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of the room's air circulation system on
my skin, the plush of the rich carpet between my toes, the gentle rhythm
of the remaining brandy in a snifter held with casual fingers.
I stood, my feet shoulder-width apart, and stared out over lower
Manhattan. I could see a repair crew working on the promenade atop the
remaining World Trade Center tower. Farther south, far below,
unrelenting floodlights glared on the wire-topped walls around the
Governor's Island Maximum Security Facility. Choppers and hovercraft
still encircled the Statue of Liberty, so I knew the Secessionist
Party's takeover hadn't ended yet.
My gaze followed the lights of an aircraft vectoring in over the
ocean toward JFK. I knew from its approach that it was a Hypersonic, and
not a conventional craft.
And abruptly I found myself staring at my own reflection. I watched
my face change, saw the mocking smirk take control. I raised the
snifter. "Congratulations. You've really made it to the big time --
asshole." I emptied the snifter into my mouth and lowered it.
I examined myself the way men did,
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