Strange Fur in a Strange Land

		(c) 2000, Wirewolf
		All characters mentioned are (c) their players


  His mission had failed before it had even begun.  As he stood on the large arch in the 
middle of the Howard Frankland bridge and stared at the darkened waters of Tampa Bay, 
he felt certain he had been set up to fail.  The kevlar-lined polymer sac implanted under 
his sternum would only remain safe as long as he was alive and able to safeguard it.  In 
this place, however, there was no one to turn to for protection, no safe place to hide.  It 
had become clear that he had not been intended to safely deliver his cargo but to spread 
its devastating contents.  The idea both enraged and deeply depressed him, for he had 
done what they wanted.

  If that were their intent, to give free reign to the microscopic chaos he carried, then he 
had no alternatives.  He had to disappear, taking his secrets with him.  After all, he'd 
accepted this mission knowing he was expendable.

  He had stepped into the small steel vault with serious doubts.  He'd known lots of things 
could go wrong.  He'd even thought he might die during his mind boggling journey.  But 
to think he had allowed himself to be betrayed bitterly galled him.  How could he have 
ever trusted them?

  His stomach complained to him again, making him grit his teeth in real pain.  He'd been 
three days without food or shelter, hiding and trying to determine his whereabouts.  And 
hoping to find some answer to his problem.  It was obvious to him now that he was stuck 
with his failure.  Even the fact that it wasn't really *his* failure gave him no comfort.  
The consequences were the same.

  He looked down, wishing he could tell how far it was to the water.  Surely he was high 
enough to kill himself if he jumped.

  *When* he jumped, he corrected himself.  He had to.  He had no other choice.

  And yet...

  To jump was to give up control, to leave the contents of his body, and his body itself, to 
the twisted desires of chance.  He might sink beneath the moonlit waters and never 
resurface to threaten anyone.  Or he might wash up on the stony shore to feed the seagulls 
and the curious.  The curious would find his corpse to be a Pandora's Box.  He didn't 
want that to be his legacy.

  He also didn't want to die.

  Time ran out.  A car, an old, battered economy sedan, rattled up the arch.  Its 
approaching headlights briefly washed over his form.  He turned his head away, keeping 
the raised hood of his sweatshirt facing the oncoming car.

  'Keep on driving,' he thought angrily.  'Don't stop.'

  The rattling changed pitch, tapered off.

  'No,' he snarled silently.  'Keep going.  Just ignore me.'

  No such luck.  The headlights drifted left as the driver pulled into the breakdown lane.

  He tensed, shifting his weight for a leap onto the cement wall.  He hated that he was 
being pushed into hasty action, but perhaps it was for the best.  He'd managed to make it 
to the arch without being bothered, despite the fact that foot traffic wasn't allowed on the 
bridge.  Now instead of pointlessly debating whether or not to jump, he would just do it.

  With a minimum of effort, he leapt onto the cap of the wall.  Nothing but open air stood 
between him and the end of his failure.

  "Hey!  Hey!!"  The words shouted behind him were punctuated by a slamming car door 
and rushed footsteps.  He looked down at the black water.  All he had to do was lean 
forward.  A salt-laden breeze slapped against him, nudging him back towards the 
pavement of the bridge.

  "You shouldn't do this," the voice came again.  A male voice, hesitant and uncertain.

  He spread his arms as though he would take flight.  'Just lean forward.  Let gravity do 
the rest.'

  "It won't solve anything!"  The voice was very close now, right behind him.  He tried to 
ignore it.  'Just lean forward.'

  Unexpectedly, a hand touched his leg, lightly grabbing at his stolen jogging pants.  He 
jumped, but survival instinct drove him back onto the bridge instead of out over the 
water.  Fury swelled in him, cutting him off from the rest of his thoughts.  "Get away 
from me!" he snapped, taking a step back.

  "Trust me," the intruder insisted.  While his words were obviously meant to sound 
soothing, they came out anxious and unsteady.  "You don't really want...to..."

  He watched the other's eyes widen dramatically.  His anger peaked.  He wanted nothing 
more than for this interloper to get back in his dilapidated car and vanish.  When he saw 
the other's mouth drop open, he realized his face was being illuminated by the glow of 
the nearest street light.  It was a mistake, and he now saw his options had been reduced to 
one.  If he had been seen by this individual then there was no point hiding from him.  He 
gripped the hood of his sweatshirt and yanked it back over his head.

  "Get away!" he roared, taking a menacing step forward.

  "My god," the intruder gasped.  Thinking he was only moments away from driving off 
his unwanted company, he opened his mouth to unleash all the pent up fury in him.  But 
he froze when he heard the other whisper, "You're beautiful."


**************************


  It was well past dark when Allen Harkins finally got home.  As he had for the past 
week, he looked up at the drawn curtains of his small loft apartment.  There were no 
lights on.  Unfortunately, that told him nothing.  He sighed and shut off the ignition.  The 
engine in his worn out Escort lapsed into silence, but only after sputtering and running on 
and finally kicking over backwards.  He shoved open the door, grabbed his lunchbox and 
separated the house key on his key ring.

  As he trudged up the steep wooden stairs to the door of his apartment, he looked over at 
the stately two story brick house in which his landlord lived.  There were a few lights on 
in the Garrup's house.  He saw the blinds of the living room window open as Mrs. Garrup 
checked on him.  No one else was allowed on the property, and she seldom failed to 
make certain that the only person walking up those steps was Allen.  He waved to her, 
but the blinds just closed again.

  Facing the door to the cramped apartment over the Garrup's garage, Allen slid the key 
into the deadbolt lock.  As he twisted the key he muttered softly to himself.  "Please be 
there.  Please don't disappear."  He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The smell was getting stronger, he noticed.  If Mrs. Garrup ever came in here, she 
would think he was keeping a dog.  Which, in a way, he was.

  Allen shook his head.  He wouldn't allow himself to start thinking along those lines.  He 
closed the door and dropped his keys into the heavy ashtray by the door.  Their brassy 
jangle of metal on glass served to announce his arrival.

  "Allen?  Is that you?"

  Allen took another deep breath, relieved once again to hear that unbelievably deep, 
rumbling voice.  He was glad Ramval was still there, for many reasons.  The least of 
which was the proof that he wasn't insane.

  "Yeah, it's me," he called in his perpetually unsteady voice.  He glanced into his dimly 
lit bedroom.  His guest was sitting at the computer, half swallowed by the shadows that 
seemed to thrive in the little apartment.  "How's it going?"

  At first there was no response.  Then Ramval growled, "Not very well."

  Allen froze.  He still couldn't tell when he was angry or just teasing.  Should he ask what 
was wrong?  What if Ramval had reached the limit of his patience and wanted to leave?  
He decided to skirt the subject.

  "I have what you asked for."  He heard the chair scrape back from the desk.  Footsteps, 
heavy yet soft, marked the embarrassingly short distance from his bedroom to the 
kitchen/living room.  Ramval emerged from the darkened doorway like a monster in a 
movie.  No movie had ever convincingly offered a glimpse of a creature like Ramval, 
though.  In the filtered streaks of sodium light from the streetlight outside, the man-beast 
seemed to surface from the shadows, a thing of darkness and secrets.  Light, already 
weakened by it's journey through the dirty kitchen window and the drab curtains that 
framed it, could only scratch the furred surface of Ramval's body.  It offered indistinct 
hints and highlights of an impossible being.

  Allen was mildly startled when Ramval swept a hand over the light switch and instantly 
dissolved the illusion.  The mysterious and vaguely threatening creature of darkness 
became an undeniably real person of fur and muscle.  The vaguely threatening 
impression remained, unchanged by the addition of 100 watts of truth breaking jaggedly 
against his predatory form.

  "You brought some meat?" Ramval asked, taking a step toward him. That voice, that 
could growl like an angry bear, was light and hopeful, almost comic with desire.  Allen 
opened his large plastic lunchbox and pulled out the four pounds of fresh rump roast, 
bought half an hour ago at the Winn Dixie.  Underneath was a plastic bag with three big 
sweet potatoes and another with a heavy Vidalia onion.  Ramval's large hands closed on 
the offerings.  He headed to the sink.

  "The window!" Allen hissed in alarm.  The dog-man stopped.

  The look Ramval gave him over his shoulder shamed him.  For eight days now Allen 
had nagged him to stay away from the windows.  He knew his guest understood his 
extreme caution, but it was hard to suppress the fear that Mrs. Garrup might be watching 
and see more than one outline against the backlit window.  "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

  Ramval's expression softened.  He often forgot how hard it was for the human to deal 
with such unexpected company.  Being cooped up in the three room apartment with 
nothing to do and nowhere to go made it easy to lose himself in his own discomfort.  He 
took a deep breath, tasting the thin man's emotional state: exhaustion, mild fear and 
chlorophyll.  What one might expect from a distressed flower delivery truck driver.

  "Rough day?" he asked sympathetically.

  Allen nodded.  "Two funerals today."  He shivered.  "I hate funerals."

  Real concern touched the rough, rumbling words that Ramval spoke.  "You must be 
hungry, yeah?  Let's sit down and eat.  Then we'll both feel better."

  Allen nodded again, fighting fatigue and a pale, lingering fear.

  Ramval rinsed off the meat and vegetables, standing to one side of the sink to keep his 
shadow from touching the curtains of the nearby window.  He thought briefly of throwing 
the beef in the micro to give it some warmth, but decided he was too hungry to wait.  
After he'd put his food on a chipped yellow dinner plate, he sat down and waited for 
Allen.  Being hungry was no reason to disregard his manners.  The host always takes the 
first bite.

  It took a few minutes for Allen's food to warm up.  He tried not to glance at the hunk of 
expensive meat Ramval had on his plate.  Instead, he watched without much interest as 
the leftovers from the night before spun lazily inside the microwave.

  The words Ramval had growled in answer to his question still bothered him.  He was 
almost certain that was what had suddenly killed his appetite.  As much as he wanted to 
avoid the subject, he knew he couldn't.  While his hot dogs and green beans waltzed 
round one another, he cleared his throat and tried to meet Ramval's eyes.

  "Were you having problems with the computer again?"

  The werewolf looked up at him.  His ears kept twitching and his tail, looking a bit silly 
hanging out the open back of the chair, repeatedly flicked back and forth in short strokes.  
He supposed these things gave some clue as to the furred man's mental state, but couldn't 
guess what they might mean.  He'd never been much good at reading people, let alone 
animals.

  He blinked and silently cursed himself again.  Ramval was no animal.  He might appear 
to be some kind of feral man-beast, but the truth was obvious.  Ramval was a person, 
with all the strengths and weaknesses a person could claim.  In fact, he looked nothing 
like any of the drawings he'd seen in the newsgroups, except in small ways.

  His head was the most notable feature.  Most people who drew pictures of 
anthropomorphic creatures gave them various animal heads perched atop roughly human 
bodies.  Ramval's head was undeniably canine, yet there were aspects that stopped the 
comparison from being wholly accurate.  He had a higher forehead than any dog.  Allen 
assumed this was because of an enlarged brain, like humans had.  Only he didn't have a 
human head.  The slope of his face, the rise of his forehead; they were somewhere 
between the two species.

  The fur that covered him was normal looking enough.  But he had yet to see a single 
shed hair anywhere in his apartment.  And the two times he had actually touched it, once 
on Ramval's hand and once on his arm, if felt like the fur itself was warm, like bare skin 
would feel.

  The only places his fur was missing were the same places normal dogs didn't have any.  
The palms of his hands and the soles of his feet were leathery but warm and pliable, the 
way his own were.  And colored.  On several of Ramval's fingerpads the exposed skin 
was a warm pink while the rest were either dark brown or black.  The pad of one of his 
feet was spotted with a lighter color, too.  And the claws on both fingers and toes were 
almost, but not quite, like a dog's claws.  They were short and rounded on the ends but 
smooth surfaced, almost like they had been polished.

  And, of course, there was the tail.  It, of all Ramval's features, seemed to have been 
copied directly from a breed of Canis familiaris.

  "Not with the computer, no."

  Allen snapped back to the conversation.  If his guest hadn't been having problems with 
his old, hand-me-down computer, then what was bothering him?  "Something else?" he 
asked quietly.

  Large, powerful hands gripped the only carving knife Allen owned.  Ramval used it to 
slice the raw meat into thick slabs.  He seemed to barely concentrate on his food as he 
spoke.

  "I think its time I told you how I got here."  He stopped.  "Well, more like where I came 
from."

  The question he had speculated on for a week would be answered?  Allen focused on 
Ramval to the exclusion of everything, even the loaded fork halfway to his mouth.

  Ramval, too, stopped what he was doing, going over what he'd found scattered around 
the primitive network Allen called 'the Internet.'  He set down the knife and stared at the 
raw sweet potatoes, stained with blood from the meat piled next to them.

  "You're going to find this hard to believe, I think."  He frowned.  "I know I do."  He 
seemed to get lost in thought for a moment, then blinked and looked directly at Allen.  "I 
was part of a secret project to save millions of lives.  I volunteered to go on a special 
mission for the GRC."

