Introduction
I never thought I'd live long enough to be writing mem-
oirs. Hell, I never thought I'd learn to write well enough
to write memoirs. One of the things about associating
with Doctor Raven is that you end up doing a lot of
things you never thought possible.
In my case, that includes surviving into my thirties.
Anyway, the adventures I've written down here all
took place back in the dawn of time—back a good six,
eight years ago. Not very long in calendar days, but a
lifetime when measured in physical therapy sessions
and reconstructive surgery. Much of this will feel like
ancient history to most of you.
I'm hoping it will seem like that to me, too, one of
these days.
—Wolfgang Kies, Seattle, 2059
Squeeze Play
I
As the door shut behind me and the bar's natural atmo-
sphere raped my nostrils, I had a sudden urge to remodel
the place with a flame-thrower. From the outside the
boarded-over windows and plywood framing for the
weather-beaten door suggested someone had already tried
that with "the Weed," as its denizens affectionately called
the place. I had to agree with the name—nothing in here a
load of Agent Orange wouldn't improve. The Weed was
the kind of bar that aspired to be a dump when it grew up1.
I'd not liked Ronnie Killstar when I'd spoken with
him to set up this meeting. After seeing the place he
chose, I liked him even less. Easy, Wolf, I reminded my-
self. Raven gave you this job because you've got more
control than Kid Stealth or Tom Electric. Don't let him
down—you already owe him too much.
Against my better judgment I crossed the short distance
from the door to the bar. A small, Hispanic-looking bar-
tender wandered over to where I'd elbowed in between
two other patrons. His voice sounded like a ripsaw tearing
into sheet steel. "Waddalya have?"
I squinted against the burning smoke from my neigh-
bor's Saskatchewan Corona Grande and shrugged.
"What's on tap?"
The bartender shook his head.
"Great. Make it a double."
1 Oh, this is what a footnote is. Slick.
He stared blankly at my attempt at humor. "Waddalya
have?" he rasped in a gravel-croak.
I glanced at the cooler. "Green River Pale. No need
for a glass."
As he pulled the beer out of the cooler and brushed
the ice off onto the floor, I pulled a roll of corp scrip
from my pocket. He twisted the cap off and I started
peeling bills off the roll. I slowed when I got near what
the beer had to cost, then stopped when he started to
move the bottle forward. He glanced up at me,
shrugged, then gave me the drink. I could have used a
credstick to pay, but in a place this archaic and seedy,
crumpled paper seemed the way to go.
I carried the drink toward the corner nearest the
door. The beer tasted like his voice sounded, but cold,
and I set it down quickly. I slid into a booth, then un-
zipped my leather jacket and settled in to observe the
bar and its patrons. I kept the beer in my left hand
while letting my right rest near the butt of my Beretta
Viper 142.
My new vantage point allowed me a fuller apprecia-
tion of the Weed's decor. The plastic baby doll heads
and high-heeled shoes hanging from the ceiling some-
how made sense seen within the larger context. Most of
the light came from sputtering neon signs begging pa-
trons to drink exotic brews the bar no longer stocked.
Silvery tinsel and some flashing lights left behind dur-
ing some long-ago Christmas mocked the moribund set-
ting, but somehow brought gaiety to the expression of
the plastic, safe-sex doll floating above a busted pinball
machine.
The place oozed atmosphere.
I used my beer bottle to smear a six-legged piece of
that atmosphere across the table.
2 Sure, the Beretta Viper 14 is old. So's gravity, but it still works. Nice
thing about the Viper is that I have a bullet, I have a target, I pull the trig-
ger, and the gun does all the math for the hit. And with the Viper, I never
have batteries go dead on me in the middle of a firefight.
About the only normal portion of the bar lay kitty-
corner across the room from my position. Three jack-
tables, the cocktail model, sat up against the wall. Only
one wirehead was using the Weed's facilities. The trode
halo circled her ebony brow, and the light from the
unit's display washed in rainbow waves over her face,
but she didn't notice. Whatever graphics were flashing
across the screen were for outsider consumption only—
she was jacked in deep and playing her own little
games.
I caught the scent of dead flowers all mixed up into a
noxious blend that made the Weed smell worse and was
trendy enough to cost 150 nuyen a milliliter. The stink
came to me about a second and a half before I heard the
click of Ronnie Killstar's wrist spur. Large as life, or at
least as large as he could muster, the pasty-faced street
samurai slid into the booth across from me. The jaun-
diced light from the bar skittered across the razored
edge of the curved metal blade jutting out from his right
wrist, and a red light glowed in his eyes.
He sneered at me. "You ought to get your eyes done.
I can bull's-eye a rat's ass at a thousand meters in the
pitch dark. I saw you come in and I saw you sit down. I
can see in here plain as day."
That being the case, I saw no reason to mention he'd
just wiped the sleeve of his white jacket through cock-
roach paste. I sniffed at the air. "I don't need eyes to
find you."
Two large men slipped from in back where Ronnie
had been waiting and stood on either side of our booth.
They were both built like those smiling Buddha-type
statues you find down the coast in Tokyo West, 'cept
these two wore more clothes, didn't smile, and didn't
look like they'd give you good luck if you rubbed their
bellies. Still, if they were hanging around with Ronnie it
meant they had to be losers—which also explained why
they looked so much at home in the Weed.
His intimidation batteries in place and ready to fire,
Ronnie reinforced his sneer. "I didn't figure the great
Dr. Raven would trust Wolfgang Kies with an assign-
ment of this importance."
I smiled. "TM."
"Huh?"
I smiled more broadly. "I said, 'TM.' You forgot to
add the trademark to the phrase, 'the Great Dr. Raven.' "
I shook my head ruefully. "That's why he sent me.
You've got no manners and no sense of propriety. You
wouldn't expect him to come to a place like this, would
you?"
Clearly, any space in Ronnie's monosynaptic brain
devoted to humor was overloaded by my effort. His
eyes flashed on and off as he got angry and his con-
centration broke. Suddenly, with a metallic snap that
sounded like a pistol being cocked, a twenty-five-
centimeter icepick blade shot out from between the
middle and ring fingers on his right hand and he lunged
forward. The tip touched my throat right above the sil-
ver wolf's-head totem I wear and drew a single drop of
blood.
"I don't need your static, you drekling! Raven sent
word that he wanted to make a deal with La Plante, not
the other way around. We're not doing you a favor—it's
you that wants one from us." Killstar's dark eyes nar-
rowed. "I want Raven!"
With great effort I killed the urge to lunge forward and
bite his face off. I swallowed hard and felt the icepick brush
against my Adam's apple. "I wanted La Plante. I would
suggest we're even."
I forced my eyes open and got the surprise reaction I
expected as Ronnie looked into them for the first time.
With the anger rising in me I knew they'd gone from
green to silver—that change is not all that rare. Ronnie
got an added treat, though, as a dark circle surrounded
each iris with a Killer Ring. Your augmented eyes may
let you see in the dark, but they can't do this. It's some-
thing you've got to have inside—it's not an option you
get to tack on aftermarket.
Ronnie leaned back, but left the stinger extended.
"Maybe we are even. What are you offering Mr. La
Plante?"
I ignored the question as a droplet of sweat burned
into the pinprick at my throat. "I want proof she's still
alive."
The punk snapped his fingers and one of the Buddha
brothers produced a portacomp and slipped a small op-
tical disk into the unit. I took it from him and hit the
Play button. The LCD screen flickered to life and I saw
Moira Alianha standing calmly before a wall screen
trideo display. She moved back and forth in front of it,
and I concentrated on how her long black hair trailed
out and through the image. If they'd recorded her mov-
ing before a blank screen, then masked in a recent pro-
gram to make me think she was still alive, the process
would have broken down on those fine details.
It looked clean to me, but I didn't want to give Ron-
nie the satisfaction of knowing I thought he'd done
something right. "A simchip would have been better."
It was an effort for him to roll his cybereyes to heaven.
"And we could have brought her here with a brass band
and an army of grunges3, but we don't think we're going
to recover our overhead on this one. Satisfied?"
I tapped the Disconnect and pocketed the device.
"She's alive."
Ronnie smiled like a gambler holding four of a kind.
"Mister La Plante has a client who has offered us a great
deal of money for Moira Alianha with her maidenhead
intact. How can Raven make it worth our while to turn
her over to him instead?"
I tried to suppress the wince, but the additional con-
struction on either side of Ronnie's smile showed me
I'd failed. Dr. Raven lost no love on Etienne La Plante,
3 Yeah, I know grunge is fairly vulgar slang for ork, but the term applied
to the orks who worked for La Plante. I think he found stupid ones, then
fed them paint chips to dull down any native intelligence they had. Since
he used them mostly as mobile weapon transport and trigger fingers,
brains weren't vital. As we used to joke, to work for La Plante, you took
an intelligence test: if you failed you were in.
but recovering Moira and returning her to Tir Tairngire
meant he had to suppress his feelings and deal with the
man. As Ronnie's smile cooled into a smug look of
superiority, I decided Kid Stealth might have been right
in the first place: bring the whole crew in and take La
Plante's crime empire apart.
"It won't guarantee we save the girl," Doc had
told him.
"Yeah," said the Kid, "but it'll feel gigabytes better
than helping that slime."
I rested my elbows on the table and steepled my fin-
gers. "I have been authorized to offer you the Fujiwara
shipping schedule for the next six months in return for
the girl. We can make the exchange tonight."
For all of ten seconds Ronnie got that divine-revelation
look on his face. Suddenly he realized how big a game he
was involved in, and how small a player in it he was.
Then his eyes hooded over as the little maggot figured out
how important Moira Alianha had to be for the Doctor to
offer that kind of hot-byte data for her. A thought shot off
on the wrong branch of his neural network and he began
to believe in his own importance.
He scoffed at the offer and began to ease himself out
of the booth. "Maybe. I'll talk to La Plante and let you
know. You can wait here until then."
My right leg swept out and hooked up between his
legs. I drew my knee up, jerking him and his squishy
parts against the edge of the table. That knocked the
wind out of him and caused him to jackknife forward. I
grabbed a handful of his stringy blond hair with my left
hand and tucked the barrel of my Viper in his left ear.
A Killer Ring stare kept the karma twins at bay.
"That was a wrong answer, Ronnie." I eared the ham-
mer back on the Viper 14 even though that was unnec-
essary on the double-action pistol. "Mr. La Plante, I
know you'd not be who you are if you let an idiot like
this conduct your negotiations for you without keeping
tabs on him. I'd guess you've bugged Yin and Yang
here, unless you tricked this dolt into carrying a set of
ears on himself."
A glint of gold from the cloisonné orchid pin on
Ronnie's lapel had given him away. "Very good, Mr. La
Plante. Your gang's trademark pin is a listening device.
I salute your foresight. I suggest your chauffeur pull the
limo around so we can discuss things in private, say,
in five minutes. We'll take a spin around the block and
then you'll drop me back here. If not, I'm going to
decorate the Weed's ceiling with something that'll add
some real color."
The Coors clock on the wall ticked off four and a
half minutes before the door opened. The Chauffeur4,
dressed in a spiffy uniform with creases sharp enough to
cut like razors, nodded to me. I patted Ronnie patroniz-
ingly on the head. "We'll have to do this again some
time, when I have more time to play."
Whatever Ronnie replied, it wasn't very polite and I
put it down to his discomfort as I leaned heavily on his
head while working my way out of the booth. The twin
pillars of Eastern wisdom let me pass, and I made it to
the doorway unmolested.
I handed the Viper to The Chauffeur and stepped into
the street. The white Mitsubishi Nightsky stretch limo
looked as out of place on the litter-strewn street as a
wharf rat in the mayor's office, but that didn't stop it
from being there. I waited as The Chauffeur scanned me
with whatever he had for eyes behind those dark glasses
of his, then smiled and entered the limo's dark interior.
Having grown up among the concrete alleys of Seat-
tle, I thought of class as something you escaped from
during the day. Despite my absolute loathing of any-
thing and everything Etienne La Plante did and was, I
4 I've always thought The Chauffeur was a dumb street name. Usually, in
street names, you want something that suggests you're on top, like Tiger
or King Cobra or something slick like that. Wolf, maybe, even. But The
Chauffeur? I guess he liked it because he thought it made him sound like
he was going places.
still had to admit he looked classy. His double-breasted
suit was cut from cloth of silver, yet—if possible—did
not look ostentatious or flashy. His wavy white hair had
been perfectly cut and combed, giving me the impres-
sion that I'd stepped into a boardroom for a long-
planned meeting.
I settled into a velvet seat so comfortable I could have
died happy in it, especially if the woman seated next to
La Plante gave me another one of her I-want-to-have-
your-baby-or-at-least-try-hard-at-it smiles. In the arm-
rest at my left hand sat a frosted mug of beer—the
half-empty bottle next to it proclaimed it to be Henry
Weinhard's Private Reserve.
Very good, Etienne. My favorite. Is it true that you
bought the brewery because you heard one of Raven's
men loved the stuff?
La Plante refrained from offering me his right hand,
but I didn't mind. If there was any flesh and blood left
to it, the silver carapace hid it completely. I noticed, as
he picked up his own mug of beer, that the hand articu-
lated perfectly, but then he could afford perfection. I'd
not heard of any assassination attempts against him, so I
had to assume he had voluntarily maimed himself.
"I would apologize, Mr. Kies, for my underling's ac-
tions but, you understand, that was a test." He shrugged
wearily. "After the bad blood between Dr. Raven and
myself, you can hardly forgive my being suspicious."
I gave him a quick smile that I broadened as I looked
at his companion. "You can call me Wolf." I directed
the comment more to the woman than La Plante and
waited a half-second for a similar offer of intimacy
from the crime boss or, more specifically, her. I contin-
ued when he ignored me—she was just being coy, I
could tell. "When Dr. Raven was informed that you had
become the custodian for Ms. Alianha and was called
upon by her elven guardians to get her back, he was
forced to make some choices. I am sure you can under-
stand that that negotiation was not the most popular
course of action suggested."
La Plante nodded sagely. "Former employees can be
so, ah, vindictive, can't they?"
Sure, especially when you try to plant them in the
harbor with their feet bound in a block of cement. No
one would have figured Kid Stealth would blow off his
own legs to escape that little death trap, but he did and
survived. When your time comes, the timekeeper will be
wearing shiny new legs and will move faster than even
you remember.
"You heard our offer. You get the Fujiwara shipment
schedules for the next six months in return for the girl.
We'll burn you a chip. We can do the exchange tonight."
La Plante's nonchalant expression remained rooted
on his face. "You have a decker good enough to get
into Fujiwara that quickly? We're talking layers of
protection—psychotropic IC, defensive and offensive
knowbots, expert constructs, you name it. Enough ice to
give anyone a case of terminal frostbite."
I smiled confidently. "This decker is so hot the only
way to stop her is to dunk her in liquid nitrogen and hit
her with a hammer. We'll get the schedule for you."
He hid his excitement at the offer well. "How do I
know the data will be good?"
I sat up straight. "You have Dr. Raven's word on it."
Where Ronnie Killstar would have answered with
some inane barb, La Plante just nodded. "Very well." He
leaned over and whispered something in the redhead's
ear. As she reached over and picked up my mug, he
spoke. "You've not tried your beer. I assure you it has
not been tampered with."
She sipped and returned the mug to its place on the
armrest. As she licked her lips I felt an urge to procre-
ate, then counted to ten—no, fifteen—to regain control.
"Sorry," I said, and smiled, "but after the Weed, drink-
ing in here just wouldn't be the same. You understand."
For her benefit I added, "Maybe another time . . ."
The door opened again. La Plante's chauffeur hovered
by the door with my gun in hand. "Tonight, Mr. Kies, at
warehouse building 18b, on the docks. We will give you
the southern and western approaches. I would prefer this
to be an intimate gathering."
"My feelings exactly. You bring a dozen of your
grunges and I'll consider it even." I succeeded in get-
ting myself perched on the edge of the seat. "And leave
Ronnie at home . . ."
La Plante waved my last remark off with a silvery
flourish of his right hand. "Do not concern yourself
with him. He has been assigned new duty. He'll be feed-
ing fish for the foreseeable future."
The Chauffeur handed me the pistol, then swung the
door shut. I smiled at him and his plastic mask of servi-
tude cracked. "Someday, Wolf, it will come down to
you and me. I'll make it quick. I want you to know
that."
I met his mirror-eyed stare with my number two nasty
glare. "Good, I like that. If a fight goes on too long,
the blood stains set and then you can never get them
out . . ."
His plastic mask back in place, he turned and walked
away. Though every olfactory nerve ending in my nose
protested mightily, I reentered the Weed. My beer still
waited on the table, but Ronnie Killstar and the Wonton
boys had vanished. I waited and sniffed, but I couldn't
smell the mulch drippings that passed for Ronnie's
cologne. Given how that stuff smells and sells, the Weed
here could bottle its mop sloppings and make a fortune.
I shook my head. Never happen—they'd actually have
to mop this place.
Instead of returning to my table, I walked over to the
jacktables. I pulled the bug from inside my jacket and
tossed it on the black woman's deck. "Did you get it
all?"
Valerie Valkyrie, Raven's newest aide, gave me a
smile that made me forget La Plante's taste-tester.
"Everything, including your pulse rate and blood pres-
sure when she sucked on your beer."
I felt the burn of a blush sweeping across my face,
and it grew hotter as it pulled a giggle from her throat.
"We'll discuss how much of that makes it into the re-
port for the Doctor later. Right now we've got work
to do."
II
"All right, Zig and Zag, let's go through the drill one
more time."
Zag frowned and the razor claws on his left hand
flicked out, then retracted with the speed of a snake's
tongue. "We've got names . . ."
I raised myself up to my full height, which put me a
centimeter or so taller than the smaller of them. "And
right now they're Zig and Zag. You're local talent and
I'm your Mr. Johnson. Now, you claim you want to join
this elite circle? Fine, this is a tryout. Try living with
new names for a second or two, got it?"
Zig elbowed Zag and they both nodded. For street
samurai they weren't bad. Zag had gone the obvious
route of adding chrome in the form of razor claws
grafted to his hands and some retractable spurs that
popped up from the top of his feet. He'd replaced his
right eye with a rangefinder modification linked to the
scope on his autorifle. He'd gone a bit far, in my mind,
by having a fluorescent orange cross hairs tattooed over
that eye from hairline to cheekbone and ear to across his
nose, but it came close enough to warpaint that I could
understand it. Still, I knew if I was on the other end of a
sniper rifle, that would make a real nice target.
Zig had been more discreet. He'd gone in for body
work. From the way he moved I knew he'd had his re-
flexes cranked up to move with the speed of something
between a Bengal tiger and a striking cobra. I didn't see
any body blades, but he was a bit more subtle than his
partner so he might not have flashed them. I also got the
impression he'd had some dermal sheathing implanted
to protect his vital organs—a wise choice. One never
knows where those replacement organs were grown,
and the failure percentage on cut-rate Khmer hearts
made having a Band-Aid slapped on the old one look
like a good bet for survival.
"Val and I are going to jack into the Matrix. No one
should be able to track us to where we're going, but we
can't be a hundred percent certain of that. I need you
two to be alert and careful because when we bust the
system we're going after, things could get messy. What
do you do if there's trouble?"
Zag grumbled and walked over to where my MP-95
rested on the bed. "We slap the trodes off you and hand
you this toy. Then we get the wirehead out of here."
Val didn't notice the rancor in Zag's voice at his hav-
ing been shot down earlier. When he asked if she would
be interested in a little horizontal tango to "relieve the
tension," she looked at him as if he were a deck with
"Made in UCAS" stamped on its side. Zig and I shared
a smile as Zag's anger deepened when Val continued to
ignore him.
"Good. That's it. You get her out and get her to the
place she tells you. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
"Or dead." Zag hefted one of the spare clips for my
MP-9 submachine gun. "Freaking nine-millimeter toy
and you've got silver bullets? Who do you think you
are, the Lone Ranger?" He thumbed one bullet from the
clip and tossed it to Zig.
Easy, Wolf. Better this tough guy act to hide his
nerves than him falling apart on you. "I think I'm your
Mr. Johnson—and a superstitious one at that."
Zig looked closely at the silver bullet in his hand.
"Drilled and patched. You got mercury in there to make
the bullet explode?"
I shook my head solemnly. "Silver nitrate solution.
Physics is the same, the result is nastier. Burns as it goes."
5 Yeah, yeah. It's another antique gun, but it shoots straight, which is all I
ask. Stealth keeps my guns as well tuned as my mechanic does my Mus-
tang, so they work. Besides, the MP-9 is considered such a toy by most
gillettes that they don't see it as much of a danger until one of its bullets
is finished making an exit wound.
Zig tossed the bullet back to his partner. "You plan-
ning on hunting a werewolf or something?"
"Were you in Seattle during the Full Moon Slashings?"
The mention of that series of killings tore Val away
from her deck. "A half-dozen years ago? That was the
first anyone had heard of Dr. Raven, wasn't it?"
"Yeah." I let that one-word answer hang there long
enough for all three of them to realize I wasn't going to
say anything specific about that outing. "After that I've
carried silver bullets. Never want to be without them if
you need them."
Val shivered. "Viper too?"
"Amen." I forced myself to smile and break the
mood. "You got that Hibatchi chip encoder prepped
yet?"
Val scolded me. "Hitachi, Wolf, and you know it."
I accepted a trode coronet from her slender fingers
and pulled it onto my head. I adjusted it so the elec-
trodes pressed against my temples and ran back over
the midline of my skull. Val reached over and tightened
the band to improve the contact, then she clipped the
dangling lead into a splice cable. She slid that jack into
the slot behind her left ear, then flipped a switch on
the deck.
I winked at her. "Let's do it."
She winked back and hit a button on the keyboard.
"Play ball."
Doc Raven had warned me that Valerie Valkyrie was
special, but until we plunged through that electric au-
rora wall of static and into the Matrix, I had no idea
how special. I'd jacked into the Matrix before—who
hasn't—but it had always been on a public deck where I
ended up inside an entertainment system. Moving from
game program to game program, I caught glimpses of
the Matrix through the neat little windows the program-
mers had built into their systems, but I'd never had any
desire to go out adventuring on my own.
Before, the form and shape of the Matrix had always
been decided by the local network controllers. Here in
Seattle the RTG resembled a vector graphic of the urban
sprawl it encompassed. Well-fortified nodes were sur-
rounded by fences and walls, and Matrix security teams
patrolled the electronic streets like cops cruising a beat.
I'd heard it had been designed that way because it made
the casual user feel like he was in familiar surroundings
and thus easier to find his way around.
As things got strange and the world shifted, so did the
Matrix. When a user entered the Chinatown area here in
Seattle, for example, the buildings melted away and the
nodes took the form of mah jong tiles. Deckers claimed
that made it easier to pick out unprotected nodes, but I
don't know about that. I've heard it said, and can be-
lieve, that no one goes near the nodes represented by
dragons.
But that's the way of the world. Steer as clear as pos-
sible from dragons—words to live by and advice it'll
kill you to ignore.
I've heard decker tales that if a decker got good
enough he could impose his own sense of order on the
Matrix. With enough skill he could make the Matrix ap-
pear the way he wanted it—free of extraneous data. An-
other urban legend born in the Matrix.
Valerie Valkyrie was a legendary decker.
After only two seconds, the landscape construct
shifted. Gone were the clean lines of glowing, lime-
green streets and shining white buildings. Suddenly I
found myself standing beside the pitcher's mound in a
monstrous baseball stadium. Val, outlined in a neon-
blue that matched her eyes, pulled on a baseball cap that
materialized from thin air and gave me a broad grin.
The cap had a Raven patch on it.
"Sorry if you aren't used to this, Wolf." The shrug
of her shoulders told me she wasn't sorry at all and that
my surprised reaction made her day. "Warping the
Matrix to my conception of it gives me a home-field
advantage."
Within the solar yellow of the glove on her right
hand, she twitched a ball around and got the grip she
wanted on it. From a dugout over on the third-base side
of the field a smallish man walked up toward the plate.
Behind and above him a Scoreboard flashed to life and
spewed out all sorts of information in hexidecimal.
I pointed up at the display. "Can you translate?"
She looked at me as if I'd disappointed her, then nod-
ded. Suddenly the Scoreboard flickered and the handy
notation of baseball replaced the curious array of num-
bers and letters. Coming up to bat was Ronnie Killstar's
personal file. The count was zero balls and two strikes,
and the Scoreboard reported his batting average as .128.
He batted right-handed.
Val licked her lips as a catcher and umpire material-
ized behind the plate. "Can of corn." A green ball ap-
peared in her left hand and she spun it around until she
grasped it between her thumb, index, and middle fin-
gers. Rearing back, her azure outline blurred and she
delivered the pitch. It arced in at the plate, then dropped
a full fifteen centimeters below Ronnie's futile swing.
"Yer out!" screamed the umpire.
All sorts of data poured out onto the Scoreboard. It
was a bit more nasty than one might expect to find on
the average baseball card, but it still bespoke nothing
more than a mediocre career. A quick comparison of his
successful stolen bases versus times caught out in the
attempt confirmed that he was an unsuccessful small-
time thief before La Plante took him on as a leg-breaker.
As the record of his most recent telecom calls started
to flash up on the Scoreboard, I looked over at Val. "You
can cut this any time you want. He's useless and now
he's dead." I glanced over at the number of the last call
he'd made. "Hope it was to his mother."
Val wrinkled her nose. "I was unaware anyone had
taught Petri dishes to answer the phone." She caught the
ball the catcher threw back at her. "That was just a
warm-up. I shouldn't have used a forkball on him—that
was overkill."
Certain things started to click into place for me.
Cracking systems required a vast array of ice-breaking
programs. Most deckers used commercially developed
software and, consequently, could only break into the
most simple of bases.
True artists like Val modify and write their own
wares. I once talked with a decker who went by the han-
dle of Merlin who'd named all of his ice-breakers after
spells. "It helps me remember what's what. When some
system's trying to flatline you, you want to be able to
react quickly with a codebomb that will do the job."
Val, with her passion for baseball, had designed and
named her ice-breakers for pitches.
"Let's get on to the main show, okay?"
"Roger."
Val concentrated and slammed a fist into her glove a
couple of times. I noticed some subtle changes in the
stadium as the Fujiwara system came into range for us
to access it. "Okay, we're ready to begin. Kind of like
robbing Peter to pay Paul, isn't it?"
I nodded. Fujiwara Corporation was a legal shell that
laundered money for a yakuza group based further
down the coast in Tokyo West. Whereas La Plante was a
broker who facilitated the movement of things from one
party to another, Fujiwara actually brought contraband
materials into Seattle from all over the world. On a
scale of one all the way up to Hitler's SS, both groups
ranked fairly high, but Fujiwara exercised a bit more
restraint in how they dealt with rivals.
That meant they preferred a single yak hitter to a mad
bomber. La Plante did too until Kid Stealth had the
temerity to defect to Raven. Neither group played
nicely with their enemies, and this little Matrix run was
about to deposit us on Fujiwara's bad side.
The butterflies started in my stomach as a behemoth
stepped from the dugout. He looked like something from
a cartoon. He had tiny legs and a narrow waist that blos-
somed up into immensely powerful arms and shoulders.
The bat he carried looked like it had been cold-hammered
into shape from the hull of an aircraft carrier, but he
wielded it like it weighed no more than a spoon.
The field changed abruptly when he stepped into the
batter's box to hit right-handed. Runners appeared on
second and third and the count stood even at 0 and 0.
The batter's name appeared on the Scoreboard as Babe
Fujiwara and his batting average stood at a whop-
ping .565.
I swallowed hard. "Why do I get the feeling this man
is the All-Star team all rolled into one?"
Val wiped her brow on her sleeve. "That's because he
is." Then she shot me a winning grin. "But that's okay,
baby, because I'm Rookie of the Year."
"Play ball!" cried the umpire.
Val's fingers twitched as she toyed with the ball hid-
den in her mitt, then she reared back to throw. The fast-
ball sizzled yellow and gold as it streaked toward the
plate. Babe Fujiwara swung on the pitch and missed,
but not by much. From the look on Val's face she'd
expected a larger margin of victory.
Her cerulean eyes narrowed. I saw her grip the now-
green ball in the same way she'd done to deal with
Ronnie. The forkball shot from her hand at medium
speed, then dropped precipitously. Even so, his bat
whipped around and he hit the ice-breaker solidly. Sud-
denly it shifted color from green to red and rocketed
back onto the field.
It hit me in the left ankle and fiery pain shot up my
leg. The ball popped into the air as I dropped to the
ground. Val sprang off the mound, gathered the ball up,
and tossed it over at Babe as he lumbered up the base-
line toward first. When the ball hit him in the shoulder,
he exploded into blue sparks.
Gasping against the pain, I looked up at her. "What
the hell was that?"
Val's nostrils flared. "Fujiwara has put some cascad-
ing IC on line. The fact that you hurt means it's blacker
than La Plante's heart. I managed to flip a couple of bits
into that program and used it to destroy the ice layer
that spawned it, but I'm not sure I can do that again."
I got an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"We're in a bit deeper than we want to be, aren't we?"
She looked over at the runners on second and third.
"We got a pass on the first two layers of ice. We would
have wasted time and broken them, but I thought speed
was of the essence. Fujiwara gave them to us to make it
difficult for us to get out of here . . ."
I raised an eyebrow as I massaged my ankle. "You
mean we're trapped in the Fujiwara system."
She shrugged. "It's a matter of perspective."
"Well, try it from my perspective, one of pain."
"We're trapped." She must have seen my icon begin
the fingerwork for the spell that would deaden the pain.
"Don't waste the effort, Wolf. That stuff doesn't work in
this environment." Her fingers convulsed and a blue
mitt appeared on my left hand. "Just use this to block
anything they hit at you and it should protect you."
I looked at the mitt and pounded my right hand into
its pocket. "If I get something I just put the runners
out?"
She nodded. "Don't tag them. It'll destroy the ice
layer, but you don't want to be that close when it goes."
"What happens if they score?"
Val's smile died. "Don't ask. This is the big leagues."
"Got it."
The next layer of ice materialized as a somewhat
smaller batter dubbed Mookie Fujiwara. He took posi-
tion to bat left-handed and I saw that did not please Val
at all. The ball in her hand took on a bright orange color.
She wound up and threw. The whirling screwball arced
in and broke toward Mookie, jamming him on the fists.
He fouled it off.
Up on the Scoreboard his batting average went from
.500 to .375 and I took heart in that. It cheered Val up as
well. She prepared another program, and the ball coa-
lesced into an opalescent sphere. Her knuckles rested
on the seams, then she started her motion and threw.
The program flew slowly toward the plate. It spun
not at all, but floated and dipped erratically. It dove
toward the ground as it neared the plate, and Mookie
missed it with a clean cut. Another strike toted itself
upon the board and his average fell to .175.
Val shot me a wink. "The knuckler always works
on these cascaders—it reverses the value of the vari-
ables they use to get better, making them weaker. Better
yet, it never shows them enough for them to create a
countercode quickly."
I smiled reassuringly. "Gonna use it again?"
"Nope." She studied the Scoreboard and shook her
head. "Do it again and I give it a chance to react. Got
something else for this ice."
A white ball formed in her hand. Val grinned cruelly
and delivered the ball with a half-sidearm motion. It jet-
ted in, then broke at the last second. Mookie swung and
missed and the umpire called him out. He vanished and
I heard a couple of voices cheering.
Turning around I saw a couple of figures in the grand-
stands. One looked like a glass spider and another wore
the form of a black cat. "What the hell?"
Val waved at them. "Just some other deckers come to
watch the fun. The Tarantula and Alley Cat are two
locals I've met before."
That weird feeling ran up my spine again. "This was
supposed to be a shadowrun, you know. What if Fuji
learns we're here?"
Valerie fixed me with a stare that made me want to hit
the showers. "Wolf, just because you're a 'trix virgin
doesn't mean you have to show it. We've had an audi-
ence in the owner's box ever since we started. Blowing
the cascading IC likely tripped some alarms, too, but
they were here long before that. Looks like the yaks at
Fujiwara have a line into La Plante's operation."
I filed that information away for future use as the fi-
nal batter stepped out of the dugout. Whereas Babe had
looked like a cartoon, this layer of ice manifested itself
as a long, lean player with incredibly thick forearms and
wrists. His flesh had a grayish, metallic tint to it, and his
head metamorphosed into that of a horse. His name ap-
peared on the Scoreboard as Iron Horse Fujiwara and
his batting average registered as .957. He batted lefty
and the glint in his eye was nothing short of pure evil.
Val's skin took on an ashen hue. "Dammit, I didn't
think it would be this tough. I'm going to have to doc-
tor some stuff here." A white ball appeared in her mitt,
but as her fingers worked on it, bloody tendrils shot
through it.
Satisfied, but not looking as confident as I would
have liked, she watched the batter, then let the ball fly.
It cruised in at medium speed, then broke sharply as if it
had fallen off a table. I looked for hesitation in the bat-
ter's eye, but I saw none and braced for disaster.
The Iron Horse's bat whipped around in a buzz-saw
arc and smashed the ball back at the mound. Halfway
there the ball burst into flame, but the line drive didn't
slow at all. Val raised her glove defensively and man-
aged to get it into place to stop the ball from hitting her
in the face. Her glove burst into flame and she spun to
the ground, but the ball hung there for a second, defying
gravity.
I lunged at the ball. My glove boiled off and I felt as
if I'd reached into a barbecue to barehand a glowing
coal. "Help here, Val!"
How she did what she did I don't know, but the flame
died and the ball took on a blue tint. I flipped it over to
my right hand and saw the runner on third make a break
for home. I drew the ball back to my right ear and threw
it as hard as I could.
The blue ball shot through the base-runner like a
searchlight through fog. It flew on beyond him and into
the dugout. A volcano of sparks shot from there, and the
baseball stadium began to crumble. In an eyeblink we
were back in the city-map Matrix for Seattle, and the
third floor of the Fujiwara tower exploded.
Then that imaging system failed me as well. I found
myself floating in a sea of data. Waves of telecom
numbers crested up over me and drove me down toward
spreadsheets and cost overrun statements. Just as I felt
as though I were drowning in a vast inventory system, a
hand grabbed me on the shoulder and the safehouse
room with Zig and Zag swam back into view.
Val watched me closely and I knew Zag would have
died to have her looking at him with such concern in her
eyes. "Are you okay?"
I thought about the question for a second, then nod-
ded. "Yeah, I think so. What the hell happened?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I can't be certain, but I think
whoever programmed Fujiwara's IC built himself a
back door. That blue ball was a simple virus meant to
pump spurious data into the system so quickly that
things freeze up and give me a chance to react with an-
other program. You tossed it through one of the layers
we bypassed and right through the back door into their
system. That stopped the Iron Horse on his trip to first
and I used my own little ALS virus to dust him."
"Did we get the information we needed?"
On cue the Hitachi deck's EPROM platform slid out
from within the black case, offering the computer chip
onto which the Fujiwara information had been burned.
"Looks like it." Her smile lessened a bit as she looked
at me again. "What else?"
I frowned. "Something's digging around at the back
of my brain." I shrugged it off. "I guess I just want to be
in an arena where I can shoot anybody who looks like
the Iron Horse. It's the warrior in me."
"Pity," she said with a laugh. "You've got a future as
a decker."
III
"What's he doing?" Zag asked as I started preparing
to go into combat. Val frowned at him and remained
quiet as I closed my eyes and reached inside. I pressed
my hands together and touched the wolf's-head amulet
at my throat. Using it as a focus, I let my mind touch the
Wolf spirit dwelling in my heart and mind.
I saw it as a huge beast built mostly out of shadows
except where lurid red highlights rippled across its fur.
Lean and hungry, it still contained incredible power.
When it felt my caress, enthusiastic fires burned in its
eyes, but they dulled to a bloody color when it sensed
my hesitation.
"Is the time come, my son?" it asked in snarls and
growls.
"Yes, Old One. I need your speed and your sureness
of movement."
It regarded me with the same disdain Val had shown
in the Matrix. "Let me deal with everything, Longtooth.
You need not these machine men or the witch of the
thinking machine. You will not need your guns. My
way is pure. You know I am correct. Why do you resist
me so?"
I didn't want to go down that road of discussion be-
cause I knew what a dark and dangerous path it was. "I
need what I need."
The old wolf lay down to mock me. "I grant you what
you need. It will not be long before you and I will have
this conversation again."
I shook my head. "Seven days. I'll be clear of Seattle
by then."
The wolf howled and the sound echoed through my
head as I opened my eyes. I heard the hissed sizzle of
the spells trail off and found Zag staring at me with new
respect and a bit of apprehension in his eyes. I could
smell his nervous sweat even over and above the tangy
sea scent and musty mildew odor hanging over the dock
area. I smiled and nodded. All set now. Let's hope La
Plante hasn't gotten stupid.
Zag swallowed hard. "Look, Mr. Kies, I'm sorry
about any static I gave you before. With your rep and
all, I figured you were like us." He held up his right
hand, and the razor claws flicked out at the tips of his
fingers. "I didn't realize you weren't chromed."
I read the confusion in his eyes like a banner headline
on a news service monitor. I was known to be quick and
nasty in a firefight. I was the chummer who'd survived
the most adventures with Dr. Raven—and that was no
mean feat. To gillettes like Zig and Zag that meant I
must be heavily cybered. The idea that I might be some-
one who used magic to augment his skills hadn't oc-
curred to them. And, because they had chosen a route
that virtually barred them from using magic, the magi-
cal arts baffled and scared them.
Zig handed me a small stick of black grease paint.
He'd darkened his face all over, then erased out two
downward-pointing triangles with dots in the middle.
"Symbol of the Halloweeners over in the Green River
District."
"I know." I put the face paint stick down on a crate.
"I don't paint up."
That seemed to surprise them almost as much as my
having used magic. After the Ghost Dances had worked
and killed lots of folks, many people had traveled out to
the reservations and swelled the population of what are
now called the Native American Nations. Some later
left because the lifestyle didn't suit them, but those who
stayed contributed to the polyglot make-up of the tribes.
Consequently it wasn't completely strange to find a
white man who knew Indian magic, but it was weird to
find one who didn't go the whole way and paint up be-
fore battle—though I saw going "native" like that too
showy for my tastes.
Like the folks you scrag will care what you looked
like while doing it.
I broke the tension. "I don't paint up for something I
hope won't be a battle. I'll be out there getting the girl,
so I'll be naked-nude anyway." I pointed to the Kalash-
nikovs they carried. "Those AK-97s look like old
friends."
Zig patted his automatic rifle affectionately. "Sighted
at four hundred meters for close work like this. Stood
me in good stead during the Triad War out on the Strip."
"Good." I gave both of them one of my I-have-
confidence-in-you smiles. "The drill's the same as ear-
lier today. You get Val and Moira out. La Plante uses
his grunges for muscle. If things get nasty, pop one or
two of them, then see-saw your way out of there. If you
burn a clip, I expect all the shots to hit a grunge, or
you'd best be shooting at me. Hit and move—a war of
attrition we can't win."
Both of them gave me a thumb's-up so I turned to
Val. "Sure you don't want a gun?"
She shook her head with disgust. "You've got me
bundled up in kevlar so tight I can barely breathe. The
last thing I want to do is make myself a target so they'll
have cause to shoot me."
I chuckled lightly. "Okay. Moira is your charge.
Things get nasty, you get her out of there. Zig and Zag
will keep the beasts at bay."
Val nodded. "You got the chip?"
I patted the pocket of my jacket. "Check." I hefted
my MP-9 and let it dangle by the strap over my right
shoulder. "Let's do this clean and all go home healthy.
Places, everyone." I filled my lungs with air and calmed
my racing heart. "It's showtime."
I stepped from the warehouse into a dock area that
had been cleared of anything approximating cover. Lit
by bright halogen lights that held the night's darkness at
bay, the open arena was defined, on two sides, by crates
and loading machinery and on my side by the warehouse
I'd just left. The fourth wall, the one I faced as I slipped
between some crates, had been formed by another ware-
house. The large doors stood open and La Plante's limo
had been parked in it so the hood and tail of the vehicle
almost appeared to be holding the doors back.
A dozen grunges sporting various styles of sub-
machine guns stood dutifully behind the limo and
pointed their weapons in my direction. I held my hands
away from my body and kept them open, but I knew my
magically enhanced reflexes would allow me to shoulder
the gun and snap off a half-dozen rounds before they
even saw me move. In three seconds I could clear the
clip and draw the Viper from my waistband to finish
the job . . .
Back off, Wolfgang. It's the Old One's meddling that's
making you think that way.
The Chauffeur appeared in the middle of the line of
grunges. "Drop the gun, Kies."
I barked out a sharp laugh. "Dream on. You've got
me covered a dozen ways to Sunday."
The grunges La Plante had hired began to hoot and
twitter like the half-witted beasts they were. Ugly as sin
and more stupid than even Ronnie, they were drawn
from the ranks of those who didn't take their "goblin-
ization" at all well. After their hormones kick in they
start thinking a lot less and make perfect little automa-
tons for someone like La Plante to exploit. Of course,
that's not to suggest they couldn't be cunning little beg-
gars and get themselves into plenty of trouble, but it
generally takes someone with an IQ in at least the low
eighties to whip them into a destructive frenzy. The ork
community tried to do all it could to save their less for-
tunate brethren from connivers like La Plante, but a
helping hand isn't as attractive as a hand filled with
nuyen.
I pointed to myself. "I'm going to walk out to the
middle of this area and you'll send the girl to me. I'll
turn over the chip to you. Keep your fingers off the trig-
gers and this might just go down well."
I didn't hear what The Chauffeur said to the grunges,
but their gibbering stopped. I crossed to the center of
the arena, using my magically enhanced senses as best I
could to see if I'd just walked into a massive trap. The
halogen lights were a problem because they left the tops
of the warehouses in an impenetrable darkness that did
nothing to make me feel at ease. I had to assume La
Plante had people up there securing the high ground,
but the fact that the only grunges I saw were leaning on
his ride did not reassure me.
When I reached the middle I stopped. The passenger
door of the limo opened and a slender woman of in-
determinate age left it to stand beside the vehicle. She
didn't look like the simsense I'd seen of her—yeah,
everyone says that about sim shot of them—but I knew
instantly that she had to be Moira Alianha. The pale
dress she wore was fashionably short and revealed legs
I was almost willing to die for, but she quickly cloaked
herself with a dark wool blanket to ward off the chill air.
With her head up, and just the tips of her ears peeking
out through the long veil of her midnight hair, she
walked toward me. I gave her a smile intended to in-
spire hope and confidence, but she ignored me and only
saw the black and red raven patch on the shoulder of my
jacket. She blinked twice and then I thought she was
going to faint.
I reached out and steadied her. "Easy now, Ms.
Alianha. We're almost home."
She touched the patch with incredibly slender fin-
gers. "My husband sent you?"
I frowned and figured she was confused. "I work for
Richard Raven."
Moira smiled. "Yes, my husband to be.6"
I almost swallowed my tongue. "Huh? Say what?"
She just looked at me with vibrant green eyes.
Suddenly everything seemed to run to chaos in my
head. "Does anyone else know who you are to Raven?"
Moira shook her head. "No, not here, why?"
I let her question drift by unanswered. "Don't tell
anyone, period." If anyone finds out that she's close to
Raven, her life won't be worth a melted sim and she
could be used against Raven when dealing with scum
like La Plante. His aides, folks like me and Val, accept
the dangers connected with belonging to Raven's group.
Moira was lucky that La Plante had no idea of her true
value, or this little exchange would be lots more rude.
6 This was a shocker. I didn't even know Doc was dating. Turns out he
wasn't, but that's a story for another time.
The Chauffeur shouted at me. "Let's save the tea
party and true confessions for later. We want the chip,
now!"
Carefully, slowly, I reached into my jacket pocket. I
withdrew from it a white piece of plastic about three
centimeters square. The chip itself showed up in sharp
contrast to the snowy plastic wafer to which it had been
mounted. "I'll just put it down here . . ."
I felt the plastic quiver and the chip explode as the
bullet shot through it at Mach 4. The booming, rolling
echo of the gunshot followed the bullet by a split-
second, but I'd already turned and started to push Moira
to safety. My right hand dropped the piece of plastic
and enfolded the MP-9's pistol grip. I swept the gun
around and snapped off two shots, one of which sent a
headless grunge pitching back to the warehouse floor. I
heard the staccato roar of Zig and Zag's AK-97s and
saw three more grunges drop out of sight amid sparks
lancing from the limo's armored frame.
Gunmen hidden on the rooftops slowly stood and
their weapons lipped flame as I dragged and pushed
Moira out of the killing zone. With so many people con-
centrating on just the pair of us I was sure we'd be
blasted to ribbons before we'd gone a half-dozen steps,
but the men on the roof started shooting at La Plante's
grunges. The confused orks returned the fire, but did so
ineffectively because of the wealth of targets and the
babel of orders being shouted by The Chauffeur.
I'd just propelled Moira through the narrow ware-
house doorway when a bullet finally caught me. It blew
into the back of my left thigh and ricocheted off to the
left after it shattered my femur. It ripped free of my leg
five centimeters left and seven below the entry point,
tearing a chunk out of my femoral artery as it went.
I screamed, but as the echoes of the scream died in
my head I heard the howl of a wolf rise in their place.
Stumbling forward, I spilled onto the warehouse floor.
My left knee hit hard and sent another shock wave of
pain through my leg. I tried to choke back another cry,
but it came out as a lupine yelp.
I rolled over onto my back and pulled the MP-9 to
me. "Move it, campers. Get Moira out of here."
Val stared at the hole in my leg. "You're hit!"
I bit back the pain. "Yeah, my days in the big league
are over. Maybe you can retire my uniform." I looked
up at Zig and Zag. "Move it! I'll hold them off if I can.
It's got to be Fujiwara yaks out there shooting the
grunges up. That'll buy you some time, and I'll buy you
more. Go!"
Zig made for the back door, but Moira shook her head
and knelt beside me. "No, I'm not going. You need
help."
She started making all the hand motions for a spell,
but I closed a bloody hand around her fingers. "Save it,
sister. You'll need all the magic you can muster to get
the hell out of Seattle. Val, get her out of here."
Valerie crossed to Moira and rested her hands on her
shoulders, but the elf shrugged her off. "No. I can save
you. I can fix your leg."
Inside my head the Old One growled seductively.
"Let her fix you. Let her fill you with magic. Do as she
asks and I assure you the others will not follow."
"No!" I shouted at both of them.
Her eyes flashed with an anger that told me my stay
of execution had been denied. "Wait." I pulled the Viper
from my belt and tossed it to Val.
She stared at it as if it were commercial software. "I
don't want this."
I swallowed hard. "You might." I reached down and
dipped the fingers of my left hand in my blood and
painted twin parallel lines beneath each eye and across
my forehead. "Do this, Moira, and then leave. All of
you, get out of here. Don't look back, no matter what.
Don't go looking for me. I'll find you, when I can."
Zig and Zag stared at me as if I'd gone mad and Val
shivered. Moira ripped my pants away from the wound
and pressed her hands to it. She subvocalized a chant,
but I felt warmth and a tingling flow from her hands
into my leg. Almost instantly it nibbled the pain away.
The energy continued to build and tissue began to heal,
my body motivated to restructure itself at a rate that
should have taken months. Even so, I knew the spell
she'd cast was more than I needed.
And it was more than I could control.
I grit my teeth and shoved her away. "Go, go!" I
snapped at them. "Run!"
They vanished from sight just as the first tremor hit
me. I shrieked as fire filled my ribs with molten agony.
I heard the crack as my breastbone parted down the
middle, thickened and broadened to accept the new an-
gle of my expanded rib cage. I gnashed my teeth at the
pain and the growing canine teeth split my lower lip.
"Don't fight it, Longtooth. It won't hurt so much,"
the Old One whispered.
Gotta retain some control! Can't let you run wild!
My long bones telescoped back down, shortening but
strengthening my limbs. The muscles flowed into pro-
toplasm as the transformation continued, then con-
gealed into new muscles with new insertions able to
exert more powerful pressure and leverage than before.
My fingers and toes likewise shrank—the latter far
more than the former—and organic claws grew to give
me some new weaponry.
My head felt as if it were exploding when my jaw
and facial bones broke. My whole face grew into a muz-
zle and my tongue lengthened along with it. The top of
my head flattened somewhat and my eye sockets sank
back to a more protective position. According to the
only person to watch me go through this lunacy, my
eyes do not lose their silver color or the Killer Rings.
The bodily transformation almost complete as my
pelt thickened and ears lengthened, I felt the Old One
begin to gnaw on my resolve and humanity. I clung to
the image of Dr. Raven sitting across from me as I
changed and the sound of his voice telling me how to
concentrate so I would not surrender to the beast inside
me. "You have been blessed by Wolf, greatly blessed,
but that blessing will be a curse if you surrender your-
self to him."
The Old One whimpered with disgust. "Someday
Raven will fail you and you will become mine."
Stuff it, you mangy mutt. I've won this round.
The advent of three grunges storming through the
warehouse door precluded any remark the Old One
might have made. I gave them a toothy grin from the
shadows. "My, my," I growled in a voice that even
grunges knew to fear. "What fine little piggies we have
here.7"
It took a bit more than a fairy-tale huffing and puffing
to blow them all down, but the grunges didn't offer
much more than that for a fight. They've never been
much for hitting a moving target, and in my more com-
pact wolf form I don't stay in one place very long. I left
them in a broken heap on the warehouse floor, then
dashed out into the killzone, doing my best to spit out
grunge blood.
I couldn't have been much more than a gray blur as I
streaked across the opening, but I felt The Chauffeur's
eyes on me the whole time. I paused for a second at the
place from where the rifle shot had come, but a yakuza
forced me to tear out his throat before I had finished
nosing around. I almost lost control with that kill, but,
fortunately, the yak had some sort of augmentation that
meant I got hydraulic fluid in addition to blood when I
took him down.
Despite that hardship, I learned what I wanted to
7 Okay, right, everyone knows there's no such thing as a werewolf. And a
hundred years ago there was no such thing as a dragon, too. Raven's ex-
plained it all to me, that the Wolf spirit picked me special to grace me
with abilities and all. Doc's smart, but he's never been through this trans-
formation and even Native American traditions tell of skinwalkers. The
Old One and I know what I am, which means you don't want to invite me
to any Full Moon parties you'll be having.
know and took keen delight in watching The Chauffeur
shudder when my joyous howl filled the warehouse dis-
trict like the fog rolling in from the coast.
IV
Ronnie Killstar's eyes grew as wide as the hole in my
leg had been when he heard me release the charging
lever on the MP-9. Seated in his favorite chair, nestled
deep in the shadows of his unlit living room, I spoke to
him in a husky whisper. "Close the door. Sit down at the
table."
"What's this?" He stared blankly at the little repast
I'd prepared him while I waited.
I smiled at him. "That's your last meal."
The punk stared at me. "Milk and cookies?"
I shrugged. "It's the perfect thing for a little boy who
doesn't know when he's not supposed to play adult
games. If you'd have been content to just sell us out to
Fujiwara, that would have worked fine."
He tried to look offended, but his nervousness be-
trayed him. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Can it, joeboy. Val and I cracked your personnel file
and it concluded with the last telecom number you
called. Later, when we broke into Fujiwara I recognized
the number. There was a connection."
Ronnie straightened up in his chair. "Circumstantial
evidence."
I shook my head. "It would have been if you could
have kept your ego in check. In the Weed you told me
you could 'bull's-eye a rat's ass' at a klick in the dark. A
chip's got to be four times the size of your average rat's
ass, and the range wasn't nearly that long." I sighed.
"And to top it off, you were still wearing that cologne of
yours."
It suddenly dawned on him that I was going to kill
him. The color drained from his face and he looked
at me with big puppy-dog eyes. Yet before they could
have their full sympathetic effect on me, his features
sharpened and a bit of the old defiant fire returned.
"Wait a minute. I destroyed the chip you never really
wanted to give to La Plante anyway. That's gotta count
for something!"
I hesitated for a second and hope blossomed on his
face. Then I shook my head. "No, it doesn't. Dr. Raven
had tipped Fujiwara about what we were going to do
anyway. Fuji's programmers put a Trojan horse carrying
a nasty virus in that chip that would have destroyed La
Plante's computer system. The ambush, which didn't
include your shooting of the chip, was just to make sure
La Plante bought the whole thing as genuine."
Ronnie sank his head in his hands. "Go ahead, shoot
me. I deserve it."
I lifted the MP-9's muzzle to the ceiling. "No, I think
I prefer letting you wallow in your own mortification.
Word to the wise, kid," I shot back over my shoulder as
I crossed to the door. "Remember that you're not as
tough as you think. Don't let your delusions of ade-
quacy get you in over your head . . . again."
On the way out I stopped The Chauffeur from going
in. "Don't bother."
The plastic-faced man stared hard at me. "I didn't
hear a shot."
I gave him a wolfish grin and licked my lips. "You
never do." I patted his cheek. "Ciao—no pun intended.
Until it's just you and me."
Quicksilver Sayonara
I normally define a "rude awakening" as any that takes
place before noon, but Kid Stealth gave that phrase a
new depth of meaning. Stealth would maintain it was
my fault because I was the one dreaming about cuck-
olding a chrome-fisted underworld kingpin when the
Kid clapped his own steel hand over my mouth. The
kiss of cold steel against my lips is not something I en-
joy at the best of times, and two hours before dawn is
seldom one of those.
My eyes focused on Stealth, and his identity regis-
tered in my brain a half-second before my finger tight-
ened on the trigger of the Beretta Viper1 I'd snaked
from beneath my pillow and pressed to his side. Stealth
gave me a satisfied grunt and dangled the gun's clip
from his flesh and blood right hand. He pulled his metal
hand away from my mouth and flipped the clip back to
me. "Good instincts."
I pulled myself up into a sitting position, letting the
sheets slip down from chest to waist. I pulled the slide
back on the pistol, and one bullet popped out into the
bed. "I keep one in the chamber."
Stealth nodded in the half-light, the laser sight built
into his right eye making a small cross on his pupil. "I
know. Nine-millimeter, silver bullet with inertial silver-
nitrate explosive tip."
1 Thing I like most about the Viper, as old as it is, is that I get fourteen in
the clip and one in the chamber. Not that I need that many shots, mind
you, but you never can tell when something will just be too stupid to die.
The matter-of-fact tone with which he delivered his
assessment of the bullet that had been aimed at his
stomach somehow robbed it of all its deadliness. I'd
survived six years with Doctor Richard Raven, and I'd
seen aides come and go, but Stealth had to be the
strangest of them all. The bullet in my gun, he had de-
cided, could not punch through the kevlar clothes he
wore, nor get through the dermal plating that protected
his body.
That, or he didn't care if it could.
"What the hell's going on? Is Raven back from Tir
Tairngire?"
Stealth shook his head. "Still there. No word on his
return."
I fed the loose bullet back into the clip, then reloaded
the pistol. "That answered the second question. What
about the first?"
"La Plante."
That one name, spoken in a sepulchral whisper like
the rustle of a sidewinder slithering across dry gravel,
answered lots of questions. Etienne La Plante was the
local crime boss who'd played a cameo role in the
dream I'd been enjoying. I'd recently helped liberate an
elven princess2 from him. Unbeknownst to me until the
middle of that little adventure, it turned out that Moira
Alianha was betrothed to Dr. Raven. Raven had re-
turned her to Tir Tairngire two weeks ago, and then had
been summoned back there again after the Night of Fire
and the battle for Natural Vat. That meant he left Kid
Stealth, Tom Electric, Tark Graogrim, Valerie Valkyrie,
and I to watch the store while he was away.
La Plante held a special place in Kid Stealth's heart.
Stealth had first come to Seattle to work as La Plante's
2 I don't know that Moira was really a princess per se—the elf I know
best is Raven and he's not much on hereditary titles. Anyway, she was
pretty important and after her rescue Doc had been bouncing back and
forth 'tween the Tir and the sprawl. I gather there was a lot of palavering
going on, but about what I had no idea at the time.
enforcer. Inevitably, La Plante had assigned Stealth the
job of killing Raven. Stealth was good enough to get
two of Doc's chummers—my head missed being
mounted on his trophy wall by a stroke of luck or two—
before La Plante decided to put a pinch-hitter in for
Stealth. That individual, known on the streets as The
Chauffeur, had fitted Stealth's feet with a large pair of
cement blocks, then dumped him into the Sound.
