The Cloaked Man did not deliberately plan on exiting, stage left, through the fire exit. But the pain inside made him take that hasty exit.  It was not the pitcher of coffee that gave him pain. The pitcher of boiling coffee he drank, actually diverted the pain temporarily; hot liquids could "help" his deteriorating condition.  At least the hot coffee took the pain away for a bit. Damn, he wished for more time!  He wanted time, taking time, to go through time.....

After the distraction caused by the fire alarm and such, The Cloaked Man staggered had managed to stagger from the alley at the side of Dorothy's-a somewhat goofy teenage hangout. Hopefully, that thing named Vicki and the freak Gally were still inside. He hoped they were lost in the crowd, and he cursed their existence. Still with a staggering walk, The Cloaked Man managed to see an obnoxious coffe house sign through the haze of pain that began to overtake his sight:  a "Starbucks" coffee joint. An arm around his gut, feeling near death, he pushed open a door to the small coffee shop-mumbling something about bad taste

"Hey there, how can I..." said a waitress, hands clasped before her, her face blanching when she saw the pain-twisted expression on the newcomer's face. "A...freaking... toilet, or just a plain old toilet...." he gasped. She pointed in the direction of the back. The few people in the coffee house turned their heads up from their deep conversations over poetry and such, looking at the too-sick young man that waddled through.

The Cloaked Man met his objective; he reached the toilet. He opened his mouth and promptly purged his stomach of coffee. In fact, coffee was all that came out. Maybe, fifteen minutes passed before he recovered enough to lift his head. But when the coffee left his stomach, the deep cold feeling in his back gripped him. If he didn't take his medicine, pain would replace that feeling of coldness. His last hours of life would be spent twisting in a personal hell.

This was how his own quest would end.  Damn Vicki Lawson, first of all.  That gynoid should never have been upgraded!  Maybe, he should have gone back to the 1980s...maybe.  But it was too late to reconfigure the intricate and hard-wired microelectronics of the personal trans-warp cape he had.  He only found out after he finalized his cape's workings that Vicki was more vulnerable during the 1980s, when she had a more "robotic" personality.  "Huh, huh, robotic personality...!"  Chuckling at the ironic description made him feel a bit weakened, a bit more sickened.

And then, what about that freak, Gally?  What the Hell?  How was he to know that Gally could kick his minions' asses?  From his perusal of Administration records, all that he saw was that Gally was critical to her times.  He expected to hire bullies to take out the little alloyed bitch, big-eyed and synthetic-fleshed doll-face and all.  There were plenty of thugs to hire in Scrap Iron City.  Also, there was almost no policing.  He could have had his way with Scrap Iron City, with Gally--the most skilled fighting cyborg--out of the way.  Gally, that freak, was an ancient wisdom-talking, short, skinny, metal-bodied, fake-faced, revealing bodysuit-wearing, cyber-bitchy, techno-prudish....  The Cloaked Man was so caught up in his sophisticated slandering of the female cyborg that his next wave of nausea surprised him, and he wretched into the toilet, nothing much coming up.

And Thunderhorse, that jerk from Administrations.  So what, he was hired to regulate time travel?  Before Thunderhorse took that job, who in tarnation was he?  What a snob, probably doing everything from behind one of those stupid traditional desks of wood that the Administrations people love to use.  Damn human beings, half-human cyborgs, and fake robot-bitches!  Damn everyone to whatever Hell there is after the crossover to death!  The Cloaked Man leaned on the toilet.

"Tar-nation...  Dang-it...  Dang-nabbit... Confound it...." he angrily grumbled, cold sweat breaking out all over. He flushed the toilet, then stood up-too quickly! With that cold feeling in his back, he had seriously sick trouble reaching the small bathroom's sink   He then washed face and hands with that chemical-smelling soap mixed with hot water, the ice feeling in his back and the painful haze in his vision now tolerable--but would worsen again soon. The pills in his slacks' pocket, he needed to take them with water.

Knock-knock-knock. "Sir?" came the muffled voice. "Do you need help?" It was a waiter, a nosey waiter. Go snort coffee grounds, you bourgeoise servant-boy, thought The Cloaked Man. He didn't say that, instead reached into his right pocket. Despite the ice-grip feeling in his back, The Cloaked Man managed to un-pocket a two-inch thick fold of American dollars-circa 1990-and peeled off a fifty-dollar bill. Kneeling carefully, he knelt by the door, then knocked as he partially slid the cash under the door.

"I'm busy in here! Consider this an hour rental of your...facilities," said The Cloaked Man, numbness beginning to take him in the head. "Will do, kind sir!" said the waiter, the fifty dollar bill vanishing quickly from underneath the door as if slipped through a time-warp.  It was somewhere where it was just as likely to disappear:  the bribed waiter's pocket.The Cloaked Man sighed, then managed to squirm to the sink. He needed his medicine. He wanted to end the pain.

