. . . and she is gone before I come to. Groggily, I feel around on my futon mattress, searching for a body that isn't there. I crack open bloodshot eyes and scan the ransacked mess of my room. My clothes are strewn all over; socks on my computer, a trouser leg poking out of the corner of my refrigerator, a big ball of shirts and underwear bundled up in the corner. Not to mention all the other shit plastered over every square inch of floor space. Like I haven't seen that before. I close my eyes and fall back into bed, accepting its warm embrace gratefully. I have no explanation for . . . everything that's happened to me since Tuesday! I frown, eyes still closed. Good Lord! Kaleta, Hageny, Ben, Lara, Grocke . . . and now Mike and Nat. A sudden urge to know the exact date and time overwhelms me. I peel myself from the mattress; but aside from my watch, not a stitch covers my body. I find some not too dirty boxers and pull them on. My computer awaits me. I have mail, but I disregard it, instead tossing aside a mismatched pair of socks and checking the machine's internal clock. 7:30, Saturday the 15th of March. Shit. So it hasn't been one long, strange dream. Though my last conscious recollections of violent sex may well be. Grocke? In my room? While I wouldn't put it past her considering her . . . extroverted nature, liquor can do strange things to a troubled mind like mine. Maybe a contact buzz from all the cannabis fumes in the Lotus? I might've eaten a kilo of Kay last night for all I know. God damn, I am going to be late for work. Why have I been standing here at my computer when I have a perfectly good watch on my arm? I smell awful. Seeing as fecal matters are on my mind, I head for my bathroom and take a dump. Then I take a short shower, and shave. Midway through my removal of facial hair, I notice the long, red claw marks down my sides. Jesus Mary and Joseph. Feeling a bit unnerved, and a bit violated, I dress, eat a light meal, and attach all the numerous articles of city life to my person. Workpass, bankcard, keycard, money. I'm starting to feel sore all over. My hands are trembling by the time I check my computer's mail. One message dominates the droves of spam. SECURITY. Oh God, I don't need this, especially after a day like yesterday. PLEASE REPORT TO THE INTERNAL AFFAIRS FRONT DESK IMMEDIATELY UPON ARRIVAL TO THE RAWLINGS BUILDING. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN FORMAL CHARGES FILED VIA MEGAPOL. They're going to ship me to the Oort Cloud! They're going to ship me to the OORT CLOUD! my mind screams. I recoil in horror from my lapcomputer. This, this I could do without. But I go! It's like I have a chain around my heart, right through my rib cage and I go! It's not like I'm stupid and don't know when to run, but I go! I'm not proletariat; I wasn't raised to fear authority figures. My parents were rather average transnational corporate tycoons--they used the Popo to buy groceries, for Christ's sake! So maybe that's why I go; I've been trained to obey so much more effectively than the Popo has trained the twelve million or so proles here in MegaPrime. Never mind the fact that Security is going to throw me into the hold of a mass driver transport and launch me into the depths of space! I know what they do with disorderly employees--they have an entire Oort Cloud mining complex filled with them. The poor bastards repair and maintain the robot miners or Marsec opens the windows and everyone explodes. But I remember Kaleta. I'm his goddamned Special Assistant! I'll be damned if I let them take me without a fight, and having decided to work with the VP of Personnel, I can always call on him to get my butt out of this hot water. Which, of course, the slimeball would simply refuse to do. I step off the tube at the Marsec Building, the same entrance I've used the other four days I've been working. Two large men wearing security duds flank me and hop off the grav field a half meter behind me. They follow me through the gate. The morning crowd sees this, and it parts, just like Moses at the Red Sea. The big dudes stay within arm's reach of me all the way to the grav lift. Before I can step on, one jumps into the field and flies down ahead of me. The other waits for me to take the lift; he will tail me. None of this is affecting me in the least. The message has already run through my system. Running will solve nothing; humoring these fascists might even score a few points in my favor. But there's nothing I can do about it now. I touch down in the dank underworld of the Internal Affairs building. It is ludicrous. A prefab alloy shed, a real dump for even a second-hand hangar facility, is the damned office of the Vice President of Security? What in hell . . . I march in through the front door. The receptionists within eye me warily and point to Hageny's office. I step through. Hageny is behind is desk as ever, his two bodyguards immobile statues at his elbows. His bluish eyes look me over, spare seconds passing as the machinery inside registers my presence . . . His knuckles grasp the armrests of his chair and go white. His face, flooded with blood, bloats up into a crimson, seething balloon. The Vice President of Security rolls back his lips and glares at me, teeth bared, breathing heavily. A hand unlatches itself and swings over to point at me. "Sit down," he orders through his clenched teeth. I take my seat in the same uncomfortable chair as before. I sense the two thugs who followed me from the tube. Their bulk weighs heavily at the edge of my vision, just off and behind me to my right and left, blocking the doorway. The single thin florescent bulb in the ceiling flickers. "What did I tell you on Wednesday?" asks Hageny, still enraged, but patient, waiting for me to step into his trap. "Uh," I stammer, struggling to guess at what sin I might have committed. "Don't disappoint my parents?" Hageny breathes hard but signals the human guard. The incredibly ugly man steps forwards and presses a thin optical disk into a slot on the VP's desk. A pair of gray ovoid blurs, about ten centimeters tall and six wide, materialize over its mahogany bulk. The blurs spin and flicker for a moment, gaining color and definition . . . "Do you know these people?" Hageny asks. My eyes are still fixed on the rotating heads of Wolf and his client, Natalie. His short, gelled blond hair. Her blond ponytail and anime face. Hageny thrusts himself towards me, smacking his flabby palms down on the table and breaking up the picture. "DO YOU FUCKING KNOW THEM?" he screams, his eyes squinted up into little piggish black holes of hate. "Uh, kinda," I answer. "He's a guy I knew back home in Buenos Aires; I met her yesterday . . ." But Hageny's onto other matters. "You're fucking correct that I told you not to disappoint your parents! And now look what you've done! Went out and got yourself drunk with criminals!" "Criminals?" I snort back, disbelieving myself. Hageny motions again to his human guard. "Warren L. Fangman," begins the guard in a low, quiet voice. "Also known as the Wolf, Mad Max, Michael and Mike Force. Playboy and part-time SELF radical. Arrested two-four-seventy-nine for disorderly conduct, possession of narcotics, and possession of paraphernalia. Arrested six-twenty-seventy-nine for public indecency and possession of