Choose your enemies carefully

PART 1

Three days ago, the pain had seemed unbearable.

But as time passed, the constant discomfort lessened the burden by dulling her senses. As late as this mornling, she thought that she had grown used to it. Then cramps had started. The crippling agony had racked her with increasingly frequent spasms all day. Now, it was almost dark. She didn't dare cry out.

A new spasm tore at her intestines and clawed its way up her torso, firing her insides with blazing agony. Despite her best intentions, she screamed as her musknotted in the brutal grip of the convulsion. As the wave of pain ebbed, she lay panting, certain that she had betrayed herself. Slowly, painfully, she dragged herself deeper into the gloom of her chosen shelter. The inhabitants of this rundown building, if there were any, remained hidden. Her only company was her misery. Moaning at the pain accompanying her every movement, she forced her legs to carry her up the stairs. If she could get far enough away, they might not find her tonight. The ravening fire in her belly threatened to overwhelm her, but she hugged one arm across her stomach and continued, bracing herself against the stairwell wall with the other.

She only made it up two flights before she collapsed, whimpering. Silently she cursed her waning strength. Orks were supposed to be tough. The physical power she had known for the last year had been the only compensation for her change, and now that strength had abandoned her. Just like Hugh. And Ken before him. Even her brother had left her to be disposed of with the rest of the unsightly trash. They could all rot in hell.

The blaze inside her had died to coals, a hot pain but bearable. In the recession of the pain, she became aware of a bone-numbing ache in her limbs. Her muscles, exhausted from her climb, trembled. Her skin was clammy with sweat and itched unbearably. She wanted to puke.

Her position on the landing offered her a view into one of the derelict apartments. The darkening sky was framed in the room's window. Outside, the lights of Hong Kong sparkled awake, forming constellations of sublime and taunting beauty. The thin, seesaw wail of a police siren drifted in through the open aperture. It offered no hope of rescue. None of the corporate police ever came to the Walled City. Not even the Enclave Police Agency, money-grubbing hirelings that they were, could be easily bribed to appear in the Walled City after dark. Gangs ruled the Walled City, and many of them hunted the changed for fun,

A scuffing sound came from the bottom of the stairwell and she froze. Her physical torment vanished in a rush of fear. Praying all the while, she strained to hear anything further. The noise began again, and she recognized the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

She pushed off with her arms, forcing herself upright. The world spun around, but she managed to stay on her feet and stagger up another flight. This landing was as littered with trash as the last, but several of the rooms on this floor still had doors. That meant someone still lived here. Hoping the hunters wouldn't press the search into occupied areas, she chose an open doorway and headed for it. As she attempted to pass through the doorway, her head slammed against the lintel. The shock forced an involuntary grunt of pain.

In the distant lower darkness, there was a sudden lence.

She listened, but there was no sound. The hunters would be listening, too.

Minutes crawled by.

Her eyes were good in the dark. If she stood by the railing and looked down, she might be able to see who was on the stairs. She didn't dare try. Even if she managed to suppress the vertigo, she would be exposing herself. There were others who could see in the dark: even better than she.

Her legs began to tremble again, and she felt her tfear-induced strength fading. She wouldn't be able to fremain standing for long. Ducking her head, she, slipped through the doorway. She stretched out an arm [and gripped the door, swinging it slowly closed. It Lmade no sound that she could detect. That was good. |If she couldn't hear it, they probably couldn't either.

The locks on the door were gone\a151only splintered |wood marked their former presence. Not that it matftered; if the hunters tracked her here, a locked door I wouldn't stop them. Her only hope was that they would [pass by.

The room was a sty, a haven for drifters and the ameless. From the discarded chip casings scattered about she knew that it had seen its share of BetterfThan-Life parties. It would take a simsense world to I make this dump vaguely resemble a place to spend any time at all. Any time at all? She might be spending rest of her life here.

She could see nothing that might conceivably be 3d as a weapon. That really didn't matter as she barely ad the strength to stand; she would be useless in a fight. She staggered across the debris-strewn floor, barely reaching the far wall before her limbs failed her. She found herself on the floor, not knowing whether she had made any noise in falling. There was no sound of eager ork-bashers rushing up the stairs. Maybe her collapse had been silent. Maybe they would not think to look in this room. Maybe she could go back to her old life.

This squat was an awful place to die. Huddled and heartsick, she waited. If she had had the strength, she would have cried.

From the other side of the door she heard the soft scuff of a cloth sole. Someone had found her hiding place. Faintly, she heard the sound of the lurker sniffing the air. It was an animal sound, like that of a hound on a scent. After a moment the noise stopped, then she heard a brief scrape of clawlike fingernails scratching the wood near the top of the door. There was a brief return of the sniffing sound, then all was quiet again.

There was no reason to believe that the lurker had left. Perhaps he was patiently listening at the door, waiting for her to make the movement that would betray her. If she'd had the strength, she would have crawled out the window and taken her chances on the crumbling facade. A week ago she would have been strong enough to scale the wall to safety. Now, her muscles were too weak. Only her fear was strong.

She knew she had not fooled them when she saw the doorknob begin to move. It turned slowly, as if the lurker himself was afraid. Afraid of sudden movement that might frighten his prey. Predators moved that way; slowly and with deliberate care.

She began to think that she had guessed wrong about the nature of her hunters. Gangs made a show of their kills. This sneaking caution wasn't their style. They wouldn't be worried about disturbing any squatters in the building. They would just barge in and, if they had picked the wrong apartment, barge right out again. This stealthy approach argued a hunter who did not wish to disturb any residents. Deciding that she was not being stalked by ork-bashers gave her no relief; there were worse, far worse, hunters that stalked the night in the Awakened World.

The catch disengaged, the door swung open. Moving languidly, it yawned wider, until she could see the landing. There was nothing there.

Helpless before whatever was stalking her, she stared at the opening. There was a movement low on the left side of the frame, and a face appeared there. The angle of the head suggested that the face's owner had crouched before peering around the frame\a151a simple precaution to avoid offering an immediate target.

Her stalker's face was long and drawn. Sallow skin stretched tightly over prominent bones, and dark, dark i eyes were pools of night under slanted lids. Nostrils distended, and she heard the sniffing sound again. j. The lurker straightened, head twisting as he took in the |room and its contents. As he focused on her, he grinned. His mouth was overfull of sharp, pointed teeth.

Lord almighty, you have delivered me to ghouls!

A second face appeared on the other side of the doorway. It too was almost skeletal in its thinness. [Unlike the first, his dark eyes were not slanted, but this skin was as pallid. The flesh of both ghouls was |tinted a sickly yellow.

The second one mimicked the actions of the first, fturning his head with sharp motions as it surveyed the:›m. Apparently satisfied that she was alone, he enered. He was big and filled the frame as he passed Ifhrough. His entry stirred the stagnant air of the room, I swirling dust aloft and carrying a putrid scent to her trils. The owner of the first face scurried in behind

She could see others gathered on the landing. The two ghouls moved toward her cautiously, as if expected her to attack. She had intimidated a lot people in the last year. She shifted and raised a id. It was all she could do and she almost blacked at from the effort. Unaware of how helpless she was, flinched back. It was a small victory, but all she likely to get. She had no strength to resist them. |The ache in her limbs had kindled to fire and she wilted fin the rising blaze.

When they saw that she made no further motion,

|diey resumed their approach. Just short of her out! stretched leg, the big one halted. The smaller one sidled carefully up to the other, sheltering behind his broad back. The big one crouched. With a start, the other followed suit to avoid being exposed. A soft hissing came from the others gathered in the hall.

The big one reached out a tentative finger to poke her. When she didn't respond, he ran his hand down her calf in a caress as he spoke to his companion. Most of his words sounded like gutter Chinese, but some were Japanese and English. His accent and the speed with which he spoke left her uncomprehending. The small one straightened and took a step back. Watching her with wary eyes, he backed away.

They remained like that for a time. She lay still, her only action an occasional convulsion or shiver. The big ghoul stood silently by the door, watching her and waiting. Maybe they had to gather the rest of the pack before they feasted. Now that they had cornered her, she found it hard to care. If they killed her, the pain would stop. Once she was dead, what they did to her body wouldn't matter to her. Having surrendered to her despair, she found it easy to contemplate surrendering to the insistent call of oblivion. A commotion roused her from her drifting semicon — _

Robert N. Charrette scious state. Though still racked with pain, she found herself able to shift her head slightly. It was night\a151or night again. She had no way of knowing. The big ghoul was still in the room, but he had changed his position. The small one was returning, leading a figure much bigger than himself. She wasn't really sure who or what the newcomer was. She couldn't seem to focus clearly on him. One moment he seemed huge and menacing, a lumbering furry hulk; the next, he was a slim, strongly-built man attired in street leathers.

He entered the room, moving confidently and showing none of the fearful reticence of the ghouls. Kneeling beside her, he placed a hand on her wrist. To her surprise, he showed no reluctance to touch her. Hugh hadn't been reluctant, either. The stranger felt her pulse while he visually examined her. She noted that his eyes stopped at the band on her left wrist. Completing his survey, he looked her in the eyes and smiled.

"Don't be afraid," he said in Japanese. "They won't hurt you."

"Why'd you pick Japanese?" she asked. She wasn't ready to trust him yet. Anyone who ran with ghouls was an outlaw. But then, she was an outlaw herself now.

He briefly shifted his glance to the band before speaking. "I've been to Yomi, too."

Nothing else was said for a minute. What needed to be said? Anyone who knew Yomi understood pain and fear. She felt suddenly reassured. Not all outlaws were criminals by choice. Maybe he was a shadowrunner, one of those renegades from the corporate world who fought injustice. Or he might be a murderer. How could she know?

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Janice."

"No family name?"

"No family."

"I see. I am called Shiroi, Janice. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance."

His politeness seemed all out of place in the crumbling ruin, but still she felt embarrassed by her churlishly terse responses. Nevertheless, doubts and suspicion ruled her tongue. "Why is that?"

"There is no need for you to be so defensive. I would be the last one to take you back to Yomi."

"I didn't think that you were jigoku-shi. "

"I am no master of hell. I assure you that I have no connection with those abhorrent racists."

No, he wasn't. He was too handsome to be jigokushi. But no man walks the face of the earth alone. "Who do you work for?"

"Myself."

So ka. If he wasn't lying, he'd want to be recom-" pensed for his trouble. In the last year she had learned about paying her own way. "I haven't got any credit to pay you."

"I am not asking for payment, Janice. In my own small way, I am a philanthropist. I take joy in helping people adjust to their new lives. I look forward to helping you find your way.''

Could she believe him? "All I want to find is a way to escape this pain and a way to get out of this dump.''

"That I can arrange."

He began to sing softly. Succumbing to his song, she passed away from her pain and suspicions, falling into a healing sleep.

The passengers were nervous with good reason. Sam Verner was nervous himself, and he didn't have any guns pointed at him. To the terrified corporates huddling in their seats, the shadowrunners would seem much like rabid beasts, ready to savage them for no reason. Such an evaluation might in fact not be too far from the truth. It was certainly Sam's own assessment of the unstable muscleboy in front of him.

Jason Stone was short, but he didn't need the heavybarreled Sandier TMP submachine gun in his hands to give him a dangerous presence. The Indian's rebuilt muscles and quick, nervous motions told their own tale. He was what was known in the alleys as a street samurai, muscle for hire, chromed with cyberware to set him beyond the frailty of the flesh. Like many of his kind, the trade of meat for machine meant that some of his spirit had been tossed out with the undesired body parts. The cold chrome eye shields shuttered the windows to what was left of his soul, but his leering smile exposed what was left of his emotions, leaving no doubt that he would be happy to use his weapon.

At the other end of the cabin, Fishface George and Grey Otter were menacing the crew in similar fashion. They were samurai too, though less extreme examples of the breed, and neither walked as close to the edge of sanity as their leader. That was just as well. Sam needed the muscle for cover, but he didn't think he could deal with more than one samurai of Jason's hellbent aggressiveness.

Sam slid past Jason. He knew that he was blocking some of the samurai's field of fire, but he was confident that the others would cover the gap. They always had before. They might not like Sam, but they knew he was their meal ticket. They'd keep him safe until they were paid off.

"Two minutes, Sir Twist," buzzed the receiver in Sam's ear. Sam nodded unconsciously to the speaker, but Dodger couldn't see the acknowledgment. He was on a remote broadcast, the only way to link the elf's position in the Matrix with Sam's ground team aboard the shuttle craft. Dodger could have left the mundane time count to a subroutine, but his personal attention indicated his concern. They were all expecting the run to be easy, but Dodger was playing cautious. If anything blew up, a subroutine would be outclassed and purged by intrusion countermeasures before Sam could know about it. An on-line decker was Matrix security that every shadowrunner wanted.

In two minutes, the craft's preplanned ground time would be up and, by then, the Aztechnology shuttle was supposed to be airborne, on its way to the SeaTac international airport. If the runners delayed it, the metroplex air traffic control would be alerted. The plan called for the shuttle to lift on schedule, giving the runners time to get away with their prize before pursuit could be called in. They had managed to board just as the craft was leaving the gate, successfully slipping past the ground crew. So far, only the passengers in the main cabin knew of their presence. Dodger's black box had frozen communications with the pilot's compartment as soon as Sam had affixed it to the wall. They should have been gone already, slipping away into the night, but their man hadn't responded to the code phrase when they had announced their presence to the passengers. Time was trickling away. Where was Raoul Sanchez?

The Indian was pushing, testing Sam as he had ever since the split with Ghost. Jason liked to claim he was as good as Ghost, but Sam had never seen even a remote resemblance. Ghost Who Walks Inside was a real warrior, cast in the mold of his people's ancient heroes. Ghost was worthy of being called a samurai, unlike this cybered punk. Ghost only killed when necessary, but that was just one of the differences between the two Indians. Jason had never really understood Ghost's principles; he had only been blinded by the glittering street reputation of a man who stood up for his people. Sam couldn't deny that Ghost had embraced violence, but only as a means, never as the end that Jason seemed to believe it was.

It meant nothing to Jason that he was using a man's life in his dominance games. But it did mean something to Sam. There was more at stake than Sanchez's life. If Sam backed down now, he would have no more control over Jason. Too aware of the Indian's enhanced reflexes and deadly aim, Sam straightened. Height was one advantage he had over Jason. He tried to put utter assurance into his voice.

"I said no killing. We take him with us." Jason simply stared. Sam knew that the Indian relied on the unnerving effect of his chromed eyeshields. Determined to be unimpressed, Sam stared back, but a motion in the back of the craft caught his attention. Someone was rising from his seat. The passenger's right hand was cocked back and a shiny barrel protruded from the base of his palm.

Whether Jason used his own peripheral vision or saw the reflection in Sam's eyes, he was moving before Sam could say anything. The man in the back was moving at chipped speed, but Jason was faster. The Indian shifted sideways, vacating the space in which he had stood. Sam felt the heat of the bullet's passage and heard the slug bury itself in the cabin wall.

The gunman started to drop lower, trying to use a; i seat and the passenger in it for cover. Jason swung Sanchez around with one arm and shoved his other arm in the direction of the gunman. His movement looked deceptively awkward, almost haphazard. Sam knew that it was anything but. The Sandier TMP had a smartgun adapter, feeding targeting information through the induction pad in Jason's palm to establish a feedback circuit. When the crosshairs appeared on Jason's cybereyes, he could be sure that his weapon rwas effectively aimed at his target.

Jason fired as he dropped into the seat that had been fSanchez's. The Indian's Sandier shrilled as it spat slugs to rip into the gunman's cover. Blood and polyfoam i stuffing erupted into the air. Jason's line of fire skipped up past the head rest and clipped the gunman in the shoulder as he ducked.

Fishface's gun chattered behind Sam. Women's wails and screams of pain joined the noise of the guns. The sea of corporate faces that had been staring at the runners vanished beneath the waves of the head rests. The passengers were huddled, praying, hoping, and pleading that no fire be directed at them.

Slow to react, Sam found himself the only one still standing. He reached for his holster. As his hand fclosed on the butt of his Narcoject Lethe, he knew he i wouldn't be fast enough. The gunman was rising for lanother shot.

Again, Jason proved faster. The Sandier screamed it pounded slugs into the man. Sam watched as th% [slugs chewed away cloth and flesh to reveal the implanted armor that had saved the gunman from Jason's^ [first shot. The impact drove the man back, spinning Shim out into the aisle. More bullets gnawed at him, pounding their way through his protective plates. He started to collapse, his palm gun firing convulsively, the bullets spanging wildly around the cabin.

The gunfire stopped as soon as the man hit the deck. With Fishface screaming orders that no one move, Jason rushed down the aisle to his victim. He ran a quick hand over the dead gunman. He found a wallet and, after only a brief glance, tossed it on the man's chest. He spat on the corpse and stood. "Azzie corpcop."

Sam relaxed a bit. The attack wasn't the closing of a trap. The gunman might have been an air marshal, or he might have been an off-duty officer on his way somewhere. The man had just been trying to do his job and keep some shadowrunners from killing a corporate. Likely, he had seen the confrontation between Sam and Jason as his chance. He had bet on his own skills and lost.

"Heat's on now, Twist," Jason said. "Pedro's dead weight we can't afford."

Before Sam could respond to the samurai's latest challenge to his authority, he felt a hand grip the fringes of his jacket.

"Seftors, you cannot leave me now." Sanchez's fear seemed to have redoubled.

"The hell we can't," Jason snarled as he shoved past.

Sanchez winced. His glance darted nervously to the door Otter had opened, then flickered around the cabin. Finally, his panicked stare alighted on Sam. "You have condemned me."

"They saw that you were not involved," Sam assured him. "Your corporate masters understand this sort of thing. They will know that it was all a mistake."

Sanchez shook his head vehemently. "The ahman.

They will not believe."

"Everyone here saw that he started the firefight.

They'll tell your ahman what happened."

"No, senor. The ahman will not believe."

"Why not? You've got fifty witnesses."

"No, senor. Look at them." Sam looked around the cabin at the faces that had reappeared. They were all strangers but he knew them. He knew the grim determination and fear that lived in every one of them. These people were already denying that Sanchez was one of them. Sam understood such draconian group dynamics from his years in Japan. There, an entire family or organization took the heat for the actions of a member. The only way to avoid destruction of the group was to deny the membership of the offender. Sanchez's fear told him that the Azzies believed in group responsibility, too.

The cabin stank of death now. The cowering salaryman was right\a151it wouldn't stop here if he left Sanchez. An Aztechnology security man and at least two other corporates were dead. Several more were injured. This was no longer a minor matter, and Sanchez's fellow corporate employees would not defend him. The ahman might decide that Sanchez was responsible despite the evidence. If the ahman condemned Sanchez, those who spoke in his defense. would be under suspicion\a151if they didn't share his fate. I Aztechnology was not known for its understanding and [forgiveness. These people would not take the chance. ' Sam looked down into Sanchez's face. The man was '1 of fear. He was terrified of staying, terrified by s thought of leaving the corporation, terrified by the dowrunners, and terrified of his own presumption I desperation. His fears fought their war openly on; face. i understood those fears. He reached down and ok Sanchez by the shoulders, drawing him up. "All right," he said. "Let's go." I The gratitude in the man's face almost masked the

The room was quiet, but Dodger knew he wasn't alone in the darkened library. His knowledge wasn't anything mystic; spells, conjurings, and astral voyages were not his kind of magic. It wasn't that he heard them, or smelled them, or, as yet, saw any evidence of them, either. His awareness might have been due to some combination of his physical senses, operating below his consciousness. He didn't need to know how it worked; the fact that it had worked was enough. Still, there was no sense of danger. He had been on enough shadowruns to know that feeling. At least for the moment, whoever watched wasn't planning to attack.

"I told you he would be decking."

The voice was deep and throbbed with vindication. Dodger knew that voice too well. Estios had never liked him and never would. The black-haired elf had squared off against Dodger from the first time they had met. Like their hair colors, their personalities were opposites. There was no attraction between them save a mutual call to hostility.

With slow deliberation, Dodger prolonged his disconnection from the Matrix, tapping in a few more commands before logging off. He took the connector from the datajack on his left temple and held it with just enough pressure that the reel wound it smoothly and the plug nestled safely into its niche. Sliding the compartment cover closed, he turned his chair around.

