Is the tape running now? Are you sure? OK. I’ll start again.

It was an ordinary evening. A Friday I think. Yes, definitely a Friday. I remember because I had stopped at the corner shop for a pint of milk on the way home from work. We used to get a delivery in the morning but we could never work out how many bottles to ask for. We would always either run out or have so much that we would end up throwing it away so we stopped the delivery. We had run out of the milk again, so I had agreed to get some. I am sure John was drinking more of it than his share. He used to have these huge bowls of cereal, and I think he had been eating my cheese too.

Oh. Sorry. Well. he’s a greedy twat. let’s leave it at that.

On this Friday I came out of this shop. Did I tell you I was on the way home from work? It wasn’t on the street with the rest of the shops. They always called that the “High Street”. I don’t know why, though, it was not at the top of anything, and it’s real name was Granville Street anyway. No. This shop was a few streets back. On the corner next to rows of little old houses. Almost every corner had a pub on it.

Yes. That’s how I know it was a Friday. Back then you would get lots of people out on a Friday night and if the weather was even halfway decent they would go from pub to pub. I would sometimes pop in. You know, just in case anyone I knew was in for a drink. Not in the Feathers, though. My mate Terry had been thrown out of there once and it wasn’t even his fault. We had all agreed we would never go in there again.

Hmm? Yes. Well this evening I stuck my head into the George. I couldn’t see anyone I knew, but I had a pint anyway, just in case anyone turned up. I was on my second when they needed someone else for a darts team. I’m not bad. Not a professional by any means, but I can manage a pretty good double finish. Did I tell you I learned to play darts when I was in the Navy? That’s why I get better when I have had a few. All that practice with the deck moving beneath my feet. The George is not the sort of place for your fancy drinks, and we were all a bit full in the belly, if you know what I mean, so when we won we celebrated with a round of whiskies.

I got into a bit of a discussion about whether you should put water in it and we had to have another couple to prove the difference it made.

Oh yes. That was funny. The guy I was drinking with was named Pete. You know like in the whisky. We were talking about the different whisky flavours and we could not stop laughing.

Well. I’d only popped in to the pub for a minute or two to see if anyone was there and I needed to get home to have something to eat. I had got part way along the crescent. I always go that way because I am sure it is quicker than along the main road. And there’s a little bit of a park. Well, just a stand of trees really, out of sight of the road. Just the place to empty the tank if you are caught short on the way home. While I was leaning there I realised I had left the milk on the table in the pub so I had to go back and get it.

There were are lot more people about by now, and I had to steer my way through several groups. I don’t want to say anything out of turn, but I think some of them were drunk from the way they shouted things at me.

I was just going past what used to be the Red Lion when I heard this loud music. It took me a bit to work out what it was, then I realised it was some sort of 80s compilation. I heard Wham, and Aha. I was just doing a little bit of a dance in the street to the sound of Dexy’s Midnight Runners when I noticed a lot of loud female voices singing along. I was surrounded by what must have been a hen party. They were all pretty far gone, and insisted I come into the next pub with them.

I tried to resist, but it was no use. They stuck pink rabbit ears on my head and forced me to go into the Feathers. That’s when I knew it.

I had been abducted by Eileens!

One of them had really nice eyes, though. And I never did pick up that pint of milk.

Ellen Carpenter woke first. She always did on a work day, and almost always on weekends, too. After enough time, some habits just stick with you. The pattern had become a routine - throw on a dressing gown, step into slippers and pad down the stairs to make a pot of tea and some breakfast for both of them, sit quietly listening to complaints about work colleagues she had never met, make a packed lunch and a flask of coffee, then a quick kiss, a “have a nice day”, and she was on her own again.