  "GRC?" Allen asked.

  "Genemorph relations commission.  They're kind of like the INS, only they deal with 
morphs already living in the country.  Anyway, I was supposed to take a special package 
to a lab where it was needed.  Only..."

  "What?" Allen prompted.

  "Only the lab didn't exist anymore.  It had been closed for 20 years.  So I had to take the 
package back...in time."

  It didn't register at first.  Allen wondered what kind of deadline Ramval was talking 
about.

  "So they sent me back to the past."

  Allen said nothing.  He felt the hair on his arms rising.

  "From the future," Ramval clarified.

  The room seemed to turn cold.  Allen felt like he wanted to shiver but couldn't.  He also 
felt a little sick.

  When he still didn't say anything, Ramval impatiently stated, "I'm a time traveler."

  Allen's throat was dry.  It was hard to speak, but he couldn't seem to concentrate on 
moving his hand to pick up his glass of water.  "Time...traveler?" he rasped.  "You're 
from..."  He couldn't finish.

  "The future, yeah.  Your future, I think.  At least it looks that way."

  Allen said nothing for a moment.  His voice, when he found it, was small and confused.  
"You're not an alien?"

  Ramval gave him that look again.  "Of course not.  I share as much DNA with you as 
chimps do.  More, in fact."

  "Well, you never would say," the human defended himself.  "I mean, just because you 
can speak English and whatnot doesn't mean you can't have a ship somewhere."  He 
stopped, realizing how dim that sounded.  "But, I mean, time travel isn't possible.  It's 
against Newton's laws.  Or Einstein's laws."  He frowned.  "Somebody's laws."

  "And a hundred years ago, it was impossible to cross a human and a canine."  He 
thumped his furry chest with an open hand.  "And yet, here I am."

  The two things didn't seem connected to Allen.  "That's different," he said.  "Isn't it?"

  Ramval shook his head, the slightly thicker fur crowning him moving softly.  "I don't 
know much about physics or biology.  All I know is I was sent into the past to do a job."

  The thought buzzed in his head like an angry hornet.  The whole idea seemed ridiculous 
to him.  He'd seen movies about people who traveled in time, but never heard of anyone 
ever trying it.  It seemed enormously dangerous.  What kind of mission could Ramval be 
on that would justify such risk?"

  "What job?  Why are you here?"

  Ramval recited the facts he was supposed to have given to certain geneticists.  "When 
morphs were first created, there were a lot of problems.  One of the problems was 
disease.  The geneticists didn't know what kinds of diseases might spring up from new 
species.  Most of the ones they came across they managed to deal with.  But there was 
one they couldn't deal with.  They called it 'Panama fever'.  It makes humans sick like the 
flu, but it's lethal in 94% of morphs.  They managed to quarantine it in Panama for a 
while, but it started spreading.  Now much of Africa and Europe are finding cases.  And 
it's spreading fast.  When they found the first case in North America, the government and 
the GRC decided to do something." 

  Allen shook his head, still not understanding.  "But why send you back in time?"

  "They took a purified sample of the virus and placed it in a special vial.  They implanted 
that vial in my chest."  Ramval touched the center of his chest, where there was a three 
inch scar under the fur.  "They sent me back to take the sample to the lab where they 
think it originated.  Back in time to when the lab still existed.  So they could design a 
vaccine, or something."

  "Don't they have labs that can do that in your time?"

  Ramval shook his head.  "The backlash against morphs was enormous.  The lab this 
virus is supposed to come from was burned to the ground in the Tampa riots.  The only 
information that exists on the virus is in that lab, at that time."

  "Did you?  Take the sample to the lab?"

  Now Ramval sounded angry.  "I couldn't.  Something went wrong.  They sent me too far 
back in time.  That lab doesn't exist yet.  It won't for thirty more years.  I can't do what I 
was supposed to do."

  The human's voice was barely above a whisper now.  "Can they bring you back?  Try 
again?"

  Silence.  Then, "No.  To do it at all, they had to use the Potrillo Ring.  It's the biggest, 
and last, particle accelerator built in North America, thirty miles west of Las Cruces, 
New Mexico.  It had been abandoned for years for lack of funding.  They calculated that 
when they used it to send me back, it would be damaged so badly that they couldn't do it 
again."  He didn't add his theory about the possibility he was deliberately sent to the 
wrong time, to infect humans with the virus, thus making it impossible for genemorphs to 
exist.  He didn't want to sound paranoid.

  Allen considered all this for a minute.  Then he asked, "What will you do?"

  "I...I don't know."

  He would never have thought such a powerful man could ever sound so lost, so 
desperate.  His interest in anthropomorphic creatures had always been an unfulfilled 
wish, born during his childhood.  His fantasies about meeting such a person had certainly 
never been anything like what the two of them were going through now.  The idea that 
meeting a real-life 'furry' would be a source of unhappiness never crossed his mind.  
Coming face to face with someone from your dreams was supposed to be wonderful, 
reason to celebrate.

  Ramval shrugged, his anger fading.  "Well, so now you know where I came from.  Eat 
up, yeah?  Your tube steaks are getting cold."

  "Umm," the human mumbled.  Allen ate mechanically, not tasting his food.  A single 
thought was lodged in his head, and he couldn't make it go away.  'He can't stay.'  It was a 
painful admission, but no matter how he looked at it, any extended stay was simply 
impossible.  Mrs. Garrup would almost certainly stumble across him.  What's more, it 
was hard enough to feed himself let alone a person who needed large quantities of choice 
meat on a regular basis.

  But where could Ramval go?  He was a powerful magnet that would attract all the worst 
attention.  Scientists would want to study his body, grill him about how he got here from 
the future, biologists would want to vivisect him for genetic clues, and certainly the 
media would be on him like fleas.  No doubt the current government would consider him 
a threat to national security or some such and hide him in the bunker with the real aliens.

  Both men were silent as they ate, thinking the same things: Ramval was trapped.  His 
moving through time had been a massive scientific undertaking, and since neither of 
them was a scientist they had no way of figuring out a clever idea to get him home.

  After a very quiet supper and a quick clean up of dishes and such, Allen gathered up his 
laundry while Ramval turned on the TV to watch the news.  He carried his old wicker 
laundry basket filled with his delivery uniforms and street clothes downstairs to the back 
door of the Garrup's garage.  The only real perk to living there, besides the cost, was that 
he had permission to use the Garrup's washer and dryer.

  Once inside, he loaded the washer and added the soap.  He sat down on the stool in 
front of Mr. Garrup's workbench and thought.  He found himself staring at the laundry 
basket.  It had been a present from his mother when he moved from Tampa to St. 
Petersburg to live on his own.  Ever practical, his mother.  Not very imaginative.  His 
father was no different, a construction worker living on disability checks.  He saw the 
world as buildings and people and little else.  They couldn't possibly deal with this 
problem.  They would probably have fled from the bizarre creature that had exposed 
itself right in front of him.  They certainly wouldn't have stuck around after the six foot 
tall werewolf had howled it's rage at them on the middle of a bridge in the dead of night.

  If he couldn't turn to his parents for help, who else was there?  Not his co-workers, who 
scorned him and teased him for being so quiet, so different.  He had no real friends who 
could see Ramval as a person and not an opportunity to be famous.

  Who could help him?

  An idea nipped at him, but he dismissed it as impractical and dangerous.  The further 
through the wash cycle he waited, though, the more he saw things as they were.  Neither 
he nor Ramval had the resources to fix their problem.  If they were to find a solution, 
they would have to accept some risks.  By the time the dryer had buzzed and Allen had 
folded and hung his clothes, he'd made his decision.  There was really only one place he 
could ever hope to find the kind of help they needed.

  Back in the apartment, Ramval was still watching the news channel.  It was the only 
thing he watched.  Some pretty brunette was speaking in somber tones about people 
fighting in Africa.  The story had an environmental slant to it, describing the effect 
shelling had on the wildlife.  Allen seldom watched the news.  It seemed nothing more 
than an ongoing chronicle of humanity's binge of destruction.

  "Um, Ramval?"

  The large triangular ears twitched, swiveled backwards, pinpointing where he stood.  He 
steeled himself to ask the question he'd known was inevitable.  It still turned his guts to 
jelly to speak the words.

  "Have you decided what you want to do?"

  Ramval slowly twisted on the threadbare couch, the light of the TV briefly lighting a 
blood-red spark in his eyes.  His voice was quiet, subdued.  "Do?"

  "Well, we don't have any way to get you back.  And..."  It took more effort than he'd 
thought it would, to say the words, to face the ugly truth.  "And you can't stay here 
forever.  Even if you wanted to."

  Ramval made no comment about whether he wanted to stay or not.  It hurt, thinking his 
guest was unhappy staying with him.  For a moment, Allen couldn't speak.  No, it was 
definitely wrong.  Meeting someone from your dreams should never hurt like this.

  "So..."  He stared at the only living furry he would ever meet and asked the question he 
hated most.  "What do you want to do?  Where do you want to go?"

  Ramval was silent for a long time.  Allen couldn't help wondering if he was even 
slightly reluctant to leave the person who'd helped him, who'd convinced him not to jump 
from the bridge, who'd managed to sneak him up the stairs just knowing Mrs. Garrup 
would open the blinds at exactly the wrong time.  Did he feel any remorse at having to 
leave?

  "I'm not sure I have *any* options," the werewolf finally said.  He spoke slowly, feeling 
the weight of the truth in his words.  The human had risked himself to save him, hide 
him, feed him.  But it changed nothing.  "I can't hide.  I can't run.  I'll never fit it 
anywhere.  I may have to just..."  His ears quivered.  "...disappear."

  He was shocked to hear him say such a thing.  He shook his head.  "No."  The very idea 
was abhorrent, horrifying.  "No," he said again, loudly.  Suddenly he didn't care what 
happened.  He would do whatever it took, pay any price.  The idea took hold like a fever.  
It shored up his weak spirit, burned away his doubts.

  Allen moved around the couch and sat next to Ramval.  "We can find someone to help 
you, find you a place to live."

  Suddenly, Ramval didn't know who to feel sorrier for, himself or his host.  Being 
trapped in a foreign place without any chance of ever meeting another of his kind again 
was terrible.  But so was deceiving oneself about the chances of fighting the whole world 
to find a comfortable niche for someone like himself.  It sounded to him like the quickest 
way to destroy both of them.

  "Allen," he said, "I've been watching your telecomp.  I mean, uhh, tele...television.  And 
I've looked all over the Internet.  And I've seen no evidence that there are any others like 
me.  I'm totally unique, and that means I'm a target.  I doubt there are very many people 
who would even consider me a person.  Just a freak of nature.  Or genetics, if they knew 
how I came about."  He paused, his tongue swiping his whiskers once.  "You should have 
let me jump."

 Allen Harkins, flower delivery man and closet furry, made up his mind right then and 
there.  If he never did anything of worth for the rest of his miserable life, he would do 
this.  This was *important*.  He sat up a little straighter.

  "There's something I need to show you."

  Ramval followed him into the bedroom, wishing he could find some way to convince 
his human benefactor that it was foolish to waste his time like this.  He might as well be 
an alien instead of a genemorph, as far as the average human was concerned.

  Allen sat at the computer and reconnected to his Internet account, the only true luxury 
he permitted himself.  It was hard for him to think of it as a luxury, though, considering 
how much he had come to value the access it gave him.  He booted up the browser and 
pointed to a small icon in the corner of the screen.

  "See that?  That lists the newsgroups I subscribe to."  A simple click got him a list of the 
groups he perused within the news.fysh.org server.  "See how all the groups start with the 
word 'fur'?"

  Ramval nodded slowly.  Looking at the list, he noticed the word 'erotica' used a few 
times.  He wondered where this conversation was leading.

  "These are some of the newsgroups that deal with furry fans."  Allen stared at the list 
too, realizing that this was the first time he'd ever shown anyone any aspect of his 
interests in the furry community.  It was a little frightening, opening himself up to a 
relative stranger.  Even a stranger like Ramval.

  "Furry fans?" the genemorph wondered aloud.  He wasn't sure what to make of that, but 
there was something about it that tasted wrong.

  "Uh huh."  Allen pointed to the list as though singling out a relative in a class photo.  
"They are..."  He faltered, realizing at that moment he would show his true nature to 
Ramval or begin a long string of half truths and deceptions.  The decision, once made, 
was strangely liberating, if a bit scary.  "*We* are a group of people who are interested in 
anthropomorphic beings."

  "Genemorphic," Ramval corrected.

  "Huh?"

  The two met eyes for a moment.  "Genemorphic," Ramval repeated.  "I'm a genetic 
anthropomorph, a genemorph."

  "Ohhh."  Allen smiled.  For a moment, the sense of wonder and discovery was back.  It 
had taken hold so strongly the first few days, until he'd realized Ramval was lost and 
wanted to go home.  Now he was learning again, finding out the details of this beautiful 
creature's life.

  Beautiful creature?  Looking straight into those light brown eyes that scarcely showed 
their whites, he could admit to himself that he thought Ramval was beautiful, like all the 
stunning artwork the newsgroups had to offer molded into realistic perfection.

