The secret of winning the game of Notker lies not in the strength of the hand wielding the spear, but in the mind guiding the grasping hand—those words used to be Erc Rooney's mantra, a secular chant repeated with all the essential thought usually reserved for breathing, for simply allowing his heart to beat, back when he was Roe Nudara Aswad, Master Spear Fighter of Notker. Those same words appeared at the beginning of the videogame itself, scrolling down from the top of the screen in pseudo-calligraphy designed more for ease of reading than any semblance of true visual artistry. But Erc had this way of making them sound so true, so unpretentious, so … actually meaningful—

How many times did I repeat that line … how many trade shows? How many more people actually believed what I was saying?

Erc and the others had had only a half hour to practice their moves, but considering that Roe Nudara Aswad was the undisputed hero of this particular game series, all the guy and gal really had to do was fend and duck, narrowly—and dramatically—missing each mighty swish-and-swipe of his Spear of Destiny. Of course, it helped that the woman playing Eikki Kyllikki had the requisite D-cups, barely held in place with strips of double-sided tape under her fiber-optic plush bikini bra-top. Erc often wondered if the presence of a woman whose barely fettered swinging breasts just might break free of that glowing quasi-Medieval fuzzy tube-top was the real attraction during these live Notker fights … but whenever Erc chanced a peek at his audience, between thrusts and parrys with his prop spear, even the eyes of the young males in the audience would be trained on him.

Oversized breasts were one thing, but to see a man who was the literal, skin-deep representation of a CGI character, without need of foam latex appliances, or smeary layers of pore-constricting make-up … now that was something worth staring at.

Even the guy playing Ogelsvie Garwig, some former pro basketball guard from one of the Canadian expansion teams whose name Erc couldn't remember despite having heard it only two hours ago, couldn't keep his attention focused on his prop spear, kept letting it drop to the short-napped industrial carpeting at his leather-thongs-and-fake-fur booted feet. The latest Eikki tripped over the end of Basketball Ogelsvie's spear twice, the second time falling to that color-flecked grey carpet with a breasts-bouncing thump that only momentarily quieted the cheering ring of spectators. And still, the people stared at Erc.…

Toward the middle of the cavernous, pillars-supported open room, a set of over-sized monitors showed a sampling of each booth's mini floor show, the images changing every few seconds: The latest abdominal exercise machine demonstrated by a former game show hostess; the next Big Thing British kiddie-show characters, great shapeless neon-bright blobs of latex and fun-fur shaking hands with terrified children; a tooth whitening system that promised to be really safe for teens; yet another eye-spy surveillance reality TV show; the competitor's attempt to cash in on the Notker franchise, complete with a DD cup villainess … and, every few minutes or so, a three-screen enlarged view of the Notker booth. When Erc happened to look in the direction of those close-to-the-ceiling screens, he'd often see himself … and just as often had reason to wonder if the image he was looking at was really him, or feed from the game itself. In close-up, Erc Rooney and Roe Nudara Aswad were virtually indistinguishable.

The red hair was Erc's own, a legacy of his Irish ancestors. Pure red-red, not orange-tinted, but deep brick-sunset-flesh-blood red. The kind of color no one can get from a bottle. True, the exaggerated stylized waves and stiff curls were from a tube of hair gel, but every inch of hair was his. No extensions. But, ironically, the hair was the least of the over-all effect.…

According to the "back story" for the entire Notker series, Roe Nudara Aswad was the bastard son of an Arabic prince, born to an Anglo Saxon slave girl, who traveled to the Far East as well as the distant South Seas to learn the Art of the Compelling Spear (whatever the hell all that nonsense meant)—and, while living in those exotic South Seas Islands, Roe Nudara proved his inner strength by allowing himself to be tattooed, Island-style, in broad black angular and curlicue designs … then, once he hit the Mysterious Far East, had himself decorated all over again, this time Irezumi-style, in bright glowing colors. Including his signature color, bright golden yellow.…

Which, in Erc/Roe's case, meant a face whose saffron hue would never sweat off, never run in piss-bright runnels over the neckline of his tunic as he pretend-fought his day-worker enemies. The bands of thick hatch-work black across his left cheek and forehead were the left-overs from his own tattoo-work, done years before he'd even heard of a Sim called Roe Nudara Aswad, or a pretentious but satisfyingly violent Rated-M (for Mature) videogame like Notker. Originally, he'd sported much finer blackwork on his face, a bar-code with precise numerals, mainly meant to freak out the ginny-skins surrounding him, the uncolored masses … but the combination of that facial tattoo, and his naturally red-red hair, made him stand out for an entirely different reason to that public relations rep for the Japanese-based firm which produced Notker.