Estios was glowering at him, as he expected. Professor Sean Laverty stood by Estios's side. That was

also expected; the officious Estios's words only made sense if he had the professor's attention. Chatterjee stood on the other side of the professor. The Asian elf's presence was not expected but not surprising either; he was a frequent resident of the mansion. Hanging back near the door was the real surprise, Teresa O'Connor. Dear, sweet Teresa. If he had known she was at the mansion, he would never have come.

The professor waited until Dodger wrenched his eyes away from Teresa before speaking. "Dodger, you know the rules."

Indeed he did, but when had that stopped him from doing what needed to be done? Sliding the corners and skipping over the bounds were what made life worth living. True as that was, there were some matters best dealt with carefully. "The cyberdeck's running a sidecar copy now, Professor. I didn't break any of your rules."

"You ran the Matrix without authorization," Estios accused.

"A decker always runs without authorization. 'Tis what decking is all about."

Estios's eyes narrowed. "Cut the snow. You've spent enough time here to know that no one connects to the Matrix from the mansion without clearing it first."

"And if anyone, even you, Estios, can find anything i compromising in the copy of the run, I shall submit I to any discipline that the professor deems proper.''

1"We don't need to see your concocted evidence, alley runner. You're not welcome here any longer. Leave now.''

Estios stepped forward, apparently ready to enforce his demand, but Laverty restrained him with a touch on his arm. "Dodger may stay as long as he wishes." Estios turned his head sharply and looked down into Laverty's eyes. "That's unwise." "Technically, Dodger is abusing your hospitality,

Professor," Chatterjee said. "It sets a terrible precedent."

"He should be expelled and banned," Estios said.

"Dodger is free to come and go as he pleases, Mr.

Estios," Laverty said.

Chatterjee inclined his head in acceptance of the professor's decision, but Estios just scowled and stepped back to his place at Laverty's side. Laverty gave the taller elf a rueful shake of his head.

"Come, come, Mr. Estios. I feel confident that Dodger would never betray this house. He is difficult on occasion and less than mannerly at most times, but his heart is great. I am sure that there is a good and sufficient reason for his actions,"

"Verily," Dodger agreed. " Tis most assured that

I meant no disrespect for you and your hospitality, Professor. Circumstances conspired to force me to this end."

"Don't they always?" Laverty said, then chuckled. "Circumstances seem to conspire against you regularly."

Dodger shrugged. "Time is an unreal concept in the forest. I stayed too long and found myself in need of a safe place to conduct my business. Lacking access to any other place where my flesh would be safe while I roamed the Matrix, I came here."

"You could have decked from your precious forest," Estios said. "You've done that often enough."

"Alas, I had no transmitter. I had not expected to be gone so long, and so neglected to make such preparations. When I found that time had passed more swiftly than expected, I found myself in an awkward situation. Were it not for my obligations to my fellow. runners, I would never have imposed so."

"What do you know of obligations, alley runner?"

"I know mat a person is obligated to follow his conscience rather than the letter of orders imposed from above. Surely, even a grand soldier such as yourself can grasp such a basic concept?''

"Enough. There have been enough disturbances of the peace in this house. I do not need you two tearing at each other," Laverty said. "Dodger, this run wouldn't be one of Samuel Verner's, would it?"

Seeing no harm in admitting it, Dodger said, "In truth, it is."

Laverty was thoughtful for a moment. The other elves waited silently; they knew better than to interrupt the professor's thoughts. At last, he said, "You have shown a remarkable loyalty toward that man."

' 'Any loyalty is remarkable for an alley runner.''

"I said enough, Mr. Estios." There was no harshness in Laverty's voice, but Estios looked stung just the same. Laverty's attention remained on Dodger. "Another data run? Verner is still searching for his sister?"

"Always that," Dodger replied. The professor's renewed interest in Sam made Dodger a little uncomfortable. "This run was simply business. Even a knight errant needs operating capital."

"Another theft," Estios scoffed.

" 'Twas was no theft."

"Call it what you want," Estios continued, ignoring Laverty's sharp look. "You can't alter its nature."

Dodger's initial annoyance at Estios's suggestion of larceny eased as he saw the professor's reaction. Estios lost points by being the first to break the imposed truce. Unable to resist, Dodger said, "Some people never change."

A slight motion near the door caught his attention and he immediately regretted his words. In the exchange with Estios, he had forgotten that Teresa was there. She had been so quiet. Thinking that he had no way to fool the professor, but that he might cover his chagrin from the others, he launched into an explanation of what had happened.

"Our run was supposed to be a simple extraction. A friendly one, at that. The subject had supposedly concluded a contract with new employers, but had failed to secure release from his current corporation. Mr. Johnson assured us that the subject was not in a sensitive position, so it should have been a clean inand-out. Someone hosed. The pickup apparently had no idea what was going on. He did not even seem aware that Sam and the others were there for him."

"A deliberate ruse to trap Verner," Chatterjee suggested.

Dodger wondered just how much Chatterjee knew. The dark-skinned elf had not been present when Sam had been at the mansion last summer, and normally, he would not have been briefed on old business. Perhaps he only drew the obvious conclusion. "If 'twere a trap, 'twere a poor one. There seemed no reasonable chance of closure."

"A Renraku reprisal, then?"

Chatterjee's mention of the corporation from which Sam had fled banished any remaining thoughts of innocence. Chatterjee's knowledge was a sign that the professor retained an interest in Sam. "An unlikely circumstance."

Laverty nodded. "A conclusion based on your research into Mr. Johnson's real identity."

Dodger tried his best offended look. "A client expects to maintain his confidentiality. 'Tis most unhealthy to inquire into such matters."

"Dodger?" Laverty smiled, and Dodger knew his ruse had never had a chance.

"Andrew Glover of Amalgamated Technologies and Telecommunications. Mister Glover is a vicepresident, on the fast track with a bullet. His firm has a pedigree that's about as pure European as they come.

'Tis not the slightest hint of Renraku influence. Of course," Dodger added with a sly grin, "there does seem to be a connection to Saeder-Krupp."

Laverty raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Estios did the reacting.

"Saeder-Krupp! They're Lofwyr's puppets. If the beast is making moves in Seattle…"

Laverty's voice was stiff as he clipped Estios into silence. "Mr. Estios, you are being most disruptive today. The dragon's plans are not of importance in this matter. Simple stock ownership is insufficient evidence of the dragon's involvement. Although ATT is owned by Saeder-Krupp, the corporation remains essentially independent, and I think it unlikely that Lofwyr even knows of this operation. Dodger, you did say that your Mr. Johnson was Glover?"

"Andrew."

Laverty nodded to himself. "Though I doubt your liend is enmeshed in some dragon's schemes again, I link that he will have need of his budding magical Italents."

Dodger understood the implied question. He even ad some idea of the offer that was being made. "He^ till won't come to see you."

"I understand. His rigorous logical training and scintific orientation made a very convincing argument jat his mind would be oriented to the hermetic tratotion. Your report of his vision of the Dog totem was ost startling. I had not conceived of that possibility. was a most embarrassing oversight. He probably rfds me in little respect, since I misdiagnosed his

"ling." iAh, thought Dodger, if you only knew. " 'Tis not reason. Despite surviving dragonfire, Sam barely iieves in his magical powers. 'Tis unlikely that he aid fault you for thinking him a mage when he him —

"I had to."

"Have you come back?"

"I'm not sure."

"I see." She pocketed the chip and stepped around him. Pausing at the door, she said, "Come talk to me when you are sure."

She was gone.

The darkness and ancient books his only witnesses, he softly vowed, "I will."

Sam looked down at Sally Tsung. She was a beautiful woman. From her artfully tinted ash blonde hair streaming across the pillow, to her slim and shapely feet poking from beneath the rumpled blankets, she was the stuff of a lonely man's dreams. Only she was no dream, and he hadn't been lonely for months. He just didn't understand what she saw in him.

Sally was tall and trim, fleshed where a woman should be fleshed. But hard muscle underlay those shape defining curves. A Chinese dragon, vivid in its tattoo colors, slithered along her right arm. The beast's bewhiskered chin rested on the back of her hand, whose slender fingers were half closed into a fist, almost hiding the missing last joint of her little finger.

She had never told Sam how she had come to lose that joint. Despite what he knew had been an adventurous life, she carried no other scars. Her lack of scars she laughed off, attributing her smooth skin to the power of magical healing. Whenever Sam tried to ask about the finger, she found something more interesting to talk about. If he pressed her, she always had an appointment for which she was late. He had given up trying.

The real issue wasn't the history of her finger. As free she was with her body, she had never let him touch her past. He hoped that in time she might open up and trust him, but as yet his hopes were unfulfilled. Sally Tsung remained mysterious.

A cold nose pressed against his naked back told him that he was not the only one awake in the apartment. Rolling carefully to avoid disturbing Sally, Sam slid from the bed; its ancient springs squeaked only a mild protest. Inu lapped eagerly at his face, and Sam rumpled the dog's fur in an equally happy greeting.

Sam showered and dressed while Inu waited patiently by the door. Sam grabbed his fringed jacket on his way to the door. He really didn't think he'd need its ballistic cloth lining for his run with Inu. Dark hadn't fallen yet, so most of the predators were still abed. Still, the armor lining functioned as insulation, making the fringed synthleather the warmest coat he had.

His runs with Inu gave him time to think. Or more precisely, time to worry. Tonight was supposed to be another magic lesson, and he wasn't looking forward to it. The lessons were not going well. No matter how patiently Sally explained the theory, Sam seemed incapable of grasping any but the simplest of spells. Even those only came after he'd had time to work out his own symbologies. The texts he'd gotten from Professor Laverty seemed only to confuse matters more. Sally insisted that he'd have more luck with ritual magics, but so far she had respected his refusal to even try them. Conjuring spirits seemed wrong, almost unholy. Why couldn't it have been target practice night, even if that meant dealing with Ghost? With a magic lesson on the docket, facing Ghost's coldness seemed preferable to Sally's vituperous condemnations of his intelligence. Sam knew that intelligence had little to do with getting a spell right. Even Ziggy, that street kid who dogged Sally's steps, could get the spells going. He had an IQ several points below Inu's. Still, if it had been gun night, he was sure he would have preferred it to be magic night.

His last several months among the shadowrunners had gone through more ups and downs than a Mitsubishi Flutterer skirting a storm front. Despite it all, he had found himself coming to like life in the shadows. It wasn't always pleasant and certainly lacked the everyday comforts of his former corporate life, but he felt he had been given a chance to make a difference. Here on the streets he wasn't just a faceless minion among other faceless minions, plodding to the company's tune. The street folk were individuals, some extravagantly so. Once they came to trust a person, which wasn't quickly or easily, they were true friends. He found such company exhilarating. He was pleased that, under Sally and Dodger's sponsorship, he had been accepted into their circle.

One of the biggest downs was the estrangement of Ghost Who Walks Inside. The big Indian had seemed pleased to see Sam leave the corporate world. He had even been eager to help Sam redress the wrongs caused by Haesslich's plot. Sam felt good about that; he was impressed by the Indian's quiet strength and focus of purpose. But then something had happened to change Ghost's attitude toward Sam. Since the night they had settled with Haesslich, Ghost had refused to take part in any runs with Sam. Ghost still helped train Sam in the ways of the shadows, but he held aloof, appearing for the lessons and vanishing when the instruction was over. Sally shrugged and Dodger told him it would pass, but no one else would talk to him about it.

Inu finished his business and they headed back to Sam's squat. Turning for home set him to thinking about Sally again. Their relationship seemed increasingly fragile. One might almost say it was deteriorating on every front, except perhaps in bed. There the passion seemed as strong as ever. From her first invitation, he had fallen quickly for her. But now, months later, he realized that he really didn't know her at all well.

When she wasn't with him, he had no idea where she went. She admitted having her own place but had refused to take him there, saying that it wasn't his kind of place. He had never tried to follow her; that would have been a betrayal of trust. But he had wondered a lot about where she went.

No one could spend as much time together as they had and not get to know something about the other person. Between the shadowruns, the training, and their time in the sack, he had come to know something about her personality. He wasn't very sure he liked what he had learned. As far as he could tell, money was her principal motivation. She was mercenary almost beyond ethics; her principles were for sale to the highest bidder. All she knew of honor was what affected her reputation. Loyalty she understood; at least, within the bounds of a run where reliance on the team was, by necessity, absolute. But she only gave that kind of loyalty when she was sure that it had already been given to her. If she had the slightest doubt, she would arrange failsafes, backups to ensure that no one betrayed her. At least she hadn't shown such suspicion toward him. She didn't seem to understand that a shadow team had to be a family. In fact, she didn't seem to understand family at all. Of all her sins, he couldn't forgive the way she always tried to talk him into forgetting about his sister. Even for her, he would not forget Janice.

Inu won the race up the stairs as usual, but Sam was^ not winded as he would have been last summer. His

She gave him a look that left no doubt that she didn't agree, but she didn't say anything. Her stony silence indicated that she had taken the subject as far as she thought necessary. Sam didn't want to take it any further, either. They would be snapping at each other again soon enough.

"Are we going to do some exercises?" "What for? You wouldn't learn anything. You're too pig-headed." Sally gestured, casting an illusion spell, and Sam knew that to a viewer he would appear to be literally pig-headed. It was juvenile of her to resort to such a poor joke.

"I haven't given up trying to learn," he said. "Have you given up teaching?"

She snorted. "You don't pay me enough for this lost cause."

Wondering how serious she was being, he said, "I didn't realize I was supposed to be paying you."

Scowling, she breathed a long sigh. She shook out her hair and turned to stare through the grimy window. Her voice was distant. "Drekhead. You want to learn something tonight, you do it on your own."

Conversation ended; sentence pronounced. There would be no point in Trying to change her mind. Sam found that he didn't mind. He almost felt relief. As much as he knew he needed to learn, their sessions had become increasingly difficult. Another teacher might be better. Professor Laverty had offered; so had the dragon Lofwyr. The dragon's offer had surely been false, since his agent had betrayed Sam and the runners instead of helping. And Laverty surely had his own reasons. Sam was sure he did not want to get involved with some as high up in the Tir Tairngire power structure as Laverty appeared to be. Sally had seemed the only mage he could trust, and now he was having his doubts about her. He would have to sort the mess out soon. He'd need whatever magical ability he could muster to go after Janice.

He watched Sally pretend interest in the outside world. She was flighty in her anger sometimes. Maybe she would relent.

"Just as well that we're not going to practice. I've got a meet with Mr. Johnson tonight. I'd like you to run backup."

"Got better things to do than baby-sit," she said without looking around.

Sighing, Sam let the insult slide. It was just her heat. He hoped that she would feel differently later. "All right. I'll catch you later."

"Later," she replied almost inaudibly.

He left her sitting in the apartment. As he walked down the stairs, Inu skipped at his side. Sam wondered if Sally would be there when he got back.

As Sam approached the corner of South Main Street and Fourth Avenue South, the dark bulk of the Renraku arcology loomed ever larger before him. The megastructure towered above its neighboring buildings, blocking most of the sunset's red tones. Already lights were sparkling on the east face. Low down on the north face, the glare and blare of the club quarter was awakening. Less than a year ago, the arcology had been his home\a151and his prison.

He turned right on Fourth. He was less than two blocks from Club Penumbra, but the walk seemed lengthy. The first time Sally had taken him here, he had almost run away when he had realized how near to the arcology the club was. It had only been a month after the firefight on Pad 23, that regrettable battle which Renraku security forces believed that he started. He hadn't really been there, but a deception on the part of Lofwyr's agent had made it appear that he had led the attacking raiders. Sam had been afraid of 'Raku retaliation. The thought of walking exposed anywhere near the megastructure had frightened him. But he had learned that he was just a face in the crowd; no more remarkable than anyone else to the guards on the west face of the arcology.

He still wasn't completely sure the corporation had decided that revenge was uneconomical. He had to force himself to keep pace with the pedestrian traffic around him. He didn't want to attract attention. As a member of the crowd, he could pass, but if he gave the guards cause to single him out, who knew what might result?

He reached the alley that led to the club. He was surprised but pleased to see that one of the three bikes parked against the wall was Dodger's Rapier. Penumbra was no place for animals, so he looked around for Inu to tell him to wait. The dog was scampering across Yesler Way, off to find his own entertainment. He'd be back eventually, as always. Sam had met Inu on the streets and had no worries that the dog would be all right.

Though twilight was still gathering among the rainladen clouds outside, night had already fallen in Club Penumbra. The gloom was deeper than usual, since the wall-sized tridscreen was dark. Sam picked his way through the entryway mostly by following the sound of Big Tom, the Club's resident sound engineer and backup musician, practicing his drumbeats. As Sam cleared the arch and entered the main floor, Big Tom deflated his throat pouch and hooted the dual tone he used for greetings. Sam did his best to return the sasquatch's sound. Big Tom grinned his lopsided grin which only showed the fangs on the left side of his face. Sam was never sure if the furry metahuman was smiling with pleasure or amusement at Sam's attempts to greet him in kind.

Big Tom took up his practice again as Sam crossed the floor. His was the only music in the place, but it was a weeknight and still early. The Penumbra wouldn't start rocking for another couple of hours. There were a few patrons scattered about at the freestanding tables and in the alcoves along the back wall. That was fine. There were enough people to keep things friendly but not enough to crowd sensitive discussions. The club's regulars minded their own biz.

Jim at the bar inclined his head, and Sam altered his path in the direction indicated. The sole occupied booth in that corner had a black booted foot thrust from its recesses. The stud pattern on the footwear's straps and the faint gleam of a white shag of hair advertised Dodger's presence.

Sam kicked the sole of the boot, saying, "Hoi,

Dodger. You're early. Are you feeling all right?"

"In truth I was. Until you wounded me with your remark, Sir Twist." Dodger cocked his head to look up at Sam, causing sparkles of light to flash from the three jacks on his depilated left temple. To anyone who didn't know the elf, the computer interface ports would seem incongruous next to his pointed ears, but Sam knew they were as integral to who Dodger was as his slim elven bones.

"You'll heal. Get anything on Mr. Johnson? Like maybe why things got screwed up last night?"

"Some data has fallen into my hands but, as to yesterday's difficulties, I can do no more than speculate."

"Well if you've got any data, you're ahead of me."

Sam slid onto the bench next to Dodger. The elf pushed a minicomp across, allowing Sam to scroll through while he gave a summation.

"As you can see, Mr. Johnson is Andrew Glover of ATT. For someone with his background and standing in the corporation, this shadow work is a bit out of line. The bodyguard is Harry Burke, pro muscle from the European circuit. Very expensive."

"Hmm. Think our Mr. Johnson is moonlighting?" "Possibly. He might have legitimate ATT business in Seattle, since he arrived direct from headquarters in London on his corporate passport. I'll need more time to check that out." "So he might be legit or he might not." "Time is data, and I had very little time." Sam spotted something and froze the scroll. "Saeder-Krupp," he said softly. He shuddered, remembering his dealings with the dragon who owned that megacorporation. "Interesting, is it not?"

"I'd hate to think that this has some connection to

Lofwyr. I've dealt with more than enough dragons." Dodger nodded agreement. Sam returned to scrolling through the data that the elf had collected, but his mind wasn't really focused. The reflections on the screen seemed to echo the glints of a dragon's eye, and he kept drifting back to thoughts of Lofwyr. Sally had robbed the dragon of his prize, and Sam had no idea how Lofwyr had taken that. When Sam had tried to use the telecom numbers he had been given to contact the dragon or his agents, he had found them all disconnected. He had assumed that meant that the dragon was calling it quits, finding revenge as expensive a luxury as Renraku appeared to believe it was. Now there was this connection, tenuous but real. Was he already enmeshed in the coils of another of the dragon's plots? Had Lofwyr only been biding his time? Waiting for the opportunity to strike?

Sam felt an elbow in his ribs as Dodger said, " 'Twould seem that everyone is running ahead of schedule tonight."

