I N T E R L U D E  O N E

Southern Siberia, Russia

Maksim Kolchak had nearly reached the top stair when the sturdy door before him flew open, narrowly missing his head. The impact, had it happened, would certainly have sent him tumbling back down below; instead, the violent winds and sudden onslaught of icy water did the job. His footing was gone in an instant, and he missed several steps before hitting, back-first, and tumbling heels-over-head backward, all the way to the bottom, water coating and pummeling him all the while. But the pain and the cold did not occupy his mind; all he could concentrate on was not tearing himself open with the small ax he clenched in his hand.
       He landed badly, grimacing, but managed not to lose any fingers. His back and head throbbed mercilessly, but lying still to recover was not an option. There was no time. Lives were depending on him. He struggled to his feet as more water from Lake Baikal gushed relentlessly through the doorway. If he didn't reach the deck very soon, the boat was going to go under.
       Gripping the side-rail with his free hand this time, bouncing off the walls as the small fishing boat was tossed every which way by the brutal winds, Maksim fought the tide and battled his way back into the storm. It was the worst after-summer squall he had ever seen on the lake in the eight years since he returned home from Omsk, leaving the petroleum refinery behind and finally embracing his father's dream of a family fishing legacy. Anna, his wife, had become pregnant, reason enough for him to abandon the large, smothering city and make a simpler home on the lake, a place where young Aleksandr could grow in peace among his father's people, the Buryats.
       Aleksandr was now on the verge of being fatherless.
       The torrential rain came at him sideways from the blackness of the violent night, pressing his beard flat against his face. He could see the others, lit by the spot from the pilot's window above, still fighting with the net, awaiting his return. Their boat had been headed back to port in Listvyanka when the storm had hit. The deck had taken a beating, and a winch had broken free and fallen. This simple act had triggered the release lever, feeding the mammoth net out behind them as the ship was pummeled into the shallows. Before anyone could reach the lever, the damage was done. The net had caught on the rocks below, and the ship was held fast. The net would not retract. The boat was being torn apart and was taking on water at an alarming rate. Their only hope was to cut the nets. Maksim had seen this and had barely taken the time to let his fellow crewmen know he was going before rushing off for the ax.
       A wave washed over the deck, catching Maksim as he stepped out, and carried him toward the rail and the lake beyond. He held his breath to keep from choking on the saltless water, and the wave slammed him into the steel rail. All things considered, he was fortunate both that his shoulder took the brunt and that he hadn't gone over the side and been lost forever in the deepest freshwater lake in the world. Sputtering and gripping the rail for his very life, he fought his way to the stern, determined that none of them would meet their fate that night.
       He reached his shipmates as the hull was pounded again, knocking him off his feet, and he clutched the rail with both arms before daring to rise again. The three were all still fighting with the taught net and its seemingly endless strands and cords of rope, all tangled and intertwined. Grigory was, against hope, holding the winch lever in retraction position. All this had done was anchor them to the rocks tighter, quickening their certain doom.
       "Get clear!" Maksim shouted to Dmitri and Valery, having to yell it twice more before they both heard him. Dmitri was five years older than Maksim, and a fisherman his whole life, so he was afraid, but controlled. Valery was only eighteen, only a part of their crew for three months now, and was terrified.
       They both moved back, grabbing for any kind of solid handhold, and Maksim attacked the net with a murderer's ferocity. He struck again and again, desperately trying decide where to focus his efforts. There was so much rope, and it was too wet, and too tangled, and it was not cooperating.
       "We're going to die!" Valery screamed, insane with fright. "The boat is sinking! The boat is sinking!"
       "Shut up!" Grigory—who had signed on with the boat the same day Maksim had—shouted over the elements. "No one's going to die, boy!" As if on cue, a cross wind tried to shift the boat aft, and the net held firm, causing the faltering craft the tilt harshly down into the raging lake and Dmitri to slide down into the rail next to Maksim.
       "There's too much!" Maksim shouted to Dmitri, not having time to reassure Valery, still hamming away with the blade. "I need help! We need knives from below! We must work together!"