Hands on the row of sinks, he lifted himself and stood before the sink. His left hand removed the light-green pill bottle from his pocket, and his right hand pressed a button on the small bottle's top. A red pill popped into his right hand, and The Cloaked Man popped the pill into his open mouth. He then ducked his mouth under the bathroom faucet, gulping water with the pill. Ah, that's...sweet! It was relief, and he felt normal again.

With his sense of well-being falsely restored by the pain-killer, and a new smile on his face, The Cloaked Man jerked up to look at himself in the mirror. He didn't really like a sick man, but Countdown Syndrome didn't really make people seem "sick"-until the symptoms struck. From there, not even the medicine of his own time could stop the viral infection. All that the med-techs could do was give him an analgesics dispenser and give their apologies. The Cloaked Man clenched his fists: Damn the med-techs, too!  In fact, Countdown Syndrome was the damned reason why he damned well decided to raise hell with time travel. The smile widened as his fists clenched tighter.

His right fist dove into a back pocket, removing the flat timepiece he first consulted when standing before Bonnie Brindle--before he took her to Scrap Iron City of the 30th century.  On the disk, a small gray rectangular display showed how much time doctors calculated he had to live: "5.56hrs."  He had roughly six more hours of life. Quickly, The Cloaked Man slipped the timer into his back pocket. There was no stopping how much time he had left-hence, "Countdown" Syndrome. Doctors gave him that timer; doctors calculated how long he had of his own time left among humanity before crossing over.  There was no sense in watching his life life count down to zero, when it was time for him to die--or cross over.

Ah, the "crossover" was a euphemism for death in The Cloaked Man's own time.  When people "crossed over," that was it for them.  It was a clever saying.  The Cloaked Man doubted that Vicki would get it.  That dumb gynoid Vicki wouldn't get it. That steel-can girl Gally from the 30^th century probably wouldn't get it, either; the word "crossover" was too cool for the likes of her!  Really, "crossover" was a euphemism from The Cloaked Man's own time--a time period so far into centuries beyond and so teched-up that people no longer bothered to count the years.

But now, now what? As he rinsed his hands and face once more, The Cloaked Man considered options. He already spent up most of his life's last hours hiring criminals and such.  Pranks, he spent his life's last hours on pranks in time.  Many people are loyal to money, some more loyal to it--and therefore more unscrupulous in getting it.  And with the "cape" he had, he could sometimes trans-warp into the most convenient places:  stealing money from caches and vaults was easy to the point of being boring: easy in the 20^th century, and easy in the 30^th century. Did he have enough time to hire more troublemakers?  No, he was nearly out of time.

No, it took five hours just to hire the professionals that hit the Brindles' house: It took him half an hour to warp into a vault and gather the cash, then four and one-half hours just to hire the right people for the job. Besides, he doubted that California's more-professional thugs-for-hire would take his money anymore--after what happened to those three he hired last.  And,if  he pulled the same prank again, Gally and Vicki would just run on by and stop the business the same way they did.    the thugs he hired. As for pulling another personal prank, like stealing from that blind woman's home, couldn't be done again.  The same joke is only funny once.

The Cloaked Man left the bathroom, felt the air on his sweaty face.  The material of his tee-shirt automatically evaporated and cleansed away the sweat; clothing from The Cloaked Man's time period were truly stain-resistant. A male waiter, a smarmy look on his face, quickly moved to stand before The Cloaked Man. "Would you, sir, desire any other services?" It was the waiter that The Cloaked Man bribed. He took a look at the mercenary waiter. What could be done now?

"Garcon, je voudrais peu de cafe au lait..." said The Cloaked Man, showing off the language translation made possible by the hypno-induction for universal translation:  He underwent the same process for understanding languages that Vicki and Gally did before leaving the something-eth century, before leaving the time period Thunderhorse's office resided in.  The waiter frowned, mulled the words, though.  He didn't understand French.  "Dude, get me a pitcher of joe-and put some cow in it," added The Cloaked Man. The waiter still frowned. The waiter did not understand late 20th century coloquailisms, either.  He is more dull than a teflon-coated tree-stump topped with oatmeal, thought The Cloaked Man, not daring to say the psychadelic metaphor aloud.  Those pills must have begun to help deteriorate his already low sanity.

Luckily, not all people in this time period were as dull as the dim-wit in the Starbucks uniform. "Some cof-fee...and...milk," said The Cloaked Man, enunciating the words. The waiter's face lit up with inspiration, and he scampered off to get the order. The Cloaked Man sat at the nearest table. What now?  At the table, The Cloaked Man's smile faded-his mind fading into contemplation. So far, that doofy duo-metal bitch Gally and Barbie-fake Vicki-effectively undid whatever he did. And those pranks were very important: key acts in history that would have eventually built up into more trouble for humanity down the line. It all went so well; all was so perfect.