Following Dodger's eye line, Sam saw Andrew

I Glover crossing the dance floor to the bar. The ATT an was of middling height, narrow-shouldered, and slim. His long, slightly horsey face was relaxed, suffused with the calm of a man assured of his proper place in the world. From his clothes, that place was a comfortable one. His shiny black shoes and grey gloves were spotless, showing no signs of wear. The rest was hidden under a long, caped coat of natural tweed. Despite its expensive material, it would be lined with ballistic cloth. The wealthy took as few chances as possible. Dark spots marred the perfect tones of the coat's shoulders. He slid a hand through his sandy hair, flicking away the water in a casual gesture. His walk was casual, too, as if he was striding through some ancestral manor.

Surveying the club with what appeared to be simple curiosity, Burke followed Glover in. The bodyguard moved with a predator's gait, smooth and calm but ready to explode into instant action. Penumbra's protection would not allow Sam to make a successful astral check, but you didn't need to be a magician to know that Burke had some kind of edge over ordinary people. Dodger had said the man's services were expensive. Since there was no reason to expect Dodger to have gotten bad information, Burke was likely very good at his job. That meant cyberware or magic; simple skills and knowledge weren't enough anymore.

The barkeep directed Glover to their booth. As soon as he saw that it was occupied, Glover put on his corporate smile. He removed his long coat and handed it to Burke who slung it over his arm. The guard seemed to find its weight far less than Glover had. Burke stayed back, letting his charge approach the booth alone.

Glover seated himself on the empty bench, but before he could speak, he was jostled by a new arrival.

Sam hadn't seen where Jason had been hiding. He hadn't even known Jason was in the club until he materialized at the edge of the booth. Maybe the kid had learned something from Ghost. In any case, there had been no time to warn Glover that he was about to have company.

Jason pushed his shoulder against Glover. The roughness of Jason's dermal armor implant snagged the corporate's silk jacket, tugging strands free. Jason placed an Ares predator on the table, the gun's huge barrel pointing in Glover's direction. Jason removed his hand from the butt and rested his palm on the table.

The ATT man reacted well. He expressed only surprise at the Indian's sudden appearance. A quirk at the corner of his mouth hinted at annoyance. Other than that, there was no sign that he was bothered by Jason's typically over-stated threat. Sam was impressed, and warned, by Glover's cool. Some corporates would have started yelling murder at such an unexpected appearance. Glover merely slid over to make room for the broad-shouldered Indian and brushed at the shoulder of his jacket. A negligent wiggling of his fingers sent silk fibers drifting to the table top.

Sam would have expected Burke to intercept Jason. Curious, he looked over and saw the bodyguard standing side-by-side with Fishface. It was unlikely that the professional guard had been intimidated by Fishface's ragged presence. Burke's failure to interfere was more likely directly related to Glover's lack of alarm. Glover cleared his throat. "This is a bit irregular." "So was the run, chummer," Jason said. "You ain't got problems so long as you play clean, Johnson. We got your warm body for you and want our nuyen." Glover stared at Jason for a moment, then turned his head to look at Sam. "Am I dealing with a new principal?"

"No, you're not," Sam replied firmly. "But he is right. The situation was not as you led us to believe. I would like an explanation."

"I just want the creds," Jason said.

The look Glover gave him spoke volumes about the trials of dealing with the lower classes. With slow deliberation to show that he was not reaching for a weapon, Glover slid his hand into his jacket and removed a credstick. It was unmarked by bank seals or the banding of a certified stick. "There is no intent to defraud you. I believe that this will cover the remainder of the agreed-upon sum."

For all his obvious greed, Jason didn't snatch it up when Glover placed it in the center of the table. Instead, Jason poked it with his gun, rolling it toward Dodger. Peremptorily, he ordered, "Check it out, elf."

Dodger plucked the stick from the table without a word. He recovered the minicomp and slotted the credstick. His fingers danced on the key membrane. After several flurries, he looked up at Glover. "Pray tell, Goodman Johnson. Why are the funds locked?"

"What!" Jason's eyes narrowed.

Sam tried to forestall any further reaction by asking, "Is there an explanation you'd care to offer, Mr. Johnson?"

Glover ignored the agitated man at his side, focusing his attention only on Sam. "I believe that I have a question of my own which must be answered before we proceed. Where is Mr. Sanchez?"

The man was so damn sure of himself.

"Being delivered as we agreed."

Glover's face remained deadpan. "I am quite sure that you understand. I must have that confirmed before I authorize the transfer of funds.''

Hoping that he had called it right, Sam tried to keep his own voice calm and assured. He hoped he hid his growing trepidation. Corporates away from their safe turf didn't stay so unruffled unless they had hidden assets.

"Then we wait." Jason looked like he was ready to do something else, so Sam said, "Got that, Jason? We give the man a chance."

Jason's sullen glower was his answer.

They sat in stony silence for some minutes until Glover's wrist beeped. He slid back his pristine cuff to reveal a multi-function watch. Tapping in two code sequences, he waited for a response. He seemed satisfied when it came. He tapped in another longer sequence.

"Right. That's it, then, gentlemen. You will find the complete fee available to you now, as well as a substantial bonus in recognition of the alacrity of your performance. I would like to say it has been a complete pleasure doing business with you.'' Glover started to rise. He made no gesture but it was clear that he expected Jason to get out of his way. "I am a very busy man and I must be getting along."

"Just make yourself comfortable, Mr. Johnson," Sam told him. He was pleased that his voice remained steady. There had been no sign from Jim at the bar that anything was out of place, but that was no guarantee that nothing was wrong. Especially if Glover was an agent of Lofwyr. "You're here until Otter calls in."

Glover drew in a long breath and pursed his lips.

He reseated himself stiffly. "I see."

"No need to be put out, Goodman Johnson. 'Tis a simple bit of business assurance. I'm sure you understand."

Glover returned Dodger's smile with a stiff mask, but his detachment was evaporating. The corporate's annoyance was starting to grow. In the middle of the room, Burke was tensed. Sam wanted to defuse the situation before someone did something that they'd all regret. But how?

Forcing a smile that he really didn't feel, Sam called for a round of drinks.

"There's no reason to be concerned, Mr. Johnson. This is simply a business formality. We can still complete this deal without impediments."

"Let us hope so, Mr. Twist."

"I have confidence. However, my friends might feel more confident of our good will if you were to answer my earlier question. They would be relieved if you were to offer some reasonable explanation for the screwup."

Glover shrugged away the importance of the matter with the merest shift of his shoulders.

"It was a simple communications slipup. Mr. Sanchez never received the word that his extraction was to take place. That same glitch deprived him of your descriptions. He would have had no idea that you and your friends were my agents."

"That's it?"

"That is, as you say, it. I accept full responsibility for the confusion."

It would be impolitic to dispute Glover's answer. It was possible that he told the truth. Just barely. Sam tried another approach.

"I realize that you need not tell us, but what will happen to Sanchez from this point?"

Glover looked thoughtful for a moment, then almost smiled. "Mr. Sanchez will receive the most attentive care during his transfer. We want him in the best of health. His role in our organization will be a prominent one. Of course, we will benefit from his participation, but it will not be all one-sided. Mr. Sanchez has special assets. His participation in our ongoing roject will ensure that many people lead better and more productive lives. If all goes as planned, he may even be famous one day. So I can assure you that you need have no concerns about Mr. Sanchez's welfare. We intend to see that he has every opportunity to achieve his destiny."

"Too fragging noble," Jason commented.

"Believe as you will," Glover returned. "Some people have concerns beyond their own personal comforts and needs. Some of those people are in positions to act and would find it unconscionable not to act. Can you grasp the concept of altruism, or is that beyond your greedy brain?"

Jason clenched his jaw, his hand slowly sliding up and over the butt of his Predator. Thankful that the insult had only lit the fuse rather than touching off an instant explosion, Sam slapped his own hand down on Jason's. He had no hope of pinning it there, but he might slow Jason's reactions. That delay could give Burke time to kill the Indian. Hoping he had made the right move, Sam glared at Glover.

"That was uncalled for. I think you should apologize to Jason."

Glover glanced at the table before speaking. His voice was neutral. "Where apologies are necessary and appropriate, I offer them."

The reduction in tension under his hand told Sam that Jason had accepted Glover's statement as repentence. The Indian really was dumb. Sam waited until Jason relaxed his shoulders, then dragged the Indian's hand away from the gun before releasing it.

They waited. At last, the bar phone rang and Jim picked it up. He spoke into the handset, nodded, then shoved it into his gut to muffle the pick-up.

"Call for Halifax. Anybody seen her?" Jim shouted.

After waiting a moment for a response that never came, he said into the receiver, "Ain't here. It's early, try Damien's."

Dodger sat back and smiled. Sam felt the same relief, but thought it impolitic to let it show. Jim was giving the code phrase that meant Grey Otter had made the transfer and gotten safely away. Jason used the opportunity to snatch the minicomp, letting out a surprised oath when he saw the figures on the screen. He turned the minicomp around again and shoved it at Sam.

"Make the cuts, Twist."

Sam transferred Jason's cut back to the credstick in the machine. He popped it and slid in a blank to take the transfer of Fishface's slice. Transaction completed, he put both on the table and rolled them to Jason.

The Indian grabbed his own first and slipped it into his pouch. Rising, he caught the other as it reached the edge of the table top. He flicked the stick to Fishface.

"Done deal?" Fishface asked tonelessly.

"Done deal. We're outta here."

Glover joined Sam and Dodger in watching the two leave. "Your muscle is flighty. Such an abrupt exit might tempt an ungrateful employer into minimizing his expenses. How can they be sure I will not cause problems now?"

Sam wondered that himself. Not that he thought that they'd care if Glover decided to smoke Sam and Dodger. They had their nuyen and were satisfied to let the future take care of itself. Sam had never been so cavalier about the future, so he hadn't been counting on the lame-brained muscleboys to kept the meeting friendly.

"It was never their problem," he said. "This is a public place where we're well-known. You'll find it difficult to make trouble here. Besides, we all got what we came here for, didn't we?"

Glover pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows slightly. "It would appear so. Yet I wonder, would your associates have performed any differently had this meeting taken place somewhere else?" "We have friends in lots of places." "You are commendably cautious, although some of your associations may not be wisely chosen." "There are always constraints." Glover nodded knowingly. "Quite. I apologize for my earlier abruptness, gentlemen. Your style is unfamiliar to me and I was slightly discomfited. Having become acquainted with some of the constraints under which you work, I realize now that your conduct was competent and professional."

Sam inclined his head. He wasn't sure what Glover was leading up to, so he thought it best to say nothing. ' 'I have certain endeavors still uncompleted and find myself somewhat short of competent help. Which is to say, I have another job suitable for professionals of your caliber. It is a similar to this recent operation, which has been concluded with such admirable results."

No thanks, Sam thought. "I think things will be a little warm in Seattle for a while."

"Which is a good reason for you to consider my offer. The job I have in mind is out-of-town work."

"I'm afraid that's not the sort of thing we do," Sam said.

' 'I assure you nothing like the little mix-up that occurred here will happen there. Having taken your measure, I can also assure you that I can convince my principals that you are worth greater compensation." Sam started to repeat his rejection of the offer, but Dodger elbowed him in the ribs and said, "We'll give your offer some thought, Goodman Johnson. Mayhap you can provide us with a way to contact you?'' "Certainly, my good elf. But I will need an answer soon. I have schedules to keep and must leave the metroplex by tomorrow evening."

Dodger took the card Glover offered. "We shall take counsel with our associates anon and you shall have our decision by tomorrow afternoon."

As soon as the ATT man and his bodyguard had left the club, Sam rounded on Dodger. "What did you think you were doing?"

"Looking out for our future, Sir Twist." "I don't want that guy in our future. Communications slipups like we had are trouble, deadly trouble, waiting to happen. Especially if there is any chance he's connected to Lofwyr."

"I hesitate to suggest that you speak in haste, but I fear that I must. There was something I thought you should see before Friend Glover arrived, but he was so prompt that opportunity fled." "And what is that?"

"A mere tidbit that fell into my hands during my research. It may mean nothing, but it may have some significance. I had thought that you would be the best judge. 'Tis a file I found among the datastores Goodman Glover had transferred to Seattle ATT."

Dodger tapped at the minicomp, bringing up a list of seven names. He highlighted item number three: "Raoul Sanchez, Seattle." The line was marked "In progress." Two of the other names were marked "acquired."

"So, Glover is collecting people. Nobody we know is on the list."

"So sure, Sir Twist?" Dodger highlighted item seven: "Janice Walters, Yomi." "Is it not a custom of the Japanese to change the names of the changed?" Sam nodded, his mouth dry. Most Japanese considered having metahumans in their family a disgrace. The unfortunates were shipped to Yomi and their names changed, thereby removing the shame from their family. Could Janice Walters be Janice Verner, his sister?

Sam didn't know if the Yomi officials would have allowed Janice to select her own new name. If so, she might have chosen Walters; it was their maternal grandmother's name. Janice hadn't been born when she had died, but their mother had regaled them constantly with tales of Grandma Walters' world travels. She had been the star of many a bedtime story. Janice had grown up idolizing the woman. When faced with the bureaucratic demand that she cease using Verner as her surname, she might have chosen Walters.

It seemed a slim chance that the woman Glover sought was his sister. But could he afford to take the chance that Janice Walters wasn't Janice Verner?

What did Glover want with all these people, anyway? If one of them was his sister, Sam needed to know. What better way to find out than by becoming part of Glover's organization? It was always easier to snoop around from the inside. But what if he was working for Lofwyr? All the more reason to keep his sister out of the dragon's grasp.

He didn't like it, but it looked as though he would be working for Glover a while longer.

Janice thought she understood comfort and easy living. Before her exile to Yomi, she had lived the life of a corporate dependent. It was a comfortable, cozy life complete with all the easy conveniences of civilized society. Renraku took care of its dependents. She had felt safe and secure. Yomi had taught her just how fortunate they had been.

Her corporate comfort had been due to her brother. She had often wondered what would have happened to them after their parents were killed if Sam hadn't caught the eye of old Inazo Aneki, the master of Renraku Corporation. Sam was five years older than she was, and he was only eighteen at the time. There had been no money and few prospects, but Aneki had taken an interest in Sam and seen to it that her brother finished his education. Under the distant but benevolent patronage of Aneki, Sam had gotten started on the fast track at Renraku. Aneki's charity had been like a gift from God, an offering of a long, comfortable life. They certainly wouldn't have been able to make it on their own. Her brother's position was exalted, for a gaijin, and she had been proud of him. His salary and position should have ensured congenial accommodations for both of them for life.

Now, her thoughts of Sam's success were less kind. He had abandoned her to keep his sinecure, unwilling to be tainted by her goblinization. Kawaru the Japanese called it, a pretty euphemism for an ugly thing. The English word, with its harsh syllables and awkwardness, was so much more fitting.

Sam would call it kawaru. He had always been so enamored of things Japanese, aping their attitudes and manners. The Japanese corporate society liked to pretend that metahumans didn't exist, casting them away to rot on the edges of society and to dwell in the polluted shadows of those gleaming corporate towers. The pure stayed home, safe from taint. Secure in their bastions, they ate their regular, balanced meals, slept in their soft, warm beds in their precisely controlled climates, watched their approved entertainments, and ignored what they wished did not exist. Those hypocritical overlords spoke of financial aid, readjust out. A short, dark man in a white suit waited at the foot of the stairway. As her eyes settled on him, he smiled.

"Welcome to Atzlan," he said in accented English. "I am Jaime Garcia. I offer Mr. Shiroi's apologies. He was unavoidably detained by business and has asked me to entertain you until he is available. I hope you had a good flight. You have no complaints of your treatment?"

Shivering in the sunshine, the pilot tensed. He relaxed only a little when she said, "Everything was fine."

"Most excellent," Garcia said. His dazzling smile vanished as he turned away to speak rapidly in what she assumed was Spanish. The people to whom he spoke were short and dark like him. Their eyes never left her.

Most of the crowd wore loose-fitting blouses and pants, but a few wore tailored coveralls or suits like Garcia's. He finished with an obvious command, scattering the blouses and coveralls. Minions, jumping at his word. She had seen such feverish obedience once when some important Aztechnology officials had visited the Renraku compound. Was it a universal trait of the underlings in Atzlan-based corporations? She didn't like it.

After a few softer exchanges with the suits, he turned his attention to her again. The brilliant smile returned as if it had never been gone. "Please, senorita. Come down and join us."

She wasn't sure it was a good idea, but she stepped through the hatchway. There was something about this Garcia that she didn't like. She ran her tongue across her lower lip, wishing she knew what he hid behind his smile. Her eyes were still hurting as she walked carefully down the stairs. She squinted down at Garcia and realized that he looked different. He was no longer a small man in a suit but a long-limbed, furred metahuman like herself.

In her surprise, she nearly stumbled. He was up the stairs to meet her before she could recover her balance on her own. His grip was strong, steadying her. He was a suit again, armored behind his smile. Solicitously, he helped her down the remaining steps.

She didn't like his cologne.

He seemed unaware of her dislike. "You appear to be taxed by your journey. Perhaps some refreshment would restore your spirit?"

"No, thanks. I'll be fine. Besides, they served a meal on the plane only a couple of hours ago."

"And you found it to your taste?"

He really did seem to be concerned that she be pleased. Maybe he wasn't so bad. She gave him a friendly smile, but she remembered her fangs and closed it down. "The meal was quite tasty. My compliments to your corporate chef. I don't believe that IVe ever had meat with quite so delicate a flavor."

Garcia's smile grew wider. "Yes, it is a specialty. I will be sure to communicate your compliments."

Garcia escorted her across the landing field to a waiting helicopter. They climbed aboard and made a short flight over Mexico City. Their destination was a compound on the north side of the plex. The GWN monogram that she had seen on the uniforms of Garcia's minions at the airport gleamed on the side of the eighty-story skyscraper at the center of the enclosed blocks.

Oozing charm, Garcia took her on a whirlwind tour of the facilities. GWN was an obviously successful corporation. Most of the plants were devoted to food processing and nutrient farming; labels on containerized cargo lots told her that GWN shipped worldwide. She wondered briefly what brands belonged to the firm. Comestibles weren't the corporation's only product. Several impressive structures were dedicated to information technologies and small, high-tech manufacturing plants. The combination wasn't surprising; no megacorporation could survive without at least dabbling in the Matrix and data technology. If all of this belonged to Mr. Shiroi, as Garcia implied, her benefactor was a powerful man.

They had just left a building where cheap simsense players were being assembled, and were walking through a section of employee tenements, when a telecorn box on a street corner called Garcia's name. He excused himself, leaving her to stand in the heat. OflFshift employees, who had been gathered on the front stoops to take in the afternoon sun, suddenly found business elsewhere, but not before she had seen their fearful glances in her direction. Garcia returned.

"Ah, Mr. Shiroi will see you now, if you wish. But there is no hurry. Plenty of time for you to freshen up or partake of some refreshment, if you wish."

She shook her head. Freshening up was something for norms. Make-up on her face would be a travesty, and she didn't have a curry comb for the fur. Let Mr. Shiroi see her as she was, because that's what he got. "You are not hungry yet?" "No. I'm not hungry at all." "That is understandable. After the change one's appetites are often erratic. It is best to trust your feelings. Your body will know when you need sustenance. One should not overdo."

Garcia took her to an elevator, holding the door open as he tapped a code into the keypad. He wished her well and stepped back, letting the doors slide shut. The car rose silently, with very little sensation of motion. After a few moments, the doors opened on a lavish office. Chill air swept into the car, cooling her comfortably. The walls were a pale, pale blue. She might have taken them for white if not for the pure alabaster of the deep pile carpet. The room was huge, but its furnishings were few, and they were dominated by the presence in one corner of a carved column. The stack of stylized faces on it stretched at least three meters; it didn't reach the ceiling yet seemed to fill the room. Two-thirds of the way across the chamber, a dark wood desk stood between her and the tinted window-wall. Behind the desk, in an oddly shaped chair, sat Mr. Shiroi.

"Ah, Janice," he said as he noticed her. "It is good to see you again."

He was smiling, with pleasure she thought. Why he should do that, she didn't know. She wasn't pleasant to see. She felt awkward and out of place. "Wish I thought so, Mr. Shiroi." His smile faded a bit and his eyes filled with concern. "You must learn to accept what you are, since there is no way to change it. Denial only prolongs the pain. I do not wish to see you in pain. And please, call me Dan."

