Lex De Mortuis
Author: Matthew S. Cox
Date: 2014-09-08 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Paranormal; Fantasy; Cyberpunk; Futuristic
Description: Some soldiers don’t let anything sway them from their mission, not even death from high explosives. Free from her troubled past, Agent Kirsten Wren finds happiness mentoring Evan, a boy with similar talents with whom she soon forms a strong bond. Her efforts to help Dorian settle his past become complicated when a team of corporate “issue resolution consultants” continue their mission to kill a man in the afterlife. Kirsten gets involved when their post-mortem grudge match spills into the realm of the living. At the scene of a surgical explosion that gutted only one floor of a residential towe
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press

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© 2014 Matthew Cox
http://www.matthewcoxbooks.com

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information about Subsidiary Rights, Bulk Purchases, Live Events, or any other questions - please contact Curiosity Quills Press at info@curiosityquills.com, or visit http://curiosityquills.com

ISBN 978-1-62007-602-6 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-603-3 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-604-0 (hardcover)

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2. A Taste of Caller 107, by Matthew Cox
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minous shadows hung in windows, squares of infinity amid flashing chaos. A vibrating nimbus of red and blue glowed upon the face of a freestanding house, perhaps white during the day. Two Division 1 patrol craft and a MedVan sat at the edge of a cul-de-sac, invading the lawn. Kirsten guided the hovercar to a landing just behind the blue-and-whites. The cobalt blue of her bar lights added to the veneer of color on the house, turning it purple in snap flashes. Cold air brought a creaking groan from the wheels as its mass settled in. Her breath frosted as she climbed out of the car, squinting at suburban houses offering a glimpse of the pre-war world.

If not for the paranoia of the Badlands and what dwelled there, only the rich would live at the northeast edge of West City. As it were, bioengineered horrors and rogue cyborgs were expected; what had befallen this house, no one believed. This far into the northeastern edge of the sector map, her Division 0 blacks were far too thin for comfort. She glanced at her left armband display: thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit. The two innocuous digits made the wind on her thighs feel colder. Kirsten let go of the door, which sank closed behind her, taking a step as she surveyed the scene. Dorian coalesced at her side.

This two-story dwelling built on actual ground lay far north of the line where the city plates stopped. At least with the ever-present danger of Badlands wanderers, there were no street gangs. Humanity’s need for violence channeled itself out in local militias, non-governmental groups who patrolled the border against whatever might wander in.

“Funny how that works,” said Dorian. Kirsten lifted an eyebrow, lips parting as if to ask. “In Badlands towns; they man the walls with guns. We’re not as far removed as we think.”

She exhaled into her hands, trying to feel her fingers. The house pulled her gaze away from the northeast. “Nice houses, though, except for that one.”

Distant wails of a panicking child joined the trace of a howl in the air. The windows darkened as if something did not want her to see inside.

The house stared at her

One patrol officer at the end of a walkway leading to the front door assisted a disheveled woman in a plain white sleep suit. Amid the dusk, the fabric appeared to glow azure as it reflected the emergency lights. The effect left its wearer looking apparitional, the exposed dark skin below her elbows and knees faded into the night. Kirsten calmed, realizing she did not stare at a disembodied torso; it was a trick of the light. Little, bloody handprints walked among droplets soaked into her chest. A tiny square of light crept over her face, revealing jagged scratches on her cheek. The medtech at her side maneuvered a hand-held device over one such rip, repairing them one at a time.

Kirsten approached, with one hand on her stunrod to keep it from tapping her thigh. The woman continued pleading in Spanish: with the police, with God, with nothing in particular, for an explanation of why her daughter went crazy. The patrol officer’s confidence shrank as soon as he saw Kirsten’s black uniform.

“What’s the situation?” Kirsten switched to Spanish. “Calm down, ma’am. I am here to help.”

“Got a juvenile female, age six, in the MedVan. The techs are checking her out now, looks like she flipped out and did a number on her mother’s face.”

The woman gathered herself, answering in English. “Something’s gotten into my daughter, Maia. I don’t think the police can help us. Are you a priest?”

Kirsten glanced at the house. “Priests can’t help anyone. Can you tell me what happened?”

“We moved here a few weeks ago to get away from the city. Maia right away started fussing. Whenever we were inside the house, she was quiet, moody, and later, angry. Outside, she was happy like she normally is. The bad dreams started the first night. These past weeks, she has gotten worse every night. Tonight, she woke up screaming and ran out of the house.” The woman pointed in the direction of the road. “She went down the street; I found her in a neighbor’s yard. When I tried to take her inside, the crazy took her.”

“Kid went ballistic, kicking and slapping. She scratched her mother’s face bloody to get away. She did not want to go back in that house.” The officer gestured with his head toward the MedVan. “The kid seems calm now; the medtechs were going to sedate her. Seems like she’s able to keep it together as long as no one tries to bring her close to the house. All the brain scans came back clean. Kid just keeps yelling ‘El diablo está ahí.’ That’s why we called you in.”

The mother pointed at the last of the scratches, vanishing under the creeping light. When the last of it sealed, the medtech squeezed the handle of the toothbrush-sized wand and the glowing light at the narrow end went dark. He twirled it over his finger and clipped it to his belt, dabbed the woman’s cheek clean with a sterile cloth, and walked off toward the glittering white hover-van emblazoned with a red cross.

“Officer, stay with her, don’t let anyone go inside. I’m going to see what the child remembers.”

Kirsten jogged after the medtech, trying to get some heat back in her limbs. The rear doors of the flying ambulance hung open, the interior flooded with stark light from LED bulbs. Another Division 1 officer and a medtech flanked a thin girl. Streaks of blood, grass, and dirt stained her pink nightgown. One bare shoulder peeked out from where the garment ripped during her struggle to flee her mother’s grasp. She kicked her feet idly while a tech tended to her left hand. As Kirsten climbed in, the child looked at her, all innocence. Thick brown hair, long enough to touch the gurney, slipped off her shoulder. A small, rubberized thimble sat over one finger, connected by thin tubes to a device mounted in the wall.

“Agent Wren, Division 0. Is she okay?”

Maia looked down, leaned back, and sniffled. Her eyes reddened as a faint tremble manifested. Being stuck between a wall and three adults seemed to frighten her. The medtech, a short, stocky woman with a touch of grey in her hair, smiled as she continued to remove bits of skin and blood from under the child’s fingernails.

“This lady will make the bad spirit go away. She’s a special kind of cop.” The tech spoke in soothing Spanish as she removed the finger shroud, appraising a shiny new nail.

“Was she hurt?” Kirsten reached over and tugged the blanket tighter around the child.

“She detached two fingernails and broke a toe. Nothing I can’t fix,” said the tech, winking.

Dorian came through the wall behind Kirsten. “There is definitely something in that house. As soon as I went through the wall, I started getting pissed, wanted to kill someone.”

She turned. “Think you can hold it together, or should I go in alone?”

“Well, if it’s what I think it is, it turns inner darkness outward. I don’t think it will do a damn thing to you.” Dorian winked. “You’re packed full of fluffy white bunnies.”

Kirsten rolled her eyes.

“All you Zeroes talk to yourselves?” The Division 1 officer waved a hand over Kirsten’s face.

“My partner’s right there.”

The patrolman stumbled into the gurney; Maia grabbed the cushion to steady herself.

Kirsten squatted in front of the girl and took her hand, mimicking the medic’s calming Spanish. “Hello, Maia. I’m Kirsten. I am going to get the bad thing out of your house. No one will make you go back inside until it’s gone. Can you tell me what you saw?”

The child’s shoulder slipped out as she shrugged it up to the side of her head. Her caramel-hued face hid behind a waterfall of black hair. When she figured the kid was not in a mood to talk, Kirsten adjusted the blanket snug once more and peeked into her surface thoughts. Maia’s voice hid behind the dread of how angry her mother was going to be with her.

“Honey, your mommy is worried about you. She is not angry.”

Maia looked up, shivering, whimpering in English. “I don’t wanna ̓member it.”

Kirsten saw it then, in the child’s mind. Vaporous blackness exuded from under the door of a pink bedroom, gliding up along the wall and collecting at the corner of the ceiling. Malice, pure and hateful, rained down out of the mass at a half-awake girl. All she wanted was to get away from it before it killed her.

“Maia?” Kirsten patted her on the hand. “Do you see a man standing next to me, wearing the same black uniform?”

The patrol officer looked at about where he estimated Dorian to be and crept backwards.

The girl furrowed her eyebrows, wondering if this woman was crazy. Kirsten grinned at the face she made.

“You never saw a ghost before?”

Maia shook her head back and forth in an exaggerated gesture, tossing her long hair around. “No, just the one in my room. He’s mean.”

Dorian waved a hand in front of the girl, eliciting no reaction. “The kid isn’t seeing me. Whatever’s in the house is visible to normal people.”

Kirsten sighed. “Yeah, great. A damn wraith, perfect.”

Clank. The patrol officer knocked something off a table. “What, you Zeroes have categories for this bullshit?”

Sensing the look on Dorian’s face, Kirsten shook her head. “Don’t.” Her gaze switched to the man in blue armor. “Yeah, we do. Please tell me no one went inside?”

“Martinez and Long did a walk-through about ten minutes before you got here; they didn’t find anything. Came out in the middle of a wicked argument about Gee-ball, thought they were gonna get into a fistfight.”

Kirsten ruffled the girl’s hair; the kid’s flat affect did not change. “Aww, come on, Maia. That usually gets me a smile.”

Maia looked down at her lap, shivering.

“She’s terrified,” said Dorian. “If they try to take her back inside, she’ll flip out again. She knows it wants to kill her.”

Kirsten stood, pointing about. “I don’t want anyone attempting to take this girl inside until we get rid of it. She can sense it; she will know when it’s gone. I’ll be the one to go back inside with her when it is safe.”

Dorian flashed a crooked grin. “Wraiths often cause extreme terror in the minds of the innocent. Are you sure you want to go in there?”

“Very funny.” She waved the mother over. “I already told you I’m not as innocent as I look.” Kirsten helped the woman into the MedVan. “Maia is worried you’re angry with her; please stay here with her while I handle this.”

As the woman assured Maia she was not in trouble, Kirsten hopped out of the van and nudged the doors closed to keep it warm inside. By the time she had walked halfway up the path to the front door, the entire house seemed to be breathing, and felt as if it stared right through her soul. Kirsten frowned and held her armband terminal up. Shimmering holographic light formed a square panel in midair above it. Her finger swiped through police records. Over the past hundred years, this property was associated with a large number of domestic violence calls and noise complaints, but no major crimes. Kirsten switched to municipal records, finding the a real estate notice almost once every two years, well below market, and had gone long stints being empty.

“Whoever it was is old. Possibly prewar.”

Dorian rubbed a finger over his mouth. “Think it’s some old crotchety bastard with a problem with nonwhites?”

Kirsten blinked. “A racist, seriously? That would make him over three hun”―she shivered―“I don’t want to think about it. Besides, according to what I’m reading here, the manifestation didn’t get along with anyone who lived here.”

Dorian edged closer to the door. “It concerns me the mother didn’t notice.”

Kirsten let her arm fall; the screen folded in on itself and vanished. “It wants her here, probably intended to get into her head and make her…”

“You don’t have to say it.” Dorian simulated a deep breath.

With the image of Maia’s delicate face and sad eyes fixed in her mind, Kirsten stomped over and shoved the door aside. The walls in the living room seethed with black flames, lapping at the ceiling and making the space feel many times colder. She glanced around; a powerful sense of evil soaked through the drywall, water after a flood. Whispers came from beneath the floor, dread from above.

Dorian moved through a dining room area to the kitchen. Kirsten followed. Ethereal vapor spewed from spectral holes around the walls; she brushed her fingers over one, feeling smooth repair.

She teased at the threads of vapor. “Bullets hit the wall here, after killing someone.”

He pointed at a flimsy white door. “Sounds like they’re still down there.”

Her hand clasped the icy, ancient doorknob. Kirsten cringed at the contact, twisting and pushing. Wooden stairs led into the basement, darkness wavering with ghostly light from an unseen source.

“This house is old. Well, at least I know how the woman got it for only four hundred grand.”

“Yeah.” Dorian touched the wall. “Everything else around here is about a million; the cost would be four times that if they extended the wall this far north.”

Kirsten shut her eyes, concentrating. When she opened them, they glowed white. Color had drained out of the world, replaced by a shifting greyscale environment where spectral copies of surfaces and objects wavered and flowed over reality. Division 0 called it Darksight, the power of astral seeing. By opening her perception to the spirit realm, she illuminated the real world with its ethereal shadow. The strongest sense of energy came from the back. She went toward it, following boot prints of blood that existed only on the other side. The trail led into the kitchen.

Dorian pointed at a small doorway in the corner by the pantry. “Basement.”

In the astral, blood and handprints smeared the bare cinderblock walls along the stairway. Kirsten descended into the damp, musty confines of a frozen basement. The unpainted concrete at the bottom rippled with a massive pool of blood. A man in a black windbreaker, emblazoned with DEA in large yellow letters, stood at the bottom with his back to her. The center of the E had a golf-ball-sized hole in it. Beyond him, a dozen Hispanic men writhed on the ground by the far wall. Hands bound behind their backs with plastic zip-ties, each had a bullet wound in the head.

In various degrees of coherence, they protested in Spanish about how they were not informants.

“Well, I can take a guess what our wraith did for a living.” Dorian chuckled.

Kirsten muttered, “Okay, so it’s not a racist old bastard, just a four-hundred-year-old criminal.”

The DEA man turned, giving Kirsten a view of the entry wound responsible for the hole in his back. Blood, long ago gushed from his nose, blackened his mouth and chin. When Kirsten made eye contact, he jumped back.

“I’m sorry.” She held a hand up.

“I’m DEA Agent Fowler.” He shook her hand. “Got these dozen Mexicans rounded up, not sure where Gonsalves got off to. Slippery son of a bitch. Stupid bastards think we’re focusing on Mexico so much they can truck the junk in through Canada.” He looked her up and down, raising an eyebrow at her clingy uniform. “Little early for the guys to send me a stripper; they could have waited for the after-party. The cop costume is cute, though.” He winked, making a clicking noise.

Dorian turned, covering his face to hide his laughter.

“I’m not a stripper.”

Agent Fowler appraised her again, brown caterpillar eyebrows creeping together. “Except for the boots, that getup of yours looks painted on. I don’t recognize your insignia, and the blinking thing on your hip looks like a prop from Star Trek.”

“I hate to break it to you, Agent Fowler, but you’re not in command of this operation any more. You’re dead.” She pointed at his wound.

Dorian’s eye appeared through it from behind. “That guy had some heavy artillery, maybe a .50-cal.”

“Dead?” DEA Agent Fowler stuck a finger into his chest. “I can’t be dead, I’m still here.”

“Trust me, pal. You’re as dead as I am,” said Dorian, wandering around front. “Fowler, was this Gonsalves guy known to use a large weapon?”

“Yeah, the tool had a Desert Eagle. He loves his action movies. He’s got it all nickeled up with mother-of-pearl grips, too, real pimp.”

Dorian chuckled. “If memory serves, that’s a .50-caliber. They don’t even manufacture those types of weapons anymore.”

“You’ve been dead probably two or three hundred years.” Kirsten waved her arm through him. “See?”

Fowler stumbled to the side, falling seated on the steps with a look of utter disappointment. He remained quiet for a minute or two, then deflated. “I guess that’s why backup hasn’t shown up. It did kind of feel like they were taking their sweet damn time.”

“What happened here?” Dorian paced the line of executed men.

“We got a tip this house was being used as a relay point for the cartels to ship product into the States. Eduardo Gonsalves, a real piece of work. He went by the street name of El Santo de Sangre. We’d been giving them a big headache down south so they tried to do an end run on moose back.”

Kirsten glanced at the walls. “Guess he lived up to his name. Fowler, you don’t have to stay here. I was wrong about the time; if you remember the US, then you’ve been dead about four hundred years. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“He won’t let us leave,” one of the executed men wailed, in Spanish.

“Who won’t?” Kirsten went over to them, switching to Spanish as well.

A few seemed shocked she could see them.

“The Blood Saint, he thinks we ratted him,” said another man.

“It was his daughter, Naida. He couldn’t believe it, so he killed all of us trying to find the traitor.”

“Yeah.” Fowler wandered over, speaking English, though apparently able to understand them. “Local police got a tip from a little girl, said her daddy did bad things. We came in on a joint operation with them, found a few million worth of coke down here.”

Dorian and Kirsten exchanged a look.

“That’s a lot of soda.” Kirsten shook her head.

Fowler blinked at her. “Guess it’s true what they say about blondes, eh?” He elbowed Dorian with a conspiratorial wink. “Cocaine.”

“The hell is cocaine?” asked Kirsten.

“It was a plant derivative narcotic; closest modern equivalent would be Zone4.” Dorian gestured at the executed men. “The wraith is drawing power from them. I can feel him trying to snare me, too.”

Kirsten closed her eyes, calling out.

Dorian nudged her. “You’re wasting your time. They can’t get in here. Gonsalves, or what’s left of him, is too strong. Why do you think these poor idiots are still stuck here? Cartel soldiers? The Harbingers would have been all over them within minutes of their death. Something’s keeping them out and this doesn’t strike me as holy ground.”

“We drag them outside, then?”

Dorian eyed the row of dead men. “Gonsalves is binding them here. I doubt we’d be able to get them out the door.”

A sense of pervasive dread filtered through the wall. All the men stopped muttering. Fowler turned paler. All eyes went to a shadow creeping by the casement window.

Dorian lost his joviality. “Guess they’re still listening to you.”

She exhaled. “Yeah…”

“What was that thing?” Fowler pointed at the window.

“You were DEA?” Dorian chuckled. “Just someone who wants to have a word with you.”

Fowler looked confused.

Kirsten bit her lip. “Right, so, if we can’t drag them outside…” Damn, he’s gonna be strong.

“You could always destroy them.” Dorian folded his arms. “It would weaken the wraith, but…”

She went up the stairs.

“I know you too well.” Dorian chuckled at her before he pointed at Fowler. “You stay here, don’t do anything. You’ve been exposed to him for too long, he could drain you to boost himself.”

Fowler gulped.

Billowy darkness shrouded the walls and ceiling in the upstairs corridor. Orange-pink light leaked in from an open door caddy-corner to the master bedroom. Kirsten advanced with caution, tuning out the residual manifestations of screams, gunshots, and explosions. The smoke clinging to the walls receded from her advance, as if afraid.

“Sounds like a damn war is going on.”

Dorian chuckled. “Imprints from the DEA raid, I bet.”

Kirsten leaned against the wall, edging up to the first door. “What is DEA?”

“Was. Special branch of law enforcement tasked with combatting illegal drugs.” Dorian took a position in front of the door, as if to rush through after she opened it.

She scrunched her face. “Really? They actually cared enough about people getting high to have special cops for them? Old government had too much money, I guess.”

“Well, we still go after Lace labs.”

“Good point, but that stuff is more poison than recreation.”

She nudged the bedroom door open. Maia’s bed lay open and abandoned, stuffed animals and datapads lay scattered about the floor. Dorian advanced to the outside window, squinting at the glare of bar lights. Kirsten went for the closet, remembering the child’s memory, but whirled at the sound of a waterfall behind her.

Thick smoke surged forward, rushing in under the door and slamming it. Kirsten backpedaled, gaze locked on the cloud of darkness gathering in the upper corner of the room. Inky wisps of vapor built and rolled in on themselves, darkening into a thick mass from which extended a pair of phantasmal arms. Wisps of shadow burst from the ends, traced in the shape of claws. A flash of ice came over her, as if a frozen hand clutched her heart and squeezed. The closet door flew open; inside, her mother’s visage appeared. The apparitional woman screeched and flew at her, expanding, wailing. Kirsten tripped over a plush rabbit and landed seated on the bed. Dorian held his head, a dire stare shot in Kirsten’s direction.

She raised her arm across her face, shuddering as the huge, vaporous head washed over her.

A male voice rasped from the dark. “Hey, kiddo, you still hungry?”

Heavy clouds of smoke exuded from the closet, lapping at the rug as if it was the edge of a portal to another world. A vagrant leaned out of the black, waving a dented octagonal can with a pull-strip opening like he was teasing a hungry dog.

“Come on, sweetie. I know you want more. You can pay for it the same way you did the last.” He grinned, reaching into his pants.

Kirsten clutched at her chest, struggling to overpower the touch trying to freeze her heart. She remembered his face, she remembered his stink, and she remembered him being much larger. He did not scare her. The sight of him brought only anger.

Dorian fell to one knee, shaking his head and screaming as he clawed at the rug. He looked as if he could kill someone without a care. Shadow tendrils emerged from the floor and wall, seeping into his essence. He lurched to the right, incoherent rage boiling out of his mouth as he plunged his hands through the side of a wardrobe cabinet. He wrenched it about and hurled it at Kirsten. At the instant of release, a part of Dorian came back to the surface, hanging on and changing the trajectory just enough to miss. Kirsten rolled off the comforgel pad, skidding to the floor amid a rain of child’s clothing.

With a tortured moan, Dorian fell into the wall, punching at it. “Get out of my head…”

Hollow spots appeared at the top of the floating shadow where eyes should have been. Kirsten stood, pulling a tiny dress off her head and flinging it to the side. Scintillating white light formed around her hand and unfurled to its full length. The cloud surged left but was too slow. Around the room, shadows of objects stretched over the floor as the intense light source moved. The lash plunged through the center of the wraith, devoured by darkness. The tip dimmed, flickered, and then intensified.

The holo-terminal on the desk exploded; ceiling lamps gave out. Flashing red and blue light filled the room.

Dorian lurched up, free of its influence. The wraith melded through the wall, with Dorian diving after it. Kirsten scowled at the now-mundane closet before she went for the door, toward the sound of a fight in the adjacent bedroom.

Police hand-to-hand combat techniques went only so far when employed against an amorphous mass of hatred. Each time Dorian tried to pin the wraith, it flowed and stretched through his grasp. Kirsten came through the door just as it twisted about, raking wispy claws through Dorian’s back. He groaned as dark claws pulled white ethereal vapor out of him.

Her first attack feigned high on purpose, to spare Dorian the pain of poor aim. It came close enough to make the specter draw itself away from him. Kirsten leapt through Dorian, spinning into a real strike, snapping the astral whip down on top of the cloud. The thread of white light divided the mass, two smaller clouds hung in space for several seconds. As she drew her arm back for another swing, the creature recoiled, and flowed as a blur of black vapor towards the door.

A flying tackle from Dorian slowed it into a rolling struggle. Clawing at the floor, the wraith tried in vain to reach the hallway as he hauled it back into the room. The mass shifted. One clawed hand shot out of it, spearing up through Dorian’s chest and grabbing his neck from behind.

“Dorian, no!” she wailed.

Color drained from his apparition as he diminished; his body shrank and faded, becoming indistinct. The wraith thickened and grew darker. Desperation surged through her arm as she coiled the lash around and spun it over her head.

Blue-white radiance flickered on the walls as she struck out, screaming.

“Dorian!”

The luminous tendril snapped through the mass, dividing it in half once more.

Dorian grimaced as if he felt the hit. He moaned; the sound came from somewhere far away. With a gasp, he fell limp to the floor on his chest. The wraith slid out from under him and gathered itself into an orb no larger than a skull. The sight of Dorian so weak brought tears of rage, and Kirsten aimed too high. It leapt under the whip, pouncing on her chest, raking and shredding. To a mortal, its claws felt like a rain of icicles.

Her lungs stopped reacting, her heart pounded in her head. She went over backwards; the weight of ten men crushed her into the floor. Ice gnawed at her breasts, face, and gut. For an instant, it paused to glance over its shoulder, raising one clawed hand at something she could not see.

Dorian must be okay.

With the brief distraction, Kirsten infused her body with astral energy, making it solid to ghosts. Threads of frigid ice became sharp blades; warm blood tricked over her ribs. She growled and wrapped her hands around the closest thing it had to a throat, and called the lash.

It had nowhere to go.

Black slime exploded over the entire room. The wraith had vanished, replaced by a drained-looking Hispanic man in his later thirties. She ignored the pain in her side and tackled the disoriented spirit to the ground. With one arm across his neck and a knee in his back, she held him down.

“Don’t give me an excuse, pendejo.”

In seconds, a familiar eerie feeling came over her from behind. She wrenched the spirit’s body around to face the Harbinger hanging in the room, one of the shadows circling the house since she first wanted them to appear. A billowing mass of blackness with piercing, silver eyes, it reached toward the Blood Saint, ignoring her. Six more drifted in through the floor and walls, coming together into a curtain of night that engulfed her. She knew why they were here, but fear came anyway. Cold unlike anything she had ever known washed over her. The dead man’s scream fell silent. When light returned, El Santo de Sangre was gone.

Kirsten lay on her side, shivering. Compared to a swarm of Harbingers running me over, it feels like summer outside. Her chest burned; blood seeped through the undamaged black cloth and stained the rug. Wincing, she propped herself up to check on her partner. One remaining Harbinger hovered by Dorian’s inert form. He had not moved since he fell. She crawled toward him, gathering his motionless body into her lap.

“Please, no.” Kirsten cried, staring up at sparkling silver eyes. “Please, not him.”

irsten’s run loped to a stagger, and then to a halt. She leaned on the side of a building, gasping for breath. The composite plastic helmet enclosed her head in a claustrophobic cage. A dozen-block run left the visor barely transparent, and trickles of perspiration stung at her eyes, ran down her cheek, and tickled the back of her neck. Tactical armor was a new feeling, a new, heavy feeling; the extra weight on her back and lack of ventilation brought her to a standstill.

Deserted, the street held a few abandoned cars as well as fragments of the crumbling buildings on either side. Up ahead, gunfire popped at random from alleys through distant sounds of rioting, sometimes followed by the shriek of a near miss or the howl of a hit. Paper trash skittered by in a faint breeze laced with the fragrance of chemicals and urban rot. Somewhere in the distance, a scream for help echoed; she could not tell if it was a man or woman.

“Civil unrest in Sector 77. All Divisions be prepared to encounter armed aggressors.” The digital voice split through her ears; her entire helmet vibrated with it.

Gathering a couple more breaths, she jogged ahead, E-90 in hand. The sound of fighting grew louder as she neared the alley from which the plea came. Tight against the wall, she paused to prepare herself before whirling around the corner. Four men, jackets emblazoned with gang markings―The Disowned―surrounded another man half a block down. Cowering in a ball, the object of the gangers’ amusement begged for his life, oblivious to Kirsten’s arrival.

“Police, against the wall, now!” she yelled.

The Disowned turned at the diminutive shout; outright laughter stalled at the sight of her laser pistol. Whimpering, the victim crawled away from the stilled onslaught. The four thugs raised their hands, but continued to grin as if they were up to something. Kirsten wagged her weapon to the left.

“Over there, against the wall. Do it.” A flick of her eyes at the helmet visor opened a comm channel. “Dispatch, need a suspect transport. Sector 77, track my signal.”

“Copy that, en route.” A brief static crunch preceded and followed the voice in her helmet.

She eased closer, eyes shifting among the men. “Move, now.”

Kirsten almost shrieked as a boarded up window to her right burst open, covering her with splinters and boards as hands grabbed her by the arm. The E-90 vanished as she went headfirst through the ply-board, landing on her helmet in a cheek slide along the floor of a derelict building. The disorientation of the maneuver left her motionless for an instant, mystified by the echoing clatter of wood in the cavernous empty space.

She snapped out of it in time to notice a man about to drive a heavy armored boot into her side. A quick roll got her out of the way and she scrambled to her feet. He kicked hard enough to lose his footing when he missed. Another Disowned, and huge, he recovered his balance and turned to face her, snarling. Faux-denim vest, white shirt, dark skin, muscular, long black hair. She stared at his green eyes. A punch to the helmet snapped her out of it.

This isn’t fair.

She ducked a telegraphed kick, avoiding it in just the way he expected her to―right into his waiting hands. He hauled her into the air, throwing her chest-first into drywall. She bounced away, and he grabbed her from behind.

Without thinking, she smashed the top of her helmet into his face. His grip weakened; she dropped back to her feet and elbowed him in the gut before spinning into a kick. Her boot caught him across the face. He tottered back, but the hit made him smile.

“Nice form, but you kick like a ten-year-old girl.”

Kirsten growled, pulling the stunrod off her belt and lunging into a wild overhead swing. He caught her wrist and flipped her over. Pain, sharp and brief, foiled her grip on the weapon before she even felt it shooting up her arm as her back hit the ground.

Windless, she fogged the visor of her helmet.

“Dead once,” he taunted.

She rolled upright and backed off, favoring the arm. The urge to knock a few of his teeth out grew strong, but they were so perfect. His face entranced her again.

The cute ones are always so shallow. Plus, he is trying to kill me.

Adrenaline welled up as he came in with a series of rapid jabs. She blocked each in turn, backpedaling to make him advance. The gleam of a knife at his belt took her eyes off his perfect teeth.

The kick caught her blind, in the ribs. She staggered, spraying spittle onto her visor.

“You get angry too easy. Don’t fixate on the weapon; watch my entire body. Watch my eyes. You can’t read where your opponent goes if you fixate. If you give in to rage, you lose your edge.”

I am…

He faked another stab; this time, she blocked the kick. The knife came around the other way, but she got a forearm across his wrist. Her body jerked from the impact of the block, but she kept her grip and torqued him around by it. Stumbling after his trapped limb, he lost the knife and fell to one knee.

“Not bad, but a little more twist on the hand would have incapacitated me.”

Letting his weight take him down, he pulled her into a stumble and kicked her legs out. They rolled away from each other and both stood at the same time. He shook his almost-sprained wrist out as she tried to cradle her left breast through the armor; remembering the wraith claws. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the stunrod a few feet away and went for it.

He leapt at her, distracting her from the weapon. No longer enamored by his looks, she ducked and spun under his arm, wrapping herself around it and flipping him over with a hip thrust. When he hit the ground on his back, she curled her legs around the limb, heel over his throat. If she did it right, she could break his neck.

She chickened out.

The man howled through her attempt at a pain submission hold. She twisted a little harder and he stopped fighting.

Stalemate.

“You’re getting better,” he croaked. “About time to call it for today, I think.”

Tingles spread through her body, riding the forefront of a wave of numbness. Paralysis settled in and she went limp on the concrete. Brightness intensified, washing out the details of the ceiling until all that remained of it was flat white light and grey blobs.

“Simulation: End,” chimed a pleasant, omnidirectional female voice.

The oppressive glow condensed into strong fluorescent bulbs; the concrete softened into a padded chair. Sweat trickled past her ears and cold metal spanned her forehead. Wires jerked her back into the seat by her head when she tried to sit up too fast. Wonderful cool air lifted the sweat out of her thin white bodysuit.

“Ow.” She grasped the senshelmet and pulled it off. “Why am I so damn sore?”

“It’s your brain. Takes it a few minutes to figure out it was all fake.”

The same man, with much shorter hair, came around the side of a console full of blinking lights, gang clothing replaced with a plain, blue-grey Division 2 jumpsuit. Kirsten’s eyes went right to where the lowered zipper exposed some of his chest, just left of the name “Silva” on a tag. She whispered it in her mind, unable to suppress the wry grin at the realization he had embellished his physique in VR.

“You’re improving.” He helped her out of the chair. “Starting to feel more like a sparring match now instead of just me stealing your lunch money.”

She let herself fall into him, taking in the scent of his exertion. Despite the fight happening within a dedicated cyberspace segment, the training had worked them both to the point of needing a shower.

“Thanks for staying late; I really appreciate it.”

He grinned, leaning back far enough to grab a towel from a nearby tray. “Your captain was concerned enough to make the request after the incident with the mercenaries.”

Arms folded over her ribs, she shivered at the memory of clinging to an ad-bot. “I’m not sure this would have helped; that bastard had vibro claws.”

“It’s not much different from a knife, to be honest; the major point being you can’t disarm them.”

Kirsten took hold of his wrist, spinning in a slow-motion jiu-jitsu maneuver so her back was up against him. “So what’s the best way to defend against them?”

“Shoot him before he gets close.”

She poked a teasing elbow into his ribs.

“Oof.” He wobbled with her, a playful attempt to “claw” her with his hand. As she controlled it, he grabbed her belly with his left and tickled.

Peals of laughter came out of her as she leapt away, doubled over.

“Most mercs who install claws do both hands. The best you can do is stay away from them or use a weapon with better reach.”

“Like a sword?” She caught her breath.

“Yeah, that could work, but most police don’t carry them.”

The chair creaked as she leaned into it. “Some of ours do. They’re easier to use on astrals. Bullets don’t have much effect, not a lot of surface area to bind them. How much reach do you get with a sword?” She blushed before he caught the innuendo.

“K, he’s married.” Dorian the Dream-Killer appeared through the wall.

Picking at her ear with her middle finger, she sighed at her teacher.

Gabriel Silva, martial arts instructor for Division 1 training academy. Of course, you’re married. You’re too damn perfect.

“You okay? Looks as if you just got some bad news.” He patted her on the shoulder.

His ring had been obvious the whole time.

“Nothing I’m not used to. I guess I’m just tired.”

“Okay. I’ll see you on Thursday, right? You’re taking to the jiu-jitsu pretty well so far; we can see how you handle some Wushu sword forms next week if you want.”

“Sounds awesome,” she muttered, trudging for the door to the showers.

Dorian winced. “Sorry, I know how you are about getting things out of the way sooner rather than later.”

She slammed the locker open. “He knows I’m psionic.”

“You’ll find someone.”

Kirsten let her arm dangle on the tiny door. “I hope you’re feeling better. I haven’t seen you for two days… Was starting to worry.”

He grinned, holding his arms out. “Like new. Just took a long nap.” The smile fell flat. “Thanks for… umm.”

“I don’t think they’d listen to me about that. Did you ever consider that you’re not on their list after all?” She slipped out of the rubbery, blue training room shoes and put them in the locker.

Dorian gave her his usual big-brother smile. “I find it more comforting to think they listened to you.”

Kirsten pinched the nanomesh clasp at the top of the neck, looking over her shoulder at him as she peeled it open from throat to hip. “Gonna watch me shower, too?”

He held his hands up, shook his head, and wandered off through the wall.

Damn. She let the wet garment hit the ground and stepped out of it. Lonely and a bitch today.

rimaldi’s was the kind of place most people went to in order to make a good impression on whomever they took with them. Armando, or whatever his real name was, suggested the place after a brief chat in a virtual nightclub.

He doesn’t look like an Armando.

Kirsten was not sure what to feel more foolish about: resorting to cyberspace dating, or spending six thousand credits on a shimmering emerald gown that left her shoulders and most of her back bare, and stopped just short of the middle of her thigh. When he turned away, she slipped a hand under it and cradled her chest.

Damn, two days and my boob still hurts. I hate wraiths.

She fidgeted at the hem the whole time she sat; it was longer on the left, with some purposeless strip of cloth trailing to the floor. A few strands of hair that escaped the clip tickled at the nape of her neck, every so often making her grab for a nonexistent insect. Awkwardness pervaded her being; she could not remember the last time she had worn a dress, much less one so short. Most of her effort went toward keeping tabs of how she positioned herself. Lean too far forward, the room got a show; too far back and she remembered how cold the chair was.

Armando seemed nice enough, but she had yet to come clean with him. Every time she thought about it, the silver finish of her high-heeled shoes became quite fascinating. She smiled and nodded at his attempts at conversation. At least he was not the type to drone on and on about his success, or money, or other such trite things. He did mention he worked in technology, some manner of investor or engineer; she had not been paying enough attention when it came up. He had gone over it out front while they waited for a table and she focused too much on feeling stared at.

“… and that’s when I told him we’d have to start over from scratch. The system infrastructure was too… are you all right? Is your foot bothering you?”

Her face grew warm, red. “I’m okay, I’m second-guessing this gown… It’s a bit, um…”

“It’s radiant, matches the woman wearing it. The green sets off your hair.”

More warmth came to her cheeks. “It’s a bit open, not my usual sort of thing…”

You’ll have to show a living man the goods sooner or later. Theodore’s voice mocked her from memory.

“It is fine, Kirsten. You should see some of the trash in Paris these days. They might as well not even bother. Sometimes you wonder how it even stays on.” He sipped his wine, leaning back. “Of course, it’s cyclical. In two years, there won’t be a scrap of skin showing; floppy bags on their heads or some such nonsense.”

She laughed, though could not hide her nerves. A waiter arrived, setting a small bowl of shrimp cocktail in front of each of them, flecked with scallions and shaved cucumber. Kirsten fumbled to get a grip on her fork, again fascinated by the reflection on her shoes.

“You’ve the look of a guilty conscience. Don’t tell me you’re having doubts this early on?” His concern seemed genuine. “Was this an unfortunate choice of location?”

“It’s…” She sighed, losing a staring contest with her shoes.

“Are you sick? Dying?”

“No… it’s―”

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You prefer women?”

She giggled, looking up. “No.” Taking a bite of shrimp delayed her having to keep talking.

“Dangerous ex?” He followed suit, lifting an eyebrow. “Rather good food here. I hear they ship it in from a colony.”

“Pointlessly expensive.” She poked at the next shrimp. “It tastes the same as vat-grown.”

He chuckled. “It tastes a lot better if you have it fresh, loses something in shipping. Have you ever been to a colony settlement? It’s adventurous.”

“No.” Fascinating shoes. “I get enough adventure down here.”

“So what’s got you all mopey?”

She looked into his hazel eyes. “You don’t give me the feeling you’re just trying to get in my pants for a night.”

He coughed, gathering a napkin over his reddening face.

“No… I’m not saying…” She blushed. “That’s what I want. I’m looking for more than a one-nighter.” She lowered her volume when a few people nearby turned. “I want something real, but…”

Armando swallowed, taking a few sips of water to clear his throat. “What’s wrong? Can’t have kids? Leaving the country soon?”

“Is your name really Armando?”

He laughed. “Is that all? It actually is… I changed it a few years ago. I was born Brian, if you want to know. Not very sexy.”

“You’re kind of pale for an Armando; Brian is cute.”

He smirked, finding her assay of him as “cute” a bit deflating.

“I like you, Brian, Armando, whatever. I’ve had a damnable time finding a guy I can trust.” She stared deep into the woven tablecloth, as if some secret to love hid among the threads. “I have to tell you something.”

He tensed. “All right.”

“I have a son.”

The cringe was nigh imperceptible.

“I didn’t have him as a baby. I took him in, a special situation.”

Brian/Armando relaxed. “Oh, well, perhaps I should meet him soon. That isn’t such a big issue.”

“There’s more.” She picked at the shrimp. “I never did tell you about my job.”

He squinted. “Something less than legal?”

Her laugh startled half the room. When the din returned to normal, and her cheeks to normal color, she gazed at him as her last threads of whimsy mixed with sadness. “I’m with the police.”

“Oh.” He bit his lip, shifting in the chair.

Two strikes. Kid, cop. Great. Dammit.

“Well, I suppose… You don’t really seem to be the type of woman involved in that sort of thing.”

So help me, if he says delicate flower… “I’m not a beat cop, I’m with investigations.”

“Oh, well that’s better, I think? You don’t get shot at so much?” He took a sip of wine. “I’m not sure I would be able to cope with wondering if you came home each night.”

She lifted her glass to her lip, enough to smell the wine, but hesitated. No, I just get blown off the eleventh story of parking garages. “Not so often. I usually deal with people after they’re dead.” Damn it, K, just spit it out.

Last shrimp gone, he had another sip of wine, and smiled while dabbing at his lip with the napkin. “So you’re a homicide detective? You must have some stories.”

Kirsten stared at her appetizer shrimp cocktail, compliments of the house. She took in a deep breath. Better now than after I get attached. “I’m with Division 0.”

The expected cough, the same chest patting, the usual lifted brow. “There’s a zero?”

“Yeah, it’s small, there’s not many of us. I’m ps―” A well, or ill, as the case may be, timed shrimp muffled the last bit.

“Pardon?”

She chewed it like gum. The longer it took to swallow, the longer she could entertain the fantasy this one would be different. He wouldn’t be the same as all others. Adventurous. “I’m psionic.”

“I see.” Color drained out of his face.

The lip bite, the shift in posture, interest became trepidation.

Figures. What would his family think if he brought a psionic girl home?

“I don’t mess with people; I just see ghosts and such.” She flashed a hopeful smile, trying to look as innocent as she could. A cat hoping its owner adored a dead mouse.

Lips twisted into the bastard child of a grimace and a smile. He gazed off at the windows.

Great. Too innocent, now he’s looking at me like I’m jailbait. Cop, has a kid, psionic, three strikes.

“Do your parents know you’re one of… those?” He slipped a hand into his pocket, trying to be subtle.

“Yeah. Dad’s okay with it, Mom… not so much. She won’t be a problem, but I have a feeling it’s a bit late for that.” She gave up on her last shrimp. “You don’t have to fake the emergency call; you can just run away screaming now if you want.” Adventurous my ass.

Hand came out. “Look, Kirsten, it’s not…” He fidgeted. “You said you have a child to look after and that’s important, and you’re a cop… My dad’s not big on government, the whole nanny state thing, you two wouldn’t get along.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. We are not all dangerous… I mean―”

Armando/Brian/Douchebag stood up. “I’m sorry, Kirsten. You are really very pretty and… I just don’t see any kind of future mingling genes with a psionic. I’m sorry for wasting your night.”

As if it’s a damn choice… Go to hell, Armando/Brian/Asshole.

She watched his blur slide over the toe of her silver shoes as he went for the door without looking back. Warmth came to her face as she bristled with yet another rejection. Why do people hate us so much? I did not choose to be born this way. She could pick into his brain, find some embarrassing tidbit and scream it at the room to get him back for how he made her feel. No, that would prove him right. That was what they were all afraid of―no secrets.

The host gave her departing date a strange frown, and looked in her direction. He appeared to be paying particular attention to Kirsten’s half-empty wine glass. By the time he arrived at the side of the table, she had her ID out.

“I’m twenty-two, and a cop.”

He bowed. “My apologies, miss. You―”

“Have a young face, yeah… I know. Is it too late to cancel one entrée?”

After a glance at his datapad, a pained grimace. “I’m afraid your meals are already being plated.”

Of course. Now I have two dinners I don’t want to eat.

“Can you please just wrap it to go?”

The man drew a breath, shifting side to side. “Our presentation is exquisite, miss. Our food does not travel well and we would rather not sully our reputation with a substandard experience. We are not a take-out establishment. If―”

“Fine, whatever.” Kirsten lacked the energy to get angry at his fluffed-up offense. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He bowed, backing away as she stood. She wobbled halfway across the dining area, firm in her regret about wearing high-heeled shoes. Most of the room watched her rendition of an ostrich on ice, trying to balance on the alien torture devices. Humiliation piled on top of indignation and depression, a three-way wrestling match to determine how she felt at being dumped again. The added weight was too much for the ungainly footwear, and she wound up on the floor.

The dining public turned away, affording her a tiny bit of reclaimed dignity. Anger swirled, and she tugged the straps off her ankles and stood, barefoot, with the damnable things tucked under her arm. The frosted glass door to the ladies’ room slid out of her way, and once inside the protective shell of a private area, tears came out in force. Before anyone else could find her, she ducked into a stall and locked the door.

A few minutes later, the sobbing passed. She looked up from mascara-covered hands at the impressionistic watercolor beach painted on the partition, wondering if anyone heard her. A few deep breaths helped regain her composure, and she got up and went to the sinks. The autoflush startled a shriek out of her. Mascara dabbed away, she glared at herself in the mirror.

“Screw him. I don’t need an idiot like that.” A few passes of her fingers got her hair back to rights. There was no need to replace the eyeliner. “Someday I’ll―”

A familiar smell, flannel and cheap cologne.

“Dad?”

His face came through the door with a tentative peek. Seeing no one else inside, and his daughter decent, he walked up to her and put an arm through her.

“Oh, dammit.” She closed her eyes, and made herself solid to ghosts. “You are still around…”

Her father rubbed her back. “Are you okay, hon?”

“Nothing I haven’t been through already.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the towel. “I don’t give a crap about him. It’s just…” Kirsten leaned both hands on the counter, staring down at her toes. “…I’m so tired of being hated for what I am. I didn’t ask to be different.”

“You’ll find someone, and I’ll be here for you until you do.”

She hugged him, letting his presence dispel her building self-pity. For a few minutes, she lost herself in his company. If I was normal, he would not have run away from me, spent so much time traveling. Just as self-pity tainted the moment, the faint chirp of the outer door made her stand upright. She held his hand, attempting not to look too strange as two women entered. She fumbled at the sink, hoping they did not notice her holding thin air. They paid her no attention and went toward the back stalls. She gathered her shoes, purse, and father, and padded back to the table.

The food had arrived in her absence. She fell into the round white cushion of her seat, dumped the shoes unceremoniously in a heap, and smirked at the orecchiette pasta dish she had, up until a few minutes ago, thought looked amazing. She picked at it while her father sat in the abandoned chair on the other side.

“What the devil did that idiot order?”

She shrugged. “No idea, something with little squid. Sorry I gave you a hard time about the PubTran.”

“It’s all right, I’m not going anywhere till you don’t need me anymore.” He glanced at the door. “Why don’t you call that Templeton fellow? He didn’t seem very worried about your gift.”

A few people turned to look at her sudden bout of coughing. Most attributed the redness on her face to issues involving lack of air. The host returned to check on her. She nodded and waved him off.

“Dad… he’s… just…”

“What?”

She wiped her chin. “I dunno, a little… old. He’s thirty-six.”

Her father laughed. “You looked at his file?”

Now Kirsten could not maintain eye contact. “No… Yes… but, he showed me his ID, I already knew.” Her eyes lifted until she pouted at him. “You don’t have to linger if you don’t want to.”

“Nonsense, hon. It’s the least I can do.” He reached across the table, squeezing her hand as soon as she made herself tangible again. “No guilt, Kirsten. You’re not keeping me here. I want to be here for you.”

“I should have tried to call you, but I was afraid of Mom.”

“Shame about that Dorian fellow.”

She stared at her toes, finding them far less mesmerizing than a silver shoe. “Yeah… I” ―she waved at the waiter―“You just gave me an idea.”

Her father tilted his head. “But he’s a spirit.”

“Please, can I get these wrapped, I have to leave.”

The waiter nodded.

“No, not with Dorian… about him.” She thumbed her NetMini and glared at the hateful shoes.

Ten minutes later, Kirsten waited at the curb with three hundred credits worth of high-end Italian take-out under one arm, and a hundred credits worth of cheap shoes below the other. Her father stood with her until the PubTran cab squeaked to a halt.

he driverless taxi rolled to a halt under a covered walkway. The main door of an apartment building, identical to a thousand others around it in almost every way except for the people inside, waited at the far end. She darted across a floor of cold plastisteel into the lobby, a somewhat-warmer arrangement of resin tiles decorated in an off-putting shade of pale maroon verging on puke.

From a distant hallway, small children yelled. The sounds of play brought a smile to her face and made her forget all about what’s-his-name. A Class 1 doll jerked upright in the only chair behind the reception desk, ready to interact with Kirsten should she approach. Cast in the image of a twenty-something brunette in a neat uniform, it pivoted to face her. Its rigid face molded in a permanent smile, mechanical eyes whirred wider in an effort to appear welcoming. Traces of light from the AI core in its skull leaked through seams behind the ears and gaps around the mouth. She found it creepy. The smoldering fragrance of dust baking off electrical contacts surrounded it.

Kirsten went to the elevator door, fumbling to keep her shoes under her arm as she hit the call button. The faint pat-pat-pat of her impatient foot drew the attention of a brown-furred dog from a back hallway. Lime green numbers ticked down in front of her. A handful of people trickled in from the street: commuters arriving home from work. The curious animal darted out of sight at the arrivals. She sent a pout at the vomit-colored tiles, feeling extra stupid for wasting a day off on Brian/Armando. The crowd distributed itself among the six elevators. When the doors at last opened, an older Chinese man, a woman who appeared to be his wife, and a young black man joined her in the cab.

The Asian couple offered her a pleasant nod, and continued talking about their daughter’s impending wedding. The young man checked Kirsten out with chivalrous subtlety, but she still noticed. She smiled at him, for a moment considering giving up on her intended destination to split the food with him instead.

The door chimed and closed, the cab shuddered into motion.

“Hi.”

“Hello yourself.” A slight bow. “Lawrence.” He made a humorous gesture of an impossible handshake, noticing her arms were full.

Hmm. Surface thoughts check out, thinks I’m cute in a barefoot-waif kind of way. “Kirsten.”

Lawrence leaned against the railing. “You live here?”

“No, visiting someone.”

“You’re gonna break my heart, aren’t you?” He winked. “A guy?”

“No, my partner’s ex-partner.”

His face froze in a look of confusion for a moment. She couldn’t help herself, still eavesdropping. “No, partner as in cops, I don’t have a girlfriend.” Shit. Play it off his face. “Couldn’t help but notice that look on your face.” She loosed an impish giggle. Dammit, don’t lie.

His cologne wrapped around as he leaned in. “Heh, so you’re a cop? You don’t look like one.”

“I’m more of an investigator.” Get it over with. “Division 0.”

“You one of those psionics?”

“Uh-huh.”

Lawrence edged to the corner; a wary look stiffening his features. She closed her eyes into a sigh. The older couple glanced at him, at her, back to him, and then started chuckling. The cab stopped, the older couple got out. He eyed the hallway, debating.

“Just because I’m psionic doesn’t mean I’m going to attack you.” She looked up at him.

He cleared his throat and tried to act casual. Lawrence needed acting lessons.

Kirsten got off on the thirty-ninth floor, scowling at the sigh of relief behind her that fell short of being silent. Not worth it to make a scene, just let it go. When she reached apartment 3918, she had almost stopped grumbling.

A tiny speck of chromatic light appeared at the center of the door, at head level, a moment after she toed the doorbell.

“Umm… I think you have the wrong door.”

“Nila Assad?”

A transparent holographic bust with coffee-colored skin faded in above the speck. “Yes, do I know you?”

“I’m Kirsten Wren, umm. Agent Kirsten Wren, Div 0 I-Ops.”

The ethereal eyes looked down then up. “Did they alter the uniform since I’ve been on leave?”

“No.” She grinned. “I just had a bad date. Can we talk?”

Darkness washed over the door in the absence of the projected face; a second later, it opened with a puff of air. Nila was taller than Kirsten expected, forcing a bit of an upward tilt in her neck to maintain eye contact. Tank top with no bra, sweat pants, barefoot on thick carpeting―just looking at her made Kirsten jealous of the comfort. The apartment was full of the smell of child, a presence in the air she had come to find soothing. On the way to a plain white table, they shared complaints of high heels and wished ill fortune upon whoever had invented them.

Kirsten offered a plastic carton, the mass of red sauce, pasta, and squid sloshed to the side. “Do you like seafood? The idiot got this, he left before it ever showed up.”

“Never had it before… Is it any good?” She sat and flipped the lid open, sniffing at it. “I could ̓sem something for Shani; she’ll probably be mad at me, but this smells wonderful. Wow, there’s so much of it, I’ll split it with her.”

“It should be. It was a hundred and thirty nine credits.”

Nila coughed. “Jerk.”

Kirsten leaned on the table, propping her head on her arm. “Yeah. I’m getting used to it.”

“So what brings you here with expensive charity seafood?” Nila chuckled, and retrieved a couple of plates and some forks from the kitchen.

“It’s about Dorian.”

Smash.

One plate dead, one clamped in an awkward stance to her thigh. Forks bounced onto the rug. A little girl of about seven ran out from a back hallway, gaping at the broken plate. Silver sensgoggles clung to a thick mass of dark brown hair; cheeks flickered in light cast off from a paused video.

“I’m sorry.” Kirsten fell to her knees, gathering bits of broken flatware.

“No, please… I’ll get it. You’re a guest.”

Shaking, Nila set the remaining plates on the table, cleaned up the mess, and returned with new forks. The girl clung to the corner of the hallway, trying to bore a hole in Kirsten’s chest with her eyes.

Nila sat. “What about him?”

“I’m an astral sensate and―”

“Oh, God. Is he still here? Has he come to see me?”

Kirsten leaned against the chair. “Uhh. Okay, that was easier than I expected. Usually people don’t believe me.”

“I’m not a civilian.” She tasted the food, curiosity became confusion, and then her eyes narrowed as she chewed.

She must like it. “Yeah, but even a lot of Zeroes seem to draw the line at ghosts.” She stabbed a forkful of pasta. “I don’t know if he’s come here; I’m pretty sure he hasn’t, he doesn’t want to bother you.” This is pretty good. Kirsten nibbled. “I don’t want to upset you, but he’s beating himself up because of guilt. He’s taken the blame for messing you up.”

The child squinted at Kirsten, darting out of sight as soon as she tried to look at her. Nila pulled one foot underneath her on the chair and nudged closer to the table.

“Shani’s afraid they will send someone to make me go back to work and get killed.” Nila doled some food onto a plate for her daughter. “Are you here to talk me into going back?”

“No, I just wanted to see how you were doing. Dorian’s kind of become my partner now… in an odd sort of way. He’s attached himself to the car.”

“Shani, come, eat.” Nila held the second plate out. In a moment, a little face peered around the corner once again, locked in a terrified stare at Kirsten.

Kirsten averted her eyes; she could not handle a child looking at her that way. Afraid. She poked at her pasta. Shadows crept across the floor as Shani risked getting close only long enough to grab the plate and run into the back hallway.

“She’s not afraid of you. She knows you’re with the department.” Nila’s fork poked into the food twice, twirled, and then rose an inch. A tiny C’thulu balanced atop linguini for an instant before slipping back to the plate. She impaled it. “I cheated death, I know. I don’t want to get killed. I know it’ll happen if I go back.” The fork twisted, tiny tentacles mesmerizing. “I should have died with him.”

“He thinks it’s his fault for pulling into the front lot so fast, as if it was just another warrant run on some low-grade suggestive con man.”

“Neither one of us expected laser rifles. He had a handful of former ACC mercenaries from Mexico. Rene was up to his neck in some crap for them, working for some heavy equipment corp. He turned his bodyguards into fanatic servants.”

Kirsten held a hand up, trying to chew faster. “Mmf. No, it was organized. Exotech was a front. Rene had syndicate connections… I should say he was using them, too.”

Nila blinked. “Do they know that?”

“Not as far as I could find out, but it probably wouldn’t be too healthy for Rene if they did.”

“D-Nine should already be looking for him; he killed a cop,” said Nila.

“You sure you’re okay? He’s worried about you, even though he won’t admit it.”

Nila leaned her head back and stretched to exhale. “I don’t want to die. I’m happy here at home with Shani, where we are safe.”

Kirsten studied the remnants of her food. Don’t tell her he had feelings for her, that will hurt more. “He thinks your nerve broke.”

“I’m fine. I’m still on psych leave, still getting paid. I could do some consulting I guess, but I can’t go back out there…” Nila gazed through the vertical blinds at a stream of hovercars; bands of light crawled across her face.

The thousand-mile stare.

Kirsten sulked at her lap. “I shouldn’t have come here, this was a bad idea. I’m sorry if I got you upset.”

Nila shook it off, flashing a nervous smile. “I’m not angry at Dorian. Like I said, we had no idea Rene had laser rifles, or soldiers. The armored windscreen didn’t do a damn thing. All I remember was orange light, smoke, flying bits of glass… Then I woke up in a gel tube.”

“I’m not fond of those tubes. So embarrassing.” Kirsten reached across the table to grab Nila’s hand. “Even if they are doctors.”

“It’s not too bad after a while. Compared to the academy, it was no big deal.” Sensing Kirsten’s confusion, Nila laughed. “Tactical goes through military boot camp. Co-ed showers, co-ed bathrooms.”

Kirsten blushed at the thought.

“Trust me, hon. No one is thinking about sex for thirteen weeks. Even if they are, they’d be too tired to do a damn thing about it.”

Kirsten offered an uneasy laugh and finished the pasta, pondering the unusual fear in Nila’s face.

“My mother used to rip my dress off and spank me in front of her friends. They all found it hilarious. I don’t know if it’s that or not knowing how many pervy ghosts stare at me when I sleep.” Give a little, maybe I’ll get a little. “I’m really uncomfortable with the whole lack of clothing thing.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. She was a psychotic bitch, thought I was the spawn of the Devil. Do you really think there’s a grim reaper waiting for you at the squad room, checking his watch?”

Nila shifted in the chair and put her leg down, fidgeted, flashed a false smile, and then broke out in a cold sweat.

“Mommy…” The little girl ran over and clamped onto her mother’s arm, glaring at Kirsten.

“It’s okay sweetie, she isn’t going to make me go back. She’s just a friend of a friend.”

The girl continued her glare, standing in front of Nila as if to guard her from death. The best disarming smile Kirsten could muster did little to dent the overt hostility in the tiny dark eyes pointed at her.

“Look, Nila, forget I even brought it up. I was just trying to help Dorian feel better and get over some of his guilt. I didn’t want to hurt you or your daughter. If you ever need any help at all from me, here.” She swiped at her NetMini, sharing her PID. Across the room, Nila’s device chimed. “Just call, okay?”

As she went to stand, the girl bolted, running away as if about to be hit. Kirsten frowned, offering an apologetic look.

“Don’t take it personally. She’s like that with anyone from the department, thinks they’re going to drag me out of here to my death.” Nila walked her to the door. “Thanks for the food. Tell Dorian it’s not his fault, and I’m fine.”

isps of steam carried the beautiful fragrance of coffee through the car and around Kirsten’s face. She adored it; at the same time, she hated it for overpowering the scent of Evan’s just-washed hair. Dorian shot her a longing glance as she sipped it, shifting to gaze with boredom at the pedestrians outside. Whenever someone noticed the black patrol craft and aborted jaywalking, he laughed.

“If you want a taste you can jump in for a moment.” She sipped again.

He waved her off. “That’s okay. It would feel too awkward having boobs. I wouldn’t even notice the coffee.”

She snorted it.

While she rummaged for napkins in the Nippy-Nom bag, the comm crackled to life. Captain Eze’s holographic head appeared.

“Agent Wren, I see you are having little success with your endeavor to learn how to breathe coffee.”

Kirsten tried to laugh; it just made her choke more. Dorian laughed enough for both of them.

“There’s a 21-11 in progress at the Hoyt Towers in Sector 204.”

Head tilted back, she gasped a few breaths and blinked the tears out of her eyes. “Think it’s a telekinetic or an actual?”

“I’m hoping you will answer that.”

“Understood, sir. I’m on my way.”

His bright smile gleamed for seconds before his head vanished.

“The man has exquisite timing.” Dorian settled into the seat.

A rearward tug on the left control stick caused the patrol craft to rise straight up. Right stick twisted right, the car’s nose followed suit.

“Interesting,” said Dorian.

“What?”

“You have the lateral control on the twist and the roll on the stick. Most people do it the other way around.”

Kirsten shrugged. “I never played video games. Was too busy digging through trash bins for food.”

Dorian gazed at the roof. “What’s got you in a mood?”

Foot forward, the car lurched up to two hundred. She hit the lights. “I spoke to Nila last night.”

He snapped around to look at her. “What? Why? I asked you to leave her alone. She’s delicate.”

Left stick left, the car slid sideways, right stick right; it rolled into a banking turn around a building. The overall effect resembled skidding through a corner. “I had a bad date.”

“Do you ever have good ones?”

Three hundred miles per hour.

“You drive like you’re in a video game,” he grumbled, clinging to the seat. “Okay, sorry. Please slow down.”

“What do you care, you’re already dead.”

An ad-bot whizzed by so close the car passed through the hologram.

“Whoa! Dammit woman, slow the hell down. I may be dead, but you are not.”

She let off on the pedal. “Nila’s not delicate. She’s guilty. She thinks she’s next, thinks she cheated death somehow, and he’s waiting for her.”

Dorian grunted through a hard left. “That shouldn’t have pissed you off like this. Or upset you. Who did what to a kid?”

Kirsten’s grip eased off on the sticks. “Shani. Nila’s daughter. She stared at me as if I was some kind of killer there to take her mother away.”

She hung a sudden right into an uncharted tunnel. Horizontal blocks of steel and glass joined numerous buildings along a two-block area, creating a three-dimensional maze ordinarily off limits to hovercar traffic. The route plot arc, a yellow ribbon on the NavMap, twisted and unkinked into a straight line as she came out the other side, back into mapped area. Dorian emitted uneasy noises as she leveled off and pushed forward on the left stick, causing the car to drop like a stone.

“Oh, come on. You don’t have a stomach to get sick with.”

That wry grin she loved/hated so much curled his lower lip. “You seem more confident since you’ve been going through the hand-to-hand training.”

“I won’t crash. You should have thought of something else for a focus than a patrol car. Bit less risky.”

“I tried.” Dorian gestured with a dismissive wave. “Rene’s mercs didn’t seem too inclined to laser me to death at home on my couch. I think there’s some bits of me in your chair still.”

The car swung through the aperture of an enclosed roof parking deck aiming for a landing in the emergency lane. Kirsten tugged up on the stick, buying just enough time for unfolding wheels to accept the car’s weight. A gasp of coolant fogged out from beneath as the hover unit powered off, drowning out the sigh sliding through her teeth.

“Sorry. I’m being shitty.” She turned to face him. “Something’s bothering me about Nila, and I’m―”

“Really pissed off, yeah I got that part.” He shook his head before dissipating into a cloud of mist that reformed standing outside. “Question is, at what?”

Kirsten took a breath, let it out, and shoved the door upward. Motionless until the soft hiss of its ascension ended with a thunk, she climbed out and stared at his belt. “I’m pissed Rene got away with killing you and turning Nila into a civilian afraid of her own shadow; never mind the effect it had on Shani.”

He looked off to the side. “I’ll find him sooner or later.”

“By the time you are strong enough to be a threat to him, he’ll be dead.”

Now Dorian wore the pissed-off face.

“Excuse me, young lady. You can’t leave your car there.” A middle-aged Asian woman in an expensive suit approached from the door of a small office.

“Please stand back, ma’am. I’m responding to an emergency call at this address.”

“You don’t look like the police. They don’t have black cars, and they don’t wear black uniforms. Are you filming?”

An orb droid the size of a fist whirred out from behind her, clicking and beeping as it recorded still images of Kirsten, the car, and the area.

“Go back to your office; I don’t have time to explain. Call it in if you want, this is a Division 0 investigation.”

“Wait… the psionics?” The woman blinked.

Here we go. “Yes. Please let me―”

“Oh, my! You’re a real psionic? What’s it like? Were you born that way, or did you decide to become psionic later?” The woman poked and pawed at Kirsten, enamored by just touching her. “Can you read my mind? Do you know what I had for dinner last night? Can you tell what my son’s name is?”

In Kirsten’s imagination, the woman was in an arm bar, bloody nose pressed to the hood of the patrol craft. In reality, she smiled. The overbearing curiosity was almost as bad as fear.

“Mrs. Koga, I really must insist you get out of my way before someone gets hurt. I am sure Jimmy is fine, and the tempura was amazing. Now please.”

With the grin of someone who had just met a holovid star, the parking manager raced back to her office.

“Admit it, you enjoyed that a little bit.” Dorian fell in step at her side.

The elevator followed a central shaft through the building. Down seven floors, it opened to reveal a large atrium chamber. Each of the four walls contained the front face of a huge apartment made behind the façade of a freestanding house. Shimmering holo-projectors created the image of open sky along the ceiling; and judging by the existence of drains, it simulated the weather.

A giant flowerbox of sorts surrounded the elevators, separated at the center of each side by a path to the courtyard. On the west side of the garden, a black man in a silk suit stood near a woman in an ivory-colored gown. Between them, a girl of about twelve sat on the edge of the garden in a smaller version of her mother’s dress. Mother and daughter had their hair up, held in place by an interlocking arrangement of delicate silver strips. All three were thin, with high cheekbones. The daughter stared with a sullen face at the ground; her father appeared on the verge of screaming. It seemed only the mother’s presence had prevented an all-out war.

“Careful,” said Dorian. “I know how you get around rich people. You’re already in a bad mood; keep it professional.”

“Good morning, Mr. Greene. We got a call about possible paranormal activity? I’m Agent Wren, Division 0.”

The man nodded at her, reluctantly accepting a handshake that ended as fast as he could. “I am worried my daughter might be psionic. I need to know so we can get her fixed.”

Mrs. Greene glared. The girl sniffled.

“Excuse me, fixed?” Kirsten fumed.

“Well, you know.” He waved his hand in a rolling gesture. “Cured. I’ll not have psionics in my family.”

“It’s not a…” goddamned “…disease, or a choice. You’re either psionic or not; it doesn’t just happen out of the blue one day.”

“It’s not the sort of thing this family needs associated with it. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Kirsten…” Dorian put a hand on her shoulder.

She closed her eyes and let the air out of her lungs. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“Well, things have been breaking. Plates, holo-bars, her younger brother’s toys flying around.” The mother explained symptoms reminiscent of a classic poltergeist.

“I found it online… Sometimes this happens around twelve or thirteen with girls.” Mr. Greene’s eyes bulged ever so slightly from his skull. “Most times it goes away, but it’s only getting worse.”

The daughter shuddered, her body language apologizing for her existence.

“It’s just as common for boys, Mr. Greene. Girls are just more sympathetic in movies. Where is your son?”

“He’s at my mother’s.” The woman spoke up. “He was not taking the disturbance well. Before you ask, no, it did not stop when he left.”

Kirsten approached the daughter. “Hi, sweetie. Can I bother you for a minute?” She turned to Mr. Greene. “Shall I assume if she is psionic you’ll no longer want her and I’ll be taking her back to the dorm?”

The girl burst into tears, covering her face with both hands.

“You can assume if the son of a bitch does that, I’ll be taking my daughter to a new apartment, without him.” Mrs. Greene put an arm around the girl who leaned into her, glaring up at her father with hurt eyes.

Kirsten liked Mrs. Greene.

“Alexis. Will you please look at me?”

Alexis Greene wiped her cheeks dry, swallowed, and did as asked. Kirsten gazed deep into her soft brown eyes, past the all-too-familiar shame. The young girl’s surface thought chatter swelled and faded as she dove deeper, probing for the telltale signs of psionic ability. Dorian waved his hand past the girl’s face, getting no reaction whatsoever. After a few minutes of concentrating, Kirsten straightened up and turned to face the parents.

“Well, there is a problem. But it’s not Alexis.”

“What is it?” Both parents asked at once.

You’re a miserable excuse for a father. She forced a neutral look. “She is not psionic in the least. That means you have an actual spirit in your house.”

Mr. Greene flashed a broad smile at his daughter. Alexis glared, having none of it.

Dorian wandered around the garden, standing behind the women of the family, smiling at Mr. Greene.

“A spirit? Like a ghost?” Mr. Greene’s voice went up in time with his eyebrow. “You don’t honestly expect me to bel―”

Mr. Greene turned into Mr. Grey.

Kirsten looked at the streams of color-lit water in the fountain, trying not to laugh in front of them. By the time Mrs. Greene and Alexis turned, Dorian had ceased his manifestation. Mr. Greene walked without a sound to take a seat next to his wife, staring into space.

“I could help you with this issue, but, seeing as you don’t want psionics in your house, I suppose I’ll just go back to the station.”

Mr. Greene raised his hand. “Wait. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to the daughter you were ready to throw away for being different.” Dammit.

Dorian winced.

He looked up with a numb expression. “It’s been crazy.”

“Don’t make excuses, make amends. You realize you basically just told me that I am a sub-class person.” Kirsten turned, took two steps, and stopped. “Which one’s your apartment?”

Mrs. Green pointed; her husband studied the ground.

Kirsten walked to the door, tapping a police override code into the holographic display above her forearm. A chime came from the panel on the wall and the doors slid open with a soft squeak. Dorian went in first, smiling back over his shoulder.

“You handled him pretty well. Are you okay? That seemed a little too close to home.”

The living room had a few items out of place: a small vase on the ground leaking water, holographic picture bars knocked askew, and a spilled bowl of decorative nuts. The kind of irregular and strange-looking objects people leave in bowls on tables to look nice, not for eating. Carvings of wildlife flanked the primary holovid player, a life-sized wooden jaguar on the left, a majestic elephant on the right.

“Yeah, I’m not dwelling on that bitch anymore.” She moved into the dining room, whistling at an onyx table big enough for twelve. “I think I’m going to find Rene.”

“You don’t want to get mixed up with him,” he said, shaking his head.

A jade lion flew from a shelf, missing her by an inch. She whirled, just in time to see a spectral smear vanish into an enormous animated electronic painting of a nebula.

“Yeah.” She ran after it, down a corridor among bedrooms. “I do. He hurt you.”

