Once, a war had come to the earth.

It was not the first, and certainly not the last; but it was by far the worst. Weapons that had been banned were unleashed, and the losses were beyond conception. The planet shook in its orbit, and when the radioactive dust settled, things were…different. The world was no longer what it had been. It was now a reflection of the souls that had survived, broken and scarred. Where there had been mountains, now there were dry plains. New oceans had been formed, and cracks in the earth swallowed even the mightiest cities. Some of what mankind had created survived, but it was buried. They were things in the deep now, old things that may well never surface. In many cases this was probably a very, very good thing.

Of course there are two sides to every coin, and for every action an opposite. And so where some things had been buried, perhaps never to be seen again, others had risen. There was, of course, a difference. Man did not create these things. They were older than that, although their influence could be seen all over the planet. Before it was all destroyed, that is. And so the new fell, the old rose again, and things moved on as they ever did. Change rolled over the land, unstoppable and implacable, and those who saw it first were simply the first to be swept into it.

Most humans, of course, did not notice until it was too late.

* * *

Long ago, Jorgen Octavia had spent some time trying to come up with an appropriate description of the Wastelands. Every attempt had started with words like ‘dry’, ‘desolate’, and ‘dangerous’, and had ended with several straight minutes of violent swearing. Eventually he had given up. To say that he disliked the Wastes was an understatement; more appropriate to say that they haunted his nightmares, and that he had long ago sworn to have nothing more to do with them. He had his reasons; oh yes, he did. The reasons were buried in those same nightmares, and that was just where he wanted to keep them. He would have cursed the Wastelands to hell, if he thought that hell would have anything to do with them. Even demons had some taste.

And just where was he, Jorgen Octavia, now? Well, well. Three guesses, he thought, and if you don’t get it on the first, you win a kick to the head.

Kijayle Rhonac walked beside him. He was a young man, not quite out of his teens, and he might have been considered handsome underneath the dust. He was out of place in the Wastes, Jorgen thought. His face was open, innocent almost to the point of naïveté, although his eyes were shadowed with recent events. He wore his weapons in a casual imitation of Jorgen, his hands hovering near his claws as though in anticipation of the next fight. Jorgen approved, even though he planned to shove the kid down at the first sign of trouble. Kijayle was fit, and Jorgen had been training him personally, but that didn’t mean that he was ready for the Wastes. Jorgen was just thankful that the kid had been in full battle gear as they fled Neocron. Business, Kijayle had said as he geared up, and he wouldn’t explain further. Jorgen could think of all sorts of business that involved enough armor and weaponry to make a Copbot raise a metal eyebrow, and none of it fit for the kid; but still, it was none of his. He was just grateful that Kijayle had thought ahead.

And where was his armor? Not the ragtag junk he was wearing now; this stuff was good for mutant trash under the city, and not much else. His own weapons were in good enough condition, but were little better then second hand castoffs. He had only expected a little action in the cellars; he had most certainly not expected to flee the city with a hundred million credit bounty on his head. One hundred million credits. Just thinking about made him swoon; he kept trying to figure out how to turn himself in to collect the reward. In any case, he had not had time to collect his good gear. He hoped it was safe; he had long ago put it into storage so secret that even City Administration didn’t know about it. Shouldn’t know about it, anyway. More things he didn’t want to think about.

Why in the hell was there a hundred million credit bounty on him?

“It was a setup,” said Kijayle. “It had to be.”

Jorgen just grunted. No surprise that the kid had read his mind; it was all they could think about. And that was the best answer they could come up with, depressing though it was.

“Of course it was a setup,” said Korith. The gene-tank was covered with dust as well, but somehow made it look natural. Korithian Prince couldn’t help but loom as he walked; the man was massive, and his shadow stretched far beyond either Jorgen or Kijayle’s. Every bit of him was muscle, and every bit of that was toned and trained to hurt things, and not much else. His gear was old and worn, but meticulously maintained; Korith’s logic was that, if it had kept him alive for this long, it must still be worth using. Jorgen saw the flaw in this argument, but he knew better than to make an issue of it. Korith was not a man that you argued with, if you were fond of your limbs. The tank operated within the law, but he wasn’t above suddenly ‘remembering’ the name of a potential debater on a bounty list that he ‘lost’ after beating a confession out of the guy. A confession for what, one might wonder? A look from Korith was usually enough to answer such a question satisfactorily.

The tank went on, “We’ve just gotta find out who could frame you. Then we find him, and ask him who he was working for. And then we find that guy. We beat him unconscious, set his house on fire, strip him naked, and throw him through a closed NCPD window. Then we clear your name. Case closed”

Jorgen had to smile, mostly because he knew that Korith meant every word. “Easier said then done. Exactly where do you recommend we start, then?”

“Easy.” Korith grinned, the kind of expression that usually caused others to slowly edge away. “We start with him.”

Him was the fourth and final member of their little group. He called himself Xeovar Stoner, but wouldn’t say much else. It would have been difficult through the gag. His hands were bound tightly behind his back with razor-wire; Kijayle had provided it, supposedly just another tool in the ‘business’ he had planned. More wire trailed between the man’s legs, preventing him from running. Razor-wire was about the only thing that could be used to tie down a gene-tank; their massive strength could tear apart even bonded steel, and one tug would snap any chain. Flex against the wire, though, and Xeovar would accomplish little more than slicing off his own hands or feet. Even reinforced bone implants wouldn’t stop it. Xeovar’s armor had been disassembled and placed in his own backpack, and his weapon was slung over Korith’s shoulder. Korith had his own cannon pressed hard against the tank’s back. His expression was stoic as he walked; even Korith’s grin did little more to move him then the cold steel against his spine.

Jorgen frowned. “I told you before, Korith: I seriously doubt that someone would chase us all the way out here just to surrender. He didn’t even fire at us.”

Korith glared at Xeovar. “Yeah. Suspicious, that.”

“You think it’s suspicious when somebody confesses to fast, too.”

“So? It is.”

Kijayle studied the man. “Is the razor wire really necessary?”

Jorgen raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Kijayle blushed, looking as though he wished he could take it back. “I mean, look at him. He doesn’t have any armor, or a weapon. He couldn’t overpower us. And if he decides to make a break for it, where is he going to go? We could shoot him down before he made it three steps.”

“Hmm.” Jorgen studied the horizon, careful not to meet Korith’s eyes. The tank would start laughing then, and the kid might take it the wrong way. “How much do you know about gene-tanks?”

“Not much. They were created by psi-monks during the war, bred to be the perfect soldiers. After the advent of power armor they turned the tide in the battle of—”

Jorgen waved that off. “Enough with the history lesson. What do you know about a tank’s makeup?”

“Nothing, I guess. They’re awfully strong, and most of them are trained with heavy weapons. That’s about it.”

“Hmm. I think this might call for an object lesson. Let’s stop for a few minutes.”

“About time.” Despite the fact that Korith was built for endurance, he was always the first to bring up resting. He claimed to be setting an easier pace for the kid, but Jorgen thought he just wanted to lay out and work on his tan.

They sat in a circle, all positioned to keep an eye on Xeovar. The bound tank was showing signs of interest in the conversation, his eyes moving from face to face as they talked.

Jorgen said: “Korith, let me borrow your cannon for a minute.”

“Hmm? Oh…sure—”

Jorgen hefted the cannon. It took both hands. “This plasma cannon is one of the most powerful hand-weapons ever produced. It can punch through steel just as easily as flesh. It was originally created to combat the metal robots in the Ceres war, and it did a damned good job. Its power output has been increased since then. A full clip can destroy almost anything.” He studied Kijayle’s expression to make sure that he understood, and nodded. “Now. Look at Korith. He’s in full body armor—not power armor, but it will do. Almost every inch of his body is covered, except when he wants to work on his damned tan. So tell me: what’s his weak point?”

“Here’s a hint,” said Korith. “It’s not my good looks, my wit, or my way with the ladies.”

Jorgen was glad to see Kijayle take the question more seriously. He studied the tank, intently eyeing him up and down. After a time he said, “Well, it seems so obvious that I might be missing something else. If I were going to take him down, I would go for a head shot. I guess it would be different if he was in power armor, but right now it’s the only part of his body not directly protected.”

“Never happen, kid,” Korith said easily. “I’ve got the reflexes of an angry snake, and I can smell danger from miles away. Yeah, a head shot is the way to go, but you couldn’t get close enough to even register a lock.”

Jorgen nodded. “Right. I—” He suddenly frowned, looking at something beyond Korith’s shoulder. “What in the hell is that?”

“What?” Korith turned. Jorgen grinned, and, to Kijayles disbelieving eyes, raised the cannon and fired. Plasma blasted into Korith’s head, the smell of burning flesh instantly filling the air. Kijayle yelled in surprise as Korith fell flat on his back. Then he stopped, choking in shock as the tank suddenly jumped to his feet, swearing at Jorgen in ten different ways and reaching for the weapon he no longer held. He seemed to have forgotten Xeovar’s Doom Beamer hanging from his shoulder; instead he threw himself forward, tackling the now laughing Jorgen to the ground.

“What in the hell was that for?” he roared, ripping his cannon away. “Do I look like a targeting dummy? That hurt, you bastard!”

“I’ll shed a tear for you later,” said Jorgen, still grinning. “Ah, stop your crying. It’s already healing.”

“That’s not the damned point!”

“That’s exactly the point. The kid wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it—”

“I’m not a kid,” Kijayle said absently, still staring at Korith’s head.

“—and I think it’s important that he does believe it. Especially since there’s no telling how many tanks—and Hackers, and droners, and all around bloodthirsty lunatics—are scouring the Wastes for us now. We’ve already got Stoner over there to worry about and the ki—Kijayle has got to take him seriously.”

He turned to Kijayle, ignoring the still fuming Korith. “Okay, here’s the breakdown. Pay attention. Tanks are not easy to kill. Even a cannon to the head barely slows them down. Their body structure is similar to that of a normal human, but there are some pretty major differences. The muscle is obvious, but it’s the stuff inside that you have to worry about.

“Their bones are more dense than steel. It’s almost impossible to break them, even if they haven’t been grafted with implants. The skull in particular is enhanced; it’s almost an inch thicker than normal, and it takes more than a plasma blast to crack one as hard as Korith’s. The term ‘vital organ’ is academic to a tank—because they always have more than one. In addition to the usual heart behind the rib cage, they have at least two more, both genetically coded to take over if the first one fails—or is destroyed. They are located in different places depending on the tank your facing, although the choices are fairly obvious; there are only so many locations in the body that will support an extra organ. They have an extra lung, what the scientists call a ‘re-breather’, which lets them process water for oxygen. It also improves the circulation of oxygen through their body, giving them a more efficient distribution of energy. A tank can run damned near forever, unless he’s a lazy bastard who tries to call a rest every twenty minutes.”

“Never happen,” said Korith, rubbing at his face. His skin was already growing back, crawling across the exposed bone at a noticeable rate.

“Of course not,” said Jorgen. “Anyway, every organ a tank has is encased in a genetic mesh. It’s not much compared to some good armor, but even a naked tank can take a clip of metal bullets to the chest. The mesh doesn’t stop shrapnel in its tracks, but it usually deflects it away from the more important organs. And that’s if the stuff even penetrates the skin. The human body is composed mostly of water. It lets us move, and it’s a conductor. Not so with a tank; at least, not nearly so much. The fluids that run through their bodies aren’t really fluids at all. It’s an artificial neuro-conductor. It has a base of synthesized diamonds in a pseudo-liquid form. This not only makes them insanely resistant to energy and heat, but the neuro-enhancements increase their reflexes. It also means that most of the cells in a tank’s body are rigid; or at least, they can be. If you take a swing at a tank, it’s not like hitting a rock; you are hitting a rock. One almost as hard as natural diamonds, and one that’s probably going to hit back.

“They don’t feel pain. Don’t listen to this whiner cry about that blast to the head. His nerves register it, but it’s not felt. Their eyes have the same neuro-enhancement as the rest of their body, so their sight is phenomenal. Even their fingernails are dangerous, as hard as rocks.”
__________________

“Tell him about the psi,” said Korith. The last strip of flesh knitted itself back together, and now he looked as though nothing had happened. “And it did so hurt. Just like when you chug a cold drink to fast; that’s a bastard.”

Jorgen spared him a wry glance, and said: “Psi. Right. The psi threshold of a tank is actually very low, but they make all the use of it that they can. It’s all geared toward survival. A tank can’t call on psi like everybody else; all it really is to them is a power source. Nanites run through their body, and the low level of a tank’s psi outputs just enough energy to power them. They provide an eternal maintenance, rebuilding flesh, erecting low powered energy barriers, that kind of thing. It’s nowhere near what a full-fledged monk can do, but it’s enough to make each tank self-sufficient on the field. It’s also so low of a mental output that many monks cannot even detect it. The perfect balance of mental and physical survival.”

“Perfect is a good word to describe me,” Korith said thoughtfully. “It’s almost…what’s the word? Poetic. Yeah.”

Kijayle was staring in open fascination. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

Jorgen nodded toward Xeovar. “That’s why we’re using the razor wire. It won’t kill him—it won’t really even hurt him—but it will slow him down, and I’ll take every advantage I can get. I don’t think he could take all three of us, but I don’t feel like taking any chances.” He didn’t add that he wasn’t worried about himself or Korith. It was Kijayle he had his eye on; it had to be obvious to the tank that the kid was the weak link. He had exaggerated the threat of a gene-tank, but not by much. Xeovar stoner probably knew that he couldn’t take them all, but if he decided to grab Kijayle as a hostage…

“How do you fight them?” Kijayle asked. “It sounds like they’re invincible. Do they have any weaknesses?”

“’Fraid not,” Korith said easily.

“Well…” Jorgen couldn’t help but grin as he avoided Korith’s eyes. “It’s true that most people can’t take the kind of damage a tank can. But ask yourself this: how many people do you know that will let you shoot them in the head with their own cannon?”

Kijayle blinked and Korith stared. Then Xeovar was laughing behind his gag, and Jorgen and Kijayle joined him. Korith gaped for a few moments more, and then he was laughing too.

“Never again,” he said. “Wait. I’ve said that before, haven’t I?”

* * *

Jorgen had never been good at brooding, but he gave it his best shot as he walked.

There were too many questions, not the least of which was what in the hell they were going to do. He needed some time to think about that one; at least they were moving toward a destination. Much as he hated the Wastelands, he knew them well; he and Korith had discovered several bolt-holes—caves and old abandoned buildings, mostly—where they had gone to rest between hunting and exploring. They were small, scattered, and, for the most part, undocumented. Any one of them should give them at least a days worth of shelter, and there was one not far from where they were now. They could work out what to do next when they got there. It was someplace to go, at least.

There were other questions, though. Questions he didn’t want to think about, even though he couldn’t afford not to. Hmm.

First off, who had framed him? He shied away from that one for the moment, and instead concentrated on why. What had made him a target? Sure he had his enemies—no Runner made nothing but friends, especially one who sided so openly with City Admin. Everybody made some noise. But he had been quiet lately—almost laying low. He had been damned careful to keep it that way. Fighting in the cellars and sewers, only taking low priority bounties, even paying his taxes on time; he had been determined to become little more than another face in the crowd, another Runner trying to live down his reputation. All down the gutters now, in the face of a hundred million credit bounty. Even his reputation wouldn’t keep the bounty hunters off of his back. He was almost surprised that Korith hadn’t turned him in. Not really—he and Korith had been through more than enough to let any number of credits threaten their trust—but still. One hundred million. Dear Crahn.

And who? Who would set him up like this? Who had the—

Didn’t matter. Figure it out later.

There were other questions. For example, just why in the hell was he in the Wastelands? That had not been his destination. He hadn’t just made a blind replication out of the Plaza; they should have emerged close to his own storage outside of Neocron. But something had happened; someone had redirected their course. Why? And why here? And who, for that matter?

A voice in mid replication, which should have been impossible. We wish to thank you. You have helped him. Helped us.

