Welcome to my world, lady.
  I'd spent the last three days getting my, until recently to be aborted, affairs in order as I was wanted back ASAP to take the auxiliary plane Babylon up for a resupply run. I'd be gone now except for Jubatus.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  I'd been at the Blind Pig talking to Phil and in the silence that spread from me a cheetah had said those words. Sure, almost certainly they were just welcoming me to the world of SCABS, or some innocuous comment. That's what I'd kept telling myself.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Unfortunately I don't sleep anymore but instead lucidly dream, and my mind had seized onto that phrase and started weaving all kinds of possible meanings and connotations. Maybe he was an agent for the Arabs or the Chinese stating that he'd marked me. Maybe he was secretly an alien and had set himself up to kidnap me. And, in case you're wondering, no, I didn't believe any of those. Unfortunately my subconscious did, and lots more elaborate and less likely scenarios.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  And that meant that every night I would dream all the possible meanings. At least it was better than Angelo...
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Well, enough was enough. I'd learned through hard experience that the only way to get this kind of thing out of my brain was to have to originator state the meaning. And tonight Mr. Jubatus was going to do just that.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Actually, it's amazing all of the unique information that the search worms I'd created had come up with. It seems that this Mr. Jubatus had gotten SCABS in 2036, only three years ago. It was quick and easy, and had given him certain unique gifts. These had been harder digging out, but some friends had helped. Apparently, he'd become able to toggle his metabolism -- the way he experienced time passing -- either up or down. That meant that he could work orders of magnitude faster than normals, and he'd parlayed that and his skills into a sizable fortune. He was even on the Fortune 400 list of the world's richest SCABS.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  According to my information, he was something of a technological problem solver, a troubleshooter that could be hired as required by other companies. He was also a very careful and methodical person -- the number of perfectly filled out and prepared charges he made against SCABS bigots that had attacked him proved that.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Well, enough was enough. I had to get back to work and this would end!
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Oh be quiet! I shoved the door to the Blind Pig open and let it slam against the far wall before it started creaking back shut on its springs. Then, ignoring the ripples of silence that that began I stalked across the room towards Mr. Jubatus.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  As I'd expected, he was present and leading this choir he was working with. Well, they could wait as I was more important. And then I was upon him.
  I reached over to grab his shoulder with my right arm. "Mr. Ju --"

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  Jubatus here --
  -- incoming at 8 o'clock --
  -- and once again, my instincts have upshifted me in response to something they didn't like. I'm only at a tempo of 20; the early warning system must have thought it wasn't much of a threat. And... what the hell was she doing here?
  'She' was Susan Carter. Astronaut. SCAB. And the latest in the long line of success stories that haven't yet boosted Phil's confidence in his own abilities. Kind of makes you wonder how much of his 'I am not worthy' routine is just an act, doesn't it?
  When she came in the other night, the Strikebreakers were in rehearsal, the same as any other Wednesday. If me and Wanderer hadn't been working Ringwolf through a problem with his part in Godzilla, I might have noticed her before she hooked up with the rabbit. But we were, so I didn't. Why she'd come here was no mystery, not to anyone who gives a damn about space: She was flying the Agamemnon when it pranged, and the quarantine period would've ended on Monday. QED, as they say. Sure, I could've introduced myself, done the whole 'star-struck fan' thing, but I would no more interrupt Phil at his work than he would me. And from what I could overhear, it looked like everything was fine.
  So, again: What was she doing here? And why was she so hot to talk to me? You'd think she'd go to Phil if she needed a booster shot; I sure can't do what he does, I haven't got the empathy for it. Good, there was a stool 5 feet behind her. I sat and downshifted.
  "-- batus..." Interesting. She'd actually started scanning for me before she'd finished speaking my name. Not bad for a slowpoke. Facing me, she went on: "What the hell did you mean?"
  I'm puzzled that she needed to ask. I only said one thing to her that night; surely the meaning of my lone utterance was obvious? Hell with it. If she wanted me to give her an answer she's capable of figuring out herself, she could bloody well wait. To Wanderer: "I'll be done here in a moment." To the green chick: "I'm busy, Ms. Carter. We're rehearsing for a paying gig on Monday. Now, you may not give a damn, but it's important to them --" here I gestured at the group "-- and it's important to me. We'll be done in another 45 minutes or so. You want to stick around like a civilized human being until then, you can spend the time pondering the context of the remark you're asking about, and if you're still clueless, then we'll talk."
