"Can't swim," she replied on her hands and knees, head in a storage locker. "Where are the parachutes?"

"Helos don't carry 'em," he told her.

Moonfeather jerked out. "You fragging me?"

"No."

"Drek!"

Removing his ballistic cloth coat, Delphia folded it neatly and placed it on an empty seat. "What's our altitude?" he asked, looking out the port window. "It looks like a long way down." Removing his sunglasses, he turned to Silver. "Are you done yet? Can you find out if there's a maximum height from which you can jump and still survive? Undamaged, that is."

Silver said nothing, staring at her motionless hands. Memories of her chummers in Blackjack's team getting geeked came vividly to mind, and she gasped aloud at the recalled pain of the shark attack. No, never again.

"Silver?" he prompted, as the console beeped steadily. "Could it be that simple?" she wondered out loud. "That easy? Do it backwards?"

"Yes!" snapped Delphia, shaking her shoulder. "Whatever it is, try now."

Slow and sure, Silver pulled an optical chip from the pocket of her blood-smeared jacket. Slotting the chip into her deck, she tapped in commands. Instantly, the satellite link opened up. She could see the fountain, her favorite spot in the Miami grid, and then the resistance cleared. She was flying down the datastream. No IC, no system alerts, nothing. She had the golden codes, and they blew her straight into the Atlantic Security mainframe.

Yes! She ripped the operational codes from the mainframe, and then stole everything she could stuff into the banks of the hot Fuchi in her lap.

Sending the codes back through the radio, with a mumbled message about snipers and radio interference, she watched as the intruder alert went clear and the autopilot kicked in.

"We're clear!" she called over the internal PA a second later as the Sky Stallion started moving again to gain altitude.

"Roger Helo Eighty-six," said the ceiling speaker. "You are on independent recall. Troops are en route to your street team. See you in ten."

In the aft compartment, the wind whipping his clothes, Thumbs gratefully closed the side door. "Thank Ghu."

"How?" asked Delphia, slumping heavily in the pilot seat. Wearily, she beamed at him. "It was dicey for a bit, but I let them control the helo and I went for the satlink."

"But how?" he insisted. "What was that chip? Some special can opener program?"

"A ten-year-old data chip, nothing more."

"Say what?" gushed Thumbs, filling the doorway. "Oh, I get it!"

"Gordon," said Moonfeather from behind him. "You used his old chip."

"Hai," replied Silver unjacking the deck. "Gordon had an access code to talk privately with Harvin about the book. It got him through the Matrix for secret yaks with the big cheese. Damn code also worked via a satellite uplink and it was cleared for Atlantic Security. It let me past their IC to talk to them directly. After that"-she snapped her fingers-"done deal."

"Indubitably a superb demonstration of non-Euclidian logic conquering corporate jacdictation," breathed Delphia, with a lopsided grin. "Utterly outstanding."

"Crab poop, why can't you ever speak English?" demanded Thumbs, sliding his sunglasses back on.

Flying over downtown Miami, the massive helo skimmed low over the jumbled rooftops, running lights out, motors on hush, a whispering ghost masking the stars one by one.

"I'll land us on the next rooftop and send this bucket back to AtSec headquarters on George," Silver said. "Look for a likely spot. No power lines or antennas."

Stuffing loose items into a bulging dufflebag, Moonfeather stared at the other woman. "George?"

"Aviator slang for the autopilot," Silver replied gaily, crossing her arms as the gunship neatly pirouetted in the sky before beginning its angled descent.

"Great Ghost, I love beating the bastards!"

Every light in his penthouse office was on, removing any chance of a stray shadow. His tie was removed, jacket gone, shoes off, and James J. Harvin had wrapped a silk kimono about him. An untouched gold tray of food sat on the low table between twin couches nearby. Also untouched on his empty desk was a decanter of chilled wine spotted with dewy moisture.

