"Holy fucking shit," Sanson muttered, pumping rounds into the thing. Or at least at it; they were sparking on its plate and clearly not penetrating.

"Well, now we know what their tanks look like," the chief said. He still had the T. Rex and was aiming at the thing but not firing. "Come on, you bastard," he muttered.

The monster fired another ball of lightning and one of the houses behind them exploded in fire. Then it stopped and roared again.

As it did the chief fired one round.

Weaver had thought the world had exploded when the first round had been fired by the creature but he now had a new perspective. The air turned white and he found himself flung through the air by a tremendous force like a giant, ungentle, hand. He didn't even notice when he slammed into the back of the hole. He knew he passed out but it couldn't have been for long because the rumble from the explosion was still resounding when he shook his head and opened his eyes. For a moment he thought he was blind but realized that it was just an afterimage of the explosion; everything looked milky-white. He felt something liquid on his face and reached up. His nose and ears were both bleeding.

Sanson was lying in the bottom of the hole, unmoving. He was breathing but out cold. The local was in the bottom next to him, his head tilted at an odd and clearly unsurvivable angle. The chief was lying next to him up against the side of the hole, and sat up with what appeared to be a groan. That was when Weaver realized that all he could hear was a ringing in his ears.

He sat up and looked at the gate. There was a large crater in front of it. The bulldozer was over on its side. And there was nothing coming through.

The chief was looking at him and saying something. Weaver realized he could hear it, if barely. He was asking if he was okay.

"No," he said, shaking his head and pointing at his ears. "I can't hear!" He suddenly noticed that he had the world's worst headache.

The chief nodded and pointed at his own, mouthing "Neither can I." He opened the bolt of the T. Rex, wearily pulled some rounds out of his fatigues and thumbed them into the action. Then he shot the bolt forward, leaned back, closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly spent beyond human endurance, clutching the gun to his chest. After a moment he set his jaw, leaned forward and pointed the gun at the gate. He looked over his shoulder at Weaver and reached into his pocket. What he held out was a large goldish coin. He pointed to one side. It had a human figure on it and the motto: "The only easy day was yesterday." Doctor Weaver looked at the SEAL, who was also bleeding from the nose and ears but clearly prepared to do battle, shook his own head and passed out.

5.

"First report on Gate 417," Collective 15379 emitted.

"Go."

"Initial reports favorable. Group of ten level one ground combat units sent on survey.

Encountered minor resistance."

"On immediate entry?"

"Yes. Or shortly thereafter. One GCU sustained terminal injuries, recovered and recycled. Two sophonts recovered, one terminal, one critical. Both terminated and examined." It sent a blip of biological information on the late Edderbrooks. "Initial invasion packet was started but before it completed gestation there was a magnitude 249 explosion at the gate and five farside combat units, estimated level one to three, entered the gate area. Sentries engaged and one reported full engagement. Slight variations from initial survey of sophonts." Another blip of data, this one defining Howse's protective suit as an extruded armor. "A response packet was sent through consisting of level one and two ground combat units. Level one units were repulsed by a heavy force of farside ground combat units designated one to four. Level two units pushed back first wave but were stopped and repulsed by a reinforcing wave of level two to four units; farside units manually blocked the gate. A group of level six units had arrived by then and reopened the gate.

Initial entry appeared successful but first level six unit was destroyed, method unknown, which backblast severely damaged two more level six units, still recoverable. With only two level six units functional and all level one and two units terminated in the immediate gate area the attack was called off while more level six units are gestated. Colonization packet is gestated and only awaits successful opening of the gate."

"Heavy defense," Collective 47 noted. "Weapon type?"

"Chemical propellant and explosive. No plasma or quark weapons detected."

"I have sent a message to all nearby collectives and those with localized gate ability to forward all available level three though seven ground combat units and to begin a ten percent increase in gestation of all combat systems. When you have an overwhelming force available, strike. That will require at least seven cycles."

"I understand and comply."

"And send an emissary unit."

"An emissary?"

"Let us see how gullible they are."

"Dr. Weaver?" a voice said. Bill opened his eyes a crack and then closed them against the light. It was moments like this that he dreaded. So far, it seemed okay. He felt sheets and the brief glimpse he had seen overhead indicated a hospital. So did the smell.

"Dr. Weaver?" the voice repeated. It was a woman. Nurse or doctor? Have to open the eyes again to check.

