A light warm wind blows through the parking garage of Petrograd Block. I glance back at the dimming taillights of La Paloma. Slouching and feeling quite disoriented, I stumble into the lower levels of the building. "Hey you!" yells somebody. Cops. I raise my hands over my head as two Popo officers grab me. They throw me against a wall and search me. Rough hands seize me and empty my possessions. "Bankcard, keycard, Marsec workpass--shit, this fucker probably mugged some suit. Means, scan this!" The Popo prick doesn't mention the hundred dollars in my pocket. He merely stuffs it into his trousers. "What's your name?" asks Means, a big cop whose nose looks like it's been busted a few times. "Karl Umeda Williams," I mumble, feeling sleepy. "Hm," he grunts. "You work for Marsec?" "Special Assistant to VP Kaleta," I drone back. Means raises his eyebrows and turns to confer with his partner. They chat for a few moments. Feeling bored, I rest my head against the warm concrete of the lower level wall. The cops discuss my identification for a while, with the little asshole whining a lot. I yawn, and scratch my butt. "Either of you guys know a 'Grocke'?" I ask, wishing the two would either get down to the task of beating the shit out of me or letting me go. The little dude laughs. "The Bitch? That hooker whore from Vice? You one of her 'clients' or some shit like that?" "Something like that," I respond. "She get transferred?" "Yeah--couldn't find her on the street corner or nothin'?" I chuckle slightly. "I hear that she made lieutenant," adds Means. "She spread her legs for the colonel or somethin'?" "She is a whore," comments the big Popo. "They passed up a dozen better guys for the promotion." The little dude hands back my cards, sans cash. "Go home," he orders. "You have a badge number?" I ask--just to scare the guy. He doesn't believe that a grungy looking drunk living in Petrograd could possibly be from Marsec--but I watch him tense up even more. "Who wants to know?" The smaller cop touches his lawpistol holster. Means steps forwards. "I'm Corporal Frank Means, and my number is twelve fifty-eight seven hundred and seven." He juts a large finger at my throat. "Go ahead and lodge a complaint. Even if you are some Marsec suit, there isn't anybody who should be wandering around after twelve. Two hours past curfew--explain that in your complaint." I back away from the two, my hands still held up. "Hey, it's OK," I apologize. "It's cool with me. You guys are OK in my book," I keep on blathering, backing up to the stairwell. I turn the corner and sprint up the several flights, taking steps three to a stride. I run my keycard through my door lock, praying that they didn't do anything fiendish like erase its magnetic strip. The bolt opens, and I throw myself inside, slamming it shut behind me. My heart winds down. I throw aside the contents of my pockets. What a day . . . I touch my belt; an unfamiliar metallic ring is shoved over its tip. I pull it off and hold it up to the light of my computer screen. A blank bronze circle confronts me. I try it on my right ring finger; it fits, but it's not entirely smooth on its inner surface. Pulling it off, I switch on my desk lamp and peer inside it. Surely enough, a miniscule number is etched inside. 666. Shit; this can't be serious. I put the ring back on, fall onto my futon, and swear at my ceiling. Shit, this is serious! But I'm no Diablo thug! I'm no slum scum! I'm no child molesting monster like that Pedante! And yet . . . Nat seems to have seen me into this brotherhood of evil. I clench a fist and wave it at the ceiling, tightening my muscles until my knuckles turn white. Jesus. The ring looks good on my finger. I laugh and take it off again, running the tips of my thumb and index finger over it. I wonder how many little slum kids join up just because they get a nifty piece of jewelry. Is this how everybody joins Diablo? Do they just get three kisses and bang, they're engaged to the devil? Engaged to the devil. Huh, why can't they just get tattoos like other gangs? Did Wolf join up like this? Did Nat join up like this? Did Hap join up like this? The question bothers me. I strip down, turn off the lights, and feeling stupid, clutch the ring off my work bench and put it on. Wolf--we never teased the poor kids in Buenos Aires, but we always gave hell to the stupid rich pricks like us who tried to dress all gang- banger, with tattoos, handkerchiefs and all the other idiosyncrasies that defined gang life. "Morons who are always want to belong," Wolf said to me. And now he's Diablo? Probably part of his 'job'. Christ, to sink that low . . . Nat. 'Diablo lieutenant,' eh? With the way she jerked around that guard, she must be kinda important. Maybe on a level with Pedante? No. Nat seems like something else . . . the pants are a clue. Hakama pants--the loose, flowing, deep navy pants that hide feet and give off the impression that their wearer is floating. Samurai gear. That's it--Nat is a samurai. I laugh and pitch a balled up sock at the ceiling. It hits with a satisfying thump, and falls back near my feet. Samurai. Sure. The Japanese are dead. And what of Hap? Who is this remorseful jock, and why does he strike me as . . . tragic? What does a master flight mechanic have to do have to chauffeur around a Diablo lieutenant and her prosti- and Wolf? Wolf. Why is he in the employ of such masters? I saw the look on his face, his pained, long look of impotence when we were leaving Bunny in the claws of that freak Pedante. Wolf and Nat--I can see them as slummers. But Hap . . . Hap is the peg which least fits. The feeling of the ring around my finger has already become internalized. It is there, but I must think about it to feel its pressure. I wake late. My shower, my slow revival of my senses, takes even longer. I yawn through a breakfast of microwave fresh eggrolls. And then I realize the time. 9:30. I should've been at the Internal Affairs Front Desk about an hour ago. I throw on my uniform and run. Nilwar pecks away at his lapcomputer, scratching the short grayish stubble that seems to cover every bit of his head except his broad, balded cranium. He sits in a borrowed receptionist's chair, its wheels locked at the front of the Internal Affairs gravlift. A puzzled expression crosses his face, and he glances at the gold watch around his left wrist. "Uh, sorry about the delay," I stammer, my breath still short after having jogged partway through the tubes. Nilwar doesn't smile. He calls across the lobby to Chief Receptionist Thorpe, who sends a small Chinese girl to him. He clears his computer, folds it up, and stands. The receptionist takes it and his seat. "Stay up late yesterday?" he asks, apparently innocuously. My response is guarded. "Maybe. Why?" Nilwar snorts and taps his watch. "Almost thought that you'd forgotten." "Sorry about that," I repeat. Nilwar is silent for a moment. "Let's go," he says, briskly walking away from the gravlift. I almost ask him something, but then turn and give chase. The Security sergeant marches with precision, putting his feet down quickly and lightly. My longer legs quickly catch up to him. "Uh, where are we going?" "The Range," he answers. I realize that he moves silently. Even his breath is inaudible. We walk down several well-lit, well-decorated hallways, making numerous turns. I can feel the weight of this building even more so; ambient music from hidden speakers attempts to mask it, but I make out the bass throb of power transfer conduits. Finally, when it seems like I've walked for a kilometer, Nilwar turns to a double-wide doorway exactly identical to the hundreds we've passed. Only a small brass panel differentiates this one. It denotes 1A449--AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Nilwar presses open the door. I follow him. Wearing helmets and thick suits of alloy painted the red and black of Marsec, four guards greet us in a small, alloy sided room. The smallest one is a grey blood