"Your cofee, sir," said the dull waiter, bringing by the coffee. The Cloaked Man peeled off another fifty dollar bill, then flicked it at the waiter. The waiter caught the cash, then went off. The Cloaked Man's thoughts went back to past actions. He hired the thugs to kidnap Vicki because Vicki was a prototype gynoid, and because the Administration records he hacked said that she was damned important. If the thugs he hired managed to abduct and cripple the gynoid, then research in robots and Artificial Intelligence would be set back centuries-as a heartbroken Ted Lawson was to have given up deveoloping gynoids like Vicki. That would have been one hammer-blow to humanity's future.

Instead, Thunderhorse managed to pull Vicki out and repair her. So, Vicki remained and Ted Lawson would not give up on robotics; human technology would continue. Then, the backup plan to completely eliminate the neighbors also failed-thanks to that gynoid and that cyborg. All that The Cloaked Man managed to do was kidnap that corpulent Bonnie Brindle and leave her stranded in the 30^th century-but no one would miss her. Then, there were the history-altering acts The Cloaked Man tried in the 30^th century to ruin humanity.

Why had he pulled a particular prank in Scrap Iron City?  The Cloaked Man hired drugged-up street toughs in the 30^th century to get at Gally herself, actually. Gally, the cyborg from Scrap Iron City, was another pivotal figure in human history. Her selfless acts for others in the 30^th century would eventually begin new hope for people in Scrap Iron City, hope for the human race beyond the anarchal and post-apocalyptal ghetto full of cyborgs and misery. If the thugs would have taken out Gally then and there, The Cloaked Man would have managed to ruin the future even more--another great prank!

He had that same pack of cyborg losers attack people every day to get Gally to notice.  He hoped that Gally would be so overcome with grief that the thugs he hired could easily kill the small cyborg female. No dice, the thugs were killed by that freak-talking cyborg-girl. Damn that Gally: How was he to know that she had a fighting style unmatched by anyone else? Maybe, that was why she was so important to history.

It was a grand irony: The very people he sought to destroy as part of his pranks in time were set against him!  The Cloaked Man took a sip of coffee through a smile at the thought.  Thunderhorse must have realized something was up. Then, Thunderhorse must have spent much time and effort in convincing Gally and probably reprogramming Vicki before spending more in sending them out. So, so far, The Cloaked Man failed to change history.  History.... He was still in the 1990s, in Southern California, at a Starbucks. He was still in history.  And soon, with Countdown syndrome kicking up trouble, he would be history: history in history!

The Cloaked Man sipped his coffee, not really tasting it. He didn't need the coffee now, now that the pain was dead. The pain was dead, but The Cloaked Man knew that the virus continued its slow work on his nervous system. Nothing could stop Countdown Syndrome: certainly not anything out of California of the 1990s, nor anything out of Scrap Iron City of the 2990s. And for his last trick, The Cloaked Man hoped that nothing would stop him.

Now, what deviltry could he come up with? The Cloaked Man's eyes regarded the midday scene outside. People passed by. They went about their business. Ordinary people, they did not know about the self-declared cosmic joker that wanted to end history forever.  No one knew. No one but those two knew.  And maybe, Thunderhorse was prepping them for another move against him.

Well, why cry over spilled coffee? Gally and Vicki screwed all of his previous plans. Yet, there was one more thing he could try. Who did The Cloaked Man know about in the corrupt and decadent 30^th century that had knowledge of microelectronics?  Who had skill enough to work with even nanomacines?  That person could not easily be plied with stolen cash. But all the same, he would probably show some extreme interest in some other form of payment.  And he would be just the person to undo that team of cyborg and robot, Gally and Vicki.  The Cloaked Man's grin stretched a bit. Would a certain Dr. Nova be willing to make a trade, in doing a favor for some far-flung microelectronics?  With just some hours left in his life, The Cloaked Man would die trying anything. It was just too bad that the idea he had now wasn't concocted earlier.

He opened his mouth, foolishly wide.  Then, deliberately, he swiped his big and rough left hand across his cup of coffee.  "Oops! That was very...very careless of me!" he nearly shouted. Waiters and waitresses frowned. One waiter in particular moved to handle The Cloaked Man's mess. But before he reached the table, The Cloaked Man did something with that cape sewn to his back. He then vanished. When the waiter arrived at the table, he just found a mess. I dare Thunderhorse to send Vicki after me, partnered with Gally, was The Cloaked Man's last complete thought in the 20^th century.  He had vanished into time.
 

"Gally, I do not feel too well..." said Vicki. Gally and Vicki remained were at the table, considering what to do next about The Cloaked Man. But now, perhaps that consideration has begin to tax Vicki's processors. In Gally's own time, humanoid robots were more reliable-referring to software. Yet the humanoid robots-or replicates-in Gally's time often had separate machinery to house their operating software. Gally took a better look at Vicki: Is all of her thinking software contained within her own body? If so, that was probably plenty of computer hardware squeezed into Vicki-to house a humanoid robot's mind.