Dorian went wide, going through the wall. She skidded to a halt by the door to Alexis’s room, judging by the holo-posters. Inside, Dorian rolled on the ground atop a suspension of white vapor. The apparition had a defined head as well as two hands, with little more than smears of fog between them. Human at a basic level only, the shape of the head hinted at male. It punched at Dorian’s chest; his smirk called it a minor nuisance.

“He’ll have lackeys again. You will hesitate before killing them, since they’re just dominated.” He grabbed it about the neck, trying to hold its bobbing head up, a lead weight atop a noodle. “Lash it.”

The spirit went wide-eyed, and a teen’s entire collection of concert holodisks rippled from wall-mounted shelves at her. Kirsten held up a hand to guard her face, but yelped and dove to the side when several hit her hard enough to break skin.

“Ow, son of a bitch.” She touched a cat scratch on her cheek. “I can suggest them to go away.”

“What do you plan to do with him once you catch him?” The sound of punching emanated from the room. “Command is quite wary of suggestives.”

The flurry of objects subsided, and she whirled into the doorway. Threads of poltergeist wrapped around Dorian, making a clean strike impossible. “They’re not fond of mind blast either. Yay for me I can do both. We take him in alive, he can’t suggest anything with an inhibitor on.”

Dorian flew into the ceiling, causing a lamp made of three rose-shaped LED bulbs to flicker. An assault of school-issue datapads fouled Kirsten’s aim. The spirit wisped through Dorian’s fingers and darted into the next room. He reformed on his feet, chasing after it.

“I don’t want to take him alive,” he yelled, from the other side of the wall.

Kirsten circled through the corridor into the next room, apparently decorated for a small boy. Dorian, again, had tackled the spirit, but it slipped through his arms and dove at Kirsten. She performed a perfect jiu-jitsu grapple on cold air, reacting with instinct before thinking. The stunrod on her belt turned itself on, and tapped her in the knee.

The rug tasted like foot.

When the flashing blue left her vision, she spat carpet fibers out of her teeth and growled. Pain cascaded in ripples from her right thigh; the stunning effect of the neural shock set her muscles twitching. She snarled, grabbed the bed, and pulled herself up on numb legs. Sounds of glass breaking drew her at a limp into the corridor, back through the dining room, and into the kitchen. She collapsed only once when her leg gave out; by the time she got to the kitchen, the after-nausea of a stunrod shock was in full swing. Dorian tried to wrestle with the spirit, gathering it as if it were a rope of bed sheets sent down the wall of a prison. The head and both hands floated away as he pulled at its wispy midsection, stretching to the other side of the room, hurling glassware and bottles at him.

“Dorian, you don’t want to kill Rene. Not unless he’s an immediate threat to your life.”

“I think I’m a little past that point.” He yanked on the ectoplasm, dragging the disembodied head into a punch that sent it back across the kitchen.

Kirsten lashed, missing by inches. The phantom emanated a keening wail of terror and streaked into the cabinets. “Son of a bitch is fast. Look, if you kill his ghost… You’re already shitting ectoplasmic bricks whenever a Harbinger shows up.”

He stopped pursuing it around the room, breathing hard more out of habit than need. “I…”

Clinking and rattling migrated around inside the cabinets, behind small imitation wood doors. Kirsten turned in place, following the sound, arm poised for another lash. “You deserve revenge, but I don’t want them taking you. Last time was too damn close; I thought it was going to…” She choked up.

A door burst open, and a swarm of knives flew into the air. Kirsten let herself fall straight down, ass to tile. It hurt, but less than a dozen knives. Dorian lunged, armpit deep in the cabinet, and grabbed the spirit by the neck. He flung it out into the room, weathering a barrage of spice jars that ended as it finally realized it was pointless to throw things at him. Kirsten sat with her mouth wide, wondering how landing on her butt could cause her head to ache. She missed an opportunity for a lash due to seeing stars. The food reassembler above and behind her went bonkers, spraying hot sauce, jelly, and peanut butter down on her. She got an arm over her eyes just in time.

“Me too,” he said, adding a growl as he fought to keep a grip on the spirit. “This thing is bat-shit nuts, there’s no reason left in it. Whack it.”

“As soon as I can move.” She groaned, scratching at the floor to try to get feeling back into her legs. “If you kill Rene, I’m not sure I can beg them off you. Please let me handle him.”

“What the devil’s all that damn noise?” Mr. Greene’s bellow filled the hallway.

The poltergeist wrenched out of Dorian’s hands, spirit fog spreading through his fingers. Dorian cursed something about trying to wrestle spaghetti. Mr. Greene appeared in the doorway, staring at Kirsten―the only thing he could see, aside from the mess. The spirit stretched away, flying right at Mr. Greene, shrieking, arms reaching out.

Kirsten slung kiwi jam off her hand as she wound up a lash. The sudden light made Mr. Green look at her. The glittering whip flashed through the air.

Splat.

She gulped as a sensation of oblivion flickered through the Aether. Mr. Greene looked as though someone dumped a bucket of egg whites over his head, blinking as if slapped. Somewhere behind him, mother and daughter gasped.

“What in the world?” Mrs. Greene poked him with a tentative finger, jerking back from the cold slime. When she saw the formation of knives sticking out of the cabinet doors, she had to cover her mouth to stifle a scream.

“Poltergeist. It won’t be bothering you again.” Kirsten struggled to her feet, rubbing her tailbone. “Sorry about the suit.”

Mr. Greene turned with the motion of a mannequin on a rotary platform, mouth still open, hand still held up. He blinked again at his wife, who moved past him into the kitchen, shaking her head at the carnage.

“Why did that thing come here? What did it want?”

Kirsten washed her hands in the sink, shrugging at Mrs. Greene. “I can’t even begin to guess. These sorts of spirits are not true souls, more of a latent snapshot or a fragment of someone’s personality that gathered enough power to start roaming around. Some think they are very weak demons.”

“Do you?” Mrs. Greene began the process of collecting knives from the floor.

Dorian rubbed his chin, as eager for her answer as the family.

“Well.” Kirsten dabbed at the cut on her cheek with a wet towel. “I know there’s a place I call the Abyss, where evil spirits go when they get purged out of this world. I suppose it is possible for energy to burp back out whenever something crosses into it. That might be what people call a demon. It would just be a returned ghost. One who got out of jail, so to speak. I don’t think there are real demons per se. Not in the biblical sense anyway. I’m sure those are just stories made up by people who didn’t understand the supernatural.”

“And wanted to burn it.” Dorian winked.

“Yeah,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her right hand.

ive chrome spheres clacked. The farthest on the right swung into the hanging line, kicking the farthest left into the air. Back and forth, endless repetitive motion creating tiny fireflies of reflected light that danced across her workspace. Kirsten’s right forearm served as a pillow between her chin and the desk; breath from her nostrils fogged the gloss black surface. Her eyes tracked the Newton’s cradle: left, right, left, right, the tapping sound rhythmic―mesmerizing.

Then it stopped.

She blinked. It sat at rest, all five spheres idle. Did I fall asleep? She reached out with her left hand―the electronic armguard made for an uncomfortable chinrest―and prodded the toy back to life. This time, two orbs moved on either side.

Click, click, silence.

Her eyebrows drew together. “Figures, I get a broken one.”

Nicole, right behind her, burst into laughter. Kirsten almost fell out of her chair.

“Dammit.” She grabbed her chest. “Don’t sneak up on people. And why is your face so red?”

“Better I find you sleeping than Eze.” Nicole adjusted the fit of her uniform top, flashing an impish smile. “Oh, no reason.”

“I’m not sleeping, I’m bored.” Kirsten let her head fall onto her arm again. “Nice. Same guy as last week?” She braced for the impact of the foam stress skull, laughing after it bounced away.

“I’m not easy.” Nicole gave her a raspberry. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Who is it?” Kirsten’s gaze followed the redhead to her desk. “Did you skip telling them you’re psionic?”

“He knows. It’s Eddie from Admin.” She checked her face in a small hand mirror.

“Nikki, he’s eighteen, he’s still a kid.”

“Oh, and I’m geriatric at twenty-one?” Another raspberry. “He’s smart. He’s good-looking. He’s psionic too, and he’s in love with me.” Nicole blinked. “What do you mean you can’t have the one you want?”

Dorian sighed.

“Nicole Logan, will you please stop―”

“Wren.” Captain Eze’s voice reverberated over their conversation.

They both looked at his door.

Nicole grinned. “Well, he yelled from his desk, so it’s not bad news.”

“At least you won’t be bored now,” added Dorian.

Kirsten pushed herself standing, stretching the past two hours’ worth of sitting idle out of her legs. A wobbling gait carried her into the office of Captain Jonathan Eze. The door closed behind her without a sound.

“Good afternoon, I hope I am not keeping you up.” He grinned, reaching forward to offer her a cup of Qwikwarm Coffee.

She took it, picking at fingernail switches to set cream and sweetness levels before twisting the bottom of the can. The sharp crack of a broken ampule announced the start of a chemical reaction. As she sat, the fragrance of cheap java emerged and warmth spread through her hand. “If this is about the Greene case, it was a poltergeist. They throw―”

“It isn’t.” Eze raised one eyebrow. “What are you frowning at?”

“Do they think spelling quick with a w makes it trendier or something? Why do companies do stupid crap like that?”

Eze pulled his fingers over his chin and chuckled through that same contagious smile that always lifted her mood. “I think your question goes beyond the depth of the mysteries we deal with. But”―he slapped his desk―“I have something that needs your attention far more than protecting the coffee-drinking public from poor spelling.”

The sudden noise and shift in mood from jovial to serious made her jump. Upright, she took on a military posture and nodded. He poked at his terminal, the lights dimmed, and a holographic screen spread over most of the wall to her right. An overhead map of West City appeared. Amber gridlines overlaid an area map, so many it resembled a golden tint. The focus centered in on an area of about twenty sectors square, a hundred mile grid. Between the fine threads of grid demarcation, the image moved.

“Watch Sector 637. This is from late last night, just past 0100 hours.”

With a beep, the screen glimmered and went from static image to moving video. She locked on to the spot he mentioned, eyes sweeping left and right in search of anything out of the ordinary in the twelve-inch square of hologram. Blackness spread out from south, left of center, and expanded to about a mile square before it smeared to the northeast. The trail of absent light grew wider as it traveled, fatter in front like a comet with a long tail. Eighteen miles later, it stopped advancing and coalesced into a circular mass of darkness. From the origin point it ebbed, light returning along its length until the entire thing vanished within several seconds of starting.

“The image makes me think of someone running a black paintbrush tool over the satellite feed.”

He pushed a datapad across his desk. “There were over two hundred ninety thousand reports of power outages along the trail. A localized blackout is responsible for the path you see here. Everything from street lamps to city cams to NetMinis, it all went dark.”

“It can’t be a hacker, the citycams run off direct lines. If a paranormal entity caused this, what the hell is it doing? Ghosts usually suck up power to restore themselves or build up for a big event.”

Eze’s chair creaked into a lean. “It gets better.”

The image zoomed to street level; the point of view plummeted to Earth, pulled up and flew into one of the ubiquitous mounted cameras. Based on the condition of the buildings it surveyed, she assumed it was in, or at least at the edge of, a grey zone. One of the gleaming towers had a dark band around the center, as if someone sliced one entire floor out of a skyscraper-shaped cake.

“This is Sector 848, where it stopped. Look at the building with no glass on one floor.”

She leaned closer. “I think I see a small fire inside. Maybe squatters cooking? That’s not too unusual for―”

The flame roared up, bright as a magnesium flare, flickering and sputtering. The image went to static a few seconds before freezing in an array of pixels.

“This is the moment when the blackout trail arrives. We lose about nine seconds of video.” Eze un-paused it.

When the image crackled back to clarity, diagnostic text scrolled over it as the citycam went through a boot sequence. A column of “PASS” slid up the right edge. The windowless floor filled with thick black smoke. It stayed confined, not billowing out into the air or leaking and falling down the side. All at once, the smoke drew inward, as if sucked into an unseen vacuum. The phantom campfire was gone.

“That’s―”

“Keep watching.” He backed up a few frames and restarted it.

Again, she watched the smoke recede. This time she did not look away. Thin lines of static tarnished the image a second before a torus of distorted light expanded outward, flakes like shimmering ice at its outermost edge. The circular wave of energy grew until it passed through the walls of adjacent towers; the blur of its approach made the image paler. The wave rushed toward the camera’s point of view, causing a blackout on impact.

“I saw a similar effect when the Wharf Stalker died.” She sank into the chair. “I mean, when I…”

“I know what you mean. What disturbs me is not that it resembles your description of the obliteration of a powerful entity. What disturbs me is that I can see it”―he gestured at the display screen―“and the cameras recorded it.”

Kirsten looked up with a gasp. She had not even thought of that. For the first time, she wondered if she would be strong enough to deal with something as powerful as this image suggested. “M… maybe it was just a blast wave from an explosion”―her voice fell to a mumble―“an explosion that didn’t damage glass windows right next to it.”

“I don’t like that look in your eyes, Kirsten. I don’t think I have ever seen you afraid of ghosts before.”

A nervous laugh escaped her. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything this freaky before.”

“You shouldn’t go alone. Sector 848 is a bad area.”

I’m not alone.

“Take Logan.”

She leaned forward. “I’m not sure bringing Logan is a good idea, Captain. She’s not used to seeing paranormals; it might leave a mark.” This isn’t the police to her, it’s high school.

“She can handle it. She reminds me a little of you. Innocent on the outside, tough inside.”

Kirsten did not know whether to feel complimented or insulted. Either way, changing his mind would take all day and accomplish nothing but waste time. “Are you sure?”

“Eminently.”

She exhaled the entire way back to her desk.

“Hey, Nikki?”

“Yo?” She swiveled around, grinning.

“Suit up. Eze wants you to go with me on this one.”

“Cool.” She jumped up.

Kirsten caught her on the bicep as she attempted to dart past to the garage. “Nikki, there might be some strange things here. If you wanna fake it, I’ll tell Eze you went.”

“Bullshit.” Nicole grabbed, and held, her hand. “If he wants me to go with you, he’s worried. I’m not gonna leave you without backup.”

Four blue eyes locked. Kirsten gave in first.

“Okay.” She tugged Nicole back once more. “Thanks… and, I’m sorry.”

“Talk about close, this building’s right on the edge of the grey.” Nicole fiddled with the NavMap, magnifying it as far as it would go.

Kirsten frowned at the screen. “What difference does a few inches make?”

She regretted the question as soon as Nicole started laughing.

Dorian draped himself between the seats. “You really ought to watch what you say around her.”

The ceaseless glimmer of West City dimmed as they flew into Sector 848. Officially, the grey zone ended a full grid square northeast from here, but the relentless creep of tired desolation had already set in. A slow exodus of civilized people left businesses closed or with armored windows. Gangs fought wars in the streets; the cops came in later and cleaned up the bodies.

Less work for them.

Dark spots appeared amid the patchwork of light. A vacant apartment here, a shot out lamp there, though the buildings’ structures remained intact. Around a distant century tower, the electronic windscreen lit up with four green triangles hinting at a square. She drove straight towards #1998 City Road 130. One entire floor out of a hundred, the thirteenth, had been gutted, all the windows and steel molding on the outside blasted off by a powerful explosion some time ago. Kirsten nudged the patrol craft into a slight dive and slowed to about fifteen miles per hour. A few seconds later, she slowed to just past a walking pace in an orbit at the level of the damage.

Inside, a few walls remained intact, steel beams with clods of Epoxil planks, one or two still clinging to scorched drywall. Fortunately for the upper floors, all of the building’s primary structural supports were internal and still intact. The glass, pure fascia, represented only cosmetic damage. Some of the windows on facing buildings looked less grimy than floors above or below. A sign that whatever happened here damaged them, but they had been replaced.

“This building is zoned as abandoned.” Nicole’s face turned blue in the terminal’s light. “Looks like the title’s under the name of a leasing company out of East City, uhh… Kukla Investments. No one has occupied it in about seven months.”

“Whoever demoed this building knew what they were doing.” Dorian whistled. “Complete eradication of one floor with minimal damage up and down.”

“Think it was a professional job?” Kirsten brought the car to a hovering standstill, gazing through flaps of translucent plastic drifting in the breeze.

“Umm…” Nicole flipped screens. “Div 1 has a report of an unexplained detonation about seven months ago, four bodies recovered.”

“I was talking to”―Kirsten sighed―“never mind. Shit, do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Nicole looked over.

“Yeah.” Dorian edged into the shadows of the backseat. “Harbingers?”

Kirsten looked ahead, then at the dashboard, then at her lap. “I… No, it doesn’t feel right.”

Nicole peeled her eyes away from the terminal, leaning over the driver’s seat to peek into the building. “Just pull inside, the hole’s big enough.”

“I’m not risking the floor collapsing.”

Kirsten pulled the car into a vertical ascent and landed on the roof a few minutes later. The air held a faint trace of foul, somewhere between chemical and fecal. Stale industry picked at her throat as she crunched through trash and kicked synthbeer canisters out of her way. She stopped in front of the roof access, and frowned at the dark interface panel. The building had no power. Without it, her police override code would do no good. She banged on the door three times.

“Anyone in there?”

Waiting.

“Hello?” Bang, bang, bang. “This is the police. I’m about to open this door with a laser. If there is anyone on the other side of it, yell now. You have ten seconds.”

Dorian shook his head, walking past her through the door. In a moment, his head came back out. “It’s clear.”

“Sorry.” She took the E-90 out of its holster. “I sometimes forget you’re a ghost.”

“Ghost?” Nicole whirled about. “Where?”

Kirsten bit her lip, raising the weapon. “It’s a long story.”

She aimed at the door, thought better of it, and backed up ten feet before firing at the lock plate. The first shot melted a hole through cinderblocks.

“Calm down,” whispered Dorian. “Your hand is shaking.”

Her second try melted the knob into a spray of hot metal. The third did enough damage in the right place to let the door swing free. Nicole grunted, and the flap of metal flew open hard enough to slam a pound of dust off the wall.

Kirsten’s expression twisted into one worthy of Nicole’s picture wall. “Fuck.”

“Sorry, that was me.” Nicole offered a sheepish cringe, and stood up straight. “Hey, why are you so edgy?”

Kirsten walked around Dorian rather than through him, making him chuckle. “The video I showed you on the ride over here. That, and something doesn’t feel right.”

She crept past bare cinderblock walls rife with the dry scent of aerosolized dirt. A vertical shaft ran the length of the building, leading down into the dark. Sudden light caused Kirsten to whirl. Nicole caught her hand, keeping the E-90 aimed at the wall. Panic melted to accusation in Kirsten’s eyes as she glared at the strips of light on the sides of Nicole’s helmet.

“Please warn me, light coming out of nowhere can mean so many things…”

“Sorry,” whispered Nicole. “You really need to calm the hell down.”

Kirsten sighed a wordless apology and put the gun back on her belt.

“So…” Nicole peered over the railing from the seventy-fourth story roof. The lights made long streaks through air smoky with dust. “Thirteenth floor, huh? About that long of a story?”

“Seriously? That’s why the car does that?” Nicole grinned. “Cool!” She paused, biting her knuckle. “I mean… It’s not cool he’s dead, but…”

“Tell her not to worry about it, no offense taken.”

“He says it’s okay.”

“So you, like see him all the time? Does he like watch you in the shower?”

“No.” Dorian and Kirsten answered simultaneously.

“Is he the one you have a crush on?”

Kirsten stumbled over the last step on the fifteenth floor landing. “No.”

“Liar,” Nicole taunted through a smile.

Dorian found the wall to be rather interesting all of a sudden.

“It’s…” Kirsten sighed. “Maybe if he were alive, but… Even as a ghost, he’s my partner.”

Nicole shook her head. “They say it’s a bad idea to get romantic with your partner if you’re on field work. Leads to mistakes.”

“And what? Get him killed?” Kirsten cringed. “Sorry, that sounded bitchier than I meant it.”

“Is it cool having a ghost for a partner? He can do all sorts of ghosty stuff the perps never expect?”

Dorian rolled his eyes.

“I think he’d rather be alive still, and no, he’s not that old. He can’t do too much to living people at all.”

Nicole squealed.

“Except the old icy hand down the back bit,” mumbled Kirsten.

The redhead seemed intrigued and freaked all at once.

“Whoa.” Kirsten went rigid as her boot touched the thirteenth floor landing. “Damn.”

A grey door drifted open and closed, creeping inches each way as the wind shifted. Nicole slid past her and pulled it to the side, looking back with an uneasy lift to her eyebrows.

“K… I feel something weird, too.”

Kirsten’s knuckles went white on the handle of the laser. “That’s not a good sign.”

“How bad is it?” Nicole pulled out her E-86. Green light ran up and down the barrel.

“I don’t know. Any psionic can sense the presence of an entity powerful enough to affect the living, even if they can’t see them.”

Nicole’s alarm lessened. “I don’t feel funny in the car.”

Maybe bringing her along was a good idea. She’s keeping me calm. “Dorian’s not old enough, or mean enough, to raise those hackles.”

“Thanks.” Dorian went first, looking around at the destruction. He stopped to check on a few scorch marks. “Whatever did this was conventional. There were several detonation points, some of this scarring fits the signature of detcord. Main charges near the center; shaped, probably. Bluish discoloration makes me think NE4. The blast shoved everything out the windows.”

“K?” Nicole’s spotlights swiveled.

“Yeah?”

“Did you just hear something? I heard whispering over there.”

Dorian shouted Nicole’s name. She looked toward him.

“You’re hearing Dorian. I don’t understand how. This area is…”

“Wrong.” Nicole finished her sentence. “I want to go home and hug my dad, hide under a blanket.”

“Latent fear.” Kirsten squatted, touching the dusty concrete. “Something happened here that burned fear into the fabric of the building. You’re not really scared; you’re picking it up from the environment.”

“Does a giant friggin’ bomb count?” Nicole pushed her way through hanging plastic. She trembled, but advanced anyway.

“I don’t think the people who died in this had time to even mess their pants,” said Kirsten.

They fanned out, drifting among cracked concrete support posts, hanging wires, and exposed pipes. Boots scuffed, the wind howled, and soon none of them noticed the sour awfulness of the all-too-close black zone to the north. Ten minutes into the search, Nicole raised her voice, so close to the timbre of a frightened child, Kirsten got worried.

“Kiki… I don’t like this.”

Kirsten ran toward the sound, her haste causing her to stumble over the debris of a few chairs and a desk. Past a still-standing section of wall, she rounded a corner and skidded to a halt with her mouth hanging open. An area eighteen feet across glimmered with metallic silver paint. A circle was traced on the ground, laced with intricate symbols resembling runes and pictographs. Half-molten candles had been arranged at seven points around the exterior, lining up with the geometric arrangement of shapes within. Three white, three black, and one gold.

Lines divided the interior of the circle into sections, each filled with drawings. They had a crude sophistication, not childlike, not primitive, but simple. Kirsten squatted, hesitant to touch it. Fingertips hovering a hand’s width away, she noted some of the lines were etched into the concrete. The energy at this spot grew overwhelming, forcing Nicole to back away, arms folded and shaking.

“Someone engraved this here; it was meant to last awhile.”

Dorian’s voice echoed from the side, at a yell. “Found an M3 wire burned on the ground. Junction box out in the hall has a Tricor Fiber uplink, or what’s left of one. Whoever lived here was a big time net head.”

“What’s that,” gasped Nicole, pointing.

Kirsten looked, seeing nothing. “What?”

“A shadow just moved over there. Big. Assault Marine big.”

“Please don’t be fucking with me here, Nikki.” Kirsten stepped around the circle; something in the back of her head told her not to cross it.

“I swear I’m not.” The redhead’s tiny voice sounded as if it came from an eight-year-old.

“Who’s there?” Kirsten’s voice echoed into the wind.

Nicole sniffled.

“You can wait in the car if you want.”

The lights on Nicole’s helmet swept back and forth with a rapid headshake. “No, I’m not leavin’ you here alone.”

A dry rasping chuckle settled through the entire floor, thinning Kirsten’s blood. It had no focus, no direction, reverberating from everywhere. Then she saw it―a shadow crept along the far side of the room between columns and patches of still-standing wall. Large, like Nicole said, maybe seven feet tall. Malice replaced the fear in the air.

Something hated her.

Nicole screamed. Kirsten whirled, finding her friend staring aghast at Dorian. He had moved closer, six feet away from the edge of the silver circle. His hair shifted as if wind blew through it; faint transparency meant he was visible.

Pain.

Kirsten howled, losing her E-90 and falling on all fours. Someone had poured gasoline on her back and lit it. No, someone shot her with a laser. No, burning iron spikes had rammed themselves into her kidneys and twisted. She scrabbled at the ground, crawling forward. Her knee bumped the weapon, she remembered it, and put one hand on it. Cold sweat, the pain in her back increased to the point it did not hurt anymore.

Blue dots glowed in the dark, the holographic gunsight drifted side to side in her trembling grasp. Nicole slid to a halt behind her, weapon out as well. Kirsten caught her breath and got angrier. Standing with Nicole’s help, she stowed the weapon and forced her eyes into the astral world. Her left arm was tucked against her chest, paralyzed from the pain all along that side of her body. If not for Nicole holding her up, she would have fallen. The lash unfurled to the floor from her right hand. Kirsten squinted at the darkness. Shadows slid across the ground as if the moon fast-forwarded across the sky. The mood lightened. Wind no longer made the slightest sound.

Whatever it was had left, and taken fear with it.

“Holy shit, that noodly thing is so pretty.” Nicole, back to her old self, shook her shoulder. “Are you okay? What was that scream?”

Kirsten relaxed her mind; the lash evaporated, her eyes returned to the mortal world. “I don’t know.” She swooned off her feet.

Nicole held on, easing her to sit on a toppled filing cabinet. She grunted. The pain returned, weaker this time, as though someone held a single candle too close to her back. Dorian jogged over, shaking his head.

“I saw something move. It came out from behind the post, shot over to you, and went back so fast it was a blur.”

“Wraith? Maybe it’s pissed off I got its little brother.” She grimaced. “Dammit, my back is burning.”

Nicole pulled Kirsten’s shirt out of her pants, and gasped. The helmet-mounted tactical lights turned Kirsten’s back luminous, the color of new fallen snow. Kirsten’s armband chimed. Email from Nicole.

“Look at that… And damn, girl, get some sun.”

Kirsten glanced up at her friend, and then opened the message. A photo of her from behind, milk-white skin marred red by three vertical scratches about six inches long over the left kidney. The skin was welted, angry and red, looking every bit as hot as it felt. It did not bleed much, the depth little different from what one might expect from a petulant housecat.

“Just a scratch.” Nicole patted her on the shoulder. “The way you screamed I thought you’d been stabbed.”

Kirsten shuddered as she forced herself to sit up straight. “It hurts a shitload more than it looks. You like peeking into my head, check this bad boy out.”

Dorian chuckled. “I wouldn’t recommend you do that.”

“Yeah.” Nicole shook her head. “I won… What the fuck? Did I just hear Dorian again?”

“Hey, Dorian… Help me out here?” grunted Kirsten.

He stooped and put a hand into her back through the wound.

“Ahh.” She closed her eyes. “Nice and cold.”

“Sergeant Icepack, reporting for duty.” He saluted with his other hand, then got serious. “I feel something. There’s a taint in the wound.”

Nicole, feeling helpful, applied a stimpak to her friend.

Kirsten belted out every known swear word, and made a few new ones up on the spot. The scratches faded away and came back, in a repeating cycle resembling strips of bacon floating in milk. When it stopped, the marks remained as before. She could not help but cry from how bad that hurt.

“Maybe you need a priest?” Dorian cocked a grin.

A minute or so later, she unclenched her jaw enough to speak. “Priest my ass. That’s all mind over matter stuff. Only works if you believe it, and you know my opinion.”

“I’m not sure you know your opinion anymore.” He put his hand back into the wound.

“This is kinda freaky.” Nicole giggled. “I’m not astrally sensitive. I shouldn’t be hearing him. I’m gonna go take pictures and stuff of the weird silver crap.”

Out. Kirsten closed her eyes. Get out of me. Whatever you are, get out of me.

Kirsten focused her psionic energy inward, searching for a trace of any presence. This was a new experience. Something had left dark energy behind. The miasma felt slimy, unclean. Just like the crazy doctor’s dominion over the door at the asylum.

Out! She demanded, her mind-voice screaming at the top of its non-lungs.

She pictured her energy wrapping around a thing that squirmed and fought back. Pain plucked at her back as though scabs peeled out of the claw marks. She clenched the psionic fist and crushed, pulled. A flash of pain came on as if someone ripped a strip of duct tape away from her skin, followed by a sense of a tiny oblivion. Kirsten’s eyes snapped open, she lurched forward and grabbed a charred column, panting.

Cool air over her back reminded her of three scratches.

After a few breaths, she straightened up and slipped a stimpak out of her belt case. Thumbnail flicked the yellow safety cap off the end.

Dorian’s hand moved to her shoulder. “You sure you want to do that to yourself again?”

“Yeah.” She eyed the shiny metal tip. “Don’t want it to get infected.”

ity Road 1804 and Morris Avenue showed as the property of Kukla Investments, LTD, after purchase via government auction seven months ago. The original owner, Westmoreland Properties, lost it amid a legal battle involving unpaid insurance premiums and a tax snarl. Kukla got a hold of it for about a hundredth of its value.

Kirsten tapped her fingers on the side of her head; two coffees and a strawberry-filled crepe had almost cured the memory of the horrible pain. The financials had the appearance of some kind of fraud, but she could not put it together. Westmoreland collected no money on the deal, not to mention being under lawsuit for back taxes. Kukla bought it from the government at a price so cheap it verged on criminal, but had done not a damn thing with it since they acquired it. Surprising, since no one else even bid at the auction. After licking a bit of strawberry from the rim of her cup, she drained the last of the now-tepid brew.

“Any luck?” Nicole slid her chair over.

Seeing Nicole act like a normal person and not a sugared-up tween worried Kirsten. “You okay? You seem a bit off.”

“I guess I’m still a bit scared. I kind of felt something follow us out of there.”

“I didn’t see anything,” said Dorian.

Nicole did not bat an eyelash at his voice. That felt normal enough to let Kirsten smile.

“Dorian didn’t see anything,” she whispered. “Please don’t go yakking about him. Even here, talking about ghosts can get you looked at weird.”

“I believe you… I mean, before an hour ago I…” Head scratching and a forced grin changed the subject. “Got some info on the hamburger.”

“Lunch?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “I believe she means the victims of the demolition work.”

“Oh. Good, I’m sick and tired of chasing an accounting trail. It looks so suspicious but makes no sense.”

“What does?”

“Place goes boom. Owner has no insurance, so no one is willing to pay for the repairs. Tenants leave, holding company can’t pay taxes, government takes the building and sells it at auction. Only one outfit bids on it, not a single other person or business tries. They get it at bare minimum, but then do nothing with it.” She waved at the screen. “They just let it sit there.”

“That’s weird,” Nicole said with a nod of finality, as if her statement answered everything.

That’s why you’re tactical, sweetie.

Kirsten reclined, breathing warm coffee-air through icy fingers. “Maybe they wanted to do something with the property but the proximity to the grey zone scared off potential tenants?”

“I bet people got freaked out by the hit squad.”

Wow, that almost sounded useful. “What hit squad?”

Nicole kicked off Kirsten’s desk, gliding back to her own. A second later, Kirsten’s chair propelled itself to join her. The unexpected motion caused a yelp and flailing arms, then a glower.

Kirsten stalled her acceleration with two hands on Nicole’s desk, squinting. “Little warning, please.”

“Check this out.” Nicole pointed. “Forensics went over the scene for more than two hundred work-hours. They managed to piece together a grand total of four point two victims.”

“Point two?”

“That must have been a big bomb.” Dorian grinned.

“DNA said dog.” Nicole sighed. “Poor thing.” Her sadness evaporated with the next intense thought to enter her mind. “Four people, three of which they traced back to the employ of the Lyris Corporation. Seems like they were enforcers or assassins or something.” Nicole sniffed. “Is that strawberry?”

“The crepes. You don’t remember?”

“Oh, right. I was too freaked to eat.” She turned away from the terminal and flipped out her NetMini to order food.

“What about the enforcers?”

“Oh. Yeah. There were three of them, plus the poor shithead they were sent to kill. Their leader went by the name Seneschal. Guess that’s a nickname or something. Who names their kid that?”

The image of a man in his later thirties with mixed Asian-white features filled her screen. Black hair slicked tight to his head, sunglasses, a high-necked black wool trenchcoat.

Kirsten studied him. “Call sign, maybe? Was he military? Kinda looks it. Has cold eyes.”

Nicole picked through the file. “Dalton Chen, according to their HR department. Not much info on his background, I couldn’t find a face match in any military records. Lyris records have him as that team’s squad leader, with the official title of ‘issue resolution manager.’”

“Sometimes they don’t even try to hide it,” said Dorian.

“Next guy called himself Icarus; his real name was Michael Coley.”

The screen shifted, a muscular black man, early thirties, appeared. A thick mass of dreadlocks cascaded over the shoulders of a shiny black coat. His eyes hid behind wraparound silver glasses, though he wore enough of a confident grin for Kirsten to guess the look he gave the camera.

“This guy was ex-military. Had some infantry training; his record has a lot of transfers in and out of auxiliary logistics, whatever that is.”

Dorian looked up. “Covert ops would be my guess. He’s probably the one that set up the demolition charges.”

“Dorian says he might be covert ops.”

“Good thing he’s already dead; he could be dangerous.” Nicole flashed a cheesy grin. “Okay, so we got a question mark and a military assassin. You’re gonna love the last one.”

“Dare I ask?” Kirsten stretched.

The face of a twenty-something Asian woman appeared, staring at the camera as if she plotted six different ways to kill it in the span of two seconds. Something about the look made Kirsten uneasy, as if the eyes had no soul behind them.

“She looks deader than I feel,” said Dorian.

“Mariko Moriyama. Could be a trade from a Japanese company to Lyris Corporation. Says she was a ninja.” Nicole waved her arms in a mock of martial arts so feeble even Kirsten felt skilled by comparison.

“You know they still use them.” Kirsten mourned her empty coffee cup. “Real crap storm, if you ask me. Corporations over there just kill each other out in the open, it’s all ritualized and legal somehow. I don’t understand it.”

“It’s all about honor, prestige, and profit,” added Dorian.

“Okay. Remind me never to go there.” Nicole jumped when her NetMini chimed. “Crap, food’s here. Be right back.”

Kirsten scooted back to her terminal, poring over the financials as Nicole ran off. She poked around a bit more to no avail, and then placed a vid call. Within a moment, the bust of a bland-looking man with eastern European features floated atop her desk.

“Can I help you?”

“Good afternoon, I’m Agent Wren of the Division 0 police, West City. I have some questions about a property your company owns. The building at CR 1804 and Morris Ave. It is a high-rise office tower, involved in an incident a few months ago.”

His face remained unreadable. “Kukla Investments owns many properties in both cities. We primarily hold titles while leaving the management of each facility to local entities on a contractual basis. We are a financial services company, and do not deal with the day-to-days.”

“I see.” She swiped her hand through holograms, changing files. “Can you tell me what local entity handles this address, please? It’s a bit odd to me that only Kukla submitted a bid on it, and nothing has been done with it yet. The damage from the explosion has not even been fixed.”

“Please hold one moment.”

The floating head turned into a shifting geometric screensaver. Kirsten drummed her fingers on the desk, staring over the top of blue cubes and catching Morelli giving her the evil eye. Kirsten stretched her arms up, enjoying the shuddering release of tension, and picked at her eye with a middle finger. He squinted and sank back over his desk, averting his gaze. When the blue cubes exploded into individual pixels that reformed into the man from Kukla, she raised her eyebrows a little―just enough to say she expected a smokescreen answer.

“Agent Wren. According to my research, the property is currently on retainer to a holovid production agency planning to use it in the recording of a big-budget feature. The blown-out floor is ideal for their needs. Renovations are scheduled to begin once filming is complete. Unfortunately, I do not have specific dates.”

Crap, that sounds almost plausible. “I see. I don’t suppose you have any idea why no one else bid on the place?”

“Miss Wren, you seem like a nice enough young woman. Are you naïve to the point of believing government auctions are above manipulation?”

“You admit you fixed the sale? A bribe?”

“I admit no such thing. I merely suggest certain parties who may convey the appearance of being beyond reproach might in fact be far from such a state. It may also be that the mechanism of action by which the building’s fall into government ownership came about―an assassination if I must be so indelicate―frightened other investors away. Of course, there is always its proximity to an undesirable patch of real estate. A… what is the term… seraya zona, I believe you call it?”

The words Detected Russian: grey zone scrolled across the lower edge of the terminal.

Crap squared. Well, this was a wild goose chase. “Yes. All right, that does make sense. Thank you for your time, sorry to bother you.”

“Always a pleasure to help the authorities.”

Kirsten leaned back in her chair, rubbing the frustration out of her eyes. The suit made sense on the surface, but the answers came too fast, without hesitation, scripted. Something was not adding up.

Nicole glided by, returning to her seat. A small cup of coffee floated away from her bundle of plastic bags and landed in front of Kirsten.

“Saw you looking at your empty like you wanted to tongue kiss it.” Nicole winked.

Slurp. Strawberry latte, just what she had been thinking about.

She sent a dire look at the back of Nicole’s head as she started on what appeared to be salmon on a salad. The girl had boundary issues with skimming surface thoughts. After a moment, Kirsten sighed; anger never quite formed at her friend. Are you that desperate to endear yourself to everyone? The thought came without thinking. Kirsten cringed, regretting it right away, but then relaxed. Even master telepaths could not eavesdrop without looking at someone. Despite having two living and loving parents, the divorce had not been easy on Nicole.

“Thanks, it’s just what I wanted.” Kirsten kicked off, rolling her chair alongside the other desk. “Did you find anything about their target?”

“Mmm?” Nicole turned with a fork in her mouth, blinking. She removed it, chewed twice, and swallowed. “Uhh”―blushing―“you’re welcome.” Nicole cringed.

Kirsten patted her on the arm. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah.” The redhead let the fork fall into the salad. “I did. Sorry for peeking.”

“It’s okay; I should just accept it by now. Oh, the maître’d at Grimaldi’s carded me.”

Nicole giggled, a mood change on a dime. Kirsten embellished the story of her rotten date, making Armando/Brian/Douchebag sound like Armando/Brian/Asshole. A few minutes, and most of the salad later, Nicole unlocked her terminal and the face of a twenty-something Indian man appeared.

Short hair, straight and neat, framed a face mixed with confidence and paranoia. The image shifted to profile, making his protruding nose seem bigger. Text scrolled in on the adjacent panel: empty criminal record, a few traffic citations, and a few minor cyberspace infractions.

Nicole mumbled through a mouthful of lettuce. “Vikram Medhi, twenty-four. He graduated from Victoria University with a bachelor’s in virtual security construct design and counter-intrusion. According to this, he worked for Unicostal as a network protection agent.”

“He had to be moonlighting,” said Dorian. “Hit squads don’t usually make a habit of going after defensemen.”

Kirsten slouched. “Could be.”

“He did work for Uni”―Nicole glanced at the empty desk―“oh, you were talking to…”

She reached over Nicole’s arm, pawing through a few screens of holographic text. “The crime scene techs had a theory that Vikram had been in cyberspace for some hours prior to the detonation, and a dead-man switch triggered when they assassinated him.”

Nicole raised both eyebrows. “I guess our Lyris friends killed themselves when they killed Vikram.”

“That would piss me off,” said Dorian.

Kirsten tapped her chin. “Do you think a ghost could literally go into cyberspace? I’m wondering if the power outage might have been our friends from Lyris traveling back to the site of the bomb through the network.”

“How the hell should I”―Nicole flashed an overdone expression of stupid―“Right, never mind.”

Dorian paced for a moment; his eyebrows dueled in a contest of altitude. After the fifth circle around the desks, he came to a halt and pivoted on his heel to face her. “Doubtful. Essentially, ghosts are coalescences of electromagnetic energy. In theory, such energy could travel along wires, but I doubt they could experience the illusion of cyberspace. It would just be power on a line. I can’t see how it would be worth the effort of learning when we can just float through walls. I’m at a loss to explain the blackout.”

Kirsten’s chair thudded into her desk, causing the holographic financial records to blur for several seconds. She sat up, glanced at Dorian, and blinked. “Maybe not, but you just gave me an idea about something else that has been bothering me.

d-bots parted, creating a tunnel amid glimmering holograms and zooming droids through which the patrol craft threaded. Kirsten slowed and leveled off, squinting at the golden sunlight on the mirrored surfaces of approaching buildings. She evaded a ponderous trash-collection droid as it ascended out of a port midway up the building. Tiny (by comparison) robotic arms at the front end packed the overstuffed hold; an immense rectangular fly cleaning its legs. The patrol craft passed in a gradual banking turn over a large, rounded patio deck, which jutted out from the building seventy stories up. From there, the wall held a concave shape to the top, thirty stories later. Kirsten thought it looked like a giant cup holder, the cavity in the building a perfect match for an impossibly large mug.

People lounging around a pool shielded their eyes from the fading sun as the hovercar slid past, alarmed by someone so far out of the designated traffic lane. On the opposite side, a similar deck had no pool but held few dozen hovercars. She landed in the first open space she saw, and went for the elevator.

“This is a bad idea,” Dorian grumbled, jogging to keep up with her brisk walk.

Kirsten pointed at the door and shook her head. “No it’s not. I’m sorry if you don’t want to deal with it, but I can’t let it go. He did something to her.”

“I was thinking on the ride over, what if the thing that scratched you was responsible for the blackout?”

Beep. Police ID accepted.

“I… Crap, if you’re right that means it’s not tied to that building.” Just inside the parking deck, a bank of a dozen elevators lined the walls of a pass-through tunnel to the pool area. Pleasant music fell like mist from the ceiling, as if watering the plastic plants. “If it’s not stuck to the building…”

He gazed at the ceiling lights. “It’ll be chasing Albert all over again.”

Silver elevator doors closed, giving her a full body reflection, which she used to swat bits of dust away from her uniform. Dorian fidgeted in the manner of a boy about to ask his crush for the first date. Kirsten hit the button for the thirty-ninth floor, and the cab sank.

“I didn’t notice the pool deck last time we were here. I guess this place is higher end.”

He refused to make eye contact. “Below the fiftieth, it’s not much more expensive than everything else in the area. Pool access is extra. You could afford it here, you know. You’re not as poor as you live.”

She stared at him with sad eyes. “I don’t want to waste it on stuff I don’t need. I’ve eaten trash, Dorian. I’ve done things for food…”

“Hey.” A cold finger tried to lift her chin. “That’s not who you are anymore. You make good money with the force, and you don’t have to live like a street urchin. Besides, you’re taking Evan home now. You need more room. The boy needs a bed of his own, not a sleeping sack.”

Thinking about Evan brought a smile through the cloak of shame she had just pulled over her shoulders. “Maybe. If things work out I’ll consider it.”

“Work out?”

Ping. The door opened.

“Yeah, my psych report. They’re a little suspicious of my sudden recovery from the nightmares. I didn’t tell them about the too-real vision I had while working out the kinks of how to project. They’ll think I’m even nuttier.”

He laughed, an emotion that died a hasty death when he saw Nila’s door. Dorian folded his hands behind himself and fidgeted.

It squeaked to the side, beige panel consumed by beige wall. Same sweat pants, different shirt. Off-pink sweater this time, over a sports bra. Still barefoot. Pink toenails.

“Hi, Nila, can I come in for a minute?”

The woman paled at the sight of the Division 0 blacks; the silver belt, the weapon, boots, the whole of it caused an anxiety attack. Nila staggered back, clutching at her face as if she had witnessed a person’s guts spill out onto the floor. With a scream, she turned and ran into the apartment. The noise drew Shani from the back hallway. She stopped at the end of the hall, her twig-thin body wrapped in a one-piece swimsuit. A towel fell out of her hands and off her shoulders when she looked at Kirsten in full uniform.

“No.” The girl shrieked. “Leave my mommy alone!”

As Nila disappeared into the kitchen, the little girl charged. Kirsten weathered a barrage of feeble punches in the chest and held on, immobilizing the writhing figure in a forceful hug. Dorian cringed away and wandered to where he could see Nila. After a few minutes of struggling, Shani ran out of steam and sagged. Her rage useless, she resorted to sobbing and begging.

“Please don’t kill my mommy.” She sniffled, wiping her face.

“Shani, I only came here to help her. I’m not going to make her do anything she does not want to do. I think someone might have hurt her.” Such suspicion in eyes so young. “You’ll make a good detective someday, kiddo.”

“Police are bad. They make people die.”

Kirsten carried her to the sofa and set her down. “I promise you I am not going to hurt your mommy. I did not come here to make her go back to work.”

Shani’s face switched from glare to plead and back again. The concern in Kirsten’s voice broke through, and the child pouted at her lap. “Okay.”

Nila arrived at the kitchen door, walking towards the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Shani, is everything―”

As soon as she saw Kirsten in uniform, the panic returned, and she sprinted out of sight. The girl started crying. Dorian radiated anger. Seeing Nila act like a terrified co-ed from a low-budget slasher vid grated on him.

“It’s not your fault, Dorian.” Kirsten patted the girl on the head and ducked into the kitchen.

Nila curled in a ball under the table, scooting backwards as soon as the source of her fear walked in.

“Nila, calm down.” Faint light flickered through Kirsten’s eyes.

The woman froze.

Kirsten stooped and crawled over, bracing a hand on each cheek. “Listen to me, Nila Assad. Someone did something to you. All I want to do is fix it.”

Shani wrapped herself around the doorjamb between the kitchen and living room, half her body visible, with a distrustful glare at Kirsten―not that she noticed.

“What are you doing?” Dorian’s legs entered her peripheral vision.

Mental energy flowed between the women, Kirsten fished through Nila’s brain for what she suspected, and found.

“Someone implanted a hypnotic trigger in your ex-partner.” Kirsten’s voice came out trancelike, slipped in between periods of focus. “He conditioned her to be terrified of working… He… I see Rene. He forced her to drive him away, helping him escape. I’m almost there, I can erase this.”

Nila went catatonic, arms dangled to the tile floor.

Dorian surged with rage, growling. He stormed about in a circle and tried to punch the wall. When a hole smashed in the drywall with no apparent cause, Shani ran, her scream getting quieter the further she went into the back of the apartment. He shuddered, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Easy.” Kirsten’s concentration broke. “I know it wasn’t her idea. He made her do it. Hey, Dorian.”

He glared down.

“It is not your fault, she did not lose her nerve, Rene stole it.”

Anger fizzled off in the form of pacing. “Don’t tell her I was trying to work up the courage to ask her out. She does not need anything else to upset her.”

Diving back into Nila’s mind, Kirsten ferreted out the telltale energy patterns of a long-term suggestion. Inflicting them was beyond her understanding; her use of suggestion so far had been limited to brief short-term commands. Other psionics, those who excelled at it, could leave psychic land mines. Enduring directions or lingering changes in behavior, sometimes even sleeper commands that would remain unnoticed for days, months, or even years before they triggered and forced the victim to do something.

In Nila’s case, it appeared he had used her to flee the approaching army of police, and created a false dread about returning to work, making her think doing so would cause immediate death. Surprised he didn’t kill her. Kirsten frowned. Probably just didn’t want the heat of murdering two cops.

Sweat ran down the sides of her neck, the exertion of stumbling through the hatchet job in Nila’s mind more strenuous than five swipes of a lash. “I think I got it. She should probably go talk to Lt. Cmdr. Ashford when she collects herself.”

Kirsten shivered just thinking of him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’ll find out she helped him escape and wipe her back to infancy.”

“Now you’re the one being paranoid. She didn’t consciously do that; it was suggestion. I’m only a grade two telepath, maybe a three in suggestion. I don’t really like using it.” It just comes in so damn handy sometimes. “For Nila’s sake, she should make sure it’s been cleaned out. I don’t want to run the risk of there being some deep implant I’m not good enough to find coming out and doing something years from now.”

“Ugh.” Nila held her head. “Kirsten? How did you get inside? Where’s Shani? What the hell happened to my wall?”

Kirsten helped her up, out from under the table, and walked her to the couch. “Do you remember me visiting you two days ago in a green dress?”

“Sort of…” She stared at the wall. “No. Not really.”

Wow, I look so pale compared to her. “I’m sorry to dredge up bad memories, but do you remember the day it happened?”

Nila’s hand slid up her arm, rubbing where she had been shot. “Yes, like it was yesterday. He figured the visor would block eye contact. It was classic Dorian, he was so confident.” A wistful smile parted her lips. “I miss him.”

Dorian continued pacing, grumbling.

“I’m not telling you to go back to active duty, but he blames himself for your PTSD.”

She blinked. “I have PTSD?”

He whirled. “Kirsten, don’t torture her. Please just leave it alone.”

“Maybe you don’t. You seem to have a sharp fear of anything to do with the department. It verges on irrational. It might have been part of the suggestion Rene implanted that is forcing you to avoid anything to do with Division 0.”

“I think you’re going out on a limb about it, I feel fine. I suppose I could call Doctor Kim, see what he thinks.”

A shadow in the hallway made Kirsten look; nothing was there.

“Wait, did you say he blames himself? He’s not dead?”

Dorian lifted his chin, a slight side-to-side shake in his head. “Kirsten, please…”

“I told you the last time I was here, he’s a ghost. He’s right here with us now.”

He hung his head.

Nila barked a nervous laugh, but when Kirsten stayed serious, she lifted an eyebrow. “Are you kidding me?”

“No. Don’t you remember a few days ago when I came by with the food? Peek at my head if you want.”

The telltale wave came; a cool band of energy, a breeze that touched only her brain. Kirsten let it in, keeping her eyes on Dorian’s chiding finger. Nila tried to look at the spot of room where he was, estimating by what she saw through Kirsten’s memory.

“D… Dorian.” She gasped, reaching into the coldness that settled onto the sofa next to her.

Kirsten had never seen him display much emotion before; he looked about ready to cry. She found it difficult to contain jealousy as he stroked a vaporous hand through Nila’s thick black hair.

“Tell her she is beautiful, and if she does decide to go back to active duty, not to perform summaries.”

Kirsten relayed the message.

Nila wiped her nose. “He only killed three. They all deserved it, what they did to innocent people.”

Dorian found the floor intriguing.

“It’s not that,” said Kirsten.

“It’s not what?” Nila looked up. “Div 1 officers perform summaries on Lace dealers, cop killers, some of them even on anyone that hurts a kid.”

Pale thumb rubbed a caramel-colored hand. “Nila, it’s not about the law. I mean, yeah, we can legally kill people in most circumstances, but it’s just wrong to do that.”

“You’re telling me you’ve never killed anyone?”

“I have.” Kirsten gazed down, her voice almost a whisper. “Only when I had to, when they were trying to kill me. Heat of the moment, immediate danger. Never premeditated, never with malice or vengeance.”

“Is that why Dorian’s still here?” Tears slipped down Nila’s cheeks.

Dorian tensed.

“He’s got unfinished business. Besides, he wasn’t ready to retire.” Kirsten tried to smile.

Nila nodded.

Dorian relaxed.

A child’s whispering echoed in the hallway. Kirsten looked over, then back to Nila. “I’m afraid it could still be a mark on your soul to kill a defenseless person, no matter how evil they are.”

“Some religious people insist on eye-for-an-eye,” said Dorian.

“While some say ‘turn the other cheek.’ It’s all guesswork, Dorian. None of us know. I don’t wanna risk it.” She faced Nila. “He wants to get Rene for what he did to you.”

“Is that why he’s haunting? Guilt?”

“Yeah, but not about what he did. He is worried about your recovery.”

“Kirsten…” Dorian held up a hand.

Nila squeezed her arm again. “It’s fine, the lasers just made tiny holes. Bullets would have blown my whole arm off and I’d have a metal one now.”

Kirsten shuddered.

“Bullets wouldn’t have gone through the damn armor plated car.” Dorian scowled. “It’s bad enough they let everyone and their mother have ballistic weapons. How the hell did he get laser rifles?”

“He was holed up in a grey zone; there’s about two hundred people in this city to every cop, and politicians are what they always have been―for sale.”

Dorian and Nila nodded in agreement. After a moment, he found the strength to whisper loud enough for Nila to hear him. Kirsten left them some privacy, heading down the hall to the daughter’s room. She nudged the door open, finding the girl flopped on the bed on her stomach, propped up on her elbows as if reading a datapad.

At the sound of Kirsten’s approach, the girl flipped over, clutching a stuffed white unicorn. She wore a guilty expression, and tried to block a small mound of stuffed animals with her body.

“What’s wrong?”

She pouted. “I’m too old to play with dolls and make them talk.”

Kirsten leaned on the wall. Aww. “It’s okay, Shani. You’re still little enough to have an imagination. I’m sorry you got scared; my friend was angry someone hurt your mommy.”

“You have an invisible friend?” The girl blinked, as if calling Kirsten nuts.

“Yeah, something like that. Were you talking to your invisible friend?”

The girl looked at the unicorn. “No. I was being stupid, talking to a piece of cloth.”

Kirsten edged through the door, taking a seat on the end of the comforgel pad. “Your mom is feeling better now. Someone did something bad to her, but it’s gone now.”

“Can we still go to the pool?”

“That’s up to her, but I think so.”

Shani smiled. “Watch this.”

She set the unicorn down on its legs and stared at it. A ripple spread through the plush white fabric an instant before the stuffed creature pranced around, apparently on its own. The telekinetic animation was precise enough to make it appear alive.

Kirsten broke up, giggling. The kid’s intense concentration lapsed as soon as Kirsten added a human-shaped rag doll to the mix. Her telekinetic effort was crude by comparison, the doll bobbed along as if held by a hand.

Playing with dolls for a few minutes seemed to take the girl’s mind off the fright of a self-smashing wall. Nila walked in and put a hand on Kirsten’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Noticing a lack of Dorian, Kirsten got paler. “Where’s Dorian? He didn’t just vanish, did he?”

“I think he said roof, or car, or something. It was hard to hear him.”

Kirsten stood and the doll fell limp. “Yeah, he hasn’t spent a lot of time trying to learn how to project into the real world. I should get going; I’m in the middle of a case and just stopped by to help.”

“I think I’m starting to remember things; it’s coming back to me in bits and pieces. I’m gonna find that bastard.”

Shani curled into a ball, frightened at the tone of her mother’s voice.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Nila. It’s not worth it.”

Tactical Officer Nila Assad shifted her eyes to Kirsten and gathered her daughter into a hug. “I have to think. I know I accepted the possibility that ghosts were real, but seeing him, seeing proof that gho”―she squeezed the girl tight―“seeing proof there’s more than just this. It makes a lot of things seem different.”

Kirsten’s offer of a handshake became a long, silent clasping. “Things other than police keep the laws of the dead. I don’t really understand it either yet.”

“Mom?”

They both looked at Shani, who showed no obvious reaction to the strangeness that had occurred around her.

“Can we go swimming now?”

t took a moment for Kirsten’s eyes to adjust to the abrupt darkness that followed her terminal shutdown. Two hours’ worth of staring at images left them pulsing. On the far end of the squad room, Morelli and Simons chatted about a dust up they had gotten into with a telekinetic shoplifter. Through the blinds, she watched Captain Eze gathering his things into a briefcase in preparation to go home for the night. Morelli wandered off, saying something about an anniversary dinner with his wife. Simons laughed, eager to get home to her husband.

Mind Blast, they think I’ll roast them if they piss me off. As if I couldn’t control myself. She pouted at her terminal. Kirsten brushed off the feeling of isolation even among her own squad and glanced at Dorian for a while. He did not look up from his screen.

“You shouldn’t torture yourself, Kirsten. I’m flattered, though.”

She looked at Nicole, in the office late due to being absorbed in a video game. She slurped purple tea through a straw, her frantic poking finger trying to guide a screaming cartoon squirrel through a burning city. Kirsten laughed; that so fit her personality. Nicole paused the game long enough to nibble at her dinner, and sent an eye-smile at Kirsten while sucking small gummy globs through the straw.

Maybe I’m going about this wrong. I wonder if I should try dating a woman instead. I could ask Nicole.

The redhead gagged and coughed tea, which ran out of her nose as the holo-terminal flashed red with the death of her virtual rodent. She whacked herself in the chest twice, trying to breathe, and gawked at Kirsten.

“Serves you right for peeking.” Kirsten winked. “That’s not what I was going to ask you about, though. I found a lead on our friend Vikram. I kind of got the idea forensics might have been played.”

Nikki does have a cute butt.

Choking, sputtering, and more coughing. Her friend’s face matched her hair.

“Oh, come on, I’m messing with you.”

After blowing her nose, she wiped her eyes. “What do you mean about forensics?”

“What if Vikram set the whole thing up? Maybe the bomb wasn’t a dead-man switch. I didn’t see him haunting the place, most murder victims linger around the scene of their death. What if he got away and just set a trap for the hitters?”

Dorian sounded bored. “If he killed the people who murdered him there’s no unfinished business to keep him here.”

“Ooo. That’s an idea,” chirped Nicole. “So how do we find out? Did you get that net-pin I sent you? New dating site opened up.”

“I found a record of someone that did―”

“It’s just guys though, no girls.”

“―some private work for Vikram.” Kirsten massaged the bridge of her nose.

Dorian winked. “You’re wasting your time trying to tease that one. One thought at a time, hon.”

“What did he do?” Nicole swiveled in the chair, facing her.

“The guy seems to be a member of a hoverbike gang that lurks near the piers around Sector 313. I found some money going from Vikram’s PID to this guy, umm, Ronnie’s account. Only thing I can think of is either he’s buying a lot of drugs or hiring muscle.”

“So what’s that have to do with our Vik?” Nicole giggled at her own joke. When she ran out of air, she grinned. “I guess if he’s not dead, he’s not a vic.”

“I’m not sure if he survived; that’s why I wanted to talk to this Ronnie. It’s kind of a bad part of town. I’d rather not go alone. You up for a ride?”

Nicole jumped up, wearing an exaggerated, closed-mouth smile. “Need protection?”

“Yeah.” Kirsten grabbed her gear. “You know I’m afraid of living people.”

Sector 313 sat on the coast, a wharf district once busy with international shipping before shuttles replaced ocean-going vessels for heavy transport. Trade left the domain of the sea to pleasure cruises, scientific research vessels, and warships. No one bothered fishing anymore; even if they caught something, it either belonged to a protected group or was tainted to the point of inedibility.

The warehouses and docks, abandoned for about ninety years, experienced a brief rush of activity during a charged political campaign about a decade ago. Sheila R. Burke ran for the Senate on a platform of providing affordable housing by repurposing unused commercial properties. Her smiling mocha face still clung all over the area on tattered plasfilm panels. Several detached from the walls as the car glided past; thrown into a frenetic spiral before they followed lazy eddies to the ground.

“What are we looking for?” Nicole asked, forehead pressed to the passenger side window.

“Bunch of guys standing around hoverbikes, I think they call themselves the Skorpions. With a k.”

“That’s stupid. Why do they always have to use mean things? Why doesn’t some gang call themselves the chinchillas or something?”

Dorian cracked up. “I’d think twice about messing with a gang with the balls to call themselves that.”

“Yeah, maybe. I dunno,” Kirsten said, half paying attention.

She set the car down by a row of hoverbikes parked in front of a long, one-story building. It resembled an afterthought erected out of scrap metal and set up in the parking lot of a shipping warehouse. Closer inspection revealed a construction of welded cargo containers. A handful of people outside propped up the front wall. Their attire ranged from light, civilian-grade, bullet-resistant armor to tattered scraps of gang couture. The most extreme example, one of the women, pranced about bare-chested and wearing sheer pants that left most of the outside of her legs exposed. A shifting NanoLED tattoo of a scorpion glowed over her sternum; its twin tails coiled outward, circling beneath one breast each. Fluorescent green lipstick curled into a frown as she saw the police lights on the car.

“How can she walk around like that?” Kirsten averted her eyes, blushing.

“I know, right?” Nicole muttered, putting her helmet on. “That’s gotta be damn cold. You should’ve grabbed a set of tac armor for this.”

Kirsten gaped, deciding against saying anything more. Dorian slid out of the car, walking between them. Conversation simmered out to the silence of a faint whistling breeze, too weak to hide the electronic firing circuit chirp from a few weapons turning on. At the sound, Kirsten put one hand on her E-90 and the other in the air.

“I’m not here to bust anyone’s balls. I just want information. Where can I find Ronnie?”

“Hah.” A sienna-skinned man, blue vest over his bare chest, stepped down off the porch wearing a massive grin. “You guys shouldn’t have. Cop strippers, nice.”

“Happy birthday, Sicario.” A pudgy Asian in an armored vest raised a beer in salute.

The big guy sauntered over, stopping a few paces away.

“That’s close enough. We’re not strippers, jackass.”

Scorpion-tits sashayed over, still frowning. “The police don’t send young chick-meat out to a grey zone.” Kirsten’s face reddened, but she did not break her cop-face. “Cops also wear blue. So who are you?”

The one called Sicario put an arm around her, cupping her right breast and flicking the gold barbell through the nipple. Kirsten suppressed the urge to cringe as her brain took a guess at what such a piercing would feel like.

“Back up, hands where we can see them.” Nicole had her gun out now, waving it at them.

More than half of them noticed it was a laser, and seemed confused. One man tilted his head at her as blades slid out through his fingers and locked in place with a click. Seconds later, the high-pitched presence of vibro inducers rattled Kirsten’s teeth.

Kirsten’s E-90 whipped out of the holster, aimed right at him. “You take one step; it’ll be your last.” She sounded too frightened to make idle threats.

Scared enough to where they believed she would shoot.

“I just want to talk to Ronnie about some side work he did.” Kirsten reinforced her grip with her left hand, keeping the weapon aimed at vibro-claw man.

“Yo, Rampart. Some funny cops are lookin’ for you.” Sicario yelled over his shoulder.

Glass shattered from inside the building.

“He’s gonna run,” said Dorian.

“Fuckin kill ̓em!” A deep voice boomed from inside.

Sicario went for a pistol on his belt, which leapt out of the holster and skittered to the ground at Nicole’s feet. A tiny camera flash from the side of her helmet confirmed another addition to the wall. The scorpion turned blue.

“Mood boobs?” Nicole asked. “That’s kinda neat.”

Six others reached for guns. Kirsten scorched a hole through the thigh of the man with the claws; his panic-stricken attempt to grab the wound did more damage to his leg than the laser. He fell out of sight on the porch, screaming.

A huge man burst through a window on the far side of the bar; almost seven feet tall with a build like a combat cyborg made of meat. He took off running, no intention of participating in any fight. Others drew weapons as Sicario gawked at his empty holster. Wild with panic, he charged Nicole while the bare-chested woman ran through Dorian towards Kirsten, emitting a banshee wail.

Dorian drew in a non-breath. A pulse of energy wafted from him and the bar windows glimmered with spectral light. His reflection appeared, his skull glowing from within. Men screamed, dropped guns, and ran. Another woman, short with black hair, raised both eyebrows.

“That’s awesome…” She gawked, stepping closer. “Are you really there?”

Kirsten focused on the charging woman reaching for a belt knife. Nicole’s laser spat a streak of green light through the periphery of her awareness. It was second to the glint of a blade catching the red glow of a scorpion and swinging breasts. Kirsten should have fired, but felt too guilty about laser on knife to do it; too close to murder.

She stepped back with her right leg, turning ninety degrees and letting the knife slide past her chest without contact. The woman’s momentum carried her forward. Kirsten hooked a leg, put a hand on the woman’s back, and shoved her face-first into the hood of the patrol craft with a meaty smack. Unlike a normal car, the military plating had zero give. The windshield and windows, from the outside, were opaque―armor plates with tiny camera holes. The knife bounced out of the woman’s grip. The E-90 went back in its holster. Before Kirsten could advance to contain her, she pushed off the hood and swung with a wild right hook.

Ducked.

Second punch.

Leaned.

On the third punch, Kirsten caught the wrist and spun the woman’s arm around behind the back in a chicken wing on her way to the hood again.

Whap.

Bare chest squeaked on icy Indirium-alloy plating. Kirsten leaned all her weight on top of the struggling body, grinding her into the car. A loud whack turned her head, in time to see Sicario staggering away from a roundhouse kick from Nicole. The redhead bounced her stance back and forth like a boxer, grinning. He had a laser wound to the shoulder; his left arm was out of the fight. Kirsten fumbled for binders.

The woman growled through clenched teeth. She almost stood straight up with Kirsten on her back, but collapsed again over the hood, sliding. “Ow, fucking bitch, you’re gonna rip my nips off.”

“Not my fault you’re not wearing a damn shirt. Should have thought of that before you pulled a knife on a police officer.” Kirsten grabbed a handful of hair and smacked the woman’s head into the armor plating twice. “I could have shot you. I’m trying to be nice here. Stop resisting arrest.”

Kirsten’s uncharacteristic aggression shocked Nicole’s attention off Sicario. He yanked a bootstrap gun off his leg and shot her in the chest, the loud snap of the slug bouncing away from her tactical vest whip-cracked off nearby buildings. With one hand pinning the woman’s wrist between her shoulders, the other crushing the back of her head into the car, Kirsten could only gawk as Nicole got pissed off.

The gun rocketed out of his hand before he could fire it again, tearing the trigger finger off at the first knuckle as it flew.

Nicole held her arm out, growling. “You motherfucker.”

Sicario’s legs swept out from under him, as if he lay on his stomach, suspended eight feet in the air. Nicole’s arm went down, as did Sicario, smashing into the ground hard enough to crack a rib. Still growling, Nicole sidestepped and telekinetically launched him headfirst into the front passenger wheel-guard. The impact to the armored shroud knocked him cold.

“Son of a god-damned bitch, you’re so fucking lucky Kirsten’s here, or I would have shot your ass.” Nicole took a running two-step and drove her boot into the side of his unconscious head.

Seeing her boyfriend fly took the fight out of the shirtless woman. Kirsten cuffed her and hauled her around to the back seat. Propping her chest-first against the car, she patted down the cloth-covered areas in search of other weapons.

“Are you going to admit to hiding anything in any body cavities, or do I have to go digging,” asked Kirsten, listening to surface thoughts.

“I’m sure you’d love that.” The woman growled.

“Sorry to disappoint. Got a feeling you’re clean.” Kirsten shoved her in and slammed the door.

Nicole picked at a scratch in her breastplate.

“You okay? That was… umm.”

Nicole panted, lifting her visor. “You’ve never seen me in the field before, have you? I hate asshats that shoot at cops. No respect.” She pointed her weapon at Sicario’s back. “Bastard.” Her eyes lightened back to their usual sky blue as they shifted to Kirsten. “Relax, I’m just fantasizing. Hey, where’d all the others go?”

“Dorian made a face at them. They ran, except for that one chick making goo-eyes at thin air.”

“They all ran,” said Kirsten.

“Oh.” Nicole cringed and put binders on Sicario.

She tried to lift him to his feet but could not move him. After a second try, and a mousy grunt, she gave up and searched him on the ground. A few drug injectors, two knives, another leg-gun, and a few mags of ammo gathered in a pile. “Damn, this guy was ready for a war.” The helmet cam recorded the search, and evidence.

While Kirsten called for backup, Nicole opened the other rear door and focused on Sicario with an intense stare. He floated again, toes dragging across the dirty metal ground. Screams came from the back seat as the unconscious man levitated into the car. When his weight settled down, Nicole sagged as if a great burden had been lifted from her. Kirsten punted the door closed.

“Backup’s on the way. I’m going after Ronnie.”

“Rampart.” The topless woman yelled. “His name is Rampart. What the hell are you people?”

Kirsten cringed at the question. “Division 0. We usually deal with psionic crime.”

“Psionics?” Her terror almost made the hovercar shake.

Consider yourself lucky. Ordinary cops would have just shot you the second you pulled a knife.

The telepathic voice slapped her still. Kirsten shook her head at the dirt-smeared breasts and the matching pattern of clean on the hood.

“Nikki, can you watch these two, I’m going after Ram-whatever.”

“Gotcha.”

“Over here,” Dorian yelled, about two blocks away.

She jogged after him, around the warehouse and away from the shore. He led her down one alley, around another corner and into a trash-strewn strip between two buildings. She waded knee-deep in old plastic cartons, empty cans, and unidentifiable scraps.

“He’s in the trash box at the end, the blue one with the white rose painted on it.” Dorian pointed.

“Thanks.” She paused. “Hey, you’re more than two hundred yards away from the car.”

Dorian gasped, looked in that direction, and bit his knuckle. After a moment, he stopped faking fear and laughed. “I guess it’s not such a big deal.”

