How well did the UCAS government fit the bill? The concept of bringing the megacorps under some degree of control was definitely attractive. Ever since the Shiawase Decision granted extraterritoriality to multinational corps back in 2001, the civil government had lost most of its influence. The governments handle all the drek jobs the corps don't want, Sly thought, and that's it. It's the megacorps that call all the shots.

And what about that nationalism drek? Null program . . .

Or maybe it wasn't. Sly had never kept a close eye on international affairs-except as they directly impacted the shadows, of course-but she couldn't help but pick up rumblings here and there about what was happening on the international front. There was continuous squabbling between the UCAS and the Salish-Shidhe nation about the status of Seattle. Some hotheads on the tribal council wanted to usurp control of the city. And, since that would deny the UCAS its last port on the Pacific Coast-and its sole gateway to j.a.pan and Korea-the boys and girls in D.C. were scrabbling for a way to stop that from happening.

And then there were the ongoing border "disputes" between UCAS and both the Sioux Nation and the Confederate American States. Despite the federal government's vociferous claims to the contrary, the fed seemed to entertain some pretty fragging extensive territorial ambitions. The way things stood at the moment, however, not much ever came of them. The contenders seemed too evenly matched in capabilities.

But that'd change right fast if UCAS got hold of the lost tech, wouldn't it? With that kind of advantage, wouldn't the federal government be tempted to step up the-what did Jurgensen call it?-the "obscure means" of compet.i.tion between nations? And how destabilizing would that be to the political climate of North America?

Corp war or conventional war? Is that what I'm looking at here?

Jurgensen was watching Sly steadily. "Where is the information, Ms. Young?" he asked quietly.

Maybe the best thing she could do at the moment was explore the parameters of her choices. "What if I don't want to tell you? Are you going to threaten me?"

"Threats?" The decker construct's eyes opened wide as if the idea hadn't occurred to him. "You mean, like this?"

Suddenly, Jurgensen was flanked by two hulking figures, figures out of nightmare. Sly jumped back with a cry of alarm.

The creatures, or whatever they were, stood almost three meters tall-if scale meant anything here-their deformed heads brushing the ceiling. They were roughly humanoid in shape, but were not flesh and blood. Instead, they seemed to be pure darkness, coalesced into physical form. They were regions of nothingness, of nonexistence, precisely bounded but with no surface, no texture, no features. They had no visible eyes, yet Sly could sense that they were aware of her, studying her, scrutinizing her, evaluating her as an opponent or as prey.

"What are they?" she asked. She heard the fear in her own voice. Why did you ask, Sly? You know what they are.

Jurgensen glanced to his left and right at the two ma.s.sive figures. "They're ice, what else? Our latest revision of 'golem cla.s.s' black IC, driven by high-level expert system code." He smiled coldly. "So, you see, I could threaten you. The golems could hurt you seriously- without killing you, of course-and you wouldn't be able to jack out to escape them."

He paused. "But that's simply too brutish," he went on more gently. "I'd much prefer that you didn't force me to take that course." He looked at the two ice constructs again. "Do you think we'll be needing them?"

Sly couldn't bring herself to speak, just shook her head rapidly. Jurgensen smiled, and the two nightmare figures vanished. The knot in Sly's gut seemed to loosen infinitesimally.

"Answer my question, please," Jurgensen continued. "Where in the Matrix is the information?"

"It's not in the Matrix," she answered, lying smoothly. "It's in an isolated system, a fully shielded system."

"Tempest-shielded?" Jurgensen asked, naming the military designation for a system completely isolated from all electromagnetic tampering.

Sly nodded. "And it's keyed to my retina print," she added. "If anybody else tries to access it, the data's erased."

The military decker was silent for a moment. "Why don't I believe you?" he asked finally.

Sly just shrugged.

"If it is in the Matrix, I can find it."

You're bluffing, Sly thought. The optical memory chip containing the datafile was installed in the chip slot of the cyberdeck Smeland had loaned her. If you could find it, if you could trace back into my deck from wherever the frag we are, you'd already have it. She fought to keep a triumphant smile off her face, glad that the resolution of her icon wouldn't be enough for Jurgensen to read her expression.

Jurgensen drummed his fingers on the desktop. Sly thought she understood his dilemma. You've got some very real restrictions, haven't you? You can keep me here, stop me from jacking out. But if you do, that means I can't get you what you want.