It had seemed a great idea to move out to the countryside to get a bit of peace and quiet after the hustle of the city, but Ellen had begun to realise that “peace and quiet” was just another way of saying no mobile phone signal and loneliness. She would not let herself get depressed, though. Over the years she had become adept at finding the bright side. The kids had grown up well and left to pursue their own dreams. They had enough money to live on, and Ellen had free days to pursue her writing projects. Any other problems should just be pushed out of mind.

Today the bright side was not hard to find. The spring morning had turned out fresh and clean after a week of clouds and blustery rain. Tentative sunbeams poked in through the windows of their ivy-covered cottage at the edge of the wood. Ellen decided it was time to fetch a summer dress from the back of the closet and make the most of the day.

The bird feeders in the garden needed filling again. The local bluetits and finches seemed so hungry at this time of the year. While she was outside she noticed a clump of daffodils which had been knocked flat by the weather. She couldn’t leave them there to be trampled on. When she got back inside, she found a vase and arranged them on a windowsill where they could sparkle in the sunlight and bring in a hint of spring prettiness.

Ellen was making herself another cup of tea and had begun thinking about the day’s writing goals when she was startled by the sound of the doorbell. The house was remote enough that they didn’t usually get callers or even junk mail, and delivery drivers always had to phone to find out where they were. It took a second or so, but eventually curiosity won over worry, and Ellen answered the door.

On the doorstep stood a girl, no a young woman, probably mid to late twenties. She looked flushed and had obviously been crying. Chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail with a few stragglers stuck to her cheeks, a puffy jacket, jeans, and walking boots. And was that … blood?

Ellen felt her heart pound in her chest.

“What’s the matter?”

The woman took a ragged breath.

“It’s Pepper. That’s my dog. She. I think she ran into the road. I don’t. I can’t. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

There was no way Ellen could leave her like this. Years of heartbroken sobs from her own children washed over her all at once.

“Where is she? Pepper I mean.”

The woman pointed back into the woods.

Ellen looked around. Graham’s Wellington boots stood by the door. Hardly elegant, but they would have to do. She pulled them on and they set out along the track.

“You’ll need to tell me a bit more about what happened. Let’s start with your name.”

“Uh. I’m Chrissie.”

“Hi Chrissie. I’m Ellen.”

It felt strange to be speaking to someone new, or speaking to anyone, really. Ellen felt her voice catching in the emotion of the moment, but she forced herself to appear calm and speak normally, for Chrissie’s sake, as they hurried back to the dog.

Ellen’s heart leapt again when they got there. Curled uncomfortably on a clump of grass was a black labrador. She still had the comically large feet of a puppy and Ellen could see at once that one leg was twisted into an unnatural position. Pepper’s eyes were wide and she was panting in short, shallow breaths. Her lips were pulled back and her nose was spattered with blood and spit. Despite all of this she still lifted her tail for an attempt at a wag when she saw Chrissie approaching.

“I don’t know what to do, Ellen. I live miles away. She can’t walk and I can’t carry her.”

Chrissie was sobbing again, and Ellen could just make out a stream of guilt and self-blame. She reached out to hug the young woman as they crouched next to the injured animal.

“It’s not your fault. We’ll get through this, but we have to get Pepper to a vet. I think I have an idea about how.”

Chrissie nodded and Ellen carried on.

“You stay here with Pepper. Keep her calm. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can”

Ellen ran to the house, with Graham’s big boots chafing against her bare legs all the way, and grabbed the car keys. In the back of the car they kept a rolled-up picnic blanket. “Just in case”. Ellen couldn’t remember the last time they had done anything spontaneous like having a picnic, but it would do for now. She grabbed the blanket and ran back to Chrissie and the dog, leaving the tailgate of the car wide open.

By the time she got there she was panting almost as much as Pepper. This was more exercise than she had had in months. Through hot breaths she explained her plan. They would use the picnic blanket as a kind of stretcher to get Pepper back to Ellen’s car, then drive into town and find a vet.