Helped who?

You are hurt…Let us fix it.

And they had. Jorgen looked down at his arm now. Where there had been a nasty puncture, there was now smooth skin. The work of a powerful monk, done when his body didn’t technically exist.

Please look after our friend. We will help you. Only if you help him.

That voice…

Of course, he had only helped one person recently, and even now he wasn’t quite sure why. He was careful not to look at Kijayle; he didn’t want the kid to notice that he was studying him. But…what the hell? He was just a kid. He didn’t know anybody, and his record was clean. Jorgen had checked it very thoroughly before letting him move in. A nice kid, likable enough in his way. A little green, but everybody started that way. Even Korith had taken to him, which was a little surprising in its own right.

Just a kid.

Dammit.

We will help you, he thought. Well, I could use a little help just about now.

Xeovar Stoner. Another problem. His story was sound enough, at a glance. Just another hunter in the Wastelands, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or was he? Jorgen knew that he and his friends hadn’t just been randomly tossed into the Wastes; their destination had been predetermined. And a Runner just happened to be there, at their precise coordinates? Jorgen didn’t think so. But…if the mysterious voice—presumably the source of their transfer—had wanted to deposit them into a trap, why hadn’t it just dumped them into a City Admin detention cell? And why would the man have surrendered immediately? No fight; just raised hands, and his weapon carefully set on the ground. He claimed that he wasn’t looking for trouble, and that the situation struck him as odd—two very unusual sentiments for a tank. A tank thinking a situation through was enough to make Jorgen suspicious from the start. Of course, he might have just decided that he didn’t like the odds, but Jorgen thought that was nothing but rot. Stoner had gotten the drop on them, pure and simple, and he had let it slide away.

Was he a contact? Perhaps the voice had wanted them to meet. If so, he was the worst contact Jorgen had ever worked with. The man seemed to know nothing. Still, it was something to keep in mind. Maybe he was holding back…or maybe he was as big a pawn to circumstances as Jorgen felt right now. He didn’t want to just let Korith have a go at him, but dammit, they needed information. He would have to figure out what to do with the man by the time they reached shelter; they couldn’t just drag him around indefinitely. Korith would have an answer, but it would be a little too final for Jorgen; he had no taste for killing in cold blood. The man hadn’t done anything to them, after all. But they couldn’t afford to take any chances. Jorgen had at least one hundred million reasons to be careful.

The Neocron Network would have answers. Maybe. If nothing else, he could get a record on the man. Of course, that was if he even dared to log in. He wasn’t a full fledged Hacker, but he knew his way around the systems, and he knew the dangers of accessing them when half of the city was on his trail. Maybe he could get Korith or Kijayle to give it a try; their accounts should be clean. Unless someone had recognized them in the mad dash through the Plaza. Or somebody remembered his ties with Korith; or somebody had noticed Kijayle as his new roommate.

Too much risk. But it might have to be done.

And still the thought came: Who? Who would do this? Who had the motive? The resources?

Jorgen sighed, but he couldn’t shake the thought away. Of course he knew who, even if he couldn’t tell Kijayle or Korith. But he had been careful, dammit! He was no threat. He was just another Runner, another face in the crowd.

Just another Runner. Except that he had confronted him once. And survived. Sort of.

But why, oh why, did Wolfe Blackclaw want him now?

* * *

They arrived several hours later. The shelter wasn’t much; from the outside it was little more than a shack, built into the side of a stone overhang. The rocks were positioned in such a fashion that the sun never struck the small building; the entrance was virtually invisible in the shadows. It wasn’t much from the outside…but inside, the room stretched far back. It had been carved into the stone, expanded until it was large enough to house several people. There were lockers inside, slightly rusted but still functional. Jorgen and Korith had both decided that it was a bunker, hastily built during one ancient war or another. As far as they knew they were the only ones aware of it, and they had spent a little time and money stocking it up. Even with shelter in sight, though, they were cautious. The group held back for an hour, crouched behind a loose tumble of boulders in the distance, until Korith finally declared the place empty. They entered the building with weapons drawn, but Korith’s assessment appeared correct; the room was empty, and the dust was laid thick.

“Finally,” said Korith, slumping against a wall and dropping his backpack on a bunk.

Kijayle eyed him doubtfully. “I thought you said that tanks could run forever.”

“Doesn’t mean we like it.”

Jorgen sighed as he sat down. He wasn’t exactly tired—he felt that the exercise of walking the Wastes had actually done him some good—but he was exhausted. Too much thinking, and not enough time to do it. He glanced at Xeovar. The tank was sitting quietly in the corner, studying the room. Jorgen shook his head. He couldn’t deal with the man now. Tomorrow. Now he needed sleep, and quiet.

Of course, it was never quiet in the Wastelands. Not for him.

Korith was digging through one of the lockers, and eventually he produced rations. He studied them for a moment, and then made a face. “Who packed this junk? I could have swore I stocked it with the good stuff.”

Jorgen shook his head. “You always eat ‘the good stuff’—and I use the phrase loosely; I can’t imagine putting that recycled crap in my mouth—first. That’s my locker, and I’ll thank you not to spoil my fine cuisine with your lousy taste.”

“This from a man who gets his cigars from Pepper Park.”

“This from a man who considers a Run through the sewers the equivalent to a trip to the grocery store.”

Korith lifted an offended eyebrow. “Hey, now; these days you can recycle anything. It says so right on the box. Why let it go to waste?”

“I can think of more reasons than I can count.”

Korith grunted, tossed Jorgen and Kijayle a ration packet apiece, and ripped another open with his teeth. “Right, then. I feel better already. So—do we have a plan, yet?”

“I—” Jorgen hesitated, glancing at Kijayle. The kid had kept pace gamely enough, but now he looked exhausted. “Not yet. Tomorrow. How are you feeling?”

Korith met his eyes. Neither of them looked at Xeovar. “Good enough to take first watch.”

“I’m taking a watch,” said Kijayle between bites.

“We’ll see,” said Jorgen. “Sleep is my plan for now. I recommend it for you as well, Xeovar Stoner. There’s no telling what tomorrow might bring.”

Xeovar nodded, seemingly ignoring Korith’s grin, and the meaningful heft of his weapons. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Kijayle shrugged, chose a bunk, and did the same. Jorgen gave Korith one last look.

Korith nodded. “Don’t worry about me. I could run for another straight day if I had to; you know that. You can sleep through, if you want.”

“Just give me a few hours,” Jorgen said. “I don’t want you getting sloppy because we didn’t let you sleep.”

“Sounds good.” Korith hesitated, then said, “Jorgen—about this Stoner guy—”

“Tomorrow. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Korith looked doubtful, but he nodded again. “All right. I’ll let you do the thinking. As usual.”

“Just like old times.” Jorgen gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and then laid back on his own bunk. Moments later he was snoring.

Korith sighed. He positioned himself so that he could see both the door and Stoner, and made sure that he had weapons pointed in both directions. “Just like old times,” he said softly. “I’ll let you do the thinking. And I’ll drag you out of the fire when you get in over your head. As usual.” He sighed again, and checked his weapons for the first of countless times in the next few hours.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Nightmares. Of course, nightmares. Darkness. Scattered thoughts; minds in motion. Something buried. Something deep. Voices. Something awful behind, but something worse ahead. Something reaching. Something pushing. Something quiet.

Something screaming.

And then it all scattered as he felt the hand on his shoulder. He didn’t scream—he was too used to the nightmares to scream on waking, as he once had—but it was a close thing. The dream shattered, and it was replaced with Kijayle’s face. Jorgen sat up, instantly registering something wrong. It was still dark; his implants told him that only a few hours had passed. Kijayle should still be asleep, but—

Jorgen took in the room. “Where is Korith?”

“Outside.” Kijayle’s voice was tense, but his face was impressively calm. “He heard something, and went out to check.”

“What? Why in the hell didn’t he wake me up?”

“I don’t know if he had time. Jorgen—there are a lot of them. We’re surrounded.”

Something leapt in Jorgen’s heart—not panic, certainly not, but something. He jumped to his feet, absently noticing Xeovar still in the corner, but awake and watching. “Crahn. Okay. They found us. We’ve got to—”

“No,” said Kijayle. “Not Runners. Mutants. A lot of mutants. They say they want to talk—” He paused, his eyes flicking nervously. “They want to talk to you. They say that they know you, Jorgen. And they say…they say that they were waiting for us.”
__________________

Deep in the bowels of sector eight, among countless banks of information and readouts, sat Chester. The world's single greatest hacker and quite probably most intelligent aswell. And yet right now he couldn't have been more confused. Chester was trying to find out about the soundless, what it was, why it existed. So far all he had been able to collect was a few scraps of data on the damage it had caused within hacknet, which Chester had been carefully repairing and reconstructing for the last few days. He had searched the entire network, terminals, logs, everything. Yet could find no trace of the soundless now. Where had it gone? He turned away from the readouts, gently rubbing his temples and trying once again to figure it all out.

"WOOF" He looked up and saw 5P07 running towards him.

"What is it boy?" Chester was weary enough already, if this was bad news he didn't want to hear it.

Text appeared above 5P07, it was a Cityadmin report on an incedent a few days ago, before the troubles with the overmind truly began: "Plaza Genrep, several days ago Jorgen Octavia, wanted criminal, entered a gene replicator. Not registered leaving at any known location, currently under investigation, power surge detected prior to genrep entry."

"Good boy! I don't know if this is the soundless but that sure is somewhere i didn't look yet, the genrep systems. Might be worth a look."

"WOOF"

Exactly what i was thinking thought Chester.

*******************************

A few hours of stomach knotting work later, Chester found something, something had indeed messed about with the genrep systems just before Jorgen Octavia, whoever he was, had entered. But Chester could still not pinpoint whether it had been the soundless or not. He had had enough of this, 3 days of searching and he still had almost nothing on the soundless. A few hastily thought up curses and a parental advisory warning from 5P07 later, he decided maybe he would call it a day.
__________________

A raspy gasp barely disturbs a crumpled pile of oily rags. It does not attract the attention of a disturbingly large rodent scurrying around atop the pile, much less the attention of a malformed lump of flesh wandering the alleyway. The beggar huddles more tightly in fear, hoping not to attract notice.

This lump of flesh clasps a ungainly shard of metal wrapped with cabling on one end and quite pointy on the other. A flake of skin flutters off the lump, taking a wispy clump of hair with it. After so much lost, the loss of some more skin and hair is not noticed.

Cloudy eyes in the lump search for something, something it aches for, perhaps it will end the pain... or prolong it. The will of survival is strong even in these abused by life. The mutant leaves the alleyway, turning towards a lone vendor's shop, a bastion of capitialism even in the much-decayed Outzone. Being a victim of crime has left the vendor with uneasy nights and a functional security system. Both notices the approach of the mutant, and both readies for potential intrusion. Energy begins to flow, puddling up into a reservoir of power, ready to unleash a messy end.

The mutant doesn't get that far. A long rattling echo through the streets, then an explosion. The mutant's clan has gotten into trouble, and the knife-wielder knows it has no choice but to join its comrades, either to suceed and survive, or to fail and die. The lump of flesh moves painful joints and limbs to action, moving through the streets like a soild ghost.

_____________________

""" The Cursed Ones"""

Korith did not lower his weapon as Jorgen exited the shelter, followed closely by Kijayle. At a glance, Jorgen couldn’t blame him.

There were a lot of them. Jorgen could see only silhouettes in the darkness, but he did not need his implants to tell that the ranks spread far beyond his night-vision. None of them carried weapons—not that the average mutant required one—but they radiated an almost tangible aura of hostility. It was not directed at Jorgen and his companions—Jorgen knew enough about mutants to sense that. It was more of an omnipresent awareness—a wary feeling of barely contained violence ready to explode outward at the slightest provocation. Jorgen supposed that those instincts were fairly common among a race that was habitually hunted down for fun and profit. It was a good survival trait, but not a particularly endearing one.

Korith, for example, did not look even slightly endeared. He somehow managed to hold his weapon steadily forward while implying that it was aimed at every mutant in his sight. He glanced at Jorgen so quickly that nobody else could have seen, but Jorgen could read the question in that glance—and the intent. Korith was not known for his diplomatic skills, or for going down without a fight. If Jorgen did not take charge, then Korith was more than willing to handle the situation the only way he knew how. The fact that it would most likely get them all killed had not seemed to cross his mind. Jorgen knew that the tank did not consider it a factor. He also knew that Korith could not fight them all.

“Lower your weapon,” he said softly.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Korith replied, not moving an inch.

Jorgen tried very hard not to sound as uncertain as he felt. “They just want to talk. They won’t hurt us.”

“How do you know?”

Jorgen was aware of Kijayle listening behind him. “I’ve…encountered these mutants before. We have no reason to fight.”

Korith shifted his weapon so that he could take Jorgen into his incredulous gaze. “When did you start talking to mutants instead of shooting them?”

The crowd of mutants shifted, and a low growl rose from oddly formed throats. Jorgen resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands—old friend or not, the urge came fairly often around Korith—and instead pointed into the darkness. “It started when I met him,” he said. “Jonathan Finn.”

“And none to damned soon,” a voice replied. A figure removed itself from the crowd. It ignored Korith’s gun with open disdain, moving with a slow limp to place itself squarely in front of Jorgen. It held a twisted metal cane—the handlebar of a wrecked hovertec, Jorgen knew—and its entire body was cloaked with dirty, matted robes. The head was deeply hooded. Even after coming to a halt there was a disquieting motion under the robes, as though it took some time for the hidden body parts to realize that movement was no longer necessary. Something about the way the figure stood gave the impression of joints where there should be none, and bones that had no business sticking out where they did. It was short for a mutant, but it was impossible to tell if the stature was natural, or if the creature was simply crouching.

When he spoke, his voice was about as melodious as two handsful of gravel rubbing against each other. “Well, well. Never told your friends about your time with the mutants, eh Octavia? Can’t say I’m surprised. It makes things difficult now, of course, but mundanes usually don’t think that far ahead. ‘Live in the bloody present, try not to think of the past, and to hell with the future,’ is your motto. Can’t say I’m sorry to see it kick you in the ass.”

“Finn,” Jorgen said easily, “I don’t think I’ve heard you say you were sorry about anything.”

“Can’t say I ever have. There’s no percentage in it.”

“You can’t say much, can you?” said Korith. “Jorgen, what is this…thing…and why isn’t he full of plasma holes yet?”

The figure shifted slightly, the hood tilting upward to study the tank. “My, my. If you think you’re good for the challenge, big man, why don’t you step up to the plate? We’ll find out just how well you can use those guns before I shove them so far up your—”

“Finn!” Jorgen interrupted. He split his glare between the small mutant and Korith. “This is getting off to a wonderful start, now, isn’t it?”

Jonathan Finn gestured. “He started it.”

Korith said, “And I’ll be more than happy to finish it.”

A wonderful bloody start. Right. “Would it be too much trouble to wait for introductions first? You’re more than welcome to kill each other after.” Jorgen’s glare turned so fierce that Korith had his guns halfway lowered before he realized it.

Finn simply dipped his hood even deeper and shrugged. “After is as good as now. Time is as nothing. Can’s say where I heard that.”

Kijayle stiffened, but Jorgen did not notice. “Great. You’re just as charming as ever, Finn.”

“Possibly more so.”

Jorgen shook his head, and suddenly decided to do introduction opposite of what he had planned. Let Finn introduce himself. “My life just keeps getting better and better. Anyway; Finn, this is Korithian Prince. Obviously a gene-tank. He’s City Admin trained, and damned good at what he does, which is mainly hurting things en-masse. The way he holds those guns implies that he knows just what to do with them—and I suggest that you take this impression and run with it as fast as you can, because it’s just the tip of the iceberg. If I had to give odds on him versus your entire squad, I would be hard pressed to go anywhere over ‘even’, and I still wouldn’t be betting money I didn’t have. And remember—I’ve seen your…men…in action. I know what they can do.

