Spiders and Scorpions

Trouble is the one product in which the supply exceeds the demand. —Anonymous



As always, Harold Maddox was working late, and his employer did not even know it. His work was his life, and he had provided a good, stable environment for his son with the riches his efforts had granted. But this kind of work usually made him nervous. All alone, late at night.

The entire interior of the Rawson Electrics Seattle office, all forty floors, was dark, aside from the file room he now occupied. Overtime, overtime. It seemed to Harold that he was never home. In fact, he could only vaguely remember what his home looked like.

Pausing from his file sifting, he took a second to tug his tie loose, grimacing at the heat of the third basement level. All of the furnaces for the building were down here, and the soft humming of their operation was beginning to make Harold's head throb. He wiped away a layer of glistening sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket and went back to work. His situation wasn't helped any by the impressive girth he had inadvertently acquired in his years behind a desk.

Rawson Electrics was working on a new project, and whenever that happened it meant more work for him. Oh well, he thought, at least I'm getting paid. Just not recognized. Just not promoted. The work was very delicate, and it wasn't safe to store the files for it as data in the computer systems. Hackers and deckers could get at it there, and that would mean disaster for Rawson. Instead, everything was hardcopy, stored securely in the basement behind locked doors. Though with the heat down here, it was a wonder they didn't all burn up, Harold thought sourly.

He pulled the last few files he would need and turned to leave. What happened next couldn't have surprised him more, and he was certain it very nearly caused his aging heart to stop.

There was a tremendous blast as the steel security door leading out of the room dented inward as though pummeled by a great force. Directly following that, Harold heard fragments of wood and metal raining over the ground behind the door.

Harold clutched at his tortured heart, his mouth agape, breathing in heavy gushes. The pile of hardcopy files he was holding spilled onto the floor around his feet. He was more frightened than ever in his life. He was certain he was going to die. After a nanosecond's consideration, though, he was no longer positive that death was such a negative prospect. After all, he would see his beautiful Diana again. He had wanted that ever since her senseless death five years ago. She'd been an innocent victim of a horrible disease.

But, no! Jimmy needed him. Despite what Jimmy thought, the boy was not ready to face the world by himself, especially without the financial assistance of his father.

He could hear loud voices outside the door now. Angry, rapid voices. Urgency. Harold got the impression that whoever was out there was not having a good day. That, however, did not concern him, for his own day was turning out rather sadly. He would just have to do something about that while his attackers were busy arguing with each other.

Quickly he cast his eyes about the room, searching for something--anything--to get him out of this. Why in the name of Christ had he left his wrist phone in his office? Easily answered. He always did. He found it uncomfortable and took it off whenever he could. Well, this'll teach him.

If he were still in this room when those people achieved entrance, he was as good as dead. His first thought was to find a weapon, something he could use to defend himself, but he immediately dismissed that as utter foolishness. If the intruders could blast their way through that steel security door, they would have little difficulty doing away with him.

Harold's next plan was escape. He--

Clang! The rounded mound of the dent became larger, the sound deafening. The voices grew angrier, more hostile. Harold guessed that someone out there was being blamed for the door's persistent battle.

Anyway, where was he? Oh yes, escape. One more blast and that door was history. It would probably take another minute for them to load up and fire whatever it was they were using, judging from the previous gap, so Harold had no time even to panic. He needed out, and right fragging now!

He frowned as his eyes fell upon his only apparent option. A heating duct. Near the ceiling, about eight feet up, but manageable if he stood on a chair. Only two major problems presented themselves in his mind at this point. First, the heat inside that little tunnel would be damn near unbearable. Hell, he was sweating bullets just standing here. Of course, the stress factor was causing half of it. Now, the other hurtle was slightly more daunting, and had two parts. He was both fat and claustrophobic.

Staring at the metal grate covering the duct, his eyes grew wider and his heart increased its pace to dangerous levels. His rib cage seemed to shudder under the impact of his pounding organ. He had to force himself to breathe through his constricting throat. Oh Jesus, oh dear Jesus Christ, I can't!

But, of course, he had to. And, furthermore, he had to take the files with him. Dropping to his knees, his hands a whirlwind of action, Harold Maddox scooped the files into what almost passed as a pile, then grabbed a chair from the room's corner and placed it beneath the heating duct.

The voices outside were ever more heated and angry-sounding. He took it as a good sign. If they were having trouble, his chances of getting out alive were better. In a particularly loud burst of dialogue, Harold heard some very creative cursing and promised himself he'd remember it for later use.

He could scarcely believe he was joking around at a time like this. Where was his head? Although, he supposed his joviality might be helping him to cope.

With his chubby fingers, he could only barely get a grip on the duct's cover. The metal pinched into his fingertips as he pulled on it, and in about two seconds the whole thing suddenly popped off. Surprised, Harold flew back. The chair toppled backward, and as Harold hit the ground, the wind was knocked from him. Gasping, he struggled to knees, righted the chair, and gathered the batch of files from the top of a nearby file cabinet. What a day, he groused. What a fragging day.

The thunder and whistling of automatic fire came to him then, and he felt so sorry for his poor heart. Pings and pongs shattered the relative quiet of the empty building, cutting off those trying to shout and argue out there. Harold glanced at the door for a moment, expecting it to fall open at any time, and saw tiny pock marks and indentures appear in sequence over the whole of its surface. His teeth clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the racket.

When the firing stopped, the door still held. Wow, he thought. That's a damn fine door. A slot of a good door. If he got out of this alive, it would be because of that door. He would find out who made that door and recommend the company to all of his friends. It seemed like the right thing to do. Harold could see himself now. "Hello. I'm not usually attacked in the middle of the night by assholes with assault cannons and other military artillery, but when I am, I want to have a Johnson security door right in front of me. I'm Harold Maddox of Rawson Electrics, and thank you."

Now he was getting ridiculous. Back to the job at hand, he commanded himself. With some difficulty, he planted his right foot on the file cabinet next to the duct. He found he needed his hands, so he tossed the files into the tunnel, thanking God that the air wasn't blowing. In the next few minutes, with the intruders going at each other with renewed vigor, Harold managed to boost himself into the heating duct.

With his mind in that giddy state that was one level removed from insanity, he'd almost forgotten about his claustrophobia. It had been a nagging obstacle for him ever since he could remember, and when his wide rear end stuck fast and refused to enter the duct, the fear became an issue demanding immediate attention. Drek!

