The Double-Edged Bomb

Jamie woke from troubled dreams to the sound of running water. The clock said half past three. He rolled over and snatched his robe off the floor with a toe. Bundled against the apartment’s cool air, he crossed the carpeted floor to the square of light where Phaze had left the bathroom door open. He stood watching the pale body move behind the blur of the shower door. The soap's smell didn’t quite disguise the spice of Phaze’s skin.

“It’s in the news,” said Phaze. “Most of it, anyway.”

“You’re OK?” asked Jamie.

“Aren’t I always?”

“Do you want breakfast?”

“If you would be so kind.”

Jamie shuffled out of the steaming bathroom and turned on the lights. The apartment was done in beige and chrome. There was a shelf full of leather-bound books that had come with the place, along with some framed paintings that left no impression on the mind. The monitor took up half of one wall. Jamie turned it on and flipped to the news.

The announcer was saying something about a bomb. The screen dissolved in a series of diagrams and maps. Irritated, Jamie switched channels.

“...Dirty bomb beneath the stadium...”

Jamie switched channels again.

“Reports are still coming in about the bomb...”

“...half-time at the big game...”

Jamie remembered. He never followed sports, but the Super Bowl had been the night before. There had been heightened terror alerts, too, but no one paid attention to those.

General Caldwell, Phaze’s handler, appeared in his perfect...