“Of course, I know what you can do as well, Finn, so I will point out that Korith is also my friend. We’ve known each other for quite a while, and I will be very irritated if he is suddenly turned inside out, or starts seeing things from other dimensions.”

Finn’s gesture was dismissive. “You take all of the fun out of eternal suffering and torment.”

Jorgen plowed on as though he hadn’t heard. “This is Kijayle. He looks a little green, but the blood on his armor isn’t his own. Or even human, come to that. I’ve taught him several lovely ways to swing those claws of his, and he’s just itching to try out some of the more fatal. He’s a friend too, and he is most definitely under my protection.”

Even though his eyes were hidden beneath his hood, the intensity of Finn’s studied gaze was unsettling. He said nothing, though, simply motioning for Jorgen to go on.

Jorgen jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “We’ve got a prisoner. Calls himself Xeovar Stoner. I haven’t had a chance to confirm it. Possibly hostile; definitely suspicious.” He glanced back to make sure that Stoner was listening. “He might be useful, but feel free to get creative if he moves out of line. I don’t know how much you know about my life right now, but I don’t need any complications. He poses more than I can count.”

“Ah,” Finn said. “Fresh meat.” He studied the humans for a moment longer, and then gave his best approximation of a shrug. “I’ve heard better implied threats, but you’ve made your point. We’re not here to fight. But I suppose I should put your friends at ease. I am here as a representative of the Cursed Ones. The belated children of the Redd Harvest. Don’t ask—I know that you don’t understand, and I’m not about to explain. Suffice it to say that there are circles even among mutants, and we are—well. If mutants could be considered one big, rather disturbing family, we would be the distant uncle you kept locked in the attic so that he didn’t frighten the neighbors, or get you arrested. Unexplained screams from above would be left uninvestigated if the rest of the family knows what’s good for it.”

“This is supposed to put us at ease?” Korith muttered.

The small mutant might have grinned. “As for myself: Jonathan Finn is my name, much to my dismay. Yes, one of those Finns. Born into a family of influential Twilight Guardians, and powerful monks to boot. Finns have always been in the thick of things, mostly because nobody else has the good sense to tell us to mind our own damned business. We can trace our lineage back to the original monks—scientist survivors trapped in a cave. At least we claim that we can, and I don’t recommend arguing about it. Unfortunately, interbreeding and a good dose of hereditary instability—not to mention insanity— isn’t as appealing of a combination as you might think. Finn gene patterns have always been unstable, and—fortunately or not, I’m still uncertain—they finally turned when I came around. Oh, mutation is such a big mystery—but not in my case. There’s been too much stress on the family line—too much reaching for power instead of stability, and a hell of a lot of unsanctioned experimentation to go with it. Even the most normal Finn can barely be considered human, and I’m far from normal. Thank God, or whatever passes for it around here.”

Korith shook his head. “Jorgen, is this guy for real?”

Finn extended an arm, studying it briefly. “Good question. Right now I would say only about thirty percent real. Don’t ask about the other seventy.”

“Oh, he’s real all right,” Jorgen said. “And he really is a Finn. I did a gene-test on him.” He frowned. “Of course, the data dispersed after the test, and the equipment absolutely refused to come on line for days. I had never seen a computer have a crisis of faith before.”

“Lo, but I am powerful,” Finn intoned. “I have the Sight, and I move through ether-space like a mournful spirit. My mind pierces illusions to see the truth beneath, and if you give me a few hours I’ll tell you how boring it all is. I feel the earth turn in her sleep, and hear her groaning in the depths of a nightmare. But I’m not the only one. Give me a minute and I’ll work the words ‘warp and woof’ in there. I don’t know how, but I’m sure it will sound appropriately mysterious.”

“Finn,” Jorgen said evenly, “another mystery is the absolute last thing that I need. In fact, the next mystery I see is going to be solved, violently and in as many pieces as I can manage, with my bare hands.”

“Fair enough,” Finn conceded with what he obviously considered grace.

“So. Introductions are made. Korith is going to lower his weapon any minute now, I promise. When he does, we are going to have a talk. More to the point, I am going to ask you questions, and you are going to answer them. No mysteries. There will be no, ‘The Waste whispers to me,’ in any of your responses. I know how much you enjoy torturing people with what you probably think are very clever riddles and philosophies—”

“Those who feel tortured by thought are in most need of the perspective,” Finn interrupted smoothly.

“—but I don’t care. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’ve had an extremely bad day. Someone is gunning for me, and they’ve apparently got a hell of a lot more firepower than I do. My friends are in danger because of it, and my only lead appears to be some poor bastard who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t have time for games. Do you understand?”

Very mildly, Finn said, “You know that they’re not just games, Jorgen.”

“Do you understand?”

Finn shrugged. “As you wish. I certainly owe you that much. But we must be moving soon.”

“Right.” Jorgen glared around him, but even the mutants had fallen away from the outburst of pent up frustration. Normally Jorgen held his emotions in much tighter check, but at the moment he just didn’t give a damn. He was tired—not just physically tired, although that sure as hell didn’t help—but tired of the situation. Tired of being hunted, tired of not knowing what was going on, and tired of feeling out of control.

Later, when he thought about it, he would realize that these were not new feelings. But now all he knew was that control was taking action, and for action he needed answers.

“Right,” he said again. “Okay—first things first. We had no plans to be here. We didn’t know we were coming, and given the choice I would never have set foot in the Wastes again. I haven’t even thought of this bunker in years. So how—and remember, Finn, no ‘warp and woof’ in the explanation—how did you know we were going to be here? Why were you waiting for us?”

“Simple,” Finn said. “Agent Heavyporker gave me your coordinates. Now, put that shocked look away. You’ll be needing it later, I expect. Yes, yes, we can talk—as we move.”
__________________

""" Tension in Motion"""

It was dark, but the mutants seemed to have little difficulty moving quickly. Only Jorgen’s implants allowed him to keep up, and that was with an effort. He could hear Kijayle behind him, breathing heavily and trying like hell not to show it. Still, Jorgen was impressed—the kid had only gotten a few hours of sleep, and had been totally burned out before that. On the other hand, Korith—with no sleep whatsoever—was a silent shadow pacing easily to the side, and Xeovar Stoner, bound though he was, had little more difficulty. Damn tanks. They didn’t know when to lay down and quit, or to at least look bloody exhausted for the sake of the mere humans around them. Jorgen would have thrown a rock at Korith just to irritate the man, but he was saving his energy for talking with Finn.

The small mutant was being carried on the back of a larger one, his twisted metal cane held loosely in one hand. He was constantly turning his head in every direction, Seeing things that Jorgen didn’t want to imagine. Every so often he would gesture with his cane, and the mutants would swing off into another direction. Even in the darkness Jorgen could tell that they were running the occasional circle—backtracking and stamping down their own footprints. Small groups of mutants moved off on their own, appearing back with the group at irregular intervals. Jorgen supposed that, since you couldn’t cover the tracks of so many moving bodies, you might as well make it as confusing as possible. He appreciated the extra cover to his own tracks even as he wondered whom—or what—it was that Finn was trying to dodge. Then again, it could just be normal mutant paranoia. You learn to be careful in the Wastes.

Finn saved him the trouble of asking his first question. “No, Jorgen, I do not know how Agent Heavyporker discerned your location. I didn’t ask, because quite frankly I don’t care. By way of some very impressive technological means, no doubt. Fancy machines and whatnot. I hear that they’re making tremendous advances in the cities, and all that. Or rather, I would hear such things if I actually listened, which I don’t. Can’t say it interests me.”

Jorgen fought down his frustration. “Fine. Then why did he come to you? How did he find you in the first place, for that matter? I thought that you were protected.”

“Perhaps the Wastes whispered to him.”

“Jonathan…”

Finn sighed. “Jorgen, when will you learn? When a mutant says, ‘The Wastes whisper,’ it’s damned near always synonymous with, ‘I don’t know.’ We’re a fairly superstitious bunch.”

“’Damned near’ isn’t quite the same as ‘absolutely’. Especially not with you.”

“True, but not in this case. The general consensus was that we should pick his mind apart to find out how he discovered us. Dissection was the method of choice. He was awfully damned confident, and that puts the boys off, you know. Cursed Ones don’t have much use for arrogant mundanes.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Jorgen could sense Finn’s grin. “Yes, you discovered that in many interesting ways, didn’t you? Anyway, rusty scalpels were being procured—some set specially out in the acid rain for just such an occasion—when he said something that changed our minds in a hurry. Most of them, anyway.”

After a few moments of silence, Jorgen realized that Finn was waiting for him to respond. More of his games. I am not in most need of perspective, dammit! Still, he had to ask, “And what did he say?”

Finn shifted, and suddenly his voice was not his own. In strong, even tones, he said, “This is not a threat, so don’t get any funny ideas. Yeah, I’m talking to you—the one holding three scalpels, and with that eager look in your…er…eye. Somebody’s eye, anyway. Oh, hell. To the point then: if you do not intervene, Jorgen Octavia will be dead before the night is out. No, not—get back! Not because of me! I’m trying to help him, for Crahn’s sake! And you, too. I’m not getting paid enough for this. Listen! Octavia is in trouble, and I know where he is. You can help him, but only if we’re working together here. Because I’m not the only one who knows where he is, that’s why, and if he doesn’t get some protection now, then some bounty hunter is going to drop the hammer so hard that the whole Waste is going to shake. So are you going to listen, or not?”

Jorgen would have stared, but he was too busy concentrating on his footing. Still, he managed a disbelieving grunt.

In his normal—relatively speaking—voice, Finn continued, “Of course, some wanted to go ahead with the interrogation anyway, but your name still holds enough influence that we—or rather, I—opted for talking instead of cutting. He gave me your coordinates, and said that there wasn’t enough time for explanations. Yet. I chose to believe him—indeed, the Voice of the Wastes cautioned against rash, painful, and possibly permanent action—and decided to attend to the matter personally.”

“And here you are,” Jorgen said.

“Temporally speaking, yes. Of course, I am also back in the Valley. Don’t ask—the explanation would only make your head hurt.”

“Only? Whatever. Then answer this, Finn: why are you helping me? We didn’t part on the best terms, and…” Jorgen hesitated. How to put it best, without digging up old, angry skeletons? The kind carrying plasma weapons, and a nasty grudge. Well…“You don’t owe me any favors.”

“To say the least. And now you owe me—us—another one. Let us just say…”

Jonathan Finn turned his head, and suddenly Jorgen could see a beacon in the distance. Wordlessly, the mutants turned in time, picking up speed as they sighted along the light. Korith’s whispered curses drifted to Jorgen’s ears—the tank had little use for the unknown—and he could hear Kijayle’s rasping breath hitch in wonder. The beacon of light expanded in the darkness—

—and suddenly the path was there. Thick foliage appeared on either side of the group—withered and brown for the most part, but with small shoots of fresh green hidden deep within the shadows—and the air became dense with moisture. Even though the plants were wilted, they filled the air with a sense of life. Another sense surrounded Jorgen as well, but it was not so easily defined—words such as ‘health’ and ‘light’ and ‘good’ presented themselves, but none of them were quite right. Now that it occurred to him, ‘right’ sounded almost appropriate. Almost. The plants—both those fading away, and those new with secret life—represented…something, and it was more than just a sprig of green in the otherwise barren Wastes. He felt like he was being watched—not an uncomfortable feeling so much as an unnerving one—and if he didn’t know better (which, being honest with himself, he acknowledged that he didn’t) he would have thought that it was the plants themselves. He would have swerved away if he hadn’t been surrounded on all sides. He made due with running in the exact middle of the path, and dodging any growth that looked like it was thinking any more than a plant should. Korith had stopped bothering with whispering, and now his swears were loud enough to drive the mutants away from him. Jorgen couldn’t blame him.

And still, a part of him thought: I didn’t know…that so much had died. It was so green before. Withering even then, but still. If I had known, I would have…would have…

Done nothing. He was only here now because he had no choice.

A moment ago the plains had appeared flat and dry, stretching endlessly in every direction until crashing into the horizon. Now, without warning, thick stone rose up around them. It was as flat and un-climbable as it would be if hewn by human hands, and it filled Jorgen with a narrow sense of oppression. The stones did not reach very high—Jorgen could see the light of the coming false-dawn silhouetting the low hills ahead—but there was still a sense of great weight bearing down on him. It was as if the ghost of an ancient mountain—one worn down by ages of natural ice and human war—still haunted the hills, a spectral monument of stone that had lost none of its spiritual enormity…

Then they entered the Valley, and everybody stopped. Korith’s swearing drifted off, the tank shocked to silence. Kijayle just blinked, but Jorgen couldn’t read his eyes. Xeovar Stoner’s expression was equally inscrutable; the tank studied the Valley only briefly before seeming to shrug it off.

“…Let us just say,” continued Finn, “that I decided to help you because…the Wastes whispered to me. And this time, Jorgen, you have to take it as you will.”

* * *

The Valley was a ruin and a marvel, a city that was crumbling and being rebuilt at the same time. Traces of an old civilization were faintly present, both to the eye and the mind, and they were equally disturbing in turn. The ancient buildings seemed natural at a glance, but even then there was something off about them—angles and planes, no matter how reasonable they appeared, simply felt wrong. Each building seemed precariously balanced against one another—even the ones that did not touch—and it seemed like a butterfly’s sneeze would send the structures toppling like unsteady dominos. Windows and doors revealed more depth then an entire building presented from the outside, as if entering one may not lead exactly to what was expected. The overall impression was that, if one was to lay a round object on an incline in the Valley, one should not be overly surprised to see this object roll uphill. And then probably disappear.

It was a ruin out of time and place, and every sense said that it did not belong here. And slowly, it was disappearing into the shadows—it was as though the city itself knew that it had outstayed it’s welcome, and was bowing out with all the awkward grace of the guest who had never been invited in the first place. Buildings that had been there the previous day were gone the next—or still there, but not as there. They became less significant; less intrusive on the viewers mind, until memory of the structures faded completely. It was almost as though such memories were all that held the Valley together in the first place. There were gateways that led to other places, and possibly other times, and the feeling of a great clock winding down. If history couldn’t show where the Valley had come from, then it was certainly taking careful note of where it was going, if only to make sure that it never ended up there itself.

But then, this was all at a glance. A closer study was not, for the most part, recommended. Most minds took a look at the Valley, noticed the main fact—that it was on its way out—and washed their mental hands of the whole affair. Nice of it to stop by; good riddance to sanity-threatening rubbish. It simply did not belong here.

Of course, that wasn’t stopping the mutants from rebuilding it.

* * *

There was light in one of the smaller houses, and motion. The light was a courtesy, of sorts—the mutants, for the most part, preferred the dark, and had little trouble manipulating it, but Agent Heavyporker had insisted on the convenience. His own implants gave him fairly good low-light vision, but there were other, less known uses for the small solar generator. Not least of which was that light, at a certain wave, was a laser—and lasers, at a much more precise wave (and Heavyporker was very experience with such a precision), could transfer startling amounts of information. With the current advent of the Neocron mainframe such a use was almost laughable—some of Heavyporker’s colleagues had, in fact, scoffed at the small device he had attached to the solar generator—but N.E.X.T. locked the market on all forms of transportation. Agent Heavyporker saw no reason as to why the transportation of information should be any different.

And now, of course, information transfer was in short supply. Communication channels had been offline for two days now, and for all of the techno-babble spouted out by the transmission experts, nobody appeared any closer to fixing the problem. As far as Heavyporker could tell, they had not even defined it yet. He shuddered at the current situation in Neocron proper; ‘chaos’ didn’t describe it by half. In a city as dangerous as Neocron—and in a Wasteland that made the city look like a playground—communication and information equaled survival, and there wasn’t enough of either to go around.

It was only a happy coincidence that the laser beacon worked in the Valley as well. Heavyporker had not been so sure about that—normal comm. channels broke down with several miles of the place. Very convenient, indeed.