She'd been having a froth-topped latte outside a Starbucks, killing an hour between flights in downtown St. Paul, when Erc slid past her on his skateboard. She'd been staring at him so obviously, he was tempted to clothesline that coated paper cup out of her bright-nailed hands, but just in time to save both her wrinkled linen suit and her half-consumed cup of latte, she'd smiled, and called after him as he rumbled past on his board, "Would you be interested in being a hero? For real … for bucks?"

Erc may've had a six-pack you could bounce quarters off of, and well-pumped biceps, but he also knew that no woman, no matter how caffeine-buzzed she was, would mistake him for a dick-for-hire. If he'd had any illusions about his potential studliness, he wouldn't have had a damned bar-code inked on his forehead … if women weren't inclined to look at him in his natural, ginny state, he'd make them look—

"Lady, there would have to be more than a whole lotta caffeine in that cup to make you think I could be your Superhero … and since I don't smell no booze in the steam coming from that cup, either you're stoned or you think I'm stupid—"

She just stood there, the light May breeze ruffling her finger-combed short-cut hair, staring at him through her grey-lensed sunglasses, a thin-lipped smile bisecting her pale face. After taking another sip, then licking away the pencil-thin mustache of froth with a quick swipe of her tongue-tip, she shook her head, and said, more slowly this time, "No, I meant what I said. Would you be interested in be—playing a hero? As in being a paid promoter for a product. A company representative. A spokesmodel. Someone who goes around, promoting a character. As the character."

He'd jumped off his board, upended it with one foot until it rested against the brick facade of the Starbucks, then crossed his arms before asking, "So … you're talking guy in a furry suit with a big head time?"

Her eyes never left his forehead as she said, "Not exactly … but you basically have the right idea. But no furry suit. No big head. However, your head is involved—"

"Man can't help it," Basketball Ogelsvie rumbled, bending low to swing his spear like a scythe, forcing Erc and the current incarnation of Eikki to simultaneously jump up in the air as the spear passed over the spot where they'd been standing, in one of the few pre-choreographed moves they'd practiced that morning, before the crowds filled the civic center. For a few gravity-defying nanoseconds, the eyes of the audience moved from Erc's face to the pseudo-Eikki's rising globular breasts, and just as quickly, the ex-Canadian pro-ball player added, "Ain't nothin' looks that damn weird—"

Once he'd made that seemingly obvious admission, Hilary—"with one 'l'" —asked him, "Would you ever consider doing your whole face? Covering up this tattoo in the process?"

"'Whole'—like with another pattern, or a color, or—"

"Both," she'd said perhaps a little too quickly, then backpedaled, "Remember the hero, of this game I've been talking about? Roe Nudara Aswad? Not only does he have the same fantastic shade of red hair as you do, but his entire face, his whole body, actually, is tattooed … blackwork, Irezumi … the graphics are incredible. High resolution, skin texture mapped down to the last pore—"

Erc was only half-listening after she'd said the words "blackwork" and "Irezumi" … for a ginny (as far as he could tell, considering that she was conservatively dressed), she knew her tattoo lore. Mention the words "Irezumi" or "blackwork" to the average canvas (the unneedled masses, in Erc and his friends' view), and the best you might hope for would be a blank, if polite stare, or maybe a startled "What?" But she knew the difference between all-black designs, and vivid full-body art. She'd done her proverbial homework, at least as far as her company's character was concerned—

"So. Like you're trying to say, would I do my face up like this Roe-whatshisface of yours? 'Cause he and I are both red-heads? Like … no one's heard of face-paints—"

"That won't cut it. Not with the audience we know will be attracted to this game. They're too sophisticated, too able to spot deception. And our product rep would be close to the buyers in these situations. Pressing the flesh, looking into their eyes. Make-up sweats off. Hair dye runs, extensions can pull off. I'm talking an audience who expects more from us. Because they know we can pull it off. If our game is that good, our rep has to be even better." Hilary set her empty cup down on the table with a soft echoing thud, before leaning forward, and saying, "You do remember, I mentioned bucks. For you. Big ones—"

"Jemima."

A male voice, black by the resonance and timbre. Just that one word, quickly spat out like a bad taste on the tongue.