I assume; it stands well back of the others, armed with something other than a machinegun. Stun grapple? Nilwar pulls out a pass chained to his belt. The guards glance at it out of habit and then wave him through. One guard, an M4000 slung from his shoulder, directs me to lean against a wall. Another takes my computer satchel and rifles through it. The first pads me down, runs a chemical detection wand over my body, looks at my workpass, and sends me after the sergeant with my bag. One ultraviolet decontamination room later, I catch up to him. "Would you mind explaining what all this is about?" I ask of him. "You with us or not?" he responds. I notice that he's now wearing a gunfighter's belt; a clunky, antique plasma pistol hangs from his right thigh. "What do you mean by that?" "Are you with us?" asks Nilwar, louder. My, that's a large weapon . . . "Yes," I answer. "Good," smiles the guard. "Otherwise I'd have had to shoot you." I think he's making a joke. We are in some sort of maintenance corridor deep within the Marsec Building. Pipes, cables, and clusters of fiber-optic lines line the walls and ceiling, all dimly lit by long florescent tubes hanging from above. They are equipped with proximity sensors; they light up as Nilwar begins striding down the hall. I run up to him and walk alongside. "First of all, you are lucky, Karl. What Hageny would've liked more than anything would be to have shipped you to Mars until the board of directors was re-elected. But the unexpected appearance of your friend Warren changed all that." "How so?" I ask. "Well, you've probably seen it for yourself. Miss Hawthorne is a Diablo agent; one of the closest to Oscuro, I think." "Oscuro?" Nilwar snorts. "The man born Enrique Oscuro was a Former Synthmesh laborer who woke up one day at age eighteen and decided that he wanted to be a king. He, and some of his buddies, broke into the narcotics trade with baseball bats, shotguns, and a downright barbarian mentality. They protect each other like they're one big family; but God help any stranger that walks into their turf. Most street thugs would shoot you and leave your corpse in a dumpster. Diablos go a little further . . . "They've ripped out the intestines-" Nilwar looks me in the eyes, "the intestines of enemy gang members . . ." I grimace, my abdomen tightening instinctively. "But the worst part is that Oscuro thinks he's protecting the slums from bad influences, and he's very good at convincing everybody, including himself, that he and his 'diablos' are not the problem, but it's the Senate and Megapol who are selling drugs, running prostitution rings, and shaking down every slummer they can find." "Wow." "There's criminal and there's criminal, Karl, but Oscuro's in a category by himself. Diablo has made millions in the drug trade, but he's not in it for the money. He and his diablos can be incredibly cruel and violent, but only when they feel the need. No, something else drives that . . . man. "He actually thinks he's doing good." I whistle lowly. "Sounds like a real psychopath." Nilwar slaps me on the shoulder. "That he is. And you're going to meet him." What? "What do you mean by that?" I ask cautiously. "Let me elaborate. Remember Kaleta?" I nod my head. "Who do you think is backing his coalition?" I have no clue. "I dunno. The usual dissatisfied shareholders? His cronies?" Nilwar leans over to my ear, even though it's obvious that we are entirely alone down this long stretch of nothing. "Have you ever heard of Osiron?" "No. What's that?" "Yakuza. Triads. Mafiosi," ticks off Nilwar. "The 'gentlemen's gangs'. Not street thugs--much bigger than that. Oh, they could break your knees like anybody else, but why bother when they possess so many more original ways of wrecking your life? These mobsters could have you fired, wreck your credit rating, and get you thrown in jail. Organized crime, Karl." "So Osiron-" "Happened after the bugs nuked the whole . . . god . . . damn . . . planet," Nilwar breathes heavy for a moment, his eyes closed. "The gangsters that weren't vaporized figured out what the rest of us couldn't for so long; that there wasn't enough of the planet left to fight over. They reorganized, and the damn rats have been in MegaPrime since the very beginning, before even one shovelful of dirt had been turned over. That's Osiron, and they're behind Kaleta." "Why?" "They think Marsec is weak. They think they can poison us just like Westinghouse, just like Mitsubishi. They destroyed those corporations--oh, not quickly, it was the Senate which finally axed those two--but they do an awful lot of internal damage. They used them as money launderers and fronts to get their people into other businesses. Made those companies rotten, through and through." "Like if Kaleta gets the top job." "Yes." We wander on for five minutes in silence. Nilwar leads the way, walking the maze like he's in his own apartment. There are numerous junctions down here, but I have yet to see anything resembling a doorway. "How are you going to use Diablo?" I ask. "Footsoldiers," answers Nilwar. "Oscuro's people might be poorly armed and poorly trained compared to whatever mercenaries Osiron can conjure up, but he has a lot of them. A gang war, under the premise of reclaiming the slums or something like that would really get their collective blood up." "You're going to loose Diablo on Osiron?" Nilwar smiles. "Just like that. It's as easy to do as to say. We are going to ship to Oscuro certain incriminating documents that should convince him to go to war." I turn to the bodyguard. "Can't you get somebody else to do it? I don't want to be any gang member!" "Our last half-decent contact was an opiate-addicted middle manager of a light flyer factory, a quite expendable man. He bought his morphine through Diablo channels. We'd clip messages to his drug money, and Oscuro would read them at the other end, if his dealer bothered to deliver them. I think that you and Nat make a much more secure connection." "What happened to him?" I ask. "Tried to stiff his dealer," Nilwar states, sneering somewhat. "He's dead then, correct?" The guard nods solemnly. We round the corner. This hallway is different; every ten meters, there is a door in the left wall. Nilwar marches up to the nearest one. He pulls out his keycard and slides it through. I hear the bolt release, and he pulls it open. The door is as heavy as the one at the Lotus, a broad alloy slab. "What's this?" I ask, looking into the small room on the other side. "Firing range," answers Nilwar. Every available square centimeter of wall space is occupied by rifles and pistols of all sizes and shapes. I recognize the familiar shapes of lawpistols, Popo Edgars, M4000's, autocannons, and heavy launchers among the menagerie. The wall opposite the doorway is a thick sheet of thermoplastic, behind which is a long, long corridor, lined with foam padding and sandbags. Nilwar beckons me inside; he shuts the door and slides his card into a small instrument panel beside the massive window. He unclips it from his belt. A touch-sensitive monitor there flickers to life, and the overhead lights go on. "This is one of Security's training ranges," announces Nilwar. "None of these weapons are loaded, but treat each and every last one like they're carrying full charge or a full magazine. These are weapons--everything in here is designed to kill. These are not laser tag toys; always point them downrange, away from me and yourself." I shuffle my feet, somewhat intimidated. "Uh, why am I here?" Nilwar rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Karl! You're going to be associating with the single most violent gang in the history of MegaPrime if not human civilization and you're asking me why you're here?" He waves a finger at me. "If you walked into Diablo territory without a weapon, they'd probably shoot you out of principle!" I frown. The guard ignores me; he picks up a metal suitcase and pops its lid. I glimpse his face--impassive