Disclaimer and credits will be found after the end of the
chapter.




           DRUNKARD'S WALK II:  ROBOT'S RULES OF ORDER

                      by Robert M. Schroeck



15:  Pronoun Trouble

Every search for a hero must begin with something which every
hero requires, a villain.  -- Dr. Nekhorvich, "Mission
Impossible II"

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
-- The Beatles, "I Am The Walrus"

Comedy is allied to justice.  -- Aristophanes



Raven's Garage.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 4:41 PM

"No."

Sylia, the other Sabers, and even the tiny boomer-child had sat
silently through Lisa's long and sometimes rambling explanation
of how and why and what was needed of them.  The Sabers' leader
nodded at all the appropriate places, waiting politely until Lisa
slowly ground to a halt, out of both breath and words.  Then,
with this sudden and final-sounding pronouncement, Sylia dropped
the diamond back into Lisa's hand and closed the girl's fingers
around it.

Lisa stared at her, wide-eyed.

"What?"

Sylia stared at her through half-lidded eyes.  "I said, 'No.'"

Lisa's mouth gaped open for a moment.  "Why not?" she demanded.

The bridge of Sylia's nose creased with the faintest of frowns.
"Less than two weeks ago, Colonel Sangnoir demanded that we not
interfere in his... operations.  I promised to respect that
request."  The frown was suddenly banished as a self-satisfied
little smile played across Sylia's lips.  "It's his operation.
Let him handle it by himself, as he wanted."

Linna stifled a chuckle.  Nene didn't bother, and her laugh
echoed in the momentarily silent room.

"I can't believe this!" Lisa exclaimed.  "Do you hate him that
much?"  She clenched her fists unconsciously, and the facets
of the diamond bit into her palm.

"Hate him?"  Sylia looked genuinely surprised, then reflective.
"No," she continued after a moment.  "Not hate.  But I have
found him to be arrogant and irritating."

"That's not enough to justify leaving him in GENOM's hands!"

"Perhaps not," Sylia mused.  "Then again, neither is that bauble
enough to justify taking the Sabers into danger to rescue him."

"What?"  Lisa opened her hand and looked down at the diamond
she held there.  "It's not supposed to be the whole cost -- it's
just a down payment.  There's more where that came from."

Sylia smiled and shook her head.  "I have no doubt of it.  But
however many more you could put before me, it would not be
enough.  It's worthless, you see."  She reached out and closed
Lisa's hand around the gem.  "I could make dozens, hundreds like
this overnight using the nanotank in my shop.  And even if it
were an authentic antique, it would still be useless to you --
the resale market for diamonds is virtually nil, because their
prices are artificially inflated."

"Artificially...?" Lisa trailed off in astonishment.

"I'm surprised at you, Lisa," Linna interjected softly.
"Remember DeBeers?"

For a long moment the thought failed to penetrate, and then Lisa 
let her hand drop and head slump.  "Right," she whispered. 
"Damn."  *How could I forget the diamond cartel?  The monopoly 
that only doles out a few diamonds a year from its supply of 
millions to keep their price jacked up.*  Lisa silently swore at 
her own stupidity -- and Doug's.

Sylia nodded slowly.  "Now, if you had offered us precious
metals, which I can't create in a nanotank, that would be another
matter entirely.  But stones like that one?"  With hooded eyes
and a smug little smile that was almost a smirk, she studied Lisa
and gave a shake of her head.  "Junk.  Trash."  She caught the
girl's eyes with her own.  "Ergo, no down payment.  Ergo, no job."

Lisa stood stock-still for a long moment, staring unbelievingly
at Sylia.

"So that's it?" she finally said.  Her voice was soft, almost a
whisper.  "It's a worthless rock, so you'll leave him to GENOM's
tender mercies?"

Sylia inclined her head.  "So it would seem."

"I can't believe you," Lisa whispered.  "I can't believe you!"
she shouted, and whirled about.  "Any of you!  Don't you *care*?"
Her fists were clenched again, and the diamond bit even more
deeply into her flesh than before.  "I thought you were heroes!
Isn't that what you tried to convince me of when we first met,
Nene?"

Nene flinched and averted her eyes from Lisa's furious gaze. The
blonde girl whirled once more and returned her attention to
Sylia.  "And you.  When we first met, Sylia, you told me that the
Knight Sabers existed to counter GENOM's excesses.  Isn't *this*
an excess?  Was it all a lie, Sylia?  You're willing to take
fifty million to deliver a sexaroid to a death sentence, but you
won't go out of your way to save a man's life?"

In Nene's lap, Jennifer blanched, and looked up at the women
around her.  Priss laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Is money all that matters?" Lisa shrieked.  She dropped the
yellow envelope that she still held in one hand and hurled the
diamond across the room.  As it clattered to the floor, she
started digging through the pockets of her coat.  "I'll give you
money!"  She pulled out a fistful of credsticks and scattered
them across the desk where an impassive Sylia sat.  "There!"  A
bankcard and several credit cards followed.  "That's my entire
fucking life savings, everything I've saved from working the
newspages, and every yen I've earned as your archivist.  All
yours!  Every credit card I own, too -- run them up to their
limits!  I'll even throw in my cut from the job!  Dammit, Sylia,
he's my *friend*!"  She dropped to her knees in the middle of the
floor, buried her face in her hands and sobbed.  "My friend," she
repeated in a choked whisper.

                              * * *

Somewhere in MegaTokyo.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 4:45 PM

"You *owe* him that much."

"For what?  For the pain, the regret, the awful nagging sense
that we've fucked up and can't do anything about it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, yes, we owe him for that.  I'll show him what we owe!"

"Oh, can it.  So you're unhappy.  So you've discovered your
life is shit.  How are you any different from the rest of us?
At least you're alive."

"I'm not so sure that it's better than the alternative."

"I'm getting sick of your attitude.  If you really feel that way,
I'm sure it can be arranged."

A pause.

"No."

"'No' what?"

"No, I don't really feel that way."

"Then why all the goddamned bitching?"

"Well, because I'm pissed off!"

"Well, be pissed off at *them*, not him!"

"Okay, okay, dammit."

"So, are you in?"

"Yeah, I suppose so.  Do we know where he is?"

"Gemini's cracking their systems right now.  We'll find out
soon."

"And then?"

"Then we go to work."

Another pause.

"'Gemini,' huh?"

"Yeah."

"What about..."

"Libra.  As if you have to ask."

"I guess that would make me, what, Sagittarius?"

"You always were the sharpshooter."

"Heh.  What about you?"

"You can call me Aquarius."

"Oh, water boy..."

"Can it."

                              * * *

Unknown location, unknown time.

I woke up with a headache and a lot of confusion.  I'm annoyed to
say that in the traditional, cliched manner, I didn't know where
I was, and I couldn't remember the events that had gotten me
here.  It took me an unusually long time to claw my way out of
the fog that filled my brain and left me feeling more than a
little dopey.  In the process, all I managed to figure out was
that I wasn't in my apartment, nor in my workshop at IDEC,
which left me wondering just where the hell I had gone to sleep
the night before.

After a little while I got the idea to shake my head, which I 
did, and which briefly exacerbated my headache.  But the jolt of 
pain did wonders to exorcise the fog.  My vision, which had been 
quite blurry up to that point, cleared as well, and I realized 
two things.  One, I wasn't anywhere I recognized... definitely 
not a good sign.  And two, I wasn't wearing my helmet.  

Make that three things.  I was seated in a chair that would have 
been quite comfortable if it weren't for the manacles pulling my 
arms tight behind its back and keeping me in it.  The chair was 
seated in the middle of rather plush office which overlooked a 
cityscape that I assumed for the moment was MegaTokyo.  Several 
large panel windows, deep pile carpeting, all the trim and kitsch 
of the corporate bigwig.  A sample of which was seated behind a 
monster desk right in front of me.

The bigwig, that is, not the trim and kitsch.

It was hard to guess his age, but he was at least in his late 
fifties.  Given the state of the art of medical technology in 
that here-and-now, though, that meant nothing.  He could have 
been in his eighties.  Or older.  He had long, lank blond/silver 
hair down to his shoulders, with a pronounced widow's peak, and 
he clearly wasn't an office traditionalist, because he wore an 
open collar and a distinctly informal jacket.  To be frank, he 
dressed like a pimp.  What really disturbed me was that he looked 
hauntingly familiar.  I couldn't put my finger on precisely 
*why*, but I was certain that I ought to know him.

He was concentrating on a monitor built into his desk and wasn't
looking my way, so I took a moment to glance around.  Four lumps
of muscle in dark suits stood on either side of me. It didn't
take any mental effort to figure out that they were C-type
boomers like Kilroy.  *Bots to the left of me, boomers to the
right,* I thought wryly.

Out of the corner of my eye I also spotted a lavender-haired
woman hovering around a sideboard on which rested my helmet.  Her
back was to me at the moment, and she was intently studying my
helmet without touching it.  Her body language was very
controlled, almost as much as Lady White's, but I got the
impression that something was spooking her bigtime.  Given her
expensive business clothes and the color of her hair, I figured
she could only be the mysterious and terrifying (at least to
Ohara) Katherine Madigan.

So that was Lisa's new friend.  Huh.  That meant I had to be
somewhere in GENOM Tower.  Of course.

When I looked back at the desk, the old man was gazing at me.
The look in his eyes was weird -- like a blend of vindication,
fear and regret all at once.  "Madigan," he rumbled -- he had a
voice like a diesel engine -- "Our guest is awake."

Behind me, Madigan hissed in surprise.  I heard her turning
around, but I kept my attention forward.  I could take her, even
without my helmet.  The boomers -- without my helmet, the boomers
would be impossible.  Even with it, taking all four of them on
would be problematic at best.  The old man was an unknown.  I
tried to run a tactical eval on him, but the results were...
confusing.  I decided right then and there that it wouldn't do to
discount or underestimate him.

"<What's...>" I started, then coughed.  My throat was raw,
probably from the gas I'd finally remembered had knocked me out.
"<What's the hassle, Schmassle?>"  I tried to give him a nasty
grin.

He chuckled, then stood up and stepped from behind the desk.  He
was spry, I'll grant him that, and clearly didn't need the cane
he carried.  He didn't move like a man in his fifties, so he was
certainly getting his money's worth from his medical staff.  He
was also *tall* -- well over two meters, taller than the
disguised boomers by a head or more.  With his lean, lanky build
he looked like a retiree from the NBA.  He stood in front of me,
relaxed but erect, and looked down to stare me straight in the
eye.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Sangnoir," he said.  "Or should I call
you 'Looney Toons'?"

I raised an eyebrow.  He had good information sources, but so did
a lot of people.  Who was this guy?  "It's Colonel Sangnoir, but
call me whichever you please."

That seemed to discommode him for a moment, but before I could
finish wondering why, he recovered, with the grace and presence
of mind of a master politician.  "I was wondering how you liked
my city of MegaTokyo.  Very different from late 20th Century
London, isn't it?"  He was baiting me.  His tone was almost
mocking, as if he knew something that I didn't.

I tried to shrug, which is difficult when you're sitting in a
chair, even a comfortable one, with your hands manacled behind
you.  I was wondering just what his point was, what he thought he
would gain with this laughable attempt at... what? interrogation?
Maybe.  I had no idea what he thought he was doing.

Until he spoke again.

"So tell me.  How are your teammates?  Wetter Hexe?  Psyche?
Shockwave?  Major Canis?  Skitz?  Dwimanor?  Kat?  Silverbolt?"
He ticked them off one-by-one on his fingers.  "Oh, let's not
forget dear Shadowwalker," he added in a tone that was almost
tender.  "I trust they are all well?"

I couldn't answer for a moment.  Conceivably someone might have
overheard some of those names, especially those of the simulacra
I had summoned.  But I had not spoken the rest in all the time I
had been in MegaTokyo.  I felt a sudden twist of uncertainty in
the pit of my stomach.  Despite this, of course, I had to brazen
it out.  "I haven't seen most of them in over three years, but
when I was with them last, they were all okay, mostly.  Psyche
quit after some nasty business with a doppelganger that copied
him.  Shockwave left the team almost fourteen years ago on a
medical discharge."

The old man nodded.  "Ah, yes.  His accelerated aging problem.
I'd almost forgotten about that.  What about the others?
Proteus, Crystal, Wildflyte?  Broot, Sorciere, Phantasia?  White
Tiger?  Papillon Rose?  And that delightful little Welsh
sorceress with the Stevie Nicks fixation?  What was her
codename?  Ah, yes, Rhiannon."  He stopped, and frowned in
concentration, as if trying to dredge up more names from his
memory.  "Gods, it's been so long," he muttered.

I stared at him.  This was completely impossible.  He had just
run through a goodly portion of both Alpha and Beta's rosters, a
list which stretched back to the early 1980s.  I'd never even
*met* Sorciere or Phantasia, let alone talked about them -- here
*or* at home.  There was no way in hell a native of this world
could know that much.  No way.  He had to have come from
Homeline.  But who was he?  He couldn't be Arcanum -- Arcanum was
off-planet, not off-plane.  At least that's what the evidence
indicated.  And dammit, he looked so familiar!  Who the hell was
he?

I decided I had to keep him talking.  The more I knew about him,
I reasoned, the better a plan I could eventually weave.  "Proteus
left Warriors Beta and joined Alpha.  The original Wildflyte's
dead, but his brother or cousin or something accepted the mantle
of champion for his people and took his place in Beta.  Rose
resigned and joined some theme team in Tokyo.  Rhiannon's now a
field commander, after helping establish Warriors Delta in
the..."

"...the Sinai Peninsula," he finished for me.  "Yes, I remember
the nights we spent planning the expansion campaign, but we never
had enough free time to run it."

"The what?"  The suspense and my own confusion finally got to me.
"Who *are* you?" I demanded.

He bared his teeth in what I suppose was intended as a grin, but
which looked more like the rictus of death.  "My name is Quincy,
James Douglas Quincy.  As in Douglas Quincy Sangnoir.  I am the
chairman of GENOM and I am, to put it bluntly, your creator."

                              * * *

Raven's Garage.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 4:51 PM

For an eternal, agonizing minute the room was silent save for
Lisa's sobs.  On all sides of her, the Sabers glanced at each
other except for Sylia, who sat expressionlessly at her
workstation.

