| APAGear II Archives | Volume 1, Number 8 | August, 1999 |
Ah, still open, thought Jami as he swung aside his car door and stepped out into the North Valley Shopping Center parking lot. Great! He strode across the lot towards his destination, The Junction. It was a comic book store, and it was the best one in Canterbury, as far as Jami cared. He'd only bought a couple of books there on two different occasions before Thomi, Chuk, and A.D. had known his name and face and treated him like a regular customer, which he had rapidly become. They even gave him a free book on his birthdays, and not the cheapest one of his purchases, either, but the most expensive. They were nice guys, all of them.
It looked like Thomi Mankato was working that day; his sky blue, beat-up Preisner Toussain ACV minivan sat outside The Junction on its landing struts, an ugly behemoth from a time when hover vehicles had been more popular. Jami paused beside the hover van and scanned the sky. The air was unseasonably pleasant, with a few clouds in the sky.
He smiled and pushed on in through the front door of The Junction.
"Hey, Thomi!" Jami exclaimed as he entered the well-lit store. A bell jingled to announce his arrival, faintly heard over the moderately loud primal dream music playing in the background.
Row upon row of collapsible tables covered most of the store's floor space, piled high with comic books old and new, carefully filed away in long, white, cardboard boxes, meticulously labeled. More of such boxes were stacked under each of the tables. Directly in front of the main door were an additional half-dozen collapsible tables offering up cheaper treasures for a few pence: Children's comic books, cheap, plastic promotional items direct from Timmins, trading cards that hadn't been as successful as had been hoped, and water damaged books that no collector would ever touch, but that a kid might be delighted to buy at two-thirds off the original price. Shelving lined the walls of the store, displaying collections of books, graphic novels, the odd related item such as a sound track, a statuette, or a cawfee mug.
"Oh, hi, Jami!" replied the chubby store owner from behind his glass counter. Rare issues--like the first issue of Desperate Suns, or the issue of Dynamic Soul where Jony Raven made his first appearance, with the characteristic scar under his right eye instead of his left, or that copy of S #50 that had been signed by the penciller right before he suffered a fatal heart attack at the Canterbury Tales convention in '29--rare treasures too precious to be found on the main floor were kept safely behind the glass counter.
"How ya doin'?" Jami asked, hungrily scanning the new arrivals section from across the room. They were on display as far from the front door as they could be.
"Oh, pretty good. I'd rather be napping though." Thomi chuckled. He was always chuckling.
"Yeah, you probably want to close up here soon, huh?" It was 17:61, one minute before noon.
"Nah, not yet. Maybe at 20:00 or 21:00. We'll see." Thomi's eyes lit up, just like they would always do right before he was about to pull a prank.
Jami braced himself.
"The Tick #13 is finally out!" announced the owner of The Junction.
Jami narrowed his eyes. "Riiiight," he said, trying not to laugh.
"Aw, gee, can't fool Jami!" Thomi stepped out from behind the counter and slapped Jami across the shoulders like an old friend. "Nah, probably should just give up on it, huh? It's been almost six thousand cycles, after all. It's time to face the fact that he's just not going to finish the story."
Jami shook his head. "I suppose they could try constructing an artificial personality clone of the creator from scratch, huh? Have to figure out a suitable personality first." He shuddered suddenly at the thought. "Ugh, on second thought, I guess that's all we need, huh? A vat-boy comic book writer. Can you just imagine a GREL specially bred to write comics? Probably be big and dumb, no sense of humor... Only knows how to draw one thing, use only one tag line. Pretty boring, huh?"
Thomi exhaled a puff of breath, looking uncomfortable. Jami mentally slapped his own forehead. Thomi really was a nice guy; he probably didn't like talking trash about GRELs. He probably thought they were just as deserving of the title "humanity" as the human race itself. Jami blushed a little bit, very self-conscious of his own behavior. "Sorry," he said.
Thomi just giggled a little bit nervously, but seemed not to have a reply. "Um..."
Jami stroked his chin, trying to change the subject. "Well, anyway..." He snapped his fingers. "Say, who are we listening to?"
Thomi looked relieved at the change. "Oh, it's the Stoneheads."
"The Stoneheads?!? You're kidding? When did they do primal dream?" The trippy, arrhythmic sounds marched haphazardly out of the speakers, meaning nothing."
