In her mind, Sly had always pictured a clean, well-maintained building-maybe one of the few heritage buildings that the corrupt Puyallup munic.i.p.al council had actually bothered to preserve. As Modal stopped the Dynamite outside, however, she drastically revised her estimate of Smeland's finances.

The building looked like pure drek. The pseudo-stone facade was cracked and coming away in chunks. The acidic hard rains had discolored the walls and awning of the electronics store, turning both a gray-blue reminiscent of corpses. As for the store itself, it had definitely seen better days. The windows were cracked and starred, the security bars rusting and pulling loose from the walls under their own weight. Beside the closed door, no doubt locked this early in the morning, was a small sign reading, For Service Push Buzzer. Beneath it was the spot where the buzzer had presumably been mounted before someone had thoughtfully stolen it.

At the far left side of the building was another narrower doorway, with a door made of heavy, quite possibly bulletproof, metal. That had to be the way to Smeland's place.

Sly climbed out of the Saab, hesitating at Modal's questioning look. "Come on," she told them, "both of you."

She walked up to the metal door, looked for a buzzer or bell or maybe an intercom. Nothing. But, as she took another step closer, a small red light flicked to life above the door. Proximity sensor, she guessed, triggering a vid camera, plus maybe other systems as well. It was a good thing she'd called ahead using the Dynamit's phone. (A potential risk if the car had already been reported stolen, of course, but a calculated one.) She smiled up at where she thought the camera probably was.

"I see Modal finally found you." Theresa Smeland's voice sounded-tinny and electronic-from above the door.

Sly glanced back over her shoulder, saw the elf and the Amerindian standing behind her. She smiled up at the camera. "It's a long story, T.S.," she said."Can I bring them up?"

Smeland hesitated a moment, then a.s.sented. With a click, the metal door opened.

Sly stepped through, saw a staircase ahead of her. The walls on either side looked to be made of reinforced ballistic composite, and the stairs were narrow enough that the extended shoulders of her jacket brushed both sides. At the top of the staircase was another reinforced metal door, but no landing, and the stairs themselves were steep. Which meant that anybody who wanted to smash down the door would have nowhere safe to stand. Certainly, a minigrenade or a rocket launcher would make short work of the upstairs door, but Sly was certain the staircase area itself would have security systems in place to take care of anyone who would try to bring such a weapon into the building. (Weapon detectors and gas systems? Almost certainly. Automatic gunports designed to hose down the stairway? Quite possibly.) There wasn't much doubt that Smeland was making her home as safe as humanly possible.

With Modal and Falcon close behind her, Sly climbed the stairs. Before she reached the top, she heard another click, and the upstairs door swung open. She stepped through into a tiny anteroom, facing yet another door. Then that, too, opened.

Standing in the doorway was Theresa Smeland, wearing a pale blue floor-length housecoat. She looked tired, which Sly thought was probably because she'd closed the club only a few hours ago, but alert. She smiled a greeting at Sly, stepped back to let her three visitors enter the apartment.

Never judge a chip by its slipcover, was the first thought that pa.s.sed through Sly's mind. From the condition of the building's facade, she'd expected Smeland's place to be comfortable enough, but with most of the decor designed to cover up the building's structural shortcomings.

Dead wrong. Everything-the furniture, the carpeting, the lighting, the works of art on the walls-was absolutely top-of-the-line. The decor didn't seem to follow any formal school of design, at least not one that Sly was aware of-neither nuevo-industrial, or East African, or semi-gothic. But everything fit-there wasn't any better way of saying it-contributing to a single, congruous whole.

Smeland chuckled throatily. "Like it, Sly?"

Sly shook her head slowly. "The club's more of a money-spinner than I thought."

"This didn't come from the club," Smeland explained. "This was personal. I did a favor for . . . for a chummer of an old comrade," she said carefully, "and this is what he did for me in return."

"Too bad about the building," Modal threw in.

"Oh, the building's structurally sound, better than most in the neighborhood. When work's necessary I get it done, but I decided not to do anything about the way it looks." Smeland shrugged. "Why draw attention? What B and E gang's going to hit a place that looks like it'll fall down if they talk too loud?"