Then, normal sound rushed in again, cheers, clapping, whistles. The usual reaction to Roe Nudara's latest "victory" over his most famous foes. Holding the broken halves of the spears above his head, Erc shook them for emphasis (just as his Sim counterpart did in all three games in the Notker series), then let them fly from his hands in two directions, so that four lucky people in the crowd might grab them … or grab them away from whoever happened to catch them first. The same act, the same results, but the fans never tired of it—

Backing away from the shouting, laughing crowd, as they split into four groups, each trying to wrest the pieces of the prop spears from whoever had caught them first, Erc whispered to the day-players, "Get up … only make out like you're hurting—"

"Who needs to 'make out,' asshole?" The Eikki-of-the-day glared at him, rubbing her red-mottled midriff. He'd have to talk to Hilary—no way in hell was he working with this broad the next time they booked a space in this civic center—

Looking away from her hate-narrowed eyes under that metallic-yellow wig of hers, Erc beamed at the crowd, most of whom were still too busy trying to at least touch the pieces of the spears to notice him … save for the guy standing a few feet left of center, the one who had his thumbs hooked in his pants pockets, with his fingers drumming the outsides of his hips. The black guy, short-clipped hair, small beard, no mustache. The one who was staring at Erc, making definite eye contact. Then, his lips formed a word, silent but well-enunciated:

Je-mi-ma.

For some reason, Erc knew that he should know what the guy was saying … it sounded familiar, definitely, but aside from being a chick name, it wasn't all clicking in his brain—at least not this early in the day—

Aside from the tattoos, his hair wasn't quite the right length, but Hilary had ordered him not to cut it anymore, so even that minor difference was vanishing, inch by inch.

Once the work on his face was over, Hilary sent pictures of the unclothed Roe Nudara to the tattoo artist, and limb by limb, his old tattoos (another bar code on his upper arm, a couple of ribald rip-offs of famous cartoon characters screwing, and some of those pseudo-Chinese character symbols on his right calf) were carefully inked over, then the blocked out portions were integrated into the new, bold themes of the Notker universe … thanks to this being an M-rated game, Roe Nudara spent a considerable amount of time semi-nude, chained or shackled in various dungeons, pits or fortress prisons. Which meant that the potential fans might want to see him in a similar state of virtual undress … mentally, Erc tabulated how much the company was spending on his new full-body tattoos, but stopped a couple of limbs and half a torso short of a quarter of a million dollars. For that amount of money, he was half-afraid they might make him sign a waiver in his contract, allowing them to skin him after death, and send his hide around to trade shows.…

They'd even taught him how Roe Nudara would sign something—a heavy-handed, flourish-laden signature, befitting a spear-master. As long as he was able to sign his own name, in his own hand, on the back of his checks, it really didn't matter—

Strange hands would appear before him, holding pictures or boxes from game cartridges, and he'd sign what was given to him, then hand it back to the empty hands. Move on to the next pair of hands. Sign it, smile, move on. Don't look at the eyes; they couldn't give him the steely hard stare of Roe Nudara Aswad, even if he wore the Sim's skin. Roe Nudara had no use for a sense of the ironic, no ability to notice the absurd, let alone appreciate it.

Next set of hands. Pink palms, surrounded by deep brown skin. Holding a photo. Not of him. A fragile, slightly sepia-tinged glossy, the paper brittle and shiny in the room's intense overhead lights. Erc broke his own rule, and looked past the shining rectangle of paper, into the eyes of the man who held it. Mr. "Jemima." Look down at the paper again. A photo of a fat black lady, standing next to a small cookstove, holding a heavy black frying pan in one hand. White apron, over a print dress of some darkish hue. Turban-like thing on her head, and hoop earrings in her ears. Big smile, but one that didn't reach her eyes, which were staring ahead, off beyond the camera. Several white people standing around her, watching her get ready to flip the pancakes in that pan.

Look up at the guy. He was smiling now, a sad up-turning of his lips that had no intention of lighting up his steady-gazing brown eyes.

"Like what you see?" The guy's voice was educated, the words crisply enunciated. "I didn't have a mirror handy."

"Uhhh … I can't sign this. It might be valuable. It's old." He smiled at the man, then started to turn toward the next pair of waiting hands, but the man's voice held onto him.

"Go ahead, sign it. I've more in my collection. There were lots of Jemimas. As long as overweight women of color needed work, there was a Jemima. They all looked the same to the people she flipped them flapjacks for—"

Erc did not like the way the man's voice veered off into self-parody. He didn't think that black people did that any more, at least not those who obviously knew better, who knew the difference between parody and unwitting self-denegration. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard anyone use the "n" word, be they white or black. People … just weren't supposed to do things like that, not after all the tolerance crap that was spread around after the Afghan war—

"Yeah, man. May your spear-hand be guided with wisdom," he said, reflexively spitting out one of Roe Nudara's platitudes from the game.