as always, but I think I sense a little of that little-kid-on-Christmas-day feeling. "These are light pistols," asserts Nilwar, waving his hand over the assorted implements. He then points out each to me. "Thirty- eight, nine millimeter, forty five, Marsec flight pistol. Each and every one of these can kill a man with one shot." The guard points at the small revolver. "This thing, loaded with dum dum rounds, can blow the back of your head off. Never underestimate a weapon by its size." He hefts the nine millimeter and taps the computer screen. A small drawer beneath the monitor pops open, a thin loaded clip inside. The plastic window lowers to waist level. A white target dummy, a humanoid foam pin suspended from rails in the ceiling, slides forwards from the distant end of the range. Nilwar sights it, loading the weapon's cartridge. The target hits fifty meters out, and it starts jinking and weaving. At thirty, the guard still has not pulled the pistol's trigger. The target crosses the twenty meter mark. Nilwar squeezes the pistol, spitting out even pairs of shots. The dummy buckles, huge wads of Styrofoam exploding out its sides and back. At ten meters it halts, and the plastic pane slides up again. A drawer chimes and opens beneath the monitor. Hageny's bodyguard places the warm gun into it. It immediately closes. He taps the monitor, and a two dimensional profile of the target rises up. Red blotches plaster its torso, with a pair of shots to its head. A fraction in the upper right corner denotes ten over twelve. "Is that good?" I ask, pointing to the ten. "You try it," grins Nilwar. He waves to the assembled mass of weaponry behind us. "Megapol has ranges where everything, with the exception of the shooting, is done automatically. This room needs servicing after each use." I stare around blankly. "Huh," I mutter. Nilwar is obviously having a good time. He pulls a larger pistol from the wall. Its clip loads forward of its butt and trigger and a small laser pointer is melded into its profile underneath its snub barrel. Lawpistol. "This is a Megapol Lawpistol," he smiles. "Sixteen rounds. Single shot, three round burst, or full automatic. Your friend Thorne carries these; in fact, she's notorious for them. She killed those Megapol officers with paired lawpistols. They didn't even get off a single round." "You have the hots for her or something?" I ask, questioning this Marsec sergeant's inappropriate admiration. Nilwar narrows his eyes at me but continues. "Lawpistols are entirely polymer composites. Very difficult to detect with x-ray, but because of their size compared to other pistols, fairly easy to find with a physical search. These are extremely dangerous weapons." The guard taps the computer console, inserts the clip offered, and bisects the target dummy in a hail of bullets before the plastic barrier is done lowering. "These can carry depleted-uranium armor-piercing, hollowpoint, delayed charge, or conch poison rounds. Or any combination of them. Armor piercing will cut through anything up to Megapol assault armor. Hollowpoint is soft lead; it'll stop in your body and break every bone it hits--or travel right through, cutting you in half with twenty centimeter exit wounds." He points to the garish display down the range. "What's delayed charge?" I ask. Rawlings smiles at my interest and touches the screen. A new dummy is lowered from the ceiling right in front of us; it and the mutilated one slides towards the back of the range. As before, the computer deposits a fresh clip in its drawer. Nilwar ejects the spent black magazine and loads this one, brightly marked with red stripes. The barrier lowers. The new dummy stops at thirty meters out. Rawlings steadies himself, bracing the pistol with two hands. He sights the weapon and then gently squeezes its trigger. Two controlled shots ring out. The target buckles, but doesn't move. A moment passes. CRUMP CRUMP go these 'delayed charges', blasting the foam man to ribbons. The biggest piece left of the target is its head, still attached to its rail mount. "God," I mutter, feeling the bile rise in my throat. "I hate to ask what conch poison is." Nilwar stares at the floor as the thermoplastic hums back into position. "Venom so toxic that Megapol only issues it to its Counterterrorism Battalion. It is ammunition, just like any of these others, but unlike anything else, even a glancing shot is enough to kill an unarmored man. "It is a last resort--a choice of assassins, sadists, and cowards." Nilwar seems unusually subdued for the moment, not at all his typical gung-ho jockish self. "Huh," I grunt, rubbing the floor with the toe of my shoe. His last word still rings in my ears. What the hell does he mean by that? Nilwar disposes of the lawpistol, moving instead to a small grayish gun with a thick, large-bored barrel. He cues the computer and loads it. "What's this?" I ask him. He is silent, waiting for the freshest target dummy to slide back to twenty meters. The plastic is down, and I hear the distant grating of the target's rail mount. I can't hear Nilwar's breath. He closes his eyes. The target stops. A roar like thunder shakes the range, a long, rolling double sonic boom that only subsides when the divider is firmly anchored in the ceiling. Thin grey smoke drifts off the tip of the weapon. Nilwar opens his eyes and smiles. "I take it that that's a plasma pistol," I half-whisper. "Very," answers the guard. His lazily eyes the dummy; a five centimeter hole, ringed with smoldering, ashing foam is bored directly through the target's 'heart'. I look at Nilwar again. He is contented and exhausted. He looks like he just had an orgasm. "One guess at which weapon you're going to train for," grins the sergeant. Training is not what I expected. Down another kilometer of maintenance corridors is another bank of blank alloy doors. Inside each is a comfortable padded chair, with a headrest. I sit in one, and lean back. "Close your eyes, Karl." Nilwar attaches some loose crown of wires and contacts to my head. "Um, what is this?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "Didn't you use any of these at Lifetree?" "I didn't know that Marsec used psinets," I reply. "Don't you Security jocks go through a year's worth of training?" "Yes, but that's mainly to build up our physical endurance. Weapon skills are loosely implanted; firing range practice makes for better troops in the long run anyway." "Then why are you going to use this thing on me?" Nilwar sighs. "Trust me, nothing would please Hageny more than to ship your lazy civilian butt through Primary training, but there's simply no time for it." Nilwar finishes attaching leads to my cranium. "What exactly are you going to be sticking into my brain?" "It'll be a very focused implant. Plasma pistol maintenance, plasma pistol handling, and 'Grey Eye' instinctual aiming. Plus the usual disclaimer, of course." I laugh. "Disclaimer! Half my brain must be permanently wired to read 'This is psionic implant is property of Lifetree, Inc. Dissemination without express consent of Lifetree Inc. may be a violation of local and UN laws.' " Nilwar laughs a moment, and then his voice turns serious. "Nothing's permanent, Karl. Keep that in mind." And he flicks the switch before I can utter another word. My mind shuts down. I am asleep, but I do not dream. My consciousness is reduced to a black matte sphere, stretching in every direction beyond my field of vision. I do not feel my body. But suddenly I smell ozone, and I feel the cold, rubberized grip of the pistol in my hand. I raise it up; my muscles do not stop at the tips of my fingers; they merge, melt into the alloy edge of the weapon's trigger. Its balance is good; its feel is good. I have just discovered an appendage that I've never had before. I squeeze the trigger, not pull. Squeeze: all the muscles in my hand-pistol contracting at once. A bolt of jagged green-white lighting leaps forth, kicking my hand-pistol back; my arm