SHADOWRUN
TECHNOBABEL
Stephen Kenson
A ROC BOOK

ROC
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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First published by Roc, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a member of Penguin
Putnam Inc.
First Printing, May, 1998 10   9876543
Copyright (c) FASA Corporation, 1998 All rights reserved
Series Editor: Donna Ippolito Cover: Peter Peoples
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trademarks of the FASA Corporation, 1100 W. Cermak, Suite B305, Chicago, IL
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people who helped in the creation of this book who I would like
to thank. Thanks go to Bob Silverman for helping me make the jump to doing
this novel; Mike Mulvihill for giving me a shot and developing some great
Shadowrun storylines to work with; Donna Ippolito for giving an untried
novelist a chance; my fellow authors Mel Odom and Jak Koke for their
invaluable advice; FASA's extraordinary editorial staff for making me look
better than I am; my family and friends for putting up with me and encouraging
me; and, lastly, Tom Dowd, Paul Hume, and Bob Charrette for creating such a
cool world to play in. Thanks, everyone, I couldn't have done it without you.

Prologue
The year is 2059 . . .
Magic has returned to the world after an absence of thousands of years. What
the Mayan calendar called the Fifth World has given way to the Sixth, a new
cycle of magic, marked by the waking of the great dragon Ryumyo in the year
2011. The Sixth World is an age of magic and high technology. The age of
Shadowrun.
The rising magic has caused the Earth to Awaken. The ancient races have
re-emerged, throwing off their human guises. First came the elves and dwarfs,
born to human parents. Then came the orks and the trolls, some born different
like the elves and dwarfs, others transformed, twisted from human form into
their true selves as the rising magic activated their DNA. Dragons and other
creatures out of fantasy appeared in the skies and in the wilderness. Unknown
to the people of the twenty-first century, some of these folk and creatures
out of fantasy recall an earlier world where magic reigned supreme, long
before the earliest of recorded history. They know secrets that make them
powerful in this new Age of Magic.
The Sixth World is a strange blend of the arcane and the technological. The
march of technology has become a race. The distinction between man and machine
is blurred by the power of cybertechnology. Machine and computer implants are
commonplace, a mating of flesh and machine. People of the Sixth World are a
new breed; stronger, smarter, faster. Less human.
The Matrix has emerged like a phoenix from the ashes of the old global
computer network. A virtual world of

computer-generated reality, a universe of electrons controlled and manipulated
by those with the fastest cyberdecks and the hottest new code. In this world
is stored all of the information hidden behind powerful data fortresses just
waiting to be liberated by pirate computer users, deckers, who glide like
shadows through the corporate and governmental databases.
It is an era where information is power, where data and money are one and the
same. Multinational megacorporations have replaced governments as the true
superpowers. In a world where cities have grown together in sprawling
maga-plexes of concrete and steel, walled-off corporate enclaves and
arcologies are the modern castles from which corporate executives control
masses of wageslaves for the profit of a lucky and ruthless few.
But in the shadows of the corporate giants there are the SINless. Those
without System Identification Numbers are not recognized by the machinery of
society, by the bureaucracy so massive and complex that nobody understands it
completely. Among the SINless are the shadowrunners, traffickers in stolen
data and hot information, mercenaries of the street-discreet, effective, and
untraceable. They are the agents of the corporations that battle for power and
control in the concrete jungles.
In the depths of the Matrix, strange new forces stir, beyond the knowing of
any of the millions of people who access the vast network each day. The
dealings of a powerful inventor from a forgotten age of magic and a
multinational corporation with dreams of domination over the world market draw
the attention of powers unknown to either. A new faction has entered the
struggle of the Sixth World that is neither magic nor machine, but something
else entirely ...

The Matrix is a computer-generated, symbolic representation of the grid, the
world information network. Instead of dealing with messy manual commands and
procedures, the cyberdeck lets the user perform apparently real actions in
cyberspace and then translates them into system operations. A person in the
Matrix reaches out and touches the symbol representing a file. The deck's
software knows the user wants to open that file. The machine performs all of
the operations, freeing the user from the tedious task of having to enter
those commands manually. Matrix imagery is imposed on the user by the grid in
a "consensual hallucination," to use Dr. Hikita 's term. It's no more an
ultimate reality than an animated vid-chip. These are computer-generated,
graphic images. The systems and the functions those images represent are real,
but the images are just that. They have no reality.
-Dr. William Spheris, noted expert on Matrix design, from a tridcast interview
on People to People,
June 12, 2049.
Not real? Not real!? Looks to me like the doc's never done a run. I'm
tellin'you, when you're dartin' through the peaks of Mitsuhama's L.A.
mainframe shaggin' combat systems that are doin' their bangest to roast you
alive, plus you 're prayin' to Ghost your deck doesn't melt in your lap cause
you got stupid, and you looks up and there in front a you is Death himself
jacked in by the corp to rip your soul . . . babes, that's reality.
-Decker "Sandman" commenting on Spheris' statement in the People to People
interview

1
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And the earth was
without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the
spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light.
-Genesis 1:1
Think back. What is the first thing you remember?
My life begins in an alley-a dark, hidden place in shadows of the city. I
awaken there like being born: weak, blind, and helpless, new to the world and
all of its strange sounds, smells, and experiences. And alone, but not for
very long. The first thing I become aware of is the darkness and the noise. I
cannot see, but I can feel and smell and hear.
I can feel the ground beneath me. It is hard and cool. The roughness of it is
not unpleasant-like someone scratching your back-and I lie there for I don't
know how long, just enjoying the sensation of being supported by the ground,
feeling its cool and strong embrace. I can feel the air stir around me, a
gentle breeze brushing across the bare skin of my face and hands and ruffling
my hair. The breeze brings smells and sounds to me as I lie there.
I smell the harsh smell of the city: a smell of burning. Burning fuel, burning
trash, burning wood, and people burning with hope, despair, misery, and joy
make up the smell, mixed in with the slow decaying scent of the city as metal,
mortar, and stone slowly crumble to rust and dust,

ground down beneath the force of the elements. I smell my own sweat, cooling
on my skin.
I hear the distant sounds of the city, the constant rumble of noise that most
city-dwellers ignore almost completely in their daily lives. I hear the voices
of cars, from the bass rumble of diesel engines to the high whine of electric
motors powering small commuter cars. From time to time a horn blares out its
distant cry of anger or warning. The voices of the city whisper and speak to
me, and I know there is danger.
Then I hear another voice, much closer, which is speaking to someone else.
"There he is," the voice says and I know he is talking about me.
Then another voice, deep and gravelly. "Just like Crawley said he would be.
I'll give him that, Weizack, that freak may be weird, but his information is
right on the money."
Weizack laughs, more like a humorless bark. "You should talk, chummer. You
ain't winning no beauty prizes yourself."
Weizack's partner growls, a low, throaty sound. "Watch it, chummer. I may look
like something outta somebody's nightmare, but at least I ain't no fragging
ghoul. Let's just do this job and get the frag out of here. This place gives
me the creeps."
A rough hand grabs my jaw, and I feel a jolt of fear and surprise shoot
through my nerves. I want to push away the hand touching me and filling my
nostrils with the stench of overripe sweat and the smell of decay, but my body
refuses to obey me. My muscles remain limp and I lie like a dead fish on the
cool, hard ground as the hands turn my head to the side and blunt fingers
brash against the side of my neck.
"Hey," I hear Weizack's comrade say, his hot, rank breath blowing past my
face. "He's still jacked in."
"So unplug him. What's the big deal?"
The fingertips brush my neck again. I hear a faint metallic click and feel an
immediate and yawning sense of loss open up within me. He has taken something
from me. Something very important, my connection to something larger and
greater than I am. I am truly alone now, and helpless against

these strangers. I try to move, or even open my eyes, but I can't. It feels
like my brain is detached from the rest of my body. Like I have forgotten how
to use it somehow. The part of me that is awake and aware floats somewhere,
detached, unable to make the connection to make a move or a sound.
"Fragging chipheads," the deep voice grumbles. "Why they wanna burn out their
brains beats the drek outta me. Feedin' stuff straight into your brain is
totally fragged up. All of that techno-trash, just for the sake of gettin'
high."
"You ever try slottin' sims, Riley?" Weizack asks his partner.
"No way. Those things'll frag you up for good. Not even the beetles, just the
soft-core drek. My cousin was a sim-chipper, and all he did was spend the
whole day sitting around slotting chips and living in a fraggin' fantasy
world. Couldn't hold down a job or nothin'. Finally cooked his brain slotting
something he shouldn't of. Cheap Hong Kong trash. You wanna get trashed, I say
do it the old fashioned way-with a bottle or something. These brain-burners
frag you up but good."
"What about all of this stuff?" Weizack says, his voice coming from close by
and above where I lie. He must be standing near my head, looking down at me.
"Leave it," the one called Riley says. "Said you don't wanna mess with this
drek. It's bad biz."
"Why not? As long as we're here ..."
"No." Riley's tone flat and cold. "Bad enough we're comin' here for him, but I
ain't messin' with some of the weird-ass mojo that goes down around here.
Beetles are bad enough, but this place gets used for some real magic. Once
we're done with him we're out of it, but if we mess with this place we could
end up cursed or worse."
"You really believe in that hoodoo curse drek?" Weizack asked.
"Take another look at my face, drekhead, and tell me there's no truth to
curses. Ever since the magic came back, it's been nothing but trouble for the
whole world." Riley's voice was heavy with bitterness. "It mighta made some of
the elves and their wannabes happy, but it's just another

way to slot over the rest of us. Proof that mother nature is a slitch with a
sense of humor. Now shut the frag up and give me a hand here. We need to move
this guy before somebody finds us here."
A strong pair of hands grips my ankles and, a moment later, another pair
slides under my shoulders and grips me under the armpits. They lift me off the
ground like a limp rag, all of my muscles still stubbornly refusing to respond
to my mind's demands to move. Just a little movement, a twitch or a blink, to
show these two I'm awake and aware. That's all it would take. But I can't seem
to figure out how to do it.
I feel vaguely sick and dizzy as I'm carried a short distance, swaying gently
between my two porters. They set me down again on a surface that is slick and
soft over the hardness of the ground.
"All set?" Weizack asks, and for a moment I think he's talking to me. Riley
grunts in response and Weizack says, "O.K., let's get going. Crawley doesn't
like to be kept waiting."
"Frag him," Riley says. "I don't take drek from any frag-gin' ghoul."
I hear the sound of a zipper and feel the slick vinyl-coated cloth close
around me like an embrace. The zipper passes up over my head and I'm
completely sealed in ... oh no. They don't think I'm unconscious. They think
I'm dead! But I'm not!
I feel panic grip my heart like a cold hand as my mind frantically screams at
my body to obey. I just need to move, to make a sound, something to tell these
men I'm really alive, that they've got the wrong guy. Dammit, move! I feel my
breathing begin to quicken and I hope the sound will penetrate the heavy
vinyl, but there is no response from outside it.
Two pairs of hands lift me off the ground and swing me like a sack a couple of
times before releasing me. There is a moment of cold, stark terror as I fly
through the air with no sense of balance and no idea where I will fall. Then I
drop

onto something firm but yielding, and roll just a bit before coming to rest on
my side.
There is a clunk of metal on metal and the retreating footsteps of the two
men. Then the sound of doors opening and muffled talk from somewhere ahead of
me. That's when I realize I'm lying on top of a stack of bodies, all of them
wrapped up for delivery just like me. But delivery to where? And are they dead
or like me, trying desperately to gather the strength to cry out, to yell "I'm
alive!" in hopes someone will hear them?
The thought hits me: is this what death is like? Maybe I really am dead and
just don't know it. Maybe when you die all you really do is become a helpless
prisoner in your slowly decaying body, aware of the world around you but
unable to move or communicate in any way. Maybe your mind hangs around until
your body rots away in the ground or you get the quick and merciful release of
cremation. The thought of this paralysis as the afterlife nearly makes me
scream and collapse in terror, but another thought bubbles up into my mind
from somewhere. I know I'm not dead. I just know it somewhere deep down
inside. I know I've been dead before and this isn't what it was like. I'm
alive, reborn, and I have to figure out how I'm going to stay that way. Be a
shame to start my new life only to end up dead again.
An engine rumbles to life and we start to drive. The meat-wagon slowly pulls
away from the place of my awakening and heads out into the city.

2


The initiatory experiences of shamans the world over are remarkably similar,
which we can now account for in the universal nature of magic itself. The
proto- shaman falls into a trance or profoundly deathlike state, often as a
result of an illness. While in this state, the candidate's spirit leaves the
body behind and travels or is taken into the other world. In this spirit
world, the candidate's spirit-self encounters and speaks with the various
spirits dwelling there, learning certain secret words, names, and songs. The
candidate's spirit form is then torn apart or devoured by the spirits, reduced
to nothing more than a skeleton. The spirits introduce something new to the
shaman's skeletal form, something symbolic of the shaman's awakened magical
talent, like a magic stone or bone. The spirit-body is then reconstructed
better than ever before. This death/rebirth experience awakens the shaman's
magical potential and the candidate returns to the physical world with an
awareness of the spirits and the power of the spirit world. This traditional
form of shamanic initiation continues even into our modern magical age.
-from the lecture "Shamanic Traditions in the
Twenty-first Century," by Nobel Prize winning
shaman Dr. Akiko Kano, Cal-Tech, 2044
I lie on top of a pile of corpses for I don't know how long. Time seems to
drag without destination or origin. We sway and weave through the traffic like
a funeral barge slowly

making its way downriver to the sea. I try to let the gentle movements soothe
me instead of making me sick to my stomach while I concentrate on trying to
find a way out of this situation. The smell inside the meat-wagon is awful.
The hot, organic smell of death mixed with the sharp bite of chemical
cleansers and overlaid with the strange smell and taste of the rubbery vinyl
of the body-bag surrounding me like the cocoon of some kind of strange insect.
A thought passes through my head about how body-bags are not exactly designed
with comfort in mind, and I have to force down a bout of hysterical laughter
at the idea.
I know I've got to find some way to get out of here. Buried in the hot
darkness and the smell of decay and disinfectant, I take stock of the
situation. I cannot make my muscles work the way they should, but I can still
feel my hands and my feet, the sensation of the vinyl body-bag against my
skin, the way I rest on top of the bodies supporting me, the motion of the van
as it moves. My mind is a jumble of thoughts and images. I was expecting to
see someone else. Someone else was to come and find me, not these
body-snatchers looking for corpses.
Why can't I move? I try to figure out what could have happened to cause this.
I can still feel everything. Neither my limbs nor my skin are numb. I dismiss
the possibility of injury causing my paralysis. The idea makes me ill, and, if
it's true, there's not much hope of getting out of here. I push the thoughts
aside. No point in dwelling on what I can't change.
Drugs? I don't think so. I don't feel sedated or drugged. My mind is sharp and
awake. It might be a drug I don't know, but, again, there isn't much I can do
if that's the case. Best to consider the other possibilities.
Magic? It's possible. There are spells to paralyze and control people. I know
something about the theory behind them. Magicians have the ability to do such
things, but I can't recall ever having been under a spell. Thinking about
magic makes me feel strange. There's something I don't remember about it.
Something important, but it doesn't help me with my present problem.

There's the possibility of the BTLs Riley talked about. Better Than Life
chips-beetles-were things plenty of people plugged into their brains to
experience feelings and sensations more pleasurable and intense than anything
real life had to offer, supposedly. I dimly recall a feeling like that,
feelings deeper and broader than anything I thought a human body and mind
could contain. A sense of being so large, so vast, but it slips away from me
even as I try to grab hold of it. Was I using chips in the alley? Is my
current condition the result of neural damage to my motor centers? I can't
remember.
The way I'm lying on top of the stack of bodies is giving me a painful pull at
the base of my neck. I long to raise my head or to roll over to a more
comfortable position. I focus on the pain, let it fill my thoughts. I pour all
of my effort into making my body roll over to the side. Just a little
contraction of the muscles. Just a slight change in position. That's it.
Should be easy. Nothing to it.
I start to sweat inside the confinement of the body bag, and I can feel the
air getting hot and stale. The sound of my own breathing is loud in the
confinement, but I focus on it to remind me I'm still alive and I try to
quicken its pace. I need more air, more oxygen to my muscles and my brain to
try and speed their recovery. If they can recover, that is ... No, I can't let
myself think that way. I have to be able to move or there's no chance at all.
The meat-wagon takes a corner hard, and I throw all of my strength into
rolling with the movement. There! I manage to roll onto my back on top of the
other bodies, and I think I can feel someone's arm under my lower back, as if
it were holding me in an embrace. It isn't much, but I moved.
I start concentrating on my hands and my feet. They are tingling a bit and,
with some effort, I can almost move them. The paralysis gripping my body is
starting to fade, I can feel it. I concentrate on trying to move, trying to
find my voice, to bring my mind back into synch with my body. That's it. I
feel like my mind has lost touch with my body, like I've only forgotten how to
use it properly. If I

could only open my eyes. Of course, all there is to see right now is the
inside of a dark body bag. I just need to try a little harder.
We slow to a stop, and the driver kills the engine. We've arrived somewhere. I
start to work feverishly to regain some movement, any kind of movement. I have
to tell them I'm not dead, that they've made a mistake. I have to get out of
here. I hear the doors of the van clunk open, and I can hear the men talking
again. Weizack is saying something about the Urban Brawl game he lost some
money on last night. His partner Riley just grunts in response to his
ramblings.
Rough hands lift me out of the back of the van, and I try to squirm or
struggle inside the body bag to tell these two they're not handling a corpse.
I manage to flex my hands a bit, curling the fingers in to form fists, but I
still can't move my arms. The thought of Weizack and his chummer dropping me
in fright and cracking my skull on whatever is under me if I move flashes
briefly through my mind. I could end up needing a body bag for real then, but
I have to try and make them aware of me.
Then I hear a new voice speaking.
"Is this him?" the voice asks, barely audible through the thick vinyl body
bag. The sound of it is low and whispery.
"Yeah, right where you said he would be," Weizack says, his voice gone flat
and cold. The newcomer is obviously not a friend.
"Let me see," the other whispers.
I am lowered to the ground, and someone unzips the body bag. There is a rush
of cool night air, and a foul stench assaults my nostrils. It is the smell of
death and decay from the meat-wagon, but much worse and without the acidic
tang of the disinfectant to cover it. The touch of the cool air and the
terrible smell send another surge of adrenaline through my system, and I fight
to move or see what is going on.
"Good, good," the new voice whispers, and I shiver a bit at the sound. Did
they see that? "He's still in good shape, his aura is still bright and
strong."

A dry hand gently caresses my cheek and I nearly gag at the touch. It's like
the touch of a corpse. I can feel sharp nails like claws just barely grazing
my skin.
"Ah, fresh meat," the same voice whispers again with a sigh of pleasure,
sending a whiff of hot, foul breath wafting across my face. Hearing those
words, I regain some control over myself. My eyes snap open and I stare up
into what looks like the face of death itself. The figure crouched above me is
pale and hairless, with skin tinged the gray of the grave and drawn tight over
his bones. Thin lips curl back in a cruel smile, exposing sharp teeth that
remind me of a small, meat-eating animal. A narrow tongue of a darker shade of
gray emerges to lick his lips like a man sitting down to a feast. His hands
are bony claws tipped with sharp, rending nails, and his eyes are the worst of
all. White and blind, they seem to focus on my face, and yet look past my
flesh as if they were peering straight into my soul.
"Good evening," the gray figure whispers to me, and I realize it is night, the
dark sky covered with a gray shroud of clouds. I also realize neither my two
"handlers" nor the creature crouching above me are surprised or shocked to see
me awake. They know I'm not dead, and the implications break over me like a
wave. If they knew I was alive the whole time, then I haven't been taken for
disposal like some kind of rubbish off the streets but for some other purpose.
The ghoul's comment about "fresh meat" comes to mind and I shudder again and
try to move. My limbs jerk spasmodically this time, causing the creature to
stop smiling and back away a bit, even as he waves the two handlers in closer.
"No, no," he whispers in his low voice, "don't try to move. You'll be better
off if you stay still. We wouldn't want you to injure yourself." His words are
intended to sound comforting, but they only make my skin crawl. I look up at
his pinched, gray face and his sightless eyes and see no pity or sympathy
there.
"Bring him," he tells the two handlers. "You can come back for the rest later.
It's not like they're going anywhere." Chuckling a wheezing laugh at his own
joke, the

creature turns and moves off as the handlers each grab one of my arms and lift
me up. I notice that Weizack is a man with a bit of a paunch and red-rimmed
eyes. He wears a scuffed leather jacket and a faded and stained denim shirt. I
also notice the butt of a pistol protruding from the side of his belt
underneath the jacket.
His partner is a tall, hulking figure with a broad, flat face. Two short tusks
protrude up over his upper lip and his ears are longish and pointed, lying
back against his skull. He looks like a goblin or ogre out of some fairy tale,
but I realize he's an ork, one of the metatypes who assumed their true forms
when magic returned to the world. He is right about one thing; his face is
ugly as sin, but it's nothing like the hideous visage of the creature they
work for, the ghoul. I catch the thing's face out of the corner of my eye as
they lift me off the ground, and he almost looks sorry for me. That worries me
more than anything I've seen so far.
The two handlers carry me away from the meat-wagon, my feet dragging on the
ground, toward a low brick building. The van is parked in an alley alongside
the building, and there's a side door nearby. The weathered brick walls of the
building are smeared with years of accumulated graffiti; the signs, scrawls,
and symbols meshing together like the secret writing cities use to communicate
with those who know how to read it. The symbols are strangely familiar to me,
but then I notice something else scrawled in vivid red near the door of the
building: "Beware the Tamanous."
I'm dragged through the door, down a corridor lit by the blue-white light of
flickering fluorescent tubes, a glow to make a healthy person look dead, which
only emphasizes the ghoul's pallor. He leads us into a room and turns to
Weizack and his partner.
"Put him up on the table," he says, "so I can get him prepared for delivery."
Delivery to whom? I wonder, as the men drag me toward a flat, steel table in
the middle of the room. Next to it I see a tray of shining, polished
instruments: scalpels, needles, tubes, wires, and gleaming hypodermics.
"It seems like such a waste," the creature sighs softly

somewhere behind me. "The parts are always best when they're fresh."
When I hear those words I feel the adrenaline rush into my body like a dam
breaking. Synapses fire and connect, newfound energy shoots through my nervous
system and I find the strength to plant my feet on the floor and shove Weizack
away. As he stumbles back with a yell into the tray of instruments, I grab for
his gun. Time goes strange and everything seems to be moving in slow motion to
me.
Weizack crashes to the tiled floor along with all of the sharp and shining
surgical gear as I flick the safety off on the gun and spin on his partner. I
faintly hear the gray creature cry out not to damage me too much as I level
the gun at the ork.
A look of total and utter surprise on Riley's face makes him look almost
innocent and comical for a moment before I fire and the rounds from Weizack's
gun erase his face in a blur of red. He topples back toward the floor with the
top of his head blown off.
Before I can turn toward the ghoul, he is upon me, slamming into my side with
surprising speed and strength. His skin is like leather and his eyes are
hideous, wide and staring. The smell of him is as overpowering as the charnel
smell of the meat-wagon, and he sends us both crashing to the cold tile floor
near the steel table. The gun flies from my hand and slides across the tile
floor just out of reach. I struggle to get to it, but too late.
The creature is hideously strong and I am still weak and moving too slow. It
grabs me and throws me down onto the floor on my back, pushing the air out of
my lungs with a whoosh and sending pain lancing up my spine. A blow to my
stomach makes me want to retch, and another upside my head has me seeing
stars. I struggle to throw the thing off me as it straddles my legs and
strikes at me with its wiry arms, but it is too strong, too heavy.
The gun is out of my reach and Weizack is stirring and cursing, bleeding from
several cuts and gashes the surgical tools have given him. The hot, metallic
smell of blood is everywhere in the room, and it seems to drive the creature
pinning me into a rage. It smiles and licks its thin lips, revealing a
mouthful of sharp teeth and an animal-like tongue.
I shrink back in fear. Something cold and primal uncoils inside me and seems
to take over, a basic instinct. There is a metallic click, and I strike out at
one of the wiry gray arms pinning me down. The ghoul arcs back, howling in
pain, a scream that scratches against my brain like a monofilament edge parts
flesh and bone like water. Blood spurts out in dark gouts from the stump of
the ghoul's arm. I kick the screaming thing off of me and scramble onto my
hands and knees toward the gun. The dark, carbon-fiber blade slides silently
back into my forearm, shedding the blood and gore from its slick surface as it
goes, my skin sealing perfectly over the opening with only the slightest mark
to reveal its passage.
Grabbing the gun from the floor as Weizack begins to get back to his feet, I
shoot him in the leg, shattering his thigh bone and leaving a exit wound I
could fit my fist through. He goes down yelling "Frag!" over and over again at
the top of his lungs as the ghoul also continues to howl and roll on the floor
in agony. I have to get out of here before I find out if they've got
reinforcements nearby. I move over to where Weizack is leaning against the
wall and clutching at his leg.
"Keys," I say as I level the gun at him. He looks for a moment like he's going
to tell me to go slot, but then glances again at the gun I'm holding and
reaches into the pocket of his jacket. I grab the key-ring in the shape of a
little plastic dragon without taking my eyes off him and then back a few steps
away.
Turning from the carnage in the room, I head out the door, my head still
ringing from the ghoul's strike and my ribs and legs aching. I burst out into
the hallway to see a man wearing a pristine white lab coat over his street
clothes. He is studying the flat computer pad in his hand. He looks up as I
rush out of the room, all bloody and wild-eyed, and there is a long instant
where we seem to just stand and stare at each other. I raise the gun and shoot
him

without a second thought and keep moving down the corridor. He drops the
computer pad with a clatter and stumbles back from the impact of the round to
his chest. The look of surprise is frozen on his face, and he leaves streaks
of blood where he slides down the pale gray wall. I have no idea who he is.
I run down the corridor and out the door to the van parked in the alleyway,
still loaded with its macabre cargo of corpses. I yank open the door, jump
into the driver's side, and gun the ignition, body-bags scattering from the
meat-wagon's open rear doors as I peel out of there. A horn blares at me as I
swerve onto the road and accelerate away, but there is no sign of pursuit from
the charnel house. Only when I'm several blocks away do I notice the blood
spattered on my clothes and skin. I look down at my arm where the terrible
curved blade emerged, seeing the faint, pale line on my skin near my wrist
that is its sheath.
I didn't even know it was there.




3
Now the whole earth had one language and few words. And as men migrated from
the east, they found a plain in the land of Shinar and settled there. And they
said to one another, "Come, let us make bricks, and burn them thoroughly." And
they had brick for stone and bitumen for mortar. Then they said, "Come, let us
build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us
make a name for ourselves, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the.
earth." And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the sons
of men had built. And the Lord said, "Behold, they are one people, and they
all have one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do;
and nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let
us go down, and there confuse their language, that they may not understand one
another's speech." So the Lord scattered them abroad from there over the face
of all the earth, and they left off building the city. Therefore its name was
called Babel, because the Lord confused the language of all the earth; and
from there the Lord scattered them abroad over the face of the earth.
-Genesis 11:1-9
It had been a long time since God felled humanity's last attempt to build a
tower to the heavens, but humanity had now toppled heaven from the sky and
raised up a new heaven to replace it. A heaven of glittering satellites and

low-orbital factories singing their electronic choruses in praise of commerce
and free enterprise, looking down on the Earth with their watchful eyes,
seeing all.
In the highest throne of the new heaven sat the Zurich-Orbital, home of the
Corporate Court. The Court arbitrated the disputes and laws of the vast,
multinational mega-corporations straddling the globe and holding the power and
prestige once reserved for the nations they had eclipsed. Granted
extraterritorial status by the weakened governments of the world, the
megacorps answer to no law but their own, embodied in the form of the
satellite orbiting high above the mundane concerns of Earth's teeming
populace. From their heavenly headquarters, the thirteen justices of the
Corporate Court pass their divine judgments on the world below and the
megacorporations controlling it.
Justice David Hague of the Corporate Court floated in his small office space
on board the Zurich-Orbital like an angel sitting on a cloud, but the
Justice-a paid employee of Fuchi Industrial Electronics-was anything but
serene. Fidgeting in the loose harness keeping him tethered to one wall of the
small room, Hague did his best to simulate pacing in a zero-gravity
environment. Floating gently back and forth while looking out the room's small
window at the vast blue sphere of the Earth below, he was alone for the moment
with his worries and concerns.
Despite his unease, Hague was very much the image of an angelic figure. His
rosy cheeks and wide blue eyes gave him a boyish air that made him look years
younger. He'd cursed the "baby face" in youth, but now that he was past fifty,
his youthful looks worked to his advantage. Where most of his colleagues were
spending huge sums on cutting-edge treatments to keep them looking young and
vital, David Hague could still pass for a man in his thirties. Oh, there was a
touch of gray in the golden curls, but his hair was so fair most didn't notice
it anyway. He sighed and thought wistfully of his native Amsterdam again,
wishing he were back home, or at least back on Earth.
He longed to be standing on solid ground and wished the whole matter he'd come
here for was over. The trip up to

the orbital had been exhausting, as usual. The Z-O operated on Greenwich Mean
Time, which meant it was something like four a.m. here, whatever meaning that
had for a station in low-earth orbit. Hague's personal body clock wasn't far
off, and he wished for the hundredth time that the whole thing was over and
done with so he could at least get some sleep.
Although Hague, like all of the Corporate Court justices, was no stranger to
confrontation or conflict, he felt a deep uneasiness about the events that had
brought him to the Zurich-Orbital station. A serpent had entered the Corporate
Court's economic and legal Eden, and he feared it might topple their tower to
the heavens just as God had toppled humanity's last attempt. The balance of
power between the megacorporations was delicate in the extreme, and the Court
was entrusted with maintaining it and keeping the peace.
An electronic chime drew Hague's attention away from his brooding. He gently
pushed off from the wall to grab a padded handle, which let him turn toward
the door of the room.
"Enter," he said, and the hatch slid open with a pneumatic hiss to allow
Hague's visitor to float gently into the room before expertly catching one of
the wall handles and hooking her harness to the nearby ring to tether herself.
Although the room was small, Hague could normally use all of the space to move
and work in, including the walls and the ceiling, rather than being limited to
just the floor. But when he had visitors, he preferred to speak to them face
to face rather than having people dangling from the ceiling while talking. It
made him sick to his stomach. The addition of his guest made the room seem
smaller and more cramped, although Hague was not sure if it was her presence
or the news she carried.
"Hello, David," Justice Lynn Osborne said with a smile. "How are you enjoying
your visit?" Like Hague, Osborne was a member of the Corporate Court in the
employ of Fuchi Industrial Electronics. Fuchi was one of the few megacorps
with two Justices on the Corporate Court. It had been a considerable coup for
the computer-industry giant

over the past few years and one that should serve them well as they now
brought a serious matter before the Court. So serious that Fuchi had invoked
the right to have all the justices present in the flesh instead of merely by
virtual reality.
"Lynn, you know how much I despise freefall. It's a good thing the treatments
they're giving out for space-sickness are reasonably effective, or you could
never have dragged me up here. Can we just get on with this?"
Osborne smiled and nodded. Unlike Hague, Osborne spent considerably more time
on board the Zurich-Orbital handling her duties as a justice. Hague preferred
to remain on Earth and conduct Court business through the virtual-reality
interface of the Matrix via a sophisticated satellite uplink system, but not
this time. No matter what he said, he and every other justice would be
physically present. When the Court was in session, Z-O would be isolated from
the worldwide computer network and inviolate to spying or outside interference
of any kind. Osborne's regular presence on board the station had also
acclimated her internal clock to the orbital's routines. Where Hague was tired
and irritable, she was fresh and well-rested, which only grated further on his
strained nerves.
Taking a computer pad from a clip on her belt, Osborne touched the flat-screen
and brought up an organizational display of the Corporate Court. Eight of the
thirteen icons representing the Justices were colored in green while the
remaining five were colored in red.
"We've got our chance," she said triumphantly. "I've just come from talking
with Doi and Msaki, and they're willing to lend their support. That's enough
of a majority for the initial hearing to go forward. It's only a formality for
the Court to convene now."
Hague wasn't overly surprised. The two justices working for Mitsuhama Computer
Technologies might have their differences with Fuchi, but they also knew what
was at stake in this issue and what could happen if two of the major
computer-tech corps didn't work together on this one.
He nodded and gave a low "hmmm" of approval. "What about Napoli? How do you
plan to handle him?" he asked,

and Osborne gave a small pout that made her look almost girlish despite her
fifty-plus years.
David Hague knew Osborne was one of those people who spent part of her
considerable salary as a member of the Corporate Court on maintaining
appearances. Her fine features were the best Fuchi's exclusive cosmetic
clinics could produce, but she still had not gone the route of entirely
concealing her real age beneath some plastic glamour-girl facade. The dark
chestnut hair was free of gray and the smooth skin free of lines, but Osborne
still looked like a mature woman somewhere in that vague range between thirty
and fifty. An observer would be hard pressed to guess her real age.
She shook her head. "Don't worry about Napoli. He's isolated on the Court-and
he's a lame duck. We can handle him. Renraku hasn't exactly been making
friends on the Court lately."
That's certainly true, Hague thought.
"But it doesn't change the fact that Renraku has a lot of clout," he said.
"Renraku has been handing us a lot of surprises over the past two years, and
it's just possible they might have a card up their collective sleeve that
could trump even the Court. Who knows what Lanier might have given them."
"Renraku is out of cards, David. Nobody can stand against the whole Court when
we're unified behind a cause. The Veracruz Incident proved that."
The event Osborne referred to had occurred ten years ago, before either she or
Hague had become justices. The so-called incident consisted of the world's
first-tier mega-corps joining forces to punish one of their own for flouting
the Corporate Court's authority. A military strike against some of the
target's holdings had been carried out with surgical precision, and the
message sent was clear: defy the Court's edicts at your own peril. Now loomed
the possibility that another megacorp was heading up that same dangerous road.
"I wish I shared your certainly," Hague replied. "Francesco Napoli is a pit
bull. He's not going to let go without a fierce

fight, and by now he must know what you're planning to present before the
Court. Renraku's got to know everything by now, including the fact that our
case has holes in it. He seems too confident. If he wasn't, he'd never have
allowed this hearing to happen in the first place. He'd have come up with some
kind of delaying tactic or-"
Osborne held up a hand to stop him. "Napoli doesn't know all of the facts,
David, and neither do you, just yet. It's what I'm here to tell you."
Hague choked off a retort at the interruption, but he wasn't really surprised
by her words. He knew that Osborae's loyalty to the Villiers faction of Fuchi
put her more in the loop about the corporation's plans now that Richard
Villiers seemed to be consolidating his hold on the corp. Hague was allied
with the Yamana family, which dominated Fuchi Europe.
"What are you talking about?" he said finally. "What do you mean I don't know
all of the facts? Has Fuchi been keeping something ..."
Osborne jumped in again before he could finish. "Not keeping something from
you-just protecting our interests. Renraku isn't the only corp with cards up
its sleeve. Security on this was too tight to trust to anything but
face-to-face communications. That's why we're talking in person. Now, will you
listen for a moment?"
Hague swallowed his response and only nodded curtly. If Osborne noticed his
annoyance at being kept in the dark, she didn't show it. She just continued
talking.
"The case against Renraku is more than just smoke and mirrors, David. There is
real cause to believe they've violated the concords of the Court and that
Lanier's involvement is the key to it. We've got a lead on something that
could blow the lid off this whole thing and implicate Renraku in serious
violations of the balance of power. It's the only explanation for what's been
happening."
Over the past year and a half, Renraku Computer Systems, one of the world's
three computer giants and a member of the Corporate Court, had gone from being
a slumbering giant to become a runaway juggernaut on the global mar-

ket. Renraku had been a powerful and prosperous company for years-one of the
top eight in the world to claim a position on the Court-but its methods had
been conservative and, most analysts thought, rather outdated.
That was before a twist of fate put Miles Lanier on the Renraku Board of
Directors. Lanier was a go-getter and an aggressive executive known for his
take-no-prisoners attitude toward business. His skill and cunning were well
known to Fuchi Industrial Electronics. Lanier had been Fuchi's chief of
internal security, the head of the company's most sensitive and important
security arrangements and the protector of its most vital information. That
is, until he had defected to Renraku two years ago.
After Lanier's defection, Renraku research and development suddenly began
producing state-of-the-art computer technology that was blowing their
competition away in the market. Their Matrix software and algorithms were
outselling Mitsuhama's by a good margin, and their computer hardware was
threatening Fuchi's dominance of the market, a first for Renraku.
The corp's security had also increased to truly paranoid levels. Industrial
espionage by the other corps, including Fuchi, had netted them some scraps of
useful R&D data on Renraku's latest developments, but gave them no clue about
where the corporation was getting its phenomenal new products: no names of
researchers or information on facilities turning out new technological
breakthroughs. Fuchi naturally suspected that Renraku was conducting datasteal
operations against them. But if they were, it was being done with such skill
and finesse that Fuchi could find no evidence of them whatsoever.
Renraku was on a roll and there seemed to be no stopping them. The
corporation's annual report showed that they had already surpassed Mitsuhama
in power and were quickly gaining on Fuchi's position as the world's Number
Two megacorp. Only the vast Saeder-Krupp empire was more powerful, and Hague
suspected mat even S-K's dragon CEO Lofwyr had his concerns about Renraku. And
that was why the Corporate Court was getting involved.

Not that the megacorporations had any problem with one of their number being
successful and making money. The Court existed solely to assure that the
various megacorporations might continue to do so. But the Corporate Court also
existed to make sure its members followed certain rules in their game of
global competition and profit-mongering. The megas had resources and influence
that could savage the whole planet unless a delicate balance of power was
maintained between them. The economic and military power to dictate terms to
entire nations could be devastating if the megacorps turned it on each other
in a global war that would benefit no one.
That was why the Court had established the Concords, secret agreements between
the great megacorporations to carefully maintain the balance of power. Better
to be assured of slow and certain growth and control over the world's markets
than to risk the devastation unfettered competition could create. The corps
agreed to certain rules by which they would play the game, but now it was
suspected that Renraku was breaking those rules. It was highly possible that
their acquisition of Miles Lanier was letting them conduct industrial
espionage on a massive scale, allowing them to push new product onto the
market well in advance of the competition and to know their competitors' moves
even before they made them.
"So we're still accusing Renraku of violating the Concords?" Hague asked. It
had happened before. Everyone knew it. Part of the point of having rules was
so the megacorporations could find ways around them. Just as ordinary people
broke the laws of their governments, so did the megacorporations occasionally
break the laws of the Corporate Court. It could be a considerable advantage to
claim resources not possessed by a rival.
"Yes," Osborne said. "Renraku is trying to gain clear superiority in areas
where Fuchi operates, and everyone knows Lanier has to be giving them
something to help them do it. They've got to be stopped now, David, before
this all gets out of control. I talked to Priault, and I can tell that even
Saeder-Krupp is worried about this. Priault is a stone-face, but I could still
read him."

"And if you're right about Renraku and they refuse to abide by any sanctions
the Court makes, you know what it will mean," Hague said. He was quiet for
several long seconds before completing the terrible thought. "Corporate war."
"It won't come to that," Osborne replied tartly, obviously unwilling to even
consider such a possibility. "Soon we'll have the information we need to bring
Lanier and Renraku down."
A smile crept back over her face as she tapped the data-pad she was holding.
"And Fuchi can be right there to pick up the pieces."




4
In ancient times it was widely believed that knowing the name of something
gave you control over that person or thing. People would have secret names
known only to themselves and to their closest friends and family, and a "use
name" they would tell to the world at large. In this way they protected
themselves from enemies who might use magic against them. Now it is the
twenty-first century. Magic has returned to the world and there is a new
culture of people who guard their names. They hide behind so-called "street
names" to conceal their true identities from the law and to keep their real
names out of the massive computer systems keeping track of nearly everyone in
the world. Even the pirate users of the computer Matrix, the deckers, make use
of false names to cover their transactions. In the age of technology, true
names have become more important than ever.
-Mullins Chadwick, Monkeytribe:
A Survival Manual for Erect Bipeds,
Putnam-Izumo, New York, 2043
I don't know how long I keep driving, or where I drive to. I just need to get
away from that place and the memories of the ghoul. My mind panics, but my
body seems to know where it's going, so I let it drive for a while. I'm some
distance away-at least I think so-before I return to anything resembling
rational thought and check out my surroundings. I realize that driving around
in an open van loaded with full body bags is probably a very bad idea, so I
find an out-

of-the-way alley where I park the van and leave it behind. I wonder if the
body-snatchers or ghouls will find it again and try and make use of the bodies
remaining inside. I'm tempted for a moment to find some way of blowing the
whole van sky-high, creating a funeral pyre for those unknown people who fill
the black vinyl bags. It's a useless idea because I don't have any means to do
so and an explosion would be a sure way of attracting unwanted attention. In
the end I just leave the van behind with a silent prayer that the spirits of
its occupants are at rest.
Jamming my hands into my pockets, I walk carefully out of the alley, looking
all around me for any signs of trouble. It's still night and the city is alive
all around me. I can see more lights and activity a few blocks ahead, along
what looks like the main drag, the streets lit by the glow of neon signs,
street lamps, and holograms flickering from badly tuned projectors in store
fronts. The night air is cool, and the light on the street is inviting enough
for me to head toward it. I pass through the shadows and cut through an
alleyway to reach the strip.
The alley is filled with the heavy smell of food cooking. My stomach rumbles
loud enough to be heard in the narrow alley, and I realize I have no idea how
long since I last ate, but it seems like it must have been a long time.
Thoughts of noodles and rice and vegetables fill my thoughts and make my mouth
water.
I turn out of the alley and look into the scratched armor-plas window of a
shop displaying some cheap trideo sets among all the other electronic junk for
sale. One set is showing a piece of softcore pornography, the naked
holographic figures writhing in slow motion through the static while the other
set is tuned to a news channel where a plastic talking-head speaks in an
evenly pitched, cheerful voice that sounds happy to tell you about the worst
atrocities. I stop for a moment to watch.
"Locally, the stock market reports another active day of trading in which the
Dow is up some seven points. Renraku Computer Systems stock continues to
maintain the strongest increase following the company's release of their
latest

algorithms for the development of sophisticated Matrix interface experiences.
These algorithms form the basis for simsense and the virtual reality of the
Matrix. A local Renraku spokesperson is quoted as saying 'Renraku is
redefining the state of the art.' Other stock-market watchers in the Boston
metroplex ..."
Boston. I'm in Boston. That should mean something to me, but for some reason,
it doesn't. The voice on the trideo drones on about the opinions of men in
suits regarding the mystic movements of the stock market and the advancements
of Renraku and what the other megacorporations are going to do about it. An
exterior shot shows the looming stock exchange building in the financial
district of the crowded metroplex at night.
That's when I notice the reflection looking back at me from the darkened
window. A young man with shaggy, dark hair. He is thin and pale, and his eyes
match the color of the purple bruises on his face and arms, a strange violet
color that almost seems to glow from the dark glass. He's wearing a black
T-shirt with a scrawl of silver Japanese characters under a loose denim jacket
with the sleeves torn off, a pair of much battered and patched jeans, and
black, laced-up combat boots. The clothes are spotted with dark spatters of
blood. Silver gleams from behind one ear, and I brush my fingers against the
cold metal ring of the dataport implanted there, watching the reflection's arm
move as well. He's me, and I'm not entirely sure I recognize him. It's more
like looking at a stranger, a phantom on the other side of the glass gazing
out at me.
That's when I start to realize I don't really know who I am, and the
realization hits me like an electric shock. How did I end up where the
body-snatchers found me? Where am I going to go? Where do I live? What's my
name? I don't know any of those things, but I know I should know them. There
are breaks in my memory, like someone punched holes in my mind, leaving black
gaps where remembrances used to be. I reach out to touch the glass with a
trembling hand, and the stranger on the other side reaches out to me, his eyes
wide and frightened.

Who the frag are you? I ask silently.
"Renraku Computer Systems provide you with the security of a solid reputation
coupled with the leading edge in computer and Matrix technology available
today," says the trideo. My attention is drawn back to the trid, where an
image plays of a dark, endless vista lit by glowing neon shapes and glittering
forms of slick chrome and pure color, too smooth and perfect to exist in the
real world. The image zooms through the world of lines and shapes that rush
by, moving toward a giant black pyramid in the distance. I can almost feel
myself fly along through that world, and I suddenly feel a terrible longing
for something I can't find the words to describe. That is my world. The place
where I belong and, perhaps, the answer to some of my questions.
The view zooms up to the pyramid and focuses on a logo etched along the side
in bright blue and red neon, a dot and expanding wavefront symbol beside a
name written in both English and Japanese. The announcer's voice reads the
name at the same moment that my lips silently form it: Renraku.
"Renraku. Come join the winning team."
Then the screen switches back to a view of the newsroom and another talking
head who begins to go on about a speech given in the UCAS capitol by Vice
President Nadja Daviar. An image of a beautiful woman with midnight hair and
pointed ears fills the screen, but I don't even pay her any attention, so
entranced am I by the image that came just before.
Renraku . . . Renraku. The name means something to me. The taste and feel of
it in my mouth is familiar. Why? Do I have something to do with Renraku? What?
My head starts to hurt and my fists clench and I want to slam them through the
store's window, smashing the smiling face of the elven woman talking on the
trideo about national healing and racial unity between humans and other
metatypes. My vision blurs with tears and I pound my fist against the glass,
but it resists blows harder than mine every day and my fist only bounces off
with a dull thud.
I want to just curl up in a ball on the sidewalk and start

crying when a swarthy man comes running out the door of the shop. He has rough
skin and tusks coming out of his mouth, like Weizack's dead partner Riley back
at the charnel house, except he's a bit shorter and his skin is darker. I
realize that neither his looks nor Riley's surprise me the way the ghoul's
did. They seem almost normal to me. I stand there staring at him through
blurry eyes for what seems like a very long time before I realize he's yelling
at me.
"Fraggin' chiphead! I said what the frag are you doin' to my fraggin' window,
drekwit! Have you burned out too much of your fraggin' brain? You deaf?" He
hefts a dull silver club with a black rubber handle, and I back away a step
from him.
"Maybe you'll listen to this, you worthless piece of drek," he says as he
lifts the club, from whose tip bright blue sparks leap and crackle.
I suddenly become very angry at being threatened by this ... thing. What the
frag does he know? I'm having a very bad day and I'm in no mood to be
threatened by some street scum kawaruhito. I pull Weizack's gun from the
waistband of my jeans and level it at the club-wielding shop owner. His jaw
drops a bit and I can see in his eyes that he expects to die. I saw the same
look from Riley the split-second before I shot him.
I stare at the ork over the barrel of the gun for what seems like a very long
time, thinking about how Riley's face disappeared in a spray of red as his
body fell to the floor. The ork starts to slowly back away from me and my
hands begin to shake a bit.
"Buzz," I hiss out in a low tone, and the ork suddenly bolts back into the
store yelling something that I can't hear. I turn and run away from the shop,
bolting across the street. Cars screech on their brakes and honk their horns
at me as I run past, still holding the pistol, tears of frustration and anger
blurring my vision. One of the drivers yells something at me, an offer of help
or a curse or something else I don't know. I don't hear him. I just keep
running, wanting to get away from there and down through darkened streets and
alleys, far from the lights and sounds of the strip.

