He took a deep breath, cold with the late-spring rains. It brought his attention back from the multiple feed of the nanobugs, like closing a thousand eyes. Even with only his own sight, everything had the laser-cut diamond clarity of the overdrive system laid along his neurons. He could hear thedrakensis long before he saw it, hear its heartbeat and breathing. When he did see, it was almost shocking. Hardly different from any native human woman, sitting in slacks and roll-necked sweater and long unbuttoned coat. There was a book on the bench beside her.

It certainly looks human now,he thought; then remembered to clamp down on subvocalization.

Gwen cracked another peanut and flicked the kernel at the squirrel. The beady rodent eyes fastened on her suspiciously, and then it darted closer and scurried away with the nut. There was a raccoon not far away, sleepy but interested.

She leaned back and set the bag of nuts on the bench, crossing her ankles and her arms.

It? she said to the tall blond man. It? Come now. Iam a female hominid, if not exactly the same species as you. Surely I rate ashe, at least.

He lowered his head slightly into his broad shoulders, motionless and silent as none of the primitives she'd met here could ever be. She enjoyed the sensation of danger for a second, a subtle pleasure, then sighed at his boulder-solid patience. He'd be thoroughly buffered against pheromonal dominance, of course. His scent was as odd as his body language: human, but with overtones of something else. Almost mechanical, in fact.

Has it occurred to you, she said, after they had studied each other for a moment, that our little conflict here is a paradigm for the past six centuries? Six centuries of our own history, that is, not this timeline.

He showed his teeth slightly. It must be frustrating, never being able to get away from us pestiferous Yankees.

There is that, she said, inclining her head. But I was mostly commenting on the futility of it all.

His eyes shifted to the book. Wittfogel,Oriental Despotism.

Odd choice, he said.

You recognize it?

I've looked through the literature here.

Interesting analysis, Gwen said. Very acute. Nothing like it in our history, that I have data on; although if someone had come up with this back when, my ancestors would probably have killed him. They were an intolerant lot.

His brows rose. You aren't?

Wedrakensis don't need ideology, much; we've got genetics instead. Our social order is hard-coded into our nervous systems. She saw the distaste on his face, an infinitesimal movement of his facial muscles.

What is there to discuss? he asked.

We're neither of us constrained to obey the dictates of our societies, she said equably. Even Draka have free will, of a sort.

You're offering to surrender?

At that she laughed, a clear warm sound. No more than you, cyber-warrior. Come now, though; you must be an intelligent man. Why should we extend the feuds of our respective peoples here?

Duty.

She nodded. Consider the implications, though. I've been giving this 'many worlds' matter some serious thought. There are a near-infinite number of variations on possible outcomes. Ones where I never came here; ones where you never came here. Ones where half of me got chopped off by the transition phase shift, like poor Wulfa's arm. Ones where I've already won, ones whereyou've already won.

In other words, there has to be an alternate where every possible outcome occurs. What of it? That doesn't alter the fact that each ofus has only one world-line to live on and it's the only one we get. The event wave is deterministic in retrospect.

A point-yet we live in the present, not retrospectively, and anticipate the future. But it's also true that, practically speaking, nothing we can do here will ever affect our home time-line. Considering the physics .

. . there has to be a substantial degree of fuzziness, somehow, in any world-line's location in the universe's wave function. You may well not be fromexactly the same timeline that I am-if exactly has any meaning, in this situation. And if I succeed in building an anchoring beacon, the world-line I contact may be subtly different from the one I left. I'd probably never know for sure.

The Samothracian went very still, even by contrast with his usual state.Aha, Gwen thought.I hit, with thatone. Her hypothesis on the physics must have been correct. That alone made all this trouble worthwhile.

Interesting, he said at last. But why set up a meeting to discuss the obvious?

Who else is there to talk to? Gwen said. The natives?

He made an angry gesture with his head. I might have expected you to underestimate them.

Because they're human? Not in the least. I don't underestimateyou, I assure you. I assume you've got some of them working under you- Withme, he corrected.

-as I do. They're often quite intelligent. They just don't have our knowledge base. Look at the way they're wrecking the planet. It'll be uninhabitable in another century, at this rate.

'Only on a straight-line extrapolation. There are feedback mechanisms already at work to correct the negative trends; there usually are in an open system. Overcontrol is hubris. You snakes were always prone to that.