Motion came in the form of his pacing. It had been—how long, now, since Jonathan Finn had taken his mutants into the Wastes? Timekeeping wasn’t very reliable in the Valley, which was one of the reasons that tech broke down so quickly within its radius. Even his personal sense of time felt plastic here; continuity was stretched thin in some places, bunched together in others. Perhaps patience was a virtue, but it was an inconvenient one at times. So Heavyporker paced, and every so often a sparkling light trailed behind him. He tried to ignore that—his psi was reacting oddly to this place, and that was all there was to it. Or so he told himself.

Then there was a commotion outside, and Heavyporker fell still. His first inclination was to probe with his psi, but he crushed that rather quickly—he had opened his mind to this place once already, and he had no intention of casually doing so again—and instead moved to a window. A large group was approaching. He could make out the hunched form of Jonathan Finn in the forefront, walking with a conflicting mix of awkward grace. The mutant’s cane—which, to Heavyporker’s mind, was not a cane at all, and sure as hell didn’t come from any hovertec assembled by N.E.X.T.—glinted dully in the rising sun. A walking paradox, was Finn. And behind him, moving with a stride that spoke volumes about irritation and impatience…

Ah. Agent Heavyporker smiled. He quickly adjusted his solar generator, and an invisible beam shot into the darkness. Mission accomplished.

Time for phase two.
__________________

""" Virtual Paradise"""

Two days later, the building was still burning.

Made to last, thought Reaver Gray. They can fix it up in no time.

He nudged a crumbled block of fallen mortar with his foot. It disintegrated.

Solid architecture…

After a while he realized that Hardcode was talking to him.

“—the hell out of here! There’s nothing we can do, and any one of these scavengers would cut our throats for our boots. Let’s go!”

In Gray’s left hand was a long, thin bundle. He had found it before they left the Detention facility, wrapped in old steel-mesh storage cloth. A card had been attached, and it had said: Gray, you might find this useful.—Tanric. Gray had studied the puzzling contents, but as of yet did not know what to make of the thing. Now he used it to poke at another fallen slab of stone. It went the way of the first.

Hardcode pulled further back into the shadows. “Gray, she’s not here, and we need to get the hell out. Now!”

Gray ignored him. He scanned the street with dull eyes. Burning building. Dead man wearing a pilot suit, with a twin ‘T’ emblazoned on it. Even the most brainburned scavenger knew well enough to leave that body alone. A hole in the building at—yes, that would be about the right floor. Plasma scorch along the buildings going down the street—someone was chasing someone else with a hell of a lot of firepower. A thought was running circles in his head, but he didn’t want to let it out. It didn’t leave him much choice, though.

He opened his mouth, not quite sure of what he was going to say. What came was, “Oh dear Crahn in heaven above—Kat is going to KILL me!”

* * *

“So,” Katherine Mayer said neutrally. “This is the place?”

Jest could sense the emotion edging into her voice, but she did a truly excellent job of maintaining an even tone. Jest was impressed; most City Admin officials would have skipped past yelling and gone directly to opening fire by now. It would have been a death warrant waiting to be signed, but so many law enforcers expected their opponents to simply drop their weapons at the first sternly phrased command. Katherine was a step outside of the norm, however. It was only a short step, true, but at least it was vaguely in the right direction. The fact that her weapons were holstered, and that she hadn’t gotten them all killed—yet—was testament to this. Very telling, for a City Admin official.

Even if she did draw her rifle, though, Jest would have been hard pressed to determine the survivors of such a firefight. Considering what she had been through, the fact that Katherine was still alive at all should serve as warning to anyone dumb enough to irritate her. The scene in front of her might as well have been of a den of gigantic, mutated vipers, but she studied it like a deranged snake-tamer just wondering where to start. She might as well have been rubbing her hands together in anticipation. The vipers wouldn’t know what they were getting into. Katherine did not appear to be an intimidating woman. She wore her traditional trench-coat over a full suit of body armor, and an impressively modified rifle over that. The coat was worn and comfortable, and had several recent plasma holes in it that Katherine had not bothered to patch. The dual ‘T’ emblazoned on the armor had been rather viscously scraped off; she had acquired it from a hijacked Tangent Technology hover-craft, and her enthusiasm for obliterating the corporate logo barely reflected her current opinion of the company.

The gun also came from the craft, and it had strong things to say about Katherine’s otherwise fairly mild demeanor. This was not a rifle that you took on patrol. You did not shout out a warning as you lay your hand on this rifle, reluctant to draw it except under the most dire of circumstances. This was not a gun that toyed around with questions like, ‘Do you feel lucky?’ This was a gun that was blunt and honest with its targets. It said, ‘This is, in fact, the most unlucky day of your life. But that’s okay, because you won’t be around to regret it.’ Every line of design spoke of danger, and if you were looking down the barrel, then the barrel was probably the last thing you would ever see. It was a top of the line Tangent special, and Tangent knew nothing better then it knew weapons.

It twitched on Katherine’s back every so often, and sparks would erupt from the end. Jest had seen guns over-tuned before, but this one looked like it had a blast radius that could take out a building. He didn’t think that he would want to be on either side of the thing when the trigger was pulled, but Katherine seemed comfortable enough with it. Of course, he wanted to be close when the thing was fired—that would be a show worth the price of admission—just not too close.

“Yes,” he replied. He couldn’t help but smile. “Isn’t it great?”

“Jest, I think that I’m breaking the law just by looking at this dump. I would arrest the building itself if I could find big enough handcuffs. I would settle for firebombing the place, but then I would have to turn myself in for the pollution violations. I definitely have to bring you in for knowing the way here in the first place. And you’re telling me that Jujuwalker Clancy—” just saying the name seemed to cause her pain, “—is inside?”

“Not inside,” said the mutant Helen Angilley. “Beneath.”

As mutants went, Helen’s physical differences were few. From a distance she could easily pass as a full human; it was only when she drew close that the unsettling changes could be seen. Despite her youth, her hair was a brilliant shock of white. There was nothing natural about it; it was as thought all of the color had slowly bled from it in a very unpleasant fashion. Her facial expression radiated an eerie kind of peace, but it had been harshly used; time spent in the radioactive wastelands had left its mark. Most disturbing of all, however, were her eyes. The left was absolutely gray, as lifeless as her hair; the right blazed a bloody crimson. Jest had seen the eyes functioning separately from each other, both moving in different directions whenever something caught their respective interests. That was creepy enough—but it was the fact that she could apparently see through things that really got on his nerves. She claimed that the Wastelands spoke to her, and so far nobody had built up the nerve to argue.

Now both of her eyes were focused ahead. Jest had to admit that the building wasn’t that impressive, but that’s what happened when you made your home in the Outzones. Graffiti covered the walls, mostly concerning some very unflattering regards to members of City Administration. There was something to be read about every faction, however—anarchists were not too choosy about their grudges, or the words they used to describe certain procreative activities. It seemed that almost every Faction Lead had a drom fetish of some sort. The windows were all shattered and boarded over, and broken glass littered the ground. Several sections of the wall had caved in on themselves, and it looked like a good kick would finish the job. Bullet holes and plasma scorch peppered the walls as well, adding their own unique flavor. It was not a flavor offered at the finer Neocron cafes.

The stench, Jest decided, was better left undescribed.

Helen made a dismissive gestured to the decrepit building and said, “This shell merely conceals the truth. There is more in the Outlands then can be seen by mundane eyes.”

Katherine said: “I’m seeing plenty as it is, thank you very much.”

Helen didn’t seem to hear. “There is power here. Great energy—physical and emotional. Something is hidden. But not very well.”

“Well enough, if they’ve gone unnoticed for this long.” Katherine scowled so hard at the building that Jest was surprised a few of the walls didn’t crumble in shame.

He said, “You’re right about energy. Anarchists aren’t known for their quiet, contemplative attitudes, and Clancy’s club tends to draw the firestarters. As many people as there are down there, I’m surprised the ground isn’t shaking. I guess Jujuwalker invested in some tecto-stabilizers.”

Katherine immediately turned her glare downward, daring the ground to try anything funny. “Right. I see. Perhaps, Jest, you should tell me a little bit about this place.”

“With pleasure. First of all, if you were a Hacker then this explanation would be totally unnecessary. Clancy’s systems are legends, and the legend grows more quickly then the human mind can register. There are only a few ways to get into Clancy’s club, and Hacking the systems is one of them. They were supposedly designed by Jujuwalker and Rob Dowell himself, which is impressive enough—but that’s not what makes wannabe Hackers damn near pass out at the thought of them. Here’s the deal: any Hacker that can Run this Network has unlimited access to Virtual Paradise—which is the promised land to any Hacker worth his reputation, second only to Hacknet—but before that Hacker can enter, he has to plug all of the network holes he took advantage of. Get it? Every time a Hacker makes this Run, the systems get upgraded by one of the best minds on this side of the planet. And in case you’re wondering—no, Hackers do not go easy on one another. What’s the fun in that? No two Hackers can Run this system in the same way, because it’s changing every second. And your affiliation doesn’t matter—sure, it’s mostly Anarchists and Angels that make the Run, but even City Admin will throw an up and coming Runner into the fray from time to time. God help the poor bastard. Only the followers of Crahn leave this place alone. Or perhaps I should say, ‘Only the followers of Crahn leave this place the bloody hell alone, if they damned well know what’s good for them.’ Followers of Crahn tend to swear a lot when they think about this club.”

Katherine frowned. “I am not exactly unfamiliar with a hacking took,” she said slowly.

Jest grinned. “Are you any less unfamiliar than Gray? He used to Run this place three times a night—or rather I should say that this place used to Run him. It was before he had a chance in hell, but Paradise is good practice for a Hacker on the rise. This place brainburned him so bad that his head would steam. He never made it—to my knowledge—but that was a while ago. I can’t imagine him giving up on the place.”

“So it’s an Anarchist Hacker’s haven. Maybe I was a bit hasty before—this place needs something much worse then a simple firebombing.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Jest said happily, perfectly aware that ‘better’ for him meant ‘how can it get any bloody worse?’ for Katherine. “That’s just the tech side. This is an Anarchist club in every sense of the word. Every mutant, drifter, outlaw and outcast knows about this place, and is welcomed with opened arms. Virtual Paradise caters to vices that don’t even have names, and the only rule is that there are no rules. You can find bloody sinners and holy saints sitting at the same bar, and be damned if they aren’t talking like old friends. Gambling, drinking and drugs might as well be distilled and filtered into the air vents, and nobody bothers to check your weapons at the door, because—well, quite frankly because you might need them to blow some sodding bastard’s head off. Fighting isn’t just common, it’s a survival trait. There are killers and healers alike, and sometimes they are the same person. Several years ago Clancy Hacked into the Neofrag systems, and now there’s an open access arena in the center of the club. Of course, he’s turned off the safety protocols—what fun would it be if the blood wasn’t real? Clancy imports creatures from the Wastes to fight—and he pays them damned well, mind you. In here, mutants are people too. Mostly.”

“Jest—” Katherine shook her head as though trying to clear it. “You realize who you are talking too, right? I’m not just a City Admin official—I’m a cop. You and I have a truce—for now, and only because this is what circumstances dictate—but there is no way I can overlook this place. This doesn’t need a copbot raid—it needs and air strike! I absolutely cannot conceive of why we haven’t taken this place out before now. It’s a nightmare!”

“Oh, that’s simple enough,” Jest said easily. “City Admin can’t take it out because they can’t find it. One of the first things Jujuwalker Clancy did as a master Hacker was to access and acquire a small dataframe of the N.E.X.T. network, and he appropriated a bit of experimental technology while he was at it. Paradise is never where you think to look, you know, and Virtual Paradise is the only club with access to a full-structure Gene-rep.”

“Full-structure…”

“That’s right. It’s built into the very walls. The Paradise is mobile.”

“That’s impossible,” Katherine said flatly.

“Improbable. And probably expensive as hell, but I imagine that the Paradise takes in a fair amount of credits. Never underestimate an Anarchist Hacker with time on his hands. Their minds don’t work like ours.”

“And we’re going in there.”

“Yes, which means that it’s time for a few ground rules. For you, it’s simple: don’t start any trouble. City Admin are not welcome in this club—but they are allowed. With any luck we’ll be in and out before anyone even recognizes you, but if someone does then they won’t necessarily jump at you with bloody vengeance in their eyes. Not unless you give them a reason to. Of course, that reason may well be because of the way you’re standing, or the voices in their head, but it still doesn’t pay to antagonize. Fighting is like breathing in the Paradise, but if a known City Admin official pulls a weapon then said official had better have one hell of a plan. Just stick with me, and I’ll make sure that nothing happens. People recognize me here.”

“That’s supposed to comfort me?”

“There’s only one other tricky part to this. Where City Admin is at least tolerated, Followers of Crahn are…well…not. They aren’t just shot on sight—they’re shot, cut, burned, blasted, punched, Hacked, and blown up, in generally that order. Anarchists and Followers…well, they don’t get along. You’ve heard the rumors of Follower experimentation on mutants and Anarchists? Well, it’s a touchy subject down here, to say the least. Monks are okay, but true Followers simply have no place. And that means I’m worried about you, Kyles. I know that you’re a Merc now, but Crahn associations tend to linger down there…”
__________________

Kyles Sendrick, the Faylen, was a man of medium build and mild appearance. He wore loose fitting, lightly colored robes, and no noticeable weapons. He hardly needed them. His was one of the most powerful monk minds born to his generation, and he had long ago given up being modest about it. He wore his psi like a protective cloak, and even the strength of his most casual defenses rippled the air around him. His eyes were gentle, and occasionally distant, but they were fueled by intelligence so smooth and sharp that it was several minutes before his intellectual opponents knew they were cut. The air didn’t exactly crackle with his power, but when he stood still for a few moments before moving, he left an almost perceptible hole in reality. Even Jest, not particularly trained for psychic detection, could feel his after-presence as a lingering ghost of psi. He wasn’t certain what to make of the man, but he knew that Kyles had been raised as a Follower, and old beliefs died hard.

The monk had a distant, calculating look on his face, and he did not seem to be paying attention. “I’ll be fine,” he said mildly. “The whole Abbey of Crahn could fall into a volcano for all I care, and most people know it. I can handle those who don’t.” He studied the ground for a moment, his eyes still thoughtful, and then shrugged.

Katherine glanced at Jest, who raised his eyes. He said, “Good enough. Er—is something on your mind, Kyles? You seem a little distracted, and that’s the kind of thing that can get a man—not to mention his very innocent companions—killed in a place like Paradise.”

Kyles glanced around and shrugged again. “Oh, no. I’m just wondering how long it will be before somebody notices that Dame Crimson is gone.”

* * *

With her teeth filed to brutal points, and—rumor had it—capped with poisonous tips, Dame Crimson had the kind of smile that opened doors. Where her smile failed, she also had a fairly sturdy kick. Neither was necessary to enter Jujuwalker Clancy’s Virtual Paradise, though; nobody barred her way, so much the better for them. Crimson was an Anarchist in bad standing—and according to anarchy principals, bad was about as good as it got. Still, the smile didn’t hurt—not her, anyway—and she couldn’t help but bare her teeth as she walked through the underground doors. The wave of noise and energy coming through the entry was almost enough to knock her back a step, and the view was just as extreme. Virtual Paradise was chaos in a tightly sealed bottle, and Crimson couldn’t help but want to shake it up just to see what would happen. Runners and mutants of all varieties filled the place to bursting, and the gunshots and screams couldn’t be heard over the blaring music. Psi flashed in the air like fireworks, and the silhouette of a thrown body could occasionally be seen framed against the sparks. Weapons were worn openly by customers and servants alike, and God help anyone who got between a waitress and her tip. Only heavy explosives were discouraged in the Paradise, but you only really got in trouble if you caused structural damage. Everything else was fair game, which was just how Dame Crimson liked it.

It felt like coming home. This said quite a bit about Crimson’s home life.