A dog who doesn’t want to move can be heavier than she looks. It took several minutes to ease Pepper onto the blanket, with both women in tears by the end from the dog’s pitiful cries of pain. It took even longer to carry Pepper back to Ellen’s car, but they managed it and settled the dog and her bloodstained blanket into the back before driving out of the woods and onto the main road.

As soon as Chrissie had a signal she looked up local vets and called until she found one willing to see them immediately. Ellen parked the car by the entrance and they manhandled the dog into the surgery.

After that it was just a matter of waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Chrissie was dazed and exhausted, crashing after the intensity of the morning, so Ellen chatted to distract her. They talked about Pepper, and about the postgraduate course Chrissie was doing at a local university. Ellen talked about her children, and about her writing. They discovered that they shared some favourite books and a guilty passion for cheesy TV detective shows. They were even able to laugh a little over anecdotes about Murder She Wrote and Diagnosis Murder.

Someone came to tell them that Pepper was going to be all right, but that she would need to be kept in overnight for observation. Chrissie cried with relief, and that set Ellen off. They hugged, dried their eyes, and Ellen took Chrissie home, then she drove back to her own quiet house again.

She needed to get home. The dress was probably ruined from the blood, sweat and dirt. She needed to take it off. And the wig, and the underwear and padding, and what remained of her make-up. She needed to get back to pretending to be Graham again, before her wife came home from work.
~~~
Two months later, Ellen and Chrissie were sitting at an outside table in town, sipping cappuccinos in the summer sunshine with Pepper sprawled happily at their feet. Chrissie had finally persuaded Ellen to come shopping so she could pay for a replacement dress. Ellen felt happier than she had ever been.

They say friends help you move, and good friends help you move a body, but the very best friends help you save a life, and do it all with eyes open and no judgement.

This story is both an entry into the April 2023 “take your daughter to work day” challenge and a personal homage to a classic shared world from the archives of BCTS.

All the stories set in this world can be found at https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/tg-universes-series/men-black... and the guidance for writing stories in this world is at https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/blog/576/rules-constructing-m...

The guidance for the MIBD background asks “Just do me a favor and e-mail me a copy before you post it”. However, according to https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/forum/43251/contact-details-t..., it seems that, sadly, I will be unlikely to get a reply from Tina Michelle Smith herself.

I hope I’m not treading on anyone’s toes and that readers will appreciate my little story alongside the MIBD canon.

---

Chapter One - The Fire

I could see the plume of smoke rising over the cornfields from several miles away. Not the thick, rolling smoke of a hungry blaze, but the puffs and wisps of a fire nearly burned out. Despite it being over a decade since I last fought a major fire, I still felt the same pulse of adrenaline and the bitter taste of fear and anticipation. As I approached the site along the narrow country road, I pulled over to let the coroner and a police cruiser pass in the other direction. If anything, that made the anticipation worse.

I found a parking spot beside one of the barns, away from the action. I took a moment to breathe and calm myself down, then swapped from my driving flats to the heels which had become part of my uniform, checked my hair and make-up, and selected an appropriate ID from my collection before switching off the engine and stepping out of the car.

Away from the vehicle’s air conditioning, the air was filled with the smells of ash and smoke, backed by the acrid aroma of incinerated plastic and metal. Beyond the gathered fire trucks and engines, the last few charred bones of the farmhouse stood out against steam rising from smoldering remains. I could hear shouts between the fire crew as they tackled the last of the fire. By this point they had run pump lines to a nearby pond and had a ladder up to direct a cooling spray while they used red lines to mop up any small outbreaks. It all seemed so familiar but, without my old crew to watch my back, I felt exposed and alone.

Spit gathered in my mouth and the edges of my eyes had started to itch. I fought the urge to wipe them and risk smudging my mascara.