She slowly walked across the room, since that was expected. When he indicated the chair in front of the desk, she sat. She started as the soft grey upholstery shifted beneath her.

"Just relax. It will settle down," he said. There was a hint of amusement on his face.

She didn't like being laughed at. Forcing herself to ignore the squirming chair, she waited. The cushions slowed their wriggling and finally stopped. She was surprised at how comfortable it was. She was almost as surprised that the chair seemed to fit her oversize body. Shiroi must have read her reaction on her face. "You have just had your first experience with a Tendai-Barca Glove Lounger. They are always a little unnerving the first time, but, if you will excuse the pun, one adjusts quickly. I doubt you will find better seating anywhere in the world."

She calmed her breathing, relaxing. The chair shifted again to accommodate her. Perhaps her anger at his amusement was out of place. Anyone feeling a chair writhe under their butt would look comical. She still wasn't comfortable mentally, though. He had had her brought halfway around the world. Surely, it wasn't all for the sake of this small joke? "What do you want, Mr. Shiroi?" "There is no more reason to be abrupt than there is to distrust my motives, Janice." He took her bad manners in stride. She even thought she detected a hint of sadness behind his soft voice. "I want to help you find yourself. I want you to accept a place in my organization. If you choose to follow your own path, I will understand, but it is my hope that you will find us congenial. It is very lonely being on your own. It could also be dangerous."

"Trying to scare me, Mr. Shiroi?" He laughed. "No. The outside world holds enough terrors for our kind. We need not prey upon ourselves. And I do wish that you would call me Dan."

"Dan. You say 'our kind.' / know you and Garcia are like me, but your employees don't know it because you hide behind illusions, or whatever it is you do so that they see you as norms. Why? Why do you hide what you are?"

"Why?" he asked. All trace of his humor sank beneath an expression of seriousness. "You should not have to ask that. You have seen yourself in the mirror, Janice. You have seen how the norms react to you. That is the answer. Do you wish to deal with the unreasoning fear all day, every day?"

Of course she didn't. Who would? She had felt the fear and hate too often when she was just an ork. Orks were common. She didn't like to think what was in store for her as a rare, more monstrous metahuman. Against that dread, her objection seemed petty.

"I don't like pretending to be something other than what I am!"

He swiveled his chair ninety degrees, presenting her with a profile. She watched his chest rise and listened as he let the air out in a long sigh.

"We all wear masks and pretend to be something other than ourselves, do we not? The norms do it. Even you did it before your change." He swiveled back to face her, cutting her off before she could object. "Were you not a different person with your peers than when you were with your family? How about when you dealt with your corporate superiors? Every set of people with whom we interact sees a different person, a different facet of ourselves. This magical disguise is like that, a mask of necessity. In our case, it hides the physical reality. Beneath the masks we are still ourselves. The illusion is simply necessary grease for the machine of social interaction. Nothing more. Having spent so much time in the Imperial Japanese Empire, surely you are familiar with the need to smooth relations between people."

At the mention of Japan, she shivered. The chair shifted in response.

"I am sorry. I should not have mentioned Japan."

He watched her for a while, saying nothing. She was glad; she didn't know what to say. He was right, of course. It still seemed.. odd that someone could make the metaphorical masks a reality. If a magical spell could be called reality. She taxed the TendaiBarca, seeking to get into a physically comfortable position, while it was her mental state that unsettled her. He, of course, noticed.

"If you will be more comfortable, I will drop the spell. You are among friends here."

"I don't know. I don't know what I want. It's been so confusing. I just want to get things under control." "I want to help you do just that. Here. Look." He had dropped his spell. He was huge, bigger than she was. His Tendai-Barca flowed to support his increased size; panels expanded, slumped, and thickened as the chair reshaped itself to accommodate him. His fur was stark white, as pure as polar snow. The skin of his broad face and powerful hands was dark and glossy with health. Once she might have shrunk from his visage, but now she was as monstrous as he. But then, he didn't consider himself monstrous. Or did he? He hid beneath a spell. Or was that true, either? What did he see when he looked in a mirror? The smooth Oriental features of Mr. Dan Shiroi or the wide nose, deep-set eyes, and fangs of his metatype?

"Now that the mask is down, anyone can see that I am of the same metatype as you. Believe me when I say that I understand what you are going through. Between us there need be no false fronts. Illusions are for the norms."

A sudden stir of bitterness swirled across her mind, rippling through what she realized had been a growing sense of fellowship. He might be her metatype, but he was still something she was not. "Even if I accepted your philosophy, Dan, I couldn't do what you do. I'm mundane."

"And how do you know that with such certainty? You cannot be totally without talent if you pierced our illusions."

Once again his expression held a hint that he knew something that she did not. She felt uneasy under that knowing gaze. She felt more disquieted by the growing belief that he meant her well, that he really was interested in her.

She heaved herself up out of the chair, staggering a little when it released her more easily than she had expected. Pacing around the desk, she made her unsteady way to the window-wall. Beneath her spread the panorama of the towers of Mexico City. The spires of man's arrogance, lofting above one of the largest cities on earth while the bases of those towers lay hidden in smog. Hidden too were the people who thronged the Atzlan capital. People.. she wasn't one of them anymore. This city couldn't be her home. Cities were places for people and people had cast her out. Would she ever have a home now?

She had been beginning to think that she might find one with Shiroi… no, Dan. But now she saw that slipping away as well. He thought she was just like him, but she knew better. She was incapable of doing what he could, and she knew it all too well.

She owed him for his kindness. His manner was so accepting, his interest in her welfare so clear. The least she could do was to tell him how she knew that she had none of the magic. She turned around to find that he had risen from his chair. He stood a step away, concern and anxiety plain on his face. She smiled sheepishly.

"I've never told anyone, Dan. None of my friends. Not even my brother. I was embarrassed to tell anyone." He reached out a long arm and rested a hand on her arm. She drew strength from the comforting touch. "I was tested for magical ability once."

"By whom?"

"The Hoboken Institute. They are a very reputable firm."

"Perhaps they made a mistake."

"That's what I told myself at first. When I was growing up, I always wanted to be a magician. I never told anyone, of course, because my dad was dead set against magic. He called it all nonsense and tricks. But I was a kid, and I knew better. I knew that I had the magic in me. So I saved every nuyen I could, took an after-school job clerking in a Soy Shack for the extra creds. I didn't have enough before… before the accident, and I wasn't able to save much for the next year, till my brother got his stipend from the Renraku grant. Once he was in the university, things got easier and I wangled a corporate temp job. It was boring and deadly dull, but I knew I could last it out because it would give me the credit to get tested and once I was certified as trainable there would be no question. I was going to be a high circle mage. I was so sure.

"Finally I saved enough creds, and I went to the Institute. I was hell to live with for two weeks until the test results came in. My brother never knew why I was such a bitch, and I lost a couple of my few friends. I even risked corporate censure, skipping my work assignment that afternoon in order to run off and find a private place to read the report. It was only one word, but it smashed my dreams. 'Negative.'

"I was crushed. If living with me had been hell while I was waiting, the next two months should have qualified anyone for sainthood. But I didn't have any friends who wanted to stick around for the final exam. I was queen bitch of the Wash-Bait Metroplex Education Center. I really didn't shake off the depression until I met Ken at Tokyo University. He made me feel special. He always said I had enough magic for him." The memories were too much. She couldn't help it, she started to cry. Her body shook with her sobs. Dan gathered her in, enfolding her with his arms. She buried her face in his fur, feeling it go damp with her tears. He stroked her back, saying nothing until she quieted. When she regained control of herself, he released her and took a step back as if fearing to impose on her. She felt chill without his warm fur meshing with hers.

"Ken is your boyfriend?"

"Was." The pain was old but she still felt the ache. It was duller now, but it still hurt. "He doesn't deal well with kawaru. "

He nodded with understanding. "Ken refused to see you after your change?"

She sniifed and shook her head. "He wouldn't even talk to me or answer any letters."

"He sounds like so many people I have known. The prejudice and fear attached to the metamorphosis is very strong. I think perhaps even stronger now that it is not so common. Do not think too badly of him. As a product of his environment, he was hostage to his society. Given time, he might have come to accept your change… if he truly loved you.

"You need not worry about acceptance here. We all know what you have gone through. We have seen the fear. Some of us have felt it turn to hate and violence. We have banded together for mutual aid and support. I speak for all when I say that we want you to join us.

"I will not be shy in saying that your joining will make us stronger, something we all devoutly want. But do not think that we only think of ourselves. Well, some of us do. But, Janice, I did not invite you here just to strengthen the organization. I felt something when I found you in that hovel in Hong Kong. I don't really understand it myself, but I know it's there. I want you to prosper. I want you to gain the strength to stand on your own feet and take a well-deserved place among us, and I am willing to do whatever is necessary to see that happen."

She turned and stared out at the skyscrapers and megastructures. They reminded her of the guard towers and bunkers that ringed Yomi.

His words were tempting, freely offering what she had longed for in the long months of exile on Yomi. There was a hint of more than fellowship, a hint of something that had been torn from her life by the change. Did she dare believe that he was honest? Did she dare reach out for it? She had been spurned so often. What if she changed again? Would his concern change along with her body? The questions made her head spin.

He placed his hand on her arm. Her muscles locked for a moment, leaving her frozen like a small animal in a spotlight. He waited until she relaxed to make his tentative contact more firm. She felt the warmth of his palm and the prickly touch of his nails through her fur. When she didn't shrink away, he encircled her again in his broad, strong arms. She turned within that enclosure and stared into his face. She found only concern.

"Can I trust you?" she asked.

"As much as you can trust anyone."

"That's not a comforting answer, Dan."

"It is not a comfortable world, Janice. I am fallible like anyone else. Sometimes the best of intents yield terrible consequences and the finest of feelings sour. I will not start our relationship with lies and highsounding promises, but, by all the lights of heaven, I will vow to help you become all you were meant to be. If you let me, I will be your strength now. When you are strong, we can speak of the future."

"You'll wait?"

"I am patient. I will wait for you at each door until you are ready to step through."

"No pressure?"

"No more than the press of life demands."

His eyes were sincere. She wanted to believe. Wanted desperately to believe. But she was afraid. "Just hold me."

And he did. His arms were strong, and she felt safe.

Harry Burke was a former member of the Special Air Services, an organization known for its efficient and multi-talented personnel. To Andrew Glover, he was an unparalleled asset.

Without orders, Burke moved quickly along the macadam and took up a position flanking the alley mouth. If he made any noise, it was lost in the jumble of sound from the busy street. It was barely after midnight, and the Hong Kong Free Enterprise Enclave was still very much awake. The dark alley held no interest for the throngs who surged along the carnivallit street. No simple passerby would notice the darkclad man crouched against the building. But ordinary pedestrians did not concern Glover.

Glover reached out and tapped the elf on his shoulder. "Have you broken their codes yet?"

The elf was slow in answering. When he shook his head, the datacord clacked softly against the cyberdeck he cradled in his lap. "Not yet. Invisible work takes a modicum of effort."

"Then get on with it." As dark as the alley was, Glover felt exposed. He wanted to get through that door and into the Mihn-Pao facility. Waiting inside was the boat that would take them across to the mainland. He would be glad to leave Hong Kong behind; he didn't like the city or what it stood for.

There was still no sign of trouble, but his stomach kept getting tighter. He wanted to urge the elf to hurry, but knew that he would get the results he wanted sooner if he left the pointy-eared Matrix runner alone.

Elves were rarely reliable, especially for serious work, but this one had proven himself competent. Glover would have preferred a human decker, but one had to use what was available.

His eyes drifted again to the mouth of the alley. Even knowing where to look, he had a hard time spotting Burke's crouched figure. The former SAS man waited patiently for whatever would happen. Patience was a lesson that Glover had never learned very well. It had been his own impatience that had nearly gotten them caught. That squat little sector guard had been so insufferable. Understandably exasperated by the guard's glacial survey of their papers, he had insisted that they be passed through the checkpoint without delay. Apparently that had set off alarms in the half-pint's miniscule brain, causing him to demand that they exit the vehicle. Corbeau's nerves wouldn't have taken the inspection, although Glover had no doubts that their documents would withstand whatever scrutiny the guards could bring to bear. Burke's rapid departure had left the moronic guard capering and screaming imprecations while he ate the dust their car kicked up. The moron hadn't fired on them. Instead, he set the EPA Patrol Force on their heels, forcing them to abandon their original plan to leave the Enclave.

At least they had slipped the pursuit. Or had they? Burke's action told him that the veteran feared that someone would come to disturb their illicit work. Perhaps his sensitive cyberears had detected a hint of danger to their group. If Burke had been sure, he would have said something. Abruptly, Burke made a chopping motion with his right hand.

"Down, everyone," Glover ordered as he crouched himself.

Two caricature silhouettes stopped at the alley mouth. Padded jackets bulked the shoulders wide, and round helmets made their heads bulbous. Tinned in signia gleamed, confirming that they were Enclave Police Agency officers. The two bought-badges were chattering to each other in the distorted mishmash of English, Cantonese, and Japanese that was the common language of the streets here. Glover couldn't make out a word, but Burke was fluent. He would know what they said and act if they were a threat.

They stood at the entrance, apparently indecisive. The flow of traffic adjusted for their presence. Pedestrians swerved around without seeming to notice them, but no one passed between the bought-badges and the alley.

Trading comments back and forth, they readied themselves. Both drew weapons, and one unhooked the heavy cylinder of a flashlight from his belt. They stepped forward, the flashlight's harsh xenon beam blasting away the cloaking shadows. Within that illuminating cone of light, everything was rendered in a curiously flat starkness.

Glover heard the soft click of a weapon safety at his side. A glance confirmed that Twist had his pistol readied. Commendable initiative, but not the best response, since the weapon did not appear to be equipped with a sound suppressor. Their situation would not be improved by attracting attention. Besides, Burke was on the job.

"Wait," he whispered.

The second bought-badge trailed his companion by a meter or two as they entered the alley. They advanced cautiously, probing the darkness with the light. It had yet to sweep deep enough to discover their hiding place. And it would not. Burke's black-clad shape rose from the shadows and slipped behind the second man.

One arm encircled the bought-badge's throat, elbow cinching his throat tight. The second pistoned a fist into the man's kidneys. Burke lowered the limp form to the pavement. A slight clatter from the equipment on the man's belt alerted his partner.

The remaining cop started to turn. Without time to straighten, Burke dropped lower and swept a leg out into the back of the man's knees. The cop's legs buckled. Burke uncoiled and directed a kick to the man's gun hand. The snap of the cop's trigger finger breaking was audible as the weapon spun away. The boughtbadge started to howl. Burke's stiff-fingered thrust caught him in the throat, cutting off the scream.

The patrolman was tough. Gasping, he raised the flashlight behind his head, wobbling into a stickfighter's en garde. His form was ragged, hardly dangerous. Burke settled into guard as well, his left hand protecting the high line. Unseen by his opponent, Burke's right hand curled in toward his wrist. Seven centimeters of razor keen steel slid from its forearm sheath.

They stood, each assessing his strategy. Burke shifted slightly and the bought-badge must have seen a chance. The flashlight whipped around, its beam cutting a wild arc. Burke's maneuver had been a feint. He stepped away from the incoming blow, spinning inside the cop's reach. His right arm flashed up, the extended blade bisecting his opponent's arm. Flashlight and hand separated as they continued to arc past Burke. He twisted and passed his blade through the cop's neck. The bought-badge's head tilted back, but the flashlight shattered and plunged the alley back into night before the blood fountained.

Twist grabbed Glover's shoulder and spun him around.

"He didn't have to do that, Glover. I could have tranqed them. Those were cops he murdered!"

Glover slapped at the offending hand. "And we're robbers, old chap. Are you aware of the penalty for aiding a contract jumper here in Hong Kong?"

"Enforced restitution labor for a period of not less than one year per salary grade of the apprehended party. Compliance shall be enforced with osteo-bonded monitor and time-release mycotoxin implant. Toxin counteragents only available upon completion of certified production quotas," Sam quoted in a cold voice. "The penalty for being an accessory to murder is worse."

Twist was clearly outraged by what he had seen. Another man in that state might be murderous, but someone who was so offended by violence was hardly likely to offer any serious violence of his own. Since there was no danger, Glover found the runner's hate to be of little importance; it was a hasty, ill-informed emotion.

"I see that you are somewhat versed in local law, but what you saw will not be considered murder, since Mr. Burke is a certified corporate agent. He has been engaged in what the Hong Kong Enclave calls unavoidable destruction of another company's assets. The Enclave Police Agency will be properly compensated. You shall never be involved, so I fail to see why you are complaining."

"Their deaths were unnecessary." "I shall decide what is necessary. You shall simply do as you are told. I remind you that further argument is likely to draw additional attention to us. A second incident might not be so easily overlooked."

Glover could see that Twist was not satisfied. Why should he be? Killing was a rotter scam, distasteful at best. Had time not been of the essence, a better solution might have been found. But Burke was the expert, and he had determined that these deaths were necessary. Glover trusted his professional judgment; Burke understood that their mission must succeed. If that meant a few innocents died in the process, then the cost would have to be borne. Glover and his colleagues were working toward a great good, seeking to save more than a few paltry lives. They could not afford to let a couple of nameless bought-badges disrupt their carefully laid scheme. But he couldn't tell that to these runners. It was not yet time for anyone outside the circle to know what was afoot.

Throughout the discussion, Rene Corbeau had listened with wide eyes. No doubt he was regretting his decision to take Glover's offer. Well he might. As stiff as the penalties that Glover and his hirelings would face, Corbeau would see worse: he was the defector. It wouldn't matter to Corbeau's masters that the company transfer offer was false. Their trusted employee had believed it and acted on it. The data he had brought along as an offering would only seal his fate with Automattech HK. Subsidiaries of Mitsuhama Computer Technologies were often more ruthless than their parent. Sibling rivalry for their parent's attention, he supposed; just another dirty part of corporate society. Corbeau should have considered all of that before he jumped. Now he cowered against the wall, as if realizing the implications of what he had done for the first time. Such lack of courage was unseemly. Glover hoped it would not compromise Corbeau's usefulness.

Burke joined them.

"The gingchat had already spotted the car and called it in. Neighborhood will be crawling soon."

Satisfied, Glover smiled at Twist.

"There, you see? There was no time for anything other than precipitous action. Standard procedure requires the EPA to inform sovereign corporate security if they are performing a search on adjacent property." Glover turned back to Burke. "Did they?"

"Don't know," Burke answered.

"We shall find out soon," Dodger said, "for the lock is breached."

"No alarms?" Glover asked.

"Never a sound."

Dodger's expression implied that he thought such a question insulting. Arrogant elf.

The elven decker opened the door, but Burke was the first in. Twist entered right behind him, gun drawn. Perhaps he thought if he was in the forefront, he might prevent Burke from more "unnecessary" killing. Twist would have to be very fast indeed if he expected to prevent Burke from doing anything the former SAS man set his hand to.

This was no immediate reaction, so Glover got Corbeau on his feet and guided him through the doorway. Dodger slung his deck and followed. As he walked, the elf finished assembling the compact sub-machine gun he had broken down for their walk from the abandoned car.

The inside of the warehouse was cavernous. Corbeau's footsteps echoed softly in the darkness. He was the only one of the group not wearing soft-soled footgear. Pools of light fought back the dark at random intervals, revealing stacks of crates, pyramids of cylinders, and huge cargo containers. During the day the area would have been a hive of activity. Night made it a sepulcher. With the door to the alley closed, the street sounds had vanished, leaving only Corbeau's soft footfalls and the lap of water against the concrete of the enclosed dock area to break the silence.

They were halfway across the floor, strung out in the dark, when Glover felt a clammy touch at the base of his skull. He shuddered. That was the warning signal he had been told he would receive when magical danger to his person was imminent. He stopped, readying his defenses. Extending his senses to locate his associates, Glover spread the protection to include them. He was barely quick enough. As he closed the shield over Burke, he felt a spell slam against his defensive perimeter, clawing to get in and ravage them.

The magician who cast it hadn't been expecting a counter; he hadn't used enough strength.