Autofire began again, drowning out the screams of fury of the intruders. But the sound actually served Harold well, for it drove a stake of pure adrenaline into his ravaged heart. With all his might he squirmed and tugged and wiggled and pulled, scraping at the walls of the heating duct, bloodying his hands. He could feel his pants coming off, but he didn't care. He knew the security door had almost run out of luck, and he'd had far more than his fair share, so with one final yank, he was through. His pants, however, chose to stay. They fell from his body, back into the room. Those dirty fraggers had literally scared the pants off of him. Grinning despite his predicament, Harold gripped the folders and papers and kept moving.

Behind him, the door blew off its hinges and slammed against the wall into which he had just escaped.

"Frag!" someone shrieked from the file room. "Somebody was in here!"

Harold came to a fork in the road and chose left, scrabbling on his hands and knees in his underwear.

Slugs spat in rapid succession from a machine gun, and the muzzle flash shot glimmering light into the tunnel. Bullets ricocheted in Harold's wake, one whistling right past his left ear and punching a hole in the thin metal of the duct. If he hadn't made the turn in time, he'd have been chewed into hamburger by the gun's fire.

"Drek!" Harold's would-be assailant screamed shrilly.

Another voice, this one gruff and calm. "With all the time it took us to get through the door, they would have had plenty of time to get lost. Whoever it was is gone. Snag the catch."

"All right, let's do it!"

Just then, the hot air came. It was November, cold outside, and the climate control was trying to keep the place warm. It was like a desert wind coming off the plains of hell. His scruffy brown hair matted to his head as perspiration gushed from his pores by the bucketful. Oh God, help me. God was with him in some form, though, because fear of death was proving to be infinitely more powerful than fear of closed-in spaces.

The route Harold chose opened right next to the building's freight elevator. The space before the opening was more spacious, and he was able to turn himself around, kick the grate off, and climb out backward. Good, he thought. He had been worried that he would have to take a nosedive.

He started to slide from the heating duct on his round stomach. Deprived of the protection of his trousers, he painfully snagged his crotch on the edge of the tunnel and fell in a heap upon the ferrocrete floor. The impact was jolting, and he bit his tongue. He clutched himself a moment while papers precipitated over him.

At least out here the air was cooler, and he felt much better now that he was free of the confining tunnels, but also very tired. His brain was numb with fright, so his movements were sluggish, requiring too much effort.

Soon, Harold once again gathered the hopelessly confused mess of files and limped to the elevator, cursing his luck. He hoped beyond hope that the intruders would be a while in discovering whatever it was they had come for, and he could declare an alert before they got away.

In the main foyer there was no sign of forced entry. No broken glass or shattered wood. He ran as best he could over the marble flooring of the lavish, vaulted chamber toward the reception desk. The lights were not on, but neon and other forms of illumination poured through the glass of the main entryway, bathing the huge room in jagged shadow.

"Mr. Maddox," said the guard from behind the large desk. "What's going on, sir? Has something happened?" The man was appropriately distressed.

"Yes," Harold breathed, trying to articulate through the anxiety that had clouded his mind. "Hit the PANICBUTTON! Hurry. Intruders. Broke in. Hurry." He was breathing very harshly, but felt much more like himself now that he was no longer in immediate danger.

The guard turned and slapped the flat red button on the wall. Emergency lights flared on all around as the regular electricity shut off and the computers locked up. A siren sounded. Harold walked toward the main entrance.

"Sir?" the guard yelled above the mournful wailing of the siren. "Sir."

Harold turned around and stared at the man dumbly.

"Sir, what happened to your pants?"

Harold Maddox stood silently a second before his mouth curled up in a slow grin and he started to chuckle. He laughed only a moment, though, then politely asked the guard to use his access card to open the doors, for Harold's own card was in the pocket of his pants. His credstick, other forms of identification, and holos of his wife and child as well.

"I've got a change of clothes in my car," he explained briefly. "If Lone Star arrives before I get back, tell them to wait a moment. I won't be long."

"Of course, sir."

"Thanks."

Harold walked out into the cold wind, eliciting more than a few curious stares from passers-by, and got into his turquoise Toyota Elite. From a compartment in the back seat, he retrieved a fresh pair of pants and pulled them on. Then he sat for a short time contemplating. He was alive, no longer in danger; he began to cry with relief.



Whoever profits by crime is guilty of it. —French Proverb



The Lone Star police officers had swept in, surrounding the building. The security response was well organized and well executed and, considering the reputation of shadowrunners for lethal resistance, turned out quite well. Of the seven runners who had penetrated the Rawson building, three were killed in the shootout, two surrendered and were taken into custody, and two escaped, though one of the two escapees was thought to have been injured. No Lone Star fatalities, and only minor injuries.

The shadowrunners had reportedly effected entry through a ventilation port in the roof, which led directly into an elevator shaft. The rotor craft they'd used to reach the roof (and quite likely their getaway vehicle) had been shot down by a heavily armed Lone Star hovercraft. A decker running Matrix support (the uninjured escapee) had ensured the elevator in question would be on the third and lowest basement level. Rappelling down the shaft, the runners entered the elevator car through an access panel in its top, then an electronics specialist had caused the doors to open without alerting the security computer on the premises. Supposedly, everything had gone very well until the group encountered the file room's reinforced Ares security door. Lack of foresight resulted in the runners being improperly equipped to handle the obstacle. Everything had gone downhill from there.

The target of the run was apparently one of the files the executive Harold Maddox had taken with him as he fled for his life. He was rewarded for his efforts with a pat on the back and a small bonus. A very small bonus. No promotion. No true recognition. Frag, they refused even to release his name to the press. Security, they said. For his own protection, they said.

A real wiz reporter, Sandra Pop of KTXX Channel 22 News, did some quick and remarkable legwork and was actually able to speak to one of the escaped runners even as he evaded Lone Star, just twenty minutes following the firefight. By chance, she spotted him sprinting feverishly through a public park, and at great personal risk, she and her crew cut him off and requested an interview. He was known as Scorpion, a big name in the biz, and boy was he pissed. Even as Ms. Pop said this on the air, Scorpion shoved her out of the way of the tridcam, stepped front and center, and declared a state of war on the "fragger who fragged my fraggin' run and killed my chummers." He was a huge man, chipped to the max, with chromium cybereyes gleaming evilly like polished, elongated silver dollars from the sockets.

As Scorpion ran off, what appeared to be blood oozed down one of his massive biceps, and his left arm dangled as though useless.

Incidentally, the ratings for the independent station KTXX went up 25 percent for the next three weeks as the story was brutally rehashed time and again.



Sex is a clever imitation of love. It has all the action but none of the plot. —William Rotsler



As always, Tammy felt exquisite beneath him. The slippery friction of their sweat-drenched bodies was putting him into sensory overload, and by the sounds she was making, the girl was having an even better time than he.