Setting the pistol on my nightstand, I threw the cov-
ers back, then turned on a light. "What did our friend do
this time?" Naked—'cept for the silver wolf's-head
amulet worn at my throat—I padded over to the closet
as Stealth puzzled over how to answer that question in
his customarily taciturn manner. I looked at the clothes
hanging there and almost chose a normal t-shirt and pair
of jeans.
You're going somewhere with Kid Stealth.
I opted for black pants woven of kevlar and a heavy
kevlar sweater with trauma pads over my chest and
back.
"I don't know. An ear says a VIP is sprawling and La
Plante is calling in some heavy favors to make him
happy." Even as he spoke, Stealth moved his head back
and forth, his cybernetically augmented senses scanning
for the sound of anything out of the ordinary. I silently
hoped the Blavatskys down in 2D didn't decide to play
"I've-Been-Bad, Teacher" while Stealth was monitor-
ing the area.
"Your street source didn't know who the VIP was or
why he was here?"
Stealth answered me with an exasperated expression
that said, "If I knew that, I would have told you."
I refrained from answering with my you-never-know-
unless-you-ask shrug and zipped up my pants. "La
Plante had been holding Moira for some Mr. Johnson
from out of town. I bet there's a connection—I bet this
VIP was the one who wanted her."
Kid Stealth's eyes narrowed for a half-second and I
knew he'd filed away both my conclusion and the fact
that I'd made the connection. As tough as he was, and
as much of a perfectionist as I'd seen him be, Stealth
seldom advanced theories on his own. He'd study a
situation and offer his observations, but he left the
guesswork up to others. He'd made his living dealing in
dead certainties before joining Raven, and since becom-
ing one of the team, he'd found plenty of people to
jump to conclusions for him.
Most of Stealth's body part replacements and modifica-
tions were made by choice, to eliminate as much uncer-
tainty as he could. His mechanical left arm—the original,
I gathered, he'd lost in an old accident—was tricked out
with a gyromount that locked a sniper rifle in place rock
steady and soaked up all the recoil from a shot. It could
also punch through concrete blocks, but that was a bonus
that came from its design specifications. Stealth's eyes
had been modified to include a rangefinder, low-light, and
thermographic vision—all the stuff any well-heeled as-
sassin would love to have. I knew for certain he had some
link gizmo in there, too, which fed him data ranging from
the time of day to the distance to targets—I think he could
also pick up Seattle Seadogs3 games if he wanted to. He'd
probably have replaced his right hand but he needed it for
the "touch"—be it to squeeze a trigger or throw one of the
many stilettos hidden on his body.
He'd even gone so far as to have the upper left lobe
of his lungs replaced with an internal air tank that elimi-
nated his need to breathe when lining up those one-klick
assassination shots. That special option had saved him
the day The Chauffeur dumped him into the Sound—La
Plante hadn't paid for it, so he didn't know about it. It
had given Kid Stealth ten minutes to figure out how to
get his legs out of a rock or become fish food.
On my list of things to do with a spare ten minutes,
having to figure a way out of a deathtrap did not rank
real high.
3 Sure, they're really called the Mariners still, but only if you want to
suck up to management.
I pulled on a heavy nylon jacket with kevlar and
shock pads sewn into breast and back. "Where?"
When I saw that hint of a smile on his lips, I felt an
immediate urge to dive back into bed. "The Rock."
I let my jaw drop open. "The Rock? Did they do a
good-sensectomy when you went in for your last lube
and tune?" The Rock was the nickname for what had
formerly been a seaside resort hotel that La Plante had
"acquired" when his organization cannibalized another
criminal cartel. It had previously served as a notoriously
hedonistic retreat for criminal megabyters and corpo-
rate warlords deciding to "do the sprawl." After word of
Stealth's survival leaked out, The Chauffeur, at La
Plante's request, had fortified the place and made it into
an open challenge to the local government, Stealth, or
Dr. Raven to close down.
Stealth looked at me as if I were the one operating in
an alternate reality.
I raised an eyebrow. "We do have Tom Electric going
with us, right?"
He shook his head. "He's visiting."
I hesitated. Tom occasionally dropped out of sight
and that generally meant his ex-wife had come into
Seattle. The six months between her visits were enough
to let Tom forget why they'd gotten divorced, and the
week he spent with her always made him more than
happy they had split up.
"What about Valerie or Tark?"
Another shake. "Val's great, but she's a decker and
doesn't like guns. Plutarch is still nursing the chest shot
he took in the Night of Fire. His ork chummers are re-
luctant to put him in the line of fire for something that
doesn't directly benefit them, so he's out." Stealth
forced himself to give an especially broad smile. "I did
leave a message for Raven in case he gets back, and
I decided not to call La Plante to tell him we were
coming."
I exaggerated a sigh. "Thank God for small miracles."
His grin became purely evil. "It gives us the element
of surprise."
That and an army division might get us in. Divine in-
tervention and an army division might get us back out
again.
Stealth tossed me the key ring from the top of my
dresser. "You're driving."
"Guess again, Stealth." I shook my head and batted
the flying keys onto the bed with my hand. "The Fenris
is brand new and I still remember what you did to the
upholstery in the Mustang IV."
Stealth squatted down in that peculiar way only he
can, but didn't look the least bit contrite. "I'll be care-
ful." Balancing on his left foot, he extended his right leg
and plucked the keys off the bed with his claws.
"Besides, you have that new radarbane paint job and a
sunroof."
I took the keys from his foot's titanium talons and
suppressed a whole-body shudder. In that ten minutes at
the bottom of the ocean, Stealth could only see one
thing to do—aside from dying, that is. He'd used his
belt and shirt to tie tourniquets around both of his legs
above the knees. Then he pulled some plastique from a
compartment in his left arm and created some very
small shaped charges, which he fastened to his own
legs. He set them off and managed to make it to shore.
Raven found him and kept him alive. Both of
Stealth's legs were gone from the knees down. He'd
taken lots of other damage—his left arm showed scar-
ring from a shark hit—but he refused to die or surrender
to the depression that would have swallowed anyone
else. Though he never said much during that time—or
since—I knew it was his hatred for La Plante that kept
him alive, and his awe of Dr. Raven that kept the rest of
us alive.
Stealth had worked with Raven to design himself a new
pair of legs. The original humanoid design was aban-
doned when Stealth located a better one while scanning
some chips on animal biology. Wearing an expression
I've only seen on the faces of lottery winners or the
criminally insane, he pointed it out to me. "Deinony-
chus," he said, reverently chanting the word like a
mantra. "Terrible claw."
It took some convincing, but he prevailed on Raven
to help him. Human thighs grafted down into titanium
shins and feet. Birdlike in construction, his new legs
featured the elongated foot bones that made it look as if
his leg had an extra joint. Each foot had a dew claw and
three toes—the innermost of which was truly a thing to
behold. Both stronger and larger than the other two, it
had a huge sickle-shaped claw that pulled back toward
the ankle while Stealth ran. It turned funny-looking legs
into razorhook-equipped limbs capable of slicing
through foes and, in Stealth's case, let him climb in-
credibly sheer walls like a fly on a pane of glass4.
No, he hadn't ripped up the upholstery in my
Mustang.
The claws just dripped blood all over it.
I tied some rubber-soled black shoes on my street-
legal feet, cocked the Viper, and stowed it in my pants
at the small of my back, then followed Stealth out to my
living room. He leaned over the back of the couch, then
turned and handed me my MP-9 submachine gun5 and a
satchel bulging with clips. I felt the weight of the ammo
pouch, then shook my head. "Planning quite the little
war, aren't we?"
He shrugged. "We'll have surprise, but I don't know
for how long." He pointed at the satchel. "I handloaded
your silver bullets, but I used mercury in them instead
4 Raven did insist on making Stealth a pair of normal legs, so I know he
can swap the nightmare pair out for regular legs whenever he wants. I've
never seen him when he's wanted to—or, he's never let me see him when
he was running around on normal feet. That ability to go unnoticed, given
his trade, is a useful one.
5 Stealth would prefer it if I would get a "real" submachine gun instead of
this HK antique. I think he thinks my weapon choice reflects badly on
him. Of course, since he's Kid Stealth, if anyone did think less of him for
it, they wouldn't say anything—at least, not in public, and not for long.
of silver nitrate. I wanted to try a silver-nitrate sus-
pension in a gelatin of my own manufacture that ap-
proaches the viscosity of mercury, but I couldn't finish
it this quickly. I also boosted the powder up to six full
grains so your bullet will have the velocity you need to
make a mess of the target. I hope you don't mind."
I felt an odd chill run down my spine. I realized he
was speaking about loading bullets for maximum effect
in the same voice my mechanic used to describe tuning
the Fenris' twelve-cylinder engine. I headed for the
door as Stealth shouldered his Kalashnikov6, carefully
avoiding any bump or jarring to the boxy rangefinder
mounted on the barrel. When activated the laser would
send out an invisible, ultraviolet beam that would paint
a dot on the chest or head of a target. With his eye,
Stealth just locates the dot, then pulls the trigger and
puts a bullet through it.
I let him precede me from the apartment and locked
it. As we worked our way down to the basement garage,
Stealth paused on the second-story landing and stared
at the door to 2D. "You've got strange neighbors,
Wolf . . ."
I shrugged. "The Blavatskys have hired a tutor."
Stealth's eyes grew wide. "They have tutors for that
stuff?"
I waved him forward. "Get your mind out of the
gutter. I think it has something to do with the new
math."
Stealth remained silent until we reached the basement
and stripped the cover off my Fenris' body. The sleek
vehicle lacked the sharp angles and lines of a Porsche
Mako or a Ford Astarte, but it still looked as though it
were moving at Mach 1 while standing still. The flat
black finish absorbed the garage's meager light and
flashed none of it back. The Fenris might as well have
been built out of shadow, so well did the radarbane
6 Frankly, I think he could do better than an AK-97, but he's jazzed that
baby up so it does everything shy of cooking hot meals for him.
coating Raven had given it prevent the reflection of
electromagnetic radiation.
I unlocked it and climbed into the driver's side as
Stealth folded himself up and dropped into the passen-
ger seat. I slid the MP-9 into the door holster on my
side. Stealth laid his Kalashnikov gently in the area
behind our seats and produced an ugly little Ceska
Black Scorpion machine pistol to use if we ran into
early resistance.
I reached over to punch in the ignition commands,
but Stealth wrapped his metal hand around my right
wrist before I could do so. I looked over at him
and frowned. "You should have gone when we were
upstairs . . ."
That got to even him and his fierce expression light-
ened for all of a nanosecond. "We might run into some
difficulty before we get there." His eyes shut for a sec-
ond, then popped open again. "There, I'm geared up for
anything now. Don't you think you better do your
stuff?"
I hesitated. Kid Stealth, being an amalgam of all the
best technology money could buy, prepared himself for
combat by opening circuits and running diagnostic pro-
grams mated with his brain. In literally the blink of an
eye he went from being an abnormally vigilant and
quick-reacting individual to someone who could move
faster and accomplish more in a single heartbeat than
even most other augmented people. He was that good—
probably the best—and going from idle to overdrive
was nothing but a change of perceptions for him.
Me, well, I'm not augmented in a mechanistic way.
Growing up in the Seattle sprawl of gray canyons and
trash-strewn alleys, I never had the resources for even
the most basic of modifications. In a day and age when
almost any street tough has razor-claws that pop from
under his fingernails on command, or an eye that can
see in the dark, I was left to what the gods, in their per-
versity, had given me at birth. In a world where Man-
The-Tool-Maker took great delight in making himself
into Man-The-Tool, I was consigned to the slender side
of natural selection known as extinction.
I had nothing.
Then I'd discovered the magic.
Actually, the magic discovered me. From the time of
puberty, in which the monster inside me festered and
grew, to the day I met Richard Raven and gained con-
trol over it, my life was indescribably interesting. Street
toughs learned quickly that he who assaulted me during
daylight hours would end up a bloody smear along an
alley at night. Those who lived—the majority, in fact—
gave me wide berth, which made life a bit easier; but
the blank times of which I remembered nothing made it
a living hell.
I gave Stealth a hard stare. "I don't like driving
jazzed."
Stealth shrugged philosophically. "You might not get
the chance later."
Reluctantly I nodded in agreement. I settled myself
comfortably into the seat and let my head drop back
against the headrest. The fingers of my right hand
drifted up and unconsciously caressed the silver amulet
at my throat. Drawing in a deep breath—and savoring
what I feared would be the last of the new car scent
from my Fenris—I cleared my mind and started the
journey within.
Six years ago a series of savage murders had most of
Seattle's citizens cowering in fear. They had been
tagged the Full Moon Slashings by the NewsNet pun-
dits, and the fact that I couldn't remember where I'd
been during the killings had preyed on me. Actually,
waking up bathed in blood is what had scared me the
most, and it was about that time I heard that the elven
High Prince had sent some of his heavy-hitters into
town to clean up the problem.
Fortunately Raven found me before the elven Pala-
dins did. He taught me that the beast within me was not
always the enemy, but it was a gift from what I thought
of as the Wolf spirit. He talked me through one of the
changes I undergo when the spirit becomes overwhelm-
ing, and he taught me how to control it. He also pre-
vented the Paladins from murdering me while I learned
how to master my inner self, then the two of us, to the
Paladins' dismay, brought the Slasher down by our
lonesome.
Deep inside myself I stepped through the black cur-
tain sheltering the Wolf spirit from everything else
that I am. As black as the Fenris, the spirit let a low
growl rumble from his throat. Bloody highlights flashed
across his glossy coat, then evaporated like scarlet
fog. "You come to me at the behest of the Murder
Machine?"
I smiled, which increased the growl slightly. "Yes,
Old One. Kid Stealth sends his love."
The old wolf lifted his head as if sniffing the air.
"Had you let me take control of the situation, that ma-
chine would never have gotten your friends."
Ice water gurgled through my guts, but I turned my
anger and fear back on the Old One. "No, Stealth might
not have gotten them, but I might well have done his job
for him."
The Old One shrugged. "I am, you are, we are a
predator. Prey is ours to take, and our skills are to be
employed in its taking."
"Then lend me those skills, Old One. Stealth
promises plenty of good hunting."
The wolf dropped its lower jaw in a lupine grin.
"Strike swiftly, Longtooth. I will make your strike sure
and deadly."
I opened my eyes and instantly my magically en-
hanced senses reported to me a world to which I had
been oblivious only moments earlier. From Stealth I
smelled machine coolant, cordite, and anxious anticipa-
tion without a hint of fear. As the Fenris' engine roared
to life, my head filled with chemical scents, and the de-
sire to be out under the open skies almost overwhelmed
me. Slipping the vehicle into gear, I drove it out into a
nighttime that, while dark, held few secrets from me.
The arc-light glare of the Fenris' headlights burned
the hopeless expressions on the faces of the street
people into black masks of despair. Some shrank back
from the harsh light as if it were a laser vaporizing
them, while others shuffled forward zombie-like and
raised grubby hands in mute pleas for some kindness.
Their hands fell slowly when the afterimage of the ve-
hicle faded from their sight.
A tiny knot of razorboys from the local ork gang
called the Bloody Screamers scattered as if I'd launched
a grenade into their midst. I fought the Old One's at-
tempt to drive the Fenris straight through them. As soon
as we sped past, the gillettes slithered from the shadows
and taunted us with the insane yelps and howls that
were the gang's trademark. Stealth glanced at the steer-
ing wheel and then the closed sunroof, but I shook my
head. "Not worth the time it would take to mop up the
blood."
Speeding through the streets, I interpreted Stealth's
occasional grunts or nods and steered accordingly on a
course he had chosen. I knew where The Rock was, but
Stealth had picked out a route that would both be safe
and would let us determine whether anyone was follow-
ing us. Finally he told me to stop the car and I found
myself parking in the shadow of the old Kitchner Fish
Cannery—a property that abutted The Rock's fenced-in
territory on the north side.
I turned the car's dome light off before either one of
us opened the doors. As we alighted, we left the car
doors open. Just as we didn't need the light to announce
our arrival, we decided we could do without the sound
of the doors slamming shut. Stealth's feet made less
noise on the gravel outside the car than mine did, but I
slid the MP-9 from the door holster more quietly than
he pulled his Kalashnikov from behind the Fenris' seats.
Off to the south I could see the pink glow of The
Rock's night lights. I figured the distance we'd have to
cover at something just under a kilometer, and that be-
gan to worry me. Stealth can hit targets at twice that
range with ease, and I half began to imagine him up in
the cannery giving me all the covering fire I could han-
dle while I went in alone. I turned to confront him with
this startling new conclusion, but he held up his left
hand to forestall anything I might say.
He seemed to be listening to something in the dis-
tance, then he spoke. "Copy that, Outrider One—our
backtrail was clear. Bring it in. Let's do it, my friends."
I instantly knew he was using his headware to stay in
contact with confederates who'd been watching our ap-
proach, but before I could draw any conclusion about
who they might be, a door in the cannery slid open and
a weak, yellow light silhouetted a dozen figures of vari-
ous sizes and shapes. Almost instantly, above the fish
smell, I caught the scent of one or two orks, and the
hackles rose on the back of my neck. Who . . . what?
Then it hit me and I turned to Kid Stealth without try-
ing to hide my anger. "You didn't tell me you'd brought
the Redwings in on this . . ."
Stealth's head came up and he unconsciously let him-
self rise to his full 2.3 meters of height7. "I need you,
Wolf, to bring this off. I also need them. Bury the
hatchet. The enemy of my enemy . . ."
". . . is still not anyone I'd want marrying my sister,"
I finished for him. Stealth had developed a habit of do-
ing anything he could to annoy La Plante after they'd
parted company. One of those things was to rescue
other La Plante loyalists who had somehow run afoul of
the chrome-fisted Capone. Bloody-handed butchers and
petty criminals alike, Stealth pulled them out of what-
ever terminal situation they found themselves in and
had formed them into a band who called themselves the
Redwings—a not-too-distant allusion to Raven's crew.
I'd not liked them from the start because we'd tangled
7 Sure, the legs may look goofy, but when he needs to stand tall, they cer-
tainly do the job.
over their excessive use of violence in certain situa-
tions. While Raven left it up to Stealth to keep them in
line, and Stealth freely offered their assistance when-
ever we needed some added talent, I preferred selecting
my own gillettes from the over-abundant supply lurking
in the Seattle sprawl.
I spat the sour taste out of my mouth. "Well, I'll have
no trouble with target acquisition."
Stealth smiled in a most grimly amused manner.
"I also got you some back-up. I hired Morrissey and
Jackson—they're on the inside and will take this sec-
tion of the warning grid down for us."
I frowned. "Morrissey and Jackson?"
Stealth settled back down on his spurred haunches.
"The two street samurai you used to rescue Moira
Alianha. You know, the two who called us in on the Nat
Vat thing?"
I laughed aloud, letting some of my tension go. "You
mean Zig and Zag." I nodded with satisfaction. "Good.
They shoot straight and fast."
"Glad you approve. When your two boys take the
fence out, we go in hot." Stealth pointed off toward the
seashore. "La Plante tends to concentrate his guards on
the wet side because he expects me to bob up out of the
water and come at him from that direction. We'll go in
at the other end and just start ripping things up."
I tossed Stealth a quick nod and he signaled the Red-
wings to move forward. The light from inside the can-
nery went out, and the men deployed themselves with
quiet efficiency. I followed behind Stealth and hunkered
down when he did as we approached the twelve-meter-
tall cyclone fence topped with thick coils of razor-wire.
Two figures silhouetted themselves against The
Rock's glow as they sauntered toward our position.
Stealth moved his head back and forth a couple of
times, then allowed himself a grim smile. "A bit late,
but it's them." He moved forward and I joined him at
the fence.
Zig, a solidly built razorboy sporting a longcoat and
an AK-97, gave me a nod of recognition. "Sorry we
took so long, chummers. The VIP yacht arrived late at
the docks—only about an hour ago. Assignments got
scrambled. It looks like something is going down very
shortly—the yacht's owner and La Plante wandered off
for a heated chat."
Zag—bigger than his Caucasian partner and wearing
an orange and black gang jacket with the Halloweener
insignia torn off—fished a remote control device from
his pocket. He pointed it at the section of fence and hit a
button. "There, it's down. I hope this thing is reporting
back normally the way you said it would. If not, we'll
have more trouble than we need in about two minutes."
Stealth answered eloquently by reaching out with his
right foot and clawing away some of the fence. In a
half-dozen passes—unaccompanied by warning sirens
or the shouts of guards—he opened a hole large enough
for us to drive the whole cannery through. I crossed
over first and took up a forward position with Zig and
Zag as the Redwings followed. "Zig, tell me more about
this yacht."
He shrugged. "Don't know that much about ships. I
make it thirty meters long at least and capable of trans-
oceanic travel. The crew are wee little brown guys who
find things like razor claws and the like to be amusing.
I suspect they're like you—they rely on magic instead
of chrome. All of them carry nasty-looking daggers, but
they're not strangers to guns."
I turned to his partner and gave the black man a gen-
tle elbow in the ribs. "Yacht have a name?"
Zag shrugged. The red light in his right eye flickered
as he tried to remember if he'd seen any name on the
ship's hull. "Nothing I saw, but it did have some funny
writing where I would have expected the name to be.
And in one of the cabins, there were no pictures, only
geometric designs."
I frowned. Funny writing and geometric designs meant
only one thing to me: Moslems. Growing up, I'd known a
family that ran a restaurant down on the strip. They
claimed their people had come to Seattle before the
Awakening from a place called Syria and they used geo-
metric designs and Arabic for decorations on the menus.
I knew that country was some place on the other side of
the planet, and I knew Islam was widespread enough to
make the ship's point of origin any place from Spain to
Indonesia. Even with that wealth of information, how-
ever, I couldn't puzzle out what someone from so far
away would want with Etienne La Plante.
Stealth crouched down behind me. "Heard the ques-
tions and answers. What do you think?"
I swallowed hard. "I think someone has gone to an
incredible expense to get something from La Plante. If
we assume that something was Moira Alianha, we can
explain the visitor's anger. La Plante probably would
have apprised his client of the problem only shortly be-
fore the visit, so the fact that they're talking means La
Plante must have offered something as a substitute."
"Logical." Stealth gritted his teeth. "Conclusion?"
I shook my head. "Finding out who the client is
would probably be good. If La Plante has offered a sub-
stitute for Moira, it might be another individual, in
which case I can see a rescue as being in order."
Stealth nodded and called one of the Redwings over.
"Grimes, you and the boys will go in as planned. Start
at the east end of the complex and work west, but stay
away from the docks. Go for lots of pyrotechnics and
don't start blasting civilians."
Grimes looked a bit crestfallen at the last parameter
of his mission, but he accepted it. Stealth turned back to
Zig, Zag, and me as Grimes slunk away. "We'll go in by
the docks and recon the area. We'll see what we can
see, then, if needed, make our moves when the party
begins at our backs."
The Redwings took off and headed away from the
ocean. Stealth stalked forward and took on the role of
point man for our detachment. We crested the rise lead-
ing toward The Rock, giving me my first view of the
resort. Even in the dark, the long building with five
stepped levels did look interesting. I found it very easy
to mentally impose bright banners on the balconies and
put bathers around the pool. At the same time I deleted
the barbed wire strung around the perimeter and the
razor-wire awnings above the balconies.
Off to my right, toward the ocean, I saw the massive
clubhouse and marina area. From in between a couple
of boathouses I caught a glimpse of the yacht riding the
ocean's gentle swells. The ship's design and flying fore-
castle made me think of a shark cruising through shal-
low water—it had a real air of menace about it.
The Old One's voice echoed up from deep inside.
"There lairs a foe who could challenge even your
Raven."
Great! Homicidal maniacs to the east of me and so-
ciopathic grunges8 straight ahead and now there's an-
other player who could challenge Dr. Raven. I looked
over at Stealth. "Anytime you want to tell me this is all
a dream and wake me up, go ahead."
Stealth raised an eyebrow. "What?"
I shivered. "Nothing, just let's be careful. Some-
thing isn't right about that ship or the person it brought
with it."
Zig and Zag both did a quick double-check of their
combat systems, but Stealth just took my warning in
stride. "Let's find out if you're right." He set off down
the slope at a quick pace, and his bobbing gait almost
succeeded in making him look funny. I say almost be-
cause just as I thought of the phrase "bunny-hop" to de-
scribe how he moved, stray light glinted from the
sickle-claws—ruining an accurate analogy.
8 So, okay, maybe all the orks working for La Plante weren't sociopathic.
Fact was, though, that their employment contracts paid bonuses for anti-
social behavior committed upon intruders like me, which colored my per-
ception a bit.
I dashed after him, and the two razorboys followed
quickly. Though we could not keep up with his pace,
Stealth waited at important junctions until we caught
up, then headed off to secure the next point along our
path. Twice, we found dead guards with thin stilettos
buried in their throats. Neither of them had managed to
get off a shot, but with their silenced weapons it would
have hardly mattered.
Stealth finally stopped behind the nearest of the two
boathouses. The windows of the building were com-
pletely blocked with packing crates—telling me that La
Plante used them for storage. Between the first building
and the second I saw a scattering of other crates, or
parts thereof, and got a clear view of the boat Zig had
described earlier.
Stealth pulled me down and cupped his hands over
my ear. "I mark seven crewmen on the ship. Cross-cor-
relation of their conversation pegs their language as
Malay with a heavy Arabic influence. And you're
right—there's something strange about that ship. It's all
lit up, but I can't hear any engines."
I sniffed at the air. "No gas vapors." I turned to Zig.
"Did they refuel?"
"Not so's I noticed, chummer."
The intrusion of voices ended our whispered conver-
sation. Appearing on the sea side of our hiding place,
Etienne La Plante strolled along with a man who Zig
silently indicated was the owner of the boat. From the
top of his white-haired head to the tips of his black
shoes—and for the length of the perfectly tailored,
double-breasted black suit he wore—La Plante looked
every bit an aristocrat from the days before the Awak-
ening. Only the silver of his artificial right hand seemed
out of place, but it didn't break the image—it just
dented it a bit.
His stocky guest stood a bit below average height,
but the Old One growled a warning that prevented me
from dismissing the man outright. As I studied his
olive-skinned, hawk-nosed profile I caught his dark
eyes darting warily about. The man missed nothing and
stroked his black mustache and goatee thoughtfully
while La Plante babbled on endlessly. I saw no obvious
signs of chroming, which meant the man had to be
taken very seriously.
I always take spellworms very seriously.
Following La Plante and his visitor at a discreet dis-
tance, The Chauffeur affected the air of a jilted lover or
a young sibling aching for the adult privileges his older
kin had been accorded in the family. I could read his
concentration as he struggled to overhear any and all
remarks that passed between his boss and the smaller
man. The ship's lights glinted from the slender man's
sunglasses as he turned and once again commanded that
the cadre of grunges and razorboys behind him keep
silent.
The grunges simpered and groveled when scolded,
but the razorboys met The Chauffeur's looking-glass
stare with glares of their own. The two gillettes in the
middle were supporting a young woman who marched
along as if drunk. Her head lolled to the side and I saw
a flash of red hair as she pulled free of one man and
tried to escape the other. Her remaining captor just
tightened his grip and a grunge tackled her. She cried
out in despair, but grunge laughter quickly swallowed
the sound in huge hyena-gulps.
Suddenly the sound of an explosion behind us heralded
the start of the Redwing assault. La Plante dropped to one
knee and covered his face with his metal hand. The guest
darted toward the gangplank of his ship while the crew-
men scrambled their way down below decks. The Chauf-
feur barked orders at his minions, and they instantly
deployed themselves in defensive positions.
Abandoned by her captors, the girl got up and began
to stumble away toward the second boathouse. The
Chauffeur pointed at her, dispatched a razorboy after
her, and signaled him by drawing a finger across his
own neck. Ten-centimeter talons sprouted from the
street samurai's fingertips as he rose to go after his prey.
If I'd stopped to calculate my odds of success, I'd
have failed. "She's mine," I shouted as I vaulted the
crate in front of me and set off. With my reflexes jazzed,
the world around me moved at an unbelievably torpid
pace. As my feet hit the ground, I snapped off a shot that
hit the gillette in the left shoulder, slowly spinning him
to face us. Stealth's shot followed immediately and
jackknifed the street samurai like a tanker-trunk on ice.
Three steps into the open ground between the two
boat houses and only the closest of the grunges had seen
me. As he turned and started to bring his Ingram up,
everything above the bridge of his nose vanished and
his body toppled back as if its bones had become water.
As if I needed confirmation of what had happened, the
report of Stealth's Kalashnikov echoed back from
the ship.
Zig and Zag added their firepower to Stealth's effort
by the time I'd closed half the distance to the girl. La
Plante had already spun and dove toward the edge of the
jetty. Bullets savaged the wooden decking all around
him, but the silver-handed man lived a charmed life and
avoided Stealth's retribution. A slug from someone's ri-
fle blasted The Chauffeur to the ground, but he kept
moving and scurried to cover. I couldn't smell blood
because of the cordite filling the air, but I figured him
to be smart enough to be swathed in kevlar the same
as me.
A gillette stood up right in front of me. I could see
from the way he moved and reacted that he'd not seen
me at all and had been angling a shot at one of my com-
patriots. I shoved the MP-9's snout into his stomach.
Because of the speed at which I was running, he folded
around it like a knight skewered on a lance, so I kept my
finger off the trigger and sprinted the last three steps to
the woman.
Stealth screamed something at me, but I lost every-
thing except his urgent tone amid the gun-battle's
thunder. I saw flickering movement and light over by
the ship, but I was so intent on the woman, it didn't reg-
ister fully. Even the acrid, oily scent didn't trigger any
emergency alarms in me.
Traveling at roughly Mach 2.086, the bullet smashed
into me between the shoulder blades, just to the right of
my spine. Even though the kevlar of my coat snared the
bullet before it could penetrate my hide, and the trauma
padding absorbed some of the projectile's energy, it still
packed quite a punch. It lifted me off my feet like a leaf
in a cyclone and tossed me forward. My left arm
scooped the woman to my chest as the MP-9 went fly-
ing. A heartbeat later I twisted in the air so my back hit
the boathouse and shielded her from the collision.
Suddenly a dragon's-tongue of fire flickered out
through the space we had occupied before the bullet
gave my feet wings. Without thinking I drew the Viper
and pumped two rounds into the grunge wearing the
flamethrower. The first bullet drilled an ugly hole into
his right thigh, dropping him toward the ground. The
second bullet took him high in the chest, and his dead
body rolled to the foot of the gangplank.
Before the body had expended all of its momentum,
La Plante's visitor appeared at the head of the gang-
plank and gestured toward the wharf area. In a flash of
blinding gold-white fire, a monstrous figure appeared—
a creature utterly out of proportion to the rest of us.
With golden skin and eyes to match, the heavily mus-
cled cat-thing laughed aloud in a hideous voice as a
grunge whirled and emptied his Ingram into it. The bul-
lets ricocheted off in a puff of gold dust, leaving faint
freckles on the creature's chest.
In return for the decoration, the lion wearing a
woman's head playfully swatted the grunge with its
right paw. When the body hit the ground and stopped
rolling, its chest sagged like a broken zeppelin. The tor-
pedoes in La Plante's employ immediately threw their
weapons down and lit out for the marina clubhouse and
parts beyond. I would have joined them except that the
conjured beastie stood between me and that possibility.
Kid Stealth, firmly gripped in his own form of battle
madness, leaped over the crates he'd been using for
cover and attacked the lioness. His leap carried him five
meters into the air and nine forward, with sickle-claws
glittering like stars in the night sky. The Ceska Scorpion
in his left hand sprayed gunfire over the left side of the
human profile, then his claws hit. The metal-on-metal
scream ripped its way through the night, then died as a
feline roar of pain accompanied the gold curlicues
Stealth tore out of the monster's left shoulder.
The creature dropped away from Stealth and rolled
quickly onto its back. Stealth retracted his claws and
jumped free to avoid being caught and crushed beneath
it. In doing so, however, he hung motionless in the air
just long enough for the cat's right paw to bat him out
toward the bay. He arced over the yacht's prow and I
heard a splash, but could not see anything to determine
if he lived or died.
The creature pulled itself into a sitting position. Its
tail swished back and forth, knocking the grunge with
the flamethrower into the water. Despite wearing a
woman's face, it licked at the wounds in its shoulder
like a cat and briefly stemmed the flow of molten,
golden rivulets running down its left foreleg. When I
moved forward to put myself between it and the woman
I'd rescued, its head came up and it hissed at me in a
nasty fashion that had the Old One urging me to give
myself over to his control.
The wizworm who'd conjured up the creature looked
down at me from the ship. "My sphinx seems to have
cleared the battlefield of friends and foes alike, except-
ing yourself, of course." He squinted at me, then a most
evil smile possessed his lips. "Is it possible you are the
Wolfgang Kies mentioned as the person who took the
elf, Moira Alianha, from La Plante?"
I nodded and stood slowly without dropping my pis-
tol. I waved both Zig and Zag back with my left hand—
I knew that with the sphinx between them and the
magemaggot they couldn't get a shot off at him. I also
knew that if the sphinx was powerful enough to kill
Stealth, it would make catnip out of those two, so I
didn't want them shooting it. I smiled as graciously as
the Old One's nattering would allow. "You have me at a
disadvantage."
The little man brought himself to attention and
bowed his head. "I am Hasan al-Thani. I have been sent
to obtain the woman La Plante had for us. Though we
preferred the elf, we will accept the flame-haired
woman with emerald eyes."
Something about Hasan irritated me, much like the
wet sucking sound of a nasty chest wound. In mid-
sentence his lips and words began to move out of synch
and I got the feeling that I was hearing the words more
in my mind than with my ears. I shook my head to clear
it, but between his monologue and the Old One's con-
tinued war-chants, I found it impossible.
I stabbed my left hand into the air and shouted at both
of them. "Hold it! Are you telling me that you want me
to just hand this woman over to you so you can cart her
off somewhere?"
Hasan smiled woodenly. "We do not see that you
have any choice." He gestured toward the sphinx. "If
you do not, we will kill you and take her anyway."
I brought the Viper around and pointed it at the un-
conscious girl. "So if I blow her away, you'll just
leave?"
Hasan's eyes grew wide with shock, then narrowed to
a more thoughtful size. "We do not believe you would
do that. We call your bluff."
I dropped to one knee and triggered the remaining
dozen bullets in the Viper. Spent shells rained over the
wharf like cylindrical hailstones. Hasan ducked back by
the sixth shot, but did not realize until later that he'd not
been the target of my assault.
Stealth's shots, and those fired by the grunge, had
only blown fragments of metal from the sphinx because
they attacked the creature on only one level of its exis-
tence. They hit the shell it wore when summoned to the
material plane. While they could damage it or even
cripple it, they couldn't kill the creature itself. Even the
rents Stealth had carved into it with his claws had
started to heal over.
My silver bullets, I was pretty sure, could affect the
monster on the metaphysical plane. Silver has magical
properties that make it perfect for killing all sorts of
things like shapeshifters and vampires. It's been con-
sidered sacred and necessary for countless rituals down
through the ages. As the Viper's slide snapped back for
the final time, I just knew I had to be right.
I wasn't.
Sure, I'd done some damage. The sphinx had recoiled
from my barrage and the silver bullets had indeed hurt
it. I'd centered the shots on the face, and the dozen sil-
ver projectiles had savaged the creature's nose by blow-
ing its tip off. The sphinx's reaction was sluggish and it
appeared to lose its balance at one point, but it recov-
ered before it could pitch over backward into the bay.
Hasan reappeared on the ship's bridge and glared at
me. "You leave us no choice. Kill him."
As the sphinx got up on all four paws and stalked
toward me, I realized where I must have gone wrong.
Shapeshifters and vampires might have some natural
aversion to silver—an allergy to it, if you like. But the
sphinx was neither. It was a summoned spirit, which
meant I needed something else to kill it. Being plumb
out of sphinx leukemia virus, and suddenly regretting
the loss of the flamethrower to the bay, I tried to re-
member if I had life insurance and if whoever I'd
named as beneficiary really deserved the money.
"No matter," I muttered to myself as I tossed the
Viper aside and backed up slowly. "The Mr. Johnsons at
Kyoto-Prudential will figure my tackling this to be sui-
cide." To kill this thing would require attacks on both
the material and metaphysical planes. I toyed with the
idea of letting the Old One have his way with me, but I
knew I'd end up like that grunge and Kid Stealth. It had
to be something magical and physical, but with a crea-
ture this size, it also had to be big.
Really big.
In fact, it had to be as big as the black coyote that ma-
terialized out of the shadows above and around me. For
a half-second I thought the Old One had managed to
manifest outside my body, but his howl of outrage at
being seen in the form of a coyote quickly disabused me
of that notion. The canine beast sheltering me growled
in a low voice, then lunged forward at the sphinx, its
ebon teeth gleaming with the light of the fire the Red-
wings had started.
As the two titans nipped and swatted at each other, I
dove over to where the woman lay. A second or two
later Zig and Zag joined me. Zig grabbed my shoulder.
"Raven's here—he got Stealth's message. He said to get
her out as fast as possible. Says he can't be sure how
long he can hold the sphinx back!"
I lifted the girl into Zag's arms, then gave Zig the ig-
nition sequence for the Fenris. "Get her home or to a
hospital. Go, go—the car's back at the cannery."
Zig hesitated. "Raven said to get you out of here, too.
He said there's something very wrong here."
"He's got that right. Go on. I'll catch up with you
later." I massaged my left leg for a second, and I saw
them both shudder as they recalled the last time I'd sent
them away.
The pair of street samurai vanished into the shadows
and I turned back to find Raven. With the Old One's
help—he let me see Raven through his eyes—I spotted
the Doctor up on top of one of the crates near the first
boat house. Wreathed in the golden nimbus of a defen-
sive spell, he looked magnificent. Incredibly tall, even
for an elf, he looked very much a human because of his
powerful build. His coppery skin and high cheekbones
bespoke the Amerind heritage he was likewise heir to,
and the sea breezes lifted his long black hair back from
his well-muscled shoulders. Fists thrust into the air so
he could channel more energy into the coyote he had
created, he looked every bit a god.
Opposite him, now standing on the yacht's bridge,
Hasan came into view. The Old One showed me a pur-
ple glow surrounding Hasan. Sweat beaded up on the
mage's forehead and pasted his black hair against his
pate. He also held his fists aloft, but I noted a tremble in
his limbs that I had not seen in Raven. Hasan, powerful
though he might be, was not Raven's equal in skill or
magical energy. The battle would not last long.
The sphinx jumped back on its hind feet and slashed
with a paw at the shadow coyote. The golden claws
sliced through the canine's snout like sunlight streaking
through boarded-up windows, but the wounds sealed
themselves quickly enough. The coyote responded by
lunging in and catching the sphinx by the throat. The at-
tack bowled the feline over, but it managed to twist free,
leaving the coyote's black teeth stained with gold.
A new surge of magical energy swept forward from
the ship, making my hands and feet tingle as if I'd
stepped on a live wire. The sphinx's wounds healed
over immediately, then the creature became half again
larger. I shot a glance at Hasan, but instead of seeing a
man crippled by the effort, he looked as if he'd been re-
juvenated in the process. The purple glow now stained
the ship's bridge and forecastle and Hasan stood invin-
cible within its cocoon.
Raven's limbs quaked with the strain of sustaining
the coyote. The defensive spell around him shimmered,
then died because of the lack of energy to maintain it.
Raven's lips peeled back from his white teeth in an an-
gry snarl as he redoubled his effort. The tremors in his
limbs ceased, but the pain on his face told me he would
not last for long.
I have to do something. I'd tossed down the Viper, so
now I looked around for any other weapon I could find.
I spotted and scooped up my MP-9 and cocked it.
Recalling the special loads Stealth had made, I drew
a bead on Hasan. Maybe the silver will get the bullets
through the spell, eventually, then the mercury loads
will do him. Something for magic, and something for
flesh.
It hit me like a virus wasting a database. I shifted aim
and squeezed the trigger. As soon as I burned that clip, I
jammed another home and let it rip. Something for
magic, perhaps, and definitely something for flesh, es-
pecially if it's gold flesh! Poor pussycat.
The mercury loads in the silver bullets bonded in-
stantly with the gold of the sphinx's flesh. The silver
bullets themselves did a great job gnawing into the
beastie. The result manifested itself in a bizarre display
of feline leprosy. Silvery gobbets of demon-cat splashed
to the wharf. The beast whirled to snarl at me and I let a
burst go that ate away half its lower jaw.
The coyote hit it hard on the left flank. The sphinx
twisted back, but its hind right leg gave along a line I'd
scored with several shots, crashing the beast down on
the docks. I directed a stream of fire at its spine, bur-
rowing in just at the base of its neck, while the coyote
distracted it with lunges and feints. Once my fire sev-
ered its spine, the creature lay still for a moment, then
evaporated into a mist.
I ran over to Raven as the coyote likewise disinte-
grated. Raven had slumped to his knees on the crate and
held himself up from total collapse on his hands. His
chest heaved and the black curtain of his hair hid his
face from me. Sweat glistened on his arms and shoul-
ders and I saw droplets stain the wooden crate.
I reached over and squeezed his left shoulder in con-
gratulations. "We got him, Doc. We got his monster."
Raven shook his head and looked down at me. "He's
not defeated yet." He pointed back at the yacht, purple
highlights being etched onto his face by the glow still
surrounding Hasan. "He's getting an energy boost from
the ship. It's an ally spirit of incredible power and it's
using him as a conduit. Whatever summoned it must
have been unbelievable."
The same voice I'd heard Hasan use before now burst
into my brain without the sham of having the man's lips
move. "It is true, Richard Raven. What summoned me
was beyond your mortal ken to understand. You have
interfered with the mission given me by my master, and
now you must pay! But first, you will see this one of
your friends die because I relish the pain it will cause
you!"
I felt magical force begin to gather around me, then
tighten like a chain wrapped around my chest. It
crushed in from all sides and I wanted to scream, but I
could get no air from my lungs. I wanted to beg Raven
to destroy the ship, but I realized that was impossible.
How do you kill a thirty-meter-long ally spirit?
The burning agony drove me to my knees. The Old
One howled in pain and fought to win my release, but
even it was helpless against the power that held and
crushed me. Sparks began to float before my eyes, then
great shimmering balls of light sizzled across my field
of vision.
I knew the end had come.
I felt certain the explosion I heard was my heart
bursting, and the sudden cessation of pain only meant
I'd died. I could smell death in the air and I recall
having been disappointed that it did not smell differ-
ently when it came for me. I waited for the blackness to
steal my sight, but it did not. In fact, the light grew
brighter and I laughed that death was not so dark and
grim after all.
Then I realized I'd heard myself laugh.
That meant I wasn't dead.
I scrambled to my feet just in time to have a second,
larger explosion blast me back into the boathouse wall.
Whereas the first explosion had only torn a small hole
at the base of the ship's superstructure, the greater blast
punched fire out through all the portholes below the
main deck and pulsed a flaming corona out over the
deck itself. Then the whole superstructure lurched to
port and dropped down a deck level. The ship listed
to port and started to take on great floods of water.
High on the superstructure the purple glow imploded.
A column of fire whirled up into the air and Hasan com-
busted instantaneously. I saw his skeleton outlined in
black against the golden fire, then it too vanished.
The ship screamed, then sank from sight in a steam-
ing caldron of bubbles.
By the time Raven helped me to my feet and we then
picked our way through flaming debris to the edge of
the wharf, Stealth had managed to awkwardly haul him-
self up out of the water. His left arm hung limply from
his shoulder and showed where most of the working
parts had been crushed when the sphinx had batted him
out of the air. Water poured from the arm compartments
where he carried plastic explosives, and his talons
gouged their way into the decking to steady him.
Raven and I exchanged smiles while Stealth turned
and nodded grimly at the burning ally spirit. "Under-
water I could see no props or jet nozzles—the ship had
no natural way to move. I figured that made it very
special, therefore I resolved to destroy it. Then a grunge
corpse strapped to a flamethrower drifted down from
the surface, so I improvised a bomb. Not much can
stand up to napalm and Semtek."
His mention of the flamethrower brought my earlier
encounter with it back to mind in full sizzling detail. I
shifted my shoulders around to ease the soreness in my
back. "By the way, that was pretty tricky shooting you
did when that grunge popped up with the torch gun."
Stealth nodded solemnly. "He was half hidden so I
couldn't go for a head shot. A body shot would have rup-
tured the tank, and that would have roasted you alive."
He shuddered and glanced at his tattered left arm.
"Burning to death isn't something I'd wish on anyone."
I turned to Raven. "You should have seen it. He
nailed me in the back and knocked me forward into the
woman I was trying to save. That blasted us out of the
way of the flamethrower." I looked back at Stealth. "It's
a good thing you remembered I was wearing kevlar."
The look of surprise on his face took a second or two
to die. I felt a chill pass between us, but it drained away
as Kid Stealth punched me lightly in the shoulder and
gave me a genuine smile. "Yeah, I'm glad I remem-
bered, too . . ."
Digital Grace
I
Given that I didn't know where I was when I woke up, I
figured still having my clothes on was a plus. I mean I
can remember similar incidents when I thought other-
wise, but I hadn't been tied up in those situations. I also
didn't have a kid sitting on the end of the bed pointing a
pistol with a bowling-ball bore at me.
"Kyrie, he's awake." The little albino showed me his
teeth in a feral grin and held the heavy revolver with
pale, unwavering hands. "Do anything, Kies, and the last
thing going through your mind will be a bullet."
Great, I thought, I'm being held by some psycho punk
who's been downloading intimidation lessons from Kid
Stealth. "No problem, ace."
I took a moment or two to assess my situation. Be-
cause of the thick blue and red Amerind blanket drawn
up to my neck, I couldn't see my hands, but it felt like
the kid had used hawser to bind my wrists together. The
cable had been knotted tight, but my hands weren't tied
behind my back. Whatever spark of hope that little gift
inspired died in the railroad tunnel at the end of the gun
barrel staring at me.
The old, metal-frame bed had been painted enough
times for me to see a rainbow of colors where chips cut
through to bare metal. Off to my left, just on the far side of
the doorway, I saw a table and two chairs. My leather jacket
hung over the back of one of the chairs and my shoulder
holster, complete with pistol, lay on the table itself. The
room, from the cobwebs in the corners to the cracks in the
plaster, had seen better days, but it was still habitable. The
bedding looked fairly clean, but the scent told me it had
been a week or two since it had been washed.
Using my elbows and heels, I slowly pushed myself
back and up into a sitting position. I clamped down on
the blanket with my chin, pulling it up with me. Bend-
ing my knees and digging my heels in, I popped the
blanket up into a little tent and watched the albino over
the artificial horizon stretched between my knees.
"So, tell me, do you have a 'Preferred Guest Rate' or am
I being soaked for full fare during my impromptu stay?"
The albino's pink eyes watched me without blinking.
His white hair had been shaved into a mohawk and stiff-
ened with glue into a bristle of porcupine quills. Aside
from the reddish cast to his eyes, the only color on him
came from the dirt beneath his fingernails and the little
creases at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. His jaw
showed white wisps of beard-to-come. His Maria Mer-
curial t-shirt and synthetic pants matched the dingy gray
walls in hue.
Before he could answer, or pull the trigger, a second
person entered the room. She was a pretty little elf, if a
tad on the lean side. She had fire in her dark eyes, though
she seemed to take care to hide it when she looked at the
albino. She wore her black hair very short in a boyish
cut. That, and her slender figure made it easily possible
for her to pass as a young man—a wise thing to do if, as
was my guess, we were in the Barrens and this was where
they lived. She wore mostly synthleather—standard for
the sprawl—though hers was of browns and tans that
would have seemed more appropriate out in the Tir.
"How are you feeling?" Kyrie leaned on the foot of
the bed as she asked the question. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head casually. "Tongue feels thick. I
could use some water."
She turned to leave, but the gunboy snarled at her.
"Overruled. You'll get water when I say you get water."
"Albion, he's not an enemy."
"He's not a guest either, Kyrie. He's a hostage." Albion
locked his serpent-stare on me again. "You're Wolfgang
Kies, right?"
My eyes narrowed. "Cut to the chase."
"My game, my rules, my speed."
"Okay, if that's the way it is. Yes, I'm Wolfgang Kies."
I pulled my head up and back, pressing it against the wall
behind me. "Next?"
"You work for Dr. Richard Raven, right?"
That question, combined with calling me a hostage
earlier, started alarm bells going off in my head. I knew
that Etienne La Plante, a big Seattle crime boss, had a
standing reward for the delivery of Raven's head in a
sack. I didn't think these kids were setting a trap for
Raven with me as bait, but anything was possible in the
sprawl. As desperation finds plenty of prey in the Bar-
rens, that might be exactly what was happening.
"Yeah, I work for Raven."
Immediately Kyrie's expression brightened. Albion
remained stone-faced, but tipped the pistol up toward
the ceiling. Some of my anxiety drained off as the pistol
ceased its violation of my personal space, but I knew
lots more was going on than I could read.
Two more kids entered the room, and the second I
laid eyes on the smallest of them, how I got involved in
this mess came flooding back with a clarity that caused
me to blush. I'd just come out of Kell's over between
First and Second, down by the Market. I'd been drink-
ing a bit, but not much because I was more interested in
watching the Seadogs1 in their fight for the pennant
than I was in getting drunk. Jimmy Mackelroy salted
1 The Seattle franchise for major league baseball is officially still called
the Mariners, but pretty much everyone who isn't under contract to them
calls them the Seadogs. About ten, fifteen years ago they had a really bad
streak—stats just weren't clicking the way they should, so everyone started
calling the team the Dogs. Then this guy—an ork related somehow to
Plutarch Graogrim, another of Doc's chummers—gets this idea about
turning out Seattle Seadogs merchandise, including caps and shirts, and
all with a great pirate-hound logo. Everybody started getting into the
the game away with a three-run homer in the ninth, so I
left and headed out toward Stewart to get my Fenris.
I should have known better, but in the alley between
Kell's and the Gravity Bar I heard someone crying. I
pulled my Beretta Viper 142 and thumbed the safety off,
then glanced around the corner of the alley. Aside from
two rats perched on the rim of a dumpster and the usual
accumulation of trash, I saw nothing out of the ordinary
except a tiny humanoid form.
Its head came up and revealed the most cherubic little
face I'd ever laid eyes on. Because of the multiple layers of
clothing swathing the child I couldn't tell if it was a boy or
girl. It took one bold step toward me with its left foot, then
hesitated and let its right leg drag shyly in behind the left.
With the length of cuff overhanging its right hand, the child
swiped at the tears on its grimy face, then smiled at me.
"Ah you Wolfgang Kies?" it asked in an innocent,
mush-mouth voice.
I slipped my Viper back into the shoulder holster I
wore under my leather jacket. "Yes." I stepped into the
alley and approached the child.
"And do you wook for Docto Waven?" it followed up
in a voice rising with expectation.
I dropped to one knee and held out my left hand.
"Yes. Are you lost?"
It smiled as agelessly as a Buddha. "No." It held its
hands out to me. As it did so, a mist sprayed out from its
left sleeve, while the little figure clapped its right sleeve
over its own nose and mouth.
The neurotoxin stung my eyes, but before I could
even think of running, I'd pulled enough in through my
open mouth to drop me on my tail. I coughed weakly,
whole charade, with a local radio station even doing play-by-play of fan-
tasy dog-day games. The Mariners tried to sue, but when fans stopped
coming to games in protest, the suit was dropped and the Seadog name
has been a thorn in their sides ever since, even though the team has gotten
good.
2 I hasten to note that even some newer, wizzer gun wouldn't have kept
me out of this situation.
then lay back. As consciousness drained from me, I re-
member praying one thing over and over: "Please, God,
if I have to die, don't let Stealth find out how I got it."
That same little boy now disengaged his hand from
that of the fourth member of the youth assembly and
approached the head of the bed. "Ah you okay?"
The hurt and fear in his small voice prompted an in-
stant smile of reassurance on my part. "I'm fine."
The albino looked over at the other girl in the room.
"Sine, get Cooper away from him. You're supposed to
be watching out front."
The blond flipped her long hair back from one shoul-
der with a contemptuous toss of her head. "Load up
Reality 1.0, chummer. These are the Barrens. There's
nothing out there and no one will find us here. No one
but that damned preacherman." Still, despite her defi-
ance, she held her hand out to the little boy, and Cooper
took it. His other hand came up to his face and his
thumb disappeared within his mouth.
"Okay, chummers, what's the scan?" I put a nasty
face on and centered my attention on Kyrie. "You
tagged me good and you've got me here. You want
something, that's obvious, or I'd have woken up dead.
Slot and run. I've got places to go and people to see."
"You're going nowhere, Kies." Albion began to get
antsy with the gun again. "We want Raven to do a job
for us."
I shook my head. "Is that all? A job? Fine, let me call
him."
"Nope." Albion dropped the gun toward me and
sighted a pink eye down the barrel. "He won't do it on
your say-so. He's legal—he's got a System Identifica-
tion Number. We don't trust anyone with a SIN. The
only way Raven will work for us is if your life is on the
line."
"That six-shooter has more bullets than you've got
brain cells." I looked over at Kyrie. "You're an elf. You
could have gotten word to Raven through the Tir and
he'd have helped. You must have thought of that."
"Overruled," snarled Albion.
I felt my anger rising and along with it came the howl
of a wolf in the back of my mind. "Overruled, Albion,
because that was a bad idea or because you couldn't
control the situation then?"
"Overruled because we don't trust anyone legal." He
opened his arms wide. "We're a family. We do for each
other and can trust each other because we're all alike.
You SIN and all sorts of laws start kicking in. Folks get
worried about covering themselves in legalities. Not us.
We just want to be left alone, and that's what we want
Raven to get for us."
"Okay, if that's what you want." I snorted a little
laugh. "I think you're making a mistake, however. I
think Doc would prefer working with folks who sought
his help openly, not coerced it."
"My rules, remember?"
"You might want to reconsider." I pulled my hands
from beneath the blanket and shook the frayed hawser
from them. "I think he'd frown on having me tied up,
too." Looking past Kyrie and Sine, I smiled. "Isn't that
true, Doc?"
The kids spun toward the doorway faster than a
pedestrian hit by a Porsche Mako going full open. Al-
bion's jaw hit the floor, followed a second later by his
pistol. Kyrie leaned back against the bed's frame. Sine
sat down hard in the chair with my jacket on it, while
Cooper just stared wide-eyed and continued to suck his
thumb.
Doctor Richard Raven more than filled the doorway.
Tall, even for an elf, his head towered above the top of
the door. His broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow
waist, slender hips, and powerful legs in a build more
typical of humans than elves. His coppery skin, high
cheekbones, and long black hair bespoke some Amerind
blood, though his white shirt and khaki canvas slacks
were the latest in corp casual.
Somehow, though, his size and mixed Amerind/elven
racial characteristics were not what surprised them.
His eyes held their attention. Red and blue ribbons of
color wove through their black depths in an aurora-like
display. Half terrifying and one hundred percent fas-
cinating, his gaze swept over them, then he nodded
solemnly.
"I thank you for finding and taking care of my friend.
When the emergency locator beacon built into his belt
buckle went off, I became understandably concerned."
I kicked the blanket off and brushed the remnants of
the rope from the sharpened edge of the buckle. "Did
that thing get activated again?" I shrugged. "Just as
well, I suppose, Doc, because these kids want to hire
you to do a job for them."
Raven smiled easily as I crawled out of bed and
slipped my holster back on. He looked at Albion. "How
is it that I can repay your kindness to Wolf ?"
Albion swallowed hard, bringing a little joy to my
heart. "You know Reverend Dr. Lawrence Roberts?"
I tugged my jacket out from under Sine and recalled
her earlier remark. "The television preacher?"
Albion nodded. "The same." He looked around,
silently polling Kyrie and Sine. They gave him nods.
"We want you to kill him."
II
As I headed my Fenris sports coupe out from the
garage beneath Raven's headquarters I found myself
silently agreeing with Kyrie's final comment about
Reverend Roberts—it didn't make any sense. What the
kids had told us defied logic in the way only insanity or
divine inspiration can possibly manage. Had control of
my life suddenly been threatened that abruptly and radi-
cally, I'd have wanted the man dead, too.
Reverend Lawrence Roberts, Doctor of Divinity by
some ROM-staffed diploma mill, had decided to make
that band of kids his own little project. He wanted to re-
deem their lives. Not only did he intend to baptize them
into his particular sect of Christianity, but he wanted to
get them System Identification Numbers and bring them
back into the mainstream of society. He wanted to cre-
ate in them an example of a way Christians could fight
back against Satan's rule on the earth.