narcotics. Arrested twelve-one-seventy-nine for disorderly conduct and possession of an unregistered firearm." Hageny's office is silent, the only sound the monster's measured breathing. "And that is merely his record in Brazil. He has had numerous brushes with Megapol since he arrived in MegaPrime in three-twelve-eighty under an assumed identity. None have resulted in convictions." Hageny stares at me through his obsidian eyes. "Some friend," he sneers. "Well, I didn't know!" I retort, but Hageny right hand mashes itself into a fist. "You don't know the half of it, Karl." The guard continues. "Natalie S. Hawthorne. Also known as Sailor Moon, Wild Rose, and The Thorne. Diablo lieutenant." And a seething coldness seizes my nerves. "Thorne has never been arrested or apprehended," apologizes the narrator, "but she has been convicted in absentia for the five-thirty- seventy-five triple homicide known as 'Bang and Blame'; the twelve- ten-eighty assassination of Senator Luis Chin; the three-fifteen-eighty- one quadruple homicide of four Megapol officers; and the eight- twenty-one-eighty-three murder of Trenton Oakes, the Transtellar Vice President. Hawthorne is also a suspect in at least twenty-five other homicides." I'm chuckling mildly; the blood run out of my face. My hands shake, and I'm freezing. "Jesus. She had her fingernail on my throat last night." "Some friends," repeats Hageny. "Did you read your contract well, Karl? There is a specific clause within it regarding shit like this. 'Association with criminal elements may result in transfer or loss of employment.' Get that? How about a one way 'transfer' to fuckin' Babylon Five? You'd like that, wouldn't you, you little SELF fuck. Babylon Fucking Five--the darkest, coldest fuckin' post in all of Marsec." I'm staring at my hands. I am going to die--if I'm lucky. "Prettyboy Kaleta might be able to get you hired, Karl, but I'm the last word when it comes to cutbacks. All I do is make note that you possess information critical to Marsec's security. Then you can't quit--go directly to Oort Station Five, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars!" Hageny is almost lying flat on his desk, belly down, his fat hands clutching the edge, and staring me in the eyes at a range of half a meter. He wears a sadistic grin, his wrinkled evil eyes impaling me. I avoid his stare, still feeling that distinct pressure on the crown of my head. I close my eyes. This is not happening. And then, down into that dark well of my soul, the Vice President utters a few more words: "There is another option." I look up. He is still staring at me, but the storm clouds are past. His eyes have returned to their former shade of deep blue. Hageny smiles at me. "But I haven't written you a ticket to Babylon just yet. You strike me as a good kid, and seeing as you're your parents' only one, it would be a real shame to rocket you off to the Oort. How about you have a long talk with Sergeant Nilwar here, and let's see if we can get some rain out of this cloud." Nilwar, the disfigured bodyguard steps around the desk and Hageny settles back into his seat. "Let's go," says the man, and he leads the way out between the two other security goons. I follow him out to the base of the grav lift, but instead of jumping into its beam, he strides off down the long, dark rows of heavy flyers. I set off after him. After we are sufficiently distant from the lit shaft of the lift, the bodyguard turns to me. "Jack Nilwar," he asserts. "Karl Williams," I reply. I shake his hand. He has a grip of iron. "Let's take a tour of the Valks," he says, turning again. This time, though, he walks slower, his stride precise but relaxed, like that of a large cat. But large he is not; the top of his somewhat bald head reaches maybe my nose. He points up at the slumbering beasts to our left. "Valkyrie Heavy Flyers. Twin wing-mounted hardpoints. Capable of mounting Lancer war lasers and the big cruise missiles. Maximum sea level speed is Mach three with standard power source; Mach five modified. Interplanetary speed--let's just say it can get to Mars in a day, if the orbits are correct." I nod, wondering what all of this has to do with the stay of execution Hageny so benevolently granted me. "Strange you don't recognize this design, Karl. Your mother came up with the original version." "Really," I mutter. "I believe it was called the Grateful Chicken or some other nonsensical name. The hardpoints could mount swiveling autocannon, so they could strafe and then flee, firing the whole time. Ingenious design; with the high speeds of deep space combat, those birds had just that much more maneuverability." "Look," I say, turning to him. "If this has nothing to do with my pal Wolf and his girlfriend and all the complete shit I've been fed since I walked in the door on Tuesday, I'd much rather you'd just give me my fucking ticket to the Cloud!" I am heaving, great gulps of air sucked into my lungs. I have been screaming. My voice does not echo down here; I suppose it is due to the size of the cavern . . . Nilwar smiles a bit, a crooked, scarred smile. "Why, of course it does. Everything has to do with you." The bodyguard resumes the tour. "The first time Marsec met your mother's Grateful Chickens was off the Trojan Asteroids--which set it was, I forget--around twenty-fifty-five. Both us and her 'Oort Ventures' company had come to the realization that the space around Mars was getting too thick and that the Belt was too rife with pirates. Next stop would have to be Jupiter, its moons, or the little groups of asteroids preceding it and following it at sixty degree angles. They were remote; neither of us figured that the other would ever suspect that as a jump point for the Oort Run. So anyways, the Trojans." I roll my eyes, but stride on, curious to hear Marsec's side of the story. "She showed up with three mass driver heavy transports, two elerium-drive galleys, and six of those damn Chickens. We arrived a week later with twelve mass drivers, twenty galleys, over a hundred small craft, and thirty-six Century fighters. Well, your mother probably told you this, and yes, she did vaporize all the heavier ships with a nuke volley. Her Chickens cleaned up the lighter stuff that didn't surrender; half the Century pilots just powered down after they saw those birds rip apart their first squadron. I don't think Marsec made one kill that day." "So she wasn't lying." "She did tell you about that?" "Yeah. She thought it put her on a par with Napoleon, Grant, and Big Bad Jack Rawlings." Nilwar stops, smiling in the dark. "I don't know about Napoleon or Grant, but I'm pretty sure Rawlings would've done about the same thing. Probably not Grant--he would've brought more ships and been more entrenched. Napoleon, hell, who knows what he would have done? But Rawlings, I'm sure he would've hit them that hard, that fast, with that little of a force." "But the comparison is nil, isn't it? Napoleon was a genius; Grant was merely competent; and Rawlings, wasn't he just a very determined foot soldier?" "Very correct, Karl. Rawlings didn't have anything to do with the strategy of the First or Second Alien Wars. Additionally, your mother wasn't even a soldier; she was simply a business genius, and a very lucky one at that." "You seem obsessed with my mom's accomplishments," I