A Baby of Destiny coos, and captures a Heart

They needed a new angle. Literally.

"Front door's out," Duo whispered. "Back yard's a death trap. But look—" He pointed down the block. "The other side. Kitchen windows face that alley. And someone left a curtain open."

They crept along the side of the house, keeping low, moving between garbage cans and recycling bins like the professional infiltrators they absolutely were not. The alley smelled of rotten vegetables and cat urine—an improvement, Bill decided, over the general aroma of 1982 Brooklyn.

A window. Ground level. Kitchen. And through a gap in the cheap yellow curtains, a view directly into the domestic heart of the York residence.

Bill pressed his face to the glass.

Karen York stood at the kitchen counter. She was attractive in that particular way that screamed money and maintenance—perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect posture. Next to her, much too close for a routine house call, stood Dr. Hastings.

The man who was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not a Viking. Bill's brain supplied the emphasis automatically now.

Hastings' hand rested on the counter near hers. Not touching, but close. The kind of proximity that suggested intimacy without quite crossing a line. He leaned in to say something. She tilted her head, listening. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. She didn't move away.

Bill pulled back. "They're—they're doing that thing."

"What thing?" Duo whispered, jostling for position.

"The close thing. The not-touching-but-wanting-to-touch thing. I've seen it before, on base, when officers' spouses got too friendly with—" He stopped. "She's married to Counter-Dirk. And she's doing the close thing with Not-Viking."

Duo peeked. His eyebrows rose. "Well, well. House calls. And here I thought medicine was boring."

"What?"

"House calls. Doctor visiting. Making sure the patient is... comfortable." He waggled his eyebrows.

Bill stared at him. The meaning took a moment to penetrate. When it did, his face underwent several contortions. "You think—they're—with Counter-Dirk in the same house?"

"Counter-Dirk is in the front of the house. Kitchen's in the back. Big difference."

"I don't think that's how walls work."

"Walls are suggestions, Bill. Haven't you learned anything?"

Behind them, a noise.

Not loud. A soft thump, like something being set down. Then the rustle of clothing. Then—footsteps.

They turned.

Counter-Dirk stood five feet away, a bag of garbage in one hand, his expression frozen in the act of processing something his brain couldn't quite accept. Three strangers. Pressed against his kitchen window. In broad daylight.

His mouth opened.

Bill's mouth opened too. Nothing came out. His brain, never the fastest processor, scrambled for an explanation—any explanation—that would make this situation normal.

"Ship," he heard himself say. "Gumption. Crashed. We're looking for—" His hand waved vaguely at the sky. "Wreckage. Debris. You know. Ship stuff."

Counter-Dirk's gaze followed the gesture. Upward. Toward the empty blue sky where nothing flew, nothing crashed, nothing had ever happened.

It was the stupidest possible answer. It shouldn't have worked at all. But their opponent took the bait. And they immediately rushed forward.

Through the alley, around the corner, across a street, through someone's yard, over a fence, into a park. They ran until their lungs burned and their legs screamed and the York residence was nothing but a distant memory.

Bill collapsed onto a bench. "Did we—did we lose him?"

Splock sat beside him, breathing with the measured control of someone who refused to acknowledge physical exertion. "We appear to have evaded immediate pursuit. However, the fact of our observation has been established. Counter-Dirk now knows we are in this temporal vicinity. That significantly increases operational risk."

Duo dropped onto the bench on Bill's other side, grinning like a maniac. "I think it's great. Now we've got a friend in the house."

"A friend?" Bill wheezed. "He caught us peeking in his windows. That's not how you make friends."

"Sure it is. Neighborly interest. Community watch. We're concerned citizens."

"He knows me, Duo. From the Counter-Gumption. From the antelope prods and the cauldron of fried chewing gum. He's not going to forget that."

Splock raised a hand. "Before we continue this debate, I have something to show you."

He pulled out his tablet—the same device he'd used to intercept Earth's primitive electromagnetic signals. His fingers moved across its surface. The screen flickered, then resolved into an image.

A living room. Modestly furnished. Expensive couch. Coffee table with magazines. And on the floor, Delia York sat with Ryder the dog.

The picture was slightly fisheye, slightly grainy—clearly from a concealed lens.

Bill stared. "Is that—did you—"

"I deployed a microsurveillance unit while we were at the window," Splock said calmly. "Adhered to the frame. Passive power. Undetectable by contemporary technology."

"When? I didn't see you do anything."

"You were preoccupied with the kitchen tableau. It was a simple deployment."

On the screen, Delia was absorbed in her new companion. Ryder sat before her, tongue hanging, drool pooling on the expensive carpet. Every few seconds, the dog would lean forward and lick her face with the enthusiasm of something that had found its life's purpose. Delia giggled and pushed him away, but always pulled him back.

"She actually likes that thing," Duo observed.

"Children form attachments to unlikely creatures," Splock said. "It is a documented phenomenon."

The kitchen door opened. Dr. Hastings emerged, adjusting his sleeve. Behind him, briefly visible, Karen York stood with an expression that suggested she was composing herself. Slightly flushed. Slightly awkward. The look of someone who'd been caught doing something she shouldn't, even if no one was catching.