She had only stuck around above ground for about half of Jest’s description before making tracks downward. Let the rest of the deadweight catch up with her, or talk their lives away up in the rubble. Crimson needed a drink and a fight, in whatever order they were presented. Theoretically she was working directly with they psi-monk Kyles, and they were supposed to stick together. Theory could bugger off, though, as could the monk. He could take care of himself for a while—and if he did somehow managed to get himself killed, well, he wasn’t much of a partner after all. They were both nominally taking orders from Wolfe Blackclaw, but Crimson got the impression that Blackclaw wouldn’t exactly be losing sleep over Kyles’s regrettable demise. Or vise-versa, for that matter. That smelled like politics and intrigue to Crimson, and she had little use for either. And the best way to wash off that kind of stench was to take a quick dip into the pool that was Virtual Paradise.

And after what she had just seen in the Cathedral of Memory, she thought that she deserved a drink.

She threw herself into the crowd with reckless, not to mention violent, abandon. It wasn’t enough to simply acknowledge the chaos of the Paradise—it had to be embraced. Whether they were mutant or human, most of the patrons that saw Crimson coming got the hell out of the way. She cheerfully lashed out at those who didn’t, punching, kicking, and breaking bones with her bare hands in time with the techno beat throbbing in the air. She didn’t bother drawing her blades. Fighting to the death was not discouraged here, but going on a bloody, murderous rampage was another story, and Crimson knew that once she started it would be difficult to stop. If you were going to bite the hand that fed you, then you had damned well better not leave any permanent scars.

Still, one had to make an impression in a club like Virtual Paradise. Crimson bludgeoned her way to the bar, studying it as she approached. It was packed with mutants and Runners alike, and there was an odd sort of hierarchy to it. Bar stools were almost a form of currency in the Paradise, where the crowd was so large that any seating was at a premium. They were like any luxury—you had to earn them, and in this case earning them meant ousting the previous occupants. Having gained a stool, some patrons had been known to sit there for days, obviously not planning on leaving until an hour after they were damned good and ready and daring anybody to make something of it. The longer you sat, the more respected you became in the eyes (or whatever passed for eyes, anyway) of your peers. Of course, drinks were served to the outer tables by rather hard-eyed waitresses wearing too tight clothes, but if you wanted real service—well. It was the bar or nothing.

Crimson wanted real service.

A fight was concluding even as she approached. A mutant with dark, scaly skin was crushing a gene-tank to the ground. The tank was huge—almost as wide as he was tall, and his muscles had popped several of the joints in his body armor through sheer flexing—but the mutant was a mountain. It had the tank pinned down, and was systematically choking the man unconscious with one massive hand. The tank tried to roll with the mutant’s weight, but with every surge the mutant used the counter-leverage to slam an elbow into the tank’s forehead. The crowd was cheering and cursing in turns, depending on who had placed money on what. There were even monitors suspended over the bars, and the digital avatars of successful Hackers cheered from each one. Every so often fireworks seemed to burst on the screens, and one avatar would be replaced with another. Hackers had their own way of pulling rank.

Finally the tank fell still. After a few more elbows just to be sure, the mutant rose, grinning to the crowd. A stray plasma shot ricocheted off of its shoulder, but it took this in stride. It was just about to turn to claim its prize—the center stool of the bar—when Crimson tapped it on the shoulder. As it turned she leapt straight up, grabbed a shoulder in each hand, and slammed her forehead into its face. There was a sickening crack that could be heard even over the music and the crowd. Crimson arched her back as she dropped down, falling backwards and pulling the dazed mutant on top of her. The instant her shoulders hit the floor she curled her legs, and as the monster fell toward her she shot them up and into its stomach. They connected like sledgehammers, and the mutant’s breath expelled in her face. Crimson continued rolling back, using her legs to build the mutant’s momentum. Then she kicked, and suddenly the mutant was airborne. It cleared the immediate crowd by at least five spectators, crashing further out into some very surprised and angry (if no longer conscious) patrons. Crimson followed through with a full roll, rising to her feet with one smooth motion, and—just for effect—punching one of the spectators out when he didn’t cheer for her quickly enough. Much better.

She took the empty stool, and the atmosphere around her fell back to normal. There was the occasional jostling from behind, but even Dame Crimson had to make allowances in the Paradise. She studied the menu briefly, and then turned to stare directly at her neighbor, a medium sized man who had barely bothered to note her arrival.

She said: “Hey. I bet you really want to buy me a drink.”

The man turned to her looking mildly irritated. She smiled, and irritation turned to choking. She slapped him on the back—with perhaps a little extra force—and he managed, “Yes! Absolutely! A drink on me!”

“Good boy. I’ll take whatever’s strongest on the menu. Make it a double.”

Relaxed and with a free drink in hand (Crimson made a habit of not to buying her own drinks on the premise that: A. Somebody else would buy one for her, or B. They would be willing to fight over it. It was a win-win situation as far as she was concerned), it was time to take stock. Crimson idly thought over her objectives. First and foremost was to find Kijayle Rhonac and, by extension, his new friend Jorgen Octavia. That order came from Wolfe Blackclaw himself, and since Blackclaw was paying the bills then Crimson was happy to oblige. It didn’t hurt that Crimson’s eagerness to fight Octavia practically had her jumping out of her skin. Now that was a fighter with some teeth in him—or so she had heard. Nobody talked much about Octavia any more, but Crimson could remember the stories—the legends, almost. She was sure that Octavia had a little more fight left in him. The fact that he was City Admin only made her Anarchist blood boil that much more. She could hardly wait.

According to Blackcla, Reaver Gray could deal with Rhonac. That was fine with Crimson—let the Hackers deal with their own. Not that Rhonac was a Hacker—not exactly. In fact, Crimson was fairly hazy on exactly what Kijayle Rhonac was, much less what threat he posed to a man as powerful as Wolfe Blackclaw. It was politics, she had been told, which was just another way of saying, ‘who cares?’ She knew that he was no ordinary kid, and that, for whatever reason, he had to be eliminated. That was enough for her. It still rankled slightly that Wolfe hadn’t simply sent her after Rhonac in the first place—this whole mission could have been done with by now. Then again—what fun would that be? Perhaps Blackclaw knew what he was doing after all.

Barring the immediate location of Octavia and Rhonac, though, Jujuwalker Clancy was the next man to find. Crimson was even hazier on this then she was on Rhonac. What an Anarchist Hacker had to do with locating a City Admin outlaw and his lackey was beyond her. That smacked of politics again—‘wheels within crooked wheels,’ as she had heard it—which was enough to make her dismiss the question completely. Actually, it was Kyles’s call. Blackclaw had left the method of the search up to the monk. Crimson was strictly muscle, which didn’t bother her a bit. Still, though…Kyles had been acting funny ever since his own trip into the Cathedral of Memory. He had a distant look in his eyes, and every so often he would cock his head as though listening to something only he could hear. Of course all monks were mad—you could tell that just by listening to their blather for a few seconds—and Kyles was fairly well known for his eccentric ways. Come to that, Wolfe Blackclaw himself wasn’t exactly the very picture of coherent thought. Coming from Dame Crimson, that said a lot. So to hell with it. Things would work themselves out.

Still, she felt vaguely compelled to do her part. She turned to the man who had bought her drink, and to her mild surprise found the stool empty. Odd, that—there wasn’t even anybody fighting for it. Must be a slow night. She waved over to the bartender instead, a hard looking mutant in full battle armor, and leaned over the bar so that she could be heard.

“So, have you seen Jorgen Octavia?” she yelled. Subtlety was not Dame Crimson’s strong point.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He simply shook his head.

“Damn. How about Kijayle Rhonac?”

He slowly shook his head again.

Crimson tapped the bar in irritation. “Two strikes, huh? That’s a bastard. Okay, one more—where the hell can I find Jujuwalker Clancy?”

At this the mutant smiled. He gestured to the center of the room. Crimson turned, and realized that others were turning as well. The crowd…well, it didn’t go quiet, but the music cut off and Crimson could sense the new feeling in the air—anticipation. The center of the room was filled with haze—had it been that smoky when she had entered? She didn’t think so—and she could hear those closest to the mist…chanting? It was building up in the room, gathering momentum as the Anarchists realized what was going on.

Yes, they were chanting, and it sounded like:

frag frag frag frag…

Fireworks erupted from the haze, and Crimson realized that something was rising from the center of the club. A massive platform of some sort.

frag frag frag frag…!

The speakers blared back to life. A voice, rich and deep, rolled across the crowd, and it said: “Ladies, mutants, freaks, and ge-yen-tlemen! Who, I ask, who is here to have one hell of a time!”

The crowd went wild. The chanting continued, building on the frenzy of cheering and screams.

FRAG FRAG FRAG FRAG!!!

“Do my ears deceive me? Why, I don’t think that they do. It sounds like you people know what you’re looking for! It sounds like you want to tear this place apart!”

That it did. Fights were erupting as the energy of the club built, and it all seemed perfectly natural to Crimson.

“And I can respect a crowd that knows what it wants! That’s money in the bank, that is. So let me tell you what I have for you!”

The haze was thinning. Crimson could make out dim figures, slowly gaining definition.

“That’s right, my friends. Straight from the heart of poor, hacked Neocron proper, a new twist on an old game. A new fu-lavor to an old dish. New blood on an old killing ground! I bring you—Jujuwalker Clancy’s new, improved, and absolutely deadly Neofrag!”

The mists abruptly cleared, revealing what was hidden, and Crimson’s sudden smile could have cleared the room.
__________________

Now came the waiting game. I put the camouflage paneling back on the special command controls on the generator. A few strong rubs on my bottom shoved most of the caked dust on my cloak, and I sat back down. Even if the newcomers would be join me in my misery, I doubted they'd be coming up here quite so soon. I dropped the wrappers from a few bars of Milky Rens I had stashed in my pocket.

Unhappiness. That was the most distinct thing I was feeling. Oh, it wasn't just the place, that was QUITE bad enough. But also at having most of my little side plans spoiled by the forced relocation and confinement. While I had plenty of money, it wasn't really in a position where it'd merrily tick up to greater and greater wealth, and besides special... items... had a disturbing tendency to drain money. Appointments would be broken, no less, once-in-a-decade opporunities would disappear. To be in a place with no technology, and not just that, anathematical to most technology to boot...

*sigh*

Ah. I'd have to make do somehow. Even as I moved on bit by bit with the plan I had to rapidly reformulate to the new situation, I had to assess any possible exit out of this place... and situtation, though both was the same at the moment, really. Useless, though, hours earlier had been spent looking around (lightly and quickly as possible, looking at any one spot even a second too long... blech). No pharmaceuticals on me to help beat down the queasiness at just eyeballing the place really put a nasty tint on my outlook. Even with the risk of Protopharma slipping some nasties into proto-analgesics were tolerable to this place, but only if I had some of the damned things!

The data sent out, I had nothing to do. No damn computers to sink my mind into. Even the dismal circuitry of the solar generator, a pittance from these damnable mutants, wasn't enough to occupy me. I'd beaten well-worn paths in my own internal implanted circuitry, enough to burn them into memory. My Psi wrapped tighter around me and my implants, disturbed by the not-quite-reality I was interned in.

What Psi I had wasn't quite of the otherworldly sort that so many of the Crahn followers indulged in. Rather, it was of a more practical type. I could happily walk around into the circuitry of computers and mechanical devices. Other mere mortals and hackers had to directly go through the constructed realities built inside of computers, and more importantly, the critical distinction, directly interact with the processes imposed by the computers. These people could spend all day try to beat their brains through a firewall or security minefield, but I skipped them. They didn't really exist to me, nor did the HackNet, at least, unless I cared to descend into those depths. Whenther I had to, I could just go directly to the computer, following the circuitry right up into the memory cores, then do a nice copying trick, directly reading data right into an implant that would then decode the data into something that was actually comphrensible to me. I had made a very nice living off this ability, garnering a comfortable living, enough that I could go out into the Wastelands, despite advice to the contrary. Oh, the secrets I had found out there. I wagered that I knew enough to hold my own in a wagering game against Damion Jordan, Lioon Reza, the Followers of Crahn, and those other oh-so-shadowy figures clutching at power like it was their lifeblood, their definition of reality, their whole being. Agh. They could go ahead and scramble with the rest of humanity. Just not with me.

*sigh*

I really didn't like not having any tech to sink into, just toodle around. The mutants guarding me didn't take kindly to being chatted up. Just as well. I had done my fair share trimming down their population in my earlier days. Even my special tricks hadn't been enough to get out of their clutches last week. So many... I really hadn't thought there were that many in the entire Wastelands, much less the damn Outzone. I just wanted my damn item from that vendor, then just get back to my hideout to do some more preparations. Man, people get sensitive when you find information on what they're doing, then mention it to others. Continent-wide reality shifts SURE didn't help. Rubbing my splinted leg, which had gotten broken when I was dragged into something that was the mutants' eqivalent of a dungeon. I didn't normally invest into bone implants, seeing as they were all heavy. Not conductive to carrying a large pile of loot, but still, when shit started flying, I suppose they'd be nice to have. Looking at that leg still amazed me. I had thrown enough flame and energy and poison to completely demolish two buildings, drop three blocks' worth of street into the Mainsewer, and punch two tiny temporary holes into reality.

Still wasn't enough. What came next was pretty unpleasant. Interrogation wasn't something I was accustomed to, mainly because I had a faculty for getting out of a situation. But no... it had to be a Finn. And worse, Jonathan Finn, leading those mutants. Good luck dissappearing with your scent on his mind.

What could I do? Maybe 'recruit' him into the movement of events. Ah, well. Maybe Jonathan Finn's... abilities... if that was the right term, would be an asset to leveraging the events into being beneficial. Not just to the people coming under the press of the events, to me too, of course. Too bad he had to bring me out to a place I've never come across in my travels, so far away from a proper line of communciations. Didn't help I was unconsicous in the process of moving. Not that it was hard to figure out at least WHERE in relation to Neocron City the hole in existence was. Then again, even Jonathan Finn and half a city's worth of mutants couldn't casually keep me in captivity, not with my resources stashed every which way. But then...

... I did set to starting some events of my own, something sure to crest in my favor. Getting out of here, for starters. Then taking out Jonathan Finn. Oh, the bounty would be lovely. Oh, man, just to get close enough to the border that I could actually find my way back to proper reality. Mmmm.. nice, stable reality. I was gonna so enjoy that. That and getting a large case of nice and cold Preacher's Choice, plunk myself down in front of my Hometerm, then pull out a couple million neocredits from some accounts. Not mine, of course.

*click*

Such a firm and unambiguous sound pulls me back to the present. My eyes turn to the door. Something that doesn't deserve to be called a hand is grasping the door, and something else, but related to that limb, I'm sure, is beckoning. Time of reckoning, I bet. Gingerly grasping my Psi, putting up with disturbing feelings and an odd pressure pushing against my Psi, I make sure to have a little energy ready to fly just in case things get any worse out there. Cloak firmly gathered around me, I follow it out of the room, and down the stairs. More shifting shapes and, thankfully, firmer and stronger sunlight reveal themselves as I step outside.

The solar generator fades. The walls darken and fade. A tree starts to solidify, its wilted leaves fluttering in the absence of any perceptible wind. If anyone was watching the tree and not the building, they might notice the light and shadows on the trees are from the wrong directions. The flooring fades. A few devices that would have been attached to the solar generator had it still existed clatter as they hit the rocky ground several meters down. No one, or rather, nothing hears the noise as the press of unreality easily absorb such a tiny sound.

_____________

""" Entropy in a Bottle"""

Jest scanned the crowd with a curious mix of irritated enthusiasm. “This figures. We would happen to show up right before a frag fest.”

“That’s bad?” Even though Katherine shouted to be heard over the crowd, Jest still had to adjust his implants to hear.

“Yes and no. People are less likely to give us trouble while watching the fights, but it will make Jujuwalker impossible to find. He likes to mingle with the crowd during the action, and he does it incognito. He says that it’s impossible to get a legitimate feel for your audience with second-hand information, and he only wants to be recognized when he wants to be recognized, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Pretend that I don’t.”