"All the Jemimas, they knew how to flip those griddle-cakes. I suspect they took lessons. Came with the uniform. And the anti-elocution lessons. Yassssir—"

Ignore him. Keep moving. But over to his right, the ex-Canadian b-ball player was listening to the man with the photo, taking in his words, and whatever message he was trying to push … and out of the corner of one eye, Erc saw the man shove his Sharpie into the fold of his fun-fur tunic, and walk through the crowd, away from the booth—

Hilary was going to get that clown's name, for sure. Let him go back to Canada, and be a towel-boy for that team of his. This was the last trade show that dude was ever doing—

Remembering the details of that photo the man still held out to him, as he slowly made his way through the pushing throng of people trying to get close to their Sim hero made flesh, Erc realized from the clothes the other people in the photo wore that the image had to be pretty damn close to a hundred years old, from the 1930s or 1940s, judging by the women's clothes alone. The stuff the men wore wasn't all that different from what the losers who hung around the last of the swing clubs wore. That paper was pretty brittle, though. And that brown tint—that was old-old. Jemima … he vaguely remembered that name now, on a food box, in his grandparent's kitchen. An old food box they'd saved, to put paid bills in. Mom had had to go through it after Grandpa died and Grandma went in the nursing home, just to make sure there wasn't any money mixed in with the old bills and torn envelopes … and he'd sat at the table with her, helping her open every envelope and look inside "just to be sure" and there was a black lady smiling at him from the front of that box. Only she didn't have a turban-thing on her head, or a white apron … but hadn't Grandma said something, once, about the mix inside being just a little different when someone called "Ancha" wore her kerchief? It sure sounded like "Ancha" back then, but Grandma's false teeth never did fit all that well—

Not "Ancha" … Aunt. No wonder he didn't remember the name … it was like the "n" word, something you didn't say, or shouldn't say, at any rate—

He wanted to shout to the man, I don't sell food—I'm a character, not a caricature, but there were too many people around, who hadn't heard the man, or his taunt. And way too many of them were kids, who really bought into Roe Nudara Aswad's message … whatever the hell that was. Buy more game cartridges, go buy the tee shirt with Roe's face on them … whatever the message was, they were buying it. And Game Four of the series was already in development—

The man had moved to the back of the crowd, but held the photo aloft, so that it was visible to anyone who cared to look in his direction. Including the guys who manned the eye-in-the-sky camera … one of whom focused the lens on that picture, blew it up and plastered it across the screens of the monitors above the room. A fat black lady, flipping pancakes for a crowd of white people. Wearing a silly bandana thing on her head, and a big white apron. Among a group of people dressed in their finest dresses and suits.

And on the sides of the picture, the black man's fingertips were just visible up on that monitor, the nails neatly polished and manicured. Just holding that photo, like Sally Field in that Norma Rae movie Erc's grandparents used to watch on DVD … one person standing up, holding something forbidden for everyone to see. And not saying a damn word.…

"As did everyone else in there … they don't take names, just the money, kiddo. You said he collected this stuff … maybe he's an activist. Some blacks collect black memorabilia, especially the unflattering knick-knacks. Believe me, I have friends who find that as offensive as you and I do, but there's no law stopping them from doing it—" Hilary's voice was static-filtered, bad cell reception.

"I just don't see the connection. Why wasn't he bugging the others? We always get some black guy to play Ogelsvie—"

"Who is naturally black. You're … let me see if I can find the right analogy here, Erc. The black women this guy was referring to were overweight … which some people think is something a person can control. You know and I know that's usually bullshit, that genetics and whatnot play into it, but there's that stereotype. That people 'chose' to be fa—overweight. So … you have a woman who is black, and who 'chooses' to be big … and you have a character. On a product, who is also big and black. See the connection he's making? You weren't born looking like Roe. Nobody was born looking like that … but you do now. And you're wearing the equivalent of that apron and—"

"But Roe isn't a stereotype! He's … Roe. Totally unique. The one and only. What this guy was bitching about was like … having a Santa in every department store or mall come Christmas time. All different, but playing the same person. So all the Jemima's looked alike to all the white people who saw them. I'm something else entirely—"

"So … why did he piss you off? You said yourself, you're different. So why freak over someone with an antique photo? He's working off a racial thing … he had a beef, but it's an old piece of cow. The rest of us have moved on. Let him carry around his photo. Let him vent. It won't hurt you, it won't affect the game. And if he shows up again, just figure it's his money he's shelling out … and you get a cut of it. So he's paying you for his anger. Let him. He'll feel better, and your savings account will be bigger—"

"But the other guy walked off the job—"

"Which will be his last as far as the company goes. His loss, too."