Kirsten’s chuckle stalled at the sound of a soft feminine sob. “Ugh, what now?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

She trudged a few dozen meters toward the noise, arriving at another passage too narrow for the term alley; even a one-seat Jian Feng would be hard-pressed to fit down it. A mangled mass of woman paced back and forth, clutching entrails dangling over an emerald miniskirt. One blue high-heeled shoe danced around her left ankle, held on by one strap; the other was missing. No trace of a shirt remained, or much of anything else inside her chest. Her hands worked in an endless battle to put her insides, inside.

They kept slipping out.

Kirsten sagged, staring at the ground. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, my.” Dorian cringed.

“I’ll come back; she’s not going to get any deader. Please stay with her?”

“Sure.” He nodded, put on his cop face, and strode toward the dead woman.

The trek through the sea of trash back to the dumpster proved arduous; she worked up a sweat.

“Rampart? I know you’re in the blue refuse storage unit. I’m not here for you; I just want to talk about Vikram Medhi.”

She jumped at a sudden loud boom. The initial thought was gunshot, but as her heart got going again, she figured he had just startled and banged his knee into the side.

“All I want to do is talk.”

A belabored groan echoed from inside the trash box as a dull green industrial canister, the type often used to hold volatile gas, rose into view. Trash slipped off the top as it wobbled higher, supported on the massive arms of a man closer to eight feet tall than seven. Veins bulged out of his biceps, forearms, and forehead. He might have been Caucasian, but had turned bright red. Breaths came in struggled gasps as he strained to hold it in while supporting such weight.

E-90 came out, aimed. “Do not throw that at me.” Her eyes glowed for a second.

He blinked, making a disappointed face like a little boy told to go to his room. She half expected his response to be, “But I wanna.”

“Set it down before you hurt yourself.”

He shifted left and right, teetering as the exertion of bearing such a heavy load without hurling it overtook him. Gravity gained the upper hand and he let it go forward. The volatile materials cylinder crashed to the ground with a deafening clang and enough force to bounce Kirsten an inch into the air. She jumped to the side to evade the rolling canister, looking up just in time to see Rampart vault off the rim of the refuse box, flying into a tackle.

Fortunately, the amount of trash on the ground made the landing somewhat pleasant, except for the corner of a box that got her in the back of the right thigh. His hands slid over her chest on their way to her throat.

“Freeze.”

In an instant, Rampart went rigid, shuddered, and broke out in a cold sweat. “What the hell?”

“Will you please calm down? Get off me.”

Muscles, independent of his brain, obeyed.

She dusted herself off, rubbing the painful spot on the back of her leg. Rampart quivered, his body the victim of a raging contest of willpower. Confusion at why he could not move made him cry.

“Well that’s just a sad, sad sight.” Dorian chuckled, walking over with the gory girl behind him. “Felt that thing hit the ground, came running.”

“I got him.” Kirsten crossed her arms.

Nicole sprinted into view down the alley, sliding to a halt at an intersection and spinning in a circle. It took her two rotations to notice Kirsten, and she dropped into a tactical walk with her weapon trained on Rampart.

“Don’t kill me.” He continued to shudder as he strained to move.

Kirsten relieved him of a pistol, four knives, and a three-foot length of chain, all of which she tossed into the dumpster. “I’m not here to kill you, Ronnie. I just want to ask you about Vikram Medhi.”

“Uh, who?”

“You might want to step back, K. When your mind wank wears off, he’s gonna twist you in half.” Nicole came to a halt about ten yards away. “His arms are bigger than your thighs.”

Rampart appraised his biceps. “She’s got narrow legs.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, kind of,” said Nicole.

“You two can both go to hell.” Kirsten did not know if she should laugh or scream.

A holographic head appeared over Kirsten’s NetMini, spinning in a slow leftward rotation.

“Oh. Dude called himself Diva or something… Dava, maybe. Heard he got himself dead.”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Kirsten put the mini away. “Have you seen him since the explosion, any idea where he hangs out?”

His gaze darted between her and Nicole, lingering on the redhead who seemed eager for any excuse to fire.

“You real cops? Not Lyris? What’s with the black?”

“Notice how you can’t move?” Kirsten put her gun away. “Division 0, psionic stuff. All I care about is Vikram right now, unless you’re wanted for a major crime.”

“He hasn’t seen Vikram for months,” Nicole added. “Negative on the serious crime, too.”

Kirsten whirled on her. “Dammit, Nicole, you can’t just go into their heads. It’ll get thrown out of an inquest, and they’ll walk.”

“What?” She relaxed enough to shrug. “It’s for his benefit. He’s not lying.”

“So you don’t know if Vikram survived the explosion? What did you do for him?”

Rampart managed to get his arms down. “He had the place wired up big time, carried a trigger button on him all the time. Me? All I did was loaf around eating his food. He hired me around to watch his limp ass while he jacked in, and ̓case some shit showed up to start problems. The dude was slick, though; no one ever backtracked him. I got paid to sit on my ass.”

“Lyris backtracked him.” Kirsten turned at moving lights, waving at a trio of Division 1 patrol officers.

“Yeah, I wasn’t there for that one, though, or I’d be kibble too. I ain’t seen him since. Word on the street is he set himself off.”

“He’s not lying.” Nicole lowered her gun. “Don’t do anything stupid, Howie.”

“Ronnie,” said Kirsten.

“Rampart.” He grumbled.

“Rampart?” Nicole scrunched up her face. “Isn’t that like a part of a um, castle or something?”

“Look at the size of him.”

“Oh, I get it,” said Nicole.

Ronnie gazed up at the smog, sighing.

All three of them turned at the scuff of a heavy boot approaching.

“Evening, Agent Wren, Officer Logan.” A tall, muscular woman, as pale as Kirsten, saluted her. “What’s this guy’s story?”

“Officer Dietrich.” Kirsten returned the salute. “I was hoping for information he didn’t have. He bolted from the scene; only thing I can tag him with is inciting violence against a peace officer.”

Nicole replayed the recording of Ronnie’s voice shouting “kill ̓em.”

“Understood. Your partner filled us in about the two idiots in the back seat. They’re on the way to the tank already.”

“K?” Dorian cleared his throat, pointing at the ghost next to him. “Name’s Cara. Goes by Rush out here.”

“One minute.”

The burly female cop escorted Rampart down the alley, leaving the two male officers as backup.

“Okay, what happened?” Kirsten startled the ghostly woman by waving at her.

“I guess it was a few days ago. I was working a few blocks over, you know…” She stared at her one remaining shoe, pushing her aqua-colored hair over one ear.

“That’s not important; you had to do what you had to do to survive.”

“So this guy comes out of nowhere like, and shoots Rafael in the head.”

“Their guardian,” added Dorian.

“The girls scatter, the big fucker picks me. I run like hell, but heels, ya know.”

Kirsten shifted her weight. “Yeah, I know.”

“I trip in this mess, he drags me around here, I figure at first he’s just gonna take a freebie… but he didn’t seem interested in sex at all. Then I seen his arms. One’s a big ass hook and the other just a block… A hammer like, with little stubby fingers, he was augged out to Mars and back. Carved me up like a goddamned turkey, singing like a loon the whole time. Opera or some bullshit old man stuff.” Some of her insides fell with a glop.

“I’m guessing you understand you’re dead.”

Rush reeled in her inner bits. “Yeah. I’m not that smart, but I kinda figured that out.”

“Any idea what’s keeping you here? Do you have any family, friends, anyone you want me to contact?”

“None that give a shit. Mom overdosed a couple years ago, died. No idea who my father even is, maybe was.”

Kirsten offered a consoling nod. “Is your body still over there?”

“Yeah. This way.” Rush drifted back into the narrow passage.

“Guys…” Kirsten waved at the Division 1 patrolmen. “Over here.”

They trudged through knee-deep trash to the less packed alley. Kirsten tried not to look at the bloody dangles trailing behind the dead prostitute. Eventually Rush stopped, pointing at a pile of debris. The smell in the air left no doubt as to what was underneath it. Nicole shoved cartons, tubes, tires, and other items out of the way telekinetically. Flies buzzed into a swarm at the commotion; the sight made the stench even worse.

Nicole turned away, woozy. “I hate maggots.”

“Wow, that one’s been there a few days.” Patrolman Weber put his hands on his hips.

Kirsten looked between them. “You guys got this?”

Officer Duncan offered a noncommittal shrug. “Yeah we’ll scrape her up.”

“I have a description of the killer, if you’re gonna like take notes or something? Maybe give half a shit?”

Rush pouted at the floor. “No one gives a damn about us, least of all cops. One walked right past me the other day and didn’t even slow down.”

Duncan took a few haphazard image captures of the scene with a portable from his belt. “No one reported her missing. Not surprised, these street rats don’t usually get missed.”

Kirsten fumed. The sound of Rush breaking into sobs poked a hole in the dam holding her back.

“Patrol Officer Duncan, are you going to stand in front of me and tell me someone’s life is worth less because they don’t have anyone to scream at your watch commander to find them? I can’t believe you’re standing here, looking down on a murder victim only because life left them no choice but to walk the streets.”

The tone of her voice sucked the nonchalance out of both officers and they snapped to attention.

“Someone killed this girl and left her here in a god damned alley, alone.” She continued to get louder, taking on the cadence of a drill instructor. “You’re looking at what’s left of a nineteen-year-old with no choices left. Not one lousy person in this entire shithole of a city gave enough of a crap about her before it was too late. The least you E2’s can do is treat her with a little god damned respect.”

Kirsten dug her fingernails into her palms, too angry to cry, and too aghast to care if they saw her red-faced and out of breath.

“Right away, ma’am.” Officer Duncan, who bore the brunt of the assault, saluted her.

“And don’t stomp on top of her. There could be evidence anywhere.” Kirsten tapped at her armband display until a dispatch doll’s head shimmered into being. “I need a crime scene team to my current location. Homicide investigation.”

“Thank you…” Rush reached to touch Kirsten, pausing as something made her glance down the alley. “Mom?”

Kirsten spun away from the patrol cops, not wanting them to see her eyes getting watery. “Go to her, Cara. There’s nothing but pain for you here.”

The dead girl offered one final smile back at someone who cared, and limped away. Her appearance changed, no longer gory. Her loping drag of a walk became a normal stride, and she vanished in a cloud of flickering silver. Kirsten swallowed the lump in her throat, and whirled with the scowl of a displeased commissioned officer at the two enlisted men.

She would not let them make more of a mockery of that woman’s life.

lickering color painted the walls, changing the mood in time with the images of an emerald-scaled dragon flying just at the top of a pine forest. The man on its back, clad in white robes, hurled lightning from his outstretched hands at an army of glow-eyed, bat-winged creatures darkening the sky behind him. One landed in the saddle behind the rider, screeching, and sank a mouthful of yellow fangs into his shoulder. The dragon, reacting to his companion’s grunt, went into a wicked roll that launched the unwanted passenger into the top of a passing tree.

Kirsten had not paid much attention to the video, or the increasing darkness in the hour since they got home. Evan sat on her lap, tolerating the hug she clamped on him when the movie started. She clung, feeling his breathing and the vibration of his voice through his bones as he cheered the great wizard Monwyn’s victory over the forces of darkness. His hair brushed her cheek as he shouted, with both arms in the air. The giant white T-shirt she threw on felt like a warm blanket compared to the uniform. She stared at her toes, at the size difference of their feet, and squeezed him tighter.

He squirmed and gave her a confused look. “This isn’t a sad part. You shouldn’t be crying. Princess Alsbeth hasn’t been kidnapped and threatened with doom if she doesn’t betray Prince Thiandren to open the gate of Kol’Namarr and let the Realm of Darkness invade the world. That’s the sad part.” The last few words squeaked out of empty lungs.

Kirsten laughed, releasing one arm to wipe her cheeks. “Yeah, I forgot.”

A shift in the music drew his attention. The high-tempo battle theme of the air chase gave way to the eerie ambiance of a landing in the Forest of Penumbras, the lair of the great demonic general of the Unwoken Army. Despite having seen Monwyn the Wise two dozen times, as well as its prequel, the forest scene still scared him.

From the safety of a thin blanket, Evan watched the shadow goblin fail to assassinate the great wizard. Kirsten grinned as he trembled with worry until Gring’nur the Shadow Slayer died to a well-placed light spell. Evan threw both hands up again and cried out in joy. She attacked the spot where his pajama top pulled out of his waistband, tickling him into a fit of laughter.

“Pause.” he yelled, through peals of giggling.

The holovid player obeyed. A moment later, he lay still, sideways across her lap. He panted and gave her a look of mock annoyance for interrupting the movie. He shifted to sit back on his heels, facing her, trying to catch his breath.

“You had a sad day at work?”

She fussed at his hair. “Yeah.”

“Thought so. You get squeezy.” Evan settled back into her lap to continue the movie, but spun around with a worried face before he let all of his weight down.

“Do I have to go back to the dorm?”

She melted. “No, they didn’t say that. I just met a dead woman no one cared about.”

“Oh. I bet you helped her.” His mood lifted.

“I hope so.” Kirsten put an arm over his chest again as he got comfortable.

“You did. You’re like Monwyn… but more, uhh, girly.”

Kirsten laughed.

He stared at the frozen image of the white-robed wizard’s face, harsh in the shadows of a daybolt flying from his hand, for the span of a few breaths. “Are you too nuts to keep me?”

She hugged a groan out of him. “I don’t think so, hon. I’m okay now, it was just bad dreams. You helped me get rid of them.”

“You had a bad mom, too. Do they think you’d be a bad mom coz yours was mean?” He pulled his knees to his chin. “I want to stay here.”

Kirsten patted him on the belly. “Yeah, that’s what they’re afraid of. They’re just trying to protect you. I’m sure it will work out. A few more weeks and the caseworker will see we’re okay.”

His hair tickled her neck as he craned his head back to look at her. A huge smile crept over his upside-down face before he sat up and thrust his finger into the air.

“Resume play!”

The daybolt flew into a crowd of shadow-goblins, dispersing half a dozen at once. Monwyn chanted, the bassy, magic-amplified voice shaking the apartment as he prepared a grand spell.

Doorbell.

“Pause.” His fist smushed into his cheek as he leaned forward, grumbling.

She extricated herself from the seat and jogged to the door, hand on her gut to tamp down the butterflies. The caseworker wasn’t supposed to be here for two more days. Is this one of those surprises?

A swipe of her hand at the silver panel created a low-res image of the hallway, a man in a grey coverall waited, holding a large slab of semi-transparent plastic with what looked like a mirror in it.

“Little late for a work job? It’s almost nine.” She let off the talk-through button.

The man leaned closer. “Yeah, I know, I’m doing it off the books. Kyle’s a cheap bastard.”

Guess the uniform worked. Kirsten opened the door, backing away as he came in, maneuvering the mirror with care. Once inside, he rotated it upright. His surface thoughts checked out, he’d only come here to install the bathroom mirror.

And he thinks I’m cute. Debating if he should ask me out, doesn’t seem like he wants a one-nighter. Oh, shit, the movie behind me, he can see my shape right through this shirt.

Red faced, she took two steps left.

“Hey,” he said, offering a handshake. “I’m Julio.”

The embarrassment faded, she returned his smile and handshake. “Kirsten.”

“Bathroom’s over here?” Julio pointed with the mirror as he walked past the bed to the inner door. “Yep, thought so. All these one-room places have the same layout.”

She leaned on the doorframe, watching him remove the pitiful shard from the wall and hang the new mirror. Julio’s glance kept drifting away from his work to her bare legs, and he made idle chat about music and other things, winding up sounding more awkward than sexy. Kirsten found it strange to cause a guy to trip over himself, and stifled a giggle when a near-drop of the mirror almost caused him to fall. He recovered, turned to smile at her, and lost a little color.

Crap, what did I do? I didn’t even tell him I’m psionic yet.

“I made popcorn; I won’t start the movie till you’re done,” said Evan, from behind.

The sound of munching wandered away into the distance. Julio seemed to remember that hanging a mirror only takes about thirty seconds when the hooks are already installed. He excused himself and went for the door as if the room had fleas. She smirked, and then used the mirror to make sure she still looked her age.

The outer door squeaked closed. Beep, locked.

For a moment, she fumed at the idea Julio could think Evan was her son and not her kid brother; she would have been thirteen when he was born. When her brain settled on the idea, really wrapped around his assumption Evan was hers, she smiled.

“Hell with you, Julio; your loss.” She flicked off the bathroom light.

“That popcorn still hot?”

onsciousness snuck up and pounced on her. Kirsten sighed, stretched, and rolled her head to the right. The holo-bar on the nightstand projected the clock when it sensed her looking at it―5:50 a.m. Fatigue was gone, but an indefinable feeling of unease settled in. Feet swished back and forth beneath the sheets while fingers picked at the material of her shirt. She wanted to enjoy the feeling of a proper, functioning comforgel pad that did not force her to sleep in skivvies to avoid a sweat bath, but all she could do was worry.

She rolled to the side and noticed Evan’s empty sleeping bag. She shot upright, about to panic, but exhaled at the sound of a running autoshower. The light leaking out from under the bathroom door flickered, as though someone stepped past it.

Alarmed again, she slipped out of bed and grabbed her service weapon. Evan quoted the great Monwyn, his voice echoing in the tube as he chanted the Invocation of Arcane Dominion. She would have smiled if not for her fear of an intruder in the apartment. She crept to the door, brushing it aside with her left hand, aiming the laser with the other. Bright light within caused an involuntary squint.

Amid the foggy cylinder, patches of Evan blurred through the vapor as he gesticulated and made lightning sound effects. The silver spray ring reached the floor, paused, and started back up. Two feet shy of the autoshower, Theodore, in mid-sneak, was about to stick a head full of scraggly black hair through the plastic. A rain of phantom droplets fell from his soaked and ragged trench coat, held out like the wings of a buzzard. Boots squished as he stepped, but the moisture existed only for him.

“Theodore,” Kirsten muttered, careful to remain quieter than the whirring machinery. “So help me, if you do anything to him…”

He froze, whipping around with a surprised look that relaxed into an innocent grin. When she did not smile, he straightened up. The dark stains on his olive drab pants glistened crimson in the light, still oozing from ancient bullet wounds. He trudged out of the bathroom through her. After nudging the door closed, she crossed her arms.

“Theodore, what the hell were you going to do to him?”

He bowed. “Sorry, heard the thing running and the room wasn’t blocked off. I couldn’t resist the thought you’d forgotten again. I was hoping to catch another peek of your luscious titties. Course, kids are fun to scare the bejesus out of.”

“Please leave him alone; if you ever do anything nice for me, make it that.” She stomped across the room and fell on the bed, tossing the E-90 on the nightstand. “Dammit, Theodore, I thought someone was in the apartment.”

With an exaggerated hurt pout, he glided over, making a show of floating. “I’m not a person anymore?”

“You know what I mean, a criminal.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” He bowed, deeper this time. “That’s a nice new mirror. It would almost be worth it to stick my head up through the bowl again.”

Kirsten blushed. Her elbow ached, remembering when she smashed the old one. “Why do you torment me like that?”

“It’s not just you. You’re just the only one what sees me.”

Her face scrunched with disgust.

“Hey, I’m dead. I’m―”

Kirsten frowned. “Not dead. You’ve said that every time you’ve come here.”

“Trademarked.” He snapped nonexistent suspenders. “Anyway… I figured you’d like to know, some of the boys saw some shit. Word among The Kind is something slipped out of the infernal darkness.”

Consciousness arriving an hour early required a hand on the face, and an eye rub. “Give me that once more in English, please?”

He chuckled, pacing back and forth, trailing an effect of wet carpet that faded within seconds of his passage. “Group of my friends, we have a sort of community. Call ourselves The Kind. Spirits without any qualms, without any attachments, we’re just in it for the fun.” He spun to face the sudden light from the door. “No hurry to go… through.”

Evan emerged from the bathroom, flicking the light off. He walked by, tugging at his briefs, and waved at Kirsten without looking. “Morning.” He paused by his sleeping bag. “Hi, Theodore.”

Plop.

The ghost grumbled. “Dammit, boy, have the decency to at least act scared.”

Face-first in his pillow, he shrugged. “You probably can’t do anything to me. An’ if you are powerful enough to hurt me, she’ll splat you.”

Theodore gestured at him, a wounded look sent at Kirsten. “Do you believe this? I’ve caused corporate assassins to cry; this little bugger ignores me like I’m a bit of carpet lint.”

“Soggy carpet lint,” Evan muttered, already half-asleep.

Kirsten giggled. “So what about this darkness?”

Orbiting the bed, Theodore sent a series of faces at the sleeping boy.

“Please, Theodore. It might be important.”

He came to a halt, dripped a few times, flapped his arms, and sighed. “Okay, fine. You know where the Harbingers drag the bad ones off to? Well, sometimes the door don’t close all the way and a couple of ̓em get out.” He leaned close enough for her to see flaking lines in his white face paint.

“Damn.”

“Aye. Damn.” A nod flung water at her before he stood up straight. “You’re a right bit of a wordsmith, girl. Damn’s a fine good way to put it. Never did understand that, how they get stronger after they get taken. Them abyssals, they not ghosts anymore, they be somethin’ else.”

“Demons?” She frowned at the blood perpetually oozing from the gunshots that killed him.

“Some people call ̓em that. That other place, it turns ̓em into a whole other thing than just a ghost. Course, they ain’t supposed to be able to get out. If’n you get run over and killed by a car, does it matter if it was a sedan or a coupe?”

Kirsten blinked. “A what or a what?”

Theodore waved at her. “Bah, damn kids.”

“Aren’t escapees the sort of thing Harbingers are supposed to deal with?”

Theodore laughed. “Those things? Nah. They go after ghosts, but the escaped ones, the abyssals, they’re too strong. They have too much will to remain. There’s rules, ya know.”

“So they just run around forever?”

“Well, I’m sure your little party trick will work. But the other ones, they will get involved once them abyssals get too powerful. Somethin’ ̓bout wreckin’ the balance. Course, no tellin’ how many people’d be dead by then.”

“I’m not going to sit back and let them run amok; just tell me already, skip the guilt trip.” Kirsten curled up on the bed, under the sheet. “Can you make it quick? I still have another fifty minutes to sleep.”

“What I hear, and this was from an old soul, is that if they get too big they throw things out of whack and something else comes down to kill them. Kind of like a Harbinger, but it plays for the other team.” He chuckled.

“An angel?”

He produced a spluttering noise with his tongue, shrugging. “Guess that’s as good a name as any. Day and night, light and dark. Existence by contrast. No one would know what light was if there was no dark to hold it up against. But, keep your eyes open, Kirsten. Word from The Kind is spirits got out of the bad place. Might even be someone you sent there.”

“Dammit, Theodore, now I can’t sleep.”

“Heh. Gotcha.” He winked. “If they didn’t come already, they ain’t looking for you. Feel bad for whoever it is they want, though. Things what crawl up from the Abyss are not happy things.”

“Guess I’ll just have to cast daybolt at ̓em.”

Theodore lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

Evan grinned.

heery electronic music nagged Kirsten out of a momentary nap. Her eyes cracked open, hurting from pale grey light saturating the city in front of her. A shifting mass of warped faces, hands, and dark clothing flowed through the rain on the windshield. Bright orange light sent her into a cringe away from the driver side window. On the other side, a large compound shadowed a courtyard. Round and white, the buildings resembled a scaled-up arrangement of hatboxes, dotted with windows and architectural ridges.

A hovering droid the size of a shoebox came within an inch of the armored panel, the source of the jingle.

“Your food’s here.” Dorian smiled. “Good morning for the second time.”

The window went opaque black as the view-through screen powered off an instant before it motored down. A small mechanical arm waved at her and the droid’s front end opened. She took a clear plastic box of steam out of the delivery bot, tossing it back and forth between her hands to manage the heat. With a smooth mechanical droning, the inch-thick panel slid back up, flickered with static, and then once more took on the appearance of a clear window.

She popped the carton open, cradling an egg burrito.

“Well that smells a lot better than the crap you get from the Nippy-Nom. Egg? Smells a little odd.”

“Jalapeños. Got it by accident once, kinda like it now.” She took a bite. “You wanna taste it? You can hop in if you want.”

“That’s okay.”

“Right, boobs.”

He looked to the side. “So what are we doing at the National Archives?”

She wagged her head back and forth trying to finish chewing faster. “Computer finally spat out a hit on the silver circle. It tagged some of the pictographs as ancient Sumerian. There’s a philanthropist here who supposedly has experience in that sort of thing. I’m hoping to pick his brain.”

Chomp.

“Either that’s rather tasty, or you forgot to eat dinner last night.”

“Boaf,” she muttered, through a mouthful. “Actually, I couldn’t eat; Rush got to me.”

“You’re not going to start moping about being alone and unloved again, are you?”

“No. Just upset at those two idiots for being such callous dicks about it.”

Dorian’s eyebrows went up as he nodded. “Jaded. Sometimes the ones that see too much too fast just detach from it all. It’s how they cope. I guess it makes it easier to think of them as road kill than as people.” He turned to face her. “Oh, turns out that they have been looking for that guy for quite a while now, almost two years. Killed a cop last April; over a year now.”

Kirsten set the burrito down and got to work thumbing a message out of her NetMini.

“Found something?”

“No.” She sent it and grabbed what was left of her food. “Just passing along the info to someone I think might want to know.”

After stuffing the last of her breakfast in her mouth, she stepped out into the rain and jogged up a long, steep stairway to the outer courtyard of the West City National Archives. Part museum, part records hall, the vast structure occupied about two square miles. Shimmering aqua-colored blobs of light danced in the air over the primary atrium as rain died a sizzling death upon a dome-shaped energy field. Out of the downpour, she slowed to a casual walk past several statues of historical figures from the late 2200s: Takeshi Nomura, the inventor of the first practical ion drives, followed by the team that developed faster than light systems, a diorama of cyberspace pioneers, and a mess of truly ancient ones who had something to do with pre-war history.

“So who is this philanthropist?” Dorian ceased bothering to avoid people, walking through anyone that got in his way.

A few shivered; most did not notice.

“Konstantin Dobrynin. Old money. His family’s been prominent in Europe for many generations. He emigrated from the ACC a couple of months ago, apparently had enough cash to buy his way out. Or they didn’t want him around.”

“Or he’s a spy.” Dorian shook his head. “Did he apply for residency, or is he just visiting?”

“The file didn’t say either way.”

“Hey…” A young man in a security uniform blurted as she ducked around the weapon scanner. “You can’t―”

“Is something wrong?”

He looked at her uniform, wearing a face hinting something was not quite right. Fear spread over him as he spotted the zero on her rank badge, and understanding of the black uniform crept in. He shook his head, mute.

She turned away with a scowl. “I didn’t think so.”

“Uhh,” he warbled, offering a clumsy salute. “Sorry, ma’am, the black caught me off guard, is all.”

I’m bitchy today. Kirsten slowed, tilted her head at him. “It’s okay. I’ve been getting that a lot lately.”

Dorian cracked his wry grin. “It’s nice when they’re just terrified of the rank, not the brain, eh?”

She went through a grand concourse full of holographic reproductions of ancient artwork hanging among dusty curtains of artificial sunlight. “Why does mankind always have to isolate some group for scorn? Religion, skin tone, gender, sexual preference, psionics… why do we seem to need people to hate?”

“It’s 2418; except for psionics, you’re talking about ancient history. Most people don’t even remember that.” He paused to admire flecks of dust drifting through a holographic reproduction. The name Rembrandt was engraved on the emitter. “Two hundred years ago, people made a big deal about being proud to belong to a vilified group. Now it just kind of is, and no one notices. I’m not sure anyone even remembers.”

“There’re still some pockets of it.” She turned a corner, now past rows of statues. “Some of the East City gangs have adopted pseudo-religious ideals and attack anyone who doesn’t agree with them. Others go after non-whites. How damn stupid can you be?”

Dorian laughed. “Yeah, especially since you can change your skin with a trip to Reinventions.”

Kirsten waved him off. “Not everyone has a million credits to waste for a DNA rebuild.”

Marble, bronze, and stone reproductions of people and things crept by. The high vault ceiling divided into sections, each with a moving hologram depicting some point in the past. Biplanes in one, soldiers from an ancient war in another, political faces, the first starship launch, the ribbon cutting of the first Moon colony, and others.

“You can’t judge humanity based on a few dozen morons.”

“Yeah.” She shoved a heavy faux-wood door out of her way. “They have psionics to pick on now.”

Opulence bathed the office beyond it; wooden everything surrounded her, real from the scent of it. Paneled walls held shelves of books interspersed with oddities including silver skulls, bronze spheres, and a stuffed raven or two. Her boots made no sound over the sand colored carpeting on the way to an immense U-shaped desk. The grey marble slab top deviated from the theme of wood, covered by an orderly array of the usual desk techno-gadgetry as well as bits of ancient history. At the right corner, a head-sized green marble sphere perched on the tail of a two-foot-tall bronze fish.

“Do you have an appointment?” A transparent older woman in a blue dress appeared seated at the desk.

Kirsten took a step back, hand on her weapon.

“Grabbed the gun this time, not your chest.” Dorian laughed. “You’re almost a cop.”

I don’t feel anything, gotta be a hologram. “Yes. I called about thirty minutes ago. Kirsten Wren, Division 0.”

“One moment, officer.”

The elderly simulacrum sat idle, a pleasant smile on her face as if watching unseen birds. After a minute, the gestures looped.

“I think I’m on hold,” Kirsten whispered.

One of the shelves wobbled, and then opened into the wall, revealing a hidden door to another, even larger, office. The man who opened it smiled; his teeth bright against skin accustomed to the outdoors. At a glance, she took him for about thirty, but had the feeling he was perhaps an older man with a young face or a young man with an old soul. A suit of shiny blue silk gave just enough of a glimpse at his physique to convey his interests did not lie solely within the annals of a library.

A coral-hued cuff peeked out from the sleeve of his jacket as he gestured for her to enter. She cocked an eyebrow at the fluffy white ascot beneath his neck, amused by the anachronistic touch it lent to his overall appearance. Two silver rings glimmered with sapphires on the hand holding the door, three carved gold serpents coiled about the fingers of the one waving her in.

“Good morning, Miss Wren. The VidPhone hardly does you justice.” Konstantin Dobrynin gazed into her eyes. “Such perfect, deep shades of blue often render poorly in hologram.”

He brought his hand back, as if to shake, but drew hers up to place a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. The warmth of his breath swam over her skin, his eyes half-closed. Her arm fell back to her side like a hunk of firewood. I’m still back in the car, I’m still napping, this isn’t real. This is what happens when you skip breakfast.

Her uniform seemed a little too form-fitting as she slid through the narrow opening. At least on this side it’s an obvious door. She watched it swing closed, unable to decide if she felt trapped or welcome. Her nerves brought the essence of jalapeño to the back of her throat. She coughed, patting herself on the chest. Okay, maybe I didn’t dream about eating.

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“I’m on duty, and it’s not even nine in the morning.”

“Water, then; you look like you could use it. Are you fond of coffee?”

“All right.”

He gestured at a chair, and went to a bar on the far end of the room. She glanced around, more shelves, more books. Old ones, loaded with dust. Atmospheric retention fields over the shelves charged the air with electricity. Kirsten stopped as the floor went from hard to soft, finding a large Oriental rug set at a diagonal through the center of the room. Gold fringe on both sides had enough of a metallic sheen to make her wonder if it was real. The wood shelving in this inner sanctum held a deep reddish tint; leering gargoyles mounted to the bookshelf behind the main chair seemed to stare at her, a feeling beyond that of simple carved eyes. She sat at the edge of one of the cream-colored guest seats facing the desk, not comfortable enough to relax into it.

“Do you take cream?” He glanced over his shoulder, tiny ceramic pitcher in his hand.

His eyes seemed to take on the same burnished color as the rosewood shelves, somewhere between brown and red.

“A little.”

Dorian wandered the edge of the chamber. The clink of spoons rattled about before Konstantin pivoted with a tray in hand. He paused to sniff the contents of the cups as if letting Dorian walk past him. Approving the fragrance, he smiled over the delicate things at her, and moved to her side where he set it on a small floating platform table between the two guest chairs. The aroma, overwhelming, filled her senses. He let her choose a cup, then took the remaining one, holding it up as a toast.

Kirsten had all she could do not to cough at how strong it was. “Espresso?”

“Turkish.” He took a calm sip. “They still grow actual plants there, in the ground. So, what can I do for such a beautiful lady on this dismal rainy day?”

“Real coffee? He’s showing off. That’s only about two hundred credits you’re drinking.” Dorian poked her in the back.

He’s not walking around the desk to sit. He’s staying close to me.

“Miss Wren?”

She shook off her daydream. “Yes, umm.” Subtle, K. “I’m investigating a paranormal event and found some things I can’t explain. The database spat out something about ancient Sumerian. I’ve never heard of it, but when I tried to look it up I kept seeing your name attached to articles.”

“Ahh, so you were one of the six people that bothered to read it? I have somewhat esoteric hobbies. I like beautiful things as well as ancient things.” He set his cup on the desk, tilting his head a notch to the side. “I’m rather fond of things which appear delicate on the surface but are, in fact, quite dangerous.”

Her gaze ran over his chest, eyebrow climbing as a pectoral ridge swelled prominent through his shirt. She fumbled with a datapad, before holding it out to him. Konstantin took it in a manner that caused his fingers to brush over her hand in a lingering departure.

“The image scans we took are in there.” She could not look at him anymore.

“His desk is large enough, the walls are thick, and no one would hear anything.” Dorian stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back. “What are you waiting for?”

Crimson. This isn’t right. I want a relationship; I’m not a cat in heat.

Konstantin tapped the screen, and lowered himself into the other guest chair. Images of the silver circle appeared in midair, enlarged as he pinched and stretched at the intangible light. He studied one for quite some time, and then flipped to the next. Kirsten sipped her coffee, still refusing to look at him.

“I have not seen anything resembling this since my arrival in the UCF. This appears to be an attempt at constructing an intraplanar bridge.”

“A what? Like a portal?” She looked. “Seriously?”

“Well,” he said, lips parting into a confident grin. “Some people believe in this sort of thing. Cults, mostly; societies that died out quite a long time before the Corporate War.”

Transfixed, she let him gaze straight through her. Her heart beat at the back of her consciousness; the light in here made him seem younger, as if he only had her by four years.

“Have you been here very long, Konstantin?” She absentmindedly tried to sip from an empty cup, putting it back in the saucer and feeling foolish. “I didn’t see any emigration documents.”

“Fascinating.” He held his hand to his chin. “I am here on a journey of information sharing, for the Archives. I don’t have a political agenda; I operate in societal circles that don’t have time for pettiness of that nature.”

“So he is a foreigner.” Dorian resumed his wander.

“Let’s suppose this stuff you’re talking about is real. I’ve seen ghosts. I guess I’d be a bit of a hypocrite to discount anything at this point.” When she made eye contact with him, she caught him glancing out of the corner of his eye. “What would something like this circle do, assuming it was real?”

Can he see Dorian?

His glance flicked back to her, and then to the images. “From this, it appears as if someone attempted to contact an entity on the other side, from an alternate world. These ancient sects thought it was possible to channel the energies that flow between and divide different planes of existence by using a combination of force of will and patterns traced in precious materials.”

“Like silver?”

“Indeed.”

“Why would a precious material concern the planes? It’s only precious because we make jewelry out of it.”

“Rarity.” An aloof expression of interest crossed his face. “The pattern and the intent is what matters, the preciousness is an element of exclusion. When the implements cost more than peasants earn in a lifetime, fewer people attempt it and many discount it as a hoax. It is just a means to achieve a degree of safety with secrecy and doubt.”

“Peasants?” Kirsten giggled. “Did we slip back into the dark ages?”

“This has been around for a very long time. Occasionally, someone with a gift tries something and gets it to work. Perhaps someone such as you, who can see other worlds?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to call anything out of anywhere. I have to send them back. Could that circle have enabled spirits to slip out of the Abyss?”

“If you believe in such things, perhaps.” He stood. “I would love to discuss this with you at length; you are an enigma of splendor.”

“Oh, you’re too kind.” She eased out of the chair, taking a step for the door. Enigma of splendor… that’s a compliment, right?

“Wait, so you have a decent looking guy with an incredible amount of money who also happens to not care you’re psionic, and you’re ready to run like hell?” Dorian shook his head. “I give up on understanding women.”

“Let me copy these files; I’ll study them in detail and get back to you.” Konstantin glided around behind the huge desk, and eased himself into an enormous black leather chair.

“I’ll just need your PID.” He leaned into creaking leather. “So I can call you if I find anything.”

“Of course.” Give him the department number.

Beep. Her personal NetMini chimed.

Oh, shit, what did I just do?

he Archives faded into the distance on the rear-view monitors. Kirsten squeezed and released the control sticks to work out the tension in her body. Weaving through the ad-bot layer, she swerved hard to the right and climbed into the hovercar lane. The rain continued, appearing as brief pixilation in the windscreen, digitally removed from the pass-through display. Silence pervaded, save for the steady vibratory thrum of the various electronics in the patrol craft’s console. The pulsating rhythm of the ion drives ran down her back like massaging hands.

Kirsten settled into her seat, death grip relaxing. “That was strange.”

“I’m honestly surprised you didn’t―”

“Don’t even say it. What do you think I am? Sure, he’s tall, dark, and richer than God. I’m just gonna fling my pants off and leap onto his desk?”

“Umm.” He chuckled. “I was going to say peek into his surface thoughts.”

A minute of silence.

“The red goes quite nicely with the blonde.”

Kirsten wanted to scream in anger, cry from shame, and hide from embarrassment all at once. After a moment, she just muttered. “It was just too good.”

“You know, I think the man saw me.” Dorian glanced at the console; the heat ticked up two degrees.

“I had a feeling. If I wasn’t gawking at him like a cat in heat I might have eavesdropped on his head.” She growled. “I’m such a screw up.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. He could just be an undocumented astral. Really, he’s a foreigner, so it’s out of our purview unless he does something criminal with it. Usually ACC psionics come running to us waving their arms and begging for help.”

“He wanted to put me off balance.” She hung a left turn and climbed up a lane.

A teen rolled sideways and shot past on her right side; the look of “oh, crap” unmistakable when he realized he just cut off a police vehicle. He slowed down to the pace of a grandmother. Kirsten ignored him. He’ll be too terrified to drive like an idiot for at least twenty minutes.

“Maybe he just found you attractive? You are very pretty; you have those tragic Cosette eyes.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Kirsten looked away from traffic in short spurts to pin him with a quizzical stare.

“It’s from an ancient theater production you’ve never heard of. Whenever you’re not doing anything specific, you just seem to stare into space asking the world why it’s so mean to you.”

“I do not.” She frowned. “I’m doing okay now.”

“So where are you going?”

“Nowhere specific. I’m thinking.”

“Agent Wren, please acknowledge.”

Kirsten looked at the console. “Guess we have a destination now.” Poke. “Agent Wren here, go ahead.”

“21-47 reported at PubTran monorail Terminal, Sector 1471.”

A handful of small holo-panels opened: security camera footage of glass exploding for no reason, gunfire cracking out of thin air, and a man in a long black coat fading in and out as he walked down the concourse.

Kirsten whispered. “Seneschal.”

“Copy that, I’m en route. I suspect astral entities involved. Please advise Division 1 not to enter the area. I don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. Also, gimme a red dot on the station, I don’t want any trams arriving until it’s clear.”

“Acknowledged.”

Dorian glanced at the roof, the bar lights came on.

She yanked back on the left stick; the car shot vertical out of the hover lane and whirled to face Sector 1471. Kirsten tightened her grip on the controls as acceleration pressed her against the seat.

Chaos played out below. A row of parked cars along the street leading up to the station bore the marks of a roving gunfight, recent since the shattered remains of their windows still covered the road and sidewalk with twinkling crystalline glitter. People streamed down two large powered stairways that led from the small micro-park between the street and the station up to the elevated platform. The top of the long oval tube, the clear barricade over the monorail itself, peeked over the edge of the raised floor. Lights flickered inside.

A group of Division 1 patrol officers worked the base of the stairways, attempting to keep order among the fleeing crowd. Everyone ducked at once as gunfire echoed from the evacuated station. Kirsten elbowed her way into the opposing mass of bodies, plowing through the crowd and up the stairs. At the top, she stepped into the squint-inducing fluorescence of an empty plastisteel-floored mall. Metal support beams flanked bench seats, a plastic carton slid across in spurts of wind, and a few of the shopkeepers on the street-side end remained to defend their possessions.

Kirsten swallowed. The sight of an empty PubTran monorail terminal was scary in a post-apocalyptic sort of way that tensed the muscles in the back of her neck. A feeling simmered in the air, telling her something else was here. Dorian drifted right as they advanced, searching for any trace of activity.

Boots crunched on broken fragments of holo-bars; the damage appeared to be the result of bullets. The girder to which the device was once mounted showed no sign of harm, not even scratched paint, as though the projectiles ceased existing as soon as they hit the first object. She had seen a similar effect before. Some ghosts could learn how to cause direct harm to other beings, and that technique often manifested in something familiar to the ghost―like a gun. Of course, they did not fire real bullets, just bursts of energy.

An Indian man darted out of an empty store, dark grey sweater and black pants glimmering with adhering flakes of broken glass. He ran past an armed shopkeeper without triggering any sort of reaction. Someone in the store behind him fired a gun; the sound, heavy and booming, made Kirsten think shotgun.

Her shoulder hit the nearest metal post, which she leaned around. “Vikram?”

The runner looked, blinked, and dove over a bench as a shower of sparks scored dark gouges in the white paint on the column behind him. Seneschal stalked out of the one-room store, holding a rifle-shaped weapon with an almost two-inch thick barrel.

“42 millimeter.” Dorian blinked. “Those come with a coupon for a free mop. Even Div 5 thinks they’re overkill.”

Kirsten got down. “Five doesn’t use them because a mess of little bullets won’t scratch a cyborg. They want one big one.”

Boom.

A scattershot pattern of sparks ended another holo-bar full of arrival and departure times, leaving the post unscathed. Icarus rushed out of a store a quarter mile away, dreadlocks trailing him like a cape as he ran towards the sound of combat.

Vikram scrambled into a forward crawl and screamed as another blast from the huge shotgun tore the slats out of a bench above his head.

“Over here,” Kirsten shouted, waving.

Dorian ran to the next column, taking cover. “Try shooting one.”

“Seneschal,” she yelled. “Stand down, we can’t―”

Boom.

She hit the floor amid a rain of fragments on her back. Dorian leaned out, firing his E-90, though rather than a blue beam it made a white streak. The energy spread over Seneschal’s left shoulder, hitting him with the force of a punch. An annoyance.

Dorian ducked behind cover as the rifle pivoted in his direction. “They’re strong.”

“Guess it’s true what Theo said. They’re not who they were before.”

“Oh, they are.” Vikram appeared at her left, crawling. “They’re still trying to kill me.”

She waved a hand through his shoulder. “They already did.”

“I mean, they’re trying to kill me again.” He curled up behind another column six feet away. “It seems they are somewhat upset with me for blowing them up. The dark things took them but they came back.”

Kirsten popped up, firing. The laser seared through Seneschal’s chest, tearing an ember-edged channel several inches tall. Flakes of ash blackened and drifted off in the wind, and the hole sealed. In the distance, a small shop caught fire.

“Please, you can’t let them get me,” Vikram begged. “They murdered me once already.”

“Stay down.” She leaned around the column to take another shot.

Seneschal slid behind a vendomat. Kirsten kept her aim on the machine, nodding to Dorian, who ran to take cover at a closer post. Icarus emerged through a cloud of fire-suppression fog billowing out of the burning store, firing at Dorian with what appeared to be a standard assault rifle. Bullets clicked into the floor, but made no secondary ricochet.

“You do not seem confident.” Vikram risked a brief peek.

Kirsten did not take her eyes away from the floating azure dot of her gun sight. Vendomat and gun traded blurriness. “I’m not entirely sure what I’m dealing with here; ghost bullets aren’t supposed to break things, just cause pain.” She shifted her aim to the right, and fired at Icarus.

A diving roll put him behind the wall of a gadget store, leaving a glowing patch of plastisteel where Kirsten’s laser scored the floor. Dorian roared and charged, his gun vanished and reappeared in the holster as he leapt through the vendomat. A heavy thud echoed through the vacant concourse, and he came sliding into the open on top of Seneschal.

“Stay here, stay down.” Kirsten leapt up and ran, tossing the E-90 to her left hand.

Icarus popped out at the sound of squeaking boots, aimed at Kirsten, but hesitated. Grimacing, he fired a few shots into the ground to her side, forcing her to slide into cover behind a metal-walled planter. Seneschal locked eyes with Dorian; a second later, his fist flew up and caught him across the cheek. Dorian flew vertical, a dozen feet in the air from the force, his head stretched backward like a warping hologram. Seneschal dispersed into a cloud of mist and reappeared on his feet.

A thread of azure light lanced through Seneschal’s thigh as he reached for his rifle. Kirsten’s laser burned an ash channel through his leg, bringing forth a roar of pain and a glare. The massive shotgun pivoted on the ground and flew into its master’s arms, pointed at her.

Dorian came down on top of him, screaming, stunrod across the man’s throat. The shotgun took two lights off the ceiling as it went off in mid takedown. No longer holding back, Dorian crushed the manifestation of his baton into Seneschal’s neck as he flipped him over and landed on top of his back. Icarus swiveled aim to Dorian, but ducked when Kirsten melted a spritz of plastisteel out of the wall by his face.

Taking the opportunity, she ran across a large oval planter surrounded by benches and vendomats. Three steps through dirt, and she leapt a bench on the other side. Calling the astral lash in midair, her boots touched down just as the tip hit Seneschal in the back of the head. It tugged, feeling like a swung blade stuck for a moment in gelatin, before it pulled free and passed through the floor.

Dorian leaned away from her attack, barely containing the primal urge to flee from such a thing. Seneschal’s scream melted into a roar as his eyes lit crimson with the fires of the Abyss.

Vikram screamed. Kirsten whirled, finding Mariko having come out of nowhere, sword rammed through his back. The little Japanese woman grinned with sinister glee. A veil of darkness clung to her face and her eyes burned red.

She enjoyed causing pain.

The dead hacker gaped at the shiny blade sticking through his gut, whimpering. Kirsten whirled and took a second to aim. The sword jerked free, raised for another stroke. She fired. The beam caught Mariko in the face, melting her nose into a hollow and starting a fire in her mouth. The corporate ninja stumbled a step to the rear, less hurt than appearance would dictate. Mariko shook it off, her face filled in; smoke peeled from her nostrils.

With a wail, Vikram dove through the ground out of sight. Mariko hissed at Kirsten, a snarl so feral and deep it did not sound human. The once-woman circled to the side, spindly limbs elongated and narrow, her lithe body shrouded in black fumes. Kirsten raised the lash, coiling it behind her. Mariko shrank away from the light with a hiss and darted off to the south. As if some kind of human-headed spider, she leapt from monorail to monorail, out over a dozen parallel tracks. Kirsten shrieked from a sensation similar to a bucket of ice water hitting her in the back. Dorian flew through her, thrown by Seneschal. Before she broke free of the paralytic cold, he vanished through the floor. Kirsten spun to the rear, just in time for Seneschal’s hand to grab her around the throat and lift her off her feet.

Eyes bulging, she gurgled. The touch of his hand burned; her kicks passed harmless through a body solid only where he wanted it to be. Icarus nodded at Seneschal, lifted his rifle, and sank through the platform, chasing either Dorian or Vikram. Seneschal pulled her in close, bright eyes burning with hatred. The same aura of dread Harbingers carried was on him―the taint of the Abyss. She shuddered from her proximity to evil.

He slid a large handgun out from under his coat, raising it to her forehead. “You are a pain in the ass. Welcome to the world of acceptable collateral damage.”

The lash, driven by fear, swatted Seneschal into the air. He careened in an arc, a living dart, before landing on his head and sliding a few feet. Momentum carried his body over and he fell flat on his chest. She rubbed her neck, thankful not to feel the tenderness of a real burn. His touch caused pain in the mind, not trauma to the flesh.

Kirsten charged at him, taking two steps and bringing the energy whip down again. Seneschal rolled onto his back, catching it. He held the stream of brilliance; his eyes brightened and he roared with agony. The flesh of his fingers boiled and bubbled. Bones glowed beneath the skin. Kirsten forced more power into it, left hand grabbing her wrist for support as she pushed down. The anger in his eyes flickered to fear for an instant; his grip on the spectral weapon faltered. The tip swished like the tail of a cat, perilously close to his face.

She screamed through clenched teeth, trying to power her way through this contest of wills. Just as she felt his grip failing, he dissipated in a cloud of ink black vapor. The sudden lack of resistance sent her stumbling to her knees. The tendril faded, she panted for breath. Spreading, the cloud that had been Seneschal expanded into a wide field, drawn through the gaps between the floor tiles.

Gunfire erupted outside, as if an entire platoon participated in a firing squad. The sound snapped her out of her fatigue and she ran to the stairs. A row of Division 1 officers fired with wild abandon at something beneath the platform, nine weapons creating a rapid strobe in blue muzzle flash. She ran most of the way down the steps before leaping over the railing and landing in a three-point crouch below the stairs. Seneschal stalked through the dark underside of the PubTran station, phasing through fences and wire conduits. Bullets winked through him as tiny points of light, insignificant holes closing as fast as they appeared. He did not even bother to look back.

“Ugh,” Dorian moaned.

“Stop firing, you’re doing nothing!” she shouted at her forearm guard; the comm made her voice much louder in their helmets.

The barrage trickled to a few isolated shots, the sound of a firecracker petering out to the last few charges. When quiet returned, she ran to Dorian, finding him on his back. He did not appear wounded, rather tired.

“Dorian.” She slid to a halt by his side, kneeling. Willing herself tangible to the astral world, she cradled his hand. “What happened? Are you okay?”

He squeezed her fingers, calming her. “Just tired; they beat the snot out of me. Gonna take a while to recover, but I’m okay. I can maybe handle one of them, but two at once, no way. They’re too strong.”

“But they’ve only been dead for a few months.”

“They’re not ghosts, K. They’re… something else.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I have to find Vikram before they do. They’re going to obliterate him.”

“Poor guy.” He struggled to sit up. “Too bad there’s not enough left of him to use the trick Ritchie showed you.”

Lights flooded into the chain link darkness, Kirsten held a hand over her eyes as Division 1 officers approached behind their guns. “Everything all right down here, ma’am?”

A male officer lifted his visor. “Umm, are you okay?”

“Zeroes talk to themselves sometimes,” said his partner.

“What happened here? Did you find anything?” A sergeant stowed her weapon and approached, hesitating at the sight of Kirsten’s posture appearing to hug nothing.

“I’ll be in the car,” Dorian wheezed, and his body faded out of sight, voice lingering. “I need a nap.” Pale luminescent fog crept among the weeds, through the chain-link fence, and past the legs of the street cops.

Kirsten stood, wiping dirt from her hands as she surveyed the distant cavern full of power cables and fencing. “Yeah, I found something. I’m just not sure what it is.”

irsten gazed into the sky, catching herself picking out the ad-bots displaying kid furniture, clothing, and certain electronic games. They coursed overhead, the blood of the city moving in veins defined by pre-programmed flight paths. Her fork nudged the vindaloo around the plate. Thinking of Evan made the advert droids seem less lonely, less as if they offered a window into a life that she was not good enough for.

The patrol craft waited just past a squat ridge of plastisteel separating the open-air café from the sidewalk. Three feet tall, the eighteen-inch-thick barricade was theoretically able to stop a ground vehicle moving at ninety miles per hour. Not that anyone could drive at that speed on the ground here to begin with. There was too much traffic, too many red signals.

Dorian had spent the rest of yesterday out of sight, and so far this morning had not shown up. Kirsten felt his presence during the ride, wondering how long it took a ghost to “sleep” their way back to full strength. The chicken went down slow, just a little too spicy for her to race through. A man two tables away gazed into nowhere, his head and hand moving as if in a silent conversation. Thin silver wire stranded from behind his ear into a NetMini tucked alongside his plate. She imagined her dad’s voice saying implanted comm whatevers, and let out a soft laugh.

A citycam ball mounted to the corner of the building ceased its endless panning, fixating on her. She set a piece of chicken between her teeth and pulled her fork out, staring at the orb of smoky glass. Seconds passed. She bit down, chewing. It continued pointing right at her.

Bet one of the techs is checking me out.

The camera disregarded, she continued her lunch and tried to sort out her current mess. Okay, got a ghost who used to be a network security guy. Lyris Corporation sends a hit squad to take him out, everyone dies in a blast. Somehow, these assassins escape the Abyss and continue their original mission. What am I missing?

“Mmm.” She exuded contentment as a sip of her mango lassi put out the spice fire in her mouth. As she went to set it down, she froze, staring at a ring of condensation on the table from the cold cup. The circle.

Liquid bounced out of the glass as it landed hard. Of course. Find who made the circle, and I’ll know what the hell is going on.

Loud rumbling pulled her attention into the street. A shot-up, battered, and rusting van creaked to a halt alongside the café, stopping right in the traffic lane. The image of a grim reaper had been autobrushed on the side; two copper coins perched upon a tongue that protruded through the teeth of the skull beneath the hood. Electricity sizzled around the front left wheel motor, as if one more bump would spell its demise. The driver door opened in time with the sound of a mechanized sliding door on the far side. The man who emerged from the driver’s seat had overdone it on black eyeliner, but otherwise had taken little care toward matters of personal hygiene. Belt-long hair, blackened by a substance never intended to be cosmetic dye, clung to him as he stared wild-eyed at Kirsten. His torn pseudo-leather vest covered a stained white shirt, as well as a pair of submachine guns. He gawked at her like a rutting bull about to charge.

She tensed, fork slipping from her fingers at the sudden blaring horn from a small car trapped behind the van, pinned in the lane by unforgiving traffic. Gulping down her unease, she stood, preparing to order the van to move.

Automatic gunfire shredded the calm as men on the other side of the van riddled the offending horn-bearing car with bullets. Diners hit the floor, sending tables, chairs, and food flying. The driver went for his weapons, an unblinking grin leveled off at Kirsten as though he did not want to spook her into running before he got a shot.

The woman in the car dove down into the passenger seat, her screams inaudible over the roaring chatter of small automatic weapons. Kirsten caught a glimpse of a dozen small braids in the back seat, each tipped with pink clip-on ribbons. As windshield peeled away and coolant fogged out of holes in the hood, Kirsten lunged towards the crash-proof wall, E-90 in hand. Two pulses melted through the side of the van as the driver brought his weapons to bear. Men screamed on the other side, the barrage of fire aimed for the car came to a halt.

Kirsten did not notice the driver in that second, too focused on her fear for the child in the tiny car being shot up for the crime of beeping at an idiot. In the two-second pause of gunfire, the screams of a woman and her daughter became clear. The second laser pulse had just melted through the van when the driver fired a burst from both weapons.

Dorian came flying through the side of the van, leaping into the air toward her as bullets whizzed around. A look of intense worry spread over his face, a snapshot preserved in adrenaline slow motion. He roared. She sensed his energy shift; when he hit her, he was close to solid. The effect was as though a sixty-pound plastic bag full of cold pudding landed on her. A rip of pain went through her left arm, between elbow and shoulder, as Dorian pulled her down. He slid over her, rolling through several tables.

She scooted up against the little wall, her left arm numb and disobedient. It just wanted to hang there doing nothing. Cold came through her uniform as her back pressed into the three-foot-tall plastisteel traffic-protection barrier, thick enough to stop bullets. The driver fired again, wounding several people searching for cover under tables.

Men screamed; an older woman cried out. Without thinking, Kirsten popped up and took a poorly-aimed shot at the driver. The streak of light missed him by an arm’s length left, igniting the front-end of the van. He swerved his automatic fire toward her as if watering the lawn; a thin line of pain scratched over her ribs on the left as she ducked. Kirsten used the tip of the E-90 to poke the emergency call button on her left forearm guard. The arm still would not move.

“Stay down!” Dorian screamed, as he ran to her side. “You’re shot through the arm, bone’s probably broken.”

She felt more angry than scared. “He’s gonna keep shooting people.” Shock is wonderful.

The sound of the other men shuffling around the van preceded a few random bullets into the café.

At least they’re not shooting at the car… for the moment.

Dorian scowled. “I don’t know if I have enough strength to scare them; knocking you down about tapped me.”

She smiled, grimacing at the pain that only now radiated from her arm. Hot blood slid down her triceps; she blinked. Holding her pistol with her thighs, she pulled the stunrod off her belt and laid it across her lap.

“Nonlethal?” Dorian blinked. “Are you kidding?”

Kirsten’s sapphire eyes darkened. “There’s a kid in the car. I can’t just sit here.”

She grabbed the wound in her left bicep, screaming through clenched teeth and coating her hand with blood. As she smeared it over the baton, wisps of luminous white vapor coalesced around her hand in response to her power. The blood glowed for a second before it appeared to soak into the stunrod as if absorbed by a towel.

“Here, take it. Gimme a distraction.” She shifted to her knees, facing the wall. “I don’t use this trick too often ̓cause it needs blood and I’m a wimp.”

Dorian noticed the change in the weapon right away; she had bound it with astral energy. For a time, it would be tangible to both ghosts and mortals. He picked it up, awestruck at a physical object solid in his hands.

“Come on, man. Before I faint.”

A little voice in the car screamed, “Mommy!”

The desperation in the cry made Kirsten pop up again, facing four men with six submachine guns and a cheap assault rifle. Dorian ran at them. A trickle of gunfire went almost in Kirsten’s direction as they gawked at the floating stunrod coming at them. The one with the old rifle found it hilarious and laughed, right up until the thing hit him in the nose and sent him to the ground in convulsions.

Two more felt it a good idea to try and shoot the weaving eighteen-inch rod with the glowing blue tip, and started throwing bullets all over the place. Kirsten sighted on the driver, and put one pulse straight through his chest and into the van. Steam and smoke wisped out of his mouth and he went forward like a plank. Dorian set upon one of the others, not even using the stun electronics. Side of the knee, collarbone, head, chest twice, down for the count; plus more than a few bullets from his idiot friend still trying to shoot the baton.

Other cars swerved and crashed as errant fire went into traffic. Kirsten pivoted and fired at another of her attackers. Blood sprayed from two finger-sized holes, one on either side of his chest. He wheezed, dropped his guns, and doubled over, cradling the wound.

Kirsten forced herself to stand, one-arming her gun, still pointed at the man coughing up blood. Dorian applied the stunner again to the rifle-bearing ganger for good measure, and then smiled at the novelty of it all over again.

After kicking weapons out of reach, she backpedaled to the car while keeping the man in view. A series of quick rightward glances made her heart skip a beat. Both the woman and a girl of about ten in the back seat had taken hits. Blood spattered the interior of their little silver car. The girl lay on the floor, sweating and breathing in shallow gasps. The mother was out.

“Dorian, stun that last son of a bitch.”

She holstered her weapon, and found the door locked. Giving up, she clambered up the hood and slid through the destroyed windshield. The bones in her arm ground over each other as she tried to get a stimpak out of her left side belt case with her right arm.

“Officer, is my momma gonna die?”

Kirsten turned towards the voice, trapped by innocent brown eyes peering through a hanging curtain of tight braids. Finger trails of blood smeared over the chocolate-hued skin of the child’s cheek, staining the collar of a white shirt with big-headed caricatures of a boy band. Kirsten froze, staring at the girl, her right hand shaking with rage. She scowled at the men laid out on the road.

“Now you know why I did some things I’ve come to regret.” Dorian’s voice filtered in from behind. “If that girl was dead, would you finish off the survivors? Would you punish them?”

Dorian’s voice snapped her out of the daze. “No, sweetie, I think she’s gonna be okay. Where are you hit?”

The child sank into the seat, whining. Kirsten stifled the urge to scream in pain as she forced her hand into the awkward case, fingers scrabbling at a stimpak.

“My side.” The girl pulled her shirt up, revealing a graze just over the hip and a few nicks from flying glass.

Lot of blood, little danger.

Kirsten’s relief almost let the light-headed urge to faint from pain win. She handed the girl a stimpak, and gave her mother a second.

“Press the small end into your leg and hold it down until it stops hissing.”

Sirens approached as the child did as instructed.

“Agent Wren, please respond, what is your status?” The small silver bud in her left ear vibrated.

Oh, shit, how long have they been trying to comm me?

“Shots fired, numerous civilians wounded. I’m hit, but okay.”

Relief was palpable in the voice. “Roger that, Agent. Hold on, backup is one sector out.”

“I can hear them already.”

The woman moaned. The girl tried to climb forward, but Kirsten held her back.

“Medics are coming; your mom’s gonna be just fine.”

Kirsten held the girl’s hand until the area swarmed with Division 1 police as well as medtechs. Once the medics had the woman extricated from the car and took the girl, Kirsten staggered toward the confused ghost of the van’s driver. Another medic came up behind her with a gentle grasp on her unhurt arm.

“Come on, we got the civilians taken care of. Damn lucky thing you were here.”

“No, it isn’t.” Kirsten groaned at the pain caused by pulling away from him. “They were after me.”

“You’re losing a lot of blood. We need to get you to the facility.”

She all but dragged the medtech to the side of the van. “In a minute.”

“You, shithead.” She pointed with her good arm at the ghost.

The medic blinked. The new spirit lunged into a choking grab, but flew right through her.

“You’re a ghost, you jackass.” She turned to face him. “You do this for ha-has? Why me?”

He growled steam from his nostrils. Kirsten glared at him, surrounded by the shimmer of emergency lights dancing along plastisteel and glass. Traffic had ceased, the entire area cordoned off as a crime scene. More flashing red and blue lights came in overhead as additional patrol craft set up a hoverlane exclusion zone. The advert bots rerouted their path, but only because there was no one below interested in buying anything.

“Nothing to say?”

“Come on, Agent Wren. If you are hallucinating, we need to get moving.”

She let the medtech hold her, bracing some of her weight against him. “I’m not hallucinating.”

The dead ganger looked around, put his hand through the wall of the van, and stared. His murderous glower melted away to genuine fear as the reality of what happened to him sank in at last. Two patrolmen walked past, dispersing him into a cloud of mist for a second. When he re-formed, he took an angry step at Kirsten, pointing.

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

She would have folded her arms, but it was difficult to act tough in that much pain; not to mention one of her arms did not work. It was also difficult to be menacing while the only thing keeping her on her feet was a dark-skinned man in white. “What did you try to do to me?”

“We’z ̓sposed to kill you.”

She smiled a saccharin grin. “Well, there you have it.”

“I’m dead?” He looked at the street, through transparent hands, and back at her. “You bitch!”

A ripple of anger ran down her back. What balls. This asshole tries to kill me and is angry at me? She narrowed her eyes, wanting them to pay him a visit, calling out into the Aether.

“Did you just decide to shoot at me because I was a cop in some kind of initiation? Or are you really just that damn stupid?”

The sense of mood changed, darkened. Dorian wandered back to the patrol craft, whistling. As the shadows grew more intense, he dissipated into his car. The dead ganger coughed a cloud of smoke and looked around, addled by the approach of dread he could not see.

“Someone gave us a pile of swag and an image cap of your face. More swag if we got you.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember it. Dude had a girl’s name, though.”

“Rene?” She slipped as strength left her legs.

The medic hauled her up. “Okay, that’s it. You may outrank me, but I am still a medtech. You’re about to faint. Whatever you’re doing is over.” He turned to his right. “Jen, need a slab, stat.”

“Yeah. Renee. It’s a girl’s―”

His answer twisted into a primal scream as the Harbingers coalesced around him.

lacid warmth surrounded Kirsten. A street full of flashing lights, loud voices, moaning citizens, and pain had become quiet calm. She remembered Kendall, the medic, holding her hand inside the MedVan. She enjoyed the weightlessness of the breathable gel, savored the lack of pain, but did not much care for being suspended nude in a floor-to-ceiling tank of slime with two men outside.

Tickling built up into a sensation similar to a dozen mice nibbling on her arm. She looked. Her body instinctively curled at the sight of a gory hole through her left upper arm. Bits of her flesh floated like chum around the wound as fragments of skin drifted under control of invisible tugboat nanobots.

A voice filled the gel. “Agent Wren, please don’t move around. It will take longer.”

Yeah, yeah. You said that last time, too.

When the initial shock of seeing a hole clean through her arm faded, she watched with the awe of a curious child. Slivers of bone swam out of the wound as if on their own, melting away to nothing as the microscopic machines scavenged them for material. Snaps came from within, a high-pitched cracking as if someone popped their knuckles underwater. She cringed at the sound, expecting pain, but none came. Her entire arm felt wrong, as if everything below the gunshot wasn’t part of her anymore. The diameter of the channel shrank until it closed; tissue fragments came together like video in reverse. She looked away as nips of discomfort from her ribs, legs, and cheek told her where other repairs occurred. A cluster of automotive glass glimmered above and to her right. Nanobots, unable to dissolve glass, carried it to a disposal port in the center of the floor. She watched it fall, slow-motion snow, past her toes. A wisp of blood trailing out of her calf stole her attention away from the tiny fleet.

Damn, I didn’t even feel the one in the leg.

The outer door hissed open, startling the two doctors. Two men in long, sand-brown coats, black everything below them, dark sunglasses, and with the same perfect hair walked in. Both had the telltale lines of neuralware on their left cheek; a thin strip of somewhat darker skin that trailed down from an indentation where the implant clung to the outside of the skull.

The man on the right looked every bit the image of the traditional government black-coat; only it was brown. Nondescript, corpse-white, short hair, maybe late thirties; there was little about him that would linger in the memory for more than a few minutes after he left. His partner had darker skin and black hair, seemed more muscular under the coat, and had a Latin touch to his features that tweaked her embarrassment to a brief tawdry thrill.

Division 9.

Gel flew through her nostrils; her attempt to squeal in embarrassment produced no sound. She scrambled to cover herself as the doctors protested the intrusion. For an instant, Kirsten felt a surge of gratitude at them for trying to defend her modesty. It fell flat when they acquiesced at the presentation of ID badges. Both doctors backed away from the badges, hands up, as if they were toxic. The pair approached the tank, emotionless faces appraising her like something on display at a medical museum.

She wanted to cry; her body twisted away, a combination of leg and hands guarding her intimates. The one on the right looked her up and down with a detachment that made her feel less than human.

“How much longer?”

The gel blurred his voice, mixing it with the subtle thrum of the pumps filtering the fluid. The doctor’s response came from too far away to pierce the Lexan shell around her. Both Division 9 agents offered a single curt nod and glanced at her again. They stood with the stillness of statues, cardboard cutouts of the stereotypical government spook. If either of them had any emotions, any excitement at all at seeing her naked, they kept it buried deep. Paddling with one hand, she managed to turn her back on them, and tried to sniffle at the wall.

She found it quite challenging to sniffle through a gel-flooded nose.

Why are they here? Did I do something wrong? Couldn’t they wait till I was dressed?

“We would like to talk to you about the incident at the Kajuraho restaurant, as soon as possible.”

The voice crackled through the B-gel, silky and cold; the voice of a man who could kill without remorse, who could torture a trapped woman with an unblinking stare. She shivered at the sound.

Kirsten hung in silence for another twenty some minutes, although it felt more like two hours. Head against the rear wall of the tank, she wanted Captain Eze to come through the door and read them the riot act for violating her privacy. She tried to focus on the thought they were military men, used to showers of a hundred Marines at a time, men and women. She tried not to feel stared at.

“Agent Wren, please put your feet down. We’re going to drain the gel now,” said one of the doctors. His voice resounded through the liquid as if from on high.

She straightened out, both hands over her crotch, back still to the room. The mechanical noise permeating the gel intensified, sound waves carried through the fluid right to her eardrums. The touch of the tepid plastisteel base on her toes brought a silent gasp. Her weight settled onto her feet, the surface of the gel descended past her head, over her shoulders. The air was freezing; the gel was so much nicer.

She sank with it, wanting to delay the embrace of arctic winds as much as possible. Soon, she sprawled on the ground, arms curled around her legs. With her back to the room, she fought the urge to blush. Kirsten expected the rush of fear to come in on the wings of her mother’s public punishment―but it did not hit her that hard. Straightening, she turned to peer over her shoulder.

The agents looked down at her. The doctor stood a few feet behind them holding a white robe made of towel material. Although mortified, it did not come with the same feeling of helplessness that it had so often done in the past. Kirsten curled there, cheek to knees. Her eyes tracked a wisp of blood in the peach-colored fluid as it circled the vent ports before getting sucked in. Her mother’s cruelty had gone down the drain of newfound resolve; this humiliation was normal―not crippling.

Now she just had four men staring at her tits.

She tried to speak, but gel burbled out of her mouth. Panic at having lungs full of liquid hit her, and she forgot all about being naked. Coughing, sputtering, flailing, she scrambled around on the slick surface. Tractionless gel sent her sliding onto the icy floor; attempts to scream only worsened her choking.

