The woman's voice was loud, strong, kinetic and in-your-face, yet undeniably feminine, driving and enticing the throng of shifting, billowing bodies on the dance floor before the stage. It was a sea of humanity, bobbing and crashing, kissing and touching, petting and caressing and vanishing and never meeting again. The coloured strobe lights overhead turned the frenzied movements of the men, women and Vorhavok into a thing more sensed than seen, floating and undulating like a dream.

It was a fundraising effort for the Alliance's war effort, and it was doing well. Better than the War itself, it seemed. The debris from the Vorhavok's orbiting Wheel had rained down over the greater Los Angeles area, killing more people than could be accurately counted, and devastating thousands of square kilometres. The world economy suffered a severe body blow, and what survived of the American film industry moved to new locations in Britain and the newly-decentralised Chinese States.

The US had accused the Vorhavok of deliberately targeting America as part of their overall 'invasion' plans, though there was no evidence that more ships were on the way (the colonists on Earth claimed fervently and repeatedly that none would arrive for centuries, if ever, such was the time and cost involved in building and sending such vessels). In the ensuing political chaos, the New United Nations fragmented. From its ashes rose a Coalition of nations who shut their borders to the rest of the world, and were determined to launch pre-emptive strikes against the 'invaders', and those Allied nations who supported them.

War had begun. Probably the only bright spot was the unspoken agreement not to use even tactical nuclear devices, the Coalition fearing reprisal from some unknown Vorhavok doomsday weapon.

And the Coalition was gaining ground. Even with the technology provided by the reluctant Vorhavok to their adopted nations, it remained a struggle. There were constant rumours about the enemy fleet in the Mediterranean, ready to invade the Alliance nations, though prevailing wisdom indicated they would strike at Libya or Egypt rather than Morocco. But if they did invade Morocco, and succeeded, the likes of expatriate Americans like Sam and herself would be uncertain. The likes of Rikk and the other Vorhavok here. she shuddered.

The song ended, and Sam asked, "Are you having a good time?"

The crowd around Rikk and Ilsa whooped and cheered.

"Glad to hear it." Sam wiped a forearm across her sweaty brow. "But now I've got a song to play, for two special people out there. Bit of a change of pace, but I'm sure you won't mind."

And the band proceeded to play, and Sam sang That Song, looking down at Rikk and Ilsa, who held each other, Ilsa having to keep from crying and ruining her makeup. She banished all unpleasant thoughts, and basked shamelessly in bliss.

"Come on, maideleh." Rikk faced her, wrapping his tail around her waist and guiding her away. "Let's meet the Man of the Hour."

She brightened and leaned against him as they made their way through the crowd towards one of the tables in the far end of the main room, a quieter area, where a group of uniformed officers sat, with bodyguards standing behind them. The men at the table rose as Rikk approached. "Gentlemen, I am honoured to present my partner in work and play, Ilsa Bergman."

Two of the men nodded politely, but the third stepped forward. He was a tall man in his late thirties, a tall, square-shouldered man, handsome and solidly built. His face was craggy, his black hair shortly cropped and greying slightly at the temples, and his thin lips pursed into a smile as he held out a large hand. "Bonjour, Mamselle Bergman. Captain Victor Lazlo of the Alliance, at your service."

Ilsa smiled, warmed to him immediately. "Are you sure? We read five times that you were killed, in five different places."

He grinned. "As you can see, it was true every single time."

Rikk nodded. "I have to congratulate you, sir."

"What for?"

"Your work."

The man shrugged with genuine modesty. "I try."

"We all try. You succeed." To Ilsa, Rikk added, "He might need that back."

Ilsa looked down, noticed she was still clinging to Lazlo's hand.

Oh dear.

Now:

Rikk moved alone through to the bar, ignoring the eyes now fixed on him from an adjacent stool. "Whiskey, and some scarab beetles." From the corner of his right eye he saw another, human figure approach. He ignored her too, even when she stood behind him.

Finally feeling too much attention, he turned his head. "What?"

The woman was past being young, but still attractive, her honey blonde hair pinned back, her party clothes as flattering as they could be for one of her profession. "Where were you last night, Rikk?"

He turned back to the bar as his drink and snacks were brought to him. "That's so long ago I can't remember."

The woman took the snub, set it aside and tried a smile, useless to the back of his head. "So. where will you be later tonight?"

