(title hidden — not yet read)

(summary hidden — not yet read)

John West, on the larder stool with his half-recovered handbook in his lap, lets the cop identity settle into place. It explains the sneaking and the cover-and-concealment instincts, the studied knowledge of cartel recruiting and enforcement, the department-issued augments, Ulric's grudge, and the fact that he is in this dimension at all — the cartel must be operating here, and he came after them. He does not remember the details of his life, but the relief he feels at not being a criminal is, by his own reckoning, all the proof he needs. He is John West and he is a hero.

Which leaves the question of what he does about it. Something went badly wrong with whatever he intended; he is half in period costume and half not, has no safehouse, has not so much as glanced through the handbook he is now belatedly reading, and has no gun. He awards his performance to date an honest one star. He skims a few of the recovered early chapters and finds them more sales brochure than handbook, though there are still later pages he has not got to.

He needs to get home and bring back backup. Ulric and Quinn must know how, or have a way; following them quietly and gathering intel is the right move. Today he was a coward. Maybe tactically right and emotionally wrong, but he is done with that. He goes looking for Sefawynn. In the courtyard, Ealstan is preparing two horses near the large obsidian stone in the courtyard's centre; the gate stands open, and through it a flickering light glows in the distance. Sefawynn, the thegn confirms.

He follows the light to a small grass ring outside the keep, ringed by triangular stones five feet high, sloping up to the right — Stenford's founder's wēoh — with a lantern on the single central bench, and Sefawynn sitting on it with her eyes closed and her face turned to the sky. Praying, perhaps. He decides not to interrupt, leans against a stone, and uses the dark to dig deeper into his nanite menus. He finds his augment listings. *Forearm plating with reinforcement and a hand-to-hand package.* Good. *Plating of vitals*. He clicks eagerly into the submenu. *Offline.* He pokes his chest with a stick. The status is right.

*Bring online* asks for a password. None of the obvious ones work. Troubleshooting tries to open a web page. There is no offline manual, no local copy of anything — department protocol keeps all data remote, secure against on-body capture, and useless without a wireless signal nobody in this dimension is going to have invented for another thousand years. Another piece of evidence, he notes, that he came in haphazardly.

Then he hits a secret command function — he is not even quite sure how — and a new heading unfolds. *Stealth augments.* Oh, wow. He turns on night vision and the world brightens almost to dusk, in colour. He has 3x zoom. He has fine-motor stability and sensitivity in his fingertips — lockpicking, delicate work. He has wireless hacking, of dubious medieval utility. He has skin-tone camouflage over the plated regions — dark green, a few other colours. And he has a vocal mod that can imitate voices, add effects, and (he notes, charmed by himself) absolutely murder karaoke once he gets around to inventing karaoke. He reviews the shortcuts so he can hit them without the menu, and exits.

Sefawynn is looking at him. "You look happy," she says. He tells her he has done some searching inside himself. He wants to help her get her brother back. She considers him. Finally she answers that she does not know that she wants the help of a man she cannot trust, and that he still has not told her his name. He agrees she has every reason to mistrust him; he has not been completely honest. "Really?" she says, and rolls her eyes again — *oh look, stars, how lovely.* He pauses for effect, because he is, on the whole, pleased with his next line.

"I am a wizard."