Having had enough of watching her struggle, the doctors grew enough backbone to shove the Division 9 agents out of the way. “Give us a moment, please.”

She clamped onto one of the white coats, adoring the warm cloth against her skin. For a few minutes, he would do as a father substitute. Hands patted her on the back, pushing her down into a posture conducive to expelling the substance. Soon, they helped her up and over to the comforgel pad, wrapped in a robe made of towel cloth.

Blessed warmth.

The two government men shadowed the doctors, buzzards waiting for a carcass. They stayed quiet while handheld scanners ran over her, checking to make sure the nanobot repairs had completed without any problems. Kirsten accepted the offer of hot tea with lemon, shivering until she clung to the steaming plastic cup. Satisfied she was back to rights, the two doctors left with the usual notice about the call button.

She sipped the tea, looking over the rim at the two emotionless men. Their sunglasses made it impossible to tell where their eyes pointed; both had the appearance of plastic figurines for some kind of government conspiracy game. Hot liquid slid down her sore throat, triggering a minor cough.

“Agent Wren, I’m Operative Hawthorne. This is Operative Castillo.”

D9 Operatives… They’re lieutenants, shit.

She released the mug into her left hand and saluted them.

“We have reviewed surveillance imagery of the event at the Kajuraho restaurant.”

Air entered her lungs without a sound. What did I do wrong? A tiny trickle of gel ran down the inside of her throat, triggering another cough.

“This event is a matter of concern for us.”

Why? She trembled, trying not to look terrified. “How can I help?”

Operative Castillo plucked a tissue from a wall box and offered it. “The event appeared to be a targeted attempt to assassinate you. Division 9 responds to cases of attacks on police personnel.”

“We take a dim view of such things.” Operative Hawthorne could have been the narrator for an hour-long Nat Geo special on the formation of dust.

Holy shit, they’re not investigating me.

Her relief exhaled into a slouch. She sucked down more tea. It hurt inside, but it hurt good.

“We’d like to hear any thoughts you have on who might have wanted to kill you. The aggressors in this fire event appear to have belonged to the Sons of Charon,” said Hawthorne. He may as well have been describing the mating habits of an African sand spider. No, sand mite; spiders were at least a little interesting.

“I’ve never heard of them.” She cradled the beautiful heat to her chest.

“They operate out of Sector 304, one of the older disavowed areas. They follow a sort of quasi-mythological mindset based on death.”

She wished Hawthorne would move a little when he talked, maybe pace, maybe blink. The statue routine felt so eerie. “Yeah, Charon the Boatman, he was sending me a message. Wait, disavowed areas? You mean black zones?”

Operative Castillo cracked the faintest of grins. “We prefer the term disavowed. They were quite far away from home. If they had been out cruising for a random victim, they would not have gone as far out of their comfort zone, especially into the city proper.”

“They were coming for me. The man I killed told me who sent them.”

The operatives exchanged a glance. Castillo’s android mask cracked enough to let sympathy leak through for an instant.

She frowned at him. “I’m not nuts. I’m an astral sensate; surely you guys have files on us. I see ghosts. I have since I was a little kid.”

Another glance traded.

“Let us assume ghosts exist―”

“You know psionics are real. Why is it so hard to accept we don’t understand the world nearly as much as we like to think we do?”

Hawthorne cleared his throat. “Let us assume ghosts exist. Operating on such an assumption, what would he have said?”

“A few years ago, a Division 0 tactical unit tried to apprehend a psionic suggestive. He had about a half-dozen mercenaries under his control, armed with energy weapons. The tactical team had no idea what they were going into. One man died; his partner was wounded and further exploited by the individual.”

Neither man moved; she assumed they were taking notes via cyberware. She remained silent until Hawthorne offered a slight nod.

“Rene Bollard is the suggestive responsible. He escaped, overpowered the surviving officer, and forced her to drive him somewhere. I’m not enough of a telepath to dig the memory out of her, but I was able to undo a hypnotic suggestion he’d left behind to cover his trail.”

“Who was this officer?”

Kirsten smiled at Operative Castillo; he seemed more human than his partner. “Tactical Officer Nila Assad. He’d conditioned her to be terrified of returning to work, setting up the belief that if she did so, she would die the same day.”

They offered grim nods.

“Dorian Marsh, her partner who was killed, he’s umm…” Kirsten drank half the mug as it was losing its heat. “He’s lingering behind, a little peeved with Rene for killing him.”

Hawthorne responded with no facial inflection at all. “We are aware of Sergeant Marsh’s murder, Agent Wren. It is an open case. We are currently tracking the credit trail of the M-99 Barrager assault laser rifles back to a black marketer on Mars. Trust me, Agent Wren, anyone remotely connected to this will be held accountable.”

Notice how the female mite takes great care with her eggs, burying them in the sand to keep them out of reach of predators. “Open case? He’s dead! He’s still here, still hurting, because no one gives enough of a shit to hunt the bastard down.”

Neither man much reacted to her outburst.

“I’m sorry, I…” She looked at the squares of ceiling light reflected upon the tea. “He’s kind of my partner now, as a ghost.”

“I… see.” Hawthorne’s words had the dry crisp of ancient wax paper.

“I’d show you what I see, but I hear you guys have stuff in your head that’ll hurt a psionic trying to go in.”

“We can neither confirm nor deny―”

“Right, whatever,” she grumbled. “Do you have any idea where Rene is hiding? Is he still even in the city?”

“It is our belief he is still inside the city.” Hawthorne glanced at the door, as Nicole’s red hair tinted the tiny window. “We have not located him at this time.”

“Do you have any evidence beyond the word of a”―Operative Castillo raised one eyebrow―“ghost, that Rene Bollard ordered the hit on you?”

“Not yet, but I haven’t pissed anyone else off recently. Maybe Intera still has a bit of a grudge.”

“We checked the Intera angle already, Agent. We found no evidence to indicate their continued aggression or involvement with you. However, we did turn up a vid trace originating from Officer Assad’s home to an unassigned NetMini two days ago.”

“A PID-less mini?”

“It has a PID.” Castillo glanced at Nicole’s furtive tapping. “Your friends are anxious.” He almost smiled. “It’s a throw-away phone, a bogus PID not owned by anyone, hacked into the system. We could not triangulate the position of the receiving device because it bounced the communication to an audio-only stream and funneled it via the GlobeNet to a backbone host in Mexico City. There was no live recipient. The call was left as a message, and we could not move fast enough to penetrate an ACC system to trace it before it was retrieved and deleted.”

Kirsten set the empty cup down and smiled through her blush at Operative Castillo. She shrugged out of the robe as she stood up and walked to the autoshower. As soon as her back was turned, her face lost the confident smile and went shocked. What the hell are you doing? Pant. Too late now, just go with it. He’s cute, even with the sunglasses, and he’s not scared of me at all.

Hawthorne glanced at Castillo. A tiny smile lifted the corner of his mouth as the autoshower started up. They took a few steps closer to the tube; she hoped to make it easier to continue talking.

“So, Nila placed a call to a dump phone? That does not make any sense. Maybe I missed something in her head. I put in a request for Lt. Cmdr. Ashford to do a deep dive, make sure I cleaned everything up.”

With fog on the tube, she felt comfortable enough to lean close to look at them. These two Division 9 agents appeared unsettled at the mention of Cmdr. Ashford’s name. Even the high and mighty Nine feared someone noted for mental abilities that strong. The spray ring descended, hitting her from all sides with, hot soapy water. She straightened away from the side, running her hands over herself in rapid swipes to get rid of the sticky residue of dried B-gel. Thankful, for once, there was someone out there scarier than her. Compared to Ashford, she was a fluffy white bunny rabbit everyone wanted to hug.

At the end of the dry cycle, she pushed the tube open without hesitation and walked straight at Operative Castillo. Brushing past him, she retrieved her clothes from the table and got back into uniform. Humiliation was there, but exasperation at their imposition held it down while her infatuation with Operative Castillo punched it in the head. By the time she clicked her belt in place and secured the E-90, she felt calm.

“Dorian wants to kill him. I don’t think he needs that stain on his soul. I’m going to try and find this guy. Ghosts can go places even Division 9 can’t. I will bring him in.”

“We cannot guarantee official support on a one-officer manhunt, Agent Wren. Consider sharing any information you obtain.”

“As if you’ll believe me?” She scoffed. “By the time I convince one of you I’ve found him, he’ll have moved. I appreciate you trying to help, but you guys aren’t equipped to deal with someone rated as high as he is in psionic suggestion. Your operatives will be masturbating in the street while he walks away laughing.”

Operative Castillo opened the door for her. “I am sure we can be of more assistance than you think.”

Kirsten halted in the doorway, inches away from him, one eyebrow raised with half a smile. Maybe you can show me what you mean? “Thanks. I’ll, let you know if I find anything.”

She walked over to Nicole, the only one there. “What, no party this time?”

“They only throw parties for the first time, and if you almost die.”

“Lucky for me I qualified for both last time.” Kirsten shivered.

“Aww, you just got a little nick on the arm.” She glanced at the two operatives, muttering. “Walking dead man and… oh, hello hotness. Hey, he’s cute.”

The Division 9 operatives went down the hall, in lock step, not glancing back. Kirsten stared after him until they vanished behind the corner of a white wall. “Yeah, but they aren’t going to be much help.”

“With the shooting or with your sex life?” Nicole rubbed her chin.

Kirsten blushed. “Both.”

ot water cascaded in waves over Kirsten’s back. Arm braced against the autoshower wall, she leaned her head against it and sighed as the heat melted the tension out of her body. Her left hand slid up and down the small of her back over where that thing had scratched her. Smooth, unhurt skin met her touch. Somehow, the memory of the scratch lingered. She had to keep rubbing the spot to prove to herself it had gone away.

She turned into the spray, squeegeeing the soap out of her hair with her fingers. The spots where bullets hit her had all but vanished. A dark shadow of bruise circled her left bicep, and it hurt to touch it even though it was repaired. The doctor said something about the body not realizing the nanobots had already repaired the tissue, but the discomfort should fade before the bruise.

“Call for you.” Evan’s voice, just outside the tube.

Kirsten whirled, grateful for the fog, gawking at the pajama-colored blur drawing closer to the autoshower.

“Evan! I’m in the tube, tell them I’ll call back.”

Her NetMini hit the outside with a sharp click, and Captain Eze’s holographic head appeared inside the shower after a brief fit of rainbow static. His eyebrows lifted for a fraction of a second, and he turned away, loosing a hearty laugh at the result of a child’s sense of urgency.

Kirsten wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.

“Call me when you are done, Wren. I need you to check out a site. There is some urgency, but the event is over.”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice shook more than her hands.

He hung up.

The Evan blur moved away to the door, closing it.

Shit, he broke the blockade. She pounded the dry cycle button, hoping Theodore did not notice the opportunity.

After donning a new pair of undies from the white box on the wall, she gathered a towel about herself and walked to the main room. Evan sat on the edge of her comforgel pad, kicking his feet in lazy swishes, his face lit blue by the datapad absorbing his attention.

She sat next to him. “Evan?”

He looked up, grinning. Upset as she was, she could not stay mad at that face.

“If someone calls for me, next time can you please just yell through the door?”

“Why?”

Kirsten explained the indelicacies of just walking in on someone in the shower. “Your”―she exhaled, pausing―“mother might have walked around the house with no clothes on all the time, but I’m not like that. It’s not right.”

“She’s not my mom.” He swung his pout back to the datapad, legs still.

“I’m sorry.” She pulled him into a hug that brought his mood back to normal. “You embarrassed the Captain. It’s not proper for him to see me in the shower.”

His arms threaded around her. “He said it was police stuff. Sounded important.”

“Your turn.” She stood, shooing him at the bathroom.

As soon as the whirr of the autoshower kicked in, she finished getting dressed. By the time Evan was out of the bathroom, she pointed at the tiny table where a plate of ̓sem eggs and toast waited.

It felt so strange having more in her cabinets than a dusty, ten-month-old packet of NinNin Instant Noodles.

Dorian stood at the edge of the roof, arms folded, as if he had been watching the sunrise and just kept staring in the same direction after it had come up. The wind howled, though his hair did not move. At the sound of the door opening, he turned. Kirsten staggered as soon as the wind hit her, gathering her hair into a clip as she forced her way through the gale to the car.

When the door whumped shut, she gasped, enjoying the stillness. “Feeling better?”

He materialized out of the passenger seat. “Quite. The thing with the stunrod was rather enjoyable, aside from the problem of you having to bleed to make it work.”

Kirsten shivered and brought the car online. “Well, I seem to be getting a lot of practice lately.”

“You should have shot the man aiming a weapon at you.” He shook his head. “I understand what you wanted to do, but a dead cop can’t save anyone. Prioritize threats, react tactically.”

The car leapt into the air, making her grunt. “There was a little girl in the car behind them, I didn’t even think about the guy shooting at me.”

“Careful, K. Thinking you’d rather die than live with the guilt of wondering if you could have reacted faster, done something different”―he looked her in the eye―“might turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Kirsten picked at the comm panel for a moment in silence.

Dorian held a hand over her arm. “Evan’s different. Every mother should be willing to die for their child.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. She wanted to say she could not value one child’s life more than another’s, but could not verbalize it when she thought about Evan’s face.

“Wren?” Captain Eze’s head shimmered in over the console. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, sir.” She shook off her emotion and straightened up. “Sorry, I meant to call in… was just caught in a conversation.”

Eze glanced at the empty passenger seat, then back to her. “Spirit?”

She nodded.

“There was an attack at the Lyris Corporation building last night, several fatalities.” Two panels opened, one on either side of his head, with security video. “The attackers walked through gunfire as though it wasn’t there.”

“Combat synthetics?” She blinked as Seneschal and Icarus walked into view on the left screen. “How… They’re on camera, how is that possible?”

“There’s been photographic evidence of spirits for centuries,” said Dorian.

She leaned close to the screen. “Yeah, but they look real, not like ghosts.”

“You know them?” Eze’s right eyebrow crept upward.

“It’s related to the blackout trail, I think. Abyssals. Those men are dead.”

Captain Eze glanced about as if searching the archives of his memory for meaning. His face took on a grim stare after a few seconds. “You had better get over there soon.”

“On my way, sir.”

Kirsten punched in a NavMap pin for the Lyris building and spent the ride peeking at the security vids on loop. The two abyssals had, it seemed, taken on solid form and marched straight into the lobby. When security attempted to stop them, Seneschal shot them. She cringed at the confirmation of her fear from the PubTran platform; their bullets could hurt living people. Other camera views spliced in as they moved deeper into the facility. Seneschal took the lead, shooting anyone who dared show themselves in the hallway. Icarus watched the rear, firing on a few security guards attempting to chase.

Bullets passed through them, dots of light winking as the slugs hit without effect. A second after the shot, their clothing mended as if nothing happened. Halfway through the feed, the Lyris guards got the hint and disengaged, fleeing in terror. Lights flickered and died as the abyssals went past, employees cowered under desks and in closets. Finally, they arrived at an office that appeared to be their objective. Seneschal kicked in the door, vanishing out of sight of any cam. Kirsten stopped play, backed up a dozen frames, and traced a square with her finger through the terminal. A tug at the corners of the glowing box magnified the image of a nameplate.

Greyson Kendrick

Director, Issue Resolution and Problem Management.

Kirsten leaned back, wiped her face with both hands, and resumed active control of the patrol craft. “I guess he had a labor dispute with his boss.”

Dorian chuckled. “Not much of a retirement option, I bet.”

A minor course adjustment brought the nose of the car around to point at the Lyris corporate campus. The main building stood 106 stories tall, flanked on either side by a ninety-story sub tower. Curved arches connected them, giving the trio the appearance of a central building hugging its siblings close. All three gleamed in the early morning sun, slabs of mirror against the sky. She circled, looking for the telltale flashing yellow that identified an entrance for hovercar parking. On the back of the left tower, a heavy armored door occupied a space three car-widths across at the center of four rotating warning lights. Kirsten pulled up, front bumper two feet from the door, and looked around for some way to open it.

An orb droid the size of a basketball floated up to the driver window.

“Open the door, please. Agent Wren, Division 0. I’m here in regards to the shooting last night.”

Lens covered the majority of the orb’s face, trails of distant reflected ad-bots crawled over the curvature. Amethyst light glowed from deep within its core, oscillating brightness in time with a placid voice. “No employee identification detected. Entry to the Lyris Corporation employee parking area is restricted to Lyris Corporation employees. Please clear the area.”

Why do they have to program these things to sound so damn arrogant? “That’s because I’m not an employee. I’m with the police.”

“Please stand by.”

Kirsten scowled at the fluttering purple light. Absent of any emotion, the voice taunted her with a blasé attitude, indifferent to five people dying here less than eight hours ago.

“I am sorry, miss. The police have already investigated the scene. I cannot”―the orb shuddered, the inner light turned orange―“I’m so sorry, Agent Wren,” said a different voice. Natural, human sounding. “Stupid automatic programs, one moment please.”

The yellow lights around the door spun faster and a few red ones came on. Seconds later, the massive portal split into four segments, each sliding into one of the corners. Kirsten nosed the car through the gap before they had opened all the way. The orb followed as the same human voice shouted over the hydraulic whine of the multi-ton door.

“Please follow me. Use the emergency parking area.”

It zipped ahead, over the hood, and zoomed down a lane between rows of parked cars. Other droids lazed about through the air, occasionally cleaning a windshield or collecting a discarded cup.

“Free car wash while you work, nice place.” Dorian looked out the window on his side as a shoebox-sized robot sprayed foam over the front of a parked car.

Kirsten navigated the columns, chasing the little sphere until it came to a halt amid a section of plastisteel floor covered in crisscrossing reflective yellow paint. The way it wobbled made her imagine it waving “over here” with an arm it did not have.

“So sorry again for the bother; they skimped on the sentry programs.” The orb floated over to her as she got out.

“I keep getting the feeling corporations think they’re above the law. Haven’t been getting a lot of respect lately.” Kirsten wanted to slam the gull-wing door, but the pneumatics absorbed her anger.

“Please understand, it was a program error. I’m David Ling, head of security. I took over this bot as soon as I became aware of what was going on. Please follow it; I’ll meet you in person at the desk.”

The orb’s inner light returned to violet. She wondered if that meant it would be annoying again. It did not speak; only rotated in place and floated off at the pace of a brisk walk. Kirsten followed it over a small curb, to a glass-walled elevator large enough to hold forty people. Motors at each of the eight corners hauled it along four metal tracks through an exposed central shaft. She got a pleasant view of offices arranged around the open middle, plants everywhere. Artificial birds swooped and darted through hazy rays of sunlight pumped in through fiberoptic lines from the outside to feed the plants.

Dorian whistled. “Is this an office or a mall?”

The elevator stopped, having descended only four floors. The orb hung a left as it exited the cab and went for a wide opening with an inclined motorized floor. As soon as she entered, Kirsten realized this was the inside of the large inter-building archway. People glanced at her, as many checking out the gun on her hip as did her figure. One or two recognized the significance of the black and speed-walked away. She continued to walk rather than let the moving sidewalk do the work, and passed through the uphill archway in under a minute. The orb lingered at the end, having cleared the passage in a few seconds. As she neared, it drifted off to the right.

Another elevator took her to the ground floor of the main tower, past dozens of floors of plants, rerouted daylight, and somber employees. When it stopped, the familiar yellow glow of holographic police warning strips came into view at the end of a hallway to the right. She paused, staring through the glass wall of the elevator at Division 2 techs checking out a bloody trail through the grey carpet.

“Officer?”

She looked ahead; the orb had not waited for her and had to double back to let her catch up. Strange how even corporate robots seem impatient. It led her away from the investigation scene, north instead of east, and stopped by a large black reception desk in the security section. The man waiting for her appeared to be Chinese, possibly early thirties. His plain black suit looked unassuming, not at all as pretentious as she had expected from the VP of internal security.

“David Ling?” she asked, extending a hand.

“Ah, Agent Wren, so nice to meet you face to face.” The voice matched the orange light.

“I trust you understand why I’m here, as opposed to the other officers?”

He paused, measuring his response with a sideways glance at the receptionists. Hand extended, he took a step. “Please, this way.”

She followed him to an office at the corner of the next hallway that was, except for the floor and ceiling, a cube of glass. Holograms of Chinese art, watercolor on paper, shimmered an inch off the transparent walls. The small, egg-sized projectors responsible for them were unobtrusive, almost invisible behind the false floating paper. A few swords and a pair of bo staves hung on pegs. Dorian looked around, shaking his head.

“Hard to do naughty things with the secretary in an office with glass walls.”

Kirsten shot him a look.

David Ling turned to face her, wearing a serious expression. “I do, Agent Wren. I spent an hour this morning talking to Greyson Kendrick.”

He doesn’t feel psionic. “Do you normally see ghosts?”

Dorian took a step as if to punch him; Mr. Ling did not react. “I’d say no.”

David shook his head. “Not usually. I had arrived early as I do every day, so I can hit the gym before I start work. I’d just returned to my office and settled into my morning meditation. Just as I grounded myself, I heard him talking.”

“Fascinating.”

“The mind is a powerful tool if you know how to wield it.” Mr. Ling offered a slight bow. “I have been told you are able to see spirits with much less effort involved. Mr. Kendrick was quite insistent something terrible was afoot and wanted me to do something. Unfortunately, the shock of hearing him broke me out of my state and I”―he chuckled in a whispery rasp―“must admit to being a little too rattled to try again.”

Kirsten glanced around, seeing only Dorian in terms of ghosts. “He’s not here now. I recognized the two men who attacked from another case I am working on. Can you tell me what, if any, relationship Dalton Chen or Michael Corley had with Mr. Kendrick?”

“He was their immediate supervisor. Well, Mr. Chen reported to Mr. Kendrick. Corley and the Moriyama girl were direct reports of Mr. Chen.”

“Mr. Ling, I apologize if I’m being too blunt here, but we both know Seneschal was the lead on a problem resolution team. I usually take that particular euphemism to mean assassins. They were sent to kill someone, weren’t they?”

“I cannot comment on that.” Mr. Ling walked around his desk and fell into the seat, elbow propped on the edge, fingers over his mouth.

She squinted at the worried look he sent at the window. “No, I’m not going spelunking into your head. Unless you’re killing innocent people, I don’t have jurisdiction on corporate espionage.”

“Liar,” taunted Dorian.

Mr. Ling folded his hands in his lap. “Door, close.”

A soft rush of air behind her.

“Greyson was Seneschal’s ‘handler.’ He was responsible for giving him tasks. They were not always assassinations, Agent Wren. Most of the time he rescued abducted employees overseas, or retrieved stolen property, or facilitated the extraction of defecting talent.”

“But he was sent to assassinate Vikram Medhi?”

The name flashed with immediate recognition on David Ling’s face.

She raised both eyebrows at his look of shock. “You seem surprised. We’ve already established I can see ghosts. I met Mr. Medhi at the PubTran station a few nights ago, as what was left of Seneschal and his team tried to kill him… again.”

Ling thrummed his fingers on the desk. Kirsten had seen that face before, the desperate want to disbelieve what he was hearing despite having seen or heard enough to have doubts.

“Anything at all you can tell me might help. I have a feeling Seneschal might have come back for revenge on Greyson for getting him killed.”

“Is that typical? He’s only been dead a short while. I’ve never even heard of such a thing. Hauntings are usually… umm…” Ling waved his hand as if searching for what to say.

“You’re right; most hauntings are far more subtle. Seneschal has become something more than just a simple haunt, and I’m trying to understand what and how. Please, what do you know?”

“Vikram Medhi had been employed, on the side, by Lyris Corporation for several electronic infiltration operations. While he was working for us, he decided to help himself to confidential data belonging to Lyris in violation of our trust. Mr. Medhi then attempted to use said information to extort twice the agreed upon fee in exchange for not selling it to our competitors.”

Dorian shook his head. “Translation: Medhi got some dirt on Lyris and wanted to go to the Newsnet with it.”

“So, rather than pay the blackmail to buy his silence, they sent Seneschal’s team to silence him for good.”

Ling touched his fingertips together. “That would be illegal, would it not? The team was sent to get the data back.”

Kirsten frowned. “It’s a little late to sugarcoat it. Doesn’t much matter what their orders were now. The man who ordered the hit, Greyson I assume, as well as the people who killed Vikram are already dead. There’s nothing to prosecute. A surviving relative might sue the corporation, but you’re lucky; he doesn’t have any.”

David offered a mute nod.

“I doubt they’ll be back; they got what they came for.”

An older Caucasian man in a black suit, as pretentious as she had expected David’s to be, walked in through the glass interior wall. From neck to crotch he was a bloody mess. At least two dozen finger-sized holes, and several larger ones, offered a view clear through him. Kirsten adjusted her stance to face him.

“Grayson Kendrick?”

He nodded.

David stiffened. “Is he here?”

Dorian looked him over. “SPR-42, less than ten feet away. Probably two shots.” He circled behind him. “Fuzz in the exit wounds, probably got it while sitting in a nice, expensive chair.”

Grayson grumbled, rotating after Dorian. “I was not expecting a ghost cop. I want to report a murder.”

Dorian smiled at Kirsten. “He wants to report a murder.”

“Which murder would that be, Grayson? The one you ordered on Vikram, the murder of your hit squad, or the revenge killing that claimed you?”

Grayson glared at her. “There’s no need to be so hostile.”

“Did it even bother you when your squad got wiped out?”

He fidgeted.

“I thought not. You were more concerned with the stolen data than their lives. That’s probably why they came back to kill you.” She scowled at him. “They’re still a threat I need to take care of. What can you tell me about this whole mess?”

Grayson glanced at Mr. Ling, who remained happily outside the conversation. Kirsten turned away so as not to giggle at Dorian’s eye peering at her through one of the bullet trenches.

“Vikram stole some of our data. I sent the team in to recover it and teach him a lesson. I am not being deceitful when I say I did not order his death. I don’t know what happened that night, missy.”

“Watch your tone. You call me Agent Wren, or possibly Kirsten, if you can stop being a puffed-up ass for five minutes.”

Dorian snickered into his hand.

Mr. Ling could not help but mirror it. “Kendrick always was a bit over the top; SVP attitude, Director’s chair.”

Grayson frowned at him. “Will you tell him to kiss my ass?”

“He wants you to kiss his ass,” quipped Dorian.

“Oh, that’s cute. He can’t hear you, either.” Grayson grumbled.

“What do I need to know about the team?” Kirsten stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Mr. Ling.

“Seneschal was their squad leader. A consummate professional, he did a lot of work for various European firms before we acquired him due to his exemplary record.”

“I suspect that means he could kill without hesitation, obeyed orders without question, and never got caught.” Dorian leaned on the desk.

Grayson scowled.

Kirsten smirked. “It’s a bit late for corporate obliqueness, Grayson. You’re dead.”

“Fine. We recruited Dalton Chen for his ability to get done what needed to get done. He was loyal to his contract. As soon as he signed a new one, previous employers were no different than any other potential adversary. He had no family, no attachments, no hesitation.”

Dorian laughed. “Sounds like a nice guy.”

“He was not fond of sloppiness, and rather frowned on Mariko for enjoying her work so much.”

“She enjoyed killing?” Kirsten thought back to the shadowed face, the glowing red eyes, and that look of pure glee as she caused pain.

“Yes, especially men. I only glanced at Michael’s report in brief, but I remember something about her indentured to a Japanese Keiretsu from a young age. She was not treated well, I believe. Dalton was in Japan on an extraction run and she attempted to interfere. Michael, rather Icarus, let his conscience burden him into feeling bad for her. They wound up stealing her as well as extracting the defecting technician. Took a few weeks, but we eventually broke her conditioned loyalty to Nippon Shōgyō Kumiai.”

Kirsten scrunched her face. “The NSK isn’t a corporation. Why would they care about an extraction?”

“They are a facilitator allowing the fragmented, warring prefectures within Japan to continue to trade with the outside world and keep their internal battles hidden. As such, they maintain a security force available to any corporate entity for assistance, especially with outsiders. Mariko was one of their ninja.”

“Ninja?” Kirsten sighed. “I’ve never seen one; I’ll have to hope that the stories about them are pretty much exaggerated.”

“Most people think of ghosts the same way, do they not?”

Greyson had a point.

“This is the opening of a bad joke,” added Dorian. “A mercenary, a ninja, and a Special Forces dude walk into a bar…”

“Stop.” She held a hand up. “What about Icarus?”

“He used to be UCF military. His records were sealed, even from us. When he came looking for work, he claimed experience in clandestine operations, mostly wetwork. He was one of those best of the best types; very motivated, very physical. Health food… quinoa, wheat germ, blenders full of green ooze, his office always stank like moldy shoes.”

“It seems as if you have your work cut out…” Dorian muttered.

Kirsten shifted, gazing through the glass wall at four office-worker ghosts watching the inspection of their murder scene. “Yeah, you got that right.”

irsten slouched back in the chair, too tired to even put her feet up on the desk. Evan slurped noodles out of a take-out container, making silly faces. Giggling, she stuffed another forkful of mei fun into her mouth, glancing at Captain Eze’s empty office. He asked me to meet him, the least he could do is show the hell up.

“How come you’re here so late? You got homework?” Evan tilted his head.

She smiled. “Don’t rush to grow up, hon. This job is nothing but homework.”

Kirsten’s smile faltered to a flat line as she stabbed her food. He’s an astral, too. They’re gonna put him out on the street with me someday. Kirsten forced the smile’s return as worry crept into his eyes. No, they wouldn’t do that. Too awkward to have a mother/son team. They don’t even let siblings pair together. Evan’s eyes crossed as he tried to watch a noodle slide through his puckered lips. Kirsten laughed, deciding not to worry about ten years from now.

Light split through the room from the far end of the hallway that led to motor pool, outlining Eze’s figure in a nimbus of glowing orange. The door closed, letting color and detail fill in on his face and uniform. He went by at a brisk stride, apparently not over the embarrassment of the shower call earlier in the day. Kirsten scooted forward, two quick forkfuls shoved into her mouth as she got up.

She mumbled useless sounds through it, grumbled, and swallowed. “Okay, almost time to go home. Get started on your homework; this should not be long.”

Evan nodded, digging through his backpack for a school-issued datapad. Kirsten stretched to the point her body trembled, then sagged forward. After a deep breath, she summoned up the strength to trudge across the squad room to Eze’s office.

“Sorry, sir. Evan just meant well, he didn’t―”

“It’s all right, Wren.” He turned to face her, looking a touch haggard. “I just got out of a meeting with Division 9. They wanted to ask about the death of Sergeant Marsh, and the investigation into the man responsible. Do you have any idea why they seemed to think I might have some information we were not sharing with them?”

Dorian faded through the wall, looking interested.

“Bastards walked in on me at the hospital.” She blushed.

“When I became aware of that, I conveyed our mutual displeasure.” Captain Eze sat down. “I would have been back here half an hour ago if not for the argument it caused.”

“Let me guess, they accused you of coddling women without military experience.”

“Something like that. They do not understand the unique position some of you are in, growing up here…” Eze rubbed his face, as if trying to wipe away the distrust of others.

She matched his smile, fatigue and all. “I escorted the victims at Lyris across. Only one left, has some stuff she needs to tell her brother before she’s willing to step through.”

Eze nodded. “What interest do you have in Sergeant Marsh? I noticed you were picking through his things a few weeks ago, and you paid a visit to his partner a few days ago. Did you really send in a form referring her to see Commander Ashford?”

“Yes. Rene Bollard, sir. He is the suggestive that killed Dorian. He put something in Nila’s head.” She continued, explaining how he programmed Nila to fear the police, as well as used her to facilitate his escape. “I was hoping Commander Ashford could dig a bit deeper and find out where she took him, and make sure I didn’t miss cleaning anything up.”

“You think you missed something?” Eze lifted an eyebrow.

“She called Rene to warn him after I left, after I deprogrammed her. He had to have buried it way down in the subconscious. Maybe all she did was start a vid to his NetMini without saying a word. The Sons of Charon came after me because of that call, I’m sure of it. Rene knows I want him, and I’m not planning to disappoint the son of a bitch.”

Captain Eze’s glance hardened. “It is admirable you take offense to the murder of one of our own, even though you never knew him, but I am concerned. You don’t have the combat experience or tactical training―”

“Captain, sorry to interrupt, but no one else is going after him. I’ve got a rating in suggestion; I can fight him.”

His glower softened to a patronizing smile. “Kirsten, your rating in suggestion is far short of what we believe Rene capable of. You’re not even on the watch list.” He chuckled. “Rene held six men in thrall for months, a small private army.”

“Rene is going to attack Nila again. He’s sending assassins after me. He’ll do anything to get away from us, and I owe it to Dorian to…”

“Avenge him?” Eze sighed. “Revenge is a bumpy road, Kirsten.”

The chill presence of Dorian’s hand circled around hers. “Don’t get yourself killed because of me.”

Kirsten looked at Dorian, too angry to cry like she wanted. “I’m not so smitten I’m ready to die just to be with you.”

They both laughed despite the mood.

“Are you…” Eze’s head leaned to the side, at empty air.

“Dorian is still here, sir, right in the room with us. He’s restless because Rene got away and he’s worried about Officer Assad.”

“You’ll not be rid of me so easy,” said Dorian with a wink. “I’m not going to leave you alone, even if you do get Rene.”

She grinned. “I’m not trying to get rid of you; I just want to do what is right.”

“Okay, Kirsten. Perhaps you have been working too…”

The lights flickered. Eze’s voice trailed off as he glanced at faltering LED bulbs in the ceiling. They dimmed even further before fading out to darkness. Officer Morelli trudged through the door, nose buried in a datapad of reports in hand. Just then, a coalescence of white fog hung in space, and Dorian stepped out of it; intensity upon his face as if manifesting was an act of extreme effort.

To Kirsten, the real-looking Dorian faded to transparency.

Morelli’s datapad hit the ground with a clack; he shrieked like a cheerleader and ran in such a panic he tumbled over a desk outside. Evan’s wild cackling was too much for Kirsten, and she joined him in laughter. Eze’s other eyebrow rose to meet the one that had gone upward at the fog. He looked Dorian up and down, and stood up, rendering a funerary salute.

“You’re getting stronger…” Kirsten gawked at him.

Dorian returned the salute. “I’m still with the team, sir.” His voice seemed to float in from the edges of the room, from no specific direction.

Speaking caused the manifestation to evaporate; the effort, a breath held to the point of bursting. Solid again in her eyes, Dorian slumped into a chair looking winded.

The lights fluttered back to life. In the distance, aluminum desks banged as Morelli scrambled back to his feet and wailed off down the hallway.

“Tom never did like me.” Dorian glanced after him.

Kirsten giggled. “Well you were his T.O.; your comment about him being a hothead kept him in training for an extra three months.”

“He was. Still is.” Dorian folded his arms. “Trying to chase a suspect through a crowded hover lane at 285.”

“Is that why you put the patrol craft through a window?”

Dorian cringed. “No, he did that trying to fight me for control. All I wanted to do was slow down to 250.”

“Well you’ve probably just sent him to psych for at least a week.”

Eyebrows fluttering, Dorian leaned back and put a hand on his chin. The thought did not seem to plague his conscience at all.

Captain Eze lowered himself into his chair, pondering, showing no outward affect from seeing Dorian. He nodded once, at something in his head. “So that’s what you meant when you said he died before you met him.”

“Yeah.”

“Kirsten, please. Be careful poking around Rene. Suggestives can be extraordinarily dangerous once they get to his level.”

“Understood, sir.” She got up to leave. “Did you get a whiff of anything from Nine? Think they’ll find him?”

“If they have anything, they aren’t sharing. You think you need another protection detail?”

“Tell him I got it. Just take the car home.” Dorian smiled.

“I think I’ll be okay. Rene doesn’t have the resources of a corporation behind him, and I got a partner who doesn’t sleep.”

he patrol craft came in low over traffic, four or five feet above cars that had skewed into collisions with posts, vendomats, and parked vehicles. Kirsten drifted along just past a jogger’s pace, studying broken glass, skid marks, and blood.

On the primary windscreen, the computer inserted neon lines of green and yellow resolving the flight path of bullets it extrapolated to be responsible for several holes in the surrounding environment. The results of her scan corroborated the witness accounts of the unbelievable. Two cars, driverless, had raced down the street. Citizens heard gunshots and got showered with debris, but saw no guns―or people using them.

The citycam recording, open in a side panel display, showed the chase from an elevated view. A small green car weaved through traffic, empty, and sometimes using the sidewalks to get around logjams and red lights.

Behind it, an ordinary mid-sized passenger sedan fought its way through a river of cars, frantic to get away from the gunfire. Like the people, the citywide surveillance network had picked up the sound of automatic weapons fire. Commuters crashed into anything they could to get away as the backs of their cars disintegrated amid a hail of unseen bullets. She wondered if any of them even noticed at the time what shot at them.

According to the map, the chase had persisted a little over seven miles. She accelerated and climbed. Six miles later, the smoldering ruin of the sedan melted into the street. The Division 1 patrol craft that had lasered it in half was parked nearby. She slowed to a floating halt before dropping into a vertical landing next to the officers.

“Morning. Got anything on the car?”

They both saluted. A short woman with skin the color of creamed coffee lifted a gold-tinted visor. Early morning sunlight streaked parts of her blue armor with white glare as she moved up to the window. “It was reported stolen by its owner, but they had no description of the thief. We arrived on scene during the roving gunfight, the car ignored three warnings, so we hit it with the Starburst.”

Kirsten eyed the bulge on the roof of their car, just behind the passenger seat. “Nice shot, Sergeant, right in half.”

“I was driving; Simms took the shot.”

The other officer nodded.

“We found no one in it, but the car smelled of propellant. Someone was definitely firing weapons inside it. I have no idea how the hell we missed them, or how the frick they got away from this without being injured.”

“Uhh, Sarge?” Simms looked up from a datapad. “I’m going back over the scanner recordings during the pursuit.”

Both women looked at him with expectant faces.

“The car was empty the whole time.” He scratched his helmet. “Think a hacker got into the Navcomp?”

“I could answer that for you, but I don’t want you to take up heavy drinking.” Kirsten smiled.

“Hit me.” Sergeant Summers radiated confidence.

“Ghosts.”

To Kirsten’s surprise, the patrol sergeant did not seem rattled or even look at her as if she was crazy. “Ghosts?” She shook her head. “You don’t think it was a hacker?”

“Unless he could hack the stink of ballistic propellant into the car.”

Officer Simms went quietly back to his car.

Sgt. Summers pondered, and nodded. “That’s a good point. Well, go do what you Zeroes do then.” Sergeant Summers smiled as she looked off into space while the buzz of radio chatter filled her helmet.

A rush of camaraderie washed over Kirsten, and she returned the smile. It was amazing to feel like part of a team and not some freak on the outside.

“Agent. We’re getting reports of gunfire at Prospect Mall, just down the street where the other car crashed, they’re asking for you.”

“Crap, they’re still here. Sergeant, have them evac the mall.”

“Already―”

Kirsten twisted the sticks and accelerated, staying on the ground. The mall was only a few blocks away and Division 1 had it blocked off from traffic. It would take longer to transition between hover and ground mode than just drive, so she just gunned it. After weaving through the debris left in the wake of the chase, she hung a squealing left turn onto the approach ramp for Prospect Mall. Black streaks on the charcoal-hued traction coating led over the incline, stopped abruptly at the top, and resumed about twenty feet later. Ahead, the tiny green car lay in a crumpled, smoking ruin; smashed into the shopping plaza wall at the end of the squiggly trails.

Two dozen patrol officers milled around a row of blue-and-white patrol craft; the entire area was aglow with shimmering bar lights. A sizeable crowd, perhaps a hundred and a half people, pressed into the police line with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. Kirsten squawked the siren, parting the crowd, and pulled up to the barricade.

As soon as her door opened, gunfire erupted inside.

“Corporal.” Kirsten approached the closest man in blue. “Let whoever is in command of this squad know to keep their men out of the mall. There are paranormal entities involved, I don’t care if you believe me or not, no one goes in.”

Not waiting for the reply, she grasped the handle of her stunrod to keep it from bouncing into her leg and took the long stairway to the mall’s front entrance two steps at a time. Four capsule elevators flanked the door, continuing to glide up and down along their tracks despite being empty. Automatic glass doors slid out of her way as she ran inside, closing through Dorian. The entire inside area was devoid of people, lending eeriness to the building dread she felt at dealing with these beings.

Even Dorian had a look of concern; these things were strong enough to obliterate him.

She halted at a three-way intersection packed with stores and kiosks. “If you’re still feeling weak…”

Two dozen advert droids whirled to face her. Kirsten imagined yellow exclamation points above them a second before they all descended upon the only living person in the mall.

“No way in hell I’m leaving you alone in here.” He pointed northeast. “That way.”

“Gah!” she cried, swatting at the evasive floating nuisances. “Stupid bots.”

Kirsten, trailing a cloud of commercialism, jogged to the end of the concourse toward voices emanating from the other side. A silver-tiled column just outside a holovid shop provided some cover. One eye peeked around the edge as her E-90 leaned around the corner. Icarus and Seneschal stood with their backs facing her, about twenty paces from the corner. They flanked a fountain made of fiberoptic line and glass dolphins, frolicking in a rainbow of light and water. Two more passages packed with shops forked off on the far side of the glowing installation.

Icarus squinted into the distance. “I got nothin’, we lost him.”

Seneschal growled low in his throat. He swung a compact assault rifle past rows of shops. “I can still smell him. We wait here for Mariko to flush him out.”

Kirsten lifted her weapon, aiming at Seneschal’s back. Once the glowing sights lined up, blue dot inside blue ring, she called out. “Seneschal, Icarus, hold it right there.”

“Smooth. What do you intend to do, haul them downtown?” Dorian shook his head, and ran into the wall.

They turned. She fired. Ad-bots scattered in an eruption of shimmering plastisteel and glowing holograms.

The streak of azure energy passed through Seneschal’s back. His body collapsed inward at the point of contact, as if molded from wet sand. The brief pulse twisted through him as he whirled, leaving a narrow trench with the glow of embers along the edge. Black smoke exuded from both sides. For an instant, he reacted with alarm, which gave way to anger. Unlike bullets, the energy weapon could hurt him.

She lined up another shot, but aborted it as Icarus sprayed the corner, rolling behind cover with her back pressed into the wall. Kirsten suppressed the urge to scream as flakes of silvery tile shattered and popped around her, a rain of ceramic bits falling on her head. Bullet holes offered a weak view of the two abyssals; like any modern slug, their attack had gone right through the two-foot square column.

Oh, shit.

Kirsten edged to her left in case he fired again.

“Stay out of our way. This does not concern you,” growled Seneschal. “You are clueless. If I see you again, I will kill you.”

The E-90 rested warm against her shoulder as she clutched it with both hands. “It’s not so simple,” she yelled. “You don’t belong here, and I will not allow you to hurt the innocent on a demented mission of vengeance.”

“Innocent?” Icarus joined in, half chuckling. “There’s no such thing as innocent.”

“Look, I’m sorry you died.” She crouched, peering through the lowest bullet hole at them. “That doesn’t change the fact I have to send you back where you belong.”

“Oh, listen to this one, Ic.” Seneschal’s laugh raked down her spine, cold as a torrent of icicles. “She wants to play.” He whirled with a flare of his coat and strode toward the corner, unconcerned that she might shoot him.

Kirsten backed off and stuck the E-90 into its holster. When Seneschal rounded the holed column, his eyes shot as wide as his skull would allow. Half of Kirsten’s body glowed with the blue-white purity of the lash; her eyes flared the same hue. As soon as he was in view, she snapped the tendril through him.

Her face twisted with determination as she growled. The astral lash caught in his chest, plumes of ebon vapor boiling out from the point of contact. Seneschal howled, knocked to a knee by the pain of it. She leaned her weight into the ethereal cord and tore it loose. A great blast of heat and blackness poured through a fluttery, gaping hole in Seneschal’s chest.

The look of abject fear on his face was unmistakable.

“Tag. You’re it.” She winked.

Sounds of a fight came from the other side of the column. Icarus yelled in surprise, followed by the scuffing of boots and the dull thud of body blows. Dorian grunted, then a heavy slam. She imagined him judo flipping Icarus to the ground, or maybe it was Dorian going down. Punching noises continued amid growls of pain and anger from both sides. She could not worry about that right now. Before Seneschal could recover from the shock of the first hit, she swiped the whip across his chest a second time.

It hit him with the force of a truck, knocking him six feet airborne. He hit the ground on his chest, sliding, leaving a trail of black ichor over the polished white floor. Kirsten ran after him, winding the lash behind her for an overhead strike. As she brought it down, Seneschal dissipated into a cloud of dark fog, and her strike found no resistance.

The sheet of vapor sucked itself into a vertical column and coalesced behind her. Seneschal cracked her across the back of the head with the stock of his rifle before she could turn. It felt less than solid, as if made of inflexible rubber rather than metal. Dazed, she stumbled forward and fell to her knees. Behind her somewhere, Dorian gurgled.

“Man, pity they don’t teach pigs how to fight worth a da―”

Icarus’s taunt cut off with an “oof.” Kirsten rolled to her side, startled out of her daze by the rattle of a weapon as Seneschal aimed at her back. Her eyes focused past him for a split second; a fist in Icarus’s gut lifted him inches off the ground. The demonic mercenary fell on his back, Dorian pounced.

Kirsten rolled to the side. Seneschal’s weapon chattered. Floor coating stripped away to bare concrete in chunks. Sprawled on the ground, she had nowhere to hide. With no other option, she swallowed her fear and reached out with her mind, grasping at his essence. Her arms shook from the effort as she fought him. Seneschal roared as he strained to pivot the gun at her again. Psionic energy welled out of her with such intensity a shroud of luminous vapor burst out of her hand, a transparent firelike glow crawling up her arm to the elbow. She pushed him back, working her way to her feet as the battle of wills went back and forth.

“You…” Seneschal took a step back, grunting, struggling. Grey eyes dilated; fear and anger sparred within.

Icarus rolled out from the hold, sweeping Dorian’s legs and dropping him hard on his back. Dorian sprang up, his three quick punches deflected with ease. Kirsten screamed, face reddening with determination as the strange fire crept over her shoulders and down the other arm. Her hands flared as she thrust them forward at Seneschal, the phantom light vanished in an intense flash. He sailed airborne, flying backwards into the tile-covered column. He crunched into it, and slid to the ground in a fall of silver ceramic chips. She ran in, taking advantage of his disorientation to rake the astral lash through him again.

Seneschal’s roar broke all the windows within fifty yards.

Dorian attacked Icarus again; the former covert operative leaned to the side and caught him in the shoulder with a knife as he went by. Wisps of energy drifted from a slice that sealed within seconds. Icarus lunged, stabbing him twice more for three tries. Her partner was weakening.

Kirsten fixed her eyes on Seneschal, who appeared drained to the point of near-delirium. He looked less real; his eyes had taken on a soft crimson glow. Thick shadowy darkness leaked from his body, pooling around his legs where he knelt at the base of the smashed column.

She called them.

Her left hand pointed at Seneschal, focusing her power to hold him down. She cringed as his desperation mounted, every ounce of her strength tested. Seneschal struggled as if chained to the ground, growling at the force trapping him.

Dorian shouted, landing a lucky punch to Icarus’s chin that sent him staggering. The ambiance shifted. Seneschal’s eyes flared bright red. Shadows thickened and dozens of whispering voices filled the air. Forms welled up from puddles of darkness seeping in along the gaps in the floor tiles. Harbingers approached from every side.

Emboldened by their presence, Dorian pursued his advantage. He leapt at Icarus, baton aimed for the back of the head. The commando whirled, trapping Dorian’s arm and winding up kneeling behind him with a knife at his throat. Dorian groaned, trapped in the expert grip of a military-trained assassin.

“Send them away, or he dies,” rasped Seneschal.

Kirsten’s eyes shifted to her partner, the pang of worry weakened her focus long enough to let Seneschal stand. Feeling him move, she regained her concentration and pushed him into the wall.

“I can’t… I can only call them,” she said, forcing the words out.

Dorian elbowed Icarus in the gut without effect. “Finish it, I’m already dead.”

Seneschal stared into her eyes. “First, we will kill your partner.”

Icarus dragged Dorian backwards, shying away from the mass of approaching silver eyes. They seemed less interested in him; his strength had not diminished as much as Seneschal’s. Icarus sent a baleful glare at Kirsten, at the traces of white vapor simmering along her shoulders, the faint hint of luminosity in her blue eyes, and swallowed. Kirsten tilted her head, wondering why out of nowhere, he seemed terrified of her.

“Then we kill your little friend.” Seneschal’s lips curled into an evil smile, black fog leaking through his teeth. “Evan, is it?”

Fear, desperation, and anger burst through her. Her concentration faltered; Evan’s face filled her mind.

Icarus loosened his grip, retreating from her. Dorian squirmed loose, grabbed the wrist holding the knife at his throat, and jammed it up to the hilt through Icarus’s chest armor. Dreadlocks shifted as he looked down at the knife, regarding the wound as a triviality. A quick, but powerful, punch to Dorian’s throat knocked him flat.

Seneschal hissed at Icarus, a demonic rumble manifest in his voice. He leapt through Kirsten’s distracted effort, catching her across the cheek with a punch that put her headfirst into the ground. Growling, he stalked after her, but hesitated at the approaching curtain of Harbingers. They engulfed her, forcing him back, and he backed away. Icarus took off along the concourse, diving into the ground some distance away. Seneschal backpedaled, eyes darting around as they closed in. The whispering intensified, and he turned to flee at a full run.

Kirsten sat up, cradling her face, shivering as the mass of shadows swarmed through the corridor into a cyclone of darkness sliding down the bright mall corridor. The whispers distanced with the ring of black, until it vanished through the same point of floor where Seneschal had gone. Their presence receded, the area returned to normal, and she glanced at Dorian stumbling over.

“Almost got him.” She wiped a bloody nose.

“You okay?” He appraised the developing bruise on her cheek.

A stimpak hissed into her shoulder. “Yeah, I’ve had worse. Think they’ll get him?”

Dorian cast a worried look at the spot of floor. “That would be too easy.”

irsten was crying by the time she hung up the vid call. Not a loud, sobby sort of crying, just silent tears down her face. Evan was having a great day at school and had no idea that a creature out of the Abyss had threatened him. She warned Eze about it, but wanted to talk to Evan anyway. She could not get the joy in his eyes out of her mind, and it made the tears come harder.

“Dammit, Dorian. If he…”

The cool presence of his hand settled into her shoulder. “Abyssals are vicious, but they are single-minded. They will use anything they can to get to you. If Seneschal seriously means to harm Evan, he won’t do anything until after they get Vikram. He can’t help it.”

She looked up, gathering her composure as an army of police and techs invaded the mall.

“Thanks for the all-clear, Agent.” An older man in a blue Division 2 jumpsuit saluted her. “Frank Martinez, Tech Four. I’m in command of the CSI team.” He scratched his head, glancing around at the damage. “Word is I’m not gonna care for your explanation.”

“Heh.” She chuckled, surveying the damage. “What’s not to like? Just a pair of demons determined to destroy the ghost of the man who killed them.” She got up, surprised to find Martinez at eye level. “Was anyone hurt?”

He nodded. “Yes, about two dozen people if you factor in the incident in the street outside. Fortunately, no one died. So… demons?” He blessed himself. “Seriously?”

After the short-short version of events, Tech Four Martinez wandered back to his crew, shaking his head.

“Stopping paranormal entities and making alcoholics. I think your work here is done.” Dorian tried to pat her on the shoulder but just whiffed through.

“Maybe in another hundred years, people will stop looking at me like that.” She crossed her arms, watching the crime scene techs scurry about in search of forensic evidence for several minutes. “We can’t let them kill Vikram again. If they get him before I stop them, who knows what they’ll do. Right now, they have a common motivation; without him, they might go their separate ways.” Kirsten shivered at the thought.

“So how do we find an undead deck jockey?” Dorian grinned. “Not as if he’s going to be logged into the GlobeNet. We can’t just ping him.”

Kirsten blinked. “Yes, we can. I just need some quiet.”

A hundred yards away, at the primary intersection of the mall’s two main passageways, she escaped the bustle of the investigation. Twenty abandoned merchant pushcarts surrounded an enormous round area packed with soil, flowers, and trees. Holographic birds danced among the disc of nature stuck smack dab in the center of the mall. A great skylight let the sun flood down all six floors, gleaming from the silvered sides of motorized stairs all around the perimeter of a vertical channel. Devoid of people, the courtyard possessed a degree of serenity quite out of place for West City.

“If you have an idea, better get on with it.” Dorian glanced over his shoulder. “They’re going to be letting people back in soon.”

She sat on a bench, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the name Vikram Medhi. Much the same way Darksight allowed her to see without light by opening her eyes to the Astral realm, she pushed mental energy out instead. A silent calling directed at him, beaconing for him in the dark. Dorian heard it right away, nodding with immediate understanding of what she did. Kirsten gave him a waypoint, a lantern in the dark to seek. It was up to him to follow it.

“Hello.”

Kirsten relaxed her mind, opening her eyes to find a nervous Indian man in front of her.

“What the devil did you do to them?” he asked, shifting about.

“Thank you for trusting me.” She stood. “I’m sorry; I almost got Seneschal but…”

Dorian grumbled. “You should have finished him off; don’t worry about me.”

Vikram looked between them. “I saw him running with those… things chasing him.”

“Yeah. They got away. You should be safe for a little while, at least while he is weakened.”

“Probably a few days,” added Dorian. “I’m not entirely sure how it works for them now, but abyssals don’t have remains or attachments to go to in order to recover their energy. It will quite likely take him some time to get back to strength.”

“I’d like you to stay with me, if you can.” Kirsten’s innocent smile seemed to ease Vikram’s fidgeting. “They’re bound after you for some reason. You are safest with me.”

He gnawed at his fingers, eyeing the atrium, jumping at any moving shadow. “They killed me once already. I had a feeling someone was coming, so I rigged a dead man switch. When my pulse stopped, the entire floor turned into a fireball.”

“Took them with you.” Dorian seemed annoyed. “I wonder if that counts as killing?”

Kirsten shrugged. “We don’t have time for philosophy class.”

“No, we don’t,” said Vikram. “They’re quite upset at me. That Seneschal had a reputation for being a perfectionist. I think he’s angrier he failed to anticipate the bomb than he is about being dead.”

“Do you know anything about what happened there after you died? Who made the silver circle?”

Vikram shrugged. “I am not certain, it just appeared one night. I did not see anyone draw it.”

Dorian squinted at him.

“Okay.” She sighed. “Will you stay close to me for a few days?”

Vikram cringed at a change in light. “You can protect me?”

“I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. Of course, the best thing you can do to protect yourself is to move on.”

“Move on?” He tilted his head.

“Transcend to the next world, go through the silver light.” She waved her hand in a circle as if to emphasize the point. “Do you hear the voices of any of your family calling you?”

“No.”

“Do you know why you are lingering behind? It can’t be related to your murder; everyone responsible for it is already dead.”

Dorian moved his hand off his mouth long enough to speak. “Maybe he wants the whole company to go down, like Albert.”

“Oh, for”―she mumbled, almost dropping the G word―”‘s sake. What do you feel is keeping you here?”

Vikram thought for a moment, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looked away, then down at the floor. “I had some evidence, on my Nishihama; data proving Lyris Corporation complicit in the deaths of several thousand people in the Middle East, Africa, and western China. I wanted to expose them to the world.”

“Why didn’t you just send it to the Newsnet? Why sit on it?” Dorian’s gaze hardened. “You were trying to make some money off it in the process, weren’t you?”

“I wanted to verify it.” Vikram looked up, eyes tracking an illusory bluebird through the branches. “If it proved to be spurious, it would have ruined my career.”

Dorian continued giving him a distrusting look.

“Were you ever able to verify it? Maybe we should look for the data?” Kirsten tapped away at her armband console, searching through the site reports for the blast.

“The deck is toast.” Vikram sighed. “My copy of the data is gone.”

“Well then.” Kirsten let her arm fall to her side; the holo-panel turned itself off. “I guess we can worry about it once he’s no longer being hunted.”

Dorian folded his arms. “So this is your plan? Dangle him as a lure and just wait?”

“Basically. We know they are going to come after him again.” She stared sympathy at Vikram for a moment before firing a pointed look at Dorian. “The best we can do is be there for him when they do. Unless you have a better idea.”

Dorian pursed his lips. “I got nothin’.”

irsten held the NetMini to her chest, thumbing the edge. Through the windscreen, she gazed across the unnatural square patch of grass, trees, paths, and benches comprising Sanctuary Park. Branches swayed in an unsettled breeze, visible here and there in the glow of a handful of standing lamps. One entire sector, five miles square, had been sectioned off for this purpose. Few people had the time to bother with it during the day, mostly students or the elderly; at this hour, it was empty.

Disappointment was obvious in Evan’s face when she asked him to stay at the dorm tonight. She did not want to leave him alone at the apartment, and had “work stuff” to do. His level of maturity at bad news tugged at her. All she wanted to do was fly to the school and squeeze him.

“What are we waiting for?” Vikram leaned in from the back seat.

She put the device in her pocket. Calm down, K. You’re acting like a child, it’s only one night. “Since we have time, I’m trying to help Dorian with another problem.”

Dorian blinked. “Me? Is that why we’re sitting here in the dark?”

“There.” Kirsten pointed.

Out in the grass, two men walked from the shadows. One appeared a tattered vagrant, the other a well-to-do executive. They crossed through a patch of light cast by one of the streetlamps, striding right through a park bench. More figures appeared as the minutes ticked by, men and women from various parts of life: rich, poor, cybered-up, and intact. By the stroke of midnight, about two dozen spirits had collected in a group. Kirsten stared at Theodore as she got out of the car.

She found it hard not to feel a twinge of anxiety as she crossed the grass. Some of these ghosts were quite old, one or two rumored to have been rather famous before the war. A muscular older man in a nice suit looked her up and down and smiled with a wink. The mass of them turned, a mixture of shocked, curious, and indignant stares fell on her.

The Kind.

“Kirsten.” Theodore held his arms wide, as if to embrace her. “Who are your friends?”

“Forgive me if I don’t hug you, you’ll just grab my ass through my clothes.” She winked. “You know Dorian. This is Vikram.”

“Dark energy upon that one,” said an old man in a cowboy hat, pointing.

“The abyssals you saw are chasing him, but that’s not why I’m here.”

The assembled spirits murmured amongst themselves, the large old man in the suit took a step closer, gesturing at Vikram. “Bringing him here could draw them to us.”

Theodore laughed. “Calm down, Governor. They won’t bother an enclave this large, not here in Sanctuary.”

“I won’t stay long.” Kirsten offered a respectful bow at the ancient spirit. “I wanted to ask you to help me find someone. The man that killed Dorian.”

Dorian gazed at the stars. “For heaven’s sake, Kirsten. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Great, then I can hop in the sack with her.” Theodore winked. “Assuming she’s not an old maid when she bites it.”

Kirsten pinched the bridge of her nose. “Theodore, you are a penis with legs. Dorian, I’m just trying to help you.”

Theodore bowed, accepting her compliment. “Rene, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t,” said Dorian.

Vikram fidgeted. “This is not getting us any closer to destroying Seneschal.”

She rendered herself solid, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, Vikram. We could run all over the city and never find him. When he shows himself, I’ll be ready.”

Kirsten relaxed the power before Theodore’s hand went through her chest. “Too slow.”

“Aww.” He faked a bashful shrug. “Can’t fault a man for trying. I’ll help you, but you know my price.”

Immediate crimson face.

“You don’t have to do this. Don’t do this,” Dorian chided.

Burning embarrassment saturated her, she looked at Dorian and then back to Theodore. “No contact.”

He held his hands up. “No contact, I promise.”

She focused on her feelings for Dorian, and closed her eyes. “Fine.”

At that instant, she sensed a shift in the energy. Danger.

Kirsten spun, arm whipping out as the lash unfurled. Mariko sprang out of nowhere, rolling into a tight ball under the passing tendril. The Kind moved as a mass, taking a step away all at once. The dark form creeping over the grass whipped her head up. Glowing red eyes showered Kirsten with hate, tempered with shock. The once-beautiful face of a young Japanese woman, not much older than her, twisted with an inhuman grin of pointed teeth, as if her mouth had been cut two inches wider on each side. She exhaled a raspy hiss that lofted the scent of sulfur on the wind.

“Impossible… Gaijin girl.” Mariko tilted her head to the other side, hands held out like claws as she scuttled sideways.

Vikram almost fainted.

Kirsten frowned. “Ninja or not, you’re still dead. I can feel you.”

A monstrous growl came from the tiny woman, beyond the vocal range of a mortal. She blurred into a streak of black tipped with two red glowing dots. Kirsten brought the lash up to defend herself, but miscalculated Mariko’s aim. She landed on Vikram, sinking her teeth into the crook of his neck and knocking him to the ground.

Dorian whirled and grabbed Mariko, peeling the wispy shadow away from Vikram. The wounded spirit curled on his side, both hands over the wound as if ashamed of it. Mariko melted into a cloud of smoke, appearing to Dorian’s right and punching him in the side. Smoke, now on his left, kicked in the back of the head. Smoke, behind him, sword drawn; all in three seconds.

The lash snapped through the air between them, sparing Dorian an impaling strike. The straight-bladed ninjato caught moonlight and gleamed as Mariko’s semi-ethereal form slid backwards into a crouch. Kirsten moved to stand over Vikram as Dorian shrugged off the assault.

“Good thing I don’t have internal organs anymore.” He winced. “Hurts… pressure points.”

“You are both fools,” snapped Mariko. “Get out of my way or die.”

The ninja floated skyward, coming apart into four duplicate copies of shadow. Kirsten flicked the energy thread in the path of the one with the strongest sense of energy. Three false images landed on Vikram, making him howl from fright but doing little else. The real Mariko twisted in midair, avoiding the searing weapon.

The demoness hit the ground in a three-point stance, sword held straight to the side in a one-handed grip. She skirted, growling.

“You have no idea the pain I will cause you, Gaishō.” Mariko’s mouth seemed to grow even wider, sharpened teeth glinting. “I shall devour your precious little boy next. You shall hear his screams in your nightmares.”

The lash fluttered the grass as Mariko leapt to the side cackling, her body flowed―liquid with limbs. Dark laughter turned into a perfect reproduction of Evan’s voice screaming. “Mommy! Help! It burns!”

Two shots from Dorian’s laser caught the apparition unaware. The projection of Dorian’s desire to harm it took on the form of his old familiar sidearm. Mariko’s head lolled to the side, glaring at him sideways, unimpressed. Neither shot appeared to have an effect.

Kirsten’s howling cry startled Mariko’s gaze back to her as the lash came down with such fury it doubled in width. Aimed more by desire than physical motion, the energy whip scorched a jagged path through its target from forehead to crotch. The gap between two halves of ninja widened for an instant before it filled with crisscrossing tendrils of black vapor weaving together. They interlaced, thickened, and pulled her whole.

Mariko slinked away, the malice in her eyes replaced with mortal dread.

Kirsten’s voice came calm, chilling. “You fucking touch him, and there won’t be anything left for the Harbingers to throw in the trash.”

Dorian leapt at Mariko, effortlessly guided into a broken-neck landing on the ground behind her. Kirsten lunged, but the whip passed through a parting cloud of smoke. The inky cloud raced over the grass, coiled around the side of a building, and vanished into the night.

Vikram rubbed the bite mark, hiding it from sight until he had reintegrated himself. Dorian picked himself off the ground and adjusted his apparition back to rights. Kirsten could not look at him until he fixed the way his neck seemed bent.

“Calm down. They’re just using him to get to you, to goad you into getting reckless. You’ll do Evan no good if you get killed out here.”

“Seems like it backfired.” A bare-chested scrawny man with a massive beard, long hair, blue jeans, and sandals smiled. “Made her stronger.” Despite the mirror sunglasses, it was evident he just winked before he rejoined the spirits.

“What’s that smell?” Kirsten sniffed.

“Marijuana.” Dorian laughed.

The lash dispersed, evaporating from tip to hand as if it rewound into her arm. The world seemed darker for its absence. She covered her face with both hands, eyes open, nodding and breathing in search of calm. “You’re right… Mimicking his voice was just…”

“One of their favorite tricks.” Dorian attempted to stretch away soreness. “Wow, I bet she was fun at parties.”

“Girls what can move like that make big money in some places.” Theodore chuckled. “Kirsten looks pretty flex―” He stopped, raising his hands as both Dorian and Kirsten glared at him.

“Thank you.” Vikram approached, offering a series of deep bows. “I see that you can stop them. I pray you will destroy them before they harm more innocents.”

“Kirsten,” said Theodore, wandering closer. “Word among The Kind is your friend Rene is holed up in Sector 187, an abandoned hotel building at the middle of city road 2044.”

“Oh, hell.” Dorian shook his head. “No. You are not going there. Absolutely not.”

“One more thing.” Theodore held up a finger. “As Dorian can likely corroborate, he has a habit of padding his surroundings with thralls. He’s got about a dozen this time, course they’re just local gang types.”

Dorian grew paler. “Kirsten, no.”

“Black zone or not, I won’t let him get away with what he did to you… or Nila.”

“Let it go, Kirsten. The law has trapped him in the black zone; for a high-society fluff like him, that’s even worse than death.”

She nodded at Theodore. “Thanks.”

He made finger-guns at her and winked. “Oh, you’ll be thanking me later.”

She blushed.

“But you can wait till you confirm my info’s good.” He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. “I trust you.”

he patrol craft rose over the edge of the apartment building roof, kicking up a cloud of dust and birds as the ionic downblast scoured a patch of metal. Thin sparks came spidery out of the ground, lapping at the car’s underside. Kirsten twisted the right-hand control stick just enough to rotate the vehicle parallel with a flat spot between two ventilation units and flicked the switch for the wheels. When the mechanical droning noise stopped, she set the vehicle down amid the electric fingers.

Captain Eze’s holographic head appeared at the center of the console, eyes half open as though he had just been asleep. “Wren, I got your message. What’s the situation?”

“I got a lead on where Rene Bollard may be hiding.” She shut down the drive system. “I want to go check it out.”

He ran a hand over his face and shook off the last vestiges of sleep. “All right, let’s hear it.”

“He’s using an abandoned hotel as a hideout, has maybe a dozen gangers under his influence.”

“It’s in Sector 187,” Dorian yelled, though Eze could not hear him. He glared at Kirsten. “Tell him where.”

“That does not sound too difficult, Agent. We can assemble a tactical response team and go in after him. There’s no need for you to get involved. You don’t have tactical training. I trust you have obtained an address?”

She opened the door and got out. Eze’s virtual image leapt from the console to just over her armband, now half the size. She squinted into the wind as it tugged at her hair.

“Wren… What aren’t you telling me?” Eze’s voice sounded smaller now, tinny.

“He’s hiding in 187, sir.”

Jonathan Eze’s pupils shrank; he pursed his lips around a sharp exhale. “That is a complication.”

“It was the first area to be blacked out on the NavMap, K.” Dorian put a hand into her shoulder. “For some reason, it attracted the worst of the gang warfare, then as soon as the police backed off to let them fight it out it got worse. Illegal augs flocked in, it…” He looked her right in the eyes. “I cannot even imagine what kinds of spirits lurk there.”

She glanced at Dorian and made herself solid to him. He squeezed; she put her hand on his.

“The stuff hiding out in there is…” Ad-bots whizzing by distracted his thoughts. “It’s… too dangerous. The military won’t even go in there. The grey perimeter around it has a standing Division 5 detachment to keep what’s in there, in there.”

“Wren, you know the sector is off limits. I…” Eze’s lips curled into a frustrated snarl. “As much as I want to see this son of a bitch fry for killing a cop, I can’t authorize any operation going into a disavowed sector―especially that one.”

Disavowed… He sounds like one of them now.

“But, sir.” She held her left arm up, bringing him closer. “If we keep letting those areas rot, they’re only going to get worse. It sends a message that they are havens from the law.”

The sound of fingers drumming on a metal desk came over the comm. “Decisions have been made. Retaking those areas failed a cost/benefit analysis―”

“But―”

Captain Eze gave her a look that stalled her interruption. “…and, if the military were to retake the disavowed regions, it would just force the criminal element into The Beneath. Down there, they could cause real damage to the city infrastructure. Command wants them up top where they are contained and relatively harmless to the city as a whole.”

“Captain, with all due respect, I don’t think it’s right to let a cop killer go free just because the military is too chicken to go where he’s hiding. If I have to do it on my own time―”

“No.” Dorian shook her. “Those disavowed sectors are worse than prisons; let him rot there.”