It took several minutes before anyone approached me. Someone should have a word with their Battalion Chief about that. Two bugles marked him as a Captain. There was no Fire Chief vehicle around, so he was probably the senior officer at the scene.

“You can’t be here, lady.”

I showed my badge.

“Special Agent Kellie Alexander. I’m from the Justice Department. I’m working with the BATF and we have an ongoing investigation on this property.”

“I don’t care who you are. I’m still not letting you into an active fireground.”

That sounded better. He may have been slow to notice me, but at least he was taking his job seriously. I took a closer look. Between his helmet, bulky suit, and soot-stained face, it was hard to make out much more than his eyes and a guess at his age. Probably early thirties. Old enough to have seen his share of action, but to me, he still seemed young and naive. His eyes did not yet have the haunted look that I’d seen in so many veteran firefighters. He was checking me out, too, but I doubted he would be interested in a stone-faced federal agent at least fifteen years his senior, however well I filled out my black skirt suit.

It is a skill we have to learn. To present ourselves in a way that manages how others see us. Respect but underestimate. That is the aim, and it’s always a delicate balance.

I held my hands up in mock surrender.

“I don’t want to get any closer right now, believe me.”

I waited a beat to see if he would say anything else. Some people love to fill a silence, and it’s a great way to get information without being pushy. This time he just seemed tired, so I continued.

“I’ll need a look at the main house. When it’s safe, of course. Meanwhile, I should check the barns and other buildings.”

It was his turn to pause for a moment, considering the state of the fire and the wind, weighting estimated risk against my authority. In the end, respect won.

“Go ahead. But if you find anything hot, you get the hell away and call me. Okay?”

I nodded.

I didn’t really need to check out the other buildings. I had been here many times before and I knew exactly where I was going. That knowledge did nothing to ease my heartache, though.

It’s something every firefighter learns. Eventually.

You can’t save everyone.

Our division of the Justice Department has an impressive success rate, but we are not perfect. Part of my job was to protect the people who lived on this farm, and I’d heard on the journey here that charred human remains had been found in the collapsed main building.

What made it a hundred times worse was that we had been friends. Good friends.

But that was also why it had to be me to keep a lid on the top secret work going on here.

Some distance upwind of the fire, shielded from casual view by a small stand of trees and some overgrown farm machinery, sat a rusted-out water tank. The surrounding briars had spread since I was last here, and I sacrificed a good pair of nylons scraping through them. The water tank pivoted out of the way with only a bit of force when I pushed. Beneath it, embedded into moss-studded concrete, was the original entrance to a cold war missile silo.

A new, easier, way in had been cut from the farmhouse basement, but that was currently buried beneath a deadly heap of smoldering house timbers and fallen kitchen appliances. It might be days before I could gain access that way.

This entrance had a padlock on the outside, but I had the key in my purse. In less than a minute I had unlocked it, swung open the heavy metal door, and was staring down a flight of concrete steps into darkness. I had also brought a flashlight, of course, and carefully made my way to the second door at the bottom.

I had no idea what I might find inside. If the house entrance had been open when the fire started, I could be about to open a door to an inferno. Or, worse, a backdraft which would shoot a cloud of flame right back up the stairway. Tentatively, I touched the lower door with the back of my hand. Stone cold. Even a little damp. A good sign, but not conclusive. These doors were built to withstand atomic bombs. Without a lot of equipment and time, there was no way I could be sure.

I cranked the wheel on the door to open the bolts, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, crouched low, and pushed the door inwards.

I wasn’t engulfed In a fireball.

I smelled cool, clean air and heard the continuous hum of the pumps.

When I opened my eyes, it was as if nothing had changed since my last visit. The same weak lights in the same uninteresting passage. Two more flights of steel stairs downwards and I was in the brightly-lit main lab area, which used to be part of the missile control room. Filtered air leaves no dust, so it was impossible to tell when anyone was last down here. It could be weeks or it could be seconds.

The computer equipment was still running. I could see a notebook open on a desk. It was as if Mac or Millie could be round the corner, just out of sight. I wished either of them were.