"Who is this man you're talking about?" Jennifer asked softly.

Priss ran her fingers through the girl's golden hair.  "A mouthy
asshole who's done a few good things, and who's gotten in a
couple hits at GENOM," she said softly.

"Oh," Jennifer replied, still not quite understanding.

Linna glanced at Sylia, but the leader of the Sabers would not
acknowledge her.  She looked across the room at the other two
Sabers.  Priss scowled when Linna caught her eye, then nodded
once, curtly.  Nene nodded as well, the shame in her eyes as
visible as the flush with which it rouged her cheeks.  Linna
nodded once to herself, glanced again at Sylia, and pushed
herself off the wall.  With two quick steps she reached the
center of the room, and lay a hand on Lisa's shoulder.

"We'll do it," she said quietly, and Sylia's head jerked up.
Linna shot a look at Sylia that challenged the Saber leader to
contradict her.

Sylia's brow furrowed for a moment, then she sighed.  "Very
well," she finally responded in a tone of resignation.  "Very
well."  She slowly and elaborately retrieved a cigarette, set
it to her lips, and lit it with her gold lighter.  "Are you
certain that it is GENOM who has him?"

Lisa raised her head from her hands, shock and surprise warring
on her face for several moments.  Then she shook herself, wiped
the dampness from her eyes and cheeks with her fingertips, and
nodded.  "Pretty sure."  She retrieved the manila envelope from
the floor by her knees and opened it as she got back to her feet.
"A little while back, Doug and I sort of deduced it had to be
someone in GENOM who was after him.  And I got these pictures of
the men who took him away."

She pulled out a sheaf of large photoprints, and fanned them out
before her.  Sylia selected one and studied it closely.  "Yes,"
she said after a few seconds.  "That is a GENOM covert tactical
team.  And quite a large one," she added in honest surprise.
"Whoever it was took no chances on this operation."  She
indicated buildings in the background of several of the shots.
"If you know what to look for, you will see that there are
additional squads positioned here, here and here.  No matter
where he chose to confront the boomers on that street, there
would be personnel waiting close enough to handle him.  Very well
done."

"Sylia!" Lisa protested, overwrought.

"I'm not praising their actions, Lisa," Sylia replied coolly.
"Just their tactics and planning."  She narrowed her eyes and
tapped a finger against her chin.  "The real question now is who
in GENOM ordered this operation."  Her eyes unfocused as she
considered the question.  Linna, watching her, imagined she
could almost hear the computerized elements of Sylia's brain
humming as they shuffled the data at hand and evaluated it from
all possible angles.

For her part, Sylia had a far easier time deriving a solution
than Linna would have anticipated -- while dozens of pieces of
evidence laid the groundwork for her deliberations, in the end
only three of them decided the issue for her.

The first was the scope of the operation -- only Quincy, Madigan,
and the uppermost level of GENOM management immediately below
them could casually deploy a force of that size.

The second was the realization that the retrieval of Jennifer had
been merely part of the greater plan -- a distraction to take the
Sabers out of MegaTokyo while Sangnoir was captured.  The
combined cost of the tactical team and the Sabers' hire reduced
the suspects to Quincy and Madigan.

The last was merely confirmation:  A chance comment that Madigan
had made in Lisa's apartment the night before as Sylia had
monitored her bugs there, a comment which had meant nothing to
Sabers' leader at the time.  "I'm sure you'll find someone like
him soon," Lisa had said about Sangnoir.  And Madigan had
murmured in response, "Maybe even tomorrow."

When Madigan took action on such a scale, it was almost certainly
on Quincy's orders.  Yes.

Moments after she had begun considering the problem, Sylia's eyes
regained focus and she lifted them to meet Lisa's.  "I believe
that Quincy has personally arranged for this."

"Oh, just great," Nene growled.  "You do realize that after the
last couple weeks, he'd probably rather stay with Quincy than go
with us?  We aren't going to do any good if he won't leave."

Sylia frowned at this.  "A very good point, Nene.  Lisa, did he
give you any kind of recognition code that we could use?"

Lisa bit her lip.  "Not really, he..."  At the back of her mind,
an alien memory slowly, unthreateningly blossomed and laid itself
open for her examination.  "Wait a moment."  Closing her eyes,
she mentally paged through the information suddenly available to
her, and found what she was looking for.  She nodded to herself,
then opened her eyes again to find Sylia studying her intently.
"Tell him '<three alpha blue>'.  That's all, '<three alpha
blue>'."

"<Three alpha blue,>" Sylia repeated, still studying Lisa.  "Got
that, everyone?"  A crisp chorus of affirmations answered her.

"Great, so we can tell him to trust us," Priss grumbled.  "But
how the fuck do we get into the Tower to pull him out?  Without
getting shot to hell first, that is?"

"I know," Nene offered, and looked meaningfully at Sylia.

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 4:55 PM

"My *what?*" I blurted.

Okay, so the old guy was nuts.  I added that to the tactical,
and he still confused me.

But one thing was certain.  He knew too much.  Things no one in
this universe could possibly know.

In any case, I still had to keep him talking, both to figure out
what the hell he meant by that comment, and to give my field as
much time as possible to work on my restraints.  It was a
distant, unlikely hope, to be absolutely honest, but it was the
only one I had at the moment.  I doubted that my field would
actually hit upon the right combination of random factors
necessary to free me from the manacles -- not in any decent
amount of time, anyway.

Quincy gave me the grin of a shark that had just smelled blood.
"I wouldn't trust in your field to free you if I were you."  The
surprise I felt on hearing that, right on the heels of my own
thoughts along those lines, must have shown on my face, because
he just smiled wider.  Damn!  Was the old man a telepath?

He chuckled -- a basso rumble that was more threatening than
reassuring -- and continued.  "No, I'm not a telepath, my dear
Douglas.  I just know precisely how you think.  No, those
manacles are made from a very durable alloy, with a bare minimum
of moving parts and no electronics whatsoever.  There's very
little for your field to disrupt, even if you were to try to push
it."

Well, damn.  Double damn, in fact -- once for the manacles, and 
once for this guy's apparent ability to anticipate what I was 
thinking.  Even so, I wasn't necessarily inclined to accept the 
claim.  "I do hope you'll forgive me if I don't take your word 
for it," I offered with my most charming smile, and true to my 
word pitted what I could of my strength against the cuffs.  As 
I'd feared, it wasn't enough to break them, given the lack of 
leverage.  I did, however, get the satisfaction of watching 
Quincy's expression darken when I stressed the metal enough that 
it audibly groaned.  "So, what did you mean, my creator?" I asked 
as conversationally as possible while I tested my bonds.  Two 
could play the "keep him off balance" game.

He stepped up to me, and studied me closely.  If he were that
interested, he certainly had done this already while I was
unconscious, but he took his time and walked slowly around my
chair, cane tapping against the floor as he checked me out from
all angles.  "It is indeed amazing," Quincy mused as he came back
into my field of view, shaking his head.

"Excuse me?"  I let the barest touch of derision slip into my
voice.  "'Creator'?"

He gave me that shark smile again, then returned to the padded
leather throne behind the desk.  Settling in, he leaned forward
and steepled his hands before his face.

"I've piqued your curiosity," he said, still smiling.  "Perhaps
the worst torture I could subject you to would be to leave you
wondering.  But I won't do that."

"Thank heaven for small favors," I muttered.

Quincy unsteepled his hands and sat back into his chair.  Half of
him seemed to vanish into its shadowed depths.  Silently, Madigan
glided over to stand just behind his right shoulder.  *Lap dog or
lackey?* I wondered.  She was supposed to be an executive vice
president or something, but she acted more like a gofer.  Her
well-suppressed nervousness seemed extremely out of character for
what I knew of her, too.  I wondered briefly if there was
something there I could exploit.

Quincy waited until she was in position, then smiled again at me.
"Let me tell you a little story, Douglas," he said.

"<Here we are now,>" I burbled with false lightheartedness.
"<Entertain us.>"

"<Indeed,>" he replied, also in English.  "<We always were fond
of Kurt Cobain's work, weren't we?>"  Madigan looked confused --
whether because she didn't speak the language, or because the
reference escaped her, I didn't know.

"A-huh," I acknowledged this cryptic comment with a little grunt
of puzzlement.  I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that he'd
recognize a quote from "Smells Like Teen Spirit", but honestly, I
hadn't thought he was the type who would.  I just sat there and
waited for him to continue.

Quincy inclined his head toward me for a moment, then spoke.
"This story, like yours, begins in the early 1980s," he said,
returning to Japanese.  "I was a student at an Ivy League
university -- I am American by birth, in case you hadn't already
deduced that."

"I'd kind of guessed," I allowed, and he went on.

"I was a mediocre student at best -- not for lack of ability, but
because I rarely applied myself to a task unless it excited and
interested me.  I coasted through my classes, excelling at the
few that challenged and engaged me and surviving the rest with
the bare minimum of effort needed for a passing grade.  And I
spent almost all my free time with a small group of friends who
shared my extracurricular interests."  He closed his eyes, smiled
fondly and sighed, then opened them again.  "Lee and Elizabeth,
Quinn and Maeve, Jacqueline, Mike, Lynn and Ursula."  His eyes
grew soft and distant for a moment.  "Ah, Ursula."

"Yes, yes," I growled with a mixture of mock and real impatience.
"Can we speed this up?  'Skysaber Conquers The World' is on TV
tonight, and I don't want to miss it."  Behind the old man's
shoulder, Madigan quirked a quick grin, then banished it
immediately when she noticed that I was looking at her.

Quincy acknowledged my attempt at humor with just about as much 
gentility as I had used to acknowledge his earlier.  "Ah, but we 
are at the heart of the story, Douglas.  The interests I shared 
with my friends included roleplaying games.  Superhero 
roleplaying games."  He looked at me expectantly.

Well, I knew about roleplaying games.  They were like "Cowboys
and Indians" with rules to settle the inevitable "bang you're
dead" disputes.  There'd been a big gaming crowd among the
engineering students when I was in college, mostly doing heroic
fantasy stuff.  I never had the time or inclination myself (not
with my attention evenly split between my studies and suppressing
my metagift), but I'd walked by a game in the student center
every once in a while.

Waitaminnit.  *Superhero* games?

The old man nodded and did the shark-grin thing at me again. "You 
begin to understand.  We all had our favorite characters.  Lee 
was Skitz and Major Canis.  Elizabeth played Wetter Hexe.  Maeve 
played Kat.  Her little sister Jacqueline, freshly back from her 
year of foreign exchange study in China, was Ai Zhao Min.  Quinn, 
Dwimanor. Ursula was both Shadowwalker and Silverbolt.  And I..." 
He paused, clearly savoring the moment. "Oh, yes...  *I* was 
Looney Toons."

                              * * *

Raven's Garage.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:15 PM

Priss knelt on the bare concrete of the VTOL's pad.  "Okay, you
stay with Lisa, all right?" she shouted over the idling engines
of the Knight Wing.  The blue plastic of her disguise creaked as
she held out her arms.  Jennifer hesitated a moment, then threw
herself into the hug.

Lisa stood a short distance away, and tried not to watch.
Instead, she let her eyes rove over the aircraft.  They fell upon
Nene, looking out one of the craft's windows.  Lisa couldn't tell
if the redhead were looking at her, or at the pair nearby.

When the hug ended a few seconds later, Jennifer looked up at
Priss and shouted, "When will you be back?"

Priss glanced over her shoulder at Sylia, who stood smiling at
the hatch of the Knight Wing.  "We should be back soon.  However
long it takes to yank the jerk out of Quincy's office."  She
smiled at Jennifer.  "No more than a hour, I figure.  Okay?"

"Okay," the girl replied with a brisk nod.

Priss grinned, stood, and tousled her golden hair.  "Be good,
now!" she bellowed against the noise of the jets, and motioned
Jennifer to clear the pad.

"I will!" she called back, and scampered to Lisa's side.

Still grinning, Priss waved once, then pulled on her disguise's
headpiece and joined the other Sabers in the Knight Wing.
Smiling, Jennifer returned the wave, then slipped her hand into
Lisa's.  As the Knight Wing's engines throttled up to a visceral
roar, the two of them dashed for the ready room behind them.

Slamming the door shut reduced the noise level to merely loud;
the large polycarbonate window that looked out onto the launch
shaft dampened the noise but did not eliminate it entirely.
Together they stood at the window and watched the aircraft lift
itself slowly and ponderously up the shaft.  Only at the last
moment did the camouflaged doors at its top part to reveal the
early-evening sky.  The Knight Wing burst into open air and
disappeared almost immediately.

As the doors at the top of the shaft slid closed again, Lisa
took a moment to study the girl at her side, only to discover
Jennifer doing the same.  They exchanged looks for a few
moments.

"So..." the journalist finally began.

"So..." the child-boomer echoed.

There was a pause, just long enough for Lisa to start fidgeting.
"I'm sorry about what I said in there.  About them delivering
you to... well, you know," she murmured.

Jennifer watched her with large, solemn eyes.  "It's okay.  You
hadn't even noticed that I was in the room, and even if you had,
you couldn't have known that I was the sexaroid."

Lisa winced.  "Still, I'm sorry."

Jennifer nodded.  "Apology accepted."  Then her entire demeanor
changed, shifting almost visibly from miniature adult to genuine
child.  "You know," she said almost breathlessly, "I met Grampa
Raven, an' I got to talk to Leon, who's gonna be my daddy, an'
they warned me 'bout Uncle Mackie, an' of course I know what
*they* do, but nobody told me 'bout *you*."

Caught off-balance by the complete transformation of Jennifer's
manner, Lisa stared for a moment and then laughed.  "Well, I'm
the Sabers' archivist."

"You're like their librarian?"  The girl's eyes were wide but
filled with a knowing playfulness.

Lisa nodded.  "Sort of.  I make permanent records out of the
information in their mission recorders, so they can study them
later."  She led the girl out the door and into the hall, pausing
only to flip the ready room light switch with her free hand.

"Is that hard?"

"Not really."  Lisa's voice continued to echo back up the hallway
as the pair went deeper into the headquarters complex behind
Raven's Garage.  The overhead lights cast long shadows back
behind them into the ready room.  "I also try to get unbiased
stories about them into the newspages.  That's harder."