  He cleared his throat and muttered, "What was I saying?"  A glance at the screen, the 
list, brought him back.  "Oh, yeah."  He pointed again.  "These newsgroups are for people 
interested in anthro...uhh, genemorphs.  We draw pictures of them, write stories about 
them, talk to each other about them.  If we want to find someone who can help you, we 
should look here."

  Ramval shook his head.  "Allen, I've spent three days looking around this network of 
yours.  I've found the companies that will start the genetic enhancement market boom.  
I've found the scientific archives that describe some of the aspects of DNA combination 
and manipulation between species.  I even found the company that will eventually patent 
the first viable DNA pattern for a genemorph."  He looked significantly at his human 
host.  "But I haven't found any reference at all to any living genemorphs.  At this point in 
history-"  He had to stop.  The feeling of isolation, of separation threatened to overwhelm 
him.

  "At this point," Allen spoke softly, "you're only fiction."

  Ramval nodded, ears flat and tail pressed hard against his legs.  He sat on the bed, trying 
not to give in to the feelings that had been gnawing at him lately.

  "I can't even imagine what it's like for you," Allen went on.  "Being so lost."

  Ramval tried to shrug carelessly.  "It's not easy."  He glanced at Allen briefly.  "The 
world is full of people, but I'm the only one of my kind.  I'm alone."

  "No, Ramval, you're not really alone."  He pointed to the screen again.  "All these 
people are fans of yours.  They want nothing more than to meet someone like you."

  Allen was surprised when Ramval's lips lifted and a deep, throbbing rumble broke from 
the genemorph's throat.  "Fans.  They aren't fans.  They're just human who want a good 
look at the freak.  Pet my head, pull my tail, make fun of me."

  Allen was shocked at this sudden turn.  "What?  No!  They're..."  He flinched when 
Ramval's angry glare settled squarely on him.  "Th-they're like anyone else.  Really.  
There are some good ones and some bad ones.  I mean, sure, a few of them might seem a 
bit shallow or only want to...well, you know."

  "What?"

  "Uh, well, you know.  Have, uh, sex with you."

  Ramval just stared.  It made Allen uneasy, and he wondered how the man-beast would 
take such news."

  "Chameleons.  That's all they are."

  "Huh?"

  "That's what we call them.  Humans that want to be genemorphs."  He leered.  "Or just 
to *bed* genemorphs."

  Real anger started to rise.  Allen shook his head.  "No!  There's a lot of good people in 
the groups.  I'm sure one of them would help you if they knew you existed."  Ramval was 
staring at him, and he did his best to meet that intimidating glare.  "And so what if some 
of them want to have sex with you?  If I were in your place, I'd be flattered.  I mean it's 
not like a bunch of strangers want to get with me just because..."  He broke off, realizing 
what he'd said and feeling embarrassed.  "Never mind," he muttered.

  Ramval's ears flagged and he slumped on the bed.  "I'm sorry Allen."  His hands twisted 
themselves into the bedclothes.  "I shouldn't have said that."  Taking his anger out on his 
host was inexcusable, especially for 90 years of future history over which Allen had no 
control.

  Allen watched silently as Ramval's anger deflated.  His mind leapt ahead.  It wasn't hard 
to figure out why the man was unwilling to trust humans.  History was a dependable 
pattern with which to work.

  "We've been terrible to you," he said.  "Haven't we?"

  The caniform sighed, remembering his classes in Nonhuman History.  "No worse than 
you've been to yourselves."  He recalled his own childhood, being such an obvious 
member of a minority.  His parents had moved several times, trying to find someplace to 
live with a higher concentration of genemorphs in the population.  "It hasn't been easy, 
though."

  "I'm sorry," Allen whispered.  The two stared at each other from across a gulf of time 
and circumstance that almost seemed unbridgeable.  Almost.

  Ramval shrugged.  "Not your fault, really."  Nothing more was said for a time.  Finally, 
Allen pointed to the screen.

  "Have a look, at least?"

  Ramval nodded, trying to summon up the sense of hope he would need to get through 
this.  He took the seat Allen abandoned and stared at the list of groups.  Stories first, he 
decided.


**************************


  By the time the weekend rolled around, Ramval had spent two days practically glued to 
the computer.  Allen was glad he had decided to go with an unlimited Internet account.

  The caniform had scanned through dozens of stories from both the miscellaneous and 
the erotic groups, then moved on to the artwork.  Even as Allen had tossed in his bed 
only feet away, Ramval had moved relentlessly through the headings, trying to find 
something, anything, that would give him an idea of how to approach the people who 
might be able to help him.

  When he finally pushed away from the machine, it was late Friday afternoon.  He was 
exhausted.  The apartment was empty, Allen having left in a thick fog of cologne to meet 
a woman friend he was trying to impress.  He sliced and ate the last of the rump roast 
Allen had bought earlier.  He opened a can of soup and upended it into a large mug.

  Ramval sat on the couch that had served, poorly, as his bed for over a week and ate 
while he flipped through the channels available to basic cable subscribers.  He came 
across something billing itself as "Animal Planet" and stopped.  A specialty show about 
crocodiles ran for a minute or so before a commercial took its place.  The ad was for 
some charity fund for helping animals.  On the screen, a small lost looking puppy with 
light brown fur and floppy ears was pawing through someone's trash cans.  Its belly was 
concave, its ribs standing out in painful relief.  Ramval felt his gut twist up and shut off 
the TV.

  Curling up on the couch as much as he was able, he listened to the cicadas in the 
decorative palms that lined the Garrup's driveway.  As their soothing buzz droned on, 
rising and falling in pitch like slow motions waves of sound, he thought back on the 
people he'd left behind.  There weren't many, and in some ways he led a life not much 
different than Allen's.  He had no remaining family who spoke to him and only a few 
casual friends, nothing more.

  He drowsed, the white noise from the cicadas and his weariness becoming a potent 
sedative.  As he slipped into sleep, the image of the puppy on TV lingered, but it's face 
seemed strangely familiar.  Like the one he saw in the mirror.


**************************


  Allen didn't come home until Saturday morning.  He entered his apartment with the 
same apprehension as always.  True fear gripped him, though, when he saw the odd, 
lumped up explosion of white on the living room floor.  He couldn't figure out what it 
was at first.  He looked around the room, searching for Ramval.  He tried to call out but 
found his voice wouldn't cooperate.

  He moved, confused and frightened.  Getting closer to the mass on the floor, he could 
see what it was.  Or rather, what it had been.  It was the remains of the pillow he'd loaned 
his guest, now shredded and piled by the corner of the coffee table.

  He looked around again and, from where he now stood, could see another, larger lump 
on the floor.

  "Ramval?" he whispered.  Was he sick?  Angry?  Had he succumbed to the despair of 
knowing he was forever trapped in this place and taken his own life?

  Suicide was out.  He could see the large, furred ribcage moving.  He moved around the 
couch to get a better view, but kept his distance.  The caniform's eyes were open.

  "Are you alright?"

  Ramval blinked slowly, dully.  He licked once at his nose and swallowed.  "Allen," he 
moaned.  "I'm sorry."

  The human knelt, feeling less threatened and more concerned for the genemorph's well 
being.  "What happened?"

  "I want to go home."  Ramval's ears laid flat against his head.  His breath gusted through 
his nose and he squeezed his eyes shut.  "I don't belong here."

  "Oh, god, Ramval."  Allen could hardly stand to hear the plaintive sound of Ramval's 
plea to return.  He unthinkingly reached out to stoke the top of his head, but caught 
himself.  Hesitating only a moment, he laid his hand on Ramval's shoulder.  "I wish I 
could send you home."

  Liar! his mind shrieked at him.  You want nothing more than for him to stay here 
forever!

  Allen closed his eyes, too, feeling shame at that truth.  The thick, warm fur under his 
hand seemed to beckon him.  He wanted to caress it, pet it.

  No!  He's a person.  A living being that should be respected.

  The argument in his head stopped when Ramval moved under his touch.  Allen moved 
back a bit as he sat up.  They stared at each other.

  "I woke up from a dream that made me angry," the caniform explained.  "I couldn't help 
myself, I wanted to..."  He tucked his muzzle in embarrassment and misery.  "I didn't 
mean to destroy your stuff.  It just happened."

  "It's OK," Allen assured him.  "It's just a pillow."

  "No, it's not!" Ramval snarled.  The feeling of isolation and hopelessness gripped his 
heart, and his anger drew power from such fertile ground.  "I'm not supposed to be here.  
I can't stay here."  His anger flashed sullenly in his dark yellow eyes.  "I have to leave.  
Where am I supposed to go?"

  "I don't know yet," Allen answered quietly.  "That's why I wanted you to look through 
the newsgroups.  We need to find someone-"

  Ramval stood abruptly, growling low in his throat.  "There isn't anyone there who can 
help me.  They're just a bunch of daydreamers, chameleons who have to make do with 
fantasies because genemorphs don't exist yet."

  Allen's anger was slower, but just as potent.  He stood, staring at Ramval.  "No, that isn't 
fair."

  "Fair!?" snapped Ramval.  "Don't talk to me about fair-"

  "You don't know them!" Allen interrupted.  "Did you talk to any of them?"

  "What?  Talk to them?  What good would that do?  They yammer about 'furry' this and 
'furry' that, but they don't know the first thing about morphs."

  "Of course they don't!" Allen almost yelled.  "You're just fiction, remember?"  His 
emotions were starting to get the better of him, and he had some trouble getting his 
breath.  "They might as well be...be...cavemen talking about cars."  His analogy bothered 
him, but he couldn't think of a better one so he pressed on.  "And now this caveman has 
found a real car and needs help.  Who else can we ask?"

  Ramval didn't answer.  He didn't speak at all for several moments.  "What can they do?" 
he finally asked.  "They draw pictures and write stories and daydream.  They aren't 
prepared for the real thing."

  "That's where you're wrong," Allen assured him.  "Some of these people, they've wanted 
nothing more than to meet someone like you, talk to someone like you.  I'm sure there's 
someone out there who'd give up vital parts of their anatomy to help you."

  Ramval made a dismissive noise but Allen ignored him.

  "You just need to talk to them, find out who's got the best frame of mind to handle 
meeting the real thing."

  "How am I supposed to do that?"  Ramval sat down on a nearby kitchen chair.  "Tell 
them there's a morph that needs a place to hide out?"

  Allen leaned back against the couch and took off his glasses.  At least Ramval seemed 
to be calming down a bit.  He polished the lenses of his glasses as he considered how to 
answer the morph's question.

  "We need to take it one step at a time."  He glanced into his bedroom at the tiny desk his 
computer sat upon.  "We have to get them talking first.  Thinking about the possibility 
that you exist.  Maybe…"  He trailed off, thinking.

  While Allen tried to figure out the best way to single out the person who could help 
them, Ramval tried to get a handle on his anger.  It was getting harder, knowing he was 
trapped, to humor his human benefactor.

  "I've got it," Allen declared.  "Come on."  He lead the way to the bedroom and powered 
up his computer.  Once he'd logged on to his account, he opened up the newsgroups and 
composed a message.  When he was finished, he showed it to Ramval.


	'I need some help to improve my writing skills.  I
	 need any fur who's willing to do the following:
	Imagine a furry of average description: Male canine,
	young, living in a mixed society of furries and humans.
	  He's lived an average life so far, but because of some
	fantastic event, he now has the ability to talk to us.

	  That's right.  Pretend there's an honest-to-goodness
	furry out there, and he has access to this newsgroup.
	He's reached adulthood, formed opinions on many
	things, experienced many more.  And he's willing to
	talk to you.

	  My question is: if you could ask him just *ONE*
	question, what would it be?  What single piece of
	information would you most like to have from a real,
	live furry?

	  If you have a question you'd like to see answered,
	post it here or send it to the email address below.'
	I'll do my best to come up with a creative answer,
	and expand my skills at the same time.

  He signed it 'Wirewolf' and posted it to several of the fur newsgroups.

  "There," he said, satisfied.  "Now we sit back and wait to see who answers and what 
they have to say."

  "What good will having them ask questions do me?"

  Allen tapped the screen.  "We've got to get them thinking along the lines of how they'd 
act and react to you.  If they could meet you, they'd all have a thousand questions.  If we 
can look at their questions, we might be able to find someone who would adjust to you 
the easiest."

  Ramval shook his head.  "This is insane."  He sat heavily on the edge of the bed.  His 
anger had already burned itself out.  His rescuer was set on doing this, and he could 
hardly stay mad at him for it.  "Insane," he muttered.

  "So is your being here," Allen countered.


**************************


  They spent the rest of that Saturday discussing what possible solutions Ramval would 
accept to the problem of living in his own past.  It didn't take long to discover that his 
choices were terribly limited.  Most of the answers they came up with involved some 
form of isolation.  He was simply too unique to pass himself off anywhere in public, 
therefore his existence would have to remain a secret.  This disturbed Allen, but Ramval 
seemed to understand that it was the price he would have to pay for his temporal trespass.