       He looked up toward Dmitri, to see if Dmitri was going or sending one of the others (perhaps Valery, to give him something to occupy his mind), and his ax was above him, about to chop down once more. He found Dmitri suddenly wrapping both of his arms around the rail, screaming something at the others, like something was about to—
       The wave became Maksim's whole world. There was never a chance to reach for the rail. Before he knew it, he was in the lake, tumbling, spinning, falling, freezing, nothing but blackness and motion and a deafening roar all around him. And though his hands were numbing to nothingness, there was enough feeling left to know that he had lost the ax.
       A bright flash exploded behind his eyes as his head struck the rocks on the lake bottom. He was dragged along, unable to tell how far, too staggered to notice the pain of his tearing flesh. In fact, too staggered to move. His muscles wouldn't respond to his wishes. He was simply a plaything of the waves now. And he knew he was dying. There was pain in his heart, knowing that he had let his shipmates down, had lost the ax and perhaps their only hope for survival. He thought of his beloved Anna, and of Aleksandr, and how they would have to survive without him. For him, there was no peace in death. Only grief and regret.
       He felt arms beneath him, and his Eastern Orthodox beliefs—at the last—were being validated. An angel had come to carry him to heaven, to take him to be with his father once more. He felt the rush of water all around him, only able to imagine the speed at which the angel was carry him up, up, up though the thrashing waves and toward the surface. The arms were small, but he could feel their strength, and felt safe and strangely calm.
       And then there was wind and rain again as he and the angel broke the surface, hurtling into the storm. He smiled, waiting for the joyous moment when they would rise above the clouds that had brought death to him, above the turmoil, into clear night with its billions of stars, and finally beyond the stars themselves, where he would see the face of God at last and ask all the questions that mortality had denied him so long.
       But their rise slowed. And then they were falling, back down to Earth, back down to the waters that had taken him from his wife and son. What cruelty was this? Was the storm so great not even an angel could pierce it?
       Then impact.
       The arms laid him down on something rigid and rocking, and he realized he was back on the deck of his boat. He could see his comrades when he tilted his head back, upside-down in his field of view. The storm still tore at the ship, still tossed it severely and brought killing waves over its length. But Grigory, Dmitri and Valery were still. Unmoving, unflinching against the spray, they stared at him—no, above him—and were silent.
       Maksim looked up, ignoring the pain that stabbed at him when he moved his head and started to rise on his elbows. There, before him, was his angel.
       The girl could be no more than sixteen years old, perhaps not even that, considering her tiny frame. Her face was soft, and her eyes, large and beautiful. Her hair, darkened by wetness and set asail by the winds, seemed to go on forever. She wore only a shirt--a man's work shirt, far too large for her and tattered with age. Her legs were bare against the night, but the cold seemed not to bother or touch her. She did not shiver. She did not clench her arms about her to fight off the icy razors that even now danced on his own skin, after-effects of his journey below.
       She backed away a couple of steps, biting the tip of her forefinger, looking timid and unsure, watching them all. Her bare feet moved easily on the slick deck, effortlessly denying its power to toss and tumble.
       The trio behind Maksim continued to stare in awe. Maksim, his heart still touched by the great beyond, had to know.
       "Are you an angel?" he shouted to her, loud enough to be heard above tempest. His voice was desperate, rich with emotion, and…
       And obviously comical.
       The girl looked like she tried to fight it, but on hearing his words, her hand cupped over her mouth, and her face shook with uncontrollable giggles. Her eyes closed to slits. It was the laughter of a child—the laughter of a beautiful, sweet, innocent child. Maksim's seriousness drained away at once, and he felt light at heart. He, too, could not fight the smile that slowly came to his lips.
       Her hand came away, and she was smiling, too, still trying to recover from the words she had found so funny, and for a few seconds they simply enjoyed a moment of shared laughter. Behind Maksim, the disbelieving faces of the other fishermen softened, too. Grigory and Dmitri looked at each other in wonder, and then quickly back at the girl. She looked up from Maksim and to the others, seeming less wary now, but still shy, as they all forgot the rain for the moment felt drunk with warm amazement.