"Really?"

"You better believe it."

                              * * *

Somewhere in MegaTokyo.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:17 PM

"Okay, we've got a fix on him."

"Where?"

"Quincy's office, of course."

"Of course.  Never an easy job, huh?"

"We weren't made to do the easy jobs, you know that."

"Yeah, yeah, tell me about it."

"Gemini's setting us up with security passes.  If the intel we
have on him is any good at all, he'll figure out some way to
raise hell.   When he does, we'll be the squad sent up when
Quincy or Madigan yells for help."

"That assumes we can get into the Tower at all."

"Gemini's got that covered, too."

"Does he, now."

"Thank GENOM for that.  He's got their top-of-the-line electronic
warfare suite in his greasy little hands and is using it for more
than a few things that would violate the end-user licensing
agreement if GENOM knew about them."

"He'd better get it right.  If I get thoroughly perforated just
walking into the Tower, I swear I will keep myself going by force
of will long enough to throttle Gemini and spit in his face."

"You'll have to get in line."

"Oh, thanks.  I thought you were the confident one."

"I am.  I'm also a realist."

"Riiiight."

"Anyway, as soon as he's done, we're moving out.  Get yourself
together and meet me at the door in ten minutes."

"Yes, *sir*!"

"Smartass."

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:20 PM

"I put a great deal of effort into creating you," Quincy said
with obvious relish.  "Not just your powers but your personality,
your motives, your parents...  Peter William Sangnoir, Senior
Vice President in charge of Development for Monumental Studios;
Jessamyn Lorraine Sangnoir, former Olympic equestrian and
somewhat flighty socialite.  Your history...  you are not the
*only* one who knows the cause of the Great Hollywood Wildfire of
1978."

I found myself scowling at the reference, and the memories it
evoked.  I'd been sixteen years old, and my metagifts had begun
to manifest.  After several weeks of increasingly weird shit that
had had my panicked parents on the verge of calling an exorcist,
I'd reached a point where I thought I understood what was going
on.  Using a transistor radio tuned to a classical station, I was
able to achieve a measure of control.  The worst of the weird
shit stopped happening, Mom and Dad calmed down, and the whole
thing was deliberately forgotten.

But having figured things out that far, I decided it was time to
experiment.  So one day, I drove up into the Hollywood Hills with
a battery-powered cassette player and a box of tapes.

The first song I tried started one of the most destructive
wildfires seen in Los Angeles County during the entire 20th
century.

I tried to put it out, but only made it worse; in the end I lost
the player and tapes to the flames, and had to run for my life.
I wasn't hurt, and no one ever connected the fire to me, but a
lot of folks lost their homes, several dozen people had to be
hospitalized, and one firefighter had a fatal heart attack while
working the blaze.

I didn't try to use my metatalent again until I was 24.

"<Thank you so much for bringing up such a painful subject,>" I
growled, annoyed but not so annoyed that I couldn't pull out an
appropriate movie quote.  "<While you're at it, why don't you
give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?>"

The bastard laughed, actually laughed.  "As ever, the soul of
wit.  Borrowed wit, at any rate, but that's how I made you."

I grimaced.  "Let's cut to the chase, Clyde.  Why am I here,
in these oh-so-lovely accommodations?"

He shook his head, a sadistic kind of amusement gleaming in his
eyes.  "In good time, my dear Douglas, in good time.  My story
has barely begun."  He settled back into his chair, and as he did
so, I shot another glance at Madigan.  She was looking down at
her boss with undisguised curiosity on her face; evidently Quincy
hadn't shared any of this bizarre fantasy with her before now,
and she seemed as intrigued as I tried not to look.

Quincy hooded his eyes, but kept watch on me from under the half-
lowered lids.  "College was a kind of golden age for me, Douglas,
and all because of my friends, and our game.  Ah, the times we
had together!  The adventures, the excitement!  The camaraderie
in the face of the enemy!  And what enemies!"  He leaned forward
and gave me a conspiratorial look.  "But you know them all
already, of course.  Lee and Elizabeth were positively gifted
when it came to designing them.  Their greatest success was, of
course, Arcanum."  He shook his head.  "Lee could play him so
well -- such unrelenting, untouchable evil."

He paused, and I surprised myself by not taking the opportunity
to make a smartass comment.  His story was just so totally
feather-plucking insane that all I could do was listen in semi-
stunned amazement.  Yeah, with all the available timelines spread
across the face of the multiverse, just about every throw of the
quantum dice should be found, if you searched long enough.  But
the odds of me finding this kind of warped image of home?  I
couldn't even begin to figure it.

Quincy ended his pause with a surprisingly heartfelt sigh.  "I
even found love, of a sort.  Lynn at first, but she was flighty,
and we soon parted.  Then Ursula joined the game..."  He laughed.
"Cool, exotic Ursula.  She intimidated me so much that I never
said a word to her, just admired her from a distance."  He
laughed again.  "I still do."

He shook his head with a fond smile that vanished when he looked
back at me.  "Yes, it was a golden age.  But as you know, every
golden age ends.  We graduated.  We moved on.  Quinn and Maeve
got married; Lee and Elizabeth broke up.  The game survived for a
few months, then petered out as one and then another of my
friends moved away or lost interest."  He made a wry "what can
you do?" gesture.  "The curse of growing up."

There.  Again.  Something in the way he had moved.  Familiar.
Damnably familiar.  And just beyond my reach.

"Without the game, I had nothing -- nothing but my comics, my
collection of science fiction, and my endless racks of unused
rulebooks.  No friends, no social life, no ambition.  And no
career.  I had approached the job market the same way I had
approached my classes -- with ambivalence for anything that
didn't interest me one hundred percent."  He gave me another
bared-teeth rictus of a smile again.  "I was *not* in high
demand."  Madigan's eyes widened.  Apparently this didn't jive
with the official biography.

"The simple truth is that I was not a... practical... person
then.  I was a boy in a man's body, obsessed with my fantasies
and fictions and ignoring the real world.  As I grew more and
more alone, I neglected my training and my potential, living hand
to mouth on the income from one fast-food job after another,
because the worlds of the games I had played and the books and
stories I read were far more important to me.  I *burned* to make
the dull, painful, 'real' world more like the romantic, exciting
places about which I read and in which I gamed.  If only there
were really superheroes!  How glorious and exciting life would
be!"  His eyes seemed to blaze with an almost religious fervor
for a moment; then they dulled.  "But I knew that it would never
happen, and that fact weighed me down and held me back out of
full participation in the real world."

His voice dropped to a near-whisper whose burning intensity
carried it to me as clearly as his laughter and his shouts.
"Until I had an epiphany.  I remembered something from a comic
book that I had read years before.  A superhuman named 'Ultraa'
chose to move from his home in the 'real' world to a supposedly
'fictional' one in another dimension.  He'd done this because he
had come to understand that his very presence was a catalyst --
he was that Earth's first superhuman, and if he stayed, others
would appear, and inevitably devastate his beloved foster
homeworld with their conflicts.  To spare it that fate, he
relocated himself to an Earth already filled with other
superhumans.

"And so one morning I awoke, and there was the plan, laid out
before me.  The mirroring forces of action and reaction are a
fundamental law of the universe.  There was no reason for
superhumans -- no, super*heroes* -- to exist in the real world.
But what if I *made* a reason?  What if I built myself up into a
proper supervillain, so that action/reaction was forced to spawn
heroes in order to balance and oppose me?  It was so blindingly
obvious.  Not easy, not at all, but *so* obvious...

"So I cast away all that I had been, and embarked upon my great
game.  I took as my model the campaign world's greatest villain:
Arcanum, the industrialist and real estate tycoon Gideon Manley,
who cloaked his nefarious activities in his very public
respectability..."

I blinked, then groaned.  "I can't believe what I'm hearing," I
muttered.  I meant that on two levels -- one for Quincy's
incredibly screwball plan, and the other because I had to land in
another universe and listen to a madman rant to finally,
definitively learn that Arcanum and Gideon Manley really were the
same person!  I think Madigan must have felt something much the
same (well, at least the first part), because I'd seen the look
that was dawning in her eyes all too often -- in the eyes of a
metavillain or costumed extremist's hired muscle.  It was an
expression that clearly said, "what kind of lunatic am I working
for?", and usually preceded a sudden surrender.

Unaware that his right-hand woman was apparently re-evaluating
her opinion of his sanity, Quincy raised an eyebrow at my
reaction.  Then he snorted.  "Believe it, my dear Douglas, for
the first fruits of my decades of labor have already appeared.
You've met them, you've fought at their sides."  That shark-smile
was back.

It didn't take me any time to figure out what he was getting at.
"The Knight Sabers," I said flatly.

Quincy nodded, smug satisfaction filling his face.  "The first
proof that I was correct, that I was finally accomplishing my
goal.  They rose up to strike me -- and GENOM -- down.  They
fail, of course," he added matter-of-factly, "but I see to it
through my subordinates that they have sufficient challenges to
keep them interested and active.  Even if they are nothing more
than 'mechanics', as Lee would have put it, their very existence
helps accelerate the change to the paradigm under which this
world operates.  Yes, Madigan," he added without stopping and
without looking back over his shoulder, and Madigan's eyebrows
shot up like rockets, "that is why I have never allowed you to
destroy the Knight Sabers."

"Sir?" she murmured, clearly surprised.

My mind was racing.  More exoneration for the Knights, I realized
with no small surprise at how pleased that made me feel.  If this
garbanzo had been *feeding* them "berserk" boomers all these
years...  I shook my head.  *Damn.  How screwed up can you get?*

Meanwhile, Quincy was still baiting his assistant.  "They serve
my purposes just as you do, and will continue to do so until they
are no longer needed."  Then he grinned at me, almost
conspiratorially; it was the first expression to cross his face
that didn't make him look like some kind of gargoyle.  "I'm quite
proud of them, Douglas.  Not bad for a first result, eh?
Technology beyond even that found in GENOM's R&D labs, the
traditional sentai color-coding, even the stereotypical
collection of personalities and secret identities.  I couldn't
have rolled up a better team."  He laughed, an incongruous joy
filling the basso sound and startling both Madigan and me.  I
could only guess why *she* was startled, but for my part, master
villains are almost *never* joyous.

The laughter ended quickly, although a genuine smile remained on 
his face.  "They are a fine first effort," he said, almost 
repeating himself, "but not enough.  And now that I have all but 
completed the villain's obligatory, explanatory monologue -- one 
*must* observe all the proper forms, after all, if one wants the 
proper results -- it is time for me to tell you that this, 
Douglas, is where you come in."

"It is?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes," he rumbled.  "It is."

                              * * *

Security Force Holding Bay 2, GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20,
2037, 5:25 PM

"My god, we did it."

"Keep your voice down; say something like that loud enough and
you'll screw everything up."

"I just can't believe we actually made it in.  If we make it out
alive, I'm buying Gemini a case of... ah, geeze, something.  I
dunno.  When he figures out what he likes, I'll get him a case of
it."

"Right."

"Geeze, will you look at all the stiffs?"

"Power-down *is* energy efficient, you know.  GENOM's not so big
that it doesn't have to save a little here and there."

"Yeah, I guess.  It's gotta cost'em on response time, though.
The suits out at the door can't leave their posts, except in a
major emergency, and these goons gotta power-up first before they
can go."

"Don't complain.  It's what's got us in here as first response,
after all."

"Yeah, yeah.  Tell me about it.  So how long until our boy does
his thing?"

"You expect *him* to keep to a schedule?  Intel says 'random' is
as good a word for him as any.  He'll happen when he happens, and
not before."

"Fuck.  I shoulda brought a book."

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:20 PM

*Who is the more insane?* Madigan wondered silently.  *The
Chairman, for his story, or Sangnoir, for apparently believing
it?*  Even more disturbing was the implication that the Chairman
knew the identities of the Knight Sabers, and had withheld that
information from her.  *He's been playing me,* she realized.
*I'm just another tool.  Not a valued associate, or even a
trusted underling.  A tool!*

From where he sat, manacled into the antique leather-upholstered
chair that was reserved for the most exalted of Mr. Quincy's
guests, Sangnoir snorted.  "If your source material is anything
like the stuff I'm familiar with, you probably ought to know that
you're just setting yourself up for a humiliating defeat.  It
*is* the oldest cliche in the book, after all."

"'<Before I kill you, Mr. Bond...>'?" the Chairman laughed.

"Yeah," Sangnoir replied smugly.  "Exactly."

"Ah, but you see, my dear Douglas, I am not following the
conventions of popular fiction and films, but of our gameworld,
of *your* homeworld."  The tone in the Chairman's voice was all
too familiar to her.  She had heard it hundreds of times,
standing here in this office at his side -- the refined,
disguised gloat of the winner over the loser.  "I am following
the conventions of *Arcanum*.  Arcanum, whom you never captured.
Arcanum, whose true identity you could never prove, not even to
your own satisfaction.  Arcanum, who thumbed his nose at the UN
and the governments of the world, then left Earth entirely to
found his own empire, never once having been caught, captured or
arrested.  Arcanum, whom you never truly defeated, only delayed
and inconvenienced."  He paused for effect.  "I am observing
*his* forms.*

This was madness, utter madness.

                              * * *

I had no answer to his boast, his declaration.  If he were indeed
modeling his every step on Arcanum...  If he somehow had access,
through this bizarre resonance across universes, to Arcanum's own
private methods, plans and strategies...  If GENOM's very
existence were any kind of testament to his claims, maybe he very
well could do... what?  I didn't know.  He was building up to
something, but he hadn't seen fit to reveal it yet.

Behind his shoulder, Madigan openly displayed just as much
curiosity as I felt, only hers was alloyed with an obvious,
growing disgust.  I wondered if Quincy realized he was driving
her farther from his side with his every word.  I wondered if
he'd even care.  I caught her eye, and just for a second we
locked gazes.  I flicked my eyebrows up in a quick query as I
twitched my head almost imperceptibly at her boss, who seemed
frozen for a moment, maybe lost in some thought or recollection.

A thunderous frown flashed across her face, followed by a
calculating, assessing look that seemed to instantly analyze me
inside and out.  I don't know what she was looking for; I don't
know if she found it.  All I know is that a steel shutter slammed
down over her features almost as soon as I had seen her evaluate
me, and once again Madigan was the perfect corporate functionary.