  After the sun had set and the fierce Florida heat had eased off, Allen opened all the 
windows in his apartment.  He kept the shades drawn on the side facing the Garrup's 
house, but opened all the others.  With the lights off, there was no chance anyone would 
be able to see them sitting by the windows.  What should have been a beautiful view of 
Tampa Bay was hugely marred by the Isla Del Sol condo built two years ago between the 
Garrup's house and the shore.  Still, with the windows open and a brisk breeze off the 
water, they could close their eyes and imagine they were right on the beach front.

  "I've always loved the water," Ramval said in a rare moment of disclosure.  "The smell 
of it, the sound of it."  He took a deep breath of salt-tainted air.  A seagull's brief screech 
rose above the ever present drone of cicadas.  For a moment, it almost felt normal.  He 
could picture himself at his own apartment, not yet built, on the other side of Pinellas 
County, near Pass-A-Grille beach.  The smells and sounds were the same, brine and cars, 
hot asphalt and seabirds.

  The genemorph opened his eyes to see Allen staring at him again.  He caught the human 
doing it often.  As always, when they met eyes, Allen looked away but didn't apologize or 
make excuses.

  "Am I really so interesting?" he wondered aloud, not expecting an answer.  Allen turned 
back to him, his features dimly lit by a waning moon.

  "Have you ever wanted something you knew you could never have?"  The human was 
suddenly tense, as though he expected to have to defend himself at any moment.  
"Something you wanted desperately that didn't exist?  Something you longed for day after 
day without ever having any hope of seeing it?"

  Ramval knew what Allen was getting at.  He didn't have to think long to come up with 
an answer.

  "Yes.  I want to see the fighting stop.  I want to see everyone going along with that 'live 
and let live' philosophy this country was supposed to be founded on."

  Allen wasn't prepared for such an answer, but he took it anyway and used it to make his 
point.

  "How would you feel if one day, just 'Poof!', it happened.  What you wanted so much for 
so long is suddenly there, and it's real, just the way you wanted it."

  The dull roar of a jet leaving Tampa International crowded out the cicadas as Ramval 
tried to understand the question.

  "I'm sure I'd be happy.  It's rare that anyone gets what they truly want."  He thought some 
more, about his deepest desire simply happening, 'Poof!', as Allen had said.  "I guess I'd 
be a little suspicious of it, too."  He shrugged, his ears flicking back.  "If it just happened 
for no reason..."

  "You'd be worried about it disappearing again, the same way it showed up to begin 
with," Allen finished.  Ramval nodded.

  "Yeah.  I suppose so."

  Allen gazed out at the darkened street below.  "Every day I wake up and wonder if you'll 
still be here.  I wonder if I'll find out you were a delusion, or just decided to leave and 
find someone else to help you."  He sighed.  "It's hard, you know.  I get all tight in my 
stomach, always wondering if you're still here, still real."

  A light breeze ghosted through the window, bringing more scents from outside.  Ramval 
could still detect the scent of his host's distress, even over the heavy odor of salt water.  
He found it surprising that this human felt so strongly about his existence.  

  "Why?"  He ignored Allen's look of surprise at hearing the question.  "What's so great 
about me?  What's so different between us except the way we're built?"

  Allen knew exactly why.  He'd seen the same question thrown around the newsgroups 
and had even managed to post a few messages about his particular viewpoints on the 
subject.  He'd thought long and hard about it.

  "Because you're better than us.  Than humans.  You're intelligent, creative, open-
minded.  You don't feel hatred just because someone else is a different color than you, or 
a different species.  You have our strengths but not our weaknesses."

  Ramval stared.  Just flat out stared.  He couldn't believe what he'd heard.  Surely such 
naivete couldn't exist in the caustic society humans had created for themselves.  

  "You can't believe that." Ramval objected without thinking.  "Surely you can't believe 
that."

  It was Allen's turn to be stunned.  He tried to understand why Ramval would deny his 
race's superiority over humans.  Anyone with eyes should be able to see, he thought, that 
they'd be better than humans simply because they *weren't* humans.  They'd be smarter 
and not self-destructive.

  "Of course I believe it.  What other reason would there be to create someone like you?"  
He gestured to Ramval, claiming him as evidence to support his statements.  "I mean, you 
must be better than us.  You're not human."

  Dumbfounded at such a remark, Ramval shook his head and pitied the human who had 
kept him from jumping off the bridge for all the wrong reasons.

  "I hate to tell you this, but we are not better than you.  We were created for one thing, 
one reason."  They stared hard at each other, unable to look away.

  "What?", Allen asked breathlessly.

  "Profit."

  Allen suddenly sat back and shook his head vigorously.  "No!" he said vehemently.  
"No, no, we had to create you to advance.  We had to create someone who was different 
from us, better than us."

  Ramval laid his hand on Allen's knee, shook it.  "Allen, the first viable genemorphs 
were lab animals used for experimentation.  Then governments found out about us and 
contracted enormous production lines to make us in the thousands, for the military.  We 
were never meant to be anything but a product, a commodity to be used."

  Allen was aghast.  "That's horrible."  He tried to imagine furries springing from such 
greedy, inhumane desires.  "You should have been our salvation, the ones to show us how 
to be better."  Visions formed in his head, the way he had always pictured humans and 
furries living together.  Now he was being told that was nothing but a fantasy.  He still 
couldn't believe it.  "You were supposed to save us."

  Ramval said nothing.

  "Don't you understand?  We know we can't change enough to really be *better*.  All we 
can do is suppress what we are.  That's why we need furries...genemorphs to help us.  
Humans want to get better, but to do it we have to make something new, something 
different that doesn't make the same mistakes we keep making over and over."

  "But we do," Ramval said quietly.  "You made us just like you.  We argue and fight, 
rape and murder, we lie and cheat and steal.  When we were made, you gave us all your 
worst flaws.  I don't know it if was intentional or not, but we're just a crippled as you."

  Allen felt like his heart was breaking.  The cherished beliefs he had of genetics someday 
creating a race to take the place of frail, faulty humans was nothing but an illusion.  
"Then we failed," he whispered.

  "No," Ramval argued.  "I told you, we were created for capitalist reasons.  We were 
intended to test medical procedures and then to be cannon fodder.  But we moved beyond 
all that, quickly.  Once the public found out about us, the outrage was astounding.  So 
was the disgust, but there was genuine concern for our well being, and our freedom."  He 
hadn't intended to give a history lesson just then, but it seemed necessary to dispel Allen's 
mood.

  "Once the companies holding the patents to the process of creating genemorphs hooked 
up with the military, they started producing morphs left and right.  Different breeds for 
different purposes.  Canines for infantry, dolphins for underwater work, felines for stealth 
and such.  They knew once the population was large enough, no one could say they had 
to stop.  Easier to get forgiveness than permission, and all that.  By the time the truth got 
out, it was too late to undo anything.  There were riots, lots of fighting.  The government 
of Brazil collapsed for three months.  And still they produced."

  Allen listened, wide-eyed.  He'd never imagined such common, chaotic beginnings for a 
new race of people.

  "By the time the last factory was shut down, there were seventy million genemorphs in 
the world.  More than two hundred species had been created.  And it didn't take long for 
us to figure out we had power.  Humans were stuck with us unless they wanted to commit 
genocide, which they didn't.  We formed groups, abandoned our military units, 
approached the same governments that had commissioned our birth and demanded our 
place among you."  Ramval paused, thinking back on those painful history lessons he'd 
learned in school, of the Struggle, as genemorphs called it.  "The fight for our place is 
still going on, even after half a century, and it was a bloody fight to start with."  He 
smiled grimly.  "You are fickle, you humans.  You wanted us out of the labs and the 
armies, but you didn't want us living next door to you or taking your jobs.  We were the 
new minority."

  Ramval watched Allen digest all this, working his way through it.

  "You didn't fail," he repeated.  "You started out to create something to use and made us 
instead, a whole new people.  We may be flawed like you, but we have your strengths, 
too."  He remembered one lesson his high school history teacher had given and used it 
now.  "Genemorphs weren't divinely created, so we don't have a claim on God.  We didn't 
evolve, so we have no natural niche to fill.  But some feel that, since God supposedly 
created humans in his own image and humans created genemorphs, we must have a mix 
of God, humans and animals in us."  He smiled with more warmth.  "You could say we 
are the best all worlds."

  They were quiet for a time, Ramval watching Allen while the human tried to get used to 
thinking about genemorphs in a new way.  Lightning in the distance caught their eyes.

  "We'd better close the windows before it rains," Allen said quietly.

  Ramval leaned forward.  "You OK?"

  Allen only nodded.


**************************


  Sunday morning eased across the flat landscape, peaceful and lazy.  They breakfasted 
on eggs, Ramval consuming nearly a dozen of them.  The heavy Sunday edition of the St. 
Petersburg Times was quickly spread out over the table and the floor as they each sought 
separate diversions.  Ramval didn't seem overly interested in the sections he had chosen, 
though.  He riffled through them, apparently searching for something specific and, not 
finding it, laid the pages aside, neatly folded.

  The comics didn't do much for Allen that morning.  He kept stealing glances at his 
guest, unable to miss his obvious discontent.

  "Want more eggs?" he ventured.

  "There aren't any more.  We ate them all."

  "Um, more coffee?"

  "What kind of questions do you think they'll ask?"

  Allen sighed.  The same thought had nagged at him late last night, keeping him awake 
until the early morning hours.  "I don't know.  Good ones I hope.  There's a lot riding on 
them."

  Ramval glanced at him.  "Let's go look at them."

  "We should wait," Allen suggested.  "Give more folks a chance to see them and answer.  
It's barely been twenty four hours.  We'll look tonight."

  The genemorph eyed him silently for a moment before getting up from the table and 
moving to the couch.  He turned on the TV and settled to watch the cable news channel.  
After cleaning up the mess from breakfast, Allen joined him.  It didn't take long for the 
same news stories to keep showing up over and over again.  Eventually Ramval was 
reduced to surfing for something to watch.  He stopped at some televised church service.  
His ears twitched as he studied the balding man who was fervently chastising his flock on 
the subject of faith in difficult times.

  Allen was going over the things Ramval had said the day before.  One in particular 
stuck in his mind.

  "You said anth- genemorphs have no claim on God.  Do you believe in God?"

  "Sometimes," was the grim reply.  "When I need someone to blame for what I see 
happening to us."

  Allen was taken aback by his reply.  "You mean what happens to morphs?"

  Ramval nodded.

  The human considered this.  He had no strong religious inclinations himself, but he had 
found prayer to be a comfort in dark hours.  "Do you have a religion of your own?  
Morphs, I mean."

  The caniform tipped his head back and thought a moment.  "There's the Church of the 
Altered.  Christian based, strictly morphs.  No real agenda other than morph unity."  He 
paused, trying to recall.  "There's Bastet's Claw, a bunch of pseudo-Muslims, lions and 
tigers mostly, out of Egypt and India.  Most people consider them terrorists."  He 
shrugged.  "The rest go to human churches, the ones that will let them in, and find their 
comfort there."

  "But not you?"

  Ramval turned his gaze to his host, annoyed at this turn in the conversation.  "Why 
bother?  According to your religions, your God is your creator.  Humans made us, so in 
your eyes you are our Gods.  By rights, every house I go into is God's house."  He stood, 
wanting to end the discussion, but there was nowhere to go in the little apartment.  He 
swore under his breath and moved to the fridge, opened it, took one of the generic sodas 
Allen kept on hand and sat at the table.  Allen didn't move.

  "I don't know what to say," came the quiet, unsteady voice, the one that had called him 
beautiful on the bridge.  The one that had apologized for all the wrongs done to him and 
his kind and offered to help him find an answer to his problem.

  "You don't have to say anything," he said as graciously as he could.  "I'm angry and 
bitter about being here, being stuck.  But I don't hold anything against you."  He looked at 
his host as his anger tapered off.  "How could I?  You saved my life."

  Allen blinked, nodded.

  Nothing else was said until that night.


**************************


  The response to their post was heartening.  There were almost a dozen new posts in the 
thread they'd started and several e-mails in Allen's mailbox.  He couldn't keep the smile 
off his face when he saw how many new messages there were.

  "See," he said, feeling vindicated.  "People are interested.  They want to know about 
you."

  Ramval seemed unimpressed.  "They want to know what kind of make-believe answers 
*you're* going to come up with."

  His smile faded only slightly.  "We'll see," he said.  He turned back to the computer, 
rubbed his hands together and opened the first message.

  "OK, this one is from Mike McGee.  He says, 'If you were stranded on a desert island, 
with the cast of Friends, who would you eat first?'"

  Ramval shook his head, not understanding the question.  "What is that supposed to 
mean?"

  "Uh, he's just being silly."  He waved his hand at the screen.  "It was inevitable that 
some people might not take the question seriously."

  "Really?"  Sarcasm coming from a mouth full of pointy teeth was a very uncomfortable 
thing, Allen noticed.

  "Let's move on.  Next question is from Shadowspawn.  It says, 'Uh, his address?  :)'"

  "This was a mistake," Ramval muttered, getting up from his seat on Allen's bed.

