—for another six solid months...?

  Received news with enthusiasm of hungry trout rising to fat mayfly—and reached decision even before Teacher completed recital.

  But. While Yours Truly may not be sharpest bulb in quiver (or is that brightest pencil in drawer?), have managed, during short, busy lifetime, to identify certain fundamentally human behavioral principles every bit as applicable to H. post hominems as H. sapiens; key among which: Objecting, arguing—even begging—adults to reverse what they regard as well-thought-out decisions generally has single practical effect: Spills beans concerning own intentions; opens door for inconvenient advice—potentially, even, orders: "Don't do that."

  Clearly, last thing Plucky Girl Adventurer needed at this point was to trigger suspicions.

  What was called for, however, was factual, mission-specific information: “intel,” if you will. So smiled beatifically, hugged, thanked Teacher fervently—then, moment sweet man out of sight, switched on stalker mode, tracked down Danya Feinberg, AAs’ number two special-operations reconnaissance/ infiltration/intelligence-gathering/sniper.

  Prior to Mankind's End, Danya had been top Mossad field operative; specialty, “proactive threat elimination"—euphemism for assassination. All too appropriately, since given name translates to Judgment of God.

  (Which has always bothered me: How could parents have known? I mean, really, so soon after birth, to look down at freshly hatched, sweet-faced baby girl happily blowing bubbles against mother's breast, announce to world, with perfectly straight face, “This child will grow up to become the instrument of the Judgment of God...")

  Moot question, of course. Did. And now, with other AAs, Danya works for Teacher.

  Incidentally, number two ranking amongst AA spooks mostly result of coin toss. Wallace Griffin (describes himself as out-of-work Navy Seal) unabashedly admits his field skills fall short of hers, but even Danni agrees Wallace's gift for strategy unmatched among hominem ranks. (In fact, with apparent seriosity, Number Two says world missed unmatched opportunity to experience Genghis Khan redux when Wallace opted not to focus talents on Dark Side.) In any event, according to Teacher, even in pseudomilitary structure, someone has to be in charge.

  As suspected, caught up with Danya at base showers. Following return from three-week, living-off-land, intel-gathering recon in Urals, existing mostly as solo marauder/gleaner, Momma Spook spending substantial portion of first morning home reveling in leisurely, luxurious, catch-up soak under virtually inexhaustible, solar-heated, steaming hot water.

  Parked Terry on adjacent showerhead feeder gooseneck, turned on water. Manic twin promptly launched into joyous series of upside-down, furiously flapping, bathing gymnastics; continuing objective: Spread as much water as widely as possible, without actually coming into contact with any, except very tip of bill.

  Shucked off own clothing, stepped under shower, then paused to regard Danni with usual carefully concealed resentment...

  Visualize stereotypical barbarian warrior princess from vintage, heroic, Boris Vallejo cover painting for epic Thud & Blunder novel: Long, flowing, glowingly dark hair. Supermodel's face, with flawless brow, cheekbones, chin; perfect, gleaming white teeth. Eyes so blue, they seem to catch, amplify, reflect light across darkened rooms. Technically, only five-five but tall nonetheless, with almost rangy frame boasting deceptively sleek, well-developed musculature, marathoner's utterly dimple/jiggle-free, hard little glutei maximi, all wrapped in golden, line-free suntan. Presentation capped by secondary curves who
se firmly assertive proportions sneer at Newton's second law....

  Total effect (according to Adam) “reduces men to idiots"; and, from own experience, inspires less well-assembled females to engage in thoughtful deliberation regarding pros, cons of pacts with devil. (Eternal damnation ... hey, how bad could it be...?)

  Eighth Degree Black Belt, unmitigated death in bare feet, since my arrival Danya has taken me under wing; have become, in fact, her favorite pseudo-Mossad apprentice. And few aspects of life these days deliver more sheer fun than training under Danni's supervision: very most advanced levels of hand-to-hand combat; nonstandard weapons; plus special-operations skills (infiltration, silently taking out sentries, sniping); undercover work; interrogation; etc.

  Danni even managed to introduce element of humor into hysterical strength tap, concerning whose use Yours Truly has become almost phobic (not unreasonably, given death's recurring prominence in medical history): Persuaded me to replace original cumbersome, four-word, self-hypnotic prompt phrase ("chocolate, cabbage, caterpillar, puck") with quicker, more classically appropriate, single trigger word: “Sha-zam...!”

  Plus, along with other two unofficial sisters, Kim and Gayle, Danni really fun snicker-buddy at whispering/giggling-about-boys get-togethers.

  (Okay, okay—obviously, such gatherings chiefly for my benefit. No, don't really believe Kim, Gayle, or Danni [older women, all—mid 20s, at least] regard boys as giggleworthy subjects per se. Not even Adam [who really is]. Still...)

  Withal, no matter how hard I try on occasion, Danni difficult person to dislike. Except when forced unavoidably to compare her to...

  Me: Candy Smith-Foster; months short of 12th birthday; still whole inches shy of five feet tall; hardly more than pro forma female thus far—

  Never mind; among pointless exercises in frustration, self-flagellation over unavoidable surely ranks near list's apex....

  * * * *

  No point beating around bush with Danya, Posterity; respected her too much even to make attempt. Plus (more than peripheralest of considerations), fact that, while superspook claims not to be actual mindreader, is way too smart for slow-dancing subterfuges; would spot oblique approach in heartbeat. And by this point, not arousing grownup suspicions regarding immediate plans for information's application had taken on vital importance.