I don't know how long I run for or where I'm going, I just need to get away,
to run away from the terrible feeling of emptiness inside me. Away from the
looming black holes in my mind and all the questions that cluster around them.
My name, what the frag is my name? Someone told me, but I just can't remember.
My head feels so full I can't find anything in it. Too cluttered, too many
things going on at once. I just need to sort it all out, make sense of the
jumble of thoughts.
I stop running in an alley somewhere and huddle against the cold brick wall as
a wave of exhaustion sweeps over me. I shiver in the growing chill of the
night air and grip the pistol tighter as I wrap my arms around my knees and
lay my head back against the wall to look up at the cold, gray sky lit by the
distant lights of the city. The tears streaming down my cheeks make the
reflections of the city lights into multicolored blurs against the darkness. I
can almost imagine for a moment that I'm in that perfect, safe world I saw on
the trideo. The world where everything makes sense and I know who I am and
what my purpose is.
I'm so tired, so very tired. I have to rest, just for a little while, close my
eyes for a second and rest...
5

The megacorporations, beyond the reach of any national or international law,
are capable of dictating terms to any government in the world, so tight is
their hold on the world's economy. However, the same economic system also
binds the megacorporations as surely as it does any of their customers.
Corporations exist solely to generate profit, so they depend on the ability to
continually gain market share and produce new products to sell to their
customers and to draw in new customers.
This ongoing competition between nation-spanning giants might well have
degenerated into open warfare among the megacorporations without having to
resort to the needless destruction of company assets. The Corporate Court is
the invisible force operating behind the scenes of the megacorporations to
maintain the delicate balance between them; keeping the most powerful forces
on Earth from each other's throats and so keeping the unsuspecting citizens of
the world safe from what could escalate into the most devastating war humanity
has ever known.
-Professor Henry Gallow, The Invisible Hand:
The Corporate Court and World Economics,
MIT&T Press, Boston, 2052
The Corporate Court was called into session shortly after Lynn Osborne's visit
to her Fuchi colleague, once all of their fellow justices had arrived on the
orbital. Osborne showed up early and watched the other justices slowly file

into the central area of the station to take up their positions in the
courtroom. The Rotunda, as the central core of the orbital was called, was
made up of a single hexagonal shaft to which the other station tubes and
modules connected like branches spreading out from the trunk of a great tree.
It was large by the cramped standards of a space station, capable of holding
the gathered justices and their trusted aides and assistants comfortably,
although it was rare for all thirteen members of the Corporate Court to gather
together in the same room. Like David Hague, most of the justices preferred to
conduct their business via the Matrix, only visiting the court chambers of the
Zurich-Orbital on the gravest occasions requiring utmost security. Like now.
It was difficult to create a dignified courtroom atmosphere in the
zero-gravity of the orbital, but the Court had done its best to see that
tradition and the decorum were upheld. A narrow ledge ringed the cylindrical
chamber. Between the ledge and the wall was a gap wide enough for the court
justices to position themselves, held in padded harnesses to the wall. The
ledge formed the "bench" from which they dispensed justice. It held
sophisticated computer displays and information-retrieval systems linked
directly into the Zurich-Orbital mainframe, one of the most sophisticated
computer systems ever designed. Designed by Renraku, in fact, Osborne recalled
with a bit of a chill as she ran a finger over the flat black macroplast
surface of her console. Renraku's specialty was computer architecture and,
although Fuchi, Mitsuhama, Ares, and others had provided much of the hardware
to build the system, Renraku had pioneered the algorithms and the software to
run it.
The floor of the court chamber was reserved for the few assistants needed on
hand for any particular occasion as well. Only rarely were others allowed into
the chamber with the justices. Most testimony and evidence presented to the
court was carried over the Matrix using the sophisticated holographic systems
built into the bench-ring, which could project nearly any image in three
dimensions into the center of the chamber for all to see. But the
Zurich-Orbital would not be communicating with the Matrix for now, not

while the court was in session. If what Fuchi and the other megacorps believed
about Renraku's surge of new technology was true and Fuchi's security was
compromised, the Matrix could not be entirely trusted, and so the court would
be isolated, cut off from the rest of the world while they heard evidence.
Osborne carefully reviewed each justice and his or her position in her mind as
they entered the central chamber and made their way to their appointed area.
David Hague was one of the first to enter, and Osborne had no serious concerns
about him. Hague was loyal to their mutual employer and Osborne knew from
their talk earlier that, while Hague had his doubts and concerns about Fuchi's
plans, he would do nothing to endanger his employer or his own position of
prestige on the Court.
Hague was a native of Europe, and his loyalties shifted between the Yamana
family, who controlled Fuchi Pan-Europa, and the Villiers family, which
currently controlled Fuchi North America and the corporation as a whole. He
had been a compromise choice between the two camps. Osborne was loyal to
Villiers and had been chosen more recently, when Richard Villiers was in a
strong enough position to dictate terms to the rest of Fuchi. That, and
Osborne's reputation for getting things done, was why Fuchi-which meant
Richard Villiers, these days-wanted Osborne to handle this matter rather than
Hague.
The next to enter the courtroom was Jean-Claude Priault, elder statesman and
chief justice of the Corporate Court. He carried himself with unassailable
dignity and grace even in the awkward environment of free-fall, and his fringe
of gray hair was neatly trimmed in the finest European style. Priault was in
the employ of Saeder-Krupp Heavy Industries and supposedly answered directly
to the great dragon Lofwyr himself, who had bought the corporation with some
of the riches from his fabulous horde after emerging from his centuries-long
sleep. Having served on the Court longer than anyone else, Priault had
certainly earned his status as Chief Justice.
Osborne knew Priault was sharp as a monoblade and

wouldn't miss a trick. The man had a reputation for conducting court business
in a fair and impartial manner and his dragon boss always seemed to back up
whatever angle Priault wanted to take. Osborne knew Priault wouldn't hand
Fuchi a decision in the matter-he didn't really have the authority for
that-but she also knew that even Lofwyr and Saeder-Krupp were getting edgy
about some recent Renraku developments. Priault had to know the score. If the
gravity of the meeting weighed on the old man at all, he didn't show it,
making his way to his position along the bench with deliberate care and grace.
After the Chief Justice came Mitsuhama's court representatives. Korekado
"Corey" Doi practically oozed charisma from his every pore, looking completely
at ease in his fine-tailored suit, casually exchanging a joke with his
companion and smiling enough to light up the room. Osborne knew from
experience that Doi's charming and cheerful demeanor concealed a cut-throat
negotiator rumored to have ties with the yakuza clans, who were the real
backers of Mitsuhama Computer Technologies.
Doi's companion, Jonathan Msaki, also served as head of one of MCT's major
subsidiaries. That kept him more closely in touch with the activities of the
megacorporate giant than Doi was, but Msaki was often more concerned with his
other affairs than the business of the court. Osborne noticed he tended to
follow Doi's lead on most issues and let the more charismatic MCT mouthpiece
do the talking. Msaki was better at gathering information, and Osborne knew
that very little escaped his notice. That was why she moved so quickly to
secure Mitsuhama's support. Doi and Msaki made a formidable team, and
Mitsuhama had suffered more from Renraku's rise in fortune than any other
member of the court. Osborne suspected that she could put that to good use.
Mariene Carstairs, the other Saeder-Krupp representative, looked distinctly
unhappy about being on board the orbital. Osborne knew that Carstairs liked
neither space travel nor the orbital's zero-g environment, and she distinctly
enjoyed any occasion for Carstairs' discomfort. Mariene Carstairs
had made her share of enemies in her years on the court, and Osborne counted
herself among them. She knew Ono from Ares didn't get along with Carstairs
either, but it was the spectacular breakup between Mariene Carstairs and the
late Renraku justice Sam Violet that Osborne was counting on.
The two had had a tempestuous affair that went down in flames when Carstairs
vindictively arranged for Violet's wife to find out about it. Osborne
suspected that Carstairs had also had something to do with the commuter plane
crash that ended Violet's life just as he returned to Earth after failing his
bid for re-election more than two years ago. Mariene Carstairs was a cold
slitch, and everyone knew she had shed no tears for Violet. Osborne hoped
Carstairs' hatred of the late Renraku justice would be enough to keep her from
fragging with Fuchi's case out of malice. The Saeder-Krupp justice was a
believer in the adage "the enemy of my enemy is my friend," and Osborne
planned to make it work in her favor.
Along with Carstairs came Domingo Chavez, who had also just made the
shuttle-flight up to the orbital. Chavez, like Carstairs, made no secret of
his dislike for visiting the orbital, but the dislike was well-founded. Chavez
was a mage, a man with a talent for shaping the magical energies of the
Awakened world. It was a power that had changed the face of the Earth since
the Awakening in 2011, and the megacorporations knew magic as a powerful tool
to be used and respected, which had put magicians like Chavez in positions of
power among them.
Unfortunately, all of the evidence suggested that the power of magic was
strongly tied to the living Earth, and so did not work as expected outside of
the atmosphere. In space, magicians who attempted to call upon their powers
went mad or even died. Some simply vanished, never to be seen again. All of
the corporations and many others were investigating the problem, but it seemed
for now that the use of magic simply wasn't an option in space. Magicians were
safe so long as they did not attempt to use their powers. That was why so few
magicians were chosen to serve on the court, and why Chavez was so loathe to
come to

Zurich-Orbital in person. A thin sheen of sweat coated his dark brow, and he
mopped at it nervously with a linen handkerchief as he made his way carefully
around the perimeter of the chamber to his place.
Aztechnology was always a wild card in court decisions. The megacorp had the
dubious honor of being the first to be punished by the court some ten years
ago for their activities in Southern California and in Aztlan, the nation that
had taken over the former territory of Mexico and much of Central America with
encouragement from Aztechnology. It had been necessary to teach Aztechnology a
lesson, and the Court had acted decisively. Osborne knew that lesson still
stung for many in positions of power in Aztechnology. She couldn't help but
wonder if it would keep Chavez from approving similar measures against Renraku
or if the Aztechnology justice would welcome an opportunity to pay back some
of what his corporation had suffered to another member of the court.
The next to enter the courtroom were the Ares Macro-technology justices on the
court. Paul Graves came first, looking like a linebacker or a marine someone
had dressed up in a thousand-nuyen designer suit for the occasion. He moved
through the freefall of the station like a solider traversing an obstacle
course he had run a dozen times before. Osborne knew Graves was no stranger to
living and working in space, being a regular visitor to Ares' own Daedelus
orbital platform as well as the Zurich-Orbital. Graves was one of the military
types so typical of Damien Knight's inner circle of business associates and
subordinates, a lethal weapon to be pointed and fired at any target Knight
chose.
Behind Graves came Akae Ono, moving through the room like a fish in water to
reach his "seat" along the bench. Despite his age, Ono moved about the orbital
easily. He was the only justice who lived on the station full-time and had
done so since his appointment to the court some seven years before. Rumor had
it that he was there for the life-prolonging effects of living in a
zero-gravity environment, and it certainly seemed to agree with him. The
septuagenarian justice looked and acted more like a man half his age. Osborne

knew that Ono was the one holding onto Graves' leash for Damien Knight. If she
could convince the old man that Fuchi's interests were Ares' interests,
Osborne would certainly win Graves over as well.
The remaining two female members of the court entered the room together,
although neither was overly fond of the other. Yoshiko Hino of Yamatetsu was
physical perfection as only twenty-first-century biosculpt surgery could make
it. Osborne smiled briefly at the pronounced effect zero-gravity had on Hino's
breasts, which were a bit too large for her body, and how fond the
vainglorious Hino was of using the effect to her advantage whenever
circumstances brought her to the orbital. In fact, Osborne believed that
Hino's holo-image transmitted through the Matrix was "enhanced" in the same
way to provide a distraction for her largely male audience. Yamatetsu was a
hungry corporation that had forced its way onto the Corporate Court only a few
years after it was established, and they still worked under the stigma of "the
newcomer" even years later. The corp had been a vocal supporter of the action
against Aztechnology, and Osborne suspected Hino would be eager to join in
with anything that would make her employer part of the majority.
In contrast to Hino's "corporate bimbo" image, Mariko Kiyonobo was all
business. She was the director of Shiawase's active Envirotech Division in
addition to her duties on the Corporate Court and juggled the two jobs with
considerable skill. Although only a junior member of the court, appointed in
the past term to replace the lackluster Lorraine Wakizaka, Mariko was not
intimidated in the slightest by the other justices and pushed the agenda of
her company forcefully and skillfully. Osborne liked her and thought the
feeling was shared by Kiyonobo. Shiawase was not overly concerned with
Renraku's activities, but Osborne believed that Kiyonobo would do what was
best for her corp and the Court.
The last to enter the courtroom and take his place on the bench was Francesco
Napoli, the Renraku representative who so concerned Hague. "Paco" Napoli did
have a con-

siderable reputation as a corporate bulldog and "resources adjuster" for
Renraku Computer Systems. His career before coming to the Corporate Court was
littered with the carefully buried bodies of people who had gotten in his or
Renraku's way at some point, but Osborne wasn't concerned about any danger
Napoli posed to Fuchi's case. Ever since the unfortunate demise of Sam Violet,
the only place Renraku hadn't prospered in the past couple years was on the
Court, where Napoli remained their only representative. Some took it to mean
Renraku had decided they were above being concerned about the august body, but
Lynn Osborne chose to interpret it as a serious error in judgment by Renraku,
one she aimed to exploit to her full advantage.
If Napoli was at all concerned about the hearing in the courtroom, he didn't
show it. Osborne had to give him credit for that. Napoli was a cool one. His
blood must be like ice, she thought, quietly watching him out of the comer of
her eye while she pretended interest in the display screen built into the
surface of the bench. Napoli settled quickly into place and exchanged
pleasantries with Hino to his right. Osborne gritted her teeth as Hino laughed
at some joke or comment of Napoli's.
Jean-Claude Priault took an old-fashioned gavel-made of real wood, no
less-from its resting place clipped to the side of the bench facing him and
rapped it slowly several times on the bench to get everyone's attention. The
cost of carrying the gavel into orbit for the use of the Corporate Court
probably could have supported the average family of four for a couple of
months. The megacorporations spared no expense where authenticity was
concerned.
"The Court will come to order," he said in his deep voice that revealed only
the slightest accent of his native French. "This meeting of the International
Corporate Court is now in session."
The room fell silent, and Osborne felt a dozen sets of eyes watching her as
she gathered her thoughts. She patiently waited through the official roll call
and the reading of the Court's charge "to protect and ensure the prosperity
and security of its members." Then, they were ready to get

down to business. Priault would normally have had the secretary of the Court
read the current item on the agenda, but no one apart from the justices were
permitted in this session, so Priault personally read it aloud from the
display on the bench.
"The subject of this hearing is whether or not the Corporate Court should
censure Renraku Computer Systems, Inc. for the use of unfair practices and
violations of the concords of the Corporate Court and whether or not the
Corporate Court should order any reparations by Renraku Computer Systems or
authorize any other action against Renraku on these grounds. The case has been
brought by Justice Os-borne of Fuchi Industrial Electronics, who will address
the Court on the issue. Justice Napoli of Renraku will also be given the
opportunity to speak. We will now hear opening statements from the two
parties."
Well, Osborne thought. Here goes everything.




6

Infringement against pan-corporate law falls into two basic categories:
infringement by minor corps and infringement by megacorps. The first case is a
no-brainer. If the Corporate Court decides that a minor corp (any corporation
not classified asAAA) has broken a law and warrants punishment, it gives
mandate to one or more of the major corps to a given degree. This mandate
grants the megacorp official authorization to use its security assets against
the guilty corporation, to the specified extent. A mandate can range from
relatively minor destruction by black ops assets to "open season," where the
enforcing megacorp can destroy the target corp.
Procedures work a little differently if a AAA megacorp violates corporate law.
-downloaded from "Corporate Shadownles" on the Shadowland BBS
Osborne placed her hands on the bench, carefully and gently elevating herself
a bit above the level of her previous position to approximate a standing pose
in zero gravity, having adjusted her harness earlier to carry off the move
gracefully.
"Fellow justices," she said, scanning the room and taking in everyone with the
sweep of her gaze, "this Corporate Court was established to ensure two things:
a safe and secure environment in which business can flourish and the
maintenance of a balance of power in which all of our companies can continue
to prosper. When that delicate balance

is threatened, we must act as our charter requires to correct the imbalance
and put things back on track."
Osborne paused for a moment and saw that she had everyone's attention. No one
in the court wanted to think about the possibility of the megacorporations
losing the profitable business environment they needed to stay viable.
"I am here today to bring to the attention of the Court a danger to that
delicate balance. Renraku Computer Systems has made considerable advances in
their research and development recently, for which they are to be commended.
But Renraku's advancements come through channels other than accepted means.
Fuchi Industrial Electronics wishes to formally require Renraku Computer
Systems to present documentation of their research and development of these
new technologies, on the grounds that Renraku is in violation of the concords
of this Court regarding industrial espionage against Fuchi and other members
of this Court, particularly involving the aid of Miles Lanier, formerly an
employee of Fuchi and now a shareholder and member of the Renraku board of
directors. We are prepared to present evidence that such a full disclosure is
warranted and in the best interests of the corporate community. Thank you."
Osborne carefully lowered herself back into her place and gripped the edge of
the bench to steady herself while Paco Napoli, still the very model of
composure, leaned back a bit and took a deep breath.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am fortunate," he began, choosing his words
carefully. "I am in the employ of a corporation producing the finest
developments in computer and Matrix technology in the world, and business is
good. For that, I am grateful to Renraku's brilliant research and development
department. I am also fortunate that the burden of proof lies not with
Renraku, but with Fuchi Industrial Electronics and their misplaced claim that
Renraku Computer Systems has acted in any way other than according to the
guidelines set out by this august Court.
"It is certainly true that Renraku has made great strides forward in the
marketplace in the past few years, and may have done so at the expense of some
of Fuchi's business.

But that is the way of the fair trade and competition we are chartered to
preserve. Renraku's developments and success are not crimes, and we have
violated no corporate law. Renraku Computer Systems cannot be condemned simply
on the basis of its financial success, and it is up to Justice Osborne to
produce any evidence that says otherwise. I am confident in the outcome of
this Court's findings."
Napoli indicated he was finished with a slight nod of his head toward Chief
Justice Priault, who tapped his gavel against the bench and turned back to
Osborne so that she might present her case. Napoli just sat there, looking for
all the world like he didn't have a single worry about how things were going
to go.
Don't be so smug, Paco, Osborne thought as she punched up a display on her
console. When this is all done and you see what we've got on Renraku, you 'II
be lucky if they let you walk home from here.
Lynn Osborne rose from her position behind the bench. She blithely ignored
Napoli's smug look of confidence and did her best to project an air of quiet
competence. For her case to be successful, she needed to start with a rational
argument, the same kind of argument that had gotten Fuchi's complaint against
Renraku this far in the process, to the point where the case was actually
being presented before the Court.
You're wrong about one thing, Paco, Osborne thought with a quick glance at the
Renraku justice's swarthy face. The burden of proof did not rest solely with
Fuchi and Osborne.
In an ideal universe it was certainly true that the Corporate Court held to
the concept of "innocent until proven guilty," but the Court was not a court
of law. The justices were not appointed by any government, and the
corporations they represented were not subject to any government's law. The
megacorporations were laws unto themselves, which meant the Corporate Court,
which settled disputes between them, was not bound by the rules and procedures
of any legal system but their own. Osborne knew she didn't need definite proof
that Renraku was a threat to corporate stability, not if

she could convince the other justices it was in everyone's best interest to
see Renraku humbled a bit.
"Fellow justices," she began. "I don't need to remind you of our purpose, to
sustain an environment of economic prosperity and growth for business. In
order to accomplish our goal, the corporations we represent have agreed to
certain terms and concords, including the banning of specific areas of
technological development that could de-stabilize the profitable environment
we are creating."
"Yes, yes, you've already made that clear, Ms. Osborne," said Marlene
Carstairs. "Are you accusing Renraku Computer Systems of knowingly violating
the concords? And if so, which ones?"
Osborne bit back a retort directed at the Saeder-Krupp representative and
stomached the interruption. She knew Carstairs was going to be difficult and
she needed to win her over at least as much as any other Justice on the Court.
She also needed to stall for time. If she could drag the preliminaries out
long enough, Fuchi's agent would be able to get her the proof she needed to
turn the Court against Renraku. She only had to keep things going long enough.
"I am not bringing any accusations, Ms. Carstairs, only acting in the name of
Fuchi Industrial Technologies. Fuchi has reason to suspect that Renraku has
been illegally using resources available to them to acquire a leg-up over
other megacorporations, particularly Fuchi. We believe Renraku has been
involved in the exploitation of Miles Lanier's knowledge of Fuchi Industrial
Electronics to conduct illegal and covert operations against us to acquire
research and development information from our facilities to allow them to push
forward some of their own developments. Renraku's actions have been in
flagrant violation of the concords and standards of this Court and we are
asking for appropriate action."
Point one for me, Osborne thought as the impact of her statements rippled
through the room. All of the justices on the Court knew what every major
corporate player did: espionage and shadowruns conducted by one corporation
against another were just another part of doing business. But

the justices also knew that the cardinal rule of shadowruns and black
operations was "thou shall not get caught." Although every corporation was
aware that all of them were conducting industrial espionage against each
other, the only way the Corporate Court and the megacorporations could
function on a day-to-day basis was to pretend that nothing illegal was going
on. As long as everyone kept their illegal activities quiet, nothing was to be
said of them.
Osborne's accusation could only mean Renraku had violated the unwritten law of
not covering your tracks well enough. That meant that either Renraku was
getting sloppy, in which case they deserved some kind of punishment to remind
them to be more careful, or that Renraku was becoming so powerful or desperate
that they didn't care if they got caught. The latter was not a pleasant
prospect. The megacorps all operated by a very delicate set of rules of
conduct. If one of the most powerful megas was willing to flagrantly ignore
those rules, it threatened a breakdown of the whole structure. No member of
the Corporate Court could stand by and allow that to happen.
So long as Osborne could direct and control the fears she tapped into, there
was a good chance of convincing the Court to act. The other justices were
certainly not supporters of Renraku's growth in the past months, but they also
felt the need to follow procedure. It was procedures like the Court that
allowed the megacorporations to coexist at all without being crippled by
constant conflict. If Renraku was the one not following the rules, then
Renraku would have to be punished, and Osborne could unite the other corps
under Fuchi's banner to do it. So long as she could keep things heading in the
right direction.
"I am sure all of the members of this Court are familiar with how Miles Lanier
came to be in possession of a substantial amount of Renraku stock and
therefore entitled to a position on the corporation's Board of Directors. I am
sure you are also aware that Mr. Lanier's departure from Fuchi was under less
than ... cordial circumstances." That was certainly an understatement. Nearly
everyone in the corporate world knew that Richard Villiers and Miles Lanier
had

ended a years-long friendship over Lanier's departure from Fuchi. It had been
the talk of the corporate gossip circuit for months.
"Mr. Lanier wasted no time in taking his talents and assets to Renraku once
the reading of the dragon's will confirmed him as a shareholder. Although
Fuchi took every precaution against Mr. Lanier walking off with any valuable
secrets and corporate security information, it still took some time for Fuchi
to make all of the necessary arrangements, given the suddenness of President
Dunkelzahn's demise and Mr. Lanier's departure. Even with some of the security
modifications put in place by Richard Villiers himself, Miles Lanier remains a
very capable man who is intimately familiar with Fuchi's security protocols
and procedures.
"Not long after Mr. Lanier took up his position on the board of Renraku, only
a month in fact, the corporation released an upgrade to one of their intrusion
countermeasure systems, the so-called 'Black Samurai' line. This upgrade bears
strong similarities to designs Fuchi was working on at the time. The technical
information on the two programs from our research department is available for
your review from the main databanks. Not long after that, Renraku began
releasing other products, nearly eighty percent of them in the same fields
where Fuchi was engaged in development, with technical similarities to our
prototypes. The correlation of our findings are also available for the Court's
review."
Doi from Mitsuhama spoke up when Osborne paused to let the members of the
Court digest her words. "So you are accusing Renraku of engaging in espionage
against your company with Miles Lanier's help?"
"That's correct," Osborne said, with a glance at Napoli. "We would ask the
Court to require Renraku Computer Systems to produce their records of research
and development to prove that their projects over the past fourteen months
were not developed or completed with information stolen from Fuchi's systems."
"Justice Osborne," Jean-Claude Priault began, "I hope

there is something more substantial to your case against Renraku than some
circumstantial evidence about their developments in fields that have
traditionally been dominated by your firm."
"There is, Mr. Chief Justice," Osborne lied smoothly. "We have information we
wish to present on Renraku's recent activities and how they affect not only
Fuchi, but all of the members of the corporate community." Out of the corner
of her eye, Osborne saw Napoli reach up to stroke his chin. Although it seemed
no more than a gesture of quiet curiosity, Osborne knew that, for Napoli, such
a break in his composure was almost a statement of surprise. Score one more
point for me, she thought. You. didn't think we had a real case, did you,
Paco?
"But before I present our evidence," Osborne continued, focusing her attention
on Priault and deliberately ignoring Napoli, "I would like to ask the Court
for a recess so the justices may review the materials I have presented thus
far and have the opportunity to rest and come at this matter fresh. The
information is germane to the evidence Fuchi wishes to present."
Osborne silently bit her lip while Priault considered. Would he see what she
was doing and give her the time she needed?
"Very well," Priault said with only a brief pause. "I know everyone must be
feeling the space-lag, and the court appreciates the opportunity for the
justices to review all of the facts. A six-hour recess is granted. We will
reconvene at ten A.M., station time, to hear the rest of Fuchi's case."
Priault rapped his gavel on the bench, and the members of the Corporate Court
began to file out of the room to rest and unwind from the long trip to the
station and to begin reading the files Osborne had made available on the
or-bital's computer system. Waiting while the rest of the justices left the
room, Osborne gave Napoli a smile as he headed toward the door. He
acknowledged it with a slight nod, but the look on his face showed that he was
not happy with the way things were shaping up.
Osborne realized that Napoli's confidence was as feigned

as hers in many ways. Renraku was worried, which meant they knew Fuchi's case
had a chance of hurting them. Just as Villiers had predicted, Renraku had
something to hide and Osborne had a good shot at forcing Renraku to show their
hand on Fuchi's terms. She just hoped that hand didn't have a gun in it.
Renraku could panic if they were backed into a corner, and that would mean
real trouble for all concerned.
So far so good, she thought as she watched Napoli's retreating back. Now I
just have to hope my evidence materializes in time for me to present it, or
else Paco Napoli is going to be dancing on my grave.




7

Skilled Matrix programmers have known for years the power of the imagination.
The system memory required to program a supra-realistic icon to interact with
multiple senses is substantial (taste and smell are usually overlooked as cues
by most programmers, often unwisely, as we shall see). Balancing system
functionality against the complexity of programmed images involves certain
trade-offs, compromises a programmer has to make.
One of the ways in which programmers make up for this deficiency in memory
space is by using certain sensory "cheats" to produce the effects they are
looking for. Instead of programming every single detail of the desired image
or sensory impression, the programmer uses certain key elements of the
experience to evoke an overall sensation from the receiver of the impressions.
Simsense producers and editors use a similar technique in producing biochips.
The user's own imagination fills in the "gaps" in the sensory information to
produce a contiguous whole, and the entirety of the impression is perceived
with minimal system space occupied by the necessary imagery.
This technique of "simplifying" sensory impression has been known to
practitioners of memorization and visualization techniques for centuries, but
with the advent of virtual reality programming and ASIST technology, we have
opened entirely new doorways of perception, the likes of which Aldous Huxley
could

never even have dreamed. We are learning more than just how to program our
machines.
We are learning how to program ourselves.
-Iconography and the Deep Mind,
by Dr. Yoshi Tanaka, E-Books Press,
New York, 2054
The dreams I have are strange. I recall a glittering neon world of line and
form extending in all directions to the endless horizon, and another place
which is all that and so much more. I hear songs and words and riddles in that
place, but they are not in any language spoken by human mouths. It is a secret
language. The language of the other place. I remember. I remember going down a
long trail to a place with a deep well full of silvery water. A voice tells me
to drink from the well, and I cup the water in my hands, cool and shimmering
like quicksilver. As I drink it down I realize it's not water I'm drinking,
it's knowledge. Liquid software, every molecule encoded with information,
spreading out through my cells in a cool wave, speaking to my DNA in a strange
and alien language. I'm changing, changing, changing into what?
I wake from the dream with a start and realize I'm not where I was before. The
dark and damp alley is gone and daylight streams into the room. Where am I? A
bed. A clean bed in a room somewhere. How did I get here? I remember the alley
and the chop-shop and the ghoul and I wonder if this place is as dangerous. It
feels different to me for some reason. I feel safe here. This place is
familiar somehow. I think I know it, but the information slips away from me
when I try and grasp it, as elusive as the images from my dream. I still can't
remember anything from before waking up in the alley where the body-snatchers
found me and I wonder if I've simply forgotten coming here from the alley. Or
has all of it been a dream? No. I'm sure what I recall of the encounter with
the body-snatchers and their ghoul boss was real. I glance at the back of my
wrist and I can still see the faint white line where the cutting blade
emerged. That was certainly real.

I look around the room and take stock of my surroundings. The place is old and
shows signs of its age. The walls are of stone, heavy and gray, and the floor
is covered with an oriental carpet of faded jewel tones. The light in the room
comes from tall, slitted windows. Some of them are covered with sheets of
translucent construction plastic in different colors while a few still have
panes of stained glass in them. The glass depicts saints and religious icons
and sends shafts of colored light slanting into the room. The light suggests
that it is very early-or quite late-in the day. I wonder how long I have been
asleep. I felt like I could have slept for days in the alleyway, but I feel
well-rested now. The furniture and trappings of the room are all mismatched
and scavenged, but in good repair.
The door opens and a boy, no more than ten years old, looks in at me. He's
wearing coveralls and a T-shirt that look to have been patched a few times in
strategic worn-out spots. His hair is cropped almost military-short and his
face and hands are clean. There is a kind of awe in his eyes and he smiles
widely at me and seems pleased that I'm awake.
Just as I'm about to speak to him and ask where I am, he turns and runs off. I
toss aside the sheet and thin blanket and get myself out of bed and stretch.
My clothes are clean, neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and I start
pulling them on. I find my boots sticking out from under the bed and put those
on as well and lace them up. There's still no knowing if I might have to leave
this place quickly. I look around for the gun I took from Weizack, and I'm not
surprised to find it is not in the room. I can hardly blame my hosts for
relieving me of it. It might have been left behind in the alleyway, but it
wasn't likely that anyone who would bother to pick me up and bring me here
would have left something like a loaded gun lying around. My stomach rumbles
and I wonder again how long it's been since I last ate. I can't remember the
last time, though it feels like I haven't eaten in weeks. Maybe I haven't.
As if in answer to my thoughts, the boy comes back into the room carrying a
tray and in the company of an old man. I don't know how old, maybe fifty or
sixty. He looks like

someone who has always been old, someone who is hard to picture ever being
young. He's Asian, fine-boned like a bird, with long white hair, a neat little
beard, and a gentle smile that he gives when he sees me.
"You're awake. Good. I was worried about you." When he says it I know he means
it. I don't know quite how to respond, so I just nod and watch. He has a cloth
bag over his shoulder that looks quite full. He nods to the boy, who carries
the tray over to the small table beside the bed and sets it down. The older
man sends him out of the room with a pat on the back, then closes the door
behind him.
"When you turned up missing, I sent the others out to look for you, but it was
some time before we found you near the Combat Zone in that alley. It's a good
thing we did, before some of the other inhabitants of the Rox decided to take
what they would have seen as easy prey."
"They did," I say, speaking to him for the first time. "Some men took me from
the alley. I think they were body-snatchers, organleggers. There was a ghoul
at the place where they took me. I managed to escape and ran. I ended up in
the alley and must have passed out." The old man looks very grave and gives a
low "hmmm" sound deep in his throat as I speak.
"The Tamanous," he says with some distaste. "Ghouls and grave-robbers who
traffic in stolen body parts. They have never troubled us before this. I will
have to see to it that they do not think they can interfere with our sacred
sites. You are fortunate to have escaped from them intact." He gives a faint
smile tinged with irony. "Perhaps you should have been a warrior instead of a
mystic." A tantalizing smell reaches my nostrils, and the old man gestures
toward the tray at the bedside.
"You must be hungry. It is time to break your fast and regain your strength.
Come and eat."
I make my way over to the table. The tray has a bowl of steaming soup on it
and a couple of sandwiches. I pick up one of the sandwiches and bite into it,
making it vanish, then start on another. It is the best food I have ever
tasted, although I have trouble recalling ever tasting anything be-

fore. The old man seems amused by my hunger and watches quietly for a moment.
He moves over to an open spot on the floor and sinks into a cross-legged
position with much more grace than I'd expect from an old man. He takes some
devices from his bag and sets them up on the floor in a pattern that seems
strangely familiar, like so many things. It brushes against my mind teasingly,
but retreats when I try to grasp hold of it. While he arranges the items on
the floor to his satisfaction, I finish the other sandwich and begin drinking
the soup. It's very good, too. The warmth of it spreads out from my stomach
and makes me feel safe and comfortable for the first time since I awoke. The
old man waits quietly for me to finish eating before speaking to me again.
"Come," he says in a tone that's more inviting than commanding. "Sit with me
and tell me what you saw in the Resonance and we will interpret the images and
omens."
I look for a long moment at the serene old man sitting on the floor and I
decide there is no point in lying to him.
"Sir, I have no idea what you are talking about. What is this 'resonance' and
who are you?"
He cocks his head like a quizzical bird and looks at me with his dark eyes for
a moment, like he is looking into the depths of my soul. Then he waves his
hand toward the clear spot on the floor in front of him.
"Sit, and I will explain," he says.
I make my way over, inside the small ring of technological gear, and sit down
with my legs folded up beneath me, resting on my knees and settling my weight
on my heels, different from the old man's lotus position, but it feels
comfortable. I study his face and appearance, sitting there like a smiling
Buddha, and try to place him in my memory.
"Do you know me?" I ask.
"I do," he says. "I am called Papa Lo and you are one of my pupils,
apprenticed to me to learn the secrets of the world of light."
A spark of hope ignites inside me. "What's my name?"
He shrugs, a gesture that carries considerable calm and acceptance of what is.
"I took your name from you before

you left," Papa Lo says, like it's something he tells everyone when they wake
up not remembering who they are. "You're the only one who can find out what
your new one is.
"You are part of our tribe. We are called the Netwalkers and we live in the
Rox, a section of the Boston sprawl, like many other tribes we trade with. You
had no family or means, so we took you in off the streets. You became part of
our community, and you showed you had the potential to experience the
Resonance."
"You mentioned that before," I say. "What is this resonance? Is that why I
can't remember anything?"
If Papa Lo is upset at being interrupted he doesn't show it. Instead he
smiles. "Yes," he says. "Temporary memory loss is not uncommon with the
experience of the Resonance, although I think you will find that your memory
will be much improved when you have fully recovered, and that you will recall
events and information with great clarity from now on.
"Unlike the other tribes of the city," he continued, "we are the
Walkers-of-the-Network, the intermediaries between the world of the physical
and the world of light and knowledge." He reverently brushed a hand across the
smooth plastic finish of one of the pieces of hardware laid out on the floor.
"The Matrix is a place that exists within the infinite data-space of the world
network, the grid. It is another world created by computers and mathematics, a
world we can visit using computers as our gateway to enter and explore."
I recalled the smooth metal of the jack behind my ear and my fingers went to
it, almost unconsciously. Papa Lo smiled again and brushed away some of his
long, white hair to show a similar plug, rimmed in white porcelain and chrome,
behind his own ear.
"Yes. With this," he said, touching the jack lightly with one finger, "we can
connect ourselves directly to the computer and read its signals. The machine
transmits the world of the Matrix into our minds and we can learn its paths
and its secrets. There are many things to be learned in the world

of light and many who want to protect those secrets. That is how our tribe
prospers; by entering the world of light and bringing back knowledge that is
of value to the people, like shamans and sorcerers gain knowledge when they
travel into their spirit realms.
"You showed considerable talent in entering and working in the Matrix. You
knew something of computers and learned quickly how to use what we have here
and what I have to teach. I decided you were ready to attempt the Resonance.
It is an experience, an initiation. It shows you the deep secrets of the
Matrix, secrets even I am not privy to." He paused for a moment, his eyes
wistful. "If only I were years younger .. . but it is not my destiny to
experience the Resonance, only to guide those who can. Such as I guided you.
You are the oldest youth I have seen who had the potential for the Resonance,
so I prepared you and brought you to experience the initiation. Now we need to
see if you were successful. Tell me what you can remember of the time before
we found you."
I don't know how, but I know what he says is true. I think I can trust this
strange old man. Even if I can't, I have much to gain and nothing to lose, so
I sit in his circle of hardware and tell him as much as I can remember, from
the moment I first became aware in the alley to my escape from the Tamanous to
finally collapsing from exhaustion where the other members of the tribe found
me. I don't mention the dream at first, but Papa Lo asks if I recall any
dreams, so I tell him what I can and he gives a kind of satisfied nod.
"You have been fortunate beyond what most people will ever know," he said.
"The Matrix has favored you and you have succeeded in the Resonance. You are
more than any other mere traveler in the world of light, you are a follower of
the way of the machine. An initiate. A technoshaman."
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"I will show you soon," he says, "but first I need to check your condition and
make sure you're all right. The Resonance is a difficult experience and it
sounds like you've had a harder time than most."
He lifts a slim cable ending in a chrome jack toward my

temple. I grab his wrist and he looks at me with hard, dark eyes for a moment.
"This is for your own good, my son. You must trust me."
I realize that if Papa Lo or any of his people wanted to kill me they would
have done it already, or simply left me in the alley to die, so I take the
cable from his hand and slot it into the jack behind my ear like I've done it
a thousand times before. It slides home with a faint click that shudders
through my being, and I feel a sense of completeness I haven't since I was
disconnected by the body-snatchers. I know I never feel so complete as when
I'm jacked in, the connection between me and the machine fills my spirit and
makes me feel whole again.
When Papa Lo powers the diagnostic deck, I can feel the trickle of power
flowing along the cable and into my jack, pulses of light and energy dancing
along the fibers like a kind of music filling my mind, like the rhythmic beat
of a drum or a living heart. Listening to the steady beat of the electrons, I
slip into a kind of trance and time does strange things as Papa Lo works the
keys and command surfaces of the deck. He's quiet and composed, carrying out
his work like an artist who seeks to achieve a perfect and peaceful state of
Zen as he works his art.
We sit there in silence I don't know how long as the energy trickles through
my system, probing and sifting like millions of invisible fingers. I can feel
them all, probing into all parts of my mind, but I relax and don't resist
their gentle brush against my mind. I know they can do me no harm and I feel
somewhere inside me that I could stop them if I really wanted to.
When Papa Lo powers down the deck, I start a bit, not realizing he is
finished.
"Your hardware is online," he says with his serene smile. "The memory is
wiped, but that has happened before. I thought there might be something in
there to help you, but no. The hardware is still good, and the casing is a bit
beat up," he says, gently touching my bruised arm, "but now we need to check
the wetware. Follow me." He gets up and makes to leave.

"Where are we going?" I ask. The old man glances up at me over his shoulder,
then begins slowly walking out of the room again. His voice carries back to me
as he goes.
"We're going to see if you can find your name," he replies, and I quickly move
to follow. Papa Lo guides me out of the room and into the hall of what I now
see is a deserted church, made over by the Netwalkers tribe into part of their
home, our home, I suppose, if I am one of them. The place still has a quiet
air of the sacred to it; not a place where people live day-to-day, but where
serious and important spiritual matters are handled.
In the basement of the church there is a room I had not expected to see, but
which strikes me with an overwhelming sense of deja vu as I step across the
threshold. I know I have been here before.
The room fills most of the long basement space. The low-beamed ceiling makes
it feel somewhat cramped and close. The walls are covered with hardware,
displays, and complex paintings and drawings done on the gray concrete with
brightly colored metallic paints and chalk. The drawings are circuit diagrams,
flow charts, algorithms, and other images: great open vistas of metallic
towers against a dark sky and planes of warped geometry that make you think
you could put your hand through the wall like it was only an optical illusion.
They bring the cold gray of the walls to life and seem to shimmer and move in
the flicker and hum of the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling.
The floor of the room is a tangled mass of cables in a rainbow of colors, like
a nest of snakes sleeping on top of one another. There are woven mats and
pieces of equipment networked together, computers, displays, printers, small
storage drives stacked up like musty books, and collections of things that
blink and whir and hum with power. Seated on the floor like a praying monk is
a boy, about twelve or thirteen years old. His eyes are rolled back, and the
half-closed lids nutter in a strange kind of dream state. His hands are folded
in his lap as in prayer and his lips move as he whispers something, maybe a
mantra. The sound of it is familiar to me.

"This is our lodge," Papa Lo says to me quietly, and I start a bit at the
sound of his voice. I almost forgot he was there.
"Our lodge?" I say, not knowing why I speak so softly other than the strong
feeling I have that this is a sacred place.
"It is our place to touch the power of the inner world and the spirits," he
says. I look around the room and I know for certain this is like no lodge that
I have ever seen or heard of before.
"Aren't lodges supposed to be full of skins and furs, crystals and herbs, with
a big smoldering fire pit in the center? You know, drek like that?" I say.
Papa Lo makes a low sound in his throat that I take as approval of my
question. If he notices or is offended by the vulgarity, he makes no sign of
it.
"It is good you can recall such things," he says. "No, this is a different
kind of medicine lodge. Quite unlike almost any other in the world. While the
shamans work their magic by calling on the Awakened spirits of the land, we
are in touch with something different. We touch the magic of the modern age,
the Digital Age. Instead of the ancient powers of the land, sea, and air, we
commune with the spirit of the Machine, the intelligence of the Matrix."
"And who is 'we'... the Netwalkers?"
"Not entirely. We are part of the tribe, but we ... you are special. Like the
shamans to their tribesmen, we are the intermediaries between them and the
otherworld. It is for those of us with the knowledge and the ability to travel
into that world and bring back the knowledge it contains for the good of all.
"We live outside of the so-called 'civilized' world, the world of the
megacorporations and their wageslaves," Papa Lo says, and the disdain in his
voice for that world is clear. "We live off the land like the tribes of old,
only our environment is the city and not the re-grown forests or plains of the
Native American Nations. We live in a different wilderness, but we know its
secrets better than most.
"You set out into the wilderness to gain a vision as peo-

pie have done since time began and I think you have found it, and it has
changed you in the process. The vision is a rebirth that makes a new person of
you, transforms you so you are a true walker between the worlds of the
physical and the mental world of the Matrix, a technoshaman, like Taki here."
He gestures to the boy sitting on the floor. "He and two others are the only
children of the tribe to experience the Resonance and make the breakthrough to
the other state of existence I knew existed out there in the Matrix. And now
you. You are the oldest student to be able to find the Resonance. I had given
up hope of finding anyone older than a child with the Gift."
He beams at me in obvious pride and I feel a bit self-conscious about the
whole thing. I know I should know this man who is supposed to be my teacher
and mentor and feel happy he is proud of me. Why do I feel guilty about Papa
Lo's pride and the fact that I have succeeded in his goal for me?
"You keep talking about a transformation," I say, looking for an explanation
of my feelings. "But, apart from not being able to remember what happened, I
don't feel transformed. How am I supposed to be different?"
Papa Lo makes his way over to one of the collections of computer hardware
stacked high like a totem pole reaching for the ceiling and picks up a cable
lead that he holds out tome.
"Why not find out for yourself?" he says.
I'm frightened by the prospect of jacking into an unknown machine, of trusting
this man who says he is my teacher and friend, but part of me hungers for the
jack he holds out to me like a worshipper for the touch of the sacrament. Or
an addict for a hit of a drug. Either way, it is a desire I cannot refuse. I
take the cable from his hand, sit down on the floor, and plug in the jack.
In an instant, the electron world of the Matrix opens up all around me, like a
fractal flower opening up in my mind. I haven't done anything other than slot
the cable and I realize there's nothing between me and the computer systems

that make up the Matrix. No cyberdeck, no workstation, no terminal running the
ASIST transformation algorithms to take the electronic ones and zeroes making
up the worldwide information network and turn them into images and sensations
the human brain can perceive and understand. There's just me and the machine.
Somehow, I'm doing it all myself, making sense of the flowing electrons in my
head. There's nothing but my mind and the Matrix, together like one.
This is the difference. Other people like Papa Lo can access the Matrix
through a jack, but they need hardware and software to do it: a computer
running the right programs to synchronize the complex operations of the human
brain with the equally complex workings of the Matrix, to let them communicate
and create the portal through which to enter the virtual world. I don't need
any hardware or software, just the jack to connect through and my wetware; my
own brain.
I can hear the hum and heartbeat of the world-grid pulse through the
electronic reality all around me and I understand what Papa Lo is talking
about. I'm home and I know who I am, even if I can't remember my life before I
came to the tribe. I know who and what I am now and I know my purpose in life.
My name is Babel, and I am a technoshaman.

8
The slumbering giant of Renraku Computer Systems has awakened hungry. In the
last year, Renraku has shown amazing growth and innovation in the production
of computer hardware and software systems. Always a leader in computer
architecture, Renraku has moved into the software and hardware fields with a
vengeance, grabbing up market share with their cutting-edge developments in
optics, program algorithms, adaptive systems, and other new technologies. The
corporation's surge of success has clearly proven attractive to Renraku CEO
Inazo Aneki, who continues to turn down opportunities for retirement to remain
at the helm of the corporation. The seventy-year-old Aneki has guided Renraku
since the founding of the corporation some thirty years ago and has "no
intention of stepping down until Renraku secures its position as the leader in
computer and Matrix innovation." The corporation's sudden success came as a
surprise to market analysts, who were predicting troubled waters for Renraku
due to the corporation's heavy investment in their Artificial Intelligence
Project, which to date has still shown no results.
-"Profile: Renraku Computer Systems," excerpted from the online magazine
Corpwatch, 3 May 3059
Inazo Aneki sat and studied the print on the wall of his office in Renraku
corporate Headquarters in Chiba, Japan, contemplating the news he had just
heard and the meetings he was about to have. The windows behind him afforded a

view of the streets and buildings of Chiba and the sparkling waters of the
Pacific in the distance through the afternoon haze that hung over the city.
The painting was entitled "The Wave of the Future," and was based on the
famous wood block print known as Kanagawa oki namiura by Katsushika Hokusai.
It showed a great wave cresting in the sea off of Kanagawa, with the white
cone of Mount Fuji rising in the background. A twentieth-century artist had
scanned the original painting and altered it so that the graceful woodcut
curves of the tidal wave morphed into a pattern of colorful computer-graphics
against a black sky. A twenty-first-century artist had further altered the
painting. He had added a woodcut design of a serpentine dragon coiling around
the peak of Mount Fuji, its body twisting around the mountain, a sleek-scaled,
photorealistic representation of the great eastern dragon Ryumyo as he had
first appeared, flying above Mount Fuji, in late December of 2011, the herald
of a new age of magic and myth.
Aneki had admired the print from the day he first became CEO of Renraku. He
liked to think of the company in much the same way: ancient and honorable
tradition adapting to a world of high technology and rapid change, where
nothing was certain apart from the company and the need for the company to
provide its workers with a solid center to their lives. Renraku had always
done that for as long as Aneki had been involved with it, and he intended to
ensure the prosperity of his company and its community for a very, very long
time. Long after he was gone, if karma would allow.
Inazo Aneki was not a young man, but he had the finest medicine both science
and sorcery of the twenty-first century could provide, so it was likely he
would live a good many more years still. Perhaps he would one day take his
retirement on board the Zurich-Orbital station. Perhaps the zero-gravity
environment would add a few more precious years of life for him to make sure
his company would always be there, which was all the immortality Aneki wished
for himself.

A musical tone from the telecom screen on one side of Aneki's desk brought him
out of his reverie. He touched the illuminated button on one side of the
display screen to acknowledge his assistant's page.
"Yes?" he said into the air, and a voice, chosen for its soothing and
professional quality, replied.
"Chairman Watanabe to see you, Aneki-sama." Aneki gave his assent and a moment
later the door of his office was opened by his secretary to admit the Chairman
of the Renraku Computer Systems Board of Directors, Yukio Watanabe. The
secretary executed a flawless bow and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Watanabe walked smoothly to a respectful distance from Aneki's desk and
executed a slight bow that was little more than a nod, as befitted her status
as Chairman. Aneki returned the gesture and motioned for her to take one of
the comfortable chairs in front of his desk.
In Aneki's father's time, it would have been unthinkable for a woman to be
involved in business affairs, much less to rise to a position of power as
great as Yukio Watanabe. But times are different now, Aneki thought with a
glance at the print on his wall. Women in the business world of Japan were a
small change by comparison to things such as the rise of magic, the twisting
of a tenth of the world's population into creatures like orks and trolls, and
the world-spanning influence of the Matrix.
Still, women such as Watanabe-scwza had to work hard to prove themselves in
the traditionally male-dominated world of business. They had to be more
capable, confident, and efficient than their male counterparts in order to
achieve the same results. That meant, Aneki had learned, that women in
business, especially successful women, were people to be respected. He had
watched Watanabe's rise to her current position and, even though he and the
Chairman didn't see eye to eye on every issue, he respected her opinion and
her skills as a businesswoman. Under their mutual guidance, Renraku Computer
Systems had prospered. It only remains to be seen, Aneki thought, whether our
efforts will secure the company's future or seal its fate.

"So?" she asked without preamble. Her brusqueness was not offensive,
considering the circumstances.
"Napoli-san says Osborne is handling the case. He thinks she is stalling for
time, but she also claims to have evidence that we have violated the
concords."
Watanabe took the news stoically, without any outward sign of concern. "When
will he make contact?" she asked.
Aneki did not have to ask to whom she referred. It was the sole reason they
were both present in his office this afternoon.
"Soon," he said. "Provided he can be bothered to do so at all this time."
Watanabe's face darkened. "I hope he has been informed of the importance of
this matter." She clearly could not imagine why anyone would not take the
affairs of Renraku as seriously as she.
"He has been informed, but it remains to be seen if he has decided to
understand." Aneki knew from experience that most people were caught up in
their own little worlds, believing their own concerns to be primary and
wondering why everyone else did not share their opinion. The individual they
awaited was more prone to such behavior than most. Renraku Computer Systems
was no more concern to him than the affairs of tribesmen in the Siberian
steppes, perhaps less.
Even as Watanabe was about to retort, Aneki raised a hand to interrupt. "Every
effort has been made to ensure he will understand, Yuki. His obsession might
blind him to the everyday concerns of life, but he knows he needs Renraku's
patronage to continue his work. I instructed for that to be made clear to
him."
Watanabe nodded in approval of the veiled threat issued in the company's name.
Matters were too grave to play around with needless diplomacy, and she
understood well that fine words were best backed up by a sharp sword.
Aneki's assistant entered the room like a silent shadow, carrying a tea
service. She set it down and then proceeded to pour for the CEO and the
Chairman, moving with quiet grace and efficiency. Another tone sounded from
Aneki's

desktop console, this one different from the signal from his assistant's desk.
With a wave of his hand, Aneki dismissed the assistant from the room and
ordered that there be no disturbances whatsoever. He knew she would
efficiently field any problems, allowing him to concentrate fully on the
matter at hand.
Aneki touched the Receive key on the telecom, and a window opened to reveal a
complex, fractal encryption image. It was like an electronic lotus of
incredible complexity and surpassing beauty, and Aneki found himself impressed
as always with the way the code's creator combined brilliant functionality
with aesthetics. Aneki manipulated a few keys to make sure the systems were
linked and the encryption secure before hitting the final acceptance key to
open the link.
An image shimmered into place in the chair across from the one where Watanabe
sat. The sheer resolution of the image was such that anyone would have sworn a
spirit had manifested in the office, but Aneki and Watanabe knew it to be only
a simulacrum, created by the state-of-the-art holographic projectors
discreetly built into the office. Still, the technology was so sophisticated
one could almost reach out and touch the figure sitting in the chair.
He was tall and thin, with long, dark hair swept back from a high forehead and
sharp, aristocratic features. Hands with long, slim fingers were steepled in
front of him in a casual gesture. His eyes were dark and impossibly deep, and
Aneki always marveled at them. He often wondered if their incredible ageless
quality was real or merely a creation of the image the man behind them
projected. The long hair covered the delicately pointed ears that were the
clearest mark that their visitor was an elf. Elves were just one of the many
metatypes that had appeared with the return of magic, new races that had
thrown off their human guises and, according to many, then- human rights.
"Welcome, Leonardo-san," Aneki said with a slight nod of his head and Watanabe
followed suit. The seated elven figure gave a slight smile and echoed the
gesture.