  "Wait a minute!" Allen hastily waved him to sit back down.  "That's just his way of 
being friendly."

  Ramval stared at Allen, looked at the screen.  It still felt like a mistake, one that would 
lead nowhere useful.  He pointed to the monitor.  "How do you know that person is a 
male?"

  "Uh, I don't.  It's just one of those generalizations I tend to make.  It's a bad habit, I 
know, but I always see people on the Internet as being similar to me."

  Ramval said nothing.

  "Lemme try another one," he added , hoping to keep Ramval from giving up.  He 
opened up the next message, muttering, "Come on folks.  Help me out."

  The next reply was from a fur called Jim Allen asking, ‘How did you get here?’

  "See," he said, pointing to the screen.  "Your first serious question."

  Ramval only grunted.

  Allen studied the reply a moment, wondering.  "Hmm.  How can we answer that?"

  "Answer?"  The caniform sounded skeptical.  "Why answer?  Just look at the next 
question."

  Allen frowned.  "We have to answer these.  They are expecting answers from a real 
furry."

  "They're expecting fiction from you," Ramval growled.  "And I'm not a *furry*, 
damnit!"

  "OK, OK, I'm sorry."  Allen held up placating hands.  "I won't call you that again."  
When his guest had calmed somewhat, he took a deep breath and pressed his point.  "But 
they are expecting *something*."

  "Make something up," was the grumbled response.

  "Come on, Ramval, it's only fair.  One of these people might be the one who helps you 
out.  Can't you at least give them a little something of yourself?"

  "Fine."  Exasperated, Ramval rubbed his ears, trying to keep them from laying back 
against his skull.  "You know how I got here.  Tell them."

  Allen thought about it.  He didn't think it would matter if he explained, in general terms, 
how Ramval had traveled back through time.  It would all be seen as fiction anyway.  He 
rattled out a quick, general response and posted it, thanking the poster for the question.

  "Next question.  Someone called Nightdancer says, 'From him I want to know if and 
how a human and an anthro can live together and what problems would take place.'

  The caniform didn't look up as he sat, elbows on knees, head between his hands and 
continued rubbing his ears.  "That’s kind of a broad question, isn’t it?"

  "Well, yeah, I guess."  Allen read the question again, trying to figure out the intention 
behind it.  “I suppose he might be wondering if there are any practical problems, you 
know, like, uhh, food.”  As soon as he said it he regretted it.

  Ramval stopped rubbing and looked up at him, his expression unreadable.  “Food,” he 
said flatly.

  “Umm...”

  “Allen, I know I’m here at your sufferance.  I can’t pay you or contribute anything of 
any use.  I would if I could-“

  “It’s not that,” the human said lamely.  Ramval stared.  “Well, mostly not that.  Really.  
It’s just...the smell...and the sight of you eating raw meat.  It just...

  “I see,” said Ramval.  He sometimes forgot his eating habits were an issue with some 
humans.  He found himself wondering if others he’d eaten with had felt the same way 
and never said anything.  Humans could be so insensitive about some things and so raw 
about others.

  Not that he had many human friends.  He thought about them now, wondering what had 
become of them.  'What *would* become of them,' he corrected himself.  They hadn't 
even been born yet, from his new point of view.

  "I’m sorry," Allen said quietly.

  "No, don’t be.  I’m sorry I bothered you.  I’ll eat my meat when you’re not here, OK?”

  "Thank you."  Allen let it go at that.

  Ramval felt kind of bad about having disturbed his host with his eating habits, so he 
offered, “Most humans don’t like being around morphs.  They complain we’re 
frightening to look at, that we smell like animals, that we don’t always wear stuff in 
public like the laws say.  Things like that.”

  He nodded and took a few minutes to work out a reply before they went on to the next 
question.

  "'Do you shed?'  That's from Cheetaur."  Allen looked expectantly at Ramval.  The two 
stared at each other for several moments.  Finally, Ramval shook his head and sighed.  
"This is childish."

  "Nah, this is human curiosity."

  "Then it's childish curiosity."

  Allen wondered if he was going to have to prod him to answer every question.  "Come 
on.  It’s a simple enough question.  I’ve even wondered myself, since I’ve never seen any 
laying around."  Each sentence seemed to push Ramval a little closer to answering.  
When he said, "And I’ve noticed your fur feels different, too.  Much warmer than I’d 
expect," the caniform relented, but only after gusting another sigh.

  "You’re forgetting that my race was genetically engineered."  He spoke as though he 
were repeating something he felt he’d said too many times already..  "When my line was 
designed, they had to figure out how to deal with cooling my body without having me 
pant like a non-anthro dog.  So they changed my fur slightly.  Instead of sweat glands in 
my skin, my fur works like a radiator.  It kind of siphons the excess heat out and lets it go 
out the ends of each strand of fur.  That’s why it feels warmer that normal.  And why I 
don’t shed much.”

Allen was impressed.  “So you don’t sweat like dogs do?  On your nose and your pa- 
uhh...”  He’d almost said ‘paws’.  “Your, umm, pads?”  His clumsy attempt to cover his 
mistake didn’t escape Ramval’s notice.

  Ramval's ears twitched.  "My *pads* don’t sweat.  The army thought it would be easier 
for me to grip a gun without sweaty palms.”

  Allen nodded without further comment.  When he opened the next message, he found a 
question he had not expected.

  "What?" Ramval prodded in the silence.

  "Well, someone called Prowler wants to know what the difference is between you and 
humans.  His question reads, ‘How much different is there between you and me 
physically.  Are you really different or are you just a guy with a muzzle and fur and a 
tail.’"  Before the morph could react, he explained.  "Everyone has a different idea of 
how fur-, uh, genemorphs should look.  And act.  Some would see you as a completely 
different species-”

  “Which I am,” he interrupted.

  “Yeah.”  Allen nodded.  “And some would just see you as a human with fur and a tail.  I 
guess Prowler wants to know which one you are.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the space between them.  Ramval stared at Allen.  
When the human began to shift in his seat, he asked, “What do you think?”

  “What?”

  “How do you see me?” he asked impatiently, leaning closer.  Allen unconsciously 
leaned away, disturbed by his sudden intensity.

  “Well,” he said unsteadily, “you’re a f- gen...genemorph.”  He met Ramval’s gaze only 
momentarily.

  “That’s right,” Ramval said, his voice suddenly quiet.  “And do you remember what I 
told you a genemorph’s original purpose was?”

  Allen frowned.  “Medical testing?” he said, his voice as low as Ramval’s.

  “No.  Soldiering.”  Ramval watched as Allen digested this.  The human’s frown 
deepened.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’m a genetically engineered biological weapon.”  Ramval’s ears twitched a 
bit, and he leaned back.  “Obsolete now that I’m eight generations removed from my 
prototype.”  When his host said nothing for a while, he began elaborating.  “My hearing 
and eyesight are both well beyond yours.  My metabolism is higher than a seven year old 
child’s.  I can drink a fifth of cheap whiskey and burn the alcohol out of my blood within 
six hours.  I can run at an easy lope during those six hours without getting overly tired.”

  Allen listened, caught up in this amazing self description.  He didn’t feel threatened 
now, but as Ramval listed his genetic gifts, he felt more and more awed by what he 
learned.

  “I have enhanced reflexes and greater physical strength than most humans my size.”  He 
held up his five fingered hand, digits splayed.  “The exposed skin of my hands is tougher 
than yours but just as sensitive.”  Pointing down at the floor, he raised one foot slightly.  
“I have plantigrade legs for better balance and agility, but was designed with modified 
feet.”  He spread and curled the four large toes on his raised foot, the thick blunt claws on 
their tips scraping the floor lightly.  They resembled the digits of a true dog’s paw, but 
attached to a human style ankle.  “The skin on my soles is tough enough that I can walk 
on broken glass without getting cut.  The claws and webbing between the toes give me 
better traction than any boot.”

  Absorbing every word, Allen forgot the original purpose of Ramval’s self description.  
He was therefore not expecting to see his guest reach between his legs and say, “Even my 
reproductive system was designed for-”

  “Whoa!” he said, casting his eyes back to the safety of the computer screen.  “That’s 
enough, man.  I get the point.”  It took a few seconds to get his thoughts together and 
begin forming an answer to the original question.

  Ramval blinked, surprised by this display of prudishness.  Then he grinned.  He found 
human taboos concerning sex ridiculous, and a chance to rib Allen about them was too 
good to pass up.  Ramval watched him type for a moment.  "So it bothers you, huh?" he 
asked.

  "What?"  Allen kept his eyes on the monitor.

  "Talking about sex with another man.  Seeing him handle himself."

  Allen sighed.  He stopped typing and eyed the grinning morph.  "Look, you've been 
walking around my apartment naked for a week-"

  "Ah, wait a minute," the caniform interrupted.  "'Naked' is a human word, not a 
genemorph word.  The only way you'll see me naked is to shave me."

  Allen frowned.  "But your...male...*qualities* are showing."

  "So are yours," was the smug reply.  "I can see the outline through your jeans."

  Irritated, Allen realized arguing that point was useless.  "As I was saying, you've been 
walking around-"

  Ramval raised a clawed finger.

  "-without clothes...and I didn't complain.  I heard you..."  He had to force himself say 
what had been bothering him for several days.  "I heard you jerking off that night and I 
didn't say anything then either.  If Prowler wants to know how you’re designed," and his 
eyes unconsciously flicked down, "then I'll oblige him."  He took a breath, focused his 
thoughts.  "But you need to understand something.  I'm not interested in your sex life, 
OK?  I'm asking you questions because I'm sure these folks want to know.  But I don't.  
I'm not doing this for me.  I'm doing it for them and you.  Got it?"

  Ramval affected a pout.  "You mean you don't want me," he whined, imitating Allen's 
unintended glance downward, "*that* way?"  He had a hard time keeping the laughter out 
of his voice.

  A flood of anger and pain momentarily blinded Allen.  He picked up the keyboard, 
cheapest and easiest component to replace, and slammed it to the floor.  "Damnit!  It's 
not funny!"  He stood up and stalked into the darkened living room.  Ramval's rumbling 
laughter followed him as he dumped himself into a chair.  He opened a window to the 
humid night air and drank deep breaths to calm himself.  He heard Ramval call his name, 
still chuckling at his joke.  He grunted in annoyance, angry that Ramval had wrested such 
a reaction from him.  He clenched a fist, wanting to grab his weakness by the throat and 
crush it.  Instead, he pressed it to his eyes, rubbing his pain away as best he could with 
the back of his hand.

  The floor creaked behind him a moment before Ramval said, "Hey.  What was that 
about?"  There was no laughter in his voice now.

  For a moment, Allen wondered if anyone outside could see Ramval's face lit by the 
street lights across the way.  He surprised himself by deciding that, at that moment, he 
didn't care.

  "You mad 'cause I pretended you're gay?" Ramval persisted.  Allen turned on him.

  "What??"

  "I know how you humans are about that subject.  I'm sorry, really."  The caniform patted 
his arm once, friendly gesture.

  Allen shook his head bitterly.  "You," he gritted through clenched teeth, “IDIOT!”  His 
breath rasped harshly in his throat.  "You really think I care about who's gay and who 
isn't?"  He stared hard into those beautiful brown eyes.  He waved a hand in the general 
direction of the computer.  "Lots of people in the furry community are gay.  And nobody 
cares.  Nobody!"  He saw Ramval's confusion and tried desperately to explain.  "This isn't 
about sex, this is about you."  He looked into that handsome canine face and felt the pain 
again, stronger.  "This is about what you represent to us.  All the things we care about, 
that we think are important."  His voice tightened and he found it hard to speak.

  "I remember.  You told me what you thought genemorphs were supposed to be.  And I 
told you we're just like you."  Ramval was disturbed to see Allen so distraught.  He 
looked to him like he would lose control.

  "It's not fair," Allen said miserably.  He felt the anger again, and cursed himself for 
letting his feelings get away from him.  "Why can't you be better than us?"  And it all 
welled up, flooding through him, unstoppable.  His hands shook in anger, humiliation, 
and the old ache of unfulfilled fantasies.  "Why do you have to be so...human?"

  Ramval stood there, beginning to understand just how hard this all was on his host.  
Despite the difficulty he had believing there were humans who cared so much about him 
and his kind, it was plainly obvious to him that Allen did care.  And if he cared that 
much, perhaps his idea of finding someone to help him wasn't so crazy.  He began to feel 
bad about having hurt the human unintentionally.  He laid a hand on the nearest shoulder.

  Allen shrugged out from under Ramval's touch.  "Leave me alone," his voice grated.

  Ramval let his hand fall back.  For a second he felt anger at being slighted when he was 
trying to reach out and apologize.  Here he was, having willingly given up everything 
familiar in his life, allowing himself to become trapped in a time where his kind didn't 
even exist, only to be turned away by some delusioned human.

