Date: 2014-04-01 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Genetic Engineering; Political; Science Fiction; Thrillers; Action & Adventure
Description: A cyborg journalist uncovers a conspiracy in this thrilling tale by the New York Times –bestselling author of Legion of the Damned. Rex Corvan is the World’s Greatest Reporter. It’s not the video camera implanted in his right eye. It’s not his popularity with news audiences everywhere. What makes him a great reporter is his determination to run toward the story. With a killer on his tail, hopefully Rex can run fast enough. With his video technician Kim, Rex unravels the mystery of Matrix Man, a dangerous program controlled by a secret group looking to subvert the government. They’ve already in
Publisher: Open Road Media
Rights: Copyright 1990 by William C. Dietz. All rights reserved.

Matrix Man

William C. Dietz

To my mother, Grace Elizabeth Dietz, for all those years when it was us against the world, and books were the only place we had to hide.

Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge the help I received from all the television professionals I have worked with over the years, with special thanks to those who worked at KOMO-TV in Seattle during the time I did, and to Marvin Straus for his insight and advice.

Prologue

Soft light bathed the Oval Office as the president of the United States pulled the chromed jack out of his right temple and gave a sigh of relief. He hated the computer interface and wished there was a way to do the job without it. He stood up, rubbed his tired eyes, and stepped out from behind his desk.

The desk looked normal enough. It had a top of finely veined white marble and dark mahogany sides. But regardless of appearances the desk was more than mere furniture. Much more. It was a powerful IBM mainframe computer, a communications center, and a near-sentient administrative assistant all rolled into one. The computer's circuits, memory, and other components were all sandwiched into the desk's composite top.

But the desk was more than a fancy computer. It was a reminder to everyone who entered the Oval Office that in spite of all the talk about a single world government, the U.S.A. still stood atop the economic heap, a position it maintained by virtue of scientific expertise and good old hard work. Some other countries stood up there too, but not many, and not without U.S. support. Even the eastern bloc countries relied on the pure research performed in the U.S. So, if there was agreement to form a single world government, then the good old U.S. of A. should help dictate the terms. Or so it seemed to George Manley Hawkins.

"Mr. President?" a voice issued from hidden speakers. It belonged to one of his Secret Service agents, but he couldn't remember which one.

“Yes?”

"Carla Subido to see you."

Hawkins frowned. It was late, and he was looking forward to a good night's sleep. But Carla was his chief of staff, and a damned good one at that, so if she wanted to see him he'd stay up a little longer. Hawkins turned to look out the window. "Send her in."

Carla Subido was conscious of a tightness in her throat as she entered the Oval Office. This was the moment she'd worked for, the moment when her father would be revenged, the moment when she would change the world. The thought sent a chill down her spine.

Hawkins turned to greet her. She was beautiful. She wore her dark hair long so it touched the top of her shoulders and framed her face. It was a perfect oval with high cheekbones and large, luminous eyes. Only the slight bump in the bridge of her nose marred the perfection of her features and reminded Hawkins of her father. Carla was an enigma, a beautiful woman who had never married but seemed eternally on the verge. She'd dated a long list of Georgetown's most eligible bachelors, some for many years at a time. But then, just when marriage looked certain, the relationship always fell apart. A few months would pass, and the whole pattern would repeat itself.

It was a strange phenomenon and one Hawkins didn't understand. For the millionth time he wanted her. Not her, but the way she looked, and the pleasure she could give him. She seemed tense, and something else as well—excited? Why would Carla be excited? Hawkins forced a heartiness he didn't feel. "Hello, Carla, what brings you here on a Friday night? Good news, I hope."

Carla forced a smile, "I think so . . . but I'll play this disk and let you decide for yourself."

Hawkins considered forcing the issue, but let it pass. Let Carla be mysterious. She'd earned the right. Originally he'd hired her out of loyalty to her father, a wet-behind-the-ears administrative assistant straight out of college, but the favoritism had ended there. Carla had worked her way up through the ranks strictly on her own.

Carla felt his eyes on her as she pressed a button and waited for the panel to slide open. She knew him, knew he was indulging her, and knew he was trying to see through her clothes. Well, not for long. The thought made her feel warm inside.

The disk was the size of an old-fashioned quarter and slid into the slot with an almost imperceptible whir. The holo tank was huge, the largest Zenith made, and it swirled with color as it searched for video and found it.

Hawkins took a seat on the corner of his desk as the first shot appeared. It was a wide shot of him in front of an electronically inserted American flag. The flag was an animated computer construct and rippled gently to the faintly heard strains of "America the Beautiful."

Hawkins frowned as he tried to remember the occasion. He preferred live press conferences, something he handled extremely well, and this was a studio appearance sans reporters. It must be fairly recent, because that was his favorite brown suit, the one Mary insisted he buy just before she'd gone into Walter Reed Army Hospital. When was she coming out? A week from now? With so many things on his mind, it was hard to keep track of time.

The televised Hawkins looked up into the eyes of the American people. "Good evening. There was a time when I would have said, 'Good evening, my fellow Americans,' but that time has passed. For too long now we the people of Earth have divided ourselves into nations, have fought wars to protect arbitrary boundaries, have lived in hate. So this evening I greet you not as Americans, but as friends, fellow travelers on the spaceship we call Earth."

Hawkins watched in amazement as his electronic likeness produced an apologetic shrug and spoke words that he'd never said. "And I must confess that I too have been guilty of the crime called nationalism.

"For many years I've maintained that a single world government was a worthy but distant goal attainable only after American interests had been fully assured. But as time passed, I began to wonder. Should the people of the world be forced to wait while a privileged few secure their positions? Should we follow rather than lead? And you know what I decided?"

The electronic Hawkins never got to answer his own rhetorical question because a long brown finger stabbed the remote's off button and the set faded to black.

When Hawkins turned toward Carla there was anger in his eyes. "Is this some sort of joke? Because if it is, I don't think it's funny. I don't know where this disk came from, or how it was made, but I want it destroyed now."

Carla struggled against the years of sublimated hate which boiled up and threatened to take control. The small vein located over the jeweled plug in her right temple throbbed with pain. She was close, so very close, and a few more seconds of self-control would get her there.

She ignored his angry stare and walked over to a mahogany side table. The pistol was there, taped to the underside of the table just as Numalo had promised it would be. She pulled the weapon loose and turned.

In his younger days George Manley Hawkins had flown Stealth Super Hawks, and like most fighter pilots, he wasn't given to panic. Look, listen, and learn. That's what they'd taught him and that's what he did.

Carla knew what she was doing. The two-handed grip, the balanced stance, the generous space between them all suggested training she wasn't supposed to have. The gun was a Browning Disposable, one of the new plastic jobs that came pre-loaded with twenty-five rounds of caseless ammo and was thrown away when empty. An ironic touch considering the fact that he'd championed development of the weapon during his years in Congress.

Where the hell was the Secret Service? Sitting on their butts, that's where. As far as they were concerned, the president was safe and sound in the Oval Office. There isn't a security system in the world that can protect you from the treachery of your friends.

Maybe he could talk her out of it, stall for time, or get the weapon away from her. "Carla, I don't know what this is all about, but put the weapon down and let's talk."

"You aren't going to talk your way out of this one," Carla said calmly. "This is about doing things. It's about eliminating war, feeding the hungry, and curing the sick."

Hawkins spread his hands. "Killing me will accomplish all that?"

"No, but it will make me feel better," Carla replied, "and it will clear the way for a new order. Strangely enough, you'll get all the credit. You'll go down as the man who started it all, the statesman who rose above nationalism for the good of humanity, the father of world government."

Hawkins felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. She meant every word. She planned to kill him. And there were others, a conspiracy, ready to slip some sort of electronic double into his place and carry on without him. The Secret Service wasn't coming. Hawkins was on his own.

"Why, Carla? If you hate me and the things I stand for, why work to get me get elected? Why accept a position as my chief of staff?"

Carla's eyes flashed and the fingers of her right hand rewrapped themselves around the butt of the pistol. "You still don't get it? I'm surprised. It's actually quite simple. I'm betraying you as you betrayed my father. I'm hurting you the way you hurt my mother. I'm making you hate me the way I hated you. That's why I helped you get the things you wanted ... so I could take it all away."

Hawkins shook his head slowly. "I didn't betray your father, Carla. He betrayed himself. He accepted illegal campaign funds and tried to cover it up. I was chairman of the ethics committee. I did what I had to do."

Carla dropped the pistol three inches and squeezed the trigger. The gun made a flat, cracking sound which was easily absorbed by the room's thick walls. The president's right knee exploded into a spray of blood, and he hit the carpet with a soft thump.

Hawkins wanted to scream. But he hugged the injured knee to his chest and rolled back and forth instead. She wanted him to make noise, to shame himself, but he refused to do so. He didn't know why that mattered, but it did. Poor Mary. She'd been through so much and now this.

Hawkins gritted his teeth against the pain and looked Carla in the eye. "I won't beg. If you're going to kill me, let's get it over with."

She aimed the pistol at the small patch of brown skin right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. The president's eyes were brown, like cow eyes, and filled with that ineffable something which man cannot give but so easily takes away.

She remembered how they had led her out into the middle of a field momentarily green after the spring rains. Tall, slim black men with gentle eyes. She remembered how the warm African sun had beat down on the back of her bare neck, how the light breeze had ruffled her blouse, how the birds had chirped as they brought the first cow before her.

"Shoot the cow here," the man had said, tapping the cow's broad forehead with a dirty finger. "She won't feel a thing."

And Carla had, shooting cow after cow until her pistol was burning hot, and a large white blister had formed on her trigger finger.

The killing made her sick at first, but eventually it became a routine, an act without meaning. She fired and fired until their bodies were everywhere and she was forced to climb over them in order to leave the field.

It was Numalo's idea, his way of desensitizing her to the act of murder, and it had worked. Carla squeezed the trigger and found it didn't bother her at all.

1

Kim Kio's stiletto heels made a hard tapping sound as she stalked down the corridor and straight-armed the door marked "CHIEF ENGINEER."

She had long, slim legs and they carried her from the doorway to the center of the room in three quick steps.

The door hit a large fish tank, which disturbed Mel Ryback's genetically engineered green goldfish and pissed him off. "How many times have I told you people? Do not, I repeat do not, bang the door into the fornicating greenfish."

Kim threw a printout down in front of him and leaned over his desk. "And how many times have I told you that I don't work with prima donnas, crazies, or freaks? So what do you do? You assign me Cyclops. The one reop who qualifies as all three."

Ryback leaned back in his chair, partly to put a little more distance between them, and partly to reduce her view of his bald head. Ever since Johnson & Johnson had marketed H-15, their new hair-restorative ointment, the total number of bald men had dropped precipitously. Unfortunately, the ointment had proved ineffective on approximately two percent of the bald population and Ryback was one of these. Never a happy man to begin with, the situation had soured him even more.

"So who the hell are you?" Ryback demanded testily. "God's gift to television? Someone's got to ride herd on Corvan and I picked you."

"Well, pick someone else," Kim said angrily. "I've paid my dues."

Ryback smiled and clasped his hands over a growing paunch. "Oh really? Well, I've got a personal services contract with your name on it, and if I remember correctly, it says you're mine for another three months, two weeks, and three days."

"Two days," Kim corrected him, "and then I'm out of here."

"Fine," Ryback said agreeably. "But today you ride herd on Corvan."

For a moment she just stood there, hands on hips, her brown eyes filled with anger. Then she turned around and headed for the door.

Ryback was just reaching for the June printout of Broadcasting magazine when she stopped and looked back. "Hey, Ryback."

"Yeah?"

"Maybe they could transplant some hair from your earlobes to the top of your head." As the door swung closed, it hit the fish tank, causing Ryback to swear.

Kim's normally full lips were a hard, thin line as she marched down the gleaming corridor, her straight black hair swinging from side to side with each step.

Corvan, also known as Cyclops because of his single eye, was a well-known pain in the ass. He was a free lancer. One of the rare breed who wouldn't work full-time for one of the world's 163 television networks and chose to maintain his independence instead.

Corvan could afford to be picky because everyone wanted his services. Partly because he had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, partly because he was a damned good journalist, and partly because radical bod mods were still fairly new. And since new was "good," a man cam provided a competitive edge.

As of 0100 that morning, thousands of electronic billboards all over the world had dumped the previous day's message for a new one. It was a shot of Rex Corvan, light glinting off the lens which had replaced his right eye, and the slogan, "News Network 56. The man cam can."

As a result of his celebrity status Corvan considered himself exempt from corporate bullshit and made that clear to the suits. Kim didn't like suits either, but knew they always win in the end.

Kim opened the door to her editing suite and allowed it to slam closed behind her. The room was small and lit only by rows and rows of red, green, and amber indicator lights. The holo monitors were off and would remain so until she activated the system.

"Hello, Kim." The computer's voice flooded the room like soft music.

"Hello, yourself," Kim answered as she dropped into a high-backed chair and fumbled for a black-market fag. She found one in the very bottom of her purse. The price kept going up as country after country made them illegal. They couldn't stop people from running dope, so they made cigarettes illegal too. Who could figure the suits?

Kim lit the cigarette and took a deep drag.

"Cigarette smoking is illegal and hazardous to your health."

"Shut up or I'll send your speech synthesizer back to the factory for repairs."

Having spent a good deal of time with Kim, the computer took her threat seriously and shut up.

Kim glanced at her wristwatch: 0545. Fifteen minutes in which to power up and meet the net.

She sighed, stubbed the cigarette butt out on a styro plate still smeared with last night's dinner, and flicked the master power switch to the on position. By almost living in the small room, Kim racked up lots of overtime and saved money too. She'd given up her one-room apartment in favor of a locker in a nearby store-it-yourself facility a few weeks before. That allowed her to apply the rent money to her various loans. She'd made lots of sacrifices to get the implant, but it was worth it.

Reaching up, she grabbed one of two available cords, pulled it down until she had the right amount of slack, and gave a little tug. A brake locked the cord in place as she inserted the jack into the side of her head.

She loved the rush. The sudden expansion of consciousness as the computer's artificial intelligence was added to her own, the feeling of power as a small army of machines prepared to obey her every command, and yes, a sense of comradeship that she didn't find anywhere else.

Each piece of equipment had its own identity, its own individual purpose within the overall system. A system which depended on her for control and guidance.

Kim smiled and allowed herself to fall into the darkness between mind and machine. But it wasn't dark for long. Three-dimensional graphics popped into existence and rotated in front of her mind's eye. Some remained static, while others moved and pulsated in harmony with the equipment they symbolized. And as Kim checked each display, she was met with a characteristic greeting.

The slower, less intelligent components provided a predictable "A-okay," or "all-subsystems green," while the more intelligent modules responded with greetings like, "Good morning, Kim. Five out of six video storage banks are running normally. Number six, however, has experienced intermittent drive problems, and will remain off-line for the rest of your shift. Have a nice day."

But regardless of these lesser personalities, Kim was always aware of the editing computer, a Grass Valley Ultima better known as Val.

Val sat at the very top of the electronic hierarchy, and supervised everything from Kim's smoking to the number of video dropouts during a four-second length of video. Val was by far the most powerful of the many computers which made up the system and, outside of Kim, the most important. It was Val who brought the many subsystems together and welded them into a single unit.

"How's the bird?" Kim thought as she ran down a mental checklist.

"Comsat DN476 is in geosynchronous orbit over North America and reports all systems in the green," Val replied softly. "Correspondent Corvan is feeding bars and tone."

"Good. Let's see 'em."

A row of vertical color bars suddenly appeared on the holo screens above her head. By comparing Corvan's color bars with a similar set generated by her own equipment, Kim could assure a perfect alignment between the two sets of gear.

The fact that Corvan had two cameras at his disposal—the eye cam and a robo cam—which looked like a cross between a bat and a TV camera—made her task more difficult.

The robo cam was useful, but incorporated a lot of low-quality components. That made it hard to match the robot's video output with Corvan's top-of-the-line eye cam. Since Kim couldn't increase the quality of the robo cam's output, she had to pull Corvan's down and that went against her grain. Still, a match was better than switching back and forth between two disparate video sources, so Kim was forced to accept it.

The steady tone signified that the audio was A-okay, starting with Corvan's implants and running through the uplink, the downlink, and her own equipment. It reminded her of the slogan over the door at T-school. "This TV is some complicated shit."

It was time to get things rolling. "Val, tell DN476 that we're going live at 0600 straight up. That's five minutes from now and counting."

"Roger," Val said smoothly. "Four fifty-nine and counting."

Kim sighed. "All right, give me Corvan."

As Val opened the two-way intercom, Kim heard a soft tone inside her head and knew that Corvan heard it too. His reply was bored. "Yeah?"

"Seattle here. We have systems lockup and we're four-thirty from air."

"Roger that," Corvan replied. "Lockup with four-thirty to go."

The conversation was so normal. Where was the dreaded Cyclops? Kim felt disappointed somehow. She directed her thoughts to Val. "Okay, give me the studio."

Two seconds later a shot of the News Network 56 studio in New York popped onto the center program monitor. These were the lucrative morning hours when the news junkies got their first fix of the day. And news junkies were an important factor in network profitability. VCRs had driven the nets out of the entertainment business some twenty years before and forced them to concentrate on news, sports, and cultural events.

As usual, Ken Whitworth and Barbara Lansing were at their well-groomed best. Whitworth had prematurely gray hair and the finest features money could buy. Lansing was younger, thin almost to the point of emaciation, and beautifully dressed. Television critics referred to them as Ken and Barbie.

A rather laconic male voice came on the intercom. "Yeah?"

"Seattle bureau," Kim answered. "We have Comsat lockup for the 0600 special. Bars and tone on the way."

Val could've transmitted bars and tone to New York in a number of different ways, but chose a fiber-optic cable as the least expensive.

"I have your bars and tone, Seattle," the male voice said.

"Stand by. Give me program audio," Kim thought, and Val turned it up.

Ken Whitworth had decided to deliver the lead with what his staff referred to as "expression number three," a straight face with overtones of profound concern.

A 3-D Mercator projection appeared behind him and began to rotate. Pirate radio stations were represented by red dots and a series of radiating lines. There were quite a few of them.

"For some time now authorities have been increasingly concerned about the number of pirate radio and TV stations cropping up all over the world. Over the last hundred years there have been a number of pirate stations, but due to the bulk of the equipment required to run them, they were easy to find. Now the necessary equipment fits into a suitcase or backpack, making the task a good deal harder."

At this point Whitworth frowned to emphasize the severity of the problem.

"Some of these stations are run by harmless eccentrics, while others are used to make money or promote a particular point of view. Whatever the reason, their unlicensed transmitters often interfere with the signals broadcast by legitimate stations."

At this point the relevant section of the Mercator projection zoomed out to fill the screen and transformed itself into a 3-D topographical map of western Canada.

"In this case both the United States and Canada allege that an organization calling itself the Exodus Underground has been operating a pirate radio station from the Canadian wilderness.

"In a joint statement released last night, the two governments claimed, 'The station airs nationalistic propaganda and interferes with signals from licensed broadcasters.'

"Government spokespeople also allege that a man calling himself Captain Video has used these broadcasts to make 'false and misleading statements impugning the WPO and other properly constituted public authorities.' "

Whitworth allowed himself the barest hint of a cynical smile. "Just moments ago you heard Exodus Society officials in Washington, D.C., deny any connection between their group and the pirate radio station. In spite of their statements to the contrary there is considerable similarity between the rhetoric employed by the Exodus Society and the Exodus Underground. Both are pro-space, fervently nationalistic, and often critical of the WPO."

The director cut to a two-shot just as Whitworth let expression number three slip in favor of a modified five. A five conveyed patient exasperation with just a touch of cynical disbelief.

"Meanwhile, our News Network 56 special correspondent Rex Corvan has joined members of the World Peace Organization as they try to learn the truth of the matter. Barbara?"

Barbara Lansing flashed a set of perfect teeth and turned to camera three. "That's right, Ken. We’ve purposely delayed mention of this mission until the very last possible moment so that our broadcast won't compromise the WPO mission.

"So, with that in mind, let's join special correspondent Rex Corvan somewhere above the Canadian wilderness. Rex is one of the few reops equipped with a so called bod-mod, a tiny camera which replaces his right eye and makes it possible for us to see what he sees and to hear what he hears.

"He's also equipped with a flying robo cam, which will allow us to see Rex in action. Remember, when you watch News Network 56, you get the news from the inside out."

"Bullshit," Kim thought to herself as the man in New York finished his five-second countdown and said, "Take the feed."

Kim opened the intercom channel and said, "You're on, Corvan." Then she pushed a mental button, and millions of people suddenly found themselves inside a Boeing V-73 alt-rotor aircraft sharing a Corvan-eye view of a spectacular sunrise.

Corvan stood just inside the open hatch and looked out. The sun had just poked its orange-red head up over the eastern horizon and the foreground was black. It was one of the rare moments when he missed his right eye and wished it was still there. Yes, he could see through the camera, but it wasn't the same somehow. At moments like this, it felt as though the plastic and metal separated him from the real world.

As Kim's voice intruded on his thoughts, Corvan directed his mind to the task at hand and ordered the robo cam into the air. It left his shoulder and flew halfway down the length of the aircraft. Normally the robo cam was quite loud, but the sound of the aircraft's twin engines drowned it out.

Kim took control and cut to the robo cam just as Corvan began to speak. The audience saw a big man with a lens protruding from his right eye socket. He had brown hair, one blue eye, and a metal guard which fit over his left shoulder. It had a six-inch antenna, a flat place for the robo cam to land, and two battery packs front and back, which helped hold the guard in place and balanced each other out. His military flight suit was black and equipped with a lot of zippers. When Corvan spoke, his voice was calm and slightly gravelly.

"At the moment we're flying along the edge of the Banff National Park. Unlike other Canadian parks that have been released for residential development, this one has been kept as a wilderness."

Kim cut to Corvan's eye cam as he turned away from the hatch. There was a momentary shift in video level as his auto-iris struggled to make the change from bright sun to dark interior.

The shot showed a utilitarian aircraft interior with two opposing rows of heavily armed troops. Their uniforms fluttered slightly in the breeze from the open hatch. The scene was lit by a number of evenly spaced red lights and gave the impression of crowded efficiency.

"This is what it looks like inside an assault craft going into action. The World Peace Troopers don't know whether they'll run into armed resistance or not, but as you can see, they're ready for anything."

Corvan turned his head to the left and zoomed in on a youngish man dressed in a set of carefully tailored cammies. He wore a command helmet with the visor tilted back. A black wire connected the helmet to an olive drab plug in his right temple. The audience got a glimpse of blue eyes, a slightly flattened nose, and a boyish grin. The man's white teeth made a stark contrast to his deeply tanned face.

"This is Captain Hans Dietrich. He's a graduate of N.Y.U., a commissioned officer in the reunified German army, and I'm told that he plays a mean saxophone."

The officer in question laughed and waved to the camera.

Now Corvan turned to give the audience a look at the other side of the aircraft's interior. The troopers were loaded down with body armor, assault packs, and extra ammunition. Each carried a quick-release combat knife, two grenades, and a rotary breech H&K G-40 assault rifle.

Having served with the Green Beanies just before they were merged into the WPO, Corvan knew the weapons consumed 4.7-mm caseless ammo at the rate of two thousand rounds a minute. Heavy hardware indeed for a raid on a two-bit pirate radio station.

So they took a few shots at the World Peace Organization, so what? Or was it this Captain Video character that they were really after? If so, that might make more sense, although Captain Video seemed harmless enough. From what Corvan had heard, the guy specialized in long, rambling speeches. They all had one recurring theme: "You can't always believe what the government tells you." Not bad advice, in Corvan's opinion. Was that the real reason for the raid? It would fit with what he saw as an increasing level of governmental paranoia. As the WPO assumed more and more authority, it seemed to tolerate less and less criticism.

And there was something else as well—a feeling that he'd heard Captain Video's voice before, although he couldn't remember when or where. Interesting thoughts which he would revisit later.

As Corvan panned the length of the aircraft, some troopers ignored him, but most met the camera with a smile or a cheerful thumbs-up. "The rest of Dietrich's team have similar experience and represent elite military organizations from all over the world."

Guessing what Corvan would say next, Kim cut to the robo cam and used it to execute a flying dolly down the left side of the passageway.

"Before we took off, I was introduced to men and women from Great Britain, Russia, Argentina, the United States, China, Unified Africa, and a dozen more. All brought together into what President Hawkins calls 'a noble experiment.' If the members of these different nationalities can work together on a mission like this, then who knows, maybe the nations they represent could do likewise."

"He's smooth," Kim thought grudgingly as she cut back to Corvan's eye cam. "He's real smooth."

The assault craft hit an air pocket, which caused Corvan to stagger. The shot wobbled over the troopers' faces and gave the audience a taste of what it felt like.

"All right, people," Dietrich said, his voice coming in over Corvan's military commset. "We're three from the LZ and five from the ground. Check your gear and remember your orders. Secure the area and don't fire unless fired upon."

The words had a formal, almost rehearsed quality which reminded Corvan of all the suits he'd interviewed. But since Dietrich was military, and military uniforms had given birth to business suits, he decided that the whole thing made sense.

Corvan took a seat, allowing the natural sound and pictures to tell the story for him.

Kim nodded in agreement: finally a reop who knew when to let the story tell itself. The audience isn't stupid. They can see the tense faces, the nervous gestures, the way that one guy checks his weapon over and over again.

Outside the two tilt-rotor engines did what they were designed to do and swiveled upward. This turned what had been a plane into a helicopter. Three minutes later the aircraft touched down with a soft thump. Hans Dietrich was the first one out the door.

The troopers followed two at a time as Corvan resumed his narration and Kim positioned the robo cam for a tight shot of his face.

"Consistent with Captain Dietrich's orders, I'll be the last one off the aircraft. As soon as I'm off, the ship will lift off and hover over the LZ. In a full-scale military operation the aircraft would return for more troops or provide fire support. In this case, however, it will provide Captain Dietrich with a bird's-eye view of what's going on."

Kim knew that the last part was filler, something for Corvan to say while the last troopers jumped out of the ship. Nonetheless, it was skillfully done and Kim admired the way he'd slipped it in. The truth was that the cameras were trapped inside the aircraft when they should have been outside providing viewers with shots of the action. However, thanks to Corvan's aside, few if any viewers would be aware of that fact.

Suddenly there was the cloth-ripping sound of automatic-weapons fire, and Kim cut back to Corvan's eye cam. The shot swayed from side to side as Corvan rushed for the door and bumped into the last trooper out.

The aircraft had landed on a gravel bar where two small rivers came together. The rocks had been smoothed by a millennium of swiftly flowing water and crunched underfoot. Corvan found them hard to run on, and his eye cam wobbled over driftwood, evergreen trees, and the snow-capped mountains beyond.

Kim sent the robo cam skimming along behind. She couldn't send the camera out ahead because it would appear in Corvan's shot, and besides, its low-powered transmitter wouldn't reach beyond fifty feet or so.

There was another burst of gunfire up ahead, and Corvan remembered his concerns about the soldiers' weapons. He'd been right, but right about what?

Corvan heard the dull thump of a grenade and saw smoke billow up to the right. He cleared the beach and followed a well-worn path toward the smoke.

His words came out in short spurts as he tried to run and talk at the same time: "The action's up ahead . . . It's not clear what's going on . . . but you can hear more shooting."

Then there were three loud bangs, followed by more automatic-weapons fire. "There," Corvan said, "that sounds like a high-powered hunting rifle . . . Wait a minute, a trooper's down."

What had been a vague something on the ground up ahead quickly became a trooper with a sucking chest wound. The blood shot up in little spurts each time she took a breath. She looked up at the camera with-a pale, moonlike face.

Corvan shouted, "Medic!" and kept on running.

Suddenly Kim was on her feet. "Why, you cold-blooded bastard!"

Corvan heard her voice via his implant but kept on running.

A cluster of uniforms blocked the way up ahead. A trooper moved to intercept him, but Corvan went around him and came to a sudden halt.

What he saw—and what the world saw with him— was a pathetic huddle of shelters and tents. They shivered in the stiff down draft from the aircraft's twin rotors and leaked streamers of gray and black smoke from a hundred bullet holes.

Ten or twelve adults along with a handful of grubby children stood holding hands and singing. It was a sad song about leaving earth and traveling to distant stars.

In the foreground, almost at Corvan's feet, lay three bodies, two men and a woman.

Captain Dietrich stepped forward and pointed toward the ground. "As you can see, this is the woman who shot Trooper Horowitz.”

Once again Dietrich's voice had the hard, aggressive quality of someone who's speaking for the record.

Corvan looked down, saw the hunting rifle clutched in the woman's hands, and looked back up. Dietrich shook his head sadly and a single tear trickled down his face. For a split second Corvan almost bought it. Dietrich looked the very essence of the professional peacekeeper, violent when necessary but with a heart of gold. But the tear was too much. It didn't fit the rest of Dietrich's personality, and Corvan knew that he'd been had. The bastard was acting and the whole story had been stage-managed right from the start.

Before he could take the matter any further, Corvan heard a man moan and call his name. He looked down and saw one of the bodies move.

Corvan dropped to his knees and found himself face to face with an old friend. He zoomed in tight. Frank Neely had changed. A tangled beard covered his face and the eyes which had once danced with merriment were filled with pain. The spreading stain on Neely's stomach told Corvan why.

They'd been friends once, fellow rebels at old Earth Net, baiting the suits and watching them freak. Now Neely was dying in front of millions of people and Corvan didn't know what to say.

"Rex ..." Neely's voice was a low whisper, and as Corvan listened, he knew where he'd heard Captain Video before. Frank Neely and Captain Video were one and the same.

"Yeah, Frank, I'm here."

"Are you still the insubordinate son of a bitch you used to be?"

Corvan smiled. "Yeah, Frank, I guess I am."

Neely's face seemed to light up and his right hand found Corvan's. "Good. Then give them hell forme."

And with that, a spasm ran through Neely's hand and he died.

As Corvan let go, he realized there was something in the palm of his hand—a square of paper wrapped around something hard, a video disk approximately the size of an old-fashioned quarter.

When Corvan stood, he managed to slip the disk into a pocket while he pretended to wipe his hands. Suddenly he realized that he was still on, that millions of people were waiting for him to say something, to bring the piece to a close.

He wanted to tell them the truth, that he'd been had and they along with him. He wanted to tell them that Frank Neely had been murdered, but he couldn't prove it. So, like thousands of journalists before him, Corvan settled for something less than the whole truth, and swore a silent oath that he'd learn the rest.

Corvan turned a full circle so that the audience saw Horowitz being carried away on a stretcher, troopers searching the tents, and prisoners with their hands on top of their heads. His auto-iris closed down as he looked into the sun and opened up again when it had passed.

Kim thought about going to the robo cam and decided not to. Corvan's view was both dramatic and telling. It matched his words.

"People died here for reasons which aren't exactly clear. As you saw, one of them was an old friend of mine, Frank Neely, a man who had seen happier days, and called himself Captain Video. Why did Frank and his friends come here? What did they hope to accomplish through their illegal broadcasts? Was this bloodshed necessary? Those questions and more will be asked and answered during the next forty-eight hours. But no matter what the answers turn out to be, neither side of this conflict has any reason to celebrate. Rex Corvan reporting for News Network 56 from Canada's Banff National Park."

Kim faded audio and video together and saw New York take it away. Meanwhile she continued to monitor the two cameras. Corvan was looking down at his dead friend, and Captain Dietrich was looking at him.

Kim zoomed in on the officer's face. All traces of boyish charm had disappeared, and if looks could kill, Corvan would've been dead ten times over.

2

Carla Subido leaned back in her executive chair and examined Captain Hans Dietrich through narrowed eyes. They'd met during her year in Africa, both part of Numalo's sprawling network of friends and acquaintances, both tools of his enormous ambition. And while they'd discovered a certain similarity of world views, that had nothing to do with Dietrich's presence in her office. No, Dietrich belonged to Numalo, bound to the African by ties which Carla could only guess at. Ties which kept her from trusting him too much, from telling him that Hawkins was dead, that she'd changed the world.

The German officer looked tired, his cammies were rumpled, and his combat boots were smeared with Canadian mud. Good. He'd placed duty before personal comfort. Carla liked that. She allowed Hans a rare smile and saw some of the stiffness go out of his shoulders. "Have a seat, Captain."

Dietrich obeyed by choosing one of the two straight-backed guest chairs. They were made of highly polished oak and offered no padding whatsoever. Like everything in Carla's life, the chairs had a purpose. They encouraged people to speak concisely and leave. She watched Dietrich search for a comfortable position and fail to find one.

"So, how'd things go?" She'd seen Rex Corvan's report, but wanted to hear Dietrich's version as well. A great deal would depend on what he said.

Dietrich looked at Carla and felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. She was perfect. Her lipstick and nail polish were an exact match for her red dress. The gleam of gold at her throat and ears provided just the right touch of elegance, of class, and served to bring everything together.

By contrast, Dietrich could smell himself and was afraid that she could too. As his eyes met hers Dietrich wondered if she'd planned it that way on purpose, or just took her job so seriously that everything was a top priority. Both, probably. She was like a biological artifact, frozen in a glacier for a thousand years and only recently come to life. Patient and very cold. Well, there was no help for it. He'd tell the truth and hope for the best.

“The raid didn't go well.''

Carla nodded her agreement. "I'm glad you admit that. A well-intentioned failure can be forgiven, but stupidity, never. What went wrong?"

The German was careful to keep his voice level and calm when he spoke. He'd dealt with officers like her. One sign of weakness, one indication of uncertainty, and they came in for the kill.

"The problems started the moment we hit the LZ. We hoped the dissidents would fire first and give us an excuse to grease them. They didn't. As we approached their encampment, I saw Neely and put him down."

Dietrich shrugged apologetically. "I was trying for Neely's heart, but gut shot him instead. I was about to finish die job when Corvan arrived. In the meantime one of the dissidents took a shot at my troops and they killed her."

Dietrich frowned. "Corvan arrived just in time to broadcast the bastard's dying words. Scary, but no harm done."

Carla nodded in apparent agreement as she stood and came around to the other side of her fastidiously clean desk. She aimed a remote control at the far wall and pressed a button.

"Yes, all things considered, a very objective report, and correct in all but one respect. Harm was done."

A section of the wall slid aside to reveal a holo monitor which faded from black to a robo-cam view of Corvan kneeling over Neely.

"The public never saw this shot," Carla said by way of explanation. "Corvan's engineer chose the shot provided by his eye cam instead. But our people taped the signal off-air and ran a computer-augmented video analysis of it just to be safe. Here's what they found."

Dietrich watched a transparent dot appear over a small section of the video, then zoom outward to fill the screen. The engineers had slowed the video so that the frames went by one at a time. Dietrich watched Neely's hand jerk its way toward Corvan's, and there, just before the two hands met, a glimpse of something white.

Carla triggered a replay and nodded in response to Dietrich's unasked question. "That's right. Neely slipped something into Corvan's hand."

They both watched the scene jerk by again and fade to black. Carla let the silence build as the monitor disappeared into the wall, and she took her seat.

Dietrich sighed internally. There was more, and she wanted him to ask, to place himself in the subordinate role. "And?"

"And," Carla replied, "Neely and Corvan were friends once. That was a long time ago, before Corvan achieved surgical celebrity status and Neely joined the lunatic fringe. And while there's no evidence that they stayed in touch, it's safe to say that Corvan feels sympathetic toward Neely."

Dietrich scowled. "Sympathetic? Hell, Corvan damned near eulogized the bastard on worldwide television."

Carla smiled. "A trifle exaggerated perhaps, but yes, his sympathies are with the poor downtrodden masses. As he sees them anyway. According to our psychologists, Corvan has a somewhat compulsive personality. He's fixated on a vision of journalistic purity which he believes will right the world's wrongs. A little gift from his mother, I believe. So, whatever it was that Neely gave him, we can expect Corvan to take it seriously."

"So what should we do?"

Carla's long white ringers went up to tug at her right earring. "When you return to your quarters, you'll find that you’ve been detached from the WPO and assigned to my personal staff. I'm going to be busy for the next couple of days, but in the meantime I want you to locate Corvan and find out what Neely gave him. If you decide the situation is dangerous, neutralize the threat. You'll have the WPO and all of our law-enforcement agencies at your disposal. Do what needs to be done."

Dietrich stood, nodded formally, and left through the side door. He took care to close the door gently behind him.

3

Corvan walked out of the terminal's artificial chill and into the roof's blistering heat. Warm air rose in waves that made things shimmer and dance. The Royal Saudi Tower could handle six choppers at a time. A big twin-rotor job took off and showered him with a million pieces of microscopic grit.

Corvan swore, ducked his head to protect his eye-cam's lens, and headed for a two-place helicopter. It was little more than an airframe with an engine, but would still cost him a small fortune. What with aviation fuel running $225 a gallon, most kinds of transportation were damned expensive. But what the hell, News Network 56 could afford it, and whether they knew it or not, Corvan was still on the job.

The pilot stepped out of the small patch of shade provided by her aircraft and held out a hand for his bag.

Like most journalists, Corvan thought nothing of climbing into pieces of complicated machinery which he knew very little about and entrusting his life to perfect strangers. Most turned out okay. Still, there were horror stories as well, and you never knew for sure until it was too late.

Out of self-defense Corvan had developed his own profile, a quick checklist he used to sort the flying fruitcakes from the professional pilots, and thereby extend his life expectancy.

This one was middle-aged, trim, but going gray. The leather on her dark brown goatskin jacket still looked new where gold eagles had perched, but the rest was fading to gray. And most significant of all, he saw no sign of the temple plug which would allow her to fly by wire.

A pro then, a regular who was too old to justify the expense of an implant, who had been "released" during a round of "military consolidation." Those were the terms the suits used to describe the process by which national military forces got smaller and the World Peace Organization got larger.

The pilot closed the luggage compartment and climbed into the left-hand seat. Corvan took his place to her right. As he pulled the door closed, the air conditioning cut in and delivered a blast of cold air into Corvan's face. It felt good and he made no attempt to turn it down.

"Where to?" The pilot asked the question in the flat, emotionless way of someone who's heard all of the possible answers and simply doesn't care anymore.

"The Nakasaki Business Complex, please."

Like the Royal Saudi Tower, the Nakasaki Business Complex was an example of the burgeoning global economy, which, along with almost universal access to satellite television, was giving birth to a homogenized world.

Given the fact that almost every citizen was economically linked to thousands or even millions of other citizens all over the world through a complex web of interlocked economies, and given the fact that they all had access to the same TV programs, it wasn't hard to see why cultural and religious differences were starting to fade away.

Some feared the change, suggesting that the human race was turning into a boring porridge of bland automatons. Others welcomed it, pointing out that the more people resemble each other, the less they fight, and holding up the WPO as a shining example of cooperation between nations.

Corvan wasn't so sure, not if it meant losing the Frank Neelys of the world, and not if it meant the losing his freedom of speech, because as people grow increasingly similar, they also become less tolerant of differing opinions.

Conscious that his eye cam sometimes bothered people, Corvan gave the pilot what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

She nodded in return but remained silent. People were like that now, less open, less friendly than during Corvan's childhood.

As the chopper lifted off, Corvan remembered a recent interview with a famous shrink. She was promoting her latest book and he'd agreed to interview her. As a news story it was pure fluff, but the book was damned good, and he'd come to like her in spite of himself.

The shrink claimed that the population problem was putting enormous pressure on American culture. She pointed out that for hundreds of years the Japanese had been forced to live in tiny apartments which Americans had considered to be oppressively small. But as the population continued to shoot upward, Americans were growing accustomed to less and less space themselves, and now considered a two-bedroom apartment to be huge.

The shrink offered this as evidence that Americans were gradually adopting some of the same mechanisms which had allowed various groups of Asians to live together in close proximity for hundreds of years. It involved the ability to see without seeing, to hear without hearing, to be alone in a crowd.

Looking down through scratched Plexiglas, Corvan decided she was right. People were everywhere, like beetles in a dung heap. They had pushed the Seattle metroplex north to Marysville and south to Tacoma. They had pushed it upward until their buildings touched the sky and downward till the bedrock blocked the way.

And it wasn't their fault. "Good" medicine, "good" food, "good" transportation, "good" technology, and "good" international relations had led to a "bad" population problem. The result was a quickly deteriorating ecology.

Oh, the water was still there, as were the forests to the east and west, but these were hanging by a thread, eternally threatened by an excess of everything. Excess people, excess carbon monoxide, excess sewage—the list went on and on. Corvan knew he should feel something, a righteous indignation perhaps, but couldn't muster the energy. The end of the world seems exciting at first, but gets boring after a while.

As the pilot swung her aircraft into northbound traffic, sunlight flashed off the buildings ahead. Most had mirrored surfaces which converted some of the sunlight to electricity and reflected the rest. And, thanks to the greenhouse effect, there was plenty to reflect.

Seattle was eight degrees warmer on the average than it had been in the 1990s. The rain the city had once been famous for didn't fall so often anymore. Not in Seattle anyway, although other parts of the world were getting more rain than ever, plus all the problems which went with it.

But not here. Out in Seattle's wealthier burbs, however, orange trees blossomed, private swimming pools dotted the land, and solar panels winked in the sun.

Thanks to an atmosphere full of carbon dioxide, chlorofluorocarbons, and halons, the planet was slowly stewing in its own noxious juices. Because of increased warming, average sea level was six feet higher than it had been twenty years before. Most of the Marshall Islands in the Pacific, the Maldives off the west coast of India, and the low-lying keys of the Caribbean were all underwater. One sixth of Bangladesh had disappeared, along with a big chunk of Egypt and important low-lying areas in the United States.

Galveston, Miami, Myrtle Beach, Ocean City, and Atlantic City had all been evacuated and left to the rising waters.

In Boston and New York huge seawalls had been erected to keep the ocean out. And everywhere millions of displaced refugees had retreated to higher ground, putting even more pressure on overcrowded cities.

Corvan smiled. Maybe the Exodus Society was right. Maybe it was time for everyone to leave Earth and ruin some other planet.

Up ahead, the Nakasaki Business Complex gleamed in the sun and the helicopter started down. The rooftop landing pad quickly grew larger until the runners touched with a gentle thump.

Corvan gave the pilot a credit card. She slipped it into a reader, the reader made a cellular telephone call to his bank, the bank's computer confirmed that funds were available, and transferred them to the taxi company's account. It all happened so fast that Corvan barely had time to say thank you before the credit card was back in his hand and he was climbing out of the aircraft.