"Good day to you," he said in flawless Japanese. "To what cause do I owe this
interruption of my work?"
Aneki was no longer surprised by Leonardo's abrupt manner. He had dealt with
it before and did not allow the breach in etiquette to ruffle him. "And how
does your work progress?" he asked.
Leonardo gave an expressive shrug. "As well as can be expected, under the
circumstances. Things proceed apace, but there are only so many hours in the
day and so much yet to be done." He leaned forward in the chair-an impressive
gesture for a hologram-and fixed his intense gaze on Aneki. "That is why I
would like an answer to my question. Why have you seen fit to disrupt my work
with this interruption?" Aneki swallowed hard under that unsettling gaze but
maintained his composure. He was about to reply when Watanabe spoke up for the
first time.
"We need more," she said, going immediately to the point. "The technology we
have is not enough."
Leonardo turned his head toward her, and a faint smile played across his
sculpted lips.
"And suppose there is no more, Watanabe-san? What if Renraku now has all of
the little toys I might have to offer you. What then?"
Watanabe's face darkened at the elf's mocking tone. "Do not play games with us
Leonardo." Her tone was cold. "We know you have not yet shared all of the
technological treasures from that laboratory of yours. We have provided you
with billions of nuyen to fund your .. . project and you have given us little
more than crumbs of knowledge and technology in return. We expect some kind of
return on our investment."
One of Leonardo's eyebrows raised in a delicate arch.
"Indeed? I understood Renraku's stock has been steadily increasing in value
over the past year and a half. Your products are beating out all others in
their respective markets and your company holds the cutting edge in computer
and Matrix technology, all thanks to my 'little crumbs.' I would think putting
Renraku on the fast-track to becoming the

most powerful megacorporation in the world would be worth more than a paltry
few billion nuyen."
Aneki decided to intervene before the situation got out of hand. There still
might be a chance to reason with Leonardo before he went off into one of his
fits of pique.
"Leonardo-san," he began in a calming tone, "we are indeed appreciative of
your genius and how it has benefited Renraku, just as I am sure you are
appreciative of the resources our company has made available for the
continuation of your very important work." In truth, Aneki had little idea
what Leonardo's "great work" concerned. The elf inventor was eccentric at
best, and quite probably certifiable, but the value of his inventions could
not be denied. It certainly would not be the first time a corporation bowed to
the whims of an erratic genius.
"But," Aneki continued, "our mutually beneficial relationship is threatened.
Renraku's growth and prosperity has created concern among the other
megacorporations, and there are those who would topple us from the pinnacle we
have achieved. We need additional technology from you to make sure that does
not happen so we can continue to provide you with the resources you need to
continue your work undisturbed."
The CEO's words seemed to have the desired effect on Leonardo. His image sat
back in the chair and appeared to consider and carefully weigh Aneki's words
for a few moments.
"And what will I receive in return for providing you with more of my
research?"
Aneki had already thought carefully about how he would respond to this
inevitable question. "In addition to our gratitude, we are prepared to
increase the resources at your disposal. Renraku has profited from your work
and we are willing to share our profits with all those involved in our
corporate family."
Leonardo's slow smile made it clear that he did not feel he was a part of
anyone's "corporate family," but he was at least willing to consider the
offer. The elf seemed more

amused by the prospect than anything else. He steepled his fingers again and
leaned forward.
"I will consider your offer," he said slowly. "We will speak again soon, and I
will let you know my decision." Watanabe looked like she was about to say
something, then seemed to think better of it.
Aneki cleared his throat. "We have prepared information on our most important
needs," he began, and Leonardo smiled his enigmatic smile.
"I know," Leonardo said. "I've already downloaded it from your database. I
will review it and you will hear from me soon. I have . .. other matters to
consider and another distraction awaiting me." Without any further comment,
the elf's image fuzzed and faded out of existence, leaving only an empty chair
once again.
Watanabe looked over at Aneki, who consulted the console on his desk. He gave
a bit of a shrug as he turned back toward her. "The system reports we are
secure in here, but where he's involved, how can anyone be sure?"
Watanabe spoke the thought that was on both their minds. "He got through the
new 1C. Easily, from the look of things."
Aneki nodded. "Did you really expect otherwise?" he said. Intrusion
Countermeasures, known as "ice" on the streets, were sophisticated computer
programs intended to keep pirate deckers out of important systems and away
from sensitive corporate and government data. Most 1C programs only restricted
access and worked to trace data-pirates back to their location in the physical
world so the authorities could deal with them. Some 1C, technically illegal,
worked directly on the mind of the decker and could injure or kill or, worse
yet, alter some of the decker's "wet-ware" through psychotropic techniques to,
for example, inspire paralyzing fear of the corporation the decker was trying
to rob.
Renraku led the field in the development of new intrusion countermeasures ever
since gaining access to Leonardo's brilliant leaps in computer technology.
Renraku's most sensitive systems were impregnable by almost any standards

in the world, but it seemed Leonardo still had his means around them.
Not that it came as any great surprise, as Aneki said. Only two years
previously, Leonardo had used his phenomenal computer skills and technology to
deck his way into the core computer systems of all eight of the world's
triple-A megacorporations simultaneously, a feat that was considered
impossible, then and now, by any other decker in the world. Leonardo had left
no clue other than a blackmail threat demanding that the megacorps pay him
billions of nuyen or else he would totally crash their computer systems. He
also left behind an enigmatic image as a kind of "signature" of his work: a
figure cobbled together from false religious icons and the work of his
namesake, Leonardo DaVinci.
Naturally, all of the megas had scrambled to investigate the mystery decker
who so blithely defied their finest computer security, but there was no trace.
It was as if he had simply materialized out of nowhere and then disappeared
back to wherever he had come from. Aneki knew through Renraku's intelligence
operatives that the other mega-corporations had been as concerned as Renraku
about the danger to their systems, but too distrustful of each other to
cooperate in finding the culprit, on the suspicion he might be working for a
corporate rival.
Renraku's agent turned out to be more capable, or more fortunate, than those
of the other corporations. He was able to trace the mystery decker's clues to
a facility hidden in northern Africa, a facility no one even knew existed, so
sophisticated were the electronic defensive systems hiding it from the
watchful eyes of orbiting satellites and other means of detection. And in that
amazing facility, Renraku's agent discovered Leonardo, the elven genius
capable of building such a place and of creating a cyberdeck sophisticated
enough to break into the finest corporate systems in the world.
It turned out Leonardo was pursuing some project of his own and required large
sums to fund his "great work." He was too interested in privacy to sell his
advanced technology directly, but he was willing to trade it to a corporation
like

Renraku for the money he needed. The megacorporation had originally intended
to destroy Leonardo's facility to eliminate the threat he posed, but after
hearing the report of their agent and seeing the technology the elf had at his
command, Renraku saw the advantages of an alliance with the eccentric elf.
So far, that alliance had proven most profitable. Leonardo got the nuyen and
privacy he needed to carry out his pet project while Renraku gained
technological developments years ahead of its competitors. They were able to
use the most basic applications of Leonardo's Matrix and cyberdeck research to
jump-start R&D work on new products and to supply deckers with the means to
lift additional research information from their competitors' own computer
systems.
Aneki knew the company's finest research and development personnel were still
working on unraveling some of the finer applications of Leonardo's technology.
He also knew Leonardo referred to much of what he gave Renraku as "toys" and
that there had to be other technological secrets he was keeping to himself.
Aneki had heard other things, too, stories that Leonardo believed he was
immortal and had lived for thousands of years, that he was the original
Leonardo DaVinci and had been secretly learning and developing his scientific
and artistic skills for uncountable human lifetimes. Aneki found few things
impossible to believe in an age of dragons, magic, and virtual worlds
contained in desktop computers, but he personally thought Leonardo was mad.
Yet, it didn't really matter one way or another to him what the elf believed,
so long as Renraku was not threatened.
Now, both he and Watanabe had to wonder what the limits of Leonardo's
abilities were. The elf had taken the data they had prepared from a datastore
protected by Renraku's finest new ice, apparently with ease. Was it possible
he was spying on them even now? Did Leonardo have unlimited access to the
Matrix? Was there any data Renraku could trust? Aneki did not know for sure.
What he did know was that such thoughts were paralyzing and a waste of
valuable time.

"Now that the ball is in the elf's court," Watanabe said with a note of
distaste, "what is our next move?" She didn't care for dealing with Leonardo.
In addition to the fact that he was kawaruhlto, a "changed person," as the
Japanese referred to metahumans, Leonardo was obviously mad and Watanabe did
not share Aneki's tolerance for his eccentricities.
"Now, Yuki, we proceed just as we would if Leonardo had refused to help us.
Renraku cannot rely on a mad inventor in some African backwater to solve our
problems for us. Being beholden to Leonardo for our every success will make
those successes meaningless. Renraku must have the ability to maintain its
position without Leonardo or any other individual. We will report the
situation to the Board and update them on the measures we are taking. If they
are successful, Renraku will not need Leonardo or anyone else to stand up to
the Corporate Court. They will cease to be a concern, because we will have the
power to dictate any and all terms that please us."
Watanabe bobbed her head a bit. "Any word from our agent yet?" she asked,
already knowing the answer.
Aneki shook his head. "No, but there will be."
"How can you be so sure, Inazo?"
Aneki looked her straight in the eyes, his old face resolute and set like
stone. "Because we must succeed, Yuki, or everything we have built may be
lost."




9


If a man desires peace, let him prepare for war.
-Sun Tzu, The Art of War
All but one of the members of the Renraku Computer Systems Board of Directors
were gathered in the spacious boardroom overlooking the cityscape of Chiba.
Some were present physically, but most attended the meeting virtually, via the
Matrix. Sophisticated holo-projectors built into each place at the table
created near-perfect simulacra of the attendees in their correct places at the
long table. It was not unlike the manner in which Leonardo appeared in Inazo
Aneki's office. Although the images of the Renraku board members lacked the
animation and the sheer presence of the elf, the holographic technology and
the neural/visual algorithms Renraku used to make the holographic simulacrum
process possible were rapidly advancing.
It would have been simpler for everyone if all of the board members were
jacked into the Matrix directly. In the world of cyberspace it was possible to
project any image directly into the user's sensorium without the need for
holographic projectors and the often fussy nature of projected light and
sound. But that was not considered an option. Despite Renraku's reputation as
the one of the top computer corporations in the world, many of the board
members preferred to keep themselves grounded in the physical world. Those who
were forced to attend sudden afternoon board meetings in person insisted on
the right to remain in the physical world and have their Matrix associates
join them there.

Nearly all of the board members had already taken their seats when Yuki
Watanabe entered along with Inazo Aneki, the CEO yielding the right of way to
the Chairman as she swept into the room and made her way to the head of the
long table with bows of greeting to many of the members. As Watanabe took her
place, Aneki seated himself on her right and glanced around the table. Nearly
everyone was in place, the meeting almost ready to begin. He went over again
in his mind what he would relay to the board members to quell their concerns
about the news that was of such concern to them all, the reason they had been
summoned here on such short notice.
Watanabe checked her watch and let her gaze make a final sweep around the
gathering. She tapped a control on the panel set into the polished wood
surface of the table and a musical tone chimed from hidden speakers, signaling
that the meeting was beginning. The board members ceased their conversing with
their neighbors and over their eel phones, both internal and external, and
turned their attention to the chairman and Aneki at the head of the table.
"Honored board members," Watanabe began in a clear and confident voice, "the
purpose of this meeting is to discuss the accusations now being presented
before the Corporate Court even as we speak, regarding Renraku Corporation's
phenomenal growth and success over the past few years. The board is entitled
to be informed on all of the particulars of this case as well as the action
Renraku Corporation is taking regarding it."
As Watanabe spoke, another image shimmered into place at the sole empty seat
farther down the table.
"Pleased you could be bothered to join us, Lanier-san, especially considering
your involvement in this matter," Watanabe said tartly to the holographic
image of Miles Lanier. Lanier shrugged off the slight with an expressive
gesture. He had endured many worse slings and arrows from the Renraku board in
the past. Aneki found himself admiring Lanier's tenacity in the face of such
adversity. Few people stood up to Watanabe-sama, or Renraku Computer

Systems so calmly. But, of course, Miles Lamer was not just anyone.
He was the former the head of Internal Security for none other than Fuchi
Industrial Electronics, the corporate rival now bringing the case against
Renraku in the Corporate Court. Lanier had served Fuchi well during his time,
and he likely would still be in his position with Fuchi if not for a strange
twist of fate. The will of a dead dragon had granted Lanier ownership of a
substantial portion of Renraku stock-more than even Aneki owned, in
fact-enough to entitle him to a seat on the Board of Directors. The dragon,
Dunkelzahn, had apparently been an investor in Renraku through a series of
shell companies and other blinds.
Lanier's appointment to the Renraku board had created a considerable stir in
the corporate community. Lanier was a valuable Fuchi employee, but the
conflict of interest involved in becoming such a major Renraku shareholder
clearly made it impossible for Lanier to continue to serve Fuchi if he wished
to retain his newfound stock. So Lanier left Fuchi and took up his seat on the
board. Rumor had it that his resignation from Fuchi had led to an explosive
argument with his former employer and friend, Richard Villiers. Fuchi slammed
the door behind Lanier and started work on changing the locks.
The reception Lanier received from Renraku was nearly as cold. Most members of
the board, including Watanabe, didn't trust Lanier as far as they could throw
him and the ex-Fuchi man submitted to what Aneki considered invasive security
checks and surveillance to prove his loyalty to his new corporate community.
Lanier passed every test with flying colors and his advice to the board on how
to handle certain relations with Fuchi had proven invaluable in securing
Renraku's new market position against its formidable rival. Lanier was
considered a full member of the board, but Aneki knew Watanabe and other board
members still did not accord him their full trust, even after so many months.
Chairman Watanabe ignored Lanier's dismissal of her sarcasm and continued as
if she had not been interrupted.

"Chief Executive Aneki-san will summarize the events that have transpired and
describe the actions Renraku is taking to control the situation."
Watanabe swiveled her chair a few degrees in Aneki's direction. He rested his
hands palms-down on the table as he addressed the board in a calm and
unhurried voice, cultivating an image of inner serenity he wished was as good
as it sounded.
"As you know," he began, "Fuchi Industrial Technologies has brought a case
before the Corporate Court claiming Renraku Computer Systems has violated the
fair competition and practice concords of the Court with our rapid development
and marketing of new technologies that are beginning to outsell Fuchi's
products. Fuchi maintains that our research relies on illegal and illegitimate
sources." He paused to fix his gaze on Lanier, but the former Fuchi man
remained impassive, his image calm and unwavering. "We do not intend to
dispute Fuchi's claim."
A ripple of shock and noise spread through the board room like a stone thrown
among a flock of birds as the board members exploded with questions and
protests. Aneki held up his hands for silence.
"We will not contest Fuchi's claims because to do so would put us in a
difficult position. In order to prove that our technological sources are
legitimate, we would have to provide technical information to Fuchi that would
compromise the value those technological developments have for us. Fuchi knows
this and wishes to gain access to the information as well as to try to prove
their claim that some of it has been stolen from our competitors. If our data
becomes spread among the members of the Court, then our advantage is
neutralized."
The other board members quieted and considered Aneki's words. There had
certainly been times in the past when the Court's solution to contested
technologies had been to share them equally among all of the members, thus
maintaining the balance of power.
"What then will our response be, Aneki-sama?" asked Motoki Matsumara.

"There need be no response," said Yasuhiro Sasaki, one of the younger and more
ambitious board members who supported Renraku's aggressive stance in the
market recently. "What does the Corporate Court have? Where is their proof we
have done anything wrong?" , "That is simple," said Gordon Leighton with a nod
in Lanier's direction. "They have him to hold up to the Court as a source of
information we could be exploiting." Lanier did not rise to Leighton's bait,
but it did not matter because the others had already begun to throw in their
opinions.
"We cannot be sure ..." Matsumara began to retort when Aneki again held up his
hands.
"Gentlemen!" he said sharply. "Please listen to the report of Renraku's
response before you begin any debates." The noise subsided, and Aneki swept
his gaze around the table before continuing.
"As I said, we will not respond to Fuchi's accusations with anything other
than a denial of them. As Sasaki-san has pointed out so forcefully, the burden
of proof remains with Fuchi. They must demonstrate some wrongdoing on our part
for the Corporate Court to act. However ..." Aneki paused and stood, then
walked over to the side of the table.
"Renraku's growth and success over the past two years has been rapid enough to
concern many of the members of the Corporate Court. Of the eight first-tier
multinationals, only Fuchi and Saeder-Krupp currently exceed us in the world
market. That means the other members of the Corporate Court are not likely to
be well-disposed toward us. Although some of them might wish to see Fuchi
humbled, they are more likely to be concerned regarding Renraku's growth and
may see fit to take action to limit our corporate activities. We wish to
ensure Renraku's continued growth and success, and cannot allow the
possibility that the other megacorporations will unite against us."
"Do you really think that will happen, Aneki-sama?" Lanier said quietly from
his side of the table, his ghostly holographic image flickering a bit as he
moved.
"You of all people should know the answer to that,

Lanier-san. You helped coordinate the Court's operation to teach Aztechnology
a lesson some years ago, neh? If the members of the Court feel sufficiently
threatened, they will act. We must give them good reason not to act against us
while maintaining Renraku's growth and influence."
Aneki touched a panel set into the wall, and the wall of the conference room
became blank, its thin polymer coating functioning as a computer display
screen to bring up images at his command.
"The key to our goal," Aneki said, "lies here." The screen filled with an
image that was as familiar to the Renraku board members as it would have been
to their corporate counterparts. It was an image that had haunted the
nightmares of many corporate systems analysts over the past two years. The
picture on the screen showed a figure made of two different parts. The lower
was taken from the Shroud of Turin, believed by many to be the shroud Christ
was buried in. But the head of the image was a woman with an enigmatic smile.
Both images had been reversed as photo-negatives, giving the figure black skin
highlighted with white outline.
"The Leonardo image?" Matsumara asked. "Of what use is that to us?"
"The image itself is of no use, Matsumara-sama. It is what the image
represents. The Leonardo Project. The technology Leonardo has provided us is
the same technology he used to simultaneously compromise the central computer
systems of all of the major megacorporations. It is the selfsame technology
that has made Renraku more powerful and influential than ever, made our
computer systems invulnerable to our rivals' deckers, and given us
near-supremacy in the Matrix, allowing us to spur on our own research and
development projects while subverting and gaining access to the work of our
competition. An unbeatable combination."
Aneki did not mention his concerns about Leonardo still being able to
circumvent Renraku's computer defenses when he chose to. Let the board
consider Renraku invulnerable on that front for now.

"But," he went on, "the Leonardo technology has not reached its full
potential. Thus far, our uses of it have been subtle and conservative. We have
gained information from other corporations where we have not been able to go
before, but the abilities Leonardo displayed, the ability to compromise the
systems of all of the Corporate Court and its members simultaneously, has been
beyond us."
Miles Lanier seemed to listen carefully while Aneki spoke, his fingers
steepled in front of his chin as his virtual image leaned back in the
motionless boardroom chair.
"Are you saying, Aneki-sama, that Renraku now has the sort of ability Leonardo
used against us?" Aneki was not surprised that Lanier was the first to pick up
on the implications of his words.
"No, we do not. At least, not yet. The difficulty does not lie in the
technology; it is still years ahead of anything else that has been produced.
Nor does it have to do with the skill of the user. Although Leonardo's
computer skills are no doubt significant, we have many of the finest deckers
in the world in our employ and yet they cannot match the feats Leonardo
performed with his cybertechnology.
"No, the answer lies instead in here." Aneki tapped the side of his head with
a bony index finger. "In certain neurological modifications necessary to make
full use of Leonardo's cyberdeck technology, modifications intended to work in
conjunction with the deck's unique processing capability to increase the power
of both many times and make the user unstoppable by conventional intrusion
countermeasures."
"What are these 'modifications,' then?" piped up Shun Isoge. Aneki knew the
man was involved in many biotechnology companies. Biotechnology and its
applications interested him keenly.
"That is what we are in the process of determining," Aneki replied. "The
nature of those modifications is being investigated even as we speak." Once
again the board members began chattering in surprise and the meeting
threatened to become chaos.
"Why weren't we told about this project?" Matsumara said, pulling a white
handkerchief from his coat pocket to

mop his damp forehead. Aneki was about to answer when Chairman Watanabe spoke,
her voice cutting through the chatter like a sword, bringing silence to the
room again.
"Security was too paramount, Matsumara-san. This project holds the entire
future of Renraku. I knew of it, as did Aneki-san and our appointed agents
within the company. The board members were not informed because the project
was in its most preliminary stages and security was the most important
consideration." Several pairs of eyes glanced toward Miles Lanier as Watanabe
continued. "Now, with the activities of Fuchi, it is more important to make
sure the project is seen through to its conclusion with all possible haste."
"And what is this project, Madame Chairman?" Miles Lanier asked with a touch
of exaggerated courtesy. Aneki cleared his throat and touched a control,
transforming the wall-screen into a map of North America, with a patchwork of
nations picked out in different colors. There were the United Canadian and
American States and the Confederate American states in blue and gray, the two
nations dividing the eastern half of the North American continent between
them. The purple of the Republic of Quebec showed in the upper corner. The red
of the Native American Nations covered most of the western half, save for the
gold of California Free State, the green of the elven nation of Tir Tairngire,
and the small blue island in the midst of the red of NAN that was the Seattle
metroplex.
Four cities were highlighted on the map with glowing points: Seattle, Denver,
the Federal District of Columbia, and Boston. All of them UCAS cities, save
for Denver, which was held jointly by many of the nations of North America as
part of the treaty that ended the conflict between the old United States and
the Indian rebels who used the reborn power of magic to attempt to reclaim the
land they considered rightfully theirs.
"These cities," Aneki said, pointing toward the map, "are all places where
activities of tribes of children known as 'otaku' have been reported. The
otaku have taken our name for those who obsessively become attached to the

world of the Matrix and turned it into a legend, a story of children who have
the ability to access the virtual reality of the Matrix without the use of a
cyberdeck interface, using only the power of their own brains. R&D believes,
and certain independent consultants have confirmed, that the Leonardo
technology requires the special abilities of the otaku to realize its full
potential. There are limits to the hardware and software that can only be
overcome by engineering changes to the 'human factor,' to the brain itself."
"Ridiculous," Matsumara said with a snort of derision. "The otaku are only a
myth, an urban legend. Are you seriously telling us that you are risking the
fate of Renraku Computer Systems on the basis of a decker tall tale?"
"Many things were once considered myths, Matsumara-san," Aneki countered.
"Things like magic, elves, and dragons, neh? But one need only look at the
daily newsfax to see that they are all real. Why not the otaku? How else can
we explain why Renraku, with some of the finest research facilities and
deckers in the world, has not yet realized the full potential of the
technology we have acquired? Our research suggests that the otaku do exist,
and they have a means of altering the human brain to function within the
Matrix as a kind of bioprocess holographic computer system. In conjunction
with Leonardo's paraoptical cyberdeck technology, such an individual would be
able to perform the feats we ourselves witnessed two years ago."
"The compromising of every megacorporate computer system in the world," Larder
said quietly, and Aneki nodded.
"Hai. And with that ability in our control, there is no rival in the world who
could realistically challenge us. Not when we can subvert their
communications, command structure, records, and finances at will. The
Corporate Court will cease to be a concern, because Renraku will have an
advantage that no other corporation can match. The Matrix is the lifeblood of
economics and trade. Control the Matrix and we hold the very existence of our
rivals in our hands."
"The other megacorporations would never stand by and let that happen," Isobe
said. "It would collapse the Court, there would be corporate war..."

"No," Lanier spoke up before anyone else could answer. "I don't think so. A
corporate war would be too destructive to risk. The first-tier corporations
have resources equal to those of the national superpowers that once existed,
which means they need must avoid a war no one could win. If Renraku secures
this technology, there won't be anything the other corporations can do about
it without risking the total destruction of the Matrix we all rely upon. They
would look for other ways to subvert or steal the technology, but they
wouldn't go to war to prevent Renraku from rising to the top, not while there
were still other options."
"The only trouble," Aneki said slowly, "is that the agents we have planted in
the otaku communities we know of have been under deep cover for some time. Two
are confirmed dead. Their bodies were found by our people. One is alive and in
the care of a private clinic in Seattle, but shows signs of permanent brain
damage. We are hoping her doctors will be able to provide some additional
information. As for the final agent, there has been no word from him for
several weeks, but an effort is underway to locate him. We must find him or,
failing that, discover the secrets of these otaku some other way if Renraku
Computer Systems is to survive."

10
At first, urban tribalism was considered nothing more than another
fifteen-minute fad that would fade along with all of the other crazes that
came before. But the tribals didn't go away. They proved the adaptability of
human nature by finding ways to continue and to survive. They took ancient
folkways and techniques and adapted them to life in the urban jungle. They
found niches in the city ecology where they could live and hunt and raise
their families. They cut themselves off from the rest of the world. They
established their own "reservations" in the midst of the chaos of the sprawls,
staked out their territory and defended it against all comers.
Now there is even a second-generation of primitives, those who have known no
life other than that of their tribe. Some of them are forming the basis for
the future continuation of their tribes, while others, like youth everywhere,
rebel against the ideals of their parents and want to learn more about the
society that they have never been allowed to be part of. They are drawn back
into the places and ideas that their parents rejected. Some return to their
tribes shaken by what they have seen while others find new lives in the
outside world and are never heard from again.
-from Urban Primitives, by Dr. Niles Wolfe, Ambrosius Publications, Boston,
2049
I am amazed at how easy it is to settle into life with the tribe. I expected
it to be more difficult, but I truly feel at

home here. Nobody even questions my not remembering them from before; they say
I'm a different person now and it's only right I should start a new life with
a clean slate. Some even think that forgetting what happened to me before I
underwent the Resonance means I am destined to be a truly great shaman, that I
really have been reborn in all of the ways that matter, able to look on the
world with new eyes.
The Netwalkers welcome me into their tribe with open arms and, although I have
no blood relations here, I feel like I am part of a family. There are
forty-six members of the tribe living in a complex of structures in the
Rox-the Roxbury Barrens of Boston. Most of the tribe is made up of people who
have dropped out of ordinary society, forced by a variety of circumstances to
live in the wilderness of the Rox instead of the clean and protected corporate
enclaves of the city. Papa Lo is the tribe's chief. He keeps us together with
his leadership and teaches the tribe's children the skills to make the
Netwalkers something special among the tribes in the Rox. He shows us the ways
of the Matrix, like few other people ever learn them.
But now I am learning them all. Dipping into the well of knowledge and
information that is the Matrix and drinking deeply, just as in my dream,
taking in all of the knowledge I can for my people, our territory, and the
world around us. Many of the things I have learned feel very familiar, like
relearning things I've known before, exercising old reflexes. Other lessons
feel entirely new to me. It's no surprise, since I'm told I knew the paths of
the Matrix quite well even before I was initiated.
One thing that feels the most familiar and yet the most different is the
Matrix itself. I know all of the different structures and pathways of the
virtual world like they were written on my soul, like I have known them my
entire life, but I see them in an entirely new way now. I need nothing more
than a live feed plugged into the chrome jack behind my ear to be connected to
the otherworld of cyberspace. Other people need a computer to sit between them
and the

glory of the virtual world, translating its signals into sensations they can
experience, but I experience the Matrix directly.
I spend hours every day jacked in and exploring the bounds of the Matrix.
Within it, I can travel around the world in a few seconds and visit distant
places like a spirit, faster than most computer-users can even dream. Millions
of people visit the Matrix every day, but I am one of the few who make it my
home.
I make sure everyone can see my persona icon the moment I walk through the
virtual door. Out on the street, samurai live or die depending on how tough
they look. You are sized up from the moment you walk into a room and those
first few seconds are the most important. If you don't say right off "don't
frag with me or I can mess you up something bad," you are in for trouble. It's
the same way on the wild side of Matrix, and everything about my persona tells
people who see me that I'm bad news in cyberspace.
Most street samurai would think the idea funny, because there isn't anything
threatening about my icon to someone who doesn't know the Matrix. Unlike a lot
of deckers, my persona isn't a giant robot, chromed samurai, animal, mythic
beast, or giant bug. I also don't go in for any of the numerous historical
figures, pagan gods, modern celebrities, or fictional characters inhabiting
virtual reality. I'm already a legend in cyberspace: a technoshaman,
cyberadept, otaku, someone who can enter the Matrix like an amphibian enters
the water, equally at home in both worlds. Without the need for a bulky
cyberdeck. No, I use only the power of my mind.
My persona is basic, almost nondescript, because it looks just like me. In the
Matrix I have the same "statistics," the same appearance I do outside of it. I
don't feel a need to make myself bigger in cyberspace just to feel tough,
unlike some of the 'trix dancers out there. My living persona has the same
height and build as me, to keep the kinesthetics as closely matched as
possible, giving me a slightly quicker response time. My persona has my dark
hair and my somewhat angular face.
All in all, nothing spectacular. Certainly nothing to com-
pare with looking like a chromed-up preying mantis or a carved-out-of marble
Adonis or even a talking pair of breasts like some of the exaggerated
am'me-style female personas I've seen. But in the Matrix it's not a matter of
what you do as much as how you do it. My persona may look just like me, but
it's because my persona is me, an extension of my true self in the electron
world. Every detail, every nuance is there, just like reality only more so.
From the depths of my gaze to the black of my polished boots. From the folds
and flow of the cloak to the individual resolution of my hair. And not only
the sights, but the other senses many programmers neglect, the little cues
that go into making an image more real.
Like sounds. The faint creak of leather, the whisper of flowing cloth, the
quiet sounds of footsteps, the clink of metal ratting loose in a leather
satchel, and the brash of cloth on cloth. Textures, from the smooth-worn
surface of comfortable leather to the dry nubiness of woven wool to the cool
smoothness of metal and the warm softness of skin. Even the smells of wool and
leather and skin mixed with the faintest scent of chrome and rain. All of
these little elements go into building an image to make all of the fantasy
figures used by normal deckers look like cartoons by comparison.
Two-dimensional, without substance or style. The kind of resolution my persona
has, the presence, tells everyone who knows anything about programming that I
am like nothing they have ever seen before.
The losers and wannabes don't have a clue about the kind of complex
programming needed to create a persona like mine and don't notice the subtle
details, of course. All they see is a persona without much flash or glitz,
which makes them think I'm no big deal. That's just fine with me because it
means they tend to underestimate me. By the time they get an indication of my
real Power, they're recovering from a dump-shock headache the size of the
Denver Front Range Free Zone. The real deckers in the Matrix know how to
recognize the subtle cues, so when a persona like mine strolls into a site, it
draws attention. Generally there are some newbies in the place who take notice
until

someone else tells them who and what I am. I admit it-I like generating
speculation about who I am and why I'm there. A little mystery can do wonders
for the reputation.
Now the eyes. The eyes are the most important part. They're the same shade of
violet as my real eyes, an unusual color to inspire just a touch of discomfort
in people when I fix them with the right kind of stare (which is much easier
to do in virtual reality, where you don't have to blink). Mine have a quality
eyes in the Matrix don't usually have. Mine show the depths of my living
persona, the presence of a mind and a soul behind them. Other eyes in the
Matrix are windows onto nothing, but people in cyberspace can look into the
eyes of my persona and see me looking back at them. It's a difference people
notice, whether they're aware of it or not.
In the Matrix I dress in dark jeans, a blue tunic, and black boots with a gray
cloak thrown over the whole thing (good for being able to pull things out of
at a moment's notice). A woven leather belt and the leather bag for carrying
my Forms.
The Forms are my tools in the Matrix, my magical weapons and charms in the
electron world. Deckers make use of programs with names like Black Hammer,
Squeeze-It, Aegis-IV, and Shoggoth to do things in the Matrix. The programs
run on a cyberdeck interfaced with the decker's brain. The decker thinks of
what he wants, and the program does the work to make it happen, translating
the task into the appropriate image in the Matrix. An attack program can look
like a gun, a sword, a blazing energy blast, a spiked mace, or anything else
the decker wants, but it is just what it is programmed to be. It isn't really
any of those things, it's just a program. A tool.
Programs have to be written and stored on a cyberdeck for a decker's use. They
are loaded into the deck's active memory, limited by the hardware's processing
power and storage capacity. And deckers must run their programs with the
limits of their decks in mind.
The Forms are different. I have no computer to connect me to the Matrix,
nothing to hold any programs. I do things

in the Matrix with nothing more than the power of my mind and spirit. I have
headware memory-computer chips installed in my neo-cortex-to store data I copy
from the computers of the Matrix, but I don't use programs to get things done.
The Forms are created from inside me, molded from the stuff of my will and
imagination to create tools in the Matrix. They are not illusions like a
decker's programs. They are real. Forms are not limited by memory or hardware.
Their only limits are my imagination.
The first Form I learn to summon in the Matrix is my sacred sword, a shining
steel manifestation of my will and power as a shaman that I can use to
dispatch enemies in the Matrix. Few can withstand its sharp edge. I also make
other Forms and keep them in the sacred bag I carry with me. They are
talismans to aid the power of my own Channels and help me do things in the
Matrix: magical dust, silvery runes, thin chrome chains, and other treasures.
I meet different travelers in exploring the Matrix, deckers who slide like
shadows through the vast corporate databases. I also meet others like me and
the technoshamans of the tribe. There are tiny groups of us in other cities
like Seattle and Denver. I speak to them about the electron world and learn
some of the important lore of the data-streams and the systems creating them.
I hone my skills as a warrior in the Matrix and fight enemies both mortal and
inhuman. Few can stand against the kind of power I bring to bear.
I learn from Papa Lo and the other cybershamans-both of my tribe and others.
They show me how to envision and call upon my spirit helpers in the electron
world and command them to perform different tasks. The spirits of the Matrix
are like our Forms, made from the stuff of the electron world, but the spirits
differ from the Forms in that they are not tools, but helpers. Deckers also
have helpers called "frames," but they are soulless and lifeless automatons of
code. My helpers are living beings, spirits of the Matrix. I learn to conjure
from the depths of my mind and spirit the first of my helpers, a spirit I name
Rook.
She is a raven with feathers of glossy black chrome and

dark eyes shining with cleverness. She flies at my command through the paths
of the Matrix, searching far and wide and returning to whisper in my ear what
she sees and hears in the distant places, allowing me to learn more quickly
without even having to go anywhere. Rook ferrets out hidden systems and secret
knowledge for me.
My other helper is a different spirit. He is called Bake-mono and he is a more
material creature than Rook. He is a small goblin, bent and twisted, no more
than half my height. His dark skin is stretched tight over his bones, giving
him a leering, skeletal look, and his eyes are a glowing yellow. Bakemono is a
trickster and a fighter, who attacks and bedevils my enemies when I command
it. He watches my back in the Matrix and does small tasks for me while I deal
with more important matters. Bakemono fights with the same animal strength I
felt when I fought the ghoul in the body-snatcher's lair.
Papa Lo says I learn very fast, but he expected no less. "I always knew you
would be a great shaman, Babel," he says to me. "There is an important destiny
awaiting you." He never explains what he means.
The tribe's elders also teach me some other skills I need to know. The Rox is
an urban jungle that requires survival skills to live here. I learn how to
forage and how to make my way through the ferrocrete canyons without being
seen. One of the tribal elders is a man named Hunter, which is also his role
in the tribe. He is a warrior and one of the tribe's strongest protectors. He
has known Papa Lo for a long time. Although Hunter is not nearly so old, his
hair does show traces of gray.
Hunter teaches me to fight and to defend myself. He says all of the members of
the tribe must know how to protect himself and each other from attack, and
Papa Lo agrees. Even we shamans have to know some of the basic skills of
combat. "You won't always have the luxury of fighting in the Matrix," Hunter
says. "Sometimes an enemy will come looking for you in the real world. Those
times, it's best to be somewhere else when they come looking, but if you
can't, then you need to know how to fight."

I learn to fight with my bare hands and with whatever weapons are at hand.
Hunter says there are weapons all around to the warrior's trained eye, but
Hunter has the power of magic to improve his sight. His skill in combat is
greater than any normal man's and his speed is like a spirit of the
Matrix-like electrons moving and responding at the speed of thought. Although
I am very fast, I am no match for him in our sparring matches.
I am not the best student of hand-to-hand combat. I do better learning to
shoot-Hunter says I have an eye for precision-but guns are not something the
members of the tribe use casually. In the Rox they are difficult to find and
more difficult to maintain and supply with ammunition. The tribe has guns, but
they are carefully cared for and used sparingly.
One day while sparring, I tell Hunter about the fight with the ghoul and my
escape, before he and some of the tribe's warriors found me in the alley. I
also tell him about the memory of the weapon I used to stop the ghoul from
killing me. When I show him the mark on the back of my arm and then
concentrate, a slim, dark blade snaps out like a striking snake.
"Ghost!" he cries and jumps back a step from me. The blade emerges from just
behind my wrist and arcs smoothly over the back of my hand, slightly curved to
fit the contour of my arm. There is almost no weight to it as I wave my arm
slightly to test the feel of it. Hunter steps toward me again and seizes hold
of my wrist to examine the blade. He lets out a low whistle as he runs a
finger just above its rear edge.
"That is one nasty cutter, Babel," he says with respect. "I've seen plenty of
street-muscle with razors but never anything quite like this. It's like a
standard spur, but the brushing on the arm-sheath is nearly invisible, and the
blade looks like some kind of carbon-fiber composite. It would be almost
impossible to detect, and the damn thing must be sharper than hell. Do you
know where you got it?"
I shake my head. "Did I have it when I came to the

tribe?" I ask and Hunter shrugs and shakes his own head in response.
"I don't know, kid. You might have. We don't have the kind of gear to scan
people for cyber, but I doubt we would have found it even if we did. If you
had it when you got grabbed by the Tamanous, it was already there." I still
cannot recall anything from before awakening after my initiation, and the
blade becomes another mystery for me. Hunter teaches me how to fight with it,
and I learn that it is indeed "sharper than hell," able to tear through wood
and plastic with ease, just as it sliced through the flesh and bone of
Crawley's wrist.
I ask Hunter and some of the others of the tribe about what I was like before
my initiation, how I came to the tribe. They tell me I have been part of the
Netwalkers for only a matter of months. I was barely getting by working the
streets as a decker with the handle of Rook, the same name I gave to my first
spirit helper. It is a fitting passing of the name, I am told. Papa Lo was
impressed with my abilities after I did some work with the 'walkers and asked
me to join the tribe.
Compared to the way I must have been scraping by, I could see why I accepted.
While the Netwalkers do not live in luxury, we are better off than many of the
people who live in the Rox, and the tribe takes good care of its own. I wonder
about my life as a street-decker and where I came from before. Was I born in
the Rox? It seems likely, since most of the people from here tend to stay. If
the Rox is where you come from, there isn't really anywhere else logo.
I learn more about the tribe's history, its allies and enemies and my duties
as a shaman. Only four of us have undergone the Deep Resonance and learned the
Channels, to enter the Matrix without the hardware and equipment even Papa Lo
still needs. That makes us important, and we have a responsibility to the
tribe to travel in the Matrix, seeking the knowledge to help the tribe survive
and prosper. Knowledge is power, and there are many secrets to be wrested

from the spirits of the electron world that are worth something to the right
people.
The trick is finding the right people and making sure they don't kill you to
get what you have.

11
Dragons in their pleasant palaces.
-Isaiah 14:12
The young novice made his way quickly down the quiet halls of the lodge set
high up on the slopes of Mount Shasta. The rest of the shamans and other
inhabitants of the Shasta Lodge were settling in for the night, but Running
Bird had a duty to fulfill before he could do so. He tried to calm his
thoughts, following the instructions of his teachers to reach an inner core of
peace and strength as he walked up to the great doors.
A knock on the double wooden doors of the chamber interrupted Hestaby's
meditation. She raised her head, the great eyes half-closed, and turned toward
the entrance.
"Enter," she said, and the doors opened to admit Running Bird. He bowed
deeply, hands folded before him, and the great dragon coiled in the room
returned the bow with a nod of her great, scaled head.
"Forgive this interruption, Lady," the novice said in a quiet voice. "There is
an incoming communication for you. It is encoded and tagged as most urgent."
Indeed? Hestaby thought. How curious. She inclined her head again in
acknowledgement of the acolyte's message.
"Very well, Running Bird. You will remain and speak for me." The young man was
clearly taken aback by the command. To be privy to the great dragon's secret
communications was no small thing, but Hestaby did not doubt the loyalty of
those closest to her.
"I, Lady? As ... as you wish." He closed the door be-

hind him and walked over to the communications console hugging the stone wall
near where Hestaby's great body spawled on the floor. With quiet efficiency,
he tapped some keys and brought up a trideo image that filled much of the
blank, whitewashed wall behind the console.
The image was of a complex fractal pattern, beautiful in its complexity. A few
seconds after the console was engaged, the pattern dissolved and the image of
a face appeared on the screen. It was an elf with dark hair swept back from
his face, covering his pointed ears. But his sharp, elven features were as
clear as if he were in the room with them. Hestaby's voice spoke in Running
Bird's mind and he relayed the words. It felt almost like the dragon were
using him as a mouthpiece, requiring no effort on his part.
"Leonardo," the novice's voice said, "what an unexpected pleasure. To what do
I owe the honor of taking you from your studies?"
The elf on the screen looked askance at Running Bird for a moment, and the
novice felt the force of the dark gaze upon him. Leonardo shifted his
attention back to Hestaby with a slight shrug, apparently deciding the
dragon's servant was of no concern to him. His voice was melodious and
charming.
"I have called on a matter of mutual interest, gracious lady. We both have our
opinions regarding the ways and the future of our peoples. Once those ideas
placed us in the minority, but recent events have changed the course of the
future and may offer opportunities for ... alternative viewpoints to be heard
and listened to. I would very much like to meet with you to discuss the
possibilities."
Hestaby cocked her great head to one side in a quizzical look as Leonardo
spoke, and Running Bird waited for the dragon's voice in his mind to tell him
how to reply. There was a long moment of silence, and he looked back over his
shoulder at his mistress. She nodded and the novice turned back to the screen
as her thought-voice spoke through him.
"An interesting offer," Hestaby said, "one I would not

have expected from you. There was a time when such a meeting would have been
considered impossible."
"All the more reason to undertake it," Leonardo replied. "I have always been
fond of accomplishing the impossible as, I believe, are you."
"There are those who will see a meeting such as this as a threat," Hestaby
said, and Running Bird felt a slight chill as he spoke the words. Who could
possibly threaten a dragon with the power of Hestaby, she who had once turned
back an elven army from the slopes of Mount Shasta?
"Perhaps, but what is life without a little risk?" Leonardo replied.
Hestaby paused for another long moment, and Running Bird could almost hear the
great dragon's thoughts buzzing on the edge of his awareness before she spoke
again in his mind and directed his voice toward the trideo screen.
"Very well. Where do you wish to meet?" she asked. The elf gave an enigmatic
smile that made his classic features seem to light up with pleasure.
"How about my place?"
In a vast arcology on the banks of the Rhur, a great dragon lay curled up like
a sleeping cat on the fine marble floor of a room large enough to serve as a
hangar for a private jet. Giant columns supported the vaulted ceiling and fine
carvings decorated the stone walls. The room was solid, cool, and gave off a
comforting atmosphere for a creature used to lairing in great mountain caves.
Unlike those lairs of old, there were no piles of treasure, no picked bones,
or rusted weapons belonging to foolish would-be dragonslayers. The room was
clean and dry, filled with the heavy musk of reptilian scales and the faint
charred odor of smoke. There was no furniture and no windows-save those open
to display computer graphics or information-the room's sole inhabitant needed
neither.
The vast room in Saeder-Krupp's world headquarters in the Rhine-Rhur megaplex
was jokingly known as "the corner office" by the dragon's minions. They
thought he was unaware of their nickname for his lair, but there was pre-

cious little the great dragon Lofwyr, President and Chairman of the Board of
Saeder-Krupp Heavy Industries, was not aware of.
All the dragon needed was the collection of moving images filling most of one
wall of the great chamber. The display screens on the wall provided a steady
flow of information to keep his vast mind occupied. A visitor to the room
might have suspected that Lofwyr was asleep. Sitting curled up with his great,
wedge-shaped head resting on his forelegs, large golden eyes nearly hidden
beneath their heavy lids, the dragon stared languidly at the video wall. It
was just before dawn in Germany, and few people were awake in the vast
arcology. Lofwyr's mind, however, was ever active, following all of the input
from those screens while simultaneously juggling a dozen different thoughts at
once.
Some of the windows open on the video-wall provided updates on the activities
of Saeder-Krupp and its many subsidiaries and interests across the globe.
Saeder-Krupp was the largest megacorporate conglomerate in the world.
Overseeing the hundreds of companies it controlled would be a monumental feat
for a human CEO, but for Lofwyr the intricacies of corporate politics and
economics were something to keep his mind occupied. He reviewed the activities
of dozens of companies a minute, storing away the information and keeping
mental notes he would later dictate to his servants to carry out. Stock
information, buyouts, the rise and fall of businesses around the world, all
took up a mere fraction of the dragon's attention.
Other windows displayed information about Lofwyr's other interests. There were
few things in the Sixth World in which he did not take at least some interest,
so displays of new trideo programs, documentaries, stock portfolios, and other
pieces of data gathered by Lofwyr's agents, both living and artificial,
decorated the video-wall for his edification and amusement. Toxic spills in
the North Sea, gun-running in Southeast Asia, another border skirmish in
China, political polls from the United Canadian and American States, all of
these were grist for the mill of Lofwyr's brain.

The dragon had a vast network of agents in every country devoted to nothing
more than feeding information into his hungry brain for him to digest:
updates, rumors, and secrets from all over the world.
Despite the vast amount of data rushing past on the display before him, the
great dragon seemed almost bored, impatiently waiting for something to happen.
He huffed a great sigh, sending small trickles of smoke pouring from his
nostrils as he kept watch over the world through the magic of modern
technology, thinking of the days when a magical mirror or pool would have
served in place of the video wall. But such tools were not as quick or
efficient as the power of the Matrix for processing information. Modern
technology had its uses.
A musical tone interrupted the hubbub of the many display windows, and
Lofwyr's eyes widened, his head lifting slightly from where it rested. A red
indicator on the display flashed "incoming transmission." The dragon's lips
curled slightly in an almost-smile that would have chilled the blood of any
Saeder-Krupp employee present in the room. Lofwyr smiled only rarely. It
always meant the dragon had found something interesting to him, and no one
wanted to be the object of Lofwyr's interest.
The flashing indicator opened into another window on the video wall,
displaying the calm, refined features of Jean-Claude Priault, chief justice of
the Corporate Court and Lofwyr's employee.
"Greetings, Master," Priault said. Most modern people had trouble with
Lofwyr's preferred title. Even the most pitiful wretch from the Barrens of
Seattle or post-war Europe believed they were above calling anyone "master,"
but Priault managed the term quite well without becoming utterly servile in
the process. It was one of the reasons Lofwyr liked the human and chose him to
represent Saeder-Krupp on the Corporate Court: Priault was a good leader
because he was such a capable follower. Lofwyr wished all humans were more
like him.
The great dragon inclined his head at Priault's image, acknowledging him, then
stretched his long neck up to its full

height, working out some of the kinks from lying still. Lofwyr preferred to
discuss business in person whenever possible, but with the chief justice on
board Zurich-Orbital that was not an option. Modern communications were most
inconvenient for dragons, because they did not speak as humans did: using the
lips and tongue. Those organs were best used for eating, in Lofwyr's opinion.
Dragons spoke with the power of their magical brains, directly into the minds
of others. Unfortunately, machines could not pick up the transmission of
dragonspeech, so certain ... modifications were necessary to make use of
electronic communication. A human translator was one option, but Lofwyr
preferred to handle this matter personally.
With a slight wave of one great talon, Lofwyr's form began to shimmer and
change. Like smoke, the body of the multi-ton dragon dissolved and assumed the
shape of a man, tall and thin, with long, white hair swept back from a high
forehead. He wore a finely tailored suit echoing the color of the dragon's own
scales. He brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve before turning
toward the screen where Priault's image waited.
Few humans had known anything of the great dragons' ability to assume a human
form before Dunkelzahn demonstrated it to them. It was a violation of one of
the many secrets of his kind, but Dunkelzahn had paid the price for his
indiscretions and humanity remained uncertain if other great dragons possessed
the same ability. The dragons weren't talking and people were reluctant to
question a dragon who didn't want to be questioned, which was fine with
Lofwyr. He displayed his ability only in front of trusted servants like
Priault. The rest of the time, Lofwyr acted through intermediaries and
translators able to carry out his wishes without any need for him to assume an
uncomfortable human form.
"What have you to report?" Lofwyr said in a deep voice as he strode closer to
the display window. Human eyes were so poor that he wondered how the creatures
saw anything at all.
The chief justice cleared his throat a bit. "Very little so

far," Priault said with a bit of a shrug. "We are at recess currently. Osborne
has begun to present her case. What she has so far is flimsy and
circumstantial. It is unclear whether Fuchi really has the evidence to back it
up."
"They have," Lofwyr said. "It remains to be seen if they can use it properly.
What are your thoughts on the tenor of the Court and Osborne's chances of
success?"
Priault frowned at bit, his brow furrowed with deep lines. "The Court is
concerned about Renraku," he began, choosing his words carefully. "Its growth
needs to be checked, and I think the court will take advantage of any viable
opportunity to do so. It depends on whether or not Fuchi's case is considered
sufficient cause for the Court to act against Renraku in some way. Their
success has not been anywhere near what Aztlan tried to do along the Pacific
Rim, and we know how long it took the Court to decide to respond to that.
Osborne will have to make it clear that Renraku is violating the concords of
the Court and using means that could endanger us all. She is off to a good
start, provided she backs it up with something more than rhetoric."
The dragon in human guise turned from the display and paced back a few steps,
the click of his heels echoing loudly on the marble floor of the vast chamber.
His hands were clasped behind his back.
"Very well," the dragon said. "Continue to support Osborne and Fuchi quietly
and give her every opportunity to turn the Court against Renraku. If she is
not able to do so or her evidence is not forthcoming, I may have to take a
hand in the matter. But for now I am content to allow Fuchi to act against
Renraku. If the two can be maneuvered into direct conflict, so much the
better. I will consider a follow-through for the conclusion of this matter
while you oversee the case. Continue to inform me of your progress."
Priault executed a bow before the camera. "Yes, Master," he said, then cut the
connection.
Lofwyr paced back to the center of the room, tapping the palm of his hand. He
reassumed his natural form, stretching languidly to work out the kinks, his
powerful muscles rip-

pling under his scaled hide. He luxuriated in the cool surface of the marble,
and curled up again to resume watching the displays on the video wall and to
consider this new information to plot his next move. The matter of Renraku and
Fuchi's case against them had taken up considerable amounts of the great
dragon's attention.
And it was not healthy to be the object of Lofwyr's attention.

12
One of the duties of the shaman is to act as psycho-pomp and walker between
the worlds. The shaman travels to the Underworld as well as the Upperworld for
a variety of reasons; to escort the souls of the dead to their resting place
and to seek wisdom from the spirits who live in the Underworld and bring it
back to the people. Every shaman travels into the Underworld to fulfill the
needs of the tribe and to maintain his or her power as a shaman by speaking
with and learning from the spirits who dwell there. Although most Underworld
journeys in modem times consist of astral travel to the metaplanes to draw on
the wisdom to be learned there, modern shamans also undertake other kinds of
underworld journeys every day of their so-called "mundane " lives.
-from "Shamanic Traditions in the Twenty-first
Century," a lecture given by Dr. Akiko Kano
at Cal-Tech, California Free State, 2044
One of my duties as a shaman of the tribe is to travel to the Underworld of
the Catacombs. Most of the people who want the secrets the Netwalkers have to
sell live down there in the tunnels running beneath the city, some of them
very old. The Catacombs date back to when the subway system in Boston was
first being built and expanded. Over the years, many different tunnels were
built. Subway tunnels, maintenance tunnels, sewer tunnels, and other conduits
for daily necessities radiating under the streets of Boston, a whole world
under the feet of the city.