Thomi looked perplexed for a few moments, then said, "No, not them. A different band by the same name from about forty cycles ago." He paused. "You were thinking of the Stoneheads from Fort William, right, the ones who did 'They Walk Among Us'?"
"Er, no. I was thinking of the other Stoneheads from William. The... Huh. I think they were called the Original Stoneheads."
"The New Original Stoneheads?"
"No, just the Original Stoneheads."
"The Old Original Stoneheads, then?"
Jami sighed, exasperated. "Thomi."
"Oh, all right... Gee, you're no fun! A.D. always plays the Stonehead game for hours..." The bell jingled again as a new customer walked in. "Oh, hi, Bil!" Thomi waved as the man came over to the counter.
Sensing Thomi was about to get lost in chit-chat with the guy, Jami punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Well, hey, I'm gonna go check out the new arrivals." He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.
"Oh, yeah, sorry, Jami. Hey there's something back there you'll like, if I'm not mistaken. Gentle Sara #10."
"Yeah? Sweet! It's about time. I'll check it out!" Jami all but ran to the back of the store.
Sure enough, there it was, just as Thomi had promised: Issue number ten of Llewellyn's Gentle Sara, an oddly touching story about a Gear, of all things. Not just any Gear, though; Sara was a Work Gear, a Groundhog--and she displayed a lot of complex, learned behavior. Sometimes, she even seemed to show emotion. Not the dramatic, exaggerated emotion that seemed to populate comic books, but real emotion, something very subtle. Jami had only realized it after the ninth issue, and when he went back and re-read the others, knowing what to look for, it seemed to stand out, as though it were Llewellyn's real purpose behind the comic book all along.
He had been anxiously awaiting the tenth issue for the past four weeks. He reached out and picked it up, being careful not to scuff the cover or bend the corners.
The military fan-boys he knew scoffed at Gentle Sara. 'Ridiculous, absurd,' they accused. She was nothing like a real learning Gear with a real learning Neural Net--not like their war-hero Bowser, star of its own book. Jami had to agree: She wasn't. Neither was the Bowser of the comic book, though, a point wasted on the others. The real Bowser was incredible, an honest marvel of human invention according to everything he'd ever read on it. The comic book Bowser was a pale, shallow caricature, a mockery of true human spirit. Jami much preferred Sara to the comic book Bowser.
Besides... If you read between the lines, it seemed like Sara might actually be real.
Great, you're fantasizing about a comic book Work Gear, Jami-boy, he thought. Shaking his head, he grabbed a couple of other titles from the same publisher, Ikon. He found he really liked their stuff quite a lot, and was willing to grab blindly at Ikon titles. He hadn't been disappointed yet. "And now to the back issues," he muttered to himself. There was one title he was looking for in particular, and he headed over to the section where it probably was--
--and collided and almost tripped over some guy sitting on the floor, between aisles, hidden from casual view.
Annoyed, Jami, glanced down at the guy, ready with a snappy, snide comment. He blinked several times at what he saw, and his words failed him.
Two small, dark eyes stared back at him from a head much bigger than the eyes had any rights to possess. The face frowned, glancing down momentarily to its lap where an open comic book lay. Then it looked back up at Jami, and the figure began to rise.
It rose and rose and rose, a colossal mountain of flesh, almost all of it muscle.
Jami was surprised by all kinds of things, not the least of which was at how much he noticed in his final moments of life, right before death. He was surprised to find a GREL there in a comic book store. He was surprised that the GREL was reading an old issue of Ferretzookie. He was surprised at how purple the GREL's skin really was. His last thought, right before the end, was, I never knew they had a barcode tattooed on the side of their necks.
The end never came.
Jami slowly spread his fingers open and peered between them at the GREL who towered over him. He had instinctively thrown his arms up in defense, though there was no way the action would have been any help to him when confronted by an angry Mordred GREL.
All that really saved him was the fact that the GREL didn't actually look angry. In fact, it--no, he--he looked somewhat amused.
"Fear not, citizen," he rumbled. "Our collision seems to have left you thankfully uninjured. You are safe."
Jami was speechless, staring up into the small, small eyes on the huge, huge face atop the massive column of muscle and bone some might call a body had they not been standing so close to it. All he could do was stare and gulp and, almost against his will, continue to observe.
The GREL was wearing his casual CEF fatigues, but all the insignia, all the rank had been removed, all except for one: A simple band of blue with white lettering proclaimed "Kunst" to all parts of the world that dared to look its way.
