Dodging around a road crew making big potholes out of little ones, the halfer cut through General Gomez Park. Thumbs couldn't call out. It would draw unwanted attention to him as well. Come on, Shorty, slow down! Thumbs got tense, but didn't let it show. Little guy could be going anywhere. Stay arctic. Kids were playing on the concrete slabs as a makeshift jungle gym, couple of oldsters with obviously nothing to steal or take were sunning themselves on the splintery benches, and ork gangers in ballistic vests were sweating out the noon sun in the shade of the few leafy oak trees, slightly wilted but still standing valiant against the temperatures from above and dog urine from below.

Charging straight through the DMZ of the park, the dwarf was watched by a hundred eyes, but nobody stirred from the precious shade to roust a tourist. At night, he'd never have made it whole or alive to the old marble fountain. Long dry and now full of sea gulls. Noisy, smelly, and they tasted awful no matter how much ketchup you put on 'em.

Along the way, a dozen gutterkin reached out to beg, or offer a guided tour, sex, guns, chips, and other things that would have made the average visitor recoil. Here the halfer gave himself away by not blanching at the offerings. Only a local would be so hardened, and a couple of the smarter squatters backed away, probably suspecting a covert op from either Lone Star or municipal security preparing another of their infamous blanket arrests where everybody ended up in The Citadel for questioning and fragging few of them ever came out again.

Watching everywhere for the hated Latin Kings, his hand resting inside his vest on the butt of the big Ares Predator, Thumbs sighed in relief as the halfer darted across SW Nineteenth Street. In spite of his best efforts, Thumbs lost him a moment later in the milling throng crossing the streets. Moving quickly along the store fronts to try and catch up, he caught a glimpse of his prey through the gaping doorway of a pink-painted derelict building. Through it he saw the dwarf entering a glistening white building festooned with coconuts and flamingos, which stood alongside a row of less fashionable structures on the next street over. The Sunshine Bowlarama. Not a simsense parlor, but actual physical bowling. Balls and pins. Very retro. Just for juves and nostalgia freaks, of course.

Cutting through the doorway, Thumbs decided to slow down for a precious minute, so as not to trod on the dwarf's toes. But before he could follow Shorty inside, the halfer came out again, zipping up his shorts as he headed directly next door. An unmarked building sporting all the usual effluvia of a cheap bar, but no sign.

The Casa Cabana. No wonder the guy hit the lav before going in. Thumbs felt the urge to do the same thing. It was the hardsite for the Latin Kings. Was the halfer a suicide? Drek. Maybe the dwarf was a nutter after all. Thumbs knew little about magic, so he didn't know if a cloak spell disguising a norm as a dwarf could be that perfect in every detail. But why the frag would the halfer want to try to get into the LK's den? To see how quick they could geek him? No, Thumbs must have been wrong about this guy. The halfer had to be tripping in the twilight. A skydiver. Software corrupted. Loft for rent. Better living through chemistry.

Thumbs shrugged. Had to be. Minutes passed and when no explosions erupted from the establishment to mark the abrupt demise of the halfer, new possibilities began to occur to him. Crossing through the ruined building for a better looksee, Thumbs suddenly ran into a shambling figure swaddled in rags, who charged from behind a pile of rotting mattresses wielding a spear made from a broom handle tipped with a busted beer bottle. The razor-sharp glass lanced for his vulnerable throat, but Thumbs easily sidestepped the clumsy charge. As the would-be killer went by, Thumbs thumped him once on the head with a fist bigger than an airline pillow, and his attacker collapsed at his boots with a shuddering moan.

Ignoring the corpse, Thumbs moved to a better vantage point to watch the Casa Cabana. Maybe, just maybe, the dwarf wasn't simply an omelet brain, but novasmart with cojones of beryllium steel. Who'd ever look for a dwarf on the run in the HQ of a policlub? Jesus, Buddah, and Zeus, it was fragging brilliant. Smoking! Einstein on overtime! And if the guy was really that desperate, then Thumbs' price just tripled again.