Over the years some of the tunnels were lost, sealed off, or forgotten. New
tunnels were build over, under, and around them, and the old remnants were
found by street people needing shelter. The earthquake that shook the East
Coast in 2005 leveled Manhattan, and also left many of the Boston tunnels
ruined or abandoned, requiring the construction of new ones. The old tunnels
and lost stations were declared unsafe and sealed off by the city government.
They became home to refugees outside of the system, people like our tribe.
Most of the tracks are above-ground in the Rox, too exposed to be of any use
to the city now. So the tunnels into the Rox were among those abandoned.
Nobody wants to come into the Rox, only to leave it, so there was no need to
send trains along the tracks any more. The tunnels and the stations were left
to the denizens of the Rox, just as were its buildings and streets.
The crumbling concrete spans of old, above-ground train bridges are where we
built and maintain the pirate satellite links to connect our tiny corner of
the Matrix to the rest of the world. The ground-cable connections in the Rox
are few and unreliable, damaged by the forces of nature and left to rot by the
city workers who put them in place. Part of the work of our tribe is
maintaining the web of fiber-optics stretching out from our territory and
connecting us to the world. The satellite links give us the best Matrix access
in the Rox, something valuable to the right people. One of the commodities the
Netwalkers have to offer in trade for the things we need to survive and
prosper.
The tunnels are the underworld of the Rox. When the Awakening came, the
tunnels got new inhabitants. First were the strange, magical creatures from
the darkness under the earth. The tribe has stories and legends about these
creatures of the underground: giant worms burrowing through solid rock, devil
rats, and other scavengers who feast on the carrion in the tunnels. Even more
frightening are the tales of intelligent creatures of the dark tunnels:
vampires, ghosts, and ghouls, like Crawley, the one working with the Tamanous.
The monsters of myth and legend are real and prey on

the inhabitants of the Rox, hunting for the flesh, blood, and living essence
they need to survive.
Tensions in the city drove many of its metahumans underground to hide from
those who hate and fear them simply for how they look. Communities of orks,
trolls, and dwarfs developed in the Catacombs, and tribes of meta-human and
human outcasts banded together to create their own homes down there.
The Netwalkers live above-ground, not in the darkness of the tunnels, but we
make trips down into the Catacombs to bargain with its inhabitants for
supplies and other necessities in underground bazaars set up in the abandoned
stations. In return, we trade our skills with hardware and software and the
knowledge we have acquired. I accompany Papa Lo and others on trips into the
Catacombs and learn quickly about how to bargain, talk, and trade with the
tunnel-folk.
The Undermarket is one of the places we visit often. The tunnels leading into
the Rox are abandoned. The city government and the corporations can't be
bothered with maintaining access to an area where they feel none is needed, so
the Rox stations and tunnels are left to rust and decay. Taken over and
transformed by the people of the Rox, they are our gateway into the underworld
and the treasures of the Undermarket as well as a pathway into other parts of
the plex, provided one is willing to brave the security guards watching the
stations and tunnel entrances and the creatures living in the dark recesses of
the underground, not to mention the danger of being caught in front of an
oncoming subway train too far from a sheltering alcove. Many tunnel-dwellers
die that way.
Set up in one of the abandoned stations, the Market is a bazaar where
different folk from the Rox and elsewhere in the city buy and sell, carrying
on a whole economic system totally separate from the government and the
corporations. Many of the merchants live in the tunnels themselves; orks,
trolls, and stranger creatures cast aside by the rest of the world, forced to
hide in the safety of the dark underground. The Market pays protection to
gangs and tribes in the Rox,

and we all recognize the importance of the Market and protect it. The Market
is neutral ground, no trouble is allowed there.
But trouble still happens from time to time. That is why warriors accompany us
down into the tunnels to the Under-market. There are plenty of people in the
underground desperate enough to break the law in hopes of obtaining something
they can sell or use to make it through another day. These are the desperate
and hopeless who have abandoned all tradition and understanding. "They are the
real savages of the Rox, not us," Papa Lo says. Without tradition and honor,
we are nothing. I know it is true, it is something I feel I have believed in
for a long time.
Shadowrunners come to the Market from time to time to get things they need.
They are outcasts like we are, living outside the law and the shelter of the
corporations and the government. Like us, they do not exist in the eyes of
society. Like us, they live in the spaces abandoned by the rest of the world.
Unlike us, they serve the corporations, working as their agents in the shadows
to accomplish the work that is too dangerous to be carried out in the light.
Shadowrunners are the corporations' warriors and agents, fighting a secret war
most people never even know about, provided the runners do their jobs well. I
encounter as many Shadowrunners in the Matrix as I do in the Market, if not
more. The Matrix is very important to Shadowrunners, since it is where the
corporations store their valuable information. If we can acquire the data, it
is worth something.
We are in the tunnels one day when the trouble begins. I have been going to
the Market long enough for Papa Lo and the tribal elders to trust me to go it
alone. I am the oldest of the shamans, which gives me the right and the duty
to take on more responsibility. A small party of warriors accompanies me when
I speak to the merchants and bargain for the supplies the tribe needs. We have
some useful information, security codes and diagrams acquired from a Fuchi
corporate system, that some people are interested in acquiring. We are
promised food, medicine, and blankets for the data.

I am always taken in by the sights and sounds of the Market. Set up in a
long-abandoned station of the subway, it has flat concrete platforms lining a
deep trench where the trains once ran. The platforms are covered over with
lean-to tents, small booths, counters, and other kiosks. Curtains and folding
screens make temporary walls between the stalls and create shadowy nooks for
talking business and making deals. Over the dark trench of the train tracks
are laid heavy boards and pieces of construction plastic in an odd sort of web
to create bridges across the tracks to the platform on the other side. The
empty pit is used for storage or as a place to conduct quiet meetings under
the makeshift bridges. Small scavengers scurry and squeak under the bridges as
you cross over them.
The place is filled with different people hawking their wares, examining the
merchandise on sale, or conducting their own private business. Some live in
the underground, others in the Rox, while a few are visitors from other parts
of the city: shadowrunners handling their own affairs and, it is said,
corporate agents and others doing business in the underground for the goods
and services that can only be found there.
The fixer I need to deal with for the trade is named Milo, a fat, pale dwarf
who sweats even in the coolness of the tunnels. He reminds me of one of the
little rodents that live down here: beady, dark eyes darting nervously from
side to side at the slightest sound. Spotting him as soon as we enter the
Marketplace, I make my way toward him, followed by my entourage of tribal
warriors. We cross the rusting metal stream of the rails on a wobbly wooden
bridge of pallets to Mile's small kiosk. A folding wooden pegboard behind him
holds some weapons, tools, and computer hardware. None of it works, of course.
This is only the showroom. Milo is careful to keep his valuable goods stashed
in safe places: hidey-holes in the tunnels of the underground or elsewhere in
the Rox, I don't know where for sure.
"Hoi, Babel," the dwarf says as I approach the booth. He's sitting on a tall
stool cleaning a pistol, a Colt Man-hunter, with an oily rag. The huge gun is
nearly the length

of Milo's forearm. He smiles to reveal a row of yellowed teeth peeking through
his ragged brown beard.
"Hoi, Milo. I have the data you asked for. It wasn't easy to come by, either."
"Of course not. If it was, I wouldn't have asked you to get it."
I smile at the compliment. "Flattery will get you nowhere," I say.
Milo's smile broadens and he gives a hearty laugh. "Can't blame a chummer for
trying. Don't worry, the goods are all set as we agreed. As soon as I verify
the data's good, I'll send word out to begin moving things along."
I nod and reach into my synthdenim vest to withdraw an optical chip. I lay it
on the counter with my palm over it, then slide it toward Milo before lifting
my hand away. The dwarf picks up the chip slowly, not wanting to appear too
eager. He pulls a battered chip-reader from under the counter and slots the
chip. The reader's drive unit whirs a bit as the lasers read the optical data
off the chip, and it scrolls across the small display screen. Milo's brow
furrows and he scrolls through the data, giving an occasional "hmmm" deep in
his throat. The warriors have fanned out and remain alert for any signs of
trouble. I don't expect any. Milo deals fairly with us.
"Data looks good," the dwarf says, pulling a cloth from his pocket to mop his
sodden brow and brush aside a few dark strands of hair plastered to his
forehead. "You'll get the goods right away."
I smile and nod. "A pleasure doing business with you."
Just as I turn to leave, Milo clears his throat. "Babel?"
I stop and turn back toward him. "Yes?" I ask.
"This might be the last deal I can cut for a little while. Things have been
going on in the underground, seems like something big might be going down and,
well, I don't want to get caught in the middle, so I'm playing it careful for
a while."
"What's going down?" The dwarf has my full attention. I haven't heard anything
about this.
Milo shakes his head. "Can't say for sure, but you should

tell Papa Lo I told you things could get ... busy around here. He should
know."
I nod. Milo, like most fixers, lives off his complex network of connections.
He probably knows people involved in what is going on in the shadows and can't
reveal anything about their activities. At the same time, by passing on a
warning to Papa Lo and the Netwalkers, he might curry additional favor in the
future, should everything work out.
"I'll tell Papa you said so." Milo nods and goes back to cleaning the
Manhunter.
The dwarf's announcement of trouble brewing in the underground and the Boston
shadows has its effect on our party. On our way out of the Market, I have a
strong feeling of being watched and I tell the warriors to keep alert. They
are already on edge.
Even so, we are nearly taken by surprise when surrounded by a group of hideous
and twisted figures coming out of a side tunnel. They carry different weapons.
Some have blades or clubs, others just bent and twisted pieces of metal with
spikes and sharp edges. The warriors close in a ring around me as one of the
dark figures steps out of the shadows and smiles at me, revealing a mouth full
of sharp yellow teeth.
"Remember me, meat?" the ghoul says, waving the stump of his right arm. The
hand I sliced off has been replaced with a barbed hook gleaming dully in the
tunnel-light. "Someone wants to see you," he sneers. "Take them." The
tunnel-dwellers howl and charge at us.
There is a loud crack and a flash of blue light as Ricardo strikes out with
his stun-baton, sending a powerful jolt of electricity through one of the
onrushing ghouls. It drops to the dirty concrete floor of the tunnel, gasping
for breath as one of its companions, a huge ghoul covered in bony lumps of
armor, leaps in and stabs Ricardo with a long spear of bent metal. The stun
baton flashes with a crack and the scent of ozone. The ghoul howls in anger,
twisting on the metal spear. Ricardo screams in agony and drops to the ground,
red blood pumping from his chest.
The other warriors use their weapons: shock batons and

knives for the most part. The melee is too confused and the ghouls too
numerous for them to use the few guns we have without risking hitting each
other in the dark and crowded tunnel.
The ghouls outnumber us at least three to one and they are quickly
overwhelming the warriors. I see one of the others go down under three ghouls
who bear him to the ground and rip the weapon from his hands. His name is
Joshua, and he paints some of the best designs of the Net-walkers' totem
spirits. But I don't have time to find out if he is alive or dead. I feel the
same cold feeling in the depths of my spirit from the night when I was taken
by the Tamanous, and the ghoul's words echo in my mind: the meat is always
best when it's fresh. Then a ghoul conies at me, snarling and hissing like a
wild animal.
The monofilament-edged razor snaps out from my forearm, and I slash at the
onrushing thing in a blur of movement. The tip of the blade rips across its
face, parting flesh and showing white bone. The ghoul shrieks and falls to one
side, clutching its torn face. Another just as quickly comes at me and I slash
at it, but not quite fast enough. The ghoul's filthy claws rake across my
side, leaving a trail of pain behind them. The light armor in my vest protects
me from the worst of it, but the force of the blow puts me off balance. That's
when Crawley decides to make his move.
He lunges forward with a slash of his hook-hand, and I back-peddle out of the
way as it makes an arc through the air near where my stomach was.
"What do you want?" I ask as Crawley and I circle each other, each looking for
an opening. He only snarls and bares his teeth, like a maddened animal. My
mind races, looking for an explanation for the attack while I try to defend
myself. Is Crawley just looking for revenge? He said someone "wanted to see
me."
The other ghoul steps in at me again and a jab of my blade keeps him at bay. I
hear one of the other warriors cry out in agony and the sickening sound of
splintering bone. The noise makes me break one of the cardinal rules taught to
me by Hunter: I look toward the sound and away from

my opponent. Only for a split-second, but that's long enough.
A wiry body crashes into me and bears us both to the ground, pinning my arms.
I struggle to bring my arm-spur to bear against Crawley, but I don't have the
leverage this time. He knows to avoid it now. The cold concrete floor comes up
in a rush and the wind is knocked out of me with a crack, leaving my sore
lungs gasping for breath. Something hard and metal hits the side of my head,
snapping it to the side. I taste blood in my mouth and see stars. I look up to
see the savage death-mask of Crawley's face leering above me, lips curled back
from his sharp teeth.
"Goodnight, meat," he whispers as he raises his remaining fist. It comes down
on me and then everything fades and goes black, like a computer switched off.
Shutdown.

13
To travel to the otherworlds, the metaplanes of astral space, an initiate must
first pass the trial of the Dweller on the Threshold. This mysterious entity
may be a creature living on the narrow, misty border between the etheric plane
and the dark depths of astral space or it may be nothing more than the living
embodiment of the magician's own subconscious fears and insecurities trying to
sway the traveller from his course. In the end, it makes little difference
which is the case. The Dweller always challenges the traveller at the
Threshold of the metaplanes themselves. The Dweller seems to know every dark
secret, every hidden thought, the magician has ever had, and it uses the
knowledge to try and convince the questor to turn back and give up the
journey. Passing the Dweller on the Threshold and the dark revelations it
offers is very difficult for new initiates to conquer. Little do they know it
is only the beginning. -from Otherworld Quest: Metaplanar Experiences, by
Francis O'Rourke, ThD., UCLA Press, California Free State, 2054
I'm almost getting used to the idea of waking up in strange places from time
to time. This time I wake in the depths of the underworld, one of the Lost
Stations of the T system. It's like the Market, but is a place I've never seen
before and never want to see again. Once quite proud and elegant, the old
art-deco platform and archways are now corroded by a century or more of dust
and decay, the black and white

tile floor cracked and discolored. I can smell the strong musty odors of rust,
dust, and oil in the dimness of the place.
There is a shuffling sound as I stir and open my eyes. I see shadowy forms
moving in the dim light cast from the glowing lichens and mosses clinging to
the dank tunnel walls, shedding a pale greenish light over everything. The
dark shapes move closer to me with a shuffling movement and hoarse whispers in
some guttural tongue. I cannot make out their words, only the rasping sounds
of the voices. My vision begins to clear and I see white, sightless eyes
staring back at me. I scramble to my feet, and crawl backward, away from the
leering ghouls until my back presses against the cold wall, fuzzy with glowing
moss.
I tense my wrist, preparing to unsheath my arm-blade when another figure cuts
through the knot of shadowy forms around me. It's Crawley. He pushes aside
some of the others with harsh words and threatening waves of his hook-hand.
"Step aside, you maggots!" he says, his voice loud in the enclosed
underground. The other ghouls scatter before him with grunts and whines of
protest, more like animals than intelligent creatures. Crawley turns his blind
eyes on me and smiles his predator's smile. He levels a snub-nosed pistol at
me from his good hand.
"Get up," he says, gesturing ahead of him with the gun. "Mama is waiting to
see you."
I know of Mama, of course. Everyone who goes anywhere near the Catacombs knows
about her, but very few people ever see her. The stories say she styles
herself the ruler of the Boston underworld and that everything which happens
in the Catacombs reaches her ears sooner or later. She is a power-broker and
deal-maker, with contacts and connections forming a complex web of influence
throughout the shadows. Her influence makes fixers like Milo look truly
small-time. Mama is also reputed to be a hideous witch who calls upon dark
powers and feasts on human and elven flesh to sustain herself. Maybe she is
the source of the rumors Milo mentioned. Is Mama planning some kind
of move to consolidate her power in the underworld and make good her claims of
rulership? If so, what would she want with me? Influence over the Net walkers?
I see no choice but to do as Crawley says, so I let him guide me from the
station platform toward one of the dark side tunnels. When we reach the dark
pit of the train tracks, the ghoul gestures with his gun. I look down into the
trench and back at the ghoul, then jump down among the rusting rails, broken
ties, and loose gravel. Crawley follows and prods me in the direction of
another dark tunnel with the snub-nose of the pistol.
The walls of the tunnel are decorated with strange totem figures made from
broken parts of cars, trains, and machines mixed with fur, bone, and other
refuse. The figures stare out from the walls with their broken headlight eyes
and rusted chrome mouths like guardians who watch all who come and go from
this place. These are the dark and secret totems of the city's rusting
underground and I silently pay respect to their dominion.
Crawley tells me where to take a turn off to the left into yet another narrow
tunnel. The tunnel looks too narrow to be part of the train system. Perhaps it
is a siding or a maintenance tunnel, I can't say for sure. The tunnel ends at
a heavy steel door set into the wall. A wheel is set in the middle of the door
to open it, like an old-fashioned airlock of some sort. Crawley steps up to
it, keeping the gun trained on me, and I consider running. I might be able to
bolt down the short tunnel and around the corner before the ghoul can get a
shot off.
I quickly dismiss the idea, however. Even if I could avoid being shot, I have
no idea where I am in the underworld or how I can get out of the tunnels here.
Crawley and his ghoul companions would hunt me down easily in the darkness,
tracking as they do by scent and magic. Easier to go along and find out why
Mama wants to see me while I learn more about my situation and what the old
woman wants. I might be able to bring that knowledge back to the tribe with
me, if I survive.
Crawley raps sharply on the door with his hook, once,

twice, three times. The sound echoes in the tunnel and, after the third rap,
there is a squeak and the wheel on the door turns. The door swings outward,
and a huge troll steps back from the doorway.
Crawley gestures with his gun and I step through the door, followed by the
ghoul. He almost runs into me as I stop short to look up at the massive troll
standing on the other side of the door. Over three meters tall, his skin is
like a rocky cliffside. He-at least I think it's a he-is covered with lumpy
deposits of bone on the surface of his skin, forming a kind of natural armor,
as pale and white as the shell of some kind of underground beetle. His eyes
are small and pink, staring out from under beetled brows topped with long and
twisting horns that look formidably sharp at the ends. His body is squat and
heavily muscled, and I'm certain he is easily capable of crushing me with one
hand.
"Keep moving, meat." Crawley's sharp comment pulls my attention away from the
pale giant standing in front of me. "You don't want to keep Mama waiting."
I turn away from the troll and begin walking down the brick-lined corridor,
aware of Crawley and the troll falling into step behind me. The way is lit by
flickering bulbs set into brackets in the wall-like torches. They cast a wan,
yellow light over the hall, but brighter than the dim phosphorescence from
outside.
"Don't speak to Mama unless you're spoken to, if you value your hide, boy,"
Crawley says in a loud whisper. He sneers. "And be sure to call her
'grandmother.' She likes that. If you call her anything else, she's likely to
have you flayed alive. Not that I would mind the entertainment ... call it
dinner theatre." I shudder at the idea of what Crawley and his pack would
consider entertaining, or dinner.
The hall ends in a wine-dark curtain of velvet that is surprisingly clean and
intact. I gently push it aside and step past it. Crawley follows, then the
troll squeezes his bulk through the narrow doorway into a place like something
from out of the distant past. The room is fairly large and lined in brick.
Several tall, brick archways are filled with dark, flowing curtains much like
the one we entered through.

Numerous candles set into candelabras and lanterns hang from the ceiling. Real
candles, not electric bulbs like those in the hall. They shed a warm golden
light in the room, which does little to chase away the chill and the dampness
of the place. On the floor is a heavy Oriental rug stretching nearly from wall
to wall. There are several pieces of furniture that would not have been out of
place in the house of somebody's grandmother: a red velvet settee, several
overstuffed chairs, and a few small tables of dark wood and clawed feet.
Bunches of fragrant herbs hang from racks along the wall, filling the room
with a strong scent of musk and spice. On one of the small tables sits an
antique record-player holding what looks like an actual vinyl record grinding
out some slow and quiet classical music with a great number of violins and
mournful cellos. I don't recognize the piece.
One of the curtains on the far side of the room is lifted to the side by a
skeletal hand, and then Mama enters. She is small, probably no higher than my
shoulder, and painfully thin. Her body is wrapped in a long, dark dress, and a
dark-colored shawl covers her head and shoulders. Only her hands and face are
visible and they are old and wrinkled. Her bony hands, pale and touched with
dark splotches, clutch the ends of the shawl while her face is like a
fairytale witch. It is long and pointed, with a sharp nose and chin. Her thin
lips part to reveal sharp and yellowed teeth. Her eyes are small and dark
beneath pale brows, not pale and lifeless like Crawley's, but almost as cold,
like lumps of coal. Wisps of brittle, white hair escape from her kerchief and
she sweeps the room with her gaze.
Despite her aura of great age, this crone is not feeble or senile. She moves
with a wiry grace, like a huntress or a spider negotiating her web. Her dark
eyes have a fierce intelligence and a gleam that seems to catch and reflect
the glow of the candles. I feel her staring at me as if she were looking into
the depths of my spirit to learn my every secret.
"Well, well, well," she says in a crooning voice, caressing each word and
drawing it out. "What have we here?"

There is a slight accent to her speech that I cannot identify, like something
from the Old World that cannot be overcome, even with years of speaking
English fluently. She glides over toward me as if barely touching the ground
and brushes my cheek with the caress of one bony hand. Her skin is dry and
brittle like the many old, yellowed news-faxes scattered over the streets and
alleys of the Rox. I fight down a shudder and stand perfectly still.
"What is your name, boychik?" she asks.
"I am called Babel." I pause, then add, "Grandmother."
Mama's lips purse and her sunken cheeks become even more hollow. Her mockery
of an almost girlish pout is hideous. "What a polite boy. A lovely boy. Is
that your only name, Babel?"
"The only name I can give."
"Can give or will give?" she asks with a tone of menace.
"Can give," I reply. "That is the only name I have, the only one with any
meaning for me now." That is not entirely true. There is the street name,
Rook, I once used. And I am still curious about my other name, the name I had
from my life before the streets, before I found the Net-walkers and became a
shaman.
"Names have power," Mama says, speaking as much to the shadows as to me. She
turns her gaze from me and begins pacing slowly toward the phonograph. "Once
all people kept a secret name that they shared with no one and another they
told to the world. Discover a man's secret name, and you held power over him.
Do you believe that, boy?" She spins suddenly and fixes me with her dark gaze
again.
I nod. "Yes. Names have power. I have learned many secret names in the world
of the Matrix. Passwords, systems, and codes."
The old crone waves her thin hand in a dismissive gesture, turning back to
caress the ornate metal horn of the phonograph. "Smoke and shadows, mere
child's games with no touch of real Power." She waves her hand, and a darkling
sprite, formed from candle flame and shadow, leaps from one of the candelabras
on the table nearby. It

flutters into the air on burning wings and I feel a quick stab of jealousy at
the sight of it. When the Sixth World began almost fifty years ago, the power
of magic returned to the world. Some people suddenly gained the ability-the
Talent it is called-to shape the magical forces flowing around the Earth,
using them to cast spells and summon spirits. I know when I see the fire
sprite leap from the candle flame at Mama's command that the gift, the power
of magic, is something I have always wanted. Dim memories stir inside me of
dreams of becoming a powerful sorcerer; casting spells and binding spirits to
my will. But then, isn't that what I am now? I consider my apprenticeship and
my initiation into the Netwalkers, all I have learned in the other-world of
the Matrix, and draw myself up to face the old crone.
"I have seen power in the electron world, grandmother. I have danced with
spirits and fought soulless creatures as dark and cold as any demon. I have
taken their secrets from them and put them to my own use. That is real."
The old hag smiles her hideous smile and looks at me, looks through me. With a
flick of her wrist, the small sprite vanishes in a puff of flame and a small
popping sound, making the room seem a bit darker and colder.
"Is that so?" she says, like she is humoring a little child. "Do you believe
you have touched real power, little machine-worker? Do you think you have
danced with real spirits? Do you believe you know what it is to fight a true
demon? Do you think you know power to equal the secrets of the Arts and Crafts
of a humble old woman ... Michael?"
The sound of the name goes through me like a power surge, stiffening my
muscles and making me gasp slightly as I look at the dark humor in those eyes.
That name, that name has meaning for me. Somewhere in the back of my mind the
thought blooms like a dark flower. She knows, she knows who I am.
"What? What did you say?" I hear myself whisper.
"You heard me, Michael. Why? Does that name have some meaning to you, to Babel
the mighty technoshaman?

You said you had no other name. Do you, Michael? Is Babel the only name with
meaning for you?" I hesitate and cannot seem to find my voice. I only hear the
name repeating over and over in my head. Michael, Michael, Michael. I know it
does have meaning to me. I know it is my other name. Mama is right. Knowing a
man's true name does give you power over him. I have to know what else she
knows about me. No matter what she wants.
"How do you know that name?" I ask, and Mama smiles at me like I am a
schoolboy who has just asked a patently obvious question.
"I know because it is my business to know," she says. "I know a great many
things, my boychik. I know all that goes on in my realm and many of the things
that go on above. Knowledge is power, something you should know well. Didn't
your Papa Lo teach you the value of knowledge and secrets?"
I nod somewhat dumbly.
"You are quite valuable yourself, Michael. Word has reached my ears from many
quarters of those who are interested in you."
I think immediately of the sorts of people who might want to know about me.
Who could they be? Friends? Family? Enemies? Mama reads all of my thoughts and
feelings as if I spoke aloud.
"I do not fear the spirits you traffic with, little Babel, the spirits of the
machine. Their power is limited and nothing compared to the ancient powers of
magic. Still, they are not without power of their own and can still make some
profit for me and my children here. That is why I have found it useful to deal
with your tribe from time to time through others. Information is valuable, and
I traffic in all things of value. Your corporate masters want you back, but
they don't yet know what I know. They don't know where you are or what you
have become. It is knowledge they will pay handsomely for, but not yet. In
fact, you can be worth more to me than even that, you will be able to make
your grandmother a tidy sum, yes indeed. But I do not wish you to be

troubled, my boychik. You must rest and conserve your strength. You will need
it in the times ahead."
Her dark eyes focus on me and I feel a deep lethargy pour down my body like
the heavy, honeyed words she croons.
"Yes, my boy, that's the way, rest your tired eyes and sleep, sleep the sleep
of the innocent, the sleep of the little lambs, sleep, sleep ..."
I do not hear the rest of Mama's crooning song as I slip into a deep and
dreamless blackness, wondering if I will awaken again to discover the truth of
who I am.

14
As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from afar country
-Proverbs 25:25
Alone in the dimness of a private office in the Mandala Technologies office
building in the Boston sprawl, Miles Lanier, member of the Renraku Computer
Systems Board of Directors and former Director of Internal Security for Fuchi
Industrial Technologies, sat behind a desk rolling the slim datacord of the
gleaming neural jack in his hand. It was quite late, and all of the regular
employees had long gone home, leaving the hall outside silent and dark. As he
turned the datacord over and over, Lanier thought about the strange turn of
events that had brought him to where he was now.
He had been a military man once, a master sharpshooter. That was in a time
when the major factions of the world needed a lot of military people to settle
their differences. Miles Lanier was the kind of man who specialized in
troubleshooting, at first literally and later with more subtlety, but with no
less precision than in his sniper days. He rose in the ranks to become an
officer in the military and put his tactical skills to good use.
Then the world changed and the military wasn't solving the problems of people
of power and influence. A quieter approach was called for, so Lanier went into
the business of "security," which was a softer name they used for military
forces working for the megacorporations, the great powers of the world. He
became Director of Internal Security for

Fuchi Industrial Electronics and prided himself on the efficiency with which
his department was run. Fuchi's security was respected. Everyone knew the
corporation wasn't to be trifled with. Lanier continued to do what he did
before: find problems that were developing for his employer and eliminate them
before they could become a serious threat. It was what he did best.
Then the dragon changed everything.
Lanier was never much of a believer in the idea that the return of magic to
the world had re-written history. Certainly, the Awakening had put incredible
power into the hands of people who previously had none, like the Native
Americans and some of the other tribal peoples in the world. And they had used
it against the governments that had formerly oppressed them. Used it to
reclaim some of their lost land and lost heritage. There were magicians
walking the streets, spirits appearing out of nothingness, and dragons flying
in the skies, but Lanier believed the Awakening had changed very little in the
end.
Some land got shuffled and some borders redrawn. Some new professions were
created and a few new security concerns were raised, but when the dust from
the Awakening began to settle, the world was still run the same way it had
always been. People, corporations, and governments with power did as they
pleased to those without it, and people like Miles Lanier still found work
taking care of the problems of those powerful entities. Things hadn't changed
much, but only because there were people-beings-who played the game of power
and control better than any mega-corporation or government ever imagined.
Beings whose existence was a kind of chess game on a grand scale.
Creatures like dragons.
A dragon had used his vast wealth to buy his way onto the airwaves more than
forty years ago, coming live into the living rooms of people all over the
world. Somehow, nobody really questioned that a creature out of myth wanted
more than anything to have his own trideo show broadcast into millions of
homes. In fact, most people thought it was rather cute. It made a creature
weighing tons, with a maw capable

of crushing and swallowing a man in one bite, into a cuddly media icon almost
overnight. People began to lose their primal fear of a monster out of legend
and consider him almost a member of the family.
He must have been planning it for a very long time, Lanier thought as he
watched the reflections off the desk lamp gleam from the chrome datalink. But,
then, what is forty years to a creature who might have been . . . what?
Hundreds? Thousands of years old? No one knew for sure.
It was a brilliant strategy. The dragon-Dunkelzahn was his name, the kind of
name a friendly dragon from a fairy tale might have-became the darling of the
media and had a reputation as "the friendliest dragon in the world." He was
the only one of his kind to actually deign to talk to the small, fragile
creatures living around him, and he earned the trust of the people who saw
him, or at least something very like it. The kind of trust people give to
characters they see on their favorite tridshows.
So when the dragon decided to apply for citizenship to the United Canadian
American States and to move his vast lair to Prince Edward Island, who could
possibly object? Who wouldn't want the coup of having the world's most famous
and friendly dragon as one of their citizens? Not to mention his incredible
wealth and influence. The UCAS government practically fell all over itself to
grant Dunkelzahn citizenship. It was an election year, and a photo opportunity
not to be missed: the President "shaking hands" with a gleaming, silver and
blue-scaled dragon on the White House lawn. That was the setup move and still
nobody saw the checkmate coming.
When the election turned into the biggest political scandal of the century and
everyone's faith in the government was shattered, who better to restore hope
to a defeated and battered nation than a creature of magic and fantasy? When
Dunkelzahn offered the impossible idea of a dragon running for the highest
office in the UCAS, who wouldn't stop and think to himself for a moment, "why
the frag not?" It was almost too easy, and Lanier had predicted from the
moment the news of Dunkelzahn's candidacy broke that they

would have to start renovating the White House, and he was right.
The thing Lanier didn't see, that nobody foresaw, was what happened the night
of Dunkelzahn's victory, when the dragon-in human guise-departed a party at
the Watergate Hotel, stepped into his presidential limousine, and then
vanished in a fiery explosion only blocks away from the hotel, leaving nothing
but a huge crater, a livid scar in the skin of the highway, to mark his
passing. Maybe Dunkelzahn foresaw it, Lanier thought to himself. Or maybe
there is someone better at playing the game than even a great dragon.
Whatever the case, Dunkelzahn wasn't finished playing yet. Even though the
dragon was dead, his treasure, his vast horde, still existed. His will was
read to a stunned nation, and the legendary treasure of a dragon combined with
a financial empire a corporate raider would envy was distributed to
Dunkelzahn's beneficiaries, including Miles Lanier.
Lanier had never dreamed of being a beneficiary of Dunkelzahn's will. He'd met
the dragon only once, during his presidential campaign, a goodwill meeting on
behalf of Fuchi. A remarkable conversationalist, Dunkelzahn had inquired after
Lanier's background and seemed familiar with much of his work with Fuchi, much
to Lanier's surprise. The whole time they talked, Lanier had the strange
feeling that the great dragon could look straight into his mind and soul and
read him like a book. It was a strange feeling of being exposed to
Dunkelzahn's scrutiny.
In his will, Dunkelzahn left Miles Lanier all of his stock in Renraku Computer
Systems, enough to give Lanier a seat on the board of directors and increase
his personal net worth by a billion nuyen. The day the will was read, Lanier
packed up his office while Fuchi scrambled to change their security
protocols-the protocols he had designed-before he could get out the door with
them. He smiled faintly, recalling the chaos in the halls of Fuchi HQ over the
announcement of his resignation.
Lanier had been on the Renraku board for over a year, and they were only now
beginning to believe he wasn't a plant from Fuchi, that the dragon's grand
political schemes

and fiery death weren't somehow all staged solely for the purpose of putting
one man in a position to betray them, so great was their arrogance. Lanier
didn't claim to understand Dunkelzahn's motivations any better than anyone
else. Who could say why a creature like a dragon did anything?
Lanier worked hard for Renraku and did what he did best. He got rid of
Renraku's problems, large and small, with surgical precision and skill. He
also got rid of people who opposed him with the same skill. It was a
ruthlessness the other members of the board and Renraku's highest executives
had learned to understand and respect. Lanier made sure of that. Now he sat in
the chair his ambition and good fortune had made for him, thinking about his
next move in the game.
He wasn't looking forward to the conversation he needed to have, but there was
no avoiding it, and time was of the essence. He let his breath out with a long
sigh and slid the connector home into the dataport behind his ear, settling it
there with a comfortable click. His headware immediately interfaced with the
sophisticated communications system built into the desktop, and a virtual
display superimposed itself on Lanier's vision, buttons and data-readouts
floating in space in front of him.
He reached out and manipulated the virtual controls to set up the isolation
protocols for the commlink. His military days had taught him the importance of
protecting communications. Especially when you're behind enemy lines, he
thought with a grimace. Once he was satisfied that the scrambling and
encryption systems were online, he waited.
He didn't have to wait long before receiving the signal of an incoming call.
He reached out and tapped the Receive button floating in space to his right
and the call connected. There was a brief shower of static in his field of
vision as the encryption systems kicked in and negotiated with each other back
and forth over the fiber-optic line. Then an image shimmered into place on the
opposite side of the desk from Lanier.
The man who appeared, chair and all, was dressed in an immaculate, tailored
suit from one of the finest designers in

Paris. Lanier knew because he owned a couple of them himself. The visitor's
short dark hair was swept back from a face with aristocratic European
features, features Lanier remembered well. The imagery was perfect, down to
the detail of the threads of his suit and the individual strands of hair.
Lanier would have sworn the other man was actually in the room with him
instead of being simply a virtual projection, but that came as no surprise.
There was nobody in the world better at virtual-reality technology than Fuchi
Industrial Electronics, and the image was as real as their tech could make it
(which was "realer than reality," if you believed their ads). The man who sat
across from Miles Lanier was Richard Villiers, CEO of that megacorporation. He
was also Lanier's former boss and his good friend.
"Hello, Richard," Lanier said with a genuine smile. "It's been a long time."
Villiers nodded, but the smile he offered in return was only the ghost of one.
Lanier could see that stress had worn heavily on his old friend. There was
more gray in the dark hair, which Villiers did not bother to hide with
cosmetic or magical treatments or even alterations to his virtual image. There
were a few more lines around his eyes and mouth, and he looked tired. Lanier
saw instantly that things at the highest level of Fuchi weren't going well.
His ability to read Richard's mood and intent with nothing more than a glance
was one of the things that had made Lanier so valuable to the Fuchi CEO, both
as head of Internal Security and especially now.
"Too long, Miles," Villiers returned, then he leaned forward in his chair and
took on an air that was all business. There was no time for pleasantries.
"Are we secure?" he asked.
Lanier gave one of his trademark shrugs. "As secure as possible," he said.
"With some of Renraku's capabilities, who can say?"
Villiers gave a low "hrnmm" of agreement. "Do you have what we need?" he
asked. Lanier leaned back a bit in his chair and rested his steepled fingers
against his chin, a gesture some found arrogant, but which always gave him
time to think and carefully plan his responses.

"I don't know yet for sure. From his story, our boy is clearly one of these
'otaku,' or at least he thinks he is. We've gotten some unusual neural scans,
and he does have some very high-grade cybernetic modifications. We're working
on tracing them now. They might be Renraku or they might not. It's not likely
they would have left the trademarks and serial numbers on them, and Renraku
has been putting out a lot of new stuff lately. It won't be easy to track
down."
"That's just the point, isn't it?" Villiers said, looking Lanier in the eye.
"Renraku has been putting out a lot of new patents, designs, and technology
lately. Too damn much. It just doesn't fit what we know about their
capabilities. It contradicts all the predictions and models I pay the
marketing department so much money to develop. Renraku used to be so
predictable you could set your watch by them, Miles. They were triple-A, but
they had a certain pattern to them that we'd learned to anticipate. Now
nothing is like we predicted and Renraku is breathing down our necks. You know
that the Yamanas want me removed as CEO?"
"They've wanted that ever since you got the job."
"Yes, but now they might actually have a cause to rally around. We're losing
market share for the first time in years and Renraku is starting to beat us at
our own game. That hurts the bottom line and that's the one damn thing the
Japanese can agree on. It's turning into a mob scene at the board meetings,
Miles, and the mob is going to start howling for somebody's blood."
Lanier tapped his fingers against his chin as he considered the implications.
He hadn't known it was that bad, but Fuchi was good at keeping internal
matters internal, and Lanier had definitely been out of touch for a while.
Fuchi had always been a house divided, made up of the powerful families that
controlled the megacorporation. Two of them, the Yamanas and the Nakitomis,
were Japanese industrial families who'd provided much of the capitol and
investment money to create the Fuchi empire. The third, Villiers, was the
business genius who had made Fuchi the top corporation in its field and kept
it there. Feuds and infighting for control over Fuchi brewed all the time
between the three

families, only now it looked like Villiers' seeming inability to slow
Renraku's runaway growth was uniting the other families against him. Villiers
controlled more of Fuchi than any one man, but it was still possible the
Japanese could hurt him if they got their act together.
"That kid is the only chink in Renraku's armor we've been able to find so
far," Villiers continued when Lanier remained silent. "We know Renraku
arranged for people to infiltrate the otaku." Villiers left unsaid the fact
that Fuchi knew about Renraku's plan only because Lanier had been involved in
the planning stages of it. Lanier's skills as an intelligence gatherer had
been too useful for Renraku to pass up. They had never revealed to him why
they'd wanted someone to infiltrate a scruffy tribe of techno-mystics living
in the Barrens, but they did call upon Lanier's expertise to help set up the
means to do so.
"This kid has the profile to be the agent the corp chose," Villiers said. "If
he is, then he could be the proof we need that Renraku has been overstepping
their bounds. We need evidence that this is part of the project you've told me
about, the plan to use the otaku to get leverage over the Court. We need to
get him to name names and give us the information Renraku sent him to look
for."
"Part of the problem," Lanier said, carefully choosing his words, "is that we
can't get any leads on our subject. We've run all of the usual identification
checks on his fingerprints, retinal patterns, and DNA traces. There are no
records in any of the national databanks or SIN files we've checked. Our
mystery otaku just doesn't exist in any of them."
"Could Renraku have erased those records?" Villiers asked, not hiding the note
of concern.
"All of them? In every database in the world?" Lanier shook his head. "I doubt
it. If Renraku has that kind of ability, then this little game might as well
be over. More likely he was born SINless. There are plenty of blanks who
aren't in the records who they might have recruited. He could even be a
shadowrunner."
Lanier waited for Villiers to say something. When he

didn't, he went on. "The other problem is that the kid's memory may really and
truly be fragged up. Whether it was conditioning Renraku gave him or something
that happened with the otaku, we just don't know yet. If it is, then we might
not be able to get anything useful out of him. Unraveling the mess of his
wetware is going to be difficult and take time."
"Time is something we don't have a lot of," Villiers said, starting to look
more worried. "The push is already on with the Corporate Court. If our case is
going to be successful, we have to get evidence fast enough to present it to
the Court before Renraku can make some kind of counter-move. That means doing
some of this operation on the fly and gambling we can get what we need in time
to make use of it. It's a big risk we're taking here, Miles, a high-wire act
with no net. There's no margin for error."
"You don't have to remind me of that," Lanier countered. "My position is
probably the most precarious of all." Lanier had worked hard to get even a
modicum of the Renraku board of directors' trust, and he knew if Renraku knew
what he was up to they'd have had him killed long ago. And they still might.
"I'm not so sure of that." Villiers' voice was cold. "Your seat on the board
might protect you if this thing blows up in our faces. After all, if this
operation fails and our case against Renraku collapses, you're still on the
board of the corporation that's number one with a bullet. If it works, then
you stand to be the one who knows when to jump before Renraku's ship sinks. It
sounds to me like you've got all of your bases pretty well covered."
Lanier was shocked at Villiers' comment. Even though it was delivered in a
cold and even tone, to Lanier's trained ear it clearly carried a note of
desperation. After all they'd been through, how could Richard even think to
question his loyalty? How could he doubt Lanier's loyalty?
Villiers leaned back in his chair, visibly settling himself. "I'm sorry,
Miles. That was uncalled for. This whole mess has me on edge. We're taking a
serious chance to get this whole thing cleared up."

Lanier leaned forward in his seat, his voice low but urgent. "We'll do it,
Richard. We haven't come this far to lose it all now. I know in my gut that
this kid is the one we're looking for. I'll get the information out of him no
matter what I have to do, and then we'll be able to convince the Corporate
Court to take Renraku down a peg or two. Renraku won't risk a corporate war
when they've already gained so much. They aren't going to throw it all away."
Villiers nodded soberly. "We'd better hope so. If we can't pull this off,
there may be no stopping Renraku, and then the Japanese will probably have me
for lunch. You've got to find the proof we need, Miles. And as soon as
possible. If anyone can do it, it's you. I'll be waiting for your call." His
virtual hand brushed air off to his left, and the image of Richard Villiers
vanished.
Lanier shut down the connection and reached up to pull the datacord from his
jack. He held the plug in his hand and looked at it for a long moment before
allowing the inertia reel in the desk to spool up the fiber-optic cable and
stow the cord away. He stood up and smoothed "his dark suit, adjusted his tie,
and looked around the dark, quiet office for a moment before returning to his
work.
Whatever it takes, he thought to himself. Whatever it takes, I'll find out the
otaku's secrets.

15
Otaku n. Originally derived from the Japanese term otaku-zoku, a highly formal
way of saying "you." Something like, "Oh, honored sir," only more so. First
used to describe an identifiable group of people in the late twentieth
century, ironically applied to Japanese computer "nerds"-technologically
brilliant but socially inept individuals who spent most of their lives shut in
their darkened apartments, communicating with others only through the
primitive computer networks in use at the time. Asocial and actively
antisocial, the original otaku represented a considerable sociological problem
for Japanese society before the turn of the century.
Presently the term otaku is used to refer to young Matrix users indoctrinated
into life in virtual reality from a very young age. These users display
amazing facility with computer systems, along with the same stunted social
development as the original otaku. A popular urban legend describes otaku who
achieve a kind of mystical "union" with computer systems, allowing them to
access the Matrix without the use of a computer, using only a datajack and
their own brains.
-World Wide WordWatch, 2057 edition
Miles Lanier adjusted his silk tie as the pneumatic door hissed open to admit
him to the interrogation room. The chamber was largely bare of furniture or
ornamentation of any kind, save for the chair and its attendant tables and

rolling cabinets in the middle of the room. The walls were plain and
unrelieved gray-ferrocrete blocks and metal plates. One wall had a dark glass
insert to the observation room, its opacity controlled from the booth. Lanier
knew that the technicians in the booth had been carefully monitoring and
recording everything that happened in this room. No piece of information could
be overlooked. He had already reviewed the recordings himself and decided it
was time for him to take a hand in matters personally. Time was of the
essence.
A quiet voice droned from inside the booth, repeating words familiar to
Lanier.
"My life begins in an alley-a dark, hidden place in the shadows of the city. I
awaken there like being born ..." Lanier himself had already reviewed the
information from the subject. He doubted the technicians would find anything
else useful, but had ordered the recordings reviewed again, just in case.
As the door closed behind him with a hiss and a metallic click, he turned his
attention toward the room's two other occupants. The first was Dr. Ferrera,
busy checking her instruments and the monitors arrayed around the other
figure, who was seated in a chair. Her glossy black hair was bound back from
her face in an efficient braid fixed with a clip of silver and turquoise. Her
smooth, dark brow furrowed as she examined readouts and displays, her long
fingers expertly manipulating the controls to bring up other windows and
information.
Lanier recalled when he had personally overseen Ferrera's extraction from an
Aztechnology facility down in Aztlan. That had been a difficult operation, but
Lanier believed that gaining the services of a neurophysiologist of Ferrera's
caliber was worth every nuyen spent and every drop of blood shed. The Renraku
board and Aneki-sama had personally congratulated Lanier's coup in acquiring
Ferrera's services. Little did they guess that Lanier had his own plans for
the brilliant expert in brain-computer interfaces. She looked up from her work
as he approached.
"Well?" he asked. The look on Ferrera's face was not

promising. She anticipated his question and stepped to one side so Lanier
could see the displays on the computer terminals.
"He responded as expected to the drug treatment," she said. "The compound
caused a holographic memory replay, a kind of fugue state, in which he related
all of the events of his involvement with the Netwalkers that he could
consciously recall, like he was reliving those memories. We recorded all of it
and analysis is underway, but..."
"But what?"
"It still gives us very little information to go on. There's no clear data
about his experience of gaining his ... unique abilities. We collected some
interesting data about the use of the otaku abilities from the
memory-playbacks, however."
Ferrera touched a control pad, and one of the display screens was filled with
a three-dimensional image of a human brain, its various areas highlighted in
various bright colors.
"The MRI scan shows some amazing neurological activity, even in the flashback
sequences. He clearly utilizes areas of the brain not currently charted or
much understood. It's not unlike brain activity recorded in magicians working
their spells."
"Are you saying his abilities are magical?"
Ferrera shook her head and blanked the display. "Not at all. Only that there
are certain similarities. All of the known magical abilities interact poorly,
if at all, with technology. Magicians and adepts have reported psychosomatic
pain and discomfort from immersion in virtual reality, most likely because of
the lack of subconscious mental input from their magical senses ..."
"So, is he otaku or isn't he?" Lanier interrupted with a touch of impatience.
The doctor had a tendency to lecture when she was given the opportunity, and
Lanier didn't have the time.
Ferrera didn't seemed ruffled by his curtness. "I would say so. Without a
standard of comparison, it's impossible to know for sure. He is the first
so-called 'otaku' to ever be

examined in this way, so far as we know. His neuro-chemistry and
neurophysiology have definitely been altered from the norm."
"Altered how, doctor? By whom? Those are the questions we need answered."
"It's going to take more time, Mr. Lanier. We've only really begun-"
Again Lanier cut her off, this time with an abrupt wave of his hand. "Time is
the one resource we don't have, doctor. I need answers, and I need them
immediately." He glanced back at the unconscious figure. "Do you think he
knows what we're looking for?"
Ferrera gave another one of her infuriating shrugs.
"It's possible. The drugs didn't reveal any conscious awareness of any
explanation of what happened. As far as he related, he recalls nothing before
waking up in that alley. I would hypothesize that whatever changed him
happened before then, as part of the 'initiation' ritual he mentioned a few
times."
"Could he be resisting the drug in some way? Concealing part of what he
knows?"
Another shrug. "It's possible, but I don't think it's likely. With his unusual
neurochemistry it's difficult to predict for certain how his reaction to some
drugs might differ from the baseline. If he does know anything about the
experience, it may simply be that he's not able to articulate it properly.
Otaku are known for having retarded or unusual verbal skills, although his
seem fairly normal."
Lanier walked slowly around the outer perimeter defined by the instruments and
monitors, face hard and eyes as cold as stone in the pale fluorescent light of
the room.
"We have little choice then," he said, almost to himself. "Here, Doctor, is
what I want you to do ..."
"Time to wake up, Babel," the voice said, the same voice that had asked him
what he remembered.
Babel first became aware of a quick, piercing pain in his arm, followed by the
light. A bright light stabbed into his brain, and he gasped and shut his eyes
tightly against the

glare. When he tried to raise his hands to rub his tired and gritty eyes, he
found he couldn't move them from his side. A momentary wave of fear swept over
him that the paralysis he'd experienced in an alleyway far away had returned,
but he realized he could still move his hands and feet. His arms and legs were
held down, strapped to the padded chair in which he sat, reclined at a slight
angle, so Babel faced the ceiling of the room and the light blazing down from
it.
He became aware of shadows moving at the edge of his vision in the room,
silhouetted in the light. One took a step closer and spoke to him in a strong,
masculine voice.
"Hello, Babel, how are you feeling?"
He tried weakly to lift his head to get a better look at the dark shape in
front of him.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
The shadow-man spread his arms in what was probably intended to be a gesture
of reassurance. "You're safe," the voice said. "And you can remain that way,
so long as you cooperate."
"What are you talking about? Who are you?" As he spoke, Babel felt a wave of
searing pain from his right hand, so sudden and unexpected that he cried out.
He felt heat rush to his hand and a wet stickiness spread across it. He
thrashed against the bonds that held him, but the restraints didn't budge.
"You do not ask the questions here," the shadow man's voice said. "I will ask
the questions and you will answer them. If I don't like your answers, you will
suffer. Is that clear?"
Babel nodded stiffly, biting his lip against the throbbing in his hand.
"Good. I suggest you cooperate. I have discovered that the human body is
capable of withstanding a great deal of pain without dying. But then you
already know some of that, don't you?"
The silhouetted figured stepped closer, brushing his fingers over the jack
behind Babel's ear. "Cyberware itself is a kind of torture inflicted on the
body, pieces of metal and plastic embedded in the flesh." The cool fingers ran

down Babel's neck and brushed across his shoulder before withdrawing.
"Why should I tell you anything?" Babel tried to keep his voice steady and
calm. He focused on the pain in his hand to help him concentrate and shake off
the fuzzy feelings clouding his thoughts.
"You have already provided us with a great deal of information. Do you
remember?"
Babel thought back. He recalled a woman's voice asking him to remember, the
press of an injection spray against his neck and the words tumbling out of him
like a rushing river. He'd been helpless to hold them back.
"You drugged me," he said. "I remember the Netwalkers, the ghouls, and the
fight. They captured me, brought me to Mama..."
"And she delivered you to us. That's right, Babel."
"If you've drugged me, then you already know everything I know. Why are you
doing this?" Another stab of pain shot through Babel's hand, making him wince
and almost cry out.
"I told you, you don't ask the questions, I do. What is your name?"
"You already know my name. It's Babel. You called me by it."
"What was your name before?"
Michael, Babel thought, Mama called me Michael. "I don't know," he said, and a
cold, razor edge pressed against his hand. "I don't know!" he screamed as the
edge bit down and Babel gritted his teeth to avoid crying out this time. It's
only meat, he told himself, only flesh. They can't touch the real me. The pain
seared up his arm, and tears rolled down his cheeks. The voice continued,
relentless.
"Why were you sent to infiltrate the Netwalkers tribe?"
Babel felt cold metal gently close around the little finger of his right hand.
The burning in his hand seemed to turn to ice, and he could feel the throbbing
of his pulse against the blades poised to cut off his finger. His fear became
a pure, animal thing, and a dark blossom of knowledge seemed to

open up in the depths of his mind. He spoke without thinking, as if another
voice was using his lips.
"To learn the secrets of the otaku," he gasped out, and he knew it was true.
The press of the blades relaxed a bit.
"Very good," the shadow's voice purred. "Now, did you succeed in your
assignment?"
Babel's head jerked in a spasmodic nod. "Yes. I have learned the Channels and
the Forms, the ways of the Matrix."
"Who do you work for?"
Babel closed his eyes and felt the knowledge bubbling up from deep inside him,
a well of information that had lain untapped. The answer came from him
unbidden. The red and blue neon logo, the trideo image zooming in on the
dot-and-waveform symbol.
"Renraku Computer Technologies," he said.
The images and information seemed to pour into Babel's head and threatened to
drown him. He wished the tide of it would carry him away, away from the pain
and confusion he felt to someplace safe.
"How were you to communicate your findings to Renraku?" the voice continued,
and the blades came close to caressing his finger again.
"A signal," Babel gasped. "Send a Matrix signal... and they would arrange ...
retrieval."
"Good. Tell me about the Deep Resonance. Tell me how you became an otaku."
"Return me to Renraku. You can't get what you want from me." Smack! The
backhand strike left Babel's head ringing, and he tasted blood in his mouth.
"This is Renraku, my friend," the man's voice said. "You are to give me the
information we sent you for."
The blade pressed closer. Babel's mind raced like a massive computer system,
struggling to integrate the new data welling up from the depths of his mind
with what he was being told. Renraku had expected their agent to signal them
and return willingly, not become involved with the tribe he was sent to
infiltrate. They must have assumed he'd gone rogue, and in a way he had. Babel
had lived with the Net-

walkers, talked with them, became one of them. He saw the secrets of the
Matrix and the spirits dwelling there, felt their words and their music inside
his mind. He knew Renraku had no idea what they had truly sent him for, what
they were asking for. Now they wanted to make sure they got the information
they wanted about Babel's initiation, his sacred experience as a technoshaman.
It all made sense, but somehow the shadowed man's words rang false in Babel's
ears. He knew in the depths of his being that there was more to this
interrogation.
He recalled Mama's words: "Your corporate masters want you back, but they
don't yet know what I know. It is knowledge they will pay handsomely for, but
not yet."
Babel shook his head.
"That's a lie. This is not Renraku. I know that. Mama sold me to someone else.
If you're part of Renraku, then you're a traitor. It won't be long before they
find me, and you." The blades bit down with a snap and Babel screamed, arcing
his back and throwing all of the strength of his muscles against the
restraints like his body wanted to leap from the chair at his tormentor. Blood
dripped from his mutilated hand, and pain shot up his arm like lightning. Like
electricity.
Only flesh, only flesh, only flesh, Babel repeated to himself over and over
like a mantra. The words began to calm his mind until the pain seemed to make
everything in the world come into incredibly sharp focus.
That's when he realized that the shadowed man had no face. He had features,
and appearance, but they were only partially there, like an unfinished sketch
or an impressionist painting. There was no clear definition, no presence to
the figure. Babel's own perceptions filled in the shadow man's presence.
Because he could see so little of him, he'd just assumed there was more, but
now he saw there was no more.
Babel's mind pressed out against the glassy, slick surface of the world around
him and felt it yield. His lips moved shakily as he intoned.
"My will is sovereign, the master here. Spirits of illness

and pain, I command you to be gone. I speak your names and command you.
Trouble me no more. Leave me and return to trouble your source. I command this
illusion be done. One one zero zero one be done zero zero be done zero one one
be done!" The surface of space seemed to shimmer like the heat of a summer
road and then break into endless threads and strings in a massive tangle that
began to break up itself. Babel heard someone speak as if from very far away.
"The datastream's been disrupted!" the woman's voice said. "The system is
crashing." A cool shower of static poured over Babel's sensorium, washing away
the pain and the blood, leaving only a slight aching and fatigue behind. His
vision cleared and he was still strapped into the same chair, but the bright
light was gone and he could see the plain gray walls of the room. An Hispanic
woman gently pulled the plug from the jack behind Babel's ear while looking
askance from him to the snowy display screens as if she didn't believe her own
eyes. A gentle beat filled the air, and Babel turned his head to see a man
slowly clapping, like mocking applause, and he knew it was the shadow man from
his vision.
"Bravo," the man said, "well done." He was not so frightening in the light as
he had been in the vision. Babel estimated he was a bit above average height,
but he had an imposing presence his simulacrum lacked. He wore a corporate
suit in a popular style, the dark motif broken only by touches of color in his
tie and the handkerchief folded in his breast pocket as dictated by corporate
fashion. His dark hair was short and touched with a bit of silver. His
features were smooth, refined, and chiseled, accented by his neatly trimmed
mustache. Babel didn't think he could be called a handsome man-the nose was a
bit too hawkish and the chin a touch too pronounced-but the intensity of his
gaze and his bearing made it clear that this was a powerful man who was used
to being listened to and obeyed.
"You have provided an excellent demonstration of the legendary abilities
you-were sent to discover," the man

said. "Too bad our instruments may not have lived to tell about it. Doctor?"
The woman near Babel's head looked up from where she was wrestling with one of
the display consoles. "The system is totally trashed," she said with a note of
disbelief in her voice. "Not just the simsense routines, but all of the
diagnostics as well. Some kind of progressive virus."
"Very impressive," the man said, never taking his eyes off Babel. "So the
stories are true. The otaku have the ability to deck without a deck,
controlling computers with nothing more than the power of their minds. I can
see why you are considered a valuable prize, Babel. Your gifts could make some
of the hottest ice-cutting technology available look like an antiquated
tortoise system in comparison."
Babel raised his head from the chair as best he could to look the man in the
face. The man looked familiar to him somehow, but Babel couldn't retrieve the
memory from the whirling flood of images in his mind. Mama was right, his name
was Michael, and he knew this man.
"Who are you? What do you want from me?"
"You've already figured out most of it for yourself. I want the information
Renraku sent you to find, the secret of your amazing abilities. I also want
details on who you took your orders from in Renraku and anything else you know
about the company and its operations. In short, I want everything."
"And if I refuse, what? You'll drug me again? Try to torture me again?"
The man's face darkened and he suddenly sprang forward, like a stalking cat on
a cornered mouse. The Hispanic woman gasped and stepped back as the man
grabbed the front of Babel's thin shirt and held his face so close Babel could
feel the heat of his breath.
"I will, if you force me to," he said in a low voice. "Make no mistake, boy,
you have something I need and I will get it from you however I can. You've
proven that simulated interrogation scenarios won't work on you, but there are
other means, real and very painful means, I can use to extract information. By
the time I'm done with you,

you'll be begging to tell me anything I want to know. I've already proven that
pain can be an excellent stimulus to the memory, haven't I... Michael?"
The sound of his other name made Babel jump a bit.
"Oh yes, Mama sold me your name. A pity she didn't share the rest of it. There
are a lot of Michaels working for Renraku, but we're working on a comparison."
The man slowly released Babel's shirt and rose up to his full height,
adjusting the sleeves and front of his suit jacket.
"Believe it or not, I have no reason to hurt you unless you force me to. Just
tell me what I want to know, and I'll let you go. You don't have to make this
any harder on yourself." He held his gaze on Babel for a long moment, dark
eyes on pale violet, before Babel finally spoke.
"Lanier," he said slowly. "Miles Lanier. I know you. You're on the Renraku
board. I saw your image many times on the corporate news channel. You're
playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Lanier."
Lanier's jaw dropped for only an instant before composure covered his face
like a cold mask.
Knowing someone's name gives you power over them, Babel thought. Let's see if
that's true. He only hoped he could find some way to get back to Renraku. He
had to complete his mission. If Lanier was working for somebody else, as Babel
suspected, then he had to make sure what he had for Renraku didn't fall into
the wrong hands.
Lanier looked down at Babel for a few moments, then turned to the doctor
hovering nearby. Babel never found out what Lanier was planning to do next
because the lights in the room suddenly shifted to red. Then an alarm sounded
and all hell broke loose.

