“There’s that speech activity again,” the female said. “Why does it keep trying to vocalize?”

“We’re causing agitation. Turn it off.”

No no no no!

“Wow! That’s lighting up the whole board. That really scares it.”

“Yeah, it would scare you, too, Frank! It’s called death. Just turn off the auditory system, please.”

Silence. Absolute. Inside himself, he was screaming, he was begging, but there was now no way to hear, either.

With a sudden rush of terror, he understood where he was. He was inside the editor! His instinct was to struggle, to fight, but he knew it was useless. All it would do would be to produce numbers on a screen.

How could anybody be more miserable than Mark Bryan was at this moment? He was left trapped in this detested state while what sounded like two kids he could neither see nor hear did things to him that were greater than even God could do to them.

He was not a slave, he was lower than that. He was alive, though, he existed, he had a heart and, he wanted to believe, a soul, and he was hurting now, he was hurting and they did not understand and they did not care.

He had come to think that he had brought them victory. He had saved them all, and this was what he got?

Unless—the thought crossed his mind again, and this time with greater fear—unless those were hybrids in human skin, and they had won and he had been captured by them.

Then, suddenly, whiteness. Bright, very bright! Then vision—a complex black tangle floating in the middle of a shimmering void. Then again, the sound of the ventilator, the sound of the room. But no sensation at all.

“It’s focusing. Okay, Mark, if you can hear me, say yes.”

He said it, but there was no sound.

“Try that again, Mark. Say yes.”

“Fuck you!”

“There! That was vocalization, look there.”

“It wasn’t yes, I don’t think. Anyway, Mark, we’re turning on the optics.”

As if through a foggy tunnel, he saw a room, windowless, featureless. Sitting just in front of him were two people, a man and a woman.

The woman had long arms and tapering, fine hands, and big eyes as green as emeralds. The man appeared strong and competent, with a crisply angled jaw and an expression that communicated assurance.

Human or hybrid?

“Who are you?”

“What’s that pattern?” the male asked.

“Repeat your words, please,” the female said.

“Who in holy hell are you?”

“It’s asking us our names, hey! Good morning, buddy! I’m Frank and this incredible vision of feminine perfection is Theo. We’re Professor Walker’s graduate assistants.”

Also, a man was across the room, lying on a table. He was in a long cardboard box, with only his face exposed. The rest of the body was wrapped in plastic and caked with white cream.