X-CLAVE: DISCOVERY
PROLOGUE
--(c) 1997 M. O'Quinn

Rural Upstate Virginia
Friday, the 22nd, 6:17 a.m.

The morning sun crept its reluctant way up the mountainside, painting
sky and treetop in shades of red and orange and fiery yellow.  The
countryside was caught in the silence hung between night and day, and
nothing stirred.

In the A-frame vacation house perched at the edge of a placid lake,
the French patio door slid open.  A tiny figure stepped out, her
cherubic face cast of gold in the morning light.  Her stature hinted
at immaturity, but her figure was full and womanly, clad only in a
backless halter top and white cut-offs.  She gazed up into the
bottomless indigo of the sky, seeking something there she could never
find while bound to earth.

Peace.

She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and spread her arms wide. 
A whisper like the rustle of silk rose from her--but not from her
mouth.  From nearly invisible slits in the skin between her shoulder
blades, four gossamer wings unfolded--the upper pair wide and long,
to catch the air; the lower pair smaller, crafted for steering.  The
wings fluttered, and the woman-child lifted off the ground, freed
from the harsh constraints of gravity.

It was impossible for her to fly.  Everything Vanessa had ever read
on the subject, every calculation she had run on computer flight
simulations in between her piloting classes, had confirmed the fact
that butterfly wings--even nearly six feet in wingspan--working at a
rate of not more than seventy beats per minute (in time with her
heart) would be completely and absolutely incapable of lifting her
ninety-two-pound mass from the ground.  

She pondered this as she skimmed several feet over the smooth surface
of the lake, studying her reflection as she glided.  (Bumblebees,)
she thought, and almost smiled.  (Aerodynamically impossible for
*them* to fly, too.)

Fulfilling the dream of many a dreamer--to fly without aid of
anything but one's own body--Vann was still not content.  She came to
rest on the pier, sat down on the piling and, folding her wings out
of sight, wrapped her arms about drawn-up knees.

(What I love most is what sets me apart,) she thought, (and my
heart's nigh onto breaking with how lonely it makes me.)

She put her head down, and her sobs were the only sound that broke
the morning's crystal silence.

                  *             *             *

Upstate New Mexico
Friday, the 22nd, 10:48 a.m.

Simon Butler had known that the quake was coming.  Even if he didn't
monitor CNN on a regular basis, his own seismic equipment was
sufficient to give him ample warning.  The problem with earthquake
prediction is that no instrument, however sensitive, can precisely
predict the movement of the plates which compose the Earth's fragile
crust.  Whenever Gaea decides to rearrange the pieces of the global
jigsaw puzzle, there are inevitably going to be some unforeseen
results.

In the case of Simon Butler, Ph.D., M.D., B.S., S.C., etc., the
primary unforeseen result was that he would be in his lab trying to
secure all breakables when the first shocks hit, about two hours
ahead of schedule.  He slammed the metal doors of the cabinet shut on
rows of Pyrex beakers and portable equipment as the lights flickered. 
He dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled for the doorway.

The fact that he wasn't standing was probably what saved his life as
another cabinet, overbalanced with supplies, toppled over on top of
him.  There was no time to scramble out of the way; instinctively he
dropped flat on his belly and threw his arms up over his head.  He
was showered with bottles and small plastic containers as the hinged
top doors swung open.  The cabinet was easily heavy enough to crush
him--but the small upper doors hit the floor first, miraculously
bearing up the weight of the cabinet proper.  Simon found himself
intact, unhurt, but treacherously pinned down.  If he tried to move,
the small upper swinging doors would probably buckle, and the steel
bulk poised over him would drop.  He was facing a crushed ribcage at
best, possibly even a pulverized spine.

"Uncle Simon?"  A delicate, bell-like voice echoed through the
stillness.  Footsteps rang quickly down the hallway towards the lab. 
As Simon adjusted his wire-rims, a statue of living silver steel
appeared in the doorway.  She was still in her nightshirt, and
barefoot.  Her long silver-white hair fell razor-straight to her
hips, chiming faintly with each move she made.  Her cobalt-blue eyes
widened as she saw her uncle's predicament.  "Let me help--" she took
a step forward.

"Galatea--wait!"  Simon cried out, gasping for breath.  He felt the
cabinet shudder.  "If you try to move this thing, it'll fall on top
of me.  It's just barely holding up as it is."

Galatea paused, frowning.  She bit her lip, then brightened.  "It's
all right, Uncle Simon.  I can fix it."  She raised her hands,
scowled at the offending cabinet, and drew a deep breath.

Simon felt the thing shift again, and for one horrible moment he was
sure he was about to either die or be in a *lot* of pain.  The
cabinet did not fall, however.  Instead it rose slowly off of him,
limned in a nimbus of blue flickering light.  It lifted about
eighteen inches off the ground, and hovered there.

"Hurry--Uncle--Simon--"  Galatea's arms were trembling; her lovely
smooth young face was squinched up into a grimace of intense
concentration.  Bullets of sweat popped out on her brow, ran down her
neck and arms like rivulets of mercury.  

Simon scrabbled out of the way.  "Okay, Gale--let it go!"

She went limp, and the cabinet crashed to the floor.  Simon leapt to
his feet and caught his eighteen-year-old niece as she swayed.  "Hey,
kid--take it easy.  You all right?"

"Just...tired."  Gale swiped a hand over her wet face and beamed up
at him.  "How about you?  You're not hurt or anything, are you?"