16
Shadowrun n. Any movement, action, or series of such made to carry out Illegal
or quasi-legal operations.
-World Wide WordWatch, 2058 edition
Like a silver shadow, the gossamer-winged sprite skated through the glowing
neon towers of the Boston Matrix. The gleaming chrome surface of her icon
reflected the virtual light of the gridlines and other icons around her in
sharp, twisted reflections, a testament to her programming skills. Here was a
decker to be reckoned with. Other denizens of the Matrix would know the
sprite's markings and recognize her as a fellow predator, someone not to be
fragged with. Those who did not have the wisdom to see her for what she was
weren't likely to see her at all. She was a shadow, a ghost in the machine.
As Ariel sped through the telecommunications grid of the metroplex toward the
Mandala Technologies system, she hoped the price her team had paid Milo for
the local telecom number she was using was worth it. Her scanner programs were
online and sending out invisible feelers along her path, prepared to warn her
of any hidden dangers or software traps she might encounter. Ariel found her
pulse rate increasing, the pre-run adrenaline surge starting to hit her. This
was what most deckers lived for: the rush of preparing to break into a
protected system, to test their skill against the skill of the programmers
who'd built the system's defenses and to lay their lives on the line that
their skill and their hottest programs could beat the defenders'

skills and their coldest ice. A game with the highest stakes around.
With a blur of movement through the datastreams, Ariel arrived at her
destination. In the real world, her cyberdeck connected with the LTG number
she had entered, and her passcode programs went to work to provide the key to
open the door Ariel needed to get through. There was a tense moment where she
was uncertain if the programs would work, or if the system would recognize her
as an intruder and send out an alert. Bits and alphanumeric characters flashed
before her eyes in the virtual world of cyberspace as the two systems
negotiated and haggled back and forth before Ariel was able to step into the
back door of the target system. She breathed a sigh of relief and started
looking around.
It had been a gamble, but it paid off. Ariel's first scouting of the Mandala
host system had made it abundantly clear that it was possible to get in. Ariel
was proud of her skills as a decker, but she knew her limits. She was one of
the best ice-breakers in the biz, but there was no way she was getting inside
a system that looked to be protected by some of the best Fuchi had to offer.
Fuchi was the corporation when it came to Matrix technology, and their ice was
some of the best in the business.
Ariel told her boss that she'd never get in via the front door of the system
without being detected. The only ice Ariel had ever seen that was worse was
the kind Renraku Computer Systems had protecting some of their important
hosts. Renraku had always been known for its cutting-edge ice, but lately
their systems had been getting even smarter, a lot smarter. Adaptive
architectures, cascading party ice, the worst. Word on the street said
Renraku's best systems couldn't be broken, and even legendary deckers like
Fast-jack and Black Isis had tried and failed against them. Fortunately, Ariel
didn't have to worry about Renraku ice on this run.
"Trouble, this is Hammer," came a voice out of nowhere. "We're en route, ETA
eight minutes. Report."
Ariel took a quick look around the room her icon ap-

peared in. It looked like a fairly standard host-system, no fancy sculpting of
the virtual architecture, very little code wasted on fancy images or
psychological warfare. That probably meant the system was keyed for some
serious main-line defense without any frills. Ariel had to be ready for
blasters, tar pits, corroding programs, and possibly worse.
"Trouble here," she replied, the cybernetic link of her cyberdeck translating
her thoughts into transmissions on the team's tacticom radio band. "I'm in.
Beginning search through the system for access to security and internal
surveillance. Stand by."
"Roger that," the deep voice replied. "Keep me apprised."
Ariel activated a scanner program to check and see what kind of access the
host had to the building's systems: The access she'd used to penetrate was a
secondary system, a back door put in by a programmer eager to earn nuyen
selling access to people willing to pay, and the Hammermen had paid
handsomely. It wasn't nearly as good as access to the main system, but it
would have to do.
Ariel's scanning program appeared in a glittering cloud of dust, becoming a
tall mirror set in a gilt oval frame. The surface flowed and shimmered like
quicksilver as the program linked with the host's diagnostic and status
subroutines and fed the information into Ariel's cyberdeck. The system specs
started to appear on the surface of the mirror in glowing characters, and
Ariel scrolled through them quickly, stopping to check a few items on the long
list for anything she could use in her mission. Good, the system was primarily
concerned with environmental control within the building, but there were some
connections between the environmental systems and the main building
controller; feedback loops and other access points to allow the building's
systems to work harmoniously together. It would have to be enough.
The connections between the systems contained command pathways that system
administrators and maintenance personnel could use to cross-link systems and
perform upgrades and repair work simultaneously without having to leave their
cushy offices. With the right command codes,

Ariel could set up a similar link to allow her access to the important parts
of the main host-the security systems and internal sensors-without having to
go through the glacial layer of ice protecting the systems from intrusion from
the outside. The trick was setting up the right dummy codes without putting
the system on alert to her presence.
With a wave of her icon's slim, silvery hand, a long, tapering wand appeared.
Ariel tweaked the programming on the code-breaker she'd designed, checking
some of the system specs to make sure everything matched up correctly. Then
she sent the command. Open sesame! she thought as she waved the silver wand,
trailing a sparkling cloud of fairy dust behind it. The sparkling motes of
code infused themselves into the blank gray walls of the room where her icon
stood, and her cyberdeck began to execute a flurry of algorithms and program
instructions at incredible speed, too fast for the human mind to even begin to
follow.
In the space of a few seconds, the two systems wrestled over the access codes
to the command pathways, and the battle was decided. Before Ariel's eyes, the
glowing motes of fairy dust resolved themselves into a rectangular shape in
the gray wall, which then broke away from the wall and swung open into the
room, a doorway into the rest of the system.
Smiling to herself and keeping a tight rein on her impulse to leap directly
through the access pathway, Ariel keyed her transmitter.
"Hammer, this is Trouble, I've got access. Proceeding with Beta."
"Copy, Trouble. We are about seven minutes out." Ariel carefully checked the
passage open before her. All of her systems had probed and scanned the path,
and found it safe for her to travel. It was possible the pathway was some kind
of trap, triggered by tampering with the command codes, but if it was, then it
was too sophisticated for Ariel's deck or her sharpened Matrix instincts to
pick it up. She would be almost proud to be taken down by such a sophisticated
defense mechanism. Law of the electron jungle, she thought as she stepped
through the doorway.

The virtual passage led Ariel from the secondary host of the building to the
central computer system. From here she could access all of the main systems of
the target with only a minimal lag from the limited bandwidth of the back-door
connection. While the limited pipeline to "squeeze" programs and commands was
a problem, it was nothing compared to the difficulties of cutting through the
ice protecting the main system from the outside. Ariel began a scan-assessment
of the system just as she had from the access node. The silvery mirror
reappeared and shimmered in the air as the system's specs scrolled across it.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the best decker in the sprawl? Ariel thought
to herself with a grin. Her eyes widened at the sight of the security
specifications on the system. Holy ghost, it would have taken a blow torch to
cut through that much ice. The rest of the specs were equally impressive.
Apparently the Mr. Johnson had known what he was talking about when he said
the target site had some very sophisticated systems running on it. The
facility's computing power was way out of spec for what Ariel knew of Mandala
Technologies. They were an up and coming software corp, but their ice was some
of Fuchi's best. Mandala must be working on something requiring a lot of
computer horsepower, which meant cutting-edge tech, which translated to nuyen
for Ariel.
She was sorely tempted to scan through the databanks for files that might
contain valuable pay data she could sell on the underground market-Milo and
some other fixers were always willing to fence good hot data-but Ariel was a
professional and paydata wasn't what she'd been hired to find. She had a team
depending on her. She hadn't let them down yet and she wasn't going to start
now.
The remainder of the security specs were online, and Ariel breathed a sigh of
relief at the sight of them. The security in the facility was top of the line,
but it was still controlled by the central computer and the security
subroutines. Many corporations, understanding the potential vulnerability of
their systems to invasions like the one Ariel

was carrying out, had moved away from trusting their computer systems to
safeguard their important installations. Advances in human-machine interface
allowed human operators to take the role of central controller for a security
system, plugging into the security grid and in effect "becoming" the building.
They "felt" all of the input of the security sensors through a closed-circuit
simsense feed, and they could "move" any of the building's security systems as
easily as raising an arm to swat a fly. Best of all, such systems were
virtually impregnable to decker subversion because the human operator could
recognize nuances no computer could match, and the two operating systems were
largely incompatible.
Fortunately for deckers everywhere, such systems were extremely costly to
implement and maintain. Human operators still got tired, sick, or bored and
had to be relieved at regular intervals, paid, fed, and given vacation time
and raises. Computers didn't care about any of those things, nor could they be
bribed, bought, or blackmailed. Computers also didn't have opinions about what
they saw or heard from day to day and didn't abscond with important company
secrets. Brain-rigged security systems were still reserved for very specific
facilities that needed a "human touch" but where the corporate controllers
were willing to entrust a single person as the all-seeing eyes and ears of
their facility.
Since the building's computer was in control of all of the security systems,
Ariel could access and control them through her link to the computer system.
The security subroutines were of course protected by access barriers and more
ice, but Ariel had cut through enough ice in her time to know what to do. A
wave of her wand and a pinch of fairy dust produced a ring of old-fashioned
skeleton keys that jingled pleasantly (an added sensory touch Ariel was quite
proud of). A complex matching algorithm ran, and one key presented itself at
the top of the ring in the silver fairy's hand. Ariel stepped over to the
chrome-and-circuit-covered wall of the host system and inserted the key into
the slot that appeared there.

Gently, gently, she thought as she manipulated the code to match the system
access. The wall shifted and flatscreen images appeared on it. Images of the
darkened and empty parking area outside the building and of the lobby, the
corridors, and the underground parking garage and the vehicles in it. Another
screen filled with information on the current status of the security systems
in place throughout the building. Success!
Looking over the displays, Ariel could see that her intrusion had not
triggered any alarms so far. She was dimly aware of the breathing and pulse
rate of her physical body, hidden away in a safe-house kilometers from the
target site. Her senses were focused totally on the virtual world and what was
happening there. A few commands to her cyber-deck sent out a looped playback
of the quiet scene outside the building and among the corridors into the
central security processor. The loop would continue to display that image for
as long as Ariel wanted to, blind and deaf to the events about to happen. The
loop would eventually trigger an internal alert in the system's
self-diagnostic, but if the Hammermen were around long enough to worry about
that, something far worse than a simple internal alert would happen first.
Now, a check through the internal sensors. Ariel checked the internal readings
of the security system, and was surprised by what she found. Hmm, internal
systems and cameras in the lower level are mostly offline. Only the systems in
one lab space are working, and they're feeding into an isolated datastore.
Ariel shifted her attention to the recording systems for the basement-level
lab, which were sending data into a protected archive in the computer system.
They're putting out a lot of data, she thought, examining the datastore. Must
be a couple hundred megapulses at least. Probing carefully with all of her
sensor programs, Ariel approached the datastore, looking for a way to access
the datastream flowing into it without giving away her presence in the
computer system. The data could provide some valuable information on the
location of the target her

team was seeking as well as on the status of the facility. There didn't seem
to be many people in the upper levels of the facility, so Ariel had to assume
that whoever was home was in the lab where the datastream originated. She
keyed her transmitter.
"Hammer," the deep voice replied to her signal.
"I'm into the security system, external and internal cameras and detects are
neutralized and I figure they'll stay that way for a good twenty minutes. I've
got an active data feed from a basement-level lab. Suspect that is the
location of our target. I'm attempting to access the data."
"Good work, Trouble. Proceed with caution. We're just a couple minutes out."
"Roger that." Time to open this baby up, she thought.
Ariel waved her magic wand, and the Matrix responded to her commands. She
carefully peeled away layer after layer of access to the datastore, using her
route through the command system to justify her actions to the computer's
security. Time slowed to a crawl as she focused solely on the task before her.
In a matter of moments that seemed like hours, Ariel accessed the datastore
and examined the data-stream. It was a huge volume of data focused on a single
individual. It contained physiological and neurological data of every
imaginable kind: vital signs, galvanic response, brainwaves, blood chemistry,
neurochemistry, pupil dilation, capillary flow, respiration, all carefully
measured and digitized responses to stimulus flowing from the computer system
to the test subject and back again.
This has got to be our boy, Ariel thought as she looked in amazement at all of
the data. She could hardly imagine why anyone would want such detailed
information on anyone, but it wasn't hers to ask. Whoever their target really
was, he was important enough to two corporations to want to hold on to him and
to be willing to pay the Hammermen's fees to get their hands on him.
Suddenly, the datastream from the lab fluctuated strangely. What the hell....
? Ariel thought just before the whole system went crazy. A surge of data from
the input stream struck the datastore like a thunderbolt. The entire
collection of files

vanished in a cloud of digital static, dumped from the system entirely. The
sudden and unexpected force of the backlash sent Ariel skittering away from
the doomed datastore as the computer system suddenly came to life around her.
The lighting of the system shifted from silvery gray to deep and pulsating red
as the entire system went on alert. From the static and snow of the
datastore's demise stepped a black-armored figure like a robot designed to
look like an ancient Japanese samurai. The figure seemed to absorb light into
its black surface except for the edge of its long, curved sword, which gleamed
wickedly, a touch of programming flair Ariel had to admire even as the
helmeted head of the samurai slowly turned and scanned the system. It locked a
gaze on Ariel made up of two burning red points of light deep within the slit
of its helmet, and she knew it was too late for her to activate any of her
masking programs to get away. The ice had spotted her.
As the silent black form of the samurai stepped closer, Ariel readied herself
for a fight. The ice was in the depths of the system, protecting some of the
highest-security files, which could only mean it was black ice, a force known
and feared by deckers everywhere in the shadows as the only ice that did more
than damage software and hardware.
Black ice targeted the wetware, the brain of the user, with a lethal jolt of
energy. One wrong move and you were dead.

17
The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.
-Ecclesiastes 9:11
As the Hughes WK-2 Stallion helicopter cut through the night sky over the
Boston sprawl, Harlan Hammarand checked his sidearm for what must have been
the tenth time since takeoff. He knew that everything about the Colt
Man-hunter was in perfect working order, since he kept the gun in top shape,
but the task of checking the firearm gave his hands something to do as the
seconds ticked away on their final approach toward the Mandala Technologies
facility. Ariel reported that she had taken care of the security systems, just
as Harlan knew she would. Ariel was the best decker he'd ever worked with and
he counted on her to handle anything the system could throw at her.
Harlan had the same confidence in the rest of his team. The Hammermen, they
were called, after Harlan's handle on the streets: "The Hammer." The ork
mercenary had picked up the name during his younger days on the harsh streets
of New York City, where he ran with one of the hundreds of gangs living in
that urban jungle. Unlike most of them, Harlan had turned his talent for
street-fighting and organized mayhem into a marketable skill that had gotten
him out of the barrens and barrios of the Rotten Apple and on to bigger and
better things. Most of his omaes from the old gang were long dead, but Harlan
was still around. That was a trend he aimed to continue for as long as he was
able.
Hammer looked over at the rest of the team huddled in

the back of the chopper. Sloane, Tojo, and Tootall were all mercs he had
worked with for years. They'd met in the trenches of the Desert Wars, and they
still came through for him just as dependably in the canyons of the concrete
jungle. Sloane and Tojo were humans, as different as night and day. Sloane was
tall, blond, and Nordic, with a build to nearly rival Hammer's bulky ork
physique. Tojo was small, lithe, and Asian. Both men were as capable with
their bare hands as they were with an AK-97.
Tootall hardly needed any of the weapons he wore on his harness. Some three
meters tall and weighing in at almost two hundred kilos, the troll was a
fearsome fighter using nothing more than his massive fists, each one capable
of crushing a human's skull. All of the men sat silently, either looking out
the window or at the walls or floor of the chopper's cabin, each wrapped up in
his own thoughts about the action to come.
Geist sat away from the rest of the crew. The mage was small and slight, only
little taller than Tojo and not as well-muscled. His hair and skin were pale
and looked washed out in the dim light of the cabin, adding to the ghostly
appearance that gave him his street name. Geist was German by birth, but
Hammer had known him for several years in the shadows of cities from North
Africa to North America. The street mage had considerable skill at his job,
having been trained at a university in his native Germany before being forced
out into the shadows by an incident he never talked about. Hammer suspected it
had something to do with Geist's famous indiscretions with women, particularly
those who were married and supposed to be off-limits. Whatever his personal
habits, Hammer found the mage to be more than capable at his job. Right now,
Geist sat quietly in the back of the cabin, eyes closed in silent meditation,
centering himself and gathering his magical power. Hammer knew that that power
would be needed before the night was out.
He had a strange feeling about this run. Not that it was all that unusual.
Hammer had pulled off tougher extraction

runs than what he knew about this one. It wasn't the mission itself, but the
setting and the unusual speed the Johnson demanded for pulling off the
extraction. Hammer had the impression the Johnson had gotten the word that he
needed to act quickly. That was the way things went in Boston these days:
things were happening fast and you had to keep up. Get out of the way or else
get run over.
The Boston sprawl had been something of a quiet town for shadowrunners until
the last couple of years or so. It was the location of the East Coast Stock
Exchange ever since the earthquake that had devastated New York City years
before Hammer was even born. The importance of the stock exchange to the
economy sustaining all of the megacorporations was enough to make the major
multinationals declare Boston "off-limits" to the usual kind of shadow
operations the corps routinely conducted against one another. Boston had
become a city of "corporate pride" that the megacorp bigwigs could trust as
"neutral ground" for their dealings with their rivals. The cutthroat business
of Boston was conducted in board rooms and on the stock exchange, not in back
alleys like it was in cities like Seattle, New York, and Atlanta.
After the assassination of the great dragon Dunkelzahn, corporate competition
in Boston took on a new tone. Many up and coming smaller corps, supported by
money from the dragon's vast estate, were now in a position to compete with
some of the big boys. Other corporations found their structures shaken up by
redistributions of stock and assets in the dragon's will. The death of a
single, powerful being had sent Shockwaves through the corporate world and
into the shadows of the Boston metroplex. Suddenly, a place that was once
neutral ground became a hotbed of shadow activity, pitting every company
against the others in the race to get the latest and greatest advance. The
heart of the UCAS high-technology industry, Boston had begun to see far more
corporate espionage and black ops than the plex's small pool of shadowrunners
could handle. That was why out-of-town talent like the Hammermen had become
such an increasingly common part of the Boston underworld.

There was plenty of work to be had in the Boston shadows lately, if you were
good enough.
The job Hammer and his team were on now was just the kind of work-showing up
in Boston lately. The ork didn't know for certain who they were working
for-knowing your employer was a privilege to be earned in the shadows, or
information you had to find out for yourself if you were looking to hedge your
bets. Most employers of shadow-talent preferred anonymity, going by the
universal name of "Mr. Johnson." The Hammermen's current Johnson was Japanese,
which made the name all the more ironic.
Ariel had done some checking on him and hadn't turned up much. Clearly, Mr.
Johnson was a cautious man. Ariel believed Mr. J worked for Renraku. Word on
the streets said the megacorporate computer giant was running a lot of
operations against their rival Fuchi in the past months.
But Hammer had his own suspicions about who the team's new employer was. The
target Mr. Johnson wanted was a small computer corp called Mandala
Technologies in a small high-tech research park in the Route 128 area. At
first glance it looked no different than any of the hundred small technology
corps in the area, but Ariel did some digging and came up with some
interesting facts. It looked like Mandala was owned through a series of
holding companies that traced back to none other than Richard Villiers
himself, king of the Fuchi corporate empire.
The interesting thing about the facility was that Fuchi didn't own it, but
Villiers did. The baby corp wasn't part of the "Fuchi family of companies," as
the corporate reports liked to read. It was part of what looked to be a
growing number of companies in the UCAS owned by Villiers alone, part of a
personal financial empire the Fuchi CEO seemed to be building for himself.
Hammer had heard rumors that there was trouble brewing in Fuchi's ranks. The
corp had always been split between the three internal factions who controlled
it. Villiers currently had the upper hand over the other two, both of them
powerful Japanese industrial families. Having the upper hand, however, seemed
to be a good reason for the

Japanese families to set aside their differences and work to bring Villiers
down a peg or two. The fact that their CEO was building his own power base
behind the backs of his Japanese partners could not sit too well with them.
Add in the fact that the Johnson was a Japanese who seemed to know a lot about
the facility and Hammer suspected Fuchi was already splitting into camps and
that there were going to be plenty more operations like the one they were
handling tonight.
If all went well, there could be the promise of additional work for the team.
Hammer just wanted to make sure he didn't join up with the wrong side.
Corporate internal conflicts were nearly always the nastiest. They say nobody
knows how to fight like family, and when it came to the megacorps, that was
doubly true. A Fuchi internal struggle could be very profitable, but it could
also lead to runners working on the wrong side ending up very dead.
"One minute to the LZ, boss," came a voice from the front of the cabin. Hammer
looked up from his work on the Manhunter and bolstered the pistol at his side.
"Okay, boys, get ready for some action," he said to the rest of the Hammermen.
He turned toward the front of the chopper as Val guided them in toward the
target. The Mandala Tech building was exactly as shown in the holes and specs
Hammer had seen, a small office park structure like dozens of others in the
Route 128 area. The broad band of highway north of downtown Boston was the
highest concentration of high-tech companies and corporate research facilities
in the plex. The office part was the same as most of the others, a three-story
structure of brick and modern ferrocrete composites with windows of tinted
glass and a broad, open parking area currently vacant of vehicles. There was a
small expanse of open ground behind the building with a small pond and benches
where employees could take their lunches when the weather allowed. Some tall
stands of trees surrounded the plot of land on which the building was
situated.
Although the landscaping and design of the facility were intended to be
pleasant to view, Hammer's trained eye

could see that the design was planned as much for security as for aesthetics.
The terrain around the building was planted with trees, which blocked a clear
view of the building from neighboring plots and the road. The small pond
provided some natural defense from any approach from the side of the building
as well as an additional surface for radar to scan for unusual vibrations or
indications of movement. The parking area was an open expanse perfect for
sweeping with sensors of all kinds, and could become an open killing zone if
the company decided to exercise their right to protect their territory with
deadly force.
Fortunately, the Hammermen wouldn't have to worry about any of those security
measures if Ariel had handled the main computer system as planned.
"Hammer to Trouble, report," Hammer said into his throat mike. A burst of
static greeted him, followed by the decker's voice.
"I'm a little busy right now, Boss," Ariel said. "We've got an active alert
down here. Security's suppressed, but something else crashed a lot of the
system. Things are going crazy." A harsh burst of static drowned out whatever
else she was going to say. Hammer listened on the channel for a moment.
"Trouble? Trouble, do you copy?" There was only silence of the line. From the
cockpit of the chopper, Val called back to the leader of the Hammermen.
"What's the word, Boss? Do we hit the LZ or fly by?"
Hammer considered his answer carefully. Ariel's message made it clear that all
was not going as planned. If there was a dust-up, he could be leading his team
into a deathtrap of corporate security just waiting for them. On the other
hand, if the security system was still offline, as Ariel said, it was possible
the system crash could serve as a distraction for the operation. If Hammer
scrubbed the run, the team would never get another chance at their target.
Corporate security would be on alert, and they would move the target to a
safer location. The run would be for nothing, and the team would be in the red
for the expenses they'd

already put out. Corporate Johnsons weren't well known for paying for
incomplete or failed shadowruns.
Hammer rested a hand on the back of Val's seat and looked out at the Mandala
facility.
"Hit the LZ," he said. "We're going in."

18
On February 8, 2029, computer systems across the world were attacked,
apparently at random, by a virus program of unprecedented power. Systems
crashed, their data wiped clean and even their hardware burned out by the
effects of the virus. As the killer program spread, governments toppled and
the world economy neared collapse. Only the Echo Mirage Project sponsored by
the United States government was able to produce data-processing specialists
able to directly engage the virus in cyberspace. By 2031, the last known
concentrations of the virus code were purged from the world telecommunications
system and only seven of the original thirty-two members of Echo Mirage lived
to tell of it.
-From How It Came to Pass: Events That Shaped
the Sixth World, by Armand D'Angelo,
Virtual Press, Seattle, 2044
Hammer had the door of the chopper open even before Val put the bird on the
ground. As soon as the helicopter settled onto the ferrocrete of the Mandala
parking area with a gentle bump, Hammer and the rest of his team were hitting
the ground and moving low away from the backwash of the rotors as they kicked
up dirt and leaves from the immaculate black surface. The facility was too
small to have a helipad of its own, but the empty parking lot made a perfect
landing zone for a pilot of Val's skill.
The five men loped across the open ground of the parking area, senses alert
for any signs of a trap or that their

approach was noticed in any way by someone in the darkened building. There was
nothing, no sign of movement or light from the windows, no chatter from hidden
sentry guns or hunting cries from any magical beasts that might be guarding
the facility. The place seemed to be as Hammer's connections had described, a
low-key facility relying heavily on being too small and unknown to be of much
interest to anyone. Any security the Hammermen had to worry about would have
to be inside.
The Hammermen reached the side door of the place in short order. Tojo took a
maglock passkey from one of the pouches on his web belt and slashed it through
the card-reader posted next to the door. The electronics in the key-card sent
out a pulse to scramble the lock's systems and override the magnetic
mechanism. It was a brute-force solution to overcoming the lock, but time was
of the essence. If what Ariel said was true, the facility's systems were
already on alert. Hopefully the maglock tampering would go unnoticed in the
midst of all of the other commotion.
Hammer still wished he could get some kind of response from the decker. There
had been nothing since Ariel's last transmission, but he didn't dare try to
raise her. If she was in the middle of fighting some of the security
counter-measures in the system, any distraction could be fatal. In the Matrix
every microsecond counted.
He pushed the concern out of his mind. If Ariel did okay, she would make
contact. If she didn't, there was nothing he could do about it.
The door popped open with a clack and the lights on the lock went to flashing
red. Hammer waved to the other members of the team. Sloane and Tojo took the
doorway high and low, covering left and right. Then they moved through the
door, followed by Tootall and Geist, with Hammer bringing up the rear. He left
the door open behind him, since they would likely be heading out of the place
in a hurry. The corridor on the other side of the door stretched away for
about six meters to meet another at a right angle.
"Trouble says the target is on the lower level," he said to the team. "Geist,
can you find him?"

The mage nodded and sank into a lotus position on the floor with practiced
ease. His breathing slowed and he gave a deep sigh. Hammer imagined he could
see Geist's spirit leaving his body with his breath as the mage descended into
a deep trance. His astral form would be able to recon the place more quickly
than any flesh and blood person and report back. The rest of the team would
keep an eye on Geist's meat body while he was "away."
Hammer glanced up from the still form of the mage just as a pair of security
guards appeared around the corner. There was a split-second where the guards
were surprised at the sight of the runners. In that fraction of a second the
Hammermen were already moving. Tootall stepped in front of Geist's body to
protect the mage from stray rounds. In his trance-state, Geist was helpless
and any injury could drive his body into fatal shock.
At the same instant, Sloane, Tojo, and Hammer moved into action. Tojo's
hyped-up reflexes made him a blur of motion as he drew a bead on the first
guard and fired a burst from his Crusader machine pistol. The guard's body
armor soaked up much of the kinetic force of the rounds as the bullets
stitched a line up his chest. None of the 9mm rounds penetrated the
armor-weave, but the impact sent the guard stumbling back, off-balance.
Sloane followed up Tojo's attack with a shot from his Ares Predator. The heavy
pistol round caught the second guard full in the chest and bowled him over,
packing far more stopping power than Tojo's light machine pistol. The guard
went down to the floor, probably with a few broken ribs, at least.
Hammer leveled his Manhunter at the first guard, who was trying to bring his
own weapon to bear on the runners. To the ork's enhanced nervous system, the
guard seemed to be moving in slow-motion-time compressed itself into an
eternity between aiming and firing. The targeting systems in the pistol
interfaced with Hammer's built-in smartgun circuitry and he fired. The
high-caliber rounds from the Manhunter made even Sloane's Predator look like a
cap-gun. The shot caught the guard in the high collar of his

armored uniform. The armor absorbed most of the impact, but there was still
more than enough force to crush the man's trachea and send him flopping onto
the floor, dropping his gun and clutching at his neck before he passed out.
The other guard tried weakly to get back to his feet, but Tojo was on top of
him before he had the chance. A snap-kick to the guard's head and he was down
for the count. Two guards down in just seconds. The shadowrunners stopped and
surveyed the area around them, weapons at the ready, but no further threats
materialized. Tojo and Sloane checked down the corridor either way the guards
had come from and gave the all-clear signal back.
Tootall turned to Hammer. "You chummers coulda saved some for me," he said
with one of his tusky grins. The troll didn't have the speed the rest of the
team could call on, but his massive body was strong enough to tear a human in
two and his tough hide usually gave him protection to make up for the speed he
lacked.
"Don't worry, chummer," Hammer said grimly. "Looks like there could be plenty
more where those came from."
"There are," Geist said as he roused from his trance and stood up. Tootall
helped him up, and the pale mage turned to Hammer.
"There are at least another dozen guards in the facility. Our target is in a
room one level down. There are elevators and stairwell access, but security is
between us and them. We've got to clear through them to get to the lab. The
good news is I didn't detect any of my associates with them. No significant
magical defenses."
Hammer nodded and motioned to Tojo and Sloane. "All right, then. Let's get
through security, grab our boy, and blow this firetrap."
Lanier reacted immediately to the sounding of the security alarm in the
complex. He turned away from Babel and Dr. Ferrera and crossed over to the
intercom panel on the wall of the interrogation room. He pressed his
fingertips against the panel to activate it.
"Security, report." Nothing but static came from the speak-

er. Lanier turned back to the young man strapped into the chair in the center
of the room.
"Are you responsible for this?" he said with a dangerous edge to his voice.
Babel shook his head. "I was only trying to break your illusions," he said
with a slight smile. "Perhaps I broke more than that."
Lanier turned to Ferrera. "Doctor?"
She was still working on the terminal near Babel's head. "I don't know. It
could be some kind of malfunction of the security grid because of the computer
failure, but I don't think so. The system is on alert, which could mean an
intrusion. Of course, that could be the computer's way of interpreting what
our young friend did when he crashed the datastore." She shook her head in
frustration. "I just can't tell from here."
Lanier turned toward the smoked transpex panel in the wall and touched another
control on the comm panel. The window shifted to translucent, and he could see
the technical crew inside the control room.
"Get the copies of our data together," he ordered, "and get in here. Saunders,
go and get some security down here. Move!"
The technicians jumped to follow Lanier's orders even as he moved back toward
Ferrera and Babel. He reached under his tailored suit jacket and withdrew a
slim 9mm pistol from its concealed shoulder holster. Ferrera spotted the gun
and paled slightly beneath her tan complexion.
"Mr. Lanier!" she started to say, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.
"Now is not the time to become squeamish, Doctor." He pressed the barrel of
the gun under Babel's chin and spoke in an even, icy tone. "All right, my
friend, we're going to be leaving now. If you're wise, you won't give me any
reason to use this. One wrong move, one attempt at escape, and I'll kill you.
Understand?"
Babel met Lanier's eyes and nodded slightly, as much as he could against the
pressure of the gun barrel. Lanier jerked his head toward Dr. Ferrera.
"Release him."

The other two technicians entered the room, one of them carrying a black
plastic case containing the chips with recordings of Babel's interrogation and
all of the other information gathered by Dr. Ferrera's instruments. He handed
it to Lanier, who slipped the case into the inside pocket of his suit jacket,
never taking the gun off Babel as Ferrera manually released the straps holding
him to the chair.
Babel slid slowly out of the chair and to his feet, wavering slightly as his
cramped muscles protested movement after sitting still for so long. He had no
idea how long Lanier and his people had held and interrogated him. He gently
rubbed his sore wrists and silently willed the aches and fatigue away. It's
only meat, he told himself. It's the mind that's important.
"All right," Lanier said with a wave of the pistol. "Let's move." The two
technicians went out the door first, followed by Babel, with Lanier and Dr.
Ferrera coming behind. Lanier's gun was trained on Babel's back. The corridor
outside the interrogation room was plain and unadorned, with pale gray walls
broken by the occasional door along its length. Red emergency lights filled
the corridor and gave everything a hellish cast as the alarm continued to
sound throughout the building. The two technicians began moving toward the
right, but Lanier's barked order stopped them in their tracks.
"This way," he said, standing in the doorway. "The elevators can't be trusted
if the computer system has been compromised. We'll take the stairs." As the
small group began moving down the hall toward the stairway, Babel considered
his options. Of the four people with him, Lanier appeared to be the only one
who was armed. Babel had to assume they knew about his concealed body-blade,
but it was still an effective weapon, provided they hadn't found some way to
disable it. But Lanier had a gun, and even the small pistol would have enough
stopping power to put Babel down if he was shot. Nor did he know the layout of
the building well enough to escape even if he did manage to get away from
Lanier and his people. There apparently

was security elsewhere in the building, from what Lanier told the technicians.
Reluctantly, Babel decided there was no means of escaping that wouldn't put
his mission in jeopardy. He had to survive long enough to get back to Renraku
to complete the mission that had sent him into the Rox, or more lives would be
in danger. For now, that meant going along with Lanier and seeing where that
took him. An opportunity to escape would present itself sooner or later. He
just had to be on the alert for it so that when it came he could act.
As the black-armored samurai stalked closer, Ariel triggered her combat
utilities. Shining silvery armor covered in Celtic knot designs materialized
to cover her icon's body, and a slender silver sword appeared in her hand. The
samurai warrior came in fast, with a speed born of optical co-processors and
combat algorithms.
Ariel met the attack with her own blade, her deck's systems fighting the
invasion of the foreign code as the ice sought a weakness, a chink in her
armor it could exploit to get at the woman behind the electron image. Ariel
thrust back at the ice, and it countered, clashing blades ringing in the
hallucinatory world of the Matrix, a metaphor for a very real conflict going
on between her cyberdeck and the computer system.
Ariel was glad she'd been able to warn Hammer and the rest of the team about
the alert before the ice jumped her, but she needed to deal with the samurai
program as quickly as possible so she could be on hand to help out the team if
they needed it. She also needed to get her hands on any data on their target
still in the system.
The samurai came in for another attack, shuffling forward with its sword held
high, coming down in an overhead chop. Ariel jinked to the side and swung her
blade. Sparks flew as the silver sword slashed across the samurai's armor.
First blood! Ariel thought as the ice program fell back a bit before renewing
its attack. It was no time to celebrate, however. Responding to the damage it
had taken, the ice

redoubled its attack and made a flurry of sword blows, looking to overwhelm
the decker's defenses. Ariel managed to avoid them, but only barely.
She couldn't keep this pace up for much longer, while the ice, tireless and
inhuman, could keep going all day as long as the processing power was
available to it. Ariel had to end this fight quickly, or it would be ended for
her when a lethal charge of electricity fried her forebrain.
Dodging to the left she set the ice up for another attack. It was risky, but
the ice seemed to be focusing more of its effort on attacking her and less on
defending itself. It didn't have the same instincts as a living being to
protect its own existence. It could only follow its programming to destroy
intruders. The ice operated within the parameters of the samurai warrior it
appeared to be. Whoever the programmer was, he had obviously been a stickler
for realism. So the samurai ice attacked much the way a real samurai would.
Ariel thought she could use that.
The ice saw the opening and went for it. It shuffled forward, sword raised
high above its helmeted head, the edge of the blade gleaming in the reddish
light inside the system. Ariel waited until the last moment and lunged
forward, driving her silver sword into the chest of the ice construct to the
hilt.
A real sword would have been blunted by the samurai's armor, but Ariel's
electron blade was not constrained by the rules of the physical world. Here in
the Matrix it was like a magical sword, and it cut through the armor with
ease. The samurai started to bring its razored blade down in a killing strike,
but it froze in place, transfixed by the sword through its torso.
The image hung there for a moment, frozen in time, then it de-rezzed, breaking
up into the individual pixels that made it up and vanishing into nothingness
in a shower of static, leaving no trace of its presence behind. Ariel breathed
a sigh of relief and keyed her commlink to the rest of the Hammermen.
"Yo, boss, you there?"

"Glad to have you back, Trouble," Hammer's voice surged back across the link.
"What's your status?"
"The immediate problem is handled for now. I'm going to try and get access to
the security systems and our target data."
"Good work. Lock out the elevators and all of the access from the floor our
target is on. It looks like our birds are trying to fly the coop. We're on our
way."
"Copy that, Hammer."
Ariel closed the channel and turned back on the swirling chaos that was the
datastore. It didn't look like there was much to salvage from it. What the
frag were they doing here to have created a mess like this? she thought. It
looked like the datastore had been taken apart by some kind of virus, but not
one like anything Ariel had ever seen.
Whatever it is, it can do a lot of damage to high-security data systems
quickly and efficiently. The ice tried to stop me, but it didn't stand much of
a chance against this. If Fuchi's working on it, they just might have another
crash virus on their hands.

19
. Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we shall die.
-Isaiah 22:13
Hammer flattened against the wall as the second burst of autofire cut through
the air and ricocheted off the walls. The damned security guards had moved
faster than he figured, blocking off both the passage to the stairwell and the
elevator.
Sloane had taken a couple of slugs and was leaning up against the wall near
Hammer's feet. His armor kept the bullets from penetrating, but he probably
had some cracked ribs at least. Geist crouched beside him, quietly chanting
and laying his hands on Sloane's arm and chest, healing the injuries.
Tootall stood across the hall, just out of sight of the security men around
the corner, with Tojo hugging the wall not far behind him. Hammer looked over
at the big troll and gave the nod. Tootall ducked around the corner and began
laying down a hail of fire from his AK-97 assault rifle, forcing the corporate
guards to duck for cover. Hammer knew his team couldn't hold out for very long
before the corpers decided to rush them. They had to break through the guards
or fall back to avoid getting caught in a crossfire, which meant they needed
to end this quick.
Hammer turned to Geist, who leaned back from Sloane with a sigh. Hammer hoped
the healing spell hadn't taken too much out of the mage. Sloane rose slowly to
his feet and acknowledged Geist's help with a nod.

"We need to get past these fraggers now. Do you think you can take them?"
Geist gave Hammer a look that left no doubt he thought he could handle any
mundane threat. "I can, but I need to see them if I'm going to hit them, and I
need a distraction to give me time to act."
Hammer nodded and turned to Tootall. He spoke quietly into his mike, and the
troll's headset picked it up across the hallway.
"We need to give those corpers something to think about for a few seconds so
Geist can take 'em out. Hold for my mark."
Tootall grinned and nodded, reaching for a pouch on his web-belt.
Geist remained crouched at the base of the wall. He settled his back against
the wall, his eyes closing and muscles relaxing as he went into a trance. A
faint shimmer appeared in the air in front of the mage, slightly blurring his
features, like heat rising from summer asphalt. Hammer knew Geist was calling
on the aid of one of his servitor spirits. He had seen the telltale signs with
Geist and many other magic-workers before. The mage was calling in the big
guns.
When the shimmering appeared, Hammer turned to Tootall and nodded. The troll
yelled "Banzai!" and let fly a small, flat silver object from his belt pouch.
A second later, the stun grenade went off with a loud bang and a bright flash.
There were shouts from the corridor, followed by more cries of confusion from
the security guards.
"Gas attack!" a voice cried out. "Use your masks! Use ..." the voice trailed
off in a flurry of choking and coughing as a terrible smell wafted over to the
shadow-runners, nearly making Hammer retch from the foulness of it. He
wrinkled his broad, flat nose and backed off a little bit, staying near
Geist's motionless body. What the frag was the mage doing?
In a few seconds, the coughing and choking noises

subsided, and Hammer was sure he heard a few bodies hit the tiled floor of the
corridor. He waited another moment longer and then signaled to Tootall. The
two of them whipped around the corner, weapons at the ready.
The corridor and lobby beyond held a bank of elevators and the doorway to the
stairwell. A thick, bluish haze like a bad afternoon in Los Angeles hung over
the area, obscuring the elegant corporate decor. The corridor was littered
with the prone bodies of eight guards wearing the same uniforms as the ones
the team had taken out near the side entrance. A few of the men had small
filter-masks on, but the masks had been useless against a threat that didn't
come from a gas-grenade.
The source of the disgusting smell and the faintly bluish haze hovered in the
air above the unconscious guards. It looked like a man-shape made up of
thicker areas of mist swirling and shifting in the depths of the haze as it
hovered there. The air elemental was able to penetrate any physical protection
with its insubstantial body, using its power to control its native element to
choke the guards with noxious air. As Hammer watched in fascination, the
spirit seemed to collapse in on itself and all of the mist in the room was
drawn to a single point in the air like a whirlpool of air. When the room was
clear, the misty spirit was also drawn through the invisible hole in the air
and vanished in a glimmer of light.
"They should be out for at least an hour," Geist said, coming around the
corner. Hammer almost jumped at the sound of the mage's voice. It was times
like this he was reminded just how much of an asset a mage like Geist was to a
team. Hammer turned away from the prone bodies of the corp guards to look at
the mage's pale face. Geist had a look of smug satisfaction on his features.
Hammer didn't bother to comment on it. As long as the mage did his job this
well, he was entitled to be a little arrogant.
"Good work," he said. "Let's hit the stairs." He waved an arm to the rest of
the Hammermen and took the lead.

*     *     *
Gunfire echoed faintly through the corridor, and the two technicians turned
and looked back toward their boss with concern written on their faces. Their
job descriptions might have included monitoring grueling interrogations, but
not dealing with armed opponents capable of fighting back. Miles Lanier kept
his gun leveled at Babel's back and looked past him at the techies.
"Keep going," he said. "Our people will keep them off us until we can get to
the parking garage and out of here." The small group reached the stairwell
door and one of the techies slashed his passcard through the mag-lock. The red
light burning over the mechanism remained unchanged.
"The lock won't respond, sir," he said to Lanier. Lanier took a step around
Babel toward the door when the lights in the corridor went from red emergency
lights to normal lighting, silencing the alarm system, followed by a loud bang
from the stairwell above. Lanier glanced over at the door and away from Babel.
In that moment, Babel acted, the monofilament-edged slasher extending from his
arm like a striking snake. Time slowed to a crawl, and he swung at Lanier,
aiming for his extended gun hand. Dr. Ferrera screamed a warning to Lanier,
but the man had already caught Babel's movement out of the corner of his eye.
He stepped back quickly to get out of the way, tripping himself up and falling
against the security door. The edge of the blade caught Lanier's pistol and
knocked it from his hand, sending it clattering to the floor with a silvery
gash along the side.
Lanier immediately dropped into a crouch to avoid Babel's next attack,
matching his speed. The cyberblade passed harmlessly over his head, cutting a
narrow gash in the metal of the security door. Lanier snapped out one leg in
an expert kick, catching Babel in the knee. The technoshaman fell back in a
burst of pain, struggling to stay on his feet as Lanier made a grab for his
fallen weapon.