Eze leaned closer to the VidPhone, enlarging the illusory version of his head. “Wren, it is only out of concern for you that I forbid it. Do not, under any circumstances, approach or enter Sector 187 in pursuit of Rene Bollard.” He leaned back, worry evident on his face. “You are too young to”―his face flashed orange from an unseen blinking light―“Oh, bother. Hold on, Wren. I have an official channel coming in.”

The head faded. She let her arm fall limp. Dorian slid his hand across her back to the far shoulder. Her face shifted with anger, sadness, and frustration. She leaned into him; the scent of his Mediterranean cologne grew stronger.

Vikram emerged from the car, fidgeting. He paced around, occasional stares shot their way, several times he seemed about to speak, but held it back.

“I would rather you didn’t risk your life to avenge me.” Dorian put his arms around her from behind, chin over her shoulder. “It would pain me more to see you die than have him go unpunished.”

She clasped a hand over his, pulling his arm tight to her body. Light from the distant city caught in the smog, diffusing into a violet haze through the silhouettes of distant towers and streaks of glowing ad-bots.

Dorian’s eyes glanced down as her thumb traced the back of his hand. “You can do much better than me. Stop torturing yourself.”

Her head leaned back, against his shoulder. One small twist and she could kiss him. Kirsten stared into the deep green of his eyes, basking in the feeling of a man’s embrace. Her eyelids drew heavy; the urge to lean forward grew.

His finger met her lips; her eyes popped open, and she looked away. He had the smile of an amused older brother. Dorian’s arms relaxed and she moved to the railing, leaning on it and watching the droids.

“Kirsten…” He took a step after her. “I’m old enough to be your father… not to mention dead.”

The absurdity of it made her laugh. “Yeah, I’m sorry.”

“You deserve a full life, a family. I know you want one or two of your own someday.” He winked. “There is a man out there for you, somewhere. What about Templeton? You got his PID, but haven’t called him.”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I got the same kind of ‘big brother’ vibe from him that you give off. He’s in his thirties, later thirties.”

“Kirsten, you’re twenty-two. You need to live a little, lighten up.”

Leaning against the railing, she turned to smile at him. “Are you suggesting I do a Nicole and swap boys twice a month?”

“Excuse me?” Vikram held up a hand. “Is this pertinent to the issue of three demons trying to kill me?”―he flashed a weak smile that faltered back to a flat line―“Again.”

Dorian fixed him with a hard glare, which sent him wandering back towards the car. “Ungrateful little bastard, isn’t he?” He gave her a plaintive stare. “Please don’t do anything silly. Listen to the Captain, stay away from Sector 187.”

She pulled threads of wind-tossed blonde away from her face. “Rene tried to kill me, too. Maybe if he succeeds, they’ll actually go after him.”

“I tracked the bastard for eight months. I know him. If you rattled him enough to chance an attack like that, sooner or later the arrogant son of a bitch will make a mistake.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.” Dorian moved toward the car, staring down. “Just don’t make a mistake before he does.”

She shivered.

irsten draped herself over the counter of a small coffee shop, her eyebrows scrunched together and flat. She stared at the machine processing her order, spewing brown liquid and beige foam together with a squirt of chocolate syrup at the end. She wanted it so much the cup tilted a hair towards her. The synthetic stuff would have taken half the time and cost a quarter of what this one would. Still, forty credits for her once (now twice) a month splurge seemed a small price to pay for the little escape.

“Easy.” Dorian patted through her back. “Don’t yank it off the machine or you’ll spill it.”

“My TK is too weak to lift a cup of coffee.”

Dorian grinned. “You shouldn’t have ordered one big enough to swim in.”

She let her head fall on her arms, the tip of her nose touched false jade. “Vikram is going to drive me nuts. He was up all damn night bitching and moaning about me doing nothing. He doesn’t have to sleep anymore, so he doesn’t think I do, either.” She stopped, staring bleary-eyed at the wall. “Bathe in… bathtub full of coffee… mmm.” Head down.

Dorian peered out the window at Vikram, still in the back seat of the car, glaring into the coffee shop as if he was late for work.

Kirsten straightened out, rubbing her back. “It’s not like we can do much else but wait for Seneschal to try again. If they have some way to sniff him out, the best chance we have to find them is to use him as bait.”

“Sore?”

“Evan crawled into bed with me last night; something spooked him. For a little kid, he takes up a lot of space.” Stretch over, she crumpled over the counter again.

“I had a dog like that once,” said Dorian, chuckling.

The hollow plastic sound of a cup skiffing into the acrylic made her head snap up. The wonderful fragrance of coffee and chocolate met her senses as she gathered it and supped of the nectar of the gods.

“Any man would kill to be that cup,” quipped Dorian. “Except maybe Armando.”

She snarfed foam, giggling. The clerk gave her an odd look; the sort of odd look one reserves for odd people who burst out laughing for no apparent reason in quiet places. He kept giving her the same incredulous squint as she grinned, waved, and went outside to the car.

Ten minutes later, the coffee was three quarters gone, and they sat seventy stories up by the side of an office building. Kirsten glanced at the mirrored glass; the reflection showed the car as everyone else saw it―her alone.

Riotous sounds came around the corner, projected from a billboard-sized advert droid bearing a Newsnet feed. On its screen, a small cadre of people waved metal poles projecting holographic signs with fear-mongering slogans regarding psionics. A frazzled middle-aged man with wild white hair and a tan coat rasped an interview with reporter Kimberly Brightman.

“So, Reverend Harris, why is your congregation here today?”

“The Lord says suffer not the presence of Satan in your midst. Society has become blind, my dear. The minions of The Devil walk amongst us and yet they are welcomed! They are welcomed by those too afraid of offending people to speak out. The Dark One has poisoned the minds of our people such that those who speak the True Word are shunned as bearers of hate.”

Kirsten’s glare could have cracked glass. Damn droid is lucky this car doesn’t have a Starburst pod.

“Most scientists believe psionic abilities are the result of natural evolution. Reverend, what do you have to say to those who believe you are on the fringe? That you and your”―Kimberly leaned around him, looking over the sign-wavers―“dozen or so followers are perhaps paranoid?”

“Scientists are under the spell of Lucifer. It is part of the plan, you see. If they succeed, and convince us to accept psionics as normal, society is dooming itself to Hell!”

The immense droid lumbered past, so big it had flashing lights like a shuttlecraft. Kirsten scowled, a low growl rumbled in her throat.

“Don’t pay them any attention,” said Dorian. “Even the reporter thinks he’s a kook. He’s so far out in left field he makes fun of himself every time he opens his mouth.”

She closed her eyes, releasing all the air in her lungs in a controlled meditative breath. “Yeah.”

“Command, this is Officer Nila Assad, I’m under”―a shriek crackled over the comm―“ediate backup at my home”―gunshots in the background―“I’m hit…” Agonized screaming lasted two seconds before the comm cut out.

Kirsten spun the patrol craft and stomped on it, lightbar on and siren blaring. “Son of a bitch.”

Dorian’s face darkened. “Rene.”

“Responding, unit IO-44 en route. I’m close.”

“Copy that 44. Attention all Division 0 personnel, officer down at…”

Kirsten tuned out the rest of the announcement, focused on driving; she knew the address already. Ad-bots whistled past as she spun the car up on its side to slip around another slow-mover. Dorian’s lack of protest at her rough driving was an obvious clue how he felt about the situation. Vikram remained in the back seat, smirking at them and kneading his hands. His head moved as if on a swivel, expecting attack at any moment.

Three minutes later, and with the parking area full, Kirsten circled around the building and brought the car in over the recreation deck. Sunbathers clambered away, some screaming, some yelling. A cushion of cloud filled the area beneath the black patrol craft; mist fumed out of the water, following the hovercar across the pool, dissipating almost as fast as it appeared. The rush of air as she reversed to a hard stop shoved four lounge chairs, and their occupants, into the water. As soon as wheels hit metal, she was out the door and running, armband held to her mouth.

“Implement police override. Lock down elevators and outer doors. Send an express.”

The armband emitted a pleasant female voice. “Processing.”

Red lights flashed in the hallway as a recorded male voice announced a police lockdown in progress, and asked all citizens to stay calm and remain in their apartments. One elevator waited for her in the hallway between the parking deck and the pool. She jumped in. It accepted her Police ID and whirred towards Nila’s floor.

She looked at Dorian. “Where’s Vik?”

“With the car.”

“Shit, if they come for him now. Will you please go get him?”

Dorian glared; worry for his former partner boiled out of his eyes.

“I can’t fly through walls, and you can’t do much to help her.”

“Fine.”

He zipped through the ceiling, as if he stopped and the elevator kept going. Seconds later, it chugged to a halt on the thirty-ninth floor. She sprinted; wall-mounted lights streaked past. The door to Nila’s apartment was partially open, the panel shot out. Kirsten took her E-90 in a two-handed grip as she edged up to the twitching slab of Epoxil. A brief peek past the edge revealed little more than a quiet room and the fragrance of ballistic propellant; sharp, acrid, and laced with carbon. Beneath that awful smell, the aroma of pancakes wafted by.

She clasped her left hand around the sliding door and pulled, attempting to force it open into the wall. The dead actuators offered a substantial amount of resistance. Kirsten managed to shove it an inch or two before it was evident her one-armed strength was short of the mark. One leg made it through the gap, but even with her slight build, she could not fit.

The snivel of a terrified child drifted through the silence.

The E-90 went back into its holster and she put both hands on the door. Kirsten grunted and shoved, overpowering the hydraulics just enough to slip through. Stumbling two paces in, Kirsten gasped a few breaths, readied her sidearm, and advanced. On the far side of the couch, Shani cowered in the corner of the living room. Still in her nightgown, she trembled. The child’s hands clasped to her chest, toes digging into the carpet. She looked unhurt, but terrified.

Kirsten ran to her, lowering her gun. “Are you hurt?” she whispered.

The girl shook her head no; terror faded to calm, and then to suspicion, then to accusation. Several seconds passed as they locked eyes, and then the child pointed. Kirsten whirled about, gasping at the sight of the kitchen floor. With one hand over her service weapon, Nila lay face down in a puddle of blood oozing from her thigh. A few steps past her, a man in a long black coat slumped against the cabinets, dead. Small candle flames on his back still wisped the scent of burned flesh into the air.

She got him.

“Nila!” Kirsten rushed over, examining her.

A nimbus of green light wavered on the white tiles around Nila’s E-86 as the ready light swept back and forth along the barrel; the indicator read 59.

She only got one shot off.

Sweat pants molded tight, darkened by blood. The woman’s breathing came in labored gasps, at the edge of consciousness. Kirsten tore at the fabric, exposing skin around a clean through-and-through. Nila’s shaking hand flew up and grabbed hers. She wheezed, fighting for air.

Kirsten fumbled with a stimpak. “Nila, shh. I’m here. Don’t try to talk.”

Nila tried to sit up, eyes searched for focus. “K…”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re going to be okay. Just relax.”

Another stimpak hissed. Bleeding lessened; pink foam exuded from entry and exit wound.

“No… K…” The woman struggled to raise a hand, as if trying to point toward the living room.

“What? Is there another one?” Kirsten shifted her right hand onto the grip of her weapon.

The chirp of a ballistic firearm’s arming circuit came from behind. Kirsten froze for a second, a slow turn bringing her gaze upon Shani standing in the archway separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. She looked adorable in her knee-length pink nightgown, bare feet, and disheveled black hair―the quivering gun in her tiny hands was a nice touch.

Kirsten’s arm moved on instinct, a reluctant weapon aimed at the girl. “Shani… What are you doing? Please put that down.”

Small hands adjusted their grip; she almost smiled. “You wanna kill my mommy. The nice man says I have to shoot you.”

No. She’s gonna do it. She can’t help herself. Kirsten’s finger tensed. She stared at the seven-year-old pointing death at her. Guilt swam over her before she even did anything. One tear crawled down her cheek.

Bang.

Kirsten lurched backward as a slug winged across the outside of her left shoulder. The recoil bounced the gun off Shani’s forehead and knocked her back a step. Dorian sailed in through the ceiling and whirled about, taking in the scene. Left hand braced on frigid tile, Kirsten wanted to cry at the little pink target on the other end of her gunsights.

“Shani, drop the gun.”

The girl raised it. Kirsten hesitated.

Click.

Dorian dropped his hand; wisps of electrical energy threaded through the air to him from the pistol. The exertion in his face from flying through so many solid floors seemed to lessen as he absorbed it. The girl pulled the trigger again, frowning. Vikram covered his mouth with a hand, mirth in his eyes.

“Shani, what’s gotten into you?”

“Kirsten, she shot me…” Nila rasped.

Shani threw the dead weapon to the ground with a childish snarl of contempt.

Kirsten gawked. Rene, you motherf―

The E-90 leapt out of her grip, as if someone Templeton’s size had grabbed it and yanked. Kirsten blinked at the child as she caught it in both hands; the strength of its flight forced the seven-year-old back another step. The little girl grinned with delight at the silver weapon, fascinated by the dots of azure light that moved in a constant sweep on each side of the barrel.

“This one’s shiny. I like this one more.” She aimed.

“Shani, don’t! It’ll―”

Sparks crackled around the girl’s arms when she pulled the trigger. The gun emitted a disharmonic squawking buzz. Shani’s thigh-length hair stood straight out, forming a giant sphere coated in flickering lightning for an instant. She sailed into the air, away from the weapon, and landed on the couch a few yards behind her. The E-90 clattered to the floor.

Vikram laughed into his hand. Dorian grabbed a fistful of his collar, fist cocked.

“Sorry, I know it’s a kid, but you have to admit that looked funny.”

Dorian hit him. The dead cyberspace pirate staggered to the side, holding his nose, raising his hands in surrender against further assault―but still snickering.

Nila moaned and sat up, helping herself to two more stimpaks from Kirsten’s belt. Dorian ran to her side, trying to be comforting and reassuring to a woman who could not hear him. Kirsten clutched the gash in her shoulder and staggered into the living room, blood leaking between her fingers. As she neared, Shani came into view past the arm of the couch. The tiny body suffered sporadic twitches; smoke pooled in her gaping mouth. A smear of blood ran down the cushions from where a tiny, burned trigger finger brushed it.

Kirsten put a hand on the girl’s neck, beginning to breathe again when she felt a pulse.

“Rene, you son of a bitch, to hell with Eze’s order… I’m gonna nail you.”

Sparks burst from the wall as a man in Division 0 tactical armor forced his way through. One handed, he slammed the door open hard enough to fry the console. Three more entered behind him, one woman. The lead officer approached Kirsten while the others set about clearing the apartment.

“Agent.” He saluted, and then noticed Shani. “Oh, no, what happened?”

Kirsten relaxed. “She’s alive… but could be dangerous. A suggestive got to her; it’s not her fault. One dead in the kitchen, Officer Assad is hurt.”

“So are you, Agent.” A square of light appeared on his visor as his armor scanned her wounded shoulder.

“It’s just a nick,” she said, pausing to read his chest. “Parker, it can wait.”

irsten lifted Shani off the couch, easing her onto the carpet. Straddling the girl, she gathered the child’s hands together and held on. Officer Parker offered flexi-cuffs, but she waved him off.

“If I can’t overpower a seven-year-old without those, I should stay behind a desk.”

Parker laughed. “Any idea what to expect?”

“Telekinesis, at least.” Kirsten found the girl’s surface thoughts scrambled, likely an aftereffect of the zap. “Nila never brought her in for assessment.”

He shook his head. “That’ll be a write up. Cortez, need you here.”

One of the other armored men emerged from the back hallway. “Corporal?”

“Kid’s a TK. You got containment.”

Officer Cortez nodded.

“I have cause to believe she was programmed to attack by a wanted psi suggestive. I don’t think it’s her fault. She was terrified of anyone in black.” Kirsten looked down at the girl, gripping little arms tighter. “Okay, do it.”

Parker pressed a stimpak into Shani’s exposed shoulder. A faint hiss, and the kid’s eyes snapped back to focus. She snarled, then thrashed. Cortez shuddered, engaged in a battle of wills. Kirsten felt telekinetic force pushing at her, trying to peel her fingers off slender wrists, and an equal force opposing it. Shani shrieked like a wild thing, squirming and kicking. When it became clear her TK could not brute-force its way past the more experienced officer, she bawled and screamed. The perfectly age-appropriate reaction to frustration was reassuring.

“Stop.” Kirsten’s eyes flared with luminosity.

Shani went still, her caramel skin greyed with fear. Cortez relaxed. Kirsten focused on the girl’s eyes, mental fingers reaching through her head for the telltale signs of psionic programming. Sure enough, she found them.

Whispers, faces, ideas, and nightmares swirled in a milieu of color and sound. Sweat beaded on Shani’s face as her upper lip curled; a snarl that never finished. The child went limp, gaze unfocused, mouth agape like a corpse. Only the feel of her breathing kept Kirsten from panic. Forcing her way deeper into the girl’s mind, she found a smear of intent. Protect Rene. Warn him if someone comes.

Nila didn’t call him… you did. With me in the damn apartment. That’s what you were hiding under the stuffed animals.

When the bad man failed to kill her mother, Rene’s order made her do it. She took the man’s gun from the kitchen floor when Nila’s back was turned, but she fought the compulsion to kill. Love had taken the form of trembling, not enough to overpower the suggestive urge all the way, but it changed a shot through the heart into a perforated thigh. The sight of her mother’s blood shocked her free and she ran to hide from what she had done.

Kirsten, she already did not like. The woman in black would take her mother away to the place that would kill her. It was Kirsten’s fault Rene forced her to shoot her own mother; pulling the trigger on her was easy. She was protecting her family.

A tunnel of shifting blue light rushed past Kirsten’s vision from behind. At the end, reality awaited. Kirsten sat back on her boot heels, gasping for air. Like the girl, she was soaked in sweat from the effort of undoing the suggestive influence.

Shani’s face contorted, and she bawled. Kirsten lifted her into a hug, patting her on the back.

“It’s okay, Shani. Your mommy’s just fine.”

The presence of medics came as a surprise, as did the lack of damage to the girl’s finger or her own shoulder. Kirsten glanced at Cortez since Parker had wandered off. “How long was I in there?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Where’s Nila?”

“In the bedroom. Div 2 is going over the kitchen.”

Kirsten gathered the girl and stood up, carrying her down the hall to the main bedroom. Dorian stood by the edge of the bed, straining to speak to Nila while a medtech busied herself removing a portable nanogel sleeve from a now-intact thigh. Shani squirmed until Kirsten set her down, and ran into her mother’s arms, sobbing.

“Agent?” A woman’s voice.

She turned, finding one of the tactical officers offering her E-90. Kirsten took it, exchanging a salute, and set it back on her belt. I wonder if I made a face like those people on Nicole’s wall.

Kirsten sent her telepathic voice into Nila’s head. We need to have Lt. Commander Ashford look at Shani.

Nila shivered, squeezing her daughter close. “Why?” What, he’s a mind-blaster, why?

Rene put a hypnotic suggestion in your daughter’s head and turned her into a sleeper agent. I don’t trust myself to have gotten it all. Ashford is also one of the best telepaths we have.

Nila looked at the door, the medtech, Kirsten, and then buried her face in Shani’s hair. He wipes memory. I don’t want him to erase my daughter.

Kirsten put a hand on Nila’s arm. He won’t. It’s not worth taking the chance he programmed her to do something else. Keep a close eye on her until you can see him. He’s not as bad as people say. What would it do to your personality having the entire world scared shitless of you?

Nila cradled her daughter, attempting to soothe the sobs away. “Thank you for not…”

Her stomach did a backflip, she knew Nila could not bring herself to say shooting my daughter; Kirsten forced the thought out of her mind, she just squeezed Nila’s hand and smiled in the mutuality of words unspeakable.

By the time they reached the elevator, Kirsten could not take it anymore and shot a stare at Dorian. “Why are you giving me that look?”

“I’m just thanking whatever it is on the other side of the silver light she missed.” His gaze softened. “You could’ve died, hesitating like that.”

“I…” The opening doors startled her. “I couldn’t live with the guilt of shooting a kid… Those idiots from the Nippy-Nom were fourteen, and that would have been horrible. Shani’s only seven. Never mind she’s the daughter of someone I sort of know.”

“It’s one of the hardest things any cop has to deal with. Some of those gangers are pretty damn young.” Dorian exhaled his non-air; a wisp of fog formed in front of him as he searched for meaning in the rug.

“Did you…”

“I didn’t kill him. Damn hard to leg an eleven-year-old with an E-90; he’s got a prosthetic now.” Dorian’s jaw stiffened. “I killed the leader of his so-called gang, even after he surrendered.”

“You shot an eleven-year-old boy?” Kirsten gasped.

“He’d already drilled Nila in the gut with a rifle, was aiming to finish her off. What choice did I have? By department policy, I should have killed him. You’re more bothered that I shot a kid in the leg than you are that I murdered the man responsible for arming him?”

She folded her arms across her gut, gurgling. “I dunno, you could have killed the boy, but took a risk trying to wound him.”

“Youth isn’t a guarantee of innocence,” said Vikram, bringing up the rear. “In the ACC, many of the resistance fighters have dozens of kills before they’re able to grow beards.”

Kirsten put a hand on the door to the pool deck, and turned to Dorian. “I…” She hung her head. “I almost died back there, and I was just gonna let her do it.” A trickle of bile ran out of her mouth. The idea she came so close to death made her breakfast want to come up.

“Hey.” His finger passed through her chin.

She raised her head as if he had moved it.

“You could have compelled her to drop it.”

Shit. I’m such a dumbass. Too emotional. “Yeah.”

“Everyone being safe includes you.” Dorian ran a hand over her hair.

Vikram gazed at the ceiling.

aptain Eze looked up from behind his desk as Kirsten stormed in. She waved her hand at the silver panel and the door closed. Vikram and Dorian oozed through the wall behind her. Eze sat up, and then leaned back into his chair.

“Kirsten, I just saw your report on the incident at Officer Assad’s home. I’d like you to take an hour or two today and have some time with Doctor Loring.”

The shrink? Oh, dammit. “I’m fine, I just hesitated shooting a seven-year-old. I’m”―he’s not buying it―“fine. I’ll go see her, but I am going after Rene.”

“You know how I feel about that, Kirsten. You went right from the dormitory cadet program to Investigative Operations. Your astral sense ability is rare enough that they skipped you through the academy to get you out there.”

“Hank was causing too much damage at the shipyard. They needed a ghost dealt with faster.” Kirsten smirked. “So you think I’m helpless because I didn’t do tactical first?”

He laughed. “No, I’m not saying you are helpless. You are far from helpless in situations that fit your talents.”

Kirsten approached the desk, leaning on it with both hands. “So I’m fine to go chase wraiths, but the bastard that killed Dorian and almost made me shoot a goddamn little girl is too much?”

“You are talking about the oldest, most severe disavowed zone of the lot. Even if the military were to go in there, they’d take fifty men in assault armor with mechanized support.”

“Shouldn’t you be worrying about the three demons running about?” asked Vikram.

“I wouldn’t…” Dorian held a hand up to Vikram. “Just let her vent.”

“A platoon going in with heavy equipment will attract everything out there to come play. One person and a couple of ghosts won’t be noticed. They don’t have any defense against psionics; how do you think Rene is still alive? Sector 187 is teeming with augs; they don’t have a lot of brain left.” She shoved off the desk and paced. “I could make them do whatever I need. What’s Rene going to do next time? What if he learns about Evan?”

Dorian cringed. Vikram paced about, shaking his head and muttering.

Eze frowned. “What good will it do the boy to get attached to you only to have you go get yourself killed? I don’t want to see that, either.” He leaned forward, putting a hand on hers atop the desk. “I don’t care for official funerals. Wren, I’ve seen you go from a scared little girl to a strong woman.” He sighed. “I’m not sure I could take that kind of bad news.”

Nausea bubbled out of the pit of her stomach, churning anger and worry into syrup sliding up her throat. In her mind, Evan had a gun at her. She smiled at Eze’s hand, dark against her pale skin. He was somewhere between a father figure and the protective older brother.

She glanced through the large office window at the squad room. Would he give Morelli the same treatment? I’m too cute.

“If you’re wondering if I would give the men the same opinion, I would.”

Her head turned back to him, eyebrow up.

He smiled. “No, you’re staring at Morelli. I guessed.”

Eze’s terminal beeped. He shifted, reading something on the screen. The pleasantness of his smile faded way. The skin of his cheeks hung like those of a dead man. He pursed his lips, sighing through his nose.

“What? What is it?” Kirsten straightened up, biting at her lower lip.

“Kirsten. I strongly urge you not to pursue Rene Bollard into Sector 187.” The glower he shot into the terminal screen moved to her, and softened. “However, if you are insistent upon it, I will not stand in your way.”

Dorian yelled. “You won’t? Dammit man, don’t let her do this!”

“He is right,” added Vikram. “This is taking away from the time you could be spending destroying the demons before they kill me.”

“You’re already dead, Vik.” Kirsten whirled, hands shaking. She felt like a kid denied the ability to stay out late finally getting her wish, and then being terrified of being outside after dark.

Who was on the terminal? What did they tell him?

“Right after I ran away, when I was below the city, I sometimes felt as if I wasn’t alone. I had a feeling that something was there watching out for me, leading me to food, leading me away from danger.”

“I’ve heard nothing converts an atheist like getting caught in a war,” said Dorian through a wry grin.

Captain Eze lifted an eyebrow. “A ghost?”

She frowned at Dorian. “I don’t know. I felt it again at the parking deck. Eleven stories up, two seconds away from a dozen hand grenades, I got this sense it was safe to jump. Somehow, I just knew I’d hit the advert droid and not die. It was almost as if something helped me.”

“An angel?” Dorian grinned. “That Theodore fellow seemed pretty convinced the Harbingers have a counterpart.”

“I don’t know.” She folded her arms.

Both Eze and Dorian took her answer as directed at them.

“Harbingers I’ve seen, often. If there is such a thing as their opposite, why don’t I ever see them?”

“Maybe they’re afraid of the dark,” offered Vikram, sarcasm obvious.

Dorian shot him a glance. “I’m starting to see why Lyris wanted to kill him.”

“Kirsten.” Captain Eze got up, walking around the desk to put both hands on her shoulders. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, or what hope you think you have out there. I would advise you to leave chasing Rene to people who have combat training and experience.”

“But…” She looked up at him.

“I won’t stop you.” His teeth creaked.

She hugged him. “I’ll be fine, sir.”

He eased her to arm’s length, grinning. “Careful, Agent, that’s how rumors start. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Don’t say ‘so do I,’ don’t do it. “I do.” She thought of the horror in Shani’s memory at almost killing her mother. “I’m going to get the bastard.”

A knock came from the door, turning two live heads as well as two dead ones.

“Enter,” said Eze, returning to his chair.

Tall and wiry, a man in an I-Ops uniform slid through the door. Dense wavy hair, as black as the government-issue coat he had added to his attire, clung tight to his scalp. His skin, pallid and corpselike, his eyes surrounded by sunken shadows. A matte-black oak leaf pin adorned the right breast of his coat, above a silver nameplate.

Eze shot to his feet, rendering a sharp salute. Kirsten followed suit, as did Dorian. Vikram rolled his eyes.

“Commander Ashford,” said Eze, snapping his arm back to his side.

The living phantom returned the gesture casually. Kirsten could not tell if his expression was caused by fatigue, boredom, or annoyance. Wherever this man went, conversations stalled and people scurried away. He endured a harsher form of the worry her small rating in mind blast earned her; in a way, she felt bad for him. Not only was he a mind-blaster of no small degree, he was part of Division 0’s internal affairs corps. She made it a point to project camaraderie at him, even edging closer as if she wanted to be near him.

He noticed, almost even smiled. “I’ve just finished meeting with the Assad girl, and her mother. The child should not remember most of the incident yesterday.” His lips curled just a little more as he shifted gaze to Kirsten. “You were pretty thorough. I could not find any further latent commands.”

“Should ask him to make you forget about Rene,” said Dorian, folding his arms.

“Thank you, sir.” Kirsten nodded once.

“I need a few minutes with the Captain if you don’t mind, Agent.”

“Yes, sir.” She scurried out, making no effort to give him a wide berth like everyone else did. The gratifying feeling faded when she saw the office, and two connecting squad rooms, empty.

Kirsten sprawled on the cold tiles, one arm draped over the toilet. Trails of OmniSoy ran down her lip from her nose, pooling on her chin in droplets before they fell. Once an omelet, it had returned to the base from which it had been reassembled. Any second now, she felt another wave coming.

I almost died.

Stomach muscles contracting, she bent over the toilet. Just a dry heave.

The image of little Shani behind the glowing blue ring/dot gunsight stood in the dark of her memory.

Another dry heave.

She imagined an azure streak from the E-90 tearing the diminutive threat in half.

Bile flew out of her mouth, several subsequent convulsions became bawling. Kirsten clung to the toilet like a well-meaning friend, sobbing against the plastic seat.

The familiar fragrance of her father’s ambiance surrounded her; she sniffled her tears under control. Trembling, however, was another matter.

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, sweetie.”

She closed her eyes and smiled at the cool presence of his hand on her back; a mental flex, and she became solid to him. “It’s not that, Dad. I came close to being killed today, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. It was a little kid with a gun.”

Heave.

He crouched alongside her, frowning. “What has society come to? Couldn’t you just shoot the gun out of the kid’s hand?”

“It doesn’t work, Dad. E-90’s the biggest laser they can cram into a handgun. At that angle it would’ve gone right through her gun, through her, through the house…”

Another dry heave shook her. Crying flooded her nose, sending dribbles down her chin.

Her father patted her on the back, rubbing up and down like any parent with a sick daughter.

“I couldn’t do it. I just froze up. I knew it wasn’t her fault. That made it so much harder. That son of a bitch programmed her to do it. If I shot her, I’d have been killing an innocent.”

More bile.

“I think you more than anyone should know not to dwell on what-ifs.” His hand passed through the paper, causing him to grumble. “Wipe your face, hon.”

She gathered a few feet of paper and dabbed at her chin.

“After what your mother put you through, after what you put yourself through below the city, you should be better apt to cope with this kind of―”

“Dorian was right. I could have just suggested her to drop it.” She squeezed herself tight to her spectral father, burying her face in his chest. “Dad… I don’t wanna die.”

He held her for a moment in silence until she sobbed herself quiet. “You’re still young, sweetie. You haven’t gotten jaded like Dorian. You survived, no one got hurt, and you learned.”

The kiss he planted atop her head made her feel six years old; she adored it and hated it in equal parts. She wiped her face again and stood, flushing the toilet with her boot. Her father was gone when she reached for the stall door, a wisp of his old-man scent teased at her nostrils. She adjusted her belt, checked her uniform for spots, and took a deep breath.

Okay, Rene. It’s just you and me.

og rolled over the street a distance ahead from where the patrol craft had landed. Kirsten gazed at the shattered faces of long-abandoned buildings, a miles-long tunnel into the heart of a world abandoned by civilized man. Some shiny, some black, most devoid of intact windows, all of them wrapped in the misery of blight. Despite it being early afternoon, a pervasive gloom enveloped the area a few blocks distant. Kirsten, leaning against the center of the hood, steeled herself in an effort not to let the foreboding sense of apocalyptic dread cloud her resolve. She fidgeted, tugging at the tactical armor she found quite uncomfortable.

Black panels of DuraFib composite molded to her body on a flexible bodysuit. She shifted, trying to breathe in the chest plate and stop the crotch guard from digging into her thighs.

Dorian and Vikram approached on either side around the car. Vikram glanced over his shoulder at the intact city, swiveling back to the decay with an amused grin. Kirsten held up a hand at the glare Dorian leveled at Vikram and tucked her hair up to put on the helmet. As soon as the rigid armor surrounded her skull, a strange presence caressed her brain.

Psi Armor, a recent addition to the Division 0 arsenal, could use the mental energy of its wearer to power a deflection field that increased its protection. Some even maintained that it could, when charged, protect against paranormal attacks. She held her arms out in front, made fists, and twisted them to examine the lay of the plates. Sized for a woman two inches taller, it was the only one available for loan on short notice.

I hope Nila won’t mind I borrowed it.

“I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for Shani and Nila.” She fixed her eyes on Dorian. “You know he’ll kill them.”

Hands on his hips, he cast a stare into the mist. “If you had just left her alone like I’d asked you to, they wouldn’t be in danger.” He softened. “But I did see a little bit of the old Nila peek out.”

Kirsten pushed off the hood. “I know. You don’t have to remind me, I’m beating myself up enough. They’re in danger because of me; that’s why I’m here now.”

Vikram jogged alongside. “Maybe it would be safer to wait until the three demonic assassins coming after me are dealt with first? It would be somewhat inconvenient if they were to ambush us in this place.”

She kept walking. “They will come when they come. The things that live out here won’t stick around if weird crap comes out of the walls. They’re as superstitious as priests.”

A half-block later, Dorian caught up to her, moving with renewed purpose in his stride. His lip curled into a determined frown, fists clenching and relaxing.

“Dorian, we’re not going in there to kill him. I don’t want you to make yourself any more appealing to a Harbinger then you already think you are. Don’t give them more of an excuse.”

His eyebrows drew close. “What exactly do you think we’re going to do to him? The only chance you have is to catch him from a blind angle without him seeing you. If you knock him senseless, he can’t tell you to shoot yourself.” He stopped. “That is, assuming of course, you can somehow get through the dozen punks he’s enthralled.”

“This really is not the best time to do this,” said Vikram, paranoid eyes to the rear.

“I have something he’ll never expect,” added Kirsten with a wink. “I have a Dorian.”

He sighed at the clouds while Vikram gesticulated out of frustration.

“No, really. You can creep through his whole place and tell me exactly where everything is when their backs are turned. They can’t see or hear you so it’s like having perfect intel. As if I had a RD-92 overhead that can see through walls.”

Dorian blinked. “I… Yeah. It seems more than one of us let their emotion get in the way.”

Vikram grumbled. “Will you two get a room?”

Rust, chemicals, and waste tangled through the air, making Kirsten regret not bringing a rebreather. She adjusted the fit of the helmet, looking around, noticing how the faint amber tint of the visor clarified the details in the environment. Any object that moved had glowing amber lines around it within a split second, attempting to identify what it was, and classify the threat level.

Kirsten held her left forearm up, reaching for a terminal pane that did not appear. She froze, staring at the faint strip of dull grey along the gloss black armor.

“It’s in the helmet on those,” said Dorian. “Glance up to the left for utilities, up to the right for combat assist, low left for comms.”

Her eyes went up and left; a menu scrolled out in front of her, appearing as a billboard six feet tall. An unconscious arm pointed at the NavMap line, but she soon figured out it tracked her eyes rather than her hands.

Theodore had mentioned city road 2044, and she plotted a route to the spot. The hotel building in question sat on the last block before the official start of the blacked out area of the navigation system, as close as the grey got.

Seems Rene isn’t as confident as I thought. Even he won’t go into the heart of 187.

She took a left turn at the next corner, gliding among old dead cars and skittering bits of paper and drywall. Curtains fluttered, drawn by the breeze through window frames decades devoid of glass. A whisper, a chatter, and a clunk of wood hitting the ground made her spin with her E-90 out. Red letters spelled out overpenetration through her field of view when she stared over the bright blue dot. The armor knew what kind of weapon she had. Nothing moved.

“You’re going to get yourself killed in here, and then I’m royally boned.” Vikram walked in front of her.

She almost shot him.

“Dammit, man.” Her arms flew down as she puffed her chest out. “Watch where the hell you’re going; this thing will hurt you, too.”

Dorian pulled him back. “Easy, pal. If you’re in so much of a hurry to handle Seneschal and his friends alone, you’re free to wander off at your leisure.”

Vikram tugged his arm out of the grip, grumbling.

Infuriated, she stomped along the floating green line leading her closer to her programmed destination. Around a corner to the right, she took about ten steps before a pile of debris against the wall exploded into the air. She whirled, aiming at the spot. A man, a touch over seven feet tall, roared with a wild-eyed cry. Except for his head, the entirety of his body sparkled chrome; metal limbs and torso sculpted in the image of bulging muscles. Exposed Myofiber bundles swelled and moved, lending the appearance of a skinless man carved from silver. Thin lines separated plastisteel panels on the smooth parts, and faint grey light glowed from between a few that damage knocked askew.

The skin of his head turned red as he emerged from his bed of piled junk. His eyeballs all but popped out of his skull as he stared at her.

“Pussy time!”

Kirsten set her stance, raising the gun. “You don’t even look like you’ve got the equipment for that anymore. Get lost.”

Saliva slipped through steel teeth as his lips twisted with dark merriment. “Nice little pop gun you got, chica. Won’t scratch this.” He tapped his metal chest twice before long strips of forearm split open and folded inward. From within the gaps, four razor-thin blades slid out and locked through grooves along the back of his fingers. Taser-like sparks crawled down their length, snapping off the end with a flash. As if it were paper, the augmented arm pushed the blades through the steel wall of a dumpster. Kirsten did a good enough job hiding her terror; he bellowed at her lack of reaction.

She took a step back.

This thing has a mind… almost.

“Why don’t you put those claws away.”

He shuddered, his body twitched.

“Just shoot him,” said Vikram. “The man’s obviously out of his mind. You’ll be doing him a mercy.”

“Aaaaaagh!” The silver behemoth screamed, as one by one the blades came loose from the finger locks and vanished back into their protective doors. “I’m gonna twist your freak head off!”

The aug lunged forward one step before she shot him in the chest. The beam hesitated on the polished plastisteel for a fraction of a second before it burned all the way through him. Hand clamped over the glowing hole, he stumbled to one knee. A few seconds passed in silence; her little “pop gun” was not the ballistic nuisance he expected. Roaring, he staggered his way standing. Kirsten fired again, her second shot split off the chromed chest, smoking a trace through the traction coating between Dorian and Vikram.

They both leapt to the side, yelling.

“Narrow your angle,” shouted Dorian.

Vikram gestured at the cyborg. “Shoot him in the damn face.”

“Stop,” she ordered, light dancing through her eyes.

Quaking to a halt, the enormous man’s anger turned his face darker. So angry he cried, his fingers fluttered in pantomime strangulation as his body protested whatever compulsion kept him from getting his hands around her throat.

The glow in her eyes lingered brighter for a few seconds. “You’re going to surrender at the perimeter, now.”

Agony roared into the sky as he clenched his hands to his head, the entire shining body warped and convulsed in his effort to resist. Plodding, step by step, he trudged back the way they entered from.

“They’re just going to shoot him, you know.” Dorian stood next to her. “As soon as they see that thing come around the corner, they’re going to light him up with the 30 millimeter.”

“That might be interesting to watch,” said Vikram, wandering off to follow.

“So what, you want me to kill him instead?” She gawked.

“You could mind blast him a little bit, leave him loopy.” Dorian tapped his head. “Of course, who knows how much damage he’ll do to other innocent people?”

Kirsten walked backwards for several paces until she was sure he would not break the psionic coercion and come running. As soon as she faced forward, she moved up to a jog. “I had him under control with suggestion. You know I can’t just execute someone. If he comes after me again I’ll shoot him.”

“What about Rene?”

She smirked. “I can resist him; I have a rating in suggestion.”

“Don’t kid yourself. That’s his primary focus, like you and astral sense. Compared to him, you dabble.”

“Now’s not the time to undermine my confidence.” She stopped to give him a mournful glare.

“I’m just being realistic. Too much confidence is as bad as none.”

Kirsten offered an apologetic stare.

Whatever Dorian said next was lost to the distant thunder of a heavy automatic cannon and a rumbling series of explosions.

“Guess he didn’t hold his hands up.” Dorian faced to the rear.

About a dozen gangers filtered out of the buildings up ahead, coming to check out the noise. In the middle of the street, Kirsten’s police armor stood out like a “kick me” sign… a ten-foot-tall, bright pink neon kill me sign.

“Oh, shit.”

Kirsten sprinted to the side and dove to the ground on her chest below a light drizzle of bullets. Her sleek, armored body skittered over the traction coating without friction and she went headfirst into the side of a rusting car. Gathering her legs under herself, she leaned into the old metal hulk. The visor heads-up display drew amber ghosts, approximate outlines of men moving to cover on the other side.

She popped up, holding her E-90 in both hands, and shot one right through the chest. A spritz of red vapor burped out around the bright azure line, front and back; he dropped in place. Kirsten ducked down as the others returned fire; one slug burst through the quarter panel and bounced off her thigh.

“Ow, fuck.” She rubbed the spot.

“If you get winged again, hand me the stun rod,” joked Dorian.

Vikram appeared around the corner, still laughing from the sight of the cyborg’s encounter with a Division 5 assault vehicle. At the sight of Kirsten hiding behind the car, he sauntered up to her.

“Natives seem restless, kiddo.”

“Who’re you calling kiddo? You’re only twenty-five.” She glared at him.

Spotting an opening via the holographic apparitions, she jumped up and aimed over the roof. Two quick shots at two reloading gangers; one caught it in the face and died on his feet, the other had a three-inch trench cored through his right bicep. A slug hit her in the left breast. She fell like a sack of wheat, crumpling to the ground.

Dorian raised both eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear that much before.”

Wet eyes turned red around the edges. One hand and an E-90 cradled her chest. “Feels like a cyborg punched me in the tit. Figures he hit the same side the wraith got.” She grunted, forcing herself to sit up. “Think you could help out a little?”

Seriousness returned to his face, he nodded once and walked through the car. The endless peppering of bullets into the husk slowed as one by one, as he drained their weapons’ power cells. Kirsten’s sigh of relief came short lived as a screaming idiot with a pair of blades leapt the car. He landed a few feet past her and whirled.

Vikram stepped toward him, surrounded by a wisp of ethereal vapor. The ganger’s bloodlust melted away to panic as he gaped at the apparition grinning at him. As he turned to flee, Vikram lunged. Blind with induced panic, the man in the Sons of Charon jacket sprinted into the debris-strewn street. Three steps later, Vikram herded him into a tangled mass of concrete and rebar.

Kirsten turned away from the sight of six steel rods lifting the painted grim reaper away from the now-dead man’s back. Blood saturated his camouflage pants as the body jerked about, twitching and gurgling before going still.

The aura of energy around Vikram disappeared, and with it, so did his reflection in a nearby window. He clapped his hands as if wiping off dirt.

“Got one.”

“What the fuck is wrong with my guns?” A voice echoed, on the edge of inebriation.

Kirsten stared at Vikram. He didn’t think anything of killing that man. No hesitation at all.

“Vik, I know you’re dead and all but… If you just kill people, they will come after you.”

He waved her off. “Defense of an innocent girl.”

He enjoyed that too much.

“Lousy piece of shit.” A gun clattered to the ground. A blade scraped out of a sheath.

Kirsten popped up, firing at random through the approaching gangers. All but two broke and ran. They’re killers. They want to kill me.

A scintillating stripe of azure light connected the tip of her pistol to another man’s chest. A split second later, the beam burst out of his back. His cheek squealed to a halt on the plastisteel ground, dead before he could scream. She jumped away from loud crumpling metal as the second man leapt onto the car. Her boot found something that shot out from under her and rolled away with a metallic ringing, causing her to flail her arms to the side to keep balance. With her aim ruined, the man tore a shortened rifle with a pipe-thick barrel over his shoulder. Kirsten’s mind flared with the desire for protection. The armor responded; the dull grey strips lit up violet, surrounding her with an amethyst field of energy just at the edge of being visible.

Boom.

The impact to her chest smashed her flat, sending her into a sliding rearward spin. Her brain felt the hit as much as her chest did, the mental exertion similar to that of using mind blast. Laughing, the Son of Charon flipped the breech-loaded weapon open and slipped in another round the size of a hen’s egg. As he went to jump to the ground, Vikram swiped at his foot. He went over forward. Vikram palmed his skull and flung him down, ensuring his neck broke upon impact.

Kirsten sat up, pounding a fist into her chest in an effort to get air back into her lungs. Concentration waned, the luminous violet stripes faded. Dorian ran over, brushing a hundred flechettes from her.

She blinked. “You moved something.”

He offered a mirthful wink. “They don’t weigh much.”

Kirsten let gravity pull her flat on her back, taking a few breaths before struggling to stand and putting a hand over her helmet. “Yeah, I’m fine. Little woozy, not used to this armor. It’s kind of tiring.”

Dorian locked eyes with her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. It’s just another block over.” Her voice fell to a whisper; she squinted at Vikram. “Watch him.”

irsten crawled through the rear door of an old white van, abandoned with two tires on the curb and the nose wrapped around a pole. The windshield had enough grime to offer a decent bit of cover from the people milling around in front of the hotel three buildings down the street. They circled a nonfunctioning fountain in the center of a courtyard of black tiles with bronze lines inlaid in diamond patterns around it. Across the main archway, the shadow of letters spelling “Echelon Guest Suites” remained, drawn in less advanced corrosion compared to the rest of the surface. It was anyone’s guess how long ago the locals shot the letters off the wall.

“The bastard even squats first class,” grumbled Dorian. “Wait here; I’ll go check it out.”

She opened her mouth.

“No arguments.” He held a finger up. “This is your idea; you suggested I scout, I am going to scout. I want you to stay right here, hide in the van, and be alive when I come back.”

She closed her mouth.

“Good, now that we have an understanding…” Dorian slid through the wall, moving at a brisk walk past the courtyard defenders.

Vikram chuckled through fingers over his mouth. “Don’t you outrank him?”

“Stuff it.” She leaned back, straddling the console. “That doesn’t mean he’s not right. Maybe this was a stupid idea, entering this sector alone.” What’s that old joke about sergeants and lieutenants… If I even live long enough to get promoted to lieutenant.

“I thought the other cops by the perimeter were about to drag you out of here.”

“Heh.” She pulled her helmet off to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “If I wasn’t a Zero, they probably would have. Guess for once it’s good people are afraid to get too close.”

“You are too soft.” Vikram paced about the small area. “You let things get to you too easily. You suffer guilt about killing someone that wants to kill you. It would seem to me that is a detriment to your chosen line of work.”

Kirsten crossed her arms over the helmet in her lap. “The line of work chose me, I didn’t―”

Vikram vanished, yanked by a hand through the street-facing wall.

“Shit.”

She scrambled to the back of the van, trying to get her helmet on with one hand. Crunching through the debris-packed space, she shoved harder than necessary at the door and fell amid a trash-fall, landing on all fours in the street.

A wail drew her eyes to Vikram, hauled around by Icarus’s two-fisted grip of his collar. Dreadlocks trailed in a graceful arc as he flipped the dead hacker over and drilled him into the ground. Kirsten sat up, still kneeling, and shoved her hands forward. Icarus flew into the air as if hit by a speeding car, tumbling to the ground in a series of sideways rolls until he came to a halt on his chest.

Vikram turned into a cloud of mist, which reformed standing. He sprinted at Kirsten, screaming once again as Icarus pulled a compact assault rifle out of thin air and fired. She flung herself to the left, against the van’s rear bumper. The hit lifted Vikram off his feet. Seven shots hit him in the back; so rapid they sounded like a burst.

Holes remained in Vikram’s essence as he skidded to a halt by Kirsten. Vapor wafted from his moaning body. Ducking around the flapping door, she squeezed off several pulses from the E-90, which chased Icarus behind a broken bit of wall.

Vikram gagged, as if coughing on blood, crawling under the van while Kirsten’s attention was on Icarus. She charged the armor once more, and rushed out from cover surrounded by the reassuring glow. With her gun trained on the spot she last saw him, she jogged across the street, leapt a fallen vendomat, and came to a halt just short of the gap. Kirsten pressed her back to grime-covered concrete panels. A deep echo rumbled ominous through the opening. She peeked, spotting a row of cars long ago crushed by a falling ceiling support.

I don’t have the best luck with parking garages.

Icarus reached through the wall, clamping a hand over the front of her helmet. He jerked her skull back against the hard surface, pinning her to the wall by her head. A twist pulled the helmet to the right, exposing her neck. Her E-90 hit the ground as the lash draped out of her hand, just as his other arm came through the wall. The tip of a combat knife stalled on the mental field around the armor; pushing fatigue through her mind.

She flicked the glittering tendril behind her, into the concrete. His hands receded into the building, and she stumbled away from the wall. Rolling to her right, she leapt the guardrail and fell a few feet over the side of the ramp to the ground inside, chasing into the dark after him. The intensity of the lash plunged the collapsed garage into a forest of harsh shadows as she swung it overhead. The energy whip unrolled forward; her right boot hit the ground as Icarus leaned just enough to evade it.

Searing light strengthened the shadows over his face and chest. Overextended, she lurched past him, and he spun into an elbow strike that caught her between the shoulders. Two ungainly steps later, she hugged a crumbling pylon. Before she could inhale again, two loud gunshots, and two heavy impacts struck her in the back.

Each one walloped her in the brain; the purple stripes on the psi armor pulsated. Kirsten was unsure if he made physical projectiles or attacked with mental energy trying to trick her body into hurting itself. Either way, it felt like a battering ram. A spritz of saliva hit the inside of the visor as the second shot rid her lungs of what little air remained after the elbow.

Her boots slipped out to the rear as she clung to the pole and slid flat to the ground, arms bent upward, empty hands curled by her shoulders. Icarus shook his head, the thick mass of his ropey hair swaying as he walked up to her limp body.

Icarus sighted down his arm, pointing a massive handgun at her helmet. “I told you, lady, stay out of it.”

Kirsten flipped over, sweeping the lash sideways through his shins. The strike pulled his feet out from under him. Continuing the momentum, she leapt up and brought the lash over her head again. He rolled out of the way, trying to crawl to the side, but caught her third swipe across the back.

“You don’t belong here,” she screamed.

Shani’s face flashed in her mind, loading the energy stream with enough force to blast Icarus into a projectile. The former commando slapped into the ground, knocking objects around for only the first few feet of his slide before becoming immaterial. A second after coming to a halt, Icarus sat up, firing at her as she stalked him.

Kirsten leapt as soon as he moved; the shot clanked into a lamp somewhere behind her as she somersaulted behind a wall that reeked of piss. Vikram appeared at the gap thirty yards back, drawing a quick shot from Icarus. She took advantage of the distraction, flinging herself into a two-stride lunge at him. Icarus spun; his gun fell from his grip and vanished as he caught her about the wrists. His left arm extended, holding the lash away as they rolled over each other. She growled; he remained silent.

She squirmed, trying to make the lash flick into him. Her arms went wherever his strength dictated, and an attempt to slam him in the groin reinforced the concept of hard concrete being a painful thing to drive a knee into. Icarus twisted over on top of her, pinning her arms to the ground on either side of her head. Helpless, with him on top of her, a new form of terror clawed at her heart at the implication of what their pose resembled. Without a free hand to go for a weapon, he met her gaze, peering through the amber visor into bright sapphire eyes.

Four seconds of still silence, gazes locked.

Whimpering futile struggles became growling convulsions. Fear became anger.

I’m being stupid again.

Rather than attempt an impossible contest of physical strength, she shoved with her gift. His semi-solid body shuddered; if not for the tactical suit, his fingers might have crushed the bones in her wrists. Her mind pushed so hard it hurt, and his weight on her hips lessened. Icarus had a lot of power for such a recent death; but he was also not a ghost.

In a gradual turning of the tide, she got her fear under control and replaced it with focus. Icarus leaned away, losing a contest where she had a mild advantage. He continued to hold her arms, pulling her into a sitting position as she forced him away. Almost nose to nose, her confidence met his confusion.

Vikram, wailing, sprinted in as best he could with a hand over a new bullet wound in his side. He leapt on Icarus’s back, dragging him away from Kirsten and sending them both gliding through the back end of destroyed old cars. She sagged forward, panting. Her head spun, the room shifted, and for a few seconds, she forgot where she was.

The sound of a scuffle shocked her back to rights. Icarus had Vikram by a fistful of hair, pulling him into a backward arch and raising a knife with his other hand.

“Icarus!”

His head snapped at her just as the lash burrowed into his chest. Vikram slipped away, falling, scampering off in a crawl. She lit into Icarus with a second lash, causing a deafening quasi-spectral roar that blew out any remaining car windows within a hundred yards. Intense red light shone from his eye sockets and mouth; the energy vibrating in the air reminded her of when she obliterated the Wharf Stalker. Instinct and memory combined to make her leap behind a pylon, hoping it would spare her the loss of two days.

Seconds passed.

“What the hell are you doing? Finish him!” demanded Vikram, sounding every bit as hurt as he looked.

Kirsten peeked out from behind cover, finding Icarus on his knees with a hand pressed into his stomach. At the sight of her, he raised a hand.

“Wait.”

Vikram pointed. “It’s a trick, kill him.”

“I know who you are.” The red light faded, leaving his eyes brown again, now sad. “I had no right to strike you; it was not my place.” Icarus bent forward, arms limp in his lap.

“He is stalling. Whip him.” Vikram gestured as if using a lash. “Do it!”

Kirsten edged a step closer, glimmering tendril coiling about her legs at the ready. “What do you mean, you know who I am?”

“I was sent where I belong.” His voice, silken and deep, reverberated through the abandoned place. “Call the ones who gather the hateful. Do so, I will not offer resistance.”

“No. Don’t believe him. He’s trying to fool you.”

She held a hand at Vikram. “You want me to call Harbingers? You think I can?”

Icarus lifted his head in a slow, nonthreatening way. Meditative acceptance in his eyes seemed genuine. “I know you can. You are the one, you were right. I do not belong here.”

“What one?” She wanted to trust his face, wanted to believe the sorrow in his stare. “I will call them, but tell me what you mean first.”

Vikram howled, flinging himself on Icarus with the fury of an injured wombat. The two men grappled; the drain of being lashed left him open to Vikram’s furious clawing onslaught. Strips of red light peeked through jagged claw rents as Icarus’s armor split open.

Obliteration cometh.

She glared. “Vikram, stop.”

The suggestion had no effect on a spirit. She brought the lash out, waving it.

“Vikram, so help me, do not destroy him. He is repentant.”

“He lies,” wailed the hacker. “If you will not do this, then I must.”

Icarus clutched at Vikram’s shirt, trying to peel him off, but was too weak. He gurgled. Vikram leaned back, clawed hands in the air.

The lash snapped through Vikram’s essence, sending a billowing blast of energy vapor from the point of contact. The stroke knocked him away, and she stomped after him.

“What’s wrong with you? If the Harbingers take him, he won’t be a threat to you anymore. There’s no need to murder him.”

Vikram moved in a sidelong circle, arm through his battered and smoking chest. Scuttling in the gait of a crab, he fixed her with a dark glower. “Just like you’re going for Rene, I want revenge.”

He blurred into a smear of color, glowing yellow eyes and claws flashing at her. Kirsten cringed; bringing the lash up to defend―but felt no impact. When she turned, he was gone.

So was Icarus.

“Dammit.”

The garage, aside from her, echoed empty.

irsten sat on the rear bumper of the van. Bracing her sore knee, she watched slow drifting forms in the smog above change shape. Stillness settled over the desolation; even the wind decided to abandon this place. With every breath, her breast ached; tiny scratches on the armor the only evidence of a bullet’s touch. The words of Icarus drifted through her thoughts; she wanted―no needed―to know what he meant by her being the one.

Damn, Vikram. What was he going to tell me before you chased him off like an idiot? Was he sincere, or was I being lured into another trap? Why am I so gullible?

The scuff of a boot on the footpath made her head pop up out of her hands. She drew her legs into the van, hooking a finger through the peeling inner lining of the door to pull it closer.

“Fuck you, Noz.” The voice of a woman came from the right. “Why’d you have to give me this shit? You know I don’t wanna do this shit no more.”

Huddled against the door, she peered up through the absent glass as a woman with bright lime hair stumbled along. Huge compared to its wearer, a Sons of Charon jacket fit her like a whorishly short dress. A compact sub-gun dangled on a strap over the image of the robe-clad skeleton. Loose grey pants wobbled as if heavy, small objects filled the thigh pockets.

Kirsten noted them. Ammo, maybe drugs, maybe grenades.

“Noz. Fuckin’ Noz.” The woman swayed back and forth like a little girl singing a children’s song. “Give Leaf drugs, Frenchman’s gonna be pissed at you. Leaf wants to quit.”

In the woman’s opening hand, a mass of black crumbles. Rainbows gleamed on the surface, giving it the appearance of coal glass fragments.

Nightcandy. Kirsten cringed. Poor thing, that’s nasty shit. Hard to kick.

I won’t tell the Frenchman if you won’t. Kirsten sent her thoughts into the woman’s head.

Fist clamped closed over the drug. Arms to the sides, she went wide-eyed and looked at the sky. “God?” She cackled. “I always knew you were a girl, too!” The green-haired waif spun in a giggling circle, as if trying to will herself to fly.

Kirsten let her forehead hit the door. What the hell is she doing here… never mind, I can guess what they use her for.

The girl named Leaf stopped spinning, taking a step farther away and asked the clouds why they stopped talking to her. Kirsten slipped out from the van, stunrod in hand, and tiptoed up behind her. Chances were good even the silver cyborg from before could have snuck up on this one. Kirsten tapped her upon the head like a faerie with a magic wand. The stunrod flickered; Leaf fluttered to the ground.

The rod back on her belt, she dragged the unconscious girl to the van and removed the weapon and jacket before cuffing her hands behind her. After tossing the Nightcandy into the junk pile, Kirsten removed her helmet and set it to the side. She pulled the doors closed, straddled the unconscious woman, and brushed neon green hair away from a grime-streaked face.

“You poor thing.”

Kirsten forced the young woman’s eyes open with her thumbs and dove into her mind. Rene had etched his thralldom onto her neural pathways. Unlike Nila and her daughter, the effect on Leaf was closer to the surface. Direct and immediate, it was similar to the suggestions Kirsten could use; only hers lasted for a few minutes while Rene’s were closer to permanent. It was a technique she did not know―and did not much want to learn.

What he did to Leaf was more obvious, simpler, and easier to remove. Once satisfied the girl was no longer a loyal drone soldier of a rogue psionic, she decided to try a deep telepathic dive. The pathway to inner thoughts felt as if she slid naked through a plastic tube full of warm jelly. Kirsten shivered; she had never tried to go deeper into someone’s memory than surface thoughts before. Rumor claimed the task easier on an unconscious person, and she had time to kill waiting for Dorian, unanswered questions, and a test subject.

Images drifted out of the blackness. Drugs of various kinds, a desperate want to be free of them, but a fate that kept her sliding back into their skeletal embrace. This girl was somewhat better off than Rush; she let the Sons take her under their decrepit wing for personal use rather than sell herself as private enterprise. Why are you in this sector? Her voice echoed whispers into the unconscious mind. Scenes rebounded as if the words had bounced away from a wall and come back as pictures.

Perfect white teeth smiled from the well-groomed face of a man in an expensive suit.

Black.

The same man appeared on top of her, slapping and screaming.

“Failure…” Whack. “…amount to anything…” Whack. “…good thing your mother’s dead.”

“Daddy, no.” Leaf’s voice begged in the dark.

The same man crushing down on top of her, then pain, amid fumes of alcohol.

Black.

The image of him asleep, face aglow in the dim orange light of a comforgel pad. A female silhouette appeared in a stretched rectangle of light spreading across the floor.

Gunshots.

Relief mixed with horror.

Kirsten recoiled; warm tears streamed over her cheeks even though she did not want to cry. Hands grasped rotting carpet on either side of Leaf’s head as she sagged forward. Eyes closed, she drew labored breaths trying to get those images―those feelings―out of her mind.

Lips met hers. Kirsten’s eyes snapped open, her startled yelp muffled by a tongue. Leaf was kissing her. Kirsten froze, paralyzed for an instant by the sheer startlement of it, as well as the repulsive flavor of whatever this girl last ate.

“Gah!” Kirsten sat up, pushing the woman down by the shoulders and spat to the side. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Sorry, Leaf thought we were making out.”

The ache of the stunrod waned, the sense of handcuffs entered her mind, and the sight of black police armor slapped her with terrifying reality. Kirsten barely got her hand over the girl’s mouth before she could scream.

“Quiet.” Kirsten fought to hold her down for a full minute before she slouched with defeat. “Quiet,” she commanded.

Leaf went limp.

“Good.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Listen to me, Leaf. I’m not here to hurt you, I’m not here to arrest you; I want the Frenchman. I’m going to get off of you now, can you stay calm?”

Leaf nodded.

Kirsten climbed away, taking a seat closer to the doors. Leaf struggled in an attempt to sit up until Kirsten grabbed her dingy excuse for a shirt and pulled her seated; after which, she shrank into a ball against the side of the van.

Silence occupied the air for a moment. Kirsten rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Rene got into your head and forced you to serve him. I cleaned it out. I also saw what your father did to you.” Her arm fell away from her face, hanging limp over her knee. “…and what you did to him.”

Leaf almost vomited.

“I’d have shot him, too.” Liar, you’d have run away. Maybe they will understand. Even creatures like Harbingers could forgive her that one; they damn well better. “Honestly I don’t know how much Division 1 knows; I won’t say anything unless I get called in front of an inquest.” Kirsten summoned a weak smile. “Don’t worry, brain spelunking psionics aren’t admissible; you’re safe.”

Leaf wheezed, her lips doing an impression of a fish as she tried to talk. Kirsten removed the compulsion to be quiet.

“Are you God? You spoke to Leaf out of the sky.”

No, I’m just psionic.

She shivered as the voice entered her thoughts. “Oh.” Leaf sank, dejected.

“What’s your real name? I’m Kirsten.”

“Jennifer Ruiz, but people call Leaf, Leaf ̓cause of green hair.” The dangerously thin girl shook her head, making her lime-hued locks dance around.

“Are you eighteen yet? Do you have any family left you can trust?”

“Eighteen inna couple months. Grandma on my mom’s side, but she won’t want Leaf. Leaf can’t stay clean. Leaf steals and Leaf buys bad things.”

Kirsten flashed a tiny portable light in her eyes, pulling them open one by one. “You said you’re not quite eighteen yet; that means you’re still a minor, and the government will pay for the detox.”

“Yeah, and put Leaf’s ass in jail for killin’ the dad.”

“There is a very good chance it will be considered justifiable considering your circumstances. Besides, that was two years ago; they will treat you as a minor. You don’t like where you are, you want off the shit, and you don’t want to die before twenty, do you?”

Leaf stared at the floor.

“Did you kill anyone when you were with the Sons?”

She shrugged. “Leaf no remember. Got into some scrap-ups with the Zoners and the Diablos a couple of times. Leaf mighta shot some of them.” The girl bit her lower lip. “Leaf close eyes to shoot.”

“Who’s Noz?”

“One of the Sons. He’s got people inside Realtown, can get candy and other stuff. Leaf told him don’t want no more, but he just gave it.” She looked away at the ground, mewling. “Noz knows Leaf can’t stop. Leaf doesn’t like Noz.”

Dorian’s taking too long.

“Okay, Jen. I’m going to go deal with Frenchie. If you’re still here when I come back, I’ll take you with me back to… umm, Realtown and do as much as I can to make them go easy on you. I know I’m a cop and you don’t think I give a shit, but you don’t deserve this life. I’ve seen too many girls like you wind up as ghosts. I don’t want to see another one.”

Kirsten took the purloined jacket and shrugged it on over her armor; shuddering at all the fleas and creepy-crawlies she imagined permeating it. Adding the sub-gun to her outfit, she slipped through the doors.

“Hey.” Leaf scooted forward, tugging at the binders. “Leaf don’t want tied. If finded, Leaf is fucked, for realz.”

With a hand on the door, Kirsten stared at the pathetic creature in the van, aghast at the damage the drugs did to her. She wanted to keep her there, secured, but knew the girl was right―in a literal sense. A few beeps later, the electronic restraints popped open and went back on Kirsten’s belt. Leaf reached for one of the jacket pockets; Kirsten caught her hands.

“Look, I know this seems like a shitty choice between getting killed out here or possible jail time. If it were me, I’d take the nice clean cell and free food and be happy the bastard got what he deserved.”

I could compel her to wait… I’d be no better than Rene.

Kirsten backed out of the van, the last seconds of her pleading look blocked by the doors she tugged closed after snagging the helmet. Undoing the clip, she fluffed her hair into a curtain of wild blonde with both hands. Kirsten tucked the helmet behind her back, put one hand on the hanging submachine gun, and did her best mimic of Leaf’s strung out stagger.

The men hanging out around the courtyard did not pay too much attention to her as she walked into view. She ducked into a narrow alley just left of the hotel before anyone noticed the gloss black armor on her legs.

“What’cha got there?”

The man’s voice behind her made her spin; her reply came as a squeak. Just past an enclosed conduit, hidden from sight from one side, a large bald man with a heavy beard leaned. Immense arms crossed his chest; his Sons of Charon jacket creaked in protest.

“Huh?”

He pointed at the helmet. “Fancy.”

“Oh…” Scared me shitless, maybe I sounded high to him. “Found it by a dead cop.”

“Careful, they got trackers in ̓em.”

She belted a nervous giggle. “Yeah, right. Cops’ll come in here, bullshit.”

The giant laughed his face red and his eyes into thin wrinkles. She had not noticed his rifle until his joviality tapped it against the wall.

“Hey, grab me a cold one, kid.”

“Uhh, sure.”

Surface thoughts surprised her with his motivation. He did not just ask the girl to fetch him a beer as a sign of a female being subservient; gang code kept him from leaving his watch station. Wow, these guys are organized more than I thought. She lifted an idea of how to go about getting inside out of his thoughts before walking off through the stacks of junk in the crammed alley. Piles of ancient terminals, almost a hundred years old, melted into various discolored stains that crept through shades of white and green on the metal ground.

Holy crap, they don’t even have M3 sockets. How can they just let this place rot so long?

The dull brown door matched the sentry’s thoughts; the man on the other side, however, did not. With a grin, he yanked her by the collar through the opening, back against the wall, and forced his tongue into her mouth.

She tasted his last shot of street whiskey and gagged. As she shoved him back, he grabbed her breasts through the jacket and froze.

“Hey, what the shit? You got some hard-ass titties.” He squeezed, then knocked. “Fuck, daz armor.”

“Yes it is”―she grabbed the handle at her side―“and this is a stunrod, asshole.”

“Wha―”

Bwong.

The eerie electrical chime came as the blue glowing tip cracked him across the side of the head. She could not help herself but clock him with it. The brief contact with the element only staggered him, and he fell backwards scratching at the wall for a handhold. Kirsten pounced, thrusting the tip into his chest. Sparks lapped at his T-shirt as his hands clawed at the air. He gurgled and convulsed. Eyes rolled into his skull, lit blue, and he went still.

She spat, twice, trying to get the taste out of her mouth. The helmet went back on and she shrugged out of the jacket. More to keep it from being pointed at her, she kept Leaf’s weapon. Having armor gave her more confidence dealing with mortals, even if it was uncomfortable, heavy, and pinched in all the wrong places. Kirsten never thought of herself as having much in the way of a chest, but Nila had even less. If she got a suit that fit, perhaps she could grow to like it.

Wonderful technology in the helmet came back online just in time to point out two figures on the other side of the wall. One man and one woman leaned on either side of the doorway she needed to use. They had full size assault rifles and each held a beer. Based on the way they moved, she assumed they were in the midst of a quasi-flirtatious conversation.

I’d rather not kill them, SOC or not… They’re compelled.

Kirsten eased the E-90 out of the holster and raised it until the luminous cobalt-blue dot appeared in the center of the glowing circle, lined up over the woman’s rifle. If the sensor can go through this wall… She aimed at the midpoint and fired. The rifle fell in two; its amber outline shimmered away. No longer a recognizable shape, the helmet electronics lost it amid background clutter.

“What the fuck was that?” shouted the man.

The woman’s holographic image spun and looked down. “Fuckin’ thing just exploded.”

Too brief, they didn’t see the laser. Kirsten’s smile grew wider as the man backed away from his weapon, expecting the same thing.

She did not disappoint him.

Unfortunately, that time they both saw the streak of blue and came running. The woman rounded through the door first, knocking it straight off its hinges. Hate burned out of her eyes as she pulled a blade from her thigh. Her companion followed close behind, without a weapon aside from his size and temper. She chose him. The mind blast peeled away from her brain with the same sort of spine-wiggling discomfort that comes with stepping barefoot in cold cat puke.

For a brief instant as her thoughts collided with his, her mind stuttered. Snippets of his recent past flashed by as his brain came to an abrupt halt in an effort to make sense of the overwhelming mass of information she pounded into it. His charge became a stumble, which became standing and drooling. The woman, shrieking, dove at her.

Kirsten got the stunrod under the incoming weapon, getting a good close view of the C39 UCF Marine Corps boarding-party personal defense blade. Yellow light from Kirsten’s helmet glistened in the sweat over her attacker’s dark skin. She surged forward, her scream silencing as all effort went into her arms. One foot to the rear in an effort not to lose balance became three steps and her back slamming into the wall.