  His mission had failed, he could help no one, least of all himself, and he was never 
going home.  Why should he be chastised for not being what Allen wanted him to be?  He 
hadn't intended to come to this time and place to shatter some pathetic human's dreams.  
He'd intended to save lives.  To defeat the virus.  To be a hero and live his life knowing 
he'd done something important.

  Those dreams had died over the last week.  Slowly, inexorably.  Without mercy.  He 
would never go home, never save anyone.

  Ramval stared at Allen, slowly realizing that both their dreams had died.  They lay 
buried in the same casket, a victim of his failure.

  His anger faded, replaced by the cloying stink of helplessness.  'It's not fair,' Allen had 
moaned.  Ramval agreed.  There was nothing fair about any of it.

  He was on the bridge again.  He could hear the dark waves calling to him, promising to 
solve his problems with oblivion.  It was tempting now, to close his eyes and lean 
forward until everything ended.  Headlights had stopped him.  A human struck by his 
beauty, his form.  A human later to pronounce him 'too human.'

  He looked off into the bedroom, where the monitor still cast weak shadows against one 
wall.  His other option, the search for help.

  Lean forward and give up or pull back and try harder.  Surrender or find another 
solution.

  A breeze fluttered the curtains and ruffled both Allen's and Ramval's hair.  He inhaled 
the scent of salt water and city.  Closing his eyes, he imagined his old home.  He'd had to 
fight the landlord of his building to let him move in.  There had been calls to lawyers and 
calls to the city hall and calls to friends to help him push one stubborn human who hadn't 
wanted a genemorph living in his building.  He'd won, and he'd always felt a little of that 
victory every time he set foot in his apartment.

  'No,' he decided.  'Giving up doesn't work.'  He looked at Allen, sullenly watching the 
cars drifting by outside.  'And if he believes there's a chance, then we'll try it.'

  He said nothing to Allen, only left him alone, giving him some space for a time while he 
thought about his future.


**************************


  Allen was still upset the next morning as he left for work.  He said nothing until he was 
standing by the door, picking up his keys from the ashtray full of change.

  "You gonna work on those questions today?"

  "Yeah."  Ramval stood near the bedroom doorway, stretching the couch-induced kinks 
out of his back.  Allen hesitated.

  "Don't..."  He looked directly at the caniform for the first time that morning.  "Don't be, 
you know..."  He trailed off, uncertain how to phrase it.

  "I'll be respectful," Ramval said.

  Allen nodded  "Yeah.  OK.  See you later."

  Once the ailing Escort had chugged it's way out into traffic, Ramval sat at the computer 
and checked for new messages.  Quite a few new messages were waiting for him.  His 
ears flicked, and he started going through them.

  The first message seemed a bit trivial, but intelligently asked.  It was from Kathmandu 
and it read, ‘What do humans smell like to you? Do we stink or do we smell good? 
Perfumed or natural? Strong B.O. or just washed freshness?’  He was surprised someone 
would want to know this about him.  But if they wanted to know, Allen had made clear, 
he should tell them.  So he worked out his reply.

  ‘My species was designed for the military, and although my line was not specifically 
designed for tracking people, most caniforms have a superior sense of smell.  But we 
weren’t given the human preference for sweet smells and distaste for ranks ones.  To us, 
humans just smell different, the way cut grass smells different from burning leaves.  One 
person smells different from another and we can tell one person apart from others that 
way, but we have no preferences for one scent over another.’  He signed it with Allen's 
handle and sent his reply.

  The next one he opened came from someone going by the name of 'Won Tolla.'  The 
message read, ‘Have you ever considered, if the given prosess / technologi exists, to be 
transformed into a human?’

  At first he couldn't understand the question.  'Transformed into a human?'  It seemed 
such an odd and unsettling idea.  To become human would take away everything about 
himself that he liked.  It would also make him part of a race that he had no love for and 
didn’t trust.  It seemed ridiculous.  Become human?  Why would he want that?  Did 
humans want to be genemorphic?

  That thought stopped him cold.  They *did*.  They took names that invoked animals of 
all kinds, drew themselves as genemorphic creatures, wrote stories that let them explore 
the possibilities of being someone entirely different, someone 'furry.'  The revelation set 
the fur on the back of his neck on end.  The 'fandom', the 'community', as Allen called it, 
made more sense now.  There were humans who weren't entirely happy with what nature 
had given them.  They wanted something else, something more.

  They wanted to be *him*.

  From that viewpoint, it was natural to wonder if genemorphs ever wanted to be human.  
And if he was completely honest with himself, and with Won Tolla, he'd have to say, 
'Once in a while.'

  'I am proud to be what I am,' he typed.  'Life is not easy, but that goes for most everyone.  
But I'd be a liar if I said there haven't been times when I would have liked to become 
human, and be one of the majority.  I'd like to walk into a store without being stared at.  
I'd like to go to a 'doctor' instead of a 'hybrid veterinarian.'  I'd like to be seen as an equal.'

  He stopped, lost in thought.  He looked down at himself, considering what he was.  He 
had been given gifts that he took for granted.  'I'd miss being able to pick up the scent of a 
friend who had been around an hour before.  Or hearing someone call my name from a 
street over.'  He re-read the question, thought about humans wanting to be like him.  'I 
like who and what I am, even though it's hard being so different sometimes.’

  The next one came from Keith Steiger.  It read, ‘My question is the following: In what 
ways does the animal portion of your nature affect the way you think?'  

  He had to think about it for a while, since it was a subject he seldom reflected on.  
Remembering what he’d told Allen, he answered, ‘For the most part, you and I think the 
same way.  We react to things that happen to us, we anticipate certain events, we feel 
emotions that result from what’s happened to us.’

  He stopped to get some water and think a little longer about the question.  Introspection 
was never one of his strong suites.  It wasn’t that he never wondered why he did the 
things he did, but more that the answers seemed to always elude him.  It was hard to 
separate his actions into things he did because he wanted or needed to and things he did 
because he was a genemorph.  There were, however, some things he knew of that were 
culturally connected to his heritage that he could mention.  He rinsed his glass and sat 
back down at the keyboard.

  ‘There are things you might see me do that you wouldn’t ordinarily see a human do.  
Genemorphs identify by smell as much as by sight, so you might see us offering our 
hands for scenting rather than shaking.  Some morphs will wait for the acknowledged (or 
implied) alpha of a group to take the first bite of a communal meal before starting to eat 
themselves.’  Ramval thought a moment, then decided to broach the subject Allen had 
avoided the day before.  ‘We also view “nudity” and sex differently than many humans.  
We don’t often see the need for marriage or for strict adherence to monogamy.  I’m not 
sure if these things are a part of us because of our animalistic origins or something we 
adopted intentionally, but they are common among morphs.’

  As he opened the next message, it occurred to him that he was getting caught up in 
answering the questions and was neglecting the idea of using them to spot a potential 
savior.  Going back through the previous questions, he didn't see any that seemed to show 
the necessary disposition.  He sighed and read the message from Starling.

  ‘Here's my question: We must look incredibly naive being fans of something you live 
with every day.  My question is, how do you put up with us hapless furry fans?’

  Ramval grunted, vaguely amused by Starling’s assumption.  He shook his head sadly 
and posted the reply.  ‘Where I come from, I have never met a ‘furry fan.’  Most humans 
avoid me or, at best, tolerate me.  The humans who are drawn to genemorphs for one 
reason or another are called ‘chameleons’ by morphs.  They want to be like us, I guess, 
because they aren’t happy with what they are.  They try to work their way into our 
culture, our lives.  A few succeed.  Most just hang around whatever morph friends they 
can find and daydream.’

  When he read his response, he thought about his promise to be respectful with his 
answers.  So, to soften his words, he added, ‘There are some humans who truly embrace 
us as people, not as a ‘species’ or a ‘race’, but as thinking beings who deserve honor and 
respect.  I’m sorry to say I haven’t met many of those people, but I know they’re out 
there.  If you’re one of them, then I salute you.’

  Ramval was starting to get a little bored with his task, and was wondering once again 
what good answering such questions was going to do him.  He decided to read one more 
question, and promptly forgot about being bored.

  It came from DeathDog, and it read, ‘What do you see when you look in the mirror?  Do 
you see a human who’s been altered to resemble man’s best friend, or a canine that’s 
been raised up to function like human’s do?’

  It was like a razor slash to his heart.  His eyes widened and his ears snapped against his 
skull.  Surprise gave rise to abrupt anger.  He stood up suddenly, threatening to topple the 
cheap computer desk.  The snarl that curled his lips filled the air with aimless threat.  
Ramval had no one to attack.  He had, in fact, no idea why he felt so uncontrollably 
angry.  He paced into the long, narrow living room and back into the bedroom.

  He made the trip a dozen times or more before he calmed enough to let himself sit 
down.  He stood back up, his bottled tail too stiff to allow him to sit comfortably.  His 
clenched fists shook, wanting to strike out at something.  He was no stranger to fighting 
with his hands.  While his head knew such solutions seldom worked, his heart wanted 
very much to indulge his destructive impulse.  He paced again, the anger building again 
until he finally stood in the center of the floor and raised his muzzle to the hidden sky.

  "I AM NOT A DOG!!!" he howled. 


**************************


  Allen knew something was wrong when he pulled into the driveway that evening.  His 
stomach knotted up when he saw Mrs. Garrup standing with folded arms on her 
expensive wooden deck.  She didn't move as he collected his week's uniforms and his 
lunchbox and got out of his car.

  "Mrs. Garrup?" he called.  She said nothing.  He swallowed, wondering what she'd been 
told.  "I can explain."

  "I should hope so," was the frigid answer.

  He took a few steps closer so he could lower his voice.  No need to inform the 
neighbors about his problems.  "It's standard procedure when there's an accident.  I 
haven't been fired, just laid off."

  Mrs. Garrup was sharp.  It was seldom he could catch her off guard.  This time he 
managed without even trying.  "What?" she muttered.  "Accident?  What are you talking 
about?"

  Now Allen was lost.  If she hadn't heard about his delivery truck being wrecked, why 
was she standing out here waiting to ambush him?

  "I was rear-ended.  I've been laid off until the drug test comes back negative."  Her 
scowl deepened.  "Which it will," he assured her quickly.

  "That's not why I wish to speak to you."

  Allen blinked.  "It's not?"

  "I know what you're hiding in your apartment.  I heard it howling this afternoon."

  Blue lightning directly from the hand of the Almighty could not have struck Allen more 
senseless.  He managed a faint, "You..."  The blood drained from his face and he felt a 
slight tremor in his knees.  "You know?"

  "We explicitly told you there would be no pets in the apartment.  I could smell the dog 
you're hiding in there the instant I walked in."  Her accusation lashed out at him, making 
him wince at first.  Then he realized what she was saying.

  "I'm sorry," he managed, not really believing his luck.

  "I've discussed it with Mr. Garrup and we agree that if you dispose of that animal 
immediately, we will not evict you."  Her brown eyes flashed her anger.

  "Thank- thank you.  Yes, I'll..." he swallowed, his relief plain in his voice.  He found 
himself trying to reinforce her misconception.  "I'll do that.  It's just that..."

  Mrs. Garrup stiffened, expecting her renter to ask for an exception to her rules.  "Mr. 
Harkins," she warned.

  "I found him on the bridge at night.  I- I was afraid for him."  He lowered his voice, 
trying to evoke as much sympathy as possible.  "I couldn't just leave him.  He could have 
been hurt."  He knew Mrs. Garrup wasn't heartless, just stern and old fashioned.  He saw 
the slightest softening of her expression.  "I'm trying to find him a home," he added.

  She considered his plight for a moment before passing judgement.

  "Find one quickly," she said, turning away.

  "Yes.  I will," he said.  "Thank you."

  "And Mr. Harkins," she said over her shoulder.

  "Yes?"

  "It is unwise to confine such creatures to a room as small as your bathroom.  They can 
do immense and costly damage when bored."

  Allen nodded.  "Yes.  I'll remember that."  He hurried up the steps to his door.  Inside, 
he carelessly dumped the uniforms and lunchbox and went to tap on the bathroom door.

  "Ramval?"

  "Is she gone?" came the hushed voice from inside.

  "Yeah, she's gone."

  The door unlocked and Ramval's whiskered snout peered out.  He looked around as if 
uncertain he could believe his host.  His eyes settled on Allen's harrowed expression.  "I 
messed up.  She almost caught me."

  "So I heard."  Allen moved to his only stuffed chair and sat down heavily.  "What a 
day."

  Ramval sat on the couch, looking embarrassed and worried.  "I heard you say something 
about an accident."

  Allen nodded.  "Got hit from behind by a cement truck."

  "You OK?"

  Another nod.  "Just a little rattled.  I'm paranoid about seat belts.  I've always got mine 
on."

  They were silent for a minute as they digested the events of the day.

  "What do we do now?" Ramval wanted to know.

  Allen shrugged.  "Same thing we've been doing.  Look through the messages."

  Ramval frowned, the corners of his long muzzle pulling down and his ears twitching 
backwards.  "Can we skip some of them?"

  The human stared at him, puzzled.  "Why?"