say, trudging along, off to Nilwar's side. "For a college graduate who thinks they're so damn bright, you surely are a slow one," counters the bodyguard. I am silent for a moment. "I resent that." Nilwar chuckles slightly. "I'm guessing that you've spent the last four, five days wondering whether life could get any stranger, wondering 'why, why me?' But have you looked for the reasons? Hell no, you're just along for the ride! You don't even consider looking at the road map or the rear view mirror; you're no driver, you're a passenger! And you still have no idea where you're going." "What do you mean?" Nilwar stops and leans against the cradle of a Valk. "Karl, Vice President Kaleta wants something incredibly valuable from you." "And you and Hageny are trying to stop me from giving it to him?" "Christ! You did graduate from Lifetree? Of course we're trying to stop you from going to him! Let me put in the boldest, largest font that I can: Kaleta, a psychopathic powermonger, wants you to tell your dear mother to vote in a new board of directors!" I pause for a long moment, and Nilwar takes the chance to explain further. "You know what happened next; in fifty-eight, when your mother was pregnant with you, she sold out to Marsec. The one hundred billion we paid her for Oort Ventures was the icing on the cake! What do you think you were brought up on--maybe the stock dividends? Your parents have a five percent share in this corporation. Kaleta already has sixteen percent under his influence, and he's gaining more daily. I--Hageny--represents the controlling interest here, a full twenty percent share held by the Jack Rawlings Estate. Do the math, smartass." I stare about myself under the influence of this new realization. Rows and rows and rows of heavy flyers, groundcars, and hoverbikes. Rows and rows and rows of Marsec . . . and everything above me, that seven hundred meters to the sky and everything else down to the bedrock . . . and my goddamn folks own it? The distant hum of machinery is new to my ears. The mildew and the garage smell of this vault mingle in my nose. I turn to the distant lift, a pinprick of light in the distance, rising into the ceiling above. The floor is surprisingly hard beneath my feet . . . "You are the swing vote. If you play ball with that megalomaniac swine Kaleta, that's it for me and Hageny. But if you throw your stock behind us, it'll send a sign to the rest of Kaleta's coalition that mutiny is not tolerated. It'll stop him in his tracks." I straighten my back from the slouch I've spent the last twenty four and a half years molding it into. I feel taller. "Why, in the name of Jesus, Joseph, and Mary should I vote for a man who nearly had me hauled off to the Cloud?" I ask, a new will in my voice. Nilwar instantly recognizes it. "Don't get all arrogant on me, Karl. There are reasons for everything, some more eloquent than others. Number one, Kaleta is going to take this company places nobody wants to see it go. He's either going to acquire a number of other large corporations in an attempt to form a stranglehold over MegaPrime's economy; or he's going to put us in debt, sell off our assets, and pocket it all. So he's either a madman or merely a very greedy one. Neither is good for your stock in the long run." I snort. "Oh, and I suppose you think you can ride that same gravy train. Well, you've got a big surprise coming; heir to the second largest stake in Marsec or not, your votes aren't worth a damn if Hageny and I make you disappear. Your parents know what's best; they'll vote for us--after all, they are the current holders of that stock, not you." "So what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just quit my job?" "Oh hell, don't tell me that Kaleta's got you set up with some nifty title." "It's Special Assistant, if you must know." The bodyguard chuckles mirthfully. "Special Assistant? Do you know what that means in corporate lingo? You're a goddamn prostitute! A whore! Jesus, your resume should've been stamped 'naive'." I glower at him. "And, lemme guess, you've got a beautiful secretary who, despite her schoolgirlish innocence is actually quite willing to go to bed with you--right? I take your enraged silence as a yes. I too have access to Kaleta's little 'security' network. His Special--heh-- Assistant's offices are just laced with cameras and microphones." I consciously breathe slowly and evenly. Just as fast as he built me up, he's tearing me down. "As for something else . . . private question, Karl. Have you been feeling unnaturally . . . aroused at your place of work?" I roll my eyes and don't even look at Nilwar. "It's a trick fashion designers and musician's managers used to use back in last century. Get your people addicted to narcotics and then let 'em try to leave! Do you know what Kay is?" I stare down at the pavement. "Yes. Rave drug." "Correct," answers the bodyguard. "It's also found a new use in the sick society of the modern day corporation. Indiscrete employers pump low levels of the stuff into the air circulators in order to keep disgruntled employees somewhat happy--you know the results; a mild feeling of euphoria. Well, if you up the dosage by several magnitudes, the result is a very horny work force, if you'll pardon the crudity." "And you're saying that the Vice President of Personnel is feeding high levels of it to me?" He is silent. I rest my head in my hands. Nilwar pats me on the shoulder. "He's a son of a bitch, isn't he? A real bastard." I nod my head. Much is explained. Much is left to explain. "Jesus," I mutter. I press my hand to my face. The things I might have done . . . "And I did see the holovid. Karl, you're either a blessed with incredible self control or you weren't born a man. I'd like to think it's the former." I chuckle slightly. "Me too." We resume our journey, this time a row over and back towards the Internal Affairs Front Desk. The Valks, blanketed in their coats of mold and dust, rest silently in their cradles. "So what am I supposed to do?" I ask, addressing the slumbering raptors more than my odd companion. "Cutting off all ties with Vice President Kaleta is merely half the equation," answers Nilwar. "There is also the matter of your friends . . . " We trek onward. "What do you mean?" I finally ask out of impatience. "Kaleta has tempted you mightily. It is our turn; I have shown you the stick, here is the carrot . . . "You will resign from your post as Special Assistant--heh heh, sorry about that--to VP Kaleta. You will turn in the entirety of your materials from Marsec, including your workpass. In exchange, you will receive a fifty thousand lump sum plus two hundred dollars daily, seven days a week . . . for the express purposes of spending in the company of your friends." I am silent, somewhat stunned. But after all the ulcer- inspiring revelations of this morning, little can phase me now. "And I'm to do what?" "As you will remain on the Marsec payroll, you will be a Security Special Agent assigned to report to me; I may contact you infrequently, but your primary purpose would be to remain in relatively constant contact with your friend Fangman and his girlfriend." I don't bother to explain the true nature of their relationship. "So you want me to hang around Wolf and that serial killer?" Nilwar stops and glares at me. "Natalie