Jumping to the floor, Delphia snatched a vacant chair and threw it at the clanging bell, knocking it off the wall. That bell stopped, but others continued elsewhere.

Cursing vehemently, the overweight norm fumbled a Seco into view and fired at them, the flechettes banging ineffectively off the deep-sea armor. Bending low, Thumbs grabbed a knife from the side table and flipped it at the norm. The blade hit the wall alongside his belly, going in to the handle, the plastic cracking for meters in every direction. The norm promptly fainted, sliding to the grimy floor in a heap. A stygian behemoth, Moonfeather leaped off alongside the male, and grabbed the stun baton. Advancing upon the kiosk, she removed the door from the frame and checked inside. "All clear!" she called, tossing the plastic door away.

"Over here! This way!" cried Silver, clambering off the belt, crushing a chair flat as she waddled toward a flight of metal steps leading to an upper-level catwalk.

Bounding up the steps, the metal bending under them like warm taffy, the group charged along the catwalk, the metal framework shaking horribly under their combined tonnage. Delphia yanked open a door, and cleaning supplies tumbled out. Thumbs did the next portal, and a group of people in aprons and hairnets screamed, bunching tighter together in a corner. Moonfeather grabbed the handle of the next door and it came off in her gauntlet. Silver opened the next. "Hallway!"

Piling through, they pounded past a huge machine pumping and hissing, while another complex bit of ironmongery steadily ground what looked like fish guts into a ghastly puree. Huge glass tubes rose on their right sides, filled with colorful liquids constantly churning with endless streams of gaseous bubbles. There was a riveted metal door at the end of the passage clearly marked in ork and norm Authorized Personnel Only. Both a print and a retinal scanner were on the wall alongside. It resembled a bank vault. No passage there.

Delphia stuck two fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. "Here!" he cried, stepping over the side railing and grabbing hold of a frosty metal pipe. Wrapping his armored legs about the icy length, he slid down and out of sight.

The others followed close behind. Machines and furnaces, floors and catwalks, flashed by until the conduit went through a terrazzo floor a hundred meters later. When Delphia slammed to a halt, he stepped out of the way of the person above him and raced through a zigzag maze of machinery and equipment.

27.

The surface of the Atlantic ocean was choppy and rough, the swells cresting to over a meter in height, but the Atlantic Security battleship Conquistador was motionless in the water as if nailed into position. Resting his back against the angular armor plating of the portside gun battery, Emile Ceccion stood in a tight-fitting twilled jumpsuit of plain utilitarian gray while enjoying the shade of the triple 200mm cannons of the foredeck.

Idly breaking off pieces of hardtack and feeding the crumbs to Grand on his shoulder, Emile studiously watched the crew in their starched white uniforms finish the preparations with the bow crane of the stationary vessel. Swarms of sailors and officers were triple-checking the connection of a thick hook and massive chain to the hoop on top of a squat, flat-bottom, metal ball, its outside ferruled with bands of steelloy and bulk iron. Roughly five meters across, the bathysphere had a single entrance point, the two oval-shaped doors set on either side of the ball's dense hull facing only millimeters apart. Set along the equator were four tiny portholes whose slabs of Armorlite glass were heavily veined with reinforcing wire filaments. It seemed overly much, but Emile always preferred excess in favor of survival. The awful pressure of the lower depths was not the only known killer down there.

Grand chittered and arched his long back, as if agreeing with his master's thoughts. Emile feed him another chunk of the traditional navy bread, his long blond hair blowing in the wind. Grand accepted the treat in his tiny paws and nibbled greedily on the hard cheese-like bread with obvious delight. Emile knew his companion was an omnivore, but this seemed to be taking the definition to new heights.

"Or is that a new low?" he said aloud. Grand playfully nipped the point of his right ear. "Ouch!" said Emile, pushing him gently away. "Pax, little cub, pax. Here, take the rest."

Holding a piece of hardtack larger than his pointed head, Grand chittered in triumph and began to stuff his bulging cheeks with the greasy-gray foodstuff in unabashed glee.

Set in tandem at the very point of the bow of the ship, located between the forward missile battery, were two huge spindles rolled with cables and pressure hoses. Both lines fed to an even larger spool of cable that connected directly to the ball. From his briefing, Emile knew that these were the lifelines of his transport, designed to keep him comfortably supplied with air and power until reaching his destination: Old Dome, a bubblecity some hundreds of meters below on the bottom of the ocean. He found the concept intriguing. To be that much closer to the very heart of Mother Earth. Licking his stiff whiskers clean, Grand nuzzled his master's cheek with a rumble of contentment.