A pained expression briefly crossed the GREL's enormous face, then he smiled gently. "You are okay, citizen. Fear not." The voice was almost pleading.
Jami, still unable to speak, slowly backed away. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Thomi and the other customer had stopped their conversation and were watching Jami and the GREL very carefully. Not that Jami had any idea what they could do if the GREL suddenly got angry.
"You're okay," the GREL repeated, and Jami thought it was like he was willing Jami to be okay.
"Y-yes. O-okay," he managed.
The GREL grinned broadly. "Good. You're okay," he said with satisfaction. "Is it good?"
For a moment, Jami was utterly lost, unable to comprehend the GREL.
"The comic. Is it good?"
Jami glanced down to follow the GREL's line of sight. Gentle Sara. "Uh, y-yes. V-very, um, g-good," he replied.
"I will give it a try, then. Thank you, citizen." The GREL strode to the back of the room, and Jami imagined that the floor trembled with every massive stride.
Jami gulped, then set his books down, pausing to wipe his brow. Carefully drying his hand on his shirt, he noticed that the GREL had left a couple of books on the floor where he'd been thumbing through them with huge, meaty hands. Jami took a closer look. The Tales of the Jolly Rogers. Jami picked them up carefully. The covers were mangled, partially torn from the binding, the pages dog-eared. Some of the ink had even rubbed off. Ruined, they were. He didn't dare call over to the GREL, though--
"Ah, thank you, again, kind soul. I left those there by mistake." The GREL's massive hand reached over Jami's shoulder and carefully plucked the books from his grasp.
"Y-yeah..." Jami turned slowly around, and already the GREL was continuing back to the new arrival section. Jami shook his head and walked quickly to the counter to pay for his own books and get the hell out of The Junction.
"He's been coming here a lot lately," Thomi noted, softly. "I think he's new in town."
Jami stared at Thomi in disbelief. A GREL? A regular customer? "B-but have you seen how he handles the books?" Jami whispered.
Thomi shrugged. "I was worried at first, of course, but what am I going to do? I'd need an assault team here if I wanted to do anything about him, and I'm not even sure how eager they'd be to interfere." He chuckled softly. "The funny thing is, though, he pays for the books."
"Really?!?"
"Oh, heavens, yes. He'll spend a whole day here reading books. He'll read them and re-read them, then he'll buy them. I get the impression he reads them over and over again wherever it is he goes when he leaves. He only comes here on Sundays, too. That's why you've never seen him. You usually come here on Wednesdays when the new shipment is in."
"Wow."
"Yeah. He's really very nice and pleasant."
"Yeah. Shit, sorry about what I said earlier about, you know. GRELs."
Thomi smiled at Jami, his little, gnomish eyes peeking up over his wireframe eyeglasses. "Yeah, sorry, I didn't know how to tell you he was here. Though I did think briefly about shouting, 'Mordred in the hole!' at the top of my lungs and running like hell." He winked, joking as usual.
Jami shook his head. "Man." He paid Thomi for his books. "Hey, well, I'll see you Wednesday, Thomi. Take care."
"Thanks, Jami, you too."
Outside, back in the parking lot of the North Valley Shopping Center, Jami breathed a sigh of relief. Though everything had turned out just fine, it was still creepy being that close to a creature, a man, a whatever it was, that had been designed and trained to kill. Well, that's what you get for deviating from your routine, Jami-boy, he thought.
He hoped Thomi would be all right--
Something wasn't quite right about the parking lot. Something was very out of place. Still shaken by the encounter with the GREL, it took a while before Jami could put his finger on what was wrong: Hundreds and hundreds of trading cards were scattered on the asphalt of the parking lot, all of them in a small area near the driver's door of Thomi's van.
Jami started to walk back to his own car, not wanting to admit that it looked like there was a problem brewing. Halfway to his car, he stopped and ran back to The Junction.
JINGLE JINGLE.
"Thomi?"
"Hi, again, Jami--"
"That's your minivan, right?"
"Yeah."
"Are those your cards?"
"Huh?"
...
"I'll be damned."
JINGLE JINGLE.
Jami St. Helen surveyed the damage with Thomi Mankato. There were still two people in the store, the man Thomi had addressed as "Bil" and the GREL named... Jami couldn't remember the name, only that he'd read it from an uncomfortably close distance.
