From the Street

HUNTER AND PREY

by Tom Dowd (1992)

Despite the efforts of the room's tungsten lights, darkness came. The corner of the room whispered a name.

"Knight…"

He looked up for a moment from the twin flatscreens inlaid beneath the plexiglass surface of the desk, and frowned slightly. Behind him, the sun cut through Detroit's fog for the last time that day and the city slipped into twilight. He sipped from a glass of pale gold liquid and waited. Nothing.

He looked down and the numbers danced again. Profits, losses, credits, debits, balances forward and in arrears woven together in a four-dimensional matrix. Projections birthed from the financial mandala as…;

"Knight…"

He removed the thin, gold-framed glasses from his aged face and placed them gingerly on the desktop. Unburdened, his tired eyes scanned the room and settled on the shadowed corner across from him. He waited. Nothing.

"Show yourself," he said, finally.

"As you wish," said nothing.

The corner's shadow became mist and flowed forward. It shifted, and silently extended a long and articulate part of itself into the room. Solid now, it clicked against the marble floor and found purchase. Another slim extension, hard against a nearby wall, dug in and pulled. Darkness entered from the corner and skittered against the floor. Slick and shapeless, it grinned.

"Damian Knight…"

The man stood slowly as it came, the pale color of his hair now matched by the skin of his palm pressed hard against the desktop. He licked his lips and nodded. "As good a name as any, I suspect."

"We all have many names, some truer than others. We all bear many faces."

"I doubt you came here to recite trite philosophies. What do you want?" His eyes flicked to the room's other corners and then back to the dark form stretched before him.

"You have spoken my question."

"Then the answer should be obvious: I want you to leave."

The grin turned sly. "But I shall not. Your tower is crafty and well protected, and I have spent much time gaining entrance. I demand my due time of you."

"Speak your piece and get out. I have no time for such as you."

The darkness grew larger before him. "But you have devoted much time to me already. Everywhere my children are hunted by your agents. My deepest nests burn in the night and my young cry their last."

A smile touched the man's lips. "Good."

Blacker eyes in the darkness narrowed and it moved forward slightly, brushing aside furniture. The man stepped back. "Do not taunt me, for I have not the patience and may slay you before I intend. Speak the ills I have done you, Damian Knight, so that I may wonder at my own foolishness."

The man looked down for a moment at the numbers that continued to flash beneath the desktop. He touched the surface, and the screens dimmed and faded away. A light came on above him and cast his shadow on the desk. He looked up and faced the darkness.

"You've done nothing to me, spirit."

"Then I have harmed your precious corporation. Have I weakened Ares Macrotechnology in some manner I have forgotten?"

"No. My only losses connected to you have been ammunition expenditures."

A tendril of darkness lashed out over the man's head and struck the light. The fixture shattered and sprayed metal and glass across the room. Darkness swelled behind a flashing rake of teeth. "Then why do you burn my nests?"

"Because you are."

"My spawn damned for simply being? Then likewise are you. For their essence I take yours."

The man's eyes widened slightly. "My soul is mine to give. You cannot take what is not yours."

The darkness hissed. "I am the form incarnate: all is mine to take." It lashed out and struck at him from every corner of the room. Blinding silver blocked the darkness as veins of white fire shot up through the marble floor and created a circle around the man and the desk. The darkness stepped back and black talons scratched brilliant sparks as they probed the borders of the ward.

"Powerful," came the voice from somewhere in the darkness.

The man shrugged. "It suffices against such as you."

"Such as I will feast on your soul until the last cycle falls." The black eyes and grin reared over him and dark limbs grew from the shadow to grasp the boundaries of the ward. Everywhere they touched argent fire danced along their length.

The man shook his head. "I think not. If you were truly as you would have me fear, this ward would not slow you. You are no avatar."

The eyes narrowed above him. "You know nothing of the names you wield."

Now the man grinned. "I know more than you think. While you are less than you claim, I am more than I seem." The man's features turned liquid and ran from him, the carefully styled silver hair growing long, black, and shiny. The creased, aged face smoothed and sharpened and his dark brown eyes shifted to piercing blue.

"Ah. I named you wrong. No matter, I will have your soul and then that of the man you pretended to be."

The man shrugged and let the now too-big suit jacket fall from his shoulders. "I say again, you are no avatar. You are no incarnation, insect, merely another true form sent to destruction at your master's bidding."

The talons tightened, and the ward strained, white and black energy arcing about it to form a geodesic dome of power over the man. The spirit's grin grew. "Then I will have your heart, mortal, to give to the newborns so that they may know the taste of human early."

"I think not. You will, in fact, find the situation even worse than you begin to suspect."

"Defiant to the end! Sweet will be the taste of your lifeblood. Banter on, mortal, this ward of yours is soon no more."

The man spread his arms wide and looked up at the spirit. Black and silver lightning danced just beyond his reach. "The ward is not mine, and so protects you from me more than I from you."

The spirit laughed, and a high, sharp, cracking tone began to grow. "Who are you, child of the earth, to stand against one such as I?"

The man brought his arms together, one held straight out, the other touching the first at the elbow in a well-practiced, fluid gesture. Power shifted and grew around him. "I may be born of this earth, spirit, but that is not where I have been of late."

Part of the ward gave, and a black limb gouged into the floor within the circle of light. The spirit's chitinous, ebony body slammed against the circle as it began to buckle.

"Many of your kind wander the greater planes, I feast on them often."

"Wrong realm. Knight suspected something would try to kill him, so the corporation brought me down to protect him. Magic is so much easier here."

The ward shattered, raining white sparks down around the man. The spirit's legs caged him and its impossibly grinning face came closer to the man. "Magic is easy for me everywhere. There is nowhere I am weak."

"Nowhere on the Earth, perhaps, but what of above it?" The man pulled his arms toward himself, and held his palms parallel. Power flowed inward, cleanly, from everywhere around him. A light grew between his hands.

"Your tricks will avail you not, human, I am power incarnate." The spirit reared again.

The man laughed. "I've shaped power among the stars and danced with hearts far darker than yours." The spirit fell upon him, a wave of darkness pierced by a shaft of light brighter than a hundred suns. "Taste what I have learned."

WYRM TALK

by Tom Dowd (1991)

"There's a dragon here to see you." I was proud of how steady I kept my voice.

He glanced up from either the papers strewn across the coffee table or the datascreen sitting on top of the pile; I couldn't tell which he was working on. The slice of pizza in his hand dripped grease onto the papers. "Oh. Which one?" he asked.

"How the drek should I know?" I replied. He was being a royal pain again. "You haven't started teaching me that yet."

He smiled and put the pizza slice down on the table. "Of course, my dear," he said as he stood. "Soon, soon."

"So?" I asked, dropping my hands to my hips.

His left eyebrow lifted. "So?"

"There's a fraggin' dragon here to see you!"

He licked the grease from his hand. "Well, yes, you just told me that." He'd made me promise to try to stop hitting him, but one of these days… "Do you want me to just leave him out there?"

"No, of course not!" he replied. "That would be quite rude. Ask him in."

"Um, don't you think he's a little big for the doorway?" I figured that was probably a stupid question. In the short time I'd been with him, I'd learned, if nothing else, that the obvious was rarely that, and the impossible the norm.

He gave me his best "I know lots of things you don't know" look. "Why don't we let him decide, eh?"

I shrugged. "Fine, why don't we. You're the one paying the repair bills." As I turned to leave, something occurred to me. I paused and looked back at him. He was reaching for the pizza slice.

"Uh, I don't know what dragons are into," I said, "but I figure you might want to put some clothes on before he comes in."

He looked at me, then at himself. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he said. "But how do you know it's a he?"

Someday I was going to hit him so hard he'd need a closed casket.

At the back of the house I hesitated, straightened my clothes, then walked briskly into the garden. It was still sitting right where it had landed, curiously watching the poi circling in a nearby shallow pool. Its sapphire and silver scales reflected the late afternoon sun, changing the garden into a Maxfield Parrish painting. The dragon seemed oblivious to my presence, intent instead on the movements of the goldfish. I didn't want to… actually, was afraid to… disturb it. I didn't want it to move again.

"Is he home?" it asked. I should have been ready for the voice. I knew how they spoke, but I still found it unsettling. I heard the words clearly, but it hadn't moved. No part of it had moved.

Startled in spite of myself, I took a step back up the flagstone steps. "I… yes. Yes, he is."

"I did not mean to frighten you, you know." Its great head swung slowly toward me. A glint of light shined from somewhere deep behind its eyes. It could have swallowed me whole, right then and there, and I'd never have noticed.

"No, I know you didn't…"

"May I go in? It is very tiring keeping my tail in the air like this, and this is such a wonderful garden that I would not like to spoil it."

I looked up at its tail suspended a number of stories above me. Barbs stuck out all around the end. Giant hooks like that could… wait a minute, it was gone.

"He is expecting me, then." A strange voice spoke.

My head snapped back toward earth. The dragon was gone. In its place stood a young man, about twenty years old, dressed in a suit cut from the most beautiful blue silk I had ever seen. He had pale skin, and his features were those of Michelangelo's David. His eyes sparkled a sharp silver and blue. I gave a stupid-sounding laugh.

He smiled. "Oh dear, I have startled you again. I am sorry."

I managed a small smile myself. "I didn't know dragons could do that," I said sheepishly. I'd taken a few more steps backward without realizing it.

He walked toward me, and placed one finger on his lips as he passed. "Please do not tell anyone. It is supposed to be a secret."

More secrets for me to keep, I thought. No problem. However you looked at it, this was sure as hell more interesting than Missouri.

He seemed intrigued by the house's modern decor. He questioned me about the creator of every piece of art we passed, but only paused once to lean in for a better look. That was at the Warhol, drek knows why. I led him upstairs and, deciding to be grandiose, threw wide the study doors as he entered.

He grinned, and strode past me. "May I present Dunklezahn," I announced.

The man the dragon had come to see stood as we entered. He hadn't cleaned up the room any; it still reeked of sausage and pepperoni. He'd managed to get dressed, though, and was wearing black boots, denim pants, and one of the white cotton shirts he'd bought the other day. He'd kept his face unpainted.

"It's been some time, hasn't it?" he said, touching his chest with the fingers of his left hand, just below the heart. I'd seen him do that a few times before, but he'd never explained what it meant. I think it meant he was viewing the new arrival as an equal, thank god.

"Yes, it has, Harlequin," replied the dragon, repeating the gesture. "I was pleased to hear of the outcome of your chal'han." Dunklezahn didn't turn, but I felt his attention rest on me for just a moment. Obviously, there were no secrets from him.

Harlequin grinned. "I'll bet you were." He gestured at the overstuffed black leather couch across from him. "Won't you sit down?"

The dragon nodded. "Thank you." He walked to the couch, considered it for a moment, then carefully sat down. Only when he was fully balanced on the seat did he lean back. He smiled.

"So, what can I do for you?" inquired Harlequin.

"I take it you are aware of my status?"