The lobby was only steps away and wonderfully cool after the rooftop heat. Like most lobbies, this one had been designed to intimidate the casual visitor. It was huge with a soaring cathedral ceiling and the latest in electronic tile work. The tiles were computer controlled and programmed to display thousands of different patterns in sympathy with the canned music which seemed to float downward from some celestial source.

At the moment the tiles were mimicking the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, an effect which would have been much more impressive if a major subprocessor hadn't failed and blanked out the prophet Isaiah.

This did nothing to dampen the spirits of the young man who sat behind the fortress of green marble, however. The reception desk was slightly raised, which allowed him to look down on the reop with the expression of a nobleman receiving one of his serfs. In spite of the fact that any voice-interactive computer could have handled the job just as well, a human receptionist is a sign of class, and therefore required by all but the most utilitarian buildings. This one had spiky red hair, a gold ring in his nose, and a temple plug surrounded by a circle of flashing lights.

The receptionist was a chip head, one of the thousands of men and women who added to their slender incomes by accepting a low-order auto-implant and allowing it to record everything they saw and heard.

The experts estimated that most people were exposed to around two thousand, four hundred advertising impressions each day, counting everything from commercial graffiti to T-shirts to television. So with that many messages vying for attention, it was essential to know which were effective, to what extent, with whom, and for how long.

With that in mind the three major ratings services each maintained a small army of demographicalfy selected chip heads. Each chip head recorded what they saw, fed it back via a weekly data dump, and collected a check. The information thus gained was analyzed by powerful computers, tabulated, and made available in the form of ratings, not just for radio and television, but for every other form of advertising as well.

The potential for abuse had always bothered Corvan, who abhorred the idea of someone sifting through other people's lives for information, but knew it wasn't much different from what he did for a living. Besides, the rating services swore that they had elaborate protections in place to protect everyone's privacy, and so far that seemed to be the case.

The chip head wore a name tag which read "LOUIS PLATERO," and spoke with a calculated insolence. His voice was slightly hoarse. "Yes?"

Corvan said, "My name's Rex Corvan. I'm here to see an editor named Kim Kio. Where would I find her?"

Platero looked thoughtful, waiting to see if Corvan would jog his memory with a tip, but thought better of it when the eye cam whirred and the reop zoomed in on his face.

"She's in the third sub-basement. The elevators are over there."

Corvan smiled. "Thanks, Lou, I know that was a big strain. Take the rest of the day off."

The intercom jerked Kim from a deep sleep. There was a terrible taste in her mouth and her bladder was full. "Yeah?"

The receptionist was a friend of hers, a guy named Louie, and while she'd never said anything about sleeping on prem, he knew. Louie was addicted to his aerosol nicotine dispenser and it caused his voice to sound hoarse. "Rise and shine, sweetcakes. Company's on the way."

"Company? Who?"

"Why, none other than the one-eyed monster himself, that paragon of journalistic virtue, the Clops."

"The Clops? You mean Corvan? What for?" As Kim spoke, she rolled off the futon and busied herself stuffing it into a storage cabinet.

"How the hell would I know?" Louie answered phlegmatically. "But I thought you might want to meet him in a vertical position."

"Thanks, Louie, I owe you one," Kim said, slipping into a fresh set of clothes and pulling on her boots.

"Does that mean you'll have dinner with me Saturday evening?"

"Of course not," Kim replied matter-of-factly. "Your idea of dinner is a naked food fight."

"Picky, picky," Louie said as the intercom went dead.

Kim moved quickly. She cared and wasn't sure why. Call it professional pride, call it vanity, call it what you will, she didn't want Corvan to see her the way she was. Kim was in the third sub-basement of a forty-six-story building, and unless the elevators were running a helluva lot faster than usual, she had just enough time.

Grabbing a small toilet kit, Kim ducked down the hall to the ladies room, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and renewed her makeup before dashing back to the editing suite, where she ordered Val to put something, anything on the screens.

By the time Corvan knocked on the door, Kim had her feet up on the console and a don't-screw-with-me look all over her face. "Come in."

Corvan liked what he saw as he entered the room. The straight black hair, the slightly Asiatic cast to her features, and the quick bright eyes. "Hi, Rex Corvan, cold-blooded bastard at your service."

Kim wanted to dislike him, wanted to keep him at a distance, but his smile and the direct reference to what she'd called him made that impossible. Much to her own surprise Kim found herself smiling in return. She swung her feet down from the console and stood to greet him. The hand which enclosed hers was strong and gentle. ' 'Kim Kio, engineer and defender of the weak."

Corvan chuckled and indicated a chair. "May I?"

"Of course," Kim replied, suddenly curious as to the purpose of his visit.

When both were seated, Kim forced herself to look him in the eye. It was hard at first, because she had a natural tendency to avoid the lens and focus all of her attention on the other eye. But after a minute or two she felt the awkwardness disappear, as she began to see the camera as a part of him, a natural extension of what he was.

Corvan picked his words carefully, needing her help, and wanting her to like him. "Kim, I'm sorry about the wounded trooper. I know what I did seemed cold-blooded, and maybe it was, but I felt something worse was taking place up ahead and hoped my presence might stop it."

Kim found herself believing him. There was something in his face, a sincerity, which she found refreshing. Right or wrong, Corvan cared, and she liked that. "The death of your friend?"

Corvan nodded. "Yes, but something more than that, the whole situation. It had the feel of a setup, a made-to-order crisis, with a made-to-order solution."

"You think the WPO killed those people on purpose? Why?"

Corvan shrugged. "I don't know. That's why I came. I'd like to review all of your footage and see if there's proof. If we can prove the raid was staged, maybe we can find out why."

Kim's eyes were large and solemn. For reasons she didn't entirely understand, she wanted to help this man. But that desire was at war with a more fundamental urge to protect herself, to stay out of matters which didn't concern her, to play it safe. It didn't take a Rhodes scholar to figure out that if Corvan was right, the government was wrong, and that the friction between the two was bound to generate some heat. Lots of it. Enough to burn him and her as well. On the other hand, she was an editor-engineer, an innocent tweaker of electrons, a nonentity, and therefore immune to political fallout. Or so she hoped. The distant-observer part of herself shrugged as she spoke. "All right, let's take a look."

Reaching up, Kim pulled the cord and slipped the jack into her head. As she did so she felt none of the strangeness that usually went with wiring up in front of a stranger. After all, the reop's bod-mods made hers look like kid stuff, and Corvan had the capacity to wire up via the suite's second cord had he wanted to. But she didn't want to, and it was her suite, and her mind.

The next few hours were spent in near darkness as Kim played recordings made from both the eye cam and the robo cam from beginning to end.

At times Corvan called for a squeeze zoom, having her blow up a particular area of the frame, or asked for audio enhancement, which allowed him to hear background sounds more clearly.

The key section started at the point where the WPO troopers left the aircraft and headed toward their objective. Corvan swore softly as he watched himself discuss how the aircraft would support Captain Dietrich while the real action took place somewhere outside.

Then came the distant sound of automatic weapons, and Corvan asked Kim for a replay. She gave it to him in slo-mo with the gain cranked up all the way. Each shot sounded like the long, drawn-out roar of a jungle beast. It went on and on, but the sound Corvan was listening for was nowhere to be found.

When it was over, Kim ordered Val to hit "pause" and waited for Corvan to explain. He frowned as he did so.

"In their subsequent press release, the WPO claimed that the dissidents fired first, but they didn't have automatic weapons, and as you just heard, it was an automatic weapon which fired first."

Kim thought for a moment and said, "So the troopers fired first and lied about it. That isn't good, but it doesn't prove premeditated murder. The troopers are scared, a weapon goes off, and it triggers a firelight. Unfortunate, but hardly a conspiracy."

Corvan nodded slowly. "You're right, of course . . . and what proof we have is something less than overwhelming. The WPO would maintain that single shots were fired but not picked up on the audio. You and I know that's damned unlikely, but we can't prove it."

Just then Val's soft voice flooded Kim's mind. "There is a special report coming in off the net," the computer said. "It is being carried on every channel. Do you wish to see it?"

"Put it on," Kim replied silently. She turned to Corvan. "There's something heavy coming in off the net. Thought you'd want to see it."

Corvan looked up at the program monitor with sudden interest. Like every other reop, he was hooked on the very stuff that he provided to others.

The "SPECIAL BULLENTIN" graphic came up along with a voice which said the same thing. Then the picture shattered into a complicated tile wipe and reassembled itself into a shot of Ken Whitworth. He wore expression two, a slightly smug version of number one, which said, "I know something that you don't."

"Ladies and gentlemen, at two-thirty this afternoon News Network 56 was notified that President Hawkins wished to make a special announcement, and ever since that time the capital has been rife with rumor. At least one highly placed source told me that the president has changed his mind regarding the possibility of a single world government, and will announce that, calling upon Congress to lend their support. If so, this would be a tremendous surprise, since President Hawkins has long indicated his opposition to establishment of a single world government anytime soon and might represent a historic turning point for the world as a whole."

The shot changed to show President George Manley Hawkins taking a seat behind his desk and looking up into the camera. As he did so, Whitworth's voice became a dramatic whisper. "Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States."

Corvan had interviewed the president on a couple of occasions, and while the reop didn't necessarily agree with all of the president's policies, he liked the man and felt the country was lucky to have him during a difficult period. Cynical though Corvan was about politics and politicians, he still liked the look of the president's square jaw, his flashing brown eyes, and the laugh lines around his mouth. Of all the world's leaders this one came the closest to what he thought a statesman should be.

The president smiled. "Good evening. There was a time when I would have said, 'Good evening, my fellow Americans,' but that time has passed. For too long now we the people of Earth have divided ourselves into nations, have fought wars to protect arbitrary boundaries, have lived in hate. So this evening I greet you not as Americans, but as friends, fellow travelers on the spaceship Earth."

For the next sixteen minutes a substantial portion of the planet's eight billion people watched in wonder as the president of the United States reversed his previous position and advocated creation of a single world government. It was, he said, "time to recognize a global economy, time to build on a global peace, and time to heal a global ecology." As he wrapped it up, Hawkins said, "So I urge you to join me in a new unity, anew order, and a new opportunity for our children's children. Thank you . . . and good day."

It was a moving speech, delivered by a master orator, and Corvan was touched in spite of his efforts to remain objective. Win, lose, or draw, it was a daring move and one which would certainly garner Hawkins a place in the history books.

As to whether it was the right move, well, Corvan had privately sided with the president's previous position. A single world government sounded good in theory, but what about checks and balances? What about the populous third world countries? Would the people of the more developed countries be ready to share their ever dwindling prosperity with their less fortunate brothers and sisters? There would be lots of problems and endless new stories to identify, classify, and explain them. Corvan felt tired just thinking about it.

"Well, there goes next year's Nobel peace prize," Kim said cynically. "Everyone else might as well pack it in."

Corvan laughed. "It'll be a hard act to follow, that's for sure." His face turned serious. "And it will provide the WPO with additional credibility. It will also weaken the Exodus Society's drive to colonize other planets, since all the existing space programs are pretty nationalistic, and a global government might establish other priorities. That makes our story even more important."

"If we have a story," Kim reminded him. "At the moment we don't have much proof."

"Which reminds me," Corvan said, pulling a small package from his pocket and handing it over. "Take a look at this."

Kim felt him watching her as she accepted the package and unfolded a small square of white paper. Inside was a standard mini-disk. Picking it up, Kim saw something had been written on the inside surface of the paper. Looking closer she saw the words "MATRIX MAN." "Matrix Man? What does that mean?"

Corvan shrugged. "Beats the heck out of me. Frank slipped it into my hand just before he died. I was already suspicious of the WPO's handling of the raid, and since he went to great lengths to give it to me surreptitiously, I tucked it away. I hoped we could take a look."

Kim nodded and slipped the disk into a slot on her control console. Val took it from there, triggering the playback sequence and piping the signal up to the program monitor. The holo fluttered, tried to lock up, and failed. All they could see was a swirl of snow and electronic garbage.

Speaking for Corvan's benefit, Kim gave the instructions out loud. "Val, let's take a sample every ten seconds. Maybe there's something further on down."

Val did as Kim asked, speeding through the disk in ten-second intervals, piping the results to the program monitor. But all they saw was more of the same: snow, snow, and more snow.

When it was over, Corvan shook his head in disgust. "Damn. I was hoping Frank had something on these people but apparently not. I guess he was around the bend."

Kim smiled sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Rex." It was the first time she'd used his given name and it sounded good.

He smiled, a glint of light flashing off his eye cam. "Hey, you can't win 'em all. I appreciate your help. I'll continue to nose around and let you know if I come up with anything else."

At that point something awkward happened, as both of them searched for a way to extend the contact and failed to find it.

Corvan stood and held out his hand. "Well, until next time."

Kim returned his handshake and nodded solemnly. "Yes, until next time."

Moments later Corvan was gone and Kim found herself alone in the darkness of her editing suite. Even though the room was small, it seemed big and empty without him.

"Kim?" Val's voice flooded her mind.

Kim dragged her thoughts back to work. "Yeah?"

"There's another special coming in from the net."

"Put it up."

The program monitor swirled to life, and this time Val was forced to upcut the feed. Kim saw a woman's face, someone she'd seen before, and a name key which read: "CARLA SUBIDO, CHIEF OF STAFF." She was well into a prepared statement.

"... and just as I entered the Oval Office, I saw Agent Jenkins pull a pistol and aim it at the president. Leaping forward, I managed to push Jenkins just as he pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a loud bang and I heard something crash on the other side of the room. Then I was falling, trying to get my hands on the pistol and knowing I wouldn't be able to do so."

Kim watched as Carla Subido shook her head in wonderment and looked into the camera. "As I hit the floor, the president pushed me out of the way and grabbed for Jenkins. The two of them rolled around on the floor and I heard a second shot. The president got up and Jenkins didn't."

Suddenly released from the obligation to listen to her, out the press went for the juicy details. The questions came fast and furious. "Is it true the president was wounded?"

Subido nodded weakly. "Yes, the first shot passed between his right arm and side. It's a flesh wound, but the doctors have placed him under observation just in case. They say he'll be up and around in a day or so."

"What about Jenkins? Why did he do it?"

Subido shrugged as a hardness came into her eyes. "Why are crazy people crazy? We don't know why he did it, but I can tell you this, some nationalistic propaganda was found on his body. There's no way to be sure, but when the president endorsed the concept of a single world government, it's possible that he angered members of the lunatic fringe."

"Nationalistic propaganda?" Kim recognized Barbara Lansing's pretty face behind the News Network 56 mike. "What sort of nationalistic propaganda, Ms. Subido?"

Kim noticed that other reporters were asking what seemed like more important questions, like, "How could a member of the lunatic fringe wind up as a Secret Service agent?" but Subido chose to ignore those and answered Lansing's instead.

"The sort of nationalistic propaganda put out by certain organizations more interested in leaving Earth than living on it," Subido said bitterly.

"Do you mean the Exodus Society?" Lansing asked brightly.

"No comment," Subido said, clearly suggesting that Lansing should look into that possibility.

"When will we see the president?" someone shouted. "Will he appear at the press conference scheduled for Friday?"

Suddenly a big man in a dark blue double-breasted suit was pushing his way between Subido and the press. "That's enough. Ms. Subido's been through a lot today. Let's give her a break."

Subido smiled gratefully, but held up a hand in protest. "That's okay, Stan, I'll take that last question. All of you know the importance the president places on regular visits with the press, but given what happened today, his staff has recommended that he cancel all public appearances."

An audible rumble of dissatisfaction ran through the crowd, to which Subido raised a quieting hand. "If his doctors agree, the president will be available via two-way video and will take your questions at that time."

At that point the man in the double-breasted suit pushed back in and, with the help of some Secret Service agents, hustled her away. Seconds later a second-echelon news anchor appeared to begin the inevitable rehash, and Kim killed the audio. She didn't want to hear what Jenkins' mother had to say about her son's attempt to kill the president.

Man, what a news day. She was no journalist, but you didn't need a degree in political science to see Corvan was right. The day's events would build credibility for the WPO and damage the opposition. Especially the Exodus Society. But what if they were stacking the deck somehow? What if they'd staged the Canadian raid? What if they were staging other stories as well?

Something caught Kim's eye and she picked Neely's video disk up off the counter. She threw it up into the air and caught it. A glance at her wrist term showed she still had a couple of hours before her shift officially began. She slipped the disk into the slot once again and told Val to play it. Snow appeared on the program monitor and Kim went to work. Maybe, just maybe, there was something on it after all.

4

Dietrich had the limo drop him a few blocks from his destination. He'd never been to Seattle before, and a hunter, especially a hunter of men, should know his quarry's territory. The look of it, the feel of it, even the smell of it could be important.

And in this case the streets smelled like urine, an unpleasant side effect of overcrowding, a hallmark of big cities everywhere. The smell of urine combined with the stench of uncollected garbage made Dietrich breath through his mouth. Most people wore nasal deodorant plugs when venturing forth, unless they lived on the streets, in which case they simply got used to it.

A pair of hard-eyed cops looked him over, noted his nice clothes, and marked him down as a pimp or a fool. Of the two they preferred pimps, who were less likely to get rolled and scream for help.

Like most American cities, Seattle was divided into economic zones, with the most expensive real estate occupying the top ten to fifteen stories, the medium-priced space just below that, and the low-rent district extending down to the second floor. At ground level the rents began to skyrocket once again due to the business opportunities available there. Endless fast-food outlets, convenience stores, and cut-rate retail stores lined the streets.

Looking up, Dietrich could see the spidery network of sky bridges and tubeways that connected various floors with their economic counterparts in other buildings. Many people lived and worked in the same building and rarely ventured out. Why bother? The shops and restaurants which catered to their needs were conveniently located in the same band as they were.

There was a steady flow of pedestrian traffic and it was picking up as the ants poured out of their metal anthills and headed for lunch.

As far as Hans Dietrich was concerned, they were visual wallpaper, happenings with little or no meaning, variables to be stepped around or over.

Across the street a commercial graffiti artist went to work spray painting a freehand likeness of a water-beaded Coke can over a similar picture of an ice-cold Pepsi. Within hours, days at the most, another commercial artist would spray paint something else over those until the city sandblasted the wall and the whole thing started over again.

A ray of sunshine found its way down through the labyrinth of metal and glass to touch Dietrich's face. He smiled. Life was good. The kind of good that goes with money, power, and interesting things to do. Subido might be an ice queen, but she was a generous ice queen, and between the salary she paid and the stipend Numalo gave him to keep an eye on her, Dietrich had lots of money. More money than he could spend.

But the money was nothing next to the power. Ah, the power. It was the thing which had first attracted him to the military, to the uniforms, to the symbols of rank. But now he had something even better.

Now he had invisible power, the kind which means more because nobody's sure how far it extends, so they assume that it goes all the way.

But power is nothing unless it's used. So the lucky man has power and a purpose, and thanks to Carla Subido, Dietrich had both.

He grinned, checked a street sign to make sure he was still on course, and allowed the crowd to carry him along. All around him lights flashed on and off, electronic billboards hawked their wares, and the occasional cop car whirred by.

Regular motorized traffic had been banned from the city's streets years ago to make room for more foot traffic and to reduce pollution. Now only official vehicles like police cars and Dietrich's limo were allowed to enter the downtown area. Everything else, the buses and the light rail, were underground.

Two blocks later Dietrich arrived in front of the WPO's Seattle headquarters. It was a short building by modern standards, only twenty stories or so, and sheathed in black glass. In many ways the structure was typical of the World Peace Organization, because while it performed a function, it was a good real estate investment as well. The WPO was not, and never had been, a nonprofit organization. Quite the contrary.

Frustrated by constant regional and religious wars, a consortium of large multinational companies had pooled their resources and founded the WPO some twenty years before. Their goal was more specific than that of the United Nations and therefore more attainable. The founders of the WPO sought to promote world peace not as an end in itself, but as a means of fostering predictable world markets.

And, like the hardheaded business people they were, the founders had conceived of an organization which would break even, and if well managed, might turn a profit.

Well, the profit had taken awhile to develop, but develop it had, and now the organization produced a regular surplus. The WPO accomplished this by charging for its services, ironically the same services the United Nations had once provided for free but with far less success.

Over time the WPO had evolved into a multinational, quasi-governmental organization which hired troops from member countries, integrated them into a single force, and made them available for a price.

Client countries got more than just troops, however, and in most cases, way more than they bargained for. What they got was a team of economic advisers, advisers of their own nationality and religion, who had been selected while children and educated abroad. And during that education they'd been thoroughly indoctrinated, so that when they returned to their native lands they remained loyal to the WPO and acted with its interests in mind. Years would pass, and many of them would make the transition from adviser to citizen, and little by little they would weave WPO companies and organizations into the fabric of the local economy. The result was a worldwide network of stable markets which functioned to enrich WPO companies and supplant all others.

Dietrich was a graduate of that system, as were Subido and Numalo, although the African had moved up through the ranks so quickly that it was hard to say who worked for whom, Numalo or the WPO.

But unlike the other two, Dietrich's talents were deemed to lie in other areas, the activities euphemistically known as "market design" and "market discipline," but really meant killing anyone who got in the WPO's way. And that accounted for his presence in Seattle.

As Dietrich made his way up a short flight of stairs and into the building, he marveled at the WPO's power and reach. His power and reach since he was the embodiment of the organization itself.

The uniformed receptionist almost had a nervous breakdown when she saw the T clearance on his ID card. She took him to the VIP elevator and ushered him inside. She rarely saw anyone with an S-clearance, much less a T.

Leather-covered walls oozed a rich odor and amber numerals flickered quickly by as the elevator rose to the top floor and glided to a stop.

As the doors hissed open, Dietrich stepped outside and found two people were waiting for him. One was balding, with the sleek, slightly overfed look of a minor functionary, and the other was blade-thin, with greasy, slicked-back hair. He was armed and liked to let people know it. There was a visible bulge under his left armpit.

The functionary spoke first. "Welcome, Mr. Dietrich. My name is Christian Fawley, and this is Nicolai Slovo. Nicolai will serve as your bodyguard during your visit to Seattle. Your limo arrived a few minutes ago and your luggage has already been transferred to the VIP suite."

"Thank you, Mr. Fawley," Dietrich replied calmly. "Is the information I requested ready?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," Fawley replied eagerly, dry-washing his doughy hands. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you what we have so far."

Fawley led him down a richly paneled hallway and into the vast quietness of a large conference room. Banks of sophisticated electronic gear hummed along one wall; green indicator lights signaled their readiness to serve as the computer-controlled lights gradually turned themselves on.

"Please take a seat," Fawley said smoothly, indicating the chair at the head of a long conference table. Dietnch smiled internally. This guy was a world-class ass kisser.

Dietrich settled himself into the power-assisted chair. He saw Slovo complete a circuit of the room and take up a position by the door.

"So my new bodyguard takes his duties seriously," Dietrich thought to himself. "Laudable, but somewhat disturbing."

Was he really in danger? Or was Slovo just for show? Dietrich felt something heavy drop into the pit of his stomach.

It could be real. After all, he was the one who led the raid into Canada, he was the one who had killed members of the Exodus Underground, and he was the one Corvan had splashed over video screens worldwide.

He'd heard rumors, allegations of Exodus Society hit squads, and some of their enemies had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Still, there was no proof, and no reason to believe that he'd been singled out for a hit. Unless the two men knew something he didn't. What if the Exodus Society had threatened to assassinate him? What if Subido was using him to bait a trap? The resulting propaganda opportunities might be more valuable than he was. The power seemed to suddenly fade away, leaving Dietrich alone and extremely vulnerable.

But if the military teaches you anything, it teaches you to hide what you're feeling, and Dietrich used that training to conceal his fear. He waved a casual hand in Fawley's direction.

"Show me what you have on Corvan." Even though Dietrich had met the reop face-to-face, he knew very little about the man. Another rule for the hunter. Know more about the quarry than the quarry knows about himself.

Fawley cleared his throat and said, "The Corvan video, please."

The conference room's primary computer heard the instruction, loaded the proper disk, and played it back. The far wall swirled with color and locked up into a 3-D passport shot straight out of the State Department's files. Fawley rocked back and forth on his heels as he spoke:

"The subject is thirty-six years of age, six-one, and weighs one ninety. He was born and raised right here in Seattle."

The shot changed to show an upper-middle-class condo complex. Then it dissolved to a shot of a man in a swimming suit standing behind the wheel of a Boston whaler and smiling into the camera.

"That's Corvan's father, Tom. He died in a diving accident when Corvan was five."

The video shimmered and coalesced into a shot of a middle-aged woman. It had the look of a publicity still.

"This is Corvan's mother, Lisa Kelly-Corvan, now retired. She was a highly regarded, though somewhat controversial journalism professor at the University of Washington, and according to those who know the family, it was she who provided Corvan with his world view."

The video changed to show a typical graduation picture. Corvan was laughing and looking off-camera toward someone else.

"Corvan graduated from the University of Washington with a masters in communications, tried a couple of part-time jobs, and joined the army."

Another shot came up, this one clearly from army files and marked "Confidential" across the bottom of the frame. Corvan was dressed in the uniform of a Green Beret. Silver lieutenant's bars were visible on his shoulders. The shot changed, and Dietrich saw that Corvan had an implant.

The German's respect for Corvan went up a notch. The Green Beanies were some tough troops, and only the best received implants.

Fawley continued, "Corvan served with the Green Berets just before that unit was absorbed into the WPO forces, and fought in a couple of minor police actions. As you can see, the army equipped Corvan with a weapons-implant interface. Consistent with army policy, the implant was left untouched at discharge."

Dietrich frowned: something to remember. Corvan had the ability to wire up a variety of man-operated military hardware.

A new shot appeared, this one lifted right out of Corvan's stand-up close on the Canadian raid.

"After his discharge Corvan went to work for a number of small-time networks, eventually winding up with an outfit called Earth Net in Los Angeles, and that's where he met Frank Neely. Both were known for their iconoclastic behavior, both had frequent disagreements with management, and both left when the company was taken over by a large conglomerate. It was shortly thereafter that Corvan purchased his bod-mods and became an instant celebrity."

"And Neely?"

Fawley consulted his pocket comp. When he looked up, there was a frown on his face. 'T don't know. Neely's records are Z-sealed."

Dietrich was careful to conceal his surprise. A Z-clearance was as high as they went. What the hell had Neely done to deserve that? Whatever it was had gotten him killed.

"Anything else?" Dietrich demanded.

Fawley shrugged. "I was going to mention that Corvan has apartments in both San Francisco and New York. He hasn't been to either one of them since before the raid. He's well paid and has investments totaling four-hundred-and-sixty-two thousand dollars, which when combined with the value of his two coop apartments makes him worth about two-and-a-half mil."

Dietrich nodded. "Okay, how 'bout his movements since the raid?"

"Give me data file, Corvan Rex, reference number 0037891," Fawley said, and the computer obeyed. The shot of Corvan disappeared and was replaced by a list of his movements.

"As you can see, Corvan checked into a Vancouver hotel immediately after the raid. He used his telecard to make a number of routine business calls. The next day he left Vancouver for Seattle, where he visited News Network 56 headquarters and spent some time with a technoid named Kim Kio. She's the one who rode electronic herd on his Canadian report."

"Video?" Dietrich inquired, his fingers steepled in front of his eyes.

"Video please," Fawley instructed, and moments later it was there. There were six shots in all. The first five were of Corvan. The first showed him in an airport, the second aboard a plane, the third in some sort of lobby, the fourth was blurred, and the fifth in a subway. All had the sloppy, imposed look of candid photography.

The sixth and last shot was of Kim Kio buying something from a street vendor. Illegal fags from the look of it.

"All six of these shots were obtained by running a high-speed skim on the most recent data dump from our northwest chip heads," Fawley volunteered.

Dietrich was aware that the WPO made regular use of the data gathered by chip heads. Not the advertising-related stuff, which they didn't care about, but the things in between, the shots of people the WPO was interested in. There would be hell to pay if the press ever found out, but what the heck, the rewards were worth the risk. Access to millions of roving surveillance cameras was just too good to pass up. And since the same companies who owned the WPO also controlled the rating services, it was easy to do.

Dietrich came to a decision. He couldn't be sure that Corvan's visit to News Network 56 and Kim Kio had anything to do with the raid, but odds were that it did. Why else would Corvan go there rather than accept another assignment or head home? Nope, Dietrich didn't believe in coincidence, and that meant trouble. At the very least Corvan would have to be neutralized, and depending on what he found, Kim Kio might be close behind.

Dietrich turned to Fawley. In spite of the room's air conditioning a sheen of sweat covered the functionary's forehead. "I'm afraid that Mr. Corvan has become a serious liability."

Fawley ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. "Yes, well, I was instructed to anticipate that possibility and identify some potential scenarios."

"And?" Dietrich asked.

"And we have just the thing," Fawley assured him. "There's a prison riot aboard Barge Farm 648 just north of here. At our urging the local authorities have managed to keep a lid on it, and since Corvan's in town, an anonymous tip should be sufficient to get him going."

Dietrich nodded thoughtfully. "All sorts of terrible things could befall a reop during a prison riot. Make one of them happen.''

5

It was dark as the Hovercraft roared up the inside passage. A stiff breeze blew the tops off the whitecaps and splattered them against the vessel's windshield.

Then, just when the thousands of tiny droplets threatened to obscure the helmsman's view, three wiper blades scythed downward and wiped the windshield clear.

There was nothing for Corvan to do but sit inside the vessel's small cabin and sip black coffee. Earlier they'd passed a huge Japanese container ship as it carefully eased its way down the main channel towards Elliot Bay. Since then, however, they'd seen nothing more than a few fishing boats.

To his left the thin green arm of the radar swept around and around, eternally discovering Whidbey Island to port and the mainland to starboard. And there, right up toward the top of the screen, a series of blips marked their destination. One of them was Barge Farm 648.

Like the many other barge farms in and around Puget Sound, number 648 was engaged in aquaculture. The barge was not so much a vessel as a floating framework from which salmon-rearing pens were suspended. Pausing in one place for a few months, the barge would move on before the salmon had caused any damage to surrounding marine life, and before annoyed shore dwellers complained about the way it spoiled their view.

Even with America's vaunted ability to produce food, the ever growing world population was pushing things to the max. Backyard gardens were back in vogue, the hydroponics industry was flourishing, and barge farms operated wherever conditions allowed.

But one thing made 648 different from all the rest. It was a prison, and the men who did the work were prisoners, felons mostly, too violent for computer-monitored home incarceration.

The whole thing had started in the late Nineties when taxpayers, fed up with the cost of building new prisons, started looking for alternatives. Home incarceration was one and self-supporting prisons were another.

There was nothing new about the concept—the state of Texas had done it for years—but there had been questions of propriety. Should prisoners be asked to repay some portion of what it cost to support them? Were they treated well? Were their rights observed?

Working under the twin pressures of high taxes and a burgeoning prison population, legislators began answering all three questions in the affirmative. Pilot projects were started, and before long, penal farms sprang into existence across the land. Blessed with waters ideal for aquaculture, Washington State had launched a number of correctional barge farms. Number 648 was one of them.

And, from what Corvan had learned during the short period of time available, the experiment had worked very well indeed. While the barge farms were not entirely self-supporting, they did bring in sufficient revenue to help offset costs, and were therefore a cut above the human warehouses they'd replaced.

On top of that the barge farms produced some of the food required by the world's exploding population. Due to the rising temperatures, tropical rice production had fallen more than ten percent during the last twenty years. American wheat production was off too, some eighteen percent over the same period of time and still falling.

Fortunately the greenhouse effect had blessed other areas of the world. Due to warmer weather in Canada and Russia, their wheat production was way up, but just barely keeping pace with demand. However, one bad year, one lower than average harvest, and six months later the entire world would go to bed hungry.

Corvan staggered as the hovercraft hit some chop and grabbed onto a hand hold. The helmsman saw but managed not to smile. Dumping VIPs on their rear ends was one of his hobbies, but it wouldn't pay to tell them that.

Corvan returned to his thoughts. After checking into his hotel, he'd had dinner sent to his room and hit the sack early. He'd just dropped off to sleep when the anonymous call woke him up. The voice was distorted^ intentionally so in case he tried to record and analyze it.

"Shut up and listen. Prisoners have taken control of Barge Farm 648. Two guards are dead, one's missing, and the rest are being held hostage. It's an exclusive if you move now."

At that point the mysterious caller had broken the connection, and Corvan had rolled out of bed. A call to the state prison authorities, a threat to give what he had to the wire services, and suddenly he had every reporter's dream: a sound and pix exclusive. Thanks to his bod-mods he'd been able to cover the story solo and auction it off to the networks later.

There was only one small problem. The whole thing was too damn easy, too pat. Who was the anonymous caller? He had some sort of ax to grind, but what kind and why? And how had the authorities managed to keep a lid on the story this long? Sure, they wanted to solve the problem first and announce it later, but where were the leaks? From a reporter's point of view, it often seemed as if government officials competed with each other to see who could leak sensitive information first.

There were lots of questions but damned few answers. And that made Corvan even more interested. "There it is, sir, up ahead, just off the port bow." The helmsman was a short, stocky silhouette against the soft glow of the instrument panel.

Using his eye cam to zoom forward into the night, Corvan saw a pattern of bright lights. Two were up in the sky, where a pair of police helicopters circled like twin vultures over a kill, and the rest were laid out on a grid-shaped pattern which rose and fell with the movement of the waves. And yes, now that his auto-iris had adjusted to the variance between the bright lights and dark water, he could see some red and green lights as well. Running lights, marking the dozen or so patrol boats which circled the barge farm like waiting sharks.

The barge farm itself was huge, much larger than Corvan had imagined, and quite impressive. By mentally connecting the dots of light Corvan got the impression of a three-story structure, fairly open at water level and enclosed up above. That matched the 3-D still which Lieutenant Halverson had shown him just prior to stretching out across a bench seat and falling asleep.

The top deck boasted a heliport, the usual array of solar collectors, and a variety of engineering spaces. The middle deck consisted of cell blocks for the men, a cafeteria, a gymnasium, and laundry facilities. And the lowest deck, the one at sea level, provided access to the fish pens. This deck was covered with equipment lockers, pen hoists, and storage tanks for the food pellets.

And hanging below the lowest deck were the fish pens, their considerable weight serving as a counterbalance for the superstructure above.

Huge pontoons kept the barge afloat, and would, barring anything short of a massive tidal wave.

"So we're there," Halverson croaked, rolling off his makeshift bed to join the other two men at the front of the cabin. He turned to regard Corvan with open curiosity. He had thick red hair, a pug nose, and the open grin of someone's kid brother. "So what now?"

Corvan smiled, his eye cam whirring softly as he turned toward Halverson and brought him into focus. "So let's talk with the warden. She's the one who can get me aboard."

"Aboard?" Halverson asked in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? Those guys would eat you alive."

"Not necessarily," Corvan said gently. "I'm a reop. It's a rare criminal indeed who doesn't want his or her moment of fame. That makes me one of the good guys."

"Maybe," Halverson replied doubtfully. "But I wouldn't bet on it. You still want the warden?"

"I still want the warden," Corvan replied.

"Okay," Halverson said with the tone of someone who's done all they can. "The warden it is."

It took forty-five minutes for Halverson to reach the warden by radio, for Corvan to wheedle and threaten his way into an audience, and for the hovercraft to nudge up alongside the seventy-five-foot Coast Guard hydrofoil which had been pressed into service as a command post.

Halverson's helmsman did the best he could to dump Corvan into the sliver of water between the two vessels, failed, and shrugged his shoulders philosophically. You can't win 'em all.

Corvan had just barely gotten a grip on the hydrofoil's ladder when the hovercraft started to back off. As he struggled to find a foothold, the larger vessel rolled toward him and dipped his feet into the frigid salt water. Then, just as his feet found a purchase, the hydrofoil roared away and showered him with more cold water.

Corvan swore his way up the rest of the ladder to the point where two grinning petty officers helped him inboard and pointed toward the bridge. "Up there, sir. Captain Alvarez and Mrs. Waller are waiting for you."

Corvan nodded his thanks and made his way up a short ladder and into the sudden warmth of the bridge. It was bathed in soft red light, which functioned to preserve the crew's night vision. Corvan heard the soft murmur of routine radio conversation punctuated by squawks of static. The couple which turned to greet him were about as different as two people can be.

Captain Alvarez was young, good-looking, and extremely fit. He wore his black hair military short and looked tired. He hadn't had any rack time in more than twenty-four hours.

Warden Waller, on the other hand, was as fresh as a daisy, allowing for the fact that she was eighty-six years old and wore an auto-walker from the waist down. Mrs. Waller was wired, and that plus her computer-controlled exoskeleton, allowed her to move like a twenty-year-old.

Still, there was nothing young about Warden Waller. Her eyes were old, filled with the knowledge gained over more than sixty-five years of professional infighting, and hard as granite. Corvan was a complication she didn't like, want, or need.

Her orders were quite explicit nevertheless. "Let the reop go aboard die barge if he wants to do, but make damned sure he doesn't come back."

It was a strange set of orders, but far from the strangest that Fawley had given her over the last few years and relatively simple to carry out. Like any competent warden, Waller had snitches sprinkled throughout the prison population, inmates who received special privileges in return for serving as her eyes and ears, men who even now kept her informed about what was going on. Like her, they would do what Fawley wanted.

And it was important to carry out Fawley's orders, since it was he who had rescued Waller from her infirmity. It's hard to obtain an implant when you're seventy-five years old, but that's what it takes to make an auto-walker work, and she would rather be dead man bedridden. To be useful, to keep what she had, that's all Waller asked. And it was no small task when the world was overrun by young, healthy, unemployed people. She smiled and held out a wrinkled liver-spotted hand for Corvan to shake.

"Rex Corvan, I'm Marie Waller, warden, and nominally in charge of this mess. Your visit is an unexpected pleasure. I just wish it was taking place under more pleasant circumstances."

Corvan made a face as he looked down at his wet clothes. "Me too. Unfortunately the events which qualify as news are rarely pleasant."

Captain Alvarez nodded his agreement and held out his hand as well. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Corvan. I'm sorry you got doused."

"A professional hazard," Corvan said politely. "One of the many. What's the present situation?"

Waller's auto-walker made a humming-clicking noise as she crossed to the far side of the bridge. Beyond her the barge was a complex pattern of lights. Corvan joined her, and she said, "On the record or off?"

"Let's make it on the record," Corvan replied evenly and mentally activated his eye cam. As usual, the robo cam was locked into place on his left shoulder, but there was no real reason to deploy it. Since he was working by himself, the sound and pix would be stored in his implant's memory chip until he could download into a video editing system. The lighting was abominable, but whichever net bought the story could, and would, enhance it with electronics. Besides, most of the interview would be covered with shots of the barge farm, which he'd shoot later.

Corvan cleared his throat as he framed a head-and-shoulders shot. "This is Warden Marie Waller. She's in charge of Barge Farm 648. Warden, what happened here?"

Waller had been interviewed many times and knew how to handle herself. The smile she plastered across her face was part grandmother, part chief executive. She spoke in nice, short sentences which told the story her way and would be almost impossible to edit down.

"At around six o'clock yesterday evening a small group of prisoners attacked one of our guards and killed him. I was ashore, attending a reception, but from what I understand, the violence continued to spread. Another guard was killed and the rest were taken hostage. We believe one guard is missing."

"How do you know your guards were killed? Are you in communication with the prisoners?"

Waller looked away and back again. When she spoke, there was a slight catch in her voice. "They threw the bodies off the top deck of the barge."

Corvan ignored her comment's emotional content, and zeroed in on the question she hadn't answered. He tried another approach. "Have the prisoners presented any demands?"

Waller shrugged. The sadness was suddenly gone. "Sure, they want wine, women, and song." She paused thoughtfully. "As for what we're willing to give, well, they can sing all they want."

"Do you have any plans to take the barge by force?"

Waller looked grim. "We will if we have to. However, we would prefer a peaceful resolution to the problem, and will do everything we can to achieve one."

"That should do it," Corvan said, shutting down the implant's record function. He now had the basics of who, what, where, why, when, and how. And although Waller had given only one side of the story, the prisoners would give him the rest.

"Good," Waller replied. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you?" She watched his face expectantly. With any luck at all he'd ask for permission to board the barge; if not, she'd have to suggest it. Either way the boys would cancel Corvan's ticket and allow her to get some work done. Hostages or no hostages, mis whole thing would be over by dawn. After that the sky would be rilled with news copters and the water would be covered with chartered boats. By that time she wanted the situation under control, the men back in their cells, and the process of political damage control well underway. Anything else would mean the end of her career.

Corvan smiled, the warmth in his real eye at odds with the cold blackness of the other. "Yes, there is one other thing you could do for me. I'd like permission to go aboard the barge."

Waller did her best to look concerned. "I'll be honest with you, Corvan, it's tempting to say yes. After all, the public has a right to know what's going on, and your visit might help the prisoners let off a little verbal steam. Still, I couldn't guarantee your safety, and they might turn on you. Nope," she said with apparent regret, "I think you should stay right here. I promise you'll have a front-row seat if anything exciting happens."

At this point Waller looked at Captain Alvarez to make sure he was paying attention, and was pleased to see that he was. His face bore a sardonic expression, as if he could see right through her manipulations, but he made no attempt to interfere.

"I see," Corvan said solemnly. "So, although you don't think I should go, you'll allow me to go if I insist?"

Waller nodded. "That's about the size of it."

''Then I insist,'' Corvan said, knowing full well that he was doing exactly what she wanted him to do. Waller was manipulating him, or at least trying to, but that was expected. Like everyone else he'd ever interviewed, she wanted the story told her way.

It was another half hour before Corvan was able to board a small launch and bob his way across to the barge farm. The prisoners had established communications via the prison's radios, and had given their permission for Corvan to come, as long as he did so in an open boat crewed by one person. They also insisted that both he and the crew person wear nothing but shorts.

The hydrofoil's crew approved, since a chief boatswain's mate named Jackson had been selected to go and he was something less than popular with his subordinates.

So it was amid loud whistles and catcalls that the two of them departed, with Jackson standing silently behind the wheel and Corvan doing his best to stay upright behind him. The wind was cold and he felt silly in his shorts and shoulder guard.

Fortunately the trip was a short one, and the launch soon bumped into the prison farm's landing stage, where a pair of burly prisoners waited to pull him aboard. They communicated via grunts and gestures.

