The terrible sounds of gunfire, magic, and the screams of dying men and spirits still ringing in his ears, Kyle walked slowly across the basement to the clusters of swollen shapes the larger roach spirits had been guarding. He approached cautiously, his senses still existing primarily in astral space. They were alive, somewhat, pulsing with energy and existence, but there was an alienness about them. Some of the auras leaking from the meter-and-a-half-long objects were cool and constant, others flickered as if fighting something unseen, and the remainder showed echoes of duality, of two spirits overlapped. All, it seemed, were very slowly fading. Kyle reached the first cluster, six of the objects piled almost haphazardly on top of each other, the bottom one all but buried. He touched it, and felt coolness, a rough skin, and the faint wisps of fear, longing, and despair echoing from inside it. And something was inside it-it lurched at his presence, thrashing, the sensation of fear growing from it. The clear outline of a hand, a child's, pushed against the outer covering.

Kyle stood, bile and horror catching in his throat. Woodhouse came up silently alongside him.

"Are these… cocoons?" he asked quietly.

Kyle nodded, looking slowly around the basement at the dozens of piles. There were over a hundred cocoons. Did each one hold a human being?

“Jesus Christ," someone muttered softy.

“Is there anything we can do?" Woodhouse said, unable to take his eyes from the terrible sight. I don't know," said Kyle. "But we've got to try…"

But there wasn't anything that could be done.

Hours later, Kyle sat against one of the basement walls drinking tepid soykaf from a plastic cup. The cheery fast-food logo seemed to jeer at him from the side of the container. He watched as Woodhouse, another Eagle Security magician, a young woman who'd arrived with the reinforcements, and some paramedics tried to save a girl, barely out of her teens, from the terrible death that overcame most of the cocooned once they were removed. Physical death came quickly, but the mental anguish seemed to echo long past the body's final spasm.

Some, by strict medical definition, survived. One by one, mindless and still the way Mitch Truman had been, they were carried away in ambulances for extended treatment elsewhere, but no one held any hope for them.

The girl, swathed in some almost embryonic blue-white gauze shrieked and pushed against the gentle hands that tried to help her. Mucus flowed from her mouth in a great rush, down her neck and shoulders and across her exposed body. As they had done with all the others, the magicians tried to heal her, to stave off whatever biological reaction was forcing the body into collapse.

As Kyle watched, she gave one last gasp, then went limp, her body releasing whatever other fluids it contained. He could see that her body would not live. He'd become an expert at telling such things. She became quiet, and the four eased her back inside the cocoon.

Woodhouse stepped away, the muscles in his arms quivering from the exertion to which he was subjecting his body. He looked at Kyle, eyes helpless.

"There's nothing we can do," Kyle said.

Woodhouse nodded, but the other mage turned on them. "That's right. We can't do anything for them here. Let's move mem. Let's take them somewhere we can-"

"It won't work," Kyle said wearily.

The mage was angry. "We're just not set up here to help them. We need to-"

Kyle interrupted her again, this time by standing. "It's not us. It's them. They're dying even without our interfering." He pointed to a pile of cocoons in the farthest corner. Those are dead already. And we haven't touched them."

While Woodhouse was spelling Kyle in their attempts to resuscitate the insect spirit victims, Kyle sat watching as the auras of all the cocoons slowly but inevitably began to dim. They were simply dying.

The mage had turned and Kyle could tell she was using her astral senses to examine the piles he'd pointed out. "Maybe if we moved them all closer together," she said. "And left them alone. It might be our presence that's killing them."

This time it was Woodhouse who spoke up. "I think it's that we killed the females."

Kyle nodded. "That's what I think too. The two biggest ones.”

“Yes.”

"The younger mage seemed perplexed. Kyle walked toward her between the piles. "All the cocoons started showing signs of agitation once the big ones began to get hurt," he said. "I think a couple of the bodies in them died even as the mothers were being killed. The mother roaches were doing something to sustain them, feeding them energy, I don't know. With the mothers gone…"

"We've got to do something," she insisted.

“We can kill them quickly," Woodhouse said.

Kyle turned toward him. “That might be rash."

“You think so?"

Kyle sighed, thinking of his sister-in-law Ellen and Mitch Truman. He'd already casually examined all the cocoons and satisfied himself that none of the forms inside was either one of them, but many of the human bodies had already become, or were becoming, half insect. If Ellen or Mitch were one of those, they might as well be dead. "No, I don't," he said reluctantly.

"We can't make that decision," the mage said. She was as exhausted and disheveled as either one of them. Kyle didn't even know her name.

"If we don't, these people will linger for hours, maybe even days, in agony," Woodhouse said. He turned to one of the paramedics who was now resting in the spot where Kyle had been. "Axe you familiar with the Illinois euthanasia statutes?" Woodhouse asked him.

Kyle saw the man's body tense, but then his shoulders slumped with resignation. "I am," the man replied, nodding slowly.

"Do you agree that these people are beyond the point of recovery to a reasonable life and that only heroic measures could possibly save them now?"

"I do."

"Are you certified to make that decision?" Woodhouse asked, now letting his gaze run slowly over the remaining cocoons.

"I am."

"Would you please state your name for the record."

"Paul Michael Davidson, certification number RST002-1992-128-02-IL."

"And I, Sergeant Peter Walsh, Eagle Security ident number 203-272-12819 EFG, concur."

The woman was staring at Woodhouse, tired and angry, but powerless against the quiet despair in her senior officer's eyes.

Woodhouse looked at the other troopers and paramedics present. "Let's clear the space," he said.

Slowly, some understanding, others torn by what was occurring, gathered their gear and moved slowly up the stairs. After a moment of indecision, without further protest, the woman climbed the stairs after them.

"It won't take much," said Kyle.

Woodhouse nodded, and unsnapped the strap holding the pistol at his belt. He looked at Kyle, waiting for an offer of help, for some of the burden to be lifted, but it didn't come. Kyle only nodded slightly. He understood, but he would not kill these people.

Woodhouse returned the nod. Kyle turned and walked to the stairs. He was only halfway when the first shot rang out.

Upstairs, their work punctuated by the slow, deliberate rhythm of the shots from the basement, an Eagle Security forensics team was going over the offices and adjoining storerooms. Chief Lekas was walking toward the basement stairs as Kyle came up. Kyle shook his head and held the man back.

"Let him be." he said.

Lekas opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He'd seen the basement. He understood. The two walked slowly over to where Commander Malley's rent body lay, covered by a dull, dark-stained blanket.

From mere Kyle went on alone, passing through the offices and out into the waiting area. There, as the shots continued, he collapsed into one of the plastic chairs. Part of his mind wanted to count the shots, but he wouldn't let himself.