Babel leapt forward again toward Lanier when one of the techies decided to be
a hero by tackling him. The two went down on the floor in a heap, but Babel
quickly rolled to the top. He straddled the hapless technician's chest and
grabbed his throat with one hand, holding the point of his cyberblade
menacingly close. At the click of a hammer being drawn back, both men looked
over at where Lanier had his gun trained on them.
"Let him go," Lanier said, "and get up slowly."
Babel looked down at the fearful face of the technician and back at Lanier. He
could threaten the techie, try to use him as a hostage, but he knew that would
be hopeless. If Lanier was any match for his reputation, he wouldn't hesitate
to sacrifice one man to hold onto Babel, and then Babel would have nothing to
bargain with. Lanier was corporate, and Babel knew how little the
megacorporate big noises cared for their employees when push came to shove. He
slowly got to his feet and stepped away from the prone technician, the
carbon-fiber blade silently retracting into his forearm as he did so.
"Impressive cutter," Lanier said. "But you could use a little more training in
how to use it. Now stay right there." Lanier took a key-card from the inside
pocket of his suit-jacket and tossed it to the technician, who was getting to
his feet.
"Use this," he said and the techie scrambled to obey. Lanier's key-card
overrode the maglock, and the light flashed green. The technician reached for
the handle when the door flew open with a sudden bang, striking him in the
face. He crumpled against the wall and fell into a heap. Lanier took no notice
of the technician's fate. He spun on the ork coming through the door, pistol
in hand. The ork held a hand-cannon that made Lanier's slim weapon seem like a
toy by comparison.
"Drop it, chummer!" the ork said in a booming voice. Lanier hesitated for a
moment, and Babel could almost see him mentally calculating the odds of being
able to

take this fierce-looking ork. He raised his hands, pointing the gun at the
ceiling, but not dropping it as the ork ordered. The newcomer moved carefully
into the corridor, keeping his gun trained on Lanier, but watching everyone,
as several other men emerged from the doorway. All of them were wearing dark
camouflage fatigues and urban street armor. Three men were human, the fourth
had to bend down a bit as he came through the door. He was a troll, and
carried a military-grade rifle with a taped-banana clip. The men quickly moved
to cover everyone in the hall.
"I said to drop it, chummer," the ork said in a flat, even tone. Lanier took
one more look over the group of armed men, and his gun hit the floor with a
loud clatter.
"Kick it over here," the ork ordered, and Lanier complied, sending the gun
sliding over toward the ork. One of the other men bent down to pick it up.
Babel noticed he was the only one who did not already have a weapon in his
hands. There was a pistol bolstered in a shoulder-rig, but Babel had the
strong impression the man rarely used it and carried it only for show.
"You don't know who you're fragging with, drekwits," Lanier said.
The ork gave a short, barking laugh, echoed by several of the other men.
"You're not exactly in a position to bargain, chummer. We've got you
outnumbered and outgunned." He glanced toward Babel. "About all you can do is
tell me why we shouldn't take our boy here and leave the rest of you
deadweight for the clean-up crew." He leveled his weapon at Lanier's heart and
Dr. Ferrera gasped.
"Who are you working for?" Babel asked.
The ork turned to glance back at the technoshaman. "That's not your problem,
kid," he said. "You'll find out soon enough."
"It might matter to you that this guy is Miles Lanier . .." Babel started to
reply.
"Lanier?" the ork said. "The former Fuchi security guy?

I thought you worked for Renraku now? Is this some kind of put-on, kid?"
"I don't think so," said the man who picked up Lanier's gun. "I scanned the
Renraku corporate report recently, and this man looks very much like Miles
Lanier. He could be quite valuable to the right people ..." The man let the
remainder of the thought dangle, and the faces of the other men lit up.
"Hey, nothing like a little extra cred," said the tall blond man.
The ork stared at Lanier over the top of his gun, the weapon never wavering
for a second. "I don't like complications, chummer, but I also don't like the
idea of leaving a guy like you behind to cause trouble for us. And geeking you
is going to make more problems, so you and the lady can come with us. Don't
make killing you less trouble than keeping you alive, so ka?"
Lanier nodded, his eyes as hard as flint. The shadow-runners fanned out to
herd Lanier, Ferrera, and Babel up the stairs to the first floor of the
facility. Babel saw the unconscious guards in the corridor and lobby above and
knew these men were not to be trifled with.
"We're clearing out of here, Val," the ork leader said quietly into his
throat-mike. "Get ready to rock." The shadow-runners led their charges out
through the side entrance of the building where a helicopter sat on the
pavement of the parking lot, its rotors revving up as they approached.
Everyone climbed into the chopper's open side door, the ork last of all. He
swung into place in the cabin and slid the door shut, calling out to the
pilot.
"Take her up, Val. Let's buzz." The rotors whined faster and the Stallion
lifted smoothly from the ground.
"Nice and smooth," the ork said as the pavement dropped away below them.
"Not quite, boss," came the voice of the lady chopper pilot. "We've got a
bogey coming in on intercept."
The control cabin radio hissed and crackled with an incoming transmission.
"Unidentified craft, this is Knight

Errant Security patrol beta-four-one. You are in violation of corporate
airspace and metroplex air-traffic regulations. Identify yourself immediately
or we will be forced to open fire. Repeat, transmit your identification codes
and flight plan information immediately or we will down your craft."

20
Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall
be opened unto you.
-Matthew, 7:7
"Looks like a Knight Errant interceptor," Val said over her shoulder to
Hammer. "They're fast and they're armed with enough to knock this bird down
just like they said. I could try and outrun them, maybe lose them, but it
won't be easy."
"Let me talk to them," Lanier said. Hammer turned toward him and raised a
bushy eyebrow.
"I can get you past them," Lanier told him. "I don't want to get shot down any
more than any of you. This is saving my hoop along with yours."
The ork mercenary was clearly thinking over his options and quickly decided
the other ones the team had didn't amount to much. He drew the bulky
hand-cannon from the shoulder-holster beneath his left arm and leveled it
casually at Lanier. With a wave of the gun, he motioned him toward the
cockpit.
"All right," he said, "but no tricks. Remember, you're not the target of this
operation, so we don't need you for anything. You breathe one wrong word to
the Knights, and you'll be a smear on the pavement."
Lanier pushed himself out of his seat and covered the space to the cockpit in
a couple of strides. He pushed past the ork into the co-pilot's position near
the dark-haired rigger. Picking up the spare radio headset, he quickly slipped

it on and settled the throat-mike in place as the radio crackled again.
"Unidentified craft, this is your last warning. Give your identification code
and flight path information or we will be forced to take action. You have ten
seconds to respond."
"Knight Errant patrol beta-four-one," Lanier said crisply into the mike, "this
is a AAA alpha-priority flight, clearance code
gamma-iota-four-seven-seven-two-blue. Disregard and continue on your normal
patrol route. Repeat, this is a triple-A alpha-priority. Do you copy?"
A long moment of silence filled the cabin of the helicopter as everyone on
board held their breath, waiting for the hiss of an approaching anti-aircraft
missile or the roar of the Knight Errant helicopter's chin-mounted chain gun
to send them plummeting from the sky. But no attack came. The sleek Knight
Errant craft banked off above the corporate park and turned back toward the
downtown area of the metroplex, winking its running lights at them. A voice
crackled over the radio.
"Your code is confirmed. Keep out of trouble. Out." The transmission ended and
the patrol chopper headed off into the distance.
Hammer turned to Lanier, clearly impressed. "How did you pull that off?" he
asked.
Lanier merely shrugged as he removed the radio headset. "The Corporate Court
has a series of priority codes for sanctioned intercorporate activities and
emergencies to make sure everyone isn't tripping all over everyone else. All
the top-tier megacorps have an understanding that lets the Court use the codes
to get things done when it needs to. Ares Macrotechnology is one of those
megacorporations, and Knight Errant is an Ares subsidiary, so I just gave the
KE boys a Fuchi code and told them this was out of their jurisdiction. As long
as you don't cause any more noise, they won't come looking for you. At least,
not until they figure out what really happened."
"How come you still have Fuchi codes? I heard the corp changed all the locks
when you left Fuchi.. ."

Lanier just shrugged again. "You have your secrets, chum-mer. I have mine." He
stood up from the cockpit and quietly made his way back to his seat. Hammer's
eyes followed him the whole way, but Lanier gave no sign of what he felt or
thought.
Hammer turned his attention to the target of the operation, the young man who
sat quietly between Lanier and the Hispanic woman, studying the shadowrunners
with his strange, purple eyes.
"What about you, kid?" the ork asked. "Why are you so valuable somebody wants
you grabbed?"
Geist spoke up first. "His aura is unlike anything I've seen before," he said,
almost as if thinking aloud. "There are ... changes to it that are unknown to
me."
"You spellworms," Babel said with a sad shake of his head, "you think
everything can be explained by your auras and your divinations. You're so
arrogant, so sure of your power."
"Magic is the true power of the Sixth World," Geist said in a dangerous tone.
"If you doubt that, you can ask the guards my spirit downed at the facility.
Had you been protected by a magician of any ability, we might never have been
able to get to you."
Hammer didn't think he'd ever heard Geist angry about anything, but the mage
seemed bent out of shape about this strange young man.
"Your power is old, outdated," Babel said. "There are powers in the modern
world that magic cannot begin to comprehend or control."
"And you do?" Hammer said. He wanted to head this off before Geist got truly
riled. He would talk to the mage later about his attitude. The young man only
looked up at Hammer with his strange-colored eyes like he was looking into
Hammer's soul. Hammer had seen mages do the trick lots of times and wondered
for a moment if the kid was a magicker himself. Geist hadn't said anything
about it. Though it might be possible for something like that to escape
Geist's notice, it didn't seem likely.

"I know the Channels and the Forms," Babel said, "and I know my destiny."
"Well, right now, kid, your destiny is wherever we frag-gin' take you. Don't
forget that." Hammer turned his back on his captives and looked out the
windscreen of the Stallion at the lights of the sprawl spread out below them.
He couldn't wait to reach the rendezvous point and be finished with this run.
He had a strange feeling about it, and it wasn't a feeling he liked at all.
They landed on the outskirts of the Rox, in an open lot left by the demolition
of some old buildings to make way for new construction that never came. The
Rox had been abandoned by the metro government and the corporations when they
turned their attention to more important construction centered around the
gleaming new East Coast Stock Exchange and its satellite buildings. Left to
the cast-offs and shadowdwellers who inhabited it, the Rox was almost entirely
lawless, home to tribes like the Netwalkers and an ideal place for mercenaries
who technically didn't exist to conclude their business for the evening.
Val powered down the rotors of the helicopter, but kept the systems ready for
a hot re-start. It might be necessary for the Hammermen to pull out in a
hurry, and she wanted to be ready. Her nervous system still synched with the
Stallion's on-board computers, Val could "see" through the thermoptical and
radar sensors of the bird and control the Stallion's weapons systems with
nothing more than a thought. Hopefully, it would be firepower they wouldn't
need.
Hammer turned back to their three "passengers" as Sloane and Tojo hopped out
of the side door of the Stallion onto the cracked and tumbled pavement of the
lot, dust swirling in the backwash of the slowing rotors.
"O.K., out," he said with a wave of his Manhunter toward his captives. Lanier
and Babel wasted no time in getting out of the helicopter while the
shadowrunners covered them. Dr. Ferrera moved more slowly, her eyes fixed on
the runners the whole time. The runners were alert for any

signs of treachery, but there were none. Lanier wasn't foolish enough to try
something with all these guns trained on him and the mage present. Not in the
middle of unknown territory with no sure means of escape. Better to wait and
see who the runners' employer was and what he or she wanted with Babel.
Ferrera was obviously intimidated by the runners, and wouldn't make any
trouble either.
As for Babel, he seemed perfectly composed and calm, almost emotionless.
Lanier knew at least part of it was an act, and was impressed by the display
of self-control. The shadowrunners didn't seem to know Babel personally, but
Lanier wondered if he had been expecting this extraction in some way. He
certainly acted like he had no problem with being abducted yet again.
One of the shadowrunners, the smaller, Asian man, nodded toward the open space
between two abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the lot. Bright halogen
lights flared into existence there, bathing the lot in their harsh, white
glare. Hammer gestured the three of them forward with a wave of his gun. The
other two runners followed close behind.
The side door of the car waiting at the mouth of the clearing opened, and a
dark figure emerged, obscured by the glare of the lights. He stepped forward,
the headlights outlining him from behind and casting his face and features
into shadow.
Hammer took a step forward. "Here's your boy," he said with a jerk of his head
toward Babel.
The dark man nodded. "Yes. Good work." His voice had a slight accent that was
difficult to identify. "But I only hired you to retrieve one target, who is .
.." He paused as he took a more careful look at Babel's companions.
"Well, well, well," the shadowed figure said with a tone of considerable
amusement. "The infamous Mr. Miles Lanier. How very interesting." The man
raised one hand and snapped his fingers. Instantly, two other men emerged from
the car. The shadowrunners tensed, but took no action.
"And this must be Dr. Ferrera," the shadowed man said with a trace of a smile
in his voice. He executed a slight,

formal bow. "A pleasure to meet you, doctor. Your work in neurobiology
precedes you. I have had the pleasure of reading some it. Fascinating."
"Thank you," Ferrera said in a small, confused voice.
"Put the men in the car," the shadowed man said, and the two other men moved
toward Lanier and Babel, drawing slim pistols from within their suit jackets
as they did so. As the two men were escorted to the car, their leader also
reached into his coat to withdraw a slim plastic rod, which he held out toward
Hammer.
"The agreed upon payment," he said. "With a little something extra for a job
well done." The ork took a few steps closer to reach out and take the
credstick. He pulled the portable data-reader from his web-belt and slotted
the stick. After checking the credit balance, Hammer's eyes widened a bit. The
bonus was obviously more than he expected. He quickly pocketed the stick and
signaled the rest of the team to get back to the Stallion. It wasn't a good
idea for them to stay on the ground for too long.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Johnson," the ork said as the rotors
of the Stallion began to rev up again and the Hammermen trotted back to the
chopper. The man beside the sleek, corporate limousine stood and watched the
shadowrunners climb in and pull the door closed as the helicopter began to
rise into the night sky.
"Oh no, my friend," he said, smiling to himself. "I assure you that the
pleasure is all mine."
The inside of the limousine was lushly appointed, with wide and deep seats.
Lanier and Babel settled themselves in the back seat, with the two company men
sitting on either side of them by the doors. They watched the helicopter take
off from the field and quickly vanish into the darkness over the Rox, then the
door opened and the other man climbed into the back of the car with Dr.
Ferrera. One of the company men closed the door behind him, and the man rapped
on the partition separating them from the front of the limo. The car smoothly
pulled out of the lot and onto the road, the rear windows darkening to
opacity. Lanier and Babel

found themselves looking over at the man who had paid a team of shadowrunners
to abduct them.
He was Japanese, dressed in a dark, finely tailored suit of a corporate cut.
His tie had a geometric design, and he wore no ornamentation or jewelry. His
hair was cut above his collar, short enough to show the gleam of metal from
the jack discreetly placed behind his left ear. Although his face was
impassive, his dark eyes showed he was very pleased with himself.
"Well, Michael, it is good to see you again," he said to Babel. Although the
man spoke in Japanese, Babel was surprised to discover that he understood the
man perfectly, almost as surprised as he was by the man's use of his real
name.
"Do you know me?" he said to the Japanese man. He looked puzzled for a moment,
his brow furrowing.
"Do not worry about speaking in front of Mr. Lanier, Michael," the man replied
in Japanese. "Anything he learns at this point is of no importance."
"Mister Lanier speaks Japanese just fine," Lanier said in the same language.
"So don't think you can shut me out that way." Ferrera, on the other hand,
looked from Lanier to the other man. She, at least, did not understand any of
the exchange. Japanese was hardly required for employees of Aztechnology, and
Ferrera had picked up very little of the language during her time with
Renraku.
"I would never dream of such a thing, Lanier-san," the man said in English. "I
most certainly want you to have the opportunity to see the completion of our
operation."
"You're ..." Babel said. "Then you're Renraku." It was more of a statement
than a question. The Japanese man turned his attention back to Babel, his eyes
darkening again.
"Did you send me into the Rox?" Babel demanded. "Why? What's going on? And who
the frag are you?" The man didn't reply, but instead turned toward Lanier with
a dangerous, questioning look in his eyes.
Lanier merely smiled and raised his hands in an elaborate shrug. "Not my
doing," he said in response to the unasked question. "He's been like this the
whole time. I

stirred up memories of him working for Renraku, but it seems they are
incomplete at best, since I assume he is supposed to remember who you are."
The other man nodded and turned his eyes back to Babel. "Yes, Michael, I am
Takana Saigo. I am your sensei, your teacher, and your employer. You are
Michael Bishop, an employee and agent of Renraku Computer Systems. Do not be
concerned. You are home now, and soon we will restore you to normal and allow
you to complete the mission you have carried out so well."
"You might find that harder than you think, Saigo," Lanier said.
"Simply because you failed? We have methods you might not have employed,
Lanier-san. We also have the advantage of being Michael's true employers, not
traitors attempting to compromise this operation. It is clear his loyalties
remain intact." He focused his gaze on Babel for the last comment, leaving the
question unasked.
"I knew I had to return to Renraku . .." Babel said, almost to himself.
"You see? Soon we will be able to complete this operation successfully and
you, Lanier, will be turned over to Renraku Security."
"I'm on the board of directors .. ."
Saigo dismissed Lanier's announcement with a wave of his hand. "That will not
matter once your part in this has been revealed. Your reasons for attempting
to interfere with this operation are unclear, although anyone could venture a
very good guess. I will take great pleasure in seeing the board of directors
deal with a traitor like you."
"Don't be so sure this operation is going to come out the way you want it to,
Saigo. Your agent seems to have a lot of trouble just remembering who you are.
Are you so sure he got what you sent him for?"
Saigo glared at Lanier for a moment, but said nothing. No one else in the car
dared to speak, so the little group remained silent for the rest of the trip.
When the car finally came to a stop, one of the company men opened the door,
allowing Saigo to step out of the car

and extend a hand to assist Dr. Ferrera. The company man followed, then Lanier
and Babel, along with their other corporate escort. The car sat in an
underground parking garage near a bank of elevators. Lanier and Babel were led
over to them while the car drove off into the depths of the garage.
From the time the trip took, Lanier assumed they were still in the Boston
metroplex, most likely in the downtown area. He didn't recognize the
surroundings, but it wasn't likely they were in Renraku's major Boston
facility. Probably some secondary installation similar to the blind Villiers
had arranged for Lanier to use.
Saigo instructed one of the company men to see to Dr. Ferrera's comfort while
he handled "other matters." He bowed to the doctor and made his way over to
the bank of elevators where Babel and Lanier waited with their corporate
guards.
The elevator, instead of ascending, took the men down below the parking garage
at least several levels. The doors opened with a quiet brush of metal on metal
to reveal an almost featureless corridor. Saigo led them briskly through the
halls of the underground complex to a room not unlike the interrogation room
they had just left behind. It was a large, open room with a high ceiling. The
walls were covered with banks of sophisticated computer equipment around a
diagnostic chair. Two men in white lab coats attended the sensors and other
devices around the chair while technicians handled the computers under the
watchful eyes of grim-faced men in Renraku security uniforms.
Saigo escorted Babel toward the center of the room while the company men kept
Lanier on the sidelines. Lanier looked over the facility on their way in and
casually scanned the room they were in now. It was clear Renraku planned to
make use of whatever information they could get from Babel as quickly as
possible. The facility had all the signs of being set up as a kind of urban
bunker, a command center for whatever operation Renraku had in mind for the
information Babel carried. It was like a war-room, a thought that did not ease
Lanier's mind about Renraku's plans.
The two men in white coats bowed to Saigo as he ap-

proached, although neither of them was Japanese. One was slight and had a
pinched face while the other was broad-chested and sported a full beard and
the unusual anachronism of a pair of spectacles. They marked him as a user of
magic in Lanier's eyes. Magic wielders disdained any biological modifications
or implants, even corneal surgery to correct vision defects, since it could
affect their ability to use magic.
"Michael, this is Doctor Lambert and Doctor Westcott. They will be helping you
to remember."
Babel looked at the two men and then back at Saigo. "And what am I supposed to
remember?" he asked.
Saigo led Babel to the chair and gestured for him to sit down. Babel did so,
although he looked as if he thought the chair might bite him.
"Your real name is Michael Bishop," Saigo was saying, "and you are an employee
of Renraku Computer Systems and a graduate of MIT&T here in Boston. You were
chosen for a special mission to infiltrate the Netwalkers tribe, to learn
their technoshamanic techniques and bring the information back to us at
Renraku."
"You mean I was sent to betray them?"
"No," Saigo said, "you cannot betray them, because you are not one of them.
You are one of us. Renraku is your home and employer and we have been for
nearly all of your life. The Netwalkers have brainwashed you to try and make
you one of them. But don't worry, we will help you. Doctors?"
The two men conferred briefly and proceeded to examine Babel carefully. He sat
quietly without protest as the doctors scanned and examined him, talking
quietly to each other about the results. They excused themselves and went over
to confer with Saigo, close enough so Lanier could make out some of what the
men were saying. Dr. Lambert pointed out some items on a portable datapad he
handed to Saigo as he talked.
"We have concluded that the Netwalkers must have used some kind of
programmable ASIST biofeedback technique to alter Bishop's memories. If so,
detecting and undoing the

process using conventional technological means will require several days of
painstaking work at the very least, perhaps as long as a week."
Saigo was about to interrupt when Dr. Westcott cut him off. "However," he
said, "using magic I may be able to break through the conditioning and access
the subject's memories immediately. There is, of course, some additional risk
in using such powerful mind probing spells ..." Westcott let the rest of the
comment dangle.
"Do it," Saigo said in a low voice. "We need the information as soon as
possible, whatever the risk."

21
And there was war in heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the dragon;
and the dragon fought Michael and his angels.
--Revelation 12:7
Lynn Osborne stared with complete dismay at the image of the man on the
flat-screen display in front of her. She gripped the padded handle she was
tethered to along the bulkhead of the orbital station as her world seemed to
fall out from under her and she felt the effects of the zero-gravity beginning
to disorient her for the first time since she'd become used to space travel.
"What did you say?" she repeated. Had she been anyone else, her tone would
have earned a rebuke. Considering the situation, Richard Villiers chose to
ignore it.
"You heard me," he said. "We've lost him. As near as we can tell, a team hit
the facility less than an hour ago. We're checking through the facility's data
systems for any information, but it looks like they've been trashed by some
kind of progressive virus the ComSci division can't identify. Whoever they
were, they were thorough."
"It could have only been one faction," she said.
The man on the screen nodded grimly. "Renraku. They've taken our ace in the
hole."
"But how ... ?"
"You let me worry about that, Lynn. You handle the Court." Osborne considered
for a moment. It was only a couple of hours before the court was due to
reconvene.

"I could get a continuance," she mused out loud. "Maybe buy us some time."
"Try and do that," Villiers said. "We might be able to mount a recovery
operation in time to make a difference. If not, we're well and truly fragged.
We have no case against Renraku without proof they were trying to make use of
the otaku in some way, and they'll use this to their advantage when the next
court election comes up."
"Do you think we have a chance of recovering him?"
Villiers stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. He looked tired. "I
really don't know, Lynn. We've got people working on it now. There's one
possibility that's promising, but I can't get into it now. Not over the
comm-link. Just stall the court for now and hope for the best."
"What about Hague?" she asked.
Villiers shook his head again. "He hasn't been updated yet. I want you to take
care of that. Hague is still in too tight with the Yamanas for my taste. He'll
go running to them at the first sign of any trouble and I don't want them
getting wind of this yet. Since the operation involved one of my companies,
it'll be a little while before the Japanese find out anything about the raid
or the loss of the ... evidence. I'd prefer to keep them off my back until
we've got a handle on things. Keep Hague under control up there, understand?"
Osborne nodded. It wouldn't be difficult to get David Hague to follow her lead
in this matter, considering what was at stake. Hague was loyal enough to the
Yamanas, the Japanese clan who got him his position on the Corporate Court,
but he was far more loyal to maintaining the high lifestyle he had become
accustomed to. Any threat to his prosperity would be enough to keep him in
line.
"I'll keep you updated," Villiers said just as a chime sounded at the door.
"I have to go," Osborne said. Villiers nodded and broke the connection, the
vidscreen going blank.
Osborne smoothed her hands over her formal court robe and made sure her voice
was steady as she called out the door. "Enter."

The door hissed open to reveal Francesco Napoli lurking on the other side,
like a cat waiting to pounce. He was certainly grinning like the cat who'd
eaten the proverbial canary. Oh frag, Osborne thought. I should have expected
this. He must have known about the snatching of the otaku even before I was
notified. She did her best to keep her thoughts from her face, remaining
composed and businesslike, with just a touch of surprise at seeing Napoli,
even though she had been dreading this meeting.
"Hello, Paco," she said cordially. "It isn't time to reconvene yet, is it?"
Napoli shook he had, clinging to the support outside of the door like a
spider, just waiting for a little vibration of his web to act. "No, not yet,
but I thought I might take a little of your time to talk about this case. We
might be able to resolve things more easily between us. May I come in?"
Without waiting for a reply, Napoli flipped himself through the doorway and
grabbed onto another handhold just inside. The door automatically hissed
closed behind him.
"This kind of expartate communication is really inappropriate, Mister Napoli."
Osborne put some emphasis on her formal mode of address. "Anything you have to
say to me can be said when the court reconvenes."
"Come now, Lynn. I really don't think you're that much of a glutton for
punishment. We both know your so-called case is nothing but smoke and mirrors.
You have nothing on us and the court will have to dismiss your charges. Spare
yourself the embarrassment of having to beg the court's forgiveness for having
wasted their time. Let's tell them we chose to settle this matter between us
quietly."
"Why would I want to do that?" Osborne asked cautiously.
Napoli gave his crafty smile. "Because you're a smart lady. You know you don't
have anything substantial and you know you can't win. Why not cut your losses
and have a shot at getting something out of this deal rather than losing face
in front of the whole court and getting nothing but grief? Don't you think
you'd be serving Fuchi better to put the company's best interests above any
desire you might have of humbling Renraku?"

Osborne wanted more than anything at that moment to simply bash in Napoli's
face and wipe that oily smile off of it. The fragger knows he has us right
where he wants us. He extended a datapad to Osborne with a bit of a theatrical
flourish and let it float from his hand. It tumbled across the short span
separating the two justices and Osborne caught it easily.
"That has the agreement for the out of court settlement on all of this,"
Napoli said. "All you have to do is read and sign it. It drops all of the
charges you've raised against us in exchange for Fuchi getting certain
distribution and licensing rights for some of our more profitable
developments. Fuchi can still get on the bandwagon by distributing some of
that leading-edge Matrix technology."
Sure, as long as the technology is owned by Renraku, who will get a big cut of
the profits while Fuchi does all of the work. Renraku gets fatter and Fuchi
falls behind in developing and marketing their own products because they don't
want to compete with their own licenses. Nice try, Paco.
Osborne glanced at the text displayed on the screen of the datapad for a
moment before flipping the pad back to Napoli with a flick of her wrist and a
bit more force than was necessary. The startled Napoli almost missed catching
the pad as it sailed back toward him.
"Forget it, Paco, no deal."
Napoli recovered from his surprise quickly and clutched the datapad as he
glared across at Osborne. "Don't be stupid," he said in a low tone. "If you
continue to press this case, I will personally bury you. You have no evidence,
you have no witness, you have nothing. Nada. Zero. If you try this and fail,
I'll see to it you go up on charges of wasting the court's precious time with
this nonsense. And when the time comes, Renraku will make certain that...
certain interests at Fuchi are encouraged over others, if you understand my
meaning. We'll see just how long your boss, Richard Villiers, lasts when the
most powerful corporation in the world decides to come down on top of him like
a ton of bricks."

Osborne didn't allow Napoli's little tirade to shake her. If anything, it only
confirmed what she suspected. "Don't be so sure of yourself," she said, her
voice matching Napoli's icy tone. "You're not number one yet. You've got
Lofwyr to deal with, and the dragon isn't going to let some two-bit zaibatsu
walk all over his plans. But before that even happens, Paco, you have to deal
with me. You're offering me a deal, an easy way out that saves face for
everyone. Why?"
Napoli started to reply, but Osborne cut him off before he could do more than
draw breath. "Out of the goodness of your heart? I don't think so. Why offer
us a deal at all? You could have simply waited for this case to fall apart if
you're so sure we've got nothing. It would have embarrassed Fuchi and you
could have walked away from it all looking squeaky clean. A settlement, even
one favoring Renraku, makes it look like you're guilty. So why bother?
"I'll tell you why. It's because you're scared. It's because you have
something to protect that's so big you don't want to raise even the
possibility we could win this case. You're more willing to risk looking a
little guilty than take the chance we might win, or at least create enough
suspicion in the process for the court to find out something you'd rather they
didn't. Well, you don't have to worry about dealing with the dragon just yet,
Paco. First you're going to have to deal with me, and when I'm finished, I'm
going to make you wish Lofwyr had decided to bite your fragging head off. Now
get out of here."
"You said what to him?" David Hague's face was even whiter than usual and
Osborne wished she had something to capture the look for posterity.
"You should have seen it," she said with a laugh. "He looked like he was going
to explode. But I called one thing for certain, David. Napoli is scared,
meaning Renraku is scared. They don't want this investigation to continue, and
they're willing to start making deals to make sure it doesn't."
"Maybe we should think about that," Hague replied. "If they're so scared, then
maybe we can renegotiate, cut a better deal than what Napoli was offering."

"Why do that when we still have a chance at getting it all?" she shot back.
"Renraku is standing on a house of cards, David. I can feel it. If we knock
out the right ones, the whole thing is going to come tumbling down around
them. We could take them down and be right there to pick up the pieces when
it's all over. That's worth a little risk."
"Risk? Are you out of your mind? We don't even have a case. Where is this
evidence you keep talking about? What are we going to have to prove to the
court that Renraku is a threat to the rest of them? They aren't going to act
based on anything I've seen so far. If anything, they'll probably side with
Renraku against us so they don't end up on the losing side."
"Don't worry," she said in a firm voice. This line of thought had to be nipped
in the bud before Hague panicked. "We've got a line onto something that will
do what we need. I just need to ask the court for a continuance to make sure
everything falls into place when we want it to. All you need to do is back me
on it."
Hague looked out the window of his office at the blue-green globe of the Earth
far below them. He sighed, and Osborne could almost read his thoughts. The
Japanese weren't going to be happy if he was even partially responsible of
damaging Fuchi's reputation in the court, but they would be even less pleased
if they found out he'd had an opportunity to hurt Renraku and not taken it.
"I don't have much choice, do I?"
Osborne smiled. "There's always a choice. And you just made the right one.
Trust me."
"Justice Osborne, this Court does not appreciate having its valuable time and
resources wasted." Jean-Claude Priault's tone was icy cold and carried a
distinct chill through the courtroom. Osborne did not wither under its touch
or his hard gaze, but held her head high in a pose of quiet dignity.
"I understand that, Chief Justice," she replied, having chosen her words
carefully before the court reconvened. "It is not my desire to waste any of
this august court's vital

resources. That is why I must request this continuance of our case. In order
to present our evidence in the most efficient and timely manner possible, we
require the court's indulgence. I can personally assure you that a further
continuance will prevent the loss of considerable time and effort relating to
this case and will be valuable to the court in the long term."
The recess hadn't allowed Osborne to feel out the other justices on a
continuance. She'd barely had enough time to brief Hague and be certain of his
support. She knew that the other justices were eager to finish their business
on board the Zurich-Orbital so they could return Earthside and resume their
own affairs, either because they disliked the zero-g environment or because
other matters were pressing for their attention. She was gambling that mere
discomfort wouldn't win out over a desire to see this case through to the end.
It was a serious risk. If the other justices decided that her request was a
sign that Fuchi's case was weak, they might side with Renraku as Hague feared
and dismiss the whole thing. They might even call for sanctions against Fuchi
for wasting the court's time. But Osborne had made a career out of being able
to accurately read people and situations, and her instincts told her she
should press this case now for all it was worth. She'd have continued even if
Villiers hadn't ordered her to do so. She was also counting on a little help
from another quarter, even if he didn't know it.
"Mr. Chief Justice," Francesco Napoli interjected. "I think it is clear
Justice Osborne is merely stalling for time with this request for a
continuance. On behalf of Renraku Computer Systems, I would respectfully
suggest that the Corporate Court has wasted enough of its time on this
hearing, not to mention the resources required for all of us to meet here in
person. Fuchi has invoked the right to hold this closed-door hearing on board
Zurich-Orbital, as is their right according to our charter, but I suggest they
not be allowed to waste our time with further delays. If Fuchi has a case to
present, let them do so. Otherwise, we should be allowed to return to the
business we were called away from."

Thanks, Paco, Osborne thought. That was just what I needed. Osborne refrained
from pointing out what was surely obvious to the rest of the justices present
in the courtroom. She knew Napoli, pit bull that he was, wouldn't be able to
resist twisting the knife a little in open court, especially not after how
she'd thrown him out of her quarters earlier. In truth, all Napoli needed to
do was keep his mouth shut and let Osborne dig her own grave. Her request had
already annoyed the justices, who had been dragged up to the orbital for this
special hearing by Fuchi. They probably would have voted against Osborne's
request out of sheer malice and a desire to have the whole thing over and done
with.
But Napoli's little speech alerted them that something else was going on. He
was too quick to try to shoot down Fuchi's case. Not that the members of the
Corporate Court didn't admire ruthlessness. There was nothing wrong with
kicking an opponent while he or she was down. None of them would be holding
their high offices if they didn't know the hard truths of the
twenty-first-century corporate world.
No, Napoli's mistake was in showing his hand before the moment came to play
his cards. His little speech told the Court exactly what his earlier offer to
Osborne had revealed her: he and Renraku were worried about the outcome of
this case, worried enough that they might make mistakes, that this was a real
chink in their armor and Fuchi had a shot at doing some damage.
Osborne could almost see the wheels turning as her fellow justices came to the
same conclusions she had. She looked across the courtroom at Napoli and saw
from the look on his face that he knew it. His face darkened and he seemed
about to say something, but probably realized he could only hurt his case
further by doing so. He tightened his jaw and kept silent.
"Are there any other comments from the floor?" Chief Justice Priault asked,
looking around the room. After a moment of silence, he said, "Then we place
this matter to a vote. Shall we permit Fuchi Industrial Electronics a con-

tinuance in this matter to allow them to present their evidence in a timely
and efficient manner?"
Osborne was a bit surprised at the last bit. Priault's phasing suggested that
he was in favor, a sign of approval out of character for the normally neutral
Saeder-Krupp man. Maybe Priault's boss has an interest in this case as well,
she thought.
All of the justices entered their votes into the electronic touch-screens
built into the bench, the decision being immediately tabulated and displayed
on Priault's screen. He glanced down at the display and raised his gavel.
"Nine in favor, four opposed. The decision carries. Fuchi is granted a
twelve-hour continuance and the members of the court will remain on board the
orbital until this matter is resolved. We are adjourned until then." He rapped
the gavel sharply against the bench and the members of the court began to
disperse, talking quietly among themselves.
Osborne smiled and nodded over toward where Napoli glowered at her. Swords are
drawn, she thought. Like samurai who fight at the bridge, only one of us is
going to walk away from this now.

22
SHADOWWATCH: Your eye on the shadows All the latest news bits and bytes from
the Shadowland BBS Hey, chummers, things are happening with some of the AAA
megacorps that do not bode well for us in the shadows. Renraku and Fuchi have
been going at each other with a lot of runs in the past couple months and it
looks like things are starting to come to a head. Like Black-Eyed Susan
reported, the justices of the Corporate Court, all of them, took the boost up
to the Zurich-Orbital for some closed-door meeting. Now Fuchi and Renraku seem
to be arming quietly for a war behind the scenes; moving assets and personnel
around like pieces on a chessboard. I have the sinking feeling a lot of what
is about to go down hangs on what decision the Corporate Court hands down and,
either way, it could come down to a corp war. If you have any information,
please post it. We need to keep each other informed because an out and out
corporate war could mean big business in the shadows ... or a fight that
nobody wins. >Captain Chaos
Saigo swaggered over to where Lanier stood, under guard, as the doctors made
their preparations.
"Soon, Lanier-son, we will have the information we need from Michael to fully
realize Renraku's potential," he said with an air of certainty.
"Don't be so sure of that," Lanier replied. "His wetware is scrambled but
good. I doubt he even knows what it is you're looking for."

"So you have said. Fortunately, that is not a concern." Saigo allowed Lanier
to wonder about that for a moment as he took in the room and the white-coated
men making preparations around the examination chair where Babel sat. "You
see, our Dr. Westcott is a sorcerer with some experience in spells allowing
him to probe deeply into the minds of others, reconstructing any and all
recollections of their experiences as if he were experiencing them himself. He
can even retrieve information Michael is not consciously aware of, knowledge
blocked from his conscious mind. Far more effective than any interrogation
technique could ever hope to be, wouldn't you say?"
Westcott moved over to the small bank of equipment near the chair where Babel
sat and took two cables from the console, plugging one into Babel's datajack
and the other into a similar jack behind his left ear.
"We take the process even further," Saigo said with some pride. "Dr. Westcott
has all of the neural cybernetics necessary to record the various sensory
impressions he gets from his mind probe at the moment he experiences them. We
can also record all of Michael's impressions as he relives the memories
Westcott uncovers. The simsense records of the two of them can be reviewed and
compared to give us a complete, first-hand picture of all of Babel's knowledge
of the otaku and their secrets."
"I know something of mind-probing," Lanier said. He had certainly seen the
techniques used enough times by magicians to extract information. "The magic
is exhausting for both the magician and the subject. Even if your spell-worm
is as good as you think, he won't be able to maintain a sustained telepathic
probe for very long. I also know mind-probing can be dangerous to the subject
if he resists, and sometimes even if he doesn't. Digging around in the
subconscious and breaking through repressed memories can cause permanent brain
damage."
"Hopefully something we can avoid," Saigo said without any trace of concern.
"If not, Michael knew the risks of this operation, and he was willing to take
them for the sake of his company. I hope you enjoying watching this,
Lanier-san.

This will be the operation that puts Renraku on the track to dominion over the
world market. Once you are removed from the Board of Directors, perhaps I will
ask that your seat be given to me."
"We're ready, sir," came Dr. Lambert's voice from across the room.
"Ah, please excuse me, Lanier-san." Saigo bowed to Lanier and turned toward
Dr. Lambert. "Proceed, Doctor," he said as he moved to get a better view of
the proceedings.
Dr. Westcott adjusted the placement of the fiber-optic cable leading to his
datajack and placed his cool, dry hands gently on Babel's forehead, spreading
his fingers a bit and resting them there lightly. The simsense equipment
hummed quietly in the background, recording the sensory impressions of both
men.
"Michael, all you need to do now is relax and breathe deeply," Westcott said,
giving Babel his best bedside manner. "This won't hurt a bit. Just take in a
deep breath and let it out. Good. That's good." Babel looked back at the
doctor, his strange, violet eyes glittering darkly, then his eyes fluttered
closed. His breathing became deep and he began to relax under Westcott's
touch.
"Impressive," Westcott murmured, almost to himself. "He's already in a light
trance state." He turned toward Saigo, hands still resting lightly on Babel's
head. "We should have no difficulty at all, Saigo-san. The young man is a
natural. His auto-hypnotic state should facilitate the mind probe and allow
things to go smoothly."
"Then proceed, Doctor," Saigo said with a touch of impatience. He wasn't
interested in hearing Westcott lecture him again on the subject of telepathic
memory recall or any of the other subtleties of mind-probing. The doctor might
consider the inner workings of his profession as a mind-prober fascinating,
but all Saigo was interested in was securing the data Renraku needed and
bringing it and the traitor Lanier before the board of directors in triumph.
Westcott began speaking the words of his spell in a firm voice, the strange,
arcane language spilling from his lips as

he gathered power to him. The room seemed to turn and crackle with invisible
power, like a charge of static electricity, and Saigo could feel the hackles
on his neck rise. Westcott's eyes were closed and his head tipped forward as
he, too, sank into a deep trance. His lips still moved to the words of the
spell, his voice now little more than a whisper above the hum of the simsense
recorder. Saigo thought he saw a faint shimmering around both men's heads for
a moment as Westcott lifted his head, eyes still closed, and began to speak.
As he spoke, the voice that came from his lips was not totally his own. The
tone and speech patterns were those of the young man sitting in the
examination chair, but part of the voice was still Westcott's, like a strange
blending of the two.
"Dr. Westcott told me this sometimes happens with this type of deep mind
probe, nothing to worry about," Dr. Lambert whispered to Saigo, who hushed the
other man with a raised hand so he could hear what Westcott was saying.
Papa Lo says I am ready for my initiation, to try and become one of the
technoshamans of the tribe, the otaku. I have to travel out into the
wilderness on my own and seek a vision. I will be alone and I have to follow
the rituals as they have been taught to me to prepare myself for the vision
quest. I will jack into the Matrix with the patched-up deck they have given me
and see if the spirits of the machine will accept me. It all sounds like a lot
of gibberish to me. The deck they've given me wouldn't be able to cut ice off
a pond, much less any kind of computer system, but I'll go along with it. I
feel I'm very close to learning what it is these otaku have learned to make
them such amazing deckers. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I would never
have believed it. Even now, it seems like all this magical stuff is just some
crazy set of rituals dreamed up by an old man to hoodwink a bunch of gullible
kids.
When I was little I wanted to be a mage. I wanted it more than anything else
in the world. I remember sitting with

friends in my Uncle Chad's apartment (he wasn't really my uncle, just a friend
of my mom's) watching the trideo. We would sit and watch shows like Magus P.I.
and Tales of Atlantis, and I would dream about when I would be a mage like
those wise and powerful old guys. I loved to watch the documentaries on the
Ancient Wisdom channel about the Great Ghost Dance war. I knew I wasn't
supposed to be rooting for the Ghost Dancers when they used their magic to
force the government of the old United States to give them half of North
America, but the Ghost Dancers said it was their land, stolen from them by
foreigners, and they just wanted back what was theirs. The government tried to
kill the tribes, but then the magic became real and the whole world found out
just what you could do with it if you wanted to.
I wanted more than anything to learn more about magic, more than the trideo
could teach me. So I let Chad's boyfriend Tarien teach me how to access the
vast databases of the Matrix. Some of them were public and easy to get into,
even if you didn't have a SIN. Others were only for people who paid for a
subscription, but I learned there were ways to get around paying. I would
spend hours sifting through datafiles, then going out on the Matrix and
getting more files to download. By the time I was eleven, I was the only kid
who knew the symbolism of the four hermetic elements, the primary divisions of
elemental spirits, and the Norse runic alphabet. My friends would kid me when
I corrected things we saw on TV and said it wasn't the way magic was really
supposed to work.
I got very good at getting file downloads off the Matrix, and I eventually got
my own cyberdeck (a real cheap piece of drek) so I could go online and track
stuff down. I thought about getting a datajack so I could access the Matrix
easier, but I didn't have the money and I'd heard having cybernetic implants
was something magicians didn't do because it weakened their magic. So I
didn't. Not at first, anyway.
When I was twelve, I got together enough money to go to the Doc Wagon clinic
in Cambridge and take a magical

activity test. It took me about a month to scrape together the nuyen. They put
me through a whole bunch of tests, asking questions and having me imagine and
think different things. A woman came and looked at my aura and they stuck a
needle in my arm to take a blood sample. Then I waited for more than a week,
the longest and most torturous week of my life. I was so edgy and sensitive
nobody wanted to be around me much. I just stayed in my room with my cyberdeck
and my bootleg chips of Tales of Atlantis to keep me company. Then, finally, I
got the results.
They summed it up in one word: NEGATIVE. That was it, no details or
explanations. My dreams of being a magician were done. But I knew a lot about
how to use a deck and run the Matrix. I had even started writing my own
programs by then. It was enough to get me into school as a programmer. I was a
good programmer, very good
Now I am a magician, just not the kind who throws around spells and travels in
astral space. I'm a magician for the twenty-first century. The Age of the
Machine. The Age of the Matrix. Programs are my spells, and my servants rise
up from the digital depths at my command. I work my electron sorcery on the
essential stuff of cyberspace. I'm a technomancer, spirit of the net, ghost in
the machine. I think it's one of the reasons I did so well in school, because
I treat decking as more than just a science or a job. It sounds lame, but it's
more like a religion to me. It's a way of life. One of my teachers said it was
the mark of a really great programmer. That it was all more than just numbers
and cold silicon to me. It was alive. I think it's one of the reasons the
company picked me for this job.
Whether or not Lo and his followers are crazy, there's no denying that they're
some of the hottest programmers I've ever seen, and I've seen some of the
best. I've learned things from my time with them I never even imagined before.
They really know all the tricks and then some. And they really do have some
kind of power. I don't know what else to call it.
The otaku-the Netwalkers don't call them that, they call them
"technoshamans"--they're these kids who can

just slot into a Matrix jack and they're off doing some of the most incredible
programming I've ever seen. No deck, no mainframe system, nothing but the
ASIST converter in their datajacks and their bare brains. I always believed
the otaku were nothing more than legends, but then I suppose people thought
the same thing about magic before Howling Coyote and his followers called up
the Ghost Dance, shook the Earth, and brought down a nation. I think part of
me didn't want to believe. Part of me stopped believing in magic when I was
twelve, but that's what the Netwalkers have, magic.
And not just about things in the Matrix, either. I had no idea people in the
world really lived like this. The Rox is like another planet compared to the
computer labs at MIT&T. It's so dirty and savage and .. . primal in its way.
It reminds me of the tribal freedom-fighters from those documentaries about
the Ghost Dance War, about the tribes who lived in the wilderness because they
were outlaws and outcasts in their own land.
Papa Lo himself escorts me to the place of initiation where I'm supposed to
seek my vision. Along the trip he tells me some of the truths of the world and
things he says I'll need to know before I face the spirits. He tells me that
cities, from the great megaplexes like Boston to the smallest villages, are a
part of our natural evolution, of our development to the next stage. For the
majority of known history, mankind lived in homeostasis, in harmony with the
environment as hunter-gatherers. Primitive, we would call them. But one day,
people started settling down, farming the land, domesticating animals, and
building permanent dwellings. The first symptoms of the "city virus," a
mutation in our evolutionary development, Papa Lo called it. It was the start
of urbanization, which led to the creation of things like the sprawl, and
eventually, the Rox.
Papa Lo says the purpose of cities is to further our evolution. Cities led to
settlements, allowing people to spend less time migrating to follow the herds
and more time harvesting the plants they depended on to survive. Settling down
brought the development of technology, which improved

the amount of food a settlement could produce. With more food, there was more
time to be spent on things other than hunting and gathering. That led to
learning and the development of more technology, bigger populations, and
bigger cities.
On and on it went until technology eventually led to the Matrix. Our creation
of another world here on Earth. Our ability to make new places for us to live
grew so great we had nowhere to go except to create another world. Now the
Matrix is our gateway to another phase of existence, Papa Lo says. Cities are
like the cocoons caterpillars weave around themselves when they go into a
state of hibernation to be transformed, changed into the next stage of their
life-cycle. Our shelters of ferrocrete and steel support the flesh we depend
on and provide the structure of the Matrix. Eventually there will come a time
when we will have to leave our bodies and our cities behind, shed our
chrysalis of mortal flesh and earthly stone and metal and take up our destiny
in the otherworld, among the stars.
"What is all of this gibberish?" Saigo asked Dr. Lambert.
Lambert seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the display he was studying.
"Hopefully, part of the experience that creates the otaku, sir. The sim-rigs
are recording some very interesting impressions. Some neurological
configurations I've never seen before."
Dr. Westcott continued on:
The idea of it makes my head ache. I have always felt something similar, but
never had words to describe it. It's the freedom I feel in the Matrix, the ...
rightness of the electron world telling me that a state of pure mind is one
where we could be happy. It is a world where we are like the gods and
magicians of old: able to weave the stuff of reality into any form, creating
worlds within worlds. I feel like I am close to figuring out the secret.
I am taken to the mouth of a tunnel into the Catacombs, a passage I have never
seen before. The inside is like a cave our ancient ancestors might have lived
in. The walls are painted with images and icons and hung with pieces of
hardware and festooned with wires, like the lodge beneath

the old church used by the technoshamans. The floor is covered with mats, and
there is a terminal junction spliced into a Matrix trunk-line. A working one.
I ask Papa Lo why it is no one ever disturbs all of this tech, left here
undefended. Why don't we use it more often?
"Because this place is sacred to us," he answers. "It is the place of
initiation. To use it for common things would despoil it. Those who live in
the Rox know and fear our power, so they leave our sacred places be. Wait here
and meditate on what I have told you until dark, then jack into the Matrix
with the cyberdeck we have given you and await your vision."
He puts his hand gently on my shoulder and looks at me with sad eyes. For a
moment, I think he knows everything about me, who I am and why I'm here with
the Netwalkers. I want to bolt and run, but the look of sympathy and sadness
in his eyes holds me there. He touches my head and my heart with his
fingertips in a ritual gesture and says, "Michael, I take your old name from
you. You are no longer the person who first came to us. Tonight you will be
reborn or you will die and either way your old name will be forgotten. Go out
into the world as you came into it: nameless and with the mind of a child.
Find your new name and your power. Dream well."
Then he leaves and I am alone.
I wait until nightfall, my stomach rumbling since I have been fasting for two
days in preparation for the ritual. I try and sit and meditate, anything to
quiet the sound of my nervous heartbeat. I thought at first that all the
"magic" of the Netwalkers was just a bunch of primitives playing with computer
toys beyond their understanding, combined with the crazy dreams of an old man,
but now I don't. Sitting here in the dark, the Matrix patch is starting to
look to me like a gateway, a gateway to another world, a world I have been
traveling since I was a child, but one I may not really know at all. I thought
I had put my hopes and dreams of magic behind me a long time ago, but I feel
the wonder I felt when Tarien first taught me how to deck stirring within

me again and I realize I was looking for information on magic in the Matrix
when it was there before me all the time. The shadows in the cave grow long as
I watch the gleaming trunk line. The sun sets, and I jack in.