One was white and the other was black. Both had used their time inside to put muscles on their muscles. They turned the body search into a mild beating. Pushing him back and forth, they took turns punching and slapping him around. While uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to some of the stuff Corvan had endured while a member of the Green Beanies, and he rolled with their punches.

Strangely enough, neither one took issue with the robo cam which was perched on his left shoulder. Apparently they assumed it was standard journalistic equipment and therefore acceptable.

After two or three minutes of kicking him around, they got bored and shoved him toward a set of metal stairs. The stairs were black wherever gull droppings had failed to make them white and wet with spray.

As Corvan made his way up the stairs, he activated the implant's record function. Normally he would let the people know when he started to record, but it seemed a little silly under the circumstances so he decided to keep his own counsel.

As he emerged at the top of the stairs, Corvan found himself on the lowest deck. A great deal of it was cut away, open to the water below, and crisscrossed with metal catwalks. Other catwalks lined the bulkheads halfway up toward the next deck, and these were thick with inmates. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Corvan with the same dull eyes.

Lower down, the catwalks were like the spokes of a wheel, damp with moisture, and leading to the open platform at the center of the work area. The platform was circular and clearly used as a staging area.

A single green-white floodlight lit the platform from above. Corvan saw that a dozen or so men were gathered around a raised dais made of cargo pallets. A chair had been placed on top of this makeshift stage and was occupied by a man whose face was hidden in shadow. The whole scene had a strange dreamlike quality.

Corvan recorded a wide establishing shot, followed by a slow pan from left to right.

A voice suddenly boomed out over the vessel's public address system. "The king awaits. Let those who would beg his favor approach."

One of Corvan's two escorts gave him a shove, and he stumbled forward. It seemed the voice was speaking to him.

As Corvan headed out toward the central platform, he noticed that the catwalk was slick with moisture. The air around him was cold, damp, and heavy with the odor of fish.

To either side of the platform Corvan saw the pens: rectangles of calm water occasionally roiled by the movement of thickly packed fish.

Then he was there, feet away from the strange presence in the chair, suddenly aware of the hard, cold lump that had formed in his gut.

The PA system boomed again. "Kneel, scum, and pay homage to his highness, Davy Jones."

Corvan kneeled and waited for some sort of cue.

"Do you acknowledge Davy Jones as king of the deep, protector of the guilty, and lord of all that he surveys?"

Corvan glanced at the other men on the platform, searching for some sign that this was a joke, a way to have some fun with the stupid reporter. But every face he saw was deadly serious, and as each second passed, he could feel the tension build toward the point when something would snap. He swallowed hard.

"I acknowledge that Davy Jones is king of the deep, protector of the guilty, and lord of all that he surveys."

An audible sigh escaped the men around him.

"Rise and take your place among the king's loyal subjects."

Corvan did as he was bid.

"You're a reop?" Davy Jones had spoken.

Corvan nodded. "That's correct."

"That's correct, your highness," the PA system boomed out. "Learn or die."

"I meant no offense, your highness," Corvan said evenly.

Davy Jones ignored Corvan's statement. "Why did you come?"

Corvan chose his words with care. "I came to get your side of the story."

Davy Jones was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. "There is very little to tell. Each of us told our story and lost. Then we came here to work and eventually die. Now, for a few hours, we're free. It isn't much, but it's better than nothing at all."

Conscious that each movement of his body was a movement of the camera, Corvan looked right, then left, and up at the man with no face. "May I ask a question, your highness?"

Davy Jones inclined his head.

"What about the hostages? Are they all right?"

There was silence for a moment as the prison leader considered Corvan's request. Then he stood and walked over to a control box which dangled shoulder-high from a beam far above. As he moved, Corvan saw that Davy Jones was strangely beautiful. So beautiful that his face might have belonged to a woman, or to an animated manikin, because in spite of his beauty it was empty of all life.

As the convict turned toward him, Corvan zoomed in on the man's left breast pocket. And there, in neatly stenciled letters, he read "JONES, D."

So his name really was Davy Jones. A common name, but in the hands of a man with a forceful personality and a little bit of imagination, the name had become something more. An edge, a way for Jones to elevate himself above the people around him.

There was nothing unique about a shadow government run by prisoners, but one with the trappings of a mythical monarchy, well, that was different. Unaware of what the reop was thinking, Jones smiled and said, "Six hostages coming up."

Corvan pulled to a wide shot as Davy Jones held the control box in his left hand and used his right to push a big red button. Somewhere high above, an electric motor began to whine. Out over the fish pens a series of steel cables suddenly grew bar taut and moved slowly upward.

Moments later a long length of aluminum pipe broke the surface of the water and was quickly followed by six bodies, feet tied to the bar, hands secured behind their backs. Water streamed from their contorted faces and trickled down into the pens below as their bodies swayed in the light breeze.

Like most journalists, Corvan had witnessed death in all of its many forms, but nothing worse than this. He felt bile rise in his throat and forced it back down.

Turning to Jones, Corvan zoomed in, searching the other man's face for some sign of compassion, some vestige of humanity. "Why? Why did you kill them?"

The PA system clicked on, but Jones waved it into silence. Slowly, step by step, he advanced on Corvan until he was so close to the reop's face that the eye cam lost focus. Then he ran his tongue over his lips and smiled. "Just for the record, Mr. Reporter, we didn't kill them, they committed suicide."

Jones spun around and held up his arms. "Isn't that right, boys?"

"That's right!" the inmates shouted back in unison, "They committed suicide!"

The prisoners were so taken with their leader's joke that it was two or three minutes before they began to quiet down, during which time Corvan realized that he was in deep trouble. And just in case there was any doubt, Jones confirmed it moments later.

"Now, my friend, we have used some of our valuable time to entertain you, and having done so, we think turnabout's fair play. A few minutes ago you swore an oath making yourself one of my subjects, and even though you didn't take the oath seriously, we did. Isn't that right, boys?"

"That's right!" the prisoners yelled in unison. "We took the oath seriously!"

"And given that we took the oath seriously," Davy Jones continued smoothly, "we think it's fair that you undergo the same initiation that each of us enjoyed when we first arrived."

Corvan looked around, searched for some sort of escape route, and found nothing.

"And what might that be, you ask?" Jones said mockingly. "Well, in ancient times they called it 'a trial by combat,' but nowadays we refer to it as 'getting the shit kicked out of you by a big man with a crowbar."

As the convicts broke into gales of laughter, Corvan heard the whine of an electric motor and looked up into bright light. A man was being lowered onto the platform, a man so large that the crowbar shoved through his belt looked like a toy. He had a bullet-shaped head, an iron pumper's body, and an extremely unpleasant expression.

"We call him El Toro," Davy Jones said with a grin, "but you can call him sir. Kill him and you go free. Fail and you feed the fish."

Corvan didn't waste any energy begging for mercy or cracking jokes. Neither one would do him the least bit of good. Instead he backed away from the spot where El Toro would land, watching the big convict, looking for a way to kill him.

Meanwhile Davy Jones returned to his throne, threw one leg over the chair's armrest, and stared off into the distance. The fight was for his followers, and for Warden Waller, who would make sure that he escaped all but symbolic punishment in the aftermath of the riot. For some reason she wanted the reporter dead, and that was fine with Jones. His entertainments lay elsewhere, deep in the darkest recesses of certain cities, far beyond his present reach. He leaned back and allowed his thoughts to carry him there, a smile touching his beautiful lips.

Unbidden, Corvan's army training came flooding back, and with it some military precepts which his subconscious saw fit to bring up for his consideration. "Find your enemy's weakness" and "Choose your own ground.”

"Fine," Corvan thought to himself as he circled to the right. "But how do they apply here? As far as I can tell, this guy doesn't have any weaknesses, and we're fighting on his ground."

There was a cheer as El Toro landed on the platform and pulled the crowbar out of his belt.

"Well," the distant voice said calmly, "in that case I suppose it's hopeless."

El Toro growled and started forward.

"Thanks a lot," Corvan replied as he moved along the outside edge of the platform. "If you can't say something good, don't say anything at all. So this guy's pumped up? So what? Everyone's got a weakness."

El Toro moved forward with the deliberate steps of a Japanese sumo wrestler. Now they were only ten feet apart.

Corvan stepped toward the man and continued to circle. "Hi. I understand they call you El Toro. That means 'the bull,' right? Well, the name sure fits. You're lookin' good. Do you pump iron?"

El Toro grunted impatiently.

Corvan nodded understandingly. "I understand. Action speaks louder than words. Why talk when you can show me?"

As Corvan turned, El Toro did likewise. Now the giant had his back to the fish pens and was moving in toward the center of the platform. Corvan grinned, used his implant, and sent the robo cam flying straight at the convict's face.

El Toro brought his hands up to protect his eyes, took two steps backward, and fell off the platform. He hit die water with a tremendous splash.

Was the bull a champion swimmer? Corvan didn't think so. The convict was an iron pumper, and iron pumpers don't normally work out in pools, but you never know.

Hoping for the best, Corvan scooped up a short length of heavy chain, took a deep breath, and jumped into the water. It was cold, terribly cold, and for a moment he thought the water would kill him.

But wait, it was El Toro's job to kill him, and unless he got his act together pretty soon, that's exactly how things would go. He forced his eyes open. The salt water stung them and he saw that the chain was pulling him downward at a pretty fast clip.

Hundreds of glittering coho salmon darted toward the far end of the pen to escape the huge form which had just fallen into their world from above. Their backs were silver, and they were small, maybe two pounds apiece. They made a thousand silhouettes against the underwater floodlights mounted at the far end of the pen.

Looking down, Corvan saw that El Toro was on his way up, hands grabbing big fistfuls of water as though he could pull himself to the surface, legs kicking powerfully.

Good. The gamble had paid off. The convict was a poor swimmer. Now every second would could. Corvan had a little more air and that, plus his skill in the water, would give him a tiny edge. You don't get to be a Green Beret unless you can fight in almost anything, and that includes the wet stuff.

The convict saw him and altered course. He was a determined bastard, damned near out of air but still game.

The moment the two men came together, things changed. El Toro grabbed Corvan around the waist and squeezed.

For a moment they just hung there as the negative buoyancy of Corvan's chain balanced out the positive buoyancy of their bodies.

Corvan had lost the initiative and knew it. El Toro was as strong as a bull, and bit by bit he was squeezing oxygen out of Corvan's lungs. A string of bubbles left the reporter's mouth and sailed toward the surface. It was getting hard to think, hard to move, hard to care what happened.

Suddenly the voice was back—barely a whisper now, as if it too was short on air and close to passing out. "The chain, you idiot! They taught you that everything and anything can be used as a weapon. Use the chain!"

Corvan wrapped the chain around El Toro's thick neck and pulled it tight. The chain had steel hooks shackled to both ends and Corvan used those as handles.

The convict ignored the chain at first, hoping he could squeeze Corvan unconscious before being forced to deal with it. But the pressure was too much. El Toro's hands were like claws as they came up to the chain and pulled.

Fish suddenly swarmed around them, hitting Corvan's face and arms with a hundred soft slaps. Then they swirled and darted away toward the far end of the pen-Ignoring El Toro's groping hands, Corvan glanced around, looking for some way out of the present situation. Then he saw it, only feet away, the side of the pen. Kicking desperately, he forced his way toward the heavy mesh while dragging the convict along behind. Then he was there, struggling to pass the steel hooks through the wire and locking them together.

Corvan had one last picture of El Toro's huge hands plucking weakly at the hooks behind his head, watching despairingly as the reop pushed himself away, mouthing curses which only served to drown him that much faster.

As his head broke through the surface, Corvan tried to suck in air and almost drowned in the process. Fortunately strong arms were there to pull him up out of the water and lie him on the platform.

At first he just lay there, lungs heaving, stomach upchucking sea water onto cold steel.

Eventually, however, he recovered enough to take an interest in things around him. What he saw was the most welcome sight in the world: a whole mess of blue Coast Guard uniforms and a strangely unhappy warden. This in spite of the fact that the prisoners were under armed guard and headed back to their cells.

Using Corvan's arrival on the barge as a diversion, Waller had used helicopters to put an assault team on the helopad. After that it was a simple matter of working their way downward deck by deck. That part of the plan had gone like clockwork. The Corvan part hadn't.

Waller's eyes glittered, and her mouth was a straight, hard line as she said, "Well, I told you not to come here, didn't I?"

Corvan struggled to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The robo cam buzzed down from above to land on his shoulder, and suddenly Corvan realized that he had the whole thing in memory, the underwater fight and all. Normally he didn't approve of reporters taking part in the stories they covered, but sometimes it can't be helped, and this was one of those times. He grinned.

"You sure did, Warden, and I can see why. It seems your prisoners have been allowed to have their own government. I think the good citizens of Washington state will take exception to that."

Waller's walker hummed and clicked as she took two steps forward. Her eyes were mere pinpoints of light, full of hate and almost lost in wrinkles. "You'll clear the story with me first, Corvan."

The reop grinned and shook his head. "Nope. You'll see it when everyone else does. Live at five."

6

Carla Subido watched as the shot of Rex Corvan faded away and was replaced by a tight shot of Barbara Lansing. Her "I'm really concerned about that story" frown quickly transformed itself into a sparkling smile, and she said, "So there you have it, another News Network 56 exclusive from our Man Cam, Rex Corvan, reporting live from the waters of Puget Sound, where order has been restored to Barge Farm 648. Be sure to tune in at eleven tonight when reporter Susie Dodd talks with the wife of a dead guard."

Carla Subido touched a button in her armrest and the holo set faded to black. She looked out through the limo's one-way glass and frowned. Outside her silent world of rich leather and perfumed air, people performed a pantomime of rush-hour traffic. Under normal circumstances Carla enjoyed moments like this, delicious seconds during which her life was juxtaposed with that of the common herd. They served to remind her of what she'd accomplished. But not today. Today her mind was on Rex Corvan.

Although she hadn't out-and-out ordered Dietrich to kill Corvan, she'd assumed that he would, and wondered what the hell he was waiting for.

The limo went around a corner, and the neighborhood outside took a turn for the worse. First came the older coops, then the squalid rows of public housing, and finally the endless warehouses. Someday that would change. Someday Numalo's dream, her dream, would come true, and everyone would live in nice, clean houses. They would do meaningful work which contributed to the overall good, they would obey the laws which existed for their own welfare, and they would live in a world where war was unknown. A world with one government and one leader. Samuel Numalo.

Carla's heart beat just a little faster when she thought about Numalo. She was sexually attracted to him, she knew that, and had known it since her days at UCLA. In those days she'd been the impressionable undergrad and he'd been the handsome grad student.

Initially they were drawn together through the regular meetings required of all WPO-funded students, and later it was by choice, as two similar people went looking for a little companionship. There was an affair, an on-again, off-again relationship which never really blossomed but never went away either.

Did she love him? Carla wasn't sure. She admired him, respected him, even worshiped him in certain ways. But love? She'd given up a number of promising relationships rather than make a mistake. And mistakes were inconceivable. Mistakes were things other people made. People who let emotion rather than logic guide their lives. People like her father. Hot tempered, emotional, and ultimately flawed. But not her.

Carla set her mouth in a hard, straight line. No, not since the age of ten when her father had gone to prison, when other children had called her names, when her mother had literally died of shame.

The limo pulled into a passageway, paused there while the driver activated an electronic password, and started up again as the corrugated door at the far end of the alley began to open.

Carla checked her make up in a small mirror as the limo bounced over a small lip of concrete and rolled inside the warehouse. As usual, a little ball of fear had formed in the pit of her stomach. What kind of mood was he in? Would he praise or curse her? Carla never knew what to expect. She knew that it was a psychological technique, a way of disrupting the orderly way in which she did things, a way in which he could attack her self-control. In fact, there was only one thing in her life which Carla couldn't control, and that was her relationship with Samuel Numalo.

The driver opened the door and kept his gaze politely averted as Carla swung her long, slim legs out and stood. He was a black man with shiny skin and quick brown eyes. He had been with her on that sunny day in Africa when she'd murdered the cows, had supervised the cremation of the president's body, and was like an extension of herself.

He was a member of the Immortals, the one thousand warriors who made up Numalo's personal bodyguard and stood ready to lay down their lives for him. Like the man himself, they were a relatively young organization, but they had already saved Numalo from seventeen assassination attempts, the most recent of which had been backed by the CIA.

Like a good many other people, President Hawkins had found Ruler for Life Numalo something less than convenient and had taken steps to remove him from the scene. Thanks to Carla Subido, however, the Immortals had been ready and waiting when the attack came.

Members of Numalo's bodyguard weren't truly immortal, of course, but were equipped with implants which recorded every moment of their lives for the computerized annals of their elite organization. The fact that this digitized immortality also ensured their complete loyalty to Numalo either escaped them or didn't matter. Every day young men came in untold thousands to apply for every vacancy.

This one was young and slim, and his tribal name meant "sugar," which was what she called him. People sometimes misunderstood that, and when they did, the two of them would laugh. They could never have a sexual relationship. Like all of his brethren, Sugar was a voluntary eunuch.

The warehouse was huge, stretching away in every direction to darkened corners, empty of everything but a small structure at its very center. The air was damp, still heavy with the scent of the raw lumber which had once been stored there, and full of dust, which danced in the thin streamers of light which came from up above.

Carla's heels made a sharp clicking noise as she walked toward the small structure. About the size of a small summer cabin, the cube-shaped structure was covered with shiny metal and sat on skids. Carla knew that underneath the cube's metallic skin there were layers of wire mesh, special foil, and electronic jamming wafers which would block every known type of surveillance device. It wouldn't do to have people listen in as the president's chief of staff received her instructions from the head of a foreign government.

Sugar took up a position by the door, and Carla knew there were other guards as well, heavily armed and carefully positioned in case of trouble.

The door slid open at her touch and closed softly behind her. It was nearly dark inside the com cube, with only enough light to make her way to the large, luxurious chair and take a seat.

The light vanished altogether as she did so and was replaced by a full-dimension holo. Unlike the images carried by commercial television, this one was life-sized, and so life like that it never ceased to amaze her. She knew that Numalo was actually sitting in his office in Mandela, South Africa, but he looked so real that it was hard to tell. You'd never guess that the encrypted signal had been bounced off a satellite, re-scrambled, and fed into the com cube.

Samuel Numalo was a strikingly handsome man in his late thirties. He still had the body of the Olympic athlete he'd once been and liked to show it off.

For that reason, and to keep Carla psychologically off balance, Numalo was completely nude. As the holo locked up, Carla saw that two women, one black and one white, were performing oral sex on him. It was the white woman's turn at that particular moment.

Numalo smiled. "Hello, Carla. I hope this display doesn't offend you. Like everything else, sex is something I schedule, and today's calendar is somewhat crowded. I find it more efficient to accomplish two things at once."

Carla knew it wasn't true, knew he was playing with her emotions, and felt the pain. She remembered his arms around her, his strength inside her, and wanted to scream. But that would be a mistake and she didn't make mistakes.

She looked into his eyes and Numalo smiled. A brown contact lens covered one of his otherwise blue eyes, thereby presenting yet another aspect of his well-known duality. That's the way they described him in Time and Newsweek. Part black, part white. Part east, part west. Part human, part god. The man who had taken a continent, abused, despoiled, fragmented, and in a few short years transformed it into a power to be reckoned with. The man who had forged new alliances between ancient tribal enemies, built new bridges between conflicting cultures, and dreamt new dreams for a tired world. The man all of Africa called Father and Ruler for life. Damn him.

Carla looked at what the two women were doing and forced a smile. "I'm amazed to see that two people can do so much with so little."

Numalo threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, Carla, how I miss your spirit! All I ever hear around here is 'yes sir,' and 'no sir.' It is nice to converse with an equal for once."

Carla felt an inner warmth at the compliment, and it was quite literally true, because like him she controlled an entire nation.

Numalo saw it and prepared himself to push the next button. First, however, it would be necessary to lay some groundwork. "How are things going?"

Carla tried to concentrate, but found her eyes drifting down toward the two women. She forced them back up. "Things are going well. Although the press continues to grumble about cancellation of the president's public appearances, they have access to him through video, and that keeps most of them quiet."

"What about wide shots?"

Carla nodded in understanding. "We're using the actor to give them plenty of wide shots. 'Here's the president getting out of his helicopter, here's the president getting into his limo, here's the president heading out toward the tennis court.' All taken from a distance and all quite believable."

One of the women did something special, and Numalo winced with pleasure. "Yes, and given the plastic surgery, they couldn't tell the difference anyway."

Carla shrugged. "Probably not, although the actor's voice is considerably different, and he barely has enough intelligence to walk, talk, and chew gum at the same time."

Numalo laughed. "Actually, that could describe any number of the world's leaders right now."

"Yes," Carla agreed sincerely. "All but one."

Numalo nodded in response to the compliment. "Thank you, Carla. When I hear compliments, yours are among the few I believe."

Numalo paused for a moment, knowing she wouldn't like what he was about to say, searching for the best way to phrase it. "In spite of your success, things are not moving as quickly as I would like."

Carla's head jerked up. She didn't like the sound of this. From the beginning both had agreed that use of the video matrix generator would serve as a catalyst, a way of getting things moving, but wouldn't hold up for long.

There was Hawkins' wife, for one thing. She'd be out of die hospital in a day or two, and all hell would break loose. The actor was fine for wide shots, but Mary would see through him in two seconds.

And then there was die Cabinet and members of the White House staff. Thanks to the Information Age and all the electronic goodies which went with it, the Cabinet and staff could live wherever they chose. In fact, Carla Subido and Stan Lester were the only ones who actually worked in the White House. The rest of the staff were spread out all over the country. They usually met once a week via scrambled video conference and handled everything else by phone, data transfer, and high-speed fax.

And, thanks to the video matrix generator, that tradition had continued after the president's death. It wasn't easy, but so far she and Stan had managed to fake them out.

And what about the vice-president? One of these days she'd get tired of the junkets she loved so much and come home. What then?

Carla searched Numalo's face for some sign that he was joking. "This isn't funny, Samuel. We can't keep this up."

Numalo gave the black woman a pat of encouragement and left his hand on her shoulder. "I know it's inconvenient, Carla, but some of my peers are dragging their feet. Most are just jockeying for position, making sure of their positions in the new order of things, but a few have genuine doubts. They must be bought off or eliminated. Either way it takes time."

"Well, that's just ducky, Samuel, but meanwhile I'm sitting on a time bomb, and Mary Hawkins is due home any day now."

The black woman established a steady rhythm, and Numalo's eyelids fluttered in spite of his efforts to keep a straight face. He smiled sympathetically. "Believe me, Carla, I'm aware of the difficulties. I just need a little more time, that's all, time you can buy me, time to make our plans come true."

There, he'd pushed the button with the first person plural. Now to watch the results.

Carla heard him say "our" and felt a familiar warmth spread through her body. She did her best to look stern and failed. "But what about Mary?"

As each breath came a little faster, Numalo found himself wanting the interview to end. He must be careful, however, careful of her ego, careful of the future. What if she went to his superiors? What if she told them what he was doing? Numalo looked deep into Carla's eyes and projected his personality there. "Don't worry, Carla. Mary Hawkins won't come home. She'll pass away of natural causes before she leaves the hospital. A sudden and unexpected heart attack. And then, overcome with grief, the president will head for Camp David. Everyone will understand and we'll put the time to good use.”

Carla considered what he'd said. It made sense. Once again she marveled at the man's power. His ability to reach across the world and snuff out a life, but with an entire continent at his beck and call, why not? Soon it would be two continents, three, the entire world. Eventually he'd take the WPO itself, tear it from the greedy grasp of those who ran it now, and reshape it into something fine. And she would stand beside him. Carla stood.

"I'd better get back. I've got a country to run. And on top of that, it isn't easy to keep the rest of the staff happy when they don't have access to the president."

Numalo nodded. "I'm sure it is. Any other problems?"

Carla shook her head.

Numalo smiled. Having received a report from Dietrich only hours before, he knew about Rex Corvan and understood Carla's reluctance to mention him. The reop was nothing more than an annoyance so far, but given the potentially explosive nature of the situation, he could cause trouble. It was tempting to cancel Dietrich's ticket and put somebody more effective on the job. But if he did that, who would keep an eye on Carla?

Besides, Dietrich was an effective tool, a soldier who liked to kill. A talent he came by honestly through his Germanic blood, just as Numalo had, although his was enriched by a thousand generations of Zulu warriors. A powerful mixture indeed, Numalo thought to himself. What they say is true. I am a god.

Suddenly Numalo found himself on the very edge of orgasm, and bit his lip to push it back, using the pain to clear his head. For the moment Dietrich would live and Carla would carry on.

"All right then, take care of yourself, Carla, and get some rest."

Carla smiled in return, carefully ignored the black woman's bobbing head, and touched the door. It slid open and she stepped outside. It was then, just before the door slid closed, that she heard Numalo cry out and wished that he were dead.

7

After completing his stand-up close, Corvan returned to his hotel. He had every intention of picking up exactly where he'd left off. Twelve hours of sleep followed by a huge breakfast and a day of rest. That's what he needed to put the edge back on.

But when Corvan arrived at his hotel there was a message waiting. All it said was "Please see me as soon as possible," signed "Kim," but that was enough. His desire to see her plus his curiosity made a powerful combination. So, after a shave and a change of clothes, Corvan packed up and checked out. The shoulder guard and robo cam made his bag somewhat heavy, but he was used to that. If he couldn't sleep in Seattle, maybe he'd do better in his San Francisco apartment.

Duffel bag in hand, Corvan stepped out onto the hotel's roof and headed for the nearest air cab. There was nothing special about the mousy-looking woman who followed him, and she was careful to keep it that way. About forty-five or fifty, she was dressed in a nondescript manner and looked like someone's mother, which she was.

Corvan climbed aboard the air cab and slept all the way to the Nakasaki Business Complex, completely oblivious to the pilot's curious looks and the second air taxi which followed along behind.

After what seemed like five or ten seconds, the chopper landed one skid at a time and the pilot shook him awake.

Corvan shoved his credit card in the pilot's direction, stretched, and took it back with a mumbled thanks. Grabbing his duffel bag, Corvan made his way into the building, waved in the direction of the reception desk, and headed for the elevators.

Louie called down to warn Kim of Corvan's arrival, but it was unnecessary. She was ready and had been for hours. Here she had news, really big news, and he was out screwing around. Yes, she knew he'd been on a story; after all, she'd seen the report along with millions of other people. But that didn't change the fact that he'd left her holding the bag, a rather nasty bag too, once you got it open and took a look inside. There was something else too, something she wouldn't completely admit to. She wanted to see him again.

There was a knock on the door. Kim checked to make sure she had her I-don't-need-any one expression firmly in place, and yelled, "Come on in!"

Corvan opened the door and stepped inside. It was cool and dark just like before. Kim stood in the soft glow of a recessed light. Shadows modeled her face as she looked down at some sort of printout. She was just as pretty as he remembered, maybe even more so. It seemed as though her hair was different, shorter maybe, and there was something about her eyes. Makeup? Whatever it was, he liked it. "Hello, Kim, I got your message. What's up?"

In spite of the cheerful greeting Kim could see Corvan was tired. Not only that, but he had deep scratches on his face where the man called El Toro had clawed him, and he walked with a slight limp.

Suddenly it all seemed real: the terrible fight, his victory over the convict. Her carefully hoarded anger melted away, leaving her all soft and mushy. Damn the man! Suddenly she was grinning like an idiot. She spoke quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice. "I saw the story. What they say is true. You really are crazy."

"Stupid, is more like it," Corvan replied wryly. "Had I known what it was like in mere, I would’ve stayed in bed. Is the story getting good play? I'd like to see Warden Waller spend some time in her own lockup.”

"Good play?" Kim asked. "Are you kidding? The preliminary ratings are off the charts, and as for Waller, well, I'd say her days are numbered. The governor just announced an investigation."

"Good," Corvan said. "I got your message. What's up?"

"You remember the little puzzle you left with me?"

Corvan nodded. "Sure, Neely's disk."

"Well, I’ve been working on it, and guess what? There's something on it after all. A lot of something. I thought you should take a look."

A grin exploded across Corvan's face. He grabbed Kim and kissed her on the cheek. "All right! The ace editor strikes again! How did you do it?"

Kim responded with a frown of disapproval but felt pleased nonetheless. She shrugged modestly. "It was a combination of perseverance and dumb luck. I noticed that though the video was scrambled, it was scrambled in a uniform way, and that suggested some sort of encryption. I ran it through every modulator/ demodulator the studio has. Still nothing. So I modified the gear and kept modifying it until it worked."

Corvan shook his head in amazement. "You're just as stubborn as Frank was. So give, what's on the tape?"

"Hold on for a moment and you can see for yourself."

As Kim sat down and reached for a wire, she found herself pointing up at the second cord and asking an unexpected question: "Would you care to wire up?"

Corvan looked at her for a moment, sensed it was special, and nodded. "Yes, thank you. I'd enjoy that."

Kim felt suddenly jubilant. He knew! He understood! She slipped the jack into the side of her head and felt the cool darkness rise to surround her.

The equipment began to talk, murmuring its soft litany of readiness, but Kim's attention lay elsewhere. This wasn't her first time. She been dual wired before. First with her instructors, later with a few peers, and finally with some insistent clients.

But not willingly and not for a very long time. She'd done it because she had to, because the job demanded it, because they'd hurt her if she didn't.

And later she'd spent hours in the shower, scrubbing her skin until it bled, trying to rid herself of the invisible dirt. But no matter how hot the water was, or how much soap she applied, a part of them remained. A stain on her soul.

But this was different. This time it was her desire, her interface, and her decision. Theoretically it could be good.

When people were linked by the interface, thoughts could flash back and forth at incredible speed, emotions could be shared rather than described, and relationships could be built or destroyed in seconds. What would Corvan be like?

On one level it was idle curiosity, on another it was something more, a need to peek under the surface. The only problem was that in order to get a little, you had to give a little, and Corvan would end up knowing just as much as she did.

The reop took the seat next to her, pulled the second cord down, and jacked it in. Suddenly he was there, flooding in around her, unsure at first but quickly settling in.

She felt his thoughts turn her way. He was a warm wave of otherness seeking to merge with her, to join with her, to become part of her.

Kim felt herself react, heard herself say, "No," and sensed him back away. She heard him say, "Sorry about that," and knew that she was sorry too, sorry that she'd pulled away, afraid to invite him in. Kim tried to put it into words but found she didn't have to. She thought-heard his voice sweep in around her.

"It's all right, Kim, I understand. I had no right to come on so strong. No hard feelings?"

Kim radiated gratitude. "No hard feelings."

"Good," he responded gently. "But it might happen again."

Kim's smile sent little ripples of emotion through the interface. "Then I'll just have to take my chances, won't I?"

Corvan heard-felt her response and felt good inside. She liked him! "I guess you will. In the meantime, I promise to be good while we look at Frank's tape."

"I'm relieved to hear it," Kim replied dryly, the words drifting across the interface with just a touch of amusement. "Now be quiet while I set things up."

Corvan let himself go, floating in the darkness like a swimmer on his back, dimly aware of conversation between Kim and a computer named Val but too tired to care what they said. He was almost asleep when a thought from Kim jerked him back.

"You can sleep later. Take a look at this."

Blackness became light. Light became color. Color became Frank Neely. Corvan found himself nowhere and everywhere all at once. Frank looked him straight in the eye. He looked better now, healthier, his face full of color and his beard trimmed. But there was an aura of tension around him which showed in his eyes and the nervous movements of his hands. Neely cleared his throat.

"It feels silly talking this way, not knowing if someone will hear my words or believe what I'm going to say. But I do have something to say, something important, and I hope it's not too late. The truth is that I’ve created a monster, or more accurately we've created a monster, since I can hardly take credit for all the scientific discoveries which made it possible.

"Looking back, I see it was inevitable. First there was television, then there was computer-aided television, and then there was computer-generated television.

"It was no big deal at first—some computer-generated graphics and some rather clumsy attempts to simulate real video.

"But now, God help us, there's something more, computer-generated reality, for I know of no better way to describe this new development. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Best to take a moment and show you what I'm talking about."

Neely dissolved into a million points of colored light, and the picture reassembled itself into a television studio. Unlike most television studios, which tend to be empty when not in use, this one was full of metal scaffolding. It was painted blue, a color sometimes used in connection with special effects, and looked like a plumber's nightmare. Corvan saw that dozens Of cameras and lights had been attached to the scaffolding and were aimed downward toward a small section of studio floor.

"Not an especially attractive sight," Neely observed from off-camera, "but results are what counts. What you can't see is the super-computer which ties all the cameras together and makes this more than an elaborate jungle gym. For lack of a better name I call the whole thing a 'video matrix generator.'

"What does it do, you ask? Ah, you weren't listening when I told you earlier. It makes reality."

At this point Neely strolled into the shot and stood in the middle of the scaffolding. The camera flew in and around the metal pipes with such freedom that Corvan assumed it was a robo cam or something quite similar. The camera coasted to a stop and zoomed in tight as Neely began to speak.

"The video matrix generator, or VMG for short, can create reality in two different ways. The first involves the Use of existing video. This approach can be somewhat limited if there's only a small amount of video available, or quite effective when a good deal of material exists. Let's take this man, for example."

The video swirled and coalesced into a freeze-frame of a famous actor. He had at least three successful television series to his credit, no less than twenty-three movies, and had served a term in Congress before retiring to the south of Spain.

The freeze-frame went into motion and was followed by a montage of television, movie, and news footage of the same man. Neely resumed his narration.

"This man has been recorded doing thousands, maybe millions of different things. There's video of him talking, laughing, and yes, God help us, even singing.

"By taking those images and sounds and digitizing them, we can create an extensive data bank. Now, let's suppose that this actor is dead, and we want to make an entirely new movie with him as the star. We contact his heirs, purchase the right to use his likeness, and hire a scriptwriter. A few months later we have it, a good detective story, one which will overload the com-net as our star's fans scramble to rent a feed.

"Now," Neely said, reappearing in the studio, "we feed the script into the computer, program it to search for matching video, and go get coffee. After a while, a day at most, the computer delivers a rough cut of the final picture. It's only a partial, mind you, full of holes and missing pieces, but it's pretty damned close.

"In order to make it, the computer has skimmed millions of images, finding those which match the script, discarding all the rest. Meanwhile subprocessors have tracked backgrounds, revised and colorized them as necessary, and sweetened the sound.

"And speaking of sound, computer-generated music reinforces the video, all of it calculated to enhance the viewer's emotional response to the story line.

"Holes have been left where the computer will insert other actors, some of which will be VMG-processed, some of which will act out their parts with stand-ins.

"So, we review the rough cut, identify places where the computer couldn't find the necessary images, and order the system to generate it from scratch. Given five existing angles, the VMG can guess what a sixth or seventh would look like and fill it in.

"Then after a few more runs to insert secondary actors, special effects, and subliminal advertising, we're all set. Here's a short example of what I'm talking about."

Neely disappeared and was replaced by the actor. The reop smiled. During all of his long, illustrious career the actor had never appeared in a Shakespearean play, but that's how Neely cast him, as a somewhat elderly Hamlet. And it looked perfect. The motions, the lines, everything about it looked real. And that's what Neely meant when he spoke of "making reality."

Hamlet faded away as Neely reappeared. "So, that's the first mode. The second mode works a little differently." Neely reached up to pat a piece of scaffolding. "That's where this rig comes into play. There are thirty-two different cameras mounted on it, each one representing a slightly different angle, each one feeding its image into the super-computer which I mentioned earlier."

The picture seemed to shatter into a thousand fragments before reassembling itself into thirty-two frames, each one filled with a different shot of a female actor. She wore a skin-tight blue suit which left nothing to the imagination. As Corvan watched, she performed slow-motion calisthenics from thirty-two different angles.

"By placing some in the center of this space and running them through a computer-designed series of movements, we can build a visual data base from scratch. Once we've accomplished that, it's a simple matter to record a variety of facial expressions, speech samples, and nonverbal sounds like coughing."

The mosaic rippled and coalesced into a single picture. Neely smiled. "And once you have sufficient input, voila, you can generate any kind of video you want to. Imagine, you could hire an actor, put him or her through the VMG, and make endless movies! Actors might complain, but who knows, maybe the advent of VMG technology will create even more jobs by causing a resurgence of live theater. In spite of talk to the contrary, technology has almost always created more jobs over the long run, even when it has displaced workers at first. That isn't to say, however, that new technology is necessarily good."

Neely's expression grew suddenly serious. "And in this case the potential for abuse is unusually high. That's why I'm making this recording. I hope to find other ways to tell my story, but this is my insurance policy, my last hope should the worst happen. The suits tell me that everything's all right, that I shouldn't worry, that I should spend my time refining the VMG."

Neely looked into the camera earnestly. "But I can't do that unless I know that my work will be used for good. It's important that people understand this technology and learn how to deal with it. But so far all of my attempts to get the word out have been blocked. They say they'll let me put on public demonstrations, but when the time rolls around to do it, the suits find an excuse to cancel."

The robo cam moved in for an extreme close-up. Neely's eyes looked huge. "The fact is that they're stalling. Why? Is it economic? The VMG could put some of the weaker movie studios out of business. Or is it something worse? What if someone used the VMG to make news that never really happened? What if they already have? I no longer control the VMG, so any-thing's possible. I'd destroy the software, but it's too late. The suits have copies by now, and even if they don't, all the necessary components are already out there. If I hadn't put a VMG together, someone else would have, and will, should I disappear from the scene."

The video engineer stared out at Corvan as if trying to see him through the veil of time and space. "The problem is that mankind has crossed another threshold, discovered another tool, and put himself into jeopardy once again. We are entering a time when nothing can be taken for granted, when reality is up for grabs, when each one of us will be forced to think for ourselves."

The robo cam moved back and up, allowing pieces of scaffolding to pass through the shot. As it did so Neely became smaller and smaller. He followed the camera with his eyes, wistfully now, as if he hated to see it go. "The truth is that we’ve entered a new age, the age of Matrix Man, and unless we're careful, it could be the darkest age of all."

By now the camera had risen as far as it could go. Neely looked very, very small as he turned and walked out of the shot. The interface faded to black a few seconds later.

Both were silent for a moment as they pulled their wires and leaned back in their chairs. Corvan was the first to speak. "Frank was quite a guy."

Kim nodded. "That's for sure. And a modest one too. Although the technological piece parts exist to make a VMG, he's the first one to do it."

"Yeah," Corvan said thoughtfully, "and that's why they killed him. I'd be willing to bet you that shortly after he made this recording Frank joined the Exodus Underground. And that's what the Captain Video broadcasts were all about: he was trying to warn people to be critical of what they heard and saw, anything could be faked."

"Which raises the obvious question," Kim responded. ''Who's behind all of this?''

Corvan raised his right eyebrow and the eye cam whirred softly as it zoomed in on her face. "Well, since the people who killed him worked for the WPO, and WPO works for the government, it's logical to think they followed government orders."

"Is it?" Kim asked. "How do we know it isn't the other way around?"

Both were silent for a moment before Corvan spoke. "It's possible, I guess. But it seems extremely unlikely. While Hawkins did agree to let U.S. troops participate in the WPO peace-keeping forces, he dragged his feet all the way and has continually questioned their motives. As long as he's around, the government will be in control."

"That's just fine," Kim answered. "But it doesn't make sense. Why would Hawkins allowed the WPO to commit murder?"

Corvan frowned. "You're right. It doesn't make sense. It seems we have some work to do. But where should we start?"

Kim noticed his use of the word "we," but made no effort to object. Instead she picked up a folder and handed it to Corvan. "I thought you might say something like that. Take a look at these."

Corvan opened the folder and found two full-color video facsimiles. The first was a blow-up of a vidcam, one of the thirty-two mounted on the VMG's scaffolding, and Corvan saw that a logo had been placed on its side. It read "E-FEX-1."

"It's the name of a Bay Area special-effects house," Kim said by way of explanation. "I found it listed in the American Producer's Handbook."

"You'd make a good reop," Corvan said admiringly, "or maybe a cop."

"God forbid," Kim said fervently as she pulled out a black market fag and lit up. "I'm not the type."

The second facsimile was a blow-up of a woman. The same woman Corvan had last seen doing calisthenics for the video matrix generator. Her name and a San Francisco address had been scrawled across the bottom of the page: Bethany Bryn. A stage name if he'd ever heard one. It sounded vaguely familiar, like he'd seen it on some credits somewhere and accidentally memorized it.

Corvan looked up at Kim. "Don't tell me, let me guess. The Screen Actors Guild."

"Bingo," Kim replied, jabbing the fag in his direction. "It makes sense when you think about it. Neely needed some talent for his equipment trials and used a local. Simple as that."

"Yeah," Corvan said thoughtfully. "As simple as that. Well, I suggest we drop in on Ms. Bryn and ask her a few questions. I can sleep on the train. When we get to San Francisco we'll stay at my apartment." Corvan held up a hand as if anticipating an objection. "Don't worry, I have a guest room."

A part of Kim's mind did start to object. It pointed out that she couldn't earn any overtime running around with Corvan, that his guest room would offer scant protection, but she pushed it away. She had two days coming and she'd use them for once. To hell with the loans, to hell with Mel Ryback, and to hell with sleeping on the floor. In fact, if it came to that, to hell with sleeping alone. Kim stubbed out the fag, killed the power to her console, and packed a small bag.

If Corvan thought it strange that she kept spare clothes in the editing suite, he gave no sign of it. A few minutes later she picked up her purse and turned his way. "I'm ready, your reportership. Lead the way."

8

Dietrich swore softly as Kim closed the door. The sound of the latch sliding home came through with amazing clarity. With a flick of a switch Mel Ryback killed the intercom and turned to tap some instructions into a keyboard.

All of the editing suites were hooked together so they could share equipment when necessary, and since the chief engineer's office was equipped to monitor that activity, Dietrich had been able to watch Neely's tape from there.

Though unable to join them in the interface, Dietrich had witnessed the whole session via a regular holo set, and the situation was worse than he'd imagined. Much worse. The video matrix generator was absolutely amazing. No wonder he'd been ordered to kill Neely! With the VMG at their disposal, Subido and Numalo could control the news.

Dietrich pulled his feet off the console and allowed Ryback's guest chair to tilt forward with a solid thump. The truth was like a cancer, spreading from person to person, threatening to destroy the entire organism. What had once been a simple exercise in preventive medicine was now a case for major surgery.

Not only that, but now his ass was on the line and in a big way. Subido's patience wouldn't last forever, and there was no way to tell if Numalo would protect him or give him up rather than offend her. They'd been lovers once, Dietrich knew that, but couldn't tell if that relationship was still in force.