Harlequin tilted his head. "You mean as host of 'Wyrm Talk'?"

I laughed to myself. Dunklezahn had been interviewed by an international media team shortly after reemerging. He'd apparently enjoyed the experience, especially his spontaneous cross-examination of the journalists, so much so that he requested his own show from one of the networks. In the intervening years, he'd only given the idea his attention long enough to produce three shows. Harlequin and I had watched the show the last time it had aired. The dragon, obviously enthralled by modern culture, had spent the whole program commenting on an amazing range of topics. In a couple of segments, he'd taken the concept of confrontational journalism to such an extreme that I suggested the show should have been renamed "Wyrm Food."

Dunklezahn grinned. "Exactly so. I find the media absolutely fascinating. Free, unrestricted information exchange. Who would have imagined?"

"Well now, I wouldn't exactly call it unrestricted," said Harlequin.

"No," agreed the dragon. "nor would I. Which is precisely why I am here."

"Oh?"

"I would like you to be the subject of my next program."

"What!" Harlequin exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

I laughed aloud, and then clamped my hand over my mouth. Harlequin glared at me for a split second, so I knew I'd regret my indiscretion later, but it was such a joy seeing him surprised.

"Yes," continued the dragon. "I think you would make a wonderful guest."

Harlequin ran his hand through his hair as he shook his head. "Of all the things I was expecting to talk about…"

"But, Harlequin, you have always been the best storyteller. Just think how amazed these humans would be by the things you could tell them! There is so much they just don't understand…"

"And I'm certainly not going to tell them!" interrupted Harlequin.

The dragon moved his head oddly. "Is it not possible that they have a right to know? It is their world, after all."

Harlequin exhaled noisily, his brow furrowed. "You want to just tell them everything? Reveal all the myriad secrets of the universe? You want me to…" He turned toward me, arm extended and fingers twitching madly. "You want me to…"

"Spill my guts on global television?" I suggested.

"Yes!" he said, snapping his fingers and turning back toward the dragon, who blinked. "Do you want me to spill my guts on television? Open dear Pandora's box once again?"

"Well, yes," said the dragon. "Do you realize how confused they all must be? Look at how their world has changed. Is it not their right to know what it all means?"

Harlequin nodded vigorously and moved toward the center of the room, gesturing wildly. "Of course it is!" he said. "But why tell them? Let them figure it out; that's the fun of it all! The clues are there!"

"The clues?" The dragon and I were equally baffled.

"To the mystery of life, Dunklezahn! The world is like a giant tapestry. You start out standing very close to the picture. There's a lot to see, and you could spend your whole life inspecting that one little section. Some find that section isn't enough. They step back to see more of the picture. Eventually, they may find themselves standing so far back that they see the whole tapestry hanging before them. But if you start them standing all the way back, they'll be confused. They won't know where to look first. They'll miss seeing the whole picture." He folded his arms across his chest, a satisfied smirk on his face. I eyed the dragon, who still looked perplexed.

"Are there not some things they should be warned…" he began.

"You mean like the invae?" Harlequin broke in.

"As a beginning, yes," the dragon told him.

Harlequin dismissed the idea with a gesture. "They're of no concern. In fact, they actually support my point! The humans knew nothing of their coming, but have been dealing with them quite nicely, nonetheless. Spilling our guts…" he nodded to me, "…to the humans early on would have denied them the discovery! The joy is in the unfolding. Let them marvel at their world, horrific as it may sometimes be. Let's not reveal the end of the tale before the final page is turned, Dunklezahn. Allow the story to tell itself."

The dragon seemed to be staring at the now-cold pizza, but I could tell he was lost in thought. Finally, with a sigh, he stood and nodded. "I will take that as a no."

Harlequin laughed, looked down, and shook his head.

"Thank you for your hospitality," said Dunklezahn, moving slowly toward the door.

Harlequin looked up. "I hope I haven't fouled up your schedule of guests."

The dragon smiled innocently. "No, not at all. I may ask Lady Brane Deigh of the Daoine Sidhe to speak in your place."

Harlequin's face stilled. "I wouldn't recommend that."

"Oh?"

"Dunklezahn, you and I have always at least been cordial," Harlequin began.

"Very true."

"But I warn you, there are some of my kind, and your kind, who think you have told too much already."

"Oh?"

"Your comments about great dragons and dracoforms, for one thing."

The dragon nodded. "Yes, I received some… grief for that."

"Should you start to speak of other things…"

Dunklezahn nodded again. "Thank you for your warning, Harlequin." He added wistfully, "You are quite sure of your decision? Such wonderful stories could be told."

Harlequin smiled. "And they will be, in time."

The dragon touched his fingers to his chest again, and when Harlequin had repeated the gesture, began to walk out of the room. He stopped as he passed me. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, my lady," he said. "You do your heritage proud." I smiled, and couldn't think of what to say, so I touched my fingers to my chest. He smiled, and returned the gesture.

I closed the doors behind him, and turned back to Harlequin. "It's too bad," I said sadly. "I kind of like him."

"I do too," Harlequin replied, looking down at his papers. "He's the most reasonable of them all. It'll be a shame when we have to destroy him."

POST MORTEM

by Tom Dowd

They sit for a few minutes in uneasy silence. Around them the lives of those who'd chosen to visit the park this day unfold, all but oblivious to the two on the bench. Any other reaction would be a shock to both as neither appears to the unschooled as they actually are. Today they appear as two of the homeless, an ork and a dwarf, which is almost as far from the truth as one can get and still retain a degree of sanity.

The ork, aged and dark skinned, finally turns his head slightly and regards the other through what seems to be the misty gray of partial cataracts. The dwarf, light skinned and long unshaven, does not move from staring at the stagnant pond they face.

"So," the ork finally says, his tone low and careful, "did you kill him?"

The dwarf shifts his gaze to meet the other's. He shakes his head. "No. Did you?"

"No." The dark ork sighs.

The other nods. "I could not convince myself one way or the other as to your guilt."

"Me either."

The dwarf raises a bushy eyebrow. "As usual, I do not follow your drift."

The other nods again. "Exactly so." he replies. "I meant that there were times where I had to consciously think about whether or not I had killed him myself or arranged to have it done. I hadn't, but could have, and perhaps should have, hence my confusion."

"Many believe you had a hand in it."

"Of course they do. Let them." The ork says. "It is a dark and terrible thing I have done." he adds, chuckling.

"Then who?"

There is a long silence between them.

"Blood and tears," the ork says finally, "the list is disquietingly short."

The other nods. "The years slip behind us like a soft breeze, carrying away friend and foe alike, leaving us only the rumor of their passing."

The ork snorts, looks away and stares at the pond. "You're in a better place to know; anyone else show up?"

Shaking his head, the dwarf says: "No. Of course, we always hear rumors. None have proven true."

"I sometimes get odd sensations that there are others out there, but this is the first Awakening I've seen. It could be normal," the ork tells him.

"Perhaps." The dwarf pauses a moment, then decides. "Lofwyr all but outright said that he believes there to be another dragon."

The ork tilts his head slightly. "Really? Any clue?"

"No. He could have been speaking of the resurrected Alamais, but somehow I doubt it." The ork nods again.

"I'd have thought it more likely that many of the others who'd survived would have talked to you before any of the Courts." the dwarf says.

The ork shrugs. "Maybe."

"So you are saying that you do not know of any others that I do not."

The ork turns his head and raises an eyebrow slightly. "How the frag can I say that? But, since we are being up front I will say that to the best of my knowledge I do not know of anyone else that you don't also know about."

Looking away, the dwarf nods and then falls silent for a moment.

"So, since we are here," the dwarf finally asks, keeping his tone as neutral as he can, "how is my daughter?"

The appearance of the dark skinned ork shifts without warning, slipping into a smear of color and shape as his eyes widen slightly in surprise. He turns his head very slowly as he regains his composure. "Excuse me?"

A slight grin appears barely visible beneath the other's matted white hair. "Of course I knew, you twit. I am not as completely self absorbed as you like to believe."

"No, I suppose you couldn't be…"

"How is she? I presume you are training her? Is she a quick study?" There is a surprising eagerness in his eyes.

"Yes, yes she is. I wasn't sure at first, but she catches on quickly." the other tells him. "She has an intriguing perspective that at times is a gross hindrance but at other times is damn practical."

"Good." There is another long pause. "Does she know?"

"Know what?" the ork asks as innocently as he can.

"You know exactly what I mean you caustic goat!"

This time the ork smiles. "No. She doesn't."

"Good."

"Good? Good? Not too long ago you'd have tried to force me to eat bone worms for less!"

"True, but she needs to find her own way." the dwarf says. "Though she is of me, she is not me. Keeping her close by would only force her to be something she is not."

"Yea," the ork says, "Glasgian really is a shit, isn't he?"

"I said nothing of the kind." the dwarf retorts. "But yes, he is a proof of my point."

The ork nods again. "Still, I have to say I'm surprised that you're not more pissed off at me. I wasn't sure if your asking for this face to face was about daughter or dragon."

"Which concerned you more?"

"Daughter." The ork tells him after a moment. "You were never particularly fond of the dragon."

"I never had any quarrel with the dragon. It was the motion of his mouth I thought we could all do without."

"I'm with you there."

"As for my daughter," the dwarf says slowly, "you and I have not seen eye to eye in quite some time. Nor do I suspect we will truly ever."

"We agree about the dragon."

"Point. And if you'll let me continue, though we do not agree, and though I have and will continue to describe you as an irrational, inconsiderate, unaccomodating, argumentative, slacker-"

"Slacker?"

"-Be quiet. It was the only word I could think of – who conveniently hides behind an all-too-literal mask, I, unlike many, have a long memory."

The ork looks away again.

"I have no concerns for the well-being of my daughter under your tutelage or care." the dwarf finishes, and then lets the moment hang. "Getting back to the dragon: Have you found Excalibur yet?" he continues.

Snorting, the ork turns back toward him. "You know better than I that there ain't no such thing."

"Literally, no. But as the years pass such literalness becomes less and less relevant. And we both know what he truly meant."

The ork nods again. "The armor still fits."

This time the dwarf chuckles. "I'm shocked." he says, and then stands. "I have to go. There is a Council meeting tonight I cannot miss."

"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll deal you in whenever you get there."

The dwarf snorts and turns to begin walking away.

"But you know," the ork says, and the other pauses to listens "we didn't decide who did kill the dragon."

The dwarf nods. "No, we didn't." he says. "And if you can remember how, I would suggest you pray that it was someone, or something, we know." He turns, steps, and begins to fade away as if engulfed by fog. "Because if it is not…" And he is gone.

The ork sits on the bench as the overcast light slowly fades from the park. Every once in a while he drinks from the amber bottle wrapped in brown paper he keeps in his coat pocket. It's taste is bitter. Everyone ignores him. He knows it will not last.