"There's that," Modal conceded. "May I?" He waved toward one of the room's silk-upholstered armchairs. "It's been a long, tiring night."

Smeland nodded. "Sit down, all of you."

Sly watched as Smeland settled herself gracefully in an armchair, tucking her feet underneath her. Modal slumped down in another chair, instantly relaxed, while Falcon sat-rigid, nervous-on the couch. Sly picked a spot on the other end of the same couch, allowed herself a few moments to relish the opulence surrounding her. Then she began, "I need your help, T.S."

Smeland nodded with a wry smile. "I kind of guessed that. I don't get too many social calls this time of the morning. What do you need?"

Sly took a deep breath. "I need some information on the Corporate Court."

Smeland's eyes opened wide. "In Zurich-Orbital?" she asked. "Since when have you been playing in the big leagues?"

"It's not by choice, believe me," Sly a.s.sured her friend.

"So, what do you want?" Smeland asked. "A personal meeting with the Supreme Justice? Printouts of Aztechnology's balance sheet? Or do you want something really tricky?"

"Nothing that fancy," Sly a.s.sured her friend. "I just need to know if the Court has some kind of BBS-some system designed to disseminate information to all the megacorps."

"That's all, huh?" Smeland snorted. "I'd guess there would have to be something like that. But you need to know for sure?"

Sly nodded. "And I need to know how to access it." Smeland shot her a startled look. "You want to read the Corporate Court's BBS, is that what you're telling me?"

"I want to post something."

"What?" Smeland demanded. "Your resume, your brag-sheet? Are you looking for a fragging job, Sly?" Sly just shook her head. She could see her friend was rattled. But she also knew Theresa would get her control back soon enough.

In fact, it happened within a few seconds. Smeland smiled, a little shamefacedly. "Sorry," she said quietly. "I'm just not used to working at this level, you get my drift?" She was silent for another half-minute or so, then said, "Relatively speaking, it shouldn't be that tough."

"Relatively speaking," Sly echoed.

Smeland nodded. "Anything to do with the Corporate Court isn't going to be a no-brainer, you know that, Sly. But I don't think this will be impossible. What is it you want to upload?" Hastily she raised her hands, palms out. "Don't tell me exactly, I don't want to know. But is it a text file? Or something else?"

"Text only."

Sly could see Smeland relax a little. "That makes it easier," the ex-runner allowed. "Security on a BBS is always going to be tougher if you're trying to upload an executable program code, because it can contain computer viruses. That's not a danger with simple text files." Sly nodded; she understood that. "So how does this work?" she asked, wording her questions exceedingly carefully. "What's the best way of finding out, first, whether the Court has a BBS, and second, how to deck into it?"

"There's only one way," Smeland stated firmly. "The Court's got a system access node in the Matrix. You just crash into that SAN, and you scope out the Zurich-Orbital system"-she smiled grimly-"while making fragging sure you stay away from anything even peripherally related to the Gemeinschaft Bank. That's up there, too, you know."

"We've discussed that," Sly said drily. She paused, getting her thoughts and her words in order. The next question was the key. "T.S.," she began, "I-"

But Smeland cut her off. "I know what you're asking," she said sharply. "Am I willing to go in, right?"

"Not all the way." Sly felt cold, numb. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap to stop them from shaking. "I need you to run cover for me, T.S., that's all. I'll do the main penetration. I just ..." She stopped for a moment, struggling to keep her voice calm and reasonable. "I just need an escort," she went on, "somebody to watch my back. I don't think I can do this alone." Smeland was staring at her, hard. "I'm surprised you can contemplate even doing it at all," she said honestly. So am I, thought Sly. "Will you help me, T.S.?"

Sly watched as the older woman stood up, drifted to the unidirectionally polarized window that looked down into the street. She wanted to press her case, add more reasons why Smeland should help her out. But, tough as it was to hold her tongue, she recognized that her silence was the most effective persuader she had. She glanced over to Modal and Falcon. Both were watching Theresa, but neither seemed to feel the urge to say anything.