"But I always lock the door!" Thomi scratched his head, his other hand on his hip.
Jami had nothing to say. He just watched, feeling helpless.
"The door was locked! These cards sure were inside the van, too..."
Jami walked around the minivan to get another look. "I don't know, Thomi. I'm pretty sure they weren't all over the pavement when I got here."
Thomi tried the driver's door again. Again, it opened. Again, he shut it. "It doesn't look like the door was forced. But I'm sure I had it locked." He walked around to the other side of the van. The doors were locked on that side. "Damn."
"Yeah, man. I'm sorry, Thomi."
"Well, nothing we can do about it now, I guess. Damn. I always lock the door." Thomi bent down to start picking up the cards.
Jami headed back to his car, not really sure if he'd leave or if he was just going to drop off his new books. Without really recalling the process, he found himself beside Thomi again, his new books safely in his own car. "Here, Thomi, I'll clean this mess up. You go mind the store."
"Yeah? Thanks, Jami. I'll get you a box."
Jami squatted on the asphalt surface. The trading cards were mostly each in individual, sealed plastic packages, protected from the dirt and the grime. Most of them were trading cards from various sports, mostly batte. There were a few Javarite bullfighting cards, though, depicting exquisitely becostumed matadors. Jami admired some of the costumes, ashamed to find something so beautiful in such a bloody, ruthless sport from such a bloody, ruthless nation as the ESE. He shuddered, moved on. A couple of soccer trading cards showed up lodged under the minivan's air cushion skirt. They were from someplace he'd never heard of. Coronado, in the Badlands if he'd guessed right. The Coronado Buccaneers.
He dumped the cards into the box Thomi had brought out while he hadn't been paying attention, and he waddled over to another sprawl of cards. These were something he hadn't seen in a long time! Trading cards depicting scenes and characters from John Kaidou's "The Winter Wolves," a real classic movie. Jami remembered being dragged to it by his dad when he was a kid.
"--tance?"
Someone had spoken. Jami looked up. A tall, thin man stood near the entrance to The Junction. He was wearing a light blue batte jersey with dark blue trim, long, dirty, white pants, and a mangy, knit wool beret. Beady eyes peered at Jami from over a pair of scratched sunglasses. The man had the worst looking, scraggly goatee Jami had ever seen. He held a battered, old, canvas satchel slung across a shoulder.
He looked friendly enough, though.
"I'm sorry," said Jami. "What?"
"Ah sayd, d'you require assistance?" The man looked concerned.
"Ah, no, thanks. I've got it under control."
"Okay." The man entered The Junction.
Jami bent back to the task at hand, surprised at the phrasing. "Do you require assistance," the man had asked. What a weird way to say it.
"---abou' one poin' fi', one poin' sick meter. Curl' hair. M'stache. Dark gray coat."
Jami glanced up, the last handful of cards falling through the air and into the box. The man with the bad goatee was walking out of the store, Thomi holding the door open for him and following. Thomi clutched the tattered, old, canvas satchel to his chest.
"Damn it, there was a ministereo in here, too!" exclaimed Thomi, rummaging through the satchel.
Jami stood up, dusting off his hands. "Huh?"
"Th' guy tha' broke into th' car, he sol' me th' bag a few minute ago." The man with the goatee jerked his head back towards the other end of the shopping center, the north end. "Back there. Ten mark, too, but, like Ah said, th' bag's yo's, frien'. Far's Ah's concerned, it worth it, doin' some good like this."
Thomi shook his head, dumbfounded. "Yeah, thanks so much," he said earnestly while still sounding depressed. He poked through the satchel some more, pulling out a handful of trading cards. "Yeah, see? More of those cards. And here--" He reached into a side pocket. "Here's some post cards from when I went to Mainz this past Autumn!"
Jami put a comforting arm around Thomi. "Thank you," he said to the man with the goatee.
"Sho' thin', frien'. Sho' thin'. Like Ah say, he--th' guy who sol' me th' bag--he abou' one poin' fi', one poin' sick meter wi' curl hair, m'stache, y'know? Dark gray coat. Couldn'a been mo'n thirty, thirty-fi' cycle ol'."
Jami nodded. "Thanks again for your help," he said, not really sure what else to say. Thomi went back over to his minivan to check it out once again.
The man with the goatee nodded and strolled off towards the south, walking down along the parking lot in the opposite direction from where he'd come.