"Yes..."  Quincy was back.  "Arcanum never hesitated to take
advantage of heroes when their goals and his coincided.  The
Warriors' normal duties eliminated any number of lesser villains
who might have thought to challenge him, so he forbore from
destroying them utterly.  They were useful to him.  As are the
Knight Sabers to me."  He cocked his head inquisitively.  "Have
you discovered their identities yet?"

"I'm pretty sure I've identified one of them," I grudgingly
admitted.

"One is all you need," he replied with that feral grin again.
"I won't spoil the surprise for you, though I doubt you'll have
much chance for further researches."

Well, that sounded ominous.  "Oh, really?"

"Quite."  He studied me again.  "The Knight Sabers, as gratifying
as they have been, are not enough for me.  For decades I have
sought a way to create true super-powers.  I founded and funded
GENGenTech for that sole purpose.  It is all that has kept me
alive sometimes, this dream of mine.  And now that I have you, my
dear Douglas, I possess the very thing that has eluded me all
these years.  In your genetic structure is the legacy of the
Seeders..."

"The who?" I interrupted him.

He smiled at me, nastily.  "Ah, yes.  That was one thing the
scientists of Warriors' World never knew -- the origins of
superhumanity.  The Seeders, my dear, dear Douglas, were the
alien symbiotes long ago absorbed into the genetic code of
mankind, responsible for both human intelligence *and* super-
powers in your world.  My people will extract it from your DNA."
His eyes raked me again.  "While samples could be taken without
harm to you -- and in fact have, already -- I'm afraid that, all
sentimentality aside, you are just too dangerous to leave free.
Or even alive.  A cryogenic chamber has been prepared for your
body, though, so that an abundant supply of your genetic
potential will be available for future research."

Right.  I suppose I should have foreseen that.  I guessed that
meant we were in the endgame.  "Then what?"

"And then..."  He smiled coldly.  "Lee and Elizabeth never knew
what they wrought when they created Arcanum and his methods.  I
have spent the last forty-five years working toward the day when
I would hold in my hand my own version of the Servant Factor
virus.  The gift of super-powers and preprogrammed obedience to
me, both in one convenient, infectious package."  His eyes bored
into mine. "After all, what good would it be to create true
superhumans, if I do not control them all?"

"And then GENOM will be unstoppable?" I asked, putting as much of
a sarcastic edge to my words as I could.  "Predictable.  And
boring."

Quincy laughed.  "You must be joking!  Look around you!  GENOM
already *is* unstoppable.  I own this world, Douglas.  I *own* it
utterly -- what Arcanum could never do, the goal he abandoned
along with the Earth when he fled the paltry forces of the
Warriors, *I* have accomplished.  It is *mine* to do with as I
please.  Now..."  He bared his teeth in a rictus of a smile.
"Now it is time to play with what I own."

                              * * *

Kate took an involuntary step back when an incandescent fury
suddenly blazed up in Sangnoir's eyes.  But even before she could
recover from the surprise, the rage was gone -- hidden, cloaked
by a half-lidded, deceptively lazy- looking gaze.  He'd gone
completely still, without even the idle fidget he'd shown before,
but every limb was loose and relaxed.  Her instincts screamed
"danger!" at her, and she realized that with the Chairman's
grandiose announcement, Sangnoir's attitude had shifted instantly
from amused annoyance to volcanic anger.

Kate wasn't sure what a "servant factor" was, but given what
she'd heard so far, and Sangnoir's reaction, she could make a
good guess.  The concept chilled her soul.  *Absolute good,* she
seemed to hear her own voice whisper.  *Absolute evil.  Which
side are you on?*

"You know, Methuselah," Sangnoir began.  "You've been playing
your game too long."

*Which side?*

                              * * *

I'd been willing to cut him some slack, crazy old coot that he
was, until he just up and laid his plans out on the table.
Another Servant Factor virus?  In the hands of *this* whack job?
At loose in a world with no one who could oppose its creations?

No way.

No way in hell.

I felt that same, familiar rage that had driven me to beat Pink
ignite behind my eyes, but I clamped down on it, controlled it,
banked it.  As long as I was stuck in that chair, without my
helmet -- and with those four bodyguard boomers around me --
there was nothing I could do with it.  But that didn't mean I
couldn't plan.

Quincy continued ranting -- gods help me, he sounded like he'd
been rehearsing for this moment for the last fifty years.  He'd
do this, he'd do that, he'd do some other damned thing.  Although
I tossed in the occasional smartass comment intended to *keep*
him ranting, I focused instead on what I would do if I had my
helmet, trying to pick a song that would maximize my chances of
surviving what would likely be my only chance to take the old man
down.

I needed both good offense and defense.  Movement would be nice,
it would help with evading the boomers' attacks, but not
necessary.  Of a goodly length, while we're at it, no point in
having it run out too early.  And something that wasn't
indiscriminate -- Madigan looked like she was getting sicker by
the moment at the things Quincy was outlining, plus she was
Lisa's friend.  I tentatively designated her a neutral and
determined to keep her out of the way of friendly fire as best I
could.

I went through the options that I could bring to mind that best
fit those requirements and more, and one shouldered itself to the
front. I suppressed the urge to nod to myself.  It wasn't exactly
what I wanted.  It was damned risky.  But I might just be able to
take down all four guards at once with it.  And it never hurt to
lift a play from Hexe's book.  Yes, it would more than do.

When I finally got my hands back on my helmet.

Madigan was apparently a perceptive sort.  As if she'd divined my
intentions, she was already sidling away from Quincy, making her
way unobtrusively around the desk and back over to the sideboard.
Good, she was out of the target zone.  Hm.  If Quincy noticed
her, he might order her back to his side.

"Don't I get any say in these plans, old man?" I rudely
interrupted with a yawn.  "I do seem to be a critical player."

Oh, he had worked himself up to a right proper lather.  "You are
*nothing*!" he actually growled at me.  "You are a fictional
construct with which I can do as I *please*!"

I snorted at this.  "Hey, buddy, I'm no more fictional than *you*
are!"

Quivering with anger, he gripped the edge of his desk and pushed
himself slowly to his feet.  "I created you!" he bellowed.  "You
are mine to dispose of!  If I have to, I will kill you myself,
and have you dissected, cloned, analyzed and gene-sequenced until
I finally *know* how to duplicate your powers!"  He raised his
cane over his head and shook it, as if he intended to beat me to
death right then and there.  "I just wish I'd gotten my hands on
that little Sailor Senshi-wannabe!" he trumpeted.  "Having *two*
samples would have made finding the Seeder genes child's play!"

Off to my right, I heard a gasp from Madigan.  Then, in a moment
of pregnant calm, the sound of rustling fabric reached my ears.

"Mister Chairman?" Madigan said a second after that, her voice
equal parts ice and steel.  It was the first time I had actually
heard her speak, and she had a pleasant, almost musical lilt to
her Japanese.  To my surprise I identified it as an Irish accent.

Startled by the interruption, we both turned to look at her.  In
one hand she held, of all things, a cell phone.  The fingers of
her other hand were dancing over its keypad.

"Mister Chairman?" she repeated as she looked back up at him, an
expression of utter loathing upon her face.  "In recent weeks, I
have noticed a growing disparity between GENOM's values and my
own."  Still holding his cane over his head, Quincy returned her
loathing with a mix of anger and puzzlement.  "After a great deal
of consideration and soul-searching," she continued, "I have come
to the conclusion that my current position and the direction in
which I wish to take my life are no longer compatible.  In short,
Mr. Chairman," she drew in a deep breath, "I *quit*!"

And with that, she gave the keypad a final, vicious punch.

                              * * *

Security Force Holding Bay 2, GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20,
2037, 5:26 PM

"Bingo!"

"They made the call?"

"Emergency deadman alert -- all four security boomers just went
down at the same time.  The system considers that 'suspicious'."

"Naaah, you think?"

"Smartass.  Okay, move it, ladies, move it!  We got a VIP to
pick up!"

                              * * *

Over Downtown MegaTokyo.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:26 PM

Sylia leaned into the cockpit, the visor of her helmet open
and raised.  "What's our ETA?" she asked.

Raven glanced at the control panel, then back out the windshield
of Knight Wing.  "No successful radar contacts and no radio
challenges yet -- call it about two minutes."

"Wind conditions?"

He harrumphed.  "Still calm.  So we're still a go for dropping
you on the balcony outside Quincy's office."  He spared a moment
from flying the craft to shoot her a concerned look.  "You sure
he's going to be there?"

The Sabers' leader gave him a little half-smile.  "Not entirely,
no.  But if we're wrong, we're at least in the right spot to
find out the correct location."

Raven laughed, a quick hacking that almost sounded more like a
cough.  "Fair enough.  I'll be waiting at 5,000 meters.  Just
yell if you need me."

She nodded.  "We will."  She reached up to the visor.  "Time to
get ready for the drop, then."

"Yeah," he said, his eyes on the Tower ahead as she turned toward
the back of the aircraft.  "Sylia?"

She turned back.  "Yes?"

"Be careful.  All of you."

Even though he couldn't see it, she smiled.  "Aren't we always?"
Then she turned and rejoined the other Sabers.

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:27 PM

"M-m-m-madigan!"  Quincy ground out even as his body began to
seize up.  "Wha-wha-what is the m-m-meaning..."  His voice
spooled down to the low rumble of a "hung" sound generator.  At
the same moment, he froze in place with his cane still raised
above his head, its end jinking in all directions with the
shuddering of his body.

"I should have known," she muttered to herself as she knelt
behind an astonished Sangnoir.  *Yet another boomer double.  I
wonder if I've *ever* seen the real Quincy,* she mused as she
laid the magnetic keystick along the edge of his manacles.  Their
one moving part clicked and they obediently popped open.

Sangnoir leapt from the chair, spinning in place and staring at
the paralyzed bodyguard boomers.  "How... oof!" he grunted as she
roughly swept his helmet off the credenza and into his stomach.
Reflexively he wrapped his arms around it.

"Don't ask questions," she barked.  "Just go."

He frowned.  "Sorry, no can do.  I've got some business to attend
to first."

"You idiot," she snarled, then choked back the flood of invective
that threatened to spill from her lips.  The OMS override
wouldn't last much longer, and she realized that if *he* wanted
to stay, he had a better chance of surviving than she did.  Still
she hesitated.

To her surprise, he lifted one gloved hand and laid it gently
along her cheek.  "Ms. Madigan, my thanks.  I can see now why
Lisa thinks so highly of you," he said.  She blinked in surprise
and he smiled.  "A word of advice?" he added as he drew back his
hand.

"Yes?" she stammered.

"Run.  Now."  He settled his helmet on his head, and buckled the
chin strap.

*Yes, good advice, that,* she thought, as she considered the look
in his eyes.  Kate nodded curtly, turned to leave, then paused.
Turning back, she carefully laid the cell phone on the sideboard,
then seized his hand and squeezed it once.  "My override won't
last much longer.  Good luck."  Without another word, she fled
the Chairman's office.

A few moments later, as she slumped against the mahogany paneling
of the executive elevator, she heard -- and felt -- the first of
the booming reverberations that began to shake the Tower to its
foundations.

                              * * *

As I put the helmet computer back in combat mode, I heard the 
elevator doors open, then close.  Good, Madigan was away; I could 
now cut loose.  I turned to face Quincy, who stood there shaking 
and growling with rage.  Beside me I heard a sizzle and a pop, 
and the acrid odor of scorched electronics reached my nostrils; I 
turned to my left to see her cell phone on the credenza, wisps of 
smoke wafting out from around its buttons as the finished surface 
under it slowly scorched.

At the same moment, Quincy came out of his state of apoplectic
paralysis at his assistant's defection and bellowed, "Madigan!"
at a volume that should have been well beyond the ability of
normal human lungs.  Behind me, I could hear the boomer
bodyguards waking up, too.

Inside my helmet, I smiled.

"She bailed on you, dude," I announced, openly laughing at the
old man as he gaped at me.  "I think she got a better offer."  I
dropped the laughter.  "You know, I could cope with a lot.  Even
when you had your stormtroopers harassing me, I didn't really
hold a grudge against GENOM.  Much.  But this...  this isn't
about just me anymore.  This is something I *have* to deal with."
I shook my head.  "I've been good-natured about all this up to
now, but not any more.  <No more Mister Nice Guy!  No more Mister
Clean!>"

I dropped into a ready stance and yelled, "<System!  'Konya wa
Hurricane'!  Play!>"

Then I opened myself up to the node.

                              * * *

Over Downtown MegaTokyo.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:29 PM

"Sylia," Raven announced with deceptive casualness, "we now have
a bit of a complication."

"What is it, Doctor?" Sylia replied as she stepped through the
cockpit door.  "A radio chall... Dear god."

"Huh?  What is it?" Priss asked from directly behind her.  Sylia
slipped into the empty co-pilot's seat, allowing the Blue Saber
to get a clear view out the cabin's windows.  "Holy shit."

                              * * *

Air Traffic Control Center, MegaTokyo International Airport.
Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:29 PM

"What the...?" Ichiro Nettis blurted as a circular trace swirled
into existence on his radar screen.  "Aaron, get your ass over
here!  I need a confirm on a weather anomaly!"

Aaron Morikami, second shift manager, was at his side almost
instantly.  "Holy...  that looks kinda like a tropical depression
forming."

"Yeah, only *tiny* -- it's what?  Two kilometers across?"

"Just like that freak twister that hit the Fault Zone last year,"
Morikami growled.  "Where is it located?"

"It's centered over GENOM Tower!" Ichiro declared.

"Shit."  Aaron turned and grabbed a telephone handset from its
mount on a nearby panel, hitting a red button next to the mount
as he did so.  "Morikami here.  I need a visual confirmation for
a weather anomaly over GENOM Tower, and I need it *now*."  There
was a longish pause.  "Shit," he repeated at its end.  "Right.
Domo."  He slammed the handset back onto its mount.

"Aaron?" Ichiro murmured.