compensates and holds its steady, steady. The beam of superheated Elerium remains out, connected to my pistol's barrel as much as it is part of my hand. It is a finger, true to one hundred meters, and I can reach out and touch with it. Touch, just like stretching out with my arms, my hands, my fingers . . . I yawn awake, my entire body stiff. "Nilwar?" I ask. I blink and sit up. The psionic contacts are gone from my head. I stare around. The guard sits in the corner of the small room, staring down the barrel of his heavy plasma pistol. He polishes it with a tiny cloth, reinserting its clip. "Rise and shine, bum," he mutters. He stands and reholsters his weapon. "Took you long enough. You must've been under for an hour." I frown. Even at Lifetree, cramming down entire volumes of Shakespeare before finals, I rarely dozed off for more than fifteen minutes. I check my watch to be sure. 12:30. Damn. "Are you sure about the implants? They're only plasma pistol stuff?" Nilwar looks in my eyes, his brown irises remarkably bright in the low light. "Yes," he answers, blinking. I stand from the chair, feeling rather chilled. He pats me on the back and opens the door. "Some people just can't stand the disclaimer," he jokes. He leads me off in the direction of the firing range. "What happens now?" I ask, halfway there. "We'll give you a message to deliver to Oscuro. Then you can do whatever you like." "Go to whorehouses each night?" I ask sarcastically. "If that's what you want," replies Nilwar, shrugging his shoulders. "We took the liberty of securing you a fairly decent apartment in Diablo territory. Comes fully stocked with kitchen unit, bathroom, bed, light furnishings and a closet full of clothes. Good security, too." "What in hell? Why do I have to move out there? I can't even breathe the air!" Nilwar smiles. "Learn to. Inside the wall, the Senate ordered all buildings to be overpressurized, primarily to keep pollutants and other airborne toxins out. The air in the slums isn't all that bad; we'll send you to the Clinic for a new pair of lungs afterward." We walk in silence for a while. "Where's my contract?" I ask, somewhat fearful. "You verbally affirmed it," counters the guard. "I want a hard copy of it," I demand. Nilwar stops and turns to me, his heavy brow dark and knotted. "Look, Karl, I am not screwing around with you when I say that this is no longer a job for you. You'll get paid more than enough, do you understand? You'll get all the cushy garbage that you would've gotten up in Kaleta's penthouse. Check your account tonight--the money will be there." "No longer a job?" I whine. "This is bigger than all of us." "Don't give me that SHIT!" I yell at him. "You don't know how many times I've been told that this week! I'm sick of it." Nilwar sighs, takes a step back from me, and pulls out his plasma pistol. "Then let me explain, once again. You are the only easy way we have to get to Oscuro at the current time. Oscuro is in charge of Diablo. You are going to deliver him a package." "Fine, fine, fine," I mutter, backing up against the circuit lined wall. The old pistol doesn't seem so clunky now. Its bore is quite large, too. Nilwar snorts and frowns to himself. "You didn't mean that. It's the post-implant stress; hell, look at me," he apologizes, holstering his weapon. "Even I'm a little fried, and I wasn't the one under the net." I swear at him under my breath, but we finally arrive at the firing range. Checking into another booth, Nilwar holds the door open for me. I cautiously proceed ahead of him. He closes the door, reaches around me to place his card in the security slot, and opens up a grey metal suitcase. "Hit plasma, type 2," he orders. I look at the computer screen and do as he says. Pulling the cartridge from the drawer, I look back at him. "Paranoid, are we?" I sneer. "I've trusted my back to very few men in my life, and most of them are dead," answers Nilwar. "You're a good man, Karl, but you've yet to earn my trust." I frown at him. "Hit 30 meters," he continues. I tap the monitor, watching his ugly self the whole time. The thermoplastic is down, the target deployed. I gesture for the plasma pistol and he hands it to me. As soon as my hands touch its too-familiar metallic bore and its too-familiar hard-rubber grip, I safety, load, and ready the weapon. "Wow," I mutter, staring at amazement. "Break it down," commands Nilwar. I frown, but as soon as I ponder it, my hands eject the clip, remove the alloy sheath around its barrel, and then the barrel itself. I have no idea what I'm doing, my mind screams, but my fingers work like they've done this every day for the last ten years. "Good," commends the sergeant. "Put it back together and then holster it in your belt." I reassemble the weapon. The only awkwardness is when I shove the large, foreign mass of the pistol against my bladder. Well, I think, better than Nilwar over there--he's got a pistol up his ass. "Double tap the dummy." I hesitantly touch the butt of the plasma pistol. And then it's in my right hand, swinging up and out, and my left hand clasps my right hand and I eye the target and fire, my body shaking from the concussive kick of the weapon. "Double tap, you bum! Double tap, not full auto!" shouts Nilwar into my ears. He reaches over and loads up another target, along with another cartridge. I eject the clip and marvel at the vapors drifting off the pistol's barrel. Even they are so familiar, like old friends, like the sound of Wolf's voice . . . "Well, at least you hit the target," mutters Nilwar. I glance at the screen; a half-dozen red blotches mar the target. Smoking pieces of it are scattered everywhere in the corridor. "Why does it read six over twelve?" I ask, somehow remembering that this pistol carries twenty shots, not twelve. "Twenty shots in a type two plasma. Thirty-two in a type three, a heavier pistol variant. Forty-four in a type four, a light rifle. The target disintegrated after twelve shots, that's all." "What are the heavier plasmas?" I ask. Nilwar chuckles. "Type fours are used by maximum security guards at our maximum security facilities. They are rarely used; each shot fired costs something around fifteen hundred dollars. But they can punch through Megapol assault armor--no easy task, considering that they make it out of layered cydonium and ceramics with spidersilk webbing in between." "Huh," I mutter, setting up another target. One moment the plasma pistol awkwardly rests in my hands; the next I'm calmly firing off four-round salvos. My ears ring, and my body quivers from the rough buffeting. But the fraction on the computer reads seven out of twelve, and I've still got eight shots left. I smile wryly. "This is fun," I comment, queuing up a dummy at forty meters. I glance back at Nilwar. He is grinning appreciatively. "Well, enjoy it while you can, Karl. You get three more cartridges today." "How expensive are these?" I ask, peering at the yellow alloy clip poking out of the bottom of my pistol's butt. "Three hundred bucks each," answers the guard. "A ROUND?" I yelp. "No," he chuckles. "Per clip. The reason those type fours cost so much is that they deliver about two thousand times the damage of this and they eat Elerium at an insane rate." I whistle, turn back to the range, and resume my practice. I fly through the remaining cartridges, working on single-handed, close range shots and kneeling, long-range work. Quickly getting over my initial surprise, I settle down and use paired bolts to perform the same duty as entire clips. Nilwar occasionally speaks, only once chiding me for demolishing a dummy's rail mount. The last sonic boom doesn't jar me nearly as much as the first one; I've become halfway deaf. I deposit the warm weapon in the disposal slot and stretch. Nilwar tries to say something to me. "What?" I ask him. "I can't hear you--my ears are ringing!" "It was necessary," he answers. "Huh?" "For the implant to hold, you had to experience everything about the weapon, including