Raven had Tom Electric run a sample of one of
Roberts' services by me. It was part of a simsense chip
package that Roberts' ministry offered. Being a male in
my twenties, I got version 20M. The simsense would
feed back the emotions of a person recorded observing
the service, so matching me with the appropriate ver-
sion was vital for me to get the full impact of the good
Doctor's presentation. I pulled a trode rig over my head
and started it running. As the static wall thinned and
evaporated and the simsense began to roll, the Old One
growled in disgust.
The preacher oozed charisma from the top of his thin,
blond hair to the Italian leather loafers on his feet.
Clutching a battered Bible, he looked out from his
lectern like a prisoner about to confess before a jury.
One amid thousands, I felt my heart begin to pound
with anticipation.
"Yes, my friends, the things you have heard about me
are true." Reverend Roberts began in low, embarrassed
tones, but I sensed he was in control of the whole situa-
tion at all times. "Fifteen years ago I was nothing but a
conman, and one of the most vile stripe. My partner and
I used to read the newsfax to see who had died, then
we'd print up a customized edition of a Bible. It would
be inscribed from the deceased to whoever his closest
survivor happened to be." He showed us his well-used
book. "This was the last of the Bibles we ever created.
"We knew no shame. We'd go to the bereaved and
ask for the deceased. When we were informed of the
death, we would act embarrassed and eventually con-
fess that the deceased had special-ordered the Bible. He
had paid only twenty nuyen of the one-hundred nuyen it
cost, and had gotten it specially for the person to whom
we were speaking. We would say we were sorry for
bothering them in their grief and then turn to leave."
Roberts' eyes flashed down at the ground as a blush
rose to his cheeks. He stared at one of the many carna-
tion bouquets surrounding him. "Of course, the be-
reaved would stop us and give us the eighty nuyen
remaining on the book. We would hand it over, having
earned an easy seventy-five nuyen profit. It was an easy
life, for anyone would pay gladly for that last piece of
their departed loved one, and we talked ourselves into
believing that we were really offering them another
chance to say good-bye—manufacturing memories the
people so dearly hungered after."
Roberts' brought his head up and steel entered his
spine. I knew, aided by the digitized emotional feed
coursing in through the trodes, that Roberts had some-
how been motivated away from this evil path. He
smiled and confirmed my belief.
"Then, one night, my partner and I were heading out
for what would be our last attempt. God and the Devil
came to us, and each showed us a vision of what we
would reap in the afterlife. My partner held his hand out
to the Devil and was taken to hell right then and there. I
looked upon the face of God and chose the path of light.
Praise Jesus, I was saved!"
Thunderous applause washed over me and I found
myself mouthing the word "Alleluia!" I pulled the
trodes off in disgust and let the Old One's growl rumble
from my throat. Raven looked over at me and smiled.
"What do you think, Wolf?"
I patted my Beretta Viper. "I've got a love offering
for the good Reverend, right here."
Raven decided that might be a bit extreme as our first
effort at contact. He gave me the address for Roberts'
ministry headquarters. I changed into a corduroy suit
jacket, button-down shirt, and tie before I headed out,
deferring to Raven's sense of decorum, not mine. The
clothes hid my silver wolf's-head pendant and my Viper,
but I didn't so much mind that. When entering the lion's
den, it's best to dress like a lion.
III
Roberts' personal secretary was pretty enough that I
would have considered converting were she willing to
do some missionary work with me. She flashed me a
smile as I came up the stairs to the third-floor foyer, but
she kept getting distracted by the big goomer seated on
the edge of her desk. He was clearly intent on minister-
ing to her, but she looked like she wanted him exorcised
faster than you could say "Amen."
I cleared my throat and quickscanned her nameplate.
"Evening, Miss Crandall. I'm Wolfgang Kies. I called
ahead for an appointment with Dr. Roberts."
The big man moved off the desk as she positively
glowed at me. "Yes, Mr. Kies. Six forty-five and you're
exactly on time." Her smile carried right on up into her
blue eyes and clearly irked the other man.
"Do I get points for punctuality?"
"With me you do, Mr. Kies." She looked up at the
man. "Brother Boniface will take you to Dr. Roberts."
Boniface looked like an ape that had been given one
of those all-over bikini waxes or a troll that had been
cold-hammered into a smaller shape. Either way, he did
not look happy to be in a suit and sent on a mission that
would take him away from the charming Miss Crandall.
As a result of his discomfort, somewhere inside his tiny
skull one electron collided with another and all of a sud-
den he had a thought. It was too much for him to con-
tain and he made his move to frisk me.
The Viper's barrel made a thunk as I drew it in one
smooth motion and poked a Mark of Cain in the center
of Brother Boniface's forehead. He retreated a step and
raised both hands to cover the bruise. "Ask and ye shall
receive, Boniface. Presume and I'll make a martyr out
of you."
I let the gun slip forward and hang from my index
finger by the trigger guard. Boniface made a grab for it,
but I ducked it under his hand and slid it onto Miss
Crandall's desk. "Keep it warm for me."
"My pleasure," she cooed. The gun slipped from
sight beneath the level of her desk.
Boniface slunk forward and led me down a short
hallway to Roberts' office. He only opened one of the
two oak doors, but it was double-wide anyway and pro-
vided a stunning panorama as I entered. I didn't feel
slighted only getting the single-door treatment because
I got the distinct impression that even if Jesus returned
for an encore he wouldn't get a two-door salute.
The very first thing I noticed in the room was the ex-
pensive wooden paneling on the walls, and the stunning
number of leather-bound books lining the bookshelves.
Reverend Roberts had laid out significant nuyen to
splash old-world respectability around his office. The
west wall was made entirely of glass, with a view of the
Sound that impressed even the Old One. Shown a pic-
ture of this place and asked to choose whether it be-
longed to some highly placed corpgeek or a preacher
constantly crying poormouth, I'd have been wrong even
with two free guesses.
It took me about two seconds to scan the place and
get the Old One's howl to vet my opinion. By that time,
the unearthly scent of hundreds of carnations assaulted
my nose. Save for the top of Boniface's head, every flat
surface in the room boasted a vase jammed with carna-
tions of various colors. I recalled the riot of flora sur-
rounding the Reverend on the simchip, but 3-D reality
was another order of magnitude above even that.
The gaudiest of the carnations resided in the button-
hole of Roberts' lapel. Standing behind his desk, he nod-
ded to me and extended his hand. "Welcome, Mr. Kies."
I accepted his hand and found his grip disturbingly
firm. I normally judge a man by how he shakes hands,
but Roberts' grip felt too right and practiced. The dif-
ference might have been subtle, and I could have put it
down to my general dislike of him, but I got the feeling
he was playing at being a regular guy.
"I thank you for agreeing to see me on such short no-
tice." I dropped myself into the chair in front of his
desk. Boniface drifted over to stand right behind me,
but I chose to ignore him. "I apologize for any inconve-
nience to a man with your busy schedule."
Roberts nodded and gave me a reassuring smile.
"How could I refuse to see you when the message said
you were interested in those children in the Barrens?"
His smile grew and his hands spread wide apart. "Of
course, I've heard of your Dr. Raven. Though I've never
had occasion to use the services of an individual in your
trade, what I have heard about Dr. Raven's been very
encouraging. The respect in which he is held by some of
the lower classes will help ease concerns about possible
sinister motives on my part. I must admit, however, I
had not expected Raven to join forces with me in this
matter."
I leaned back in the padded leather chair. "I hate to
burst your bubble, Reverend Roberts, but I'm not here
to offer Raven's help concerning the children. As you
know, homeless children in the Barrens are legion, and
most would welcome your aid. These kids don't want it.
We want you to leave them alone."
His head came up and a bit of light reflected from his
scalp despite the thinly sown rows of blond hair trans-
plants. "Leave them alone? How can I do that, Mr.
Kies?" His wounded tone began to parallel the tape's
parable preamble, but I could do nothing to deflect him.
"Those children need help and I hardly think they're in
a position to determine what's best for them. They need
good food and schooling and direction. They cannot be
allowed to waste away in the dung-heap of society. We
must take them into our fold to encourage others to do
the same with similar tragic cases."
"Dr. Raven agrees with you in that regard, Rever-
end." I held a hand up, sending a quiver through Boni-
face. "He's already running full background checks on
all the children in that house, using resources you don't
command. He will find out who they really are and will
get them help. We can get them protection in the Bar-
rens and we can ensure they receive the aid necessary
for them to rise above their beginnings."
"Can you, Mr. Kies? Can you expect me to back
off when what you suggest is making them fit fish for
that small pond, whereas I will take them away from
the Barrens and make them productive members of
society?"
I didn't like the reproving tone of his question. "The
people of the Barrens are capable of taking care of
themselves. Betty Beggings and others work to form
meta-family groups and to give people a solid base from
which to operate."
Roberts smiled like a shark. "But they do not have
the resources at my command." He stood and indicated
the opulence of his office. "They can command tribute
from others in the Barrens, dividing and subdividing a
very small pie into yet tinier morsels. I, on the other
hand, solicit money from the rich and well-to-do in this
society. I get in single contributions more nuyen than
Betty Beggings and all her ilk see in a lifetime. I can do
for these children what no one else can."
"But you do it at the cost of their freedom. They
don't want your help."
Roberts batted my objection aside contemptuously.
"They are without proper documentation. They don't
know what they want. The law says they must have
custodianship, and I have decided to be their benefactor.
In following my example, other members of my flock
will adopt other children from the Barrens and we will
rebuild this society."
My eyes slowly shifted from green to silver as my
anger rose. "You will remake these children in your
image?"
The good Reverend ignored my question as he
walked toward the wall of windows in his office. He
stood with his back to me, the dying sun making him a
silhouette outlined by a red corona. The shadow nar-
rowed, then expanded again as he turned to face me.
"Do you believe in God, Mr. Kies?"
"I fail to see what that has to do with the matter at
hand."
"I'm sure you do, and I will accept that as a 'No,' for
the sake of what I am about to say. You see, I do believe
in God. I believe in a merciful and forgiving God, but a
God who demands his people work for their salvation.
Once upon a time I was like those children—wild,
abandoned, and angry at society. Then God gave me a
choice: Eternal Damnation or life with him forever. For
the first time I looked beyond my next meal and chose a
course for my life."
The silhouette hung its head wearily. "My choice is
not without its price. My God demands I do all I can to
help lead others to him. The Kingdom of Satan started
its millennial domination of the Earth in 2011—the first
dragon was seen in Japan to herald this change. All this
magic is merely Satan's will made manifest. It is my
duty and my calling to do all I can to bring Satan's reign
to an end, and I will do it."
The strength in his voice spoke to me of a fanatical
devotion to what he saw as his divine calling, but some-
where, deep down, I sensed I was being conned. "I
don't think we have anything more to discuss, Reverend
Roberts." I started to rise from my chair, but two heavy
hands jammed me back down into it.
"You don't go until Reverend Roberts says you
can go."
Deep inside, in the lightless cavern where the Wolf
spirit dwells within me, the Old One howled bloody
murder. Insistently he demanded I let him have control.
He promised to reshape me into an engine of primal
fury. I will show them a justice and righteousness that
predates their tree-hung godling by eons!
I forced myself to be calm, but I let some of the Old
One's anger enter my voice. "Larry, do you practice
faith healing?"
Roberts stiffened at the tone of my words, then nod-
ded. "I do."
"Good. Brother Boniface has three seconds to stop
this laying-on of hands, or he'll need all the healing you
can give him."
The Brother's hands tightened.
"Two."
Roberts waved Boniface back and the pressure eased.
The Reverend returned to his desk and seated himself.
"Brother Boniface can be overzealous, but that might
be said of all my Warriors for Christ." Though he smiled
benignly, the implied threat was not lost on me.
I stood slowly and straightened my jacket as Boni-
face retreated and opened the door. "You may not be-
lieve this, Larry, but I actually do respect those who
listen to the message from the Prince of Peace. I think,
however, that the words you're hearing are a bit gar-
bled. Let me make this very clear: leave those children
alone."
Roberts smiled and laid his right hand on the Bible
I'd seen him thump in the tape. "I understand your
words, Mr. Kies, but I cannot be deflected from my
course. On this very Bible I swore I would help them. I
cannot go back on my word."
I snatched the Bible from beneath his hand and saw
him blanch as I started to flick the pages open. I saw
that the liner sheet backing the cover had popped free.
Amid the glue stains I glimpsed a curious collection of
strange symbols, but they were as much gibberish as the
Greek passages on the facing pages of the book. The
flyleaf had been inscribed, "To my darling Tina, I will
love you for eternity. Andrew Cole," but that made even
less sense than the other cryptic stuff.
He made a grab for it, but I held it back, frustrating
his effort. My stare met his and he flinched. "Consider
this a reading from the Second Book of Revelations:
And the Wolf saith unto the Preacherman, if you want
Apocalypse, stay your course."
I tossed the Bible onto the blotter and plucked a car-
nation from the vase on his desk. Stuffing it into the
buttonhole on my jacket, I turned on my heel and left
him scrambling to clutch the Bible to his chest. I headed
straight for the door, but Boniface grabbed me and spun
me around to face him before I could leave the office.
"This is not over between us." Though his back was
to the window, the solar effect did nothing but make
him a big-eared shadow. The threat in his voice made
him into big-eared shadow clown.
I nodded slowly and carefully, letting the Old One fill
me with the strength and speed I'd need. "You have a
point there, Boniface. What do say we take it outside?"
His smile widened his cheeks enough to nearly
eclipse his ears. "Yeah, outside."
My hands shot up into his armpits and boosted him
back toward the window before he could so much as
yelp with surprise. The glass shattered in halo fashion
starting with the area around his head, then fragmented
into a million pieces. The glittering glass shower rained
down as Boniface disappeared from view. A second
later a vase of carnations I'd pulled from a table near
the door followed him to the street.
I wiped my hands off on the drapes. "Sorry about ru-
ining the view. Good day."
Outside, after I'd shut the door behind me, I noticed
Miss Crandall was having a hard time keeping a smile
from her lips. She slid my gun across the desk to me.
"Much obliged."
Her blue eyes sparkled. "My pleasure, Mr. Kies. God
be with you."
"Thank you, Miss Crandall. I'm sure one of them is."
IV
I got back into my Fenris and punched in the ignition
code. The scream of an ambulance siren started the Old
One howling triumphantly in my head. I pulled away
from the curb and got off the road before the Doc
Wagon careened around the corner, lights blazing. It
headed for the alley into which Boniface had plunged
while I started down Fifth Avenue.
The meeting with Roberts left me angry and not a lit-
tle puzzled. I had hoped that explaining to him that the
kids didn't want his help and assuring him they would
be taken care of would be enough to deflect him. Raven
had dealt with other "do-gooders" in that manner, and
they were usually content to let shadowfolk take care of
their own.
I had believed I could accomplish my mission until
Roberts asked the stopper question: "Do you believe in
God?" I'd known other preachers and found them all
quite capable of rational thought and logical analysis of
a problem. Like Roberts, however, when a discussion
took them into a realm where they had no expertise or
facts to bolster their argument, they resorted to the di-
vine shield. For them, and for him, the ultimate refuge
boils down to this: "We might not understand it, but it is
part of God's plan and we must do what we can to em-
power it or Satan will win."
I was willing to grant Roberts his supposition that Sa-
tan had taken over the Earth in 2011, when magic made
its return to the world. At the risk of being seen as a
heretic, I also acknowledged that the reemergence of
magic in the world had done virtually nothing to change
the lot in life for most folks. Yes, the few lucky ones
who could wield magic were able to turn that talent into
a career, but it did nothing for those who were magic-
blind. Giant corps still controlled the economy, and
most of them controlled cadres of spellgrubs as well.
I recognized that my mental discussion was doing
several undesirable things. First, I had half a mind to
turn around and defoliate Roberts' boutonniere with
9mm weed-killer. I realized that particular half of my
mind had been taken over by the Old One, so I tucked
the Homicide Hound back into his little box. I also saw
that I was heading south toward the Barrens and I knew
I'd not feel good unless I was sure the kids were safe.
While Roberts seemed very earnest and directed in his
Christianity, the theatrical bits layered on top of it still
made me uneasy.
More than any of that, though, it dawned on me that I
was hungry. I scanned the street and slid the Fenris into
a parking place just up the block from a Dominion pizza
joint. Even with an armed escort, the place would never
consider delivering to the Barrens, so I went in and or-
dered five pizzas, including two vegetarian specials just
in case Kyrie was not a carnivore.
While waiting for my order I decided to call the of-
fice. Valerie Valkyrie answered and got Raven for me
immediately.
"How did it go, Wolf?"
"I discovered that Roberts' bodyguard can't fly." I
grimaced and chewed on my lower lip for a second.
"Roberts appreciates our concern, but he says he's made
the kids into a centerpiece for a drive to encourage his
flock in helping the disadvantaged. He sounds sincere,
but something deep down inside me doesn't like him,
and I agree."
Raven asked some pointed questions and I reported
the meeting back to him as completely as I could. He
sounded most interested in the Bible, its inscription, and
the sigils, but my momentary glance at them made the
information I gave him fairly useless. I promised I'd try
to duplicate the symbols for him when I returned to
headquarters and told him I was taking some food to
the kids.
"Good idea, Wolf. Valerie has turned up some inter-
esting information on Roberts, but we've yet to find
anything truly sinister. I'll have her working on this
Tina and Andrew Cole. Maybe we'll have something
when you get back here."
"Good. I'll be back early, I think."
I hung up and discovered, to my surprise, that my or-
der was ready. I took the pizzas out to the Fenris and
belted the stack of boxes into the passenger seat. As I
got the car on the road, my stomach growled more
fiercely than the Old One had ever managed.
Kid Stealth would have questioned the wisdom of
bringing my Fenris within a nautical mile of the Bar-
rens, but then he thinks he's traveling in a kiddie-kar
unless the vehicle is armored and has a .50 caliber
machine-gun mounted in a turret on top. I parked right
in front of the crib that had been my temporary home
and set the anti-theft system on "maim." With a stack
of pizzas precariously balanced on my left hand, I used
the other to knock on the door of the ramshackle
townhouse.
Kyrie answered the door and didn't recognize me by
what little of my face showed over the top box. "You've
got the wrong place. We didn't order any pizza."
I lowered the boxes and smiled at her. "Not to worry.
This is Dominion's new service. We drop pizza off and
you pay for what you eat. You're a test market."
She laughed lightly and I saw true happiness in her
face for the first time. "Smile like that more often,
Kyrie, and I think you could convince Dominion this
service is more than worth it."
Her dark eyes glowed with a more mischievous light.
"I'm sure Dominion would just love to give me an en-
dorsement contract. We eat pizza fairly often, and it's
usually theirs." She stepped back away from the door.
"C'mon in before the neighborhood catches a whiff of
that stuff."
Albion met us halfway to the kitchen and I dealt him
a box off the top. Sine splashed a bucket of water over a
soapy collection of plates and glasses in the sink, then
wiped her hands off and took a box from me. With one
broad swipe of the box, she cleared some old paper
plates and styrofoam soyburger cartons from the table
and onto the floor. When that earned her a reproving
glare from Kyrie, her next pass was less swift and more
silent.
Cooper came clumping up the steps from the base-
ment and shut the door behind him. He looked at me
and smiled. I presented him a box with all the ceremony
of Seattle's governor bestowing a citizenship medal on
someone, and his smile broadened to show me all of his
teeth. He scrambled up on a stool beside Sine and pried
his box open.
I handed Kyrie the next to last box, leaving one for
me. "Help yourself. Raven doesn't often cater his jobs,
but when he does, the food is good."
She smiled and looked down timidly. She started to
say something, but Cooper's surprised shout cut her off.
"This isn't pizza!"
"Sure it is, Cooper. I just got it myself from Domin-
ion. Eat it and you'll grow up to be big and strong like
Jimmy Mackelroy."
The little guy shook his head adamantly and jammed
tiny fists against his hips. "Nope, it's not pizza. It doesn't
have pizza stuff on it." He glared at me, his lower lip
thrust out defiantly.
I frowned and looked to Kyrie. "Pizza stuff?"
She blushed. "You don't want to know. We do most
of our food shopping in dumpsters." She set her pizza
down on the kitchen shelf and squatted beside Cooper.
"Listen, Coop, this is special pizza, that's why it
doesn't have pizza stuff on it. You don't have to scrape
it off, see?"
Cooper's eyes flashed warily. "Special?"
Kyrie nodded emphatically. "It's birthday pizza. To-
day is Wolf's birthday and he's sharing his birthday
pizza with us."
Electric excitement lit Cooper's face with neon in-
tensity. "Weally? It's yuwa biwfday?"
I tossed him a wink. "You bet. That's why I have this
flower on. Now eat your pizza so I'll have a good birth-
day, okay?"
" 'Kay."
Kyrie walked back over to me and glanced at my
lapel. "A carnation. You went to see Roberts, didn't
you?"
"Sure did." I started to reach for some pizza, but the
worry in her voice cut my hunger. "I tried to explain to
him that you wanted to be left alone, but I don't think he
got the message. Still, his bodyguard will be recovering
from a test of faith so we might have bought some time.
Don't worry, you'll be fine."
I wanted to reach out and take her in my arms just to
reassure her, but she held herself back and I instantly
knew why. Accepting a hug would have showed weak-
ness, and that she could not allow. Albion styled him-
self the leader of the little band, and probably did
motivate them to get lots of things done, but Kyrie cer-
tainly held the group together on a daily basis. If she
gave him any opening, he would lead the group to ruin
because of his bitterness and anger.
Cooper hopped down off his stool and came over to
take her hand. "Don't wowwy, Kywie. Mista Wolf and
Hawse will protect us. I pwomise." As if that affir-
mation had set all right with the world, he smiled and
returned to smearing more pizza sauce over his face.
In a quiet voice I asked, "Hawse?"
Kyrie licked her lips. "When we scavenge we some-
times have to leave Cooper here all by himself. Harse is
his imaginary friend. He says Harse is guarding the
house and it helps keep Cooper calm, so we don't dis-
courage him. Everybody has imaginary friends when
they're young. He'll outgrow it."
"Or write simsense scripts about it and get rich. Lis-
ten, Raven wants me back at headquarters so we can
figure out what we're doing next. I'll take a look around
the area just to make sure nothing strange is going
down, then I'll take off." I folded one piece of pizza
over on another and saluted the assembly with it.
"Thanks for sharing my birthday pizza, gang. See you
later."
The second I stepped from the slice of multiplex that
housed the kids, I knew something was wrong. The Old
One kept a growl simmering in the back of my mind
and the hackles rose on my neck. The Barrens is, even
at the best of times, a lawless battle zone that makes all
but the irredeemably insane feel insecure. This time,
however, it felt malevolent.
I bit off some pizza and chewed as I started a circuit
around the block. I reached inside and demanded that
the Old One lend me his heightened senses. He did so,
but the garlic in the pizza quickly erased any advantage
the Old One's olfactory abilities might have given me.
Still, his increased night vision did help me pierce shad-
ows, and his hearing made audible everything from rats
scrambling inside walls to lies whispered passionately
in one of the upper-floor apartments across the street.
I definitely heard something out of the ordinary. It
started with the slushy, muffled, sucking sound that a
boot would make when slowly drawn out of mud. Along
with that came the crunch of beer-bottle glass being
ground against stones and a metallic clinking like links
of a chain striking a post. And yet, as clearly as I heard
what I have described, I heard much more as those
sounds played in concert with others.
Above and beyond that I knew two other things. Had
I tried to point those sounds out to anyone without
hypersenses they would have thought me crazy. The
sound had no rhythm or repetition and thereby it
avoided classification. It could have been a figment of
my imagination, but given my other realization, I was
uncomfortable in dismissing it as much.
It was stalking me.
That's not a conclusion I drew without benefit of ex-
perience. I've been stalked by some of the best. Two of
the elven High Lord's Paladins had come after me dur-
ing the Full Moon Slashings. Back before he became
one of us, Kid Stealth had done his best to put my head
on his trophy wall. Each and every time the uneasy feel-
ing coiling in my guts tells me I'm one rung down on
someone's idea of the food chain and I don't like it.
I swallowed and the pizza spiraled into the knot that
had once been my stomach.
I turned toward the place from which the sound was
coming, but I saw nothing huddled in the piles of debris
between two buildings. I tossed the pizza away and
drew my Viper. I hunkered down behind the burned-out
hulk of a Ford Americar and suddenly found an acrid,
bitter odor dissolving the garlic and carnation scents
from my nose. Whoever or whatever was coming after
me had bizarre ideas about personal hygiene.
Waiting behind cover irritated the Old One no end.
Do not slink here like a coward, Longtooth. Let me help
you. I will destroy this thing that hunts us. Leave it
to me.
I shook my head. Though the scent had grown strong
enough to be completely distracting, I concentrated be-
yond it. I heard a different sound: running feet. They
were approaching from my back. I whirled and jammed
my Viper toward the car's rear bumper.
Cooper stopped short and looked at me with eyes full
of innocent hurt. "Mr. Wolf?"
I swallowed hard. "Cooper! What are you doing out
here?"
His smile cracked caked tomato sauce at the corners
of his mouth. He extended a newspaper-wrapped bundle
bound with string. "Biwfday pwesent."
Somehow, as if his words were a magic spell, the sen-
sation of being hunted vanished. I slid the Viper back
into the shoulder holster and accepted the little, pencil-
thin package. I carefully tugged the string off it. "Did
you wrap this yourself?"
He nodded proudly.
"You did a good job, Cooper. Why, what is this?"
As I peeled the paper away, I knew exactly what his
gift was. The slender item was a credstick. They came
in one of two flavors. A personal or account credstick
has a microchip in it that can be encoded to take care of
credits and debits—as convenient as cash and no pro-
blem with arguing about whether a corp's scrip is good
this month or not.
The second type, of which this was one, is a bearer
stick. It has a set amount of credit burned into the chip.
When that is transferred into a banking account or into a
person's credstick, the chip melts. Some corps mass-
produce them for petty funds expenses, but those sticks
are generally of low credit value. The chief benefit of
the bearer stick is that it can be used to transfer large
amounts of funds without their being immediately
traceable. Bearer sticks are small, unmarked bills in a
much handier package.
The bearer stick Cooper gave me had been broken in
half. The break, which rendered it useless, was jagged
so I assumed it was an accident. I fingered both halves
but couldn't make heads or tails of the coloring scheme
on them. I looked up to see an expectant expression on
Cooper's face. "Thank you very much, Cooper."
His voice sank into a whisper. "The othews look fo
the longa ones, so I decided to give you two of the small
ones." He clapped his hands. "You and Hawse will keep
us safe."
I tousled his blond hair. "You got that right. Harse
will have to watch you right now, because I've got to go
talk to Raven. Thanks again for the present."
The little boy beamed, then turned and ran off into
the shadows. I noticed he headed straight for the area
from which I had earlier heard the sounds, but he disap-
peared before I could warn him away. Using the Old
One's ears, I heard him giggle happily and I envisioned
more pizza leftovers peeling off his face.
Hopping into my Fenris, I made a quick circuit of the
area, then left the Barrens to ward their own.
V
The scowl on Valerie's face meant only one of two
things. Either the Seadogs were losing, or she'd not
been very successful in collecting data concerning the
Right Reverend Roberts. "What's the score?"
She shrugged. "Roberts one, me zippo." Her frown
darkened her cafe-au-lait skin, but only intensified the
azure fire in her eyes.
Raven came down the stairs and gave Valerie an en-
couraging smile. "I'd not say that, Val. You've pulled
plenty of data on all the Andrew Coles who've ever
lived in Seattle." He tapped the hardcopy report in his
hands. "This stuff on the kids is very complete. You've
also given us a rundown on Roberts' empire. As soon as
your other search knowbots report back, you'll have
everything you set out to get."
Val shrugged. "I know, but something is wrong with
that report on Roberts. I know it's been tampered with."
"Mycroft?" I asked, naming another wiz decker I
knew.
Valerie wrinkled her pretty nose. "No, if it were My-
croft I'd have to dissect it with a scalpel. For this one I
need a chainsaw. If I had to guess, I'd say it's got a gov-
ernment mask running over a transcription program."
Raven's head came up. "Assuming you're right, how
tough would it be for Roberts to find out the govern-
ment is tapping his accounts to keep track of him?"
"Not that hard." Val half-closed her eyes as she con-
centrated. "Jack could spot it, and maybe the Glass
Tarantula. And maybe a half-dozen other deckers in the
sprawl, but the preacher's network goes all over. He
could have deckers from New York or Dallas checking
his stuff."
Doc nodded thoughtfully. "Wolf, did you learn any-
thing from the children when you went out there?"
I seated myself on the edge of a chair. "No, not really.
Most of the food they eat is scavenged, but I think I
knew that all along the way." I plucked the carnation
from my lapel and tossed it into the trash. "Wait, I did
get something."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out both halves
of the broken credstick. "Cooper gave this to me as a
birthday present."
Raven took the two halves and fitted them together.
Wetting the tip of his finger with his tongue, he washed
away some of the mud and got a clear look at the col-
ored markings on it. He stared at it for a second, then
turned to Val. "Cross-correlate Cole, Andrew with
Kensington Industries." He studied the stick for another
second. "Backdate the search from fifteen years ago to
2005. When you get a match, give me resident data for
the house the kids are squatting in for the month on
either side of Cole's death date. I'll also need a full file
on the house's resident at that time, starting with Lone
Star data."
I managed to pick my jaw up off the ground by the
time Raven looked back at me. "What are you looking
for?"
"I scanned the Cole data earlier and I seem to recall
an Andrew Cole working for Kensington Industries.
The color coding on this credstick is the type they used
for a period between 2005 and 2035, before their mer-
ger with Saeder-Krupp."
I nodded. "Didn't Kensington get into money trouble,
so Saeder-Krupp came in like a white knight before
Beatrice-Revlon could snap them up?"
Raven smiled. "I'm surprised at your knowledge of
Seattle's financial history, Wolf."
I said nothing. I wasn't going to tell him the story
had been the subject of a trid docudrama I'd once seen.
"Home run, Doc!" Valerie's enthusiastic shout saved
me from any chance of Raven testing my command of
mergers and acquisitions among megacorps. "Cole, An-
drew, married to Tina, died 14 March 2034. He worked
in their accounting and disbursement division and was
under suspicion of having embezzled 500,000 nuyen in
bearer credsticks. Tina died just last year, but Kensing-
ton gave her a clean bill because she never spent a dime
that couldn't be accounted for by her income. Insurance
paid Kensington/Saeder-Krupp off after her death."
"And the resident of the house where the kids are?"
"Thomas Harrison lived there from June of 2033 to
March of 2034. The house was reported abandoned af-
ter some food riots in the area. Officials list it as ASC-1,
but no one has filed a claim on it, so it technically re-
mains in the hands of the city. Harrison himself was a
small-time hood and conman." She spun in her chair.
"He has a list of bunko arrests longer than Mackelroy's
hit streak!"
I blinked twice. "Wanna bet Harrison was the un-
named partner the good Rev claims the devil took
away?"
Raven nodded. "They went to work the Bible
scam on Tina Cole after her husband died. She doesn't
buy into it, but confesses to these two obviously
godly men that her husband has been stealing from his
corporation."
"Yeah, Doc, yeah. She's afraid for his soul, so they
offer to return the credsticks to Kensington anony-
mously. That way her husband gets eternal salvation,
and his terrestrial reputation doesn't take any hits ei-
ther. Harrison and Roberts have 500,000 nuyen in cred-
its to split and Harrison skips with them?"
Raven shook his head. "I doubt it. Harrison would
have gone through 500,000 in sixteen years. Given
Roberts' success in that time, I would have to assume
Harrison would return to blackmail his former partner.
I'm certain Harrison is dead and that Roberts killed him
in a rage after Harrison said he'd hidden the loot."
"I don't follow."
Raven folded his arms. "The Bible Roberts uses is
left over from the scam they tried to work on Tina Cole.
I suspect Harrison hid clues to the location of the cred-
sticks in the Bible. The symbols you saw on the cover
liner could well be a code that leads to them. The glue
finally gave way, exposing the secret, and Roberts has
deciphered it."
I frowned heavily. "I've been to his office. What's
500,000 nuyen to this guy?"
"Curve ball, wait, two curves," Val announced as her
computer beeped at her. "To answer your first question,
Wolf, 500,000 nuyen is the cost of getting out of Seattle
and living comfortably. The government has a lock on
all of Roberts' accounts pending an investigation of
fraud on his proposed Jesusville amusement park and
devotion center."
"What else?"
"Second curve. Roberts has filed to take possession
of the house under an ASC-1 action. He found some
judge to give him custodianship of the kids in a phan-
tom hearing, so he's got the Abandoned/Squatter Claim
filed in their names. Lone Star is supposed to be head-
ing out there to help him serve the papers right now."
Raven tucked the credstick pieces into his pocket.
"Val, file an ASC-1 counterclaim on the property." He
tore a sheet from the hardcopy file he'd been reading.
"Use this name if the computer will take it. Otherwise
file it in my name and we'll fight it out later. Wolf, let's
move."
The Fenris left two blackened patches on the floor of
the garage and part of one on every curve we took as we
headed toward the house. I didn't just break speed laws,
I smashed them to up-quarks. We surprised the hell out
of some Ancients as I took a short-cut through part of
their turf, but the elven bikers abandoned the chase
when they realized by my driving that I wasn't in the
mood for games.
Standing on the brakes, I swung the Fenris wide
around the last corner and brought it smack up against
the curb just at the edge of the street light's circle of il-
lumination in front of the house. Further up along the
street I saw a Lone Star car with the driver's door open
and light strobing. Beyond that, Reverend Roberts stood
in the shelter of his limo.
The Lone Star cop looked over as Raven and I exited
my car with our hands up. "Just get back in your car,
Wolf, and leave. We have enough trouble without you
here."
"Not much for gratitude, are you, Harry Braxen?" I
let my hands drop slowly and closed my door with a
hip-check. "Doctor Raven is helping these kids, so just
chill."
The ork cop scowled. "Raven, I can run you in as
easily as I can the kids. Roberts owns this place free
and clear, and he's their guardian." He raised his voice
for the benefit of the kids inside as well. "If they don't
come out, I'm going to splash the loudmouth with the
gun, then bring them out in handcuffs."
Raven raised a hand to hold the children back and an-
other to calm Braxen. "Officer Braxen, no violence is
necessary here. I believe, if you check your onboard
computer, that the Reverend's claim to this property is
in dispute."
That bit of information brought a sharp yelp from
Reverend Roberts. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" He
marched forcefully forward, brandishing his Bible like
a sword. He came to confront Raven, but still kept the
Lone Star cruiser between him and Doc. "You are med-
dling in good work being performed in the name of
God."
Raven's head came up and a sardonic smile twisted
his lips. "I was unaware that 'God' was a synonym for
greed, Lawrence Roberts. I'm certain Tina Cole would
be shocked at how you betrayed her trust."
In the half-second Roberts' terrified gaze swept from
Raven's eyes to mine, I knew everything Raven had
pieced together about him was true. He started to stam-
mer a denial, but an unearthly roar cut him off. Cooper
came running through the front door and Braxen hun-
kered down behind his car door with gun drawn.
Surging up and forward through the front yard I saw
the thing I had heard and smelled before. More formless
than humanoid, it writhed forward like an amoeboid
centaur. A vast skirt of mud and gravel and debris
swirled around to form a conical base that supported a
lumpish torso with multiple arms. At the top of the torso
I saw a shape that could have been described as a head,
and when some of the slime dripped down I knew I
saw bone.
The Old One howled out a challenge that had my
skull bursting. I drew my Viper and snapped a round
into the chamber, but couldn't see any spot to shoot the
thing that might hurt it. Cooper looked over at me with
horror on his face and shouted, "Wolf, no!" He glanced
at the creature and repeated the cry. "Hawse, no!"
The creature went straight for Roberts. Multiple bub-
bles burst from the area of its chest as if the creature
were trying to speak, but any sound it made was
drowned out as Roberts held the Bible up and shouted
something. The creature kept coming and, to my eye,
picked up some speed. The good Reverend tossed the
book at the monster, missed high, then turned to run
toward his limo. Harse shifted left, tracking accurately
even though I couldn't see anything on it even approxi-
mating eyes.
Over the acrid burning stench of the creature, I
caught a whiff of Roberts' flower and knew how Harse
had tracked him. It had to be orienting on the carnation.
I'd been wearing one before and it came after me until
Cooper proclaimed me a friend. Now it went after
Roberts.
I briefly considered shouting a warning, then dis-
missed the idea. Whatever would happen to him,
Roberts had brought it on himself. It was time for the
money-changer to be cleared from the temple.
Roberts screamed incoherent prayers as the monster
chased after him. He cut back and forth, trying to shake
it, but had no success. Harse tracked Roberts like the
best cyberbacker going after the bitcarrier in cyberball,
closing with each turn Roberts took. The creature slid
forward on a pool of mud and oily scum, cutting
Roberts off from the limo.
His gun shaking like a china plate in an earthquake,
Braxen looked over at me. I turned to Raven for guid-
ance, but the Doctor just shook his head. He glanced at
the children huddled around Cooper, then back at
Roberts. Something in his eyes told me he wouldn't
have stopped the creature if he could have.
Denied his escape, the Reverend dropped to his
knees. Screwing his eyes tight shut, he clasped his
hands together and prayed furiously. I don't remember
the words he shouted exactly, mainly because they all
sort of ran together, but they amounted to a confession
of his sins and a promise to sin no more. Mind you, this
is just a layman's opinion, but his catalog of sins was
quite enough for several lifetimes.
He begged for God's absolution, and Harse made
sure he was shriven.
The creature slammed into him like a mudslide into a
house. One second I could see Roberts, and the next
he was covered in oozing muck. The Reverend half-
stumbled to his feet, literally knocked back by the
monster, then fell again as his legs melted away. The
creature's acidic touch peeled Roberts' flesh off and
smoked his clothing away. He tried to scream, but could
only vomit mud.
His body slumped face-first onto the ground, and
Harse covered him with a cairn made of garbage. The
tentacle arms dissolved into nothingness and the molten
mound stopped moving. A small dust-devil danced up
and away from the pile as if carrying off Harse's spirit.
Braxen slowly stood from behind his cruiser and the
kids left the safety of the front stoop. Cooper tried to
dart forward, but Sine held him back. I took one last
look at the barrow, shuddered, and put my pistol back in
its holster. The Old One barked out one final challenge,
then retreated to his den.
Harry tipped his hat back. "What the hell was that?"
"Justice?" Raven, on one knee, examined the Bible
Roberts had thrown. "This, along with Roberts 'deathbed'
confession, indicates that he murdered his partner
Thomas Harrison for a fortune in bearer credsticks.
Roberts buried Harrison in the basement here. Appar-
ently the ghost remained quiescent until Roberts took
an interest in this place. His hatred for his old partner
was strong enough for him to fashion a new body out of
debris found in his grave and elsewhere."
Cooper sniffed. "I used to bwing Hawse things."
I walked over to him and knelt down. "Don't be sad,
Cooper. Harse—Harrison—protected you just the way
you wanted him to. He's gone, but he's happy now. You
want him to be happy, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Good." I stood slowly. "Well, Braxen, I think you
can ignore the claim Roberts filed for this place."
The ork frowned. "I'm afraid I can't, Kies. That
claim is part of Roberts' estate."
Raven scooped the Bible up and tucked it under one
arm. "Actually, Officer, I think you'll find that the
counterclaim filed against the property is valid. After
all, Kyrie has been living here for the requisite time to
make a claim."
Kyrie stiffened.
Braxen shook his head. "Nice try, Raven, but she's
SINless so she can't own this place no matter how long
she's lived here."
Raven turned and stared at Kyrie. "I did some check-
ing, Salacia. You might have tried to run away from
your family, but you are legal. The house is yours under
the squatting statutes. Pay the back taxes on it, and you
own it free and clear."
"Go for it, Kyrie," I said. I turned to the Lone Star.
"Harry, how much to claim this place?"
The ork shrugged. "Ten grand, I think."
Kyrie's jaw dropped. "Where am I going to get ten
thousand nuyen?"
Raven tossed her the Bible. "Five hundred thousand
nuyen in bearer credsticks belonging to the Koshiyama
Insurance Combine is hidden in a place indicated by the
code on the cover-liner. Standard recovery fee is fifteen
percent, which should buy you the house and plenty of
the things Roberts would have offered you."
Sine picked Cooper up and hugged him, then he
turned in her arms and gave Kyrie a kiss. "It's ah house
now."
"Yes, it is, Cooper, it's ours."
"Fine, take the house and everything," Albion
snapped bitterly, "I'm outta here."
"What?" The hurt in Kyrie's eyes slashed through me
like a monofilament whip.
"You've got a SIN. We don't trust anyone who's le-
gal." He slapped Sine's shoulder with the back of his
hand. "C'mon, Sine. She owns the house now, so we're
leaving."
Sine shook her head. "I'll stay."
"Great. Hope the lot of you rot." He whirled around
and ran smack into me.
"You and I need to talk in my office." I grabbed him
by the back of his neck and force-marched him to the
street. "Has the glue you use on your hair gone straight
into your think-box or what?"
He stared at me sullenly when I released him. "She's
legal. I don't trust anyone who's got a SIN."
"Think for a minute, will you?" I pointed back to
where Kyrie and the others were studying the Bible's
clue page. "She's had a SIN for the whole time you've
known her, but she's pretended not to. Why do you
think that is?"
"We'd kick her out if she told the truth."
"Listen to yourself. You know as well as I do that she
could head out for the Tir and get help from the elves
down there. She doesn't need you, but you need her.
Cooper and Sine need her. Kyrie hung in here because
she didn't want the group to be torn apart."
He spat on the ground. "Good for her."
"They also need you. You provide the drive so things
can get done."
Albion folded his arms across his skinny chest.
"Great, fine, well, someone else can give them the kicks
in the pants they need, not me. I'm outta here." He
turned and walked away into the darkness.
I wandered back to me others. Kyrie looked up at me
expectantly, but I just shook my head. "Sorry."
Cooper blinked his eyes as he turned to me. "Is Al-
bion coming back?"
"I dunno, Cooper, I just don't know." I gave him a
half-hearted smile. "Say your prayers and maybe he
will."
Numberunner
I felt like I was trapped in one of those math problems:
Wolf, sprinting south through the alley at 40 kph, has 50
meters to the street and safety. The car, going south at
100 kph, is 100 meters from the street in the same alley.
How long will it be before a steel-belted massage ruins
Wolf's day?
Leaping over a grease-stained box oozing something
noxious at the corners, I figured that my speed meant
I was traveling 40,000 meters per hour, or 666.6 meters a
minute, or 11.1 meters per second. That put me approxi-
mately 5 seconds from Westlake and a vague chance at
being able to walk home under my own power.
The Acura Toro cruising down the alley behind me,
with a piece of newsprint fluttering from its radio an-
tenna like a flag, boasted 100,000 meters per hour. That
put it at 277.7 meters per second. Roughly translated
that meant it would be through me faster than the curry
I'd eaten the night before—a distinctly unpleasant
prospect. The calculations checked and left no doubt.
That's why I hate math.
That's why I like magic.
The Old One howled with glee as I let him share his
wolf-born speed and strength with me. I stooped in the
middle of the alley and yanked up the heavy bronze
manhole cover. The driver, thinking I meant to drop into
the sewer to escape him, punched the accelerator and
centered his slender sports car on me.
Like a matador with a metal cape, I cut to my right
but let the manhole cover hang in space where I had
been. The lower edge hit the windscreen about halfway
down and shattered the glass like it was a soap bubble.
The disk began to somersault, end over end, doing its
best to turn the hardtop Toro into a convertible. It had
better success with the driver, ensuring that while he
might have lived fast and died young, he would not
leave a pretty corpse.
The Toro hit the alley wall pretty hard. Sparks shot up
from where the fiberglass body scraped away to metal,
then the scarlet speedster rolled out into traffic. A
Chrysler-Nissan Jackrabbit hit it going east while a
Honda truck rolled over its nose. Nothing exploded and
no flames erupted, but the Jackrabbit's driver did vomit
when he yanked open the Toro's door. I think he wanted
to give the Toro's driver a piece of his mind, but ended
up getting pieces of the driver's all over his white pants.
I took one last look at the Acura as I left the alley and
turned down toward the Sound. I didn't recognize it nor
the half-second glimpse I'd had of the driver's face
while it was still in one piece. It wasn't the first time a
professional had come after me with intensive homici-
dal mayhem on his mind, not by a long shot.
It was, however, the first time it took less than a full
day for someone to decide to off me.
New records like that tend to make me nervous.
Cutting back and forth through the streets gave me
the time I needed to make sure no one was following
me. I did see another Toro, which spooked me a bit, but
only because it was white and looked like a ghost of the
car I'd killed. Other than that my trip through the heart
of Seattle's urban gray jungle showed me nothing I'd
not seen a million times before.
My haphazard course brought me into what that
had once been my old stomping grounds. Normally
I'd avoid that area if I were traveling with anything
less than an army because the local gang and I did not
get along too well. The Halloweenies—Homo Sapiens
Ludicrous—were led by Charles the Red, but he'd been
feeling poorly for the latter half of the summer. That al-
lowed me to go where I wanted without being hassled.
As I entered the old neighborhood I suddenly found
myself wishing for the return of hostility. A stretch of
Westlake from Seventh Avenue to Sixth Avenue had
gotten a significant toasting during the Night of Fire. I
remember the blaze rather well as I relive that evening
in more nightmares than I care to count. Every fragment
of that frightful landscape was burned into my memory
in exquisite detail.
Standing at ground zero I couldn't recognize a thing.
All the burned-out cars had been moved. Buildings
had been refaced and the tarmac was more level and pris-
tine than I'd ever seen it. Old, boarded-up apartments had
been refurbished and, if the window decorations were
any indication, already occupied by tenants. All the little
grotty businesses on the street level had been replaced
with sharp-looking boutiques with awnings.
And not a single street light had a hooker grafted
to it.
Looking at the place where I'd grown up I finally
understood the meaning of the word desecration.
From deep inside me, in that lightless cave where the
Wolf Spirit chooses to dwell, the Old One growled
deeply. Now you know what I saw in the Sleeping Time.
Your people, Longtooth, they destroyed the lands I
loved. They crushed my people and savaged my world.
And for what?
"So you can complain."
"Excuse me, young man?" An old woman with a
dowager's hump stopped in front of me and let her little
metal grocery cart come to a rest. "Did you say some-
thing to me?"
I smiled at her. "No, I'm sorry. I was talking to
myself."
She squinted her eyes and I half-expected her to rec-
ognize me. Something did flash through her eyes and I
desperately searched for a name to attach to her face,
but I came up a blank. She, on the other hand, pointed at
my tie. "We owe you a great vote of thanks."
I cocked an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
She jabbed my tie again. "You do work for Tucker
and Bors, don't you?"
For at least this week, if I survive it. "Yes—sorry, I
just started with them."
"Oh." She smiled in a kindly way. "Your company
oversaw the rebuilding of this neighborhood. Did
everything very fast. You'd never know it to look at it,
but this place used to be horrible."
"I can believe it." I smiled at her, then stepped into
the street. "Good evening, ma'am."
My smile grew as I saw a familiar narrow door-
way with a pumpkin glaring down at me from above
it. Tucker and Bors might have renewed this bit of
urbanity after the Night of Fire, but there were some
institutions that were too sacred to be touched and too
disgusting to die. The Jackal's Lantern was one of them.
I pulled open the door and reveled in the wall of
smoke that poured over me. True, I'd never liked the
place when I lived here, and the Halloweeners would
have cut my heart out for invading their stronghold, but
the Lantern was a life preserver to a drowning man. I let
the door swing shut behind me and rubbed my hands
together. Who says you can't come home again?
Well, whoever said it was right. The Lantern might
have been too sacred to touch and too disgusting to die,
but apparently it wasn't that hard to buy out.
The smoke didn't cling to my flesh like a toxic fog
because it came from a smoke machine. The only light
in the place still came from orange and black plastic
pumpkins, but the wattage of the bulbs had been upped
so you could see more than a few steps into the bar.
They'd left the car fenders wrapped around the pillars
the way I remembered, but all of them sparkled with a
new coat of chrome. Barbed-wire jewelry still adorned
various parts of mannequins, but all the rust had been
polished off it and the razor wire was duller than your
average chiphead's sense of reality. They still used ca-
ble drums as tables, but thick coats of epoxy sealed
them, fossilizing graffiti left behind from when real
people used to populate the place.
A fresh-faced girl walked up to me and smiled. The
two dark triangles surrounding her eyes pointed down
and an upward-pointing one hid her nose, but they'd
been drawn in a dark green make-up, not the black the
Halloweeners demanded. Her clothing, while stylishly
tattered, had obviously been washed within the last
week. Instead of looking like a zombie summoned from
beyond the veil to serve in the Jackal's Lantern, she
looked like a creature from the Casper-the-Friendly-
Ghost school of haunting.
"Welcome to Jack O's Lantern," she smiled.
Something inside me died. "Jack O's Lantern?"
"The very same. Table for one?"
I blinked twice, then shook my head. "I'm meeting
someone. A guy, mid-forties. . . ." Her nose wrinkled in
distaste. "In the back. He's nursing a beer."
I smiled. "Bring us both another."
Leaving her to traipse through the corpgeeks in
synthleather trying to look tough at the bar, I made my
way toward the back. Even though I didn't like the
changes, I had to admit the added light was an advan-
tage. I'd never noticed how big the place really was, or
how tall the scarecrow crucified on the back wall. Of
course the smiley face didn't really suit him, but not
many people got this far back.
I slid into the booth and noticed my name was still
carved into the table top. Even the nine lines beneath it
had been left intact. "Hi, Dempsey. How's it going?"
Dempsey gave me a shrug. He's one of those guys
who looks like absolutely everyone else in the world—
you'd forget him in a second if you had no reason to re-
member him. That, and the fact that he knows people
who know just about everyone or everything in the
world, make him very good at what he does. Dempsey
is a private eye and for someone who's got no magic
and no chrome, he's lasted a lot longer than he has any
right to.
"Life goes on."
"Easy for you to say." I laughed lightly. "Dropping
cold into the corp world means I have to wake up during
this thing called morning."
Dempsey kept both his hands wrapped around his
sweating beer bottle and appeared not to hear what I'd
said. "I've done some checking, just like you asked."
"And?"
Another shrug lifted the shoulders of his kevlar-lined
trench coat. "There are plenty of folks who'd love to
take a shot at Tucker and Bors for what they did to the
Lantern here, but no one has anything that suggests
TAB is angry at the Ancients. Moreover, there are no
anti-metahuman groups with ties into TAB. This city
positively stinks with Humanis Policlub members, but
TAB is as clean as can be in that department."
I chewed my lower lip. "What are the chances some
snake is living under a rock you haven't overturned
yet?"
Dempsey showed no concern over my having ques-
tioned his ability. "Slim and none. The word whispered
in some high dark places is that Andrew Bors had a
daughter who goblinized right after the awakening. Her
daddy got her out of Seattle and has her staying in a
mansion up on Vachon Island. After that, employees
were screened for their attitudes toward metahumans
through their employment questionnaire. You show
signs of being a bigot and you're out."
"Damn." I'd been inserted into Tucker and Bors
because the Ancients had gone to Doctor Richard Raven
with their suspicions that TAB was backing gangs mak-
ing attacks on them. As the Ancients are a rather power-
ful and militarily adroit street gang, the invasion of
TAB headquarters was a distinct possibility and Raven
started to work on the problem to forestall that from
happening.
The waitress arrived with our beers, and I handed her
some corp scrip. She looked at it and laughed. "You
should have told me you were one of us."
I frowned. "Come again?"
"You're a TABbie, just like me. Tabbies get a dis-
count," She scooped up the bill and headed back toward
the front.
The Old One did not like being called a tabbie, but I
managed to keep him in check. "Dempsey, I need you to
keep digging on the policlub angle. This whole thing
smacks of race hatred to me. Something has to be
there."
He nodded. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. I need you to find out if anyone has a hit out
on me."
"You mean besides La Plante?"
"Yeah, besides La Plante." It was an open secret that
Etienne La Plante had a contract out on Dr. Raven and
any of his associates. It was also well known that hurt-
ing a single hair on any of our heads would set Kid
Stealth on the assassin—proving once and for all that
capital punishment, if applied quickly and without
mercy, could be a deterrent to crime. "Some gillette in a
Toro tried to interest me in tarmac fusion. I declined,
and he flipped his lid and had an accident."
Dempsey took it all in stride. "Do I still relay infor-
mation through Valerie Valkyrie?"
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. "Takes
too much time. If you get anything on the hit angle, call
TAB and ask for Keith Wolverton."
"And if Mr. Wolverton is not at his desk and I want to
leave a message?"
"Say a relation is coming to visit. The greater the
danger, the more distant the relative."
Dempsey's eyes focused distantly, then came back
with a twinkle in them. "So if I say Adam and Eve are
coming to see you . . ."
"I'll know Stealth is freelancing again." I glanced at
my watch and slid out of the booth. "Stay and have an-
other if you want. I've got to go meet Raven."
Dempsey shook his head and left the booth. "If I stick
around here, they'll come by and give me a new trench
coat."
"It's hell being a fashion trendsetter." I looked at the
refurbished bar and shuddered. "I think this is the first
time I've been in here and not felt like taking a bath
afterward."
"It's the only time I haven't needed a bath after-
ward," Dempsey quipped. "Those were the days."
I signed for the tab up at the front, then walked a
couple of blocks to the parking garage where I'd left my
Fenris. The black coupe waited for me in a darkened cor-
ner of the basement like a feral creature hiding from the
light. I disarmed the anti-theft devices—you only forget
to do that once—and climbed in. I punched in the igni-
tion code and cruised out into the light evening traffic.
The trip to Raven's headquarters took longer than it
should have because of the series of turns and cutbacks
I used to make sure no one was following me. After
Raven and the rest of our crew had done various things
to anger some of the more powerful individuals in the
sprawl, paranoia had become a survival trait. Just be-
cause Kid Stealth would descend like a bloody avenger
on anyone bothering us did not mean we were invio-
late. Insanity becomes a courtroom defense because lots
of folks do irrational things, and I had no desire to have
bits of me in baggies labeled Exhibit A.
I parked the Fenris in the basement garage below
Raven's brownstone, then took the stairs two at a time
as I climbed to the main floor. Adjusting my tie and
rolling down my sleeves, I marched straight to Raven's
office and paused in the doorway. "Would have been
here sooner, Doc, but someone wanted me to play im-
movable object to their irresistible force."
Raven leaned back in his black leather chair, pressed
his hands together and rested his index fingers against
his lips. Seated there in a custom-built chair, behind his
individually hand-crafted desk, he looked normally pro-
portioned. The pointed tips of elven ears jutted up
through his long black hair as the only clues to his heri-
tage. If not for that, his coppery skin, high cheekbones,
and broad-shouldered, muscular build would have
marked him as an Amerind.
His dark eyes focused above and beyond me, but I
found myself entranced by their steady gaze. The blues
and reds weaving through them in an aurora-like fash-
ion flickered past in what I imagined was a mirror of
how quickly thoughts strobed through his brain. The
lights slowed, then he closed his eyes and I felt myself
in control of my own mind again.
"Interesting." His hands fell away from his mouth
as he leaned forward and stood. "I will want a full re-
port later, of course, but I should introduce you to
our clients. This is Sting and her lieutenant, Green
Lucifer."
Elven women are often described with plant imagery,
but with Sting you'd have to make that an industrial
plant. Sure, she was long and lean like most of them,
but you could only describe her as willowy if you
thought rebar swayed in light breezes. I heard she had a
temper to match her fiery mane, and her yellow Opticon
eyes certainly reflected none of the warmth in her
soul—if she had one. She had an edge to her that made
it clear why she was running the Ancients, but likewise
told me why, though she was attractive, I didn't find her
seductive.
"My pleasure." I smiled but didn't offer her my hand.
I knew her street name had been earned because of the
metal claws that could shoot from the backs of her
hands and rake through flesh like it was water.
"So you're Wolfgang Kies. Makes sense, I guess."