I don’t often cry, but at least this time I could blame it on the irritation from the smoke.

The good news was that there was no hint of the fire inside. The basement entrance must have been fully closed. I continued down the next flight of steps to the living area below the lab. Here there were more signs of life. On the table in the kitchenette, I spotted an empty drinking glass and half a pack of cookies. I was checking the kitchen storage when I heard a noise. A footstep, from the direction of the washroom.

I spun to face the sound, only to be crashed into by a whirlwind of knees and elbows in a yellow dress. Thin arms grabbed my waist and a grinning but tear-streaked face looked up at me.

“Auntie Kellie! I knew you would come!”

A wave of mixed emotion slammed into my gut, and now my own tears were back again.

“Joseph! You won’t believe how happy I am to see you!”

There was a hint of a frown.

“You know I am Joanie when I am dressed like this.”

I hugged her even tighter.

“I’m sorry darling. I’ve had a difficult day.”

When we had finished hugging, it was time to get serious. I motioned Joanie to one of the clumsy steel tube chairs, and dragged another one across the faded green linoleum to sit facing her.

“This is important. Can you tell me what happened?”

I saw sadness settle onto the young girl’s face.

“I think our house has burned down.”

I must have looked puzzled, because she explained further.

“I watched it on the door camera. Then it broke.”

She looked at me with wide eyes.

“It wasn’t me, honest. I didn’t break it.”

I smiled, but said nothing, in the hope that she would continue.

“Daddy saw some people coming. Bad people. Daddy told me to hide in here, seal the door, and wait for you to come get me.”

It was my turn to frown. I had never wanted any of this to happen, but if it had, I really wanted it to be an accident. Now it looked like it might be deliberate. That made things a lot more complicated.

“Do you have any idea who these people were?”

“No. I just saw some cars then Daddy sent me in here.”

A shadow flickered across her eyes.

“It will all be recorded. We keep years of data from all the cameras on a server in the lab.”

There was something about the way she said that which left me feeling uneasy. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. Strange, but also familiar.

Joanie suddenly looked around as if something was missing.

“Can we go see Daddy now?”

My heart broke again.

Since joining the most secret part of the Justice Department I have been in more tough situations than I can count. I have negotiated with gunmen and people who think they have nothing left to lose. I have faced riots and lynch mobs. I have escaped from captivity and jumped from a burning airplane. But nothing had prepared me for this.

How could I tell a child who trusted me that her father was gone?

I reached out to hold her small hand in mine while I thought about how best to approach this.

Mac and Millie were undeniably brilliant, and I had seen for myself just how smart both Joanie and Joseph could be. Smarter than me, sometimes. But then I’m just an old fireman who took an unusual career choice.

I made my decision. Respect, and don’t underestimate. I would have to tell her the truth.

“I’m really sorry, Joanie. That’s not possible. I think your daddy is dead.”

I was expecting tears, or maybe denial. What I got was a piercing stare and a question.

“How do you know?”

I thought for a moment. I had started down this route, so I would have to follow it. I swallowed.

“They found a body in the fire.”

Joanie nodded, thinking it through, and then leaned forward.

“But are they sure who it is?”

I shook my head.

“Not yet.”

Joanie leaned back again.

“So we need to find out.”

Joanie showed me how to access the camera files, and I made a copy of the last few days just in case. That took a while to transfer, so I considered what to do next while Joanie gathered up the few possessions she had kept in here. When we were ready to go, I had a carryall with the backups and most of Joanie and Joseph’s stuff and she followed behind clutching Goldie, her favorite plush toy.

I was slightly worried about leaving the lab and its contents. The top entrance would withstand casual attempts to enter, but relied mostly on secrecy. A pneumatic Hurst tool from a fire truck would not have a problem with the padlock. I just had to make sure there was no reason to look for it. The main entrance in the basement would be much more obvious, especially now its camouflage had been burned away, but it would take a lot more than a local fire department to get in by that route.

