"I know ...," she began slowly. "I know I touched a nerve the other day when I asked about 1991, but you seem to know so much." She then continued with sudden haste, as if he might stop her.

"I've lived in this area my entire life. I went to college in the City, and I've been on the department for almost six years. No one seems to know about '91. The government has had different stories over the years, my college professors all said different things, and none of those people mention the word 'Gifted.' The people I know in the City, including some who were on the job at that time, do talk about the Gifted, but they all tell different stories, some of them wildly unbelievable. Some people—a lot of people—won't talk about it at all. And forget what the Internet says," she concluded with a slight scoffing in her voice.

There was something else in her tone, something that suggested a deep hunger to know. Or what else? Tommy wasn't sure. Fear? Worry? Wonder?

"It's like," she continued, taking a short breath, "... it's like the entire City, the entire world, went crazy on August 25, 1991, and it's never come back. Everyone knows it. No one wants to admit it."

There was another silence. Tommy stood up and went into the kitchen. Several moments later, he reemerged with two beers. He opened both and placed one before Camille.

"You're off duty?"

She nodded.

The two drank their beers in silence for a short while as he sought the right words. He had no idea where to begin. When he did begin, it was so abruptly that it surprised even him.

"No one does want to talk about it." He lay his bare arm out across the table. "Touch that."

She hesitated a scant moment, and then extended her hand, rubbing his bare forearm lightly.

"What's it feel like?"

"A man's arm," she said, shrugging her shoulders. Both of their voices had lowered even further, as if what they discussed was some deep, dark treason.

"That skin can stop a knife. It can stop a bullet. In fact, it can stop just about any bullet you can find to fire into it." Another pause. "Skin is not supposed to do that. What I do—what I'm able to do, and what some others like me can do—defies the laws of physics. It laughs at everything normal people know about the physical world and how it works. No one knows why. No one knows how we do the things we do. These kinds of things shouldn't be possible."

He took a drink of beer, and then a second, before continuing.

"Your professors are rational and reasonable people. For them, the world needs to be a rational and a reasonable place that can be measured in rational and reasonable ways. Politicians need to convince people the world is a rational and reasonable place, because if people can't trust the laws of nature, how can they be expected to believe in and follow the laws of mankind?"

Seeing that Camille already had drained her beer, Tommy nearly chuckled. Instead, he smiled and went to fetch her another. "I have a second case in the fridge. If worse comes to worst, we can always switch to whisky."

She was grinning beautifully as he returned with a new bottle for his guest.

Tommy pondered his words briefly and continued. "I don't know everything about 1991. But what I know, I'm certain of. I know it wasn't space aliens who attacked on that day. I know it wasn't a huge terrorist plot, at least not in the way we've come to think of terrorism since 9/11. Here's what I know."

Another long, almost unendurable silence followed. When Tommy finally spoke, he spoke slowly, weighing his words carefully and pausing from time-to-time to think.

"You asked an important question the other day about government recruiting. Here, in the U.S., and in other western countries, governments continued to recruit people like me after World War II. But they moved that effort into enlisting people like me into the intelligence services, for clandestine operations. The days of strong men throwing heavy objects at Sopwith Camels was at its end ... or so it seemed. The Soviets saw the world differently. They kept recruiting folks like me into military service, and they did so through the entire Soviet bloc, and beyond. Worse, they didn't give people like me a choice. When they found one of us, military service was that person's only option."

Camille listened intently. Slowly, as if mesmerized, she'd begun to slouch in her chair in tiny increments. After a few minutes, she looked very much like a wide-eyed child at a matinee that she ought not to have been attending.

"Some of their programs," continued Tommy, "like trying to breed and to genetically enhance the Gifted, were total bullshit. But others were very good. Not all Gifts can be enhanced with training, but some can, and the Soviets were masters at honing those to a razor's edge. All that training took place in isolation from the rest of Soviet society. Yet ... those with Gifts lived far better material lives than the average Soviet citizen. Over time, they formed their own elite cadre. They were ... I don't know. They were modern day mamlukes ... slaves, but in their own curious way, the cream of the Soviet order." He looked at her and smiled. "But you're wondering about 1991, aren't you?"

She mouthed a silent, "yep," while nodding.

"I'm getting there," he said. "Need another beer?"

She held out a bottle that was still more than half full, but without really thinking he fetched her a third, and a second for himself, and then resumed his seat.

"You went to college. What percentage of GDP does the average country devote to defense?"

She thought for a moment. "I dunno, a few percent?"

"Yeah, two or three percent, let's say. We didn't find out until much later, but the Soviets had been devoting nearly 40 percent of GDP to defense for the better part of 50 years."

He waited to let her think about those facts, and to take another drink.

"People like me can ignore the laws of physics," he said. "Countries cannot ignore the laws of economics. The Soviets ran themselves into penury supporting a bloated military. Secretary Gorbachev saw that fact. To make a long story short, in late August of '91, he intended to dissolve the bankrupt Soviet Union ... or at least take the first steps in that direction. There was a small coup attempt a few days before the 24 August meeting to announce the changes. It failed miserably, but it should've been a warning."

Tommy realized he was trembling slightly and opened his second beer. Alcohol had a negligible effect on him, but the rhythm of drinking allowed him to think and also gave him a little time to steady his emotions, which rose even as he again resumed his seat. After a few more sips, he began speaking, still pausing from time to time to take a breath. His voice was even lower than it had been.