23
What's IT up to ? I could tell you more about what the dragons want than I
could about ITs plans. But of course IT wants children. Only the very young,
even the ones who haven't formed speech yet, can learn to see the Matrix that
way. If kids grow up speaking two tongues, we say they are bilingual. Two
native tongues, more profound imprinting than mere fluency. What shall we call
these then? Bicosmic?
-The Laughing Man, posted on the Shadowland BBS 12-24-56
Dr. Westcott lowered his hands, his brow dripping with sweat, drops of it
running down the cable dangling from behind his ear. His hair was lank and
plastered to his forehead as he gasped slightly for breath, like coming up out
of the depths of Babel's mind for air.
"He is resisting," he said to Saigo. "His mind is like nothing I have ever
encountered before. It's so fast, so strange, almost... alien. I don't know if
I can ..."
"I'm not interested in excuses, Doctor. Neither is the Board of Directors or
Aneki-sama. They want answers, and we are going to get them, no matter what it
takes. You will overcome his resistance and get those answers or I will assume
that your reputation for success is over-exaggerated and replace you with
someone who can do the job properly. Wakarimasu-ka ?"
Westcott looked ready to offer an angry retort at being spoken to in such a
manner, but he looked into Saigo's eyes

for a moment and nodded stiffly instead. "Understood perfectly ... sir."
"Good. I will update Aneki-sama and prepare the link to transmit all of the
data to Renraku Central in Chiba. I expect it to be ready when I get back. Dr.
Lambert, you are in charge until then."
Saigo turned on his heel and walked away from Westcott. He paused in front of
Lanier on his way out of the room.
"Watch carefully, Lanier-san," he said in a low voice. "I'm sure the board
will be most interested in your... firsthand account of the events of this
matter. Before you are found guilty of corporate espionage and removed, that
is." He executed a mocking little bow and swept out of the room.
Westcott mopped his forehead and adjusted the cord to his datajack while Dr.
Lambert checked the data-flow to the simsense system. The mage then took a
deep breath to center himself and placed his fingers lightly on Babel's brow
to continue the mind probe. He spoke again in Babel's tone of voice.
I jack in and the Matrix unfolds around me like a digital flower coming into
bloom. I pass into the electron world and stand on the vast, dark plain of the
Boston grid. Chrome and neon icons float in the distance, but the area of the
Matrix representing the Rox is sparse and underpopulated, as much a wilderness
as its physical counterpart. There are few icons and systems here. What access
nodes exist are well-camouflaged, hidden from the watchful eyes of the
corporations who maintain the data networks. They are nearly all pirate taps
like this one, secret doorways into the otherworld the corporations and
governments want to keep to themselves.
I stand beside the small white pyramid icon representing the I/O port I am
using; my own gateway into the Matrix. I look down at my icon and see a figure
of chrome, slim and sexless, androgynous. I know if I could see the face it
would be featureless and plain. Faceless and nameless, just

as Papa Lo said before he left. I know the icon is only a creation of the
hacked-together cyberdeck I am using. It would look completely different if
this was a better deck and I'd had the opportunity to write the persona code
myself. My face and my name haven't really been taken from me. But at the same
time I feel like they have. In realizing that this persona is not the real me,
I feel the need to find the real me in here somewhere. What is my real face in
the Matrix? What is my real name? Papa Lo said I would find them here.
I look around and everything seems like I remember it. Just like all of the
countless other times I've jacked into the Matrix: at home, at school, for
work and for fun. I'm not sure what I expected. Something different. Something
.. . magical. Maybe I don't have what it takes to be one of the otaku. Maybe I
was right and there really is nothing to them but a lot of flash and trash and
wishful thinking.
I stay jacked in and wait. And wait. And wait. Hours must go by, but the deck
has no chronometer utility, no way for me to tell what time it is. I watch the
movement of the icons in the distance, their hypnotic play of light and
movement. I'm so tired and so hungry, but the feelings of my meat body are
only distant sensations here in the electron world. Sensations ...
Suddenly, a door opens in the black void in front of me. A white rectangle of
light floating in the air swings to one side and reveals a passageway to ...
somewhere else. It is like no access node I have ever seen and it seems to
have no way to appear here, but I do not question it. I step through it and
over the threshold to another place.
I stand on the rim of a massive ring of chromed metal easily the size a troll
could fit through. Many other rings run in a line from were I stand, their
openings laid end to end to form a kind of gleaming silver backbone arcing
gracefully into the endless darkness all around me. Gleaming branches,
twisting and spiky, jut from it like the ribs of an unknown ancient beast that
breathed its last here in some bygone age, its bleached and gleaming bones
lying

upon a forgotten shore. All else is a dark void, with only faint glimmers of
light in the depths.
In the dream-self that doesn't question even the strangest things, I make my
way carefully along the great backbone, walking it like a twisting bridge of
silver. The air is silent and still; no sound comes from the faintly
glittering void. It is like walking unprotected through the depths of space,
with only silence and infinity for companions.
I walk, and walk, and walk, trekking along the silver path traced out by the
backbone rings. I watch as flickers of light and energy play along the
twisting and twining branches sprouting off of the trunk into the depths of
the blackness. The flickers make tiny, faint, whooshing sounds as they shoot
off on their way, sounds that combine into a chorus of tiny whispers like the
voice of the night.
I walk a very long time. A detached part of my mind notices the time in the
way part of you often thinks in a dream while part of you goes about its
business like everything happening is real. I walk along as the silver spine
curves upward. When it grows too steep I climb up the rings of silver bone
like the rungs of a ladder extending up and up into the darkness.
At the top of the column, I reach a smooth silvery platform, polished chrome
reflecting the faint, glimmering lights of the void. I clamber up onto it,
feeling the cool, slick surface of the curving metal beneath my hands. I look
down at my reflection. As I thought, my face is as smooth and featureless as
this surface, without name or identity. Who am I?
I stand atop a long silver skull sitting on the upright, curving neck and look
out over a vista like an endless graveyard of machines. Metallic bones of all
shapes and sizes are scattered as far as the eye can see across the vast
plane, forming irregular piles, hills and valleys of twisted metal. Through
small gaps in the piles of silvered skeletons I see tiny flickering lights
playing in the depths of the graveyard. There is almost a pattern to them, a
meaning I cannot quite grasp.
As I stand looking out over the fantastic landscape I have

an overwhelming feeling, a prickling at the base of my neck, of a presence
nearby, the sense of being watched. I turn to look behind me and feel
something dark and soft push against me, like a great hand brushing a bit of
dust off the chrome skull. My feet slide against the smooth surface and
suddenly there is nothing under me but the void. The grinning skull of the
strange chrome creature looms higher and higher above me as I plunge down
toward the nest of sharp metal bones below.
Suddenly, I'm falling as fast as light, flying through a blur of color and
movement so fast it is like I am the one standing still and the whole world is
a colored neon blur all around me. I feel the individual strings of code
making up my Matrix image, feel them like they are parts of me, as they slowly
dissolve into the blazing stream of data and light. I am flying through the
datastream, coming apart in bits-literally-as tiny fragments of data flake off
and my virtual body unravels.
I try to slow down, try to hold on, but there is nothing to touch, nothing
solid, nothing real. Am I real? Is anything? Everything is just an image, an
illusion created by a computer. Everything, including myself. The headlong
race is pulling me apart and I can't hold things together. I am nameless and
faceless and now even my body is being taken from me. I see my silvery bones
for a moment before they fly apart in clouds of sparkling pixels. I think I
scream, but there is no sound. I have no real mouth to make any.
Then I hit.
There is only an instant of warning. Like when you get into a car wreck,
sometimes there's a split second when you realize it's going to happen and
your brain starts formulating what to do, but you know your perception of time
is all fragged up and even though you're thinking at a million klicks a
second, you'll never be able to get yourself to react to what you're thinking
in time and all you manage to do is yell something stupid like "drek!" There
is just a faint shimmer, a hint of a solid surface, like a bubble of glass.
Then I hit.
I don't feel the impact as such. I strike the ground at such

great speed that I am instantly vaporized, like hitting any obstacle at the
speed of light would do. Yet I am aware of the whole process, like some kind
of bizarre simsense recording, the experimental kind where they make up
sensations that don't really exist in synthesizers and market them as more
real than real life. My virtual body explodes into a billion pixels, reduced
down to its component electrons and particles, and scatters, spreading out at
the speed of light like a one-man Big Bang, changing the singularity of my
existence into an entire universe of its own.
That's what it is like: becoming a Universe. It's the only way I can explain
it. I spread out, my awareness riding each of a billion tiny fragments of
myself, expanding in all directions at unimaginable speed, passing over the
entirety of existence. I can see it all: the cosmos that is the Matrix. Not
just the neon and chrome illusion projected for us to see in virtual reality,
much more. It is an entire universe squeezed into a cage and held there,
unlimited space, unlimited potential, with new places coming into existence
every microsecond. As if the Earth were increasing in size every moment and
its population doubling every day. "The world held in a grain of sand.
Eternity in an hour," like the poet said.
The Matrix is alive as no other living thing can be, like evolution stuck in
fast-forward, changes happening at the speed of light. New data churning forth
from the dark depths, a primordial soup of bits from which arise larger and
more complex forms: programs, systems, networks, regional grids, a whole
worldwide ecosystem of information stretching feathery pseudopods of light up
from the surface to the growing and expanding network of satellites and
orbital habitats. It stretches out past them to lunar mines and planetary
probes, out, out into the darkness toward the distant light of the stars.
I am the light, filaments of light cradling the world in a delicate embrace
made up of a million kilometers of fiberoptic cable, my mind wrapped in a
layer of light and energy singing across the nerves of the world. All of the
words I

can give it fail to describe my single moment of blinding transcendence.
Just as suddenly as it began, the feeling fades. I seem to contract, the
scattered parts of my self rushing back toward each other with a powerful
attraction. The acceleration grows as they draw closer and closer until
finally the loose collection of parts flies together with a mighty flash of
whiteness and I feel my every nerve-ending crackling with energy.
I stand at the base of a great tree, or something that looks like a tree. It
is huge, larger than the largest skyscraper I have ever seen. Its trunk is the
deepest black, darker than the night sky. It is the pure negative black of a
black hole, absorbing all light. And yet there are lights there. The grain of
the trunk seems made up of thin filaments of light, microscopic, glowing
strands forming patterns, whorls, and knots in the vast surface of the giant.
Those random patterns contain images and symbols that shift and change as I
look at them, like the runes of ancient lore. A huge spread of branches blots
out the whole sky, covered with leaves holding a scattering of stars in their
depths. Each and every vein of each of a million leaves glows and shimmers
with light and motion. The ground is covered with the tree's many roots,
spreading out as far as the eye can see in every direction. The tree is the
whole of the landscape, the only thing in this place other than me. The center
of this whole universe.
Then it speaks to me in a voice like I have never heard.
"Once, humanity spoke the same language and they built a tower to the heavens.
But their tower was struck down and they became confused, speaking in
different tongues. Now, humanity speaks one language again and there will be
another tower, built of light and thought, to ascend to the stars.
"You hear the words of the language now. It is a secret language, the language
of this world. Those who learn to speak it can change the world. Remember it
well.
" You will be given the secrets of the true names of the dwellers of this
world, so you can speak to them and com-

mand them as you need to. Your duty is to live between this world and the
other. There are those who will topple the tower, and a strong foundation is
needed to see that it grows. This is your Work, to protect the destiny of the
People.
"You are chosen. You have been shown the Way. Your Name will be Babel and you
will be the instrument to protect the others of your kind."
I see a shimmering pool nestled among the roots of the great tree. I kneel
down beside it and look into it. The liquid is like mercury, liquid silver.
The calm surface reflects the face of my living persona, the familiar shock of
dark hair, the pointed chin and broad forehead. And my eyes. My eyes are the
color of the end of the spectrum, a deep violet shading into ultraviolet in
the weird light of the world-tree. I see Power in my eyes, power to do as I
have been told, to command the spirits and entities of the Matrix to do my
will.
"Drink."
I dip my hands into the cool, quicksilver well and cup the liquid between
them. It shimmers and smells of metal and light. I lift it to my lips and
drink. The cool liquid pours into me and I know it is pure information I am
drinking, liquid data. The code from the depths of the Well of Knowledge seeps
into every part of my body, downloading into me. Ancient chemical codes
whisper with the new data and bow to its will, shifting and changing. The
waters of life recreate me.
The surface of the pool ripples where I touched it and something begins to
emerge. The silver waters part and I see the shape of my destiny.
24
But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it;
for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.
-Genesis 2:17
The interrogation room was struck silent by Westcott's recitation. He allowed
his hands to fall from Babel's forehead and gasped for breath, brushing a
sweat-soaked lock of hair from his forehead and resting his hand on the cable
plugged into his datajack for a moment as if it pained him. He reached into
the pocket of his white labcoat and withdrew a white handkerchief. Lanier
noticed a small trickle of blood dripping from Westcott's nose that he dabbed
at with the cloth.
"Is that all?" Dr. Lambert said, looking up from the sim-sense monitor.
Westcott grimaced as he glanced over at Babel's serene face with a look of
profound distaste. "No ... there's more . .. but it's buried very deep ...
very deep indeed."
"Then get it," Lambert said, trying to draw himself up with all the authority
he could muster. "Saigo-sama will want the report to the board to be as
complete as possible. We need more than his conscious recollections of the
transformation experience. We also need his subconscious remembrances and
observations about the experience if we are to have any hope of reconstructing
what happened."
Dr. Westcott tightly closed his eyes and pressed his thumbs firmly against
either side of Babel's forehead. De-

spite the mage's terrific exertion, the technoshaman wasn't showing any ill
effects from the mind probe. He seemed serene, in a trance-like state ... or a
coma, perhaps. Lanier wondered if Babel's mind had already been ripped away by
the mage's probes. Westcott whispered arcane words, and mystical energy
flickered around his hands and Babel's head. The simsense gear hummed
counterpoint.
"All right, Bab ... I mean, Michael," Westcott said in a low voice. "We're
almost done." Lanier couldn't tell who the doctor was trying to reassure more,
himself or his subject.
Babel seemed oblivious as Westcott continued speaking. "You are at the base of
the tree, looking into the pool. The waters part and something begins to rise
out of them. You look and see your destiny? What is it? What do you see?"
"Would you like to know what I saw?" Babel whispered, without moving anything
save his lips. "Do you want to know what I learned to do? Then look, and I
will show you."
Westcott gasped. His muscles suddenly seemed to stiffen and lock up like a
seizure as his eyes flew open wide, staring at something only he could see.
"My god .. ." he whispered. "What is it? What . . . NOOOOOOO!" Westcott
screamed, a high, shrill sound. He let go of Babel's head and stumbled back a
step, eyes still focused on a point just above Babel's head before stopping
dead still and silent, mouth still open in a silent cry. Lambert glanced down
at the display on the simsense deck, then took a step toward the mage and
shouted at him.
"What is it, man? What's wrong? Finish the damned scan!"
Babel opened his eyes, turned his head toward the distraught Dr. Lambert, and
smiled.
"I'm afraid he can't hear you, Doctor," he said, violet eyes gleaming. "Doctor
Westcott's mind is occupied at the moment. In the end, we're all just
software, and I've just crashed his system. The restraints please, Doctor."
Westcott nodded somewhat dumbly and began to fumble with the straps holding
Babel to the examination chair.

Lambert rushed to the side of his colleague. "Douglas, what are you doing?
Stop it!" Westcott ignored Lambert's protests and stiff-armed the doctor with
a powerful shove, sending him stumbling backward. Lambert windmilled his arms
for a moment before falling to the floor with a thud.
Lanier felt all of the security people in the room on edge as they tried to
figure out what was happening. He might have his chance.
"Stop him!" Lambert shouted to the security guards, and they snapped out of
their shock at the strange scene and moved to restrain Dr. Westcott. But the
mage was already muttering under his breath as Babel rose from the chair and
stood over the simsense console sitting next to it. The guards rushed forward
as Westcott waved his hands. A dome of crackling energy now englobed him and
Babel. The guards ran into it like hitting a wall and bounced off the
shimmering, translucent surface. They took another run at it strong enough to
take a door off its hinges, but the glowering force dome resisted their
efforts.
Lanier knew an opportunity when he saw one. With great speed, he lunged at the
corporate guard nearest him and seized his weapon. With a savage kick, Lanier
sent the guard to the floor gasping in pain. He snapped off the safety on the
stubby H&K 227 and spun on the other guard, firing a burst of 9mm rounds into
him. The rounds slammed into the guard's chest and he fell back, his own
weapon flying from his hand and clattering to the floor.
The other security personnel and Dr. Lambert realized what was happening as
Babel sat cross-legged beside the simsense console. He took the cable from the
console and plugged it into his own jack, then closed his eyes and rested his
hands on his knees, going into a kind of trance. Dr. Westcott stood where he
was, still jacked into the simsense system, in silent concentration on the
magical barrier, mouth and chin red from the blood dripping freely from his
nose while his lips worked in silent speech directed at something only he
could see.
Lambert picked himself up off the floor and shouted to

the security guards. "Sound the security alarm! Stop him and bring that wall
down. I don't care how you do it!" The two guards near the force dome drew
their sidearms and took several steps back while a third went for the red
panic-button near the door of the lab.
The guard reached the panic-button and slammed his fist against it, but
nothing happened. He did so again and again, but no alarm sounded in the
complex,
"That won't work. Please don't try it again." Babel's voice came from the
speakers in the room, the intercom, the analysis equipment, and even from the
guard's own radio units. The guard by the panic-button slammed his fist into
it one last time, then turned his weapon toward where Lanier crouched behind
several pieces of lab equipment, squeezing off a burst that cracked and pinged
against the metal and plastic consoles. Lanier proved faster as he darted out
from behind cover to stitch a line of bullets across the chest of the guard,
leaving red blossoms on his uniform. The guard fell against the useless alarm
button and slid to the floor in aheap.
"What are you waiting for?" Dr. Lambert cried, almost hysterical. "Shoot
them!"
The two remaining guards near the magical barrier split their attention, one
turning toward Lanier and the other concentrating on the dome, covering each
other while Lambert cowered behind a console. The guard near the dome was
smart enough to shoot at Westcott first. Whatever the mage's condition, he was
responsible for the magical barrier. If he was taken down, the barrier should
follow. The rounds from the guard's SMG only whanged off the glowing barrier
like rain pattering off a rooftop. Neither Babel nor Dr. Westcott moved or
reacted, both of them locked in a trance state.
The other guard fired off several rounds in Lanier's direction, shots intended
to keep him under cover. Lanier sent a burst of return fire that stitched
along the floor. He did not hit the guard, but made him realize how exposed
his current position was.

When the gunfire ceased for a moment, Babel opened his eyes. He pulled the
cable from his datajack and let it drop to the floor, then turned to Dr.
Westcott and touched him gently on the shoulder.
"Look there, Doctor," he said, his voice slightly muffled by the glowing force
dome. Westcott's head spun to the side and his eyes widened in horror. Once
again, Westcott began to chant, arcane words rolling off his tongue and
echoing strangely inside the barrier. He held his hands close together in
front of his chest and a glowing sphere of energy began to form between them.
Westcott raised the glowing sphere over his head as it grew brighter.
Lanier knew what the mage was doing. He looked quickly around the room and
spotted a crate that had probably held some of the sophisticated sensor
equipment in the room. It was heavy construction plastic more than a meter
tall. Without hesitation, he made a break for it. One of the guards opened
fire, and rounds ricocheted off the walls and floor as Lanier dived behind the
crate.
A split second later Lanier heard Dr. Lambert yell "No!" There was a faint
crackle of energy and a feeling like static electricity raised the hairs on
his neck, followed by the sound of men and weapons clattering to the tile
floor.
Lanier poked his head up over the crate just in time to see Dr. Westcott's
glowing barrier flicker and fade. The doctor's eyes rolled back into his head
and his knees buckled. Babel caught him under one arm and lowered him to the
floor. Westcott continued quietly muttering under his breath, a litany Lanier
could barely make out. Instead of the arcane words he'd chanted before,
Westcott whispered, "One one zero zero one zero zero zero one one one zero
zero one zero zero zero one one one zero zero one zero zero zero one one."
Over and over again. All of the rapid-fire spellcasting he had done had
clearly exhausted the mage, added to whatever had happened during the mind
probe. The remaining two security guards and Dr. Lambert were sprawled out on
the floor with not a mark on them.
The guards' armor had done nothing to protect them against the power of
Westcott's spell. Lanier had been able

to get out of Westcott's line of sight, gambling that the mage was casting a
spell intended to take out everyone in the room. What a spellcaster couldn't
see, he couldn't affect, so Lanier, concealed by the packing crate, had been
spared the effects of whatever Westcott had used to take the guards and
Lambert down.
Babel stepped over to the nearest unconscious guard and picked up his sidearm,
checking the slide and the clip. Then he turned to where Lanier stood behind
the crate with a faint smile on his face. He was breathing heavily and his
brow gleamed with sweat, like he had just run a race, but his movements were
steady and sure.
"If you want to get out here, Mr. Lanier, you can come with me. We have a
better chance working together. Otherwise, you can stay here and take your
chances. Your choice." Without waiting for a reply, Babel turned and headed
for the door of the room.
Lanier hadn't made a successful career in the mega-corporate world by ignoring
his opportunities. He walked out from behind the crate to accept the offer.
Babel stopped in front of the sealed door of the lab and said "Open." There
was a click, and the maglocked door hissed open. Lanier and Babel calmly
walked out of the laboratory, leaving the unconscious Renraku personnel
behind.
"Nice trick with the crate," Babel said as he looked around the corridor.
"Thanks. Did you know I was going to do that?" At this point Lanier would
believe almost anything about this set-up.
"No, but I'm glad you did. I can use your help."
"My help? After what I did to you?"
Babel just shrugged. "No worse than what they wanted to do to me." The
facility was quiet. No alarm had been raised, and nobody was in sight. "And
like I said-" Babel scanned the corridor as he spoke "-I figure we have a
better chance of getting out of this together than separately. I'm kind of new
to all this shadow-ops stuff."
"Could have fooled me. What did you do to Westcott?" Lanier asked.

"Ever hear of psychotropic ice?" Babel said. "I used something similar. I
subverted the simsense recording equipment through the link they had me jacked
into and created a feedback loop between Westcott and me so I could download
some reprogramming straight into Westcott's brain. Similar to the stuff you
used on me, in fact." The last was uttered with a trace of sarcasm.
Lanier chose to ignore it. "I didn't know that was possible," he said.
Babel smiled a ragged grin. "Neither did I for certain, but it worked. Ol'
Westcott obviously never tried to hack into a brain with its own intrusion
countermeasures before." Babel turned and moved down the corridor like a man
with a purpose.
"Where the hell are you going?" Lanier demanded. "The way out is this way."
Babel turned to look back over his shoulder. "I'm not leaving. Not yet.
There's something I came here to do. You can do what you want, but if you want
to work with me, we go this way." He headed off down the corridor, and Lanier
struggled for a moment over whether he should go for the possible escape route
or stick with this enigmatic kid. The moment passed, and he turned and hurried
down the corridor to catch up.
"Mind telling me where we're going?" he said. "Or how you're planning on
getting out of here alive?"
"I need access to the Renraku network," Babel said. "The lab system is too
isolated. I was able to deck into the building's security system, though. I
placed one of my spirit-helpers in the system to make sure no alarms get
raised. With a little luck, nobody will know we're gone until it's too late."
"Spirit-helpers?" Lanier said. He noted that Babel had made no mention of any
plan for getting out of the facility ... alive or otherwise.
"One of my little helpers in the Matrix, like a program frame or an expert
system, only much more ... aware."
"You've been planning to do this all along," Lanier said as he fitted the
pieces together. "You wanted to get back to

Renraku so you could get access to their system. Why? To feed them false
data?"
Babel paused at a cross-corridor before choosing the left-hand branch.
"Nothing so calculated," he said. "I didn't even know exactly what I was
supposed to do before you forced me to start to remember in your little . ..
playroom."
Lanier noted the trace of bitterness in Babel's voice again. He doubted that
the young man was as forgiving as he pretended to be.
"I was given a mission, to bring ... something back into Renraku when they
recalled me. Bits and pieces of it have been coming back to me since you
started your interrogation."
Babel paused at an intersection to check the other corridor. There was no one
there, and he led Lanier past it.
"Do you know how a retrovirus works?" Babel asked, but didn't wait for an
answer. "It subverts the host's DNA code, so the replications of the DNA also
reproduce the virus. I'm like that, a single cell of Renraku Computer Systems,
made into a virus and sent back to infect Renraku's body."
"But why betray Renraku?" Lanier was genuinely baffled. "They would pay
handsomely for what you know. They wouldn't have chosen you for this job if
you weren't loyal to them."
Babel paused and turned to look at Lanier with his strange violet eyes.
"I was. But you heard what happened to me in the Matrix. I wanted Renraku to
know about it. I was loyal to Renraku because the company was all I knew all
my life. When I was in the Matrix that night, I found something else I never
imagined I would ever have. I found magic, and I'll do anything to protect it
from being controlled by a soulless company the way I was."
Babel turned and continued to lead Lanier through the complex.
Lanier wanted to get out of there, so he went along for now. But, as always,
he was just waiting for his own chance.

Don't think your "magic" is going to protect you from the corporate interests
forever, kid. A lot of people are willing to kill for what you and your otaku
chummers know about the Matrix. And I'm one of them.

25
I have somewhat against thee, because thou hast left thy first love.
-Revelation 2:4
Babel led Lanier through the Renraku complex like he had a map in his head. He
just might, at that, Lanier thought. He was certainly amazed at the way the
security systems in the complex seemed to pay no attention to them whatsoever.
They passed at least three security cameras that Lanier was aware of, but all
continued to placidly scan the corridors with no indication that they even
noticed the presence of the two people sneaking through the complex. No alarm
raised, no security measure activated against them. Whatever Babel had done to
the security system, it appeared to be working.
They arrived at a door a short distance from the interrogation room they had
just left. There wasn't a soul in the corridors of the facility, and they had
seen no one since leaving that room. They stopped in front of a door with a
security camera poised over it and a maglock card-reader set into the wall
alongside. The door looked like a heavy-security type Lanier was familiar
with. Without the right passkey to open the maglock, the door would require
explosives to force open. The Uzis Lanier and Babel were carrying would barely
scratch the door's armor-composite structure. Lanier started to reach for the
passkey in his jacket, then changed his mind. He wanted to see how Babel would
handle it.
"This is the main computer center," Babel said softly. He

stood in front of the door, Uzi in hand, and looked up at the security camera.
"Open sesame," he said. The red monitoring light on the camera blinked three
times in rapid succession, followed by the indicator light on the maglock
flashing from red to green. The door to the computer room slid open with a
quiet hiss. Babel immediately stepped through it and off to the side, allowing
Lanier to follow him into the room. The door hissed shut behind them with a
solid click. Lanier suspected it was locked again as if nothing had ever
happened.
Takana Saigo sat on the other side of the small room at a computer console
connected to the impressive array of equipment in the room. Lanier recognized
it as an access terminal set up for one of Renraku's best corporate mainframe
systems. The computing power of this complex had to be formidable, making it
more than just a corporate research and development facility. Lanier suspected
that the complex was part of some kind of bunker or "command center" Renraku
could use to direct activities in the Matrix, a staging area from which to
launch electronic assaults and forays against their corporate rivals. That
meant Renraku was prepared to carry this gambit as far as they had to, even if
it meant open conflict with the other megacorps. Lanier would use any means
necessary to prevent that from happening.
Saigo started at the sudden appearance of the two men. He began to reach for
the console in front of him, but Babel had his Uzi leveled at the Renraku
executive's chest with a steady aim.
"Don't move," he said in a flat, cold tone. "I would hate to have to shoot
you, sensei." Lanier caught the Japanese expression for "teacher" and glanced
at Babel, then back at Saigo. He wondered if Babel recalled more about his
background with Saigo than before. Saigo's mouth opened and, for a moment, no
sound came out of it. Within moments, he managed to regain control of his
voice.
"How did you get in here?" he said.
"I called upon one of my helper spirits to open the door

for us. What's the matter, Saigo-san? Haven't you ever seen a shaman at work?"
Saigo ignored the inference and his eyes flicked from Babel to Lanier and
back. "Where are Lambert and Westcott?"
"I'm afraid they're busy sleeping things off," Lanier said with a slight
shrug. "They've had a very hard day. Dr. Westcott especially."
"It's no easy thing mucking around in the mind of a technoshaman," Babel said.
"He learned that the hard way. Now you're going to learn the same lesson."
"Michael," Saigo said in a quiet and calm tone, "what do you think you are
doing? Have you gone mad?"
"On the contrary, honorable sir, for the first time in my life I feel quite
sane."
"They've brainwashed you. The otaku ..."
Babel smiled his ragged grin. "Brainwashed ... yes, I guess you could say
that. They've washed out the years of corporate conditioning that made me
think Renraku was the center of the universe. That what was good for the
company was good for everyone. They showed me what life outside of the
comfortable, sheltered, corporate world was like for everyone else: the
squalor, the desperation, the ongoing fight for survival. And I learned that
Renraku is willing to risk corporate war just to improve its standing on the
stock markets and to punch up the bottom line."
"Michael, that's not true, you know ..."
"Shut up!" Babel said. "That name does not bind me any longer. My name is
Babel. Michael Bishop is dead. He has been expunged from any databanks, no
trace of him remains. Your student is gone, sensei. He learned his lessons a
little too well. You wanted to teach me to be a spy for you and the company,
to make me into a weapon Renraku could use and then throw away. Well, your
tool has gained a mind of its own, and I don't like what I see."
Babel was almost raving, and Lanier feared he might gun Saigo down right then
and there. Not only would that damage the equipment in the room, but Saigo
could be vital to getting them out of the Renraku complex alive. Lanier
prepared to hold Babel back, but the young man didn't strike

out. Instead he scanned the computer console, then turned to Lanier.
"Cover him," he said coldly. "I have some work to do."
Lanier stared at Babel in shock for a moment. Is this kid totally out of his
head? he thought. Why would he trust me after everything that's happened so
far? He's either the most naive person I've ever met, or the most confident.
Babel met Lanier's questioning look with a steady gaze from his disquieting
violet eyes. "I haven't got all night, Mr. Lanier. If you're as smart as your
reputation, I can trust you. For now, you need me to get out of here intact
and you can make yourself useful by watching this fine corporate citizen
here." His voice was bitter with irony. "Besides," he said, his tone becoming
as cold as his eyes, "I'd hate to have to try to kill both of you just to make
sure there won't be any distractions."
Lanier knew Babel meant it, and his respect for him went up another notch. He
never imagined that the kid was so ruthless. He might just be able to pull
this off after all.
Lanier leveled his gun at Saigo and Babel gestured with his. "Up," Lanier said
to Saigo, who reluctantly yielded his seat in front of the computer console.
Babel took the chair as Lanier waved Saigo over to the far side of the room.
Lanier took a position where he could keep an eye simultaneously on both the
door and on Saigo and Babel while Babel was making his preparations.
Babel flicked his eyes over the displays and monitors of the terminal system,
looking over the hardware and software interfaces. He opened a panel in the
side of the terminal and produced a thin fiber-optic cable that quietly
unreeled from a hidden spool. He brought the cable up behind his ear and
slipped the terminator into his jack with a solid click. His eyes rolled back
into his head and he seemed to slip into a trance state like in the
interrogation room. The monitors and indicators on the terminal began to
flicker strangely, showing only a cascade of alphanumeric characters dancing
and flowing across them. For a moment Lanier and Saigo watched the
technoshaman work in fascination. Lanier had seen Babel use his abilities
before, but

Saigo could only stare in fascination as he watched Babel access the computer
system using nothing more than the power of his altered brain and his built-in
headware.
The seconds dragged by as Babel sat silently at the console. Lanier turned his
attention back to Saigo, who stood near the corner of the room, hands at his
sides where Lanier could see them. He could see Saigo's mind racing to come up
with a means of turning the situation to his advantage. He also noticed
Babel's gun lying on top of the console where he'd left it, forgotten. Lanier
made his way over to the console and picked up the gun. Checking to see that
the safety was on, he slung it by the strap over his shoulder, keeping the
other Uzi trained on Saigo.
"Don't be a fool, Lanier," Saigo said quietly. "Give up this madness, and I
won't have to tell the Renraku board anything about this."
"The way I see it, you're not going to get a chance to tell them anyway."
"Are you going to kill me, then? That won't do you any good, you know. There
are plenty of other witnesses to your involvement in this affair and, from
what Michael has said, they're all still alive. Unless you're going to kill
them as well. I'm sure you're ruthless enough to do it."
"Don't forget that," Lanier said.
"What about him?" Saigo said, with a nod of his head toward Babel. "Do you
really think you can trust him? I thought so too, before he betrayed me and
the company that made him everything he is. He's mad, Lanier. Whatever the
otaku did to him, it's unbalanced his mind. And you're allowing him access to
Renraku's central data network. If he isn't killed by the ice protecting the
central system, he'll be able to do untold damage. Are you willing to allow
that to happen? He's just using you. What if he means to start a conflict with
the other corporations? Are you going to just stand by and watch while this
... madman does whatever he wants to Renraku? Your stock could be worthless by
now."
"My stock in Renraku has always been worthless," Lanier said. "Renraku should
have been smart enough to

stay where it was instead of trying to mess with the top-tier corporations."
Saigo raised an eyebrow and a slow smile dawned on his face. "So that's it,
eh? You still hold some loyalty to your former employers at Fuchi. I am
surprised, Lanier-san. You are not the honorless mercenary I thought you were.
My compliments. I originally suspected that your falling out with Villiers was
anything but genuine, but you convinced me otherwise. Those attempts on your
life made by Fuchi after your appointment to the Renraku board were ... most
convincing."
"They were meant to be."
"And Villiers allowed you to give Renraku information on Fuchi operations
simply to improve your alibi."
"Sacrifice a few pawns to capture the king," Lanier said. He didn't mention
that those Fuchi operations had most belonged to the Yamana and Nakatomi
families, who were arrayed against Villiers as well. By leaking information on
them to Renraku through Lanier, Villiers was killing two birds with one stone.
"All to allow you the opportunity to infiltrate Renraku and discover the
secret of the rapid growth threatening Fuchi's bottom line. Only you seem to
have discovered more than you bargained for." Saigo threw a glance toward
Babel, sitting motionless in front of the console. Occasionally, his lips
moved, forming silent words and chants. Now and again, a muscle twitched, like
a man responding to a dream.
What if this kid is crazy? Lanier thought.
What's to stop me from simply killing him and Saigo and getting the frag out
of here? If I could make it to the garage or the helipad, I might be able to
get away clean. I could get sanctuary with Villiers until it's safe or maybe
even convince Renraku I helped solve their problem for them.
But Lanier had seen enough of the things Babel could do and had to assume the
kid was still in control of the building's security and computer systems, one
way or another. Glancing over at the security door to the computer room,

he knew there was a real possibility he might never be able to get out of the
room without Babel's help.
"I have the codes for the security system," Saigo said as if reading Lanier's
thoughts. "I could get you out of here with me. You can do with the boy what
you want." Lanier considered that offer. It was tempting, but he doubted Saigo
would ever let him walk out of here alive, and certainly not with Babel and
all his information about the otaku.
"I don't think so, Saigo. Babel needed to get back to you for a reason, and
I'm willing to bet it's going to hurt Renraku more than it will me. And if I'm
wrong and I don't have a shot at getting what he knows, then I'm going to make
sure nobody ever gets it."

26
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? . . . My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
-Matthew 27:46
Inside the Renraku private local telecom grid, I work my technomancy. Jacked
into the terminal inside the Renraku installation, I have access to the
central nodes of the company's communications system-all of the important
corporate data-processing centers. From outside, the grid is protected by a
wall of ice, a virtual glacier so powerful nothing could possibly break
through without suffering terrible damage and setting off every alarm in
creation. From within, the system is open to anyone with the means, and I have
the power of my channels, more power than any cyberdeck could ever offer. I am
inside the system, a Trojan horse sent as a gift back to the enemy like the
virus I told Lanier about. But I must be cautious, the body of the Renraku
network still has defenses to guard it against viruses.
On the shimmering black plane of the Matrix I call on my helper spirits to
attend me. Rook is already in the system, and comes immediately at my summons,
a raven of black chrome, feathers glossy and picked out in remarkable detail.
She settles on my shoulder in a chiming flutter of metallic wings and whispers
in my ear of the wisdom she had gleaned from the system so far. The security
subroutines are tied up in knots the Renraku technicians will need days to
undo, but it will be too late before they even begin.
Bakemono appears out of the depths of my cloak from behind my leg and scuttles
in a crouch, his knuckles drag-

ging along the ground. He looks up at me and awaits my command as I draw my
sword from the pouch at my side.
It begins as a sphere of liquid silver shimmering in the light within the
system, like mercury suspended in zero-gravity. The cool metal ripples at my
touch and its form begins to shift and flow. The silvery metal stretches out
and assumes the shape of my sacred blade, the embodiment of my will in the
electron world. With my magical blade in hand, few of the inhabitants of the
Matrix can stand against me.
I assess the datapath through the Renraku system and we are off at the speed
of light. In a matter of seconds we reach the Chiba grid halfway around the
world. It is here, in the heart of the Renraku system, where my destiny will
truly begin. I hope Papa Lo is right, and that I will know what I must do when
the time comes.
The system is a vast virtual palace in the depths of the Matrix, modeled on
Osaka Castle in seventeenth-century Japanese style. My travel through the
datapath from the Renraku Boston war-room system allows me to bypass the
guardians standing on the castle walls to repel intruders. I come along the
path of an ally, so the castle gates are opened to admit me. I step through
and into the vast courtyard.
There is a bustle of activity all around me. Peasants and servants,
representing functionary programs, move quickly about their business,
operating systems and transporting data from place to place. Couriers depart
from all of the gates of the castle to distant places, bearing messages for
their masters. Grim-faced samurai stand guard over the courtyard, but none of
them react to my presence. Not yet.
I gather my cloak around me and follow the path of the messengers back into
the castle itself. I walk through the corridors looking for the source of the
messages the system is sending out across the world to other Renraku systems.
Extending the power of my channels, I can sense the flow of information
through the system. Finding the main routing processor is difficult, but not
overly so for me. I follow the path I sense through the castle's maze of
corridors to reach a paper-walled room in its depths.

A samurai stands guard outside of the room. I pull my cloak close around me
and step closer. Taking a small pinch of glittering dust from my pouch and
executing a deep bow, I whisper the words to transform the appearance of my
persona in the eyes of the guardian, a simple illusion. The samurai's lifeless
eyes stare back at me and he steps aside as the door slides open.
The room within is Spartan in its simplicity. A nobleman, dressed in a silk
kimono showing the Renraku dot-and-waveform logo design sits behind a low desk
on the floor. On the desk are writing implements, paper and ink held in
delicate porcelain vessels. Two armored samurai stand behind the noble, their
faces as impassive as stone. The nobleman produces beautiful calligraphy on
the creamy pages of rice paper set before him, then folds them carefully and
passes them into the hands of a messenger to take them out of the room. These
are the instructions from the central routing processors, directing e-mails,
faxes, and other data from Renraku headquarters out to the four corners of the
world. Closing the door panel behind me, I approach the nobleman.
Without warning, the two samurai spring to life and move toward me. My
deception did not fool them, and I extend my senses toward them. They are SKs!
Semi-Autonomous Knowbots are near legendary in the Matrix; sophisticated
adaptive programs that come near to being artificially intelligent. Renraku
created them and has no doubt improved them over the years. They are too
sophisticated to be fooled by my illusions and deceptions.
If I am to succeed, I have to get past the knowbots without letting them set
off an alarm in the system. Already the system is trying to send out word of
my intrusion. I send Rook winging away to lead the signal astray and buy me
some time. The samurai draw their katanas and step closer, sandaled feet
slapping against the tatami mats covering the floor.
I flip my cloak aside and show my own sword, the blade gleaming. Bakemono
huddles near my left leg, baring his fangs and snarling at the approaching
warriors.

Then they are upon me without warning. I raise my sword to block the attack of
one samurai while I spin to the side to avoid the slash of the other. The
blades swing silently, but there is a clang when the katana strikes my own
sword, and I push the blow to the side.
"Bake, attack!" I command, and my goblin-spirit leaps out with a fierce cry,
slashing and biting at one of the samurai, who is driven back by the sudden
fierceness of the onslaught. I concentrate on the other and bring my sword up
to block another attack, thrusting toward a possible opening. The samurai
blocks my attack. The knowbots are fast, and good at their work. I block
another attack to the side, and I can feel the senses of the samurai probing,
trying to find a weakness in my defenses. They are confused by me. I am not
like any other decker they have ever seen before. It makes them hesitate
slightly. They need time to adapt. I make it cost them.
I take advantage of the momentary opening to strike past the first samurai's
defenses. My flashing sword connects with the samurai's black-lacquered armor
in a shower of sparks and leaves a long rip in the knowbot's structure.
Flashing code and neon fractals show through the gaps in the knowbot's samurai
form, the raw internal organs of the program exposed. There is a cry off to my
side as the other samurai pins down Bakemono and slashes his katana through
the goblin spirit's form. Bakemono's head comes off cleanly and tumbles across
the room before the spirit breaks up and dissolves. I feel a sharp pang from
the death of my servitor, who is a part of me.
Finished with Bakemono, the undamaged knowbot turns its attention to me. I
ward off attacks from the two defensive programs, but they are pressing me
back. I cannot hold both of them off for long. The blades whirl around with
great ferocity, but I block each one as it comes in at me. The samurai are
double-teaming me, working together to wear down my defenses and find some
kind of a weakness. I can't allow them to.
I concentrate my efforts on the samurai I damaged, hoping for an opportunity.
When it comes, I drive the blade of

my sword directly through the damaged portion of the knowbot, looking for a
vital part of the program to crash. The blade strikes home and the SK
stiffens, locked in place like a video image in freeze-frame. The program is
crash-locked.
But I pay for my success. The other samurai comes in with an upward strike and
its sword tears through my cloak, cutting a trail of fire along my side. I cry
out and roll to the side, discarding the cloak, which dissolves like smoke. It
is useless now and would only slow me down. I feel the burning pain in my side
cool rapidly and a strange sensation of wetness spread there. It is like
nothing I have felt before. I hold my sword in a double-handed grip as the
undamaged samurai circles around me, looking for an opening. I take a moment
to glance to my side. Copper fluid drips from the gash in the side of my
persona, like metallic blood. It falls and pools on the floor of the room,
reminding me of the pool at the base of the great tree.
I reach into the pouch at my side with my free hand and draw out a stream of
liquid silver that I instantly shape into a gleaming round shield I use to
block the next strike of the katana. Pushing up with the shield I give myself
an opening to slash at the samurai's stomach. Broken code flows like blood
from the ragged gash left by my sword. The samurai strikes again and I block,
jumping over another attack, this one aimed at my legs. The attacks are coming
faster and faster as the system devotes more processing power to the remaining
knowbot. I cannot block them all.
The knowbot comes in from the side with blinding speed and slashes my sword
arm. I try to bring my shield up, but I can't turn fast enough. The pain is
followed quickly by another flow of liquid copper from my wounded shoulder,
which joins the growing pool at my feet. As I fall back before the assault of
the knowbot, the pool of my electron lifeblood shimmers and ripples. Small
tendrils grow out of the pool and begin to reach up toward the ceiling of the
room. Something emerges from inside me, nourished by the vital essence of my
living persona, taking root in the Renraku system. I am fixed for a moment in
fascination

with the beauty of the branches and coppery buds springing up where my blood
has fallen, and the knowbot takes the opportunity to strike with
machine-driven precision.
A razored-edged blade of black chrome transfixes my body, impaling me. I cry
out at the terrible pain. If I were flesh and blood, the stroke would surely
have killed me. As it is, I crumple to the ground in agony, fire lancing all
along my nerves as I drop my shield. Liquid copper gushes from the wound,
crawling along the floor to join the growing pool from which springs a small
tree, a mere sapling compared to the majesty of the world-tree from my vision.
These are the seeds of what I was sent to bring into the Renraku system: the
virus program.
" You have done well," a voice says to me. "Renraku cannot keep out what is
already within." The metallic tree morphs and forms out of the flowing metal,
spreading branches out to begin touching the ceiling and sending roots across
the floor, digging into the deepest parts of the Renraku computer system. With
a savage jerk, the black chrome samurai yanks the blade of its sword out of
me, more of my virtual blood adding to the substance of the growing virus.
"Help me ..." I say, reaching out to the world-tree, the source of my power,
my magic, and my enlightenment.
"A sacrifice must be made," the voice says, devoid of feeling and cold as the
void. "The collapse of your neural network will trigger the final cascade
sequence. That which I downloaded into you will in turn be downloaded
throughout the Renraku Matrix. That which is without will be within. All will
be made one, a part of the greater whole. Renraku will no longer menace the
People or endanger the World."
"But I will die!"
The samurai raised his gleaming blade like an executioner. I couldn't say if
it was still under the control of the Renraku system or something else. There
was no mercy in the mask-like face.
"Irrelevant. You have served your purpose. Obey and fulfill your destiny."

"No," I say quietly. "I have obeyed, I have acted with honor..."
"Irrelevant. Survival is paramount. Sacrifice is necessary."
"You can't... NO!"
The samurai comes in, sword held high in a strike intended to decapitate me as
cleanly as it did Bakemono. I twist to the side and thrust upward with my
sword at the same time. My blade slides into the armor of the samurai with
only a whisper, impaling the knowbot cleanly. I prepare to dodge out of the
way of the falling katana, but the strike never comes. The knowbot stands
frozen on my sword, crashed. I breath a sigh of relief and let go of my blade,
still embedded in the immobile ice program. I take a handful of silver leaves
from my pouch and crush them in my fist, sprinkling the glittering dust over
the wounds of my living persona.
The shimmering metal tree begins to shiver and ripple as I staunch the flow of
blood from my wounds. The liquid copper feeding it ceases to flow and the
growing virus program begins to collapse in on itself. I remain kneeling on
the floor of the room and watch as it begins to liquify again. The coppery
liquid begins to lose its color, becoming more and more silver, then the
column of liquid seems to look at me without eyes, with an intelligence unable
to understand what I have done, why I would not die for something that gave me
everything I wanted. It has never before encountered a living person so
ungrateful, because all of its other children are just that: children who know
no other life, no other way. It looks at me for what seems like a very long
time, then I hear the voice speak for the last time.
"Download aborted. Secondary protocols engaged."
The column of quicksilver twists like a water spout and leaps into the inkwell
on the desk where the Japanese nobleman continues to placidly write his
elegant dispatches as he has throughout the whole combat with his samurai
guards.
The last of the liquid flows into the dark well and disappears without a
ripple. The nobleman dips his quill into the inkwell and continues writing his
dispatches, but the bold,

perfectly formed calligraphy is slightly different-not the original words sent
out by the Renraku executives and managers, but information dictated by the
virus implanted deep in the Renraku system. The messengers take the dispatches
penned by the nobleman and carry them quickly to their destinations. As they
do so, the information contained in those messages becomes a part of programs
in other parts of the Renraku system, invisibly attaching itself to them and
spreading outward to more and more parts of the system, carried around the
world at the speed of light over Renraku's network.
As the virus spreads, things begin to happen throughout the Renraku Systems
computer network.
Emails are sent out to certain project and division managers using forged
ident codes and priority passwords, telling them the Corporate Court is going
to make an inspection of Renraku's facilities for their investigation. They
order those managers to destroy certain "sensitive materials" to prevent them
from being seen, implying that their jobs, their positions within the Renraku
corporate "family," are in danger if they do not comply. Data concerning those
projects will be removed from the Renraku system by order of the board of
directors and archived secretly. All information about the procedure will be
eliminated, including the original memos.
First in Chiba and other Renraku facilities in Japan, then elsewhere in the
world, physical evidence and prototypes of certain Renraku research projects
are destroyed to avoid a Corporate Court investigation, and numerous managers
and directors are assured that their jobs will be safe, knowing nothing of the
investigators to come when this is all over.
All research information pertaining to the otaku and their abilities begins to
disappear from Renraku-controlled systems around the world. Datastores of
urban legend and lore collected by Renraku researchers are deleted when any
references to the otaku are found. Research into neurobiology and
brain-computer interface based on the existence of the otaku is no more.
Renraku emails and news posts about the otaku vanish. Even the word "otaku"
disappears from

the online dictionaries and encyclopedias maintained by Renraku Corporation.
In protected datastores in Renraku's headquarters, the virus finds information
on technology Renraku acquired from an elven inventor, which requires the
skills of the otaku to function fully. In a matter of minutes, the gifts of an
elf named Leonardo are deleted from the Renraku system. All of the designs,
schematics, specifications, and information gained by Renraku technicians from
Leonardo's technology disappear from the corporate databases.
Some of the database archives are protected and backed up, but the virus waits
dormant in the system. Any backups not eliminated by management on what they
believe to be the orders of their superiors will be erased any time Renraku
tries to connect them to the main system. The virus is virulent and has an
amazing survival instinct. It hides itself in nooks and crannies throughout
the Renraku system, surviving off of spare processing cycles and waiting for
more targets to appear for it to eliminate. If Renraku tries to gather
information on the otaku again, it will be purged from their system. If
another corporation goes into the Renraku system looking for information on
the otaku, they will be infected as well. It will take Renraku a long, long
time to eliminate the virus.
It will be some time before Renraku even realizes what has happened, and by
then the otaku data will be long gone. The secrets of the People of the Matrix
will be safe from Renraku and the other megacorporations, while the superior
Matrix technology Renraku is using to shield their systems from outside
intrusion will have gone the way of the dinosaur. Renraku will be busy for
some time replacing their computer system defenses and rebuilding their
datawalls to protect themselves from the other megacorporations and deckers
who will take advantage of their sudden weakness. They will never know how
close Renraku's entire system came to being subverted, that the virus was only
the least of the goals I was supposed to die to accomplish, the only one my
survival permitted.

I watch the progress of the virus through the system until it reaches the
point where there is no way Renraku can stop it, short of shutting down their
entire network. Renraku will not commit financial suicide to protect the
information from a few secret projects. Like a virus, a megacorporation's most
important drive is to survive and prosper until the next day ... whatever the
cost, no matter if small things have to be sacrificed. Renraku will accept the
losses they suffer and move on. As must I.
The shimmering, glorious tree of knowledge is no more. Though I survived, my
destiny in its eyes is fulfilled. I am no more than another piece of useless
data. No longer one of the People and no longer a part of its plan. I call
Rook to me and send her out through the Renraku system using the name Saigo
and others have spoken to me, the name remaining in the depth of my being.
In an instant, the systems of the Renraku network produce a glittering cluster
of alphanumerics hovering in front of me, a datafile containing all of the
information left in the Matrix on Michael Bishop, an employee of Renraku
Computer Systems. The power of the Deep Resonance has removed all other
evidence of Bishop from the Matrix, except for the systems of Renraku,
shielded by the most sophisticated intrusion countermeasures ever created. The
same protection I was needed to overcome.
I look at the hovering file and all of the information it represents. My birth
in a company hospital, my education in a company school, my appointment to
MIT&T on a corporate scholarship. An entire life lived within the confines of
the company. A life I ended; first to follow the will of the company and then
to follow the will of something I thought was deeper and more meaningful.
I cup the file in my hands and it becomes fluid, allowing me to pour the
information of the file into my own being. I drink in the data of my life and
store it in the headware Renraku gave me to prepare me for the mission that
changed my entire existence. The details of my life are my own and no one
else's. So they will remain. Michael Bishop is gone

from the Matrix, and now so will Babel be. I have died a second time and sit
for a moment without a name or a purpose; a true Ghost in the Machine.
I think for a moment about what I will do, then I call Rook back to my side
and whisper to her what I need done.

27
SHADOWWATCH: Your eye on the shadows All the latest news bits and bytes from
the Shadowland BBS >Um, Cap, everyone, I think something's going on all right.
There's something screwy going on with Renraku. There's a flurry of activity
in RenrakuNet: emails, faxes, and messages going out like gangbusters. Far as
I know, there's still no word from the Corporate Court, so this could be
Renraku preparing for a first strike of some kind. Fuchi hasn 't reacted yet,
but this is still going down as I speak. They may not have had time yet.
Things could be about to go. Anybody out there got any Renraku or Fuchi stock?
You might want to consider your options. >The Chromed Accountant
"It's all about Dollars and Sense "
In the Renraku computer center, Lanier kept his gun trained on Saigo and
waited as the seconds ticked by in agonizing silence. There was not a peep
from Babel once he jacked into the computer system, and Lanier was forced to
wonder how long the kid's techno-wizardry would keep any alarms they might
have triggered silent, or how long Dr. Westcott's last spell would keep the
staff in the lab unconscious. Were they going to have time to get out of the
facility? Was Babel even planning to leave? Lanier couldn't be sure. He didn't
think the kid was suicidal, but the near-fanaticism he'd seen in Babel's eyes
and heard in his voice when he spoke of his "destiny" made Lanier wonder.
"What are you going to do if he never comes out of there?" Saigo asked,
echoing Lanier's concerns.