Before I could even begin to work my way through
the maze of tone and inference in her words, the
nearly imperceptible stiffening of her partner drew my
attention to him. Unlike Raven, Green Lucifer had the
typical starveling build of an elf. His chin, or under-
abundance of it, suggested a character flaw that the
burning light in his gray eyes used as fuel. Green Lu-
cifer clearly did not like the fact that Sting had paid me
any notice at all, and he was aching for any opening to
exert his territorial rights. That told me they were more
than just partners in power and that Green Lucifer was
the jealous type.
I immediately put him on the list of folks I didn't
want in possession of a chainsaw while my back was
turned.
"Mr. Kies, or 'Mr. Wolverton,' " he began with mock
sincerity, "what have you learned?"
I stared at him for a second, then turned to face
Raven. "I spent most of the day getting situated.
Valerie's transferring Mike Kant to Shanghai was
accepted without question, as was my being sent in to
replace him. Ms. Terpstra acts more like a school marm
than a supervisor, but Bill Frid is helping me get
squared away in Kant's office. In fact, I've not really
had to do anything because Frid did it all while showing
me what I'm supposed to do."
Raven sank back in his chair again. "Good. What
about this attempt on your life?"
The mention of an assassination attempt caused the
fourth individual in the room to take conscious notice of
the conversation. Kid Stealth, sitting back on his
haunches, turned his head to watch me. The light
flashed off his Zeiss eyes and his brows nearly touched
as they pointed down at his nose. I knew better than to
think he was concerned about me—he could see I'd
survived—but his concentration came from his desire to
hear how a rival assassin had failed in his job.
Having Stealth crouched behind Green Lucifer and
Greenie surreptitiously trying to keep an eye on him
made me feel loads better.
"I found a couple of things in some files and made
copies of them. I tossed them into my trash basket, then
bagged the litter and dropped it in the disposal chute.
After work I went back around to the alley and fished
the bag out." I reached into my back pocket and re-
trieved the folded-over papers. "They're several pages
of receipts Kant got while, as nearly as I can figure,
making money drops to the folks fighting the Ancients."
Green Lucifer's face darkened. "That's hardly a sub-
stantial amount of evidence, Mr. Kies." Scorn rolled
from his words like crude oil off a duck's back.
I continued to speak to Raven alone. "It has to be
something because a razorboy in an Acura Toro mis-
took me for an on-ramp."
"Did you get anything from him?" Raven asked.
"Sorry, Doc. The dead don't like talking to me.
Chances are my cover is blown. I think we should con-
sider taking me out of there."
Raven nodded solemnly. "If you think it best."
Green Lucifer hammered a fist into the arm of his red
leather chair. "This is too important and has taken too
long to set up just to let him drop it like this. We're be-
ing systematically exterminated. Order him to remain in
place."
Raven leaned forward and rested his forearms on the
desk. "Being new here, you do not understand . . ."
"I understand this human operative of yours has no
stake in or concern about elven lives being lost." Green
Lucifer gave me a gray-eyed stare that started the Old
One growling defiantly in the back of my mind. "He's
your employee. Order him back in."
"You do not understand," Raven repeated slowly. The
threat arced like lightning in his words and anger rever-
berated like thunder in his voice. "These people are not
my employees. They are my aides, my companions, my
friends, and my allies. They work with me, not for me.
What they do, they do because I ask, not order. I have
never found myself called to doubt their judgment or
their courage or their compassion. If Wolf believes his
life is in danger, then I believe that as well."
Green Lucifer managed to hold his composure better
than the other half-dozen people I'd seen invoke
Raven's wrath like that. He settled back into his chair
like a steel beam being bent by the inexorable progress
of a glacier, but his defiance did not drain away. Still, he
knew better than to open his mouth.
His tone lightening only slightly, Doc continued.
"Wolf is fully cognizant of your situation. He knows
that your alternative to a peaceful solution to this prob-
lem is for the Ancients to wage war with Tucker and
Bors, and that is not likely to be pretty. It is for the sake
of your lives, and the lives of the innocents who might
be caught in any crossfire, that we began this investiga-
tion. Wolf knows I would not ask him to return there un-
less I believed the risk was justified, but if he chooses to
decline my request, I will think no less of him and my
confidence in him will not diminish."
I'd have said I was leaving Seattle for Japan if I
thought it would deepen the scowl on Green Lucifer's
face, and I knew Raven would back my play unques-
tioningly. I started piecing together the perfect way to
drop that bit of information on Greenie, but I caught
Sting's eye and saw a hopeless determination in her
expression and shifting posture.
I knew the Ancients had gone through a nasty battle
recently with another street gang. The Ancients, sup-
posedly under direction from someone in TAB, had tried
to expand their territory into the turf held by the Meat
Junkies. The battle got nasty fast, and looked really grim
for the Ancients when an ork sniper killed their leader. At
that moment, however, Green Lucifer smoked the sniper
and used his rifle to ace the Meat Junkies' top dog.
Both gangs retreated to lick their wounds, but over
the following weeks other gangs had taken shots at the
Ancients. That wouldn't have attracted any attention ex-
cept that no one was picking on the similarly weakened
Meat Junkies, and the Junkies themselves started sport-
ing very new and very expensive guns and bikes. As
TAB had stopped bankrolling the Ancients, anyone with
more than two working brain cells could deduce a shift
in corporate policy that was not beneficial to the elves.
Sting clearly knew her gang had to deal with the
problem of TAB's shifting loyalties or the Ancients
would become fodder for the "Obits and Old Bits"
newsfax files. If Raven couldn't help her—and looking
for outside help, even from another elf, showed how
desperate she saw the situation to be—she had to go to
war. Given that TAB, like any other multinat, had its
own army, long odds for betting on the gang were not
hard to find.
Even knowing that, she would have no choice. If she
didn't go to war, she'd be replaced by someone who
would. The outcome would be the same, but when you
whisper "I told you so," from inside a grave, very few
folks listen or care.
"Actually, Doc, I have Dempsey looking into the
contract angle. That could be a shortcut to whoever is
ramrodding this campaign. If I bow out, the bait will be
gone. I'll just be more careful." I glanced over at Sting.
"As I'm replacing Kant and he appeared to be the boss-
man's courier of choice, I should see some action soon.
If we let it slip that you're bidding on a shipment of
arms coming into Seattle, our man should move to pro-
cure that shipment before you."
Raven smiled. "If someone wants you dead, Dempsey
will find out. Good choice, Wolf."
I painted a wide smile on my face and proudly dis-
played it for Green Lucifer. He started to get a bit
restive in his chair, but Stealth's flesh and blood right
arm snaked over the back of the chair and his shoulder.
Pointing in my direction, it stopped just short of Gree-
nie's face. From the sleeve of Stealth's waist-cut coat, a
blocky little derringer slid down to fill his palm. The de-
livery device retracted silently, then Stealth arced the
gun across the room to me.
I caught it gingerly. "What's this?"
Stealth didn't exactly smile, but his expression grew
as pleasant as I've ever seen it sans anyone actually dy-
ing in the vicinity. "Richard said he found your being
unarmed disturbing. I customized a design based on a
Remington Double Derringer1. I expanded the caliber to
.50 and have crafted some of your 'silver' bullets to fit
it. It is single action. You get two shots."
I turned the pistol over in my hand, then slipped it
into my pocket. Getting it into TAB would not be a
problem, and I could feel safe even without nearby
manhole covers. "Thank you, maestro."
I knew it was loaded because Stealth wouldn't have it
any other way. The Old One knew it too and snarled
something derisive about my dependence on the tainted
and artificial when his tools were so pure and natural.
The only problem with the Old One and the abilities he
lent me in times of need was that I couldn't always be
certain I would remain in control of my actions. In light
of that, using a hand-detonated nuclear bomb could be
seen to have an up side.
"So what is your next step?" Green Lucifer leaned
forward and leaned his chin on his right hand.
"Well, tonight I'm going to go check on a former
client, Lynn Ingold. That's a very important part of this
case." I saw Raven suppress a smile. Lynn Ingold was a
woman we had rescued from La Plante earlier in the
summer. She and I had begun seeing one another and
I'd been planning to take her out to a Seadogs2 game
well before the TAB problem came up. "Then, tomor-
row, I return to work and wait."
His face screwed down into a sour expression as if
1 Because Stealth knows I like using a Beretta Viper and an HK MP-9—
both of which he thinks should be in a museum—he's decided I can't
really handle any weapon crafted for use in the twenty-first century. Tak-
ing the specs for a Derringer from some docudrama about the old, old
West (I think it was called Deadlands), he manufactured the gun for me. I
mean, I was glad to have it, and even happier that he had a hobby, but I
kind of wished his hobby was more benign, like model trains. Then again,
I didn't really want to see what the Murder Machine would do with model
trains.
2 I had gotten the feeling, at the time we rescued Lynn, that she was spe-
cial. The fact that she was a Seadogs fan proved it. And I do mean she was
a Seadogs fan—I don't think I ever heard her call the team the Mariners.
he'd been sucking sulfur schnapps through a straw. "We
can't afford to wait long."
Raven looked over at Stealth. "Kid Stealth has agreed
to let it be known that he and his Redwings are just
waiting for someone to start shooting at you so they can
raid undefended territory. Again, this steps up the pres-
sure on TAB and will make it easier to find out who is
behind all this."
"Fine, Raven, just so long as you know we won't wait
until forever." Greenie leaned back in his chair and
steepled his fingers. "You have until Fri . . ."
Sting laid her right hand on his left arm. "You have as
long as you need at this point. If things change, I'll let
you know."
Greenie didn't like that very much, but he and Sting
exchanged a pair of glances I can only describe as cobra
and mongoose. I smiled broadly at his discomfort, earn-
ing myself a big jump on his enemies list, I do not
doubt, and nodded to her. "We'll get you results."
"Good, Mr. Kies." She looked me up from my toes to
the tippy-top of my head and back down. "Just so you
know, if they do get you, Stealth will have all the help
he needs in avenging you."
Damn, I just love it when women talk lethal.
Lynn didn't talk lethal to me, but she did say some
other things that made me think I'd died and gone to
heaven. I was tired enough in the morning that I almost
slay-tested Stealth's pistol on my alarm clock. I re-
frained because I was too lazy to want to patch the hole
I knew a bullet would leave in my wall—and that of the
other two tenants on this floor—and dropped back to
sleep for another half hour.
The Blavatskys downstairs woke me up for the sec-
ond time with a loud discussion of things that shouldn't
be mentioned in daylight. After a quick shower and
shave, I headed downtown to Tucker and Bors. I arrived
ten minutes late and, as an afterthought, I considered
what a good idea that might have been. Whoever had set
me up to be killed would probably faint when he saw
me come strolling in.
In fact, the only person who seemed to notice me was
the matronly Ms. Terpstra. She stared at me hard
enough to melt my brain, but I scampered to my cubicle
too quickly for her to properly focus her powers. On my
monitor I read the note she had sent me at precisely
9:00:01: "Punctuality is a virtue and the virtuous are re-
warded. Those without virtue face perdition."
Bill Frid appeared at the doorway to my private do-
main and handed me a steaming cup of soykaf. "I see
you got a perdition memo."
I accepted the soykaf and sipped. "Is that bad?"
"Naw, wait until you get an 'eternal damnation' note.
That's bad. She's been in a bad mood since Reverend
Roberts stopped doing video." A jovial guy, Bill had a
double-chin and curly blond hair that made him look
softer than I figured he saw himself. Right from the start
I had him pegged as one of those types who's learned all
the shortcuts to getting things done. They're work-
horses, and no corp could get anything done without
them, but contempt for the bureaucracy barred them
from ever getting into the power structure.
"You look tired. You feel okay?" he asked me.
I shrugged. "Went to the 'Dogs game last night."
"Extra innings?"
"Yeah." I smiled. "Oh, wait, you mean the game. No,
just eight and a half. Mackelroy caught one on the
warning track in center, then threw out the runner from
third on a one-hopper to end the game. It was great."
Bill sipped his soykaf. "Good, good. We'll have to
take in a game some time."
I nodded. "Yeah. Let's do it when we're on some er-
rand for old TAB and we can get them to spring for a
'business lunch.' "
"I like it." He gave me a conspiratorial wink, then
looked up and nodded. "The wicked witch of the pay-
check is watching, so I'll get back to my work station. If
you need anything, just let me know."
"Thanks, Bill."
Left to my own devices I had to figure out what I was
supposed to do. I really had no idea what Kant's duties
had been and even Frid had been fairly vague. As nearly
as I could make out, Kant was part troubleshooter, part
confidential courier. Even when I called up a log of
things Kant had done in the past two weeks, it looked
like most of his time had been spent sitting on his hands.
Fully aware that idle hands are the devil's playthings—
a concept that I was certain Ms. Terpstra detested—I
pulled a blank manila folder from my desk drawer and
placed the employment and location policy agreements I'd
signed the previous day into it. I labeled the file "Wolver-
ton, Keith" and stuck it behind the Wolcott Trucking file.
Feeling fairly satisfied with myself, I noted, to my
chagrin, that I had another two hours to kill before the
lunch wagon arrived outside. I looked at the stack of
datachips on the corner of the desk, but all of them dealt
with statistics, math, and probability modeling, so I just
couldn't bring myself to pop one of them into the com-
puter. Making a mental note to have Valerie get me
games that would work on this monster, I started ex-
ploring the Interactive Building Directory.
By the time the telecom beeped and saved me, I'd
succeeded in memorizing the names and divisions for
all TAB employees A to J in the building. "Keith
Wolverton here."
"I have good news and bad news for you." Dempsey
was one of the few people who sounded better on the
telecom than in person. "What's your pleasure?"
Seeing Ms. Terpstra glowering in my direction, I
raised my voice a bit so she could hear. "Well, Doctor,
will the patient live?"
"Mr. Kies is in no danger, beyond those expected for
a man in his line of work. Whatever symptoms he
thought he had, he was mistaken."
"And the bad news."
"No one's out to ace Wolf, but there's five thousand
nuyen on your head, Mr. Wolverton."
Someone wanted Keith Wolverton hit? Why? He
didn't exist forty-eight hours ago. "Your source was
impeccable as usual, I assume?"
Dempsey grunted out a laugh. "The grieving widow
was spending the five hundred nuyen down payment to
blot out the memory of her late squeeze. Closed casket
ceremony, you know."
"At least they could go for a shorter box and save
money." I drank some more of the soykaf. "You have a
name for the patron of this poor departed soul?"
"Are you sitting down and alone?"
I looked at the monitor and saw a message presenting
itself to me, letter by letter. "Only my very wonderful
supervisor, Ms. Terpstra, reminding me that I should
not be taking personal calls via the wonders of binary
magic."
"Probably safe, then. The name William Frid mean
anything to you?"
I suddenly wondered if soykaf could cover the taste
of arsenic. I assumed I would find out shortly. "Rings a
bell. Thanks. Dempsey."
"No sweat, chummer. Tell me, is your Ms. Terpstra
heavy-set, first name Agnes?"
I shrugged. "Hit on the first, and an 'A' for a first ini-
tial on her nameplate. Why?"
"No real reason." I could see Dempsey smiling like a fox
in some dark telecom booth. "Heard that was the handle
she'd adopted. Always wondered where she ended up after
the Mitsuhama embezzlement scam. Watch your paycheck."
"Got it, Dempsey. I owe you big time."
"You'll be hearing from me."
"Anytime, bud, anytime."
I broke the connection and glanced over at Bill's cu-
bicle. Braving the harsh look on Ms. Terpstra's face, I
walked over there and crouched down at Bill's side.
"Bill, I need some help."
His smile slowly died as the seriousness in my voice
got to him. "Sure, Keith, what is it?"
I shook my head. "Not here. It's personal. I'm new in
town and there was this woman last night . . ."
He patted me on the shoulder. "You're right, not here.
C'mon."
He led the way past the dragon lady to the men's
room. We quickly checked the stalls for lurkers, then
flipped the lock. Leaning back against a sink, Bill smiled
with mild amusement. "Now, what's the problem?"
I shrugged. "The problem is that this woman is upset
because the man you hired to kill me got dead himself
in the attempt." I filled my right hand with Stealth's pis-
tol. "That almost ruined my day. Explain to me why I
don't want to ruin yours."
Bill's eyes grew wider than the bore of the pistol he
was staring at. "No, no, no, you have it all wrong."
"That's correct about one of the two of us." I tore the
loop-towel across the back part of the loop and started
pulling it down in long lengths.
His blue pupils rolled around like a chalk-mark on a
cue ball. "What's that for?"
"You're going to wrap it around your head so the
brains don't splatter when I shoot you." I let my smile
die except for a nervous twitch at the corner that con-
vinced him I meant business. "No need to make the
janitor's job any tougher."
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God." Frid dropped to his
knees. "I don't want to die."
"Good, then tell me everything you know about the
elves and TAB."
"What?" He looked at me with absolute terror in his
eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"The Ancients."
"Who?"
"Dammit!" He flinched as I swore. "Why'd you want
me killed?"
"I didn't want you killed. I just wanted you, ah,
roughed up." His thick lips quivered in a way that told
me he had to be telling the truth.
"Offering someone five thousand nuyen to rough me
up is a bit much."
He looked crestfallen. "How was I supposed to know?
I went down to Damian's and offered a guy five grand to
do a job, then I gave him five hundred and the copy of
your picture I got from security. I just wanted to have
you put out of action for a week or so."
I frowned. "I'm still waiting for a 'why' here, chummer."
"Because I wanted your job. Kant gets all sorts of
courier jobs and he gets bonuses." He looked down at
the floor and clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer.
"You have to believe me."
"No, chummer," I said, tossing him the towel. "You
have to convince me. What do you know about Kant's
courier actions?"
"Oh, God, you're from Auditing, aren't you?" Frid
wilted and his shoulders slumped forward. "Kant said
he dealt with shadow projects."
Shadow projects. Anything a corp wanted to do with-
out the shareholders or the government knowing about
it. Projects that never showed up on the books, but got
money funneled to them through fake projects and pro-
motions. Given all the interlocking directorates and ver-
tical integration within the corporate world, tracking
down the source of funding for almost anything was im-
possible. For shadow projects it was that much more so.
And funding a war against the Ancients definitely
sounded like a shadow project to me.
"Okay, Bill, let's take this slowly. Kant made three
courier runs recently. One was on the twenty-third of
last month. This month he did one on the seventh and
the other on the twelfth. Enlighten me."
Sweat poured from his forehead and down his face.
"I don't know."
"You'll look good in a turban, you know."
"Keith, I don't know. Honest, I don't."
I dropped down onto my haunches and parked the Der-
ringer a centimeter or so from the tip of his nose.
"You've got two strikes against you, you weasel. You fig-
ured you'd get Kant's job and his bonuses, and you still
think you can swing some sort of deal out of this . . ." I
paused to let him consider how much his greed might
cost him. "Well, chummer, you can. I only care about
that one job. It involves elves and only local travel."
I tapped his nose with the gun. "What will it be? True
Confessions, or die knowing that whatever you had for
breakfast was your last meal."
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Ah, ah . . ." He screwed
his eyes shut. "I don't know for sure, Keith. All those
jobs went through Ms. Terpstra. Please believe me."
I'd seen enough men crumble in my time to know Frid's
marshmallow center was leaking through all the cracks in
him. He had to be telling the truth, which meant I had a
new nut to crack. I wouldn't have thought Ms. Terpstra
capable of running a shadow project, but with Dempsey's
cautionary tale about her, anything was possible.
"Okay, Bill, this is the way things go down. You're go-
ing home sick, right now." The man nodded like a child
promising Santa he'd be good. "If I find you've been ly-
ing to me you can consider our little talk here as the
opening scene of the worst nightmare you've ever had." I
slipped the gun back into my pocket. "Get out of here."
Back in the office, I leaned forward on Ms. Terpstra's
desk. "Agnes, I really need to know who asked you to
give courier jobs concerning the demise of the Ancients
to Mike Kant."
Ms. Terpstra's head jerked around as if I'd gaffed her
in a gill and yanked her from the Sound. "Mr. Wolver-
ton, I have no idea what you are talking about. How
dare you address me in such a familiar manner?"
I gave her my best I-know-lots-you-don't-want-to-
have-known smiles. "Is it that Tucker and Bors has a
better retirement policy, or did you just tire of the Mit-
suhama corporate grind? Audits after an embezzlement
can be so tedious, don't you think, Aggie?" From the
sour look that answered my question, I realized who-
ever had her running a shadow project was using the
same or similar blackmail evidence to keep her in line.
"You play well, Mr. Wolverton, but you will meet your
match." She gave me a cold smile. "Benbrook, Sidney M."
"Benbrook?" I frowned as I tried to remember his en-
try from the directory. "Benbrook is in Marketing! Why
would Marketing have a shadow project?"
"Mine is not to wonder why . . ."
"Yeah, what you do is steal and fly." I shook my
head. "Thank you for your help, Ms. Terpstra. You
make me proud to be a TABbie."
Sidney Benbrook looked exactly the way you'd expect
someone with that name would. The Interactive Building
Directory showed me a tall, cadaverously slender man
with dark hair so thin that when he combed it from right to
left over his scalp it could have been deciphered by a bar-
code reader. His deeply set eyes remained hidden in
shadow and, along with his corpse-like pallor, accentuated
the impression that he had died late in the last century.
As I entered the darkened sanctuary of his office, I
knew, almost immediately, that no matter how benign or
un-salesperson-like he looked, he was at the core of the
problem with the Ancients.
Benbrook sat in a big padded chair centered on a
raised dais at the end of a narrow canyon formed by
walls of computers and other electronic equipment. Lit-
tle amber and red lights flashed off and on across the
faces of the machines, enclosing him in a star field with
constantly shifting constellations. Cables crisscrossed
the area behind him and one snaked out from the tangle
to jack into his skull behind his left ear.
Like a spider aware of a fly's careless tread upon its
web, Benbrook swiveled his chair around toward me as
I entered the room. I had not tried to be particularly
quiet, but his reaction unnerved me. His head came up
and his torso came around instantly, but his eyes took
their time in focusing down on me.
"You're Sidney Benbrook?"
"I know that. Who are you?" His voice came out as a
harsh croak, as if he was entirely unused to speaking to
another person. "I did not send for you."
I'd seen other wireheads who were tied even tighter
to their machines, but never in a corporate setting like
this. I held my hands up in the universal sign of surren-
der. "I am Keith Wolverton. I'm taking Kant's place.
Thought we should be acquainted in case you need any-
thing done."
"Done?"
I gave him my best hey-we're-all-in-the-know-here
smile. "Aggie told me Kant did courier jobs for you, all
vapor, no flash. She says there's bonus money in it and
she turned me on to the deal for a rounding error. She
told me it could be dangerous, but I told her I wasn't
afraid of any dandelion-chewers."
"Dande . . . yes, elves." Benbrook froze—the only
motion from his end of the room coming from the com-
puter light show. "I find it disturbing, Mr. Wolverton,
that your computer records appear never to have been
tampered with. How do you explain that?"
My smile broadened. "You can figure I've made a ca-
reer of keeping my nose very clean, or you can assume
that I came across Kant's action independently and I de-
cided I would like to milk the cash cow myself for a
while."
"Tucker and Bors takes a dim view of extortion, Mr.
Wolverton."
"I said 'milk' not 'slaughter.' You've been devoting
significant resources to destroying a population of
elves. If you happen to know someone who's paying for
elven scalps, I might know people who would be will-
ing to create a supply to satisfy that demand."
"You small-minded bigot. Elves and scalps and boun-
ties are not important." Benbrook's eyes reflected the
flashing computer lights around him. "Do you think
these people might be able to get rid of the Ancients?"
I frowned. "You have me confused. You said scalps
aren't important, but you want someone to 'get rid' of
the Ancients?"
"That is correct."
"But you do not mean 'get rid of as synonymous
with kill?"
He frowned, which was rather scary given the gan-
grenous pallor of his skin. "I mean it as in move, dispense
with, create a decreased population concentration of."
I shrugged. "That says kill to me."
"Whatever!" Fingers clicked and clacked across an
illusory keyboard. "I need to affect a ten percent reduc-
tion in the elven population of the Denny Park zone by
the end of the fiscal year. Is that possible?"
Denny Park marked the southwest edge of the terri-
tory the Ancients claimed as their own. Their recent
battle with the Meat Junkies was over a piece of turf to
the west of that area. That zone was one of the least
habitable areas in the Seattle elven enclave, but it was
the Ancients' stronghold.
"Possible, yes, but that will be a very tough block of
ice to salt." Something was not adding up because I
wasn't hearing Humanis Policlub rhetoric coming at
me. In fact, Benbrook had accused me of being anti-elf.
"If you don't care how I get rid of the elves, why do you
want that particular piece of real estate?"
His right hand rose from the arm of the chair and, with
index finger pointing down, rotated slowly to indicate I
should turn around. As I did so, a huge display screen slid
down from the false ceiling, flickered to life and shared
computer graphics of Seattle with me. As I watched, the
image swooped lower, like a helicopter sailing down
through vector-graphic canyons. As it headed north from
downtown it hit a block of solid green: the Ancients' turf.
The image dissolved into a series of numbers. They
scrolled past fairly quickly, but I caught bits and pieces
of things. It looked to be a cost comparison between
two programs, and then it shifted over into a point by
point comparison of population. Outlined in red, and
pulsing in time with my heartbeat, I saw the approxi-
mate number of elves living in the Denny Park area of
Seattle.
I turned back. "I still don't get it. Why are you paying
to have elves scragged?"
"It's obvious." Benbrook stared at me as if I was an
idiot. "Demographics."
I remembered the datachips in Kant's workplace,
then stared at Benbrook unbelieving. "You're killing
them because of numbers?"
The red pulsing light burned off and on in his eyes.
"Those are not just numbers, Mr. Wolverton. They are
the very lifeblood of this company. Those numbers
affect our bottom line. That means those numbers deter-
mine how much we can pay you and how much you get
in your pension plan and what your profit sharing state-
ment will look like. Those numbers are the most impor-
tant numbers in the world."
Though to look at him I'd not have thought it possible,
Benbrook rose from his chair and pointed a scarecrow
finger at me. "You will forever be doomed to be nothing
but a slave chip in the engines of industry if you fail to
understand how important those numbers are. On the
right you have the demographics and psychographics of
the group the North American Testing Agency uses to test
market our products."
His shoulders hunched and his hands rubbed together
like those of a miser aching to fondle credsticks. "They
determine what we produce, when we produce it, what
it tastes like, what it looks like, what it smells and feels
like and how much we can charge for it. The shift of a
percentage point or two in the approval rating for a
product can cause us to retool a factory or to scrap a line
altogether. NATA's test group is a fickle mistress whom
we labor to please, yet pay whether our results satisfy or
anger."
His eyes went to the screen. "I will free us of our de-
pendence on NATA and their group. The Denny Park
District is identical to their area except for one thing.
We have too many elves. Once I can eliminate enough
of them, we'll have our own captive market here. I can
create a division that will perform like NATA and we
will wrest the dataflow away from them. Our costs will
be a fraction of what they were for research, and we can
charge others for using our group, which will reverse a
negative cash flow in my division."
I shook myself to clear my head of his missionary
message. "You want to kill elves so you can taste-test
chocolate bars in the sprawl?"
"Crudely put, but I believe you have a grasp on
reality."
"Oh, I've got more than a grasp on reality, chummer."
I pointed back toward the flashing red numbers.
"You're trying to lower the river when what you need to
do is raise the bridge!"
He shook his head. "I tried that. I paid the Ancients to
take more territory outside Denny Park. It would have
created a more even distribution, but they failed."
"No!" I slowly started drifting toward his silicon
altar. "Have you seen what TAB did on Westlake?"
Benbrook paused as if unable to remember the proj-
ect or unable to comprehend why I would mention it.
"That was the construction division. They are not my
concern. Irrelevant."
"Very relevant, Mr. Benbrook." I channeled the Old
One's growl of outrage into my voice. "You are seeking
to destroy something when you could make it all so
much better. You are blowing a perfect chance to do
more than just develop one new division."
His hawk-stare bored in at me as he slowly sat.
"Explain."
As he called my bluff I panicked for a half-second.
The Old One came to my rescue as he translated all the
demographic statistics into his own view of the world.
Suddenly I saw Seattle as it must have been before men
set foot on the continent. The Old One and his brothers
knew where the deer would drink. They knew what
plants would flower or bear fruit when—attracting ani-
mals for the hunt. Had it been in their power they would
have created more tree stands to keep their animals safe
in the winter and more meadows to feed them in the
summer.
"It's fairly simple, really," I said. "You can rebuild
sections of the Denny Park area. Encourage people who
will even up the demographic mix to move in. You'll
have your own little population from which to draw
focus groups. You can have your own stores where you
can test product placement. You can employ some of
the people and raise or lower their income to levels ap-
propriate for whatever you want to test. You can create
your own little world and it will pump out streams of
data for you to analyze, all the while saving money."
His face had begun to become positively animated as
I started to talk. I thought I almost had him with the
"streams of data" line, but something changed. The
light in his eyes died. Settling his angular, skeletal body
into his chair, he became an electronic spider again.
"Projections show the cost of building up that area
will be more expensive than wiping out the Ancients."
I drew the pistol. "Factor in the cost of your own
funeral."
He slowly shook his head. "Employee contract, page
two, section six, paragraph three prohibits one em-
ployee from threatening another with deadly force."
"I quit."
"Now that I think of it, your suggestion has some
merit."
I nodded solemnly. "Those expenses can be charged
back against the fees of clients who use your market
testing. And you can make the changes through the con-
struction divisions, guaranteeing the head of that divi-
sion a tidy profit on the construction work, while the
work is done at a below market rate for you."
Benbrook's head started bobbing in time with music
that I could not hear. "Yes, that could work. As you
said, I would have focus groups and store fronts to test
product placement." His eyes flicked up at me. "These
people would have children and I would have to educate
them, correct?"
"You better believe it."
"Excellent. We diversify into children's products."
I winked at him. "You build schools and sports facili-
ties. You improve Denny Park and . . ."
"And we create sports leagues for employees. We get
them exercising, which will cut health insurance costs.
And they will all be wearing clothing they buy from us
that has our trademark names emblazoned on them."
"Now you're cooking."
He stopped hearing me. "And we create Brandname
Loyalty Indoctrination Centers. We inculcate the chil-
dren in the ways of only buying our products. We can
wire every home for closed-circuit televisions that will
display our ads . . ."
His eyes started to glaze over orgasmically, so I
cocked the pistol and brought him out of it prematurely.
"Hey, Sparky, you also have to pay the Ancients to pa-
trol the area so no one can infiltrate it, right?"
Benbrook hesitated, then nodded. "We can get them
uniforms . . ."
"Do you really want to see what they would do with
uniforms?"
"No, perhaps not. Plausible deniability can cut lia-
bility." His eyes went blank for a moment, then he
smiled. "Yes, I think this has a higher profit potential
because of the retail sales and the information develop-
ment angles. It will work."
"Good for you." My eyes narrowed and became the
same silver shade as the wolf's-head pendant I wear at
my throat. "Listen, Moses, there's only one more thing
you have to do before you can lead your people to the
promised land."
"And that is?"
"You want to adjust the environment of a profit cen-
ter because the psychographics are set to take it into a
negative growth curve." I gave him a smile that was all
mayhem and arson.
"That sounds unsatisfactory. I'm sure, in return for
your service here, I can do something about it." His
hands hung in space as if poised over the keyboard.
"Explain."
I smiled. "Ever heard of a place called Jack O's
Lantern?"
I breathed in and got a nose full of noxious vapor that
convinced me someone was burning tires for warmth in
the middle of the Jackal's Lantern. Of course I couldn't
see that far into the place, but I felt happy enough that I
was willing to stumble blindly toward the back. Lucky
for me, a blond waitress name Pia saw me groping
about and slipped her arm through mine.
"The elves said they were waiting for you, Wolf."
Despite the black makeup turning her face into a night-
mare pumpkin mask, the smile she gave me made my
socks roll right up and down. "I can be softer than she
is, and I'm much prettier than he is."
"No disputing that." I returned her smile. "It's busi-
ness with them, darling."
"All work and no play will make Wolf a dull boy."
"And you're the whetstone that will sharpen me up?"
"We can rub our bodies against each other and see."
She laughed lightly as we reached the back of the bar.
"A Henry Weinhard's for you, Mr. Kies?"
"In the bottle, no glass." I slid into the booth across
from Sting and Green Lucifer. "Anything for you?"
Sting shook her head and Pia vanished into the bil-
lowing cloud of smoke. Green Lucifer wrinkled his
nose, looked around, then snarled at me, "Why did you
demand we come to this dump?"
"I wanted to see you in your natural habitat." I
glanced over at Sting. "Here's the deal: TAB is going to
rebuild some housing in your turf and generally upgrade
the Denny Park area. They'll pay you to keep things
under control. The new housing will go half to folks
already there and half to people they bring in."
As Sting considered what I had told her and Green
Lucifer practiced his "I'm mean and nasty" look on me,
Pia arrived with my beer. I saw she'd written her num-
ber on the napkin she put beneath the sweating bottle
and I gave her a wink. I twisted the cap off the bottle
with my left hand, drank, then set the bottle down again
and frowned at Green Lucifer. "Well, pay her."
He blinked his big elf eyes at me. "What?"
"And tip her well, too. I'm a big tipper."
Pia smiled and gave me a wink. "Thank you, Mr. Kies."
Green Lucifer became obstreperous. "If you think . . ."
Sting nudged him with an elbow. Grimacing, Green
Lucifer pulled out a couple of credsticks and started to
sort through them for one sufficiently big enough to pay
for my beer. A light cough from Sting added a pair of
twins to it and all three ended up deposited on the tray
Pia carried. With a broad smile and a nod of thanks to
Sting, Pia retreated from sight.
I drank a bit more. "What do you think?"
Sting's eyes narrowed into lifeless amber wedges.
"Do you think the deal will be honored for a long time?"
I shrugged and my left thumb traced the letters of my
name in the table. "If they invest in the project as they
are supposed to do, yes, they will stay there for a long
time. If not, we'll know soon enough to forestall more
trouble of the type you've been through. It's chancy, but
if Raven thought it was going to blow up in our faces,
he'd not have asked you to meet me here. Is it a go?"
Sting nodded her assent.
"Good." I started to smile and feel proud of myself,
but Green Lucifer went and spoiled it. His face
scrunched up as if he were about to throw a temper
tantrum, but then the expression eased everywhere ex-
cept around his eyes. "And now the minority report?"
"I just want one thing from you, Kies." He hissed the
last letter of my name like a snake. "Who was behind
the plot to kill us?"
I shook my head. "Not part of the deal. You hired us
to stop them, not mount them on a trophy wall."
"You needn't worry, we'll do our own killing," he
sneered at me.
"Hey, Greenie, this is the real world." I let the Old
One growl through my throat as I rubbed my right hand
over my silver wolf's-head pendant. "Any of us with
Raven are willing to do wetwork, but not to salve your
ego. So, chummer, you've got what you've got."
"What I've got is an anti-elf racist protecting more of
the same." He balled his fists and hammered them down
on the table, nearly upsetting my beer. "We've had people
dying out there. We've had elven blood running in the
streets. Someone has to pay."
My eyes started a slow shift from green to silver, with
the black Killer Rings circling the iris. "Someone is
paying. TAB is paying a wergeld that will make things
better for your people."
"Tell that to the dead."
My right hand contracted into a fist. "I've seen the
streets run with blood, chummer, and I've leaked my fair
share into them, too. It's damned easy to call for blood
when you aren't going to be the one shedding it. And
you can't tell me, Greenie, that a single death at TAB
will make life better for those who live in Denny Park."
He started to reply hotly, but Sting stopped him.
"Your deal is acceptable and, if TAB upholds its part of
the bargain, we will let the matter drop." She glared at
Greenie, and he nodded his head as much as his stony
rage made possible. "We are indebted to you and Raven
and even your friend, Dempsey."
"Raven will send you a bill," I said, smiling, "and
you probably already have a message from Dempsey
waiting for you at your crib." I used the bottle cap in my
left hand to scratch a tenth line beneath my name, then
snapped Green Lucifer's head back with a right jab. He
bounced off the rear of the booth, then his forehead
dented the table just before his unconscious form slid
beneath it. "I, on the other hand, consider us even."
Designated Hitter
The pitch came screaming in at 153 kph, but the black
man's bat whipped around yet faster. With a bone-
breaking crack the baseball shot away like a satellite
planted on top of an Ares booster rocket. I watched
the white pellet sail off on its ballistic arc through the
Seattle Kingdome's still atmosphere. It dwindled and
disappeared over the top of the Dominion Pizza sign out
at the 131-meter mark. The center-fielder just waved at
the ball as it flew by.
I clapped appreciatively as the hitter left the batting
cage. "Damn, Spike, that was a shot. One thirty-one and
it cleared the fence clean."
Jimmy "Spike" Mackelroy smiled broadly. "Yeah, I
got good wood on that one." He flipped the bat around
and thrust the knobby end toward me. "You should take
some cuts, Wolf."
I choked out a gasp-laugh. "I don't think that would
be such a good idea, Spike. The last time I hit a ball I
was using a broomstick as a bat and we were playing on
asphalt, not this fancy astroturf." I toed the plastic grass
with my right foot. "Besides, your pitcher's throwing
them faster than I like to drive, and his curve practically
pulls a U-turn out there."
Spike draped a massive arm across my shoulders and
steered me toward the batting cage. "Practice is almost
over and there's no one in the Dome here who will
laugh at you." He slapped me on the back. "You're in a
uniform. You might as well do some hitting."
As much as I wanted to protest that if I was hitting I
couldn't be keeping my eye out for trouble, the little kid
inside me desperately hungered for the chance to step
up to the plate. "All right, you've got a victim. You
aren't recording this, are you?"
"Wolf, I wouldn't do that to you?"
As I shucked the navy-blue Seattle Seadogs training
jacket1, Jimmy got me a batting helmet. "Strap this on.
You're not chromed, are you?"
"Nope. The only chips in me are the nachos we had
for lunch."
Handing me the helmet, he flipped a switch on the
back that started a little green LED blinking. I pulled
the helmet on and noticed the faint green glow tinting
the full faceplate. The helmet had been fashioned of
high-impact plastics and didn't feel particularly heavy,
even though I knew it contained batteries to power the
faceplate.
"Wolf, take a look at this." Jimmy picked up one of
the baseballs that had squirted under the batting cage's
canopy. He held it under a small lamp built into the bat-
ting cage. As he rotated it slowly, I saw a purplish grid
play like faerie light over its white horsehide. On the
helmet's faceplate I saw a nearly life-size simulacrum
of the ball, complete with grid, track along with the
ball's movement.
"The helmet tracks the ball?"
Jimmy nodded and slowly stood. "Up there, in the
roof, there's an ultraviolet light projector that provides
the illumination for the grid to show up to our eyes—or,
in your case, on the helmet's faceplate. In the case of
most jacked hitters, the helmet would interface with the
hitter's biosoft and send an impulse that would direct
his swing to connect with the ball. In your case you'll
get a projection of where the ball will be, but you have
to use your own judgment as to when to swing."
1 I had actually planned to refer to the Seadogs as the Mariners in this
portion of my memoirs, but the word-processing software Valerie set me
up with seems to be determined to avoid use of the word Mariner.
I heard some laughter and looked over toward the
bullpen. The pitchers had gathered to watch me, no
doubt certain they'd see someone yet worse than them-
selves at the plate. In the two days I'd been around the
team, they'd given me something of a wide berth, which
I didn't mind. The last thing I needed was a bunch of
practical jokers trying to give me a hotfoot while I was
trying to figure out how the team was being sabotaged
on their pennant run.
Just before I stepped into the batting cage, I looked up
at the mound. The practice pitcher had been shooed
away by a tall, stocky player with a pug nose and broad
grin. I turned back to Jimmy. "You guys have been plan-
ning this, haven't you?" I pointed toward the mound in
an imitation of a gesture my pitcher had once made
famous. "I may not be the world's greatest baseball
aficionado, but even I know Babe Ruth had a hot hand
on the mound."
Jimmy shook his head. "Don't worry. Ken's not
wired from those years."
Babe plucked a ball out of the basket behind the
mound. "C'mon, Wolf, they never let me pitch. You
aren't afraid of me, are you?"
I let a low growl rumble from my throat as I dug in on
the left side of the plate. "I just hate southpaws, that's
all, Babe."
He reared back and threw.
The helmet picked up the ball as it left his hand. In
an instant the computer dropped a box around it, then
drew a line straight from that original box to a point
low and tight across my knees. A series of green boxes
then plotted the course of the ball as it actually came
in. The direct line readjusted itself as the ball began
to break, but by the time I'd seen and tried to digest
all the information, the pitch thudded into the bat-
ting cage.
Up on the Scoreboard someone toted up a strike. Gig-
gling sounded from the dugout, and the outfielders
slowly started trotting in. Babe beamed and armed him-
self with another baseball.
"Don't let it get to you, Wolf." Jimmy's voice
soothed some of my embarrassment as I tightened my
grip on the bat. "Just relax. When you see the first line,
take a cut. You'll get a piece of it. The helmet is tough
for all of us."
"Yeah, but you get paid to do this."
Babe's second pitch came in and I knew I'd seen that
track before. I stepped into the ball, but I didn't quite
manage to get all of my bat on the carbon-copy pitch.
My hit popped straight up, then shot back down as the
ball ricocheted from the cage's steel skeleton. I jumped
back and dodged it.
More laughter from the dugout started my cheeks
burning anew. A second strike appeared on the score-
board and someone triggered a computer graphic show-
ing a cartoon figure swinging and missing bigtime. One
of the pitchers flopped over onto his back as the breeze
from my cut reached him.
You do not have to tolerate this, Long Tooth, the Old
One snarled in my head. Let me give you my quickness
and strength. Then you will show them.
I shook my head. Ringing the practice field, four
watcher spirits monitored the area for magic. For me to
invoke the Wolf spirit in a real game would result in
my being ejected from the league forever. Here, in
practice, it would attract unwanted attention, and it had
been agreed upon earlier that such a thing was not a
good idea.
I held my hand out to Babe and backed out of the bat-
ter's box. "Ever have a desire to burn one down the
third-base line into those clowns?"
Jimmy chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, back in
double-A when I was starting out. Pitchers can be hell
on you because they're out in the bullpen without adult
supervision most of the time."
"I know. When I was out there earlier they were
teaching me how to spit."
"Now there's a skill for the Fifth World." Jimmy
hooked his fingers through the netting on the cage.
"What would you do if Babe was shooting a gun at
you?"
"I'd shoot him back."
"Same dif here, only the bullet is bigger and you're
sharing it with him."
"Gotcha." I reached up and turned the helmet off. "I
think I'm set now."
"Go get 'em." Jimmy waved at the outfielders to back
up. "Longball hitter stepping up, boys. Get on your
horses."
Babe wound up and delivered a solid fastball. It came
straight down the pipe and I swung all the way through
the ball. I was late on the swing, so the ball hooked out
into foul territory, but it was a long way out in foul ter-
ritory. That surprised Babe because his next pitch came
in high, leaving the count at 1 and 2 on the Scoreboard.
"Wolf, this'll be his curve. Tight, golf-shot it."
Just as Jimmy predicted, Babe's curve arced in and
broke down. I stepped out and snapped the bat around,
connecting rock solid. The ball exploded off my bat and
passed just above Williams' glove as the third baseman
leaped up at it. Beyond him it skipped off the turf and
tucked itself into the corner of the outfield.
Behind me Jimmy chuckled. "That's a double for
sure, maybe even a triple. You've got good wheels."
"You're being generous."
"Never going to fit undercover, Wolf, if you don't
brag a bit."
"Just taking my lead from you, Jim."
With the rest of his pitches, Babe kept me honest, but
I got pieces of more than I missed. As he began to tire
and I got into my rhythm, stroking the ball felt really
good. Finally, as we both agreed it was to be the last
pitch, I pointed toward the outfield. "This time I'm
serious."
Babe laughed aloud. "Yeah, you and every other
curb-climber. No mercy, Wolf."
"Asked or given, Babe."
Because I'd begun to hit his curve, he came straight
at me with a hard fastball. I saw him release it at the top
of his arm's arc and I knew in a split-second that ball
would be jetting fat and happy through my strike zone.
Pushing off with my left foot, I strode forward. Crank-
ing the bat around, I knew the ball was going places.
It was, like right into the backstop as my bat missed it
by the same margin Christmas misses June.
With my bat pounding the turf as my swing spun me
around, I dropped to my knees. Looking up I saw even
Jimmy holding his sides to stop chuckling. "What the
hell was that?"
Babe jogged down from the mound and laughed with
a low, sinister voice. "Just a reminder, kid. We're the
pros in this league, and you're just a promising ama-
teur." If not for the impish light in his eyes, I'd have fig-
ured Babe was mad at me. He slapped Jimmy on the
arm and headed into the dugout.
I slowly regained my feet and brushed my knees off.
"That ball broke like a Ferrari on Pothole Road."
Jimmy nodded and kicked some of the balls back out
toward the mound. "Yeah, well, Babe was just having
some fun with you."
"What was that pitch?"
He kicked a ball toward me and I noticed that dirt
clung to part of it. "Babe gave you a spitter."
I swore. "And what do you do when somebody
pitches you one of those?"
"Miss like you did . . ." Jimmy shrugged. "Or hit it on
the dry side."
Even though I'd not worked up much of a sweat, the
shower felt good. I would have lingered, but Jimmy and
I had dates for the evening and the woman I was seeing
considered punctuality next to cleanliness in the way of
divine attributes. As I was definitely considering dedi-
cating a temple or two to her, I knew better than to keep
her waiting.
A tall, beer-bellied man with a lopsided smile tossed
me a thick white towel as I stepped from the shower.
"You went after the spitter. 'Sa nasty pitch." He pounded
his own chest proudly. "I'zz able to hit that one."
The man's slightly slurred speech and the partial pa-
ralysis of the right side of his body made me uneasy, but
I returned his smile. "You're a better man than I, in that
case."
Jimmy left the shower and fielded the towel line-
drive easily. "That you could, Thumper. You could hit
that spitter like it had been in the desert for years." He
jerked a thumb at me. "Wolfgang Kies, meet Al Grater.
He used to play under Ted Williams for Seattle about
ten years back."
My smile broadened. "Yeah, okay, I remember now.
You were playing Williams' 1947 season back in '39,
weren't you? I actually saw you play. You hit a double,
a triple, and a homer in that game."
"The Thumper, 'sme." His brown eyes watched me
carefully. " 'Sa good year."
The ragged scar tracking back through his black hair
on the left side of his head reminded me of what had
happened to him. In the 2040 season he'd been hit by a
pitch that, as it turned out, had fractured his skull. He
remained up at the plate and hit the next pitch out of the
park, but collapsed rounding third. The brain damage
hit him as hard as a stroke. The Seadogs management
tried to put him back together, but could not, so they let
him work around the Dome.
"It was a good year indeed." Babe Ruth draped an
arm over Thumper's shoulders. He pointed a fat
corona's glowing tip at me and grinned. "That was the
year I entered the team's AAA Coastal League fran-
chise, and the last year I ever swung at a spitball."
Jimmy rubbed his towel through his closely cropped,
kinky black hair. "You had to throw that pitch because
you knew Wolf would have hit anything else you threw
at him."
Babe winked at me. "True enough. A little seasoning,
Wolf, and you could play Wildfire Schulte or Footsie
Marcum."
"Thanks, I think."
Jimmy rested his left hand on my right shoulder.
"Might want to rethink that, Babe. Wolf isn't wired and
he turned the helmet off. He was hitting you all by his
lonesome."
Babe blanched a bit, but his jocularity only vanished
for a nanosecond. "I'll get someone to get me my '16
statsofts2 and then we'll give him a real workout."
I nodded. "You're on." I turned to Jimmy. "We'd best
get moving. We don't want to be late."
Jimmy fastened his towel around his slender waist. "I
hope you're right about this woman you've got me
meeting. I hate blind dates."
I frowned. "It's not really a date. Just drinks and
maybe dinner. Wouldn't do that to her or you."
Babe seated himself on the bench by our lockers.
"Big night? Where are you going?"
"It's a new place." I grimaced. "It's called ParVenue."
Babe smiled wryly. "Oh, I think you'll love that
place, Jimmy. Thinking about asking the boys upstairs
to get me a membership there as my next signing
bonus."
Jimmy grunted, but I was unsure if he was still un-
easy about having a blind date or if something about the
club Valerie had chosen irritated him. I looked at Babe
and Thumper. "If you two want to come along, I think
my connection can get you in."
Babe shook his head. "Not me. Seattle's governor
wants the Sultan at some reception she's tossing
tonight."
2 Statsofts are what they call baseball activesofts. They're just like nor-
mal activesofts in all respects save that they carry with them a bit of a
personality overlay—much the way an activesoft of Hamlet for some ac-
tor might carry with it data on how the role was played by this actor or
that in the past. Depending on the rev of Hamlet you run, you can be Gib-
son, Branagh, or Olivier.
"Thumper?"
Al shook his head with a herky-jerky motion. " 'Sa
not for me. 'Sides, I got work to do around here. I'm
changing all the burned bulbs in the Scoreboard. Want it
right for when we beat the San Diego Jaguars."
"Another time then." I opened my locker as they left
Jimmy and me alone. I tossed a wink at the picture of
Lynn I'd taped to the inside of the door—just keeping
with my cover, mind you—and pulled on a pair of khaki
slacks. The polo shirt I tugged on over my head
was navy blue and had the team's logo emblazoned on
the right breast. Sheathing my feet in a pair of nylon
Armani-Nike3 power trainers and pumping them to
snug completed my outfit, then raking a comb through
my hair finished my preparations.
Jimmy took a sidelong glance at me and whistled.
"Look lots better now than you did in the batting cage."
I jingled the keys of my car at him. "And we'll both
look better in the Fenris."
"Then lead on, my friend."
The short tunnel from the locker room brought us di-
rectly to the parking lot beneath the stadium. Off to the
right, the Fenris lurked like a piece of primordial dark-
ness. All smooth and sleek, it reflected none of the
garage's meager light because of a radarbane coating
Doctor Raven had sprayed on it. Time seemed to slow
as you approached the car, but I figured that was rela-
tivity in action because the car looked like it was doing
light speed when it was sitting still.
The Fenris even impressed Jimmy. " 'Fifty model,
with a twelve-cylinder engine, right?"
I nodded. "Seventy-five hundred klicks on her and
still not a dent."
3 Active wear for the chic. I actually prefer Gucci-Puma sneakers
myself—despite the Old One's protests—but part of the licensing deal
with the team meant we got this stuff for free, which meant I didn't mind
slumming my way into it.
Jimmy ran a hand gently over the top. "Doc Raven
must pay very well."
I smiled and keyed open my door. The automatic
locks snapped open and Jimmy settled into the passen-
ger seat. "Actually this was a gift from a friend, but
Raven has been known to be generous." I smiled
openly. "You can bet Ms. Lacy-Mitsuto will pay very
well if I can solve your little problem here."
"You find out who's been trying to sabotage our drive
for the pennant and money will be no object."
I punched in the ignition sequence, and the dozen
cylinders beneath the Fenris' hood started hitting like
Murderers' Row. The vehicle's headlights rotated up
into position and I shifted the car into gear. "ParVenue,
here we come."
Again irritation flickered over Jimmy's face, but I
didn't know him well enough to guess what the cause
might be. He controlled it and forced himself to relax.
"Hey, Wolf, that was nice of you to ask Thumper if he
wanted to join us."
"No big deal. He seems like a nice guy. I thought
he'd like time away from the Dome."
Jimmy frowned. "He probably would, but I don't
think he can exist away from the Dome or the circus
environment. He's in deep."
"Like Babe?"
"No." Jimmy shook his head solemnly. "Ken Wilson
is in deep by choice. Sure, the Seattle organization
planned to draft Babe Ruth and use him, so they wanted
someone like Ken whose physiology matched the
Babe's right down to length of thumbs and space be-
tween the eyes. Ken was groomed to play Babe Ruth
since Little League, so making it to the show is the ful-
fillment of a dream for him."
Coming out of the Dome's parking garage I waved at
Thumper, then steered toward downtown Seattle. "Wil-
son's lucky—he looks enough like Babe Ruth to be his
clone."
"He didn't when he started." Jimmy began to scowl.
"The man's had more plastic surgery than many elf
wannabes. Ken's in deep because he chooses to be in
deep. He lets the statsoft ride all the time, and he wears
the Babe's identity like a mask."
"I take it, from your tone of voice, you've got a prob-
lem with what Ken does?"
Jimmy waved me off. "Not really a problem, but a
difference of opinion. Look, when I started playing ball,
I was just like you. I played in the streets with the kids
from the neighborhood, then I graduated to Little
League on a team sponsored by Renraku. My father is a
district manager for them and the corps take care of
their own. A scout saw me and I got pumped into the
Seattle organization, of which Renraku owns a big
chunk."
From outside, street lights strobed pinkish highlights
on the ebony of Jimmy's nose and forehead. Humanoid
shadows scuttled through the darkness surrounding
Fourth Avenue South as we shot around the Renraku
Arcology. Try as I might, I couldn't make out any signs
of where the helicopter had crashed during the Night of
Fire, but I'd have expected Renraku to clean up fast, so
that didn't surprise me much. By the same token I knew
the area of Westlake where I'd seen action that same
night had long since been patched up by Tucker and
Bors, so the power of corps to heal their wounds was
never in question in my mind.
Jimmy's lips peeled back from white teeth in a grin
laden with irony. "I really love this game. In fact, I have
it written into my contract that I can play in pick-up
games whenever I want to—unlike others whose play-
ing time is all tied up by contract."
"Having your father as a suit in the corp hierarchy
must help."
"Yeah, it has its advantages." He stretched, placing
his palms flat against the dashboard. "Ken stays statsoft-
operational all the time because he really wants to be
Babe Ruth. Whatever personality Ken originally had has
been smothered by his statsoft. Me? I realize that base-
ball is my life right now, but it won't be forever. I only
let a statsoft ride when I'm on the field. Other than that,
I'm Jimmy Mackelroy."
I nodded. The Old One, the fragment of the Wolf
spirit lurking in my brain, likewise had to be segregated
out of my life. Yes, his power and abilities gave me,
through magic, what Jimmy got through wired reflexes
and cybered eyes. Still, the Old One, with his wild
wishes for combat and killing and blood, brought with
him a dark side that I could not let run riot. Like Jimmy,
I could not let the Old One control me, or I would lose
my personality and end up hurting many people.
As those thoughts coursed through my brain, I looked
out and saw a nearly full moon flashing through the
picket fence of skyscrapers in downtown Seattle. The
Old One's howl echoed through my mind. Beware,
Longtooth, with the moon comes my power. You retain
control for now, but invoke me and I will show you the
true way of the warrior.
I shivered and spoke to deflect my thoughts away
from the path blazed by the Old One's whisper. "So
why is Thumper different from Ken Wilson?"
"Ken has a choice, Thumper doesn't." Jimmy's
brown eyes narrowed as bitterness entered his voice.
"Al had Ted Williams riding him when his skull was
fractured. The brain damage was extensive, and the
doctors initially thought he'd never be more than a
turnip suitable for organ-harvesting. His sister agreed
to pull the plug on him, but she demanded he be al-
lowed to die as Ted Williams. League officials agreed
and returned the statsoft to him. That brought Al out of
it, though through rehabilitation his personality inte-
grated with that of the statsoft, creating the composite
personality of Thumper.
"The corp meat-mechanics refer to him as the first Al
in a wet chip. Bastards."
"Amen to that." I whipped the wheel around and pulled
into the semi-circular drive in front of the ParVenue.
"We're here."
An ork valet opened my door and helped me out. "Be
nice to my car and I'll be nice to you," I told him with a
smile. He glanced up at me, surly, until he met my eyes.
The dark ring surrounding my green irises zapped a lit-
tle respect into him.
"Yes, sir. Not a scratch, sir."
I nodded happily. What's the purpose of having Killer
Rings in your eyes if you can't make use of them? A
howl from the Old One rose from the depths of my
mind, but I stifled it. Not this time, you old tick hound.
Nothing and no one to fight here.
The ParVenue Club had some fairly unique archi-
tecture. The drive led to a simple three-story brown-
stone facade, much like the one Doctor Raven used as
his headquarters. The prefab granite looked suitably
weathered to give the building an air of antiquity, and
the copper awnings glowed green in an advertisement
for building fossilizers. In a high-speed, low-drag world
where a venerable genealogy means respectability and
virture, this building came off like an old-money family
with a virgin daughter.