Hawthorne is no serial killer. She is a troubled teenager who was abused and abandoned by her parents, and it's a testament to her intelligence and cunning that she not only survived on the streets, but became a master of them. Never refer to Hawthorne as a 'serial killer'. True, she has killed . . ." Nilwar resumes walking towards the Front Desk, the back of which is now visible. ". . . but I too have killed." The bodyguard points to the lift. "Take the rest of the day off. Get some lunch, go home, think over your options. Then come back here tomorrow at the same time. We'll clean your name from the books and get you started on your future of orgies and Kay binges." I wave goodbye to the bodyguard and head for the lift, somewhat hoping that he's kidding me. I swallow another spoonful of curry. Having been raised on the real stuff, this soy impostor is utterly vile to my tongue. But I don't like any of the other 'oriental' foods available, so I down another bite of the junk. "Hello, Karl." Speaking of bowls of shit . . . Kaleta sits down across from me. He has his usual salad. I really doubt that he eats it for his health; fresh vegetables are the diet of the rich, and Kaleta's the type to always flaunt his seven-figure salary. Consciously or not, I suppose. "Have some trouble on the tubes?" he asks me. "Your secretary's been wonder where you've been the whole morning." I put down my spoon. "As a matter of fact, yes. When I got on at my apartment complex, there was this big lounge chair--all real leather--just floating along with me. I thought what the heck, so I took a seat; well, to make a long story short, it was so comfortable I rode the whole circuit. Calling in just completely slipped my mind. Sorry." Kaleta is frowning at me. "Well, the strangest things do happen on the tubes . . . your groundcar is ready whenever you want it." I shovel some hydroponic potato into my mouth and chew it while I speak. "I mean, I'm really sorry. I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again. I've just never had the chance to ride the tube in such comfort." "Well, I really must get to a lunch meeting-" And Kaleta is off, his mind already mulling over my ludicrous behavior. I go back to my apartment. After unlocking the door, I carefully examine every corner of my apartment for sex-crazed female Popo officers. Finding none, I breathe a sigh of relief mixed with more than a bit of disappointment. I plug my computer into the wall socket and undress. It is 1:30 in the afternoon. I set my watch to wake me at four. I shove the odd mixture of clothes off my bed, fall into it, and drift off to sleep. But my dreams are troubled. Constant throughout them is a glimpse of Sergeant Nilwar's profile, a thin streak of light from the grav lift down his scarred face, intersecting his right eye. ". . . but I too have killed," he repeats, over and over, the words echoing off the walls of my skull. What that means, I have no idea. It continues to dog me, even for the disconcerting few seconds as I struggle awake; the dim sensations of pleasure transformed into the jarring realization that someone else is in bed with me. My eyes snap open and focus on the green pair hovering not ten centimeters from mine. "Jesus fucking Christ," I cough, trying to pull myself away from Grocke. She is, however, quite firmly attached to me. "Hi," she says, resuming her previous activities. "What the fuck? Are you some kind of succubus?" She laughs maliciously and kisses the tip of my nose. For a moment, I revel in the feel of her body over mine, no false pretenses of clothing between us. And then I recognize the fact that I'm effectively being raped. I grasp her by the shoulders and hold her up. Her flat little breasts hang loose over me. "Why?" I ask her, my old query repeated. She breaks my hold and lies against me again. Kissing my mouth, she whispers, "Because I take what I want and I want you." We exchange no further words. Action rules the hour, several of which we easily spend at our labors. Finally exhausted, we fall asleep in each others' arms . . . at which point my watch begins to buzz. "Oh, shit, I gotta go," I mumble, Grocke's wiry brown hair all over my face. She mutters something, and I slip out from underneath her. I stagger to the shower and wash myself down, more exhausted than when I began my nap. Grocke joins me shortly, and we dally under the priceless water for thirty minutes. Oh hell, my new income should be able to deal with it. Somewhat cleaner, and a great deal more worn out, we partake in the ecstasies of microwave-heated ramen. It's nearly five; but as I stare at the slim profile of her hips as she retrieves the various items of her wardrobe, I could care less about my previous plans of arriving early at the Purple Lotus. "Grocke," I say, as she pulls on her bra, "I love you." She raises and eyebrow, puts on her shirt, and slinks over to me. She kisses me again. "They transferred me out of Special Weapons," she says, a vaguely melancholic air about her. "Not even a fuckin' week, and they transferred me out," she mopes, looking for her pants. "Where did they send you?" I ask. She pauses. Is that fear in her green eyes? No, it's . . . "Out." Out? "What's out?" I ask, not really eager for the lie. "Out. Off the Force. Gone. They sent me to some security consultation firm, some desk job. And now I'm getting shipped to Mars." I rise and hug her and whisper in her ear, "Don't lie to me." She goes stiff in my arms. "What was it?" she asks, alarmed. "My eyes? My fuckin' eyes always give it away." "Kinda. You didn't swear enough, either." "Fuckin' details. Vice Squad--on Vice, it was different. Kayheads and fucksticks on that new brain melting implant shit. They couldn't care if I was there half the time." I laugh and kiss her. "Anyway, I did get transferred. I can't tell you what--top fuckin' secret--but I won't be able to see you as much. Sorry, civie. It was a fuckin' blast." She tucks in her shirt and pulls on her belt. I rub the back of her right hand. She is pretty. I tell her so. "For a prole-beating fascist, you're goddamn beautiful." "For a cocksucking, grey lovin' commie, you're not half bad. See ya." And Grocke steps out my door. Coming down off the natural high of endorphins and other chemicals native to the body, I feel like I'm in the waning moments of a very long, very good Kay trip. And I'm still early; at six-thirty, the Purple Lotus is usually pretty filled, but the brutal crush of the Saturday night rave crowd has yet to arrive. I might even be lucky enough to land a seat . . . I enter the Lotus, and my eye is immediately drawn to the drunkard standing atop the marble bar. The poor bastard, dressed in the dirty remnants of a corporate uniform, screams and hurls a pitcher of beer down at Lucas, one of the barkeeps. The assembled crowd boos the wanton waste, and barflies and bouncers alike pull the man down to the floor. I step aside as his sodden body is dragged from the establishment. The next thing I notice is Gaudin, wiping off the bootmarks. He is looking at me. He nudges his head towards the back of the tavern. I nod to him, and his gaze drops. I work my way through the assorted mill of suits stopping by on their way home and college kids, working up the beginnings of Sunday afternoon's massive hangover. The dance