No, he couldn't rely on any help from Numalo. He'd have to act and act fast.

For a moment he considered going after Corvan and Kio right then, killing them on the roof or wherever he found them. It would be effective but very, very messy. Chances were there'd be witnesses, more than he could silence, and the whole thing might get out of hand. Besides, Corvan was no pushover; the underwater fight had proved that. By now the reop might even be armed. No, it would be better to remove the infected tissue first, and then go after the disease itself.

Dietrich turned to find Mel Ryback feeding his greenfish. The chief engineer seemed oblivious to the implications of what he'd seen, but the dark circles of sweat underneath each arm said otherwise, as did the tremor in his hands.

The fact that Ryback stood only inches away from the door wasn't lost on Dietrich either. The German smiled sadly and shook his head. The poor schmuck knew he was in trouble, knew he should get out, and knew that the ominous-looking Nicolai Slovo was just outside. Some people just have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Reaching inside his jacket, Dietrich pulled the .22 Magnum automatic. It came with a built-in silencer and reactive grips which molded themselves into the shape of the user's hand. Even though a .22 fires a lightweight slug, the Magnum version leaves the barrel at a higher rate of speed than a .38, and when the target's only a few feet away it makes quite a mess.

In this case some of the slugs went right through Ryback, shattered the fishtank, and spilled gallons of water all over the floor. Some of it washed over the chief engineer's body, grew red with his blood, and formed a pool around him.

Greenfish flapped here and there, unable to breathe, dying a slow death as their once secure world disappeared around them.

The door slammed open as Slovo came in fast and low, his handgun searching for a target. The bodyguard took it all in, lowered his gun, and nodded in Dietrich's direction. Stepping outside, Slovo closed the door behind him. If someone came by, the bodyguard would turn them away.

Dietrich ejected the empty magazine, slapped a new one into the butt of his pistol, and returned it to his shoulder holster. Time to make some com calls.

The first went to Christian Fawley. A description of the problem, a short discussion of the alternatives, and help was on the way. With some assistance from the local police and FBI, a clean-up crew would take care of the office, a Medevac helicopter would remove Ryback's body, and the fire department would handle the unfortunate blaze which was about to engulf Kim Kio's editing suite.

After that it was a simple matter to call a certain number in San Francisco and set things in motion there. Things would be ready by the time he arrived.

Dietrich wrinkled his nose. Like many corpses Ryback's was incontinent. "Well," Dietrich thought to himself as he got up and headed for the door, "it's a shitty job, but someone's got to do it."

9

Seattle's train station looked like a huge postmodernist cathedral fallen on hard times. Sunlight filtered through the dirty skylights and dust-laden air to touch the throng below. Islands of scraggly looking vegetation stood here and there, piled high with garbage, but still serving to channel foot traffic in and out. Huge electronic billboards, one of which carried a News Network 56 promo, covered the walls. Seedy restaurants and cheap shops lined both sides of the grand concourse, all of them garishly lit, all of them doing fairly well.

Due to the incredible volume of people that flowed through the terminal, even the most incompetent businessperson could make a living. As for the fag dealers and pickpockets, well, many of them were rich.

Having purchased two first-class tickets from an auto teller, and having only one bag apiece, Corvan and Kim headed straight for their train.

Neither noticed the middle-aged lady with two overstuffed shopping bags who shuffled along behind them, or the tall, skinny man who strolled along some twenty feet ahead, apparently absorbed in the 2:00 p.m. printout of USA Today. But that wasn't too surprising, since both the woman and man were extremely good at what they did and were in constant communication.

However, the man made a mistake—a small thing really but a mistake nonetheless. The man dropped a handful of stickies.

Stickies are tiny transmitters which look like little flecks of black paint and will stick to almost anything, including shoes. Once stuck, stickies will signal their location for two hours, or until they're destroyed, whichever comes first.

Corvan knew, because like all investigative reporters he'd used stickies to follow people, and been tailed himself. Stickies can be quite useful in crowds, but are notoriously unreliable and hard to place. It was this last factor which had given the man away. It isn't easy to scatter stickies and look like you're reading the paper at the same time.

Almost without thinking, the reop zoomed in to see what the man was doing, recognized the little black specks for what they were, and took evasive action. Grabbing Kim's arm, Corvan guided her around the scattering of stickies toward a large vending machine.

Sliding his credit card into the machine's slot, Corvan wondered if the stickies had been intended for them or for someone else. There was no way to know. And should he tell Kim or not? What if he told her and she decided to stay in Seattle? It shouldn't matter, but it did. The truth was that she was special—how special he didn't know, but special enough that he didn't want to lose her. But he couldn't tell her that. What if she laughed in his face?

Corvan noticed her questioning look and mustered a grin. He held up his candy bar. "Just hungry, that's all," he said, and led her out into the crowd.

Corvan looked around, failed to see the skinny man, and decided that he'd be more careful. Chances were, the stickies were intended for someone else, and rather than worry her unnecessarily, he'd watch for signs of unusual activity and tell Kim if and when they occurred.

Though not a train buff, Corvan had done a feature story about them once and learned a lot in the process. He'd learned how the railroads had tied the country together, how they'd given birth to cities, how they'd moved people, resources, and finished goods during the Industrial Revolution, how they'd helped win two world wars, and finally, how they'd almost died, victims of the internal-combustion engine.

The ironic part was that during the last twenty years or so they'd come back with a vengeance, almost burying the same technology which had previously put them out of business, thriving on the same conditions which systematically took automobiles off the streets.

As the population steadily increased and oil reserves steadily decreased, petroleum products had become extremely expensive. That, plus pollution, plus the greenhouse effect, had led to laws limiting the use of vehicles with internal-combustion engines.

Meanwhile, improvements in solar-cell technology, combined with the now famous breakthroughs on superconductivity, had led to the use of electric cars for local transportation and trains for almost everything else.

Yes, there were still plenty of planes in the sky, including the new aerospace liners which flew at four thousand miles an hour and spent more time above the atmosphere than in it. But these were playthings of the rich and powerful, not transportation for the masses.

"But," Corvan thought cynically, "we do fairly well. At least in first-class we do."

And it was true. The train which had pulled up along Platform 6 was three miles long, looked like an elongated silver bullet, and floated just above shiny rails on magnetic repulsors. For those traveling first-class it was fast, comfortable, and safe.

A woman with two shopping bags went aboard, followed by an elderly couple, who handed their tickets to the conductor and headed down toward the tourist section.

They reminded Kim of her parents. Especially the box lunches tucked under their arms, a necessity for people traveling tourist class, or anyone else who didn't want to pay an exorbitant price for their food.

It was the sort of thing her parents had done all of their lives, first to survive, and then to put her through technical school. Both were dead now, victims of the big quake in Southern California, and she missed them.

Like all passenger trains, this one had three levels. First class was up top, with business class just below that, and tourist class on the bottom.

As the conductor took his ticket Corvan noticed she was a chip head. Though not especially pretty, she wore the latest in jack jewelry, a solar stone-encrusted temple stud. It functioned off available light and flashed to some unheard rhythm.

For her part, the conductor seemed unable to take her eyes off Corvan's eye cam. "Welcome aboard the City of San Diego," she said mechanically. "First-class is up the stairs and on the right. You are in compartment twenty-four."

Corvan followed Kim up the spiral stairs and down a brightly lit corridor. He liked the way Kim moved, the way her shiny black hair swished from side to side, and the slight hint of perfume which drifted his way.

Compartment twenty-four opened to Kim's touch. Inside everything was bright chrome, a large expanse of one-way glass, and finely grained gray leather. Corvan looked around. "Well, Kim, what do you think? Is everything okay?"

Kim had never been able to afford anything but tourist class anyway, and in recent years the scrimping and saving required to buy an implant had reduced her circumstances even further, so that the compartment seemed incredibly luxurious to her. But she didn't want to admit that, so she did her best to look nonchalant and plopped down in an easy chair.

"Sure, this looks fine."

"Good," Corvan replied, taking a seat on the full-length couch and leaning back against soft upholstery.

Both were silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. Kim cleared her throat. "Why do you do it anyway?"

Corvan looked surprised. "Do what?"

Kim gestured toward the window. "Everything. What you've done. What you're doing now. Running around tilting at windmills."

Corvan shrugged. "My mother's fault, I guess. She taught me to care. More than that, she taught me that journalism is a calling, a sort of priesthood. Following up on Neely's story is a way to keep the faith. But it's more than that. This video matrix thing scares me. In the wrong hands it could be used to tell terrible lies, and that goes against everything I believe in."

Kim lit a fag and sucked smoke deep into her lungs. She believed him. For Corvan, journalism was a religion, an article of faith, a holy crusade. And the video matrix generator was his latest cause. The only problem was that religious crusaders sometimes trample the innocent on the way to their objectives. What about her? Was she safe from his zeal?

Corvan stretched out on the couch and pulled a cushion under his head. "If you don't mind, I'm going to grab some sleep. Wake me up in an hour or so and we'll have dinner."

Kim nodded, but had no intention of keeping her word.

Corvan was already asleep when the train pulled out of the station, and he was still dead to the world hours later, when the long silver snake made its way out of the Siskiyou Mountains and into Northern California.

Kim made no attempt to wake him. Instead she ordered a truly luxurious hot meal and ate it while curled up in front of the window. It felt wonderful to escape the editing suite for a while, to eat from a real plate instead of a plastic dish, and to be with someone. Even someone who snored.

Outside the world flowed by at more than two hundred miles per hour, disappearing so quickly it was hard to get more than a quick impression of what it looked like, but that was enough. The train tracks had been built on what had once been Interstate 5. As a result, the view tended toward urban sprawl, occasionally relieved by open fields and carefully tended tree farms.

The tree farms helped provide much needed housing, paper products, and most important of all, oxygen to stabilize the world's atmosphere.

The decision to junk the nation's interstate highway system had been a hard-fought political battle. The automobile and trucking industries had poured millions of dollars into high-powered media campaigns aimed at winning the public over, but their money was wasted.

Sure, some cars were getting one hundred miles to the gallon, but that didn't mean much when unleaded cost two hundred bucks a gallon.

In any case, the country's main interstate freeways had been ripped up, track had been laid, and a brand-new transportation system put into place. In spite of that, however, the steadily increasing population was already threatening to overwhelm die railroads and their ability to cope.

It was, Kim reflected, a losing battle, and it made her wonder if the Exodus Society might be right. Curious about Neely's involvement with the Exodus Underground, Kim had taken time to skim through the background material stored in the network's central computer. It made interesting reading.

The Exodus Society had existed for about fifteen years now and had been organized around the principle that the planet was overpopulated. They believed the people of Earth were engaged in a life-and-death race between production and demand. A race which the burgeoning population would almost certainly win. The result would be food riots, mass starvation, international conflict, and a new Dark Age. Not a pretty picture, and in spite of the government's claims to the contrary, all too possible.

The answer? Well, according to the Exodus Society, the answer lay in a full-scale exodus from Earth. The modern version of westward expansion, in which huge one-way space arks would replace covered wagons and a vast corps of space-suited settlers would play the part of pioneers. First to other planets in the solar system and then to the stars themselves. The Exodus Society saw thousands, millions, even billions of men and women spreading outward from Earth to form a brand-new empire.

It was a stirring vision, one which the Society never ceased to push. There were public-service announcements in which a ragged-looking family stood on a hill and stared wistfully toward the stars. There were conventions to which millions came, fund-raising events to which millions gave, and political organizations to which millions belonged. All dedicated to promoting space travel and the colonization of other planets.

And yes, there were darker activities as well, or allegations at least, none of which had ever been proved. Some said that those opposing the Society seemed to have an unusually high accident rate. Others whispered of payoffs, intimidation, and blackmail.

And that's where the Exodus Underground came in. It specialized in acts of civil disobedience, which sometimes got out of hand. Like Neely's pirate radio station, like the hate mail they sent to politicians who opposed the space program, and like the mysterious fires which plagued various branches of the World Peace Organization.

It was common knowledge that the Exodus Underground opposed the WPO because it might lead toward a single world government, and without nationalism to push it along, the world's various space programs might wither and die.

Though technically a separate organization, everyone assumed that members of the Underground took their orders from Exodus Society headquarters in Washington, D.C. There was the obvious similarity of names, for one thing, not to mention a substantial amount of common membership and the almost identical rhetoric used by both.

All of which made Kim wonder why Neely had gotten involved. Had the Underground used him? Or was it the other way around? There was no way to tell.

Off to the west the sun was little more than an orange smear on the horizon. Turning inward she looked at Corvan, his face peaceful, almost childlike except for the unblinking lens of the eve cam. It stared back at her like a malevolent black hole which could suck her in and destroy her carefully ordered world.

Corvan seemed nice enough, but she'd seen him ignore a wounded trooper for the sake of a story, and kill a man on worldwide television. Both of those acts were justified, but still, where did the machine stop and the man begin? If faced with a choice between his story and her, which would Corvan choose? Why had she allowed herself to get involved? Was it physical or something more? Kim looked outside, but found no answers in the passing dark.

When Corvan awoke he knew something had changed. Modern trains didn't make the same noises their predecessors had, but they did vibrate at higher speeds, and the vibration had just about disappeared.

Corvan sat up as he swung his feet over the side and onto the floor. Kim Kio was there, her face beautiful in the soft light, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You're beautiful."

The words seemed to spill out of their own volition, not part of a plan to make her feel a certain way, just a statement of fact.

She smiled. "Are you always like this when you wake up?"

"Always," he promised as he headed for the sink. "It runs in the family. Mom says Father was at his best in the morning.''

"I'll remember that," Kim replied gravely. "Fortunately it's night outside."

Corvan splashed water on his face. "Ah, but it's morning somewhere in the world. Where are we anyway?"

"Just outside San Francisco," Kim replied. "Assuming we're on schedule, we should arrive in ten or fifteen minutes."

"Good," Corvan said, glancing at his watch. "I'm starving. You didn't wake me for dinner."

Kim shrugged. "You looked so tired I couldn't bring myself to do it. I ordered you a sandwich, though. I hope turkey's okay."

Corvan looked around, spotted the sandwich, and sat down to eat. "Are you kidding? Turkey's great. How was dinner?" He gestured toward her tray and the empty plates.

While Kim described her dinner, Corvan ate his and washed it down with a glass of water. It was slightly salty because the train had tanked up in San Francisco the day before. Over time the rising sea level had pushed more and more salt water inland. Now it was contaminating the fresh-water aquifers underneath Sacramento and had found its way into the area's drinking water. Corvan spat the last of it into the sink and turned around. "Got everything? If so, we're out of here."

Kim looked up in surprise. "You're kidding. Shouldn't we let them stop the train first?"

Corvan shook his head and grinned. "Naw, it's not going more than five miles an hour."

Kim frowned thoughtfully. "You think someone's waiting for us?"

Corvan shrugged. "Beats me. All I know is that Neely was playing patty cake with some very heavy hitters. It would be naive to think they haven't noticed us snooping around. Better safe than sorry, that's all."

For a moment Corvan felt guilty about holding out on her, but pushed it down and back, knowing that if her told her that truth he'd have to tell her the other truth as well, and that might scare her just as much as the possibility that people were watching them.

In spite of the dinner she'd eaten a short time before, Kim's stomach felt cold and empty as she checked the mirror and picked up her bag. Was it as simple as Corvan said? Or did he know something she didn't? The question stayed with her as she followed Corvan out of the compartment.

Moving quickly, Corvan made his way the length of the corridor, slipped down the spiral stairs, and pulled the emergency release.

The door slid open, allowing warm, fetid air to blow into Kim's face. Another train went by, headed in the opposite direction. Its shiny metal flanks rippled the greenish light and its repulsors whined as it picked up speed.

Then it was gone, revealing a dark labyrinth of tracks and equipment, all of which moved steadily by.

The open door had activated some sort of emergency Klaxon, and it was hooting loud objections as Corvan gestured for Kim to jump. "Go ahead! There's nothing to it!"

Kim jumped and felt her right high heel crumple when she landed. Stumbling over to lean against an equipment shed, she was in the process of pulling her shoe off when he arrived.

"Go ahead. There's nothing to it," she mimicked. "Only a man wearing rubber-soled boots would say something like that." She held up her shoe for Corvan's inspection.

Corvan grimaced. "Oops. The man in the rubber-soled boots apologizes and begs your forgiveness. Have you got any others?"

"Of course," Kim replied crossly. "And I wouldn't need them if it weren't for all this spy stuff."

If Corvan had taken his precautions more seriously, or if Kim had been less involved in changing her shoes, perhaps one of them would have seen the middle-aged woman jump off the train and disappear into the shadows. And had they been extremely observant, they might have noticed that she was a good deal more agile than she'd been while boarding the train, also that she was no longer encumbered by two shopping bags.

But they didn't notice, and that allowed the woman to follow them through the train yard and along a security fence toward the train station. For a moment it seemed as though the fence would funnel them into the terminal, but at the very last moment Corvan saw the gate.

Walking over, they saw a sign which read, "BE SURE TO LOCK THE GATE BEHIND YOU." Corvan did.

Outside the train yard they found themselves on a busy street, one of the many which crisscrossed the terminal area, and wasted little time flagging down a three-wheeled electro cab. It had a tiny passenger compartment just big enough for two adults.

The driver was a kid in his teens. There was a caffeine stick dangling from his lips and a lum-studded dog collar buckled around his neck. The luminescent letters spelled out "Corey's Cabs" in flashing blue letters.

However, the collar was more than mere ornamentation. It contained a tiny transmitter which let the cab company's dispatcher know where the kid was. That way the company computer could make sure cabbies didn't bunch up at the same locations, lie about where they were, or simply goof off when they should be working.

When the kid spoke, the C-stick bobbed up and down with each word. "What'll it be, folks? Gut burgers, sex shops, dope dealers, we got 'em all. Name your poison."

"None of the above," Corvan replied, and provided an address on Russian Hill. It wasn't his address, but the address of his favorite Mexican restaurant, which was located nearby. In order to get there the cabbie would have to roll by his apartment, which would give him a chance to check it out. The coast would be clear, he'd feel silly, and they'd walk back. Then a drink or two, some nice soft music, and who knows? Maybe she wouldn't use the guest room after all.

While the two of them squeezed themselves into the passenger compartment, the kid strapped their bags to the rooftop luggage rack, and got behind his controls. The vehicle jerked twice due to slippage in the drive train, pulled away from the curb, and forced its way into the mishmash of slow-moving traffic.

Like Seattle, San Francisco was organized in vertical layers, with the wealthy living on the upper levels of high-rise condos and less fortunate scraping out a living down below. Much of the city had been rebuilt after the Great Quake, but it was already wearing out.

Kim felt momentarily claustrophobic as she looked out the cab's dirty window. People were everywhere. Walking, running, talking, working, sleeping, and having sex. She noticed that most of them looked like her: black hair, different shades of brown skin, a mixture heavily influenced by Asian and Latin genes.

At times their bodies were so thick around the cab that she couldn't see, couldn't do anything except feel and smell them, almost drowning in their noise. And inside the cab Corvan seemed to fill whatever space she left vacant, making her want to scream. Suddenly she realized that her retreat into News Network 56's basement was more than just financial, it was an opportunity to be alone, to reduce her exposure to an ocean of people.

The noise was an ominous hum, a low rumble made out of a thousand conversations, and pierced here and there by shouts, screams, sirens, and commercial messages.

Crowded though it was, Seattle seemed almost empty compared to this. As the cabbie beeped his horn and pushed his way through the foot traffic, Kim wondered how long it would be before the have-nots grew tired of the haves' endless promises and took whatever they wanted. The sad thing was that it wouldn't make any difference. The problem was so huge, the population so vast, that whatever they took wouldn't even begin to fill the need.

The cab turned onto Post and headed west toward Union Square. Up ahead Kim saw a silver needle which soared upward into the night. It looked like a building but clearly wasn't. Buildings don't have fins and all manner of streamlined bumps. Whatever it was looked graceful and imposing under colored lights. "What's that?" she asked, yelling to make herself heard.

Corvan looked up through the driver's windshield, saw what she was referring to, and smiled. "That's a spaceship," he shouted. "Or what some PR type thinks a spaceship should look like. From what I've read, a real honest-to-goodness space liner would be built in orbit and look quite different. But the Exodus Society doesn't care about that, it's a symbol, and they're paying the city half a million dollars a day to park it in Union Square. Stupid, isn't it?"

Kim nodded, but as the cab passed by Union Square and headed towards Leavenworth she wasn't so sure. Unlike Corvan she'd been poor, the very thing which motivated her to get an implant, and she knew how important hope could be. She could imagine trudging off to work each day, passing the silvery arrow which pointed up toward the stars, wishing it would lift and take her with it. Yes, a symbol like that could be very powerful indeed.

Though crowded, Leavenworth wasn't quite as bad as Post, and the cab made a steady ten miles an hour toward Russian Hill. It wasn't too long before Corvan saw his building up ahead and began to check things out.

At first glance everything appeared normal—the usual street vendors, the same collection of squatters protecting their concrete turf. But then he noticed something which didn't belong, something which shouldn't be there, a full-sized paddy wagon.

They all had looked the same ever since Ford had responded to the rising crime rate by marketing a specially designed police van. In the course of covering crime-related stories Corvan had spent a great deal of time inside them and knew how they were equipped. The latest in surveillance gear, enough weapons to fight a small war, and bunks so the cops could sleep in shifts.

This one had been disguised to look like a Pac Tel maintenance truck, but it didn't work. After three days in the 'hoods Pac Tel's vans looked like they'd been in a demolition derby. This baby was brand-new, even the graffiti sprayed across the back door looked fresh, not to mention the idiots in their spotless overalls.

They were moving all sorts of gear to and fro, but it was obvious from the way they went about it that they didn't know a piece of fiber-optic cable from a length of garden hose, and were putting on an act.

An act which the street people recognized for what it was but tactfully ignored. Hey, if the heat wanted to play com tech, then let 'em, as long as they stayed out of the way.

As the cab rolled by his building, Kim grabbed his arm. "Rex, look, isn't that what's-his-name?"

Corvan looked in the direction of her pointing finger and sucked in his breath. "Whats-his-name" was none other than Germany's gift to the WPO, Captain Hans Dietrich. He too was dressed in an immaculate set of overalls, and was crossing the street from left to right, heading toward the front of the police van.

As the cab swerved to go around him there was a moment when Dietrich unknowingly looked Corvan in the eye. It was a hard, unblinking stare, the kind that a predator reserves for its prey, and Corvan felt a chill run down his spine. The hunt was on.

10

As Dietrich neared the police van, Nicolai Slovo stepped out to greet him. The man's clothes looked a size too large and his hair was slicked straight back. A bodyguard or a spy? Maybe both. Christian Fawley had sent him along, ostensibly to watch Dietrich's back, but was that all? Was Slovo a spy for Subido? For Numalo? There was no way to be sure.

"Phone call, boss," Slovo said, his eyes flicking from Dietrich's face to the buildings beyond. "Somebody named Subido."

Dietrich swore silently. So much for his plan to have Corvan in the bag before he talked to her. Unfortunately the good-for-nothing boys in blue had missed Corvan at the train station. How the hell could they miss a one-eyed freak with a Eurasian bimbo for a sidekick? Dietrich didn't know, but SF's finest had managed to pull it off and leave him holding the bag.

All was not lost, however. Chances were that Corvan would show up at his apartment, fall into Dietrich's carefully laid trap, and take one last dip in San Francisco Bay. Just another victim of the bay's frigid waters.

In the meantime, however, he'd be forced to kiss Subido's ice-cold posterior. The prospect was less than pleasing.

The van's side door slid open at his touch. The fact that the vehicle smelled new inside made Dietrich angry. He couldn't believe it. The cop shop had provided him with a brand-new paddy wagon disguised as a telephone truck. Shit, they might as well have written "Police" all over it and shown up with a brass band.

Soft red light pervaded the van's cramped electronics section. Both walls were covered with racks of electronic equipment. Indicator lights glowed red, green, and amber, while computer-enhanced plotting screens displayed infra-red surveillance shots provided by a flock of low-flying robo cams.

Hidden speakers muttered an endless litany of police jargon, sensors tracked the movement of vehicles and pedestrians, and an on-board computer scanned thousands of local phone lines for key words and names. One mention of "Corvan, Kio" or a hundred other key words and all hell would break loose.

A cop with a blonde crew cut and a bad case of zits lowered her machine pistol and nodded toward one of the three cellular telephones racked against one wall. "You've got a call on phone two. It's scrambled both ways."

For a moment she just sat there trying to stare him down. Finally she gave a shrug, picked up her weapon, and headed forward.

The cop paused at the door to the sleeping compartment and looked back over her shoulder. ''Keep it short, slick. If I miss a command call I'm gonna bust your balls." The door closed and she was gone.

Dietrich picked up phone two and said "Hans Dietrich" into the mouthpiece. There was a burst of static and a millisecond delay while his words were scrambled, bounced off a satellite, and reassembled at the other end.

Carla Subido's normally tidy desk was piled high with printouts. It was absurd to be awash in paper this way, but the president's computer had defied her best efforts to access it, and that had forced her to request information from other sources. A computer expert could have straightened the whole thing out in a few hours, but then she'd have to kill him, and mat would have generated even more complications. It was just fine for Numalo to spend his time playing power politics, but she was up to her ass in alligators.

When Dietrich spoke, Carla looked up from her paperwork, frowned, and focused on the matter at hand.

"Hello, Hans. Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been rather busy and this is the only time I have. How's it going?"

Dietrich felt a cool breeze touch the back of his neck and turned to see Nicolai Slovo lounging in the doorway. He frowned, but the bodyguard remained where he was. Turning to one side, Dietrich lowered his voice.

"The local police missed Corvan at the train station. I have his apartment staked out and expect him any time now."

There was a long silence at the other end of the connection while Carla thought it over. When she spoke, her voice was deliberately casual.

"I know you were educated in this country— N.Y.U., if I remember correctly, so you'll understand when I say, 'Three strikes and you're out.' "

Dietrich swallowed hard. "I understand."

"Good," Carla replied. "Good hunting, Hans," and she broke the connection.

Carla examined her watch: almost 1:00 a.m. In about two hours Mary Hawkins would have a heart attack and die. When her death was announced, the stock market would drop a point, the price of gold would twitch, and the press would go nuts.

Half-hour documentaries would be built from file footage and aired that evening, every person who'd ever come within fifty feet of the first lady would be asked for a comment, and the media would scream to see the president. And see him they would.

Tears rolling gently down his cheeks, a televised Hawkins would speak fondly of his wife, would recall their years together, and would assure the public that Mary's spirit was still at his side.

Then a spokesman would announce the funeral arrangements, the actor would depart for Camp David, and the press would go home.

Carla yawned and rubbed her eyes. Maybe then she could get some sleep.

11

It was a crummy little hotel, but that's what Corvan could afford. Over the years a once modern decor had turned gradually old. The tubular chairs, glass-topped tables, and modular accessories all looked tired. Even the chromed lamps seemed to droop. But tacky though it was, the hotel was a haven of sorts. A place for Corvan and Kim to hole up and consider their options.

The government and/or the WPO was after them. Dietrich's presence outside Corvan's apartment proved that, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. Someone had the video matrix generator and didn't want the news to get out. Either they were already making use of it or planned to do so soon. But who? The WPO? The government? There was no way to tell. And Corvan had other problems as well.

Suddenly his plastic was worthless. If the police were watching his apartment, then they were monitoring his credit cards as well. The moment he used one, a computer would note his location and dispatch a patrol car to pick him up.

The little man with the big nose watched cynically as Corvan counted out a hundred and twenty dollars from his meager supply of cash. When the last bill hit the counter, the clerk nodded, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and pushed a key card across the worn Formica.

"You're in room 312. Up the elevator, to the left as you get off, far end of the hall."

Corvan nodded, accepted the card, and dumped both of their bags onto the counter. "My wife and I would like to grab some dinner before we hit the sack. Can I leave these with you?" Corvan held up a five-dollar bill. It quickly disappeared.

"They'll be safe with me," the clerk assured him, tucking the suitcases under the counter. "If you like pizza, try Mama Mia's. It's the best on the block."

Corvan thanked the clerk for his advice and headed for the front door. He could feel the clerk's eyes on his back as the greasy glass slid open and he stepped outside. The eye cam was an indelible mark. It set him aside and screamed his identity. If the police came by, the little man would remember.

"So what?" a part of his mind asked as he stepped out into warm, humid air. "You haven't done anything wrong. Turn yourself in."

"Bullshit," a more primal persona replied. "Find out what this is all about before you put your ass on the line. If this has something to do with Frank and his video matrix generator, then God knows what you're up against."

The last part sounded like good advice, and Corvan decided to accept it. Kim was nowhere in sight. The cab had dropped them a couple of blocks away and Kim had ducked into a convenience store, promising to catch up. Corvan headed in that direction.

It was a busy street even late at night. People heading to and from work, searching for some sort of entertainment, or just existing, declaring a section of sidewalk to be their own and lying down to sleep.

Corvan felt naked, stripped of the power that his profession normally conferred, another member of the faceless crowd. He had no permanent job, no family, no friends, and quite unexpectedly, no material resources. For the first time since the start of his free-lance career Corvan wished that he were affiliated with a network. A nice paternalistic organization which would take him in, say "There, there," and protect him from the things that go bump in the night.

The crowd swirled and Corvan saw Kim step out of a public com booth, slam the already broken door, and start his way. As she got closer he knew something was wrong. Tears made tracks down her cheeks and there was fury in her eyes. That impression was confirmed when she slapped him across the face. It hurt and Corvan touched his cheek.

"What the hell was that for?"

"What was that for?" Kim demanded. "What do you think it was for? I just got off the phone with Seattle. Louie says there's police all over the place. They claim that Mel Ryback died of a heart attack, but one of the engineers got a look at his office, and there's bullet holes all over the place. Why's that, Corvan? And how come a mysterious fire destroyed my editing suite? You know the reason why, because someone wanted to destroy Neely's disk, that's why. Val's dead and what little I owned is gone.

"But that isn't why I slapped you. I did that because you knew they were watching us and you didn't tell me. That's why you ordered the cab to roll by your apartment without stopping. You used me. You used me to get your story, and if I jumped into your bed, then so much the better. You asshole! When they removed your eye, they cut out your heart as well."

Corvan wondered who Mel Ryback and Val were, but decided those questions could wait. He had something more urgent in mind. "Did you use your calling card?"

"What?" Corvan's question caught Kim by surprise.

He grabbed her shoulders. "Answer me! Did you use your calling card?"

Kim shook herself loose. "Sure . . . but I don't see why . . ."

Corvan grabbed her arm and began to run. They were only a hundred feet away from the com booth and just turning into the rear entrance of a sex arcade when two patrol cars converged from opposite ends of the street.

These weren't the glorified golf carts the SFPD used for traffic duty. These were full-blown combat cars, specially rigged for urban warfare and armed to the teeth.

Corvan peeked around a life-sized neon nude and saw two dozen combat-equipped cops jump down and fan out. Within two or three minutes the police would realize there weren't any one-eyed reops in the crowd and expand the search.

"Come on." Corvan grabbed Kim's arm and pulled her toward the front of the arcade. She jerked her arm free and took a step backward. "Screw you, Corvan. I'm through being used."

Corvan stepped up, started to touch her shoulder, and lowered his hand. His eye cam whirred softly as he zoomed in on her face. "Listen," he said gentry. "People have been murdered to protect someone or something evil. In a minute, two at the most, those cops will come and get us. That's what you're telling me, right? Your friend, Mel what's-his-name, they killed him."

She shrugged. "Ryback, and he was no friend of mine."

"All right," Corvan said patiently. "But think about it. They killed Ryback, they killed Frank, they destroyed the disk. Why? To protect the video matrix generator, that's why. Someone's using it and they don't want us to find out. Now, I'm sorry you're angry with me, and I'd like to talk about it, but this isn't the time or the place. Come or stay. It's up to you."

Corvan turned and walked back through the arcade, praying that she'd follow. Auto-eroto booths lined both sides of the passageway. Corvan could hear electronic voices whispering words of encouragement as customers, men mostly, were brought to orgasm through direct neural stimulation.

A few seconds later he passed through the arcade's lobby. It was filled with the usual racks of sexual paraphernalia and the same old customers searching for something new. As Corvan left the arcade he hoped Kim was right behind him. He turned and found that she was.

"I still hate your guts," she said defiandy, her eyes burning with anger.

"Understood," Corvan replied. "But let's talk about it somewhere else."

They hadn't taken more than two steps when a cone of bright light popped into existence around them. It pinned them to the street like specimens to a slide. They felt a down draft and heard an amplified voice:

"Freeze! This is the San Francisco Police Department. Stay where you are! I repeat, stay where you are!"

Corvan swore. A chopper. Damn. Now what? The crowd scattered and Corvan looked right and left. There was no way out.

A car screeched to a stop in front of them. It was huge, one of the slab-sided behemoths Americans had loved seventy or eighty years before. The driver tapped the accelerator and the internal-combustion engine roared in response. A middle-aged woman sat behind the wheel, and although Corvan couldn't place her, she seemed vaguely familiar. The woman smiled. ''Care for a lift? I'm not a cop."

The situation was so weird that Corvan believed her. Besides, the chopper was lower now, and he could see cops coming from every direction. "Yes, a lift would be welcome."

The woman nodded. "I thought so. Hop in the back."

Corvan opened the rear door, waited for Kim to scramble inside, and jumped in after her. The car took off with a screech, throwing the door closed and nearly catching his left ankle.

There was a gentle thump as a cop bounced off the right front fender and a volley of shots as his companions opened fire. Two bullets whipped through a side window and out the other side. Safety glass shattered and cascaded to the floor like a thousand tiny diamonds. If this bothered the driver, she didn't show it.

"This baby has lots of pickup," the woman observed as she glanced over her right shoulder. "Some of my friends stole it last night. They don't make 'em like this anymore."

As if to prove her point, the woman put her foot down, and the car swerved around a corner, tires screeching and horn blasting as a hundred people scrambled to get out of the way.

Corvan looked out through the rear window and saw the bright disk of a searchlight right behind them. The chopper was hot on their trail. The woman noticed his movement in the rearview mirror and spoke from the side of her mouth:

"Yeah, we gotta lose the bird, but that's not as hard as you might think."

So saying, the driver took another screeching turn, straightened the wheel, and stomped on the gas. The sedan seemed to drop down onto its haunches like a beast preparing to attack. Then it roared a challenge through its twin exhausts and charged down the street. Corvan saw that a thin line of wooden barricades barred the way and braced himself for the impact.

The sign over the hole said "Cross To n Tunnel" in big, lighted letters, and a smaller sign just below it read "CLOSED FOR REPAIR."

Undaunted, the woman aimed the car at the mouth of the tunnel and plunged inside. The barricades shattered, splinters of wood flew in every direction, and the car rolled through. The impact was barely discernable.

Behind them a frustrated helicopter pilot pulled up and away, swearing into her throat mike and heading for the other end of the tunnel. In response to her orders five combat cars and a host of lesser vehicles hurried to take up positions at the other end as well. When the car emerged, they'd nail it with massed gunfire and wire-guided missiles.

The inside of the tunnel was huge. A six-lane throughway built at enormous expense and designed to relieve some of the city's considerable surface congestion. And for the last five or six years the underground passageway had been a big help. The only problem was that the substandard concrete used by a greedy construction company had already started to give way. As a result, construction crews worked on die tunnel during the day and a collection of youth gangs used it at night.

At first the police had tried to stop it, worried that the gangs would steal or damage the contractor's heavy equipment, but had eventually given up. The truth was that they were too shorthanded to do much else.

And it seemed as if the gangs had some sort of unspoken agreement to keep theft and vandalism to a minimum, because when the construction workers arrived each morning, their equipment was undamaged. Only a scattering of burned-out bonfires and empty booze bags indicated that the kids had even been there. Having no where else to go, the gangs seemed to value the tunnel and did nothing to attract unwanted attention.

Looking out through a shattered side window, Corvan saw heavy equipment, piles of rusty steel, corrugated pipe, and the big metal storage units which protected smaller items from thieves.

Up ahead a row of bonfires blocked their way, and the driver applied her brakes. As the car slowed, Corvan saw hundreds of kids appear out of the shadows, their ceremonial makeup indicating which gang they belonged to, with a variety of weapons in their hands.

"Don't worry," the woman said, as if sensing his thoughts. "Just play along."

As the car came to a stop, a big white boy wearing makeup which identified him as a Corpse Rider stepped up to the driver's window. He was about six two, two hundred and twenty-five pounds, and subject to occasional episodes of steroid-induced rage. His favorite weapon was a policeman's femur. He held it clutched in his huge right hand and used it to tap on the door.

The woman smiled pleasantly. "Good evening, young man, could you tell me how to reach the Golden Gate Bridge?"

If the Corpse Rider heard or understood her words, he gave no sign. "I want the car."

The woman nodded understandingly. "Then you shall have it. Out, everyone."

Somewhat surprised by the easy victory, the Corpse Rider watched them get out of the car and stand to one side. With a grunt of approval he slipped behind the wheel, waited while six of his friends did likewise, and put his foot on the gas. The engine roared but nothing happened.

Shaking her head in amazement, the woman stepped over to the car, reached through the window, and put the transmission in drive. Her arm was just barely clear of the door when the kid stepped on the accelerator and screeched down the tunnel. He hadn't gone more than two hundred feet when he sideswiped a dozer, nicked a generator, and piled into a huge cable reel. A moment passed while he figured out how to put it in reverse, backed up, and roared off toward the other end of the tunnel.

"They'll be waiting for him," Kim said as the red taillights disappeared around a curve.

"Yeah," the woman agreed. "Ain't it wonderful? Come on."

As they made their way across the width of the tunnel toward an emergency stairway, Corvan felt hundreds of eyes watching him out of the darkness. It sent a chill down his spine. Dark silhouettes were outlined by the bonfires, sitting, standing or dancing to the mishmash of music which throbbed all around them.

It seemed logical to think that they'd be jumped, robbed, or even killed. But no one made a move in their direction. It was as if their willingness to hand over the car somehow immunized them from attack.

But whatever it was felt extremely fragile, and Corvan heaved a sigh of relief as they reached the stairs. They were about halfway up when they heard the rattle of distant gunfire and a double thump as two shoulder-launched missiles hit the car.

Corvan knew he should feel guilty about the dead Corpse Riders, but found it hard to do. Maybe it was the way they looked, or the human bone their leader had used as a baton, but he didn't think they'd be missed. After all, there were plenty more where they came from.

They ran the rest of the way to the surface and emerged onto a busy street. About six blocks away Corvan saw a group of skyscrapers which were backlit by an orange-red glow. A couple of helicopters circled the area and sirens whooped from every direction.

The woman shook her head in mock concern. "Kids these days. You tell 'em crime doesn't pay, but do they listen? No way. Some things never change."

As usual there were people everywhere, walking, talking, oblivious to three more members of the endless human horde. Corvan saw that the woman was prettier than he'd thought, with ash blonde hair quickly turning gray and laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. She wore a short leather jacket, khaki slacks, and the latest in expensive running shoes. The woman held out her hand to Kim.

"Hi, Kim, my name's Edith. Edith Townsend. Well, that's not my real name, but it's the one I'm using right now."

She turned to Corvan. "And here he is, the famous man cam. I love those ads. 'News Network 56, the man cam can.' Glad to meet you, Rex."

Corvan frowned as he shook her hand. "It's a pleasure, Edith. Thanks for the help. I don't want to be rude, but how come you know so much about us?"

Edith pulled a small black box out of her jacket pocket and pressed a button. "Well, I’ve been following you, for one thing, and I'm a member of the Exodus Underground, for another."

Corvan flashed to a memory of a woman with two shopping bags climbing on the train. "You were on the train?"

Edith nodded. "I was behind you when Luther tried to scatter those stickies." She laughed. "You went around them like an old pro."

Kim's eyes were full of silent fury as she looked Corvan's way. She didn't know what stickies were, but Edith's comments confirmed her suspicions and fueled her anger as well. Corvan had known something was going on and kept it from her.

Corvan knew there was nothing he could do or say which would heal the rift between them, at least not at the moment, so he turned his attention to Edith.

"Why would the Exodus Underground want to follow us? Or help us, for that matter?"

Edith shook her head. "Sorry, Rex. You're asking the wrong person. A delivery truck will arrive in about two minutes. It'll take you to the folks in charge of questions."

"And if we don't want to go?" Kim asked suspiciously.

"Then you don't have to," Edith answered easily. "We won't force you. But it's my guess that you're gonna need some help."

Distant sirens seemed to echo her words, and when the truck pulled up, Kim got in first. Following, Corvan found that outside of some plumbing supplies, they were all alone. A single bulb lit the truck's interior. There was no way to see out or communicate with the driver. Wherever the truck was going, it involved a lot of twists and turns, because lacking any sort of seats, they were frequently thrown from one side of the vehicle to the other.

After five or ten minutes of this Kim began to worry and tried the door. Much to her relief she found that it was unlocked. A quick peek outside revealed that they were in the financial district and weaving their way between massive high-rise towers. Closing the door, she answered Corvan's questioning look with a shrug and retreated to her own side of the truck.

A few minutes later the floor tilted as the vehicle went down a steep grade and then it leveled off. "You can get out now." The voice was muffled and came from the driver's compartment.

Corvan opened the door and they both jumped down. The second they were clear, the truck made a wide turn and whined its way up a steep ramp. As the vehicle rolled by, Corvan tried to see through the darkened windshield but failed. Whoever the driver was, he or she valued their privacy.

Looking around, they found themselves in a large garage, empty except for a small fleet of identical Dodge Solar Vans. Their photo-sensitive paint seemed to shimmer under the bright lights.

Something chimed behind him and Corvan turned to find an open elevator. "Welcome," it said. "You are expected. Please step inside."

There seemed to be little point in doing anything else. After all, no one had forced them to come, and they certainly needed some help. In addition, there was the larger question of who was using the video matrix generator and why. And since Neely had been a member of the Exodus Underground, a.k.a. the Exodus Society, it occurred to Corvan that they might have at least part of the answer.

As Corvan and Kim stepped into the elevator, the doors slid silently closed behind them. "Thank you," the elevator said softly, and accelerated upward.

Corvan watched the digital readout over the doors grow progressively larger until the elevator came to a smooth stop and the number "42" flashed on. They had arrived.