Simon smiled at her.  From this angle, holding her, he could just see
the fine white line of a scar which ran across part of her scalp,
mostly hidden by the sterling white hair.  "No, Gale, I'm fine. 
Really."  

"Are you sure?  Maybe we should take you to a doctor and make sure--"

"It's *okay*, Gale.  Really. *I'm* okay."

She peered up at him from underneath the fringe of her bangs.  "Are
you just saying that because...you don't want people to see me?"

There was a tinge of pain in that voice, and shyness, and terrible
loneliness.  Simon folded Galatea in his arms.  "Oh, sweetheart," he
breathed against her hair.  "You know I'm not ashamed of you.  It's
never been that."

"I know," she said against his shoulder.  "You just don't want people
to laugh at me--or try to hurt me--the way they try to hurt other
people who are...you know...like I am."

Simon laughed softly.  "Oh, Gale, honey," he said, "there's *nobody*
else quite like you."  He gave her a squeeze and let her go.  "Come
on," he said, "let's get this place cleaned up and get out of here
before the main event starts."

                  *             *             *


New Orleans, Louisiana
Friday, the 22nd, 1:22 p.m.

Jennifer Alison Bander ran joyfully up Monkey Hill, the highest point
in the city of New Orleans, with a joyful exuberance achievable only
by a child of her tender years.  It meant nothing to her at that
moment that her mother had lost her somewhere back at the Monkey
House and was currently calling her name well out of hearing range
somewhere beyond the reaches of the crowd.  At that moment there was
only the smell of fresh green grass and high, dazzling-blue sky, and
the speed of her small feet covering the ground, carrying her
uphill--

The rubber sole of her hot-pink-and-purple Baby Reebok found a loose
stone half-buried in the ground.  Her slight weight jarred it loose,
and her left leg shot out from under her at an awkward angle.  Her
squawk of surprise turned to a shriek of pain as the greenstick bones
of her leg cracked and twisted.  She rolled downhill on the other
side, coming to rest at the feet of a crowd of tourists who hastily
scuttled out of her way.  She lay on the cold cement, crying and
howling.  The crowd formed a semicircle around her, but no one moved
toward her, held at bay by the unmistakable agony in her small voice,
none of them wanting to be involved.

The wall of uneasy spectators parted to admit a woman.  The first
impressions of those nearby was that this was the child's mother, so
obvious was her concern--but no; this woman was far too calm to be
personally involved.  Perhaps, rather, she was a medical professional
of some sort--a doctor, a nurse, at the very least an EMT.  The
throng's uneasiness faded, soothed by the presence of someone who saw
a problem they were ready, willing, and able to deal with.

The dark-haired woman with tip-tilted golden eyes knelt beside the
crying child.  She laid one hand on the head of tousled blonde curls,
the other on the twisted leg.  "It's all right," the woman murmured,
a small smile curving her full lips.  "I'm here now.  I'm here."  Her
eyes half-closed, flickers of silver and rainbows sparkling in their
depths.  A silvery nimbus limned her hands, obscured by the bright
sunlight.

No one chose to notice.

The child's cries ceased.  She blinked, surprised at the sudden
cessation of pain, of the comforting coolness bathing her leg, her
mind, her soul.  She sniffed hard and peered with eyes still blurred
from tears up at the pale oval face.  "M...mama?" she murmured,
uncertainly.

"No, honey.  My name's Miry."  Her voice was sweet and soothing, like
the ice-cold water from a drinking fountain when you're really
thirsty on a hot day.  "What's yours?"

"Juh-Jennifer."

"What's your mama's name, Jennifer?"

"Annette.  Annette Bander."

Miry smiled and stroked the blonde curls.  "Good girl, Jen.  You just
sit still now.  You've got a bad scrape on your leg, but you're gonna
be okay."  She lifted her head, her eyes once more golden.  "Would
somebody please go to the Information booth and tell them to page
Annette Bander, please?"

Immediately several people turned and hurried off towards the center
of the zoo.  A black woman carrying a toddler ventured, "Uh...is she
all right?"

Miry smiled.  "Yes.  She's just got a scraped knee, is all."  She
smiled comfort at Jennifer and patted the leg which had been broken
only moments before.  Now the skin sported only a small abrasion just
under the knee.  "Soon's your mama gets here, she can wash it off and
bandage it up for you."

Jennifer looked down at the sore place, reached out a finger and
poked it experimentally.  It stung a little, but there was no intense
jab of pain as she'd experienced when she fell.    In her mind she
measured the memory of that pain against all the other bumps,
bruises, scrapes and mishaps she'd known in her brief life and found
it overwhelming.  She turned a puzzled pout up at the strange woman
who seemed so familiar and comfortable.

Miry cocked her head, almost as if daring her to ask.

Jennifer's young mind could not formulate the right question.  She
shrugged, half-consciously, and returned her attention to the raw red
place on her leg.

The crowd lost interest and dispersed.  The few who lingered were
treated to the sight of a slender, half-hysterical young woman who
came running up and snatched Jennifer off the ground and up into her
arms.  

"OhGodJenniferthankGodyou'reallrightI'vebeenlookingalloverforyou--"

"'M okay, Mama," Jennifer murmured.  "Miry took care of me."

"...  Who--?"  Annette Bander looked around, but there was no one
else at the foot of the hill.  Just her and her daughter...

                  *             *             *