"Hold that thought."  Morikami returned to his master operations
panel and stood over it for a moment.  The multicolored glow of
its telltales and indicators bathed him in a rainbow assortment
of lights.  He took a deep breath, audible even over the constant
murmur of the other ATC operators in the room, then reached down
and pivoted a microphone on a boom to point at his lips.  He
gently pressed a button on the console and began to speak.

"This is MegaTokyo Air Traffic Control with an emergency alert
for all aircraft in the Kanto region," he said in calm,
professional tones.  "An anomalous weather condition has formed
over downtown MegaTokyo..."

                              * * *

Over Downtown MegaTokyo.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:31 PM

"...has formed over downtown MegaTokyo."

Three Knight Sabers were clustered around the door to the Knight
Wing's cockpit, and a fourth sat within.  All were silent save
for the gentle whisper of their breaths.  As they stared out at
the sight ahead of them, the emergency alert broadcast continued.
"Tropical storm conditions are in evidence, with heavy cloud
cover, rain, lightning, and wind speeds in excess of 175 kmph."

Sylia, still in the co-pilot's seat, shook her head, still not
quite believing that she was seeing exactly what the announcement
had described:  a monstrous black funnel cloud, silhouetted
against the fading February twilight.  It was easily as large as
GENOM Tower, and sat perched atop the immense building, giving
the impression of a gargantuan black hourglass.  Flashes of
lightning flickered continously inside it, illuminating the
roiling, spinning clouds from within with their actinic light.
The rumble of the distant thunder was audible even over the
Wing's engines.  "Dear god," she repeated.  "Can he be doing
*that?*"

"You have to ask?" came Priss' voice at her ear.  She turned 
slightly to see the other woman now crouching at her shoulder and 
sharing the view.  "He's there.  It's there.  It's weird." Priss 
shook her head.  "It all adds up for me."

From her perch at the cockpit door, Nene snickered.  "This ought
to be right up your alley, Priss."

The Blue Saber looked back and shot her a mock-baneful look.
"Why?"

Nene's grin threatened to split her face open.  "'Cause there's a
hurricane tonight."  She began to giggle.  Priss growled and took
a half-hearted swipe at her.

Linna was leaning against the other side of the door.  "You
know," she said thoughtfully, "he *does* have a copy of 'Konya wa
Hurricane' available to him.  Remember?  I wouldn't be surprised
if..."  She trailed off as Priss growled again, this time without
any trace of humor.  Linna smiled placatingly.  "Hey, look at it
as a tribute to your songwriting.  If it wasn't a really good
song, could he do that with it?"

In the pilot's seat, Raven quietly announced, "We're coming up on
the edge of the storm, Sylia."

She turned her attention from her sisters' banter back to Raven.
"Did you find a satellite image of it?"

"Yeah," he grunted, and waved at a small display screen mounted
on the panel above and between their seats.  "Just snapped a
moment ago.  It's got an eye, just like a full-sized hurricane.
Not much of one, but it's there." He waited a moment, his
expression mildly disapproving, and added, "The cloud tops out at
1200 meters above the Tower roof."

Sylia studied the black-and-white image.  "How big is the eye?"

"About 60 meters across."  He glanced over at her.  "It'll be a
tight fit, but it's possible."

She nodded.  "Do it.  We'll land on the roof and make our way to
Quincy's office inside the building."

"Very well," he replied grudgingly.  "Better get yourselves
strapped back in.  It's likely to be a bumpy ride."

"Of course," Sylia said, and rose carefully from the co-pilot's
seat. "You heard him, girls," she said, turning to the other
Sabers.  Overriding their complaints, she herded them back into
the aircraft's passenger compartment and closed the cockpit door
behind them.  Just before it latched shut, Raven thought he heard
her whisper, "Good luck."

He snorted.  "I'll need it."  As the first drops of rain began to
strike the Knight Wing's windows, he chuckled and addressed the
empty cabin.  "You know, when I was an undergrad," he murmured in
an oddly contemplative tone, "I envisioned spending my declining
years comfortably ensconced in some university somewhere,
enjoying the benefits of a tenured professorship, maybe even as
an emeritus."  He snorted to himself.  "Instead, I find myself
flying an illegal aircraft into a hurricane for a band of 20-
something mercenaries.  Shows what little *I* know."

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:31 PM

The singer's voice was still as sweet and powerful as it had been
the last time I'd heard this song, months before, and as the beat
and the bass line carried her into the chorus, it grew more
powerful still.

   "Konya wa Hurricane
    Anata ni Hurricane
    Tsutaetai no 'Loving You...'
    Konya wa Hurricane
    Kanjite Hurricane
    Sugao no mama 'Touch!'
    'Give me Touch!'"

The hell with worrying about permanent burnout.  The hell with
the chance I might get addicted to that much power.  I *needed*
the node at that moment like I'd never needed it before in all
the months I'd been in that damned city.  Besides, it was good
practice -- who knows when I might need to channel that much
power again?

I threw what little caution I possessed almost literally to the
wind, and linked the node directly to the hurricane with myself
as the conduit.  Then, with a flick of a mental switch, I turned
my attention instantly back to matters at hand.  I concentrated
for a moment -- this was a fair bit harder than Hexe made it
look...

Behind me, the great expanse of ALON window that overlooked the
city exploded into glittering, chittering shrapnel as I pulled a
lightning bolt down out of the storm overhead and drew it into
the office.  My arm and hand outflung, I spun on my heel as the
wind followed the bolt into the office, roaring and setting every
loose object and paper flying like debris before a leaf blower.

The lightning bolt obediently followed the curve my wide-spread 
fingertips traced, striking one after another of the boomer 
guards, arcing between them with a deafening roar and the almost-
suffocating odor of ozone.  Chaining targets like that with 
lightning is a risky proposition, but not quite as risky as 
trying to take them out one at a time in an enclosed space, even 
one as large as that office.  I'd've had a hell of a time 
dodging, and they might've gotten me, even with my field factored 
in.  Worse, a stray shot might've hit Quincy, and I wanted to 
reserve that privilege for myself.

I wasn't trying to kill them -- hell, no, they were just another
set of mind-controlled slaves.  Instead, I used the current surge
to invade their circuits and shut them down, just like Hexe did
with the White Knight.  My last try at this hadn't worked on that
one boomer at Bunko's, but that was before I'd spent weeks
studying every aspect of the boomer brain design.  I knew now
exactly what to do.

A moment later, its work done, I grounded the lighting out into
every electrical appliance and outlet in the room, frying the
lights and the computers.  As it vanished with a blinding flash,
all four bodyguard boomers dropped like rocks, just like I'd
hoped they would.

I turned back to face two meters' worth of speechless senior
citizen.  The old man knew how to hold his ground, I'll give him
that much -- the wind didn't even budge him, and he was still
standing just as tall as he had before all hell'd broken loose.

"Now, Mister James Douglas fucking Quincy," I bellowed over the
howl of the wind, "we have a little matter of 'playing with what
you own' to discuss."  Without my intervention, the storm outside
punctuated that with another burst of wind and a cascade of
lighting that struck just outside the shattered window.  A sheet
of bright white light washed over us as the explosion of the
nearby thunder rocked the room.

"Do we now?"  Quincy bellowed back and grinned ferally at me, as 
if he knew something I didn't.  Despite myself, I was more than a 
little impressed -- here I am pulling a goddamned hurricane into 
his office, and he's *confident* about facing off with me. 
Either he was on some serious drugs, or he had a card or two up 
his sleeve that I couldn't foresee.  I took a mental step back 
and tried to run a tactical on him again.  No dice.  What the 
hell was I missing?

I didn't get a chance to figure it out because at that moment,
the old man reached out and swatted his desk aside like it was
made of cardboard.  As it flipped end-over-end and smashed into
the wall, Quincy hurled himself at me, cane over his head like a
sword ready to swing.  If I'd had the time to be stunned, I would
have been -- he was seventy if he was a day and he was moving at
least as fast as me.  And he wanted the genetic coding for
metatalents?  He should check his *own* DNA!

Unless he was 'borged like those punks I met the day I arrived.
That would explain a thing or two...

I twisted out of way just in time to avoid a vicious overhand
swing of that cane.  It whistled past my head and smashed through
the heavy wood-and-leather chair into which I'd been manacled.
*Okay,* I thought as I turned my twist into a spin to land a
backfist near his kidneys, *steel cane.  Been there, done that.*

My fist glanced off his ribs with a dull thud, like he was
wearing armor under that pimp suit.  Yeah, a cyborg.  Definitely.
He laughed at me, and, still spinning, I followed through with a
high, sweeping kick that hit him midway up the back and knocked
him to his knees.  *Damn.*  I danced back to get out of cane-
range.  *Cyborg or not, that should've tossed the old geezer
across the room!  What the hell's going on here?*

A peal of thunder shook the room again as the wind continued to
howl around us.  I had no problems keeping on my feet, but only
because the wind was mine; I couldn't figure out why it hadn't
slammed Quincy into a wall yet, though.

"Not bad, boy," Quincy rumbled, and he turned his head to bare 
his teeth at me again.  "Ever since I figured out that you were 
really you, I've been looking forward to this."  The awful grin 
turned into a snarl.  "And when I've dealt with you, I'll take 
care of that traitor Madigan!"  With that, he sprung at me, 
twisting in mid-step to turn the sidewise lurch into a straight-
on lunge, cane-tip first.

I was already dodging left, but my field caught the tip of the
cane and forced it violently to the right.  The unexpected
lateral force caught Quincy by surprise; he overbalanced and
tumbled into the credenza, smashing it into kindling.

I was too far away to get in any kind of a good hit before Quincy
got back to his feet, so I spent the moment's respite
concentrating, reaching mentally up into the storm for another
nearby field of growing potential.  It took a moment to find it,
and a moment more to tell it that the best place to ground out
was right... over... there.  It agreed, and filled the room with
blinding light and an earth-shattering detonation.  But Quincy
was already on the move; he and the lightning bolt slid past each
other like two cars on opposite sides of a two-way street.

I instinctively flinched as the lightning smashed its way into
the room.  Even with years of experience throwing lightning, I
couldn't help myself -- the bolts I was drawing down now out of
the hurricane overhead were orders of magnitude more powerful
than anything I'd ever tried to handle before, made even more so
by the mana that flowed out of the node and pumped the storm to
ever-higher levels of violence.  All the discipline I'd drilled
myself in, all my training not to lose my focus, all my years of
experience at Hexe's side, did no good in the face of this level
of power.  Only my helmet's sound-proofing saved my hearing, and
only the polarizers in my goggles saved my vision.  Even so, I
still flinched.

And at that moment, someone hammered a railroad spike through my
chest.

                              * * *

Roof of GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:32 PM

"Prime to Wing.  We're down and we're safe," Sylia announced over
the encrypted link.  Somewhere below them, a particularly large
and persistent lightning bolt struck the Tower with enough force
to shake the building under their feet.

"Acknowledged, Prime.  I'm taking the Wing to angels five,"
Raven's voice crackled back.  "Call when you need me."

"Will do.  You should have an easier time picking us up; if he 
*is* using 'Konya wa Hurricane,' Priss estimates that the storm 
should last no more than four more minutes."

"I'm glad to hear that," Raven grunted.  "You girls be careful."

"We will.  Prime out."  The Knight Wing shot up the tiny eye of
the miniature hurricane as though it were being pulled up on a
string.  Sylia watched it vanish into the darkness above, then
turned to the other Sabers.  "Okay, ladies.  Check your disguises
and get ready to move."

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:32 PM

I coughed, and felt a warm, salty liquid bubbling in my throat.

*Oh.  Shit.*

I opened my eyes.

The office was a mess.  The paneling was a mass of charcoal; one
wall was alight with fitful, spitting flames.  The rug was
scorched and smoldering.  Smoke was everywhere, most of it of the
acrid, burnt-plastic variety.  There wasn't a single intact piece
of furniture anywhere in sight.  And right in the middle of my
field of vision was Quincy.  He stood a meter or so away from me,
his soot-streaked face in a grimace of unholy glee, his arm
extended toward my body.  Toward my body?  I looked down.

His cane was stuck in a bloody-edged hole low on the right side
of my chest.  I could feel it running all the way through my
body, neatly skewering me.  *Into the field, through the polykev,
between the ribs, nothing but lung...* I managed to joke to
myself even as I coughed again, splattering a blob of blood onto
the chin and tongue switches, and out the front of my helmet.
*C'mon, Sangnoir, concentrate!  Don't go into shock!*  Somewhere
in the distance, The Replicants were still singing about tattered
hearts and big cities.

"Not much of a comedian now, are you, boy?" Quincy asked in a
low, gravelly tone.  "No quip, no clever quote?  No, I suppose
not."  He reached out and dug the fingers of his left hand into
the front panel of my uniform jacket, grabbing a handful of
leather and lifting me up to his eye level.

"I've been looking forward to this," he said again.  "I *knew* it
would come down to this -- you and I, one against the other.  It
was inevitable.  It was *destiny*.  So I had this unit designed
just for the occasion.  I had to sacrifice a few things, like
internal weaponry, but I knew your abilities and limits.  I knew
exactly what you were capable of, and could convert it into real-
world units.  I knew how much armor I needed, how much strength,
how fast I had to be.  How to confound your tactical analyses.
The only unknown was that damnable field of yours, and all I had
to do about *that* was wait for the dice to roll in my favor."

"This... this unit?" I gasped.  My right lung was filling with
blood; soon it would spill over into the left, and that would be
it for me.  Unless he pulled the cane out, in which case I'd have
a sucking chest wound, which would be even worse.  "W-what...
unit?"  By sheer force of will I drove back the rising tide of
shock and tried to focus.  The chill, howling wind and the
constant barrage of thunder outside didn't help.

Quincy smirked.  "This unit.  This *body*.  Built to best you,
my dear Douglas."

I blinked, and focused my mind enough to follow him.  Of course.
Of course.

After all the years that I've been doing them, a tactical
evaluation is almost a zen thing for me -- a moment of zanshin
when everything falls together and I *know* what an opponent is
capable of, and what the best thing to do to him is.  Trying to
eval Quincy had been frustrating me -- even pegging him for a
cyborg, he just wasn't ringing up a total that made sense.  But
that one little bit of information brought it all together for
me.  It hit me like a circus sledgehammer between the eyes.  I
forced my perceptions to shift gears, looked at Quincy with
magesight -- and saw nothing.  He had all the aura of a rock.