He downed his whiskey in one go, signalling with his tail for a refill. "I never make plans that far ahead." Now he looked at her again. "We've had our fun. Find another sugar daddy."

As she departed, the man sitting beside him chuckled. "How extravagant you are, Rikk, throwing away women like that. Some day they may be scarce."

Rikk grunted, took the whole bottle from the barman and clung to it. "Fine by me. I've had enough women and meshugass to last a lifetime." Now he eyed his unwanted companion. "What brings you here? Friday's usually your 'lucky day'."

Captain Louis Rains, local Security Prefect and one of the factors under the current Coalition-occupied regime that allowed Rikk to stay in business, smiled without irony. He was a small but significant man in his mid-forties, jowly, with a pencil moustache and an irremovable glint of corruption etched into his constantly-amused expression. A generally disreputable man whose main virtue, at least to Rikk, was his honesty about his dishonesty. "Alas, Rikk, even I must work on occasion. We have a visiting dignitary to Casablanca."

Rikk nodded, absently noting the pressed desert beige uniform on the man. "One of our glorious Coalition liberators? Hope your toches licking skills remain as suitably polished as your shoes."

"And your charm. Yes. In fact, it's someone from your past."

Rikk tensed, but still proffered an insouciant shrug. "This seems to be my night for it. Come on, you're dying to tell me who it is."

"Major Eric Strasser."

Rikk had braced himself for it; only the extended claws, hidden from view, betrayed any genuine reaction. Then he reached out and poured another drink. "A Major now, eh? Hmph. A chazer bleibt a chazer: a pig remains a pig." He eyed Rains once again. "And he's coming to my establishment for a friendly little visit, yes?"

"Oui. It's meant to be a surprise, so I thought I'd warn you beforehand."

"Oh? A weakness of heart on your part?"

Rains chuckled again. "That is my least vulnerable organ. The Coalition is relatively successful at maintaining the illusion that they have liberated us from the godless monsters from space - no offence - and their human government pawns. But a careless swipe of your tail across the Major's head, and, as the saying goes, the kit gloves will be off."

"Kid gloves, Louis, not kit. Refers to the very soft gloves made from the skin of a kid goat."

"Regardless, you are allowed your freedom, and the freedom to run this establishment, because you no longer support any Resistance activities."

"I thought it was because we always let you win at roulette."

"That is another reason."

Rikk returned to his drink, suddenly losing his appetite. He flicked the bag of beetles back over the bar. "Don't worry, Louis, I'll behave."

"Very wise. Perhaps you could pass that wisdom on to any pro-Alliance staff or customers that might feel differently?"

Rikk shrugged. This night was getting better by the minute.

Rains rose to his feet. "Now if you'll excuse me, he's due momentarily, and do doubt expects the red carpet treatment."

Rikk watched him disappear from view, then downed his whiskey and moved away, more swiftly and deftly than would be expected for a being of his size, until he passed through an archway near the rear, and along a winding corridor lined on either side with doors. He listened, smelled the air, followed sounds and trails until he stopped at one door, using his thumbprint key to override the locking mechanism.

He entered a small cubicle, big enough for a raised padded platform and a side table with a miniature Vorhavok firedrip tower and a box of tissues. The cubicle, one of many in this part of the club, was occupied by a Vorhavok male, reclining on his side, his clothes behind him, and a human female, a bronze-skinned worker named Francine, at work on his long, curved shaft, her oiled hands lovingly stroking the lower half of it, her wide mouth wrapped around the upper half. The male was hissing with pleasure.

"Ugarte," Rikk said.

The male grunted, never looked up. "I suppose a protest is out of the question- hey, I didn't say you could stop!"

Francine had pulled back when Rikk had entered. She swallowed air, and then glanced nervously once more at Rikk, before returning to her work.

"What is it, Rikk?" he continued.

"I have a job for you."

Ugarte hissed with pleasure, though Rikk didn't know (or care much) if it was from the offer or from the women he'd hired. "I am always willing to help a fellow member of our benighted species."

"For a price, Ugarte. For a price." And you'd sell me out for one, too, he reminded himself needlessly. "Dig up everything you can on the recent activities of Ilsa Bergman, born 29/08/00, New York City. I want a full sweep of the Giganet, claw away anything false."

"Is that it?"

"No, get me a contact for Victor Lazlo's cell. A reliable one. And I want the information before dawn."