The whispering sigh of uncoiling rope pricked his ears, and Thumbs turned around just in time to see half a dozen forms in street combat gear descending from the ceiling. A steady flashing came from one of them, and the dusty dirt around him puffed little geysers. Then something hummed past and hit him in the chest, his vest slapping against his right side with triphammer force. Thumbs dropped to one knee, unable to breathe for a moment. Madre mia! A silenced rapid-fire. This close to their HQ, had to be perimeter guards for the Latin Kings. Frag! Nobody let squatters live in their lookout, so he'd naturally assumed that the presence of a gutterpunk meant it was a clear zone. Fragging gleeb had only been a diversion!

Instantly, the Predator was in his hand and it thunderously boomed twice, the muzzle flash illuminating the dim interior of the burned-out building to near daylight levels for half a tick. Each time a figure flew off the ropes, an explosion of red blood from the unarmored throats marking a lethal hit.

Chatter guns don't mean drek if ya can't hit the target, Thumbs thought smugly, forcing himself to breathe as he moved painfully with every discharge so they couldn't track his location. Spend time on the gun range, or forever in the dirt, as his daddy used to say. Nuff said.

The remaining four reached the ground, and were in a circle firing wildly, high and low. Crouching behind a chunk of busted concrete, Thumbs hastily buttoned up his ballistic vest and heard flechettes ricochet twice off his impromptu barrier. Bad. This was bad. Three visible exits, but he was nowhere near any of them. No back-up, no grenades, not much ammo, and it was their home turf. Reinforcements could be on the way already. Pulling the long monofilament-edged knife from his boot, he hacked off a chunk of concrete and threw it across the open expanse of the dilapidated structure. It hit with a loud clunk-clatter-crash, and two of his attackers turned to fire that way, the others expertly concentrating on the exact opposite direction, neatly cutting off his bid for the open doorway.

The wall aft of Thumbs and his concrete shield got hammered hard with dozens of rounds, and twice more his vest slapped him on the back, but now it was closed tight so the impacts were only an annoyance. Would have been closed before too, but it was just so freaking hot today! Ballistic cloth was thicker than end-of-the-year miso soup, and a troll's gotta breathe. Well, not according to the Kings he don't, that is.

Maintaining their circle formation, the policlubbers were spreading out, firing irregularly to conserve ammo. Nobody called out for surrender or quarter. Thumbs knew he was a metahuman in racist territory. If they got him, his pointed ears would be nailed to their Wall of Honor. Horns carved into pistol grips, tusks sold to tourists, and the rest of him would go to feed their dogs and gators as a special treat, trying to cultivate in the beasts a taste for metahuman flesh. As if the freaking things needed any additional encouragement.

Cutting off two more chunks of concrete, Thumbs sheathed the blade and then threw one of the chunks to his left and waited, standing erect. As the policlubbers fired in the same response pattern, he pulled back a powerful arm and threw the second chunk with all the strength he possessed. It hit one of the guards squarely in the face, and the man's head snapped back so hard Thumbs could hear his spine audibly break. As the body dropped and the others turned for a moment to see their comrade mysteriously fall, Thumbs shifted position to a stinking pile of assorted junk where the dead gutterpunk had been hiding. Okay, three down, three to go. Without a doubt, he'd had fun before, and this wasn't it.

Firing twice more, then again, and again, Thumbs saw one guard crumple and another have her knee blown off before they all started firing in his direction. In counterpoint, the wounded fem started screaming curses in every language she knew.

Hastily, Thumbs was reloading, pocketing the spent clip, when something hissed and crackled around the hot barrel of his Ares and the gun was brutally yanked from his grip. His eyes searched the darkness as he shifted position and the air hissed again. Stun baton? Drek! Reinforcements must have arrived! Drawing his knife, Thumbs shoved his back to the dirty wall, frantically searching for a way to escape, but saw only darkness and enemies completely surrounding him. No other choice then. Arctic. He touched the third molar on the right Side of his mouth with his tongue and felt his body vibrate with power. The reflex trigger would accelerate his reactions to triple-speed.

"Rock and roll!" he screamed, charging headlong at the guards at thrice norm speed, his cyberblades swinging like a hundred scythes.

5.

Checking the safety of his Fichetti needler, perfect for flatlining people but lousy on telecoms, Adam Two Bears pushed open the double doors to the bar and boldly walked on in.

