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Adrenalin was pouring through Arnie's veins. John was going to win this. The nomination and the Presidency. A month ago it had been a crazy dream. A photogenic hero with a household name and a winning smile. Someone who might poll well enough to entice a McKinley or a Suarez to choose him for running mate, to help them woo the celebrity-obsessed voter.

But now . . . now, John was a player. Someone who had a platform to go with his looks. An unlikely platform—when John had first mentioned China, Arnie had thought he was crazy. But with three murders and an increasingly rattled electorate, John could play the China card all the way to the White House. And the beauty of it was that China would keep responding, overreacting as they always did. The American public would see that as interfering. The White House would try to smooth things over with China, John would accuse them of appeasement and the lines would be drawn. Strong government v appeasement. Only one winner.

As long as John kept on message.

"You okay on this, John?" he said, turning to his candidate seated by the mirror receiving the last ministrations to his hair and make-up. "No second thoughts about playing the fear card?"

John smiled at his reflection in the mirror. "No problem at all."

"You got a cold, John?" said Arnie. "Your voice sounds a bit off."

John nodded, touching his throat with his hand. "Started this morning."

Arnie froze: visions of Suarez and McKinley. "Your throat's not sore, is it? You haven't been coughing?"

John shook his head. "Nothing to worry about."

Arnie stared at his candidate. Five minutes to go to the biggest speech of John's career and . . . Was he ready? Should he postpone? If John went out there and his voice gave out or he started coughing people would panic—they'd think of Suarez and McKinley. John had to appear strong and resolute. A leader for a time of uncertainty.

There was a knock on the dressing room door.

"Five minutes, Mr. Bruce," said a voice from the corridor.

Arnie looked down at his watch. There wasn't time. Postponing the speech now would only fuel media speculation.

"I'll download the speech into the lectern," said Ricky, getting up. "You okay, Arnie?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Backstage, the minutes ticked down. A nervous Fredericks checked his tie, his watch, stretched his neck. Deep breaths. Had to keep calm. Every now and then his eyes shot towards the curtain. The room was buzzing, and packed. Maybe he should have booked somewhere larger? Or set up an overflow room—maybe an outside screen or a holo-platform? Everyone wanted to hear what John had to say.

Arnie shuffled some more. He couldn't settle. Nerves as taut as guitar strings. Was John okay? He seemed to be walking stiffly. Perhaps he should schedule a medical if he could slip a doctor past the media circus.

The curtains beckoned once more. Another surreptitious glance around the side. All the seats were taken and still people were arriving, lining the walls and clustering by the doors at the back.

This was going to be a day to remember.

"He's not here," said Louise. "How many more hospitals are there in this damn town?"

Three blurs hovered over a brightly-lit ward, people scurried by below; doctors, nurses, orderlies, visitors. But no John Bruce, no press and no security detail.

"Calm down, Lou, we'll find him."

"But when? We can't check every hospital bed in Orlando!"

That was becoming obvious. He'd seen enough hospital rooms to last a lifetime.

"Come on," he said. "We're not thinking straight. Let's find the Metropole. He's supposed to be giving a speech there at twelve thirty. If it's been cancelled, there'll be a sign outside, maybe a note to say where he's being treated."

"And if the speech hasn't been cancelled and he's there?"

"Then, we've got problems."

The house lights dimmed. The sudden darkness sent the crowd into a nervous hush. People and equipment were crammed into the room far beyond any fire regulation limit. They were standing ten-deep around the walls, pushing against the outer seats, infiltrating the central aisle. Only the stage was empty, a thick curtain drawn a few yards from the front.

Arnie Fredericks straightened his tie, fixed his smile and strode out from the wings. This was his moment.

"And now ladies and gentleman," he said, cranking his voice up. "I want you to give a big Orlando welcome to a real American hero, the first man to fly halfway to the stars, John Theodore Bruce!"

