The power gathered, shaping itself to the melody.

When he had the rhythm just right, Sam released it.

Angry voices drifted into the chamber from 192.

Robert N. Charrettesomewhere beyond the north entrance. They grew louder, as if they were approaching.

Burnside cursed and rushed for the archway. The other two policemen drew their weapons and fol- lowed. For the moment, their captives were forgotten.

The spell had worked. While the detectives paid atten- tion to the illusory voices, Sam and Hart slipped through the west entrance and away.

As soon as they hit the sidewalk, Hart started a stag- gering run toward the riverside.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked.

"Had a boat arranged in case we got hosed. The landing is only a couple of blocks."

" What about Willie?"

"We'll come back for her."

"She might need help now. The slime shorted her drone, and the feedback could have hurt her. Drek, it might have killed her.''

Hart looked over her shoulder as if she expected Burnside and his goons to come pelting out of the warehouse at any moment. "If she's dead, we can't help her. If she's alive, we can't help her by getting locked up. Let's get out of here.""If she's alive and we don't help her, she might not stay that way long. The Bone Boy may not be a ghoul, but that doesn't mean there aren't any in the East End.

If Willie's out cold and exposed, she's easy meat."

"Sam, we ..."

"I'm going after her. I can't abandon her."

Hart shook her head. "Okay. Let's go."

They ran up the street away from the river.

Since she disliked operating at extended range in the plex, Sam knew that she would have parked her van somewhere close by. He and Hart started checking likely places. They found the battered panel truck in the third place they tried. It looked barely functional, more like a derelict than a working vehicle. Appear- .

ances were deceiving; its motor and running gear were superbly maintained and its cargo area contained a multi-slot rigger board, multifrequency transceivers, trideo monitoring systems, and drone storage cells.

In short, it was the rigger's camouflaged, rolling com- mand center. Sam fidgeted while Hart disarmed the truck's protection, relaxing only when they openedthe back to find Willie semi-conscious. The rigger let go her hold on awareness as soon as she realized her friends had found her. Hart gave the van a set of co- ordinates and told him that they were headed for a place she had used before.

They had been at Hart's safehouse for an hour before Willie responded to the drugs from her van's medical kit. When she opened her eyes her pupils were dilated, but Sam wasn't sure if it was because of the drugs or the rigger-loop feedback. Willie's words were slurred.

"What happened? Where's everybody?"

"Hart and I are here, Willie. You're going to be okay."

"Others get out?"

"Haven't heard from Estios and his crew since they took off after the druids. Nice of them to leave us with that slime thing."

Willie started to shake. Sam reached out to steady her."It's okay. Hart got it. It's gone, Willie."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

"I hate magic."

Me too, Sam wanted to say. He thought it more use- ful to stay positive. "Raid's over now. We must have done something right, we survived."

"What was that furry thing?" Willie asked.

"Looked like a sasquatch to me," Sam said.

"More likely was a wendigo," Hart opined.

194.

Robert N. Charrette "Though the two look a lot alike. Can't always tell even from the aura."

"Why do you think it was aa151what did you callit?"

"Wendigo," Hart replied. "The flesh angle. A wendigo is a pananormal thing that eats human flesh.

The Circle was probably stripping the corpses to keep it fed. Nasty business."

"Well, it's gonna be hungry for a long time now that its mouth don't connect to its stomach. I stitched the head clean off the furball."

Willie's smile stayed plastered on her face as her eyes sank closed and she began to snore.

26.

It had been three microseconds since the activity monitor had registered data manipulation. A long time. Dodger considered the merits of opening the bubble that sealed his persona within the masked credit file he had uncovered in Glover's ATT discre- tionary funds. The number of manipulations the shunt bubble had passed through had been high, much higher than a legitimate or even an ordinary illegal transfer of funds. The bubble had traveled far, per- haps as far as the druids' innermost computer system.He knew he should wait longer. The operator who had called for the data he had piggybacked on might not be out of the system. Tired of waiting, he was ready for action. While it was a risk breaking out now, re- maining encapsuled could be a greater one. He can- celled the program, restoring his ordinary Matrix persona and functionality.

The ebon boy stretched as if awakening from sleep, 5E YOUR ENEMIES CAREFULLY 195.

then froze. There was no swirl of glitter around him.

