TEXT: Fade to Black
  Nyx Smith
  Series - Shadowrun
  1994
  ISBN: 0-451-45287-9
  Scanned, formatted and proofed by Dreamcity
  Ebook version 1.0
  Release Date: December, 26, 2003
  Special thanks to readers Scott Lusby, Ted Swedalla, and Dave Zimmerman, John S. Franca-villo and
  Fern  R.  Francavillo  for  productive  and  unique  critiques  of  the  original  manuscript,  RNC  for  keeping  me
  honest and more, VD, AP & CR for language tips, JF who knows I'm  alive,  and  TZ  who  might  suspect,
  RB, SD, KM, FW, JAW and RZ, for, among other things, enthusiasm and support.
  And, of course, Oscar, Madeline ... and Ginger Ann ...
  Long may you run.
  
  1
  At 01:14 hours, everything went dark: the rooftop lounge, the aeropad outside  it,  every  light,  beacon,
  and security system guarding the top of the tower.
  Gordon  Ito  slipped  on  a  pair  of  light-intensifying  shades,  checked  his  watch,  and  motioned  the
  uniformed security officers out of the rooftop lounge. Only his personal bodyguard remained.
  The  blackout  was  on  Gordon's  order,  engineered  via  a  diagnostic  program  running  on  the  tower's
  operations mainframes-initialized in error, should anyone ever ask. The blackout  had  been  a  pre-condition
  for the meet about to occur. Gordon did not like the pre-conditions, but he liked far less the reasons that had
  compelled, him to call for the meet.
  Recent events now forced him to roll up one of his games, a covert op. The prospect displeased him,
  all the more so because ending the operation would require special action. All evidence of the op had to be
  spirited  out  of  the  competition's  hands,  that  or  eradicated,  before  any  embarrassing  disclosures  could  be
  made. This would cost Gordon  a  few  more  nuyen  from  his  clandestine  operating  budget,  but  that  meant
  nothing compared  to  the  risks  and  the  potential  for  disaster.  The  games  he  played  always  involved  high
  stakes, commensurate risks, and ominous potentialities.
  Now, the chopper came into view, a grayish specter cast in silhouette by the radiant illumination of the
  soaring towers of lower Manhattan. The rhythmic thumping of  the  craft's  rotors  resounded  softly  against
  the  lounge's  floor-to-ceiling  windows.  Gordon  recognized  the  chopper's  configuration,  that  of  an  A.C.
  Plutocrat, a big helo with luxury accommodations, usually reserved for the corporate elite.
  Carefully, the chopper settled onto the aeropad outside.
  "Iku beki desu," said Gordon's bodyguard.
  Gordon  shook  his  head.  He  would  attend  this  meeting  alone,  as  arranged.  He  would  not  need  the
  bodyguard's protection. That much he could be sure of. The person he was about to meet considered him
  too valuable a customer-and perhaps too dangerous a potential enemy-to let anything unwise occur.
  Outside, the whirling rotors slowed. Gordon stepped forward. Double transparex doors snapped open
  before him. As he walked out onto the aeropad toward the waiting chopper, the wind howled and tugged at
  his tailored suit. The aeropad sat perched some two hundred and fifty stories above the street, atop Tower
  Five of Fuchi Industrial Electronics' monument to economic imperialism. The wind  always  raged  up  here,
  and it was always cold and harsh. Gordon knew that better than most.
  The door in the flank of the chopper swung open like a pair of jaws, the lower section descending to
  provide a set of steps. A man too tall and lean and gaunt to be anything but an elf descended the steps, his
  long black duster flapping in the wind. Approaching Gordon, he extended the hand-held probe of a weapons
  detector, checked the device, then motioned at the Plutocrat with his chin.
  "Estd bien," the elf said. "Entre."
  Gordon  climbed  the  steps  up  into  the  narrow  space  directly  behind  the  flight  crew.  Both  pilot  and
  copilot wore helmets with full, nonreflective visors that masked their features completely. The pair sat like
  statues,  facing  their  controls  and  the  broad  forward  windshield  of  the  chopper,  never  once  turning  their
  heads.
  The door to the rear cabin swung open. Gordon stepped through. The elf followed.
  The  cabin  was  ostentatiously  appointed  in  black  and  red  and  gold-crushed  velvet  on  the  walls,  full
  carpeting, lush drapes. A pair of men in black mirrorshades and sharply cut gray suits waited to the left and
  right of the door. One was big enough to be an ork bodybuilder, the other looked Asian and had the build of
  a sumo wrestler. Impassive faces, casual postures. Nothing Gordon hadn't expected. Nothing he'd not seen
  before.
  The woman seated in the captain's-style chair at the  rear  of  the  cabin  looked  Spanish.  She  had  her
  sable hair drawn back sleek and flat from her brow. The gold wire lead of a datawire hung from her right
  temple. She wore black visorshades, a sparkling red jacket adorned with swirls of black, tight black slacks
  and gleaming scarlet boots. Her name was Sarabande. She was kuromaku,  a fixer. She motioned casually
  to the chair facing her from across a small oval table. Gordon accepted the offer and sat down. The subtle
  thumping of the chopper's rotors grew louder  as  the  craft  ascended,  swinging  out  over  lower  Manhattan
  and  across  the  Hudson,  toward  the  blighted  regions  of  Jersey  City  and  Newark.  Gordon  glanced  at  the
  drape-covered windows and guessed at the chopper's movements. He also checked his watch: 01:18 hours.
  The  upper  stories  of  Tower  Five  would  be  back  on-line  by  now,  fully  illuminated  and  operational,  while
  some  slag  down  in  Facility  Control  would  be  wondering  what  the  hell  had  happened.  "Your  business?"
  Sarabande said. "On chip."
  "Muy Men."
  
  Gordon opened the synth-digit replacing the end of his left pinkie and drew out an optical chip couched
  in a wafer-thin plastic carrier. He held out the chip-carrier. The elf examined it and passed it to his master.
  A  compact  console  rose  from  the  center  of  the  table.  Sarabande  slotted  both  carrier  and  chip  into  a
  receiving port. Several minutes passed. Gordon waited.
  "A  very  complete  dossier,"  Sarabande  said  finally.  "The  work  to  be  done  will  require  extensive
  preparation and will entail a high risk. What price will you pay?' Gordon replied, "Whatever it takes."
  "I will require an immediate advance of three hundred thousand nuyen."
  "I want multi-level back-up and I want the job expedited."
  "Five-hundred thousand nuyen."
  "And  you  guarantee  completion."  Sarabande  showed  no  reaction.  "The  work  will  be  attempted  by
  competent parties taking all reasonable steps to ensure success," she said. That is your guarantee." Gordon
  nodded. It would do.
  2
  The bar was little more than a counter jammed into an alley between a noodle bar and a booth selling
  bootleg simchips. The silver-eyed trog behind  the  counter  had  a  set  of  snap-blades  strapped  to  -his  right
  forearm and a Remington Roomsweeper bolstered low on his left hip, He didn't take  nothing  but  certified
  cred. The tequila he served was synthetic, lousy and cheap. So was the soykaf. For the price of a drink or a
  kaf, you got to elbow in between the other "clients" and stand there under the awning and watch and wait.
  Rico  ordered  a  shot  and  a  kaf,  then  stood  watching  the  throngs  cramming  the  alley,  shuffling  by,
  sometimes near enough to brush his front.
  This  was  Sector  3,  Newark  metroplex.  Free  zone.  SIN-less  territory.  No  passes,  no  badges,  no
  restrictions. No System Identification Numbers. No straight suits. The people who lived here couldn't hack
  it in Manhattan because they had no corporate connection, no background, no SIN. No official anything.
  Every slag and slitch had their program for survival. Those who walked the razor  knew  the  rules  of
  the game. Here in Sector 3, if you wanted to live, you carried metal, heavy metal, and you didn't make no
  secret about it. If you had implanted chrome, you made sure everybody knew it, or at least had reason to
  suspect it. If somebody met your gaze and  held  it,  you  didn't  look  away  for  even  an  instant,  because  an
  instant was all it took. This was 2055. There were slags walking the streets who would cut out your heart
  and feed it back to you before you could know you were dead.
  Rico leaned back against the bar, one hand dangling near the butt-grip of  the  Ares  Predator  2  slung
  from his hip. He kept his eyes moving. He didn't show anything with his face.
  Before  long,  the  silver-eyed  trog  leaned  over  the  bar  to  say  near  Rico's  ear,  "The  man's  ready,
  chummer." Rico nodded.
  The alley led onto Ridge Street. Rico joined the jostling, hustling stream  of  people  heading  that  way:
  chipheads, gangers, groupie wannabes, day laborers, cheap muscle, anonymous gutterpunks. Every slant of
  human, ork, elf, troll, whatever. They went dressed in cheap paper uniforms, studded synthleather, gleaming
  mylar, glistening spandex with chains and ribbons  and  glowing  fiber  optics.  Face  tats  and  body  color.  At
  least a few of these slags were here because they wanted in on the biz. Sector 3 might  be  impoverished,
  over-crowded, crime-ridden, the seventh and lowest circle of a decaying urban hell, but it was  one  of  the
  best markets in the plex. Anything could be had for the right amount of nuyen. And some things could be
  had  for  practically  nothing  at  all.  People  said  this  part  of  the  plex  used  to  be  lined  with  little  two-  and
  three-story houses, brownstones, tenement apartments. Nice places where nice families lived. Rico doubted
  it. The traces were few, and most of what people said usually amounted to pure drek, like what comes out
  the butt-end of a bull.
  Sector 3 was all steel and crete now, rising up seven stories with retrofitted pipes and conduits, all of it
  scorched by the acid of the nightly rains and stained black and brown by soot and all the other garbage in
  the air. Garish neon signs glared from every direction, the night burned as bright as day. Stores and shops
  filled the ground floors of the buildings. Booths and stalls flanked the sidewalks. Ad stands lined the curbs,
  sound  tracks  reverberating,  echoing.  The  street  itself  was  divided  in  half  by  four-  and  five-story  coffin
  hotels mat ran from corner to comer, served by rusted metal gangways. Vehicle traffic was banned. You
  caught an auto-cab in the underground, or the subway, or you walked Rico paused to look as the staccato
  stammer of automatic  weapons  arose  suddenly  from  the  general  direction  of  Abington  Avenue  East  He
  saw  only  the  mass  of  people  surrounding  him,  passive,  stone-featured  faces.  He  took  his  lead  from  the
  crowd and continued on.  The  rising  shriek  of  belt-screamers  alerted  him  to  the  DocWagon  High  Threat
  Response team coming his way, bruising path through the congested street. The two orks with the team ran
  interference.  Rico  shoved  into  the  crowd  at  his  left  to  get  out  of  the  way,  then  turned  the  corner  onto
  
  Treadwell Street.
  At  mid-block  was  a  four-story  brownstone  with  a  porch  and  steps  sided  by  black  metal  railing-a
  remnant of the times long gone, if what people said was so.
  On the brownstone's porch waited a pair of razorguys in studded blue synthleather. They were prime
  cutters, chromed to the max and willing to prove it. Rico knew that for a fact, he could have guessed it at a
  glance. The cutters held themselves like real gillettes, like they  had  whatever  it  might  take  to  meet."  any
  challenge from the street. They watched Rico start up the steps with what looked like casual indifference,
  but as he reached the porch, they stepped into his path-no hesitation, no doubt about what they were doing.
  Stop or fight, that was the message.
  Sometimes a man had no choice but to fight.  This  wasn't  one  of  those  times.  Watching  the  cutters'
  eyes, Rico said, "I'm expected."
  "We know," one said quietly.
  Moments passed. Rico waited. Custom had to be satisfied.  Certain  things  had  to  be  done  in  certain
  ways. You didn't just walk up the steps to the man's house and breeze right  through  the  front  door.  Rico
  knew all that and had no objections. If nothing else, respect demanded it.
  Another  prime  cutter  came  to  the  door,  looked  out,  motioned  Rico  inside  and  led  him  through  the
  house. No one asked to check his weapons or suggested he give them up. Respect worked both ways.
  They came to an expansive atrium rising to a translucent roof  four  stories  overhead.  Colorful  exotic
  birds flitted around, darting among the limbs of a few tall tress or watching from various perches high up on
  the walls. The birds alone were probably worth a fortune. The rest was like something you'd  only  see  on
  the Museum Channel: bushes, flowering shrubs, beds of flowers. A waterfall. A path winding through it all
  like a stream of pure white liquid marble. Rico's escort paused at the entrance to the garden and motioned
  him ahead.
  The path led to the center of the garden, a circular patio surrounded by pillars set with busts of slags
  from ancient history. Rico recognized two of them-the busts of Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar.  The
  man he was here to see liked to talk about slags like that sometimes.
  The man was known as Mr. Victor.  He  sat  looking  at  Rico  from  the  round  transparex  table  at  the
  center of the patio. He wore his thin black hair drawn back flat against his head to the  nape  of  his  neck,
  where it blossomed into the brief bushy extravagance of a ponytail. That was the only extravagant aspect
  of his appearance. The rest was severe, even grim. He wore a suit and tie of jet black, a crisp white shirt,
  no jewelry of any kind. Based purely on his appearance, he might have been an undertaker or a corporate
  exec. In truth, he was far more.
  He smiled in greeting and waved briefly at the other transparex chair  at  the  table.  Rico  nodded  and
  moved to sit. "How are you, my friend?" Mr. Victor said. "I'm good."
  "One of the best." Rico shrugged.
  "Only the truth, my friend." Mr. Victor smiled faintly, then snapped his fingers  sharply  and  gestured.
  The house-boy standing nearby brought a tray of coffee, which he served in small china cups. Not kaf, not
  synthetic.  The  real  thing,  its  aroma  rich  and  flavorful.  Like  wine,  Rico  thought.  Wine  from  the  finest
  vineyards of France. It smelled that good. The taste was indescribable.
  Mr. Victor waved a hand and the houseboy went away. "I regret that I  had  some  other  business  to
  attend to this evening," Mr, Victor said. "That is why I could not see you immediately. Forgive the delay."
  "Seguro," Rico said, nodding definitely. "But you don't owe me no explanations."
  "I owe you much," Mr. Victor's expression turned sober, men abruptly filled with disgust. "These slags
  I saw before you came... they make me ill. They are not men, you understand? They are like dogs. Eager
  for any scrap I will feed them. There is nothing they would not do for a price."
  Quietly Rico said, "They have no honor." Mr. Victor nodded, "No honor. No morals. No respect  For
  themselves or anyone else. One job is the same as the next. They would kill their own madras for enough
  nuyen. They call themselves runners. 'Shadowrunners.'" Mr. Victor turned his head aside and leaned over
  and made as if to spit "They step over the line into darkness, these dogs. They are criminals. I  would  not
  deal  with  them  except  that  I  have  nothing  against  setting  dogs  on  other  dogs.  Criminals  against  other
  criminals. I hope you do no hold that against me, my friend."
  "I should judge what you do?" Rico replied. "I don't think so."
  "That is your right.  Your  right  as  a  man.  I  respect  you.  I  respect  your  opinions.  Tell  me  what  you
  think."
  Rico did not have to think long. "I think you got good reasons for whatever you do. How you deal with
  criminals is your business. Not mine."
  "You hold generous opinions, my friend."
  
  "Maybe. Where it is due."
  Mr. Victor sat still a few moments, looking off across the garden. When he spoke, he kept his voice
  quiet, private. There was a sadness in his tone. "It's difficult to find work for a man such as you. There is
  always work in the shadows, but some jobs you will not accept. I am always on the watch for the right kind
  of work, you know this. Jobs appropriate not just for you, but for you and your team of specialists."
  Rico nodded.
  "You have heard the name L. Kahn?"
  "Seguro,"  Rico  said,  again  nodding.  The  name  L  Kahn  was  well  known  throughout  the  Newark
  metroplex. With that name came many rumors but few verifiable facts. Rico understood the name to be a
  Johnson, like a cipher. A name to be used where real names were never used. The man behind the name
  "L. Kahn" was said to have juice, connections, money. It was said that he had contracted for some of the
  biggest jobs ever pulled in the Newark plex.
  "I can arrange for you to meet this man."
  Rico didn't doubt it. Mr. Victor had juice of his own. "What's the deal?"
  "My friend, I am a businessman," Mr. Victor said. "I  am  the  man  in  the  middle.  I  bring  prospective
  clients together with specialists such as yourself. Whether the client is a businessman like me or the party
  offering an original contract is of no importance to my trade. You see why I am reminding you of this?"
  I
  "You only got some of the details."
  "Si, a  few.  L.  Kahn  asks  to  be  connected  with  an  experienced  team  possessing  a  broad  range  of
  capabilities. He has said that the contract is for a high-risk job, and that the pay will  be  commensurate  to
  that risk. I am led to believe that the assignment comes from high places. A success here could add great
  weight to your reputation."
  "What's the run involve?"
  "It  was  described  to  me  as  being  in  the  nature  of  a  recovery  job.  Naturally,  I  thought  you  would
  approve."
  "What's being recovered?"
  "That is for L. Kahn to say."
  "Could be a datasnatch."
  "It could be many things, my friend,"
  "I heard L. Kahn contracted for the Winter Systems job."
  "That is only rumor."
  "Still..."
  Winter Systems had contracts for police services in Manhattan, Union City, and other  places  around
  the New York-New Jersey megaplex. The Winter Systems job had involved the kidnapping and murder of
  several Winter Systems execs, and, incidentally, a conspiracy that had touched practically every major corp
  in the megaplex.
  The murders were what mattered to Rico. He did not do killing for hire. Neither did he do kidnapping.
  Neither did anyone in his group. "You trust this slag L. Kahn?"
  "Can anyone be trusted, my friend?"
  "Some can. Some can't."
  Mr. Victor paused for a few moments, then said, "As you well know, there are no guarantees in this
  life. I would say that L. Kahn can be trusted. More than some, less than others. I have not heard that  L.
  Kahn has ever broken a contract or betrayed a trust. You must decide for yourself, my friend. Merely tell
  me now whether I should arrange a meet."
  Rico thought about it, and nodded, "Si."
  "Consider it done, my friend."
  3
  Thorvin didn't much notice the first few bangs and pings against the sides of the van.  He  was  busy.
  He'd managed to  pull  the  G-6  torque  converter  out  of  the  drive  train  of  an  otherwise  ruined  Gaz-Willys
  Nomad. That was like finding gold. The G-6 was built  like  an  anvil,  durable  as  a  slab  of  tempered  steel.
  Finding one amid the wasted, ghost-haunted toxic graveyard of Newark's Sector 13 was a freaking miracle,
  though it didn't really surprise him. He'd been hunting through the crumbling projects and derelict tenements
  around the old airport for years. That was how he'd dug up the City of Linden no-parking sign, now hanging
  in his garage. And who saw any of those standing around  anymore?  Thorvin  knew  there  were  treasures
  here,  minor  mechanical  marvels,  gleaming  motes  of  engineering  majesty  not  apparent,  much  less
  
  comprehensible to the ordinary eye. He just hadn't expected to stumble over, of  all  things,  a  G-6  torquer.
  The prizes to be had in this sector ran heavily on the side of wafer-guided electronics, appliances, household
  drek.
  Something clanged loudly against the side of the van. With that rose a howling that sounded decidedly
  unnatural.
  Thorvin paused and looked up.
  When  the  van  starting  rocking  back  and  forth  like  a  boat  turned  crossways  to  a  heaving
  sea-accompanied by a storm of clanging and banging-he dropped his chrome ratchet and  can  of  lubricant
  and ran, tool belts clanking, to the front of the van, hopping over toolcases, a stripped-down engine block, an
  eviscerated Suzuki Aurora, a partly disassembled Kaydee A.C. condenser twinpak, hubcaps, nuts and bolts,
  an antique C.R.T., and an old General Products multifuel power generator, like a freaking kangaroo!
  The ghoulies had come a-calling. Thorvin leaped up into the driver's seat and  slapped  the  black  lead
  from the driver's console into the datajack at the side of his neck.  His  vision  blanked,  then  returned.  The
  van's external vid-pickups replaced his eyes and ears. The van had become his body.
  The ghoulies were there all right, all around him. Pounding on his armor-reinforced, metal-alloy flanks.
  Using fists, bricks, and  metal  bars.  Skeletal  jaws  flapping,  fingernails  like  talons,  clothes  hanging  in  rags,
  they looked like rotting corpses just emerged from their worm-infested holes. And Thorvin knew what they
  wanted. They liked their meat raw. Human  was  best,  decayed  and  rotting  even  better,  but  in  a  pinch,  if
  enough of them got together, they'd go for anything, even something alive. Even a freaking dwarf!
  Just the thought of those slimy, decaying monstrosities clawing at his metal-alloy skin sent chills up his
  rear doors. Back. Whatever. No effing way  they'd  get  inside.  He  had  a  Magnum  V-12  850-horsepower
  blower-driven petrochem heart. For blood he had Super-98 octane with  injected  nitrous  oxide.  He  set  his
  power plant to roaring and slammed his tranny into drive. His rear wheels churned, screaming, sending up a
  billowing storm cloud of smoke, seizing the road and hurling him ahead.
  The gleaming red graphic indicators overlaying his external view went wild. Velocity shot toward 200
  kph. Engine revs pegged max. Targeting indicators guided by his onboard combat comp  streaked  left  and
  right, winking and flashing. A raucous symphony of electronic warning tones,  beeps,  and  bleeps  rilled  the
  back of his head, his real head, somewhere inside ... not quite forgotten.
  Things bounced off his van-body,  banged  and  slammed  and  then  fell  away.  Building  debris,  derelict
  cars, assorted junk, garbage, and other things, not junk or garbage. Things that squished and splatted. Like
  bodies. There must be a whole tribe of the freaking zombie cannibals  hanging  around,  closing in from
  all sides. That's what he got for treasure-hunting so near the freaking  cemeteries.  Suddenly,  one  stood  in
  the  road  directly  in  front  of  him,  a  shambling  monstrosity  with  spindly  limbs  hefting  what  looked  like  a
  freaking shoulder-mounted Panther assault cannon.
  Thorvin's own nervous system pegged max.
  The M-134 minigun in the pod on his roof popped up and stammered rapid-fire. The ghoulie in the road
  jerked and spun, then slammed against the crash-grille guarding Thorvin's front end.
  An ocean of red-tinted  slime  splashed  across  Thorvin's  external  sensors.  Mentally  he  flinched.  The
  van  swerved  and  pitched,  bounding  up  then  slamming  down.  Things  crashed.  Fortunately,  his  all-terrain
  General Products F-6900 self-healing tires could really take a pounding. He switched on his forward-looking
  infrared radar and found himself hurtling straight into a building wall.
  Panic time.
  He cut his wheels right, roared up an alley, smashed through a  pair  of  cyclone  fences,  and  shot  out
  onto a broad open space like a weed-infested parking field.
  Bad move.
  A  half-dozen  beat-up,  smashed-out  petrochem  heaps  were  wheeling  around  the  crumbling,
  debris-strewn concrete. As many as a dozen motorcycles whizzed back and forth. Every driver and every
  passenger held some kind of weapon-handguns, rifles, shotguns, SMGs. Thorvin recognized the colors even
  as the thundering barrage of gunfire assaulted his audio pickups. He'd steered himself right into a freaking
  war! Chiller-thrillers versus a go-go-gang, the Toxic Marauders versus the Rahway Blades.
  Great Freaking great.
  A cycle came screaming toward him. Bullets pinged and panged rapid-fire off his front grille. Winking
  red targeting markers homed in on the cycle. Thorvin opened up with his minigun and hurled himself into a
  skidding, tire-screaming half-circle.
  The cycle exploded.
  Thorvin fired himself back down the alley. A storm of rocks, bricks, chunks of metal, and other  junk
  crashed against his sides and roof as he roared out onto the street. Ghoulies again. Just freaking great. He
  
  set  his  power  plant  to  whining,  and  went  squealing  around  the  very  next  corner,  almost,  but  not  quite,
  hopping up onto two wheels.
  That was Peerless ADH antishock stabilizers for you. Nice. Very nice.
  "Shank."
  What was that? Somebody saying his name? He didn't know  who  or  why  and  he  didn't  really  care,
  anyway. He ignored it. "Shank!"
  "Dammit, Shank, wake  up!" Somebody grabbed his shoulder and started shaking it hard. He couldn't
  just  ignore  it.  He  guessed  who  was  probably  doing  the  shaking  and  realized  that  ignoring  her  would  be
  useless. Evonne was usually okay, chill enough to live with. But when she got something stuck up her butt,
  bad enough to risk waking him up, she could get him so mad that beating her brains out, or worse, almost
  seemed like a good idea.
  Luckily for her, he had nothing to prove. Evonne needed what little brains she had.
  The cursing got louder. Hands gripped his arms and began pulling him up,  making  him  sit  up.  Water
  splashed into his face, maybe half a liter. It was kind of refreshing, really. He rubbed his eyes, stretched his
  arms and yawned, and looked around.
  The amber-tinted lamp by the bedside cast a glow through the room that showed Shank all he needed
  to see. He was in his  bedroom,  which  was  simply  furnished,  sheathed  in  synthfurs  and  deeply  carpeted.
  Evonne and her sister Kefee stood beside the bed. Evonne looked angry, Kefee upset. None of that was so
  unusual that Shank paid more than passing notice.
  What he really noticed, and not for the first time, was what a hot-looking biff Evonne was-built to last,
  right down to her girlish set of  fangs.  A  real  turn-on,  especially  when  she  got  sleazy,  and  even  more  so
  when she got mad. Her sister Kefee looked kind of frail, more like a human biff, not very enticing. "They're
  back!" Evonne growled. Shank ran a hand back over his hair, scratched behind his right ear. "Who?"
  "The  bangers?'  Evonne  growled,  more  forcefully  than  before,  staring  at  him  like  he  should  just
  automatically know what she was talking about. "They're stuffing Chak! Right in the alley!"
  Stuffing Chak ...?
  Evonne  thrust  a  hand  up  and  out  to  her  left,  toward  the  alley.  Kefee  just  looked  scared  and  said,
  "Shank, please!"
  Right.
  Shank shook himself awake. Everybody had obviously decided that the problem, Chak getting stuffed,
  beaten, or  whatever,  was  something  Shank  ought  to  handle.  It  was  probably  Evonne's  idea.  No  point  in
  arguing. She was probably right. Shank had kind of  inherited  Kefee  and  her  kids  when  Kefee's  man  got
  wasted in a Bronx firefight. Chak, her oldest kid, was still pretty young, only nine or ten, and, ork or not, that
  didn't make him much of a fighter. Not even against ordinary humans. Maybe one-on-one, but not against a
  whole gang. A gang would call for some serious head-banging.
  Shank  heaved  himself  to  his  feet  and  headed  for  the  door.  The  women  stepped  quickly  out  of  his
  way-and good thing, too. It looked like he had a fight coming on. This soon after being woken up, he had no
  trouble getting into the mood.
  The passageway  outside  was  jammed,  mostly  with  kids  and  more  women.  This  week  most  of.  the
  adult males from Shank's hall, the ones any good in a fight, were in the Roselle Park jail, off Raritan Road.
  Something to do with stuffing a bunch of mafiosi. The maf shoulda learned by now to keep their butts the
  hell outta Port Sector.
  "Coming through," Shank grumbled.
  People got outta his way, and those who didn't got bumped. They were all jamming up toward the end
  of the hall to peer around the corner and up the stairs toward the alley. A helluva lot of good that did. Shank
  waded through the final meter of bodies, then turned the corner and plodded up the stairs two at a time. The
  steel trap door at alley-level stood open. Shank trod right on through.
  The  group  was  right  there,  barely  three  meters  away,  clearly  visible  against  the  dusky  gray  of  a
  moonless night. Chak looked to be  the  one  on  the  ground  taking  all  the  punches  and  kicks.  None  of  the
  gangers seemed to notice as Shank  stepped  up  behind  them.  That  made  things  pretty  fragging  easy.  He
  reached out for the nearest two and banged their heads together. They dropped bonelessly to the  ground.
  The other gangers noticed him then. Mostly they just  looked  at  him  and  stared.  And  gaped.  Very  scary.
  Shank grabbed the nearest one by the arm, jerked him off his feet, swung him around, and  then  slammed
  him into the building wall on the right. That one fell, too. Not very tough, these bangers. Not very fast either,
  all things considered. And not very smart,
  One lifted a knife toward Shank's nose, and snarled, "Skin you alive!"
  Shank grabbed the wrist behind the knife, then jerked the whole arm into the air, lifting the ganger right
  
  off his feet. The slag flailed with his free arm, slapping, punching,  and  even  tried  kicking.  Shank  snorted.
  What a joke. One punch to the face and the ganger slumped. Shank let him fall.
  That left three of the gangers standing. One pulled a gun and pointed it directly at Shank's face, which
  was really a pretty stupid thing to do. If you wanted to shoot an ork, you aimed someplace that might hurt,
  not at his rock-hard skull. Shank ducked and reached out and the gun went off. He felt a wave of heat rush
  past his left ear, but that was it. A second shot went off, but by then Shank had his hand wrapped around
  the barrel of the gun. Which was all the hold he needed. He jerked the gun free, then grabbed the ganger
  by his jacket collar.
  "Bye-bye," he said, and heaved the slag against  a  convenient  wall,  the  wall  on  the  left,  just  to  keep
  things even. The ganger slumped to the ground the same way the others did, like a sack of raw meat. And
  that left only two still standing. "That pair began backing  away,  looking  scared.  Shank  pointed  the  gun,  a
  Colt  Manhunter,  something  particularly  appropriate  for  an  ork  to  use,  and  said,  "Move  again  an'  you're
  dead." The two gangers froze.
  By  then,  Chak  was  on  his  feet  and  looking  back  and  forth  like  he  didn't  know  what  to  do,  which
  probably he didn't. The kid's face was streaked with blood and looked kinda swollen, but it'd take more than
  that to put him out. Never mind who he had for a mother, Chak was husky for his  age  and  he  had  balls.
  Cojones, some would say. That translated into staying power.
  Shank resisted a smile. To tell the truth, he liked the kid. Chak was always asking about his tattoos and
  the dust-ups he'd been in with the Dragon Regiment and other mere units down in Aztlan and other places.
  It was hard to resist naked admiration.
  "You all right?" Shank asked.
  Chak nodded, breathing hard, maybe a little too hard to speak clearly.
  "Get a rope and a knife."
  "Kay ..."
  Chak  nodded  and  hustled  off,  but  was  back  in  a  minute  or  so.  Evonne  and  her  sister  and  half  the
  crowd from the hallway below followed Chak up the stairs. Shank motioned for the crowd to stay put. He
  had a gun in his hand and work that needed his attention. He wasn't about to put up with any squawking or
  unwelcome questions or suggestions. At a wave, Chak brought the knife and rope.
  "Tie 'em," Shank told him. "Them two first."
  Shank motioned at the pair of gangers still standing. Chak set to work binding their wrists behind their
  backs, and  none  too  gently.  Shank  didn't  care  about  that.  Those  fragging  gangers  deserved  it.  That  and
  worse. What worried him was what to do next.
  Executing prisoners  wasn't  his  style.  He'd  had  a  bellyful  of  that  down  in  fragging  Azzie-land.  He'd
  once thought he'd seen it all, but that was nothing compared to what butchers the Aztlan troopers could be.
  He'd have none of that here. What were his options? He could call the cops, but they couldn't give a  slot
  about some minor-ass gang problem, not here in Sector 12. And he couldn't just let the gangers loose. By
  sundown tomorrow, they'd be hot on the butts of the kids from his hall, and Chak  especially.  Worse,  he'd
  never hear the end of it. Evonne would see to that. He  had  to  do  something  along  the  lines  of  making  a
  permanent fix.
  But what?
  Goddamn his thick skull, anyway. If he'd been born any dumber, he'd be dangerous just taking a crap.
  And some of the slags in his old regiment used to rag him about that, too.
  Evonne said, "Shank-"
  "Can it."
  She did.
  Right then, something with about a billion-candlepower's worth of headlights, driving lights, fog  lights,
  off-road  lights,  and  side-  and  roof-mounted  spotlights,  pulled  into  the  end  of  the  alley  and  came  rolling
  straight toward him.  Shank  realized  what  was  behind  all  the  damn  lights  just  about  the  time  the  blinding
  brilliance of it all forced his eyes shut The thing rumbled like a CMC Banshee winding up for an attack run.
  It was about  as  close  to  a  real  panzer  as  anyone  could  get  in  the  Newark  plex  without  the  local  militia
  calling out the helicopter gunships. This one had  started  out  as  a  shorty  Landrover,  and  still  resembled  a
  basic stock model, but just about  every  part  had  been  replaced,  upgraded,  or  refitted.  The  custom  cargo
  cover on the roof concealed a pair of weapons pods, plus there were gunports all around and other features,
  custom features.
  Rolling to a halt, lights going out, the van became a ghost, dark and grim, blending with the cool gray of
  the night.
  Shank wasn't scared drekless, or even a little, because he'd helped the halfer now hopping out of the
  
  van with some of the van's custom installations. "Hoi, fang face."
  "Horn head."
  Who  said  orks  and  dwarfs  couldn't  be  chummers?  Thorvin  might  be  squat  and  ugly  and  kinda
  single-minded at times, but he was as tough as brick and loyal as nightfall. In Shank's book, that made for a
  first-rate chum.
  "What's with the garbage?" Thorvin asked, nodding at the gangers, toolbelt clanking as he strode out in
  front of the van.
  "They're slotting me off."
  "That's a freaking surprise. You gonna ice 'em?"
  "Thinking about it. What're you doing?"
  "Whaddya think? I'm picking you up."
  "Oh yeah?"
  "We got a meet."
  That sounded good. It meant their top gun had finally got them some biz, or at least some kinda offer,
  and about fragging time, too. Money didn't go far in the plex, never far enough. Especially  when  you  had
  another slag's wife and kids to worry about "Where and when?"
  "We gotta pick up the man and the deck. Sector 3. Soon as you put on some clothes."
  Clothes. Right. "Been over to Sector 13 lately?"
  "That's a freaking stupid question."
  "Ghouls still hanging there?"
  "That's another freaking stupid question."
  "Let's dump the garbage there."
  Thorvin frowned, looked at the gangers, then back at Shank.
  "Load 'em up," he said.
  4
  The  booth  was  small,  just  big  enough  for  one  person.  Brown  synthwood  paneled  the  walls.  Piper
  closed the door, then turned and knelt on the cushioned foot of the narrow kneeling bench.
  She spent a few moments composing herself, pressed her hair back behind her ears, then slipped the
  end of a credstick into the chrome-edged port on the side of the bench.
  The vidscreen before her came to life. "A New Day" slowly resolved hi bold letters at the center  of
  the screen, then faded. The "day" began with a boiling orange-red sun rising out of  a  pristine  sea,  waters
  fresh and sparkling, an ocean teeming with fish and thousands of other forms of life.  The  sun  assumed  a
  golden tint as it rose higher into the crystal-clear blue sky, and hundreds of thousands of birds flew up over
  the horizon to wheel in enormous flocks across die glittering ocean.
  Music, till then only a distant murmur, arose full and majestic, vibrant and alive, celebrating the glory of
  life in all its multitudinous forms.
  The voice of John Donne IX, a direct descendant of the Saint, and leader of the Church of the Whole
  Earth, arose with the music, beginning with a direct quote from Holy Sonnet Number 10: "One short sleep
  past, we wake eternally ... and death shall be no more ... Blessed be the Recreator... the living earth... and
  the eternal cycle of life, recycling without end ... "Amen ..."
  In time, the sermon concluded and the music softened.
  The scenes of a lush and beautiful world continued, sweeping from one view to the next Piper lowered
  her eyes and began to speak.
  All the world's problems, as she saw it, stemmed from one thing: greed.  People  wanted.  They  were
  never content with what they had. So titanic  corporations  sucked  resources  from  the  Earth  and  left  only
  toxic wastes behind. So ordinary people ignored the evidence of their senses, screaming at them from every
  direction,  and  worked  only  to  improve  their  station,  their  jobs,  their  material  possessions.  No  one  cared
  about the planet, the poisons in the air, food, and water.  Doing  anything  about  that  would  waste  valuable
  resources,  like  money,  and  time,  precious  time.  The  power  mongers  at  the  top  of  the  food  chain  had
  convinced everyone of that. They used the media to exploit people's weaknesses. They saw to it  that  the
  common  working  people  would  feel  too  weighed  down  by  the  struggle  of  daily  living  and  the-desire  to
  always have more, more, more! rather than worry about mere ecology.
  People were weak. Few had the means to combat the tyrants of economic politics, fewer still had the
  will, the  strength  of  spirit.  Too  many  had  been  crushed  and  ground  into  dust  by  the  steel  and  concrete
  jackboot of the megacorporations.
  Something had to be done. The megacorps had to be stripped of their power and pared down to size.
  
  People had to be given back control over their own lives and the life of the world in which  they  lived-the
  very planet all metahumanity depended on for survival.
  Tears  streamed  down  her  face  as  finally  Piper  shouted,  pounding  on  the  arm  rests  of  the  kneeling
  bench with her gloved fists.
  It left her feeling cleansed, strengthened, empowered.
  She  was  doing  all  she  could.  Almost  every  night.  She  only  prayed  that,  in  the  end,  her  efforts,
  combined with that of many hundreds, even thousands, would be enough to save the ravaged Earth.
  When she stepped from the booth, the narrow  church  was  nearly  deserted.  The  sunset  service  had
  ended some time ago. Only a few stragglers still sat in pews facing the altar and, above it, the enormous vid
  display of the Whole Earth-white clouds, blue ocean, and brown soil-ringed by the green yin-yang arrows,
  cycling eternally, representing the cyclical nature of life. Piper brought her fingertips together, forming the
  Globe with her hands, then bowed and turned to go.
  A priest in robes of the four cardinal colors-white, blue, brown and green-awaited her at  the  rear  of
  the Church. He was known as Father John, as were all priests of the Whole Earth Church. Piper  did  not
  know his real name, but that did not matter. He formed the Globe and bowed as she approached. She did
  likewise.
  "There's a special meeting tonight," Father John said, quietly. "Our brothers ask that you attend." This
  came as no surprise.
  Practically anyone with  any  skills  at  all  would  be  continually  in  demand  somewhere  in  the  Newark
  plex. Newark had an excess of per diem meat. "Excess people," they were called. The special meeting to
  which Father John referred would undoubtedly be a meeting of the group known as Ground Wave, the local
  cell of the Green 4800, an organization of  international  scope.  Ground  Wave  had  need  for  deckers,  ones
  with the proper perspective. Ones with Piper's degree of experience and skill were needed desperately.
  Piper bowed, and said, "I'm sorry, Father. Please excuse me. I cannot attend this evening."
  "I trust you've not had a change of heart."
  "Of course not." The idea was almost insulting. "I have other obligations."
  "What other obligation is there but to the restoration of the Whole Earth?"
  That  was  something  Piper  could  not  argue,  for  Father  John  would  not  understand.  Life  came  with
  many obligations. One might be paramount, but the others could not simply be ignored. She needed money,
  for instance, if only to eat, if only so she might continue to further the cause. "This is very difficult," Piper
  said, again bowing. "You're right, of course. I wish I could explain further.  It  is  my  fault.  Completely  my
  fault. Please excuse me."
  Father John hesitated, then nodded. "I presume we may count on you again in the future?"
  "Of course." Piper bowed, trying to conceal her expression, her struggle to  suppress  her  annoyance.
  Father John seemed intent tonight on irking her or on afflicting her with guilt. Of course he could count on
  her in the future. She'd been working with Ground Wave for more than a year. Piper had more experience
  with anticorporate activity than anybody in the group. Unfortunately, she was used to this kind of talk. Used
  to  people  speaking  presumptuously  and  rudely.  Used  to  people  with  immensely  egocentric  personalities.
  People with the viewpoint that whatever  happened  to  be  right  for  them  must  be  right  for  everyone.  She
  attended frequent cha-no-yu, the tea ceremony, if only to remind herself that some people, anyway, were
  at least basically civilized.
  "Dozo, gomen kudasai," Piper said, excusing herself, bowing and forming the Globe. "I must go now,
  Father. Good evening."
  Father John bowed and formed the Globe. "Good night."
  The street outside was busy. A veritable river of  people  flowed  steadily  along  the  sidewalk.  Traffic
  filled the narrow roadway, barely moving at a crawl. Garish neon and laser adverts in Japanese and a dozen
  other Asian languages climbed the fronts of buildings as high as nine or ten stories. Piper made her way up
  the block and joined the crowd waiting at the corner with Custer Avenue.
  Abruptly, a man wearing the signature red and black suit jacket of the Honjowara yakuza stepped off
  the curb and into the road, blowing a shrill blast on a whistle while extending his arms out fully to both sides.
  Traffic  halted.  Piper  moved  with  the  crowd  that  flowed  out  and  across  the  street.  A  number  of  people
  loudly praised the Honjowara-gumi as they passed the man in the red and black jacket.
  "Domo arigato," the man said politely, bowing in response to each laudatory remark.
  Yakuza,  Piper  knew,  might  be  vicious  gangsters,  but  they  were  also  very  conscious  of  their  public
  image. The Honjowara-gumi had made this part of Sector 6,  Little  Asia,  centered  around  Bergen  Street,
  one of the safest hoods in the plex. They performed many public services and would allow no one to abuse
  their citizens. Gangs and other criminal elements entered the district at their peril.
  
  Piper  continued  up  the  next  block  toward  Hawthorne,  but  only  as  far  as  the  intricately  carved
  synthwood door of the Holy Savior Buddhist temple.
  As she turned toward that door, another man in red and black abruptly stepped up beside her, tugged
  the door open for her, and bowed, saying, "Dozo ... Allow me..."
  Piper bowed to the man. "Domo arigato  gozaimasu."  As she stepped through, the man slipped past
  her, tugged the inner door open, and bowed, saying, "Dozo."
  "Domo arigato."  Piper bowed and stepped inside. An acolyte of the temple escorted her to a  small
  chamber where a Buddhist priest waited. For a donation of ten nuyen, the priest led her in  a  brief  prayer
  ritual and then gave her a quick lecture on the Buddha nature as exemplified by Christ, a lecture she did not
  really want to hear but felt obligated to endure. She had trouble with Buddhist teachings, even those of the
  fairly innovative sects of the Newark metroplex. She didn't really believe in any mystical enlightenment-that
  was her problem. Most people she had encountered in her life  seemed  all  but  oblivious  to  even  the  most
  basic truths of their everyday routine. To suppose that even a major event like death would shock them into
  some form of "enlightened" consciousness required a leap of faith that was beyond her. Still, this was a part
  of the sorrow of existence. The teachings of Buddhism and the Whole Earth Church had much in common,
  most notably the emphases on the cyclical nature of life. Piper felt obliged to seek her own enlightenment
  even if she did not entirely believe in the concept. Perhaps belief could not truly come until enlightenment
  was achieved.
  When  the  lecture  ended,  she  went  back  outside,  then  through  the  sliding  transparex  doors  into  the
  Shinto shrine next door. This visit cost her twenty nuyen. Shinto priests were very worldly and always more
  expensive  than  their  Buddhist  counterparts.  The  priest  went  through  all  the  usual  routines,  moaning,
  chanting, caterwauling, shaking rattles and waving wands, ringing bells and gongs and blowing whistles.
  For her money, Piper had evil influences chased away and gained the  assurance  that  the  local  kami
  would look favorably upon her. She sometimes found it difficult to believe that any real kami would inhabit a
  plex like Newark, but even mat was easier to accept than the lectures of the Buddhists.
  Back on the street again, she walked down to Watson Avenue. Rico waited there.
  "You okay, chica?" he said, looking past her right.
  "Yes." Piper nodded. "Fine." She slipped a hand onto his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Any  greater
  display  of  affection  would  not  have  been  appropriate.  Rico  preferred  to  keep  his  eyes  and  mind  on  his
  surroundings.
  "Take care of your duty okay?" he said, glancing down the side street toward Chadwick.
  "Yes," Piper said, nodding.
  "How's your axe?"
  He meant her cyberdeck, not her guitar.  Piper  didn't  have  a  guitar  and,  in  fact,  had  little  interest  in
  music. Certain of her ancestors had reputedly been  great  music-lovers,  among  other  things,  and  that  had
  been enough to turn her off music for good. "I had a roach in the node."
  Rico frowned, glancing at her. "What?"
  "A geometrically replicating virus."
  "Yeah?"
  Piper hesitated, gazing at Rico, trying to read his sphinx-like expression, then took a deep breath  and
  said, "Roaches duplicate everything in memory, themselves included, till there's no more room left, this one
  got into my operating code and ... it started laying eggs. That's why I kept getting locked out. Memory was
  jammed.  I  couldn't  power  up.  I  had  to  jack  in  with  pother  deck  and  go  over  everything  with  a
  microscanner."
  Rico turned to look up toward Hunterdon Street. "Guess that's why it took so long."
  "Well, yes."
  Most of a week, in fact. That wasn't  long,  considering  she'd  had  more  than  a  thousand  megapulses
  worth of onboard code to review, not to mention forty gigapulses  of  off-line  storage.  In  fact,  with  only  a
  couple of smartframes to help her, it was a miracle she'd finished any time this year.
  "But you got it fixed, right?"
  "Yes, it's fine, jefe."
  Rico nodded, but then three men in red and black jackets emerged from the crowd around them and
  came to a stop facing them. One bowed, glancing at Rico, then asked Piper hi rapid Japanese, "Excuse me,
  is this person troubling you?"
  Piper blinked. The question seemed remarkably presumptuous and  offensive  until  Piper  realized  that
  Rico  was  the  only  Hispanic-looking  person-the  only  non-Asian,  in  fact-that  she'd  seen  for  blocks.  The
  heavy automatic pistol bolstered at his hip didn't do much to help matters. Piper bowed, very briefly, saying
  
  in rapid Japanese, "Please excuse me. This is my personal guard, assigned by my employer. Thank you for
  your concern."
  "Ah, I understand." The man bowed. "Excuse us for intruding."
  "Please think nothing of it."
  The three men moved off. Rico, watching intently, said, "What was all that?"
  "Honjowara clan is busy today. We should go."
  "No guano."
  At the corner they took the stairway to the underground.  A  narrow  corridor  flanked  by  small  shops
  and booths led past the entrances to the  Bergen  Street  subway,  rumbling  like  thunder  and  rank  with  oily
  smells,  then  on  past  the  entrance  to  a  parking  garage,  and  then  on  to  the  truck  and  taxi  lanes  near  the
  underground transitway. The familiar, battered gray and black Landrover van waited right there, along with
  Thorvin and Shank.
  They had a meet to get to.
  5
  At the heart of the beast...
  Market Street, Sector 1.
  The  burnt-out  ruin  of  the  old  county  court  building  stood  opposite  the  shining  twelve-story  tower
  occupied by Omni Police Services and associated  corporate  agencies.  Everywhere  Rico  turned  his  eyes,
  the  charred,  the  gutted,  and  the  wasted  mingled  with  the  bright  and  glittery.  An  addict  who'd  probably
  traded his legs, one arm, one eye, and an ear for highs "Better Than Life" lay sprawled on the sidewalk in a
  simchip-induced coma, while trippers in glinting neo-monochrome and flashing crystal jewels sashayed by.
  Black  limos  and  gangers  riding  on  whining  plastic  choppers  shared  the  roadway,  roaring  past  the
  stripped-down wreck of an old CMC stepvan and other derelicts rusting in the gutters.
  Overhead, a help with winking lights thumped through the hazy, smog-veiled darkness.
  Devil take it.
  Time to focus, Rico told himself. The  rest  of  the  team  was  in  position,  and  he  was  as  ready  as  he
  would ever be. Rico didn't like getting Piper into something like this, didn't even like her being on the street,
  where anything could happen, but she'd insisted. She demanded to be in the game personally, in the  flesh,
  whenever she might do some good. Rico admired courage like that, especially in a woman. But it didn't stop
  him worrying.
  He wore a long black duster to cover the heavy auto bolstered at his hip and the extra magazines on
  his belt. He drew a black bandanna up from his neck to  cover  his  face  as  far  as  the  bridge  of  his  nose,
  flipped up the duster's collars.
  The  club  was  just  around  the  corner  on  the  tail-end  of  Springfield  Avenue.  Running  across  the
  gleaming black front of the place in subdued gold lettering was the word Chimpira. That was Japanese. A
  joke. Piper had explained that the  word  came  from  other  words  meaning  "flimsy  gold".  Cheap  punks.  A
  slick and mean veneer, but take away the clothes and the attitude, and nothing remained. What made it  a
  joke was that all the cheap punks who used the main floor were nothing but a cover.
  Trolls guarded the main entrance, and a small crowd of yakuza cutters kept watch on the trolls. The
  presence of the yak muscle meant that the big boys, the real powers in the Newark plex, the ones who had
  named the club, roust be meeting on the top floor. It also indicated that one or more of the vehicles  lining
  the  curbs  or  the  windows  in  the  buildings  along  the  street  would  be  occupied  by  U.C.A.S.  feds:  F.B.I.,
  Secret Service, whatever. Surveillance teams. Techs and vidcams. Watching the comings and goings. The
  feds had  been  trying  for  years  to  get  at  the  heart  of  the  organizations  running  the  plex.  It  was  a  losing
  game.
  Rico walked to the black tunnel of  the  main  entrance.  The  razorguys  standing  around,  including  the
  trolls, all wore  something  obscuring  their  faces:  shades,  scarves,  bandannas,  a  variety  of  Halloween  and
  theatrical masks, some glowing in the dark.  That  was  the  style.  You  didn't  go  to  Chimpira  with  a  naked
  face.
  In the dark shade of the entrance stood a slag wearing a broad-brimmed hat, black trench, and a mask
  like a cartoon mummy. The odd pins and devices stuck to the lapels of the slag's trench coat had nothing to
  do with Chimpira-style, or any other kind of style. Unless it was arcane-style.
  Surveillance mage.
  As Rico approached, one of the trolls put out a hand nearly the size of  a  cinder  block,  and  growled,
  "Whaddya want?"
  "Got biz."
  
  "You a cop?"
  "Frag that."
  "What's the biz?"
  "Private."
  The mage nodded.
  "Twenty, cred."
  Rico handed over a certified credstick.
  The troll motioned him past. "Have a great effin' night."
  Angst-rap  thundered  through  the  entrance  tunnel.  Trids  along  both  walls  advertised  pachinko,
  simsense, whores, and anything else a body might crave. Money talked, guano walked. At the  end  of  the
  tunnel waited a pair of biffs wearing only skimpy gold chains over their glossy sable skin. They smiled and
  cooed hello as Rico stepped through the sliding black doors into the club's interior.
  "Welcome  to  Chimpira,"  flashed  a  laser  display.  "Visit  our  Simchip  Suite  for  the  Ultimate  in
  Simmertainment!"  The  music  only  got  louder.  Lights  flickered  and  flashed.  Fractal  displays  on  the  walls
  sparkled  with  kaleidoscopic  color.  And  this  was  just  the  front  room,  like  a  lobby.  A  hexagonal  counter
  occupied the center of the space. The biffs there had hair of flaring incandescent light, changing from red to
  yellow and green and shaped like short, stubby worms crawling all over their heads.
  Five passages like enormous, grotty tubes led from the room in five different directions. Rico took the
  one all the way to the right. The walls of the passage throbbed with  light,  like  a  vein.  Scarlet  fog  flowed
  around Rico's legs. At the end of the passage waited a white biff wearing  silvery  spandex  and  fingerless
  gloves and boots to match. Silver-studded bands ringed her ankles, waist, wrists, and neck. Her eyes were
  like  violet  pits,  infinite,  her  expression  like  stone,  emotionless.  Her  hair  looked  like  white  fuzz,  shorn
  practically to the scalp. She had a fine figure, slim but shapely and obviously well-conditioned. Rico paid her
  figure little attention. Too dangerous.
  She was called Ravage. Rico had seen her around, had  heard  talk  about  her.  She  walked  the  razor
  bodyguard, courier, collection service. She was supposed to be teflon slick, fast enough to blur. People said
  she  didn't  bother  with  mere  guns  because  she  had  all  she  needed  under  her  skin.  Boosted  reflexes,
  skillwires, cyberspurs, maybe an implanted pistol. How much damage could this lithe body actually do? Rico
  wished he had more than just guesses. If she had a gun with her tonight it didn't show. She stood with feet
  planted and spread wide, her arms at her sides, her head erect, alert. Violet pits aimed  right  at  him.  Rico
  paused about two steps away.
  "You solo?" Ravage said.
  "Your guess."
  "My guess is you're obsolete, old man."
  There was nothing in the voice, no malice, not even a shade of menace. It didn't matter. What she said
  didn't matter. Not from a woman, it didn't. A woman who talked like her didn't merit respect,  or  anything
  but a straight estimation of the dangers she might pose. Rico lowered his eyes to the modest prominence of
  her breasts, then to the juncture of her legs. That was his reply. Ravage didn't seem to notice.
  "Road kill," she said.
  Rico forced a grin. "Anytime, muchacha."
  "Soon as I'm free."
  She turned her back and started walking like Rico didn't worry her at all. The studded  bands  around
  her  body  caught  Rico's  eyes.  Some  of  those  studs  could  be  optical  pickups.  Ravage  might  well  have  a
  360-degree cyberview of the world. Chipped to the max and fluid as a snake. Nothing would surprise him.
  She led him onto a low balcony overlooking the club's main floor. Ranged along the right were softly
  backlit alcoves outlined in glaring neon. Ravage paused at the fifth one down, and Rico got his first look at
  L. Kahn.
  He  sat  behind  an  oval  table,  on  a  semicircular  bench  seat  that  filled  the  rear  of  the  alcove.  The
  alcove's subdued lighting cast his face and front in shadows, but only until Rico's Jikku Shadowhunter eyes
  adjusted. Low-light augmentation with glare compensation pulled L. Kahn's sculptured features out  of  the
  shade. He looked Amerind, with maybe  a  touch  of  Black-Af  blood.  A  thick  black  wave  of  hair  dangled
  down  over  one  side  of  his  forehead.  Skinny  braids  hung  in  front  of  his  ears.  He  had  heavy  brows,  a
  substantial nose, and a broad, full-lipped mouth. His medium brown suit looked pure Armante. The jacket's
  thin collars rose into massive flanges that curved up and over his shoulders. A cloak curled around his sides,
  concealing his arms above the elbows.
  "Your player," Ravage said.
  L. Kahn looked at Rico  and  gestured  toward  the  right  side  of  the  alcove's  curving  bench.  Rico  sat
  
  there, Ravage moved to sit opposite. L. Kahn tapped the keypad on the table before him,  and  the  pair  of
  nude  slitches  dancing  around  on  the  tabletop-forty-centimeter-tall  laser  displays-abruptly  winked  out.
  "Interesting locale for a meet," L. Kahn said slowly. Rico replied, "Ain't you been here before?"
  "I prefer more secluded climes." Rico didn't much care. The main fact on his mind was that job offers
  sometimes turned out to  be  setups,  traps  laid  by  people  bearing  grudges.  It  paid  to  be  careful.  Chimpira
  might be on the hairy verge between darkness and light, but it was safer than some small room off a back
  alley. The yaks didn't take kindly to murders on the premises. Neither did  they  admit  cops.  That  the  slag
  calling  himself  L.  Kahn  had  actually  shown  up  tended  to  indicate  that  he  was  who  and  what  he  was
  supposed to be, rather than some blade out to cap on a contract.
  "You got nothing to worry about," Rico said. "You ain't gonna do nothing but talk and pass cred.  I'm
  taking the risks and I don't know you from drek."
  L.  Kahn  gazed  at  him  steadily  for  several  moments,  then  spoke,  his  voice  a  low  drawl.  "I  have
  contracts  to  fulfill.  Clients  to  satisfy.  The  risk  is  different  in  form,  but  shared  by  all.  You  were
  recommended to me by a reliable source. That is why I'm wasting time with you now."
  "I'm wasting your time?" Rico said quietly. "I don't know your name. That implies your name probably
  isn't worth knowing."
  From a biff like Ravage, it wouldn't have mattered. From another man, it went too far. L. Kahn's tone
  made it much more than a casual remark or a simple statement of fact. Rico hesitated about two seconds,
  then leaned toward L. Kahn and spat in his face.
  L. Kahn didn't move a muscle. He didn't have to- Ravage was already moving. Rico didn't catch the
  first stirring, but the next instant he saw her coming closer, then pitching the table over and out of her way.
  Could he get his Predator free of the holster in time? He had maybe a fraction of a second to decide.
  The  instincts  that  come  from  experience  answered  the  question  for  him.  If  you're  going  to  blast
  somebody, you don't bother closing the distance, not in a  situation  like  this,  with  everybody  at  point-blank
  range. That meant Ravage wanted it personal. Rico could almost feel the chrome-steel punch or kick being
  readied, building up in the distance somewhere, like an earthquake, closing in fast.
  Rico thrust his right arm forward, clenching his fist and bending it at the wrist. Muscle memory did the
  rest.
  Ravage's left hand became a claw, blurring in front of his face, on a collision course. She had razors
  there, Rico realized, jutting out from under her nails. They would  slice  through  his  eyes  and  cheeks,  then
  maybe return to tear through his throat.
  The blurring hand halted barely two centimeters from his  face,  then  hung  there,  motionless.  Ravage
  might rip his face to shreds, but she  would  see  her  guts  spill  to  the  floor  for  the  privilege.  Rico  held  the
  curving chrome blades now jutting from the backside of his forearm just short of the slitch's groin.
  Rico grinned up into her face.
  "Do it," he rasped.
  The violet pits of Ravage's eyes showed nothing, not even a glint of emotion.  Her  voice  was  almost
  mechanical, murmuring, "Road kill."
  Rico  waited.  Instants  passed  like  minutes.  Standoff  or  double  killing?  Rico  had  been  to  this  place
  before. Sometimes it seemed like his whole life was composed of moments like this. His heart hammered,
  but he had no trouble facing the prospect of his death. Like somebody once said, A man's fate  is a man's
  fate. What would be would be. If he died, it would at least be a man's death, an honorable death, giving as
  good as he got.
  A new voice suddenly arose, growling, "The slitch backs off or you're dog meat, chummer."
  Out the corner of his eye, Rico saw the large figure now standing where one comer of the alcove met
  the floor of the balcony. Shank's big hands gripped a massive automatic, an Israeli LD-100. The red blip of
  the weapon's laser sight shone steadily, unmoving, on the bridge of L. Kahn's nose.
  "Ravage," L. Kahn said calmly.
  Another long moment passed, then Ravage  backed  away  like  a  wave  slowly  retreating  from  shore.
  The razors at her fingertips vanished. At near a  whisper,  she  said,  "Next  time  you'll  have  to  be  fast,  old
  man."
  Rico  didn't  want  to  hear  about  next  time.  It  didn't  matter.  Whether  he  could  even  come  close  to
  matching Ravage's speed next time they clashed wasn't important He could be dead a thousand times over
  before then. He could have a heart attack right where he sat  just  remembering  how  quickly  she'd  gotten
  into his face. If there ever was a next time, he'd be smart to dust her on sight, and from as long a range as
  possible.
  L. Kahn dabbed at his face with a brown handkerchief, and said, "Let us call a draw a draw and get
  
  on to biz."
  "We still got something to talk about?"
  "If we didn't, you would be dead."
  "You got a dangerous mouth, my man."
  "I can afford it."
  Abruptly, a pair of small red blips caught Rico's attention. Waving around and around in circles on his
  chest  A  third  blip  ran  in  circles  up  and  down  Shank's  side.  They  weren't  part  of  the  stroboscopic  light
  effects from the club's main floor. They were targeting sights. Rico ran his eyes around, vision shifting  to
  infrared to microchip-enhanced, but he couldn't spot the shooters. Too much ambient heat too many bodies
  on the main floor all moving asynchronously. L. Kahn had pros backing him up. At least three of them.
  Where the frag was Piper? Rico wondered. Was she safe?  He hoped she was under wraps as good
  as L. Kahn's shooters.
  "Ask your friend to relax," L. Kahn said. "We'll talk." Rico motioned with his chin. Shank was down on
  one knee, using the skimpy railing that guarded the edge of the balcony to gain what cover he could from L.
  Kahn's  shooters.  With  a  growl  and  a  sneer,  he  slid  bis  automatic  under  his  jacket  Ravage  set  the  table
  upright on its pedestal and returned it to its place. She did that one-handed, and the table looked heavy. She
  smiled as she sat down opposite Rico. It was just a glimmer of a smile. On her it looked like a death grin.
  "So talk," Rico said.
  L. Kahn nodded. "Explications first. My clients are powerful people. When they make a contract they
  expect it to be fulfilled. And I will see them satisfied. If you take my money, you will complete the contract
  in full. When time is an issue, and for this job, time is an issue, I accept no refunds. You will do the job or
  face the consequences."
  Do  the  job  or  die.  Almost  common  enough  to  be  considered  standard  terms.  "You  think  I'm  an
  amateur?" Rico snarled. "I don't need guano  like  this.  You  tell  me  what  the  job  is  and  I'll  tell  you  if  I'm
  interested."
  L. Kahn seemed unaffected: cool and calm. Rico envied the slag his self-control. Nothing seemed to
  undo him, even spit in the face. "The job is a bustout."
  "I don't do snatches."
  "It's a recovery."
  "Keep talking."
  "The  subject  to  be  recovered  was  in  fact  snatched.  The  job  is  to  bring  the  subject  home.  This
  particular subject is highly ranked in a particular field and is therefore of  high  value.  The  snatching  entity
  has  threatened  the  subject's  spouse,  thus  forcing  the  subject  to  contribute  substantially  to  the  snatching
  entity's various enterprises."
  "You're talking about corporate entities."
  "Don't ask for specifics unless you're accepting the job."
  "Sure. Where's this spouse you mentioned?"
  "The spouse remains under the protection of the home entity and will not be a factor in completing the
  contract. Your only concern will be to recover the subject and deliver the subject unharmed at a specified
  time and place."
  "What's the security threat?"
  "It has been assessed as Code Orange."
  "A or double-A security."
  "Correct."
  "So it ain't Fuchi-Town."
  "Obviously."
  The immense complex that included the five sky-raking towers of Fuchi-Town in lower Manhattan had
  triple-A security, also called Code Red. Fuchi  used  everything  to  keep  the  facility  secure:  armed  guards,
  electronics, magic. You didn't go up against security like that unless you had a back door or the possibility of
  making one-and even then it would probably still be a suicide run. "Tell me about your Code Orange."
  "Are you accepting the contract?"
  "Not without more data."
  "You have all the data you need."
  "Not to talk money."
  "Then you are accepting the contract."
  "With conditions. If you don't make the money worth the risk, forget it. If you lie, forget it. If this turns
  out to be a snatch, forget it. If your subject ain't a willing subject, forget it."
  