Unless Jurgensen could trace her physical location, send a team over and capture her meat body as effectively as he'd caught her consciousness. But could he do that? And if he could, why hadn't he done so already?

"Look," she said, "I'll make you a deal. You get the data, I get protection. But I'm physically in Everett, the data's in Fort Lewis. I've got to go get it. Which means you've got to let me go." She held her breath. I'm in Puyallup, not Everett-my meat body, at least. Will he pick up on the lie?

Jurgensen was silent for almost a full minute, almost as though he was consciously drawing out the tension. But then he nodded.

"How do I get back . . . here?" she asked.

"The easiest way is to try to reach Zurich-Orbital," the military decker told her. "We're watching all access routes. You'll automatically get diverted here."

"I'll be back," she lied. "Now, can I . . .?"

"You can jack out."

Again, Sly tried to break the connection. This time it worked. She felt the momentary disorientation as her real sensorium replaced the construct that was cybers.p.a.ce.

And suddenly she found herself in a world that seemed to be blowing itself apart. . . .

18.

0727 hours, November 14, 2053 Falcon ducked as another burst of gunfire from the street blew out what little gla.s.s was left in the window. He wanted to run, to get out of this trap. But run where? The Smeland woman probably had some secret back way out-Falcon certainly would if it were his place- but she hadn't told anybody about it.

According to her, they couldn't move Sly, though Falcon didn't fully understand why. Something about Sly being linked to the Matrix and that she'd die if anybody jacked her out. That meant they didn't have any choice. If they wanted to keep the attackers from getting to Sly, they had to do it here. They'd done the best they could to shelter her from stray gunfire, laying her down on the floor between the heavy couch and a wall, but their options were limited by the length of the cable connecting Sly's cyberdeck to the splitter box and from there to the wall outlet. Falcon had asked if they couldn't unplug the deck from the wall but keep Sly jacked into the deck, but both Modal and Smeland had looked at him like he was an idiot. Just asking, he'd thought bitterly at the time.

He also wondered why the frag Smeland and Modal were still hanging. Modal he could almost understand; apparently he and Sly had some kind of history together, though it was hard to understand how someone as vibrant as Sly could have feelings for a person as cold and emotionless as the black elf. And vice versa.

And what about Smeland? Sure, she and Sly had been chummers. But you don't put your life on the line for every chummer, do you?

And then there was him . . . He couldn't bail out, which relieved him of making any decision. If there was a back way out, Falcon didn't know about it, and the front door wasn't an option. But, he found himself wondering, even if there was another way out, would I take it?

Falcon crouched down beside Sly, looked into her pale, drawn face. No change. If it weren't for the rhythmic movement of her breast, he'd have written her off as flat-lined.

He twitched reflexively as Modal squeezed off another high-velocity greeting to the gunmen in the street. The elf was moving like a chipped jack rabbit, popping up at one window for a quick shot, then ducking down again before anybody could return fire. Repeating the process at another window. Sticking his own head up for a look-see didn't seem like the healthiest thing to do, so Falcon didn't know if the elf was scoring. At the very least Modal's shots would be forcing some of the attackers to keep their heads down.

The fire from the street had taken out all the gla.s.s, leaving the windows perfect targets for grenades. At first the ganger hadn't understood why n.o.body took advantage of the opportunity. One frag grenade lobbed into the room from down below would have splattered all of them, at no risk to the attackers.

But then he'd realized that's not what the raiders, whoever they were, wanted at all. The odds were that they wanted to take Sly alive, and keep her alive long enough to squeeze from her the location of the datafile on the lost tech. So that meant no grenades. It also meant that when the attackers finally made it up the stairs and through the front door they'd be very careful about confirming targets before opening fire. That might make all the difference in the world for Falcon, Modal, and Smeland, who would have no problem identifying anybody coming in from outside as a bad guy. The attackers, meanwhile, would have to hold their fire long enough to figure out who was who, which would cost them.

As it was, though, n.o.body had made it up the stairs. Smeland sat cross-legged in a corner, jacked into her cyberdeck, directly controlling the security systems that protected her home. Early on in the a.s.sault, Falcon had heard the m.u.f.fled boom as the attackers blew open the street-level door. Smeland, already jacked in, had drawn her lips back from her teeth in a grimace that was as much snarl as smile . . .