The door elf, nattily attired in a long, scarlet wool
coat with gold braid, smiled cautiously as Jimmy and I
approached his station. "Good evening, gentlemen." He
turned the word into a title that implied his pleasure
at seeing us, though his tense stance and sour glance
belied his words.
"Evening, yourself." I gave him a hey-everything-is-
cool-here-chummer smile. "You'll want to verify our
memberships?"
His tension eased just a microvolt. "Yes, sir, I am
afraid I must." He reached back and touched a brick
with a white-gloved hand. A panel slid up and the hole
in the wall extruded a blocky lucite sheet. I smiled and
pressed my right hand to it. A light passed under it and
back, then the beeped verification of membership.
The elf smiled. "Very good, sir. And this is your
guest?"
I speared the man with a questioning glance. "Guest?
Mr. Mackelroy is a member." Winking at Jimmy, I
waved him forward.
The door elf paled—which is quite a feat for an elf
anyway. "I am afraid you might be mistaken, Mr. Kies.
He can enter as your guest, but . . ."
Jimmy hesitated and the door elf looked stricken.
"Trust me, gentlemen." I smiled. "Mr. Mackelroy is a
member."
"Wolf, I don't know about this," Jimmy murmured.
"Don't worry, Jimmy. Just imagine you're running
Jackie Robinson's statsoft."
Jimmy pressed his hand to the printscanner, and
the elf didn't hide his surprise at the affirmative beep.
He smiled as sheepishly as an elf can. "Welcome to
ParVenue, chummers." He swept the door open and
smiled. "Locker room is to your left. Your lockers
will be in berths four and seven. I've made sure they're
upper units."
I stabbed a credstick down into a discreet socket
beside the door and zapped him a five-nuyen tip. " 'Pre-
ciate it, chummer. Don't let the corporators get you
down."
"Slot and run," he said with a laugh, then let the oak
and glass door slide shut behind us.
As we entered the locker room we saw a single bank
of twenty-four lockers facing us. Two of the lockers in
the upper row, in slots four and seven, withdrew back
into the wall. It left the row looking like some gillette's
broken grin for a moment or two, then new lockers slid
into place. We both exchanged glances, then shrugged
and located our appropriate lockers by the little lami-
nated name plates slotted into them.
I opened mine, then sat down hard on the bench. "Oh,
Val, what have you done?"
"Do we have to wear this stuff?"
"Dress code." I groaned aloud. "Your clothes will fit
perfectly. Valerie is pretty sharp, but her taste runs a bit
odd."
The ParVenue, being the latest word in virtual coun-
try clubs, demanded that its patrons attire themselves
appropriately when on the premises. This meant I ex-
changed my polo shirt for a navy one of a lighter weight
and pricier designer label. Over it went a yellow cardi-
gan sweater of a hue I've only seen in snow. The knick-
ers that replaced my pants matched the sweater in color
and fastened tight right below my knees. My blue and
yellow plaid socks got tucked beneath the knickers, and
my pseudo-golf shoes were a merciful black without
any spikes.
"I'm not wearing my cap," Jimmy growled.
Oh yeah, my cap was a tam that matched the socks.
In silent agreement with him I sent it flying like a fris-
bee into a wastebasket. "Comes a point when a man just
has to put his foot down."
I swung my locker door closed, giving Jimmy his
first full look at me. "Wolf, my mother used to dress her
poodle in that type of outfit."
I growled at him. "Hold your arms out at your sides
and in those red togs you'll look like the poodle's fa-
vorite fire hydrant."
"Point taken. Hope these women are worth it."
I caught a glimpse of myself in a wall-mounted mir-
ror. "I'm beginning to doubt it, but let's not keep them
waiting, just in case."
As strange as it may seem, Jimmy and I were not the
oddest-looking individuals at the club. The corridor
leading from the locker room to the bar and restaurant
had a glass-walled section that let us look into the huge
warehouselike structure onto which the front facade had
been grafted.
Jimmy paused and stared out at the people gathered
there. "Just think, if they were bees, how much honey
they'd be making."
I nodded at his apt analogy. Honeycombed stacks of
small golfing stalls rose from ground to ceiling. On the
bottom two levels the stark white rooms had golfers fit-
ted with simsense helmets. Little mechanical ball-
setters placed golf balls on tees or appropriately angled
sections of astroturf. As the players swung through the
balls, they blasted them into nets at the other end of
their golfcave. One guy, at the far end of the row, en-
dured a driving shower and buffeting winds produced
by the chamber as he sought the absolute most in sim-
golf experiences.
Just above them golfers also wore simsense helmets,
but hit no balls. They still swung their clubs with wild
abandon, and one man snapped a putter in half and
tossed it down into the net protecting the floors below.
Other golfers went through the motions of delicately
chipping a shot onto a green, and one man stood with
driver in hand, desperately waving at an imaginary ball
to get over the imaginary trees and onto the imaginary
green.
The top level had smoked-gray caps on the hexagonal
rooms. Up there golfers were pulling down simsense
data directly from the ParVenue's golf course database.
These did not need the challenge of weather and balls
and perfect posture or square groove clubs. They played
solely in their minds. For them the challenge was best-
ing golf courses in places dreamed up by madmen and
physicists and modeled on the fastest decks available.
They might play two holes on the front nine from the
Sea of Tranquility, then shift to a course imagined for
the blazing surface of Venus. Changes of gravity and
density of atmosphere were their enemies.
I saw one golfer on the lower level miss his shot and
twist around before falling to his knees. "Do they have
spitballs in golf?"
Jimmy shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe that was a water
hazard."
I smiled and led the way to the bar. We passed two
soaking wet guys who were swapping stories about
playing the club's simulation of the Burning Tree
course during Hurricane Felicia and I spotted our dates
immediately. Of course I didn't know any of the half-
dozen men watching them from the bar and surrounding
tables, but I gathered neither did the women, and they
liked that situation just fine.
I smiled at Lynn Ingold and gave her a hug and a kiss
as I reached the table. She'd braided her copper hair,
and the braid dangled down the front of her white
blouse to the tip of her left breast. Her pert nose and
quick smile combined with bright green eyes and a scat-
tering a freckles to make her seem full of elven mis-
chief from back in the days when that didn't mean
gunfire and magic. The top of her head came up to my
nose, and my arm fit around her shoulders as if we'd
been designed as a set.
"Jimmy Mackelroy, this is Lynn Ingold and that is
probably your greatest fan in all of Seattle. Valerie
Valkyrie, meet Jimmy Mackelroy."
Val is normally quick-witted and I expected a verbal
jab for my introduction of her, but she was awestruck
enough to just ignore me. Like Jimmy, she was of
African-American descent, but her blue eyes and cafe-
au-lait complexion suggested a liberal dose of other
things in her bloodline as well. She wore her brown hair
pulled back into a ponytail. Taller than Lynn, but with
the same slender, long-legged figure, she was suffi-
ciently gorgeous to make the Pope reconsider his vow
of celibacy.
In fact, if not for the barely noticeable jack behind
her left ear, she'd have been the picture of the sort
of fashion model Jimmy dated, according to the tab-
loid trid.
Jimmy took her right hand in his. "I am very pleased
to meet you, finally."
That shook Val out of her trance. "Finally?"
Jimmy smiled. "Section seven, row five, seat twelve.
You've got the whole box, paid for and all. Everyone on
the team has been curious, but the team's deckers can't
find out who you are."
Val blushed and sat down. "Oh, that, well . . ."
"Jimmy," I said, nodding toward Valerie. "She's the
reason we're members here. Could your father's deck-
ers do that?"
"No, I don't think they could." His smile broadened
as he glanced from Val to me. "I guess now I'm going to
owe you a favor."
"Excuse me?"
Jimmy smiled sheepishly. "Remember when we met
you said you'd owe me a favor? Well, introducing me to
Ms. Valkyrie here fulfills that and then some. Oh, and
dinner and drinks are on me—the team had a pool col-
lected for the first man to learn her name."
All of us laughed, easing a bit of the nervousness
Valerie clearly felt. It struck me as funny because I
knew she was bold enough to deck her way into even
the most secure of corporate databases without even a
hint of anxiety. With other deckers, the problem would
have been just trying to interface with something that
wasn't silicon-based, but Val's never been a social
disaster. She was really taken with Jimmy and almost
paralyzed because of it.
Lynn clearly sensed the same thing in Valerie and
took the conversation initiative before any silence could
become awkward. "Jimmy, I've never been able to get
Wolf to tell me how you actually met. I know he's help-
ing you now, but I gathered you've known each other
since before that."
Jimmy nodded easily and leaned forward onto the
table. "You remember the night when the gangs all went
nuts and blew up that apartment complex?"
Lynn nodded. She knew of it in the same way that
almost everyone else in Seattle did—by what she heard
on the trid and read in the newsfax. This meant she had
no idea about my involvement in the events of that eve-
ning. As she's a pacifist who never seemed too inter-
ested in trying to find out exactly what I do in working
with Doctor Raven, I never felt inclined to give her a
blow-by-blow description of what had happened that
night. Not that I repeated stories of that night all that
often—describing almost dying leaves something to be
desired.
"About a week later, at the Dome, I saw this guy
leaning against my car. I wasn't getting a clean read off
him, but he didn't seem overtly dangerous. He intro-
duced himself as Wolf and asked if I'd be willing to
make a personal appearance at a pizza place down-
town." Jimmy shrugged. "I almost referred him to my
agent to blow him off, which is what I normally do."
Before Jimmy could continue his story, a man who
had managed to create a fashion atrocity within the
strictures of the club's dress code sauntered over to our
table and lightly slapped Jimmy on shoulder. "Jimmy
Mackelroy, isn't it?"
Jimmy nodded and shook the man's proffered hand.
"And you are?"
"Phil Knobson. I own the Mitsu dealership over in
Bellvue. Ace Mitsubishi. Heard of it?"
Jimmy thought for a second, then shook his head.
"Sorry, but I put most things out of my mind during the
season, you know?"
"Yeah," the man replied automatically as he waved a
woman over. Her outfit matched Phil's and I started look-
ing for a phone to call the haute couture police. "This is
my wife, Maggie. Maggie, this is Jimmy Mackelroy. I've
told you about him, right?"
Maggie nodded, her blond perm as stiff as an acrylic
spider web. "Phil, he never misses your games."
"So, look, Jimmy, I'm thinking we can do some busi-
ness. You come down to the shop, we cut an ad or two,
and I make you a sweet deal on a new car, you know?"
Jimmy stood slowly, continuing to smile as he tow-
ered over the salesman. "I think that's worth talking
about, Phil, but right now I'm here with my friends, you
know."
"Sure, sure, I gotcha. Look, why don't we all go to
dinner? My treat." Phil glanced at the rest of us, then
looked back up at Jimmy.
I let the Old One's dislike of Phil and his plastic wife
bleed into my voice. "Actually, we were going to be
dining outside the club, Phil. A private party."
Phil didn't get my message, but his wife did and gen-
tly tugged on her husband's shirt. "Honey, let's let these
nice folks get back to their party, okay?"
Phil looked at Maggie as if her suggestion was a wild
pitch, but when he glanced at Jimmy he saw that Jimmy
had blasted it out of the park. "Yeah, okay, well, look,
can I call you?"
"Just call the team office and they'll direct you to my
agent. She arranges all those things." Jimmy shook
Phil's hand again. "I'm sure we can work something
out."
"Right. Have a good night, folks."
As they departed, Valerie shivered. "When I get
home, his credit rating will die."
Jimmy smiled. "If you can do that, I can guarantee
you a lot of business from the other players on the
team."
Lynn raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't happen very
often, does it?"
"More often than I'd like to admit, I'm afraid."
Jimmy shrugged and jerked his head in my direction.
"When anyone approaches me I have to be thinking
'What does he want me to buy? What's in it for him?'
That's really tough, especially when it's a kid wanting
an autograph, because dealers are known to use kids to
get players to sign holopics they later sell for big nuyen.
Most of the time folks are just nervous and genuine, but
there are clunkers in the bunch."
Lynn covered my left hand with her right and gave it
a squeeze. "So what did you think Wolf wanted when
you first met him?"
"He was different. None of this fake camaraderie or
an apologetic 'You don't know me, but. . . .' He just in-
troduced himself and asked, explaining he'd already
told someone else I'd do the signing. Most folks would
have then tried to play on my sympathies, begging me
to get them off the hook. Wolf just said, 'If you're will-
ing, great, if not I'll have to think of something else.' "
I grinned sheepishly. "You remember it better than I
do, I think. I seem to recall some stammering on my
part."
"No, man, you were cool." Jimmy chuckled lightly.
"Instead of wanting something from me, Wolf was giv-
ing me a chance to do something nice for someone. I
asked him what was in it for me, and he just smiled like
he is now. He said he didn't have much, but he'd owe
me. I got the feeling that being in his debt wasn't a bad
thing at all."
Lynn gave me a peck on the cheek. "It's not been
for me."
Jimmy smiled, then nodded to me. "At least he
treated me like a human being. Too many players get
tightly identified with the players whose statsoft they
use. I guess it's like trid actors being identified by their
roles instead of their true names. For the guys who like
that, it's great—Babe being a fine example of that. For
the rest of us, it's a pain."
Lynn frowned. "I guess I don't understand why you
have to use statsofts when you play."
Valerie's eyes brightened. "It's really not that hard to
follow, Lynn. Back toward the end of the twentieth cen-
tury baseball started slipping in popularity. A devastat-
ing players' strike and a number of betting scandals
rocked the game. Because players and managers were
betting on games and seen as grossly overpaid, fans
started deserting. Baseball officials reacted, taking seri-
ous steps. For example, one of the greats, Pete Rose,
was banned from the game and initially barred from
election to the Hall of Fame because of gambling. Base-
ball also tried expansion, interleague play, and radical
realignment to bring the fans back, but it only slowed
the slide. They needed something to reverse it and that
need, coupled with two other things, set up the current
system."
Her earlier nervousness banished as we got into a
discussion of baseball, she laid out the thinking behind
the current system like a professor lecturing from her
dissertation. "When the world changed and magic came
back, and with the rise of bioware and cyberware, the
potential for rigging games really spiked. Something
had to be done to combat that eventuality. At the same
time sabermetricians had managed to reduce the game
to a stack of stats, and with the proper program you
could produce a box score that would be very close to
what the true outcome of the game would be."
Val held her left hand open, palm up, then made the
same gesture with her right hand. "At roughly the same
time a great nostalgia for baseball hit. Old-timers'
games and replays of old championship series became
very popular. The film Field of Dreams and its holovid
sequels made lots of money. Suddenly the corps that
owned baseball got a great idea."
She brought her hands together, her fingers inter-
laced. "The Hall of Fame produces statsofts for all the
players who ever played the game. Teams bid for the
services of players in certain years of their careers—
guaranteeing a statistical level of performance—and the
teams play. It's possible to have Babe Ruth from 1916
pitching to himself from 1927, for example, and that
makes for a very exciting game."
Lynn shrugged. "But that could be done with a com-
puter simulation. Why do they need players?"
Jimmy nodded. "Good question. They use us mules
because we can get broken, which introduces an ele-
ment into the game that a computer simulation can't
really cover."
"Even so, aren't the outcomes preordained—
statistically speaking?"
I gave Lynn's hand a squeeze. "They would be except
for players like Jimmy here. He's a Legacy player."
"What's that?"
Jimmy hesitated and Val answered for him. "There
are some players in the annals of major league baseball
who never had the chance to play enough games to pro-
vide a solid statistical base to make them a good player.
The teams bid a lot of money for the headline players,
like Babe Ruth and Tom Seaver, then fill out their roster
with lesser known players. Legacy players come after
that, and their identities are kept secret. That injects
more chance into the game and allows folks to guess at
who their favorite players are."
She reached over and gently slapped the back of
Jimmy's hand. "Last year I thought you were playing
Luscious Luke Easter from 1953, but this year, I don't
know. This season you could be Red Lutz in 1922 or
Bobby Lowe from 1894."
"Good guesses all." Jimmy smiled at her and I saw
Val blush. "Luke Easter was a great player. I'd like to
think, if I were playing him, I could do him justice."
So would management, and that was the basic
problem I'd been asked to help solve. The team wasn't
playing up to their averages. Everyone was off their sta-
tistical average and even though a few players, like
Jimmy, were doing better than they should have, the
overall effect was to take the edge off Seattle and that
spelled disaster in the upcoming pennant battle with the
San Diego Jaguars.
Jimmy leaned forward and brought his voice down
into a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, this place is mak-
ing my skin crawl. Shall we get out of here?"
"Sure. We can catch something to eat down the
street."
Jimmy's face brightened. "You know, I'd just as soon
head over to that pizza joint on Westlake you talked me
into visiting."
Val looked slightly stricken. "The Dominion place
across from the Jackal's Lantern?"
I waved her concern off. "Don't worry, Val. The pre-
vailing breeze blows from Dominion toward the
Lantern and not vice versa." I stood and pulled Lynn's
chair out for her. "How did you get down here?"
"Val gave me a ride."
Valerie smiled as Jimmy held her chair for her.
"Lynn, why don't you go with Wolf. I'll drive Jimmy, if
that's okay with you?"
"I'd be delighted," he replied to her and I had no
doubts he would indeed.
II
I arrived at the Dome late in the afternoon the next
day because of the night game. I found Jimmy already
there and dropped to the bench in front of the locker I'd
been assigned. "Jimmy, thanks for going out last night.
Valerie is on cloud nine, or so I was told when Lynn
called me after talking to Val."
"Good. She was a lot of fun." He smiled pleasantly.
"She drove me back to my place and we talked for a
long time. She knows baseball and a lot more, too."
I pulled my street shoes off and set them beside the
spikes in the bottom of the locker. "I was directed to
communicate to you, through means subtle but effec-
tive, that Val would be willing to go out with you
again."
He nodded. "Yeah, I'd like to see her again, too. Did
you manage to get Lynn back to her apartment in the
tower before her folks called Lone Star?"
I shook my head. "They called, but I have a friend at
Lone Star who intercepted the report, calmed them
down, and gave me a call on my car phone." Lynn and
her parents work for Fuchi and share a family suite of
apartments in one of their corporate towers downtown.
Because she is an only child and because the corp en-
courages close familial ties, her parents tend to worry a
bit. I get along well with them, but come the witching
hour, her mother gets anxious. "Lynn said her mother
wanted to know if we had a nice time, what with the
evening being so short and all."
I pulled off my leather jacket, then shrugged my way
out of my shoulder holster. As I turned to hang the
Beretta Viper-14 beneath the jacket in my locker, my
right shoulder popped audibly. Jimmy looked up and I
worked my shoulders around, eliciting a similar pop
from the left shoulder. "Batting practice left me stiff."
Jimmy waved Thumper over. "Wolf, take off your
turtleneck and that kevlar vest. Thumper, work some of
that Atomic balm into his shoulders."
"Relax, Wolf. Relief's here."
I pulled off my shirt and vest as Thumper dipped his
index finger into a squat white jar of red gel. It came out
with a big gob pungent enough to make onions weep,
and the Old One started howling because of the way it
smelled to him. I did my best to ignore his whining and
just let myself luxuriate in the warmth as Thumper
worked it deep into my shoulders and neck. "Man,
Thumper, that's great."
Jimmy smiled, then nodded at a grizzled dwarf bear-
ing a black case. "Time already, Coach? We got a cou-
ple of hours yet before the game."
The dwarf shrugged. "The league's got someone here
to go over things, so I expect the whole process will
take longer." The dwarf reached over and bent Jimmy's
right ear down, exposing the chipjack set into his mas-
toid bone. From the case he drew a small chip and slot-
ted it into the jack with a click.
Jimmy let his head droop forward for a moment, then
he hummed faintly while the chip coach moved on
toward the ork4 who played third base.
I glanced back at Thumper. "What's Jimmy doing?"
"Warm-ups. Letting the software blend with the wet-
ware. Transition's not easy all the time."
"Right. I should have figured." Activesofts become
active the second they're inserted into a chipjack, but to
assume that every user has instant or perfect command
4 There was a time, of course, when metahumans weren't allowed to play
baseball, but that sort of prejudice pretty much ended fast when folks re-
alized elves made great pitchers and having an ork blocking the plate
made running through him something that didn't always work. Dwarfs
and trolls, of course, weren't allowed to play because of strike zone prob-
lems, but they had their own spring and fall leagues respectively, and
drew decent crowds.
of them is absurd. If that were true, all golfers could
slot and run Tiger 4.2 and smoke their friends. Fact is,
though, that the wetware side of the equation is full of
variables and unless someone is able to focus himself
and integrate his physiology with the activesoft, he
won't get the most out of it.
To use the activesofts, all players had to be chromed.
Some went all out, getting their eyes done and, like
Ken, altering their appearance to look like a player of
old. Others, like Jimmy and Thumper, took a more con-
servative approach. Fiber optic cables had been worked
into Jimmy's optic nerve bundle and implanted in his
eyes so he could get the data presented by the batting
helmet. His wired reflexes and muscles would then re-
spond accordingly and hit or miss in a statistically ap-
propriate manner.
The advantage to the conservative approach was that
it left Jimmy and Thumper looking entirely normal. I'd
known plenty of gillettes who reveled in the alien look
their mods gave them, but not everyone wants to be a
chrome-king. I suspected that having another person
ride them during a game was disorienting enough for
some that being reminded of it when not on the field
was preferable.
Jimmy blinked his eyes, then covered a yawn with
his hand. "Sorry about zoning on you there, Wolf, but I
had to put my playing face on. I'm going to Verifica-
tion. When you finish dressing, meet me there."
"Right."
Thumper slapped me on the shoulder, then went off
to minister to another player. I hung my clothes, includ-
ing my kevlar vest, in the locker and started putting on
my uniform. Leaving my vest off did not please me, but
kevlar isn't commonly worn beneath a uniform5 and the
Seattle club bosses didn't want me giving out any hints
that something was wrong. So far the attempts at sabo-
tage had been subtle to the point of being nothing more
5 The exception being road trips to New York, of course.
than vapor, so the danger quotient was low on this job.
Otherwise, Doc Raven would have sent Kid Stealth in
to bat clean-up.
Spikes, even the short ones for use on turf, feel weird
on the feet when walking across cement. They lacked
traction on the wet part of the floor where Babe walked
out of a cold shower, naked except for the water sheet-
ing off him and the pouches under his eyes. He sniffed
the air as he walked past me, then drifted in toward the
lockers, gently calling out Thumper's name.
Before I could get to software verification, Bobby
Kane, the short, squat team manager pulled me into his
office. "Wolf, I want you to meet Palmer Clark. He's
with the League's Office of Verification. Mr. Clark, this
is Wolfgang Kies."
Clark stood a centimeter or so taller than me, and
where I tended toward being lean and wiry, he still car-
ried a fair amount of muscle. "Very pleased to meet you,
Mr. Clark. I remember when you played here in '43.
Even though you were playing for Cincinnati and
against us, well, I was one of 'Charlie's Hustlers' out in
right field. You were great."
"Thanks." He smiled painfully enough that I guessed
the last thing he wanted to deal with was a gushing fan,
so I sobered up. "The club informed the Commissioner
they had brought in an independent troubleshooter, and
we applaud their initiative. I wanted to meet with you
just to stress the importance that nothing about this be
leaked to the outside world. Not a word of it. If any hint
of scandal got out concerning our system, well, that
would be the end of all of it."
"Wolf's the soul of discretion, Mr. Clark."
"I'm sure he is, Bobby, as is this Raven person he
works for. Most impressive, the record they've racked
up. I just need to be sure they understand the extent of
our need for secrecy. This whole problem is utterly vex-
ing, and I appreciate the help, but baseball must come
first."
From the expression on Clark's face and the tone of
his voice, I began to get a read on him and what his
words really meant. "Look, I'm not here to grandstand
or step on your toes. I'm just going over stuff and ask-
ing questions because everything that's obvious to you
guys isn't so obvious to me. I'm just an interested ob-
server, nothing more. And I won't say a thing about any
of this—not only do I work with a baseball fan who
would make my life miserable if I destroyed the game,
but I've become friends with folks like Jimmy and
Bobby and I'd not hurt them."
"Good, just so we understand each other." Clark's ex-
pression lightened. "Now what can I do to help you?"
I hitched for a second, my mind blanking as it sorted
through a million questions. I started to backtrack
through my short-term memory, then came up with a
general query. "Jimmy's in Verification. Mind giving
me a datadump on that process?"
Clark smiled as if I'd served up a fat curve with the
bases loaded. "We use a simple, helmetlike device that
flashes ultraviolet signals in through the player's eyes.
His scalp, facial, and ear muscles react in accordance
with the pattern sent to them, as it is interpreted by the
statsoft. We read the electronic activity of those muscles
and match them against the expected response. If there
is a variation from the expected response, we test further.
If the statsoft is bad, we lock the player up with a coded
message, then pull the software he's loaded. That's veri-
fied and if it's been tampered with, the player is out and
the team dealt with if the modifications have enhanced
the player at all and they are to blame."
"I take it that doesn't happen very often?"
Clark shook his head confidently. "The system is
foolproof, so no one even bothers to try anymore. At
least they didn't. This is why it's so vital we find out
what's happening now, because the slippage in perfor-
mances could jeopardize Seattle's playoff hopes."
"Got it." Despite the urgency in Clark's voice, I
sensed a distancing between the two points in that state-
ment: he wanted to know why Seattle's players were
slipping, but he really didn't care that they were. Seattle
had never been one of the strongest draws in the game.
As far as merchandising went, they really bit; which
was why the team's faux franchise stuff did so well. The
San Diego Jaguars, for example, had a much better logo
and better-looking uniforms that brought lots of added
revenue for the team and the league. Clark, looking at
things from a league perspective, wanted to stop the
tampering, but perhaps only after things got to the point
where Seattle would finish behind the Jags on their way
to the pennant race.
I gave Bobby and Clark a smile. "I'll keep my eyes
open, see what I can see."
Clark nodded solemnly. "Good. We need to stop this
before any real damage is done."
Sitting in the dugout had me full of all sorts of con-
flicting emotions—all of them good and crawling
through my brain like toddlers wanting to be in the front
seat of a car. Lining up on the third base line for the na-
tional anthem was a real kick, especially with Valerie
and Lynn sitting in Val's box and waving at me. I didn't
see myself on the Megatron screen out in center, but I
knew I could watch the replay of the game later at home. Be-
ing there was a thrill, the fulfillment of a dream I never
really knew I had. Just knowing that something I might
do on the field would rivet the attention of thousands of
people all at once, well, that's really heady stuff.
Ken's always slotting the Babe Ruth statsoft began to
make more sense.
Technically speaking I could enter the game. Because
we were in September, the teams carried an expanded
roster and they had me on the active list to explain why
I was practicing with the team and why I'd go on the
road with them when we went to play for the Coastal
League Pennant. The actual chances of my playing were
nil, of course, because I couldn't really hit and, even
if I did get my glove on a ball, I didn't know enough
strategy to know what play to make where. I had,
however, paid close attention and mastered all the signs,
so I had a vague idea what was going to happen in the
game6.
We were even with the Jaguars and if we could get
ahead of them, we'd have homefield advantage through
the series, which would be a great advantage. We were
up against the Portland Lords—our downcoast neme-
sis. Even though they were at the bottom of the league,
they thrilled at the idea of playing the spoiler. On the
mound they had an elf who was slotting Rosy Ryan, us-
ing his stats from the 1923 New York Giants. Rosy had
given us trouble earlier in the season and tonight was no
exception.
The seventh inning came and went with no score on
either side. Our pitcher, Pete Weatheral, was playing
Nomo from '03 and had a two-hitter going. Ryan had a
five-hitter and hadn't been scored upon because of
some great fielding by his third baseman. Bottom of the
eighth Ryan began to tire, so Bobby Kane had someone
pinch-hit for Weatheral, with one out and one man on.
Sacrifice moved our runner to second, then our leadoff
guy hit a double into the gap in right center, scoring the
runner. Next batter up hit a worm-burner to third and
the hitter was thrown out at first to retire the side.
Our 1-0 lead evaporated with a single and a homer to
lead off in the top of the ninth. That left us down one af-
ter our reliever struck out one batter and walked the
next, then caught out the fourth man in a double play.
We were really lucky to get out of that inning so easily,
and we all knew it.
Bobby Kane stalked through the dugout, clapping his
hands. "We have a chance to win this one in regulation,
men, so let's do it. Babe, you're up. Jimmy, you're on
deck. Nothing fancy, just get on board and come home,
got it?"
Babe winked at Bobby and donned his batting helmet.
6 Actually, Val had told me I'd better do at least that much, and I didn't
see giving her any reason to be angry at me as a survival trait.
"Better put it out, Jimmy. I don't want to have to run
fast to score."
"Yeah, just get on, Showboat."
I smiled as Jimmy came over to the bat rack and se-
lected his bat. "You're handling the pressure well."
Jimmy shrugged. "Can't let little things get to you."
"Winning's a pretty big thing, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but the details are all small. For example, you
check the Scoreboard recently?"
I glanced out at it there in center, beneath the Mega-
tron screen. Save for a single, burned-out bulb, every-
thing looked fine, then I saw that the Dodgers-Jaguar
game had ended with the Dodgers winning by a run.
"We take this game, we have a full game lead going
into the game on Monday night."
"Yeah, that's one thing." Jimmy settled his helmet
over his head and his voice became muffled. "Their
pitcher is another."
The Lords had put an ork on the mound, and the
Scoreboard reported he was slotting Fat Freddie Fitz-
simmons from the 1939 Brooklyn Dodgers. The stats
displayed weren't all that great, but Freddie had won
about three times as many games that year as he lost.
Since he dropped the last two games he'd played for the
Lords, statistically speaking, he was due for a win.
I frowned. "Ruth ever face Fitzsimmons in real life?"
Spike shook his head. "Careers overlapped, but Ruth
was mostly American League and Fitzsimmons was en-
tirely National. Only place they could have faced each
other was in the World Series, but they missed each
other by a year. That's what's so sharp about how the
game's played now—greats and near greats can face
each other again, to decide what might have happened
once upon a time."
Kane spat brown juice into a corner. "Ruth would
have creamed him. Fitzsimmons never did well in series
play."
"Let's hope that's true, statistically speaking." I
watched Babe stalk toward the plate. He had the tight
little walk down and seemed as natural there as the
shouts of hotdog vendors and the smell of popcorn in
the park. A couple of Lords' fans—standing out easily
in their kelly green and teal jerseys, yelled insults
at Babe as he gently tapped dirt from his spikes with
his bat.
"Fat suet-sack, you couldn't hit if they delivered the
ball on a tray!"
Ken smiled the way Babe Ruth would have, then
pointed his bat toward centerfield. That brought a cheer
from our fans and derision from the Lords side. Then
Ken set himself, drew the bat to his shoulder, raised it a
bit, and waited.
Bobby swore and kicked the bench beside me. "No!
No, no, no! Of all the stupid . . ."
"What?" I looked at Jimmy, but he just pointed at the
Megatron. It showed Ken's face as big as could be and
his eyes were plainly closed. "What's he doing?"
Jimmy shook his head. "It's how he shows contempt
for the pitchers."
"It's how he shows contempt for the manager."
Bobby spat more tobacco juice into the corner. "Fine to
do when we're a dozen runs ahead and he's hitting into
a stat curve, but now?"
Jimmy shrugged. "Gotta believe, skipper."
Kane growled. "I believe I'm going to kick his butt
over the fence if he strikes out."
The first pitch came in and Babe swung at it. He didn't
get all of it, but he got enough to foul it off into the
stands. He smiled serenely and got set again, then took a
pitch that came in high. A second pitch was outside and
he didn't go for that one either, which puzzled me. How
does he know?
The Old One growled deep within me. It is his nature
to know, Longtooth. As you know when trouble comes,
he knows what is good and what is bad.
Somehow I doubted that. "He must be peeking."
Jimmy turned and winked at me. "Doesn't see much
through those lashes of his, but sees enough."
The fourth pitch came in and Babe nailed it pretty
hard. It skipped off the infield between short and third.
The leftfielder picked it up and threw to second, but
Ken had barely rounded first and danced back to the
safety of the bag. There he raised his hands and ac-
cepted the adulation of the crowd, tossing his batting
helmet to the first-base coach and pulling on his uni-
form cap. He continued to smile and wave, then turned
toward his image on the Megatron, doffed his cap, and
began a bow complete with cap flourish.
He never straightened up from the bow and instead
plowed face first into the infield dirt. Laughter started
as if this were some joke, then his body twitched as if
he'd landed on a high-power cable. He flopped over
onto his back, his cap flying from nerveless fingers.
Froth formed at the corners of his mouth, then another
seizure shook him and he lay still.
Bobby and our trainer streaked from the dugout and
joined the first-base coach standing over Ken's body.
Bobby turned and waved urgently to the dugout, send-
ing our chip coach scurrying onto the field, then from
the bullpen I saw a golf-cart with a stretcher coming
out. The dwarf chip coach pulled the statsoft from the
chipjack, causing Ken to convulse one last time, then
the trainer and Bobby lifted Ken onto the stretcher. The
chip coach traveled with him off the field.
Bobby came jogging back to the dugout and pointed
at me. "Take off your jacket, Wolf. You're pinch-
running."
I blinked at him. "Me?"
"You."
"But . . ."
He waved me out of the dugout and draped an arm
around my shoulders. "Look, you're fast, you can run
the bases."
"So can anyone else."
"Yeah, but you're not being ridden by some byteghost."
I felt a chill run down my spine. "What are you talk-
ing about?"
Bobby shivered. "I've seen that reaction one time be-
fore, in the minors. Someone had hacked a statsoft and
that's what happens to the player when he's running bad
code."
"But Ken went through verification."
"Right, something else caused the failure. Don't
know what, but until I do, you're running for him."
Bobby slapped me on the back. "Chance to live a
dream, kid. Don't let us down."
"Nothing fancy, I remember."
"Well, that was for Babe. You I need in scoring posi-
tion. Watch the signs and do what the coaches tell you
to do."
I stripped off my jacket, tossed it into the dugout, and
ran over to first base. The public address system an-
nounced, "Now pinch-running on first, Keith Wolfley7."
Had it not been for two wildly enthusiastic female
voices, the singsong mantra of the hot dog vendors
would have drowned out the cheer that went up for me.
I got on first and smiled at Red Fisher, the first-base
coach. "What advice you got for me?"
The grizzled old man narrowed his eyes. "Don't get
out."
"Do my best." I took a little lead off first, slightly
emboldened by the fact that Fitzsimmons had his back
to me. I saw Bobby wave me out another step and heard
Red growl, "It's called a lead for a reason, kid. Edge of
the carpet."
I centimetered my way back out there, then jogged
back to the sack after Fitzsimmons delivered a ball to
Jimmy. I smiled at the first baseman, but he just spat at
my feet. As the pitcher set himself again, I took a lead.
7 That's the name they had me play under because it had parts close
enough to my real name that I'd catch it, and it fit on the back of a jersey
real easy.
Even though only 27.43 meters separated the bags, sec-
ond base looked a full light year away.
I can give you warp speed, Longtooth.
I snarled at the Old One, and resolved never again to
fall sleep in front of the trid when watching reruns of
old shows. The Old One's grasp of technology faded
about the time man began to make tools out of some-
thing other than stone, but occasionally he latched on to
make-believe stuff. Someone once said that any suffi-
ciently advanced technology is indistinguishable from
magic8, and proof of that was the Old One fully accept-
ing as real the technobabble science pedaled as enter-
tainment by the media. Of course, he thought of those
shows as "Shamans in Space"—they were chock full of
special effects he saw as magic—but the ratings folks
never asked his opinion anyway.
A quick yip from the Old One warned me a half-
second before I saw the pitcher step off the rubber and
begin to turn toward me. I pushed off with my right foot
and dove back to the bag. Dirt sprayed up into my face
and my hands felt canvas as above me I heard the pop of
the ball in the first baseman's mitt. A split second later
the first baseman slapped me across the head with the
ball, the resulting thud all but drowning out the um-
pire's call of "safe."
I suppressed the Old One's urge to bite the first base-
man and stood slowly, always keeping in contact with
the bag. I brushed some dirt off my shirt. "Fitz has a
nice move to the bag."
The first baseman sneered at me. "Ear still ringing?"
"Yeah, but I've got call forwarding." I took a one-
step off the bag. "I'll take it at second."
"Right, pal." The Lord shook his head. "In your
dreams."
My dreams, your nightmare. Bobby flashed me the
sign to steal. At least, I was pretty sure it was the sign to
8 Raven said that was Arthur C. Clarke, some old guy who wrote way
back when, back when they used ink and stuff.
steal. It made perfect sense—on second I'd be in scor-
ing position, and I did have good wheels. In fact, the
only thing that spoke against my stealing second was
that I'd not stolen a base since before my age was in
double digits.
I almost expected my life to flash before my eyes at a
moment like that, but I got nothing quite so serious.
What did happen was that every conversation I'd ever
had with Valerie concerning baseball ran back through
my mind. She was just full of pithy bits of baseball lore,
including the very applicable, "You don't steal on the
catcher, you steal on the pitcher." I took another step
worth of lead, then, as Fitzsimmons started to throw, I
was off.
My vision kind of tunneled in on the bag. I saw the
second baseman cutting in toward it, raising his glove to
grab the catcher's throw. I could feel my spikes like
talons, digging into the carpet. My legs pumped, my
arms swung. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.
I watched the base, prepared to dive beneath the second
baseman's tag, and I even grinned at the prospect of
sliding head first.
Then I heard the crack of the bat and a rising roar
from the crowd. Nothing quite as clean and crisp and
pure as the sound of a wooden bat catching all of a ball
and then some. I saw a bit of blurred white to my left,
then turned my head to the right and picked up this tiny
pellet getting smaller and smaller by the second. It
arced high through the Dome's darkened upper reaches,
then rocketed down, over the wall in dead center.
Fireworks shot up from behind the Scoreboard and
the Megatron, exploding brilliantly. Below, the score-
board's graphics likewise put on a light display. The
fireworks cannonade fill the Dome with red, green,
gold, and blue sparks that drifted down as the Megatron
showed a replay of Jimmy's hit. As the explosive
echoes of the fireworks died, the pulsing cheers from
the stands washed out over the fields, and I found my-
self howling with delight.
I made sure to step fully on second, third, and home,
then turned to welcome Jimmy home. He slapped both
of my hands, then we butted chests and started laughing
as the rest of the team collapsed in toward us. An army
of hands and arms reached past and around me to con-
gratulate Jimmy.
I managed to slip back out of the crowd and felt curi-
ously alone as the team amoeba moved toward the
dugout and locker room. I was as happy as anyone with
the win—the Seadogs were as much my team as they
were anyone else's—but I wasn't really part of the
team. Yes, the run I'd scored helped lift us past the
Lords, but I felt like I was poaching. I hadn't earned a
place there, I didn't have a right to celebrate the way the
rest of them were.
Yet being there, alone, was not the same as being
lonely. I held myself apart not because I felt I wouldn't
be welcomed, but because I didn't want to intrude. They
had a camaraderie born of their battles the way I did
with Raven and Stealth and Tark and Val; even with Zig
and Zag. I respected what they had too much to want to
impose myself on it. I was happy for them, happy for
what they had done and happy to have contributed to it,
even in a minor way. That was fine for me.
I drifted into the dugout as the last of the players
squeezed into the tunnel back into the locker room.
Bobby Kane stopped me with a hand on my chest.
"Your attempt at stealing second . . ."
I winced. "I got the sign wrong, right?"
The manager shook his head. "You read it right, but
that sign meant you could go if you wanted to. We
needed you in scoring position, but I wasn't going to
force you to go." He brushed some dirt from my jersey.
"You got heart, kid. Sometimes, with all these wired
guys muling for math-ghosts, it's easy to forget that's
what's needed for playing this game."
"Thanks." I gave him a quick smile. "Any word on
Ken?"
"Took him off to the hospital. He should be okay, but
they'll want to balance out his electrolytes, get him
some rest. Given that we've got the Jags coming in, and
the nonsense that passes for Ken's lifestyle, having him
bedridden for two days is a good thing."
"True, but he'll be vulnerable there. I'll call Raven.
He can take a look at him and put some protection in
place." I narrowed my eyes. "Assuming this was an at-
tempt to take him out of more than just this game, I
don't want to give whoever did this another shot."
"Amen to that." Bobby slapped me on the back. "Hey,
Wolf, just in case no one else thinks to say it, thanks.
And, welcome to the show. You scored a run, you're a
statistic."
"Sure, someday someone will be using me as a
Legacy player."
We both laughed and I headed into the locker room. I
peeled off my uniform and hit the showers. I parked
myself under a nozzle back in the corner, not out of any
sense of modesty, but because that was far enough away
from the entrance that random cool breezes and giddy
players with towels spun into rat-tails couldn't easily
get at me. The hot water felt good and even the Old One
stopped growling when we heard the occasional snap
of a towel and the resulting yelp of pain.
After much too short a time, I came back out and
toweled off. A low growl and a shot of silver eyes kept a
couple of jokers away from rat-tailing me on my way to
my locker. I dropped down on the bench next to Jimmy
and started dressing. "Nice shot."
"Thanks." He smiled at me. "Sorry to rob you of your
stolen base, but when you went, Fitz hurried his deliv-
ery. Came in a bit higher than I like . . ."
"Not that you could have noticed from the hit."
His grin broadened. "Yeah, I suppose. I did kinda nail
it, didn't I?"
The pure, unadulterated joy in his question brought a
big smile to my face. I nodded and tightened my kevlar
vest. "I'd bet one side of that ball is squashed flat."
"Maybe. All that counts, though, is that we won. Best
the Jags can do now is tie us and we have a playoff to
move into the pennant series."
"I'll slot that and run any day." I pulled my turtleneck
on. "I'm thinking of heading over to see how Ken is.
Want to go with me?"
"I was thinking of doing the same thing, and was go-
ing to take Thumper—he said he wanted to go." Jimmy
jerked a thumb in the direction of the media office. "I
have to go talk to the newsleeches, which will take a
little while. Thumper's off changing a bulb in the
Scoreboard—he says it's bad bulbs we're getting, or a
bad socket needs replacing. He wants things perfect for
the Jags."
"All right, I'll round Thumper up and we'll head over
there after you get away from the media frenzy." I
glanced at my watch, then slid it onto my left wrist. "I
need to call Raven anyway. Twenty minutes?"
Jimmy nodded. "Works for me. If I'm not out by
then, come in shooting."
"Full-auto." I finished dressing by pulling on a pair
of jeans, and then some steel-toed boots, the right one
with a slender stiletto sheathed in it. I shrugged my
shoulder holster on, then pulled on a leather jacket over
that. In my only concession to team spirit I wore the
team cap, twisting the brim around so it covered the
back of my neck.
I headed out into the network of internal corridors
that allowed staff access to every nook and cranny of
the Dome and found a public telecom. I briefed Doc on
what had happened. He said he'd head out to the hospi-
tal immediately and make sure someone was with Ken
around the clock. I asked him to exempt Val from that
duty and, laughing, he said he would. I said I'd see him
at the hospital, hit the Disconnect, and started looking
for Thumper.
I asked around among the clean-up crew if they'd
seen Thumper, and I was pointed in several different
directions. None of those leads panned out, so I headed
for the Scoreboard, which is where I should have been
going in the first place. After a couple of false starts, I
found the passageway to the area behind the Scoreboard
and hurried along it. With the game over and the crowds
clearing out, the lights had been reduced by half in the
corridors and only a third of them still burned on
the field. The air conditioning systems that handled the
playing area and pretty much everything save the locker
rooms had likewise been shut down, giving the Dome a
warm closeness that made it easy to remember we were
really just standing in a big hole in the ground.
As I came into the area behind the Scoreboard, every-
thing looked normal. The space had been shaped into a
little amphitheatre used to store rakes, shovels, a turf
roller, and seats waiting to be repaired. The black out-
line of the rear access hatch to the Scoreboard and the
Megatron indicated it was open, but I expected that. In
the dimness at the base of the Scoreboard I saw the six
short, organ-pipe style mortars that shot fireworks into
the sky for a home run. A chair sat next to them, but it
had been knocked over onto its side and I saw some-
thing half-hidden by the mortars.
In an instant I called upon the Old One to give me his
senses. As my nose opened up, I caught a heavy whiff
of blood and a hint of Atomic balm. I also smelled a
couple different colognes and started to reach for my
Viper.
A piece of shadow moved to my right. The truncheon
my attacker wielded arced down fast. I tried to move
with the blow, but was too slow. It caught me at the base
of my skull and would have dropped me cleanly, but the
bill on my cap absorbed some of the impact. I crumpled
to the left and rolled a bit, ending up on my back, with
my throat exposed.
Given the phase of the moon and my being somewhat
stunned by the blow, this was not the best position I
could have ended up in. The Old One immediately de-
termined that I was in jeopardy and already defeated,
since I'd left my belly and throat vulnerable to attack.
With fierce disgust echoing through his howl, he ex-
erted himself, filling my limbs with energy.
I will save us, Longtooth.
I had all I could do to prevent him from warping me
into a wolfoid monster, which meant my control over my
actions wavered. The Old One spun me around and
lashed out at my assailant with a foot. We managed to trip
her up—the Old One snarled about fighting a woman—
but the way she bounced up from the trip told me she had
more wire in her than the sprawl power grid and that she
had to be slotting KillaKarate 2.3 activesofts, Black Belt
edition.
Unfortunately for her, there really aren't that many
katas dealing with the fighting style Man-Who-Fights-
Like-Wolf. The Old One bounded me up from the
ground and drove me at her very quickly. She brought
her hands up in defense, but I just lunged forward, my
mouth opening for a bite that would crush her wind-
pipe. Not having a muzzle, I knew that wasn't going to
work too well, but the Old One didn't care. He jammed
my face in at her throat, which meant I got her chin in
my left eye, but her jaw did snap shut.
She fell back and managed to flip me over a hip, but
I rolled into a crouch that kept me well below the side-
kick she snapped at my head with her right foot. The
Old One again lunged me forward and we went for her
left leg. I got a mouthful of synthleather and hamstring,
but, more important, managed to knock her off balance
and to the ground. She landed on her belly and the Old
One popped me up into a pounce. I landed on her back,
with my knees hammering her kidneys and my hands
mashing her face against the floor.
A kick to my ribs from her partner picked me up off
her and sent me flying. I would have howled, but the
kick knocked the wind out of me. I landed hard and
rolled, but he came in at me and clipped me with a kick
to the head. That twisted me around and dumped me by
the mortars.
And into the pool of Thumper's blood.
His blood covered me and the Old One went berserk.
Here someone I had identified as being in my pack lay
dead. My mission had been to protect him and the
others, and these attackers had killed one of the pack
members. This was not a crime, for the Old One had
no sense of criminality, this was just an offense, an
aberration. It was something that violated the way of
things, and all reality cried out for things to be set to
rights again. And set them to rights again the Old One
would do.
Though the Old One had often lent me his senses,
never had I seen things so clearly through his eyes, as I
did now with our attacker closing with us. I saw the
man coming in—a simple gillette, nothing special—as a
collection of weaknesses and dangers. The flashing feet,
the gloved hands, these could hurt us, but they could be
avoided. I ducked my head beneath one kick, then, on
all fours, leaned away from another. The gillette pulled
back, preparing for a new flurry of blows, dancing
around to cut me off from his partner, allowing her to
recover, and further cutting me off from any avenue of
escape.
Had I been a man, thinking like a man, that would
have disturbed me. Had I been thinking strictly like a
man, I would have pulled my Viper and drilled both of
them, but the Old One had called the tune and he was
leading, so all I could do was follow.
The Old One proved to be a master of the predator
waltz. In his first attacks he directed me as he would
have directed a wolf, having me fight as a wolf would.
Now he shifted things, using my advantages to account
for my shortcomings. While his inventory of my short-
comings would max countless chips, the one thing he
does like about me is that I have a weapon he does not:
a hand. Moreover, that hand comes equipped with a
thumb and can be made into a fist.
The Old One launched me at the razorboy in what I
would have classed as a bull-rush, but he howled away
the notion that we were employing the tactics used by
food to defend itself. I caught part of a kick on my left
arm, then was inside on my foe. The Old One slammed
my right fist into the gillette's groin. The man wore a
cup, but the sheer ferocity of the blow compressed ten-
der bits and surprised him. My head came up, crunching
into his jaw, then the Old One stabbed my left hand into
the man's throat.
The gillette gurgled and lurched into the shadows. I
leaped for him, catching him on the right flank. He
clutched his throat with both hands, so I levered his el-
bow up with my right hand and knifed my left hand into
his armpit. My right knee came up, smashing into his
stomach, then my left fist hammered down on the back
of his neck. He grunted and rolled into the shadowed
corner of the room.
I heard his partner get up and begin to stumble off,
running, but the Old One did not turn in pursuit. He al-
ready had his prey and wanted a kill. His resolution to
finish the gillette came powered with the outrage he felt
over being trapped in the Dome, in this building that
was, like the gillette, entirely against nature. This was a
place where men sought to denature Nature, holding it
captive to their whims, for their amusement. And this,
too, was a hubristic aberration that demanded correction.
I pounced on the man and pummeled him, then felt
the Old One make a final bid for power. He used the
scent of blood, the whimpers of the man I sat astride,
and my memories of Thumper as a bludgeon to shatter
my control over my body. I tried to fight him, but a
quick, backhanded blow by my foe caught me in the
face. It surprised me more than hurt me, but it loosened
my grip and the Old One ran wild.
I heard my bones snap with gunshot reports as the
Old One remade me in his form. He was, in his mind,
not denaturing me, but renaturing me, making me over
into what I should have been. Arm bones became trun-
cated and muscle protoplasm flowed to new points of
insertion. My hands tightened and knotted; my nails
thickened and narrowed. Pain spiked up and down my
jaw as my teeth grew, and my face crunched as a muzzle
began to protrude from my face.
The Old One made me lunge at the gillette's throat,
but I snapped my teeth shut well shy of the intended
target. He is not prey you would kill and eat.
He must die for he is unnatural!
That, you mutt, is human thinking, not your way! You
don't kill for sport.
Men do. Kill him.
Men may, I do not! I reexerted control, stopping the
transformation shy of where the Old One wanted to take
it. With a quick backhanded slap, I stopped the gillette's
strugglings, then rolled off his chest and sat with my
back to the wall. I had control for the moment, but I
could feel the Old One gathering his strength to contest
me, and the stink of blood helped him. Thumper was
dead, and part of me cried out for revenge, but that was
too simple for the situation that killed him.
Somewhere in the dark passageway back into the sta-
dium I heard a thwok, then the razorgirl came tumbling
back into the small enclosure. A half-second later
Jimmy entered the enclosure, a bat in his hands. "Wolf?
Thumper?"
I tried to answer him, but the Old One growled.
Jimmy turned toward the shadows, raising the bat.
The Old One took that as a threat and tried to make
me lunge at him.
I gritted my teeth, locking my jaw shut, and refused.
"Go. Away. Jimmy." My voice came in a harsh croak,
with lots of growl worked in and around it. "Go."
He, too, is unnatural, Longtooth. He is as bad as this
place.
But he is my friend. I shaped my will into a stick and
poked it at the Old One. You tried to play at man's
games, and you lost.
It will not always be so, Longtooth.
One game at a time.
Jimmy lowered his head slightly, trying to pierce the
darkness that shrouded me. "Wolf, is that you? Are you
okay?"
"It's me, Jimmy. I need you to go away." I had to force
the words out through my throat. "Call security. Thumper
is hurt bad. Dead, I think. These two did it. Go. Now.
Please."
"Are you hurt?" Jimmy took a half-step toward me.
"You look . . . different."
His eyes have been done, he can probably see me. I
didn't know if his optical mods included low-light vision,
but the shadows would only hide me if he stayed back.
"I'm going to be fine. Please, just go. I'll catch up and
explain. Get Thumper help."
He nodded. " 'Kay, if that's what you want."
"Thanks."
Jimmy turned and ran away down the passage, and
the Old One relinquished his grip on me. I felt all the
agonies of my body returning to normal, but I refused to
cry out. Torturing me that way was beneath him, but the
Old One had been thwarted so he didn't care. Grum-
bling like some guttercur, he retreated inside me and
lurked like a hangover.
I shivered, then stood unsteadily. I might have been
deep in the bowels of a building that mocked nature,
covered in the blood of people who had denied their
own nature, but at least I was myself again.
And, for the moment, that was a win.
III
As wins went, though, it was rather costly. Thumper's
death nearly gut-shot the team. His enthusiasm had kept
everyone loose, his gentle words had dispelled the nega-
tivism that could prolong a slump, and his sense of hu-
mor reminded everyone that since baseball was really a
game, they should have fun out there. To have him killed
stunned everyone, and at such a crucial point in the year,
that could easily have spelled doom for the team.
Oddly enough, Ken Wilson helped turn that sentiment
around. Against doctor's orders he left the hospital and
came to the team meeting after Thumper's death. He
looked around at those gathered and delivered a succinct
and powerful eulogy. "Each of us," he said, "knows who
we are inside. I'm not Babe Ruth, you're not Matt
Williams or Pee Wee Reese. When we step away from
the game, when we retire our statsofts, we will be some-
one outside the game. Thumper devoted his whole life to
baseball and became a person who literally lived for it.
And now he's died for it. He died making sure every-
thing would be perfect for us, for our game against the
Jaguars tomorrow. Our duty, our debt to him demands
that we make that game as perfect as he made this place
for that game. You know, you all know, he's still here,
watching us. Well, I'm not gonna let him down."
As Ken spoke I felt an upswelling of emotion and
could see the same shining from the eyes of the other
players. I knew they bought into it wholly and com-
pletely, but that's because they didn't have a full under-
standing of how Thumper had died. Palmer Clark had
taken immediate charge of the investigation and had
clamped a lid on things very quickly. All the media
learned was that Thumper had been engaged in some
routine maintenance duties when he'd had an accident,
struck his head, and died.
The truth was not nearly so neat. There was no deny-
ing that the two gillettes had killed him, but there was
nothing to connect them with the team's sub-par statis-
tical performance. I was not a party to any interroga-
tions, but from what Clark told me, the two of them were
being fairly tight-lipped. They had a history of catting—
burgling—various and sundry corporate apartments or
places where VIPs installed their extramarital lovers.
They hit spots where they figured folks would not want
much attention paid and would have valuable items hid-
den. Clark figured they had been hiding out preparatory
to breaking into the Dome's luxury boxes, Thumper sur-
prised them, and died in the ensuing struggle.
I couldn't dispute that idea, and cautioned myself
against trying to make a pattern where none existed. It
seemed to me, though, that if Thumper had found them
hiding, they could have made up some excuse and gotten
out of there. Moreover, they were wired and skilled
enough to have taken Thumper down without killing
him. The only reason they had for killing him was if he'd
seen something he wasn't supposed to see. Though he
might have been killed accidently, they should have va-
cated the area the moment he went down, not hung
around.
Still, the security force and I looked around and
couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. I didn't like
it, but the accidental death theory seemed to be the easi-
est one to explain all that was happening. Normally
that's enough for me, but I was pretty sure there were
some dots that weren't getting connected and that if I
could find them, I'd be able to figure out what was
really going on.
My general feeling of uneasiness had been height-
ened by a bit of distance between Jimmy and me. He
definitely was putting his game face on during practice,
concentrating a great deal. He told me that he'd just
wanted to help that night, and had come looking for me
when I'd not been in the locker room after his media
conference. He'd headed for the Scoreboard area be-
cause that's where he thought Thumper would be. He
literally ran into the woman as she fled, swatted her
back into the battlefield, and then wanted to help me.
As he told me this I could hear the hurt in his voice
that I had asked him to leave. I really wanted to tell him
why I'd asked him to go, but letting someone know
you've gone feral and are likely to tear his throat out is
really not the way to seal a friendship. I explained to
him that with bodies and the like, I was trying to protect
him from scandal or anything that would hurt the team.
That was my job there, after all.
He seemed to accept that explanation, which isn't to
say he believed it. After that we drifted apart—able to
share jokes and all, but it wasn't the same as before.
Given all the other pressures on him, I didn't see any
reason to make an issue out of it. And explaining things
would have required me telling him my secret. While I
knew I could trust him with it, learning it was some-
thing that had already killed too many of Raven's aides
in the past. With Thumper's death to show that folks
were playing for keeps on this one, putting that burden
on Jimmy wasn't something I was going to do.