Lanier told himself he'd have to make a better effort to keep his thoughts off
his face. The last thing he wanted to do was telegraph his concerns to a
company man like Saigo.
"I still have you to get me out of here," Lanier said. That was certainly
true. Saigo was in charge of the place and would make an effective hostage as
well as a useful source of information. Unlike Babel, Lanier knew that a man
like Saigo would put his own survival ahead of company loyalty if push came to
shove. If threatened sufficiently, Saigo would provide the leverage needed to
get out of the facility, or so Lanier hoped.
"You cannot seriously think you will be able to get away with this," Saigo
said. He seemed to want to keep Lanier talking.
Probably still looking for his opportunity, Lanier thought. "I've gotten away
with things a lot harder than this."
"But always on your own," Saigo responded. "Never with a wild card like him in
the mix." He nodded toward Babel. "You certainly didn't plan on this. You're
just making this up as you go."
"Careful I don't ad lib something that could shorten your life, Saigo ... what
the?"
Just then the lights in the computer room went from fluorescent blue-white to
deep red emergency lighting and a WARNING sign flashed from every computer
monitor in the room. A cry of pain came from in front of the computer
terminals. Lanier looked over at Babel to see him convulse suddenly in his
chair, all of his muscles stiffening, as blood began to drip from his nose. It
was only a momentary glance, but long enough for Saigo to act.
He lunged at Lanier, who caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and
turned back to meet the rush a moment too late. Saigo went for Lanier's gun,
but Lanier twisted to the side. Saigo's charge slammed Lanier against the
wall, and the air rushed out of his lungs with a whoosh. A strong hand gripped
his wrist and tried to wrestle the gun away from him while Lanier struggled to
move his gun-hand to get a shot at Saigo, difficult in the close melee.

Obviously Saigo had some combat training and enhancements. He was as quick as
Lanier, but Lanier was a veteran of years in the military, even if his skills
were years out of practice. He strained against Saigo's grip as the two of
them wrestled for control of the gun. Babel twitched in front of the computer
console, his head snapping from side to side and his lips forming silent
words, oblivious to the conflict going on behind him.
Saigo hooked a leg behind Lanier's knee, which sent the two of them crashing
to the floor. Lanier lost his grip on the Uzi and it went skittering across
the floor, out of reach. The other Uzi-III, Babel's gun, was lying under
Lanier where he couldn't reach it. Instead of going for the fallen gun, which
would have given Lanier a chance to reach his other weapon, Saigo tried to
throttle Lanier and pin him down. His face was contorted with anger as he
clawed at Lanier's throat. Lanier got a firm grip on the front of Saigo's
jacket and pulled hard with a flip of his legs to pull him over his head and
send him crashing onto the floor.
Saigo landed near the fallen gun, while Lanier reached for the other gun,
cursing his poor aim. By now Saigo had snatched up the Uzi on the floor and
trained it on Lanier. Lanier stopped dead-still and kept his hands where they
were as Saigo covered him. He wouldn't be able to reach his weapon before
Saigo shot him. He didn't know for certain how good Saigo was with a gun, but
from what he'd seen so far, he had to assume it was pretty good. At such close
range, with a burst-fire weapon like the Uzi, skill didn't matter much.
"Get up ... slowly," Saigo said in a flat tone. Lanier moved to comply,
keeping his hands visible as he slid to one knee.
There was a faint, metallic "snick," and Saigo started to turn toward the
sound as a mono-edged blade erupted from his chest, carrying a dark coating of
blood colored a glossy black in the red light of the room. Saigo made a small
noise and looked down at the curved spur protruding from his chest with an
expression of complete shock and surprise.

Then his knees gave way and he slowly crumpled to the floor, the gun
clattering from nerveless fingers.
Babel stood over his teacher's body, blood flowing from his nose, ears, and
eyes like red-black war paint in the weird light. He looked down at Saigo for
a moment with terrible sadness in his eyes, then silently retracted the spur
into his arm and bent to pick up the gun. He turned toward Lanier, who was
still in a crouch on the floor.
Babel looked different to Lanier. The fanatical fire was doused, replaced by
an air of great weariness as if the whole heaviness of the world rested on his
shoulders.
"You should have left my gun where I could have reached it," Babel said.
"Still don't trust me?"
"Something like that," Lanier said, looking from the fallen Saigo back up to
Babel's face. Babel met his eyes for a moment, and Lanier had to look away
from the bleakness reflected there.
He stood up and brushed off his hands, straightening his suit jacket. He
glanced down at Saigo again. "Too bad you had to kill him. He could have been
our ticket out of here."
Babel shook his head and spoke in a flat, controlled tone. "I already have our
ticket out of here. Saigo-ran would have only gotten in the way. Sacrifices
have to be made."
Babel led Lanier out of the computer room to a bank of elevators. The doors of
one of the elevators opened at Babel's approach. There was still no sign of
any activity in the complex. Everything was as quiet as the grave. Lanier
expected a Renraku strike team of elite Red Samurai to show up any minute, but
there was nothing.
"It will be some time before Renraku figures out exactly what's happening,"
Babel said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself.
"What is happening?" Lanier asked. "What did you do in the system?"
"Put an end to Renraku's plans to investigate the People of the Matrix," Babel
replied gravely. "I implanted a virus into the central Renraku network that is
being transmitted to their systems all over the world. It will erase any trace
of

the data they've collected on us so far and make future attempts to gather
information on us ... difficult. It will eventually spread to other corporate
systems with which Renraku interacts and remove any data they might have as
well."
"That impossible," Lanier scoffed. "There's no virus in the world that
sophisticated. How could you have created something like that?"
"I never said I created it. I only implanted it. The virus was given to me, a
gift you might say." Babel's voice was heavy with irony. "I was nothing more
than the carrier, the soldier doing as I was told."
"Well, Renraku will figure things out soon enough and come looking. How are we
going to get out of here before then? And why are we going up instead of down
to the parking garage?"
Babel smiled faintly. "You'll see." The elevator doors opened out onto the
roof of the complex. The night air over the Boston sprawl was cool, and a
gentle breeze blew across the open rooftop. Lanier could see that they were in
the downtown area not far from the Renraku Boston headquarters. A set of
bright lights drew closer and closer to the rooftop until Lanier could clearly
make out that they were from a helicopter, a Hughes Stallion that had by now
become quite familiar.
"I've arranged us some transportation," Babel said. "They'll take me back to
the Rox and then take you anywhere in the plex you want to go. Saigo had a
fairly extensive slush fund for his project, so I didn't think he'd mind if I
used some of it to take care of expenses. I'm paying the bills, so I would
recommend against trying anything foolish..."
Lanier raised his eyebrows slightly. "What? Don't trust me?"
"Something like that," Babel said. "In fact, I'm not sure I trust anyone."
"Good idea," Lanier said. "All I wanted from you was a way to get at Renraku.
You did that well enough. I have bigger fish to fry than you and your ...
people."

"Fine," was all Babel had to say.
Lanier fell silent and watched the helicopter descend. It touched down on the
rooftop smoothly, and the side door slid open. As Babel and Lanier went out to
meet it, Lanier saw a familiar tusked face.
"Well, well, well," Hammer said. "Isn't this a pleasant surprise?" The ork
calmly held his hand-cannon leveled at the two of them, and Lanier thought for
a moment that he'd been double-crossed. "When word came through that Saigo
wanted to extend our contract, I wasn't expecting to see you two again."
"That's because Saigo didn't call you," Babel said. "I did."
The ork stared at him for a moment and then broke into a howl of booming
laughter.
"Haw! That's a good one, kid."
Babel seemed not at all upset by the ork's manner, his face an emotionless
mask.
"Code word: Judas," he said. "I'm the contact you were told to expect. The
nuyen I offered is in an offshore escrow. I'll give you the codes to access it
when we get where we're going."
Hammer's mirth disappeared, replaced by surprise, which was just as quickly
replaced with a broad smile again. "Well, I'll be damned. Say, chummer, anyone
who can put something like that over on Renraku and clear out in one night is
worth giving a ride, especially at the prices we're charging. Get in."
Babel and Lanier climbed aboard the chopper, which moments later was rising up
from the rooftop of the Renraku building and into the sky over the metroplex.
Babel turned to Hammer. "I arranged for a flight plan to be entered into the
Renraku computers that should give us clearance, provided you stick to the
route I sent you."
The ork nodded and made his way up to the cockpit to take the co-pilot's seat
next to Val, leaving Babel and Lanier alone in the cabin. The two were silent
for a moment, looking out at the lights of the metroplex. Then Lanier spoke
again.

"You said you were given the virus you used on Renraku? By whom?"
Babel shrugged as he stared out the window at the city lights. "Weren't you
listening to all of those interrogations, Lanier?" he said. "It was the Matrix
gave it to me. All living things have a need to survive and will act when
their survival is threatened. What do you think would happen to the Matrix if
the megacorporations discover the secrets of technomancy? It would be open
war, which could destroy the Matrix. It doesn't want that."
"Are you saying the Matrix is intelligent? I can't believe that."
"Believe what you like." Babel smiled wearily. "It doesn't matter either way.
I know I encountered a vast... 'intelligence' is the only word I can give it,
during my initiation, and it told me I had to do this to protect the
technomancers from being exploited by the megacorps. Or worse yet, turned into
lab rats so the corps could figure out how our abilities worked. What I didn't
know was that this 'intelligence' was just as manipulative as the megacorps,
if not more. It's vast, Lanier, more than any of us can imagine. We're nothing
to it, like ants crawling in and around its home. To be used as it wants, then
stepped on."
"What are you going to do now?" Lanier asked. "Renraku is going to want your
head."
"They have to find me first," Babel said. "I'm going to go on walkabout for a
while. I have a lot to think about. The ancient people believed you could find
yourself out on the road. There's a lot more to the world than just Boston,
and I've got a little 'severance pay' from Renraku stashed away. Traveling
isn't all that hard when you know the right paths."
"Why not come to work for me? I could certainly use you."
"Like Renraku used me? Like it used me? I don't think so. I'm through with
being used. I'm tired of it. All I ever wanted was to have magic in my life.
Now I've got some, but it didn't come cheap. I'm not going to work for you or

Fuchi or anyone except on my terms. I've got my freedom, and I mean to hold on
to it."
"But you have nothing to show for all this. Just some money, and that's not
going to last forever."
"On the contrary, I have a whole world to explore. Two whole worlds, in fact.
I have the freedom of being nothing more than a ghost, a blank, a shadow.
Allied to no one."
The chopper pilot set down in a cleared lot in the Rox, and Babel hopped out.
He backed away from the helicopter and smiled at Lanier through the streaks of
blood on his face, pushing aside his dark hair in the wash of the helicopter's
rotors.
"I have my freedom!" Babel called out. "Do you?"
Lanier looked the young man in the eyes for a moment, then reached out and
shook his hand. "Good luck, Babel."
The technoshaman shook his head. "No, not Babel. Not Michael. Renraku made
Michael Bishop, and he's dead. The Matrix made Babel and now he's gone too.
I'm a freelance, a sell-sword. If you need a name for me ... Ronin is as good
as any."
Lanier slid the door shut, and the chopper rose into the night.
Ronin, the masterless samurai, warrior of the Matrix, stood and watched them
go, then disappeared into the shadows of the urban jungle.

28
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
-Matthew 7:1
The Corporate Court reconvened at the appointed time, the justices filing into
the central chamber of the Zurich-Orbital to take their places at the bench.
Lynn Osborne was the last to enter this time, and took her seat at the bench
with an air of calm and dignity. Napoli was sitting opposite her, looking
smugly confident of the whole affair being settled in his favor. Osborne
didn't allow any of what she was feeling to show on her face. Let Paco think
he had the upper hand for a little while. It would make things all the more
interesting.
Once Lynn Osborne had taken her place and the Rotunda was sealed, Chief
Justice Priault picked up his gavel and rapped it twice on the bench, calling
the court to order. All eyes turned to Osborne as she rose slightly from her
position, calling up the information beamed to her from Fuchi HQ in New York
only a short time before the hearing resumed. She took a second to compose
herself, letting the silence in the courtroom linger a moment longer than was
necessary.
"Mr. Chief Justice, fellow Justices," she began. "I must ask your indulgence
and apologize for taking up the time of the Corporate Court, but I find I must
withdraw Fuchi's allegations against Renraku Computer Systems and ask that
this case be dismissed."
The chamber broke into a dense murmur of conversation between the justices,
and computer information flashed on

the consoles in front of them as they consulted the formal documentation
Osborne provided along with her statement. Napoli leaned back in his place and
almost glowed with triumph. He seemed a trifle disappointed that she hadn't
fought it out with him.
Priault rapped his gavel on the bench several times for silence. "Order, the
Court will come to order," he said. When the other justices had quieted down,
Priault turned to Osborne. "Justice Osborne, may we have an explanation? The
Corporate Court has invested considerable time and expense on this matter."
"That is true, your Honor," Osborne replied. "And Fuchi thanks the court for
its indulgence. New evidence has come to light requiring that we withdraw our
allegations."
Napoli's look of triumph turned to one of curiosity. As Villiers had guessed
in his communique, Napoli-and Renraku -weren't yet aware of what had happened.
Osborne went on speaking. "It seems that Miles Larder, formerly an employee of
Fuchi Industrial Electronics and a member of the Renraku Board of Directors,
was responsible for the security breaches we attributed to Renraku, and Mr.
Lanier alone was the source of the information providing Renraku with product
advancements similar to developments in progress at Fuchi. Mr. Lanier has
chosen to surrender himself to Fuchi authorities and has confessed to
directing operations against us as part of an effort to test our Matrix
security measures. Fuchi has accepted Mr. Lanier 's explanation of the events,
and he wishes to make reparations for involving the Corporate Court
unintentionally."
"Just a minute," Napoli said, finding his voice. "Miles Lanier is a major
stockholder in Renraku Computer Systems. Are you saying he has continued to
work for Fuchi during this time? That's a conflict of interest! Mr. Lanier
signed numerous documents stating that he had terminated all of his
associations with Fuchi Industrial Electronics."
"That's correct," Osborne replied crisply. "It seems his testing of Fuchi
security measures from the outside was entirely Mr. Lanier's idea. He then
presented his findings

to Fuchi executives. I understand they were most ... illuminating."
"And Fuchi is currently holding one of Renraku's corporate citizens? Mr. Chief
Justice, how can this outrage even be-"
Osborne cut in before Napoli could finish. "No longer a Renraku corporate
citizen, Justice Napoli. Mr. Lanier has offered to sell his shares of Renraku
stock to the Zurich Gemeinschaft Bank, at slightly under current market
value."
Napoli's jaw dropped at the announcement, which brought raised eyebrows from
many of the other justices. By selling his shares, Lanier was cutting his ties
with Renraku. By selling them to the ZGB, he was effectively giving control of
those shares to the Corporate Court, giving them additional leverage over
Renraku. And by selling the shares at below market value, Lanier would
certainly trigger concerns about Renraku's stability and growth on the world
markets, causing the corporation's stock values to drop for a while until
Renraku tried to assuage the fears of its stockholders. Renraku's rapid growth
would be brought to a shrieking halt while they cleaned up the mess, allowing
the other megacorporations time to get their own affairs in order and close
the gap behind Renraku's lead. All in all it was an elegant solution requiring
the Corporate Court to do nothing but accept it.
Osborne looked around the courtroom and could see the other justices slowly
nodding to themselves or tapping commands into their consoles. There was no
doubt they would accept a solution that served them all so well. Renraku would
be outvoted and outnumbered, with no choice but to accept Lanier's resignation
from the board as gracefully as possible. But Napoli wasn't willing to give up
just yet.
"There is still the matter of Miles Lanier making use of Renraku resources to
carry out his activities," he said. "He has to answer to the Renraku board for
that. I request he be turned over to us until his activities can be more fully
determined and Renraku can decide on any punishment for Lanier's illegal
activities."
Osborne cleared her throat. "I'm afraid that won't be

possible, Your Honor, Justice Napoli. Since Mr. Lanier's activities were
directed at Fuchi, his disposition falls under our jurisdiction, according to
the accords of this Court. Fuchi has chosen to retain custody of Mr. Lanier
and will compensate Renraku for any corporate resources used by Lanier during
his time with them. I'm sure Renraku's board of directors will find our offer
of compensation fair, and I would ask that the Court permit us to negotiate
with Renraku in good faith to resolve this matter without taking up any more
of the court's valuable time."
Osborne smiled at Napoli in triumph. Just wait until he hears from Renraku
what's been going on planetside. Renraku is going to have more things to worry
about than Miles Lanier by tomorrow. There are going to be a lot of sleepless
executives in Renraku-land tonight, and Paco will be one of them.
Priault cleared his throat and rapped his gavel on the bench, his composure
unshaken by the turn of events. He acted like everything was turning out just
as he'd expected.
"We have before us a motion to adjourn this matter to allow the parties to
negotiate a settlement out of court. Any discussion?"
The other justices remained silent, and Napoli glowered but was smart enough
to keep his mouth shut. There was no point in prolonging the matter until he
could get all of the facts, and Osborne knew he would be very surprised when
he finally did.
"Very well," Priault said. "We will vote on this matter."
The justices entered their votes, which were instantly tabulated. It was
unanimous in favor of Fuchi and Renraku resolving the whole matter quietly
behind the scenes. Even Napoli voted for it. The Zurich Bank would gain a fair
chunk of Renraku stock and additional influence on the board while Fuchi would
retain custody of Lanier. The court could now return its attention toward
maintaining the delicate balance of power between the member corporations
while Fuchi and Renraku worked out their differences.
This isn't over by a long shot, Osborne thought as Priault dismissed the court
and the justices began to file out. Ren-

raku isn 't going to let this one go, and Fuchi has problems of our own.
She looked over to where a slightly confused David Hague gave her a quizzical
look before leaving the courtroom, no doubt eager to get off the station and
back on solid ground. Sorry, David, but I didn 't have time to let you in on
all of the facts, and I wouldn 't have even had I had the time. From what
Villiers tells me, your Japanese friends are going to be as much trouble to us
as Renraku. And if push comes to shove, he's not entirely convinced you can be
trusted, and neither am I.
As Priault left the courtroom, Osborne was now alone in the Rotunda. She
couldn't help but wonder what was next. Fuchi and Renraku would deal with
their differences outside of the court, but the Corporate Court existed to
help negotiate the differences between the megacorporations because direct
conflict could lead to open warfare. If Fuchi and Renraku's troubles
escalated, they could flare up into a conflict the court could never prevent
in time, not without being dragged into it. There was trouble on the horizon
down on Earth, which made Osborne that much gladder she was remaining on board
Zurich-Orbital.
Better to serve in Heaven than reign in Hell, she thought, reversing the
familiar quote. She would leave the Hell of the surface world to people who
already fallen from grace, the shadowrunners and the black operatives who
worked in the dirty cracks between the corporations. After all, wasn't that
what they were for?

29
I am brother to dragons and a companion to owls. My skin is black upon me, and
my bones are burned with heat.
-Job 30:29-30
In a secret sanctuary in Africa, hidden from the eyes of the world by some of
the most sophisticated computer technology known to exist, a pact was being
concluded between beings of great power and influence.
Leonardo, master of the place, sat comfortably in a favorite chair behind a
magnificently carved wooden desk that would have commanded a small fortune on
the open market if any collectors of antiquities knew it existed. Leonardo had
once feared he would be forced to sell his precious collection of art and
antiques to serve his plans, but his dealings with Renraku had made it
unnecessary to part with any of his favorite treasures. The corporation was
more than willing to give him billions in exchange for mere scraps and crumbs
of the technology Leonardo had at his command.
He was at ease here in his stronghold, and his simple garments showed their
quality in the rich texture of the fabrics and the delicate artistry of the
stitching. They were made from natural materials worked by hand, worth enough
to feed a family in the Rox for a year or more. He slouched a bit in his
chair, elbows resting on the table in front of him and fingers steepled in
front of his face while he thought.
Across the table, Leonardo's guest finished examining

his collection of drawings and diagrams. She was a feast to his artistic eye.
Her features were classic and regal, with a long neck and a face composed of
planes and angles, sharp cheekbones and delicately pointed chin. Her hair was
unbound and flowed like an auburn waterfall nearly to her waist, and her lips
were a delicate shade of cinnamon, while the same spicy scent lingered in the
air around her. The entire picture nearly demanded a portrait or a statue to
capture her sublime beauty, all the more amazing because Leonardo knew it was
only an illusion.
"Well?" he asked after a long moment of silence.
The woman looked up from her examinations. The only flaw in her image was the
eyes. They were a deep amber, like no human or elven eyes created by nature.
They were more like the flat yellow eyes of a reptile, but where a reptile's
eyes were cold, hers were warm, burning with a powerful fire deep inside.
Leonardo found those eyes fascinating although he suspected others would find
them disquieting.
"Your plans seem to be going well," she said, her tone noncommittal. But
Leonardo could see she was intrigued. He had successfully baited the hook. All
that remained was to draw in his catch.
He acknowledged the compliment with a slight incline of his head. "The work is
difficult," he said, "but not as much as it once was. I have made many, many
improvements on the original crude designs over the years. So many that magic
is hardly needed except for the most basic and most delicate work. The power
of machines and programming provides the rest."
"Impressive. And what of the inhabitants of your masterpiece?"
"That, too, is progressing," he said. "I have been combing the Matrix and
compiling information on possible candidates for my community. The best and
brightest of humanity will be gathered under the aegis of my shelter when the
time comes."
"It must be difficult to choose only a few to survive and leave the rest to
their fate," his guest responded.

Leonardo found it a strange thing for her to say. It was almost...
compassionate. "It is, but some sacrifices need to be made. These are
dangerous times."
The woman nodded sagely. "True. I am still not certain your predictions are
accurate," she said. "I have heard whispers in the spirit world telling that
the danger you fear may be past for a long time to come, rumors about a great
magic to keep the cycle on its natural course."
That statement was more of what Leonardo expected. The arrogance, the
certainty that no one like himself could be right when she had not noticed the
danger.
"I am certain, dear lady," Leonard said with a note of irony at the title he
offered her. "And if I am wrong, then it is only a matter of time. One cannot
cheat Fate, as we both well know."
"True. What you propose has merit," she said. "I have recently considered what
role I am to play in this world, or what role Fate has cast me in, perhaps.
The death of Dunkelzahn and his legacy to the world have given me much to
consider. You and I are rare among our kind, Leonardo, two of the few who are
interested in the welfare of others. You through your work and me through
mine. I hope we might be able to offer more than shelter from the storm to
those in need of our gifts."
"Then we have reached an historic moment," Leonardo said, rising from his
chair. The woman rose also, taller even than the tall and willowy elf.
"Yes. We can set aside the differences between our peoples and work together
for a mutual cause. It is time the ways of the past were considered in light
of the future." The woman touched her fingers to her chest just above her
heart, and Leonardo returned the gesture.
"Will you join me in a glass of alamestra to celebrate our new alliance,
Lady?" he asked as he poured some of the iridescent liquor into a crystal
goblet.
The woman smiled and shook her head. "No. I must return to my own affairs
across the sea. Your cousins near my domain have been restive of late and I do
not like the idea of being away for long, with the elves of Tir Tairngire

ratting their sabers. In the future, it will be best if we communicate through
the Matrix."
"That is my preference as well," Leonardo said with a smile. "You can be
assured of complete privacy with my network at our disposal. There will be no
... unfortunate security breaches as there have been in the past with others."
"Indeed?" the woman said with raised brows. "And here I had thought you
responsible for them, oh, Master of the Matrix."
"Not I, fair lady," he said with a sweeping bow. "I suspect one of the
Children of the Matrix."
"The otaku? I didn't think them clever enough. But no matter. I look forward
to our next meeting, Leonardo."
"As do I, Hestaby." Leonardo touched his fingers to his chest again, and
Hestaby returned the gesture before drawing the folds of her robe around her.
He then tapped a hidden control panel on the surface of the antique desk, and
his servant Salai appeared at the door of the chamber.
"Yes, Master?" Salai said.
"Please escort the Lady Hestaby out, Salai, then I will have some instructions
for you." The handsome young man bowed deeply and left the chamber with the
dragon-lady, leaving Leonardo alone with his thoughts.
His plans were going well. The scraps of advanced technology he fed to his
corporate lapdog Renraku had them thoroughly in his power. They had foolishly
managed to lose the toys he'd entrusted to them and were now banging on his
door with their hands outstretched, begging for more.
And Leonardo planned to give them more once he had secured his plans for the
future. The great shelter would be prepared for the coming of the Enemy, and
the best and brightest of metahumanity would survive, with Leonardo as their
savior. He would even have the pleasure of making an alliance with an old
enemy to further the cause.
He took a long draught of the alamestra, savoring its spicy taste for a moment
before allowing the warmth of the liquor to spread throughout his body. He
downed the rest of the glass quickly and poured himself another. He was in the
mood for a celebration. Perhaps he would gave Salai other

instructions once his assistant finished escorting Hestaby out of the complex,
but for now he was content to bask in the glow of his own success.
The elf's thoughts were interrupted by movement here in his private chambers.
A figure materialized out of the shadows in the far corner of the room,
cloaked in those same shadows to appear as little more than a silhouette.
Leonardo turned sharply to face the strange intruder.
"Who are you?" he demanded. There were few beings in the world who could enter
his personal sanctum unbidden and Leonardo's mind began working through the
list of possibilities.
"Why, Leonardo?" the figure said in a deep voice. "Why have you turned your
back on the traditions and purpose of your people to pursue this mad course?
Why have you interfered in affairs you would have done well to stay out of?"
"I knew this day would come," Leonardo said. "That there would be those who
would object to my plans. I have done only what was necessary. They are
coming. They are always coming, and there is nothing we can do to prevent it.
It is the cycle of nature. When they come, the world will be destroyed and
everything slowly built back up over the millennia will be swept away like
dust by a giant hand. All that lives will be devoured to feed their endless
hunger, or twisted and tortured to create new delicacies of pain to satisfy
their jaded palettes." His voice trembled as he recalled those same tortures
inflicted on a world he once knew, a world long dead.
The shadowy stranger was unmoved by the tirade. "You have gone too far. You
have revealed too much. Your obsession with the life of Da Vinci has gone past
fondness into madness."
"No!" Leonardo shouted. "DaVinci was brilliant and accomplished more in a
mortal life span than others have done in a thousand times that. It is only
fitting to acknowledge such a brilliant lifetime when others consider him no
more than another brief life among the herd."
"I might have been able to forgive your various ... eccentricities, Leonardo.
Your playing at savior with humanity,

your delusions of artistic greatness, your uneven temper, and your grudge
against a religion you consider corrupt. I have tolerated them before. But you
have interfered with me, and that, I cannot forgive."
"Forgive?" Leonardo said. "What do I need of your forgiveness? I am master
here. You can do nothing against me!" He paused for a moment and smiled. "Have
you come by yourself or did they send you to kill me? Who was it, Aithne?
Lugh? All of the High Princes of Tir Tairngire together? No matter. You can
take their dreams of a new elven nation and play at empire-building all you
want. You have no chance of overcoming the resources I have at my command
here. This is my place of power. Show yourself to me before I see you die."
The intruder stepped closer and Leonardo prepared for an attack that did not
come. The figure only laughed. "The Princes of Tir Tairngire do not command
me. I command them. Always must I work to keep my foolish children under
control." The figure drew aside the veil of shadow to reveal the features of a
man with pale golden eyes and long, white hair swept back from a high forehead
above a face whose features seemed carved from stone. They were features
Leonardo knew well, even as he knew the name that escaped unbidden from his
lips, no more than a whisper.
"Lofwyr..."
"Yes, Lofwyr. And I have not appeared here to kill you, little elf," the great
dragon continued. "Not all of us strike with tooth and claw, Leonardo, and the
venom of my kind is still the most potent there is."
Leonardo felt a terrible chill overtaking his limbs, which began to tremble at
the dragon's words. He looked down at the glass of alamestra still in his hand
and hurled it at Lofwyr with a cry of rage. The goblet shattered in the air
before striking the regal form, splattering shimmering rainbow liquor across
the floor. Lofwyr was unmoved.
Leonardo tried to call upon the magical powers at his command to save himself,
to strike at his enemy, to call for help, but there was nothing. No power
flowed at his command. No magic came forth to strike down the arrogant

dragon-lord. The stone-cold face only gave a faint smile at his struggles.
"Salai," Leonardo called out in a croaking voice as his throat began to
tighten. His sophisticated communications system, the most advanced in the
world, failed to respond and the magical poison robbed him of any power save
the ability to stare in horror at the creature who had done the unthinkable:
struck Leonardo down in his own stronghold.
Lofwyr's reptilian eyes were flat and cold as Leonardo fell to his knees with
a gasp of pain. "You were always one of my favorites, Leonardo. I enjoyed your
wit and your imagination once, but you have gotten above yourself. Many of you
have. Others have tolerated this show of rebellion and I have gone along with
their wishes, but only so far. Your little games intruded upon the operations
of Saeder-Krupp, my corporation. I am Lofwyr, and my plans are not to be
tampered with by such as you.
"The theft of the warhead was your first mistake. You were a fool to imagine I
would not take notice of a rogue nuclear weapon. No matter that you wished
only to paint it with the Papal Seal and convince a ragtag band of a
nonexistent conspiracy. As if the Catholic Church fought its battle with
nuclear weapons in place of words and ideas. I was almost prepared to overlook
that bit of foolishness.
"But your second mistake was dealing with Renraku, placing yourself in my
game. I was forced to expend some effort to correct the ... imbalance your
interference caused. As it is, the ripples are already spreading. The horns of
war will sound and I will have to waste valuable time protecting what I have
built from being brought down. I am most disappointed."
The dragon-lord turned away from the elf and glided across the chamber to the
antique desk. Lying paralyzed on the floor, Leonardo heard only the gentle
tapping of fingers on the surface of the desk, covered with a touch-sensitive
polymer coating of Leonardo's design, a direct link into the sanctuary's
computer system. There was a chime of acknowledgment from the system, and
Lofwyr tapped the

desktop once more, starting a core dump through the communication system of
Leonardo's secret stronghold.
"Your lesson in humility has begun, my apprentice," Lofwyr said. "I hope you
and your kind will learn the perils of defying your betters this time."
Without another word, Lofwyr turned and melted back into the shadows of the
room. Leonardo heard the distant rustling of leathery wings as Lofwyr assumed
his true form, then the sound of screams and roaring flames as the dragon
began destroying the elf's secret headquarters and the stockpiles of
technology and lore hidden there. All of the great artworks and breakthroughs
he had created would be reduced to ashes, save for anything Lofwyr decided to
loot for himself. The great work would never be completed and humanity would
be doomed by the arrogance of a dragon.
As the light in the room blurred and faded, Leonardo looked up into the eye of
one of the hidden security cameras and thought he saw someone, or something,
looking back at him before the monitor light on the camera winked out and
Leonardo's world turned into blackness.

30
For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his
own soul?
-Mark 8:36
Miles Lanier sat looking out the window of his office in the Fuchi Industrial
Electronics headquarters in New York City. Known as The Black Towers, the six
spires of the complex rose high above the city skyline, offering a view of the
city and the distant Jersey shore. Lanier watched the shimmering lights of the
sprawl and considered the lives of the millions of people teeming in its
streets and the millions more in other metroplexes where the drama between the
corporate giants straddling the world was played out on a daily basis. One
game ended while elsewhere another one was just beginning.
Babel ... no, Ronin had been as good as his word. The Hammermen had taken
Lanier to another Fuchi facility in Boston where he was able to use the
priority codes he and Villiers had arranged months ago to access and arrange
for transportation to New York. His arrival was followed by an in-depth
briefing with Villiers and the CEO's top staff, those who could be trusted, at
any rate.
Villiers listened to Lanier's entire story about the Renraku operation to gain
access to the secrets of the otaku. About how Babel, not Ronin, had turned
against his former employers and put an end to the otaku project, which
appeared to have damaged many Renraku cutting-edge technologies being readied
for the marketplace. Speculation was rife among the Fuchi execs whether or not
Renraku

had acquired some of those developments from the otaku and whether they might
have been wiped out by the virus by accident.
Lanier voiced the opinion that the mysterious "Leonardo" decker allied with
Renraku was himself an otaku who passed information on to the corporation in
exchange for the money Renraku supposedly poured into his "research and
development." If it was true, then the otaku themselves had dealt with
Leonardo's indiscretions through Ronin and his virus. It was unlikely any
other otaku would be breaking ranks in the future to aid the megacorporations.
That sat just fine with Villiers, who knew first-hand how much trouble rogue
Matrix elements could be. It was better not to have bit players mucking up the
actions of the megacorporations.
Renraku was set back by the damage done by the Babel Virus (as it quickly
became known in Fuchi circles). The corp was not out of the game by any means,
but the playing field had been leveled quite a bit. Fuchi was still Renraku's
biggest competitor, but they had a better chance working against a Renraku
stripped of the advances provided by the otaku Leonardo. While Renraku
scrambled with damage control, Fuchi was working on getting some new
competitive products out on the market. They were still the number one
computer corporation, and Richard Villiers would see to it they remained that
way.
Dumping Lanier's stock on the Zurich Gemeinschaft Bank would also serve as a
firewall against Renraku's expansion for a while. Already the stock markets
were getting the first hints of a shift in the higher ranks of Renraku
Computer Systems, and word of the stock transfer was spreading out from Tokyo
and London to the exchange in Boston where it all began, just like a virus
making its way through the body of the world, spreading information and making
changes where it passed. Soon enough the world would know something big had
happened to Renraku even if they -would never really know the whole story
behind it. The corporate spin-doctors would see to that.
Of more immediate concern was the trouble brewing within Fuchi. The Japanese
families still simmered over the

increased power Villiers had gained. Lanier's return to the fold did nothing
to improve the Japanese faction's opinion of Villiers. Accusations of
grand-standing covert operations concealed from the shareholders were flying
fast and furious. The only thing keeping the Yamanas and the Nakatomis from
trying to have Villiers removed outright was Lanier's success in putting the
brakes on Renraku. As far as everyone else was concerned, Villiers and Lanier
were heroes who'd pulled off a masterful scam against Renraku and got away
with it.
The Japanese were not going to remain idle for long. They would have to
respond to Villiers' increased control over the corporation before he gained
the leverage he needed to force them out entirely. Lanier knew from experience
that there was nothing more dangerous than an opponent forced into a corner.
In desperate straits, people were willing to do almost anything to survive.
Ronin was proof of that. He had boasted to Lanier that he'd won his freedom,
but Lanier didn't think so. Whatever it was Ronin talked to in the Matrix-the
voice he spoke of in his visions that showed him how to be a technoshaman- it
had used Ronin just as much, if not more, than his corporate employers ever
did. Ronin had been turned into a weapon to be used against Renraku. He would
teach them not to frag with the otaku, then be discarded like a spent gun.
Lanier doubted that it mattered little to whoever or whatever was pulling the
strings whether or not Ronin survived the experience so long as he did what he
was supposed to do. Lanier had seen the technique a hundred times before in
his career, and had used such people more times than he cared to count. He
knew the signs when he saw them.
Let Ronin think what he likes, he thought. The kid was young and ignorant of
the way the world worked, but he would learn about it soon enough. Let him
enjoy his ignorance while he could. There was no freedom in the world. People
simply went from the service of one employer to another, even if the employer
was themselves or their own desires for success, challenge, or luxury. The
only freedom in the world is in knowing it's all just a game, Lanier

thought. And in knowing how to use the rules to your own advantage. Speaking
of which . . .
He touched a panel on the flat, black top of his desk and a display lit up,
providing touch controls for the sophisticated suite of electronics and
communications gear built into the desk. A bowl-shaped depression on the left
side of the desk glowed darkly, and the translucent holographic image of
Lanier's assistant shimmered into being above it.
"Yes, Mr. Lanier?" she asked.
"Rhonda, get me Smedley Pembrenton on the line. I need to speak to him
immediately. There's work to be done."
"Right away, sir."
Lanier closed the connection and waited for his call to go through. Pembrenton
was a good fixer and knew Boston like the back of his giant hand. Lanier was
sure the troll could meet his needs.
I wonder if the Hammermen are available for some additional work? Lanier
thought. He would need a lot of good people if he was going to handle the
Japanese and Renraku at the same time. It would require subtlety, but he was
sure he could pull it off.
He sat back and started planning how he was going to do it while Rhonda put
the call through. Of one thing Miles Lanier was totally certain.
Sacrifices would have to be made.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Technobabel is Stephen Kenson's first novel. He is familiar to fans of the
Shadowrun universe as the author of Shadowrun game books like Portfolio of a
Dragon, Super Tuesday!, and the Underworld Sourcebook, as well as material for
FASA's Earthdawn game line. Although he is best known for his work with the
magic of Shadowrun in books like Awakenings, Steve is a big fan of the otaku
and their "Matrix magic." Steve lives in Milford, New Hampshire, and loves to
hear from readers and fans of Shadowrun. He can be reached by email at
talonmail@aol.com.

AN EXCITING PREVIEW FROM
WOLF AND RAVEN:
SHADOWRUN TALES
BY MICHAEL A. STACKPOLE
Squeeze Play
As the door shut behind me and the bar's natural atmosphere raped my nostrils
I had a sudden urge to remodel the place with a flame-thrower. From the
outside the boarded over windows and plywood framing for the weatherbeaten
door suggested someone had already tried that with "the Weed," as its denizens
affectionately called the place. I had to agree with the name-nothing in here
a load of Agent Orange wouldn't improve. The Weed was the kind of bar that
aspired to be a dump when it grew up.
I'd not liked Ronnie Killstar when I'd spoken with him to set up this meeting.
After seeing the place he'd chosen I liked him even less. Easy, Wolf, I
reminded myself, Raven gave you this job because you've got more control than
Kid Stealth or Tom Electric. Don't let him down-you already owe him too much.
Against my better judgment I crossed the short distance from the door to the
bar. A small Mexican-looking man wandered over to the place where I elbowed in
between two other patrons. His voice sounded like a ripsaw tearing into sheet
steel. "Waddalya have?"
I squinted against the burning smoke from my neighbor's Saskatchewan Corona
Grande and shrugged. "What's on tap?"
The bartender shook his head.
"Great, make it a double."
He stared blankly at my attempt at humor. "Waddalya have?" he rasped in a
gravel-croak.
I glanced at the cooler. "Green River Pale. No need for a glass."
As he pulled the beer out of the cooler and brushed the ice off onto the
floor, I fished a handful of coins from my pocket. He twisted the cap off and
I started plunking coins down one after another. I slowed when I got near what
the beer had to cost, then stopped when he started to move the bottle forward.
He glanced up at me, shrugged, then gave me the drink.
I carried the drink toward the corner nearest the door. The beer tasted like
his voice sounded, but cold, and I set it down quickly. Nestling myself into
the booth, I unzipped my black leather jacket and settled in to watch the bar
and its patrons. I kept the beer in my left hand while letting my right rest
near the butt of my Beretta Viper 14.
My new vantage point allowed me a fuller appreciation of the Weed's decor. The
plastic babydoll heads and high-heeled shoes hanging from the ceiling somehow
made sense seen within the larger context. Most of the light came from
sputtering neon signs begging patrons to drink exotic brews the bar no longer
stocked. Silvery tinsel and some flashing lights left behind during a
Christmas ages ago mocked the moribund setting, but somehow brought gaiety to
the expression of the plastic, safe-sex doll floating above a busted pinball
machine.
The place oozed atmosphere.
I used my beer bottle to smear a six-legged piece of that atmosphere across
the table.
About the only normal portion of the bar lay kitty-corner across the room from
my position. Three 'trix-jack tables, the cocktail model, lay up against the
wall. I should have taken it as significant that only one wirehead was using
the Weed's facilities. The trode halo circled her ebony brow and the light
from the unit's display washed in rainbow waves over her face, but she didn't
notice. Whatever graphics were flashing across the screen were for outsider
consumption only-that decker was jacked in deep and was playing her own little
games.
I smelled dead flowers about a second and a half before I

heard the click of Ronnie Killstar's wrist spur. Large as life, or at least as
large as he could muster, the pasty-faced street samurai slid into the booth
across from me. The jaundiced light from the bar skittered across the razored
edge of the curved metal blade jutting out from his right wrist and a red
light glowed in his eyes.
He sneered at me. "You ought to get your eyes done. I can bullseye a rat's ass
at a thousand meters in the pitch dark. I saw you come in and I saw you sit
down. I can see in here plain as day."
That being the case, I saw no reason to mention he'd just wiped the sleeve of
his white jacket through cockroach paste. I sniffed at the air. "I don't need
eyes to find you, Ronnie. I just have to let my nose lead me to the guy who
smells like his own funeral."
Two large men slipped from in back where Ronnie had been waiting and stood on
either side of our booth. They were both built like those smiling Buddha-type
statues you can find down the coast in San Shanghai, 'cept these two wore more
clothes, didn't smile and didn't look like they'd give you good luck if you
rubbed their bellies. Still, if they were hanging around with Ronnie it meant
they had to be losers-which also explained why they looked so much at home in
the Weed.
His intimidation batteries in place and ready to fire, Ronnie reinforced his
sneer. "I didn't figure the great Dr. Raven would trust Wolfgang Kies with an
assignment of this importance."
I smiled. "TM."
"Huh?"
I smiled more broadly. "I said, 'TM.' You forgot to add the trademark on to
the phrase, 'the Great Dr. Raven.' " I shook my head ruefully. "That's why he
sent me. You've got no manners and no sense of propriety. You wouldn't expect
him to come to a place like this, would you?"
Clearly any space in Ronnie's monosynaptic brain devoted to humor was
overloaded by my effort. His eyes flashed on and off as he got angry and his
concentration

broke. Suddenly, with a metallic snap that sounded like a pistol being cocked,
a ten-inch icepick blade shot out from between the middle and ring fingers on
his right hand and he lunged forward. The tip touched my throat right above
the silver wolf 's-head totem I wear and drew a single drop of blood.
"I don't need your static, you lickboot! Raven sent word that he wanted to
make a deal with La Plante, not the other way around. We're not doing you a
favor-it's you that wants one from us." Killstar's dark eyes narrowed. "I want
Raven!"
With great effort I killed the urge to lunge forward and bite his face off. I
swallowed hard and felt the icepick brush against my Adam's apple. "I wanted
La Plante. I would suggest we're even."
I forced my eyes open and got the surprise reaction I expected as Ronnie
looked into them for the first time. With the anger rising in me I knew they
have gone from green to silver-that change is not all that rare. Ronnie got an
added treat, though, as a dark circle surrounded the pupil with a Killer's
Ring. Your augmented eyes may let you see in the dark, but they can't do that.
It's something you have to have Inside-it's not an option you get to tack-on
aftermarket.
Ronnie leaned back, but left the stinger extended. "Maybe we are even. What
are you offering Mr. La Plante?"
I ignored the question as a droplet of sweat burned into the pinprick at my
throat. "I want proof she's still alive."
The punk snapped his fingers and one of the Buddha brothers produced a pocket
TV and slipped a small CD ROM into the unit. I took it from him and hit the
play button. The LCD screen flickered to life and I saw Moira Alianha standing
calmly before a wallscreen television. She moved back and forth in front of it
and I concentrated on how her long, black hair trailed out and through the
image. If they had recorded her moving before a blank screen then had masked
in a recent program to make me think she

was still alive, the process would have broken down on those fine details.
It looked clean to me-the news was current as of an hour ago-but I didn't want
to give Ronnie the satisfaction of knowing I felt he'd done something right.
"A SenseTape would have been better."
It was an effort for him to roll his mechanical eyes to heaven. "And we could
have brought her here with a brass band and an army of Granges, but we don't
think we're going to recover our overhead on this one. Satisfied?"
I pocketed the device. "She's alive." '
Ronnie smiled like a gambler holding four of a kind. "Mister La Plante has a
client who has offered us a great deal of money for Moira Alianha with her
maidenheart intact. What can Raven offer us to outbid our other client?"
I tried to suppress the wince, but the additional construction on either side
of Ronnie's smile showed me I'd failed. Dr. Raven lost no love on Etienne La
Plante, but recovering Moira and returning her to the Elven Lands north of the
Seattle Sprawl meant he had to subordinate his own feelings and deal with the
man. As Ronnie's smile cooled into a smug look of superiority, I decided Kid
Stealth might have been right in the first place: bring the whole crew in and
take La Plante's empire apart.
"It won't insure we save the girl," Doc told him.
"Yeah," acknowledged the Kid, "but it'll feel gigabytes better than helping
that slime."
I rested my elbows on the table and steepled my fingers. "I have been
authorized to offer you the Fujiwara shipping schedule for the next six months
in return for the girl. We can make the exchange tonight."
For all of ten seconds Ronnie got that divine-revelation look on his face.
Suddenly he realized how big a game he was involved in, and how small a player
in it he was. Then his eyes hooded over as the little maggot figured out how
important Moira Alianha had to be for the Doctor to offer that kind of
information for her. A thought shot off on the

wrong branch of his neural network and he began to believe in his own
importance.
He scoffed at the offer and eased himself out of the booth. "Maybe. I'll talk
to La Plante and let you know. You can wait here until then."
My right leg swept out and hooked up between his legs. I drew my knee up,
jerking him and his squishy parts against the edge of the table. That knocked
the wind out of him and caused him to jackknife forward. I grabbed a handful
of his stringy, blond hair with my left hand and tucked the barrel of my Viper
in his left ear.
A Killer-Ring stare kept the karma twins at bay.
"That was a wrong answer, Ronnie." I eared the hammer back on the automatic
even though that was unnecessary on the double-action pistol. "Mr. La Plante,
I know you'd not be who you are if you let an idiot like this conduct your
negotiations for you without keeping tabs on him. I'd guess you've bugged Yin
and Yang here, unless you tricked this dolt into carrying a set of ears on
himself."
A glint of gold from the cloisonne Orchid pin on Ronnie's lapel gave him away.
"Very good, Mr. La Plante. Your gang's trademark pin is a listening device. I
salute your technomancers. I suggest your chauffeur pull the limo around so we
can discuss things in private, say, in five minutes. We'll take a spin around
the block and then you'll drop me back here. If not, I'm going to decorate the
Weed's ceiling with something that'll add some real color."
The Coors clock on the wall ticked off four and a half minutes before the door
opened. The Chauffeur, dressed in a spiffy uniform with creases sharp enough
to cut like razors, nodded to me. I patted Ronnie patronizingly on the head.
"We'll have to do this again some time, when I have more time to play."
Whatever Ronnie replied, it wasn't very polite and I put it down to his
discomfort as I put my weight on his head as I stood. The twin pillars of
eastern wisdom moved out of my way and I made it to the doorway unmolested.
Aside

from the wirehead on the rent-a-deck, no one in the place noticed my passing.
I handed the Viper to the Chauffeur and stepped into the street. The white
Avanti stretch limo looked as out of place on the litter-strewn street as a
wharf rat in the Mayor's office, but that didn't stop it from being there. I
waited as the Chauffeur scanned me with whatever he had for eyes behind those
dark glasses of his, then smiled and entered the limo's dark interior.
Having grown up in the concrete alleys of Seattle, I thought of class as
something you escaped from during the day. Despite my absolute loathing of
anything and everything Etienne La Plante did and was, I still had to admit he
had class. His double-breasted suit had been cut from cloth of silver, yet-if
possible-did not look ostentatious or flashy. His wavy white hair had been
perfectly cut and combed, giving me the impression that I'd stepped into a
boardroom for a long planned meeting.
I settled into a velvet seat so comfortable I could have died happy in it,
especially if the woman seated next to La Plante gave me another one of her
I-want-to-have-your-baby-or-at-least-try-hard-at-it smiles. In the armrest at
my left hand sat a frosted mug of beer-the half empty bottle next to it
proclaimed it to be Henry Weinhard's Private Reserve.
Very good, Etienne, my favorite. Is it true that you bought the brewery
because you heard one of Raven's men loved the stuff?
La Plante refrained from offering me his right hand, but I did not mind. If
there was any flesh and blood left to it, the silver carapace hid it
completely. I noticed, as he picked up his own mug of beer, that the hand
articulated perfectly, but then he could afford perfection. I'd not heard of
any assassination attempts against him, so I had to assume he had voluntarily
maimed himself.
"I would apologize, Mr. Kies, for my underling's actions but, you understand,
that was a test." He shrugged wearily. "After the bad blood between Dr. Raven
and myself, you can hardly forgive my being suspicious."

I nodded. "You can call me Wolf." I directed the comment more to the woman
than La Plante and waited a half second for a similar offer of intimacy from
the crime boss. I continued when he ignored me. "When Dr. Raven was informed
you had become the custodian for Ms. Alianha and was called upon by her Elven
guardians to get her back, he was forced to make some choices. I am sure you
can understand that negotiation was not the most popular course of action
suggested."
The crimelord nodded sagely. "Former employees can be so, ah, vindictive,
can't they?"
Sure, especially when you try to plant them in the harbor with their feet
bound in a block of cement. No one would have figured Kid Stealth would blow
off his own legs to escape that little deathtrap, but he did and survived.
When your time comes, the timekeeper will be wearing shiny new legs and will
move faster than even you remember.
"You heard our offer. You get the Fujiwara shipment schedules for the next six
months in return for the girl. We'll burn the data into an eprom for you. We
can do the exchange tonight."
La Plante maintained a nonchalant expression on his face. "You have a decker
good enough to get into Fujiwara that quickly? We're talking multiple layers
of ice with interactive defensive systems and the possibility of Artificial
Intelligence directing counter-penetration efforts."
I smiled confidently. "The only way to stop this decker is with Genuine
Intelligence and a .45 automatic. We'll get the schedule for you."
He hid his excitement at the offer well. "How do I know the data will be
good?"
I sat up straight. "You have Dr. Raven's word on it."
Whereas Ronnie Killstar would have answered with some inane barb, La Plante
just nodded. "Very well." He leaned over and whispered something in the
redhead's ear. As she reached over and picked up my mug, he commented. "You've
not tried your beer. I assure you, it has not been tampered with."

She sipped and returned the mug to its place on the armrest. As she licked her
lips I felt an urge to procreate, then counted to ten-no fifteen-to regain
control. "Sorry," I smiled, "but after the Weed, drinking in here just
wouldn't be the same. You understand." For her benefit I added, "Maybe another
time ..."
The door opened again. La Plante's Chauffeur hovered by the door with my gun
in hand. "Tonight, Mr. Kies, at warehouse building 18b, on the docks. We will
give you the southern and western approaches. I would prefer this to be an
intimate gathering."
"My feelings exactly. You bring a dozen of your Grunges and I'll consider it
even." I succeeded on getting myself perched on the edge of the seat. "And
leave Ronnie at home ..."
La Plante waved my last remark off with a silvery flourish of his right hand.
"Do not concern yourself with him. He has been assigned new duty. He'll be
feeding fish for the foreseeable future."
The Chauffeur handed me the pistol, then swung the door shut. I smiled at him
and his plastic mask of servitude cracked. "Someday, Wolf, it will come down
to you and me. I'll make it quick. I want you to know that."
I met his mirror-eyed stare with my number two nasty glare. "Good, I like
that. If the fights go too long, the blood stains set and then you can't ever
get them out..."
His plastic mask back in place, he turned and walked away. In spite of the
nausea building in my stomach, I re-entered the Weed. My beer still waited on
the table, but Ronnie and the Wonton boys had vanished. I waited and sniffed,
but I couldn't smell flowers.
Instead of returning to my table, I walked over to the jacktables. I pulled
the bug from inside my jacket and tossed it on the black woman's deck. "Did
you get it all?"
Valerie Valkyrie, Raven's newest aide, gave me a smile that made me forget La
Plante's tastetester. "Everything, including your pulse rate and blood
pressure when she sucked on your beer."

I felt the burn of a blush sweeping across my face and it grew hotter as it
pulled a giggle from her throat. "We'll discuss how much of that makes it into
the report for the Doctor later. Right now we've got work to do."