Ugarte grunted, though Rikk had no doubt the putz was paying attention no matter what else was happening to him, when money was involved. "Ilsa Bergman? A blast from the past, as the monkeys say. But I thought-"

"You thought what?" Rikk growled, clearly unwilling to broach the subject yet again.

"What right do I have to think anything?" The male nodded hurriedly, waving him off with one hand while using the other to hold onto Francine's hair, guiding her. "Of course, Rikk, of course. We can discuss my fee afterwards."

Rikk's hiss was thick with disgust as he left them. Ugarte was a lowlife, a parasite who profited from the War by any means necessary.

On the other hand, parasites had their uses, even cut-rate ones. And Rikk wondered where he would sit on the scale he used to measure the likes of Ugarte, or Rains, or the others he associated with now.

It was in the main room that he saw Ilsa again, fully costumed and carefully carrying a drinks tray, her hair pinned back with just a few raven strands swirling down onto her forehead. Her figure hugged the silk and leather strips that ran here and there, making her seem more unclothed than she really was, a design based on some alien costumes he'd seen on an old episode of Star Trek from sixty years ago. She ignored him.

She was still so damned attractive.

That was what made her so dangerous.

"Rikk!"

He turned at Rains' voice, tensed at the sight of the uniformed man beside him, and the hulking bodyguards following closely behind, their sidearms not checked at the door like everyone else's. The officer was a large, balding, moon-faced man, the hangdog bags under his eyes the only real sign of his age, his thick pink lips always pursed.

"Rikk," Rains continued, "I'd like you to meet-"

"Major Strasser," Rikk finished curtly, forcing himself not to tense, aware not only of Strasser's bodyguards stepping around to get an unobstructed aim at him if required, but of the level of tension in the room around him. He didn't offer his tail to shake, but then Strasser didn't offer his hand, either - and if he did, he'd probably spend the rest of the night scrubbing it clean. "Welcome to Rikk's Place." He waved at a large table near the stage. "Please, make yourselves at home." Less overtly, he signalled to his staff, who quickly and quietly moved away the patrons already there and cleared the table. "Being American, I know you will anyway."

Rains eyeballed him, his face expressing silent wonder at Rikk's definition of the word 'behaving'. But Strasser didn't seem to hear, didn't even acknowledge Rikk's presence as he sat down and continued to talk to Rains. "It's good to see such a thriving business here."

Rikk chose not to sit with them. "Really? I didn't know you cared."

Strasser made a display of ignoring Rikk now. "There have been too many lies spread about the Coalition's agenda against the aliens. We don't believe they should all be punished for the actions of their government back home, nor are we out to exterminate them. Nothing could be further from the truth. We merely wish them to know their place."

Rikk didn't know whether to be amused or annoyed by the pathetic snubbing. "Well, that should be easy for you. You don't have to have us wearing a Star of David on our clothes to distinguish members of my tribe."

Strasser now faced him, and Rains interjected with a forced chuckle. "I was just complimenting Rikk on his sound attitude to politics: he avoids them. He's a businessman now; enlightened self-interest is first and foremost in his mind. Gold colours his flag, isn't that right, Rikk?"

Rikk grunted, realising Rains was right. He no longer gave a damn about the Resistance, the Alliance, the Coalition. Let them set the world on fire for all he cared now. It was just strange having it confirmed from outside his head.

He also knew he had to have a better control over his temper. He signalled to a passing girl. "Champagne for our guests, the Dom Perignon '17." He looked back to see Strasser watching Sam onstage. Sam, however, had stopped playing, and was now rising from her chair and leaving.

Rains forced another chuckle as the black woman departed, sweat beading on his brow. "So, Major, are you here for business, or pleasure?"

Strasser leaned back in his chair, making it groan. "I'm looking for a woman, an active Resistance operative, whom we believe has just returned to Casablanca."

"Indeed?" Rains breathed in. "My Security Office is at your complete disposal, of course."

"This isn't the Captain's Security Office," Rikk pointed out. "Why are you here? The Final Solution been approved?"

Now Strasser looked to him, and the mask of civility momentarily dropped. "I see you still haven't learned to be more respectful towards your betters."

Rikk glared back. "When I meet some, I'll do just that."

"Rikk-" Rains warned.

But Strasser calmed down almost immediately. "I'm here because the woman may seek your help. Do you remember Ilsa Bergman?"

Rikk tensed, but allowed this reaction to show. "Hard to forget her."