  "You'll tell me --"
  "Bullshit I will! You're coming to me, remember? So. You can just come back later when I've got time for you, and that's when the rehearsal's done. Or would you rather piss me off by wasting more of the band's time? Take your pick --"

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  "-- and maybe I'll see you later."
  "Jubatus!" I shouted after him, uselessly.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  He'd actually vanished upon the utterance of his final syllable, leaving behind only a blurred afterimage on what passes for my retinas! And, just as when he'd vanished upon my calling his name, there was some kind of afterglow left behind. I wondered what that could be. Anyway, as I knew of his abilities, I'd expected such a reaction, and even factored it into my calculations of his most probable responses; I still found the reality of it to be more than slightly disorienting, albeit not enough so to put me off my ill mood. Damn the man -- how dare he -- couldn't he see that I had to know?!
  "Crave pardon, demoiselle most fair and verdant?"
  Whipping my head around I stared at the wolf who'd spoken up. A wolf wearing a cape who thus must be Wanderer. "What?"
  "Such grace and beauty, wanting but a well-mannered air to complete the ensemble!"
  "Manners! Didn't you see or hear the way he treated me?"
   "Aye indeed; meseems our pardine mutual acquaintance hath rendered thee a most signal honor. An thou were unaware, know now that that was as close to courtesy as e'er Jubatus hath yet been sighted."
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  "As close to..." If that was the cheetah's notion of courtesy, how did he behave towards people he was merely indifferent to? "Surely you don't mean to say he's normally worse than that?"
  "He is rather an acquired taste, 'tis true," the wolf said, nodding. "In any case, the kindness he hath shown thine imperious and over-impatient self is greater than I could have mustered, were I in his position. Pray thee return his kindness, lest he show thee a face less pleasant --"
  "Wanderer! Get your canine ass over here!"
  "Forgive me, Milady," he said as he bowed, "but I fear that duty calls."
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Aaarrgh! Well fine. 'Another forty-five minutes or so' could be lived with. But then --
  I turned around and stomped over the bar, having no problems as it seemed that a single space was already cleared for me. At last the proper respect. I pushed the stool into position and then sat down... and landed sprawling on the floor.
  Everybody laughed, except for Jubatus and his band. At least it was a kind laughter, not a mocking laughter -- I'd had more than enough of that kind in my dreams.
  Ignoring the noise, I stood up and looked around for the stool -- there it was, one foot away from where I'd left it. Nobody was nearby and a glance at the floor as I stood up revealed no scrapes or other signs of sudden movement. Who the...
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  There was a rumour that one of the stools at the Blind Pig was actually an inanimorph. Could it be?
  I called the bartender over and asked for a rum and coke and pointed at the stool. The bartender nodded and came back a minute later with two drinks. Ignoring mine for a moment, I put the second one on the floor by the leg of the stool and then picked mine up and looked around. The booths were in use but the pool table wasn't. At least that would keep me occupied until...
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  For an instant I stopped, then I picked up my drink and made my way over to the table, patting the stool as I left. At least I'd be able to rest free of that phrase tonight. And if Mr. Jubatus over there delayed any longer, well, then there would be entertainment for the bar. But for now the pool table. It was old, and the balls were worn which would just make it more challenging. In a perfect world, a game of pool would be quite easy to predict by mathematics. The problem is that the world isn't perfect, as the table surface would have irregularities, and the balls would not be identical. Thus to predict the actions correctly, one would need to know the properties of each ball, and of each centimeter of the table so... After putting my drink down on a table beside the pool table, I realized a problem. I was wearing gloves, and that would mean that I would miss imperfections. But if I removed my gloves, that would expose...
  I put a good dollop of potassium nitrate into my drink and then took a long sip. I couldn't live like this -- intellectually I knew there was no danger. As my life was going to continue, I would have to force myself to adapt. So, slowly, carefully, deliberately, I pulled off first my left glove, and then my right glove, carefully putting each into my purse. I could sense the carbon dioxide in the air, the water and alcohol vapour, the vast empti --
  On to the pool table. Systematically I picked up each ball and rolled it around in each hand. They were cool and smooth, and well used and well cared for; no cracks but there were surface irregularities and imperfections in their spherical shape from manufacture and from use. Their size changed slightly, minutely expanding from the heat of my body as I held them, and that told me something about their probable composition and the state of their internal structure. After ten minutes I knew each ball as an individual. Then it was on to the table. It too was worn, but loved. There was a patch that was not visible but could be detected due to textural differences. Along the sides there were a few spots that showed wear, and rubbing my hands along the rim gave me an idea and an estimate of the elasticity. Each ball, each corner, each spot of the table were all unique entities, complex, organic, used and loved.