"It's got to be important, right?" Smeland spoke quietly, almost to herself, without turning away from the window. "Otherwise you wouldn't be doing this." She was quiet for another couple of minutes.

"All right," she said at last. "I'll run cap for you. To the Z-O SAN, and along the uplink into the habitat's local system. But no further. Sly. I'll just lurk at the top of the uplink." She shrugged. "Most of the heavy ice to be cut should be in the SAN, and on both ends of the uplink, right? I'll get you through that. Once you're in, there shouldn't be much ice . . . unless you trigger the Gemeinschaft Bank's security. And if you do that, all I could do would be die with you."

Sly let a lungful of air hiss out, realizing only then that she'd been holding her breath. "That's all I need, T.S.," she rea.s.sured her friend.

"When do you want to do this?" Smeland asked.

Sly wanted to say she didn't want to do it at all, but what she did say was, "As soon as you can do it, T.S."

Theresa turned from the window. "How about now, then?" Her expression was grim. "I suppose you need a deck."

Sly ran her fingers over the cyberdeck Smeland had loaned her. She recognized the enclosure-a simple, straightforward Radio Shack box. But the electronics, the actual guts . . . The Shack wouldn't have recognized any part of this. Custom work, all of it. And good custom work, too. Sly wondered if T.S. had built it.

Smeland had pulled her own deck out of its reinforced Anvil case, and had it across her lap as she sat, in halflotus, on the floor. It was a custom job, too, Sly could see. The enclosure had come from a Fairlight Excalibur, but she could tell from the key layout and the port configuration on the rear plate that Smeland had made enough modifications to turn the unit into a virtually new deck.

Both decks were connected to a splitter box, and from there to a telecom jack in the wall. Sly stared at that connection. That was the way to the Matrix. The thought tolled in her head like a great bell. The Matrix . . . the Matrix . . . the Matrix . . . She picked up the deck's "skull-plug"-the small F-DIN-style connection designed to be inserted into the user's datajack. So innocuous-looking, and yet so dangerous. Through that tiny connection, a decker could project her consciousness into cybers.p.a.ce. But, also through that connection, any of the multiple threats of the Matrix could worm their way directly into her brain. Sly was shaking again.

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Smeland watching her. "Sure you want to do this?" Theresa asked.

Those were the words, but Sly knew the real question was: Are you capable of doing this, or are you going to fold on me when the going gets tough? "I'm up for it," Sly said. Quickly, before she had time for second thoughts, she slipped the deck's plug into her datajack, heard and felt it seat positively into the chrome-lipped socket.

She settled her fingers on the keys, powered the deck up. She felt the almost-subliminal tingle in her head as the link between brain and deck was energized. The link wasn't active yet-no data was flowing, either way-but she could tell, without having to look at the deck's small display, that it was positively established. She punched in a command for the deck to run a self-diagnostic, saw the columns of data superimpose themselves over her visual field. Unlike when she was actually in the Matrix, she could still see the "macro" world around her, but, being jacked in, the diagnostic data seemed more real, more immediate than the "real" world.

"Fast deck," she remarked to Smeland. "Good response."

"One of my proteges juiced it as a kind of practic.u.m," Smeland said. "My payment for training her was that I got to keep the deck afterward."

Sly nodded. It was well-known in certain circles that Theresa Smeland frequently took promising young deckers under her wing, and taught them what they needed to know to survive in the biz. Shared with them the technical skill and the professional world view she'd developed over her long career. Some people claimed that Smeland had connections with organized crime, that she was a recruiter who turned over her most promising "proteges" to the Mafia dogs. But Sly had never seen the slightest bit of evidence to support this accusation.

"Do you want a practice run?" Smeland asked. "Just to get the old reflexes back? I've got a drek-hot Matrix simulation I can run on my telecom."

"No," Sly said, more sharply than she'd intended. "Let's get going." Before I lose my nerve, she didn't add-and, judging by Theresa's understanding expression, didn't have to.

"Fine," Smeland acknowledged. "Let's do it."

Sly took a deep breath, hit the Go key.

And the consensual hallucination that was the Matrix blossomed in her brain.