A large breasted redhead wearing one of those vaguely comical multicolored smocks that nurses seemed to be enamored of was standing by the bed with a cup of water.

"Before you ask, you're in Shands Hospital in Gainesville, Florida," the nurse said, holding a straw up to his mouth.

Bill took a sip, clearing what felt like a mound of plaster out of his mouth, and grunted.

"Bathroom?"

"How about a bedpan?" She smiled.

"No," he said, sitting up and wincing at the headache. "I can move." He checked his extremities to ensure that this was, in fact, the case. All working. All weak as hell but that would pass. He'd been in the body and fender shop before. "I can walk."

"You're not supposed to," the nurse said, firmly, pushing him back.

He slid his hand onto her thumb and exerted just enough pressure to prove that itcould hurt. "I can walk.

I'm going to walk. All I need is for you to help me with the IV cart."

She looked at him sternly, then shook her head and helped him to the bathroom. By the time he made it back to the bed he wondered if it had been a good idea; he was weaker than he'd thought.

"The gate?" he asked. He wasn't too sure exactly where Gainesville was from Eustis but if they'd lost the gate he didn't want to be close.

"Nothing else has come through," the nurse said, helping him into bed and settling the sheets to her satisfaction. "It's been all over the news. There's more National Guard and some Regular Army and Marines around it, now."

"There were some SEALs with me," Weaver said. He had a clear view of Sanson lying in the bottom of the hole.

"They're both here," the nurse said. "The younger one is still unconscious, not a coma, he'll be okay. The older one is already out of bed, against doctor's orders, and swearing at anyone who tries to get him back in. Now you just lie down and rest. A doctor will be here to see you soon."

After she had left Weaver elevated the bed-lying down hurt more than sitting up-and turned on the TV. He didn't have to flip through many channels; everything but the Discovery Channel and Disney were running all news all the time.

"We're reporting live from Eustis, Florida, where units of the Third Infantry Division, the same units thatcaptured Baghdad, are just beginning to arrive. Bob Tolson is embedded with Bravo Company, First Battalion Ninety-Third Infantry, over to you, Bob." The voiceover was from New York or Washington but the video was from a news helicopter. There were green Army bulldozers and some yellow civilian ones digging big holes and a shot of a whole line of tractor trailer cars loaded with tanks and APCs. Bill thought about the flaming debris falling from the sky and wondered at the balls it took to fly a helicopter in the area for no other reason than getting some nice stock footage.

"Peter, you should be able to see the activity around me," the local reporter said. "From the air it probably looks like chaos but I'm told it's a well orchestrated drill. I'm talking with Captain Shane Gries who is the commander of Bravo Company. Shane, thanks for taking a moment to talk to us."

"No problem, Bob." The video had cut back to the ground and now showed a youngish man with a square jaw, his helmet fastened and looking very neat.

"What do you think our chances are?" the reporter asked.

"Well, Bob, the enemy clearly has some very good firepower," the company commander responded.

"But its action plan is going to have to be very simple, there is only one avenue of attack available. And if light infantry, which is what it faced before, could hold it and push it back, well, my boys will turn it into dog meat with their Bradleys and Abrams."

"By light infantry you're talking about the local militia?" the reporter asked. "What they're calling 'The Charge of the Redneck Brigade?'"

"Bob, I'm not about to dis those locals," the captain said, shaking his head. "They retook the gate and took plenty of casualties doing it. They're fine Americans and patriots and, truth be told, they probably shoot better than most of my boys. Some of them are still hanging around and as long as they want to, they can stay."

"I wasn't making fun of them," the reporter said with a tone of honesty.

"I know, but that redneck crack is getting under my boys' skin," the captain replied, sternly. "The day one of you reporters is willing to charge the gates of hell with nothing but some World War Two weaponry you can crack wise. Until then, treat them with the respect they deserve. They and the national guardsmen are going to stay here until, at least, the rest of the battalion arrives. I've been told that the short-term plan is to get the whole brigade down here, arrayed in layered defense. What they'll do after that I don't know. But I think that even the locals will admit that a battalion of mechanized infantry is probably enough."

"I notice that you've pulled further back from the gate," the reporter said, changing the subject hastily. "Is that wise?"

"Our Abrams and Bradleys are longer-range weapons," the captain explained carefully. "We're digging revetments for them and as soon as the engineers and civilian contractors are done with them they'll start on bunkers for the infantry that are forward of that line. But I don't want my command caught in another of those explosions; if the enemy had come through right after its rhino-tank exploded they'd have rolled over the defenders. Infantry positions are back two hundred yards and the Brads and Abrams are at two-fifty. That should give enough stand-off for secondaries. And, trust me, we can fill the probable avenue of approach with plenty of firepower even if we're that far back."