VOICES FROM THE PAST

by Tom Dowd (1993)

Harlequin sat alone in a quiet room lit only by the sinking flames of a dying fire. His face was unpainted, and he wore a plain long robe woven with golden and burgundy threads. The firelight caught the metallic threads of his robe and the intricate metal filigree on the walls behind him and made them sparkle. Harlequin didn't even notice. He was drunk and his drink was his only concern.

The liquid swirled in the glass, impelled by the gentle motion of his wrist. He watched the magical blending and bleeding of colors as the liquid hovered on the edge of solidifying, maintaining its liquid state only by the energy from his moving hand. The colors changed dramatically as he changed the direction of its motion. Firelight danced along the edges of the fine crystal goblet that held the drink.

Harlequin drank from the goblet, barely sipping, and let the drink's deep fire run through him. He nearly laughed with the pleasure, but, as always, the cold aftertaste caught him by surprise.

"You have fallen far," spoke a long-dead voice.

Harlequin turned slowly from the fire and looked across the long expanse of the room. In the center of the room, caught in the flickering firelight, stood a figure. Its robes were black, torn, covered in the dirt of a thousand roads. Dark, gnarled hands hung limply from the sleeves of the robe, but no face appeared within the raised hood. In its place, he could see only smoke churning slightly.

Harlequin raised an eyebrow, snorted once, and turned back to his drink, raising it to his lips. "Oh, please," he muttered.

"You cannot ignore me," said the robed figure.

Harlequin snorted again, spraying a few drops of liquid from his mouth. "I can do as I please," he said.

"You are drunk."

Harlequin laughed. "And you, sir, are a feeble attempt to frighten me with an image so common that it would not frighten a child." He looked into the fire. "Lewis Carroll must be spinning in his grave."

"Indeed he must," agreed the figure. "You are drunk and confused. A Christmas Carol was written by Charles Dickens.

"You fog your mind so you cannot see the truth."

Harlequin stood abruptly and hurled the glass toward the robed figure. The missile fell just short, exploding into fragments of brilliant, flashing crystal and a spray of liquid color. The figure did not move.

"Begone, foul spirit," Harlequin cried. "I summoned you not into my home and I banish you hence." He flung his hand out toward the robed figure, spreading his fingers as if throwing dust. A hint of power danced there.

The figure did not move. "You cannot," it said.

Harlequin's face grew wild. "I can and I do!" he cried again, and thrust his arms out to his sides. "M'aela j-taarm querm talar!"

The room darkened suddenly, and pockets of moisture sealed in the firewood burning at Harlequin's back burst, throwing showers of sparks into the air. They rained down up him, ignored, until a cool wind rushed back at him and damped them into embers. He brushed the char from his shoulders.

The figure did not move. "It has been a long time since those words were last spoken, Har'lea'quinn. It is not the first time you have used them against me." The figure's robes rustled slightly. "And they did not aid you then."

Harlequin paled. "No…" he breathed, and stumbled back to his chair. "You are gone… forgotten…"

"Forgotten, perhaps, but never gone. How could we ever be truly gone?"

Harlequin turned away, covering his eyes with his forearm. "You are the past. Your place is there only," he moaned. "That world is gone."

"Perhaps," replied the figure, "but as long as you remember…"

"Yes. That is the key, isn't it?" Harlequin said, standing and dropping his arm to his side. He faced the robed figure again. "My mind. You are right, whatever you are. I am drunk, and that is a bad state for one such as me."

"Then I am a figment of your imagination?"

Harlequin shrugged. "Were you ever anything more?"

The robes moved as if the figure laughed, but Harlequin heard no sound. "That borders on blasphemy. You once were more devout."

"Never for you."

"I understood you too well."

Harlequin thrust his hands into the pockets of his robe. "Or vice versa."

The figure bowed slightly. "Perhaps. Madness can bring wisdom."

Harlequin sneered. "You are the Master of the Twisted Path. The only wisdom you teach is avoidance."

"And yet I am here."

"Alamestra," said Harlequin, pointing to the now-motionless, solid globs of color around the figure's feet, "is not an indulgence known for gifting wisdom."

"Then what of me?"

"What of you?" replied Harlequin.

"If I exist only as a creature of your mind, why am I here?"

Harlequin shrugged again. "It matters not. Your words are lies and your deeds treachery. Your inspiration is betrayal. I care not why you are here and will not listen to you."

"And yet you say you summoned me."

"I am, was, drunk."

"If I am of no consequence or concern, then why did your dispelling not work?"

Harlequin stared at him.

"You have cleared your mind. The fog is lifted, yet I remain."

"You are a hangover incarnate, nothing more."

The figure's robes shifted again. "You lie to yourself."

"No," said Harlequin, "you lie to me."

"As I said."

Harlequin tensed. "This is foolishness. You are a shadow of the dead past conjured by my drunken mind to vex me."

"Why me?"

"I do not care." Harlequin told the figure, turning back to the near-dead fire.

"You lie to yourself."

"You repeat yourself, bland spirit."

The figure slowly raised one arm and pointed at Harlequin. "I am Deceit. I am Deception. I am Treachery. I am Betrayal. I am the passions that bring men to lie to others, and themselves."

Harlequin turned and stared, his eyes growing slightly wider. "As you say," he said.

"As you do, now."

"Your words can never be believed," said Harlequin.

"I am not words, Har'lea'quinn. I am emotion, I am passion, I am what you feel."

Harlequin was silent.

"And you feel them, do you not?"

"I feel nothing."

"You can taste them in the air."

"I taste nothing."

"Smell them on the wind."

"The air is still."

"Hear them laughing in the silence, calling for their due."

"I hear only your maddening voice."

The figure lowered its arm. "You lie to yourself."

Harlequin rushed toward the figure. "I do not!" he howled, his hands clenched into sweaty fists. He shook them at the robed figure. "It is too soon!"

"They are coming."

Harlequin spun away, then rounded back on his antagonist. "It is too soon! They cannot be coming!"

"You lie to yourself."

"It is you who lies to me!"

"As I have said."

Harlequin turned again and stumbled back toward the fire. "It is too soon…" he mumbled. "Nothing is right…I cannot understand…"

"You do not wish to understand. The humans play with things they do not comprehend because no one teaches them."

Harlequin whirled back to face the figure. "And telling them would stop them? I think not."

The figure shifted. "The humans have danced their little dance, Har'lea'quinn. They shook this world, and the others. Now they pay the price."

Harlequin grasped his head and shook it. "No…It is too soon…"

"You will still be saying that when they tear the fingers from your hands and blind you with them. Have you fallen so far, Har'lea'quinn? Have you forgotten the horror?"

"I can't…"

"Nor can I." The figure stared at Harlequin. "I expected more from the last Knight of the Crying Spire."

Harlequin stared back at the figure. "The Northern Islands are gone. Forgotten dust of a forgotten world."

"As all shall be, Har'lea'quinn, as all shall be."

"What would you have me do?" Harlequin cried.

"Destroy the bridge."

Harlequin blanched. "That cannot be done…How…"

"Thayla's Voice."

Harlequin sat abruptly. "No…"

"You know where she roams. Her song will shatter the bridge and cast them back from the chasm. It will take them time to find it again."

Harlequin stared off into the darkness and nodded. "Yes…"

"Travel lightly. Some already wander the netherworlds. It will not be safe. They will smell you coming."

Harlequin continued to nod. "I understand…"

The figure moved forward, walking past Harlequin toward the dying embers of the fire. "Move quickly, Laughing One; they have experience in building their bridge."

Harlequin did not answer but stared off into the darkness of the room, still nodding.

The figure shook its head and stepped into the fire. The embers flared and kindled, but no heat warmed Harlequin. At last he looked up and saw his growing shadow on the wall, and turned. He saw only the last swirls of burning cloth as the heat from the now-raging fire danced them higher and higher.

He stared at the fire. The large, ornate doors at the far end of the room swung open and Harlequin stood quickly. A young woman entered, her long, white hair falling in waves over the black satin dressing gown she clutched to her body with one hand. The other hand held a heavy-barreled chrome pistol. "Did you…" she stammered. "I felt…"

Harlequin nodded and walked toward her. "Indeed you did. Prepare yourself; it is time to see how much you have learned."

She stared at him. As he moved past her he turned and continued walking, backward.

"The netherworlds…" he paused, and smiled. "Pardon my anachronism. The metaplanes will ring with the sounds of battle and songs long unsung." He walked backward out of the room and down the hall.

She followed quickly. "I don't…What happened?"

"Call up your files, dear Jane, and find us some heroes."

She snorted. "Yeah, right."

Harlequin grinned broadly. "Yes, times have changed." His path arced across the large hall they'd entered and he began ascending the staircase.

She stopped at its foot and yelled up after him. "Will you tell me what the frag is going on?"

"Why, my dear," he said, turning away from her, "Harlequin's back. Can't you tell?"

OLD BONES

by Jennifer Harding

The beach was cold this time of year, the gray waves sliding over the pebbles and sand. Roan stood at the edge of the waves. He didn't turn when the Johnson approached, didn't speak; just watched the ill-tempered waves splash gray sludge over the rocks.

"Roan, I presume?" The Johnson broke the silence. Roan nodded. "You come well recommended. I have an extraction, needs to be done quietly, this week. Are you interested?"

"What's the corp?" Roan asked, still not looking at the Johnson. Cami had scanned the man, and Delta had assensed him, before he stepped onto the beach. No cyberware, no magic, no interesting weapons.

"Academic, actually. No corporate affiliations at all."

"Mm-hm." And I'm a choir boy. "Willing?"

The Johnson laughed softly. "There'll be no complaints from him," he replied. "I know your standard fee. I'll add 20% for the necessity of speed. Is that satisfactory?"

Roan nodded. He sent account information to the Johnson, then waited quietly. A few seconds later, he heard a "nuyen's good," in his ear. Roan turned, scanned the man with flat gray cybereyes. Elven, blond, wearing an expensive long coat and shoes that would be ruined by the beach sludge. Idiot.

"Well, Mr. Johnson. Looks like we can do business. Who's the target?"

The elf smiled, as if at a private joke. "He's the Kennewick Man." Should I know that name? Roan sent to Cami. I'm on it, she replied. "He's at the University of Washington," Mr. Johnson continued, with that smug smile.

"A professor?" Roan asked. "A student?" He was missing something here.

Ah – Roan? Cami interrupted. Not a who. A what. Roan frowned at the data that burst onto his AR. "You want us to extract a skeleton?"

"Yes, that's it exactly." The Johnson flashed a perfectly white smile. "You have my number. Call when you've secured him. Oh, and do be gentle. He's a delicate sort." With those final words, the elf turned and walked away.

Roan stood on the beach, bemused.

Well, Cami said into his 'link, At least this one won't whine.

They met back at Roan's doss. Delta shared a place with a half dozen other orks and had no privacy. Cami refused to let them in her place, not since Delta and a small drone had a 'misunderstanding' a few months back. Roan lived alone, in a two-room apartment on the edge of Redmond. The building barely missed being a slum. Still, the neighbors kept to themselves and the roaches didn't eat too much.