Vicki stopped blinking. Her voice began to become more of a monotone. "I AM NOT WELL." Gally watched Vicki, waited for further developments before she acted. "WARNING: PERSONALITY EMULATION MALFUNCTION. CANNOT PROCESS OR STORE PERSONALITY DATA ON SUBJECT: THE CLOAKED MAN. OUT OF MEMORY. REVERTING TO CORE PROGRAM OPERATION."  It was simple speaking, a robot's more true speaking....

Gally tried to speak to the gynoid. "Vicki, you have...run out of memory?" she asked. "YES." Gally had to know more, about what this really meant. "Can you understand me?" "I CAN PROCESS BASIC ORDERS." Vicki's maker would have to deal with the gynoid; Gally did not dare to tamper with Vicki's workings. There was nothing to do now but take the gynoid home. "We leave now, Vicki. You must be helped." "PLEASE CLARIFY," said Vicki. "Follow me to your house," said Gally. "MY HOUSE IS THE DESTINATION. I WILL FOLLOW."

As Vicki's artificial personality was gone, gone because of software errors, Vicki was practically mindless. Vicki still retained her upgraded physical appearance, but she was now back to the same and nearly lifeless personality she had when she was first brought home from the laboratories at United Robotronics. Vicki, then, was gone-for now. Gally had to guide them both through the downtown streets of 20^th century California. Gally was now alone in a time and place with which she had almost no understanding: little understanding of the laws or customs. She did remember the way to the Lawsons.

Gally left through the front entrance. Vicki followed, her brown eyes wide open and unblinking. The personality that "was" Vicki was locked somewhere in there, inside..... Gally hoped that Dr. Lawson could bring it back before Thunderhorse sent them out of this time period. If not, maybe the peculiar properties of the trans-warp would not be able to restore the gynoid's personality. Thunderhorse's trans-warp could repair physical damage; software errors could be different issues.

On the street, small Gally walked. So many were tall here, her four-foot cyborg self having to look up at the teenagers and adults. Gally knew something about simple replicates, and treated Vicki as if she were behaving as one. "Follow me. Stay behind. Do not lose focus on me in this crowd," said Gally, staying with simple sentences. Vicki obeyed. "FOLLOW YOU." Gally began to worry, but continued on.

Several miles, and they were back at the Lawson's. Ted answered the door, his hair needing just some combing and his shirt with some wrinkles. "Vicki! Gally!" said Ted, maybe too loudly. He then had a look at blank-faced Vicki. "Oh... Come in." He stepped aside. Small cyborg and taller gynoid stepped beyond the door, and Ted closed it.

Ted stepped before Vicki. "She must have reverted to her core AI. Her personality must be gone." Gally nodded. Ted smacked his head, then left his hand there. He brought his hand down, then spoke to Gally. "Gally, did Vicki give any sort of self-diagnostics statements? Like, 'ERROR MACRO' or 'MEMORY ALLOCATION ERROR?'" Gally's lips formed a small "O" as she thought for a second.

"As specifically as I can recall now, she claimed to be 'out of memory.'" Ted Lawson smiled; there was nothing wrong here-nothing that could not be undone. Since Gally knew Vicki's secret (as did a select group of Jamie's friends), there was no need not to lie to excuse Vicki's behavior. "I know just the thing to fix Vicki up." Ted held Vicki's chin. "She'll be fine and dandy in no time."

Joan stepped in from the kitchen. "Oh, hi, Gally. Vicki, you didn't tell me that you two were out patrolling the streets again." Ted turned to Ted. "Ted, is something wrong?" Ted lightly shook his head, then smiled. He said, "Vicki's memory needs to be recollated again: I think that she's been running too long without being maintained. Vicki, go and await maintenance in the workroom." Vicki nodded, confirming the order from her maker. "AWAIT MAINTENANCE IN THE WORKROOM," said the teenage gynoid, monotone voice. She then stomped her way to the second floor, to Ted's own home computer lab. Multiple computer workstations operating in tandem were what Ted used to maintain Vicki's software. He then went partway upstairs to follow Vicki.

On the eight step, Ted stopped. "Joan, would you keep Vicki's friend busy? Maybe she's hungry? I don't know what cyborgs eat, but she'll probably tell you." With a nod to the two women in the living room, he went upstairs. Vicki would need some work. Downstairs, Gally the metal-bodied cyborg and Joan the twentieth-century school teacher regarded each other. "So, I'm sure that there is something in the kitchen that you can eat...if you eat?" Gally gave one nod.

Upstairs, with four microcomputers on and running, Ted prepared to recollate Vicki's memory. Vicki constantly learned, her sub-processors constantly analyzing and picking up behavior. She was still a prototype, and she still "learned" human behaviors. But Vicki sometimes had to have the data in her mind recollated, reogranized. Otherwise, like any advanced computer, she "crashed." Ted Lawson had to maintain Vicki, reminding him yet again that his daughter was a robot. Regardless of how "human" Vicki's behavior became, she would always be inhuman.