And that's when the firing had begun, the terrible rip of ultra-high-speed autofire, from just outside the upper door. It had gone on and on-for five seconds at least, much longer than it would take to empty any normal weapon's magazine. The noise of the extended burst had been almost loud enough to mask the horrible screams from the stairwell. Almost.

"Frag me," Modal muttered. "Gun port?"

But Smeland didn't answer him.

The autofire weapon, which she was apparently controlling, had opened up twice more since then, presumably clearing the stairway of anyone trying to reach the upper level.

Falcon saw Modal pop up again, fire off a couple of shots from his heavy pistol, then drop back into cover. Automatic fire from the street st.i.tched the window frame and the opposite wall. "Where the frag's Lone Star?" the elf demanded of n.o.body in particular. "They should be here by now."

To Falcon it seemed that the strange, almost tentative firefight had been going on for hours. Glancing at his watch, he was astonished to see that only eight minutes had pa.s.sed.

But eight minutes could be a fragging long time. The elf had a point: where was the Star? Normally a patrol car would be on the scene of gunfire within a couple of minutes, usually backed up all too soon by an armored Citymaster or maybe a helicopter gunship. Why not now? Unless it was because these slags had the clout to tell Lone Star to keep out of it? And with that kind of influence. they had to have other resources as well. Like maybe a mage or shaman on call. The way Falcon figured it, the only reason he and Modal weren't already being chewed up by a spellworm was that the attackers had known-before they made their a.s.sault-that Sly and company had no magical a.s.sets. But now that the a.s.sault was stalled, he could picture somebody yammering into a radio, whistling up someone to remedy that oversight. And when that spellworm arrived, then the drek would really hit the fan.

Smeland cursed viciously, jerked the deck's lead from her datajack.

"What is it?" Falcon asked.

"They found the last of my sensors and took it out," she snarled. "I'm blind."

Modal looked over at her. "That means they'll be coming."

She nodded. "I've got one last surprise, but I'm going to have to guess on the timing." She shrugged. "And who knows if it'll be enough."

"Explosives in the stairs?" the elf guessed.

"Flechette grenades in the ceiling."

"Ouch," Modal said.

"If I blow them while somebody's actually there. After that ..." Smeland shrugged expressively.

Something slammed hard into the door at the top of the stairs. Falcon saw the heavy metal shake with the impact, almost tearing loose from the hinges. He looked expectantly at Smeland.

From somewhere the woman had acquired a small machine pistol. But she wasn't paying it any attention. Instead, she was focusing on the door, her finger poised over a key on the cyberdeck.

Do it! Falcon wanted to shout.

"Not yet," she muttered.

A fusillade of bullets slammed into the door, but did no harm. It would take a lot more than that to penetrate so much metal. Falcon knew, but it was certainly the prelude to a renewed a.s.sault. The ganger checked the load of the machine pistol he'd picked up from the dead corporator in the Sheraton room. Fourteen rounds. That'd have to do; he didn't have any spare clips.

Another burst struck the door while a ma.s.sive volley from multiple weapons came in simultaneously through the windows. Falcon ducked low as ricochets whined around him.

"Holy frag. . . ."It was Sly's voice.

Falcon spun. The runner's eyes were open, and she was struggling to focus. With a shaking hand, she reached up and tugged the plug free from her datajack. She started to sit up, but Modal was instantly beside her, pushing her down. "Keep your b.l.o.o.d.y head down if you don't want it shot off," he growled.

"What's happening?"

"Later," the elf told her, "if there is a later." He turned to Smeland. "Where's the back door?"

The decker keyed a quick command into her cyberdeck. With a click and a whir, a section of the wall near one corner swung open like a door. "There's a ladder, then a concealed door to the alley."

"T. S., you go first," Modal ordered. "Get out, and just keep on going. You're next, Sharon Louise. And you"-he stabbed a finger at Falcon-"you get her down and out right fragging quick. I'll cover."

Falcon could see that Sly wanted to protest, but he grabbed her shoulder and started dragging her to her feet. "Move," he snapped. Almost as an afterthought, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the cyberdeck, tucked it under his arm.

Smeland's finger punched down on a key, and the room rang with multiple explosions from the stairway. Explosions, and more screams. A rain of splinters spattered off the metal door. Falcon cringed, imagining the whirling storm of metal darts filling the stairwell, flaying flesh from bone.

While the overpressure from the grenades was still echoing from the walls, Smeland darted through the concealed door. Falcon followed, dragging Sly through the door.