Harvin sat facing the windows, looking at his reflection in the triple Armorlite barrier. A squarish head, gray hair cut in a buzz, tiny ruby earrings, large hands, no age spots yet, but he knew they would come. Maybe it was time to violate his body and get chipped-skillwires could make him an instant violin maestro. Replacement muscles would give him the strength of a troll weightlifter. He could be strong, fast again.

But that would just be the meat, his soul was tired. Did he even have a soul anymore? He had taken so many parts from others, their organs beating and living inside his chest. They'd taken him apart and put him together with the lifestuff of other people. Was he still Jim Harvin anymore? The face resembled him, but that too could change in less than a day. His illness was in recession. He'd fought the mutagenic cancer and won. Or so they said. So why did he feel as if he was still dying?

He poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip, rolling the vintage about on his tongue, breathing in through his nose to savor the bouquet as his father had taught him decades ago. How to relish good wine, cut the throats of the competition, and avoid friends. Muchas gracias, padre.

So many dark thoughts for such a lovely night.

Faintly, on the other side of the windows, Harvin could see the twinkling lights of Miami. Resorts, hotels, casinos, schools, brothels, air defense centers, his. So much of it was either owned or run by his Gunderson Corporation, which really was the same thing. What other Caribbean League gov could touch him? He ruled Miami. The telecom beeped musically, calling for his attention.

"On," he said, without turning. "Code fourteen," answered a VOX, the artificial voice flat and flavorless. He swiveled his chair about. "Accepted. Do not monitor, record, or trace. Unrestricted access granted on my command."

"Acknowledge," spoke the mechanical words. Harvin had been expecting this call ever since receiving the report about the Atlantic Security rescue team less than an hour go. Those street samurai Erika Johnson had hired were supposed to be second-stringers, at best. And yet they still stayed one step ahead of the game. He smiled.

The indicators on the telecom lit, but the screen remained featureless. "Report," came another voice, though the screen displayed no visual.

"They're close. Very close," said Harvin. "They've acquired the datafiles on IronHell."

"When?"

"Less than an hour ago."

"The real files?"

"No. The basic files only. No detailed data."

"How?"

"Used a private passcode to gain access to the Atlantic Security system, and then on to their central data processor. They got the pirate files."

"Whose code?" the faceless voice asked from the telecom. "Mine."

A minute passed. "The ork?"

"Yes," said Harvin.

"Kill him."

"Gordon is already dead."

"But not soon enough, it appears."

"No." Harvin shook his head sadly, thinking of Scott Gordon. "Not soon enough."

"I warned you that trying to write about this could jeopardize our whole operation."

"Yet you have published several articles on undersea living in the scientific journals," Harvin returned quietly. "Which have not incommoded us."

"Yet. Even you find it hard to resist telling someone after you've solved a most difficult problem, eh?"

A few silent ticks passed. "Granted. But that is irrelevant right now. Was the ork terminated by in-house staff?"

"No." Harvin breathed deeply, faintly tasting the wine again. "My friend was killed by unknowns. Crucified. When we find whoever did it, they'll go straight to the medical labs-dead or alive."

"How did they get away with this?"

"They had very good help."

"IronHell?"

"It is likely, or else . . ." An awkward pause. "Or else the elves have developed an interest in our business beyond the wall." The last words were not stressed, nor spoken loudly, and Harvin wondered if the other heard the meaning he intended.

"Understood. That would be most unfortunate," stated the voice without emotion. "This changes everything. Stop the investigation immediately. Pay the runners off with a bonus."

"Impossible. They're incommunicado. Until they report in, I have no way to contact them."

"None?"

"None."

"And they have a chance at success?"

"Expect them at your door any day now."

"Most unfortunate. In the chaos of this situation, they may discover what is actually happening."

"Yes."

"Terminate them. Immediately."

Pouring more wine, Harvin softly laughed. "You have such difficulty with the world kill, don't you, dear sister?"

"Hai, I suppose so."

"And what about the other matter-the trouble we've been having with our system? Is it heat again?"

"The matter is being attended to."