its propensity for making one helluva racket!" the bodyguard shouts at me. "Let's do lunch." I nod and take one last look at the firing range. The Styrofoam guts of a dozen dummies are scattered everywhere, molded heads and legs tipped by black scorch marks. One reclines against the right-hand wall, pretty much in one piece--only its head is missing. Another lies face down in its own white, grey and black ashes. A real massacre. Nilwar picks up his bowl by its sides, raises it to his mouth, and sucks down a quarter of the ramen's liquid. I frown at him, nabbing a potato in my curry with a fork. "You should use chopsticks," he joshes, waving around his pair. He hoists noodles from his bowl, slurping them into his scarred cheeks. My hearing is slowly coming back. "Man, where did you learn your manners?" I ask. I'm not feeling too hungry; I chew on a chunk of synth-beef for a long time. "Hey, this is how it's supposed to be eaten!" responds the guard. "Sure, Mom," I reply. "How would you know? The Japanese are all dead." "You're not dead," Nilwar points out. He delicately plucks peas from the ramen. I snort. "Quarter Japanese. Half German. Do I like bratwurst? No." Nilwar looks away from me for a moment, focusing on another table. "You enjoy a good beer, though." I stare at him for a few seconds, chewing meditatively on a pre-digested carrot. "You implying something about my drinking habits?" "I just think that you're going to be needing all of your wits about you this next week. Implants or not, nobody can aim straight with a liter of fermented barley in their system." "What's this? First you tell me that I'm supposed to hang loose with my friends, go native and all that--and then you tell me no alcohol?" Nilwar laughs at me, a subtle, condescending chuckle. "Can't have a good time without the keg, eh? I saw so many of my neighbors wreck what little of a chance they had by just blowing their minds out on liquor and narcotics that I don't buy one second of that . . . argument." I roll my eyes at the man. Nilwar glances over his shoulder, and then turns his chair slightly. He seems to be staring at the entrance of the cafeteria quite intently . . . I take the chance to look him over again. "When I was your age," seems to be the defining phrase of this man . . . this old man. He is old; his stubble is a mottled gray, mixed in with some darker patches over what could only be his scars. His scars aren't quite as revolting as when I first set eyes on this toad. Everywhere they weave paths, mingling with the wrinkles of age. Wow, Nilwar has a lot of scars; not thin, clean slices like those of a blade, nor wide, rough patches from friction. There seem to be two types of mutilations on the man's head--twisted jagged ones that are probably puncture marks and darkened singes of deformed, bubbled skin. Those look like burn marks, though they seem limited to only a few prominent locations, like the big welting on his upper left temple. Nilwar turns back to me. I peer into his deep brown eyes for the shortest of seconds. Who is this man? "A few more items of business," declares the guard, pulling a metal briefcase from under his side of the table. He slides it across to me. A simple three-digit combination lock secures it. "What's the combination?" I ask Nilwar. He rubs his jaw and ignores me. I frown and open my mouth to protest, but I glance the thin bronze band around my ring finger. My hands move to the lock; I quickly dial in the code. The case pops open. I peer in, keeping the lid lowered. My attention is immediately drawn to the plasma pistol tied down in the middle, five clips stacked to its right. A thick stack of cards is in the upper left hand corner. Two optical disks, both the small 'minidisk' variety rest beneath. One is blood red. Finally is a thin, black box with a red cross over the circle and arrow of Marsec. Nilwar waits until I've looked everything over before he comments. "Give me everything in your pockets," he commands. "Huh?" I mumble, fishing out my bankcard, my keycard, and my workpass, along with numerous other thin, plastic data cards. "Money too," adds the guard. I hand him the two hundred dollars I pulled from my account before work today. "Computer?" I sigh and shove it over to him. The guard looks over everything I've given him. He pockets the money, most of the ID cards, my bankcard and my workpass. He hands back my keycard. "Clean out your apartment and return this to your landlord. Abandon most of your stuff; just take the essentials. Don't worry, you'll get all of this," and he waves a few disks at me before returning them to my computer satchel, "back after you're through with this little ordeal. Until then, use what you've been supplied with." I pull out the stack of cards . . . workpass for Karl Williams, Biafra Towers A. I now collect unemployment compensation from Solmine. Bankcard for Karl Williams. I wonder what the balance is. Keycard for 1224 Biafra Towers A. I hope that it's a decent pad. Several other lesser cards, all confirming that yes, I am Karl Williams, and yes, I am poor. I turn to the last card; it's a dull gold, the only inscription on it '4444'. "What is this?" I ask. "Deep Cover Operations pass," answers Nilwar. "If the Popo give you trouble, and I mean life-threatening, show it to them. And then run from Diablo territory--word will get out fast that you're a narc. Remember, only show it if they're going to kill you." My stomach turns at that thought. "The red disk goes to Nat. You can trust her to relay it to . . . your mutual friend without reading it. Tell them you saw your mutual friend's name on it at work or anything and you stole it; you're inventive, think up something. If they ask you about it, you don't know anything. If they really ask you, and I mean threaten your life, tell them everything that's happened. If they give you something to deliver back, obey their instructions." I meditate over this for a long while, forcing down the remnants of my meal. "What happens if I'm in big trouble?" I ask. Nilwar shakes his head. "You shouldn't get into any. You're just the messenger. The election occurs in mid April; one week should be sufficient time for Diablo to seriously curtail Osiron's financial clout. Then you're out . . . you're done." "What happens?" "I'll contact you . . ." "What happens?" The bodyguard stomps his foot into the floor of the cafeteria. "You know where to come." "Yes. It is a game of shoji." You again. Happy? "Quite the turnaround. Kaleta should be none-too angered." Fuck him. "Why the sudden trust in Nilwar? Why do you trust him more than Kaleta?" I don't know. Maybe I'm just rationalizing escaping a one- way ticket to Mars or the Oort Cloud. But still . . . I get to drink every night, hang around with criminals, and still get paid huge amounts of money. Sounds good to me. "I'm not referring to the merits of either man's carrot and stick combination. I'm referring to the men themselves. Why do you trust Sergeant Nilwar over Vice President Kaleta?" You're the psionic. You tell me. "You'll tell me, not because I'm commanding you to, but because by questioning your rationale, I'm subconsciously causing you to be curious of your own motivations. Voicing it yourself will satisfy you more than me." Ooh. Nice logic, Ben. They implant you with the Socratic Method or something? "Implanting is not a painless thing for me, Karl. Unlike you, I can feel my mind being shoehorned into a smaller space to allow entrance to foreign memories. Implanting is a mental evisceration of myself. It is easily more painful than anything known to your kind." Even childbirth? "Childbirth is usually accompanied by a positive sense of creation. Implanting offers nothing of the like. Back to my question: why do you trust Nilwar?" I suppose it's because he doesn't make his money pushing paper and intimidating people. "Arranging a false identity for you and waving a Second Genesis plasma pistol in your face seem to match