Jest shrugged. “In a profession like Clancy’s, it is sometimes useful to disappear quickly. Going underground becomes a matter of habit—even in your own club. Even if your club is underground.”

“You call this a profession?” Katherine slowly shook her head. People were giving her a wide berth—or rather, they were giving her rifle a wide berth; the barrel was now sputtering like a grimly anticipatory firework down to its last inch of burning wick—but she looked as though she was simply spoiling for someone to get too close. Or to make eye contact. She was a pent up dam of legal retribution waiting to burst—but she still held back. Jest was impressed; this certainly wasn’t typical City Admin behavior, even if it was typical attitude. He could see why Reaver Gray hung about with her. Damned if he knew why she bothered with him, though, even just professionally.

He said: “Well, I’m sure it pays the bills. The point is, we have to wait until after the show, and if I have to wait then I’m getting a drink. Care to join me?”

Katherine flashed him something that was only distantly related to a smile. Her teeth showed, anyway. “I’m sticking with you, remember? People know you here.”

Jest grinned. “When you say it, it doesn’t sound quite as smooth. Kyles? Helen? Care for a drink?”

Kyles stood slightly to one side. One hand was shading his eyes from the fireworks, and he was studying the crowd intently. He said, “No, thank you. I think that I may do a bit of mingling myself. Try and see if I can’t pick up a word here or there about Octavia and Rhonac. With communications down in the city, the Paradise is the next best source of information outside of other-space, and I don’t think we’ve gotten quite that desperate yet.”

“You’ve been to the Paradise before?”

Kyles nodded. “Like you said—the Followers of Crahn tend to avoid this place. When I…left the Order, I needed some time to think. The constant assassins were getting on my nerves, so I came here to relax for a while. You know—good drinks, good people, that sort of thing.”

Jest eyed the crowd uncertainly. One of the ‘good people’ was brutally strangling another only a few steps away from Kyles. Jest supposed that, when you left the Order of Crahn, your definition of ‘good’ was a bit skewed. He had to admit that the monk was right about the drinks, though.

Helen studied the crowd as well, her eyes revolving seemingly in random—and certainly not in concert—bizarre directions. The red one rolled totally back in here head, only to appear beneath the socket a moment later. She said, “I will join Kyles. I have never been here. It is interesting.”

Jest didn’t bother to hide his relief. “Fine with me. Keep an eye out for Crimson. We’ll meet back here after the fight—say, in an hour? That should give us plenty of time to get a feel for the place.”

“Get a ‘feel’ for this place? Crahn, I’m afraid I would catch something.” A few mutants looked over at Katherine. She shifted the weight of the rifle over her shoulder, and they quickly turned their glares in less suicidal directions.

Jest very pointedly did not sigh. “Please, Katherine, easy on the ‘C’ word, not to mention the suggestive hefting of weapons. An hour, okay? Then we find Jujuwalker, and we blow this joint.”

“Blow this joint up, you mean?” She matched glares with Jest for a moment, and let it drop. “Fine. An hour. And they had better serve some damned good drinks.”

“The absolute best. Kyles, are you sure that you’ll be okay…?” But when Jest looked, both Kyles and Helen were already gone. “I guess so,” he said. He studied the crowd, trying not to grin too broadly. Smiling would just irritate Katherine even more, but Jest was almost rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Now, to make our way to the bar…”

* * *

Kyles and Helen strolled through the Paradise like a pair of tourists under some powerful protective charm. Kyles walked with his hands clasped behind his back, humming absently to himself and barely paying any attention to the chaos around him. He was surrounded by brawling, gunfire, and waves of noise so solid that they registered measurable concussion ratings, but to his minds eye it was all rather good natured. Contrary to popular opinion, Anarchists were not, as a rule, homicidal killing machines with blood in their narrowed eyes and vengeance in a clenched fist. They were mostly just a people with little use for society—or, for that matter, each other. Loners and waifs who had discovered that their place in civilization was, in fact, out of it altogether. This did not make them any more violent and destructive then the average Neocron citizen; in fact, some of them had left the city to avoid that very aggression. What it did make them was defensive and a bit paranoid, which often resulted in the same thing. Catch an outcast in the Wastes and you had better do some damned fancy talking, and quick. When most conversations with civilians start with something like, “Hey—it’s an Anarchist. Open fire!” and go downhill from there, the average Wastelander learns to shoot first and debate the finer points of social etiquette later.

But still, no man—or mutant, as the case may be—is an island and all that. When a loner feels like enjoying a little company after all, Jujuwalker Clancy’s Virtual Paradise is the place to go. And when Anarchists get together for a party…

Well.

One aspect of social theory went something like this: the stricter the society, the more extreme its expressions of rebellion. Place a lid rather loosely on a boiling pot and the steam escapes easily. Perhaps the pot rattles every so often, but you can still leave it unattended without much worry. However, clamp the lid down, weld it in place, and turn up the heat? Kyles could imagine the result of that little social experiment, and the Paradise always felt like it was thirty seconds shy of bringing his imagination to life. The monk admired Clancy’s ability to walk that razor wire of chaos; the social time-bomb of his own design somehow never went off. In the supposed words of Rob Dowell, “Just because we don’t have laws doesn’t mean that we don’t have honor.” There were unwritten rules in the club, and, rather amazingly, the Anarchists and mutants followed them. For the most part. It was a contradiction in terms, but it worked. Again, for the most part.

This didn’t stop Kyles from putting up a few extra shields, of course. Crossing the Paradise was like hopping on one foot through a minefield. Blindfolded. Knives, bullets and plasma flew through the air like party favors. They never reached Kyles. Some hit his mental shields and rebounded off in different directions. Some stopped dead in the air, falling unnoticed to the ground. Some simply disappeared with a flash. Figures pressed against his barriers through sheer crowd-pressure, but nobody got within several feet of the monk. Every so often he would let his mind brush lightly against another, soothing emotions that were a little too high-strung, distracting a rage before it got out of hand. He had no illusions about his ability to protect every innocent in the club—but that did not mean he wouldn’t do what he could.

Mostly, though, he concentrated on the crowd. He was searching for a certain mind, and even with his recent…acquisition of power, focusing in this mental chaos was next to impossible. Still, he had caught the sensation—very brief, very faint—when he had first entered the club, and if he concentrated hard enough…

Watching Helen Angilley move through the crowd was something of a wonder. It was very much like watching a disinterested wraith. She had refused Kyles’s offer of psionic protection with a simple, “No. Psi is wrong,” and she trailed far enough behind him that she was not within his fields. And somehow…somehow she remained untouched. Fights erupted around her, but she was no part of them. Any blade swung in her direction went wide; any bullet missed its mark, often hitting some other source of danger before it could threaten the mutant. Once—and Kyles was concentrating on other things so hard that he couldn’t be sure of this, but he was almost sure—one metal bullet missed her head by less then an inch, only to collide with another bullet coming at her from the other direction. And for the rest—wherever there was danger, Helen simply wasn’t standing there anymore. She made no obvious effort; she just…wasn’t there. She didn’t even seem to notice the chaos around her, and she never reacted to any threat. It was like some benevolent spirit hovered over her, and she couldn’t be bothered to care. Her eyes studied everything, but neither had so much as flickered with interest.

Kyles suddenly stopped in the middle of the crowd. They were near the outer tables now, raised for viewing the Neofrag arena, and his mind had just caught what it was looking for—the faint feel of a certain mind in concealment. He was turning towards it—it was closer then he had thought—when Helen’s hand brushed against his. The feeling dissipated immediately, but he knew he could find it again. He turned to Helen with a raised eyebrow.

“We were supposed to watch for her,” she explained, and pointed to the center of the room.

Kyles followed her finger and blinked in surprise. Entering Jujuwalker Clancy’s Neofrag arena was none other than Dame Crimson. She stood alone, claiming the Taker’s Corner in all of her bloody glory, sharpening the largest sword Kyles had ever seen and grinning like a school-girl on her first date. She had even taken the effort of cleaning her armor, having brushed at some of the more noticeable flakes of dried blood until they were at least evenly smeared. She tested the balance of her blade with one hand, swinging it with the natural grace of a lifetime’s training. Then, satisfied, she grounded the tip and lightly settled her hands around the pommel. The match was about to begin.

And standing in the other corner, Kyles saw, was the cyborg monstrosity known only as a Replicant.

* * *

“Damn,” said Jest, honestly impressed. “Really? A Replicant? Where in the hell did Clancy find one of those?”

The bartender shrugged. “He has his sources. All I know is that the thing was so radioactive when it arrived that it was glowing. It had to soak in heavy air for over an hour, and it still reads red.”

“Fresh, then. A rogue? I’ve heard rumors…”

Sitting next to Jest, Katherine was concentrating on her drink. She had decided that his advice was good—doing anything to draw attention to herself would be a mistake, including taking part in this conversation. She had spent some time studying the club scene, and then stopped because it was depressing her. She realized it intellectually, but now it was sinking deeper into her mind: City Admin had absolutely no influence in the Paradise. She did not feel like the Voice of Authority here. She felt like she had been abruptly dropped into a foreign country with no money, map, or ability to even speak the language. So far she had been getting by on sheer radiated hostility, not to mention her homicidal looking rifle, but now even her anger was fading. These people didn’t know about her political affiliations. And if they did, they wouldn’t care. They would probably just laugh.

“…well, the rumors say…”

Katherine hid her wince. She had heard rumors too, none of which she cared to repeat. In fact it would be worth more then her job to do so—possibly more then her life. But she could hear them out on the streets—whispers just around the corner, stories told in the shadowed corners of bars, messages passing discretely through the Plaza. There was something new in the Wastes. Something deadly, something insane—and something that had not evolved there. Only when Runners had started disappearing in larger numbers then usual had anybody taken notice. Squads had been sent from almost every faction, scouring the hot zones in search of the new threat, and most of them had not come back. Only City Administration had not participated; they simply labeled the sectors quarantined pending further investigation, and warned everyone else to back off. A lot of good that did. In the end it was Tech Haven that had brought out the first Replicant. There was an open battle in the Wastes for the creature—Tangent Technology was particularly determined to claim the thing, and politics be damned—but the Fallen Angels broke free in the end. Rumor had it—always rumor, never fact—that Jest and his Mirror Shades had been in charge of the operation, and that it had damned near been the end of their legend.

Tech Haven had wasted no time in dissecting the creature, and they quickly made the following public announcements:

1. The creature had not evolved in the Waste—it had been created;
2. It was a cyborg—part human, mostly machine—technologically based on Dome of York science;
3. It was purely a weapon; the organic brain had been conditioned only to kill;
4. It was not, however, created by the Dome;
5. It was, in fact, rather shoddily put together, with little regard for safety protocols or control features, and plenty of regard for sheer destructive power;
6. Furthermore, a mentally deficient sewer rat could have done a better job programming the insanely dangerous hardware;
7. And speaking of rats, what despicable rodent would have designed such a wretched, tortured form of life?
8. Well, we’re not naming any names, mind you, but we think we’ve tracked it to a certain Administration. Possibly—and don’t pin us down on this—located somewhere in the City;
9. Did we mention that cyborg technology was illegal? Holy Crahn, is it illegal. Punishable by death just to contemplate it, we hear;
10. Slow, painful death. My, my.
__________________

The Fallen Angels then refused to release the remains. They had been destroyed as a safety measure, the researchers claimed. They wished City Administration well in their investigation of the illegal technology, offered to aid the research (offer: declined) and went back to their labs with very conscientious looks of concern. They said no more about the York Replicants, but the damage was done. Word on the street was that City Admin had created a hideously dangerous bit of illegal technology, and had dumped it in the Wasteland when things hadn’t gone to their liking. It did not help that this was not the first such word ever to have hit said street. Opinion polls would have been down the gutter, if Reza had ever bothered to take them.

And all of that said nothing about the rumors that Replicants had been…well…replicating. Nobody liked to think of how…but it was said that the phrase ‘a new lease on life’ took on a whole new meaning to fallen Runners in Replicant territory.

Cue the ominous thunder, thought Katherine. She continued to stare at her drink.

What in the hell was she doing here? One minute she was minding her own business; the next she’s diving out of her apartment window on the run from Tangent assassins. Only the assassins weren’t really working for Tangent—or rather, they were Tangent employees who were taking orders from a man named Mister Silence. Only they didn’t know this, because Mister Silence wasn’t exactly a man—he was…well…something else. Something else with a great amount of power, and with deep roots into Hacknet. Apparently this granted him—or it, or whatever—an almost absolute control over Tangent, which basically gave Mister Silence access to the largest arsenal on the planet. The fact that such a creature was gunning for Katherine should have terrified her, but she was mostly just confused. Not as to why she was a target—she knew damned good and well why—but more as to why she wasn’t already dead.

Joanna Hawkes was one reason, and Katherine had to grudgingly admit that without the Hacker’s warning she would not have survived the first attack. Joanna was one of the finest Hackers alive by reputation, and a rather important key to the defenses of BioTech—she was the only Hacker capable of standing up to Chester Cohor, her most bitter rival in both business and personal practice. Their digital wars weren’t just the stuff of legends to Hackers—they were an almost holy evolution of tech versus tech, battles so advanced that the unskilled Hacker suffered Synaptic Impairment just by studying a hard copy of the programs used. Not that their competition was left strictly to the digital plains. It was said that the stream of assassins moving from Tangent to BioTech and back was so thick that they often bumped into each other, and nodded with casual professionalism when they crossed on the streets. Katherine had heard of two killers who, after a flurry of competitive bidding for their services, had gotten their targets confused and simply attacked each other in Pepper Park. It seemed simpler that way, said the survivor. And it wasn’t like either of them honestly expected to get close to their target—whomever that target was. Both Chester and Joanna had a staggering amount of resources at their disposal, and both were encouraged by their employers to use any means possible to eliminate the competition. The results were often more spectacular then effective, but they left no doubt—Chester and Joanna wanted each other dead. At the very least, brainburned beyond hope.

Which was something else that did not make sense. Joanna Hawkes had saved Katherine’s life…

…and in order to return the favor, Katherine had to save Chester’s.

So. She owed Hawkes her life. She was actually obligated to help Chester Cohor one way or the other—Tangent Technology held strong ties to the City Administration, and there was a standing Order of Assistance handed down to all officers. That helping Chester—simultaneously paying her debt to Joanna—involved taking down this Mister Silence was just a pleasant bonus. They were all driving in the same direction, Katherine thought, so why not share a vehicle? It was all for the best, right?

She mulled this over for a moment. Her knuckles tightened around the handle of her drink.

The catch—there’s always a catch, oh yes—was that this vehicle was being shared by others as well. Jest, wanted on more counts of rather loud and violent espionage then any ten Twilight Guardian terrorists. He was the head of the Mirror Shades, the perpetual thorn in society’s side; too erratic and independent to be counted upon, but far too damned effective to ignore. Dame Crimson, wanted for…well. Simply being Dame Crimson was against the law anywhere there were weapons and alcohol, and Crimson herself always carried plenty of both. They didn’t even bother listing her crimes anymore. Arrest protocol had been altered specifically for her: when sighted, call for backup, and have them call for backup too. Kyles Sendrick was actually in good standing, but his mutant companion Helen Angilley was…well…a mutant. Katherine didn’t have anything against her personally, but her feelings about Angilley started with words like ‘creepy’ and went downhill from there. She had a way of seeing through people, and not just figuratively. It made Katherine wish for a lead-lined overcoat.

Reaver Gray. This was all his fault. The next time she saw him, she was going to kick the Hacker so hard that he left a hole in three walls—

Lost in her thoughts, Katherine did not notice the slow commotion building next to her. Then there was a gunshot, followed by an icy, deadly silence. Upon retrospect, she decided that she probably should have noticed that.

Then someone was tearing at the rifle on her back, and before she could respond all hell broke loose.