  By now a small crowd had gathered, probably wondering what I was doing, and over the bustle of the bar I could hear Jubatus' band. But that was all background noise. My attention was wholly reserved for the table, and the balls. Another sip from my drink, and then a click-rattle as I set up the balls for dispersal. A visual and touch check of the available cues, a check of their elasticity, a rubbing of the point around my palm to know its friction, and then it was time to break.
  In a perfect world, pool would be easy to predict by mathematics; in the real world, it's an incredibly complex, and ultimately unsolvable, puzzle. Sure, one can find partial solutions, but never a complete one, which meant that there was always a random variance in any shot. Readying the cue I made a note of the location of each individual ball, worked out shot momentum and vector transfers and slowly determined an optimum direction and momentum for the shot. Then it was a question of implementation. A quick motion, a thud of impact vibrating up my arm, and then it was all out of my hands.
  Calmly I watched the balls roll and impact and bounce. The first few balls went into their predicted pockets, but then the small factors I hadn't measured -- the movement of air, tiny irregularities in the table, the slight difference between the planned force of my strike and the force actually applied -- began to add up. By the time the last ball rolled to a stop, a total of nine balls had passed into the pockets which suggested that my error estimate of 0.3% was a tad high -- I'd been expecting only eight balls. Back on Easter Island with the table I'd used for years, I rarely missed getting any of the balls to proceed on their plotted course. Using the observed paths and momentum transfers, I began revising my understanding of the balls and table.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  And that once again destroyed my concentration, and my relaxation. Where the hell was he? It had been forty-six minutes and looking towards the band showed that they were still singing, and Jubatus was with them. Odd, I'd read that he'd lost his ability to sing -- so what was he doing with a group made up purely of vocalists? My auditory sense was equally as acute as my tactile sense, both courtesy of SCABS, and I chose to put the former to use. I focused my aural attention on the obstinate cheetah, closing my eyes to remove distractions, and discovered him to be the source of a repeating set of tones, rather low in volume. They were quite pleasant once I'd isolated them, especially the purring rumble that was always there, more obviously on the lower notes. But my information was very clear about -- wait, was that truly him singing? Less than a minute later they finished, with Jubatus holding his final note a moment later. So it had been him.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  I couldn't help but clench my fists. I had to speak to him, and I had to speak to him now! Spinning around, I put the cue back in its holder, picked up my drink, finished it, and made my way towards him. First though I stopped at the bar, picked the now empty glass up from the floor, patted the stool, and paid the bartender.
  And he was right behind me. Strangely, I could again see that faint afterglow around him, that seemed to be mostly in the infrared. What passed for my eyes took in a slightly wider spectrum than my lost human vision.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Glaring at him and through gritted teeth I asked, "What did you mean by that godforsaken cursed phrase?!"
  He sighed. "You're an astronaut. That means you commute to this mudball, and you're cloistered away on Easter Island for a good chunk of your dirtside time. Me, I'm stuck here on a permanent basis. Life without possibility of parole."
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Just tell it meant nothing! Please. "So?"
  That sour smile again, that expression which had been haunting my dreams: "Your little jeremiad on Where It All Went Wrong," he said, managing to capitalize the words with his voice. "Think you're the only person ever to notice that stuff? Hell, you aren't even the first! Fear of science, picking the familiar over the new just because it is familiar, people making an en masse choice for the irrational... some of us have our noses rubbed in that shit on a daily basis. And you're only just seeing it now? Heh. All I can say is, 'welcome to the club'."
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  "So, that's all it meant?" Please say yes. "Just that the world is not pleasant to anybody and that I have arrived at the world that we both share?" Please answer.
  Welcome to my world, lady.
  Welcome to my world, lady. Welcome to my world, lady.
  Welcome to my world, lady. Welcome to my world, lady. Welcome to my world, lady. Welcome to my world, lady. Welcome to my world, lady. Welcome to my world, lady. Welcome to my world, lady...
  "So that's what couldn't wait. I can see why you had to talk to me -- how else would you know I wasn't really announcing that I'd just acquired title to the Earth's entire surface, including mineral rights." After a short pause, he went on, "Yes, that's exactly what I meant."
  All the tension left my body and I collapsed on the handily located barstool. "Thank you."

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  I frowned. And that's it? That is bloody well it? I don't think so! "I think we could use a little privacy. Back room, you and me, now."
  Amazingly enough, Little Miss Prima Donna went along with it. Once safely isolated from prying eyes and ears, I continued: "After that kind of buildup, you've got a bloody lot of nerve pulling that kind of anticlimax. You came barging in here like you own the place, and I want to know why."