"Well, Captain, I'm sure everyone's glad you're on the job," the reporter said. "Back to you, Peter." "That's good news from Eustis," the anchorman said. "Now turning to other news, the young lady who miraculously survived the explosion in Orlando has been reunited with her surviving family," the camera turned to what was clearly previously shot footage of Mimi, Tuffy tucked under her chin, hugging a heavy-set woman in her thirties. "Mimi Jones' closest surviving relative is Vera Wilson, who now has the responsibility of raising not only her niece but the strange alien playmate that adopted her. Our reporter, Shana Kim, talked with Mrs. Wilson earlier today."

The scene changed to what was clearly heavily edited footage as the heavyset woman, now wearing too much makeup of the wrong shade for television, was sitting on a plaid sofa and talking.

"Herman and I are glad to take Mimi in," the woman said, dabbing at her eyes. "I miss my Loretta, that's my sister, of course, but by the grace of God Mimi survived. Herman and I don't have any children of our own, not for want of trying and we both love Mimi very much and are glad to have her. She misses Loretta too, but she's taking it very well. She hasn't cried at all. I mean, she knows her momma is gone but we'll all be together in Heaven someday and that is a blessed relief to her."

"What about the alien?" the reporter asked. The camera gave a brief shot of the blonde woman in her twenties, looking serious and nodding her head. "Aren't you worried about it?"

"Tuffy?" the woman answered. "Well, he's pretty scary at first. I mean he looks like a big old terancheler.

But he ain't done nothing wrong. I had to scold Mimi one time, nothing much just that she hadn't cleared her dishes, and I was sort of afraid to. But Mimi just nodded and did as she was bid and then told me that Tuffy said it was okay, I was right. That was pretty strange, I'll admit, but, like I said, he ain't done nothing wrong. I know they say he hurt that deputy, but I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding or something. I'm not afraid of Tuffy; he's sort of cute. Truth to tell, if he's that good a watch dog I'm glad to have him around what with all the child snatching and all. Couple of my neighbors asked if Mimi knew where they could get one for their own kids. Course she didn't. She doesn't remember where he come from."

"There's going to be a lot of interest in Mimi, you know," the reporter said. "How are you going to handle that?"

"Well, we're going to raise her as well as we can, as a God fearing young woman," Mrs. Wilson answered. "As to the reporters and such, I figure with all that's going on, Mimi and Tuffy won't be so interesting before long."

"And rarely have I heard the term 'nine day wonder' so well described," the anchor said, smiling. "A charity fund for the support of Mimi Jones has been established. Donations can be made to: The Mimi Jones Foundation, PO Box 4687, Orlando, Florida, 327984687. And in other news . . ."

"In other news that's going to be one very rich little alien," a voice said from the door.

Weaver looked up and grinned at Command Master Chief Miller, who was wearing a hospital gown tied in the back.

"You know your ass is hanging out in the breeze, right?" Weaver said, turning down the TV.

"Yep," the chief said, walking in the room.

"And you've got an IV insert stuck in your arm?" "Yep," Miller replied, taking a chair. "And I told them they had thirty minutes to take it out or I was going to do it myself and bleed all over their nice, shiny floor. How you doing, Doc?"

"Tired, sore, hell of a headache."

"Pain is weakness leaving the body," the chief intoned. "You ready to get out of here?"

"I'd love to," Weaver admitted. "I don't think doctors know what the hell they're doing; there's a reason they call it a medical 'practice.' But we both appear to be a little short on clothes."

"Got some guardsmen on the way over with some chocolate chips," the SEAL said. "After which, by order of your friend the NSA, we're going to take a little drive up to a town called Archer."

"What's there?" Weaver asked, wincing.

"Guess."

Emma May Sands had turned seventy-nine the previous month. Two decades before when her late husband Arthur had retired they sold their house in Buffalo, New York, and moved to the small, rural town of Archer. It was not a "regular" retirement community and they had preferred it for that very reason. Archer was a small town consisting mostly of young couples who worked in and around Gainesville, generally in something connected to the university. There were also a few houses rented to students. It was a young town and despite the fact that Emma and Arthur knew they were old, they didn't want to feel old. So they moved where there were young people around for the life and vitality.