floor is empty, a single bouncer fiddling with the speaker cables on the large black subwoofers huddled against the back wall. I find it amazing that Gaudin, the epitome of the conservative veteran, should run an illegal liquor sales joint which not only caters to depressed businessmen but manic college kids . . . heh, already solved that puzzle. There can't be more than a dozen of these taverns throughout all of MegaPrime; when getting drunk is the only point, you could care less about the atmosphere. I speak from experience. I round the bar; in the extreme back right corner of the Lotus is a circular padded booth, with a small table equipped with a lazy susan. Four people sit in it; Wolf, his killer girl, a big jock-type thug, and a baldheaded slender female. I toy with turning tail and beating it back to my apartment. "Hey look! It's Peace!" announces Wolf. Too late. I wander over, the expression on my face something between fear and loathing. Nat watches me with those big black eyes of hers, her face utterly impassive in that sexy anime-girl look. Wolf then Nat then the big dude then the bald girl. The only available space is immediately adjacent to baldie. I sit down, across from Wolf and Nat. Wolf picks up the half-filled pitcher of beer and pours me a pint. "Thanks," I say, and then, "Hello." The big dude grunts, baldie titters, and Nat gives me a just simply weird smile. Her back is against the rear wall. "Hey Peace," she finally says, in that too-low demonic female voice. I half expect her to say "I'll give you three seconds to run-- three" or some other Eastwoodism. Then she would shoot me. I recognize that guns-under-the-table look. "So," inquires Wolf, "how did your day go?" I down a quarter of my glass. "Well, for starters, I was told to resign as of tomorrow." "That sucks. Where were you working?" "Lifetree. Only so many times you can arrive at work with a hangover." Lying--it's so much fun and it makes life all that much more exciting. Wolf nods knowingly. "You going to introduce me to the rest of the crowd?" I ask. "Oh yeah, sorry. Everyone, this is Peace. He was my main man down in Buenos . . . Aires," says Wolf, throwing on his best Spanish accent. "He calls me Wolf, but everyone here calls me Mike," he informs me. "You met Natalie last night. Hap over there is our driver, a master flight technician, and one generally cool dude." Hap nods knowingly. "And you're sitting next to Bunny. We're baby-sitting her until her uh, parents come back from the Moon." Bunny meows like a small cat and beings to purr. She rubs herself against my side. I do my best to ignore her. Wolf leans across the table and motions for me to do the same. "Don't mind her. She just got a psiclone euphoria network; it'll be a little while before she's back to normal, and even then she'll have changed quite a bit." "Everybody changes with the Psiclone," asserts Nat, still staring at me. "Uh, do you have one of these 'euphoria networks'?" I ask her, trying to be cordial. Hap and Wolf laugh. Bunny, seeing them, giggles and drools along with them. Wolf grinds his teeth and forces a smile. "Nat doesn't like psiclone euphoria networks," he informs me. I finish off my beer. Answering her stare, I ask, "Well then, what does Miss Nat like?" Hap frowns. Wolf almost hits himself in the face. Bunny still laughs in little yelping sounds. "I like yoga, sex and rhubarb pie," answers Nat, staring back at me. Her deep black eyes aren't quite so evil though; I think I see a smile. Or a petite smirk on those little anime lips of hers. A bouncer strides over and exchanges the beer pitcher with a fresh one. He also deposits a slice of steaming fresh rhubarb pie before Nat. She plucks up the fork with her dainty white fingers, cuts off the tip of the pie slice, and eats it--all while staring back at me. Suddenly, she places down the fork, and I realize what's so strange about this picture; she's using her left hand for everything, including refilling my glass. "Excuse me," she apologizes, topping off my glass and setting down the pitcher. "Thank you," I reply. "You're welcome," she responds. Her right hand is under the table and her eyes are on mine and her right hand is under the table . . . Nat resumes eating the pie. I take a long sip of beer, watching her and keeping my two paws above the formica. Aside from our staring at each other, Nat and I appear quite normal; everyone else is frozen in still life, watching us--conspicuous exception of Bunny, who is drooling on my right shoulder. Jesus, the tension! Bunny starts licking my ear with her tongue, and I am forced to turn and push her aside. The staring contest over, Nat resumes her typical scanning of the length of the tavern. Wolf and Hap breathe sighs of relief. I smirk at Wolf. "Let me guess; Nat doesn't like sarcasm, either." Wolf's pupils go wide, expecting a pistol round to go flying through my chest; but he glances at Natalie, and she is smiling just a little bit. "So," I ask Hap, "what do you drive? General Metro Chariot or Ford Taurus?" Hap chuckles a little bit. "Why don't we polish off this pitcher and go for a ride?" he says, glancing subtly at Nat. She doesn't react. "Trust me, it's nothing like anything you've ridden before." I nod, feigning some knowledge of the matter. Automobiles were never my strong suite. Wolf gulps down a beer in under fifteen seconds. This is unlike him; the Wolf I remember from the long years in Buenos Aires was a free, unfettered sort, laid-back and not this furtive, worried creature I see across from me. He spots me looking at his face. He smiles and pours out the rest of the pitcher. Nat sets down her fork. There is a small crumb in the corner of her mouth. Wolf leans over to her and kisses her there, removing the crust in the process. He smiles again. Maybe he hasn't changed. Wolf gestures to a roaming bouncer; the crowds are really beginning to fill the joint. The bill arrives; Wolf peels a trio of hundreds from a roll in his pockets. I handle the tip; that lucky bloke gets a fifty for his troubles. Wolf stands first; I rise with him. Nat slides out behind him and latches herself to his belt. Hap is the last to exit the booth; to him falls responsibility for Bunny. He hoists her to her feet and throws her little arm over his broad shoulder. I follow Wolf to the rear exit. We file out through the double wide door; carefully stepping over the few drinkers sprawled on the floor on the other side, we head left, towards the parking garage. Not many people can afford to own automobiles, but those who do drive them constantly. Thus, the parking ramps for the Juventus Building take up half of each of the building's five basements. Rows and rows of parked light flyers and ground cars can be found there during the day; this Saturday night only some odd hundred are scattered through this level. "Where are you parked?" I ask Hap. He is carrying a sleeping Bunny in his arms. A thin trickle of drool runs out of the corner of her mouth. I do not like the looks of this 'psiclone euphoria network'. "Left. The big red one--no, the big red one with the winglet slots." "La Paloma?" I inquire, reading the chrome lettering on the huge groundcar's grillwork. "The Dove," answers Wolf. He presses his thumb against a small black pad on the right side of the large vehicle. The circular