  She actually looked a bit sheepish. "I couldn't get it out of my head -- it's a curse of my condition."
  My disbelief was obvious. She thought a bit, then asked, "Do you happen to know what SCABS did to my brain?"
  From what I knew of her history, there was at least one obvious answer. "Rewired for greater neural efficiency."
  "Yes, and by quite a large factor, actually. Rather useful when one is unriddling an abstruse equation, but it also provides signal processing for greatly enhanced sensory acuity, which is a bit of a mixed blessing. And sometimes... a part of my brain bites onto something, a stray remark or headline or whatever, and it simply will not let go!"
  "And that's what happened here."
  "Exactly. Intellectually I knew what you meant, but a part of me didn't. At first it wasn't much, I'd just hear the phrase run through my mind occasionally, but as time passed I heard it more and more until I couldn't think of anything else. I needed you to say what it meant so that my subconscious, or whatever you want to call it, would stop speculating and shut up."
  She didn't strike me as the Bester-reading kind, so I passed up the opportunity to ask whether she'd consulted Ben Reich for help with that kind of thing. "Can't let go of a mystery," I mused. "I can see where that might get annoying, but if that's the worst of it, SCABS let you off easy."
  For a moment she looked annoyed, then her eyes widened a little in sympathy or pity. She timidly asked, "And you've been dealing with worse, haven't you?"
  Sympathy or pity. Either way, I wanted none of it. "Yes," I said flatly. It's a sign of progress; not so very long ago, even that small an admission of weakness would have been beyond me. Time for a change of subject. "So how's life in the vegetable kingdom compare to animal existence?"
  She looked grateful for an innocuous topic. "Well, it's a great deal more calm, but there are peculiarities. I find that bright sunlight gives me a strange lethargy, almost like sleep but not quite. Carnivores don't bother me, but herbivores like Phil do." She swallowed. "The weirdest thing though is how I see other plants as, well, competitors -- I couldn't stand having potted plants around me until I cross-bred them with cuttings from my hair." She sighed, sounded like she was finished but then continued in a hurried voice: "I can't be afraid. I never panic or get excited. I can get desperate, hurried, but not actually frightened. There's no fight or flight reflex left, and I only feel the strongest of emotions." She stopped, and I could see her breathing quickly -- no emotions, sure. "What about yourself? Yours is a life on fast forward, or so I've read; how has that affected you?"
  I gave her a weary smile. "Less than you might think. I'm rude, obnoxious, and antisocial; I'm hungry all the time; and I'm pissed at the world for being so goddamn slow and stupid." I shifted to a deadpan delivery for my next sentence. "Basically, I'm the same irritating asshole I was before -- no significant changes."
  "Yes," she said seriously. "You're still making music, for instance. But there is a point I'm curious about. Why is it that the information I have suggests you can't sing?"
  "Because I can't. Not any more, at least."
  "Actually, I heard you singing --"
  "The hell you did. I don't do that any more."
  "Well, I'm certain I heard something, even if it was rather quiet. It went a bit like this --" and she started to hum.
  She was obviously untrained. A pang of jealousy instantly stabbed my heart anyway. Her voice had a warm, rich tone and timbre; she could be a clarinet from God's chamber orchestra. And... sweet leaping Jesus on a trampoline... the tune she hummed was a simple harmony line for the last song we did, Just the Way You Are. A simple line, within my vocal limitations, that I'd been playing with inside my head as we were rehearsing. She got it as mechanically note-perfect as a tape recorder, with no real emotional content. Not a problem, I had emotion for both of us.
  "I'm fairly confident that was you, Mr. Ju --"
  "It was." I didn't trust myself to say more.
  "Well, then. While I can't say I'm terribly familiar with vocal music, I must admit I rather enjoyed your --"
  My heart threatened to go on strike. I cut her off: "Not funny."
  She looked confused. "Nor was it meant to be. In truth, it was really quite pleas --"
  "I said: That's. Not. Funny." I tried, but I couldn't keep the angry snarl entirely out of my voice. Fortunately, she got the message and shut up. I closed my eyes. Deep breaths. Calm down. She's not trying to wound you, she's just fucking clueless. I found it easier than usual to put a lid on my raging emotions; could it be the lack of animal scent in the air?
  "I'm sorry. I really am over the worst of it, but..." I shook my head. "Singing is still a sore point with me. Tell me, what's it like upstairs?"