Lights flooded the area. Mihn-Pao security had been alerted and had lain in ambush on the possibility that the EPA officers had tumbled onto runners targeting the facility. Half a dozen uniformed guards were on the catwalks in the rafters, readying to fire on the intruders. Glover could hear more clattering to join their fellows. The hard slap of boots on concrete told him that additional forces were charging to intercept them on the warehouse floor.

Burke reacted with all of his chipped speed. His Steyr AUG coughed in rapid bursts as he spun. Three of the guards dropped in his initial attack, killed or incapacitated before they could fire. One of the bodies slipped from the catwalk to impact heavily on the concrete behind Glover.

As the Mihn-Pao squad returned fire, Glover dove forward to drag the cow-eyed Corbeau out of harm's way. His back itched. There was a hostile magician out there. If Glover had to protect Corbeau, he would be unable to counter the enemy's magic effectively.

Single sharp cracks marked Twist's contribution. Each shot shattered one of the globes protecting the lights that robbed the runners of the concealment of the shadows. They no longer fought in a building filled with artificial day. The earlier gloom had not returned, but at least they had patches of dark to hide in.

The elf joined the fray, spraying a lethal welcome into the midst of the first reinforcing squad on the catwalks. The survivors fell back. No doubt they were suddenly glad of Twist's destructive efforts as they retreated into the cloaking shadows.

Darkness would do little to hide them from the enemy magician. Glover forced Corbeau to crawl faster. He needed to get the man to a safe place so he could concentrate on finding his counterpart. Finding a stack of crates that provided a nook out of the surviving guards' line of fire, Glover directed Corbeau into the recess and told him to keep his head down. That done, he crawled back to the edge of the stack.

Using only his mundane senses, Glover started to search for the enemy magician. The hostile was already active and would likely spot him first if he tried active magic. His saw no sign of the enemy.

Twist was huddled in the shelter of a massive shipping crate. At first, Glover thought that the American runner had been wounded, but he realized that Twist was concentrating. His breathing was deep, almost trancelike. When he had first seen the odd knots in the fringes of Twist's jacket, Glover had thought them merely superstitious claptrap, the sort of charms to ward off evil that so many mundanes thought were effective. Perhaps they signified something more. Twist's shooting had been quite accurate. Was he some*sort of warrior adept? Glover hadn't thought that such adepts could focus their energies to improve their ability with projectile weapons, but he didn't know everything about magic. Who could?

Twist released his concentration, spun to his left, and knelt. Cradling his gun in a two-handed grip, he eased forward until he had a line of fire around the crate that had shielded him. Head cocked upward, he seemed to be searching the darkness for a target. Glover followed Twist's apparent eyeline.

There was nothing and no one on the catwalk\a151at least nothing mundane. Glover shifted his perception and saw the enemy mage. She had been standing there, invisible to the mundane eye, awaiting targets. Before Glover could ready a spell, Twist fired. The Mihn-Pao mage jerked and clutched at her shoulder. As she staggered against the railing, her astral aura flickered and Glover knew she had dropped her cloaking spell. Witchfire flickered around the mage's hand as she tried to summon the energy for a spell. The light faded when she slumped to her knees.'It vanished entirely when she toppled backward onto the walk's flooring.

The loss of the mage took the heart out of the MihnPao guards, and the firefight rapidly degenerated into a stalemate. The runners were pinned down, too far away from the boats at the docks to make a break. The security team didn't advance; they were unwilling to face Burke's deadly accurate fire. At least there were no alarms. Likely the Mihn-Pao team leader had no wish to lose face in the corporate community; to call for help against such a small invasion would not be good for Mihn-Pao's public image. The corporation's concern for its image was one of the reasons he had chosen to acquire his transportation from them; they were less likely to report the theft than any of the alternative sources. Mihn-Pao's obsession with image was serving the runners now, but it was a fleeting advantage. Even without an alarm, there would be more troops. Time was on Mihn-Pao's side.

A sudden burst of lambent energy cut the darkness, sizzling past the elf's hiding place and boring a hole in one of the pillars. It was too focused and rigid for magical energy; a new, lethal technology had entered the fray. Glover drifted his astral form free to locate the danger. From the far end of the structure, another Mihn-Pao squad was advancing. They were led by a burly ork enwrapped in the bristly cocoon of heavy armor and a gyro-stabilized gun mount. His silhouette was misshapen beyond the offensive distortion normal for his kind, made hunchbacked by the massive backpack he wore. His burden was the power pack that fed his high-energy laser weapon. The laser, though heavy due to the coolant jacket sheathing its barrel, swiveled quickly under the ork's direction. Glover returned to his body as another bolt tore through the boxes behind which the elf sheltered. Dodger scrambled backwards, seeking new cover. Glover smelled burned hair mixed with the scent of wood smoke and something even more acrid. Small flames played in the charcoaled edges of the hole the laser had drilled through the crates.

Mihn-Pao had played a trump that Glover and the runners could not easily counter. Armor would protect the ork from the runners' guns, but Glover could take out the gunner with his magic if he had a clear line of sight. Unfortunately, that meant the gunner would have a line of fire as well. Glover was quite sure the ork would be faster.

Burke signalled for his attention. Glover softly spoke the words for the spell that would let him hear Burke's words. He didn't like what the former SAS man had to say, but he saw no reasonable alternative. He nodded, and Burke was on his way. Glover started to tug Corbeau out of his hiding place.

Seconds later, Burke opened fire from the flank of the advancing reinforcements. Glover gave the MihnPao troops a second to engage, and shouted for the others to join him in running for the boats. Just as they reached the boats, the survivors of the first MihnPao squad spotted them and opened fire. Corbeau was hit as he stepped into the boat. Blood splattered the coaming as he collapsed over it. Glover jumped in after him, terrified that the man had been killed. Twist and the elf returned fire as they converged on the boat. They must have gotten the shooters, since no more fire raked the boat.

Glover was relieved to find Corbeau only wounded. As he searched for the craft's first aid kit, the laser crackled again. A scream of pain rose from somewhere near where he had last heard Burke's Steyr. There was more gunfire, but only from one side. Burke's weapon was silent. The Mihn-Pao guards would be continuing their advance. They would be cautious; they couldn't know where the runners waited. Several stacks of brilliant orange cylinders screened the two groups, but only for a minute at best. Not enough time to get the doors open and the boat clear. Even if Twist was a warrior adept, they would not get out alive without Burke. They were trapped.

New gunfire raked the dock and boat, forcing the runners to duck. The first of the reserve squad had arrived. The laser gunner, slowed by his heavy load, would soon be upon them. The elf returned fire while Twist struggled to unmoor the boat.

What a rotter! For a chance impatience, the run had soured. Corbeau would die here and it was Glover's fault. He could not have harmed the cause more if he had tried. It was unbearable. There had to be something that could be done. He started to pant as his panic and anger fought for dominance within him. As his chest rose and fell within the confines of his armored jacket, he felt a hardness rubbing against his skin. Bright Lord! He was an idiot whose poor memory disgraced his calling.

Burke had bought them some time at the cost of his life. Such a sacrifice could not, would not, be wasted. Glover stripped open the velcro fastening of his jacket and reached under the neck of his shirt, groping for the cord. His frantic fingers found the talisman and pulled it free. His desperate animal self cried for him to unleash its power, but his rational mind knew that the object held no power of its own; the amulet was just a focus, a way for him to amplify his call and enhance his control. Hyde-White had been right with a firefight raging, he needed the concrete object as a core for his concentration. He intoned the word of release over and over. He willed the guardian spirit to act, focusing on the Mihn-Pao team and naming them his enemies.

The laser gunner rounded the corner. He advanced boldly, confident in his firepower and the protective virtues of his armor. His support team fired past him from protected positions. The shriek of tortured metal from the cylinders at l\a187 his side brought the ork to a wary halt. One of the cannisters midway up the pile had bulged out as if hammered by some immense force. Metal squealed again as the cylinder distended anew. With an earsplitting screech, the abused container split. A translucent green column of chemical gel arced from the fissure, curving unnaturally to reach for a Mihn-Pao guard who had used the end of the stack as cover. Tentacle-like, it wrapped around the man. He screamed at its touch. Cloth and flesh blackened, hissing and bubbling under the touch of the toxic slime.

The gunner reacted quickly. He swiveled his laser and triggered the weapon. The dazzling beam speared the chemical tentacle halfway along its length, piercing it and puncturing more cannisters. Chemicals sprayed from the newly ruptured tanks. As if with malign intent, the streams arched and flowed into the tentacle. As its volume increased, the malefic limb swelled and sagged towards the floor, the dark swirling stains from the laser's strike dispersing throughout its bulk. It released the guard it had attacked. He dropped to the concrete and lay twisted, skin blistered and seared.

The gelid mass did not flow to spread out on the floor of the warehouse. It wobbled, an uncanny mound growing ever larger. Pseudopods extended from near the top of the column and stretched forward in parody of arms. Nearer the base, another tentacle grew and flowed out to touch the floor. The shape lurched, its mass shifting forward toward that new contact. It was no longer amorphous. A stretching, rounded mockery of a man, it stepped clear of the cylinders.

The gunner pumped two more shots into it, starting new swirls of discoloration. Chemicals boiled where the beams pierced the shape. All the terrible energy he unleashed seemed to have no other effect. Behind the thing, newly ruptured cylinders contributed more to its mass.

The ork scrambled out of its path, backing away until he was forced to stop by one of the roof's supporting columns. Eyes darting between the advancing horror and his weapon, the gunner fumbled with the laser's settings. A high-pitched capacitor whine overwhelmed the shrill beeping of the overload warning. The ork ignored the sounds, training the laser once again on the monstrous thing that stalked him. With a sizzling crack, the weapon discharged. No longer a brief pulse, the beam was an eye-searing line of energy. The gunner's backpack smoked as the power cells emptied their energy into the shape. Acrid green smoke rose from the surface as the chemicals bubbled and blackened. The pale color darkened, going opaque, and the thing seemed to shrink back. The ork's face contorted as his relief shifted to a savage glee. He took a step forward.

His elation vanished as the shape surged, elongating toward him like a cresting wave. His scream was cut off as he was engulfed. Like sand washing from a hand, his flesh flowed away from his bones. The shape flowed past him, curving and reforming in the center of the aisle. It lurched in the direction of the next nearest Mihn-Pao guard. Behind it a pitted, scorched skeleton tumbled into a heap with the corroded plastic and metal parts that had been the ork's gear.

Glover grabbed Twist by the arm. The American was staring at the spectacle, a horrified expression on his face. The last mooring line hung forgotten in his hands. Twist didn't react, and Glover cast free the last line by himself.

"Let's go," he shouted to the elf. The boat's engine roared to life. Gathering speed, the boat headed for the opening door.

Once they were through, it would be a short run across the strait to the coast, where they would be harder to spot. Then, a quick run along the New Territories. Once they crossed the Enclave border into the maritime jurisdiction of Kungshu, they would be safe. At least from corporate pursuit. The warlords of the Chinese mainland were united on very little, but resisting further intrusions by the extranational corporations was one cause that bound them. Whatever their history and present ambitions, those warlords all remembered the glittering prize of Hong Kong that was supposed to belong to China and how their pride had been torn and shredded when the region had ripped free from China's control during the troubled times of the early part of the century.

Glover could understand how they felt. Britain had been duped and taken advantage of in that disgraceful episode as well. Believing that the British government would have a guiding role in reestablishing the thriving community that had been the Crown Colony and desperately desiring the bounty such a restored enclave would bring, the government had ignored the warnings of the druidic community. But the corps' encouragement of Britain's participation had been a sham, a way to rally certain elements and pull them into the struggle and thus minimize corporate involvement. They so disliked expending assets when unnecessary.

Had the political leaders listened to those wiser and less avaricious heads, Britain's honor would not have been sullied by participation in the multinational megacorporations' schemes that ultimately resulted in their control of Hong Kong. Britain had been used. The multinational corporations funding the rebellion had also funded dissident warlords, using the breakup of the repressive Shui regime to grab and hold Hong Kong and the New Territories for themselves. Those corporations renamed their corporate state the Hong Kong Free Enterprise Enclave. When Britain stepped forward to claim control, there had been laughter in the boardrooms. The corps had already obtained grants to the disputed territories from a dozen warlords in trade for arms and supplies. It wasn't strictly legal, but they had possesion. The few British ambassadors to Chinese leaders who hadn't had "accidents" were sent away in shame. Liaisons to the corporate consortium waited for appointments that never materialized.

The whole dishonorable episode was over and done before Glover had been born, but he felt the pain as if he had been one of those embarrassed ambassadors. Growing up, he had heard the stories from veterans of the expeditionary force, and had wondered why they didn't match the official histories he was taught in school. It wasn't until he was at university and under the tutelege of druids that he learned the true story. The duplicity and betrayals were so much like what he himself saw in Britain today. He had become certain that the megacorporations would very much like to see Britain dead, and that certainty had crystallized his belief that Britain could only be restored to glory by a return to the old ways.

They crossed the strait without incident and turned northward along the coast. Within an hour they would reach the inlet where the aircraft was hidden. Then, he would be on his way home with the prize that would make possible the first steps in restoring the glory that was Britain.

He looked back across the dark water. The glittering spires of Hong Kong were alight with the dazzle of false promises. They were ugly. This place made him feel soiled; he set his thoughts to the future.

Sam stared at Dodger. The elf sat slumped in the padded armchair he had appropriated, lost in the world of the Matrix, his fingers occasionally tapping a staccato rhythm on his Fuchi cyberdeck. Dodger looked relaxed, which was annoying. Sam poked him. "Find anything yet?"

"By all that's good on the earth! Do you want to do it yourself?"

The elf's annoyance triggered Sam's own pent-up frustration. "Maybe I should!"

"Maybe you should just ask our host to shoot you. Glover's system is tough; it's a lot better protected than it should be. You may have been a hotshot researcher but you never were much of a decker. Besides, you're months behind the SOTA."

The elf's harsh appraisal of his abilities stung. "I don't need to be state-of-the-art to bust his hincky system."

Dodger laughed scornfully. "You're so hot! So sure! This 'hincky system' has got protection that has fried deckers better than you could ever dream of being." "Well, if you're not getting anywhere, somebody has to."

"I've been working the deck for three days now.

There are layers of this system that are glacial with 1C. Positively cryogenic. You want to fry your brain? Do it with somebody else's hardware. I won't have you getting my chips iced just because you can't wait for a professional to do his job." Dodger was right, of course. The elf was a pro at unauthorized computer access. Even with the elf's guidance, Sam had been a barely adequate decker when they had run against the Renraku architecture last year. With all of his magical study and firearms practice, Sam had found no time to pursue Dodger's peculiar technomancy. Besides, the computer interface still gave Sam headaches, and the awakening of his magical powers had made the Matrix an even more uncomfortable place. His brash assertions and challenge of Dodger's competence were just manifestations of his frustrations.

"I'm sorry, Dodger. You're right. Do what you can."

" 'Twould seem my own patience is frayed as well, Sir Twist. I like this enforced guesting no more than you. 'Twould be best not to disturb me whilst I work, for I spoke truly of the devilish complexity of the system. Were you to distract me at the wrong moment, you would learn nothing more than how to care for an elven vegetable."

"That's not something I want to do, Dodger. Just let me know when you get something."

"I shall. But wander not too far lest you not be available should their ice lock me in." "I'll be here," said Sam.

Dodger smiled with confidence. "I shall count on it."

The elf returned his attention to the Matrix, leaving Sam to contemplate their position. Glover had brought them to England, alleging that he needed them to protect Corbeau now that Burke was gone. Some need! The flight had been uneventful, Corbeau being delivered to a minor ATT installation without incident. Glover had told them to wait at his mansion, offering a handsome retainer. That had been four days ago. Four days in which they had not seen or heard from Glover.

Sam had already been suspicious of Glover's motives. He didn't like the man's attitude. Why had he let Dodger talk him into continuing to work with the man? Why? Because of the chance to find Janice. That slim hope had dwindled to nothing. Janice was on Yomi; she couldn't be further away from England.

But leaving wouldn't be simple. The mansion's population seemed to consist only of a handful of servants, who knew nothing. They were polite and efficient, but totally unhelpful. There were uniformed guards with guns as well, but he and Dodger only saw them when they tried to go beyond the immediate grounds. So far everyone had remained polite, but he was sure that the guards had orders to prevent Sam and Dodger from leaving the estate. Sam had tried an astral survey of the place and found many of the rooms blocked to him. He hadn't tried to get through those blocks, for there were half-world presences drifting around the mansion, hostile spirits that threatened him when he attempted to probe in certain directions.

As much as he disliked his surroundings and the treatment they were receiving, he knew that he couldn't just leave. He had seen the thing Glover had summoned in the Mihn-Pao warehouse. All of his senses screamed that it was wrong. His hair had stood on end when he had seen it form, his head throbbing with a warning howl. Glover had called it, and the list Dodger retrieved from Glover's computer said that he wanted a woman who might be his sister Janice. Now, whether or not the woman Glover sought was Janice, Sam wanted to know just who he had been working for. He had to know more about Glover and his organization. It was hours before Dodger jacked out. His eyes were sunken and rimmed with the bruising of exhaustion.

" 'Twould seem that Rene' Corbeau is not now nor ever has been connected to ATT."

"You're sure?"

The elf quirked his mouth up in annoyance.

"Sorry." Sam ran his fingers up through his beard until his palms cradled his jaw. "Then Glover is a rogue."

" 'Tis a strong possibility."

"What about Burke?"

"The man is a shadow. There are tracks here and there, the occasional oblique reference, but all vanish if followed. Naetheless, the pattern is similar to one I have seen before. That shadow was a covert operative for the British government. By all the signs, I would venture that the late Burke was a special agent of some kind."

"A government agent?"

Dodger sighed. "You have been unbearable for days.

Have you gone deaf now, too?"

"Sorry, Dodger." The apologies were becoming a habit. Sam's nerves were frayed, but Dodger's must be worse. The elf had been doing all the hard work.

"Apology accepted, Sir Twist." Dodger massaged his forehead, then stared down at his hands. Without looking up, he said, "I fear that I have not helped matters, either. I wish I had never gotten you involved in this."

"I got myself involved. You may have found the list with a name that might be my sister's, but I was the one who decided to chase that phantom. Going to the Orient was supposed to get us closer to her trail. We were supposed to find out what Glover was doing and who the woman was. Now look at us. We're in England and practically under house arrest. We still don't know anything."

"Not entirely true. We know that Glover, ATT rogue or not, is part of an efficient organization. While we were helping him acquire Sanchez and Corbeau, someone else has been completing the rest of the list.

At the rate they are moving, whatever plans they have are coming to a head soon.''

"You've gotten an update on the list? Let me see it."

Dodger furrowed his brow as if the request was an annoyance.

"Wait a minute," he said, tapping keys. He snapped open the back of his cyberdeck and rolled out the monitor screen. After locking it, he turned it so Sam could see. "Here it is."

Sam read it quickly. Five out of the seven names were listed as acquired. Janice Walters, still last on the list, was unacquired. Reason enough to stay. Her acquisition might be why Glover had retained them. "So what do we do now?"

"Wait. With time and additional endeavor, I shall uncover more details."

Sam shook his head. "You've done more than enough for today. If you decked now, you'd trip over the first node you encountered. You need a rest."

" 'Tis true." Dodger stretched. Sam could hear his joints crack. " 'Tis also true that I need to get some exercise. Mayhap a walk in the garden would get the blood flowing again."

The late afternoon sun slanted across the garden, throwing chill pools of shade from the carefully trimmed evergreen trees and shrubs. Winter had stripped the massive oaks of their leaves, leaving their shadows a net of enmeshing branches. Oppressed by the image, Sam guided their walk into the topiary maze. Within its walls, the grasping oaks were only visible near the outer edge.

The curving paths went from shadow into sunlight and back again, alternately chilling and warming them. They took turns at random, not caring whether they reached the maze's heart, simply satisfied to be moving. After a while, they found themselves at the edge of a clearing. The grass was brown, withered into dormancy by the season. In summer, the circle would have been lush, a quiet, pleasant place to laze in the sun. A quartet of stone blocks, apparently seats, were set at the cardinal points.

Dodger headed for the one bench still touched by the sun and stretched out on it. The block was long enough that only the elf's feet hung over the edge. Sam sauntered over to join him. When he reached the stone, he crouched.

"What do you make of this?"

"A popular place to look at the scenery?"

"No, these symbols. There's something carved along the side of the stone."

Dodger rolled over onto his side and ran his fingers along the carving. "Hmmm. Writing. Most of the letter forms seem to be roman, but the frequencies and juxtapositions are not English. 'Tis not a language I know."

Sam stared at the words, if they were words. Most of the letters were familiar, but they were not ordered into words he knew. Silently, he tried sounding out the syllables he knew. There seemed to be a rhythm to the sounds, an interlocking cadence. Like the locking spell Sally had taught him.

"Didn't you once tell me that all mansions had secret passages?"

Dodger chuckled. "You don't think that this is some kind of hidden entrance to an underground tunnel complex where Glover and his fellows plot the overthrow of all who stand in the way of their re-establishment of the British Empire? Speak the incantation and the stone shall rise?"

"Since you put it that way, why not?"

"Because this is not some cheap piece of fiction." "But there does seem to be a crack. Like the top of the stone is a lid."

Dodger slid from the stone and examined the shadow

Sam pointed out. "Mayhap."

"Give me a hand to lift it." Lifting didn't work. Nor did sliding, pushing, pulling, or twisting. Sam knelt in front of the stone, frowning at it. Dodger sat on the grass, leaning back on his hands.

"A trick of the light. A crack in the rock."

"I'm going to try something," Sam said. He stared at the symbols, clearing his mind of his frustration. He focused his magical energy, using the rhythmic mnemonic by which he., recalled the counter to Sally's locking spell. Into its steady but broadening cadence, he wove the rhythm he had discerned in the carved symbols. Nothing happened. He tried again, working at smoothing the flow of his thoughts, forcing them deeper into the pattern of the spell. This time he felt something in the stone relax.

Tentatively, he reached out his hand and pressed on the top of the stone. The upper surface slid back slightly, revealing a dark hollow wide enough for fingers. Sam stood and slipped his fingers into the gap. He braced himself, ready for the weight, and found the stone swinging up far more easily than he expected.

Visions of concealed stairways and torch-lit underground passages flashed through his head. With a final heave, he swung the slab back. It rocked up, but instead of sliding free, stayed upright as if hinged to the back of the bench. He looked; it was.

The bench contained no entrance to secret places. It seemed filled with carefully folded white cloth. Sam tugged on one pile. It unfolded to reveal that it was a robe. Complex swirls were embroidered on its chest. "Tacky rags," Dodger said. He was standing too, looking over Sam's shoulder. "Wizard stuff."

" 'Tis hardly a surprise. We saw what he did to that

Mihn-Pao gunner."

"I've seen these symbols somewhere."

"Mayhaps Friend Glover is Merlin Ambrosius reawakened to save the world."

"Merlin?" Sam asked thoughtfully.

"Sir Twist, I jested."

"But you jogged my memory. When I was studying about magic, I read some about the different kinds. A lot of sources suggest that Merlin, if he existed, was a druid. These are druidic symbols."

Dodger poked at the bundles of cloth still in the bench. He disturbed the piles enough to reveal a golden glitter. Careful not to snag the cloth, he removed a small sickle. Its blade glittered a ruddy gold in the sunlight.

"A sacrificial knife?"

"A ritual implement for the cutting of the holy mistletoe. Druids are nature magicians, shamans of a peculiar breed. They were very prominent in the restoration of the wild lands in Ireland before the Shidhe took control."

"Driven out like the snakes before Padraigh's wrath." Dodger tossed the sickle back into the bench. "There are enough robes here to clothe a dozen or so people. 'Twould seem Friend Glover is part of a circle of druids. Mayhap he acts in their interests and, if so, he might even be a government agent."

"How so?"

"Know you not that the Lord Protector is a druid?"

"I didn't."

" 'Tis true. His Green Party is a coalition of members of both Houses of Parliament."

"I didn't realize the Greens were druids. I remember hearing how they ousted the last Conservative government after the restoration of the monarchy."

"They were instrumental in the restoration and have yet to face a serious challenge to their control of the government. England has not seen such a powerful interest group since Cromwell's Puritans."

"Well, I hope that the druids are more open-minded than the Puritans. With the power they have in this country, they'd better be," Sam said. "Everything I read about druids makes them out to be benevolent sorts. Of old, they were lore keepers and law speakers, prominent and worthy members of the community. In modern Britain, they are active in the recognition and training of magically active persons as well as taking a prominent role in higher education."

Dodger prodded at the robes. " 'Twould not be wise to expect more tolerance than the Puritans offered. Was not druidism a sort of a religion and druids its priests?"

"Before the Awakening, maybe so. The cults subscribing to druidism built their belief systems on idiosyncratic reconstructions of old Celtic paganism. They had more than their share of egotistical false prophets. Nobody really knows exactly how the old druids operated, since they kept no written records.

"The druids of the Sixth World are the inheritors of that tradition, but I'm not sure that any of them are direct descendents. When the magic came back, some magicians built their focus parameters around what they believed to be druidic tenets and rituals. Their totems were things like Sun, Oak, Zephyr, Stream, and Stag. Forest and growing land stuff. Naturally, they called themselves druids. Maybe it's their mindset or maybe it's the way the magic works, but mostly they have confined their activities to Europe. Although they were quite active in the restoration of the land in the isles and on the continent, they weren't aggressive like the tribal magicians in North America. I hadn't known they were so involved in British politics.

"England has been prospering under the Greens. If Glover is a druid, we're probably being paranoid about his motives; the delay may be nothing sinister at all. He may just be waiting for the right phase of the moon or something to undertake the next part of his operation. Druids worry a lot about astrological cycles."

Dodger rubbed his fingers together, switching his gaze from them to the contents of the bench. He said thoughtfully, "Let us hope that he is not a fanatic about this stuff.''

Glover was uncomfortable in the closeness of the room, finding the scent of the many bouquets oppressive. Some of the flowers were wilted, some fresh cut. The mixture of floral perfume and organic decay was an olfactory confusion. How did Hyde-White stand it? Or was the old man no longer able to smell the blossoms with which he surrounded himself?

Hyde-White sat enthroned behind an ancient oak desk whose top was eccentric, the shape of a crosscut bole. His massive gut was wedged into a concavity that allowed him easy reach of the telecom on one hand and the bank of internal intercoms on the other. The grey light of the telecom monitor, the brightest source of illumination in the room, lit his face from below, reversing the normal pattern of highlights. The lighting roughened the softness of the broad face and made his eyes a glitter in pools of darkness.

Glover felt sweat snake out from his armpits to trickle down his sides despite the room's lack of heat. He didn't have Hyde-White's insulation of bulk, but his fear of the old man's disapproval warmed him uncomfortably. He felt the temperature rise as the dark eyes across the desk left the telecom screen and focused on him. It was as bad as it had been at university when the old man had been his teacher.

"So you called upon the guardian I set over you."

"I did."

A bushy, white eyebrow rose. "And?" "It was a powerful spirit, sir." That was no more than the truth. He wished that he knew how to control such spirits. "You are an accomplished conjurer."

"And you are jealous." Hyde-White interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on the rotund vastness of his belly. "Jealousy is a power that can fuel a man, goading him to reach for his dreams. You could have such spirits at your call, you know. I sense that you have the potential. You need only harness it. A man who possesses such power can rise far.'' "I am content with my place, sir," Glover lied. "If I believed that, I would not bother talking to you." Hyde-White chuckled. The sound was an almost subsonic rumble. "Ambition is not a sin, Andrew. A man without ambition is a husk. A useless scarecrow upon whom the crows shall sit and laugh.

"I am old, Andrew, and not what I once was. In these latter days, it is necessary for me to work with others to accomplish all that I desire. Were I younger, things might be otherwise. But time has taught me that one can get lost pondering might-have-beens. The world's enduring lesson is that opportunities must be seized. Fail to act with resolution and you are lost. All your dreams turn to dust.''

The old man was being annoyingly roundabout; making suggestions and prodding him. Was this a test? Or was it something more complicated? A bid for power within the Circle, perhaps? Glover knew his personal power was greater than Hyde-White's; he had read the old man's aura during working sessions. But raw power wasn't everything. Hyde-White was steeped in knowledge, experience, and subtlety beyond even his venerable years. Glover had no intention of being Hyde-White's stalking horse.

"What do you mean by all this, sir? Are you suggesting that I disrupt the Circle in some sort of bid for power? I am loyal to the cause, sir. I will not throw our Circle into chaos on the eve of our triumph."

"The Circle is weak."

"We shall be strong when the ritual is completed. The blood will restore the land and the Circle shall become its guardians. We need no longer chafe under the short-sighted leadership of the Lord Protector.''

"Perhaps the Circle will be stronger. But a circle is chain of individuals dedicated to the same ideals. Like any chain, it is no stronger than its weakest link, and no chain can remain intact when that weak link is subject to stresses beyond its strength. The ritual we contemplate is a powerful force. It must be, to restore the balance so woefully tilted when the Lord Protector snubbed unforgiving stars and neglected proper observances. This work shall demand much of any who attempt it, and the forces which will rise to our call shall demand even more from the leader of the ritual team. Our leader must be strong, else things will go awry. We may do more harm than good."

The old man's words were disturbing, but not just for their content. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I have studied you. I think that you believe as I do. That the land should always have been our first concern, and that we have failed as its custodians. We were blinded by our arrogance and thought ourselves rulers instead of stewards. Our species has failed the earth."

Hyde-White was perceptive and had touched the truth of Glover's convictions. Or at least the surface of them; even stewards had ambitions. But a good steward knew enough to set those ambitions aside until his charge was healthy. For what was a steward, after all, but a parasite? No parasite survived by killing its host.

"I see by your face, Andrew, that I am right about you. The land's pain echoes in your ears as loudly as it does in mine. I am speaking to you because I do not believe you are one of Neville's sheep. You do not seek the land's restoration out of some misguided longing for the restored glory of an aristocratic heritage. You know that it is a task that must be done for our very survival. What ambitions you have, you have harnessed to await that time."

"At first, I thought that you were proposing that we break the Circle. I will not do that. The land must be restored and the ritual is our only chance," Glover said. "You yourself brought the text from which we devised the ritual to the attention of the Circle. Why are you so troubled about it now? Are you having second thoughts about its efficacy?"

"Second thoughts came and went three years ago. I have progressed far beyond them. While Neville and his misguided followers have been chasing down the bloodlines, I have been studying the lore. I fear that all may not be as simple as Neville would have it." Hyde-White paused, allowing the brief moment of silence to add weight to his next words. "The ritual is not entirely safe."

"We all know that there will be some personal danger. All rituals involve risk."

Hyde-White nodded gravely. "Risks to the participants are unavoidable; but that is not what I mean. If the ritual is not performed absolutely correctly, the consequences may be grave, indeed. The gathered power may be warped and, in its corruption, grow to threaten the land itself. Are you ready to unleash more horror on our burdened land?"

"Neville would never allow that. For all his arrogant assumptions of superiority, he feels the land's pain as much as we do. He would not harm it."

"He may not be able to prevent the harm from happening."

"And you can?"

Hyde-White pressed his thick lips together, the area around his mouth going pale. "I do not know. When we realized that the Lord Protector was blind to the need, we formed our circle and elected Neville as archdruid of our ritual circle. I fear that we may not have chosen wisely and that his leadership will have dire consequences. But my fear will not lead me to abandon you all, and my conscience will not allow such a breach of trust. I will be present and do all I can to see that the ritual proceeds as it should. But if it begins to go awry, I would like to know that there is someone else who appreciates that we may have to change our plans. Someone strong enough to take charge and lead us away from disaster. The land needs our help, Andrew. We must do whatever is necessary to heal it."

"So we all swore."

"Indeed, we did. But an oath is not strength in itself. I fear that Neville will not have the strength to see us through."

"He is a greater shaman than I."

"You are young and strong. Though your skill and knowledge may be less than his, your power is greater. Skill and knowledge may be increased with relative ease, but raw power is the gift of the young. Once squandered, it may only be bought at a dear price.

"I am old. With age, my mundane power has grown, while the tribulations of life and magic have leached my occult powers slowly away. I believe I can see clearly what must be done, but I am no longer sure I have the power to do it. You have that power, Andrew. I feel it pulsing in you. I can show you the way, and you can do what must be done."

Hyde-White lapsed into silence, apparently content to let Glover consider his arguments. If the old man's fears were real, there was no recourse. The land came first. If this was all a smoke screen for a power play, Glover wasn't sure that he wanted to be involved. Neville was an influential man; his friends were primarily members of the nobility, who could use their influence to make or break Glover's mundane career. But HydeWhite was a power as well. His GWN Corporation held a significant portion of ATT stock, as well as controlling interests in several other miiwr multinationals. The sum of his interests gave him considerable direct influence in the corporate community and made him more powerful than any one of Neville's cronies. Glover would need time to sort out his options. "I will think about what you say, sir." Hyde-White smiled broadly. "I have faith that you will make the right decision, Andrew."

"So his lordship wants them drugged, does he?" Sam's hunger vanished and he stopped instantly, his hand mere centimeters from the kitchen door. Finding the servants' attentions uncomfortable, he had approached quietly, not wishing to disturb them. If they had known he was hungry, they would have insisted on fixing something for him rather than letting him get his own. Their solicitousness, while pleasant at first, had begun to chafe as much as the confinement. Now he was glad that he had tried to keep his kitchen raid quiet. He listened to the voices on the other side of the door.

"That's what Norman said," a deep voice replied.

"I don't know why, though."

"You never know, Cholly." "Cholly's got a point, Bert. They may be Yanks, but I don't like the idea of slipping them something. I mean, what's it gonna be next? Slitting their throats while they sleep?"

"Criminy! You're such a whiner, Georgie. You're almost as bad as Cholly. It's not like we were poisoning them or nothing. The stuff is only going to put them to sleep a little early. They won't feel a thing." "But how do you know, Bert? The stuff in that bottle Norman brought could be poison. We'd never know it until the Yanks died in their chairs. Then we'd be murderers."

"You ain't got nothing to worry about, Georgie. I used this stuff before. Got me my last three wives." "Bert, you hound."

Laughter erupted. The loudest seemed to belong to

Bert.

"They'll never even taste it in the wine. A couple of sips and fifteen minutes later, they'll get real sleepy and want to head straight to bed. We just let them. If they was birds, we could have a grand old time. They'd never know. Course they might feel a bit sore in the morning."

Cholly's deep voice trammeled on the last gasps of a fresh burst of guffaws. "Burt, why do his lordship want them to sleep?"

"Blimey, but you are slow, Cholly. His lordship's got company coming in tomorrow night. He obviously don't want his house guests to know about it."

"Why don't he just ask the Yanks to stay in their rooms?''

"Because they are Yanks, ya twit. Yanks never do what they're told to do."

The scattered laughter was punctuated by the scape of a chair. Sam backed away from the door. The talk continued, but he couldn't hear it distinctly. He had just settled in a dark corner where he thought he would be safe from a casual glance, when the door swung wide spilling light into the hall. Bert the groundskeeper stepped through.

"Keep the fire burning, boys. I'll be back after I make my rounds."

Assurances and mock insults drifted from the kitchen. Bert waved them oif and shuffled down the hall, oblivious to his surroundings. Sam didn't move until he was sure that Bert had enough time to leave the building. Then he headed back upstairs. There'd be no raid on the larder tonight.

Pretending to be affected by the wine had been easy\a151far easier than waiting for the servants to make the check on the supposedly drugged guests so that they could assure their master that the ploy had been successful. But they came at last, and Sam's lack of response to their calling of his name and the tentative prods that followed satisfied them that the Yanks were safely under the influence.

The house grew quiet.

Sam crept to Dodger's room, avoiding the boards he had learned creaked the loudest. Together they waited while they heard Glover go to the door to greet his guests. When things again quieted, Sam and Dodger crept forth. From the landing, light spilling into the main hall told them that Glover had chosen to entertain in a room that Sam had been unable to penetrate as trally. A quick check assured him that the barrier still held. Any penetration of Glover's secrets would have to be physical.

Sam and Dodger skulked through the upper hall, settling where they could get a view of the meeting chamber. The room's only illumination was the fire in the massive stone hearth at one end, but that made it far brighter than the hall and upper stories. The sliding doors to the room were open, allowing a rectangle of flickering light to fall across the ancient flooring and scale the paneled wall opposite the door. At first Sam thought that Glover and his cronies were foolish to leave the panels open, but then he remembered his own eavesdropping of the previous night. No servant would creep to the door and listen from concealment, for they would be seen. Any who crept close would be disclosed to those within the room as well; the hall's flooring would announce their passage and alert the conspirators. Likewise, a servant returning from the upper stories in defiance of his earlier dismissal would be betrayed by the creaking of the old staircase.

Sam's position provided him with a partial view of the room. Near its center, Glover sat in a comfortable armchair. In a matching chair at his side, a position of honor, sat an older man with grey hair and a trim grey mustache. From the deference shown to him, Sam pegged him as Sir Winston Neville, the only name he had heard Glover use in greeting the others. Neville's welcome had been the most effusive, so it was likely that he would be given the most honored seat. A younger man, by the cast of his aristocratic face a son or cousin to Neville, stood behind the chair. Occasionally Sam caught glimpses of three others moving about the room.

The great outer door opened, swinging wide on silent hinges. There had been no knock or bell chime. A man entered, striding ponderously forward. He was huge and walked with a huffing that emphasized the difficulty he had in moving his enormous bulk. The moonlight sent glints from the sweat that beaded among the sparse white hairs of his head. A casual swat sent the door arcing shut as he started down the hall.

"Hyde-White is here," announced one of the men in the room. They were all staring at the doorway when the obese man reached the arch.

Newcomer and gathered conspirators faced each other. They exchanged words in a language that Sam didn't recognize, although it seemed to have echoes of English. Having finished what seemed a ritual greeting, Glover inclined his head and waved a hand in invitation.

Hyde-White rolled forward. As the jutting prow of his obesity passed over the threshold, the air in the doorway shimmered. A line of sparks ran around the fat man's shape, making a glittering outline as he passed the magical barrier that sealed the room. He spoke as soon as the last sparkle died, his voice a resonant rumble like the distant growling of summer thunder.

"Please excuse my tardiness. There were some affairs in the Atzlan office to sort out, and my personal attention was required. I trust you have not reached any important conclusions without me."

"We were having Barnett fill us in on his last acquisition," the grey-haired man said.

"My apologies for the interruption, Sir Winston. Please continue, Mr. Barnett,'' Hyde-White said as he marched deeper into the room. "I'm sure I will be fascinated."

The fat man ponderously passed from view. Sam could tell when Hyde-White sat, for the bannister in front of his face trembled slightly. The pinch-faced man, who was obviously Barnett, cleared his throat before continuing.

"I really don't have much more to say. My mission went smoothly and there were no problems. It's a shame that we cannot all say the same. Eh, Glover?"

Glover, who had been staring at the fire, swiveled his head around to face Barnett. "Are you suggesting that I have failed the Circle, Mr. Barnett?"

"Anyone could lose valuable employees in such a venture. Although Mr. Burke was one of our more exceptional agents, I would hardly fault you for his passing. The fortunes of war, I am sure." Barnett sniffed. "I am merely referring to certain loose ends."

Stepping around from behind the chair, the younger Neville said, "Yes, Glover. What has become of the shadowrunners who acompanied you from Hong Kong? We have heard that they are still in the country."

Glover addressed his answer to the older Neville, as if he had spoken, instead. "They are upstairs, asleep."

"Why haven't you dismissed them? Were they to stumble downstairs into our meeting it would be most inconvenient. You should have left them in Hong Kong." The younger Neville's pointing finger of accusation didn't distract Glover.

"I did not think that a wise idea at the time, Sir Winston. With Mister Burke eliminated, I deemed the additional protection they could offer to be necessary. Had I encountered additional difficulties, the safety of Monsieur Corbeau might have been threatened. I saw his safe return as my primary responsibility. The day draws near."

"You should have dismissed them as soon as you arrived here safely," young Neville insisted.

Glover shook his head slowly. "By then, they had seen enough to connect me to ATT. I thought it inadvisable to let them loose with that knowledge." "Then you should have had them killed," Barnett said. "You swore the secrecy oath along with the rest of us."

"Indeed," Glover said, folding his arms across his chest. "That is precisely why they are still alive. If they were not disposed of cleanly and completely, there would be an investigation. We do not need inquiries from the Lord Protector's Oversight Board at this time. But once we have completed our ritual, we will no longer need to remain hidden, and without a need for absolute secrecy we may dispose of them easily. For now, they remain here, believing themselves on retainer for an upcoming shadowrun. The deception is sufficient; they remain ignorant of the Circle and our goal."

"You have badgered Mr. Glover enough," rumbled Hyde-White. "The crucial question is the suitability of Mr. Gordon."

"Suitability has been addressed and confirmed beyond any question. While Mr. Gordon remains uncrowned, there is no question of the sanctity of his bloodline. Had not the father-in-law of the current holder of the throne been so prominent in the work of gathering the scattered survivors of the royal family, Mr. Gordon would be our crowned sovereign. That unfortunate turn of events is but one of the hurdles we strive to overcome. The false king only contributes to the land's woes. But crowned or not, Edward Arthur Charles Gordon-Windsor is the chalice of mystic power necessary to restore the land." Sir Winston Neville threw back his shoulders and tugged at his waistcoat to seat it properly. "I spoke with him before coming here tonight. I can assure you all he is ready to accept his part in the ritual. He seems eager to take his place as the seventh, for he believes as we do. The land must live."

"The land must live," the others echoed.

The seventh? If Gordon was the seventh, what was the name of Janice Walters doing on Glover's list? Sam looked at Dodger. The elf was staring fixedly ahead. He seemed intent on listening to the conspirators. There would be questions to ask later.

Illusion was the heart's blood of the Shidhe Courts.

When Hart glanced around her, taking in the wild array of sights, sounds, and smells of the Seelie Court, she could never be sure if what she saw was real or an image that was the result of a magical spell. Checking astrally didn't always help. The great amounts of magical energy and the almost continual activity of the magicians of the court made assensing difficult. Much of the magic was defensive, for members of the court were often at odds with each other. Open warfare was forbidden, but pranks, taunts, and even clandestine, oblique struggles were common. Some of the magic was defensive on a less immediate level. The court had attracted elves and dwarves from around the world; some were concerned that their appearance was not up to the court standards. They used illusion to glamorize themselves, for the ugly were perforce members of the Unseelie Court, the co-ruling rivals with whom the Fair Folk shared the control of the Shidhe Dominion of Ireland.

The Seelie Court proclaimed Ireland to be a magical state, claiming that the Shidhe lords were the ancient proprietors who had returned to claim their rightful lands. But although they reveled in magic and officially held technology in scorn, the magician lords i took every advantage of science. The computer facilities and combat simulators she had been using for the past week were ample proof of that. Of course, the Shidhe would not speak of such things in public forums. They denied having or even needing such things. They had them, all right, and their technology was cutting-edge. They simply hid their technological workings or cloaked them in illusion. Image was very important to the metahuman rulers of Ireland.

The great double orichalcum doors to the inner court opened, swinging wide until they came to rest against the walls of vines in which they were set. Two elves, outsiders by their dress, walked through the arch. As they passed Hart, the woman nodded in friendly recognition. It was nothing personal. Hart's upswept fall of hair was the latest style outside. Even though she wore local garb, the hairdo marked Hart as a visitor to this fey land, and most visitors, though strangers to each other, found other visitors more congenial company than the locals. The man, glowering beneath his dark brows, didn't seem to notice Hart existed.

A voice from beyond the arch called Hart's name; it was time for her audience. She felt no trepidation. She had been expecting the summons to come soon.

She almost tripped as a gaggle of leshy scurried by in front of her just as she stepped forward. The short humanoids were a common sight among the verdant forest-city of the Seelie Court, but Hart didn't like them. They were flighty, dirty, and unkempt; their bark and leaf garments were rudimentary and showed no sense of fashion at all. She often doubted if they were truly intelligent at all. Even when she could make out the words their high-pitched voices mangled, the leshy were always either asking an impertinent, silly, pointless question or expressing some obscure and contradictory concern about the harmonious nature of what was going on around them. She cursed the group that had impeded her, and they scattered, laughing.

The doors closed behind her as she crossed the threshold. For a while she walked in darkness, which defeated her elven eyes. The floor beneath her feet felt like earth, firm yet with a resilience unequalled by synthetic carpets. The light level increased until it was comparable to that in a deep forest at night. She could smell the leaf mold and the fragrance of nightblooming flowers. Ahead of her she saw an open space. The light was brighter there, as if stars and moon shed their full light. No city-born plexer had ever seen such a night sky. No one would expect to at this time of day; it was mid-afternoon.

She entered the clearing, finding it little more than a wide lane between the great boles of ancient rowan and hawthorn trees. Amid the trees she could see the strolling or standing shapes of members of the inner court. None spoke to her, or even showed interest. She continued walking ahead.

At the end of the lane, the packed earth mounded in several steps to a raised area, behind which stood a singularly massive oak tree entwined about with mistletoe. Three thrones stood on the flat surface. The seat on the left was placed near the front edge. Though it was small, bold carvings painted in bright colors embellished every surface, making it seem larger than it was. Symbols of life and energy dominated the decorative motif in a vibrant statement of youth. The center throne stood well back, almost hidden in the shadows. Though the light which struck it revealed an intricacy of carving, Hart could discern no details. To the right of that great chair and set nearer and fully in the light was the third throne. Like the others, it was a masterpiece of the carver's art. The bold relief was accentuated by subtle painting that enhanced the relief to the point that many of the designs seemed to stand free from the panels. Of the three thrones, it was the only one occupied.

The woman who sat in the chair was exquisite, of a delicacy that even made Hart's own elven slimness seem fleshy. The lady had the ageless look of a mature elf, a youthfulness that would fade only as she approached the end of her allotted span. Her hair was of such fineness that it drifted in the slightest breeze that snaked across the dais, becoming a mist floating about her shoulders that owed more to light than to substance. Slender fingers toyed with a few errant strands, absently plaiting knots that vanished in a flick of those same tapering digits. Her eyes were the transparent blue of deep ice. Though she wore no symbols of rank, Hart had no doubt that she was the ruler here; the woman's bearing was that of a sovereign.

A male elf stood on the first step down from the dais. His name was Bambatu and his dark skin was an ebon contrast to the porcelain fairness of the hall's mistress. He no longer wore the elegant business suit in which he had recruited Hart. His bare chest shone as if it had been oiled, which perhaps it had. Around his loins he wore a cloth of many bright colors woven in mystical designs. Bangles, bands, and chains of gold and brazen orichalcum hung around his neck, waist, wrists, and ankles. He made a magnificent barbarian. She found his long, smooth muscles much more appealing than the over-developed travesties that norms seemed to insist their trid heroes possess. He watched her, too, his large dark eyes pools of sparkling interest.

When Hart reached the dais, she knelt at the begin [ning of the steps, holding her head bowed. The text ' she had read on formal courtesy suggested that such behavior was appropriate., "The Lady Brane Deigh bids you stand, Katherine

[Hart," said Bambatu.

Hart did as she was bidden. Bambatu had recruited 1 her, but Lady Deigh was her employer. The Lady's eyes met hers in a coolly appraising stare. Suspecting the importance of the moment, Hart held her gaze steady. A ghost of a smile touched the lady's lips.

' 'You have sheltered under my roof and accepted my coin, Hart. By the laws of the land that makes you milessaratish. You understand this obligation?"

Hart inclined her head. "I do, Lady." But understanding doesn 't mean agreement. You 've hired your talent, but I haven 'f become your liegewoman. That sort of thing is your concept, not mine.

"Very well. You were told of our opposition to the Hidden Circle, that you might prepare yourself to face them. Lord Bambatu informs me that you have availed yourself of our resources, seeking to hone your skills and study your adversaries. This is laudable. But the time for preparations is past, for tomorrow is the Solstice. Do you stand ready to confront them?"

"Yes, Lady."

"Then you have my blessings, Hart." She stood and walked across the dais towards Bambatu. He bowed to her as she approached. The Lady paused at the edge of the stairs and turned her face to Hart. "Ozidano teheron, milessaratish. Into medaron co versakhan. "

Hart replied to the formal dismissal with the ritual recasting of Lady Deigh's commands. "I leave my existence behind, Lady. At your word, I am the death of your enemies."

The sky was beginning to grey with the coming of dawn. As it grew, the light let them make out the sentry. Their patience had paid off; he was drowsing.

So far their departure from the mansion had gone unnoticed. The last barrier, the gate, lay before them. Once through, they would be out of Glover's hands. They knew from Dodger's tap of a NavSat that Glover's estate lay in the southwest of England. There was a town only a few miles away. From there, transportation to the Bristol metroplex would be a simple matter.

Sam drew his Narcoject Lethe.

The guard jerked at the impact of the dart and slid to the ground in a subdued clatter. While Sam injected an antidote, Dodger tapped into the gate control system. Three minutes later they were on the road to Taunton, the gate closed and locked behind them. In a few more minutes, the sentry would awaken, propped against the guard house. With little evidence to the contrary, he should think that he had dozed off naturally. If their luck held, it might be an hour or two until their absence was noticed.

The Black Down Hills were strange territory, but for those first minutes of freedom, Sam felt more at home than he had on Glover's estate. The growing dawn dampened his spirits as it unveiled a desolate landscape. Like much of England, the hills had been ravaged; first by overpopulation and industrialization, then by the ecological terrorism to which the country had been subjected in the early part of the century. It was a scarred and battered land, tortured further by the natural and man-made disasters that had plagued it in the last few years. The awfulness began to weigh him down.

Dodger trudged at his side. He and the elf had talked little beyond the necessary planning for their escape. Dodger's contributions had been terse, completely lacking in his usual banter and archaic style. Sam hadn't minded; he wasn't sure that he wanted to talk to Dodger just yet. The druids' talk last night had raised uncomfortable questions.

They reached the outskirts of Taunton without observing any signs of pursuit. The relief must have heartened Dodger; the elf tried a conversational gambit. Perhaps he was motivated by the need to discuss some matters before they were surrounded by curious ears.

"Sir Twist, don't you find it intriguing that so august a personage as Sir Winston Neville would be involved in these druidical shenanigans?''

"No," Sam replied brusquely. Druids weren't the only ones who were pulling shenanigans.

"What about this 'uncrowned sovereign' business?

Does not that compel your curiosity, Sir Twist?"

"No."

"Sir Twist, the paucity of your response suggests that you harbor some unspoken concern. Is this so?"

Of course it was so. Dodger's nagging at the druids' plans only gave credence to Sam's suspicions. They were not safe yet and they were beginning to encounter people, so all he said was, "Yes."

The elf lapsed into silence again.

Taunton's grimy buildings soon surrounded them.

The town offered them a chance to get some supplies. Beyond the obvious necessities of food, water, and ammunition, they had need of protective gear; there was a stage four smog alert in Bristol and a sane person wouldn't be outside a breath mask. If they wanted to reach their destination quickly, they also needed a means of transportation.

Finding connections wasn't easy, and Sam didn't make it easier. He stubbornly remained silent, forcing Dodger to do all their talking. Watching the elf struggle to conduct his dealings with the locals, Sam felt a perverse satisfaction when he saw the sidelong glances that the passing Brits gave Dodger. Though most concealed their feelings behind a veneer of politeness whenever addressed directly, Sam was sure that the locals didn't like elves much.

They got what they needed, but the locals drove harder bargains than seemed reasonable, even allowing for the fact that they were dealing with strangers. Dodger was forced to pay a premium price for the beat-up old bike, which was the only vehicle anyone would part with. The decrepit thing was alcohol — powered, and its hard rubber tires were gouged and greying. They'd be lucky if it didn't disintegrate at the first bump, but they didn't have time to wait for a better deal.

Though pursuit remained unseen, they had no assurance that the druids were not busy trying to track them down. Dodger and Sam would be safer in a metroplex where outsiders were more common and they could lose themselves among the masses. The sooner they hit the plex, the safer they'd be. The ride to Bristol was every bit as bone-shattering

I as the bike's condition promised. Unlike Seattle, Bristol didn't have a wall; it wasn't an enclave of alien territory in the midst of a green and fertile land. The drab grey and brown countryside gradually seemed to

Iblue into drab grey and brown cottages that merged almost imperceptibly into drab grey and brown multistory buildings. They passed the boundaries of the sprawl without noticing.

Dodger abandoned the decrepit bike as soon as he spotted a rail station, announcing that they would be able to use the public transportation from there. Bristol, though a separate entity, had good transport links with the great English Sprawl that slashed across the island from Brighton to Liverpool. The elf seemed to assume that the bigger metroplex was their destination, and made vague references to connections he had there.

Now that they were in an urban environment,

Dodger appeared to be in less of a hurry. He dragged

Sam through a series of seedy pubs and squalid shops. Several rounds of haggling later, the elf was in possession of the access code to an over-priced, underheated flat on the twentieth story of a pillar high-rise. The building was supposed to have been part of the support system for an enclosing dome, fashioned after the one over the London district of the English Sprawl. Bristol's dome, like those of every other sprawl district except downtown London, had never been completed. Fragments of the biofibre mesh that had stretched between the pillar high-rises still clung to one edge of the building. The splotchy fabric fluttered in the clammy breeze from the Bristol Channel. Sam wondered how much the ambiance contributed to the price. The apathetic owner did not bother to accompany his new tenants to their flat. While Dodger prowled around, Sam stared through the filthy transparex. Across the channel, Sam could see the smog bank that hid the Cardiff" plex. Beneath him, grey Bristol bustled about its business; but the smog covered any sign of the activity and hid the tawdry Christmas decorations and neon and trideo exhortations for gift-giving that had festooned the streets. It could be any day, any sprawl. He and Dodger were safely ensconced for the moment, anonymous among the masses of humanity. Time for a confrontation.

Without turning from the window, Sam said, "You knew that Janice was never on their list, didn't you?"

The sudden cessation of sound behind him told him he had achieved the effect he wanted. He turned to find Dodger staring at him. The elf's expression was uncertain.

"Sir Twi… Sam, I will not lie to you. I knew, but…"

"You already have lied to me," Sam said bitterly.

"I never said that the name on the list belonged to your sister. I merely suggested that…"

"You meant for me to believe it. You deliberately deceived me. Go ahead. I want to hear you deny it."

Dodger swallowed, then spent a moment considering what to say. "I cannot deny that I deceived you."

"Why not? What's another lie? You're very good at words; surely you can find some. Don't you want me to trust you anymore? Or doesn't it matter anymore?" Sam asked. "Why not lie again? Tell me that you were deceived, too. Tell me that somebody forced you to fake the list. I'll believe it. I'm just a stupid norm, ripe for a few elven tricks."

"Sam, I…" Dodger ran a hand through his shock of hair. "What does it matter? Whatever I say, you won't believe me. How you got involved isn't really important. You're involved now, and you have to believe what is happening."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do. These druids are serious trouble. They've got to be dealt with. You may not want to believe me about the importance of what is going down, but the facts should convince you." Dodger tapped his cyberdeck. "Before we left Glover's mansion, I swiped a few copies of a few files and stashed them in a little-used corner of an ATT mainframe.

Once I knew we were dealing with druids and that the Solstice was almost upon us, I used the date as a cue to run a similarity search. I could see that I was getting somewhere, but that it would take time, so I set a few special programs to work. If no one has disturbed my creative time-sharing arrangement, I should have a few revealing files to be read. Will you look at them?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere for a while; looking won't hurt."

Despite his predisposition to disbelief, Sam found himself engrossed by the files Dodger had cracked. If I they were real and not another concoction, Glover and* his cronies were involved in evil doings.

The files told a tale worse than Haesslich's murders. The dragon had sacrificed lives in his search for personal aggrandizement; murders, yes, but incidental to his desires. These druids were methodically planning death.

Most of the data was in a language that the computer tentatively identified as Old English. Without the proper translation programs, most of the files remained unreadable, but enough of the contents were clear to make the druids' intent unmistakable. It all seemed to revolve around a special ritual of immense power. There were several unambiguous references to the "king who must die" as the key to the "cycle of [restoration." Other passages referred to "scions of [untainted bloodlines" as important components of the thtual. Sam had little doubt that these "scions" would urn out to be the people on Glover's infamous list.

I They, too, were to be sacrificed as the druids sought to end human lives for the magical energy that would K" released. Deliberate, cold-blooded human sacrie. Black magic of the worst kind. It was all too horrible to believed. If it could be elieved.

"I don't like what you are showing me, Dodger. I don't like it at all."

"Neither do I, Sir Twist. 'Tis what I feared, though. Suspicion of this evil drove me to deceive you. Had I simply told you about it without evidence, you would have rightly scoffed."

The elf so casually admitted his toying with Sam's belief in his honesty. Hadn't they been friends, shadow brothers? Where was the elf's trust? Didn't he think he could be open with Sam? Sam had considered Dodger a friend ever since the elf had helped him after his escape from Renraku. How had he deceived himself into believing that this elf was his friend? Friends didn't lie to friends. Friends didn't deceive friends.

He let his bitterness fill his voice as he said, "You deceived me right into helping them with their foul magic."

"I had thought that we could stop it from the inside," Dodger said forlornly.

Sam couldn't help but wonder if the hint of regret he detected in the elf's tone was real. If it was real, did the elf regret what he had done or did he regret the lost opportunity to work against the druids? Did it matter?

"Well, we're not inside anymore, and I don't see how we can stop them. If the druids mean to try their ritual on the Solstice, there's no time left. We're thousands of miles from our home turf. We've got no resources but what we're carrying, and some of these druids are the heads of major corporations. They could put out a contract on us and the bill would show up in petty cash. What could just the two of us do?"

"I have friends in London."

"Why am I not surprised? Why didn't you just take on these druids with them? Or was it too much fun to dupe the norm?''

Dodger sighed. "I thought you would understand. I thought that you would see the need to stop these people."

"Oh, I can see the need to stop them, all right," Sam snapped. "Anyone planning their kind of evil magic must be stopped. I would think so even if you hadn't dragged me into the middle of this. You could have just asked me, but instead you had to play the puppet master. You made sure that I was involved, didn't you? You made me a party to their crime."

Dodger straightened away from Sam's accusing finger. "We both became involved inadvertently, Sir Twist. I will not take your guilt on my shoulders alone. You agreed to and completed the snatch on Sanchez before anyone knew what these druids planned."

Dodger was right about that. They had gotten involved before Dodger had shown him the false list. Sam had been the one who had arranged the run with Mr. Johnson-Glover. Dodger had had nothing to do with it beyond his decking responsibilities.

If Dodger hadn't led him into sticking with Glover, Sam might never have learned of the druids' plan until after they had performed their sacrifice. Then, he would have been an accessory without any chance to avert the crime. As things stood, he had a chance to rescue Sanchez and Corbeau and the others. Were Sam's hurt feelings worth people's lives? "Your London friends have resources?" Dodger nodded.

"Then we'd better figure out where and how to apply them."

Dodger offered a tentative smile. Sam returned it,! offering a truce. Once the druids were foiled, there would be time to sort things out. Until then, there was

I work to do. Constant argument would not get it done. "I will contact my friends immediately," Dodger said.

"Hold on. I want to make sure we are in agreement as to exactly what is going on. We can't know what we need to have until we know what we need to do. I want to have as little involvement with your 'friends' as possible."

"Very well, Sir Twist. I trust you will evaluate the problem clearly. I trust you."

Dodger paused, offering Sam the opportunity to make a statement of reconciliation. Unready to do so, Sam let the silence grow. Dodger cleared his throat and said, "So, Sir Twist, where shall we start?"

"If this ritual involves the shedding of royal blood, it is designed to channel a lot of power. That kind of magical energy needs to be confined and focused. They would need a special ritual site, someplace that would allow them to concentrate and then direct the energies they unleash."

" 'Tis a reasonable conclusion. From the look in your eye, Sir Twist, you have a thought."