Stroking the ferret under the chin, Emile saw an ork sailor snap a salute to an officer. The norm male was using a lightpen to check off items on the flatscreen of a pocket computer that was lashed to his belt. Originally, Emile thought the bondage an odd affectation before watching a dwarf gunner trip on a loose rope, which sent the box of clay skeets for the captain's evening shoot flying out of his hands and over the railing into the sea.

Briskly, the officer pocketed the computer and started on his way, the wind tugging on his cap but not succeeding in removing it.

"Hoi! Everything ready, Lieutenant?" Emile asked loudly over the growing easterly winds. According to readouts from the Gunderson Corporation's meteorological satellite, another severe storm was brewing up northward and would be coming this way in short order. Once underwater, he would be safe from the ravages of the hurricane, but the Conquistador would bear the full brunt of the tempest as it stayed to lower him to the underwater city nearly two full klicks below the surface.

Emile sincerely hoped the ship did not capsize while he was still linked to it. Grand hissed in agreement, his bushy tail lashing about.

"Aye, sir!" called out the officer. "The Cousteau is ready whenever you are, sir!"

Gathering the plastic shoulder bag and vine-covered wooden staff at his boots, Emile stolidly crossed the freshly painted deck. An ork ensign held open the outer hatch of the bathysphere for him, the inner hatch already swung out of the way. Stooping, Emile entered the metal ball.

Once inside and upright again, he was surprised to see that the interior of the Cousteau was pleasantly upholstered, with velvet walls, plush rugs, and a curved bank of cushioned seats from which seat belts dangled loosely. Off to the side opposite the seats was a stack of crates lashed to the hull with elastic straps. Another hatch was in the center of the floor, the lid locked with a wheel-shaped mechanism. A brief inspection of the equipment crates showed that they were secure and that his personal seals had not been disturbed.

"Any last requests, sir?" asked a lieutenant, one mirror-polished shoe resting halfway on the rim of the hatch.

"Such as?" asked Emile, tugging a strap tightly around his shoulder bag to hold it in place.

The norm shrugged. "Food, medical supplies, narcotics, weapons, bookchips, simsense chips, spare clothes . . . Mr. Harvin himself authorized carte blanche, sir. Whatever the Connie carries is yours."

"Thank you," Emile said, jabbing his staff into the flooring. The vine-covered rod of wood stayed there. "But I appear to have all that I require." Leaping off his shoulder, Grand landed on a seat and yipped.

"I stand corrected," Emile turned to face the norm. "Is there perhaps any more hardtack?"

Watching Grand with distrust, the lieutenant said, "Ah, not up here, sir. I can get more from ship stores." Outside the sky was rapidly darkening, and soft thunder sounded.

"We shall do without," Emile decided. Grand yipped again. "Silence," he said softly, and the ferret went motionless. After a tick, Grand chased his own tail until he was a small ball of fur, head and tail indistinguishable.

"As you say, sir." The lieutenant saluted. "The trip should take approximately six hours, adjusting for current drift. You do have the authorization codes?"

"Naturally," Emile said, swinging the inner door slowly shut.

"Good voyage, sir!" the lieutenant called through the closing crack, moving his foot just in time.

Emile spun the wheel to dog the hatch shut, then slid the lock in place. Taking a seat near Grand, he clicked on the straps of his safety belt, then reached up to a concealed control panel and turned on the external microphones.

"Stinking elf bastard," he heard the lieutenant say. "Hope a fragging leviathan eats him on the way down." Then much louder. "Ready at the ball!"

"Ready, sir!"

"Undog the clamps!" Metallic thumps came from four sides of the sphere. "Stabilizers on full! Release the lines! Power on! Pressure on! Drop the soap, boys!"

Emile felt the sphere lift smoothly into the air and gently swing toward the left. His aerial view of the Conquistador was of the deck lined with sailors standing in clusters between the banks of depth charges regularly dotting the gunwale. The middle of the vessel resembled a porcupine, its array of cannons and gun turrets pointing every which way. Personally, he found it difficult to believe that any pirate ship could survive even a brief confrontation with a technological terror such as the Conquistador.