Is everyone stronger than me? Kirsten grunted, twisting. Well I was starved for the first ten years of my life; protein bars can only go so far. She strained against the larger woman, getting nowhere other than pushed closer to the floor as the snarling ganger crushed into her. Desperate for a distraction, Kirsten navigated the helmet interface with eye motions, going for the searchlights. Nose to visor, the unexpected helmet-side lights blinded the large woman and let Kirsten direct the gladius away. It sunk seven inches into the wall.

Bulging eyes never parted from Kirsten as the woman tugged at the stuck sword.

“Stop.” Kirsten leaned on the wall. “Kneel.”

Her brain reverberated with a brief shock, a membrane pierced, as the potency of a short-term suggestion overwhelmed Rene’s lingering thralldom. Kirsten did not have the time, nor the energy left to deprogram them right now.

“I’m sorry.”

A light tap of the stunrod to the side of the head knocked the woman out before she did the same for the still dazed and drooling man. Dorian came through the wall as she searched around for a gap in the armor to dose herself with a stimpak for a burst of energy.

“There you are.” He tromped over, circling her. “You hurt? What’s with the girl in the van?”

Kirsten explained, euphoric for a moment as the stim beneath the jaw lessened her fatigue. “You find anything?”

“He’s on the thirty-sixth floor, and the stairway has a couple of IR mines in it.”

She tapped the visor. “No problem.”

orian led the way up the stairs, pointing out the presence of a half-dozen detonators. Each sprouted a gleaming invisible line of infrared light. Lamps that failed a century ago had littered the concrete stairway with a minefield of glass shards. Autoinjectors and spent narcotic derm patches gathered in clusters of dust strewn with paw prints.

“I feel bad for these cats.”

“Those are rat tracks.” Dorian chuckled.

She drew in a breath, tensing.

“Really? After hanging off the side of Intera tower, taking a nosedive out of an exploding parking deck, a large rat scares you?”

“They’re icky.” She pouted like a nine-year-old, and then laughed.

“Shh. There are men around the next corner.”

Serious face. The gun came out as she edged toward the end of the section of steps. At the top, she whirled around the corner and aimed at four men in Sons of Charon jackets, standing amid a thick haze of yellow vapor from narcotic inhalers. The air reeked of Flowerbasket.

“Nobody move.”

A little over ten seconds after she appeared, the first one reacted to her, and blinked.

“Zat a cop?”

The other three looked.

“Naw, man, you’re seein shit,” said a skeleton wrapped in skin and hair.

“I see it, too,” added another.

“Wait, you’re right.” Skeleton reached for a gun.

“Don’t do it.” She aimed at him.

Dorian sauntered through them, drawing the power out of their guns. Kirsten relaxed.

As casual as if on a firing range, the four men pulled weapons and pointed them at her.

“There’s four of us and one of you. Tell ya what.” The pudgy one shifted towards her. “Bend over and we’ll let you outta here.”

“I don’t think so.” She smirked. “Might want to look behind you.”

All four turned, squinting at the empty hallway.

White vapor rippled up Dorian’s legs, surrounding him as he forced his essence into the material world. For a few seconds, he took on the appearance of what was slumped in the driver seat of his car that awful day.

Even expecting something drastic, Kirsten shied away from the sight and choked back tears. The pudgy one fainted, the other three barreled past her, screaming as they hurried down the stairs. When Kirsten risked a peek, Dorian had gone back to normal, wearing an apologetic frown.

Her pathetic face of pity caused him to turn away.

“I made it look worse than it was. Don’t give me that look.” He took a step. “Come on, it’s just down this hallway.”

Dead lights jutted out from the wall every twenty feet on curved bronze rods carved to resemble plants. Stains of every imaginable shade of brown spread over the walls, accompanied by the cloying stink of rotting food. The fading maroon carpet muted the sound of her steps as she edged along the left wall, both hands on the E-90.

“You almost look like a cop today.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m doing normal cop stuff today,” she whispered. “Going after a living man. Dorian, please try to make sure he stays that way.”

His face flared with anger. “You sure care a lot about the bastard that killed me. Never did understand how people get so wound up about the rights of murderers and how much they suffer. They didn’t give a rat’s ass for the rights or feelings of the people they killed.”

“You’re wrong.” Kirsten leaned into his accusing glare. “I care about you. I don’t want you to lose your… I don’t want to lose you to the Harbingers. People get wound up about that because if we don’t, we’re no better than they are. What’s that saying? Eye for an eye and everyone goes blind?”

Dorian turned on his heel, stomping to the only closed door in their section of hallway. “Need I remind you I am already lost? You’re still alive, stop agonizing over what can never happen.”

“Fine then. I want him to get mind-wiped by Ashford and spend the rest of his life sucking his thumb trying to remember what conscious control over shitting was like. I want him to forget what being psionic is.”

“I can live with that.” Frustration seethed out through his teeth at the look she gave him. “You know what I mean.”

Three tactical steps put her at the doorjamb. She nodded once. Dorian walked through.

“I think he just got done having sex. You got a noncombatant on the right side, about twenty yards from the door on a bed. Based on the way she’s staring at him, he’s programmed her to worship him. Other than the woman, he’s alone. There’s a small entertainment room in the front just inside the door; the bedroom is beyond. Balcony on the left side, windows are op… gone.”

Kirsten took three heavy breaths and turned to face the door. The kick stalled when Dorian’s face came through the fake wood.

“Please don’t hesitate. Don’t try to butt heads with his power; if you feel him try anything―just shoot him.”

She stared at the warped reflection of her face along the barrel of her sidearm. The little metal prong she always ignored gleamed. With an expression like a kid at Christmas finding one more present, she pulled a length of microfilament wire out of the handle and tugged it out to about four feet. A few seconds of fumbling around the side of the helmet found the plug, and soon she had a tiny window showing her wherever the gun pointed.

“That’s perfect.” He hugged through her. “No line of sight and―”

“No suggestion,” she finished.

Her boot shattered the door open, flinging it through Dorian as she charged in.

“Rene Bollard! Police! On the ground. Don’t move, don’t speak!”

She shouldered into the pea green wall at the far end of the entertainment room, poking the E-90 through the arch into the bedroom. The little floating window in her view blurred as she panned to the right, finding Rene at the side of the bed with a woman in a headlock―gun at her temple. A sycophantic grin was the only thing the woman wore, legs threaded through white silk sheets. She stroked Rene’s arm, adoring even the touch that used her as a human shield.

He shifted behind her, pulling her by her hair. “I must commend your determination, though I lament your foolishness.”

The woman moaned, arching herself as he pulled, her left hand rubbed a breast. “Yes, Rene.”

Kirsten’s mind raced, she could not see the weapon anymore behind the hostage. The fragrance of jasmine and incense overwhelmed the foulness outside.

“You probably expect me to kill you. I want to bring you in alive.”

Dorian stomped toward him, shaking with rage.

The grainy image in the targeting window tilted his head; the well-practiced, disingenuous grin of a con man a decade past his prime wrinkled his cheeks. He edged further behind the mattress, pulling the woman up to her knees and drawing forth another moan of ecstasy. She did not realize what poked her in the back was a gun. Kirsten tried to put the blue dot on his face, but did not trust her aim.

“Rene, you know with an innocent life in danger I won’t hesitate to shoot. If you kill her, you only guarantee it.”

“I don’t believe you.” A fistful of hair tightened. The woman gasped in passion. “If I kill her you lose your justification. I know how you are; you do not want the stain on your soul. It’s amazing what you can learn from your worshippers.”

“Can’t see the gun,” Dorian growled, sidestepping for a better angle.

“I’m going to kill this whore and make you watch. Then I’m going to pay a visit to that little whelp of yours, what’s his name”―his head tilted to the other side―“If he begs well enough I’ll make it quick. Better yet, I’ll make him kill you.”

Rage boiled in her gut; somehow, she found the strength to swallow it. “Now you’re the one who’s lying. You won’t dare go near him. You’re scared, Rene, scared out of your mind. You can’t go near the city proper because every police officer knows you’re a cop killer. You know what they do to cop killers don’t you, Rene? There won’t be enough left of you to fill a synthbeer can. I don’t want to kill you, Rene. I’m here to bring you in alive.”

The woman squirmed, craning herself up to kiss Rene on the neck as she touched herself. Kirsten tried not to watch. Rene seemed equally as disinterested at that moment.

“So why now? Why you? After all these years, they finally found someone stupid enough to follow me here?”

“It’s deliberate misinformation, Rene. We want people to think we avoid black zones. That way we know right where to look. Come on, Rene. We both know you can’t stand it here, either. You’re more miserable here in this filth than you would be in a holding facility.”

Kirsten still did not trust using a four-inch screen to put a blue dot over a two-inch section of forehead. Come on, come on, stand up a little more.

“I don’t think so. I’ve been in enough cop heads to know the truth. They’re all petrified of the real world. Their laws, their fake society, it’s all smoke and mirrors. Everything is politics. This is old world; this is how it used to be. The strong rule the weak. Why did you really come out here? Were you that dead pig’s side bitch? I thought he was bedding the nice little thing he had in the car. She was quite accommodating actually, gave me a ride, cooked me dinner, we had great sex… pity she doesn’t remember it.”

Dorian’s fury paled his face and darkened his eyes.

Rene jumped as a portable food reassembler to his right sparked and shut down. Two field lights went next.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, Rene? He’s right in front of you.”

Kirsten swiveled around the corner. Dorian blocked her direct view, but did not appear in the digital targeting box.

The hostage moaned, reaching for Rene’s nether regions. Her other hand continued cupping her breast, noticing its reaction to the environment. “It’s cold in here, Rene, my love. Why don’t you warm me?”

A blaze of white vapor billowed around Dorian’s outline; he stepped closer, out of the astral realm and into reality. Whatever look he had on his face scared any trace of flesh tone out of Rene’s. The Frenchman jumped back, firing twice at Dorian. Two emerald laser streaks sizzled through the air, holing the wall just to Kirsten’s left. She yelped and dove, taking cover behind a marble-topped table that she knocked over forwards. One went high; the next disrupted Dorian’s left shoulder for a second. Without flinching, he leapt at Rene, emitting a primal growl of hatred. Kirsten shoved at the table, knocking it forward into a barricade. She popped up, trying to get a bead as Rene circled the bed in an effort to evade her partner.

A chance step on a piece of loose rug spared Rene from Kirsten’s first shot by dumping him on the floor. When he spun to face her, she ducked, breaking eye contact. His amber silhouette flaked in and out, bits of errant pixels. Two-inch-thick stone was too dense for the sensor to see through.

Dorian yelled. The sound gave Kirsten the mental image of him diving over the bed. She popped up, just as he landed on Rene and pulled him into a staggering step before phasing through. Dorian landed on his chest, looking out of breath. The wispy vapor faded. Rene looked around, unable to find him.

“What game is this?”

Kirsten ducked as Rene spun in her direction.

A thin line of spittle flew from Rene’s lip. “You. You’re in my head, making me see him.”

She startled as he tested his weapon’s chances at penetrating marble; three small glowing orange spots appearing one after the next did not fill her with confidence.

“No, Rene. I’m not making you see things. You have a restless spirit out for your blood.”

A fourth orange glow swelled an inch to the left of the first. “You don’t expect me to believe in ghosts, do you?”

“No, I do.” Dorian projected his voice into the world.

Rene startled, aiming toward the open balcony doors. “How are you doing that, bitch?”

Kirsten stuck the gun over the table, watching him on the tiny virtual screen. When he glanced away from her, she popped up, just as Dorian manifested again.

“Jusqu’à ce que nous reverrons, mon ami.” He stalked at Rene. “Do you remember when you said those words to me?”

The Frenchman screamed, falling into a tripping backpedal as his confidence dashed to shards. “You….” He swiveled to the bed. “Shoot the bitch. Kill her.” Rene’s eyes flared with a brief amethyst light. The amorous smile faded away to a zombie’s gaze. He tossed the pistol into the naked woman’s lap and ran for the balcony. He seemed ready to fling himself to his death to get away from Dorian.

Kirsten, trying to leg him, got off two misses before a green beam streaked past her eyes. Limp save for one raised arm, the woman on the bed fired a second time into the wall over her head. Kirsten ducked the streak of laser light, instinctual fear drowning her urge to stop Rene.

A wet splattering sound, reminiscent of a watermelon dropped from great height, came three seconds before a distant, rolling thunderclap. Kirsten relaxed her cringe, gawking at the wall above her head now spattered with small gory chunks and droplets of blood racing each other to the floor.

The unmistakable sound of a dead body hitting wooden floor came next.

She recoiled, trapped between a horrifying wall and a glowing slab of marble. “What the hell happened, Dorian?”

A brief pause of silence settled over the room, broken only by two hums of a laser pistol firing.

“Rene’s head just exploded.” Dorian’s voice sounded as if he were cringing. “Totally gone.”

“You do have a guardian angel, kiddo.” Her helmet vibrated with static as the comm struggled to compensate for signal interference.

I know her voice…

neeling behind a two-inch slab of marble, Kirsten whimpered at the growing collection of burning orange spots ranging from new and bright to almost too dim to see. The naked woman, the right half of her body spattered red with what had once been inside Rene Bollard’s head, did not react to the gore. Once, every three seconds, she triggered a blast of emerald laser light into the marble table with the precision of an assembly line doll. A thumb-sized fragment of brain slid from her temple over a cheek, fell to her chest, and slipped into her lap. The shots continued, not realizing or caring that she etched only shallow grooves in the dense material.

“We meet again, Rene,” said Dorian, seconds before the sound of a fistfight started.

Rene, hollow and echoing, screamed. Fear became confusion. Grunting, cursing (French and English), and more grunting rattled around the back end of the room to the metronome of a laser pistol set to repeat.

“Dorian… Little help here, I don’t want to shoot this woman.”

Kirsten huddled to the ground, listening to the brawl happening out of her sight. Laser blast, punch, laser blast, groan, laser blast, cursing, a punch; another laser blast.

“Dorian,” she shouted. “I need backup, now!”

Rene’s face came through the marble, transparent; she rolled away with a gasp, flattening against the wall. Right away, she cringed knowing she just leaned on blood. The sight of ghosts had become a matter of routine. As a little girl, when she had to think about turning it on, they looked like apparitions. When her skill increased and she could see them all the time, they looked opaque, real even. Whenever they stuck themselves through something solid, they went transparent again and it harkened back to some bad nocturnal scares. She despised her mother again for a few seconds. What kind of parent blames their child for creating the monster under the bed rather than comforts her? Another laser blast reined in her wandering mind.

Rene’s writhing form slid closer, pinned by Dorian in a perfect perp-hold.

Laser blast.

Kirsten scooted lower, back against the wall, boots apart. “Dorian? Would you please?” She gestured with her gun at the table.

Dorian wrenched Rene around so he could see the source of the rhythmic electronic noise. More marble glowed orange than did not; she had been hitting the same spot often enough to make it rather bright. The metronome changed from thrums to soft clicks.

“What the hell is this?” protested Rene. “How did you pull me into this dream?

“Got it.” He resumed throttling Rene.

Years of pent up angst released in the form of Rene’s face bouncing repeatedly off the rug.

Rene wailed, making feeble swats at Dorian. “This is not real.”

Kirsten peered over the edge with the gun cam, confirming the laser pistol dead before she stood up. “Any idea what happened to him?”

“Sniper, I think.” Dorian paused the beating long enough to glance back at the balcony.

“Stop this at once!” demanded Rene.

Kirsten squatted over him. “You can’t suggest anymore, shithead. You’re dead.”

“Kill yourself. Go dive out the window.”

Dorian grumbled, digging his stunrod into Rene’s throat. “I miss being able to use a decent pain submission hold. Doesn’t work without joints.”

Rene scrabbled at the carpet. “I’m gonna wake up from this, bitch. When I do, that little bastard of yours is…” His voice trailed off as he noticed the fibers did not react to his clawing motions.

Kirsten frowned.

She beckoned.

They heard.

Dorian, leaning all his weight on Rene to hold him down, lifted his head, chilled by the emotionless “I win” look on her face. It softened as she read the worry in her partner’s eyes and set her E-90 back in its holster. The incessant clicking from the bed continued as the room dimmed and grew ominous.

“What the hell is this?” Rene shrieked.

The darkness built; whispers rose out of the corners.

Dorian leaned back, peeling the screaming Frenchman off the floor. “Maybe soften him up a bit for them?”

“No. He’s too new, and I’m too pissed off. He wouldn’t survive one hit.”

A solitary harbinger spiraled up through the floor; the plume of black energy thickened and took on a quasi-humanoid shape. Flickering silver eyes, unblinking, regarded Rene. Its head reached the ceiling, wisps of darkness scuttled about as it glided closer.

Dorian shivered, and then wrestled his killer up to his feet. Defiance absent, Rene’s form blurred indistinct from abject terror as he gawked at the creature.

“They go easier on you downstairs if you accept it.” Kirsten bowed in deference to the Harbinger. “I’m kind of hoping you don’t.”

All too willing to distance himself, Dorian released his grip and took a step back. Rene turned and ran for the door, skidding to a halt as a second, smaller Harbinger appeared. He ran past the big one to the balcony, almost falling over his attempt to stop as three more came through the window. Another four emerged from the right side wall, phasing through the oblivious gore-spattered woman.

Surrounded, Rene whirled, darting about in search of escape. With nowhere to go, he turned manic and charged one. The swarm engulfed him; shadowy claws tore through ethereal flesh as the mass gathered around him and dragged the wailing soul through the floor. Kirsten turned her back on the sight, shivering and closing her eyes until the phantasmal whispering ceased and the mood returned to normal.

The woman on the bed tracked Kirsten as she walked over, finger still clicking even when the barrel touched Kirsten’s armor.

“Stop shooting me.”

The arm fell into her lap. Kirsten sat on the edge of the ancient queen-sized bed; the kind of thing people slept on before comforgel took over the world. A few minutes of eye contact later, Kirsten broke the mental link and sagged forward.

“Clear, left. Elements two, five, breach.” The same woman’s voice, muted and distant, came from the hallway.

Weary, Kirsten lifted her head just as two men came through the outer door. Head to toe in black with individual opaque lenses over each eye, they swept compact rifles through the room. Infrared laser sights glinted through dust. Otherwise invisible, her helmet electronics picked them up. One aimed at her; she raised her hands.

With a nod, the man lowered the gun and moved to check the bathroom. He returned, letting the rifle fall loose on an automatic harness, which pulled it against his back. “Confirm clear. Suspect neutralized. One friendly, one civilian.”

The same voice again, closer. “Elements one, four, pull it in.”

A high-pitched whine, unspooling cable, came from the balcony. Two more men in similar suits landed without a noise and walked in, followed a second later by a tall white-haired woman entering through the front door. The armored visor covering most of her face whirred and lifted. It was like the patrol craft windshield, a slab of metal with pass-through optics.

“Carter?” Kirsten’s memory found a match for the voice. “Senior Operative Carter?” She blinked, stood up, and saluted. “Ma’am.”

So used to dealing with tactical and Division 1, it took her a few seconds to remember she was outranked. S.O. Carter returned the salute almost casually on her way past Kirsten to appraise the body. A rifle as thick through as a woman’s forearm perched snug and vertical against the right side of the equipment on Carter’s back. Lines and grooves in the housing hinted it could extend from its current length of three feet to perhaps six.

One of the men appraised the spatter on the walls, and the mostly headless body. “Think Hardin will take this as your sniper qualification? 1784 yards with an MSP-18? Those modulars are a bitch for anything past 1200.”

“Yeah, gimme a dedicated longball gun any day; can always carry a sub for close-in work.” Another man kicked the body. “Can’t tell if you hit the nostril or not, ain’t enough left. Bet’s off.”

Carter laughed, a sort of haughty high-society noise that rankled Kirsten’s dislike of the arrogant. “You still owe me lunch. I have scope video, and it was 1792 meters.”

“Where the hell did you find a shooting platform?”

“Airlift cable off Whisper 12…” Carter stepped over the body, in line with the window and pointed with a karate chop gesture. “That way.”

The largest man shook his head toward the ground. “Horseshit. You made this shot hanging off a goddamn cable from a whisper?”

“Got the video.”

All four men looked at each other.

Kirsten leaned to Dorian and whispered at a mouse’s breath. “Division 9 must be nice. I can’t imagine officers taking backtalk like that from enlisted.”

“They’re all officers, K. Plus they’re covert ops. Wetwork stuff; it’s soul-crushing work, so they blow off steam in various ways.”

“Not as nice as it looks.” S.O. Carter swung around, and stepped over Rene for the second time. Her expression could have been amusement or annoyance depending on how the light hit her lips. “I do owe you a bit of thanks for leading us to him.”

Rene’s former lover whimpered, trying to grab the sheet without moving fast enough to attract attention.

Carter yanked the sheets from the bed, giving them a flip to check for hidden weapons. Satisfied, she threw it over the trembling figure. “Get dressed.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you guys were really trying to find him. It happened so long ago.”

“It’s tricky to pin down someone with his talent set. Usually we leave this sort of thing to you guys, but I’ve never seen a Zero with the testicular fortitude to set foot in a place like this.”

“Umm. I’ll accept young and foolish.” Kirsten stood as the woman tugged at a shirt she sat on. “It was you on Eze’s terminal, wasn’t it? You told him to let me do it.”

“I can see why you made I-Ops so young.” She winked.

Dorian turned away, stifling the urge to laugh.

“So that’s it then? You shot him in the head.” Kirsten sagged.

“It’s the only way we have to deal with someone with his particular talent set. Psionic or not, from 2000 yards away, a sniper rifle wins every time. He killed a cop; he would have been executed anyway. Just saving tax credits. And I know you’re squeamish about it, so I saved you the hassle.” S.O. Carter winked, turned, and traced a whirlybird gesture with her right index finger. “Okay people, wrap it up.”

In the time Kirsten had been speaking to Carter, two of the men had black-bagged Rene’s remains. They hauled him to the balcony and attached the sack to lines that pulled it up and out of sight.

“The front’s clear. You should have a safe trip out if you move soon.” Carter went for the door in the same mesmerizing graceful ballet she called a walk; every tiny motion calculated and perfect.

Dorian leaned, making no subtle act of staring at her tight-fitting ballistic stealth armor. “For once, I almost regret being dead.”

“You hound,” Kirsten muttered, and then waved at the shivering woman. “Come on. We are leaving. I have a feeling you’ll want to keep your eyes closed when we go out the door, probably going to be a courtyard full of bodies.”

“We stacked them nice and neat,” said one of the men, offering a butler’s bow.

With a rusty squeal, the van’s doors came apart. The pile of trash stacked against the front seats fluttered in the wind. Kirsten sighed.

“Poor kid. I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

“Leaf’s not a kid.” The trash moved. Bright neon green hair emerged from between two slabs of waterlogged cardboard. “Leaf is seventeen, and just hiding.”

Kirsten beamed, leaning in to help the girl climb to the street.

“Where’s my jacket? I had some…”

“Sorry, I lost it.”

“Wren, stop dawdling. You have two hostile augs coming in from the west.” An unfamiliar man’s voice vibrated her helmet from an unknown channel.

“I got two civilians to escort out and one’s wearing heels.”

No answer.

She looked at the crying woman and Leaf. “We gotta move. Borg coming at us.”

Kirsten shoved the two civilians ahead of her, keeping an eye to the rear as they scrambled down the street. Howls and whistles echoed through the buildings as a pair of deep voices cried out with “Here, titty, titty!” A seven footer covered in a suit of armor made of various scavenged bits hefted a small anti-armor missile over his shoulder.

“Stop runnin’, bitches. Unlike you, I don’t care if you’re alive for the fun part.”

Shouldering into Rene’s concubine, Kirsten lifted the woman off her high-heeled shoes and carried her up to a loping sprint. Leaf kept up, barely hanging on to Kirsten’s hand. One block over, she hung a left turn at random, just to break line of sight.

A heavy rumbling scared them to a halt. Seconds later, a huge six-wheeled A3V came skidding around the corner a block away.

“It’s friendly, go!” Kirsten shouted, setting the woman back on her feet and shoving at their backs.

Rene’s former lover screamed when the heavy cannon opened fire on the men coming up behind them. Leaf tucked low and sprinted hard. Kirsten and the rescued woman caught up to her two streets over where they found Leaf frozen, petrified at the sight of a police line.

“It’s okay, Jennifer.” Kirsten put an arm around her back. “They’re not going to hurt you; they will understand why you did it… if they even think to investigate.”

They slowed to a walk, all three searching for breath.

“You confuse me, Kirsten.” Dorian came up astride. “All the whining”―he winked―“about not wanting to kill, you’re making plenty of excuses for what this girl did. Can you understand why I did some of the things I did now?”

“Oh, he’s gonna try and make it,” shouted the A3V gunner, just before opening up with another burst. Kirsten cringed at the rumble of the heavy cannon, and distant explosions. Fortunately, the weapon was so loud she could not hear the splatter. “Yee haw. Got ̓im.”

Kirsten remained quiet for a few minutes. She comforted Leaf for a little while and then handed the civilians off to a medical unit waiting just behind the barricade. When she returned to her patrol craft, she pulled the helmet off and glared at the clouds.

“Eye for an eye and all that? I don’t understand. They say peace and love, and forgive and turn the other cheek. It all turns to bullshit when they see something they don’t like.” My, these boots are shiny. “What happened to the whole ‘he who is without sin cast the first stone’ thing?”

Dorian leaned on the car at her side, looking up at the same blob of smog she did. “I executed four people. One was similar to Rene. Piece of trash named Eric Holm. He made women do whatever he wanted, and they wouldn’t even remember it―the youngest was thirteen.”

He squinted, picturing the man’s face as he realized he was about to die.

“Four? Nila said three.” She tilted her head.

“Farhad Rahman was an astral. He would project and inhabit the body of living people. He started with civilians but worked his way up to where he would possess patrol officers and commit crimes. Two of them died.” His mouth formed a wistful grin. “There were six of us there, not one man wanted to take that bastard back alive. I’m pretty sure mine was the kill shot.”

Kirsten put a hand on his arm.

“Number three… Kevin Andrew Baxter. He wasn’t even psionic, just a med school washout who figured he could make a living by jumping people in dark alleys to steal cyberware. Sometimes he would harvest organs; had a particular fondness for teens. Younger parts sell for more money.”

Kirsten choked up. “If he wasn’t psionic, how did you get the case?”

“The case walked up to me in a pair of torn jeans and a stolen shirt. I think he was fourteen. Saw the uniform, didn’t understand what kind of cop I was. Said some creepy man was following him. I checked it out. Kid thought he was being stalked by a perv, so I peeked into the bastard’s head and saw what he really wanted to do to the boy.” Dorian’s glare hardened, perhaps the same expression he had on when he killed Kevin Baxter. “I explained it to Captain Lee, was totally honest with her. They wrote it off as the suspect pulling a weapon on me. Hey, the boy’s alive still.”

“I’m sorry you had to do that. Do I even want to know what the fourth one did?”

Dorian’s eyes froze over with a thousand-yard stare. “Shani.”

Kirsten covered a gasp; only one thought came to mind of what someone might have done to her to warrant execution. “Oh, no…”

A spectral tear glimmered at the corner of his right eye as his head turned. “No. I killed the son of a bitch that attacked Nila seven years ago.”

van whined into the pillow before his right eye peeled open. He rolled over, his one usable peeper narrowing at the clock. He closed it again, letting out a heavy sigh. Hands balled into fists, his face contorted as he stretched, arching his back with a tiny grunt of displeasure at no longer being asleep. When the post-stretch paralysis faded, he sat up and pulled the sheets off his legs. For some minutes, half-closed eyes stared at his toes through a curtain of sand-colored hair.

His brain at last registered the chill of the room in his feet and he loosed a disgruntled moan of protest and got up. With one hand pressed to the side of his face, he staggered into the kitchenette, grabbing a chair as he passed, and dragged it to the counter. One hand hiked his pajama bottoms up as he crawled atop the impromptu stepladder and stared at his blurry reflection swaying side to side in the gloss black door of the food reassembler. A real pointing finger stretched forward until it touched its illusory clone, and the device beeped. Evan tottered forward, forehead against cold glass, napping for ten seconds on his feet while the machine worked. When it beeped, he snapped his head up and stared at the offending machine as if he forgot why it just made noise.

Remembering where he was, he pulled the door open and seized a mug of coffee in a two-handed grip. Holding it under his nose, he took a great breath of its scent and let his eyes close. After two slurps of the too-hot-to-chug liquid, he set the cup on the counter and climbed up next to it. Balancing on his knees, he reached into the cabinet for a bowl and lowered himself back to his unsteady perch. After a few more beeps from the ̓sem, not to mention a sip of coffee or four, he moved to take a seat at the table, merrily munching cereal and sipping coffee.

He squirmed, kicking his feet back and forth, sending an annoyed glare at the bathroom door and the continuous thrum of the autoshower. With a whimper, he squeezed his legs tighter and focused on breakfast. When the machine noise fell silent, he looked up with a wide grin and bounded out of the chair.

The bathroom door slid open and Kirsten emerged in a white robe. The sight of her stopped him in his tracks; head cocked, he blinked up at her.

“Why are you red?”

He tilted his head to the other side as she made a strange noise and the color in her cheeks darkened.

“Uhh.” Her voice quivered. “The water was too hot.”

Not having the patience to delay the urgency keeping him bouncing, he ran past her into the bathroom.

Kirsten took advantage of the closed door to fling off the bathrobe and wriggle into her just-cleaned uniform. Evan draped against the doorframe with a stupid grin of relief, just as she secured the last strap on her boots. He ran into a hug; she picked him off his feet and fell back onto the comforgel pad with him sitting on her gut.

“Coffee?”

“You said my face needed coffee.” He shrugged. “So I made it.”

“You’re too little for coffee.” She rolled left, landing him on the bed with a gelatinous splat, and tickling him into a giggling fit. “I meant you had a face that looked like a person in dire need of coffee.”

As his gasping laughter subsided, he stuck his tongue out. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is you’re nine. We can talk about coffee again when you’re closer to twelve… or sixteen.”

“Aww, but I like it.”

Maybe he is mine. She ruffled his hair. “Did you finish your cereal?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, get cleaned up and dressed.”

He gathered clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. The autoshower whirred to life as Kirsten stretched out on the bed, trying to resist the lure of sleep as she gazed at ceiling tiles. Arms stretched to the sides, she lay quiet; the intensity of her grin followed Evan’s re-enactment of his favorite holovid wizard.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this.” She exhaled and swallowed an ounce of disgust at her mother. “If there is anything up there, please watch over him.”

Dorian peered into the back seat for a few seconds before making a quizzical look with his thumb pointed over his shoulder. “What happened to Vikram?”

Kirsten let go of both sticks long enough to throw her hands up in the air. “He’s a damned idiot.” She guided the patrol craft out of the parking deck, shifted to hover mode, and climbed. “While you were scoping out the hotel, Icarus decided to pay us a visit.”

He got paler.

“Relax. I had it handled.” On a gentle ascent, she poked at the NavMap console and programmed a route to the Local Regional Tech Center. As it chirped acknowledgement, she stared in silence at the car in front of them. “He knew.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. According to legend, demons can sense a person’s deepest fears. When they try to use your mother against you―”

“No, not about Mother; Icarus knew I seem to be able to call Harbingers.” She absentmindedly flicked her thumbnail over the button on the stick. “He wanted me to… wanted to surrender.”

“Probably trying to fool you into lowering your guard.”

“Vikram said the same thing, right before he went completely nuts.” The navigation system chimed warning of an upcoming turn. “I believed Icarus, he seemed genuine. Vikram wouldn’t stop… I had to smack him.”

Dorian laughed. “You, eh… got rid of him?”

After they rolled level on the other side of a left turn, she exhaled. “No, I didn’t hit him that hard, just enough to get his attention. He ran off. Icarus, too.”

“Great. So much for hacker on a hook. What does the LRTC have to do with this?”

Kirsten rolled out of the hover lane, diving towards the blinding white sprawl of the Division 2 Regional Tech Center. From the air, the building resembled an asterisk, the roof studded with various antennas and satellite relays, as well as an enormous transmitter dish at the center, capable of linking with Mars.

“I want their help finding Vikram again.”

“How would they possibly help you find a ghost?”

Kirsten winked, aiming for an open parking space on the southwest arm. “Never underestimate the power of a geek on a mission.”

An elevator and two pale grey hallways later, her mood was in step with the dark cloud following just behind and above her. Just like the last time she stopped at a tech center, word got around within seconds of her landing that a Zero was in the building. People peeked around corners and out of cubes, as if curious about a wild tiger roaming their hallways; wanting to see it, but terrified of attracting notice.

Sheets of light, about the size of a piece of standard paper, extended from silver strips mounted to the wall at each corner. Holographic signs contained lime green letters and directional arrows guiding her through the maze of corridors toward the network operations team. A swipe of her ID beeped the door open, allowing her in to a dim room filled with the glow of three dozen terminal screens and about eleven people. Each desk had a spider-like mounting rail with numerous panes of light looming over the operator, a wall of information threatening to engulf them. Most appeared to be sleeping; the wires running from just behind the ear into their systems told her they were engrossed in cyberspace.

Dorian whistled, surveying what appeared to be naptime. “This looks to be a cushy job. I wonder how many of them fake working to catch a few zees.”

The joke lifted her mood. She gazed from one operator to the next, skipping five limp bodies as well as two men who looked away in a panic as soon as they saw her uniform. She considered approaching a tiny, fuchsia-haired woman, until she got the glare of territorial challenge.

“Guess she feels threatened; she’s not the prettiest girl in the room anymore.” Dorian winked.

Kirsten had some color run to her cheeks and tried not to laugh. The last two techs not lost to the pseudo-dream of cyberspace were a slender white man in his middle twenties and an Asian fellow about the same age. The thin one frowned at her as soon as she looked at him. His immediate assumption she was an idiot because she was not a tech plastered itself all over his face. He bristled, as if expecting her to come over with some banal user question about how to change the workspace background image on her terminal.

The last man had been staring at her since she walked in, though not in a creepy sort of way. He froze in place, half twisted in his chair, unable to peel his eyes from the silhouette of black in the doorway. When she made her decision, trotted down the three steps into the sunken tech room, and headed right at him, he whirled to face his terminal. His fumbling attempts to appear to be in the middle of something struck her as cute.

“Are you busy?” She leaned over his shoulder to look at his chest. “Tech Chang?”

“Sam,” he blurted. Amid his confusion, his right hand flipped like a drunken moth between offering a handshake and a salute. “It’s actually Samuel, but people I work with call me Sammy. Only my parents call me Samuel, but only when they’re upset. Usually it’s just Sam. Technical Lieutenant Saunders calls me Chang.”

Dorian turned, snickering.

“Hi, Sam.” She returned his clumsy salute, and pulled over a chair. “I need a little help with a case.”

He grinned; a little color appeared in his cheeks as his roundish face glowed. “What do you need, Agent?”

“I’m trying to find a dead man. He used to be a deck cowboy, and I need to find his ghost before something horrible happens. I was hoping you could use this IPv12 address and maybe come up with a list of places he used to log in from so I have some kind of idea where to start looking.”

The thin guy, having expected some idiotic stupid-user question, guffawed at the mention of ghost, and went back to his terminals. Dorian wandered over, concentrated, and typed “boo” on his command line. He swatted the holographic keyboard to delete it. Dorian retyped it.

“Okay, you are quite unamusing whoever you are,” he announced, beginning to go through different screens with feverish determination. “I will find you.”

Thirty seconds later, Kirsten finished giving Sam all the data about Vikram’s deck and the angry tech two desks over stared ashen at his screen. Kirsten sat with her chin in her hand and elbow on her knee, huddled close to Sam, staring at the same monitor.

“I’m standing right behind you” appeared on the command line.

The thin tech stormed over to Kirsten, halting with a heavy stomp and a finger pointed back at the screen. “Are you doing things to my head or my computer?”

She did not look up. “No, that’s my partner, Dorian, messing with you. He’s a ghost.”

“You don’t honestly―”

The simmering tirade ended as Dorian tapped him on the shoulder. Stiff as a toy soldier, he pivoted in place and marched out of the room.

“I’m gonna get yelled at, you know,” said Kirsten, shaking her head.

“You can’t tell me it wasn’t funny.” Dorian laughed at the abandoned workstation. “Oh, he forgot to lock his station. That’s a violation of security protocols.”

All six screens went dark. After hearing Kirsten claim a ghost present, the sudden shutdown of an abandoned workstation sent everyone but Sam ducking behind desk partitions.

Text flashed by on one of Sam’s terminals, images appeared one after the next on the panel above it. Citycam stills of various points where logins occurred. Sam turned to say something, noticing she was close enough to be touching shoulders with him. He froze, gob smacked.

She let her head swivel to the right, a stone perched in her palm. “What? Did you find something?”

All he seemed able to do was muster a dopey smile.

“Sam?”

He blinked. “Uhh, yeah. I, umm.” Blushing, he sat up straight and sent an indicative wave at the screen of text. “Got a few hits on the IPv12, physical locations where your guy logged in. The log files tell me this deck signature is associated with the net-handle Dvandva93.”

“Only five places. Well, that shouldn’t be too bad to check.”

Sam fell into staring at her eyes again. She straightened; he tracked her face as it rose from the palm of her hand. An amused curl settled into the corner of her mouth.

“Thank you, Sam. It’s nice to get real help for a change. Whenever I come here I feel like the psionic exhibit at the zoo.”

He took her right arm in both hands, precipitating an awkward fumble from two-handed grip around her wrist to a normal handshake, only it continued for well past the standard customary duration.

Beep.

Sam froze for an instant and dropped her hand as if it burned him, sensing his rudeness. A third terminal screen lit up with a citycam view of a coastal warehouse, drifting patches of fog, and broken windows. Just below it, a flashing line went between red text and block highlight.

“What’s that?” She leaned in for a closer look.

He turned toward her, finding her cheek less than twelve inches away from his face. His breath made her eyelids flutter, and her gaze flicked from the screen to him.

“Sam?”

“Sorry.” He turned as red as a stimpak. “Someone must have taken the deck, or maybe spoofed the IPv12. It is showing as active right now.” He pointed at the image of the decaying warehouse. “Someone in this building is using it as we speak.”

“Sector 1405.” She frowned. “Grey zone.”

The chill presence of Dorian’s hands landed on her shoulders as if trying to give her a reassuring rub. “After 187, this should be a walk in the park.”

“Think Carter will help out this time?”

“Chasing ghosts? Doubtful.”

“Who’s Carter?” Sam tilted his head. “Are you talking to me?”

“Div 9, and no. Ghost, remember?”

“Anything thing else I can do for you?” Samuel Chang flashed a hopeful grin.

Kirsten stood, shaking his hand again. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I’ll know more after I check out the warehouse. My best chance is to get over there before they log out.”

“No problem.” He deflated onto his desk.

On the elevator back to the roof, she caved in to Dorian’s unceasing glare. “What? Why have you been staring at me like that?”

Dorian folded his arms, breaking eye contact. “If you need me to point it out, then maybe I shouldn’t bother.”

“Oh, Sam?” She shrugged. “He’s just, I dunno… It’s just a techie crush on a female who actually spoke to him.”

“Not up to your standards?” Dorian lifted an eyebrow. “He’s not exactly a cover model for a trashy romance.”

It was Kirsten’s turn to become red in the face. “No… I want sincerity. He’s just enamored. Any girl that gives him more than two seconds of conversation probably gets the same reaction.”

Dorian tapped the side of his head. “Did you peek?”

“No.” Kirsten emerged from the elevator into a brisk, cold wind howling among the parked hovercars on the roof. A gust almost stole her hair clip.

“So you don’t know what was on his mind.”

Distant orange warning lights came on at the end of the southwest wing, flashing around an elevated landing pad intended for larger VTOL craft. Off in the smog, the sound of engines got louder.

“I can guess what was on his mind.” She pulled the patrol craft door up. “I can’t think about this now; Vikram might be possessing his old deck.”

“Bet that’s his focus,” said Dorian.

“Makes sense.” She fell into the seat and pulled the door closed.

ive blue boxes at the center of a black terminal screen cycled through various shades from cyan to indigo, creating an effect of a rightward moving pulse. Kirsten tapped her fingers on the control sticks, waiting. After ten passes, it stopped, and Nicole’s face appeared in a 2D panel.

“Hi, whoever you are,” she chirped. “It’s Friday and I’m burning vacation days. By the time you hear this message I’m going to be exploring the historic First Colony on Mars with Edd―”

Kirsten killed the comm, and tapped a few more buttons.

“What about Morelli?”

She grumbled. “Sarcasm much? He’ll make up an excuse. Even if he does fail to talk his way out of helping me, he’d be neurotic and useless. To him, I’m just a lesser shade of Commander Ashford, and now that you scared his pants brown…”

“You could request a Division 1 escort?”

“To chase a ghost?” She blew air through her teeth, flipping her NetMini over in her hand. “They’d never go for it.”

“Are you sure everything’s okay? It’s odd watching you look for help to do anything.” He winked.

Templeton’s contact info appeared on the little screen.

“Oh, now I understand.” He watched ad-bots sail by on the right. “You’re just trying to turn it into a date.”

“No, that’s not it at all. I’m… I don’t want to get killed now that I have Evan to look after.”

“Even if you do, you could still watch him. He can see ghosts.”

The car picked up another forty miles per hour. “That’s not even funny.” Kirsten slipped the device back into her pocket and paid full attention to the hover lane. “You’re right, he wouldn’t even be interested. Got ten years on me and… probably looks at me as if I’m a little girl playing dress-up as a cop.”

“More like kid sister. I think.” Dorian winked and made the NavMap scroll to the area in question. “He did seem to throw off an older brother feeling. Besides, Sector 1405 isn’t too bad as those places go.”

Kirsten fished the mini out of her pocket. “I want to live the daydream or kill it; I can’t take it anymore.”

Beep.

Threads of light wound about in the air above the slab of technology, stretching into a three-inch bust of a man with broad shoulders and a large mass of hair bundled in two-inch-thick ropes. Kirsten bit her lip as the shape of a carved-from-rock jaw and broad, thick lips appeared. He still had on the same olive drab coat. In the absence of a dark alley, his face shimmered bronze. Like the bulk of the population, his ancestry was far from obvious.

“Hi, Templeton?”

“Oh, yeah, Officer Wren. How are you?”

Agent. She swallowed the correction. “Fine, thanks. I was um, wondering if, um.” Can you sound less like an awkward schoolgirl please? “I have to go into Sector 1405 and I need some backup and…”

“The department is letting you go alone?” Even over the tiny speaker in her palm, the deep timbre of his voice thrummed through her.

“I’m trying to find a ghost. Officer Logan is on Mars and it would take too long to talk anyone else into it.”

“And she wants to see you.” Dorian leaned over.

Kirsten went red in an instant, slapping her hand down and crushing the holographic bounty hunter into the NetMini before she glowered at Dorian.

“Relax, only you heard that.” He chuckled. “Of course, now you’ll have to explain why you’re the color of a fire suppression bot.”

“Hello?”

“Uhh.” She slid her hand to the side, allowing Templeton’s visage to fade into view from right to left. “Sorry, thought there was a bug on the screen.” That was original.

Templeton’s baritone laugh pulsed up her arm as the miniscule speaker struggled to cope. “Sure, I’ll meet you in Sector 1353, just south of it. I can be there in about ten minutes.”

“Great.” She made a sound somewhere between a squeal of delight and a giggle. I’m so pathetic.

The light from the vid call faded. Dorian reached over and pawed at her hand until she let him hold it. “You need to be ready for this not working out the way you are hoping it does. He’s thirty-six, you’re twenty-two. To him, you’re a kid in need of a guard dog.”

She waved dismissively and accelerated up to a point where Dorian became nervous. A few minutes later, approaching from the south, she dropped altitude in an area dominated by huge warehouses arranged east to west. Most of the buildings were of similar size, long, rectangular, and in various shades of white. Sector 1509 brought to mind the thought of a dark cancer eating the horizon, a spot where the fragmented skeletons of collapsing skyscrapers folded into the center of a festering ruin.

A police vehicle, even a solid black one, coming in for a landing chased away about two dozen people hanging around a chain link fence on the west edge of the street. Most sauntered away casual, or acting it. Two sprinted, but Kirsten was not interested in giving drug dealers a hard time. She shut down the propulsion unit and leaned back in the seat. The various sections of console went out, letting the dark blue glow of the NavMap panel flood the cabin. She stared at the ascending rows of numbers in a line north along the coast: 1353 (where she was), 1405 (grey), 1457 (grey/dangerous), 1509 (black), 1561 (grey), 1613 (grey). Sector 1509 contained no subdata points, the entire square was as black as a hole in space.

Kirsten poked the one-inch square representing 1405; her finger pierced the hologram with ripples that spread out as it the programmers designed it to animate. Information popped up in a side panel, listing about eight small-time street gangs. The only one she found worrisome were The Angels―a mostly Latin group that started in the area once known as Los Angeles.

“Might run into Angels here.”

“Well, that would make things a lot easier.” Dorian watched shadows creep between the warehouses to the right.

“You are such a comedian.” She gestured at the terminal, laughing. “The gang. You still think there’s such a thing as real ones?”

“Harbingers exist, don’t they? Besides, the gang isn’t that bad. They know enough not to get into a pissing contest with the police. They work most of their frustrations out on other gangs trying to cut into their territory. I don’t see you wearing Táng-Long colors, so you should be safe.”

“I’m wearing worse.” She poked herself in the breast.

Dorian chuckled. “Not all gangs grab any woman they can get their hands on. Around here it’s all about territory, merchandise, and a sort of quasi-politicking bred from having the people who live here actually support them. Both the Angels and Táng-Long are more like loosely-structured corporations than street gangs; they just generally trade in illegal things. Though, you might find the Táng-Long interesting―they’d be apt to believe in ghosts.” He winked.

“Something’s coming up behind us.” Kirsten looked at the rear-view screen.

A battered, two-seat Chīsai took a corner two blocks down and turned towards them. Most of its beige paint had flaked off in patterns suspiciously reminiscent of repaired bullet holes. It rode low on the driver’s side, a severe lean made worse for an instant as it changed lanes to get right behind them. Kirsten could almost hear the motors in its twelve-inch wheels screaming for mercy.

The instant it lined up with them, she poked the console to run a scan. Light levels balanced out, and Templeton’s face became clear. He sat in a scrunch, his shoulders almost at the level of his ears. She burst out laughing.

“Why do huge men always seem to have tiny cars?” Dorian cackled, and then drifted through his door. “Good grief, he doesn’t get into that thing, he puts it on.”

Kirsten got out and checked the fit of the silver belt around her waist. She did everything but look at Templeton as he parked. The Chīsai groaned as he disembarked; a mechanical sigh of relief as it no longer bore the weight of a muscular seven-foot-tall man. A boot scuffed the metal walkway; she looked up at his face and stopped breathing.

There he was, the guardian angel who had come out of nowhere in the alley a few weeks ago. Waist-long chestnut-brown dreadlocks trailed in the air behind him, fanning out as he walked. Kirsten’s brain slam-shifted down two gears, into in a speed below the ability for verbal communication. Her mouth opened as she imagined his approach in slow, glorious motion, noting every flutter of his long green coat.

Dorian looked over his shoulder, twisting right and then left. He moved through the car and surveyed the street. “I don’t see a holovid crew. They’re going to miss the romantic moment.”

Templeton stopped at handshake distance, extending an armored glove. In her mind, she reached out, tiny hand grasping only one of his gargantuan fingers. The reality was less extreme.

“So you’re chasing a ghost?” The full force of his deep laugh fell over her, without the protection of a tiny speaker. “If you weren’t a Zero, I’d expect you mean someone hard to find.”

Kirsten closed her mouth, and opened it. A trace of cologne mixed with the scent of the ocean. She stared.

“Are you all right, Officer?” He waved a hand through her vision.

“Yeah…” She spun her back to him. “I was just thinking about how to go about this.” You really are a rotten liar.

“How much do information do you have?”

She gave him a quick rundown of the situation. “… and the IPv12 trace showed activity from a building a few blocks in.”

“All right.” He slung a large over-and-under rifle around from his back. Laser on top, 42mm shotgun on the bottom.

Dorian scowled at it.

“Lead the way, Officer, this is your show.” He gestured with his left arm.

So formal. Officer… “You can call me Kirsten if you like.” She smiled back at him.

“Agent… Sorry, didn’t notice the rank.” Templeton offered an apologetic bow.

Kirsten trudged forward. Not a single spark of anything but friendliness glinted in his eyes. She could not bring herself to look at Dorian, expecting the I-told-you-so face he so adored giving her. Keeping her head down, she watched shiny metal walkway turn to dark traction coating as she crossed an approach lane that ran beneath a rolling mechanical gate in front of another warehouse yard. Another block passed in silence.

“Peaceful here,” said Dorian. “No advert droids.”

Kirsten paused at the end of the next block, leaning against the wall to peek around as if observing a potential threat, but there was no one in the street. When Templeton arrived behind her, also against the wall, she leaned into him.

“The building is another block up, on the wharf property.”

Templeton’s head tilted back as he surveyed the smog. Beneath his dark glasses, his right eye painted his cheek and forehead with orange light. “There is some kind of EMF in the air, sensor sweeps, I think. Your boy seems to have set up a defensive perimeter. I’ll need a closer look.”

He did not react to her leaning against him.

When her mind ran away with the imagination of turning around and kissing him, then and there in the street, she took a step. Hopeless. This is gonna get me as dead as my daydream. What the hell am I doing? She grumbled in her mind and stomped forward with a determined glower. Abandoned buildings passed on the right, though this place had few dead cars. This outer edge of the grey zone seemed more like an area people just got up and walked away from rather than one destroyed by some horrible event. Flickering light reflected on the storefronts of a passing side street. Holographic tacos danced in the air, almost making her change course.

She decided against it. “Well, it’s not totally abandoned.”

Kirsten hooked a left past a long building full of garage doors in varying degrees of open. At the third, someone sprang from the dark and grabbed her from behind. The handle of her E-90 clanked into a metal crotch guard a second before the thick fragrance of motor oil and unwashed body fell on her. Strips of gloss black cloth fluttered around the arms that spun her against the wall; sleeves shredded to the point they resembled unspooled magnetic tape.

“Sweet.” Metal eyelids blinked horizontally.

The effect stunned the words right out of her.

“That’s a cop,” said a wheezy voice to her left.

Fingers dug into her shoulder and side. “Just means we can’t let ̓er leave.”

Whap.

A large armored hand fell on the ganger’s shoulder. Both of his eyes extended out of their sockets on thin metal rods, then swiveled around either side of his head to look behind him. Kirsten cringed away.

“And that’s a problem,” added wheezy.

Templeton took a step to the rear, grunted, and hurled the man across the street in a graceful arc. She could not help but stare at the two fluttering eyeballs on twelve-inch struts as he flew and smashed through the second-story window of a warehouse across the street. When Templeton recovered from the spin, he leveled his rifle off at a shorter man.

Clumps of coarse black hair stuck like steel wool to a pallid, emaciated chest. Legs covered with multiple layers of torn camouflage, denim, and something that may once have been leather, quaked. The delicate sound of distant breaking glass audible in the rapid inrush of air made it obvious he was a whisp-head. The rattle in his lungs grew in prominence as he hyperventilated.

“Get out of here.” Kirsten waved him off.

The wheezy ganger sprinted like hell. At least, as fast as someone with only twenty percent of his lungs still working could. Kirsten peered into the broken window across the street, listening for traces of life. When she heard cursing, she felt okay leaving him there.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Dorian leaned on the wall.

“What?”

“Let that shithead grab you so your hero could save you.”

“Hm?” asked Templeton. “Are you sure you’re okay? Your heart rate is way up.”

The same hand responsible for tossing a two-hundred-pound man through the second story window of a building twenty yards away now offered a gentle pat on her shoulder. She wondered how much of him was still human. Could just be Myofiber combat boosts… the arms don’t look replaced. She put her hand on his forearm; he smiled, sensing the subtle squeeze test.

“I’ll be okay, just startled. I didn’t expect anyone to be in these storage bins.” One more try. “Thanks… guess that’s twice you saved me. I should make it up to you sometime, dinner?”

Templeton chuckled. “I don’t mind at all, Agent. Just doing my part.”

Somewhere in her head, a scene from an old holovid played. Disaster on Colony Four, specifically, the last twenty minutes where the Marine dropship on its way down to save the survivors malfunctioned and burned up in the atmosphere. Her mind went right to the part where it turned into a flaming comet that plunged into the ground.

Okay, I get the hint. “Just thought I’d offer.”

Dorian rubbed her back, making her shiver. “Sorry, K. For what it’s worth, he’s fourteen years older than you. Don’t take it personally.”

Kirsten steeled herself against the disappointment she had expected and followed an S-curve around a large building. Thirty yards past the second turn, a gate manned by four men in dark grey armor blocked the way. She picked at their surface thoughts.

“Promacor Biotech Corporate Security.” She muttered while conducting psionic surveillance. “They’re protecting a CSET, whatever the hell that means.”

“Cyberspace event team, probably a small cadre of deck cowboys holed up in this off-the-grid warehouse to make it harder to trace back to Promacor.” Colors shifted through Templeton’s eyes as he scanned them.

“I expected to see more gangers.” Dorian caught up, arriving with a rotating stride as he glanced about.

“Not too many gangers out here… I expected it to be more dangerous.” She offered an apologetic face upward.

“This is a corp op and it’s only two in the afternoon… Most of them are asleep, and the ones who aren’t are busy warning everyone to stay away from this spot.”

She frowned. “I don’t see Vikram anywhere.”

“Could be inside. Gimme a few minutes.” Dorian jogged through the gate.

Damn, you left me alone with him. She tried to see beneath Templeton’s sunglasses, unable to tell if they were worn or implanted. “Sorry to waste your time; I thought this would be a lot more dangerous for me.”

“Well.” He laughed. “I did pull one moron off you.”

Kirsten giggled. “Yeah, you did. Not to mention a whole pack of them a few weeks ago.”

“I wound up in a lucky place at a lucky time. Did you ever find the punk?”

“Yeah, I got him.”

“Good.”

“Umm, nice car.”

“It’s a lot easier to sneak up on bounties in something they won’t look at twice.”

“Yeah, so do you have a―”

Dorian came out of the wall between them. “I think a girl inside is using Vikram’s old deck. There’s some energy on it; you might be right in assuming it is his attachment.”

Dorian, you have either awful or perfect timing. Maybe someday I’ll figure out which it is. “Okay.”

“What?” One eyebrow peered over the top of Templeton’s black lenses.

“Do you have an idea how we can get inside?” She looked at the gate. “Oh, screw it. I’ll try the obvious first.”

She walked right up to the barricade. The four men startled and aimed their rifles in her general direction without lining her up for a shot.

“Private property, get lost.” The man just right of center put a visible-spectrum red laser dot on her chest.

“Police, Division 0. I need to talk to one of your operators inside. If all that is going on here is inter-corporate backstabbing, I couldn’t care less about it. I’m trying to find a ghost.”

Rifles drooped. Pale grey helmets swiveled back and forth. One of them mumbled, no doubt to a communicator.

Kirsten squinted at him. “Tell Kincaid to relax before he has a stroke.”

Dorian sidled up next to her. “She’s got dye-red hair, black at the ends. Wearing a Netßunny shirt.”

“All I want is to have a chat with the redhead in the netbunny shirt.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What the hell is a netbunny?”

“Famous deck jockey, some kind of cyberspace folk hero or celebrity, I think.”

A few minutes passed in a cold, awkward silence, broken only by the occasional sound of sheet metal flapping somewhere in the wind, and an unseen can rolling. Kirsten gazed past the guards, watching the glimmer of the mid-afternoon sun play with the ocean. A hundred yards past the gate, a section of building turned from white to black as a door opened. The motion drew her attention away from the sea. A man with the build of a former soldier came walking out upon the base of a great angled shadow.

He wore the same armor as the rest of the guards, but had no helmet, and had more small devices on his belt. Gleaming silver thread danced in the air behind two large pistols, one per hip, evidence of a cybernetic targeting link. White hair, too short to notice the breeze, glowed as he moved through a patch of unobstructed sun.

“So they weren’t bullshitting me. A single cop shows up at the gate asking to see one of our assets.”

I never did care for people who referred to other people as assets. “That’s correct. You must be Kincaid. I’m investigating a paranormal event, and have reason to believe one of your contractors may be in possession of an item that used to belong to the spirit I am pursuing. I don’t care what you’re doing here; I just want to find this ghost.”

Kincaid made a face and drew in a deep breath as though he was about to scream at a teenaged daughter for sucking down too many pills. Red flooded his cheeks and faded, and then he took a step back. “Ugh. God damned psionics always make my God damned testicles itch. Tell me, kid, you ever get a case of Martian Nut Fleas?”

She glanced down at her form-fitting uniform. “Nope. Never been to Mars, and I don’t have―”

“You don’t need actual balls, girl, to get them fleas. You look like the kind of nail-picking, pale-faced, prissy, bottled-water-drinking, sushi-eating, salad-munching, forty-credit-latte-slurping, shaved-beaver kinda bureaucrat what never has anything give them an itch like I’m talking about.” He pointed at her chest. “Well then, you don’t have a damn single idea what I’m talking about. Itch so bad, makes you wanna just tear them off.” He mimicked the gesture. “Psios are the same way. They’re like those fleas. Makes ̓em itch, and not in a good way.”

Kirsten leaned close to the fence. “I don’t think there is such a thing as a damned Martian Nut Flea. You’re just trying to scare me off with some ex-military ‘oh, boy I’ve seen some shit that’ll turn you white’ chest-puffing macho bullshit you think will send me crying home to my bitch mother. Whatever you saw on Mars, trust me, it’s got nothing on what waits on the other side of the living world. I’ve seen things that will make you suck your thumb and wish you were dealing with something as tame as mutated scrotal parasites.”

Snickering corporate security men turned away from their boss, trying to hide their amusement.

Kincaid’s hard expression remained for another ten seconds before he cracked up laughing. “Not bad, kid. I almost believe you. I’ll give you a quick tour, but your attack dog’s gotta wait here.”

“I don’t trust it.” Templeton shifted his weight onto one leg.

Nothing in Kincaid’s head caused any worry about her safety. “It’s all right.” I peeked at his thoughts, he’s just worried you’re a hitter for the competition.

Templeton had little reaction to Kirsten’s voice in his head. “I said it’s your show. If you want to take the chance, go right ahead.”

“It’s fine. I can handle it. Thank you for coming out here, I wasn’t honestly expecting them to be willing to talk. Corporates don’t usually believe me when I say I don’t give a crap what they’re up to.” She faced Kincaid again, nodding her acceptance.

“I’ll wait for you here,” said Templeton, folding his arms as if daring the corporates to try to move him.

She followed Kincaid over forty yards worth of discolored plastisteel tiles bearing stains where old cargo containers once stacked. He stopped unexpectedly, raising a hand.

“What?” Annoyance wafted from her face.

The retired solider stared just to the left of Dorian. “I’m bein’ told there’s a thermal anomaly following us. You got a tail, maybe a cloaking suit.”

“That’s just my partner. He’s a ghost.” She put an arm across Dorian’s shoulders. “Let me guess, you’re seeing a cold spot right about here?”

“So much for the element of surprise,” said Dorian.

“Oh, like they’re going to believe me anyway.”

Kincaid pushed his hand through Dorian’s chest, waving it around.

“So tempting…” The corner of Dorian’s mouth curled up.

After a few more passes of his arm failed to find a solid spy, he gave up. “Ghost, huh?”

“I said I’m here trying to find a ghost. I brought another one to help.”

Kincaid scratched his balls.

The upper floor of the primary operations facility was set up in the image of a temporary military command post. Kirsten followed her escort past a dozen more rifle-toting individuals in the same armor. Automated sentry guns swiveled; the awful chirping buzz they emitted as their aim swept over her made her feel a little better. They did not disable the police ID lockout. Knowing the sentry guns could not shoot at her eased some of her worry.

Sheets of hanging plastic, tinted metallic green from thousands of embedded wires, draped over a scaffold of thin pipes and enclosed a work area once used for shipping clerks. Twenty-eight desks and two empty spaces occupied the room among support columns and old office equipment. Six people lounged about, all watching her walk in behind Kincaid.

All the screens were dark, all the operators had logged out. Kirsten moved among the desks and nodded at a pair of Jamaicans in red military pants and black jackets before offering a pleasant smile at a short Hispanic man in normal street clothes. He had his boots up on the desk by a shiny black Nishihama deck, tapping a sheathed knife against his thigh. Just past him, an older man with silvery stubble and an old-fashioned tobacco pipe blew smoke through the blank dimness of a holographic panel. Three desks pushed together gave him a horseshoe workspace, each containing a deck plugged into the back of his head. Large and indelicate like the man, the drab green hardware looked hardened by many years of use. One of them bore the logo of Titan Corporation. Wrinkles gathered and bunched about his mouth as the stubble undulated into a smile. Deep-set eyes pierced through her, glimmering bright in contrast to his old military coat.

“Wow, a multi-boarder. Two alchemists and a Titan Ultra… gotta be a former military operator, might even be burned out C-Branch.”

Her expression told Dorian she had no idea what he just said, making him laugh. Past the older man, a woman in her early twenties draped her body over a matte-black deck, as if trying to listen to the machinery. Staring sideways at the wall, she whispered in rapid pulses. Half her hair was white, the other hot pink. A four-inch-tall strip of black cloth wrapped her chest, and everything from the waist down was lost beneath the largest, most cumbersome looking mass of frilly, lacy blackness Kirsten had ever laid eyes on. One boot tip, painted with black cat eyes, poked out from under the skirt. On the side of the deck, a sticker bore the silhouette of a charred man on fire, with a fragment of wire dangling out of his head.

She twitched, muttering “comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon” in an endless repeat. When she spotted the approaching pair, she flew upright in the chair. “Wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna login. I hear the electrons calling me.”

Kincaid glowered. “I’d appreciate it if you made this quick. Lorelei dosed some high-grade boosters for the run, they’re wasting.”

The frenetic woman held her hands up as proof, two silvery-blue octagons about an inch across gleamed, one pasted to each wrist.

“I think she took too much.” Kirsten frowned at him. “Please tell me you have a medic?”

“She’ll be fine, and yes.”

Kirsten stepped over the bulky skirt. “Really, I’m not here about what they’re doing online; you can let her in.”

Lorelei clasped her hands together under her chin, giving Kirsten an adoring look, and then promptly fainted over the desk. She had gone back inside, regardless of what Kincaid wanted.

The last contractor, a surly-looking girl who seemed younger than twenty, sat with her arms folded across her chest. She was as Dorian described, wearing a charcoal-grey shirt so tight it looked painted on. Cloth-covered buttons ran from the side of her neck over the left shoulder, and down to the start of plain black fatigue pants. Yellow circuit lines traced the image of a psychotically cute ax-wielding rabbit with pink hearts for eyes, a stream of cables out of its ears into a dozen net decks. The word “Netßunny” printed just below it.

The deck in front of her was unusual in its length, almost four feet from end to end. About a third of it on the right side had a different overall aesthetic design as if Vikram had grafted two lesser units together; all of it charred and damaged. Where one small cosmetic flange had snapped off, dark blue metal threads gleamed.

“What’s with the funny b?” Kirsten leaned back to whisper in Dorian’s nonexistent ear.

“Something the hackers do; I don’t understand it, either.”

Kirsten leaned over, examining the gleam. “Vikram molded a case out of DuraFib armor. Explains why it survived.”

“This the one you wanted?” asked Kincaid.

“Yep.”

He faced the room. “Okay, everyone back in, no open terminal screens until we’re secure.”

“Get away from my deck, lady.” The girl let her boots drop to the floor.

“I just need to touch it; I’m not going to break it.” Kirsten put a hand on it, feeling for traces.

“Diva gave it to me.”

The girl grabbed Kirsten’s arm, and wound up on her face across the desk after a smooth flip.

“Guess you are learning something from Gabriel. Nice reversal.” Dorian clapped.

“Ow! You’re gonna break my fucking arm!” A subtle tone of imminent tears skimmed below the anger in her voice.

Kirsten leaned over her. “And you just assaulted an officer of the law. Can you keep your hands to yourself, or do I need to restrain you?”

The girl clawed at the far edge of the desk with her free hand, whining, nodding. Kirsten let go, not prepared for the pouty glare that came back at her once the girl fell into the seat.

“What’s your name, how old are you?” Kirsten leaned on the desk. “Don’t lie to a psionic cop, it’s a bad idea.”

“N0ra, with a zero not an o. I’m ei―sixteen.”

“Sixteen? Parents?”

“Dad went to Mars, never came home. Don’t know if he’s dead or just ditched, don’t much care either.”

“Mother?”

“She emptied dad’s credit statement on some cosmetic surgery place. She’s fifty but looks your age now, found a new man who hates kids. Course, it’s awkward to have a sixteen-year-old daughter if you’re trying to act twenty-one. She left. I got thrown out of the apartment last month when they repoed it.”

“Guess mom expected her to pick up the rent,” said Dorian.

Lorelei popped awake again, chattering on about some “Bitsmasher” soft.

“It’s no big deal. Sarge took me in.” Her hair swirled about as she smiled at Kinkaid.

Kirsten raised an eyebrow. Kincaid’s glare flattened.

“No! Eww.” N0ra shivered. “He’s a better dad than the sperm donor.”

After verifying she was in the system, Kirsten lowered her wearable terminal and gestured at the deck. “So how’d you really get this? You said someone named Diva gave it to you?”

“Divanda… something Indian sounding.”

Kirsten checked through her notes, face lit green by a pane of scrolling text above her arm. “Dvandva93 maybe?”

“Yeah. We hung out in the same group when I was on the street. He, uhh… got out of the biz, gave it to me when he quit. So his name is Vikram?”

“Was, Nora with a zero.” Kirsten got ready to console her. “He’s dead.”

N0ra picked under her fingernails, and then picked at the deck. The endless chatter from Lorelei ceased after a giggle; her body collapsed over the desk like a smashed gothic faerie. Kirsten turned to check on her, but relaxed at the sense of active surface thoughts; the rapid streaming lines of cyberspace the woman now saw knocked Kirsten dizzy for a few seconds. Kincaid kept a close eye on the terminal screens, making sure they stayed dark.

“Diva was an asshole.” N0ra’s face reddened. “No, he didn’t touch me. He killed thousands of people.”

“What?” Kirsten and Dorian both blurted at once.

“I found some shit on him… He did a hack on Antheus Biochem about a year ago. They had testing and fabrication facilities somewhere in Africa and India. Another outfit paid him to sabotage stuff; he rerouted pumps and let experimental shit out. I can’t even pronounce the crap, the words were this long”―N0ra held her hands apart―“the clouds wiped out a lot of people before the company got rid of it.”

“I remember seeing something about that on the Newsnet, that older reporter they just got rid of was talking about some industrial accident,” said Kirsten, frowning. “Damn, I can’t remember her name.”

“Funny, isn’t it? She used to be everywhere. Couldn’t walk through the city without seeing her face plastered on a dozen different screens any way you looked; now you can’t remember what her name was.” Dorian pondered. “I guess it is possible to be too famous. Donna something, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, the corp almost went down in flames. Billions in fines.” N0ra seemed caught somewhere between furious or crying. “I found out he did it for a hundred grand. All those people, just for money… I sent everything I found to Lyris. They own Antheus.”

Kirsten froze. Well now I know why Lyris sent Seneschal to have a chat with Vikram.

Dorian set off to wandering the room. “If Vikram finds out, he’s going to come after her.”

“He’s only been dead a few months; I’ll have time to confront him before he’s strong enough to harm her.”

“Harm who? Me?” N0ra sat up. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing to get alarmed about just yet, maybe in ten or twenty years, if I don’t find him, it could get annoying. But, if anything strange happens around you, Nora with a zero, call me.”

Kirsten reached for her NetMini, hesitated, and then offered the official department-issued PID. Not giving a hacker my personal.

“Weird? Like on the net?”

“No, weird like something you can’t explain. Haunting, ghosts… that sort of thing.”

Dorian, halfway across the room, forced himself into the world for a moment. N0ra fell out of her chair.

Kirsten extended a hand to help her up. “You’re trembling. What happened?”

“I just saw a man.” She pointed. “He… had the same uniform as you.”

“That’s my partner.” Kirsten tried to soothe her. “He was just trying to show you what I mean. Don’t be afraid of him, he’s harmless. Do you have any idea where Vikram hung out?”

N0ra shook her head. “Sorry, he never stuck around long after a job. Everyone thought he was a bit of a snob. I mean he was a decent jockey and he walked the walk, but he didn’t live the life, ya know? They said he had a real job somewhere and only ran nabs for the jollies.”