A judgment call. She sat up. Here's my point, she said. You're here to prevent me from contacting the Domination, correct?

That's one of my mission priorities, he acknowledged.

Well, then, she said, why not divvy the place up ourselves? Easier on the locals than fighting over it. You get the Western Hemisphere, I get the Old World. That means you control my only access to the Domination timeline; and you can't access the one you came through, I'm pretty sure it's way off-planet.

Lafarge snorted. You really don't understand humans at all, do you? For all that you exterminated them in the Solar System.

Gwen shrugged and tossed a peanut into her mouth. My parents were human. She smiled at his slight shock.Parent, really. I'm a clone. Yes, I'm that old. I fought in the Final War; I saw your ancestors leaving for Alpha Centauri, and wept with envy . . . .

I'm not human, but my ancestors were; and what they dreamed, we are. By our natures; but you have more choices. Which is exactly what I'm offering you: a choice.

To let you wipe out humanity on two-thirds of Earth?

Oh, I don't think I'd transform them toservus. Not with unaltered humans around in numbers; it wouldn't be fair, they couldn't compete, and I can't start up my own race here in sufficient numbers to protect them. Besides which, humans are a challenge. Have a peanut? No?

No, he said. This is all a game to you, isn't it? Moves and counter-moves and prizes.

Of course, she said. I'mfour hundred years old. Nobody lives that long without gaining a certain degree of detachment. By the way, there's no reason why you shouldn't live that long or longer, here. We're beyond reach of Samothracian law as well as Draka.

He turned on his heel and walked away.

Humans,Gwen thought. So emotional.

Worth it to get a sense of her enemy.Strong will. She'd expected that, but not quite so much so. She crumbled a handful of peanut shell, and tossed the nuts among the squirrels. They squabbled and chattered over the bounty, tails curled up. A bit rigid, though. He should have played it out longer, probed for her weaknesses.

What would I have done if he'd said yes?she wondered. A very low probability . . .

I'd probably have gone along with it, for a while at least, she murmured. Would have been enjoyable.

She cast her mind back, reviewing every episode of the past few weeks.I've made some sort of mistake, she thought. No definite clue, but the gestalt had been wrong.Ah .

A squirrel came close to her feet; she flipped it into the air with a toe and grabbed it in one hand. The tiny heart beat against the skin of her palm, and the little animal squirmed in her grip. She held the tiny face close to hers.

Be more cautious, she said to it. It's a dangerous world.

Gwen tossed it underhand. It sailed through the air with its paws spread, landing on a tree about ten meters away; the gray shape clung for a moment, then vanished upward into the branches.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Dammit, it's my money, Bill Saunders said. If I want to buy materials you want, that's my business and none of yours.

He glared at the Californian.Slicker than snot, he decided. Probably a faggot. Not that he had anything against queers as such, although presumably God didn't approve. There had been one in his company back in Nam who'd been the best hand with an M-60 he'd ever met. He just didn't like this San Franciscan snob.Who is a traitor. Not just to the United States, but to the human race.

Tom Cairstens leaned back in the chair across from the desk. Mr. Saunders-you don't mind if I call you Bill, do you?

Yep. I do.

Cairstens's smile didn't falter for an instant. IngolfTech has done a good deal of mutually profitable business with you.Why endanger it? You can't use those components.

That's proprietary information.

Their smiles were equally fake as Cairstens rose to go.

Name's Laureano, and he runs with the Lords, Jesus Rodriguez said. He showed the picture to the barkeeper. Laureano Gomez. Seen him lately?

The barkeeper muttered something. It was easy to lose a sound in here; there were probably louder places in East Harlem, but not many. He didn't recognize the group playing, just that it was Puerto Rican, and cranked enough to warp the woofer.Lot of good talent out there, he thought. Nice that tight short dresses were back in. That brought a slight stab of guilt.I'm married, not blind, he told himself. Lot of very flashy-looking dudes, too. He was a little out of place himself, probably not enough to scream policia.

Certainly the boss would stick out if he'd come in himself; there weren't any Anglos here. The smell of sweat and weed was pretty thick, curls of blue smoke drifting up under the ceiling lights. The bartender stared at him silently.

I can't hear you, Jesus said patiently. But the health inspectors might.