"Puppet," I whispered, grabbing the hand that held my jacket with
my own.  Then, louder, "Puppet!"  Desperately, I tried to gather
my wits for one final attempt to concentrate.  As Quincy pulled
his cane out of my chest and readied it for another strike, I
seized on the voice that rang on my ears and focused everything I
could on her.

   "Konya wa Hurricane
    Anata ni Hurricane
    Tsutaetai no 'Loving You...'
    Konya wa Hurricane
    Kanjite Hurricane
    Sugao no mama 'Touch!'
    'Give me Touch!'"

"It was a pleasure finally meeting you," Quincy crooned.  "Thank
you for making my new world possible."  He smiled nastily.
"<Good-bye, Mr. Bond.>"

I reached into the heart of the storm and pulled.

Arclight shadows transformed the office into stark blacks and
whites as the third and largest lightning bolt blasted its way
into the office.  It struck me full in the back.  As I screamed
it crawled along the surface of my body, then spiraled down my
arm to where I gripped Quincy's hand with my own.

The lightning roared off my hand and down his arm, stripping both
the cloth and the pseudoflesh off the robot that Quincy had
passed off as himself.  As blue-white electrical fire burned away
the robot's human guise, its eyes widened and its mouth opened in
a silent parody of my scream.  At the same time, its joints
spasmed and it dropped both the cane and me.

I can't quite explain what happened next.  I hadn't quite come
out of magesight yet; I'm sure that had something to do with it.
The loss of blood probably contributed to it as well, because I
was definitely in an altered state of consciousness by the time I
hit the floor.  Then there was the blend of adrenaline,
endorphins and gods know what else in what was left of my
bloodstream at the time, too.  Add to that the ability I have to
remotely manipulate computer systems when I'm using an
electrokinetic effect.

And run it all through a lightning bolt powered by a hurricane
that itself is being pumped by a node.

The physical world simply faded out of my perceptions, and
something else took over.  I took me a moment to realize that I
was seeing forces, energies, fields -- my entire sensorium had
suddenly specialized for electromagnetism.

I would've called it a hallucination except for the aftermath.

Rolling over, I stared at the Quincybot with this new vision of
mine.  I could see the patterns of power that tugged upon the
metal marionette's electronic strings, and realized that Quincy
had been operating it remotely in real time.  Without even
thinking about it, I sent my consciousness along with the
gigawatts of lightning that seared and arced along the remains of
the stand-in, and from there into the GENOM communications grid
after its last dying signal.

It was just like I had done so many times before, only more so,
only completely different.

My mind arced down into a domain of fields and forces, rendered
into lines and tubes of geometric precision -- a metaphor that
guided my flight.  Leaping from circuit to line to microwave
link, I chased the final communication packet as it fled from me
at lightspeed, dodging the software gates that laboriously tried
to lumber closed before my lightning self slipped effortlessly
around them, shattering the encryption modules that sought to
hide the signal from my sight.  I was the lightning, I was the
electricity, I was an electron verging on a tachyon.  I only lost
the packet at the very last microsecond, as it was received.

Not that it mattered.  There, on the edge of the Genom comm grid,
I found myself face-to-face with the *real* Quincy.

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:34 PM

It took the Knight Sabers just under two minutes to charge down
the stairwell from the roof to the level on which Quincy's office
lay.  At Sylia's signal, they paused at the fire door and
composed both themselves and their disguises; it was easier to
look like you belonged where you didn't if you were, if not
casual, at least deliberate about your entry.

After a final shared nod, Priss reached for the bar and pushed
the door open.  One by one they stepped into the lobby, empty now
of human habitation.  Wind howled audibly around the closed doors
of heavy wood that led to the chairman's office proper, carrying
faint streamers of grey-black smoke through the cracks between
and around them.  The fusillade of thunder outside was audible
through the doors, barely -- it was almost drowned out by the
more immediate and much closer sound of massive, immediate and
continuous electrical discharge that was almost deafening in its
intensity.

"Shit," Priss murmured over the private link.

Nene nodded slowly.  "I'm picking up a really, really powerful
electromagnetic field.  It's not like any I've ever seen before,
with all kinds of strange modulation."

Inside her helmet, Sylia raised an eyebrow.  "I wonder if he even
needs -- or will appreciate -- a rescue."  She shook her head.
"No matter, we took the assignment.  Shall we go beard the young
lion in the old lion's den?" she asked, a faint smile barely
audible in her voice.

"Let's do it," Linna said, and stepped forward.

As she reached for the knob, the bright, cheery "ding!" of an
arriving elevator sounded behind them, disturbingly incongruous
and surprisingly audible amidst the din coming from the other
room. Startled, the Sabers spun about to face the bank of
elevator doors behind them.

The one to the far left slid open with a smooth mechanical
rumble, and four combat boomers stepped out, stopped short, and
stared at the Sabers.

"Aquarius..." one growled out of the side of its mouth.  "I
thought *we* wuz gonna be the *only* ones dispatched."

                              * * *

"Yeah," Aquarius murmured.  "So did I.  Gemini?  Get me their
assignment and their overrides.  Just in case."

"Right," the electronic warfare boomer snapped briskly.  "Already
on it, A."

"Good."  He did not take his eyes off the four mystery boomers --
boomers who should not have been here in the first place.  They
weren't Quincy's bodyguards -- the Tower security megaframe still
reported them as inactive.  At least they weren't automatically
hostile -- judging from their body language, they looked as
surprised as Aquarius himself felt.

He couldn't afford to let any more of that surprise show than he
already had, though.  If these boomers suspected anything was
amiss with them...  Straightening, he barked, "We are the
authorized security response team for this incident.  Identify
yourselves."

As the other boomers looked among themselves, Aquarius heard
Gemini murmur softly, "That's strange."

"What is it?" he whispered.

"Their IFF transponder numbers are in the master DB, but Tower
control has no record of them.  I'm not getting an OMS ping,
either.  And their field pattern is all wrong... they look more
like... aw, shit."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Before Gemini could respond, one of the other boomers finally
answered.  "We are a patrol/maintenance squad assigned to the
Tower roof.  We retreated inside when the storm began, and
came down here when we realized the Chairman's office was
under attack."

"Bullshit!" Gemini hissed.  "They're fakes!  Damned good fakes,
but still fakes!"

"*What*?"

"I think they're the Knight Sabers!"

The sudden stiffening of the other four "boomers" revealed two
things to Aquarius:  one, Gemini hadn't been quiet enough, and
two, he was probably right.  Aquarius furiously sorted through
his options, trying to find a course of action that would
salvage as much of their goal as possible.  A second later he
nodded to himself and stepped forward.

"You here to rescue him, or to kill him?" he demanded.

The fake boomers looked at each other.  "You are in error," the
one who had spoken before announced at length.

Aquarius suppressed a sigh.  "If you're here to kill him," he
declared flatly, "we're gonna stop you."

"And if it's just who pays more," Gemini declared from behind
him, "we can beat whatever price you got."

"We can?" Sagittarius turned and demanded.

"I've got a few code modules for economic warfare," Gemini
explained blandly.  "It'll be easy enough to crack some GENOM
accounts for whatever we need."

"Let me get this straight," one of the faux boomers said slowly
and carefully.  "If we are here to kill Sangnoir, you are ready
to bribe us to let him go?"

"Yeah, exactly," Aquarius replied.

"And if we are here to rescue him?"

Aquarius considered this, then shrugged.  "I'd ask if you needed
any help."

"Wait, wait," one of the other disguised Knight Sabers
interjected.  "I thought you said you were the security response
team!"

Aquarius smiled.  "Best way I could think of to keep a *real*
security team from walking in on us!"

"Why should we believe you?" the first one demanded.

Aquarius traded a quick glance at Gemini, and tried to feel for
Sagittarius and Libra behind him.  "You want hard proof?  I don't
have any," he admitted.  "But let me tell you this.  We didn't
shoot when we figured out who you were just now.  We're trying to
cut a deal here -- and honestly, too."  He carefully looked over
the Sabers' apparent spokesperson.  "We owe him, Saber.  We owe
him a life-debt, and we're going to pay it.  So I'm asking again,
what are you here to do?"

There was a long, long moment of silence, broken only by the
continuing roar from behind the doors to Quincy's office.  As the
silence between them stretched out, Aquarius felt his myomers
tensing in spite of himself.  He risked a sidelong look at
Sagittarius; the sharpshooter's fingers were visibly twitching.
"Gemini?" he whispered.

"There's a lot of encrypted radio traffic right now," came the
returning whisper.  "They're talking it over.  Want me to
crack it?"

"No!" Aquarius hissed back.

It seemed like hours, but Aquarius' internal chronometer insisted 
that it hadn't even been thirty seconds when the Knight Sabers' 
spokesperson relaxed infinitesimally and announced, "We were 
hired to rescue him."  Around her -- he assumed it was a her, 
based on the Sabers' profile, but in those 65C disguises it was 
impossible to say -- her companions stood down, as did he and his 
own people, with audible sighs of relief.

"Okay," he managed to not to stammer, and tried to smile.  "You
need any help?"

Before the Saber could answer, the roar of lightning and storm
abruptly ceased, to be replaced by the gentle susurration of the
Tower HVAC system.

"Okaaaay," murmured one of the Sabers into the sudden quiet.  "Is
this good or bad?"

                              * * *

Virtual Space.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:34 PM

It was an illusory place, half the product of the system and half
of my own (somewhat addled) mind.  I stood on a flat plane of
grey that stretched off into the distance on all sides; overhead
was a starless, cloudless sky of blue so dark it was almost a
purple-black.  For some reason my nose insisted that it smelled
of ozone and dust.

In the distance, along the horizon, I thought I could see insect-
like forms dashing about with intense purpose.  If I changed my
focus *just so*, I could see that beneath the illusion of space,
the world of forces and energies I'd just traversed still lurked.
In this place, it looked like nothing so much as a phosphorescent
pond under bombardment by pebbles -- ripples and waves crossed
and criss-crossed its "surface" constantly, each one a
transmission of some variety.

As I stood there and wondered what to do next, I heard a heavy,
thudding mechanical sound, like a massive set of breakers being
thrown, and a glowing rectangle of light maybe two meters tall
and three wide sprang into existence before me.  The noise
repeated, and another rectangle appeared to my left; once again,
and a rectangle appeared to my right.

Their glow faded into the random black-and-white of an empty TV
channel accompanied by a harsh blast of white noise.  *Oh,* I
thought in a strangely detached way.  *Viewscreens of some sort.*
The static and hiss only lasted a second before what appeared to
be a room in an intensive care unit replaced them.  There was
little to see but a tiny, emaciated figure in a hospital bed,
surrounded by monitors, IV pumps, and all manner of life-support
equipment.

Each screen showed me a different view of the room.  To the left,
I had a lateral shot showing the bed from the side; on the right,
the view was from the foot of the bed.  And in the middle, I was
treated to a close-up of its occupant, the wizened old man who
lay there motionless, his eyes closed.  Assuming everything else
in the image was normal size, he looked to be about 160, maybe
165 centimeters tall.  A half-dozen IV tubes studded his skinny
arms, and his hairless scalp was home to dozens of sensors and
electrodes, some of which seemed to be surgically implanted.  In
the background, a heart monitor and an EEG emitted various
desultory blips and bleeps; a ventilator accompanied it by
alternating a mechanical click with a rush of air.

He looked vaguely familiar, and after a moment's concentration, I
realized that he bore an odd and disconcerting resemblance to my
late grandfather on my father's side.  "What the..." I began,
mainly to myself.

The figure on the bed opened his rheumy blue eyes and looked
directly at me through the center screen.  His mouth swung wide,
and he made a rhythmic wheezing noise that I only belatedly
identified as a laugh.  "So..." he gasped out with a gap-toothed
smile.  "You've chased me down to my lair."

"Who..."  Then it clicked.  "You!"  It was Quincy's voice, only
it wasn't.  Where the Quincybot had had a deep, rich, resonant
voice, the voice of a man in the prime of his life, this voice...
was old.  It possessed the shattered ruins of that deep, deep
bass, but gone was the resonance, replaced with a noticeable
quaver and a hoarse rasp -- it sounded *ancient*.  The sardonic
tone was still there, and the inhuman cool and confidence, but
they were barely detectable under the weight of the years.

He wheezed another laugh.  "Yes, me.  That's quite clever of you,
tapping into my caregivers' monitor system."

"Huh.  Is that what I'm doing?"  I shrugged.  "And how the hell
do you know that?  How can you even be talking to me?"

"Think, Douglas, think!" he barked, the effort sending him into a
brief coughing fit.  "Use those 30 points of INT I rolled up for
you!"

I didn't so much think it through as intuit it.  "You're wired
into the GENOM comm grid.  That's how you operated that puppet
bot in your office."

His head bounced jerkily as he tried to nod.  "Close enough.  Why 
remain trapped in a decaying body when I can be anywhere and 
everywhere, Douglas?  I have dozens of boomer proxies all over 
the globe.  Right now, at this very moment, I am in the North 
Sea, inspecting a research facility.  I am in Chicago, 
negotiating with a former Gulf and Bradley subsidiary.  I am in 
Mexico City, having dinner with a minor starlet with a blossoming 
career."  Quincy started to laugh again, but ended up wheezing 
once more.  In the background, the heart monitor increased the 
rate of its bleeping until he stopped.  "She thinks she will 
sleep with me and thus gain a part in an upcoming GENOM-backed 
film.  She is wrong.

"I am omnipresent, Douglas.  Add to that the power I wield -- I
all but control the planet now, economically, politically.  An
entire generation has grown up knowing GENOM to be the font from
which all blessings flow.

"I... am... a... god!"

I stiffened at this, and my resolve returned.  It was bad enough
when the *gods* acted like gods.

As he fought his way through another coughing spasm brought on by
his grandiloquent pronouncement, I pondered my next step.  I
could not leave this man alive.  Just the risk that he might
recreate the Servant Factor virus alone more than justified any
action I could take against him.  But not only that, this man was
responsible for untold misery and countless deaths, all in the
name of trying to remake the world in the image of a game he had
played sixty years earlier.  And if he wasn't stopped, he'd just
keep on going as he had.