* * *

Kyles and Helen made their way through the crowd with relative ease. It was a bit simpler now that most of the patrons were focused on the arena. Crimson and the Replicant were slowly circling each other at a distance, and anticipation was on the rise. Even Crimson knew better then to charge blindly into a Replicant—at least not one who saw her coming—and whatever was left of the monsters brain was alert enough to detect a real threat in the bloody woman opposing him. So they circled, probing for weaknesses, and the crowd seemed to be just waiting for the fireworks to begin. Kyles hoped that they would wait all night, although he knew it was more a matter of seconds. He needed Dame Crimson alive, preferably intact. But he couldn’t interfere, even to save her life. There was too much at stake.

He finally approached a table in the middle of the crowd. It was filled with women whose dress was in violation of various indecency laws, none of whom seemed all that worried about it. Some were idly watching the fight; most were chatting brightly with the man at the head of the table. There seemed to be some sort of contest to get his attention, and somehow they all seemed to be winning. Kyles couldn’t imagine how anything could be heard over the volume of the cheering. Then he glanced again at the women and decided that they weren’t exactly discussing quantum theory, so it probably didn’t matter.

Miraculously, there were empty seats. It might have had something to do with the man sitting with the best view of the arena. He was dressed mildly, in nondescript clothes that looked like they could have been picked off of any fallen body in the Wastes. His expression was also mild, and it extended all the way to his eyes, where it suddenly became as hard as condensed diamonds. More likely, though, it was his companion, a massive tank with a glare that had more punch then a plasma cannon. Kyles brushed against the man with his mind—coming across a surprisingly effective defense, which he basically ignored—and the tank’s eyes rolled right past the monk and the mutant. Kyles ignored Helen’s frown; whatever her views on psi, she was going to have to get used to the fact that, for Kyles, touching the ether came as naturally as breathing, and was often just as useful.

The tank ignored Kyles and Helen; the mildly dressed man did not. He openly studied the pair as they approached the table, and did not seem especially put out by his bodyguard’s—if the tank was indeed a bodyguard—lack of reaction. Kyles pulled a chair out for Helen, who accepted with a faint smile, and then took one himself. The man nodded slightly at their brazen attitudes.

“Plenty of other tables available,” he said, contrary to the obvious evidence otherwise. Every other table was filled to overflowing.

“This table has a better view,” said Kyles. He made no move to face the arena.

The man studied the woman in the seat next to him. She was demonstrating her flexibility to the crowd in general, and the man in particular, in several interesting ways. “That it does,” he agreed. He sighed as he turned to snap his fingers in the warrior’s face. When there was no response, he said, “Ah, hell. Good and Distracted. Monk?”

A voice with no obvious source—it seemed to Kyles as though it came hovering from the center of the table—said, “Sorry, boss. There’s something interfering. I think it’s the mutant. You want I should open fire?”

The man slapped his hand on the table, his eyes suddenly wide. “Do not make me detonate on your blind ass again, fool. There are bombshells present—ladies, my man. What have I told you about that? And before you start, do not answer that question, ‘cause you’ll just embarrass yo’ damned self. Anyway, you think wrong. I’m not even a monk and I can feel this. Use your eyes, man—”

“He can’t,” said Kyles.

“—and if you can’t do that, use the mind yo’ momma would be ashamed of, if you even knew her name. If you’re good, maybe someday I’ll introduce you.”

“He can’t use his mind, either,” said Helen. The pale eye glanced reproachfully at Kyles. The crimson one revolved to watch the fight, apparently through the back of her skull.

The man smiled. His grin would have lit up the room if it had extended to his eyes. Instead it was reminiscent of a shark in good cheer because it had just spotted the next meal. “Then use your ears, my man, and listen to me. Fresh off the floor are two players—”

“Uh—boss, I only see one—”

“What did I just say about your ears? There is a mutant, which even you can see. Damned impressive, yo, and if you think I’m not being sarcastic then you best be thinking about my boot up ya ass. Without full access to the playground, I can’t give a hundred and ten—but scanning my personals throws me a few files. Her name is Helen Angilley, and she’s on the Guardian rosters. Barely. There are some other files flashing red, but to hell with ‘em. Who you do not see—well. I don’t need files to recognize a Crahn hata’ like Kyles Sendrick. The Faylen his own damned self, come back to the club to irritate the merry hell out of all the psychopaths. I don't see Monika Blaze, his loyal and destructive pyro.”

“Oh, she’s about,” said Kyles. “You can tell your monk that the targeting systems attempting to lock onto us won’t be necessary. They won’t help in any case.”

The man flashed another grin. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

“Er…” The hovering voice took a worried edge. “Tell who what, boss?”

The man sighed. “Distraction is an itch you just can’t scratch. Maybe one of these fine ladies would be willing to assist…not that it would help, but the scratching does wonders for the mind, body and soul. Fine, fine—shake hands with this plan, my man, and let me know if you’re missing any jewels when you pull away. You stop with the ‘who, what, when, where, and why’s’ on my backup, and I give you my rock solid guaran-tee that I won’t fill you with enough holes to use your skull as a sieve.”

Kyles opened his mouth to speak, and then abruptly shut it. His head turned slightly, and his eyes went distant. He had the manner of a man listening to an unreliable comm. channel—straining to hear, but still unable to catch more than every third word. Very softly, he said, “Ah. You don’t think that I can handle…?” He fell silent again; now he looked amused. And just as suddenly he straightened, dismissing whatever it was he had been concentrating on.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Life has become so much more distracting lately. Yes—pull the guns and we can be friends. But first, do I have your word of honor—as a Clancy?”

This time the laughter reached Jujuwalker Clancy’s eyes. “The honor of an Anarchist? Believe it when you see it, man, and not a second sooner!"

“I’ve seen it before.” Kyles waved theatrically. The tank blinked, openly shocked at the two figures that had, to him, appeared from nowhere. The disembodied voice swore in a violent, yet professionally impressed manner. Clancy raised his hand before either of them could respond, and made a sharp motion. The voice fell away; after a questioning glance, the tank leaned back.

Kyles said: “Sorry about the rude interruption, but we don’t have time to wait for the fight to finish. Jest has some business with you—and I’m interested in that as well—but I have a separate job for you.”

“Jest is here? The shade of Shades? We-hell, it sounds like there’s a party starting and nobody let the man his own self know. That’s just rude, that is.”

“I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to make up for it later. Very profitably so, I think. But as I said, I have my own proposition first.”

Jujuwalker leaned back in his chair, his eyes showing interest. “Well, I’m always ready to be propositioned—and I’m not just talking to the ladies here. Well, mostly I am. But lay it out on the table, and I’ll tell you if I like what I see. That goes mostly for the ladies too.”

Kyles simply said: “Jorgen Octavia. Kijayle Rhonac.”

Jujuwalker abruptly settled his chair on the floor. The expression drained from his face until all that remained was the hardness of his eyes. He whistled through his teeth, and said, “Ladies, it’s time to go make friends at another table. Save some friendship for yours truly, but don’t come running until you hear the call.” After one look at Clancy, the women collectively sniffed, stood languorously, and strutted from the table. Jujuwalker ignored them.

Helen said, “You recognize the names.” It was not a question.

Clancy nodded. He studied Kyles and Helen with an grave expression. Finally he said, “Your in luck. The man can help you—but be damned if you aren’t walking into more trouble then even the Faylen can handle. You heard it here first.” He shook his head slowly, and leaned forward. “All right. Let’s talk business.”
__________________

Jest had to admit it—he was enjoying himself.

He shouldn’t be. In fact, he knew that he should be so tense that his body could be used as a plank. He was being hunted by the very same Mister Silence that wanted Katherine dead, but unlike the City Admin cop, Jest had no idea why. Also unlike Katherine, he had not escaped his first encounter with the…thing…nearly as unscathed—or at least his Shades hadn’t. Nearly everyone in his squad had been captured by the N.D.A, under the direction of Silence, and tossed directly into the Detention Center. Hardcode, the prodigal droner who had drawn the lot to watch headquarters during the disastrous mission, and Jest himself were the only Shades walking free.

Jest was not too happy about the circumstances resulting in his own freedom—once it became clear that the fight had gone bad, three of Jest’s own men had tackled him, knocked him half unconscious, and thrown him onto the top of a passing hovercab. A dozen more threw themselves forward to cover his escape. The fact that Jest had fallen four stories before landing on the cab had done a thorough job of removing the other half of his consciousness.

Jest was displeased because his original plan had been to throw himself forward, pistols blazing, and draw fire away from the other Shades. The plan got a little hazy after that—it probably involved lots of running and shooting, if things were going well—but Jest had been firm about the jumping forward. Being clubbed over the head with a plasma cannon was not in the plan. Nor was distantly hearing several voices raising his name, shouting about protecting him, and a closer voice saying, “Sorry boss, but you know da rules. Can’t let ya fight to the death. We’ll be waitin’ for ya ta bust us out when you come to.”

Jest had tried to shout an order to let him go, but, “Mrphhp!” was as close as he got. Then he was soaring through a closed window, and the world had turned into a blur. Even the blur ended four stories later, along with Jest’s track of time. Hardcode had made a quick and dirty Hack into the hovercab navigational systems, and by the time the N.D.A. had tracked the cab down Jest was long gone. He woke back in headquarters, and Hardcode’s grim expression told him all he needed to know about the condition of their friends.

Detention Center. Well, nobody claimed that the life of a Shade was boring. In any case, it was up to Hardcode, Monika Blaze, and Reaver Gray now. The three had entered the Detention Center as the most ragged and resigned rescue force Jest had ever seen, but they were all he had. Normally he would have been right there beside them—God knew they could use the extra guns—but something else had come up. Nothing as important as his fellow Shades, no—but important to the Shades, and to everyone else as well. Hardcode, Blaze, and Gray would just have to figure something out.

And here he was, sitting in Paradise. For most this would just be another source of stress. Katherine, for example, was wound up so tight she seemed about to implode. The air was filled with violent death, the drinks were only considered safe because they were fatal only a small percentage of the time, and with so much wild psi in the air spontaneous combustion was more than just a theory. Jest had gotten the bar seats on sheer reputation, but the evicted mutant seemed the type to hold a grudge. His plan was to free Chester Cohor, one of the Fallen Angel’s most bitter rivals, so that the Hacker could face an even bigger threat. Every odd was against him; he felt like he was bluffing through a game of poker with no cards in his hand, much less up his sleeve.

And damn if it didn’t feel good. His expression was an open invitation to anyone with a weapon and something to prove, but inwardly he had to be honest: he was having fun. Hell, he had gotten used to constant danger before he could hold a pistol properly; he wouldn’t feel right unless imminent death was on the way, unseen eyes keeping him in their sight—

—like right now—

Jest whirled in his chair, one hand swinging his pistol—very appropriately named the Judge—and the other resting on the extra weapon hidden in his jacket. There was a startled yelp, which caught him off guard, and the figure approaching him flinched away. He almost pulled the trigger anyway—it didn’t pay to hesitate in Paradise—but the shock of recognition froze his hand. Froze his whole body.

It was a woman—a beautiful woman, if a bit Waste-worn. She was armed, but her knives were sheathed at the waist. Her hands were empty. Her blond hair was tangled but clean, and her clothes were well kept for having seen so much wear in the Wastes. She wore electric blue leather, molded to her like a second skin, and had a blue dragon tattooed down one arm. Blue nails, blue eyes—even her lips were painted blue.

He was aware that he still had the Judge pointed at her, but he couldn’t move. It’s her. It can’t be her. She’s dead. I know it—

Then she was apologizing—Jest had no idea what for, and apparently neither did she—and Jest’s mind came crashing home. “No,” he said, holstering his gun. “My mistake. Thought you were…someone else.”

“I—” She hesitated, and Jest was struck by this. Hesitation did not mix well with the Paradise. You needed certainty and arrogance just to walk through the front doors. Not that she didn’t look like she could handle herself if she had to. “I…ah…was just wondering if I could get to the bar for a second. I need to pick up some drinks for my friends…”

Jest just stared at her for another moment. She even sounded like—no. It was impossible. And anyway, there was no recognition in her eyes. Still…

“Just a second,” he said. He turned to the barstool to his right. It was inhabited by a rather sullen looking psi-monk. Sparks of energy burst off of him like miniature fireworks, and his eyes glowed in colors that probably didn’t exist. He was staring into his drink; whenever it ran empty, he stared a little harder, and suddenly it was full again. The drink glowed too.

“Hey,” said Jest easily, “beat it. Make room for the lady.”

The monk slowly looked up. He turned to Jest, his whole body flashing like a power generator cycling to full power. His glare met Jest’s calm eyes. They studied each other for a moment, gauging and calculating—and the monk turned away. He shrugged, and suddenly he wasn’t there anymore. He did not get up—he just…left.

Jest gestured. “Have a seat.”

The woman blinked. “I don’t know if—”

“Have you got a minute?”

“Well—a minute, I guess.”

“Then have a seat.”

She did, smiling shyly. “Really, just for a minute. My friends are waiting for me.”

Jest nodded. For a moment he just stared at her. What did you say to a ghost that didn’t remember your name? Ah— “My name is Jest. I can’t say anything for your friends, but I would be happy to buy your drink.”

She hesitated for a moment, and Jest saw…something…in her eyes. Fear? Maybe. “That would be nice. You usually have to fight for a drink in this place. My name is Sophia.”

Something went click in Jest’s head. “Even your name,” he said softly.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. You...remind me of someone.”

She laughed. “Oh, horrible. Did you find that pickup line in a recycling tool?”

“That’s not exactly what I meant. You do remind me of someone.” More than should be possible, he refrained from adding. “Where are you from?”

She shrugged. “Where is anybody from? Neocron, I guess, but it’s hard to remember that far back. My parents were Followers of Crahn—at least that’s what they told me.”

“They?”

“Ramblers. Nomads. Anarchists, you would call them. My parents took me on the Long Walk when I was two years old. They died there, deep in the Wastes.”

“The Long Walk? Were they crazy?—well, Followers of Crahn, I guess that answers my question. But still…” Jest was truly shocked. The Long Walk was a ritual of the Followers. It was also called Crahn’s Trek, a tribute to the time when their deity, still in the flesh, was cast from Neocron into the Wastelands. A bunch of lunatic monks gathered together with no weapons, food, or supplies, and spent days walking through the cracked deadlands in a test of faith. Bad enough that the monks did it in the first place—but to bring along a two-year-old child?

Sophia shrugged again. “I suppose. They paid the price, though. I don’t know what happened, but they’re gone and I’m here. Funny world.”

“No wonder they sent you for the drinks. Anyone raised in the Wastes should have no problems managing Paradise.”

She smiled a bit thinly. “You would think.”

They talked for a few minutes. Sophia was polite, clever, and attentive; she also avoided any more questions about her past very skillfully. She did not get defensive. She was distant, though, and seemed to be growing increasingly nervous.

She finished her drink and looked at the crowd—a bit reluctantly, Jest thought. She said, “Well, thank you for the drink.”

“Care for another?”

“That would be fine—but not now. It’s time to find my friends—”

“Past time, bitch.”

Jest spun on the stool to face one of the ugliest Wasteland thugs he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed entirely in black leather, apparently under the mistaken impression that it lent him an air of danger and authority. Two fully cybernetic eyes sparked out of a face that appeared to have been beaten with a cinder block that did not know when to call it quits. Muscles bulged unevenly from his arms and legs, but Jest could not tell if the bizarre proportions were due to the Mark of the Wasteland or a severely botched string of surgeries. What Jest first took to be a high black collar turned out, upon further inspection, to be a layer of finely greased hair growing up from the man’s neck.

Everything contrasted with the man’s skin, which was a pale albino white. Bits of it seemed to be flaking off, and Jest tried to believe that it was makeup. Makeup usually didn’t smell that bad, though.

“Cadaver,” Sophia said quickly. “I was just coming to look for you—”

Cadaver slapped her so hard that she fell off the stool, his expression totally blank. “Shoulda waved that thought a tik-tok sooner. Made me come and optic you, right?”