There was a small anteroom, a circular hole in the floor leading down to a similar room on ground level. Smeland was already at the bottom of the metal ladder, beckoning for them to hurry.

"Go," Falcon told Sly. "Move it!"

The runner still looked partially stunned-dump shock, wasn't that what deckers called it?-but she still moved fast. She swung halfway down the ladder, then dropped the last meter and a half to the floor.

His turn. "Catch." He dropped the cyberdeck down to Sly, didn't wait to see whether she caught it safely. He grabbed the sides of the ladder, pushed his feet against the outsides of the vertical bars, then let himself slide down. As he hit the bottom, Falcon heard another explosion and the chatter of gunfire from the room above.

Something suddenly blocked the light, plummeting toward him. Falcon flung himself back, just in time to avoid Modal. The elf had decided to jump down, not even bothering with the ladder. "Get the frag out of here!" he screamed. To punctuate his words, the elf raised his pistol, emptied the clip up the ladder. A shriek from above confirmed his marksmanship.

Smeland was opening a door in the wall facing the ladder. Sly was right behind her, Falcon ready to follow the two women out. He looked back over his shoulder at Modal. In the gray light of dawn flooding in from outside, he saw blood pumping from a gaping wound in the left side of the elf's neck.

Smeland darted through the door, Sly close on her heels. Falcon hesitated. Modal had ejected the spent magazine from his pistol, was trying to fish a replacement out of his pocket. But his left arm was virtually useless, seeming to refuse the orders his brain was sending to it. He's dying, Falcon realized. Now he's dying, too.

"Modal!" he shouted. When the elf turned, Falcon tossed him the machine pistol. Modal dropped his own gun, plucking the new weapon out of the air with his good right hand. Turning, he triggered a short burst up the ladder. No cry this time, but Falcon could hear the bullets slamming into flesh and bone.

"Come on!" It was Smeland's voice, from outside. Falcon turned and ran, Modal close behind.

Emerging into a wide alley, he was startled to see sitting there a big old Ford, vintage twenty-thirties, its engine running. Smeland was behind the wheel. Sly beside her. The back door was open.

Falcon flung himself into the big rear seat, then reached out to help the wounded Modal in after him.

But Modal had turned back to face the building, machine pistol raised.

The elf's instincts were right on. An instant later, a figure appeared in the doorway, a heavy shotgun braced against his hip.

Modal fired first, a long burst that blew the figure's throat open and turned his face to a pulpy ma.s.s. Already dead, the attacker's final spasm made his finger clench around his weapon's trigger. The big shotgun roared.

The blast caught Modal full in the chest, hammered him back into the car. He remained upright for an instant, then slumped to the ground.

"Frag!" Falcon scrambled across the car seat, leaned out and grabbed the elf under both arms to drag him bodily into the Ford. He couldn't reach the door to shut it, but who gave a frag anyway? "Boot it!" he screamed at Smeland. With a squeal of tires, the car took off, the acceleration throwing Falcon against the seat.

From behind them he heard a yell, the words lost as they sped away. From ahead came gunshots. Something slammed into the metalwork of the car, but whether it was a bullet or a gunman who didn't get out of the way fast enough Falcon couldn't be sure. Sly returned fire, the reports of her big revolver punishingly loud inside the car. Then the immediate emergency seemed to be over. The ganger debated doing something about the door. But then Smeland threw the car into a screeching left turn, and the door slammed shut under its own weight.

"How is he?" Sly had turned and was leaning over the back of the pa.s.senger seat.

Falcon didn't have to reply; she could see the answer as well as he could. The elf's entire chest was a ma.s.s of blood and torn flesh. He'd been wearing a padded jacket, perhaps armored enough to stop rounds from a light submachine gun. But against a blast from an a.s.sault shotgun-at less than ten meters? Not a fragging chance. The elf might as well have been wearing a T-shirt for all the protection the jacket gave him. He was dead, Falcon knew, if not now then soon. And whatever time he had left wasn't a blessing.

It turned out that Modal was still alive. The elf's chest heaved. He coughed, blowing pink spray from his lips. Falcon wanted to turn away, wanted to vomit, but with an ultimate effort of will, he controlled both impulses.

Sly knew. The ganger could tell from her face. She reached down, grabbed the elf's hand, squeezed it hard.

Modal's eyes flickered open, focused on Sly's face. "How is it, Sharon Louise?" he asked. He coughed again, bright arterial blood leaking from his mouth.