"What do you have for us, Cami?" Roan asked.

Cami tapped long fingers on her commlink. Her gold cybereyes focused on him.

"Not much," she replied. "Looks like a lot of the records were lost in the Crash. It's a skeleton, found in 1996, supposedly about 8,500 years old. I found some references that it was moved in '21 to a storage facility, attached to the Burke museum up at the U."

"Damn, Roan. I thought we did extractions," Delta complained. Delta was a big man, even for an ork. The neon blue nanotattoos running up his skull were a startling contrast to his midnight-black skin. "We gonna be thieves now?"

"You had me turn down our last two offers," Roan reminded him. "We keep doing that, biz will dry up."

"We agreed to do willing extractions," Delta replied, defensive.

Cami rolled her eyes at him. "And you figure this guy's gonna care where he's parked?" she asked. Roan knew she was in her mid-twenties, but Cami looked a decade older. She'd been clean for about two years now. The drugs had left her face and body scarred, but they'd spared her mind. Which was more than most addicts could claim.

"Enough," Roan snapped. "We took the money, we do the job. Cami, go hack the storage place. Delta, do a fly-by."

They both slouched down, closed their eyes. Delta was back in five minutes.

"Building's warded. Ton of people in the area, too. No real astral security, but I saw a handful of other people in astral-and they saw me. Students, I figure," the ork reported. Roan sighed, running his hands through his buzz-cut hair. Hopefully Cami would have better news. Knowing she liked to take her time, he sent Delta out for food. Roan stretched out his long legs on the couch and flicked on the trid.

A few hours later, the human woman sat up, stretched. Roan muted the trid and put down his takeout. She shook her head at him.

"You're not gonna like this," she said. "Place doesn't have much security-cameras, a couple of guards, maglock doors. The Matrix system is soft as butter."

"So what's the problem?" Delta asked.

"Place is crawling with students. They're everywhere. It's like a horror trid," she said, shuddering. Delta snorted.

"No, seriously. Apparently there's some big push to check all the inventory, put RFID tags on everything. They're updating their computer records at the same time. They've got hordes of college kids doing most of the work. Place closes at 9, doors get locked, and campus security checks on it every few hours. Kids come back at 8 the next morning."

"Still don't see the problem," Delta interrupted. Cami glared at him. He glared back. "Unless you're afraid of a couple of overweight campus sec guys."

"The problem is, the Kennewick Man isn't listed in the inventory. I found the info showing it was transferred, along with a bunch of other stuff, in '21. But it got mislabeled or something-the inventory code it had links to a stuffed bird. A bunch of stuff is like that. Things got even more screwed up after the Crash. That's why they're re-doing the system.

"If we want to find the damn thing, we're going to have to go look through the whole place, item by item. It'll take hours. Days. Years." Cami waved her skinny arms melodramatically.

"Well, how many skeletons can there possibly be?" Roan asked, pragmatic.

"Place was a dumping ground for a lot of the museums that closed down when the NAN took over. I'd guess, maybe a hundred? There's lots of rooms, different climate controls, and they all lock up at 9 sharp. They've got old, hard-wired alarms on 'em, too. Pain in the ass," she muttered.

"How secure is it during the day?" Roan asked, thinking.

"Looks like the students are checked coming in and going out. No bags, no backpacks, no bulky coats. Not much other than that. Who'd want to steal a bunch of birds nests and plant collections?"

"Other than us?" Delta asked, dryly. Cami shrugged.

"So we go in during the day. Take a few days to search the place. When we find it, we go in at night, take it out quickly," Roan said. "You can fake a student ID, can't you?"

"Well, yeah. But, Roan? None of us really have the-ah-preppy college look. Y'know?" Cami pointed out.

"Well, fuck," Roan muttered. "Delta, you know dozens of teenagers," he said, hopeful. Cami and Delta looked at each other, then back at him.

"You want preppy, not ganger." Cami laughed. "But Roan, you want someone else to go in, look around? You know someone who'd blend just fine," she pointed out.

"Well, fuck," he said, with more feeling.

Doc Holly's 'office' was further in Redmond. She had a great deal going with the Crimson Crush: they kept things quiet around her office, she patched them up free of charge. There were rumors she had an even better deal going with a group of ghouls in the area.

A couple of orks wearing red synth-leather jackets patted him down outside the door. Inside, the front room was exactly as he remembered: scarred plastic chairs, peeling paint on the walls, chipped linoleum floors. Someone had tacked up a poster of a puppy on one wall. The smell of bleach was just a little stronger than the smell of vomit. An ork woman sat in one chair, twitching, her eyes dull and unfocused. Another woman was slowly mopping up something red in front of the desk. Roan ignored them both. He leaned against a wall and watched the door at the back.

After about twenty minutes, an ork came out of the door. He had a white bandage across his face and over one ear His shirt was covered in blood.

"Try and keep it dry, Taz. I'll take out the stitches in a week." Holly's voice followed the ork into the waiting room. Roan felt his stomach clench. He pushed away from the wall and walked into the back.

The doctor was stripping off her latex gloves. She looked up when he shut the door behind him, and raised one eyebrow.

"Roan," she said in her quiet, upper-class voice. It was not a voice that belonged in the Redmond Barrens. That had been one of their arguments-one of many. "I don't see any blood. Pity."

"Looking good, Doc," he replied. She was, too, damn it. That smooth, youthful face, with its sexy overbite, her shining brown hair in a stylish cut. Not quite pretty, but sexy as hell. It pissed him off, seeing her in this place. No matter that her heart was as black as coal, or that she traded the dead for drugs. She still looked too fresh, too sweet, to be living in this squalor. Even elves aged, grew worn and scarred, spending enough time on the streets. Not Holly, though. Her sins hadn't caught up with her. Yet.

"Are you sick, Roan?" she asked, moving to put away her supplies. "Catch some horrible intestinal disease?"

"No," he replied.

"Pity. So what do you want, then?" She was looking down at some blood-coated metal things. Roan put his hand on her arm to move her away from the scalpels and blades. Just in case.

"I need a favor, Holly. Something easy," he said. They were the same height-although, like many elves, she was slender, delicate looking. She looked at his hand on her arm and frowned.

"So you've come about your work? Accidentally shoot a client?"

"No, not this time." Roan explained what he needed. Holly listened, then sighed.

"It'll cost you, Roan. I'll do it, for a price," she said. "You know what I want." He looked at her. Her hands were steady, her blue eyes clear. In that moment, he hated himself. Hated her.

He nodded.

"Then I'll see you in the morning," she said, and turned her back on him. He stared at her for another moment, then left. And if he slammed the door on the way out, well, who could blame him?

"Doc's ready," Cami announced, slipping into the back of their van. Roan and Delta were drinking coffee, watching the AR feed that Cami had rigged on the doctor. She picked up a cup, sipped, and nearly spit out the coffee. "Damn it, Delta, why'd you buy the cheap soy crap?" She looked over at Roan, but he was concentrating on the data streaming in through his 'link. Cami sighed. It was going to be a long day.

They spent all day parked in a pay-by-the-hour lot a few blocks away from the storage facility. Roan concentrated on the live feed Holly was sending, watching as her graceful hands opened one long plastic crate after another.

By five o'clock, she'd checked over forty skeletons. None had matched up with the details Cami had provided.

"I'm heading out, Cami," the doctor said into her commlink. "Do you want me to come back in the morning?"

"Shit, Roan," Cami said, cutting the 'link to the doctor. "You should take her to dinner or something." Roan glanced over at her, his expression cold. "Or not," Cami muttered.

"Yeah, Doc," she sent back to Holly. "That'd be fine. I'll meet up with you in the same place." Cami slid another glance at Roan.

They went through the same routine the next day. Roan sat, unspeaking, during the entire day. Cami and Delta bickered. They'd done this routine before.

On the third day, around 10 a.m., Holly signaled them with her 'link.

"I think I've found your friend," she said. She reached one finger out, traced the line of the skull, ran her finger along the smooth teeth. "How much are they paying you for this fellow?" she murmured.

"Not enough," Cami replied cheerfully. "Got a positive ID there?" Holly turned her head and focused down on the tag around the skeleton's femur. It was yellow with age. In their AR, they could all see the printing: 'Kennewick, WA, 1996, Army Corps of Engineers.'

"Hallelujah," Delta muttered. Cami marked the location and noted the inventory number scribbled on the outside of the plastic crate.

"Thanks, Doc," Cami said, still cheerful.

"Roan, I'll expect payment tomorrow," Holly replied. Delta and Cami exchanged glances.

"Fine." Roan replied.

Roan made arrangements with the Johnson to meet back at the beach at 2 a.m. By midnight, they'd slipped into the storage facility. Cami was right: security was a joke. She hacked the main doors to get them inside. Roan cut through the hard-wired alarm on room 7B-3. They grabbed the crate and left. In and out, under five minutes.

And for once, their 'client' didn't say a word.

Roan drove their pickup into the little parking lot, right at two o'clock. A large van was waiting, engine running, in the middle. Roan parked facing the road, the beach just a few meters away from the back of the truck. He nodded to Delta. The ork closed his eyes, slouched for a second, then straightened up again.

"It's our Mr. J," he said. "Looks eager. He's alone."

Roan nodded. "OK, let's do it." Stepping out of the pickup, he moved around to the back and flipped down the tailgate. The Johnson stepped out of the van and walked up to him.

"Roan," the elf said. In the dark, his teeth flashed white. "You're prompt." Roan pulled the crate to the end and popped it open. The Johnson was an elf, so Roan didn't bother with a flashlight.

"Hope this is the right guy," Roan said as the elf stared at the skeleton. "Your description was… vague."

The elf smiled. "Oh, yes. This is definitely the right one," he said, satisfied. "I see your reputation is well deserved-" Roan leaned over to snap the case closed. Something rushed through the space where his head had been a moment before and slammed into the back of the truck. Roan straightened, turned, and felt something punch his shoulder.

He fell back, using the momentum to grab the Johnson. The elf screamed, but Roan just rolled with him, under the truck. A bullet spat rocks up two centimeters from his face. Roan rolled again, further back.

"Cami?" he shouted in his 'link, in his mind.

"On it," came the reply, ice cold in his ear. He heard the ratchet of a shotgun from the cab of the truck and muted his ears for a second. The truck shook above him. Roan pulled his Predator from the holster, scanned the parking lot. Boulders tumbled at the edge, leading down to the beach. The road was empty.

"Damn it, where are they?" he asked. At the same time, he saw a burst of light as a figure, wrapped in flames, fell screaming from the rocks down to the beach. Score one for Delta. Roan switched his eyes to thermal and focused on the rocks. Was there another person down there? Another spat of bullets hit the truck's cab. The Johnson was whimpering now. Roan ignored him-the bullets told him where to look. He sighted, aimed, fired. Hit. His target jerked and then flew back, punched by a slug from Cami's Remington 990.