canopy top lifts up and slides back, revealing two leather flyer seats in the front of the cabin and a wide couch seat in the back. Completely vintage. Painted a thick glossy crimson, La Paloma has two tall fins in its back, a wide engine compartment forward of the cockpit, and a narrow, muscular rear end. Slots on both sides might easily contain fold-out wings. Everywhere is heavy chrome trim and small red and yellow running lights. "I take it they don't sell these," I ask. "Damn right," replies Hap, stowing Bunny in the back. Wolf hops in next to her, and Nat, to my surprise, jumps in the back also. I eye the shotgun seat. "Best view in the house," says Hap. "Climb in." I gingerly hoist myself over the vehicle's side by stepping on the narrow steps that fold out of the craft's skin. I land in the plush navigator's seat, and Hap climbs in his side. He touches a button, and the canopy closes shut again. "This thing reminds me of a Phoenix hovercar," I wonder aloud. Hap laughs. "That's because it is." "What? Aren't these things warcraft--you can't fly them in city limits!" Hap smiles again. I hear somebody's zipper going down, so I refrain from glancing behind me . . . on the love seat. "This is a first-run modified Phoenix. I salvaged the frame, heavily modified the cosmetics, added a shitload of armor, bulked up the engine, and added a street input computer--she performs just like any other ground car, but she can still fly when she has to." "Wow. You did all of this yourself?" Hap powers up the bird's engine. A low hum is felt throughout the cabin. "The guys at the shop helped quite a bit with the heavy stuff and the wiring. But the trim, interior, and the flight systems I put together by hand." "Jesus. How long did it take you?" "I built seven of these beauties at once . . ." Hap glances back at Nat. He blinks and looks back at me, a touch embarrassed. "I had a special order for them; put them all together in about nine months." "Wow," I repeat. "Wolf wasn't kidding when he said you were a master flight mechanic." Hap touches the car into drive. He has a pretty good view of the garage ceiling , but the flyer's hood is just below his nose level. La Paloma is built like a tank. A number of small flatpanels emplaced all around him give him the rest of his field of vision. "The client was so impressed he let me keep this one," smiles the pilot. La Paloma glides forward, out into the transit lane of the garage. Following data from the floor, the car automatically steers itself towards the out ramp. Up, through two levels of garage, to the west exit ramp. La Paloma accelerates up to traffic speed; a heavy grav field just like that of the people tubes holds groundcars off the concrete tarmac of the ramp. Most city vehicles have small electric turbines equipped to provide forward momentum and slight lift; La Paloma most certainly is an exception. Due to what I assume is this vehicle's full gravity field manipulation, the ride is eerily smooth, lacking the usual irregularities in the street fields. Hap taps away with a left-handed BAT keypad, displaying remarkable dexterity in his thick, sausage-like fingers. La Paloma turns left at the top of the ramp. We head south. Towering up on Hap's side of La Paloma is the black tower of the Juventus Building set against a twilight sky. A hexagonal prism, thousands of pinpricks of light are scattered across its sides; suits just don't know when to go home. Stands of genetically engineered pine shroud its base in dark green foliage. On my side of the car is the low rise that the white palaces of the Senate sit upon. A single white spire, twice the height of the Juventus Building, rises high into the purplish sky. A few stars begin to twinkle; not all are natural. Broad arms reach out from both sides of the main bulk of the Senate; there the envoys and ambassadors of the remaining old cities work. Air traffic is still heavy at this hour; light flyers of every shape and size flit by at high speed, accelerating as necessary once over the kilometer flight ceiling. Popo scoutcars hum by overhead. Hap snorts at the sight. I glance toward him. "The Popo can't build shit for airframes," the driver asserts. "My old lady could pick off those scout birds with an autocannon." I know my mom could. "What caliber?" I ask. "Nine millimeter," he chuckles. "They don't make vehicle cannon that small," I reply. Hap laughs and answers, "I'm talking hand-held. Anti-armor rounds pierce those half-assed flyers like lawpistol slugs through Kevlar." Somebody groans in the back seat. I frown. "The Popo don't make a damn thing that flies straight," continues Hap, looking out over the dashboard. "Their scouts have no armor and their missile birds are underpowered. Only thing I even halfway respect are their cruisers. They're slow, easy targets, and can't carry anything heavier than paired thirty millimeter autocannon, but boy, those motherfuckers can take a beating. When I built this," and he taps La Paloma's instrument readout screens, "I wanted that kinda staying power. Even if you blow up its magazines, destroy its flight computer and cripple its main drive, a cruiser can make it back to its beat station." Hap stares out the canopy at something--memories, most likely. "You speak from experience?" I ask. The pilot closes his eyes. When he opens them he resumes monitoring La Paloma's performance through his forward monitors. A distant battle plays itself out in the pilot's brown eyes. A skirmish between Diablo and the Popo? Or something else . . . I stare out the windows. Acre after acre of scrub oak and spruce scroll by. Nestled behind these rows of green are the low domed buildings of the South Projects. This is the lowest you can sink within the walls of MegaPrime; these were the original buildings of the city, built before the atmosphere wall went up. Just like my dear Petrograd Block, these apartment complexes are named after the great cities of old Earth that were incinerated in that great holocaust at the end of the Second Alien War . . . the Inferno, as the proles have taken to calling it. I sit straight up and look over the hood of La Paloma. The Wall rises out of the darkness, its one kilometer height tipped at regular intervals by huge scrubber vents, designed to keep the air inside cleaner and more breathable. I watch the odd vehicle hover past us in the other lane. "It's a sad day when we can't breathe the air of our home planet," I remark. "But we can," answers Hap, and before I can respond, he's got the vents open full tilt. A warm stream of thinned air floods my consciousness. I cough and start to hyperventalate. Hap immediately shuts off La Paloma's vents. "Shit, I thought you were a slummer--sorry about that," he apologizes. I breath heavy for a few moments. "What the hell did you do that for? We could've died!" I ask, quite peeved; my heart still pounds furiously. "Like I said," continues Hap, "I took you for a slummer, not some babied corporate shit. The air outside the arcologies is perfectly fine--just a slightly lower pressure or something. Anyone can adjust to it after a while." I glower at him for a moment more before my curiosity takes over. "Isn't the atmosphere just thick with radioactives and particulate pollution? That's what the government says." "Oh, since when have you believed the