The immersion into the water was flawless, and only the rocking of entering the water itself marred the descent. As the ball dipped into the ocean and the waves washed over its tiny windows, green lights flooded the bathysphere, quickly darkening to stygian blackness. The only sounds came from the soft whine of the heater, the gentle hum of the pressure/ depth gauge, and the reassuring thumps of the air regenerator. With nothing to do but wait, Emile settled in his seat and closed his eyes. His regular sleep schedule had been seriously thrown akilter because of this trip, and a short nap would be most appreciated. As he drifted off to sleep, Grand hissed in warning and once more the nightmares began. But more sharp, more vivid. Almost as if they were real.

Tail abristle, Grand screamed as Emile jerked awake, his jaw working as he tried to clear his throat and breath. Air .. . there was no air! His lungs were laboring, but nothing was happening. It was as if the bathysphere had been pumped clear and he was in vacuum. No air! Gasping and choking, he fumbled with the control panel set overhead, unable to believe the dials showing that the sphere was full of good air at proper pressure and that oxygen and carbon dioxide levels were normal. The feeder lines from the surface must be clogged!

With the blood pounding in his ears, Emile couldn't hear if the regenerator was working or not, and no visible parts were moving to show its operation. Escape filled his mind. Yes, that was it! He must reach the surface! Clawing off his seat belt, he staggered to the hatch. In mindless terror he began to beat weakly on the wheel, trying to escape from the underwater coffin. Grand raced before him and stood defiant before the hatch, hissing at his master, but Emile swatted the ferret aside. All thoughts were gone except for the burning need to breath in cool sweet air one last time. A single breath, a spoonful, a sip of air .. . oh, spirits, please ... please ... !

Ducking under a red-hot pipe, and dodging around an array of steaming vats festooned with hissing hoses, Delphia rounded the corner of a thumping machine with numerous dials and readouts to find himself in a dead end before a massive freezer. Easing open the insulated door, he peeked inside and saw only darkness, the section of floor lit by the light behind him thick with dust and cobwebs. As he turned, the others arrived.

"Any sign of pursuit?" asked Delphia, closing, but not shutting the door.

Last in line, Moonfeather shook her head inside her helmet. "We're clear. If anybody was after us, we lost 'em on the pipe."

"Excellent." Walking into the freezer, Delphia popped the seals on his waist, and bent over to lower the top half of the Jym suit to the floor as quietly as possible. "Let's ditch these suits in here," he said.

"Sounds good." Thumbs popped his helmet and vigorously began scratching his nose. "Ah! Been wanting to do that for hours."

"Doesn't look like anybody has used this place for years," noted Moonfeather, joining them in the dim interior of the big box. "We can always reclaim the suits if we need to.

These things must be worth a fortune."

"My idea exactly," said Delphia, stepping out of the lower half of the armor.

"Hey, where's Boomer?" asked Silver, glancing about.

"Drek! We must have lost him in the gutting machine," said Thumbs, checking outside the freezer. "No sign of him. Should we go back?"

"Frag that," muttered Moonfeather, stepping out of her suit and then shaking out her red hair. She checked the charge on the stun baton and stuffed it into a belt around her waist. "I don't think he knows where IronHell is, and he sure as drek doesn't know what this place is, so who needs him?"

"And if he's caught?" demanded Silver, standing alongside her suit, carefully freeing her Fuchi from its nest of wires. "Then his head explodes," Moonfeather said.

"With reservations, I concur," said Delphia thoughtfully, unlimbering the Predator from the leg of his Jym. "He was only an asset aboard the submarine. If he was still with us, we would be forced to terminate him ourselves."

"Then it's good he's not here."

"Wherever here is," observed Silver, shouldering her bulky bag.

"That blimp breeder thought we were pirates," said Thumbs slowly. "So this place can't be IronHell."

"Indubitably," agreed Delphia. "And from the foreman's severely antagonistic response, we may infer that the inhabitants of this bubblecity are not on good terms with the seagoing palliards."

With her Remington pump-action in hand, Moonfeather draped the partially loaded bandolier of shells over her chest. "However, the local gov might know where IronHell is," she offered.

"Get me to a jack or a telecom and I'll download the whole fragging city grid," said Silver confidently, checking the clip in her Seco. "I've got programs that can strip a grid to the bare boards."

Delphia tested the VPR2 and his Manhunter. Slip-slap. "That will take time. Which would require privacy. Even if we can find something, our credsticks are probably useless down here."