"Vicki, stand before workstation one for maintenance," he ordered. Vicki stood by one of four computer workstations lined along the wall. That computer had an inch-thick fiber-optics cable terminating in a single square connector. He lifted the back of Vicki's blouse, then pressed part of her lower back. He felt the section give away. Ted removed his hand, and a three-by-three inch section of Vicki's back folded out. Ted plugged Vicki in, plugged his "daughter" in to the systems that would help her. At least, Vicki would never need emotional counseling--unlike human beings; the computers helped her mind.
 

Downstairs, Joan had Gally take a seat right at the Lawson's kitchen table. The short and four-foot female cyborg looked small at the table, considering who the table was made for.  The Lawsons were a relatively tall family-especially with Jamie gaining some height. But Gally was short and small, roughly the same height Vicki was given the first two years she stayed in the Lawson residence. Joan wondered about Gally. But first, what does a person with an artificial body eat?

"Gally, what do you...eat? Or do you eat?" asked Joan, looking at the metal-bodied female whose chest was level with the table. Gally smiled. "I have a good digestive system, madam," said Gally. "Ido installed it himself.  It's a turbo-8 system." Joan stepped back a bit, worried about Gally's artificial insides: What if Gally broke down because of whatever Joan offered?

"Maybe, some of the food here would not be too good for you.  But let's try something.  Can your digestive system take starches and sugars?" asked Joan. Gally smiled at the thought of sugars, thought of glucose. "Yes, I can digest most foods in general. However, glucose-rich foods sound well to me. Do you have any...'cookies?'  I believe 'cookie' to be the word; I'm not sure…." Joan smiled, nodded, then reached into a cabinet. Cyborgs eat cookies, thought Joan. I'll be sure to remember this, just in case any other cyborgs drop by for dinner.

"And Joan Lawson," began Gally. Joan turned around, a ceramic jar of chocolate-chip cookies cradled in her hands. Gally was feeling more self-conscious of her synthetic self with Joan Lawson's eyes on her.  "Are you afraid of me, how I look. Afraid of what I am?" asked Gally.  Joan shook her head. "No! N-n-o! Oh, no! I am not!" Joan smiled. "There is nothing wrong with you. You should not be ashamed of your natural appearance. As I teach my students to tolerate those different from theselves, I believe that what people are is not important; who they are matters." Gally was silent, did not speak back.

Instead, she moved to remove the leather clothing that disguised her body's inhumanity. She quickly removed the leather jacket she wore, exposing the smooth and slender metal arms. Gally then laid her jacket on her hard and pseudo-leather encased lap. She paused, took a furtive glimpse at Joan, then tugged off the leather gloves that covered her metal hands. With the jacket off, air could now better circulate along small cooling holes along the sides of Gally's solid limbs.

Joan Lawson stared all the while, in wonder. It was more shocking than the first meeting, now that Joan Lawson was alone with this cyborg-now able to look at Gally more closely.  Joan then placed the cookie jar before Gally, removed the circular top. Gally's eyes stayed downcast, the cyborg feeling very churlish. "Oh, go ahead! You must feel hungry..." said Joan, her voice trailing off. What did a cyborg's hunger feel like?  Was there hunger in that silvery and petite form, or was there a sort of pain?  Joan was very curious, slight fear of the unknowable being at the table that she was still unsure of things....

Now, it was another time when Gally felt very conscious of her inhuman body. If the pale and synthetic flesh of her face could allow blushing, Gally would. But the way she held her head, her dark hair framing her down-turned face, told Joan how Gally felt. Gally's metal fingers lightly clasped a cookie, then brought it to her small lips. Painfully shyly, Gally chewed the cookie she held with electromechanical hands, mouth working, swallowed parts of the cookie down an artificial throat.

Joan stomped her foot, frustrated at herself and the discomfort she felt around the small cyborg.  "You shouldn't be ashamed of yourself, Gally. There is nothing you can do about your body, about what you are. Please, don't feel down," said Joan, sadness bordering on her voice. Gally finished the cookie. "Oh, help yourself." Gally took another, sadness and chagrin building.  She would have cried, so much attention being given to her.

The poor thing, thought Joan. Joan shirked off any doubts or fears she had of holding someone that seemed inhuman, then pulled a seat next to Gally. Gally stopped eating, her metal hands moving to her lap. Joan smiled, and moved her right arm around the small cyborg. The metal was not as cold as Joan thought.  Joan wrapped both arms around the small being:  Her right arm was around and across Gally's hard back, left hand on Gally's left shoulder, fingers on solid exoskeleton. The metal arms, they were just so hard and probably very unfeeling.  Joan continued to hug the small and metal bodied girl--skin coming into contact with warm and hard metal.