the former and the latter." Uh . . . what's Second Genesis? "What your kind calls the First Alien War. To me, it is the second time your 'starspawn', your 'bugs', your 'little green men from Mars' influenced this planet. Was the Second Alien War the Third Genesis? "No." Silence. Hello? "It was a continuation of the Second Genesis. Why do you trust Nilwar?" You don't know, do you? "And neither do you." I do. It's because of his face. He's obscenely ugly, isn't he? Someone that deformed can't possibly lie to me . . . "Your kinds' constant obsession with physical looks disgusts me to the core of my being. Always focusing on that thin membrane you call skin . . . " But I like the ugly dude and not the pretty one! Doesn't that count for anything? "It's a sick perversion of your mental landscape that could only have resulted from your monumentally incorrect self-perception that you are insanely unattractive yourself! But, augmenting this disease is your twisted egotism! You are always in the right, or so you feel." Hey! "You filter your perceptions through this! The uglier another human is, the more honest, just they are! Ugliness equals right! What kind of malformed prejudice is that? You are a blight unto your own!" So what if I never liked Business Majors? So what if I've always thought of gravball players as dumb jocks? So what if I've thought that to be pretty is to instantly make oneself petty? "Your prejudice is incorrect! Kaleta is not evil!" I snort and look around the lobby, wishing that Ben would leave my head so I could make good my departure. I thought you wanted me to quit the company of that asshole! "I never claimed that! And consider the other side--just because Sergeant Nilwar is ugly doesn't mean that he doesn't have a hundred thousand secrets, a hundred thousand black marks upon his record!" My mind is blank--could I have chosen wrong? "You should have picked it up already--he told you to your face! "Sergeant Nilwar is a murderer!" Aghast, blinking at this revelation, I sit down against the lobby wall. Pray tell, Ben, what do you mean by that? "Sergeant Nilwar is no saint! He's killed hundreds, and has been accessory to two of the most horrific crimes of all time!" What crimes? "--" Ben? The psion's voice comes back weakly. "Implants," he whispers in my mind. "Even if your pretty skin was peeled back with you still alive inside of it, you wouldn't know the pain of psionic implants . . ." * * * I pull the large cardboard crate out of the back seat of the autotaxi, silently cursing the snoozing 'driver' of the vehicle. God damn this MegaPrime--back in Buenos they knew the meaning of service. Here, everybody just sits and presses buttons and says 'you're welcome' when you mutter 'thank you' at them. The fathers of this city were idiots! So afraid that there wouldn't be a place for people in this monstrous machine . . . Interpersonal contact laws? What the hell? That's only the sad result of the city planners devoting ninety-nine point nine nine percent of all the funding in this damn hole to AI's and machines and all other kinds of toys for the fifty thousand corporate executives who live downtown. I suck in a lungful of slum air as the autotaxi whirrs off, its computer searching for more fares, its 'driver' reading pornography and yanking off or something less discrete. Sixty-story steel and concrete apartments rise all around me. Pigeons wheel in the lazy afternoon rays of an orange sun above me and a pack of small children plays on the steps of the brownstone across the street. This is Biafra Towers. I don't suppose the city fathers ever figured this into their plans. The eternal poor, the constant presence of poverty at bounty's front gate. MegaPrime was supposed to be Utopia; it is just another big city. The plasma pistol presses against my gut, tensing up my abs and lending an urgency to my movements. In this box is the extent of my clothing, sans a certain corporate uniform. A few other necessities are scattered throughout, but it's mainly filled with boxers and pants and t-shirts and socks. I already could be one of the thousands of not- so-lucky slummers who don't even possess an apartment. I look both ways and walk across the street, becoming winded merely by that effort. "Where's . . . Biafra . . . A?" I wheeze to one of the kids. He eyes me cautiously and then points a small finger at the tallest of these high rises. Balconies screened off with makeshift windows, Biafra A is a mosaic of dirty glass, drying laundry, and iron grilles. I stagger down the street; the apartment entrance is only a few dozen meters away, but it feels like a kilometer. Two leather-clad toughs saunter up and flank me. They slow their stride to match my geriatric pace; why the fuck didn't I tell that stupid cabbie to drop me off at the A Tower? I shift my load and reach for the lump under my shirt . . . The thug on my right hand holds an arm out in front of me. His hand is covered in a dirty leather glove with its fingers chopped off. His stake-like fingers have dirty, chipped nails. "Espanol? Deutch? Nihongo?" he asks, his hatchet face in mine. "Ingles," I reply, stopping and eyeing him with paranoid, tired eyes. "Ah, a gringo," he smiles, one of his teeth capped with gold. Grayish stubble covers his jaw and greasy black curls cover the rest of his head; he peers over a thin set of UV filters at me. "Les kick 'is ass an be 'one wi' it, Chuck," sighs the other punk. A red and black headband covers his flabby, tanned head. A thick rivulet of sweat runs down his cheek. He spits in the road. I set down my box. 'Chuck' nudges it away from my feet. "So, gringo, what brings you to Biafra Towers?" he asks in a genuinely concerned voice. "I'm moving in," I cough. My heart is pounding. Chuck scratches the bottom of his chin thoughtfully. "Have you checked with the Department of Public Housing recently? Biafra's at full capacity." "What do you mean?" I ask, tired, scratching my belly. Chuck leans into my face. "Go home, bug wanker! There ain't no room for you." I shake my head, muttering. "What the fuck? What is this shit?" I whine, throwing up my hands. Chuck steps back from me, his hand inching towards a pocket in his jacket. My right heads south for my plasma pistol . . . "Hol' on, Chuck. 'Is guy's O-K." Thank you. The other thug juts a pinkie at my right hand. Chuck frowns, and then squints. "Excuse me," he says, slowly reaching for my hand. I let him examine my ring. He starts to pull it off. "Hey!" I complain. "Sorry--formality. I ain't seen you before--who's your jefe?" Chuck slips the ring off and holds it up to the sunlight. He turns it over, muttering "I'll be damned." "Uh, you guys know a girl named Nat Hawthorne?" I ask. The first punk looks away from the ring and stares at me like he's seen a ghost--I watch the blood drain from his thin face. I think I enjoy the sight a little too much. "Th-Thorne?" "Yeah. I guess she's my boss--she gave me that." I point to the ring. "Excuse me," he says, taking my hand and pushing the trinket back on. "I'm really, really fucking sorry. We had you figured for somebody else--ain't that right, Trevor?" Trevor nods, looks at his feet, and then picks up my box. "Mine if e 'elp you?" he asks. "No problem," I mutter, trying not to smile. Chuck throws an arm over my shoulder, and I glimpse the bronze around his right ring finger. "First time in free territory?" he asks, subtly holding me up. "Second time slumming," I answer. Chuck chuckles easily. "Why do you call it the slums?" he inquires. "I dunno," I reply. "I mean, is this the slums?" He waves his free arm up at the imposing heights of Biafra Towers. "What's so bad about this?" I shrug. We start into the front entrance of the Tower A. "Amigos call it 'free territory', not slums. Slums are where there ain't no hope, where it's always dark and raining and shit like that. Is it raining in here?" I shake my head. "Hell no! The sun's shining! In free territory, the sun's always shining; you