       The moment passed. The boat bucked fiercely with a huge, terrifying grind, and the girl's sure foothold nearly betrayed her. She sidestepped frantically and managed to stay up. The men all grabbed for anything solid, and Maksim slid into the rail, striking it with a cry of agony. The boat was about to go down.
       The girl cast her distraction aside and ran for the side of the boat. She leapt high into the air at the last moment, and Valery's jaw dropped. No human legs could have carried her so high. She piked at the leap's apex, straightening and plunging down into the waves.
       "Did you see...?" Valery asked, dumbstruck, gripping the fallen winch. The others had seen, but had no time to marvel. Wave after wave was now rolling over the deck, tugging at them all, offering them as sacrifice to the hungry, watery grave.
       The boat lurched again, but this time shot upward, and Dmitri grabbed at Valery's jacket to keep him from tumbling aft. It came down with a crash, but then rose again, bounding forward, carried by the winds and waves.
       They were free!
       "We're free!" Grigory yelled, repeating the obvious (to no one's complaint). "The boat is free!" He stumbled to his feet, scampering into view of the bridge. Behind the glass, the pilot was working the wheel furiously, shouting back at the others inside, his face hopeful and energized.
       Dmitri, instead, hurried to Maksim. Maksim has loosed his grip on the rail and was now flat on his back, his arms sprawled above him. Dmitri yelled to Valery, bringing him out his daze, and the boy rushed to his aid. The pair carried Maksim inside.
       Grigory held the door open for them, though it fought him. Once they were through, he let it slam behind the others, and he raced back to the winch. They were free, but would not stay so long with the net still slithering beneath them. He slid the last several feet of the way and yanked at the lever, praying that the motor had not burned itself out.
       The net began crawling back to its spool, and he laughed aloud into the gale. He leapt over the winch, grabbing and tugging at the net, trying to straighten it and keep it from feeding wrong and shutting down the works. He managed to keep it from faltering, and, though sloppily, the net returned.
       The ends fed up toward him, and he pushed the lever to stop them. He lifted the ropes in his hands, examining the cords with wonderment. They had not pulled loose from the rocks. They had been torn loose. Strands of fraying rope waved at him, and he was reverent before the sight for at least a minute before great belly-laughs overtook him and he fell back on the deck, howling at the falling rain and feeling like the child he had not been in a very long time.

       Maksim did not know how long he was out, but when he came to, he was on his bunk, and could hear the sloshing of water on the floor beneath him. Dmitri was there, smiling, grateful to see him awake.
       "Welcome back, my friend," he said, tying a bandage around Maksim's forearm. Maksim could feel other bandages on his flesh, and something tied tightly around his head. "You're well torn, but I've seen worse. We both have. You're going to be just fine."
       The boat still rocked and rose, making more noise than it was built to. Dmitri read his friend's question without words having to be spoken.
       "We're still in the rough," he explained, looking around the claustrophobic room. "But we've broken the storm. We're limping back to Listvyanka. You'll be home in your bed before the sun rises. Well, perhaps to the hospital first. A qualified doctor will have to undue the damage my poor ministerings have surely caused. But don't worry. You'll have plenty of time for bed rest. I don't think this old girl will be trawling for while."
       Maksim smiled, weakly, and nodded. Fishing, or worrying where the money would come from, were the last things on his mind. He was alive, whereas not long ago he had all but accepted death. His child still had a father. His wife would not spend her years alone. And all this because...
       His eyes narrowed in thought, and again his friend read him.
       "She was an angel, you know," Dmitri said, and smiled heartily. "That girl of yours. Maybe next time I'm telling the tale of the lake to the new boys, you'll not be so quick to mock me, eh?"
       Yes. She was an angel. And he, and every other fisherman that cast their nets on the great water, had heard the tale for a good five years. It had just been another fisherman's legend to him—a tale of a girl that lived beneath the waves, the angel of the lake that rescued fisherman from disaster. Many trawlers swore they had seen her, either in their most desperate hour—sparing them, miraculously, from damnation—or as she leapt from the waters like a magnificent young seal, giving them only a glimpse of her before plunging back into the great lake that was her only home.