  "Have you ever run  against  Code  Orange  security."  Rico  cursed,  then  said,  lowly.  "Don't  insult  me
  again or those shooters won't save you."
  "You have many conditions for a man in your line."
  "Remember it."
  The plex was full of amateurs, children with dangerous toys, who went running off on  fool's  errands
  because some stone-faced slag like L. Kahn flashed some nuyen. Rico knew better. You started your fight
  right  here.  You  stood  your  ground.  If  the  man  didn't  Uke  your  terms,  you  walked  away.  You  had  two
  choices in this life. You could live slow or fast. Given the choice, Rico liked it slow, clawing every bit of the
  way for everything he could get It was that or nothing.
  Moments  passed.  Rico  tried  to  decide  who  looked  more  like  a  statue:  L.  Kahn  or  Ravage.  Both
  seemed cut from the same chunk of stone.
  "I will agree to your conditions," L. Kahn said finally, "but I have  a  condition  of  my  own.  You  have
  given me tentative acceptance of the contract. I will tell you more of what you want to know. If any part of
  what I say reaches the streets, you're dead." Rico hesitated, then said nothing. It made no sense that a slag
  with L. Kahn's rep would keep bringing up points, terms and conditions that any teenage virgin would know.
  That fact, nagging at Rico, finally inspired insight  He  realized  he  was  being  worked.  L.  Kahn  apparently
  knew some things about him, like his sensitivity  to  personal  insults  and  his  difficult-to-manage  temper.  L.
  Kahn  had  been  baiting  him  right  from  the  start,  and  had  intentionally  brought  him  and  Ravage  into
  near-lethal collision.
  It cast that little  death  grin  of  Ravage's  in  a  whole  new  light.  The  slitch  had  known.  L.  Kahn  was
  scoping  him  out.  Testing  him.  "Keep  talking,"  he  growled  lowly.  "The  facility  where  the  subject  is  kept
  makes  primary  use  of  passive  electronics,"  L.  Kahn  said.  "There  are  multiple  back-ups  and  fail-safes.
  Guards are armed and of good-to-average caliber. They are stationed at checkpoints, entrances, and exits,
  but make  only  perfunctory  patrols  of  the  perimeter  and  facility  interior.  My  assessment  indicates  that  in
  order to succeed you will need both matrix cover and technical expertise in physical penetration."
  "What about magicians?"
  Magic  was  always  the  wild  card.  In  a  world  of  uncertainties,  it  was  the  least  predictable  element.
  "There are several mages on premises," L. Kahn said, "but none have been incorporated into the facility's
  security system."
  "Sounds pretty weak."
  "There is one more factor. The facility's security posture is monitored. Should there be an active alert
  caused  by  intruders,  additional  security  forces  will  respond  to  the  site.  These  forces  are  rated  as
  military-equivalent. They are commando-trained, heavily armed, and come with integral astral support."
  "What's the response time?"
  "Minutes."
  "How many minutes?"
  "Lead elements could reach the facility in four or  five.  Astral  support  would  likely  be  in  the  second
  wave."
  "Is that a fact or an estimate?"
  "The Sixth World has no facts. Only suppositions."
  They soon came to  the  matter  of  money,  nuyen,  the  one  indisputable  fact  of  living.  Rico  bargained
  hard, got more or less what he wanted, and accepted the contract. L. Kahn passed him a chip  containing
  the specifics of the job. The only thing left to do then was to verify L. Kahn's up-front payment in certified
  credsticks, and plan and execute the run.
  "The Chinese have a saying," L. Kahn remarked at the end. "May you live in  interesting  times.  You
  make for interesting negotiations, Mr. Rico. I'll remember your conditions. You remember mine."
  Rico glanced at Ravage and left.
  6
  "Bird away."
  The roof-mounted launcher fired her away from the concrete earth. The rush of acceleration coursed
  through  her  titanium-composite  airframe.  The  thrust  of  her  quad  turbofan  engines,  already  blazing  with
  power, carried her into the night.
  She  climbed,  engines  to  max,  aiming  her  nose  at  the  shroud  of  haze  and  fumes  that  hid  the  stars.
  Transparent  red  digits  tumbling  before  her  eyes  ticked  off  altitude,  energy,  and  a  dozen  other  transient
  statistical  indicators.  Part  of  her  noted  those  indicators,  but  only  in  passing.  Mere  numbers  could  never
  quantify the glory of flight, or the greater truths hidden in the dark. She unfolded her pinions, stretching her
  
  wings out full, and banked her engines, cutting power to practically nothing, gliding almost soundlessly into a
  slow turn that inspired a twinge of pity for all those million souls bound to the earth below.
  Now  that  she  was  finally  aloft,  she  could  breathe.  Flying  recon  drones  hardly  compared  to  the
  quantum rush of driving Federated-Boeing Eagles and Strike Hawks outfitted with military-grade ordnance
  and full electronics suites, but she could live with the difference. She'd flown her first dumb-boy when she
  turned fourteen. It was reassuring to note that if she took any triple-A, if she suffered any massive system
  failure,  it  wouldn't  be  her  own  flesh  and  blood  body  that  went  spiraling  at  Mach  Two  into  the  concrete
  earth.
  For  one  thing,  this  CyberSpace  Designs  Stealth  Sniper  recee  drone  couldn't  manage  anything  like
  supersonic  velocity,  for  another,  her  flesh  and  blood  body  was  far  below  her,  still  stuck  in  that  frigging
  wheelchair, inside the command and control vehicle of the Executive Action Brigade.
  She  could  see  that  vehicle  now,  through  the  light-gathering  lenses  in  her  belly  pod.  The  heavily
  modified  Ares  Roadmaster  with  the  sat  dish  on  top,  parked  in  a  shallow  gulch,  an  empty  lot,  between
  ferroconcrete huts.
  Voices whispered in her ears. "Status on Air One ..."
  "Just coming on-line, sir ..."
  "Tell that fragging air jockey to get her butt engaged ..."
  Mentally, she could also see the  scene  inside  the  Road-master  C  &  C.  The  dim  lights,  the  bank  of
  consoles.  Colonel  Butler  Yates,  commander-in-chief  of  the  Executive  Action  Brigade,  pacing  back  and
  forth. Major Skip Nolan, the EAB's exec, monitoring communications between the ground teams, checking
  in with the commo operators, then leaning over her shoulder, she the one real rigger on the team.
  Abruptly, Skip's voice murmured into her  head,  like  he  was  right  there  with  her,  gliding  through  the
  night. "Get on-station, Bobbie Jo," he said softly. "Colonel's nervous tonight."
  She smiled and said, "Affirmative."
  The smile was for Skip. She hoped he read it. Everyone else in the world called her B.  J.,  even  her
  own mother, but that was never enough for Skip Nolan. He always wanted more, something special, if only
  to remind  her  that  there  was  something  special  between  them.  She  liked  that.  It  made  the  whole  world
  seem warmer, nicer, somehow.
  As  for  the  Colonel's  nervousness,  she  could  only  agree.  The  Brigade  had  once  been  one  of  the
  foremost mercenary units in the western hemisphere, though under another name. Since the annexation of
  Mexico by Aztlan and the end of various squabbles in South America, the mere business had  gotten  very
  low-key. The Colonel had been forced to dispense with most of the air wing while turning in desperation to
  the corporate security field. The Brigade's lack of specialists and the Colonel's lack of contacts had made
  that move chancy. The transition had been rough and it still wasn't clear if the move would pan out.
  Bobbie  Jo  checked  her  orientation,  swung  across  the  black  stroke-marks  of  a  dozen  streets,  then
  flattened out and slowed to a hover above the confluence of roadways that marked her station.
  Hovering in  stealth  mode  ate  fuel  like  fire  ate  oxygen.  Fortunately,  she  had  talked  the  Colonel  into
  equipping the high-performance Sniper with long-range fuel tanks.
  "Air One on station, Colonel..."
  "It's about time, dammit..."
  Springfield and Market Streets came together like 8 great V, slicing through the jumble of buildings and
  cross-streets at the core of the Newark sprawl. It seemed ironic because that V pointed across the Passaic
  River to Jersey City and the soaring towers of Manhattan Island. The enclave of power and money. Where
  everyone wanted to be. Most of the millions in Newark would never get there.
  "Status, Air One."
  That was Skip, sounding very official. The Colonel must be leaning over her shoulder or breathing hot
  and  hard  down  Skip's  neck.  Bobbie  Jo  focused  her  downward-looking  eyes  and  went  to  work,
  computer-augmenting the best views.
  The club stood on Springfield. The front of the place  was  all  dingy  and  black  but  for  the  large  gold
  letters hanging above the main entrance, reading, "Chimpira," whatever that meant. It was supposed to be a
  hangout  for  yakuza  and  other  miscreants.  Most  notably,  the  miscreants  the  Brigade  had  been  hired  to
  shadow.
  Target  indicators  winked  rapidly  in  front  of  her  eyes,  picking  out  movement  on  the  ground,
  computer-directed to single out human-sized targets only. Her view plunged to sidewalk  level  thirty-seven
  times in a row for a camera click glance at every face,  every  moving  body,  then  every  two-legged  body
  anywhere  near  the  front  of  the  club.  That  included  the  three  trolls  and  eleven  Asian  norms,  all  males,
  immediately in front of the club. None of her real targets were among them. She  fired  her  gathered  data
  
  back to the C & C. The Colonel would have  his  status  report  and  the  Brigade's  new  fugitive  unit  would
  undoubtedly find some use for the digitized images in her burst transmission.
  An hour passed. The Colonel kept demanding more data  from  Skip,  and  Skip  kept  hounding  her  for
  more digipics. She circled the club. When the first of the miscreants, the supposed leader, finally appeared,
  Bobbie Jo fired her alert signal to the C & C.
  Target One moving Target One moving ...
  She fired digipics in a continuous stream back to the C & C. Target One exited  via  the  front  of  the
  club. Through her computer-enhanced closeups, she saw that  he  was  a  Hispanic  male  of  medium  height
  and build and that her images of him matched exactly the digitized pics in  her  ground-based  memory.  An
  Asian  female  soon  followed  him  out  of  the  club.  That  was  Target  Two.  Tall  and  good-looking.
  Light-skinned for an Asian, but there was no mistaking the slope of her eyes. The two of them met in the
  alley  beside  the  club  and  moved  to  the  alley  at  the  rear  of  the  club.  There  they  met  Target  Three  and
  Target Four: a heavily built ork male and a long-haired dwarf male. Together, they moved through the alleys
  to King Boulevard and around the corner to Stirling Street. There they entered a gray and black ghost of a
  van.
  Target Alpha moving, all targets onboard ...
  She repeated that.
  Brigade comm traffic murmured rapidly in her ears. Ground-based surveillance units' were moving into
  position to follow the van, designated Target Alpha. They didn't have much time. Target Four was a rigger
  and very hot with wheels. Even as the last of the group climbed into the van and closed the side door, the
  van was rolling, picking up speed, smoking tires and really moving out.
  Bobbie Jo prepared to follow. No need for stealth mode now. Her  on-board  combat  comp  set  three
  green target indicators to winking in front of her eyes. Those pointed out the pursuit vehicles. Ground One,
  Two, and Three, dark mid-sized sedans with stock New Jersey plates. Standard procedure called  for  one
  sedan to close with the target vehicle, follow for a short distance and then turn off, while another one closed
  in.
  It didn't work out that way. The van blew the light on Howard and roared up South Orange Avenue.
  Bobbie Jo's warning was all that kept the pursuit vehicles from being left in the dust. As the cars raced to
  catch up, the van turned left onto Fourteenth Street and into a gridwork of  streets  and  cross-streets  lined
  with  cars  and  crammed  with  buildings.  The  van  careened  through  the  grid  at  breakneck  speed,  gaining
  ground with every turn. It broke out  onto  Springfield  Avenue,  blew  a  series  of  red  lights,  and  in  another
  minute was flying down the entrance ramp to the South Newark Transitway.
  Abruptly, Bobbie Jo heard a muted stammer that sounded like autofire weapons, then a voice, distant
  but urgent, exclaiming, "Ground Three! Ground Three! We're in the middle of a gang bang-up!"
  The other two cars were out of the grid and racing up Springfield, but they were nowhere near getting
  the van into visual range.
  "Air One status!" Skip barked.
  No choice.
  The van was disappearing into the dark of an underground section of the transitway. The pursuit cars
  would never catch up. Target  Alpha  was  flying.  Bobbie  Jo  punched  up  her  engines  and  dove,  turbofans
  screaming, to the roof of a tandem-trailered truck just then sluicing down the incline and into the dark of the
  transitway tunnel.
  It was like pitching into an attack run.
  One  moment  she  had  only  the  dark  haze  of  the  night  above  her,  in  the  next,  she  was  sandwiched
  between the roof of the truck's lead trailer and the massive girders supporting the ceiling of the transitway.
  She had about a half-meter of airspace above her and about the same below. One errant breeze, one minor
  electronic fluctuation, and the girders above or the truck below would smash her into oblivion.
  That scared the hell out of her, only she didn't let herself feel it. She reminded herself that she really
  wasn't there. Her body was safe. Only the electronic sensorium of the Sniper drone was at risk. But that
  didn't help. She kept on, redlining her  emotive  indexes.  The  truck  provided  cover.  The  broad  roof  of  the
  trailer and the glaring lights of the cab would keep her hidden from anyone within  easy  visual  range.  She
  searched ahead with  her  eyes.  Target  indicators  winked,  then  she  spotted  the  gray  and  black  ghost-van
  veering across two lanes and into the gray-lit tunnel of a transitway exit. Target exiting target exiting ...
  Her  target  indicator  winked  rapidly,  then  blinked  out.  She  didn't  dare  follow.  The  exit  tunnel  was  too
  confining,  and  she'd  be  spotted.  The  targets  were  pros,  and  the  van  was  believed  to  be  equipped  with
  advanced electronics that might very well include short-range antiair radar. Bobbie Jo did what she had to
  do. She stayed with the tandem-trailered truck for another eight hundred meters. The instant the transitway
  
  surfaced again, she punched up full power. The steady whine of her engines rose to a cyclone scream. She
  arced up and back, soaring over the, city, then quickly flipped to bring her belly pod to bear on the ground
  below.
  A dozen target indicators winked in front of her eyes.
  She was still scoping them out, sweeping back and forth across the city, hunting the target, when Skip
  called her back to base.
  The Colonel was not happy.
  Rico grimaced, clenching his teeth. Barely an  hour  had  passed  since  he'd  accepted  the  job  from  L.
  Kahn and already he didn't like it. The whole thing could be a set-up.
  "You sure you saw a drone?"
  "Of course I saw it," Thorvin snapped, steering the van around one final corner onto Mott Street. "Any
  moron with freaking infrared goggles  coulda  spotted  it.  I  oughta  know  a  freaking  Cyber  Designs  Stealth
  Sniper Series 53 when I see one. I broke one of the freaking things down about a year ago just to see how
  it worked. It ain't top of the line, but it ain't half bad either. It's serviceable. All right for standard recon. It
  just hasn't got anything like the kind of electronics to beat what I got in this van."
  "Yes, but whose drone was it?" Piper said. "And who was it eyeing?"
  Shank grunted. "Maybe it's just a coincidence."
  Rico turned his head to look out the passenger-side window, into the side-view mirror, then at the dark,
  decaying buildings slowly passing by. Piper's questions struck right at the core of the problem. Rico wished
  he had answers to match them. He had plenty of guesses, but he didn't like those guesses any more  than
  Shank's suggestion about coincidence.
  L. Kahn could have arranged to put up a drone just to send a message that he'd be watching, alert for
  treachery. It would be a stupid thing to do because Rico  would  take  it  as  a  sign  of  betrayal,  but  then  L.
  Kahn didn't necessarily know that Thorvin had the gear to spot the drone.
  Any fragging thing was possible. Every one of the four of them in the van had at least one warrant out
  for them somewhere in the U.C.A.S. Cops and feds and practically every corp in the world all had riggers
  who could put up drones. Some of the local security companies used drones for ordinary surveillance, like
  night watchmen. And, like Shank said, it was definitely possible that the drone was completely unrelated to
  anything that mattered. There were dozens of jobs being worked at any one time within the bounds of the
  Newark plex. Sometimes you couldn't turn a corner without stepping into the middle of somebody's dustup.
  It just seemed too coincidental to be coincidental that a drone  had  shown  up  overhead  just  as  they  were
  leaving Chimpira.
  On  the  other  hand,  Thorvin  had  lost  contact  with  the  drone  once  they  reached  the  transitway,  and
  nothing else had happened to suggest that they were being followed. "You didn't see no cars following?"
  "Not a freaking one."
  Still what bothered Rico was the one possibility no one had mentioned: they might already  be  blown.
  The corporate "entity" they were supposed to penetrate to make their retrieval might already know  they'd
  been hired for the job. That "entity" might have been watching L. Kahn and might be hunting for the four of
  them at this very moment.
  Preemptive op is what corp security slags called it. They'd be careful, Rico decided. Now more than
  ever. They'd get off the street and stay off as much as possible until the job was done. They'd check  out
  everything two or three or four times before they started the run. They'd build in backups on top of backups
  in case anything went wrong. If they found even a hint of evidence that L. Kahn was playing games, they'd
  handle that, too.
  Four a.m., the rain started coming down. Right on schedule. First it drizzled, then it poured. In less than
  a minute it turned into a torrent. The corps controlling Manhattan seeded the clouds most every night in an
  attempt to clear the garbage out of the air. Like they said on TV/3V,  the  rain  brought  the  garbage  down
  indiscriminately, on the just and the unjust alike.
  Momentarily,  the  safehouse  came  along  on  the  right,  a  three-story  brick  building  that  had  been
  condemned  a  decade  ago,  then  uncondemned.  City  records  showed  it  as  turned  over  to  New  Jersey
  Consolidated Power and Light. Piper had made it that way.
  The place was crammed in between a two-story factory and a nine-story moving and storage tower. It
  had two brown metal bay doors large enough to accommodate a semi and no windows at ground-level. The
  door on the right began rising as they approached. Thorvin had the transmit code. He drove the van across
  the sidewalk and right inside. The door trundled down behind them.
  The ground floor looked like a junkyard, one big room filled  with  mechanical  parts  and  equipment,  a
  pair of Scorpion motorcycles, a spare van. Thorvin called it his emergency repair shop. What he called it or
  
  how he used it mattered far less to Rico than that the rigger should have what he needed to jury-rig repairs
  when they were on a run.
  Rico  led  the  group  upstairs.  The  second  floor  had  bedrooms,  a  kitchen,  and  the  main  room,  which
  doubled as both a living room and conference room. Rico set Shank and Thorvin to clearing up the garbage
  lying around  since  God  knew  when,  then  handed  Piper  the  datachip  from  L.  Kahn.  Piper  had  her  axe.
  They'd stopped to pick that up. She'd scan the chip, print out a hardcopy, and they could get started with the
  job.
  Piper took the chip,  but  then  slid  her  arms  around  Rico's  neck  and  said  softly,  anxiously,  "This  one
  worries me, jefe."
  Rico exhaled heavily. "We just gotta be careful, chica. I think we're  playing  with  big  boys  this  time.
  Some damn megacorp."
  She nodded. "I'll get to work."
  "Good idea."
  Rico  checked  on  supplies:  food,  ammunition,  other  gear.  The  devil  rats  in  the  basement  had  been
  working on the  power  lines,  so  he  got  Thorvin  down  there  to  patch  things  up.  When  he  returned  to  the
  second floor, he found Piper sitting on the sofa, axe in her lap. Her eyes rose to meet his.
  "Got something?" he asked.
  "Surikov," Piper said. "Ansell Surikov. That's who they want us to get."
  7
  Everybody wanted something.
  That's  why  the  crowds  stood  waiting  outside  the  old  stadium  beneath  the  giant  TV/3V  screen
  advertising  Chromium  Retrosocket,  coming  soon.  That's  why  so  many  thousands  of  people  jammed  the
  Main Line along Bloomfield Avenue through the western half of Sector 3. And that's why Monk  stood  in
  the middle of the traffic lanes, amid a teeming mass of people, with six-story tall coffin hotels on the left and
  decrepit ferrocrete tenements on the right, all ablaze with flickering, flashing neon signs.
  Just a few steps in front of him stood a man on a plastic crate. "What's wrong with society?" the man
  shouted, waving a sheaf of hardcopy. "Too much coercion! Corporate, government, economic coercion! No
  one  can  escape  it,  not  the  squatters,  not  the  salarymen,  not  the  execs,  not  even  the  SINless!  Coercion
  dooms us all to sterile and empty lives, years with no hope, no goals and no end!
  "Neo-anarchism is the only answer! the only way humanity can  throw  off  the  chains  of  oppression!
  Transcend its degeneracy and rise up out of the mire of the new corporate feudalism!
  "We must unite in common cause and seek Pareto optimality!"
  Monk frowned.
  Pareto what?
  A bit further along was a woman shoving a pushcart  up  the  street  while  she  hawked  weevo  warts,
  which, when applied with a solution of three percent  sodium  bicarbonate,  would  make  all  men  handsome
  and virile and all women beautiful and fertile.
  Weevo warts ... Monk wondered what those were.
  After that came pyramids and crystals, positive and negative ion  generators,  a  grow-your-own-clone
  booth, a tarot reader, a palmist, a noodle stand, cheap body  organs  and  cyberware,  another  noodle  stand,
  soykaf, a Sidewalk Doc, and a group of masked men big enough to be orks,  all  wearing  the  black  hoods,
  jumpsuits, gloves, and boots of the Sanitation Department.
  "Where's the stiff?" one shouted.
  Monk tried not to pass judgment. The writer's business was to watch and listen. To learn the patterns
  of the world and reveal them to others. To do that, he had be like a sponge. He had to soak up everything,
  remember it, and eventually find ways to explain the seeming randomness of existence to others, regardless
  of the medium he used.
  One  of  these  days,  people  would  read  his  telebooks  or  watch  his  tridplays  or  experience  simsense
  performances that he had orchestrated, and they would find truth.
  And that would be a great day.
  He  could  see  it  already:  "One  Day  in  the  Life  of  the  Main  Line  Mega-market  of  the  Newark
  Metroplex!"
  Or words to that effect.
  "By Monk!"
  He grinned.
  What happened then caught him completely by surprise. From somewhere amid the noise of the street,
  
  the babble of voices, the reverb of adverts, the  rumble  of  subways  and  transitways,  the  roaring  of  boom
  boxes and the distant clatter of gunfire, he heard a kind of high-pitched whining sound, but didn't really pay
  much attention. He didn't think anything of it.
  As he turned one way, something hit him from the other direction, first in the leg, then in the hip. The
  impact itself didn't come as much of a shock. He'd been  getting  jostled  by  the  crowds  for  hours,  in  fact,
  practically every day of his life. It was what followed that took away his breath.
  Whatever  had  hit  him  seemed  to  sweep  him  right  up  off  his  feet.  For  a  second  or  two  Monk  felt
  himself being carried along at near breakneck speed, arched over backward, his  arms  and  legs  flying  out
  wide into empty air. Just in passing, he noticed a few things: the blur of a neon sign advertising soykaf, the
  face of an Asian man, mouth gaping as in astonishment, eyes bulging  and  staring  down  at  him,  a  hooded
  woman battling a pair of gangers over a handbag, the rear of a fat man's bald head, a rat dashing across the
  sidewalk, threading a path through a half a hundred pairs of feet.
  There  was  that  strange  whining  sound,  too.  And  a  kind  of  exclamation,  like,  "Hey!"  Then  Monk
  suddenly realized he was in freefall. He wasn't quite sure how  that  had  happened.  It  was  really  strange.
  Like he was just  floating  in  midair.  Immune  to  gravity.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  someone  smoking  a  red
  cigarette,  then  spotted  a  patch  of  ferrocrete  wall,  then  everything  around  him  was  crashing.  He  was
  tumbling, rolling, flipping upside-down, smashing into things. His body hit the ground. That kind of hurt.
  "Are you all right?" somebody called.
  Monk wasn't sure about that. He felt kind of funny. Like he might suffocate and vomit and pass out all
  at once. He felt banged up, too. He spent a few moments just getting back into the habit of breathing. Once
  he got that down, he tried opening his eyes and looking around. The first thing he noticed  was  the  pile  of
  plastic trash cans around him. The second thing he noticed was  someone  kneeling  next  to  him.  Someone
  wearing a leopard-print jacket, pants, and boots. As another moment passed, Monk  realized  this  someone
  was female and looking  right at him. His  eyes  widened.  He  looked  at  her  more  closely.  Her  hair  was
  frizzled and wild and kept changing  colors,  winking  from  red  to  orange  to  gold  and  back  again.  She  had
  bright blue eyes, a pert nose, and lips like Cupid's  bow.  She  smiled,  looking  right  at  him,  and  showed  off
  teeth as white as... well, anything he  had  ever  seen.  She  smelled  like  a  fragrant  garden.  She  was...  she
  was...
  She was beautiful...
  "Hey, you're kinda cute."
  "Huh?"
  She giggled.
  Aches and pains faded to nowhere. Monk stared. Women never paid much attention to him. Beautiful
  women like  this  one  never  even  seemed  to  notice  he  existed.  They  weren't  interested  in  writers.  Didn't
  consider them good nesting material. They had their eyes on salarymen, execs, and the tall towers and big
  money over on the other side of the Hudson River.
  She lifted a hand to cover her mouth, then helped him sit up. She had slim little hands like a girl.
  "You must've been in another world," she said, smiling. "Didn't you hear me beep?"
  Monk frowned, wondering what she meant.
  "Hey, are you an elf?" Abruptly, she brushed at his spiky hair and leaned over as if to look at the side
  of his head, maybe at one of his ears. His ears were kind of weird. Pointy like.
  "Uh ..."
  "My father was a dwarf. Can you believe it?" She looked him in the face again, then smiled and thrust
  her arms out to her sides as if to invite him to look her over. Monk  couldn't  help  accepting  the  invitation.
  She was slim and just plain gorgeous.
  "Wuh ... wiz," he said, breathing hard.
  She giggled again, then smiled warmly, right at him. "I'm Minx," she said. "Who're you?"
  "Monk," Monk blurted.
  "Wiz!"  she  said,  softly.  "You  know,  you  remind  me  of  the  flower  children.  They  were  always  in
  another world. They were these people back in the twenty-hundreds who said we  should  make  love,  and
  mostly just that." She smiled like she thought that was funny. "And they meditated, too. A lot of them wore
  tie-dyed clothes like you."
  "Yeah?"
  "Sandals, too."
  Monk looked down at the colors splashing across his Fixe Rescue  tee,  then  down  the  lengths  of  his
  faded blue rippers to the black and red sandals on his feet. Flower children? Wasn't that what people called
  weed-eaters? elves? "I ..."
  
  "Hmmm?" Minx looked at him inquisitively.
  "I think ... something on the ... the California Channel ... about ... uh ..." What had she called it? Them
  ... "Flower children."
  Suddenly, Minx covered her face with both hands and bent forward at  the  waist.  She  was  laughing,
  Monk realized, laughing so hard that when she straightened up again she had to wipe at her eyes and gasp
  for breath. "See!" she said. "See what I mean!"
  Monk wondered about that.
  "So where do you live anyway?" Minx asked, fluffing out her hair, then smoothing it back again with
  delicate movements of her hands. She paused to look at him, and said, "Monk."
  "Huh?"
  "Wanna go to my place?"
  Monk stared, feeling a strange heat rise up the back  of  his  neck  and  into  his  face.  This  couldn't  be
  happening. This beautiful, gorgeous, captivating woman couldn't be talking like that. He must have  missed
  something,  misunderstood,  misconstrued  something  she  said.  But  then  Minx  took  hold  of  his  arms  and
  half-pulled him to his feet. She seemed pretty strong for a girl.
  And she was small, really tiny. Her head barely reached his chest and he wasn't tall at all. But it only
  made her seem more gorgeous. When she shook back her hair and looked up at him and smiled and slid her
  hands up his chest, Monk felt his heart begin to pound. Like it would leap right out of his body.
  "You're a lurker," she said. "You watch and listen. I like that."
  "Huh?"
  She laughed.
  Just a few steps away lay a red and black Honda scooter. It matched Monk's sandals. Minx pulled it
  upright, touched the starter and revved the engine. This is what had bowled him over, Monk realized. The
  scooter. "Come on, Monk, you booty," Minx said. "Get on." Booty?
  There was barely enough room. Monk eased himself onto the scooter's seat right behind Minx. There
  was no way to sit there without touching her, without feeling the soft swell of her hips against the insides of
  his thighs. The sensation was indescribable and left him feeling short of breath.
  Abruptly, Minx looked back, tossing her frizzed-out hair, and pulled his arms around her waist. "Don't
  be . shy," she said. "I'm a girl, you're a boy. Scan it?"
  "What?"
  "Hang on!"
  The scooter whined and they were  off,  flying  out  of  the  alley  and  up  the  Main  Line.  It  was  a  ride
  Monk would never forget. The scooter weaving wildly back  and  forth,  crowds  of  people  rushing  past  on
  either side. Arms and elbows and other parts of  people's  bodies  banged  off  Monk's  head,  shoulders,  and
  legs. Things began moving so quickly he couldn't keep track. It became a blur, a churning sea of people and
  buildings and the occasional vehicle, a series of near-misses that defied comprehension. Monk remembered
  the rat he'd seen threading a path through hundreds of feet just minutes ago. It was like that. No one could
  possibly steer a scooter through the crowds on the Main Line like Minx was doing, and yet she was doing it.
  A  huge  black  Department  of  Sanitation  truck  loomed  up  suddenly  before  them-the  scooter  was
  heading straight for it. In the final seconds, Monk glimpsed a crew of black-clad men tossing plastic  body
  bags into the back of the truck.
  Monk stared wide-eyed, and shouted.
  "Yaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
  In the next moment, or what seemed like the next moment, the scooter was in a back alley and purring
  to a stop. Minx slipped out of the circle of his arms and stood up.  Monk  stood  up,  too,  but  his  legs  were
  vibrating like the ground near a subway station. Minx smiled and chained the scooter  to  one  of  the  metal
  struts of the seven-story coffin hotel rising between the rear of the buildings.
  "Some ride, huh?" she said.
  "Yuh," Monk answered. "Clam."
  "Wizzer."  Minx  took  his  hand,  then  stepped  up  close.  Monk  swallowed.  "This  is  my  private  place,
  okay?" she said quietly. "So don't tell anybody you know."
  Monk shook his head.
  "You're so booty," Minx said, smoothing a hand like cool cream across his left cheek.
  Booty ...
  Abruptly,  she  was  tugging  him  by  the  hand  up  the  metal  stairs  and  onto  the  gangway  fronting  the
  fourth story of coffins. Three steps along the gangway, a pair of ork gangers were tussling, growling, and
  swearing, arms and shoulders interlocked. Minx ducked between them and  tugged  Monk  right  along  with
  
  her.
  "Hey!" one of the orks roared. "Smoothies!"
  Something swept Monk's right foot  out  from  under  him,  but  Minx  dragged  him  up  by  the  arms  and
  yanked him ahead at a run. Halfway along the gangway, she stopped, pulled out a credstick, slid the stick
  into a slot, then pulled open the hatch of a coffin. "Quick," she said.
  "I'll tear ya to bits!" somebody snarled from behind them.
  Monk didn't look back. He ducked into the coffin, banging his head on the hatchway. Minx followed,
  not banging her head, and slammed the hatch shut.
  Someone started pounding on the hatch from outside, but Monk hardly noticed. The inside of the coffin
  was wild, a deluxe cubie, with enough space to actually stand up beside the bed! Storage cabinets ran down
  the left. Telecom and trideo were set into  the  wall  opposite  the  hatchway.  The  low  bed,  the  ceiling,  and
  walls were scarlet red and covered with overlapping twenty-by-twenty five centimeter photos.
  The photos caught Monk's eye, snared his attention. They  were  amazing.  He'd  never  seen  anything
  like  mem.  The  first  few  he  looked  at,  taped  on  the  wall  above  the  bed,  looked  like  shots  of  ...  traffic
  accidents.  Bodies.  Dead  people  sprawled  across  dark-stained  pavement,  hanging  out  of  demolished
  vehicles. The next few pics he looked at seemed to have been taken inside buildings. These showed bodies,
  too. Some with missing limbs. Some missing heads.  One  or  two  didn't  look  like  bodies  at  all,  not  at  first,
  because they were so horribly mutilated they didn't look like anything even  remotely  human.  "Hey,"  Minx
  said.
  Monk  turned  around.  Something  flashed-light,  brilliant  white  light  Dazzlingly  bright.  When  his  eyes
  finally cleared and he could see again, he found Minx smiling at him, holding up a little camera for  him  to
  see.
  "Gotcha," she said, smiling.
  She had a strange look in her eyes.
  8
  The  little  night-glo  red-on-white  sign  on  the  back  alley  wall,  read,  "CyberDok:  Top  Chrome,  Vat
  Organics, Primo Rates."
  Shank touched the buzzer beside the black metal door. Momentarily, a small red bulb on the intercom
  winked to life while another one lit up on the security camera above the door. The intercom squealed and
  whistled. "We're closed," said a remodulated voice with clashing harmonics. "Slot off."
  "Open the door."
  "Shank?"
  Shank grunted. People with sec cams ought to look at their monitors.
  The door  buzzed  and  slid  aside.  Thorvin  stepped  right  through,  cutting  ahead,  brushing  Shank's  hip.
  That was typical. Shank frowned, then put out one long leg with a slight hooking motion, briefly catching the
  halfer's ankle. Thorvin tripped, stumbled, caught himself, then turned to look back and snarl, "Watch it,  ya
  freakin' tusker!"
  "Eff you," Shank growled.
  "Flatline."
  Shank grinned and followed Thorvin through the doorway into a small, dimly lit waiting room outfitted
  with  a  trio  of  molded  plastic  chairs  and  a  plastic  trash  can.  Holographic  posters  on  the  wall  advertised
  suborbital and semiballistic flights to exotic locales. That was it for decor.
  Shank figured it was enough.
  A wall panel slid aside, revealing a doorway, and a smoothie. Her name was Filly. She was big for a
  female norm, and not bad-looking either. She  wore  a  black  and  red  tee  chopped  off  just  below  where  it
  mattered, a matching thong, and a pair of black socks. Her smile looked kind of sarcastic. "Dok's into some
  slag's cerebral cortex," she said. "What's tox?"
  "We got a job," Thorvin said.
  "Nice for you," Filly replied.
  Thorvin grumbled something incoherent. Shank explained, "Rico wants you and Dok in the game."
  "Big job?"
  Shank nodded. "Heavy opposition. Some corp."
  "It's always a corp. What's the pay?"
  The pay  was  an  equal  share.  Everybody  always  got  an  equal  share  because  everybody  on  the  job
  shared an equal risk of getting dead. That was how Rico worked things. Shank wouldn't have it any other
  way.  He  told  Filly  the  numbers.  For  a  few  days'  work,  it  would  be  a  good  piece  of  change.  Assuming
  
  nobody got killed.
  "Come  on,"  Filly  said.  She  turned  to  lead  them  ahead.  Shank  moved  to  follow  her  lead,  but  again
  Thorvin scutted in before him. They followed Filly down the hall past Dok's office and examination room to
  the operating room door. Shank knew the layout, he'd been here before. The building was narrow and deep,
  and Dok and Filly had the first two floors all to themselves. For just two people, that  was  a  lot  of  space.
  Shank guessed the CyberDok business must be okay. Nobody getting really rich, but nobody starving either.
  In  fact,  Filly's  twisting,  swinging  butt  looked  pretty  damn  well-fed.  And  well-exercised  too,  not  fat,  not
  skinny, but soft and firm and nicely shaped.
  At the end of the hallway, Filly put a finger to the print-scanner on the wall, and the door to the O.R.
  slid open.
  Gleaming chrome cabinets and counters ringed the room. The operating  table  stood  at  the  center  of
  the floor. The slag lying there on his back was enclosed in a transparent isolation chamber that resembled a
  contoured coffin. A  metal  ring  surrounded  his  head  like  a  halo.  Maybe  a  dozen  skinny  rods  of  different
  lengths stuck out of the ring at different angles, and, Shank realized, out of the slag's head.
  Dok stood at the head-end of the table dressed in a black and  red  Jersey  Annihilators  Urban  Brawl
  tee,  shorts,  and  sandals.  His  silvery  slash-hair  and  beard  made  him  look  like  an  old  man,  maybe  a  little
  before his time.
  "Been scanning the Brawl, Dok?"
  Dok  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  and  grinned.  "I  do  love  to  see  the  body  parts  fly.  Hoi,  Shank.
  Thorvin."
  "Dokker," Thorvin said.
  "What're you into?" Shank asked.
  "A little gray matter," Dok replied. "You might want to keep back a few steps. I'm extracting a cortex
  bomb."
  Dok had his hands encased in a pair of gloves that extended into the isolation chamber. He seemed to
  be  slowly,  carefully  twisting  one  of  the  rods  stuck  into  the  slag's  head.  The  monitors  at  his  left  elbow
  showed different views: something that looked like a worm lying in a mass  of  goo,  something  that  looked
  like a  pin  lying  in  a  mass  of  goo,  and  various  masses  of  goo,  some  gray,  some  red,  some  yellow,  some
  colored kind of like puke.
  Shank edged a bit closer. "Ain't most cortex bombs rigged to blow if you mess with 'em?"
  "That's what they tell me."
  "What kinda charge?"
  "It looks like a Chiba Black. Probably a micro C-9 charge. A few grams of explosive."
  "So that's what? A blast radius of about half a meter?"
  "Enough to blow this slag's brain to hell."
  "Maybe a few of your fingers too, Dok."
  "It's  a  possibility.  These're  Securemed  gloves.  Kevlar  H-insulated.  I  probably  should  have  gone
  deluxe."
  On one monitor, something that looked like a pair of pliers slowly drew something that looked like an
  ant out of a mass of goo on what looked like a strand of spider's webbing.
  "What's that?" Shank asked.
  "The detonator," Dok replied.
  "You had to ask," Thorvin grumbled.
  "Rico wants us in on some job," Filly said.
  "Is that a fact?" Dok replied. "Good job, is it?"
  "Pay's okay," Filly told him.
  "We'll be busting some slag outta corp hell," Shank explained. "Least that's how it figures."
  "Wage slave making a break for freedom?" Dok asked.
  "Naw, the slag got snatched about a year ago. It's an intercorporate thing. The slag's real corp wants
  him back."
  "Does Tie want to go back?"
  "The info we got says the corp that snatched him is using threats against his wife to keep him in line. I
  don't guess he'd be too happy about that."
  "Probably not. Everything else scan okay?"
  "Piper checked what she could. You know what this drek is like. It looks chill. About the only thing left
  to do is go in and meet the slag face to face."
  "What if he doesn't want to go?"
  
  "Then I guess we're in deep squat."
  Dok looked back again and grinned. "Nothing new about that, is there?"
  "Not much," Shank agreed. "You in?"
  "I guess I could use the change."
  "Got any idea where to find Bandit?"
  Dok frowned, then said, "Good fragging question."
  Farrah Moffit knew how she looked. Even lying in the dark of the bedroom on the broad expanse of
  the black satin-wrapped bed, she could see her own image clearly, as if reflected in a mirror.
  In a sense, she had become a caricature of herself. Her body had been blown up, filled out, reshaped,
  and pared down-all with precise surgical attention to every detail-until she resembled less  the  woman  she
  had once been than a man's lustful fantasy. A holographic dream, a vision of fleshy carnal cravings. There
  were reasons why that had been done, good reasons, and reasons she more than accepted, but  she  could
  never quite get past the idea that all  these  cosmetic  improvements  demeaned  her.  It  told  others  that  she
  probably lacked the native intelligence to get what she wanted without resorting to the lure of her body, that
  she had probably gone to bed for everything she had ever achieved. Whether that was true  or  not  hardly
  mattered. The message was clear. She saw it in people's eyes every day. Envy, resentment, contempt...
  A significant sum of nuyen had been spent on her flesh. Practically every part of her body had been
  modified  in  some  way.  Her  hair  had  become  a  veritable  forest,  lush  and  prodigious,  tumbling  over  her
  shoulders and halfway down her back. Her eyes been given such a lavish  growth  of  lashes  they  seemed
  unreal. Her lips, made voluptuous, permanently puckered. Her breasts easily large enough to equip a cow,
  perhaps two. Round and prominent. And the list went on and on. Even her skin had been changed, given a
  light golden tan that would never fade.
  She  could  hardly  move  without  being  reminded  of  the  changes,  without  some  portion  of  her  body
  making the differences plain. She supposed that, at heart, she would never be  completely  satisfied  with  it
  all. There was indeed such a thing as  too  voluptuous.  Her  shape,  her  figure,  her  entire  look  was  rather
  outrageous.
  The telecom bleeped.
  Rather  than  fumble  in  the  dark  and  risk  bending  one  of  her  luxury-length  fingernails,  permanently
  implanted, she drew a breath, and said, "Telecom answer.... Yes."
  The device bleeped again. A moment of quiet passed, then the voice of Ansell Surikov came from the
  speakers. "Darling?" he said. "Are you all right? The visual's off. You sound-"
  "I'm fine," Farrah said lightly, interrupting. She smiled and made her  voice  soft  and  expressive.  "I've
  just come out of the bath. I haven't any clothes on."
  "Oh, I see," Ansell said, sounding amused.
  "Will you be late tonight?" Farrah asked.
  "A little while longer. I'm hoping you'll still be up when I get there."
  "Aren't I always waiting when you come home?"
  "Of course you are." Ansell chuckled. "You must think me a mad fool, darling."
  "No more than I, darling."
  Ansell said he would be home soon, then wished her good-bye and broke the connection. The telecom
  bleeped  and  switched  itself  off.  Farrah  lay  there  in  the  dark  a  few  moments,  gathering  her  will,  her
  ambition, and energy, then she sat up slowly and shook back her hair.
  "Lights."
  The lights came on, the onyx lamps scattered around the room creating pinpoints of light that gradually
  swelled into a fuller illumination. Farrah rose and walked through the connecting door to her wardrobe. The
  mad fool who had called her on the telecom would be expecting a lush, sensual woman to meet him at the
  door. If instead he met a naked nymph, one with her proportions, he might have a coronary and drop dead
  at her feet. And that would be too infuriating to bear.
  It  still  surprised  her  to  consider  how  easily  she  had  made  the  transition  from  mere  wage  slave  to
  full-fledged corporate prostitute. That was such a dirty word and yet it fit so well. She found that she didn't
  care,  didn't  even  mind  the  connotations.  She'd  grown  up  in  the  corporate  environment.  For  the  sake  of
  economic reward, she'd traded practically everything she possessed to one corporate  unit  or  other  all  her
  Me. Now she had included her body as part of the arrangement. Simple as that. The recompense had been
  more than adequate, enough to turn any ordinary prostitute green and  blue  with  envy.  And  if  her  current
  project worked out, she would have nothing to worry about for a long time to come.
  The advance security team arrived to check the apartment for bugs and unauthorized personnel. That
  was  standard  procedure.  Farrah  merely  verified  that  the  three-member  team  had  the  right  corporate
  
  affiliation before letting them through the door.
  Ansell arrived ten minutes later. His personal escort remained behind in the hall.
  Farrah smiled, now wrapped in a neo-monochrome gown of scarlet red glinting with a thousand points
  of light The gown emphasized every lavish curve of her figure, baring her arms and shoulders and a striking
  depth  of  cleavage.  Ansell  gazed  at  her  for  several  long  moments,  then  dispensed  with  his  trench  coat,
  tossing it onto a nearby settee with a grand sweep of his arm.
  "You look ravishing, my dear," he said, smiling, stepping toward her.
  Farrah waited till he laid a hand  on  her  shoulder  and  leaned  close  for  a  kiss,  then,  from  behind  her
  back, she drew out a pair of crystal goblets and a bottle of Bordeaux Superieur, Chateau Haul Brion ...
  Ansell hesitated, then lifted the bottle and looked at the label. "My dear," he said with a smile, "this is
  the twenty-nineteen. It's barely coming into its prime." Farrah inclined one finely drawn brow. "Live a little."
  "Dare we?"
  Faintly, Farrah nodded, and smiled.
  It was the sort of extravagant gesture the man could not resist, Farrah knew. With a wild grin, he took
  the bottle of vintage wine in hand and declared passionately that, yes! they would break the seal this very
  evening. At once!
  His darling wife must not be denied. The impulse of the moment would be fulfilled. And one impulse
  led to others.
  The living room glimmered with soft  light.  Ansell  set  about  opening  and  decanting  the  wine.  Farrah
  drew a voluptuous 20-centimeter Montecruz Individual cigar from the humidor behind the  bar,  clipped  the
  end, then passed it unlit to Ansell.
  "The best of the best," he softly declared.
  "Only the beginning," Farrah replied.
  "Yes," Ansell replied, smiling archly. "The beginning."
  At the touch of one key, the entertainment console  initialized  a  preprogrammed  routine.  The  lighting
  dimmed. Laser light slowly waxed and waned, filling the room with brooding colors. Music arose, Arabic in
  flavor. Farrah stepped to the center of the room and began a dance, sinuous as a serpent, supple as warm,
  flowing honey.
  As Ansell laughed and applauded, Farrah reached behind her neck and opened a clasp.  His  laughter
  soon  changed  to  cries  of  delight,  for  he  obviously  knew  what  was  to  come.  Farrah's  gown  gradually
  descended into wisps of fabric adorning the lush carpeting around her feet. She continued on, now clad only
  in the skimpy costume she had worn beneath the gown. In time, she discarded that, too.
  The dance led inevitably to the bedroom.
  Ansell moaned with pleasure.
  9
  The lock wasn't complicated. Raccoon's magic fingers reached inside with ease  and found the critical
  element, a simple spring-loaded bolt. One flick and  the  bolt  was  open,  the  door  unlocked.  But  there  was
  more, an alarm, and something ... a sort of trap. Magic pervaded the frame around the door, not the door
  itself. Clever. It might have worked, too, if Raccoon weren't just as clever. Disabling the  alarm  took  only
  moments. Neutralizing the clever spell that would ... what? Cause sleep. Cause anyone opening the door to
  fall  asleep.  Neutralizing  that  took  a  few  minutes.  A  very  clever  spell,  indeed.  Yes,  a  spell  worthy  of
  Raccoon.
  When  finally  the  door  swung  open,  Bandit  paused,  watching,  listening,  breathing  deeply  of  the
  incense-laden air that came drifting into the alley. Nothing seemed amiss. It looked as though he'd defeated
  this clever combination of security. Very pleasing, very rewarding ... But, if his information was correct, the
  greater reward awaited him inside.
  He stepped through the doorway, nearly silent on plastifoam-soled shoes, and into a room that looked
  much like any other room. The light-intensifying  lenses  of  his  mask  showed  him  a  small,  crowded  space
  divided into  three  aisles  by  tall  shelf  units,  a  large  workbench,  some  cabinets,  hundreds  of  various  small
  containers,  cartons,  and  boxes.  A  storeroom.  To  his  astral  perceptions,  the  place  was  dark,  all  but
  emotionless, dead. It was made of things that were  lifeless:  plastic,  metal,  and  concrete.  Substances  torn
  from the earth and so deprived of life. If not for the radiant life energy flowing weakly through the doorway
  and the faint glimmer from a potted plant on the workbench, the place would have been pitch-black.
  The light-gathering lenses of his mask let him scan the labels on  the  containers.  He  saw  names  like
  U.C.A.S. Fetish, New Magic, Arcane Instruments, Genuine Focii. Bandit recognized the names and knew
  that the corporations they named produced nothing of any value. He moved to the door on the other side of
  
  the room, slipping through it to enter the talismonger's storefront.
  Here was life, glowing, radiating, from various points around the shop. Many of the display cases  and
  shelves were filled with tourist trinkets from the boxes in the back room: drums and rattles, knives, wands,
  crystals, phony bones, plaster shells. Pretty ornaments to amuse the ignorant Baubles and toys for children
  or relatives somewhere in Duluth. Some of the talismans and potions and painted charms  were  very  real,
  imbued with true power, shining with magical life, but none were of a quality or power that would interest
  one who followed Raccoon.
  Bandit turned to the stairs, the old wooden stairs leading up from the side of the shop to the room on
  the second floor.
  Here was the true hoard: old wooden tables and shelves and antique, glass-fronted cabinets all shining
  brightly  with  power.  What  they  said-the  derelicts  and  street  urchins  and  burnt-out  magicians  he  had
  overheard on street corners-all of it was true. Raccoon could spend many hours here examining the many
  glowing items, but that would be unwise. Bandit knew what he wanted, and it lay in plain sight, right on the
  table hi front of him.
  The Mask of Sassacus, said to  confer  great  powers  of  influence  and  persuasion,  perhaps  bound  up
  with special spells. Bandit hesitated even  to  touch  it,  but  instinct  and  desire  and  the  danger  of  discovery
  wouldn't let him hesitate for long. Cautiously, he lifted the mask in his fingertips, then held it up to his face to
  see  what  change  that  might  make  in  his  vision.  He  learned  nothing  for  his  trouble,  but  assensed  great
  power. He could almost taste the power. He would carry this mask away and learn its secrets. That would
  tell him its value.
  With great care, he slipped the ornate mask into a pouch slung from his belt. In its place, the spot left
  empty on the table, he put a small crystal dragon with glinting red eyes. Inside this decorative container was
  the powdered essence of the reproductive organs of a wyrd mantis, a giant Awakened insect of Europe.
  The powder glowed with power, but it had no value to Bandit. His magic would be tainted by anything
  with the least connection to insects or insect totems. That did not  mean  that  the  powder  had  no  value  to
  anyone else. Some might find it a very valuable commodity indeed. Maybe not as valuable as the blood of a
  dragon, the feather of a phoenix, or the horn of a unicorn, but far more valuable than anything else in this
  shop. That made it a fair exchange, more than fair, for Raccoon had no need to leave anything. Thievery,
  as some called it, was part of Raccoon's nature.
  The  room  suddenly  filled  with  -light,  brilliant  light,  as  from  a  spotlight.  This  came  from  the
  semi-transparent  tubes  crossing  the  ceiling.  Bandit  felt  the  light  like  fire.  In  one  fluid  movement,  he
  crouched low to the floor and ducked under the nearest table.
  Raccoon guided him well tonight.
  Better to hide than to fight.
  An old man entered the room. Bandit guessed it was an old man by the pair of spindly legs he espied
  through the legs of tables between him and the back of the room. He also saw a gun, an old-style revolver,
  gripped low in a gnarled hand.
  "Who's there?" a weak voice rattled. "I know you're here ... Got past my ward ... Sneaky bastard ..."
  Bandit pointed a finger and breathed a single  word.  From  the  direction  in  which  he  pointed  came  a
  muted bang and crash, followed by the quick-razor snarl of an alley cat.
  "What's this?" the old man murmured. "That old trick. I ain't falling for it."
  Bandit grinned. The old man must be a magician, and clever. Clever enough to have set the trap on the
  alley door. Indeed, as he had said, the cat in the alley illusion was an old, old trick. Raccoon used it often.
  Most people fell for it.
  "Somebody's monkeying around," the old man growled.
  Nodding, smiling broadly, Bandit reached into his coat pockets, drew out his hands, then softly blew a
  long, deep breath at the old man, simultaneously extending and opening his hands.
  "Huh?"  the  old  man  said,  "Now  what...  another..."  He  stood  unmoving  for  several  moments,  then
  yawned loudly. The spindly legs stumbled backward a few steps, slowly settled onto their knees. Finally, the
  old man came fully into view as he bent to the floor, lay down, and fell asleep.
  In a few moments, he was snoring softly and steadily, his own kind of spell used against him.
  Bandit returned to the narrow alley behind the shop. The night was dark and quiet, marked only by the
  voices of the night: the distant rumble of the subway, the passing of cars on nearby streets, the occasional
  calls of street vendors and the talk of passersby. Nothing seemed out of place.
  A brief walk took him across High Street, through Nishuane Park, jammed with the stalls and booths
  of talismongers and occultists, to Harrison Avenue. He felt like getting some food.
  In front of Seven Hexes Pizza, he noticed a gray and black van. He walked right past it  and  around
  
  the corner into the deep shadows cast by the tall ferrocrete tenements lining Sutherland. The van followed.
  As Bandit stepped into the dark recess of a tenement doorway, the van glided to a stop at the curb in front
  of him. The passenger door of the van swung open. A big ork in an armored black vest and black fatigue
  pants stepped onto the sidewalk and joined Bandit in the shadowed doorway. People called this ork Shank.
  A dwarf called Thorvin followed along.
  "Hoi, Bandit," Shank said.
  Thorvin grunted.
  Bandit watched these two closely. Their presence here roused his curiosity. They rarely came looking
  for him except when a special opportunity arose. A glance at their auras  revealed  only  that  they  seemed
  calm, untroubled, in harmony with the plex.
  "We got a job," Shank said. "Rico wants you in the game."
  Interesting. Bandit knew this Rico, too. Rico was clever, in some ways as clever as Raccoon. He had
  a  woman,  an  Asian  woman,  who  was  perhaps  more  than  she  appeared.  Not  entirely  human,  perhaps
  something other than human. She was clever, too. "The decker," Bandit said quietly. "Is she in?"
  Shank frowned, then said, "You mean Piper?"
  "Yes." That was the name.
  "Sure she's in. She and Rico're planning the run right now. You want in?"
  "Likely," Bandit said. "Good money?"
  Shank told him about the money. It was good. Bandit didn't really care.  Money was useful for buying
  food  and  renting  hiding  places,  but  that  was  all.  He  only  asked  about  money  because  it  was  expected.
  People who didn't want money were not trusted. "The run will take us where? Someplace interesting?"
  Shank nodded, slowly.  Seeming  puzzled.  "Yeah.  Sure.  I  bet  it'll  be  real  interesting.  Heavy  security.
  Some corp facility."
  "High-security facility?"
  "Ain't that what I just said?"
  Shank meant yes. This  was  very  good,  indeed.  High-security  facilities  had  high  security  in  order  to
  guard valuable  things.  Things  that  might  be  taken,  things  that  might  be  hoarded.  Or  sold.  Or  traded.  Or
  examined for what they might mean. It was difficult to know what might or might not have value with just a
  first  look,  so  many  things  had  to  be  taken  to  a  safe  place  where  they  might  be  hidden  and  examined
  carefully. Often with magic. Long magic. What the uninitiated called "ritual magic," as if such magic could
  be done by rote, without thought or inspiration.
  "You interested?" Shank asked.
  Bandit nodded, just once. "When do we start?"
  The night streamed with energy, throbbing, alive. Maurice slowly ascended, then descended, his astral
  form rising as high as the walls of the surrounding buildings, men settling down to several meters  beneath
  the black concrete of the alley. All appeared in order. The energies of the astral plane flowed smoothly and
  harmoniously. No malign species of phantom or magically active being seemed to be in the vicinity.
  There  was  of,  course,  one  minor  fluctuation,  one  small  disturbance  in  the  flux  of  astral  space,
  originating from within the warehouse to his right, but this he had expected.
  He had come prepared.
  He returned to his physical body, his mundane form. This  brought  him  a  sense  of  dissatisfaction,  no
  less than the necessity of leaving his studies tonight in order to "practice" his Art in the sordid world of the
  mundane. As he regained his sense-awareness  of the physical plane, he sat once again  in  the  rear  of  his
  Mercedes  limousine.  The  limousine  waited,  lights  out,  in  an  alley  off  some  street  in  Sector  2,  near  the
  airport, the ocean terminals and piers. "Biffs remain in the car," he said. The five women sharing the rear of
  the limo with him grumbled briefly in discord. Much as he might have expected. They were his wives. They
  attended to the innumerable inconsequential details of daily living, thereby freeing him to pursue his arcane
  inquiries. They had also produced a number of children, who, in time, would also serve him. They expected
  to accompany him everywhere, imagining that their service to him earned them various inalienable rights.
  On a night like this, when certain  undeniable  facts  of  existence  invaded  the  hallowed  domain  of  his
  research, he would grant no latitude, tolerate no dissension. The biffs would do as he said or else face the
  consequences.  Fortunately  for  all  of  them,  Daniella,  his  first  wife,  had  the  capacity  of  understanding  to
  order them all into silence.
  Daniella would keep them in line.
  With  one  meticulously  manicured  finger,  Maurice  pointed.  The  door  to  his  right  clicked  and  swung
  open.  The  faint  shimmering  in  the  air  by  the  limo's  ceiling  drifted  out  through  the  open  door.  Maurice
  followed it outside.
  
  The night was cool, the air rank with offensive odors. The ground vibrated faintly as with the distant
  rumble of machinery or passing subway trains.  Maurice  tucked  his  ivory-handled  walking  stick  under  his
  arm and tied the sash of his dark, caped coat A trivial exertion of will returned him to his astral perceptions.
  He found his ally, radiant with etheric energy, facing him from just an arm's length away.
  The ally, recently summoned, was proving to possess a peculiar blend  of  naivete"  and  eccentricities.
  Though  bound  to  Maurice's  will,  his  service,  the  spirit  showed  signs  of  developing  a  uniquely  willful
  personality. It preferred to be addressed as a female. With Maurice's permission, it had assumed an astral
  form  like  that  of  a  curvaceous  young  white  woman  with  long,  gold-brown  hair,  and  wearing  a  flowing
  halter-top dress that fell to mid-calf. It wished to be called "Vera Causa." Maurice found this troubling.
  The spirit spoke to him mind-to-mind, asking, Your desire, master?
  Guard, Maurice thought.
  Yes, master, the spirit replied. I guard you always. Master is kind and spirits are grateful.
  Indeed.
  Returned to his mundane physical perceptions, Maurice extended his walking stick and moved up the
  alley. To his right the big black metal door of a warehouse stood partly open. He paused to examine both
  door and doorway, which appeared to be unguarded, astrally and otherwise. Master,  be cautious,  his ally
  warned. Danger here. Much violence.
  That was certainly true.
  The open doorway led directly to a landing at the top of a flight of stairs. A faint luminescence from
  the  radiance  of  the  surrounding  city  carried  in  through  the  doorway  to  dimly  illuminate  the  landing.  The
  stairs,  however,  descended  into  pitch  blackness.  Maurice  called  forth  his  magelight  with  a  flick  of  one
  finger. The light swelled radiant and full, growing from a mere pinpoint to the size of a globe mounted atop
  the head of Maurice's stick.
  Lifting the stick out before him, Maurice descended the stairs. Again, his ally warned of danger, of the
  violence that lingered here. Maurice knew the source of this violence. It was the man he had come to see.
  The  stairs  led  into  a  corridor  unlit  but  by  Maurice's  magelight.  Some  distance  ahead  another  door
  waited partly open. Maurice paused to examine it, then stepped through.
  That put him in the main chamber, a room two or three times the size of the average simsense theater.
  At the distant end burned a single candle. Just beyond the candle's small flame stood a man stripped to the
  waist. He had a mass  of  wavy  blonde  hair  and  a  well-muscled,  athletically  proportioned  body.  He  stood
  with  his  feet  together,  arms  at  his  sides,  face  turned  toward  the  black  of  the  ceiling  hanging  closely
  overhead.
  Behind  the  man,  Maurice  perceived  the  huddled  form  of  a  woman,  nude.  Quite  dead.  "You  come
  again."
  The voice carried quietly throughout the space. It was that of the man. He went by many names, but,
  as Maurice knew, bis real name was Claude Jaeger. His aura was a seething torrent of dark-hued energies.
  Maurice had encountered homicidal maniacs with clearer auras, but Jaeger was far more  dangerous  than
  any lunatic killer. Death clung to him, not hie a leech, but as the source of bis power.
  With  a  shout,  Jaeger  suddenly  turned  and  lashed  out,  perhaps  with  a  kick.  The  movement  was  so
  swift, Maurice could not be certain. A dark shape to Jaeger's right, about the sire and shape of a fire door,
  rang  like  a  bell.  Sonics  slapped  the  walls  of  the  surrounding  chamber  and  reverberated.  The  door,  or
  whatever it was, fell to the floor, clanging loudly, separating into two pieces.
  "Does this form of exercise please you?"
  Jaeger turned toward Maurice with a face as cold as the concrete underfoot. "It is not exercise,"  he
  said. "And, yes, it pleases me greatly." He paused for a moment, men said, "Would you care to try? I have
  another door."
  Maurice considered briefly, then dismissed the thought Jaeger followed the path of  a  child,  that  of  a
  physical adept His art, as he called it, was devoted to improving his physical power. His exercises included
  breaking  inanimate  objects  and  living  bodies  such  as  human  beings.  The  practice  of  the  art  eluded
  explanation for the simple reason that the art itself was absurd. It was eminently practical, no doubt but had
  no value beyond the purely mundane. Jaeger himself was like a weapon, effective, but essentially devoid of
  the desire for truth or for anything more than mere physical stimulation.
  "We have work," Maurice said.
  "What work?" Jaeger snapped harshly.
  Maurice ignored the intemperate tone. He had  difficulty  enough  trying  to  decide  how  he  might  best
  elaborate, what words would achieve the desired effect. As a general rule, the spoken word displeased him.
  Speech could be unbearably precarious, intolerably inexact. He much preferred the mathematical precision
  
  of the arcane arts, the One True Art. It alone could be trusted.
  Quietly,  and  precisely,  he  said,  "Our  client  is  staging  a  sensitive  operation.  We  are  to  back  up  the
  back-up, you might say. In case something should go wrong."
  Softly, resonantly, Jaeger chuckled. "I would say it in terms very different from those, mage."
  Maurice supposed that was so.
  10
  Unlike the old, three-story brick building on Mott Street, the big CMC stepvan really did belong to the
  New Jersey Consolidated Light and Power Corporation. It was painted in the corporate colors of blue and
  yellow, marked with various ID numbers, and loaded with equipment.
  New Jersey C.L. & P.  had  lost  track  of  the  stepvan  for  the  moment,  Piper  had  arranged  for  that.
  According to her, the corp had one of the worst matrix security systems of all the corps in the Jersey-New
  York megaplex, but whether that was true or the corp just wasn't up to her standards, Rico didn't know. In
  the end, it probably didn't matter.
  Rico took the passenger-side seat, braced one foot against the dash, and gave Shank a nod. Shank hit
  the remote that  set  the  big  bay  door  in  front  of  them  to  trundling  up,  then  drove  them  toward  Doremus
  Avenue, at the north end of the port, where they picked up the Jersey Turnpike.
  It was just  after  23:30  hours.  The  truck  lanes  were  laden  with  heavy,  swift-moving  traffic-massive
  two- and three-trailer tandem rigs,  container  rigs,  Roadmaster  articulated  and  straight  trucks,  cargo  vans
  and stepvans. Rico turned his head to glance back at the trio on the bench seat to his rear: Bandit, Filly, and
  Dok. Like him and Shank, they were outfitted with day-glo orange hardhats and vests, all marked for C. L.
  &  P.  The  five  of  them  were  just  another  repair  crew  in  a  sludge-bloated  ocean  of  technicians  and
  crumbling infrastructure. No one would look at them twice.
  The highway carried them across the Passaic River and onto the Kearny Peninsula, one of the most
  heavily industrialized areas in the plex. Rail yards, factories, storage tanks, and warehouses, all constructed
  on a mammoth scale, slid past on either side of the highway. The warning lights of factory stacks and the
  flame-stroked steeples of chemical plants rose high into the orange-phosphorous glow of the night.
  Another  bridge  and  the  Hackensack  River,  then  into  Secaucus,  another  industrial  zone,  this  one
  sprawling up the  backbone  of  Jersey  and  Union  Cities,  and  on  up  the  Hudson  to  well  beyond  the  G.W.
  Bridge.
  The backside of Union City was far enough.
  Shank turned the stepvan down the ramp to Paterson Plank Road, then up West Side Avenue.
  North of the sewage plant, the road became a broad boulevard. It was a kind of Executive Row, like a
  little  slice  of  Manhattan  tucked  in  between  chemical  and  food  processing  plants  and  the  compacted,
  decaying  streets  of  Union  City's  Zone  2,  West  New  York.  Broad  plazas  glowed  with  light.  Fountains
  glittered and sparkled. Shining towers rose like polished chrome from the  halos  about  their  foundations  to
  dominate the skyline.
  Just  past  Sixty-ninth  Street,  Shank  slowed  the  stepvan,  flipped  on  the  amber  warning  blinkers,  and
  swung the vehicle across the boulevard. He drove the truck, one wheel at a time, up over the curb and onto
  the  gold-lit  plaza  set  in  front  of  the  imposing  headquarters  of  Shiawase  Compudyne,  a  division  of  the
  Shiawase  Corporation  of  Kyoto,  Japan.  There  was  one  very  important  feature  of  Compudyne's  North
  American operations. Rico stepped from the stepvan  to  find  it  right  there  beside  the  truck.  Set  amid  the
  golden tiles of the plaza was the round black insert of a manhole cover.
  Shank  tugged  the  cover  up  and  dragged  it  aside.  Dok  and  Filly  began  setting  up  the  requisite
  safety-orange  guardrail  to  surround  the  open  hole  and  then  pulled  out  the  orange-and-red-striped
  compressor that  would  pump  fresh  air  into  the  hole.  Rico  opened  a  Sony  palmtop  computer  marked  for
  New Jersey C. L. & P., paused to glance around the plaza, then began tapping the palmtop's keys.
  Five minutes passed. Shank climbed down the hole and into the utility passage  under  the  plaza.  Dok
  and Filly passed several duffel bags of gear down to him, then began setting up  the  air  compressor.  Rico
  was still tapping the palmtop's keypad when some slag came out of the Shiawase headquarters building to
  investigate.
  The slag wore a suit and a plastic-laminated ID marked for Shiawase Compudyne security. Rico kept
  tapping keys on the palmtop till the man stepped up beside him.
  "What's tox?" the security officer asked. "There a problem?"
  Rico paused to look the slag up and down, then went on  tapping  the  palmtop's  keys.  "Central  office
  says we got a trickle discharge on a Kay-seven quad feeder. Probably just rats, but we gotta scan it. Might
  take a couple of hours."
  
  "You got a work order or something?"
  "That's top secret," Rico replied. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to waste you."
  The guard looked at him sharply. "What?"
  No sense of humor. Frowning, Rico looked at the slag again, and said, "Yeah, I got an order. What's it
  to you?"
  "Just doing my job, chummer."
  "What job?"
  "Shiawase security." The slag pointed at the ED slung from his lapel. "Maybe you're really eco-freaks
  planning to terror-bomb the place. Gotta scope it out. You scan?"
  Rico grinned sarcastically and shook his head. "You freaking guys are all alike." He tapped some keys
  on the palmtop. "You wanna see my order? Here's my order. You can call that number there if you wanna
  scan it deep."
  "Thanks." The slag looked at the palmtop's display, then pulled an  ultrathin  cellfone  out  of  his  jacket
  pocket "This'll just take a sec, chummer."
  "Null sheen. I get paid working or talking."
  The line rang twice.
  "Thank  you  for  calling  the  repair  bureau  of  New  Jersey  Consolidated  Light  and  Power.  All  our
  customer service representatives are busy. Please hold the line and the next available representative-"
  "Repair operations. Jane speaking. May I help you?"
  "Yeah, hoi, my name's Mike Kosaka. I'm with the security department of Shiawase Compudyne. I've
  got one of your crews on my premises. I'd Wee to verify what they're doing here."
  "Whenever repair crews are dispatched, sir, they are issued a work order code. Please ask the crew
  supervisor for that code."
  "Uhh ... hang a sec ... That'd be gee as in gulf, two-four-nine-oh-seven-five."
  "One moment, sir."
  "Sure."
  "... That is a valid work order code, sir. Repair supervisor Ramos and his crew have been dispatched
  to  your  location  to  investigate  a  suspected  line  malfunction.  This  should  not  involve  any  interruption  of
  service  to  your  facility.  Estimated  time  for  completion  is  approximately  four  hours.  Have  you  any  other
  questions, sir?"
  "Ah, nope. That'll do it. Thanks."
  "Thank you for calling New Jersey Consolidated Light and Power."
  "You happy now?" Rico said.
  The security officer smiled and nodded. "Thanks for your time."
  "I get paid for working or talking," Rico said. The security officer nodded again and turned to go. Rico
  looked to Dok and Filly, and said, "Let's get that air line going."
  Filly plugged the orange-and-red-striped air compressor's power line into the socket on the side of the
  van, and the compressor sputtered to life.
  A smartframe handled the telecom call-a program construct requiring only a modest amount of active
  memory. The moment the call was complete, the frame switched itself off.
  By then, Piper was  streaming  down  the  datalines  of  the  Secaucus  Local  Telecommunications  Grid.
  The  planar  geography  of  the  matrix  here  reflected  the  real-world  terrain.  System  constructs  like  giant
  factories and massive towers rose  toward  the  starry  dark  and  the  distant  nebula  of  access  nodes  to  the
  regional grid. Piper noted the hexadecimal addresses passing around her, then cut a hard left to the matrix
  equivalent of Executive Row.
  Constructs like office towers and mansions soared up around her. The one she wanted looked like  a
  small  castle  crowned  with  a  decahedral  globe,  the  insignia  of  Kuze  Nihon,  a  multinational  conglomerate
  headquartered  in  Tokyo.  The  castle  itself  and  the  computer  systems  it  represented  belonged  to  Maas
  Intertech, headquartered off West End Avenue in Secaucus.
  Piper drove straight at it They wouldn't see her coming.
  Once the slag in  the  suit  departed,  a  pair  of  guards  in  crisp  blue  uniforms  appeared  hi  front  of  the
  paired doors of the main entrance of Shiawase Compudyne. The obvious implication was that Shiawase had
  decided, for whatever reason, to tighten up security a little, or at least put on a nice show. The guards stood
  there like soldiers on parade. They didn't bother Rico one bit.
  Tune to start breaking some laws. Rico didn't care much about the law, because the law worked for
  the corps and the people who wrote the laws, the ones with money and power. Right was right and wrong
  was wrong. Any man with morals knew what  was  right  and  what  was  wrong,  and,  with  a  little  thought,
  
  could figure what had to be done about it. Sometimes it took a few busted laws to get things set the  way
  they should be.
  Whether the law agreed or disagreed was something for leeches like lawyers  to  argue  about  Bandit
  followed  the  last  of  the  bags  of  gear  into  the  hole.  Dok,  meanwhile,  had  dropped  the  big  orange-and
  red-striped hose from the air compressor into the hole, then joined Filly in feeding a line like a  heavy-duty
  extension cord into the hole. The air line and power cord were just stage dressing, making things look right,
  no less than Rico getting into and out of the stepvan numerous times and tapping the keys of the palmtop.
  Five minutes more and Rico put his genuine C. L. & P. hardhat on again and climbed down the metal
  rungs of the access shaft to the utility passage below.
  The  passage  was  almost  three  meters  high,  but  little  more  than  a  meter  across.  That  was  just  the
  available space. Cables, pipes, and conduits ran up one wall and down the other, making the ceiling maybe a
  half-meter lower than it otherwise would have been. Small lighting fixtures ran down the right-hand wall at
  intervals of about ten meters. These were lit.
  At Rico's feet lay several black duffels.  He  picked  up  the  one  marked  with  a  big  numeral  one  and
  started up the tunnel. Even with the bag of gear, walking was no problem. Trying to run  through  a  space
  this narrow would be another story, but Rico wasn't planning to do any running.
  About a hundred and fifty meters up the tunnel, Shank had hung an IR blackout sheet from the ceiling.
  No  one  looking  up  the  tunnel  would  see  beyond  that  sheet,  regardless  of  vision  enhancements.  Rico
  checked while approaching, shifting his Jikku eyes to IR. The sheet's only purpose was to prevent anyone
  who came down the manhole from immediately detecting what was happening beyond the sheet.
  Another hundred meters further on, a second tunnel led off to the left at ninety degrees. Shank waited
  there at the corner, suited up and ready for action: ballistic mask, flak vest, Colt M22A2 assault rifle slung
  from his shoulder, Wallacher combat axe and other gear slung from belts and crossed bandoliers.
  "Status," Rico said.
  "Don't ask me," Shank grumbled. "All he's done is stand there like that."
  Dressed in his black trench coat and wearing his sword, Bandit stood about five meters into the side
  passage. Maybe an arm's length in front of his face the tunnel ended in a brick wall. The pipes and conduits
  lining the tunnel passed right through the brick barrier.
  The plan called for Bandit to use his shaman abilities to scan ahead into the  tunnel  beyond  the  brick
  barrier. Just as a precaution. Once sure the tunnel was clear, they would take down the brick barrier. Rico
  watched Bandit and wondered. The problem was being able  to  tell  when  the  shaman  was  actually  doing
  magic, when he was out of body, and when he was just staring, thinking, maybe working out some problem.
  If there was a problem, Rico wanted to know about it now. "Bandit," he said.
  Abruptly,  Bandit  shook  his  staff.  The  elaborately  decorated  head  of  the  staff  briefly  rattled,  then
  Bandit murmured something soft and low, his voice rising and falling like a song. The song descended into
  silence.  Bandit  stood  stock-still  for  several  moments,  then  swung  his  staff  to  the  horizontal,  and  held  it
  pointing at the brick barrier.
  Nothing much seemed  to  happen.  Rico  waited  till  Bandit  turned  back  and  looked  at  him,  then  said,
  "Ready?" Bandit replied, "When you are."
  The System Access Node had the look of a spacious lobby, enormously broad, fronted by transparent
  panes, and outlined in computer-simulated representations of sizzling neon.
  Across the front of the SAN lobby, a hundred transparent doors slid open and  shut  as  datapaks  and
  message  units  in  the  form  of  green-uniformed  messenger  icons  arrived  via  the  rounded  conduits  of  a
  hundred datalines.
  Inside the lobby, the messenger icons waited on violet-shaded lines pulsing through the floor, leading to
  the service desk subprocessing unit at the head of the node lobby. White-uniformed control modules slaved
  to the SPU directing the messenger icons to the chrome-mirrored walls at the left  and  right  of  the  lobby.
  The messenger icons moved briskly up the lines, then across the front of the service desk to the sides of the
  lobby, where they vanished into the mirrored walls.
  All very orderly and precise.
  Piper  stepped  forward,  following  the  pulsing  violet  line  in  the  floor.  To  the  messenger  icon  directly
  ahead of her, she said, "Excuse me, please."
  The messenger icon looked back over its shoulder, then stepped briskly put of her way, shunting to the
  violet line to their immediate right. The message icons there adjusted position so as to maintain then: proper
  intervals. Piper advanced. The other messenger icons ahead of her in line looked back and shunted out of
  her way as well, permitting her to walk directly to the service desk SPU at the head of the node. One of the
  white-uniformed control modules there watched her approaching and bowed.
  