Icy air wafted over him, and he fought back a shiver only partially caused by the low temperatures. All talk stopped the moment he entered, and a dozen faces went grim as death, hands darting below table tops and into jackets. Two Bears knew the only reason he was still sucking air was the city map in his pocket, a reminder of the Miami gov's fire-bombing of anybody who harmed tourists. Even still, he was on thin ice here. Cross the line, drek, come close to the line and they'd be mopping his brains off the floor.

The place was decorated in early schlock, with all the usual fishing nets, plastic crabs, and cork things you saw in most of the bars in town. Bloody tourists expected the whole drekking city to be nautical. Walking slowly to the bar, hands well away from his sides, Two Bears hoisted himself up onto the norm-size stool and gave a smile to the bartender, who did not return it, but continued to polish a clean glass and looked ready to spit in his face.

"Fat Jake here?" Two Bears asked, placing both hands flat on the counter.

"Who wants to know, runt?" demanded the barkeep, curling a lip in disgust.

So much for being nice. "The man who saved him from a Morlock axe, that's who, butt-wipe."

The bartender's eyes went wide, and he smashed the glass on the floor. "You ain't no man, crit!" screamed the norm, brandishing a fist the color of boiled chicken. "You're a stinking metafreak!"

Two Bears did nothing. He just sat there and waited. Crit. That was new. Short for critter, he supposed. So now they were calling metahumans animals. Made sense for them. Animals had packs and cubs, not families and children. Made his kind easier for them to kill and still sleep at night. I didn't kill a man today, dear, just a nasty walking animal. Smelly thing had the audacity to wear clothes.

"Your opinion," Two Bears said low and soft. "But if you don't get Jake out here pronto, it's your pecker in the blender."

Tense moments passed with the bartender just breathing hard, and the other patrons scraping their boots and shifting chairs all around him. Moving into better positions so they wouldn't be hit in the crossfire? Two Bears knew this had been a wild gamble. Pure dice. But nobody would ever look for him in here, and he needed resources fast. He could get them if Fat Jake still remembered old debt and hadn't let the fear or hate boil away what honor he used to have.

Long ago, a million years it seemed like nowadays, they had run together. Side by side, they'd ganged against the Morlocks, the very go-gang who'd cannibalized the fragging tourist and got half of Overtown toasted like marshmallows in their sleep a few years back. Including Melinda. Sweet gentle Mel had died in the city's brutal retaliation-the so-called Night of Law. That same night the various rival gangs put aside their differences and swore a blood oath of peace until they caught and killed every stinking Morlock sublife joybag and did them up a treat proper. There were special chummers for this job-frizoids and glitches who lived in the sewers and swamps, too twisted in the brain for any use except letting them have a hated foe to play with. That's where the Morlocks went one by one, never to return. Street justice. Hard and permanent. Trans end.

Setting a trap to take down the last few members of the gang had gotten Fat Jake, who was skinny as a laser and hence the name, on their ghoulish dining table. The Morlocks' turn for revenge. Two Bears had taken a knife in the belly busting the rival ganger free from their funtable, and Jake lost an ear but kept his life. Together they slaughtered the rest of the go-gang, saving the mage boss for last, a motherfragging insect shaman. The screaming freak unleashed some flying things like hornet-bats or something, but couldn't survive the big batch of fire-death from the packages of CIO plastique they brought along. It was a rocking party. Would have made a hell of a trid-of-the-week.

The spellcaster died in a chemical fireball better than any he could conjure and, unconscious, Two Bears and Jake both got saved from the burning wreckage by the city firefighters, of all things. Then they did a year in the Citadel for destroying public property and possession of restricted materials. Lone Star knew what had gone down, but refused to sanction any independent action that made them look bad. Welcome to Miami, chummer.

It would have been so much simpler to juke the gangers' hole to the ground. Slab the Morlocks and Jake at once. Easy as shooting crabs off a tree. But your word was your bond on the streets. The only thing a chummer could not buy was his own rep. So Two Bears saved the man who'd gotten his one true love. Melinda. He tried not to wonder if she'd have stayed with him when the change hit him later and he became a dwarf. Did she stay with Jake because she loved him more, or because Adam Two Bears was different now? Two Bears would never know. Sometimes, the truth was better not known. There was great comfort in lies.