The camera on the entrance showed nothing suspicious, so we trotted up the steps and I made sure to carefully lock the door and replace the cover. As soon as that was done we hurried over to the large barn. Cinder block walls and a tin roof made it largely proof against floating embers and therefore a good place for me to “discover” Joanie hiding. I needed to get her away from here to safety as quickly as possible.

We crouched together at the back of the barn for a few moments and I took the time to go through the plan again. When we were both ready, Joanie held my hand and we walked out. I really did not want any more complications, so I hoped nobody would look beyond a scared young girl in a pretty dress. I had considered trying to sneak away without being observed, but that would raise suspicions or even risk the firefighters or police searching the farm.

Instead, I shouted.

“Captain?”

He was over by one of the engines, discussing something with a pump man, and turned when he heard my voice. I shouted again.

“I need to speak to you right now.”

His face was a show of frustration as he approached, but I got in before he could speak.

“I have evidence that the fire was arson. Given the sensitive nature of our investigation, this whole site is now a federal crime scene. Continue to do your job until the fire is safe, then leave. Agents will be here soon to secure the site. Are you clear?”

His voice was bitter.

“Yes. Ma’am.”

I had been where he was now. I should be getting away immediately, but didn’t want him to feel bad. I placed my manicured hand gently on his arm.

“I was on the job for twenty years, Captain. I’ve seen plenty of fires. You have done good work today. I’d stay but I have to get my witness out of here.”

He nodded.

I didn’t know if it had helped him, but it had made me feel better.

I turned and walked Joanie back to the car. I could feel him looking at me the whole way.

Once we were safely inside the soundproofed vehicle, I reached into my purse for my compact. I needed to pass this information back to The Store but did not want anyone, even the local firefighters, overhearing.

While the SEVN network device in the compact was initializing, I took off my shoes. The normally stylish pumps were caked with soot and dirt from the fire and the barnyard. Uniform be damned. I resolved to pack some boots next time. I was just slipping into my driving shoes when a soft ping informed me the secure channel was open.

“This is Phoenix. I need to speak to Mother. We have a big problem.”

“Mother here. Talk to me, Phoenix.”

“I’m on site at the home of protectee Big Rat. There’s been a fire. Big Rat is unaccounted for.”

I glanced at Joanie beside me.

“But a badly burned body has been found at the scene. The good news is that Little Rat is safe and with me and the laboratory does not appear to have been compromised. There are indications that the fire was deliberate, so I want to bring Little Rat in for debriefing.”

The device was silent for a few seconds.

“I agree. Bring Little Rat to The Store.”

There was only the shortest of pauses this time, but I noticed it, and I wondered if Joanie did too.

“The usual rules will apply, of course.”

I reached out to clasp Joanie’s hand.

“Thanks, Mother. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”

Joanie’s eyes were big.

“Are we going to see your mommy?”

My name? How curious you are! You don't have long to live and instead of begging, fighting, or praying you ask me a question. I suppose I owe you that, at least. I so rarely get to tell my tale. You won't believe any of it, of course, but I swear on my baby daughter's memory that every word is true.

The name I was given, and which for obvious reasons I no longer use, was Benjamin. My mother would call me Ben or Bennie, but my father was a stiff, and proudly religious man who only ever used my full and biblical name. I was born in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in 1835.

You see? I said you would not believe me. Yes, I am approaching two hundred years old. And if you think I look good for my age now, well, you won't get to see me later, I'm afraid, but trust me, I will look better still.

We lived on the coast, when we were on land at all. I was scarce more than a babe in arms when my father first took me to sea, and I quickly learned everything I could about the maritime life. My father was a respected man, and with his blessing I took captaincy of my first ship, Sea Foam, a study little brigantine, at the age of twenty one, and hauled cargo the length of the New England coast. At twenty-seven I was master of a three-masted schooner, then a bark, and then another, much larger, brigantine.

I can tell you don't know the meaning of these words. It's a shame. So much has changed over my long life, and not always for the better.