The name Jimmy Maddox carried weight around here, because he had money. But more than that, he knew how to push. He was used to getting what he wanted--from girls, from establishments, whatever. This tiny back room at Reno's Bar in downtown Seattle was a place he visited often, usually with his girlfriend.

Indeed, he believed his life to be enviable. He spent his days asleep, his evenings drinking, and his nights carousing and fornicating. He and Tammy used this room most every night. That's because they couldn't wait to do it after they took Urge. The little pills worked fast. Despite advertisements insisting that Urge caused a multitude of nasty conditions, including impotence (yeah sure, chummer), Jimmy gulped down one a day. Mere moments subsequent to washing them down with soybeer, carnal energy would wash through the teens' bodies, flush their faces, and they would look at each other across Jimmy's private table at Reno's hungrily for about two nanoseconds. Then, slip some of Dad's cred to the right bouncer, and into the back room for a few hours of indulgence. Sex on Urge was good, lustful and lecherous, often lewd or even downright obscene. That's how Jimmy liked it. That's what kept it interesting.

Going like an animal in heat, Jimmy touched her everywhere, everywhere she could be touched. He licked and lapped, bit and chewed, growled and grunted.

Tammy was equally lost. She squirmed and squealed, clawed Jimmy's back, sucked his tongue into her mouth, pulled him against her and into her.

A drop of sweat fell from the tip of Jimmy's nose onto Tammy's forehead. She ground her hips against him and moaned with pleasure.

The crusty, well-used cot of the shabby back room was doused with their heated perspiration, and the room's atmosphere was thick and muggy. There came an insistent pounding at the thin wooden door, but the pair paid it no heed, totally withdrawn from the real world, completely absorbed in the sensuality of Urge.

An hour and a half later, Jimmy slowed, slowed, and came to a shuddering, wall-slamming, heart-bursting, muscle-twitching halt. He exhaled grandly, collapsing atop Tammy, laying his head between her small breasts. He stayed that way for a long time, listening to the sound of her heart beating, moving with the diminishing heaving of her chest. They had all but fused together with sweat, but exhaustion did not allow them the capacity to care.

He could see her, but just barely. Flashing, multicolored lights leaked into the closet-sized room through the cracks surrounding the weak door. Her short blond hair dangled over the edge of the cot. Also, a glow-in-the-dark, neon pink streak swished through the blond hair like a racing stripe, providing further, though nominal, illumination. Tammy had a pert nose and round, rosy-hued cheeks, and her smile was something to behold. She'd had only minor cosmetic surgery. She always claimed to be a naturalist.

There was a live band playing on the elaborate stage setup out in the bar, so the floor and walls vibrated with the heavy-hitting beat of the cyberdrummer doing a solo. The twanging, blasting, roaring sound of another band member laying in on a synth-guitar roused Jimmy. Adrenaline shot through his tired body briefly, affording him enough energy to rise.

"Wow, Tammy," he said. "I can't wait for the rally tonight."

"Really? What's it about?" Tammy asked, though it seemed to Jimmy that she wasn't really too interested. She'd become less enthusiastic, and thus less active, with Metahuman Rights activities.

"You remember," Jimmy insisted, "Saratech? The discrimination case? We're gonna stage a peaceful protest at their Northern Facilities office." He paused. "Peaceful for now. You are coming, aren't you?"

"Maybe," she answered noncommittally.

"Uh-huh. Not too wired about it, huh?" He began to feel as though he were at a disadvantage, standing before her without any clothes on, although she was equally unclad.

"Hey, Jimmy," said Tammy.

"Hmm?" he answered, scanning the floor for his clothes.

"I've been thinkin'," she said.

Oh no, he thought. This did not bode well. The last time she took it upon herself to exercise her brain cells without him, she spent a hundred nuyen of his dough to buy a solar-powered flashlight from some street vendor. However, her dimness of mind somehow made her attractive to him, revved up his protective instincts. He took care of her.

"What have you been thinkin' about, chica?" Jimmy pulled his pants on.

Tammy watched him from the cot. "I wanna see other people."

Jimmy was shocked. They'd been seeing each other exclusively for two and half years now. What could possibly have gotten into her all of a sudden? He didn't let his surprise show, though. He remained calm and impassive. "What do you mean?" he asked.

She said something then, but the music got a lot louder very suddenly, and he missed it. She spoke up. "It's getting boring," she practically shouted. "We do the same things all the time. I want more."

Jimmy's first instinct was to tell the slitch to go slot herself, that he'd never needed her in the first place, and that all this meant was that some other biff was about to get a lucky break. Then he caught himself. He thought perhaps he might be able to divert this. The feelings rebounding through his body took him somewhat by surprise. He was really afraid to lose her. He liked her an awful lot. She'd been perfect up until now. There hadn't even been any friction between them. Her sudden dissatisfaction confused him almost as much as it angered him.

"I want more," she repeated.

"More what?" asked Jimmy, pausing in his dressing. He tried not to sound sarcastic or scornful, but it was fragging hard in the face of this drek.

"Well," Tammy began, "I don't know." She hesitated, and Jimmy leered down at her. "I'll know when I find it," she said matter-of-factly, with a curt little nod to accentuate her statement. "I don't think I can do all this Metahuman Rights drek anymore."

"I see." He was now having trouble thinking of things to say. She seemed set, decided. Her insensitivity didn't help.

They stared at each other for several minutes. A lull in the frantic pace of the music made it seem more difficult to remain silent, so Jimmy said, "Goodbye, then?"

"Maybe," Tammy said, now seeming not quite as certain about herself. "Maybe we could just see each other every now and then. You know, instead of every day . . . and without the rallies. That would be wiz, wouldn't it?"

Jimmy spared her a weak smile as he shrugged into his Reno's T-shirt. "I don't know, Tammy. Maybe, maybe not. We'll see." His defenses were running on full by this time. In the past minute or so, he'd convinced himself he didn't need to see her again, not ever. So, he supposed it was time to make some irrevocable mistakes. He took a deep breath, and dove right in.

"I got someone else waiting on me, Tam," he lied. "I'm sure you understand. I was just about to tell you to buzz anyway. See ya around." That said, he grabbed his jacket, turned, unlocked the door's several locks, and went out. He wasn't into long goodbyes.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Tammy start to call out, but he ignored her. To hell with her. He had a life without her. She wasn't everything. Just put her behind you, chummer, and go on.

He saw that his private table had been taken. Usually, he would just have the bouncer remove the offenders, but these guys were big and looked like trouble. He shrugged it off; couldn't bring himself to care.