"Yeah. Remember what I told you about the druids being something of a religion?" "Yes."

"Well. Religions have holy places and an important shrine would seem a likely place for their ritual. For the druids, holy places were groves of trees and circles of stones. Once Britain was dotted with them. By now though, most of them are gone."

"Mayhap archaeological survey records?" "It would take a lot of time to sort through. England's got a lot of history. Besides, we don't really know what might be druidic and what's not. We could play guessing games for days."

" 'Twould seem that there is no other choice." "I recall a theory that stated all magical places are connected magically. According to the model, there are connections between such places through which mana can flow, sort of like datalines in the Matrix. Once the magic came back, some magicians found that these connections actually worked sometimes, allowing spells to be cast beyond normal parameters. Nobody really understands what these mortalities are or how they work, but most of the research was done in Britain since there seems to be a high concentration of them crisscrossing the island. A lot of the pathways coincided with a network of religious and archaeological sites charted about a hundred and fifty years ago by a guy named Watkins. His charts don't match the modern ones exactly, I don't know how; my memory's kind of fuzzy on the subject. I do remember that these pathways use the name he coined, ley lines. If we can find where bunches of these ley lines meet, we might find a likely place for the ritual."

"Render unto me the references for the magical texts, Sir Twist. If they are on-line, I shall strip them of the pertinent material and mate the data with current orbital cartography. Within half an hour, we shall have a map of places of power and the highway of your ley lines."

In manipulating the Matrix, Dodger was as good as his word. Using a hookup to the squat's trid unit, the elf displayed the map he had constructed with his cyberdeck. Sam stared at the screen, scrolling the image and tracing the lines. Line after line converged on a nearby nexus, but the node was small compared to a greater one to the southeast. He checked the map reference and sighed. He should have known from the start, but how could he have been sure that it was I still there? So much had changed in the world, so many antiquities destroyed, and England had seen its share of turmoil. But the site remained. And it was only two steps from a minor nexus at Glover's mansion.

Sam tapped out commands on the cyberdeck's keyoard, expanding the image until a ghostly picture of sarsen stones filled the image area. Dodger's eyes widened in recognition. "Stonehenge," they said together.

Hart knelt by the heel stone. She had felt the power of the place as soon as she entered the avenue. Even at a distance, astral perception had been difficult; this close to the henge the residual energies produced a kind of glare, effectively cutting off that avenue of scouting. Cautiously, she rose and moved ahead. At the slaughter stone, she cut across the path and slipped down into the ditch. She worked her way past the north barrow before cutting in toward the megaliths of the inner rings.

She halted almost at once.

An elf woman was briefly visible in the open space of the outer ring. She was gone almost before Hart registered her presence, but the sighting was enough to check Hart's approach. There were others present at the henge. Hart waited, but no one else appeared for a quarter hour.

She studied the shadows into which the woman had disappeared. Scrutiny of the megalith's shadow found the woman and revealed another elf, a dark-haired man. Both of the skulkers wore black suits similar to Hart's. She flicked the control on her goggles, switching from unaided to IR reception, and found that their garments masked their body heat. The thermal dispersion factor seemed to be even more efficient than her suit. Their equipment was top notch and their lack of nervous movement marked them as pros. As yet, they seemed unaware of her presence. Were they scouts?

Movement in the darkness caught her eye. A third elf approached. The one wore black synthleathers, and his pale hair was cut in a sprawl shag that rippled as he moved. He had a flat case strapped to his back, which she recognized from its silhouette as a cyberdeck carrying case. There was no use for decking equipment here; the leather elf was out of his element tonight.

A fourth person followed him, not an elf but a human. He moved with a slightly awkward run that nevertheless covered the open ground quickly. The fringes of his jacket swayed with his movement, blurring his outline.

Alert and quiet, the four waited at the side of the sarsen stone for several minutes. Apparently satisfied that they had tripped no alarms, they held a hushed conference before spreading out to take up ambush positions among the stones of the henge. Interesting. Were they also after the Hidden Circle? She worked her way in. With others already present, she was denied the perch she had thought to take; climbing to the capstone would attract their attention. Without knowing who they were and what they wanted here, she could not afford their attention. After all, she had no proof that they weren't an advance party for the Circle, come to secure the site.

It took nearly an hour to get into her alternate position, almost due east from the altar stone. The view of the interior of the circle was nearly as good, but more than half of the approaches, including the avenue, were screened by the megaliths.

Her researches had not told her what time might be appropriate for the ceremony, only that it must take place before dawn. She settled in to wait.

She was not sure when she became aware of it, but she realized that the energy of the henge was shifting.

Somewhere, someone was creating a powerful magic that touched the henge. She slipped into astral consciousness and tried to assess the nature of the energy. It didn't feel like a normal ritual, and she could assense no spotter making a ritual link to the henge. The astral glare of the henge was shifting, breaking up. She could discern spirit presences amidst the energy that swept among the stones, like fish on a reef. Those spirit forms were agitated. Moving ever faster, they began to stream out of the henge. Others drifted in, only to follow the path taken by earlier spirits. She shifted her perspective, floating high above the stone circle, and saw that the spirits moved along distinct paths. The ley lines were active. "Damn!"

The oath focused her attention back to the mundane plane.

The human had come out of hiding and was standing in the center of the circle. His hands were on the altar stone and his face turned to the sky. "They're not here," he shouted. "Those druid bastards are doing their black magic somewhere else."

She recognized the voice, though it had been months since she had heard it. Samuel Verner. She had heard that he'd taken the street name Twist since their last encounter. She had not recognized him when she had seen him, but that was easily explained by the darkness and distance. From his curse, it was clear that he was not part of the druids' plan. Verner was a runner, not a mover; his presence meant an unknown faction was involved.

The other skulkers left their places to join their partner in the center of the ring. The decker elf would be Sam's buddy, Dodger. The other two she didn't know, but as soon as she saw them plainly, she realized that she recognized them. They were the pair who had been leaving the Seelie Court as she had been entering. Was Lady Deigh running parallel teams, or were they the agents of some other power? Had the Lord Protector learned of his renegades? Whoever these runners were, they hunted the Hidden Circle as she did.

Already she had been misled by the quarry. If would take fast work to make up the ground. If the energy she had sensed building was as great as she thought, she would need help. And luck. Verner had been lucky before. Since Sam's group was already after the Circle, they might be willing to share the hunt. She wouldn't have to pay them, and might even be able to arrange for them to take any heat the operation generated.

She left her hiding place, arms held clear of her sides, and walked forward. She was acutely conscious of the Beretta Model 70 hanging on its TEAM sling and slapping against her butt. It wouldn't do to be shot by friendlies.

"I'd wish you a good evening, but it doesn't seem to be one. It appears that we have all been disappointed."

The dark-clad elves drew weapons and trained them on her. Dodger, still fumbling to clear his gun from an entanglement with his cyberdeck, stepped into the woman's line of fire. She looked annoyed, but shifted competently to get a new line. Sam tensed and Hart felt a flicker of power. Something in the air, she thought. Sam had not been magically active when they had last met. She waited while they searched the surrounding darkness, seeking to assure themselves that she was alone.

"Perhaps we can join forces," she said. "With some fast transport, we might be able to raid them before they finish their ritual. The circle's not too far away."

' 'What do you have to do with this?'' the dark-haired elf asked.

Sam ignored his companion, took a step forward, and asked his own question. "To the southwest?" She nodded.

"Glover's estate," Dodger said.

Sam slammed his fist onto the altar stone. "We were right on top of their site and never knew it. If we'd stayed, we might have done something, but we'll never fight our way in now." Turning to Hart, he said, "Unless you've got another dracoform for a partner."

"No more dragons," she said. He gave her an odd look, and she knew that she had not masked all of her emotions. What signal she had sent him, she didn't know. Months later, she still didn't fully understand her own feelings on the matter and Sam's place in them.

"Well, I guess I'm not surprised. A strike team, maybe?"

She shook her head.

"We'll have to try, anyway," he said. "They can't be allowed to complete their ritual."

As Sam started to leave the henge, the dark-haired male elf stepped in his way. "Can she be trusted?"

Sam looked up in the elf's face. He waited until the "c\\M W amp; 9J amp;I \a187 amp; tea, then sa'ia, "1 was once told never to trust an elf, Estios. It's always seemed like good advice around you."

Sam looked around at his companions, making Hart very conscious of her metatype. The points of her ears felt hot with blood.

"But it seems that I have little choice. I'm a minority of one in this crowd. At the moment, I have to trust anyone who looks like they can do something about the druids. Hart's a professional shadowrunner, ready for action, and willing to help. You want to pass up another soldier? The druids will be prepared for trouble and Glover will have tightened his security. We'll need all the help we can get."

Estios remained stiff for a second, as if to assert his command of the situation. "Very well. I will call the aircraft."

The wicker man stood to the south, facing across the chalked lines toward the bare, shield-shaped patch of earth across which they had all entered the ritual area. The silver bowl of blessed water rested in the western point, and the scent of burning herbs rising from the eastern point's brazier filled the clearing. Only the upper portions of the wicker man would be visible from beyond the surrounding topiary maze.

Save for the wicker man, Glover found it all very familiar. Normally, the golden-tipped spear stood at the southern point, but this was no normal ritual.

Bound within the wicker were the six chosen sacrifices, the scions of untainted blood. Each limb held one, another lay wrapped within the body and the last was curled in the head. Gordon stood before the mannikin holding an unlit torch, half concealed by the flowing sleeves of his plain white robe. He seemed pensive and subdued. Was he contemplating his forthcoming role?

The symbols were all in place; it was time to begin. Gordon abandoned his vigil in front of the wicker man and walked to his place near the center of the ring, careful to avoid stepping on any of the chalked lines. As he reached the unfinished pentacle in which he was to stand, he was met by David Neville. Gordon took

^his place, and young Neville completed the diagram.

I Across the clearing, the druids moved to their stations, ghostly white shapes drifting in the dark. Each wore a ritual robe topped off with the golden brow band and head cloth of an initiate. Sir Winston, leader of the ceremony, was distinguished from his peers by a heavy gold pectoral bearing the sun-in-splendor insignia of his totem.

Everything was in order. Glover could find nothing amiss, nothing to hint that Hyde-White might be right. The ceremonial ring was laid out exactly according to the specifications in the ritual they had all worked out. The geometries were accurate, the symbols appropriate. What could go wrong?

Neville stood in the center of the ring, naming each participant and building the protective magics. Glover studied the archdruid. Neville appeared steady and in control; only a touch of anticipation marred his calm. A faint glow was beginning to manifest around him as the energies awoke.

Glover joined the circle, adding his energies to the spell. Neville continued around the ring until he reached Hyde-White. With the inclusion of the fat man, the ritual circle was complete. Glover noticed that Hyde-White's aura was subdued, as if he had not committed himself wholly to the ritual. A less competent shaman might have fatally flawed the ritual by such reservation, but Hyde-White's power was well above the commitment needed.

Neville led the opening chant, his reedy voice ringing out to be answered by the combined voices of the other druids. He called upon the earth to heed their call, offering praise to all that was natural and stating the Circle's commitment to restoring the land's balance. He paused before making the offer of sacrifice. Neville nodded to Gordon, who held his unlit brand on high. Gathering strands from each of the druids' power, Neville wove them into a lance of light and speared it toward Gordon. The amber beam struck the torch, igniting it in a burst of flame and spark. To the accompaniment of the rhythmic spell chant,

Gordon walked to the edge of the ring and faced the wicker man. He held the torch to the end of the mannikin's left arm until the flames caught. Then, he thrust it deep into the leg and released his grip, leaving it to kindle another nest of hungry fire. He bowed to the wicker man before returning to his place in the center of the pentacle and facing Neville.

"We give holocaust. Let the sky accept our offering," he said.

The druids continued their spell song, raising their volume as the fire spread through the wicker man. Sanchez, the first of the sacrifices to be consumed, died without a sound. The druids sang louder.

The howl of tearing metal and the crack of splintering wood ripped across their voices, driving the chant to an abrupt halt. The cacophony issued from somewhere near the house. Glover searched for the source.

Behind the outbuildings, an unkempt shape was rising. The irregular mass of shifting material humped up into a huge, dark mass of refuse and debris until its top was several meters higher than the roof of the nearest structure. The thing taking shape beyond the hedges lurched, its bulk shifting toward the circle. It might have been tottering, about to fall, but a second lurch dispelled that illusion. Whatever the thing was, it had begun to move toward them.

"David," Sir Winston called calmly above the excited questions of the other druids. "We must not be interrupted."

"I will hold it, father."

David Neville eased his energies from the complex that the druids had created. Glover pushed harder, taking his share of the slack. His concentration was lacking, for his eyes were continually drawn to the approaching entity.

The growing light of the burning wicker lit the shape. With each step it became more defined. From an amorphous thing, it was resolving itself into a gnarled and hulking man shaped of refuse from the midden heap and fragments of the abandoned carriage house. It was a golem made of trash, and its outline was the same as that of the wicker man.

One of the sacrifices screamed, the flames burning through his drugged haze, and the thing jerked. Piece by piece, Barnett's car, an ancient petrol-burning antique, tore itself apart, chunks whirling free to soar through the air and join with the mound. It grew and shambled forward.

David Neville faced it from within the ring of hedge. He was careful not to step past the safety of the magical barrier provided by the chalked circle. He stood straight, arms outstretched and palms raised to beseech aid.

"By the powers of sky, I command thee. By the powers of the earth, I bid thee be gone. I stand firm on the land, caressed by the wind, and cast thee forth."

Attuned to the astral, Glover could see the energy gather around David before bursing forth to strike the thing. The glittering darkness of the monster's aura absorbed the power, swallowing the bright beam as if it had never been. Glover's mouth went dry. Young Neville was a prig and a snob, but he had power and had specialized in dealing with astral entities. Glover had seen him dismiss unruly spirits often enough. Whatever this was, it already had power enough to resist him.

A gap opened in the chest of the trash thing, a dark maw fanged with leaf springs, bumpers, and metal fragments, and a stream of semi-liquified garbage spewed forth to drench Neville. He stagged back, retching. The pool of refuse at his feet solidified and trapped him where he stood. Dripping tendrils of slime hardened, freezing his motion. His legs disappeared, encased in the ever deeper flow of filth that poured from the horrid monstrosity. Neville tried again to shout the formula of dismissal, but the commands gurgled to a strangled stop as the growing mound overtopped his head and entombed him.

The thing convulsed, apparently collapsing in on itself as if Neville's dismissal had finally taken effect. It was a false hope. The narrow bridge of offal and rubbish expanded where it met the golem. A bulge, like a pig in a python, moved along the connection of garbage. The greater part of the monster's bulk formed that bulge as the great mass outside the maze transferred itself along that slender bridge. The mound that concealed young Neville thickened, ballooning out as the mass concentrated. The debris pile stretched and contorted until the trash thing reformed its shape and stood on the spot where he had opposed it.

Barnett cast a spell at the monster, flames arcing from his outthrust hand to splash against the hulk. Steam and smoke billowed up, but though small fires flickered on the affected area, the garbage golem did not react to the attack.

Hyde-White stood riveted in trance, sweat rolling in sheets across his vast expanses of flesh. Like Glover, he gathered in the strands of power as druids left the ritual to devote their energies to fighting off the intruder. Glover had little time to appreciate the old man's struggle; assimilating his part of the added burden was taxing his own control.

The other druids cast spells and attempted their own banishments. Their efforts had some effect; the monstrosity seemed confined between the outer and inner protective rings of the great chalk circle. Fitzgilbert ventured too close to the thing and was struck down by a flailing limb of rusted metal and decaying wood. Debris showered them as he collapsed to the ground, his neck broken by the blow.

Glover's arm was seized in a bone-racking grip. Hyde-White had crossed the ring. Leaving his place had been a necessity for the fat man; the trash thing occupied that space.

"Andrew, now you see what Neville's obsession has led us to. He has no control over this corrupted spirit. As I feared, there is a flaw in the ritual and so this thing has been spawned. If the sacrifice is completed, there is no telling what strength it will have."

Glover stared at the monstrosity. It was fascinating, at once compelling and disgusting. Its power was enormous, but its very unnaturalness was the final proof of Hyde-White's argument. "We must stop it."

Hyde-White's chin disappeared in the folds of flesh that hid his neck as he nodded. "If the spell is broken suddenly, there may be a backlash. I will guard the link with Neville while you do what must be done."

What must be done.

Glover looked at the wicker man. The flames had already consumed its left half and were spreading. Where it had burned fiercely, the sacrifices were no longer moving. Corbeau lay bound within the mannikin's right arm. The fire ravened closer, and he was beginning to stir as the heat and excitement penetrating through his drugged haze. So much effort to get him here, and now it was spoiled by Neville's arrogance.

In the center of the circle, the older Neville stood tall and straight, the golden sickle raised above his head. His eyes were closed and his lips moved as he feverishly spoke the words of the ritual.

"We offer blood to the earth. Let the land drink from this divinely ordained vessel and be refreshed.''

Gordon walked toward him intoning the prayer of offering, naming himself as the gift and offering his own blood to revitalize the land. He knelt before Neville, stretching his head back to offer his throat.

Glover couldn't allow that royal blood to feed the monstrosity. Hoping that he was not also destroying the land's hope, he gathered his power and sent it in a blast that ripped the right arm from the wicker man in an explosion of green witchfire. Corbeau screeched as the arcane energies shredded his flesh and boiled his body fluids. It was a faster death than the creeping sacrificial flame, but no less harsh.

"You fool! What have you done?" shouted Neville as he stumbled across the ring to seize Glover.

"Stopped your abortion." A sweep of his arm broke the old man's grip.

"You have destroyed all we have worked for!"

"I have saved it. Look!"

The garbage golem swayed wildly. Tilting at nearly forty-five degrees from the vertical, it suddenly lost cohesiveness and shattered into its component elements. The stench of decay and putrefaction burst over the clearing as rusted metal and rotted organic matter pelted the ground. The half-decomposed corpse of the young Neville lay amid the debris, its white bones gleaming in the firelight.

"See what you have done, old man, and what your warped ambitions have cost you. Your son lies dead. That's a price you'll have on your conscience to the grave. Pray that your conscience won't be burdened by worse. We can only hope that your folly hasn't cost us the land."

"What are you talking about?" one of the others asked. They had gathered around the quarrelers.

Glover stabbed a finger at the heap of debris that had stalked their ceremony. "That. We all saw how that thing grew as the sacrifices were consumed." Glover turned his wrathful face on Neville. "Had you completed the ritual, that thing would have been empowered in a way beyond our dreams. You would have spawned a scourge for the land."

"No!" Neville's face was twisted with denial. "It would have been destroyed. The corruption would have been swept away."

Glover sneered at the desperation in Neville's voice. The man couldn't even convince himself. "Then why did it disperse when I interrupted the ritual?"

Neville's eyes darted across the assembled survivors. There was no comfort for him in those faces. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Well, I have seen enough to know. You have misled us, old man. Your way has been shown to be flawed and unwholesome. We must find another way to restore the land. We must hope that it can yet be done, and that your perverse meddling has not closed the door."

Barnett made a show of turning his shoulder away from Neville. "Glover, you are the one who saw what needed to be done. What should we do now?"

"Whatever is necessary," Gordon said. When all eyes were turned to him, he added, "I was ready to give my life that the land be restored. Who could ask for more commitment? I need only be shown the way. If you see that way, Master Glover, I will follow your lead."

"It is an awesome responsibility," Glover said. "Which you have shown yourself strong enough to take on."

Glover's spirit soared. Acclamation from His Highness! Hyde-White had been right. Opportunity was rising before him; he would be a fool and a weakling if he did not seize it. He tried to mask his elation, to present a properly stern face as Ashton, who had been Neville's student, removed the archdruid's pectoral from the old man and held it out to Glover. His hands trembled as he accepted it.

"I serve the land as you do, Highness. As you have come to understand, we must all do whatever is necessary to see it healthy again. As leader of this Circle, my goal will be to see the land restored to its glory. Nothing shall deter me."

He felt the strength of his conviction as he spoke. He would do anything to see the land saved. Behind him, he felt Hyde-White's presence, massive and supporting.