Reaching below the counter, the suddenly smiling bartender started to pull something large and metallic into view when a voice stopped him.

"Hoi, Two," rumbled a human standing in the doorway that led to the back storeroom. Light poured in from behind him and it wasn't until the norm closed the portal that Two Bears could clearly see who it was.

The years had not been kind to Jake. Although still skinny and dark as a stick, Fat Jake was wearing a sleeveless tee that showed a network of thin scars trailing up both arms. His left ear, half hidden behind graying hair, shone with flawless health. Plastic ear, and wires. Chipped or skillwires, Two Bears had no idea. But in his youth, the other man had scorned both as crutches for the weak and stupid. Guess Jake was showing his age at last. Then again, he'd been a full adult when Two Bears was a snotty juve who didn't know the difference between bullets and bullshit. How old was the norm now, fifty? More? No matter. It would be best not to mention the physical changes. Never insult the hand before it feeds you.

"O-hio, Jake," returned Two Bears deliberately using the casual Japper greeting between friends. A little reminding couldn't hurt here.

"You know this ... thing?" snarled the bartender, returning whatever it was to back under the counter. The rest of the patrons did the same with their own ironmongery. Slowly and reluctantly.

So this is what a skeet feels like, thought Two Bears.

"Yah, the runt's mine," said the gray-haired norm. The two old friends cum enemies looked at each other, and the norm cracked a half-smile. "You got that data I sent you to steal, crit?"

Inside, Two Bears went stiff, but refused to allow his fury to show. This was a game the dwarf didn't want to play, but he'd started it without warning, and what could he do? Challenge the norm here among his chummers? All bets would be off, and Jake would have to geek him on the spot to save face. Eat a little pride, live another day. It was drek sandwich time. But he made a mental note of the humiliation for the future.

"Yes, sir," Two Bears replied humbly, giving a short bow. "Of course, sir. I have it right here, sir."

Jake waved a hand and turned without waiting for a response. "My office, meta. Now."

"Ya sure it's housebroken chief?" taunted a leathergirl at a table full of steins.

"Why should it be?" he retorted. "You ain't."

The bar patrons roared in laughter, and the snipes flew thick as the heavy door cycled shut, cutting off all sound.

Inside the office of the Casa Cabana, Two Bears straightened his bent shoulders and glared at his host. "Having fun?"

Leaning back in the chair behind the duraplas desk, Jake levered his boots on top of the scarred surface, his boot heels dovetailing into worn grooves there. Clearly, a daily position.

"Absolutely," he snorted. " 'Bout time you learned proper respect for true humans."

Demons of chaos, give him the strength not to strangle this man before they could even talk.

"Not telling my people you're not a real tourist should even us out, eh?" added Jake coldly.

Check and balance. So it begins. "If that's what you think, done and done," said Two Bears, crossing his arms. "I'll take my problem elsewhere.

"After a bit to eat," he added sotto voce. "Any good places around ear?"

Fat Jake reacted to the words with a jolt, his hand automatically going to the right side of his head. "Point duly taken," he rumbled, low and menacingly. "Download me."

"I'm doing a lobster and need backup. Now. As in fifteen minutes ago."

"In hot water, eh? That explains the beard and map. Must be big trouble for such a risky ploy. On the run, or on the lam?" he demanded suspiciously.

Two Bears arched an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

Jake relaxed. "Okay then. So the local SWAT isn't in hot pursuit, you're just hiding from them. What's the glitch? Need a piece? I've got a couple of nice Mag fives, and an 88 V in the backroom. Heavier stuff too, if need be, but those will cost you."

Hooking a chair from behind, Two Bears pulled in close and sat. "Got a weapon and know how to get more. I need people."

"So whatcha want?"

"All three."

"Muscle, mana, and machine?"

Gods, yes. What Two Bears actually wanted was a small army, but three pros was all he could afford until he squeezed more juice from his Johnson. The old man hadn't been straight with him about the deal and that was going to cost him a stack.