  Bowing  in  return,  Piper  announced,  "Priority  user  requesting  interface  with  Facility  Engineering
  subprocessing unit."
  A  window  framed  in  gleaming  orange  opened  directly  in  front  of  her  face.  The  enormous  floating
  eyeball  of  a  Watcher  7K  access  IC  gazed  directly  at  her.  Standard  U.M.S.  iconology  for  Intrusion
  Countermeasures  programs,  as  expected.  Her  own  masking  utility  was  already  on-line.  She  wore  the
  elaborate  costume  of  a  traditional  Japanese  geisha:  makeup,  hair,  kimono,  and  sandals.  Her  kimono,  a
  brilliant white, was decorated all over with the decahedral logo of Maas Intertech's parent unit, Kuze Nihon.
  The giant eyeball of the Watcher IC retreated into its window. The window closed and vanished.
  "Circuit  twenty-two  oh-five,"  said  the  white-uniformed  control  module  behind  the  service  counter,
  pointing left.
  Piper turned and followed another gleaming violet line to the wall of mirrors, then stepped straight into
  the wall. Firing herself down another dataline and out across the amber-gridded night of the Maas Intertech
  computer network.
  The run was on.
  11
  Rico motioned at the brick barrier.
  Shank stepped forward, edged past Bandit, and attacked the brick with his Wallacher combat axe. The
  brick and mortar split and crumbled like an old plaster wall in some derelict tenement. After the  first  few
  blows,  Shank  began  using  his  free  hand  to  tug  chunks  out  of  the  barrier,  the  pieces  bursting  into  dust
  between his fingers. The noise level was minimal. Rico gave Bandit an approving nod, but the shaman didn't
  seem to notice.
  Dok and Filly came hurrying along the main passage as Rico was suiting up. Kevlar mask with integral
  headset, commando-style harness, flak  jacket.  Predator  2  heavy  auto,  Ingrain  20T  submachine  gun,  both
  with integral smartlinks.
  For tonight's special work, he and the rest of the team also carried Ares Special Service  automatics,
  medium autos with silencers and extended fourteen-round clips. The  clips  held  Armamax  gel-stun  rounds
  loaded with special chemical agents. If the impact of the round didn't disable  the  target,  the  chem  agents
  would, absorbed directly into the bloodstream through armor, clothing,  skin,  and  damn  near  anything  else.
  Unconsciousness would result in about three seconds. Sometimes less. People with a dozen armor-piercing
  slugs in their meat sometimes went on shooting for longer than that, so the delay wasn't really an issue. No
  more than with any other bullet.
  And the mortality issue took precedence, in any  event.  The  Armamax  slugs  disabled  without  killing.
  Rico wasn't into  wetwork,  murder  by  another  name.  He  and  the  rest  of  the  team  would  switch  to  hard
  ammo if and when they had no other choice. When it became kill or be killed.
  But only if it came to that.
  The objective was to get in and out before anyone even  knew  they  were  there.  Smooth  as  a  teflon
  slide,  painless  as  a  razor's  slice.  Surgically  precise.  Leave  the  heavy  bang-bang  warfare  scag  to  the
  amateurs out in the streets.
  By the time Dok and Filly had their gear set and ready to go, Shank had dug a hole through the brick
  barrier almost big enough for a troll.
  Rico fingered his headset. "Time check."
  Piper replied, "Zero-one-zero-three hours."
  "Right," Rico said, glancing around at the team. "Lock and load. Namecodes only. Stay alert."
  Slides snapped and clicked. Spring-fed  ammo  clicked  into  firing  chambers.  Rico  slipped  past  Bandit
  and motioned Shank into lead position. They advanced past the ruined barrier, keeping to intervals of about
  three meters, weapons at ready. Dok and Filly would handle rear-guard. That put Bandit right in the middle,
  right where he belonged.
  This passage was just like the main one, but with one crucial difference. It led directly to the principal
  utility and  engineering  building  of  the  Maas  Intertech  facility.  The  walls  were  seeded  with  vibration  and
  motion sensors. Taking them out was part of  Piper's  job.  She  should  be  in  the  Maas  Intertech  computer
  nexus by now, doing her thing.
  If she wasn't, the five of them in this tunnel were meat.
  Every system cluster, like every individual system, had weaknesses, and those could be exploited.
  Piper's map showed that the interconnected mainframes that composed the Maas Intertech computer
  cluster had  one  serious  flaw.  R  &  D  mainframes  were  the  most  vigorously  protected,  rated  at  Security
  Code Red-4. Intrusion Countermeasures guarding the  access  nodes  to  these  systems  would  be  black,  as
  
  vicious  as  IC  ever  got.  The  corp  knew  where  its  most  important  assets  were  located  and  spared  no
  expense in defending them. The primary security mainframe, however, was merely Code Orange, tough but
  by no means impenetrable. And the main engineering system, which monitored and controlled the facility's
  physical devices such as water, light, and heat, was only moderately defended by Code Green security. And
  that was the cluster's flaw.
  Besides  controlling  heat  and  light,  elevators,  automatic  doors,  and  the  like,  the  primary  engineering
  mainframe was also responsible for  such  operations  as  supplying  power  to  security  monitors  and  related
  devices. The flaw that Piper would exploit.
  The sculpted interior of the engineering CPU  had the look of a power station control room or maybe
  the bridge of a trideo starship. The heart of the node took the form of a chief engineer  icon  seated  at  an
  immense, semicircular control console. An array of huge display screens ranged across the walls facing this
  console. Data blazing like electric neon streamed continuously across the wall displays and the main console
  displays. From millisecond to millisecond, the chief engineer icon would reach out with a stark white hand to
  adjust some console control or to enter a brief series of commands via the console keyboard.
  As Piper crossed the threshold of the CPU node, a window outlined in brilliant green opened directly in
  front  of  her  face.  The  enormous  eye  of  another  Watcher  IC  access  program  faced  her  squarely.  Her
  masking utility had already changed her iconic appearance. She now wore the dark gray zipsuit of a Maas
  Intertech exec. The identity card clipped to the lapel of her jacket read, in big bold print, PRIORITY USER,
  CLEARANCE AA. The window closed, the Watcher vanished. Piper stepped up behind the chief engineer
  icon. This icon ignored her. Representing the most crucial decision-making circuits at the core of the CPU,
  it  relied  on  Intrusion  Countermeasures  to  defend  it  from  harm.  It  lacked  both  the  ability  to  identify
  unauthorized intruders into the node and the capability to do anything about them.
  Piper initialized a custom combat utility. She called it Power Play.  In  the  consensual  hallucination  of
  the matrix, she drew an enormous, gleaming, chrome automatic pistol with a muzzle the size of her fist and
  put it against the back of the chief engineer's head. In another version of this reality, thirty megapulses of
  command/override program code infected and interpenetrated the firmware programming of the CPU.
  The chief engineer icon hesitated, turning its head just slightly as if to look back at her.
  "I'm in charge," she told it.
  "Affirmative," the icon replied. "Instructions?"
  "Continue normal functions. Do not interfere with any modifications I may make to system operations.
  Do not initiate any special activities or security alerts without my approval."
  "Affirmative."
  The chief engineer returned to making adjustments of the various controls. Piper reached out with her
  free hand and tapped a key on the console. One of the huge display screens on the walls facing the console
  went black, then blazed with light as the stark white iconic face of the security CPU came into view.
  "Identify," the security CPU said.
  "Engineering CPU," Piper replied.
  "I don't recognize your icon."
  "Manual  override  has  been  invoked.  Authority  assistant  director  Facility  Engineering,  code
  seven-seven-nine-four-nine,  clearance  double-A.  Facility  engineering  is  marking  power  systems
  microanomalies and is now beginning level-one manual and computer-directed diagnostic checks."
  "I understand."
  "Be advised that facility technicians will be performing unscheduled maintenance in utility passage One
  Main at zero-zero-four-five hours, and in other utility passages and service corridors throughout the facility.
  Disregard all sensor alerts from these locations until further notice. Engineering personnel are  on  site  and
  will advise when the situation has been corrected."
  "Acknowledged."
  "End of line."
  Piper broke the link with the security CPU, then spent something less than a millisecond shutting down
  the  security  sensors  in  utility  passage  One  Main  and  other  locations  critical  to  Rico  and  the  rest  of  the
  penetration team.
  It was just a matter of pushing the right virtual keys.
  From  five  thousand  feet,  the  plex  looked  like  a  dark  ocean  of  hazy  orange,  lit  by  the  brilliant  red
  strokes of fire at the top  of  chemplant  stacks  and  the  hundred  million  glinting,  gleaming  lights  of  towers,
  buildings, and plants.
  The Hughes Stallion helo cruised smoothly through the spectral dark.  Inside  the  chopper's  command
  deck Thorvin kept his sensors moving, his throttle back. No need to rush. Not yet Direct-vision overlays cut
  
  up the terrain below into its discrete parts: Jersey City to the south, Newark to the southwest, Union City,
  the Hudson River, and Manhattan to the east, the Passaic-Ridgefield sprawl directly to the north.  Thorvin
  noted that in passing. He had plotted a hexagonal course around the Secaucus industrial zone. He watched
  his course and kept his sensors searching for any suspicious air traffic.
  The comm cut into his thoughts, first, a beep, then Rico saying, "Beta ... time check."
  What freaking time was it anyway?
  Didn't matter...
  Thorvin checked his radar and navcomp, initialized the chopper's autopilot, then flipped the main switch
  on his remote-vehicle multiplex controller.
  No more helicopter.
  Instead, he had the body of a Sikorsky-Bell Microskimmer, a kind of saucer-shaped drone the size of a
  trash can lid. Sensors provided a full, 360-degree global view of everything around him, disorienting, but only
  for a moment.
  Dok and Filly were just then lifting him free of the carrypak strapped to Shank's back and setting him
  down on the floor, which looked like ferrocrete. The penetration team was to one of the underground utility
  tunnels  beneath  the  Maas  Intertech  facility.  From  a  few  centimeters  above  the  floor,  the  top  of  the
  skimmer's sensor pod, Shank still looked like a dumb trog.
  "Beta," Rico said, "Take point."
  No problem.
  Thorvin wound up his turbofans and slid forward, weaving around the ankles of Shank and Rico  and
  advancing to the end of the passage.  Directly  ahead  was  a  cavernous  labyrinth  of  massive  conduits  and
  equipment rising three stories from the floor, all rumbling like a roadtrain on a quicksilver run.
  This was Maas Intertech's power and water hub. Thorvin shot straight for the ceiling,  then  vectored
  right for a quick recon. Security cameras had every service aisle and catwalk under surveillance, but  that
  was Piper's problem. Thorvin's problem was the odd dozen technicians moving throughout the hub.
  He contacted Rico via direct laserlink to guide the penetration team through the maze.
  The cat-and-mouse game couldn't last. There were too many techs and they never seemed to stay in
  one spot for more than a couple of moments. Sooner or later, one or more of them would turn the  wrong
  way and see the wrong thing. Rico knew it-it was inevitable-but he played the game as long as  he  could.
  The longer he  and  the  team  went  without  putting  people  down,  without  doing  anything  that  would  rouse
  'suspicions, the better their chances of getting out of this alive.
  They were moving up a service aisle between conduits at least half a meter in  diameter,  stacked  up
  two stories on both sides of the aisle, when Thorvin reported, "Contact ahead, passage right, three meters
  in."
  No choice, no alternate routes, ho time to wait for the contact to wander away. Rico tapped Shank's
  shoulder  to  get  his  attention,  then  quickly  pointed  and  gestured  to  indicate  the  new  threat,  somewhere
  around  the  corner  of  the  passage  coming  up  on  the  right.  The  instant  Shank  nodded,  Rico  turned  and
  motioned Bandit forward. A quick whisper and Bandit nodded, then did something with his hand.
  About five meters ahead of them, something banged and clanged. That was followed by what sounded
  like the sharp, shrill shriek of an alley cat.
  "What the frag was that?" a man exclaimed.
  A big slag wearing a gray and blue technician's jumpsuit stepped into the aisle just ahead, first looking
  up the aisle, then back.
  Rico saw the man's eyes widen, but Shank was ready, crouching,  Ares  Special  Service  gripped  and
  uplifted in two big blocky hands. The weapon thumped. The  technician  grunted,  lifting  a  hand  toward  his
  ribs, then stumbled and collapsed.
  "Larry?" a woman called. "Larry! Oh-!"
  A woman in the same style jumpsuit stepped hurriedly into the aisle, bending  toward  the  fallen  man.
  Shank fired again. The woman jerked, falling onto her hands and knees, then, head lolling,  slumped  to  the
  floor.
  Here was one advantage of soft ammo. The two techs would be out for maybe an hour, but nothing
  about them gave any obvious evidence as to what had happened. No damage to clothes, no apparent signs
  of injury. Nothing that would necessarily instigate a full-scale security alert. The pair could have passed out
  drunk. Inside this power and water hub,  they  could  conceivably  have  contacted  some  toxic  substance  or
  even high-voltage electric and been accidentally stunned or knocked unconscious. Whoever found the fallen
  techs  would  probably  take  a  long,  hard  look  at  the  surrounding  pipes  and  equipment  for  signs  of  some
  technical malfunction. That was good because it would waste time, and one man's loss was another man's
  
  gain.
  Before this was over, they'd need every millisecond of advantage they could get.
  Control of the engineering CPU  was  just  the  beginning.  By  manipulating  aspects  of  the  engineering
  mainframe, Piper could extend her control and manipulate other aspects of the Maas Intertech facility that
  might impinge on the run.
  The  chief  engineer  icon,  the  critical  circuits  of  the  engineering  CPU,  was  now  working  for  her
  voluntarily. In addition to preforming its usual duties, it was monitoring the progress of the penetration team,
  it was  also  disabling  security  monitors  and  sensors  in  an  ostensibly  random  pattern  designed  not  only  to
  safeguard the team and prevent discovery, but also to conceal the team's objective.
  Abruptly, a warning tone sounded.
  "Medic alert," the chief engineer informed. "Automated signal. Sublevel two, section seven, Advanced
  Water Purification unit."
  "Intercept the signal," Piper said.
  "Negative. Signal dispatched via radiolink. Facility MedStat responding, E.T.A. three minutes."
  That was too fast, because the site  of  the  alert  was  too  near  the  penetration  team's  location.  Piper
  brought up facility maps on the big display screens on the walls. The  Maas  Intertech  emergency  medical
  unit  responded  from  a  central  suite.  They  would  have  to  enter  the  Engineering  Facility  through  a
  ground-floor entrance. "Cut power to all north-facing ground-level  entranceways  and  lobbies  for  the  next
  five  minutes.  Advise  security  CPU  that  we  are  experiencing  scattered  power  outages  related  to  the
  anomalies detected earlier. Also, reroute all priority A, double-A, and triple-A engineering terminals to the
  database management CPU."
  "Acknowledged,"  the  chief  engineer  replied.  "Executing.  Except  I  don't  have  authority  to  reroute
  triple-A priority terminals."
  "If you had that authority, which key would you use?"
  "The big red one there."
  Piper reached over and tapped it.
  Utility Passage  Nine  Main  led  out  of  the  north  end  of  the  engineering  building  and  into  a  series  of
  auxiliary tunnels leading to the engineering sublevel of Residence Quad One, which was composed of four
  residence towers rising to fourteen stories.  The  majority  of  Maas  Intertech's  corporate  citizens  and  their
  families lived on-site in this and other quad condoplexes.
  The game of avoiding facility technicians  ended  at  the  service  hatch  for  Elevator  Three  West.  The
  hatch swung open as they approached. That was Piper's doing.
  The inside of the elevator shaft was about twelve meters square-not a lot of room for five bodies that
  included a husky ork and  a  shaman  who  didn't  seem  to  be  paying  complete  attention-but  they'd  all  been
  through this drill before.
  Secure  hatchway.  Secure  weapons.  Secure  kevlar-reinforced  web-straps  to  body  harness.  Crouch
  low and wait.
  They didn't have to wait long.
  Cables  along  both  sides  of  the  shaft  began  to  move.  A  low-pitched  humming  carried  down  from
  above. Rico's microchip-enhanced vision drew the image out of the darkness. The elevator above them was
  descending, dropping down fast from something like the eighth floor. It didn't stop till it was just centimeters
  above Rico's head, about half a ton of metal just hanging there, waiting.
  They went to work.
  This elevator car, like most, had a solid steel floor designed to absorb impact. Cutting a  hole  through
  that would take time, minutes they couldn't afford. The run was  already  twenty  minutes  old,  fifteen  from
  first penetration. By the odds, they didn't have much time left.
  A  soft  electronic  tone  sounded  inside  Rico's  headset,  followed  by  Piper's  voice:  "Time  is
  zero-one-two-eight." That was a warning, and it echoed the warning of Rico's own instincts. It meant that
  things were happening in  the  Maas  Intertech  computers  that  would  inevitably  lead  to  some  kind  of  alert
  condition. Not right this minute, but soon enough. When it happened, whatever happened, they'd better  be
  on their way out.
  The  strap  now  connected  to  Rico's  body  harness  ended  in  an  industrial-grade  suction  cup.  Rico
  slapped  the  cup  against  the  bottom  of  the  elevator,  pulled  the  cup's  metal  latch  and  locked  it.  The  cup
  flattened out against the steel of the elevator. Rico bent his knees till his whole body weight pulled on  the
  cup. It held.
  The moment the rest of the team was ready, Rico keyed his headset. "Time check."
  
  "Time is zero-one-two-nine."  The  elevator  hummed  and  ascended.  The  floor  of  the  shaft  fell  away
  quickly. Hanging from a single thin strap, having nothing to grab on to if the suction cup or strap gave way
  helped make it seem that way.
  Two stories up, then three. The saucer-shaped drone Thorvin had running followed them right up the
  shaft, hovering maybe a meter beneath their feet. Rico looked up, but there was nothing to see but the flat
  steel plate of the elevator. Four stories, five, then six. Almost there. Rico drew his Ares automatic. At his
  right elbow, Filly did the same.
  Seven stories.
  "Stand by for landing," Rico said.
  The elevator slowed, then stopped, perfectly positioned. They hung directly in front of the doors to the
  ninth floor. Rico braced his feet against the edge of flooring at the bottom of the doors and lifted the Ares,
  gripped two-handed. Filly Mowed suit. A moment passed, then several more. The doors didn't open.
  Shank grunted. Impatient.
  Maybe  half  a  minute  went  by,  time  they  couldn't  afford  to  lose.  Either  Piper  was  having  serious
  problems in the matrix and couldn't spare the time to pop the doors, or there was another problem. Maybe
  people in the hallway outside. Maybe security personnel. Maybe an alert had been declared.
  The only way to find out without risking more radio traffic was to get-
  "A man and a woman," Bandit said. "Up the hall. On the left."
  "What're they doing?" Rico asked.
  "They're bored."
  "Bored like guards standing watch?"
  "Maybe."
  Rico gave it a minute. They couldn't afford to do anything that might give them away, but neither could
  they wait. Someone would find the techs they'd put  down.  Someone  would  notice  an  elevator  apparently
  gone out of service. Someone  would  consider  a  bunch  of  seemingly  unconnected  events,  have  a  sudden
  flash of intuition,  and  hit  the  PANICBUTTON.  The  longer  they  waited,  the  more  likely  that  became.  It
  posed a danger to Piper as well. A decker could die in the matrix. And this was a classic case  of how that
  might come about.
  The minute ticked off. Nothing changed.  Rico  made  the  unavoidable  decision.  "Right.  We  advance.
  Four, take left, I take right. Two and Three, stand by to jump."
  Filly acknowledged.
  Rico keyed his headset "Alpha, pop the doors on my mark. Counting two, one, mark."
  The  doors  slid  smoothly  apart,  revealing  the  hallway  beyond,  extending  out  maybe  fifty  meters.
  Standing in front of a doorway about halfway along on the left were a  male  and  a  female  in  loose-fitting
  gray suits and black mirrorshades.
  As Rico brought his Ares into line, his smartlink put a gleaming red triangle over the male's chest. The
  auto thumped once. Filly's auto thumped at nearly the same instant. The male fell to his knees, then rolled
  onto his back. The female went down like a bag of rocks.
  Thorvin's drone flashed past, humming.
  Dok and Shank swung themselves forward, planted their feet on the floor of the hallway, popped their
  harnesses and then knelt down, training their automatics up the hallway to provide cover.
  Once they were set, Rico  followed  them  out,  with  Filly  close  behind.  The  two  of  them  then  turned
  back to tug Bandit clear of the elevator shaft. Filly reached out and popped Bandit's harness. It was a few
  precious moments, but that couldn't be helped. Bandit tended to do things in one of two ways, like an expert
  or  a  dunce.  Left  to  himself,  he'd  probably  hang  there  under  the  elevator  for  a  couple  of  hours  before
  figuring out how to get out and then actually getting around to doing it.
  Rico  reminded  himself,  not  for  the  first  time,  that  the  shaman's  strengths  far  outweighed  his
  weaknesses. And everybody had weaknesses. It was built-in.
  Inside the brilliant cube of the Engineering CPU, a window outlined in green suddenly opened and the
  giant eye of a Watcher program gazed straight into Piper's face.  Things were starting  to  happen  now,  all
  over  the  Maas  Intertech  computer  cluster.  The  power  failures  she  had  ordered  had  been  noticed.
  Programmers  and  technicians  were  trying,  without  success,  to  get  into  the  engineering  mainframe.  The
  security CPU  had doubtless put the cluster on passive alert. It knew something serious was  wrong,  but  it
  didn't know what. It needed more data.
  The giant eye gazing into her face was evidence of that.
  Piper drew a balloon from her jacket pocket, stretched it, blew it up, and tapped it toward the Watcher
  IC.  The  balloon  undulated  and  expanded.  The  Watcher's  eye  drifted  aside  to  avoid  it,  but  couldn't.  The
  
  balloon speeded up, enveloped the Watcher, then just held it. The watcher's eye moved back and forth, but
  drifted slowly and steadily upward-inside the balloon-toward the glaring white ceiling of the node, then just
  hung there, immobile.
  "Security CPU requesting node-to-node interface," the chief engineer icon reported.
  "Denied," Piper said. "Lock out all external systems."
  "Affirmative."
  The clock was running down.
  12
  The door to Condo 9-B shot open just in front of Rico's face.  He stepped through and aside, dropping
  into a crouch. Shank followed. That was just being careful. Bandit reported the condo empty except for the
  master bedroom.
  Two occupants. One male, one female.
  Their target had company tonight, and that was  no  surprise.  The  corps  could  be  real  generous  with
  perks. If Surikov had lacked the means or just the plain luck to find some companionship on his' own,  the
  corp would probably provide whatever kind he required. That was how the  corps  worked.  Threaten  your
  spouse if you don't do the job and serve up whores when you did. Whatever got them what they wanted.
  That was it,
  The  bedroom  door  snapped  open.  Shank  went  first  and  Rico  followed.  A  hazy,  orange-tinted  light
  surrounded the bed like a veil. Two bodies moved there. Rico's vision overlays showed him the contours of
  the bodies right through the veil of light and the liquid satin bedsheets. Male on top, female below.
  Even as Rico brought his Ares to bear, the female looked right at him, gaped, and put a  hand  to  her
  throat Rico saw the movement and guessed what it meant, but there was no way to stop her without risking
  hitting the man on top of her.
  He couldn't risk the shot A soft bell-tone sounded. Red strips running up the corners of the room flared
  red. "A security condition has been initialized," a hushed female voice announced quietly from somewhere
  near  the  ceiling.  "Remain  calm.  If  this  is  an  actual  emergency,  do  nothing.  Security  personnel  are
  responding. Do not be alarmed. If you have initialized a security condition in error, please dial one-one-one
  and  identify  yourself  to  the  security  supervisor."  The  slitch  on  the  bed  was  wearing  some  kind  of
  PANICBUTTON  around  her  neck.  Now  she  smiled  as  if  self-satisfied.  The  male  looked  back  over  his
  shoulder, jerked with surprise, and rolled off the female. "Three," Rico said.
  Dok moved to the bed, put a burst injector to the female's  leg,  and  fired.  The  slitch  exclaimed,  then
  went limp. Rico pointed the muzzle of the Ares at the male. "Identify."
  The  man  looked  about  fifty,  distinguished,  thinning  hair  and  close-trimmed  beard  stained  with  gray.
  Some extra weight around the middle. Not a big man. Not a small one either. He gasped, drew a couple of
  panting breaths, stammered, "Surikov ... Ansell Surikov ..." He stole a glance toward the female, eyes wide
  with uncertainty, fear. "What is this? I insist..."
  The vocal stress analyzer on Rico's commando-style watchband pegged too wildly for a good reading.
  The slag was really worked up. Rico nodded at Dok, who started making his  checks,  a  quick  retina  print
  and DNA scan. The checks weren't foolproof, just the  best  they  could  do  under  the  circumstances.  The
  correct  patterns  had  come  with  L.  Kahn's  chip  dossier.  Running  the  checks  took  about  half  a  minute.
  "We're  positive,"  Dok  said.  Rico  nodded  at  Surikov  and  said,  "Who's  the  Garden?"  Surikov  eyebrows
  jumped. He blurted, "That's my wife! How ..." A Garden of Earthly Delights. A private thing, Rico knew,
  between Surikov and his wife. He knew that from the chip dossier provided by L. Kahn.
  "How do you know-!"
  "We're here to take you home, Dr. Surikov," Rico said, lowering his Ares. "Home to your wife."
  Surikov stared at Rico  for  several  long  moments,  then  rubbed  a  hand  over  his  mouth  and  made  an
  obvious effort to get hold of himself.
  "You wanna go, right?"
  Surikov hesitated, then nodded and said, "Just tell me how to proceed."
  Rico pulled a pack from his belt, broke it open, and shook it out. A bright orange jumpsuit with built-in
  plastic shoes, all in Surikov's sizes. "Put this on. Make it fast."
  While Surikov was doing that, Dok checked him out again. "Vitals're okay. You on medication?"
  "No. Nothing like that."
  "Let's do it," Rico said.
  Bandit ran his eyes around the living room. The furnishings  put  forth  a  character  of  luxury  and  fine
  living, but that was a lie. The  walls,  drapes,  sofas,  carpet,  the  onyx  sculptures  and  semi-holographic  pics
  
  were all dead, made of plastic and other artificial, materials. There was nothing of life here except for the
  power and water running through the walls, and that was the vague clue to the truth about this room. It was
  not a fine space for living, as it might appear, but rather a plastic container for corporate slaves, a sort  of
  coffin, really. Just a bit over-sized.
  There  was  nothing  of  value  here,  except  possibly  Surikov.  Bandit  turned  to  watch  Rico  and  Dok
  hustling the scientist up the hall and into the living room. Surikov was worth a lot of money. That might buy
  valuable things.
  Bandit slipped a hand into one of the pockets inside his coat. His fingers found a small silver figurine,
  like a man made of wicker. Something that might have value for a druid or a witch. It had no value for him
  and so he placed it on the small platinum-hued  table  at  the  end  of  a  sofa.  He  would  leave  it  in  place  of
  Surikov. The little wicker man. A fair exchange.
  "Five, move it!" Rico ordered.
  Bandit nodded understanding.
  Five was his assigned namecode.
  Through the apartment to the hallway door, Rico hustled Surikov along at a brisk walk, but the man's
  physical condition was a problem. He wasn't young and he didn't exercise-that was in the dossier, too. He'd
  probably survive the stresses of the  next  few  minutes,  but  anything  might  happen  if  he  had  to  get  really
  athletic. The plan was to avoid pushing the slag too hard until there was no other option.
  "Time  is  zero-one-three-four,"  Piper  reported  via  radiolink.  That  meant  security  forces  were
  responding. Rico didn't need to be told. The voice still droning from the ceiling kept him keenly aware  of the
  time trickling away and the danger, getting more real every second.
  As Rico reached the door to the hallway, Thorvin's saucer-shaped drone shot off  toward  the  end  of
  the hall opposite the elevators. Shank and Filly dropped into combat crouches. Rico glimpsed the door at the
  end of the hall swinging open, and the sudden, dazzling flashes  of  the  flare-strobes  mounted  on  Thorvin's
  drone. Rico turned Surikov toward the elevators. A stun grenade detonated to their rear. Rico hoped it was
  from the drone.
  Elevator Three West now waited in line with the floor, doors wide open. Rico let Dok hustle Surikov
  onto the elevator, then turned to look back down the hall.
  The  drone's  strobes  were  flashing.  Another  stun  grenade  banged,  and  some  slag  in  a  uniform
  staggered back through the doorway by the stairs. Rico took aim on that  doorway,  Shank  and  Filly  came
  charging  up  the  hall  and  past  his  shoulders.  The  instant  they  passed  by,  he  turned  and  dove  onto  the
  elevator, and the elevator doors slid shut.
  The drone would be left behind to delay and confuse on-site security forces. It was expendable.
  The elevator rose.
  Surikov was breathing hard and looking worried. Dok checked him again and burst-injected something
  into his arm. "Stay calm," Dok said. "We've done this before."
  "I'm  afraid  I  haven't!"  Surikov  blurted.  "Tune  is  zero-one-three-six,"  Piper  reported.  That  meant
  trouble.  Maas  Intertech  had  security  forces  on-site,  but  they  were  lightweights.  The  real  trouble  would
  come from  outside.  Kuze  Nihon  maintained  a  unit  called  Daisaka  Security,  and  Daisaka's  rapidresponse
  teams provided a back-up umbrella for all of Kuze Nihon's subsidiaries in the Jersey-New York megaplex,
  including Maas Intertech. Those teams, commando-trained and equipped, would be only minutes in arriving.
  Rico wanted to be long gone by then.
  Daisaka's  uniformed  forces  wore  flash  that  featured  the  likeness  of  the  black  annis  ape,  a  very
  territorial creature who was known to overturn cars before ripping them to pieces.
  The elevator slowed to a halt at the fourteenth floor. The doors slid open. A pair of men in light gray
  security uniforms stood there, right outside the  elevator.  For  an  instant  the  guards  just  frowned,  but  then
  abruptly reached for their sidearms. Shank and Filly's autos thumped simultaneously. Both guards fell.
  Rico led the group out of the elevator and cut a sharp left. The door beside the elevator opened onto a
  narrow stairway that led directly to the roof.
  Down out of the hazy orange dark of the night came an olive-green Hughes Stallion chopper running
  without lights.
  They loaded up quick.
  13
  The room was dark, but Rico's custom Jikku eyes turned the darkness into a dusty gray like twilight.
  He eased himself out from under the covers, then up off the  mattress  he  and  Piper  used  for  a  bed.  The
  building  on  Mott  Street  wasn't  a  regular  doss,  the  furnishings  nothing  more  than  what  they  absolutely
  
  needed. A simple mattress was good enough to sleep on. A ragged old couch was good enough for sitting.
  Rico walked over to the couch, then sat down and lit a cheroot. The tea still sitting in a cup on the low table
  before the couch had gone cold.
  Piper's little slim-stemmed pipe lay in the ashtray next to the tea. Rico remembered how strange it had
  seemed the first time he saw her toting the thing. While running hot wire and other dirty games down in the
  Carib and  South  America,  he'd  seen  women  toting  all  kinds  of  smokers-but  a  pipe?  That  was  different.
  Piper said she'd picked up the habit from her mother, but she  never  talked  much  about  her  mother.  Rico
  gathered that her mother was Japanese, and attracted to elves. Piper talked even less about her father, but
  what little she said usually came with a lot of acid. Rico had guessed that her father was an elf and about
  as treacherous as any corp. The few times she'd mentioned him, she always ended up talking about corps,
  and how none could be trusted.
  The bedsheet rustled. Piper lifted  her  head,  looking  around,  then  rose  onto  one  elbow.  "Jefe?"  she
  said softly.
  "Go back to sleep, querida."
  "What time is it?"
  "Almost five."
  The time didn't matter. He and Piper weren't on watch for another two hours. They'd gotten clear of
  the  Maas  Intertech  facility,  dumped  the  helo,  and  run  around  a  while  in  Thorvin's  van,  checking  for
  shadows. No pursuit had appeared. Sometime tonight they'd contact L. Kahn, exchange Ansell Surikov for
  the rest of their money, and be done with the deal.
  "You should rest, jefe."
  "I'm resting. Go back to sleep."
  Runs like these were rough on Piper, Rico knew. She couldn't concentrate only on the matrix. She had
  to deal with the meat world, too. Security setups, progress of the penetration, coordinate things. Make sure
  the right elevator was at the right floor at just the right time. Give Thorvin a go, not early, not late, so  the
  chopper and the ride home would be exposed for the least amount of time possible. It was a lot to deal with.
  A lot of pressure. Probably the worst of it was that no one, least of all Rico, could really know just what she
  went through, because when she went into the matrix, she went alone.
  It humbled him. It made him feel like his skills and abilities weren't really any big deal. Most men were
  made to fight, to face pressure, conflict. They were born that way. But for a woman to go. through what
  Piper did ... that was something special.
  "We did good," she said softly.
  "So far," Rico agreed.
  "The kami were with us."
  "It ain't over yet."
  "What's bothering you, my love?"
  "I don't' know." Rico felt restless, uneasy. Instinct  said  the  run  had  gone  too  smoothly.  No  one  had
  gotten as much as a scratch. That rarely happened. The price of a run against a major corp could usually be
  measured in blood. Had they simply been lucky? Was some surprise still  to  come?  Something  that  would
  make up for the easy way things had gone so far ...
  His brain kept reminding him about the team and the plan. The team was experienced and the plan had
  been a good one, worked out in detail. There had been plenty of weaknesses in the Maas Intertech facility,
  and the plan had exploited them. On that basis alone, the run should have gone smoothly.
  "I don't think I'm gonna sleep till we get rid of this slag," Rico said.
  "You" re too good a leader."
  "I'm responsible."
  "You're not a god."
  "I'm doing all I can do. That's my job."
  That was all anyone could expect, no more, no less, and his adamant tone cut Piper short, hie he knew
  it would. They'd had this  talk  before.  Rico  had  no  illusions  about  his  capabilities.  He  couldn't  know  how
  things would turn out. He couldn't see into the future to discover how they were being  used-if  they  were
  being used-or how L. Kahn or somebody else might be planning to betray them. Rico's job was to see that
  they came outta this alive, the whole team, and Piper especially. That made it hard to sleep or rest,  to  do
  anything but worry about what was coming next.
  "I'm gonna check around a minute."
  "You need rest, jefe."
  "This won't take long."
  
  A moment to pull on his pants, another to pick up the Predator 2 lying on the table beside the bed. A
  few more to do what he needed to do. He stepped across the hall to the second bedroom. Surikov was in
  there,  asleep,  stretched  out  on  a  mattress.  He  looked  okay.  Dok  said  he'd  survived  the  bustout  in  good
  shape. A little tired, a little over-excited, but no worse for the wear. Dok and Filly had the room to the right,
  at the end of the hall. They looked okay, too. No lights anywhere. That was standard. Rico moved up the
  hall to the main room. Shank stood at one of the windows overlooking Mott Street. He held the butt-end of
  an  M22A2  braced  against  his  hip.  Thorvin  stood  at  one  of  the  rear  windows  with  an  SMG.  Bandit  sat
  cross-legged in the middle of the floor.
  "How's it scanning?" Rico asked.
  "Wiz, boss," Shank answered.
  Thorvin grunted and nodded.
  Rico paused in front of Bandit. The shaman's eyes were open and staring straight ahead. "Something
  in the air," Bandit said. "Feels bad."
  "Like trouble?" Rico asked.
  Bandit looked up at him, and said, "Good bet."
  The infrared-enhanced cameras in her belly pod clearly picked out the big ork standing just inside the
  second-floor window overlooking Mott Street and the smaller dwarfish  figure  by  the  window  in  the  rear.
  For almost an hour, the pair had barely moved except to turn their heads, and that made Bobbie Jo wonder.
  The average gutterpunk didn't have anywhere near that kind of discipline. Most runners she'd spied on here
  in Newark and other plexes  had  the  discipline  of  the  typical  rock'n  roller.  They  were  more  interested  in
  breaking out the beer and the whiskey at every opportunity. After a run like the one against Maas Intertech,
  most would've thrown a party, complete with bootleg chip and recreational psychochems.
  A quiet voice, the words, "Good bet..." came to her over the radiolink. Probably via the listening post
  set up in the tenement across from the runners' hideyhole. A laser mike directed at a window. The runners
  seemed worried about something. Bobbie Jo could understand that. Skip Nolan's voice  quietly  arose.  "Air
  One, status."
  "No movement," Bobbie Jo replied. "No change." And no more banter over the radio. It had died out
  over the last hour or two. The team inside the Command and Control vehicle was tired. So was Skip. She
  could hear it in his voice. Bobbie Jo was feeling a little worn herself. The runners had slept most of the day
  prior to their run against Maas Intertech and were sleeping in turns right now. The units of the  Executive
  Action Brigade had been working fourteen-hour shifts since the beginning, since picking up the runners at
  that yakuza bar,  Chimpira.  Now  only  Colonel  Yates  seemed  to  have  an  excess  of  energy  and  that  was
  because tailing the runners had  changed  from  a  silicon  glide  into  serious  biz.  The  runners  had  gear  they
  weren't supposed to have. The chopper they'd used to get out of the Maas Intertech facility hadn't been so
  wiz, just ordinary radar, but the van, that gray and black  phantom,  it  had  presented  problems.  The  dwarf
  rigger who did the team's driving and probably most of its repairs had the van outfitted with some kind  of
  wild military-grade sensor gear. Getting the equipment to sleaze it had cost the Executive Action Brigade a
  few more nuyen than Colonel Yates had been prepared to spend.
  Bobbie Jo could still hear the man cursing, cursing everybody, especially the runners and the Brigade's
  current client "If those scummers pull any more crap, we'll ice 'em! We'll ice 'em all!"
  Talk like that worried her.
  Icing  the  runners  would  be  murder  pure  and  simple,  and,  if  nothing  else,  in  direct  violation  of  their
  orders, their contract with the client. That would make everything they'd done so far a waste of time  and
  effort. They'd forfeit their contract and any money they had coining, and the Brigade's rep would slip a few
  more notches. Bobbie Jo didn't think the Brigade could afford it.
  Abruptly, her ground-based combat comp went into active mode. Targeting indicators began  winking
  in  front  of  her  eyes.  She  felt  a  shock  of  surprise  strike  straight  into  her  gut  as  apparently  random
  movements below her suddenly resolved into the semblance of a pattern.
  She saw matched sets of vehicles, dark blue sedans with vans, moving rapidly  along  the  streets  that
  bracketed Mott Street If  she  read  their  movements  correctly,  all  those  vehicles  would  arrive  at  opposite
  ends of Mott Street at almost the same instant. She broadcast her alert signal. Even as her squeal  hit  the
  air,  two  dark-clad  figures  appeared  on  the  roofs  of  buildings  facing  the  runners'  Mott  Street  hideyhole.
  Those figures moved toward the front of the roofs as if to take up sniping positions. Focusing her lenses and
  zooming in, Bobbie Jo saw that one of the figures wore a dark uniform with shoulder flash that included the
  likeness of a black ape.
  What the hell was going on?
  Ground teams reported more movements, furtive movements through back alleys,  uniformed  persons
  
  with automatic weapons taking up positions.
  This was crazy. It suddenly looked like a commandostyle raid was about to hit the runners' hideyhole,
  right here in the middle of Newark's Sector 2. It didn't seem possible.  Yet  now  she  heard  Skip  firing  off
  orders to Brigade units on the ground, declaring toe approaching vehicles hostiles, and then she saw the big
  bay door at the front of the runners' hideyhole rolling up.
  "Ground Four and Five," Skip said. "Intercept hostiles."
  Where Mott Street met Raymond Boulevard, a dark brown Brigade sedan suddenly shot right onto the
  roadway, broadsiding one of the hostile sedans, only to be struck in the tail by the van accompanying  that
  car.
  Then, the runner's gray and black van came roaring out onto Mott street at mid-block, turning toward
  Fleming. The hostiles coming up the street from that direction, a car and a van, abruptly split left and right,
  skidding sideways and effectively  blocking  off  the  roadway.  The  runners'  van  didn't  even  slow  down.  It
  slammed  against  the  sedan's  front  left  side,  bounded  up  onto  the  sidewalk,  then  down  again,  and  went
  roaring straight at the corner.
  Autofire punctuated by the thumping of heavy weapons was breaking out all over the place.
  Thorvin had the power plant to the max as they hit the street, engine roaring, tires screaming, laying a
  trail of smoking black as he turned up the block. He saw the big sedan and the van coming straight at him,
  splitting left and right to block the roadway. No way he was stopping. The combat subroutine of his onboard
  computer performed an immediate analysis on the sedan and put a rapidly winking red indicator right where
  he should hit the sedan for maximum effect.
  It was quite an impact. Nearly shook the datajack right out of his skull. Cost him an outboard sensor
  array. But he had the speed up to eighty kph by then and-freaking hell-the  physics  worked!  He  caught  a
  glimpse  of  the  sedan  spinning  half  a  circle  as  he  bounded  up  over  the  curb  and  tore  a  path  down  the
  sidewalk and straight to the corner. Just a simple matter of mass versus energy, really.
  Corner coming up fast.
  Skid turn-no other way around it.
  Bullets pounded off his skin as the tires gave a banshee wail and sent him sliding sideways around the
  comer.
  Alarm bells in his ears.
  An image leapt into the back of his mind, something like a jet fighter swooping low over the buildings
  off  to  the  left  of  the  intersection.  A  red  schematic  flashed  in  front  of  his  eyes:  A  CyberSpace  Designs
  recon drone.
  "Bird's with us again!" he snarled.
  "Burn it!" Rico barked.
  A targeting indicator  winked-locking  on.  Thorvin  popped  the  M-134  minigun  out  of  his  roofpod  and
  opened up. Three bursts, and the drone went spinning wing-over-wing, down and out of sight.
  Bobbie Jo felt the slugs battering her airframe, then the flare of  fire  from  the  long-range  fuel  tanks.
  Alarm  indicators  flashed  and  flickered.  The  skin  over  her  right  wing  split  and  burst  into  tatters.  The
  concrete ground came swirling toward her.
  She screamed. Blackness swallowed her.
  14
  Another bone-rattling impact and they were clear of the attacking forces converging on Mott Street.
  Thorvin had the power plant opened up  wide,  and  the  noise  was  deafening.  The  roar  of  the  engine
  rising into a stammering whine that chipped "away at the nerves like sustained  autofire.  Hanging  onto  his
  seat  with  one  hand  and  his  Predator  2  with  the  other,  Rico  clenched  his  teeth  and  stared  into  the
  passenger-side rearview mirror. He tried not to think about the people bouncing around in  the  rear  of  the
  van. There wasn't time.
  "Splash  one  drone!"  Thorvin  bellowed  over  the  scream  of  the  van's  engine.  "I'm  heading  for  the
  freaking you-know-what?'
  Rico nodded. "Do it!"
  Surikov cried out from the rear. The slag was scared and rightly so,  but  he  and  Dok  would  have  to
  deal with it. Bandit's warning that someone was about to bust the Mott Street safehouse had come none too
  soon. The hostiles had moved in on foot and in cars and in vans and had even thrown up a drone. Probably,
  it was Daisaka Security, the security arm of Maas Intertech's parent corp, Kuze Nihon.
  Nobody  with  organized  paramilitary  forces  brought  out  the  heavy  guns  just  because  they  felt  like
  partying. There had to be a reason for the attack, and Surikov was the only one that made sense. But the
  
  point that bothered Rico most was not who or why,  but  rather  how  the  opposition  had  gotten  to  them  at
  Mott Street. How had they been found out?
  Two  possibilities  came  to  mind.  One  was  that  someone  might  have  tailed  them  to  the  safehouse,
  despite Thorvin's declarations to the contrary. Rico didn't think that very likely. Two, Piper might have been
  traced  through  the  matrix.  She  was  equally  sure  that  nobody  had  traced  her,  but  that  didn't  mean  she
  couldn't be wrong. Rico  didn't  think  much  of  that  possibility  either,  for  the  simple  reason  that  where  the
  matrix was concerned, Piper was usually right Was there something he'd overlooked? And what in fragging
  hell could it be? He couldn't believe that anyone on his team had given them up.
  One thought came to mind.
  He looked at Dok. "Check the slag for a snitch."
  "What?" Dok exclaimed. "Now?"
  "Do I look like I'm joking?"
  Dok stared for a moment, swaying with the violent motions of the van as it skidded around a corner,
  then, he bent, broke open his medpack and went to work.
  They  already  knew  that  Surikov  had  implants:  datajack,  chip  memory,  subprocessing  unit.  A  really
  advanced skillwire system. Lots of tech drek to expedite and accelerate his scientific research. L. Kahn's
  chip-dossier had mentioned it. What it suggested to Rico right now was that Surikov might also have been
  implanted with some kind of electronic microtransmitter, something that Maas Intertech or Daisaka Security
  could home in on if the slag ever got "lost." or snatched.
  Stuff like that wasn't common, but for top execs and ramjamming research slags like Surikov, neither
  was it  unknown.  Rico  cursed  himself  for  not  anticipating  the  possibility  and  getting  Surikov  checked  out
  sooner.
  Surikov was lying flat on the floor. Dok bent over him, hanging onto a cargo strap. Two seconds later,
  the med scanner in Dok's hand began to beep shrilly, and Dok looked up, wide-eyed.
  "Come on, Monk! Hurry!"
  Minx  grabbed  his  hand  and  tugged,  propelling  Monk  forward,  down  a  flight  of  stairs  leading  to  a
  subway station. Only at the bottom of the stairs Minx turned right instead of left, yanked open a metal door
  marked, PLX-3, AUTH PERS ONLY, and tugged him right through the doorway.
  The  door  slammed  shut  at  his  back,  then  everything  went  black.  Minx  tugged  him  ahead  at  a  run.
  Their feet echoed against the floor, a smooth, hard floor that seemed basically level, though cluttered with
  stuff that rustled around his ankles and crunched under his sneaks.
  Minx slowed. Something heavy banged and something metallic  squealed.  A  door  swung  open.  They
  stepped out onto a concrete safety walk that ran along one side of an underground roadway. Monk couldn't
  recall having ever seen this part of the transitways before. The roadway, only two lanes wide and divided
  by white dashes, extended off in both directions for a few hundred meters before curving out of sight. The
  pavement looked really clean. No litter anywhere.
  Minx looked back and forth, up and down the roadway, then thrust back her wildly frizzled hair, now
  glowing red and orange, and grinned.
  "This is it," she said.
  "What?"
  A rumbling arose into a roaring  like  a  race  car.  A  gray  and  black  van  came  screaming  around  the
  curve to the right, blew on by them and disappeared around the curve to the left. Minx frowned.
  "Huh?" Monk said.
  As the van  disappeared,  a  storm  of  amber  blips  began  washing  across  the  walls  of  the  transitway,
  appearing from around the curve to the left. The roar of the van faded away, then swelled. Another truck, a
  sort of tow truck, came screaming around the curve to the left This  time  Minx  nodded,  glanced  at  Monk
  and pulled him ahead, under the railing guarding the safety walk, then down onto the roadway.
  The tow truck roared like a semiballistic jet, amber strobes blazing from above the cab and from inside
  the massive front grille. Monk watched that grille coming closer and closer and closer until it seemed huge,
  titanic, and it suddenly occurred to  him  that  the  truck  wasn't  slowing  down  and  he  was  standing  right  in
  front of it Abruptly, Minx yanked him aside, and the tow trucks tires screamed and white smoke  billowed
  into the air.
  "Come on!" Minx shouted.
  The tow truck screeched to a halt, the door swung open, and Minx all but pulled  Monk  up  the  steps
  and into the cab.
  The truck roared ahead. The acceleration was incredible. It thrust Monk against the back of the broad
  bench seat, holding him there till he could hardly breathe. He glimpsed a pair of black-gloved hands gripping
  
  a steering wheel and the  front  dashboard,  blazing  with  controls-  lights,  graphic  indicators,  LED  dials  and
  gauges-all winking, gleaming, flaring and flashing incessantly. He stared wide-eyed at the broad white lines
  of the roadway streaming toward him in a blur. Exocentrical Rumination blasted from speakers all around.
  "Who's your friend?" someone shouted. "Real booty!"
  There was that word again.
  Minx grinned. "This is Monk!" she yelled. "Monk, this is Harry! Harry the Hack, people call her! She's
  the best hack in the city!"
  "Yeah?" Monk shouted, wondering what a "hack" might be.
  Minx nodded, smiling.
  "Used to drive a cab!" Harry exclaimed. "Never managed to lose the tag!"
  Minx  sat  back,  and  Monk  leaned  forward  to  get  a  better  look  at  Harry.  She  had  gold-blonde  hair
  drawn  back  into  a  thick  braid.  She  also  had  the  perfect,  cosmed-generated  face  of  a  Maria  Mercurial
  novastar, complete with languid bedroom eyes and a small dark mole a little above and beside voluptuously
  full ruby lips. She wore a shiny, studded black jacket and black engineer boots. She took a quick drag on a
  brown Sunset Neon cigarette, then looked across at Monk and grinned.
  "What the hell are you looking at!" she shouted.
  Monk looked at the dashboard. A TV/3V show was playing on the vid there. "As The E-Mail Turns,"
  rolled  across  the  screen.  The  first  scene  showed  a  glowing  neon  man  in  a  glowing  neon  room  pushing
  glowing neon envelopes around on a glowing neon desk, and muttering incoherently. Monk hadn't ever seen
  this show before. If it made any sense, it escaped him.
  Something barked. Monk looked aside to see Minx giving a hug and a kiss to a huge dog with glaring
  red eyes and vicious white teeth. "We call 'im Prince!" Harry shouted.
  Prince of Darkness? Monk wondered.
  Minx, and Harry burst out laughing.
  Abruptly, the corridor of the transitway vanished, and they were sluicing through a sea of automobiles
  and trucks. The tow truck roared and squealed. Horns blared, sirens wailed. Monk caught a glimpse  of  a
  bus  hurtling  straight  toward  the  right  side  of  the  tow  truck's  cab,  a  solid  wall  of  cars  charging  straight
  toward the tow truck's nose, and a crowd of people abruptly scattering from all around the tow truck's front
  and sides. Buildings, towering buildings, black rain-tarnished retrofitted brick and ferrocrete  buildings  spun
  past in a blur.
  Monk felt himself wrenched forward, practically out of his seat, then thrust against the passenger door,
  then back the other way, right across Minx's lap and practically into the jaws of the giant, red-eyes-glaring
  Prince of Darkness dog.
  Minx looked down at him and smiled and gently pressed his hair back from his brow.
  "That's the other thing, you booty!" she called over  the  deafening  roar  of  the  truck.  "Whenever  you
  ride with Harry, you ALWAYS wear YOUR SEAT BELT!"
  There was that word again.
  Booty.
  "HERE WE ARE!" Harry cried.
  For a moment, the tow truck seemed to turn sideways. Tires screamed.  Monk,  still  sprawled  across
  the seat, felt his feet and lower legs drawn inexorably toward the ceiling. Then the truck stopped suddenly,
  and he tumbled onto the floor under the control console. Minx and Harry burst out laughing.
  "Come on, Monk! Come on!"
  Minx grabbed his hand and tugged him from the cab and down onto some street somewhere in Sector
  2, near Port Sector. He could smell the rank river, the Passaic River,  that  was  for  sure.  Maybe  Newark
  Bay, too. The street immediately around nun, lined with  old  factory  and  tenement  buildings,  looked  like  a
  disaster area. Cracked-up cars straddled the sidewalks and sat at odd angles all over the street. Bodies lay
  all over the place, too, some of them still moving. Slags hi paramilitary armor stood around shouting at one
  another. Emergency strobes atop ambulances and Omni police vehicles and other cars and trucks flickered
  and flashed brilliantly against the dusky suffusion of early dawn. The tow truck growled. Harry had a thick
  cable stretched out from the rear of the truck to a big blue sedan sitting on its side.
  Minx tugged Monk in another direction, straight toward some heavily armored slag sprawled over the
  curb. The patch on his shoulder pictured something like a gorilla.
  A light flashed, and Monk realized Minx had a camera pointed at the slag's body. She bent down for a
  close-up. A real close-up shot. So close she nearly had the lens of the camera touching the surface of the
  pool of blood slowly trickling out from the under the gleaming reflective faceplate of the slag's helmet. And
  then she moved the camera just a bit aside and lowered her mouth ... her mouth ...
  
  "Monk?"
  The world began slowly turning around him. He glimpsed Minx smiling quizzically at  him  and  caught
  sight of Harry grinning and laughing just before the street tilted on end and everything went black.
  "You booty ..."
  15
  The van glided through the back streets of Rahway, straddling the border  of  Sector  13.  The  gloomy
  dawn resembled twilight. The ancient buildings flanking the road cast dark shadows. Rico knew this part of
  the sprawl as the Dead Zone. Nobody lived here but ghouls and wandering gangers and the odd slag on the
  run. There was no power and no water but  what  people  found  for  themselves.  The  badges  didn't  hardly
  know  the  place  existed,  and  that  was  probably  good  for  them,  the  cops.  The  fog  from  some  long-ago
  metaphysical catastrophe rolled forever through the streets. Devil rats, some as big as small  dogs,  peered
  from the alleys and out of the windows of abandoned buildings. The only light came from the fires in metal
  storage drums or seeping down from the sky through a pall of dark clouds.
  "Freaking dust devil!" Thorvin growled.
  A swirl of fog evolved into a storm of dust and grit rattling against the sides of the van. Rico glimpsed
  a series of grotesque shapes, faces, contorted bodies only vaguely human, flowing over the windshield and
  around the van like ghosts, but he knew these were just an artifact of the storm. Metaphysical FX. A token
  of the Dead Zone. It passed as swiftly as it had come.
  "Status," he said.
  "Clear," Thorvin growled. "Freaking clear. I got a fouled intake port, but we're freaking clear."
  The  van  rumbled  and  turned  across  the  road  and  slowed,  descending  a  steep  ramp  into  a  sublevel
  garage. The garage door trundled down behind them. "Building okay?" Rico asked.
  Thorvin nodded. "It's clean."
  Rico looked toward Bandit, but didn't bother asking for confirmation. Magicians didn't like using magic
  in this part of Sector 13. Too much static. That was what Bandit said. Rico took his word for it.  "Set  the
  watch," he told Thorvin.
  "It's set already," Thorvin grumbled.
  From the outside, the building didn't look like much, two stories of crumbling  brick  with  rusty-looking
  steel  shutters  over  every  door  and  window.  The  appearance  was  deceiving,  though.  The  place  was  a
  fortress,  equipped  with  sensors,  offensive  and  defensive  systems,  all  capable  of  independent,
  computer-directed  operation.  No  one  would  have  to  stare  out  any  windows  here.  The  building  and  its
  automated systems would stand guard for them.
  Rico watched his team pile out of the van. Two hours' sleep hadn't done anybody much good. In any
  run you reached a point where the adrenaline made you think you could go on forever. But close your eyes
  and relax for a moment and fatigue washed over you like a floodtide. The abrupt departure from the Mott
  Street safehouse and the wild ride outta there, like a run through a war zone, hadn't helped.
  Predator 2 in hand, Rico led Shank on a quick sweep of the building. The place was clean.  The  van
  was clean. Every member of the team  was  clean.  And  now  Surikov  was  clean.  For  sure.  Checked  and
  rechecked and declared safe.
  Surikov had been the problem. Maas Intertech had implanted a microtransmitter into the  back  of  his
  neck, then somebody had homed in on that electronic snitch's signal to  find  him.  Guano  like  that  sounded
  simple  enough,  but  it  presented  the  always  image-conscious  corps  with  a  potential  image  problem.
  Regardless  of  the  truth,  the  corps  liked  to  avoid  being  portrayed  as  oppressive  tyrants  monitoring  and
  controlling every aspect of people's lives.
  That Maas Intertech would take a risk on that score implied that either Surikov was more of a heavy
  jammer than anyone had admitted so far or else the corps were getting more protective than ever of their
  assets.
  Rico blamed himself for not expecting that. The unexpected  was  an  integral  part  of  the  game.  You
  planned for what you could and hoped and prayed that nothing important slipped by or that you could fix it
  before somebody got wasted!
  Dok had removed the transmitter, null sheen. Rico had tossed it into the rear of a pickup back in the
  transitway. Now maybe they'd have some room to breathe. A few hours, anyway.
  Thorvin  headed  into  the  sublevel  utility  room  to  bring  auxiliary  systems  on-line.  Rico  sent  Filly  and
  Shank to the kitchen to get out food and supplies, and Dok and Surikov into the main room, the living room,
  to lax out Then he slid an arm around  Piper's  waist.  She  met  him  with  a  kiss.  "I  need  you  to  check  the
  newsnets," he said. "Find out what's happening."
  
  "I understand, jefe."
  No need to explain that she shouldn't do anything that might get her signal traced through the matrix.
  She understood that this building around them was their bolthole. This was where they ran if they got into
  trouble. It was never used unless the primary safehouse got blown. Only Thorvin had been here more than
  a handful of times, and then only to install the security systems and get the place functional.
  Piper  moved  down  the  hall  to  the  telecom  room.  Rico  checked  that  the  toilet  was  working,  then
  stepped into the living room. Surikov was collapsed on the sofa, slumped deep into the cushions. He didn't
  really look bad for a guy his age and weight. A little tired, maybe a little overwrought. Dok was checking
  him over. He looked up as Rico lit a cheroot.
  "Where are we?" Surikov asked.
  There'd probably be no harm in telling Surikov that, but Rico had more to consider than just  Surikov.
  He had to think about tomorrow, all the tomorrows he and his crew might ever have. Surikov  was  on  his
  way  home.  No  way  of  knowing  what  he  might  say  to  security  people  when  he  got  there.  No  way  of
  knowing  who  might  eventually  hear  what  he  had  to  say.  Better  to  tell  him  nothing,  no  more  than  he
  absolutely  had  to  know.  Today's  corporate  friend  was  tomorrow's  enemy,  and  ultimately  you  had  to
  consider all the corps enemies. Corps and corporates served only one master, the almighty nuyen. That was
  their only loyalty. "We're safe," Rico said. "All you need to know, compadre."
  "What... what happens now?"
  "We sit tight. You relax. You got nothing to worry about."
  "I'd feel better knowing something of your plans." Surikov hesitated, looking anxious.  "What  happens
  next, I should say. As concerns me."
  Rico  guessed  questions  like  that  were  natural.  No  man  liked  to  feel  powerless.  If  Piper  was  any
  standard by which to judge, women didn't like it either. "It's like this," he said. "We make final arrangements
  to hand you over. Then you go home."
  "I take it you're the leader?"
  Rico nodded.
  "We haven't been introduced."
  Rico took a deep drag on his cheroot and slowly blew the smoke out through his lips. "Numero Uno,"
  he said. "Number One. That's what you call me."
  "I see." Surikov didn't seem too sure about  that.  Mostly,  he  seemed  anxious.  "I'd  like  to  talk  to  you
  about ... about my going home, as you call it."
  "What about it?"
  "What 'home' are you referring to?"
  The point grated.
  It  had  been  no  big  deal  to  find  out  where  Surikov  used  to  work  before  he  got  snatched  by  Maas
  Intertech.  Surikov  had  an  international  rep  in  biotech  and  cybernetics,  headware  design.  Piper  hadn't
  needed to go any further than the public databases to dig out his whole  history.  He'd  been  working  for  a
  subsidiary of Fuchi IE. called Multitronics until Maas Intertech decided to recruit him without the option of
  saying no.
  What  Rico  didn't  know  for  certain,  could  never  know  for  certain,  was  where  Surikov  was  really
  headed. By all indications, he was heading straight back to Fuchi Multitronics. If the run had been intended
  as a snatch, if Surikov wasn't really "going home," L. Kahn would have been smart enough to tell Rico to go
  slot, then simply find another team of runners eager for nuyen and not so particular about how they got it.
  Rico had taken that as he was working assumption, but it didn't mean he liked making assumptions.
  "How much do you know of my background?" Surikov asked abruptly.
  "I know where you been. Why?"
  "Are you aware that I was kidnapped?"
  "Get to the point."
  Surikov hesitated, lifting a hand to the back of his neck, the bandage there. Dok had given the slag a
  local while removing the snitch, so Surikov should be feeling no pain.  Maybe  the  bandage  was  itching.  "I
  was with Multitronics Labs most of my life," he said. "I grew up under the Fuchi banner, you might say. I'm
  a company man. I received my baccalaureate at Fuchi University. I hold  advanced  degrees  from  several
  prestigious polytechnic institutions-"
  "The point," Rico said.
  "My point is that, as you're probably aware, I'm considered something of an authority on intracerebral
  design, bionetic augmentation. My work is on the cutting edge. To keep that edge, to properly conduct my
  research, I must have complete freedom." Rico clenched his teeth. "Yeah?"
  