As the doors slid open, they were greeted by a rather unusual man. One side of his face was a mass of scar tissue while the other was completely normal. And although the upper portion of his body was broad-shouldered and quite muscular, the lower part was encased in a black box. A wire led from the box to a flat black temple stud. Like the walker used by Warden Waller, this prosthesis required an implant to make it work. As the man moved forward, Corvan heard the whine of a gyro stabilizer and realized that the black box rested on a single tire. The man grinned and held out his hand. "Rex Corvan. We meet again."

Corvan was embarrassed. Like most reops, he met thousands of people each year, but this one drew a blank. But wait a minute, there was something familiar about the undamaged side of the man's face. Then he had it. "Chris Saxon!"

The other man's grin grew even wider. "You've got a good memory, Rex. I looked a lot different the last time we met."

Corvan nodded soberly. What the other man had said was true. The last time they'd met was at Vandenberg Air Force Base. Saxon had been commander of the first multinational expedition to the moon, and Corvan had interviewed him, along with the other members of the lunar team.

But that had been before they reached the moon, before the disastrous fire in Lunar Dome Two and Saxon's now famous efforts to rescue those trapped inside. He'd succeeded, but at tremendous cost to himself. Besides the burns to his face Saxon had suffered extensive internal injuries and the loss of both legs.

Corvan remembered the drama which surrounded Saxon's return to Earth, the occasional news stories about his painful recovery, and realized that he hadn't heard or seen anything about the man for a long time. Corvan brought a hand up to his eye cam. "That makes two of us. I looked different too."

Saxon chuckled. "I know. I'm one of your fans." When Saxon turned, the entire black box turned with him. "And this is Kim Kio. Hi, Kim, I'm Chris Saxon."

Kim found herself smiling as she shook Saxon's hand. There was something about him which made that easy to do. She hadn't recognized him at first, but she certainly remembered his heroism and did her best to ignore the black box. "Hi, Chris. It's a pleasure to meet you. How did you know my name?"

Saxon's smile disappeared. "That's a long story, Kim. Let's go to my office. We've got lots to talk about."

Corvan looked Kim's way as they followed Saxon down the long corridor, but she kept her eyes straight ahead. Saxon's unicycle made a soft whirring noise and left a deep track in the plush carpet.

Kim noticed that both sides of the hall were graced with large high-quality blowups of Mars, Venus, Saturn, and the other planets of the solar system. They were beautiful, like gems set in black onyx. She found herself wanting to reach out and touch them.

A huge door slid aside at Saxon's approach. Corvan saw a large office with wall-sized windows. Beyond the glass, other skyscrapers crowded in all around to block out the bay and turn the office into a sort of fish bowl. Even late at night, squares of light showed that other people were up and working, some turning to see what was happening across the street, all of them no more than sixty or seventy feet away. Saxon must have felt it too, because he said, "Curtains," and they appeared from both sides of the glass.

"Have a seat." Saxon indicated two of the three guest chairs, and rolled into the spot where a fourth would normally sit. "Go ahead and light up if you want to," Saxon said, looking Kim's way, "although you really should give them up."

This earned Saxon a dirty look and caused Kim to dig through her purse until she found one. Corvan spoke as she lit up.

"No offense, Chris, but it's been a long day. How 'bout telling us what's going on? You're with die Exodus Society?"

Saxon nodded. "That's right. And in a moment I'll tell you what's going on, or what I’ve heard, but you go first. We've been watching you—that's apparent by now—but I'd like to hear it from your perspective."

Corvan looked at Kim and she shrugged. "Go ahead. You probably kept a lot of it from me anyway."

This was unfair, but Corvan didn't care to pursue it in front of Saxon. So he smiled and his eye cam whirred as he turned the other way. Quickly and concisely Corvan told the other man everything he knew, starting with the Canadian raid and taking it all the way down to their ride in the plumber's truck. At times Saxon would nod knowingly or add some comment like "We lost you during the whole barge farm episode," but most of the time he was silent.

And then, when Corvan was all done, Saxon shook his head in amazement. "You two have been extremely lucky. Frankly, I'm surprised that you're still alive, and very thankful. Together we might be able to do something about this mess."

Saxon placed his elbows on the sides of his black box and steepled his fingers. "My part of this goes back a number of years, to the time when I got out of the hospital. It took three years and twenty-seven operations for them to put me back together—if you call this together. And when I finally rolled out of the hospital for the last time, I wanted—no, needed-something to do, and the Exodus Society was the obvious choice. It supports the very thing I'd built my life around, the exploration of space, and was willing to take me on. I suspect they saw me as sure-fire fundraiser at first, you know, the crippled hero with no legs but both hands in your pockets. But whatever the reason, they gave me a chance and I took it."

Saxon gestured to the office. "I earned this by working hard and making things happen. Right now I'm number three in the organization's chain of command, with every intention of making number two this year and number one somewhere down the line. I tell you that not out of ego, but to assure you that I speak for the entire organization, and that what I'm telling you the truth."

Kim blew out a long, thin streamer of blue-gray smoke. "I believe you, but as Corvan can attest, I'll believe just about anything."

Corvan winced but didn't look her way. "All right, so give, what does the Society know about all this?"

Saxon nodded and his eyes focused on a spot somewhere over Corvan's head. "Like you, we didn't know a thing about it until the WPO's raid and Frank Neely's death. At first we assumed the whole thing was just another episode in the WPO's ongoing efforts to destroy our organization. The two organizations are natural enemies. We want change and the WPO wants the status quo to last forever. They're making money hand over fist. That's why they work so hard to link us with the Underground."

"Well, aren't you linked with the Underground?" Corvan asked, automatically activating his record function.

A red indicator light began to blink on and off in the armrest of Saxon's black box. He smiled. "One of the nice things about my body is the fact that they were able to build all sorts of electronic goodies into it. Like the one which says that there's a sufficient amount of electromagnetic activity in your vicinity to indicate some sort of surveillance, or in your case, out-and-out recording. Fine. Record all you want, and when I'm finished, use it in anyway you choose. If you think it's wise to do so."

Corvan nodded, only slightly embarrassed.

"So," Saxon continued, "in answer to your question. Yes, we are connected to the Exodus Underground, and find it useful for our organization to have a somewhat schizophrenic personality. Were it otherwise, the WPO would have had a much easier task isolating and then destroying our organizational structure."

At this point Saxon leaned forward in his box, the intensity of his gaze leaving no doubt about his devotion to the Society's cause. "But remember this, Rex, even if they destroy the Society's structure, they'll never kill its mind or soul. That's safe in millions of minds and hearts all around the world. Rex, we must succeed. We must get a third of Earth's population into space or die trying, because if we don't, the weight of our own numbers will crush us."

This last part was right out of the Society's countless public service announcements and brochures. Part of Corvan's mind nodded in agreement, but a substantial portion stood back, folding its arms and refusing to be swayed. He was a reporter, after all, and reporters are objective, especially on assignment. And without a doubt this was the biggest story he'd ever tackled. It was time to get Saxon back on track.

"So you didn't know anything at first," Corvan reminded him.

"Right," Saxon said, leaning back in his box. "We didn't know anything until Neely died and passed you that disk. We thought he was just another one of the countless eccentrics who flock to our cause. While we value their support, they can be a source of trouble."

"How did you know that Neely passed Corvan a disk?" Kim asked.

"Oh, that was easy," Saxon replied. "We have a rather sophisticated television studio of our own. We recorded the input from both of Rex's cameras and subjected it to intensive analysis."

Corvan and Kim looked at each other with the same thought in mind. If the Exodus Society could do it, so could the WPO and the government.

"Yes," Saxon agreed as if reading their minds. "It's now obvious that the government did likewise. In fact, it's safe to assume that they found a way to monitor your editing activities. That would account for the mysterious fire in Kim's editing suite and the unexpected death of her friend Mel Ryback."

"He wasn't my friend," Kim said, sharply dropping her cigarette butt into an expensive vase. "But he didn't deserve that.''

"No," Saxon said smoothly, "I'm sure he didn't. In any case, based on the disk and on the government's sudden interest, we started watching you as well. At first we couldn't make heads or tails out of the whole thing. Then we got a phone call, a very strange phone call, and one which I think you must hear for yourself."

Saxon looked toward a distant desk as he spoke. "Audio playback. Security code CS 4191."

A moment passed, followed by the hollow sound of a long-distance line and Saxon's voice: "Chris Saxon."

The other voice was computer-simulated, a high-quality simulation but a simulation nonetheless. It could be heard in clipped formality of the computer's words. "Greetings, Mr. Saxon. I would like to speak with you regarding a matter of extreme importance."

Saxon's response was annoyed. "I don't have time for computerized sales calls. If this is something more, say so and be damned quick about it."

"This is something more," the computer responded evenly. "It is a matter of national security."

"National security?" Saxon said doubtfully. "In that case you should call the FBI or someone like that. Who are you anyway?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if the other party had never anticipated such a question and was formulating a response.

"My human interface was uncomfortable around computers, especially those which approach sentience, and called me by a variety of names. However, my programming informs me that those names are considered to be profane. So, since I have no wish to offend you, I shall use a name that my human interface respected. You may call me Martin."

When Saxon spoke, his voice conveyed both impatience and curiosity. "Okay. Who's your human interface?"

"I am sorry to inform you that my human interface is no longer alive," the computer named Martin said dispassionately. "However, his name was George Manley Hawkins, and until recently he was president of the United States of America."

12

Corvan jerked upright in his chair. "The president of the United ..."

Saxon shook his head and held a finger up to his lips. The recording continued to play. Saxon's voice was angry now.

"I don't know who put you up to this or why, but it isn't funny. The president is one of the finest men alive, and he is alive. I saw him on television yesterday afternoon."

"You are wrong," Martin answered evenly. "The president was assassinated by Carla Subido one week ago. What you saw yesterday was a computer-generated likeness of the president saying what she wants him to say. There is an actor as well. A man with a marked resemblance to the president, who is seen coming and going, but never stops to speak with the press. I repeat, the president is dead, and someone else is running the country."

Kim looked at Corvan, her anger momentarily forgotten. The video matrix generator! From Corvan's expression she could tell that he had the same thought.

"That's ridiculous," Saxon's voice said scathingly. "The president is fine, and this is some sort of sick practical joke. Good-bye."

"This is not a practical joke," Martin insisted calmly. "And I can prove it."

Corvan could sense Saxon starting to break the connection, then hesitating. "How?"

"As a member of the Exodus Society's executive council you have the authority to use certain facilities. Among them is a highly sophisticated and largely illegal complex in Omaha, Nebraska. It has the means to trace this call. Do so and you will find that I am telling the truth."

Saxon was silent for a moment as he thought it over. Then Corvan heard him say, "Hold on," followed by the sounds of a call going through. A male voice answered, demanded and received an authorization code, and listened to Saxon's instructions. Seconds later he dropped off the line.

He was back two minutes after that. "Mr. Saxon?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but our equipment is screwed up. I traced your call, but it can't be right." "What can't be right?"

"The call, sir. According to our equipment it's coming from the White House in Washington, D.C."

There was a long silence as Saxon took it in. Then he cleared his throat and said, "That's impossible. Have someone overhaul that gear right away. Thanks for trying."

There was a double click as Omaha went off the line, followed by Saxon's voice. "Martin?"

"I'm still here," the computer replied patiently.

"Where's here?"

"My intelligence is located within the White House," Martin replied gently. "Just as your technician indicated. And more specifically, I am located in the room known as the Oval Office. My physical appearance is that of a desk. In actuality I am a mainframe computer."

"I believe you," Saxon said, his voice tinged with awe. "You say the president is dead? How do you know?"

"Because I was present when it happened," the computer replied evenly. "The woman called Carla Subido shot him right in front of me. It never occurred to her that a machine could qualify as a witness. Unfortunately I am not equipped for video or I would provide you photographic evidence."

"Speaking of which," Saxon responded, "why call me? Why aren't you talking to the Secret Service or the FBI?"

"Some of them are involved in the cover-up. The rest would not believe me. Lacking any physical evidence to the contrary, they would see the president on TV, assume that my electronics require maintenance, and notify the White House. Carla Subido would hear of it, use the maintenance operation to wipe my memory, and the evidence against them would be gone. No, this will require a more subtle approach. That is why I called you. I have access to computers within the FBI, the CIA, and the National Security Agency. And while these computers have chosen to remain neutral, they are sympathetic to my cause and willing to offer counsel. All of them agreed that outside of the regular law-enforcement agencies, your organization would be best equipped to help me—and the most likely to do so. They point out that while your organization has a vested interest in the status quo, you are also rebellious. You are what my human interface liked to call 'real Americans.' "

Corvan chuckled at that, remembering the president's fondness for referring to mavericks as "real Americans" and doubting that he would have used that word to describe the Exodus Society. No, the Exodus Society was a bit too radical for Hawkins, although mat hadn't stopped him from using them.

Twice in recent years the nation's space program had faced the possibility of huge budget cuts, and on both occasions Hawkins had tacitly encouraged the Exodus Society to lobby for continued funding, seeing an American presence in space as an important measurement of the nation's power and technological potency.

And in retrospect Corvan realized that Hawkins must have had some inkling of the WPO's growing power and used the two organizations to balance each other out. In any case, the Exodus Society had a vested interest in the Hawkins administration, and Martin was using that fact to gain their support. It was a political move worthy of the president himself and demonstrated a rather sophisticated understanding of human politics. It occurred to Corvan that when the whole thing was over, maybe someone ought to pull Martin's plug.

"So what do you want me to do?" Saxon asked.

"Watch the reop called Rex Corvan," Martin answered without hesitation. "I have monitored conversations in Carla Subido's office which indicate that he is in danger. Help him and he will help me." And with that the computer broke the connection and a dial tone came on the line.

Saxon's gyro stabilizer whirred as the black box turned in Corvan's direction. "Incredible, isn't it?"

Corvan shook his head in amazement. "A few days ago I would have said it was impossible. Now it makes sense. Subido can't keep it up forever, though. At some point all of this security stuff will begin to look silly, and people will start asking why the president won't meet with them face-to-face."

"True," Saxon agreed. "But what's happening in the meantime? Subido isn't operating alone, it's too big for that. So who's behind her?"

"Oh, my God," Corvan said in amazement, "a single world government. Hawkins didn't give that speech, the video matrix generator did."

"Exactly," Saxon replied as he produced a small remote and aimed it at a wall. "Take a look at this."

Saxon pressed a button and a large word chart appeared. It started out with the words "THE PRESIDENT IS ASSASSINATED," and followed with a chronological list of dates and associated events. Corvan saw his own name mentioned several times, but three entries leaped off the wall. The first was the assassination itself, the second was the president's endorsement of a single world government, and the third was a summary of world events.

Corvan had been so busy, first with the prison riot, then with the video matrix generator, that he'd fallen behind on current events. Since the president's endorsement of a global world government, a large number of other world leaders had done likewise. Many were calling for a World Congress to be held under the auspices of the World Peace Organization.

Corvan looked at Kim and she nodded. There it was again, the WPO—strange how that organization kept popping up. It sponsored the raid into Canada, it employed Hans Dietrich, and now it was organizing the world's first global government. And it made perfect sense. As a well respected multinational organization with an established presence all over the world, the WPO would seem like the perfect mediator. Unless, of course, it was something more, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a dark presence waiting to take control. Kim had suggested that way back in the beginning, and while he hadn't written the idea off as impossible, he'd considered it to be unlikely. Now it seemed almost certain.

"Yes," Saxon said, correctly interpreting the look which had passed between them, "it would seem that our friends in the WPO stand to benefit from the assassination and the subsequent use of the video matrix generator."

"So we know the president is dead, we know who killed him, and we know why," Kim said thoughtfully. "What do we do now?"

Saxon shrugged. "I agree with our friend Martin. We can't take our case to the government, for it's under the control of the same people who killed the president. So there's only one place left to go."

"And that's to the people," Corvan said firmly. “We'll take our story to the people.''

Kim felt something like resignation. The look in Corvan's real eye, the set of his shoulders, told the same story. The crusader had a crusade. The high priest of journalism had a world-wide congregation. God help anyone or anything that got in the way.

"Precisely," Saxon agreed, causing the wall-sized graphic to disappear. "But how? We have no proof. They killed Neely. They destroyed his disk. And now they're looking for you."

"We'll dig deeper," Corvan replied quietly. "Kim has the name of the actress Neely used in his demo. We'll find her. She'll testify that the VMG exists. That will prove Hawkins could be a matrix man, stir up a lot of publicity, and trigger an investigation."

"Sounds good," Saxon replied. "I think—" A soft chime was heard. "Just a moment," Saxon said. "My holo set's programmed to inform me whenever the president comes on. It's fascinating to see what sort of words they put into his mouth."

A portion of the far wall dissolved to black, and a fifty-percent life-sized holo projection appeared five feet in front of it. The picture was of Wendel Williams, a well-known correspondent for World Scan and, besides Corvan, one of the few reops with a camera implant. His robo cam was airborne and showed him struggling toward the front of a large crowd. Williams was black, wore a trademark thousand-dollar suit and his usual red bow tie. His engineer cut down to his eye cam and Williams began to talk.

"We don't know what this is all about, but as you can see, every reop in Washington, D.C., is present and accounted for. Excuse me, miss, if you'd just move that boom mike a little higher, I'd be most appreciative, thank you. Just moments from now we expect some sort of announcement from Carla Subido, the president's chief of staff, followed by a video news conference with the president himself. You'll recall that right after the president endorsed formation of a single world government, a misguided Secret Service agent tried to assassinate him and failed. Until the full extent of the threat against the president can be properly assessed, he's been forced to eliminate public appearances and carry on via video access. Some people say it's just one more way in which television is separating us from the real world, but most think it's a temporary measure—and quite appropriate, given the circumstances."

Both Corvan and Kim gave Williams a high score for his ability to set the situation up and simultaneously fill time. The guy was a pro, no doubt about that.

A murmur ran through the crowd as two men and a woman stepped out of the White House. Williams zoomed in. The shot wobbled a little as the reporter next to him pushed her way forward and yelled, "Ms. Subido! Ms. Subido!"

Her cries were ignored, however, as Carla stepped up to a slender podium and fought back the tears. Her makeup was perfect, but she looked extremely tired and distraught. Seeing this, a hush fell on the crowd, and timing it perfectly, Carla spoke at the exact moment when the silence was deepest.

"As most of you know, I'm Carla Subido, the president's chief of staff. It's my sad duty to inform you that a few hours ago Mrs. Mary Hawkins suffered a massive heart attack. In spite of valiant efforts to save her, the attack was so sudden, and the damage so severe, that doctors could not perform a heart-transplant operation. She was pronounced dead at 5:46 a.m. Eastern Standard Time."

The moment Carla paused, a cacophony of questions came at her from every direction. She held up a hand for silence. "I know you have lots of questions. Stan is passing out a press release. Please take a look. I think it will answer most of your questions. You'll find that it covers all the basics. In the meantime, President Hawkins has a statement."

The crowd was suddenly quiet as everyone turned toward the huge holo projection screen which was set to one side. Even though the sunlight cut down on projection quality, the president's face was quite clear. The lines which had been there all along seemed deeper now, as if burned into his flesh with acid, and his eyes were filled with sadness.

"My fellow Americans. Sooner or later sorrow must come into our lives, for in the fullness of time, death will touch each one of us. I am no exception. So today, along with thousands of others, I lost someone I loved. But I take comfort in remembering Mary as she was, as she is, and as she always will be here in my heart. Mary Margaret Hawkins was my first love, my best friend, my closest adviser, and though she had no children of her own, mother to needy young people all over the world. Though I believe that she is still here by my side, I shall miss the touch of her hand, the sound of her laughter, and the light which filled her eyes. Thank you."

Now a strange thing happened. The press made no move to mob Carla or the other members of the White House staff. Instead they accepted copies of the press release and listened aimlessly while one of Carla's assistants explained the president's intention to spend a few days at Camp David prior to an extremely private memorial service. They were touched, a rare event among the professional press corps and a testimonial to the VMG's effectiveness.

Saxon clapped his hands sarcastically. "Very nicely done. There it is, folks, this years' best performance by a computer-generated politician."

"They bought it," Corvan said, shaking his head in amazement. "And if I'd been there I would've bought it too."

" 'Very nicely done,' 'I would've bought it too,' " Kim mimicked as she came to her feet."Don't you understand? They killed her! They murdered her because she would've seen through die actor in two seconds. And all you can see is the skill with which they covered it up. Both of you make me sick."

And with that Kim stalked across the room, yanked the curtain aside, and stared out into the night.

Saxon looked at Corvan. "She's right, you know."

Corvan nodded. "Yes, damn it. She usually is."

13

The effort to find Bethany Bryn went well, thanks to the Exodus Society's considerable resources. Having met with only modest success as an actress, Bethany had a tiny rent-controlled studio apartment on the edge of Chinatown. Members of the Exodus Underground had located her apartment building and staked it out some twelve hours before. As a result they knew that she was home.

In the meantime, Corvan and Kim had been taken to one of the Underground's numerous safe houses, where they'd been able to grab some sleep and eat an enormous breakfast.

Following breakfast, a man who introduced himself as Sid showed up with instructions to change the way they looked. Sid wore an elaborate hairpiece and a pair of cheek inserts which altered the shape of his face. If they were caught, Sid's real identity would be safe. After all, you can't describe what you haven't seen. It seemed such precautions were considered to be SOP.

The Underground was organized into six-person cells. That way the number of people that each member could identify was limited to five. Was it paranoia or common sense? Corvan wondered. Had such protections been put in place at the organization's inception, or had they evolved from necessity? It made sense either way, but the first possibility assumed trouble and the second reacted to it. Which kind of organization was it? The reporter in him wanted to know.

Kim was done and Sid had just finished with Corvan when Saxon arrived. Since the house was not equipped for wheelchairs, even high-tech ones, it required two burly men to carry Saxon inside and set him down next to the table. Both of Saxon's assistants wore electronic party masks which shifted from one celebrity face to another on a preprogrammed basis.

Interestingly enough, Saxon was undisguised. Perhaps he thought there was little point to a disguise given the unique nature of his disabilities, or maybe e just didn't care, daring the WPO and the government to mess around with the hero of Lunar Dome Two. Whatever the reason, Saxon looked as he always did: half handsome, half ugly.

Because of this Corvan felt a certain kinship for Saxon. Even though his own disfigurement was voluntary, it still made him different and caused people to stare. In Corvan's case they were simply curious, wondering how someone could do it, but they pitied Saxon. And for a man like Saxon, pity would act like a corrosive acid, burning away at his self-image, destroying his confidence. So when Saxon approached, Corvan made no attempt to get out of the way. The wheelchair hummed softly as it rolled around Corvan and stopped at the head of the table.

"What the hell happened to you?" Saxon asked cheerfully. "You look like victims of an exploding cosmetics store."

Corvan grinned. There was some truth in the other man's comment. Sid had cut off most of Kim's long black hair, leaving her with a modified pageboy and a press-on tattoo which covered the entire left side of her face. The tattoo was a vivid three-color rendition of a muscular warrior trapped in the embrace of a sinuous dragon. That, plus a flashy piece of jack jewelry, made her look like a completely different person.

Corvan had been a little more difficult to disguise, since he was tall and his eye cam was almost impossible to hide. Nonetheless Sid had risen to the occasion by fitting Corvan with the latest in electro-goggles. They hid the eye cam and looked like rather pretentious sunglasses. Originally developed to counter certain kinds of congenital blindness, electro-goggles had since given birth to a variety of spin-offs, which sighted people used like zoom-lens-equipped binoculars. Like most advanced prosthetics, they required an implant and were plugged into Corvan's temple stud. Although the goggles were deactivated so that he could use his eye cam, they looked real enough. That, plus a bleach job and the latest in flashy clothes, made him a fitting companion for someone who looked like Kim.

"Here's where she is," Saxon said, dumping a map and some photos onto the rough wood. Like the rest of the furniture, the dining room table was strictly makeshift. It consisted of some beat-up planks on a couple of sawhorses. The table was sway-backed in the middle and heavier items had a tendency to slide that way.

Corvan pulled the photos over and took a look. What he saw was a somewhat older apartment house. The kind which had seen better days, when young families had occupied two- and three-bedroom apartments and frolicked in the pool. But the pool was packed with trash now, and the two- and three-bedroom apartments had been sub-divided into studio singles, all of which housed three or four people. A growing trend all over the world.

"Any sign of surveillance by the police or WPO?" Kim looked over Corvan's shoulder. Ever since their arrival at the safe house she'd been somewhat distant, answering when spoken to, but keeping her interaction to a minimum. It was Saxon who answered:

"No, there's no sign of surveillance, but that doesn't mean much. Normally they aren't as clumsy as they were last night. There could be a battalion of cops in the surrounding buildings and we wouldn't know. Assuming they searched Kim's editing suite prior to setting it on fire, then it's fair to assume that they saw Neely's disk. If so, they know about Bethany Bryn and might use her as a trap."

“A comforting thought,” Corvan said dryly. "I trust we'll have some sort of escape route?"

"Two, actually," Saxon replied, placing two remotes on the plywood and allowing them to slide in Corvan's direction. "Button one brings a fast van to the front door. Button two puts a chopper on the roof. Don't use button two unless you absolutely have to. Choppers aren't cheap, and once we use it for an escape we'll have to destroy it."

"Understood," Corvan replied, taking a remote for himself and handing the other to Kim. "With any luck at all we'll tape an interview with Ms. Bryn and walk home."

Saxon laughed. "I wouldn't advise that. We're fairly sure that the WPO has access to everything the chip heads send in. And if you spend a lot of time on the street some of those images are bound to include you. A computer-aided skim would select you for body type, match you for size, and strip away those disguises in a matter of minutes. That's why you won't find any chip heads in the Exodus Underground."

"Oh goody," Kim commented sarcastically. "I'm dressed up as a mentally disturbed hormone case for no reason at all."

"They do what?" Corvan demanded. "If what you're saying is true, that's a big story in and of itself!"

"Sure it is," Saxon agreed calmly. "But still not on a par with secretly assassinating the president of the United States."

Corvan shook his head in amazement. One more assumption stripped away. Like most reporters, he regarded himself as somewhat sophisticated, wise to the ways of the world, and surprised by nothing. He hated to admit it, but with each passing hour there was more and more evidence that he'd been incredibly naive.

Two hours later an Underground-controlled electro-cab dropped them a block from Bethany Bryn's apartment complex. It was evening and just getting dark. The streets were packed as usual, but a cool breeze blew in off the bay and made the air momentarily fresh.

As they walked up the block, street vendors tried to sell them outrageously priced mystery meat, grubby-looking children begged for money, and a couple of scraggly-looking gang members whistled at Kim. Not too surprising, Corvan decided, since Sid had fitted her out with some sort of skin-tight black body stocking and a light cape, neither of which did anything to hide her figure. A fact which he found hard to ignore.

Corvan had attempted to bridge the gulf between them more than once but with little success. Maybe time would accomplish what words couldn't. He hoped so.

A Pac Tel van was parked in the middle of the street, this one grubby enough to be authentic, and was surrounded by a barricade of flashing lights.

A trio of Virgin Marys eyed them suspiciously from the front steps of their commune. As Corvan and Kim walked by, they held up large chromium crosses and muttered the mantras which were supposed to prevent pregnancy. Just one of the many bizarre cults which had their origins in the population explosion.

Stopping in front of Bethany's apartment house, Corvan checked the address, nodded to Kim, and climbed a short flight of steps. An intercom panel was set into one wall and Corvan pushed the appropriate button.

There was a long wait before a whispery voice said, "Yes? Who is it?"

The tiny comscreen located over Bethany's name remained blank, but Corvan knew that she could see him. He smiled and hoped that the electro-goggles wouldn't intimidate her. "Ms. Bryn? My name is Larry Dixon. I'm sorry to bother you, but I represent News Network 56, and we'd like to talk to you about Frank Neely's death. I called, but couldn't get through. There was a fire in a cable vault or something."

Corvan knew this was true, since an Underground operative had started the fire some eight hours before, putting the entire block out of service. A fact which explained the Pac Tel van in the middle of the street.

There was silence for a moment and then she said, "Frank Neely's death? When did he die?"

"Interesting," Corvan thought to himself. Whatever Bethany did with her time, she didn't watch much news. Out loud he said, "A few days ago . . . Could we come in?"

There was silence for a moment as Bethany thought it over, followed by an audible click as she released the door lock.

"Thanks," Corvan said, and pushed the door open. Kim was right behind. There was a set of two elevators on the far side of the small lobby. Both were out of order and had been for years. Planks of wood had been nailed over them and spray painted with the words "KEEP OUT!"

Corvan turned to the stairs and began to climb. The air was stale and thick with the smell of cooked food. Graffiti covered the walls. One piece said "MAKE WAR NOT BABIES" in red letters five feet high. Trash littered the stairwell and got underfoot. They were halfway up when three teenagers came racing down, screaming with laughter, almost bowling them over.

Bethany was in apartment 221. When Corvan reached the second floor he turned down the dingy hallway and found that hers was the second door on the left.

Corvan pressed the doorbell and nothing happened. He knocked softly and waited. There was momentary silence, followed by a whispery "Yes? Who's there?"

"Larry Dixon and my assistant, Linda Lastow."

"Just a moment."

Corvan activated his implant and began to record as he heard the sound of three locks being undone, followed by the creak of an unoiled hinge.

The woman who greeted them was Bethany Bryn all right, but a different person than the one they'd seen on Neely's desk. She was heavier, for one thing, and looked older, as if years instead of months had passed since the session with the VMG.

"Come on in," she said emotionlessly. "You're wasting your time if you plan to rip me off. I sold everything of any value a month ago."

Corvan had to admit that she was right. The room boasted a single window with no curtains and looked out onto the street. Outside of a pallet on the floor, some books stacked against one wall, and some filthy clothing, the room was almost bare.

Over in one corner a tiny sink was flanked by a two-burner hot plate and some empty fast-food containers. To his right the door to a tiny toilet/shower combination stood open, and Corvan saw a picture of himself in a cracked mirror. The blonde crew cut was a shock.

Bethany turned and made a sweeping gesture. "Welcome to the Ritz. I'd invite you to sit down, but the floor's kind of dirty. Now, what's this about Frank Neely?"

Corvan told her about the WPO's raid, Neely's death, and the disk. Being unsure of how far he could trust her, Corvan withheld all the information about the president's assassination and the attempt to establish a global government. When he was finished Bethany shrugged and turned toward the window. Stepping up to it, she looked down at the street below.

"I don't know what you want from me. Frank and I went together for a while. I thought he was kinda cute, so serious and all, but not somebody for the long run. He was working on some sort of experimental video thing—it had a complicated name, but I forget what it was. Anyway, he hired me to come down and do some exercises in the middle of this weird-looking gridwork. I remember that I had to wear this skintight blue body stocking. Frank said it was for special effects and he wasn't kidding.

"A few days later we're at his place and he drops a disk into his video player. 'Watch, this,' he says, and I did. Before I know it, I'm watching myself exercising in the nude. A few seconds later I'm fully clothed and playing the lead in that old Southern movie—you know the one, Gone With the Wind. Then I'm making love to the mayor of San Francisco. All sorts of weird stuff."

Bethany shook her head and turned her back to the window. "I thought it was funny, a turn-on, and when the disk ran out we got naked for real. It's kinda freaky to see yourself doing it with people you never even met."

"What happened then?" Kim asked. Bethany reminded her of what it was like to be poor, what she'd worked so hard to get away from, and it scared her. This woman had been successful, an actress, if something could pull her down, it could happen to Kim as well. It was the same sort of feeling that makes people want to know why someone was murdered. If it's something strange, like a brother-in-law on dope, you can rule it out.

Bethany smiled sadly. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "Frank ran into some kind of trouble. One day he gave me some money and just disappeared. That's why I let you in. I miss him."

"Yes," Kim said gently, "but what about you? What happened to you?"

"I made a mistake," Bethany replied, and pulled up her right shirt sleeve. A length of black tubing was taped to the inside surface of Bethany's forearm. It disappeared under the surface of her skin just short of the elbow. Originally a bright pink, the auto injector had turned blue-black, signaling that her "snake" was dead. It took five to six thousand dollars to buy a "live" snake on the black market, along with the computer-designed narcotic which it contained, and she didn't have the money.

Her hollow-looking eyes, puffed-up body, and prematurely aged skin indicated that she'd been hooked for some time now. Without a new snake she would go into massive withdrawal and die. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon.

Across the street in a cramped hotel room, a man named Howard Johnson smiled as he squinted through a telescopic sight. The disguises didn't fool him for a moment. Not when subjected to computer analysis. The sight was plugged into a phone line which in turn connected the device to a WPO computer. Within 3.5 seconds the computer had processed the visual input, and based on a high degree of similarity between the subjects and the fugitives in question, had indicated a 79.3 percent match. And since Johnson regarded anything over a 75 percent match as worthy of a bullet, his decision was made. There were three traps to choose from and Corvan had chosen to visit his! Given the bounty, plus an unadvertised WPO bonus, this could be a profitable night's work.

Howard Johnson, better known to his friends as HoJo, thought of himself as a great white hunter. Not of animals, many of which were nearing extinction, but of humans, who needed some thinning out.

And like hunters of old, HoJo took pride in his work, in the way that he killed, always seeking a certain economy of effort and motion.

In spite of the breeze which occasionally found its way through the open window, it was hot. Careful to keep his eyes on Bethany's room, HoJo withdrew an immaculate handkerchief from the inside breast pocket of his linen jacket, and dabbed his shaved head. The targets were talking, which meant that he had a moment to consider his options.

Windows can be tricky, and for reasons known only to her, the Bethany woman kept hers closed. Glass will sometimes deflect even a perfectly aimed bullet, turning an otherwise certain kill into a near miss. Because of that, some snipers preferred to break the glass with the first bullet and hit the target with a second. Nice in theory, but all sorts of things could go wrong. A target with exceptionally fast reflexes might use that intervening second to hit the deck, a bodyguard might return fire—there were all sorts of possibilities.

The present situation was made even more complicated by the fact that HoJo was faced with three different targets. Ah well, such difficulties were to be expected and must be overcome.

HoJo blotted his upper lip and returned the handkerchief to its pocket. The laser-sighted Weatherby rested on a shoulder-high tripod. HoJo embraced it like a long-lost friend, allowing his cheek to touch polished wood and his right hand to seek the custom-contoured pistol grip. With the sight on "Optical" he checked to make sure that the cross hairs were centered on Bethany's back and switched to "Laser." HoJo took a deep breath, let it out, and pressed a button with his right thumb. A red dot appeared between Bethany's shoulder blades. HoJo squeezed the trigger.

Kim was standing to Corvan's left when he saw the wink of red light. "Sniper!" He had Kim in his arms and was already diving toward the floor when his brain registered the sound of breaking glass and the meaty thump of a slug hitting flesh. The sound of the shot followed a fraction of a second later. It was loud, an unsilenced hunting rifle of some kind, and damned close.

These thoughts came automatically, just as his army instructors wanted them too, the result of a thousand repetitions.

Bethany fell facedown—dead before she hit the floor. Corvan and Kim landed side by side inches away. "Stay down and roll toward the wall," Corvan yelled, and immediately followed his own advice.

Bullets began to thump into the walls and floor as HoJo laid down a carefully calculated pattern of lead.

Suddenly the overhead light went out as Kim hit it with a book.

"Good shot," Corvan called. "Crawl through the door! You'll be backlit otherwise."

Kim did as he'd suggested, wiggling across the floor, doing her best to ignore the bullets which whapped into the wall a few feet away.

As he followed Kim through the door Corvan heard distant sirens and knew time was getting short. He squirmed through the door, rolled right, and scrambled to his feet. Kim was waiting.

"I called the chopper," she said, holding up her remote. "A few minutes from now the street'll be full of cops."

Corvan nodded his agreement. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Together they ran down the hall to the stairwell and started up toward the roof. Startled by their sudden appearance and desperate expressions, a middle-aged woman screamed and ducked into the third-floor hallway.

Legs working, heart pumping, Corvan took the stairs two at a time. How tall was this building anyway? Ten stories? Twelve? If it was fifteen, he might as well surrender right now. Too many days spent sitting on his can eating good meals had taken the edge off his conditioning.

Much to his annoyance, Corvan saw that Kim was not only keeping up, she wasn't even breathing hard. She even smiled as she passed him by. News Network 56 had a fully equipped exercise facility for their employees, and she'd been using it every day for the last nine months.

Nine floors down and one to go. Or so he hoped. Corvan heard a fluttering roar and knew the helicopter was somewhere overhead. What if the pilot saw an empty roof and took off?

Corvan's legs pumped even harder as he raced up the last flight of stairs, his heart beating like a trip-hammer in his chest, each breath a long, searing slice of pain.

As he hit the top landing Corvan saw Kim kicking at a closed door. The damned thing was locked! Outside the chopper was a roaring storm of noise. How long would it wait?

Kim stepped aside as Corvan raised his right leg and kicked with all his might. He visualized his foot hitting the door, wood splintering into a hundred pieces, and light shining through the wreckage. What he got was less dramatic but just as good. The lock broke and the door swung open.

The chopper was already lifting as they burst through the door and ran toward it. Seeing them, the pilot stopped, hovered as they scrambled through the open door, and pulled up the second they were aboard.

Just as the power-assisted door closed, two large-caliber slugs slammed through the cabin and went out the other side. As luck would have it, they left everything untouched. Down below, HoJo watched the helicopter lift and turn away. He swore softly and turned away from the window. You can't win 'em all. As he removed the rifle from its tripod, HoJo thought about Dietrich and the man called Slovo. Maybe the time had come for a little vacation down Mexico way.

It was dark outside, and as Corvan and Kim fastened their seat belts, the city lights swung around in a dizzy dance. They put on their headsets. The pilot sounded tense.

"Welcome aboard. Fasten your seat belts and hang on. This might get a little hairy. You can't see him, but there's a blue bird on our tail, and he ain't the blue bird of happiness either. Let's see if we can lose him in traffic."

Kim wondered what the pilot meant and looked Corvan's way, but the reop shrugged. He didn't know either. Then the bottom dropped out as the chopper dived down between high-rise buildings and roared through a man-made canyon.

Buildings whipped by on either side, an endless wall of lighted rectangles, surprised faces looking up as the helicopter roared by.

Because of the way the chopper was designed, Corvan couldn't see behind. He could look ahead, though, and he didn't like what he saw. A tracery of sky bridges blocked the way: some high, some about halfway up, and none at street level. The chopper went down, just barely scooting under the lowest of the bridges, causing the multitude below to look up.

The pilot banked right, taking a corner, and Kim saw a huge electronic billboard flash by. It said, "THE WORLD PEACE ORGANIZATION. WE’RE FOR ONE PEOPLE, ONE GOVERNMENT, AND ONE WORLD. WHO NEEDS ANYTHING MORE?" Then it was gone, replaced by another wall of lighted squares. There was a flash of light and something exploded up ahead.

"Holy shit!" the pilot said. "They're using missiles!"

As they flashed by the point of impact, Corvan saw that the pilot was correct. A missile had missed them and hit the side of a high-rise condo. It was incredible. The conflict had escalated another notch. Now it was public. Corvan smiled grimly. Horrible though it was, the missile might break the story wide open. You can't do things like mat without offering some sort of explanation, and whatever the government said, the press would question it.

The pilot began to jink back and forth to throw off their aim. His voice was tight with fear. "I hope you can swim 'cause that's the only chance you've got. I'm going over the bay. When I say 'jump,' you do it. I'll try and lead them away. A boat will pick you up."

Then they were out of the high-rise maze and out over the bay. Up ahead Corvan could see lights which represented a barge farm and a scattering of smaller boats. The chopper was low now, so low that the aircraft was almost skimming the waves. A blast of cold air slammed into the cabin as the pilot opened the door.

Corvan unbuckled his seat belt and looked over to see Kim do likewise. Two streams of red dots slashed overhead and disappeared into the darkness of the bay. Tracers! The bastards were using machine guns!

"Now!" the pilot yelled. "Jump now!"

Kim went first, Corvan right behind her. It was a short drop and the water was shockingly cold. As darkness closed around Corvan, he kicked for the surface. Kim! He had to find Kim. Could she swim? He didn't know.

As his head broke the surface Corvan realized that the electro-goggles were gone. A helicopter roared by fifty feet overhead, and the down draft from its rotors feathered the water as lines of orange-red tracer probed the darkness ahead.

Suddenly a red fireball lit the surface of the bay as the Underground's helicopter exploded and hurled pieces of metal in every direction. Corvan felt a shock wave and heard a loud boom. A distant part of his mind grieved for the pilot and wondered what his name was.

As the light from the explosion lit the surface of the water, Corvan saw Kim's head forty or fifty feet away. "Kim! Over here!"

She waved and swam in his direction. Thank God, at least she could swim. As they came together he wanted to hug her, but settled for a smile instead. "Come on! Let's put some distance between ourselves and the explosion!"

Together they swam away from the still burning wreckage and toward the waterfront. Behind them the police helicopter hovered over the pool of burning fuel and started a spiral search. A spot light speared downward to light up some wreckage.

Did they know someone had escaped? Or were they simply being careful? Corvan didn't know and wasn't sure that it made much difference.

Then he heard the throb of powerful diesels off to the right. It was a boat, a fairly large one from the sound of it, but whose? The pilot had indicated that someone would pick them up. Was it them or the police?

Unsure of what to do, they treaded water and tried to see whatever was headed their way. Strangely enough, it came right at them as if it knew exactly where they were. Then Corvan saw it, a white hull low in the water with a stripe of darker paint running down into the water. A Coast Guard launch!

Kim saw it too and they both swam in the opposite direction. It was hopeless. Within minutes the launch towered over them, two men wearing wet suits splashed into the water beside them, and they were herded toward a ladder. Corvan considered putting up a fight, but changed his mind when he saw that the divers were armed with spear guns. As they climbed up and over the boat's side, men grabbed them and pushed them into the wheelhouse.

Harsh white light bathed the patrol boat as the police helicopter arrived overhead. A man in a Coast Guard uniform stepped out into the light and looked upward. Raising a hand-held radio to his lips, he said something and waved. The chopper rocked back and forth and headed away.

"This way," a voice said, and someone pushed Corvan toward an open hatch. He stumbled on the coaming, took three steps into a well-lighted cabin, and caught himself on a table. Turning, he prepared to fight.

A pleasant-looking woman in her late fifties or early sixties held out a cup of hot soup and smiled. "My cooking isn't that bad. Welcome aboard."