Tires squealed beside the truck. He rolled again, aimed. A van stopped, the front doors flying open. He could only see legs.

"Shit," he muttered, then fired another shot. Blood and bone spewed out as a man fell to the ground, one leg ripped apart. More bullets hit the pavement in front of him. Roan felt something burn across one cheek. Someone inside the van burst into flames. Roan saw a thin face, screaming, before the flames washed over it. He heard glass shatter above him. Cami grunted over their 'link.

Roan slid out from under the truck, belly-crawled forward. He could see a man using the front of the van for cover. There was a loud explosion on the beach as ammo cooked off a human torch.

The man by the van glanced over, just for a moment. Roan took advantage and put two clean shots into his face.

He dropped. The screaming from the van was inhuman.

"Oh, for god's sake, Delta. Finish him off," Cami muttered in their 'links. Roan cautiously stood. His shoulder felt like it was on fire and something warm was trickling down his cheek. He'd live.

"Cami, you OK?" Roan asked. His hacker looked out of the truck's shattered back window. Blood covered most of her face, drenched the side of her armored jacket.

"Damn window. Bullet-proof glass my ass," she said, spitting out a mouthful of blood and glass. "Somebody shut that fucker up!" she shouted.

Roan turned, moved over to the van. He fired once and the screaming stopped. He slid the door of the van closed-just in case there was any ammo on the body, ready to cook.

"How 'bout you, Delta?" Roan asked, leaning over the man he'd shot in the leg. The guy was moaning, his eyes wide and glassy with shock. Roan put a bullet between them.

"Hell, I ducked," Delta replied, peering out the back window. "That all of 'em?"

"Fix Cami up," Roan replied, walking over to the rocks and looking down at the burning body on the sand. "Two down over here." He looked down at the body laying across the boulders, the one Cami had shot, and then back to the van, to the two men bleeding on the pavement. There wasn't much left of either face, but enough to know.

"Elves," he muttered. Roan stalked over to the truck. He reached underneath and hauled out the Johnson by the front of his shirt.

"You trying to screw us?" he shouted, shaking the man. Something wet and warm oozed over his hands where they held up the Johnson.

"Party lights," Cami said. Roan looked out and saw the sparkling lights winding their way up the dark beach road. Lone Star. He looked down at the glassy eyes of their Johnson.

"Motherfucker," he said, with feeling.

Two hours later, Delta slept, exhausted, while Roan paced the living room of their safehouse. His shoulder ached like hell, but he couldn't ask Delta for help. Patching up Cami had taken everything out of the ork. The skeleton sat in its crate in the spare room.

"You think the Johnson turned?" Cami asked as she scrubbed at the blood drying on her jacket.

"No," Roan replied. "They shot him, too."

"Why the hell would someone want a bunch of old bones?" she asked. Roan looked at her, at the blood streaking her blonde hair, soaking through her shirt. He'd screwed up. Someone had messed with his team. Now he wanted to know why.

"I gotta make a call," he said.

Roan had met Elijah a few years back. They'd shared a bottle of ouzo one night in a seedy hell-hole of a bar. For a brainy dirt-digger, the man could drink.

He made the call, connected. A middle-aged human looked out at him, brown hair tied back into a stubby ponytail. From the distorted view, Roan guessed Elijah was looking down into a handheld 'link.

"Roan," Elijah said, after staring for a moment. "Hell. As pretty as ever, I see. The blood's a nice touch."

Roan raised his hand to his cheek. Grimaced. "Yeah, well." He shrugged it off. "I've got something here, right up your alley."

"Yeah?" Elijah asked. In the background, Roan could hear the screams of tropical birds. Roan transmitted a burst of data, including a picture of the skeleton Cami had uploaded for him.

"You heard of the Kennewick Man?" Roan asked.

Elijah whistled. "My God. I'd heard it was lost. And no photos of the thing lying around, of course, otherwise… Hell, it's what, 8,500 years old, right?" he said, excited.

"So says the intel," Roan replied, shrugging.

"How much did you get paid for this?" Elijah asked, still staring at the picture.

"Not enough." Roan sighed. "Not nearly enough."

Elijah promised to call back in a few hours. Roan told Cami to get some sleep. He double-checked all the alarms, then popped a couple of painkillers and bunked down himself. Cami woke him up in the morning. She and Delta had the morning news on the trid.

"What?" Roan asked, walking into the living room. He rolled his shoulder, once, wincing at the pain. Delta still looked tired, though-maybe later he'd ask… He stopped in front of the trid. A live news feed was on, showing a building in flames. His building. People stood gawking on the sidewalk. No fire crews yet-the news moved faster than public services.

"Pack," he spit out.

"But, Roan, how'd they know-?" Cami asked. Roan cut his eyes to her.

"Now, Cami," he said.

Delta was carrying the crate into the garage when someone triggered one of the proximity alarms. Roan ducked against a wall, drew his gun. Cami leaned out of the kitchen and silently mouthed, 'elf'. Then she turned and ran after Delta. Roan heard a window break. He sprinted after his team. Delta and Cami were in the truck. She pointed to the garage door as Roan jumped behind the wheel. He shook his head, grinning violently. He gunned the truck forward, bursting through the plastic garage door. Roan caught a glimpse of a startled elf, then felt a satisfying thump as the elf disappeared from sight. A few bullets pinged off the side of the truck as he skidded down the street. Air whistled in the glassless window behind them.

"Delta, check for tails," he said, making another wide turn. In the back, the crate slid, crashing against one side of the pickup bed. Cami was holding on desperately to her door.

"Roan, you're gonna have drones on you in a second," she said, closing her eyes as he took a quick left and swerved through the cross traffic.

"Clear on astral," Delta reported.

Cami opened her eyes, saw another intersection, and closed them again. "Gray van, behind us," she said through clenched teeth. "It's running lights, too."

Delta looked back, grinned. A gust of wind, swirling leaves and trash, streaked by. The gray van swerved a little, fighting the wind, then T-boned a red sedan.

"Not anymore," he said, satisfied.

Roan slowed down and took the next turn at a legal speed. He wound his way through the side streets. The houses gave way to shops and apartments. Many of the shops were boarded up or burnt out. Apartments they passed were decorated with graffiti and had broken, empty windows. The road grew rough, pitted with potholes and chunks of concrete. Roan shifted the truck into four-wheel drive.

"Where the hell we goin', Roan?" Cami asked, finally. She eyed the red-jacketed orks who stood on the street corners, smoking, watching.

"I want to ask that slitch how much she sold us out for," he said. He pulled up to a row of shops, all but one abandoned.

"You two go 'round back. I'll go in front," he said, pulse hammering. He pulled out his gun, holding it loose at his side as he walked up to the door. Her sentinels were missing. When he pushed open the door, Roan realized why.

Inside, the scent of blood, and thicker things, was heavy enough to make him gag. Two orks in Crush colors lay on the floor. Blood pooled black over the dirty linoleum. A human woman and an old ork man slumped in chairs. Blood had sprayed the walls behind them.

Roan jerked his gun up, then lowered it, hand shaking, as Delta came through the exam room door. Cami followed, her shotgun over her shoulder. She shook her head.

Roan turned and slammed a fist through the wall. White plaster sprayed out, like bone through flesh. Silent, he went back outside and got into the truck.

He drove, still silent, until they came to a seedy looking motel. The kind with automated check-in and rooms by the hour.

"Cami," he said, curt.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. A few minutes later, she pointed. "Room 17," she said. Roan drove the truck up to the parking spot numbered 17 and got out. Delta touched Cami on the shoulder, then got out to grab the crate.

Elijah called first.

"Find of the century, Roan. I can't wait to see it myself," he said.

"Things are a little hot here, Elijah. I'm not keeping the damn thing for you," Roan snapped back.

"Yeah, yeah. You used to like a little action," he said, grinning. "No doubt, once word gets out about this, in-shall we say-certain circles, I think you'll be fine. No point going after you, when the secret's out, right?" Elijah chuckled. Roan glared. "Ahem. I've been in touch with some associates who'll be happy to take it off your hands. They're broke, like always, so they can't offer any compensation. But they'll broadcast photos, get documentation out in the right places. You keep your head down for a few days and things should cool off just fine."

"Perfect," Roan said. "Give me a time and a place."

"Midnight, tonight," Elijah said. He sent an address. "Take it in the back. Two guys'll be waiting. Probably weeping tears of joy. I wish I could be there."

"You want to tell me why anyone cares a flying fuck about these bones?" Roan asked.

"Hell, Roan, isn't it obvious? Just look at-" Roan's commlink flashed an incoming call. Holly's number.

"Great," Roan said and disconnected Elijah. "CAMI!" he shouted. "Trace this call!" And he answered.

Holly looked out at him. Her pretty blue eyes were overly bright, a dark bruise showing clearly against her pale cheek. Her lips, those sexy lips, were bleeding. Her shirt was torn, and she was holding it together with shaking hands. Roan clenched his fists.

"I'm sorry, Roan," she said. Her voice trembled. She glanced up, away from the vid-camera, and shuddered. "I thought… " Her eyes flicked away again, then back. Roan knew that look. Someone-maybe Holly herself-had pumped drugs into her pretty veins.

"I thought they were bringing… bringing what you promised."

"S'okay, Holly," he said, softly. The rage was burning through him, hot and bright. She covered her face, covered it with those elegant, shivering hands. The picture went dark.

"Bring us the Kennewick Man," said a mechanical voice. "Midnight, tonight. We'll give you back your pretty doctor. We might even leave her alone, until then." The voice laughed. Roan bit back an oath. "We'll call you at ten 'til midnight. Be waiting near the beach-just like last night. We'll tell you where to meet us then, somewhere nearby. You'll want to drive fast. If you're late, we may just have to entertain ourselves with your lady." The connection terminated.

Roan swung around, pinning Cami with wild eyes.

"Tell me you traced it," he said. She took a step back, holding her hands up. Roan realized he had his Predator in his hand. He stared down at it, then collapsed on the edge of the bed.

Delta bundled them up, got everyone in the truck and back on the road. It was late when he finally pulled to a stop in an empty parking lot.

Sitting in the truck, hunched against the cold and the dark, Cami and Delta watched Roan.

"You know, Elijah's right," Cami finally spoke. "Once this gets out-whatever the hell 'this' is-they won't be hunting us down."

"They'll kill her," Roan said, quietly. He looked at his team. Pleading. "They'll kill her, after they-" he stopped. Cami put her hand on his shoulder.

"Roan, we go to the meet, they'll kill us too," she pointed out. "They'll be waiting, ready. We're walking into a trap and we know it. They know it. You think we can take them down? Three of us, against… how many?" Roan looked over at Delta. The ork shifted, uncomfortable.

"I agree with Cami," he said. "Look, Roan, she's your lady. Or was. But-hell. We go there, they'll have the drop on us. We take it to this Elijah guy's friends, they put out the word, and the heat's off us."