       They called her Baikal, named for the lake and the nearby mountain range that watched over it.
       Maksim drifted easily, peacefully, back into sleep, a smile raising his swollen lips. Anna would never believe him. But Aleksandr would listen to the tale, wide-eyed, and would ask to hear it again and again. As he grew, he would certainly, time after time, watch out over the waters as the moonlight made them dance, ever watchful for a glimpse of his father's angel.

E N D  I N T E R L U D E  O N E

Tempe, Arizona

       Shane Doleman cranked the wheel of his shiny black Jeep hard to the left, expertly whipping the vehicle into his assigned parking space at the Campus Gardens apartment complex. He braked to a full stop with a harsh jerk, cutting the engine and popping his Gin Blossoms CD out of his Pioneer stereo. He pressed the CD into its plastic case, removed the multi-buttoned faceplate of the stereo, and tossed both into his Jansport backpack with his three-day-owned used books and a notebook that contained the Fall semester's first day of notes.
       He threw the pack over his shoulder and left the topless Jeep behind, heading through the parking lot and the carefully manicured shrubbery that served as the complex's entryway. The first day down. He had somehow managed to get all the classes he'd wanted, and most of them looked to be pretty cool. He was just entering his junior year (but still wasn't quite old enough to drink--even if he did drink), and a good deal of his general ed was behind him. He was having to screw with Statistics, but the majority of his schedule, for a change, was focused on his major—three drama courses and what promised to be a rockin' film class. He'd managed to get a prof who believed there was more to the world of film than all the pretentious foreign crap, and who was even having them analyze "Die Hard" sometime before Thanksgiving.
       His schedule was workable, and he was hanging on to his job post-summer, one of the most prestigious waiter gigs in town. He was working The Golden Swan at the Hyatt Resort at Gainey Ranch, arguably the nicest resort in Scottsdale (and that was saying a lot. If you spit and didn't hit a resort in Scottsdale...well, you'd probably just hit a golf course instead). The tips were righteous, the place was cool, and even though a lot of them had left after the summer, the girls he worked with were choice. This semester was looking to be one of his better ones.
       And, of course, there was all that other stuff going on in his life...
       He bounded up the cement stairs, fumbling for the right key, and then remembered that Jerry was most likely already home. Jerry's schedule got him out of class an hour earlier than Shane, so he was probably hacking away at the computer already, hard at work on his latest play, the one that would finally bring him some recognition. Jerry had been nuts enough to do summer session, too. Not Shane. Uh-uh. He needed the three months off for his brain to recover.
       Shane walked through the door of apartment 211, and yes, Jerry was at the computer. That had been a no-brainer.
       "What's up?" Shane greeted, setting his backpack next to the couch and heading for their tiny kitchen. The place was pretty darned small, but it suited the two best friends just fine. Shane's mother had money, of course, and Jerry's parents certainly weren't begging the streets, but the two boys had always promised each other that when they got out of high school, they'd get their own place with their own money. That didn't stop the families from providing a few choice housewarming gifts, of course, like the TV and the microwave, but for the most part, it was all theirs. The Jackie Chan and Counting Crows posters on the walls were testament to that.
       "Dude!" Jerry shouted immediately, excitedly, spinning around in chair, like he'd been waiting for Shane to come through the door. "You've got to come see this!"
       "Hold up, hold up," Shane called back from the kitchen, leaning into the fridge and grabbing a Mountain Dew can. He popped it open and drank deeply as he walked back around to what was supposed to be the dining area, but had ended up the computer center. "Oh, man," he said, finally taking off his Raybans. "This semester's gonna rock. Not Hagar rock. I mean Roth rock. You're never gonna believe my film class."
       "Later, later," Jerry—his creative, goateed, and occasionally hyperactive roommate—interrupted impatiently. He put his hand on top the computer monitor and nodded at it. "Dude. Feast."
       Shane focused on the screen and his eyes bugged.
       "No way."