  "If  you're  planning  to  return  me  to  Fuchi  Multitronics,  you'll  be  doing  me  and  my  work  a  grave
  injustice."
  A corporate bad-mouthing his own corporation. How many  times  had  Rico  heard  talk  like  that?  He
  could count the occasions on one hand. He'd  made  dozens  of  runs  like  this  one,  and  in  practically  every
  case the object of the run had been delighted to hear that he  or  she  was  going  home.  The  way  some  of
  them  talked,  there  was  no  better  place  on  earth  to  live  than  inside  the  steel  fists  of  giants  like  Fuchi,
  Aztechnology, Saeder-Krupp, whatever...
  But now, anger swelled. Rico spent several moments glaring at Surikov, trying to control  his  temper,
  his frustration. He felt the heat rise up the back of his neck and he wanted to snarl, but he forced himself to
  take a long, deep drag on the cheroot and to blow the smoke out slowly, like he wasn't hardly thinking about
  getting mad. "I asked you if you wanted to go," Rico said lowly. "Now you're telling me what?  You  don't
  wanna go? You wanna go back to intertech? You wanna go independent?"
  "Easy, boss," Dok said quietly.
  "I want an answer."
  Surikov rubbed at his mouth. His eyes were open a little wider than normal. His face looked a bit red,
  but the color wasn't anger. Some kind of upset, like he was  rattled  or  flustered.  Like  a  woman.  "Let  me
  explain,"  he  said  a  bit  breathlessly.  "I  realize  you've  taken  great  risks.  On  my  behalf.  I'm  grateful,  very
  grateful. I only wish you could have been fully informed of the problem, as I see it, before you began. You
  see, the Maas Intertech program for research is nearly as arbitrarily restrictive as Fuchi Multitronics. That's
  my  point.  Neither  of  these  corporations  are  appropriate  sponsors  for  the  kind  of  pure  research  I'm
  attempting to do. They've held me as a virtual prisoner. They've used me as just another corporate asset!"
  Rico took another long, slow drag of his cheroot. It didn't help. It didn't keep the acid out of his voice.
  "Maybe you'd like to go to the Carib. Sit under a palm tree. Maybe I should go to Camden or Atlantic City.
  Play some fragging keno. Wait for the axe to fall."
  Surikov looked confused. "I'm sorry, I don't-"
  "Mass Intertech belongs to Kuze Nihon. They're almost as big as Fuchi I.E. They're a little slotted off
  at us right now. You're talking about skanking Fuchi, too. You better have a damn good reason."
  Surikov said, "Prometheus Engineering."
  Rico  had  heard  the  name  before.  Prometheus  was  major  league.  It  had  a  seat  on  the  Corporate
  Advisory Board that ran Manhattan. It also had a 100-story tower like a DNA spiral on Manhattan's west
  side, which came with a double-A security from NYPD, Inc. "What about it?" Rico growled.
  "Take me to Prometheus," Surikov blurted.  "Make  any  kind  of  arrangement  that  suits  you  and  your
  comrades. Demand some payment. A finder's fee, perhaps. Their director of  research  should  leap  at  the
  chance to get me on her staff. She runs a very  enlightened  program.  She  understands  the  importance  of
  basic scientific inquiry. Her researchers have free reign."
  "And what about your wife?"'
  "We could take her too. We would have to, in fact."
  Rico nodded slowly, taking another deep drag off his cheroot. Surikov's only problem was that he was
  insane. "Maybe you'll tell us where we can find your wife. Maybe you'll help us bust her out."
  Surikov didn't get the joke.
  Dok sat very still, almost motionless.
  Rico turned and walked out.
  * * *
  A quick scan of  the  virtual  bars  that  served  as  the  bulletin  boards  and  rumor  pools  of  the  Newark
  telecommunications grid, the underground grid, yielded Piper some news.
  Hours after their run on Maas Intertech, systems throughout the megaplex were still on active alert.
  Half the ramjammers on-line  were  whooping  it  up,  delighted  by  the  certainty  that  someone  had  cut
  pure ice, pulled off something big. The other half, those with biz to conduct and runs of their own to make,
  were less than thrilled.
  Vaux Hall Pirate News yielded two particularly cogent details: heavily armed Daisaka Security forces
  were cruising the streets of Newark, and a full description of Thorvin's van, including registration tags, had
  gone  out  over  the  regional  law  enforcement  networks.  Piper  thought  that  important  news,  but  not
  threatening, at least not necessarily.
  Newark was not  like  other  towns.  Omni  Police  Services  had  learned  that  lesson.  Daisaka  Security
  would soon find out for itself, if it didn't already know. Its forces would inevitably discover a whole legion of
  petty  monarchs  who  considered  various  sections  of  the  plex  to  be  their  private  kingdoms.  Triad  bosses,
  gangers, yakuza, the maf-none looked kindly on intruders.
  
  Little Asia, Sector 6, was itself a patchwork of competing elements, and  the  competition  often  grew
  fierce. Each element  had  soldiers  to  back  its  claims.  All  had  access  to  the  most  menacing  of  weapons.
  Daisaka would inevitably find itself facing the prospect of  armed  conflict,  little  wars  for  control,  and  that
  was good, for it would keep Daisaka busy.
  As for the description of the van ... Thorvin was downstairs at  this  very  moment  repainting  the  van
  and  changing  the  registration  tags.  This  particular  van  had  a  number  of  separate  identities,  all  duly
  integrated into the appropriate state databases.
  Piper smiled and jacked out.
  The room around her returned, four blank white  walls  with  a  Samsung  office  telecom,  an  armchair,
  and the re-diner beneath her. The telecom had two lines: a hard line into the local telecommunications grid
  plus a line to the satellite dish concealed on the roof. Her modified Excalibur cyberdeck lay across her lap.
  Rico sat in the armchair, taking on his cheroot and looking dissatisfied.  Piper  took  her  slim-stemmed
  pipe from her belt pouch, packed in some tobacco, and lit up.
  "What's the scan?" Rico asked in a voice like a low growl.
  Piper gave him a quick summary of what she'd picked up, then said, "You look unhappy, jefe."
  "We're fragged."
  "Why?"
  "Surikov doesn't wanna go home."
  "Why not?"
  "He  says  he  don't  like  Fuchi  Multitronics  any  more  than  Maas  Intertech.  He  thinks  he'll  be  more
  welcome at Prometheus Engineering. Thinks he'll be free to do things his way."
  "Corps and freedom are mutually exclusive."
  "The slag don't see it that way."
  Piper  shrugged.  "We  have  our  down  payment  Our  expenses  are  covered.  Let  Surikov  fend  for
  himself."
  "We're responsible."
  "No one's responsible for a corporate but other corporates."
  "The slag's a scientist."
  "That makes him nothing more than a sophisticated form of product designer. He's a suit. We owe him
  nothing."
  "We busted him out, querida."
  "Yes, and that was a favor."
  "A slag like him won't never cut a deal on his own. He's a babe in the fragging woods.".
  "Then let's give him to L. Kahn and be done with it."
  "He doesn't wanna go."
  "I don't care what he wants."
  People who lived the life defined by the corps deserved the  same  ruthless  brand  of  indifference  the
  corps accorded the rest of society. The  corps  had  proved  that  a  thousand  times  over:  defiling  the  Earth,
  poisoning  people,  wrecking  whole  economies,  condemning  entire  nations  of  people  to  lives  of  poverty,
  disease, and abject misery-whatever suited corporate objectives.
  A wise man once said, "Let us drink the blood of the  enemies  of  humanity."  Foremost  among  those
  enemies,  in  Piper's  view,  were  the  corps.  Not  even  the  treacherous  swine  of  Tir  Taimgire  equaled  the
  corps, in terms of sheer villainy. Elves at least had some respect for the Earth.
  "You're talking like a real killer," Rico said.
  "I should weep and sympathize?"
  "I know you better than that."
  "We'll be shagged if we don't turn Surikov over. Fuchi has long arms. They'll find us and kill us. Or use
  us as test subjects in their biotech labs."
  "There's worse things to die for than a man's freedom."
  "Jefe, I don't want to die for a damn suit."
  "What about honor?"
  "I don't want to talk about honor."
  "We took a man's life in our hands. You're saying we should just walk away."
  "I'm saying we should complete our contract."
  "And the hell with honor."
  "We agreed to turn Surikov over."
  "We  didn't  agree  to  a  snatch.  And  that's  what  we're  doing  if  we  make  Surikov  go  back  to  Fuchi.
  
  'Cause that's where he's probably going if we give him to L. Kahn. We're forcing him against his will."
  Piper leaned her head back against the cushions of the recliner. Her lover's code of conduct, his honor,
  his  morals,  would  get  them  killed  one  day.  She'd  known  that  for  a  long  time.  She  accepted  it  because
  acceptance was part of love and she could not help loving Rico. She had always hoped to someday subvert
  him, take some of the self-righteous shine out of his  moral  code,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  survival,  but  her
  influence in that regard had been negligible. It was a testament to Rico's wit and savvy and his ability as a
  leader that they'd been able to stay alive as long as they had, despite his code. "Talk to me, chica."
  "I should give up everything for a suit?"
  "I ain't asking you to give up anything. If you want out-"
  That made her angry. Rico knew better than to talk like that. "Where you go I go," she said sharply.
  "If you want to get yourself killed, then I'm dead too." Rico smiled. "You got cojones, corazon."  Love talk
  at a moment like this. It twisted her insides.
  It made the hidden truth that only she and Rico knew ride up to the forefront of her thoughts on a tide
  of foaming emotion. The money she earned from runs like this gave her the means to fight the real fight, the
  war  against  the  corps,  the  war  to  save  the  Earth  before  it  was  totally  destroyed.  She  could  face  the
  prospect of death in that cause-had already done so and would do it again, and willingly-but to risk dying for
  something as despicable as a suit, a man like Surikov, whose life work only made the corps  more  money,
  that was almost too much to bear.
  Rico came  and  perched  on  the  arm  of  the  recliner  and  drew  her  into  his  arms.  She  welcomed  his
  embrace. She admired his courage. She wished she had his strength. Now, she could only think of all  the
  things they would be giving away in trying to accommodate Surikov, and it brought her grief.
  Where Surikov found his home was not the only issue. There was another problem that had to be fixed
  if the man was truly to be free.
  Any fool could see that.
  16
  The rain started at four a.m. By five past the hour, the torrent from the sky became a deluge, crashing
  onto streets that soon turned into lakes. Rico turned up the collar of his long black duster and walked down
  Treadwell to  the  brownstone  at  mid-block.  Five  razorguys  stood  beneath  the  awning  there,  three  on  the
  porch  of  the  house,  two  on  the  sidewalk  before  it  Two  of  the  cutters  held  submachine  guns  barely
  concealed by their long, dark coats.
  Rico  was  admitted  at  once,  escorted  through  the  house,  then  into  the  garden  at  the  center  of  the
  house. Mr. Victor waited at the round transparex table in the middle of the garden. Tonight he wore a black
  smoking jacket and held a long fat cigar in one hand.
  With a brief wave, he invited Rico to sit. "How are you, my friend?" he said. "I take it all is not well."
  "You take it right," Rico replied. "Indeed, there  are  many  who  would  agree,"  Mr.  Victor  said.  "You
  have roused the giants from their slumber. The corps have sent their forces into the streets and there  is  '
  much  animosity  being  worked  out,  even  as  we  speak.  The  great  father  of  the  Honjowara  yakuza  is
  particularly displeased at those who trespass on his territory. Fortunately, the metro police have seen fit to
  remain strictly neutral, by which I mean uninvolved. I think it is safe to say that by this time tomorrow, the
  giants will withdraw their forces from the streets. At least, their uniformed forces."
  That much was good news. Rico had enough to worry about without having to consider the prospect
  of shock troops from Daisaka Security. Covert forces he could deal with. Probably.
  "Before you say what you are here to say, let me tell you this," Mr.  Victor  continued.  "I  have  word
  that several parties are keenly interested in hiring the team that made the run on Maas Intertech. Word is
  out that the run was very clean, very precise,  incurring  no  loss  of  life.  You  have  done  your  reputation  a
  great service. In the future, I will be able to ask a considerably higher price for your services."
  "Assuming we're still alive."
  "Is that not always the assumption?"
  The question was mostly rhetorical. Rico nodded understanding, then waited. Mr. Victor  took  a  long
  drag on his cigar, then, with a look and gesture of the hand, he invited Rico to speak. "I need somebody to
  make contact with Prometheus Engineering."
  "For what purpose, my friend?"
  "Recruitment. I need to know if they got any interest in a certain individual."
  "An individual whom you have recently met, perhaps?"
  Rico nodded.
  "This can be arranged," Mr. Victor said. "However, I feel I must ask what makes you desire such a
  
  thing. Have you encountered complications?"
  "Serious complications."
  Mr. Victor took another long drag on his cigar. "The job has turned out to be other than what it  first
  seemed?"
  "I don't know that."
  "Perhaps you would care to explain."
  Mr. Victor might have no contractual involvement in the job, but that did not mean he had no interest.
  He had directed Rico to L.  Kahn.  He  had  made  the  first  contact.  For  a  man  like  Mr.  Victor,  a  man  of
  honor, that was enough. That minimal involvement made him at least partly responsible for the job, in as far
  as it affected Rico and his team.
  Rico spoke briefly of the complications. It came down to this: he'd been hired to pass Surikov on to L.
  Kahn. It looked like Surikov was bound for Fuchi Multitronics, but Prometheus Engineering was where he
  wanted to go.
  "A difficult situation," Mr. Victor remarked. "Naturally, you are not content to simply give your man to
  L. Kahn."
  "I ain't gonna force him into anything. I don't work that way."
  "You made this clear to L. Kahn in the beginning."
  The meeting back at Chimpira was clear in Rico's memory. "I told him I don't do snatches, and if the
  subject  wasn't  willing,  the  deal  was  off.  He  told  me  he  don't  accept  refunds,  that  not  completing  the
  contract was a killing offense."
  "Perhaps this is open to negotiation."
  "I doubt it."
  "As do I, but there is no percentage in placing you and the lives of your team hi further jeopardy until
  the facts are known. It is conceivable, is it not, that Prometheus Engineering is in fact the party behind the
  contract? In that event, there is every reason for you to complete the contract as arranged."
  "Surikov's wife is supposed to be with Fuchi."
  "Even so." Mr. Victor paused, smiling faintly. "You cannot assess  the odds, my friend, until you know
  the facts. If you wish, I will arrange for you to discuss the situation with L. Kahn. Perhaps you can arrive
  at some mutually satisfactory solution."
  Rico had serious doubts that any negotiating would help, but he had too many lives depending on him to
  refuse the suggestion. "That's a real generous offer," he said. "I owe you."
  "On the contrary, my friend," Mr. Victor replied. "I owe you. I owe you a great deal."
  The sword was black and it gleamed with the brilliant electron radiance of the matrix. It appeared in
  Piper's hand as if out of thin air and moved with the mercurial speed of thought.
  The  gray-armored  warrior  icon  before  her  lifted  its  massive  battle  axe  even  as  her  sword  slashed
  through the axe's shaft, and then whirled, finding a chink in the icon's armor and slicing through, piercing the
  icon, which dissolved into a cloud of fading silvery pixels.
  A  small,  bitter  victory  over  blaster  IC.  Piper  released  her  sword,  allowing  it  to  vanish  into  the
  nothingness of inactive memory. The walls of the node around her pulsed red. The system, she knew, was
  going on active alert There was no point in even attempting to continue. She'd be lucky just to get out alive.
  Now, from further up the corridor, came  a  pack  of  killer  IC  in  the  form  of  burning  orange  wolves.
  They charged, snarling, fangs flashing. Piper hurled a handful  of  gleaming  black  stars  at  the  beasts,  then
  turned and ran.
  The race was on. Barrier IC like massive portals- glaring with electron fury-crashed down to block the
  corridor only milliseconds behind her. If she faltered, if she slowed her pace by even half a step she would
  be trapped, sealed into the consensual hallucination of the system construct and as good as dead.
  She was in the Gauntlet, the maze  of  nodes  and  subsystems  surrounding  the  mainframes  of  Fuchi's
  Manhattan  cluster,  which  had  been  designed  to  protect  its  most  vital  elements.  The  CPUs  lay  at  the
  cluster's heart, surrounded by data stores, immersed in the sea of subprocessors and slaves that served not
  only the cluster's data  operations  but  the  whole  of  the  Fuchi  complex,  the  Black  Towers  of  Fuchi-town,
  located in lower Manhattan.
  A  blazing  orange  portal  slammed  down  two  steps  ahead  of  her.  She  tugged  a  small  fan  from  her
  sleeve, snapped it open and dove, thrusting the open fan out before her.
  The portal parted like a ripe banana, splitting down the middle.
  Jacking out was not an option. It was too late for that. In the time it would take her  flesh  and  blood
  fingers to hit the Disconnect key or to wrench the datajack from her temple, she would be caught, traced,
  and brain-fried by nanosecond-swift IC.
  
  In  the  next  System  Access  Node  waited  a  red  and  yellow  clown.  The  icon  for  a  smartframe  or
  perhaps a Fuchi decker. Piper had met the clown icon before. The big sunflower on its chest fired acid IC.
  The  big  white  custard  pie  in  its  hand  worked  like  a  trace  and  burn  program.  Piper  hurled  a  handful  of
  marbles. In mid-flight, the marbles swelled into  silvery  globes.  As  the  clown  moved  to  evade,  the  globes
  flew into orbit around it, immobilizing the icon with a dazzling storm of red and green program code.
  The clown's blazing orange hair stood up on end.
  I Piper slammed through  the  node  and  streaked  out  across  the  Manhattan  telecommunications  grid,
  free of the Fuchi cluster. The cluster's icon dominated the grid representing lower Manhattan, its form that
  of an enormous, five-pointed black star, slowly rotating, surmounted by a  gigantic  tower  with  five  distinct
  facets, like the facets of a diamond. There was no more dangerous icon in the grid.
  She fired herself into the electron-gridded darkness above, seeking the SAN to the regional grid. That
  led her to the Newark grid and back to where she had begun, and to her original fears and doubts.
  Going  up  against  Fuchi,  even  a  subsidiary  like  Multitronics,  was  madness.  It  would  make  the  run
  against Maas Intertech  seem  like  a  stroll  through  a  sunlit  meadow.  Only  a  ramjamming  neophyte  would
  even consider it, and only because little baby deckers had no conception of the power contained in the Fuchi
  cluster. They thought sheer enthusiasm, combined with a knack for program code, would see them through
  anything. It didn't work that way. Piper knew. She  had  seen  with  her  own  electron-surrogate  eyes  what
  happened  inside  the  Black  Towers.  She  had  heard  the  screams  of  deckers  who  tried  to  sleaze  one  too
  many  Watchers  or  play  smoke  and  mirrors  with  killer  IC  one  too  many  times.  She  had  breathed  the
  malodorous fumes from a Mona Lisa jammer hit by so much lethal feedback that the decker's brain began
  to boil and pour out through her eyes.
  If not  for  Rico,  Piper  wouldn't  even  have  considered  going  up  against  Fuchi.  Her  lover  left  her  no
  choice.
  They had to do right, never mind that it might get them all killed. It wasn't enough to just turn and walk
  away, let Surikov do as he would. They had taken "responsibility" for Surikov. They had to see him safely to
  whatever  corporate  home  he  wanted.  They  had  to  make  contact  with  the  appropriate  corporate  agent.
  They had to cut a deal. And even that wasn't enough. They had to get Surikov's wife, too, or the man would
  remain a pawn of the megacorps.
  A man with Rico's convictions  didn't  belong  in  the  Sixth  World.  Piper  only  wished  there  was  some
  finer' place where they could go, a place where doing right wouldn't get them killed.
  Fuchi  had  developed  the  first  desktop  cyberdeck,  the  first  neural  interface.  The  corp  had  all  but
  written the matrix out of whole code. Fuchi's advances in intrusion countermeasures had few rivals, and no
  real equals. Sleazing anything out of its cluster of mainframe computers was  going  to  take  miracle  work.
  Surviving the run would require intervention by the gods.
  A direct confrontation with the cluster's awesome mainframes would only get  her  killed.  She  had  to
  find another way.
  She shot herself into Saganville, the heart of the Newark grid. Here, the gleaming white pyramids of
  system constructs, thousands upon thousands of them, crammed  the  datalines  and  rose  a  thousand  levels
  into the electron night. Amid this megalopolis of constructs, Piper found a particular  network  address  and
  pushed her signal inside.
  Her iconic self stepped into silent darkness. Scents like sulfur and methane wafted past her. A voice,
  immeasurably deep and resonant, like the. voice of a god, demanded, "WHO ARE YOU?"
  Piper replied, "I am Arielle of Avalon."
  "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"
  "I want information."
  "YOU WON"T GET IT!"
  "By hook or by crook, I shall."
  "Oh, really? Well, maybe you will. Then again, maybe you woo-OOOONNNNNNNTTTttttt!!!"
  The final word rose suddenly into a cry, then a long, drawn-out scream that faded slowly away. As the
  scream faded, the voices of a thousand crows arose chattering, rasping, and ranting, raucously laughing.
  The darkness before her resolved into a rickety bridge of vines and wooden slats just wide enough for
  one person to cross alone. The bridge spanned an immense crevasse, infinitely deep and filled with a boiling
  sea of fire. Piper took hold of the viny  guide-ropes  at  waist-height  and  began  walking  across  the  bridge.
  Abruptly,  the  vines  parted  and  the  bridge  swung  downward  toward  the  roaring  flames.  Piper  pulled  a
  knotted cord from around her waist and hurled one end toward the far side of the crevasse. The hook on
  the end of the cord caught on a rocky prominence. Hand over hand, Piper pulled herself up.
  Beyond the cliff-edge of  the  crevasse  was  a  forest,  shining  darkly  with  menace.  From  the  stunted,
  
  twisted trees, gnarled like monstrous creatures, hung the skeletal remains  of  those  who  had  come  before
  her, the persona icons of the doomed. Immense black birds chittered from the tree limbs and pecked at the
  tattered remains of the skeletons. A hideous smell like corruption hung heavy in the air. A thick grayish fog
  flowed slowly along the ground. Piper considered how to proceed.
  Many paths led into this horrific electron forest. Danger lurked everywhere, in the trunk of a tree, in
  the stagnant waters of a malignant bubbling pool, in the huge black figures that loomed everywhere in the
  darkness,  in  things  unseen,  rustling  softly  through  the  undergrowth.  Disease  and  death  seemed  to  flow
  through the air and along the ground just as tangibly as the fog.
  Piper found her way to a small thatched hut with a single rounded opening. She ducked her head down
  and  stepped  inside.  The  interior  of  the  hut  was  gloomy.  A  small  fire  flickered  at  the  center  of  the
  hard-packed floor. Smoke curled through the air. On the far side of the fire sat a dark figure wrapped in a
  ragged cloak and hood. This, Piper knew, was the icon of a decker known as Azrael. No one knew his real
  name.
  Back  in  2029,  a  virus  of  unprecedented  power  had  swept  through  the  world's  computer  systems,
  scrambling  data  and  frying  hardware.  To  fight  the  plague,  the  government  of  what  was  then  called  the
  United States created a special top-secret group known as Echo Mirage. The team did eventually beat the
  virus, but few of the special cadre survived with their sanity intact. They were deckers at a  time  when  a
  direct neural interface produced sensory overload, and, often, incurable psychosis.
  Azrael was reputed to be one of the few to survive Echo Mirage. If that was so, if he really had been
  with the project, he had not survived the ordeal unscathed. No program he wrote was without eccentricities,
  and he had a maniacal hatred of governments and corps that often seemed to surpass Piper's own.
  "What is your quest?" he rasped.
  "I seek information."
  Azrael laughed and laughed, breathlessly and harsh, as raucously as the crows, then suddenly blurted,
  "I know this, woman. You said it once already. Am I deaf? Do you think I'm deaf? What  is  it  you  really
  want?"
  "Personnel and security data from Fuchi Multitronics."
  "You  quest  the  Black  Towers?"  Azrael  laughed  again,  uproariously,  hysterically.  He  laughed  till  he
  wheezed for breath, then he leaned toward the fire, peering at Piper from under  the  black  shadow  of  his
  hood. "You will die."
  "I think not."
  Azrael shouted, "No one  has  ever  penetrated  the  Black  Towers'  security  processor  and  LIVED  to
  TELL the TALE!"
  "That is untrue."
  Azrael laughed again, then whispered, "Maybe you're right. Maybe not. Maybe I can help you. Maybe
  not. How much are you willing to pay?"
  "What do you offer?"
  "I have secret information, very secret. Many deckers have died trying to sleaze my secrets from me.
  How  many  have  died?  I  can't  remember.  Many  more  have  gone  away  wounded  and  bloody.  I  have
  unraveled  a  multitude.  I  have  infected  legions.  I  have  dumped  whole  hordes.  My  code  is  great  and  my
  vengeance  terrible.  Terrible!  What  would  you  pay  for  the  secret  to  the  Black  Towers?  Tell  me.  What
  would you pay?"
  "What do you offer?"
  Azrael cackled, then rasped, "An access node that no one living has ever found. Special code that may
  make the difference between life and lethal feedback, specially attuned to the Black  Towers'  frequencies
  and  security  subroutines.  A  key,  I  offer  you  a  key.  Do  you  doubt  it?  No  one  has  this  key  but  I.  Such
  secrets, such special code. What will you pay? Define your life in cred."
  "What is your price?"
  The price was high, as Piper had known it must be, and she had little with which to bargain.
  They were somewhere in Sector 15. Shank had seen a sign a while ago that read "Scotch Plains", but
  he wasn't sure if that was a district name or a street name or what. He hadn't seen much besides that sign,
  a few trucks, some steel and ferrocrete warehouses that looked abandoned, and fences. The fences were
  usually of the chain-link variety, three or four meters high, and topped by coiling razorwire nasty enough to
  discourage  almost  anybody.  The  only  things  Shank  had  seen  inside  those  fences  were  piles  of  scrap,
  mountains of scrap: crete, steel, autos. And a helluva lot of junk.
  Abruptly,  Thorvin  veered  the  van  across  three  empty  lanes  of  roadway  and  slowed  them  to  a  halt
  facing a chain-link gateway.
  
  "What're we stopping here for?"
  "Need some parts, you freaking frag."
  "What for, halfer?"
  "Gotta build something for Rico."
  Shank looked again at the gates. The sign there in red and yellow. "That says 'toxic waste.'"
  Thorvin snorted. "Don't believe everything you read, fanghead."
  "Who says I can read, skankface?"
  The gates swung open, the van rolled through.
  Into a junkyard like the Grand Canyon.
  Clad entirely in non-reflective black, Claude Jaeger moved through the darkness like a darker shade of
  night, a shadow, a ghost, perhaps a trick of the eye, an illusory image without form or substance, as silent as
  the night.
  The place was in Sector 7, amid the jumble of streets between Stuyvesant and Grove, just over the line
  from  center  city.  It  was  called  "Meat  City".  The  buildings  were  old  and  crammed  together,  with  coffin
  hotels and cubies filling the side streets. Every kind of scalpel mechanic and medtech had an office or clinic
  here. Some of the docs were frauds, some dealt exclusively in transplants or contraband chrome. Few were
  legally licensed. Few cared if a person had any kind of SIN or if the  implant  a  client  desired  was  on  the
  federal government's prohibited list.
  This was also where a person came if they just couldn't live with that armor-piercing slug stuck under
  their ribs or if they wanted to trade body parts for money.
  The alleys were lined with chipheads and other derelicts, human refuse, squatting in plastic shelters or
  just lying on the concrete ground, all short a couple of organs and any number of limbs. Corpses went into
  the  ferrocrete  Ditch  of  the  Garden  State  Parkway.  Black-clad  sanitation  crews  swept  the  Ditch  clean
  every day at dawn and dusk. Claude had good reason to know of that. The art of the physical adept often
  compelled him to contribute to the carnal chaff disposed of in the Ditch.
  Tonight, though, he had other business. A small matter by which  he  would  collect  some  nuyen.  The
  nature of the business concerned him little, so long as it gave him the chance to express himself through his
  art.
  The  little  night-glo  red-on-white  sign  on  the  back  alley  wall,  read,  CyberDok:  Top  Chrome,  Vat
  Organics, Primo Rates ...
  This  was  the  clinic  and  residence  of  John  Dokker,  former  mercenary,  and  his  friend,  Fillecia
  Antonucci,  ex-cop.  Both  were  members  of  the  team  hired  to  bust  out  Ansell  Surikov.  That  made  them
  important.  It  might  eventually  make  them  dead.  Precisely  what  happened  depended  on  events,  Claude
  knew, and on  the  wishes  of  Maurice's  client,  who  had  provided  the  data  on  John  Dokker  and  the  other
  runners.
  Next to the small sign, a black metal door. After a pause, it slid aside, letting Claude step into the dark
  space beyond. The door slid shut behind him. Momentarily, the tall, gangly form of the mage Maurice came
  into view, coalescing as if out of the empty dark. "This way," Maurice said, pointing with his walking stick.
  Doors  opened  before  them.  Claude  sensed  the  magic  Maurice  used  to  defeat  the  mechanisms  of
  locks, but didn't know or care about the spells. Such were the province of technicians.
  Two  stories  up,  they  entered  a  room  subtly  lit  like  a  birthing  chamber,  crammed  with  hi-tech
  equipment, a veritable jungle of cables and tubes, consoles, control panels, and numerous transparex tanks,
  both large and small, filled with discreetly bubbling fluids.
  As  Claude  stepped  forward,  he  saw  clearly  what  hung  inside  the  fluids  of  the  transparex  tanks:  a
  human hand, an eye, a leg, a mass of tissue like blubber. Various internal organs. These would be cultured
  matrixes,  bioclonal  secondaries,  and  a  potential  source  of  DMA-matched  replacement  parts  for  John
  Dokker and Fillecia Antonucci, should they ever require replacement parts.
  A remarkable achievement for a former mercenary. Claude had never seen a setup like this outside of
  a corporate lab. He could only guess at what all of it must have cost. It was, however, largely irrelevant as
  far as tonight's work was concerned.
  Maurice tapped the keys of a comp terminal. With a soft gasp of air, a small rectangular port opened
  in the side of the gleaming metal container standing beside the comp terminal. On the tongue that  slid  out
  through the port was a metal disk, briefly awash with swirling vapors. Inside this disk, and the second that
  soon appeared, would be the original tissue samples from which the clonal matrixes had been grown.
  Properly handled, and properly utilized in ritual sorcery, these samples would provide a material link to
  their original hosts.
  And that suggested the point of tonight's business.
  
  17
  The meet came  down  in  Sector  4,  Newark  International  Airport.  The  heaviest  security  zone  in  the
  plex.  You  couldn't  even  get  into  the  sector  with  a  weapon  unless  you  met  the  right  guard  at  the  right
  entrance with the right amount of nuyen. Rico put Filly onto that. She had contacts with the Port Authority
  cops, and she knew how to talk cop lingua and how to pass the cred.
  Thorvin had the driver's  seat,  Filly  the  passenger  side.  Rico  had  the  bench  seat  in  back  to  himself.
  Piper, Dok, Shank, and Bandit were waiting back at the Rahway bolthole with Ansell Surikov. Every one of
  the six of them had  agreed  to  go  on  with  the  job  as  Rico  intended.  Only  Piper  and  Filly  had  raised  any
  serious objections, and here was Filly riding shotgun and greasing palms to get them  into  the  airport.  Had
  simple loyalty bought that? Rico could hardly believe it. He had seen so much of the world's treachery that
  he  had  trouble  believing  that  such  loyalty  even  existed.  Then  again,  he  couldn't  think  of  any  other
  explanation.
  It had seemed odd to him that the two women with the crew should be the ones to argue, to object the
  loudest and clearest to the madness he had in mind. Until he thought about  it.  Until  he  realized  that  most
  women he had known-even as a kid-seemed  somehow  more  closely  tied  to  life  and  living  than  any  man
  could ever hope to be.
  The van  halted  inside  the  short-term  parking  lot  of  the  airport's  extensive  South  Terminal  complex.
  Two minutes later a gleaming black Toyota limo pulled up alongside them. "Weapons armed and locked on,"
  Thorvin growled. "Say the word and I'll freaking shred-"
  "We're here to deal," Rico said. "Not punch tickets."
  The rear door of the limo swung open. Ravage, dressed tonight in a matte black bodysuit, stepped out
  first, followed by L. Kahn. Rico tugged open the side door of the van and stepped out to meet them. Filly
  stayed inside the van, but pushed open her door to show off her weapon, an Ingram 20t submachine  gun.
  That was according to plan. Minimal exposure, ready for a fast breakaway.
  The side of the van was barely two meters from the side of the limo. One step put Rico almost within
  an arm's length of Ravage and L. Kahn. If anyone did the wild thing at that range, people were going to get
  hurt. Rico gazed steadily at Ravage. Impenetrable black shades covered the  violet  pits  of  her  eyes.  Rico
  remembered those eyes very well. Here was a woman with ties only to death.
  "I'm impressed," L. Kahn said flatly, his voice a monotone, "Your fixer has influence. Now that you've
  gotten me here, what have you to say?"
  "We got a problem."
  "I have no problems whatsoever. You have my package. Your next step is to move that package, as
  per my instructions."
  "Wrong," Rico said. "That ain't the next step."
  Ravage's head shifted just slightly, as if she were flicking a glance at L. Kahn from behind her black
  shades. Rico couldn't help the tension that suddenly shot through his gun arm. His nerves were jumping. L.
  Kahn remained impassive, icy. He said, "I suggest that you explain."
  Rico nodded, slowly, and said, "The man wants assurances. -He wants to know where he's going."
  "That is irrelevant," L. Kahn replied. "You were informed that this job is a recovery. I'm sure that by
  now you've confirmed the background history I provided, so you're well aware  of  where  the  subject  was
  employed prior to being kidnapped by the competition. Need I say more? Do the math. Have the subject do
  the math himself and he'll see quite plainly where he's going."
  "That ain't good enough. The man wants proof."
  "What sort of proof would he like? A banner hung over Manhattan? A notice on the newsnets? This is
  absurd. You're scamming for more money."
  Rico  clenched  his  teeth.  "Money's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it,  hombre.  The  man  wants  direct
  communication with his old boss. He wants the word direct. Proof positive."
  L Kahn's expression seemed to harden. "That is impossible. As you well know."
  "That's what the slag wants."
  "At our first meeting, you accused me of playing dangerous games. I now say the same to you. The
  price for the run is fixed. If you bargain any further, you're bargaining for your life. And you will lose the
  negotiations. That is a promise."
  This was going nowhere. Rico saw that clearly. L. Kahn had as much as told  him  that  Surikov  was
  bound for Fuchi Multitronics. But that was as much as he'd get. No one would provide proof.  That  might
  serve as incriminating evidence should anything go wrong.
  This was the Sixth World. Image was everything.
  
  "The other problem is time," Rico said. "The heat's on. I got the man in a  safe  place.  I  don't  wanna
  move him till the sec forces're off the street."
  "You find corporate posturing, intimidating."
  "Maybe you want me to spit on you again."
  Ravage tensed visibly.
  L. Kahn lifted  a  hand,  as  if  to  hold  her  in  check.  To  Rico,  he  said,  "I'm  prepared  to  accord  you  a
  degree of latitude on the basis of your connections and your reputation. You're now pushing at the limits of
  my patience.  I  will  admit  that  the  safety  of  the  package  is  paramount.  If  you  want  time,  I  will  grant  it.
  Twelve hours. By the end of that period, the streets should be clear of corporate forces. That is when we
  will conclude our business. There will be no further delays. Do you understand?"
  "I got it, amigo."
  "Very good."
  L. Kahn got back inside the limo. Rico waited, watching Ravage. The cutter shifted half a step toward
  him but Rico had his Predator II hi hand, the red dot of a targeting sight centered on Ravage's chest before
  she could finish the movement.
   "Be seeing you," she whispered.
  Rico bared his teeth in a grin.
  The atmosphere inside the Command & Control vehicle  was  hushed.  Colonel  Butler  Yates  stood  at
  the head of the control section in the rear of the vehicle. He had been there almost twenty minutes, silent
  and glaring, rapping his swagger stick against his leg, as if to remind everyone of his presence.
  Doubtless, he also stood there to remind everyone that the Executive Action Brigade could not afford
  another frag-up. They had lost track of their targets twice already. A third such incident would likely cost
  them their contract.
  Bobbie Jo felt the pressure intensely. She sat facing her console with a face like stone, but no amount
  of will or attempt at self-control could  stop  the  sweat  from  trickling  under  her  arms  or  from  making  her
  hands greasy and slick. The loss of the recee  drone during the runners' escape from Mott Street had cost
  the brigade a small fortune, and the emotional cost to her had still not been tallied. The spiraling dive of the
  drone had brought her back in an  instant  to  a  cloudless  day  over  Tampico  in  what  had  then  been  called
  Mexico. A heat-seeking missile slammed through  her  tail.  What  was  left  of  her  Federated-Boeing  Eagle
  went ballistic, spiraling down at Mach Two into an Aztlan oil refinery.
  Her legs, like her ride, like the whole damn government  of  Mexico,  were  broken  to  bits  and  burned
  almost to ashes. She might have gotten new legs but for the damage to her spine  and  connecting  nerves.
  The price tag for complete reconstructive surgery was almost beyond comprehension.
  If she could just stick with the Brigade long enough, two more years, maybe three, she might manage
  to get the ante together.
  She jerked when a hand touched her shoulder.
  "Stand by for launch," Skip said, quietly.
  Bobbie Jo nodded, wiped her hands on her blue Brigade jumpsuit for the twentieth time, then lifted the
  wire lead from her console to the datajack in her temple.
  Jacking into the sensor feed of a Gaz-Niki GNRD-101 Scorpion struck Bobbie Jo like the thought  of
  flying an Eagle blind. It scared the drek out of her. Suddenly she saw the world from about five centimeters
  above the ground. She could see left and right and straight ahead, and up, but nothing to her rear unless she
  turned her body to look. Her body had become articulated, and long and flat, with four sets of spidery legs,
  two multi-functional manipulator arms that looked a lot like pincers, and a tail, a sort of stinger, with special
  integral  devices.  She  could  hear  a  Brigade  operative  whispering,  "Ground  Nine  in  position,"  from
  somewhere behind her, but most of all she could feel the vibrations running through the ground, the passing
  near and far of hundreds of vehicles and perhaps thousands and thousands of people, all moving through the
  South Terminal of Newark International.
  Any one of these people could crush her articulated body beneath their heels. The Scorpion was  not
  built to take punishment. It had no weapons and no armor. It was about thirty centimeters long.
  Defenseless. Impotent.
  "Go, Bobbie Jo," Skip was murmuring into her ears. "Do it."
  She scuttled forward, pushing the Scorpion to max.  The  wheel  of  a  Mitsubishi  Runabout  seemed  to
  loom up ten  stories  higher  than  her  head.  The  chassis  of  the  car,  now  passing  over  her,  looked  like  the
  ceiling of some immense chamber, criss-crossed by massive supports and gigantic conduits and pipes.
  The red winking blip of a target indicator kept drawing her ahead, from one car to the next, one row of
  parked  cars  to  another.  She  wrenched  herself  aside  when  an  enormous  pair  of  human  feet  suddenly
  
  slammed  to  the  ground  directly  ahead  of  her.  She  raced  back  into  the  shelter  beneath  a  car  when  a
  turbocharged Westwind 2000 came bearing down on her at lightning speed.  She  hesitated  only  an  instant
  when a gleaming red schematic overlay flashed in front of her sensor view, outlining the mottled black and
  dull green Landrover van before her.
  Two meters more and she was under the runners' van-fast as a devil rat. Her audio pickup snatched
  voices out of the air, first, the runner's leader, then the fixer L. Kahn, saying,"... the streets should be clear
  of corporate forces. That is when we will conclude our business. There will be no further delays. Do you
  understand?"
  "I got it, amigo."
  A beeping sounded rapidly in her ears. Her target indicator soared  to  the  underside  of  the  van.  She
  flicked her segmented tail upward, thrusting up high on her hind legs. The tip of her tail twitched, just once.
  The  dab  of  cyanoacrylate  glue  that  spat  from  her  tail  stuck  to  the  chassis  of  the  van  and  hardened
  instantaneously. The micro-miniaturized transponder injected into  the  glue  would  be  virtually  undetectable
  until commanded to awaken.
  Then, with a single burst, it would transmit the van's location to within a centimeter or two.
  The sleeper planted, Bobbie Jo scuttled quickly away.
  18
  "Two, come with me please."
  Shank looked up. "Huh?"
  "We're taking a ride."
  The small group gathered in the bolthole's living room-Shank, Dok, Bandit, and Ansell Surikov-looked
  at her as if puzzled, but Piper didn't wait for anyone to  ask  more  questions.  She  had  her  kevlar-insulated
  jacket, her deck, and an Ares Model 70 Lite Fire automatic should she need it, and she wasn't going to give
  herself  a  moment  to  back  out.  She  took  the  stairs  to  the  sublevel  garage.  A  battered  Volkswagen
  Superkombi waited there, die backup vehicle. Taking it out and leaving Dok and Bandit stranded here with
  Surikov would light Rico's short fuse, but that was too bad. Sometimes Piper also had to do what she had to
  do. She got into the van and waited. Shank came along in a couple of moments.
  "What's tox?" he asked gruffly, cramming himself in behind the wheel.
  "We're going to the jackzone."
  "Not the fragging Stacks."
  Piper nodded.
  "Rico ain't gonna like this."
  As if she needed to be reminded ... "Please do not argue with me, Shank."
  "You're making a datarun, right?"
  "I have no choice."
  Programs degraded, code was unraveled, secrets revealed. Fuchi I.E. had a corps of deckers who did
  little else but scan their cluster of mainframes for intruders, security flaws, and other weaknesses. System
  integrity specialists, they were called. By this time tomorrow night, the code Piper had gotten from Azrael
  might be useless. She had to use it now, and she couldn't risk making the run on Fuchi from their bolthole
  here in Rahway, Sector 13.
  Technically, she shouldn't have probed the Fuchi cluster like she had earlier this evening. If she'd been
  traced, it would have been very bad. She had taken a calculated risk.
  Shank started the van and got them through the fog and the dark and the swirling dust storms to Edgar
  Road. That took them straight into Sector 10, a place people called "the Stacks" because it was the heaviest
  commercial and industrial concentration in the Newark plex. There were  also  more  telecom  lines  planted
  here than anywhere else in the plex, and traffic was intense. For deckers, this was the "jackzone" of choice.
  A crowded local telecommunications  grid  might  confuse  a  pursuing  corporate  decker  or  some  trace  and
  burn IC just long enough for a datarunner to get clear. It also provided multiple opportunities for illegal taps.
  The  few  people  who  actually  lived  in  the  Stacks  occupied  small  rooms  crammed  into  the  rear  of
  commercial plants or in factory lofts.
  Only a fool would live anywhere near the matrix address from which they started a run. That would
  be like requesting an armed assault from an organization like Daisaka Security.
  Shank turned the van down Ripley Place. That was little more than a hundred meters from the New
  Jersey Transit yards and Port Elizabeth. The rumbling vibrations of trains and the stench from the port were
  as depressing as the litter-strewn roadway and grimy,  decaying  buildings  running  down  either  side  of  the
  street.
  
  Down  near  the  corner  with  Second  Street  stood  a  building  with  a  ground-floor  bar  called  Aulisio's
  Backroom. Shank parked the van at the curb, then followed Piper inside.
  A narrow corridor led toward the back of the building and the dingy little "Backroom," which was filled
  with the usual collection of scuzboys and punks sporting the usual gutterpunk fashions. The slag behind the
  bar  wore  mirrorshades  and  a  turban  and  only  glanced  at  Piper  and  her  heavily  built  companion  as  they
  moved past the end of the bar and through another door.
  Two flights up, Piper put a wire-lead from her deck to  the  electronic  lock  on  a  door.  The  lock  was
  jacked into a Sony cyberdeck on the other side of the door. Breaking the Sony's encryption program and the
  code locking the lock would take a mainframe comp skilled in large-number theory. Her Excalibur inserted
  an electron key that cycled the lock open in about three milliseconds.
  And that was what it was really all about: keys. Another name for information. With information came
  power. Ignorance brought only misery and death. That was why the world's megacorps took such pains to
  educate  their  minions  properly,  and  in  the  proper  corporate  creeds.  To  retain  their  stranglehold  on  the
  Earth's millions, they must keep their iron grip on all the information that mattered.
  Piper grunted, and pushed through the door. The room beyond was small and bare. An old recliner sat
  near a Fujiki telecom. A sleeping bag and pillow lay along one wall. A garbage can overflowed with waste
  from  a  dozen  or  more  Staffer  Shack  meals.  Piper  kept  nothing  important  here  because  this  place  was
  expendable, and necessarily so.
  Shank secured the door. Piper took a seat in the recliner and jacked in. She hesitated only a moment
  before initializing the cyberprog in her deck, just long enough to say, "If anything happens... tell jefe  I was
  thinking of him. Only of him."
  Shank grunted. "You sure this is a good idea?"
  "There is no option."
  Then she was sluicing down the datalines, slipping quietly from grid to grid under the guise of ordinary,
  low-priority E-mail. Taking the long way to the Manhattan telecommunications grid  might  cost  her  a  little
  time, but she preferred to get there discreetly, unobserved, unnoticed. The moment the Black Towers of the
  Fuchi icon came into sight, she turned aside and entered a small white pyramid, just one of thousands on the
  Manhattan LTG.
  The words "Village Plumbing" flashed in front of her eyes.
  Then she was standing in a small electric-white room facing a sculptured dataline. The portal into the
  open line resembled an enormous skull with gaping jaws. Piper initialized the prog she'd gotten from Azrael.
  A chartreuse skateboard appeared on the floor before her. The board blazed  with  the  logo:  Echo  Mirage
  Express. Her  iconic  self  suddenly  exchanged  its  kimono  for  boarder  gear:  helmet,  gloves,  elbow  guards,
  knee guards, hi-top sneaks. A flashing red and yellow sign appeared before the skull portal to the dataline,
  reading, "This Way to Fuchi Hell."
  She stepped on the board and shot through the skull portal. The skateboard accelerated like a jet, the
  dataline beyond whipped back and forth like a snake. Sheer velocity tore at her clothes and forced her  to
  lean forward almost horizontally just to keep from being blown off the board.
  Abruptly, the dataline ended,  the  board  vanished,  her  kimono  returned,  and  she  was  plunging  into  a
  gigantic cavern of gray metal shapes and glaring, harsh red light.
  Fuchi Hell.
  She ripped a cord from around her waist and hurled the weighted end up and around to her rear. The
  weight caught on something, a pipe. The  cord  stopped  her  fall  with  a  jerk.  She  swung  back  and  banged
  against a wall of metal, then just hung there, taking in her surroundings. It was like hanging over the abyss,
  looking into the heart of some industrial monstrosity. The air smelled of molten metal. Enormous  furnaces
  throbbed somewhere far below. Pipes and conduits ran everywhere. Spectral lights flickered and  flashed.
  All the scene needed to complete the hellish image were blazing fires and the moans and cries of tormented
  souls. Piper could hear those cries in her mind. They  were  the  cries  of  the  millions  that  corps  like  Fuchi
  doomed to miserable lives and wretched deaths.
  Hand-over-hand, she pulled herself up, up, up to a gangway sided by a metal railing.
  There, she discovered a huge iconic figure in a black hood and long robe with long, full sleeves. The
  figure arose from the gangway as if from out of a pool of liquid metal. The small red window in the figure's
  iconic chest winked in alternating sequence, in black, "Mysterious Stranger Smartframe. Beware."
  "What do you know of Fuchi Hell?" the figure said.
  Very mysterious. Piper resisted a sarcastic sneer, then considered the question, warily. "It's an echo.
  Like a mirage." '
  "Reflecting greater realities."
  
  "Apparently."
  The Mysterious Stranger Smartframe nodded, and suddenly drew forth a sword more than two meters
  long, styled like a scimitar, and inscribed with mystical symbols in winking gold. "Follow."
  "Lead."
  The Stranger turned and led along the gangway, which led to an elevator, which  shot  up  a  thousand
  stories or more in just milliseconds. The elevator doors opened on a gleaming yellow room filled with  row
  upon row  of  dataterms  and  dataterm  operators  extending  off  into  infinity.  "The  Central  Communications
  Node," said the Stranger. The elevator shot up another thousand stories. The doors opened on another room
  filled with rows of dataterms and operators, all orange. "The Central Management Information Node," said
  the Stranger. The elevator shot up further. Another room, this one red. "The Central Security Node."
  Piper frowned. "You're showing me some of the most seriously secured nodes in the Fuchi cluster."
  The Mysterious Stranger nodded. "You're welcome."
  19
  "It was too ... easy ..." Piper said, not for the first time, emphasizing the words profusely. "I can't help
  feeling like we're doing exactly what someone wants us to do."
  Rico took a long drag off his cheroot, then looked back to the mirror and went on shaving three days'
  growth of beard from around his heavy mustache. "You're right," he said. "We are doing  what  somebody
  wants. His name is Surikov."
  "That isn't what I mean."
  "We're doing everything we can think of to stay alive. What else can we do? We're locked in."
  "This is Fuchi we're talking about."
  Rico  put  the  razor  down  on  the  sink,  then  slammed  his  fist  into  the  mirrored  face  of  the  medicine
  cabinet That wasn't enough, so he hit it again. He dented the metal cabinet door, he shattered the mirror, he
  cut the frag out of his hand. But he didn't care about any of that. Right at this moment, he didn't care much
  about Fuchi or Piper's instinct about her run into the Fuchi cluster. When he looked at Piper it was to see
  her standing in the bathroom doorway with her eyes pointed at the floor and her face a pinkish color. That
  he cared about. He'd finally gotten through to her. He'd stood here and listened to all her explanations and
  now it was his turn to talk.
  "You coulda been dusted," he said. "You coulda been traced. You coulda got  Shank  killed,  too.  You
  both coulda been nailed by Daisaka and interrogated, and then we'd all be dead."
  "Please excuse me," Piper murmured.
  "This, is supposed to be a team. I'm supposed to be able to trust you." The thought that he ought to be
  able  to  trust  her  more  than  anyone  else  on  earth  burned  him  enough  to  strike  another  match  under  his
  temper. He punched the medicine cabinet again. Hard. Piper's face went deep red, but it wasn't anger. It
  was shame, embarrassment. Rico had seen the color before. He hated himself for forcing her to it, but he
  couldn't help it
  "You're right," she said softly. "I betrayed your trust The shame is mine. All mine. I'm very sorry."
  "Dammit, I care about you."
  "I'm not worthy."
  Rico looked at the shattered mirror, but his anger drained away to nothing. "You shouldn't 'a gone off
  on your own. You shoulda waited for me. We shoulda had a plan. We shoulda thought about it You ka!"
  "Yes, I understand. Please forgive me."
  Reality was harsh. Maybe Piper was on her own when she went into the matrix. That was irrelevant.
  If they didn't work as a team, they were dead. The world was too dangerous a place for any one person to
  see all the angles, even those involving just the  matrix.  You  had  to  stop  and  think.  You  had  to  get  other
  perspectives, other input. You had to think it through all the way, not once, but twice, and all the while stay
  aware that there was a larger world that might, maybe just by accident, get directly between you and what
  you wanted.
  Rico took a deep drag off his cheroot then clenched his teeth and began picking broken bits of mirror
  out of his hand.
  "You got lucky," he said.
  "Yes, you're right." Piper agreed.
  Twenty minutes later, Piper had no choice but to swallow her shame and get on with biz. She'd been
  prepared for this: Rico's anger, her own responses. "Inevitable" was the operative term. She had not dared
  allow time to degrade the prog that had been her key into the Fuchi cluster. That meant no time to plan, as
  Rico said. No time to consult, no time for considering other options, no time for what might have been a last
  
  good-bye. She was quite certain that what had angered Rico the most was that last, no  good-bye.  It  was
  like a betrayal of love. The semblance of betrayal was only superficial, but that did not mitigate the shame
  she felt They joined the rest of the team in the living room.
  Fortunately, no one asked about the loud banging in the bathroom or what might have caused Rico to
  cut his hand so badly. That would have been unbearable. Piper jacked her deck into the trid, then used the
  large screen to display the data she had snatched from the  Fuchi  mainframes.  She  had  background  data,
  building schematics, security procs and assessments, everything they would  need  to  bust  Ansell  Surikov's
  wife out of Fuchi's clutches.
  The woman's name was Marena Farris, and Fuchi had a complete file on her. She had originally been
  an analyst with the Fuchi security unit charged with reviewing corporate personnel.
  "That's how we first met, in point of fact," Surikov remarked. "Marena conducted my annual review,
  perhaps three, four years ago. It was rather a foolish affair, actually. How was I getting on with my staff?
  That sort of thing. We got to talking, and, well ..."
  They  were  soon  married.  Surikov  claimed  that  Farris  had  come  to  despise  Fuchi,  its  labyrinthine
  security regulations, the  Byzantine  corporate  structure,  and  the  paranoia  all  that  inspired.  Farris  took  the
  unusual step of going on indefinite leave so that she would be able to spend time with Surikov whenever he
  was out of his labs. Piper supposed  that  if  a  woman  cared  enough  for  a  man,  she  might  give  up  almost
  anything to better promote their mutual happiness.
  Farris  lived  in  a  luxury  condo  tower  on  Manhattan's  Upper  East  Side.  The  building  was  owned  by
  Fuchi, but used primarily by execs and other employees of Fuchi subsidiaries. Security was tight.
  No matter. They began developing a plan.
  In the dark of the bedroom, Rico capped off a bottle of Nutrimax tonic water and leaned back against
  the headboard of the bed. With his Jikku eyes, he watched Piper grope around at the side of the bed, then
  slip carefully under the covers. Her face was a grayish mask. She turned her back to lie on her side.
  Rico reached out to smooth a hand over her hair.
  "You're still angry with me," she said softly.
  "Maybe," Rico admitted. "But tomorrow we might be dead meat,"
  "Yes ... you're right. Please excuse me."
  A moment passed, then she turned toward him and snuggled in against his side, laying her head on his
  chest. Rico ran his hand over her hair some more. It was smooth and soft like silk. "I don't wanna lose you,"
  he said. "That's why I got so burned."
  "You were right," Piper whispered. "I was wrong. I'm so ashamed."
  "It couldn't be helped."
  "Jefe, I don't know ..."
  It wasn't worth worrying about, not now. "L  Kahn  ain't  gonna  be  too  happy  when  we  give  him  the
  news."
  "That is true."
  "I don't know about this one, chica. I didn't like it from the start. Maybe it's like you said. We're just
  doing what somebody wants."
  "We can think about that tomorrow."
  "Sure. Tomorrow."
  The van rushed down the transitway, shifting lanes, veering from side to side, bypassing other traffic.
  Rico glanced to his rear for about the fourth or fifth time, finding it hard to keep his mind where it oughta
  be.
  Piper shared the rear bench with Shank, but she didn't seem any more aware  of him than anyone or
  anything else. She had her axe in her lap,  her  head  down-turned.  Her  long,  curling  black  hair  had  slid  in
  front  of  her  shoulders,  obscuring  her  face.  She  was  past  yesterday's  trouble,  the  embarrassment  he'd
  caused. Probably, she was praying. Talking to the kami again. Rico wished that didn't make him so uneasy.
  There had been a time, before he met Piper, when no one he knew paid any  heed  to  gods  till  death  was
  right around the corner, staring them in the face.
  He'd known Piper for almost five years now and he still wasn't used to her praying.
  Getting old. Obsolete? Maybe he'd been born that way. A couple of centuries too  late.  Into  a  world
  where honor meant nothing and a man's pride could be measured by the caliber of his gun. He figured he
  had some life left in him, regardless. Never mind what that slitch Ravage said.
  "This gonna be a charity job, bossman?" Shank said gruffly. "Or we gonna get paid?"
  "We'll get paid," Rico replied, lowly.
  Shank and the team would get all they were due, and not just their share of the up-front money, even if
  
  Rico had to reach into his own pockets. Right now, the money was the least of his concerns.
  Staying alive, at least a step ahead of  the  opposition,  was  the  number  one  priority.  After  that  came
  money. Somewhere in between staying alive and getting paid came his personal resolve to do what had to
  be done, find Surikov a new home, get the slag's wife busted out so that neither of them would be trapped in
  the ferrocrete fist of their corporate overlords. Rico just thanked his luck that he had a team he could rely
  on. Otherwise, everything went to scag, right out the window.
  The transitway surfaced into Sector 10.
  Time to get serious.
  20
  The slag in the elaborate red uniform frowned in puzzlement as Filly and Rico got out of the big blue
  and white sedan and moved across the sidewalk toward him. Filly didn't know his name, but she sized him
  up at  a  glance.  Doorman.  Very  decorative  but  probably  not  a  threat  to  anybody.  Maybe  a  little  basic
  training in security procedures, such as how to call for help when something bad came down.
  Filly motioned at him with her chin. "Security super."
  "Right  inside,"  the  doorman  replied,  waving  a  thumb  at  the  transparex-fronted  lobby  of  Forty  East
  Seventy-third. "What's the name?"
  "Rasheen. Mo."
  "Thanks."
  The doorman smiled and nodded and put his key to the lock that set the double transparex doors to the
  lobby sliding open. Filly stepped on inside, Rico at her right. She took the lead because she knew the drill.
  She'd spent nine years on patrol with Winter Systems  in  the  Bronx.  She  knew  the  procs,  the  lingua,  and
  most importantly the attitude-casual, matter-of-fact, like she had every right to do whatever the hell she was
  doing and there was no fragging question about it.
  The lobby was big and open, a dunkfield worth of carpeting,  small  gardens  in  the  corners.  A  broad,
  semicircular counter sat at the rear of the space. The slag seated behind it wore the dark gray uniform of
  Fargo Security.  He  smiled  and  stood  up  as  Filly  and  Rico  approached.  From  his  position  at  the  security
  desk, the guard could  have  no  trouble  seeing  the  sedan  at  curbside,  marked  for  the  NYPD,  Inc.,  or  the
  matching uniforms worn by Rico and Filly.
  "Hoi, chummers," the guard said, still smiling.
  "You Rasheen?" Filly inquired.
  "Yes, that is right. I am called Mo. Is there something for which I can help you officers?"
  "Got a little problem," Rico said, as Filly walked around to the rear of the security counter.
  "I am very sorry to be hearing that," Rasheen said, glancing  back  and  forth.  "How  can  I  be  helping
  you, please?"
  The rear of the security counter was one big console equipped with monitor screens, two keyboards,
  and a suite  of  other  controls.  Those  controls  had  complete  override  authority  for  the  street  doors  to  the
  lobby and the lobby doors to the elevators. No one got through the lobby unless the guard here tapped the
  appropriate key. Piper could commandeer the console from the matrix, but that wouldn't stop Rasheen here
  from calling a security alert.
  Every guard on site carried a radio. Rasheen had a portable right on his console. Also, Fuchi internal
  security had assigned a special detail to watch over Surikov's wife up on  the  thirty-fifth  floor.  That  detail
  would go on full alert if they caught even  a  whisper  of  strange  things  happening.  One  radio  call  about  a
  malfunctioning security console would do it.
  Filly stepped up beside Rasheen, and "said, "Turn and face the wall."
  "We got a warrant," Rico said.
  Rasheen went wide-eyed. "I am begging your pardon-"
  "Do it NOW Filly ordered.
  "Please explaining to me-!"
  Filly grabbed  Rasheen's  arm  and  twisted  it.  That  made  him  turn  to  face  the  wall  or  lose  the  arm.
  Rasheen turned. Rico came around and relieved Rasheen of his sidearm and  various  defensive  weapons.
  Filly forced Rasheen down to his knees and applied handcuffs.
  "You must be erroneously arresting me!"
  "I don't think so."
  "Please letting me call my director!"
  Rasheen would not be calling anybody.
  The building at Forty East Seventy-third Street on Manhattan's Upper East Side was called the Crystal
  
  Blossom  Condominiums.  The  mainframe  running  the  building's  utilities  and  monitoring  security  functions
  was a Fuchi machine, but had only the most tenuous of connections with the machines installed in the Black
  Towers  of  Fuchi-Town.  It  was  operated  by  the  Manhattan  Property  Management  Corporation,  a  Fuchi
  subsidiary. Code Orange security. That was tough, but not nearly as tough as the Black Towers' Code Red
  cluster.
  The System Access Node to the Crystal Blossom mainframe looked like the anteroom to a bank vault.
  The iconic room was gray, the vault door gold. This was standard matrix imagery and it indicated  little  or
  nothing about the security status of the system beyond.
  Piper entered the node with her masking utility on-line. The guards in their sky blue Fuchi blazers didn't
  react at all to her presence. From inside her jacket, Piper drew out a huge magnifying glass and examined
  the guards' program code. The guards-mere access  IC-still did not react. Piper drew out a pair of glowing
  red  and  green  lollipops  the  size  of  tennis  rackets,  each  winking  with  the  legend,  in  orange,  ENTRY
  REQUEST. She held the pops out to the guards, and now they noticed her. They looked at the lollipops and
  accepted them. And began licking them.
  They would continue licking forever-caught in a virtual loop.
  Piper drew out a pouch, marked Movable Holes. The hole she selected took the form of a slim black
  disk whose diameter was about equal to the height of her iconic self. She slapped the disk against the vault
  door. READY began winking in neon red at the center of the disk. She stepped through-through the hole,
  through the vault door-and into the dataline beyond.
  She had the entire Crystal Blossom system under her command in something just under a millisecond.
  It was more than just "too easy."
  Kami save them. It seemed impossible.
  The doorman started tapping on the transparex doors out front and lifted his hands as if to  ask  what
  was going on. The doors wouldn't respond to his key. That would be Piper's doing.
  One of the elevators dinged, and a uniformed guard came walking into the lobby. He was dark-skinned
  like Rasheen and the look on his face immediately turned to shocked surprise.
  "What is happening here?" he asked, voice lilting wildly up and down.
  Rasheen blurted something in some foreign lingua.
  The newcomer stopped, looking back and forth. "Why have you arresting my brother?"
  "Come're," Filly said.
  "Answer please!"
  Something  from  the  security  console  started  bleeping.  Filly  let  Rico  worry  about  that.  She  stepped
  toward  the  newcomer,  Rasheen's  "brother."  She  laid  a  hand  on  the  butt  of  her  sidearm.  Any  normal
  corporate would take that as a hint and act accordingly. "Don't  give  us  any  trouble,"  she  said  adamantly.
  "Put your hands on the wall and shut up."
  "You're not arresting me!"
  The slag went for his gun.
  Filly lunged forward, seized the guard's gun arm, and pounded a shock glove-covered fist into his face.
  That quickly, she had a full-scale brawl on her hands. The shock-glove treatment didn't seem to affect the
  fragger. She twisted his arm and slammed him back against the lobby's rear wall. The slag managed to tug
  his gun free of its holster. Rico stepped up on her left and rammed a fist into the guard's mid-section just as
  the gun detonated.
  All this just to keep up appearances, the likeness of a legitimate arrest by police, to keep that special
  detail up on thirty-eight unawares.
  The roar of the gun affected Filly like the peel of a siren. She felt the adrenaline surge even as Rico
  staggered back, turning half a circle. She went animal. She pummeled the guard. She  slammed  his  elbow
  back against the lobby wall to maybe numb the gun arm, and  then  tugged  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand.  She
  rode him down to the floor on his chest, dragged his arms behind his back, and applied a pair of cuffs.
  Panting for breath.
  Looking for Rico.
  The bossman stood leaning against the rear of the security counter. He shook his head as if to clear it.
  A dark spot was forming around the tear in the thigh of his right pants leg.
  Fragging great.
  When the elevator doors slid open, Bandit had the spell waiting, held in the palm of his hand. He saw
  the lengthy corridor stretched out ahead of him and the two men in dark suits standing near a door on the
  right. Bandit opened his hand. A noise like an alley cat shrieking arose quick and raw from the distant end
  
  of the corridor. The suits looked, and a pair of  thumps  sounded  from  Bandit's  left  and  right.  The  thumps
  were from Shank and Dok's automatics. The bullets they fired were not lethal, but the pair of suits up the
  corridor slumped to the floor anyway.
  Not dead. Just unconscious.
  Shank  and  Dok  hustled  up  the  corridor.  Bandit  followed  along  at  his  own  cautious  pace.  He  saw
  nothing of any interest in the corridor. Shank motioned for him to hurry.
  The door  marked  35-8  slid  open.  Shank  and  Dok  hustled  inside,  automatics  thumping  again.  Bandit
  followed. A small, richly decorated foyer led into a luxurious living room. Another suit lay sprawled on the
  floor of the foyer. Bandit followed Shank and Dok into the living room, running his eyes  around,  taking  in
  the wealthy furnishings:  paintings,  drapes,  vases,  bonsai,  crystal  goblets,  deluxe  trideo  with  simsense.  All
  very deceptive. A mundane could probably live here for years and never realize that he or she was actually
  living in  a  crete  and  plastic  coffin,  all  but  cut  off  from  the  essential  energies  of  the  universe.  A  quiet
  exclamation came from another room. Nothing to worry about.
  Bandit considered the situation, then took a small, velvety pouch from his duster pocket and laid it on
  an end  table.  The  pouch  contained  the  extracted  essence  of  a  number  of  herbs  and  roots  used  in  ritual
  magic by mages. Bandit had once thought that the combined essences might prove valuable for him, but the
  expectation had turned out to be false. Useful perhaps for a mage, not for a shaman.
  It would make for a fair exchange.
  Steinberg was staring at some bowl game on the trid. Tsugaru looked sound asleep, sprawled on  the
  sofa. Steva Karris glanced at her wrist chrono for the fifth time this hour and mentally began ticking off the
  seconds.
  There  was  nothing  more  boring  than  sitting  watch  on  some  corporate  property,  especially  one  that
  never went out, never left her assigned corporate quarters, for chrissakes. Steva didn't know the woman's
  name,  didn't  even  know  if  she  had  a  name.  It  was  like  playing  nightwatch  for  some  out-of-the-way
  corporate facility of dubious interest to anyone. A big yawn. That wasn't to  say  that  she  wouldn't  do  her
  damnedest to protect Fuchi corporate property. She'd just be a little more excited about it if she had some
  idea that she'd been posted to a job that made a difference.
  Her wrist chrono dinged. She looked up as Devoe came up the hall from the bathroom. "You're on."
  "So soon?"
  Steva nodded toward the foyer. Devoe knew better than to argue. He straightened his suit and headed
  out.
  Abruptly, he was back, whispering urgently, "Alert! Alert! Status five! Code Red!" -
  Karris grabbed her Ingram SMG and lunged for the foyer, the others close behind.
  Dok had met some wildly sculptured biffs in his time, but this one was the most outrageous he'd seen
  outside a Tomikon bordello. She was built for sex. Every curve shouted it.
  Her name was Marena Farris. She was Ansell Surikov's wife. When the lights came on, she was lying
  there on her back on the broad black expanse of the bed. She wore  some  kind  of  sheer,  silky  nightgown
  that covered her to the ankles, but didn't hide a thing, not the rounded prominences of her breasts or even
  the  broad,  dark  patches  surrounding  her  nipples.  Not  even  the  part  lower  down,  beneath  her  waist.
  Discreetly veiled in hair as fine as the whitish-blonde masses surrounding her face.
  She  lifted  her  head.  A  soft  exclamation  slipped  from  her  lips.  She  sat  up,  one  hand  rising  as  if  to
  defend her eyes from the lights.
  "We're busting you out," Shank announced.
  Farris gasped and blurted, "What?"
  The woman was obviously overawed. Who wouldn't be? Dok thought Awakened from a sound sleep
  by the sudden glare of the bedroom lights? met by a pair of slags in full battle gear? Dok smiled and said,
  "We're taking you to your husband. He's safe, okay? Don't wor-"
  It was too much.
  Abruptly, Farris' eyes rolled upward and she fell back on the bed, limp. Dok hurried over and broke out
  his medikit. Farris' vitals were running strong,  remarkably  strong  for  someone  in  a  dead  faint,  but  not  so
  strong that any kind of incident seemed imminent.
  Shank grunted. "You carry her."
  "Someone'll bust my skull," Dok said, grinning.
  "Do it anyway."
  "Hai, commander."
  
