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of being pricked or injected with something while at the airport or on your way here?"
    "No."
    "Did you experience any instances of 'lost time' on your way to the airport today?"
    "No."
    "Do you have any artificial implants or limbs?"
    "No."
    "Are you now or have you ever been mentally-controlled or possessed by persons who forced you to do things against your will?"
    "No."
    "Have you recently had dreams where you are n ot in control of your actions?"
    "No."
    "Have you recently had frequent nosebleeds or painful headaches?"
    "No."
    "Have you ever been certified as Post-Human by an SCEIA physician or are you currently being tested to determine if you are Post-Human?"
    "No."
    "And are you Post-Human?"
    "No."
    Federal law made lying to any of these questions a felony, especially the last two, and especially since I was not registered with the government and especially since I had the power to take the entire plane down myself. But if lying to this fucking unpleasant woman who hated her job was the worst thing I did on this trip, I'd be lucky. I took off my shoes and belt and emptied my pockets and stepped through the metal detector while my bags were x-rayed. They asked me about the suit in my second bag, and I convinced them it was for dirt bike racing. It was easier than it should have been.
    I figured my last-minute first class ticket had been paid for in cash, which it had been, so I traded it in for a coach one at the airline counter, showed my fake Ohio state driver's license and got handed a little north of fifteen hundred dollars out of Kamikaze or whoever's pocket for the downgrade. The trip wouldn't be a total loss.
    After a pants-shitting two hour layover in Chicago of all places, where cops and Feds were all over the airport thanks to Silvy's shit, I made it to my final stop and came through the gate looking for the ride that was supposed to be waiting for me, hoping to God these people had enough sense to send someone more inconsp icuous than Kamikaze to get me.
    Waiting with the wives, husbands and children, in a red, kind of lopsided pant and blouse outfit that I had to assume was too in-style for based on how ugly it looked was Tracey Miller: terrible singer and teleporter who I hadn't seen since our las t days in Die Chaotische Sechs.
    A handwritten sign that just said 'Clive' rested in her red-nailed hands.
    "Hey there," she said with a broad smile. "Welcome to this shit hole called Missouri."

Chapter 5
    Reassurances
     
    Tracey wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me like an old friend. She had gotten implants. Nice.
    "Good to see somebody I know," I said while I wondered why in the fuck she had given somebody like Kamikaze my real damn name.
    She pushed her auburn hair back over her ears. "Yeah, that was the idea. Did you have a good flight?"
    "It sucked. Chicago gave me a shit-fit."
    She touched my arm, "I heard about that, yeah, that thing with Psycho Silvy. That's crazy."
    "She always was."
    "I know, right? God."
    She folded the sign with my fake name up. "Here, put this in your suitcase, like in the pocket."
    "All right." I shoved it into the case I had brought on the plane. "You didn't need it, y'know. You haven't changed at all . I recognized you right away."
    Her eyebrows went up. "Really? Shit, then I'm suing my plastic surgeon for malpractice." She rubbed her hand on my buzz-cut head. "I like the hair. Getting a little thin up top, though, huh? Have you thought about transplants?"
    "I really hadn't thought about it."
    She kept eyeballing my hair. "Well, I'll give you the number of a good guy to talk to. You don't want somebody doing your work who's a fucking hack because it will come out even worse. They can make the hairline look totally natural now."
    "Yeah, yeah. Thanks." Why the hell were we talking about my hair? "Do you need to like call somebody to tell them I showed up?"
    Tracey rolled her dark brown eyes and gestured for me to walk with her to baggage claim. "No, that's not going to