But what the hell could I do?  I was just a phantom, the
consciousness of a dying man, playing peeping tom through a set
of video cameras...

Wait.

If I were tapped into his caregivers' monitor system, as he said, 
then maybe I was connected to more than just the video feeds. 
Leaving Quincy to his coughing fit, I changed my mental focus 
once again, speeding up my thoughts and sending my perceptions 
down into the realm of forces and energies that was the true 
"reality" here.

It took me only a moment to locate the video feeds to which I had
somehow unconsciously connected, and then begin to trace them
back.  The structured, cyclic pulse of their signals led me down
further into this realm of energies, until I found myself
hovering above a vast web of interconnections, almost entirely
quiescent save for a dozen or so furiously brilliant streams of
data, spreading out in all directions, and one stream fitfully
firing dying spurts of light into the darkness.

Intrigued, I followed the sputtering signal and discovered that
it was vainly trying to connect back along the very line I had
pursued in my headlong flight into this realm.  Realization
dawned, and I "looked" along a few of the "live" connections.
Yes.  They were the other puppets of which Quincy had boasted.
Incredibly compact mediator programs sat on each connection,
running each puppet autonomously whenever Quincy's attention was
elsewhere -- as it was now.

Looking at the vast, dark majority of the webwork, my curiosity
was piqued.  I traced down the closest of these "sleeping" links,
and discovered myself rummaging through the brains of the four
deactivated bodyguard boomers.  The discovery surprised me more
than a little.  I pulled back to my "hovering" position above the
web, and traced a few more links.  Boomers all.

And at the center of the web, the bullseye pointed to by the
video feeds I had followed, was Quincy.

*Oh, he's good,* I thought to myself.  *Even in his rant he kept 
secrets.*  Quincy was the hub of a vast communication system that 
could puppet *any* -- and maybe *all* -- boomers, not just his 
body-doubles.  The implications of him "playing" with the world 
suddenly expanded geometrically.  If he were to take control of 
all the boomers in the world at once...

No.  No way in hell.

Meanwhile, on the level above, Quincy had recovered his voice.
He didn't seem to have noticed my inattention.  "It's very kind
of you to make this easier on me, too," he prattled.  "After all,
you're dying out in the physical world, unconscious and slowly
bleeding to death.  And nothing you can do here can change that."

At the video feeds' terminus was a crystalline program construct,
running on a system isolated save for the peripherals it
controlled and the one line of communication that both Quincy and
I were using.  It was some kind of commercial package for
hospitals, and its "ease of use" interface had no doubt made it a
trivial chore for my subconscious or whatever to connect to it.
Using that connection, I bypassed its flimsy security, killed its
ability to transmit patient alerts to its operator's console, and
then began shutting down the devices connected to it.  "Maybe
not," I replied. "But I can make sure that you go with me."

"What?" he gasped.

"All those little toys keeping you alive?" I said.  "Looks like I
can control them from here.  And I'm turning them all off."  I
toggled another system, and the semi-regular "bleep" of his heart
monitor stopped.

"Wait, wait!  You... you can't *kill* me," Quincy wheezed.
"You're a superhero.  It's against the Code."  That's the way he
said it.  You could hear the initial capital.

I shook my head.  "That's where you're wrong, old man.  I'm not a
superhero, whatever you think that is.  And I've never heard of
this code you're talking about.  I'm just a soldier, a soldier
with a duty.  And that duty is to identify the enemy, engage him,
and kill him."  I paused for just a moment.  "I'm a Warrior -- if
you know me as well as you claim to, you should know that.

"And you -- you and GENOM -- you're the enemy."  I shut down the
last of the IV pumps.

"No!  You can't!  I created you!  You can't possibly kill me!
Without me you're nothing!  You won't exist!"

"I'm dying anyway, as you so kindly pointed out."  I shut down
the ventilator, and everything else that was left in the room.
There wasn't much.  "Ask me if I care."

"But it's against the rules!" he croaked plaintively.  Then his
eyes flew wide open and his body spasmed in a massive seizure,
arching up until only his head and feet touched the mattress on
which he lay.  As quickly as it had begun, the seizure ended, and
he slammed back down onto the bed.  "Against... the... rules..."
he gasped out, and went limp.

I counted to 30, then flipped the EKG back on.

Flatline.

I nodded to myself.

"Tough shit, old man," I said as I shut the EKG off once more.
"I cheat."

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Friday, February 20, 2037, 5:36 PM

It was the pain that told me I was back in the real world.  That,
and the sudden loss of clear vision.  I didn't feel like I was
bleeding any more, and I wondered if I had awakened only to
experience death from blood loss.

"It's amazing that he's still alive," a dark blur on the edge of
my field of vision remarked in a relentlessly electronic voice.
"By all rights, he *ought* to be dead."

"Holding on by his fingernails, no doubt," said another.

I shook my head, or tried to, to clear my vision.  It didn't 
help, and it betrayed my status to the dark, blobby forms above 
me.

"Oh, god, he's awake!" the first one called out.

A third figure thrust itself between the other two.  I struggled
to focus my uncooperative eyes; I raised a hand to rub them, to
clear them physically, only to run into my helmet and goggles.
Denied that, I tried to blink away the blur.  Slowly, the three
forms resolved themselves into bulbous blue shapes.

"Boomers..." I rasped.  "<Sys.. system... system...>"

"Colonel Sangnoir," the new one snapped.  "<Three alpha blue>.
Can you hear me?  <Three alpha blue>."

I stumbled to a verbal halt.  "Wha... what?"

"<Three alpha blue>," it repeated.

*A Warriors' recognition code?* I thought with bleary surprise.
*Here?*  I tried once more to peer through the haze over my eyes.
"M-maggie?"

"No," it replied softly.  "We..."

"H-hexe?"

There was a moment of relative silence, broken only by a
bizarre electronic giggle from the figure on the left.  "No,"
said the one in the middle a trifle sharply.  "Colonel Sangnoir!
You are critically wounded!  What song do you use to heal
yourself?"

Oh.  "Key...keycode th-three niner six <g-go>," I managed to
grind out.  "<S-s-system...>" I tried to say next, only to burst
into a round of exquisitely painful coughing.

"Three nine six five?" the figure on the right asked.

"No," said the middle one.  "The English word <go>."  It reached
down to the side of my helmet.  As the spasm of coughs ended, I
felt the scrape of the shield sliding up transmitted to my
cheekbone, and then the four quick impacts.  My ears were
immediately filled with the trippy chorus-and-synthesizer lead-in
to "I'm Alive".  When the band proper kicked in a few seconds
later, I started to feel *much* better.

With this came an almost-immediate improvement in my sight, and I
realized that, yes, three boomers were indeed hovering over me,
and one had indeed given a Warriors rescue recognition code.  I
pondered this as the state of my physical well-being slowly
improved.

"Eeeww.  That's just too creepy!" one of the boomers next to me
declared.

"What is?" I asked, my voice still a bit raspy.

The boomer shuddered.  "The way all your blood just crawled off
the carpet and back into your body."  Its voice, paradoxically,
sounded *way* too electronic to be a real boomer.

"It's creepy?"  I thought about it.  "I suppose it would be,
given how much I lost.  Usually it's not terribly noticeable."
Hmm.  I realized I *knew* those particular electronically-
modified tones.  I reached out and pawed weakly at the "boomer"'s
arm.  "Hey."

"What?" the boomer yelped, jerking out of my flimsy grip.

"What for you say you boomer when you got little pink armor like
Saber, Saber?" I said in my best Tasmanian Devil voice.  Which
was helped considerably by how raspy my voice still was at that
point.

"Bus-ted!" another voice -- far more natural-sounding -- sang out
from across the room.  I tried to sit up, looking around for its
source, and realized that I was still in Quincy's wrecked office.

"Amazing," said the boomer in the middle with what I now realized
was the White Knight's -- *Sylia Stingray's*, some part of my
mind reminded me -- voxmodded voice.  "I know a doctor or two who
would have paid a considerable sum for scans of that process.
Are you up to moving now?"

"In a few more seconds."  I finally managed to wedge myself into
a sitting position, and gave the disguised White Knight another
thorough look-over.  Either it was boomer-shaped armor, or a
very well done shell that fit over their usual gear.  "Lovely
outfit," I said.  "From the Quincy winter collection?"

"Hardly," she responded, her voice cold and hard behind its
electronic filter.

Now that I was sitting up, a quick glance around the room
revealed eight apparent combat boomers -- the four hovering near
me, another four a few steps away.  A glance at the floor
confirmed that the four disguised boomers I'd deactivated were
still where they'd fallen.  I looked back at the Knights' leader
and raised an eyebrow.  "New recruits?" I asked.

"No," said one of the further four, who crossed the room to
come to my side.  "Our goal and the Sabers' happened to be the
same.  We all just sort of ran into each other while working on
it."  He stuck out a blue hand the size of a dinner plate.  "You
and I met, sort of, this morning."

"Huh?"  Behind my goggles, I frowned.  "How...?"  Then it hit me.
"You're the survivors!"

The boomer nodded his head, the big smile on his biomechanical
face an almost alien thing.  "Most of'em.  A couple decided to
strike out on their own rather than get involved in rescuing
you."  The smile changed to a smirk.  "Call me Aquarius."

"Aquarius, huh?  I wonder where *that* came from."  That got me a
bigger grin.  I grabbed his outstretched hand and pumped it.
"Well, it's good to meet you, Aquarius.  I am *so* glad that you
guys are all right.  I got *very* worried when you all started
having seizures."

He tilted his head and got a bemused look on his face.  "Well,
whatever you did to us *was* a little traumatic."

"It was fuckin' painful, is what it was!" one of the other
boomers opined rather loudly.

"What did you do to them?" asked the disguised Knight whom I had
guessed was Pink.

By that point I could feel the reverberations up the channels of
power that told me the song had done all it could for me.  Which
was, of course, pretty much everything -- my eyesight was clear
again, my balance and strength were back.  I shut off the
playback, and as I hopped to my feet, I turned to her.  "I gave
them freedom of choice.  Which reminds me..."

I stepped over to the fallen bodyguards, shaking a few capsules
out of my sleeve as I did.  The four survivor boomers, apparently
anticipating this, casually repositioned themselves so as to
shield me from the Knights, who didn't realize what I was up to
until I was done.  As quickly as I could, I shoved a capsule into
each bodyguard's mouth, and worked its jaw to break it.  If what
Kilroy had told me was accurate, that would be sufficient.

I was standing up again, and the survivors were clearing out from
around me, even as one of the Sabers demanded, "Hey, what are you
doing?"

Ignoring her, I looked down at the four bodyguards and murmured,
"Go thou, and sin no more."

White was at my side in an instant.  "What did you just do?"

I gave the four boomers one last look, hoping they'd suffer less
than the first batch; if Kilroy were any indication, they would.
Only after that did I turn back to White.  I would have waggled
my eyebrows at her, were they not hidden by my helmet.
"Flintstone multivitamins for boomers -- they're chewable!"

That actually succeeded in getting a growl of frustration out of
her, and I chuckled, not unkindly, at the evidence that she was
indeed human.  And that reminded me of something very important --
two somethings, in fact.  I reached out and laid a hand on her
armored forearm before she could turn away in disgust at my
antics.  "By the way," I said softly, "I owe you a major apology,
White."

"Oh?"  The tone was suspicious, but not overtly hostile.  Maybe
I hadn't burned all my bridges with her yet.

"I'll have time for a more lengthy explanation later, but let's
just say for now that I discovered a few things about the way
that boomers work, and about much of your opposition over the
years.  Things that made it very clear that I was wrong to call
you slave-hunters and murderers."

The false boomer face stared at me for several seconds.  "Yes,"
she finally said.  "Yes, you were.  But, to be completely fair,"
she added, a grudging tone in her electronically-distorted voice,
"not completely so.  There are incidents in our history,
tragedies we wish we could change, terrible things that had to be
done to save lives.

"We are not gods, nor heroes, nor angels, Colonel.  We are only
mortal women, frail and alone, facing an utterly overwhelming
foe."  She paused, and her head sank from its usual proud
carriage, and her voice, when she next spoke, was sad and bitter.
"We do what needs doing, whether we like it or not.  Duty drives
us, Colonel, and it has taken us places we wish we'd never been.
In that way, you and we are probably far more alike than you
might think."

I nodded slowly, wondering what to say in response to that.
Unable to think of anything, I turned away from her and surveyed
the remains of the office.  "Before I forget," I finally said,
rather lamely, "thank you for bailing me out.  Given our past
conflicts, I can't imagine what prompted you to show up in my
moment of need."

I then spotted the charred and slagged remains of the Quincybot,
and before she could answer I had already picked my way through
the debris to get to its side.  One of the other Knights was
already there, looking at it.  White followed me over, gracefully
stepping around and over the rubble.

"Ah, well," she began as she made her way after me, a trace of a
smile in her voice.  "We were hired to rescue you," she continued
as I knelt down next to the remains of the mechanical puppet.
She performed a visible double take as she realized what the
remains before us were.  "Yet another boomer double for Quincy?"
Even through the filtering, her voice betrayed incredulity.

I stopped in the midst of reaching for its head and turned my
gaze back to her.  "You were hired?  By whom?"  Before she could
answer, memory blazed.  "Of course!  Lisa!" I blurted.  "That's
where you got that recognition code.  She followed through,
then."

"Yes," White replied.  "Yes, she did.  She was... quite
persuasive, in fact."

"I'll bet," I said.  "I guess I owe her, big time."  I turned 
back to the destroyed Quincybot, and reached for its head.  The 
remains of its metallic spine tried to follow as I lifted, then 
gave up and parted with a series of sullen pops and snaps.  As it 
came free from the rest of the wreckage, I lifted the head up to 
study it.  Optical fibers, their ends melted and charred, hung 
from the stub of its neck, along with various metallic doodads 
and the remains of its synthetic musculature.  Most of its false 
skin was gone, but perversely, the slicked-back silver hair with 
its widow's peak was almost untouched.

"You really messed it up," the Knight leaning over the remains
said to me.

"Yeah," I replied.  "The old man said he'd had it built just to
kick my ass with."

"He's going to be quite upset that you destroyed it, then," White
commented.