  Ramval gazed at the floor, feeling the anger creeping up his throat again.  "One of them 
was insulting."

  That surprised Allen.  "Insulting?  How do you mean?"

  "I don't want to answer it," Ramval declared.

  "Can I read it?"  he persisted.

  Nothing was said for a time until the caniform relented with, "I don't care."

  The 'insulting' message popped up once Allen bumped the mouse to kill the screensaver.  
He read it, then re-read it.  "Well," he said when Ramval appeared in the doorway to his 
bedroom.  "I guess there’re going to be folks like this in any group."

  "You think he’s the minority?"  A clawed finger pointed accusingly at the screen.  "He's 
like every human I’ve ever met.  ' Do you see a human who’s been altered to resemble 
man’s best friend, or a canine that’s been raised up to function like humans do?'" he 
snarled, his tone mocking and sarcastic.

  Allen looked up at the agitated genemorph.  “*Every* human?”  Ramval looked at him, 
realizing his mistake.  He was too angry, though, to worry about rubbing Allen the wrong 
way.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Allen sighed, shaking his head.  "It’s a question of origin.  He wonders what your 
origins are.  You know, which species did the geneticists start with, human or canine.”

  “What possible difference does that make?  I am who I am regardless of how I was 
designed.”  The caniform had raised his voice and was on the edge of shouting.  Allen 
tried to speak calmly to keep the discussion from degenerating into an argument.

  “Well, it matters a lot to some people.”  An example came to him.  “Take a look at 
human origins.  How many fights have there been over human origins since the theory of 
evolution was proposed?”

  “That’s because humans don’t know their origins.  They don’t know if they were 
divinely created or evolved.”  Ramval poked himself in the chest.  “I *know* where I 
come from.”  He stared at Allen, anger evident in his flattened ears and rumpled snout.  
He pointed to the screen.  “That’s not what he’s asking, anyway.  It’s not about origins.  
Read the question again.”

  Turning to the monitor, Allen read aloud, “What do you see when you look in the 
mirror?”

  “*That’s* what he’s asking me.  What do *I* see when *I* look in the mirror.”

  “So,” Allen replied carefully, “it’s not a question of origin.  It’s a question of 
perception.”

  Ramval snorted in disgust and walked back to the living room, leaving Allen to consider 
the question again.

  “He wants to know how you see yourself.”

Ramval sat on the couch.  "No, he doesn’t."

  "He doesn’t?"

  "Read it again."  He picked up the remote.

  "I already did," complained Allen.  Ramval eyed him critically.  "Fine" he groused.  
“‘What do you see when you look in the mirror?  Do you see a human who’s been altered 
to resemble man’s best friend, or a canine that’s been raised up to function like human’s 
do?’”  He paused, beginning to realize what Ramval was saying.  “He’s asking if you see 
yourself as an altered animal or an altered human.”

  “Exactly!”  Ramval said nothing more.

  “OK, so he’s trying to pigeonhole you into one of those two categories.  If you aren’t 
one of those two, what are you?”

  “What?” said Ramval, his voice getting cold.

  “Uh, if you your not an altered human or an altered animal, then what are you?”  Allen 
was still trying to sound reasonable to avoid a fight.

  The caniform stared at the human as though Allen had just asked the most idiotic 
question imaginable.  “I’m...a...genemorph,” he said irritably.

  Allen nodded, but didn’t understand how that qualified as an answer.  He assumed he 
simply didn’t know enough about genemorphs to understand what Ramval meant.  He 
was hesitant to ask, but if he were going to answer DeathDog’s question he’d have to.

  “Ramval?”  The long muzzle swung around to look over a furred shoulder.  An obvious 
look of thinning patience was pulling the corners of the mouth down.  “What is a 
genemorph?”

  “I told you,” he said in a low voice.  “A genetic anthropomorph.  Me.  I’m a genemorph.  
We’ve been all through this before.”

  “But that doesn’t tell me anything,” Allen complained.  “If you aren’t an altered human 
or an altered animal, then what are you?  What is a genemorph?”

  Ramval sighed heavily and swung back around to the TV.  “I’ll give you an example.  
Have you ever heard of a liger?”

  Allen thought a moment, thinking the word sounded familiar.  “Oh, yeah.  They crossed 
a lion and a tiger.  They called it a liger.”

  “What is a liger?”

  “What?”

  “Is it an altered lion or an altered tiger?”

  Allen was silent for a full minute as it dawned on him what his guest had meant all 
along.  “Neither.  It’s a completely different creature.”

  “Like me,” said Ramval.  “Like I said.”

  “OK,” Allen replied, glad he had finally understood his guest’s point.  “I got it now.”  
He began typing.

  “Thank you,” Ramval muttered, also relieved.

  "You know, we still have to find someone to help you."  Ramval said nothing, just 
flipped channels with the sound muted.  "You realize, of course, that we've been handed 
a deadline.  We have a couple of days at the most."

  The caniform sagged, his ears flagging and his arms laying on the cushions of the 
couch.  He thought of the bridge again, but only for a second.  He turned the TV off and 
sat on Allen's bed without enthusiasm.  The human opened the next message.

  “‘How do I become like you?? Cause let's face it. We humans are terrible. Mean and 
destructive. Kill each other for a percentage. And...And What about nature's land? well, 
you get the idea.’  From Rashock”.

  "This again," Ramval muttered.  "Allen, you already know the answer to this one.  Why 
don’t you answer it for me.”

  "You want me to tell him that he’s already like you, and that there’s no reason to look to 
you for answers?  Sounds like the easy way out to me.”

  Ramval shook his head wearily and laid down on Allen’s bed.  He couldn’t help notice 
how much more comfortable it was than the couch on which he’d been sleeping.  “I’m 
getting tired of this same argument.”

  “Well I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”  Allen crossed his hands and stared at the screen.

  “Oh, for...don’t pout!”

  Allen frowned.  “I’m not pouting.  I just think you should answer the question.”

  Ramval found himself rubbing his ears again.  “How can I tell him to be more like me 
when he’s probably just like me?  What do you want me to do?  Pretend I have the 
answer to mankind’s misery?  If I did, don’t you think I’d have already bottled it and sold 
it so we could all be living in a world full of happiness and butterflies?”

  They were quiet for a while as Allen considered Ramval’s words.  Eventually, he said, 
“All right.  Then what should we tell him?”

  Ramval closed his eyes, folded his hands over his chest and thought.  He was surprised 
at what he came up with.  “Have you ever read Shakespeare?”

  Allen glanced quizzically at him.  “In high school.  I couldn’t understand it.”

  Ramval turned his head to look at his host.  “There was a play he wrote called ‘The 
merchant of Venezuela.  No, not Venezuela, uhh, Venice.  And there was this guy in it 
who was a Jew and he was talking about the differences between Jews and Christians.  
Do you know that story?”

  Allen shook his head.

  “He said, ‘Don’t Jews have hands?  Don’t Jews have eyes?  If you stab me, I’ll bleed.  If 
you tickle me, I’ll laugh.  If you poison me, I’ll die.  And if you wrong me, I’ll get 
revenge.’  You see what I’m saying?”

  “That doesn’t sound like Shakespeare.  He wrote stuff full of ‘thee’ and ‘thou’.”

  “I’m paraphrasing,” Ramval said impatiently.  “Do you understand what it means, 
though?”

  “I guess that Jews and Christians aren’t really different.  That they’re both humans,” 
Allen said softly.

  “Right,” the caniform said just as quietly.  “And humans and genemorphs are only 
different on the outside.  We’re much the same on the inside.”

  The same distress Allen had felt the first time he’d heard this rose up, muted by his 
growing acceptance of the idea.  “So you’re body is genemorphic, but your heart is 
human.”

  Ramval had never heard it put that way, and was disturbed by it for some reason.  
Perhaps because it focussed on his similarities to a race he cared little for.  He laughed 
once, humorlessly.  “Yeah.  I suppose so.”  He covered his eyes and muttered, “Jeez, 
what a concept.”

  Allen said nothing more on the subject, merely worked out an answer for Rashock.  He 
was starting to feel depressed.  Maybe it was being in the accident, or being laid off, or 
maybe it was Ramval's plight.  He couldn't tell.  Whatever it was, it was bothering him a 
lot.  Until he read the next message.

  "Ramval," he said , looking at the screen, "read this."  He turned the monitor so his 
guest could see the words and leaned back out of the way.  It read, 'I being fur all my life, 
and you being what I strive to be, through your eyes and your instinct, do I appear to be 
achieving furriness or am I wasting my time.  In other words, would you and/or those like 
you that see me and read me with instinct view us as humans wishing and daydreaming 
or would you see us as like unto family and accept us as your own .   :) thanks    tiggroo'

  Ramval stared at the message a long time.  He read it again and again, taking in the 
words.

  'See us as like unto family.'  Something he'd never had himself, really.  A human wanted 
not just to be like him, but wanted to be part of his *family.*

  'Accept us as your own.'  This Tiggroo wanted acceptance, wanted to leave his humanity 
behind and become something most humans would see as a monster.

  It all touched him much deeper than he'd have thought possible.  He and other 
genemorphs might have wished in the depths of desperation to be like their creators, so 
as to share their world and be part of it.  But this human wanted the same thing, only 
from the other side.  He'd never heard of such a thing until he'd come to this place, this 
time.  He'd never believed that humans could feel anything that he felt.  They had always 
been the opposition, the oppressors, the enemy.

  "Ramval?" Allen asked when he said nothing for many long minutes.

  "Give me the keyboard.  I want to answer this one."

  "OK," he said slowly, and handed it over.  The caniform took it, then hesitated, staring 
at it, collecting his thoughts.  His heavy muzzle rose to the screen, reading the question 
once more.  Then he began to type.

  'Tiggroo, I can't tell you that you are achieving what you want, nor can I tell you that 
you are not wasting your time.  I can't even tell if you are really striving to be like me, 
because I don't know you.'

  He paused, realizing that what he said to this person was very important.  He had to 
choose his words carefully.

  'I can tell you this: if your ideals are to be at peace with those around you, to respect 
them for their differences, to cause as little hurt to the people around you as possible, 
then you are certainly not wasting your time.  If you can see me and accept me for what I 
am, if you can overlook my faults and see what is good in me, then I would be proud to 
accept you as part of my family.  I am not so different from you, really.  And I think we 
could be friends, you and I.'

  "Friends?" Allen wondered aloud.

  Ramval nodded.  "Yeah."  He sent his reply and set down the keyboard.  "You know," 
he said softly, "I'm starting to think this might work."

  Allen grinned.  "Told ya."


**************************


  Tuesday afternoon Ramval was staring at a large bowl of salad.  He picked 
discontentedly at a carrot stick, then popped it in his mouth.  He stared at the fridge, 
wishing there had been a bit more selection.

  "Allen," he said, "when will you go to the store again?"

  "I told you, I don't get my check until tomorrow," came the answer from the bedroom.

  Ramval frowned and bit into a celery stick.  "I hate greens," he muttered.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," he sighed.

  "I'm sorry I don't have any meat left, but you need to eat more vegetables anyway."

  "Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly.  "But all at once?"

  A few minutes later, while trying to pry a cucumber seed out of his teeth, he heard, 
"Ramval?  I've found him."

  "Who?"

  "The one who can help you."

  He abandoned his salad and sat heavily on the bed, gazing at the screen.  "There's a guy 
in the groups called Talon," Allen explained.  "This is the message he sent."

  It read, 'There's a question I've asked many people.  I haven't gotten a good answer from 
anyone yet.  Perhaps you can tell me.  What is necessary for humanity's redemption?'

  Ramval shook his head, disappointed.  "Allen, I've told you.  Genemorphs can never be 
your saviors."  The human said, impatiently, "I know, I know.  But look at the rest of the 
message."

  The next paragraph read, 'It occurs to me that if there were a real furry living with us 
right now, he'd need a place to hide.  I have a rich, eccentric friend who lives in Topanga 
Canyon who'd love to host a wayward fur.  :)'

  His ears flicked slightly.  The words 'rich' and 'eccentric' bothered him.  "Do you think 
he's serious?"

  "One way to find out."  Allen typed up an e-mail to Talon while Ramval watched, 
feeling strangely uncertain.  All the message said was, 'How serious are you about your 
friend being able to host a wayward fur?  And how good are you and your friend at 
keeping a secret?'  As soon as he sent it, he turned to the caniform and asked, "So what 
do you think is necessary for humanity's redemption?"

  "Um, Allen?"  Ramval's ears were wanting to lay back but he forced them to stay 
upright.

  "What?  Something wrong?"  Allen frowned slightly.  "You having second thoughts 
now?"

  "Well, it just seems so sudden.  Do you know anything about this person?"  He couldn't 
shake the feeling he'd had in the in the lab, just before they'd closed the vault to send him 
back.  Just before they'd lost him to the wrong place in history.  He couldn't help 
wondering how much he should be relying on the people who said they were trying to 
help him.  Of course it was a bit late to back out now.  He had no other choices.

  "Do you trust me?"

  Ramval wasn't quite prepared for that question from him.  He'd asked himself the same 
thing before now, but never expected to hear it from Allen's mouth.  "What?"

