"That's better. All fighting on the same side again," cheered Skorzeny. "I, for one, cannot wait to see what you can do with this odd little ship, Hidaka."

"I think even you will be surprised," Hidaka said.

"You hear that, Brasch! Even me, the fellow says. I like him already. He knows me well. Come, let's send poor Hoth on his way quickly. He doesn't like messing about in boats. And we shall have some fun while he is gone. You, Hidaka, tell me all about the fun you had at Pearl Harbor. I am looking forward to killing some cowboys before we are done with this war. But for now, I'll have to content myself with stories from our comrades in the East…"

Skorzeny's bearlike voice filled the room so completely there was no escape.

Some habits die hard. Julia's first instinct on waking was to check her flexipad for messages. She had been mildly obsessive about staying in contact back in the twenty-first, and it would take her a while to shake off the pattern of her first few minutes each day.

There was only one message this morning, which was one more than she'd had most mornings since the Transition. Rosanna had beamed her a quick note in the Moana Hotel's cocktail lounge last night. Just text:

That cut through the Mai Tai hangover as the memories came crashing in on her. She spun around in the old feather bed and-yes-there he was. He was lying on his stomach, not snoring, God bless him. Julia's heart gave a small lurch and she slid over to his side of the mattress, slipping one of her legs in between his as she slowly mounted him from behind and began to nip at his ears. Bristles scratched her chin as he shifted beneath her, coming awake.

"What the hell?" he muttered into the pillow.

"Liberated women," she purred into his ear. "I'm afraid you'll find us very demanding."

Two hours later, at a table in the Moana's courtyard under the banyan tree, Rosanna Natoli leaned forward, her eyes twinkling like those of a squirrel with its mouth full of nuts.

"Quickly, while he's inside-tell me tell me tell me."

Julia shot a quick look at the retreating figure of Dan Black, dispatched to the dining room to fetch them some fruit salad.

"Three little words," she said. "Oh. My. God."

Rosanna simply could not contain her squeal. It pealed out over the courtyard, attracting bemused and irritated looks from the other tables.

"I knew it!" she cried. "Didn't I know it? I could tell from the moment that guy laid eyes on you, baby. He was gagging for it! How'd you bag him?"

"I think it was the riot yesterday. That dude I had to fuck up. I think it kind of excited him. Or maybe he was just too scared to say no."

"Was he, you know, equipped for the job?"

Julia blew out her cheeks, as though she'd been stuffed as full as a Christmas goose. Another shriek pealed off into the brilliant blue sky. Rosanna seemed to be enjoying herself almost as much as her friend had.

An elderly couple at the adjoining table allowed their cutlery to clatter noisily to their plates, but if they thought the two women were about to pay them any heed, they were wrong.

"Time check?" giggled Rosanna.

Julia held up one finger, then two, then three, then four, and then all of the fingers on one hand. She paused for dramatic effect, before holding up two more.

Natoli's mouth dropped open as wide as it possibly could. No screams emerged, but a series of short, high-pitched squeaks, before her lips slammed shut again.

"Seven fucking hours. Literally. I think you might be dating Superman," she said.

"No," said Julia, shaking her head. "Superman's a fag compared with this guy."

"Was he, like, old-fashioned."

"For a while." She smirked. "He's over that now."

"Bragworthy?"

"Bragworthy."

"Goddamn," said Rosanna in wonder.

The aged tourists stood up with as much dignity as they could muster and huffily left their table. The woman, whose hair was tinted a confrontational shade of blue, hissed as she passed by the journalists. Julia simply smiled at her.

"Exit's that way, you old crone. And while you're there, why don't you get a fucking life?"

The woman's mouth dropped open like a ventriloquist doll. She snapped it shut before anything could fly in.

"Well, I never!"

"Damn," said Natoli, "Did she just say what I thought she said?"

"Yeah," said Julia. "It's like we're living in two-D black and white."

The far-off drone of a hovercraft coming ashore about a kilometer up the beach drifted into the courtyard. Rosanna peered off into the bright morning light. About twenty task force personnel, mainly officers from the Leyte Gulf, had overnighted at the hotel. A few of them had partnered up with locals. Rosanna made a show of checking out a chopper pilot who'd bagged herself a rather dashing destroyer captain from Spruance's task force.

Dan Black returned and laid down a tray of fruit salad, which was very heavy on pineapples, and a plate of bacon and eggs.

"Sorry, ladies," said Black, "But I haven't seen real cackleberries for a while."

"Don't sweat it, sweetie," said Julia. "You need to keep up your strength-"

The comment dropped into one of those unfortunate, unforeseen holes that sometimes develop in conversations and background noise.

Duffy, completely unfazed, simply deadpanned, "-for the war effort."

Blushing lightly, Dan settled himself as the background buzz cycled up to a normal level again.

Music started up from somewhere behind them. The Stones. "Sympathy for the Devil." The bongos that opened the track were a perfect fit with the tropical setting. Julia and Rosanna hardly noticed. They lived in a world where no item of pop culture was allowed to die. Every song, every movie, every cartoon or TV show ever made was important to somebody, which meant that it had to be instantly available, 24/7, virtually anywhere in the world.

Dan Black had not.

Both women noticed the perplexed expression across the table before they noticed the music.

"Is he really singing about the Devil?" asked Dan. "I think he just sung something about the Devil being a German tank driver. Did you hear that? Where's it coming from?"

"A ghetto blaster," said Julia. "Why? You don't like it? That's very disappointing, Dan. You're aren't supposed to come over all Archie Bunker for another twenty years yet."

"It just sounds strange, is all."

"It's the Stones, baby," said Julia. "It's great to fuck to."

Dan nearly choked on a mouthful of egg.

Julia was about to tease him some more when she felt a tap on her shoulder. A long, thin streak of misery in the form of the hotel's assistant manager, Mr. Windshuttle, loomed ever her. He wore a tired expression, which perfectly matched the wilted flower in his jacket lapel. Ignoring the two women, he spoke directly to Black.

"I'm afraid we've had complaints, sir. About the ladies' language and deportment."

Before Black could speak, Julia opened fire.

"Hey, cabana boy, if those old fossils who just shuffled out of here on their way to extinction have a problem, you can send them back in to talk to us."

"I do not imagine that will be happening, Miss Duffy. They are valued guests of the hotel."

Somebody turned up the volume on the Stones. It was like they'd pushed a hot wire up Windshuttle's butt. He winced noticeably.

Black took a swig from his coffee, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and addressed the manager over the music. "I don't think we want another riot, do we, Mr. Windshuttle? And believe me, sir, these ladies are more than capable of it. They're quite mad. I believe Ms. Duffy here is probably packing heat. You can tell by just looking at her that she'd be the sort. Now, if you just back off a little bit, I'll see what I can do about bringing her down from the fine head of psychotic rage I can see building behind her eyes."