"But the picture, it was up on the monitor—"

"Along with a lot of other images. Which nine out of ten of them won't remember come the next morning. Let'em think it's a still from an infomercial. Just concentrate on the next show … it's an opening for a new electronics gaming palace—"

Then, just as Ogelsvie was about to do the scythe-swing before he and today's Eikki (more muscular than bust-ular this time out) made their unison jump, someone in the back of the store said, "Jeezus, take a look at this—"

All around the store, the monitors of the big-screen HDTVs for sale switched from a live feed of the Notker reinactment to footage from one of the newschannels with all the crawl lines and inserts cluttering up the screen … but the largest image on each screen was easy to see, even if the words of the crawl line wasn't. Police were leading a handcuffed man down some steps, and while the guy was trying to duck his head, hide his face, there was no way he could hide what he was wearing. An officially licensed Notker II—Warrior Spear tee, the one with Roe Nudara Aswad's brilliantly colored face rendered not only in full color, but in puff-ink, so his blackwork facial art shone inky bright in the news camera lights. A thicker silence blanketed the store, and as he picked himself up after falling over the swinging spear, Erc asked the Eikki-of-the-day, "What's this?"

Rubbing her own rug-burned knees, the woman adjusted her wig with one hand while saying, "You aren't from here, are you … it's been all over the news here. Some nutjob's been kidnapping kids, killing them … oh god, you don't wanna know what he did to them. It's been six, seven kids in ten months … oh shit. What a bastard. What a sick, sick son of a bitch. They got him … they got him," she kept saying in a tiny voice that belied her bulging muscles and implants-augmented chest.

Beside her, the spear-carrying Ogelsvie started waving his prop spear in the air, shouting, "Don't just haul him away … string the fucker up!"

Squinting his eyes to better see the crawl along the bottom of the screen, Erc felt his mouth go dry as he read:

—LURED THE VICTIMS WITH GAME CARTRIDGES AND TEE SHIRTS—

And the camera stayed with the killer, focusing tight on his shirt. On Roe's face. Erc's face.

And all Erc could think was, The Jemimas could diet … they could diet.…

Sitting on the edge of his motel room bed, facing the mirror above the dresser, Erc looked at his body's reflection as he spoke to Hilary, finally interrupting with, "I'm not worried about a lawsuit … I'm worried about my skin. The company will pay to have this removed, no?"

"'Removed' … oh god. I hadn't even thought—Oh shit. All I was thinking about was the company getting sued, which is going to happen, but … oh god, I had not thought about the tattoos. I suppose laser treatments … but some inks, they won't come out. Yellow. And some blues. You can't laser them off, the ink won't vaporize—oh … god. I … I don't know what to suggest. Other than the make-up you use when you're traveling—"

"You know what Dermablend costs a fucking jar? To use every day—"

"We'll pay for it … I'm sure we can pay for it," she said in a voice that didn't sound sure in the least. "Just sit tight until the s.o.b.'s trial. We're holding back on the fourth game, until this blows over—"

"Didn't you see it? His picture all over every newspaper and newsmagazine? Every website? My face on his damned chest? They didn't block it out, either. Oh yeah, the networks did, but who watches them anymore? The name of the game is all over the papers … he used our game to lure those kids to his house. To his basement. Did you read about what he did? Court TV has the transcripts on-line … they were alive when he—"

"I read'em too … I read'em. We all did. The whole company did, even back in Japan. Especially our lawyers—"

As she continued to speak, Erc got to his feet, and stared at his reflection in the mirror across the squat L-shaped room. He hadn't dressed, didn't actually need to, what with the full body of tattooed robe-shaped clothes his flesh wore. Everything colored, patterned, save for a loincloth-sized patch around his groin. Millions of people knew the designs on his body. Millions of women. Virtually all of whom would associate him with that bent-down face on the TV, with the body count generated by the man who wore that shirt, with all the media circus to follow—

That patch of un-marked skin surrounding his red-thatched genitals might as well be an apron. But no headgear could hide his face, even when it was covered over with a layer of that pigment enhanced make-up. Which even under the best circumstances made him look like he was wearing a skin-tight latex mask … one lacking the nuances of normal pigmentation. One that covered his pores, made his skin break out if he wore it for too long—

