The helmet thieves, no doubt. She took a step back toward the door, knowing she'd best lock it up.

With a shock, she realized that the kids were running toward her, not away. One of them held something in his hand, something that glinted.

The helmet?

s.h.i.t, the kid had a knife!

She stepped back again, hand groping for the door she'd let close behind her. Instead of metal, her hand touched leather. Warm, slick leather. She spun to find a tall man standing between her and the door.

"Help me, mister."

"You're not her," he said. He sounded disappointed.

Pain shocked a scream from her as fire lanced into her back. Her grasping hands reached out for the man, but he stepped away from her. Her knees. .h.i.t the cement. Her spine seemed on fire. She'd been knifed in the back.

Why was the guy just standing there?

f.u.c.k him!

Helen heaved herself up. One of the kids was tugging on her. Little b.a.s.t.a.r.d was wearing a mask. His buddy was pawing at her too, his nails gouging like claws. G.o.d, were they going to rape her while she bled her life away?

She kicked one of the little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and he staggered back. She backhanded the other, sending him staggering away too. She was surprised at her strength. Where was it coming from? Her back felt cold now.

Her knees buckled again, dropping her. She reached up for the door handle, but one of the punks grabbed her arm. She felt his stinking breath on her cheek and his nails digging into her flesh. He twisted her arm back, painfully. Her knees left the cement. She flailed helplessly as he heaved her up. The kid was laughing as he held her over his head.

What the h.e.l.l was he on?

His partner chattered something in a gutter dialect, and both of them laughed. The jazzed punk grunted and heaved her straight at the store window.

She hit it, hard, and smashed through. The impact was worse than that night her ex-boyfriend Billy had thrown her against the wall. She clipped the video rack and sent it spinning in a clatter of ca.s.settes. She heard a distant sound like steak hitting a counter, and she was gasping for breath on the floor.

Much worse than what Billy had done.

There was gla.s.s everywhere. She felt it slicing her skin, shredding her clothes. More of it tinkled down on her in a sharp-edged rain.

"MadredeDios!"

Josh's voice was halfway between surprise and fear.

Something flew in through the smashed window, something about the size of one of the punks. They had to be jazzed, really jazzed, to jump like that. Jose, standing frozen in shock, was nearly bowled over. The other one piled in too. The three of them went down in a heap of flailing limbs.

Helen's legs wouldn't move and her right arm lay twisted beneath her. She was broken, dying. Her chest was afire, leaving her no breath to scream. A warm stickiness was oozing along her thigh. She began to cry. It was all she could do.

The sounds of struggle by the counter stopped, but she didn't care. No point. No point at all.

Nym started moving as soon as she saw the shadows flickering outside. She went through the door the male shopkeeper had used to enter the public portion of the store. She found herself in a stockroom. Off to the right was another room, a window separating it from this one. Through the window she saw a man sitting at. a desk. Through the partly open door leaked loud, rhythmic sound, almost music; all ba.s.s, no melody. Noise. The noise drowned out the struggle behind her. The man looked up from the papers in front of him, and his brows furrowed when he saw her.

She ignored him.

The back door was bolted. She threw the bolt and flung the door open, stepping to one side as she did so. Nothing rushed in, so she ran out. Keeping next to the building, she circled around to the front.

At the front corner she stopped, glancing cautiously around. She could see no one. The sounds of struggle still emanated from the store.

She ran to the bike.

The helmet was gone, but that wasn't important. She hopped on and kicked the engine to life, revving it hard. She b.u.mped jarringly over the parking stop as she made her turn. Fighting the bike's attempt to twist out of her control, she barely avoided the dumpster. But then she was clear of obstructions and pointed toward the road.

Something whooshed past and fire blossomed behind her. A glance showed her the convenience store engulfed in a growing fireball. The tall silhouette of a man moved between her and the fire. She throttled up, ducking low against the bike. Her hair streamed behind her and she pushed the bike as hard as she could.

The air crackled.

She was still too close. And no protection.

Slowing as much as she dared, she cut around a parked car to put it between her and the store. Almost instantly, the vehicle burst into flame. Heat washed over her.

She opened the throttle. Distance was the only answer now.

Something else ignited behind her, but not so close.

She left it all behind.