Straightening her stance, Kirsten stared through multiple layers of hanging faraday plastic at the exit. “I’m starting to wonder how much I don’t know about Vikram.”

etallic starbursts floated in a sea of dark grey gloss. The scent of various foods swirled around amid the din of a few hundred people going about their day as others had lunch. As soon as the fragrance of grilled vat-grown chicken hit her nose, she lost her appetite. Kirsten wanted to sleep, but at the same time was afraid of what would wait for her on the other side.

“Something’s wrong.” Dorian’s voice pierced the swirling miasma of fatigue, fear, and nausea.

She lifted her head from her folded arms. The shimmering pattern on the table flashed bright silver in the light of the food court. Chicken, garlic, and parmesan wafted over her and she fanned it away from her face.

“You should eat something, you did skip breakfast.”

Her transparent plastic fork plunged through a strip of genetically perfect chicken and several layers of lettuce. Kirsten held it up, moving the utensil in a slow spin as she appraised its contents. She risked it, and the nausea changed into hunger.

“Didn’t sleep well, and running around all morning with nothing to show for it isn’t helping.”

Dorian let her take a few bites, her interest in the salad increasing with each one. With half the meal gone, she took a break to poke at the table console and order an iced coffee, hydroponic―thirty-eight credits. Screw Kinkaid and his fleas.

“Please don’t tell me your mother came back?” Concern wafted from him.

“No.” She slid forward over the table, cradling her head in both hands, elbow pushing the plate aside. “Something new: Shani killing me, me killing Shani. It happened a dozen times and I kept waking up each time. It’s like my brain is trying to sort out which one sucks the most.”

“Is that why you wore an Evan backpack when you dropped him off this morning?”

Kirsten sat up, letting her arms fall into her lap. “I’m so worried something will go wrong, or something will happen to him. Maybe I should leave him at the dorm so they can’t get to him.”

“They who?”

“I dunno wha”―her NetMini started beeping; she fumbled it to her ear―“Wren. Hello?”

The holographic bust of Konstantin Dobrynin appeared. Emerald-hued suit with a bright green ascot this time, he exaggerated a bow of greeting such that the video call rendered it enough to notice.

“Good afternoon, Agent Wren. I hope the day finds you well. That dark highlight truly brings out the sapphire in your eyes. A siren should be so beautiful.”

“He’s trying too hard,” grumbled Dorian.

Her gaze hardened for just an instant before she looked back at Konstantin’s floating bust. “I appreciate the compliment, but, it’s not makeup. I’ve had a bad morning.”

Konstantin’s lips pursed into an expression of sympathy. “Perhaps I can brighten it for you this evening? Would you care to join me for dinner at the Toko Lounge? Charming little place I just became aware of.”

“Charming little place.” Dorian rolled his eyes. “It’s only about three thousand credits a person to eat there.”

She peered through Konstantin at Dorian, registering what he said. “I… I’m flattered, Konstantin, really. That place is so expensive, I would feel guilty.”

“Think nothing of it.” His hand appeared in front of him, waving to the side out of the range of the image pickup. “I have some more information for you about the inscription you found.”

“The silver circle?”

Konstantin nodded.

“Okay.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven?”

Kirsten bit her lip, head moving up and down as if in slow motion. “Okay.” When the call ended, she scrunched her nose at the way Dorian looked at her. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

“Feeling protective is a better way to put it. Men like him are not used to being denied what they want. To him you’re just a conquest.”

“You don’t know that for sure. Besides, he might have some useful information. I bet he’s one of less than a dozen men in this entire city I could talk to about ghosts and abyssals and not send him screaming for the door.”

Dorian laughed. “You might want to tell him you’re psionic before you sit down at Toko. It would be an expensive tab to get stuck holding.”

She glared. “He already knows.”

The wind seemed to find every little spot the emerald-colored gown left accessible to air. Shivering, she tugged at the too-short right side. Not wanting a repeat of the last time she wore this, she had ordered a more conservative pair of shoes, heel wise, which were much easier to walk in. Of course, the thin black cording holding her toes to the sole did nothing at all to stop cold air. Her mind got distracted from the regret of not adding green polish to her toenails as a gust slipped under the small white jacket across the bare skin of her back.

Why couldn’t he have invited me to the steakhouse or something? I feel like a damned half-naked peacock.

“Kirsten…”

She faced toward the voice as her father came through the wall of the apartment building. A few seconds of concentration aligned her body with the astral realm, and she hugged him. Alas, he was neither cold nor warm, and did little to help her against the breeze.

“Dad.” Her arms squeezed tighter. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You look amazing, honey.” His hand on her back went up and down. “Oh, my. You don’t have a bra on, do you? Go back inside this instant and―”

“Dad. I’m not a kid anymore and this dress is backless. It will look ridiculous.”

“If you bend forward too far you’ll pop out. Do you at least have―”

“Dad!” she screamed, blushing.

“―your weapon?”

Her forehead thudded into his shoulder. She found it curious that ghosts shake when laughing, as if they still breathed.

“Of course.” Kirsten waved her silver handbag at him. “Umm, Dad, you haven’t seen Vikram anywhere around here have you?”

“No, sweetie. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. You will eventually be happy and find someone to love.”

That’s why he’s lingering. Doesn’t want to leave me unprotected. A single tear squeezed out from between the collision of guilt and gratitude, appearing at the corner of her right eye.

“I have a bad feeling about this Russian playboy.”

“You and Dorian both. What’s wrong with you two? Someone finally doesn’t run screaming for the hills when they learn I’m psionic, and suddenly he’s dangerous?”

“It’s not that, I just have a bad feeling is all.”

“What, like he’s going to sell me overseas as a concubine or something? Slip me some chem in my drink and I’ll wake up on a yacht off the coast of Russia?”

“No, not that kind of bad feeling.” He stopped mid train of thought and blinked. “Does that really happen?”

Kirsten shrugged. “I dunno. It depends on who you talk to. Urban legend and all, I’m not in the department that investigates those kinds of cases. Besides, if I ever got kidnapped I’d just go astral and come back here and tell someone who could see me exactly where to send help.”

“If you could find someone capable of seeing you,” he grumbled, staring at a black limousine settling in for a landing a block away. “Something just doesn’t feel right about him. Too much money, too good looking, too interested in a cute, girl-next-door blonde who happens to be a cop and psionic on top if it all.”

She got quiet, measuring him with an even glance. “I’m not sure if you just insulted me or not.”

He pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead. “Hon, you’re very pretty, but guys like him go for a different kind of pretty.” Her father grimaced. “Bigger umm.” He held his hands over his chest as if holding something large and bulbous. “Lots of cosmetic work.”

“You’re making generalizations; not all rich men favor airheads with built-in floatation devices.” She looked down at herself, cheeks reddening. “They’re not that small. They’re athletic.” I can’t believe I’m talking about my bust size with my dad.

It was her father’s turn to blush. “Look, hon. All I’m saying is I want you to keep your guard up and not do anything you’ll regret.”

“Do you have some information I need, or are you just hoping I don’t put my legs in the air on the first date?”

He blushed harder, unable to look her in the eye anymore. “Kirsten… I dunno how to explain it, just a bad feeling.”

“I’ll keep alert, but he might have valuable information. I have to find Vikram before they kill him, umm, again.”

The limo glided to a silent stop. A holographic driver shimmered into view on the curb, acting as though it pulled open the motorized door.

“Miss Kirsten Wren?”

“Yes.”

From the back seat, Konstantin held out an arm, offering a narrow glass of champagne. He had changed into a black velvety suit with a violet ascot. Interior lights gleamed over his shaved head. Kirsten suppressed the urge to bite her lip, staring at the drink. It might almost be worth it to wake up on a yacht.

“Be careful, hon.” Her father patted her on the shoulder and dissipated.

She lifted the long left side of the dress and slipped into the car, accepting the glass. The illusory driver nudged the door closed; the effect would have worked better had the actuated door not been audible.

“You’re radiant.” He held up a matching glass.

Clink.

“So is this where you tell me you’re some kind of thousand-year-old vampire from Siberia and you’re going to take me back there with you?”

A genuine laugh lifted both his eyebrows. “You have quite the imagination, Miss Wren.”

He’s moving closer. Miss now, instead of Agent.

“Well, I’ve seen some things that make me wonder.”

Konstantin smiled. “I believe those creatures are still a thing of myth, though I am familiar with one or two unusual beings that may have given rise to the legend.”

“I’m psionic.” She studied the half-drained glass in her hand, just noticing she forgot nail polish as well. Dammit.

Again, he chuckled. “Working for Division 0, I sort of assumed. It is a requirement, yes?”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Her defense crumbled for a moment as her head spun left.

“I find it fascinating. The world is full of too many closed-minded fools who hate what they cannot understand.” He lifted a few strands of hair from her eyes, tucked it behind her ear, and brushed his fingers across her head. “It angers me when the innocent suffer due to ignorance.”

Her gaze slipped off him to the floor as a tremble ran through her. “I…”

Konstantin clasped her left wrist, drawing her arm toward him. He held her hand in both of his, stroking the back with one thumb. “Someone hurt you, someone close.”

Giant moths did backflips in her gut. The interior of the limo blurred into a spiral as she tried to figure out how she should feel. His fingertips traced the soft skin along the underside of her left forearm, sending ripples of energy up into her chest.

“Mother.” She swallowed the rest of the champagne. “Religious nut. She tried to beat the Devil out of me.” Kirsten thought back to the grime-covered ten-year-old with only a torn nightgown to protect her from The Beneath. How she went from a starving ragamuffin crawling through the underbelly of the city to wearing a six-thousand-credit gown while sitting next to a billionaire mystified her.

He continued to caress her arm; the touch changed from strange and electrifying to welcoming and soothing. “I am thankful you are so resilient. I find it odd how the ones who claim to be holiest are usually the ones who cause the most suffering.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. They always say forgive, and turn the other cheek. But they just want the other cheek so they can slap it.”

Konstantin laughed. “I think you have dwelled on misery long enough for one day. Come, let us enjoy ourselves.”

Kirsten had not even noticed the car land. He let himself out and met her at the curb as her door opened. Konstantin took her by the hand, walking past a long waiting line in front of the Toko Lounge. Giant Japanese kanji traced themselves in the air above the door, holographic blue painted as if by an unseen brush. They just began to change to English as she lost sight of them beneath the archway.

Konstantin addressed the doorman in Japanese, bows were exchanged, and soon they arrived at a quiet table in a private room on the third floor. Pale wood and rice paper partitions sectioned it off from other spaces. None of the tables downstairs had chairs, just cushions, though this room catered to those in search of a less authentic virtual visit to Japanese custom. Konstantin pulled a chair out for her, and she surrendered her jacket to the attendant and took a seat.

The dark red cushion hit the bare skin of her back cold, she tensed until body heat equalized. Sheer fabric pulled taut over her breasts as she arched in response to the chill. Fortunately, Konstantin was enough of a gentleman not to stare.

“I do hope you fancy sushi, it is rather good here. Of course, they have plenty of other things as well.”

“I’m fond of it. I think I’ll have the sashimi.”

“Why don’t we get the ‘for-two’ then, I was thinking the same.”

“All right. Excuse me just a moment, need to use the ladies’ room.”

The simulated rice-paper door slid open on its own at her approach, and she found the restrooms at the end of a short hallway past another dozen private dining rooms. After setting her bag on the counter between sinks, she fumbled through it in search of her Nanochroma. Squeezing the handle turned it on, and a plain white light at the narrow end flashed in a slow blink.

Kirsten held it to the side of the dress until it beeped, and then positioned the tip over her left thumbnail. A single drop of green liquid exuded from it, fell onto the nail, and spread into an even coating of the exact same shade of green as her dress. She repeated the process for every nail, finger and toe, and blew the powdery white remnants of spent nanobots away from the enamel.

By the time she returned to the table, salad and miso soup had arrived.

“I took the liberty of requesting a pot of green tea. I was not sure what manner of drink you fancied.”

This is where I need to be careful and not… damn he’s hot, well maybe one.

“I guess just a synvod and orange juice is fine.”

His mouth gaped. “Oh, my.”

“What?”

“I can’t imagine referring to such a ghastly substance as vodka.” He winked.

“Sorry, I’m on a police budget. I also don’t drink often, maybe once every few months. Usually, I only use it to help me fall asleep after seeing something really awful.”

“Well, at least try one tonight. So you know what you’re missing.”

She chuckled. “Okay, but I shouldn’t lose my wits in the presence of such a dashing rogue.”

He cocked his head to the side and bowed.

“So, you said you found something out about the circle? Can we get that out of the way?” She battled her purse to remove the datapad.

“Of course.” He set his NetMini in the middle of the table and prodded it. A hologram of the circle shimmered into existence. “This part of the pictograph binds the ritual to an entity named Charazu.”

“Charazu? Is that what he calls himself as a ghost?”

Konstantin swallowed a condescending chuckle. “I trust you have heard of the Abyss.” He waited for her nod. “Mankind is still a baby in the eyes of the world. Beings existed long before we did, some of which are native to that place. Charazu is one such being, ancient.”

“A demon?” She set the empty soup bowl aside.

“He, or it, would better be served by that moniker than an escaped spirit. Things such as Charazu never took a mortal breath.”

“Okay, so the circle was what, dedicated to him?”

“I believe so. Mind you, this is just an assumption based on old texts and a little instinct. If you believe in this sort of thing, a circle such as this could have provided the creature a gateway into our world.”

Her seaweed salad seemed less appealing. “Is there any way to tell if it came through or not?” She thought back to the burning scratches. Her fingers traced over her exposed back, icy against the undamaged skin. “Never mind.”

“There was one reference to him I was able to find. He is known for trickery and shadow; however, the texts claim his greatest ability is to recall the souls of the dead from the prison of Gehenna.”

“Hell?”

“Well, I think of the Abyss as being sectioned off by degrees. Gehenna is the place where the wicked are sent, those with little hope to change. The ones who are tainted yet seek redemption languish in Sheol, while the outer realm of the Abyss overlaps our world. Those too impure to…” He made an upward patting gesture. “Go up, but not tainted enough to attract the Harbingers linger around the mortal world as ghosts.”

“The astral world? You’re saying the astral realm is purgatory or something?”

Konstantin leaned back while servers cleared away the salad and soup dishes and placed a large tray of sashimi between them.

“Hauntings are just souls who weren’t good enough to get let in upstairs and weren’t bad enough to get dragged down. It’s a romantic notion of mine to consider the powers of fate giving them the opportunity to make up their mind where they want to go.”

“What do you think sits on the other side? Do you think there’s a God?”

“If there is, it’s either so powerful it regards us as ants, or it’s cruel. Don’t you think? If such a thing did exist as benevolent as some will claim, it doesn’t make sense he, she, or it lets the innocent suffer so much.”

“Dorian said something once about life just being some kind of test for the soul, and it’s different on the other side.”

“I’ve heard similar theories bandied about as well.” He paused with a meditative calm, enduring an overdose of wasabi. “I still think it unfair to force the weak to suffer for some metaphysical evaluation. Life should be enjoyed, not tolerated.”

Easy to say with a starship full of credits. “I think this Charazu got out, and he brought some spirits back with him.”

“I’m sure you will be able to stop it”―a glint sparkled in his right eye―“now that you know its name.”

An uneasy smile spread across her face. Much to her surprise, the dinner conversation did not damage her appetite. The sushi, and real vodka, proved to be quite good, though she did not expect she would ever return to this place on her own credit account. No sushi was worth three thousand credits, even if an army of stone-sculpted men hand-fed it to her.

“May I invite you in for coffee?” Konstantin held her hands as they waited for the limo to come around.

The shifting azure-to-red of the Toko Lounge sign changed the color of his face, lending an otherworldly glow that made him hard to resist.

“I’m in the process of adopting a gifted boy with a similar talent. I left him with a babysitter that’s expecting me―”

Konstantin leaned toward her, dark eyes sparkling. She turned away with demure reluctance. His kiss fell on the side of her neck rather than her lips; the warmth of his breath plunged into her body like droplets of blood striking water. Strength in her legs faltered; she twisted into him, achingly aware only a thin drape of cloth prevented her breasts from touching him. Craning her neck, she let go of his hands and held on to his body to keep from falling. His lips traced from her jawline to the nape of her neck.

Fire swirled through her heart; despite the cold, she felt close to sweating. His hand under her jacket, warm fingers slid over her back. Helpless in his arms, her breaths came in deep rushes that sent waves of warmth through her. She waited for the imaginary fangs to pierce her neck, for a moment not caring what he did to her. Wanting him, needing him, she edged to the precipice of surrender; ready to plunge headlong into to the delight of his desire for her, to her body’s response to his touch. This man, wealthy enough to have any woman in the world, wanted her.

Kirsten did not care how many ghosts would crowd around the bed to watch. She leaned into his warmth, head forward over his shoulder as she rose up on tiptoe. The kissing walked back across her shoulder and up her neck. Burning threads of longing paralyzed her. Every ounce of her body cried out for him. Nila could watch Evan a little longer. He would not mind a sleep over.

Evan.

His face floated in her thoughts, grinning, hazel eyes gleaming with innocent love.

Kirsten lifted her head. Why would she think of Evan now?

Konstantin kissed her on the cheek, then on the lips, offering a scoundrel’s grin as he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “Have you reconsidered?”

She shifted to meet his gaze, heels again on the ground. As though his speech startled her out of a daydream, she blinked.

“I…” What am I doing? She shivered, though not from the cold. “I’d love to, but…” Back seat? Gah, no! “I only have someone to watch Evan till ten. He’s the worrying type.” Her heart tried to beat its way through her ribs. Konstantin’s going to get mad.

Drawing her hand up for a kiss along the back of her knuckles, he winked. “I admire a woman who understands things worth having are things worth waiting for. Instant gratification is the purview of weak minds.”

Oh, I wouldn’t mind some instant gratification right now. Her body protested the abrupt roundabout her brain pulled. Why did I think about Evan right now? Oh, shit, maybe he’s in trouble…

“Shall I make reservations for next Friday?” He helped her into the limo.

“Okay.” The answer came autonomic, body overruled brain.

If she could stop worrying about the abyssals running around, perhaps she could allow herself to stop suffering. The desperate stare she sent at Konstantin’s chest turned away as he opened the door and got in. If she looked at him, if he asked one more time, she might not be able to resist.

itching the one-inch heels, Kirsten sprinted barefoot from the parking deck to the elevator, fidgeting the entire way to the thirty-ninth before running to Nila’s door. At the sound of two happy sounding children shouting “I got it” at the same time, she relaxed.

The door squeaked aside, revealing Evan and Shani squished into each other in a race to be the first to push the button. Shani looked down at the floor, a quiver of fear rattling through her. Kirsten stumbled into the apartment, half dragged by the enthusiastic grip of a nine-year-old boy thrilled to see her. Nila wandered in from the back, investigating the ruckus. Patches of blue, pink, and white light painted the ceiling of the dim living room, cast off from a large holo-bar projecting the image of a paused two-player game. Whatever it was, it seemed girly and involved cartoon rabbits―though Evan had apparently tolerated it to have something to do.

“I’m sorry.” Shani ground her toes into the rug.

Kirsten let her black bag slide from her shoulder and knelt. “Shani, it wasn’t your fault. A bad man did something to your head.”

Shani stared down, fidgeting with her dress. “I have bad dreams. Do you still want to shoot me?”

Those words brought tears. Kirsten looked at Nila, as if for permission, and after receiving a nod, pulled the girl into a hug. “I never wanted to shoot you, Shani. I…” would’ve just stood there and let you kill me. “…could never do it.”

Evan looked horrified. “Why would Mom shoot you? You’re not a bad ghost.”

Kirsten pulled him into the hug as well. “A bad person forced her to point a gun at me.”

Shani sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Thank you for not killing me.”

Nila shivered. “Commander Ashford said you got it all. He couldn’t find any latent triggers.”

“Can I borrow your bathroom or bedroom to change real quick?”

“Of course.” Nila gestured at the rear hall. “Coffee?”

The kids ran around the couch and dove into the cushions where they resumed the game.

“Sounds good.”

In the back bedroom, Kirsten removed a plain, blue long-sleeve shirt, black pants, and a pair of Nomz. After changing, she pushed the small metal cat face on the tip of the sneakers, and they adjusted themselves to a perfect fit.

She paused at the entrance to the living room, watching the children control cartoon bunnies navigating a three-dimensional maze in search of candy-like fruits, vegetables, and stars. When the smell of coffee found her nose, she dropped the bag behind the couch and went into the kitchen. At the sight of her pink-and-white cat sneakers, Nila laughed.

“Aren’t you a little old for those?” She poured them each a cup. “I didn’t know they made them in adult sizes.”

“They’re huge in Japan. It’s a cult thing, I guess.” Kirsten fell into a tall stool-seat by the island counter. “I thought they were cute.”

“I thought you got tired of being teased about looking so young. They don’t help.”

“Bah.” She sipped it black. “I guess I’m just trying to sneak in a few moments of a lost childhood here and there.”

Nila gave her that patronizing, sympathetic look she always resented; the kind of look only someone with parents who accepted their kid’s talents could give someone like her. For Dorian’s sake, she did not take it as condescending.

“How are your parents doing?”

Nila added an inordinate amount of Glucosim to her coffee, enough to where Kirsten expected the spoon to stand up in it. “I called them once Ashford got done scrubbing my brain. I don’t even remember if I spoke to them since Dorian was killed. They’re doing well, considering going to Cairo on vacation next month.”

“Cairo? What, actual Egypt?” Kirsten blinked.

“Don’t look so shocked, it’s not ACC. Most of the region is independent still, though not for lack of trying. I don’t think anyone will ever take it over.” She winked.

“Thanks for watching Evan tonight.”

“How’d it go? I want all the juicy details.”

Kirsten regaled her with the ever-so-boring recap; leaving out the fine details of the demons.

“Oh, hard to get? That’s evil of you. Well don’t push it too far; millionaire playboys like him don’t come along every day.”

“No.” She furrowed her brow. “They don’t.”

As tired as she felt, Kirsten found it amazing Evan’s endless ramble about the game he and Shani spent most of the day playing did not bother her. Nothing odd happened to him, he did not feel threatened or watched, though he did admit to a sudden pang of worry about her. She found it disconcerting that the thought of him would come on as such a powerful distraction with Konstantin’s tongue on the side of her neck. She guided the patrol craft a few meters away from Nila’s building, resisting the urge to hit the bar lights when traffic offered no quick opportunity to join the stream.

“Why are you red again?”

“I’m worrying.”

“Oh. Job stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Shani said she had a nightmare in her head that made her shoot her mom.” Evan’s face hardened into a determined glare. “Don’t worry. No one is powerful enough to make me shoot you.”

She reached over and held his hand, flashing a smile. An opening in the lane shot past, and she gunned it, coming in above the stream of cars before settling down into the gap.

Her forearm guard rang, muffled. She left it bundled in the uniform in the bag, which was in the back seat. Evan scrambled through the gap and rummaged for the source of the noise. It stopped ringing just as he held it up. With a shrug, he carried it with him back into the front seat and studied his reflection in the shiny black surface.

It rang again, this time he answered. N0ra appeared, eyeliner smeared down her cheeks, her voice wavering.

“Kid? Sorry, I guess I misdial―”

“Nora?” Kirsten shouted. “I’m here, just driving. That’s Evan. What’s wrong?”

“You told me to call you if something weird happened.”

“Did you see Vikram’s ghost?”

“I dunno what it was.” She sniffled, threatening to explode into tears at any moment. “Something black came out of the walls. The Promacor guys went crazy. They started shooting at everything. I’m so damn scared I can’t stop shaking. I ran like a mother… It, this black thing followed me out of the building. The guys at the front gate were all dead. I had to climb the friggin fence ̓cause the power was out.” N0ra held up a bloody, shredded sleeve. “Fucking hate barbed wire.” She shivered, hands against her mouth for a moment, and looked up at someone behind her. “Sorry for swearing. I’m, okay… I’ve got the police on the phone,” she said to the person behind her before facing the VidPhone. “It felt so evil, it wanted to kill me.”

“Where are you?”

N0ra’s image blurred and faded, though the sound of crying came through loud and clear. A man in his middle forties appeared, the image wobbled and blurred as the phone worked to compensate for focus.

“Who is this? Are you this girl’s mo… no, sister?”

“Agent Kirsten Wren, Division 0 police. You are?”

He seemed to relax. “Father Carlos Villera, Five Hundredth Street Sanctuary.”

The expected instant dislike of a priest surprised her with its absence. “I’ll be right there.”

“Can I turn on the police stuff?” Evan bounced in his seat.

“Go ahead, but put your belt on.”

Evan readily secured himself in the seat. “Yaaaaay! Are we gonna go shoot bad guys?” he yelled, louder than the siren.

“I have no idea what’s waiting for us. Stay in the car, please.”

He nodded, smirking. “Awright.”

Dorian leaned in from the back seat, yawning as if coming out of a deep nap. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Yeah, like the dead.”

Evan rolled his eyes.

The Five Hundredth Street Sanctuary was located in the husk of an old hardware store, complete with a disused parking lot full of trash. Amid a merchant-zoned section of the city, it sat at about the midpoint of CR 500, an east-west conduit running through a poor manufacturing section. Churches, per se, had not much survived the corporate war and restructuring of society along the coastal regions. Increasing secularization combined with the need to cram so many millions of people into one city had all but eliminated the plausibility of monolithic cathedrals, temples, mosques, or the like; a fact Kirsten did not mind. However, as the faithful are wont to do, pockets of them continued in improvised locations. Most of the religious buildings she knew about were underneath the plates. Some of the truly dedicated would even make the trek down there, believing the original places to be sacred. Some, like Father Carlos Villera, obtained the resources to use commercially zoned buildings.

“I didn’t even realize there was a church here,” Kirsten said, landing at the far end of a parking lot to avoid a line of vagrants stacked up at the door.

The rest of the strip mall had closed at this hour, save for an all-night liquor store all the way on the left side.

“It’s more of an outreach to the homeless.” Dorian slipped into the driver’s seat as Kirsten got out. “There are still a few religious people left in the world.” He winked.

Kirsten got out, leaning back in to ruffle Evan’s hair. “Okay, Dorian’s here with you. I―” She froze.

The boy spun to stare out the window, the pass-through screen showed nothing out of the ordinary.

“I feel it, too.” Dorian pointed. “Something’s in the alley.”

She eased the door closed just as N0ra appeared in the window of the repurposed store. Seeing Kirsten, she battled her way through the waiting street people to the door; but stopped. The girl did not seem to want to step outside. Finding N0ra’s behavior odd, Kirsten jogged across the parking lot; squirming from the uncomfortable E-90 stuck through her belt against her back. A series of appraising looks and a whistle or two came from the men standing amid the smell of mass-cooked food. As Kirsten reached the door, N0ra reached out and grabbed her shirt.

“It’s still out there. I saw this place and ran inside. It didn’t come in after me.” The teen sniveled, as if ten years had been scared out of her. “Is Kincaid still alive? I didn’t see. They were all shooting. Please, don’t let it get me.”

Kirsten offered a consoling hug, patting her on the back until the sobs petered out. “I won’t.”

N0ra went stiff and pale, eyes focused over Kirsten’s shoulder.

Kirsten whirled, one hand behind her back on the weapon. Seneschal stood at the center of the parking lot. She pulled the gun out.

“Well, Agent Wren. You seem to be out of uniform.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Still here, I see. Guess you got away from them.”

“Indeed. They are rather single minded and a bit stupid. Like cops.”

“Why are you after the girl? She has nothing to do with this.”

He shifted, entering a slow circling pace, hands folded behind him. “The same reason you dragged our buddy around with you for a few days. Bait. He knows what she did to him. He’s the one that wants to harm her, not us. She helped us. If not for her, Lyris would never have known who compromised the production facility. Vikram cost us billions, by the way.”

“Why do you care? You’re dead.” She waved the gun at him. “You’re beyond dead; you’re dead and returned.”

A finger in her shoulder from behind; the scent of vomit mixed with piss choked the air from her throat. “Hey, you got any left?” Clad in grimy, tattered clothes, a dangerously thin man trembled―a human chihuahua offering a hopeful smile.

“Any what left?”

“Whatever you’re on dat yer talkin ta no one.”

Light flickered in her eyes. “Go inside, eat something.”

He spun on his heel and the rigid walk of an automaton carried him into the building.

“It’s a question of oaths.” Seneschal stopped pacing. “We want her to finish helping us. He will come for her, and then we can finish what we need to finish.”

“I won’t let you destroy him.”

“You still think he’s so innocent, do you? Even after the girl told you what he did. He has the blood of thousands on his hands. Valves and pumps kicked on in the dead of night, triggered by a spark that formed across a synapse in his brain and traveled thousands of miles over the GlobeNet. It still killed people.”

“Neither you nor I are fit to judge anyone.” She took another step at him. “You don’t belong here.”

“Your friend Vikram is one of us, sweetie.” He snarled the last word. “Charazu called all four of us. We had instructions to take him alive. He cost us money. Lyris management wanted him to work it off. Dead men don’t pay debts. He blew us all to hell when he couldn’t find a way out. Your innocent little Vikram killed all three of us, and himself, and twenty thousand people halfway across the world. Those little wispy horrors of yours dragged us all down.”

“Innocent people are getting caught up in your idiocy. I know where you belong.” Kirsten flexed the fingers of her right hand. “You don’t have to be consigned to your fate, Dalton. Destroying Vikram won’t make you any less dead. Let go of your anger and help me with the real problem. Help me deal with Charazu.”

Silence, but for a vortex of wind pushing a cloud of plastic cartons along. Seneschal’s eyes narrowed, deepening the lines around them. In the distance, a cat screeched. A battered oblong advert droid rounded the corner of the building, creeping closer to her like a child afraid to be hit. Its holo-panel cycled through recruitment propaganda intended to attract the local poor into the flock of a Reverend B.G. Wallis, a dark-skinned man in a plum suit wearing the smile of a salesman.

Kirsten ignored it.

“That would be something, wouldn’t it? Turn around and bite the entity responsible for my power?” A polyphonic laugh, deeper than any human could create, leaked from his throat. Crimson glowed within his eyes. “You are living a delusion. There is no redemption, only varying degrees of suffering.”

With those words, a cloud of black vapor fell out of the folds of his long black coat, settling over his arm into the shape of an assault rifle―which he aimed at Evan’s face in the open driver side window.

Evan let out a yell and ducked down as the armor panel slid upward out of the door. Kirsten screamed and lunged into a sprint, bringing the lash spiraling into the air. The instant of confusion experienced from not expecting the boy to react to his presence left him open. Seneschal staggered from the strike, her attack caught him in the shoulder and the lash stopped midway through his chest. Arms out to his sides, he looked down at the line of white light tracing from his body to her hand.

The sight of the astral thread caused the last holdouts in the food line to disperse in a panic.

His face darkened as he walked into the stream. “You are too easy to manipulate.” Another step, the agony cracked through his attempt to remain stoic. “Now I know who to kill after Vikram. It won’t be quick.”

Kirsten gathered her rage, about to channel it into her power when his body blurred. Hard, cold metal collided with the side of her head. Seneschal’s rifle swatted her to the ground, ending her concentration. He rubbed the center of his chest, wheezing. Anger flared in his eyes as he squeezed black ichor through the fingers of a trembling fist. Kirsten clutched her bleeding left ear in an effort to stop the world from spinning.

“I’m getting really rather bored of you.” Seneschal lifted the rifle.

At a thought, she became tangible to spirits, and spun into a kick that took his left leg out from under him. Her cat-themed sneaker meowed with the impact. The rifle went off; shots clicked upon the traction-coated plastisteel behind her, tearing shiny stripes through the grainy black surface. Seneschal waved his arms in a search for balance. Kirsten continued the kick into a spin that brought her feet under her. He came out of the stagger; she thrust her arm out, glimmering tendril behind it. Rather than taste it again, Seneschal aborted his shot and dove to the side.

She stepped in and he leaned left, avoiding another strike. Metal claws sprouted from the fingers of his left hand a second before black pulsating veins grew along them. He leapt; she crouched, spinning into an attempt at a jiu-jitsu arm grapple. Tucked against him, she held on to his wrist with both hands, trying to pull him around and over her shoulder. One shove with her hips against his body should have sent him airborne, however, her feet found no ground beneath them. Released from the practiced maneuver, her mind had two seconds to comprehend Seneschal had lifted her one-handed. Claws scratched at her stomach as he groped at her belt for a better grip, continuing to heft her higher. Kirsten shot a pleading stare at the patrol craft as he carried her four steps across the parking lot toward it. He spun as if to slam her into the hood. She screamed with a mixture of fear and fury, struggling to push his hand away.

Dorian leapt through the door, tackling Seneschal. Kirsten fell in place, bent over the hood. Evan crawled down and curled in a ball on the floor in front of the driver’s seat, plenty of armor around him to stop a conventional attack; but this was anything but.

Seneschal lost his grip on his rifle, which dissipated into black smoke as he grabbed Dorian’s shirt with both hands. The men rolled over several times, grunting. Kirsten searched for an opening, but refused to move away from the car. This is my fault; I should have taken him back to the dorm.

After suffering several blows, each of which would have crippled a living man in one hit, Dorian lost himself to a moment of rage and seized Seneschal’s face in both hands, pounding the back of his head repeatedly into the ground.

A vagrant darted out from behind the only other parked car there, running in a panic toward Kirsten as if on his way out of the lot. She shifted towards him, frowned, and snapped the lash. The homeless man disintegrated into a cloud of smoke, which fell to the ground as a curtain of darkness before it rematerialized into Mariko a few feet away. Her face, the most distorted of the trio, grew even less human as she snarled through conical teeth.

“Ninja sminja, you’re still a damn ghost, and I can feel you.” Kirsten struck out again.

Mariko evaded, still hissing. She scurried left in a circle, moving low to the ground in an inhuman creep. With the lion’s share of her worry in front of her, Kirsten advanced, swiping twice more at the ground as Mariko leapt flea-like into the air to avoid each one.

Dorian came sliding past her, startling her attention over to Seneschal’s rifle. She dropped focus on the lash and held both hands at him, fixing her mind onto the coalescence of his energy. His entire figure shuddered, forced down and to the left. The effect of her concentration settled over him in the form of immense weight on his gun arm, keeping his aim low. She pushed harder, desperate to prevent her tactical error from harming Evan.

Seneschal howled, dropping to one knee. Dorian leapt onto him with a stunrod across the face that knocked him flat. Mariko came out of nowhere; her sword cut a path of ice through Kirsten’s left calf. No blood, no wound, though pain commensurate with the loss of a limb paralyzed her mind.

Concentration shot, Kirsten fell forward. A hasty look to the rear found no trace of Mariko. Seneschal, enraged, drove his fist into Dorian’s gut with such force it threw him ten feet in the air. The rifle formed in his grip.

“Seneschal!” Kirsten screamed. Fear at losing track of Mariko reformed the scintillating lash. Her rage at his threatening Evan empowered it.

The attack blasted Seneschal’s body apart into a vee from the stomach upward, two halves scarcely connected at the crotch with a few traces of inky black threaded between them. Mariko leapt again out of the dark, landing on Kirsten’s back. In one smooth motion, she grabbed, twisted, and broke Kirsten’s right arm at the elbow. Shrieking, Kirsten rolled onto her back, projecting another lash up at the demonic ninja from her forehead.

“Oww, you bitch.” Kirsten winced. “I don’t need to aim it with my damn arm.”

Bending at an inhuman angle, Mariko leaned over backward as the strike went over her. Her face poked out between her knees with a cute toothy grin and a tilted head. Pointed teeth gleamed through a mouth twice as wide as it should be.

So damn creepy. Kirsten whimpered, crawling backwards.

Leaving the mangled Seneschal wavering about, Dorian charged. Mariko avoided him with the grace of a matador. Her breath in short gasps, Kirsten reached for her belt to grab a stimpak, losing control of herself and screaming ‘“shit” about a dozen times when she remembered her civilian clothes did not include a utility belt―or a panic button. Seneschal’s right half waved its arm about, trying to get a grip on the left side of his body. Mariko pounced at Kirsten, catching her too-slow roll to the side. The semisolid blade pierced her other thigh, sending a burning chill along the bone. Neither one of Kirsten’s legs wanted to obey, both dragged limp and useless as she clawed at the traction coating to drag herself to the car. Bits of rubber caked like coffee grinds under her nails as she scratched.

Mariko lurched forward, shot in the back by Dorian’s projection of a sidearm. She turned on him, throwing a transparent Nano-shuriken right through his face. Dorian smirked.

“That works better on live targets, hon.”

Screeching, Mariko flung herself to the ground, scampering on all fours, a human-headed shadow serpent. Dorian rotated, following her circuitous approach. Mariko closed in and sprang upward, arcing through the air behind her sword. Dorian just barely got his stun rod in the way of the first strike; however, the next four swiped through him before he could pull his arm back from the first block. Mariko’s body had split into four pairs of arms wielding four swords; Kirsten cringed away from the sound.

Dorian wheezed, staggering away. He sent a longing look at the car, but fixed her with a determined stare as he swooned to the ground.

Mariko grinned, her eyes flickering red. “You watch girl die now.”

A wave of flame spread over the ninja, tinting the air with a hint of sulphur as thick, dark smoke wafted from the edges of her silhouette. Mariko stepped through the boundary, manifesting herself solid into the world. The twisted, demonic smile shrank to a more human-sized mouth, somehow cute and sad at the same time. Mariko’s skin turned grey and lifeless as a line of gleam slid down the blade.

Now her sword would cut flesh.

Kirsten grabbed her thigh with her one working hand, trying to rub warmth into it, trying to get her dead limbs to respond. She pushed at the ground, sliding back a few inches. Mariko stalked her, taking her sweet time.

Seneschal’s fingers caught some hair, pulling the two halves closer.

Dorian roared, charging. The Japanese woman froze in place, smiling at Kirsten with the mournful look a little girl would give to a favored doll that had broken. When Dorian’s rush was two paces behind her, she thrust herself backwards. The now-solid Mariko passed through Dorian’s ghostly essence, leaving him staggering over Kirsten.

Kirsten flung a lash upward from her left hand as Mariko stabbed at Dorian’s back. The flinching blade nicked his side rather than impaled him, but he still fell over and melted into a cloud of fog.

Mariko stepped up on Kirsten, raising the blade with a look in her eye as if she was willing to walk into a hit from a lash just to get a clean kill shot. The tip pointed at Kirsten’s heart, Mariko leaned forward, palm on the end of the handle. Power formed in the back of Kirsten’s weary mind, an opposition of strength between the two women.

Growling, Mariko forced the sword down an inch at a time, lost an inch, gained two, lost three. Kirsten’s nose leaked hot blood, flooding her mouth with the taste of copper. Exertion beyond her limit taxed her body to the point of self-harm. If she slipped, even a little, a solid metal blade would be through her chest in an instant.

Kirsten searched for any last trace of extra power. Please… I can’t leave him helpless.

The dark shape hovering over her washed out with a sudden blinding light. Mariko crossed her arms over her face to shield her eyes, hissing. Kirsten blinked, having no idea what she just did.

Hot ionic downblast buffeted her as the patrol craft thundered overhead, two feet off the ground. Kirsten sat up as it passed, covered in crackling sparks and tasting ozone. She stared in disbelief as it crashed through the front wall of the Five Hundredth Street Sanctuary with Mariko wrapped over the front end. The armored hovercar slammed to a halt, flinging Mariko into the center of a bank of folding chairs by a pulpit.

The building filled with smoke and light, and a decaying roar sounding as if it came from a four hundred pound monstrosity rather than a four-foot-eleven Asian woman. All the electric lights in the place flickered, went dark, and then exploded.

Mariko shuddered and wailed. Patches of crimson radiance shone from cracks spreading over her augmented bodysuit. White smoke billowed off her, crackling with sparks. She lurched forward, trying to get to the door. Her leg collapsed, and what had once been Mariko Moriyama melted into a puddle of black ooze. Fingers clawed at the floor as she fought in vein not to sink out of sight. Her face receded into the liquid with a belabored final wail that faded off to silence.

The interior of the church went dark as the spectral glow from the disintegrating abyssal faded.

Fist pounding into her thigh did little good; Kirsten did not even feel it. Evan emerged from the patrol craft door, dragging her utility belt behind him. His face, red and tear-streaked, brightened when he saw her moving despite trickles of blood.

“Mommy!” He cried out as he ran to her.

Hearing that word come out of him for the first time brought tears to her eyes. Kirsten forgot about her numb leg and squeezed him. When the embrace relaxed enough to notice his fat lip and bloody nose, she almost panicked.

She fussed at his injury. “What happened?”

“Uhh. I just drove your car into a building.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

Kirsten took a stimpak from the belt and pressed it to his shoulder.

“You need it more,” he said, grabbing another and stabbing her in the thigh with it.

The return of sensation to the leg was less pleasant than numbness. Kirsten clutched him, because he was there, and howled from freezing agony. Evan flailed.

“I’m sorry.” He cried again. “I wanted to hel―”

“It’s fine.” She squeezed. “Gimme another one.”

He did, making a noise like a stepped-on goose as she held on to survive the wave of agony.

Kirsten fell flat to the ground, paralyzed by the absence of pain. “Oh, yeah. I’ll feel that in my dreams for a few months.” Kirsten lifted her head; the smile she wanted to give Evan fell away when she saw all the color absent from his face.

Twisting to look in the same direction as his glassy-eyed stare, Kirsten’s heart skipped two beats at the sight of an intact Seneschal seething at them as if their happiness offended him. He peered at Evan, looking into the depths of his soul. Kirsten wobbled to her feet, shoving the boy behind her. Her legs faltered and she landed on her ass. Evan stepped in front of her; her one usable hand grabbed at his shirt collar and tried to pull him back.

He glared up at the former corporate solider. “Leave my mommy alone.”

Kirsten hooked her fingers through his belt and pulled him back. Another trickle of blood left her nose as she forced a lash into existence. With a final promising glare at the child, Seneschal dissipated into a mass of black fog and sank into the ground.

“No…” She turned, resting her chin over his shoulder. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

“Mom?”

Kirsten’s eyes leaked. She adored hearing him call her that. “Yes, Evan?”

He pointed at a foggy mass clinging to the ground. “Do stimpaks work on Dorian?”

van clung to her side, helping Kirsten stumble across the parking lot to the door of the Five Hundredth Street Sanctuary. The place reeked of bad eggs and wood smoke. Glass, scattered about from the crash, crunched under their feet. None of the local destitutes were in sight; hazy, dust-filled air was all that remained inside. Tilted nose-down, the patrol craft had lurched to a stop with its rear end propped up on the windowsill and the nose on the floor. Fog leaked through the armored doors over the still-retracted wheels, forming a cloud beneath the hissing vehicle. Not knowing which arm he could touch without pain, Evan guided her along by the belt, heading for a row of still-intact chairs. Both of them whirled at a sudden noise; Kirsten’s instinct to raise her E-90 resulted in a twitch of the arm, and a gasp as she clamped her good hand over the broken limb.

N0ra crawled out from beneath a pile of crumbled drywall. Kirsten let all the air out of her lungs, creating whorls in the aerosolized dust. The scarlet-haired teen dragged herself free of the collapse and leaned into the wall, proceeding to gnaw her anxiety out of her fingernails.

“What the fuck just happened?” asked N0ra, abandoning her nail biting due to the flavor they had acquired.

Kirsten let gravity plant her in the seat and pulled Evan into her lap. “My best guess is Vikram has been following me and overheard your confession. I bet what happened at the wharf was him trying to take revenge on you. I bet the ones I just ran into here showed up trying to kill him, and their distraction let you slip away.”

N0ra shivered, sliding down until she sat on the floor. “That shit is real?” She trembled hard enough to alter the sound of her voice. “B… But it’s not fair. He was doing evil shit and I just turned him in. I didn’t do anything bad.” For a few seconds, N0ra seemed about to sob, but then went placid.

Oh, shit. That’s not a good sign; she’s not handling it well. “It doesn’t always work this way. Vikram should not have gotten out of where he wound up.”

“He’s going to keep coming after me, isn’t he?”

Evan looked at N0ra, lifting his face out of Kirsten’s shirt. “My mommy will get him.”

Kirsten kissed him on top of the head. Despite logic saying she should be worried sick, all she felt was proud and loved. Father Carlos Villera emerged from a rear hallway, waving his arms through lingering smoke and trying to clear his throat. Kirsten could not tell from the look on his face if he was more stunned by the patrol craft in the main room or by the utter lack of vagrants waiting for food.

Noticing the blood on Kirsten, Evan, and N0ra’s faces, he ran over. “God save us, are you all right?”

“I’ve had better days, but I think so.” Kirsten coughed from the dust.

Evan gave her a thumbs-up.

N0ra just stared into space.

“Father, would you please grab the bag in the back seat of the car?” Kirsten winced. “I don’t really feel up to standing right now.”

He nodded.

Dorian stumbled through the wall, looking transparent.

“What the…” The priest froze, aghast at the ground in front of the car.

The alarm in his voice caused Kirsten to struggle in an effort to stand. Evan squirmed off her lap and pulled her up by the unbroken arm. He held on, a living crutch supporting her as she ambled over to the crash scene. There, on the ground in front of the car, a black scorch mark stained the cheap orange and white tiles. Fragments of glowing embers remained, having settled to the ground in a pattern resembling some form of writing. From the center of the spot, a dark green wisp of sulfur-scented smoke wavered.

Despite the ominous appearance, Kirsten sensed no lingering presence. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now. At least this one didn’t scratch me.”

Father Villera shifted toward her muttering something in Latin before asking in English, “Scratches?”

Kirsten sighed. “Yeah, three lines down my back. Hurt more than it should.”

He put a hand on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and muttered Latin again for a moment. “That is the sign of a dark creature. Why it has marked you, I cannot say. Perhaps it watches, perhaps it weakens you against itself… I shall pray for you.”

Yeah, go ahead and do that. She softened the bile in her stare. “Thanks…” S’pose I’ll take any help at this point.

Father Villera helped her back to the seat and retrieved her bag, then fetched some stew for N0ra. She remained sitting on the floor against the front wall, staring at the steaming bowl as though she had no idea what it was. Evan fished out her armguard, which she used to call for backup.

Dorian limped over to the stain on the ground, and the matching smear on the hood. “Well, you were wondering if the choice of location did anything for Ritchie. If this is any indication, I’d say it did.”

Kirsten surveyed the room, sighing in her mind at the religious proverb posters, paintings of Jesus, and crosses. She frowned at Dorian. “I think Evan did it.”

Evan looked at her, then at Dorian, then back at Kirsten. “What?”

“Sent Mariko back where she belongs.”

“Ninjas are bad,” he said, one nod as a period.

Father Villera wandered out of sight into the hallway, returning in a moment with a broom.

Dorian glided closer and sat in the next chair. “You’ve got a rating in mind blast, and astral, and somehow found a way to mix them into the lash. They say you’re one of the strongest sensates known, and you’ve never been able to make a ghost spontaneously explode. Never mind an abyssal.”

Distant sirens grew louder.

“Maybe it’s how a mother can lift a car off their kid in a moment of extreme emotional distress.” Her face reddened. “She was kicking my ass.”

“Well… The NSK trained her how to kill since she was probably younger than him.” Dorian nudged Evan’s hair. “I bet her sanity was a matter of debate even before she died.”

The front windows glimmered with arriving patrol cars, and a MedVan.

N0ra ran and hid behind Kirsten. “I hate cops. They always give me a hard time.”

“You stick your virtual nose in places it shouldn’t go?” She cringed; pain shot through her broken limb.

“Sometimes.” N0ra sank into a chair in a row behind her, sniffing at the food.

“Well, stop doing that and they won’t give you a hard time.” Kirsten shot a pleading look at the two women in white coming through the door. “I don’t know if these things got to Vikram before they came after me. Considering they wanted to use you as bait, I think he’s still out there. I’m going to take you into protective custody for a little while until this gets sorted out.”

“What? No…” N0ra recoiled. “That’s like being arrested just without any charges.”

“I’m not standard police.” Kirsten winked, waving at one of the Zero Tactical officers. “This girl here is being targeted by a paranormal entity. Please take her into protective custody, use one of the glass rooms.”

The officer saluted. “Yes, Agent.”

Kirsten frowned at her broken right arm and twitching legs. Evan reached around her head and saluted for her.

“They have ghost-proof rooms.” He rubbed his nose. “Magic-body-proof, too.”

N0ra gave Evan a confused smirk. “Umm. Okay.”

“Go with them, the creatures coming after you can’t get through the walls of a special room where you can stay. If you want to talk to a psych, just ask.”

N0ra got up and let the officer walk her out, staring around at the room as though she had forgotten who she was.

“Poor kid.” Dorian sighed. “She’s going to need a lot of therapy; she saw too much too fast.”

“Oh, like I didn’t. I saw”―Kirsten winced as the medtechs peeled the shirt off her arm―“ouch, ow, dammit, frack.”

Evan made an unimpressed face, and then leaned to peer at her twisted and bruised arm. “That’s worth at least a fuck or two, maybe even a moth―”

She covered his mouth with her left hand. “At least wait till you’re old enough to shave.”

He pulled her arm down. “Mom, it’s 2418, it’s not like―”

“I don’t care. You’re nine, and too cute to use those words.”

The medtechs smiled at him.

Evan blushed.

Beep, chirp, twitter.

Kirsten stared at the silver box in the tech’s hand as it glided up and down over her arm.

“Agent, your arm is broken in three places and there are bone fragments invading some of the ligaments. We’ll need to―”

“Yay. Naked time.” She made a flag-waving gesture with her left index finger. “Fine, let’s get it over with if it makes the pain stop.”

The medtechs helped her stand and guided her onto a hovering stretcher, where they strapped her in for the ride. She rolled her head to the side to give Evan a reassuring smile. Around his spherical mop of hair, a ring of symbols seemed to hover like a halo. He blurred as her focus shifted to a half dozen religious icons for various faiths mounted in a circle on the far wall. Evan held her good hand, walking alongside the stretcher on the way to the door. Every few seconds, a twinge of ice ran down one of her legs.

Kirsten searched the sagging, stained tiles of the drop ceiling for answers as the medics pushed her out into the cool night air, less certain than ever about anything.

irsten sat on the edge of her comforgel pad, adoring the soft warmth of her pajamas. She idly grabbed at the carpet with her toes, fighting to stay conscious while she waited for Evan to finish getting ready for bed. Her hand ran up and down her arm, massaging the memory of the injury away. Evan stumbled out of the bathroom wearing a beard of toothpaste foam, and pajamas.

“You forgot to wipe your face,” she said, offering a tired giggle.

He stopped, blinked at her, then turned around and walked into the wall. “Ow,” he grumbled, then just wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Close enough. You should have napped at the medical facility; you’re up too late.”

Evan plodded over. She pulled him into a hug, patting him on the back. “Night, kiddo.”

He muttered a few incoherent words and turned to face his sleeping bag.

A pang of worry came out of nowhere. Kirsten stood, snagging him by the shirt and keeping him on his feet.

“What?” he whined.

“I want to teach you something.” The grip on his shirt became a hand on the back, and she whisked him over to the front door. “You remember the glass rooms?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to do something similar to our apartment.” She put her hand on the door. “If you focus your energy into the walls, you can make them solid enough to spirits so they can’t get through. Even if you sleep, if they try hard enough you will feel it.”

Interest dispelled some of his fatigue and he put both hands on the metal door.

“Think about wanting to pull a little bit of the astral world into this one. You should feel energy shifting, like a wall of jelly.”

“What flavor?” He grinned.

“Here, look in my head while I do it. It’s a lot easier if you just take in my surface thoughts―it’s hard to explain what it tast… uhh, feels like.”

When she sensed his telepathic peek, she channeled a blockade into the walls. A sense of the apartment’s three-dimensional form spread through her thoughts as energy seeped around and drew the physical and astral realms close. It was more draining than just doing the bathroom, but she was on her way to bed so it did not matter. About three quarters of the way through it, the exertion lessened and the glowing seep picked up speed around the room. Evan was helping. Soon, the line of glowing light met up with its start point and the entire space glimmered in the sublime golden radiance.

They stepped away from the wall, Evan’s eyes wide as he watched the phantasmal light shimmer across the surface and sink into the material.

“That’s awesome.” He beamed up at her once the light had absorbed into the wall. “How long does it last?”

“Until we break the integ… Umm, until we open a door or window, though it will falter after a few days, even if we don’t.”

He nodded, and scampered around the comforgel pad to his sleeping bag. Soon, he was just a little face staring at her from a bundle of blue cloth.

As soon as they approve permanent custody, I’ll get a bigger place. He needs a real bed.

She crawled over the squishy, gelatinous mass, and as soon as her head hit the pillow, the ability to sleep grew distant. Kirsten whined to herself; how was it she was still wide-awake while being so worn out? Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling tiles. Worry was high on the list of suspects, perhaps latent adrenaline from almost dying again.

Rolling to her side, she tucked an arm under her head and curled fetal, staring at Evan. For a few minutes, the memory of his calling her mommy brought back a sense of placid calm; in the weeks he had been staying here, he had never quite gotten to that point. In fact, she could not remember him ever using any term to address her directly. He had always walked into view before speaking so he did not have to call her anything at all. Watching him sleep, she did not feel so alone anymore. Even though she did not bring him into the world in a physical sense, she had no doubt she would do anything for him.

A few quiet tears of joy slipped from her eyes, tracing her nose and cheek into the pillow. The mood stalled as her mind returned to her other near-death experience this week. Almost shot dead by a seven-year-old. Kirsten sat up with a hand on her gut, trying to push the same kind of sleepless nausea out of her stomach that plagued her the night after the Saguaro Asylum.

She bent forward, easing the nightstand door open to retrieve the bottle of Synvod. A delivery droid had brought it, at her request, the night she dealt with the Wharf Stalker. She put it away half-gone the next morning. Sleep after the soul collector from the asylum required another quarter bottle.

Her right eye gazed back at her from a thin strip of reflection on the bottle. Her thumb flicked at the glass. I wonder how mother got started. Mother always had something on her breath whenever she screamed to Jesus about her Devil-touched daughter. Did she have to numb herself so she could do such things to her own child? Kirsten’s lip quivered. If she didn’t drink, would things have been different? Her gaze focused past the bottle to Evan. Did Mother ever tell herself it was only so she could sleep? Only say it was once or twice a year?

Evan’s eyes popped open. The beginnings of a smile faded to a worried stare and he sat bolt upright.

“What’s that?”

The fearful look in his eyes hurt. Mick, his former stepfather, was drunk more than sober. Kirsten thought back to the wash of vodka breath on the back of her head when he tried to kill her.

“Something I”―she stood, walking to the kitchenette―“wanted to get rid of.” She slipped the bottle into the disintegrator chute and hit the button. Yellow light flickered through the hatch seams as the mechanism disassembled the bottle’s molecules into inert matter.

When she settled into bed, Evan climbed onto it. “Mick drinks, too.”

“So did my mom.” Kirsten ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not going to have any more. I only had a little to help me sleep after a bad night, but I guess that’s how it starts.”

Evan relaxed. “Can I sleep with you tonight, I’m…” He fidgeted.

Kirsten held the blanket up so he could crawl in. “It’s okay, they can’t get through the blockade.”

He cuddled up, back against her chest. “Mom? I don’t like the way he looked at me. Is he mad ̓cause I blew up his ninja?”

She held him tight. “I…” Aww, he’s shivering. Don’t bullshit the kid. “Yeah, he’s probably mad. I’ll get him.”

“He’s a weird ghost.”

“He’s not quite a ghost anymore, hon.”

He squirmed to look at her face. “What is he?”

“A bad person that got put where bad souls go, but he got out somehow. I need to make sure he goes back where he belongs.”

“Oh.” He snuggled into the pillow. “Why did you talk to him?”

“I don’t think violence is ever the first or best answer to a problem. There are still pieces of who they were in there, and if I can reach one of those pieces… maybe I can help him, too.”

“Mom? He’s a demon, right?”

“That’s what some people call it.”

He held on to the arm she put across his chest. “They’re lying. Don’t talk. Just smack them. They’re not people anymore.”

Kirsten clung to him like a teddy bear, wondering if he really was afraid ghosts would come after him in the night or if this was for her benefit. She lay for a few minutes, thinking about the sight of Mariko melting away.

“Ev?”

“Mmm?” He sounded as though he was fast on his way to sleep.

“What did you do to Mariko?”

Evan’s voice, slow with the onrush of sleep, whispered. “Ran it over.”

old touched her face and leaked through the button gaps in her pajama top. Kirsten’s eyes fluttered open, feeling more tired now than when she had first tried to pass out. The blanket, folded away, exposed her to the chill of the room. She flicked it down, seeking warmth. He probably had to pee.

“Mom!” A distant tiny yell echoed in the dark. “Mom, help!”

She flew upright, gazing at the dark and empty bathroom. Her head whirled left; the front door hung ajar.

“Mom…” The cry grew distant.

Kirsten bolted from the bed, scrambling through a crawl as she disentangled herself from the blankets and ran out into the dark hallway. Frigid tiles met bare feet; cold air swam up inside her thigh-length shirt, making her teeth chatter. Rows of nonworking lights ran in either direction along the ceiling, lights that should always be on. Something drew the power out of the entire building. Worry rattled her to the point where even simple Darksight was a chore to activate. The hallway blurred into sight, a ghostly greyscale copy of it shimmering on top of the real world.

“Evan?” she yelled, her voice echoing into silence. “Dorian?”

Door slam.

She heard him call once more by the bank of elevators and ran to the sound. A large fake plant, out of its usual place, did not appear in her astral vision. She took the corner fast, yelping as she smashed her toes into the metal pot and fell through plastic leaves to thin carpeting in her floor’s lobby. Just past the elevators, the stairwell door flickered in a vaporous glow wafting from the knob, recent contact from a spirit or demon. She got back up to a limping run and burst through the door, shoving it with both hands as she pivoted to follow the railing.

“Evan?” she cried.

“Mom!” he sounded louder now, as if only a few stories down.

Kirsten barely noticed her toes going numb from the cold concrete steps as she moved just short of a speed where she would lose balance. “I’m coming!”

His cries led her through the shifting blur of the stairwell; Darksight made the walls weave and dip in a nauseating undulation, two superimposed images wobbling in a futile effort to align. Faces came out of the dark every so often, curious when they saw her bright white eyes go past. She knew one or two nice, elderly spirits who died here, resident haunts of the building.

“He’s going for the basement,” a feeble old man voice called out behind her.

Landing after landing passed as she chased the sound of a pleading boy down sixty stories until she hit the litter-covered basement level. Two steps onto the landing, she screamed and fell into the wall―broken glass in her foot.

Shivering, she looked at her bloody foot, and then at the debris all over the ground. Shattered autoinjectors, bottles, and anything else some idiot dropped down the stairway from who-knows-how high. The heavy basement door shimmered, paranormal energy fluttering from the knob. Kirsten plucked a sliver of brown glass from her sole, and gently eased her toes into the trash. When she heard him wail in fright, she forgot her care and ran.

“Evan!” she sobbed, gasping each time she failed to find glass-free footing.

It hurt so much her body wanted to collapse. Kirsten forced her shaking body onward, hand-over-hand along the grey cinderblocks to keep her balance. She took faltering steps, screaming, and forced herself to the door on trembling legs.

Locked.

The code panel on the wall defied her with its dead display. Police override codes did not do much good without electricity. Evan screamed on the other side, shrieking as if stabbed. In her mind, Seneschal’s claws raked down his belly. She flung herself at the door, pounding on it, screaming.

Begging.

More glass underfoot. So much of it remained embedded in her feet that even clear floor felt as though she walked on needles. She sobbed, no longer caring about the pain, no longer feeling crystalline shards grind with each step. She thrashed at the unmoving knob, a hundred pound willow attempting to tear down an armored door.

“Evan! No!”

Shadows moved, visible through a three-inch wide vertical strip of window. Small legs kicked in the air and something large surrounded him. He screeched, calling out for his mommy between sobs.

Kirsten broke her hand against the glass, alternating between shouted threats and wailed pleas. Something clattered to the ground in the boiler room as the shadow of a small leg kicked a tool cart.

The echo slapped her like an open hand. Her gaze shot to the right at a ventilation duct. Not even bothering to tiptoe through the junk, she rushed over and climbed a shelf. Hanging from a rack of dusty tools, she grabbed an old wrench and bashed at the grating until it failed. Rats scurried out of her way as she crawled her shirt black through a metal tunnel untouched for decades.

Six meters in, the screaming and pleading ceased; replaced only with the sound of a man’s sinister chuckle. Kirsten, eyes blurred with tears, let out a yell as the ductwork gave out under her weight and sent her sliding into the air. She bounced off the top of a boiler, nailed her knee on a pipe, and hit the ground hard on her chest. The windblast from her landing lofted a cloud of soot from the floor. Her subsequent involuntary breath sucked a good portion of it into her lungs.

Gagging and coughing, she grabbed the frame of a giant heating unit. Her grip faltered as the pain of shattered fingers overruled her desire to hold on. Seneschal grinned as she crawled into view, trailing blood from both feet.

“Valiant hero you are.”

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the floor. Evan squirmed, held aloft by a fistful of his shirt, his hands and feet bound with wire. He looked beyond terrified. Seneschal curled a hand, caressing the boy’s face. He cringed away. Black fingernails lengthened into claws, teasing at the tender skin of Evan’s neck.

“No… Please…” Kirsten struggled to stand. An unconscious moan of pain slipped out as her weight drove glass deeper into her soles. “Don’t hurt him…”

“I promised him I’d let you watch.” Seneschal’s arm tensed.

“No!” Kirsten screamed; fear and worry rolled into wrath.

The lash unfurled. It only hurt the dead; Evan would not be a human shield. The tendril of energy wrapped over Seneschal’s face, stalling like a wet noodle. Kirsten’s broken hand throbbed as if she punched a brick wall. The lash slipped off him, limp to the ground.

Seneschal leaned back with a great bellowing laugh, claws poised but drawing no blood. Evan wriggled in a futile struggle against the wire.

“You can’t hurt me here, bitch. I cursed the whole basement. After I bleed this little lamb out, I’m going to make you want your mommy back. She was an amateur, but if you beg for her enough, I’ll set up a reunion.”

“Let him go!” Kirsten lashed out; again, shock reverberated through her hand as though she had struck stone.

She staggered closer; bloody feet peeled away from the ground with an audible sucking, interspersed with scratching glass. Two more strikes left her hand bleeding as well, as if every bone inside splintered to mush. Everything she tried, Seneschal laughed off. The lash was useless.

“No…” Kirsten sagged to her knees, unable to look away from the claws at Evan’s throat as she felt the imminence of loss.

Unable to stop it.

A lone droplet of blood appeared at the tip of Seneschal’s middle finger claw, tracing a pure red line that pooled in the hollow at the base of his neck; the only item of color in the black and white world. Wavering walls closed in, grief mounted atop claustrophobia.

Evan stopped moving, stopped fighting the cords binding him. The fear faded from his face. He knows he’s about to die. Kirsten’s arm refused to rise for another lash. Nothing mattered anymore. She could not save him. The room blurred as she cried; battered, broken, she fell to her knees.

Evan locked eyes with her. “Mom, stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

A droplet of blood from the index claw joined the pool. Kirsten convulsed, shoulders shaking, unable to stop.

“I’m going to take away the only thing you love.” Seneschal grinned as the ring finger claw birthed another droplet.

The pool at the base of his neck overflowed down the center of his chest.

Convulsions increased as she tried to lash again.

“Mom. Stop! You are hurting yourself.”

Kirsten wheezed, a leaden weight settled into her chest, making it impossible to breathe.

“I’m taking him away from you.”

The voice started as Seneschal, but turned into that of an older woman in a tweed business suit. Normal in appearance save for glowing red eyes. The abyssal changed forms. The black cord binding Evan turned into red tape. Serpentine heads hissed as it unraveled from his wrists and ankles, spreading and mummifying his entire body except for his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Agent Wren, you can’t keep him.” Danita Reed, her caseworker, laughed with demonic glee as the mass of red seemed to be coming right out of her body; drawing Evan into her.

“Mom!”

The convulsions turned into thrashing.

“Mom, mom, mom.” Evan’s voice grew desperate.

Astral walls spun into a vortex. She wanted to throw up.

“…determination that you are unfit to act as guardian…” Danita’s voice faded into the same swirl consuming the basement.

“Mom.” He was so close his breath touched her face.

Eyes opened.

Evan knelt on her chest, shaking her by a two-fisted grip of her shirt. Her right hand throbbed, bleeding from a tiny cut. The warm softness of the comforgel pad beneath was gone, replaced by carpeted floor. As soon as he realized she was awake, he collapsed on top of her. She sat up, clinging to the hard-breathing child clamped about her, and rubbed her hand up and down his back. Her feet, glowing pale in a slanted rectangle of moonlight upon the rug, were unhurt. The nightstand was knocked over sideways, its contents scattered on the floor, and a little blood on the side where she had punched it in her sleep.

“I thought the demon got you. You freaked and started screaming and yelling my name.”

Kirsten held him tight. “It was just a bad dream… just a bad dream.”

Who am I trying to comfort?

“Mom?”

She did not let go. “Hmm?”

“Did you have another bad day? You’re all squeezy again.”

Kirsten cracked up laughing and carried him back to bed.

egardless of how long she stared at the terminal, the citycam system refused to commit to spontaneous generation of another sweeping power anomaly. As if the dream had not been bad enough, her feelings of impending doom grew with an exponential leap when she got the vid mail from Danita Reed confirming an evaluation meeting with Evan and a staff psychiatrist. Her panic spiked, and then faded when she realized Danita had scheduled it two weeks ago.

Kirsten could not focus on the map and let her head follow her arms to the desk. It’s just procedure… They have to let me keep him; I’m the only one on the West Coast who can teach him. I’m not nuts. Okay, I am a little young to be a mother, but…

“Hey.”

With a shriek, Kirsten spun to the left and clipped a cup of coffee with her elbow. The beverage sailed into space, slowed, and hung in place. A stream of brown liquid glistened in midair as if in zero gravity. Hand over her chest, Kirsten’s shocked panting became an annoyed glare at Nicole for sneaking up on her yet again.

The redhead’s eyebrows wiggled about, evidence of the massive amount of concentration necessary to use telekinesis on a formless liquid. Mesmerized by the undulating ribbon of wakefulness, Kirsten remained quiet until it was back inside the cup and on her desk.

“You okay?” Nicole flopped into her seat. “What’s wrong, you look like your cat died again.”

“I don’t have a cat. How was Mars?”

Nicole smiled, kicking her boot off the floor to set her chair spinning. “The shuttle food sucked so much, made the café here look like… uhh, bad.”

“I’m worried about losing Evan.”

Squeak. Nicole put her boot down to stop the spin. “Why would you be? You two are so cute together.”

“I’m probably just―”

“The hotel had these amazing little bath―”

“―being paranoid. Demons might influence―”

“―beads. I wouldn’t worry too much, you were perfectly justified―”

“―the caseworker.” Kirsten sighed, and leaned her head in her hand to wait for Nicole’s energy to fade out.

“―in taking him out of that home. They locked him in a room, that asshole you lobotomized beat him. Oh, I hope you’re okay with hazelnut; it’s all the corner place had left. So dusty up there, ya know? Like nothing but red rocks and dirt, and mines; the virtual beach in the hotel was lame, could do that here. Hey wait, did you say demon?”

Nicole stopped with a dumfounded look and wide eyes.

Wow, not one word about what’s-his-name. Either things must’ve gone south, or she’s trying to be nice. Kirsten gave her the short version; leaving out the neurotic nightmare.

“I heard three marks means it’s a demon.” Nicole scratched the air as if using claws.

A weak laugh drowned in a long sip of coffee. “Hazelnut’s fine. Coffee is coffee as long as it is not decaf. That’s a crime against nature. So yeah, once again, I feel as if all I can do is just sit here and wait for someone else to get hurt. Dorian doesn’t think attachments persist after a spirit turns into whatever they are now.”

Boots lifted, Nicole gave her chair a telekinetic shove. When she was close enough, she patted Kirsten on the back. “Hey, cheer up. You’ll find a way to―hey, I heard you put the car through the wall of a church? I know you’re not a big fan of priests, but isn’t that a bit much?”

Kirsten clutched the coffee with both hands, elbows resting on her legs. “I didn’t drive into the wall. That was Evan, saving my life. I already told you the reason everyone else had problems with the car was Dorian possessing it. He had some anger issues to work out.”

“Oh. Was it damaged much? Hey, check out these little Mars earrings.” Nicole turned, showing off marble-sized Mars replicas hanging on either side of her head.

I’m surprised they’re not being blown out to either side. “No, the little bugger hit the window pretty clean; armor made up for the error. Cute, they go with your hair. Nice and big for a perp to get a hold of and tear out.”