"So, no success from your side either, eh?" Harvin said to the black screen. "Good. Failure loves company. Only success stands alone."

"That is one interpretation of the facts."

"Have you found the needed personnel yet?"

"Yes. And he's on his way."

"The first good news of the day. Do your best."

"Acknowledged, dear brother. Out."

"Off," he said, toying with the full glass. As the connection broke, Harvin watched to see the brief image of a blue triangle bisected by an irregular red line fade in and then out. Confirmation of an untraced transmission. Then that too was gone, and he was alone again at the top of the world.

Into the Abyss

15.

11:05 AM Eastern Standard, 14 June 2058 Latitude 30.14, Longitude 70.29, Atlantic Ocean Stumbling out of the fresher, Thumbs braced himself against the rusty wall and breathed in through his nose, out his mouth, a few times. They'd been out to sea three weeks aboard this rustbucket and he still couldn't stop yarfing out his guts every time they hit a wave. The sea, the sky, the deck, and his wobbly self were all gently rocking back and forth, to and fro, with the overhead light fixtures swaying sickeningly in squeaky counterpoint. But he was feeling much better after giving the fish of the Atlantic Ocean a hearty meal.

"Try this," said Silver, tapping him on the shoulder.

Thumbs look down and accepted the steaming mug.

"I asked Moonfeather to make it double strength this dose," she said. "Maybe that'll do the trick."

Thumbs nodded and swallowed the herbal brew. Remarkably, in a few ticks his stomach stopped doing the cha-cha-cha. "Better," he said around a tongue like shag carpet. He repeated the word, "Better."

"Another?" she asked.

Thumbs gave her an expression of total agreement and started to stumble off. Taking hold of a hairy arm larger than her leg, Silver turned him about. "Engine room is down there, galley this way. We're on deck five, not two."

"What the frag are we doing out here?" Thumbs demanded, trying to ignore his throbbing horns. "I'm a street troll, not fragging Popeye the sailor guy. El trains and alleys are my turf."

"Hey, chummer, this was your idea, remember." She was holding open a heavy hatch in the causeway for him.

Yeah, yeah, he'd have to take the fall for this brilliant twig. The files Silver had uploaded from Atlantic Security showed that they were definitely hunting pirates for the Gunderson Corp. The files had also offered up lots of rumors about fields of sunken ships and secret cities inside mountains. But you could take all the hard data, carve it in granite, stuff it up your nose, and never be aware that anything was there.

With one notable exception. They'd learned the meaning of the word IronHell. According to the AtSec files it was a special code word for the headquarters of one of the bigger pirate groups preying on ships in this part of the Atlantic. The location was apparently well-hidden even by shadow standards. Atlantic Security had no idea where or who they were. Half the time IronHell seemed to refer to the organization and the other half to its secret base of operations. Whoopdie-fragging-do. Thumbs was not impressed.

However, unlike Queen O'Malley and her ilk in the waters around California Free State or the Black Mariha gang operating in the coastal waters of the Mediterranean, these Caribbean brigands were well-organized, heavily armed, and none had ever been taken alive. Not one. Ever. Delphia considered that a significant fact. Silver thought it was unnatural. Moonfeather said it was a lie to cover AtSec incompetence. Thumbs' personal opinion was that the slags had simply never been captured by a meanhoop Slammer with access to handcuffs and a cheese grater.

Apparently, there was a nifty little bomb surgically implanted inside their brains. Not just inside the skin and bone of the head-lots of folks had com units, decoders, and all sorts of drek stuff in there. No, this device was deep inside the living brain. If the pirate was captured alive by enemy forces, even unconscious, his head would explode, making interrogation what you might call difficult. Neither deckers nor mages had been able to circumvent the security device. X-rays and CAT scans set the thing off instantly.

Once the wearer was dead, he or she always went boom. It was obviously the IronHell pirates who'd tried to ambush the team in Dorsey Park. Whoever built those headbombs knew what they were doing. Thumbs didn't think even Aztechnology and Fuchi could have done better.