Now he felt like drek. He was coming down from his defensive, self righteous high. He wanted to put his head through a wall. Instead, he found himself a relatively secluded table in one corner of the room and pulled the modified simsense deck from his jacket pocket. The numerous people around him, of every race and creed, danced, talked, swung their hair around, and drank, but none of them paid Jimmy any mind. He slotted a dreamchip, and then slid the end of the fiber-optic cable into the datajack mounted in his left temple.

He pressed play, and something Better-Than-Life took over, drowned out reality.



Money is something that talks. Most of us can't keep it long enough to hear what it says. —Jimmy Lyons



Harold Maddox sat in his office on the eighth floor of the Rawson Electrics Seattle complex, staring at the electronic calendar embedded in his desk. December 15, 2055. Once again, he was working late, only this time he wasn't alone. Nearly the whole staff was still here, though it was nearly nineteen hundred hours. Back to the same old routines, the same old drekky life.

Well, one thing in his life was different. The situation with his son had gone from bad to worse in the last few months. Here's the scoop: The boy's mother died of VITAS-3 about two years ago. Now, Jimmy had always been a fairly bad child, a bit too rambunctious, but Diana had usually managed to keep his wildness in check, at least under tentative control. He had so much resentment, was such a cynic at a very early age, thought he knew it all. Diana's sudden infection with an urban plague like VITAS-3 couldn't have come at a more inopportune time. Jimmy became worse, and markedly so.

First, it was his friends. Bums, hoods, gangers, squatters. Those were the types Jimmy befriended. They taught him to chip, got him hooked, and he was theirs forever. Only seventeen years old and already a dreamchipper. What was the Sixth World coming to?

Now things were getting even stranger. Harold had just learned that for several months now his son had been a Metahuman Rights Activist, traipsing around with signs and logos and T-shirts proclaiming equal rights for metahumans. Harold agreed with all that, sure. He'd married an elf, hadn't he? But did Jimmy have to dedicate his life to it? Couldn't he do something productive? He supposed Jimmy would have been easy pickings for those people, though, since he too had been born an elf. Harold knew he should have seen it coming.

Harold's secretary appeared on the vidcom before him. "You have a call, Mr. Maddox. Sounds urgent."

"Really?" He couldn't imagine. "Well, who is it?"

"They wouldn't say. Something to do with your son. Sounds urgent."

"Oh. Uh, send it through." Jimmy was probably in trouble again. As Harold reached for the answer button on the vidphone next to the intercom, he also reached for his credstick. Had to be ready to wire bail.

"Yes?" he said. But the picture was black. No video.

"Mr. Maddox," a familiar voice said, cleverly disguised by intermittent, randomly broadcast digital signals. "Glad to have located you." Harold did not miss the sarcasm, for rarely was he elsewhere.

"What do you want? You've been paid."

"Yes, I know, Mr. Maddox," said Mr. Kastonov, a seedy character whom Harold was forced to deal with occasionally. Scum. "But my business is one of opportunity. I've run across some rather interesting data. I'm itching to share it with you, if the cred is there."

Harold was annoyed. What made these shadow types think they could just barge in on your life anytime they saw fit? Didn't they have any rules, etiquette? "Why the frag do you cut the video, Kastonov? It's irritating as hell."

"Is it, Mr. Maddox?"

"Yes." A moment of silence passed. "Kastonov, my secretary mentioned something about my son," Harold prodded, now thoroughly aggravated and wanting to end this as soon as possible. At least it seemed Jimmy wasn't in jail again.

"Right, I had to say something striking in order to reach you, Mr. Maddox," spoke the computerized, obscured voice.

"Does that mean you lied?"

"No. No, not at all. The data involves your son, Mr. Maddox." Mr. Kastonov paused for several seconds, and Harold found himself wishing to strangle the man. "And it is indeed very urgent news. Valuable."

Grinding his teeth, Harold tugged his tie loose and said, "All right, how much, Kastonov? Let's make it quick."

"Ten thousand," Mr. Kastonov replied evenly.

Harold started to choke. "What?" he yelled. "What could possibly be worth that much?" Admittedly, he was beginning to get nervous, and danger signals were going off in his head. The gravelly tone created by Kastonov's advanced technology was unnerving him as well.

"Five now, five when we've finished our chat."

"What," Harold said, "you mean over the lines? No meet?" Very unorthodox.

"Too urgent. You'll want to know now."

"Drek. Fine." Harold slotted his credstick into the telecom, then sighed as five thousand nuyen were whisked away over the fiber optics. "Start talkin'," he said.

"Jimmy's to be killed."

"Huh?"

"Targeted. He's going to be assassinated."

Harold's mind reeled. "Are you sure? By whom? Why?"

"Scorpion," answered Mr. Kastonov. "Reasons are obvious."

"But how did he know? My name was never mentioned!" Panic was rising. He was very afraid. The mere thought of the night of the intrusion was enough to send Harold into tremors.

"Obvious again. Contacts, chummer. Scorpion's no amateur. A brazen fool, talking to the press and all, but no newbie. Something about ID found in a pair of pants . . ."

"Oh drek. Slottin' frag drek! When? When does the heat go down?"

"Mr. Maddox."

"What?"

"Stop. Your mismatched slang could be the end of me."

Harold growled. "Answer the fragging question, Kastonov. We're talking about my son, here!"

A pause. "An hour, maybe less."

Harold's eyes flew wide open, and his mouth hung slack. An hour. "My god, Kastonov! What can I do?"

Always the professional, Mr. Kastonov said, "I believe we had a deal, Mr. Maddox?"

"Huh? Oh, yes. Sorry." The remaining five grand sang down the lines. "Help me, Kastonov. You must have something."

"Of course, Mr. Maddox. Remember, mine is a business of--"

"Opportunity, yeah, I know. So what have you got?"

"Well, with such short notice, my choices were quite limited. I was only able to contact one runner for you, Mr. Maddox. But she's somethin'. I think you'll like her. Top notch."

One shadowrunner. Harold tried to bring his breathing under control. He ripped his tie clean off. "I'll take her, Kastonov. I'll take her. Gimme the name."

"No, no, Mr. Maddox, that's not how we do opportune business, you know."

Harold ground his teeth together fiercely. "How much?" he practically screamed, then he quickly looked around as though there were someone who might have heard. Of course, he was alone. "How much?" he said again, much quieter, calmly.

"The whole job will cost you fifty, Mr. Maddox," Mr. Kastonov replied without a hint of emotion. "I'll take care of all fees. All involved will be paid. You won't have to worry about a thing."

Harold was quite surprised that flames weren't brimming from his flaring nostrils. "Fine!" he yelled.

The cred flew (a considerable portion of Harold's savings), and Kastonov was gone, leaving just the name of the shadowrunner who would be charged with protecting Harold's only son.