       "Oh yeah," Jerry cracked up, more excited than amused. Jerry was online, and a web page was on-screen. Colorful letters on the screen identified it as "The Official Windjammer Web Site". There was a frozen video still taking up most of the page, a shot of him flying over Camelback Road just before he went into the still-under-reconstruction Planet Hollywood to take on the eco-terrorist group called Greenwar.
       "Is this beautiful?" Jerry asked. He started clicking on options on the screen, and Shane pulled up a chair and kept watching, transfixed. "Now this is the so-called 'official' page. Channel 5 put it up. You can download video of you flying, photos, commentary from Melanie Dodd on what it was like to be rescued by you, you big stuuuud." Jerry elbowed him jokingly. Shane just couldn't believe his eyes.
       "And, of course, no Windjammer site would be complete without—" Jerry moved the Packard Bell mouse and clicked, and up came a slightly grainy still shot of the costumed (bikinied, more like it) Delight.
       Delight. Shane's heart skipped a quick beat.
       "Oh, it's the babe, all right," Jerry said, grinning. He looked at the photo and then back at Shane, shaking his head. "You kissed that. You kissed that. Why haven't I killed you yet?"
       Jerry was the only one he'd confided in with the true facts of the big "villain" chase. There was no way he could tell Porter, or Captain Bonilla, or anyone else, for that matter, that he'd ended up kissing the super-powered blonde he was supposed to bringing to justice, and had then let her go. Sure, she hadn't really done anything (not really), but the justifying he used to ease his own guilt probably wouldn't float with the general public. But he'd had to tell somebody. It was hands-down the best kiss he'd ever had. And he hadn't been able to get the girl out of his mind since.
       "And this is nothing," Jerry kept on. "I've been jumping around. There are at least twenty sites and a few newsgroups. You've totally passed up Americana."
       "I wasn't aware it was a race," Shane said, not liking the connotation.
       "Hey, nothing mean in it," Jerry said, tapping his pen on the table. He thought about it. "She just needs more TV time, that's all. Magazines just don't cut it in the 90s, you know? Got to go for the tube." He dismissed the thought and got back to the point. "Anyway, people are going nuts for you, dude. The rumors and speculation are hilarious. You ought to read some of the ideas on your 'secret origin'."
       "Oh, really?" Shane said, finally making himself look away from the image of Delight.
       Jerry nodded. "Area 51 has come into play. The freaks are out there."
       He pointed back at the screen, and to Delight.
       "And don't think you're the only big topic. This chick's got fan clubs now. Artists are drawing her and posting their shots. I've found marriage proposals. There's this one site with Windjammer/Delight fan fiction, for crying out loud."
       "You're kidding me."
       "Oh, no. I downloaded one of them. It's called 'Love is in the Air'. It's this really horribly written piece of geek sex fiction that's got you two bonin' down over the Grand Canyon."
       Shane very nearly fell out of his chair "It what?!"
       "Don't worry," Jerry comforted calmly, patting him on the shoulder. "The writer has a lot of faith in your prowess. You come off quite the mack daddy. Apparently, the wind thing isn't your only super-power..."
       "Oh, my God," Shane moaned, dropping his head into hands.
       Jerry closed down Netscape and signed off America Online. "Get used to it, my friend," he said. "You're a world-wide celebrity now. Everybody wants a piece of you. You've now been on every TV screen in the world. You showed them all a man can fly, you rescued Terrance Cross—Mac flippin' Knight himself—from terrorists, and you traded shots with the world's first live-on-your-TV super-villain, who just happens to be one of the hottest babes ever witnessed by mortal eyes."
       He turned his head to Shane and snarled. "And you kissed her. I hate you. Have I mentioned that?"
       Shane got up and walked over to the couch, running his fingers through his hair. "It's all just too big, man," he said, flopping down and raising his face to the ceiling. "I just never thought it would go this far."