Enviro lab had gone on forever. Sharon, John's partner, was a real scijock, always concerned for two or three decimal places past what John thought necessary. They'd been the last ones done. By the time John got cleaned up and out, the campus was emptying. Students in ones and twos were hustling back to the dorms and out to the rezcoms. John ambled along, content to take his time. A band of raucous frat boys from one of the jock houses, already well into celebrating the weekend, tumbled past. He indulgently endured their jostling. Who was he to complain? He had his own celebrating to do tonight.

Right?

Ah, well. He supposed this was one situation Faye would not be keen to comment on. Faye had seemed worried about him all week, even before the fencing incident with Phil, but she hadn't responded to his questions about her fretfulness, which was a little unusual; she was usually frank about her feelings. She was probably just in a funk because John had a date tonight.

He didn't like it when she acted this way, and had hoped he and she could talk it out. But she had made herself scarce, and they hadn't talked much. Even when she was around, she was far less communicative than usual, so he really didn't know if he was right or wrong in his suppositions.

She'd get over it.

He had just begun to think he detected her lurking around, when he noticed that the frat boys had pulled up and were blocking the entire walkway in front of him. They were hooting and hollering and egging on one of their number, a hulking jock by the name of Winston whom John remembered from his days on the frosh B-ball squad. Winston had been long on brawn and short on brain, and something of a bully. He and John hadn't gotten along at all. Winston was shoving a smaller kid around and shouting slurred insults. Some things never changed.

Winston's victim was much smaller than he was, a slender kid wearing gla.s.ses. Gla.s.ses! n.o.body but geeks wore gla.s.ses anymore. The kid looked vaguely familiar, but John couldn't recall his name. It came to him when he heard the kid's reedy voice yelping in protest when Winston s.n.a.t.c.hed his gla.s.ses. This geek was one of the freshmen who had made advanced placement into John's second-year Global Studies program. Trahn was his name.

Jocks and geeks, a natural antipathy, and not something to get involved in. John edged his way through the outer fringes of Winston's frat brothers. Intent on their brother's hara.s.sment of a lower life-form, they let him pa.s.s. John felt sympathy for the kid and hoped things wouldn't get too physical; in the past, he'd received more than enough similar attention. John cleared the knot of jocks and jock sympathizers and headed north. It wasn't his problem.

Hardly a n.o.ble reaction. Would D 'Artagnon look the other way?

John felt his cheeks grow hot. I'm not D'Artagnon.

No. Just John Reddy.

Right. John Reddy, not D'Artagnon. John Reddy, who's got a date tonight. John upped his speed a notch. The sooner he was out of earshot of the hazing, the sooner he could forget it.

So much for n.o.bility, John Unready.

A couple hundred yards ahead, a group of women turned the corner onto the lane. A dozen or so of them, more than twice the number in the hazing party. The girls would see what was going on and hurry prudently on their way. They'd be all right.

John spotted Kelley among the approaching group. If the girls saw what was happening, they'd know he had seen it as well. What would Kelley think if John just walked away from someone who needed help? He was back on the fringes of the hazing group in a few quick strides.

"Hey, Winston. You're not being very sporting."

Hand still gripping Trahn's bunched shirt, Winston looked over at John. His eyes narrowed in recognition. "If it ain't the ghostly broomstick. Fade, or you're next."

Winston turned back to Trahn, giving him a slap across the cheek. John elbowed his way past one of the jocks and grabbed Winston's upraised wrist. "Guy like this isn't much of a challenge for one of your obvious attributes."

"You want the same?"

"No."

"Then walk away."

They stared into each other's eyes. Winston was partly drunk; John could smell the alcohol on his breath. Not a lot of judgment left behind those piggy eyes. At the periphery of his senses, John could tell more of a crowd was gathering. Was Kelley among them? He didn't want to look around and see. There were too many people watching. Unlikely a bully like Winston would back down now.

Still, John wanted to give him a chance. He released the jock's wrist and offered a placating smile. "You've had your fun. Leave him alone now and n.o.body'll complain. Isn't that right, Trahn?"

"Ain't your business," Winston growled. "Ain't that right, Trahn?"

"I've made it my business," John said, dropping the smile.

"You've made it your trouble."

Winston released Trahn and swung on John. John stepped back into one of the jocks, who shoved him right back at Winston. Winston's second punch caught John in the stomach, doubling him over.

Winston laughed. "Don't need your help, Vinny. The ghostly broomstick's all shadow, no substance."

John's punch caught Winston in the stomach, but the jock didn't double over; he just whuffed, more from surprise than from pain. The guy was built like a wall. But the attack bought John time to get out of Winston's reach.