His dazzling cloak was gone, replaced with another kind of shine. His arms were encased in gleaming metal that was articulated in the style of antique ar- mor. More than just his arms, his entire body was armored. The construct imagery was superb, but not his style at all. Dodger hit the reformat key, but the construct remained. He tapped out a routine to alter the imagery, and still got no result. A diagnostic on the cyberdeck registered nominal, which meant that the persona construct imagery was being imposed by the host system. Such an effect required a powerful system.

A look around told him just how powerful. Most systems, even imposed imagery systems, had a hint ofthe electron reality about them. Even the best virtual recompositers didn't always provide a truly realistic image, and they only supplied the specific translations to their slaved deck; other users still perceived the ba- sic interface illusion. But this place was beyond the ordinary. Had he not known that magic was impossi- ble in the Matrix, he would have thought the landscape touched with enchantment.

All around him lay a green and pleasant land. He stood at the edge of a forest looking out on rolling hills lush with croplands and scattered copses of woods. The forest behind him, a beautiful climax sys- tem, stretched away to the horizon in either direction.

It was lush and burgeoning with woodland life. The sight, sound, and smell of it filled him with wonder.

If it were real . . .

Dodger turned away and stared once more across the open vista. He could not afford to lose himself in amazement. For the moment, the forest was only a distraction. Perhaps when he had done what needed doing and seen what needed seeing, he would come--------------------------------------------------------------- back to explore this marvelous construct. For now, he had to be about his work.

A careful visual search revealed no signs of habita- tion beyond the fields. Given the imagery, he thought it likely that any datastores or other useful computer nodes would appear as man-made structures. Given the girdling forest and the lack of buildings, he felt sure that he was on the fringes of the system. He would need to get deeper to find out anything.

Obstructed somehow by the interface, his standard programs failed to move him through the architecture at a reasonable pace. He tapped keys, improvising variations in a search for a compatible set of parame- ters. Frustrating minutes later, he finally realized that many of his tricks were inappropriate. Passwords and subroutines here would be strongly influenced by theimagery. Symbolically, not literally, for nothing was literal in the Matrix. He suspected that many programs in this system would have strategic orientations that could only be expressed in such a way as to manifest an appropriate construct imagery. A clever, if convo- luted protection system. Any decker unwilling to ac- cept the parameters of the imposed imagery would be paralyzed. But, as he had told uncounted admirers, he was not just any decker.

His fingers flew across the keyboard, searching out the avenues of correspondence with self-contained routines. Having grasped one of the master program's constraining strategies, he was able to formulate more appropriate responses and begin to manipulate the sys- tem. Successes began to accumulate, culminating in a soft whicker. He turned to pat the destrier that stood by his side. The horse nuzzled his hand and bumped his shoulder with its snout. Like a proper steed, it was eager for adventure. He mounted the milk-whitestal- lion and settled into the high-can tied saddle. Then they f 198.

Robert N. Charrette were off, the horse's alabaster mane and tail streaming back in the wind.

The destrier's stride was steady and strong. The countryside rolled past. Despite deviations into likely valleys and detours to check out farmed land, Dodger found nothing more elaborate than thatch-roofed sod huts. Such were certainly nodes, but unlikely to hold anything of import. This system's imagery pattern de- manded that what was important look important.

He rode on until at last he glimpsed golden spires onthe distant horizon. Turning the horse's head toward the structure, he spurred the beast forward.

The destrier climbed the last rise between them and their destination as swiftly as it had climbed the first.

The road they had followed for the last several appar- ent miles led down the gentle slope to a bridge that spanned the valley's wide river. Beyond the water, the road climbed a well-grassed knoll and disappeared through the gates of the structure Dodger sought.

The magnificent castle spread over the crown of the hill and its nacreous walls shown in the sunlight. Bright pennons fluttered on the conical peaks of dozens of subsidiary towers, but the spire of the great central tower flew a single flag. There a red banner with the three golden leopards of Britain flapped boldly in the breeze.

Was this the computer system of the English crown?

There was one way to find out. Dodger urged the horse forward.

The destrier's hooves thundered on the wood of the bridge, the noise of them jangling Dodger's nerves.Stealth and the roundabout way were his preferred ap- proach. The bridge seemed to go on and on, its span stretching far further than it had appeared to do.