I spent most of my time with the pitchers. I played a
lot of catch and received advanced instruction in the
proper methods of spitting. Chewing tobacco and com-
post have a lot in common, and you only swallow to-
bacco juice once, which is ample inducement to learn
how to spit it as far away from you as you possibly can.
Very quickly I switched to chewing gum and got to spit-
ting with a degree of accuracy that I figured would im-
press even Kid Stealth9.
In this kind of story about baseball, I'm supposed to
note that the day of the big game dawned bright and
sunny, full of promise and hope, but you wouldn't
believe that. This is Seattle, after all, where they print
pictures of the sun on soyamilk cartons just to remind
folks what it looks like. And our game was in the Dome,
at night, which means the most cogent comment on
atmospherics is that the roof wasn't leaking in any
inconvenient places.
The same could not be said of the team. We were
leaking and leaking badly; but we were leaking num-
bers. San Diego did have an elf with Tom Seaver riding
him. He was using the 1971 stats, during which Seaver
had a 1.76 ERA and 289 strike-outs. He kept blowing
the ball by our guys, or messing them up with off-speed
pitches. Those few guys who did make contact all
grounded out. Going into the later innings, we were all
9 Never did show him how well I spit, however. I kept thinking he might get
his tongue swapped out for some cyberthing that would allow him to spit
venom like a cobra, if he ever thought of it. (If he hasn't already done it!)
aware that Seaver had pitched four shut-outs in '71, but
had only thrown three so far this year.
The mood in the dugout began to sour, despite guys
turning their caps inside out and wearing them back-
ward—anything to start a rally! I felt frustrated in
the extreme because there was nothing I could do in the
dugout or on the field to help the team. The Old One
snarled at me to convince Bobby to put me in.
I have seen enough of this game, Longtooth. I can
make you fast to catch the rabbit-ball, and I can let you
club it to death as well.
The image of my trying to take a bite out of a pitch
coming in high and tight made me wince. Sorry, Old
One, not your game. There was no way I could explain
to him that if any of the etheric sensors here caught
magic being employed by me we'd forfeit the game.
Being on the roster had given me the access I needed to
get my job done, but it also placed a limitation on me.
I dropped down on the end of the bench as we went
out into the field at the top of the eighth. I started run-
ning over things in my mind, looking at them anew, try-
ing to see if there was anything I'd missed. We all knew
tampering was going on somehow, but the software was
being verified by the league before each game, so it was
clean. And it wasn't like the players were picking up a
virus on the field . . .
Or was it? What I knew about computers and the way
they functioned could be put on a chip and still leave
terabytes open, but I did know some of those great, an-
cient, hoary, old statements that had gone from being
glib to trite. The eldest among them: Garbage in,
garbage out. Based on what Jimmy had told me when he
convinced me to hit, I knew players actually did get
data fed into them during the game. It allowed them to
track the ball when pitched. Pumping other data into
hitters would be a simple way to knock their perfor-
mance off the statistical curve.
But what's the input device? I glanced from the hitter
out to centerfield. The Scoreboard, with that single,
burned-out bulb!
It hit me like a hammer. Ken Wilson should have
gone down at the plate, but he got up to bat with his
eyes closed. It was only when he was taking bows that
he saw the Scoreboard and the signals put him down.
And Thumper had been out there changing a burned-
out bulb, which wasn't burned out at all, but set up to
flash instructions in the ultraviolet light range. Even
if folks in the stands or other players noticed it, if it
wasn't flashing a code that did something to their stat-
soft, they'd be unaffected and would have no reason to
remember it.
I blew a bubble with my gum and jumped a bit as it
popped. The two catters hadn't been waiting for a
chance to rob luxury suites, they'd been making sure
the proper bulb was in the proper socket on the score-
board. Thumper surprised them and they killed him.
Which means that bulb is what's keeping us down.
I got up and started running into the clubhouse. This
is not easy to do in spikes. I crunch-clacked my way
down corridors, then skidded around corners and
scrambled like a cartoon character to get up speed for
my next dash. I heard the muffled roar of the crowd as
we got San Diego out and started to come to bat. Now
or never.
I bounced off the corridor wall leading to the score-
board area and dashed into it. I saw Palmer Clark wait-
ing by the entrance and realized he'd heard me coming,
which gave him time to set up for my arrival. His right
hand fell fast and the muzzle of his gun hit me solidly
on the neck. I went down hard and would have been un-
conscious but for my aborted attempt to stop running
when I saw him. My cleats had slipped out from under
me, already dropping me to the ground, so the blow
didn't hit as hard as it could have. Still, I bounced once
and rolled up into a ball against the wall where I'd
lurked in the shadows two nights earlier.
From my position there I could see several things, the
first and foremost being the Ares Predator in Clark's
right hand. The muzzle looked like the south end of the
Alaska oil pipeline and I really had no desire to be
catching what it would be pitching. Up beyond him, just
past the edge of the Megatron, I saw one of the smaller
video display units set high above the seats on the third
base side. It showed Jimmy warming up and stepping
toward the plate.
Clark smiled. "Just as well you're here. I'd planned
on framing you in the tampering scandal once I heard
you were working with the team. You engineer this
point-shaving deal, you get caught and get dead."
"That's what I get for slotting Shoeless Joe Jackson,
right?"
"You should be so lucky." As Jimmy stepped into the
batter's box, Clark pointed a rectangular remote control
sort of device at the Scoreboard. I saw no receiver for it,
but from where he stood he angled things down past the
fireworks tubes, so I assumed it was hidden from my
view. "There, that should do it."
On the screen I saw Seaver rear back and throw.
Jimmy took a wicked cut at the ball, but missed it
cleanly. He twisted around and hit the ground. He
stayed down for a second, then shook his head and
stood again. The umpire called for time while Jimmy
backed off and brushed dirt from his clothes.
I smiled at Clark. "He's tougher than Ken."
Clark shrugged. "What happened to Ken was not
very subtle, but was necessary as a show of what can be
done. This evening, the effects have been more gentle."
Use me, Longtooth. We will get the gun away from
him and stop him.
I shook my head and rubbed at the back of my neck. I
still hurt from the clubbing and wasn't certain I could
concentrate enough to summon the Old One's help.
Moreover, I still knew that if I did so, the game would
be lost, I'd be dead, and Clark would be free to continue
doing what he was doing.
A second pitch came in and Jimmy started to swing
for it, then held up. The ball grooved straight down the
middle and the umpire yelled, "Strike."
Clark smiled. "One more pitch and your boy strikes
out. The anguished cries of thousands will be enough to
drown out the shot that kills you."
"Think so?"
Clark composed his face into a mask of serene
civility. "Count on it."
The wind-up.
The pitch.
I gave Clark a spitter.
The little pellet of gum came in like a hanging curve.
He stumbled back from it and batted it away with his
left hand. Disgust curled his upper lip and he was about
to snap something at me, when he heard a sound that
stopped him.
The crack of a bat on a ball.
Funny thing about being that far out in centerfield.
On the screen I saw Jimmy swing and connect, but it
was a second or so before I heard the sound of the hit.
Clark half turned to look at the screen I was watching,
and completed his turn about the time the ball cleared
the fence.
I don't think anyone noticed that only five of the six
mortar tubes sent fireworks exploding over the score-
board. The one that hit Clark entered his back, lifting
him up off the ground about a meter or so, and spinning
him around. As he came back to where I could see his
face, I caught a hint of horror and agony in his eyes,
then he vomited green fire. His body somersaulted
once, then hit the ground and flopped a lot until greasy
gray smoke rose from his back and mouth.
Longtooth.
I rested my head back against the wall and closed my
eyes to let that image fade to black. "Yes?"
I  see why you like this game.

*    *    *
I saw Jimmy about a day later. I was leaning against
his ride and smiled as he came walking over. "Never got
a chance to tell you, that was a great dinger yesterday."
"Thanks." He glanced at the ground, then put his
satchel down and folded his arms across his chest.
"They told us some of what was going on. They said
Clark had extra code inserted into the statsofts that
wasn't picked up in the verification process. Said that
allowed him to code orders for us and load them in
through the Scoreboard."
"Right." I shook my head. "Should have guessed
what was going on all the way along. The only folks
outside the league who benefited from the statsoft situa-
tion are gamblers. They can run the stats and figure out
how a game should end up, then adjust odds accord-
ingly. Doing what he was doing, Clark showed he could
skew those probabilities big time."
"Think he was betting on the games?"
"Possible. Apparently he still slotted one of the Pete
Rose years he used to play." I shrugged. "No gambler
will admit to taking his bets, but I think he was after
something bigger. I think he saw Rose as being victim-
ized by gamblers and wanted to avenge him. By show-
ing he could skew the results, he was in a position to
blackmail gambling concerns and get payoffs from
them to do nothing."
Jimmy nodded, but the stiffness in his posture didn't
ease. "Funny how letting someone else ride you can get
you mixed up."
"Generally why there's only one personality allowed
per body." I smiled, but Jimmy didn't return it.
"They said you got to Clark before he could zap me
with his thing. Analysis of the code he broadcast said I
would have struck out, not hit a homer."
"Really? They didn't tell me that."
"Is what you told them the truth?"
I shrugged. "Truth is open to a lot of interpretations.
The only truth I care about was the round-tripper you
notched in the eighth. It gave us the win, puts us in the
pennant hunt."
"But you know."
"Your secret? Yeah, I know." I nodded slowly.
"When you didn't strike out, I saw the surprise on
Clark's face—for all of a second—and I realized we're
a lot alike. What you see now is the real me, but what
you saw the night Thumper died, that's part of me, too.
A secret part of me. Not even Val knows about it, nor
Lynn. It's me when I'm being natural."
I smiled up at him. "You're a natural, too. You're not
what people expect. You may load the software so it can
be verified, and you've had that much work done on
you, but you're not using wired reflexes to hit or field.
You're just you."
Jimmy's face hardened. "Ever since I was a kid I was
in love with baseball. It's a game for kids and folks who
can still take joy in the things that kids take joy in."
"Instead of those who slot Kidjoy 1.3?"
"Right, exactly." He snorted a little laugh. "I saw
baseball as a game for people, not machines, and my fa-
ther agreed. He works for the company that owns the
team, so he's been able to adjust all the records that
show how much work was done on me and the league
thinks I'm just like everyone else. But I'm not. Now
you know my secret, so my career is over."
"And you know mine." I gave him a quick grin. "I'll
trust you if you trust me."
"That's it?"
"Is there something more I should want?"
"I think so. I mean . . ." Jimmy ran a hand back over
his close-cropped hair. "Whenever I thought about what
would happen when someone learned my secret, I fig-
ured they'd want money. Baseball makes billions."
I stepped forward and clapped him on the arms.
"Yeah, but like you said, it's a game for kids and those
who can still take joy in kid things. Consider me a big
kid. I've got no use for money. I'd rather have a friend."
"Yeah, kinda more precious than money, isn't it?"
"It's a supply and demand thing, I think."
Jimmy stooped, picked up his bag, then draped an
arm over my shoulder. "So, pal, food?"
"And women?"
"Works for me." Jimmy smiled and tossed me a wink.
"Nice to know I have a friend who thinks of everything."
Fair Game
It looked like the prayers hadn't helped after all.
The mouth of the alley didn't boast much of a crowd.
The onlookers had all seen a dead body before. As this
one had all its parts and wasn't anyone famous, the
gawkers had nothing to stare at. The fact that most of
them were allergic to the strobing blue lights on top of
the Lone Star cruiser knifed across the sidewalk and
shining its headlights on the manmeat also helped thin
the rabble. No one lingered in my way as I crossed the
curb, squeezed by the cruiser and into the alley.
The ork cop looked up at me, raindrops streaking
white in the headlights' glare. "Know him, Kies?" Harry
Braxen blinked and narrowed his eyes against the warm
rain. "Take a good look."
I didn't need more than a second. His pink eyes star-
ing up at the gray Seattle sky, the albino looked more
like a wax statue than the remains of a human being.
His white hair had been sheared into a mohawk, and the
rain failed to wash the glued spikes down. His lips had
never been that colorful, but their unhealthy blue
blended nicely with the grayish pallor of his skin and
the mists coming in off the Sound.
"You knew him too, Braxen. You saw him in the Bar-
rens the day Reverend Roberts did the martyr dance."
The same day I told a little boy to say his prayers so the
albino would be okay. "His name was Albion. I don't
think he had a SIN."
Braxen made a note in a small notebook. "Any guess
why he got it?"
"Why?" I shook my head and reached instinctively
for the silver wolf's-head pendant at my throat. "Not a
clue."
"Determining how he got it is simple," offered my
shadow. Inching forward to squat down on birdlike tita-
nium legs, Kid Stealth pulled aside the wet newspaper
pages covering Albion's windward flank. He revealed
a hole in the side of Albion's washed-out Mercurial
t-shirt. Despite Braxen's weak protest, Stealth used his
metal left hand to rip the t-shirt open and point out the
bluish hole in Albion's chest. "Entry wound, .30-06 with
a light bullet and light charge. Stressed copper jacket, I
would assume, designed to fragment on impact."
Stealth cranked his head around to look at Braxen.
"Most of the kid's blood will be in this lung. He got hit,
started bleeding, and ran himself to death."
Braxen nodded but made no notes. He and I both
knew that if Stealth—one of the world's experts on in-
novative means of rival-retirement—pointed it out and
it concerned death, he wouldn't be wrong. "What kind
of gun?"
Stealth's foot claws grated slightly on the cement as
he straightened up again. "Customized rifle. Long bar-
rel to maximize accuracy and muzzle velocity. Good
work."
The cruiser's headlights made Braxen's tusks stand
out against his swarthy flesh. "You do the work?"
"I'm not a toymaker."
"Wasn't a toy that killed this boy, Stealth."
Stealth shrugged as if to say "have it your own way."
He jammed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat
and sat back on his haunches. The headlights left him a
silhouette except for the reddish light burning in his
Zeiss eyes.
I knew from the set of Stealth's shoulders that he
wouldn't be saying anything more to Braxen. "Harry,
your forensics people will verify what Stealth is saying."'
The ork cop shook his head. "No, they won't. No au-
topsy for this one."
"What are you talking about? It's a suspicious death,
isn't it?" I glanced down at Albion's body. "You need
an autopsy for your investigation."
"What investigation, Kies? This kid's got no SIN. He
doesn't exist as far as the system is concerned. He isn't
even a statistic."
I wanted to grab him, but two things stopped me. The
first was the realization that Braxen was absolutely cor-
rect. Without a System Identification Number, neither
Albion nor any of the other denizens who lurked in the
shadows of the sprawl had any official existence.
Schools wouldn't take them, hospitals wouldn't treat
them, help centers ignored them.
Well I knew, for I myself had grown up without
a SIN.
There was no way the system was going to investi-
gate the death of someone like Albion. Had he been an
elf or ork or Amerind, his own folk might have taken an
interest in him. Lone Star, however, was a private cor-
poration hired to keep the peace in Seattle, not to clean
up after some murderer who got careless when drop-
ping his trash.
The second thing that stopped me was Braxen's tone.
For all of his being a cop, Harry Braxen wasn't like
most of the blue crew. He'd grown up in Seattle and, as
an ork, knew all about discrimination and the callous-
ness of the system. He'd known who Albion was
the instant he'd seen him, but he had probably called
me down to identify the body to get me interested in
the case.
"Spill it, Harry. I don't like standing in the rain."
Braxen squatted next to the body and I dropped down
beside him. Kid Stealth's shadow hid both of us and
Harry kept his voice low enough that only Albion and
the Murder Machine could hear us. "Could be this is the
fourth body I've seen dropped like this. Two gillettes
down by the docks and one dreamchipper up in Bel-
mont. She was the first and we got some datafiles on her
before they lost her body. Files were dumped."
"She have a name?"
"Athena Neon is what I filed her under. She had a
neon rose tied with a yellow ribbon tattooed on her
butt."
I nodded slowly. "It went down the same way?"
"Identical except for maybe one detail." Braxen
reached out and turned Albion's face to the left and then
to the right. "Can't tell with him, but the other three had
all lost a lock of hair. One of the gillettes was a guy I'd
popped the month before. That was how I first noticed
it—his rat-tail was missing."
In the back of my mind the Old One—what I call the
slice of the Wolf spirit lairing in my psyche—started to
growl. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prick up.
"No other links?"
Braxen shrugged. "You know that sometimes us cops
keep 'hobby cases.' "
"Ones you work on in your spare time, right?" I
smiled. "I have a list of women like that."
Harry nodded. "Well, these killings were a hobby
case of mine, but my files are gone, just flat vanished.
Someone with mondo-juice hit my corner of the Matrix
and wiped them out."
I straightened up. "You're going to call a meat wagon
for him?"
"Unless you think Salacia and her people want to
make arrangements for him." Braxen looked down at
the kid as a wind-whipped plastic bag molded itself to
Albion's face. "The kid should have stayed where he
was safe."
"Amen," I said to that, knowing that to find out what
happened to Albion, I'd be going places that weren't
even in hailing distance of safe.
II
Stealth and I retreated deeper into the alley as the
morgue van arrived. The attendants zipped Albion into a
body bag glistening with rain. Harry supervised and
handed the driver a card. Then he got into his car and
followed the van away, taking his headlights with him
and leaving us in the dark.
I turned to Kid Stealth. "He's gone. Give me what
you've got because I know you're dying to have me
show him up."
Stealth answered me in a flat monotone. "Doc Raven
will be back from Tokyo tomorrow night. We can give
him the scan, let him decide what to do about this."
"Stealth, let me do some legwork first." I pointed to
the place where the rain had begun to darken the lighter
outline of Albion's body. "The trail will get cold."
"The killer will be back." The red lights in Stealth's
eyes bloated and shrank. "He's a thrill killer."
"What?"
"This is his recreation." Stealth looked at me for a
moment, looked away, then nodded. "The bullets you
use in your Viper1. . . ."
"Silver, drilled and patched with a silver-nitrate solu-
tion to make them explosive."
"Why?"
I hesitated. Kid Stealth hadn't been around during the
Full Moon Slashings so he didn't know what Raven and
I had run into back then. I'd developed the bullets to
deal with that mess and I'd kept using them since, just
in case. I sensed in his question, however, not so much a
desire to know the history of my bullets as to under-
stand the thinking that went into producing them.
"I had them done that way so they would maximize
shock and destruction. Bullets are meant to kill and I
wanted mine to do the job well."
Stealth studied me for a moment before answering.
"The bullet used on Albion was designed to make him
1 The nice thing about carrying around and using a gun as old as the
Beretta Viper 14 was that under most current laws, antiques weren't
really considered "weapons" for concealment purposes. Me, I never saw
the allure of these newfangled guns full of computer components and all.
Go ahead, rely on Windows Sniper 4.0 if you want to, but I prefer not to
need software patches when I'm in a firefight.
die. Back before the Awakening, before magic came
back to the world, there were people who would test
their hunting skills by using a bow and arrow to take
wildlife." Stealth held his hands before him as if visual-
izing what he was describing. "Bows are uncertain.
Because an arrow might not cause enough damage, in-
novative arrowhead designs were created. One type had
three or four razored edges that spiraled around the ar-
rowhead like the edges on a drill-bit. It was called a
bleeder and was designed to chew up as much of the
animal's insides as it could, while leaving a blood trail
for the hunter to follow."
The Old One howled angrily in the back of my mind.
"Stealth, you mentioned a stressed copper jacket with a
light bullet and light charge. You're saying Albion was
shot with the ballistic equivalent of a bleeder?"
"His wound was non-midline."
I frowned. "It still killed him."
"No. The rifle used was more than capable of putting
a shot through someone's eye at a range of at least two
hundred-fifty meters. Albion was wounded by design."
"What killed him, then?"
"He drowned in his own blood. He was coursed to
death."
"Coursed?"
Stealth nodded and—wonder of wonders—for once
the Old One agreed with him. Unbidden, the Wolf spirit
lent me his heightened senses. The night vision made
everything much clearer in the alley, but that wasn't the
sense the Old One wanted me to use. My nostrils
twitched and, amid the noxious odors of rotting garbage
and thrice-scorched radiator fluid, I caught a very sharp
scent.
The Old One forced me to savor it. A large canine,
Longtooth. It was here and marked the territory of its
kill. It did as its master commanded. It is much like the
Murder Machine to whom you speak.
"A cyberpup ran Albion down?"
Stealth nodded. "Foot spurs scraped the wall over
there when it lifted its leg to mark its hunting ground."
"Custom rifle, custom dog. This guy must have some
serious nuyen to be dropping on his pastime." I shook
my head. "If what Braxen said is accurate, he's dusted
four. Not likely to stop—as you said, a thrill killer."
"A dilettante." Stealth looked hard at me. "You will
pursue this before Raven returns?"
A lingering sense of guilt concerning Albion slowly
stole over my mind. He'd been angry when I last saw
him and had stalked off into the night alone. That had
been months ago, but part of me thought his death was
my fault. I knew, realistically, that was nonsense, but I
couldn't shake the feeling.
"I knew him. It's personal."
Stealth extended his left hand, the metal one, toward
me. "Give me some cab fare."
"I'll drop you at Raven's before I head out."
"Give me ten nuyen."
I dug my hand into my pocket. Could Guinness ever
check it out, Kid Stealth would surely make its datachip
of World Records in ten different categories—all of
them lumped under the Homicide heading. I pulled a
credstick from my jeans pocket and handed it to him.
"I want to see a receipt and my change back," I
added. Stealth might have had more unsolved murders
to his credit than Elvis had imitators, but if I didn't give
him a hard time he'd be insufferable.
Stealth took the stick and disappeared it into a pocket.
"Wolf, this one plays at death."
I nodded. That was about as close as Stealth would
ever get to telling me to be careful. He ascribes a lot to
the "a word to the wise is sufficient" school of caring
for other folks. Given that the last time he tried to show
concern over my fate he shot me in the back, the verbal
message did seem more friendly. "I'll keep you posted,
I promise."
Without so much as a nod, Stealth turned and with-
drew into the alleyway. I didn't turn to watch him be-
cause the Old One tries to make me laugh at Stealth's
cyberbunny hopping gait. In terms of lethality, doing
that strongly resembles sucking on twenty packs of
nikostix a day for longer than I've been alive. The other
reason I didn't watch him is that Stealth was likely to
cut up and over to Seventh by using those miracle claws
of his to scale a building. Getting my knuckles bloody
as the Old One tries to prove we can do that too is really
annoying.
The Old One's sensory gifts did come in handy as I
directed them back toward the street. As I walked in the
general direction of where I'd left the Fenris parked in
another alley, I heard someone sobbing. Tears aren't all
that uncommon in the sprawl, and more than one Sa-
maritan has been lured into a headache by thinking he
was rescuing a woman in distress. In this case, however,
the sob wasn't coming from a voxsynth chip, but from
the throat of a little gamin of a girl slumped against the
alley wall.
The rain had soaked her hair and made it clump into
stringy tendrils about as skinny as her arms and legs.
She wore a clear plastic raincoat that ended somewhere
between her neon green hot pants and her argyle knee
socks. Her blouse matched the shorts in color and ended
just below her breasts to show off a flat stomach. It also
showed off her ribs. As she looked up at me with hol-
low, red-rimmed eyes I wondered if she was an anorexia
poster-child.
I gave her a smile I hoped wouldn't threaten her.
"How long have you known Albion?"
She blinked as I said his name. "You knew him?"
I nodded. Looking up the street I spotted a diner
where I'd eaten before without dying. "C'mon, let's get
out of the rain." I reached for her arm, but she retreated
away from me.
"No way, chummer. I may be griefin', but I'm no
flatliner."
I held my hands up and kept them open. "Okay, bad
start. My name is Wolfgang Kies. I knew Albion and
I'm going to find out what happened to him. If you want
to help, it'll make my job easier."
She watched me warily, then nodded. " 'Kay. Albie
mentioned you. I'm Cutty."
I pointed to the diner and she nodded. "How long you
and Albion been together, Cutty?"
She cut across the street like a zombie hungering for
a bumper-kiss. She never noticed the squealing brakes
nor did she acknowledge the curses shouted at her. I let
the Old One growl at anyone who vented his wrath on
me and that generally calmed things. Once across Blan-
chard, Cutty headed into the diner and dropped into a
booth like a rag doll suddenly stuffed with lead shot.
The waitress frowned at her, but I gave her one of my
"this could be your lucky day, darling" smiles and she
relented. "Soykaf for me. Milk and some soup or some-
thing for her, okay?" The waitress snapped her gum,
then turned and sang out our order to the ork working
the kitchen.
"Third time is the charm. Cutty, how long had you
been playing house with Albion?"
Her head came up and I saw a spark of life in her
brown eyes. "A month, I guess." She blinked twice,
then frowned. "This is October, right?"
"November, but who's counting?"
"Oh, two months, then."
"Gotcha." I'd last seen Albion on a very warm July
night, which put him with her within six weeks of leav-
ing his friends in the Barrens. "He was cool during that
time? No problems?"
Cutty nodded. "Like ice. Did some boosting, you
know? His thing was fixing stuff, though, and he used
to patch decks together before folks would fence them.
Made him sort of legit, you know? Then folks started
recommending him and he fixed lots of stuff."
"I get the picture." And the picture I got was a dismal
one. I'd been hoping Albion had gotten himself in solid
with some group or gang or specific place that might
narrow my area of inquiry. If I had to track every
cracked or heisted deck he laid screwdriver to, I'd be
looking for his killer long after Kid Stealth rusted away
to nothing.
The waitress arrived with our food, and Cutty stared
at the clam chowder with the same look of horror you'd
expect if the waitress had regurgitated it right there at
the table. She looked at the milk as if the waitress was
Lucretia Borgia. I compensated for this by regarding
the steaming cup of soykaf like it was the Holy Grail
and the waitress as if she was the Madonna. Clearly,
though, the waitress thought of herself as a different
sort of Madonna and I realized the kind of music we
could have made together would have beat Gregorian
chanting by an ecclesiastical mile.
"Drink, eat. You need the milk to strengthen your
bones and the soup will put some meat on them." I ap-
propriated a bit of her milk for my soykaf, which sud-
denly made her possessive about the food. I feigned
offense, which seemed to please her somehow and
made her eat. "Albion didn't have any steady killtime,
did he? Anything that would have made him a candidate
for a toxic lead dump?"
She nodded her head as a droplet of chowder rolled
down over her pointed chin. "Just started a caper at the
Pacific Northwest Huntsman's Club. Got it through a
person he did some fixing for. Steady work that didn't
cut into his side biz. Didn't need a SIN for it."
That last bit would draw Albion like a flame draws a
moth. Albion fiercely defended his independence and
wanted nothing to do with the system. Like all those
who scurry in the shadows, he dreamed of being as big
as Mercurial some day, but the chances of that were
slimmer than Cutty here. What he didn't know, what
few of us without SINs did know, is that it's easier for
the society to destroy you than it is for them to even no-
tice you.
"That's a place to start. Do you remember who gave
him the job?"
Her wet hair flew back and forth as she shook her
head. At least I think she shook her head, but I couldn't
see any of her face around the edges of the bowl as she
tipped it up to drain it. The bowl came back down and a
plastic sleeve came away from her face smeared with
the last of the chowder. "Don't remember." She looked
over toward the counter and licked her lips as she eyed
a stack of frosted donuts.
I'd seen bricks with a longer attention span than she
had, but I put it down to her being in shock. Our wait-
ress returned and brought with her the donut tray. Cutty
selected two big chocolate-frosted fat-pills and I passed,
so Cutty took a third in case I reconsidered. I paid the
bill and the tip while Cutty watched the credstick vanish
almost as hungrily as she'd looked at the donuts.
"With Albion gone, what are you doing for money?"
She smiled at me, her eyes growing vacant. "For fifty
nuyen I'll do anything you like."
"Yeah?"
She nodded solemnly. "Anything."
"You got it." I pulled out my slender cash supply—
figuring she'd find the bills easier to use than a
credstick—and laid down two twenties and a ten. "You
said anything, right?"
Cutty licked at the frosting in a way she hoped was
suggestively erotic. "You pay, piper, and you call the
dance."
"Good." Had I a necrophile's taste for skeletal
women, I might have come up with something truly in-
ventive for her to earn my money. As it was, I had a
more sinister plan in mind. "For this fifty nuyen you're
going to sit here and wait for an elf named Salacia to
come see you. She was a friend of Albion's before you
knew him—just friends, not lovers. Tell her about him."
I got up from the booth. "Stay with her and the rest of
Albion's family and let them know what happened to
him."
Cutty looked up at me and shook her head. "Albion
always said you were a weird chummer, but one he
could trust. He didn't trust many."
"You'll wait?"
She nodded sadly. "I'll be with Salacia, and then you
can tell me how Albion's story ends."
I left Cutty in the diner and made my way back to the
Fenris. Though he's not much on technology, even the
Old One likes the Fenris. Low and sleek, angled except
where the flat black body curves neatly around a wheel
well or back around a bumper, the car looks like a
wedge sharp enough to split the sky from the planet at
the horizon.
Even before rounding the corner of the alley I pulled
out the remote for the antitheft system. Because this
section of town wasn't that bad, I'd set it for only one
chirp, with the defenses on Stun. As the car came into
view, I tapped the control and got a single chirp back in
response as I deactivated the security system. From be-
hind the car two startled kids jumped up and started
running down the alley.
Their laughter made me believe they'd been up to
mischief and little more, but caution made me check the
rear of the Fenris. Two big old rats, the fat kind that
feast in dumpsters, lay twitching on the ground. The
kids had been amusing themselves by catching the rats
and tossing them against the Fenris' body. The resulting
shock left the rats half-dead, but served as a practical
lesson to warn the kids off messing with my ride.
The Fenris whisked me through the Seattle streets.
The radar-bane coating Raven had sprayed over the
car's surface made it reflect less light than the rain-
slicked street. I cruised around, checking my six for
folks following me. When I saw it was clear, I made for
Raven's place and used the car phone to call Salacia at
the house in the Barrens.
Another of the kids who lived at the house answered
the call. Sine said she'd get word to Salacia and they'd
pick Cutty up quickly.
"Good," I told her. "But the girl's in shock. Maybe
you can do for her what none of us could do for
Albion."
She agreed and I hung up as I guided the Fenris into
Raven's underground parking garage. The automatic
door shut behind me and locked tightly. I climbed out of
the Fenris and locked it, then put the security on two
chirps and set it on Mangle. Anyone stupid enough to
break into Raven's place deserved all the surprises he
could handle.
I went from the garage straight into the basement
computer room. The sanitary white of the walls and
tiles is a shocker at the best of times, but it seemed
almost dreamlike after the rainy Seattle evening. The
same could be said of the room's sole occupant after an
evening spent with Braxen and Kid Stealth.
Valerie Valkyrie covered a yawn with a slender-
fingered hand. She still looked radiant from having met
Jimmy Mackelroy, the enfant terrible of the Seattle
Seadogs2. Actually I think the radiance came from help-
ing him through the trauma of Seattle's loss in the series,
which beat the hell out of how she'd moped last year un-
til spring training. Though she'd lost her heart to him, she
still had a smile for me and I returned one with interest.
"Good morning, Ms. Valkyrie. Are you up early or
up late?"
Heavy lids half-hid blue eyes. "After thirty-six hours
that sort of question hardly matters." She glanced back at
the deck and the datacord that usually fit snugly into the
jack behind her left ear. "Another marathon Dementia-
Gate session. I could have gone longer, but Lynn said
she wanted to leave the game so she could rest up for
your date tomorrow night. You getting serious on her,
Mr. Kies?"
2 Valerie took it as a personal victory that Jimmy referred to the team as
the Seadogs in Matrix chat she set up for him, despite the trouble it could
have caused him. Granted, only a few of her closest friends were present,
and the one transcript of the chat came bundled with a virus that did nasty
things, but it was a victory for her nonetheless.
"That date's tonight, Val, after the sun comes up." If
it weren't for Valerie's cafe-au-lait complexion coming
to her through genetics, she'd have looked as pale as
Albion. "You have seen the sun this month, haven't
you?"
"Nice dodge, Wolf." She smiled and killed another
yawn. "You here from the Committee For the Produc-
tion of Vitamin D, or have you got a job that's beyond
your meager computer talents?"
"Meager?" I frowned as I pulled off my black leather
jacket and tossed it onto one of the white leather chairs
sitting in a corner. "I know how to turn one of these
things on and off, you know. Meager, sheesh."
She gave me an exaggerated nod. "Sure you do. What
do you need?"
"The Pacific Northwest Hunting Club lost an em-
ployee tonight. You pulled a file on him back when we
went after Reverend Roberts. You remember Albion?"
"His file was a null. Burkingmen had some anecdotes
about him. He was working at PNHC?"
"So I understand. A member recommended him. I
want to know who that was and something about him."
"Is that all?" Valerie rolled her eyes. "Look, Wolf,
no jack."
I stuck my tongue out at her, but she'd already started
beating out a harsh staccato on her keyboard. I left the
room and mounted the stairs to the first floor. In the
kitchen I grabbed two cups of kaf and exchanged a se-
ries of uninformative grunts with Tom Electric. He had
his eyes glued to a Bookman and was doing his best to
upload some self-help book into his gray-ROM.
"Annie's coming back to town, eh, Tom?"
Grunt and nod.
I looked at the container that had carried the book
chip. "All I Need to Know to Understand Women I
Learned In Catholic School? Are you sure that will help
you, Tom?"
Hopeful grunt and emphatic nod.
I shrugged and carried the dual mugs of soykaf from
the room. Tom's ex-wife comes to Seattle every six
months or so, whether Tom's recovered from the last
visit or not. I wondered at his choice of scanning mate-
rial because Annie struck me as about the most un-
nunlike woman I'd ever met. Then again, I couldn't rule
out the possibility that she'd found a convent out there
that catered to macrobiotically nourished, politically
correct, archeo-feminist, neo-retro splatter-metal enthu-
siasts with bipolar disorders.
Valerie silently forgave me for taking so long when I
handed her the brimming mug. "Got your prey."
"It was that easy?"
"No, love. I'm that good." She shook her head, her
thick brown braid flopping from shoulder to shoulder.
"What does Lynn see in you?"
"She knows, deep down, I'm just a real sensitive
guy." I gave her a crocodile smile, then leaned against a
mainframe cabinet. "Who is he?"
"She. Selene Reece is her name. She's a great grand-
daughter of Harold Reece. He was a newspaper tycoon
before the Awakening. He diversified and left everyone
a lot of money. She's a black sheep of the family, the
illegitimate daughter of a granddaughter who used a lot
of recreational chemicals at a time when it was thought
LSD could keep one from goblinizing."
I nodded. Orks and trolls usually bred true, but some
folks in the general population are tagged with "mon-
ster" genes. They tend to kick in around puberty, caus-
ing embarrassment somewhat greater than having your
voice crack or your face break out. In essence, their
whole body breaks out, and they shift from being nor-
mal human kids to orks or even worse.
It's not pretty and usually very confusing. There are
plenty of orks who don't make it through the transfor-
mation with their psyches intact. There are even more
con artists making a fortune selling everything from
sugar pills to votive candles to prevent kids from under-
going the change. While kids might not fully under-
stand the problem, their parents do and will do just
about anything to avoid the humiliation of having a
child "run away."
"This Reece recommended Albion to the Club as a
hire? I have a hard time placing Albion and his porcu-
pine coiffure in that kind of place."
Val shrugged and sipped her soykaf. "Cheap thrills
for the elite without their having to go slumming. The
club's computer didn't have any record of his employ-
ment, but the tailor who made his uniform still had a
copy of the employment record. Selene Reece is listed
as his sponsor."
"Checks with what Cutty told me. Where is Reece
now?"
"You're expecting a lot in exchange for a kafcup.
Tom Electric would have brought me donuts."
"I owe you. Do you know where she is?"
Valerie nodded her head. "According to the club
schedule she's up in the Yukon. She won a lottery and is
going after a snow moose. Won't be back for a week."
I smiled widely enough that Valerie knew I was get-
ting myself into trouble and wanted her to set it up.
"Can you crack back into their computer to confirm a
dinner engagement for me with her there, tonight, about
six? Make it look like it was on, then got scrubbed by
the lottery win."
She looked hard at me. "You're seeing Lynn tonight,
Wolf."
"I know, I know." I set the mug on top of the com-
puter. "Set the dinner thing for six. I meet Lynn at eight.
I just want a chance to look around. I'll be in and out,
fast. I want to reconnoiter so I can report to Doc when
he gets back."
Valerie drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
"I suppose, but if you stand Lynn up, you'll regret it."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Val, honest."
"Good." She smiled wickedly. "Because if you do I'll
make sure you're on every boiler-room investment
house hot list from now until the collapse of Western
civilization."
III
This is the part of the story where most narrators
would mention that they slept fitfully and had prophetic
dreams about the past and future melding together. I'm
supposed to tell you all about the dreams, using cryptic
terms that will confuse you until things come together
later. It's the way you know the stuff you're reading
is art.
I've got no dreams to share. That doesn't mean I
didn't dream, mind you, but just that I don't want to
share the dreams. From the second my head hit the pil-
low in the spare room Raven has allotted to me, I
dreamed of Lynn. The dreams might have been
prophetic—in fact, I was hoping they were—which ex-
plains why I'm not going to share them.
I had fully intended to sleep until the sun was so far
over the yardarm they'd have to use a satellite link to
communicate, but Stealth whooshed and creaked on
into the room I use. My eyes came instantly open, but
my Viper stayed under the pillow. No sense in wasting a
bullet on a target that could have taken an Exocet hit
without denting his hide.
"No new toys to show me?" I sat up in the bed and let
the frivolity drain out of my voice. His armor is better
against humor than it is against bullets. "What's up,
Stealth?"
"Valerie Valkyrie says you're asking about the Pa-
cific Northwest Hunting Club."
I nodded. "Albion had a job there for the past week.
He was recommended by a member. I thought I would
check it out this evening."
Stealth remained absolutely still for a moment. He
didn't so much as breathe, which he really didn't need to
do anyway. To help in the assassination work he used
to do before he became claw-abled, Stealth traded a lung
lobe for an internal air tank with a slow-release oxygen
system. Saved his life once—gave him enough time to
free his feet from a block of cement at the bottom of the
Sound.
At last the Oracle spoke. "You will be armed?"
Stealth lives by that fragment of wisdom that says
"No problem so large that it cannot be solved by the
suitable application of plastic explosives." He proved
that, both in his professional and private life. In fact, to
get out of the cement block, he blew the lower parts of
his legs off. That is why, when we do have casual con-
versations, I don't tell him about hangnails or hernias.
"Actually I expected this to be a soft recon. I have to
meet Lynn later . . ."
"Ms. Ingold."
"That's the one. She doesn't much like guns—she's
still hinky about the grunges who grabbed her, so I
thought I would travel light."
"I see." He froze for another second, then turned and
started out of the room.
"Hey, Stealth, wait!"
He slowed and looked back over the shoulder at me.
"My change from the cab?"
His Zeiss eyes blinked at me once, then he turned
and left.
Stealth's silent departure didn't bother me as much as
it might have someone else. He's weird enough that if
having him owe me money meant he would try to avoid
me, I could live with that. Then again, for all I knew, he
had gone off trying to figure how to give me change in
bullets of differing calibers.
The Old One gave me a salutary yip as I looked in the
mirror at the results of a shower, shave, and the suitable
application of sartorial accouterments. I appreciated the
sentiment, but I'd wait for Valerie's opinion before de-
ciding whether I was comfortable with my choices. Not
that I was that comfortable in the clothes—neckties and
nooses have more in common than both starting with
the letter N.
Valerie gave me a full 1000-watt smile. "Oh, Wolf, if
I had an icebreaker as sharp as you, I'd be in the
Aztechnology database and gone running on a kiddie-
deck. Double-breasted blazer of blue, good choice, gray
slacks, dark socks, white shirt, TAB tie, nice, and the
wing-tip shoes." She gave me the hairy-eyeball. "You
fixing to make this date real special?"
I winked at her. "Val, every date with me is special.
And the answer is no, I'm not handing her some gold-
bound ice. We're having dinner with her great-aunt
from St. Louis." I wanted to toss another wisecrack out
at her, but the well was dry. Thinking about Lynn and
me and the future required so much brainpower that it
didn't leave me enough idle cells to keep coming up
with smart remarks.
Val gave me a hug and told me to transfer it to Lynn,
noting, "You're on your own after that, jack." I gave
her a peck on the cheek and specifically told her not to
pass that to Jimmy Mackelroy from me, then headed out
into the garage. I disarmed the Fenris from outside its
effective range, then took it roaring out into the Seattle
night.
The rain had vanished and the dark sky looked clear
and a tad crisp. I found the Pacific Northwest Hunting
Club on the first try and parked down the block. Two
chirps from the remote left it on With Extreme Preju-
dice, which would be more than enough to keep the lo-
cal footsponges from mistaking it for a bar, bathroom,
or king-size bed.
I managed to wrestle the double-breasted jacket's in-
ternal button into its hole by the time I reached the
awning extending out over the sidewalk. A doorman
waited at the top of the stone steps and opened the door
for me without comment. Up another flight of steps and
a left turn brought me to the club's foyer, where a large
man greeted me with a smile. "Yes, sir?"
"Evening. I'm Wynn Archer. I'm supposed to be din-
ing with Selene Reece." I nervously glanced at my
watch. "I'm early."
Dark clouds of confusion spread over the man's face.
"Ms. Reece has no dinner reservation tonight, sir. Per-
haps you are confused as to the evening?"
I shook my head and let my smile tell him I knew I
was right. "Wednesday the twenty-seventh. I've been
looking forward to this for two weeks."
He held up a hand. "Just a moment." He disappeared
behind a curtain and I heard the clicker-clack of a key-
board. I knew Valerie had managed to mess up his
records when the sound of key-pounding got louder.
He returned with a smile on his face. "There has been
a mistake, sir. Ms. Reece apparently did have reserva-
tions, but they were canceled when she went out of
town on an urgent trip."
"Are you sure? Perhaps I should wait in the lounge
until we see if she makes it. I'm sure you understand
that she would have canceled with me if she didn't ex-
pect to be here."
The host started to tell me the lounge was only for
members, but I stuck him on the horns of a dilemma. If
he gave me the bum's rush, he could end up embar-
rassing a member because her plans didn't happen to
include informing him of her comings and goings.
He took a look at me and must have decided I looked
harmless.
"Please, sir, we would be happy if you would wait in
the lounge. You do understand, of course, that it is for
members only, so . . ."
I nodded. "I shall wait at the bar and not bother
anyone."
His smile told me we had an understanding and I
wandered into the bar. Dim and subdued, it featured
dark wood panels and rich leather upholstery. Given the
identities of the few local celebs I recognized, I figured
the club must charge enough in dues that the decora-
tions were probably realthetic. Even the peanuts in
the bowl at the bar looked like dirtfruit instead of
vat-droppings.
I ordered the house brew, and discovered that a mug
of it set me back more than Stealth's cab ride. It tasted
pretty good, but not that good. I consoled myself by
looking at what the others were drinking and guessing
at the number of digits in their bar tabs.
I ordered a refill from the bartender and tried to begin
a conversation with him, but he sped off to deal with
other patrons—the ones who looked like big tippers or
like they were there with someone else's spouse. Be-
fore he could return to the styx where I was sitting,
someone tapped me on the shoulder.
"Mr. Archer? I understand we're having dinner to-
gether this evening?"
I turned around and found myself looking up at a
woman who surprised me in many ways. Had I been
standing she would have come within a centimeter of
being as tall as me. Powerful shoulders tapered down to
a slender waist and shapely legs that indicated a serious
interest in athletics as opposed to milder "shaping"
workouts. Her face showed signs of an arctic tan and
the makeup she used carefully blended away the white
flesh around her brown eyes. Her black hair, which was
cut boyishly short, hid her ears and aptly bordered a
sharply angular face. A pert nose and full lips made her
beautiful by anyone's definition, but the fire in her eyes
made her challenging.
I offered her my hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ms.
Reece." I figured I could go one of two ways at this
point, either making her think we both had been de-
ceived, or I could play it straight. As she took my hand
in a firm, dry grip, I decided honesty was the best policy.
"But I'm not Wynn Archer. My name's Wolfgang Kies."
I gestured to the empty stood beside me. "Please, join
me. I can explain the reason for my deception."
She watched me for a moment, reflexively squinting
her left eye as if she were sighting down a rifle barrel at
me. "I like someone willing to shift tactics when the
opening gambit fails. You have five minutes." She re-
leased my hand after she slid onto the stool across from
me and ordered a gimlet from the bartender.
I remained silent until he had withdrawn, then idly
drew an A in the moisture ring on the bar. "A young
man you recommended for work here was killed last
night."
"The albino, Albion. I heard." She sipped her drink,
then set it back on the bar. "I learned about it early this
morning when I checked my computer system. I re-
turned from the Yukon immediately. While updating my
schedule I saw the dinner notation and came right over.
Do you know who killed him?"
I shook my head. "No, but I knew Albion and I know
people who will be sorry he died. I want to find out who
did him and you're about the only lead I have."
"I see." She dipped a finger in her drink and raised it
toward her mouth. A droplet hung from her nail like
venom from a scorpion's sting, then she licked it off
with a flick of her tongue. "Albion repaired the stereo in
my Mako and asked me to mention him to my friends. I
did and a couple suggested I get him a job here."
"I guess I'm missing the connection." I popped a
peanut into my mouth. "Why would you want a mo-
hawked street punk working here?"
Selene crossed her legs. Her outfit, a dark green silk
blouse under dark green blazer and tight black skirt, left
a lot of leg for me to look at as she did so. "This Club is
for individuals who are adventurers. We dare go out and
challenge Mother Nature in her wondrous and magical
splendor."
She pointed through the doorway back toward where
a gallery of holopics showed images of members with
creatures they had killed. "The membership thrives on
traveling to exotic places, seeing exotic things. . . ."
"And killing them?"
"Among other things." She half-shut her eyes and
studied me over the edge of her glass. "We're thrill-
seekers."
"So bringing a piece of Seattle streetlife into your
club is a thrill."
"You are edging toward asking if I think Albion was
chosen as prey by a member of our group." She toyed
with the stem of her glass, slowly turning it so the light
glowed off the liquor's legs. "We live for danger."
I watched her face closely. "And stalking Albion
through the concrete world that is his natural habitat
wouldn't be dangerous?"
"We may be the ultimate predators, but we're not
murderers. Bringing someone like Albion in here is im-
porting some of the danger from the streets, yes. He's
not what we normally expect to see here, so he was a
curiosity." She clasped her hands together over one
knee. "For a while we maintained a cheetah and a Ben-
gal tiger here before certain Creature Liberationists
started to threaten us."
The Old One howled in the back of my mind. "I can
imagine them seeing this as a Temple of Death, no
problem."
"But they do not know what we truly do, for this is
also a Sanctuary for Life." She laughed easily. "Be-
tween this club and all the animal freedom groups com-
bined, who do you think has spent more money
providing habitats for the endangered and threatened
species out there?"
"Is this a trick question?" I frowned. "They do."
"No, they do not." The skin tightened around her
eyes. "The area where I went hunting a snow moose, for
example, is all a private preserve purchased and main-
tained through this club. Our members, either through
the club or on their own, have placed acres and acres of
threatened wetlands and forests into park systems, both
public and private. Did you realize that since the latter
half of the twentieth century it's been the hunters and
the licensing fees they pay that has guaranteed wildlife
management and, in many cases, actually allowed the
animal population to exceed that of colonial times?"
I sat back and did my best to look contrite. "No, I did
not realize that."
"It's true." She casually waved her hand toward the
other patrons in the bar. "Our membership is also in-
volved in many philanthropic projects right here in
Seattle. Part of that is reflected in our willingness to
employ someone like Albion."
"Do you think someone took this 'preserve' idea too
far with Albion and killed him?"
"I hope not." She leaned forward and I brought my
ear close to her mouth. "In a place like this there are al-
ways rumors of someone having hunted the most dan-
gerous prey. Liquor dreams and vaporware, but it is
possible someone decided to make them real. If they
did, I'm responsible because I brought him here."
I leaned back and took a pull on my beer. I knew from
Stealth's description of the weapon that killed Albion
that commissioning it would have required the sort of
money that someone in the Pacific Northwest Hunting
Club certainly would possess. It also struck me as ab-
solutely possible that a member could have decided that
harvesting a little two-footed quarry in the city beat
freezing in Alaska to bag a rack of antlers. Of course,
the one thing I knew that she did not was that Albion
was only the latest in a series.
"These stories ever center on one person here?"
She looked up and didn't even try to hide her surprise.
"No, not that I know of." She took a sip. "This is very
disturbing." She concentrated, her dark brows arrowing
down toward the bridge of her nose. "Come with me and
we will discuss this with the Director."
I glanced at my watch, then shook my head. "Can't.
I'm meeting someone. Albion's not going anywhere.
This can wait for a day or so."
She nodded, then stared down at her glass and the
liquid still left in it. "Are you free tomorrow night? I
can arrange for us to meet with the Director then." Her
expression sharpened and her nostrils flared as she
watched me out of the corner of her eye. "You will be
my guest tomorrow evening for dinner."
I waved the offer off. "Not necessary, Ms. Reece,
really."
"I insist." Her smile warmed and warmed me. "You
intrigue me. You bluff your way in here, then admit
your deception. You are different from most."
"Exotic?"
"Challenging, Mr. . . ."
"Kies, Wolfgang Kies."
"Accept, Mr. Kies. Anyone here can tell you that, as a
hunter, I am relentless."
"So I am in your sights?"
She eyed me very frankly and the Old One started a
low growl in the back of my head. "You are too imagi-
native to be a literalist, Mr. Kies. I find pursuit more
thrilling than a kill, and my taste in men does not run to
corpses."
I caught the invitation in her voice, and the warning
that whatever happened would be on her terms, and her
terms alone. "Seven, here?"
She took up my left hand and gave it a squeeze.
"Twenty-four hours, then."
I nodded and gave her a kiss on the cheek. As I
walked away from the club, Albion became a ghost.
Learning who killed him had become immaterial as a
reason for my willingness to meet Selene Reece the
next night. She knew it, I knew it.
Wolf season was open.
IV
Wolf season almost closed again because Lynn's
great-aunt Sadie tried to get me into a captive breeding
program. "Oh, Wolfgang, you are such a gentleman.
You two make a lovely couple. You'll have wonderful
children—they'll be smart and handsome."
Luckily Lynn fended off her aunt's comments, which
left me time to deal with the Old One. For some reason
he had joined forces with Sadie and spent most of the
evening divided between complaining that my prime rib
was too well done and praising Lynn. This is the bitch
for you, Longtooth. Her eyes are bright, her ruddy coat
is long, and she is cunning. Your pups will be strong
and have sharp teeth.
I was sure Lynn, who had once mentioned a desire to
breast feed children, would love that last bit. Fortu-
nately, Sadie later started talking about the twenty-two
cats who lived with her, which cooled the Old One's
opinion of his ally. Even so, through the rest of the eve-
ning, he yipped encouragingly any time Lynn did any-
thing he felt should make me proud.
The dreams I had enjoyed earlier in the day did not
turn out to be literally prophetic, but they functioned
perfectly in an allegorical sense. Lynn and I, after we
dropped off her great-aunt, spent some time wandering
through the market, laughing about what her aunt had
said. As Lynn doesn't know about the Old One yet, I
didn't tell her his comments, but I let my laughter batter
him into grumbling retreat. That was good because we
later retreated to my apartment and engaged in activities
that would have had him yipping encouragement to
Lynn on a nearly incessant basis.
Lynn woke me up early—the hour on the clock
wasn't even close to double digits—then showered and
headed off to work. She normally didn't spend the full
evening with me because she shared a corporate suite
with her folks. With Aunt Sadie using her room, the In-
golds chose to believe Lynn's story that she would stay
the night with a friend.
She asked if she'd see me later, but I told her Raven
was coming back into town and I had something to do.
Because we'd met in the course of Raven, Stealth, and I
saving her from kidnappers, she has a vague idea of
what I do. Given that I was planning to meet Selene
later, I decided that not clarifying my plans was a good
thing.
I crashed for another couple of hours, then got up
close to noon. I decided that I needed a new suit for the
night's adventure, so I dressed quickly and headed out.
The Old One's grumbling started to give me a head-
ache, but I managed to ignore him and it. Hopping into
the Fenris, I headed downtown and started a walking
tour of the haberdasheries.
After a few false starts I settled on a French-cut black
suit with double-breasted blazer. The tailor who mea-
sured me for alterations asked if I would be "heavy" or
"thick" while wearing it, but I shook my head. Wearing
a gun or a kevlar vest was not in order for dinner at one
of the city's most elegant clubs. I picked out a tie and
shirt to go with the suit, then had lunch and a beer at
Kell's while the tailor worked on the alterations.
As night began to creep close, it brought with it a
sense of impending doom. Normally I would have put it
down to Stealth being in the vicinity, but I suspected
that Lynn and Selene were at the root of it. As I thought
things over, I could see myself speeding in the Fenris
toward a cliff with a nasty drop-off. A cloud of dust
obscured what was behind me, and I had the distinct
feeling that it hid an equally devastating drop.
I knew I loved Lynn and I hoped she felt the same
way about me. I had never fallen so hard for a woman,
nor had I ever lasted as long with one. Most women
decided I was trouble and gave me walking papers
before things became serious. Getting rejected like that
did hurt, but we usually managed to part on friendly
terms, which helped take a lot of the sting out of it.
Besides, plenty of other women were willing to offer
me solace, so I learned to live within the myth that
someday I'd find the woman meant for me.
Now that day had dawned and I found it more terrify-
ing than most of the gun battles I'd lived through. In
those instances the worst that could happen was that I
could die. In this situation, I could end up living. I'd
have responsibilities and obligations. While Lynn was
more than worth all that, a huge chunk of me saw my
window on freedom snapping shut.
Enter Selene. She and Lynn were of the same species
and gender, but the similarities ended there. Selene was
very attractive and aggressive. Being pursued by some-
one so powerful and desirable was one hell of an ego-
steroid. I was staring at a future imprisoned with one
woman while Selene Reece stood there handing me a
"Get Out of Jail Free" card.
The Pacific Northwest Hunting Club was downtown
and not that far from the Fuchi corporate tower where
Lynn lived, so I parked the Fenris in an alley about four
blocks from the club. I set the anti-theft system at three
chirps, figuring that the alley would keep down the
number of injured bystanders. Pocketing the remote
control, I set off for the club.
The heavy-set gentleman who'd ushered me to the
bar the night before was again at his station. He smiled
when he saw me and beckoned me to follow him. "This
way, Mr. Kies. Ms. Reece has already been seated."
Selene slipped out of the corner booth as I arrived.
She wore a cerulean blue chemise with hair-thin straps
under a darker blue crepe du chine jacket and matching
pants. She offered me her hand and I kissed it, bowing
slightly as I did so. She laughed and we both sat down.
The maître'd offered me a menu, but I shook my
head. "I trust your judgment, Selene."
She smiled and ordered a magnum of champagne and
raw oysters for an appetizer. "For the main course we
will have the venison steaks with mushrooms and wild
rice."
"Very good, madam."
As he withdrew, she looked at me carefully. "I trust
you like venison."
I nodded. "Get it yourself?"
"No. The last deer I shot was a year ago and I gave
some of the meat to another member. He is repaying the
favor." Her smile grew. "I didn't get the oysters myself
either, but I trust you will enjoy them nonetheless."
"I am sure I will."
Our champagne arrived and she sat back to sip from
her glass. "You are even more fascinating than I
thought, Wolfgang. Until I did some research I had no
idea you were associated with Richard Raven. From
what I learned, you've hunted enough to be a member
here."
I shrugged. "I bag vermin, mostly. Doc keeps me
around for amusement value. And my friends call me
Wolf."
"You are too modest, Wolf." Her voice lingered over
my name, and the prospect of her becoming an intimate
friend made me smile. "From what I understand, a
number of the local street gangs consider you quite
dangerous."
"I gather, Selene, that various species of big game
think of you in the same way."
"Touché. We are a pair, it seems, evenly matched."
I raised my glass in a salute. "To being a perfect
match."
"Indeed."
The rest of the evening went from there to become
quite hot. We both drank more champagne than we
should have, but we stopped at silly on our way to being
drunk. We engaged in a war of innuendo and double-
entendre that promised much for the night until the
maître'd came over and informed her that the Director
was in his office.