Jest stared for a moment, fascinated. He had never seen someone’s teeth move independently of their mouth. Then he was on his feet and in front of Sophia. Fully aware of what was happening—and just as aware that he had been trapped, in a way—he said, “Cadaver, eh? The lady and I are having a drink. Push off before I make your name a prophecy.”

Sophia coughed. “No, Jest, it’s okay. I can—”

“Cooooeeee! Jest? I scanning Jest?” Cadaver looked him up and down, his eyes flaring different colors as he went. “I gots to believe my optics. The big-big himself. He be walking, he be talking. He be leaning, he be grinning.” Cadaver studied him for a moment longer. Then he leaned forward, his eyes buzzing loud enough to be heard over the crowd, and said, “But he be nightwaving—that’s dreaming to the deadpots in this thermal—if he be scanning the idea of standing between Cadaver and he ming-fling.”

Jest blinked. Cadaver was talking a crude mix of Wasteland slang and Hacker lingo, and did a fair job of mangling them both. Then the last sentence caught up with him like a shot of lighter fluid to the brain. “Ming-fling? She’s your wife?”

“If I be say it twice, I be say it with me meathook.” Cadaver raised a clenched fist—it looked like a sledgehammer dipped in wet concrete—in case Jest missed the point. “And if I be say it three time, then I be say it with the bang-ray.” He raised his other hand, which suddenly held a very poorly constructed plasma pistol. Jest could not even recognize the make, but scorch marks on the barrel showed that it had been fired recently.

“I didn’t want to hear it the first time.” Jest noticed two figures behind Cadaver, both dressed in black leather and both mutated. They were regarding him like two rather unstable wolves fully aware that, no matter how dangerous the prey, the rest of the pack was just waiting in the hills ready to strike. A gang, then, and the positioning gave Jest the impression that Cadaver was in charge. Wonderful.

“Didn’t want…” Cadaver puzzled out the words. His expression did not change—it was still blank and dead, as though his facial nerves had been cut—but his eyes buzzed and sparked furiously. “So, you do be nightwaving. Tch—the big-big don’t know when to scan and when to hover. You flyin’! You loaded up the sting-gun and shot it right through you red-pump! Ai!”

In a very level voice, Sophia said, “Jest, don’t worry. I can handle this.”

Cadaver did not even look at her. “Stop crackin’ the air, bitch. Big-big’s talking.”

Sophia sounded like she meant it, but Jest did not like the odds. He had no idea how many other gang members might be in the crowd, and he didn’t want to find out. Well…in a way he did want to find out, but he was here on more important business. He couldn’t afford to get distracted.

He said, “All right. We don’t want the situation to get any uglier then you already are. Let the lady get her drinks, and she can decide. It’s her party. But if she decides to have another round here at the bar—well, drinks are on me, and you had damned well better be happy with it.”

Cadaver mulled over this. Jest could almost hear the gears in his head turning as he translated the words into his own bizarre slang.

Sophia said, “Everyone just calm down! I said that I can take care—”

Cadaver moved fast—much faster than Jest had anticipated, but not too quickly for the Shade to react first. He had time to dive out of the way of the plasma fire, and he would have—if it had been aimed at him. Jest had been expecting an attack, and was ready for it.

But he did not expect Cadaver to shoot Sophia.

The plasma scorched by Jest’s side, and Sophia let out a muffled scream. She dropped, and Jest knew that she was dead before she hit the ground.

“Told her to stop crackin’ air,” the thug said by way of explanation. He leveled the pistol at Jest. “Time for a new ming-fling, factory fresh! What you say to that?”

Jest’s mind felt frozen, but the backbrain, where emotion didn’t touch, had already analyzed the situation. Cadaver expected him to pull a pistol, just as Jest had expected an attack from the gang leader. The unexpected had gotten past his guard. It would get through Cadaver’s as well.

Jest didn’t go for his weapon.

He went for Katherine’s.
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Light and Time has an odd relationship. Light, that dancing, ethereal thing, can go about so quickly that Time can have a little trouble keeping up. But in the end, Time still manages to keep its iron grip firm and applies its rules to everything.

A laser, that oddly constrained beam of light, can transfer fantastic amounts of information in the twinkling of an eye. Human measurements of time don't mean much to it. A mere tenth of a second extra in one laser beam's length is more than enough, indeed, to send events rolling by alert eyes and minds.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A low thumping from the club next door keeps the atmosphere tense in the apartment. Lurid red light flooding in the window from teasing pornographic holosigns high above in the street keeps a man's blood aroused with passion and energy. There isn't quietness nor tameness in Pepper Park.

A sinewy, dark-skinned man rolls about in the ragged regeneration bed, it's healing power long since faded by over-use. His nappy hair grasps lint and dust as a cloak, against any illusion of being civilized and sociable, perhaps. The man isn't sleeping well, not at all. Blearily, he sits up.

"Frag this! I can't get any shut-eye at all! I needs me some grub, not that lame-ass rotten ratburger that Snak-Attack sod shoveled out!" He grates out, a scarred throat hinting at a rough past. "Yo, Glass, can't youse drop me some creds for some real eats?"

"No, Turion, I will not withdraw any more credits. The violence of your latest spree has garnered considerable NCPD attention, and there are signs they suspect my involvement. We must remain inconspicous for a longer period of time.", ringing out from a tinny voice somewhere around a splintery and worn black club-like shape on the table below the red-wreathed window. A closer look would reveal odd rectangular panels on the long side of the club, somewhat like a baseball bat.

A scowl precluding wild gesticulating, "Come on, man, youse told me to take that job and teach those fucking whores a lesson, so's that they remember to pay their pimpper right and proper! And I gotta say, I wasn't about to turn down the freebie he woulda given me after!, and Turion springs up from the bed.

"The contract was to intimidate these women into paying their previously-agreed dues, not to inflict massive skeletal fractures and internal bleeding. You rendered them useless to their employer, and as such, made our contract pointless. The medical aid required to resticuate them was what got the law enforcement authorities interested.", the tinny voice continues, " If you had been able to restrain yourself, we would have been paid in hard currency, and thus been able to avoid leaving any electronic traces from accessing HackNet to our bank accounts. The fault in this matter lies entirely on you."

"Oh, scrag youse!" accompanied by an extended finger in the bludgeon's direction. "I'ma gonna go out and beat that Snak-Crak scrag up for passing off crap on me! Maybe I'll loot some food from his ass, har har har!

Turion, sweat glistening all over his ebony skin, starts grinning like the madman he too clearly is, walks over and starts reaching for the bat.

"You should recall that our previous employer is still incensed with your conduct, and that the ScrapSkin street gang has their members searching for you to avenge the loss of their initates on your hands. Additionally, there is the matter of the club security that has armed themselves with electro-conductive fuel for their flamethrowers to ensure that, in shocking you along with burning, you suffer extreme pain, after you forced your way in last week.", it becomes much more clear that the baseball bat itself is speaking, "may I recommend that you continue to indulge in pharmaceuticals until, so to say, "the heat is off", before venturing outside?"

"Naw. I wouldn't give a drom's ass-drip about all dat, it just makes things less boring. That'n I'ma outta the fucking whiteflash. Com wit'me, youse knows youse need the extra juice!"

"While I may need the percussive motion from your flailing about to recharge my batteries, I do not relish the prospect of being abandoned on the streets again, left to have my batteries nearly drain to the point where I would have had to sacrifice large tracts of programming to maintain core integrity. I have calculated that you have odds of 37% of making it to the food vendor alive, and an odds range of 12% to 21% of returning here more or less intact."

*Breeep*

Silence descends upon the apartment rather quickly. It seems even the pervasive music has stopped.

*Breeeeeeeep*

The doorbell's ringing makes Turion highly uneasy, judging from the expression on his face. He finishes picking up the baseball bat, and moves quietly to the door, tapping lightly on the keypad. Even with the apartment's decreptitude, the door has been faithfully maintained, opening silently and without a wind betraying its movement.

A short, young-looking man with pimples on his nose is nervously looking behind him, so he fails to see the extremely menacing pose Turion has taken up. He, though, cannot fail to notice the bat being thrust up his solar plexus, and falls into a wheezing heap.

"Should we not find out his purpose in coming here, Turion?", the bat interrupts as he starts swinging towards the cowering guy's head. The bat slows as it nears the head, and the messenger nearly faints, either in relief or in recognition of his near brush with death.

Turion glares down, his scars stretching into white slits on a black canvas, reluctantly restraining himself. "Yach! What Glass said, what's dis fool doin' here in my hideyhole?"

"I... I.. I was t-t-tttold to come here www-with a message... for you... this cloaked guy gave me a thousand creds and the pass to this apt. He told me to give you this ...datadisc." He looks down at his hands as he speaks, and shakily holds up a small blinking cube, a short indecipherable readout on the front panel.

"Please interface the storage medium to me, Turion. I will access the data."

Turion snatches the datadisc and jams it onto the top of the bat, whereupon a faint crackling sound is audible. Turion turns back and starts licking his chops as he stares again at the messenger. It's clearly palpable what Turion's intentions is, and the messenger can easily guess at it, blanching all the while.

"Turion. Mr. Heavy has called in our debts to him. This message was tagged Ultraviolet, and we must move with all haste out to the deep Wastelands. I will risk accessing the HackNet for neocredits because we will require copious amounts of supplies."

"Eh? Yah, what the fuck is Ultraviolet, and why should I give drom assdrippings?"

"Code Ultraviolet's parameter is - kill the messenger."
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James "Spanners" Hardgrave was a rigger by profession, though where others simply bought the standard HEW or A&W drones, he tended to take his a step further.

At present he was sat in his appartment, in almost pitch darkness, only a single lamp shining down onto the desk in front of him. The entire table was littered with various parts and electronics. And more wires than probably existed in the entire plaza sector of Neocron city. He was hunched over something on the table, which was glowing an eerie purple colour as he gently touched at it with one of his many precision tools. Spanners tended to make his own drones, often from scratch. And he didn't like any of that nanite business either, no construction tools for him, no easy life thankyou very much! Spanners liked to hand-craft each and every one of his drones, so that each one was unique, and better than the last.

His early creations lined the walls, drones he had kept for sentimental value, or just because he thought they looked cool. They were built in his early days, when he first became a rigger. Most no longer functioned, and those which still did were either very faulty, or near impossible to keep a good control over. Some of those around the walls were his crazy experiments, which often worked. The occasional drone with a small manipulator arm, or even what an untrained eye would call a "block with arms". One such unknowing visitor had once called it this, and had left without his arms. Spanners didn't much care for those who didn't care for his creations. Some called him insane, but to him it was simply a passion, something that in the city of Neocron most people sadly didn't have.

Several small drones with manipulator claws were zipping around Spanners' head, occasionally flying off faster than the eye could follow and returning with another insanely small part for whatever it was Spanners was building. They were semi-sentient drones, Spanners had found he could give some small drones such as these a limited AI system, allowing him to control several of them while still retaining control of his own body. He himself peered through a magnifying eyepiece, powerful enough to reveal the very bacteria on his hands, not that there were any at the moment, he insisted on an absuolutely sterile atmosphere while he worked on his drones, not allowing any dust to get into the highly complicated hand-made circuitry, and sealing the drones afterwards.

Over the years he had made many improvements to drone technology, though he would never sell his ideas, not to anyone. The drones he build had to be hand-made, he said, they just weren't the same if they were mass produced. From semi-sentient worker drones, improvements on drone weaponry and maneuverability, and even some whole new kinds of drone, and equipment for use during drone use. For instance, small turrets that could be deployed onto any surface and used to defend the body while more attention requiring drones were being used. On average he could have about 5 or 6 of his semi-sentient drones, or two of his less self controlling units running at any given time.

He almost jumped as his hometerm's moniter blinked on and displayed the new message alert, but caught himself just in time, taking the tiny fusion drive he was about to weld into the drone out again and placing it gently beside. He looked over at his terminal and hit the accept key. His fingers drummed lightly on the desk as the message came up. It was from his old friend and sometimes partner in work, Graver Homax. they worked together very rarely, barely spoke any more. Spanners was to engrossed in his drone tech, and Graver with his vehicles. Though there were rumors of their working together on some things, nothing was proven. Spanners' eyes scanned the message, the servo-drones buzzing about his head like a swarm of angry hornets, as though they were desperate to get back to the drone. He stopped when he saw two things, on the first time the drones around his head stopped moving for a moment, then went back to buzzing around. The names Jorgen Octavia and Kijayle Rhonac, he recognized them, but he wasn't quite sure where from. The second time he stopped one of the drones exploded in a small shower of sparks of metal evaporating. Some of the power sources in those things were...interesting to say the least. He had spotted the reward on the heads of the two fugitives.

Uttering a silent expletive under his breath over the drone, he ordered the remaining ones back to their storage cells and deactivated them. Then, welding in the fusion drive for his latest drone, he took it and his supply pack and set out for the vehicle depot outside Neocron city.
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The oddly luminous wind gusts about in the evening sky. It swirls around a lone runner, hunched over his chaincraft bike. Black smoke spurts out of the bike in regular intervals, very much like the beating of a heart for a living thing. The wastelands this runner is traveling in is eerily empty. Even the trees are almost immaterial here, and they are shorn of greenery. Only one vulture swirls around nearby, and that is because this vulture is very, very hungry, and holds on to faint hope that this new speck of life will end soon.

" Ack! Yach! This is fraked up! Glass, why tha hell didn't we get a better bike?! This thing feels like it's blowing something every second! I can't believe we made it this far on one fuelpack!"

" Calm down, Turion. The chaincraft bikes are known for their reliablity. Another attractive aspect is that they lack any electronic communication transmission capability, which makes it difficult to track us. You do remember that we are still intensely wanted by the NCPD. Throwing grenades at the Stormbots as we left was not the quietest way to leave Neocron City, Turion. That little act of exuberance made this mission much more difficult."

" Frak youse! Cooped up in tha dump wasn't any damn fun! And eating tha rat from the lake wasn't such a FRAKING GOOD IDEA! Gar! I've still got cramps from where tha poisonplant seedling popped me when I sat on it! Shit!"

" You do remember I suggested reading a primer on wastelands flora and fauna before leaving the City. Despite Heavyporker's current occupations, he was a rather fine writer when he was legitmate. I hear his Bestiary is still used by the CityAdmin Education Department."

" Frak youse! And frak him! Hey! We're coming up on something. I see these black birds circling around."

" It may be wise to discreetly investigate. Get nearby and deactivate the vehicle. We do not want to be heard approaching."

" Aw, shaddup."

The scraping of sandy soil being compressed under the treads become muted as the chainbike slows and stops. The wind dies just before the bike is turned off, the luminiosity fading as it quiets. The stillness of the place becomes overbearing, even for Turion, and his fuming, aimless rage shrinks from it.

Turion whips up Glass before getting off the bike, ever alert for danger. He carefully steps towards where the vultures are swirling over. More and more dry wasteland soil opens up to him as he scales the rolling hill. Abruptly, the ground drops away into a steep chasm. It's disturbingly pitch black in the chasm, even in the darkening sky. Even Turion, one whose abused life has dulled any concept of the more subtle senses, is disturbed by the muted malice of the darkness entombed in the chasm.

" Hey, Glass! Wake up youse fracking computer! What the hell is this?"

" I'm not sure, actually. My sensors are not receiving anything from the terresial aperture. I must remind you that my sensors are extremely limited in their sensivity. I will note, though, that there's no ionizing radiation emanating from the aperture at all, even with the elevated ambient radiation. It's also a null zone to my infrared and ultraviolet sensors, which would be impossible, as even my limited sensors can detect heat variations in the surrounding terrain. I recommend extreme caution around this phenomeon."

" So... Glass... whatcha saying is youse know drom assdrippings. Damn long way to say it. This all is too fraked up. I'm going in and findin' out what tha frak this is."
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