A crescendo of noise; applause, whistles and shrieks. Arnie stepped back, leading the applause from the side of the stage, his hands clapping wildly, his face reddening with the effort.

John Bruce walked on from the other side. A single spotlight followed his progress from wings to lectern.

The cheering increased, cameras focussed as John's face was beamed into millions of households worldwide. A well-known face, a photogenic face. But today there was something different. Today, there was a feral quality to his eyes.

John began to speak.

"I expect many of you today are asking the same question I am. What's happening to the world? McKinley explodes, Martinez combusts and now Bill Suarez stabs a talk show host. What's happening?"

He milked the moment, disregarding the prepared text. He had something different to say.

"Today, I think it's time the American people were told the truth."

Another pause. He ran his eyes along the wall of network cameras and imagined his face filling their view screens. Well, not his face but it would do. For the moment.

"Last week, I told you of China's involvement in McKinley's murder. Today, I discovered I was only half right. Two hours ago, Bill Suarez told me the truth."

A collective gasp. Then a hush. He had them exactly where he wanted them. Intrigued and panting for more.

"I was appalled, as I know you'll be."

He looked down, shaking his head, trying to look shocked and saddened. Emotion had never been his strong point but he'd observed others. And realised its power. People preferred a story that was difficult to tell. It lent credence. A story reluctantly told and dragged from an unwilling confidant gained a provenance that no glib lie could ever match.

He shook his head again and looked directly at the camera feeds.

"Bill told me that for years senior politicians and the military have conspired to keep the truth from the American people. They know exactly what happened to McKinley and Suzi Martinez. But instead of telling the truth they lie and hide behind their veil of secrecy. Why?"

He let his head track from left to right, asking the question to each member of the room.

"Because your leaders—our leaders—think we're too stupid to handle the truth. They think we're children who'll panic. Well I know different. We're not children and we can handle the truth."

He took a deep breath. This was the moment. He'd laid the groundwork. Now came the fun.

"I've flown into space. I worked for NASA. I know that the human race is not alone. I've seen the long-range pictures of alien spacecraft. But," he paused, giving his words time to settle. "Until today, I didn't realise they were here."

That got the reaction he'd been looking for. A real buzz. Surprise, excitement and the cold, sweaty palm of fear.

He closed his eyes. Perhaps he should moisten them a bit, have his lower lip quiver. Look, America, I'm telling you the truth, see how it hurts.

He suppressed a smile.

"That's right," he said. "They've been here for years infiltrating our society. They slip inside our heads and take over our bodies. At first there were only a few of them—scientists and explorers—and they were careful which bodies they took over. But now, they are many and they don't care. McKinley and Martinez died because their bodies weren't suitable hosts. They couldn't take the strain so they exploded and burned. Suarez was stronger. But they had other plans for him. They knew he'd talked. So they took him over, forced him to kill then left him to pick up the pieces."

He was flying now, driving the story towards its climax.

"China's gone. Their entire leadership's been replaced. Europe too. Now they're coming here and it's not just the leaders they're after."

Another look direct into camera. The next sentence had to hit every sitting room in America.

"They're coming for you," he said, stabbing a finger at the camera. "Look at the person next to you, your neighbour, your colleagues at work, your friends at school. How well do you really know them? Have they changed recently? Maybe just a little? Something you couldn't put your finger on at the time. Like forgetting something they should have known or behaving out of character. Maybe they changed their hair. That's what they do. Climb into people's heads when no one's looking. They're all around us even now. Waiting for the chance to slip inside our brains and take us over."

A girl near the front of the audience screamed, someone else jumped up. Others at the back began to move towards the exits.

Time to close.

He jerked his head up and to the left as though he'd suddenly seen something, widened his eyes in shock and parted his lips.

Then stabbed a finger at the ceiling. "There's one!" he cried, following its mythical flight with his arm, conducting its path towards the audience.