Dodger's suspicions were only beginning to rise when the black knight appeared at the far end. The knight's midnight steed reared slightly as it began its charge.

199.

Clattering steel and the ringing of iron-shod hooves filled Dodger's ears.

Ah, a countermeasure at last.

The need for action released his tension. Dodger's fingers flew across the keys of his cyberdeck, priming his attack and defensive programs and tweaking them to suit the imposed imagery. The ebon boy in the mirror-polished armor held out his gauntleted hand and a crystal lance appeared in it. A shield as reflec- tive as his armor came into being on his left arm. He lowered his weapon into the slot on the shield, using the resting point to steady his grip as he spurred for- ward.

"Have at thee, Sir Ice."The two charging chevaliers met in a crash. The black knight's weapon was longer and he struck first.

Dodger felt the lance point slam into his shield. For a terrifying instant it hung, pressing him back against his saddle's cantle and threatening to unhorse him.

But then the point slid free and slithered along the curve of the shield and away.

His own point slipped past the knight's shield, catching him full on the helm. The shock ran straight through the lance into Dodger's arm and threw him back into the cantle again. His point had struck cleanly and he had braced well for the shock. The knight's helm lifted from his shoulders and flew backwards to strike the bridge surface with a clarion ring.

Unmasked, the knight was revealed as an empty suit of armor. He and his destrier faded and vanished even before Dodger came abreast of them. Unimpeded, the milky stallion raced on.

On a whim, Dodger dipped his lance and speared the fallen helm. He lifted it high, allowing the lancepoint to pass through the eyeslit so that the helm could slide the length of the weapon. Since he had no further 200.

Robert N. Charrette need for the shield, it vanished, allowing him to use his freed hand to remove the red and yellow plume from his vanquished foe's headgear. Dodger retired the attack program as well. When the lance misted to nothingness, the knight's helm volatilized into smoke and blew away.

Feeling exhilarated by his victory, Dodger affixed the plume to his own helm. A suitable token of prow- ess, he thought.

He slowed his destrier as he approached the gate to the castle. No sense rushing in before gauging the op- position. He expected another black knight at thevery least. The castle was moated; might he face a mon- ster?

To his surprise, nothing moved to bar his path as he started forward. The drawbridge even remained down.

The inhabitants of the castle continued about their business. The gate guards even greeted him pleasantly when he drew near. He was puzzled at his acceptance until he noted the predominant color scheme of the castle's denizens. Everyone wore a favor or plume of red and yellow, if not full livery of the two colors.

The plume he had snatched from the black knight's helm was red and yellow. No doubt, it was a passcode.

Grinning, he guided his horse across the drawbridge and into the courtyard.

He dismounted, his horse vanishing now that it was no longer needed, but he kept a copy of its program in storage. He might need it for a getaway. The court- yard was bustling with activity, servants and crafts- people attending the multitude of tasks necessary for the running of a castle. How much was analog for computer activity and how much was simply localcolor he didn't know. He wandered about, looking for a way into the keep.

Long minutes of searching proved useless. Either he was missing something, or he hadn't understood the .

parameters. If this were a real castle, and he a real knight, all he would have to do was stop a servant and ask directions.

That, he realized, was the answer.

Interrupting a working functionary would be too ob- vious a disruption of routine. Dodger waited until

one.

of the many liveried folk who appeared to be messen- gers of some sort passed near him. He stepped into the servant's path, blocking him only long enough to learn his destination. He heard his own voice asking directions. The imposed imagery again, converting his realworld decking into apparent actions that suited the milieu.

He got into playing the game. From servant to ser-vant he passed, each one dressed in fancier clothes than the last. He passed through the ranks of the cas- tle's hierarchy until he faced the seneschal. Dodger was pleased. The seneschal was the keeper of the cas- tle, the repository of all having to do with its func- tion. He suspected that he had reached the main databank. Unlike the other constructs, this one, a beefy red-haired man wearing a furred cloak over his rich garments, spoke to him before he had said a word.

"Good day, Sir Knight. I am at your service, save you demand aid at variance with my fealty to my liege.

I am Cai."

"Cai the Senescal?"

"Certes."

"As in foster brother of King Arthur?"