"I'm certain I locked the door," muttered Thomi.
Jami went over to the minivan. "Hm?"
"I always lock the doors in this neighborhood." Any neighborhood in Canterbury was unsafe, really, except for the Strip--and the Heights along the west wall of the valley. "But there's no sign of break-in, so I must have left it unlocked!"
"Huh," said Jami noncommittally. What did he know? His experience with crime came mostly from role playing games and comic books. Not exactly the defining authority in such matters. His only other experience was when his apartment had been broken into seven cycles ago. The cops had actually dusted for prints, which had surprised Jami. He'd thought that was something they only did in movies.
They'd found a partial print, but didn't really expect to get a match. Jami got the distinct impression they had dusted solely to keep the citizen--Jami--happy and feeling safe. It had worked at least a little bit. It was fascinating stuff, the print dust. Jami had thought that was cool, at least.
"Man, Thomi, I'm really sorry..."
Thomi sighed. "Yeah--"
"Say, Ah jus' membered a lil' fact y'all migh' fin' useful like." The man with the goatee had come back unexpectedly. "This it: Th' guy sol' me the bag, he say he gonna get me some music chip, too." The man nodded, happy to be providing more information. "He say he meet me roun' the corner there." He gestured at the south end of the shopping center. "We gon' meet in fi'teen minute." He shrugged. "Tha' might be useful t' ya." He shrugged again and started walking away.
Jami scratched his head, thinking the guy who'd broken into Thomi's minivan probably wasn't going to show up again, no matter what he'd said.
CRASH!
A voice as loud as thunder bellowed, "Freeze, villain!"
Jami was stunned. The door to The Junction stood wide open, ripped partially from its hinges. In the doorframe stood the GREL, with one hand on his hip and another pointing accusingly at the retreating form of the man with the goatee. Instead of his CEF-issue fatigues, however, the GREL was wearing a jet-black nylon...unitard. It was emblazoned in white with the silhouette of a woman holding a sword in one hand and an old-fashioned balance in the other. He wore white, calf-high boots, white gloves, and a white cowl. He had a black blindfold wrapped around his eyes, although there were holes cut through so he could still see.
Naturally, he also wore a long, black cape.
To top it off, the wind had picked up, and the cape billowed.
"Your scourge of crime is over, foul wretch," the GREL exclaimed.
"Ho," said Jami.
"Lee," said Jami.
"Shit," he concluded.
"You have plagued these good citizens for the last time! You have wrought your final crafty lie! No more shall you trouble them!" The GREL stepped out from the door frame and stomped on past the stunned Jami and the bewildered Thomi.
Their minds spun, as unhinged as the door he'd crashed through.
"Wragh!" exclaimed the man with the goatee, who had a twenty-meter head start on the caped GREL. He had no hope of escape, however. Not from the angry GREL. Not a chance. He got another ten meters before the GREL snagged him by the collar and hurled him five meters through the air back the way he'd come. Bones crunched. Joints popped. He didn't make another sound, but it didn't stop the GREL, who grabbed the unmoving form by the front of his shirt and dealt him a mighty blow from a mighty, gloved fist. More bones crunched, the shirt ripped, and the limp form shot another few meters closer to Jami and Thomi. The GREL's glove was bloodied as he reached for the body of the man with the goatee again.
The GREL picked up the dead or maybe just unconscious form and stared into the empty eyes for a long second. The muscles on the back of the GREL's neck stood out like the roots of a tree, and his whole body visibly shook.
Jami was certain there was another history, an alternate reality not too far off from where he was. In that parallel universe, the GREL crushed the man's head without much effort, and then turned on Jami and Thomi.
Not this one, though. Not this version of reality. Not today.
Instead, he just muttered something over and over, a mantra, and hauled the body over to where Jami and Thomi stood rooted to the asphalt. He set the body before them with little ceremony but without much force, either. "I have...subdued...this villain," he whispered hoarsely.
That alternate reality hadn't actually been very far off, Jami sensed.
"He... He won't bother you again," the GREL continued, dropping to his own knees, breathing deeply. "Not again. He was crafty. His misdirection almost worked, too." He took a deep, deep breath. "Luckily for you, the Judge was on hand." He rose quickly to his full height. "And now I must go. The police will be here shortly."
Sure enough, in the distance, Jami could hear police sirens. He glanced briefly at Thomi, and when he looked back, the GREL was gone.