I'd forgotten how beautiful it is, was her first thought. So beautiful and so terrifying.

It was as if she hung in s.p.a.ce, hundreds of meters above a sprawl of city lights. Above her was a blackness deeper than midnight, the blackness of infinite s.p.a.ce. Here and there strange "stars" hung in the sky-system access nodes for the local telecommunications grid-and other constructs that blazed with the brilliant colors of lasers and neon. Below her, datalines-looking like crowded freeways turned into rivers of light--crisscrossed a landscape made up of countless glowing images and constructs. Some loomed large-the neon-green Mitsuhama paG.o.da, the Aztechnology pyramid, the Fuchi star-while others were just dots of color from this apparent "alt.i.tude." The tapestry of light faded off into the distance, eventually reaching a "vanishing point" on the electron horizon.

The icon that represented Theresa Smeland in the Matrix-a large, anthropomorphic armadillo with T.S.'s dark, intelligent eyes-blinked into existence beside her. For an instant, Sly wondered what her own icon looked like. Obviously not the familiar quicksilver dragon, the shape she had formerly used to run the Matrix. Now her icon would be whatever Smeland's protege had programmed into the deck's master persona control program-its MPCP. Well, it didn't really matter anyway. What a decker's icon looked like didn't make any difference to his or her performance-except, perhaps, psychologically.

"Ready to go?" It was Smeland's voice, but sounding flat and anechoic. Sly knew that T.S. was sending her words electronically, directly into her brain, rather than speaking them out loud for Sly's meat ears to pick them up.

She answered the same way. "I'm ready. Which node is it?"

The armadillo looked up, pointed with a forepaw. A bright red circle flashed into existence, ringing one of the brighter "stars" above. "That's it," Smeland announced.

"So let's do it."

Sly knew that, in reality-whatever reality was-she was sitting in Theresa Smeland's apartment, tapping on the keyboard of a cyberdeck. But that wasn't the way it felt. According to her sensorium-the sum-total of the sensory data received by her brain-she was hurtling upward into the black sky of the Matrix, faster than a semi-ballistic rocket plane. Her chest felt tight with the terrible thrill of it; her heart beat a triphammer rhythm in her ears.

The node that was their target grew larger, changed from a dimensionless spot of light into a rectangular slab about four times as wide and nine times as long as it was thick. The two large, flat faces looked like they were made of polished, blued steel like gunmetal. The smaller faces burned brilliant, laser-bright yellow. The ma.s.sive construct, many dozens of times larger than the two deckers' icons, spun in s.p.a.ce, a complex motion as it rotated at different rates around its three axes. Along the construct's edges, the burning yellow shifted in intensity, constantly flickering, hinting at the huge quant.i.ties of data flowing through this gateway to the telecom system.

Smeland's armadillo icon was hurtling directly at one of the LTG SAN's large faces. Sly close on her tail. Without slowing, they both plunged into the seemingly solid surface. The universe twisted in on itself, flipped inside out around Sly. She knew she'd experienced this shift hundreds of times before, but the last time had been five years ago, and the emotions forget. Fear knotted her stomach, squeezed a low moan from her throat. Then they were through, into a different section of the Matrix.

Just for a moment. Another transition, as they plunged through another system access node into the regional telecommunications grid-the "long-distance" trunks of the world's telecom systems. Again the universe flipped and spun.

And they were out, rocketing over a black plane. A part of the Matrix without constructs? Sly wondered.

But no, there were constructs, just not many of them, and in unfamiliar locations. In the Matrix she was used to, the "ground" was covered with system constructs and datalines. In this strange "world," however, the constructs hung overhead. Maybe two dozen of them, no more, too distant for her to make out any details other than their colors. By the intensity of their light, she guessed at the immense power of the computers they represented.

She looked to the horizon, at first unable to see any dividing line between the "ground" and the "sky." But then her brain made sense of what she was seeing. There was a horizon, invisible, but defined by the ma.s.sive, inconceivably distant constructs it partially occulted. They looked like fortresses, huge, blocky things, brutal in their simplicity of design, but, if this had been the "real" world and the horizon at its normal distance, those constructs would have been many times the size of the largest mountains.