"How 'bout Japan? The game still selling there? Tell me they aren't following this case, over there—"

"Following it? They're devouring it. People over there react strongly when children are the victims of crimes like these … according to the people I spoke to, they're even more freaked there than they are here, if you can believe that—"

"I don't want to—"

"Erc … you have to. Now I've gone over your contract, not line by line, but the overview looks good. You have a full ten years, guaranteed payments regardless of whether or not you actually are booked anywhere. And … under the circumstances, considering all the prep work you've had done, we might be able to extend that, provided the lawsuits don't bankrupt the company. The market shares have dropped, but that's to be expected—"

"I won't fade back to normal in ten years!"

"I know, I know … now laser work is still an option for the blackwork, if you want—"

"And who pays for it? Not the company, if the company's ka-fooey. I've priced laser treatments … I'd lose most of my savings to get just my face done—and I'd still be saffron colored. Mr. Jaundice—"

"You can have the yellow tattooed over … another shade of color. Reddish, brownish … it's not perfect, but it's an option … and I think I could get the company to foot the bill, at least on your face—"

"If the company is here ten minutes from now—"

"Why wouldn't it be, Erc? This trial, it won't last forever. There will be other news stories, other, god help us all, other killings … just sit tight, you'll see … you'll be out pushing the fourth game before you know it.…"

Erc's contract may have promised him ten years worth of salary, but once the trial was over, it was as useful as toilet paper, and nowhere near as soft.

Erc looked at the plastic bottle of ink hanging down from the gun … filled with a shade of ochre he and the tattoo artist had finally chosen, after several days worth of experimentation on the various yellow bits on his limbs, his torso. A shade which would give his skin a bronzed tone, like a deep, deep sunburn. Not too flattering with his red hair, but once he dyed that black, he'd look … perhaps Native American. Mexican, maybe. Anything but like an Arab-Anglo-Saxon Spear Master. Whose face graced the chest of a cannibal kiddie-killer.

"I could do part of your face now, the rest later—" the guy continued to demur, knowing full well what sort of agony he was about to inflict on Erc's skin.

"No … the whole face. I got the time. You'll get the money."

Almost all my money, he told himself, as the buzzing needles made the first, stinging contact with his forehead, and kept on burning across his skin, centimeter by centimeter.…

Only a couple of booths here were selling black memorabilia, among hundreds of other collectors selling everything from quilts to fast food meal toys to antique kitchen utensils to science fiction franchise merchandise … and damned if someone wasn't selling Notker stuff, too. And double damn if people weren't buying it. For a moment, Erc felt the urge to roll up his sleeves, show off the remains of his Irezumi (what hadn't been tattooed over with that dark ochre pigment), trace the barely discernible outlines of his blackwork facial art with his fingertips, but the moment passed. He had to get back to the booth he and his partner were manning, the one with the South American pottery and folk art for sale. But this was his break-time, and there were so many booths he'd yet to visit—

—it took him another fifteen minutes to find the one with the man he remembered, the Jemima man from that next-to-last public appearance of Roe Nudara. Sure enough, he had his own booth of memorabilia … some of it so offensively labeled that more than one person turned away after reading a box or can featuring the words "nappy" or "burr-head" … but the man behind the counter was unperturbed by their reactions. The man's hair was still short, albeit graying at the temples now. A mustache now ringed his mouth, but the beard was gone.

But the man recognized Erc immediately; his eyes latched onto Erc's changed face, as that same sad smile pulled his lips into a closed-mouthed grimace. It didn't matter that Erc's hair was now a uniform black, pulled back in a braided tail over one shoulder, or that his skin was deeply, brownly pigmented … when their eyes met, both of them knew. And even though Erc quickly turned away, he still could read the silent words the man spoke only to him, each soundless syllable perfectly formed:

You can never take off the apron.…

Walking back to his own booth, across what seemed like miles of that nubby industrial carpeting, Erc remembered that old mantra from his days as a man who never was, and who never should have been in the flesh, words about winning being a thing of the mind, not of the hand guided by the mind. Without doing more than lifting two hands which held only a picture, the man had figured out how to beat him, long before he'd had to put down his spear not out of necessity, but out of need.

It hadn't mattered that Erc/Roe had once welded a spear. It might as well have been a frypan, for all the protection is afforded him.

And under his clothes, his un-tattooed small patch of skin chafed, like a starchy apron, worn on soft, bare flesh.