Spider. It seemed appropriate. Send one bug to fight another. Spiders and Scorpions and bears, oh my. Where in hell did runners get these names, anyhow?

Harold hated the conniving, low life bastard Kastonov. But perhaps because of him, Jimmy would live.



Fear is that which gives intelligence even to fools. —French Proverb



"All is arranged," Kastonov told her. She knew it was he, even though his face was not visible and his voice was digitally distorted.

Spider merely nodded at the telecom, for she was aware that he could see her.

When next he spoke, a few seconds later, his disguised voice was shaky. He sounded unnerved. He hadn't realized Spider was cognizant of his habit of cutting just one side of the video throughput. Well, he knew now. She was always being underestimated, and that was just as she liked it. "G-good then. You'll have to be quick. The boy is in immediate danger. Oh, and thanks for responding with such short notice. I realize it could be inconvenient--"

She reached forward and cut the line, pressing the disconnect button. Her finger moved down a centimeter to the autopilot initiator. On the screen mounted between the handlebars of her Aurora racing bike materialized a road map of the Seattle Sprawl. A blinking yellow cursor quickly traced the quickest path through the zigging and zagging streets from her current position to Reno's Bar. About two miles.

The bike's engine revved. She raised her booted feet, got a firm grip with one gloved hand, and grasped one shoulder-holstered Uzi III with the other. As electronic connections were made between the sensitive pad just beneath the skin of her palm and the circuitry built into the gun, a red crosshair fizzled into view in her field of vision. The target point of the crosshair was jammed down in the lower left corner, because the weapon was still in its holster under her black duster. What she wanted to see was the text that appeared to the lower right: AMMO 24. A full clip.

Of its own accord, the Aurora pulled out into traffic, dodging the worst patches of ice as best it was able. Spider kept an eye on it, ready to take over if the need suddenly arose. Computers, she thought. Totally unreliable. But you had to trust something, even in the Sixth World. Still, she held on.

The racing bike didn't move too fast on autopilot due to safety measures built into the city grid system, from which the bike's computer gained its information. That's all right, Spider mused to herself, I got time. The kid's not gonna be geeked for another fifteen minutes or so. No hurry.

The weather was cold. Gray clouds frowned down upon the world, but at least it wasn't snowing. And the wind wasn't blowing either. That was good. Despite all this, the chill was penetrating the armored clothing she wore, causing her to shiver. She was thoroughly uncomfortable. She hated the cold. Spider liked it warm and moist . . .

As the bike took a right at a traffic light, some punky, warty, fang-faced, fragging ork sped by her in the next lane, driving a puke orange Mitsubishi Runabout. Slush and snow sprayed all over her, a particularly cold chunk slamming right into Spider's left ear. She whipped her head toward the three-wheeled car's speeding form, angry, snarling; she reached for an Uzi, then decided against it. No attention. No gunfire yet. Not right before a run.

Frag it! her mind screamed. If there was anything she hated more than cold and snow and ice, it was drekfaced, talon-toothed orks, those ugly motherfraggers who thought they deserved to live with the rest of humanity, though in reality they didn't deserve to live in the first place. Spider would have reveled in the chance to blast the smirk off the idiot's toothy face.

She held hope, though. She knew there must be a button somewhere, a red button, hidden underground, with lots of warnings in blaring red ink surrounding it. The button was wired to the hearts of each and every metahuman on the face of the earth, and pressing it--which she would gladly do--would explode them all, killing all of the swine and vermin infesting the planet. The Awakening was the worst thing that could ever have happened, bringing magic, so-called metahumanity, and strange creatures to the world. All of it better off dead and gone. How she wished for such a button. Fanatically.

Sometimes Spider wondered if all of the hate inside her was unhealthy. Most times, she didn't care.

Once more she wondered how it was that a lowly fixer like Kastonov could have gotten her number. She was a runner with an excellent reputation, especially in the areas of assassination and demolition. Kastonov was small time. Spider usually contracted through reputable contacts, people with connections. It was something to consider.

Two other points interested her as well. First, why was she hired for a protection job? She theorized that perhaps those who had contacted her believed there was no one more qualified to halt an assassination attempt than an assassin. That made sense. Second, why such short notice? Of course, it didn't faze her any. She'd handled tighter situations. But it was odd. Possibly, the incompetents hadn't gotten the word on the hit until just now. Extremely unprofessional. Well, having done some quick research on Harold Maddox directly following Kastonov's first call, she'd uncovered the fact that Maddox had married a sleazy, no-good, untrustworthy elf. That didn't say a lot for his intelligence. Mystery solved.

And just in time. Spider took over control of the motorcycle, made a left into the crowded parking lot of Reno's, and parked on the line between two cars.

"Hey," someone said behind her as she dismounted. "You scratch my car, bitch, and your head belongs to me." Haughty, arrogant; foolish.

Spider turned slowly. Naturally, an ork. Some chick with a neon green mohawk and rather small tusks stood staring at her, wearing multihued synth-leathers and fake chains, though no weapons were apparent. Behind that one were more of them, male and female, orks and trolls, all smiling with pride at the deed of their chum. The vehicle in question was a rusted, spray-painted, pile of drek. Spider couldn't even tell what make the "car" was.

With exaggerated slowness, Spider took a glance at her wrist chrono. Ten minutes 'til show time. Just enough time to teach a couple of stupid gangers a lesson in manners. Street etiquette, you might call it.

"You hear me, frag-slitch?" the gangergirl asked when Spider did not respond. The ork moved a bit closer, urged on by the gibes and quips of her friends.

Spider's initial intention was to pull a submachine gun and put a few strategically placed holes in the girl's legs, but that option was loud and messy and tended to tempt the intrusion of Lone Star officers. Not wise, for now.

The gangergirl was getting brave, mistaking Spider's hesitation for fear. She took another step, now within striking distance, just an arm's breadth from Spider. "You skinny, stupid-ass little whore," yelled the ganger with what seemed to be forced anger, "if you don't say somethin' right now, I'm gonna cut you." A switchblade slid from the ork's sleeve into her hand and snapped open. "Well? You want it? You want it right up your cute little ass?"

That was Spider's problem. She was too damn cute. Too thin, not tall enough. She looked downright fragile, almost ostentatiously an easy victim.

Spider was getting annoyed. What these youths didn't realize was that her hesitation was due to indecision. Should she just walk? That would be the wisest way, for she couldn't afford the noise. Already, others were growing interested. But somehow she doubted she had that option. The girl's pals had given the loudmouth too much enthusiasm for the sport, and she'd see it to the end.

All right, then. Quietly, Spider decided.