Well, he wasn't quite gone. He was climbing the shopping center wall, a knapsack draped across his back.
He crawled up over the lip of the roof, and with a final salute to Jami, he was gone.
Thomi dropped to the ground beside the man with the goatee and leaned close to his mouth. "He's still alive, I think." He didn't dare touch the guy. Jami wouldn't have, either.
"Thomi..." Jami had a thousand questions, most of them impossible to ask.
"I don't know, Jami. I don't know."
Jami scratched his head, wondering at what the GREL had said just before leaving.
"What the hell was that?" The man Thomi had called "Bil" stood in the remains of the doorframe, peering cautiously around, being careful not to put his hand down on broken glass. "What the hell was that?"
"I don't know, Bil," said Thomi. "I just don't know."
"He left this." Bil held up a fistful of money and a note.
Thomi took the proffered papers from Bil, read the note, and laughed. The laugh was nervous and wistful, with a certain amount of relief wrapped within.
"Thomi," said Jami. "He said something about misdirection."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Misdirection. I think I understand it, too. We were almost had, Thomi. Almost had. This guy here--" He gestured at the unmoving form of the man with the goatee. "He robbed you. Then he walked into your store with your satchel, fed you a line about having bought it for ten marks. Misdirection, Thomi. As soon as he said it, as soon as he knew you'd taken the bait, that was it. He was scot-free cleanly away. Everything else? More misdirection. We already thought he hadn't done it--after all, he'd 'bought' your bag from someone else, right? We gave him our complete and utter trust. His description of the alleged thief just drew our attention further away. So did that 'additional information' about the thief meeting up with him later." Jami shook his head. "Son of a bitch! He probably intended to rob us if we were actually stupid enough to go out behind the shopping center fifteen minutes later. And if we'd called the cops, then they'd be looking for someone else! Damn!" Jami was angry. Angry that he'd almost been taken. No, in fact, angry that he had been taken! The GREL--
"Man, it's lucky that GREL was here!" Jami exclaimed.
"Yeah," said Thomi, shaking his head. He handed Jami the note.
"Dear The Junction," the note read. It was written in extremely simple penmanship, each letter carefully drawn as if by a child. "I regret that today must be the last day I visit your shop. The forces of evil have drawn me out, forced me to show my hand, and now I must move on. I regret the damage I will inevitably cause in the process. It's difficult being a monster, being an alien. I thank you for the joy you've brought with your books. They make it easier for me. I'm including the money to cover the books I was unable to purchase formally before the villain struck. May the forces of evil bother you no more. I remain your humble servant and protector. -The Judge."
"Damn," muttered Jami. "Damn."
"Yeah," whispered Thomi. "Bil? Jami? When the GREL left, did he leave anything behind?" asked Thomi, folding the note up carefully and tucking it in the breast pocket of his shirt.
"Huh?" said Bil.
Jami caught on. "Nope, Thomi, nothing. I didn't find anything. Certainly not a note."
"Oh," said Bil. "No, me neither. And even if there had been a note, it wouldn't have been so neatly written, so carefully worded, would it? Not from a vat... Shit, not from a GREL."
"No, I didn't think so," said Thomi as four police cars pulled up into the parking lot, followed by a pair of police-model Cheetah Heavy Gears. A police helicopter circled the area above, and a medevac VTOL was setting down in the parking lot. Already a pair of medics was jumping from the craft, running toward where Thomi, Jami, and Bil stood surrounding the still-breathing form of the criminal.
"Not a thing."
Well, this story isn't exactly what I expected to write during July. I had intended to write more about the Mount Agnes Challenge IceJet Plunge championship race, but then the above arrived on the doorstep of my mind, and I couldn't just ignore it. It's a three-part story, in which each part tells the whole story as viewed from the eyes of a different participant.
For the super curious, this story takes place on Sunday, 36 Winter 1935. Jami enters the store at 17:61, just one minute before the Terranovan noon of Canterbury's time zone. Remember, Terranovan hours are 62 minutes long, and there are 36 Terranovan hours in a Terranovan day. (That's 37.2 Earth hours in a Terranovan day. See section 1.2.1 of Life on Terra Nova, DP9-102, ISBN 1-896776-40-X.)
In two months: The Second Perception.
| APAGear II Archives | Volume 1, Number 8 | August, 1999 |
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