       Jerry turned toward him in the chair, his voice serious for a change. "Shane, what did you think was going to happen? People don't just do the things you do every day. You're a miracle of nature, my man. And then you put on a costume and fly around fighting crime? That's going to make some headlines. My Aunt Sarah in Philly hasn't left her apartment since, like, when Nixon was in office, and even she knows who you and Americana are. She called my mother last week and asked what it was like to live in the same city with 'that nice goy super-hero'."
       "With what?" Shane asked, distracted.
       Jerry made a dismissive gesture. "Don't even try, Opie."
       "I guess I just thought it would stay local, you know? Like it was for the first few months? That I could handle. I was just this big story in Phoenix, and made the front page of the Republic every once in a while. Last week I saw a picture in Time of a school kid in Tokyo wearing a Windjammer costume."
       "That's nothing," Jerry laughed. "There's this stripper up at Diamond Girls that peels out of a Delight outfit while they've got this big light show going on and—"
       Shane looked over at Jerry.
       Jerry cleared his throat. "You know, I mean, so I've heard. I know this guy whose cousin went and…" He quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, what's the big deal, man? You're a drama major, right?"
       "Right," Shane answered, not seeing the point.
       "You want to be an actor. You have since we were in the fourth grade. All you've talked about is being a big movie star, being on soaps just like your Mom was."
       His aspirations had gone beyond soap operas over the years, but yes, he did want to be an actor. He was pretty good at it, too. He knew his mother had always wanted to keep him away from the business that she had left behind, but it was always in his blood, and she had always told him he had to follow his heart when it came to what to do with his life. He had chosen acting.
       And now he was a super-hero.
       "Same principle," Jerry kept explaining. "Suppose you'd just become a really successful actor. Your face would still be all over magazines. Tabloids would be making up stuff about you having romances with starlets. There's not a Zambuli warrior that doesn't know Mel Gibson's face by now. It's the price of fame, dude. You just hit it a little sooner than you thought you would, and in a slightly...okay, severely different way."
       Something about this made the expression on Shane's face change. He looked over at Jerry indecisively, like he had something to say that might best be left in its safe little box.
       Jerry regarded him cautiously. "What?"
       Shane came to his decision and took out his wallet. He got up and walked back to Jerry, taking a business card out and handing to his friend. Jerry read the card. It belonged to Chester Fein, publicist.
       Jerry shook his head, questioning. "This is who? I don't understand."
       "That's Terrance Cross's publicist. He was there at the—"
       "Oh, yeah, yeah," Jerry said, tapping the card and remembering. "He was there at the thing. The whiny one with the bad hair plugs. I remember you telling me about him."
       "Yeah," Shane verified. "I, uh... I had dinner with him last night."
       Jerry looked up warily. "I thought you were working last night."
       "I was," Shane assured quickly, trying not to make it sound like he'd been lying to his best friend (when, in fact, he'd just been leaving some key facts out, which was only like lying if you really called it what it was). "I just left early. I guess after the whole Planet Hollywood thing was over, he got in touch with Bonilla. He wanted to set up a meeting with me."
       "A meeting? You and him?"
       "Well..." Shane cleared his throat. "Me, and him. And…Terrance Cross."
       Jerry successfully freaked. "What?!! Are you telling me you had dinner with Terrance Cross last night?"
       "Yeah," Shane winced. "I did."
       "Oh my God!" Jerry shouted, getting out of his chair. "You're just telling me this now? You had a sit-down with Mac Knight and I'm hearing about it 'by the way'?"
       "Yeah, I'm sorry, it's just..."
       "You're forgiven," Jerry blurted, hopping onto the couch, almost shaky with impatience. "Just spill the details!"
       "Well," Shane took a deep breath and began, "it was...it was cool. Terrance has this place off Saguaro Golf Course, and…"
       "Terrance?"
       "What?"
       Jerry's head was bobbing slightly as he stared at Shane, waiting for his roommate to get it. "Terrance. You're...calling him Terrance now."
       "Yeah, he asked me to."
       Jerry shook it off and jerkily motioned for him to go on.
       "So," Shane continued, starting to ease into a little bit of the excitement of it himself, finally, "Terrance just wanted to meet with me and give me a proper thank you for saving his life and all. He's a really great guy. It's not all just an act. He showed me all kinds of photo albums he has of him and just about everyone you can think of. The man golfed with the Duke, for crying out loud."