"This is terra incognito," agreed Moonfeather, jingling a bracelet.

"So don't leave anything behind," said Thumbs, cradling his Mossberg in the crook of a tattooed arm. "We might need it."

"Natch."

"Done and done."

"Arctic. Let's blow."

Weapons at the ready, the four moved quietly through the deserted processing machinery, keeping a careful watch out for guards or vidcams as they headed for the first door marked Exit. It had a retinal scanner, but Silver and her Fuchi busted through that in a few ticks with a UniBlink program and they were gone.

28.

Stopping behind a big vibrating reactor with lots of pipes, Boomer caught his breath and waited to see if anybody was behind him. After a few ticks, he decided it was safe and broke the seal on his helmet. Almost instantly he regretted the act. The air in the food processing plant was hideous, thick with the stink of decaying flesh and rotting guts. Davy, it was worse than a bilge full of ripe corpses!

Breathing in tiny sniffs, he forced himself to acclimatize to the stench and soon was out of the Jym suit. His clothes stuck to his skin with dried sweat, but he luxuriated in a good stretch, savoring the freedom of movement.

That stopped as a fusillade of bullets sprayed the wall above him, punching a line of holes in the metal. "Go static!" boomed a norm in a guard uniform. The guard came closer, boots and badge polished bright. "And keep 'em raised."

Slowly, Boomer lowered his arms, forcing himself to stay calm, think icy, and breathe regularly. Be calm, goddammit!

"I said raise ya hands, gleeb, or get cacked," growled the guard, the multiple barrels of his tripistol spinning in readiness.

"You will lower that gun and speak politely to me. I am a pirate rigger," said Boomer, displaying his hands, but not raising them in the surrender act. "From the submarine Manta, and I will speak with your sector chief immediately."

"Yeah?" sneered the guard in contempt, "Or what?"

Trying to feel in control of the situation, Boomer smiled genially. "Or else the next thing you see will be an armor-piercing torpedo the size of a school bus coming through that freaking dome outside."

Chewing air, the guard hesitated, clearly unsure of what to do next. "If this is a trick . . ." he started.

Boomer cut him off. "Get on the blower, tin star, and let me speak with your boss, now!"

Never lowering the barrels of his weapon, the guard took a handset from his belt and lifted it. "Hey, Central! Ya hear me? Well, I got me another Streeter claiming to be a pirate. What's this month's code phrase?" He listened and nodded. "Gotcha. Hold on."

"Okay, gleeb," he said in low tones. "Tell me what he just said, and if ya get one word wrong, I'll blow your stinking head off."

His temples starting to throb, Boomer breathed deeply, forcing himself to be calm. I am not in danger of capture, he mentally told himself again and again. I am in charge. This man will obey me. There is no danger of capture. No danger.

"Well?" shouted the guard impatiently, thrusting the tribarrel closer. "Tell me!"

"Many are the leaves fallen," spoke Boomer softly, "but few the trees which stand the winter."

His face going ashen, the guard released the trigger of his weapon, the triple barrels slowing to a stop. "Sorry, sir," he said, hurriedly holstering the gun. "But I had to check, ya know? Some chummers fake being pirates to try 'n avoid going beyond the wall."

"Hope you zap 'em," said Boomer, feeling the tension in his head ease.

"Yes, sir. Always have. We got a treaty, you guys and us, and Old Dome keeps its side." It obviously hurt, but the guard managed to force a friendly grin. "Anything ya need . . . sir?"

"Yar," snapped Boomer. "I want clean rags and an escort to the next food shipment to be picked up by IronHell."

"Absolutely, sir," growled the guard.

"And have a crew bring along the Jym."

"No prob. My pleasure, sir. Happy to do it." The guard checked the watch on his pinkie. "If we hurry, maybe we can get you on today's shipment. It leaves in less than an hour."

"Good."

"Don't know about your friends, though. Where are they?"

"Who?" Boomer blinked at the word. "Oh, those gleebs aren't with me. They may pretend to be pirates, but I have no idea who or what they really are. Hard data. I strongly suggest you hunt the jimps like rabid devil rats and slit 'em into chum. Especially the mage."

"M-m-mage?"

"Def. A shaman, sings for Cat. However, I will be happy to give you a full physical description, along with their names, weapons, and known abilities." Boomer could also have told the city stars how to track the Jym suits using their internal security systems, but that would reveal way too much of what IronHell knew about the dometown defenses.