  "Eff you. Hurry up."
  Dok put one knee on the bed and gathered the woman into his arms. She was no lightweight, but then
  the best-looking ones never were. No  doubt  his  chummer  Shank  would  agree.  He  only  wished  that  he'd
  gone for the stage two muscle replacement at mat clinic in Johannesburg, the one with the specialist direct
  from Chiba City.
  Then again ...
  Maybe not.
  As Shank led back through the condo toward the corridor, Piper's voice came to him over his headset.
  "Time is oh-two-twenty-four," she said. "Condition Two."
  That wasn't good.
  Condition Two: Somebody injured. It had to be Rico or Filly, or Piper woulda called Condition Three,
  and that woulda been panic time because it woulda meant that Thorvin and their ride outta here wouldn't be
  on schedule-or might not be coming at all. Shank stole  a  glance  back  over  his  shoulder.  Dok  had  caught
  Piper's  warning,  judging  by  the  look  on  his  face.  Shank  gave  the  old  mercenary  signal  for  double-time,
  pumping his fist. Almost in sync, the two of them leaned forward into a quick jog.
  In  the  living  room,  Shank  stopped,  incredulous.  Bandit  was  standing  there  looking  around  like  a
  reviewer from Modern Condo. Shank cursed. "You're supposed to be watching the corridor!"
  The shaman just looked at him, his face as blank as a wall. They'd gone over this part of  the  plan  a
  dozen times, and Bandit still didn't get it. Shank felt a sudden surge of anger. Slotting sonovabitch. Frag  it
  anyway. No time for jacking around. Someone was blooded-they had to move!
  He hustled through the foyer to the corridor door, then immediately jerked himself back into the foyer
  and clear of the doorway. A female voice carried in clear and loud from  outside.  "Fuchi  security!  Throw
  your weapons into the corridor! Come out with your hands up!"
  Shank glanced at Dok, standing right there beside him, and said, "We could be in trouble."
  Dok smiled. "Glad you noticed."
  It was always difficult to keep in mind what the others wanted. They designed complicated plans with
  ends  he  sometimes  found  obscure.  Bandit  ran  with  Rico  and  the  others  because  the  runs  often  proved
  interesting in various ways, but he was not used to concerning himself with others' desires. He had his own
  way of seeing the world. He knew that few shared his view of things. He understood that most looked at
  life in ways that were either flawed or illusory.
  Why should he watch the corridor? He had seen it once already. There was nothing there of interest.
  There was always the chance that something might occur there that might pose a danger, but he had never
  encountered a danger that he could not escape.
  The problem, of course, was that the others lacked his ability.
  Quickly now, he hurried after Shank and Dok. He heard someone shout about Fuchi security. Shank
  seemed uncertain, unsure of what was happening or what to do. "We could be in trouble," he said.
  "Glad you noticed," Dok replied.
  Bandit  projected  astrally,  sized  up  the  situation  in  the  corridor,  then  stepped  to  the  doorway,
  announcing loudly, "I surrender. Don't shoot. I'm coming out."
  "Keep your hands UP!" a voice shouted.
  Shank growled, but Bandit ignored  that.  One  step  more  took  him  through  the  doorway  and  into  the
  corridor. The two suits who had been out there before were still lying unconscious nearby. Four other suits
  had  appeared.  They  were  scattered  about  to  the  right  of  the  doorway,  crouching  low  like  animals  in
  anonymous gray skins, ready to pounce. Bandit  supposed  they  were  professionals.  They  certainly  looked
  like they knew what they were doing. They all held guns. Submachine guns, in fact.
  "FACE DOWN ON THE FLOOR!" one shouted.
  Bandit nodded, merely to sign understanding. He also murmured words of power, the song of a spell,
  one of the first he had ever learned. The spell mounted and ignited the instant he finished pronouncing the
  final word. The suits' arms all suddenly leapt upward. The  guns  they  held  jerked  free  of  their  hands  and
  sailed back over their shoulders. Snatched away by Raccoon's clever paw. The guns clattered to the floor
  some distance to the suits' rear. The suits, in that instant, seemed too astonished to do more  than  exclaim
  and look around. Bandit's second spell triggered automatically. The suits' pants jerked downward to around
  their ankles. Another of Raccoon's wily tricks. The guards jerked and swayed and  stumbled  around,  now
  shouting in alarm, hobbled by their own pants.
  Bandit turned and looked back.
  
  Shank and Dok both opened fire from the doorway. The guards all staggered and fell.
  They were just knocked unconscious.
  Shank grabbed Marena Farris by the shoulders. Dok looked at him in wonder, then  took  a  new  hold
  around the  woman's  hips.  Together,  they  ran  for  the  elevators.  The  elevator  doors  slid  open  barely  two
  steps ahead of them.
  Rico and Filly were already there, guns drawn. Rico's pants leg was wet from about the middle of his
  thigh to almost fee knee. "Got a bleeder!" Filly announced.
  Bandit got on. The elevator went up.
  Dok bent to look at Rico's leg.
  Time is oh-two-twenty-seven," Piper informed over Shank's headset.
  Farrah Moffit heard the helicopter and had a fair idea of what  was  going  on,  but  she  decided  to  do
  nothing about it.
  It  seemed  like  the  only  sensible  course.  She  was  keenly  aware  of  both  her  deficiencies  and  her
  strengths, and she was no combat specialist With only minimal training in self-defense, she lacked both the
  physical stamina and the instincts to meet a man or even a woman head-on in any kind of physical contest.
  She had only an elementary knowledge of firearms. She would be a fool to  offer  anything  more  than  the
  most token of passive resistance.
  In the meantime, she gathered information, what little she could discern with her head hanging, her hair
  fallen across her face, her eyes closed, her body limp.
  Her supposed rescuers had apparently disposed of the special  security  detail  assigned  to  watch  her,
  and had done so in rapid order. That made them highly dangerous. But not insuperable. She knew at least
  one of them was wounded. One was an ork. She'd seen him in the bedroom, along with an Anglo mala with
  grayish, razor-cut hair. And there was at least one female with the group.
  Farrah remembered being carried at a run, presumably down the corridor from her condominium, and
  then the sound of the elevator doors opening. The timing seemed a little too precise to be mere coincidence.
  Perhaps it wasn't sheer coincidence. Perhaps these runners had matrix support.
  As the whoop-whoop-whoop from the helicopter rotors ascended in speed and volume, she wondered
  where these people were taking her, and then all at once the truth struck home.
  She couldn't believe it.
  21
  Dok  had  the  bullet  out  even  before  the  chopper  finished  crossing  the  Hudson  River,  the  wound
  patched and dressed by the time they set down in the blighted wastes of Sector 13. One thing Dok  knew
  was how to be fast. Rico was thankful for that.
  "The tranq should keep the edge off the pain," Dok said. "It's a local. You might need something more
  to get to sleep."
  Rico grimaced, and nodded. The fire in his right thigh had subsided into a dull ache, kind of like a bone
  bruise, menacing, but nowhere near as harsh. He could  live  with  it.  He  didn't  have  much  choice.  Gun  in
  hand, he limped across the nine or ten meters from the chopper to Thorvin's van, then waited for the rest of
  the crew to pile in. Marena Farris was awake and walking but acting more unconscious than not. She was
  clean, no implanted microtransmitters, no snitches-at least none  that  Dok  could  detect  The  fact  that  they
  were all still alive and had made a clean break from the extraction site seemed to confirm that Farris was
  indeed  as  clean  as  Rico  thought.  Now,  Dok  and  Filly  wrapped  Farris  in  an  orange  duster  and  together
  half-carried her into the van. Filly was sticking like glue to Dok. Probably a good idea.
  Thorvin drove them to Sector 10 where they picked up Piper.  She  was  good,  null  sheen.  Then  they
  took the long drive through the transitways up to the northern tip of the Newark plex,  just  across  the  line
  from the Passaic sprawl. The bolthole in Rahway had served its purpose, providing emergency backup and
  a chance for mem to regroup. Rico did not want the place found out. Time now to change locations.
  Thorvin parked the van in a dingy alley between the backsides of two sets of three-story rowhouses in
  Sector 20, a district called North Caldwell. Rico knew it as a working-class  ghetto,  home  to  wage  slaves
  and the less violence-prone of the SINless who dominated the Newark plex.  It  was  also  the  site  of  their
  new safehouse. Shank had arranged for the squat through his contacts with the ork underground. It was a
  shambles, and it stank, but it would serve.
  They were lucky to be alive, lucky the run had gone more or less as planned, lucky to have eluded the
  air patrols over Manhattan, lucky that no pursuit had developed. And that wasn't all, Rico reminded himself.
  He was lucky the bullet that hit his leg hadn't cracked a bone or torn any major arteries. Luck like that was
  rare enough to make him wonder about God, not only the Christian God, but other gods as well.
  
  Looking forward to a few nights or  weeks  spent  in  a  squalid  whore  of  a  safehouse  was  nothing  to
  complain about.
  Surikov was there and waiting. So were the pair of cutters on loan from Mr. Victor, assigned to stand
  guard. Rico paid them off and headed upstairs for a shower. He had no real interest in watching Surikov's
  reunion with his wife, and Shank could set the watch.
  He'd barely gotten his shirt off before the bathroom door swung inward and Piper slipped inside. She
  didn't say nothing at first. She came right to him, slid her arms around him, and put her head to his shoulder.
  He knew what this was about, and  here  in  the  confines  of  the  bathroom,  away  from  watchful  eyes  and
  people he had to lead, he didn't mind it at all. It was good to see she cared, good to feel it, know it. Rico's
  father used to say that a man without a woman was hardly a man at all. It took a woman's tenderness and
  caring  for  a  man  to  really  appreciate  what  being  a  man  was  all  about.  Without  the  kind  of  softness  a
  woman could give, men turned into animals.
  At a whisper, she said, "Are you sure you're all right?"
  Despite  everything,  his  leg,  the  situation,  Rico  smiled  into  her  hair,  giving  her  a  kiss  there.  "I  ain't
  complaining."
  "You lost so much blood."
  "Not that much. What happened hi the matrix?"
  "Too  easy,  jefe."  Now  she  looked  up  at  him,  her  expression  worried.  "The  Crystal  Blossom
  mainframe  is  Code  Orange  security,  but  the  IC  never  came  near  me.  I  took  complete  control  of  the
  system."
  "Maybe you're just good at your work."
  "No one's that good. Or not many. And no one goes against Code Orange without at least tickling the
  IC. Not unless someone on the inside wants it to happen that way."
  Serious guano. Piper wasn't  popping  off  theories  just  to  hear  herself  talk.  If  she  said  that  someone
  must've set up the system to give her easy access, Rico felt obliged to consider the possibility. "Who would
  want it that way?"
  "I don't know, jefe."
  It didn't scan. No one had any reason to help them bust out Marena Farris. Fuchi and Maas Intertech
  had every reason to work against them. Both would be losers if Surikov got what he wanted. Prometheus
  Engineering might conceivably have reason to help, but Prometheus couldn't be involved, not yet,  because
  Mr. Victor was only just making contact.
  So, who did that leave as possible players?
  One thought came to mind. "What about your contact?" Rico said. "The slag who got you the key into
  the Fuchi computers? Maybe he was on the inside."
  Piper shook her head. "He'd have no reason to help me now. Our deal began and ended with the Fuchi
  cluster. The Crystal Blossom mainframe isn't a part of that cluster, jefe."
  "Maybe L. Kahn did something."
  "But he wouldn't help us now," Piper said softly. "Even if he had known what we would do."
  Rico nodded. Pain and fatigue had him  brain-fuzzed.  If  anything,  L.  Kahn  would  be  opposed  to  the
  bust-out of Marena Farris because once Farris was free, Surikov could forget Fuchi and join any  corp  he
  wanted.
  "You should sleep, amante," Piper said.
  Her Spanish always came out awkward, like  she  had  to  force  her  tongue  to  work  in  ways  it  really
  couldn't handle, but the effort wanned him. Rico drew her head to his shoulder and kissed her, and took a
  breath to speak, but got no further.
  From somewhere below came a sound like the thump of a silenced weapon, then a crash like a lamp
  being smashed, then shouts, Shank's resonant voice among them.
  Piper jerked back out of the way as Rico turned and threw himself at the doorway. He grabbed up his
  gun in passing, not the Ares Special Service, the heavy Predator II, loaded with hard ammo. Any problem
  that had come to meet them here in the safe house would take hard ammo to put down.
  The Predator's smartlink came on line at once. The targeting indicator whipped down  the  hall  to  the
  stairs as Rico darted through the bathroom doorway, dropping into a combat crouch, the heavy auto leveled
  in a two-handed grip. Nobody there. The problem was still one floor down.
  When he reached  the  living  room,  he  found  Surikov  sitting  on  the  dilapidated  sofa.  Blood  streamed
  down the left side of his head to his neck. Marena Farris stood squirming against the opposite wall, straining
  up on her toes, rasping, straining for breath. Shank had one big hand wrapped around her throat. Dok's face
  was red like it would pop. Thorvin and Shank  together  seemed  to  be  trying  to  keep  Dok  from  getting  at
  
  Farris, like he wanted to kill her.
  "Fragging slitch! I'LL KILL YOU!"
  Filly stood at the center of the room cursing furiously and dabbing with her hand at her cheek, which
  showed some blood, like from a cut. She was the only one in sight with a gun in her hand.
  "The  slitch  grabbed  my  piece!"  she  said,  forced  to  shout  to  be  heard  over  Dok's  near-incoherent
  cursing.
  Rico couldn't fragging believe' it.
  Any of it.
  He threw an arm around Dok's neck, dragged him back bodily, and flung him down hard, then put the
  muzzle of the Predator in Dok's face and shouted, "I'LL DO YOU!"
  Everybody stopped dead.
  And  it  stayed  like  that  for  a  while,  everybody  hanging,  waiting,  watching.  Rico  had  a  rein  on  his
  temper, but it was a short one and they all knew it, including Dok. Rico waited till Dok's wide-eyed look of
  surprise and fury faded a little, then slowly straightened up.
  Certain things had to be said, and they could only be said in his father's tongue. Never mind that only
  Shank and Dok had any understanding of Spanish that approached real fluency. The words had to come out
  It was that or start shooting.
  He let them have it
  "Fragging amateurs," he growled, once he found his way back to English. "You wanna get us all killed?
  What the frag! What the frag?"
  "Easy, bossman," Shank said quietly.
  Rico let that pass.
  It  was  too  much,  the  sheer  sequence  of  events,  never  mind  the  motivations.  Never  mind  the
  how-come and the why.
  Shank ran it down for him, anyway.
  Apparently without warning, Marena Farris had clawed at Filly's face, then grabbed Filly's automatic,
  then fired it at Surikov. Farris hadn't seemed to know how to handle a pistol, so it was probably pure luck
  that she'd hit Surikov at all. While Shank was getting the gun away from her, Dok suddenly went off like a
  jet, which was the only part that made any sense.
  Dok would boff anything with two legs and tits, but Filly was his special lady. The only one who really
  mattered.  Man  or  woman,  it  made  no  difference-anybody  who  fragged  with  Filly  was  going  to  have  to
  answer to Dok. Rico could respect that, but not now. In the here and now it was  amateur  drek  and  they
  couldn't afford it.
  "Who's on watch?" he said sharply.
  "I got  the  rear,"  Thorvin  said,  turning  and  walking  out  of  the  room.  Rico  turned  and  found  Piper
  halfway down the stairs, just standing there watching, wide-eyed with shock.
  "Take the front, chica."
  Piper moved to the windows at the front of the room and slipped behind the heavy drapes  without  a
  moment's hesitation. Rico looked down at Dok.
  "You got a patient."
  Dok closed his eyes for a moment, like maybe he was holding back another fit of fury, then banged a
  hand to the floor before getting up and stepping over to Filly. Her little cut didn't look like a problem, nothing
  compared to Surikov's wound, but Rico said nothing. Going head to head with Dok over his lady would earn
  him nothing but trouble. You could only push people so far.
  "You're okay otherwise?"
  "Don't baby me, dammit."
  Filly was in a fine mood herself. She had reason, Rico figured. Her frag-up could've gotten somebody
  killed. If she'd been doing her job, Marena Farris would never have gotten her gun.
  Rule Number One: Never lower your guard.
  Rule Number Two: See rule one.
  Rico turned to Shank. "Put her upstairs. Watch 'er."
  Shank nodded. "Right."
  Marena Farris said nothing. She was too busy trying to breathe. When Shank let go of her neck, she
  slumped toward the floor like she had noodles for bones. Shank grabbed her left upper arm, pulled her back
  onto her feet, and half-carried her up the stairs. Rico would get to her shortly.
  First things first.
  Dok was  checking  Surikov  by  then.  Head  wounds  always  bled  like  pigs.  Rico  had  seen  enough  of
  
  them to know. The blood sometimes ran so heavy all over a person's face you couldn't tell a man  from  a
  woman.  This  one  didn't  look  too  bad.  Dok  soon  confirmed  his  guess.  "The  shot  glanced  off,"  Dok  said
  tersely. "Took some scalp with it. You'll live."
  "It feels like a hammer," Surikov said at near a whisper.
  "I got something for that."
  "I want him awake," Rico said.
  Dok hesitated, then said, "No problem."
  Rico's leg was throbbing. It was probably more his own  flaring  of  temper  than  anything  else.  Blood
  pressure, some drek like that. He found himself  a  chair  and  sat  down  facing  Surikov.  Dok  stood  up  and
  said, "Look, boss ..."
  "Don't say nothing," Rico growled. "You know the score."
  "If that slitch-"
  "You do what you have  to  do.  Just  remember  the  score  comes  out  even  in  the  end.  And  you  ain't
  gonna get me killed."
  "Dok,1: Filly said. "Just chill."
  "I'm not gonna let-!"
  "We both fragged up! Let it go!"
  Dok let it go. For the moment, anyway. Rico looked at Surikov. For a slag who'd just been shot in the
  head, he didn't look too  bad.  A  little  pale,  a  little  shook  up,  a  little  bloody.  A  few  moments  passed,  then
  Surikov met his gaze.
  "What's your story?" Rico said.
  "Excuse me?"
  "What the frag's going on?"
  "I don't... I don't have any idea." Surikov looked astonished.
  "Your wife just tried to dust you." Rico looked at Dok. "She is his wife, right?"
  Dok didn't answer.
  "You checked her, right?"
  Doc still said nothing, but the answer was obvious.
  "You didn't verify her identity."
  Filly cursed.
  "Fragging Fuchi security was right there!" Dok exclaimed. "We didn't have time. We just grabbed her
  and ran."
  "Do it now."
  Dok turned and headed upstairs.
  Rico  had  few  doubts  about  what  had  happened,  or  what  was  happening  here  now.  His  team's
  weaknesses were showing.
  The truth was that even an old pro like Dok could get sloppy, stupid. The kind of body Marena Farris
  owned would make a lot of slags get stupid, and Dok was one of them. Filly knew it, and Rico knew it That
  was  why  Filly  had  cursed.  That  was  also  why  she'd  stayed  so  close  to  Dok  ever  since  they'd  left
  Manhattan tonight. Given the right opportunity, Dok couldn't keep his pants on to save his life. He had a half
  a dozen little pieces of fun scattered all over the plex, not to mention the new ones he was always finding.
  Filly put up with it because she knew she was number one and she knew what that meant to Dok. Rico put
  up with it because it usually wasn't a problem, wasn't usually any of his freaking biz. It only mattered now
  because people were slotting up and that could get them all killed.
  Being under pressure was no excuse. It was irrelevant. Shank and Dok were pros. They were paid to
  handle the pressure and paid to do it right.
  The only thing more dangerous than busting out Surikov's wife would be coming away with the wrong
  woman. Busting out a willing corporate defector was one thing. The kidnapping of a loyal employee ... that
  could start a fragging war.
  Rico gazed steadily at Surikov, waiting, trying to scope the slag out.
  Everything was about Surikov. His reaction to Marena Farris grabbing a gun and trying to waste him
  mattered more than any explanations Farris might have to give. Rico wondered if the slag had some special
  agenda that he  hadn't  mentioned  yet.  Rico  hadn't  forgotten  what  he'd  seen  that  night  at  Maas  Intertech
  when he and the team busted Surikov out. The man had been on top of a woman and going at her like he
  owned her. Maybe that woman had been nothing more than a corporate joygirl. Maybe not. Maybe Surikov
  had Dok's kind of problem with women. Maybe not. Maybe the only reason Surikov had wanted his  wife
  busted out was so he could settle a score with her. Who knows? Maybe the only reason Marena Farris was
  
  still alive was because Surikov hadn't grabbed a gun first.
  Paranoia was catching.
  Dok  returned.  "It's  a  match,"  he  said.  "Ninety-eight  percent  certainty.  She's  Marena  Farris."  He
  paused a moment, then said, "Boss, I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
  Right. "You're on watch in two hours. Take a bedroom."
  Dok and Filly headed upstairs.
  Rico looked over at Surikov. The slag leaned his head back against the  sofa  and  closed  his  eyes.  "I
  can't believe it," he said finally. "I can't believe that's truly Marena. She would never... She's not a violent
  woman."
  Piper had  provided  comparative  data  for  both  a  retina  print  and  DNA  scan  from  straight  outta  the
  Fuchi security files. "Ninety-eight percent certainty," Rico said. "It don't get much more certain than that."
  "They must have done something to her."
  "Yeah? Maybe she hates your guts."
  Surikov's eyes flared wide. For a moment, he seemed about to roar with anger, but then the emotion
  faded. He stared at the ceiling, and shook his head very slightly. "No," he said. "You don't know Marena.
  The real Marera. I can imagine what you must think, based on her looks. But she's a very loving woman.
  She's devoted to me. I can see it in her eyes. That's how I know this woman who just tried to shoot me isn't
  her. She doesn't have Marena's eyes. Good God, what have they done to her!"
  The  emotion  in  Surikov's  voice  built  slowly  and  steadily  to  that  final  exclamation.  Rico  wasn't  sure
  what to  make  of  it.  No  question  that  a  corp  like  Fuchi  could  do  practically  anything  to  a  person  if  they
  wanted to spend the money. Could they install some kind of implant to override a  person's  brain  and  turn
  them into a one-shot killer? Rico had heard of it being  done.  Hell,  the  right  mage  with  the  right  batch  of
  spells could make a person do almost anything and leave him thinking it was his own idea.  That  much  he
  had direct from Bandit Speaking of which ...
  Where the frag was Bandit?
  22
  Shank guided Marena Farris to the  door  at  the  end  of  the  second-floor  hallway,  then  into  the  room
  there. She seemed weak, dazed. Bandit followed them in. Shank guided the woman to the bed,  made  her
  sit, then looked at the shaman.
  "I'll watch her," Bandit said.
  "Rico told me to do it."
  Bandit lifted the Mask of Sassacus up before his own face and whispered words of power. The past
  few  days  had  given  him  some  time  to  further  examine  the  mask  and  to  experiment  with  it.  He  had
  harmonized its power with his own.
  Aloud, he told Shank, "You must be hungry. Why not get something to eat?"
  Shank grunted, nodded. "Yeah, you got a point. Thanks, chummer."
  "Do not think of it."
  "Think of what?"
  "Just kidding."
  Shank paused a  moment,  looked  at  Bandit,  then  grinned  ferociously  and  left.  Bandit  considered  the
  mask, then noticed Marena Farris slowly turning to face him. She would not see the mask. It was cloaked.
  Only Bandit could see it.
  Marena Farris appeared emotionally upset. She moved her hands about her face, covering her mouth,
  her eyes, wiping at her brow, her cheeks. She spent several moments pressing her hair back from her face.
  Her eyes looked red, her face flushed.
  "Care for a cigarette?" Bandit asked.
  Marena Farris shook her head.
  Bandit shrugged and took a cig from his open pack, then ignited it with a lighter from his duster pocket.
  He didn't actually draw the smoke into his lungs, only into his mouth, then blew it out. He was a practiced
  smoker. He practiced the habit because people seemed to become more at ease  when they saw him doing
  something so mundane. That was his only reason for smoking. To appear somewhat mundane.
  He  smoked  Millennium  Reds.  One  of  the  most  common  brands  available.  They  could  be  gotten
  anywhere.
  Between one drag and the next, he gazed at Marena Farris as she appeared on the astral plane. She
  looked back at him, though only on the physical plane, it seemed.
  "You have an interesting aura."
  
  Marena Farris smiled a polite kind of smile. Not very enthusiastic. Not very interested. Perhaps a bit
  pained. Was it an attempt at deception or a reflection of her true feelings? On the astral plane, she was a
  storm of color, a boiling  cauldron  of  light,  of  life  energy.  In  Bandit's  experience,  such  a  tumultuous  aura
  reflected tumultuous emotions or thoughts, sometimes both. The intensity and diverse coloring  of  the  aura
  said more about the individual, their strength, their will, the force of their life.
  "What's going to happen to me?" Marena Farris said.
  Bandit wondered how she meant that.. Did she mean  now?  tomorrow?  next  year?  Did  she  wonder
  what would happen to her when her body grew too worn and decayed to support her biological existence?
  "I wonder," Bandit replied, pausing to take another drag of the cig. "You're much older than you seem."
  She gasped softly, then.
  As in surprise.
  "What ... what do you mean?" she asked quietly.
  "What do you think?" Bandit replied.
  "Well, yes," she said, slowly. "Yes, you're right. It's true. I am. Older than I look. Why ... do you ask?
  Why am I telling you this?"
  "You'd like to tell me more."
  "Yes, I would." She stopped and smiled again and nodded. Then frowned. "I don't understand."
  "There's nothing to understand."
  "Yes,, yes, there is. I'm sure of it."
  "You just like talking to me."
  "Yes, I do. But there's more. You're ..."
  "No."
  "You are." Her expression grew pained. She gasped for breath as if running a race.  "You're ... doing
  things to me. Stop it. Stop it, please! It hurts..." Incredible.
  Bandit  lowered  the  mask.  Marena  Farris  dropped  her  head  to  her  breast.  Her  hair  tumbled  down
  around her face, concealing her features completely. But not her aura. Bandit looked at that  again  just  to
  see  how  it  had  changed,  but  it  was  difficult  to  read.  Certain  aspects  of  it  were  puzzling,  out  of  sync,
  conflicting with the whole. Conflicting with aspects of her aura that seemed to imply that she had a  great
  latent potential for magic. Great enough  that  she  might  have  made  a  powerful  mage,  had  she  begun  the
  study early enough.
  Then  again,  her  potential  was  not  entirely  latent.  She  had  some  very  minor  raw  ability.  Unrefined,
  untrained. A sensitivity to spells of influence, a sort of natural resistance, and great strength of will.
  Bandit wondered if she might not be one of those people, successful people, powerful people, who are
  often credited with great personal charisma, charm,  influence,  and  a  thousand  other  traits  that  mundanes
  found so difficult to describe.
  Magic by other names.
  It would be interesting to spend more time with Marena Farris. Bandit could see the value in it clearly.
  If nothing else, her own natural resistance would help him reveal the true depth of power possessed by the
  Mask of Sassacus.
  The bedroom door swung inward.
  Rico entered. "Looking for you," he said. "Have a seat, I wanna talk to our guest."
  Bandit found himself a chair.
  Heading into this, Rico tried to keep an open mind.
  Marena Farris lifted her head and met bis eyes. She looked distraught enough  to  cry,  scared,  too.  It
  made her seem more human.
  Her  Fuchi  file  said  she  was  forty-three,  but  she  didn't  look  anywhere  near  that  age.  Maybe
  twenty-five. She had the kind of looks that leapt out and demanded a man's attention, no question about it
  Her face was pure exec, cool and sophisticated, flawless. Her  figure  was  beyond  belief.  She  had  all  the
  makings of a primo slut or prostitute, the kind of woman who got whatever she wanted, regardless of what
  it took.  She'd  started  at  Fuchi  as  a  corporate  joygirl,  a  sort  of  combination  hooker  and  geisha,  but  had
  broken out of that mold in just a few short years. The corp had educated her, boosted her up the ladder.
  Rico  noticed  how  the  light  from  the  room's  only  lamp  gleamed  on  the  moist  skin  beneath  Marena
  Farris' eyes, and he decided how to proceed. An honorable man would plumb his own depths searching for
  mercy. Understanding. Compassion. But Rico couldn't afford it.
  "What's your story?"
  She hesitated, blinked like she didn't understand, the looked at him steadily and said, "Please don't kill
  
  me."
  Rico clenched his teeth. "Gimme a reason."
  "I'm worth more alive."
  What the hell was she talking about? Rico straggled to keep his face deadpan, concealing his surprise.
  Did she think she'd been kidnapped? That someone intended to kill her? Rico thought he ought to  explain,
  only he didn't wanna explain, not till he got the truth out of her. "You always say hello to a slag by trying to
  waste him?"
  "What else could I do?" Farris seemed to get choked up. Her voice wavered. Tears spilled from her
  eyes. She moaned, looking around like she wanted to find  some  way  out.  "You  had  me,  you  brought  me
  straight to  him.  He  obviously  hired  you  for  that."  She  paused  a  moment,  hand  at  her  brow.  Her  fingers
  trembled visibly. "I can't believe this is happening. Isn't there anything I can say? I'll give you any amount of
  money, twice whatever he paid you, if you'll get me out of here."
  Rico hated playing games like this, especially with a woman, especially with one who looked like she
  expected to be killed at any moment. It made him feel dirty-like slime. It didn't really matter that she was a
  suit, a corporate. She was still a woman. If so much wasn't at stake ... Rico clenched his teeth. "You got
  money?"
  The question nailed her attention. Her eyes went wide. She nodded. Adamantly. "Yes, I have a lot of
  money. I don't... I don't care how much you want. Just let me go. Please let me go."
  "Later," Rico said. "We'll talk about money later. I wanna know some things first."
  She nodded, looking like she'd willingly tell him anything. Rico wondered whether to believe it.
  "How'd you figure it out?" Rico said. "What we got in mind."
  Farris lowered her face to her hand, stared at the bed. She seemed about to cry again. "I've known for
  some time that Ansell loathes me. He can be very vengeful. That's why he volunteered-"
  "Volunteered? For what?"
  Farris looked at him again. "You don't really need to know that. It's proprietary,"
  Rico stepped toward the bed. "I'll tell you about proprietary. I almost got my cojones blown off coming
  after you. So you're gonna tell me what you know. Everything."
  "Please ... I took an oath."
  A real corporate thing to say.
  Rico sat down on the edge of the bed facing her. A new rise of fear showed plainly in her eyes, yet
  something in the way she held her head,  the  angle  of  her  chin,  seemed  almost  like  a  challenge.  Defiant.
  That changed when the razorspurs slid out of the rear of Rico's arm and snicked softly into position. Farris'
  eyes  caught  the  movement.  She  looked,  then  looked  again.  When  Rico  lifted  his  forearm,  moving  those
  blades toward her throat, she stiffened, lifted her hands to her face, and leaned away.
  Another moment and she was squirming.
  She gasped. "Please!"
  When  she  started  shaking.  Rico  drew  back.  She  was  hard  to  read,  and  harder  to  figure.  One  big
  contradiction from start to finish. She could peddle that body of hers in any bar in the sprawl without even
  trying, yet she seemed sharp, maybe sharp enough to go anywhere, right to the top. She didn't seem like the
  type to be physically brave, and yet this same woman had just grabbed a gun and tried to blow  away  her
  own husband. What the hell kind of sense did that make? None. None whatsoever. Surikov didn't seem to
  understand it. Rico sure didn't.
  "Consider yourself threatened," he said. "Now talk."
  Farris was more than just a few moments calming down. If it was an act, it was a fragging good one.
  Every move flush, a seamless performance. Right down to the way she pursed her lips, as if forcing herself
  to at least seem in control of herself, when really she was shaking. Rico wasn't sure if he believed her act
  or not.
  "You said your husband volunteered. Volunteered for what?"
  "A special program," Farris said in a voice that seemed weak with emotion. "He didn't have to do  it.
  He did it to get away from me. To spite me."
  "Spite you why?"
  "Because things didn't work out."
  "What things?"
  She hesitated and swallowed visibly. "Our relationship," she said. "Our marriage."
  Rico figured that much had to be true. If it hadn't been true, it was now. Unless Surikov  didn't  mind
  almost  getting  wasted  by  his  wife.  "Tell  me  about  this  special  program.  You  said  your  husband
  volunteered."
  
  "It's a secret."
  "You wanna get hurt?"
  She lowered her head, shook it, and said, "It was a  program  to  infiltrate  Fuchi  competitors.  Security
  services have been doing that ... doing it forever. The problem is ... your average security operative lacks
  the  qualifications  to  get  at  the  data  you  really  want.  The  agent  typically  ends  up  on  the  competition's
  security  staff  or  else  posted  in  some  security  function  to  an  executive,  with  only  very  limited  access  to
  proprietary material.  The  Fuchi  program  changed  all  that.  We  developed  an  interdisciplinary  scheme  for
  training scientists and researchers to work as security operatives, and to work effectively. That's basically
  what it was about."
  "Keep talking."
  Something crossed her face, maybe dismay. "The program was very involved," she said softly, almost
  moaning. "It was five years in the making. I was part of it from the beginning. Ansell resented the hours I
  logged. He's very possessive. He wanted me  to  be  with  him  whenever  he  was  free  from  his  work.  My
  work didn't matter to him. I tried working from our condo and ultimately went on leave, but by then it was
  too  late.  He  resented  me,  resented  everything  about  me,  and  that  resentment  turned  vile.  It  turned  into
  hatred."
  "So he volunteered for your program."
  "It was ... it was a way to use my own work against me. He felt that I had betrayed him. This was his
  revenge. Knowing how it would make me feel."
  Rico  wondered  how  much  of  this  was  true.  Farris'  file  said  that  she  had  worked  on  some  special
  project for going on five years. More than that, he didn't know. A lot of what Marena Farris was telling him
  wouldn't likely appear in any files. "Surikov's a big deal biotechnician. You're telling me Fuchi put this slag,
  this asset, into some experimental program and sent him straight to the enemy. I don't buy it."
  "Ansell's qualifications made him perfect for the role. That was the point of the program, to get astute
  people into the competition's camp, people who would know  what  they  were  seeing,  who  could  report  in
  specific  detail  on  how  competition  research  was  developing."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  wiped  her  eyes.
  "Yes.  Ansell  Surikov  is  a  highly  qualified  scientist  with  an  enviable  reputation.  Fuchi  has  many  highly
  qualified scientists with good reputations. None of mem are irreplaceable."
  "Where'd they send him?"
  "Kuze Nihon. A subsidiary, Maas Intertech. That's located in New Jersey."
  "How long you been on leave?"
  "About... about three years."
  Her Fuchi file agreed. "Why do you rate your own personal security team?"
  Farris hesitated, "I... I was never told why. In the beginning, I assumed it was because I had always
  been loyal to the corporation. I'm still an asset, even if I am on leave. I haven't resigned."
  "What makes you an asset?"
  "I'm a psychologist."
  Her Fuchi file verified that. Fuchi  had  sent  Farris  to  several  universities  in  the  U.C.A.S.,  and  she'd
  earned a degree in psychology. It had seemed odd to Rico that a corp would spend  money  like  that  on  a
  corporate hooker, but apparently it wasn't as strange as he thought. Piper said that a lot of the megacorps
  used  their  more  sophisticated  joygirls  and  joyboys  a  lot  like  shrinks.  Some  even  worked  as  spies  for
  corporate security.
  That whole train of thought made Rico wonder if he was sitting next to something as potentially nasty
  as a trapdoor spider. Farris looked and acted upset, and yet the things she was saying told him that the brain
  behind her dark brown eyes was alive and working just fine. Did she really  believe  that  her  husband  had
  hired help to murder her? That much didn't make much sense.
  "Psychologists at Fuchi get personal security teams?"
  "I suppose I'm a special case. Certain people hinted that threats had been made against Fuchi, against
  security personnel in particular. I accepted that. Later, as I put my life back together, I began to wonder if
  perhaps the threat had something to do with Ansell. Perhaps he had been found out. Perhaps Kuze Nihon
  was using threats against me to make Ansell work for them."
  "Why would he care?"
  "You would have to know Ansell to understand that."
  "Try me."
  She seemed puzzled for a moment. Whether puzzled by the demand or puzzled that it should be made,
  Rico couldn't tell. She said, "Ansell doesn't respond well to coercion. He's out of his element here, so you've
  probably  found  him-easy  to  deal  with.  In  the  corporate  environment,  where  he's  at  home,  he's  highly
  
  independent of mind and intensely aware of his own personal purview. He believes he should be allowed to
  pursue  his  work  utterly  without  supervision  or  constraint.  He  views  even  the  slightest  intervention  by
  management  as  a  complete  usurpation  of  his  rights  as  a  scientist.  That  same  egocentric  perspective
  dominates his personal life as well. A threat against  his  wife  would  be  no  less  a  threat  against  him  as  a
  man.  It  wouldn't  matter  if  he  cared  whether  his  wife  lived  or  died.  What  would  matter  is  his  power  to
  control what happened."
  "If anybody's gonna ice you, it'll be him."
  "That would be his view. Highly simplified."
  "How does he go from spiting you to wanting to kill you?"
  "Presumably, Maas Intertech realized he was an infiltrator and began  using  him  as  such,  limiting  his
  access, feeding him false data to pass along to Fuchi. They would naturally put restrictions on his research
  and he would resent this. Probably, he would blame me, for if I had not encouraged his spite, he would not
  have gotten into a situation like that. It's all my fault, you see."
  "So he'd come after you for revenge."
  "Isn't it obvious?"
  "You make him sound like a psycho."
  "Then I haven't been clear." Farris paused, wiped at her eyes some more. "Perhaps I  should  explain
  that the desire for personal power is a defining factor in many men, just as the desire to form cooperative
  relationships is a factor in many women's development and personalities. Ansell is as rational a man as you
  might  ever  meet  He  functions  very  effectively  in  the  corporate  milieu.  His  personal  power  is  extremely
  important  to  him,  but  he's  not  inflexible,  not  compulsive,  in  the  clinical  sense.  At  times,  he  deliberately
  exaggerates  his  need  for  control,  as  a  ruse  he  uses  merely  to  achieve  a  degree  of  control  that  he'll  be
  comfortable with, knowing all the while that certain of his demands will be refused."
  "Rational men don't dust their wives."
  "If you really believe that, you've been misinformed."
  "Yeah?"
  "Rational people sometimes do irrational things. I'm explaining myself to you at length when  I  should
  probably be saying as little as possible."
  "You been threatened."
  "Yes, I know." She pressed a few curling strands of hair back from the side of her face.  Her fingers
  gave a tremble-so slight Rico almost missed it. "Fear may be a rational response to danger, but it does not
  necessarily  motivate  rational  behavior."  She  paused  again  and  swallowed.  "I  want  to  cooperate  fully
  because I'd rather you were my ally than someone I should fear. I try to avoid classic behaviors like that,
  and yet I find that I can't Right now, it's practically a compulsion."
  "Right now" bothered Rico a good deal less than what might be somewhere ahead of him.
  Marena Farris was going to be trouble.
  Hell, she was already trouble.
  "Was she lying?" Rico asked softly when they came out of the room onto the second floor hallway.
  Bandit nodded and said, "Yes. She lied."
  "About everything?"
  "No."
  Rico wanted to know more, specifically when Marena Farris had lied and when she had told the truth.
  Bandit wondered how to answer. Spells of detection, especially those involved with detecting truth and lies,
  were not like spells for casting mana bolts and fireballs, which either worked or didn't work as  the  caster
  intended. Spells for assensing truth most often yielded mixed results, perhaps because most people spoke in
  a mixture of truth and falsehood.
  There was also the question of whether such spells assensed the objective truth or merely the truth as
  the target of the spell knew it. Had  Marena  Farris  lied  in  certain  respects  or  simply  recited  lies  she  had
  mistakenly accepted as truth?
  "What did she lie about?" Rico asked.
  Bandit replied, "Take your best guess." He was no multiphased lie detector, and he  disliked  trying  to
  function as one.
  Rico grimaced, seeming displeased.
  "Your wife says you volunteered for the program."
  Surikov frowned, looked unhappy, even angry. "Volunteered? I did nothing of the kind. I was ordered
  
  to enter the program! I had no choice whatsoever."
  "They musta had some kind of hold on you."
  "A  hold?  Of  course  they  had  a  hold!  If  I'd  refused  them,  I'd  have  ended  up  in  the  Antarctic
  somewhere, running computer-directed tests on plankton."
  Surikov looked and sounded like he would have considered that a real tragedy, and Rico could believe
  it.  He'd  heard  this  kind  of  talk  before.  People  like  Surikov  grew  up  on  the  inside  of  the  corporate
  infrastructure. They didn't know any better. When the Master Suit gave orders, nobody disobeyed. You did
  what the bosses told you or you suffered the consequences. Even a slag with serious ego problems wouldn't
  want any black marks on his record because that would be bad for his career.  And corporates didn't seem
  to see much difference between the words "life" and "career."
  If one went down the toilet, the other followed.
  "You said you were snatched outta Fuchi Multitronics."
  "Is there a difference? I was given no options. Whether I was kidnapped or thrust out upon my path, I
  had no choice. I was badly used. The morality of it is identical."
  There was a difference, though. Fuchi might try to retrieve Surikov in either case, but this was not just
  "either" case. In this particular case, which was the only "case" that really mattered, L. Kahn had claimed
  that the client wanted to retrieve the subject of a kidnapping, and if that was a lie-as Surikov and his wife
  both claimed- then Rico had every right to call off the deal with L. Kahn.
  Suddenly, his course seemed surprisingly clear.
  If he got out of this alive, he'd have to make some kinda statement, a statement about fixers who lied.
  Something L. Kahn would not like. Something people would hear about.
  "You got two options," Rico said. "You go where your husband's going, or you wait till I'm ready to let
  you go." Marena Farris watched him from the bed in the second-floor bedroom with eyes that got really big
  and round and an expression that seemed as expectant as it was fearful. "Does that mean ... you  will  let
  me go?"
  "Not till I'm ready."
  "But you will let me go, eventually?"
  "When the time's right."
  Farris slumped a little, lifting a hand to her face, closing her eyes. "It's so hard to believe you won't just
  kill me," she said in an undertone. "But that's what you're saying, isn't it? You're not going to kill me?"
  Rico clenched his teeth. "I don't do murder."
  Farris gasped. She did that a couple of times,  head  down,  hand  still  over  her  face.  Maybe  she  was
  crying. Soon, she lifted her head and wiped at her eyes. "Where is Ansell going?"
  "It ain't settled yet."
  "You're not taking him back to Fuchi, are you?"
  Rico wondered if he should tell her. His first instinct was to say nothing. She didn't need to know. It
  did make  him  wonder,  though.  She'd  just  tried  to  kill the  slag  and  now  she  wanted  to  know  what  was
  happening with his life?
  Before he could decide what to say, Farris said, "You should bring him back to Fuchi."
  "Why?"
  "It's the best environment for a man like Ansell. It really is. I'm not saying that just because I happen
  to work there. Fuchi's research facilities are the best, and the research program is tailored for scientists of
  Ansell's ability. I don't really think he'll be happy anywhere else."
  "That's his problem," Rico said. "His decision. Your decision I already laid out for you. Which is it?"
  "If you aren't taking Ansell to Fuchi, I'd rather you just let me go. Someplace safe. Near a telecom."
  Right.
  "She ain't going with you."
  "She isn't? Why not?"
  "Because that's her decision."
  Surikov frowned, then looked at Rico expectantly. "You've got the guns," he said, quietly. "You could
  force her."
  Rico clenched his teeth. "I don't think so."
  "I could make it worth your while."
  "Forget you even thought it."
  "What about Marena Farris?"
  
  Rico  looked  up  as  Piper  pulled  another  soyburger  out  of  the  wave  and  turned  to  the  micro-sized
  kitchen table. You'd think that in an ork safehouse, the kitchen would be the biggest part of the house. Not
  so. Rico finished chewing on a mouthful of burger, and said. "We're gonna hang on to Farris a while."
  "How come, boss?" Shank asked.
  Rico watched the ork devour a burger in one bite. "Because we don't have to let her go yet."
  "And if Fuchi comes, we'll have a hostage."
  Rico didn't like that word, didn't like hearing Piper say it. Taking a hostage had never been part of his
  plan. He wanted to let Farris go, right now. And he would, except...
  "Corporates  use  everybody."  Piper  said,  delivering  more  food  to  the  table.  "It's  only  right  that  we
  should use them. They should know the terror and violence that ordinary people live with every day. They
  should know what it's like to live in constant fear of death. What it's like to be considered valueless."
  "Nobody's gonna lay a hand on her."
  "Fuchi won't know that That's the point, jefe."
  The real point was subtler. Rico felt sure of what had to come next, but he had doubts, serious doubts,
  about Surikov and Farris, and especially about Farris.
  No one spoke chiptruth-no way, no how. Everybody lied to at least some degree. The question was did
  he have as much of the truth as needed to go ahead? Rico had the feeling he was missing some essential
  part of the puzzle, some basic truth that would make everything crystal clear if only he had the sense to see
  it. Maybe it was just paranoia. He had no choice but to proceed with making a deal with  Prometheus  for
  Surikov, it was that  or  sit  on  his  butt,  and  yet  he  couldn't  help  wondering  if  something  Surikov  or  Farris
  might be holding back would cast everything, the whole situation, in a brand new light.
  Let Farris go? Sure, he'd let her go, just as soon as he knew that nothing she knew could hurt him or
  the team or the deal for Surikov. That would cost her time and inconvenience and maybe a whole lot more,
  but she owed Surikov that, that much at the very least. In another situation, she'd be heading into court on
  charges of attempted murder. Here, she was getting off easy, no matter what happened.
  "This run's turning into a freaking nightmare," Thorvin growled. "I don't trust either one of the freaking
  fraggers, Surikov or Farris."
  "Shut up and eat," Shank remarked.
  "Eff you, ya freaking trog."
  "Short an' squat."
  "Anybody wants out," Rico said, "say it now. We're gonna be up to our necks in guano before this is
  done."
  "Ain't we already?" Shank said.
  "No one wants out," Piper said. "We're with you, jefe. You know that."
  "Yeah," Shank said, with a nod. "Sure."
  Rico looked at Thorvin. The rigger hesitated, about to take a bite of soyburger, then looked at Rico out
  the corner of his eyes. "Miss a chance to kick some corporate butt?" he muttered. "You must be freaking
  dreaming, ya freakin'..."
  Rico nodded.
  Point made.
  23
  The brownstone on Treadwell looked like an armed camp. Six cutters stood on and around the steps
  leading up to the front door. Three of them held submachine guns in the open. Three more stood inside the
  entranceway, two armed with assault rifles, the third with a light machine gun.
  Things were getting real all over.
  As always Mr. Victor waited at the center of  the  house,  in  the  garden.  He  invited  Rico  to  sit.  The
  houseboy brought coffee.
  "I have many more inquiries for the services of your team," Mr. Victor said. "I have intimated that you
  might be available in the near future, and at prices exceeding twice your usual rates. I have been answered
  only with enthusiasm. Let me know the moment you are prepared for more work. I will have a job for you
  that very day."
  "Gracias," Rico said. "That's good to know."
  "You do not seem pleased, my friend."
  "I got problems."
  "As do we all," Mr. Victor replied. "We live in troubled times. How may I help you?"
  Rico said, "The job for L. Kahn is as good as a snatch. Surikov and his wife both tell me that he went
  
  to Maas Intertech as an infiltrator. A  spy.  That  ain't  how  L.  Kahn  told  it.  He  said  Maas  Intertech  stole
  Surikov away. So either he was lying or his client was lying. Either way, the deal's off."
  Mr. Victor's expression turned grave. "There will be repercussions," he said. "I regret that under  the
  circumstances I am not able to intervene on your behalf."
  "You didn't contract for the job," Rico replied. "It ain't your problem. I just want you to understand why
  I'm doing what I'm doing."
  "Of course," Mr. Victor said. "I understand  completely.  You  know  which  is  the  honorable  path,  my
  friend. The man of honor  takes  responsibility  for  his  own  acts.  He  faces  the  consequences  for  what  he
  must do. However, there must be some way in which I can aid you. Be candid."
  "You could talk to Prometheus Engineering."
  "In what regard?"
  "That's where Surikov wants to go. He likes their style, some guano like that. Surikov's supposed to be
  a real hot property. Some hotjack scientist. I figure we could get a finder's fee."
  "Call it a delivery charge."
  "Si. Whatever."
  Mr. Victor seemed to consider briefly, then said, "Perhaps I can do you this service. Let me see what
  I can arrange. Excuse me for a few moments."
  "Si, Gracias."
  "De nada."
  Rico got up and walked around the perimeter of the garden. He made a point of gazing mostly at the
  ground  or  up  at  the  tree  limbs  and  birds  overhead,  anywhere  but  toward  the  table  at  the  center  of  the
  garden. Mr. Victor wanted to do his biz in private. Rico had no problem with that. None whatsoever.
  Maybe  twenty  minutes  passed  before  a  servant  came  to  lead  Rico  back  to  the  table.  Mr.  Victor
  invited him to sit with a brief gesture. "As it happens," Mr. Victor said, "I  have  a  contact  in  a  position  to
  negotiate on behalf of  Prometheus.  They  are  interested  in  obtaining  your  man.  He  is  known  to  them  by
  reputation. They are also interested in his wife."
  "She don't wanna go to Prometheus."
  "I understand. I merely held out the possibility of the wife being part of the deal. It is no matter. Your
  fee will approximate what you would have gotten if you had finished the job for L. Kahn."
  "You know that? what I agreed to?"
  "My friend, it is my biz to know such things."
  Rico  nodded.  If  he  had  hesitated  a  moment  to  think,  he  could  have  saved  himself  a  question.  Mr.
  Victor had contacts, lots of them, practically everywhere it sometimes seemed.
  Had anyone else spoken like this, alluding to privileged info of this type, Rico might have pulled a gun,
  forcing a confrontation from which there would be no turning back. Mr. Victor he  could  trust  Mr.  Victor
  understood honor and knew when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut.
  "This price is acceptable to you?" Mr. Victor asked.
  Rico nodded. "Absolutely."
  The  portable  telecom  on  the  table  bleeped.  Mr.  Victor  picked  up  the  handset,  telling  Rico,  "Un
  momenta, par favor."
  Rico began to get up, but Mr. Victor motioned for him to remain seated. The phone call lasted maybe
  half a minute, then Mr. Victor broke the connection and said, "All is arranged. Pickup will be this evening.
  Your man must pass a DNA and retina scan prior to transfer. Payment will be made in certified credsticks.
  I trust that is also acceptable?"
  Mr. Victor was only asking as a courtesy. It wasn't necessary. Rico nodded. "Muchas gracias"
  "De nada.  My friend, once this job is done, you will come and see me and I will have a real job for
  you. Mucho dinero. Your are into the big time, now. Serious nuyen. Congratulations."
  "There's one other thing I need."
  "And what would that be?"
  "A meet with L. Kahn. It has to be by telecom."
  "That is easily arranged." Mr. Victor replied. "Allow me to ask what matter you will discuss."
  Rico put it on the line.
  By the time Ravage was finished, Willy Hogan had several cracked ribs, two broken arms, a broken
  leg and his face  was  practically  unrecognizable,  battered  and  drenched  in  blood.  Hogan's  wife  and  child
  shrieked from the bedroom doorway. The others crowding this tenement apartment in Sector 11, a mix of
  orks and norms, waited motionless, silent.
  This was Hogan's payment for taking nuyen and providing no information for it.
  
  L. Kahn watched without really watching. He had other matters on his mind. Hogan, a former Fed, a
  supposedly skilled technician, had been just one of the many ways in which L. Kahn had arranged to keep
  tabs  on  the  team  hired  to  extract  Ansell  Sunkov  from  Maas  Intertech.  The  client  had  ordered  multiple
  backup, and L. Kahn had delivered, yet every one of those backups had met failures of varying degrees.
  The mission assigned to the backups was simple: track the runners who had Surikov, be  prepared  to
  move in ' if anything went wrong. How difficult could that be? L. Kahn had little patience for incompetents
  or  self-styled  experts  like  Willy  Hogan.  Even  less  when  he  was  feeling  ,  pressure  from  above.  He  had
  ambitions. He would not be scammed by the many jokers and con artists running around the Newark plex.
  Ravage finished her task, leaving Hogan sprawled in his own blood, just barely alive. L. Kahn turned
  and found his way back to his black Toyota Elite limousine. Ravage climbed in after him. Once inside the
  car, she tapped the intercom and told the chauffeur, "Drive."
  They  were  soon  down  the  great  ditch  of  the  Garden  State  Parkway  and  into  the  tunnels  of  the
  Westfield transitway. L. Kahn looked at the boy lounging on the seat beside him. His name was Jared. He
  wore a bluish synthleather bodysuit He was cruel and cunning but malleable. And very attractive.
  Unfortunately, the phone picked that moment to bleep. L. Kahn directed his eyes to the limo's center
  console. The telecom screen there opened a window to display the image from an incoming call. A second
  window displayed the code of the originating phone, and the location-Sector 9, proximate to the border with
  the Passaic metroplex and  immediately  adjacent  to  Sector  20.  The  so-called  "Executive  Action  Brigade"
  had finally located the runners in Sector 20.
  L. Kahn reached out and tapped the telecom key to accept the call. When he  saw  the  dark-skinned
  Hispanic face that appeared on the screen, he forced himself to remain calm.
  "Mr. Rico" this one liked to be called.
  "You lied," Rico said.
  L. Kahn felt a twinge of anger and puzzlement, but suppressed it Half-truths and lies were an integral
  part of the biz. Even a rank amateur should know that. What mattered  most  was  the  money,  money  and
  power. What inspired this razorguy Rico to cloak everything he said in pretentious moral language, L. Kahn
  did not understand. "You  will  make  delivery  tonight,"  L.  Kahn  said  simply.  Twenty-three  hundred  hours.
  Sector 17."
  "Wrong."
  "You refuse to make delivery?"
  "Like I told you at the start, I  don't  do  snatches.  I'm  no  dog  you  can  just  order  around,  amigo.  We
  know who your client is and the man don't wanna go. Your  money's  on  its  way  back  to  you.  The  deal's
  off."
  "Turn the subject over to me and I will forget you said that."
  "Not today, amigo."
  "Your lives will be forfeit."
  "We was born that way."
  The  image  on  the  screen  froze  and  held  as  the  disconnect  icon  appeared.  L.  Kahn  maintained  his
  composure for a few moments longer, then cursed. That face glaring out of the screen, it was too much to
  endure. He should have known that pretentious slot Rico would be trouble. A shadowrunner with ethics.
  Who could believe it?
  L.  Kahn  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  growled  with  frustration,  then  smashed  his  boot  heel  through  the
  telecom display screen.
  The order came at 19:40 hours.
  Ten  minutes  later,  Skip  Nolan  stood  in  the  dingy,  litter-strewn  alley  behind  the  street  of  ghetto
  rowhouses  in  Sector  20,  North  Caldwell.  Like  the  four  men  and  two  women  of  Team  A,  he  wore  the
  armored assault uniform of the Executive Action Brigade.
  The Team B leader signaled ready. Team B would take the front and upstairs portions of the narrow
  rowhouse where the runners had holed up. Team A would take the rear and basement areas.  Somewhere
  up above, in the night, Bobbie Jo had the whole block under surveillance.  No  one  had  entered  or  left  the
  house for hours. Ground-based surveillance teams had seen lights going off and on and curtains moving and
  figures silhouetted against window shades. The house was hot, making infrared analysis difficult, but no one
  had any fears that the runners might have slipped away again. A vibration detector dropped onto the roof of
  the house had picked up people moving around inside, and a laser snooper had picked up conversation off
  one of the windows. And on top of all that, the runners' van was parked right behind the house.
  The runners were there,  no  question  about  it,  and  now,  according  to  orders,  they  were  going  to  be
  
  taken down. Skip didn't know why the Brigade should suddenly go from a surveillance role to an interdiction
  role, but he wasn't  planning  to  worry  about  it.  That  wasn't  his  job.  Taking  down  runners  in  the  Newark
  metroplex wasn't so different from scoring smugglers along the C.A.S.-Pueblo border or supporting a coup
  in  Guatemala.  The  world  was  full  of  conflicting  interests.  When  forces  clashed,  somebody  lived  and
  somebody died, and maybe once in a while the right people got what they deserved.
  He keyed the mike of the headset worn under his helmet. "Team A, Team B ... let's rock."
  Two men swung a portable ram, smashing the rear door of the rowhouse right out of the  frame.  As
  the door went down, a third trooper flung a stun and smoke grenade that went off with a bang. Squad One
  rushed  into  the  kitchen,  weapons  tracking  from  side  to  side,  then  called  "clear"  and  moved  on.  Another
  grenade banged from the front of the house. Skip followed Squad One through the swirling smoke as far as
  the stairs to the basement and there pointed Squad Two up the hall toward the front of the house.
  Another grenade detonated upstairs. Squad One called out that the basement was clear. Skip started
  toward the front of the house, but already he felt the uncertainty gnawing  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  One
  room after another came up clear. Still no weapons fire, no report of confrontations, no sign of the runners.
  In another moment or two, the Team B leader would call the second floor clear and then Skip would know
  that  the  worst  had  happened  yet  again.  The  place  was  empty.  The  only  bodies  present  belonged  to  the
  E.A.B.
  How the hell had those fraggers gotten away?
  "Bitches stay in the car."
  None  of  the  women  complained,  and  that  was  well.  The  call  regarding  the  change  in  the  runners'
  status had come at an untimely moment in Maurice's studies.  The  last  thing  he  wanted  to  do  was  waste
  time  traipsing  around  die  metroplex  after  a  group  of  recalcitrant  runners,  but  unfortunately  he  had  no
  choice.
  Gathering his coat around him and hefting his walking stick, Maurice stepped from his Mercedes limo.
  The night was cool and quiet, but rife with a tension that hinted at things to come. Claude Jaeger stepped up
  beside him. Maurice looked at the faint shimmering in the air before him and shifted to his astral senses.
  Vera Causa stood facing him. She smiled and turned to indicate the house directly behind her, saying
  mind-to-mind, This dwelling gives a fine view, master.
  Maurice looked at Jaeger. "Clear this house."
  "Is that an order?" Jaeger replied.
  "Consider it a recommendation."
  Jaeger nodded and walked over to the rowhouse's front door. The woman who answered the door fell
  without a sound, then Jaeger proceeded to neutralize the rest of the occupants. Maurice moved through the
  house to the kitchen. Through the transparex-panes of the  rear  door,  he  could  see  the  dark,  litter-strewn
  alley behind the house and the mundane forces now gathering.
  Vera Causa indicated the rowhouse directly opposite. That was the runners' safehouse. The runners'
  van waited there. Finding the house and the van had not been difficult. A spirit such as Vera Causa moved
  with the speed of the astral. She could pursue a supersonic jet halfway around the globe. The forces of the
  Executive Action Brigade had literally led his ally here.
  Taking refuge in the wastes of Sector 13 had provided the runners with more safety than they knew.
  Vera Causa had refused to enter the area, despite Maurice's command to follow them from their meeting
  with L. Kahn at Newark International. Maurice himself found that blighted region discomfiting to approach
  on any but a purely mundane level. It had therefore been necessary to forego any direct action. Continuing
  to monitor the Brigade had led them here to Sector 20 and the district of North Caldwell.
  Maurice watched with interest as the dark armored figures wearing the flash of the Brigade gathered
  at the rear of the house and prepared to force entry.
  The  runners  had  a  shaman,  called  "Bandit."  Despite  Maurice's  best  efforts,  he  had  been  unable  to
  learn much about this shaman.  Many  people  in  the  plex  seemed  to  know  his  name,  but  few  admitted  to
  anything beyond a basic physical description and facile rumors. An astral glance at  Bandit's  aura  and  the
  foci he carried, such as Maurice had caught at the airport, might lead one to conclude that Bandit had little
  true ability in the Art, and even less in terms of true power.
  That  was  obviously  an  inaccurate  perception,  Maurice  now  saw.  The  rowhouse  occupied  by  the
  runners  was  protected  by  a  powerful  ward,  a  lattice  of  blue-green  energy  that  throbbed  in  brilliant
  counterpoint to the rhythms of the natural energies pulsing and flowing through the night in this part of the
  plex. Any magician could cast a ward, but only one of considerable ability could cast a ward as strong as
  the one now burning before him.
  This indicated  to  Maurice  that  the  shaman  must  be  masking  his  aura,  and  to  do  that  he  must  be  a
  
  powerful magician, an initiate, in fact.
  This  changed  things  considerably.  It  made  Bandit  a  potentially  dangerous  opponent,  and  it  urged
  Maurice to caution. The ward could certainly be defeated, but that would likely cost Maurice energy,  and
  he had not come prepared to begin any sort of conflict at anything less than his full measure of vitality. The
  appearance of this unexpectedly powerful ward warned him to wait and watch.
  The Brigade's troopers stormed the house, smashing down the rowhouse's rear door and entering like
  soldiers. The ward of course  had  no  effect  on  their  entrance,  providing  only  a  barrier  against  spells  and
  astral surveillance. No form of sorcerous traps appeared to be keyed to it.
  They seem confused, master, Vera Causa remarked.
  They?
  The soldiers.
  An  insightful  observation,  Maurice  thought,  for  a  spirit  so  recently  conjured.  Vera  Causa's  rapid
  progress along  the  learning  curve  gave  him  cause  to  wonder  yet  again.  The  raid  of  the  safehouse  soon
  ended. The runners were not found. Maurice projected onto the astral and moved into  the  alley  to  watch
  and listen to troopers there. They appeared disturbed.
  The runners, it seemed, had not been observed since they had entered their safehouse. They had gone
  inside and stayed there. They had not departed via their van or any other vehicle. They had not climbed out
  through the roof and made their way across the rooftops to another location. How, then, had they escaped?
  Maurice circled the safehouse, stepping through the walls of the adjoining rowhouses and out to the street in
  front of the safehouse, then around and back to the alley. The building walls adjoining the safehouse were
  intact, so the runners had not simply broken into an adjoining structure and slipped away. Only one direction
  remained in which they could have gone, and that was down.
  Maurice descended into the earth, and here he found the answer to the Brigade troopers' questions.
  The runners included an ork, and that implied some connection to the ork underground-and that could
  mean  many  things.  The  Newark  sprawl  had  a  population  of  orks  the  equal  of  any  city  in  the  urban
  Northeast,  perhaps  the  whole  of  North  America,  and  they  were  always  busy.  Maurice  had  information
  indicating that many had begun going  underground  shortly  after  the  Awakening,  the  better  to  escape  the
  oppression of fanatical humans. Their subterranean constructions had since become quite extensive. Some
  sections of the city were honeycombed with tunnels and passages that appeared on no official schematics.
  And the orks had dug deep in many places. Deeper than any rational human would care to descend.
  The deeper one went, the greater the sense of  claustrophobia  the  tunnels  bred.  It  posed  a  threat  to
  sanity that Maurice did not care to challenge. And tonight there was no need.
  A tunnel passed directly beneath the safehouse, a mere few meters below ground level. It appeared to
  be an old tunnel, braced by wooden beams. In places the walls were crumbling into mounds of sawdust and
  earth. The runners had doubtless used this tunnel to escape the perimeter set up by the Brigade.
  Maurice  considered.  He  doubted  that  the  runners  would  remain  in  these  tunnels  long.  Their  leader
  would not allow it.' To  do  so  would  be  to  invite  forces  like  the  Executive  Action  Brigade  down  into  the
  tunnels, and that would put others, innocents, such as orks, at risk. The runners would therefore surface as
  swiftly as possible and seek other accommodations, a new safehouse, before continuing on their course.
  The  Executive  Action  Brigade  was  obviously  at  a  loss.  Their  technological  methods  had  failed.  It
  would, therefore, be Maurice's task to find the runners' new safehouse. Fortunately, he had the means to do
  so.
  He returned to his waiting limo.
  The heavy metal grille of the storm drain was set into the ferrocrete of the gutter, but it also  had  an
  opening set into the curb like a shallow arch.
  That arch gave a good view of the fronts of the rowhouses opposite, but only to someone jacked into a
  Mitsuhama control deck and using  the  sensors  of  a  modified  Sikorsky-Bell  microskimmer  for  eyes.  That
  someone was Thorvin-who else? The moment he saw the pair of dark blue vans turning the corner down
  by Hamilton, he fired a signal to Filly.
  "Showtime!"
  Her signal to get the hell out.
  The vans came rushing up the block and squealed to a sudden halt in front of the safehouse. To say
  Thorvin had been expecting this would be a freaking understatement.
  He'd  been  expecting  exactly  this  kind  of  a  commando-style  raid  ever  since  he'd  discovered  the
  microelectronic bug some piece of scag had glued to the underside of the van. A nasty little piece of silicon
  that bug was. The sneaky kind. A real snitch. Virtually undetectable until it was activated, at which point it
  fired a microburst location signal.
  