Roan looked at them. Cami, fresh pink scars decorating her face. Delta, his glossy black skin sweating, even in the cold. He'd been working with Delta for over two years, Cami for just under. They were his team. His job was to keep them safe, keep them alive. In the shadows, you stuck by your team. Friends and family just slowed you down. Made you weak.

And Holly sure as hell made him weak.

"Roan, you say the word," Delta said. "I'm with you, either way." The ork glared at Cami. She sighed.

"Yeah, yeah. Me too. Hell, we'll hurt 'em some, make them scream like little girls," she said, punching him on the shoulder. "But we better go. 'Bout an hour, either way. And it's almost eleven o'clock."

Roan looked at both of them again. There wasn't any place in a runner's life for friends, family. For love. Wasn't that why he'd slammed the door on Holly in the first place? Because watching her pump her veins full of drugs was killing him, just as it would eventually kill her? Because worrying about her took his mind off the job?

And if he wanted to kill himself over her, how could he drag his team into it? Cami, Delta. They had his back, they'd go down with him. They trusted him to make the right decision, just like he always had. But what was right? Sacrifice Holly, let her be tortured, or take his team into a certain trap? A choice-wasn't it always about a choice? Only this time, only one choice would leave him alive. Did he want to live with guilt, or die with it? Roan pushed Delta over, slid behind the wheel of the truck. Shifted the truck into gear. Pulled back out onto the road.

"Where we goin'?" Cami asked.

"To do the right thing," he replied, and drove into the night.

TURNABOUT

R. King-Nitschke

"Sparq, you in position?"

"Ready to rumble, Boss." Sparq's voice came back quick and strong over the commlink from the unguarded jackpoint downstairs where he'd plugged in. Zack grinned a little to himself-anything less would have surprised him, of course. They'd worked together so long they almost knew each other's thoughts. "Give the word, and the power's history. I've got control of the backup systems, too, though I don't know for how long."

"Okay, good," Zack said. He looked around at the remaining members of the team-like himself, they were all dressed in identical drab gray Clarion Electric jumpsuits. Torque's bulged a little in all the wrong places (guns and vat-grown muscle would do that to a guy) and Elena's bulged (at least in Zack's opinion) in all the right places, though he'd never have told her that. He liked life as a human and wasn't quite sure she couldn't turn him into a frog.

He hefted his metal toolbox and nodded to the others. "You chummers ready to do this?"

Torque shrugged. "Milk run. We'll be in and out in fifteen, and down at MacArthur's by nine. That's if we take our time."

Zack didn't bother to tell Torque that things rarely worked like that, but privately he thought this time it might just turn out to be true. The job seemed ridiculously easy-their Johnson, a flashy media type, had offered them five big ones to break into some upstart kid's apartment and just mess the place up. Not even to steal anything, just to trash the place. "I just want to give him a message," the Johnson had said with that oily smile that made Zack want to punch him a good one in his perfectly capped teeth. Media types made him itch. But cred was cred, and Johnson had paid half up front.

The toughest part had been figuring out the building's security, which wasn't any cakewalk. Even then, though, a little research in the right places had taken care of that. They'd hunted up the plans for the building (it was a new one, built only a couple of years ago) and Sparq had taken only an hour or so of searching to find the rarely used jackpoint hidden in a maintenance closet in the basement. That had given rise to their plan to take down the power and get in disguised as electrical contractors. Right now they were in the parking garage in their van, and Zack was about to give the word.

"You sure he's not home?" Torque asked suddenly.

Zack nodded. He pulled a newsfax from the van's dashboard and tossed it in Torque's lap. Face up was an article with the headline Charity show to benefit apartment fire victims. Torque examined it. "Says he's gonna be there," he said, nodding. "Hope he didn't get a headache at the last minute or something."

"Quit worrying, Torque," Elena said, grabbing the newsfax and tossing it back on the dash. "In and out in fifteen, remember?"

"Milk run," Torque agreed again.

"Okay, Sparq, let's go," Zack said into the comm. A few seconds later the lights went out, plunging the garage into blackness. He opened the van's door. "Showtime."

They took the service elevator up, so nobody noticed either them or the fact that they had the only power in the building. When it stopped and the doors opened, Sparq's voice spoke over their comms: "Nobody in the hallway. Not surprising, since he's got the top floor. Can't see into the apartment, though. I'll hold the elevator for you. Make it snappy, okay?"

"That's the plan," Zack agreed.

The three of them piled out of the elevator and headed down the hallway to the set of double doors at the end. Zack was already pulling out his electronics kit-any security door worth its salt had to have its own backup power independent of the building's. Behind him he could hear Torque unlimbering his Predator. "Elena, can you see if anybody's inside?"

"On it," she said, already settling down against the wall. In a moment she was back. "Nobody here but us chickens," she reported.

"Wiz." A little electronic beep indicated that he had cracked the door's maglock. He turned the knob with a gloved hand and pushed it inward.

Sparq had restored power to the apartment's front room so they got a good view in the dim security lights when they stepped inside. Torque let out a long low whistle. "Must be nice."

Zack took in the room with its exotic wood floors, soaring windows, and plush furnishings and nodded. He didn't know much about such things, but he suspected the paintings and other objets d'art that dotted the room were probably real and probably cost more than the team made in years. Still, they were here to do a job. "Let's get on with it," he said with a briskness he didn't feel. "We're here for a reason-let's get it done and get out before somebody spots the lights on and asks questions."

Torque grinned and wrapped his big hand around a tall, thin sculpture of veined stone. He picked it up and raised it like a baseball bat, taking aim at its mate at the other end of a table. "Here goes."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," an amused voice drawled from somewhere in the shadows.

Torque stopped in mid-swing, and Zack and Elena whipped their heads around in stunned surprise. "Wha-?"

A slim figure stepped out from the darkened hallway. "Not a good idea," he said. He was smiling like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Oh, drek-" Elena started.

Torque's hand dropped to his holstered Predator.

"I wouldn't do that either," the newcomer said, his gaze flicking casually down at the gun. He was young, barely into his twenties, his stunning good looks so perfect they had to be fake. He lounged against the wall in his tres-chic clubwear, his arms crossed over his chest. "Suppose you tell me what you're doing here."

"What's going on?" Sparq's voice crackled over the commlink.

"Hang on," Zack subvocalized. To the kid he said, "I guess you must be Damon."We've still got the upper hand, he reminded himself. No need to hurt him. That's not what we're getting paid for. This just makes things a little messier.

The young man shrugged. "Good guess. This is my place, after all."

"You're supposed to be at a party," Torque blurted. His hand was still on the Predator, but he hadn't drawn it.

Damon chuckled. "So I am. Fortunate for me that I decided to come home early, isn't it?" His violet eyes moved over the three 'runners, settling on each in turn. "So let's talk. What are you doing here? I can guess, but I'd like to hear it from you."

Torque and Elena exchanged glances, and then both looked at Zack. None of them spoke.

Damon's eyes twinkled with amusement. "I see. You're better at making messes than you are at speaking. That's all right. Just tell me this-which one of them was it? Manetti? Yukizaka? Washington?"

The names meant nothing to Zack, but Elena seemed to recognize them. She was about to say something when Torque spoke up, apparently having had about enough of this grinning kid thinking he ran the show here. "Listen, chummer," he growled, finally drawing the Predator, "Why don't you just sit down like a good boy and let us finish what we came here to do. If you shut up and make nice all you'll have is a few rope burns for your trouble."

"Ooh, kinky." Damon laughed. "But you'll understand that I can't let you do that. It's so hard to find good furniture these days, and it would be criminal to let you destroy my art pieces. Oh-" He tilted his head, "-but you are criminals, though, aren't you?"

At that point, everything happened at once. Torque roared with rage and swung the Predator around to point at Damon. Before Zack or Elena could yell anything, Torque screamed and clutched his hand and the gun dropped to the floor. Elena spun, operating on pure instinct now, and flung a spell at Damon. It never reached him: instead, it flared up in a display of pyrotechnics and then fizzled out. The three runners stared, wide-eyed.

Throughout all of this, Damon had not moved. Now he pushed himself off the wall and shrugged. "I told you it wasn't a good idea." Something changed in his smile-a little less amused, a little more predatory. "You didn't do your research about me, did you?"

Zack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was beginning to realize that they might be in over their heads here. Just keep him talking… "You're-new in town. Own the Odyssey Club that's opening next week. Came from back east somewhere, where you ran another club."

Damon nodded. "That's the easy part. But you didn't find the rest, did you?" He shrugged philosophically. "Not surprising. It's not public knowledge, but it's not a secret, either. Leads to tiresome problems when people find out." He moved toward them with casual slowness, still keeping them all pinned with his gaze. "But then, I've got another party to get to in half an hour, so I can't afford to take too long with this."

Zack stood very still as Damon approached him. The young man locked eyes with him for a moment, and Zack suddenly felt like the contents of his mind were being sifted through. There was no pain, but it was an unsettlingly crawly feeling. Torque and Elena remained where they were, watching silently. Then Zack's eyes got big as the exchange of information briefly switched directions. Something unseen passed from the young man to the shadowrunner, and Zack staggered back a couple of steps, mouth hanging open.

Finally Damon nodded, smiling again. "Okay, so that's who it was. Doesn't surprise me. I thought he might cause trouble, I just wasn't sure when." He glanced at Zack and waved toward Elena and Torque. "Go ahead, tell them. I can see you want to."

The whites were visible all the way around Zack's eyes. His mouth worked a couple of times but no sound came out. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

"What?" Torque demanded, shifting his attention back and forth between Damon, Zack, and his fallen Predator.

"He's-" Zack started, pointing at Damon.

"He's what?" Elena glared at Damon. "C'mon, Zack, spill it if you know something!"

"He's a fraggin' dragon! " Zack blurted. Then all the energy drained from his tone. "He…let us get in because he…thought it would be…fun…to see what we were up to."

Elena and Torque stared, first at Zack and then at the young man. "Did I hear that 'dragon' part right?" Sparq's voice, forgotten, crackled over the comm. Nobody answered him.

"Oh, drek…" Elena began. She took a step backward.

"You're-sure of this?" Torque murmured, as if afraid he would dislodge something if he spoke too loudly.

"Oh, yeah." Zack had found his voice again, sort of. "L-let's not ask him to prove it, okay? I'm convinced."

Torque and Elena exchanged nervous glances. Then Torque regarded Damon, his tone shaky. "So-now what happens? You aren't gonna…I dunno…eat us, are you?"

Damon laughed. "No. All that metal tastes terrible, and the cleanup's a bitch."

"So-what, then? Are you going to let us go?" Elena asked hopefully.

"Maybe," Damon mused. His hand was on his chin in a 'thinking' pose. Then he shrugged and flashed them a brilliant grin. "Sure, why not? But you'll have to do something for me in return. How's that sound?"

The runners didn't even ask what it was before they all nodded in unison.

The next day the four of them met over lunch in the darkened back corner of their favorite local bar and grill. Zack was late. When he arrived, he was carrying a newsfax which he tossed on the table. "Looks like we got away with it," he said, more than a little relief in his voice.

