eyes lit up. “Oh good! Wonderful! They are here! Would you help me unpack them, Ms. Hamlyn?”
She didn't show it, but if he hadn't invited her, if she had to wait another five minutes to see what the boxes contained, she would have popped. She had no idea what to expect, but she was sure it would be something amazing, and she was right.
Omega opened the first box, reached deep into the Styrofoam peanuts that filled it, and withdrew ... a bird carved of wood. Its plumage was painted powder pink and lavender with a white breast, and it was seated on a branch, head back and beak open, in a pose of singing as if it were beckoning with all its heart for the sun to rise.
Omega stared at it fondly a moment, then turned to Anna Dawn. “Spring's Herald,” he said. “Lovely, is she not?”
“Yes,” Anna Dawn agreed. “I don't think I've ever seen anything like it. What did you call it?”
“Spring's Herald.”
“That's an unusual name.”
“I enjoy giving animals my own little nicknames. It is more fun than Latin.” He placed the bird on the center row of his newly-made shelves. “Spring's Herald is, or was, a real bird—-a member of the lark family. You have not seen anything like her because she and her kind have not been on the planet for a very, very long time. She is extinct now, and a sad thing it is. Her song was ... that is ... was reputed to be ... quite beautiful.”
The next box held a real stuffed squirrel in an air-tight glass case, or at least, Anna Dawn guessed that it was a squirrel. Then, again, truthfully, it didn't look quite right. “What is this?” she queried. “It looks something like a squirrel, but it’s yellow.”
Omega took it from her and gave it a place of honor beside the lark. “Good guess. It is a member of the lemur family, actually, a pomatuu ... a golden pomatuu at that; 'Toe-sleeper,' I like to call him. From South America.”
“Is it extinct, too?”
Omega nodded. “Every box you see here contains a creature that is no more.”
Anna Dawn looked astounded. “How did you get all these?”
“It is a collection I have been making for many, many years. These animals are very precious. Many of them are the only proof that they ever existed. Not only are they all extinct, but a few of them are also extremely old.
Anna Dawn shook her head in disbelief. “So how old can they be? I mean, dead animals turn to dust in a few years, unless they are mummified; and mummies could never look this good.”
Omega's eyes twinkled. “Let us just say, I know some people who are very good at what they do. The point is, Anna Dawn, you are looking at a very valuable collection. It is the only one of its kind in the world. Now, will you help me get the rest of these out of their prisons and up on the shelf? I tend to think of them as my pets, you see, and I do not like them to be cooped up any longer than necessary.”
She bit her lip and pushed up her glasses on her nose. Right. Your pets. Oh, boy.
For the next hour, it was like some bizarre birthday party, opening presents. The specimens ranged from reptiles to fish to insects with a bit of everything in between; the majority being mammals and birds.
When they were done at last, Omega stood back, admiring the display. “Now it feels like my office,” he said.
“Dr. Omega?” Anna Dawn asked. “Is there ever going to come a day when you cease to surprise me? I'm asking, because if there is, just let me know and I'll call in sick and stay home. What I'm trying to say is, I'm getting addicted.”
Omega looked puzzled. “To what?”
“To you,” she said, and walked out, leaving it at that.
8
I AM GARRIN CROSS, BUT I’M NOT
The man awoke with a dull headache and the sprinkle of a cold rain hitting against his face and skin like small bullets. He brought himself to his elbows, shook his head and looked dazedly around.
He was in an alley, lying on a crumpled pile of newspaper. The filth of decaying garbage assaulted his nostrils. His clothes were soaked through; his white shirt, stained with his own blood, was made transparent by the rain growing heavier by the minute.
Get up! Stand up before you drown, he thought in a language that seemed both familiar and foreign. Somehow, he understood the meaning, but it was as if he was creating words as he used them, as if when they formed in his mind, he was using them for the first time.
He staggered to his feet, shivering. Weakly, he leaned against a brick wall to regain his bearings. Looking upward into the weeping sky, he blinked into the rain and covered his face with his arm.
“Where am I?” he muttered aloud. “How did I get here?”
Even as he spoke, he knew. Hazy memories, fog-like images, crept around the corners of his mind.
Garrin Cross. That was his name. He had been attacked from behind. The last thing he remembered was a plastic bag being thrown over his head.
“Who? Why?” he asked, frowning, fighting to sort it out. One answer seemed to make sense, and a name. Chang. One of Chang's hired thugs. It had to be. Angrily, he fought to force the scattered remnants of memory to take form, to stick.
I was to meet him here, he remembered. We were supposed to seal the deal. When I drove up, he was over here by the alley. I walked toward him ... then ... someone came from behind and before I could react, or even draw my gun, somebody hit me and then ... the bag … and … I died. I … died?!
A shouted curse from Cross's lips dashed against the surrounding brick walls and was blown to shreds by the wind. He shook his fist at nothing but a face in his mind. “Chang! How could you do this to me! You'll pay for it, you damned Chinese mongrel!”
He stopped in mid-sentence. But ... I’m alive, he puzzled. He slowly took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. No problem breathing now. He held his hands in front of his face, wriggling his fingers as his curse was slowly replaced by laughter. “Look at me! I'm alive. I'm alive!”
For a moment, all was confusion as two memories fought each other, neither making sense. The man held his head and closed his eyes, straining to knit the two ends of a broken rope together.
I am Garrin Cross. But I am not Garrin Cross. I am Qeoc-neh-qiti, high priest of the Brothers of the Moon, given this body, given a new life as Garrin Cross.
Yes. It was starting to come together, the elements of his existence swirling, coalescing into a sphere he could grasp.
I am here to serve the One True Lord. He has given me rebirth. I am here to become this man, this Garrin Cross, to assume his identity, to enter his world. There is a mission for me, but I must wait until I am told.... I must master this body, this double language in my brain, and learn to live with power in this new life, before I can serve Him. Only then will he come to me. Only then will I serve the purpose of my re-creation.
Garrin Cross lifted his head and looked around. At the end of the alley he saw a portion of a derelict building with a loading dock and, parked near it, a sleek, black automobile. “That’s my car,” he said aloud, the memory of the machine forming in his mind. “It’s called a, a Porsche. That’s right. That’s my Porsche.” He staggered toward it, half-running, at the same time reaching into his pocket for the metal and plastic thing, called a key, that he knew would make it work.
Following instinct that guided him even as he made the movement, he pressed a button on the key's monitor pad and the door latch clicked. With an instinctual movement, as if he had done it a thousand times before, he slipped behind the wheel. For a moment he sat in the machine, wondering what to do next. Coaxing the memories of its function to manifest, he found he knew