The Lady That Doesn't Look Like One.

He was accompanied by Katherine Branson. He examined every aspect in search of a memory trigger, and this time it felt different. Nothing came to the surface. He needed a different strategy.

Months before, he had walked into the courtroom. It didn't matter that the judge wasn't there. Nothing triggered his memory—no memory stirred.

It struck in the holding room: Find the woman who doesn't appear to be a lady. The concept suddenly sprang to mind. He was unable to identify its source or remember such a person. No recollection surfaced.

He paced slowly as he entered the hallway, looking for a woman who was not conforming to the expectations of her gender. Nothing from the past came to mind or resurfaced.

He thought he saw her as he turned a corner. She resisted femininity with her masculine characteristics. This was probably his aim, as it seemed unlikely that two such abnormalities would be found in the same hall.

Feeling embarrassed, he ventured, "Pardon me, ma'am. Do you recognize me?"

After giving it some thought, she answered, her voice a strikingly feminine, almost sensual contrast to her features. That was not what Martin Wilkerson had expected. "Is there a particular moment I may have seen you?"

In March of a few months ago. Do you remember me at all? I was here.

"I do have a dim memory of someone similar to you from back then." He struggled to concentrate on her untamed body as her seductive tone diverted his attention.

"Remember what I was doing?"

"Why ask me? You ought to be aware.

"Yes, I should, but I don't. I hoped you may understand why I've forgotten recollections of that period.

"I have nothing in mind. Apologies. I'll get in touch with you if I remember anything. Have you got a phone number?

"No—it won't help later if you can't recall now. Anyway, thanks.

Martin Wilkerson noticed the sun glinting off her belt buckle as she turned. That was sufficient.

He was back in the holding room at the courts, pretending to have a fit—flailing madly. The guard came over to help. Martin Wilkerson was about to hit—then stopped.

He noticed that the woman who didn't appear to be one was standing in the doorway with what appeared to be a gun—a dart gun. The guard dropped as she fired. As Martin Wilkerson had meant, she strode over and hammered the unconscious man.

She loaded a dart of a different form and turned to face him. He ran, unprepared. The dart struck. He fell. He was enveloped by darkness.

He woke up strapped to a chair in a small room. The woman slapped him awake as she loomed, now pointing a real gun at his head.

"I require information," she insisted. I've heard that you're the son of former Governor James Wilton. True?

"What? Where am I? Who are you?

"Respond to me!" Anger hardened her voice.

"All right, am I the son of James Wilton?"

"Yes!" she yelled. "Now!"

"Am I his son? I believe so. Why?

"Did you murder him?"

He was in a familiar house. Bullets flew through the air, tearing fabric and splintering wood. His father, an elderly man, limped, knee wrapped.

Wilkerson Martin kicked. He was hit by a gunshot. He stabbed, knife in hand. Blood gathered on the floor from his father.

Driving, weakening in a car. His dad had passed away. He was smeared with blood; death was imminent. The automobile veered off and crashed down an embankment, blurring vision.

Still bound, he gasped and jolted upright. He was dwarfed by the woman. I took his life. What was I thinking? Did I think it would make everything better? I was mistaken, and now my problems are worse. I'm stuck and unconscious for an unknown amount of time because she wants me dead. What did I do?

"Respond to me! Don't make me kill you; I don't want to! Her face reddened, her gun trembled, and her shouts became desperate. Martin Wilkerson listened to the faint noises in the room.

"Your firearm is unloaded. If you tried to shoot me, you couldn't. Why is the gun empty? Bullets would make her plan to kill me easier. There's more going on.

"No shots? Do you want evidence?

"All OK. You would be a suspect at the courthouse if you killed me. You're bluffing; don't use a knife or bullets. She's engaged in a separate activity. I have to be careful.

"Nothing goes here." Anticipating a recoil, she pointed toward his head. Without flinching, he gazed down the barrel. She squeezed the trigger, her hand trembling.

She threw the rifle away and reached for the dart gun under her jacket. Where is the guard now? For what duration was I absent? Has he bounced back? Has he been located?

She produced a dart and remarked, "This is a dart gun—you've seen it work." It's poison this time, not a sedative. You'll perish this time.

You're with the courthouse, though. Killing me puts you at risk of being captured.

She started, "First of all, I don't work there."

"You do, really. The name badge on your jacket states as much.

She ripped it off with a curse. "Secondly, your death was ordered by the courthouse." Martin Wilkerson's face lit up with doubt—her gamble might work.

"I was aware of it! I should have noticed that the judge was dishonest. I hate all of you! What are you looking for?

"Is James Wilton, the former governor, your father?"

Indeed. Now let me go.

"Not just yet. Why is your status as his son a secret?

He pretended that I had died. Was that everything you required?

"One more. Are you going to take action against the president, your brother?

Can he really be referred to as president? It is no longer the United States.

"Canadia Shield residents elected him months ago."

"Really? I guess he is, so good for him.

"You didn't respond."

"I understand. I didn't think it was required.

"Why not?"

"I'm still learning about myself. Is that sufficient?

She fired the dart after loading it.

He had returned to the corridor. The woman looked at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said. "I didn't like you darting me months ago, by the way."

She was betrayed by shock, but she covered it up. "What are you talking about, exactly?"

"You understand what I mean."

"No, I don't."

"I am aware of what you did. I'll find out, although I'm not sure why. Believe me. Martin Wilkerson then strolled down the hall, thinking about the passing of Hubert Montgomery. That the world lost such a brilliance is a sad fact. If only I could do half of what he did. Why did he commit suicide? Maris's guilt? Are you tired of being famous? Is anyone going to find out?

He was so absorbed that he was not aware of Montgomery's identity or death just a few moments before. His memory loss had been triggered by the encounter with the manly lady. Remembering that cleared the haze from his past.

Martin Wilkerson, however, never understood this. He connected the fractured recollection from his experience beyond reality to the anti-universe. He would never know that he was wrong. The truth came to light, suppressed memories came back, and his past became clear. The future was still unclear.