He danced away from Winston's next swing and punched back. John's long reach let him strike while staying out of Winston's range. He took advantage of it, lashing out to belabor the jock as he tried to close. But Winston wasn't stymied for long. Ducking his head down, he charged, apparently willing to take punishment in order to get to grips with John. The guy was a pig-head like Phil. Like Phil, he was successful. He slipped past John's fists and slammed into him. They both went down, John landing on the shoulder that Phil had slashed.

It hurt.

Heat flared through him. Thrashing his way free of Winston's clutching paws, he rolled to his feet. The jock was up too, and charging again. Ready for that tactic now, John stepped aside and clipped him on the side of the head. The pig-head tried again just the same. John gave him fists.

He felt giddy. This was not like fighting Phil. No swords here, just flesh and bone. And blood. John caught the jock on the right temple and opened the skin. Winston was spending more time blocking now. John's knuckles were raw, but he kept punching, because Winston kept coming. John was glad to oblige him. The jock's defenses were getting sloppier, and John scored again and again. Winston's own attacks were becoming less coordinated. John caught him on the nose and felt it crunch. Winston staggered back.

"So, mister tough guy. Like the other side of it?"

Somebody in the crowd laughed.

Winston flung himself forward, catching John off guard. The jock's head came up under John's chin, shocking John's teeth together. He tasted blood. His own.

Grappling, Winston tried to squeeze the breath out of John. John hammered Winston's shoulders, to little avail. John's vision grayed as the jock squeezed harder. Dizzy, John brought his fists together against Winston's ears. The jock howled and let go. John pummeled his unprotected midsection.

"Hurt me, will you?"

John hit him again. And again. Winston started to stagger, but John was not going to let him off easily. He kept punching, harder and faster. Winston went down.

Not easy at all. Gonna pay, Winston.

John pounced on Winston and pinned the jock's flailing arms under his knees. Winston's head rocked back and forth under John's fists. Someone was yelling somewhere. It sounded like Trahn. Let him yell; Winston was getting what he deserved.

John raised his fist for another punch, but it didn't fall. Someone was restraining his arm. He tried his other hand, but that was held as well.

At first, all John saw was the uniform.

Police.

He looked down at Winston's battered face. The guy's eyes were shut, his jaw slack. John's brain slowed down into something like normal thought. s.h.i.t! He was in trouble now.

He looked up at the cop.

Who wasn't a cop. The man was wearing a campus sanitation uniform. John stared into the ugly face of Trashcan Harry. Not a cop. Just Trashcan. n.o.body important.

Trashcan Harry was a custodian on campus, and his nickname was as much for his odor as his job. He was a hairy old prole who made Winston look, thin and anemic. Harry's nose had met somebody's fist too many times and his ears had been on the receiving end of cosmetic surgery performed by a blind butcher. He had an odd accent as thick as Winston's head, and was the b.u.t.t of more campus humor than John could recall. But Trashcan's grip wasn't funny; John thought he could feel his wrist bones grating together.

Finally John realized that Trashcan Harry was saying something to him. The same thing, over and over, like a chant.

"You stop now."

He stopped resisting the custodian's iron grip.

At least Trashcan Harry wasn't a cop. But relief faded as fast as it had come. Trashcan's work-relief job probably required him to report anything that disturbed the peace of the campus.

John looked around. Trahn was the only one left, and he was looking at John with wide eyes. Even Winston's buddies had deserted him. Kelley wasn't present either. Had she ever been?

Winston lay on the pavement, b.l.o.o.d.y and breathing raggedly. Had John done all that damage? He didn't remember.

"Where'd everyone go?"

"n.o.body likes trouble," Trashcan said.

Trouble. Yeah, there'd be trouble, all right. Winston was not in good shape.

Trashcan tugged on John's arm. "You go get cleaned up."

"What about him?"

Trashcan Harry looked down at the fallen bully. "I take care. You not worry."

Worry? An incident like this would trash his new job at the museum. Worse, it'd mean more sessions with Dr. Block. Regular sessions. Probably cost him his place on the fencing team, as well. Sure, why worry?

And Kelley. Had Kelley seen it all?

There was no one in sight along the lane. The campus was quiet at the end of its day. No one here to stand over Winston but John, Trashcan, and Trahn. And Trashcan was chasing Trahn off, exhorting him to go home and be quiet. John just stood there, pinned by Trahn's accusing stare.

What had he done?