Gally did not move. She could not actually feel the arms around her, but just stayed in the feeling of being held. Perhaps, in far-off memories, Gally felt this way before--being held. But Gally did not remember being held by a mother. Before being torn through time, before her memories became buried, before her body was cut away and replaced with one of sculpted and crafted metal and rugged electronics, Gally must have had a mother--but did not remember one. Right now, though, Gally felt somewhat warm in the arms of Joan Lawson.
 

Millenia into the future, in Another Place, Thunderhorse felt the insulating feeling of frustration. The Administrative Database search programs absolutely failed to get him the information he requested. The computer terminal at his desk did nothing to help. Outside and behind the curtained panoramic window, outside the largely unlit office, big baritone sounds of a storm boomed. Those triple sounds were like explosions; the sounds made by unseen lightning outside rippling and echoing into the marble-floored space inside.

His fingers pattered along the keyboard, an easy three hundred words a second--and he was just going at a moderate pace. Thunderhorse paused, looked at the results, then typed some more. Damn, what frustration! That joker really did work on the database before skipping out with that independent time-travel trans-warp device.  As Thunderhorse finished typing up another string of search request commands, he thought of what he would do if The Cloaked Man were in the office now. I would wrap that damned embedded-electronics device he wears, wrap it round his neck. After he's legally dead, I will leap up and down on his ribcage until his chest caves in.

Thunderhorse's smile widened after that spate of typing. Reslults of the "deep search" would come in seconds. Until those results came, Thunderhorse formulated what he would do to the Cloaked Man if that jerk wold appear in the office. I would give him electroshocks across the skull until he's a babbling and brainless vegetable.  I would continue the electroshocks until he's a smoking ruin.  Then, I'll activate the automated security devices to tear him apart.  I will then begin to get serious and move on to using....

The Good Man sat opposite and apart from Thunderhorse, both seated at that traditional woooden desk. Thunderhorse, head heated with frustration, rattled in commands through th Thunhderhorse had a face of reflected anger. Meanwhile, The Good Man had a genial and slightly wrinkled face of kindness. He thought Thunderhorse had a look of slight inexperience

Thunderhorse was sometimes very emotional.  In times when plans did not go as planned, when plans were stifled, he felt frustration build. As Thundherhorse was a person with new responsibilities and abilities of office, he was more likely to feel stifled at times. But, Thunderhorse's experience was still developing--as Thunderhorse was still primarily an inexperienced person. Indeed, Thnderhorse was still considered an and impatient youth in his contemporary society. At least, he was not insolent.

The Good Man allowed Thunderhorse this moment of anger release. Youth was always impatient, compared to the old. Thunderhorse muttered a mountain of oaths, cursing that self-proclaimed "cosmic joker" of a man. The Cloaked Man was damnably clever. He covered his exit well before leaving this time period--whatever the time period was.

Growlingly, "The grinning fool actually erased all of his personal data from the official records. Everything is gone from the main system!" Thunderhorse's anger was heard in his voice, a rumbling of frustration against The Cloaked Man.  He seriously haded the tanned-looking and dark-haired fool in the slacks, t-shirt and cape. He really wished the man dead.

"You're still hunting down The Cloaked Man's motives, aren't you?" asked The Good Man, the gray-haired and soft-faced being crossing his sweater-covered arms. "By going through the official records, you hope to find out why he's out there in history--raising Hell." Thunderhorse glared, but his anger was certainly not against The Good Man.  Thunderhorse spoke through a clenched jaw. "That fool, clown, and freak of a person seems to have left nothing. Without a motive for his intentions, I find it difficult to plan any pre-emptive moves against him. I can't send the cyborg and the gynoid ahead to stop him before he acts." Thunderhorse intertwined his fingers, placed his hands to the left of the computer monitor--the center of his desk. He leaned forward.

"What you're saying is that The Cloaked Man is always ahead in the game," said The Good Man, arms still crossed. "You must think The Cloaked Man is unstoppable, must think that he's going to get away with massaging the timeline and organizing troubles." The Good Man placed his hands at the edge of Thunderhorse's desk. "Well, I doubt that! That man, that rough and terrible rogue ought to have something coming to him!

"Have you considered why The Cloaked Man would dare to use an independent time trans-warp device at all, Thunderhorse?"   Thunderhorse's feeling of slow anger turned into shock.  He never considered that.  Why, indeed, had The Cloaked Man taken to using such a dangerous form of transportation?  A suicidal fool would have used a portable trans-warp device like the one of The Cloaked Man's:  Such devices were still dangerous.

Portable temporal trans-warp devices were still in the development phase--and therefore notoriously nearing unpredictability. The last twelve people to try independent time-travel of any sort did not survive past ten or so trips. Sometimes, they returned just dead--their bodies frozen to absolute zero. And, there were those that did not return in one piece at all--if all of them made it back. Only suicidal fools bothered to try out the portable devices.