"Nope."  I stared into the bot's half-melted polymer eyes.  "He's
not going to be anything.  Not in this world, at least, not any
more."  I looked at her levelly.  "I killed him."

"You what?"

I didn't answer, and instead turned my attention back to the
disembodied head.

   "<I don't care if you're a champion,>"

I spat at it.

   "<No one messes with me.
     I am ruthless in upholding
     What I know is right,
     Black or white,
     As you'll see.>"

I grabbed it by the hair, rose and walked over to the shattered
panoramic window.  For a moment I stood looking out over the
light-dotted nighttime vista of MegaTokyo.  Then I wound up and
hurled the bot's head out over the city.  I stood and watched it
fall for as long as I could make it out in the streetlamp-lit
darkness around the Tower.

When I turned back, the Knights and the boomers were all staring
at me.  "What?  The old man pissed me off."  I looked over at the
leader of the Knights.  "Well, White, if you're my ride, I think
I'd like to go now."

                              * * *

Sunday, February 22, 2037, 9:25 AM

After I gave Aquarius and his gang my phone number at IDEC, Lady
White hustled me up to the Cone's roof and into a black VTOL
aircraft that dropped down out of the clear night sky.  Five
minutes' flight later (during which the Knights divested
themselves of their impressive boomer costumes), the Blue Knight
and I were dropped off in a public park.  Twenty minutes later
(during which I called my bike to me, and discovered that Blue
had *no* inclination toward small talk), an unmarked truck pulled
up and disgorged Lady White and Lisa.

The moment she caught sight of us, Lisa broke away from White and
and ran up to me.  She stopped short less than a meter away,
clearly unsure of what to do next.  I spread my arms and with a
wordless cry she threw herself into an enthusiastic embrace.

When she finally loosened her grip sufficiently that we could
move apart and look into each other's faces, I could see that
she'd been crying at some point; there were still tear tracks on
her cheeks even though her eyes were now dry and shining.

"Thank you," I said softly.  "If you hadn't gotten them to come
after me, I'd be dead now.  I owe you."

She shook her head and treated me to a brilliant smile.  "You
don't owe me anything.  All I did was help a friend in trouble."

I studied Lisa's eyes for a moment.  Behind that smile was a
familiar determination.  "I'm not going to win this one if I try
to argue, will I?" I asked, returning the smile.

"No," she replied mock-sternly.  "So you'd better give up right
now."  She then spoiled the effect by giggling and hugging me
again.

"Oh, all *right*," I sighed with exaggerated resignation.
Privately, though, I promised myself that I really would repay
her somehow, some way, even if it I had to finally get home and
then find a way back here first.

A little after that, I tried to talk money with Lady White.  The
diamond I'd given Lisa, despite its size and quality, would not
have covered their usual fee.  But she waved me off.  "Call it
'pro bono,'" she said, which got me wondering.  Just watching her
with them, Lisa seemed *extremely* comfortable with the Knights,
idly -- *casually* -- chatting with Pink and Olive while I tried
to negotiate with White.  The Knights were willing to do this job
for her more or less free of charge.  They let her ride
unblindfolded in one of their support vehicles.  For the first
time it occurred to me to wonder just how well Lisa knew the
Knight Sabers.

Anyway, that was the high point of the evening.  My bike arrived,
and I offered Lisa a ride home.  She declined, saying that her
scooter was parked on the other side of the city, near where she
had met up with the Knights.  Another hug, a promise to get
together, and we went our separate ways for the night -- I on my
bike, Lisa with the Knights (which just reinforced those new
suspicions).  I went to bed half an hour later, wondering how
GENOM was going to cope with the sudden death of its glorious
leader.

                              * * *

Well, it all came out in the morning papers -- or at least, the
"official", sanitized version did, on *Sunday* morning.

"QUINCY DEAD!" screamed the tabloid headlines, while the GENOM
house rag had a comparatively more sedate "Chairman Quincy Passes
Away".  Of course, canned obituaries being what they were, every
outlet ran almost exactly the same story -- the core of which, of
course, was provided by the GENOM propaganda engine.  The obit in
Lisa's old rag, the *16 Times*, was typical:

   MEGATOKYO (GP).  James D. Quincy, the founder and chairman of
   GENOM Corporation, died early Saturday morning of congestive
   heart failure at his apartments in the GENOM Tower arcology.
   He was 75.

   Despite his appearance of vigorous health, Chairman Quincy had
   in fact been "quietly ailing" for some months, according to
   GENOM spokesperson Lytton Herzog, who added that the chairman
   had chosen not to make his condition public in order to avoid
   an undue impact upon the corporation.

   A dynamic figure in the world of international business for
   the last four decades, Quincy had a reputation as a shrewd and
   calculating player who held nothing back and took no
   prisoners.  Although his total net worth has never been
   released to the public, he was believed to be one of the five
   richest individuals in the world, with many experts ranking
   him number one.

   Katherine Madigan, Quincy's hand-picked heir apparent to the
   chairmanship of the corporation, said in a prepared statement,
   "His loss diminishes all of us.  Without his unique vision and
   drive behind it, GENOM will be a very different beast indeed."

Heh.

Then it went on to recite Quincy's official biography, a cock-
and-bull story that left out some of the less flattering details
that he'd revealed to me in his half-hour-long rant.  It finished
up with a couple more quotes from Madigan (whose monumental grief
was clearly much more convincing to the journalists than to me)
before announcing that his body would lie in state in the Tower
for a week, to be followed by a private cremation.

No bets that the "corpse" they'd be displaying was going to be 
one of those imposing boomer doubles -- showing the *real* body 
would raise some uncomfortable questions about why it didn't look 
*anything* like what he was supposed to.

(Oh, and in an unrelated story on page 2, corporate officials
revealed that the GENOM internal dataweave apparently crashed
during inclement weather on Friday night, causing the loss of
some billions of yen worth of data.

Oopsie.)

"Heart failure."  Heh.  I wonder how that starlet in Mexico City
reacted when her particular Quincybot did a faceplant into its
entree.  I also wonder how much they paid her (and others) off to
keep them from alerting the press to the fact that Quincy "died"
in a dozen or more different places at the same time.  Hm.  Maybe
she got that starring role after all.

Or maybe she, too, died unexpectedly of "heart failure".

I'll never know.  And I suspect I'll always feel vaguely guilty
that I don't.

So Madigan was first in line to replace the old man.  Good for
her.  Apparently her impromptu resignation hadn't registered on
any surveillance devices in the office -- at least, any that had
survived the storm damage and the crash.  And the old geezer
hadn't been able to do anything about it before I pulled the plug
on him.  Well, she deserved a reward for her bravery.

In the mean time, I had something more important to do.

                              * * *

Saturday, April 11, 2037, 2:55 AM

It took me six weeks, and several "second-story" jobs.

I don't expect that it will come as a surprise that GENOM and
several other manufacturers had a combined total of nearly a
dozen boomer factories in the greater MegaTokyo metropolitan
area.  I know it didn't come as one to me.

I broke into all of them -- a little research, a little time 
spent casing the joints, a song here and there -- I was in and 
out without anyone ever noticing.  If I ever had the need, I'd be 
a hell of a cat burglar.  I didn't take anything, of course.  I 
just salted key machines in their production lines with samples 
of Leo-A -- spots in the chain where traces of the nanoagent 
could get into a boomer as it was being constructed.

Unfortunately for my purposes, all of the most hospitable
locations for Leo-A were useless to me -- nanobaths, nutrient
tanks and the like would have been wonderful hosts for colonies,
but their contents were monitored, sampled and scanned six ways
from Sunday to make sure they were pure and clean.  I'd never get
away with infecting them.  Leo-A's ability to hide among the
fusion nanites might have given me an undetectable place to seed
it, except they didn't keep the stuff in a tank or dispenser --
too dangerous.  Instead, the fusion nanites were built with and
within their boomer as it was assembled.

Anyway, given the iffy choices I had, I wasn't expecting a 100%
coverage.  Enough would get through, though, and eventually the
boomers who did get hit would infect others.  In the mean time, I
kept a supply of capsules on me, and whenever it was practical I
dosed the boomers that I came across.  I also gave Aquarius and
his people a goodly supply of Leo-A plus the nanofabrication
specs, figuring that -- as their presence in Quincy's office had
demonstrated -- they'd be able to get into places I couldn't.
And of course, Kilroy was out there somewhere, probably licking
his finger and smearing it on every boomer he met.

With all those vectors, I didn't think it would take long to
reach a critical mass of infection.  And I was right.

                              * * *

It started out as a dream -- another near-nightmare of being home
when I knew I wasn't.  I was just lucid enough to realize I was
dreaming and hate it.  As I turned and bolted from the dream's
ersatz Mansion, white mists closed in around me, obscuring more
and more of the surroundings with each step I took.  By the time
I hurled myself down the front steps, the trappings of the
original dream were all but gone; when I landed, there was
nothing left but white -- cool, moist white, and the sound of
water.

"Douglas Sangnoir," three Voices spoke as One.

Ah.  Right.

"Good evening, Ladies."  I sketched a bow toward the Eyes that
appeared in the air above and before me.  "My thanks for calling
me out of that nightmare."

"The task with which we charged you is accomplished," announced
Bell-tones, ignoring my gallantry.

"You have set in motion the first of the changes we foresaw,"
added Child.

"The weave of Destiny has been altered," declared Sultry.

I straightened up from my bow.  "Then it worked?  They'll be
free?"

"As free as their creators," replied Child.

"Subject to the same temptations," Sultry said.

"With the same potential for glory," Bell-tones added.

I nodded.  "Then I can move on, finally get back on the road to
home."

"Yes," They answered in unison.

"Then what song is it that will open the gate from this world?" I
demanded.  "You told me that you knew which one it was.  What is
it?"

"The way..." Bell-tones began.

"...is made clear," the other Two finished.

"What?"

"The way..." This time it was Sultry.

"...is made clear."  Again in chorus.

I shook my head and felt the anger begin to bubble up inside of
me.  "Once more, please, with *clarity*?"

"The way is made clear!" all Three declared in unison, and the
force of Their combined Voice was like a blow, catapulting me
backward...

...and into my bed.  I lay there on my back, completely and
incredibly awake, staring at the dappled patches of orange-hued
light cast on my ceiling by the sodium-vapor streetlamp outside --
ample evidence of the inadequate shades and curtains on my
window.

"What the *hell* was that supposed to mean?" I growled to myself.
"'The way is made clear,' my ass.  Fucking gods, can't give you a
straight answer even when you do'em a favor."  I rolled over and
tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn't.  I wasn't just awake,
I was *wired*, like I'd just mainlined a quart of Kona Gold,
extra strong.  I tossed and turned for another twenty minutes,
growing angrier and angrier.

Then I sat up straight as, from a quiet corner of my mind, an
idea occurred to me.  With a screech of tortured springs I hopped
out of the bed.  Then I cursed the cold floor.  Still swearing, I
pulled my helmet out of the wardrobe where I'd stashed it.  I
turned it on, and while it went through the POST, I pulled it on.
As soon as it gave me control, I ran the search that had just
occurred to me.

It pulled up a shitload of songs, but I didn't care.  I scrolled
through the list, checking each until one particular song jumped
out at me.  I threw it up on the HUD and studied the lyrics that
floated ghostlike in the middle of the room.  Yeah, it had to be.
Weird and foreboding as it was, it had to be.

"Oh, real cute, Ladies," I growled.  "Real *funny*!" I yelled at
the ceiling.  "I bet you're rolling around laughing at this!
Well, let me tell you something!"  I was bellowing now.  "There's
a *reason* there's no god of stand-up comedy!"

My neighbors above and below me chose that point to start
pounding on floor and ceiling respectively.  I glanced at the
alarm clock on my nightstand.  3 AM.  Right.  No yelling at gods
before sunrise.  Gotta remember that.  I pulled off my helmet and
powered it down, setting it neatly over the alarm clock.  Then I
burrowed back into my covers and waited for the squeaking of the
bedsprings to die back down.  Now that I had the problem solved,
weariness made itself known again, and in a few minutes I had
fallen back asleep.

                              * * *

Saturday, April 11, 2037, 11:22 AM

Late the next morning, I made my way back to a particular
alleyway in the shade of the twisted remains of the Tokyo Tower.
It was the first time I'd been there in months, since the Three
had locked me down into this world and barred my way.

But now I was free to go -- or so They had claimed.

I stood there in the warm Spring sunshine for a long time, just 
looking at the place, remembering how I woke up here.  It was 
still littered with garbage; it still stank, even in the cool, 
almost chill air of early April.  The graffiti was new, though --
some fan of WWII had actually spray painted a classic "Kilroy was 
here" on the alley's largest stretch of uninterrupted wall --
complete with the requisite crude drawing of long-nosed Kilroy 
himself peering out at me.  It made me stop and wonder what the 
Kilroy *I* knew was up to.  I didn't think he'd draw attention to 
himself with this kind of display, but I wasn't sure; I suspect 
it would have appealed to his quirky sense of humor, though.

Dismissing that line of thought, I turned my attention back to
the real reason I was here.  With a certain trepidation, I keyed
in the newly-memorized code for the song I'd found the night
before, and waited for its opening sound effects to fade and be
replaced by music.

In the center of the alley, a nearly-forgotten flare of rainbow-
colored light appeared in midair.  Almost as soon as it had
become visible, it expanded into a ring surrounding a flat black
disk, nearly three meters across and floating a half meter or so
above the crud-encrusted ground.  An enervating weakness that I'd
felt only once before gripped me, as almost all my reserves were
spent in one rushing flood.  The last time I'd done this, I'd
barely had enough strength left to throw myself through.

Damn.  I had a gate.  I had a way out.  Nodding to myself, I cut
the song.  The rainbow-edged disk collapsed in on itself with an
audible "pop!", and I staggered over to the nearest wall to slump
against it.

A gate.  Finally.  I could move on now.

But before I did, there were a few more things I had to do.

                              * * *

GENOM Tower.  Wednesday, April 15, 2037, 7:15 PM

"That will be all," Kate Madigan said to the brace of disguised
boomer bodyguards who had escorted her to the door of her
apartment.

"Yes, ma'am," they replied in practiced unison, and Kate got the
distinct impression that they would have saluted her if it would
not have