"We believe she'll be asking for your help in being reunited with her husband, the terrorist chief Victor Lazlo."

Rikk grunted, but took in his scent, his voice, sought those subtle stress changes that told him when humans were lying.

The man believed what he was saying.

Then another scent caught his attention, and he glanced behind him to see Ilsa approaching with the tray of champagne, working her way through the people, unaware of who was at the table.

His tail shot out, tripped her up. She fell forward with a crash of metal, glass and ice, and a consequent applause of schadenfreude from the people around her.

He looked down at her, blocking the view of her from the table. "Stupid bitch! Get to the kitchens right now or I'll have you working in the brothel! Yvette, you bring us another bottle!" He ignored the look he got from Ilsa and turned back to the table, his voice low again. "Yes, Major, I remember Ilsa. I most especially remember her betraying me. You should remember too, you were there. You're wasting your time here. I'd as soon bite her head off now as look at her."

"But you didn't always feel that way." Strasser leaned forward, glaring with undisguised contempt at Rikk. "A Lizard doesn't change his colours."

As deliberate an attempt to goad Rikk, but this time Rikk didn't take the bait. "Clearly you've never heard of chameleons."

Rains laughed at that. But he was the only one who did.

Rikk straightened up. "Major, you are free to stay and drink, play roulette, watch the girls, even hire one or more for a private party. Just charge it all to Captain Rains."

Rains smiled at Strasser's reaction to that. "Oh, please, monsieur. It is a little game we play. They put it on the bill, I tear up the bill. It is very convenient."

"So if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, politics is your business. Mine is running this club." Rikk left them at that, stepping around another girl who was stooping to clear up Ilsa's accident. He sought and found Sam, at the far end of the bar, cradling a whiskey glass. "Do I pay you to play, or to drink?"

She didn't look at him. "Sorry, my stomach's turning. Must be the stench of fascism in the air." Now she glanced at him. "Or the toadying."

"Oh? I didn't know toads were in the Lizard family."

"His kind had me blacklisted from working in the States, kept me from going home when I left, even took away my citizenship." She grunted. "Must be easy licking their asses with that long tongue of yours."

Rikk understood her feelings, sharing some himself. But he was in no mood for this, not now. "Spare me the self-righteous act, Sam." He leaned in closer. "You think I like having them here, like kissing up to them? But they're here regardless. We just have to. play the game. Do you understand?"

Now she turned to him, downing her drink and responding in an exaggerated, unpleasant manner from a less enlightened age. "Oh yes, Boss, Ole Sam most surely does. Y'all go on and shuck and jive to your mastas, be a good little green-skinned Uncle Tom-"

Rikk's tail snapped between them, striking the side of the bar with a sound that momentarily drew stares from nearby patrons. When things settled down again, his voice dropped to a furious hiss. "Yeah, I'll cowtow, and crawl, and do whatever it takes to keep this farshlugginer bar running, and keep you and the rest of my ungrateful staff from having to whore for scum like Ugarte!" He forced himself to calm down, when he saw Sam's defused, apologetic expression. But he still felt tight with rage. "I don't have to justify myself to you, or anyone."

Sam reached out. "Rikk-"

He pulled away and departed, entering the kitchens to find Ilsa at the sink washing glasses, looking foolish and incongruous in her outfit around the more conventionally- and practically-dressed kitchen staff. She scowled at him. "You tripped me up deliberately-"

"You're useless serving. Stay in here. Tomorrow night you'll be dancing. I'll get Simone to give you some pointers later."

"Dancing?"

"Yes. Put your fancy schmancy Academy education to good use for once. Unless you want me to move you straight to the whoring? It pays better, and you can do most of the work on your back."

She stared blankly at him, disbelieving.

He almost changed his mind. Almost.

Flashback:

He stared blankly at her, disbelieving.

She'd almost changed her mind. Almost.

But it wouldn't get the job done; she zipped up her jacket. "I'll not be long, kaddishel. I promise."

He shook his head, his tail twitching agitatedly behind him. "Don't say that. They always say that in your movies. It always turns out badly."

She smiled, papering over her own anxiety at seeing him like this, before she turned and shifted one of the wooden boards covering the window enough to peer out into the evening street. The worst case scenario had come to life, and the Coalition had invaded Morocco in force, pushing back the Alliance forces. They had control over Casablanca, and were now rounding up all local Vorhavok and their human sympathisers.