       "Dang," Jerry commented, mesmerized.
       "Tell me about it. So, we have dinner, we talk Hollywood, we talk super-hero stuff. He's sitting there asking me all these questions on what it's like to be a hero." Shane laughed, ironically. "Like he thinks I'm supposed to know! Like I have an idea what I'm doing!"
       "Yeah, hard to imagine, I know," Jerry agreed wryly.
       "And then, after all that, he and Chester make me this proposal."
       Jerry sat up straight. "Proposal?"
       "Pretty much the real reason they wanted to meet with me, I figure. Terrance wants to...I don't know...manage me. He started talking about all that stuff you were just saying, about the whole world wanting a piece of me. He said I couldn't avoid fame now. Now what I have to do is control it, and not let it control me. He said he and Chester have worked out a whole plan for my 'total image marketing'. They're talking publicity, advertising, books, TV, merchandise... The whole Michael Jordan special. They want to hook me up with interviews—the right interviews, not any of that American Journal stuff—and 'present' me to the world. It's all got to be timed just right, they tell me, everything done in the right order. And they've got the juice to do it, too."
       Jerry was completely in awe. "You're enormous," he said. "How do I fit on the same couch with you? You're just that big."
       Shane wasn't as impressed. He really just looked perplexed (kind of a standard look for him, actually). "It makes sense, I guess..."
       "You guess?"
       "I don't know. It's just...it's different. With acting, you expect to get famous and rich and go through all this. But what I do? I'm, like, a hero. I just wonder if being a hero is supposed to come with a line of trading cards and a Porsche and your own talk show. Doesn't that kind of...cheapen it?"
       Jerry nodded, grinning knowingly. "You're thinking about Porter, aren't you?"
Shane acted indignant. "No. No, that's not it at all."
       "Come on," Jerry prompted, waiting for it. The two had known each other way too many years.
       "Well," Shane admitted, quietly. "I am going over there for dinner tonight..."
       "Dinner with the Mormons," Jerry chanted in the Rob Schneider voice he often pulled out—and always when he used this phrase.
       "I'm just feeling kind of weird about telling him. I don't know if he'd like it."
       "Shane," Jerry said evenly, rationally, being Shane's voice of reason, as usual (though his advice didn't always end up being all that reasonable). "First off, it's your life, not his. I know you respect the guy and all, and he's got this kind of Dad-you-never-had bond happening with you, and that's great. Nothing wrong with that. But welcome to America, 1996. Reality's right there on that web page. Fame's fame, no matter what you do to get it. If they want you, there's nothing you can do about it. What you can do is look out for yourself. You've got the magic, man. It's your gift. I say there's nothing wrong with getting something for it. The world gets what they want—you. You, in return, get what we all want. Bucks. Fame. Love. Chicks with names like 'Bianca'. Welcome to the oyster, Mr. Doleman. You just got handed the keys."
       Shane still didn't look so sure.
       Jerry rolled his eyes, but was patient. "Okay. What's the bottom line on this? Did they give you some kind of deadline to decide?"
       "Kind of," Shane sighed. "They said they expected me to take some time to think it over, weigh all my other options."
       Jerry raised his hands approvingly to the skies. "Wise and honorable men. I love that. I'm liking Terrance's style more and more. See? Now I'm calling him Terrance. He's just that personable."
       "They gave me some paperwork to check out and a phone number to call."
       "Terrance's private number, right?"
       "Yeah, it is."
       Jerry nodded. "Class," he whispered.
       "What they really wanted for me was to come out to California and talk it over. They don't want me making any kind of decision until they get a chance to show me around the town, 'wine and dine' me a little."
       Jerry absolutely couldn't stand it. So much so he couldn’t speak his reaction aloud.
       "I told them I didn't really have too much time to spare right now, 'cause I'm a student at ASU."
       Jerry made an 'O.K.' sign with his right hand. "Great work keeping up that secret identity thing as usual, Mr. Kent."