By this time I had earned enough to have shares of my own in the ship, and I was making much longer and more profitable journeys. On this occasion we had loaded in New York for a voyage across the Atlantic to Europe. I have never been one for superstition, but looking back I should have known. My greed had led me to take on a cargo of alcohol even though I was a lifelong temperance man, and my pride had led me to take with me my wife and baby daughter. The ship was trim and recently refitted, and despite my many years at sea I was filled with confidence. We weighed anchor and set sail in earnest on the fifteenth of November, and it was a mere ten days later that everything changed.

The ocean can always be capricious, but our voyage thus far had been good. We were heading for the Azores, due to be our first sight of land in the old world, but we never spied so much as a gull.

The trouble with a long life is memories. God's children we may be, but we cannot bear even a splinter of His eternal majesty. We accumulate memories from moment we enter the world and by our intended three score years and ten we are nigh full. So many old things I have forgotten, and so many new I have learned. Despite it all, though, and however long I may walk the earth, I will never forget that night.

I had the watch. The mate, my wife and child, and half the crew were abed. The moon was clear and the sky was filled with stars in the way only a mariner knows. The wind was light, with a gentle swell, and we were making way.

Then, from the deep rose a leviathan, at once as dark as pitch and glowing with a light so red it burned the eyes. I was, and am still, no papist, and had no rosary or crucifix to cling to, but I can say that I prayed with all my soul. The dark light became unbearable, and then everything was gone. No ship, no family, no crew, no cargo, not even my constant companions, the sea and sky. Just unending darkness. I still know not whether it was my prayers which saved me, or merely that I was on deck, and easy pickings.

I also have no idea how long it was before I could see again. It could have been moments, or it could have been years. Time had little meaning. Eventually, though, I found myself (well, not quite myself, as I will explain), in a room of sorts, curved, white and featureless like the inside of a blown egg. Around that time I first heard the voice.

I never saw the owner of the voice, and I am not sure I would have been able to comprehend him if I did. He spoke in Dutch, initially at least. I had a little Dutch, of course. It was hard those days to find a dockside inn or ships mess without at least one sailor from the low countries, and many had settled in and around New York.

I still remember the very first words in that booming voice. Het spijt ons. We are sorry.

Over aeons or seconds of that timeless time, I learned more about my captor or captors, and they, in turn, learned English from me. It seems they were not from our world. I asked if they were angels or demons, but they could not or would not answer. I know the stars, as any good navigator must, and soon concluded that they called home the planet we know as Mars.They wanted to learn about us, the people of the third planet. and learn to communicate ready for the day that we might, in turn, voyage to their home world.

It seemed impossible then, but now I find myself in a time and place where people are contemplating that very thing. Sometimes I wonder what they will find, and whether that meeting will ultimately be for good or ill.

Their ability to learn language was miraculous, but ideas can be more elusive. There were many concepts which they could not understand. Often these were ideas so simple and common to us that I had never thought to consider them.They might have the power to sail between worlds, but they seemed unable to grasp the idea of individuality, of one person different from another, or of birth and death. I can only assume, in my flawed imagination, that on their world they, or he, or it, are all one, with life everlasting. Do not be deceived, though. The one thing I am sure of is that they are not God.

Their means of communication is also most unusual. They do not speak in the way we do, with tongue and lips and throat. I don't know if they even have these things. Instead they speak to the mind. But to do that they somehow need to destroy and recreate those with whom they would converse. This, it seems had turned out to be more trouble here than they expected. As a first attempt they had tried this trick on another ship, many years before. It was from this crew that they had learned the Dutch language, but the recreation had been imperfect, with ship and crew not fully formed, in some way not fully of this world. They had abandoned that attempt, left that ship and crew to their half existence, and resolved to try again later, with new knowledge. By whatever luck, my ship and crew was that trial.