Implanted neural boosters and adrenaline stimulators powered up. Artificial energy. Spider's wired reflexes moved with such inhuman speed, the ork had no time to think, jerk, or otherwise react as three stainless steel blades extruded from the knuckles of Spider's right hand with a soft snick. The ork's own blade was knocked from her hand and the cyberspurs were buried to the hilt in vital tissue all in a fraction of a second. The gangergirl's smug expression changed abruptly, and blood gurgled from her mouth as she fell to the ground. Crimson leaked over the white of snow.

Orks bled like normal humans. That's all they had in common.

It had happened so quickly, the other gang members hadn't yet had time to get spooked. Spider glared at them a few seconds. In no time at all, eyes began to widen, faces contorted, and they all took off. Spider took a deep breath, then leaned down to wipe the blood from her spurs on the ork's clothing. The blades retracted into concealment.

She kicked the body--no, wait: Still alive. Spider moved to finish the girl off, then stayed her hand. Every movement of the ork chick broadcast pain, and this satisfied Spider. She pushed the helpless girl under her own car with a foot, a task made easy by the slick ground. The ganger whimpered softly, but made no greater sound than that. Perfect. The cops would be a long time in coming on the word of a bunch of street slime. "We'll check it out," they'd say, which really meant, "We may get around to it."

There was a long line of losers looking for a chance to get inside Reno's. Only those with the best reputations or the best bribes--or both--made it. Girls offered their bodies to the bouncers--and drek, so did some of the boys--just for a peek. It was chaotic.

Half the line wasn't human. Spider severely disliked this place. The owner was blind, blind and stupid, letting all these goblins and fairies in. It wasn't right. The whole world had huge problems. Spider had rarely met anyone anywhere who shared her vision, who knew the truth, knew the difference between humans and these freaks. In time, people would realize, but probably too late.

Spider didn't waste any time. She only had five minutes left, which meant the hit could happen any time now. And she still had to find the slag she was protecting. Kastonov had been awful brief about Jimmy Maddox. In fact, she knew next to nothing about him, just that he hung here at Reno's and he spent a lot of time in one of the many back rooms. Oh, and he was a dreamchipper, which fragged the big melon. Hmm, she thought, I'll just have to look for someone with a chip deck, and if there are more than one of 'em, whichever one gets shot at is the one I'm lookin' for. Sound logic. Go time.

The massive, towering troll who stood at the door grinned as Spider approached, though it was hard to tell with his wart-covered, leathery skin and abundant, large teeth. Fearlessly, she cuffed him across the face. It was a reach, but not too tough. He growled as several would-be patrons in the line gave little hoots and cheers, then Spider pulled a certified credstick from an inside pocket and handed it to him. He gave it a once-over with a small decoder box, then frowned and waved her in. Recognition of her ID had been on his face. Big name. Big time. Even if she was an insufferable bigot. The crowd she left behind cheered further, and Spider jandered onto the main dance floor.

Though weapons were not prohibited in the place, carrying them was something of a fashion no-no, thus Spider did her best to remain inconspicuous, at least until the shooting started. She glanced around, checking the corners first. Almost immediately she spotted a slag sitting alone, face blank, slotting what had to be a BTL. He was all the way across the room, in the dark, and her low-light opticals did their best to compensate. Spider started toward him, bumping through the mass of gyrating teens and thrillers.



Dreams are nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air and more inconstant than the wind. —Adapted from William Shakespear



The BTL chip Jimmy was doing was a common track loop. This one was called Sky Blue. A friend of his had disconnected the burn circuits on the chip so that the experience could be enjoyed over and over . . . forever. Most track loops were one use and one use only.

Sky Blue was so named for the sensation it caused, that of a light, dazed euphoria. Jimmy sat at the table, smiling in a silly way, generally happy to be alive. The simsense signals being sent from his simdeck, through his datajack, and into his brain were somewhat unlike those produced by conventional simsense. Track loops worked rather similarly to archaic chemical drugs. Jimmy was fully aware of his surroundings, and fully in control of his actions and movements. This type of dreamchip merely induced a certain mental state or emotion, and he could jack out of it at any time, though he couldn't imagine why he'd want to do that.

The swirling lights coming from both the ceiling and the huge trideo screens on the walls made him happy, made him realize how good his life was. He never wanted to die.

Jimmy's gaze fell on a woman. She had just entered the bar through the main entrance on the other side of the dance floor. She was beautiful in a hard kind of way. The woman was lithe, her movements graceful. Her hair reached to the middle of her back and was a dull black color, dull because of its total lack of sheen. It didn't reflect the stroboscopic lighting at all. She was a regular human, but that didn't matter to Jimmy, for he viewed all of metahumanity equally. Her skin was fair, like she hadn't seen too much of the sun, and the clothes she wore beneath her western-style duster were tight-fitting.

And it made Jimmy happy to see that the lady had two small submachine guns concealed under that duster, which was probably lined with both impact and ballistic armor. When he noticed that her attention was intently on him, he became even happier. Perhaps he would have to make an exception to his usual rule of one dose of Urge per day . . .

"What's your name?" the woman demanded once she'd made her way through the mingling crowd to his table. She was glaring at him like she owned him. Jimmy's danger instincts tugged at his mind for attention, but happiness allowed him to effectively ignore them.

"Uh, I'm Jimmy Maddox." He beamed at her, delighted. "Would you like to--?"

"You're an elf," she said with surprised disgust, sneering, and with no attempt to screen her feelings. "What's this drek?"

That got through to him. He yanked the datacord from his head and glared back at her menacingly. All of the depression, rage, and frustration of the day hit him at once, and now he had on his hands what appeared to be a prejudicial Neanderthal. "Excuse me? What are you talking about? Who the frag are you?"

The lady gritted her teeth, started to get angry. Jimmy became more acutely aware of her guns, but was too frazzed to adjust his approach to the situation. The woman, meanwhile, seemed to appraise him, and her face told him she was having some sort of internal conflict. Jimmy was growing impatient. And confused. He wanted answers.

"Well?" Jimmy said caustically.



Enthusiasm is the best protection in any situation. —David Seabury



Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something, but everything happened so fast that her brain never had time to register what that something was. Spider's reflex implants acted before registry was possible. She was already moving at the fragging elf kid when the red dots of twin laser sights appeared on his forehead. He was too busy talking to notice.

Spider ducked low, her field of vision falling below the table. Incredibly rapidly, she grasped each of Jimmy's ankles, cringing inwardly at having come into physical contact with a dandelion-eating fairy, then she yanked hard. She'd had muscle replacements in a good portion of her body, and was thus much stronger than she seemed.