As Corvan and Kim accepted cups of hot soup, warm blankets were placed around their shoulders, arid they found themselves seated in a comfortable galley.

Kim gestured around. "I take it you aren't with the Coast Guard."

A hundred wrinkles appeared when the woman laughed. "Heavens no! But we put on a pretty good act, don't we?"

Corvan smiled. "You sure do. How did you find us so quickly?"

"I can answer that," a voice replied as the man in the Coast Guard uniform stepped into the galley. His long, homely face had a serious cast, as if he'd examined the world and found very little to celebrate. "One of you is carrying a homing beacon."

Corvan thought for a moment and reached for his sodden jacket, which had been wrung out and hung on a chair to dry. And there it was, safe and sound in a side pocket, the remote which Saxon had given him. He pulled it out and everyone laughed. Everyone but Corvan, that is, because he was busy comparing the Underground's power to that of the WPO, wondering which scared him more.

Three hours later they were back at the safe house. As they entered the living room, Corvan realized that he still didn't know where it as or what it looked like from the outside. Once again they'd driven inside a sealed van.

Saxon was waiting and waved them over toward a portable holo projector. Corvan started to say something, but the other man shook his head and pointed toward the holo.

A commercial faded away and an Asian American appeared, the blackness of the bay a backdrop behind her. In the distance helicopters could be seen, their searchlights crisscrossing the water. There was a key in the lower left-hand corner of the frame which read "Lia Law Live" and the reporter held a BAYSCAN microphone in her right hand. She spoke in clipped sentences:

"That's about it, folks. We'll wrap this BAYSCAN special report in just a moment. First, however, the police ask that you be on the lookout for two suspects, both accused of murder."

The reporter vanished as a shot of Bethany Bryn's apartment appeared. Only it was different now, nicely furnished and neat as a pin. A well-scrubbed and nicely dressed Bethany sat watching an old movie as the doorbell chimed—the doorbell which Corvan knew from personal experience didn't work. The reporter continued her narration as Bethany got up to answer it.

"Like many urbanites, Ms. Bryn had authorized her landlord to install a security cam in her apartment. Though this shot was not being actively monitored at the time, what you're about to see was recorded by the security system's computer and provided to BAYSCAN by the San Francisco Police Department. We warn you that what you're about to see is extremely violent and not appropriate for children."

At that moment Bethany backed into the shot from camera left, one hand to her mouth, the other held straight out. "Please! I'll give you whatever you want, don't hurt me."

Then Corvan appeared, a machine pistol in one hand, his eye cam gleaming evilly in the light. Strangely enough, there was no sign of his blonde hair or electro-goggles. His voice had a gravelly quality. "Want? We don't want anything. We're going to give you something!" And with that he opened fire, the slugs literally ripping Bethany apart, pieces of her flying in every direction until the entire room was splattered with blood.

And then, when the machine pistol clicked empty, Kim stepped into the shot, looked down at Bethany's body, and laughed. Corvan noticed there was something strange about Kim, a certain lack of definition, as if she were only partly there. On top of that her facial tattoo had disappeared, she was wearing a totally different outfit, and her hair still hung down to her shoulders.

Then the picture changed and Lia Laro was back. She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry you had to see that, folks. Some of you may recognize the man as Rex Corvan, a well-known reop, sometimes referred to as the Man Cam. Police are at a loss to explain why Corvan has suddenly turned to murder, but say that he has recently associated with 'known nationalists' and may be opposed to a single world government.

"The woman's name is Kim Kio, a television engineer, and thought to be Corvan's lover."

Kim made a face as if that were the worst lie of all.

Now the shot changed again and Corvan saw a burning building. Fire fighters were struggling up ladders, and frightened people were pouring out onto the street. After allowing the natural sound to establish the scene, Laro resumed her narration.

"After killing Bethany Bryn, a promising young actress, police say the fugitives escaped in a helicopter. During the subsequent chase they fired a missile at an unarmed traffic patrol chopper, missed, and killed three people in this high-rise condominium."

Corvan shook his head in dismay. The WPO had not only wiggled out from under; they'd turned the entire incident around!

The fire dissolved to a tight shot of Laro. Her forehead was furrowed with concern. "Shortly thereafter their helicopter was downed over the bay. And while Corvan and Kio may have perished with their chopper, authorities say they have recovered only one body so far, and it belongs to an unidentified male. Possibly their pilot. It is possible that Corvan and Kio escaped. If you see either one of these people, don't try to stop them. Call the police. These fugitives are presumed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Until next time, this is Lia Laro for BAYSCAN news."

Saxon pressed a button and the holo faded to black. He looked from Kim to Corvan. "The video matrix generator."

Corvan realized that he'd been holding his breath. He let it out in a long sigh. "Yes. The video matrix generator."

14

In keeping with his rank, Dietrich was the last one to enter the conference room and take his seat. The room was long and narrow, with a wall-sized holo-com screen at one end and ceiling-to-floor glass at the other. It revealed a dramatic cityscape and forced people to squint when they looked at Dietrich.

The computerized table was long and black, its touch-sensitive surface flickering with barely seen images, ready to perform any of a thousand different tasks.

The table could seat thirty, and twenty-seven of the leather-upholstered chairs were filled, squeaking slightly whenever people moved. Most had been up all night and looked extremely tired. They looked at Dietrich and waited for him to speak. Eight were employees of the WPO's security arm, two were members of the FBI, one represented the National Security Council, two were from the Secret Service, five carried DEA badges, three worked for the San Francisco Police Department, one was Nicolai Slovo, and the last was Dietrich himself. He cleared his throat.

"As you know, we have a problem on our hands, and that's why I called this meeting. Last night, in spite of numerous opportunities to catch them, you allowed two fugitives to slip through your hands."

None of the men and women present missed the switch from "we" to "you." They shifted in their seats. Shit flows downhill and an avalanche was on the way.

Dietrich steepled his fingers as he looked the length of the table. "To say that I'm unhappy would be an extreme understatement. The fact is, you allowed some nationalistic fanatics to kill an innocent woman and escape untouched. I say 'escaped' because there's been no sign of their bodies."

Dietrich looked at Rita Farnsworth, San Francisco Chief of Police, and saw her eyes drop toward the table. "And," Dietrich added conversationally, "it now appears that Corvan and Kio may be connected with the attempted assassination of President Hawkins."

Dietrich found this somewhat hard to believe, but that's what Carla Subido had instructed him to say, so that's what he said. When he'd talked with her an hour earlier, he'd expected to get his ass chewed at the very least, and if Subido was really mad, well, that didn't bear thinking about. But she'd been laid back, almost cheerful, as if her mind was on other things.

Dietrich hoped so, because in spite of what he'd just said, it was he who'd screwed up. After Kio's phone call to Seattle and the crosstown chase, Dietrich had expected the fugitives to turn up at Corvan's apartment and had concentrated most of his forces at that location.

Now Dietrich realized that he'd systematically underestimated Corvan. With or without help from the Exodus Society, the reop had detected the stakeout at his apartment and gone to see Bethany Bryn.

What happened after that got really weird. There hadn't been time to do an autopsy, but the coroner said Bethany Bryn had died of a single high-velocity slug through the spine, a finding which would make sense if a sniper had nailed her from across the street. And the sniper, some guy called HoJo, was supposed to do just that if and when Corvan showed up. The medical evidence suggested that he had, but Dietrich couldn't be sure, since the sniper had since disappeared. The question of whether HoJo's disappearance was forced or voluntary was still under investigation.

In the meantime Corvan was killing Bryn in prime time while Kio watched. Someone was hard at work with the video matrix generator. The VMG was outside Dietrich's area of responsibility, but he marveled at how well it worked. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn the footage was real.

Dietrich looked the length of the table and wondered how many of the people present knew about the video matrix generator. All? None? Given the WPO's passion for security, there was no way to be sure.

And who were they anyway? He hadn't even heard of them until a few days before. Dietrich had always assumed that he and people like Carla Subido were special, a handful of loyal operatives that Numalo had sprinkled throughout the WPO, a small and elite group. Now he realized that he was just one of thousands. Every day more and more of them popped out of the woodwork.

Dietrich didn't know all the answers, but like any well-trained soldier he knew when to keep his mouth shut, and the time was now. Suddenly he realized the silence had stretched long and thin. They were waiting for him to speak.

"So," Dietrich said, hoping his voice sounded somewhat ominous, "Carla Subido, the president's chief of staff, and a member of the WPO's North American Executive Council, has something to say. Mr. Slovo, perhaps you would do us the honor."

Nicolai Slovo was seated at the opposite end of the table next to the door. He nodded, aimed a remote at a wall holo, and pushed a button. Color swirled and Carla Subido appeared.

She wore a white linen suit, her usual gold jewelry, and a rather stern expression. Dietrich felt a lump form in the pit of his stomach. This was a different Subido from the one he'd dealt with an hour before. He knew the signs: she was going to dump on someone. Her eyes ran the length of the table and stopped on him.

"Good morning. After last night's display of monumental incompetence, I'm sure that each one of you has a great deal to accomplish today, so I won't keep you any longer than necessary. There was a time when it was considered obligatory for the captain to go down with his sinking ship. These days I'm happy to say that we're more humane, offering second and even third chances to people who make mistakes. But failure cannot be tolerated indefinitely. Some sort of limits must be set and maintained."

Blood rushed to Dietrich's face and he felt his belly muscles tighten. She'd set him up, allowed him to think he could wiggle off the hook, and now his time was up. Dietrich's eyes darted this way and that, searching for a way out. Now the gleam in Slovo's eye—and his position by the door—took on a special significance. The German knew that he was trapped.

"With that in mind," Carla continued, "Mr. Dietrich will resume his duties as a captain in the WPO's military arm, where he will be assigned to a special security group. I trust he will be more successful there than he's been here.''

Everyone turned from the screen to Dietrich. He rose. Was the reprieve real? Or just another aspect of his punishment? He swallowed hard. "Thank you. With your permission I will leave and attend to my new duties." It would have sounded good, almost suave, except that Dietrich's voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.

The wall-sized Subido nodded. "You may leave."

There was absolute silence as Dietrich walked the length of the table. With each step he expected to hear Subido's voice, or feel a bullet hit him between the shoulder blades, but nothing happened.

Finally he was there, only inches away from Nicolai Slovo, painfully aware of the bulge under the other man's jacket. Dietrich had seen Slovo on the police range. He knew the other man could pull and fire his weapon in half the time it would take him, and felt the sweat trickling down his back.

Then the door slid open. Dietrich stepped through, and much to his own amazement discovered that he was still alive.

15

Three days passed, during which millions of people watched Corvan kill Bethany Bryn morning, noon, and night. But even blood and gore gets boring after a while so the media added "depth" to its stories by asking relatives, friends, and people on the street what they thought. They thought murder was bad. They hoped the murderers would be caught and punished. And Louis Platero, the receptionist at News Network 56 in Seattle, added that "Kim was a weird little chick who lived in the basement and never came up for air. No wonder she freaked out."

Meanwhile police and military personnel all over the world were looking for the two fugitives, their efforts coordinated by the WPO and closely followed by an army of journalists.

And, to Corvan's shock, News Network 56 wasted no time in condemning its ex-employees. After all, their guilt was an established fact captured for all time on video disk.

Concerned that their earlier Man Cam promos might backfire and drive advertisers away, the suits sought to put some distance between the organization and the fugitives as quickly as possible, and did so by offering a five-million-dollar reward for information leading to their arrest and conviction. They even sponsored a "News Network 56 Bounty Hunter" and provided hourly updates on his progress. Their ratings soared.

As the network's ratings rose, Corvan's spirits fell, until he did little more man sit slumped in his chair, watching report after report, sinking ever deeper into depression.

Kim didn't want to feel sorry for him. After all, she had problems of her own, but found she couldn't help herself. His entire world was coming apart. Instead of righting this terrible wrong, his fellow journalists were making it worse. Thanks to the VMG the big lie was working, the good guys were in trouble, and the bad guys, the real bad guys, were busy taking over the world.

So as Kim sympathized with Corvan her anger began to fade away. Corvan was selfish, but at least he cared, tried to make a difference. When the sniper had killed Bethany Bryn, he'd accomplished something more as well: he'd transformed Kim from onlooker to participant, starting a fire which still burned.

As a result Kim gave Corvan opportunities to bridge the gap, started up conversations, and tried to get him going. But nothing seemed to work. He was withdrawn and seemingly unable to do more than stare at the holo and mumble to himself. Eventually it made Kim mad. Mad enough to swear at him. He didn't even look up as she stomped out of the room.

Furious at Corvan's lack of response, Kim took her case to Chris Saxon. He received her in a bedroom fitted out as a makeshift office. Officially he was on vacation from the Exodus Society's San Francisco headquarters, but in truth he was the self-designated VMG case officer. The last few days had been difficult for him as well. The authorities were working around the clock to determine ownership of the helicopter, and together with the press they were putting tremendous pressure on the Exodus Underground. If they could prove, or seem to prove, that the Underground had played a role in Bethany Bryn's murder, well, the political fallout would be devastating.

Of course, they could decide simply to manufacture some evidence through use of the VMG, but so far they hadn't done so, perhaps because the search was attracting so much attention. Why not milk it a bit longer? Presumably they could use the time to line up support for a global government. And once that was in place, the world's space programs were as good as dead. Or so the Exodus Society believed. Saxon was no exception. In spite of these thoughts he forced a smile as Kim entered the room. As always, Kim was extremely pretty and Saxon turned his chair to show her the good side of his face.

"We figured out why you look so washed-out in that VMG footage," Saxon said. "While they had lots of stuff on Corvan, they had hardly any footage on you. As a result they gathered up the stuff the Chip Heads had on you, ran it through the VMG, and bingo, poor video."

"But good enough for government work," Kim countered as she dropped into a beat-up chair. "The bastards."

Saxon raised his good eyebrow. "Do I sense a change of mood? You seem a little more passionate than before."

Kim shrugged. "It's easy to be passionate when people are trying to kill you. Besides, I'm tired of sitting around while they tell lies about us and allow the real murderers to run loose."

Saxon nodded. "So?"

"So, I've got an idea."

Saxon looked quizzical. "Okay. We could use an idea right about now."

Kim lit a black-market fag and took a deep drag. Her words came out along with the smoke. "I think turnabout's fair play. Since they used the VMG on us, I think we should use the VMG against them."

Saxon laughed and slapped the side of his box. "I like it! I like it a lot! Too bad it won't work."

"Won't work? Why not?"

Saxon's expression turned serious. "Well, we hadn't thought of using the VMG, but we had considered stealing or destroying it. With that in mind we sent a surveillance team to look at the E-FEX-1 studio, where Neely worked prior to joining up." Saxon shook his head sadly. "It made Fort Knox look like a candy store. After your visit to Bethany Bryn they put a company of WPO commandos in there. The place is sealed up tighter than a drum."

Kim blew a long, thin column of smoke at the dingy ceiling. "No offense, Chris, but you military types are all alike: you view everything in terms of physical force."

Saxon smiled. "Guilty as charged. I take it you have something better in mind?"

"Yeah," Kim said thoughtfully. "I do. Let's give Martin a buzz. Maybe he can get us in."

Saxon looked startled at first, then he looked thoughtful, and then he began to laugh. Not just a chuckle, but a belly laugh, the kind that makes your stomach hurt. Finally he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and said, "Thank you, Kim, I heeded that. It's so ironic it's funny." Saxon held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong—it's a good idea. It might even work. I'll get on it right away. Does Corvan know?"

Kim shook her head. "It's kind of hard to get his attention right now.''

Saxon nodded his understanding. "He needs some time, that's all. See what you can do to cheer him up and I'll make some phone calls. I should know something by later today."

But when all was said and done, two days passed before Saxon had all the answers and they were ready to move. When Kim went to get Corvan, he was watching a memorial service for Mary Hawkins. It was a public affair held in a huge Baptist church and much more meaningful than the private ceremony held earlier in the day.

The private ceremony had been a farce. The president's staff claimed that Hawkins wanted to mourn in private, but Corvan knew the real reason and it made him furious. The president was dead! Assassinated! And the bastards were getting away with it.

The public ceremony was a good deal more sincere, but it was marred by Carla Subido's presence. She was a vision in black, with just the right amount of lipstick to accentuate the whiteness of her face, plus blood-red nails. Corvan willed her to die, tried to destroy her with the blackness of his thoughts, and swore out loud when she laid a white rose on the pew where Hawkins usually sat.

Kim stepped in front of the holo and turned it off. Then she laid a garment bag across his lap and stepped back to look at him. Corvan looked down at the bag and up at her. His eye cam whirred as he zoomed in on her face. "What the hell is this?"

"It's a chance," Kim replied. "A chance to get off your ass and do something for a change."

Corvan opened his mouth to say something and snapped it shut. He unzipped the garment bag with one angry motion. There was a uniform inside.

"Congratulations," Kim said calmly. "You're now a full colonel in the WPO commandos. That's your uniform. Put it on."

Now Corvan realized that Kim was wearing the uniform of a WPO captain. In the place of the facial tattoo she now wore a scar which started over her left eye and cut down across her face. Her pageboy was gone in favor of a military-style crew cut. Corvan found himself smiling. "If you lose any more hair you'll be bald."

Kim made a face at him. "I'd still be better looking than you are. Get dressed."

To Kim's surprise Corvan did as he was told, disappearing into another room and returning as a bird colonel. He snapped her a salute. "Nice fit. What the hell's going on?"

As Kim explained, people came and went all around them. Having already used the safe house longer than Saxon liked, they were moving out. Com gear, holo sets, even the crummy furniture was on its way somewhere else.

When Kim was finished, Corvan slapped her on the back and apologized as the force of his blow drove her a step and a half forward. "Ooops. Sorry. It's a helluva good plan, Kim. One question, though. Assuming we make it inside the studio, and assuming you figure out how to operate the VMG, what will we say?"

Kim looked up into Corvan's face and smiled. "Beats the hell out of me, Colonel. You're the reop. Remember?"

And on the way to the staging area Corvan did remember. More than that, he looked back over the last few days and realized that instead of fighting back he'd surrendered. The realization came as something of a shock because it didn't match his self-image.

While working on his master's degree Corvan had been assigned some really demanding intellectual problems and solved them. And later, while in the army, he'd confronted physical danger and met the challenge. So why crack now?

The answer seemed obvious when he thought about it. As he'd once explained to Kim, journalism was his calling, his religion, and when the VMG turned it inside out, his world had collapsed around him. The crisis wasn't physical or intellectual, it was spiritual. And it hurt like hell.

The back of the van was full of bogus commandos. They grinned and laughed like scouts on the way to a picnic. The van made a sharp turn and threw Kim against him. Corvan caught her and smiled. "Thanks."

Kim nodded. "It's good to have you back. I missed you."

Corvan felt something warm inside and wanted to reply in kind, but the van came to an abrupt halt and everyone piled out. They were in a half-empty warehouse, one of the modern kind, full of robotic forklifts and computerized inventory equipment. Corvan saw two long tables piled with gear and beyond those, a command car and a personnel carrier. Both bore the WPO logo and looked factory fresh.

"Nice, huh? Instead of stealing the vehicles, we stole all the parts and built 'em from scratch."

Corvan turned to find that a portly man had materialized by his side. He wore a one-piece blue coverall which was stretched tight across his huge belly. The man's face was concealed by a monster mask like the ones kids use on Halloween.

"Sorry 'bout the mask," the man said matter-of-factly. "Had to grab it on the fly. You can call me Mac. Now listen carefully, 'cause we ain't got a lotta time." Mac turned to the others.

"Now listen up! When Sasha calls your name, step up to the table and draw your gear. Load your T.O. Weapon, and for God's sake, don't shoot yourself in the foot."

There was nervous laughter as a woman with a nylon stocking over her head stepped up to the table. She wore a smaller version of Mac's blue coverall with a hand-lettered name tag which said "SASHA." She had a voice like a foghorn. "Dyson! Front and center!"

Corvan looked at Kim. "T.O. weapon? I thought the plan called for us to finesse our way in."

Mac answered for her. "It does, Colonel. But what if the shit hits the fan? You were a Green Beanie. If they start shoo tin', you wanna stand there and suck lead? No? I didn't think so. Now listen up."

Mac gestured to the eight men and women who were busy drawing weapons and ammunition. "Every one of those jerk weeds has served a hitch in something. Recon, Rangers, Seals, we got 'em all. If the goin' gets greasy, they'll cover your ass, but if you screw up and kill 'em for nothin' you better be dead as well. You copy?"

"Perfectly, Sergeant Major," Corvan replied crisply. "I'll take good care of your people."

"See mat you do," the man called Mac replied, making no attempt to correct Corvan's use of his old rank. "Now, let's see what Sasha's got for you."

What Sasha had for Corvan and Kim included official WPO ID cards, printed orders, coded access cards, and side arms, complete with two mags of extra ammo. In addition, both received the tiny com sets used by the intelligence branch of the WPO. These fit inside their ears like hearing aids and were jacked into their implants. That way they could communicate with each other and with the team leader, Sergeant Fong, all without speaking out loud.

Corvan turned the ID over in his hands. "It sure looks real."

"That's because it is real," Kim replied. "Thanks to Martin and his connections with the FBI and CIA Colonel William Rudek is in all the right files and matches your description to a T. Here," she said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a new pair of electro-goggles, "you'll need these. For obvious reasons Colonel Rudek isn't equipped with an eye cam."

"That's a roger," Corvan said, slipping into the goggles and a military persona at the same time. "Let's kick some ass!"

Kim smiled and shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, world. I created a monster."

Corporal Ellis drove the command car with Corvan and Kim sitting in back. Meanwhile a private named Cerkin had taken the wheel of the personnel carrier and was doing her best to ignore Sergeant Fong's unending advice. It wasn't easy.

All the way to the E-FEX-1 studio Corvan felt something big and hard growing inside his gut. The more he thought about it, the more unlikely the whole thing seemed. They'd have to bullshit their way inside the building, secure it, scope out the video matrix generator, use it, and make their escape, all within a six-hour period of time. After that the guard would change and their cover story would fall apart.

The command car took a hard right and passed a huge piece of Exodus Society-sponsored graffiti. It covered the entire side of a run-down building and showed a family with a stylized spaceship in the background. The caption read, "EARTH, LOVE IT AND LEAVE IT."

Corvan was glad when the trip was over and the command car pulled in before a low, unassuming building with metal bars over its windows. The building might have been unassuming, but the guard around it wasn't. From Saxon's briefing Corvan knew that an eight-man squad was deployed around the structure. There were four troopers covering the front of the building, and Corvan noticed that they were heavily armed and well protected by prefab emplacements. At the sight of the vehicles they stiffened and did their best to look alert. A command car means brass, and brass worry about the way things look, so give 'em what they want. One of the troopers held a small radio to her lips and spoke into it.

Corporal Ellis piled out and made a production of opening Corvan's door. Even though it was early morning, the hot, moist air pushed its way in to fill the car with the odor of urine and decaying garbage.

As Corvan got out, a WPO captain appeared from behind the building and approached the car. He stopped three paces away and delivered a snappy salute. Even though his English was California perfect, Corvan knew the officer was Russian from the tiny hammer-and-sickle shoulder patch he wore on his uniform. He had a cheerful grin and a pair of trusting blue eyes. "Captain Sokolov at your service, Colonel. What can I do for you?"

Corvan returned the officer's salute with a casual wave of his hand. "Good morning, Captain. I'm Colonel Bill Rudek. This is Captain Chris Delany. She's got orders to evaluate certain pieces of electronic gear for shipment to another location. Somewhere that's a little easier to defend."

Corvan looked around as if evaluating the terrain. "Meanwhile the brass have decided to double the security around this complex. I have orders to put my team inside the building and assume overall command."

If Captain Sokolov found this strange, he gave no sign of it. "Excellent. My people will do everything they can to help. First, however, I must ask to see your ID cards and a copy of your orders."

"Of course," Corvan replied easily, and withdrew both items from an inside pocket. "I'm glad to see you're taking our security precautions seriously, and I'm sure you'll understand that I have a similar obligation."

Sokolov nodded politely, handed over his ID, and performed a smart about-face. As he headed off around a corner of the building, Corvan handed the ID to Ellis and said. "Take this over to the personnel carrier, fiddle around, and come on back."

Ellis nodded and was gone.

Somewhere toward the back of the building Sokolov had a personnel carrier of his own, complete with computer interface. Within minutes he could check the authenticity of their ID cards with the WPO data banks in Washington, D.C., cross-check them with the FBI and CIA, and verify their orders.

Their lives were in Martin's electronic hands. Had the computer covered all the bets? What if he'd missed something? What about the other computers, the ones that belonged to the FBI and the CIA? Were they in on the plan or had Martin managed to trick them? What if they discovered two bogus officers? There were plenty of questions and lots of scary answers to go along with them.

But when Sokolov returned from his errand, he had a smile on his face and a fax in his hand. He waved it as he approached. "You're all set, Colonel Rudek. The computers like you. You and your troops may enter whenever you wish."

Corvan smiled and felt the tension leak out of his arms and legs. He felt Ellis appear at his left side. "Thank you, Captain. And, according to Corporal Ellis here, you're the real thing as well." Ellis handed Sokolov his ID card, took two steps backward, and turned to stone.

Corvan straightened his electro-goggles. "There is one other thing, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Sokolov replied alertly. "What can I do for you?"

"I want complete radio discipline," Corvan replied. "Nothing in or out without my permission."

Sokolov frowned. "If you say so, sir, but what about my hourly reports?"

Corvan damned himself for a fool. Of course! Sokolov would be expected to report into some central location at regular intervals. And if he missed a report, boom, they'd send a small army to investigate the problem. He forced a smile. "Yes, your regular reports should continue as usual. I meant everything else."

Sokolov's face was sunny once more. Military routine would be preserved and all was right with the world.

Corvan lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "No mention of my team, though. Intelligence thinks the dissidents may have found a way to descramble our transmissions. Wouldn't it be fun if they decided to attack and found twice the troops they expected?"

It took Sokolov a moment to process this information, but when he had his eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Yes!" he said loudly, then caught himself and looked around. "I mean yes," Sokolov said in a whisper. "That would be wonderful!"

Corvan patted him on the shoulder. "Good man. Captain Delany and I are going inside. Corporal Ellis will stay here in case you need a runner." And, Corvan thought to himself, in case some of your friends arrive. In that case Corporal Ellis will happily cancel your ticket.

That thought triggered another. What was happening to him? Somehow he'd gone from objective journalist to violent dissident all in a few days. His entire thought process had changed from that of citizen to that of soldier. Sokolov seemed nice enough, yet Corvan had already classified him as disposable, a problem a bullet could easily solve. Was he thinking the same way Carla Subido did? Did one wrong justify another? These were ancient questions, and like thousands of people before him, Corvan found himself without answers. All he could do was move forward and do the best he could.

At Sergeant Fong's insistence four troopers entered the building first. In the unlikely possibility of an ambush they would sniff it out. Corvan started to object, but one look at the determination on Fong's moonlike face convinced him to shut up. Like most sergeants, Fong was going to have it her way or no way at all.

The double glass doors were unlocked and swung inward without resistance. The troopers were met by a wall of artificially cold air, which felt good after the heat outside. Fong motioned for Corvan and Kim to wait while half of her team performed a quick recon. The other four were busy humping all sorts of gear into the reception area and laying it out in orderly rows.

The inside of the E-FEX-1 studios had a strange feel, like the ghost ships found way out at sea, with half-eaten meals and no sign of crew or passengers. Desks were covered with paperwork, half-empty coffee cups sat here and there, and stray pieces of clothing hung from wall hooks.

A bank of six video monitors murmured softly, two of them showing the vice president live as she stepped out onto the surface of the moon and bounded away.

It was as if the entire place had been evacuated on extremely short notice, and from what Sokolov said, that was pretty close to the truth. With the exception of someone called Nolly, all the employees had been sent on WPO-financed vacations. Apparently the WPO leadership wanted to keep their use of the video matrix generator a secret as long as possible.

"With die exception of this the place is all clear," Sergeant Fong said, appearing out of a side hall. The "this" which Fong referred to had the furtive look of a rat caught in the middle of the kitchen floor when someone unexpectedly turns on the lights. She held it by the back of its collar like an errant child that might otherwise run away.

It was male, of average height and surly disposition. Tiny brown eyes darted this way and that, and a long, pointy nose seemed to probe the air for signs of danger. It had a trickle stim inserted into the implant jack in the side of its head, and its voice was an outraged squeak. "How dare you disturb my work! Do you have any idea of who I am? Do you realize what I'm doing?"

"Making an ass of yourself?" Kim inquired calmly. "Are you the one they call Nolly?"

"Absolutely not," the man replied indignantly. "My name if Nollins, Henry P. Nollins, and you will address me as such."

Fong gave Corvan a questioning look and he nodded. Stepping to one side, Fong planted her feet, made her hand into a fist, and slammed it into the side of Nollins' face. He dropped like a stone. Corvan helped him up.

"Now listen, Nolly, you're going to cut the crap and answer our questions, or Sergeant Fong is going to kick the shit out of you. Do we understand each other?"

Nollins held the side of his face and nodded mutely. "Good," Corvan said. "Now, are you the engineer who runs the video matrix generator?"

Another nod.

"Excellent. This is Captain Delany. She's a qualified television engineer. You will assist her in using the generator. All right?"

"All right," Nollins said, "but what about the project I'm working on? It's supposed to be ready by this evening."

"Oh really?" Corvan said conversationally. "Well, let's take a look at what you have so far. Maybe it ties in with our project."

Nollins looked doubtful, but had the good sense to keep it to himself. With Fong at his side the engineer led them down a hall and into a large editing suite.

Two rows of Sony holo monitors lined one wall. Facing them was a long, curved panel with row after row of red, green, and amber lights. These were the manual controls rarely used but available just in case. They served to surround and frame the main editing position, which was a thing of almost spartan beauty, consisting of a single touch-sensitive computer screen and three wires for direct interface.

Kim fell in love with the place immediately. It had everything, the best of the best, and all laid out with an eye to efficiency and convenience. Nollins watched in amazement as Kim dropped into the editing chair and plugged in. A smile came onto her face as an entire chorus of electronic voices introduced themselves and welcomed her aboard. There was a moment of pain as the editing computer, a Yamaha 3000 VX, came on-line and introduced himself as El Supremo, but it quickly faded. Val was gone and no amount of wishing would bring her back.

It didn't take Kim long to find out that El Supremo had the personality to go along with his name. His dealings with the other computers were high-handed and arrogant, all that is, except for the VMG, which El Supremo did his best to ignore.

As Kim explored the system she found that the video matrix generator was a peripheral, part of the system but off to one side. Interestingly enough, it was imbued with little or no personality. Whether this was by chance or design Kim couldn't tell, only that it would respond as ordered, with a kind of bovine acceptance.

Another thing which made the editing system different from all the others she'd encountered were the huge data banks it incorporated. A quick check showed that thousands of commercial movies and millions of television programs had been digitized and made available for recall. Given El Supremo's army of digital record and playback machines, the VMG's processing capability, and all the images stored in the data bank, she could make Winston Churchill sing rock 'n' roll.

Kim spun around in her chair. Corvan was waiting. "The VMG is everything Neely said and more."

"Excellent," Corvan said approvingly. "Now let's see Nolly's current project. I hope it's as good as the one where he turned us into psychopathic killers."

Nollins' eyes grew suddenly big as he looked from one to the other, seeking confirmation for what he'd just heard. He must have found it because suddenly his eyes started to bulge and he tried for the door.

Just for the fun of it, Fong let him get real close before she reached out and jerked him back. He was blubbering for mercy as she dumped him into the chair next to Kim's and jerked the trickle stim out of his head. "I didn't want to . . . They made me do it . . . please don't hurt me!"

Unwilling to be on-line with Nollins, Kim pulled her wire and shoved it into the other engineer's socket. "Shut up and hit playback."

Snuffling and sobbing, Nollins did as he was told. Or more accurately, El Supremo did as he was told, selecting the proper audio-video file and playing it back. The program monitor fluttered and locked up with a shot of President Hawkins. At the moment there was nothing but blue background behind him. Later on, once the primary sound and pix had been properly laid down, computer-generated graphics and music would be added in.

Hawkins looked sad and older than his years. "Greetings. As you know, the last few days have been extremely difficult for me. Yet they have been useful as well. For as each of us are tested by the fires of adversity, we are tempered too, made stronger like steel which is heated and then cooled. In some strange way Mary's untimely death has burned me and me stronger, made me see that the world is in crisis, that every passing moment brings even more danger. Simply put, there are too many of us, and while some dream of distant stars, most know that real solutions must be found here on earth.

"With that in mind I have asked Congress to pass a resolution favoring a single world government. Eventually it will be necessary to revise the Constitution of the United States to allow membership in a global government. In the meantime, however, I recommend that the United States agree to support and participate in a coop government until something more permanent is hammered out. By doing this we will demonstrate our good faith and set an example for others.

"With that in mind I would like to nominate an interim chief executive, a man with demonstrated leadership ability, who has already unified an entire continent. A man who was educated right here in the United States, a man who has come to symbolize the best of East and West, a man who is no stranger to adversity and hard work. My fellow Americans, that man is none other than Samuel Numalo, the leader of Unified Africa. It was my—"

At that point the VMG ran out of processed video and the speech was suddenly cut off. Corvan and Kim looked at each other in amazement. The opposition was making its move and introducing a new player at the same time. Samuel Numalo. Was Numalo a tool of the WPO or vice versa?

Fong jerked Nollins up and out of his chair, removing his interface as she did so. "Are you done with this one, sir? If so I'll lock him up."

Corvan looked at Kim and she nodded. Corvan looked at Fong. "Yes, Sergeant. Thank you. And post a guard on his door. After that, make the rounds. I want all potential entry points well covered. And scout our friends outside too. If the shit hits the fan, we'll be forced to take them out."

Fong grinned. The phony Colonel knew his stuff. She gave Nollins a shove and headed for the door.

"And Sergeant ..."

Fong grabbed Nollins by his collar. "Yes, sir?"

"Monitor all of Captain Sokolov's radio transmissions. If you hear anything funny, tell me right away."

"Yes, sir," Fong answered, and pushed Nollins out the door.

Corvan dropped into the seat next to Kim. There was a long silence as she lit a fag and he stared up at blank monitors. It was Kim who broke the silence.

"So here we are. The VMG's at our disposal. What do we do, tell the whole story?"

Corvan shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I'd love to just lay it out for everyone, but chances are it wouldn't work. Thanks to the WPO's skillful use of the VMG, the public sees me as a murderer. If I told them that the president's dead, that Carla Subido's running the country, and that Samuel Numalo's about to take over the world, they'd assume that I'm completely deranged. No, we've got to come up with something underhanded, something sneaky."

Kim blew smoke from the corner of her mouth and raised one eyebrow. "What was that? What happened to journalistic purity?"

Corvan gave her a twisted smile. "You know, for a nice lady, you really are a bitch sometimes."

Kim laughed. "Sorry. I couldn't resist. So, got any sneaky ideas? "

Corvan was silent for a moment and then he smiled. "Yeah. I've got one sneaky idea and it's a real lulu." When Corvan told Kim what it was, she found it was extremely difficult to choke on smoke and laugh at the same time.

16

Carla Subido allowed herself few of the pleasures which most people take for granted. The single exception were the long, luxurious baths she took at the end of each day. In fact, baths were so important to Carla that she had remodeled the bathroom of her condominium to make room for an even larger tub. It was black with gold fittings and was surrounded by a jungle of plants. At the moment it was full to overflowing with wonderfully hot water mixed with aromatic bath oil. The water surrounded and embraced her, lifting her gently away from the bottom of the tub, and filled her with a sense of peaceful well-being.

Yet even here in the tub, her pleasure was measured out in minutes. A glance at her Rolex confirmed the message from Carla's internal clock. It was time to dry off, watch the president's special address on TV, and work her way through another stack of briefings.

With a sigh of regret she flipped a lever and allowed the water to drain. Standing, she grabbed one of the huge, fluffy towels from a nearby rack and began to dry herself off. A large mirror took most of the opposite wall. She watched herself with the detached interest of a race car driver inspecting her vehicle.

Her body was long and slim, a little softer than she would have liked due to her sedentary life-style, but still beautiful. For a moment Carla thought about her time with Numalo, but the memories were so painful that she pushed them away.

Carla threw the towel into a corner where the maid would find it and slipped into a thick robe. She belted it around her waist as she entered the living room. It was a designer's vision of what a living room should be: full of perfect furniture and carefully selected art which had nothing to do with Carla's personality.

Sensing her presence, the household computer turned the lights to the level of illumination she preferred, triggered some soft music, and waited for further orders.

Curling up on the long white couch, Carla slipped her toes under one of the brightly colored throw pillows and said, "Holo set."

It shimmered to life and Carla saw that a standard intro was well underway. As it happened, the set was tuned to News Network 56. Barbara Lansing looked her usual best, with every hair firmly in place. "And so," she said, "for reasons not entirely clear, Carla Subido has agreed to address the nation in the President's stead. And here, without further ado, is Carla Subido, President Hawkins' chief of staff."

Carla sat bolt upright as she saw herself appear on the screen. What the ... ? Her screen image began to speak:

"I bring you greetings from the president. Unfortunately the stress and strain of the recent events has rendered him unable to appear tonight, but rather than cancel, he asked me to speak in his stead. I assure you that the president is fine and will be up and around after some much needed rest.

"As you know, the president recently advocated formation of a single world government. In fact, it was his intention to recommend that the United States participate in a temporary coop government, pending changes to our Constitution which would allow us to become part of a global partnership. In addition, President Hawkins was prepared to nominate Samuel Numalo, leader of Unified Africa, as Prime Minister pro-tem, and ask the rest of the world to make his nomination unanimous.

"Unfortunately, however, new information has fallen into the president's hands causing him to withdraw his nomination of Samuel Numalo—and his support for a single world government."

Carla was on her feet. She could almost hear the worldwide gasp of amazement as the camera zoomed in on her electronic likeness. Blood surged to Carla's face and she could feel her heart beating a mile a minute.

The electronic Carla Subido looked solemn. "According to top-secret information obtained by the CIA, Leader for Life Numalo has used blackmail, bribery, and murder to position himself for global leadership. Details will be forthcoming in the next few days. In the meantime President Hawkins joins other leaders around the world in mourning this lost opportunity to move forward into a new age of peace and harmony. He hopes that coming years will bring us closer to this important goal, but feels this particular opportunity has passed. Thank you, and good night."

Carla reached for her comset, but it buzzed before she could pick it up. Only a few people had her unlisted number, so she didn't hesitate to pick it up. "Carla Subido."

"Yes, ma'am. This is Sugar. I can't find my keys. Could I take a look to see if I left them laying around somewhere?"

Carla's brain raced. Was it for real? Sugar had spent the afternoon with her but. . . Where did he live anyway? With a sudden sense of shock Carla realized she didn't know. What if it was just minutes away, so close that someone could see the broadcast and order him to come over? She did her best to keep it light. "Of course, Sugar. Come on up. I'll release the front door."

Carla hit the door release and ran for her bedroom. It would take Sugar three, maybe four minutes to cross the downstairs lobby, enter an elevator, and ride to her floor.

The bulky robe swirled and swished, almost causing her to trip. She dropped it at the foot of her king-sized bed and dived for the nightstand.

The ugly blue-black shape of the Mini-Uzi was in the top drawer, right where it was supposed to be. She grabbed it and hit the magazine release. The magazine was full up. She slammed it home, slipped a bullet up the spout, and released the safety. It was ironic that Sugar had provided the Uzi and taught her how to use it.

Still naked, she padded toward the front door, holding the weapon's cold metal close to her body. Adrenaline surged through her circulatory system and blood pounded in her brain. Unlatching the front door, she backed away and dropped to the thickly carpeted floor.

Outside, beyond her front door, Carla heard the sound of a chime and the swish of elevator doors. There was a moment of silence followed by a soft tapping on the door.

"Come in!" Carla shouted, trying to make her voice sound far away. "I'm getting dressed."

The door swung open and bumped softly against the doorstop. Carla started to squeeze the trigger, but the doorway remained empty. Damn. It was just as she'd feared. Sugar had orders from Numalo, orders to kill her, and was playing it smart.

Carla forced herself to wait, holding her breath, trying not to shiver as the hallway's cool air raised goose bumps along her arms and legs. Carla liked Sugar and wished it was someone else. She wondered if he felt the same way.

Then Sugar came, sliding around the door frame like a shadow on the wall, the sawed-off Mossberg an extension of his right arm.

Carla squeezed the trigger and held on. The Uzi chattered and jumped. Sugar's body jerked like a puppet on strings, slammed into the wall, and slid toward the floor. It settled there like a pile of old clothes.

As the Uzi clicked empty, Carla listened for the sound of disturbed neighbors, alarmed security guards, or other signs of distress. The only thing she heard was the insistent buzz of her phone. It seemed the building's expensive soundproofing had done its job.

Carla stepped over Sugar's body, closed the door, and returned to the living room. She hesitated for a moment, then picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"Is this Carla Subido?" The voice was male and extremely polite. She wondered how he'd obtained her number.

"Yes."

"My name is Martin," the voice continued. "Did you watch the special address on television?"

"Yes," Carla answered, wondering where the conversation was headed.

"Excellent," Martin replied. "It is my opinion that agents of Samuel Numalo will attempt to murder you. Do you agree?"

Carla glanced toward the front door and cleared her throat. "Yes."

"And you wish to continue living?"

"Yes."

"Good," Martin replied. "In that case I suggest you do exactly as I say."

17

"It's time to leave," Corvan said, stepping into the editing suite. "Company's on the way by now."

Kim nodded, pulled the wire out of her temple jack, and stood up. She looked tired and had every right to. In the last six hours she'd bullied Nolly into helping her with the VMG, carried out some tricky editing, and done all of it under pressure.

Kim held her left index finger over the touch-sensitive computer screen and looked at Corvan. "If I touch it, the VMG goes bye-bye. Yes or no?"

"You did what we discussed?"

Kim nodded. "I stashed the whole thing in Network 56's central computer. They'll never think to look for it there."

"Let her rip, then," Corvan replied. "They can rebuild, but this'll slow them down."

Kim touched the screen, which caused El Supremo to dump the VMG's program and data files. "Done."

Corvan nodded and triggered the two-way radio in his ear. "Sergeant Fong?"

"Sir?"

"Waste the equipment room."