They were, I think, in their inhuman way, pleased with the recreation of my ship. It was, as far as they could determine, almost identical to the state it had been before their intervention. The same could not be said for the souls aboard. If individuality was a concept beyond them, then man, woman, and child were completely uncharted territory. The first crew they studied had been all men, and when faced with a family, it seems they just guessed.

They chose my mind to represent the crew, but recreated me in a body which seemed a mixture of my wife and daughter. I have no proof of age, having never lived through to count those days, but I would later guess at maybe six or seven years.

When I learned that I was alone, and that my wife Sarah, and my baby Sophia were gone forever, I wept for what seemed like days. I could not go back to the ship without them and so when the creatures had finally finished extracting what they needed from me, I begged to be set ashore. Then blessed darkness came, and I awoke, washed up, naked, on what turned out to be Flores, the Portuguese Island of Flowers.

Were it not for the continual reminder of my body, I would have counted the whole thing a dream. That and the three-and-a-half years which I later learned had elapsed since that unusual night.

I had nothing and knew no one, but I was taken in by a kind woman without children of her own. She loved me and named me Maris, because I came from the sea. It seems I had inherited the Martian gift for language, and within weeks I spoke the local dialect of Portuguese as if I had lived there my whole life. We were poor, so as soon as I was able I found work to help my new mother, first as a milk maid, then in a factory, rendering blubber into whale oil. I learned to live, and eventually to love, as a woman. I met a handsome sailor and in due time left the island to make a home on the mainland. I had children, two boys and a girl, who I loved with all my heart, and then the time came when the sea took my husband and I became a widow.

I had almost forgotten my prior existence in the love which developed for my new family, but as I grew older, so also grew a strange hunger. I had the desire, no, the need, to replenish whatever arcane power the unseen monsters had used to create this new me, and I came to understand that this required the absorption of a living soul.

This ability, the same that was used on my ship and me, can only be one of those ideas as simple and common to the Martians as man and woman or life and death to us. When they recreated me they gave me this gift, or curse, as a matter of course. Over the years since my rebirth I had practised this unexpected talent, on rocks and plants, insects, birds and even the occasional dog or other animal. Among those who knew me I had gained a reputation as a wise woman, perhaps a witch, who could heal injuries and breathe life back into cherished pets. I would take pains to point out that this was God's work, not mine, but rumours will always spread.

However, the time had come for something more than healing broken limbs. I have always considered myself a good and moral person, and could not face the thought of sacrificing an innocent, so I held off as long as I could. When I could bear it no more I said my goodbyes to my heartbroken children and left to seek somewhere new.

I came upon a small town where a man, crazed in some way or perhaps merely evil, had killed his wife and children and was threatening several others. I knew then, that this would be the path God had set for me. Nobody noticed one old woman among the worried crowd, and by the time I had done my deed his body lay, recreated but lifeless. I could feel the power flowing in me, and left at once to begin my own transformation. A crone entered, and a pretty young maid left.

This was to become my pattern. I would live each life until I found a case so deserving that I would be willing to leave everything behind again. How long I will wander the earth, I do not know. Perhaps, one day, there will be no more wickedness to be avenged, God will have no more need of me, and He will let me finally take my place among the angels.

And you. Yes, you are merely the next in the unending list. I will say that this modern world for all its distractions, has made it easier to find you. You have raped and murdered twenty-three women, and shown no shred of remorse. You were more than happy to make me the twenty-fourth, but that is not to be. Your life will soon be ended, and so, in a sense will mine. The woman I am now will no longer exist, but ending you will be worth it.

Oh yes. My name. Of course I could no longer use the name my parents gave to me, and I have had many names since. But for this God-given duty of mine I have but one name. I have taken the name of the ship whereon I lost my own life and my two loves. It is appropriate, is it not, as I use my gift from the stars.

You may call me Mary Celeste.