The barkeeper wasn't the owner, of course, but he wouldn't want to piss him off, either. He jerked his head at a door.

Stairway's there.

The interior one, at least; somebody might well be watching the outside doors to the aboveground part of the building. There were rooms on the upper floors, hourly and daily rents, real class. He should have backup for this. Instead all he had was thepatron and the . . . he didn't even like tothink about Lafarge.

The bartender's hand showed him a key: 613.

He went behind the bar and through the doors, touching one finger to his ear. It wasn't necessary to activate the little button, but it made him feel better, somehow.

I'm going up, he said, in a whisper that didn't move his lips. He's in 613.

Be careful, Lafarge's voice answered. It sounded like normal conversation, but he knew nobody else could hear a thing. Shit. There are at least three other people in those rooms.

I'm always careful, he answered shortly.Patron?

Ready out back, Carmaggio's voice answered.

The stairwell was dark and littered, smelling of urine and ancient dirt. He went up the stairs two at a time, the treads of his shoes making no sound; they looked like dancing leather, but he'd bought ones with composition soles. No sense in slipping at a critical moment. On the sixth floor he took a careful look both ways down the corridor. Nobody, and most of the lights were out. Perfect. He slipped his ID into one hand and the automatic into the other. The door was wood, with an ordinary Yale lock-low security, for New York. He kicked it flat-footed beside the knob, once, twice, and on the third time it flew open.

Policia!he shouted. Everybody down, everybody down!

The girl screamed-they always did. Just the two of them, on the couch, both in their underwear. The man wasn't Laureano-too heavy, a big beefy guy with a wisp of pointed beard. He backed up against the sofa with his hands at shoulder level.

Hey, chico, no problem. Be cool, he said.

His eyes darted to a chest of drawers by the wall, covered in tossed-off clothes. Probably a piece there, or his stash. The girl was much younger, cowering back on the couch with her hands over her breasts.

Down,hijo. Now.

The man went down. Jesus stooped and cinched his hands behind his back with a set of plastic manacles; great little invention, since you could put them on and tighten them one-handed. The girl stared at him as he went over to the door to the bedroom, standing wide of it.

Police, he said through it. Come on out, Laureano. We just want to talk to you a little, is all, homes. Just a talk. Talk about a lady you met.

Four rounds blasted through the door-and through the outer wall of the suite and probably out through the side of the building, possibly through a couple of civilians on the way. The girl on the couch scuttled out the door on her hands and knees, grabbing bits of her clothing as she went and not wasting any more time on screaming.

Shit!

He curled back into the angle of the two walls beside the door, the hardest place to bear on from the inside of the bedroom. Two voices whimpered from within: women's voices. And the sound of heavy breathing.

Man, you in trouble now. Don't make it worse. Come out without the piece and you can still walk away from this.

Bambambambam.Whatever Laureano had in there, it had a high-capacity magazine. And he was trying to hit; this grouping was much closer to the hinge of the door, and him. The prisoner over by the couch gave a yelp and Jesus spared him a quick flickering glance. One of the bullets had drawn a line of blood across his buttocks. The detective grinned.Mierda. This could get serious, though. Too many civilians around.

The heavyset prisoner was yelling at Laureano too; mostly insults.

Shut up! Jesus called.

He lay down and rolled on his back, inching quietly toward the door feet-first. Knees up, shoulders braced . . .slam and his heels knocked it open. He used the same motion to flip himself back up on his feet, automatic in a two-handed grip and pointed at the bed. His mouth opened . . .

. . . and closed as he saw Laureano's naked back vanishing out the window.

He's on his way down,patron, he said.

Got him, Carmaggio said in his throat.

A dark shape coming down the rusty iron of the fire escape, into the piles of garbage bags and cans at its base. There was just enough light to see that he was naked; the gun was a black blur in one hand. The sour taste of danger at the back of his mouth was familiar, almost comforting, after the last couple of months. He tucked himself into the doorway, shoulders against the bars that covered the painted-over glass, inhaling the scent of garbage and stale urine.Eau de Nouveau York, he thought with a cold smile.

Freeze, Laureano, he said. Not shouting, but loud and emphatic. Put the piece down.

Shit!he thought, as fragments of brick spalled into his face.The little fucker is fast! The ricochet went bwanngggg across the alleyway and struck sparks from something on the other side.