government? I grew up breathing it, and I'm not suffering from cancer yet. In fact, I think it makes your body stronger. Anyway, didn't you breathe outside in Buenos Aires? Hell, doesn't the name of that town mean 'Good Air' or something?" "South hemisphere air doesn't mix with the north hemisphere's atmosphere," I reply, drawing on the first day of my eighth grade science class. Hap snickers. "Bunch of bullshit." I look out the windshield; the Wall looms over us. I suddenly realize that Hap isn't switching course; he's headed for the toll lanes leading out of the walled inner city. I also realize that I have no idea where we're going. "Uh, where are we going?" I ask. "To drop off Bunny and then go cruising." Hap looks at me from his seat. "Why, you have to wake up early tomorrow?" "Actually, yeah. I have to go in to work to fill out some paperwork." "I thought you said you quit." "I've got to formally terminate my contract." Hap raises an eyebrow but resumes driving. La Paloma flashes by an automatic toll booth; it reads the transponder number on the vehicle and deducts money from the owner's vehicle deposit. We enter the tunnel; it is a good five hundred meters of sparse lighting and alloy walls. The hollow composite wall resonates with the roar of its internal airflow. Smiling and tapping away at his BAT, Hap raises the groundcar's speed to one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour. The tunnel lights are smeared into one yellow-white blur. My pulse heads skyward. La Paloma screams out of the other side like a bullet. Hap eases upwards the ratio of vehicle lift to street field lift. I spy the concrete ahead; even in the dark, I can see more potholes and skid marks from vehicle bottoms bouncing off the pavement. My ride remains as smooth as ever. We are in the Slums. The Slums--long streets of two hundred meter high cement and steel apartments, built long, long ago after the Second Alien War to house the tens of thousands of refugees who would eventually build MegaPrime. Here too are the refineries, warehouses, and factories that spit out the billions of tons of construction materials required. These Slums built MegaPrime, and then, in cruel irony, they built the Wall and cut themselves off from the fruit of their labors. Ill rewarded for their toils, workers and tools alike were simply abandoned by the city Senate. Those that had saved bought their way into the million or so residences within the Wall. Those who stayed in the Slums, left for dead by the corporations and the Senate. "They'll decay and collapse," the Senate had said about the buildings. "They'll choke on the poison atmosphere," they had also about the people. But neither had occurred. Primal forces within both man and structure refused to lay down and die, even when the gates of the 'true' city closed to them. The people learned to breathe the air. More apartments were built; soon the inner city was surrounded by square kilometer after square kilometer of neverending, never dying Slums. So the Senate opened the gates, commissioned Megapol to police these wild areas, and began taxing the nine million who lived outside the Wall. Hap clicks away on his BAT. A display screen folds up, and a flight yoke emerges--two reinforced alloy sticks, linked by a crossbar and tipped with a variety of hats, switches and triggers. The pilot clicks goodbye to his BAT and wraps his massive hands around the controls. Smiling grimly, Hap pulls the car off the main thoroughfare, opting instead for a narrow alley between two high rises. He presses down a muscular leg on a floor lever; La Paloma's controls seem to be designed for ground transit, as they correspond with a standard groundcar's layout. The auto brakes and swings out wide into the other lane before abruptly twisting perpendicular to traffic and screaming right, into the darkened passage. Armed with an expert eye and an undoubtablely formidable flight processor, Hap weaves between debris heaps, fire escapes, and parked groundcars, squinting and actually accelerating. My heart revs up to two hundred beats a minute as La Paloma, already ridiculously oversize, squeezes between trash bins and fallen structural steel at eighty kilometers per hour. I grind my teeth and flinch after Hap lunges past a small crowd of pedestrians. And then La Paloma slows, skidding and turning ninety degrees. A heavy storm door creaks upwards in the shrouded back recesses of another cement-and-steel building. Dull light pours out, and Hap touches the gas once again, easing the heavy groundcar through the tight fit. My eyes quickly adjust to the brightness; we're inside the high ceilinged lower level of a factory. Dozens of groundbikes, light flyers and other groundcars are frugally scattered around this entrance. People, on foot or lounging amongst the autos, nonchalantly wander up to La Paloma's sides. Dressed in dark, rough cloth, these men all wear beards, sunvisors, and weapons of every caliber. The nearest three brandish snub Popo Edgar submachineguns. I spot the longer, heavier Marsec M4000's further in the back. A single man, leaning against a transport truck, rests some sort of heavy launcher on his boot toe. He probably has an anti-armor round loaded. "Breath slow, don't move fast, and keep your hands where they can see them," orders Hap. He touches open the canopy; it slides back. I suck in a final breath of pressurized air. "Welcome, pilot. What's your business?" asks a heavyset man, bald but wearing a long red beard. His eyes are hidden behind a thin plastic band arcing between one ear, the bridge of his nose, and his other ear. A black comlink is pressed into his right one. "We seek an audience with Pedante," replies Hap. "We did the task he wanted done since the eleventh." "What do you have for him?" asks the man. His Edgar, a squat, vicious gun with a long, long banana clip edges up to cover the back of the auto. I feel as if I'm breathing at a high altitude; that's what Hap means by the pressure difference. I breathe slowly, according to his advice. Hap turns and taps Bunny's knee. She gurgles approvingly. "His girl Amanda. The troublemaker." The leader of this parking lot posse leans up against the left side of La Paloma and stares in. I turn and watch him. He reaches out with a gloved hand and holds up Bunny's chin. He studies her face, looking across it approvingly. She burps. He rubs her bald head and the two small scars on her temples and smiles, a thin wicked hateful smile. "The installation was successful?" he asks. "Without problems," answers Hap. The soldier snorts. "So unlike her previous life," remarks the soldier. His masked eyes sweep La Paloma again. They rest on me. "Who is that?" he inquires, stepping around the front of the vehicle. He leans over on my side, his Edgar just below my line of sight. "I've never seen you before." His teeth are all tipped in alloy, a jarring effect. "He's a friend," replies Hap, his eyes squinted, his response guarded. "Friend," mutters the man, "show me your ring." His breath is a cold as a Martian wind. "A friend of Mike is a friend of mine," whispers Nat from the back seat. The guard turns to her. He stares for a moment, and then bows his head. "Excuse me, madam. I thought perhaps--" "You did not." The soldier backs off, nodding, keeping his gloved hands off his