She became serious with that news, then broke into a
giggle when the maître'd walked away. "I suppose we
should take care of business before we get down to busi-
ness, yes, Mr. Kies?" She looped her purse strap over
her left shoulder and slid from the booth.
I nodded almost soberly. "Indeed, Ms. Reece."
I followed her from the dining room and up some
stairs. We passed down a corridor that took us beyond
the room below and ended at a double door. As we
approached, I heard a click and the doors opened for
us. Without a second thought I walked on into the
dark room.
Before I could even begin to ponder why the room
was so dimly lit, fire ignited in my spine. I heard a faint
crackling sound and agony convulsed my body radiat-
ing out from a spot between my shoulder blades. I tried
to turn, but given that my equilibrium had succumbed to
the alcohol and that the electricity running through me
had clobbered my muscles, all I managed to do was
drop hard to the floor.
Selene hooked a toe under my chest and flipped me
over onto my back. In her left hand I saw the stunner
she'd used on me. She hit the switch, letting a jagged
blue energy line spring to life between the two elec-
trodes on one end. My body jerked reflexively and pain
neurons fired again just for the heck of it. She watched
me and slowly began to smile.
"Forgive me for this."
I thought, at first, she was speaking to me, but I was
wrong. From my perspective on the floor, everything
looked very tall. This included the horseshoe-shaped
high-bench that ran from one corner of the room to the
other. Seated behind the bench, in tall chairs with split
oval tops and silhouetted by the backlight, a dozen
members of the club looked down at me.
Suddenly a light from above and behind a chair
flashed on. It illuminated the snarling face of a mounted
bear's head. "I have an inquiry," a man with a deep,
wheezy voice called out.
"Yes, Brother Bear?" Selene said, bowing her head.
When she spoke a light flashed on behind an empty
chair. It illuminated a huge, translucent snake that I
thought just might have been a Central American moon
python.
"I believe, Sister Snake, you have already hunted a
street ape this month."
"Valid point, Brother Bear, but this one is special. He
is a threat to us, but he is likely the greatest challenge
any of us have known. Also, because of the chance of
discovery the other night, I was unable to obtain a
bloodlock. Because of the rules, I do not really have
a kill credited to me."
Another light flashed on, revealing the head of a
sable unicorn with an ivory spire twisting up and out of
its skull. It was located at the keystone position in the
semicircle. "Sister Snake is correct. This one is hers to
hunt."
"Thank you, Grandmaster." Selene dropped to one
knee and gave me a second jolt of juice by pressing the
stunner to my chest. I defibrillated up into the air and
back down, then lay there like a gumby-chiphead.
She kissed me hard on the lips. "Nothing personal,
Wolf, but it's the hunt. I know you'll be leagues better
than Albion."
She stood and took a step back. I heard a click and
the floor dropped away from under me. I started sliding
downward headfirst, something that did not make me
very happy because I still couldn't control my limbs.
As the slide cut into a downward spiral, my dinner
started to come up on me, with the oysters leading the
break for freedom. The champagne, being stirred up in
my stomach, started gathering for a belch that increased
my desire to vomit.
Suddenly the slide ended. When my shoulders hit the
canvas padding I did an involuntary somersault and
landed flat on my stomach. I bounced once and aban-
doned the fight against my stomach. When I landed
again I puked up everything I'd eaten, from dessert to
the peanuts I'd had at the bar, the night before.
I tried to fight the dry heaves, but they had an ally
working from inside my head. Yes, Longtooth, purge
yourself of the poisons. Let me fill you, let me help you.
We will find this bitch who is hunting you and we will
slay her. Visions of flashing fangs and bright blood
filled my mind as the Old One encouraged me.
"No," I wheezed. Kicking weakly I managed to push
myself away from my liquid diet. Then I somehow
pulled myself far enough from the puddle to put my
right hand down and lever myself over to the wall of the
small room into which I'd been dumped.
I dragged my body toward the wall and sat with my
back to it, wiping my mouth on the back of my sleeve. I
spat several times, trying to cleanse my mouth, but I
only diluted the acidic taste. I let my head rest against
the wall and I closed my eyes for a moment. So, this is
what it's like to be a deboned chicken.
As much danger as I had faced in my time with
Raven, this had to be absolutely the worst. The alcohol
had worked wonders with my think-box, though throw-
ing up would help curb further damage. The stunner had
reduced my muscles to rubber, though they were com-
ing back. That left me in a dark box while somewhere
out there a woman with a fancy rifle was preparing to
turn me into an endangered species. Hell, if she had her
way, I'd be extinct.
Under similar circumstances on other occasions I'd at
least had a few advantages. There was my belt buckle
with a homing device I could activate in an emergency,
but tonight I'd worn the new belt I bought to go with my
suit. I'd also left off my usual kevlar vest for the eve-
ning. Ditto for my gun, which I hadn't figured I'd be
needing.
Those are artificial, Longtooth. You do not need them
when you have me.
"I need them when someone is shooting at us. For all
you've done for me, the only thing you're not good at is
dodging bullets." I heard him howl in protest, but we
each knew the other was right in some ways. His speed
and extrasensory abilities would help me enormously if
I was going to survive. He wanted me to attack, but I
wanted his skills to let me do only one thing right
now—run for the Fenris. With his speed, Selene had no
chance of keeping up with me.
"Give it to me, Old One. Your speed, your eyes, your
ears, and your nose."
As you wish, Longtooth, but outside. This place stinks
with the fear of others.
That came as no surprise. As the Old One strength-
ened my body, I found my muscles responding more or
less properly to conscious commands. I wasn't in any
condition to perform microsurgery, but walking and
chewing gum at the same time weren't beyond me.
With the Old One's eyes I saw the faint outline of a
square on the wall away from where the slide entered
the room. I crawled over to it and pushed it open. It
locked up in place and showed me a three-meter drop to
an alley. Great. Get outside, get my bearings and make
a run for the Fenris.
I went out through the hole feet first and dropped into
a crouch as I hit the ground. The cool night air helped
clear my head. I loosened my tie and undid the top but-
ton of my shirt so I could breathe easier. The Old One's
olfactory prowess kicked in and I couldn't get Selene's
perfume, which made me feel better. I turned my back
to the wind and saw the lights on top of the Fuchi tower.
I knew where I was.
So did Selene.
The bullet nailed me in the chest about ten centime-
ters below my left nipple. It spun me around, smacking
me against the club wall, then threw me into a pair of
overflowing garbage cans. I landed on my left side,
doubling the grinding agony I felt in my ribs. I heard a
hissing sound and felt like something inside my lungs
was doing everything it could to claw its way out.
Scrambling to my feet, I sprinted down the alley and
ducked out into the street. I headed away from the Fen-
ris for a block before I realized what I was doing. At
that point I ducked into another alley and kept a dump-
ster downwind.
I reached around my back and could feel that the bul-
let had not exited my chest. I pulled off my tie, fighting
the pain that came with each breath, and looped it
around my chest. Then I dug out my wallet from my
back pocket and tore from it a small plastic sleeve used
to protect holopics. This one just happened to be filled
with one of Lynn. I smiled, slipped it inside my shirt,
and pressed it over the hole in my chest. I tightened the
tie to hold it in place and the hissing sound stopped.
That turned out to be fortunate because that allowed
me to hear the distant sound of an animal loping after
me. Cybercur! Imagining a beast that could carry an ar-
mored car off in its augmented jaws, I panicked.
Adrenaline coursed through me and my heart pounded
like the pistons in an over-revving engine.
The Old One took over with a calm rationality that
mocked my fear. He instantly assessed the situation and
knew that I could not fight. I could barely run. He knew
the shredded and collapsed lung in my chest would not
help me and that if I sought to evade the creature track-
ing me, my wound would kill me.
For once we agreed and he sent me out into the night.
Though I was there on the run and I remember it, I re-
mained detached. I remember leaving that second alley
and vaulting a speeding Ford Americar. I landed on both
feet in the middle of the street, took a half-step back to
avoid the leading bumper on a Mercedes 920 XL, then
spun around and hopped on the running board of a
Pierce Arrow landau reconstruction.
After a block of free ride the Arrow's driver started
going for an Uzi, but the Old One snarled at him. He
kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road for
another block, then I jumped off and sprinted down an
alley. Out on the far street, I cut toward the Fuchi tower
and into the alley that hid my Fenris.
The Old One headed me straight for it, but I reex-
erted control and stopped. I pulled the remote control
from my pocket and disarmed the anti-theft device.
Smiling, I took one step forward, then staggered and
leaned heavily against the car as pain lanced from the
wound through my chest. The world began to go dark at
the edges.
Keep a clear head!
I can master this beast, Longtooth. I have watched
you do it enough, the Old One said.
No chance. The Old One considers Vehicular
Manslaughter a recreational activity. Just rest for a sec-
ond, then I'll . . .
I heard a growl and it took me a moment to realize it
wasn't from the Old One. I looked over and saw a huge
animal at the mouth of the alley. The glow of street
lamps traced the silvery claws mounted to the tops of its
paws. Twin pistons hissed as the monster opened its
jaw. I saw that its teeth had been replaced top and bot-
tom with a razor-steel strip that included spikes where
its canines had once been. And instead of eyes I saw
two red starbursts that went nova as the thing looked
at me.
Slowly I turned around and worked my away back
around the edge of the Fenris. Looking at the chromed
dog over the top of the car, I kind of wished I'd been
driving a car big enough to wall off the alley. No, I had
to go for fast and flashy. Val always said this car would
get me killed.
The dog lowered its head and sniffed the ground. He
took a step forward and the black fur on its spine came
up. A shiver rippled through its muscles and shook it
right down to its stubby tail.
The Old One growled a challenge and I couldn't stop
him. I voiced the howl and the dog's head came up. I
hoped, for a second, that canis chromus would run off,
but it didn't.
It can smell Death on you, Longtooth. I am sorry.
The dog loped forward, then came straight for me.
I pushed myself back off the Fenris and hit the re-
mote control. As the Hitachi hound leaped over the
car's nose and landed on the roof, four chirps sounded.
Before their echoes died, I hit the ground on my back
and the Fenris' defense system kicked into overdrive.
I saw the dog in silhouette for a second before all its
fur spontaneously combusted. It flashed over, blacken-
ing the chrome as the putrid gray cloud drifted up. Then
I noticed that the red dots in the eyes had dilated to dif-
ferent sizes as the dog's muscles convulsed. Spraying
battery juice and chips against the alley wall, the left
side of its head suddenly exploded outward, spinning
the cybermutt around and toppling it off by the passen-
ger side of the car.
I lay back for a moment as a cough punched pain
through my chest. Hitting the remote control again, I
disarmed the Fenris and crawled toward it. I reached up
for a door handle, but the trim burned me. I sank my
right hand into the sleeve of my jacket and tried again,
this time successfully prying the door open.
I started to pull myself into the Fenris and was far
enough gone that I didn't even consider what I was do-
ing to the interior. I did know I couldn't drive, but the
cel phone would let me call Raven or Val or Stealth and
get me some help. Bracing myself with my left arm
against the floor, I straightened my legs and grabbed
for the phone.
Selene's kick to the back of my knees dropped me to
the ground. I twisted around and sat half-upright against
the car. I hugged my left arm against the aching hole in
my chest and looked up at her. I tried to say something
smart, but a cough cut in and hijacked my throat.
"You did well, Mr. Kies. You should have died long
before this." She looked over the hood toward the
steaming mound of dog flesh and metal over by the al-
ley wall. "And you cost me Cerberus. That wasn't
nice."
I half-smiled despite the rifle tucked under her arm.
"I suppose you know this means I probably won't be
having dinner with you again."
"That was a consideration," she said and her smile
made me remember why I'd wanted to have dinner with
her in the first place. "Had you been anyone else, I
might have not decided to hunt you." She licked her
lips. "Pursue, yes, but not hunt."
My vision began to tunnel slowly. "Lone Star has a
file on your activities, you know."
"No it doesn't, Mr. Kies. One of our board members
is a major Lone Star stockholder." Her rifle swung into
line with my heart. I didn't care what Stealth thought, it
didn't look much like a toy from my vantage point.
"The game is over."
Selene crouched down and brushed hair away from
my forehead. She dug her left hand into her jacket
pocket, then brought out something that briefly flashed
silver. Her hand returned to my head and I heard a click.
Through the shadows I saw her draw away holding a
lock of my hair. "You make me glad I didn't get my
bloodlock from Albion."
The cel phone started to ring. "Mind if I get that?"
"Go ahead, if you can," she said as the world went
dark. "Even if help were on the way, you'd be dead be-
fore they found you."
The sound of another bullet being jacket into the
chamber of her rifle was the last thing I heard.
V
I discovered, upon wakening, that reincarnation had
to be true.
I felt like a retread.
Fearing the worst, I opened my eyes and found my-
self lying in the bed I used at Raven's headquarters. I
tried to take a normal breath but something tight was
constricting my chest. Lifting the blankets I saw ban-
dages wrapped around me. I also noticed an oxygen
tube held tightly beneath my nose and a plasma bag run-
ning fluid in through the needle stuck into my right arm.
"It was clean, Wolf."
I dropped the blankets and saw Raven standing in the
doorway. He's taller than me, and broader, but not in a
steroid mutant kind of way. He just looks tall and mus-
cular, an Amerindian Hercules from the tips of his toes
to the top of his head. He has the copper skin, long
black hair, and high cheekbones to make the image
stick, too.
In fact, only two things ruin it. The tips of his elven
ears poke up through his hair, which is the only clue to
his race. An elf built like Raven is decidedly rare, and
Raven is rarer still. His eyes bear that out.
They always manage to look straight through me.
They're dark, like chips of obsidian, but they have these
funny lights in them. The best way to describe it is that
he's got a bit of the aurora borealis trapped in there. The
lights are blue and red and I like to think they flash in
time with Raven's thoughts, which means they're al-
ways moving very fast.
I nodded and gave him a smile. "Did you do your
stuff to my ribs?"
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned
against the door jamb. "The bullet had pulverized ap-
proximately twelve centimeters of rib and microperfo-
rated your lung. You were in shock and were not stable,
so I decided not to crack your chest. I was left no
choice. I used magic to reinflate your lung and knit the
bone shards back together. The IV is to get fluids back
into you." Color rioted through Raven's dark eyes.
"Your natural healing process is fast. You should feel
better in a couple of days."
Raven is the only other living person who knows all
about the Old One, and the reference to my natural heal-
ing process told me the Old One had been at work. I
will have you healthy soon, Longtooth. I did not need
his help.
I threw the blankets off, then pulled the sheet around
me and sat up. The room swam, but I steadied myself
against the footboard before I could collapse. "I have to
get up, Doc. I know who killed Albion. I know why.
Can't wait. More people will die."
I felt his hands on my shoulders. "Valerie traced your
location after the Fenris sent a call out to inform us
about the attempted theft. While I was trying to call you
she learned you were dining with Selene Reece. The
club tried to erase the record of the date, but she caught
it. Reece has dropped off the edge of the earth. She'll
lay low. We've got time to get you healthy."
I shook my head. "No, it's not just her. It's all of
them. They've been taking turns." I looked up into his
eyes. "They own a chunk of Lone Star. I need your
help."
I swear Raven looked back through my eyes and
reached some sort of communion with the Old One. I
felt the Wolf spirit's vitality surge through me. Doc took
my right arm and eased the needle out of it. "Whatever
you need, my friend."
"Good. First clothes, then back-up." I smiled as I
heard the Old One howl in my mind. "Then it's our turn
to hunt."
Raven put the call out for help. Tark and Kid Stealth
didn't answer, but Tom Electric and Zig and Zag did.
Sporting some body armor and my MP-93, I was sure
the lot of us could have taken on the world and gone the
distance. Tom ended up driving Raven's Rolls, with
Iron Mike Morrissey in the navigator's seat. His part-
ner, Tiger Jackson, rode in the back with Raven and me,
starting sullen and getting more so every time I referred
to his partner and him as Zig and Zag.
Raven agreed to the plan I laid out as we rode
through the night. "I concur, Wolf. Mr. Jackson and Mr.
Morrissey will hold the top of the stairs while Tom se-
cures the front door. You and I will deal with the club's
Board of Directors." Doc nodded solemnly as I jacked a
round into the MP-9's chamber. "And I'll let you do the
talking."
"Good." I looked at the big black gillette across from
me. "Any questions?"
Zag nodded. "This hunting club has lots of wheels. If
things get ballistic, are we clear to spray up the place?"
I was set to nod yes, but Raven shook his head. "I'm
hoping we don't have to end up shooting. As Wolf has
aptly pointed out, we only have confirmation of one
member actually murdering anyone. We need to let the
Directors know that their new prey is never in season
here in Seattle." He looked at me. "Right, Wolf?"
I frowned, which brought a smile to Zag's face, then
nodded. I agreed only because wanton murder wasn't
really my style. I'd shoot Selene without a second
3 I'd like to say I stuck with the MP-9 because it was an old friend, but the
fact was, I really wanted a cannon. Unfortunately, given how I was feel-
ing, a gun with only a few working parts was all I could handle.
thought, but I didn't know who else in the club had been
cap-bustin' on society's ciphers. Purging their member-
ship would only bring heat down on us and it wouldn't
hurt them at all. What would hurt, and what Valerie was
doing from her haunt in the Matrix, was deducting a
healthy "consulting fee" from their club account—
including the cost of burning and burying my suit.
Tom double-parked us, and Iron Mike covered the
doorman. I winked at him as I went by. Wearing a black
leather jacket, jeans, and combat boots, I wasn't really
dressed for the club. The MP-9 was stylish, which is
why I gave the maître'd a good look at it. "I'm here to
see the Board. Are they still here?"
He nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but no
words came out. I eased the gunmuzzle's pressure on
his bow tie and he swallowed to make sure his throat
still worked. "You can't go in there. They're in execu-
tive session."
"Always seen myself as executive material," I barked
at him. I stepped past and he tried to grab me. I heard a
thump, then a sigh. I glanced back at Tiger and saw him
tuck away a sap, then headed up the stairs. Tom Electric
sat himself on the maître'd's stool and pinned the man
to the ground with an AK-97.
Zig and Zag took up positions at the top of the stairs
while I led Raven deeper into the building. With a kick
I splintered the lock on the board room door and boldly
strode into the center of the room. I did remember the
trap door and used the hall light spilling into the room
to avoid its outline. All around me I saw hunched sil-
houettes leaning forward.
"Sorry to be interrupting, Brothers and Sisters. I
never got to thank you for your hospitality before." I
sketched a careful bow, ending it abruptly when my rib
began to ache. "When I was invited to dinner I hardly
expected to become the center of attention."
The Grandmaster's sable unicorn kill became illumi-
nated as he spoke. "What do you want, Mr. Kies?"
"I'm wondering how I get a bloodlock off a chrome-
dome like you." I arched an eyebrow at him. "If I off
you, do I get a chair on your board and have your ugly
mug perched behind me?"
Brother Bear took offense at my tone. "You have no
right to be here. Leave at once."
I swung the MP-9 in his direction. The single shot I
let off passed just over his head, between the wings of
his chair, and exploded the bear's head. "Damn, shoot-
ing high. That happens after you've had a hole blown in
your chest."
"Your attempt at humor is not amusing, Mr. Kies."
The Grandmaster sat back in his chair. "I can under-
stand your anger. Will fifty thousand nuyen show you
we're sorry?"
"Fifty K is a nice sum for the first installment, but I'll
give you a break." I shrugged easily. "One time deal:
you give me the money and you stop the hunts."
"Policies of this club are not your concern." The
Grandmaster leaned forward. "If you are threatening us
with war, you will find yourself on the losing side."
Raven came up on my right. "Will we?"
The Grandmaster nodded slowly and the other sil-
houettes aped him in silence. "We have the weapons
and the money and the power to destroy you. You are
nothing. No one will notice if you die. We offer to en-
rich you and give you your life. Do not press your
luck."
"Luck is not part of this equation." Raven shook his
head resolutely. He kept his voice low, but it still filled
the room. "You are huntsmen and pride yourselves on
having mastered the most dangerous creatures on the
planet. You study your quarry. You track it and you take
it." Raven's eyes pulsed with fire. "This time, though,
you have been stupid, and all the material things you
have will not afford you victory."
"Is that so?"
"It is. You hunt the SINless because they are insig-
nificant. Within the shadows of this city, life is cheap
and you know it. You think this makes you invincible
because no one cares about your prey." Doc's eyes
sharpened. "You would get more of a fight to protect
the rights of rats to live in a tenement than you would to
defend the lives of people like Albion."
"You make my case for me." The Grandmaster's
head came up. "Those people are nothing. They mean
nothing. We know it, those ignoble beasts know it.
Their lives are worthless."
I saw where Raven was headed and his nod let me
pick up the fight. "You're right, their lives are worth-
less. That means we can hand a gun and fifty nuyen to
any of them along with your picture. See, the only thing
you don't have going for you is numbers. There are
more of them than there are you, and even if your secu-
rity is good enough to pick up sixty or seventy percent
of their attacks, you'll still be maggot-munchies."
I let out a chuckle. "And, hey, when they learn you're
going to be hunting them anyway, we won't even have
to pay them. If we offer a prize, they'll pay us for a
ticket in the martial lottery."
The image of a bazooka-toting biped Bambi battalion
shooting back at them did not thrill the membership in
the least. "Doc, do you think we can get an all-night
printer to start turning out hunting permits on our way
back across town?"
"We can use the phone in the Rolls to start things
going."
The Grandmaster sat back. "If these hunts that you
allege to be occurring—but which we have never ad-
mitted taking place—were to stop . . ."
"And a schedule of reparation payments were made
to the survivors of these hunt victims," Raven added.
"Quite. If this were to take place, then you would see
no reason to take action?"
Raven nodded. "A list of persons and amounts to be
paid can be in your computer by tomorrow. If you agree
to meet it, I would consider the matter closed."
"Done."
Raven looked over at me. "Is that satisfactory to you,
Wolf?"
'"Cept for one thing, yeah, very satisfactory." I
looked up at the Grandmaster. "When you next see Sis-
ter Snake, tell her we still have a date." I jiggled the
MP-9. "Tell her it's flak-vest optional."
As we wandered back down the hallway and picked
up Zig and Zag at the top of the stairs, I tried to figure
out how I'd find Selene Reece. With her money and the
connections the club afforded her, she could be hiding
literally anywhere in the world. After today she'd know
I was still alive and would dig her hidey-hole a little
deeper.
And if that didn't make things tough enough, she'd
know I was after her. Given her skills as a hunter, I had
no doubt I'd be facing the most dangerous prey. Oddly
enough, that did not concern me as much as I thought it
would. The very fact that I could make a run at her
meant she wasn't infallible.
Stepping into a warm rain as we left the club, I turned
to Raven. "I won't make the mistake she did. When I do
her, I'll make sure she's dead."
"I am certain that is what she intended to do with
you, Wolf." Raven nodded at the shadows near the
Rolls. "I don't believe she got that chance."
Stealth opened the Rolls' boot and shoved a rifle-case
into it. He slammed the lid down with his flesh and
blood hand, then stepped up onto the sidewalk. He said
nothing, a flesh and chrome monument.
"Selene Reece is dead?"
The Murder Machine nodded once. "I'd heard ru-
mors of a club that hunted people for sport. I decided
that discovering it needed to be more than a project of
leisure."
I shivered at his cold, mechanical delivery. "You
learned that I was going to the club last night. You
found me in time to kill Selene."
"300 meters, .600 Nitro-express, night scope, no rest."
Zag shivered. "Impressive shot."
I swallowed hard. "Thanks for the freebie."
"Amateurs kill for free." He popped open a compart-
ment on his metallic left arm and tossed me a blue silk sa-
chet tied with a lock of black hair. "I am a professional."
Through the silk I felt some coins4 making up change
from the ten nuyen I'd given him two nights before.
From the second he'd seen Albion's body, Stealth had
known what would happen. That was why he'd insisted
I give him the money and why I'd had a guardian angel
following me, waiting. . . .
I looked up at him. "Was I your bait?"
"You were my patron."
I nodded, ignoring the growing ache in my ribs. Slip-
ping the knot from the silk, I poured the money into my
pocket. I offered Stealth back his trophy, but he shook
his head. I tossed Selene's hair into the gutter, and as the
rain washed it toward the sewer I realized that no matter
how much of a predator you figure yourself to be, you
can always be someone else's fair game.
4 Yeah, coins are archaic, but Stealth knows I don't handle new guns
well . . .
If As Beast You Don't
Succeed
When you come right down to it, there's no easy way to
tell the woman you intend to marry that you're a were-
wolf. If I'd been a hit-man for the mob or had worked
clean-up for yakuza enforcers or had even been a poacher
out in the Tir, I could have told her straight out. I would
have taken Lynn's hand in mine and said, "Look, there's
something you should know about me. I've done some
bad things in my life, but that's all ended now."
That would have been easy. The confession, some
tears, some hugging, some kissing, and an "I'll marry
you, Wolf," would have all followed one after the other.
Not that I'd gone this route before, but I knew it would
have worked. Women seem to find honesty seductive—
probably because there's so damned little of it in the
courting process. Besides, I had it so bad for Lynn I
couldn't let myself even think about her rejecting me.
But that was in the case where I confessed being a
mass murderer or something just as bad. Being a were-
wolf, on the other hand, was much worse1.
1 Pretty much every pundit who ever posted an opinion to the alt.weird-
folks.shapeshifter news groups has noted that there are no such things as were-
wolves. And Raven had told me that I'm really just blessed by the Wolf spirit—so
blessed that a chunk of it is subletting a portion of my cerebral cortex. Fine. But if
you ask anyone on the street what they call someone who becomes a wolf under
the full moon, "someone blessed by the Wolf spirit" isn't the answer you'll get.
Lynn would try to understand, and I knew that for her
a try was as good as doing. Her parents would be decid-
edly more difficult to sway. In an instant I saw Lynn's
parents inviting me to dinner and the effect my little
revelation might have. "That's nice, dear," Blanche In-
gold would say politely. "Does that mean we shouldn't
use the good silver?"
Phil would have a use for the silver and probably
wouldn't have that difficult a time finding the bullet
molds or a gunsmith to do the trick for him. I liked Phil,
and he liked me, but he'd still be at the door with a gun
to keep me away from Lynn. I couldn't blame him,
really. No man wants to think about having to paper-
train his grandchildren.
My telecom beeped, rescuing me from the nihilistic
and depressing spiral my thoughts had spun into over
the last two hours. I swore when I saw it was only a
piece of email from Raven. I'd have wanted him to stay
on-line so we could discuss the message I'd sent him
earlier. I decrypted his message by hitting two keys and
read it as the words scrolled up the screen.
Wolf,
Kid Stealth, Tom Electric, Tark, and I are taking
Valerie Valkyrie and heading up to Oak Harbor to
probe a bit more deeply into Mr. Sampson's back-
ground. Uncertain when we will return. I would
heartily encourage you continue to see Lynn Ingold
as we would not want another attempt to abduct her.
We will discuss the matter of your message upon
my return. I am glad you are happy, my friend.
—Raven
As I read the message I found myself of two minds,
the two at war with each other. I was a bit piqued that
Raven hadn't asked me to go with him on the investiga-
tion. I am, after all, his longest surviving aide and I've
got talents that all the cybernetics built into Kid Stealth
and Tom Electric combined can't equal.
More important, I'd brought the Sampson matter to
his attention in the first place. The Halloweeners, a
street gang that controlled what had once been my old
neighborhood, were never much of a threat to anyone
beside themselves. This proved especially true after the
Night of Fire a couple of years ago when the Weenies
had been taken down, hard. It took them over a year to
get back up to strength and then they had to fight to re-
claim their turf.
That fight had been going poorly, which was no great
surprise because Charles the Red was still in charge of
the Weenies. Then this huge guy, with long blond hair
and arrogance dense enough to stop bullets, showed up
and started giving orders. Chuckles accepted his demo-
tion graciously and, after getting out of the hospital,
started backing Mr. Sampson in his effort to retake
Weenie turf.
I'd never been on good terms with the Halloweeners,
and Charles the Red thought of me as the person re-
sponsible for destroying the gang. I knew that wasn't
the whole truth, but letting Charles imagine it was kept
him away from the others who'd broken the Weenies. I
had Raven backing me, which meant Charles growled a
lot, but didn't bite.
Then Sampson showed up and the Weenies started
being a lot more aggressive. Raven decided to see what
he could do to discourage them, and thus had begun the
investigation of Mr. Sampson. Apparently something
had turned up to link Sampson to Oak Harbor and I was
glad Raven was following up on the lead. Still, getting
left behind made me feel like I was being punished
when I hadn't done anything.
I stopped for a second. Wolf, sending Raven that mes-
sage this morning can hardly be considered nothing.
The message had said that I'd decided to ask Lynn to
marry me and, for that reason, I felt I had to sever my
connections with Raven and his crew.
I smiled as I reread Doc's suggestion that I continue
to see Lynn. Short of having me trussed up and hauled
down to the southwestern deserts that had spawned him,
Raven knew he couldn't have kept me away from her. It
pleased me to see that he took real joy in seeing that I'd
found the happiness he denied himself.
The alarm on the telecom went off, and I realized I
was going to be late if I didn't get moving. With the
stroke of one button, I zapped the message, then re-
treated to my bedroom. I stood there, staring at the
clothes hanging in my closet, and shook my head in dis-
may. If haute couture ever discovers kevlar, I'll be do-
ing turns on Paris runways. But though I was amply
supplied for playing the well-heeled soldier of fortune, I
had virtually nothing to wear that could be described as
normal.
I shook my head again. That's because you ARE a
soldier of fortune, Wolfgang Kies. For the past eight
years you 've worked with Raven in his battle to keep the
chaos of the Awakening from swallowing up what's left
of humanity. You and the others have helped hold the
line that keeps normal people safe from magical mon-
sters and technological monstrosities. There's nothing
wrong with being a warrior, and your clothes have al-
lowed you to survive dressing for the part . . .
I finally settled on a pair of jeans Lynn had cajoled
me into buying on our last outing—so I'd have some
that had more fabric than holes, she said. The gray
t-shirt I selected had two advantages: it was clean and it
was woven of kevlar. Though I didn't expect trouble,
I'd not become Raven's longest-living aide by being
completely stupid. Lastly I chose my black leather
jacket to wear over it, even though it had a red and
black raven patch on the left shoulder.
Having solved that problem, I hit the shower for a
quick, somewhat bracing scrub-down. I had a devil of a
time trying to wash my back and actually gave up after
not too much effort. As long as I was going to be con-
fessing things to Lynn, I figured I could add in needing
help with that little job and see if she'd offer assistance.
That tactic had worked before.
I toweled myself dry and found myself standing be-
fore the mirror, doing the obligatory, Double-X chro-
mosomally challenged person's flexing and posturing.
I'm not as tall as some men, but taller than most. I have
a lean, muscular build that had prompted a few folks—
the aforementioned Charles the Red being one—to
think of me as easy pickings until we tangled. Brown
hair covered my torso front and back, yet it couldn't
hide the myriad scars that crisscrossed my flesh. Each
one reminded me of some adventure I'd had with
Dr. Raven—and even a few from before I hooked up
with him.
A fairly recent scar, a puckered, pink dot with a line
bisecting it right beneath my left nipple, stood out be-
cause the chest hair around it hadn't fully grown back in
yet. I'd gotten that scar from a bullet shot at me by a
big-time hunter who wanted to bag a human. She'd
gone from hunter to hunted—if one can say that mag-
gots actively hunt—and her compatriots curtailed their
poaching of human targets in one of my most recent ad-
ventures with Raven.
Scars. They meant I'd survived. No one could say
that I hadn't given better than I got in all these adven-
tures, but something inside of me was weary of it all.
There'll come a point when you don't live long
enough to scar.
I forcibly turned my mind away from maudlin
thoughts. I dressed quickly and headed out of the apart-
ment. At the door I hesitated and almost tucked the
Beretta Viper2 in my waistband, but I knew Lynn would
hate it. Not wanting to give her any reason to be even
slightly displeased with me, I left the gun on the foyer
table and went out into the cool autumn afternoon air.
I set off at a leisurely pace and tried to keep my mind
clear of any matters vexing or bothersome, but that wasn't
as simple as it might seem. I tried to think of Lynn—
2 Despite the vaunted opinions of some, carrying even an old gun like the
Viper 14 is better than going unarmed.
which was easy—but my thoughts quickly veered off
into the vortex from which Raven's message had di-
verted me.
"Maybe I could ease into it. . . . The next time we go
shopping I'll just pick up some dog biscuits or flea and
tick shampoo . . ." I laughed aloud at that thought, but a
sinister thought followed close behind.
Dr. Raven knew my secret—he'd helped me conquer
the darker, savage, wolf side of myself before I could
cause too much damage. Through Raven I learned of
the Wolf spirit dwelling within me and because of
Raven I was able to use the wolf's strength and speed as
other warriors used cybernetics to enhance their abili-
ties in combat. In enabling me to gain control, Raven
had very definitely saved my life, sanity, and soul.
Valerie Valkyrie, Raven's newest aide, knew nothing
of my affliction, nor did Tom Electric or Plutarch Grao-
grim, even though the three of us had worked together
for the last several years. Kid Stealth probably did have
some idea that there was something special about me
from the time when he was stalking Raven's crew, but
he'd never mentioned it. Jimmy Mackelroy had a vague
idea about me being different, but I knew his secret, so
we were even and, even more in his favor, he wasn't
really inquisitive about my peculiarities.
The others who had learned the truth about me were
the real reason I wanted to find a way to leave Lynn in
the dark. The Silicon Wasp, Robin Carter, and Mr. Stilts
were all members of Doc's entourage who'd known my
secret. Each one had taken the secret to his grave, and
there were simsense starlets whose careers had lasted
longer than my friends did once they knew. I knew it
was only coincidence, but learning that secret seemed
about as safe as drinking a plutonium cocktail. Though
I should have taken heart in the fact that Raven had sur-
vived the longest of all, somehow I harbored the fear
that knowing the truth had killed the others.
As much as I wanted to share my secret with Lynn, as
much as I wanted to share my life with her, I didn't
want to add any more pain to her life. I'd sooner have
shot myself than cause her any hurt. And, of course, be-
ing male and in love meant I knew there was a solution
to the problem somewhere. All I had to do was find it
and use it to keep Lynn safe.
I'd met Lynn through my association with Dr. Raven.
Etienne La Plante, one of the larger pieces floating to
the top of the cesspool that is Seattle's underworld, fan-
cies himself a commodities broker. Whereas legitimate
folks are content to deal in grain, simsense chips, or
other such staples, La Plante goes in for more exotic
merchandise. Arms trading and narcotics are his bread
and vegemite, but he makes his profit moving bodies
through white slavery rings. Pretty women, or men, for
that matter, can fetch a premium in the penthouses of
the corporate towers around the world.
La Plante's henchmen—orks with brains smaller than
your average lug nut—had kidnapped Lynn to provide
La Plante with merchandise to soothe the ruffled sensi-
bilities of an angry client. After Kid Stealth had discov-
ered La Plante had something special going down so, he
and I and his buddies, the Redwings, hit an old resort
complex called The Rock. We ran into something a bit
nastier than we'd expected, but Doc Raven showed up
in time to prevent Stealth and me from adding our
names to the list of deceased aides.
After we rescued Lynn, Raven and I took her back to
the apartment she shared with her parents in the Fuchi
tower. She was still pretty out of it because of the drugs
La Plante had used to sedate her, but Raven pronounced
her fit and said all she needed was lots of sleep. I vol-
unteered to stay in case of any more trouble—to the re-
lief of her parents—and spent most of the next thirty-six
hours holding Lynn to keep the nightmares away while
she slept.
All in all that wasn't incredibly different from similar
things I'd done for other victims of Seattle crime. It
sounds smug to say that I'd gotten used to people being
grateful and looking to me as some sort of savior, but
it's true. You have to get used to it because the connec-
tion always ends. There's always another person with a
problem, or another mystery that needs solving. I'd
been through the same thing dozens of times before.
Only this time it was different. This time it involved
Lynn and involved me getting involved with Lynn.
I looked up and found myself at the corner of the
small strip mall the Fuchi folks had put into the ground
floor of Employee Tower Number One. I winked at the
two woman greeters stationed on either side of the door,
then hurried across the crowded lobby to the small bak-
ery that employs the whole Ingold family. I waved at
Phil as he poured kaf for a couple at one of the rear ta-
bles, then caught his daughter as she threw herself into
my arms. I hugged her tight and kissed her, then set her
down and stared at her, scarcely believing she was truly
there and really did care for me.
Lynn wore her burnished copper hair pulled back in a
ponytail that hung all the way to her shoulder blades.
The top of her head came up to my nose. The scent of
her perfume brought back pleasant memories of inti-
mate moments that threatened to make me blush. Her
broad smile and pert nose accentuated the lively twinkle
of her green eyes, and the sprinkling of freckles across
her cheeks made her seem happier yet.
She wore jeans and a red-checked shirt with comple-
mentary kerchief that meant she was going to try to talk
me into going to a neo-Western dance club. After the
Ghost Dances had killed so many people and prompted
others to go native, things concerning America's Wild
West had been downplayed. Time breeds a certain
amount of contempt, and this neo-Western club called
itself "Oklahoma." Everything had been styled after an
ancient musical, which meant the men wore shirts made
of tablecloths from Italian restaurants and every other
vidiot packed a six-gun with a low-grade laser triggered
by revolver blanks.
Blanche came out from the back of the shop and
smiled when she saw me. She and Phil both looked
happy and content and perhaps a bit proud that their
only daughter was seeing someone from Dr. Raven's
band of heroes—mind you, that's not as good as some-
one from the corporate boardrooms, but it beats most of
the gillettes running around the streets. Their occu-
pation had made both of them plump as gingerbread
people, but I've always distrusted anorexic cooks any-
way. They'd invested the last twenty-five years in their
daughter, and their love for her showed plainly on their
faces.
I shook Phil's hand as he came over. His grip, a bit
dry from the flour coating it, was strong nonetheless.
"Afternoon, Mr. Ingold, Mrs. Ingold. How are you?"
Phil mumbled something I didn't quite catch as
Blanche distracted me. Staring at her daughter as only a
mother can when trying to remind her to do something,
Blanche's gaze flitted to me, then back to Lynn. I
frowned. "What's going on?"
Lynn glared at her mother as only a daughter can do,
then looked up at me and sighed. "My parents are cele-
brating their thirtieth anniversary next week and they
wanted to make sure I invited you to the party, which I
would have done a bit later. They also want you to ex-
tend the invitation to Dr. Raven and your compatriots."
Blanche unconsciously clasped her hands together in
an attitude of prayer and crushed them to her ample bo-
som. "That Dr. Raven, such a nice, ah, man."
I suppressed a laugh. Raven is a rare commodity—a
Native American elf who's physically big enough to
bench press the tower. He's also devilishly handsome—
a fact that had not been lost on Blanche Ingold or many
of the other women he's met. That was one of the rea-
sons I'd studiously avoided having Lynn renew her ac-
quaintance with him.
Phil looked over at his wife and sighed. "I hope you
get that Kid Stealth to come. I've still not thanked him
for saving my little girl."
I felt the shiver run through Lynn. Her father put it
down to memories of her ordeal, but I knew it came at
the mention of the Kid's name. Lynn's very much a
pacifist, and Stealth, well, I think he considers violence
some sort of performance art. His openings are a splash,
and only close after the coroner uses a lot of sutures.
I gave Lynn a reassuring squeeze, then addressed her
parents. "I'll see what I can do. Raven and the others
are out of town for a while. I hope they'll be back
in time for your party. We'll let you know if they can
make it."
Lynn's father laughed. "They can come even if they
don't call ahead—Blanche, she always makes too much
food for parties. I can remember a time . . ."
Lynn slapped me playfully on the stomach. "That's
our cue to leave." She kissed her father on the cheek,
then grabbed a jeans jacket and brown paper bag from
her mother. She kissed Blanche and made her promise
not to wait up.
Blanche gave her an extra little hug, then let her go.
"Be careful. I worry even though I know you're in good
hands."
I slipped my left arm around Lynn's slender waist and
guided her through the lobby. "I take it from your outfit
you want to go to that saloon you like?"
She gave me an impish smile. "You're not much of a
detective for all the work you've done with Dr. Raven."
I shrugged easily. "He just keeps me around for
heavy lifting and comforting damsels in distress." I nar-
rowed my eyes and tried to figure out what nefarious
plan she had brewing in her mind. "If there's a mystery
here, I can't solve it. Don't tell me you've been hired by
the Yamaguchi-gumi to square dance me to death!"
Lynn shivered eloquently. "You know, my love, that I
know how much you hate Oklahoma." She glanced
back over her shoulder at her parents. "However, they
don't know that. I thought perhaps we might catch a
bite to eat, then just retire to your place . . ."
"Well, my back does need washing . . ."
"My specialty."
"Maybe you think so . . ."
Lynn blushed and smacked me playfully on the arm.
The awkwardness of her sharing living quarters with
her parents had been dealt with before through similar
subterfuges. Because her parents had been employed by
Fuchi for all of their adult lives, they got a sizable apart-
ment in the employee tower, and it came with cleaning
services and child care that made it possible for
employees to devote themselves fully to serving the
company. The Bakery and other company shops pro-
vided anything and everything else the employees
might need, and children were encouraged to remain at
home—especially if they decided to work for the com-
pany as Lynn had.
For a moment my mind drifted back to my younger
days on the streets. Born in a tenement with no state or
corporate official there to register me, I started early in
life as a shadowrunner. No official records existed of
Wolfgang Kies, which meant I was free of harassment
by the city unless I attracted their attention. It also
meant I could never integrate myself with numbered
society—like the Fuchi folks—because I didn't offi-
cially exist. Whereas legitimate and tracked citizens had
a myriad of safety nets built into the system to keep
them alive, shadowrunners had to slip through the
cracks.
Heading down to pier 59 and the Aquarium park with
my arm around a beautiful woman, I looked at the city
in an entirely new way. Sure, it was the same, dreary
gray sinkhole of concrete. Yeah, street toughs with more
chrome than your average kitchen still lurked on street
corners and in shadows. They still had the hollow,
haunted look of despair in their eyes that they would
die with—and that I had worn until not so long ago—
but it just didn't seem to matter to me anymore.
Shadowrunning is fine when your life is a dead end,
but when you can see a future, it just seems like a child-
ish game.
The Wolf spirit inside me spoke in a harsh whisper. A
warrior who views war as a game is a warrior who will
not see death when it comes for him.
We reached the park and walked to the benches be-
yond the area where the local wireheads had jacked into
the public access systems. Those with datajacks in-
stalled, like Lynn or Valerie Valkyrie, just plugged
themselves directly into the game tables. Others rented
electrode rigs from a ramshackle kiosk to do the same.
Two kids were playing some variant of chess in
which holographic pieces battled each other—they at-
tracted a small crowd that cheered when a piece died a
particularly grisly death. Others did their own things,
oblivious to spectators. One guy who wore his purple
hair in a spiked mohawk with piglet curls fore and aft
seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him immediately.
He amused himself by projecting images of city offi-
cials and hapless sheep into diagrams from an on-line
edition of the Kama Sutra. I recognized what he was
doing as I had once similarly amused myself on summer
days of my misspent youth.
Lynn sat on the bench and opened her bag. She took
out an old crust of bread and broke it into small bits.
She tossed them out in a haphazard pattern at first.
Then, as birds congregated she sowed her crumbs in a
way that kept the bigger birds back from where the
smaller ones came to feed. She gave me a hunk of bread
and frowned disapprovingly as I tossed a large piece
halfway between two monster blackbirds.
"Wolf! You're supposed to break it up into smaller
portions!" Her pronouncement came as if it were one of
the laws of the universe that I'd missed somewhere in
my meager schooling.
"You want to run that by me again, with the help files
active this time?"
She rested her hands in her lap, which prompted one
bold sparrow to light on her knee and pick at the crust
she was still holding. She laughed, then composed her
face and turned to lecture me. "You have to use small
bits because, as my mother taught me, birds that fly
away with your food in their mouths take your prayers
to heaven with them." She nodded once as if that
answer explained everything, then started scattering
crumbs again.
I opened my mouth to ask a question, then stopped.
Over the years I'd been with Dr. Raven I'd had the gaps
in my knowledge of the world filled in, for the most part.
Ever since the Awakening—when magic again appeared
in the world—the God Lynn and her family worshipped
had lost lots of ground. Still, with all the things I'd
seen in Raven's company, and even though I seriously
doubted her God existed at all, I couldn't discount the
possibility she was right. Weirder things had happened.
"Sorry," I muttered. "I just can't resist watching two
dinosaurs fighting over bread."
Lynn rolled her eyes to heaven and tossed a little
novena to a wren. "You're not going to try to convince
me that birds were once dinosaurs again, are you?"
I quick-scattered a rosary's worth of crumbs in a
wide arc, then brushed my hands clean on my thighs. "I
double-checked all that stuff I mentioned last time.
Deinonychus is the name of the dinosaur that had a
wrist joint that looks the same as the wing joint in the
Archeopteryx, and the Archeopteryx has feathers and
wings, hence is seen as the first bird. See, dinosaurs and
proto-birds had this common ancestor in the Jurassic
period . . ."
She frowned. "Why would I remember deinonychus
as a word?"
I shrugged. "It was a particularly bloodthirsty
carnosaur. It ran fast and had this nasty, sickle-shaped
claw on each of its feet that it used to disembowel . . ."
As I hooked my right hand over to represent the claw, I
saw her pale just a bit, and suddenly I realized why she
knew the word.
I reached out and hugged her to me. "I'm sorry. For-
give me."
She kissed the side of my neck. "Nothing to forgive—
you didn't mean it."
But I did it anyway. Lynn had first heard the word
deinonychus when I clarified why Kid Stealth ran with
such an odd gait. During her rescue she'd seen only
glimpses of him and never got a good look at his tita-
nium legs. She'd actually seen more than she knew, and
put the weirdness down to the dope in her system. When
I explained how Stealth had chosen legs styled after
those of a deinonychus, she asked me to stop, but she
still dreamed of him for the next couple of nights.
She pulled away from me and set about feeding the
dinosaurs again. Her smile returned and she passed me
another piece of bread, but I shook my head. "Lynn,
there's something I have to tell you about me." I fal-
tered. After seeing how she reacted to the mention of
Kid Stealth or anything that might remind her of vio-
lence, there seemed no easy way to tell her about the
true Wolfgang Kies.
She brushed her hands off and cupped my jaw in
them. "Wolf, I know you've been forced to do things
you're not proud of. I know you've killed people and
things while working for Dr. Raven, but I also know
you did that to help others, like me. I cannot and will
not let that drive a wedge between us—that's a decision
I made the first time I agreed to go out with you."
She pressed her fingertips to my lips to stop me from
saying anything. "I know you, perhaps better than you
know yourself. I know you're a good man, a strong
man, and I know I love you. There is nothing you could
say that would change that or make me think any less
of you."
I sat there stunned for a moment or two as I realized
the true depth of her feelings for me. Somehow I'd as-
sumed there was no way she could feel the same way
about me as I felt about her, but that proved to be a fal-
lacy that exploded with the greatest of ease. Still, she
didn't know about my lunar mood swings, and that reve-
lation would sorely test the strength of her convictions.
I started to speak, but something caught my attention
above and beyond Lynn's head. Two hollow-eyed kids
came around the corner of the trode kiosk, then ducked
back when they saw me. Alarm bells immediately went
off in my head because even though they'd washed
off most of the jack o' lantern makeup the Hallo-
weeners affected, their jackets were black and orange—
Halloweener colors.
"Are you done feeding the birds?"
Lynn immediately caught the concern in my voice.
"What is it?"
I looked around and saw more potential Weenies loi-
tering in the background. "Gangers. I don't like it."
She sighed with exasperation to cover her nervous-
ness. "Wolf, this is a public park. They have the right to
use it."
I nodded. "True enough, but this just doesn't feel right."
Again she tried to play it light. "I think you just want
to get me back to your place . . ."
I stood and held my hand out to help her up. "No
denying that. Why don't you scatter the rest of the bread
in one huge papal audience, and let's get out of here.
We'll keep it natural, as if nothing's wrong . . ."
"Wolf, you're scaring me." She crushed the bag, then
up-ended it and let the crumbs spill out. "Let's go, if we
must."
The fear in her voice gave way to anger. I knew it
wasn't directed at me exactly, and I immediately fo-
cused my reaction to it on the Weenies who had started
to follow us. At the same time I wanted to kick myself
for having left my Viper behind3. The situation that ap-
peared to be shaping up was not one in which I wanted
to be unarmed.
The Wolf spirit's voice echoed through my head. You
need not be weaponless, Longtooth. Embrace me and I
will deal with your enemies.
"No!"
Lynn looked back at me. "What?" Despite her fear, I
saw her concern for me reflected in her green eyes.
3 See, I wasn't kidding, was I?
I shook my head. "Nothing important." I glanced at
the forest of gray buildings at the landward end of the
pier. "I'm not sure if we're being followed or not, but
there's a quick way for us to find out."
She hesitated for only a second. "Lead on."
I guided her toward the crosswalk as if nothing un-
usual was happening at all. The Weenies stayed with us,
but lurked at the back of the crowd gathering to cross
the street. I worked us toward the curb, then pulled her
into the street. "Run!"
The irate honking of horns and the squeal of brakes
drowned out any shouting from the other pedestrians as
we dashed into traffic. Lynn let her fear run riot and the
adrenaline made her nimble and oh so quick. She cut
around the front of a Ford Americar and between two
Honda minivans while I vaulted a silver Porsche Mako.
The driver shook his fist at me through the windscreen,
then went white as a bullet shattered the safety glass.
The next two silenced shots went high, but I saw
them hit the Sumitomo Bank building. Adrenaline lend-
ing wings to my feet, I caught up with Lynn and
grabbed her right hand in my left. Without warning I
stopped and swung her around into the alley behind the
bank, then I paused and made yet another in a long line
of mistakes. I turned back to see who was pursuing us.
The lead grunge snapped two shots off with his si-
lenced Ingram Mk. 22 before another Mako—this one
white and sporting a dorsal fin telephone antenna—took
him like its namesake would take a swimmer on an Aus-
tralian beach. The lower portions of his legs whipping
around like nylons on a clothesline, the ganger bounced
from the hood to windscreen, then up over the top of the
car. I'm not sure where the antenna caught him, but it
looked crimson to me as the car continued through the
intersection.
One of the two bullets peppered me with concrete
shards and lead splatter as it hit the wall near my head.
The other one hit me square in the ribs and spun me
back into the alley. I ricocheted off the opposite wall,
then sprawled unceremoniously on stinking bags of
garbage.
Lynn dropped to her knees and reached out to me,
then her hands recoiled in horror to cover her mouth as
she saw the bullet hole in my jacket. "Oh, God, you're
shot!" The blood drained from her face and I sensed she
wanted to run, but refused to give in to her panic. "I
have to get help . . ."
I held a hand up as my body once again let me
breathe. "Wait . . . I'm battered but not bloodied." Gin-
gerly I opened my coat and the .45 caliber slid across
my t-shirt and to the ground. "See, no blood, no foul."
It heartened me to see the relief in her eyes. I saw no
reason to mention that the bullet had broken at least one
of my ribs and that if the Weenies got any closer with
their guns, my t-shirt wouldn't stop their evil intentions,
much less another bullet.
I took her hands in mine and gave them a squeeze.
"Go further along the alley. Duck down behind that big
dumpster there. I'll be along in a second. There's some-
thing I have to do."
"I don't want to leave you here all . . ."
"Just a second, babe, then I'll be with you. Trust me."
As she headed back down the alley, I worked past the
pain and reached inside myself. Deep in my heart I
touched the Wolf spirit. The Old One hauled himself up
into a sitting position and looked at me disapprovingly.
The red rebuke in his eyes found allies in the scarlet
shadows rippling over his black form.
Even before the Old One had a chance to speak, I cut
him off. "I need your strength and your speed and your
senses, and I need them now! I have no time to debate
you. Now!" Without waiting for his acquiescence, I
pulled myself out of the self-imposed trance and smiled
as the world reordered itself in accordance with my new
perspective.
Despite the fetid garbage surrounding me, I could
still smell the lingering trace of Lynn's perfume and the
fear it helped mask. I heard the sounds she made as she
ducked to safety, and the sounds of the rats in the dump-
ster behind which she hid. More important, though, I
heard the asthmatic wheezing of a Weenie running
toward where he'd seen me fall.
In an instant—the broken rib a twinge of pain to be
ignored—I was on my feet and had flattened myself
against the opposite wall of the alley. The acrid scent of
gunsmoke burned into my nostrils as the silenced snout
of another Ingram Mk. 22 poked around the corner.
Without hesitation I grabbed the gun and yanked,
pulling the startled Weenie into the shadowed byway. I
tore the gun free of his feeble grasp, then smashed its
blocky butt against his head. He collapsed without so
much as a moan.
Following him came a gillette who'd learned to move
almost silently. My first warning of his presence came
when the forty-centimeter-long claws built into his right
hand telescoped out with a click, then whistled as he
swung them at me. His cut came waist-high and should
have sliced my belly open, but I'd already begun to
twist away from him before his attack began. The trio of
polished steel blades shredded the right flank of my
jacket and razored through the t-shirt and some flesh,
but they didn't get enough to put me down.
Before he could turn his wrist around and try to back-
hand me with the blades, my right hand locked on his
hand. I bent his hand inward toward his own chest. An-
ticipating my move, he retracted the claws and relaxed
in preparation for using some esoteric martial art to turn
my attack against me. That's why it surprised him when
I jammed his fist against his own chest, then smacked
the gun in my left hand against his funny bone.
The blow numbed his forearm and released the claws.
I stepped over his dying body and out onto the street
again. The half-dozen gangers and razorboys rac-
ing down the sidewalk collided abruptly as their lead
elements tried to stop. I stroked the Ingram's trigger
twice, sending two three-shot bursts in their direction.
Fortunately for them, and whoever does the workman's
compensation filing for the Halloweeners, a heavy-set
ork up front absorbed most of the damage. One bullet
lanced sparks from a gillette's left-arm assembly and an-
other folded an ork over as it drove his navel out through
his spine, but otherwise it left the band unscathed.
Four out of at least ten down, and me with a half-
empty clip and busted barrel staves in my chest. Why
the hell don't these things ever happen to Kid Stealth?
I ducked back into the alley and looped the machine
pistol over my shoulder by its strap. I grabbed both of
the men I'd downed and dragged them to the dumpster.
Lynn's eyes grew wide enough to fall out of her head,
and I suddenly realized that with the silencer on the gun
and the way I dealt with the first two people, she had no
idea any fighting had taken place.
I dropped to one knee and brought the Ingram to hand
again. "I'm sorry I got you into this, Lynn, believe me I
am." I nodded toward the bodies. "I need you to go
through the razorboy's pockets and get whatever he
has—guns, knives, bullets, anything. I'll do the kid. It's
our only chance at survival."
She reached out to touch the ragged furrows cut in
my coat. "You're hurt."
"Not as bad as I will be if they get you because of try-
ing to kill me." I started to pat the Weenie down, then
liberated the spare Ingram clips in the thigh pockets of
his khaki fatigues. "Charles the Red or Mr. Sampson
somehow learned that Raven and the others were out of
town. They decided to make a move against me. Chuck-
les has been planning this for some time."
"How do you know that?" Lynn said as she pulled
wires and datacords from the dead man's pocket and
stuffed them into her own.
I whirled around and pointed the Mk. 22's snout at
the alley mouth. A short burst blasted a grunge back
over a parked car. "This won't do." I stood and twisted
the dumpster so it blocked the alley, then answered her
question by pointing at the razorboy and his purple-
spiked coiffure.
"He was one of the ones in the park when we arrived.
He was jacked into one of the public tables. It's my
fault: We've been too predictable—always going to the
park before we go elsewhere. He just let the others
know we had arrived and the gears started grinding."
Suddenly I felt the alley walls close in on me like a
trap. I lunged forward and covered Lynn's body with
my own. The bullets sprayed down through the space
where I'd just been crouching and, somehow, missed
my splayed-out legs.
As spent cartridges tinkled down in a brass rain, I
rolled over onto my back and burned the rest of the
Mac's clip. Bullets traced a line up the alley wall and
through the street samurai who'd taken the high ground.
He pitched back out of sight, his body looking like a
piñata filled with cherry Jell-O, and I reloaded the gun
without thinking.