But god, how he hated this! Should be making his own calls, contacting his regulars, solid chummers he'd normally trust to the marble slab. But after Sister got brainfried, he didn't know who to trust, or where to turn. If only he knew what corporate file she'd been raiding, that would help, but he was totally in the dark. Not since he was a kid running solo through the streets of Overtown had he ever felt so alone and vulnerable.

"You got the nuyen to feed them, kemo sabe?" asked Jake.

The old Amerind term of friendship invoking days long past hurt worse than any insult. Goddamn the norm. Calling in a debt of honor wasn't supposed to be a lesson in humility. "I got codes for the decker to get it for me."

"Fresh from a cold one?" chuckled the man.

A brisk head nod. "Haven't robbed a corpse in six. The codes are my own. But I don't dare go near my accounts. They might be waiting for me. Gotta access 'em from outside."

"You're that hot?" gasped Fat Jake.

Two Bears shrugged.

The human lowered his boots and leaned on the desktop. "What the hell'd you steal, Two? Or who'd you cack? Some maf chief or a yak boss?"

Removing his hat, Two Bears inspected the brim and said nothing.

No boasts, no denials, no lies, or evasions. Fat Jake's expression melted like ice on the beach, then got nasty. "Anything goes down, I burn you," he warned hastily. "Got to protect my place."

"I scan. You can always get more customers, but those plastic crabs must cost a fortune."

"Stuff it, halfer," retorted the norm. "This reeks of tox and you fragging know it. Why come to me? You're a fixer now. Ain't you got own fragging regulars?"

Two Bears shook his head. "No can do. They might be compromised. Find me new talent. No virgins. No groups. Make it all loners. Better chance they aren't morkhans that way."

"Traitors?"

"Or gov ops. I'm paying top nuyen and a slice of the pie, so I want first string."

"A slice off the top? It's that hard?"

"Straight as a laser."

A variety of expressions came and went on the norm's face, none of them happy, so Two Bears quickly added. "I got insurance."

That snapped Jake around. "Yeah, who?"

"Ask him when he sends in the drones with all guns firing."

"Drek," snorted the norm. "But it's a good lie. Let me see who's looking for work." Reaching under the desk, Jake retrieved a datacable, slid the end into his temple, and started his fingers dancing over the deck built into the desk top.

Two Bears felt oddly disurbed by the event. Fat Jake a decker, that was also new. What else had changed with the man? Gods, what a different place the world suddenly seemed.

After a few minutes, Jake removed the cabie from his forehead and laid it down between them. Two Bears read the act as a formal line of disembarkation.

"Done," said Jake, coiling the cable. "I got what you asked for, and I set the meet for the old place at Palm and Cove. Second-floor ballroom. You remember?"

"Natch." It was where they used to get drunk, get high, and make plans to take over the city gov. Youthful dreams of avarice.

Satisfied, Two Bears stood, and after a moment, offered his stout hand to the other. Jake stared at the hand as if it was infested with crabs, then rose and took it. The two released their respective grips almost immediately.

"Now we're even, Two," said Jake, stepping to the wall and palming open a door. The alley showed outside. In a flash of memory, Two Bears recalled the secret door. It was an escape route from the old days, clearly still in operational condition. Probably just in case the old days came back with a vengeance.

Staring down at the dwarf, Jake went on, "Now we're even. If I pass you on the streets, I'll ignore you. But if we meet on a run and you're on the other side, finito."

Two Bears scowled. "Crosshairs, we're even. No debt, no sweat."

"Done and done."

Two Bears moved past the taller man, then paused in the doorway. "With one exception."

"What?" demanded Jake gruffly. "Some fave club? A bix bop? I'll never go to The Crypt, so you can forget that."

"Ah, too bad, my boys would love to meetcha," Two Bears returned, then softened his tones. "But no, Jake, I was referring to Melinda's grave. I put flowers there occasionally and-"

A roar cut him off. "So it's you!" bellowed Jake, spittle spraying from his mouth. Razorspurs sprang out of his hands and Fat Jake reached for Two Bears' throat. Two Bears ducked low and backstepped into the alleyway, giving himself combat room. What the frag was going on here?