  Allen pushed away from the desk and faced the genemorph.  "You've been living with 
me for over a week.  In that time, have you come to feel that you can trust me?"  Allen 
gazed directly into his eyes, his expression open and honest.  "Do you think I'm trying to 
do what's best for you?"

  Ramval didn't count himself the best judge of character when it came to humans.  But 
Allen wasn't giving any of the signs that he was lying.  No sharp tang of sudden sweat, no 
elevated heartbeat, no avoiding his gaze.  If he was forced to make a decision as to 
whether this human was lying, he'd have to say 'no.'

  "Yes.  I believe you're trying to help me."  Ramval continued to meet his stare.  "And I 
do trust you."  He pointed to the screen.  "But do you trust Talon?"

  Allen smiled, glad to have a question with an absolute answer for a change.  "He and I 
have been corresponding for a while now.  And if there's anyone out there I would trust to 
keep your secret, it's him."

  Allen was convinced.  So Ramval was convinced.  The computer interrupted with 
"Message for you, sir!" as a new e-mail came in.  "Ah, that was fast.  He must be online 
right now."  He opened the message.

  'Um, actually, yeah, I am serious.  And so is she.  Are you in trouble with the law?  Who 
is it you want to hide?  And why?'

  Allen looked at Ramval.  Ramval stared back.

  "Ready?" asked the human.  "It all changes from here."

  The caniform took a deep breath, nodded, and placed his life in the hands of the human.  
He found himself looking out the window at the tiny sliver of beach he could see past the 
Isla Del Sol building.  He wondered briefly if he would get to live near the ocean.  He 
heard Allen rattling away at the keyboard and glanced at what he had written so far.

  'Talon, you're not going to believe this…'


**************************


  He watched the house from several hundred yards away.  It was settled against the faint 
slope of the hill, surrounded by extensive landscaping.  It was too early to tell if anyone 
was home.  Nothing stirred in the warm air.

  He took another chunk of the dried beef from the light backpack he'd dropped at his 
feet.  Savoring the flavor, he chewed it slowly while he continued to groom.  The heavy, 
stiff-bristled brush he was using felt good, not just for the cleaning it gave his fur but the 
stimulation of rubbing the skin underneath.

  Ramval chewed absently, humming to himself, half listening to the 'thrush' of the 
bristles working out a week's worth of brambles and knots.  He counted himself 
immensely fortunate.  California seemed an agreeable place to live.  At least in Topanga 
Canyon.  The 'wild outdoors' had never really appealed to him before, but he was 
adapting quite well.  And he had to admit he enjoyed the peace and quiet.  The small lake 
a mile away wasn't the same as the wild, briny ocean, but it was enough to support him.

  Glancing down at his brush, he noticed a small brown shape nestled within the few 
strands of dead fur.  He picked the deer tick out of his brush and studied it a moment.  It 
hadn't had a chance to bite him, but it was a reminder that he needed another dose of that 
topical repellant that kept skin parasites off him.

  Crushing the tick between two claws, he looked back at the large log cabin across the 
shallow valley.  Dusk was approaching, and the lights should be coming on soon.  He was 
eager to get into the house and make use of its computer.

  The intrusive buzz of a light aircraft engine brought his head up.  It took only a second 
to find it against the darkening sky.  From the angle and altitude it was flying, it was 
possible the pilot might happen to look in just the right place and spot him.  He picked up 
his pack and moved further back into the trees.  Once the low pines and poplars had the 
single engine plane obscured, he sat down again and resumed his brushing.

  He found himself thinking about Allen, what he might be doing just then.  As it was 
nearly dusk on the west coast, Florida was three hours past dark.  That being the case, his 
human benefactor was probably eating supper or, more likely, sitting in front of his 
computer and looking for a message from him.

  By the time he finished working out the last stubborn tangle of fur near the end of his 
tail, it was fully dark.  He slipped out from the cover of the trees and saw lights on in the 
house.  He took a moment to remember the layout of the landscaping.  It was easy to pick 
his way through the security alarm triggers hidden among the bushes and landscaping 
timbers and get to the covered wooden deck at the back of the house.  He tossed his pack 
over his shoulder and knocked on the frame of the sliding glass door.  Almost 
immediately a shadow moved across the floor within.

  Mino Cinelu pulled open the door without turning on the outside light.  Framed as she 
was by the soft lighting inside the house, her wide smile and her tightly braided hair were 
the easiest features to distinguish.

  "Ramval," she said, "I'm so glad to see you again."  Her surprisingly deep, mellow voice 
was as friendly as the first day she'd laid eyes on him.  "Come in, come in."

  "Miss Mino," Ramval said, smiling himself.  He held out his hand, genemorph courtesy.  
Rather than sniffing at the pads of his fingers, Mino took his hand and held it briefly 
against her dark-skinned cheek, enjoying the warmth of the thick, smooth skin of his 
palm.  "How have you been?"

  She took his hand away from her face and held it between both hers.  "Quite well, thank 
you.  And I've some good news you'll be wanting to hear."  She nodded toward the dining 
room.  "I'll explain over dinner, if you'd care to eat."

  "Gladly," he said, and followed her into the rest of the house.

  The dining room was much like the rest of the house; plain and sparsely furnished.  
Looking around, one could hardly tell this was the home of a multi-millionaire heiress to 
a thriving communications business.  The table in the center was half covered in books 
and documents, while the other half was kept free of clutter so she could have room to 
eat.  Around the room, other chairs and cabinets were piled high with paperwork and 
reference manuals and heavily bound books.

  Mino's wealth didn't affect her willingness to tend to her own needs, nor the needs of 
her friends.  After seating Ramval at the table and pushing a copy of that morning's L.A. 
Times toward him, she disappeared into the kitchen.  She returned shortly with a plate 
heaped with raw chicken livers and a shallow wooden bowl filled with carrot sticks and 
cucumber slices.  She left and got her own food, pasta salad that no doubt came from a 
box.

  "I got a message from Allen yesterday," she said after she'd settled and they'd taken a 
few bites.  "He finally made shift supervisor."

  "Really?"  Ramval was glad to hear it.  "So he won't be driving the truck anymore?"

  "Only to fill in for missing drivers.  Better pay and better hours, too.  More time off."  
She looked at him over a glass of ice water.  "He's already saving money for a trip out 
here."  Her fondness for Ramval made it easy to understand Allen's attachment to the 
caniform.  "He really misses you."

  Ramval swallowed a chicken liver and sighed.  "I miss him, too.  I owe him a lot."  How 
much he missed him and how much he owed him had become very clear during the ride 
from Florida to California in the back of an air conditioned cargo truck provided by Mino 
herself.  Now that he was getting adjusted to his new life, he thought back on that night 
on the bridge often.  He'd thought his luck had run out, that there were no answers for 
him.  "I owe him everything," he said softly.  Mino patted his hand and smiled her 
understanding.

  "How are you finding the great Californian wilderness?" she asked.

  "Not too bad.  It's relaxing in its way.  Peaceful."

  "No intruders?"

  Ramval shook his head.  "I've been staying inside the fences.  No one's seen me."

  "Good.  If you find anyone stomping around my property, you let me know right away, 
eh?  And don't go starting any werewolf stories for me, either."  She smiled again, 
warmly.

  "So what's your news?" he asked after a few more livers had disappeared.

  Mino touched the newspaper he hadn't looked at.  "I did some research on those 
companies you told me about.  It turns out that they are fairly small concerns at this 
point.  Most have some stock available, and it's relatively cheap."

  Ramval thought about this, but couldn't see the importance of such information.  "You 
want to buy them?"

  "Oh, no," Mino demurred, shaking her head.  She swept a few stray braids from her 
face.  "That would be impractical and not very helpful."

  "Helpful?"  Ramval was starting to feel foolish.  He couldn't see the point his new host 
was trying to make.

  "Uh huh.  To you and your future kin."

  Ramval blinked, surprised.  "Future?"  Dare he hope she had an answer?  Could he 
possibly fulfill his mission after all?

  Mino pushed aside her pasta salad and laid both hands on his arm.  "I haven't forgotten 
why you're here.  And I know you haven't."

  Ramval swallowed.  "You have an idea?  How to fix things?"

  She nodded.  "Don't forget, dearest, I'm a furry."

  He frowned slightly at that.

  "Ah, now," she grinned.  "Don't be like that."  She touched the end of his nose with one 
finger.  "You're a genemorph, and I'm a furry.  And I've got lots of money.  And I'm tied 
quite tightly to the furry community.  And..."  Her eyes glittered.  "I've got my own 
communications network."

  The vague outlines of her idea began to show themselves to him.  "You mean...the 
stocks?"

  "Oh, yes."  She nodded, a grin forming on her dark face.  "But not just the stocks.  The 
technicians.  The policy makers.  And..."  Her voice became a whisper, a sharing of 
secrets.  "The military.  They use my network on occasion."

  His eyes widened, his ears laid half back.

  "Ambitious, I know.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  We have lots of time to work on 
the harder problems."  She focused on her salad and took a dainty bite.  "For now, we 
concentrate on building a furry underground."

  "Furry..."  Ramval felt overwhelmed.  He couldn't imagine the scope of what she was 
proposing.  "But, how can you...what...what would any of this accomplish?  Buying 
stocks..."  He shook his head, doubtful about all of it.

  Mino grinned.  "The stocks are just a step, my friend.  First we must carefully find 
people in the community we can trust."

  "The furry community?" he assumed.

  "Yes," and her smile widened.  "We will build a network of people who want to help 
you.  We will screen them and let only those who can be trusted know the truth.  About 
you."

  "And then?" he wondered, feeling ill.

  "Then we make plans to encourage as many furries as possible to buy stocks in these 
companies.  With our folks being the major stockholders, we will then have an influence 
on what those companies' policies are.  We'll find any furries who work in the field of 
genetics and persuade them to work at these companies.  They can alter the processes so 
the virus you're transporting will be dealt with long before it becomes a threat.  When the 
first models of genemorph are ready, we'll find furries in the various media to spread the 
word before it can be hushed up.  We'll help redefine the public's perception of morphs 
and smooth the way for their introduction.  If it all goes well, the military will never get a 
chance to buy the production lines and turn you into soldier slaves."

  Mino took a drink of her water and nodded at Ramval's chest.  "Somewhere in there, 
we'll find a trustworthy surgeon who can remove that vial from you."

  Ramval had that feeling again.  The same feeling he'd had when Allen suggested they 
turn to the internet to find help for him.  "I don't know," he said quietly.

  Mino turned serious.  "I know it won't be easy, but this is too important to ignore."

  "You're talking about plans that will take longer than either of us will live.  The first 
morphs are decades away.  The first viable, self-reproducing species won't-"

  "I know," Mino interrupted.  "I understand.  This is going to be a lifetime dedication.  
An awesome challenge."  She stared hard into his eyes.  "But can either of us say that it 
wouldn't be worth it?  To change the future?  To prevent the horrible suffering your folks 
will go through?"

  He shook his head, his ears completely flat.  "You know humans as well as I do.  You'll 
never prevent the violence that this will bring.  People will be afraid.  People are always 
afraid of new things."

  "All right," she admitted.  "Perhaps we cannot *prevent* such suffering.  But we can 
surely *lessen* it.  Take some of its bite away, so to speak."  Her voice was filled with 
compassion, her eyes locked to his.  "Wouldn't it be worth it to change some of the 
terrible things that will happen?  Maybe prevent countless deaths on both sides?  Prevent 
some poor morph child from being hurt, or some innocent human from being the focus of 
morph revenge?  Don't you want to help bring about a world where there's *less* fighting 
instead of *more*?"

  He wanted to say yes.  His whole being cried out to say yes.  But he doubted.

  "Do you trust me?"  Mino said abruptly.

  He stared at her, and the fur on the back of his neck rose.  Allen had asked him that 
question.  Did he trust?  The answer hadn't been easy to come by, but it had been right.

  "Yes.  I trust you."

  She touched his hand again.  "Will you help me?"

  Slowly, his ears came back up.  He found himself wanting to believe her plans would 
work, that they could defeat the virus and reshape the future of both genemorphs and 
humans.  She'd already committed herself to hosting him, perhaps indefinitely, supplying 
him with food and shelter when he needed it, access to the net.  If she intended to spend 
her money and time and effort to help him and countless other morphs even further, well, 
how could he say no?

  He took her hand and pressed her palm to his cheek.  He smiled and said, "I'll do 
whatever you need."

  "Thank you," she said, returning his smile.

  "Thank *you*," he replied.

  "Now, eat your vegetables.  They're good for you."

  Later that night, they sat together at her computer while Ramval typed his first 
'underground' message.  It was addressed to Talon.

  'You asked me originally if I knew what was needed for humanity's redemption.  I can't 
claim to know how to make amends for your entire race's behavior over its lifetime.  But 
I can tell you how to avoid making a mistake that's coming in your collective future.'

  Ramval looked at Mino.  She nodded.

  'Mino,' he typed, 'has this idea...' 



  **************************

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