Lying there on my back gave me a unique view of the
world. From beneath the dumpster I saw a truck turn
into the alley. Its tires squealed and smoked as it fought
for traction in the garbage choking the alley mouth. As
it picked up speed and the obscenities being shouted by
its occupants fought over the roar of the engine, I real-
ized the Weenies meant to use the dumpster to smear us
into a thin, bloody paste.
Off to my left I saw a sewer grating lurking like a
grime-smeared island in the midst of an oily patch of
waste water. I leaped to it and single-handedly ripped
the grating free. "Lynn, over here, now! Get down in
here."
Tears streaking her face, she crossed to the hole and
started her descent. The slimy, rusty rungs made the climb
difficult, but she moved as quickly as she could. My en-
hanced olfactory senses sampled the sewer miasma with
the relish of a wine connoisseur sipping Sterno. The stink
gave me ample reason not to follow her, but the gangers in
the truck allowed me no alternative.
"Drop, just drop!" I yelled as I thrust my legs down
into the hole. I let myself slip into the darkness as the
truck slammed into the dumpster with a horrendous
clang. My left hand grabbed the top rung and my head
slipped beneath street level as the dumpster's leading
edge guillotined its way above me. I felt a grinding in
my shoulder and a jolt of pain as my handhold stopped
the drop short, but I was too intent on other things to
worry about injuries at that very moment.
I shoved the Ingram back up toward street level and
tightened down on the trigger. Like a bandsaw cutting
wood, the bullets ripped along the truck's midline. Just
behind the cab, the slugs lanced through the gas tank.
Almost instantly the acrid scent of gasoline filled my
nose and I let go of the ladder's top rung.
The truck exploded before I completed the five-meter
drop to the river of sewage below. I saw a tremendous
flash, then felt the thunderous detonation shudder
through my chest. The scream of metal twisting out of
shape as the flaming truck cartwheeled through the nar-
row alley sounded like a banshee death-wail and was
made yet more haunting by the acoustics of the subter-
ranean sewer tunnels.
I hit water and the bottom one after the other. Fire
sparked in my right flank as the water gnawed into the
claw wounds. Water hissed as it touched the gun's
silencer and evaporated into steam. Gathering my feet
beneath me I hauled myself to the surface and stood in
the waist-deep river of sludge. As quickly as possible I
moved upstream. By doing that I rejoined Lynn and
avoided the flaming liquid dripping down in long burn-
ing rivulets through the hole above.
I slipped my left arm around her shoulders and tried
not to react as she wrapped her arms around my middle
and hugged. I failed and she recoiled. Her hands came
away bloody. She stared at the black stains on her
palms, for the burning gasoline's light was too feeble to
give the blood its true color.
She looked up at me as if her world was folding in on
itself. "You're bleeding. This water . . . You need a
doctor."
I forced a confident smile onto my lips. "You have
that straight. I need Dr. Raven."
She gave me a puzzled look. "But you said he'd left
Seattle for a while."
"True, but Raven keeps tabs on things through the
Matrix. That's why he took Valerie Valkyrie with
them." I frowned. "Unless we get to a place where we
can use a deck, we're up a creek without a sewage treat-
ment plant in sight."
For the first time since we left the park, Lynn smiled.
She plucked a short datacord from her pocket and I re-
called having seen her strip it off the gillette I killed.
"Get me to a junction box or public telecom access jack
and from there I'm in." She pulled her hair back away
from her left ear and snapped the cord into the datajack
implanted there. "You've got the access codes—I'm not
going to have to cut any ice, am I?"
I hesitated. The access codes and link numbers for
Dr. Raven's private commnet were secrets I ranked
right up there with knowledge of my particular brand of
lunacy. They were the most precious secrets Raven had
because if they fell into the wrong hands—read the
Halloweeners, Mr. Sampson, or the legion of Raven's
other enemies—it would be possible to uncover a whole
string of Raven's safehouses and resources. Sure, Raven
is far too intelligent to keep all of his secrets on-line
anywhere, but any information gleaned could jeopar-
dize operations I knew nothing about.
Furthermore—and far more important to me
personally—giving those codes to Lynn would be
bringing her into a world I wanted to save her from. I
wanted to shield her from the danger I accepted as one
of Doc Raven's aides. By giving her the codes I would
increase her risk. It wouldn't matter to someone like
Mr. Sampson that anything she knew would become
obsolete the moment Raven replaced the codes—she
would become a target for getting at Raven.
She looked up at me and I saw she'd done some hard
thinking. "Wolf, if we don't reach Raven, what are our
chances of survival?"
I took a deep breath—as deep as my broken ribs
would allow anyway—then pursed my lips. "Without
contact of any sort, Raven would get suspicious after
twenty-four hours, but he probably wouldn't return un-
til after forty-eight or even seventy-two hours." I sighed
wearily. "I could hold out that long—hell, with a quick
trip to my doss I could even carry the war back to the
Weenies."
She looked down at the torpid river swirling around
our legs. "Do the odds change when you have me in
tow?"
"Somewhat, yeah." Slinging the gun over my shoul-
der, I cupped her jaw in my hands and kissed her. "I'd
take you back to the tower . . ."
"But they're probably anticipating that, and it would
only put my parents in jeopardy."
"My thoughts exactly." I didn't add that we had no
way of knowing how long they'd been watching us or
how much they knew about where I was likely to go.
"I'm sorry I've put you in this danger. If there was any
other way . . ."
Lynn pressed a finger to my lips. "If you were anyone
or anything else, Wolfgang Kies, I'd never have gotten
to know you. Never regret or deny what you are. It's
what I love about you."
I kissed her again. "Well, then, let's find a telecom
box and get to work."
Finding a phone junction box was actually easier than
I'd imagined, and I immediately ripped it open. The
wires inside looked like so much rainbow spaghetti to
me, but Lynn recognized things right away. She smiled
and snugged the datacord into a slot. In a hushed whis-
per I gave Lynn the link number I'd been assigned and
the access codes, including the one that disabled the
pattern checker. I had to do that to verify that I wasn't
using the codes or the computer would see an input pat-
tern totally out of sync with my previous access and
would sever the connection.
Lynn winked at me. "Don't worry, lover. No one will
get those codes out of me. I promise."
"I know," I said, but she was already gone. The smile
remained on her face, but her eyes got a glassy look as
she jacked in. Her eyes REMed and then I watched her
grin broaden, which had to mean she'd gotten into
Raven's system. For the next minute she looked utterly
enraptured, then her eyes blinked and she returned to
the land of flesh and blood.
She stared at me with incredible joy flashing in her
eyes. "When I used your codes and gave the system the
override, I heard Raven's voice say, 'That's not neces-
sary, Ms. Ingold.' He had a pattern check already built
into the system for me! The man's unbelievable!"
I suppressed a smirk. "Yeah, that's putting it mildly."
"I left a message telling him that the Halloweeners
were after you and me. I also said you thought you
could hold out for seventy-two hours, but any help
would be appreciated."
I nodded. "Good. That will get him back, or he'll cut
someone loose to help us."
Obviously pleased with herself, and the fact that
Raven had gone to the trouble of building a pattern file
on her—from data undoubtedly stolen by Valerie from
the Fuchi system—she unplugged the datacord and
tucked it away in a pocket. "What do we do now?"
I pointed further on down the tunnel. "We'll head
toward my apartment, but we'll wait until dark before
we go up to street level. At my place I can get weapons
and some more suitable clothing for both of us. We'll let
your folks know we're going to ground, then we lose
ourselves."
Lynn frowned. "Isn't it possible they know where
you live and might be waiting for us?"
I nodded. "That's why we wait until dark. We'll scan
the situation and walk away if anything is weird."
"Sounds like a plan."
"That it is." I smiled and started splashing my way
deeper into the tunnel.
Lynn took my hand. "I think we make a good team—
one too good to split up."
"I agree, kid." I gave her hand a squeeze. "The only
way we'll part company is over my dead body."
II
By the time we made our way through the tunnels to
my part of town, the cold had soaked into my bones and
I was shivering. I knew, without a doubt, that the cuts in
my side were infected. I needed antibiotics and ban-
dages, as well as dry clothes, dry shoes, and the better
part of the arsenal I owned. Fortunately all those things
were available in my apartment.
The full moon had risen far enough above the horizon
that the ball no longer looked huge. Lynn and I returned
to the surface through a grate in a storm culvert one
street over from my apartment house. With it still being
early evening and the neighborhood being on the peace-
ful side of residential, not many folks were out
and about. I took that as a good sign—in these parts
"neighborhood watch" meant folks kept score in gun-
fights. If no one was out looking around I could allow
myself to assume there was no trouble brewing.
Once we made it into the lobby of my apartment
house I felt a lot better. I checked the security door
down the back hallway and saw it was closed tight.
With me in the lead, we ascended the stairs as they an-
gled their way up and around three floors. Each flight
had twelve steps, forty-eight steps between floors, and
we took each one as if it was our last. I kept looking up
and down the stairwell core and saw nothing.
Giddy is the only way to describe how I felt when I
reached my door. I was tired and achey and stank like
raw sewage, but that was all secondary to the happiness
I felt in reaching sanctuary. Lynn clearly felt the same
way and even the Old One yipped inside my head to
signal his pleasure at returning to our lair.
I keyed the lock, opened the door, and reached inside
to turn on the light. I tapped the switch and nothing hap-
pened. That struck me as unusual, but not dire. Blown
bulb I told myself, and stepped into the darkness.
Looking up I saw two red eyes burning balefully
about two meters above my eye level. A hand closed
about my forearm, covering it from elbow to wrist. Sud-
denly I found myself yanked off my feet and flying
through the darkness into the middle of my apartment.
As I whirled through the air I saw the silhouette of a
troll eclipse my vision of Lynn.
She screamed, the Old One snarled, and I hit a knot
of bodies in the dark. The Old One filled me with
strength and dulled my pain. I lashed out left and right,
connecting solidly. I heard grunts and groans, then I
slipped off balance and began to back-pedal in the dark-
ness. Something shoved me and I exploded out into the
night through the apartment window.
Longtooth, we are falling!
If you were a raven or a hawk, we could be flying!
Landing precluded further discussion. I faintly re-
called something about martial arts and breakfalls. I
used one, but broke my left arm instead of my fall. The
rest of my body slammed into the ground a second later,
the breakfall not withstanding. The impact knocked the
wind from me and reduced my left side to one huge
bruise.
Pain blazing through my body, stale air burning in
my lungs, I lay on my back staring up at the jagged
black hole in my apartment window. Lynn screamed
again and I could do nothing. I fought to clear my head
and tried to roll up to my feet, but I only slumped back.
My left arm hit the ground again, sapping all the
strength I had.
You must get up, Longtooth. They are coming for you.
I can't.
You must. You must fight them.
I'm in no shape to fight anyone.
Then I must fight them.
No!
It was too late. With the full moon in the sky, the Old
One was at his most powerful. At these times of the
month the control I can exert over him is stretched thin-
ner than a politician's sense of self-restraint. The Old
One no more wanted my consent to what he was going
to do than he thought he needed it, but we both knew
my concession would make things easier.
Just not the woman, Old One, not the woman.
I will not harm your bitch, Longtooth, just those who
would harm her.
The transformation, when I fight it, is a horrible ex-
perience. Now, having given my body over to the Old
One, I heard my bones breaking as he recreated me in
his image of what we should be. I felt the pain, but it
seemed distant—like music heard in the background of
a telecom call. I could feel it, and I knew it was pain,
but there was not enough of it there to hurt me.
My facial bones broke and jutted out into a muzzle.
My arm bones telescoped inward, shortening them so
my muscles could exert greater leverage in strikes. My
hands became blunt-fingered paws that ended in claws.
My feet stretched out and my ankles shifted so my legs
took on a characteristic lupine shape. Fangs, elongated
ears, and a thick gray pelt completed the transformation.
I had become his creature. With the Old One at the
helm, concepts like discretion, sanctuary, and ambush
were all tossed into a bin marked cowardice. The Old
One could be as murderous as Kid Stealth, and with two
bullets blowing the lock out of the security door that
led into the apartment complex's backyard, I felt no in-
clination to restrain him.
One of the Weenies kicked the door open and light
from the hallway splashed out in a narrow stripe down
the center of the barren yard. "Hey, Wolf's not here!"
Had I been in control, the Halloweenies would have
had a smart remark's worth of warning. The Old One
has no taste for humor. He stepped us into the light so
they could behold the monster they had helped create,
then he set about building an even stronger correlation
between learning my secret and premature death.
The Old One doesn't view killing as performance art,
but he did leave a number of abstract sculptures in the
apartment's hallway and yard. Most were still identifi-
able as human and, no, not everything tastes like
chicken. In fact, a couple of the chromed guys tasted
like Harley-Davidsons in sore need of an oil change.
Regardless, the Old One boiled through them before
most had drawn their weapons—which he took as great
evidence of his skill, but I put down to misguided orders
to take me alive.
The Old One's transformation had not healed the
wounds I had taken earlier. While the transformation
did fracture bones and knit them back together, the
process could only heal the damage it caused. My pelt
remained ragged where the gillette had cut me, and I
still nursed a broken arm and ribs. His rage and power
still pushed the pain away, but even he kept my broken
arm hugged to my chest.
We bounded up the stairs to my apartment so quickly
we didn't even pause to snarl at some of the neighbors
sticking their heads out of the doors to see what was
going on. Someone said something about calling Ani-
mal Control, but that just made the Old One howl with
glee. I saw images of him summoning a grand canine
army to storm through the concrete forest of the metro-
plex, and part of me liked the idea of being Napoleon
Roverparte.
Half-man, half-wolf in form, but fully lupine in spirit,
we recognized and sorted out the various scents still lin-
gering in my home instantly. The musty smell I knew as
the odor of a troll—the tall thing that had originally
tossed me about. At once I felt fear and anger: fear be-
cause they are purported to be hideously powerful crea-
tures of a particularly malignant bent. The anger came
because the troll's scent mixed with and masked Lynn's
scent. The co-mingled scent trail led to the broken-out
window, showing me how the troll had gotten out of the
building while I raced up the stairs.
Beneath the troll's scent I discovered that of another
foe, and hackles rose on my back. Charles the Red had
been in my domain. He had undoubtedly orchestrated
the earlier ambush and this battle under orders from Mr.
Sampson. My bestial mind did not concern itself with
why Charles had been here, or what he had hoped to
accomplish. It only cared that he and the troll had taken
Lynn. The Old One demanded that both of them die
quickly and I was ready to taste their blood.
Under the Old One's tutelage, my decisions were
easy. Like a gargoyle, I perched for a moment in the
moon-washed hole in my apartment's exterior wall,
then leaped into the night and stalked my enemies.
Their scent trails died at the street where a vehicle
picked them up, leaving me no clear way to follow
them. Whereas a man might have been frustrated by
this, the Old One was a consummate hunter. He started
us loping in a big circle around the apartment house,
and halfway through it we cut across a fresh trail con-
taining the acrid edge of extreme nervousness. We fol-
lowed it like a shark trailing a bleeding fish. I wanted to
hurry to catch and destroy the person, but the Old One
held us back.
He knew we were following a Halloweener, and as
we trailed him I managed to intellectualize what the Old
One picked up by instinct alone. The lack of spectators
in my neighborhood meant that either nothing was go-
ing on, or people had been frightened back into their
homes. The Halloweeners had obviously stationed look-
outs in various places who then tipped Charles and the
troll to my arrival. The lookouts took off, their role in
the events finished, and I had managed to cut across the
trail left by one of them.
We lowered our muzzle to the ground at the entrance
to an alley that led to a warehouse. This fact I knew from
previous encounters with all sorts of low-life scum. Yes,
Charles is here. Lynn is here. My heart started beating
faster yet than it had before I crept forward.
Through a rent in the warehouse's corrugated tin wall
I saw Charles addressing two dozen Halloweeners—
including two ogres4. Their presence—and the addition
of a troll—meant that Mr. Sampson had brought some
serious power to the Halloweeners. We had no idea
what his game was, or why he was using the Hal-
loweeners as a power base, but I got the distinct feeling
he wasn't some exec slumming for cheap thrills and a
flea bite or two.
The Old One snarled, fending off my attempt to insert
reason into his thought process. He had come to kill
those who had stolen my bitch. He considered thoughts
about why the Weenies were present to be a matter for
forensics experts to piece together later. He wanted to
create a crime scene and rescue Lynn, and he didn't see
the need for rational thought in accomplishing that end.
Unthinking—a state in which the Old One operates
most comfortably—he sprinted us forward and through
an open side door. Announcing me, he howled in a low
and cruel voice that brought all of the henchmen around
to look at us, and drained the blood from many of their
faces at the same time. Charles looked about ready to
stroke out and took several steps back away from me.
Only Mr. Sampson, looking self-possessed as he
stepped from the small office in the corner of the ware-
house, did not seemed shocked or even surprised. He
gave me a perfect smile. "Ah, our guest has arrived.
Welcome, Kies. Your woman lives."
The Old One bared our fangs, giving me a chance to
croak out a sentence. "She'll be the exception to the rule
here in a minute!"
The Old One launched us into the knot of gangers
4 Ogres are about as rare as hen's teeth, and the presence of two of them
meant Sampson had serious juice. I knew that, but the Old One just
thought hunting had suddenly gotten very good.
and ripped away with ecstatic abandon. My right hand
punched through the chest of a Weenie and ripped his
heart out. I crushed it in front of him, all before his
eyes had informed his brain that I had closed to striking
range. I slammed my left elbow against a gillette's face
and felt his facial bones crumple beneath my blow. My
right paw flicked out again, shredding another man's
face. He reeled away, desperately trying to piece together
the fleshy puzzle I'd made of his handsome looks.
The Halloweeners had just enough brains to recog-
nize the fluid their buddies were leaking and broke.
Charles tried to stem the tide of their retreat, then al-
lowed himself to be swept up in it and carried back
toward Mr. Sampson. The ogres, befuddled and sur-
prised, backed away faster than the Halloweeners and
took up positions behind their leader.
Mr. Sampson looked at his cowering henchmen, then
at the bodies lying at my feet and clapped his hands like
a theater patron applauding a virtuoso performance.
"Excellent!" Then his face and voice filled with men-
ace. "Golnartac, deal with our guest!"
I never would have forgotten the troll.
The Old One, on the other paw, had decided he would
save the troll for last.
Those who would be last were put first, and that put
us in a world of hurt. The troll came in from behind and
moved with a speed that should have been impossible
for such a massive creature. I spun, but only barely got
my right arm up in time to block the punch that would
have taken my head off. The troll's fist smashed my arm
back into my head and I saw stars.
Snarling wildly, I launched myself and buried my
fangs in his forearm. My teeth sliced through dry, leath-
ery flesh, but the troll didn't react. I bit harder, hunger-
ing for his blood and a cry of pain, but I got nothing.
Furious, I tore at the troll, ripping my head to the right
in an attempt to take a hunk of flesh out of him.
I succeeded and defiantly spat the mouthful out, but it
made no difference. I looked up at the thing looming
over me and saw only amusement in its dull eyes. I felt
Golnartac's left hand close like pliers on the back of my
neck. He plucked me from his arm as if I was an insect.
Effortlessly he hurled me across the warehouse and into
a shipping crate.
I don't know what was in that crate, but it was a tad
harder than my skull. Mr. Sampson's laughter ringing in
my ears, I struggled to free myself from the crate. I got to
my feet. Then, as the troll eclipsed the overhead lights,
his fist surged in and bashed me into unconsciousness.
III
You never forget the taste of your own blood, espe-
cially when it's bubbling up from inside with each
painful breath. Charles the Red pulled his right fist
back, then drove it down onto the left side of my chest.
My body heaved backward with the impact, as it had
with every other punch he'd thrown, lessening the ef-
fect of the punch somewhat, but that mattered little.
With the two ogres holding me in place, he could make
up in quantity what his punches lacked in quality. At
least he hadn't popped another rib.
Mr. Sampson tangled the fingers of his gloved left
hand in my hair and tipped my face up toward the ware-
house's ceiling. "You're making this much too hard on
yourself, Kies. Just tell me where Dr. Raven makes his
home and I'll end your pain. If you don't tell me, I'm
sure Lynn Ingold will."
I wanted to give him my top-of-the-line nasty stare,
but having both eyes all but swollen shut precluded that.
I thought about spitting at him, but split lips make it
damned tough to pucker. I decided to go with my fall-
back plan. I had nothing to lose because I knew he never
intended to free Lynn or let me leave the warehouse
alive.
I let my body sag in spite of the pain that shot into my
upper arms when the ogres tightened their grip. My hair
pulled free of Sampson's hand and I purposely hung my
head in defeat. I let blood and saliva drool to the floor in
glistening ruby ropes. I mumbled something in a voice
barely audible over the rattle in my chest.
Even as Sampson bent over and asked, "What? What
did you say?" I knew what I was about to do was stupid
and foolish. I already had at least two cracked ribs, a
broken arm, blood seeping from the slashes on my right
flank, and my left lung had partially collapsed. I des-
perately tried to concentrate enough to reach inside and
touch the Wolf spirit in me to boost my reflexes and
give me more strength, but the burning pain in my chest
and the lightning stabbing through me with each breath
denied me the willpower to reach the Old One.
Still, no matter how foolish it seemed, I had to do some-
thing. I knew, if they continued, I might give up Raven's
secrets, but even doing that wouldn't save Lynn. If she was
lucky Sampson would turn her over to La Plante to win
some favor with the crime boss. If she wasn't, Sampson
would use her to verify what I had told him, and since she
didn't know where Raven lived, she'd go screaming to her
grave protecting a secret she didn't know.
I couldn't allow that, and not just because I loved her.
It was my fault that she had run afoul of the Halloween-
ers, and it was my duty to get her to safety.
Mr. Sampson brought his head down toward mine
as I started to mumble again. Suddenly I snapped my
head up, clipping him in the chin with the back of
my head. Stars shot through my vision with the blow,
but the sharp click of Sampson's lower jaw smashing
into his upper teeth more than compensated for the pain.
At the same moment I gathered my feet beneath me
and shot upward. My right fist came up and around,
bashing one ogre's Adam's apple. I tore my right arm
free of that ogre's grip, then pivoted around on my left
foot. I jammed my right foot into the other ogre's groin.
Slipping my left wrist from his grip, I side-stepped to
the right as the behemoth collapsed screaming in a so-
prano voice.
Bloodshot tunnel vision only allowed me a hazy
glimpse of the Halloweeners. They looked stunned and
shocked, more worried about the fact that Sampson was
reeling away with both hands pressed to his mouth than
that a barefooted, severely beaten man was loose in their
midst.
A heavy hand landed on my right shoulder and latched
on with a grip somewhere between that of a leech and a
Hoovermatic industrial vacuum. The second I felt the
gritty flesh rasp against mine and the railroad spike
talons rake my skin, I knew I was in deep trouble. I tried
to spin away, but the pressure on my shoulder increased
and forced me to the ground.
The troll. How could I have forgotten the troll?
Pinned to the ground on my back, I struggled hard
and snorted explosively, clearing my nose of the blood
that had caked it since the beating had begun. Instantly
the dry, musty scent filled my head and started my si-
nuses bleeding again. I tried to force my body backward
in a somersault motion to kick the troll in the head, but
he just grabbed my right ankle in his free hand, then
stood and held me dangling like a child.
Hanging there, upside down, I saw a real live troll
from a perspective that I hope never to have again.
Nearly 3.5 meters tall, the creature looked like something
cooked up in an industrial genetics vat. I'm not sure what
all they used to make it, but I do know they added ugly
until it overflowed. His black mane had been braided into
a long queue that snaked down over one shoulder. The
dry, dusty part of the troll's scent came from the fact that
most of its skin was flaking off like the outer layers of a
sandstone onion5. His dark marble-like eyes burned with
malevolence seldom seen outside the ranks of drill in-
structors or kid-hating spinster ladies with yappy dogs,
and he tightened his grip on my leg just to let me know
my assessment was not off the mark at all.
5 Given his abnormal size and skin condition, there was clearly some se-
rious modification that had been done to him. That, or he ate real well as
a child and now wasn't getting enough Vitamin E.
The troll grabbed my other leg and turned me around
so I could face Mr. Sampson again. Sampson's kick
landed over the fractured ribs and I screamed. A fit of
coughing shook me and I tried to hug my chest, but I
couldn't find the strength to lift my arms. Blood, fresh
and coppery-tasting, coated in the inside of my mouth
and ran in slender ribbons up to my hairline from the
corners of my mouth.
Mr. Sampson snapped his fingers and the lightweight
quack mage he'd had working on me all night dropped
to his knees beside me. I felt the warm tickle of a spell
ripple over me and the pain slackened.
The mage looked up at Sampson. "He's bleeding in-
ternally. His lung is collapsed and three ribs are heavily
bruised or broken. His arm is broken, his nose is bro-
ken, and he'll lose some teeth. What do I fix?"
Sampson dabbed at his split lip with a white hand-
kerchief. "Stop the bleeding temporarily. Open up at
least one of his eyes. I want him to see what we're go-
ing to do next. Charles, bring the woman here."
The mage hit me with the same bargain basement
spell he'd used all night to keep me from dying. It
plugged holes and patched leaks, but repaired none of
the structural damage they'd done to me. It strictly ig-
nored anything that was causing me pain and I knew,
with the next kick or punch to my chest, the busted
spurs of rib would open my lung up again.
As the swelling around my eyes went down, I prac-
ticed my nastystare on him. "I'll remember you."
The spellworm didn't look impressed. "I've heard
that before. I still sleep nights."
Sampson snapped his fingers again and the man with-
drew. On their feet again and almost back to their nor-
mal, off-green color, each of the ogres took one of my
ankles from the troll. They started pulling in opposite
directions as if they were planning to make a wish, but a
sharp command from Sampson stopped them when they
got my legs out at a 150-degree angle.
He nodded and I heard a muffled rumble of thunder as
the troll sank to one knee behind me. "Golnartac, de-
spite his size, has an exquisite sense of delicacy. You
won't know when, but at any one of a dozen prearranged
signals he will hit a portion of your anatomy with a
swift, precise blow. He'll only use one finger, but you
will find the blows most painful. He may stab a talon
through a nerve center, or he may shatter a vertebrae."
Pain sharper than a scorpion's sting lanced through
my left thigh. It shot in both directions along my leg and
up into my groin. I writhed in agony, prompting the
ogres to pull on my legs to prevent me from slipping
free. I felt a grinding in my hips, then they let me slip
down again.
Sampson smiled in the same way the school discipli-
narians had years ago. "You need not endure this agony,
Wolfgang. All we want is Dr. Raven. Here we've gone
and chased you all over Seattle and put a great number
of people to incredible inconvenience, not the least of
whom is you. Give us Dr. Raven."
"No'or else'?"
"You won't like my 'or else.' " Sampson looked back
to where Charles came bearing Lynn's limp body in his
arms. "If you decide to resist me yet, I will awaken her
and she will take your place. You will watch as she suf-
fers more trauma than if she fell from the tallest build-
ing in downtown Seattle. Give us what we want. She
will not be harmed and your pain will end."
I sighed heavily and tried to ignore the agony in my
lower limbs. "This 'your pain will end stuff'—you've
said that plenty since I've been here. You can come up
with something more interesting, can't you?"
An eyeblink later it felt like the troll had shoved a
molten sheet of glass through my right knee. I cried out
in pain and despair. The troll's hoarse chuckle sounded
akin to a car being crushed in a wrecking yard and, sud-
denly, the whole hideous ordeal collapsed in on me. In
the past dozen hours I'd been hounded through Seattle,
had escaped traps and ambushes meant to maim, cap-
ture, or kill me. The troll had defeated me three times
and I'd been worked over by individuals who wanted to
see torture made into an Olympic sport.
As the edges of the pain crumbled away, I held my
right hand up. "Wait, no more." I took a deep breath. "I
give you Raven. You let her free, really free, right?"
Sampson settled a mask of superiority over his fea-
tures. "You can trust me, Kies. You are but a means to
an end, and she is a means to get to you."
I shook my head to clear it. Up beyond Sampson's
head I saw something flit through the darkness. I tried
to focus and identify it, but I couldn't. I was too far
gone to make sense of anything but ending the pain.
"You make sure she's okay?"
Sampson nodded solemnly. "She shall not want."
I knew in that instant that Lynn would be auctioned
off to the highest bidder. Fine. That makes this much
easier. "Doc's secret headquarters is in the Anasazi
Shipping Company warehouse on pier 27."
Sampson looked up at the troll. "Overhand blow,
shatter his pelvis, then break his spine, one bone at a
time. Charles, use the woman as you will, then have
Golnartac dispose of her."
Behind me the troll chuckled with evil delight.
"You're much too trusting, Wolf." Sampson dabbed
at his split lip again, then spat on me. "I'll be sure to let
Raven know who his Judas was . . ."
The troll loomed up over me, but as his fist began to
descend, the ogre holding my right leg began to jerk
and spurt blood from a string of holes linking his navel
with his forehead. Crimson liquid sprayed the wall be-
hind him, then the whole of his head above his glassy
eyes disintegrated. As he toppled backward, his lifeless
fingers let my ankle slip free.
The other ogre, who had increased tension in prepa-
ration for the troll's punch, whipped me out from be-
neath the troll's falling fist. I felt the warehouse floor
shudder with the blow, and Golnartac's enraged scream
shook the corrugated tin walls like a summer storm.
Another screech, this one of ogre-pain, sang out in
counterpoint to the troll's cry, and the pressure on my
left ankle evaporated.
Suddenly I found myself tumbling and rolling across
the concrete floor. I landed on my left shoulder and felt
a grinding crackle in my ribs, but I used the pain to
force my body to react. Adrenaline flooded through
me yet again and dulled the pain. I scrambled to one
knee, fists balled, then coughed a wet laugh of triumph
and joy.
Kid Stealth stood on one ogre's back with his smok-
ing Kalashnikov still pointed at the ogre he'd blown
away. The sickle-shaped claws on his artificial, birdlike
titanium legs dripped ogre blood—the other talons just
clung on to the dead body beneath him. He'd been what
I saw moving through the girders above the warehouse
floor, and he'd nailed the one ogre while dropping down
to rake his claws through the second.
The troll remained down on one knee, cradling his
broken fist to his chest. Above the hand, right over
where the troll's heart should have been, rode a red dot.
Back by the warehouse's side door I saw the stocky out-
line of Tom Electric. The laser-scope on his armor-
piercing rocket launcher twinkled reassuringly at me.
Behind and above Tom four more people appeared.
Two were the local gillettes I'd taken to calling Zig
and Zag. Also armed with Kalashnikovs they flanked
the most beautiful member of Raven's crew, Valerie
Valkyrie. She looked over at me with horror on her face,
while the two street samurai covered the Halloweeners.
Plutarch Graogrim, an ork, moved away from Zig and
Zag, keeping his pistol trained on Charles the Red.
I saw Sampson go pale and I knew Raven had
arrived. I looked over at Doc as he stepped from the
shadows. The blackness rippled off his coppery skin
and clung to him long enough to deeply score lines
around his muscles. Tall, even for an elf, he looked hu-
man because of his extraordinary build and the high
cheekbones his Amerind blood granted him. His long,
black hair fell down over his leather vest to mid-chest
and all but hid his pointed elven ears.
I like to pride myself on having silvery eyes and a
scary stare, but the incendiary look Doc gave Sampson
put even my best effort into the amateur category. His
eyes burned with blue and red highlights as if an aurora
rippled through their black depths. Muscles tensed at
the corners of Raven's lantern jaw and the flesh tight-
ened around his eyes.
Raven's voice sliced through the silence like a laser
through cheap tin sheet. "You had a message for me?"
Those six words might as well have been .50 caliber
slugs for the effect they had on Mr. Sampson. He shook
his head violently and cursed. "No, dammit, not here,
not now!" His hands flew up and around like snakes
writhing in pain, then something flashed and Sampson
vanished.
The Halloweeners started jabbering nervously among
themselves, but the click-click-click of Kid Stealth's
talons against the concrete as he ran over to cover them
killed their conversation. "I have nothing on IR."
Raven stared at where Sampson had stood as if memo-
rizing all that had just happened. He looked up and over
quickly, back along the path Stealth had used to come
into the warehouse, then nodded as someone yelped in
pain. "He went out the way you came in, Stealth."
The Murder Machine smiled. "A strand of razor
wire can cut you bad when someone booby-traps his
backtrail."
"Time enough to track him later," Raven said, then
trotted over to where I knelt. He dropped down beside
me and wove a quick spell that cut the pain at the same
time it told him what was wrong with me.
"Take it easy, Wolf. Nothing that won't heal in time."
He gave me a smile that buoyed my spirits, but it sank
into a thin line of concern as I reached out and grabbed
his hand.
"Doc, I need some help, now . . ." I looked over at
Golnartac. "I want him . . ."
Raven looked deep into my eyes. He didn't use any
magic, at least no magic I could feel, but he knew what
I was thinking. "Wolf, you don't have to do this. Lynn is
safe. Give yourself time to heal. You know if I use
magic and it goes wrong, or there's a complication, it
might stay that way."
He looked over at Kid Stealth. "For him, for any of
the others, the possibility of replacing a defective part
mechanically is there. For you, for me, that option is
not possible."
"You heard Sampson, Doc. You heard what they were
going to do to Lynn."
"That was their fantasy, but we've stopped them, my
friend. I only deal in realities, and reality says she'll be
fine."
"Yes, but I won't be." I pointed at the troll and he
sneered at me. "Sampson called a tune, and the troll
would have gladly played it. Well, I've got a variation
on a theme to teach him."
"This is stupid, Wolf."
"We're here, Lynn's here, because I was stupid. I
want to spend the rest of my life with Lynn, but to do
that I need to know I can keep her safe. He always had
an advantage over me, and now we're just about even. I
have no choice, Richard. I have to do this."
I saw the lightplay in his eyes quicken. I only called
him Richard when it was truly important, but he still
did not want to damage me permanently. "Wolf, there
has to be another way."
I shook my head. "Don't fix anything. Just kill the
pain long enough for me to reach the Old One."
Raven stood and helped me to my feet. "And if the
troll kills you?"
My eyes narrowed to silver slits. "Don't worry about
it. You only deal in realities, remember?"
As Raven's spell washed over me like a warm, spring
shower, I retreated deep into my heart of hearts. I swam
through lines of pain that shimmered like heat lightning
playing through dark thunderheads, but the spell took
me beyond its touch. At times the going was difficult,
but I forced myself on, haunted by the knowledge that I
had almost gotten Lynn killed.
The Old One regarded me with an eager look of
bloodlust on his face. "Leave it to me, Longtooth. Give
yourself to me and I will destroy the troll."
"No. I gave myself over to you and your powers
meant nothing without intelligence guiding their use. I
need everything you are, but I must have it on my terms,
under my control."
The Wolf spirit yipped high laughter. "You are in
pain and are weak. What makes you think you can con-
trol me now?"
My anger and outrage at having failed to keep Lynn
safe tightened around him like a net. "It is enough that I
know I must control you. I need your speed and your
strength. I need your heart and your endurance. You will
meet my needs in my way. You failed, and you owe me
the chance to put it all right. It must be a man who de-
stroys that troll, and I will be that man."
The old wolf tilted its head in an attitude of curiosity.
"But you are not a man—you are more."
I ground my teeth together. "Tonight I will settle for
being just a man."
The Old One sensed my need and my pain. "Very
well, I agree without condition. This is my gift to you,
Longtooth Man-warrior."
The warehouse swam into focus again, but the
heightened senses made it all seem as if I had never
been there before. I smelled terror from the Halloween-
ers and death rising from the ogre bodies. I watched
tremors threaten to tear the sellspell medic to pieces as I
looked at him. All of Raven's aides looked at me differ-
ently than they would have normally—physically I re-
mained the same, but they knew I was not exactly
myself.
No, my friends, I am more myself than I have ever
been in your company!
I turned and met the troll's evil gaze with an eager-
ness that daunted the monster ever so slightly. I moved
away from Raven and into the center of the warehouse's
open floor. I forced my left hand into a fist and bit back
a cry as bones ground together in my forearm. Pointing
at Golnartac, I waved him forward. "Come here, you.
You're mine."
His laughter had the same grating quality as finger-
nails being raked across a chalkboard. "Little man will
make little smear."
The troll lumbered forward, but I struck with a speed
powered by my anger. As he swung a ponderous fist
through where I had been, I darted forward and drove
two punches and an elbow into the muscles bunched
above his right knee. My blows crumbled flesh to dust,
but the creature's rock-hard muscles absorbed the
impacts more efficiently than a black hole sucking in
photons.
A roar of outrage started in Golnartac's belly and be-
gan to work its way up to his throat. He planted his left
foot and tried to pivot back toward the right. I dropped
low and spun in the other direction, giving the troll a
tantalizing glimpse of my unprotected back. Both his
arms swung over my head as a second and third punch
missed me, then I sprang up and smashed my right fist
into the back of his left hand.
Pain overshadowed outrage in the troll's bellow as
my punch further splintered broken bones. Unthinking
in his agony, the troll backhanded me with that same
hand. I saw the blow coming and rolled with it enough
to soak off some of the force. Even so, the swat caught
me on the left flank, igniting fire in my chest, and sent
me flying across the warehouse floor.
The troll's renewed scream drowned out my groans
as I hit and skidded to a stop against one of the ogres'
bodies. I rolled to my feet, but as I straightened up I felt
something give in my chest. More pain shot through me
and I felt the urge to cough because of the blood seeping
into my lung. I remained half-hunched over and gritted
my teeth against the pain. Hooking my hands into
claws, I waved the troll forward.
Golnartac started toward me, but he limped slightly
because his right leg failed to respond as it should. I
swept in, flicked a glance at his broken hand, then again
directed an attack against his right knee. Jamming my
left elbow into the joint, I felt Golnartac's kneecap shift
sideways and an agonized roar quickly followed. Exul-
tant, I slipped right and stabbed my right fist upward
into his stomach.
The troll reacted to the blow instinctively. His right
hand slapped my back and smashed me face first into
a wall of rock-hard abdominal muscles. Dazed, I
rebounded, but hesitated too long to escape him. Gol-
nartac's right hand closed over my head and he uncere-
moniously hauled me off the ground.
"Like an egg!" he shouted victoriously and started to
apply pressure.
Pain shot temple to temple, forehead to spine, but I
refused to surrender to it. My hands hooked up over the
troll's wrist and, despite the tearing pain in my chest, I
whipped my right foot up in a savage kick that locked
the monster's elbow. Uncoiling my body for a second, I
brought my foot up again and this time drove it through
the elbow.
When I heard the sharp crack I couldn't tell which
had broken, my skull or his arm. Then the vise that had
trapped my head slackened. I dropped toward the
ground and launched another quick attack by driving
my right heel down on top of the troll's foot. More
bones broke with the pop of a gunshot, and this time I
knew I was the damager, not the damagee.
I heard the troll shriek with pain, but it did not matter
to me in the least. The second I regained my balance, I
whirled around in a circular kick that blasted my left
foot through Golnartac's right knee. The leg bent to
the side with a wet, tearing sound. The troll began to
flail about wildly, his battle now waged against gravity,
not me.
Golnartac lost his fight and began to sag to the con-
crete floor.
The fury in my heart did not allow me to show him
any mercy.
He would have killed Lynn. And he would have en-
joyed it.
Emotions gathered in me like a storm. I took two steps
forward before the troll had succumbed to gravity's
relentless attraction. Defying the elemental force that
was drawing him down, I leaped into the air. As the
troll's head came into striking range, my right foot
flashed up. The ball of my foot hit Golnartac square on
the chin, shattering his jaw and smashing ivory teeth into
splinters.
Golnartac's head snapped back as if someone had
grabbed his long black queue and jerked hard. The
thick, corded muscles of his neck stretched taut, thrust-
ing his Adam's apple out like an alien creature fighting
to win its freedom. As powerful as they were, even
those muscles could not fully absorb all the energy in
my snapkick. The troll's neck cracked as a vertebrae
crumbled under the pressure.
Head lolling uncontrollably, the dead troll crashed to
the ground.
I landed a second later on very unsteady feet. Pure
agony told me I'd destroyed my right foot, and black
pain exploded in my ribs. For a half-second the Old One
let me view my fallen foe, then he, too, abandoned me
and I slumped to the floor, unconscious.
IV
Leaning heavily on a swordcane that had not seen use
since the Silicon Wasp died, I watched from afar as Dr.
Raven shook hands with Phil Ingold at the base of the
Fuchi tower. The parting seemed amiable, though Phil
looked stiff and turned away slowly to walk back into
the building. I didn't sense hostility in him, only sad-
ness and resignation.
Phil moved as if he hurt on the inside the way I hurt
on the outside.
A fiberglass cast encased my right foot. A similar one
sheathed my left arm. Stitches pulled the flesh together
on my right flank and bandages helped hold my bro-
ken ribs together on the other side. My nose still hurt
when I sneezed, and the bruises all over my body had
gone from purple to a uniform shade of brown, with
jaundice-yellow highlights.
I looked up as Raven came over to me. "You ex-
plained everything?"
Raven nodded solemnly. "Lynn is recovered from her
ordeal and wants to see you. Neither she nor her mother
understand why you won't be coming around again. Mr.
Ingold does understand, but I think he feels his daugh-
ter's pain at not seeing you now more than he fears what
might have happened in the future."
I shook my head. "He sees future danger as hypo-
thetical, but you and I know it is reality."
"Do we?"
"Sampson went after her once to get at me, he'd do it
again. Breaking it off with her and getting her a transfer
out of Seattle is the only way to keep her safe. We both
know that."
"It's not the only way. Stealth would have killed the
Halloweeners for pocket change."
"Slaughter of Innocents."
"And we will deal with Mr. Sampson." Raven's eyes
drew distant and the colors in them swirled into a vor-
tex. "Oak Harbor provided some interesting clues about
him, as did his display of magic a week ago. His days as
a threat are numbered."
"And in single digits, too." I sighed heavily. "Still, if
it isn't him, it will be someone else. The person I would
have to be to protect Lynn is a person she would hate."
Raven looked over at me as we walked slowly down
the street. "You're saying that as if she's incapable of
changing and accepting the risks a life with you would
entail. She was more concerned about your injuries than
her own. Things might not turn out as you think."
"All dreams become nightmares, Doc, if you don't
wake up soon enough." Deep down inside I wanted to
believe what he was saying, but in my heart of hearts I
knew I couldn't accept the level of responsibility caring
for Lynn required. I'd helped hundreds of people like
her, and accepted responsibility for them because I
knew that responsibility would someday end. With
Lynn it would not, and while a life with her would be
glorious, life without her, if she died because of me,
would be unlivable.
Raven smiled slowly. "When you sent me your mes-
sage, I rejoiced in it because it told me you were willing
to shoulder a burden I have refused to accept. I thought
you a better man than me in that, Wolf."
I blinked in surprise. "Me, a better man than you? Re-
alities, Doc, not hypotheticals."
"I was certain then, my friend, and I am certain now
that I was not wholly wrong." He laid a hand gently on
the back of my neck and squeezed. "Perhaps, someday,
we will both be able to work past that final barrier."
"Agreed." I shook my head. "It's kind of funny,
though, being willing to care for the whole world, but
being unable to do it for one special person."
"It's a nightmare, really, Wolf." Raven shrugged
easily, but his eyes burned with intense color. "But if
we stick with it long enough, we can push on through to
where it becomes a dream again, and the dream be-
comes true."
Afterword
The stories about Wolfgang Kies and Dr. Richard Raven
are surprisingly special to me for a number of reasons.
While I've probably written the least about this group
of characters—in comparison to my BattleTech® or Star
Wars® work anyway—Wolf and Raven hold a dispro-
portionately large position in the minds of readers. Even
in the midst of a Star Wars® book signing, I'll often
have at least one person ask, "Oh, yeah, are you ever
going to do a novel about those Shadowrun guys?" And
that's years after the magazines and books in which the
stories were published have folded or gone out of print.
I first heard of Shadowrun® back in March of 1989,
when it was being developed. I was in Chicago to talk
with the FASA team about designing the Renegade Le-
gion roleplaying game, but then Jordan Weisman told
me all about SR, filling my head full of all sorts of im-
ages and cool things. I returned to Phoenix on a Thurs-
day and couldn't stop thinking about this stuff. For a
writer—especially one with an assignment that didn't
include Shadowrun—that's not a good thing.
About six months previously my agent, Ricia Main-
hardt, had asked me to put together a bible for a men's
adventure series of novels that we could sell. I gave it
some thought and though I eventually rejected the idea,
some of those thoughts lingered in the back of my brain.
I had decided that I'd write about a band of heroes led
by a genius, something akin to Doc Savage and his band
of associates. The difference for my group would be
that the stories were told from the first-person point of
view of one of the aides, much in the same way that Dr.
Watson or Archie Goodwin chronicle the exploits of
Sherlock Holmes and Nero Wolfe, respectively. That
viewpoint allows the genius to be a genius and the
reader to roll along for the ride.
That Friday night Liz and I went to Fiddler's
Dream—a coffee house in Phoenix where folk singers
played. I recall withdrawing into myself, hearing the
music on the outside, but being a million miles away.
Shadowrun had reared its head again and lots of images
flashed through my brain. All of a sudden I saw a Rolls
Royce car, but instead of the winged woman on the
hood, it had a raven. At that moment I saw the double-R
logo beneath the raven and knew instantly that the car
belonged to Richard Raven—Dr. Richard Raven—an
Amerindian elf and top-notch shadowrunner.
Raven slipped into the men's adventure framework
perfectly, and I knew the aide who would chronicle his
adventures was named Wolf. I also knew Wolf was a
werewolf of sorts—at least that's what he believes—but
I didn't know if that was possible or not in the Shadow-
run world. It didn't matter—I had two characters in
place and the world as I saw it began to congeal.
On Saturday I called Jordan up at home and asked
him some questions about the fictional background. On
Sunday, in one ten-hour marathon session, "Squeeze
Play" was written. By Monday I Fedexed it to FASA,
making it the first piece of Shadowrun fiction written.
This was rather remarkable since the rules didn't
exist yet.
By the end of that week I'd written "Quicksilver
Sayonara" and by the end of the month the story that
became "If As Beast . . ." had also been written. All that
writing hadn't gotten Wolf out of my system, but I faced
the basic difficulty of all writers: if you want to get
paid, you have to do things for which folks pay you. I
shifted over to the Renegade Legion work and Wolf let
me go.
That summer, with Shadowrun® slated for GenCon
release, Jordan decided we really needed a SR an-
thology and he wanted to make it into a braided novel.
Between the two of us we created the background, fig-
ured out the plot points that each story would have to
hit, and brought writers together. Jordan chose Robert
Charrette to lead off and me to anchor the book. Every-
one else was given a plot point to hit in it and we were
off to the races. By GenCon we had the first draft of the
anthology put together. All the rough spots were ironed
out at a big dinner meeting at Maders.
My two stories comprise the last third of the anthol-
ogy. The first, "Would It Help If I Said I Was Sorry?" is
not a Wolf story. It is a Zig and Zag story, or Iron Mike
and Tiger, as they prefer to be known. The second story is
Wolf through and through. "It's All Done With Mirrors"
chronicles the events referred to as the "Night of Fire" in
this book. Both stories slot into the time frame between
"Squeeze Play" and "Quicksilver Sayonara."
After writing the two stories in which a chunk of
downtown Seattle was destroyed, I actually visited that
city. The trip was a lot of fun. I was especially pleased
to see I'd gotten uphill and downhill right—an educated
guess based on the location of the ocean.
It looked at that point as if there would be no other
Wolf and Raven stories until there was a novel, which I
thought would be great fun. Bob Charrette was given
the first three Shadowrun novels—as well he should
have since he was one of the game's designers—and I
was hoping to pick one up shortly thereafter when ROC
began publishing both BattleTech and Shadowrun
books for FASA. My first chance at a SR novel slipped
away, however, because in the opinion of FASA's Sam
Lewis I was all tied up with BattleTech. At that point it
looked like I'd be writing one book a year for FASA and
Sam wanted that to be BattleTech.
At roughly the same time as that decision came
down, the anthology was heading out into distribution. I
asked FASA for permission to put "Squeeze Play" up on
the GEnie network, in the Games Forum, as a taste of
Shadowrun fiction to spur sales of the anthology. After
I'd posted it, Loren Wiseman of the late Game Design-
ers' Workshop and I were talking in a real-time confer-
ence. Loren told me that their magazine, Challenge,
was open for submissions. I shot back that I was booked
solid. Loren said that was too bad because they would
have loved to have a story by me in an issue. Fiction, I
noted back, was a horse of a different color. (Since
Challenge had never carried fiction before, I thought
Loren was soliciting articles or scenarios.) I pointed
Loren to "Squeeze Play," which he downloaded and in-
side a week Challenge bought it.
I followed quickly by sending them a copy of "Quick-
silver Sayonara," which they also took. In the spring of
1990 I wrote "Digital Grace" and Challenge took it as
well. In the summer, at FASA's request, I wrote the
story "Better to Reign" for an advertising handout that
was available at Origins. It introduced the character
of Green Lucifer and fleshed out his back-story. Not
wanting a good character to go to waste, I followed
with "Numberunner" and included in it the character of
Dempsey—a character created by Loren Wiseman.
Because of my schedule it was about a year before I
finished another Wolf and Raven story. Ever since writ-
ing "Digital Grace," I knew I wanted to return to the
character of Albion and have Wolf deal with the after-
math of that story. I had the opening scene in mind, no
problem, but I didn't know where the tale went from
there. Then, one day when I was fooling around with
the Destiny Deck (designed by Dennis L. McKiernan
and Peter Bush), I tossed cards out to see where the
story would go. The Destiny Deck is great for generat-
ing game scenarios and, in this case, the rest of the story
just fell into place based on the clues on the cards. "Fair
Game" was born, and it was rather big. Challenge
agreed to take it and spread it out over two issues.
Early in 1992 it looked as if I'd finally get around to
getting a contract to write a Shadowrun novel. At Sam
Lewis' request I sent in a proposal for taking some of
the short stories as a starting point for the novel and
weaving them into one big long adventure. I sat back
and waited to hear, but before FASA said anything to
me, my agent called with an offer of a contract from
Bantam Books for two unwritten fantasy novels, in-
cluding Once a Hero. At that point in time, in my career
and in publishing, few better offers could be found.
Clutching two birds firmly in hand, as it were, I phoned
Sam to tell him I had to let the one bird in the bush go.
Sam said, "So, you're telling me that you're turning
down the book we're offering you." Because of my
commitment to Bantam, I had to. If I'd only had FASA's
offer in hand first, I could have delayed the Bantam
work, but such are the complications of the publishing
business.
It's at this point that things get a bit surreal concern-
ing Wolf and Raven. In the spring of 1992 Liz and I
were invited to be guests at Conduit 2 in Salt Lake City.
The Guest of Honor there was Roger Zelazny, a man
whose work I had admired for decades. I had hoped to
get to know him there—often at conventions the out-of-
town guests are thrown together just because of circum-
stances. While we did get to chat a bit, I never felt we
connected, and I ended up rather disappointed in myself
for not having made a better impression on him.
In September of that year Roger came to Phoenix as
the guest of honor at CopperCon. The following week-
end Roger, Jennifer Roberson, Liz Danforth, and I were
all supposed to be guests at Wolfcon in Mississippi.
Having been to Wolfcon the previous year, I knew how
small and intimate a convention it was, and I knew I'd
be miserable if I didn't get to know Roger before we
headed out there. I resolved to acquit myself better at
CopperCon and headed off to the convention.
When I walked into the green room to get my badge,
Roger unfolded himself from a chair. "Hey, man, great
to see you," he said, adding, "Roger Zelazny." Right.
Sure. As if I could possibly have forgotten who he was.
I mumbled a greeting and shook his hand. He then
said, "A friend of mine sent me some stories you wrote
about Shadowrun. I really liked them. You have some
great characters there."
At that moment two things were confirmed for me:
1) There clearly was a God
2) Apparently I had made Him happy
Wolf and Raven allowed me to become good friends
with Roger Zelazny. The stories also prompted Roger to
ask me to participate in the braided novel Forever After,
which was one of the last projects he worked on before
his premature death. And the story "Designated Hitter"
served as a starting point for the story "Tip-Off," which
I wrote for Roger's Wheel of Fortune anthology.
While I had toyed with "Designated Hitter" a bit
through the years, I'd not touched a Shadowrun story
for awhile when Rodney Knox became the editor of the
Shadowrun Fan Club magazine, Kage. Rodney asked
me if I could write a Wolf and Raven story for him and
I agreed to do so, thinking I'd finally finish "DH." As
Rodney's deadline grew close and I realized I couldn't
finish the story in time, I pulled up the only completed
manuscript I had of a W&R story and rewrote it into "If
As Beast You Don't Succeed." The original version is
cruder and decidedly darker; but I like the version here
much better. "Beast" was run in Kage in two parts, and
succeeded in killing the magazine in 1994. Very few
folks saw both halves, so, for all intents and purposes,
there had been no Wolf and Raven stories published
since "FG" in 1992.
Despite that hiatus, I kept being asked about the sto-
ries. I tried to interest FASA or ROC in collecting the
stories into an anthology, but anthologies seldom sell as
well as novels. (This is why this isn't an anthology.
Nope. It's a braided novel. The difference, though sub-
tle, is one we all hope makes itself apparent at the
check-out counters.) Because of the sales issue, FASA
and ROC both hesitated and I forgot about the idea of a
collection while I dove into Star Wars® novels.
Apparently others did not forget. When Mike Mulvihill
took over as the Shadowrun developer, folks asked him
about Wolf and Raven. Even out on the Internet I'd see
folks occasionally lamenting the lack of a Wolf and Raven
novel. At Origins in the summer of 1996 when Mike and I
were riding up an escalator and heading off to lunch, he
asked me about these SR stories I'd written. I let him
know I had nearly a book's worth of stories prepared and
that Heyne, FASA's German publisher, was interested in
doing a collection over there.
One thing led to another, and you've got the result in
your hands. I finally completed "Designated Hitter" for
this collection and slotted it into place in the chronology
where I had always intended it go. A couple of points
were cleared up, some passages edited (or restored from
the Challenge editions), and the rest is history.
A lot of folks—be they writers, critics, or academics—
often opine that a writer's characters are really that
writer; and since the Wolf stories are written in first per-
son, it would be easy to assume Wolf is somehow my
idealized self. Not true. Wolf gets away with things that
would, quite rightly, get me killed. And while I wouldn't
mind having his car, I'll leave friends like Kid Stealth
and a shadowrunning career far behind, thanks.
One of the coolest things about writing from Wolf's
point of view is that my brain starts producing remarks
that are a lot more witty or cutting or sarcastic than nor-
mal. Seeing things through Wolf's eyes seems to hone
my sense of satire and the absurd. It also makes me
prone to chuckling at various moments at nothing.
In writing the stories I very much enjoyed how the
saga just slowly grew. In "Squeeze Play" you can read
what I knew about Kid Stealth as I knew it—I had no
idea who or what he was as that story was pouring out
into the computer. The rest of Raven's aides have de-
fined themselves as well, not becoming what I want or
need to have for a story, but what they apparently were
intended to be all the way along.
Lynn Ingold is a great example of this sort of thing. I
had never intended to carry her beyond "Quicksilver
Sayonara," but she kept showing up. She adds a stabi-
lizing and humanizing element to Wolf's life, which al-
lows him to exert more and more control over the Old
One. Since Wolf's life can be seen, in part, as a struggle
to control the Old One, that makes Lynn very powerful.
The fact that the Old One likes her, and is really only
part of Wolf anyway, makes the whole set of relation-
ships there something that might even seem to reflect
Literary Aspiration on my part.
It's a passing phase, really. But it does go to show
that a story is about characters, and even stories set in a
commercial universe can have characters who develop
and grow. I think a great deal of the positive response
over the years to these characters is based not on what
they do or have done, what they have killed or escaped
or blown up, but on who they are and how much we
like or fear them.
So the only other question to be asked and answered
is this: will there be more Wolf and Raven stories?
There's only one other that's partially complete; the rest
are ideas and fragments. I'm sure, someday, Wolf will
become restless and force me to finish them.
But, that's what I like about Wolf—you can't keep
him down. He keeps coming at you until he gets his
way. In the matter of more stories I'm fairly certain
he'll get it.
—Michael A. Stackpole
Phoenix, Arizona
August 1997