Elena picked it up. It was one of the local unsavory entertainment rags. "Club Owner's Home Vandalized," she read. Her eyes scanned ahead a little and she chuckled. "Bryce Manetti, owner of several novahot Seattle clubs including One Step Beyond and the Star Lounge, reportedly returned home last night to find parts of his Bellevue mansion defaced by unknown vandals. The investigation is pending-no details are available, but rumors say that the vandals' attacks included suspending Manetti's grand piano from the beams of his ceiling and dyeing his white carpets purple. These rumors are, of course, unconfirmed."

Sparq laughed. "They didn't mention the surprise I left on his dataterminal-wait until he tries to send email and discovers that every third letter changes to a 'D'."

"Or the note," Zack added, wondering what had been inside the sealed envelope they'd left prominently displayed on Johnson's mantelpiece. None of them had been brave enough to open it and peek.

"I thought the shaving cream in the bathrooms was a nice touch," Torque admitted. "Juvenile, but traditional." He sounded like he hadn't had this much fun on a run in years.

Elena took a deep breath. "So you think he'll leave us alone?"

"Johnson, you mean? Or-?"

"Not Johnson."

Zack shrugged. "Not much we can do about it if he decides not to. But I think he got what he wanted."

"As opposed to Johnson, who got what he deserved," Sparq said, unable to suppress a grin at the memory. "Beer, anybody? I'm buying."

DEAD MAN'S PARTY

Jon Szeto

There was one distinctive characteristic about the post-lockdown Renraku Arcology that always unsettled Marcelles: the smell.

Having spent several years in the Arc before the lockdown – first as a wageslave, then later a shadowrunner – the elf gunman had grown accustomed to its climate-controlled atmosphere. To keep the middle managers and executives who lived inside happy, the Arcology added an air freshener to the recirculated air passing through the scrubbers. The aroma was so distinctive that Renraku's marketing department even trademarked it to sell as a designer brand elsewhere. Marcelles also suspected the freshener helped to mask a mood-dampening drug Renraku also piped into the air, to keep the hired help docile and to dull the edges of intruding malcontents.

Since the lockdown and the battle to reopen it, however, the air freshener was one of the first things to go. Now, instead of the trademark Arcology FragranceTM, Marcelles' nose caught the acrid stench of cordite, machine oil, and smoke. It wasn't a scent that the veteran runner had never smelled before, but to smell it while gazing on the Arc's interior hallways jarred like a dissonant screech on Marcelles ' memory.

As Marcelles waved to signal to his companions that the concourse was clear, the elf could detect other odors adding to the Arc's new aroma: a heavy coat of antiseptic, masking the lesser stench of blood, bile, and decomposition. They were close to their objective. Marcelles glanced down to see his hands nervously fidget with the safety of his weapon. Right now he wished Renraku was still pumping that sedative as he always claimed; it would at least help to calm his nerves.

"There," pointed out Marcelles to the man closing on his side, "that's the place, Reese. It used to be a cafeteria for middle managers, but the otaku converted it into a biotech lab. After the Red Samurai took this floor back, they used it as a makeshift morgue to dissect Banded troops they capped."

"Wonderful. Don't think I'll ever eat at a McHugh's again," muttered Reese as he hefted his submachinegun. The once cheery cafeteria, originally themed in shades of green and bright blue, now had splotches of red, yellow, and brown on the walls. Most of the original furniture was gone; in their stead lay cold steel examination tables bearing equally cold cadavers, attended by medical devices of chrome and plastic. They stood perched like vultures over the tables, gazing down with their blinking multicolored LEDs.

"Any signs of our samurai friends, Ivan?" Reese turned to ask the ork standing behind him. Black Ivan shook his head.

"Nyet. Hacksaw seems to be leading them on a merry chase with his drones," replied Black Ivan, in a thick Russian accent. He glanced down at the gaunt form of the rigger seated on the floor, hunched over the remote control deck before him. Hacksaw only barely registered the ork's presence, as the rigger was preoccupied with directing his drone network. Several hundred meters away, several of Hacksaw's drones, modified to look like Deus' mechanical monstrosities, were distracting the Renraku forces that would normally be guarding the morgue. Only the medical staff remained behind to look after the bodies inside.

"Good," nodded Reese. He figured he didn't have to bother the rigger, so instead he turned to Alexandra. "Anything on the astral?"

Alexandra's wavy tresses of strawberry blonde quivered as the street witch shook her head. "Just the normal background count left over from past fights. It's not pretty, though."

"Well, just as long as there aren't any surprises, that's all I'm worried about." Reese's brow furrowed. "Marcelles, you keep a watch over our rear. You and Hacksaw will stay here while the rest of us rush the clinic; we'll signal you both to move in. Northwood, you and Ivan take point."

"Check, Reese," drawled Northwood from underneath his Stetson. The adept's tan long coat rustled as he produced a shotgun from within its folds.

"Okay, let's do it." Making one last quick check, Northwood and Black Ivan darted out from the side corridor where the group was hiding. The Russian ork leapfrogged from cover to cover, first crouching behind the wreck of a burned-out spider drone, then a stand of now-withered stand of decorative trees, until he was backed up to the left of the cafeteria entrance.

Reese momentarily lost sight of Northwood. Every so often he could catch the gunslinger's duster out of the corner of his eye, but the adept otherwise moved with an unnatural stealthiness that almost bordered on invisibility. By the time Reese caught Northwood again, he was pressed up on the opposite side of the entrance from Ivan. Northwood nodded wordlessly and motioned with his hand. Reese and Alexandra broke out in a crouching run, until they arrived at the other side, crouching low beneath Black Ivan and Northwood.

As Black Ivan withdrew his pistol, Northwood reached into his long coat and fished out a grenade, pulled out the pin, and lobbed it between the double doors. A split second later, a loud boom thundered from within, while flashes of light escaped from the doors forcibly banged open. The concussion grenade was mostly flash and bang, thus keeping physical damage to a minimum. However, it would knock out anyone in the immediate vicinity, while surprising the rest long enough to gain the advantage.

Black Ivan and Northwood swung around and kicked the doors back inwards, weapons leveled in front. Ivan bellowed out, "DROP EVERYTHING AND MOVE TO THE BACK NOW!!! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"

An intern in scrubs standing a few meters away dropped in a dead faint. Black Ivan was big for an ork, and his synthetic muscle augmentations made him even bigger. With the added shock factor from the grenade blast, Ivan looked to the medical staff like he could wrestle a dragon – and win.

As if on cue, Northwood suddenly swung right and hard with the butt of his shotgun. The stock connected squarely with the jaw of a guard sneaking up from behind. The guard's gun clattered on the floor, followed by a heavy thud from the cold-cocked Red Samurai.

"Move it, people. Now, before I hurt someone!" growled Northwood, as Reese and Alexandra swung around to back up the two. Like cowed sheep, the half-dozen medtechs shuffled backwards away from the shadowrunners. Northwood and Black Ivan herded them into a custodial closet, which Black Ivan shut and barred with a chair under the doorknob.

As the others moved into a defensive position securing the cafeteria-cum-morgue, Reese retrieved a communicator from his jacket. "Marcelles, Hacksaw. Objective secured. Get in here ASAP so we can start looking for our dead friend. It's going to take a while to sort through all the stiffs here."

"Nope, that's not him either." As Marcelles double-checked the holopic Mr. Johnson had given them, Reese unceremoniously rolled the cadaver off one side of the examination table. The corpse rolled a short distance before it came to a rest besides the four others they had previously examined. "You sure they brought him back here?"

"Well, Hacksaw verified that the late Mr. Wendy wasn't taken to Renraku's Bellevue complex," answered Reese, "and the Arcology is the only other place in Seattle that has an onsite morgue."

"But why bring him back here?" asked Alexandra. "If Renraku thought he was one of Deus' sleeper agents, why bring him back to the Arcology?"

Marcelles shrugged. "Dunno, Alex. I think the cover's a sham, anyway. Most of the people I know in Renraku swear Rich Wendy couldn't have been a sleeper. He was just a buyer in purchasing, and not involved in anything classified or really important. Most of them were surprised when they heard the Red Samurai shot him trying to resist arrest."

The speculation came to an halt as Black Ivan emerged from the kitchen with a body bag slung over one shoulder. He dropped it onto the examination table Reese had just cleared. "This is the sixth one."

"Any more left in the freezer, Ivan?" asked Reese.

"Da, another eight more. But two are oversized for trolls, and two are small: either dwarfs or children. That leaves five more to check." Renraku was using the walk-in freezer in the cafeteria's kitchen to store the growing backlog of corpses they were examining.

"Drek. We're running out of time. I hope we get lucky pretty soon." Reese unzipped the body bag. Although the cold of the freezer had retarded decomposition somewhat, a fetid odor nevertheless emanated from the inside as its contents were exposed to air.

"Bingo! That's him. That's Rich Wendy." Marcelles raised his sleeve to cover his nose from the stench of decay.

"Finally! Okay, Ivan, let's cut it loose," directed Reese. As Reese held the corpse's head steady, Ivan unholstered a sickle from his belt. The hammer and sickle, former symbols of a former homeland, were Ivan's signature calling card. It established Ivan's reputation as the most feared Vory enforcer in Vladivostok, before circumstances forced him to flee across the Pacific to Seattle.

The sickle that Ivan raised was no ordinary farming tool, however. Forged from the same steel as most combat knives and further enhanced with a diamond-hard enamel of Dikote, it could slice wood without nicking the edge. A wet squish burst out as the blade connected right above the collarbone. Dark crimson spilled onto the floor underneath the table.

"Now, Alexandra," nodded Reese. The street witch placed her hands on both temples of the decorporated head, closed her eyes, and chanted softly under her breath. The blood dripping from the carotid artery slowed to a trickle, and the flesh on the head appeared to become rosier, as Alexandra's spell of stasis arrested the onset of decay. Reaching with one hand into her battered carpet bag, she withdrew a small bronze scarab and placed it on the corpse's forehead. Marcelles almost thought he saw the legs of the metal beetle withdraw slightly and dig into the flesh. Releasing both scarab and head, Alexandra opened her eyes and withdrew.

"It's done. The focus is set and will sustain the preservation spell until we can put the head on ice," confirmed Alexandra. Reese opened up a waterproof bag and placed the head inside, tying it shut afterwards.

"Reese," Hacksaw's low voice interrupted the almost ceremonious proceedings, as the rigger unjacked from his remote control deck. "The Red Samurai have broken contact with my drones and are returning to this location. We don't have much time."

"Damn. This is cutting it close." Reese keyed his radio. "Northwood, it's Reese. The Red Samurai are falling back. Report when you see them and get back here."

"I see 'em already, I'm gone!" The gunslinger was keeping watch a hundred or so meters around the corner, and he could see another hundred meters further down. They had a little time, but not much.