weapon. "Pedante is a paranoid pedophile fuck," states Nat, as idly as if she had said the Senate is corrupt. The bald man grinds his alloy teeth and then chuckles slightly. "I . . . must . . . concur," he stammers. "Good. You serve your jefe well, Pablo. You needn't emulate him. Your loyalty is enough." Pablo bows deeply and backs away from La Paloma. His men follow him, shrinking back into the autos and flyers. Hap flashes a smile and gently steers his chariot to a free space. I breathe a little easier. "You're so ravishing when you're pissed!" exclaims Wolf from the back seat. I stagger up, my body strained from the lack of oxygen. Wolf zips up his pants and helps Nat into her shirt; I look away, leaning over the side of the car. Hap grunts and pulls Bunny from the back. Focusing, I manage myself over the edge of the auto and to the ground. I lean against its chrome-bedecked side. Wolf hops out presently. He catches Nat as she descends from within. Maybe it's my starving brain, but they truly are ballet dancers . . . "Hey, you OK there?" asks Wolf, setting down Nat. I finally get a glimpse at the lower half of her body; sure enough, she wears some sort of loose, loose hakama pants. Just like samurai in the movies. However, the two conspicuous bulges on each side at mid thigh denote that the katana is not her choice weapon. "Yeah--the air's getting to me, though," I hack. "A day or two of it, and you'll be fine. We grew up in Buenos Aires; our lungs are strong." Gee, thanks. I still can barely move without gasping for breath. "Buenos . . . Aires," he smiles again. "It's in the name!" I flick him off and stumble around the back of the car. Hap, unencumbered by the low air pressure and the limp, drooling body of Bunny slung over his shoulder, marches off towards a nearby fire escape. Wolf and Nat follow. I stagger after them, catching my breath at every pillar in the garage. Nat falls back to me and waves off Wolf. Instead of throwing my arm over her petite shoulders, though, she walks--slowly-- alongside me. "Peace," she says, "what are you?" I stop and frown at her, my frothing mouth agape. I reach out for support. I touch a dinged up taxicab. "Wolf's . . . buddy," I cough. "Buenos . . . Aires, all that . . . shit." Nat rests a hand on my right shoulder. "This is la tierra del Diablo. Comprendes?" I nod my head. My Spanish is rusty, but still serviceable "You don't enter, or leave, without my permission. Comprendes?" I nod again. "Now dime la verdad," she commands, her hand subtly flexing, "or Hap doesn't drive you home tonight." I meet her gaze, for lack of anything else to do. Blond ringlets hang down before her ears. God, Wolf chose a good one . . . wait, no . . . "Are you Megapol?" She smiles and cocks her head, and I harbor not the least doubt that she could have me dead before I hit the concrete. "No," I answer. Nat kisses me full on the mouth, and my poor oxygen- deprived brain is flooded with the essence of rhubarb. An insane tremor runs down my spine, from the base of my skull to my balls. "You are mine now, Peace," she whispers before kissing me again. "Does this mean no more sarcasm?" I ask, half awake, questioning my sanity. Nat smiles at me, her little lips twisted by the hint of a smirk. "I already have a lapdog." A pause. "I want a wolf." I squint and try to speak. She smiles again. "Be as you are," she says, kissing me for the final time. Her tongue linger in my mouth, and I taste my own stale beer breathe cast back into me. "Let's go," she says, finally breaking the embrace. She still does not offer any assistance, so I must walk the remaining fifty yards to the exit myself. Wolf, Hap, and Bunny wait for us inside the twin steel doors. A small airlock, with more double doors on the other side, awaits. We silently pass through it. The bass pounding of a distant nightclub infiltrates my brain, riding with the heightened air pressure. I swallow, and my inner ears adjust themselves. We enter a long, decrepit hallway. Hundreds of identical, rusting bulkhead doors line the side opposite. A few black-clad guards linger within, sipping on bottles of coffee or kay-laced water. "Thorne?" asks a guard. Nat nods her head. The guard jogs off. Twenty meters distant, he pounds on a doorway and whispers hurriedly to the man on the other side. Somebody cries from within. I glance at 'Amanda', suddenly feeling profoundly sorry for her. I receive the vague impression that the 'installation' of her 'psiclone euphoria network' was not executed with her conscious permission. Even now she does not gurgle quite so innocently; someplace in the back of that skull, where her previous personality had been so forcibly evicted, must reside a residue of distaste, fear, pain. This is a whorehouse. The distant steel door crashes open, and a lean, tanned man flies out. He strides towards us, his closely cropped hair beaded with sweat, stench, and sin. His loose dress shirt is blotted here and there with blood; and for pants he wears briefs. His white, skinny legs disgust me. The hair upon them is rife with sickness and bodily fluids. "Ah! Natalie! So good of you to pay your dear uncle a visit!" he exclaims, arms outstretched in a gesture of affection. Nat steps up to him as he draws near and accepts the embrace; but as they hug, I see the man's eyes. They are as hard and cold and gray as Kaleta's; except that this man is without the trappings of wealth like the Vice President. "Pedante," replies Nat, coldly . . . almost. "And here's my Amanda!" cries the pimp. He throws his meathook hands around the poor, confused wretch, immediately hacking away at her thin clothing. Nat makes a move to leave. Pedante looks up from Amanda's crotch. "Please don't depart so soon!" begs the fiend. "It's Saturday night! Tomorrow is Sunday! The Lord's day of rest! Please, I insist that you and your companions make full use of my meager hovel's extensive entertainment facilities!" Nat opens her mouth. "Oh, money is no object! I could never repay you for this courageous service you have rendered me--everything is on the house!" Nat and Wolf share a look. Hap taps my shoulder. "Let's go," he says. I nod my head. I grow sicker with every moment spent in the company of this monster, this rapist. Nat smiles sarcastically and waves goodbye in her best Sensovision beauty-queen wave. I turn to the door with the pilot. Pedante tears away Bunny's garments behind us; the sound is like a beast feeding upon flesh. He is a beast, feeding upon flesh. My stomach turns. Hap and I step through the makeshift airlock. My headaches return. Hap shakes his head dejectedly and marches out the door. I glance at him; he glances at me. He shrugs and raises his palms. We get back in La Paloma and cruise out of the garage. Hap focuses on his driving, biting his lip and grimly staring at the alleys and roads ahead. I look up through the clear canopy of the car at the night sky above. A thick wool of clouds blocks out the starlight from above. Instead, the light and heat of MegaPrime and its slums is reflected back; the effect is a thick yellowish blanket of pollution, a pressure cooker lid upon this city. I sigh repeatedly. "Where to?" asks Hap, navigating through the Wall gate. "Petrograd Block," I answer. He grunts and drives on. 1/17/98
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