And they were close to Shands, which was one of the best hospitals in North Florida. Arthur had a heart condition and proximity to a good hospital was important.

Shands had not helped, though, when Arthur finally suffered a terminal stroke. It had come in his sleep, thank God, and he passed lightly. After his passing Emma's life hardly changed. She had to learn to cook for one but she continued to divide her time between the local Democratic Committee, which she had to admit was filled with hippy know-it-alls that didn't understand you could be a Democratand a patriot, and activities associated with the Episcopal Church.

That was until a three-foot-tall cat scratched on her back door and calmly walked into the front room to watch Oprah.

She wasn't sure what to do. The cat walked on her back legs and, while she was clearly naked and just as clearly female, she didn't seembad . The cat had gray fur tinged to black in a line along her spine. Her belly was a lighter gray, almost white, with another line passing up the middle between her . . .

mammaries and more highlighting on the tips of her ears. She had slanted eyes and either some sort of makeup or another highlighting running back from her eyes in a line.

Emma had been watching the news-it was almost impossible to avoid unless you wanted to watch Discovery all day-and knew that aliens or something were landing in Orlando, but that all seemed very remote to her. Life in Archer had been much the same. Oh, there had been a rush on the grocery store like there was going to be a hurricane or something and a few of her friends had urged her to move back to Buffalo and stay with her children until everything passed over.

But that didn't mean she could pick up the phone and call the police and tell them there was athree-foot-tall cat sitting in the front room watching the news. Little old ladies that did that had to go to the nursing home. There would be a time for her to go to the nursing home but it wasn't that time yet.

So she went back into the room and watched Oprah. Oprah was cut off halfway through, though, with the news that more aliens, these ones bad guys, had landed in Eustis, which was closer to Archer than she really liked. There was a big fight going on between the aliens and the National Guard. She didn't like that, and when the cat saw the aliens she hissed and spat something that sounded like angry words, so, nodding in request to the big cat, she changed the channel to Lifetime and sat and watched an episode of The Golden Girls . When the show was over it was getting late and the cat stood up and nodded at her.

"I have to go," the cat said, very clearly. "I will see you tomorrow, Blanch."

Emma didn't bother to point out that her name wasn't Blanch. Tracy Cooper, the poor dear, whose mind was getting a little out there, sometimes made the same mistake.

Emma went to bed at her normal hour but couldn't get to sleep. After a while she got up and went downstairs and looked at Arthur's collection of books. She preferred to read mystery and horror novels but Arthur had been a big reader of all those trashy science fiction novels. She suspected that somewhere in those stacks and stacks of moldering paperbacks was what she needed to know to talk to an alien cat and let her know where the litterbox was, for example.

She finally picked one up that looked as if it had been read many times calledThe Moon Is a Harsh Mistress . It at least had a spaceship on the cover. She tried to read it but it made no sense. And the author couldn't write very well at all; he left out all the articles. Finally, after fifty pages, she gave up and turned off the light, falling almost immediately into the light sleep of old age.

In the morning, as she was making tea, there was another scratching on the door. It was that cat again, wearing something like a long trench coat and a brimmed hat like a fedora against the early morning rain.

"Good morning, Blanch," the cat enunciated precisely, taking off the coat and hat and shaking them.

"My name's Emma," Emma replied, taking the child-sized coat and setting it on the dryer with the hat perched on top.

"Mine is Nyarowlll," the cat said. "Good morning, Emma. May I watch television?"

"Please do," Emma replied. "I was just making tea and was going to have an English muffin. Or I think I have a can of cat food around?"

"No thank you, Emma," Nyarowlll said. "I am not hungry."

Emma rummaged in Arthur's boxes again and found a book calledMethuselah's Children . It had the blurb "An Exciting New First Contact Novel" on the jacket so she thought it might help.

The book was not too long but it didn't have much in it about aliens until towards the end. She'd gotten up for lunch and fixed herself a tuna sandwich, offering some of the tuna to Nyarowlll on a plate. The cat was watching some sort of old science fiction show with a big clunky robot and a guy in a silver suit but she said that she did not want any tuna.

When Emma came back to the sitting room she noticed that this book was by the same author that had written that silly moon thing. Apparently he did know a definite article. Maybe the moon thing was hisfirst book; first novels sometimes were pretty bad.

She finished the book-she was a fast reader-before dinnertime. When Nyarowlll came into the sitting room looking for her Emma narrowed her eyes.