"I will check the Medical. He may have been suicidal, but maybe he did not delete those." Or maybe, he actually made a mistake, thought Thunderhorse. There had to be a gap in the seeming invincibility of The Cloaked Man. No one was perfect. What was The Cloaked Man's weakness? The medical records came up, and Thunderhorse read them. That was why.

Why had he not checked the Medical Database before? Thunderhorse saw a three-dimensional representation of The Cloaked Man's bust, an image that could be rotated. The file had sections listing various illnesses The Cloaked Man had before. Of note was Countdown syndrome; The Cloaked Man had it.

"He is suicidal. That damned fool is suicidally bent on what he's doing!" Thunderhorse's voice boomed in the office. He snorted before continuing. "Well, that explains his full and final plan--seeking to upset history enough to destroy it. Misery loves company, and I think that all of the bravado he displayed before vanishing just hid something else."

The Good Man beamed, nodded slowly. Apparently, that was the solution to the trouble, the trouble to The Cloaked Man as a dilemma. Countdown syndrome was final, a final end to whomever had it. As such, the disease was locked in--bound to kill him. The Cloaked Man probably carried a timer in his back pocket, a small one that counted down his last hours.  And the photography with the medical file showed The Cloaked Man with just one swarthy skin tone. As the disease progressed, it was likely to make his skin redden even more. And his hands were probably gnarled as well, the hand probably looking rough and worn. Callouses easily came to those with Coundown syndrome. Ironically, that was probably why The Cloaked Man chose to spend the last of his life in traveling through time and causing troubles: He was running out of time.

Not even the repairing properties of trans-warp could stop Countdown syndrome. Trans-warp was very useful for undoing gross physical harm for those with extensive synthetics. Cyborgs and robots, less physically sophisticated than human beings, were repaired with trans-warp time travel. In fact, because of that, Thunderhorse chose the cyborg and gynoid. But for full human beings, human beings with a minimum of synthetics, trans-warp did almost no good--save for perhaps repair broken limbs.

But The Cloaked Man was not a cyborg, and his illness was chemical--not grossly physical. He had a viral infection, one that worked on the human nervous system. And the disease kept going. Fortunately, only people with certain types of DNA developed the disease. Eventually, all of those with the disease would die off. Which was another reason why Administration in Thunderhorse's time did not seek a cure for it. It was "survival to the fittest," and The Cloaked Man would not get survival: not in this game!

The slow smile on Thunderhorse's face was a heartfelt one. Try as The Cloaked Man might, what chance was there that he could cause trouble forever? All that Gally and Vicki had to do was keep The Cloaked Man occupied. And, according to the equations that he had earlier on his monitor, the duo had done that. Also, the orb on his desk had not changed color for some time, showing how The Cloaked Man's efforts at disrupting history and doing whatever in time were halted efforts. With time, thought Thunderhorse, victory comes. Gally and that gynoid would just have to act as foils, as distractions, until The Cloaked Man called it quits for all of eternity.

Yes, with the small green lamp on his desk indirectly illuminating his features, there was a very big smile across Mr. Thunderhorse's face.
 

In the late 20^th Century, in Southern California, in a wide suburban neighborhood, in the Lawson home, in the upstairs, in the room filled with much computer-hardware, Ted Lawson continued collating and re-collating Vicki's experiences. Vicki's blouse was off, and the gynoid stood with just a white training brassiere on her upper body. (Just maybe, she would always wear them--until Joan harassed Ted into giving Vicki another physical upgrade.) Vicki's personality emulation was off; she had no "opinion" at all about standing topless and with a fiber optics-embedded cable in her back. A small and square section of her upper back slightly to the right of her titanium spine was open--the smaller access port an improvement over the immense access flap on her back, the access panel she had over a decade ago before being upgraded so many times.

In the cable, fiber optics channeled data back and forth between Vicki's memory and the multiple compter workstations set along the wall of the room. Ted would delete most of the visual data Vicki picked up--to save memory in Vicki's storage units. Also, the raw text transcriptions of conversations she had would be re-interpreted by the outside computers--and refined for use by Vicki's own personality emulation program: how to better interpret people's conversations, their feelings, and how to continue conversations.

And the things Ted downloaded from Vicki's raw memories brought out some feelings of sadness. The samples of transcribed text Ted read showed disturbing truths about where Vicki really had been: a place called Scrap Iron City. Ted doubted it's existence, but here was actual confirmation of that place the cyborg downstairs talked about.  Eventually, Ted loaded and read the recorded transcripts of Vicki's initial conversations with Gally and Ido. He read quite a bit about that city centuries beyond now: cyborgs working, struggling and surviving in a heirarchical society centered in a hyper-urban, read about how people with mechanized bodies had to often fend for their own safety. He was sober-faced as he read about the very violent criminals that appeared in Scrap Iron City despite the similarly violent system based on bounty-setting--and therefore based on the death penalty.