With a strangled yelp, the kid came down, banging his chin on the edge of the table. Null perspiration, thought Spider. Her job was to keep him from dying, not to make sure his lifesaving experience was smooth and pleasant going, not to offer him a bag of honey-roasted peanuts to enjoy before biting the bullet. Besides, he was an elf.

Part of the wall behind where the kid's head had been disintegrated, and directly following, a monstrous blast cut the din of the place effortlessly. People screamed, the band stopped playing, and someone was coming. Dancers were being thrown aside by that someone as he made his way toward Spider and Jimmy, and Spider was determined to be gone by the time he made it. Unfortunately, the tweak-fraggin' elf kid didn't look to be capable of the deed. He was sprawled out, holding his face, and he seemed to be utterly baffled.

Fairy-twiggin', dag-slottin', flower-pickin' elf.

"C'mon, drek for brains!" she yelled at him, but when he didn't fly to his feet and start making tracks instantly, she knew she'd have to play Cowboys and Indians. The innocent bystanders weren't doing their jobs properly, 'cause the two shooters were almost there. Gonna gang up on her, huh?

Rotating on one knee, Spider did an about face, simultaneously drawing an Uzi SMG. Instantaneously, targeting information appeared in her line of sight, superimposed over her normal vision. In the bottom-right corner, just above the ammunition readout: RANGE 9.73m. Top-left and blinking: FA, indicating that she had selected to fire her weapon in full automatic. The crosshair showed her where the gun was currently pointed, and right now it was centered on Bad Guy #1, with a flashing red box surrounding the intersection of the lines. It was telling her to fire . . . and it meant today. Goodbye, chummer.

Spider squeezed the familiar trigger, sending a long burst of lead at the first of Jimmy's attempted assassins. Blood splashed his torso from crotch to chest, and the man shrieked in shock and pain, turning his eyes skyward. His gun went off again, a Remmington Roomsweeper, thunderous and booming. The shot shattered several light fixtures, which showered glass over those unlucky enough to be close by. Reno's patrons dove for the floor, drinks spilled, and noise and chaos claimed the place.

When the man had fallen, Spider kept spraying him with bullets. His body jumped and convulsed as slugs ripped into him. She had to be sure he was dead. AMMO 7.

Spider felt really lucky. The guys hadn't expected opposition. They had come prepared to dust a soft-bellied, inexperience punk, not a veteran street samurai with actual firepower. Dumb, she thought. Always prepare for the worst. No exceptions. This is why she always worked alone, no one to blame for frag-ups but herself.

Bad Guy #2 stood over his former comrade. By the time he looked up, having shaken off the astonishment of being attacked, his target had escaped his area of control.



Deceit is the game of small minds, and is thus the proper pursuit of women. —Pierre Corneille



Jimmy knew the bouncer, Alfred, would try to be a hero. He was just good that way. Alfred didn't know Jimmy personally, so the gigantic troll would probably have little reason to favor him. Jimmy decided to keep the crazy lady, who had apparently just saved his life, between himself and Alfred.

He was right about that. As the pair fled through the main entrance, jumping over prone patrons, Alfred reached out to grab the razorgirl. She had obviously expected such, and as she passed by, she delivered a swift, two-blow combination kick to the bouncer's treetrunk leg, one to the side of the knee and one behind. Martial arts trained, huh? Interesting. Alfred hooted in pain, then his leg collapsed, and he fell over on his side, crushing a cowering young man wearing a Maria Mercurial T-shirt.

If his jaw hadn't ached so terribly from the brief encounter it had had with the table, Jimmy would have been tempted to cheer. The girl didn't like elves, and that was bad, but she sure was a sight. It was like simsense, only for real. An honest-to-God action sim, right here in River City. Jimmy's head swam.

Out in the parking lot, the line of potential Reno's customers was in the process of scattering. Car, truck, and motorcycle power plants roared to life, tires screeched, headlights flashed, and car stereos blared. Panic and disorder reigned. A siren went off, probably a PANICBUTTON. Definitely news material, at least a small spot, even though violence and mayhem were hardly strange occurances in the Sprawl.

"Get over here," commanded the cutter chick. She was moving at high speed toward a Suzuki racing bike.

"But," stammered Jimmy, "what about my car?" He couldn't leave his Saab Dynamit here. Anything could happen to it, especially with all of these people scurrying around. And there would be cops, and reporters, and all sorts of action. No, he couldn't leave it.

"Tough. Move it." Her voice left no room for argument, no recourse at all. Jimmy felt compelled to obey, partly because that may be his only chance to live. He was no shadowrunner. Hell, he'd only barely kept from pissing himself, while this lady stepped in and wordlessly took control of the whole scene. Amazing.

There wasn't quite enough room for both of them on the Aurora since she had removed the small rear seat, but the woman informed him that it was too bad, he would have to suffer. Didn't bother her any. When the engine pulsed to life and she gunned it over the curb and onto the street, Jimmy very nearly lost his seat. Ooh, that would have hurt. He clutched her duster tightly and held himself up against her as best he could. She proved a proficient biker, dodging through traffic, squeezing through dangerously narrow openings, and driving at more than twice the speed limit all the while. It was wild. Several times, a compounded pack of slush or ice nearly cost them everything.

"Who are--?" Jimmy started to yell, then a small burst of yellow sparks shot from part of the Suzuki's frame, just behind Jimmy's right calf. A bullet ricocheting. "Slot!" he yiped.

Ice and pavement all around the speeding cycle broke and splashed upward like miniature geysers, reacting to a storm of slugs. Cars honked as the lady ran a red and turned a corner, then another. Very dangerous.

"Christ, lady! Watch it!" yelled Jimmy.

When she didn't respond, Jimmy took a look around, discovering that their chaser was nowhere in sight. Whew.

"Who are you?" he repeated, trying one more time.

After a moment's hesitation, she answered, "I'm a cop. Just cooperate and everything will be fine."

"A cop?" Jimmy shouted, loud enough to be heard. Nerves shot off all over his body. He was currently in possession of BTLs up the yin-yang. The thought crossed his mind to simply dump the contents of his pockets overboard, but that thought kept on going, did not pass Go, and did not collect $200. The stuff was far too valuable. He would take his chances of facing the comparatively minor charge of illegal simsense possession.

"Yeah, a cop. Now, keep quiet," she ordered.

"Who's chasing us? Who would want to kill me?"

"A criminal named Scorpion. I told you to shut up."

Everything came clear to him then. It was revenge, and it was his father's fault. Of course. He'd be damned if he'd pay for his father's frag-ups. Christ. Thank God for Lone Star, anyhow, though he had never heard of them sending agents to stop murders before they even happened. That didn't stop him from being thankful.