don't have to worry about where you're going to sleep tomorrow night or where you're getting your next meal. Free territory means no Popo, no fuckin' pigs beatin' you up for laughs. Free territory means being able to just sit back and chill, take it easy." I smile lopsidedly. Does every new renter have to listen to this? "Sometimes," continues Chuck, "I think they put up the Wall just so everybody inside that cage wouldn't see what free territory's like! I mean, now that you know, you even thinkin' about moving back?" I grin and shake my head. Trevor tests the Tower's gravlift, a glowing green column of air. Cautiously edging his way into the humming shaft of light, he hops upward slightly and is sucked aloft. I stagger into the lift. I notice an old steel panel on a near wall: OTIS 2000 INDUSTRIAL GRAVITY NULIFYING LIFT--NOT FOR HUMAN USE. The words 'Fuck Otis' and 'Fuck You' are etched over these letters. "Hurry up, amigo. We can't keep Trevor waiting all day." "Wha numbah?" asks the fat thug, yelling down the shaft. "What is the address of your suite?" inquires Chuck. "Uh, twelve twenty-four." The gang member snaps his fingers and smiles, displaying his gold tooth. "Ain't that just beautiful! A corner apartment! Excellent view and twice the space of a regular room." I look up the shaft, rolling my eyes. I leap upwards, normal gravity asserting itself again on the second floor. I continue my assent. The lift flickers slightly, and I can feel the gravity field failing. On the third floor I quickly stumble off. "Shit!" yells Chuck, further down the blinking column. I listen for the sound of his body hitting bottom. However, the field returns to a strong shade of green after a leery moment and the punk flits up to me, alive and intact. "The lift's never out for long," he reassures me. I step back into the air and continue my assent, my nerves somewhat more fried. We reach the twelfth floor without any more fluctuations. Trevor awaits us, my battered cardboard crate at his feet. "Twelve twenty what?" he asks. "Four," replies Chuck. A small common room surrounds the lift shaft. Worn-out couches and lounge chairs lean against the walls, and four hallways lead out from the gravlift in the directions of the compass. Chuck and Trevor wander down what I assume is the east hallway. I follow. They stand outside a heavy steel door. '1224' reads the scratched number plate. I pull out my keycard and run it through the magnetic reader. A LED light blinks green, and I hear the bolt disengage. I press the door open. A black and white chessboard tile floor greets me, and most amazingly, it is clean, without a bit of dirt upon it. Sturdy bamboo tables and canvas-backed chairs, clustered around a wide-screen television set catch my attention. Floor-to-ceiling thermoplastic windows let in the afternoon's sunlight . . . Chuck whistles in awe. "'Ey wern ki' in'," mutters Trevor. I stride in, calming my fraying nerves and trying to breathe slower. From Petrograd . . . to this. Wow. This is 'cushy garbage' that I can live with. Big, broad leafed plants sit in the corners and by the windows. Behind the door--to the left--is a bathroom with a big, porcelain washbasin--a bathtub. A small kitchen unit is in the right- hand corner, complete with refrigerator, two-burner stove, microwave, trash compactor, and running water. I have died and gone to heaven. "Whea shoul' ah pu' 'is?" asks Trevor. I wave in the direction of a low couch. The view is incredible; I'm not on the east, but on the northwest corner of Biafra A, and the entire western and northern walls are all windows. The afternoon sun glides down towards the horizon, threatening to engulf the western reaches of high-rises and abandoned factories in its orange flame. To the north . . . The Wall. A kilometer high, it fills the northern sky with its dull gray mass. Tiny dots of light flyers ascend over its heights along prescribed flight paths. The nearest slum apartments are barely a tenth of that monstrosity's height. "Ugly, ain't it?" "Yeah," I answer. Chuck stares at it a moment longer, a dull hate glowing in his brown eyes. Then he turns to the west. "See those three stacks?" he asks, pointing into the distance. "Three stacks, just over that billboard." I spot the board; thin neon lights are already blinking, spelling out N-U-T-R-E-N-D. The I and the V of the familiar 'Nutrivend' seem to have been replaced by a black scar. Sure enough, though, three spindly smokestacks rise behind it. I judge the distance to be something like ten kilometers. "That's the edge of free territory," asserts Chuck. "What's on the other side?" I inquire. "Slums," replies Trevor. "Slums and Axemen." "Axemen?" "Animals, filthy animals. They piss all over their turf and then wonder why we amigos take it from them." "'Ey on' 'eserve da shi' 'ey stan' in," adds Trevor. I nod, pretending that I understand. I walk over to the fridge and crack it open. Oh, that fuckhead Nilwar--two big bottles of synthetic grape juice sit inside. I curse him and push them aside. Sitting behind them is small six-pack of Kirin Beer. Jesus, Mary and Joseph--that's CEO quality brew! I pull out the beer, glancing a scrap of paper taped to one can. Trevor and Chuck turn to me and eye the beverages. "Uh, for your help," I say, handing them two cans each. "Whoa," mutters Chuck. "Thanks? Damn." "'Ey weren' ki' in'," mumbles Trevor. The two street thugs edge towards the door, eyeing their unexpected bounty hungrily. "If you ever need anything, Mister--what's your name?" "Peace. Peace Umeda," I blather. "Don't hesitate to ask for us. We handle day shift here at Biafra." "Thanks again for your help." The two bound out the door, amazed, surprised, and thirsty. "Enjoy," I mutter. The poor bastards probably don't know the difference between the regular Nutrivend piss and good stuff like Kirin. I probably wasted the cans. And why did they take off like that? Oh hell, who knows. I secure my door's deadbolt and shuffle over to my box of possessions. Groping around, I pull the steel suitcase from under that heap of boxers and shirts. I clear the ashtray from a coffee table and open it up. I pull the plasma from my pants and replace it in its foam slot. I look at the note on the can in my hand: "Save this for later," it reads, "PS computer in trash compactor." I stumble over to the compactor, pull it open, and sure enough, there's a plastic bag inside. I open that and yank out a new lapcomputer. I take a seat and fire up the device. After a few minutes of rifling around in its files, I glance the second minidisk in my suitcase. I place it into the appropriate slot. It's some sort of large hypertext manual for the operation of the plasma pistol. Excellent reading, but utter boredom to someone who's already been implanted with all that knowledge. Disgruntled, I stand up and plug the lapcomputer into a wall electric/telephone jack. Well, at least I have the Intranet back. I eye the red minidisk. It distinctly says, "666." I return the Kirins to the fridge and look around the apartment. The sun has begun to sink in the west, staining slums and 'free territory' alike in a red wash of blood. Very quiet up here. I think about the beer. Maybe there's more liquor around here--maybe I should just get hammered and call it a night. But that red disk irks me; better to be done with that. So I stow that in a thin case and pocket it. The plasma . . . I 'holster' it. I snort and chuckle uneasily. I put it back in its case. I eye it ferociously. Who am I fooling? I'm no Megapol officer! If I walk around with that on me, I'm liable to get killed--or kill myself. I leave the weapon in its case, walk towards the door, whip around, clutch it, and shove it between my belt buckle and my boxers. My loose dress shirt, quite untucked, covers the rest of it. God, I'm a fool. It is Sunday night. A few Synthmesh workers lazily eye the single monitor Gaudin's got going. The results of the day's gravball games scroll by. Dave