There were also still and one-shot digital photgraphs of what Vicki saw, saved in her memory. Ted saw actual photo images of Scrap Iron City, the hard and mechanized city of the future--a blocky, artificial and harsh landscape of sad sidewalks, low buildings, factories, and city-scape for as far as Vicki's 1024-by-768 resolution vision could see. He was somewhat frightened of that vision, but frightened in a way that just drew his curiousity more. The information, along with the imagery, seemed somewhat frightening. It was also darned interesting.

Then, there was The Cloaked Man. Ted read the transcription of Vicki's close-quarters meeting with The Cloaked Man, how he spoke in sometimes convoluted ways. Vicki's personality emulation still had faults, and encountering entirely new people sometimes cause some errors in her processing as well. But The Cloaked Man, according to the diagnostics data also kept during Vicki's conversation with him, was mad. The Cloaked Man was mean--and he did not care. He was obnoxiously reckless. And he cause trouble and pain to others while laughing as he organized troubles. Ted hated The Cloaked Man, the fool's image on the screen. Tanned skin and a medium build, square-jawed and with a headful of dark hair, The Cloaked Man had a certain look. That man in the tee-shirt, he caused troubles.

In twenty-five minutes, the recollation of Vicki's memory was almost completed. Hopefully, Vicki's memory would better allocate storage space. Her last trip around town and into the future caused an overflow, caused Vicki to run out of memory. And The Cloaked Man's skillfully mad gibberish helped facilitate those errors.

Downstairs, Joan still held the small cyborg Gally. She held the small cyborg back and forth, singing a lullaby. Gally, wrapped in the arms of Joan, had fallen asleep. But Joan continued to hum the song, humming comfort and peace for the cyborg female whose life and existence was with so much hardness and suffering. Gally's synthetic head rested on Joan Lawson's bosom, and the full-flesh woman petted Gally's smooth and dark hair.

Joan cried gently; she cried for people far and into time. What future was there for them all, if people were made to live this way? The world must have truly darkened, the way that people become less human. Joan imagined Gally struggling for a living and seeking meaning. And there were others who had to have troubles in that city.

Joan's tears fell onto Gally's hair, and Joan brushed them away with a soft palm. Gally breathed evenly, breathed through a slightly puckered mouth--innocent and asleep. This must be one of those rare times and places where Gally felt truly safe and comfortable--as she need not face the threat of oblivion so severely.
 

Many thousands of years into the future, Thunderhorse smiled as the temporal trans-warp scans detected the anomaly appear yet again in Scrap Iron City of the
30^th century. Your deteriorating health is bound to give out eventually, you prank-concocting freak, thought the man behind the desk. After the smile, he leaned forward and began typing in the coordinates that would send the cyborg and the gynoid to close in.  It's almost the end of the game, "Cloaked Man," thought Thunderhorse.  Yes, it was nearing the end of the game, with The Cloaked Man's evil acts undone and Thunderhorse's playing pieces labeled "Gally" and "Vicki" moving in.

This was turning out like a certain strategy video game that Thunderhorse once liked to play before taking up this particular office. The Cloaked Man had his characters on the left, the thugs he hired, moving them about and into place. Then, Thunderhorse had his twin characters, moved those pieces into place against The Cloaked Mans'. Thunderhorse's game charactersmanaged to eliminate The Cloaked Mans'.

The Cloaked Man made a damnably foolish mistake when he made himself a character in the game. What was worse was how The Cloaked Man was playing on a time limit. And even worse, The Cloaked Man himself was a piece that was not even playing himself well. Yes, the game is almost over. But first, Thunderhorse had to seal his position of dominance by moving his pieces into position for the victory blow. He was going to win this game when his characters beat The Cloaked Man himself.

Thunderhorse typed in a few pages' worth of commands, the computer commands that would send the cyborg and gynoid both to The Cloaked Man's final position. After all, according to the records from Medical, The Cloaked Man's playing time should run out soon.
 

Back in the 20th century, wind whipped along the street The Lawsons lived on. It was a narrow stream of wind, one that scoured the street. People outside thought that a hurricane would come, one of the many natural disasters that often--too often--took California. But, this was not one of those winds; this one was not natural.
The computer Ted Lawson worked on suddenly gave him messages he did not want to read. In the scrolling on-screen window, the one gauging the closing functions for the memory collation process, one solid error message came up just as Ted heard a clack. The clack sound was the sound of the fiber-optics cable hitting the ground when Vicki vanished into time.

Downstairs Joan Lawson nearly fell over when Gally vanished into time. Nearly falling asleep holding the small cyborg, she was surprised. She stood up, jumped to her feet, knocking over the chair. Joan then heard Ted coming downstairs, coming down quickly.  "Vicki? Vicki?" he shouted as he ran through the living room. The front door opened; Joan heard Ted whip it open before running outside, shouting for Vicki as he ran outside. "Vicki?" Vicki was gone, along with the small metal-bodied girl that really needed to be held.  Whomever had taken Vicki and Gally both away, Joan hoped that he would soon be satisfied enough to stop soon--for the sake of everyone.