Listening intently, Jimmy could hear the distant chattering of gunfire, but it was as though it were only a background noise. It didn't hit him in the gut like it should have, didn't seem to actually pertain to him. He'd heard the sound often enough walking down the street. Could be a coincidence.

Jimmy cranked his head back, trying desperately to hold on to his strange savior. He could see the small gouts of spark-flame shooting out of a gun barrel, and that was how he located the man chasing them. The guy was big, and he was sitting astride a huge Harley Scorpion, his scruffy face a mask of rage. In his hand was what appeared to be a very large, unpleasant-looking weapon, probably an assault rifle, and from the gun spouted an unending stream of ammunition. The road around the Aurora was again getting chewed, and occasional rounds spanged off of the racing bike's frame.

If that guy were any closer, there's no way he'd miss, not with all the lead he was wasting. Also, he seemed to be having a hard time weaving in and out of traffic with one hand occupied. Those vehicles that stayed in his way too long, however, got their own blast of slugs. The slag was shooting up innocents!

He felt the razorgirl going to make another turn.

Jimmy turned to face forward again and got a mouthful of the woman's hair as they shot around a corner. He started to spit and puff the hair away, then there was a loud bang right beneath him. Looking down, he saw sparks flying in all directions, and he heard a terrible screeching, like that of metal against ferrocrete. Oh, God! he thought. The wheel's gone! The bastard shot the tire.

The Harley Scorpion sped past, unable to turn on the ice so suddenly.

Jimmy was astounded to see that the lady didn't scream. She handled it all very well as they started to go down.

Jimmy, though, gave his vocal chords a workout. He let loose with a shriek James Brown would have been proud of. He screamed and yelled as the Suzuki fell to its side. Fortunately, his precarious position on the bike allowed him to free himself completely, but the lady wasn't so lucky. She seemed to be caught somehow.

They had been traveling at least 70 kph, and Jimmy hit the snow, ice, and slush at that speed. Cold wetness sloshed immediately into his face, stinging horribly, then he was sliding over the pavement. The wetness of the road wasn't quite enough to keep his body from being heavily abraded. Strips of clothing came off, leaving his skin to be both frozen and burned. Having less potential for friction than the metal racing bike and the lady still connected to it, Jimmy quickly caught up and slammed into it with his shoulder, twisting and turning, still sliding very rapidly.

He knew the bike would hit something soon, or a car would either roll over them or slide into them, and the resulting collision would be made all the worse because of his proximity to the motorcycle. With her leg trapped underneath like that, Jimmy was very grateful not to be the black-haired lady. She wasn't screaming, though. It was impressive.

Jimmy was totally petrified by now. He couldn't see anything. Water and slush poured over him, getting into his eyes. He wanted to shut them, but he couldn't. Too scared. At least he wasn't becoming too entangled with the Aurora's wreckage, as he had feared. Instead, he was beginning to change course, about to coast right into the next lane. A car speeding along there slowed, and the driver and passenger stared in wonderment. They were going to let him in, and he hadn't even signaled.

Now he was going much slower. The car behind him looked to be well in control and completely aware. Relief washed over him as he allowed himself to believe that perhaps nothing catastrophic would happen, that he would stop before he hit anything. Then he saw that they were approaching an intersection. The light was red, and only the left of the two northbound lanes was occupied.

To his right, the woman had freed herself from the skating cycle, and was attempting to push off of it, to change her own trajectory. And she was doing a slot of a good job, too.

Jimmy lost sight of her as he swished under the stopped car and hit his head. Bong! Oh, fraggin' frag frick freak. He came to a slow, wet halt near the vehicle's front end, hoping that the driver had seen him and was not going to start up and drag him along. A shredded scrap of his clothing was snagged on something on the vehicle's underside.

The lady went a bit further, he saw, over the crosswalk line, but just shy of the criss-crossing traffic. A good thing, too, because the cars would have been hard pressed to stop on the slick turf. She'd have been toast.

The whole ride had probably taken no more than nine or ten seconds, but it had seemed like an eternity.

Above him, a car door whooshed open, and a foot clad in a corporate-style dress shoe stepped onto the road. Good, he thought, no problems there. Then Jimmy reached into his pocket to check on his simdeck. Oh, frag, if anything had happened to it he would . . . Ah, drek. The parts and pieces of his very expensive, highly modified, totally illegal simdeck jiggled around his probing fingers.

"God!" he yelled, more upset about the deck than anything so far.

"Are you all right?" said some slag, but not to him.

"Yeah, fine," the crazy lady answered irritably, about three meters away. Jimmy would have thought she'd at least be polite. But, no, that didn't seem to be her strong suit.

"C'mon!" he heard her say, much closer suddenly. She grabbed him by the shoulder of his tattered jacket and pulled. He slid from beneath the car, a Chrysler-Nissan Jackrabbit, he noticed. Light blue. "He's comin', idiot. Let's go." The woman yanked him to his feet.

"What?" Jimmy said, still thinking about his former simdeck. It was going to take some doing to replace it.

"Look, I'd love to leave you here, but I've got cred ridin' on you, ya friggin' moron. C'mon."

The people who had gotten out of their cars, strikingly few in number, looked confused. Jimmy looked and saw that the light had changed. "Hell of a thing," he heard someone say. "What in the frag?" muttered another. Horns blared and other folk screamed obscenities from lowered windows. They all claimed to be in a hurry, not one of them wasn't late, and only the owner of the Jackrabbit was interested in matters of health. The rest of them were worried only about themselves.

Jimmy glared around at them all. Someone shouted something involving the word "dandelion-eater."

"Shut up!" shrieked Jimmy. "Shut the frag up! All of you!" He indicated his companion. "She's Lone Star, you fraggers! What's wrong with you?"

The lady looked incredulous, exasperated, and angry all at once. She clamped her hand over his mouth and joshed him in the groin with her knee. He doubled over, and then the fraggin' slitch bent down and scooped him onto her shoulders. His surprise was shared by all who watched. She started running.

"You ain't a cop, are you?" Jimmy wheezed, bouncing up and down as the lady traveled. It was all he could do to speak, for his entire body tingled as the extra sugar in his blood searched for something to do, and the tops of his thighs, his stomach, and even his chest ached fiercely from the shot he'd taken in the ‘nads.

She carried him into a narrow alley, just wide enough to allow passage of one human-sized creature. Jimmy's face rubbed across the brick wall as they went.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, watch it, lady. Hey." His arms were of no use in so constricted a space, so it was left up to his neck to save his face. He cringed and scowled and tried in vain to keep his head away from the punishing wall.

They came out on the other side of the alley.



Here's to woman! Would that we could fall into her arms without falling into her hands. —Ambrose Bierce