“Is Dorian here? I don’t feel the usual creepy vibe from his desk.” Nicole squealed, clamping her hands over them. “I’m not gonna wear them on duty.”

“He’s resting, and you already are on”―the desk terminal beeped―“duty. Hang on.”

Samuel Chang appeared, in hologram, as Kirsten poked the button. His look of confused determination melted away to a silly grin as his face shimmered with her illusory image on the other side.

“Hi, Sam…”

Nicole flashed a coy smile.

He’s just a tech, Kirsten projected the words into Nicole’s head.

Sorry, I thought you might’ve found some―who’s Konstantin?

Kirsten flushed crimson. Not now. Please, just not now. “What’s up, Sam?”

Nicole shrugged and kicked off from the side of Kirsten’s desk, rolling back to her own.

“I kept looking around for a better triangulation of the IPv12 you gave me. I got another active hit. Your boy seems to be logged in right now. I got a signal trace coming from Sector 848.”

She almost sprayed coffee. “Sector 848? Tell me it’s not #1998 City Road 130?”

“Wow, you really are psychic.”

Kirsten leapt to her feet. “Thanks, Sam. I owe you one.”

“Maybe lunch sometime?” Hope seeped through his smile.

“Yeah, sure.”

Sam blinked. “Really? Where do you―”

“Gotta run, Sam.” Kirsten shut down the terminal and rounded the desk.

“Need a hand?” Nicole glanced up. A red light wailed behind her. “Never mind.”

“No, Nikki. Not sure you’ll help much here and… you’ll see stuff you don’t wanna see.” They’ll probably wind up making you turn on me.

Driving alone felt wrong. Kirsten kept peeking at the empty passenger seat. Dorian had taken quite a beating in front of the church, sure to the point of being vulnerable to Harbingers―but none came for him. That calmed her somewhat, bringing up the question of justifiable homicide all over again. However, she did not have the time or the inclination to ponder such things.

Vikram’s cyberspace deck, the one N0ra acquired, got left behind at the warehouse. According to the reports, six security personnel died in the chaos. Lorelei, the drug-boosted goth faerie, had taken a bullet right in the gut and didn’t even notice. Probably would be dead now if not for N0ra running and Kirsten calling it in. The deck, as far as she knew, now sat in the Division 0 evidence room. If Vikram’s digital fingerprint emanated from the blasted out building, it meant one of two things.

Either he was attempting to influence cyberspace directly, or it was a message sent to lure Kirsten there. The second option seemed the more likely, and all the more terrifying because she went there anyway. She pushed the hovercar to the limit of her skill to control it, approaching Sector 848 within a few minutes.

Silvery glass gleamed up ahead, except for where the bomb had scarred a ring of black around it. One entire floor was devoid of windows, with an interior dark as though the sun could not breach it. Kirsten nudged forward on the left stick, adding a vertical drop to the patrol craft’s forward motion. Leveling off with the thirteenth floor, she circled about once and eased the vehicle right in through dangling strips of aluminum window framing.

She ignored the sound of scratching metal as the ground wheels folded down, and guided in for a gentle landing. Leaving the car on, she pushed at the door, nerves keeping her in the seat until the motorized thing clunked to a halt at full open. Kirsten ran a hand over the sheer fabric of her I-Ops uniform. I miss the armor.

Her boots crunched on small bits of charred debris as she navigated the shredded remains of a former apartment level. Burned fragments of furniture, the frame of a file cabinet, computer bits, lightpens embedded like arrows in a column, and trash; all lay wherever the detonation dropped them. A glint caught her eye and she crouched by a pile of ashes. Picking at a fragment of gold, Kirsten drew a jade earring out of the debris, a flat square carved with a Japanese character. The image of Mariko’s twisted and demonic face came to mind, melting back how she may have looked before. Her thumb brushed ash out of the grooves in the kanji.

“Rotten end to a miserable life. For what it’s worth, Mariko, I’m sorry.”

She tucked the earring into her pocket, not sure what to do with it. Dropping it felt wrong, keeping it felt wrong, and as far as Kirsten knew, the woman had no known relatives. Maybe David Ling will know where to send it. Standing, she took her E-90 out, turned it on, and prowled.

Aside from the oddity of it appearing to be midnight in here, nothing seemed out of place. Just shy of the spot where the silver circle was drawn, the faint sound of a crying child wafted through the air. The second time she heard it, it stole her breath.

Shani.

Kirsten sprinted around the column and vaulted a mangled steel desk. The circle glittered as if in moonlight, despite it not even been noon yet. Kirsten spun in place, listening to graveyard silence. Oh, no, they couldn’t get to Evan through the blockade. How did they know?

“Shani?”

Another distant, muffled sob.

She ran toward the noise, climbing through a thick debris pile by a bank of elevator shafts that weathered the explosion with only minor denting. Behind them, a tangle of drywall, Epoxil planks, and other debris had collected like sand against the pilings of a dock. There was no trace of a girl, a ghost, or anything but the unnatural dark. Kirsten leaned on an exposed metal stud in what used to be a wall to catch her breath, unnerved at how the city outside appeared to be in the throes of midnight.

A few minutes later, she paced around the circle and became aware of the sense of energy shifting through her body. It was faint, similar to the feeling of sliding your palms over each other a quarter inch apart. There’s something here. I feel it. A breach? I don’t see anything. Memories of her flight to the Intera tower came back, those strange dark spots in the landscape below. She put the laser away, and walked backwards to the only intact desk on the entire floor. After taking a seat on the ground with her back against the metal, Kirsten closed her eyes and tried to calm down.

She focused on the sense of her own energy within her flesh, isolating it, empowering it, and willing it out into the world. Like leaving a warm bed on a cold morning, the chill of the astral realm embraced the figure of amber light rising out of her body. Vague lines hinted at her curves, her form seemingly nude yet without explicit detail; a being of pure light. No sooner had she departed from her flesh than the great rushing sound of a waterfall overwhelmed her.

At the center of the silver circle, an oval of ebon hung gaping. Violent swirls of silver energy roiled at the edges, the heart of it complete black. The deafening noise emanated from it, deep and thunderous, growing louder as she floated closer.

The portal neither drew her in nor pushed her away, though it appeared to be devouring the environment. Despite the violent roiling energy about it, it seemed closed. White flames licked at the writing on the ground, evidence of infused power of some form she had not yet seen. She drifted sideways, following the circle but too afraid to cross it.

“This is how they got in… This must be a gate.” Kirsten raised a glowing arm, fingers splayed. “I wonder if I could close it.”

She hovered in an angel’s pose, hands folded to her chest, feet together, head tilted forward. Her mind reached out, grasping for any sense of feeling. It did not take her long to connect with the energy permeating the distortion in space. It possessed a feeling similar to the asylum door; only this was far more potent and much darker. Her power wrapped about it and she strained. The sense of cold came on, as if her naked body had embraced a slab of onyx. Kirsten struggled as if trying to move an object she was strong enough to lift but was too cumbersome to allow a good grip. Evil rippled through her, making her not want to touch it.

She pulled, twisted, pushed; a soft moan issued from her abandoned flesh as if lost in a nightmare, the sound a pale echo of the loud scream coming from her astral self. The more she struggled, the heavier it became. Kirsten stopped, opened her eyes, and glared. A sheen of white glimmered over the glassy surface.

Of course. I’m trying to crush stone; I need to shatter it!

Blackness billowed up from the floor around the portal, flooding the inside of the circle with a column of standing smoke. From within, a creature emerged. Nine feet tall, an elongated body of overlapping chitinous plates balanced on six long spindly legs. Six red eyes in the front end glowed, dying embers in a pit of ash. Four arms, two man-sized and two vestigial, reached for her. Kirsten shrieked, gliding backwards. A dark tendril lanced from its mouth, wrapping her astral form about the throat with the sickening feeling of a tongue so hot it burned.

It pulled her close, grabbing her by the forearms while its tiny limbs ripped and clawed at her chest; filling her lungs with fire. She stared at the silver thread tracing through the air back to her body from between her eyes. It knows. The creature forced her arms apart, holding her so she could not reach the safety of her flesh.

Kirsten screamed from the pain in her chest and the searing tendril around her neck. She kicked at it; the attack as useful as it would have been to kick a car trying to run her over. The tongue squeezed her throat; she flailed, terrified at the sound of her body gurgling in its sleep.

Out of nowhere, the demon lurched forward. Dorian appeared, crashing into its back and sliding up and over its hump. He reached past its eyes to grab its tongue with both hands, letting his weight slip backwards and impale the appendage on the creature’s own transparent teeth.

Roaring with anguish, it hurled Kirsten through the floor. She tumbled in a disorienting blur as a number of furnished apartment spaces blurred past. When she stopped, she righted herself in the middle of a cluttered living room piled high with months of unwashed laundry. Six cats fluffed up and ran, knocking things over in their haste to get away from her.

Kirsten glanced at the ceiling, gasped for breath, and grabbed the cord. The astral form lurched upwards, colliding into her skin from below with enough force to knock her standing. Stumbling from the rapid shift from astral to mortal, she careened into a crumbling wall and held on. Dorian whirled about, riding the demon Charazu, a rodeo clown come to save the contestant. He smashed it in the side with his stunrod, the loud click of the simulated weapon on its shell echoed through the cavernous space.

Claws extended, backward barbs along its forearm grew, and it twisted with a sharp jerk. The motion launched Dorian into the waiting hand. With a grip on both legs, it swung him overhead like a hammer, pounding him into the concrete floor. Then it picked him up and did it again. Back and forth, it slapped him between the same two spots of ground six times. Ectoplasmic smears slid through the dust with each strike; Dorian rag-dolled in its grip.

Horror at what she witnessed paralyzed Kirsten for the better part of several seconds. This monstrosity towered over her; the top of it all but scraped the ceiling. Its shell glistened as if wet, traces of crimson tinted the material away from pure black where it was thinner.

It exuded malice.

Charazu leaned to the right, its three left legs lifting off the ground to add power to a swing intended to bash Dorian into the gate she could no longer see. Kirsten snapped out of her stupor, calling the lash as she ran in.

The white stream wrapped about its legs, pulling the demon off its footing. Dorian flew out of its hand as a wild swing of its arm launched him. Six hundred pounds of shell and hatred smashed to the ground. The creature loosed a gurgling roar that sounded as if it came from eight mouths at once. The mild red light in its eyes flared orange as she spun through the motion of her first swing and brought the lash straight down on top of its prone body.

Dust exploded from the ground as the astral whip wrapped over the creature, crushing into it with the force of a massive object. Legs flailed, scrabbling for purchase as it loosed a roar so loud it shattered windows a story above them. Kirsten sagged forward, panting, trying to catch a second wind from the effort she poured into her psionic attack. Luminous orange liquid leaked from a crack in its shell, flowing watery lava that broke into a shower of sparks that hissed and skittered over the cold concrete.

“Kirsten, help! It hurts!” Shani’s tiny voice pierced the darkness from the left, breaking into sobs.

She whirled toward the sound. “I’m here. Where are you?”

No answer came.

With rage in her eyes, Kirsten raised the lash once more and faced at the ground where the demon had been. It was gone. Twenty yards away, a cloud of inky smoke receded along the floor, the center of which bore a faint resemblance to its face.

Dorian melted through the ceiling, falling flat on his back next to her. “Well, that was certainly unique.”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” He folded his hands over his chest, not bothering to get up. “I’m not sure what it was trying to do smashing a ghost into the floor, plus I had a wonderful nap.” He shifted his gaze to her. “Aren’t you going to chase it?”

“No. I know how to destroy it.” Kirsten pointed at the gate. “It’ll come back when I attack the gate. I gotta find Shani first.”

“What?” Dorian sat up. “Shani is here?”

Kirsten shivered. “I… think so. Seneschal, it has to be. Demons know what hurts you, and he couldn’t get to Evan.”

Dorian floated to his feet and put a hand on her shoulder, staring at her. “Don’t let your emotions run away. Stay professional. You go right, I’ll go left. Yell if you find her.”

Shani’s face floated over an aimed gun in her mind, her expression a mixture of amusement and horror. A simple suggestion would have defused the situation, but Kirsten had let her vulnerability cloud her mind. Demons would certainly exploit her weaknesses. The first time she found Evan, in astral form, she wondered if he was a child ghost or a demon trying to trick her. I knew I’d fall for that someday. She took a breath of confidence, trying to convince herself she could distance her heart from her mind until the danger abated.

Kirsten readied her E-90. “Sounds good. Go.”

phemeral pleas wafted through the air in the voice of a child, always seeming just around the next corner. Kirsten edged past a pile of junk, aiming at empty ground.

“She can’t be here. There’s not enough places left to hide.”

Dorian, on the other side of the building, yelled. “It’s an entire level of an apartment building; we haven’t been everywhere. Check floor vents.”

Motion. Kirsten whirled on it, aiming at the height of an adult chest. Seneschal winked, and fired.

Her cheek slapped into grit-covered concrete, the result of a hasty dive for cover. Splinters of wood stuck to her face as she crawled behind a thick conduit decorated with bundles of wire running between floors. Icarus emerged out of the ground, aiming a massive handgun at her, but hesitated.

Gazes locked for a split second before Seneschal’s bullets kicked up dust around her boots and sent her shrieking into a ball.

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

Icarus glanced at Seneschal. “This woman is not our objective.”

“Did you forget her brat destroyed Mariko?”

Anger rippled over Icarus, white teeth stark against his face as he snarled. “Mariko… changed.” He twisted his head about as if cracking tension out of his neck. “And the boy is not her blood. We should be focusing on Medhi.”

“You’ve gone soft, Michael.” Seneschal’s boots echoed as he circled. “Did you forget she wants to send us all back?”

“Do we not deserve to go?”

Dorian whipped around the bank of elevator shafts, shooting at Seneschal. Icarus ducked out of sight, returning fire. Seneschal went into a forward roll, bounded back to his feet, and slid behind the neat stack of junk.

Kirsten sighted over the E-90, left to right, right to left. Which side are you gonna come out, you fucker? “It’s not too late for any of you.”

“Oh, but it is.” Seneschal went left.

She guessed correctly. As soon as he appeared, she put a blast of azure light through the pile. Judging by the angry roar, it had gone right through the debris and nailed him. She kept shooting into the junk, attempting to guess the route of his evasion. He did not yell again.

Behind her, Dorian and Icarus traded shots.

“Dorian, focus on the other asshole. Icarus, I don’t think you are a lost cause like the others. There’s good in you still.”

“Nauseating.” Seneschal came out of the floor at Kirsten’s feet, grabbing her by the right ankle.

She swung her arm to aim, the shot fouled as he twisted her boot with such force it rolled her onto her stomach. Dorian stopped “shooting” at Icarus, trading wary stares with him instead. Kirsten scrabbled at the ground, flinging dust and fragments of building material to the rear as she tried to crawl forward.

Seneschal pulled her in by the leg and fell on her back. She pounded him in the crotch, an attack he ignored, as he caught her by the hair and pulled her head to the rear.

“Don’t have those anymore, blondie.”

The sound of a knife sliding from a belt sheath pissed her off. A blast of psionic energy lit into him and launched him into a graceful arc to the ground well out of reach. Seneschal slid on his back, coming to a halt belt deep in a column.

“I am so fricking done with having knives at my throat,” she roared, and stood.

Her indignant fury turned on a dime to panic when he sat up, rifle in hand. She dove over a broken wall, landing on her hands before rolling into a somersault behind a column. Bits of concrete rained over her as she huddled down amid the chatter of automatic weapon fire.

The shooting continued, but the debris stopped falling on her.

“Look who showed up to the party,” Seneschal snarled. “You got your wish, Ic.”

Kirsten risked a peek. The former mercenary sent an unending stream of bullets across the area, following Vikram sprinting between cover. Dorian fired at Seneschal as Icarus angled for an opening on his mission target. Seneschal dissipated into a cloud of grey fog that reappeared at the next nearest fragmentary wall, firing at Dorian from an unexpected angle.

Dorian howled, grabbed his shoulder, and fell out of sight. Kirsten reached for an empty holster, and then spotted her E-90 lying on the ground out in the open, near her handprints.

Icarus fired somewhere in the dark, the report of his enormous pistol knocked dust off the ceiling. An uneasy wail came from Vikram as he vanished behind a mangled interior wall. Kirsten jumped up, running at Seneschal with the astral lash trailing behind her outstretched arm. He saw her coming, but lacked the time to reorient his weapon. He ducked, backpedaling as she swiped at him. The seething tendril passed inches over his head.

His rifle vanished in a puff of greasy black smoke as his body billowed with silvery flame. Manifested in solid form, he caught her arm on the next downstroke and spun her around by it―smacking her chest-first into a concrete post.

“Delicate little arm you’ve got, girlie.” He twisted it higher. “Mariko broke it like a twig. What shall I do to it?”

Her cheek squished into the cold, hard pylon as she struggled to get air back in her lungs.

Seneschal jerked her around, swinging her toward another wall. Kirsten got a foot up, and ran up the crumbling surface, spun over his shoulder, and slipped out of his hold. She staggered back three steps before gaining her footing and brought her mental weapon to bear. The lash bored into his back, searing a path through him as he whirled about to face her. Icarus appeared at her side, shuddering. Everything about his body said rage, except his eyes, which held regret.

Gloved hands wrapped around her head, tearing her away from Seneschal. Icarus flung her to the ground. She slid, spinning, over several small painful things. Yep. I miss the armor.

Icarus stomped towards her, leaving Seneschal to clutch the point the lash caught him and gather his energy. Conflict glimmered in his eyes, regret clashed with inflated rage. At the sight of Vikram moving between posts, Seneschal staggered to his feet and summoned his rifle.

A thick mass of shadow moved in the distance, eight dim red eyes focused on Icarus. Kirsten looked up at him, not flinching at the sound of Dorian’s spectral laser shooting at Seneschal. She scampered backwards, trying to get on her feet as he closed. Icarus lunged in and grabbed her around the throat, hauling her into the air one-armed. She grabbed his wrist, gasping for air. Sound plunged into blurriness, as if underwater, within which she heard Charazu’s whispering.

“Kill, kill, kill.”

I’m sorry. Lightheaded, she knew a blackout was imminent, and then death. There was no choice.

A hastily gathered lash to the body sent Icarus sliding away. Kirsten landed on her feet, stumbled, and fell to her knees gagging for air and trying not to vomit. Her mind ached; empowered by extreme fear, the attack triggered the same painful mental recoil she got from mind blasting the living. Icarus went motionless on the ground, his flesh and clothing melting into a puddle.

“One down,” Vikram cheered. “You are next, Dalton.”

Kirsten dragged herself against a post, rubbing her throat and trying to get the dancing specks out of her vision. Hazy sounds of gunfire and shouting echoed as she searched for a second wind. Dorian’s yell shifted pitch as he sailed past her through the air. As she stood, Vikram sprinted through the column behind which she hid.

“Bad man is coming,” he whispered.

Kirsten edged two steps back. Vikram stopped, turning to face his pursuer. He whirled left and right in the open as if searching for a hiding place. Seneschal came through seconds later, raising his rifle with a dark grin.

“You’re out of ammo. I counted. All 493 shots.” Vikram pointed.

Seneschal chuckled. “Doesn’t use ammo anymore.”

Kirsten leapt from the shadows, raking the energy whip down Seneschal’s back. He howled, arching forward on tiptoe as his essence disrupted into black flakes floating away like ash on the breeze. She growled, remembering the dream, remembering the claws taking blood from Evan’s defenseless throat. Dorian arrived, jogging through a section of wall. The intensity of the lash made him pause, raising an arm to shield his eyes.

The tendril moved with a sound like roaring flames, piercing Seneschal at the shoulder and snagging on something at the center of his being. Kirsten pulled it taut, her power channeled into the desire to purge darkness from the world. He clawed at the thread of light protruding from his gut, howling as it sent racing cracks through his armored vest.

All sound sucked into a vortex of silence. Kirsten’s eyes leaked white fog as she thought of the look on Evan’s face, the blood on his throat. The lash flickered.

Seneschal erupted in a flash of white light and black smoke; fragments lingered on the breeze for seconds at a time before fluttering to the ground. The force of his obliteration knocked Kirsten off her feet, sending her sliding into a pile of collected metal scraps. The sound of distant shattering glass continued for several seconds through the silence. Somewhere, far away, car alarms went off.

She lowered her arm to expose her face, no longer worried about debris. Icarus, still a puddle, moaned. Dorian surveyed the spot of floor where Seneschal had last been, shaking his head with disbelief.

Vikram peeled himself out of a mound of junk and grinned. “You did it. You got him.” He approached, offering a hand.

Kirsten squinted at him as she stood without help. “Yeah, I did. You’re forgetting something else. I found out about you. You’re not a ghost, Vikram; you are the same as they were.”

His demeanor changed, skin darkened. The out-of-his-element affect of a hacker in a warzone turned to menace.

“A few thousand people died horrible, lingering deaths because of what you did for money. You played both sides, wearing a white hat by day and a black one at night.” She circled him. “You know I have to send you back, too. I’m not going to let you hurt N0ra. Dalton and Mariko already refused to accept their fate. Now, neither one of them exist in any sense of the concept. Don’t make the same mistake, Vikram.”

“Traitorous whores, both of you.” He leapt, clawing at her throat.

Kirsten leaned out from under it, recovering her balance as Vikram whirled. “She did what is right. The stain is on your soul for murdering the innocent. She may have brought about the circumstances of your death, but you did push the button yourself. You created your afterlife with the murder of innocents, and you entered it by killing yourself.”

“She violated the code.” His second leap scratched her sleeve.

“Like you wouldn’t turn on a fellow deck cowboy if someone offered enough money.” Kirsten let the lash stretch to the ground. “I guess you’re not planning to go back where you belong without a fight.”

“I belong right h―”

Dorian sacked him from behind, sliding on top of him for several feet. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Vikram reached up, clawing at Dorian’s shoulder. He wrenched Vikram over, struggling to contain him. Kirsten shifted, trying to find a place to sneak a lash in without hitting Dorian. Their grapple came apart, Dorian ducked a claw swipe and punched Vikram square in the side of the cheek, knocking him back several paces. The former hacker’s eyes tracked the glimmering lash as Kirsten closed in, distracting him from Dorian’s next move. A downward punch across the face knocked Vikram to all fours.

Kirsten feigned to the right, and then spun around the other way, trailing the lash straight into where Vikram tried to dodge. The hit knocked him on his back, his form faded translucent. He gasped, raking his fingers through the air, moaning.

“Either avarice and greed make weaker demons than hatred, or the crew got a piece of you when I wasn’t watching.” Kirsten stalked after him. “Last chance, Vikram. Do you accept the consequences of your life? Will go you back where you belong?”

He held a hand up in surrender, nodding. She relaxed.

The fearful stare went dark. He leapt. Kirsten yelped, startled. Vikram’s mouth spread to inhuman width, packed with pointed teeth. She went backwards as they collided; warm drool and a lick of a tongue touched her throat before a prick of painful fang found skin.

Dorian’s face rose up over Vikram’s shoulder, brows jammed together in an angry glare. He seized Vikram by the shoulders, halting his dive and letting Kirsten fall away to the ground. Dorian stepped into a spin, hauling Vikram around and throwing him down. From the ground, Kirsten struck out and split the returned deck jockey in half in a dazzling flash of blue-white light. A demonic wail rose into the air as his severed legs sank into an expanding black miasma. She shifted up onto her knees and slapped the energy whip down once more, splattering what remained of his upper body into a detonation of hot, black ectoplasm. The energy wave from Vikram’s obliteration fluttered her hair and washed through her on the breath of an icy wind. Seneschal had been stronger; there were no windows left to break.

The lash flickered and went out. Kirsten sat back on her heels, staring at the spot, tracing fingertips over a bloody scratch on her shoulder.

“Are you upset you had to do that, or upset you were wrong about him being savable?”

“Everyone’s savable,” she whispered. “They just have to want it.”

He reached for her, valiant in his effort not to appear weakened again.

“Thanks.” Kirsten stood, accepting his hand. “I’m not sure I have enough left for the gate.”

“Help!” Shani’s yell warped into a shriek of primal terror.

“I heard her that time.” Dorian shot her a look.

Kirsten held up a fistful of three stimpaks at once, and pulled the safety caps off with her teeth. The synthetic adrenaline entered her thigh with the force of a full night’s rest.

“Yeah. Me too.”

ailing emanated from the far reaches of the blown-out level. At one corner of the building, an intact enclosure contained the stairwell access. Kirsten sprinted up to it, clearing debris away from the door. Expecting more resistance, she yanked hard on the handle, but leapt back with a squeal of alarm as the door fell off its hinges to the ground. On the landing in front of the steps, a circle of black spray paint surrounded a small altar with a metal eyebolt at each corner. Pictographs similar to the ones drawn beneath the gate etched the entire surface. At the center, an ancient knife gleamed in the feeble light of a solitary LED bulb dangling from a naked wire.

Shani cowered against the far corner of the room, nightgown stained with dirt, hands tied behind her back, and ankles bound. A scrap of cloth hung loose around her neck, soaked wet where it had been used as a gag. She sniveled, her tear-streaked face lit up with recognition.

The altar was just big enough for her.

“Shani.” Kirsten rushed over. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think Seneschal did this.” Dorian shook his head at the altar. “There’s a live one we haven’t seen yet.”

“I’m scared,” Shani whined.

Kirsten picked her up, balancing the girl on one arm as she reached for the decorative knife to cut the rope. She stopped, hand two inches away.

“I… no, that just seems like a bad idea. I don’t want this knife anywhere near you.”

After carrying the girl out to where the patrol craft headlights created a bright spot in the unnatural night, Kirsten set her down, took a small utility cutter off her belt, and got to work on the rope around her legs.

“Who brought you here?”

“A man.” Shani sniffled. “He put something over my head, I didn’t see him.”

Icarus gurgled. His puddle-self changed shape, as if trying to drift closer.

“I’ll call them in a moment.” Kirsten stopped cutting for a second to look at him, cringing at the ghastly sight. She pushed down on the cutter, digging black cord into Shani’s skin. “Damn. What the hell did they use?”

“What?” Dorian leaned over.

“I don’t see a knot in here, and this cord is laughing at my uti knife.”

Dorian folded his arms. “I kept saying they should issue Nano.”

“They’re worried about accidents, I guess.”

Icarus’s arm slurped out of the muck, dark flesh sliding off the bones in pink clumpy glops. “Aaaahhhhzzz…”

“Damn.” Dorian looked away. “If there was only a way to take a picture of that, we could get rid of violent crime for good.”

“Damn it all. I’m not making a scratch. Let me check your hands.” Kirsten leaned over Shani, tugging at pink sleeves to expose the cord binding her wrists. “Damn, it’s the same stuff.”

Impact struck Kirsten broadside from the left. She flew a short distance, falling into a painful elbow to knee roll across the concrete. As if time paused, Icarus hung in mid leap where she had just been, somehow having found the energy to reintegrate. Shani’s head had enlarged into that of Charazu, biting down on where Kirsten’s neck just was, open and vulnerable as she hovered over the little body.

The great demon burst forth from the diminutive shape it had assumed, standing with the screaming Icarus in its mouth. Charazu seized him with both great arms and rent him in half. Roaring, it hurled the upper body in one direction and legs another. The remnants of Icarus splattered into the ground, little substance to them beyond puddles of ichor. Charazu rotated to face her as a growl, deep and inhuman, gurgled from its throat in both the world of man and the world beyond. Furnace heat billowed through its teeth, making her scoot back.

“He looks upset,” said Dorian.

“Ya think?” Kirsten scrambled to her feet and jammed another stimpak in her thigh.

“I think I’m gonna sit this one out, too weak.” Dorian looked at her, winked, and blurred into the car.

“Oh, nice, leave me alone with this thing…”

The growl morphed into laughter.

oncrete pylons slid from right to left through Kirsten’s vision as she and the demon Charazu circled. Dust rolled by in glimmering clouds where it caught in the headlights. Long, thin projections from its chitinous back scraped the ceiling, causing a grating noise that rattled down her spine. In some bizarre way, this creature was less frightening than a mortal with a gun.

Kirsten would feel no guilt for destroying this.

“So, you’re a demon, huh?” The lash formed in her hand. “I was expecting something a little more… fiery. Not a six-ton flea.”

I wonder if this is what Kincaid meant.

Its roar rose up to a screech and then fell through a low frequency rumble to a lingering popping noise in the back of its throat. Charazu stomped toward her, bashing one of the pylons into concrete powder and mangled rebar with the back of its arm. She ducked a swipe of claws and twisted over in midair as it barreled past, lashing a smoldering trail across its side.

A flat landing knocked the wind out of her as the demon careened into another post headfirst, cracking it. She got to her feet just in time to avoid a lunging downward whomp; rather than impale claws through her back, it snagged her by the boot. Her hands scraped bloody over debris as it ripped her into the air, swinging her around by one leg.

Demolished apartment blurred into a haze around the demon’s face. Kirsten raised her left hand, focusing on the essence of the grip around her boot. She found it after two spins and sent a surge of energy at it, forcing its fingers to loosen. She slipped a few inches. Charazu roared; six legs gouged the floor as he came to a halt to focus on retaining his grip. She dangled upside down like a caught fish. Howling as her hip came close to dislocating.

Kirsten screamed through a clenched jaw, a manifestation of her battle of wills. The demon moved to the side and held her against another post while drawing its free arm back. Fear of being stuck between its fist and a concrete post broke her concentration. The clawed hand tightened around her boot; that foot went numb.

A lash slapped Charazu across the nose; a hasty attack meant more as a distraction to take its mind off smashing her. It roared again, shaking from side to side. Ignoring the confusion of being upside down and battered into the wall, Kirsten lashed again and again. Charazu staggered backwards, wailing in protest, trying to put a hand in the way to guard its face. The feeble strikes did little in the way of damage, but if the noises Charazu made were any indication, it caused a great deal of pain.

Kirsten kept at it, despite knowing she only annoyed it, until it hurled her to the side with a howl. She hit the ground on her chest, finding several pieces of sharp debris. Her spinning slide came to a halt against a pile of drywall slabs, which collapsed on top of her.

“Shit, shit, shit.” She shoved at the junk, trying to dig her way out.

Charazu shook off the pain; the tiny arms raked at its nose. The great creature shifted and moved at her. Arms rose to the sides as six legs took on a wider stance, face hovered low to the ground. Another growl sent waves of scalding air over her, rife with the choking rot of sulfurous decay. Hunks of plasterboard crumbled as she tried to grab them in haste, covering her in grey powder. Charazu lurched into a charge that shook the floor; more junk slid from the top of the pile. One piece cracked her over the head, shattering. She ignored it, flailing at the collapsing heap.

Sudden bright light painted Charazu’s side, causing it to glimmer. For three brief seconds, crimson flecks glowed amid a smoky transparent onyx shell, and then the beast vanished with a tremendous crash. Demonic screeching warped to the right, the sound bending in the manner of a passing train.

Wham.

Flakes of concrete clattered as the floor, indeed the entire building, shuddered. More stuff fell on top of her. Minutes later, she dragged herself out from under the pile and stood. Favoring her right foot, she limped towards a rolling cloud of dust. The patrol craft’s tail lights resembled the eyes of an even larger demon in the mist, until a momentary breeze cleared enough for her to see. Charazu lay on his side, pinned between the front end of the armored hovercar and the metal-reinforced elevator cluster. A spatter of luminous orange liquid streaked the wall above him, seeping out of the gaps between plates. Azure arcs from wires at the ceiling leapt to the hood as glowing flecks spat in intermittent bursts from a power box between two shafts.

“Worked for the kid,” said Dorian, giving her a thumbs up.

He seemed to bask in the electrical discharge for a moment before he moved the car back. The hood armor had a tiny dent where the creature’s elbow caught it.

Charazu exhaled a deep labored moan, somewhere between agony and exasperation.

She gave her partner a worried look. “Are you feeling all right?” He risked his security blanket, his home…

He blurred from the driver’s seat to stand at her side. “The old girl’s tough.”

Scraping; stone on stone. Charazu shifted, twisting to bring all its eyes to bear on Kirsten.

Dozens of middle-aged women appeared in a horseshoe around her, holding drinks and nicohalers. Her uniform vanished, leaving her naked, backside bright red and sore. The women laughed, pointing.

Kirsten frowned. “Mother only had six friends, not eighteen, and you forgot to shrink me into a kid. These old biddies aren’t too scary at eye level.” The lash glimmered. “I’m also not afraid of this anymore.”

The illusion shattered. She lunged at the demon, the ribbon of energy coiling after her, aiming for its face. Charazu scrabbled at the ground, sliding away from her. She struck the demon’s front end as it forced itself up onto its legs, drawing forth an agonized roar that knocked more silt from the ceiling. Dorian took the sidearm from his belt and walked into the snapping electricity. Spectral energy focused, he projected attacks in the shape of laser blasts. Charazu cringed from the strikes, though seemed to regard them as a nuisance.

The lash found him twice more before the creature ceased feigning pain. It lowered its head, rotated to face her, and drifted closer on its long, spindly legs―oblivious to her attacks.

“Umm. Dorian… It’s either really damn tough, or I’m not hurting it.”

He gave up shooting it. “I can feel it doing something. It’s got some kind of protection. Maybe we need to draw it away from the gate.”

Kirsten backed up, stepping with care over hunks of mangled furniture. Her spine involuntarily clenched at the sound of glass crunching under her boot. Dropping the lash, she held both hands up and focused her power at the massive insectoid horror. Charazu shuddered, clawed leg-tips gouged the floor, trying to force through her resistance. She closed her eyes, digging deeper for strength. The great demon shuddered to a halt, snarling and seething foul-smelling fumes.

They stalemated.

Konstantin seemed confident in my ability to stop this thing, but it’s so damn strong.

“Dorian,” she gasped. “What else can I do?”

“Try some priesty shit?” Two more of Dorian’s blasts bounced away. “How the hell should I know?”

Priesty shit? What does that even mean? Kirsten grunted. Fear of what this thing would do to Evan gave her a second wind. She pushed it back one inch, cement crumbling around six clawed feet.

It roared as a jet-black tongue lanced out, wrapping and crushing her wrists together. Kirsten leaned back as it pulled, widening her stance. Boots slipped through the dust; she screamed from the burning pain of its touch.

“Back!” she demanded. “Back to the pits of hell with you! Get y―” The rest was lost to a wail of agony as the searing tentacle coiled up her arm and crept around her neck.

Her panic caused her power to surge, pushing Charazu back two steps, but he dragged her along.

Dorian leapt forward, grabbing the slimy tendril and going after it with his belt knife. “Put more feeling into it. Like, ‘in the name of God I command you.’ You know, something of that nature. Maybe demons only know Latin?”

I can’t say that… I don’t believe it. She scowled. I’d feel so stupid. The scent of her own burning wrists and throat distracted her. The tongue pulled her lean into a forward tilt.

A cry of exertion erupted from Dorian as he wrenched his knife into the tentacle. The slimy appendage failed, snapping apart in two directions. One end whipped her in the face, the other shot back down Charazu’s throat. With tension gone, Kirsten fell over backwards screaming with a red, burned squiggle on her cheek. Charazu staggered into the closest its body shape could approximate to sitting; the impact of its shell-covered body pushed a two-foot hole through the floor.

“Hope no one lives in that apartment…” Dorian blinked at the damage, before running to Kirsten’s side.

Whimpering, Kirsten flailed her arms to unbind her wrists from the still-boiling tongue. Severed from its owner, it took on a life of its own and thrashed about, striking at her face. The throbbing mass coiled ever tighter around her neck. When Dorian grabbed the loose end, she put a boot between her arms and pulled her hands out of the rubbery cord. Having lost its grip on her arms, the tendril squeezed as if to pop her head off.

Kirsten held her breath, swatting at the abomination with a lash. It burst into a spray of black slime; Dorian staggered away. Charazu scrabbled at the floor, one hand over its mouth as it howled. Great claws shredded the concrete as it tried to pull itself out of the gap.

Blisters covered the back of her hands and red oozed around each wrist where the skin had melted. Kirsten clawed at her belt, dosing two stimpaks before shock wore off. The skin bubbled, blisters faded, and she howled as if her hands had been cut off, and the stumps sealed with cauterizing fire. A wreath of incineration felt as though it surrounded her neck. Dorian whirled at her shout, cringing at the realization of what she had just done.

Don’t use stimpaks on burns. Day one of the training manual.

She shrieked herself hoarse, drifting into a delirium of endorphins. An army of microscopic machines destroyed scar and regenerated good tissue; she felt every single tiny biting mouth. What did Konstantin say?

His voice drifted through the misery. “I’m sure you will be able to stop it, now that you know its name.”

Its name.

“Kirsten!” Dorian shouted. “It’s loose.”

Tremors in the ground, rumbling as it stomped at her. So much pain. I don’t want to move. She thought about getting up, but couldn’t.

“Mommy!” Evan’s voice was only in her imagination, but he got through.

She sat up, once more focusing her psionic energy at the demon. Its charge became a forward stumble, right through her effort to halt it. Oh, he’s pissed.

“Charazu!” she screamed. “Your name is Charazu, and by that name I command you back to the Abyss.”

The demon faltered, the battle of opposing forces went completely in her favor in a split second. Six legs swept out from under it and the massive suspended body crashed down. She surged with so much power her eyes radiated glowing blue-white energy. Charazu burst into silver flames and slid twenty meters into the elevator bank. The resonant boom of crushed sheet metal echoed dozens of stories up and down. She forced herself to stand and staggered after it.

“Charazu, you have no power in this world. I do not allow you to remain here.”

Scintillating light streaked across her view. This time, the lash split the shell wide open. Charazu wailed. All the menace of before changed, lending a pleading tone to the demonic sound. Legs and arms flailed, a remnant of its tongue lolled out through jagged teeth, spraying black gunk.

“Charazu, I commend you back to the Abyss.”

Kirsten put her hands together as if holding the lash like a two-handed sword. She whipped it around and over her head, and a sensation left her mind as if an impaled knife had just slipped out of a head wound. The intense drain of power brightened the astral whip and detonated what remained of Charazu into an explosion of gore that blew back and away from her in a cone.

“Back to the Abyss!”

She sagged forward and fell to her knees. Piece by piece, fragments of shell liquefied into puddles of tar. Seconds later, they became watery and appeared to soak into the concrete. Faint wisps of energy exuded from the splatter, whispering as the portal sucked them in. Blood dribbled over her upper lip, the worst nosebleed she ever had. One hand to her face, she sat back, too tired to breathe.

Dorian approached. “Kirsten… look.”

She turned. The portal flickered into view, silent roiling energy at its edges.

Her trembling hand wobbled before her eyes. The effort to use her power came on with the sensation of needles in the brain. More blood seeped through her fingers. I couldn’t bash it… it looks so much like glass.

“Dorian…” Kirsten crawled through the dusty debris-strewn mess until she found a length of rebar. Clasping it with her bloody hand, she pulled the metal in line with both the astral and physical world. It hurt to use even that minor power, but far less than a lash. Her blood soaked into the steel, leaving the bar clean.

“Got it.” Dorian took the bar and approached the gate.

Kirsten put both hands over her nose to stem the tide of blood. Damn stimpak case is empty. A great shattering rumble rolled over, delicate twinkling of glass combined with the sound of a bomb going off. Spectral winds ripped past, fluttering her hair. Dorian slid to a halt on his back next to her, looking surprised, bent rebar in hand.

“Well… it broke.” He tilted his head to smile at her, not bothering to sit up.

The unnatural darkness lifted from the shattered space, allowing just-past-noon daylight to wash over them.

The sun is so warm.

irsten knelt still for some minutes, chest on fire, wrists sore, neck burning, and a rod of pain through her mind. Dorian grunted and managed a slight manifestation―enough to rub her shoulder. She sniffled.

“Why are you crying?” He squeezed.

“I…” She looked at him. “I’m having those silly thoughts again.”

Dorian chuckled. “Partners often have a close bond, but it’s different than lovers. You deserve a live person. I will never be able to give you children. I’ll always be here for you, but I can’t be what you need.”

Kirsten shrank into herself, offering a reluctant nod. “Yeah… I know. I still love you though, even if it isn’t that kind of love.”

“I’m ready,” said a deep voice.

She looked up at Icarus, back in one piece. He swayed as if standing took all his concentration. She asked Dorian for help with a look and he pulled her to her feet.

“All right. Thank you for saving my ass. I’m sorry it’s this way for you, Icarus.”

Icarus chuckled. “Michael. Please, call me Michael. I can’t argue I did a bunch of awful shit in life. I got put where I belonged, I ain’t gonna bemoan it. I just don’t have the stomach for it anymore. Honor and valor and all that… Damn corporations don’t have any of it. Go ahead and call me a taxi, eh?” He closed his eyes.

“Admitting it is a start. I don’t know how it works down there but… there’s hope.”

She beckoned.

Dorian squeezed her hand as the mood changed. Within a moment, the area filled with whispering darkness. Michael nodded at the sound of myriad whispering. He held his arms out.

“Come, I am ready to go.”

One large Harbinger exuded from the mass, gliding up to him. It matched his arms-wide gesture and leaned its vaporous head back. Kirsten, still clinging to Dorian to stay on her feet, bowed at it as much as her pain allowed.

Michael took a step towards it, but the Harbinger’s gaze came down, and it slipped backwards into the rolling wall of darkness, leaving Icarus to stare at Kirsten with a quizzical look. The same look settled over Kirsten’s face as a shimmering cloud of silver unfolded through the air. The light spread outward from a point, causing the mass of Harbingers to recede further.

Ribbons of silver energy emerged from the center, spreading up and to the sides in a shape semblant to wings. Between them, the body of a woman emerged. Alabaster skin glowed with blinding purity; long white hair streamed behind her, lofted by an intangible wind. She wore nothing aside from light, sheets of it wrapped about her body like the robes of a Greek statue.

“Michael Coley, twice you have accepted your proscribed fate, and you chanced oblivion to spare the life of one who you once considered enemy.” The woman gestured, and a silver-rimmed doorway opened.

Beyond it waited a man, similar in appearance to the creature floating there; only he had wings of fire instead of threads of light. He bowed in a welcoming way as people, perhaps Michael’s ancestors, faded in around him.

Michael took a step back. “There are more deserving souls than I.”

“A determination you have not been tasked with making.” The floating woman smiled.

He bowed, his body bolstered. No longer seeming hurt, he vanished into the doorway and it collapsed around him.

Kirsten did not move the entire time, making no sound other than a mild squeak when the strange woman faced her.

“…Angels?” Kirsten whispered.

“You must have questions, though my time here is short. Know that I am a being of energy. I am mercy. Your kind once called us Seraphim, but such a word only brings to mind a concept. Such concepts can be tainted by belief, twisted by men for their own ends.”

She remembered a wispy tendril of light just before she smashed into the advert droid. “Thank you.”

The woman floated higher, energy ribbons spread to the sides. “We are guardians of another world who stand against the ancients who dwell within the Abyss. Our kind are not necessary in the realm of man. My presence here is an after-shadow, permitted by Charazu’s trespass. Kirsten Wren, we have chosen you as our instrument in this place, a warden between worlds.”

I guess that’s why you keep saving my dumb ass.

The Seraphim smiled, and reached a hand to rest atop Kirsten’s head. “Indeed, but we have limits, and you have more to do. Darkness comes, be ready.”

Head spinning, Kirsten found herself flat on her back, pain and fatigue gone. When a bright light jabbed her in the eye, she sat up, squinting past her arm at a blue helmet around a silver visor.

“She’s alive.” A man’s voice crackled through an external speaker on the armor.

Division 1 officers filled the area, as well as a small number of forensic techs. Captain Eze got out of another all-black patrol craft and jogged over. Kirsten looked down, finding no trace of injury aside from the dried blood on her hand.

“Kirsten…” Eze came to a halt at her side, helping her up. “Your bio monitor sent a distress call, I was concerned that…”

She stretched, examining herself. “Yeah, I got my ass kicked again but… Nothing ten stimpaks couldn’t handle.” Kirsten picked at the empty belt case.

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say I’m going to wind up in Burckhardt’s office in the morning after you send my report up the ladder… assuming I didn’t just dream all this.”

“That bad?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No, that weird.” She glanced at the runic circle.

The immutable silver lines had become trails of powder eroding away on the wind.

irsten fidgeted on the bench. She did not remember the last time she ever wore a skirt, and the thigh-length grey fabric let an awful lot of cold air in where it did not belong. Nila sat to her left, picking at a salad, enjoying the bright Saturday morning. Evan and Shani ran in giggling circles out in Sanctuary Park, weaving through bio-engineered trees and piles of leaves. Somewhere, a dog barked.

“Cross your legs.” Nila laughed, and then demonstrated. “You’re not supposed to sit like a man when wearing a skirt.”

“This was your idea.” Kirsten took the suggestion. “I hate these things. I feel as if I’m walking around pants-less.”

“You got panties on, don’t you?”

Kirsten blushed. “Of course, what kind of question is that?”

Nila munched away, the scent of ranch dressing on her breath. “I adore the freedom. I’m stuck in that damn armor all day long, rides up.”

They giggled.

“So…” Nila lowered her voice. “How did it go with the hearing?”

Kirsten folded her arms, gazing at her lap.

“Oh, no,” Nila whispered, giving a consoling back pat.

“No… It’s not bad news.” Kirsten straightened. “It’s just not happened yet. I’m worried sick and terrified. The caseworker interviewed Evan a few days ago. He said it went fine, but I don’t want to lose him.”

“I got cleared for duty again.”

Kirsten clung to Nila’s arm for a moment. “That’s great.”

They both glanced over at Evan’s cry of glee. He flew about in the pose of a superhero, lofted by Shani’s telekinesis. The girl moved in a slow rotation, her face dour with concentration.

“Having a telekinetic daughter must be… interesting.” Kirsten finally took a bite of her turkey wrap. “At least they seem to like each other.”

“I almost fainted the first time her toys put themselves away. You know, it’s kind of funny,” Nila said, sounding more sad than amused. “We’ve both got kids without being married.”

Kirsten squeezed her shoulder. “I’m so sorry Nila; the way Dorian told it, I thought…”

Nila’s eyes shot wide. “Oh, I can imagine how bad it sounded. I was dating this guy and he was… well.” Nila sighed. “He started off nice but turned into a controlling ass. So, I left him. He made threatening calls, kept following me… I never told him I was pregnant. He almost beat me to death when I wouldn’t take him back.” She scowled. “My own damn fault for not wanting to burn him.”

“Oh…” Dammit, Dorian, you made it sound like… “Dorian said he killed him for it.”

Nila was quiet for a long few minutes; the distant giggles of children a surreal backdrop to the current topic. “I see. Well, that explains why he stopped bothering me. He would have eventually killed me, or Shani. I don’t feel sorry for him. Attempted murder on police personnel is usually a death sentence anyway. Besides, I probably would have done it myself eventually. Pyrokinesis gets scary in moments of primal fear.”

Kirsten shifted, picking at the skirt.

“I know you’re squishy about killing and all. Not everyone is as sweet and innocent as you are. I won’t feel guilt over someone that has to die to save my life, or over anyone who threatens my family.”

“Mmm.” Kirsten could not help but stare at Evan, grinning as he flew in circles. “You heard they got Rene?”

“Yeah, it was foolish of you to go in there after him, but I appreciate it.” Nila grinned, returning Shani’s wave as she darted about. “So, I hear you’re dating some millionaire playboy?”

“Konstantin isn’t hurting for credits.” Kirsten giggled, a trace of blush in her cheeks. “Or looks.”

“Guess your date last night went well?”

Kirsten held out her right arm, showing off a glittering gold serpent bracelet with ruby eyes. It closed by eating its own tail.

Nila held her friend’s arm, tilting the jewelry in the light. “Wow. He’s either loaded or really interested.”

“He’s showing off. The place we went to was a thousand a plate.” She fidgeted, a guilty look evident. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“Something wrong with him?”

She cradled the bracelet to her chest, staring at her lap. “Oh, no! He’s perfect. It’s just that… There’s so many people in the city who can’t even eat. I can’t feel good about wasting that much money on food.”

“You look like you’re smitten; you have that glint in your eyes. Besides, it’s not your money.”

Kirsten waved at her. “Oh, come on. You know what I mean.”

Nila waved at Evan, flying over a tree.

“Evan!” yelled Kirsten, “Sorry. Shani, not so high please.”

“So, how did you meet this perfect man?”

“Would you believe there are only three people in the entire world that have an understanding of ancient Sumerian?”

“What’s that?” asked Nila.

Evan’s voice shouted in the distance. “Race ya!”

“No fair!” wailed Shani. “You got a head start.”

Giggling, Kirsten idly twisted the gold serpent around her arm. “I guess you would. He helped me kick a demon back to the Abyss.”

Nila looked impressed. “He’s okay with all the weird stuff?”

“Oh, yeah.” Kirsten squinted into an adoring smile. “He’s quite comfortable with all that stuff. For a non-psionic, he’s got a lot of working knowledge of spirits and such. Guess it’s a hobby.”

Evan’s gleeful run slowed to a stumble, then to a halt. He rocked forward one step as Shani collided with him. The girl tugged at his arm, confused by the way he stared into a thick cluster of trees and bushes bordering the grassy area where they played. After a second, he took Shani by the hand, dragging her over to the bench.

“Mom…” Fear paled his cheeks and widened his eyes, his arm curled in a protective posture over his confused playmate. “It feels like something’s watching us.”

roken glass crunched underfoot; every third step, her foot slipped to one side or the other almost sending her to the ground. Natalie stumbled through the alley behind the others, struggling to keep the pace demanded by the hand around her wrist. The clamor of boots on the wet pavement made her feel as if the eyes of the entire city fell on her. Something bad was in the air tonight, something worse than ripping off the corner store or pinching a Beemer for a joyride. Wet brick and fire escapes, highlighted in moonlight, passed overhead; she ran through the shadows to a part of the city she had never been.

In time, the pack slowed to a quiet walk and came to a halt just shy of where the glow of streetlamps invaded the alley. Natalie covered her mouth with her left hand, both to shield herself from some awful smell in the air and to quiet the sound of her breathing. The others leaned against the wall of an old brownstone. Each time a car went past, she froze as if the driver might hear her over the sound of his engine.

What the hell am I doing here? Mom is gonna lose her damn mind if I get caught.

Jason, despite his size, had a boyish face that made him seem less like a criminal than the rest. If there was any of this lot of misfits she trusted, it would be him. Most nights, he had a harmless, urgent look to him that felt at odds with everything the others were doing. Tonight was no different. This was, however, the first time he had squeezed the feeling out of her hand. She tugged at her arm, wanting to sink into the cover of darkness against the building.

He thinks I’ll run.

Kevin, white-painted face aglow in the streetlights, shot a hard look at those assembled. Natalie cringed inside, trying to evade his glare. The last time he had that glint in his eye, he almost stabbed some kid from Long Island. He peeked out of the alley, looked around, and came back pacing.

“Yo, where’s Etan?” Cory emerged from a sunken stairwell on the sidewalk, as calm as if he owned the basement apartment. He paused at the top, a red glowing dot brightened in front of his face for an instant before he entered the alley through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “He was supposed to be here.”

Everyone tensed at his sudden appearance; a few knives got put away when they realized who it was. Natalie shivered. Cory had a deep voice that sounded ten years older than he looked, the kind of voice they use to sell stuff on TV. He took another drag, laughing the smoke into a cloud. The collar of his long, dark coat flapped up against the back of his neck in the breeze; his eyes stood out against his dark face. He was either going for Wall Street or Blade.

“He’s in fuckin’ Jersey, trying to score some rocks. We need a cash infusion.” Kevin tapped his fingers on his arm as if prepping a vein.

Natalie flattened against the wall, heart pounding. She looked at Kevin, at his shitty impersonation of The Crow with spiked hair. Jason had the face paint too, but he skipped the overdone bit around the eyes. Cory frightened her more; he never liked her, too young, too white, too Jewish.

Jason pressed her into the cold brick, kissing. The smell of his makeup teased her anxiety into full-blown nausea.

Neck, cheek, lips. Hand on her shoulder, down her side.

She stood stiff as a mannequin, palms flat against cold stone.

“What’s wrong with you, Nat? You need some E? Relax, girl. It’s not like Rosario’s gonna call the police coz we hit his stash.”

Everyone laughed.

“No… If my mo―” A loud wooden bang from the street made her jump. She buried her face in Jason’s chest, trembling.

“Jay, man. You don’t got the green, man. That scrawny little JAP can smell your poverty.”

Natalie gave Cory the finger. “Fuck you, Blade.”

Her trembling lofted audible in her voice. Again, the group laughed.

“No thanks,” said Cory. “If I’m gonna bite on jailbait, it’s gonna have a shape. Ain’t suckin’ on four-to-ten for some flat-ass white bitch that thinks she’s street.” He whirled on Kevin, pointing two fingers. “No tits, no ass… shit, she wouldn’t know what to do with this monster.” He gestured at his crotch.

For an instant, she thought he went for a gun and gasped. Then she wanted to die of embarrassment.

Cory made a dismissive ‘pff’ sound, sidestepping. “Shit, man. Why the fuck you even bring her here? Bitch is gonna be nothin’ but trouble. She ain’t even real.”

Kevin leaned at him with a scowl. “You were a scared little punk ‘fore you stole that Brooks Brothers coat.” Cory glared. “Etan wants her to get her hands dirty. Gave her a choice of bendin’ over or pull a job, and she’s stiff as a rod. She ain’t wanna put out, she’s gotta do something serious.”

“You think I had to steal this?” Cory pulled at the lapels of his coat as he stepped up on Kevin. “None of you motherfuckers knows a damn thing about distribution.”

Natalie folded her arms and shivered into the wall, ignoring the continuing argument. I’m no whore, I’m not gonna be another Traci. I’m not like Mother. I can do this. Just stealing drugs from a drug dealer, not like anyone’s gonna get hurt. Maybe they’ll respect me if I―

Jason ran a thumb over her bottom lip, no doubt removing a smudge of his black lipstick. “Relax, kid. No one’s home. We’ll be long gone before the cops even know what happened.”

Natalie met his gaze, calmed by the image of a gothic prince staring down at her. The look her mother would give her if she showed up with face paint and black lipstick would make just about anything worth it. All she had to do was find the nerve to actually do it. “Cops got me twice at the mall already, if this goes―”

“It won’t.” Jason winked. “Traci babysits for them, knows they’re out of town this week and right where they keep the shit. Dude’s got two pounds. Word is he’s the source for his whole damn brokerage.” Jason laughed. “And they got the money to get the good shit.”

Kevin stepped over and wadded her shirt into a fist, then lifted her on tiptoe. “Look, kid. This is big-girl time. You wanna go home to your mother, do it now before we get started.”

She punched him in the gut.

His lip curled into a grin. “Cute.”

Her boot scraped on glass as she shifted her weight.

“Any part of your leg comes within six inches of my junk, your face and that wall are gonna be good friends. We copacetic?”

Natalie glared. “Yeah… asshole.”

He let go; she stepped back and adjusted her shirt.

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Jason got between them.

Kevin shifted his eyes. “Just a bad feeling. She won’t put out, won’t touch any shit, got trashed on two drinks, and almost coughed herself puking when she tried weed.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? She’s no cop.” Jason laughed. “She’s a kid.”

Natalie stepped up on Kevin. “Why do you think criminals always get caught? Coz they get fuckin’ high and then do stupid shit.”

“Cut her a break, she’s thirteen.” Jason pulled her back.

“Traci knew her way around a dick pretty good at that age,” said Ernesto, the grin of a fond memory on his face.

Corey made a dismissive wave. “Yeah, but that bitch from Jersey, not uptown like this J―”

“Something’s fucked.” The tip of Kevin’s finger hovered at her nose. “She’s just usin’ us to piss off mommy and daddy. She don’t wanna be here, just wants to be seen here.”

A boy leaning on the other wall stepped into the light. “Etan said it was time to―”

“Alright, everyone just shut up.” Kevin spun with enough force to flare his leather trenchcoat. He pointed at her again, then the street. “Since you’re still a child, you get the easy job.”

Natalie bristled. Indignation did little to trap the butterflies in her gut.

“Your skinny ass is goin’ through the window and lettin’ us in.”

“It’s clear,” said Lucas, from the street.

The others moved around front, leaving her and Jason alone in the dark. I’m gonna throw up. She shivered, huddled against the wall as he attacked a street-level window. The taste of freezer-burned meatballs and cheese came back. Natalie cringed each time his boot hit the glass, every crunch felt like it hit her in the stomach. Jason scraped his foot across the bottom to chase away the last of the shards and covered the lower edge with sheets of cardboard from the dumpster.

“You’re up, kid.”

Natalie wiped a line of bile from the corner of her mouth, and approached the window where she sank into a squat by the small opening. The butterflies got bigger as she peered into a half-basement full of dusty things covered in cloth. With one shaking hand on the cardboard, she slid her head through the gap and looked around. The floor waited about six feet down. It was dark, scary, and the opening was a tight squeeze, even for her.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Jason held her hand.

She peered into his eyes, closed hers halfway, and kissed him. No. “Y… Yeah.”

atalie crouched by the unsteady piece of cardboard, leaning her upper body through the gap. The floor was too far below. She backed out, turned, and stuck a foot through. Jason held her hands, and she let her weight dangle. Squirming, she wriggled backwards until gravity took her through the gap. A box of old computer parts made for a lousy landing, and she spilled over backwards. Pain shot up through both arms as her elbows and the back of her head hit the ground at the same time. She lay still as dancing lights sparkled above her. A moment later, she curled on her side moaning, both arms wrapped around her head.

“Ow…”

“You ok? You cut?”

When the room ceased flashing, she sat up. Shifting from side to side, she ran a hand along each leg to check her jeans. Aside from filthy with dust, there was only a small tear. “Yeah, just cracked my fucking head on the floor. Thanks for letting go, dick.”

“Uhh, sorry. I’m going out front with the others. Just find the door and let us in.”

Natalie stood up, looking around at a small basement. Shoplifting had been one thing―now she stood inside a house which did not belong to her. This was serious. This was juvenile hall. Boxes of old junk sat stacked atop some kind of game table, ping-pong, air hockey, whatever. She took a tentative step around the pile, making uneasy faces at a washer and dryer that looked older than she was. Exposed wood overhead had wires set off on tiny porcelain nubs caked with dust. She stopped breathing, terrified someone upstairs could hear it. Minutes passed without a sound.

Nobody is home. Come on, you can’t just stand here. You just broke into someone’s damn house.

She flicked her arms, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. Beyond the ancient appliances, a wooden stairway led up to a narrow door. Holding her hands over her face, she crept to the bottom and peered up at the speck of light coming through the keyhole. The sight of the door hit her as a reminder this was not her house; the urge to throw up flipped over in her gut. The police warned her once for shoplifting and arrested her twice after that. Fortunately, her father had some sway with the department and they were sympathetic.

“Next time, I’m gonna leave you there overnight… or longer,” screamed Mother, in the back of her mind.

Next time… If I get nailed here, I’ll do more than one day.

The night she was arrested had been terrifying enough when all the police did was take her home and yell at her. At least they took the cuffs off before Mom saw them. The idea of going to juvie almost left Hot Pockets on the stairs in front of her. It was too late to dwell on that, already standing in a stranger’s basement. Come on, Nat. Who calls the cops to say someone stole their cocaine? Wait, some people are that stupid. Swallowing hard, she eased her weight into the first step. One by one, she weathered the horrendous, loud creaks on her way to the ground floor.

Manipulating a brass doorknob with sleeve-covered hands frustrated her just short of the point of screaming. No way in hell was she going to touch anything. They must be going crazy outside, wondering what the hell I’m doing in here. She squeezed harder, the navy blue wool just slid over without grip. She grumbled. I look like such a tool. Street punk in a Macy’s coat, really. Natalie wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. Whining, she squeezed the knob between both hands, leaning her entire body around in a concerted effort to turn it.

When it opened, she stumbled through into a tiny kitchen. The scent of recent cooking wafted through the air, concentrated around dishes piled in the sink. She nudged the basement door closed with her boot and cringed as it clicked. Ignoring another door that led out to a cramped yard, she edged past a plain oval table toward the interior. As if tiptoeing over a minefield, she scrunched her shoulders and went through an archway into a dining room.

On the wall just inside, a blinking green light made her turn. The flashing came from a white box with a small LCD screen bearing the words ‘Fault 00C.’ That doesn’t look like a thermostat. Oh, shit! Shit… shit… shit… From the back of the dining room, the front door was visible past a stairway along the right-side; most of the rest of this floor was open area divided by very wide arches, as if someone knocked out the wall between living and dining room and left a few inches of it just as a marker. As soon as she saw the exit, she sprinted for it. A throw rug on polished hardwood took her feet out from under her, and she rolled sidelong into a bookshelf.

Her collective of friends on the front stoop enjoyed a communal wince at the noise; a few whispers of ‘what the fuck are you doing’ made it through the paralytic pain. Fear of Traci being wrong, that someone was still here and was now awake, got her to her feet. Fear of the flashing light got her moving. She unlatched the door, pinching it through her sleeves. Kevin yanked it open and dragged her out onto the porch.

“For a little bitch, you make a shitload of noise.”

“Sorry.” She got snotty. “Who puts a fucking Oriental rug on hardwood without a pad? Shot right out from under me.”

Yeah, I sound like a street kid.

He hauled her down two steps. “You stay right here. You see anything weird, you come running in and warn us. We go out the back.”

Her urgent eyes grew wide. “Hey, there’s―”

Kevin shoved her out of the way, sending her over the porch railing. The stone to the gut knocked the words right out of her, and nauseous guilt kept them gone. Before she could breathe again, the lot of them had disappeared inside, pulling the door closed behind them. Trembling, she meandered onto the sidewalk, cupping sleeve-covered hands over her mouth to warm icy fingers. A lone taxi drove past; she turned her face away before the headlights hit her.

She tasted meatball Hot Pockets again.

What am I doing? Dad can’t make this go away. Even if Rosario is a drug dealer, this is still B&E. From fear, she could resist the shakes. From cold, she could resist the shiver. From both, she succumbed.

Would he even bother to try?

A thud came from the second floor window. She drew a sharp breath, tasting the basement dust from her coat. At least she muffled the yelp. Natalie leaned against the stone railing, gazing at the shadows adrift in the windows. This sort of thing felt much more exciting on TV; being in it sucked.

Nat… They wanna give you drugs. They wanna get you fucked up so you drop your pants and they all take a turn. They are going to get you put in jail. She managed a snarl, thinking about her mother. Her nerves came under control, and she stopped shaking. Serves you right, Mom.

Glimmering red and blue lights invaded the dark one block down. Her legs went to jelly. Silent alarm. She took a step back, thankful the building they chose was right next to an alley. Before the police car nosed around the corner, she bolted into the night. Natalie did not think about where she was going―she had no idea.

Blind with panic, she ran from alley to alley and into a street. She ran past more apartments and one or two people out wandering at that hour. She ran until she collapsed in a wheezing heap on a bus stop bench.

Her lungs burned. Steam wafted from her hair. Fire rippled through her legs. She leaned forward, hugging her knees and coughing. After a few gagging breaths, she sat back and wiped her eyes. Natalie’s heart stopped when a policeman shone a flashlight on her face.

“You alright, kid?”

She slumped forward and hurled all over her boots.

He patted her on the back, noting the smudges of black lipstick on her face. “What happened? Did someone try to take advantage of you? What were you running from?”

Natalie just stared at him, petrified at the guilt that had to be radiating from her eyes.

“Calm down, kid. Take a few breaths. Tell me what happened.”

She shrank into herself. “N… Nothing, officer. I got into a fight with my boyfriend. He kicked me out of his car when I wouldn’t fuck him.” She cringed at throwing that word at a cop. “I… uh, don’t know where I am.”

“Did he assault you? Make you do anything you did not want to do?”

No, yes. “He just kissed me.” She dabbed genuine tears with her sleeve. “I didn’t wanna go all the way, so I ran.”

The officer nodded. “Do you need a ride home?”

“A ride to my Mom’s…”

Born in a little town known as South Amboy NJ in 1973, Matthew has been creating science fiction and fantasy worlds for most of his reasoning life. Somewhere between fifteen to eighteen of them spent developing the world in which Division Zero, Virtual Immortality, and The Awakened Series take place. He has several other projects in the works as well as a collaborative science fiction endeavor with author Tony Healey.

Matthew is an avid gamer, a recovered WoW addict, Gamemaster for two custom systems (Chronicles of Eldrinaath [Fantasy] and Divergent Fates [Sci Fi], and a fan of anime, British humour (<- deliberate), and intellectual science fiction that questions the nature of reality, life, and what happens after it.

He is also fond of cats.

Now that you have completed this book, we hope you will leave a review so that other readers may benefit from your perspective. Authors like Matthew Cox live and die by your reviews, after all!

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Virtual Immortality, by Matthew Cox
(http://bit.ly/1hSXIMP)

Nina Duchenne walked away from a perfect life to pursue a noble idea, but one tragic night shatters her dreams.

Joey Dillon lives on a perpetual adrenaline rush. A self-styled cyber cowboy chasing thrills wherever he can find them, he is unconcerned with what will happen twenty minutes into the future.

Voices from beyond the grave distract Nina from her pursuit of two international terrorists, and send Joey on a mission to find out who is playing games. Joey falls square in her sights with the fate of the entire West City, as well as Nina’s humanity, at risk.

Destruction, by Sharon Bayliss
(http://j.mp/1oPaiyw)

When David's two lost children are finally found, he learns they suffered years of unthinkable abuse. The children claim to be dark wizards, and David believes they use this fantasy to cope with their trauma. Until, David's wife admits a secret of her own—she is a dark wizard too, as is David, and all of their children.

Now, David must parent two hurting children from a dark world he doesn’t understand and keep his family from falling apart. All while dealing with the realization that everyone he loves, including himself, may be evil.

Shadow of a Dead Star, by Michael Shean
(http://j.mp/17VBzuW)

As an agent of the Industrial Security Bureau, it is Thomas Walken’s duty to keep the city of Seattle free of black-market technology.

But when a trio of living sex-dolls he has recently intercepted are stolen from custody, Walken finds himself seeking a great deal more than just contraband.

He will be forced to use his skills and preternatural instincts to try and keep his career, his freedom, and his life.

The Actuator 1: Fractured Earth, by James Wymore & Aiden James
(http://j.mp/1eyuK4P)

On a secret military base tucked in a remote desert mountain, a dangerous machine lies hidden from the American public. Known as “The Actuator”, this machine is capable of transforming entire communities into alternate realities.

Meanwhile, an unknown saboteur dismantles the dampeners. The affect is catastrophic. The entire world is plunged into chaos, and familiar landscapes become a deadly patchwork of genre horrors. It’s up to Red McLaren and his band to set things right again. They must survive their journey through the various realms that separate them from the Actuator, where ever-present orcs, aliens, pirates, and vampires seek to destroy them.

Appetizer:

- Book Cover

- Title Page

Main Course:

- Chapter One: Wraith

- Chapter Two: The Ambush

- Chapter Three: Hope

- Chapter Four: Old Wounds

- Chapter Five: Tainted

- Chapter Six: The Silver Circle

- Chapter Seven: Vaporized

- Chapter Eight: Guilt

- Chapter Nine: Throwaway

- Chapter Ten: Home

- Chapter Eleven: Legal Guardian

- Chapter Twelve: The Scholar

- Chapter Thirteen: A Job Unfinished

- Chapter Fourteen: The Sons of Charon

- Chapter Fifteen: Debriefing

- Chapter Sixteen: Payback

- Chapter Seventeen: Lingering

- Chapter Eighteen: Showdown

- Chapter Nineteen: Beacon

- Chapter Twenty: Kunoichi

- Chapter Twenty-One: Vengeance Denied

- Chapter Twenty-Two: Close Call

- Chapter Twenty-Three: Innocence Restored

- Chapter Twenty-Four: The Foolish and the Dead

- Chapter Twenty-Five: Paying the Boatmen

- Chapter Twenty-Six: True Colors

- Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

- Chapter Twenty-Eight: Take No Chances

- Chapter Twenty-Nine: Reckoning

- Chapter Thirty: Dead Man Hacking

- Chapter Thirty-One: Betrayal of Conscience

- Chapter Thirty-Two: The Name of Darkness

- Chapter Thirty-Three: Behind the Firewall

- Chapter Thirty-Four: Holy Ground

- Chapter Thirty-Five: Demons

- Chapter Thirty-Six: Missing

- Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Gate

- Chapter Thirty-Eight: Chaos

- Chapter Thirty-Nine: Sacrifice

- Chapter Forty: Charazu

- Chapter Forty-One: Acceptance

- Chapter Forty-Two: New Friends

Dessert:

- A Taste of Caller 107, by Matthew Cox

- Closing

- About the Author

- Copyright & Publisher

- More from Curiosity Quills Press