"What are they?" From the tenor of her voice in her own ears, Sly knew she'd spoken out loud.

Smeland's reply, direct into her mind, was calm, rea.s.suring. "They're major military systems, government systems, the UCAS s.p.a.ce Agency ... the big boys."

"We're not going near them, are we?"

Her friend's chuckle sounded clearly in Sly's mind. "Not a chance. Our destination's just ahead."

With an effort, Sly tore her attention away from the ma.s.sive, distant system constructs. Contrary to her initial impression, there were a few constructs on the "ground"-small, dimly illuminated, probably shielded as much as possible from prying eyes. Smeland's armadillo icon was leading her directly toward one of these, a blue construct that looked like a radio telescope or large satellite dish.

"That's it?" Sly asked, ringing the construct with a circle of light the way Smeland had done.

The armadillo nodded. "Doesn't look like much, does it? But that's the SAN leading to Zurich-Orbital." Smeland paused for a moment as they hurtled on. "Have you ever done a satellite uplink before?" she asked.

Sly shook her head, then quickly remembered Smeland wouldn't be able to see the gesture. "No," she answered. "Anything I should watch out for?"

"Time lag's the big thing," the decker answered. "Light speed delay. As little as a quarter of a second if we've got a direct line of sight from the satlink station to Zurich-Orbital. As much as half a second-or even more-if we have to sidelink to other satellites to make the connection."

Half a second? In the Matrix that was forever. "Okay ..." Smeland picked up on the hesitation in Sly's voice. "It's not that bad," she said rea.s.suringly. "Both these decks have chips to compensate for the delay. It's there, but you won't notice it unless you get into a sc.r.a.p. In cybercombat, no utility in the world's going to help. You still won't feel the time delay as a delay; it's just that your reaction time will be for drek."

They began to slow as they neared the satlink system construct. It looked more like an impressionistic rendering of a satellite dish. Sly saw now, rather than the real thing. Its structural members glowed dimly with a deep blue verging on ultraviolet. Individual elements flickered as data pa.s.sed through the system.

But there was something else there, as well. Small, dark spheres glided back and forth along some of the structural members, like beads on the wires of an abacus. When she watched individual beads, their motions seemed completely random. But when she expanded her attention to include the whole system, she couldn't escape the feeling that there was some pattern to their movement. "What are theyl" she asked.

"Ice," Smeland said flatly.

The word felt like a cold dagger, slipped deep into Sly's abdomen. "Gray?" she whispered. "Or black?"

The armadillo shrugged. "I can't tell from here." Smeland paused. "Do you want to go on?"

Black ice. Killer ice. Images flashed through Sly's mind-memories of claustrophobia, of choking, of a cramping pain in her chest.

The last time I faced black ice, I died. It stopped my heart, suppressed my breathing ... If somebody hadn't jacked me out-immediately, without a second's delay- I'd have flatlined for sure.

Five years old the memories were, but still as vivid as if it had been only yesterday. This is what I've got in common with Agarwal, she told herself. We both faced the gorgon and lived ... but just. They'd both come away with their lives, and with the unshakable belief that they were living on borrowed time. That the next time they faced black ice, they would surely die.

Sly felt pressure on the back of her skull and neck, like somebody had placed a hand there and had begun to squeeze gently. She recognized the feeling. It was her body's warning of the onset of a fugue-a pseudoepileptic seizure, where her brain temporarily went into cold shutdown. She forced her body to relax, to breath slower and deeper, drawing in the life-giving oxygen her brain needed. Slowly the pressure on the back of her neck began to recede.

Smeland's armadillo icon was watching her. "You okay?"

"I'm frosty," Sly answered brain-to-brain, knowing her voice would contradict her words all too clearly.

"Your call," Smeland said again. She turned back to the satlink construct. "Let's see what we can do about getting past these b.u.g.g.e.rs."

The armadillo opened its arms in a slow, sweeping gesture. Dozens of tiny, mirror-bright spheres appeared-icons representing some kind of masking utility, Sly thought-and drifted toward the construct.