"Run!" he screamed, shouting at a woman in the audience. "It's almost on top of you."

A phalanx of the audience rose in panic, shouting and batting their arms at invisible monsters. John switched to the other side of the auditorium, picking on a man hurrying along a line of seats.

"He's one of them!" John shouted. "The man in the red tie. Don't let him get away. He's going for help."

Hands grabbed the man. A fight broke out.

"And he's another!" John pointed randomly at the audience then ducked, avoiding a swarm of mythical aliens. "There's more of them. Run for your lives!"

Pandemonium. No one remained seated. The exits were blocked by flailing masses, fights broke out, people were being trampled. Even the cameras were being abandoned.

Time for the final message.

He turned to the one remaining manned camera.

"There is hope," he said. "There's one person who can resist them. They framed him for murder. Had him locked away in a mental institution. But we can free him. We have to free him now. He's our only hope. Free Peter Pendennis!"

This was fun. Following Lulu and that idiot boyfriend of hers had opened up a new world to him. They'd shown him how to fly, how to jump inside people's heads. But they'd been so wrapped up in their own pathetic little mission they'd never once looked behind to see if anyone was following. Now he'd show them. He'd show everybody. Look at them run, look at them scream.

One person wasn't running or screaming. He was walking purposefully between the upturned chairs and abandoned possessions of the front row. Hadn't he heard? Didn't he understand English? He looked Chinese.

Peter pointed at him.

"He's one of them!" he shouted. "Look at him. He's Chinese."

No one tackled the man. Everyone was too busy trying to get out of the building.

The man drew level with the lectern, his face impassive. He raised an arm. Was that a gun? He was pointing it at Peter, from less than ten yards away.

Peter laughed, nervously. There was a flash, an explosion, pain. He was flung, spinning backwards, dumped on his backside. His right shoulder afire.

He lay there, confused. He'd been shot. He reached for his wound with his left hand. It came away stained red—a fiery, liquid red that glistened in the auditorium lights. He'd been shot in the shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his assassin walking away. Why had the man shot only once? Didn't he want to make sure?

A pulse of pain shot through Peter/John's shoulder. And a tingling sensation, spreading down his arm, across his chest. His skin crawling as though being invaded by thousands of ants.

What was happening?

"No!" The alien's anguished cry wailed across the auditorium as he flew in from above. His body was lying on the stage, wounded and desecrated. Was this God's punishment for leaving his post?

But he'd waited as long as he could. He'd tried everything to contact the angel. He'd prayed. He'd called. But he couldn't wait forever. He had a speech to give, a body to find and his enemies were everywhere. God would understand.

Or so he'd thought.

Anger welled within him. How dare they steal his body! Or was this God's plan? A test to see if he was worthy of his physical form. He swooped down. His body had staggered to its feet. Whoever was inside was laughing.

Sacrilege.

He descended upon the body of John Bruce, wrapped himself around it, readied the connection. Just like he'd done so many times before. Just like he'd done the first time.

Not that he could remember the first time. He'd jettisoned that memory along with all the others. Those unexpected disturbances picked up on the research monitors that had first drawn him to Earth. The time he'd spent monitoring humans—their loves, their fears, their hopes and desires. It had been like experiencing childhood for the first time. The freedom, the splendid anarchy, the variation of thought and action. People here lived for themselves; they didn't bend their will to serve a common good. The only consensus was that there was no consensus. They didn't even speak the same language.

A physical world for a physical people. Vibrant and exciting.

And when the manned mission came, he'd gone along as well, following the intrepid John Bruce into the unknown. And then it happened. A flaw in the higher dimensional shielding ripped the pilot's mind from his body.

It was so unexpected. So opportune. A chance for a fresh start, a new life—a physical life. All he had to do was slide forward and embrace the vacated body. It was there for the taking. It wasn't even stealing. The human pilot was almost certainly lost. It was . . . Fate. And he grabbed it with a hundred fronds.