  It didn't take much badgering to get her talking about her work. I try to keep up with space projects, but it's not easy. Especially the private-sector ones like hers, for which keeping mum is the first line of defense against psychotic neo-Luddite morons like Animal Worshipers Inc., All Humans Must Die, The Really Green Berets, and so on. I ruthlessly exploited this opportunity to get info straight from the horseradish's mouth, and she seemed happier discussing technical matters anyway. That made both of us.
  The biggest piece of trouble on her plate was a glitch that kept showing up on Brin Station: Various bits of the structural framework went magnetic at random intervals. The field strength was trivial, no danger in and of itself, but it had lots of potential for catastrophe if it got worse. Could be sunspots, deteriorated wiring, deliberate attack from some military satellite or other -- none of her people had a clue. Inevitably, I made suggestions. Most were things they'd already thought of, some weren't practical for one reason or another, a couple were both feasible and news to her.

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  I've never made an organized study of psychology, but I had picked up quite a bit of it during the time I spent in quarantine figuring out what to tell the nice doctors so they'd leave me alone. And the more time I spent in the cheetah's presence, the more certain I became that his was a textbook example of a defensive personality; his abrasive manner was perfectly suited to the purpose of preventing anything like intimacy. Once one is aware, of course, one can see what it is that's being defended. It's a simple matter of reading between the lines, of paying attention to what is not said...
  Oddly enough, I felt comfortable in his presence. Maybe because he was a real person, and not a drone; he was the first man or woman in ages who didn't mindlessly reply 'yes ma'am' to everything I said and did. And if he could personally fix the glitch on Brin, then I would have time to explore my sudden feelings, the ones I couldn't even remember experiencing before, a bit more.
  "Mr. Jubatus --"

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   "-- about those two suggestions. Who do you know who would be suited to look into them on site, so to speak?"
  I pondered her question. "Well, there's Jae Haller. Good man, but he's getting old. Maybe Pejman Gonzales --" I stopped when she raised a hand.
  "Do you suppose you might be interested in the job, Mr. Jubatus?"
  My head snapped up. I stared, and saw a little smile on her face. The heart police came around, again threatening to put me under cardiac arrest. This time I knew she had to be playing with me, damn her vegetable eyes! But still...
  "It sounds like you're more than qualified for the task."
  My mind whirled; I upshifted so nobody could see if I broke. She -- I couldn't -- it wasn't -- me, in space? Yeah, right. Fat bleeding chance! Even if they could manage to soup up the life support systems to accommodate my hyperactive metabolism, I damn well knew how much of an obnoxious, irritating asshole I really was. There was no way in Hell I could pass any tests for psychological compatibility; lock me inside a tin can with Mother Theresa for days on end, and that's a recipe for one of us to wake up dead somewhere along the way. I forced myself to downshift to the normal human tempo. "That's. Even. Less. Funny."
  "It wasn't a joke, Mr. Jubatus. I know that you are eminently qualified as a troubleshooter and problem solver; you are physically fit; and you are the one who pointed out the possible problems we haven't considered. Consider it simply an on-site repair job."
  I turned away, unable to return her unblinking glaze. Damn her! She was no dryad after all, but a Siren, luring the unwary to their doom with her ethereal voice. She must have known that I was born in the 1960s; that I'd grown up on space flight, been one of the millions of American kids who were stupid enough to believe in the dream; that NASA had taken a piece of my soul with it during the long, slow dying that started in the '70s... She knows why it's impossible. She has to know. My voice was colder than ice on Pluto: "Get. Out."
  She didn't even flinch. "I'm serious. When is a good time for you? Sooner is better from my perspective."
  If my instincts had tagged her as threat or prey, I think she would have needed a closed casket ceremony. As it was... I squelched my rage. I didn't know (or care) what sick game she was playing, but I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of knowing exactly how many nerves she'd hit dead center. I'm calling your bluff, you vegetable bitch. I met her gaze, my own face more wooden than hers: "July. 15 through 21. I won't need longer; either I solve it in a week, or I never will."
  She nodded. "Of course. Very well, Mr. Jubatus; it's now March 25, which gives us plenty of time. I'll see to it that all is in readiness when you arrive for preflight training, which you'll need to set aside two weeks for. July 1 through 14 should provide a sufficient duration."
  Told you so; accept her offer, and... she'll...
  Wait a minute.
  She went through various pleasantries. I responded without thinking, for all of my higher brain functions were on hold, paralyzed by one incredible, impossible thought.
  I'm...
  I'm going...
  Me. Jubatus. Technical writer. World-class irritant. Top-ranking troubleshooter. Fastest SCAB alive.
  I'm going into space..!