"Okay, people, you heard the man. Let's get mo-" Reese was cut off in mid-sentence as a large juggernaut of a drone burst through the wall behind them. One of the drone's weapon mounts boomed in discharge, and a spray of red erupted from one side of Reese's head. The runner collapsed where he stood, falling to rest with the other lifeless bodies on the floor.

Black Ivan howled something unintelligible in Russian and launched himself at the drone, hammer and sickle in hand, turning in midair to avoid a strike by on of the drone's legs. The leg struck one of the examination machines, causing chunks of machinery to go flying. One piece struck Hacksaw in the forearm and the rigger fell cursing in pain behind an examination table.

"Alex, see if you can slow that machine down!" shouted Marcelles as he ducked under cover. He had never seen this type of drone before, so he could only guess at how to disable it. Once on the floor, he looked around wildly for his knapsack before he spotted it lying a meter away in the open. Taking one last peek at the mechanical monstrosity, Marcelles launched himself at the ruck, scooped it into his chest as he slid forward, and then somersaulted behind another table while automatic gunfire tore up the floor behind him.

"Earth, to my aid!" yelled Alexandra as she dropped to the ground. The floor in front of her buckled, and a giant humanoid form of rock and dirt rose out of the tiling, using its body to block Alexandra from the drone's gunfire. Alexandra simply pointed at the drone, and the elemental began making a slow ponderous march towards the drone. The elemental grabbed two of its legs in its stony grips and began wrestling the drone to the ground. Meanwhile Ivan systematically slashed and struck at its legs, which combined with the elemental's grappling practically pinned the drone in place.

"Ivan! Place this under the sensor dome!" Marcelles withdrew a magnetic demolitions charge from inside his knapsack and tossed it to Black Ivan. The ork dropped his hammer to make a one-handed catch in midair. Using his sickle as a grappling hook, Ivan swung up onto the drone's dorsal plating, using his knees to check himself from getting bucked off the drone's back. With his other hand the ork reached around the front of the drone, trying to position it under the oblong dome housing the sensor elements. Once his hand was in the correct place, the magnet grabbed hold of the drone's hull with a soft snikt. Ivan went limp and slid off one side, rolling away to safety. Once Marcelles saw that Black Ivan was clear, he pulled out a remote detonator and jammed his thumb on the button.

The explosion was deafening, even causing the walls to shiver ever so slightly. The two heaviest occupants, the drone and the elemental, absorbed the brunt of the blast, so the more organic members were only badly shaken. However, the elemental seemed to take the greater share, as light shone through many gaping holes in its rocky form. The drone lurched forward and rolled over the elemental, trampling it underfoot and shattering its body into tiny rubble.

Marcelles saw that he had miscalculated the placement of the charge. While he was right to guess that the sensor dome was the weakest point, the point he told Ivan to place the charge was too low. The frontal armor had deflected most of the blast upwards and outwards, into the primary ocular array, leaving the central processing unit behind it mostly undamaged. Already now secondary sensors were compensating, and the drone lurched towards Marcelles. Unlike the mythical Polyphemus, this cyclopean monstrosity was far from blind. Marcelles feared that he wouldn't learn from this mistake.

As the drone loomed over Marcelles, the doors flew open behind them. Without missing a step, Northwood strode in, and the muzzle of his shotgun rose up, roaring in fury. Northwood's preternatural aim shot true, and the slug sailed squarely through the gaping hole into the central processor. A jet of molten plasma erupted on impact, slagging the processor into nothingness. Northwood was packing MicroHEAT rounds in his shotgun, microsized antivehicle rounds designed especially for taking down drones. The drone seized up momentarily, and then fell backwards, its appendages flailing harmlessly.

Marcelles started to breathe again. "Thanks, Northwood. You got here just in time. Talk about a lucky shot."

"Good runners make their own luck," deadpanned Northwood. Despite the solitary opposing combatant, the carnage in the room nevertheless beggared description. Most of the equipment was in ruins, and black smoke was rising from the now motionless hulk of drone. Although most of them didn't result from the ensuing fracas, multiple bodies covered in crimson ichor littered the floor.

The sound of boots scurrying in the distance snapped the runners out of their macabre reverie. "We better get moving," said Marcelles finally, as he snapped back to the real world. "Somebody retrieve the head."

"I'll get it." Alexandra got up from where she was knocked down and crawled over to Reese's body, still clutching the waterproof bag holding their prize.

"Look out!" Northwood yanked Alexandra back as she reached down. A pair of bloody hands swiped the air where Alexandra's throat otherwise would have been. Were it not for the gunslinger's supernatural instincts, they would have snapped the street witch's neck like a twig.

Reese picked himself up off the ground awkwardly, a gurgling noise coming from his ruined face. His own blood soaked through most of his clothes, and bits of gray matter fell on his right shoulder like a gory dandruff.

"Oh, drek! Shedim!" Alexandra grabbed the ankh hanging from her waist and held it aloft with her right hand, chanting in arcane phrases. The undead construct that was once Reese stopped in its tracks, locking gaze with its one remaining eye against Alexandra's two. Sweat began to bead on her creased brow as her chanting increased in tempo and volume, the angry injunction accenting in the inflections of Alexandra's timbre. The gurgling in Reese's throat grew louder in rise to the challenge, but Alexandra would not back down. Grasping the ankh with both hands, Alexandra took a step towards the shedim. Her eyes glinted with the occult fire that danced behind them.

Shouting the final word of abjuration, Alexandra thrust the ankh into Reese's chest, right over the heart. A loud sizzle hissed from his body, and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. What was left of Reese's head cocked backwards, and the remnants of his jaw gaped open. A flash of light spilled up from inside out the various holes in his head, and a pale vapor escaped out of his mouth. The light faded, and Reese's once more inanimate body collapsed to the ground.

Alexandra dropped her arms and head, and she collapsed into Northwood's arms. The Drain from the banishing took a lot out of her. Marcelles reached down and scooped up the bag with the head at Reese's feet. Black Ivan slung one of Hacksaw's arms over his shoulder to support the rigger and collected his remote control deck with his free arm.

The trampling of boots in the distance grew louder. To make it worse, some of the other cadavers on the ground began to stir. Where there was one shedim, others were sure to follow.

"This way. Out the hole in the wall the drone made," directed Marcelles, as he led the others around the stirring corpses and towards the back. "The shedim should keep the Red Samurai preoccupied while they free the medtechs. That should give us enough time to slip away."

"I think I see him," noted Alexandra. "Ahead and to the left."

Propping himself up from where he was lying, Marcelles didn't turn his head, but let his eyes wander in that direction behind his sunglasses. It was an unusually warm and bright Sunday, and many of the wageslave families were taking advantage of that to enjoy a day at Golden Gardens Park. Laying out in the grass on a picnic blanket, Marcelles and Alexandra – both attired in tees, shorts, flip-flops, and sunglasses – attracted no more attention than the other young couples out today. No one had any reason to suspect th at the bright red cooler next to Marcelles held a decorporated head packed in ice inside.

The pair's ostensibly disaffected yet vigilant eyes surreptitiously watched as a dark-skinned man with dreadlocks approached, lawn chair in one hand, and a red cooler just like Marcelles' in the other. He too was as casually dressed as Marcelles and Alexandra, though the golden lion-headed figure hanging from the silver chain around his neck was more jewelry than they wore. Setting up his lawn chair next to Marcelles, he placed his cooler directly behind Marcelles' own and sat down.

For a long time neither side spoke, as all three took in the warmth of the afternoon sun while surreptitiously eying each other behind their darkened sunglasses. Then the dark-skinned man opened up the conversation.

"It was rather unfortunate to hear about Reese." There was an unusual Gaelic-like lilt to his voice, something that seemed out of place with his dark and distinctively African physique.

"Such is our way of life," replied Marcelles, without looking at his companion. "He will be missed, though. A lot better than most of the scum we work with."

"C'est la morte."

"Yeah, something like that."

The conversation abated momentarily as a small family strolled by in front of them.

"It was quite unusual, the extenuating circumstances behind the incident," observed the swarthy man.

"That's an understatement," retorted Marcelles.

"The public accounts are rather confusing at best. It seems doubtful that anyone will fully understand what had happened for some time." The dark-skinned man allowed himself a slight smile. "My client is pleased."

"It's all about customer satisfaction," said Marcelles.

"Indeed," said the man. He got up, folded his lawn chair, and picked up the cooler in front, the one with the head inside. "Indeed it is."

Neither Marcelles nor Alexandra watched as the dark-skinned man left the way he came. Long after he had left, Marcelles reached over to open the cooler. As he reached inside to grab a drink for himself and Alexandra, he noted the plastic cup in the middle holding six certified credsticks, one for each member, along with Reese's share as well. Marcelles had no idea how they were going to divide that up.

"Did you notice the symbol around his neck?" asked Alexandra as Marcelles handed her a drink.

The elf shook his head. "No, why?"

"It was the image of Apedemak, the Nubian god of war," answered Alexandra. Her mentor incorporated many ancient Egyptian heka rites, so she picked up a good grounding in Nile mythology. "Our employer is no ordinary corporate Johnson."

"A Nubian? Not many of those around," observed Marcelles. "I may have to look them up on Shadowland tonight."

Several kilometers away, Hacksaw sat in an unmarked van, listening in on the conversation v ia surveillance drone hovering high overhead. Hacksaw was to provide overwatch in case things turned badly, but with business concluded right now he was engaging in some extracurricular activity. Capturing the entire conversation on chip, he unjacked from his deck and withdrew a cyberdeck stashed away. Plugging the deck into a second datajack, Hacksaw dialed into an unlisted node and uploaded the conversation.

"A Knight of Rage?" A faint rustling could be heard as the icon of the Scarecrow furrowed his brow.

"Affirmative. One of our Banded reacquired the group's contact at SeaTac Airport, boarding a flight to Heathrow. A cross-check of passenger logs shows he transferred from there to another flight for Cardiff." The woman in the classical white dress con tinued to arrange flowers in a vase as she continued her report. Not that it was necessary, though; the subprocessors maintaining the ultraviolet node where she and her two companions met, attended to every last detail of the sculpted system and its ancient Nubian trappings. The mistress of the node was tending the floral arrangement to mask her own concern.

"This is troubling," said Puck. "The dragon could seriously threaten the Compilation."

"Celedyr may not necessarily be taking direct action against us," suggested the Scarecrow. "The dragon is known to keep abreast of Matrix developments. He may simply be curious. Wendy was only a contested node; it may have been coincidence that the dragon went after him."

"The infiltrator that arranged for the transfer of his body back to the Arcology is still reporting in regularly," observed the woman. "No one knows that we intercepted the body from the Red Samurai."

"Nevertheless he knows about the Network," countered Puck. "He knew how to find a node, and how to get it. Were he to act on that knowledge it would spell disaster."

"We shall prepare for that contingency," replied the Scarecrow. "Losing the Wendy node will delay progress, but we are not hindered. The Compilation still continues, and Deus shall be free."