       "But," he went on, taking a deep breath, "I did tell them I might have some time open during semester break, around the holidays. They made me an offer. They want me to come out after Christmas and spend a week or two. They want me to meet some people, take a screen test, do a little—"
       "Screen test?" Jerry interrupted.
       "Yeah," Shane laughed. "That's one of the things they're talking about—a Windjammer movie. This is Terrance's real area of expertise. He asked me if I'd ever done any acting." He laughed at this, assuming Jerry would find it funny, too, Shane actually being a drama major and all.
       Jerry wasn't laughing. Jerry was thinking—at approximately one million miles per hour, land speed.
       Shane continued. "He says, why waste money on a big-name actor and a lot of special effects when you can just have the real article doing it for you? Can you dig that? All this time, and my first movie could end up me playing myself."
       "A Windjammer movie," Jerry said, revelation in his tone. Shane didn't like the look in his eyes. It was kind of the same one he'd had when they were kids, and he convinced Shane they were going to get a fleet of bikes by selling greeting cards door-to-door and then make a fortune renting the bikes out to other kids. "Dude, why didn't I think of it?"
       "'It' being what?" Shane almost didn't want to ask.
       "Think about it!" Jerry shouted, shooting to his feet. "You and me, man! The dynamic duo! What have we been doing ever since high school? Me writing the plays, you playing the lead. Do we or do we not light up a stage?"
       "We do," Shane agreed. At least they both thought they did. And the hope was that other people felt the same way.
       "So..." As always, he waited for Shane to clue in, but that usually took longer than he was currently willing to wait. "A movie, Shane! Your movie. Who better to write it? Who's the best writer you know?" He put his fingertips on his own chest, making the answer obvious. "Who knows you better than I do? Think, think, think! They could get some studio schmuck to crank out some piece of assembly-line trash...or, they could get a real insider to write them something with some integrity. With honesty. With style! We could put together the greatest action epic of all time!"
       Shane wasn't quite as sure about all this. "I thought," he reminded, cautiously, "you'd given up the idea of writing film. I thought you said the theater was on the verge of a global comeback and needed passionate artists like yourself to rekindle it?" He was pretty sure he'd gotten the quote right. Close enough, anyway.
       "Screw that!" Jerry laughed, incredulously, and the words took Shane aback. "That was before my best friend became Andre Agassi on a freaking airboard!"
       He could see Shane's reaction, and backed off a little, correcting his stance. He sat back down on the couch, suddenly the voice of reason again.
       "Look, I did mean all that. But when I was talking about film, I was talking about writing for them—the corporations, the studios focused on the big buck and not the creation. This wouldn't be for them. This would be for you. For us, man. This is our dream, our big creative shot. It's all we've ever talked about."
       That was true. He hadn't really thought about it in those terms.
       "Just think about," Jerry said, conciliatory. "Give it some thought. Roll it around. Let's see what I can come up in terms of an outline. All I ask is that you don't make any hasty decisions about this. Okay?"
       Shane sat there, unsure as usual, while Jerry waited for an answer. It occurred to him that his old pal Jerry was sounding a whole lot like Chester Fein had during their closing handshake. A whole lot.
       But this also happened to be his best friend.
       He sighed, giving up. "I'll think about it," he agreed.
       "Yes!" Jerry shouted in triumph. "You are the man!" He slapped Shane on the shoulder, and Shane couldn't help but smile and feel good about making his friend happy. "You won't regret this. You and me, Shane. Right to the top, baby. Right to the top of the freakin' world."
       Jerry was back at his computer almost immediately, wearing his Phoenix Suns cap—backwards, his usual writing ritual—and hacking away at the beginnings of a new creation. Shane watched him with mixed emotions. He still just didn't know. He didn't know if he wanted all this. And he also wasn't sure he liked what 'this' was doing to his best friend, and the way he sounded a little too much like the slick and easy Chester.
       But, hey, come on, this was Jerry. Jerry was always like this, right?
       He waited on the answer, but by the time he headed out to the door to drive to the Scotts' house, he still hadn't gotten one.