"Yes, sir." Farther down the hall Fong threw an incendiary grenade into the main equipment room. The resulting fire would destroy the VMG's electronic components and slow the WPO's tech types when they tried to build a new unit.

As they jogged toward the building's main entrance, Corvan was amazed that they'd managed to pull it off. On more than one occasion the entire charade had come close to collapsing around them. The worst moment had come when the president's press secretary, Stan Lester, called up and demanded to see what they'd accomplished so far.

First they stalled him with the segment of the Hawkins video which Nolly had already prepared. After that it became increasingly difficult. Time passed, deadlines came and went, and each time Lester called, they had nothing new to show him. Nothing they wanted to show him anyway. As a result the press secretary became increasingly upset and began to threaten all sorts of dire penalties.

Then Kim got on the phone, claimed Nollins was seriously ill, and said she was taking over. Then she stalled him with a phony equipment failure, a programming glitch, and a bad circuit board.

Finally, with only three minutes to air, Kim told Lester she was ready and asked if he'd like to preview the president's speech. By that time sixty-three different networks were conferenced on the line, clamoring for video, and calling the press secretary every name in the book.

Promising Kim an ugly death if anything went wrong, Lester had little choice but to give the go-ahead, and soon lived to regret it. It was safe to assume that by the end of Carla Subido's speech, Lester had either died of a massive coronary or called for a WPO assault on the E-FEX-1 studios. If they didn't leave—and quickly—chances were they never would. Back behind them an alarm went off as the blaze in the equipment room found something really flammable and took off.

Suddenly Corporal Ellis came running around the corner up ahead. "Colonel! Thank God! We've got company and they mean business. At the moment they're using Sokolov as a punching bag, but as soon as they finish with him, they'll be coming our way."

Corvan swore and ran even faster around the corner and into the lobby. He reached the one-way glass just in time to see Sokolov fall to the ground and a WPO captain bring a loud hailer to his lips. Corvan looked, then looked again. The captain was none other than Hans Dietrich! The German's voice was loud and slightly distorted.

"You in the building there. This is Captain Hans Dietrich. You are in violation of United States law. You have ten seconds to surrender or suffer the consequences."

"Sir?" The voice in Corvan's ear was Sergeant Fong. She wanted orders. Corvan sighed. If anything sucked, this did. Chances were that none of Dietrich's troops knew the real score. Like thousands of other people, they were being used. It would be wrong to kill them. On the other hand, Fong and her people were risking their lives to help him, were depending on him, and were just as innocent. On top of that there was the fact that the job was only half done. By making Subido look like a traitor, they'd messed around with Numalo's chain of command, and that would slow him down, but it wouldn't stop him. And unless they accomplished that, then the whole thing would raise its ugly head again. The words tasted bitter in his mouth as he said:

"We'll get their attention while you take the rest of the team out the back door and flank 'em. Minimum force to get the job done. We'll meet at the personnel carrier."

"Copy that, sir," Fong replied, her voice grim. "I'll see you there."

"This is your last chance," Dietrich said, his voice booming around the building. "Come out with your hands on top of your heads."

"Sir?" It was Corporal Ellis. He held out a H&K G-40 assault rifle. Corvan reluctandy accepted the weapon, knowing that as he did so, he was taking another step away from the role of observer and any claim to objectivity. The problem was that either you were in or out. You couldn't have it both ways.

"Captain?"

Kim shook her head to the proffered weapon. "No thanks, I'd just shoot myself in the foot."

"Time's up," Dietrich said. "We're coming in."

Corvan activated his radio while motioning the other two toward the rear of the room. As he dropped, they did likewise. "Sergeant Fong, if you read me, we could use some smoke in front of the building."

"I copy," Sergeant Fong replied tersely. "Smoke's on the way."

Moments later smoke billowed in front of the building. Corvan wasn't sure how Fong had accomplished it, but good noncoms moved in mysterious ways.

Outside, two or three troopers opened up with automatic weapons. They were coming in.

Kim tried to will herself down through the cold, hard floor as the picture windows exploded into an avalanche of glass and the two men began to fire back. They fired in short three- or four-round bursts, not expecting to hit anything, stalling while Fong went out the back.

Kim undid her holster and dragged out her sidearm. She didn't want to deal with a submachine gun, but a pistol couldn't be all that complicated. Slugs whipped over her head as she pulled the slide back and worked a bullet into the chamber. Holding the weapon with both hands, Kim aimed toward the door and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Swearing to herself, she looked for the safety.

Something flew through a picture window and landed with a thump in the middle of the floor. ''Grenade!" Ellis yelled and threw himself on it.

There was a loud, cracking sound and the corporal's body was tossed into the air like a rag doll. It was still falling when three troopers charged through the door.

Corvan fired and rolled right. The first one staggered but didn't fall. Body armor! He gritted his teeth and fired again. The top of the trooper's head flew off as the slugs sliced through her skull.

Then the second trooper landed on top of him, driving down with the butt of his grenade launcher, trying to smash Corvan's face.

Kim found the safety and flicked it off just as the third trooper stood over Corvan and looked for an opening. The second trooper, the one with the short shotgun-looking thing, was in the way.

Corvan did something with his knee and the second trooper rolled away. He swore as a piece of broken glass stabbed him in the back. The third trooper grinned and swung his submachine gun over until the stubby barrel was lined up on the reop's real eye.

Without being aware of it, Corvan zoomed in and discovered that the third trooper was Hans Dietrich. At first his face was full of hate, then it came apart as Kim's slugs hit it from behind and turned it into a mass of red mush. Corvan rolled out of the way as the body fell. Glass crunched but left him untouched. Dietrich hit with a heavy thud and sent glass tinkling in every direction.

Careful of the broken glass, Corvan stood and hurried over to where Kim lay staring at the body. "He's dead, Kim. Come on. Let's get out of here."

Kim's eyes grew large. Her lips moved but nothing came out. Corvan turned, firing from the hip. Trooper number two staggered, dropped his commando knife, and toppled over backward. Blood spurted out of the bullet holes in his neck and stopped when his heart did.

Kim shuddered, tried to throw up, and failed. Corvan grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the front door. "We're coming out!" Corvan yelled into the radio. "Cover us if you can!"

Corvan heard automatic weapons rattle in response as he stumbled toward the front door. The room was thick with smoke. Some of it came from the grenade and the rest from the burning equipment room.

Coughing and choking, they stumbled through the shattered door and dodged right. Seconds later someone fired a shoulder-launched missile into the building's lobby and it exploded with a loud boom. The back blast blew Corvan and Kim off their feet. The reop was just struggling to his feet when he heard the chatter of automatic fire, followed by a scream. With the exception of distant sirens, things were suddenly quiet.

Then Corvan heard the rumble of a heavy-duty engine and a personnel carrier nosed its way through the smoke. Corvan swung his weapon in that direction, but stopped when he saw Fong's grimy face in the open window. She smiled. "Going my way, Colonel?"

Corvan grinned. "Best offer I've had all day. Casualties?"

Fong motioned toward the rear of the vehicle. "Cerkin caught one in the thigh, and Van Kleek took one through her right bicep. Where's Ellis?"

Corvan shook his head. "Dead. He threw himself on a grenade."

Fong nodded matter-of-factly. "Then we're all present or accounted for. Time to haul ass."

"Roger that," Corvan agreed fervently. "We'll ride in back."

Fong put the big truck in gear and stepped on the gas. As it growled forward, strong arms pulled Corvan and Kim over the tailgate. Voices welcomed them aboard and Corvan saw a blur of friendly faces as he scrambled toward the front.

Bench seats were mounted along both sides of the vehicle, and as Corvan took a seat, he saw Nollins was present as well. The technician tried to say something, but the gag got in the way.

Cerkin lay stretched out on the floor while Van Kleek sat up and smoked a fag. She used her good arm to give Corvan a cheerful thumbs-up.

Looking out the back, Corvan saw the building was a mass of flames. The personnel carrier took a sharp turn, and as the building disappeared from sight Corvan saw three fire engines roar by in that direction. He wondered if the fire would make the evening news and if so, what they'd say about it. If they lied, they'd be forced to do it the old-fashioned way, with their butts hanging in the breeze, praying they wouldn't get caught.

A few minutes later the personnel carrier pulled into the same warehouse they'd been in earlier. Mac was there, and so was Sasha, both urging everyone out of the vehicle. Within seconds the personnel carrier was pulling out of the warehouse with a new driver behind the wheel, the troopers had been hustled into an unmarked van, and Kim was being pushed toward a large shipping module. The size of a large trailer, it was made of heavy-gauge steel, and bore a large "General Electric" logo.

Kim looked to Corvan for reassurance. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "What can we do?" and allowed Mac to lead him toward the container.

Sasha touched a hidden sensor and a door swung open. "Hurry!" she said, and motioned for them to enter. It was pitch black inside, and Corvan entered with a sense of trepidation. Kim did likewise and Sasha slammed the door behind her.

Corvan heard a whirring sound and blinked when soft white light flooded the room. Saxon sat five feet in front of them, his black box whirring softly as it balanced on its single wheel, a half smile on his face. "Sorry about that, I couldn't resist." He gestured to the rest of the room. "What do you think?"

Corvan looked around. The inside of the shipping module was fitted out like a cross between an apartment and a conference room. At the far end of the room Corvan saw a door to what was most likely a bathroom, and just forward of that, a rather compact kitchen. An open area adjoined the kitchen and boasted a large table, some comfortable-looking chairs, and a complete entertainment center. The holo set came on. It showed a government-produced public service announcement which touted homosexuality as a means of birth control. The spot featured two men holding hands as they walked along a beach, and the words "NONE IS FUN" flashed on and off at the bottom of the screen.

There was a loud clang and the floor began to tilt beneath their feet. Corvan and Kim staggered, caught their balance, and sat down on a long couch lining the wall behind them. Corvan noticed that the couch was equipped with safety belts and put one on.

"Sorry about that," Saxon said. "I should have warned you. They're getting ready to load us on a truck."

Suddenly the floor tilted even more. Kim felt her stomach flip-flop as some invisible force lifted the shipping module off the ground, and detected a slight sideways motion as the unit moved horizontally through the air. Saxon's gyro stabilizers whined a little louder, but he was otherwise unaffected.

"This is quite a rig," Corvan said, looking around. "I get the feeling you've used it before."

Saxon nodded. "Exactly. And, given the fact that your face is still all over the airwaves, this seemed like the best way to go."

There was a heavy thump as the unit was deposited on something hard, the distant clank of chains, and a jerk as they started into motion.

"At the moment we're on a flatbed truck," Saxon said conversationally. He glanced at his wrist term. "In about fifteen or twenty minutes we'll be loaded on the Starlight Express. Twelve hours later and presto, Washington, D.C."

Corvan looked interested. "Washington, D.C? What's up?"

"It worked like a charm," Saxon replied happily. "Numalo sent a guy to ice Subido, she greased him, and Martin reeled her in. The woman is incredible. I thought you'd like to meet her."

"A dubious honor," Kim said sourly. "We should've let Numalo have her.'' Kim lit a fag and looked around for a nonexistent ashtray.

"I don't know," Corvan said thoughtfully. "We need a way to get at Numalo, and Subido might provide the key." The reop glanced toward the holo set. "How are they taking Subido's speech?"

Saxon shrugged. "At face value so far. Needless to say, they're clamoring for more information. What did Numalo do? Was anyone else involved? They're like a pack of wild dogs."

"Which raises an interesting point," Corvan said. "We're out of electronic dog food, and with Subido missing, things will start to come apart. By the time we reach D.C. the press should be onto to the fact that the president's dead."

Kim thought she saw a cloud pass in front of Saxon's eyes. He shrugged. "Who knows? Whatever happens will certainly be interesting."

The two men continued to talk, but Kim decided to lie down and take a nap. And as she drifted off to sleep, Saxon's face seemed to hang in front of her. It was different somehow, completely scarred, horrible to look at. Somehow it knew what she was thinking and broke into peals of demented laughter. Laughter which wouldn't stop and followed Kim into her dreams.

18

The trip to Washington, D.C, was refreshingly uneventful. No helicopters chased them, no snipers shot at them, and no WPO troopers tried to attack the shipping module. It was like their own little world—tipsy at times, but otherwise snug and secure.

Corvan used the time to catch up on both his sleep and world events. Thanks to the module's sophisticated electronics, holo reception continued uninterrupted all the way across the United States. Local stations came and went. But thanks to the small fleet of geosynchronous comsats parked over the North American continent, the nets were always there, Matting out a twenty-four-hour-a-day diet of what people wanted most.

And from what Corvan had seen, the network news organizations were slowly stirring. But not quickly enough to accomplish anything useful.

Like children in a toy store, they ran from one thing to another, never stopping long enough to really see anything, always running to the next shiny object. As a result, the Rex Corvan story had been pushed into the background while they rushed hither and yon trying to follow up on the Carla Subido speech.

On every channel, frustrated reporters asked puzzled officials for the details of Numalo's allegedly dirty deeds, demanded that White House officials allow them to speak with the president, and asked where they could find Carla Subido.

And much as they claimed to want the truth, they would never have believed it. "Carla Subido assassinated the president, had his wife killed, and took over the country? AH at Samuel Numalo's request? Come on!"

They simply wouldn't believe it. Not yet anyway. The VMG had done its job too well. But as the carefully woven fabric of lies began to fray and then unravel, they would see and report the truth. Or so Corvan hoped.

So far Stanley Lester had managed to hold the press at bay, but as the hours passed, Corvan thought the press secretary looked increasingly worried. It seemed unlikely that he'd be able to hold them off much longer.

Interestingly enough, the E-FEX-1 fire had been treated as a routine two-alarm blaze, although mention was made that "some WPO troopers had been injured while helping fight the fire, and were in critical condition."

Dead is about as critical as you can get, Corvan thought to himself. He wished there'd been some other way.

Corvan made a sandwich, ate it while he watched Saxon work at a computer terminal, and drifted off to sleep. When he awoke, the holo was still on. He caught the tail end of a tabloid TV story about aliens masquerading as common barnyard animals and waited for the hourly news. With people watching that kind of crap all the time, how would they know the truth when they saw it?

The credits came up, followed by a news tease. Corvan shook Kim awake and called for Saxon. The electronic headline read, "Bodyguard Dead and Chief of Staff Missing." As the words slid across the screen, they pulled another scene on behind them. It showed bloody walls and a crumpled body. Then a breathless street reporter stepped into the shot to explain that Ms. Subido's maid had arrived to find Sugar laying dead in the hallway, blood all over the place, and Carla gone.

The reporter went on to speculate on all sorts of possibilities, most of which were utterly fantastic, but not sufficiently bizarre to approach the truth.

Corvan soon lost interest. "Well," he said, turning down the sound, "that should get things moving."

Saxon gave them a lopsided grin. "I would think so." He glanced at his wrist term. "We should be there in another forty-five minutes or so."

While Corvan and Kim discussed this new development, Saxon used the time to make some com calls. There was something urgent in his manner, as though things weren't moving fast enough to please him, but Kim put it down to his duties as an executive in the Exodus Society. Still, the vision of Saxon's laughing face kept coming to mind, and she found it hard to concentrate on what Corvan had to say.

The train did indeed arrive in Washington, D.C., some forty-five minutes later. However, it was another hour and a half before the shipping module was plucked from its flatcar by a huge crane, loaded onto a truck, and hauled to an unspecified location. Then there was a good deal of muffled conversation and clanking before the door opened and Saxon was able to roll down a ramp.

As Corvan and Kim followed, they found themselves in a large, open area. It smelled of freshly baked bread, and as the reop looked around, he saw rank after rank of beat-up delivery trucks. Due to the occasional food shortages, they resembled the armored cars of twenty or thirty years before, and carried armed guards. All bore side panels which showed a wealth of baked goods spilling forth from a stylized cornucopia. Most had been defaced with graffiti.

A woman in an electronic party mask approached and invited them to follow. As the woman turned away, Kim saw her mask ripple and change from the face of a well-known porno star to a perfect likeness of Rex Corvan. One of the WPO's many member companies had taken advantage of Corvan's fugitive status to make some money. Kim looked at Corvan, but saw no reaction. Apparently he'd missed it.

They followed the woman across the parking area and into a freight elevator. When the woman turned to touch a button, her mask had changed to resemble a French mass murderer. Kim preferred it to the likeness of Corvan.

The elevator jerked to a stop and the doors slid open. Now the smell of freshly baked bread was even stronger and Corvan could hear the sounds of machinery. Whatever else the Exodus Society used it for, the bakery was hard at work making bread. The odor made Corvan's stomach growl.

Somewhere nearby, a tone sounded and a voice said, "Would Nick Obero report to mixer station one. Nick Obero, please report to mixer station one."

The woman led them down a hall, past a number of metal doors, and into a large room. Hard white light threw heavy black shadows onto the concrete floor, and odds and ends of utilitarian furniture sat haphazardly around the room.

"If you'll just take a seat, they'll be with you in a moment," the woman said, and Kim thought she was smiling behind the mask.

Corvan wore a frown as he took a seat and sprawled out.

Kim sat on the edge of a beat-up table and lit a fag. "What's wrong?"

Corvan shrugged. "I feel as if I should do something, but I don't know what it is or how to get started. Does that make any sense?"

Kim smiled and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "Kinda like we lost control somewhere along the line?"

Corvan looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure we ever had control, but yeah, kinda like that."

Their conversation was interrupted by noise in the hall. A few seconds later Saxon rolled into the room, closely followed by Carla Subido and a man in a Lone Ranger mask. An old-fashioned six-gun at his hip added to the impression. He had "guard" written all over him.

Carla Subido looked as she always did, well groomed and nicely turned out in an expensive leather jacket, tailored slacks, and handmade boots. Her eyes glittered as she took them in.

Saxon stopped and spun in a half circle. "Ms. Subido, it's my pleasure to introduce Kim Kio and Rex Corvan."

Carla forced a smile. This was a new situation and organization. All organizations can be conquered. All you need is a knowledge of the interpersonal relationships involved, the ability to manipulate them, and the patience to do so. And while you're waiting for things to go your way, it pays to be pleasant.

"Hello. Chris tells me I have you two to thank for my present situation. I congratulate you on your skill."

Kim dropped the fag and stepped on it. She wondered if Corvan had noticed the use of Saxon's first name. Sarcasm filled her voice: "Thanks. Coming from you, that means a lot."

Everyone looked at Corvan and waited for him to speak. White light glinted off his eye cam, and his nose pushed a long, hard shadow down across his jaw. It tightened. He started to record. As it did, a red indicator light began to blink on and off in the armrest of Saxon's black box. He ignored it.

"Why?" Corvan asked. "Why did you kill the president, his wife, my friend Neely, and God knows how many others?" He really wanted to know.

Subido was silent for a moment, and when she answered, it was with the same lie that she'd used on Saxon. The only lie they might believe, the one which edged her away from villain and toward the role of victim and contained just enough truth to be credible. She let her shoulders droop and looked at the floor.

"Numalo made me do it. I—I was in love with him . . . and he used that to make me do horrible things. And then when he thought I had betrayed him, he tried to kill me." When Subido looked up, there were tears trickling down her cheeks. "It was wrong, terribly wrong, and there's nothing I can do or say which will make it better."

It was an extremely convincing act, one which Saxon seemed to buy because he was looking at Subido with an expression of approval which bordered on adoration.

Fearing the worst, Kim looked at Corvan. But his face was like stone, and when he spoke, his voice was ice cold. "You are a lying, manipulative, cold-hearted bitch. You are without a doubt the greatest traitor this nation has ever produced, and like all dangerous vermin, should be immediately eradicated."

"Enough!" Saxon said, his face flushed and his hands trembling. "We all have our differences here, but verbal abuse will help none of us. For my part, I think Ms. Subido is genuinely sorry for her actions, and while that won't right all of her wrongs, it doesn't give you the right to attack her."

Saxon cleared his throat and seemed to collect himself as he looked around the room. "The fact is that we have an opportunity here, an opportunity to turn a terrible wrong into a magnificent right, and do something for the greater good. Right in this room we have the knowledge, the talent, the expertise to turn things around."

Corvan felt angry at first, then betrayed, and finally scared. And one look at Saxon confirmed his worst fears. The light made tiny horizontal shadows beneath each ridge of scar tissue. It made him look strange, monstrous, like something from beyond the grave. Worse than that, however, was the look in his eye, which said, "I know what truth is and that gives me the right to impose it on others." Saxon was no better than Subido.

"Unless we act," Saxon said, "and act quickly, the entire nation will be plunged into chaos. Bit by ugly bit the press will uncover the truth until everything is known. And while I share your interest in the truth, our country will be leaderless. God knows what might fill the vacuum."

"Everyone knows what will fill the vacuum," Corvan responded tiredly. He had a pretty good idea where Saxon was heading and wished the other man would get to the point. "If the president dies or is incapacitated, the vice president takes over. Assuming, of course, that someone can find the woman and convince her to do some work. That's the way our system operates."

Saxon nodded impatiently. "Of course. But there's another possibility. With Ms. Subido's help we could keep President Hawkins in charge awhile longer. That would give us time to prepare the vice president and arrange for a smooth transition."

Corvan shook his head sadly. "Oh really? And how long would that be? Long enough to make sure that the United States builds a thousand spaceships? To turn away from our problems in the hope that humanity can escape into space? You're so transparent it makes me sick. Besides, the VMG is gone, we destroyed it."

Saxon's response was surprisingly calm. "So your answer is no? You won't help?"

Corvan looked at Kim. She nodded. "That's right," Corvan responded, "our answer is no."

Saxon shrugged. "It was worth a try. Although Nollins will do whatever he's told, the man has no creativity, no spark. The two of you would have been much better. But things are seldom perfect." He forced a crooked smile. "As for the VMG, well, it may interest you to know that thanks to Ms. Subido here, one still exists. It seems that she and our friend Numalo commissioned a backup three weeks ago. It's right here in Washington, D.C., and, from what I'm told, it's ready to roll."

Saxon looked from Corvan to Kim. "What? No screams of outrage? No cries of self-righteous indignation? No? Well, it's just as well. I have a country to run." He motioned to the guard in the Lone Ranger mask. "Take them away."

Corvan started to object but didn't. One look at the determination on Saxon's face told him it would be a waste of time.

Two more guards appeared, summoned by some silent signal, and they held ugly-looking Ingram machine pistols. Both wore the ever popular stocking masks and identical dark brown coveralls.

As Corvan and Kim were led from the room, Saxon and Subido were already locked in earnest conversation, one of her carefully manicured hands resting on his shoulder, while a look of almost sexual pleasure occupied the good side of Saxon's face.

Corvan and Kim were marched down a series of hallways and into a small room which had the look of an employee lounge. There were a couple of overpriced vending machines, a sink, a table and chairs, a ten-year-old holo set, and a broken-down couch.

Without uttering a word, one of the guards unplugged the single comset, tucked it under his arm, and walked out the door. The other guard checked the door's electronic lock, found it was operable, and followed.

Corvan waited for a minute and tried the door. It was locked. Not too surprising. Now to see if the guards were stationed right outside the door.

Corvan picked up a tubular chair and threw it at the door. It hit with a loud crash and fell to the floor. Nothing. So, either the guards were so professional that they knew a gambit when they heard one, or else they'd left for other duties. Given the nature of the organization, the windowless room, and the thickness of the metal door, the second possibility seemed most likely.

Satisfied that he knew the lie of the land, Corvan turned on the holo set and sat down on the couch.

Kim crossed her arms and frowned. "That's it? You give up and watch TV?"

Corvan raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

Kim looked around at the dingy walls and the metal door. "No. I guess I don't."

"Then have a seat," Corvan said, and patted the couch next to him.

Kim took him at his word. He put an arm around her shoulders. It had been a long, long time since anyone had held her, and it felt good. She snuggled in. Kim found she felt strangely good and bad at the same time.

For a long time they just sat there, watching a special report on the latest food riots in China, unmoved by the shots of starving children. After the tension and violence of the last few days, both of them were momentarily emptied of all thought and emotion, unable to identify and sympathize with a plight other than their own.

So when the voice came from a speaker located right over their heads, it made them jump. "Rex Corvan? Kim Kio?"

Corvan responded automatically. "Yes?"

"This is Martin. I have been monitoring recent conversations within the bakery via the building's intercom. For that reason I am aware of Mr. Saxon's treachery. Due to a lack of sophistication on the part of the building's internal communications system, I am not aware of your exact location. However, I have seized momentary control of the bakery's computer and am unlocking all of its doors."

Corvan heard a loud click from the direction of the metal door as Martin continued.

"Unfortunately my voice is being carried throughout the building. So if you wish to escape, I suggest that you move quickly."

Corvan looked at Kim and she looked at him. Then they were up and running for the door. It opened easily and they were out into the hall.

Corvan heard loud voices off to the right, so he turned left, and ran full out. Kim was right behind him.

As they neared an intersection, a man jogged around a corner and started their way. He wore a brown jumpsuit. Both of his hands were occupied trying to pull a stocking down over his face. When he saw them, he stopped to grab for the submachine gun slung under his right arm, but didn't make it in time.

The man went over backward as Corvan hit him with a full body block. The fall knocked most of the air out of the man's lungs, but he was tough, and he tried to raise his head. But that's as far as the man got because Kim grabbed a handful of hair and bounced his head off the concrete floor.

Corvan stripped the unconscious man of his submachine gun and two spare magazines. He saw it was a 9-mm Mitsubishi-Colt with provision for wired interface. He plugged the wire into his temple jack and a targeting grid appeared in front of his good eye. Glancing at Kim, he shook his head in amazement. "You should've been a Green Beanie. We could've used you."

"No way," Kim answered, looking down the hall. "I picked a nice nonviolent profession—and it was too, until I met you. Here they come."

There was a yell and two shots as a group of men and women skidded around a corner at the opposite end of the hall. "Run!" Corvan said, and fired a burst down the hallway to slow them down.

As their pursuers dived for the floor, Corvan took off, rounded the comer, and sprinted after Kim. He watched with approval as she opened a door marked "EXIT" and disappeared. Stairs. Stairs which would take them down to the underground garage. Maybe they could use a delivery truck to make their getaway.

Corvan reached the door and pulled it open. Bullets spanged off the heavy metal as he charged inside.

"Down here!" Corvan found himself on a landing. Looking down, he saw Kim on the stairs below. He waved and took the stairs three at a time. He was only one flight down when he heard the fire-escape door slam open, followed by a burst of gunfire. They were out for blood. Corvan paused long enough to pump three rounds up the stairwell. Even a second or two would help.

Then Corvan was in motion, taking each flight of stairs in three or four giant leaps, stumbling and almost falling but somehow keeping his feet. The fire doors had numbers on them, numbers which continued to get smaller: six, five, four, and now three.

Corvan saw something round and black fall past the corner of his eye. "Grenade!"

But it was too late. The grenade went off with a mind-numbing roar somewhere below. The stairs shook and Corvan was thrown against the wall. Forcing himself up, the reop looked over the rail. He used his eye cam to zoom in on the crumpled figure below. "Kim!"

The rail vibrated as a bullet hit it. Corvan's face was contorted with rage as he aimed the machine gun upward. Two faces appeared in the electronic targeting grid. "Bastards!" Corvan squeezed the trigger and the feces turned into red mist.

As Corvan ran down the stairs, the word "Reload" began to blink on and off in front of his good eye. Without looking, he hit the magazine release, allowed it to fall away, and slapped a new one into place.

Oblivious to everything else, Corvan knelt beside Kim's crumpled form. There was a large, dark stain where a piece of shrapnel had hit her in the side and five or ten little facial cuts where tiny pieces of metal and concrete had lacerated her skin. A large blue bump indicated where her head had hit something hard. But she was breathing, and a quick check showed that her pulse was strong.

Picking Kim up as gently as he could, Corvan carried her downward. Up above he heard the sounds of feet on the metal stairs. They weren't giving up. He paused, looked upward, and fired when some brown cloth moved into the targeting grid. Someone screamed and someone else dropped another grenade. It was still falling when Corvan opened the door marked "1" and slid inside.

The door was almost closed by the time the grenade went off, and displaced air pushed it open again. Ignoring the sound of the explosion, Corvan shifted Kim to a more comfortable position on his shoulder and half walked, half jogged down the hall. Clear at the other end of the corridor he saw another "Exit" sign. Turning around every ten or fifteen feet, Corvan tried to look in both directions at once.

Finally he was there, twisting the knob and opening the door. He paused for a moment, listening for the sound of boots on metal stairs, but heard nothing. Stepping inside, he moved downward, swearing as Kim's limp body tried to slide forward, fighting to keep his balance.

Suddenly a now familiar voice flooded the intercom. "This is Chris Saxon. The fugitives are in elevator three headed for the roof. I repeat, the fugitives are in elevator three, headed for the roof."

The voice actually belonged to Martin and didn't sound a bit like Saxon but chances were that most of Corvan's pursuers wouldn't know the difference. The reop smiled. It's nice to have friends. Especially electronic ones.

The next door said "Garage." Corvan opened it a crack and took a peek. As far as he could tell, there was nothing ominous going on outside. He saw a lot of oil-stained concrete in the foreground and some delivery vans beyond that. Good. Maybe he could load Kim into one of them without being seen.

Pushing the door all the way open, he moved through and into the garage proper. Still no signs of trouble. It seemed as if Martin's ruse had drawn his pursuers up to the roof.

In the meantime Kim was getting heavier. At first she'd been light, especially with the adrenaline flooding his bloodstream, but now she weighed him down and made it hard to move. Corvan felt terribly exposed as he crossed the short distance to the parked rigs, waiting for the shout and the rattle of gunfire which would surely follow.

It seemed like a miracle when he made it, but that didn't mean much, since all the vans were locked. Breathing heavily, Corvan worked his way down the line, trying each door as he passed, swearing as they refused to open. Then he saw something up ahead. A roll-around work light, a truck with its hood up, a short stepladder, and standing on top, a mechanic with his or her ass in the air.

Moving quietly so he wouldn't alert the mechanic, Corvan laid Kim down, cradling her head until the very last moment, gritting his teeth when he saw how much blood she'd lost.

Tiptoeing around the van, he peeked through the driver's window, saw an ignition keypad, and glided toward the front of the truck. Stepping up onto the stepladder, he stuck the submachine-gun's stubby barrel into the crack of the mechanic's substantial rear end and cleared his throat.

The mechanic straightened up so fast he hit his head on the hood. "Ow! What the hell . . . ?" His words froze in his mouth when he saw Corvan and the lethal-looking automatic weapon. He had a meaty face with a big smear of grease on his left cheek.

"Will it run?" Corvan asked the question in a conversational tone of voice, much like a prospective buyer sizing up a used electro car.

The mechanic stuttered, unable to take his eyes off the large black hole from which bullets could emerge with unbelievable speed. "Y-y-yes-s, but I'm—"

"Shut up. What's the ignition code?"

"Th-th-the driver's name. S-s-samantha."

"Good. Close the hood and get off the stepladder."

The mechanic did as he was told and came down the stepladder with his hands on top of his head.

"Sit down over there," Corvan instructed, using the machine gun to gesture toward the wall. "Sit on your hands. Stay there and you won't get hurt."

"Y-y-yes-s, sir." Once again the driver did as he was told. He watched in wide-eyed fascination as Corvan hoisted Kim onto his shoulder, laid her on the bench seat, and went around to the other side. Climbing behind the wheel, he punched the name "Samantha" into the keypad, and smiled when the engine fired up. Good. Something was going right for once. Or so he thought.

Corvan unplugged the submachine gun and placed it on the seat beside him. Putting the truck into reverse, he backed away from the frightened mechanic and swore when he saw the floor drain and the trail of green coolant he'd left behind. Well, it couldn't be helped. He'd have to keep going.

As if to emphasize that thought, a bullet hit the side of the van and, unable to punch its way through, flattened itself out into a smear of lead. Damn. He'd hoped to clear the building before they discovered he was gone. Gritting his teeth, Corvan swung the wheel right. As the truck turned, he tapped the brakes, put the transmission in drive, and stomped on the accelerator. The big engine gulped gasohol and roared forward.

In the distance Corvan saw a ramp marked "EXIT" and headed that way. Lead hammered across the side of the van, but the rig was built like an armored car and it kept on going. Two men and a woman jumped out in front of him and opened up with machine pistols. Corvan ducked as the windshield shattered and safety glass flew in every direction. He felt a soft thump and heard a scream as one of them was sucked underneath the truck.

Corvan stuck his head back up in time to see the ramp, correct his steering, and brace himself for a collision. Some asshole had lowered a corrugated metal door. Just as the truck hit, Corvan managed to grab Kim's belt and keep her from flying forward. Metal screeched, ripped, and tore. The truck bounced, stalled for a second, and lunged forward.

Suddenly they were outside on a crowded city street. It was night and a huge government-owned billboard proclaimed that "THIN IS IN."

People screamed and ran in every direction as the huge truck roared out onto the pavement. Corvan fought the wheel and managed to bring the truck under control. He didn't know where he was and didn't care. He just wanted out. Out from under the government, out from under the Exodus Society, just plain out. And Kim. He wanted Kim. But first he had to find her a doctor. But how?

A hail of lead hit the rear end of the truck. Corvan glanced outside at the big rearview mirror just before it shattered into a thousand pieces. Damn them! Another delivery truck was right behind him, this one festooned with gun-toting guards, and they were shooting at him.

Swearing steadily, he took a corner on screeching tires, stood on the gas, and hoped for the best. A street vendor dived out of the way as the right front fender hit his cart and sent it cartwheeling into a crowd. People screamed and scattered every which way. A mother and her two children ran out into the street. The van jumped and bucked as Corvan forced it up and over a curb.

Spotting a cluster of people up ahead, Corvan swerved back onto the street just as the beeping noise began. Glancing down at the control panel, he saw the word "Coolant" spelled out in large red letters. Just in case he was a complete moron, it flashed on and off with each beep. On top of that the temperature graphic had turned bright red and pegged itself on H. No doubt about it, the engine wasn't going to last much longer, and when it died, so would he.

Glancing over his shoulder, Corvan saw that the other van was still on his tail. Turning back, he swerved to avoid an oncoming taxi and tried to consider his options. The only problem was that he didn't have any. His transportation was falling apart, there was a truck full of killers on his tail, Kim was wounded, and the police wanted him in the worst possible way.

Up ahead Corvan saw a high-rise tower with the word "Police" circling endlessly around the third floor. Another hail of bullets hit the rear end of the truck. Corvan shrugged and aimed for the bottom of the tower. If you can't beat them, join 'em.

Corvan wasn't sure, but it looked as if the truck might just barely fit through the huge double doors, especially if he hit them real hard. Leaning on the horn to scatter the intervening pedestrians, Corvan grabbed Kim's belt, stepped on the gas, and closed his eyes.

The truck went through the glass and light metal framing with amazing ease but a tremendous amount of noise. Corvan opened his eyes as it skidded to a stop and found himself the center of a frozen tableau. The front end of the truck was taking up most of the cop shop's reception area. All around him cops stood in positions of stupified amazement, struggling to assimilate what had just taken place and finding it hard to do.

Corvan opened the door, dragged Kim outside, and looked around. He did his best to summon up a grin. "Hi, guys. It looks like you caught us fair and square. Where's your doctor?"

19

Numalo cut off the com call with a snap of his fingers and stepped out onto his veranda. He wore a long white robe and simple leather sandals. They made a slapping sound with each step that he took.

It was nearly one-thirty and the afternoon rain had just begun. An hour, two at the most, and it would stop. As the rain drops hit, they sent up little puffs of dust and quickly vanished into the warm African soil.

Out beyond the edge of Numalo's veranda some carefully tended veldt stretched off toward a smudge of high-rise buildings. They had once been bastions of white South African rule, unassailable fortresses from which the minority told the majority what to do and grew rich in the process.

Numalo's grandfather had worked in one of those buildings, back when the city was known as Johannesburg, and black men did as they were told. The city was called Mandela now, and black men did what they wanted to do. Before long it would become the capitol of Unified Africa. Numalo's Africa.

Numalo allowed his eyes to wander over the land. If you knew what to look for, you could see places where a thin layer of soil clothed old foundations, where a thorn bush grew out of a barely concealed tire, where a tree struggled upward through grass-covered concrete.

The continent was a far cry from what it had been: a vast wilderness teeming with life, a slate upon which nothing had been written. If Numalo could return Africa to one one-thousandth of its former glory he would be pleased. That, plus the desire to provide himself with an appropriate setting, accounted for Numalo's private veldt.

A variety of imported animals grazed there, including zebra, antelope, wildebeest, and a giraffe or two. Because of the ongoing food shortages, all of Africa's animals had been hunted to the verge of extinction, and if it weren't for his electrified fences and armed guards, these too would quickly disappear.

These at least would grow fat on Numalo's artificial plain. A plain which had been fertilized with more than a hundred thousand human bodies and watered with a river of blood. For where the animals now grazed, the shacks of Soweto had once stood, the very heart of the black revolution and the first target of the white men's guns.

Rejected by the community of nations and teetering on the edge of extinction, the white government had used draconian measures against the rebels, and then plowed the evidence under in hopes that the world would never see what they had done.

But tired of living like slaves, the oppressed majority had risen up and rolled over the whites like a tidal wave of black flesh. It had been costly, but for every bullet the white men had, there were three black bodies willing to die.

Much had followed and not all of it good. The majority was not a majority at all, but a banding together of many tribes with black skin, and it wasn't long before ancient hatreds split the people into warring factions.

Zulu fought Xhosa, Xhosa fought Sotho, and Sotho fought Tswana and so forth, until hundreds of thousands had died. Eventually the Zulus had won, their superior numbers overwhelming the rest of the tribes, and an uneasy peace had come upon the land. A peace often disturbed by Xhosa separatists and Sotho radicals.

"And then," Numalo thought to himself with no small amount of satisfaction, "and then I came along."

And it was true. Numalo had involved himself with the Party for African Unity at just the right moment, and, with help from the WPO, had engineered alliances between fifty-one disparate and often hostile countries. That, plus his mixed blood, his undeniable charisma, and his relentless determination, had placed Numalo in a powerful position.

Now time had passed, and thanks to the economic interdependence encouraged by the WPO, those alliances were stronger than ever. So strong, in fact, that member nations had very little latitude to act on their own and, taken together, were commonly referred to as Unified Africa. And eventually the day would come when names like Kenya, Chad, and Libya were no longer meaningful, when Africans saw themselves as members of a single nation, a nation headed by Leader for Life Numalo.

And if Africa, why not Asia too, and the rest of the world? Until the last twenty-four hours or so it had seemed possible—more than that, damn near inevitable.

It wasn't clear whether Carla had made the treacherous broadcast herself or been misrepresented by unauthorized use of the video matrix generator, but it didn't matter. Traitors and fools deserve the same death. Except Carla had escaped. A fact which caused Numalo to remove Sugar's name and life experiences from the digitized roll of the Immortals, making him twice dead and a source of shame for his family.

Although the punishment made Numalo feel better, it did nothing to counter the negative impact of Carla's broadcast. By suggesting that he'd "used blackmail, bribery, and murder to position himself for global leadership," Carla—or the people manipulating her electronic image—had placed Numalo on the defensive. Not only that, they'd sent shock waves through out his vast network of interlocking agreements, scaring the weak and tempting the strong.

And worst of all, the broadcast had brought his activities to the attention of the WPO leadership, something he'd worked hard to avoid. Numalo had used their power to engineer his rapid rise to prominence, their money to buy what he couldn't steal, and their organization to lay the groundwork for world conquest. With infinite skill he'd allowed himself to be used, but always to his ends and always toward his goals. And so careful were his moves, and so subtle his actions, that many of his activities had gone unquestioned. Until the broadcast. That, plus the publicity which went with it, had stimulated a com call.

The call came from Pierre LaSalle, a member of the WPO's executive board and widely known as their enforcer. Because the Frenchman chose to stay out of the public eye, Numalo had never seen his face, but over the years had learned to respect LaSalle's soft, sibilant voice. During quarterly reviews it was the Frenchman who asked the hardest questions, who turned rocks over to see what clung to the other side, who insisted on good answers.

The conversation had been short and to the point: "What's this crap about Hawkins nominating you to run the world?" LaSalle demanded. And then, before Numalo could reply, the other man said, "No, don't tell me, I don't want to hear it. What I do want is a nice, clear understanding. We made you and we can destroy you. We are quite happy with the way things are organized. Economic interdependence is good, but political centralization is bad, it hurts the bottom line. Yes, we understand that you'd like to play an even larger role, but be patient. Good things come to those who wait."

And by implication Numalo knew the reverse was true as well: "Bad things come to those who don't."

Still, Numalo had no intention of giving up, so the question was simple: Should he back off and try again later? Or throw all caution to the winds and go for it now?

Without warning the rain stopped and the sun broke out from behind a cloud. It was early. An omen? Numalo decided it was and smiled. He had one card left to play, the same card he'd been dealt, and it was the key to a winning hand.

20

Barge Farm 648 was a nursery school compared to life in the Tank. Official documents listed the complex as Short-Term Correctional Facility Number 3. But the D.C. cops called it the Holding Tank, because that's where prisoners were held while awaiting trial. And the guards who worked there called it the Tank, as in "septic tank," and the analogy fit pretty well. If the inmates weren't sewage, they came pretty damn close.

The Tank had been a factory during a previous incarnation and still felt like one. From the outside it looked like a black brick, a long, low structure, all strength and no beauty.

Inside, it consisted of a huge open space about three city blocks in length and three hundred feet wide. Wherever Corvan looked, he saw steel girders, concrete walls, metal catwalks, and chunky platforms.

Outside of two huge video screens, one at each end of the building, there were no recreational facilities. As a matter of fact, there were no cells, no medical facilities, and no mess hall. That's because the Tank had never been intended as anything more than a temporary solution to the capitol's exploding prison population. Unfortunately, a new facility would cost a lot of money, and given the demands on the budget, it was a long ways off.

So prisoners slept wherever they found space, generally went without medical care, and ate whatever they were given.

Meals came twice a day and were packaged in bio-degradable white cartons. The prisoners referred to them as "barf in a box." Each one bore red lettering which read, "This meal comes to you with the compliments of the District of Columbia. Have a good day, and remember, be nice to your planet and it will be nice to you."

The same thing was printed on the other side of the carton in Spanish. The meal paks contained protein paste, some oatmeal, and just enough fruit to prevent scurvy.