  The minute that snitch came on-line, the van's detection system went wild, and the rest was history.
  Getting out had been a problem. They couldn't just leave. They'd needed someplace to go to and not
  just anywhere would do. They had a flabby scientist and a weak-limbed corporate biff to chaperone around.
  And  the  moment  Rico  told  L.  Kahn  to  eat  squat,  the  whole  world  would  come  down  on  top  of  them.
  Including their backup on the job, or whoever had been tailing them. Move in to grab Surikov and Farris and
  ace  the  team.  That's  why  corps  hired  backups.  And  that's  why  Rico  had  decided  on  the  trick.  Keep
  everyone concentrating on the house in Sector 20's North Caldwell for as long as possible, and meanwhile
  get Surikov and Farris to safer precincts, which they'd done last night.
  The van behind the house was an integral part of the trick. It was a decoy, of course, a virtual twin of
  Thorvin's super-charged vehicle, though only from the  outside.  Thorvin  had  thought  Rico  must  be  frizzed
  when he ordered up a twin of the Rover, but what the frag? That's what bosses were supposed to do. Plan
  ahead. Prepare for the unexpected. Even if  it  meant  looking  brain-numb.  This  particular  part  of  the  plan
  hadn't cost much. A day of hunting around through the sprawl's scrapyards, some welding and paint, and he
  had put together  a  look-alike,  right  down  to  the  registration  tags.  The  decoy's  engine  barely  had  enough
  power to drag the body more than a block at a time, but then motivating power didn't matter.
  The rest of the trick was easy. Leave someone in the safehouse to move around, turn lights  off  and
  on, talk to themselves. Act like a crowd of people. Shank and Filly volunteered. They'd be moving now to
  the trapdoor in the basement, which led into the tunnel under the house. If Shank and Filly had any sense,
  they'd be moving extra-fast, because the commandos out front were already out of their vans and applying
  a portable ram to the safehouse's front door.
  Thorvin watched the commandos go through the safehouse door. A close-up view got  him  a  look  at
  the flash on their uniforms. No black annis  patches  here.  Nothing  even  hinting  of  Daisaka  Security.  The
  logo  of  the  freaking  Executive  Action  Brigade  appeared  on  every  left  shoulder,  every  one  that  Thorvin
  could see. That was interesting. Thorvin had heard of the E.A.B. They'd recently been involved in clearing
  gangers outta certain parts of Sector 17 where certain corps  had  condoplexes.  The  E.A.B.  made  decent
  commandos, but they weren't exactly specialists at being subtle.
  Why  would  anyone  hire  the  effing  E.A.B.  for  backup  on  a  job  like  this?  Thorvin  wondered  while
  descending to the concrete conduit that shuttled rainwater down the length of the block.  It  joined  up  with
  the  sewer  line  running  along  Hamilton  Drive.  Before  long,  Shank  and  Filly  came  up  the  shaft  from  the
  tunnel below.
  Thorvin keyed his mike. "How'd it go?"
  "Smooth as effing ice," Shank replied.
  "So why would anyone hire the freaking E.A.B. to tail us on a job like this?"
  "Why the hell not?" Filly replied. "They come cheap."
  24
  The first shots came at ten p.m.
  Victor Guevara was sitting in the garden at the center of his house. He happened to be glancing at his
  watch just as the first shots sounded.
  It began with a long clattering burst of an automatic weapon, followed  immediately  by  a  fusillade  of
  single  shots  and  bursts.  Several  panes  in  the  french  doors  looking  into  the  garden  from  the  front  of  the
  house abruptly burst into fragments. At the same moment the idle chirpings and whistles from the  birds'in
  the garden rose suddenly into a cacophony of caws and shrieks.
  For an instant, Victor felt caught off-guard, but he was not surprised. He tensed and looked up, then
  willed himself to retain his composure.
  The nights had grown very dark of late, and a man in his position had certain vulnerabilities. A civilized
  man recognized that, accepted it, and took what precautions he could. In anticipation of dire events, he had
  sent  Christiana,  his  wife  of  twenty-three  years,  along  with  Dionne  and  Ivana,  his  daughters,  and  his
  son-in-law and two grandchildren to spend some time with trusted relations in Boston, where they would be
  safe. Though his personal inclinations might forbid him from fleeing trouble, honor demanded he take every
  conceivable step to ensure the safety of his family. And this he had done.
  Now came several shouts, and  louder  peals,  the  screams  of  the  dying.  Victor  would  pay  excessive
  premiums for insurance after this, not only for himself but for his employees, but he did not consider this, not
  for more than a fleeting instant. What he  thought  about  were  the  spouses  and  families  of  those  dying  to
  protect him. It would eventually fall to him to say certain words and  make  certain  gestures  to  those  who
  survived the dead, in a futile attempt to somehow ease  their losses. He  would  do  this  because  it  was  his
  responsibility as a man. Because, again, honor demanded it. Only dogs and other animals could turn away
  
  from their dead as if they were nothing more than mounds of rotting garbage. Victor might be many things,
  some better than others, but he was no dog. Of this he had no doubt.
  Even in his youth, during his days in Sector 19, the violent districts of Roseland and  Pleasantdale,  he
  had been like this. Ambition came first, but nothing came before honor, self-respect, and his  beliefs  about
  his rights and obligations as a man.
  He had joined gangs and had led gangs. In time, he'd achieved a position with a local syndicate known
  as  Rueda,  the  Wheel,  and  from  there  had  gone  on  to  forge  his  own  network  of  contacts  and  agents.
  Everywhere he went, he always spoke to people politely, with respect  Always,  he  dealt  with  others  as  a
  man of honor. He did not lie and he did not cheat He endeavored to give a fair value for any moneys spent.
  Fulfilling bis ambitions had not been difficult. People were only too willing to be persuaded of his ability as a
  negotiator and intermediary. They knew they could rely  on  his  discretion.  They  knew  his  word  stood  for
  something. Amid the routine betrayals and vicious treacheries of the Sixth World, his word had become as
  valuable as platinum.
  No longer did he carry any weapons. The days of blood and thunder had passed for him. It seemed to
  Victor  that  if  he  could  not  survive  based  on  the  alliances  he  had  made,  the  work  of  more  than  half  a
  lifetime, then perhaps he deserved to die, or perhaps if was fate's inexorable ruling.
  The Japoneses had a saying: A man's fate is a man's fate. If so, he would meet his fate willingly.
  So it was that when Victor heard a crash from above, and a squad dressed as commandos descended
  through the roof of his garden on rappelling lines, he remained seated calmly at his table, sipping his coffee
  and awaiting what would be.
  The battle for his house was soon at an end.
  A  number  of  dark-clad,  helmeted  figures  surrounded  him  with  weapons  at  the  ready.  The  initials
  E.A.B. showed on the left breasts of their upper-body armor. Victor knew what  this  stood  for  and  could
  guess who had sent these troopers to his house.
  He could also guess why they had been sent.
  One  distinctive  figure  emerged  from  the  front  of  the  house.  She  wore  a  silvery  bodysuit  and
  black-studded bands. Her eyes were like violet holes, empty, as emotionless as her face.  Victor knew this
  woman by name and by reputation. Some years ago, when she was new and unknown, he had given her a
  number  of  jobs,  her  first  professional  contracts.  She  had  since  risen  through  the  ranks  of  the  Newark
  underworld. She now commanded a certain respect from even the most powerful of the crimelords  ruling
  the metroplex.
  "Como estd, Ravage," Victor said.
  Ravage paused beside his round table, watching him, perhaps surveying him for weapons. She held a
  Scorpion machine pistol pointed at his face.  Likely, she  did  not  understand  how  he  could  sit  here,  calmly
  sipping his coffee, and therefore she suspected some as yet unnoticed threat.
  Victor would show her no fear.'Pride alone demanded that. Ravage had become just another animal.
  She had put morals and ethics aside to do whatever a client might desire. This added untold quantities to her
  merchantability, and spoke clearly of her character, or lack of it. Victor saw little  difference  between  the
  Ravage standing before him now and a common whore. She had packaged herself as a product for others
  to rent.
  No honor. None whatsoever.
  "Someone wants to talk to you," Ravage said.
  Victor nodded once, and said, "Si. I know"
  From the large unpaned window of his office 230 stories above lower Manhattan, Gordon Ito watched
  the  lights  of  the  city  gleaming  against  the  night.  He  lit  a  Platinum  Select  cigarette.  He  recalled  that  his
  current mistress had  said  something  about  having  dinner  tonight.  Too  late  for  that  now.  He  checked  his
  watch to confirm it. No great loss.
  He returned to the high-backed chair behind his desk, looked across the  room  at  his  bodyguard,  and
  pointed toward the door to the outer offices. The guard bowed formally, then turned and left.
  An optic key hi the touch-sensitive top of his onyx desk brought a telecom screen rising up out of the
  desktop. Gordon tapped a few more optical keys. Call-protection software designed to scan the phone lines
  for taps and other forms of eavesdropping came on-line automatically each time Gordon made a call, unless
  for some reason he chose to cancel such security measures.
  The Fuchi logo appeared briefly on the telecom screen. This was replaced by a straight-on view of an
  oriental woman wearing a Fuchi corporate blazer.
  "Mr. Ito," the woman said.
  "Ms. Yin," Gordon replied.
  
  The digital clock on Gordon's display ticked off five seconds. This pause was standard  protocol.  Yin
  said, "One moment, please."
  The  Fuchi  logo  returned,  but  subtly  modified,  veiled  by  a  black  triangle.  This  represented  Special
  Administration, and, hence, Gordon's own department as well.
  As far as most Fuchi employees knew, the S.A. did not exist. It appeared on no corporate schematics
  delineating lines of authority, and it received its funds from diverse sources, funneled through obscure bank
  accounts.  Gordon  suspected  that  not  even  the  board  back  in  Tokyo  knew  of  its  existence,  with  the
  exception of Richard Villiers, Chief Executive Officer, and Villiers' number two man, Miles Lanier. Villiers
  had set up the S.A. and charged it with counterintelligence and other covert functions.
  "Mr. Ito."
  "Mr. Xiao."
  "Konichiwa."
  "Konichiwa."
  The veiled Fuchi logo remained on the screen, but the voice belonged to Xiao, Gordon's boss and chief
  of  Special  Administration.  A  small  icon  appeared  on  Gordon's  screen-voiceprint  confirmed.  Xiao  never
  allowed his image to cross telecom lines, not even protected internal lines. A little touch of paranoia. Gordon
  understood that Xiao looked Korean, trim and  spare,  with  close-cropped  black  hair.  "Your  calling  time  is
  convenient," Xiao said. "I have just finishing eating."
  That was no coincidence. The hour was approaching midnight. Xiao usually woke in the late afternoon
  and worked through the night. Gordon's informant had predicted that Xiao  would  be  awake  now  and  just
  concluding his evening meal. There was no more propitious time to call than as Xiao concluded a meal. He
  apparently had a penchant for fine food. Gordon had a psychoanalyst working on that one, as well as other
  traits that had come to Gordon's attention.
  "What brings you to my screen tonight, Gordon? Is it business? The Farris business?"
  Gordon held back a curse. The bastard already knew. Xiao had informants of his own, and at least one
  of them was in Gordon's own outer office. Gordon would have the informant removed, except that it was
  sometimes useful to see Xiao misinformed, indirectly, discreetly. "I take it you've heard about the abduction
  at Crystal Blossom."
  "Most  certainly  I  have  heard,"  Xiao  replied.  "I  run  the  most  efficient  clandestine  service  in  the
  corporate over-world. I have the  most  efficient  chief  of  operations  in  the  human  sphere.  Would  you  not
  agree, Gordon?"
  Xiao's voice was, as always, emotionless, monotone. Gordon suppressed his immediate reaction to the
  implications of Xiao's words, and admitted, "I could have called you sooner. But I wanted more data before
  I laid things out for you."
  "Your obsession with completeness is gratifying."
  "It has plusses."
  "Has Fuchi Internal Security become involved?"
  "Negative." IntSec was totally in the dark, as it should be. Technically, IntSec and the S.A.  were  on
  the same team, but Xiao didn't see it that way. Neither did Gordon. The two organizations were as different
  as spies and security guards.
  "Have you identified the criminals who abducted Marena Farris?"
  "The data's on my comp. Partial ID's. My tech teams pulled a lot of trace evidence from the  scene.
  We're cross-referencing with police databases. I suspect a local group."
  "Is it the same group that ran on Maas Intertech?"
  "Do I have to answer that?"
  "You may instead tell me what you intend to do about Farris."
  "Why does she interest you so much?"
  "A loyal corporate employee abducted from a Fuchi facility? Must I answer that, Gordon?"
  Gordon resisted a pained smile. Xiao made a good sparring partner. Sometimes, too good. Xiao would
  be the last man on Earth to miss the implications of Marena Farris' abduction. On the most superficial level,
  it gave some indication that Gordon's arrangements to roll up a special op, arrangements made through the
  kuromaku Sarabande, had gone wrong. Xiao would not be pleased with that. Xiao had personally ordered
  that the special op be rolled up. Xiao had also personally ordered that Marena Farris be "set aside," held and
  protected, when the special op first began.
  "I wouldn't worry about it," Gordon said. "I ordered multiple backup."
  "There is an image issue here."
  "You're worried about image?"
  
  That didn't ring right. Xiao's concern with image usually began and ended with Special Administration.
  Gordon concluded that Xiao was lying. The question was, why?
  Xiao said, "I have recently had communications regarding the Fuchi image. Communications from lofty
  quarters.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  total  insignificance.  Therefore,  I  have  decided  that  you  should  do  nothing
  further. Leave Farris to me. I will attend to the matter of her abduction personally."
  "My pleasure," Gordon replied.
  The  display  screen  went  blank.  Xiao  was  never  one  for  extended  good-byes.  Gordon  lit  another
  Platinum Select and sat back in his chair, wondering what the hell the fragger was up to.
  It had to be something special.
  Aubrey ran his eyes over the driver's curvilinear console, met the driver's expressionless glance, then
  turned to the door at the rear of the driver's compartment. The door opened for Aubrey at a touch of the
  thumb-lock. He stepped through.
  The main passenger  cabin  had  the  look  of  a  luxurious  lounge:  drapes,  carpeting,  glinting  marbleized
  furniture, subdued gold lighting. To the right stood Zoge, a former sumotori, to the left, Rollo, an ork. Born
  were massively constructed. As Aubrey paused to look at them, they each gave a quick nod.
  Aubrey moved to the door at the rear of the cabin. The thumb-lock  let  him  through.  The  rear  cabin
  was private and small, a very compact and ornate bedroom.
  On the bed lay a dark-skinned biff recently come  from  Las  Paz,  Bolivia.  Her  name  was  Bela.  Her
  Spanish was practically incomprehensible and she knew nothing of life in the sprawl, but what she did know
  she knew very well. She had heavy black hair and wore only a contented smile and a small gold cross on a
  delicate chain slung around her neck. She turned onto her back and parted her knees so that Aubrey could
  see what she had between her thighs.
  Aubrey  saw  nothing  he  hadn't  seen  before  in  any  number  of  different  configurations.-He  sneered.
  Bela  replied  with  the  haughtiest  of  smiles.  Then  the  door  to  the  microscopic  lavatory  stall  on  the  right
  opened and Sarabande stepped out, tossing back her lustrous sable hair. "Ready?" she said.
  "Si," Aubrey replied.
  "Very good."
  Aubrey watched as Bela went to work, brushing Sara-bande's hair,  weaving  it  into  a  braid,  fetching
  clothes, and kneeling to fit shoes onto Sarabande's feet. The slitch actually paused to kiss Sarabande's right
  ankle and to murmur words of endearment. Sarabande didn't seem to notice. Sarabande had eclectic tastes,
  but she was easily bored, especially when biz awaited.
  Aubrey smiled savagely. Bela would soon be gone, perhaps in a matter of days.
  Sarabande finished dressing. Aubrey preceded  her  into  the  main  cabin,  then  headed  up  front  to  the
  driver's compartment.
  The bus sat idling in the north parking field of the Governor Florio Rest Area, located along the Jersey
  Turnpike just  south  of  Carteret  and  the  Newark  sprawl.  A  black  Toyota  limousine  pulled  in  and  parked
  nearby. Aubrey watched on  the  driver's  console  displays  as  an  unlikely  pair  emerged  from  the  limo  and
  came toward the bus. They walked side by side: Ravage in her signature silver bodysuit and L. Kahn in his
  usual medium brown Armante suit with  cloak.  One  was  a  pro,  a  serious  threat.  The  other  was  a  sham.
  Expendable.
  They paused alongside the bus. L. Kahn glanced at Ravage, who, after a quick glance around, lifted a
  hand and blocked.
  Aubrey  let  them  wait  a  few  moments,  then  moved  down  the  steps  as  the  driver  opened  the  door.
  Ravage  watched  closely,  well  within  striking  range-barely  an  arm's  length  away-as  Aubrey  waved  the
  probe of a Bailey Aardwolf magnetic anomaly and chemical detector past L. Kahn's front. The multiphase
  device  discovered  nothing  indicative  of  weapons,  propellants,  or  explosives.  Aubrey  nodded  at  the  bus.
  "Bueno. Entrt," L. Kahn stepped past Aubrey watched Ravage. The razorchick watched her client mount
  the steps of the bus.
  Her thoughts were obvious. Her client was leaving her zone of control. She did not like that. "Hasta
  la vista,"  Aubrey said quietly. Ravage looked at  him,  then  turned  and  walked  away.  She  would  have  to
  follow in L. Kahn's limousine. No one entered Sarabande's presence with guards or with weapons of any
  kind.
  Once  Ravage  was  out  of  striking  range,  Aubrey  turned  and  also  climbed  the  steps.  The  driver
  immediately  closed  the  doors  and  got  the  bus  moving.  Aubrey  waited  until  the  bus  rolled  out  onto  the
  highway, then thumbed the lock to the inside door and followed L. Kahn into the main passenger cabin.
  Tonight, Sarabande wore gold visorshades with  mirrored  lenses,  a  gold  jacket  adorned  with  swirling
  
  silver, a red blouse and matching slacks and boots. The boots shone as brightly as chrome. Dressed in her
  business armor, the woman revealed almost nothing of her innately sensual nature. She sat behind a small
  round  table  in  the  left-rear  comer  of  the  cabin.  Occupying  the  center  of  the  table  was  a  compact
  compdeck. A gleaming red cable ran from the deck to Sarabande's right temple.
  For going on a full minute, she did not move, did not even seem to breathe. Aubrey could not tell if she
  was in the face of her computer or merely making L. Kahn wait Without prelude, she said, "You arranged
  the attack on Victor Guevara?"
  L. Kahn hesitated briefly, then said, "Yes. That's correct."
  A moment passed. "You questioned him."
  "Yes."
  "What did he tell you?"
  L. Kahn hesitated again. "This is my personal-"
  "I asked you a question."
  Aubrey tensed involuntarily. The subtle emphasis that suddenly entered Sarabande's voice cut the air
  like a scalpel, fine and precise and utterly ruthless. The effect of that edge on L. Kahn was plain to see. He
  stopped in mid-sentence and stiffened. Moments passed, then he said uncertainly, "Guevara claims to have
  no knowledge  of  the  runners'  present  location  or  their  intentions.  Yet,  the  runners'  leader  has  been  in
  constant contact with him. I'm not finished with him yet."
  "Then he is still alive."
  "Yes. I have him in a safe place."
  "That is fortunate."
  Sarabande lifted one hand  casually  to  her  temple,  as  if  adjusting  her  datajack.  This  was  her  signal.
  Aubrey  stepped  forward,  whipped  a  braided  garrote  around  the  neck  of  L  Kahn  and  tugged  it  tight.  L.
  Kahn  rasped  and  staggered.  He  began  to  struggle,  but  Rollo  and  Zoge  immediately  stepped  in,  placing
  themselves between L. Kahn and Sarabande. One slammed a massive fist into L. Kahn's  face,  the  other
  drove a fist into his midsection.  L.  Kahn's  head  snapped  aside,  blood  and  saliva  spraying  from  nose  and
  mouth. He grunted loudly and sank to his knees, gagging. Aubrey removed the garrote, put one foot to L.
  Kahn's back and shoved.
  L. Kahn sprawled onto the floor at Sarabande's feet. That was suitable. What this man apparently did
  not  know  was  that  Victor  Guevara  had  been  one  of  Sarabande's  local  agents  for  many  years.  A  very
  reliable agent. Guevara had brought Sarabande many useful contacts and a great deal of nuyen. Sarabande
  did not like such persons being troubled, interfered with in any manner.
  Aubrey stepped over and lowered his foot onto the back of L Kahn's neck, forcing the slag's face flat
  with the floor.
  Sarabande recrossed her legs, and said quietly, "You have been played for the fool mat you are. While
  the runners were bargaining with you for more time, they were plotting the abduction of the subject's wife.
  They  now  have  both  these  persons.  They  obviously  have  no  intention  of  turning  the  subject  over  to  my
  client I am very displeased."
  L. Kahn grunted, moaned. "They broke ... contract."
  "Indeed."
  Sarabande signaled again. Aubrey drew back a step. Rollo and Zoge moved in, dragged L. Kahn  up
  off the floor and onto his feet. Aubrey delivered three precisely aimed and executed hand strikes directed at
  specific points of L. Kahn's upper body, then turned and whirled, slamming the heel of his boot  across  L.
  Kahn's face.
  The man sagged as if made of mud. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. Rollo and Zoge turned
  him on  his  knees  to  face  Sarabande.  Aubrey  grabbed  a  fistful  of  hair  and  yanked  L.  Kahn's  head  up
  straight.
  "When you are given instructions, you follow them to the final decimal," Sarabande said. "You do not
  decide on your own to mount private adventures. You are one little fly hi my web. You  do  what  you  are
  told. Nothing less, nothing more. You will release Victor Guevara at once. You will then sanitize this entire
  operation. Is that clear?" L. Kahn seemed to have barely the strength left to nod, much less speak.
  Sarabande signaled.
  Rollo and Zoge dragged L. Kahn around to face Aubrey. The meeting was over. It was time for one
  final warning. Aubrey drew a knife from his pocket The black monocule-edged  blade  snapped  out  of  the
  handle and into position with a soft click. Aubrey grabbed hold of L. Kahn's hair to steady his head, then put
  the tip of the blade inside L. Kahn's left nostril.
  "Remember," Aubrey said. "Do what you're told."
  
  L. Kahn grunted, and Aubrey tugged the knife free.
  It was a very, very clean cut.
  25
  "I'm hungry."
  "Come're."
  Lying on his back on the bare mattress, Monk turned his head to the right and wondered what  Minx
  meant. I was way too dark to see,  but  he  could  feel  her  lying  right  up  against  his  side,  her  head  resting
  lightly on his arm midway between bis shoulder and elbow. He could feel the warm weight of her luscious,
  lithe body weighing against his side all the way down to his ankle. He could feel the soft, gentle pressure of
  her body grow subtler then fuller, each time she took a breath.
  Come're?
  Where ... ?
  Then, he felt her moving, maybe rising onto one elbow lowering herself onto his chest. The feel of her
  body descending onto his inspired him to a not-so-subtle excitement. They had just made love like that, her
  on top, he on the bottom. He guessed she wanted to do it again. With her, he'd do it forever.
  "Monk?" she said softly, her face just a breath away her hair showering down  all  around  them.  "Do
  you like me?"
  "Uh-huh."
  "Would you like to be with me always?"
  "Sure."
  "I'm glad." Her lips brushed his cheek. "You're so booty. And it doesn't always work right unless you
  want it."
  "Huh?"
  "Breathe with me, silly. That'll make you."
  "Make me wha ... ?"
  Her mouth closed over his. She exhaled, long and deeply. So  long  and  so  deeply  that  when  it  came
  time for him to breathe, he simply inhaled her air, her breath. They did that a couple of times. It was wild
  and kind of sexy and the excitement it inspired in him made Monk want to go on breathing like that forever.
  It made him want other things, too. He began running his hands up and down her sides and over her slender
  back, down over her behind, then up and over the back of her head and through her lavish hair.
  They got it together, their separate parts. Minx began shifting back and forth, making it work. She kept
  her mouth on his throughout. The harder and faster they moved, the harder they breathed, passing the same
  breath back and forth, back and forth.
  By the time it ended, Monk felt dizzy-dizzy with excitement, and dizzy with something that seemed like
  love.
  The room actually seemed to be spinning, turning around and around and tilting wildly back and forth.
  The darkness took on a reddish glow, as if the sun were returning from night to twilight, and then to the last
  fiery radiance of sunset. Minx laughed and her laughter echoed. She smiled and her eyes seemed to gleam
  a fiery red. Her whole body had a crimson hue. Everything did.
  Grinning, Minx leaned down into his face, till their noses touched, and she crooned, "I made you."
  "Made you, made you," her voice echoed.
  "Huh ... ?" Monk said.
  "Huh... ? huh... ?" his voice echoed.
  "Come on! come on! come on!" Minx said. "Let's go! let's go! let's go!"
  "Go where? go where? go where?"
  Minx laughed and laughed and laughed. She tugged him  up  by  his  arms.  The  floor  tilted  downward,
  then upward, then back and forth and up and down. Minx grabbed  him  around  the  waist  and  tugged  him
  forward,  pitching  forward  down  the  slope  of  the  floor,  then  staggering  up,  up  the  slope  of  the  floor.  A
  cacophony  of  raucous  voices  and  uproarious  laughter  echoed  and  resounded.  Leering,  red-hued  faces
  streamed toward him from out of nowhere, only to vanish right in front of his nose.. Minx forced him to run
  headlong down a flight of stairs, then dragged him stumbling up and down a long, red-hued passage.
  "Hurry! hurry! hurry!" Minx said. "Monk! Monk! Monk! It's time! it's time! it's time!"
  A metal door slammed open above them.
  Minx dragged him up, up and out through the door, then down more stairs and onto the broad, red-hued
  pavement of a four-lane transitway.
  Suddenly, everything seemed normal, just red, except  for  the  fact  that  the  transitway  was  empty  of
  
  traffic.
  Monk looked to his left and saw a MediVan with flashing strobes and glaring headlights bearing down
  on him from maybe two meters away. He opened his mouth to scream, but didn't quite make  it  Someone
  jerked him back off his feet-right off the ground-and set him down again a good two or three meters away
  from where he had been, but now facing in the opposite direction.
  Something shrieked shrilly.
  "Monk, quick!"
  The MediVan door was open. Minx all but shoved  him  through,  up  the  step  and  onto  the  seat.  The
  driver looked human but skeletally thin, like death. The two orks in the rear had huge, savage tusks. When
  they smiled, their eyes gleamed a fiery red.
  Minx shoved onto the seat beside him.
  Tires screamed, the MediVan roared ahead.
  "Hear about the wreck on the skyway?" shouted one of the orks hi the rear. "Guy jumped the divider,
  hit seven cars, decapitated fifteen people before his tires ever touched the ground! Slammed into an oxygen
  tanker and incinerated himself and a buncha other cars! They still don't know what he was driving!"
  Minx bent almost double with laughter.
  The MediVan shot down a narrow tunnel and into the burning red glow of the night. A man crossing
  the street directly in front of them dove toward the sidewalk. His briefcase bounced on the MediVan's front
  hood, then struck the front windshield and split wide open. Hardcopy and comp disks  whipped  across  the
  windshield and vanished. The MediVan's siren began whooping and wailing.
  "Boner!" the driver shouted.
  He grinned, eyes glaring red.
  Monk looked at Minx as she grabbed his head and tugged him into a kiss, her breath gushing into his
  mouth hot and wet, her hand thrusting down and squeezing his groin.
  "So booty!" she cried.
  The night filled with flashing stroboscopic lights of red and near-red. The MediVan screamed to a halt.
  Minx  thrust  a  reddish  MediVan  jacket  around  the  back  of  Monk's  shoulders,  pulled  one  on  herself,  and
  tugged him out of the van.
  Cars and  bodies  littered  the  roadway.  Gunfire  stammered  and  roared.  "This  one!"  Minx  exclaimed,
  tugging Monk around in a circle. She thrust him right at the sprawled body of a woman, a very large woman
  in clinging reddish clothes. "Now! Do it now!"
  "What ... ?"
  She thrust him down, his head to the woman's, his mouth to  the  woman's  mouth,  and  then  with  two
  fingers clamped his nostrils shut. Monk grunted in surprise, abruptly exhaling-just once.
  Maybe that was the wrong thing to do.
  "No, Monk! No!" Minx exclaimed. "Not like that!"
  Abruptly, the woman jerked and stiffened beneath him and her eyes flared open wide, glaring a fiery
  scarlet-red.
  "Oh, drek!" Minx cried.
  The woman began clawing Monk's face. She moaned louder and louder, like a creature risen from the
  grave and bent on exacting a terrible vengeance.
  "FIEND!" Mink shrieked.
  Monk stared, wide-eyed, till suddenly Minx was tugging him back, right onto his feet.
  "TOO LATE! RUN, MONK, RUN!"
  They  ran.  They  ran  across  the  width  of  the  street-dodging  around  smashed  cars,  jumping  over
  bodies-and in through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. Monk glanced back  only  once.  The  woman  he
  had breathed into was up on her feet and staggering around. She grabbed some slag in reddish camos and
  tore his eyes right out of his head.
  Monk opened his mouth and screamed.
  The slag screamed, too.
  A door slammed open. Monk pitched forward through the doorway.  The  door  slammed  again  to  his
  rear as he tumbled to the floor, onto his back. In some little, one-room apartment Panting, gasping, thrusting
  back her hair and groaning, "Oh godddddd ... ," Minx knelt down beside him and laid her head on his chest.
  "That was the wrong thing to do, you little booty," Minx said, catching her breath. "She must've been dead
  already."
  Monk gaped, panting. "Dead?"
  Abruptly,  Minx's  hands  were  moving  gently  all  over  his  face,  and  she  gazed  down  at  him  with  a
  
  red-hued look of genuine affection. "Oh, Monkie ... are you tired?" she crooned. "You must be tired. Like
  you're drained or something."
  Now that she mentioned it...
  "Come're," she murmured. She pressed her mouth down over hi&, and exhaled. Monk felt his whole
  body tingle with excitement. When she did it again, breathed into his mouth again, he inhaled deeply. It was
  sexy and wild and it made him feel like, like ... Like sex. Better than sex.
  Later, when they were lying nude in each other's arms, Minx whispered, "Are you still hungry?"
  Monk thought about that. "I'm not sure."
  Minx smiled and snuggled close. "You're so booty."
  "You're all red," Monk said. "Everything's red."
  Minx giggled. "Of course."
  26
  The  door  from  the  alley  led  into  a  narrow  hallway  that  ended  at  a  squarish  room  crowded  with
  artifacts: chairs, a couch, kitchen  appliances,  trideo,  simsense  gear,  bookdisks,  chips,  several  cyberdecks,
  and  what  looked  like  the  scattered  components  for  several  more  cyberdecks.  Bandit  had  no  particular
  interest in any of this. He investigated further. A small room off to the left turned out to be a lavatory. A
  third room looked like a bedroom.
  The character of the bedroom stood out. Life glimmered here, though faintly. The spiritual essence of
  the world seemed to matter here. This room must be investigated further.
  Bandit returned to his body.
  "Okay?" Rico asked from the front of the van.
  "Yes," Bandit said. "Interesting."
  "You didn't see anything dangerous?"
  "Not likely."
  Back from his brief trip onto the astral, Bandit sat cross-legged in the  rear  of  Thorvin's  van,  amid  a
  clutter of tools and spare parts. He waited while Rico gave instructions to the rest of the group. This deep
  into Sector 6, Little Asia, they were probably safe, thanks to Piper's  connections,  but  they  would  take  no
  unnecessary  chances.  Dok  and  Filly  would  stay  on  guard  here  in  the  van.  Everyone  else  would  take  a
  squat, go into the small apartment Bandit had scouted and shack out.
  Bandit followed Rico and Piper, Shank, Thorvin, Surikov, and Marena Farris out of the van, across the
  alley, and into the cluttered apartment.
  "You sure this is okay?" Rico said.
  "I'm sure," Piper replied. "The slag who lived here caught  big-time  feedback.  The  rent's  paid  till  the
  end of the month."
  "Who's the slag?"
  "Someone I know from the Irons."
  Farris and Surikov  took  seats  at  opposite  ends  of  the  couch.  Shank  paused,  watching  them.  Bandit
  stepped into the bedroom.
  The air smelled of incense. The walls had been painted to look like a forest. A few plants, dried and
  nearly withered, sat in colored pots. Figurines and shiny trinkets decorated the chest of drawers, the bureau,
  and the small table in one corner, along with a few animal  pelts  and  bones,  vials  of  crystals,  and  a  small
  drum. A pair of sleeping bags lay on the floor under a veil of mosquito netting. Beneath the pillows at the
  head-end of the sleeping bags lay a small cache of drugs, feel-good stuff, illegal, and a book, The Shamanic
  Tradition, by Arthur Garrett, Department of Occult Studies, U.C.L.A.
  None of this had any real value. Bandit flipped through the book by Garrett, just curious, then dropped
  it onto the sleeping bags. The character of the room suggested a medicine lodge, where a shaman might do
  long magic, but that impression was apparently a lie.
  The book by Garrett as much as proved it.
  Fluffy stuff, very philosophical.
  The real surprise came from the closet. Bandit assensed something there, something hinting of power.
  He  found  an  open  black  plastic  case  that  was  just  under  a  meter  long.  Inside  was  a  flute,  a  big  one,
  apparently carved out of wood and ornamented with shamanic symbols. Bandit ran his fingers lightly over
  the wood. On the astral plane the flute was a living entity-visible and real-alive. Softly radiant with energy.
  Like a focus, a weak one, only recently made.
  Odd ...
  The flute seemed to call to him, as if from across a great distance, faintly, so faintly, like some part of
  
  himself that he had forgotten long ago.
  He wondered ...
  He considered the sword hanging from his belt. He had carried it a long time. When he was younger
  and less skilled in the ways of Raccoon, he had sometimes needed the sword to defend himself, but he had
  not used it in years. He would probably never use it again. He had come to understand that such violence
  as a sword might do was not compatible with the ways of Raccoon. Maybe it was time he gave up this part
  of himself completely. Maybe he should leave the sword in exchange for this flute, which somehow seemed
  representative of an older part of himself, his life, his being, and a part more important now.
  No question it would be a fair exchange.
  "You're making a mistake," Farris said.
  "Naturally, you would say that," Surikov replied.
  "This won't work out as you think."
  "Why should that bother you?"
  "Ansell, you know I have only your best interests in mind. I still care about what happens to you."
  "I should believe that? After all that's happened?"
  "Yes, yes, you should. I was wrong, I know that now. I'm sorry. I was afraid, deathly afraid. I know
  that's no excuse, but can you really hold it against me? What would you have  thought  in  my  position?  I'd
  been taken from my room in the  middle  of.  the  night  by  people  I  didn't  even  know.  People  with  guns.  I
  knew you were angry with me. I knew you blamed me. What else could I have thought?"
  "You really thought I wanted you killed?"
  "I know that's not very rational. I wasn't thinking very rationally at the time. Maybe I wasn't thinking at
  all. I don't know. I'm just  afraid  that  you're  making  the  same  mistake,  that  you  aren't  thinking.  You  feel
  you've  been  betrayed,  not  just  by  me.  You're  full  of  anger.  Maybe  you  feel  that  going  to  Prometheus
  Engineering will be a kind of revenge ..."
  Surikov shook his head. "That's not it at all."
  "Darling, how can you be so sure? You've been with Fuchi all your life.  I  know  you  haven't  always
  gotten everything you wanted, but you were happy. For a time, you were very happy. If you could just put
  aside your anger, you'd see that you weren't happy at Maas Intertech for the same reasons that you won't
  be happy at Prometheus Engineering."
  "So I should return with you to Fuchi? You must be mad."
  Shank  grunted  and  took  a  seat  on  the  floor,  then  leaned  back  against  the  wall  beside  the  hallway
  leading  in  from  the  alley  door.  Marena  Farris  didn't  miss  much.  Ever  since  trying  to  waste  Surikov,  the
  exotic-looking biff had spent every available minute trying to persuade the slag to go back to Fuchi. She had
  a one-track mind, and she was smart. No matter what Surikov said, she found some way to twist it around
  and turn it into a reason why Surikov should return to the Black Towers. This far along, it was starting to
  grate. Shank had heard enough of Fuchi already.
  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He'd been slightly more than a day without any  sleep.
  No  big  deal.  He'd  gone  a  lot  longer  than  that  in  Bogota  and  Panama  City,  some  years  ago.  The  smart
  soldier knew to grab a few zees any time he had the chance.
  Not enough furniture to go around, but Shank didn't mind the floor. A carpeted floor was a lot better
  than a bug-infested hole in the ground ...
  Now if Marena Farris would just shut up ...
  The worst of it was that their situation would probably improve if Farris got things her  way.  Thorvin
  had spotted the Executive Action Brigade coming after their asses in North Caldwell, Sector 20, and Rico
  suspected that the E.A.B. had been hired as their backup and that Fuchi had done the hiring, maybe through
  L. Kahn. If Fuchi got what they wanted, they might be content to let bygones go by,  call  off  the  backup,
  and forget it.
  If not... Well...
  There'd be plenty of time to catch up on sleep when it ended, whichever way things ended.
  "I want you to stay with Farris."
  Piper ran her hands up over Rico's chest to his shoulders, then leaned  her  head  against  his  chin,  his
  neck. "What if something goes wrong?" she said, softly. "You might need help."
  "You're a decker. Not a cutter."
  "I can shoot."
  "If things go that wrong, one more gun won't make any difference. And I  need  you  to  watch  Farris
  anyway."
  "She's not going anywhere."
  
  "That's the point. She's our responsibility."
  Of course he would feel that way. Piper decided not to argue. She knew less about guns and fighting
  and had less experience with either than anyone on the team. That made  her  the  obvious  choice  to  keep
  watch on Marena Farris.
  Rico and the rest of the team were ready within an hour, suited up, weapons checked, and heading out
  to the van. Rico put a pair of cuffs on Marena Farris' wrists and another pair on her ankles. "That's so you
  don't get into any trouble," he explained.
  "Please don't go through with this," Farris said. "This meet. It won't work."
  Rico hesitated a moment, then said, "It's already done."
  Piper followed him to the alley door, there for one last embrace. "Be careful, jefe," she murmured.
  "Always," Rico replied.
  Once he had gone, Piper had nothing to do but sit in one of the  armchairs  and  wait  and  worry.  She
  held an Ares Special Service, but doubted she would need it. In all likelihood, no one would  be  coming  to
  rescue Marena  Farris,  and  Farris  didn't  seem  like  the  type  to  try  and  break  free  on  her  own.  This  only
  emphasized Piper's feelings of uselessness. Tonight's meet had no need for a decker. She could jack in and
  monitor police activity, but the police,  as  usual,  would  probably  prove  to  be  irrelevant.  She  could  try  and
  infiltrate  the  Prometheus  mainframes,  in  case  Prometheus  tried  a  double-cross,  but  the  chances  of  her
  learning  about  that  from  the  matrix  seemed  close  to  nil.  Corps  kept  records  on  almost  every  aspect  of
  existence, but documents on any illegal or quasi-legal operations were likely to be hidden away in Code Red
  datastores, or in some node isolated from the corporation's mainframes.
  About the only thing she could do was pray, ask the kami to be kind. Before she could decide where to
  start, Marena Farris said, "I know you must mistrust me, but I want you to know that I'm grateful for  the
  way you've treated me."
  Piper felt  a  twinge  or  irritation.  It  was  hard  to  look  at  Farris  and  not  feel  something  like  that.  The
  woman  appeared  every  bit  the  swank  corporate  whore,  sophisticated  and  yet  slutty.  Impossibly
  over-developed. "I don't need your gratitude."
  "I've often heard stories that make runners seem like wanton criminals," Farris said. "I know that some
  are brutal killers. That's obviously not the case with you and your people."
  "Why are you talking like we've done you some big favor?"
  "I'm still alive, aren't I?"
  "What does that matter to me?"
  "It could matter a great deal, depending on how things go."
  "What things?"
  "The meeting tonight with Prometheus."
  "What do you know about it?"
  "Probably more than you suspect." Farris paused to shake back her hair, then met Piper's gaze with an
  intimate look, an expression that pleaded to  bridge  the  distance  between  them.  Piper  did  not  believe  that
  look, not for an instant. Nor did she believe the sudden change in Farris' voice, which grew shockingly soft.
  "It's easy enough to see what you think of me. I know you probably don't trust me.  That's  why  I  haven't
  said much concerning what I know. I'm not just  some  little  psychologist  or  some  cosmed-sculptured  biff.
  I've had access to some very proprietary data. I'm worth a lot more alive than dead."
  Piper sneered. "No one's planning to kill you."
  "Your man told me that already."
  "Then it's true."
  "He's a good man."
  "The best."
  "Good people are hard to find. Their beliefs put them at a disadvantage. They have to be very good at
  what they do, and they have to be well-informed, or bad things happen."
  "Why are you telling me this? Corporate."
  Farris hesitated, smiling, but managed to make the smile look reluctant, almost painful. "You're right,"
  she said. "I am a corporate woman. Through and through. But if this meeting with Prometheus doesn't go
  right, I want you to remember that I warned you. I warned your man."
  "So?"
  "If I were you, I'd be afraid."
  Piper briefly considered the gun held casually in her lands, then looked at Farris, and said, "Why should
  I be afraid?"
  "How much do you really know about Prometheus Engineering?"
  
  "You tell me. What should I know?"
  "You may not know enough. That's my point."
  Piper lifted the gun and pointed it at Farris. The Ares was loaded with soft ammo, but Farris could not
  know  that.  Like  most  guns,  the  Ares  could  fire  either  soft  or  hard  ammunition.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me
  everything you think I should know. Everything that's pertinent."
  An anxious look came over Farris' face. Her lips faintly quivered. She swallowed, and said tentatively,
  "Are you going to shoot me if I don't?"
  Farris described herself as a "corporate woman." She was employed by one of the most unprincipled
  despoilers of the Earth that humanity had yet created. Answering her question took hardly any  thought  at
  all. "Give me an excuse."
  "Your man won't like that."
  "My  man  doesn't  like  many  of  the  things  I  do.  That's  my  problem.  Your  problem  is  what  happens
  between now and when he comes back."
  "Yes," Farris replied, "I can see that."
  "Good. Now talk."
  Farris talked.
  In the van, Shank looked at the flute, frowned and said, "Hoi, Bandit. Where's your sword?"
  Bandit said, simply, "It's not my sword anymore."
  "Huh?" Shank said. "What'd you mean?"
  Bandit replied, "It's not my sword anymore."
  Shank wondered about that.
  27
  The  Willow  Brook  Mall  lay  just  across  the  Passaic  River,  putting  it  just  beyond  the  border  where
  Sector 20 of the Newark plex met the western extent of the Patterson-Passaic sprawl.
  The  mall  had  three  strategic  aspects:  it  attracted  slags  from  the  plex  as  well  as  burbies  from  the
  corporate out-lands, it straddled the confluence of several transitways and limited-access highways, and its
  parking fields went on forever.
  At two a.m., Field 17D in the northwest quad was deserted but for a few scattered  sedans  and  one
  black Toyota Elite limousine. Rico scanned the limo from a distance, checking the registration  tags.  Elites
  were as common as water, even in the Newark plex, but this wasn't L. Kahn's limo. Same model, different
  year.
  "Think we'll make it?" Shank asked.
  The time for worrying was over. "Ask me later."
  "Nice answer, boss."
  Shank put the Renault-Fiat Eurovan in gear and drove ahead. The rest of the team was  in  Thorvin's
  van, parked a safe distance away. They would stay out of sight, parked among other vehicles, until certain
  preliminaries had been satisfied.
  Rico keyed his headset, and said, "We're moving."
  Thorvin acknowledged.
  Shank steered the Eurovan into field 17D and brought them to a halt about two spaces away from the
  waiting Elite. A few moments passed, then the rear door of the limo opened and a suit got  out.  He  didn't
  look  like  nothing  special,  average  height  and  build,  medium  age,  dark  gray  suit  and  gloves  to  go  with  it.
  Standard corporate style. The style made the slag a real Johnson, anonymous, the perfect front man for a
  corp. You might  see  him  a  thousand  times  a  day  on  the  street,  but  you'd  never  remember  him  because
  nothing about him was at all memorable.
  A second suit appeared, standing up on the far side of the limo. This was no Johnson. Rather, it was
  the suit's security man, a prime cutter.
  Rico got out and met the suit midway between the van and the limo, pausing about  two  steps  away,
  near enough that they'd both be in trouble  if  anybody  got  stupid.  They  hooked  each  other  over.  The  suit
  motioned very briefly with one  hand,  glancing  toward  Rico's  hip.  He  spoke  with  a  voice  as  bland  as  his
  looks. "Mall security might spot that shooter of yours."
  "We ain't gonna be here that long."
  The suit nodded vaguely. "You have the merchandise, I presume?"
  "You got the juice?"
  The suit slowly drew open one side of his suit jacket, revealing the heavy automatic bolstered under his
  
  shoulder as well as the plastipak of certified credsticks in his inside breast pocket. "The price as agreed in
  certified sticks."
  "I wanna check 'em."
  "First I see what I'm buying."
  "You see, but you don't touch until I check the sticks."
  The suit nodded, letting his jacket swing closed, and said simply, "Agreed."
  Minor points, but even minors points counted here. In this  game,  nobody  trusted  nobody  and  even  a
  little slip could push the panic button and bring out the shooters. Rico didn't mind letting the slag see Surikov.
  He could "see" him from five or ten meters away. He'd be unlikely  to  try  anything,  if  he  had  anything  in
  mind, till the range narrowed a bit. Step by  step,  slow  and  careful-that  was  the  game  plan,  the  accepted
  procedure.
  Rico keyed his headset. "Ready."
  Thorvin acknowledged.
  Momentarily,  the  van  came  rolling  up.  Thorvin  stopped  it,  according  to  plan,  on  the  far  side  of  the
  Renault-Fiat Eurovan from where Rico stood with the suit. When Filly and Dok emerged with Surikov, they
  stepped out in front of the Eurovan just far enough to show Surikov's face.
  "You're very careful," the suit remarked.
  "It pays," Rico replied.
  "Once you've checked the credsticks, I want a DNA and retina scan."
  "My man checks your equipment."
  "That's fine."
  Checking  the  suit's  credsticks  didn't  take  long.  Rico  had  a  portable  verifier  on  his  belt,  not  a  stock
  model. Piper  and  Thorvin  had  put  the  unit  together.  Piper  said  the  unit's  integral  chipware  would  detect
  phony bank encoding to a very high degree of certainty. That  was  good  enough  for  Rico.  He  slotted  the
  sticks one by one into the unit, waited for a pair of soft beeps, then passed them back to the suit. The sticks
  passed inspection.
  Another slag emerged from the Toyota Elite.  The  suit  introduced  him  as  a  technical  aide.  The  aide
  showed Rico the pack of scanners he intended to use on Surikov. Rico motioned Dok over. Dok checked
  the scanners with gear of his own.
  "Standard equipment," he concluded.
  "Your man goes with my man," Rico said to the suit, "checks the merchandise, reports to you, then we
  make the swap."
  "Agreed."
  The  final  check  took  about  a  minute.  The  aide  returned  and  gave  the  suit  a  nod.  "Bring  me  the
  merchandise and then you get the sticks," the suit said.
  "Right."
  Here was the moment that counted. Rico took a quick look around. The suit's cutter  hadn't  changed
  position. The parking field around them  looked  clear.  Thorvin  wasn't  giving  any  alerts  based  on  readings
  from his own equipment or anything Bandit had to say. The assumption, then, was  that  everything  looked
  chill. Rico motioned for Dok and Filly to bring Surikov forward. Their steps, scuffing against the pavement,
  seemed really loud. They moved slowly, at a measured pace. Seconds stretched out long.
  "That's close enough," the suit said, lifting a hand toward Surikov, palm out.  Then  the  slag's  forearm
  jerked and something like a shotgun roared, and Rico realized the sleazebag had a cybergun implanted in his
  arm.
  That explained the gloves. The glove on the right hand covered the firing port. The glove vanished with
  the roar of the cybergun and a flaring red tongue of fire.
  As the roar began to fade, Rico had the Predator from his hip holster gripped in his hand and coming
  up, coming on-line, and putting a red targeting indicator on the suit's face.
  In the background, on the far side of the limo, the suit's cutter was moving.
  This time, Rico realized, the game was for keeps.
  Bandit discerned nothing of any interest on or around the parking field or for  a  kilometer  or  more  in
  any direction. The  spells  he  used  uncovered  no  imminent  threats,  no  enemies.  The  only  thing  that  really
  seemed to merit his attention was the suit's limousine.
  In astral space, the distance between Thorvin's van and the limo was negligible.  Bandit  crossed  it  in
  practically no time at  all.  Getting  further  than  that  was  another  matter.  The  limo  at  first  seemed  like  an
  ordinary car, but that wasn't quite true. Something about it was wrong, out of character for a car. Several
  
  minutes  of  probing  brought  Bandit  an  answer.  The  limo  was  protected  by  a  powerful  ward.  He  hadn't
  realized this before because the ward was masked, hidden, deliberately concealed. This was very unusual.
  Concealing a ward was difficult.  It  suggested  to  him  that  someone  or  something  of  great  value  must  be
  inside the limo. Unraveling the ward would be a worthy challenge.
  Before he could finish, however, he assensed the violence erupting around him on the physical plane,
  and gained a sudden insight as to the reason for the limo's astral ward.
  He returned to his physical body, looked toward Thorvin, and said, "I think there's a mage in that car."
  "What CAR?" Thorvin shouted over the roar of gunfire.
  "The limousine."
  The blast of the cybergun caught Dok completely off-guard. He saw the suit lift a hand palm-out, then
  that  hand  disappeared  behind  a  flaring  of  fiery  red.  The  blast  assaulted  his  ears.  He  caught  himself  in
  mid-stride, saw Rico's gun coming up and felt Surikov falling, pulling him off-balance.
  Dok tightened his hold on Surikov's arm, but it was pointless. The man dropped  like  meat,  collapsing
  onto his back. Dok staggered, men caught his balance, looking down in time to see the results of the suit's
  single shot unfolding. The blast from the cybergun had shredded Surikov's neck. He was dead or close to it.
  Dok  began  bending  toward  the  man  and  opened  his  mouth  to  shout,.  but  too  late.  It  happened  too  fast.
  Surikov's eyes quivered like gelatin, then began boiling. A dark, viscous fluid began trickling from his ears.
  Steam swirled. The man's face began collapsing in on itself. Dok knew exactly what was happening. He'd
  seen effects like this before. Not every cortex bomb was designed for explosive force. Some were rigged
  with white phosphorous or burn-gel. They might be keyed to life signs, or to a remote, and they left nothing
  behind but a puddle of simmering goop.
  Filly shouted into his face.
  Autofire erupted.
  The Predator hammered the night like a cannon. The suit  staggered  backward,  head  snapping  back,
  blood splashing his chest, Rico turned and hurled himself into a dive.
  Heavy weapons thundered. Rico recognized the rapid-fire stammering of  the  minigun  atop  Thorvin's
  van and the higher-pitched bursts of Shank's M22A2 assault rifle. There was also a quick, clattering burst
  that might have been from an SMG. Rico thought of the suit's cutter. Probably him.
  He tucked and rolled and came up running. All he had to do now was make it to Thorvin's van without
  getting his cojones shot off. Slot in and run.
  One minute everything was calm and  peaceable-like.  In  the  next,  Surikov  was  down  and  Rico  was
  blasting away with that heavy auto of his, and targeting indicators were popping up all over the place  and
  heavy autofire was coming in from every direction.
  So much for any advance warning!
  Never trust a freaking shaman for anything!
  Thorvin revved bis supercharger and spun the weapons pods up top. Hostiles were coming up right out
  of the ground, like from manhole covers and storm drains.  He  set  his  minigun  to  stammering  and  fired  a
  broad pattern of minigrenades, smoke and concussion both. What really worried him was the pair of bogies
  just now appearing on his radar overlay.
  "PAIR OF BIRDS INCOMING!" he roared.
  Make my freaking night.
  Bandit stepped out through the open side door of the van and took a quick look around.
  Just beyond the Eurovan that Rico and Shank had brought along was the suit's shiny black limousine.
  Bandit  couldn't  see  the  suit  anymore.  The  slag  had  fallen,  and  Bandit  had  an  idea  he  might  be  dead.
  Raccoon  did  not  care  much  for  killing  or  for  any  kind  of  fighting,  but  this  was  probably  an  exceptional
  situation. Things did not look good.
  A few steps in front of him, between him and the Eurovan, Shank was shooting away on full auto.
  Then the mana shifted. It had nothing to do with Shank. Bandit  sensed  what  was  coming  before  he
  had any real right to know. He lowered his head a little and leaned toward his left to peer around the front
  end of the Eurovan. From there, he saw something move on the far side of the suit's limo. The mage was
  emerging, standing up, using the limousine for cover. A dark hood cast his features in shadow, but not his
  aura. Bandit's eyes widened as he saw the pulsating power hi the mage's  astral  form.  They  widened  still
  further as he assensed the power of the spell the mage was drawing together.
  
  This was very bad.
  Swirling energy coalesced and condensed, growing more intense, more menacing. The world seemed
  to  slip  toward  blackness  as  the  mana  mounted  rapidly  toward  a  climax.  Bandit  wondered  what  would
  happen when that climax finally came, but decided against waiting to find out. He had a very, very strong
  feeling that he would not like the effects of the mage's spell one bit.
  Rather  than  wait,  he  murmured  two  words  and  pointed.  From  his  finger  shot  a  slender  stream  of
  energy that blended with the forces gathering around the mage. Momentarily, the mage hesitated and wiped
  at his eyes. Then he coughed, and then he was growling and clasping his hands to his face  as  he  hacked
  and coughed and rasped for breath. The stench of the vapors that now swirled  around  him  would  spread
  quickly. The nauseating odors took effect at once.
  The mage abruptly bent over and vomited.
  Bandit nodded. Another lesson learned. Powerful, complex spells had their uses. Raccoon preferred to
  keep  things  simple  wherever  possible.  Here,  simple  made  complex  irrelevant.  Or  almost  irrelevant.  For
  another moment, the energies the mage had conjured continued  to  gather,  uncontrolled,  building  toward  a
  new climax, a chaotic release of immense power.
  This could be bad.
  Really bad.
  A crackling detonation rushed across the night sky, growing  in  strength  and  volume  until  suddenly  it
  erupted and a searing bolt of pure white energy struck down out of the night. Dok felt  more  than  saw  it.
  The hairs running up his spine to his neck stood on end. A tremendous blast shook the  ground.  A  roaring
  explosion followed. A blinding white light flared. For an instant, it  was  like  watching  a  nuke  explosion  on
  trid. Out the corners of his eyes, Dok glimpsed what he thought was the suit's Toyota limo leaping off the
  ground, disintegrating into whirling, razor-edged bits of shrapnel.
  Somewhere between that first immense  blast  and  the  roaring  explosion  that  followed,  Dok  felt  Filly
  bump into his side, and suddenly she was falling right in front of his feet.
  Caught in mid-stride, halfway around the front end of the Eurovan, Dok pitched forward and plunged
  to the pavement. He heard Shank bawling, "COVERRRRR!" He heard that roaring explosion and caught a
  glimpse of the disintegrating limo. He thought for sure that Filly must've stumbled.  Or  maybe  she'd  heard
  that first ground-shaking blast and just instinctively went prone.
  Shrapnel or  bullets  or  maybe  both  slammed  against  Dok's  ballistic-insulated  chest  and  shoulder  and
  arm as he scrambled around on  bis  hands  and  knees  to  get  back  to  Filly.  She  was  bleeding.  There  was
  blood  in  the  hair  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  she  wasn't  moving.  Suddenly  the  worst  seemed  like  a
  possibility, but Dok knew, God now he knew, that it would be just like Filly to take a hit,  even  a  bad  one,
  without ever making a sound. She was one tough woman.
  He seized her from under the shoulders, began dragging her toward the van. No time-no time for  first
  aid now! He had to get her into the van-into the van  and  then  do  whatever  he had  to do! Patch her up
  good. Keep her alive till they got to a clinic somewhere, if it was really that bad!
  It was hard to breathe, so hard ...
  Suddenly, Rico was there, grabbing Filly around the hips and helping to heft her  in  through  the  van's
  side door.
  No time to lose.
  None at all.
  28
  They were most of the night shaking their pursuit and checking and rechecking that they were clear.
  The few things Bandit said about the mage who had been at the meet made the slag sound like some
  incredible master of the arcane arts. Like the guy could've laid waste to the whole parking field, everything
  in it, and half the Willow Brook Mall if he'd only had the time to get the magic  together.  Maybe  the  way
  things ended pointed out the advantage of learning your stuff on the street, instead of  in  some  high-tower
  occult academy. On the street, you learned that you were either quick or dead. That was one thing about
  Bandit. As much as he sometimes seemed to be living in some other world, he knew how to be quick, and
  he knew when quick meant everything.
  Good instincts, Rico thought.
  What else could you call it?
  Thorvin sent the van flying down the  transitways.  They  crisscrossed  the  plex  and  doubled  back  too
  many times to keep track. Rico found it hard, impossible, to keep track because he couldn't believe how the
  
  meet had ended. It made no fragging sense.
  There was also the action in the rear of the van.
  Dok worked on Filly for more than an hour, long after it became obvious to Rico that what little Dok
  could do with the gear on hand just wouldn't cut it. Maybe if he'd had a full surgical kit with respirators and
  all the drek  like  in  the  average  emergency  ward,  maybe  then  something  too  good  to  believe  might  have
  happened. The way things were, with all their asses on the line, they had to get clear, and everything else
  took second place.
  Filly never moved. She didn't breathe. She didn't show the least sign of life. Whatever had hit the back
  of her head had penetrated bone. It had probably been over in an  instant,  before  she  could  feel  the  pain,
  before she even knew what hit her.
  If it was gonna happen, that was the way it oughta happen. That was how Rico wanted to go. Here
  one moment, gone the next. A death with some dignity.
  That didn't help Dok.
  "She lived how she wanted, amigo," Rico finally said , "She was true to herself and true  to  you.  She
  was real. She had to be there. She wouldn't've let you go alone. No effing way, compadre."
  Shank grunted, nodded agreement, and told Dok,', "We're with you, bro."
  Dok turned his head toward the ceiling and closed his eyes and said nothing. Clamped his eyes tightly
  shut and clenched his teeth together till the muscles in his jaw were twitching. Trying hard to  keep  things
  inside. Rico knew what that was like. He also knew it was no use. Some feelings were just too powerful.
  It was almost dawn when they got to Little  Asia.  Thorvin  turned  the  van  down  the  narrow  alley  to
  their latest bolthole and parked. No sign of pursuit or surveillance. Rico got out, looked around. The  van's
  side door slid open and Bandit stepped out, also looking around. Inside the rear of the van, Dok sat staring
  at Filly's body. "Come on, bro," Shank said.
  "I wanna be alone," Dok said harshly.
  "Come on, chummer."
  "Leave me alone!"
  "Dok," Rico said, letting an edge slip into his voice, "you're still  bleeding.  Shank's  bleeding.  We're  all
  bleeding. You come inside, take care of biz. You want time then, you got it."
  The speech seemed to work, but the minute Dok stepped out  of  the  van  he  started  cursing.  Getting
  mad, crazy with fury. His words rose into snarls like an animal might make. He turned and began slamming
  his fists into the side of the van. Then he rammed his head into the metal. Once wasn't enough. He couldn't
  stop. Probably, he wanted Filly so bad he'd do anything, take any risk, go up against anybody, kill anybody,
  to get her back. He couldn't just quietly accept the truth. He had to do something.
  A woman was always a woman, even just lying in bed asleep. It wasn't like that for most men,  and,
  Rico knew,
   it wasn't like that for Dok. He was a soldier as much as one was a doc. He was a former mercenary.
  Just  saving  lives  was  never  enough.  He  had  to  prove  himself  as  a  man.  He  had  to  do  things.  Crazy,
  dangerous things like shadowrunning, even if it got him killed. It was more than just machismo. It was pride
  and self-esteem and an essential part of his identity. He had to do something about Filly, even if anything he
  could do would be futile.
  Even if it was just pounding himself bloody against the side of a van.
  Rico watched for maybe three seconds, then grabbed Dok by the arm, jerked him around  and  thrust
  him back bodily against the van. Dok struggled, pounding at  Rico's  shoulders  and  shouting,  but  Rico  kept
  shoving, pinning him against the metal. Shank helped. Grief ultimately beat out fury, and that grief was too
  much to contain.
  A man strong enough to love, really love, opened himself to the possibility of pain. A man who could
  do that didn't give a damn who knew how much it hurt or how the pain showed.
  The flood subsided abruptly. Dok sagged, his eyes going wide, his face turning pale. Rico caught him
  up hard, gripping him around the body.
  "I'm hit," Dok murmured. "Christ ..."
  Rico said nothing.
  Shank helped carry Dok inside.
  The moment Piper heard the rumble of the van, she snatched up her automatic and hurried up the hall
  to the alleyway door. A brief glance through  the  peephole  confirmed  her  suspicions.  She  pulled  the  door
  open, then stood and watched as Dok climbed out of the van, as he cursed and shouted, and, finally, as Rico
  and Shank carried him toward the door. Glancing back and forth, she felt only confusion until she saw the
  
  reddish stains on Rico's cheek and  hands,  and  then  the  lower  legs  of  someone  lying  just  inside  the  open
  sidedoor of the van. On those legs was a pair of dark hi-top boots. Filly's boots. Piper looked at the blood
  staining Dok's jacket and the rips in Shank's armored vest and the  scratches  on  his  arms  and  knew  right
  then that the meet had gone very badly.
  It took her a moment to put it all together: Dok's rage, Filly's boots. No sign of Ansell Surikov.
  The slotting corporates had fragged them again. Now someone was dead, another  good  person  was
  dead,  and more were wounded. Piper couldn't just stand there and watch the wounded bleed.  The  anger
  and the frustration that came welling up from inside demanded that she respond. It was her duty.
  She turned and hurried back down the hall. From her knapsack, she took a clip containing hard ammo,
  twelve armor-piercing rounds. At the touch of a switch the clip full of soft ammo dropped from  her  Ares
  Special Service. She thrust the new clip in, pulled on the slide, and released it. One soft round popped out
  and fell to the floor. A hard round took its place.
  She stepped into the bedroom.
  Farris lay there on the floor, on her side, arms cuffed behind her back. The little trickle of blood from
  the  corner  of  her  mouth  was  nothing  compared  to  what  she  deserved,  and  what  she  was  going  to  get.
  Those who served the megacorps were no better  than  the  nefarious  scum  who  ruled  over  the  corporate
  hierarchy. They were the enemies of every moral person, of all metahumanity. They deserved  no  mercy.
  For their crimes against the Earth and every future generation, they deserved to die. They deserved to rot in
  hell.
  "Kuso-jitsugyoka," Piper snarled.
  Farris looked at her, gaping, and then shrieked.
  Piper pointed the auto at Farris' face and squeezed down on the trigger, but them something brushed
  her side and bumped her back. A huge hand swept along the outside of her arm, encompassed her forearm
  and tugged it upward, lifting her right off her feet.
  "You fragging bent?" Shank growled.
  He tugged the gun from her hand.
  Dangling above the floor, Piper cursed at him wrath-fully in Japanese.
  Then  Rico  was  there  in  the  doorway,  looking  from  her  to  Farris  and  back  again.  Piper  stopped,
  stopped  struggling,  stopped  cursing.  Contained  herself.  Completely.  hank  lowered  her  to  the  floor.  She
  rubbed her aching arm and glanced at Rico, but could not meet his eyes.
  "What's this?" Rico said.
  Piper shook her head, said nothing.
  "What the frag's going on?"
  "It was necessary."
  Rico glared and curtly motioned her out of the room.
  As Piper stepped into the main  room,  Dok  looked  up  from  the  couch,  met  her  eyes  and  said,  "Filly
  punched out."
  Piper couldn't help but be moved by the emotion in his  face  and  voice.  Despite  her  most  immediate
  difficulty.
  Despite Rico's anger. She had known Filly for several years, almost as long as she had known  Dok.
  She regarded them as friends. She knew how close the couple that been. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Very
  sorry. I'll pray for her. Pray that the kami are kind to her spirit."
  Dok nodded, looked away.
  In that moment, Thorvin came into the room, hopping forward on one leg. Blood was dripping from the
  engineer's boot on his left foot. He paused and leaned against the wall. "Freaking slug came right through
  the door!" he growled. "Musta found a gap in the freaking armor."
  Suddenly everything seemed to be going wrong.
  They must have offended the kami.
  She most of all.
  Dok was hit, but no worse than anybody else-of them that survived the meet. They'd all been blooded,
  all except Bandit, who had the devil's own luck.
  Getting Dok to tend the wounded took some work. He kept staring into space like he was in a trance
  or something. He kept forgetting the names of things he needed out of his kit. He made such a mess of one
  bandage he tried putting around Shank's arm that he had to pull it off and start over. He  wasn't  all  there.
  Rico could understand that, but he also understood that none of them could afford an infected wound or the
  loss of any more blood than they had already shed.
  Once the team was patched, Rico drew Dok into the bedroom to check on Marena Farris. She was on
  
  one of the sleeping rolls, sitting up and free of the cuffs. She looked anxious, upset. Rico didn't blame her.
  He'd be upset too if somebody pointed a gun in his face.
  Dok checked her out. One side of her mouth was a little puffy. Nothing to worry about. Nothing for
  Dok or Farris to worry about.
  Rico remembered the trickle of red he'd seen coursing down from the corner of her mouth. She hadn't
  got that lying on the floor. She'd been in the other room when the team left for the meet and her hands had
  been cuffed in front, not behind her back. The obvious conclusion was that, for whatever reason, Piper had
  gotten a little rough. If Rico hadn't seen her pointing an Ares at Farris' face literally as he came through the
  door, he probably wouldn't have believed it.
  But for the swelling by the mouth, Farris' stylishly contoured face was otherwise unmarked. The worst
  Piper could've done was slap her, maybe slap her a couple of good ones. That wasn't the point, though. The
  point had to do with  what  was  right  and  what  was  wrong,  what  he  could  let  pass  and  what  he  couldn't
  tolerate. He had serious problems with any woman getting beaten or abused, especially one like Farris, who
  obviously presented no real physical threat to anyone. The fact that another woman had done  the  beating
  made no difference. The fact that Farris had been cuffed and totally helpless only made the matter worse.
  It made him want to throw up.
  Once Dok stepped out of the  room,  Rico  said,  "What  happened  here  won't  happen  again.  You  can
  take that for a promise."
  Farris nodded, looking troubled. "What happens now? To me, I mean."
  "That ain't decided."
  Farris hesitated, then said, "Have you spoken to your woman?"
  "What woman?"
  "The Asian woman. I don't know your names."
  "Who said she's my woman?"
  Farris seemed disturbed by the edge that slipped into Rico's voice.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  said  in  a  hushed
  voice. "I just assumed ..."
  "Don't assume nothing."
  "Yes, of course. Excuse me. But you should still speak to her. There are things you should know. We
  talked."
  "We'll get to that later."
  "There's something you have to tell me?"
  Rico nodded. "The meet didn't go too good."
  "How is Ansell?"
  "He didn't make it."
  "You mean he's dead?"
  Rico nodded again.
  Farris looked more than just saddened by the news. How much more Rico couldn't tell. Farris lowered
  her head. She wiped at her eyes. "Could I  be  alone,  please?"  she  said.  "This  is  ...  I'm  afraid  I'm  getting
  rather upset..."
  "If you want anything, just ask."
  She shook her head, her hair falling forward, shielding her face.
  Rico left her and went into the front room where he found Piper waiting. The look on  her  face  was
  getting familiar: embarrassment, shame. Rico nodded toward the alley door. She preceded him up the  hall
  and out into the alley. Rico spent a moment glancing around, checking that the alley was clear, then turned
  to Piper and said, "You wanna tell me what you thought you were doing in there?"
  "It would be very difficult," Piper replied, looking everywhere but at him.
  "Do it anyway."
  She took a while getting to it. "I wasn't really thinking," she said in a whisper. "I saw that the meet had
  gone bad, jefe. I saw you were wounded. I saw Filly lying there in the van. I realized she was dead. I felt I
  had to do something. I felt it was my duty."
  "Murdering Marena Farris."
  "She is a corporate. Corporates are our enemies."
  "Yeah? Let's talk about duty. You had a duty to me to watch out for  Farris.  You  had  a  duty  to  the
  team."
  Piper's face turned a dark shade of red.
  She covered it with her hands.
  "Please ... ," she moaned.
  
  Rico turned and walked away a few steps, then lit a cheroot. It was that or bust a gut, or get violent.
  The frustration was almost too much. The way he felt now, Piper seemed like a complete stranger, a total
  mystery, a disaster waiting to happen, a slight against his honor that he didn't even  want  to  consider.  She
  was as gentle as a dove in bed. How the hell could she  attempt  cold-blooded  murder?  Did  her  hatred  of
  corps run that deep?
  Maybe the old saying was true.
  Never trust an elf...
  In a voice that wavered with emotion, Piper said, "I am  shamed.  It  is  my  way,  jefe.  I  have  always
  been shamed. From the moment of my conception. I am kawaruhito.  You cannot imagine ... In Japan, all
  metahumans are vile. Reviled. They are hated. I was sent to Jigoku-To-Shi. That is  Hell  City.  That  is  its
  name, jefe. It is a horrible place. I escaped. I found a way to Seattle, UCAS. I had heard of the promised
  land. The land of promise. Tir Tairngire. But they would not let me in. My own people. Elves like me. Like
  my father, they rejected me. So I am doubly shamed."
  Rico  had  never  heard  this  story  before,  not  these  particular  details.  Piper  didn't  talk  much  about
  herself. And Rico didn't expect  a  self-effacing  Japanese  and  word-wary  decker  to  give  away  any  more
  than she might need, certainly no more than she wanted. He'd always been willing to accept whatever she
  chose to give and just forget the rest. He struggled to do that now. He struggled to see what this excerpt
  from her life story had to do with almost murdering somebody. Was shame the key point? Had she suffered
  so much of it that a little more didn't matter? He knew well enough that she wouldn't stand  here  and  ask
  forgiveness because  she'd  had  a  rough  We.  Please  feel  sorry  for  me  and  forget  what  I  did  ...  Piper
  would never say that, not intentionally, anyway. Piper wanted nobody's pity.
  "Shame is my Ms, jefe.  It is all I am capable of. I have failed you twice on this run,  and  that  is  my
  shame. And I will fail you again, no matter what I do. Or how hard I try." She hesitated, then blurted, "You
  should leave me. For your own good. You should have nothing to do with me."
  Rico clenched his teeth. He didn't believe in "fate." Luck, maybe, but that was different.
  Piper  had  been  acting  under  impulse,  he  decided.  The  shock  of  seeing  Filly  dead,  the  heat  of  the
  moment. Every body got that way sometimes, and these hadn't been a great couple of days. The run  had
  become an abortion. "They were all feeling the pressure, and pressure had a way of bending people outta
  shape.
  It all came down to one point, though. The same point that had been there from the start. "I don't work
  with killers," Rico said lowly. "Murderers. I won't  live  with  one  neither.  Work  like  that,  wetwork,  it's  for
  scum. The garbage you see in the gutters. That's your choice. You decide what's gonna be."
  Piper started breathing hard before he got halfway done. He barely got out his last word  before  she
  said in an anguished voice, "I choose you, jefe. I choose you ..." Her breath caught and she. grunted, almost
  crying. "I just... I'm just afraid ... the corps, corporates ... they're going to kill us this time!"
  It was a distinct possibility. But it changed nothing.
  Rico drew Piper into his arms and held her. They weren't dead yet, and Rico wasn't about to give up.
  Too many lives, too much at stake. His job  was  to  find  a  way  outta  this  mess  they'd  somehow  come  to
  own. Quitting wouldn't work. Neither would lying down and dying. "Just don't gimme any  more  problems,
  chica," he said. "I got enough already, Comprende?"
  Piper nodded, face buried in his shoulder. "Hai. Wakarimasu, jefe," she said. "I understand."
  29
  The room was small and squarish, the decorations  rather  crude  and  the  furnishings  threadbare.  The
  walls had been painted to look like a forest. A few dying plants slumped here and there in colored pots. The
  air smelted of incense. The pair of sleeping bags on the floor provided the only place to sit.
  Farrah Moffit ran her eyes around the room one more tune, just to prove to herself again that she had
  no way to escape.
  Even if she could get out of this room, she would need to find a working telecom, then manage to stay
  alive and free long enough to be picked up. The odds on that seemed long. She had seen and heard enough
  to guess that she was somewhere in the New York-New Jersey megaplex, but where exactly she did not
  know.  Queens,  the  Bronx,  Westchester-they  all  looked  the  same  to  her.  One  great  mass  of  grimy
  ferrocrete. Outside Manhattan, she was lost.
  Certain  smells  in  the  alley  had  made  her  think  of  Manhattan's  Chinatown,  but  that  probably  meant
  nothing. A great many Asians lived in the urban Northeast. Practically every metroplex  in  the  region  had
  some sort of Asian enclave, some quite large.
  The runners who held her captive had done a very good job of keeping her in the dark.
  
  If only she could believe the leader's promises that she would not be harmed. Her time with Fuchi had
  cured her of any such naivete. She would be kept alive for as  long  as  that  served  the  runner's  purposes,
  then, in all likelihood, she would be killed. She had never previously dealt with shadowrunners  herself,  but
  she had heard enough and read enough and seen enough on trideo to be acquainted with the breed.  Most
  were glorified gangers, criminals by another name, and quite vicious. They would not allow her to live  for
  the simple reason that she could point them out in a police line-up, should police become involved, and she
  could testify to their  crimes,  should  matters  ever  reach  a  court.  They  would  not  leave  her  behind.  They
  would not simply let her go. Eventually someone, probably that Asian girl, the decker, would come into this
  room, put a gun to her head and pull the trigger.
  If only she knew more of what was happening. What she would give for just a few minutes in front of
  a trid.
  She felt so isolated, so alone.
  This,  of  course,  was  part  of  the  runners'  strategy.  They  wanted  to  keep  her  in  a  state  of  mental
  uncertainty and emotional turmoil, this to persuade her of the value of cooperating fully, of being compliant.
  Submissive.  Weak.  An  elementary  stratagem,  a  common  technique  for  interrogations.  The  leader  kept
  assuring her she would be safe, while other members of the group threatened her with violence, and, in one
  case at least, made good on the threat. A neat little twist deliberately designed to add to her fears and her
  confusion.
  To her chagrin, it was all working very nicely, though only to a limited extent.
  Certain inescapable facts kept coming to mind. As a hostage held for ransom, she would be as good as
  dead. Fuchi did not pay ransom. That was the corp's stated official policy, and  it  held  true  for  all  but  the
  highest corporate officials. The entire draconian apparatus in charge of Fuchi security  worried  little  about
  humanitarian values or the sanctity of human life. For someone in her position, a fairly low-raking member
  of the corp's Special Administration, Fuchi would  be  more  likely  to  send  in  a  corporate  assault  team,  kill
  everyone, sacrificing certain corporate assets rather than submit to extortion.
  That put her life in her own hands exclusively,  and  that  frightened  her.  Pleading  would  do  no  good.
  Deceptions would get her only so far, and might get her killed before she was due.
  No,  Farris  realized,  she  wouldn't  get  out  of  this  alive  unless  she  offered  the  runners  something,
  something substantial, something that she alone of all their contacts had to offer them.
  Deciding what that was did not take long.
  * * *
  The food Dok and Piper brought was not bad. It was mostly fish and rice, warm and easy to eat and
  quickly finished. Bandit liked his food that way.
  Once done, he picked up the flute, surveyed  it  astrally,  ran  his  fingertips  over  the  polished  wood.  It
  appeared to have been made by a highly skilled craftsman. It had no flaws that he could detect. As soon as
  he had the time,  he  would  return  to  his  special  place,  his  place  of  long  magic,  and  bind  the  instrument's
  energies to his own. He would enhance its power, too.
  Now, he lifted the flute to his mouth and played a few tentative notes. He did not know how to play a
  flute,  but  he  would  learn.  He  stopped  when  he  noticed  the  others  in  the  room-Rico,  Shank,  Dok,  and
  Piper-all looking at him.
  "When did you get so musical?" Shank grumbled.
  Bandit thought about that, and said, "Ask me later."
  "Sure. Maybe next year."
  Bandit nodded. A year from now would be fine.
  "If we're still alive."
  "If we aren't, how would you ask?"
  Shank  stared  at  him  a  few  moments,  frowning.  Apparently,  he  had  no  answer.  That  was  good.  It
  assured  Bandit  that  Shank  had  not  suddenly  become  so  "magical"  that  he  could  speak  from  beyond  the
  grave.
  Orks should stick to weapons and combat and leave questions concerning magic to others.
  "What?" Piper said, looking confused.
  Rico stood, and said, looking at Bandit, "I'm  gonna  question  our  guest.  I  want  you  to  watch  her  for
  lies."
  Of course.
  Reluctantly, Bandit followed Rico into the bedroom, where he had found the flute. The woman was in
  there now, the one with the unusual aura. Latent magical ability. Marena Farris.
  
  Rico closed the door.
  Marena Farris  looked  like  she'd  been  crying:  red  eyes,  shiny  brow  and  cheeks.  A  few  wet-looking
  curls of hair stuck to her cheeks. She looked at him with an expression that seemed to mix grief and fear
  into something intensely vulnerable.
  It  would've  been  easy,  too  easy,  to  walk  over,  crouch  down,  talk  to  her  soft  and  low  and  try  to
  reassure her. Any woman in Farris' position probably deserved no less.. Just for being a woman caught in a
  bad situation. Yet Rico forced himself to plant his feet in front of the door, then crossed his arms and looked
  at Farris long and hard, like he'd be taking no cirek from anybody. He had more to consider than just  this
  woman's feelings. "Okay," he said, "you got my attention. What'd you know about all this?"
  "Did you talk-"
  "We talked," Rico said, interrupting. He had heard what Piper had to say  about  her  talk  with  Farris.
  "Now I wanna hear it direct."
  Farris wiped at her eyes, then looked at him and said, "Where shall I start?"
  "How do you know about Prometheus?"
  "It was part of my job as a member of Special Administration-"
  "Of what?"
  Piper  had  mentioned  this,  but  Rico  wanted  to  hear  more.  Farris  elaborated.  She  made  the  Fuchi
  "Special Administration" sound like a corp within a corp, a special network designed to monitor practically
  every phase of the corporation's business. Part of Farris' job, apparently, was to covertly stick her nose into
  different Fuchi departments' business.
  "Get back to Prometheus."
  Farris nodded. "Fuchi has  done  extensive  psycho-profiling  of  all  its  primary  competitors.  There's  an
  entire department devoted to competition research. I participated peripherally in several studies, including a
  recent study of Prometheus."
  "Convenient."
  "It was essential.  I  served  as  liaison  between  the  infiltrator  program  and  competition  research.  We
  weren't about to choose the target for our infiltrator by random selection. We viewed our first insertion as a
  sort of beta test-model. We wanted to ensure that whoever we sent would enter an environment where he
  or she would have a high chance of success."
  "You said the meet with Prometheus wouldn't work out Why?"
  A wary, almost fearful look entered Farris'  eyes.  Rico  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  was  aware  that
  Surikov wasn't the only one who had died at the meet with Prometheus. She had to know that others had
  been wounded. Rico, for one, had a bandage on his left arm that couldn't be missed.
  Farris hesitated, then said, "When was the last time you heard of Prometheus accepting someone from
  a competing corporation?"
  "I'll ask the questions."
  Farris  flushed.  "Excuse  me,"  she  said.  She  spent  a  few  moments  regaining  her  composure,  that  or
  figuring out what to say next. Rico wondered how much of the wary, fearful act was real. Bandit offered
  no  clue.  Not  yet  anyway.  "Well  ...  my  point,"  Farris  said,  "is  that  Prometheus  has  a  very  strong
  intra-corporate program. They develop their personnel resources from within. They've taken a few special
  individuals who desired to change corporate affiliations, but those were exceptional people, primarily mages
  with very arcane specialties."
  Rico could accept that, as far as it went. Magicians were special. They  weren't  half  as  common  as
  most people seemed to think. Ones with Bandit's ability were damn rare.
  "Typically," Farris continued, "the corporate mindset views a change of affiliation as a sort of betrayal.
  Would you trust someone who betrayed their corp? Trust them with proprietary  data?  Your  edge  against
  the  competition?  Corps  guard  their  secrets  very  closely.  They  scrutinize  personnel  recruited  from  other
  corps scrupulously. Prometheus more than most."
  Rico nodded. Never trust a traitor. He'd heard that before. "Why'd they kill your husband?"
  "Because," Farris said, seeming stung, "they'd rather  deprive  a  competitor  of  the  value  of  an  Ansell
  Surikov than risk recruiting a potential traitor. Another corp's loss is their gain. That's how Prometheus sees
  it."
  "And that's how you knew the meet wouldn't go right."
  "That was my assumption."
  "So why didn't you say something?"
  "Would you have believed me?"
  "Does it matter?"
  
  "Of course it matters. Everything I do influences what you think of me and that matters quite  a  lot."
  Abruptly, Farris seemed on the verge of tears. Her eyes got moist and her lower lip quivered. "If I had said
  they might try to kill you, and they didn't, if your meet had gone as planned,  you'd  see  me  as  a  schemer.
  You'd think I had some hidden agenda,  that  I  had  tried  to  deceive  you."  Her  breath  caught.  "It  may  not
  seem very brave, but I want to get out of this alive. I'm horrified over what's happened, over Ansell's death,
  but nothing scares me more than the power you have over me. I'll do anything I have to do ... to get through
  this."
  Some slags would take a statement like that and run  and  never  stop,  especially  with  it  coming  from
  someone who looked like Farris. Some slags would use any situation to take advantage of  a  woman.  Not
  Rico's style. Not even on his worst day. "One of my people might still be alive if I'd known what you know
  about Prometheus."
  Farris' expression grew anguished. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's hard to know what to do. If I, had it to
  do over, I would take my chances and tell you. I was afraid. I'm still afraid."
  "You got reason."
  Farris seemed to shudder. "Yes, I know," she said quietly, almost in a whisper. "I know I have reason
  to fear you. That's why we must talk. I have something that you might want."
  "Like what?"
  "Ansell Surikov."
  30
  "Surikov is dead."
  "No. He's not."
  Farris looked scared, but she spoke in the dead-calm tone that people used when  they  know  exactly
  what they're saying, and know that they're right.
  Rico looked at the stress analyzer on his wrist. If Farris was lying, she was damn good at it.
  A long silence followed. Farris' eyes never wavered, despite her fearful expression. Mentally, Rico ran
  down the short list of possible explanations. Farris could be lying. She could be nuts. Desperate enough to
  say  anything  or  too  far  gone  to  notice.  Even  if  Surikov  had  been  revived,  magically  resuscitated,  or  his
  apparent death only some magician's illusion, Farris would have no way of knowing that.
  Rico could think of only one other explanation and it wasn't a good one. Possibly, just possibly, he and
  his team had been not only double-crossed, but reamed right from  the  start.  Tricked  somehow.  He  didn't
  see how. "Surikov's not dead?"
  "No." Farris shook her head.
  "Then who was the slag we busted out of Maas Intertech?"
  "Michael Travis. One of Ansell's research assistants." It didn't seem likely. "No way," Rico growled.
  "No fragging way. We had retina scans. We had fragging DNA scans,"
  "Yes,  but  how  did  you  confirm  those  scans?"  Farris  asked  softly.  "Based  on  data  obtained  from
  Fuchi?"
  "I'll ask the questions."
  Farris just watched him a moment. The  fear  in  her  expression  seemed  to  mix  with  sadness,  maybe
  regret "Not even Fuchi datafiles are immutable," she said. "The infiltrator program anticipated the possibility
  that certain relevant datafiles such as personnel  files  might  be  surreptitiously  accessed.  These  files  were
  altered. Datasets were exchanged. Michael Travis' retinal and  DNA  patterns  were  inserted  into  Ansell's
  files. The real Ansell Surikov, his codes and patterns, are now part of the datafiles that originally belonged
  to Michael Travis."
  Rico said nothing. He guessed that what Farris was saying was  possible,  but  she  made  it  sound  too
  easy. There was more to changing identities than just a swap of data in computer files. "Surikov's face is all
  over the datanets. He's been at conferences. He's been on trideo. People know what he looks like."
  "Yes, that's true," Farris agreed, as softly as before. "And that is one reason why Michael Travis was
  chosen.  He  and  Ansell  have  similar  physical  parameters.  Similar  physiques.  Only  a  modest  amount  of
  cosmed surgery was necessary to complete the likeness."
  Rico shook his head, tempted to sneer. "You can't cut a slag into a disguise like that. You can't make
  him a duplicate of somebody else. It's been tried. Surgery leaves scars. You can't cover up the traces. Not
  all of them."
  "You're  correct,"  Farris  said.  "Ordinarily,  any  surgery  would  be  detected  by  a  close  medical
  examination.  Precluding  an  attempt  at  deception.  In  this  Case,  however,  it  was  possible  to  disguise  the
  cosmetic alterations as  necessary  surgical  reconstructions."  Farris  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said,  quieter
  
  than  before,  "Ansell  has  always  been  something  of  a  bacchanalian.  And  rather  ^discriminate.  It  was  a
  simple matter to modify his files to show an episode with Gray's Syndrome."
  Rico grimaced. "That's real convenient."
  "Efficacious. And therefore essential."
  Gray's Syndrome was one of several virulent, sexually transmitted  diseases  that  had  arisen  over  the
  last five or ten years. People said it had come with the Awakening. Elves seemed to be particularly prone,
  but  no  one  was  immune.  Gray's  was  nasty,  though  usually  not  fatal,  given  the  right  medical  care.  It
  corrupted a person's appearance. Made him or her look old and sick and deformed. And it happened fast, in
  just days. By the time a person realized he had it, his hair could be falling out and his teeth turning black and
  jutting out of his mouth like the fangs of an ork. The pain was said  to  be  horrendous.  Some  people  were
  transformed  practically  overnight.  Some  people,  those  who  couldn't  afford  surgical  corrections,  killed
  themselves rather than go through life looking like some simsense-inspired  horror.  Some  people  just  went
  insane. Rico supposed it would take a lot of surgery to restore a man  from  an  episode  with  Gray's.  That
  much cutting might well be  used  to  cover  the  surgery  needed  to  turn  some  slag  into  a  near-duplicate  of
  Ansell Surikov.
  Clever.
  "Okay," Rico said. "Say you made this slag Travis look like Surikov. He passes the scans. That doesn't
  make him Surikov."
  "That is where headware comes in."
  "Yeah?"
  Farris nodded. "The base implantation involved some highly advanced bionetics to  boost  the  cerebral
  functions.  This  provided  a  framework  for  implanting  a  new  form  of  semi-organic  skillsoft,  the  bionetic
  equivalent of personafix BTL, encoded with Ansell Surikov's persona matrix."
  "Meaning what?"
  "Meaning that Michael Travis not only looked and acted like Ansell Surikov, he believed that he was
  Ansell Surikov."
  "And nobody at Maas Intertech noticed that this slag Travis had all this drek inside his head."
  "Ansell  Surikov  has  numerous  cerebral  implants.  Most  scientists  do.  Michael  Travis'  implants  were
  simply designed to  conceal  their  personafix  functions."  A  look  like  surprise  passed  over  Farris'  features.
  "Even I couldn't tell them apart. And I've had more experience with Ansell than merely as a psychologist."
  "Which one are you married to?"
  "Ansell. The original Ansell."
  "So if Surikov was really Travis, why'd you try to kill 'im?"
  Farris'  expression  turned  sad,  hurt.  "I've  already  explained  that.  Everything  I  told  you  about  Ansell
  applied to Michael Travis. Almost everything. Michael volunteered for the infiltrator program. He did it to
  spite me. We'd been having an affair. It didn't work out I only referred to nun as Ansell Surikov because, in
  effect,  he  was  Ansell,  functioning  as  Ansell.  I  believed  that  he  had  hired  you  to  kill me.  Ansell  is  quite
  capable of that, given adequate motivation, and Michael Travis' implanted persona overrides made him just
  as capable. I thought that my only chance for surviving would be to kill him first."
  Rico almost didn't give a damn. He could see he wasn't going to catch Farris in any kind  of  lie.  She
  had all the angles of her story worked out, whether this was chiptruth or pure fantasy. What worried  him
  was the chance that her story was actually true, what that implied about all he had done, and what he ought
  to do next. "So if it's this slag Travis who got iced, where's the real Surikov?"
  "That's what you and I must talk about."
  "We're talking about it right now."
  Farris dropped her eyes and shook her head. "We're talking about the past. I  want  to  talk  about  the
  future."
  "What future?"
  "Ansell's future," Farris said. "And your future. And mine."
  "I ain't got no future."
  "Perhaps you do." she said quietly. "It's conceivable that I could give it back to you."
  Rico watched Marena Farris intently. She looked about as uncertain and uneasy as ever, but now he
  didn't trust it, not nearly as much as before. A minute ago she'd been just a frightened woman telling a story
  he could either believe or dismiss. Now she talked like a person with a plan and Rico  didn't  like  it.  Farris
  was  too  smart-and  too  damn  good-looking.  She  looked  too  much  like  the  conniving  blonde  biff  in  every
  action-adventure flick he'd ever-seen. Biffs like that always had something up their sleeve to  match  what
  they had inside their shirts or pants. The words that came out of their mouths always made things perfectly
  
  logical, even if those words were sure to get you killed.
  Farris' lower lip quivered. "I can help you," she said. "I'm not just a psychologist."
  Hadn't she already  said  something  like  that  to  Piper?  I'm  more  than  I  seem  ...  Rico  accepted  that
  without question. "I know what you are," he said. "Get to the point."
  "Of course," Farris said quietly. "The point is this.
  Ansell isn't happy where he is. Fuchi Multitronics has put very tight limits on his work. He would like
  to go somewhere else, to another corp. If you were to help him get there, this other corp would reward you
  generously." Rico sneered. "You're dreaming, chica."
  "No," Farris said, shaking her head. "No, I'd already begun negotiating on Ansell's  behalf  before  you
  carried me away. Only a few days have elapsed. I could finish the deal by telecom. You could come away
  from this with a lot more money than you've got now, and I could probably arrange to get at least one group
  of people off your back. I could make that a condition of the deal."
  "You're talking about Maas Intertech."
  "I believe  you've  had  some  experience  with  Daisaka  Security?  The  Asian  woman  mentioned  that.
  Daisaka is linked to Maas Intertech through the parent entity, Kuze Ninon. I could arrange for them to be
  turned off."
  "I slotted  off  Fuchi  once  this  month  by  busting  you  out.  I  figure  that's  enough  of  a  problem  to  live
  with."
  "Yes," Farris said, nodding. "You've struck a blow against Fuchi corporate pride. They want you, but
  they  can  only  hunt  for  you  in  so  many  ways,  and  the  SIN-less  are  hard  to  find.  But  it  isn't  just  Fuchi.
  Daisaka wants you, too. Isn't that so? And the  more  people  looking  for  you,  the  greater  the  chance  that
  someone will find you. I'm offering you the opportunity to drastically reduce the numbers of your opponents
  and to make some money that you might very well need in the days and weeks ahead."
  "I should trust you to cut a deal?"
  "Yes, you should," Farris said. "I have the most compelling reasons possible for dealing in good faith. I
  want to live."
  "You know people at Maas Intertech?"
  Farris didn't answer. She just stared at him. A couple of moments of that and suddenly Rico felt like
  he was facing the blank stare of a fixer, revealing nothing. It was almost scary. Who the hell was this biff
  really? Why did it seem like she knew more about things than any one person had a right to know? Surikov,
  Travis, the infiltrator program,  details  about  Fuchi  competitors...  It  made  Rico  wonder  if  she  knew  even
  more than she was saying.
  Her gaze was like a promise, telling him that she had contacts, contacts that could make a deal, a deal
  that anyone in their right mind would grab at, if only to better the chances of getting out of this mess alive.
  Rico didn't want to believe it.
  A voice whispered softly at Bandit's left ear, saying, "Master, look."
  Bandit shifted to his astral perceptions.
  The bedroom now glowed softly with the radiance of life, the astral forms of Rico and Marena Farris,
  Bandit's own, and one other, a spirit. The spirit took the form of a large raccoon, but one that walked erect.
  It hovered behind Bandit's left shoulder as if to hide from the other astral forms in the room.
  This particular sort of spirit was known as a watcher. It was a simple spirit capable of simple  tasks.
  Bandit had assigned it to watch the astral terrain in the vicinity of the apartment.
  "You've noticed something?" Bandit asked.
  The watcher nodded vigorously, and extended a paw toward the wall at the rear of the room. Bandit
  looked  at  the  wall,  but  saw  nothing  of  interest.  "Come  swiftly,  master,"  the  watcher  said.  "Come  and
  look! You said if I noticed anything strange ... Well, this is very strange indeed!"
  Bandit shifted to the astral plane, leaving flesh and bone behind. He wondered what the watcher had
  noticed. Still sitting cross-legged, he rose from the floor, turned and followed the watcher through the rear
  wall of the room and into the alley behind the building.
  The night pulsed softly with primal energies. The auras of hundreds  of  people  glowed  dimly  through
  the rear windows of buildings lining the alley. Other subtler gleamings of life showed here and there along
  the length of the alley-the auras of a rat, several weeds, birds pecking at a sprawling pile of garbage. Bandit
  took all of this in at a glance, and, seeing nothing of value, turned his attention elsewhere. Something else,
  something  far  more  significant,  demanded  his  attention.  It  tugged  at  his  magician's  sense  with  sudden
  violence-and held it.
  Through  the  alley  leading  to  the  next  block  came  tendrils  of  mana:  drifting,  flowing.  Curling  slowly
  
  forward like sinuous snakes, radiant with power. Rising, falling. Flowing up and down. Curving in and out.
  As the tendrils neared the back alley, they began turning outward, fanning out left and right, as if to proceed
  in both directions up and down the back alley, but then they curved back again  as  if  returning  to  a  single
  course.
  Here was magic in the making, a long magic. Nothing else could bind the mana into such form or send
  it much  beyond  the  limit  of  sight.  Could  this  appearance  be  mere  coincidence?  Bandit  doubted  it.  Long
  magic built up slowly, over the course of hours. It was a far more exacting magic than the manabolts and
  fireballs that fledgling magicians tossed off on the spur of the moment or amid the  chaos  of  a  gun  battle.
  The leading tendrils of the spell seemed to be coming toward the building where Rico  and  the  others  had
  taken refuge. Even now  those  tendrils  were  crossing  the  back  alley,  slowly,  sinuously  snaking  their  way
  toward the wall through which Bandit had emerged.
  A  group  of  armed  razorguys  passing  through  the  alleyways  might  have  been  a  coincidence.  There
  were hundreds, possibly thousands of razorguys in the plex and they all had to live somewhere. Magic and
  magicians were far less common. Uncommon enough to be rare.
  What was the point of this  sending?  Bandit  spent  a  short  while  considering  this,  assensing  the  spell
  being  cast.  It  appeared  to  be  a  spell  of  detection,  one  designed  to  find  a  particular  individual.  What
  individual,  he  could  not  tell.  Did  this  have  something  to  do  with  Rico  and  the  team,  Ansell  Surikov,  or
  Marena Farris? Bandit wondered.
  On occasions in the past, Bandit had in fact observed the sendings of other  magicians,  sendings  that
  had nothing to do with him or anyone he knew or anything he was doing, but he could count those occasions
  on the fingers of one hand.
  Always, it was best to be careful.
  He  returned  to  his  physical  body.  Rico  was  crouched  right  in  front  of  him,  gazing  at  him  steadily,
  questioningly. Bandit considered that questioning gaze, then said, "Trouble's coming."
  "What trouble?" Rico asked, grimacing.
  Bandit replied, "How bad do you want to know?"
  Through the rear windows of the van, Shank watched the Asian slag turn in off the street and come
  hustling up the alley, walking fast, almost breaking into a ran. He didn't look like trouble, but his haste made
  Shank  wonder.  He  was  dressed  like  a  cook:  greasy  white  apron,  shirt,  pants,  sneaks.  If  he  had  any
  weapons, they were under his hide and crammed in pretty tight. He was skinny to the point of skeletal. He
  might've just climbed out of a grave.
  "What's this freaking piece of drek?" Thorvin said.
  Shank grunted, wondering, tightening his hold on his compact Colt M22A2.
  The slag kept on coming, hustled up alongside the van, then turned to  the  door  of  the  apartment  the
  team was using as a bolthole. He pounded on the door with a fist. Shank stepped out through the rear door
  of the van, stepped around the rear corner of the van, took one step further and put the muzzle of the Colt
  at the back of the slag's head.
  "Be real careful," he growled, his voice low and menacing.
  The  slag  froze,  except  to  slowly  turn  his  head.  That  head  barely  came  up  as  far  as  the  middle  of
  Shank's  chest.  From  what  Shank  could  see,  the  slag  looked  surprised  enough  to  be  terrified,  eyes  open
  wide.
  Abruptly,  the  door  to  the  apartment  swung  inward  and  Piper  stepped  into  view.  Shank  put  a  hand
  around the back of the slag's neck, about to push him inside, just into the hallway, to scope him out, but then
  the slag was looking at Piper and nodding and bowing the way Asians do, and Piper was bowing, too.
  "Okyaku sdma ga  kite  imdsu!" the slag said. He spoke quickly and quietly, seeming excited. Shank
  wondered what the fragger was saying.
  Piper's eyes went wide. "Doo yuu imi desu ka!" she said, breathlessly.
  "Shookdijoo o mdtte indkereba narimasen hi!"
  "Ara ma! Osore irimasu! Ddnata desu ka!"
  "Nan-no shirushi ga yoroshii desu ka!"
  They went on like that for a few moments more.
  Shank  looked  up  and  down  the  alley.  Nobody  passing  the  street-end  of  the  alley  seemed  in  any
  particular hurry, no more than usual for this part of town. On the street itself, a sanitation truck rumbled by,
  workers in black masks, gloves and jumpsuits mounted on the truck's steps. For a night in  Little  Asia,  for
  any part of the Newark sprawl, things seemed pretty quiet.
  "Hai! Wakammasu! Domo arigato gozaimasu!" Piper said.
  
  "Do itashimashite!" the slag said.
  Shank lowered his weapon.
  Piper  bowed  and  the  slag  bowed,  too.  They  both  bowed  again.  The  slag  hurried  back  toward  the
  street. Shank looked at Piper. She looked at him and said quickly, in English, "Shank, we must go. Get ready
  to run."
  "Null sheen," Shank replied. "Run where?"
  Piper stared at him wide-eyed, then suddenly shook her head and  hurried  back  down  the  hall  to  the
  apartment. Shank shrugged.
  Behind him, the van rumbled to life.
  31
  "A deal has been made, jefe," Piper said rapidly. "Daisaka has approached the oyabun himself. Kobun
  of  Honjowara  yakuza  and  agents  of  Daisaka  Security  are  sweeping  the  district  together.  It  is  said  they
  make discreet inquiries, but that is just cover. They will find us unless we leave here."
  Rico grimaced. "How much time we got?"
  "We must go now. Right now."
  Piper didn't need to give any extra emphasis to her words. Rico could see the emphasis in her  eyes.
  She was scared, and probably with good reason. "Somebody sold us out?"
  "Not how you are thinking."
  "One of your contacts."
  Piper  shook  her  head.  "Perhaps  Honjowara-rama  has  used  us  to  obtain  something  he  wants  from
  Daisaka. That is most likely. But we have been warned, jefe. Warned to get away. We have been used as
  pawns. That is not the same as betrayal."
  Maybe,  maybe  not.  It  sounded  like  the  kind  of  deal  that  a  slag  like  the  oyabun  could  make  with
  impunity. Rico was in  no  position  to  argue  about  it.  What  the  fragging  sama  wanted  from  Daisaka  was
  none of his business. An honorable man might have told Daisaka Security to go slot, but Rico decided to be
  glad for small favors. Without the oyabun's token consent, they'd never have  been  able  to  lay  low  in  this
  part of the plex, and without the warning that had come to them now ... they might've wound up dead.
  "Let's flash."
  They gathered their gear. Bandit  threw  a  few  handfuls  of  some  sparkling  stuff  all  around  the  front
  room of the apartment and sang something too soft to make out. Rico didn't know what it was for and didn't
  waste  time  asking.  They  headed  out  to  the  alley.  Dok  and  Piper  got  Marena  Farris  into  the  van.  Rico
  tugged the side door closed and got into the passenger seat and then they were rolling, turning toward the
  nearest transitway. "What's our terminus?" Thorvin said. A fragging good question, Rico thought. This run
  was  pushing  their  limits.  They'd  used  all  the  presets,  contacts,  and  hideyholes  they'd  had  lined  up  in
  advance.  They'd  stepped  beyond  the  last  step  of  the  plan.  They  could  head  for  the  fortified  bolthole  in
  Sector 13, but Rico wanted to save that till they had autofire burning their butts and nowhere else to turn.
  They stopped in Sector 11, just across the border from Little Asia. Thorvin parked the van in the big
  parking garage two stories below the Hillside New Jersey Transit station. Rico put a credstick into a public
  telecom, stabbed the Vid Off key, and tapped in a special number. Momentarily, Mr. Victor's voice came
  through the handset to Rico's ear. "How are you, my friend?"
  "The meet went wrong," Rico said. "The man's trash. The client wasted the merchandise. We had to
  fight our way out."
  Brief silence. "I am sorry to hear that. I am shocked, though I have had certain difficulties myself. We
  live in dangerous times. Tell me, how did your problems arise?"
  "How do they usually arise?"
  Another silence. "What will you do?"
  Revenge was out of the question, for the moment. Staying alive was the immediate problem, that and
  what to do with Marena Farris and her proposal. Rico considered mentioning that proposal to  Mr.  Victor,
  but decided against it. Mr. Victor's arrangements hadn't been working out so good lately. Rico still trusted
  him, but right now it seemed enough to trust him with something simple. "We need a new hole."
  "Perhaps I can help you with that, my friend."
  Mr. Victor knew a slag who knew an address. Mr. Victor would arrange a meet. Rico clenched  his
  teeth, but said that was chill. Mr. Victor then said, "You should know that your former employer has put out
  the word. Nuyen is offered for information on your whereabouts."
  Rico hesitated. "You serious?"
  "Quite serious."
  
  Incredible.
  Mr. Victor had to be referring to L. Kahn, and that was incredible because fixers didn't usually put out
  rewards, not directly. That was like L. Kahn admitting to the world that somebody had stuck it to him, and
  fixers didn't like  to  admit  that.  Fixers  tended  to  be  acutely  conscious  of  their  image,  no  less  than  corps.
  What it suggested to  Rico  was  that  L.  Kahn  must  be  feeling  pressure.  Maybe  from  Fuchi.  The  suits  at
  Fuchi wouldn't be too happy about their merchandise getting dusted. And they wouldn't be too happy about
  the disappearance of an employee named Marena Farris either.
  Rico returned to the van, gave Thorvin directions. He could feel Farris staring at him from the rear of
  the van. That stare was a question waiting for an answer.
  The guano was getting deep. Daisaka Security, the Executive Action Brigade, yaks, informants. Maas
  Intertech, Prometheus, Fuchi. On top of all that was Bandit's latest warning. The shaman hadn't been  too
  clear, but it sounded like somebody had been coming at them magically in the minutes just before they fled
  the  bolthole  in  Little  Asia.  How  the  frag  did  that  fit  in?  From  the  original  chipfile  for  the  run  on  Maas
  Intertech, Rico knew that Daisaka had magicians on-line, but was that his explanation? And did it matter?
  And now Marena Farris had a proposition, one that could get at least part of the  opposition  off  their
  backs.
  Rico wondered if he really had any choice.
  The  problem  with  corps  was  that  they  had  the  resources  to  buy  just  about  any  kind  of  contact  or
  informant that might suit their purposes: cops, hustlers, gangs, whole city blocks, entire  governments.  You
  couldn't  evade  power  like  that  forever.  Something  had  to  give.  Either  the  corp  eventually  decided  you
  weren't worth the effort or the nuyen anymore, or it got  you,  grabbed  you  by  the  cojones  and  made  you
  dance however it wanted, then dropped you down the nearest garbage chute.
  Rico and the rest of the team could try and lay low, but that would take money, hard nuyen. They all
  had some, but how much would they need? Enough to sit for months, a year,  two  years?  They'd  have  to
  change IDs, maybe alter their looks.  Dok  could  handle  some  of  the  surgical  mods,  but  that  was  just  the
  beginning. Piper would need new programs and hardware just to stay up to date. Rico himself would need
  some cybernetic mods to keep his bodyware from falling behind the leading edge of tech. They'd all need
  things: Dok, Shank, Thorvin. It was a question of how they would get what they needed. The  reality  was
  hard.
  You didn't get bucks for front-line cyberware playing doorman for some bar or collecting on gambling
  debts.  It  took  big  bucks-and  big  bucks  meant  taking  big  risks.  Smuggling  contraband.  Stealing  major
  paydata. Breaking some slag out of a corporate contract that was the moral equal of slavery.
  It came down to two choices. Dying was the easy way out. Simply send Marena Farris back to Fuchi,
  then sit around and wait for the corps to come and scrag them. The hard way meant going along with what
  Marena Farris was proposing, check it out, investigate. Then, if everything looked chill, do it. That might get
  them just as dead, but Rico could see no other way that they could ever get enough nuyen together at one
  place and one time to make a difference.
  And time was running down.
  His wives waited silently, as wives should, seated around him in the rear of the Mercedes limo as he
  whispered sorcerous words and wove the spell into existence. A handful of sparkling motes appeared in the
  air  before  him  and  gradually  swelled  into  a  pulsating,  coruscating  cloud.  Daniella  lowered  a  window.
  Maurice pointed. The cloud drifted out and across the alley to the door of the runners' apartment. It spread
  across the door and sifted through the door's substance, passing into the spaces beyond.
  In  a  matter  of  seconds,  it  would  expand  to  fill  the  three  small  rooms  of  the  apartment,  stunning
  unconscious everyone it touched.
  A second spell turned the alley door into dust.
  Maurice nodded. Clad all in black, Claude Jaeger turned and darted through the empty  doorway  and
  disappeared into the apartment. He would swiftly dispatch the runners and anyone else he found there. And
  then their contract would be complete. The knowledge and  talent  of  a  skilled  magician  would  be  forever
  lost, and that would indeed be a loss, but it could not be helped. The runners had gone rogue, and L. Kahn
  had  ordered  they  be  exterminated.  But  the  more  important  point  was  that,  with  tonight's  work  done,
  Maurice would finally be free to return to his studies. He had wasted too many days working magic on the
  world instead of pursuing knowledge, truth. He was impatient to be done.
  Momentarily Jaeger returned to the doorway. He cast a mouthful of sputum to the concrete  floor  of
  the alley. "Mages," he said, with a sneer. "You fragged up."
  Impossible.
  
  And yet...
  Shifting to his astral senses, Maurice looked at his ally, Vera Causa. At his command, she had scouted
  the apartment astrally and confirmed that the runners were present. But for that, she had said nothing since
  their arrival here in Little Asia. She said nothing now. She did not even look at him. Was it possible she had
  erred?
  "Guard,"he told her.
  "Yes, master," she replied. "Of course."
  There was an acid quality to that reply which Maurice did not like. He considered whether this bound
  spirit might be escaping his control. A difficult matter to decide.
  He  snapped  his  fingers  and  pointed.  Daniella  thrust  open  the  door  on  his  right  and  preceded  him
  outside. He did not object when she and the other slitches followed him into the apartment. Daniella had a
  certain limited ability in the arts, and the others also had certain skills that might prove useful,
  To  the  mundane  eye,  the  apartment  looked  deserted.  It  was  cluttered  with  furniture,  kitchen
  appliances,  trideos,  bookdisks,  and  what  looked  like  the  scattered  components  from  several  cyberdecks.
  Pillows and blankets, discarded fast-food containers, and other anonymous litter also lay strewn about. The
  former occupants seemed to have departed swiftly. And yet appearances deceived. On the astral level, the
  runners appeared to be lingering still. Amid the  pulsing  fluctuations  of  the  life  energy  coursing  irregularly
  about the  room  glowed  not  one  but  seven  auras,  or  what  appeared  to  be  seven  human  and  metahuman
  auras.
  It was as if the runners had gone but had somehow managed to leave their auras behind. Maurice had
  never seen anything quite like it. Plainly now, he assensed that these "auras" were merely a spell, a clever
  manipulation of mana, drawn from the surrounding etheric energies. What amazed him was the fact that he
  had been unable to detect this deception while working the ritual spell that had brought  him  here  to  these
  rooms. He had been duped. Led to believe that John Dokker and the rest of the runners were still present.
  How, he wondered, could such a perfect mirage have been assembled? Until now, he had imagined his
  ritual spell of detection to be inexorable, long and slow, but certain to succeed. Obviously, such was not the
  case.  He  felt  persuaded  by  the  desire  to  learn  more  of  this  deluding  spell.  He  must  investigate  the
  intricacies of a work that conjured such perfect fantasies.
  Concentrating his astral perceptions, he moved nearer the  false  auras.  In  that  very  instant,  the  spell
  unraveled, as if it had expected the  touch  of  his  mind,  as  if  it  wished  to  keep  its  secrets.  Mana  flashed,
  bursting outward in all directions, blazing, rejoining the pulsing streams of the world.
  Maurice felt a swift pang of grief, then soft despair. As he returned  to  his  mundane  perceptions,  he
  heard a crash like that of a trash can being knocked over, resounding outside in the alley, then the sudden
  savage snarl of a cat.
  Jaeger turned and darted toward the alleyway.
  The moment struck Maurice. The snarl of the cat stirred his memory. He tilted his head back, nodding,
  closing his eyes, and softly laughed. It had become a night for tricks, new and old. The snarling cat in the
  alley.  What  manner  of  shaman  could  use  such  a  juvenile  trick  and  yet  could  manipulate  magic  of  a
  complexity as to conjure illusory auras?
  "Husband," Daniella said. "Scan this."
  Maurice opened his eyes, then followed his first wife into what appeared to be a bedroom. Lying on a
  bureau was an item that at first glance resembled a common monofilament sword, an artifact manufactured
  and  distributed  throughout  the  plex  in  the  thousands  by  Ares  Macrotechnology  and  other  corps.  On  the
  astral plane, however, the sword's significance was obvious. It's aura had the character of a living thing that
  lived no more. The sword had once been imbued with power, as a focus for spells. The memory of those
  spells lingered still. Maurice doubted he would be able to determine much about the spells, but that was  a
  secondary consideration.
  The vibrations of the person who had carried the sword also lingered. That was what made the sword
  significant.
  Plainly,  it  had  been  left  behind  by  the  runners'  shaman,  perhaps  in  exchange  for  something  he  had
  taken. That was the shaman's way,  the  most  persistent  of  the  rumors  Maurice  had  heard.  When  Bandit
  took a thing, he left another in exchange. Maurice could hardly believe his luck, or the shaman's stupidity.
  The sword would serve as a material link, and thus, through ritual magic, would lead Maurice directly
  to the shaman, thence the runners, regardless of where they had gone.
  And this time Maurice would how to no clever illusions.
  32
  
  The Chapel of the Eternal Light was just over the border from Little Asia in Sector 7. For five hundred
  nuyen, they laid out Filly's body in a room with perfumed air,  quiet  music,  and  molded  plastic  flowers,  no
  questions asked. That included a five-minute trideo funeral service, cremation, and an urn for the ashes.
  Rico paid the tab, despite Dok's protests. It was his responsibility. He was the leader. It was his failure
  to properly prepare for the meet with Prometheus that had cost Filly her life. Compared to the moral weight
  of that fact, five hundred nuyen was nothing.
  They all knew the risks. Death was part of the game. For the sake of the survivors, Rico was trying
  hard not to think about the price of his failures or the chance that he might slot up again. If you wanted any
  chance at surviving, you did what you had to do and saved all the grief, self-doubts, and questions till the run
  was over and people were safe in bed.
  When the pre-recorded serviced ended, Piper said, "I want people to remember, when gray death sets
  me free, I was a person who had many friends, and  many  friends  had  me."  She  paused  a  moment,  then
  added, "Filly had many friends. And we her friends have her still. In our hearts. We will always have her
  there."
  Another surprise. Rico puzzled. The words seemed somehow too openly compassionate for a reticent
  Japanese,  and  too  Christian  for  a  fanatical  Buddhist-Ecologist.  Maybe  it  was  gender.  Maybe  it  took  a
  woman to speak with that much compassion, to get past her own habits and beliefs long enough to say what
  ought  to  be  said.  Rico  wondered  where  the  first  few  rhyming  lines  had  come  from.  They  sounded  like
  something from a poem, but Piper had never shown any interest in poetry.
  Wasn't anything what it seemed anymore?
  Dok cursed and cried, then clenched his teeth and turned and walked away. Rico didn't think any less
  of Dok for any of that. He was only showing his strength.
  An hour  later,  they  met  Mr.  Victor's  contact  amid  the  stacks  and  factories  of  Sector  10.  The  slag
  pointed them to an unoccupied warehouse not far from Port Sector.
  The place was five stories tall, about as wide as a tractor-trailer, jammed between a truck terminal and
  some kind of foundry. The air smelled like burnt metal.
  Beyond the big bay door was a loading bay, an open area, narrow but long, with a loading platform at
  the rear. Beyond the platform was a  short  hall  sided  by  several  small  rooms:  an  office,  a  bathroom,-and
  what looked like a lounge. Plastic-molded furniture and cushioned  benches.  Semi-nude  holopics  of  celebs
  like Maria Mercurial and Taffy Lee and the Sayonara  Baby  joygirls decorated the walls. A scattering of
  trash, narc caps, BTL carriers, and rat shit littered the floor.
  "Now I know we're in deep," Shank grumbled.
  A curt reply leapt to Rico's lips,  but  he  held  it  back.  Shank  was  right.  Maybe  they'd  never  enjoyed
  luxury accommodations while on a run, but they'd usually managed to find something you could call decent.
  Places where you had no second thoughts about using the furniture or maybe taking off your clothes for a
  shower. Taking refuge in a rat-infested squat in one of the filthiest parts of the plex didn't say much for how
  things were going. A glance at the bathroom confirmed it.
  They supped on Nathan's Finest with rice and noodles. Rico watch Marena Farris dab  at  her  mouth
  with  a  paper  napkin.  He'd  have  to  make  a  decision  about  the  woman:  use  her  or  lose  her.  Accept  her
  proposal or let her go.
  "Let's hear your proposition again," he said.
  Farris hesitated, looking at Rico as if uncertain. Piper threw him a sharp glance.
  Dok scowled. "What proposal?"
  "Huh?" Shank added.
  Farris told her story. The slag they'd busted out of Maas Intertech hadn't been Surikov, just a double
  named Michael Travis. The real Surikov was still with Fuchi Multitronics and not particularly happy about it.
  Farris had begun negotiating a transfer to another corp on the real Surikov's behalf just prior to being lifted.
  If Rico and the team would help her complete the transfer, she'd see to it that they were taken care of, paid
  cash nuyen, and forgotten by Daisaka Security.
  "I wouldn't trust the fragging slitch."
  The  words  could've  been  Piper's,  but  they  came  from  Dok,  hard  and  raw.  Rico  sat  back  and  lit  a
  cheroot. Shank said, "Nobody's asking you to trust her."
  "No, of course not." Dok grinned acidly. "Just risk our lives!"
  "We could use the money."
  "Even if she's telling the truth, she can't guarantee Daisaka stays off our butts."
  "There ain't no guarantees about nothing, chummer."
  "And," Thorvin said, "we could still use the money."
  
  "Money won't buy back your life, friend."
  "Can't see living long without it, either."
  Dok looked at Rico, and said, "You can't be thinking of going ahead with this?"
  "No?" Rico said.
  "It's insane!"
  "No more than any other run."
  In a way, Rico supposed, maybe they owed it to the slag who'd died in the parking field of the Willow
  Brook Mall, and to Filly. Both those people had lost their lives because of corporate treachery. Doing right
  by Farris and the real Surikov-assuming he was the real Surikov- would be a form  of  vengeance.  Maybe
  the only kind of vengeance they could hope to exact. Somewhere down the road they might be able to cost
  Fuchi and the other corps a few percentage points on the exchange and lose them some money, crash their
  computers or spread nasty rumors about their financial health. For the moment, though, scoping out Farris'
  offer was the only chance for vengeance they had. A forced transfer of corporate assets. It wouldn't hurt a
  corp the size of Fuchi much, but it would still hurt.
  "You in or out?" Rico said.
  Dok stared, briefly. "You're saying the decision's already made?"
  "The decision is we scan the scene, check what we can, make plans, do it right  If  everything's  chill,
  then we
  "We could be walking into a trap!"
  Rico took a long drag on his cheroot before speaking "Look around you," he said. "The trap's already
  set."
  "Yeah," Shank said. "An' it's closing fast."
  The grime-smeared window beside the loading bay door gave a fair view of the street out front. Rico
  stood watch, if for no other reason than he couldn't sleep. Too much on his mind. He  wasn't  there  in  the
  gloom of the loading bay more than half an hour before Piper appeared on the platform at the rear of the
  bay.
  "Jefe...?"
  "Here, chica."
  For someone with ordinary eyes,-the bay was nearly black. Piper groped her way down off the loading
  dock and across the bay. Rico caught her searching hand and drew her over to the side of the window. She
  hugged herself to his flank.
  "We should just walk away, jefe," she said softly.
  Rico murmured, "You know I can't do that."
  "Why?"
  He recounted the reasons for her, but the truth of it went beyond questions of money and survival. It
  went beyond any debts real or imagined to those who had  died,  It  came  down  to  something  very  simple:
  Marena Farris. Maybe the woman had plans to get away from Fuchi, but the fact was that she hadn't been
  ready to leave when they lifted her, so, in effect, she'd been snatched. Kidnapped. And now they'd had her
  too long to just send her back. Fuchi security would likely assume that she'd been tampered with, that they
  were getting some kind  of  trojan  horse-maybe  a  spy  or  saboteur-in  place  of  a  loyal  employee.  She'd  be
  questioned, analyzed, watched every minute of the day and night. She might never be trusted again. Piper
  would probably say it didn't matter, the woman was a fragging corporate, an enemy. Rico didn't see it that
  way. Farris might be a corporate and maybe she had secret agendas, but she was still a woman, and still a
  human being. That warranted some consideration. To Rico, it meant she had the right to walk her own path,
  and to get set back on that path if somebody tugged her in a direction she didn't choose herself.
  Making that happen would take  some  doing,  and  Rico  wished  he  could  really  trust  what  Farris  told
  him. He hoped she was playing straight, or straight enough that any discrepancies didn't matter.
  "Maybe we should go away somewhere after we finish with this," he said.
  Piper clenched him tightly around the waist, moaning, "I don't care what we do as long as we get out
  of this alive."
  "We'll make it."
  For all their sakes, Rico hoped he was right.
  33
  At just after three a.m., Marena Farris' aura changed subtly,  indicating  she  had  finally  fallen  asleep,
  curled up on one of the cushioned benches in the lounge.
  
  By four a.m., she seemed to be sleeping deeply. Everyone else in the lounge was sleeping, too.
  Bandit waited a bit longer, then began.
  His fingers found the medallion under his shirt. He used this because the medallion  held  power.  The
  spell he began gathering, for all its subtlety, demanded great power.
  He lifted his free hand slightly, just slightly, just enough to point  his  fingertips  toward  Marena  Farris,
  then, he began mouthing the words, powerful words, never to be spoken aloud. This was one  of  his  most
  intricate spells,  designed  and  developed  over  the  course  of  years.  Each  word  must  be  spoken  in  a  very
  specific manner, and must be spoken silently so that their secrets should remain forever secret.
  Slowly, the mana gathered, first around his slightly uplifted hand, then flowing together into a  narrow
  stream  that  flowed  slowly,  slowly,  slowly  across  the  etheric  plane.  Slowly  arcing  over  Marena  Farris'
  slumbering  aura.  Slowly  surrounding  her  aura.  Interpenetrating.  Then  curling,  turning,  joining.  Gradually
  weaving a web. Gradually forming a connection.
  Sleep, the magic softly directed. Sleep till you are told to awaken ...
  From out of the depths of mind came a sound, a soft gentle sound, a sound of concord and harmony
  and willing acquiescence. Slowly it arose and slowly it coalesced, assuming  form  and  substance,  evolving
  into a word, a word like, Yessssss ...
  At the proper moment, with his free hand, Bandit lifted the  Mask  of  Sassacus.  We  are  one  ...  one
  mind, one spirit...
  Yessss . . .
  Your trust in me is complete ...
  Yessss . . .
  You have  confided  everything  to me ... you  have  entrusted  me  with  all  your  secrets  great  and
  small... sharing your secrets with me brings you great pleasure, great warmth ... you desire to tell me
  everything ... you wish to share everything with me ...
  Yesss ... it is so ...
  There is something you wish to tell me now ...
  Yesss ...
  Who is the man you call Ansell Surikov?
  He is Ansell... my husband ...
  There is something you wish him to do ...
  Yesss ... it is true ...
  Tell me ...
  I... wish him to go to a new place ... a new ... organization ...
  Tell me why ...
  It will profit us both ...
  Are you keeping secrets from the runners?
  Yes ... they do not know my name -
  What is your name?
  Fa ... Farrah Moffit...
  Why is this name important?
  If they knew it, they would not trust me ...
  Hours later, when the woman Marena Farris, Farrah Moffit, awoke, she slowly sat up, pressed back
  her hair, then turned her head and looked right at him, looked at him and stared.
  She knew.
  Bandit pondered how that could be.
  "Would you trust a traitor?"
  In the subdued light of the dilapidated warehouse office, Rico  turned  in  the  swivel  chair  to  face  the
  door. To his left, Piper sat in an armchair with her axe across her lap and a datacable jacked into her head.
  In the shadows of the doorway before him stood Bandit, fingering his new flute...
  Rico pointed with his chin. "Say again?"
  "Would you trust a traitor?"
  "Dose the door."
  Bandit stepped forward, swung the door shut
  "Who we talking about?" Rico asked.
  "The woman. Marena Farris."
  "She's a traitor?"
  
  That's what she thinks."
  "A traitor to who?"
  "Perhaps Fuchi Multitronics."
  "She told you that?"
  A few moments passed. Bandit looked down at the flute in his hands. His expression,  as  usual,  was
  unreadable. What he was thinking was anybody's guess. "I ascertained certain things. She is afraid for her
  life.  She  wishes  Ansell  Surikov  to  join  a  new  organization.  She  fears  you  will  not  trust  her.  She  views
  herself  as  a  traitor.  Some  of  what  you  know  of  her  is  false.  She  has  not  always  worked  for  Fuchi
  Multitronics. Her name is not Marena Farris."
  What the frag? Rico forced himself to keep cool, lean back in his chair. "What's her real name?"
  "Pariah Moffit."
  Rico searched his memory. The name meant nothing to him. "Who is she?"
  "A  former  employee  of  Prometheus  Engineering.  Sent  to  Fuchi  as  a  mole.  Ten  years  ago  a  Fuchi
  joygirl named Marena Farris was quietly killed. Farrah Moffit took her place. She insinuated herself into the
  Special Administration and used this position to learn Fuchi secrets and transmit them to Prometheus. She
  believes she is now under suspicion. She did not willingly go on leave. She is afraid to return to Prometheus
  because  she  has  transmitted  no  data  since  put  on  leave.  She  fears  they  may  kill her.  She  believes  that
  moving to Maas Intertech is her only way out."
  Rico rubbed at his brow. Maybe a hundred or so questions should have come to mind by now. Maybe
  he was too tired to think that hard. Maybe the run was wearing him down. Only one thought came to mind.
  "Why Intertech? Why would they trust her any more than anybody else?"
  "Her contact is in a position of power. They met some years ago. If she could bring him someone of
  value, someone like Surikov, to Intertech, her contact will see she gets what she wants."
  "What does she want?"
  "She wants to counsel children."
  "What?"
  "She  is  a  psychologist.  She  is  disaffected  with  corporate  intrigues.  She  wants  to  counsel  children,
  perhaps have a child of her own. She wants out of the game."
  "You believe that? All of it?"
  "I believe she believes it."
  Nothing was ever certain. "Who's her contact at Maas Intertech?"
  Bandit gazed steadily at Rico a few moments, then said, "I didn't ask."
  Rico clenched his teeth, drew a deep breath, then let it go.
  What mattered most? That was the question that kept coming back to Rico's mind.
  The problem with this run was that too many factors kept getting involved. You could get frizzed just
  thinking about it, just trying to keep all the details straight in your mind, just trying  to  work  out  everyone's
  angles.
  All  the  scag  about  who  Farrah  Moffit  really  was  and  where  she  came  from  probably  made  no
  difference. Maybe she was just caught in the middle, stuck somewhere she didn't want to be, the victim of
  megacorps, no less than Rico and his team. Maybe she just wanted a way out. Rico realized at length that
  there was no way he could know for sure and that thinking about it so much was a waste of precious time.
  You  had  to  focus  on  the  key  points.  What  really  mattered.  What  seemed  to  matter  most  Was  the
  Ansell Surikov who Farrah Moffit kept talking about really the real Ansell Surikov? Rico  tried  to  figure  a
  way to answer that question for sure, then stopped himself. What was the point? His objective now was to
  get Farrah Moffit back on track. What difference did it make what she called this slag she wanted to get
  away from Fuchi, as long as the slag wanted to go.
  Only three questions really seemed crucial: was Farrah Moffit's contact  at  Maas  Intertech  for  real?
  could she cut the deal she promised? and did Ansell Surikov, or whoever, really want to leave Fuchi?
  First...
  Piper opened her eyes. The display screen of the telecom on the wall beside her flickered and came to
  life.  "Security  at  the  Crystal  Blossom  Condominiums  has  been  tightened,  jefe,  but  the  telecom  lines  are
  unaffected. I have a clean line direct to the apartment where we lifted Marena Farris."
  "You mean Moffit."
  "Yes,  excuse  me."  Piper  rolled  her  eyes,  looking  a  little  exasperated.  "Where  we  lifted  Farrah
  Moffit."
  Rico stepped down  the  hall  to  the  lounge.  Dok  sat  there-cleaning  his  Ingram  SMG-opposite  Farrah
  
  Moffit Both he and Moffit looked up as Rico entered. Moffit looked about as anxious and forlorn as anyone
  Rico had ever seen. He guessed that was only natural. "Who's your contact at Maas Intertech?" said Rico,
  without preamble.
  A timid look came into Moffit's eyes. "Must I... Must I give him a name?" she said hesitantly.
  Dok cursed softly. Moffit glanced at him anxiously. Rico said, "We ain't going nowhere till you scan.
  Till we scan what you got. Till everything checks out. Comprende?"
  Moffit seemed to resign herself to it. She nodded, just faintly, then said softly, "His name is Osborne.
  That  could  be  a  corporate  pseudonym.  I  don't  know.  He's  the  Vice  President  for  Internal  Policy  and
  Review.  He  controls  a  kind  of  internal  intelligence  section,  along  with  various  resource  units  such  as
  personnel."
  "How do we make contact?"
  "We've established a protocol."
  "Let's hear it."
  The proc wasn't very complex. When Moffit wanted to contact Osborne, she  called  his  office  via  a
  public  telecom,  ID'ing  herself  as  a  personal  friend.  If  Osborne  wasn't  available,  Moffit  left  a  particular
  message and called back later. If Osborne wanted to contact her, he followed much the same routine. The
  only sophisticated part was that they used portable voice-translation gear to prevent their voice prints from
  ever being matched to their corporate personnel files.
  Rico motioned Moffit to her feet "Let's make a call."
  Moffit seemed willing. Rico ushered her up the hall to the warehouse office and sat her down facing
  the telecom screen. He gave Piper the nod, she closed her eyes. The telecom screen flashed blue with the
  unit calling window of the local telecommunications grid. The  words  VIS  PICKUP  OFF  appeared  in  the
  upper-right corner. The code for the telecom being called appeared in large numerals at center screen.
  Moffit caught her breath, and looked up and around at Rico, her eyes wide with surprise. "That's my
  condo's call code."
  "First we talk to Surikov."
  Moffit's eyes flared enormous'. "No!" she exclaimed. "They'll pick up the call! They'll realize we're-!"
  "Can it."
  A slag who could have been Surikov's twin appeared on the screen. Rico looked closely but couldn't
  see any difference between this Surikov and the one who'd died at the Willow Brook Mall, Michael Travis.
  Surikov opened his mouth as if to speak, then glanced downward. PRIVACY ON winked on and off at the
  bottom of the screen. Surikov compressed his lips, then reached to the side and drew a telecom handset up
  to his ear.
  "Yes?" he said. "Who's this?"
  "Dr. Surikov," Rico said.
  Surikov nodded, now looking a bit impatient. "Yes, yes," he said. "Your vid's off. Who am I speaking
  to?"
  Another message from Piper winked on the telecom screen: LINE SAFE.
  One final check had been made. Surikov's telecom was clean, right  down  to  the  handset  at  his  ear.
  "You don't know me," Rico said. "I'm calling about something you wanna know about. Be careful what you
  say and how you react This line's clean, but your apartment may be monitored."
  Surikov frowned puzzledly, maybe irritated. "I'm afraid I don't-"
  Rico gave Moffit's shoulder a nudge. She jerked her head up and around to look at him,  then  looked
  back  to  Surikov  when  Rico  motioned  at  the  screen.  She  seemed  nervous  as  hell,  desperate.  Definitely
  off-guard. As Rico intended.
  The question was: how would she handle herself?
  Moffit  abruptly  shifted  in  her  seat,  sitting  up  straight.  Her  fingers  shook.  She  gasped.  "Darling  ...
  darling, don't say anything, don't say my name?"
  That last came out in a rush. Surikov opened his mouth as if to interrupt, but then stopped.
  "You'll  give  us  away,"  Moffit  continued,  only  pausing  to  gasp  again.  "Someone  may  be  listening.
  Listening to what you say. Please don't say anything for a moment. I know this is hard. Just say ... say yes
  if you recognize my voice."
  Surikov was gazing intently out of  the  telecom  screen.  Rico  couldn't  be  sure  if  the  slag  was  angry,
  incredulous, or both. "Do I-" he said, abruptly cutting himself off. "Well, of course. Of course I do."
  "Darling, please be careful," Moffit said. "Be very, very careful. I'll explain everything that's happened
  as soon as we're together. Right now I need you to help me. Think carefully. Do you know what I  mean
  when I refer to our special project?"
  
  Surikov frowned, now seeming puzzled. "Well," he said, "yes. Certainly." He waved one hand vaguely.
  "What else could you mean?"
  Moffit nodded. Her eyes seemed riveted to the telecom screen. Her gaze seemed even more intense
  than Surikov's. "This is why I'm calling," she said. "This is what I'm  working  on.  Our  special  project.  I'm
  with people who are going  to  help.  After  we're  done  with  this  call,  you  must  act  as  if  nothing  unusual's
  happened. Do you understand, darling?"
  "Yes, obviously."  Irritation  rose  suddenly  into  Surikov's  face,  but  in  an  instant  faded  to  nothing.  He
  nodded. "Yes, yes, I understand. I'm just, well ... I didn't expect this."
  "I  understand,  darling.  Please  listen.  The  people  I'm  with  are  very,  very  careful.  They  want
  confirmation from you that you're willing to go along with our project. You must say something to convince
  them, but you must assume someone's listening to you at your end."
  Moments passed. Surikov pressed his hand back over his brow and his thinning hair. His eyes widened
  briefly, like a man struggling with the incomprehensible. Twice he opened his mouth as if to speak, then said
  nothing.
  "Well," he said finally, "I don't know quite how to say this.  I  just  want  to  be  reunited  with  my  wife.
  Everything else is rather secondary. It's been, very difficult... difficult to concentrate on  my  work.  I'm  so
  used to her being here. I know she loves me very much, and she wants what's best for me. What more can
  I say? I trust her implicitly. She wants what I want. I want what she wants. Do you see?"
  Farrah Moffit turned her head and met Rico's eyes. She looked scared, expectant, and hopeful all  at
  the same time. Rico looked at the man on the  screen,  then  back  at  Moffit,  watched  her  a  moment,  then
  nodded. "Say bye. We'll be in touch."
  Moffit  said  that,  and  then  a  few  other  things  that  only  helped  persuade  Rico  that  the  relationship
  between her and Surikov was real, or real enough that it didn't matter.
  The slag wanted what Moffit wanted.
  Likely, that was what he'd be getting.
  34
  Twenty minutes in the lavatory did slightly more for her psyche than for her looks. More than half that
  time Farrah spent seated on the toilet, face in her hands, eyes closed, struggling to regain  her  composure,
  and to reinforce it. The ploy by the runners' leader had caught her off-guard. She had walked into that little
  room at the top of the hall expecting to face Osborne, only to be confronted by Ansell. It had forced her to
  shift mind-sets very abruptly, in little more than a moment. With a man like Osborne, she could afford to be
  every bit the corporate woman, cool to the point of ruthless. In fact, she had to be like that. With Ansell, she
  couldn't  afford  to  be  anything  less  than  the  stereotypical  woman,  as  defined  by  Ansell's  own  views.
  Approaching the man in  the  wrong  manner  would  have  invited  disaster.  Failing  to  impress  upon  him  the
  dangers  of  the  situation  would  have  invited  so  much  greater  a  disaster.  It  had  forced  her  to  think  very
  quickly, to make leaps of intuition she felt only half-able to make. It left her in a state-heart pounding, body
  shaking-practically on the verge of fainting. She needed time alone to recover, and to prepare for what was
  coming.
  She felt as if things were beginning to rush past her too swiftly, slipping out of control. She told herself
  that wasn't so. Her plan was coming together. She would make it work.
  She had to.
  Before the grime-streaked mirror over the lavatory sink, she did what little she could  to  improve  her
  appearance. There wasn't much. She had no supplies. She was lucky the runners  had  seen  fit  to  provide
  her with a change of underwear. She washed her face, then combed her hair and tied it behind her head.
  Fortunately, the subdued tones permanently bonded to her face, lips, brows, and lashes simulated the most
  basic effects of makeup. The resulting look was neat enough, though anyone who knew her would see the
  difference at once. She looked somewhat less  polished  than  her  usual  self.  Unfinished.  A  woman  would
  certainly spot that. But would a man like Osborne notice?
  "I'll make you a promise," said a quiet voice.
  Farrah  turned  to  face  the  man  standing  in  the  doorway.  The  latest  one  to  act  as  her  guard.  His
  graying, razorcut hair and three-day growth of beard made him appear the oldest of the runners.  He  was
  also the  one  who  had  seemed  most  acutely  distressed  after  the  runners'  meeting  with  Prometheus.  The
  woman who had died at that meeting had apparently been his woman.
  "If you cross us," he said, lowly, "you'll never see home again."
  Farrah believed it. For all this man's apparent skill at first aid, he carried himself like someone used to
  confrontations, physical violence. Farrah did not doubt that he could kill her if so moved, without difficulty,
  
  without remorse. It was a frightening realization. Her days lately had been fraught with such realizations.
  "You scan?" the man insisted.
  "I won't cross you," Farrah replied, somewhere finding the  capacity  to  speak  in  a  voice  that  did  not
  waiver. "I want to get out of this alive. I want to get back to my husband."
  To Farrah, those seemed like persuasive proofs, but she saw at once that she had slipped and slipped
  badly.  The  man's  expression  turned  venomous,  his  mouth  twisting  into  a  vicious  sneer.  "That's  it,"  he
  snarled, motioning with his gun. "Move it."
  She did, stepping again into the hall, expecting something, she wasn't sure what-a blow at the back of
  the head, a shove at the very least. Nothing like that happened and she immediately saw why. The runners'
  leader waited, watching from the top of the hall. The leader's expression was hard, but she saw none of the
  fury that had lit his features on previous occasions. Farrah  suspected  that  she  might  have  at  least  a  slim
  chance of survival as long as she did nothing to provoke that fury.
  At a motion of his head, she moved past the leader and into the little room outfitted like an office. A
  shabby office. The Asian woman was jacked into her deck. Here was another variable that kept Farrah's
  nerves on edge and twitching. The Asian despised  all  corporates,  everything  to  do  with  corporations  and
  corporate living. She seemed  to  want  all  corporates  dead.  Farrah  hadn't  the  slightest  doubt  that  this  one
  might kill her too, given the right opportunity, given the right "excuse."
  The  leader  closed  the  door,  then  turned  to  Farrah,  saying,  "We  play  this  like  you're  making  all  the
  arrangements. You'll be against a black background. The man won't see nothing but you."
  Farrah nodded. "I understand."
  "Remember what I told you."
  "I  will."  The  man  had  given  her  precise  instructions  on  the  details  of  the  agreement  she  was  to
  complete. Farrah closed her eyes and told herself again that she would somehow make this work. She had
  no choice. Everything depended on it.
  "You set?"
  "Yes. I'm ready."
  The telecom calling screen appeared on the wall display. That was swiftly replaced by the willow and
  lotus logo of Maas Intertech. Then came the face of a very young and very attractive Asian woman. "Mr.
  Osborne's office. May I help you?"
  Farrah smiled. "May I speak to him, please."
  The woman also smiled, apparently in recognition. "Oh, yes. One moment, please."
  "Thank you."
  "You're quite welcome."
  The  corporate  logo  returned,  then  Osborne  appeared.  He  was  not  a  good-looking  man.  His  face
  resembled putty that had been sculpted into rough, square lines, then baked to a stony texture. He wore his
  hair samurai-style,  shaven  above  the  brow,  drawn  back  behind  his  head.  Prominent  eyebrows  threw  his
  eyes into shadow. Of his clothes, only a plain, collarless white linen shirt, buttoned at the neck, showed on
  the screen. A small, dark, circular pin that kept winking with the light clung to the shirt's right breast.
  "Nice of you to call," Osborne said. "I understand that you've been lifted."
  Osborne did not seem pleased at all, but Farrah had no difficulty guessing why. If he had heard some
  rumor of her abduction, he would be presuming, at the very least, that their previous negotiations were now
  void. That would mean the loss of certain opportunities. She would have to correct that presumption, bring
  him up to date. "The situation has changed."
  "Yes. I'm aware of that, I'm also aware  that a certain person died at the Willow Brook Mall. I'm not
  sure if I should be thanking you or cursing you for that. Do we have anything else to discuss?"
  "Quite a lot, in fact."
  "I'm listening."
  "My basic offer to you is unchanged. However, I now have the capability to recruit the person myself
  and deliver him to you at a suitable time and place."
  "And just how has this happened?"
  "It happened. The result is this. I'm willing to concede certain of the extras we discussed, the ones you
  found most problematic, in exchange for certain consideration."
  Osborne said nothing for several moments. Doubtless, he was pondering what she might want hi place
  of any extras she had previously demanded. All such "bonuses" were not created equal. Simple  monetary
  value was not always a deciding factor. "I'm still listening."
  "The main points relate to my recruitment team. They want a cash award for their efforts."
  "That sounds workable. What other points?"
  
  "As  a  result  of  other  recruitments  they've  handled,  they  are  currently  receiving  a  great  deal  of
  unwelcome attention. They would like that to stop."
  For a moment, Osborne seemed on the verge of asking what all this had to do with him. Osborne was
  not  so  slow  of  wit  as  to  actually  put  that  question  into  words.  "You're  not  saying  what  I  Slink  you're
  saying?"
  Farrah nodded. Once.
  Osborne paused to light a cigarette, then said, "Daisaka Security is looking for your recruitment team?"
  "That's correct."
  "You know what I'm thinking? That you engineered the disappearance  of  a  certain  person  from  my
  corp's facility. Why would you do that?"
  "I would not."
  "No? I think it's an interesting concept. For several reasons. It takes a big gun out of our R & D effort
  and makes your boy all the more valuable. It also saves me the trouble of explaining how an impostor got
  into our program. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea."
  "Then you should be grateful."
  "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm taking this as a warning." He paused and gazed at her pointedly. "But that
  doesn't change certain facts. You want our agreement documented and certified, correct? Like any full and
  proper  recruitment.  Unfortunately,  I  have  no  authority  over  Kuze  Nihon's  security  arm  or  any  other
  organization beyond the purview of Maas Intertech."
  Farrah smiled, pointedly. "You're too modest."
  "Simply a realist."
  "But you do have influence."
  Osborne took a swift drag from his cig. "I might agree to quietly exert myself in certain quarters, but I
  will not agree to provide any substantive evidence of this aspect of our agreement. You'll have to take my
  word for it."
  "These people we're dealing with are not fools, Osborne."
  "That fact has been made poignantly obvious."
  "Let's speak of facts. The fact is that this team and I together are providing you with an unparalleled
  opportunity."
  "That's for me to judge."
  Farrah had no doubt that Osborne knew what she meant and that he also agreed. The runners' lifting
  of  Michael  Travis  had  shown  Maas  Intertech's  security  unit  to  be  at  least  rather  lax  and  possibly
  incompetent.  Heads  would  be  rolling  by  now,  the  entire  security  framework  under  intense  review.  If
  Osborne could suddenly present Ansell Surikov to the board of directors, he would, by comparison, seem a
  hero. The fact that an impostor had been working under  their  very  noses  need  never  be  mentioned.  The
  death of Michael Travis could be explained away in any number of ways, if that death  had  even  become
  generally known. "You must have your eye on the CEO's office."
  "I have my eye on a lot of things," Osborne said very quietly. "I'm open to discussing your new terms
  because I want your boy. I'm sure you've reached that conclusion. If I have to use my influence, as you call
  it, I will. I'll do what I have to do. It's even conceivable that I might have a job or two of my own for this
  team of yours, and therefore a reason to make efforts on their behalf. But don't try to push under my skin. I
  get unreasonable when people do that."
  Farrah  suppressed  a  shiver.  One  thing  she  definitely  did  not  want  was  to  encourage  a  man  like
  Osborne to get unreasonable. That could prove fatal. "You have my sincere apology."
  Osborne did not seem overly moved. "I suggest we  talk  money.  How  absurd  a  fee  does  your  team
  expect?"
  For an organization with the resources of Maas Intertech, it wasn't a great deal of money and Osborne
  didn't even blink at mention of the sum.
  They completed their negotiations in short order.
  35
  That slag Osborne had said it. Rico wondered about it. Could Farrah Moffit have been the one who'd
  set  up  the  original  run  against  Maas  Intertech?  She  handled  herself  real  slick  on  the  telecom,  cool  and
  corporate. Yet, to Rico it didn't seem likely. She was a fragging psychologist She'd gotten her start at Fuchi
  as a fragging joygirl. She turned doe-eyed and timid the minute anybody raised their voice. It didn't matter,
  but it did make him wonder.
  Rico rubbed at his eyes and suppressed a yawn. It seemed  like  days,  weeks,  since  he'd  last  slept  a
  
  damn.
  "What now?" Moffit asked quietly.
  Rico grimaced. "Now you go back to the lounge."
  He and the team had some plans to make.
  "Master," the voice whispered. "Wake up."
  Bandit woke, shifted senses, and opened his eyes to the astral counterpart of the lounge. The auras of
  Dok  and  Farrah  Moffit  glowed  from  opposite  sides  of  the  narrow  room.  Between  them  hovered  the
  Raccoon-like form of a watcher.
  "Something strange, master," the watcher said. "You said..."
  "Yes."
  Bandit motivated his astral self, sat up, crossed his legs and ascended, moving forward. The watcher
  led up the hall, through the door to the warehouse loading bay, across the bay, then through the large  bay
  door and outside.
  As Bandit passed through the astral form of the bay door,  he  entered  the  glare  of  directed  mana,  a
  spell, like turning to face the sun. Instinctively, he tugged himself back, back  into  the  dim  radiance  of  the
  loading bay. As he did that, he threw up a shield, a spell of his own, surrounding his astral body in a sphere
  of guardian power.
  Then-nothing. No mana bolts streamed through the dormant aura of the bay door to strike his shield.
  No  monstrous  spirits  appeared  to  confront  him.  Just  what  had  he  encountered?  He  descended  into  the
  ground, moved forward a ways, then came up through the buildings on the far side of the street. He saw an
  old, fat man seated on a toilet and smoking a fat cigar, but other than that... nothing.
  The  night  sky  shone  with  the  reflected  radiance  of  the  Earth's  energy.  The  air  rumbled  with  the
  workings of nearby factories. Cars and trucks moved along the streets.
  The magic that had glared in his face was gone. It had touched him and  disappeared.  What  was  it?
  What could it mean?
  Trouble, for sure.
  They took the meet in Jersey City, on Pacific, right near the railroad yards. Meets at very high-profile
  localities like malls hadn't gone too good in the recent past, so this one was taking place in the litter-strewn
  parking lot of the local Quik Shop store.
  At three a.m., the lot was deserted.
  Rico looked around from the passenger seat of the  van.  The  surrounding  neighborhood  was  grunge,
  three- and four-story grimy brick and cracked, crumbling sidewalks. It was like Newark's  worst,  only  the
  cops still worked here and they never went easy. Jersey City had its own private corporation and that corp
  had  its  own  cops.  They  were  a  mob  like  all  the  other  mobs,  only  they  had  the  law  behind  them.  They
  specialized in street justice. Make the wrong move and you ended up sprawled in some dark corner with a
  hole through the back of your head.
  Not a good place for pyrotechnics. The Jersey City cops rode in armored cars and command vehicles
  and had assault teams on twenty-four-hour alert. If things got real hot, they called out the fragging panzer.
  Or one of their gunships.
  At  a  quarter  past  the  hour,  a  crimson  Toyota  Ambassador  pulled  into  the  lot.  It  was  marked  for
  Paladin Cabs. That meant body armor, run-flat tires, and gun ports.
  Tonight it also meant a bodyguard. me guard looked like a gutterpunk in razor-sharp threads. He came
  out of the rear of the cab in a dark gray suit, glanced toward the street, stood up, glanced toward the street,
  closed the door of the cab, and turned to face Thorvin's van. Then he shot another glance toward the street.
  Rico recognized the habit. It was something you developed after seeing too many people sliced and diced to
  bloody ribbons in the thrasher parts of the sprawl.
  A pro would keep his eyes moving, but he'd be discreet about it. This  said  something  about  the  slag
  inside the cab. Osborne might be a dangerous man, but he'd never walked the razor himself. If he had, he
  wouldn't have a clown like this for a guard.
  At Rico's signal, Shank tugged open the side door of the van and then waited, crouching, watching the
  clown and cradling his M22A2. Rico gave the clown a few moments to adjust to that, then pushed open the
  passenger door and stepped outside.
  Osborne came over to face him. With a quick look up and down, he said, "You did a fine job on  my
  security." Rico nodded. "You got sticks?"
  Osborne drew a synthleather wallet from his jacket pocket, folded it  open,  and  handed  it  over.  Rico
  
  checked the credsticks with the reader on his belt. They checked out.
  "We'll set the delivery once we "got the merchandise."
  "When do you go?"
  "Soon."
  "Make it so. I've got a lot riding on this deal. Do it fast enough and we'll have things to discuss in the
  future."
  "Sure, amigo. Slot and run."
  Osborne nodded, got back in his cab, and left. Rico glanced up at the night sky, then returned  to  the
  van.
  The nightly rain would be coming soon.
  Too soon.
  36
  "Time is oh-two forty-five hours."
  Rico acknowledged that over his headset. The message came from Piper and it meant she had done
  everything she had to do inside the Crystal Blossom condo's mainframe computer.
  Rico keyed his headset. "Go."
  The helo veered abruptly, vectoring left and up as the doors  siding  the  main  compartment  slid  open.
  Rico wound the thick, slik-coated drop-rope around his left forearm and popped the safety line affixed to his
  commando harness. Shank nodded from the door opposite.
  Abruptly, they were coming up over the edge of the roof of the Crystal Blossom condoplex.
  "Now!" Thorvin said.
  Rico stepped out into empty air.
  The timing was precise. The helo slowed just as he slid to the end of the drop-rope. He hit the roof's
  flat, gritty surface with both feet, tumbled once and came up onto his knees, scanning the rooftop with his
  Ares Special Service in hand. Shank landed an instant behind him. The helo arced away so as not to attract
  attention,  dwindling  into  the  night  and  the  infinitude  of  buildings  and  glaring  lights  sprawling  across
  Manhattan.
  The roof was clear. Rico rose and jogged over to the building's southern face.  Shank followed. They
  pulled black climbing ropes from their harnesses and thrust K-2 autopitons against the low ferrocrete wall
  rising like a rim from around the edge of the roof. The cryomag tips of the K-2s burned holes straight into
  the crete. Secondary probes then extended outward from the pitons' main shaft, embedding the devices in
  the crete.
  That took about five seconds. They spent another three or four connecting the ropes to the pitons, then
  to the I.M.I. power winches on the front of their harnesses.
  "Set," Shank growled.
  "Go."
  The winches were programmed. From the roof, fifty stories above the ground, they fell about eleven
  stories straight down, then the winches cut in. Harnesses jerked and pulled. They slowed, jogging feet-first
  off the face of the building. They came to a halt before the wall of mirrored macroplast panes guarding the
  living room of Condo 35-8. This was where they'd picked up Farrah Moffit and where they would now find
  Ansell Surikov.
  They  applied  flashtape  to  the  mirrored  windows.  One  quick  flash  seared  a  large  hole  through  the
  panes.
  They swung inside.
  The heart of the Crystal Blossom condoplex mainframe used standard CPU  matrix iconology. a white
  room  walled  by  control  panels.  At  02:44:58:21:19  or  so,  Piper  attached  a  black-box  program  icon  to  the
  Master Logic Panel icon, then transmitted her ready signal to Rico.
  "Time is oh-two forty-five hours."
  A  while  passed,  then  a  warning  signal  from  the  engineering  subprocessor  advised  of  a  breached
  external wall panel in Residence  35-8.  The  black  box  on  the  main  console  piped  that  signal,  changing  it,
  shunting  it  to  the  building  diagnostic  subprocessor,  initializing  a  Level  1  diagnostic  search  of  engineering
  subsystems.
  Momentarily, another warning came, and another diagnostic search began.
  The loop was complete.
  
  "Alert! Alert!"
  Hearing that, Skip Nolan looked down  the  row  of  comm  operators  facing  the  spectrally  lit  consoles
  lining the Executive Action Brigade's command vehicle. One console was showing its red alert light on top.
  Op Three was working the console rapidly.
  Fingering  his  headset,  Skip  stepped  up  behind  the  Op.  Window  One  on  the  console's  main  display
  showed a broad expanse of city populated by soaring towers gleaming brightly in the night
  "We've got a hit," said an excited voice. A burst of static interrupted the signal. The transmit display on
  the console ID'd the speaker as part of Ground Eleven, the surveillance team assigned to monitor a tower
  on Manhattan's Upper East Side.
  "Ground Eleven, report," said Op Three.
  The  surveillance  agent's  voice  returned  in  mid-sentence,  "-just  skimmed  the  roof.  We  make  it  a
  Hughes Stallion, possibly armed. We've got some activity-"
  More static.
  "-scanning two unknowns rappelling down the south face."
  Window Three on the console's main display abruptly zoomed in  on  the  Crystal  Blossom  condoplex.
  Two  dark,  human-sized  figures  seemed  to  be  elinging  to  the  building's  mirrored  surface,  maybe  thirty,
  thirty-five  stories  above  street-level.  Something  flashed,  and  a  black  squarish  patch  appeared  in  the
  building's mirrored skin. The two figures disappeared into the black patch.
  Skip suppressed a curse.
  He'd been all but incredulous when Colonel Yates ordered a surveillance team to monitor the exterior
  of  the  condoplex.  What  the  hell  did  this  building  have  to  do  with  their  mission?  The  brigade  didn't  have
  resources to waste like this. Their targets were somewhere in Newark, not Manhattan. They'd scraped up
  enough street-level intelligence to be reasonably sure  of  that.  All  the  colonel  would  say  was  that  he  had
  special intelligence, not through regular channels.
  Now  it  looked  as  if  someone  were  making  a  run  on  the  condoplex.  Skip  jacked  into  the  console,
  replayed the vid, and zoomed in tight on the two dark figures hanging at the side of the building. Computer
  analysis  found  a  ninety-seven  percent  correspondence  between  the  figures  on  the  wall  and  datastore
  references on two of the runners who'd participated in the run against Maas Intertech.
  That was a match.
  The colonel's long shot appeared to be paying off.
  Skip looked up the line of consoles to the crippled body in a wheelchair. Bobbie Jo, her mind and spirit,
  were linked to an underpowered backup drone drifting slowly over eastern Newark, futilely, it now seemed.
  She was too far from the action to make any difference, way too far away. The drone was too slow, and
  Bobbie Jo was  getting  too  timid.  She'd  be  lucky  if  Colonel  Yates  didn't  cancel  her  contract  The  colonel
  didn't believe in on-the-job therapy.
  If only she could have found the will to pilot one of the brigade's assault choppers ... Things might've
  worked out better for her.
  But-no time for that now.
  He  jacked  into  his  command  console.  "Alert,  alert.  Cap  One,  you  are  go.  Stand  by  for  target
  designation on channel three."
  A monotone voice replied, "Acknowledged. Lifting off."
  From the background came the rapid thump-thump-thumping of rotorcraft.
  When the lights came on, Surikov lay on  the  bed  with  his  legs  hanging  over  the  side  like  he'd  been
  sitting there a while, then just leaned back and fell asleep.  He  wore  a  black  robe.  He  looked  about  fifty,
  sophisticated, with thinning hair and a close-trimmed beard turning  gray.  Extra  weight  around  the  middle.
  Not a big man. Not a small one either. A liquor bottle lay close to hand.
  Rico tossed the bottle back toward the center of the bed and tried shaking Surikov awake. When that
  didn't work, he took the opportunity to press Dok's DNA scanner  against  Surikov's  arm.  The  check  took
  about  thirty  seconds  and  came  back  positive.  ID  confirmed.  Again.  He  tugged  Surikov  up  into  a  sitting
  position and cuffed him. Surikov grunted, moved his head, gradually  starting  to  come  around.  He  smelled
  like booze. "What ... ?" he mumbled. "Who's there? What's going on?"
  "We're taking you to the Garden."
  "A garden of delight," Surikov said, smiling stupidly. "That's my wife."
  "We're taking you home."
  Surikov stared for several  long  moments,  then  rubbed  a  hand  over  his  mouth  and  made  an  obvious
  effort to get hold of himself. "How ... Tell me ... how do we proceed?"
  
  No fragging guano.
  The runners had called him Cannibal.
  With her head lowered and hair hanging around  her  face,  Farrah  watched  the  runner  watching  her,
  trying to look as if she were doing anything but paying him any attention.
  He made her nervous.
  According to what she'd overheard, the runners had brought this Cannibal in specifically to stay with
  her, to serve both as guard and jailer. The ork runner had referred to Cannibal as a "hired gun." He looked
  like  that.  Like  the  kind  of  person  who  would  do  whatever  someone  asked,  as  long  as  the  pay  was
  satisfactory.  Red  and  black  slash-tats  made  his  face  a  vicious  mask.  His  teeth  were  filed  to  points  and
  colored jet-black. He wore some unusual dark metallic armor on his upper body, and a small grayish skull
  dangled from his left ear. He carried a compact rifle-possibly a submachine gun-a pair of pistols, a  rather
  short-looking sword, and numerous knives.
  Farrah wished the runners had trusted her enough to leave her by herself. She would rather they'd left
  her here in handcuffs and manacles than leave her unfettered with this scuzpunk for a guard.
  Cannibal  leaned  against  the  wall  opposite  and  watched  her.  Some  unknown  quanta  of  time  slipped
  past. Cannibal pushed away from the wall and turned and walked slowly out of the warehouse lounge. His
  footsteps moved up the hall. The door to that space beyond, the  loading  area,  squealed  and  then  banged.
  Silence descended, but lingered only moments.
  Too  soon,  the  door  squealed  and  banged  again  and  Cannibal  returned.  He  leaned  against  the  wall
  again, facing her, cradb'ng that rifle in his arms. He grinned.
  "Do I make you nervous?"
  How  to  reply  to  the  sociopathic  personality?  Farrah  tried  to  decide.  She  could  not  expect  him  to
  observe any of the ordinary social conventions. Almost any response at all would only encourage him. An
  outright challenge, looks or words of defiance, might well incite him to violence. Better, it seemed, for her to
  do nothing, say  nothing,  make  no  response  whatsoever.  Better  to  appear  completely  cowed,  in  hopes  of
  providing little or no provocation.,
  "I could do you in a second," he said. "I could do you in a way we'd both enjoy. One time I did this biff
  in bed.
  First we bopped, then I took her heart out. I could do you like that. One minute, you're in heaven. The
  next..."
  Farrah suppressed the tremor that rose up through her insides. If he came near her... if left no choice
  but to try to save herself, she would have one chance and one chance only.
  If would be do or die.
  37
  No alarms, no shouts ...
  So far so good.
  Rico watched Surikov pull on the hi-visibility orange jumpsuit with built-in plastic shoes Intended to ID
  him as  a  noncombatant,  then  helped  him  get  into  a  commando-style  harness.  Surikov  moved  slow  and
  fumbled a lot, like he was still feeling whatever he'd been drinking, and like he'd drunk too much.
  Rico  hustled  him  out  to  the  living  room,  the  slag  stumbling  and  tripping  in  the  dark.  Rico  kept  him
  upright and forced him ahead, then keyed his headset. "Time check."
  Piper replied, "Time is oh-two forty-eight hours."
  Maybe another minute went by. Rico kept his eyes moving, glancing toward  Shank  and  the  entry  to
  the condo. He kept expecting to hear shouts, shots, detonations, a Fuchi security team blasting into the place
  and spraying the room with autofire. What he got instead was the mumping of a helo. As the sound drew
  near, a blackish blur shot through the  hole  in  the  exterior  window  panels,  smashed  across  the  top  of  the
  wetbar, shattering bottles and glasses, then thudded against a wall.
  The blur was a stickihook, a macroplast weight with an adhesive skin and a loop connected to a rope.
  Shank  rapidly  freed  the  rope  from  the  hook  and  brought  it  over.  The  rope  had  three  ends,  each  with  a
  mountaineer's heavy metal  clasp.  Rico  snapped  one  clasp  onto  Surikov's  harness  and  one  onto  his  own.
  Shank took the third.
  Surikov seemed to wake up then. He pointed toward the hole in the window panels, saying adamantly,
  "We are not going out through mat-"
  Right.
  Rico put a medjector to Surikov's right arm and fired.
  
  The slag blinked and jerked his arm away, then got woozy-looking, like he might slump to the floor.
  "Time check."
  "Time is oh-two fifty hours."
  Shank  helped  get  Surikov  over  to  the  hole  in  the  window  panels.  The  rope  connected  to  their
  harnesses grew taut.
  One quick look and they went together through the hole.
  The roof of the foundry gave easy access to a window on the warehouse's fourth floor. Claude Jaeger
  waited several moments, watching. The window, easily visible from the street below, slowly settled into  a
  gummy,  glutinous  mass  oozing  over  the  window  sill  like  mucus.  The  mage  got  that  much  right,  at  least
  Claude hopped through the empty frame, landed lightly on his feet and sank into a crouch. This floor of the
  warehouse smelled  of  resin  and  paint.  Piles  of  antique  furniture,  some  apparently  made  of  actual  wood,
  divided the space into long, narrow aisles. Claude found his way to the stairs. Two flights down, he paused
  before a metal fire door and listened.
  Footsteps approached, softly echoing-the calm, measured footsteps of a sentry, one wholly unaware of
  any  intrusions  onto  his  turf.  Claude  drew  back  and  flattened  himself  against  the  wall  to  the  left  of  the
  doorway. In a moment, the door banged and swung inward, right past Claude's nose. The sentry followed
  through. In that instant, Claude saw the sentry's face from only a few steps away. The man's eyes gazed
  straight ahead, into the greater darkness of the stairwell.
  Claude's fist shot forward and back, and the sentry collapsed. The satisfying feel of snapping bone and
  crunching cartilage lingered. Claude smiled, then dragged the sentry's body fully into the stairwell.
  One down, one to go.
  When the rest of the runners returned to this hideyhole, they would find only death. By then,  Claude
  would be waiting in ambush.
  He moved cautiously through the doorway and into a large space, the truck-loading bay located at the
  front of the building. He stood on a loading dock at the rear of that bay. The extra-large door to a freight
  elevator stood immediately to his left. Beyond that an ordinary-sized door. This led into a narrow hall, past
  an office, a lavatory, then into a smallish room outfitted like a ramshackle tongue.
  The  woman  there,  seated  on  a  cushioned  bench,  looked  like  she  belonged  with  the  slitches  in  the
  holopics  on  the  walls  around  her.  enormous  hair,  jutting  breasts,  a  face  both  sublime  and  whorish.  As
  Claude entered, she lifted her head and drew back fearfully, eyes wide and round.
  She gasped and blurted, "Who are you?"
  Claude smiled and continued toward her. "Your friends sent me to get you out of here."
  "What?" She looked at him as if astonished.
  But when he reached for her, astonishment turned to animal fear. She jerked aside and began rising to
  her feet. Claude seized her elbow and flung her down onto the  bench.  Her  head  tilted  back  and  her  jaw
  dropped open and something like a blackish length of  spaghetti  or  string  shot  out  from  under  her  tongue.
  .Claude  felt  the  tap  against  his  chest  and  saw  the  string  whip  back  into  the  woman's  mouth,  vanishing
  before he could really grasp what was happening.
  Cybersnake.  Narcoject  delivery  system.  The  burning  spike  of  pain  that  suddenly  pierced  his  chest
  suggested hypercyanide, but then he felt his heart hammering like it would burst and realized his eyes had
  gone out of focus.
  What was it? Atropine? Working this quickly? He felt his legs give way and  suddenly  found  himself
  lying on the floor on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling.
  How had that happened? What was going on? Why was he so hot, burning up? He couldn't breathe. It
  felt like he had a metal strap ringing his neck and another around his chest, crushing him. He tried to force
  air into his lungs, but the pain was overwhelming.
  Angels. He heard angels singing ...
  Surikov was wide-eyed and looking around as the towers swung  by,  but  then  the  winch  above  their
  heads pulled them up beside the door in the  helo's  flank.  Dok  reached  out,  and  in  another  moment  Rico,
  Shank, and Surikov were all inside.
  Dok hooked a safety line onto Surikov. Rico popped the line off his own harness and moved forward
  to the copilot's seat. The helo banked and picked up speed, vectoring down a long chasm of steel and crete
  towers.
  "Three birds!" Thorvin shouted. "Coming in on freaking intercept!"
  Rico shouted back. "Port Authority cops?"
  
  The  Port  Authority  had  jurisdiction  over  Manhattan  air  space  and  regularly  put  patrols  in  the  air.
  Thorvin shook his head. "I don't think so!"
  Who the hell could it be? Rico wondered. Piper'd had the Crystal Blossom tower locked down  solid.
  They'd been in and out in just minutes. Who could even know they'd been there, much less have helos in the
  air and coming down on them this fast? "Can ya lose 'em?"
  "Do I HAVE A FREAKING CHOICE!"
  "Master," the voice whispered.
  Bandit closed his eyes to the tilting, vibrating world of the helicopter's interior and looked to the astral
  plane. The raccoon-like form of the watcher crouched before him.
  "You must come," it said.
  Bandit considered that.
  Very risky.
  Claude Jaeger dead? Killed by a woman? There was no doubting the witness of his astral senses, yet
  Maurice  struggled  with  the  concept,  astounded.  The  physical  adept  had  often  seemed  sufficiently
  formidable to be virtually indestructible. He should have known, Maurice thought  Time  disproved  all  such
  lies.
  Now he would have to finish the job himself.
  Disgruntled,  he  left  his  biffs  in  the  Mercedes  and  crossed  the  street  to  the  narrow  front  of  the
  warehouse. The smaller of the two doors clicked and opened at a word. He stepped into the long, narrow,
  rectangular space of a loading area, then mounted the loading dock  at  the  rear  and  continued  on  through
  another  door,  down  the  hall  and  into  what  looked  like  a  lounge.  The  woman  was  there,  huddled  on  a
  cushioned bench and quietly sobbing, her face and head completely hidden under a disheveled mass of shiny
  whitish-blonde hair. Jaeger lay dead on the floor, on his back, a look of inexpressible bliss monopolizing his
  features.
  "Master," said Vera Causa, his ally, murmuring into his ear. "Beware ..."
  Maurice shifted to his astral perceptions in time to see the radiant figure emerging from the wall at the
  back of the lounge.
  The shaman ...
  The slags in the pursuing helos were pros. Thorvin's evasive maneuvers didn't throw them. Neither did
  the halfer's E.C.W. They came in high and low, and Rico had no  choice  but  to  point  Thorvin  toward  the
  Hudson River. They'd have to sprint for the Jersey Side, hoping Thorvin could find the speed to  get  them
  dear of their pursuit.
  As they passed out over the dark expanse of water, the first slugs clattered against the helo's hull. One
  penetrated the airframe to gouge  Shank  in  the  upper  right  thigh,  another  fractured  the  window  at  Rico's
  side, spitting a jagged sliver of transparex across his cheek. The wound wasn't deep and the blood loss was
  minimal, but it didn't improve his mood any.
  He looked to the rear and saw Bandit sitting cross-legged, unmoving, eyes closed, flute lying across his
  lap.
  No help coming from that quarter.
  They're GAINING!" Thorvin shouted.
  "Push it!"
  "I'm freaking pushing, ALL RIGHT?"
  Bandit paused at the rear of the lounge. He had seen the corpse in the stairwell and now he saw the
  body  on  the  floor  here  in  this  room.  Things  were  happening.  It  seemed  that  Rico's  concern  for  Farrah
  Moffit's safety had been more than justified. Bandit  only  wondered  how  two  men  had  come  to  be  dead,
  while Moffit still lived.
  A tall, thin man stood at the head of the lounge, just in front of the door to the hallway. His aura now
  grew radiant, revealing truths. The man was a magician, and he was using his astral senses. That meant he
  was probably looking at Bandit, seeing him. That didn't bother Bandit much. What bothered him was what
  he saw standing beside the man.
  The  spirit  had  a  female  form.  It  looked  from  Bandit  to  the  other  magician  and  back  again  several
  times. Was this a conjured spirit or an ally? Either way, it boded no good.
  Two against one.
  
  Bad odds.
  Bandit felt inclined toward just leaving. The equivalent of one step back and he would be on the other
  side of a physical wall and all but immune to spellcasting. There was a problem with  that,  though.  Farrah
  Moffit was important. Rico had made a point of impressing that on everyone. If Bandit simply stepped out,
  she would be at the mercy of this magician.
  "I regret this," the magician said. "Have you any last words?"
  Bandit nodded. "Goodfellow."
  The spirit so named emerged from the wall at the rear  of  the  lounge  and  paused  at  Bandit's  left.  It
  took the form of a human, but slim, short, and bearded, and wearing peculiar clothing with ruffles and lacy
  trim. It looked at Bandit for  a  moment,  then  across  the  astral  terrain  to  the  other  magician,  then,  with  a
  flourish, bowed, extending one arm with the hand palm up.
  The floor rumbled and quaked and split open. The magician opposite shouted and fell through the hole,
  down and out of sight.
  Goodfellow bowed again and vanished.
  The other magician's spirit leaned over to gaze into the hole, then looked at Bandit and  smiled.  "You
  should go away," it said, "before my master wakes up."
  Bandit could see the wisdom in that.
  Manifesting on the physical plane, he moved over to face Farrah Moffit. She sat on a cushioned bench
  with her back pressed to the wall and her legs drawn up before her body. Her eyes were wide and round
  and she held one hand thrust back against her mouth. She looked terrified. She went on staring at the hole
  in the floor till Bandit moved directly into her line of sight, then her eyes widened further as her gaze met
  his.
  "Come with me if you want to live."
  Moffit gasped, then slowly nodded her head.
  The LZ became a killing zone.
  They had no choice but to put down. It was that or wait to get shot out of the air. The pursuing helos
  didn't  hesitate  to  fire  even  as  they  passed  over  heavily  populated  sections  of  the  Newark  metroplex.
  Populated, sure, but by who? Nobody that mattered.
  Thorvin's  hideaway  for  the  helo  was  in  the  ruins  of  Sector  13,  an  old  abandoned  airport  near  the
  wastes of some long-forgotten cemetery. Chain-link fencing topped by coils of razor-wire surrounded  one
  of the smaller hangars. Thorvin put the helo down inside the fencing, and the other helos closed in.
  Bullets hammered against the airframe. Thorvin turned the helo parallel to the front of the  hangar  to
  provide cover. One of the hangar doors slid open and Thorvin's van came rolling out, guided by remote. The
  weapons  pod  on  top  opened  up  and  began  blazing.  By  then,  Rico  could  see  that  the  other  helos  were
  dropping uniformed troops to the ground.
  Bandit was still in a trance. Shank grabbed him up and Rico grabbed Surikov and they broke for  the
  van.
  It was a straight run-from the side of the helo to the side of the van-no more than about five meters.
  The troops moving in cut loose with a storm of autofire.
  Abruptly, Dok veered left and out beyond the front end of the helo, shouting and blazing away with his
  Ingram. It was a suicide move. The instant he saw it happening, Rico  thrust  Surikov  toward  the  van  and
  lunged across the ferrocrete. But not even his enhanced reaction time and speed could get him going fast
  enough.  His  ears  were  full  of  the  stammering  of  autofire  weapons  and  Dok's  shouts  of  vengeance  and
  wrath, and none of it mattered. None of it made any difference.
  Dok rammed a fresh clip from his belt into the Ingram, then his head snapped back and he plunged to
  the ground. Rico didn't hesitate.
  As he moved beyond the front of the helo, slugs pounded into his chest. The impacts stole his breath.
  He staggered and fell to one knee. It didn't feel  like  the  bullets  had  penetrated  his  armored  jacket,  but  it
  hurt.  Mother  of  God,  how  it  hurt.  He  forced  himself  forward,  grabbed  Dok  beneath  the  shoulders  and
  started  dragging  him  back  toward-the  van.  More  slugs  slammed  into  his  chest  and  shoulders,  Another
  moment and he'd probably be dead, laid out as limp as Dok, but then Shank was there, grabbing Dok around
  the chest, lifting him off the ground and shoving Rico toward the van.
  They  had  only  one  chance  left.  They  had  to  dive  like  devil  rats  into  the  transitways  before
  armor-piercing slugs or a wire-guided missile took them out They had to go where the helos couldn't reach
  them. It was up to Thorvin now.
  And it didn't get any closer than this.
  
  Farrah  Moffit  huddled  in  the  corner  formed  by  the  rear  of  the  dumpster  and  the  wall  of  the  alley.
  Bandit  hovered,  sitting  cross-legged,  just  far  enough  above  the  ground  to  see  over  the  dumpster  to  the
  street. Hours had passed and that was bad. If he didn't get back to his body soon ...
  Moffit broke down again. She had a strange way of crying, like a series of violent coughs, one rolling
  swiftly into the next. The upset seemed genuine. Her first episode had started when he asked her what had
  happened to the slag called Cannibal and to the other man, the one lying dead in the lounge with Moffit. She
  seemed deeply disturbed. Perhaps she had led a sheltered life in her corporate towers, insulated  from  the
  realities of the plex. At least she didn't make too much noise.
  Some more time passed, then a rumbling arose, then Thorvin's van pulled into the end of the alley.
  Rico got out and looked around.
  "They're here," Bandit said.
  Farrah Moffit rose and went to the van and all but fell sobbing into Surikov's arms.
  Bandit rejoined his waiting body.
  Dok looked dead.
  38
  It didn't end till they did the final check on Surikov.
  The slag had a snitch, a microtransmitter implanted at the back of his neck, just like the other Surikov,
  Michael Travis, who they'd busted outta Maas Intertech. Farrah Moffit had told them to expect that. All the
  senior research staff at Fuchi had them, she said. She herself didn't rate high enough for that.
  Getting the snitch out took some work.  Rico  had  some  experience  with  emergency  med,  but  Shank
  had more so he did the job. Dok's equipment did most of the actual cutting. By the time Shank was finished,
  Surikov was pale and faint, but Dok's gear indicated that he'd get over it.
  They lost their pursuers. They picked up Farrah Moffit, and Bandit  too.  A  second  Bandit.  A  Bandit
  that looked like a ghost. A Bandit  that  hovered,  floated  over  the  ground,  and  finally  disappeared  into  the
  body of the Bandit that had been with them from the beginning. It was eerie and would have been freaky
  only Rico had seen things like this before.
  Astral projection, it was called.
  They headed for the bolthole in Rahway, Sector 13. It seemed called for. They were shot to piss, the
  rain had come and gone, and they all needed some sleep.
  One last piece of work: they called Osborne to set up the exchange of Surikov and Moffit for nuyen.
  The meet was set for that night.
  When Rico finally lay down, it was almost noon. He seemed to fall asleep in just moments. Piper shed
  her clothes in the dark, then carefully lay down beside him, shifting in  against  his  side,  lowering  her  head
  lightly to his shoulder.  She  lay  there  with  him  throughout  the  afternoon,  moving  little,  resolved  to  let  him
  sleep.
  She could not, would not allow herself to sleep. These final few  hours  before  their  meet  with  Maas
  Intertech might be their last time together, intimately, as man and woman. She tried to savor every moment,
  tie  feel  of  his  body,  his  musky  aroma,  his  warmth,  the  soft  sound  of  his  breath.  She  called  to  mind
  everything she had ever admired about him. She struggled against the tears that welled time and again into
  her eyes. She prayed silently to the kami for deliverance, but had no real doubt about how the night would
  end.
  Life provided few pleasures, and scant love. Too soon it was all over. She struggled against regret and
  bitter sorrow.
  She had known all along how it would end, this run, everything. Fate would not be denied. The corps
  had  all  the  power.  Maas  Intertech,  through  its  parent  organization  Kuze  Nihon,  had  virtually  unlimited
  resources. The complete operational forces  of  Daisaka  Security  might  be  waiting  for  them  tonight  when
  they arrived at the meet. What chance did they have against such an army?  They  would  be  crushed  like
  worms beneath the feet of giants. She only wished she'd met Rico sooner, that she'd spent more time at his
  side. He was the only man she had ever really loved. There would be no life without him.
  One thought brought a fleeting token of contentment If she died tonight, she would die not for Ansell
  Surikov or Farrah Moffit She would die not to further the battle against the oppressive megacorps, and not
  to save the planet Rattier, she would die for jefe, for her lover. She would die defending all mat he believed
  in and all he considered good. She would die for him, and for him alone.
  Nothing else seemed to have any meaning now.
  
  The  argument  started  as  dusk  descended  into  darkness.  Shank  looked  at  Thorvin,  and  Thorvin
  shrugged.
  "I don't believe it either," Thorvin said.
  It began with Piper declaring, loudly, somewhere down the hall from  the  main  room,  that  she  would
  accompany the rest of the team to the meet with Maas Intertech. She could do nothing in the matrix. At the
  meet, she could at least cany a gun. Rico told he, curtly she wasn't going. She protested. He cursed. They
  both started to shout. It was the first time Shank had ever heard Piper yell.
  By nine p.m., they were standing in a room with plastic flowers, perfumed air, and quiet music at the
  Chapel of the Eternal Light in Sector 7. For five hundred nuyen, they got the same deal for Dok that they
  had gotten for Filly. Only this  time,  when  the  pre-recorded  trideo  service  ended,  nobody  had  anything  to
  say. Dok had said it all himself when he ran like a wild man out onto the tarmac, shooting his SMG. It was
  about Filly and revenge and doing what you had to do, damn the consequences. Damn even death.
  After the service, a slag in a neat black suit came with an urn full of ashes. Rico thrust a fistful of the
  ashes into Surikov's pants pockets.
  "Don't ever forget," he said. "What you're getting didn't come free."
  Surikov paled, and said, "No. No, indeed."
  The meet came down in Sector 9 amid the gang-ravaged projects of Owens Park. The street was just
  one block long. Piles of building debris, the empty shells of gutted autos, and every kind of junk and garbage
  lined  the  street.  Plastic  sheeting  and  thin  macroplast  panels  covered  the  windows  of  the  buildings,  all
  abandoned but for squatters and derelicts.
  Heavy clouds lingered overhead, backlit by the moon and reflecting a strange, almost unearthly light.
  Nobody seemed to be around.
  At just past midnight, a pair of white, short-frame Toyota limos turned the corner and came slowly up
  the block. They stopped across from the van, near the  opposite  curb.  Rico  waited  and  watched.  Thorvin
  had a drone in the air, keeping everything under surveillance. Bandit was in a trance, watching astrally. No
  warnings from either of them. Maybe Osborne was straight.
  Maybe things would work out.
  The rear door of the lead limo swung open. The slag who stepped out was nothing like the punk-like
  clown Osbome had brought to the first meet. This one was  a  real  cutter,  cool  and  corporate,  easy  in  his
  movements, watchful and wary without showing more than he had to.
  Shank stepped out of the van, showing his iron. Rico followed, then moved out as far as the middle of
  the street. Osborne met him there. Thunder rumbled in the distance,  and  the  air  felt  unusually  warm  and
  humid. "Sticks?" Rico said.
  Osborne handed him a synthleather wallet containing seven certified credsticks, which checked out on
  the reader on Rico's belt Rico handed the wallet back, then keyed his headset.
  The side door on the van slid open, giving Osborne a plain view of Surikov and Moffit. Piper  was  in
  the van with them. Rico hoped she had the sense to stay clear, stay under cover. She knew how meets like
  this worked, but he feared she wouldn't do what  she  should.  "My  tech's  in  the  other  car,"  Osborne  said.
  Rico nodded.
  Osborne waved, and a slag in a dark blue suit came forward. After Dok's diagnostic analyzer declared
  the tech's DNA and retina scanner safe, Rico nodded toward the van. The tech went over to scan Surikov.
  Rico kept his eyes on Osborne and the cutter, but neither looked suspicious or like they had anything more
  on their minds than the careful biz of "buying product," or "recruitment."
  The clouds overhead seemed to be coming lower. A few curling tendrils of fog drifted along the street.
  No warnings from Thorvin or Bandit, though.
  The tech returned from the van. Nodded.
  Osborne motioned him back to the second limo, then looked at Rico and said, "Anytime you're ready."
  "You're satisfied the product's real."
  "As real as it gets."
  Rico keyed his headset. As Surikov and Moffit came walking out to the middle of the street, Osborne
  handed over the credsticks. "Thank you," Moffit said, looking at Rico.
  She even made it sound sincere.
  Rico backed away, then turned quickly and climbed into the van. Shank followed and slammed the side
  door.
  The van rumbled and rolled ahead, accelerating quickly.
  
  Surikov and Moffit and the pair of white limos disappeared into the gathering fog.
  Then, the van rounded a corner, and Bandit said, "Trouble."
  There  was  no  distinguishing  fog  from  clouds.  The  van  slid  into  a  sea  of  whirling,  billowing  white.
  Thorvin shouted curses.
  Abruptly, something came straight at them. Rico had just enough time to see it was a helo flying right
  on the  deck,  barely  two  meters  above  the  pavement.  It  seemed  almost  near  enough  to  touch.  The  only
  detail he noticed was the black annis logo on the forward slope of the helo's nose.
  Something exploded. Maybe a rocket. Rico saw fire. The world roared and crashed and tumbled and
  when it finally came to a halt, he could barely see anything for all the smoke.  Blood  was  running  into  his
  mouth, he felt a tightness in his left side, and if he breathed too deeply it hurt like hell. The van seemed to be
  lying on its roof, windows cracked and smashed. Rico struggled to stand, but something hanging above him
  kept  getting  in  his  way,  and  then  he  realized  Piper  was  right  beside  him,  gasping,  grunting  with  pain,
  suddenly coughing.
  He found her shoulders. Her grunts rose into shrill cries as he pulled her up. Smoke filled his eyes. It
  was turning from gray to black. Where the hell was the door? any door ...
  Something crashed. Shank shouted. They stumbled out onto the street. Smoke mixed with fog. Burning
  debris littered the roadway for as far around as Rico would see.
  The shooting started, a full company's worth of weapons blasting away on autofire.
  "WHERE'S THORVIN?" Shank hollered.
  The ground roared at their backs with the fury of another explosion. The shock wave all but knocked
  Rico off his feet. Rico staggered and caught himself, but Piper stumbled and fell to her knees. Rico tugged
  her back up, but she wouldn't stand, wouldn't stay on her feet. That was when he saw the bloody mass of
  hair at the side of her head and the dark stains on the back of her jacket.
  "She's FINISHED!" Shank bellowed.
  Shank yanked Rico forward, and Piper slipped out of  his  hands,  falling  like  a  sack,  a  sack  of  meat.
  Rico tried to stop, but Shank kept pulling him and then half a dozen rounds slammed into his shoulders and
  back and he nearly passed out.
  This was it, he realized. The end. There was no cover anywhere. It seemed like a thousand machine
  guns were stammering from all around. He tried to pull the Predator 2 from the holster on his  hip,  but  he
  couldn't get a firm enough grip to tug the weapon free.
  He  stumbled  over  chunks  of  debris,  piles  of  trash,  with  Shank  shoving  him  forward  and  shouting,
  "Keep MOVING!"
  When  finally  Rico  stopped  and  looked  around,  he  stood  in  an  alley  and  Shank  wasn't  around.  The
  alleyway was deserted. He staggered forward a few steps, then turned and started back. All he could think
  of was leaving Piper sprawled like a bag of meat on some street in no-man's land without anyone to mourn
  her passing.
  What the frag ...
  What the frag was wrong with him?
  His legs gave out. He hit the ground hard. He felt so tired, so weak. He couldn't keep his eyes open.
  He laid his head against the cool, gritty concrete and exhaled deeply.
  Fade to black.
  39
  Minx hesitated and looked away, a faint smile curving the comer of her lips. When she did that, Monk
  now knew, she was listening to radio calls or maybe getting a telecom call over  her  implanted  headware.
  She had once been a sort of messenger. Now, she mostly took calls from friends.
  The change didn't affect that, the implants. After the change you couldn't get stuff like that put in, for
  various reasons that Minx hadn't yet explained, but anything you had before the change  went on working
  just like before.
  Which was good, Monk thought.
  Now, Minx looked at him and smiled.
  "It's time," she said.
  "Uh-huh."
  They  ran-ran  and  ran-down  stairs,  down  a  long  tunnel,  more  stairs,  through  a  door,  then  onto  the
  elevated walkway beside the lanes of a transitway. They had to  run  because  they  had  what  Minx  called
  "only a small window of opportunity." That meant they had to be fast. They had to be "on time."
  The red-hued darkness didn't slow them down. Monk could see just fine. Better than in full daylight, in
  
  fact.
  A  huge  stepvan  with  flaring  strobes  and  flashing  lights  came  screaming  around  the  comer  of  the
  transitway and screeched to a halt right in front of them. The passenger door banged open. Minx tugged on
  Monk's hand and they scrambled inside.
  The truck roared and raced ahead. The slag at the wheel in the Omni Police Services uniform looked
  at them and grinned. His eyes glared a fiery red. He laughed. Minx covered her mouth  and  swayed  with
  silent laughter. Monk couldn't resist a grin, though he wasn't exactly sure just what he was grinning about.
  Minx  had  this  sort  of  private  joke  between  her  and  her  friends  that  wasn't  entirely  clear.  Monk
  guessed  it  had  something  to  do  with  what  they  were,  or  what  they  had  become,  or  the  change,  or
  something, but he hadn't quite figured it out.
  Minx didn't seem to mind.
  "You're so booty," she told him. "You'll scan it. Just give it time."
  The stepvan roared out onto some ground-level street, and everything got hazy and  foggy.  The  haze
  and denser patches of fog all looked kind of reddish. Everything did.
  Abruptly,  they  came  to  a  halt  in  what  looked  like  the  middle  of  a  war  zone.  Police  cruisers
  everywhere, flashing strobes, slags in uniforms, slags with guns. Minx grabbed Monk's hand and pulled him
  from  the  stepvan.  There  was  a  body  on  the  pavement  just  a  few  meters  away.  The  body  of  an  Asian
  woman.
  Minx smiled and nodded, urging him with her eyes, her whole expression, to go ahead.
  Monk knelt down. The Asian woman might have looked dead, just at a glance, 'cause there was a lot
  of blood, but she wasn't really dead, not quite yet. The subtle radiance of the living lingered about her body.
  It was hard to see, and Monk had only just recently begun to notice this kind of thing, but now that he knew
  what to look for, now that Minx had pointed it out, he could see it and see it clearly, as long as he took  a
  moment to look.
  He leaned down and put his mouth over the woman's mouth, then slowly inhaled. He kept inhaling till
  he felt a tingling suffuse his whole body. With that tingling came a pleasure even better than sex, at least in
  his  limited  experience.  It  was  more  than  just  physical  pleasure.  It  made  him  feel  full,  strong,  powerful,
  almost indomitable. If he let his imagination run wild, a danger Minx had warned him about, he could almost
  see himself possessing such great power that almost anything ...
  Minx squeezed his shoulder, and bent to kiss him. They exchanged breaths, exhaling into each other's
  mouths, then inhaling that sweet, sweet breath.
  "Now it's my turn," she said softly, smiling.
  Monk nodded. "Sure."
  There were other bodies waiting.
  * * *
  They were at Chimpira when the call came in L. Kahn took it via the telecom at his booth.  Ravage,
  sitting beside him, heard the entire exchange. An informant reported that the runners who had been hired to
  bust Ansell Surikov out of Maas Intertech had just been ambushed up in Sector 9. Police were at the scene,
  but the informant believed the runners to be dead.
  L. Kahn broke the connection, sat still for a moment, then softly cursed. "I hired backup in depth and
  what happens? Daisaka Security gets them with a gunship. There's no justice. No justice at all."
  Ravage agreed, and reached over and picked up L. Kahn's drink, drew it to her mouth and had a sip.
  L. Kahn frowned and looked at her. It was his unhappy frown. Intolerant
  "I've had enough problems lately," he said. "Don't test my patience."
  "I get these impulses," Ravage replied.
  "You'll have to learn-"
  If  he  had  more  to  say,  he  didn't  get  it  out.  Ravage  splashed  the  drink  into  his  face.  As  he  began
  reacting  to  that,  she  slashed  her  hand  across  his  throat.  The  razors  protruding  from  under  her
  synthimplanted nails tore through flesh like a knife through air. No significant resistance.
  As  the  first  blood  came  pumping,  pulsing,  spraying  out  through  the  wounds,  she  reversed  direction,
  making a fist and slamming  it  back  into  L.  Kahn's  face,  shattering  bone  and  gristle  and  driving  his  head
  against the back of the booth. The man bled, banged backward, and slumped in little more than an instant.
  Then  Ravage  hopped  up  and  away,  before  any  of  the  blood  and  gore  could  stain  her  clinging
  silver-hued bodysuit.
  The pair of orks L. Kahn had hired as extra guards turned to look, then just looked at her and waited.
  These particular orks had no illusions about  their  place  in  the  Newark  underworld.  They  understood  that
  when orders came from above, the good soldier simply nodded and obeyed. In this case, they had accepted
  
  nuyen from her, from her new employer, before nodding and pledging obedience. With a quick gesture she
  indicated that they should take charge of the body.
  "Toss it in the Ditch."
  Sanitation would cart it away.
  On her way out of the club, Ravage stopped at a telecom and  dialed  the  number  her  new  boss  had
  given her. The boss' helper answered, a dark-skinned elf. He looked a question at her.
  "It's done," she told him.
  "Muy bien," the elf replied.
  That finished her biz for the night.
  The sunlight seeping through the dark, grime-smeared window swelled  and  faded  away.  Days  were
  passing, but Rico hardly noticed. He lay on a bare mattress on the floor of a squalid room in an abandoned
  building.  He  had  a  bottle  by  his  side  and  some  food.  He  had  bandages  wrapped  around  his  chest  and
  covering  more  cuts  and  gouges  than  he  had  interest  in  counting.  Some  fleeting  instinct  for  survival  had
  compelled him to find a street doc and go to the safest refuge he knew.
  When he finally woke up in that alley, he'd gone back for Piper, but by then the streets were deserted,
  the bodies gone. Even the wreck of the van had been removed. It took the heart out of him. Maybe it had
  cost him his soul.
  Little things came to mind now, how. Piper used to smile or laugh, the way she  cast  her  eyes  down
  when something embarrassed her. For all the razor-edged  skill  she'd  had  as  a  decker,  she  had  been  and
  would always be in his memory a reticent Japanese, a soft-spoken, loving, and loyal woman, more beautiful
  than any he had ever known. It occurred to him that this crumbling building wasn't far from where they had
  first met. This very apartment was where they had first made love. The place hadn't  been  such  a  wreck
  those few years ago. It had been tired and worn, but safe. Quiet.
  How  many  months  had  they  lived  here?  He  couldn't  remember.  He'd  been  surprised  to  find  the
  building still standing.
  It was all he had left. He hadn't  been  smart  enough  to  save  anyone.  He'd  let  them  be  used  by  the
  megacorps.  Sure,  they  got  Farrah  Moffit  together  with  the  real  Surikov-and  had  turned  the  pair  over  to
  Maas Intertech, but so what?
  What did that matter now?
  In the night he smashed the bottle and brought the jagged end to his neck, and held it there a couple of
  minutes. He felt the jagged knife-edge of glass grazing his skin, but he knew that this was futile. He didn't
  have the strength to do it. He didn't care enough to end it. He lowered his arm and let the broken bottle roll
  away. It was over. He was already dead. He would just lie here till the final fragments faded into the night.
  Hours passed. He became aware  of some soft sounds, faraway creaks and  squeaks.  He  thought  of
  rats and devil rats and the other creatures that inhabited the darker corners of the plex, and then the door to
  the room slowly swung inward.
  A pair of dark figures appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the deeper black of the hall. One looked
  small and seemed curved like a female. The other one had the heavy build of a big male, big enough even
  for an ork. "I knew I would find you here."
  What the frag ... The voice  was  Piper's.  Slowly,  Rico  sat  up,  shifting  his  Jikku  eyes  to  low-light  to
  better  scan  the  doorway.  To  his  astonishment,  he  saw  Piper  standing  there,  and  Shank.  They  looked
  battered  and  bloody,  but  they  were  standing  there  alive.  Rico  struggled  to  speak  He  couldn't  manage
  anything coherent He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
  "One short sleep past and we recycle endlessly, jefe,"  Piper said softly. "And I'm going to prove it to
  you, my love, but first you must let me kiss you."
  She shifted closer, smiling warmly.
  Her eyes glowed a fiery red.
  40
  The chopper settled lightly onto the aeropad atop Fuchi Tower Five. By then, Gordon Ito was up, out
  of his seat and waiting at the front of the passenger compartment. His deputy director, executive aid, and
  exec sec all scurried to shut down notebook  comps  and  close  briefcases.  His  personal  bodyguard  simply
  rose and moved to stand beside him.
  The moment the hatch was open, the steps lowered, Gordon strode down to the aeropad and across to
  the  rooftop  lounge.  He  moved  briskly,  but  did  not  rush.  He  had  something  he  wanted  to  attend  to
  immediately, but that did not call for haste. Nothing could, in Gordon's view. Haste made waste, and in his
  
  position, hasty decisions and actions most often promised to result in disaster.
  The elevator delivered him twenty stories down to his office suite. Moments later, he stepped into his
  private office. The tea lady delivered tea. Gordon lit a Platinum Select cigarette, then took up  his  tea  and
  spent three minutes staring out the wall of windows behind his desk, considering how to proceed.
  The decision made, he returned to his desk and brought up the telecom. In another moment the Fuchi
  logo, veiled by a black triangle, filled the screen. "Mr. Ito."
  "Mr. Xiao."
  "Konichiwa."
  "Konichiwa."
  "What brings you to my screen this evening, Gordon?"
  "I've  just  had  some  intelligence  handed  to  me.  I  thought  you  might  find  it  interesting.  I'm  told  that
  Ansell Surikov and Marena Farris have been recruited by Maas Intertech."
  "Yes, I'm aware of that, Gordon."
  "Were you planning to do anything about it?"
  "I think not."
  Gordon forced himself to pause a moment. Xiao's reaction was too complacent even for a man  who
  demonstrated practically no emotion. Something had to be up. "You took the lead on this. You specifically
  ordered me to lay off Farris and Surikov. Now they're both with Intertech. That's going  to  improve  Kuze
  Nihon's position in at least one or two key technological areas. And you don't want to do anything about it?"
  "It is not necessary, Gordon."
  "I'll remind you that Surikov is a leading light in bio-technical research."
  "Maas Intertech does not have Surikov."
  Gordon sat back in his chair, took a drag on his cigarette, and considered. His intelligence couldn't be
  wrong, it came straight from the source. That meant Xiao had to be wrong, or lying-or did it? "Then who do
  they have?"
  "They are back to square one, Gordon."
  Gordon hesitated an instant, then said, "You sonov-abitch."
  "Yes,"  Xiao  replied.  "I  fear  I've  done  it  to  them  again."  Xiao  had  set  them  up-Maas  Intertech,
  everyone. Gordon included. "How did you do it? Obviously, you fabricated another impostor. But you didn't
  do it the way I did it. You'd never use someone else's trick."
  Two moments of silence, then the display screen blanked, the connection broken.
  Bastard.
  Epilogue
  Raccoon was clever.
  His  paws  were  cunning  hands.  He  could  break  open  any  trap  and  escape  any  danger,  whether  in
  forest  or  city,  mountain  or  subterranean  tunnel.'But  that  did  not  make  him  perfect,  not  hardly.  Or
  untouchable. Or fearless. Or certain of his own motives. Not as far as Bandit could see.
  He had managed to avoid injury when the van turned over. He had managed to  avoid  being  shot  by
  any of the dozens of guns which had raked the street with bullets. He hadn't, however,  quite  managed  to
  avoid  being  singed  by  the  fiery  explosion  that  had  turned  the  van  into  a  smoky  inferno.  Neither  had  he
  wasted any time removing himself from that fog-laden street of death.
  His ways were Raccoon's ways, and Raccoon did not fight when so obviously outnumbered. It did not
  seem sensible to Bandit that anyone in such a situation would stand and fight, or do anything except run.
  Or was he kidding himself?
  It was not often that such troubling thoughts followed him to his medicine lodge. This was his private
  place, his alone place. Here, in this tenement basement, he had gathered the trinkets and fetishes and ritual
  materials of the ways of magic. Here, in this dark little room, he had survived the ordeal that had given him
  his  first  true  taste  of  the  deeper  truths  of  metamagic.  The  problems  of  the  outside  world,  the  mundane
  world, seemed strange and alien in this place, as if they did not belong.
  Now, he looked down at the flute lying in his lap, then lifted-it to his mouth and slowly, quietly, began to
  play. He didn't worry about playing any particular song or certain special notes. He let the music flow from
  within. He let something other than his rational mind decide how the song should sound.
  In a while, be became aware that he was no longer alone. The Old Man had come again.
  Bandit turned to find him sitting cross-legged right behind him. The Old Man looked vaguely Asian, but
  his thin gray hair flowed down over bis shoulders and everything he wore appeared made of natural leather,
  brown leather, tan, like native people used to wear long before the Awakening, with necklaces and  beads
  
  and bones. Bandit turned to sit facing him. They watched each other for a long time.
  Was  this  Raccoon  in  some  human  guise  or  merely  a  spirit  that  had  chosen  to  serve  as  his  guide?
  Bandit wondered. The Old Man's voice was as dry as sand and as creaky as old wooden boards. Yet there
  was a power, vibrant and strong, beneath the scratchy, sometimes wavering old voice.
  "So," the Old Man said. "What do you want? You called me. You must want something."
  "I don't know," Bandit said, frowning. "I'm troubled." The Old Man shrugged very slightly. "I have no
  answers. I'm just an old man."
  "You're wise."
  "Sure, that's what you think, I'm old and wise.  I  must  have  all  the  answers."  The  Old  Man  nodded,
  faintly. "Maybe you're wrong. If I ever had any answers, I probably forgot them. A long time ago. Before
  you were even born."
  "There must be something you can tell me."
  Another silence passed, then the Old Man said, "I could tell you a lot of things. Old people can talk for
  hours. A long time ago I heard two people talking. I think they came from across a great ocean. One kept
  asking questions and the other one kept trying to answer. How many fish are there in the pond? one asked.
  The other one didn't know. He tried to guess. What he didn't seem to  understand  was  that  there  was  no
  answer. Maybe there aren't any answers at all, except the ones you find for yourself."
  "What about truth?"
  The Old Man shrugged again. "Truth is one of those things. Everyone sees it their own way. You're a
  shaman.
  You should know that better than anyone. Ask twenty magicians  the  truth  about  magic.  How  many
  answers do you get?"
  "At least twenty."
  "I could tell you a lot of things, if I could remember, but what would it mean? What things mean to you
  is what counts. What are your answers? What do they say about you? Where do they lead you? What kind
  of shaman does that make you? Things like that. How do you like my answer so far?"
  "I'm not sure."
  "That's probably good. I'm an old man. I've had time to work things out. You're still pretty young. You
  should have questions. Things you're not sure about. I've made my peace with mother planet. You haven't.
  Maybe you haven't even started yet."
  "I don't know what you mean."
  The Old Man frowned. "Maybe you've been spending too much time in the city. I guess you haven't
  paid much attention. That's understandable. It can be hard to think in the city. What I mean is the planet's
  our mother. It's simple enough. You understand. You just haven't thought about it much. Everything comes
  from the Earth. Without her we're just so many unlikely ideas floating around in empty space. Without the
  Earth, we're all dead."
  "Maybe I should attune myself with the Earth. With nature."
  "You tell me. You're a shaman. You've attuned yourself with spell foci so you could do better magic.
  What about nature? What about the Earth?"
  "How do I do this?"
  "You're a shaman. You tell me."
  "Maybe I should go to the wilderness."
  "If you think so. The wilderness is part of the Earth. I don't think anybody can argue  that."  The  Old
  Man paused, then said, "Maybe I'm not being clear. All I'm saying is that maybe you know the city so well
  that you've forgotten something. Something important."
  Bandit considered. "The city is part of nature, too."
  "I don't think anybody can argue that."
  "Is, that what you meant to tell me?"
  "I guess that's part of it."
  "What am I missing?"
  "What good would it do to tell you what I think? I could be wrong. If I said the wrong thing, or if you
  took  it  wrong,  you  might  waste  a  lot  of  time  chasing  after  bad  ideas.  Why  should  I  have  that  on  my
  conscience? You're the one asking all the questions. You think you're missing something. What do you think
  you're missing?"
  "It could be anything."
  "You're  right.  If  that's  what  you  think.  Maybe  that's  your  answer.  Me,  I'm  thinking  of  something
  specific. I'll give you a hint. You decide if it means anything."
  
  "Okay."
  "What's in the city?"
  "People."
  "What about them?"
  Bandit frowned and exhaled heavily, and looked at his flute. The flute gave him his answer. It forced
  him to see it. "People are part of nature, too."
  "I don't think anybody can argue that."
  "Maybe I've been around so many people for so long I forgot about that. There's a lot of people in the
  city.  It's  easy  to  tune  them  out.  Maybe  I  wanted  to  tune  them  out.  Maybe  I  had  to  tune  them  out  to
  concentrate on the magic. To learn. To grow."
  "Maybe that's your answer."
  "Maybe I should tune people in."
  "It's an idea," the Old Man agreed. "The one thing I'm sure about is that people are part of the world
  just like every other living thing. I don't see how you can be in tune with nature without being in tune with
  people  too.  It's  okay  to  go  to  the  wilderness.  Go  wherever  you  want.  Nature  is  everywhere.  It  infuses
  everything, surrounds everything. Just don't forget about people. You know what I mean. It's obvious."
  Bandit nodded.
  "If you want to know nature, you have to experience nature, not just the parts of the world you  like.
  You have to hear the cry of the hawk as it dives down to kill a mouse. You have to hear the roar  of  the
  tigress  when  one  of  her  cubs  comes  up  missing.  You  have  to  listen  to  the  murmuring  of  the  mountain
  stream, the hiss of the snake, the death-cry of the prairie dog, the croaking of the frog, the rustle of leaves,
  the whisper of the wind. You have to hear the voice of the Earth, no matter what form it takes.
  Maybe every form it takes. And I guess you have to listen to people, too. They're part of the Earth."
  Bandit nodded. "You're right."
  "I'm an old man. I just listen to things you say and tell you my opinion, I could be all wrong. What you
  think is what matters."
  "I think I must attune myself to people."
  "Then that's your answer."
  An answer, yes, but not the whole answer. Bandit thought about that a while, then said, "I wish I could
  have done more. I wish ... I wish I could have helped my friends."
  "Your friends the runners."
  Bandit nodded.
  "Sometimes you don't know you've got friends till they're gone."
  "I'm not sure what's happened to them."
  A long silence passed, then the Old Man said, "Sometimes people get a bad hand. Sometimes the odds
  are too great. You did what you could. When the time came,  you  saved  yourself.  Probably  that's  all  you
  could have done. Maybe that's all you should have done. The shaman's path can be hard to know. I guess
  you still have things to learn."
  Bandit nodded.
  "Maybe you just have to put this behind you."
  "I feel ... regret. Maybe remorse."
  The  Old  Man  stretched  out  his  arms  and  yawned.  "Then  you  must  be  human.  Every  human  being
  wishes that he or she could have done some things differently. It's like a law. Part of nature. Part of what
  you are. You try to learn from your mistakes. If you're smart, you'll do better next time."
  Bandit nodded.
  "I need some sleep."
  "Will we talk again?"
  "Sure. Just play that flute. I think you've been looking for it a long time. Maybe you didn't realize. Just
  play the song and I'll come. You know which song."
  Bandit thought about that, then nodded.
  "Just remember I sleep a lot. Old men get cranky when they miss their sleep. You understand."
  "I guess."
  "Remember this, too. The world wasn't built in a day. It took a long time to get this far and it still isn't
  finished.  It  never  will  be  finished.  When  something's  finished,  it's  dead.  But  even  then,  it  isn't  finished.
  Nothing ever really is. Sometimes it just looks that way."
  "Life is a journey. Not a series of destinations."
  "There's your answer. See you later."
  
  Bandit hesitated, gazing into the empty darkness at the rear of his lodge. Then he spoke softly, gently,
  saying, "Sleep well."
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/Shadowrun Novels/Fade to Black [FASA 5365].pdf