Schaffer, Gaudin's most trusted bouncer, sits on the barstool nearest the door. His black tee shirt is strained by the high-gravity trained muscles of his upper body. He spots me peeking in. "You?" he growls. A pitcher of icewater sits before him. Gaudin's bouncers: the driest sunuvabitches in MegaPrime. "Me?" I reply. Schaffer's eyes focus in on me. "Some asshole and a hot chick were lookin' for you," sneers the bouncer. "But that was a half-hour ago. Get lost." "Where's the boss?" I ask. "Mr. Gaudin doesn't work Sundays," he answers. "I know that," I respond. "Where is he?" Schaffer rolls his eyes. "In back." He pours himself another glass of water as I walk by. Well, somebody's got to be the bastard. Nothing like knucklehead bouncers to quiet down rowdy Kay-sucking frat kids. I stride by the Synthmesh people. They're all old men, all kind of on the flabby side--friends of Gaudin's, I presume. Only friends of Gaudin can enter the Purple Lotus to drink after eight a.m. on Sundays. I am a friend of Gaudin, but I don't stop at the bar. Instead, I wander out the back exit and down the off-white corridor to the parking garage. The air in Juventus is so much richer than slum air; breathing is easy for me. Maybe Hap was right--the slums do make for stronger folk. The meek shall inherit the world. Heh. Gaudin's 'office' is a little cubbyhole next to the bathrooms. He keeps the strongbox in there--along with a spare bouncer or two. Nobody has ever robbed the Lotus. God forbid anyone who tries. His office is locked, but I hear the flush of a toilet. I lean against his door and wait for a moment or two. The Frenchman steps out of the men's bathroom. His face wears that paternal, amused expression that he can't help but adopt after bearing witness to a rowdy weekend of debauchery and bacchanalia. Black slacks and a clean white office shirt, covered by a buttoned-up vest complete his outfit. "Karl!" he exclaims upon spotting me. "What brings you here tonight?" "Well, Father . . . since we last spoke my life has changed entirely." Gaudin pats me on the back after hearing my typical greeting. "Let's go sit in a booth," he suggests. We return to the tavern proper and take a seat in that round back booth where I met Hap and Bunny. Gaudin sits in Nat's spot, his back to the wall, with a clear view down the length of the establishment I sit across from him. Schaffer wanders over, a somewhat annoyed air about him. He's all smiles, though, as soon as the boss starts talking. "Two glasses of red wine," he requests. Schaffer hurries back to the bar where more help waits behind its marble length. I eye the wrinkled tattoo on Gaudin's right hand. From the corner of my eye, I see him glance the bronze around my right ring finger. I smile wryly, meeting his gaze. Diablo? What's a pack of street thugs to XCOM? XCOM--that was a real pack of toughs. . . The drinks arrive. I mutter a thank you. Gaudin smiles and sips a bit of his. I dip my tongue in the wine just to be polite. "So, Karl. How do you fare?" He smiles like he really means it, but I can't shake the profound sense of suffering his old body transmits. What's Kaleta and his lies to this veteran--to one of the ten who did make it out of T' Eleth? What's Nilwar and his guns to a man who watched half the planet burn? "Karl?" "I've had a rough week," I start, feeling guilty as hell for even troubling the man with my small potatoes. "I got hired by a big corporation, got laid by a psychotic cop, got fired, and now," I wave my right hand, "I'm part of a street gang." The Frenchman chuckles, the creases on his face taut and happy. "Ah. A rough week. You are a master of understatement, Karl." I smile, snort, and look away from him. His accent, of course, is nonexistent. But I hear that he speaks French and Chinese fluently. "Tell me more about this police officer," requests the barkeep. "I once slept with an female Army sergeant in Marseille while on leave. It was like I was in bed with one of my mates in the squad." I grin madly, blush, and look around. Nobody within earshot. Nobody ever is when I speak with Gaudin. "You are a dirty old man," I chide. "When you are my age and the chi is a faint memory, the tales of the young are your only consolation," he jokes back. I take a gulp of wine. "I don't know," I mutter. "It was just crazy, just pure animal lust." "I know what one night stands are," smirks Gaudin. "Better go to the Clinic for a blood test." Shit! I down the rest of my glass. "Thanks, Father, for introducing more complications into my already complicated life." "You must think ahead, Karl, if you want to live to become a dirty old man like me." Great, a blood test and then, if I'm unlucky, a viral purge from my system. Two, three hours shot. But with the some of the newer pathogens I could already be badly infected . . . "I hope she wasn't a prostitute," smiles Gaudin. "No, she was a cop. I already told you that . . ." Gaudin senses the hesitation in my voice, my body tensing. "But this police officer was in Vice Squad," he guesses. Damn, he must be a natural psi. "Sometimes I hate you, Father," I sigh back. "Yes, she was in Vice Squad, and by the sounds of it, she really got around." Gaudin sips a bit more of his wine and leans back, his arms behind his head. "Experienced women are the best kind, Karl. Not so timid and uneducated like virgins. They know how to make you feel like a man. They don't cry as much, either. I once met a girl in Nagoya-" "God--is there a city where you don't have the keys to a dozen women's bedrooms?" "I don't believe there was," smiles Gaudin, closing his eyes. Shit. Is--Was. Poor sunuvabitch must have lost a hundred lovers in the Inferno. "How's gang life?" he asks out of the blue. I think back to this afternoon. "The service is the best I've had since coming here." Gaudin opens his eyes and frowns. "David! More wine!" he demands. Turning to me, he smiles. "I hope that comment didn't apply to the Purple Lotus. After all," and he grins semi-sarcastically, "we are only here to please you." Schaffer walks over with a polished steel platter. Two bottles of vintage red wine are deposited before us. I wave my hands and shake my head. "No, no. Your establishment is alone in the world, in offering such a rare combination of service, selection, and satisfaction," I apologize. "I never compare the Lotus to anything else in those categories--it is a thankless task as your fine establishment master of all three." Gaudin is beaming, sipping a refreshed glass. "You are a master of the 'baloney-slinging,'" compliments Gaudin. He refills my glass. "Thank you." "You're welcome." This is why I love the Lotus--nothing beats knocking down burgundy with a friend. If that friend happens to be the proprietor of the joint--well, so much the better. "Your friend Wolf was looking for you earlier," he states. "I know. I must give something to him." "After you go to the Clinic." "Yes." I scan the Lotus. Only Schaffer and another bouncer . . . I read the numbers on my watch. 10:45. Time to hoof it to the people tubes. There is a rudimentary network of tubes out in the slums, but not a tenth of the apartments are accessible via the pressurized, gravfield equipped tubes used inside the Wall. Skyways between some buildings help, but to get back to Biafra, I need to take a big tube south to the Wall gate, a smaller tube to the old cement factory next to the Towers, and finally walk a half kilometer of sidewalks to get to Biafra A's front door. I stand up. "Excuse me, Father, but I must return to my apartment. I moved today, and it's a long ways." Gaudin steadies me with his hand. "Take it easy, Karl." "I'll go in first thing tomorrow," I reply. Gaudin sighs for a moment. "Venereal disease is not enjoyable. Good luck." 1/30/97
X-COM (and XCOM) are trademarks of MicroProse Software. Get yourself a copy!
X-COM: UFO Defence is copyright 1996 by Microprose Software, Inc. All rights reserved.
X-COM is based on characters and design by Mythos Games.