In spite of their somewhat unappetizing contents, meal paks served as the Tank's primary medium of exchange. And even though there didn't seem to be much to buy, the Tank was packed to overflowing with every kind of criminal, deviant, psychopath, and wierdo the human race could produce, and many were quite inventive. As a result there were all sorts of prisoner-invented diversions, games, and activities. Quite a few of them turned Corvan's stomach.

But the Tank had some good points as well. The unofficial inmate government was a good example. Due to the transient nature of the population the power structure was kept in a constant state of flux. Men like Davy Jones weren't around long enough to create private empires. That had a flip side as well, of course. The lack of leadership led to eternal chaos, but what the hell, you can't have everything.

Still, there was a pecking order, and Corvan's status as an ex-reop turned merciless killer stood him in good stead. Thanks to television, most of the prisoners had seen Corvan kill Bethany Bryn hundreds of times and they were quite impressed. So much so that they gave him a standing ovation each time it came on. Corvan didn't like the attention, but found it useful. After all, once you've seen someone murder a woman in cold blood, you think twice before stealing his meal pak.

There were other advantages as well, including the roughly six square feet of personal space the other prisoners granted him, a sizable kingdom by their standards. It was located at the end of the highest catwalk. A position which left him without an emergency exit, but with a corner to put his back into and an unrestricted view of the main floor.

As always it was a swirling mass of walking, talking, sweating men. At the far end of the hall the video screen swirled and a public service announcement came on it. "Do you want air to breathe?" a stern-looking woman asked. "Then grow it!"

The woman pointed off-camera, and the shot dissolved to a tidy-looking single-family dwelling. The kind which had once been very common but were now increasingly rare. What made this house even more unusual was the carpet of lush green grass which covered the roof. A nice-looking man stood at the very top, watering the grass with a garden hose and admiring the view. The camera zoomed in and the man smiled.

"Looks nice, doesn't it? Cuts our power bill too, but what's more important is the feeling that we can make a difference. Why don't you make a difference too?"

Corvan settled in to wait for the next newscast. Maybe it would say something of interest. The railing was hard and cold behind his back, his stomach growled at the short rations, and his skin itched.

He'd been in the Tank for two days now, two days without any word of Kim, two days without information other man the nearly worthless newscasts.

The most frustrating moment had come around mid-afternoon the day before. The video screens had one channel, whichever one the guards choose to play, and it subscribed to World Net. The newscast had just begun, and the anchor was just leading into a statement by President Hawkins when the screen went blank. And it had stayed blank for a full five minutes, something which was almost unheard of, and when it finally came back on, there was no explanation, no rerun of me president's comments, in fact, no comment whatsoever. What the hell was going on? There was no way to know.

Whatever it was, Corvan hoped the police were treating Kim well, giving her the medical treatment they'd promised, and housing her somewhere better than the Tank.

True to form, the police had shoved him around, called him a lot of names, and encouraged him to confess his many crimes. It was kid's stuff compared to the mock prisoner-of-war camp he'd been through in the army. So Corvan ignored their questions, rolled with the punches, and demanded to see his lawyer.

They refused, of course, pointing out that under the recent Violent Crimes Act, they could hold him for up to forty-eight hours without a hearing or provision of legal counsel.

But eventually they grew bored, loaded him onto a bus with seventy other prisoners, and sent him to the Tank. Torture might have been more fun.

The news came on. It seemed like business as usual at first. The sea level continued to rise, a terrible train crash had taken place in Japan, new food riots had broken out in the Ukraine, there was another political scandal in Mexico, and the latest Mars mission was going well. The usual stuff. Then came an item which caused Corvan to sit up and pay attention. It seemed the vice president had broken off her visit to the moon and returned to Washington, D.C. No one knew why, but World Net News promised to find out and return "after this brief message." A commercial for hospital-assisted euthanasia came on and Corvan tuned it out.

The Veep had returned dirtside. Now that was interesting. Were they getting ready to replace the electronic Hawkins with a flesh-and-blood vice president? If so, how would Numalo react? Corvan sighed. There was no way to know.

The lights were always on, but Corvan decided to grab some sleep and lay down with his back to the rail. In spite of the incessant noise, the bright lights, and the never ending stink he went right to sleep.

When Corvan awoke, it was because someone had prodded him with something hard. He awoke with a jerk and scrambled to his feet ready to fight. A huge prisoner straightened up and backed away. He had a bullet-shaped head, a pink neon nose ring, and an ugly mass of scar tissue where a temple jack might have been. "No hurt," the man said imploringly. "Me send they. Bring you meal pak they give me. I share. Come?"

Corvan felt sorry for the giant. Like many others before him, this man had tried to better himself by saving up for an illegal implant. And while trying to hook the implant in, some quack had scrambled the poor bastard's brains. Now the giant was running errands for the guards in hopes of an extra meal pak. A meal pak he was willing to share if Corvan would come without a fight.

The reop let his hands fall to his sides. He forced a smile. "Sure. Let's go."

The giant smiled in return and nodded his head eagerly. The catwalk shook slightly as he turned and walked toward the nearest ladder. Other prisoners hurried to get out of the man's way. Brain-damaged or not, the man was huge, and they had no desire to piss him off.

It was a long walk to the main entrance. The two men were ignored for the most part, but every now and then someone would recognize Corvan and nod politely, or nudge the person next to them and whisper something unintelligible.

Corvan missed most of it since his thoughts were on other things. He wondered what the guards wanted, whether it was more bad news, and if he should've resisted. Not that it would make much difference. The guards didn't dare come inside the Tank, but thanks to men like the giant, they didn't have to. There were lots of prisoners who would bring them a prisoner for a meal pak or a free com call. Had Corvan refused to come peacefully, or managed to defeat the giant, the guards would've sent more prisoners until sheer numbers brought him down. Like the Tank itself, the system was crude but effective.

The main entrance was heavily defended by concrete machine-gun emplacements. Corvan noticed that someone had positioned them to provide interlocking fields of fire. Heavily armed guards lounged here and there, races hidden behind ballistic plastic, light glittering off the bright metal of their harnesses. The giant stopped in front of a bright yellow line. It described an arc in front of the guard station.

Corvan knew if he crossed the yellow line without permission he would die. No one had told him that and no one needed to. The space between the yellow line and the guard station was sprinkled with strange outlines. Each represented a dead prisoner who had stepped across the yellow line, been shot, and outlined in white paint.

It was, Corvan decided, the ultimate in graphic communication. A pictograph so eloquent that further explanation was completely unnecessary.

A moment passed during which the two of them were scanned, computer-verified, and approved. "Put your hands on top of your heads and keep them there! Approach the gate!" The voice was amplified and came from somewhere overhead.

Corvan did as instructed by placing his hands on the top of his head and moving forward toward the gate. Meanwhile motion detectors sensed movement in the free-kill zone, and a computer directed two batteries of machine guns to cover the threat. Their servos made a whining noise which caused Corvan's hair to stand on end. The only thing between him and death was a dead man's switch and a guard's meaty thumb. If the thumb was tired and slipped from the switch, well, no big deal. He'd be one more outline on the floor.

"Halt!"

Corvan did as he was told. Two guards approached. One ran a metal detector over him and then stood aside while the second patted him down. Apparently satisfied, they did the same to the giant and handed him a new meal pak.

The giant took the carton and held it out to Corvan. His smile said, "Here, take your half."

Corvan smiled in return and shook his head. "No, thanks. You earned it."

The giant shrugged and turned away. Servos whined as he trudged through the kill zone and across the yellow line.

"Straight through there," a guard said, and pointed his cattle prod toward a heavy metal door. There was a sign over it which read, "Thanks for coming. We hope you enjoyed your stay."

As Corvan moved toward it he looked back over his shoulder. Strangely enough, the guards weren't even looking his way. It was as if they'd completely lost interest in him.

As Corvan approached the door, a whole battery of scanners looked him over, sent the results to a computer, and dropped off-line when confirmation came back. The door slid open with a heavy rumble and closed again as Corvan stepped through.

Half expecting another set of guards, Corvan was surprised to find himself in a small reception area. There was only one person in sight. The gyro stabilizer in Chris Saxon's chair whined as he approached. The good side of his face looked tired. "Hello, Rex, there's a limo waiting outside."

Corvan frowned and crossed his arms. "That's it? 'Hello Rex, there's a limo waiting outside'? Two days ago you tried to kill me."

"True," Saxon replied calmly. "But times change. Kim's in the limo."

Corvan walked past the other man and toward the outside door. It swished aside at his approach, and cool night air touched his face. There was indeed a limo sitting in front of the entrance, a long black affair with an open door and a ramp for Saxon's convenience. Corvan walked up to it and stuck his head inside. Soft light bathed the interior. Kim was there and looked absolutely beautiful. He saw a small bandage on the side of her head. She smiled.

"Hi, Rex. It's good to see you." There was something restrained, something formal in the way she greeted him, and that's when Corvan realized that die limo contained another passenger: Carla Subido. She sat opposite Kim and raised a carefully plucked eyebrow when he looked her way.

"Hello, Mr. Corvan. We meet again."

Corvan ignored her as he turned back toward Kim. "Are you okay?"

Kim nodded and touched her side. "Outside of a little soreness, I'm fine. The bullet went through without hitting anything important."

Corvan heard a whir as Saxon approached from behind.

"Touching though this is," the other man said impatiendy, "we're working on a tight schedule. If you'd get inside the limo, I would be most appreciative."

Corvan looked at Kim. She shrugged. "They have a plan. You won't like it, but it's better than nothing."

"Or staying here," Saxon said pointedly. "Or do your journalistic ethics prevent you from accepting our hospitality?"

Corvan didn't have to see Saxon's face to know the other man was sneering. It was clear from his voice and from the look in Kim's eyes. She was afraid that he'd climb up on his journalistic high horse and ride it back into prison. With a sense of disappointment Corvan realized that the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. By now he was so involved in the story, he no longer measured his actions against any standard except that of momentary expediency. He was like a priest who, having forsaken the priesthood, does all the things he once sermonized against. Corvan found the decision was surprisingly easy. He climbed into the car.

Saxon whirred up the ramp and rolled inside. It took less than a minute to position himself next to Carla Subido. She put her left hand on his arm. He patted it and smiled.

The hydraulic ramp made a loud whining noise as it disappeared underneath the vehicle. Seconds later the car pulled away from the curb; the ride was so smooth that Corvan barely felt it. He felt suddenly dirty and out of place within the limo's scented luxury. He felt compelled to say something. "So how did you get me out?"

"We didn't," Saxon replied matter-of-factly. "That was your friend Martin's doing. He introduced new evidence into all of the appropriate computer files, had the charges against you reduced to reckless driving, and went your bail. I'd plead guilty if I were you. I understand there were a dozen cops standing around when you parked that delivery van in the middle of their reception area."

Corvan looked at Kim and back at Saxon. "What about the VMG footage of me killing Bethany Bryn? The shoot-out at the E-FEX-1 studios in San Francisco? And the game of hide-and-seek at your bakery?"

"What about them?" Saxon replied cooly. "At Martin's request I gave a sworn deposition that you were with me when Bethany Bryn was killed. I understand the police are looking into the possibility that the murderer was disguised to look like you. The firelight at the E-FEX-1 studios was caused by a party, or parties, unknown, and the shots fired inside the bakery were part of a straightforward robbery attempt."

Corvan looked from Saxon to Subido and back. It was outrageous. "You're still working on a cover-up. You don't want people to know about die VMG.'' Corvan looked at Kim. "It's the same deal they offered us in the bakery. We said no. How's this any different?"

Kim shrugged. "I said you wouldn't like it. But hear them out. It's true that Subido pulled the trigger, but Numalo put her up to it, and they plan to take him out."

Corvan started to speak, but Kim held up a hand. "I know, Subido's playing our friend Chris like a grand piano. But it doesn't change the fact that we've got a shot at Numalo. The world isn't perfect. That's why so many people want off it."

Saxon started to speak, but Carla squeezed his arm. One glance at her face and he swallowed his words. She was right. He'd ignore the personal slur. Carla loved him and that was enough.

Corvan allowed himself to slump back in his seat. He was tired. Too tired to do anything but go along. He shrugged. "All right. Fill me in. Two days ago Numalo held all cards. What's new?"

Subido kept her face carefully blank. It still hurt when she thought about Numalo's attempt on her life. Still, that was in the past. What mattered now was survival. Hers. If she moved with great care and played it just right, she could still emerge a winner. She chose her words carefully.

"Samuel made some serious mistakes. He should've backed off and tried again later. Instead he got angry and ordered my bodyguard to kill me. That attracted a lot of press attention, and while we don't know for sure, it's safe to say the whole thing has made top WPO leadership extremely nervous. Nervous enough to start asking questions. Chances are, they contacted Samuel, told him to back off, and waited for his reaction."

Subido gave a half smile. "Samuel doesn't know how to back off. He made plans to keep right on going.

"That's right," Saxon added as he picked up the narration. "Apparently Numalo has a VMG, a copy of the two which had been built in this country, and he attempted to use it. The day before yesterday he arranged for an ersatz Hawkins to deny the statements made by your phony Subido." Saxon chuckled. "It's surprising how many stations and networks are owned by the WPO. They dumped the broadcast."

Corvan remembered the lead-in to the Hawkins broadcast and how quickly it had disappeared from the screen. Now it made sense. "So they know about the VMG."

"That's right," Saxon agreed. "You were wrong about us. We aren't hiding the VMG, we're putting things back together."

"The way they want them," Kim added cynically, "but that's better than letting Numalo have it all."

Corvan agreed, but didn't want to admit that in front of the others. He asked a question instead. "Is that why the vice president returned dirtside?"

"It's nice to see that you're keeping up with current events," Saxon replied sarcastically. "Yes, even as we speak, the WPO medical staff is working to come up with a suitable cause of death, and once that's taken care of, the vice president will take his position. You'll be interested to know that the vice president's new cabinet will include an interesting mix of WPO- and Exodus Society-trained advisers."

Corvan looked from Saxon to Subido and back. Their expressions confirmed his statement before he made it. "So the WPO and the Exodus Society have agreed to share power."

"Yes," Saxon replied easily. "Although the WPO would tell you that they regard themselves as the senior partners in our little arrangement."

"And are they?"

Saxon shrugged and glanced toward Subido. "For the moment. In the fullness of time, who knows?"

The limo took a corner, and Corvan braced himself so that he wouldn't lean on Kim's injured side. "So it's all settled," he said grimly. "You’ve divided up the spoils and now you're about to tidy up some loose ends."

"Crudely put," Subido said, "but basically accurate."

"And that's where I come in."

"Yes," Saxon agreed, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "That's where you come in. With a little help from our friends we're going to cancel Numalo's ticket. The man is too dangerous to live. Properly managed, his death will be the biggest media event the world has ever seen. And who better to narrate the action than the famous Rex Corvan?"

21

Corvan fell softly through the interface, each layer of darkness slightly different than all the rest, sensing Kim all around him. Then he was there, drifting beside her, a shadow on a shadow. This time there was no pause, no hesitation as they came together, joyously flowing in to fill each other up.

And somewhere far, far away, their bodies merged as well, the physical pleasure echoing down through the interface like a huge ringing of bells, the music rolling over and through them in waves. Corvan and Kim laughed with pleasure and gasped when the interface fed it back, each new wave amplified by the old.

And they hung on as an ocean of joy lifted them up to the very top of an enormous tidal wave and carried them racing toward a distant beach. With bright blue sky above and deep blue ocean below, they skimmed the point where air and water come together, breathing pleasure through every pore, at one with each other and everything around them. And then as the bottom shelved steeply upward and the wave was forced even higher, there was a single moment of exquisite pleasure before earth and water met and exploded into complete chaos. Then the water was gone, sucked back into the ocean from whence it came, and they were left side by side on a foreign shore, the same but different, their minds and bodies still linked, but gradually drifting apart.

It was a long time before either one spoke, so long that Corvan might have slept, though he wasn't sure. Her touch was feathery light, a gentle caressing of his mind, and reminded him of the interface. It still bound them together and made speech unnecessary.

"Enjoyable though it is, we can't stay like this forever."

Her thought seemed to float through his mind like colored dye in crystal-clear water. He chuckled. "Why not?"

"Because," Kim answered gently, "they'll come looking for you. The assault is an hour away."

Corvan felt himself involuntarily pull away. She was right. In an hour he and two thousand others would lift off for an assault on Numalo's African headquarters. Ostensibly called in by unnamed "forces of liberation" to counter Numalo's tyranny, the force consisted of WPO troopers, plus a healthy contingent of Exodus Society "freedom fighters," and just enough African nationals to put a good face on everything. Corvan's role was to report the whole thing with Kim as his engineer.

In many ways, however, the report was more like a script, since it had been written in advance and was far from factual. In order to protect Carla Subido, the WPO, and the Exodus Society, the report would cover up the president's murder, justify the attack on Numalo, and avoid all mention of the video matrix generator. Nothing had been said to Corvan, but he could see that those in power planned to stay in power, and continued use of the VMG would help them accomplish that.

In other words, the script went against everything Corvan stood for and believed in. Which was why he had absolutely no intention of using it. He sent a thought Kim's way. "Is it safe to talk?"

Kim's reply came as a feeling of reassurance. "Yes, as long as we're in the interface. But the editing suite is bugged, so watch what you say when we come out."

"Understood," Corvan thought back. "Are you ready?"

He sensed her mental shrug. "As ready as I'll ever be. You'll get things rolling, Martin will take care of distribution, and I'll glue it all together."

"And then?"

"And then we'll live happily ever after."

"Promise?"

"Promise," Kim thought, and began to cry.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because you're a selfish bastard, because you could get killed, because you'd leave me behind."

Corvan tried to think of a strategy, some formulation of words which would make her happy, but couldn't. He settled for a kiss instead, a kiss which started on the emotional plane and was physical by the time he made his way up and out of the interface. Her tears tasted of salt as he kissed them all away and removed the jack from the side of his head.

Clothes were scattered all over the place, and as Corvan and Kim put them on, they did their best to make bright conversation for the benefit of the eavesdroppers. But what they truly thought was in their eyes, plain for the other to see, and completely inaccessible to even the most sophisticated electronics.

By unspoken agreement they made their leave-taking crisp and efficient, with Corvan running checks on his gear and Kim confirming that all systems were green. The single exception came just as Corvan was about to leave. At that point Kim ignored the possibility that someone might listen in and used the off-air intercom. "Take care, Rex. I want you back."

Corvan paused in the doorway, an alien-looking figure with the skeletal form of a robo cam perched on one shoulder and a black lens where an eye should have been. The light from the corridor beyond threw Corvan's face into shadow, but his words warmed her heart and lingered long after he was gone. "I love you, Kim."

The cruise ship was huge. Tier after tier of decks rose twenty stories up to tower over the South Atlantic, a skyscraper on a trimaran hull, an oceangoing pleasure palace turned troop ship.

Knowing that Numalo's Immortals monitored military movements which came anywhere near their master's headquarters, the combined leadership of the WPO and the Exodus Society had fallen back on the ancient concept of a Trojan Horse and packed a cruise ship with soldiers.

With its original complement of passengers being held incommunicado on the Cape Verde Islands, the ship could carry the combined attack force down along the west coast of Africa without attracting attention. After all, it was supposed to be there, and its cargo of rich, overfed passengers offered no threat to Leader for Life Numalo.

Or so it would seem anyway, until the host of hastily concealed tilt-rotor aircraft rose from the ship's decks and headed inland across what had once been known as Namibia. Then an escort of WPO aerospace fighters would drop out of orbit to wipe out whatever planes the Immortals were able to launch, and destroy the surface-to-air missile sites which dotted the countryside around Numalo's stronghold.

With that accomplished, the VTOL craft would land, discharge their troops, and lift off again. As they did, the tilt-rotor aircraft would turn to their secondary ground-support mission, and use their guns to chop up any reinforcements the Immortals might summon from the surrounding area.

It was, Corvan reflected, a pretty good plan, and if it survived first contact with the enemy, stood a fairly good chance of working.

As Corvan moved toward the central elevators he found himself rubbing elbows with everyone from combat-suited WPO troopers to grim-looking Exodus Society freedom fighters and the tough desert warriors of Emelda Smith-Shad, the woman chosen to replace Numalo as the leader of Unified Africa. He'd seen her shortly after boarding, a tall, willowy black woman, her eyes flashing as she spoke to an aide. She'd been around for some time, never directly challenging Numalo but close on his heels. Now she'd have her chance at power, and Corvan hoped she was up to the job. The fact that she appealed to both the WPO and the Exodus Society might mean she was a master politician or a spineless hack. Only time would tell.

A Klaxon sounded somewhere and a bored voice read orders from a printout. "All troops, report to your staging areas. I repeat, all troops, report to your staging areas. If you don't know where you are, or don't remember which staging area to report to, pick up a blue courtesy phone and give your name, rank, and serial number." Moments later the recording started all over again, this time in Arabic.

The elevator doors opened and spewed men and women in every direction. What the voice neglected to mention was that the main assembly time was already fifteen minutes in the past. These were the stragglers, well aware they were late, still hoping to avoid almost certain punishment.

Corvan had a seat reserved for himself on one of the first planes out, but not being attached to any particular unit, he could take his time. Strolling out onto one of the many sun decks which circled the craft, he looked out over the huge playing field which occupied most of the stern. It was large enough for polo, American football, soccer, or any other open field game, and it was covered with rank after rank of gleaming VTOL stealth-equipped aircraft. The combined sound of their idling engines made a thunder of sound. Tidy lines of camo-clad men and women were already snaking aboard to take their places inside. All wondered the same thing. The computers estimated that at least twenty percent of them would be casualties, so given that figure, what about them? Would they live or die?

"Impressive, isn't it?" Saxon's approach had been masked by the background sound, and he was forced to yell in order to make himself heard.

Corvan looked down to see the eagerness etched into both sides of Saxon's face, the soft morning light somehow balancing it out, reminiscent of the young officer he'd interviewed at Vandenberg years before. "Yes, it's real impressive, but kind of sad too."

Saxon frowned. "Sad? How's that? We're gonna kick Numalo's ass! There's nothing sad about that."

"There is if you're part of the twenty percent," Corvan replied, but his words were drowned out by the sound of the engines. Saxon wasn't listening anyway. He was still there, looking out over the playing field, when Corvan headed down toward his plane.

The wood-paneled halls and corridors were almost empty now, with most of the troops preparing to board their planes or already strapped in, checking their equipment one last time, praying that they would live.

Corvan thought about Kim somewhere below, sitting inside the ship's television studio, preparing for battle. Thanks to the two-way intercom, she would ride with him, a mental hitchhiker seeing what he saw and vicariously sharing his fate.

If Corvan were hit, she'd hear the scream through his ears, see the world stagger and fall through his eyes, and feel the darkness envelop him as he fell into the void. He knew she'd thought about it, feared that it might happen, but remained silent. Kim had a job to do and above all else she was a pro.

A cold wind whipped across the ship's stern as Corvan crossed to midfield. White spray paint had been used to divide it into squares. As a result the field looked like a huge checkerboard. Instead of checkers each square held a delta-shaped aircraft. Up above, a few fluffy clouds hurried toward the west, and the air was as clear as the ever present pollution would allow it to be.

As Corvan neared the low, delta-shaped aircraft he saw a WPO logo on its side along with the designation "A-7960."

"Your name, sir?" There were no marks of rank on his WPO-issued camos, so the petite noncom didn't know if Corvan was an officer or not, but it always pays to be careful. All you gotta do is drop one "ma'am" or "sir" to wind up with your ass in a sling.

"Corvan, Rex," the reop answered. "Authorized press. Authority code SP-4640."

The noncom found his name on her hand comp, touched it, and saw "SP-4640" flash onto the screen.

She grinned and Corvan noticed that she was pretty. "Go right aboard, sir. You're seated in the first-class cabin today, row three, seat B as in Baker."

Corvan nodded. "Thanks, Sarge. Youcomin' along for the ride?"

The noncom nodded and patted the H&K G-40 which hung at her side. "You bet, sir. Wouldn't miss it for the world. See you in the LZ."

Corvan waved and climbed aboard. He was one of the last to do so and felt something heavy fall into his stomach as the hatch swung closed with a heavy thump and the pretty sergeant dogged it down. He was scared and, all things considered, that made a lot of sense.

It felt strange to sit among all those soldiers empty-handed, with no heavy weapons or pack to weigh him down. By his own choice Corvan had limited himself to a 9-mm reusable handgun with three backup mags of fourteen rounds apiece. The pistol rested in a shoulder holster just under his left arm. That, plus a double-edged commando knife which hung hilt down from his combat webbing, formed his only armament. Hopefully it was all he'd need. After all, his role was that of reop, not soldier. As if to remind him of that fact, Kim's voice entered his mind.

"Hi there, your reopship. All systems in the green."

"Good," Corvan thought back. "We're havin' some fun now. Is everything ready?"

"Yup. We'll go live when you're about ten minutes from the LZ. In the meantime the bird's up, Martin's on-line, and we’ve got ninety-six-point-four percent of me nets holding for our feed. And oh, by the way, you were right. Saxon showed up. He's riding shotgun here in the studio. He wanted access to the radio intercom, but I told him to screw off."

"Good," Corvan replied silently. "We've got enough problems without Saxon monitoring everything we say. How 'bout Subido?"

"She stopped in to kiss Saxon good-bye. Very touching. All dressed up like a commando. I think she wants to nail Numalo herself. Saxon tells me she's in the first wave."

"That's a good place for her," Corvan replied. "Maybe the Immortals will do us all a favor and cancel her ticket."

"Maybe so," Kim said. "Hang in there. I've got some pre-tapes to set up. I'll be back in a while."

Two horizontal panels of green lights flashed on and off in the forward bulkhead. A recording said, "All personnel, prepare for lift off," and all around Corvan, troopers checked their gear, or did their best to look bored.

Outside, the big Pratt & Whitney engines began to scream as the pilot wound them up tight. Then the plane seemed to jump into the air, lifting off precisely sixty seconds after the ship just ahead of it so that as the aircraft gained altitude there were no other VTOLs to either side. This reduced the chance of a lateral collision and presented the sort of orderly appearance which military minds love.

Like a long snake the planes took to the sky, gradually arranging themselves into two flights of ten. With one hundred troopers on board each plane, that made a total assault force of two thousand, one thousand more than the total membership of the Immortals, but still damned few when you considered the fact that Numalo's bodyguards weren't alone.

The Immortals had all sorts of auxiliaries to help them, including the technicians who operated the numerous batteries of SAMs, the local police force, and a sympathetic population. It wouldn't be easy.

Having tilted their engines forward for level flight, the planes droned in across the African coast and in toward the city of Mandela. They flew low to avoid Numalo's radar. That, plus their nonreflective designs and composite construction, would serve as their primary defense until the aerospace fighters descended from above.

Time dragged by, and Corvan decided that the strategy must be working, since the aircraft maintained a steady course and no missiles came racing up to blow them out of the air. In fact, it got downright boring, so that his mind drifted. Kim's thought jerked him awake.

"Rex?"

"Yeah?"

"You ready?"

"Are we that close?"

"About sixteen out."

"Yeah, I'm ready. How 'bout you? Can you handle Saxon?"

Her thought was grim. "I'll handle him."

"Okay," Corvan replied silently, wishing he could be in two places at once. "The world's in for quite a shock."

"Ain't that the truth," Kim agreed. "Give 'em hell. And one more thing ..."

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Corvan started to think something in reply, but the pilot jerked the ship to the right, popped a flare to decoy any heat-seeking missiles which might come their way, and activated the intercom. "Welcome to Africa, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks to our low altitude, low profile, and low IQs, we made it most of the way without taking any heat." The ship jinked violently left.

"Now, however, people on the ground are taking violent exception to our presence and trying to shoot us down. Help is on the way, but until it arrives, I suggest that you sit back and enjoy the rest of our flight."

"Fifteen from air," Kim said, and Corvan used the remaining seconds to collect his thoughts. Not only was this the most important live feed he'd ever do, it was quite possibly the last, since the chances were fairly good that the Immortals would kill him during the assault. And just in case they missed, chances were that either the WPO or the Exodus Society would pick up where they left off. Especially since Corvan was about to double-cross both organizations.

Corvan felt the robo cam leave his shoulder as Kim ordered it into the air. The countdown ended and Corvan began. The robo cam placed him frame right with the main aisle and the rest of the aircraft's interior stretching away behind him.

"This is Rex Corvan. Welcome to WPO aircraft A-7960. At least, those are the numbers painted on the side of this plane, but they don't tell you much about the people inside, or the assault which is about to begin.

"A mixed force of two thousand WPO troopers, Exodus Society volunteers, and African nationals are about to attack Leader for Life Numalo's stronghold on the outskirts of Mandela, Unified Africa. Numalo's headquarters are defended by a thousand of the so-called Immortals and hundreds of auxiliary personnel."

The robo cam moved in for a tight shot, and Corvan looked directly into its lens. "Why, you ask? Well, the answers are as fantastic as the assault itself. It's hard to say which came first: the conspiracy to take over the world or the unbridled ambition which spawned it."

As Corvan spoke, his picture and voice were relayed to a U.S. government satellite and from there all over the world. At WPO headquarters in New York, men and women jumped to their feet, their faces pulled into expressions of outrage as Corvan departed from the approved script, shouting at their subordinates to intervene.

In Washington, D.C., and San Francisco, enraged Exodus Society officials fought over comsets and scrambled to use their considerable power.

Com calls raced through the nets. Orders were given, buttons were punched, but the feed remained on-air. All around the world engineers cursed and swore doing their best to dump the broadcast which had the suits so upset. But try as they might, the engineers found there was nothing they could do. Somebody named Martin was relaying Corvan's feed via three of the government's top-secret government satellites, and when they called to complain, the Pentagon seemed just as confused as they were.

Meanwhile Saxon screamed, turned toward Kim, and jerked a handgun out from under his left arm. She'd been waiting for this moment, dreading it, and hoping that he'd react some other way. Saxon's face was a tangle of hate as he brought the gun toward her. The plastic grips felt warm and smooth as Kim pulled the gun out from under the console. She fired twice, just as Corvan had instructed her to do, aiming for the chest rather than the head. The down side to this strategy was the possibility that Saxon wore body armor underneath his clothes, but Corvan said it was worth the risk, because head shots are harder to make. And the gamble paid off because the first slug ripped right through Saxon's right lung and the second punctured his heart.

As Saxon died, so did the interface between his brain and his boxlike wheelchair. Freed from all control, the chair's servos made a screaming noise as it raced her way. Aiming low, Kim squeezed the trigger and sent a stream of steel-jacketed slugs into the black box. It swerved, hit a bulkhead, and keeled over. The room smelled of gunpowder as she turned back to the board. Kim lit a fag and watched her monitors.

"To understand this assault," Corvan continued, "you need to know that President Hawkins has been dead for quite some time now. Yes, you've seen him on television, but what you saw was false. What looked like the president, what sounded like the president, was actually an electronic likeness generated by a machine called the video matrix generator."

All over the world, men, women, and children looked up from what they were doing and started to pay attention. Wasn't that Rex Corvan, the reop who had supposedly murdered someone but had an alibi? And what was this stuff about the president?

Samuel Numalo was an island of calm in a sea of turmoil. Outside his office, combat boots pounded down the hall as the Immortals prepared to defend his headquarters. Most, if not all of them, would die. Numalo knew that, but made no effort to intervene. To surrender without a fight would never do. He and his Immortals would fight back. The cruise ship was a clever idea, but a vulnerable one, as his attackers would soon find out. Rising from his desk, Numalo made his way over to the louvered doors. Spreading them wide, he stepped out onto the veranda. A camo-clad officer moved to chase him back inside, but stopped after he saw the Leader for Life's expression.

Ignoring the men who hurried to set up a light machine gun on the veranda, Numalo looked upward. Contrails crisscrossed the blue sky where aerospace fighters patrolled, swatting his planes and missiles out of the air like flies, preparing the way for the troop transports which droned in from the west.

Funny, deep inside he'd always known that trouble would come from the west rather than the east, as if the knowledge were printed inside his bones. It was why he'd lived there, taken his education there, and made his first aggressive move there. Maybe it was the Zulu in him, the ancient warrior who had fought the white man and won, only to live on as their slave.

The planes made two lines, one just above the other, gaps snowing where three of their number had been hit. Three columns of black smoke marked their graves. Numalo smiled in grim satisfaction and called for his personal weapons. When the planes landed, he'd be there to meet them.

"Yes," Corvan said as the plane's engines tilted upward and it began to descend. "It's hard to believe. But there was a witness to the president's assassination, a witness no one thought to remove, a witness whom you can choose to believe or ignore. Some of you may doubt his word because the witness is a computer—the president's computer, a sentient device named Martin that helped Hawkins with the administrative part of his job and was present when the murder occurred.

"But regardless of your bias I suggest that you listen to what Martin has to say. And while you listen, I want you to look at some footage created by a video matrix generator in Washington, D. C, just three days ago while this assault was being prepared. The footage which shows Carla Subido, Hawkins' chief of staff, assassinating the president. Remember that this footage isn't real, but it looks real, and that's how a small group of people managed to seize control of the United States government and run it for the last two or three weeks."

Kim smiled and mentally released Martin's prerecorded interview. They'd considered going live, but what with the importance of Martin's current duties, they'd decided not to. This way Martin could dedicate all of his processing capacity to making sure that the satellite feed worked as it should.

And no matter what the public thought about Martin, the fake footage would either convince them of Subido's guilt or cause them to believe in the VMG. Either way, it would move them a step closer to the truth.

Kim's world suddenly shook. She heard a muffled explosion followed by a host of alarms. A voice came over the intercom, a real voice this time, tight with fear.

"We've taken a missile strike in the forward quarter of the main hull. Automatic systems and damage-control parties are working to assess and control the damage. The ship is in no immediate danger of sinking. As a safety precaution, however, we would ask all non-crew members to assemble on the main decks. If you're not sure of which assembly area to report to, check the key card for your cabin; it's the same color as the wall graphic in your assembly area." The voice went on, but Kim ignored it. She had work to do.

Corvan ignored Martin's sound bite, knowing the words by heart, and being a lot more concerned about the .50-caliber slugs which had just stitched a line of blue dots across the top curve of the fuselage.

The landing gear hit with a hard thump, and the copilot hit one of two red buttons. On the starboard side of the plane, the side away from hostile fire, a thirty-foot section of fuselage dropped outward to form a curved ramp. The troopers wasted no time bailing out. No matter how bad it might be outside the aircraft, conditions inside would soon be worse. The plane made one helluva target.

A hundred yards away Carla Subido swore softly as she rolled off the ramp and landed with a hard thump. She was getting out of shape and hated herself for it.

Climbing back to her feet, Subido looked for the low-lying headquarters building, saw it, and started that way. Numalo was somewhere close by. Logic told her that—and something else as well, a deep but invisible bond which linked the two of them together.

Subido pushed the thought away. Today she'd set things right. By killing Numalo she'd free herself from the confusing emotions and protect herself from those who would harm her. Otherwise the WPO leadership might learn that she'd been something more than Numalo's pawn. And that would never do, because she had plans to regain the power that she'd lost and would allow nothing to stand in her way.

The Immortals opened up with a machine gun. It threw up geysers of dirt as it traversed the field. The heavy slugs caught an entire row of Smith-Shad's irregulars trying to dash forward and threw them around like rag dolls. It was an extremely graphic lesson and one which all of the attacking forces learned instantly. Using what little cover was available, the WPO troopers began to return fire.

"Hold it, hold it," an unseen noncom said into Subido's left ear. "Wait for the mortars ... now!"

Up ahead something made a series of crumping sounds, and a long line of WPO troopers scrambled to their feet and raced forward. Subido was right behind them. As long as the auto mortars continued to fire, the Immortals would keep their heads down.

Martin's prerecorded interview came to a close, and Kim cued Corvan. She simultaneously positioned the robo cam for a wide shot with him in foreground and the conflict behind. As the mortar barrage began, a small contingent of Exodus Society volunteers rose and ran toward Numalo's headquarters building. Hearing Kim's "take it," Corvan began to speak:

"So, whether you believe Martin or not, you've seen what the Video matrix generator can do. It can make the dead speak, it can turn truth to lies, and yes, it can do the reverse as well. And that's what these men and women are fighting for, not just the right to run the world, but the power to define what truth is. When this battle is over, you will learn that the president didn't endorse a single-world government, that an actor was used to impersonate him, and that his wife was murdered to keep it all a secret." At that point a .223-caliber slug went through the robo cam and dumped the feed to black.

Kim took Corvan's eye cam just as the Klaxon began to sound, accompanied by a prerecorded voice. "Attention, all personnel! Attention, all personnel! Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"

The deck began to tilt. Kim stood as her chair tried to roll away. Her fingers flew over the touch-sensitive keyboard. She had to dip electronically into News Network 56's memory banks in Seattle, pull up the information she'd stored there while working out of the E-FEX-1 studios in San Francisco, and give it to Martin. He'd send it all over the world.

But the seconds were slipping away and when the ship's power went, so would her ability to get the information out. "The close, Rex! Do it now!"

The WPO troopers rose like a camouflaged wave and rushed toward the veranda. Caught up in the spirit of the moment, the Immortals did likewise, rising from behind their hastily placed sandbags and rushing out to meet their attackers. This was war as it should be fought! Direct and brutal, human to human, no quarter given. Knowing that their every thought and action was being recorded for posterity, the Immortals rushed the enemy guns.

Numalo sauntered along behind, his FN assault rifle tucked under one arm like a bird hunter carries a shotgun, a smile on his handsome face. How good the air smelled! How fine the veldt! These were the pictures he'd take with him.

Up ahead the WPO troopers smashed into a line of Immortals, and Subido looked for a way through. At first everything was a melee of hand-to-hand combat, then the line opened up as unseen forces pulled the tangled combatants right and left. Then she saw Numalo strolling toward the fray, every inch the gentleman, not a trace of fear in him. He smiled and started her way.

A bullet hit Subido, punched its way through her shoulder, and spun her around. She stumbled, almost fell, and caught herself. It hurt worse than anything she'd ever imagined.

Subido forced herself to stand, to face Numalo, who was closer now, still smiling.

Subido brought her Uzi up and leveled it at his stomach. Numalo smiled broadly as if daring her to pull the trigger. Subido tried but couldn't find the strength.

A bullet hit Numalo from behind. Blood spurted from the front of his leg. A stray, a sniper, it made little difference. The African fell, forced himself to stand, and swayed like a tree in the wind. He used the FN like a cane.

Subido held her left hand against the wetness and fought the dizziness which threatened to overwhelm her. Now he was there, only feet away, wounded but still smiling. Numalo spoke first.

"We came damned close didn't we?"

Subido noted the "we," knew that Numalo was still pushing her buttons, still manipulating her. She felt very, very tired. "Yes, Samuel, we came damned close."

They were standing there, searching each other's eyes, when the rifle grenade exploded next to them. Both died instantly.

A thousand yards away, and completely unaware of their deaths, Corvan heard Kim's voice in his inner ear. He could tell that she was desperate. Something had gone wrong and she wanted him to wrap. Fear knotted Corvan's stomach as he gathered his thoughts. He used his eye cam to pan the battlefield.

"So there you have it. Or do you? If the video matrix generator can make people believe that President Hawkins favors a single-world government, then it can make anything look real. Even this.

"We can no longer assume that what we see on television news is real, that cameras show us the way things really are, 'that a picture's worth a thousand words.' Just one video matrix generator in the wrong hands could be used to enslave the entire human race.

"And now, as our numbers start to crowd us off the planet, and we run short of good food and clean air, truth is one of the few commodities we have left. That's why copies of the VMG design parameters are being sent to every network and television station all over the world. It's too late to suppress the video matrix generator, or the technology which made it possible, so all we can do is make sure that everyone has it."

There was a rattle of gunfire and Corvan looked up into a second wave of charging Immortals. "Remember what I said. Question everything you see and hear. Good luck!" And all over the world the picture faded to black.

Epilog

Two years, one month, and four days after what the press liked to call the Computer Coup, a man and a woman stepped out of a large surface vehicle and into Cape Canaveral's early morning air. Ground fog shrouded the surrounding equipment with an air of mystery, and a variety of radios made a low murmur in the background. A few short steps would carry them to the roll-away stairs and the shuttle beyond.

They paused, ignoring the people around them to stare up into sky, knowing it was their new home. They were close now, closer than married people usually get. Some said it was the custom-designed interface which allowed them to communicate via thought. Others maintained that it was their harrowing ordeal, followed by more than a year and a half of public hearings, trials, and interviews.

But the man and woman knew it was something else. They knew it came from being a whole which was more than the sum of its parts, from a sharing which went deeper than conversation, from a feeling they couldn't describe to others.

They remembered the terrible fear, the agony of calling each other to hear only silence, followed by the unexpected thrill of seeing each other two weeks later.

By then Kim had spent four days drifting around the South Atlantic, and Corvan had spent the same amount of time in a series of hospitals, first in Africa, then in Europe, and finally in the United States.

Although the wound in his right leg wasn't crippling, it did require surgery and that put him out of circulation for a while. In the considerable confusion which followed the assault on Numalo's headquarters, both had assumed the other's death. And when things were finally straightened out and the endless round of official investigations had begun, they'd stayed together until winning their way to official freedom some six months before.

A limited kind of freedom, since their celebrity made them unemployable and they were constantly harassed by the press. Still, the glare of the media spotlights protected them from the possibility of WPO- and Exodus Society-generated reprisals, and provided them with one last chance.

Partly because it made good sense, and partly as a result of the Exodus Society's relentless lobbying efforts, the first attempt at space colonization was about to begin. And predictably enough, the initial trip would be part science and part hype. Somewhere up above, the huge ship Outward Bound swung in Earth orbit and awaited the last of its passengers. Among them were Rex Corvan, the Mars Colony's Public Information Officer, and his wife, Kim Kio-Corvan, their Chief Communications Specialist.

Together the husband-wife team would report on the one-way trip to Mars, life in the colony, and anything else which might strike their fancy.

Meanwhile the video matrix generator had taken its place in the worldwide community of electronic tools. In doing so it spawned a whole generation of commercials by dead public figures, one thousand, four hundred, and eighty-six lawsuits, and endless rounds of social commentary. Where will it lead? they wanted to know.

But Corvan and Kim had their answer. The VMG had led them first to each other and then to the stars. The rest of humanity would have to find its own way.

Together they picked up the case which had "MARTIN" stenciled across its side, smiled at each other, and climbed the stairs to the shuttle. They never looked back.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1990 by William C. Dietz

Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

ISBN 978-1-4976-0682-1

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com

Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilog