

# Intrigue Satellite

Michael Ford

# .

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 1997 Michael Ford

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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# Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

# Chapter One

The two crouched in wait on the wrong side of the window on the fifty sixth floor. They had been waiting for over an hour. The floor was supposed to be vacant of any workers, except security, at this hour. The entire operation was on hold because of a single brown-nosing office clerk. Channelle Kitka growled softly and Deckard Blaine nodded his agreement.

_Running spreadsheets or something,_ Deckard thought. He and his partner had gained access to the highly restrictive floor from the building across the street. It was in the process of being constructed, and so provided easy access to the level they wanted. The fifty-sixth floor of the Gygax building was guarded by a crisscross of laser eyes; code & time locked doors, pressure plates and armed guards on every floor. The elevator went up the fifty-sixth floor, but did not open. That required a code. Once open, there was another door, a vault door. That required another code. Once past this, there was a guard. That required a key, turned simultaneously with the guard's key. Every one of these moves lit up a light on a manned security console stationed on every floor. If these lights went unacknowledged for three minutes, the entire building locked down and wiped all codes, and then transferred all data out to remote locales. Gygax Systems, Securities and Operations were very, very jealous of its secrets. It was Deckard Blaine's job to relieve them of that burden. His and his partner's: Channelle Kitka.

Finally, the obsequious employee of Gygax SS & O locked down his board and left the room. They gave him another ten minutes and then entered. They had gotten to the floor ledge using a grappler. The grappler was a handheld rocket propelled cable-attaching device. It fired a flight stud that had molecular bonding properties in the pointed nose. The grappler was only one of the modular inserts of the wrist rocket guns Deckard carried with him. Deckard was armed with this and more like it, all the products of the agency he was a member of.

They then crossed the cable and retracted it. The window was next. Deckard vaporized a section of it and the two slipped through. The window was not hooked into an alarm system, or "tripped" as the jargon went. The designers of the security system had recommended that the windows be tripped, but cost requirements had precluded that option. It was an oversight Deckard and Kitka used to their advantage now. The vaporized glass would be a dead give away to how they had entered, but none of the mission objectives required they cover their tracks. They were to get in, download the information, and get out more or less intact.

Kitka went off to check the floor, while Deckard examined the mainframe. Digging in his back vest pouch, he got out a small digital mole, a device that accessed a mainframe through a disc input and transferred all data out via wireless modem. Deckard never knew quite where, but it did not matter, his job was to see he parameters were adhered to. If the device failed to work, or the downloaded info was incoherent, or a decoy, that was Tech's problem, or Analysis' problem, not his.

He watched the red lights on the mole blink over, one by one, to green. Suddenly his watch face lit up three times in rapid succession, an alert. Deckard looked at it and the digital dial rearranged itself to video pickup. It was the office worker, still on the floor and headed toward Deckard's position.

"Ambush," Deckard whispered in his headset. The black clad figure then stole to behind the open door and waited.

The man, in a rumpled plum colored suit, came in and flicked on the lights. The thing he saw, sitting on the desk, was a large, spotted animal. The office drone was taken aback. It looked like a large cat, or a small cheetah. Maybe it had escaped from a zoo. It meowed loudly, and then began to wash its face.

"What the hell," he blinked in wonder and took a step then crumpled to the floor. Deck stood over him, flexing his gloved hand. He looked down at the fallen figure and then flicked the lights off. Channelle stretched out to sniff the air, then resumed washing her face.

"Good work, girl," Deck whispered, ruffling her large ears, kneeling down to check the mole. Kitka leapt down and twined about his legs as he did so. All green, time to go. He gathered up his equipment and packed it back in his vest. The man on the floor moaned slightly, but did not move. Poor jerk would be fired. Maybe brought up on criminal charges, all for working a little late. Deckard felt a little sorry for him. After all, what could a simple employee do against an operator that took out the guards and penetrated the most sophisticated alarms and anti theft systems available? Gygax SS&O would fail to see that aspect. All they would see was a fall guy. The guards making their rounds would be let off easy. They had obeyed all the rules, but failed in their task anyway. Deckard knelt and went through the man's pockets, curious about him now. The man's company ID read: Ian Brady, 5'6', 168 lbs, eyes, brown, hair, brown. There was a bar code, magnetic strip and a thumbprint. Deckard decided to make the guards earn their pay, if they lived to collect it.

"Think twice before you work late again," He whispered in the unconscious man's ear, slapping him lightly on the back of the head. Deckard stood, slipped the ID in his sleeve pocket and hissed twice between his teeth. Kitka made for the door, activating her shrouding device on her collar. As she faded from sight, Deckard took a deep breath, cracked his neck and drew his 10mm wrist rocket. The guard on the other side of the main door, near the elevator, would be their first target.

.

Years before, he had been nothing more than a minor clerk in a government warehouse. In the warehouse, files for shredding were sent and inventoried. It was his job to take the files, feed them into a metal-toothed maw of spinning steel, and then check them off the list. Day in and day out he did this. The paper-eating machine ate and it was Deckard that fed him. There was never a lack for food and there was never a lack of appetite.

Deckard was in the warehouse alone, and he lived alone. He thought a great deal during this time and he read a lot of books. His one companion was a radio. He got his news, his views and opinions from the radio. The entire world beyond the gray cinder block wall of the warehouse was described to him in detail on a daily basis.

It was an isolated existence, a tolerated one. Toleration, however, eventually runs out. When the light from fluorescent tubes that hummed overhead begins to drill into your skull and the dusty cement floors begin to chafe your feet through the soles of your shoes, you begin to reconsider things. A lot of things.

.

Deckard Blaine twisted and turned on his futon, bare and without cover. His skin covered with a fine layer of sweat, sweat born of past troubles. Turmoil raged within him, and he fought it. A large tortoiseshell feline lounged nearby. Noticing his stirring, she rose, stretching and crept over, still stretching her large claw laden paws, and curled up by his waist, and cast her tail over her feet. A sudden calm transcended upon him and he slumbered fitfully. Her yellow eyes, slits in the dark, slowly closed and she slept by her human.

This cat was no ordinary cat; it was specifically genetically engineered. It combined aspects from a dozen different types of felines, from the leopard to the Maine coon. She was three times larger than an ordinary house cat, covered with spots of black, orange, and tan. Her face markings were a lopsided mask of black with a stripe of orange down the middle. Her ears were large with long tips of whisker and fur like a bobcat's. The large claws she had were enhanced with silicon and diamond tips.

The human that now rested beside her, was augmented, as well. His skin was a map of faint stripes that could barely be discerned. Beneath the skin, muscles, tendons, and bones had all been changed through chemical, surgical and genetic means. Hands, and feet too, had been altered to produce claws. They were hooks of hardened bone submerged just beneath creases in the prints in the fingers and toes. Not for defense, although they could be used as such. They were in truth, an accident in the genetic process.

Blaine opened his eyes as the flood of the dream ebbed away. The cat, noticing, slinked up onto his chest and gave his face a thorough sniffing. They touched noses and he caressed her face and ears.

"Good morning." He whispered. Her mouth opened briefly in a silent reply. She jumped off and he rose, stretching. They went into the kitchen and had breakfast. It was not morning, it was three AM, but they kept irregular hours, they had ever since they had met, ten years ago.

.

The warehouse got to him the day he noticed that he walked to work in the early morning before the sun rose and went home after dark. He went home, had dinner and went to bed. He had not seen anyone, except strangers, for weeks. The next day he did not go to work, or the day after or the day after. He lay on his couch, eating popcorn, watching the digital video. On the fourth day, a letter came from work. It contained a check for severance pay, and a short letter telling him in essence the he was fired. Deckard got in his car, cashed the check and telephoned a friend from a bar.

"Hey Deck! I thought you were dead!"

"No, I'm getting drunk, I'm at Sony's."

"Wait right there, I'll get Jake and Lira and we'll be there in five minutes."

He hung up and ordered five drinks. By the time they arrived, he could hear the distinct motors of the hyperbikes of his friends. Kelly, Jake, and Lira were friends from high school. They were track racers and very good at it too. A sort of jet propelled motorcycle with a unique stabilizer that prevented about 90% of crashes. They were deemed so safe there was no mandate for protective gear. There had been a lot of new technology coming out lately. So much so, the Information Age had abruptly turned into what the media was now calling 'Tech revolution'.

Deck was not sure he liked it, but he forgot all that as his friends surrounded him with greeting, jokes, and laughter. They all resembled extras from an old motorcycle movie. Jeans, boots, leather jackets and wavy hair.

"Heard you quit your job!"

"You should join our team!"

"Seen those new IBCRs at the track, they're hot, very hot."

"Like you could drive one!"

"I drove you pretty good last night."

Laughter.

The day wore into night. Lira and Kelly left together, but Hazuiki and Romera showed up each with very attractive females, who immediately called up friends who also joined them. It was a real reunion. He saw all his old friends, who seemed glad him, although none of them asked him any questions. Except for one, the only one who could.

Jake draped his arm around Deck, as they watched the others play Tactile-darts.

"Why did you quit, man? You know what this means." Jake was a close friend and could read him like a book. It was no use trying to deny anything.

"Yeah, I know, but what's the worst that they could do?"

"They can do a lot. They're trying to terranize Io, and they know for a fact that the water is potable on Europa, did you know that?" Jake took a swig off his beer. "They might figure that you're just smart enough to figure out how to repair that lowest bidder survival gear." Another drink. "Or catch whatever kind of fish is creeping around underneath the ice."

Deck smiled lopsidedly. "Naw, I'll play dumb and wind up sweeping off runways on some deserted island where they keep nuclear waste."

"Don't be so sure." Jake was older by a number of years and had been drafted and served in the International Armed Guard. He had seen action in the Balkans. He was sent back to states on a minor disability. Having only two fingers and a thumb on his left hand, he was considered by everyone, including himself, to be extremely lucky.

"You're too smart for your own good." Jake made an exasperated noise. "They have ways of finding out."

As long as he could remember all of his friends had the same opinion of him. That Deckard was too smart for his own good and one day, he'd be in for it. Everyone he knew from school had immersed themselves into the "scene". They rented clubs, started bands, booked bands, and got liquor licenses for bars that would open for a few weeks, then close due to health code violations, bad luck, larceny or all three. This did not stop them though, the next day, a whole new plan, and a whole new scam.

The music, which had slowly changed from a high powered bass twang, evolved into a more melodic swing rhythm, was the focal point of all efforts. Who was the best, which was hot, which were the best combos, who had the best equipment, were the questions that everyone asked everyone else. Deckard had a vague knowledge of what was happening, but not all over the place. Some knew what was happening all over the liberated states, the Grays, and the Neo-Confed. Those that knew, worked it for all the good it could do them.

.

Eventually the night turned into early morning and Deckard went home. He slept until the next afternoon and awoke to find that the postman had brought him his draft notice. He was ordered to get his affairs in order and report to the nearest government recruiting post to determine his abilities within the week. He sat down on his couch and clasped his head in his hands. Not figuring that they would be on his case so soon, Deckard had assumed he had another month. During that time, other things could be done to avoid the draft. However, he had worked for the government previously so his record had been processed twice as quickly.

Obscenities clashed in his mind for top dominance as he thought.

_If only I had taken out a grant and gone to college. I could have gotten into R.O.T.C. and served out my term in some stupid office filling out forms. Who knows what they're gonna do to me now? Where they might send me?_ Deck sat in his apartment alone, as before, with his thoughts. He collected himself, then got up and made a few phone calls, getting his affairs in order.

He reported to the recruiting office on Baker Street on Friday. His apartment had been subleased. The agency was very understanding at his situation and had found a leaser in a matter of hours. Most of his stuff had been sold off and he put the remainder in his old car and put the car in storage, paying for the fee with the profits.

Deckard locked the door and contemplated throwing the key away since he doubted that he would ever return, but just stuck it in his pocket. The IAG was the world's police force. It had been organized by the last world government effort. They had a reputation for sending highly trained, well-equipped soldiers into places where hostile natives with cheap automatic weapons outnumbered them hundreds to one.

In the recruiting office waited a couple of dozen hapless people that had made the same or similar mistakes. It took hours, but eventually his file was processed and he was called forward. He was stripped, examined, and given a psychological profile. Lab coated doctor types all with thinning hair and mustaches performed this. When spoken to about anything other than the battery of test they were giving, they remained silent, then replied with the next question, or instructions for the next test. He tried to be slower than he actually was, but it was no use. They had seen all the tricks before and knew how to deal with them. At the end of a five-hour period, he was judged fit to go on to the next stage.

Most of the draftees had been assigned a branch of service after the first stage. Deckard watched them be led off to another building. The next stage consisted of various aptitude tasks. It was during this that Deck began to see a glimmer of hope. For the first one, he was put in a small industrial kitchen and instructed to make a cheese omelet.

"Omelet du fromage," he quipped to the doctor who only stared at him with stony visage. He bent to his task, grumbling, finding the supplies and ingredients right where expected they would be.

_Maybe they'll make me a chef._ That sounded safe enough. He thought as he flipped the egg dish over. Deck was not unskilled, nor mundane in cooking, but not a lot of people appreciated Spam fajitas or tuna and salsa like he did. When he put the omelet on a plate, the doctor, who had obviously been timing him from behind a two-way mirror, came in.

"Very good, Mr. Blaine." His only comment thus far as he wrote on his clipboard. The doctor refused to taste it, so Blaine ate it, having been without food since the ordeal began. The doctor made note of that.

Other tests included a series of find the slightly-differently-colored dot on the page of similarly colored dots, some extremely easy cryptograms, map reading and so on and so on and so on. At the end of the day, his head spinning, he went with a small group of others being herded into a large cattle car. The cattle car was flat gray with uncomfortable metal benches. The other occupants kept their heads down and did not speak. Deck looked out the window and hoped that perhaps tomorrow would be better. They disembarked in a fenced compound with large white block shaped buildings.

The entrances were manned by heavily armed guards and guards with dogs roamed inside the perimeter. The group was led into a cafeteria where bland hot food was served. No one spoke or even looked around, except Deck. The food was rice and beans with some type of ham or sausage, applesauce, or what passed for it anyway, and steamed vegetables. It all tasted like it had been made out of the same material and put in a press or mold. Mold #1: Ham. Mold #2: Rice. Mold#3: Table. The doctors or scientists or whatever they were had been replaced by uniformed soldiers, some with guns, some without. After about an hour, a loudspeaker informed them that lights out would be in thirty minutes and they would all be assigned rooms.

"On your feet and form two lines at either exit." A Sergeant in battle dress barked out. Deck groaned to himself. He was obviously in the army now. He wasn't, but he would soon wish that he were. He would soon know of Section X, and all it encompassed.

.

Ten years, pain, agony, missions successful and not, alterations, extreme damage, ruthlessness, kindness, bullets, blood, ashes, the dead, the alive, the crippled, and the insane all passed before Blaine's eyes. Political incidence turned into war. War turned into victory. Victory turned to peace. It was a peace of the mighty, the victors, with those opposed ground firmly beneath them. Those that refused to submit were mercilessly hunted down and brought before the world's eyes. They were tried as "war criminals".

The evidence, when there was evidence, was thin at best, but most of those caught never had their day in court. Some were killed. Some killed themselves. Others were shot while trying to escape. Others were simply chucked into the worst hellholes that passed as prisons and forgotten. Deck was fully aware of this and could do nothing about it. One does not dip water with a knife, and this was a giant well with an entire sea of water. Deckard was equipped with far less than what it would take to correct it. In fact, as far as the government was concerned he and his kind did not exist at all.

After breakfast, he and Kitka went into the entertainment room. It was a large room with several thick, brightly colored rugs laid about with several pieces of furniture low and thickly upholstered. There were several shelf-type things suspended from all the walls at different heights. None were full and many only had one item on them. Blaine lay down on the couch and turned on the Digital Video set. It was already on an old movie network, so he left it on.

The cat climbed upon one shelf and leapt from one to the other, until she was on the one right above the couch. She sprawled herself across it, her large tail swaying gently. She poked her head over the shelf to gaze into the eyes of Deckard who was gazing back at her. He reached up as she reached out with her paw and they touched briefly, and then both fell back to sleep for three more hours. After that, they awoke went back into the kitchen and drank water for fifteen minutes. Then they went back into the den when he fell asleep on the floor, and she in the chair, both on their backs.

.

_The army._ Thought Blaine. _Of all the places they could've stuck me._ He lay in his metal-framed bunk, hands behind head in a room with three others. Over the next few months, he would wish that they had stuck him in the worst bullet magnet outfit in the world with nothing but a slingshot. He was in the hands of Section X. It existed wherever its programmers, scientists, researches and directors were. This time they were here, and they had a new research program to try out and Blaine was almost, not quite, the perfect subject.

"Above average intelligence, extremely sensitive, but can be indifferent, even callous at times, Height, six feet, weight, 190 pounds..." Dr. Sorvino trailed off as he read faster than he could speak. He was in a small glass enclosed room surrounded by electronic equipment, prints, telecommunication devices, and analysis tools of all types. Dr. Hancock, seated at the readout station, glanced up.

"Problem." Stated, not asked.

"Not really, it just that..." He trailed off again.

"Paul. You always have misgivings about new projects."

"Yes, and sometimes, I'm right!"

"And sometimes not." She stopped her file perusal and turned from the readout unit. "Tell me what it is this time."

"It just that, well, I'm not sure how the subject will react to the therapy. I just have the feeling that this one will blow up." He threw the file on the desk and looked over the top of his reading glasses at her. "In our faces."

She got up with effort and limped over to the desk where the files, scattered, now lay. Placing the pages back in order, she handed back the file.

"Paul, I'm sure the subject will react just the way the simulation shows he will. To the letter and controllable." Dr. Sorvino smoothed out his mustache and looked at the observation screens. Number 7 was the camera was trained on their subject. One eye, the right one, opened slightly, slowly. The subject was staring right into camera, seemingly watching him. It was impossible, for the camera was almost microscopically small and hidden very well. The blank impassive eye unsettled him.

.

The next day, and the next and the next were a total blur to Deckard. He didn't remember waking up from his iron bunk in the room with the others. He only remembered bright lights, masked faces and cold probing fingers and hands, the sting of injections and the restless numbness of the gas. His thoughts swum about in a black ocean of forgetfulness and delirium. He felt disconnected from his body, as if they had removed his soul from it and put it in a bottle. A dark bottle in a dark room on a dusty shelf. Days, hours, minutes, or weeks passed before Blaine regained consciousness. Even then, it was bleary, like he was drunk and had woken up briefly to throw up in the sink. He did not know what they were doing to him, and he was too weak to care. The sounds swirled around him, but he could not make sense of them. His dreams or hallucinations were arcane and disturbing.

.

Far off into the distance he could hear something that did make sense. He could not tell what the sound was, only that it was looking for something to break through the haze, like he was. It was a cry of sorrow and inquiry, just the way he felt. He called back to it, and it sounded again. He called out and could feel himself rise from his supine position. His eyes were open, he knew that now, he could feel it. The screen of his vision was full of static and noise. He called out again and it answered again. It was high-pitched sound, soft and quiet, but nearby. A louder noise, a thud, like a door closing. Deckard was sitting up now, his back up against something soft. The sound and his sound.

_What is that?_ He thought. _I am thinking clearer now. The fog is lifting._ A plateau was reached and he climbed up on it. The effort was great and Deckard was exhausted from the effort. His mind was empty, so he concentrated on his vision. A room. A padded room. A white padded room.

I am insane.

A sink, had he thrown up in that? No, he decided. He was far too weak to move, much less reach the sink. A toilet. A wall, another wall. His eyes closed. When he opened them again. He heard the sound and he answered it. He could tell where it came from. Down. He looked down. The bed. A wooden bed he was lying on. Blaine craned his neck over the side. His vision, though clearing, but still hazy. A basket, a wicker basket with something in it. He heard the sound again. He answered it again, and heard his own groaning.

The scene before him cleared slowly, and Blaine saw a small calico kitten sitting in the basket silently regarding him.

"Meew!" He could see its mouth open widely, all of its needle-like teeth.

That was the sound.

"Maaaa." Trying to imitate the sound the kitten had made, great weariness fell upon him and he passed out.

.

When Blaine woke again, he made a full return to reality. His eyes saw clearly, head still a little shaken, but far better than before. The kitten was now on the bed, crouching on his chest. It, _no, she, somehow,_ was watching him. Her fur was black and orange, mostly, the most intricate pattern of fur on and around her face. Her ears were quite large, too large really, as were her immense paws. Blaine reached out to pet her and she swiped at his fingers, claws just catching them.

"Dammit!" He cried out, jerking his hand back. Alarmed by his quick movement, she jumped off his chest, claws pinking him through the covers. She scampered off, he could hear her on the floor below, but she jumped back on the bed just as quick as she had left it, and resumed her spot on his chest. Her long, thick tail was whipping back and forth, her pupils wide and black, so that nearly no yellow showed.

_Great. This is just great. They're killing me slowly and to finish the job, they get a hyperactive active kitten._ He sighed. His body felt like he had been put into a trash compacter. His arms and legs felt swollen and he was thirsty. He moved his foot slightly, and she pounced on it, claws out.

He exclaimed, jerking his foot. She bolted off the bed, took another turn about the room and was back on his chest in a heartbeat.

"You look like you're having a great time." He snorted.

"Meeew!"

.

A full day later, Blaine was recovered enough to examine himself. The kitten continued to plague him, so that he was forced to take one of the bed sheets, tear it into strips and distract her with them. Aside from several large bruises on his chest and arms, there were also large red lines on his calves and feet. These were laser incisions, sutured with a medical adhesive. His legs felt bigger, his arms too, and his whole body felt different somehow, even his skin felt weird.

_What have they done to me?_ His hands felt like complicated machines, his feet like bricks. Sleep offered little answers and even more questions. The biggest question on his mind so far was about the kitten. She seemed to take him for granted, like he was there to amuse her. Maybe he was. Deckard had never had a cat before, and was fascinated with this one. She seemed completely alien, like no other cat ever before.

Her fur had been shaved in many places, but it was growing back rapidly. It was sleek and thick. Her ability to run and leap was astounding. He would drag strips along the cell and she would chase it. He would jerk it up suddenly and she would follow it up all the way to the ceiling. One time he jerked it a little too close to the wall and she ran into it and stuck there, her claws stuck firmly into the cement wall. Deckard gasped and went for a closer look, but the kitten hopped down, tail whipping around, eager for the next game.

When he was tired and went to sleep, she joined him, sleeping in different places each time. If Deckard hadn't felt so worn and used, it would've bothered him. Three times a day, a nurse would come in, masked and in surgical scrubs, take his blood pressure and temperature. She also brought food on a tray. The kitten, during meal times, would sit near, watching intently. Periodically, she would protest, waving her paw, and Deckard would offer up samples. On the fifth day, an odd thing happened. When the nurse came in and reached for Blaine's arm, the kitten leapt up with a hiss and sank both front sets of claws into her hand. This produced a scream and an amazing amount of blood from the nurse.

The kitten, her fur puffed out, ears back, tail erect, and was growling menacingly. The nurse stood there, as if hypnotized by the small animal. The kitten took a step closer, and hissed and spit. The nurse, clutching her wounded hand, bolted out of the room, locking the door. The kitten stood there for a moment, her fur sinking down slowly, her tail falling and her ears pricking back up. Walking back over to Blaine, she sat and began to wash her face. Deck blinked in surprise at this unexpected action. Slowly her reached out to stroke her ears. She let out a low sound of surprise, and then began to purr loudly, not refraining from her cleaning. She stopped and looked straight into his eyes. They were questioning him, a question that he couldn't hear, but could feel. Deckard could sense intelligence in her gaze that was of kin. He began to scratch her ears. As he did so, she laid her paw on his thumb, and she bent her head to rest it on his hand.

"Channelle is your name." He whispered. "Channelle Kitka." She opened her mouth in silent comment.

Somewhere within the complex in which man and cat were incarcerated, two doctors watched this on the ever-present monitors.

"Excellent." One of them said, as the other took copious notes

"That's even quicker than we expected. I think the next level can be entered now."

"Yes," The note taker said, not looking up. "I think that it's time to inform Dr. Sorvino and Dr. Hancock of their progress."

On the monitor, the man and kitten were bonding, the sign they had been looking for. The fierce protection of her master against a stranger who offered little, if any, provocation was the final nail in the coffin.

.

That night, both of them were sedated and moved into another facility. They were bound by locking straps on a gurney and moved by the interns who had been observing them. Four heavily armed and armored guards flanked them. The guards carried large rifles with laser scopes, whose pencil thin beams cut into the black mist of night. The company climbed inside a specially reinforced medical van. This van drove them to a classified underground site. It was there that Dr. Sorvino and Dr. Hancock first laid real eyes on their subject.

"Did you receive the transmission?" One of the interns asked, as they unloaded the gurney.

"Yes, it was fascinating. I understand the nurse had to get seventeen stitches in her hand." She looked at the kitten that was curled up beside the man. A plastic sheet covered them. The flow of oxygen/tranquilizer ratio could be acutely monitored in this way.

The next morning both Sorvino and Hancock were summoned to the conference room. There, a large DV screen with a blue field on it awaited them. They closed the doors and the transmission cleared, showing the life-sized image of a middle aged man, balding, with a stern face and round wire rimmed glasses. Director of Section D: Dr. John Spotta.

"I understand the experiment has progressed." The man stated with no opening tirade of greeting or concern, personally, of either of them.

Sorvino spoke. "Yes, it's looking very hopeful."

"Hopeful this one won't backfire like the others."

"I think that that comment it biased."

"You bet it's biased. You want to look over the reports?"

Sorvino grit his teeth. He was well aware of the past results.

"They were total failures. Subject one: Dead. He and his animal killed each other, along with three guards.

Subject two: Dead, just died, just like that. No reason found. Dead. Subject three: Man and animal incapacitated. The two of them spend all day in a tree.

Subject four: Escaped. No one knows where they went or how. They are gone, forever most likely.

Subject five: same as subject one, only this time they managed to kill seven guards, cripple ten, wound three, and burn the facility they were in to the ground." A snort of disgust.

"Doctor, can you honestly tell me that these experiments are any better than those performed at Dauchau, or Buchenwald?"

"Co-director, I resent the implication you are making!" Sorvino shouted.

The director smirked and took a step towards the receptor.

"Good, I'm glad. I do not like you "Doctor" and I do not like your kind. Just as I did not like Wouk or his kind. I do not consider his replacements any better. I consider what you are doing torture. If this experiment does not work, I intend to bring you up on charges of murder and reckless endangerment and whatever else I can nail on you. Maybe those two will luck out and kill _you_ this time."

The image faded back into the blue field.

"God, I hate that man." Sorvino said aloud. Hancock said nothing. She was doubtful this program would work from the beginning, but any comment would not make this subject turn out any better than the others. She sighed. They would just have to work harder, think their way out of this problem. They had a lot to lose. The whole department could be shut down in the face of another failure. The other projects were going slowly. The former director had resigned and disappeared after the last incident. He insinuated new information had surfaced to facilitate their progress. It had all gone very well, at first. The primary and secondary elements had bonded well seemingly, just as well as their current subjects. Then during an exercise, one that the Director of Section D, John Spotta had come to witness, it all went wrong, so quickly. Sorvino and Hancock were genetic therapists working under Dr. Wouk, but were on another aspect of the project. They had never even met Wouk in person, but only by videoconference.

He was a genius by all accounts, but a little unstable. Extremely paranoid, he had never let any of his teams meet one another, or share information about what they were doing. Sorting out the aftermath of his absence was difficult. Some files were locked and others were erased. Some were hidden in null programs. As a consequence, nothing could be deleted or discarded and everything had to be painstakingly examined.

# Chapter Two

The early rules of the Information war were simple; One: No obvious violence; Two: No mercy; Three: Deny Everything. It was not called a war, but each side had their armies and these armies went to battle on a daily basis. They didn't shoot at one another, or storm barricades, or drop bombs. They hacked, duplicated data, and sabotaged systems. They didn't wear uniforms or insignias on their shirts. Most of them were untraceable numbers or electronic addresses. They had many methods of information extraction, and all were put to use.

Ever since the last worldwide-armed conflict, the defeated countries banded together and launched another attempt for global domination. Instead of using tanks, planes, battleships, and armies, they used computers, trade influence, and diplomatic status. It was extremely effective. The UN, after expelling these countries for consistent violations, fought back, using the scientific branch of its most powerful member, the US.

Spies had infiltrated America for innumerable years. Sympathetic bureaucrats and ambitious elected officials looked the other way or lent them covert support. Corporations from overseas bought up every piece of property for sale and erected production facilities that swept American businesses out of its path. Unemployment plummeted, but all the employed now worked for foreign governments. The US Government found itself with a larger and larger debt, and no money to run even itself. Then a company from Switzerland made them a tempting offer: to run the public schools on subcontract. The senators and congressmen thought the burden of having to pay for education was going to be lifted from off them. It was. The Schweig Corporation came in and took over the administrations, forcing teachers to take competency tests, which most of them failed.

It revamped the schools from the near hazardous slums they were into state of the art campuses. The more problematic students were given a more practical choice than school: work. Then it brought in its own teachers and curriculum. Violence dropped to a new low, test scores went up, but taxes did not. They taught everything in the new schools from reading and writing to nuclear physics. In a single generation, American schools became famous world-wide for their educational value. They taught everything, except patriotism. History was presented in a cold artificial manner, with emphasis on the innocents slaughtered by men such as Washington, Wilson, Roosevelt, and that guy from Arkansas. The politicians that thought they were doing their voters a favor by letting Schweig bolster the burden found even their own children considered them corrupt, pompous and wasteful. When these children were eighteen, they voted them out of office in hordes.

The Democrats, self-righteous and serving, were flabbergasted, as they were removed from office and every program they had constructed was then dismantled. The Republicans, arrogant and viscous, were appalled at the same thing. Both groups were ignored, and some of them were jailed for crimes against the Senate, such as bank fraud, perjury, and being a public nuisance. The candidates that the Corporations endorsed replaced them and began their work. The power and influence of the United States Government was chopped down. Before a year was out, the post office and the armed forces was all that was left to them. Even these agencies had been stripped to the bone. The cadre of corporations then set its sight on the legal system. Bloated and hamstrung by legalities, the laws were rewritten to allow more freedom in business practices. The eye was on profit and productivity. Those that were unproductive were defined by how much of a help or hindrance they were to the corporations. They were soon dealt with.

Real estate properties that had prisons on them were prime for development, and the areas around them suffered depreciation. The corporations were not about to let a limited valuable resource be wasted on criminals. Some crimes were simply made legal. Severe crimes were punished by death. Repeat offenders were punished by death. The range of non-severe crimes was expanded to aid the removal of the unproductive. Habitat and work facilities were constructed in space and connected to the numerous satellites that orbited the earth _sub-rosa_. It was here the unproductive were deposited.

.

Deckard awoke on the floor of his kitchen. He often woke up in different places than where he went to sleep. Channelle was on the counter, head on paw, with the other paw dropped off the side. She blinked slowly at him. He returned her gesture with a wide mouthed yawn. They rose, stretched, and then went into the bathroom. Here, as in other rooms, was an array of shelves and nooks. The bathtub was large and round. With the single press of a button, it began filling with warm water. As it filled, they watched the birds swarming around the bird feeder outside the window. When it was filled, Deck eased into it up to his neck. Channelle leapt to the edge of the tub and plunked in, water splashing over the tub onto the floor.

"Real genteel." Mumbled Deckard, his eyes closed. Channelle swam about the tub for a few minutes and then climbed out onto the wide wooden window frame that was at the level of the tub ledge. She shook vigorously, cleaned her face, and then hopped back in. Then there was a knock at the door.

.

Deckard opened it, a little wet and shod in a black coverall. Channelle had been waiting at the door for a few seconds.

"Hi Deck, How ya been." A middle-aged man asked pleasantly. He was dressed in the typical gray pinstripe with briefcase. Channelle hissed and spat loudly, her ears back claws out. She advanced, in stalk form.

"You." Deckard spat out with undisguised bile.

"Yes, I was in the neighborhood." An attempt at humor.

More hissing from Channelle followed this.

"You're never in the neighborhood." Blaine looked down at his companion, and motioned her back, twice.

"Lucky you. If I'd been in a bad mood, she'd shred you alive, and I'd help her."

"Look, can I come in and talk with you about something. It's important."

Deckard did not stand aside.

"Really important, to you, too. I'm serious. I really mean it this time."

Deckard's eyes rolled back and he walked into his den, sat on one of the couches, and shrugged. His watchful partner positioned herself between Deckard and the other man.

"Where's your uniform? Quit, or did they kick you out, McGregor?"

"I'm in a different branch of the service."

Growl from Channelle.

"Could you please calm that animal down, please?"

Deckard was on his feet, and took a light swipe at him in milliseconds. McGregor cried out in surprise and pain. Faint traces of blood appeared in rows on his cheek.

"Down ever call her an " _animal"_ again **.** " Blaine growled at him softly, with an accompanying growl from Channelle.

The former soldier froze, as the "animal" crawled up onto the couch and into his lap, her claws burying themselves into his flesh as she walked across him. She was showing off, proving she did not fear him. If he objected, Kitka would attack and not even Deckard, had he wanted to, would be able to stop her. She crawled off after kneading her claws thoroughly.

"Do you have a reason for being here?"

"Yes, I do." he reached into his briefcase, slowly and handed a couple of thick files over to Deckard.

"What are these?" Deckard took them and dropped them on the floor.

"The main proposal for the Habakkuk II."

"Two? What was the first?"

"It was an aircraft carrier made out of ice cubes. Built during the World War era. Never mind that. The Habakkuk II was planned to be the most precise, the most powerful electromagnetic pulse weapon to be built. Section X had the blue prints on file. The concept was viable, but, for some reason, the project just never went forward."

_Ice cubes?_ Blaine was interested despite himself. Channelle wandered over by him and sniffed them curiously.

"At the last inventory made they turned up missing. They been stolen, we don't know by whom." McGregor was dabbing at his cheek with a tissue.

"When was it stolen?"

"The nearest we can speculate is they might've been gone for as long as a year."

"A year ago? What do you mean speculate? How did they get in and who was it?" Blaine was looking at the files. They were complex, and baffling.

"That's what I'm trying to say. We don't know whom, because we don't know how. The last time anyone saw them was at the main vault at The Meadows complex. The draftsman and two armed guards deposited them there almost ten years ago. The vault is inventoried every three years, and the Habakkuk II plans were in the vault at last inventory. The whole thing is on DV, signatures all check out. Frankly, it looks like some of _your_ work."

Blaine looked up in surprise. "My work?" He chuckled. Channelle was lying on the file that he had dropped on the floor. "What would I steal some plans for an Electromagnetic pulse thing."

"To sell to the highest bidder. To get back at us. It's no secret that you left the service disgruntled."

"Disgruntled!" Deckard snorted. "I was disgruntled _because_ of the service. When I left, I regained my gruntledness. I haven't stolen any plans, if I did, do you honestly think that I'd just be sitting around here waiting for the assault team to show up?"

McGregor waved him down. "I only said it looked like your work, I didn't accuse you of anything. We know you didn't steal them, but we think there's a good chance that whoever did was trained by the Section." McGregor hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked straight at Blaine. We want you to track them down and bring back the plans, or destroy them."

.

After the initial tirade that followed, including laughter and accusations of delusions of godhood, Blaine calmed down enough for McGregor to explain.

"Look, I know that you don't want come back into the Section, and you won't be, you'll have all the equipment and support that you want, and all the freedom to do what you think is best. Frankly, we've run out of ideas, and you're the only one that hasn't failed."

Deckard sighed. "I haven't done this sort of thing for years. I'm not the cat burglar you used to know." Kitka leapt onto his lap and settled in, as he stroked her sleek fur.

"No, you're not the cat burglar I used to know, you've gotten better. Don't try to deny it. We know when you first moved here, you broke into several homes, all members of this township's two political parties. You broke into their facilities and began monitoring them, tracking their movements, building up dossiers, you were in full collection. After about a year, your activities stopped altogether. I know it's not in your nature to stop anything you've started, so I assume that you've honed your skills to point where you're completely undetectable."

"I got rid of your tracking device, if that's what you mean."

"You did that and you took a few other precautions. I'm sure that you know what everybody is doing, when they do it, and to whom."

"Okay, I understand, but what's the big deal about these plans, from what it looks like, it would take enough money to run a medium sized country just to build, and if anyone were building this thing, you'd know about, so why worry?" He paused as he sipped his drink he had gotten during his outburst. "I don't understand why a magnetic cannon is so dangerous."

"No, not a magnetic cannon, a magnetic pulse cannon. The plans are for building a device that can deliver a huge magnetic pulse in a direct beam."

It began to dawn on Deckard what the situation was.

"That could disable computers."

"It could dispose entire networks, right down to hand held calculators. Nearly everything with any electronic circuitry would be destroyed, and last time I checked that included nearly everything. You could turn the beam on a computer a thousand miles away, disrupt it, but not stop the watch of the person that was using it. The Habakkuk II was first set of plans that made this type of pulse feasible. These plans call for a device has to be mammoth to deliver a mammoth charge. But, someone with enough brains could scale this down. It could be built anywhere, and fired from anywhere. "

Deckard grew thoughtful. During the last decade, the world had switched over to a near cashless system. The new generation of electronic currency was nearly foolproof. No one could use a stolen credit chit, because it worked on the users biomechanics, which was sampled every time a transaction was made. Sure, there were ways to fool them, but it wasn't easy to do. They were proof against almost everything, except maybe a massive electromagnetic pulse. If all the credit chits were wiped, along with the computers that held the records of their balances, anarchy would be the kind word for what would happen. However, MacGregor still sounded paranoid as hell.

"Understand now?"

"Yeah, I get it, but there are others, why me, not them?"

"Look, let's face it, you were the best. The others didn't hold a candle to you. You remember Prague. How about Rabat? There is New Amsterdam, and well, a host of others. You were the best, both of you. The merge between you two was the most successful."

"What about Murphy and Boden. They're pretty good, get them to do it."

"This isn't their kind of job. I need you two."

Realization. "You already asked them to do it, and they turned you down." Blaine said.

Soft ripping sounds came from McGregor's side. He looked over and saw Kitka was sharpening her claws on his briefcase, which was leather and Italian.

MacGregor ignored this. "Like I said, whoever did this was obviously trained at the section. We need you to come in and maybe see if you could pick up some clues that might've been overlooked. You were highly trained, but we know that out in the field, you developed methods of your own. Methods that were never reported on. We didn't mind tight lips, because it was better security for everyone. Nobody can spill information on what they don't know, but _now_ it our side that's gotten the hit. We need your help. You put it in a nutshell, if you don't help, this thing will be built and society will crumble in the onslaught that will follow the destruction of the technology that we have all come to depend on. There it is. Now, will you help us?"

McGregor stirred nervously, his face florid.

"I'll want a lot of equipment, and support, no questions and all of **you** to stay out of my way." Blaine said. "Give me that and I'll do it."

"Okay, that's the way we do it. I'll leave these files," He reached for his briefcase, which had been effectively shredded into fine leather strips. Channelle was licking her chops, glaring at him.

"Great, now get out of here." Blaine stood. "Don't come here again. If you want to talk, you can't. You want a progress report, you won't get one." The door opened. McGregor opened his mouth to say something, but closed it and walked out.

At the door, he stopped and turned. "I could never understand why you hate me so much."

Deckard barked out a laugh of derision. "That's why you don't understand,"

Kitka rubbed up against the access button, which had been placed at her level, and the door shut and locked.

Blaine meant to ignore the files, but his curiosity got the better of them and he sat on the couch and opened the first one. It was the basic proposal plans of the Electromagnetic Pulse Engine. Throughout the report, it was referred to as the EPE, or pulse engine. The design seemed complicated enough, but Deckard reminded himself that these were the proposal plans anyway.

The proposal, written by Dr. K. Wouk, outlined the design and its possibilities. All of it seemed tight enough. The pulse engine, once built, could deliver its charge to a specific target, say an incoming missile, or bomber. The charge would fry the circuitry within, so that if brought down, the bombs would not explode, even if the bomber carrying it caught on fire. Without its circuitry, it would remain inert.

The problem was with size. In order to generate a sufficient pulse, the engine would have to be massive, the size of a skyscraper, which underlined Blaine's main protest. If anyone were building this, everyone would know about it. But MacGregor was right about the right brain in a lab-coat could make it any size he or she wanted.

Kitka leapt up onto a counter that was near the DV. It had been running weather updates silently, until she activated it. Deckard had altered every piece of household equipment so she could turn it off or on. A soft double beep sounded, indicating that he had messages. He cast the reports aside.

One was from the Department of Experimental Defense. There was a formal gala that night and the honor of his presence was required. Deck made a noise of contempt. They had these things about twice a year, for those who were ambitious to network, but there was an open bar and the food was usually good. Seeing the next one, and the visit he had had today, he knew what the next message was, but he read it back anyway.

It was from Boden, wanting a call. Blaine smiled slightly. Boden never was more specific than that. Channelle, sitting, her tail waving slowly back and forth over the edge was watching him. He signaled Channelle to activate the stored code for Boden. Seconds later, an iron jawed, crew cut stern face filled the monitor.

"Yeah?" He grunted.

Blaine stepped closer to the monitor, so his image could be picked up.

"Hello Boden."

"Blaine, good to hear from you." There was a sharp bark in background.

"Murphy says hello." Pause. "You going?"

"Maybe. You?"

"I never miss free drinks and chow. What time?"

"Around nine."

"I'm going to be there at eight thirty. Are you going to be there at nine or nine thirty, or nine ten, or what?" Boden was punctual and expected others to be so.

"Definitely by nine fifteen, but not before eight fifty." Pause. "How's that?"

"Good, I'll get us a table near the bar. Don't be late." The image faded.

Bowden and Blaine had crossed paths in the field during the Infowar, and later during the Corpwar, their teams were even paired to work together a couple of times. Off duty they had run onto one another and palled around. After the war, Bowden tracked him down. He was living in the same area. They had been through situations that only they could understand. That was some time ago. His life had been quiet for some time, but now, it seemed it was beginning again.

.

Blaine was dressing in his formal uniform, what was called 'class A'. It was a stiff pair of black wool pants and jacket with green piping. It had a heavy black belt with a brass buckle and a garrison cap. All of his medals and merits and decorations hung on the left side. His designation and unit were on the right, rank on both shoulders. They were all lies. Deckard Blaine had never been attached to a separate unit or designation type. He never remembered getting any medals or a promotion. His rank was a fictitious as the rest. He had never commanded anything, troops, or machines. Once on a mission, he accomplished it or not, if he'd been caught, he would've been killed. The only note in his file _might_ have been: Overdue, presumed deactivated. When he left the Section, they had given him the uniform in a big gray garment bag. They said they he might want it. Even Kitka had a rank and designation in her official files. They had not supplied her with a class A uniform, however.

Blaine also slipped on a set of composite metal holsters, one on each wrist. They held the modular projectile wrist rockets. The projectiles were caseless with solid propellant back ignited by small lasers. There was no recoil and very little report. They could be flung into the hands by a combination of muscle control and inertia or they could be fired without being drawn. The lack of a case meant no open action, just spiral shaped spring loaded clips. The wrist holsters were used for more than one reason.

In a search, the place most often skipped was the wrists. Even the inside of the thighs were patted down over the wrists, which made no sense to Blaine. How fast could you get a weapon that was in your underwear? He made a few practice draws before he donned his jacket, then he called Kitka, who had been lazing in the windowsill. She hopped upon the dresser and stretched her neck out. Deckard fastened a diamond choker around her neck. It was a small rope of tiny white diamonds with a large blue one for the centerpiece.

He stepped back and put his hands on his hips expectantly. She blinked at him, eyes half closed. He raised an eyebrow at her. Then suddenly, Channelle vanished. Blaine stared hard at the place she had recently occupied. She had moved. It was the most important piece of equipment from the old days, the blackout collar. The collar projected a light-bending field on all sides of a specific area. The developers of it could never get it much larger than Kitka with perfection. The larger it was, the more the actual shape could be defined and there were cheaper methods of mere camouflage. At the end of his conscription, he had been required to turn it all in. It had taken a diligent search and some serious money to replace it all. Money he had, they had paid him off quite well.

"All right, it works." He said loudly. Sometimes during a test, she would leave the room entirely, a little joke of hers. He felt a large weight land on his shoulders and settle there. He looked in the mirror he was standing in front of, and she slowly came back into view.

"Time to go." The clock on the wall read eight thirty. They would have to move it, in order not to be late.

.

The guard at the foyer looked over her list.

"Yes sir, Captain Deckard Blaine." Her accent was French. She made a check mark as he looked at the ID screen. She looked at Kitka sitting on his shoulder, looking upward with slight interest.

"I'm sorry sir, but the cat will have to remain in your transport." She was part of the IAG honor guard that always swarmed around the Section, but had little idea what they did.

"She's invited, check your list for Commander Channelle Kitka."

Skeptically, she keyed in the name and received the scan. Her eyes widened and she stood up, coding the door open.

"Sorry for the delay, sir," She nodded at him and then at Channelle. "Mademoiselle."

They ignored her salute and went through the pressure doors. Their rankings were best described as slippery. Sometimes Kitka was called Commander, Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander, and others. He had been called anything from Captain to Colonel. It didn't make any difference: rank meant nothing to them. There was a receiving line to the right and the bar to the far left. The buffet was at the very back. People in all types of formal wear and uniforms were mingling about everywhere. A live band composed mostly of brass and stings played softly in the background. Kitka softly voiced her protest.

"Yes," Deckard said, nodding and scanning the crowd.

He spotted what he was looking for. Boden and Murphy. They both sat at a table between the buffet and the bar. Avoiding the receiving line, he made his way through the crowd. Boden cast a large shadow, at about six seven. His chiseled features made his countenance stone cold, ruthless. His wide shoulders and chest accentuated the number of ribbons and decorations he had. His Special Forces beret even had a theater patch on it. His rank was clear enough: Master Sergeant. Murphy, an enormous German Shepard with black and gray stripes, sat next to him. Around his neck was an olive drab coaler with black studs on it. From it dangled a black rank insignia: Staff Sergeant.

There was a large bowl on the table full of a frothy liquid. Boden held a large beer mug. Blaine extended his hand and Channelle loped down his arm and jumped over to the table. Murphy and she began sniffing at one another. Boden shook Blaine's outstretched hand. He sat.

Bowden glanced at the bartender, a gaze that could freeze water, and he hustled over with a tall-stemmed glass and a bowl. He sat them on the table and scurried off.

"So, what's the dope with McGregor?" To the point.

"He's got a job for me. You know the details."

A nod. "You gonna do it? I had Murph chase him up a tree and hold him there before I heard him out."

"A tree? Really? How tall was it?"

"He got about seven feet up before he had to stop."

"Good. Channelle tore his briefcase to shreds."

A smile cracked itself across his visage. "That Italian one? That's totally cool." His accent was euro-hick, making cool sound like _Kuuhl_.

Murphy and Channelle had finished their ritual of sniffing each other out, and had settled into their places, bowls before them.

"I haven't decided what to do yet." Deckard took a sip of his drink.

"Bullshit, You'll do it."

"Why's that? And why didn't you take it?"

"Because, this isn't our kind of work. It's too," Boden gestured, trying to find the words.

"I know what you mean."

"Yes, well, that's it. Can you imagine the two us investigating quietly about?" We attract attention at football games, for God's sake." _Futbol Gamez_ "Besides that, we don't trust _them_."

"Well, we don't trust them either."

"Yes, but you know more about their ways, you can outsmart them." He paused and put down half of his mug of beer. "You're more sneaky."

Blaine smirked. "It that we are?"

"Yes, and so are they, but you're better at it. You could find this thing that they want, and not get burned in the process."

"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about."

"Well, I told them to go to hell, but you, you just tell me what to do, and we'll do it. I won't work for _them_ , but if you need any help, just let me know."

"Okay, That sounds perfect, you're the only I've ever trusted in this outfit anyway. With you out of their official loop, that'll make it all the better. Just be sure and tell them nothing."

Silence passed between them as the band paused and then began another number. They observed the number of high ranking officers make the rounds of tables but carefully avoid theirs. Once or twice, some of the female escorts that were always on hand at these functions would glance their way, only to have the senior hostesses steer them elsewhere.

"You know who stole the plans?" Bowden said after a while.

"I've got a couple of ideas, yeah."

"Who?" Blunt, always blunt.

"Well, do you remember Halidan and Shea?"

"Yeah."

"Well, they've got the skills and the know how. Also Jones and Blut and Mallos and Goramund."

"Mallos and Goramund? They were burned in a fire, right?"

"No, the building that they were in was burned, but no bodies were ever found."

"Halidan and Shea? That seems like a long shot, I mean they folded up like a cheap table."

"Less stable than you and me, that's for sure. They hate the Section even worse now. They never show up to the functions, and after the war, I never heard from either one. I get the occasional call from Jones, although I don't know how he manages it."

"Jones? The ones in the, ah, " Boden pointed upwards.

"That's the ones. Also the two that escaped, Keil and Jax. I don't know anything about them, but they were good enough to escape and stay that way."

"But Jones and Blut? Every time I go see them, Jones can hardly even speak, and Blut stays hidden."

"Yeah, but I wanna check 'em out anyway. They were in the program before we were and may have had contact with any of the others, maybe even Kiel and Jax."

They both pondered how getting into the blueprint vaults could be done. The vaults were bomb proof, and Boden pointed out that he and Murphy would've just shot their way in, blew the vault to pieces and taken the part that they needed, to be opened elsewhere. The fact that the vault was in a highly secured facility surrounded by armed guards made little difference to him.

Bowden and Murphy had taken down far tougher targets that that with less equipment and planning than they had now. However, the job had been stealthy, so the observation was not much help. Cameras were all over the place, with direct data feeds into the main building. In order to do the job, someone would have to handle that data traffic, either by turning it off, or altering it. An ultra animal would have to be far more advanced than either Murphy or Channelle to do the job alone.

Even Channelle, who was most often considered the most successful merge ever, still needed her human partner to follow through with each mission. The animals, without the guidance, and reassuring presence of their masters (An ill-fitting word, but one used in the official briefs), often made mistakes, lost concentration, or just panicked. In turn, the "masters" were distracted to the point of fatal error. The animal and man, each working in tandem was extremely effective, but alone, the results were disastrous.

"Let's blow this taco stand." Blain said after they had gone through the possibilities

"My place. I got beer." Bowden grunted. They would need to iron over the details and this was no place to do it.

"Let's go."

Boden stood and angled his head towards the door. The four of them got up and exited, Kitka in Deckard's arms. Murphy led the way, the way he had always had.

In more dangerous times, Murphy had led them through forests and minefields to little known chateaus, hidden bunkers, and remote forts. Kitka and Decker would infiltrate the structure, as Boden set up defensive devices and stood watch until the two slinked out and rejoined them. Then according to plan or not, the structure would be demolished, the survivors killed. It was the way they operated, then and now.

# Chapter Three

The war had gone badly for the US at first. The only couple of times that the government did try direct force, it was disastrous. Jenset and Hauer Corporations contracted a launch pad so that they could send their own craft into space. This had heretofore been the government's privilege, one they guarded fiercely. Two armed "diplomatic envoys" were sent out to stop the launch construction. The authorities in charge had all the legal right in the world.

It was even specified in the new charters that the Government had control of the space ways and every aspect thereof. They had the warrants and writs and delecti's that could be imagined. All that paperwork did them no good from what J and H did to them. The corporations knew what would happen when their project was noticed and they had been preparing for it.

A journalist from a yellow press magazine, who was late in attending the envoys because he had been drunk the night before, caught up to them after _it_ happened. His was the only report from that incidence. It has been transcribed here as best as could be determined.

.

_Male voice, raspy, identified as Philip Del Corsio_ : "This is Philip Del Corsio, it's, ah, eleven forty five on. Let's see...August eighth, and we're following the 131st battalion to the launch pad construction site, and hold it, Kap, do you see that smoke?"

_Second male voice, tense, identified as Jake Kaplan_ : "Yeah, what the hell could it be? The site is another thirty miles ahead... * background noise*

_Del Corsio:_ That can't be...Oh my God... It's the envoy. They've crashed! But * _garbled_ *, like they've been blown * _garbled *_ strong wind or something.. Stop the car, stop the car! This one looks like an officer, Sir, can you tell us what happened?"

_Third male voice, faint barely audible, identified as 2nd Lt. Malcolm Stewart_ : "They've hit us, things, terrible things. All our equipment and vehicles beamed out from under us to somewhere else, miles away. Stole our minds, _* garbled_ * back. My backbone crushed, crushed to powder, eyes leaking out of their sockets...." _Sobbing_ _and curses._

_Del Corsio_ : "What's he talking about, he's perfectly fine! Vehicle and equipment gone? As far as I can tell all everything's here. It's * _garbled with loud background noise_ *, here. _Hysterical laughter_. "What's happened? What the hell is going on here! Somebody tell me!"

_Kaplan_ : "Take it easy, Phil! Calm down!"

_Del Corsio:_ Calm down! How the fuck can you calm down! Look at all this. Tanks and truck on fire! All these guys _* garbled_ * place. Oh my god, Kap, get me out of here, Get me out of hereGetmeoutof here!"

.

Jenset and Hauer had developed a nerve weapon that produced severe hallucinations with intense feelings of despair. A sonic beam delivered it. J&H aimed in the direction and turned it on for five seconds. The after effects were so strong that even after it had been off for half an hour, it still affected Del Corsio, possibly due to his state of semi intoxication. Kaplan was unaffected for the most part, but still has strong reluctance discussing the event. Del Corsio recovered, but the men in 131st battalion underwent severe treatment, some never recovered. It was at this point that the Government realized that this problem was not going to be solved by conventional means. The men left in charge of the shell that remained, decided that the table of organization needed to be changed. They sent their forces off to police the world. It was un-Constitutional for them to police themselves.

The Developmental weapons division of the armed forces was put in charge of finding out what the nerve weapon was and how to counter it. Development decided that the best way to find out what the weapon was to steal the plans for it. They sent in some of their best "stealth retrievers" as they were called in development. None of them ever returned, only brief transmitted images. Failure after failure went by and the head of development was removed and a new one put in his place. His name was Rymar Stoltz. He divided Development into two Sections: eXperimental and aDministration. He claimed Section X as his bailiwick. John J. Spotta was put in charge of Section D. Both were buried deep in the military, but they were exclusive and at the top of the chain of command. Soon, under the management of these two men, the entire military and the government were subservient to Section X and Section D.

.

The day after the Section Gala, Deckard and Channelle went to the blueprint vault at the Meadows. All of the personnel had been alerted to their presence and the purpose of it. They were waved through every checkpoint by guards and computer monitors that were equipped with virtual IDs of Deckard Blaine and Channelle Kitka. The vault was down a long corridor that was made of high steel walls. At every ten meters was an emplacement of laser optic alarm triggers. The lasers emitters were carefully covered so as not to give them away. The floors were mounted on pressure sensitive plates so that the correct weight would also set off the alarms. The alarms, when triggered, would set off a high-pitched scream that not only alerted, but also incapacitated. Milliseconds after the audio alarms, the sensor array in every base computer lit up, making everyone aware of the break in, even unauthorized users. Milliseconds after _that_ , the electronic doors were shutdown and locked, incapable of being opened until the alarm was shut off at the source. The vault manager who carried the setting device on her belt activated the system. At the door of the vault was a manual shutdown switch, at the very end of the corridor. The door was a time-coded dial in analogue.

Channelle Kitka squeezed under the laser beams, walked along the pressure plates, her body weight too low to set them off, and once at the end, climbed up the wall, with her enhanced claws, and shut off the system at the source. Deckard followed her, and opened up the time coded analogue lock by plugging a modified Multi Integrated Link unit into it and feeding it a virus. They entered the vault and found the manager who had been monitoring them.

"Impressive." She announced. "Most impressive." Channelle sat beside her console and caressed its corner with the underside of her cheek.

"But, other than you two, who else has the capabilities?" She was young, perhaps five years younger than Deck, but grim with duty. Her name was Janette Chaparell.

"We've tried adding on more units, but they either overload the system and shut the whole thing down, or activate with no cause determined." Her Hispanic/Asian features blended nicely to give an almost supernatural look, Elvish, in fact.

"That is another area we're looking into." He commented, looking about. The vault was tomblike in nature. Large drawers implanted in the black marblesque walls stacked on top of one another to the ceiling. None of the drawers were labeled, and there were hundreds, which was yet another level of security. The doors opened downward revealing behind them dozens of round tube shaped holders. The holders had locking lids and were removable. The tubes were metal lined and covered with a composite skin; inside each of them were the blue prints and accompanying materials.

"Show me the vault where the plans were stolen."

The manager rose, dressed in light green coveralls with a long white lab coat stuffed with pens and odd-looking devices. The coverall seemed to supplant other forms of clothing during the last decade. In this instance, the coverall was treated to be resistant toward chemical spills or even light radiation exposure.

"This way," Her heels clinked along the floor, echoing off the walls, down the hallway. There didn't appear to be any monitoring devices inside the vault, which was strange. It was at the end of the hall.

"That's it." She said, pointing upwards. It was a good eight or nine meters above their heads.

"Do you want me to activate the steps?" Chaparell was biting her lower lip.

"Steps?"

"Yes," She pointed to the gaps between every stack of doors. "They are set in the walls and are let down by the control pad at the main desk."

"Coded?"

"Yes."

"Never mind." He cracked his knuckles and began up the wall. The seams of the vault were wide enough to find finger and toe holds.

He heard a gasp from the manager and he looked down. She was staring up at him with wide eyes. He grinned down and continued. He retracted one set of "claws" on his left hand and felt around for the key lock. Missing it, he closed his eyes and found it at once. His index finger hook slipped into the key lock and picked it. There was a clank and the door fell open, hinges creaking. The twenty-four racks were full except for one. He looked at the rest of them, all unlabeled. He closed the door, and hung there considering. Who ever took the tube, had to know which door, among hundreds to open and which tube to take among twenty four tubes in a rack. Blaine felt a familiar presence.

"Meoorrr."

"Hello, girl," He scratched her ears, and she purred softly.

"Let's go, At least we know who to rule out."

Channelle turned her head to look at the vault, sniffing quickly, her ears pointed at it. Deckard creased his eyebrows and inhaled deeply through his nose. A faint odor.

"C'mon." He detached and landed on the floor in crouch. Channelle lightly landed on his shoulders after he had straightened up.

The manager was still looking at them with widened eyes.

"That was incredible!" Janette finally breathed.

"Didn't you know?" The air was cool here in the vault, almost chilly.

"Yes, I was aware, but seeing it, and you look so, well, so..."

"Normal." A flat reply from Deckard.

She lowered her eyes and nodded. He stroked Kitka's tail, which was hanging over his right shoulder, her head near his left ear, whiskers twitching. They walked past her and passed out of the vault. He reactivated the alarm system and watched Kitka slink gracefully under the beams.

Deckard removed his shoes and tied the laces together and hung them around his neck. In the field, he had modified footgear that performed much better than his clawed feet. In the beginning, he had been unable to draw them out at all. It had taken a lot of practice to be able to do what he was about to. He eyed the set up and then with one bound reached the ceiling, planting his claws deep into it. The ceiling was covered with sound dampening tiles. With a swing, his feet met the ceiling and stuck. He crawled along the ceiling just above the invisible beams. At the other end, he let go and landed beside her. She rubbed against his leg as he tied his shoes and they continued on their way to the main control room.

.

The supervisor in charge was a small man, small framed. He compensated for it by wearing fluffing his hair out like a helmet. The hairspray he used smelled like glue, so he covered it with cologne. A lot of cologne. He also wore suits that were cut slender, making him look even smaller and slighter than he was. His name was Mr. Kurt Richards. He had been informed about the VIP's arrival but he really didn't pay much attention to it. He spent most of his time in his office, coding and decoding messages and memos. This is what he was doing when he heard a small sneeze behind him. He swiveled in his chair to face his desk. Nothing. He heard it again and could swear that whatever had sneezed was right in front of him. He did a double take at the faint outline of a cat the appeared and filled out in front of him. It was a large dangerous beast and it was staring right at him, looking angry. He remained perfectly still, but his left hand began to creep to the drawer on his desk.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," A man said, seemingly stepping out of the shadows in his well-lit office. "She'd cut your face off before you had time to blink."

"What the hell are you doing in my office?" Arrogant, demanding. "This is a classified area, so whoever you are, you'd better have the right clearance!" He spat at him, with the rage of a control freak that has just lost it.

"I have Richards, I have." Deckard smirked at him, folding his arms. "The question here is: How did I get in this "Classified area" right here to your desk, without you knowing about it?"

"You must be the visitors I was informed about." Sweat began to form on his forehead. Yes, he had lost control and lost it quickly. It was just beginning. The DV screen that formed the left wall of his office turned on. Both men turned to observe it, but Channelle amused herself by pushing things off Richards' desk. The milky image sharpened up to display the image of Rymar Stoltz.

Richards came out of his seat with such speed, his chair was knocked over.

"Mr. Director Stoltz sir!" The small man barked out, his stance tense and rigid.

Blaine glared at the image, and Channelle was on all fours, puffed out, ears back, a low growl issuing from her throat.

"Nice to see you, Blaine, Kitka." The massive video display overwhelmed the room. Stoltz didn't even acknowledge Richards.

Nothing from either of them, their stances remained the same.

"I understand you waltzed through vault security. What have you discovered?"

"When McGregor gets the plans back, he'll tell you. You get nothing directly from me. Ever." Deckard said through clenched teeth.

"I see you haven't changed much, but that's all right."

Each man sized up the other, they hadn't seen each other in a long while, but the animosity from the man and his cat was thick

The man called Rymar Stoltz was a man with aristocratic features, straightforward and blandly handsome. His hair was dark with touches of gray at the temples. It looked so distinguished, that Blaine wondered if it was cosmetic. The flat blue eyes gazed out impassively from a blank expression. His clothing was as high class as he pretended to be. His pocket square matched his tie. The surrounding suggested that he were someplace else besides the Section. It looked like late afternoon there, here was barely out of the lunch period. In a building somewhere, on a high floor, but which building, which city?

"Don't bother trying to guess where I am, Blaine. Security here is so tight I doubt that even you could deal with it. The older man said, reading Deckard's thoughts. Channelle spit at the screen.

"I don't know why you two hate me so much, after all, without me, the two of you would never have met and how could that be?" His tone was mockingly sympathetic. Stoltz appraised the former Ultra team. Blaine was tall and muscularly lean. He wore a simple one-piece body suit that was loose with martial arts shoes. His belt held a variety of devices designed for minimum space and maximum efficiency. The faint stripes that tracked across every inch of his skin began to grow more visible, as they did whenever he grew angry or tense. His hair, dark and slicked back, a blonde streak ran from his forehead to the nape of his neck began to rise slightly. The semi-slit irises opened wider, taking in all. The Ultracat, Channelle Kitka was a large rangy beast, with calico spotted fur in an effective camouflage pattern. Her ears were large and tipped with tufts of fur and whisker. Her tail was long and thick, as it whipped back and forth at a rapid pace.

Stoltz noted these reactions with professional interest.

"Just find the plans and whoever took them and I may send you a new scratching post." He terminated the image. Leaning back in his chair, he chuckled to himself. He could only imagine what the two were doing to Richards' office. The petty little man deserved what he got anyhow, he was competent, but lacked vision. Stoltz knew by provoking man and animal, he would push them into performing at the maximum of their abilities. _Nothing like dangling a string before a cat to get it to move quicker._ The director mused as he punched up his project list for the day.

.

Deckard and Channelle demolished the office in less than a minute, and then vanished seemingly. Richards was left with the pieces to put back together. Back in his convertible, the only type of car that Channelle would ride willingly in, Blaine began to regret even approaching the Section in such a straightforward manner. Better to have gone at night, slipped in, acquired the information he needed and slipped back out. The wind blew swiftly through his nerves, calming them. Channelle stood on the seat next to him; paws on the window ledge, watching the scene go by.

The traffic was light, as one needed a special license to drive a private car. Deckard's car had a hybrid engine running off solar batteries and an internal combustion engine. The typical hybrid would get up to 90 miles to the gallon. Even with this mileage, gas was too expensive to be practical, but with the Section footing the bills, Deckard was being extravagant. Most cars were fully electric, but they were inefficient. It was a tradeoff most people didn't bother with. The mass transit monorail tubes and trains replaced the automobile, and almost everyone used them. There were still taxis and cabs, but they were hydrogen cell powered, much too expensive units for the ordinary citizen. A monorail hissed quietly over head, as the two drove. It resembled a giant silver worm, sliding along a single electric rail. It rode ten floors above the ground, and every building that was that high or higher held a tube station. It was quicker, quieter and easier than private transport. Deckard watched the sliver of metal swim along its route. Easier, and heavily monitored as well. There were cameras in every compartment, and at least two guards in every station, vets from the infowar.

They left the city behind and took to the highway, then a small dirt road that led into an immense expanse of woods. A cabin came into view, large and wooden. It was a neat and tidy as an army base. He slowed and stopped. They exited the car and looked about. Both were aware Murphy was observing them from the woods, maybe Boden as well. The two had run extensive booby traps and warning devices all over the land they walked with the skill of a spider in it's own web. Any move to look for them could result in injury, so they both stayed put. At once, Murphy appeared in front of them, his ears pricked up, sniffing rapidly. He began panting slightly as he came nearer to them, wagging his tail. Blaine spoke to him in low tones, as he scratched his chest and ribs. The three of them then entered the cabin.

Inside was a monument to the great outdoors. Skins lined the floors, climbing, hunting, camping equipment and antlers lined the walls, along with framed photos of the war days, and certificates earned by the two. Unlike Deckard and Kitka, Boden knew exactly how each one of his medals; ribbons and commendations had been earned. The top brass liked him. He was their idea of a real commando. Big, strong, direct, he made them look good, as they pinned medals on him for the news media. Even though he complained about the Section, one had the feeling that he liked some parts of it. A large fire was crackling in the fireplace and a spitted beast of some type; perhaps a deer or large pig was roasting over it. Boden was at the large round table, putting an exotic looking handgun back together. The table itself was covered with bits of rifles and other handguns that were in the process of being cleaned or restored.

"Howdy." Boden commented as Deckard pulled up a chair. Channelle jumped into Deckard's lap and stared at him.

"What did you find out?"

"A number of very interesting things." He struggled with the laser scope of the gun. "Of which the first is something that you brought up." He put down the gun and took a drink off of a dark bottle.

"So then spill it."

"Let me build up to it. First of all, I checked out the first man and animal merge, the ones that killed each other? Do you know anything about that?"

No, I never had reason to find out."

"Did you know that the animal was a leopard?"

Deckard's jaw dropped. Channelle was part leopard.

"Do you know what happened to the guy?"

Deckard shook his head.

"Apparently, he had claws on his hands and feet just like you do, only bigger, a lot bigger. He even grew whiskers." Boden gestured with his hands from his upper lip.

"Then he grew spots. Then one day, while they were doing a trail run _on a scaffolding,_ the guy goes berserk and chucks one of the doctors off of it. The leopard, seeing this, goes right for a guard. The two of them killed everyone in the room, mutilated them, and then just tore into one another." He paused to let this take effect. "Does this sound familiar?"

Blaine's spine felt icy fingers gently caressing it. Channelle sensing this stood and rubbed the top of her head against the bottom of his jaw. He began to stroke her.

"I saw the tapes and even had the grave dug up, both of them are dead, I'm sure of it."

"Dug up the grave, only one?" Blaine didn't like loose ends.

"They put them both in the same grave. As I said, they really went at it, couldn't tell one from the other. Even DNA tests didn't help, the genetics were just altered too much."

Another drink. "The next ones both dead, dug them up. The next? Well, you know Jonesey and Blut. I went to where they were supposed to be, but I got no response, I'm not even sure they were there at all."

"I'll go to see them, I have better luck with them anyway."

"Yeah, anyhow, the next ones, the ones who escaped. I don't think we have to worry about them. The animal was a dolphin. The merge was completely successful, but the guy was a conscientious objector. I guess the dolphin was too, because one night, they both just swam off into the Pacific."

"A dolphin?"

"Yep, I guess they were gonna go hijack ships or something like that. In any case, his feet were more like flippers, and the dolphin could hardly move out of water."

Blaine nodded, the blueprint vault was seventy miles from the nearest water, and that was a small lake.

"Next."

"This is where I think you'll pick up the scent. Mallos and Goramund. A volunteer and a snake."

"A volunteer? For the Section? Do they accept volunteers?"

"They made an exception for this guy. He was on the United Soviet Republics Triathlon team the last time the Olympics were held. He defected and went straight for the Section. Seems he had an idea that the merge would boost his athletic ability. Guess he was wrong."

Deckard leaned back in his chair; he was shaken about the leopard part.

Boden went on. "An interesting side note here. Yurgei Mallos had an extensive criminal record in the Soviet Territory. Racketeering, Conspiracy to commit, Smuggling, the list goes on. Seems he had significant ties to the Russian Mafia."

"Tell me about this snake."

"Mostly Ball Python, with Anaconda, Cobra, and Rattlesnake thrown in. I understand that when the rattle went off, it sounded like a machine gun going off in your ear. There's not much to tell on these two, but it's a cinch that the guy was an EastMeg-Moscow spy. He was the oldest member on the team, had an unlimited passport, put on a "stupid Russian jock" act to put normals at ease. But other than that, they dug through the remains of the building, which, by the way, was about ten thousand times hotter than it was supposed to be, and found the remains of the guards. No sign of them though. It was assumed that they were vaporized and the official investigation was dropped."

"Sounds like a set up."

Another hit off the bottle. Murphy lay on the floor under the table. Every now and then, he would thump his tail on the floor loudly. Boden leaned back, waiting for Blaine's conjectures.

"I figure that Mallos, the EastMeg spy, dreams up a beauty of an idea to spy on the states, and gets them to pay for it to boot. He crosses over, volunteers, learns all he can, then escapes, including a fire that so hot it destroys every scrap of evidence. Then he and Goramund cross back over the line." Blaine looked dissatisfied with it, though.

"With the plans?"

"No. Maybe. I think one of two things happened. They made it over, with no plans, or they intended to cross back over, but their plan backfired and killed them both.

"Why no plans?" Thump, thump, thump. Boden reached down and reassured his companion. Both animals, although ignorant of the specific circumstances, realized that something was going on, perhaps something dangerous. But they were only sitting around for now, and both of them were on edge. They trusted their "masters" and counted on them to guide them to the action, so they could be turned loose to best it. It was what they were designed for.

"Well, the fire was a while ago, plenty of time to construct whatever this thing is. It would've been built by now. Besides, if they'd even tried to build it, you know we would've been sent in. I don't think that they made it though. I think they're dead. Maybe."

"Yeah, You're right about sending us in, but why do you think that they're dead?"

"I played enough in that part of the arena. I think if they were alive, we would've crossed paths by now."

Deckard paused to reconsider. "If they are alive, I'm confident that they didn't get the plans."

One more remained. Neither one of them wanted to discuss this one. Halidan and Shea were their comrades in arms, and their ways had parted badly. Jeff Halidan had been paired with a neosimian. A monkey type animal that had genes from all of the other animals combined in it. What's more, he had limited speech ability, the only ultra animal to display such talents. The two them performed flawlessly. So flawlessly, that the Section kept sending them out on assignments, almost back to back.

Then Shea snapped during an exit out of a seventy-second floor. They were crossing a communication wire. He curled up like a frightened child. Halidan had to dump the "pouch", as the pick-ups were called, and literally peel him off the wire. The job was scrubbed and both barely escaped with their lives. They were treated for their injuries inside and out, but neither could be trusted with an assignment again. They were cashiered with a sizable pension. They were hurt, really hurt. Deckard found out later that Halidan had begged the Section for a leave of absence, which they promised, after one more mission. That mission was their last.

.

The silence grew, each thinking about the two. Halidan, cheerful and easygoing, Shea, the oddly furred simian with large bat like ears. Both of them were young and eager. They loved the job, and unlike Boden and Blaine, trusted Section X.

Boden finally spoke. "Shea is a lot like his old self."

"Yeah?"

"Halidan is, well, you know."

Yes, Blaine knew.

"Shea expressed an interest in seeing Channelle. He and Murphy sat for a while. They seemed to be having a sort of conversation. After that, Shea seemed to be a little more, well, you know."

Yes, Blaine knew, knew very well. But somewhere in the back of his head, he still needed to check this one out for himself. Bowden was good with facts and figures, but was more trusting than he should've been. He was of the opinion that if Halidan and Shea had the ability before, it'd been knocked out of them. Deckard was not so sure. A lone thunderclap rumbling close by startled the party out of their silent reverie.

Blaine made a mental note to visit the two. The first time he'd see them since the war. One move was made, but what about the next one? No closer to the facts, no closer to anything, but the pain of what happened to all of them, a long time ago.

# Chapter Four

When the Corporations took power and decentralized the government, they unwittingly damaged their own cause in the long run. An entire generation of American citizens was fragmented. Fragmented into the corporate elite, the old line Americans, and the sovereign state supporters. Each fragment headlined groups and organizations that included a thousand others. They were torn apart and so was the country. The East and most of the Midwest were still under government control. The orders came down from the White House, to the congress, then to the local congresses. The South, however, spilt into the separate freeholds that they had been. They were loosely held together in the Neo-Confederacy. This was not the South of the civil war, but the Neo-Confed, one that hated the North deeply. To pass from the North to the Neo-Confed required a passport, as well as currency exchange. All these changes further debased the power of the central government, and in time debased the Corporations as well. California formed its own country, as well as Montana. Texas also took this course, though through unique circumstances, at a much earlier date.

The border along Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Oklahoma was underneath a massive fault that had been silent and undiscovered. One day, in October, not long after the Infowar began, the earth was rocked to its very bones. The ground cracked open and tore the state of Texas away from its Eastern neighbors. It took only minutes, killed thousands, and caused billions worth in property damage. The massive tear quickly filled with seawater from the Gulf of Mexico.

Governor LaBoef took rapid action. He declared that the state of Texas was now the Country of Texas, and that all properties and equipment of the American government were annexed. The population of the new country heartily backed this move; since most of them had been raised on the notion that Texas ought to be its own country anyway. The sentiment ran deep, even among "naturalized" Texans.

The National Guard, now the Texican Army, was sent down to secure the border. Other states sent their own Guards to combat this new enemy. They met with a terrifying new weapon that had been developed at NASA in Houston: Laser emitter cannons. These Laser emitter cannons were developed to carve out habitat space and facilitate mining purposes off Terra. The Texican army used them differently. After about two hours of combat, Texas stood victorious on its new shore.

A bloody and embittered race war occurred two months after this event. It was not between any ethnicity, it occurred between those who were considered Texans, and those who were not. It ended almost a year later, when the sheer volume of Texas overwhelmed the outsiders whom they called "Jaybirds".

The US government was helpless to intervene, the Corporations unwilling to. They lacked manpower and materials. A huge number of Texans living in other parts of the country flocked back to their native land. There was plenty of room for them, as hundreds were being deported every day. To remain in Texas, one had to prove that one was either born there or a benefit. Even this did not help in some occasions. New Yorkers, for example, were merely shipped out, no questions asked or answered. The same for people from Maine, Delaware, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania. Their economic assets were liquidated and redistributed to native Texans.

This series of actions prompted other states to tighten up control of their own borders. Native Texans, for example, were held under close surveillance, sometimes jailed and extradited. The states to the North under government control were referred to as the North Forty. The rest of the country swayed neither one way nor the other, but held firm, and tried to ignore the politics.

This gray area was called just that: the Grays. Travel through these areas was simple, but the new "nationals" were viewed with suspicion. So, Instead of two political parties to deal with, the Corporations had hundreds to keep an eye on. Eventually, it would be their undoing.

.

The primary Section X was located in Colorado. Section D was little more than a myth to those in the Section, and to those outside it, it was nothing. Section D's location was rarely revealed to those in Section X, when it was, it was moved. One week it was in Washington State, the next it might be in New Zealand. The public knew about Section X, but the media referred it under an ancient name, one that Stoltz had planted to further confuse things: The OSS, or Office of Strategic Services.

No one knew why Stoltz did this, for security reasons, personal reasons, or merely for amusement. The public knew about Section X because Stoltz realized that their activities were bound to draw attention, from the Ultra Teams and the results of their missions to other activities that were far more bizarre.

One such activity was the building of a replica of a small town in North Africa in Arizona. It was constructed in less than a week. It had high fences around it with guards and searchlights. After seven months, it was turned over to the city of Tempe, it being close by. They turned it into an amusement park. Every now and then, it would close for a month or two. No explanation was forth coming. When the press began to ask questions, it was stated the town was built to test out satellite optics. It was built down to the smallest detail. Even natives were brought in to check it out. Periodically it would close to refine the technique. Everyone accepted this smoke screen as the truth and Section X continued operate behind the screen.

.

Deckard mulled over the information that he had acquired, and incomplete was the word. He decided to go check out Jones and Blut. Jones and his animal secondary, his partner, Blut, were early casualties of the Section. Deckard had met them just before they were pensioned out. They were near basket cases, the gene therapy having been taken too far. They were more like wild animals now. Once in a while, the phone would ring and Deckard would answer, only to hear unintelligible noises followed closely by a disconnect. He would then realize that it was Jones, trying to stay in touch. In touch with who was another matter. In touch with Deckard and Kitka, or his own humanity?

He and Kitka got into his car and guided it along the paths of the city into the outback's of the country. The same area that Murphy resided in, but in the opposite direction. Survivors of the Section usually wound up being loners. The treatments that were applied, the conditioning, and the training made them almost unfit to live normal lives. The ones that survived the countless missions, the searing tension and the life of defiance, spent their days waiting, waiting for the memories to end. Waiting for the memories to end, or waiting for the next chance for action. The feline instincts of Channelle made it easy for her to be indifferent. That nature had been transferred to Deckard. But, the chance for action was now, and it was hard to walk away from it, no matter what it was.

The roads decayed into thin dirt paths winding around small streams and tree. It ended and they got out of the vehicle and went the rest of the way on foot. The woods were teaming with life. This area was one protected by Zydel Corporation, whose executives used these woods for recreation. There were guards, supposedly, patrolling to keep out the riff-raff and aid execs who might have a little of trouble. Channelle and Deckard made slow progress to their destination. They had a small yard of their own, but only small rodents and birds came there. Here, larger birds and animals roamed. They stood in perfect stillness as a mule deer wandered into their line of vision. Channelle activated her collar and faded from sight. As soon as she did, the stag bolted off, galloping away into the thick of the woods. She returned to sight, sneezing in reproof.

"I guess he's seen your type before." Blaine remarked. She blinked very slowly at him and they continued.

A large tree loomed ahead, atop a small hill. Garbage was strewn all about its trunk. The bark of the tree was badly scarred and damaged. Deckard and Kitka poked around the garbage for a minute. Fruit rinds, bones of various sorts, paper containers and metal cans were various states of decay. Blaine took a step back, shading his eyes with his hand, and peered into the branches. Planks of wood were fastened haphazardly. Ropes were tied and even an old truck tire was hanging there.

The former Ultra Team leader stood there for a moment, silently debating whether to climb it. The climb itself posed no problem; it was what might be waiting for them up there. Jones and Blut had always liked them after a fashion, but to surprise them in their own tree, perhaps while they were asleep did not seem wise.

Behind them was a loud thump. Deckard whirled around, crouching, as Kitka arched her back and hissed. Blaine swiveled back just as fast in time to observe Jones land in front of him. An old trick Jones and Blut had mastered. One member would surprise a group from one side, while the other ambushed them from the other. Jones was clad in worn black pants, much like his own. He wore no shoes and a torn and stained red and white-stripped shirt. For a split second, things were quiet in the forest. The four regarded each other and it seemed like a fight was looming, but slow recognition came.

"Dek, dekkkk, Dekie." mumbled Jones. It was difficult for him to talk, as the "therapy" had transformed his mouth into a slightly elongated muzzle full of misshapen teeth. Indeed, his entire body was covered with grayish-stripped hair, his cheeks sprouted whiskers. His hands and feet bore heavy blackened claws. Jones appeared husky and chunky, but Blaine knew that he and Blut could move with surprising speed. His eyes were black and hollow.

.

"Dek, yes, Dek." He stood and extended a hand, palm facing him. Deckard did the same, not touching him.

Channelle and Blut cautiously moved towards one another. Blut was a mammoth raccoon. He was unchanged as appearances went, except for the size of his front paws, which were more like hands. Channelle and he were along the same size, but he had the weight advantage. They touched noses, both of them with mouths slightly open.

"Jones, I came to ask you a question."

Jones nodded.

"Do you know about the Blueprint vault?"

A nod.

"What do you know?" Deckard was beginning to regret coming.

"Used to practice, practice there, in the beginning, when things were clearer, cleared." Slow and labored speech.

Blaine raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Clearer, much clearer."

"When." A swallow. "The beginning. Blut and I practiced in the vault, when they made us. Used to be good, then one day..." Jones put his hands together and then tore them apart.

"What about the vault? Can you remember more?"

"It was just being built. It was em, empty. They bbuilt it when they came up with the plan. A plan."

"Which plan?"

He shook his head, jerking it to one side, like a spasm.

"Something went wrong, somewhere. That's all. Find out. Where, then You know."

Jones nodded, then showed his palm. With a single leap, he was back in the tree, disappearing into the top branches. Channelle rubbed against his leg. Deckard turned around. Blut was already gone. He picked her up, and she climbed onto his shoulders and sprawled across them. Her tail flicked playfully across his nose.

"Lazy," he commented. They touched noses and made their way back to the car.

Blaine now had a larger picture to look at. He had assumed that Jones and Blut were always basket cases, but the facts that they had been through training, was something else altogether. They had trained, and trained in that vault. For a moment, he considered that they had the plans, but that was just not possible. Jones could barely talk, and Blut never gave an outward sign of intelligence, although he knew that to be a smoke screen. The two of them seemed hardly capable of getting to the vault.

The vault had just been built, and it was empty. A logical place to train, supposedly. And when they came up with the plan? What plan? The Habakkuk plan? Or the Ultra Team plan?

He had run through his list of suspects quickly. Mallos and Goramund were the only ones he had not been able to rule out completely. The fire story seemed like just that: a story.

The theft of the plans had been a professional extraction was what he had been told. What if it weren't? Perhaps someone with clearance had just walked in and taken it? No. He had seen the security set up. Maybe someone who been there during the construction of the vault. More information was needed about these plans. This guy Wouk who thought this all up needed to be tracked down and questioned.

On a sudden impulse, he swerved towards where Halidan lived. Outside of town, of course, in a communal co-op. It seemed that none of the Ultra-teams strayed far from the point where they were rotated out. Their homes had been carefully chosen for them, Deckard guessed. His home was the only one that was in the center of town, in the middle of the action, so to speak. In about fifteen minutes, they were there. It was a sprawling habit-trail of wood and metal buildings that all seemed to be connected. Several people, men and women were outside, tending the gardens and the grounds. They all looked at him and smiled, but kept to their own doings. Kitka ran up a wide flight of wooden stairs, hissing and swiping at a woman that bent to pet her and raced on. Deckard trudged up the stairs.

"Sorry," He said to the woman as he passed her. Kitka was sitting in front of a door far down the landing, looking up at it, tail twitching. Deckard knocked on it. Jeff Halidan opened the door.

"Deckard Blaine!" He opened the door wider. "C'mon in." He had a three-day beard and gained a little weight. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Deckard stepped in. His place was full of low comfortable furniture. Several cats were sitting, lying, standing around.

"Nice cats." Deckard said as he looked around. Halidan had gone into the kitchen and come back out with a tray of glasses of iced tea and cookies.

"Oh, they're not mine." He said. "Sit down, make yourself at home." Deckard did so.

"Have some iced tea."

"No thanks,"

"Man, you've got to have some, my neighbors grow the leaves and I have tons of it." Jeff said, as he sat down.

Kitka sniffed around and smacked any cat that got too close on the head with her paw.

"So, these aren't your cats." Deckard stated, as he sat with his glass of tea.

"No, they belong to Shea. He ought to be back in any moment."

Deckard nearly dropped his tea.

"I suppose you've come to check on Orrin's work?"

Bowden's oft forgotten first name. "Well, not to put it that way,"

"But, yes, huh?" Jeff shook his head and munched on a cookie. "Boy, you guys just can't leave it alone, can you?"

"What do you mean by that?" Deckard began to get angry.

"Dude, look at yourself. Still wearing all black, stalking around, looking for secret plans.' Halidan chuckled to himself. "Buy, hey, if that's what you're into..."

Deckard put down his tea and leaned forward.

"Why don't we discuss these plans? And you, for that matter. Bowden gave the impression that you and Shea were hiding in the closet, jumping at small noises."

Jeff laughed depreciatingly. "Okay, double 0, I'll come clean,"

At that moment, the door opened and Shea walked in. He was on all fours. A simian-like creature, his front legs were longer than his back ones and he was covered in a luscious black and white fur. His face was long with a long pointed nose. His eyes were large unblinking orbs of solid brown. His face was more lemurish than simian. Shea shut the door and looked at Deckard and then began to look about. Kitka, hearing the door open and close, ran in from another room where she had been investigating. The two approached each other slowly. They touched noses and Shea began to make quiet squeaking noises. Deckard could almost make out the words. Channelle sat down and appeared to be listening.

Deckard watched for a while, then turned to face Halidan again.

"Where was I? Oh, yeah, coming clean. I'm sure you remember when we folded on that drop, yeah? Well, it was all an act. We asked for time off, or rather I did, and they refused. MacGregor said after one more drop, we could go on leave. We decided to go on leave for the rest of our lives. So, we folded on the drop and played 'sick'. We were rotated out and got our pay. That's it. I'm _sure_ you have questions now."

Deckard started hard at Jeff. He seemed to telling the truth. He was sitting back, feet up on the table, eating cookies, maintaining eye contact, completely relaxed. There was no guile or falsehood in his manner at all.

"An act? You decided to quit? What the hell does that mean? You loved the work! We saw you in action on the tapes, you were pros!" Deckard almost shouted at him.

Halidan took it in stride.

"Yes, we loved the work at first. I like Chinese food too, but I don't want to have it every night. Also, Shea wasn't responding to my instructions like he used to. I don't know if it was because he was getting older or if it was because I didn't care about the job anymore. All I wanted was out of it. So we rigged it up. Of course, Shea did a little over acting. Anytime anyone with an authoritative air comes around, he hides under the bed."

"Including Bowden?"

Jeff gave him a _you've-got-to-be-kidding_ look.

"Yeah, I see your point. An act. All this time. The plans, you didn't steal them, huh?"

"No, I didn't. You're back to it, huh?"

"Hey, the Section doesn't control me." Deckard said, defensively.

"That's because they don't need to anymore."

They made some small talk about each other's lives. Deckard accepted some boxes of tea and he and Kitka drove back home.

They don't need to anymore.

.

Back in their solitude, Channelle and he lazed about. Kitka amused herself by climbing up the wall and then leaping onto the ceiling, hanging there by her front paws, and then dropping down. Deckard gazed into the screen of his MIL cradle. It was a compact unit that performed all the tasks of other electronics. It was a computer, phone, infranet link, game player, and music recorder. The Multifunction Integrated Link could be used with or without a cradle. The cradle was a unit that contained a larger screen and keyboard. It was also capable of being hardwired into a telecommunications setup. The acronym had replaced a lot of other verbs.

He had been doing some routine checking on the infranet. The search had gone nowhere. The information was far too superficial to yield anything useful, except that Kelly Wouk had been born in a small town in Louisiana. It was gone now, swept away in the violent birth of the Texas gulf. He stared into the screen, seeing nothing. To find him, that was the next step to be sure, but even an SSN check had yielded nothing, not even an address, just basic bio stuff. Blaine yawned widely then shook his head violently. Looking up, he saw Kitka hanging from the ceiling. She looked back at him and meowed softly.

He sighed and flipped from the net to his remote camera relays. He and Channelle frequently "ghosted" the various dwellings and headquarters of the politicos of the township, but now only on special occasions. For the routine instances, he merely eavesdropped on them via the micro cams and microphones that they had secreted here and there over the months. At first, he only had cameras in the bathrooms, but found it necessary to add microphones later, as an amazing amount of data came from these sources. Deckard flipped from one cam to the next, until he landed at the convention center bathroom. He paused and boosted the volume. Two men were standing at the urinals. Both were in formal wear and their backs were to the view.

"Have you and Kathleen received your invitation to the Midwinter ball?"

"Yes, it arrived last week."

"Attending?"

"Of course, are you kidding? With LesPaul as the guest host?"

"You're serious? LesPaul? Where did you pick this up?"

"Well, you know who's hosting it this year? Jack and Tracy Haining."

"And?"

"Well, when LesPaul got out of the army and was looking for investors, Jack Haining was one of his first. In fact, his wife Linda and Tracy Haining were good friends before his company ever existed."

Jeordi LesPaul was the founder of CyberTech, the company that produced the MIL chips that 70% of the planet used. Blaine had not known that he had been "in the Army." At the most polite, that term could be called completely inaccurate. LesPaul had to be Section X. Nobody would have put that kind of talent in a uniform near a DMZ. Blaine wondered how he had kept his activities concealed while in the Section. There must have been some kind of deal made with higher ups. Interesting. LesPaul would have known many people in the Section, many people indeed. His thoughts were racing along so fast that he almost missed the most important part.

"...October the 17th. We'll pick you two up at....seven. We'll go for drinks first then go to the ball."

He shut the transmission off, and rose thoughtfully. With a sudden burst of speed, he sprang on Channelle and they rolled about. Channelle darted off with Blaine in close pursuit. The house, being circular, directed the chase. Then in the same breath, they both leapt onto their futon.

"There's a ball in a month, and we've to figure out a way to get an invite."

They lay there breathing heavy. Channelle rose to her feet, stretched, and lay back down again.

"Wanna go out tonight, girl?" Deckard murred to her, as he stroked her whiskers.

Her eyes closed briefly at him. She turned over and looked at him upside down.

He read her mind then, and replied to question she was unable to speak.

"Blackmail. That's how." Their luck was in, now all they had to do was chase it down.

.

Jack Haining was the proverbial master of his domain. His early investments had brought him great wealth when he was quite young. He had tired of being a big fish in a big pond full of other big fish. He looked around for the spot to establish his rule. A small town was perfect for his intentions. He moved in and started buying up everything in sight. Restaurants, bars, movie theaters, drug stores, abandoned buildings, everything was his. Haining's wife, an interior design major, personally redecorated everything that he bought. This done, he began urban renewal, on a smaller scale. Haining donated vast sums of money to the city and every charity around. Stores and shops of every kind sprang up over night. Having done this, he got a hold of a local booking agent and gave him an immense budget.

The agent, previously dealing with only local acts and minor performers, raked in every big name that he could find a MIL number on. After all, he would point out to the mangers, agents, and assistants; we have a new coliseum, capable of seating forty thousand, and it's almost within walking distance of the famous Disco Volante Hotel, which had been built in the late 1930's, and had recently revamped up to a five star rating. It was a hard offer to turn down, particularly when the quote had been met and topped by about twenty percent. Not many passed it up. The Moonlighters, Johnny Vid, Nightmare 5, The Imperial Russian Ballet, the New York Shakespeare troupe, Richard Bachman III, and the Hollywood Ice Works and Stunt show, all came. The Colorado Bulldogs chose it as their summer training camp.

Product follows demand and restaurants of every sort sprang up in every nook and cranny. Suddenly, the locals found they were able to describe in detail what was the difference was between good Couscous and Spanakopita and bad. The town and the town's folk became culturally elite seemingly overnight. Haining sat back and let the city fathers lavish him with praise, awards, plaques and banquets. When it was suggested that he run for mayor, he laughed and told them who they should really elect, and that was precisely who won. Haining decided who would rule and who would lose. The townspeople scarcely noticed, as they were too busy drinking pints of real English ale, eating shrimp gumbo, and getting tickets for theater, or the ball game or the passing big act name. The world was his oyster. The oyster had a bit of sand in it though, one that refused to become a pearl. Haining scarcely noticed, as he was too busy reaping what he sowed.

.

Deckard and Kitka crouched on a rooftop, five stories up, watching Haining. They had been observing him for a week and their efforts finally bore fruit. Haining's wife was on a shopping trip to L.A, and Jacky boy was out on the town. He had been in the bar of the Hotel Orleans, which was a bit on the shady side, for two hours. It was the first time that he had shown he was able to do something interesting.

Previously, all he had done was go to his office, to meetings, the bank, lunch, and home. Very boring. Occasionally, he would step out with his wife, but it was always at the same place, where he ordered the same thing. His estate was undergoing some changes for the big bash. Deliveries, workers, and caterers going in and out.

"Must be having a good time," Blaine muttered, as he ran his hand down Kitka's spine. She whacked his hand with her tail, and growled amiably in her chest.

The doors opened, and their target came out. He was wrapped around an elegant looking blonde, with an ornate hair bouffant studded with what looked to be pearls. They lurched on the curb for a moment, barely able to contain themselves. A cab pulled up.

As soon as the two of them came out, Kitka and Deck abandoned their perch and slid down to the surface. In another place, and another time, they would have removed the cable used. They left it this time, as they had used it there first, two years ago, and then removed it, then after about the third time, they left it. It was a good building to watch from, and to remove the cable now might attract attention, now that everybody was used to it.

When the Haining and his girlfriend got into the cab, Channelle slipped in with them, before them actually, with her shroud activated. Her diamond choker was more than decorative; it concealed the light refraction unit, a small camera, a tracking beacon, and a mic. As the cab pulled away, Deckard placed a small receiver in his ear, as he stepped out of the shadow and listened to the two pant and moan.

"Where to," A disinterested voice.

"The Belmont."

Perfect, some of the best work had started there. Maybe their luck would hold further and they would even get a room they had already tripped. Channelle activated the camera, Deckard's watch flashed softly to let him know. The small image showed Haining's hand doing highly interesting things under the blonde's dress. Whatever it was that he was doing, she liked it.

Blaine snorted. Channelle was a voyeur by definition, and she had an almost human desire to try to shock him.

Shaking his head, he broke into a run and covered the distance between himself and his car rapidly. Sliding in, Deckard spun out into traffic and was at the Belmont in two minutes.

The cabby, was obviously boosting his fare, or enjoying the show, because Blaine arrived first and had to wait. The cab pulled up and they got out. As they went into the motel office, Deck reactivated his audio and listened to Haining order a room.

Room 317. Damn! That room, as the lingo went, was virgin. Grabbing his work belt, he sighted the room and leapt up to seize the second floor and vaulted himself upwards, once again and he was on the right one. The sounds of his movements were silent and Deckard kept an eye on the two lovers. They were still in the office, hanging all over each other like high school kids. He got through the lock without breaking stride, and had his surveillance set up in seconds.

Deck backed out, and passed them on the stair. They didn't even notice. His arms were full, all of a sudden with cat. She unshrouded, and climbed up on his shoulders.

"Good work." Deckard whispered.

Channelle sniffed his ear in response. He walked down to the ground floor.

"Let's get a room and a pizza."

She made no objections. They were on the trail and letting their targets get out of sight was something that just was not something they would do. In the before time, they might have broken into the adjacent room, and hope that no one rented it, or perched on the roof. The team would have been on edge. Deckard would have set up perimeter alerts and cameras, his guns locked and cocked. Kitka would have stayed in her shroud, waiting to attack. Nowadays, it was easy, a game. She jumped down and explored the motel's cheap shrubbery as he went into the office.

"Could I get a room, preferably one on the third floor? My MIL infranet receiver is real temperamental."

"Yeah, I got one of those myself, cheap ass thing." The clerk replied. He was a goateed young guy, who looked as if this was a night job, while he went to school during the day. A brief glance over the counter revealed several textbooks lying open on an adjoining desk. Deckard chatted the guy up while filling out the form, all with a fake chit, of course. It was a good way of getting low level data, after all one never knew when one might need the services of a night clerk who studied Folklore, or what he might know.

Channelle danced up the stairs, and they took their room across the courtyard from their targets. The room was small but comfortable, there were free movie channels and the pizza place was running a special on large with everything plus a six-pack. Deckard ordered it, along with a six pack.

"Thirty minutes, or it's FREE!" He said as he hung the phone up, grimacing at Kitka. Her eyes got wide in turn as they stared at each other. They broke away, and he went about setting up the transmission.

The surveillance came in crisply, although he had to adjust for light. The two of them were ardently thrusting into each other, the bed rocking up and down and back and forth. It was punctuated with groans and subjectives, and occasionally commands or expletives. He muted it and turned on the DV in time for "Star Troopers Invade!"

.

The rest of the night passed without great consequence. The two of them watched the movie, and the amorous display. They ate and drank. Haining and his current interest moved on to S&M games and then showered, put their clothes back on, and left in two different cabs. Blaine and Channelle, wanting to cover all their bases, followed the blonde home. They had already been to Haining's house many times, though not by invitation. The girl's cab took her to a small apartment on top of an Italian restaurant on the fashionable west side. It was after three in the morning by now, but the citizenry was still in full swing on the town. The former Ultra Team could move about virtually invisible to the eyes of the authorities.

Standing on the corner opposite the apartment, Deckard and Kitka watched her silhouette in the window. Channelle stood on Deck's shoulder, lifting her nose high in the air. Passers-bys glanced curiously at her, some cooing softly and reaching out to pet her, others just looking. When the light went out in her window, they walked across the street and through the security door. Deckard dumped his overcoat in a cleaning closet, leaving him clad only in his black outfit, what he called his "creeper". Drawing a headset out of the belt, he set it on his head and adjusted it. With a gesture from him, Channelle vanished and they broke into the blonde's apartment. With the infrared light glaring about from his headset, his altered eyes could see everything. The two-bedroom place was stately looking with high ceilings. There was an astonishing DV stereo set in the main room, quite expensive. She obviously was not much of a cook, for her pantry revealed nothing major, and the fridge was full of take out cartons.

The dressing room also had a MIL cradle on a small desk, of which Blaine downloaded all the files. Her purse had a compact, ID, a driver license, three credit cards, none of them with her name on them, several receipts, tissue, and a small .25 cal handgun, chrome with a pink handle. Blaine held up the gun with a smile, one reserved for children and small animals.

The ID gave her name as Lillith Carbona, surely an alias, but it was all scanned in. Channelle and he systematically searched everything and recorded it. They both stopped at the bedroom, and glanced at one another. They both knew that they had all they needed, but they hadn't looked at everything. Curiosity was an impulse and a state of mind. They had to get a closer look.

Softly treading on the carpet, they drew to the side of the bed and looked in it. Lillith was supine on her back, her arms under the pillow. Her breathing was soft. Without makeup, she showed a smattering of freckles on the nose. Lilith's ornate hair was now spread all over the bed in a tangled mess. Slowly the sheet began to slip downward. Blaine glanced sharply at the foot of the bed. Channelle was pulling the sheet downwards with her claws. Deckard motioned her to stop. Kitka did for a moment, blinked at him and then continued. In spite of himself, he stayed still.

She was about five seven, and 127 lbs. 36 across the hips, and a 42 across the chest. Her breasts were maintaining an unnatural shape as she lay there. Deckard tilted his head at this, and bent over for a better look. Closer examination revealed two small scars, mere nicks, really, just under each breast. Enlargement surgery. They had seen enough. Backing out of the room, they cleaned up their tracks, and left.

Fetching his coat, they went up to the roof instead, and vaulted onto another roof. Two more and they descended close to where the car sat. The sun was breaking over the humble skyline as they made their way back home. They parked, went inside, stretching and yawning, and fell asleep on the couch. First thing in the morning, they would break open the 'pouch' and get a look at the tricks and treats they had brought back.

.

A quick analysis of the pouch they had acquired revealed that Lillith Carbona was 27, a graduate of Sillvingdale high school, owned a red Jupiter 2 Matador, which was the latest POS sports car, and had a doctor's appointment on Thursday of next week. That was the hard data, the obvious. Further delving concluded that she was an employee of Varna Wherres, who ran the most exclusive escort service in that part of the territory. Disappointing. Blaine would have rather it been the daughter of some social climber businessman or factory worker, not just some hired hand. He was a romantic, after all.

Oh, well, he thought, as Channelle dozed in his lap. Editing the material that they had gathered at the Belmont into a neat E file, he sent it off to Haining's E-account with a small note: City parking lot, top level, midnight: discussion. Deckard looked at his watch. He had quite a few hours yet, so he and Channelle went back to sleep on the couch.

.

Rising at around ten, the two of them bathed, ate, gathered the standard gear that they would need and then staked out the parking garage. The first thing that they noticed is that they were not the only ones staking it out. Two unimaginative goons were sitting in a white mini van in plain sight. The former Ultra Team let the air out of the tires and pulled the oil plug, the antifreeze plug and transmission plug for the sheer sport of it. Then using a molecular bonding paste, they sealed the all the doors all without being found out.

The only way the two goons would be able get out of the car now was by breaking the windows. It was a sure bet that Haining would have more muscle with him. There could be more out of sight as well. Deckard and Channelle checked over the structure very carefully, finding nothing. An hour later and a late model Mercedes Shokran town car pulled in to the garage and circled around to the top level.

# Chapter Five

The limo's windows were adjusted to full tint like the van's were. From their perspective on the ledge, Deckard could make out at least six figures. One of them had to be Haining, so the other five were muscle. The muscle got out of the limo after it had stopped and deployed in a sloppy formation. Blaine and Kitka were not experts on formations, but it looked sloppy to them. Their feelings and thoughts were relayed to one another through vague sounds and gestures, silent and covert. At twelve on the dot, the team vaulted over the railing and walked over towards the car. The gunmen tensed and reached into their long coats. Deckard and Channelle quickened their pace. The man in front began to hold up his hand and started to speak. With a flip of his head, Deckard broke into a run and Channelle shrouded.

The gun came out and Deck pounced. With his augmented physique, he leapt from fifteen meters away and landed on the front man with both feet in a crouch, knocking the gun out of his hand. He heard a cry of agony from his left. Looking right, Deckard got an eyeful of gun barrel. With a flick of his wrist, he planted five darts in the second muscle's face, including his right eye. The man screamed, dropped his gun and fell to his knees, his hands clenched near his face. Another scream from the left. One to go. Deckard cleared the car from his crouch and landed in front of the last one. Blaine drove his right hand, hardened and pointed into the gunman's throat. A gasp for air, an attempt to vocalize, and he passed out. Channelle reappeared on the roof of the car, calm and quiet, licking blood from her paws.

Deckard glanced at her and bent down to retrieve the gun dropped by his last victim. It was poly-carbon piece that was stamped South Africa. South Africa had gone up in riotous flames about two decades before. They certainly hadn't been in any position to start making handguns.

"I really should keep up with current events." Deckard mumbled to himself. Dismissing this from his mind, he leapt upon top of the car, looking down on it.

"Mr. Haining," Blaine called out. "Come out now." He began jumping up and down, the metal fluctuating under his weight.

"Come out now, " he sang out. Kitka stared at him and then went to sit on the trunk, where it was more stable.

"Why do they think they're always safe in the car?" Deckard exclaimed aloud.

He got down and glanced at the bodyguards that Channelle had attacked. Their Achilles tendons were slashed, as were their faces, and other parts, blood steadily pumping out. The onslaught of pain had been too much for them. The man that had spikes in his face was also out. Everyone was now bleeding quietly. A quick examination of the car windows rang them out to be bullet proof. Deckard sighed. He knocked on the window.

"Haining, Come out or I'm coming in."

No answer. He gave a sidelong look at Channelle who was watching him. The two knew that bulletproof glass was more like bullet resistant. Kitka extended her "thumb" claw and drew it slowly across the glass twice, and jumped down. Blaine drew a bead on the scratches and pumped eight rounds at it with the purloined pistol. The blasts reduced the back window into a spider web of crystalline drops. Tossing the gun aside and climbing onto the trunk, He kicked the spider web in and peered into the limo. A man in an expensive, tailor made, dark business suit was gaping back at him.

"Hi." He said to Haining. Haining didn't move, breathe or blink.

"Now, are you going to reasonable and come out of there so we can talk, or do we come in there and make it even more uncomfortable?"

No movement.

Sighing again, he climbed in, followed by Kitka.

Kitka picked her way through the broken glass and sat on Haining's lap, her claws digging in. That resulted in a response.

"Ahhhhhhhh...." He cried out in a low voice.

"Now, we have a problem. I have something that you want and you have something that I want." Deckard stated, crossing his legs in front of him.

"First off, the footage of you and what's-her-name, you don't get that, so forget it. What you get is that I keep it and never show it to anyone else. What I want is an invite to that fancy midwinter ball." He crossed his legs the other way. "What do you say to that?"

Channelle began kneading her claws.

He cried out softly again.

"Look, Haining, make a response beside sounds of pain, it's getting on my nerves."

A few moments passed, and Haining tried to gather himself together.

"Well, ah, that seems, if you don't mind me pointing this out, that you get what you want, leaving you free to blackmail me again." He hesitantly reached out with his hand to nudge Channelle away cautiously. She glared at him, and whipped her tail around and he withdrew his hand.

"Okay, I agree that that's how it would be if I were someone else, but you can trust me not to use it against you in the future."

"You're asking me to trust you, after this?"

"I realize the irony, but yes."

"You did all this to get invited to my wife's ball?"

"Yes."

"You followed me, filmed me, and crippled my men, to go to a party."

"I don't get out much."

Silence.

"Okay, I get the point. You're feeling shortchanged here, and I don't blame you." Deckard scratched his jaw. "You see all this?" He gestured around. "I nailed you dead to rights in that motel and you didn't even know I existed. I wiped out your guards in the blink of an eye and penetrated your rolling fortress here, right?"

A nod.

"Right. Well, You have to realize that I can get to you anywhere, anytime. There's nowhere that you can hide from me, ever."

A pause, a nod.

"Alright, how about if I owe you one?" Deckard stopped. He was not used to speaking in such clear phrases. In his communications with Boden and Murphy and Channelle, he used half phrases, hand and face gestures. Haining seemed to ignore his eye motions, flicks, and otherwise.

"You mean, you'll do this to someone else, if I want."

"Not exactly, but yes. But, _no_ assassinations. I pick the job. That's it."

"Yes, then."

"Good. We expect our invitation shortly."

" _We_?"

"Yes, Channelle and I." Blaine opened the door and got out. Channelle hoped out. He turned to face Haining once again.

"I'd call the hospital if I were you, these guys are a mess." He shut the door and walked to the ledge. They passed the men trapped in the minivan, who were thrashing about furiously, trying to escape.

"I thought he took that well," Blaine commented as they hopped over the ledge.

.

The invitation was already in the e-box when they arrived back home. They had stopped at a seafood place for some shrimp and swordfish. Exercise always made them hungry. Channelle could go anywhere that Blaine went. It was a silent understanding around town that she was politely ignored by the purveyors of food. Deckard Blaine always tipped very well and seemed to have sway with the VIPs in the small city. The health inspectors could be bribed if they happened in at that moment. Unlikely, since the two usually stopped in after midnight.

The Midwinter Ball Invitation was written on a decaying program and once a hard copy was printed out, it crashed and then wiped itself out of the system. There was to be no admittance to the mid-winter ball without it. It was handsome work of minor art. From a distance, it appeared to be hand engraved. The words were so buried in curlicues that it almost impossible to read, but it did not matter; people who got one knew what it was. Blaine and Kitka bathed and then went back to sleep.

.

Long ago, before the war, before the changes, even before the government job, Deckard used to hang out at a place called the Cosmic Club. It was a large place, boasting a full bandstand stage. In its time it was a meet market for the upper middle class, but trends had taken that away from it. It lingered for a time, then began to show evidences of life again. The old owner had died, at last, and it went up for sale at a song. The place was literally falling down. Some minor renovations done some twenty years before had only severed to make it look worse.

The man who bought it could see past all that. He had a lot of experience in construction and building. It might take him ten or fifteen years to restore it, but he had the time. A minor clean up and some support struts and it was open for business. At first, it only hosted local garage bands that played just for the practice space. There was no door charge, and beers were only a dollar and a quarter. Ray Gibson worked his jobs by day and then went to the Cosmic Club to oversee things, serve drinks, make minor repairs and serve as bouncer at night. He was a large man, blonde, six four, with shoulders the size a steer and hands the size of dinner plates. His expression was somehow always grim, as if he were about to do something violent. Because of the hours that he kept, he was called Night-and-day Ray.

His wife, Renee was strangely his contrast. She was dark haired and five two with a soft voice and a twinkle in her eye. Her small frame was striking and voluptuous. She always had a smile on her face, exposing her large white teeth. When she spoke with people, it was with an almost intimate manner. Guys felt that in another time and place, they might have been involved. Girls felt that she was their confidant, ready to sympathize and listen. Night-and-day Ray was the machine behind the Club, but Renee was the personality.

They had gone to high school together and married right after. Renee and Blaine had gone out for a brief while in what was a passionate, but short-lived affair. They both began to eye other people at the same time and just kind of began going out with them. There was no animosity between them, with nothing more between them than a nudge, a grin, a sly look, a memory of passion and the greenery of devoted friendship. Renee always believed that Deckard was looking for something, but she didn't know what, and she suspected that he didn't either. She found what she was looking for, and it was good.

Nine months or so after the Cosmic Club opened up, Blaine showed up at one of the tables. Neither Renee nor Ray saw him come in. She just turned around. There he was.

"Deck!" She cried out. "You gave me a start!" She exclaimed pulling up a chair.

He had that expression on his face as usual. It looked blank, but with traces of faint smile, like he was going to break into laughter, but he never did. He blinked at her.

"I have that effect on people, I guess." The waitress, an eighteen year old on the prowl, sidled up and took their order, with a smile for Renee and a wink for Deckard.

"I didn't even know you were in town," She gazed at him. Memories flooded back. She remembered his embraces, his passionate kisses, his tenderness and his playful manner. She almost, but not quite, regretted the decisions that they had made.

"Yes, I've been back for some time. A vacation, you could call it."

"Where to?"

"Down to the Texican Region, mostly, a look around."

"You have a passport? Impressed." Passports were hard to get without money and pull.

"No, I wet-backed, and my mother is from Dallas, so once in, I was able to fake it quite well."

"You swam the gulf?"

"Part of the way. I used a rebreather and latched onto fishing boats for the rest."

"That sounds dangerous!" A wide-eyed look and a hand placed on his. His hand was cold.

"No, not if you keep your nerve."

"But why?"

"Curiosity." The drinks arrived, the waitress giving him the once over twice. "You know me, I have to know what's going on. Speaking of which..." He took a drink of beer. "Tell me all about this,"

He sat and listened to the buying, renovating, the big and little problems, and the overall running of what was becoming quite a success story in the small town.

"Who's playing tonight?" He asked when the story was told.

"Tom Taylor and the True Hearts." A deep voice sounded at his shoulder, a meaty paw was placed on it.

"Night-and-day Ray!" Deckard exclaimed as he turned.

Ray's face was split with an uncharacteristic smile. Deckard was sure that he knew of his and Renee's tryst and could not have cared less. Her devotion to him was both solid and evident. Deckard stood and they shook hands, then sat down.

The owner of the Cosmic Club wiped his brow with a red bandana. He wore his work clothes, overalls, T-shirt, and a tool belt.

"Man, I'm tired. Been working on the balcony all day. Almost done." He looked around just in time to see the waitress bringing his club soda and limejuice. He took it from her hand and took a large gulp.

"It might be ready next week."

The place was beginning to fill up; the band was setting up their equipment.

He took out a cigarette from his bib pocket and lit it from the candle that was in the center of the table. Deckard was somewhat taken a back. Smoking was prohibited from all but private residences and high society clubs. Even then, it was heavily regulated.

"You got a smoking permit?"

"Nah, ta hell with them. They wanna fine me, they can. People can smoke here if they want, and I'll pay the fine with the money from the cigarette machine." He angled a thumb towards the restrooms. Sure enough, under the pay phone was a cigarette machine, ancient and battered, but functional.

"I'd say you were taking a chance."

Night-and-day grinned and blew smoke at him. "I wouldn't."

.

Deckard turned out to be right. When he got back from the war, he returned to the Cosmic Club eventually to find it abandoned. He never found a trace of Renee or Ray Gibson. Even with his expertise and vast resources, there was no trail to follow. None of his old friends that would know were around. It was as if an entire part of his life had been sliced away. The old Deckard Blaine might have given the matter more concern, but the change that he had undergone had left him more detached.

Deckard was easily distracted by other tasks, and needed many of them to alleviate his boredom with one or the other. Strangely, he thought about them now, even as he prepared for his meeting with LesPaul. The two seemed connected, but he couldn't follow the string from one to the other.

Going to his closet, he fetched out his eveningwear, next to his dress uniform. His tuxedo was fairly typical. Deckard had bought it for a similar event some time ago. He smiled at the memory. Black pleated pants with a silk strip down the legs, with a black jacket with black silk shawl lapels. A white shirt with wingtip collars and a black bowtie and vest. Blaine drew out the separate hanging pieces and placed them in the steamer.

Channelle went into the bathroom and began meowing loudly for some hot water. On his way to the bathroom, he thumbed on the radio to the local arts and news station, which was doing an early jazz retrospective. He liked to keep his MIL out of the bathroom for purely superstitious reasons. The tub filled up with steaming water. He soaped up while listening to the gravely voiced DJ expound on the virtues of hot jazz over modern.

"It just doesn't grab me, you dig? I'm saying that it's just flat, cat, and that's that!" A soft trumpet began as he slipped into the bathtub, Channelle already paddling about. Scrambling onto the wide ledge, she began to softly tap on Deckard's nose, as he lay in the tub, eyes closed.

"Yes, I'm paying attention," He told her.

The piece ended, as the two were supine.

"Now we cooking wit GASSSSS!" The DJ whispered.

.

They dressed and drove out to Haining's mansion. It was a large elegant stone built affair back in the exclusive suburbs. The grounds were around ten miles in diameter. It was surrounded by large brick walls, synthetically aged. They looked in scorn at his security system at the front gate. Resisting the urge to bypass it, Deckard activated the ID pad and fed his invitation into a slot below it. The pad blinked once and the gate slid back into it's housing.

The paved road wound around the estate to the mansion, which was in the center surrounded by tennis courts, pools, and stables. Blaine jerked his head slightly up and she faded from sight. He got out of his car and handed the key over to a teenager in a bellhop costume, who silently took it and handed him a plastic numbered card. A swift glance at the parking area revealed the newest and most expensive rides, there were a few antique gasoline only autos as well.

The party was just getting in full swing. The doorway opened up into a long hallway that led into the main reception area. There was a broad staircase that went up to a huge set of double doors. On either side of the doors were two narrower staircases the led to the upper living quarters. On the upper level (Deckard knew from experience) were enough bedrooms to sleep a platoon, a small gym and a video entertainment den with the equipment in it to furnish a professional arcade. On the first floor were the kitchen, billiards room, a home office and the library.

Needless to say, the furniture, wall hangings, and so forth were all the highest quality antiques, hand-picked by Linda Haining in over a dozen countries. The wide double doors were open, revealing a huge ballroom overlooking a long marble white fountain surrounded by s-shaped hedges. In the fountain was a flock of black swans. Blaine, being shown to the ballroom, made his way around to the windows to look at the flock. He could feel Channelle standing on his feet. Deck turned to survey the scene. Well over two hundred people were present. Easily spotted were the mayor, the police commissioner, the dean of the local university, and even the Governor.

The men were attired in black tuxedos, same as his, although the cut varied slightly. The women were all in designer original frocks and gowns, with more or less skin showing. Some were quiet and elegant, others provocative and daring, others just plain silly.

Jack Haining was wearing a white dinner jacket with dark purple shawl lapels with matching tie and vest. Linda Haining was wearing a champagne pink Stroika Gown with a carefully groomed and coiffed Pekinese. That could be trouble, but the dog was most likely conditioned to behave properly in front of guests. Blaine could feel the weight of Kitka and she leapt up to his right shoulder and stood there with all four feet on the same spot.

He imagined Kitka was looking right at the door, carefully sniffing the air. To the right and left of the double doors were two wet bars, and next to them were buffet tables with white tablecloths laden with expensive and obscure delicacies. Above the double doors was a band perch, where a section of brass, wind and strings played over the ancient big band numbers as well as the newer ones.

The dance floor was clearly laid out in polished hardwood, and the men and women of high society were clearly trying to outdo one another. Around the dance floor were small round tables. Here, the old boys club conferenced and the great dames commented. Deck sat at an empty one and folded his hands on the table. A waiter in tails came by with a tray in one hand.

"I'd like a cosmopolitan and a glass of," He caught sight of Linda Haining. "Pink Champagne."

The waiter bowed slightly and went off.

Channelle got on the table and unshrouded sitting motionlessly. She began washing her face as Blaine stared at Haining. Haining was smoking a large cigar and talking with the two men that he had overheard talking about the party in the convention center bathroom. Suddenly, as if his name had been shouted, he looked up, right at the two. Channelle stopped washing her face to return the glare.

Haining broke away from them with brief leave-taking and headed over.

"Well, I see that you two made it." He said, nervously. "Do you mind?" He gestured at a chair.

Deck raised his eyebrows, and Haining sat.

"I've done some checking on you."

A head tilt.

"Came up with nothing, except a small article on gene splicing." The drinks arrived. The waiter, hesitantly looked at Channelle, and set the Champagne in front of her, and the stemmed frosty glass in front of Deckard.

"Nothing specific, of course." He puffed on his cigar. Haining, naturally, would have the money and the pull to get an license for tobacco.

"Well, then you know what we are."

"Not really, but I've got an idea."

"How are your men?" A sip. "All healed up?"

"Yes, pretty much, most of them quit, except for those in the van." He sighed.

"Sorry about that, but if you'd just come alone, everything would've been fine."

"Uh-huh, if that's the case, why didn't you just _ask_ for an invitation?"

"Well, I guess I..."

"Exactly. But, this is how things are done, so I suppose we'd better be cooperative."

" How do you want to play this?"

"Well, refrain from killing any guests, for one thing," Haining smiled slightly. "Most of them, anyway." He puffed again and looked thoughtful. "LesPaul hasn't arrived yet, but you'll know when he gets here, it's tradition that the guest of honor receive a standing ovation when they arrive. He should be here," A glance at his watch. "In about half an hour." The waiter showed up with an Old Fashioned for Haining. He took a sip and sat back.

Curious. A room full of guests and Haining sits with one who blackmailed him and threatened his life. Deckard sat with his hands on the table, watching. Haining puffed on his cigar again, carefully extended his hand towards Channelle, who sniffed it and then rubbed the side of her face down it.

"Now, she's marked you." Blaine said with a sardonic smile.

Haining lightly scratched her under the chin, as she lifted it.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Candid.

"Why are you sitting with us, I mean, after all that we did?"

Silence full of thought. "I was pretty shaken when that happened, you know, I thought that all this," He gestured about. "Was all gone. But, you said I could trust you not release the, ah, incident, and oddly enough, I did." He took a drink. "I realized then that everyone that I knew would love to do the same thing to me, but they'd want more than you wanted. I am a powerful man, cynical and untrustworthy. I had to be to get where I am. You took everything I had away, then gave it all back in a single sentence." A pause. "It was then that I knew that you were the only one that I could really trust. You were honest with me, really honest. Nobody is honest with me anymore. I'm surrounded by liars, cheats, and yes men. Everybody wants what I've got, or wants me to fail, even if they get screwed over by my failure, it's enough that I fail." Another drink. "So I'm sitting here with my only "enemy" in the whole room, the one man who told me to my face that I'm vulnerable. I was shrunk down to size and I found that my pants fit again. I felt plain, ordinary. That's pretty comfortable, you know, plain and ordinary."

The three of them watched the parade of wealth and fashions collide in age-old ritualistic exchange. The band ended their number suddenly. The bandleader stood up and announced with a slight Cuban accent that Jeordi and Linda LesPaul had arrived. The room rose in unison and applauded. Jeordi LesPaul was attired in a gold lame tuxedo jacket with black pants with gold paisley tie and cummerbund. Linda LesPaul was adorned in a ball-gown of similar color, but with much more sequins. It looked as if she would need a special stool if she were planning to sit down at all. They beamed out at the crowd, bowing and curtseying, waving to their particular friends. The applause died down and the band struck up again.

Deckard looked over at Haining to discover he had gone. A glance back at the LesPauls revealed Haining had slipped off to meet with them. The man might have had a life revelation, but he knew how to make his move. Blaine shook his head and grinned at the situation. Channelle washed her face with her right paw. Linda and Tracey had paired off to make the rounds, as Jack and Jeordi did the same.

Deckard got up and Channelle cloaked. They met back over by the bar on the right side, after he had gotten a plate at the buffet. She uncloaked and began picking through the various items on the plate, as Deckard kept an eye on the crowd. He leaned against the bar and made small talk with the bartender, a guy about his own age, with a ponytail, who looked as if he played racket ball. His MIL was projecting a basketball game below the bar. Sean, the bartender, commented the pay was good at these sorts of gigs, but the hours were long and towards the end, some rich old bag would always hit on him.

LesPaul and Haining were half way around the room, when Haining gestured at Deckard in a "there's someone I'd like you to meet" sort of way. Channelle cloaked and Deck rose from leaning on the bar.

"Here he is, Joe, Deckard Blaine, he's been doing some security evaluations for me."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blaine." They shook hands.

Up close, he seemed to be a little nervous. His hands were shaking slightly and he was sweating slightly. A bland face, glasses, with graying hair and a pair of steely blue eyes.

"Let's sit down, Gentlemen, and get some fresh drinks, eh?" Haining ushered them to a nearby table, and then, with a nod at Blaine, went to the bar.

"Security evaluations, huh?" LesPaul searched his jacket and fetched out a pocket humidor and opened it. "I could use your particular talents."

"By the way where is your partner, the cat?" He trimmed the end of a cigar off with a stainless cutter. "I can't seem to remember her name,"

Blaine blinked slowly. Busted.

Channelle leapt up on the table, uncloaked, as Deckard glared at LesPaul with dangerous intent. Picking up her cues from Deckard, Kitka's ears flattened out, and she turned on LesPaul, who realized that he had made a mistake.

"Now, don't overreact. I didn't mean to alarm you. I have no agenda here." His voice was calm and even. His hands had frozen in the midst of lighting his stogie.

Moments passed, as Channelle and Deckard slowly eased off. Deckard could feel the blood pulsing in his face and arms. His stripes felt hot and black as pitch.

"I am sorry, Mr. Deckard and Miss, ah, Kitka, I remember now," He slowly lit his cigar. "But you have to know that as the most successful merge of the Ultra teams, you were quite the celebrity in the Section, both of you were." He took a puff. "You must realize that although you got out on occasions to perform, the rest of the staff was quite under lock and key for the duration."

It made sense, of course. If he expected that LesPaul had information on Mallos and Goramund, he would certainly know of Ultra One-Seven. Although it was gratifying to have his suspicions confirmed, Deckard had never expected to be recognized. He took a sip of his drink and Channelle sat down and carefully sniffed the ashtray that LesPaul was using.

LesPaul went on. "We had no other diversion than our and other's work. We followed it daily, talked about it all the time." He paused and mulled things over. "Do you remember the remote operational modulation/demodulation eye phones you used to patch into the Jenset computer in Prague?"

Deckard lifted an eyebrow.

"They were black goggles, padded..."

He did remember. He had downloaded enough info to cripple Jenset. Their security was formidable, but had a weak spot. He had done it hanging from an antennae array some sixty floors up. It was raining too.

"Yes,"

" **I** designed those." He folded his arms and sat back, proud, confident.

Blaine nodded. He had planned to approached him slowly, get him talking about work, then the army, then the Section, then about Mallos and Goramund. Now...

"Tell me about Ultra Team 5." He blurted out.

"Team 5, Hmmmm," LesPaul seemed to almost expect the question.

"The Russian and the snake." Blaine prompted.

# Chapter Six

Just after the last corporation lost it's influence over the government, the war, at least the operational part, was over. There were no truces, or signed papers, or celebrations or parades. It was just over. The Section put his file in the inactive stack and that was it. His supervisor, MacGregor, sent for him one day and told him this service had been vital to the reestablishment of the United States Government.

Blaine and Channelle were being rotated out. There would be a substantial pension, plus quarters and a vehicle permit. There had been some discussion of whether Lt. Commnader Channelle Kitka was the property of Section X, or personnel, the section chief informed them. The agent's head swam. Channelle? Property? Rotated out?

"We've decided she _is_ personnel, and she will be rotated out along with you. She will also be allotted a pension. If you will elect to care for her, then we will add her pension to yours. If not, then a caretaker will provided and the pension will be awarded to them."

Blaine could not believe what he was hearing. It was as if he had been issued a piece of equipment and now was required to turn it in. Being separated never occurred to him. Kitka glanced up at him from the next chair and looked away slowly. She trusted him and that was that. Three days later, Blaine and Kitka were standing in the front room of a small house that they had never seen before that was totally devoid of everything. They had a credit chit from a local bank and that was all.

After a year of training, alterations and practice and then more than five years of covert operations, they were let go. They had no idea what to do. For all of Kitka's life and a significant part of Deckard's, they had been told where to go, what to do, now, nothing. Supervisors, specialists, experts and doctors had all guided them from one moment to another. Briefing on the operations, checks on mental and physical health, gear and equipment given out, checked over, more briefing on the place, the time, the target, the obstacles and practice. Then the mission, the completion, the delivery of the pouch, the equipment checked back in, the debriefing and the examinations. Occasionally, he would need recuperation and R&R. They were never unsupervised. They would get together with Bowden and Murphy in some local tavern to kick back, but it was usually full of other Section personnel, guards and the like.

The former Ultra Team remained in that room for a full day. They had been kept in a cage, so to speak, for a long time. Blaine and Kitka got hungry and wandered around the house looking for food. The room led into the kitchen, then the bathroom, then the bedroom, around in a circle. Night fell, and they went outside. Neither one had no idea where to go or what to do.

In time, they learned to live free, but it was hard. Before, they had avoided contact with other people, now there was no point, but they still avoided them. Buying basics was planned out like a drop run. They observed, cataloged, mapped it out and then executed it. They hid from everyone, went out only at night, suspicious of all. Slowly they broke this habit. Deckard's genetic alterations had affected his judgment and his thinking. He slowly brought Channelle and himself out of their old patterns. Hatred, hatred for what they had done to him, grew. Deckard cursed them and decided to break out of the habits they had given him, forcefully. Channelle was nervous at first, but Blaine was her commander, her friend, her master in a way, so she followed suit. In time, they learned to live free, so that it was not so hard.

.

"Ah, yes, them," the computer mogul grinned sardonically. "It had to fail; you cannot mix warm blood and cold blood in genetics. At most, they speculated that genes would not combine, but to turn out so horrorific, my God; I remember that Director Stoltz was very disappointed,"

Haining sat down with a fresh round. The party seemed to flow around them like a river of alcohol with garnishes designed by European and Hollywood bigwigs.

LesPaul paused and looked at Haining, then back at Blaine.

"Go on," Blaine nodded.

With a meaningful glance at his old friend, LesPaul went on.

"Yes, the entire concept of cold/warm blood combination was his idea, Stoltz's and Dr. Wouk's. Seemed to think it paramount to the entire ultra-animal project."

Stoltz and Wouk. The big players. At least back then.

"Wouk, he was in on the splicing project? Was he there when the accident happened?

"No, he wasn't there from I what I saw. We were allowed to watch the replays of the video link. The Director was present. Wouk and Stoltz seemed to be collaborating on most everything. Very clever man, Wouk. Came from a small town in Texas, Galveston, or around there. That in itself was strange, because most Texans went back to their "fatherland" as it were, when it declared independence. He was the one that brought Mallos over and proposed that the project go forward with him."

"I thought that Wouk from someplace in Louisiana."

"Yes, that's what he told everyone but a few people. Texicans inspire such suspicion in others, and Wouk wanted to avoid that."

"And he brought Mallos over? What was the deal with him?"

"Yes, Mallos was a strange one. Quite uncomfortable with the whole idea."

"You mean he knew what they had planned to do to him?"

"Correct. He watched the hatching of his counterpart." He took a small drink of the amber liquid that Haining had set before him. "He was the last one allowed to do that. The last one who was made aware of the nature and design of the program."

The music stopped briefly and then wound up again.

"You," he gestured and took a drink. "The others, were all kept in the dark about what was being done and why. Nevertheless, Mallos knew of the program before he defected. _Wanted in_ , so to speak. Always smoking these black cigarettes, even though it was illegal,"

"Did you ever meet the Director of D, Spotta, or the Director of X, Stoltz? In person?"

LesPaul frowned into his drink. "That was always the strangest part of working there, I thought. You see..."

He stopped in mid sentence and looked as if he had forgotten what to say. His eyes grew wide and glassy, his mouth slackened. A bright red stain spread under his coat under the right breast.

Kitka snapped her head in the direction of the large window opposite them, fading from view. Deckard turned his glance at the same time. There was a small hole in the glass, about the size of coin. Haining was the picture of shock, as he looked quickly from his friend to Blaine.

"There's an assassin on your grounds, call an ambulance, and get your security." He then bolted out of his chair and was out of the room.

.

Outside, about fifty meters from the hole in the window, Blaine and Channelle regrouped, found signs of booted feet and followed them. He stripped off his dress jacket and they ran through the woods, dodging branches, leaping over obstacles, following the signs. Grass stamped down, bushes disrupted and broken. Channelle picked up the scent quickly and followed up a large knoll.

They came to a small brook, the water swashing about the rocks, which was under a small cliff. Looking at the trail, the pursuers spotted their target, a small camouflaged figure, still on the cliff wall. Without his heightened perceptions, he never would have spotted the Trigger. With a gesture of his head, the ultra-cat leapt onto jagged rocks to scale after him. Deckard bounded up a hidden slight incline he knew went steeply right up the side. As he got to the top, and looked down, the assassin vaulted up and over and tackled him. He was clad in head to foot in dark green fatigues, with a black balaclava covering his features. Deckard raked the Trigger's eyes and bucked him off and scrambled to his feet. The Trigger had also recovered and closed in to attack. Deckard pivoted and punched him square in the chest with his palm. The man staggered backwards and pulled a knife out of a forearm sheath. He advanced, dagger in reverse grip. Then, grasping behind him, he halted his attack, scrambling to combat his unseen foe.

Deckard clapped him on the temples and following with a chop across the throat. The assailant collapsed. As the Trigger gasped for air, a quick search was made for palm guns, acid packs and other deadly surprises. Satisfied, he placed a knee on the figure's chest and rested all his weight on it.

Channelle deshrouded near the assassin's head, spitting and growling loudly.

The man's gasping became less labored and then stopped.

Startled, Blaine tore the balaclava off his face. Eyes wide open; face frozen in the mask of death. The smell of bitter almonds wafted faintly through the air. Poison. A careful search of his mouth revealed a fake tooth right behind his bottom left canine. It was broken, and a clear liquid was still dripping out of it. Blaine swore at his amateur mistake. He looked at Kitka, whose ears had slid forward. She was regarding him, opened her mouth, and made a statement softly. Nodding, he rose, picked her up and gave the attacker a kick to the sides. Deckard held her across his arms, stroking her head, and walked back to the Haining mansion, thinking.

.

Back on the grounds, the party had broken up for the most part, with a few hangers on. That police had not arrived yet was good. Blaine had retrieved his jacket and managed to look respectable again. He had been expecting to be challenged by Haining's security, but they were nowhere to be seen. The tool used to end LesPauls life was found at the edge of the woods, at the cusp where the finely manicured lawn began. It was a Spass 131A .30 cal caseless rifle with an augmented laser sight and an optical scope.

Blaine put it together like this: The Trigger, always the slang for an unidentified gunman, had bypassed the outer security ring and traversed the woods to the edge. Perching there, he waited for the shot parameter. Once the opportunity presented itself, he vaporized the glass in the path with the modified laser sight, sighted it up, and shot LesPaul, right through the heart, right through the hole in the glass. Trigger would ditch the rifle, then attempt escape. It was a pro job, and if Deckard had not been there, Trigger would have faded into the night with ease.

Deckard had found a spring-loaded grappling hook with a power rewind. That was how he was able to leap over the cliff face. The weapon and the hook were specialized pieces of equipment, but strictly off the shelf, if you knew where to shop. The shot was a difficult one. Trigger probably expected to perch on the grounds all night, perhaps relocating several times. Coincidence that the hit had gone off just as LesPaul was about to hand over the answers. Great timing.

The hole in the glass was smooth around the inside edges, confirming the method of Trigger. While he was examining the hole, he felt a presence at his back. He whirled around to find Haining staring at him.

"Did you get him?"

"Yeah, I got him."

Haining nodded. "Good. Linda is pretty upset. Tracey is upset. Everyone's upset."

"Sorry. I didn't know this would happen."

The businessman looked surprised.

"You think this had something to do with you?" It was genuine.

"Why," Deckard narrowed his brows and bent his head forward. "What do you think caused it?"

"LesPaul's rivals, of course." He seemed incredulous that Blaine would think otherwise. "Attempts have been made before."

"At your parties?"

"Well, not at my parties, not until now, anyway, but three years ago, Bob Sothersby was hit at the Southwester Deb Ball."

"Sothersby?"

"Yes, he was the CEO of Magmatrax Video Enterprises."

This was the type of job the Section would coordinate. The Infowar. It had not ended. The other side had just been crippled enough to make men and women like him unnecessary. It had not ended for the other side. Maybe it would never end.

"I see." Channelle rubbed up against his leg. "I've got to go before the police show up."

"Yeah, I understand."

"Try not to mention my name, unless they press you." He turned to go. "One more thing,"

"Yeah?" Haining look tired and haggard. He needed some sleep and a vacation.

"Fire your security company."

Haining nodded, looking at the ground, hands in pockets. Deckard and Kitka made for the parking lot.

.

Sometime after they had gotten used to seeing others and being seen, the two ex-agents were in a bookstore, looking at magazines, which were in a rack by a rear door. They weren't really were looking at the magazines, but had picked out a citizen at random and were following him, as he ran his errands around the town square. After so many years in the dark, laying in wait for more sinister targets, this was their idea of light entertainment. The subject was male, mid forties, medium height, slightly overweight. He was wearing a gray pin stripped suit, blue shirt, black shoes, and a hat.

The hat looked to be made out of animal fur of some type and was shaped vaguely like an envelope on his rounded skull. Judging from his purchases, he was married, had at least two kids, had an important anniversary coming up, and enjoyed scale modeling and sailboats. It was the hat that drew their interest. Every time Channelle got even slightly close to it, her neck would stretch out, her nose high in the air. After a few seconds of sniffing, she would sneeze three times. She looked so comical when she sneezed, that Deckard could hardly contain his laughter. He would then whisper: "Bless you." To which Kitka would glare at him.

She was going through her sneezes when their subject picked his magazines and went to the register. Blaine hastily grabbed one and followed him. They had yet to learn the subject's name, and if he used a credit card, they could learn it off that. If he used a chit and it was on with the pursuit. Sure enough, his card was slid out. A cursory flick of the eyes and, Aha, Herman Rand! The end of the trail. The end of the chase. Herman paid for his copy of 'Collectables Digest' and wandered out of the store. They stopped outside and sat on a bench. It was a warm day, a breeze bringing cooler air and interesting scents.

Kitka yawned in only the way that cats can. Deckard caught it and yawned too. He then noticed a sign on the lamppost that he'd been looking at without really seeing. It was for a dog and cat show at the city coliseum that very day. Nodding, Blaine jumped up and ran for the train, trying to outpace his companion, but not quite making it.

.

It was a large show, with several different types of animals, not just cats and dogs. The lemur reminded them of Shea, but it did not display any interest in them. The cats were wide and varied. The one that drew the most attention was an Abyssinian male cat named Caesar. He was the largest domestic cat that Blaine had ever seen outside of Channelle. His sand colored coat was dusky and smooth. His kennel had several blue ribbons on it. On their approach, he rose from the ball he'd been rolled up in and stretched.

Eyeing Channelle with interest, he stuck his nose between the bars and they traded nose bumps. Blaine set her down so she could check him out better. He'd received a number of compliments on her and some inquiries on her breeder.

"No, I just found her one morning. She's a mix." He would reply.

He turned around to stare into the eyes of a woman that had been looking at him. She was a tall, slender girl and had short black pageboy style hair. Her figure was thin, almost boyish.

"Nice cat." The girl tilted her head. She looked vaguely oriental and was dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, carried nothing in her pockets and had no purse. She came closer.

"I said 'Nice cat"," She came even closer. She smelled like exotic spice. Ginger, maybe.

"Thank you. So is yours."

She was surprised for a moment, Her rosebud shaped mouth opened for a moment then closed.

"How did you..."

"A guess."

She smiled and put one hand on her hip.

"Well, my name is Monica. Monica Dominetta." She offered up her hand.

"Deckard Blaine." He took her hand and shook it.

Monica walked over to where Kitka and Caesar were being acquainted. She leaned down, cooing in cat talk, stroking Channelle's head and sides.

Apprehensive, he moved to intervene. To his surprise, Channelle began to purr loudly. It drew looks from others. Deckard was impressed with Monica's ability with animals. Usually, Kitka showed her fierce side, before she allowed any familiarity.

"What a sweetheart!" Monica exclaimed.

"Yeah, she's that."

At his voice, Channelle turned over on her back and squirmed on the table.

"Oh, she's just darling." Monica stood up.

"Looks like she likes you," he commented, as Channelle stretched and then ran the side of her face along Monica's thigh.

"Cats and I understand each other very well."

Blaine could feel his heart beginning to thump. He could almost feel his stripes growing darker and he tried to reign in his heart response.

"Yes, I can tell that."

Kitka ran her cheek along Monica's thigh again.

Looking down at his partner, Deckard shook his head slowly.

"Looks like we have to keep you."

Monica opened her mouth in mock scandal, both hands on hips.

Deckard could feel his stripes throb with heat, tension.

Monica laughed in a clear ringing tone.

.

It had been two weeks since the cat show, but Deckard couldn't stop thinking about Monica, who seemed so familiar, even at first glance. They had killed time slowly, almost torturing it to death. She possessed no file of interest. Standard stuff, but it looked flat on the page, giving no hint of what she was really like. He knew her height, weight, address, etc, etc, etc. He longed to know more. What exact color of brown her eyes were, for example. Was she ticklish? What type of books did she read? What was her favorite color? Food? Movie? What the hell was happening to him? Was he in heat or something? They had made some more small talk at the show and then she had been called away to the judges table and he and Kitka had left.

As he pondered, Channelle began to strip wood off the front door. Perplexed, he opened it and she went out. Following her, she lifted her nose high and began to trot along the sidewalk, turning her head this way and that. She turned at the end of the block and he had to almost run to keep up. Then she caught the scent she had been searching for and took off running. Part Cheetah, she could obtain high speeds easily, and Blaine had to bolt to keep her in sight. He ran after her through neighborhoods and streets. They ended up in front of a small house, not unlike his own. Channelle was pacing up and down, meowing, almost howling, loudly. Before he could get to her, the door opened. Monica Dominetta stood there, hands on hips, mouth opened in mock scandal.

.

Inside, her small hands ran themselves down his back, as they embraced in a lingering kiss. Channelle lazed along the floor, as Caesar groomed her face, purring, his eyes almost closed. Monica began to undo Blaine's shirt, but he stopped her. She looked up at him.

"There's scars....and er, tattoos. It's not, uh," He said breathlessly.

She merely smiled and undid his shirt anyway. His stripes were as dark as they got, as his heart pounded in his chest. Monica traced them along his chest, his stomach, and lower. She halted at each scar and kissed it. As she did, he could almost remember how he got them: two bullet holes in his left arm, one in his chest, the knife slashes and stabs on his back and stomach and right shoulder, rope burns, the wounds made by falls from buildings, trees, through windows. She stood up, and took a step back. He was naked before her. No one but the Section medical staff had ever seen him this way. Deckard had never felt so defenseless, even through he had his claws, and super enhanced constitution, reflexes, structure and his experienced and highly trained Ultra Cat in the same room. Monica looked him up and down and smiled. Deckard was motionless. She began to slip out of her clothes. Her skin was smooth and olive colored and firm. Her toenails were painted the same dark purple that her fingernails were. Monica had no bra, only white panties with small red hearts all over it. She took his hands and wrapped him around her. Deckard could taste her breath, which was like a dark red wine.

"I..." He began.

"Shhhhh."

Deckard was gently pushed down to the rug, her following him, kissing him, her skin hot against his.

Monica cried out softly when she slipped onto him. She smothered him with herself, as she gently rose up and down. Blaine grew drunk on her breath, her skin, and her touch. Her nails raked across his chest, and he hissed out, arching backwards. His claws extended and found purchase in the thick rug they were on. He began to lose touch with reality, as things went faster and faster. There was no floor underneath him, no roof above. Vertigo grasped him and spun his senses like a top. There was nothing in the universe, except Monica, him and their passion. Time seemed to speed up and images assaulted him. He saw the background roll past jungles, cities, buildings, and deserts. Monica sang out a word that had no meaning except to him and her. There was a rumble of thunder in his ears and lightening cracked above him. She collapsed on his chest, panting, drenched in the effort.

"Mmmmmmmm," her arms folded themselves around his neck, as he lay there, nearly in shock, letting reality slip back slowly into place.

.

Things began to make a little more sense to Deckard Blaine after that. His grasp on life was a little easier, his perception more fluid. Channelle, perceiving his calm, was also calm. Monica breezed into their life and breathed color into them. She stopped by to drag them to antique stores, get ice cream or with a new movie disc. Curious about their past, but never prying, Monica became their confidant and accessory after the fact. It was she that came calling on the door the morning after the midwinter ball.

Blaine was flicking through images of known hit men that fit the profile of the trigger of last night. He stopped at one, then another. Monica crept up behind him and was about to place her hands over his eyes.

"Hello, Monica," Deck said, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"You're no fun," an exasperated sigh.

Grinning slightly, he flipped to another image and dossier.

She pulled up a chair, flipped it backwards and sat down. She was used to his moments of concentration.

"How did you know it was me?"

He pointed at the security display above his desk. It showed eight different camera angles around his house.

"Aha, a paranoid,"

"Yyesss," He stopped at one file. This was the one. He had made the ID. Dark crew cut hair, thick eyebrows, and deep-set, soulless eyes, thick jaw, unmistakably the Trigger. Blaine nodded grimly.

"Oh, cutie!" She leaned closer. "Whose he?"

"A used car dealer. He made a particularly bad deal last night at the Haining estate. His last, I fear."

"Hmmmmmm." Monica tried to sound interested, but he knew she would rather be watching butterflies or something like that. She had no head for the business, which suited him just fine.

"Did you catch the news this morning?" He turned to her.

A shake of the head, grave dark eyes twinkling at him.

Figures. "Good." He kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Is it important?"

"No, not to you and me, anyway," Book marking the file, he closed the program and powered off the cradle.

"Channelle?" An inquisitive eyebrow.

He looked up. Channelle lounged on a shelf that was high on the wall.

She was upside down, watching them. Monica put her hands on his waist and drew him closer.

"What was _that_ all about anyway?"

"You don't want to know, trust me."

"Are you in any kind of trouble?" She bit her upper lip. "Last night? Are you hurt again?"

"The only kind of trouble I run into around here is **you**."

He tickled her suddenly. Giggling and screaming. Something discovered.

.

Sometime later, as they lay together, she stirred and murmured.

"Huh?"

"'I said I was going to miss you,"

Silence. Monica leaned up on an elbow.

"You're going away, aren't you?"

Silence.

"Well, I'm going to miss you."

"I'm not staying away,"

Silence.

"I just have this drop to make, and," He stopped with his use of old words. Before he could begin again, she put a slender finger to his lips.

"I know you do. You have this _thing_ and it's like the other things that you have had to do. All those scars. You've had a lot close ones, haven't you?"

He could do nothing but nod. He was naked before her, like when they met. This time it was his soul.

"Well, I'm going to miss you." A pause.

There was a throaty sound from the foot of the bed. Channelle was curled up on one corner.

.

After Declaration Day, Texas was ready to stand on its own. It had its oil fields, industry, meat packing plants, farms, cities, beaches, businesses, politicians, army, navy, police and citizens. It also had organized crime. It this case, it was not the La Cosa Nostra, or the Yakuza, or any of the other oft mentioned names, real or imagined, in law annuals, but a new consortium, known as the Triumvirate, but those that referred to it, and that was not often, called it the Texas Tri. The Tri had members in all occupations. They had struck a bargain with the Texan government. If allowed to operate in peace, they would keep crime under control. A certain number of innocents might be affected, but on the whole, the majority would be left alone.

The state gambling casinos would be run fairly, to a point, to launder money. The illegal aliens would be run out of that state, or killed; to make sure crimes committed would profit the Tri. The Longshoreman union would provide fair wages, benefits, and hours to insure that contraband was delivered. The criminal underworld would be policed by the Tri. Any crime was carefully controlled. Average people were safe from outright murder and rape, but maybe not from break-in or muggings. Insurance was made mandatory for home and autos. The insurance agencies were Triumvirate controlled. The shipping companies were Triumvirate controlled. Everything was Triumvirate controlled, hand in hand with the Texican government, but not too much, not too little.

# Chapter Seven

A little digging at the source shone out the details of the project that created Ultra Team One-Seven. It seemed to be a crucial step in understanding the theft of the pulse cannon plans. Channelle and Deckard nipped over to the 'The Meadows' and broke in. The pressure plates, laser eyes, motion sensors, and the rest of it were old hat to him. Not only was he familiar with these devices and more like them, but also he knew where these particular ones were placed and their timing.

In the file vaults, they found all their yesterdays. Channelle hopped into the open drawer and nestled down, as Deckard set to record everything of interest with his MIL files of the ultra teams, files of the animals and men that had been used, the dead and the alive were all duplicated. His own file came up. He hesitated, and then opened it. He was not sure he wanted to look that deeply into his own guts. He opened it up to the first page. Words.

Blaine flipped quickly past some photos of him on the op table, his gut wrenching in reflex. Some prenatal x-rays of a cat. Words. Then a photo of him with Kitka on his chest. His eyes were shrunken, black. He was swaddled in bandages. It was the first day they'd met. He smiled, closed the file and stuck it in his pouch. He had no desire to have anyone else look at his and her file again, ever.

Hissing a high tone twice, he closed the cabinet and Channelle ran ahead of him, her tail twitching. On the grounds, they had to wait for one sentry to finish a cigarette before making his beat. Smirking at her incompetence, Channelle and Deckard made their way to the fence and leapt over.

.

A theory: Trigger was in fact hired by Haining's competitors and had nothing to do with the Habakkuk II or the pulse cannon or whatever it was. Another: Trigger was in fief with the mind behind the pulse engine. He was dead now and would be providing limited information. Still another: Trigger was contracted by the Habakkuk thief or thieves. He was dead now and would be providing _no_ information at all. The pouch obtained from Section X was spread all over the floor. Blaine had lost his focus on it and was staring languidly at the screen depicting Louis Tuscarora, the Trigger.

Tuscarora was born in Galveston, Texas, a notorious den of organized crime, drug runners, bootleggers, smugglers, and pirates. At the age of seventeen, he joined the Texas Guard, a state run militia. He specialized in underwater assaults, demolition, and long-range target acquisition and termination. He was reported missing at sea in an assault against an oil platform that had been converted into a base of operations by brigands. They had been pirating small vessels and cargo ships from there and it was determined that they had to be stopped.

Operation Asgard had been a qualified success. The marauders had been captured or killed, most of the stolen booty had been recovered and only three guards had been killed. Tuscarora was the only body they had not been able to recover. According to the report, he had been blown overboard when a concussion grenade had gone off prematurely. Tuscarora was presumed drowned and given a hero's funeral at sea.

Cooperation between Texas and everywhere else was slim to none. The small amount that he'd been able to chase down was courtesy of a foreign news service. They'd gotten the story because the oil platform was in just inside of international waters. The Texas Guard was ordered to cooperate with them, as far as the story went. Deck and Kitka have to go and check it out in person. Things began to point at the Lone Star State in a big way now. Wouk was from Texas. Tuscarora was from Texas. The Texas Triumvirate held the gate open wide for anything that might come in through the third coast. That's where the Russian came in after his defection. Tuscarora might have provided some information after all.

Deck glanced down to see Kitka digging up the carpet with slow kneads. She glared up at him, with amusement, as if to say: "What _else_ would I be doing?" He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. They'd have to wetback into the Lone Star state, then have to skip through the boarder patrols, wet and dry, dance around the Texas Highway patrol, the Texas State troopers, the Texas Rangers, and the Texas Guard. After this, face a population hostile to outsiders, who they were very good at spotting, and finally the Texas Tri.

.

The first step was to get there. Deck picked an insertion point into Texas distant from major roads or harbors. He gathered his equipment and put in his rucksack. He put that into another, more average looking backpack. They boarded a bullet train that was bound for Wichita, Kansas. The rail passed close to the panhandle border. His items included: 2 wrist rockets with their various projectile modules, ammo, a MIL, relevant files, a pick kit, some fake Ids and credit chits.

When they got close enough, they would jump the train and cross the northern most tip of the Texas gulf. From there, they would make their way across the state and into Galveston. Once there, they would start making life uncomfortable for a select few until they got the information.

Deck dressed in the typical Colorado style for the train. Hiking boots with red laces, pressed and cuffed jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt and green ski vest. In his backpack were all the other items that he might need; he would only call attention to himself dressed any other way. Kitka's diamond choker was replaced with an plain, black leather one with small yellow tag that indicated who she belonged to and that all of her shots were up to date. Rail officials required that animals were either transported in cages, or held. Kitka was quieter and more well behaved than other animals or humans for that matter, so in first class, they wouldn't be bothered. At the station, others boarded the train, all clad in similar style as he. So thus prepared, they boarded the Bullet train _Javelin_.

.

Deck was shaken awake by rattling of the window that he sat next to. The train was slowing down. Looking over, he saw Kitka curled up, sound asleep. He stretched and looked around the cabin. Their compartment had overhead racks for luggage, room for six, a water fountain, a porter button, and a frosted glass door that afforded moderate privacy. In first class, all the booths were private, but in third, they were only seats in rows of two on both sides of the isle. The train was at a full stop now. Deck pushed the porter button.

"At your service!" Came a young male voice over the intercom.

"Yeah, I'd like a bottle of soda and some peanuts, if you have any, also: why is the train stopped?"

"I can get those for you, sure, sir, and as to why the train is stopped, I could only guess that some kids probably poured some Iron bugs onto the tracks. A sort of a prank, I guess."

"Iron bugs?"

"Yes, sir, bugs that come in a bottle that eat away metal. Developed during the Unrest, I think. Anyhow, you can get them through certain mail order places now. We have the equipment to fix it. We should be moving any time now."

"Oh. Well, thanks."

"Glad to be of service, sir."

The Unrest. That's what the rest of the world called the Info and Corp wars. Iron bugs. A development of the Section. Deck had even met the guy who invented them. At a target, seemingly ages ago. The bugs, in actuality microscopic robots, were hermetically sealed in a small packet. They were created for agents to escape imprisonment. The bugs were able to "eat" something like 2000 times its own weight in metal and other material before shutting down.

A standard packet held about twenty, enough to eat through locks, hinges, and the like. A packet, was about half the size of an old postage stamp, was small enough to hide in the heel of a shoe, under a hairpiece or watch, or in the more delicate places about the body. Soon, agents found other uses for them. For instance, a small cut could be made in a hardwire communication line, then the bugs poured in. With just one packet, about a quarter of a mile could be destroyed.

The plastic insulated covering was untouched, making it look normal. Technicians found it almost impossible to locate the break without painstaking and time consuming scanning. In that amount of time, an agent could do his work and be far away by the time repairs could be made. Not just communication cables either, but monorail tracks, coaxial cables, silver optical cables, the uses were limitless. Soon agents were requesting ten or fifteen packets for each mission.

The primary users of the iron bugs were not the ultra teams, but a unit of saboteurs, provocateurs and troublemakers known as the 5X5ers. The unit was a part of Section X, but given more rein in their operations. One such man in 5X5 was "Black" Jack McKrakken, a professional menace to society. Before the war, he was jailed twice on such accusations.

One involved a telemarketing machine that was able to break through phone calls already in progress, phones that were off the hook, and emergency phone lines, even MIL lines. The product it was selling? Telemarketing machines. While in jail, he still managed to create mischief through his lawyer, who was an ambassador from Albania, and so had diplomatic immunity. His second term in jail was highlighted by a prison riot sparked by the incessant playing of "pop goes the weasel" over the prison loudspeakers.

Blackjack was recruited by the Section and the founding member of 5X5. Every member of 5X5 operated with complete independence and deniability. They were given a brief amount of training by Blackjack then enough rope to hang themselves. The missions that they ran were referred to as "gags". Sometimes they operated in packs, more often alone, occasionally in pairs. The Section provided them with funds as long as their work proved to be satisfactory. The one rule that they had to obey was that regular missions had the right-of-way. If any 5X5er was running a gag and regular Section team or teams showed up, 5X5ers were to halt operations until the other Section team had left. This rule was not always obeyed, as the 5X5ers hardly ever exposed their presence to anyone. Rank was achieved through a precise pecking order. Blackjack recruited most of the 5X5ers himself and ran his unit like a contest of one-up.

It was he, using over five thousand packets of Iron bugs, that wrote "Godzilla Rules" in letters large enough to see a mile away in the side of the Mitsubishi building. The packets were designed to melt in the sun, and McKrakken spent an entire night arranging the packets with a set of industrial suction cup climbers and silicon glue. The Mitsubishi building was in the middle of downtown Tokyo, and when the incident happened, the company's president and vice president both committed suicide over the embarrassment.

McKrakken, who was reportedly on top of a building directly across from Mitsubishi when the packets dissolved to observe his handiwork, was said to be disappointed. He said that he was hoping that he had used enough bugs so that the moment the message was complete; the building would be weakened to the point of collapse. McKrakken had prepared an amplified recording of a Godzilla roar for when it happened, but was so dismayed that he left without activating it.

Years later, a small child discovered the device abandoned by McKrakken and activated it, which sounded through the downtown area, causing a number of car pile ups, and general panic during which several buildings were set afire.

Deck and Kitka had met McKrakken later outside a target. McKrakken was planning to enter a Villa estate to set up a number of booby traps on the grounds and inside the house. Among them was bottle of eye drops full of a neutral saline and a potent hallucinogen, the pride of Blackjack's night of work. It was well known that the particular board member, of whose villa they were outside, made use of eye drops before big meetings. Blackjack hoped to give him more than a case of clear eyes. McKrakken refused to give right-of-way until Deckard filled him in on his own mission. McKrakken waited until One-Seven made their pickup before wreaking his havoc.

It was undoubtedly Blackjack who was selling the Iron bugs through the mail. Revenge was his specialty, he was un-discriminating on whom it was wreaked on. Most of his work was in the forms of annoying and dangerous pranks. It seemed he was now spreading his legacy through mail order.

Deck smiled at the memory of a small hyperactive man in fatigues, his face painted like a grinning jack o' lantern in camo paint, waiting impatiently.

They drank the water and Deck ate the peanuts, but Kitka was content to bat them around on the wooden floor. Fifty miles later, the train hit another patch of eaten track and Ultra team One-Seven slipped off the train and headed towards the Texas Gulf. An uninterrupted fifteen miles and they were on the shore. On the other side, barely discernable, was Texas. Night had slowly fallen and the two stood there in the moonlight, as the waves softly hit and the crickets chirped. Wondering how to get across, Deckard heard the faint chug of a boat motor sounded over the expanse, and he crouched into the long strands of grass and fronds.

A small boat, maybe sixteen feet, pulled into view. He drew out a monocular and scoped it out. There was a light inside the cabin, but no one on deck. The course was straight and steady. Deckard strapped his gear on tighter and took off his climbing boots. With a slight sound to his partner, he slipped off into the water and the two made their way towards the craft.

The water was cold and muddy. Kitka went quickly towards the boat, her ears pressed against her head. She was already on board by the time that he made it there. Once there, she shrouded. He hung on to the railing, carefully listening. Deck heaved onto the boat, glanced about and activated the vid pickup on his watch. Kitka was in the cabin, which was amazingly spartan. A few chairs around one table. Cabinets. Stairs. In the engine hold was a large metal container with several tubes dripping out of it. The camera suddenly jarred, and Deck grew tense. He drew out his guns and was on the verge of going into the cabin, when Kitka came out of it and up to him. In her mouth, by the tail was a small field mouse, struggling like mad. She sat, looking pleased, her eyes glowing faintly.

"Thank you," he mouthed irately to her, retracting his weapons. Only one of them was a gun, the other was a grappling hook, but still could be deadly at short ranges.

Kitka dropped the mouse, which scampered off. The two of them made their way around topside. Empty. The cockpit was surprisingly state of the art and completely computer controlled. Curious. Down to the engine hold. There, Deckard examined the metal container. It was roughly his height, but twice as wide. It gave off a strong odor of sour mash. Below the container was a heat coil. It was a still. Behind the container was a small closet of bottling supplies. Of course, it was a night crawler. The laws of the republic decreed that all whiskey be cleared through the Texas Alcohol Control Board. Besides strictly adhering to several regulations, the TACB officials were corrupt and the "fee" for getting their approval was high. Distillers put their equipment aboard small ships like this one. The middle of the gulf was technically out of jurisdiction for authorities.

They would set up the stills, put on the computer controls and send it up the gulf. When it returned to the point of origin, the whiskey would be bottled and sold under the noses of the TACB. These boats were called night crawlers. Periodically the TACB would kick up enough fuss as to get the coast guard to board the boats and confiscate them. They would later be sold at auction. The stills were sold as "curiosities". With a few well placed bribes, or on the word of a connected friend or relative, a bootlegger could get all his equipment back in one piece for cheap and set back up. Anybody found on these boats faced a stiff fine and prison sentence.

With a little luck, Deck and Kitka could ride most of the way in peace, barring raids from the Coast Guard. Sitting at one of the chairs, Deck emptied his gear on the table and checked them for water damage. Kitka curled up on a burlap sack that was in the corner and watched him. The boat chugged on through the night.

.

They stayed on the night crawler for two days and two nights. One the third night, they began nearing the mouth of the gulf. The embankments, which had only sported the random dock, or half deserted houseboat, now showed signs of life. The docks were larger and wider with colored lights softly glowing. Structures expanded out onto the water with neon signs fixed to their roofs or sides. Too far away to hear anything, Deck imagined people laughing and talking over the din of music and silverware and plates. A band might be playing Dixieland or cool jazz. Women in elegant satins and silk, topped by minks and diamonds. Men would be wearing dinner jackets, ties, and vests. Cigars and cigarettes would be lit and gestured with. The staff would labor over their work in clean white garments and hats. That's where the rich would go, or the affluent, or those striving to be. Disagreements would be mild or at worst, spirited. Teeth would be shown in wide smiles, understanding expressions.

Further down, similar places, maybe more ritzy, maybe less. At the beer and gin joints, the music might be Country and Western or hard rock, but the customers would be rougher, maybe more honest. Come from the docks, or on the river itself, they would be in their work attire. In these places, a wrong word or glance might end in a pulled pistol or a drawn knife. Blood would splatter on the floor and drain into the pores in the wood.

It would be in these places that Deckard would be asking his questions. And what would these questions be?

Have any of you seen a giant snake around here? Hangs out with a Russian guy who smokes black cigarettes? No? How about a short white haired scientist? Invents weapons deadly to world? Well, just tell me how I can hook up with the local Texas Tri connection and I'll be on my way.

Deck kept his head down with looking over the new additions to his landscape (or waterscape) with a small pair of scopes. In addition to being infrared, it displayed the distance, the direction and the wind speed. He had a set of eyeglasses with the same capabilities, but they were less powerful. Kitka roamed the boat with impunity. She had spent her time catching the rats and mice that were around. Saving them for sport, she let them live, but after two days and nights of it, the vermin rarely left their hiding places. Kitka also swam and caught fish. She had been designed and bred to survive in all kinds of environments and used her various talents at every given opportunity. She was, in short, a show-off.

A foreboding came over Deckard as he lay there. There was a light fog on the water that grew thicker, as the gaily-bedecked taverns and clubs came closer. A bell sounded twice far down the river. It looked as if the boat were sailing down a river of smoke, and it began rocking from stem to stern. He slid off his perch and went into the cabin to get his equipment.

The fire under the still gave off a popping sound as it suddenly went off. The sound startled him and he reached for his pack. Then his head swam in the thick air and he collapsed on the table, breaking it. He was reaching into his bag with his last effort, when his body gave out and he fell into a dark well of unconsciousness.

.

Two years into their service, Ultra One-Seven was called up for assignment. The assignment: Sabotage the Feines Conglomerate mainframe. Captain Blaine and Commander Kitka were called in, given briefing and equipment. Believed to be in a tall tower like building in London, One-Seven was delivered close to the site. Ultra One-Seven made their way through the streets, via subway, and penetrated security.

The Feines Tower was seventeen floors high and a thorough search revealed it vacant of any type of industrial computer mainframes. One-Seven encountered heavy resistance upon their exit attempt. Captain Blaine put forth the theory the mission parameters were fabricated by double agents to set up an ambush. Ultra One-Seven was put in for extensive leave time for hospital care.

That was how the official report read on the worse mission that Deckard and Kitka had ever lived through and ever would live through. The drop was a set up from the instant they entered the tower. From the information given, this was supposed to be a milk run. The Feines Corporation was all accounts, second rate, a dumping ground for second rate technology and information. The Section thought it might be more than it seems, so One-Seven was sent in. The alarm was set off by a security guard who was waiting for them on the second floor, their entry point. He had a remote switch in one hand, a dead man's trigger. In the other hand, he held a light caseless subgun. Ultra One-Seven listened to the high pitch skreel of the gun and the alarm, as rounds splattered around the overturned desk they had taken cover behind. That was the first five minutes. It got worse from there. Bullets swam through the air like hyperactive bees. The guards had also been thoroughly trained in close quarter combat.

In the end, both wrist rocket barrels were melted and warped beyond repair, the Ultracat light reflection collar was fused and useless, and both members of One-Seven had suffered extensive wounds, including the traumatic amputation of three claws, two fingers, and one toe, gunshot wounds through and through to the right and left arm, right thigh, and two left ears. Over twenty two metal silvers had to be removed from the torsos of both team members, in addition to the reattachment/regeneration procedures. Deck relived some of the tenser moments of this failed mission in his favorite nightmares.

.

Visions of microscopic embryos swam in a sea of blackness. They tumbled and frolicked about. Deckard watched them intently for some time. Pain began shooting through his chest and arms. The blackness began to lighten bit by bit. His vision focused and he saw a short, stocky man in baggy pants held up by suspenders and a grubby white oxford shirt. On his head was a gray LBJ hat. He needed a shave and a battered cigar was stuck in one corner of his crooked U of a mouth.

"Come around now, boy?" He stepped closed and blew blue smoke in Deck's face.

Scanning about, he was underground, in a cellar, maybe. The wide concrete walls were damp and had pinup girl posters plastered on them. The room was filled with tables and shelves. These were full of chemistry equipment and books, as well as skin magazines. Several burners were on and tubes and beakers full of foul looking liquid were bubbling softly. Nothing quite deadly looking, but all of unfamiliar. Deck realized he was strapped to an inclined table by his wrists, chest and ankles. The straps were metal bands that were secured by what looked like electronic locks. This _was_ familiar, unfortunately. He had been stripped of all his gear and clothes except for his black shorts.

"Now, boy, you gonna answer some questions," His attention reverted to the man.

"What were you doing on board my crawler?

Deck opened his mouth to answer but was on the receiving end of a potent shock.

"That's what you get when I think that yer lyin'." He chewed on his cigar. "Now what were you doin' on mah crawler?" His voice was getting louder.

"For Pete's sake, Stubby, give the guy some water. The gas always leaves 'em dry."

A bucket of water hit Deck in the face. He sputtered and managed to get some of it in his mouth. He was now alert.

"Answer!" Stubby got his shocker ready.

Out of the corner of his eye, Deckard caught a blur in the background.

Too slow. The shock came. Stubby must have been used to dealing with victims with a lower threshold of pain.

"You can take a lot, can't ya, boy?" Stubby poked at arms and chest with his fat finger. "These look like muscle implants," This caused considerable mirth. "You a movie star, boy?" Laughter from both men.

"Maybe he's doin' research for his next role, " The other man commented. Even more laughter.

"Well, " Deck began. Then whispered.

"What?" The piggy eyes glared out.

Deck whispered again.

"Speak up, man!" Stubby inched closer, his hand clutching his shocker.

"If I speak louder, it'll spoil the whole thing." Deck nodded, and then closed his eyes.

His inquisitor put his face right in Deck's, lifting his chin with the implement.

"YOU. SPEAK. UP." Each word brought the stench of old smoke fermenting in rotted lungs.

There was a crash and one of the tables launched upward, sending its contents screaming to the floor. Stubby turned and then fell backwards, his head striking the floor with a wet thud. His breath flew out like a soggy glob of phlegm. Deck swung his head about in time to see man #2 swing up out of his slouch, exclaiming profanities. His head spun about violently and he began to gasp for air, hands on his throat. Blood trickled between his fingers and he fell to his knees, then forward. The red slickness spread silently, quickly in a kidney shaped pool around his head.

Deckard blew out the breath he was holding, as Kitka formed before his eyes. The table she was on was the one closest to the rear of the room, near the door. On this table was a lectern of black plastic. Kitka began licking her claws vigorously.

"Kitka," He said expectantly. She ignored him.

"Channelle!" He shouted as loud as he could whisper.

She stopped and glared at him, as she put her paw down on the lectern. There was a heavy clack and the locks on the straps opened. He was free.

.

Stubby opened his eyes slowly and was upside down. He remembered nothing for a fraction, and then it came back as Deckard came into focus.

"Good morning, Stubby. Where's my gear and where are we?"

"My name is Sam,"

"Okay. Sam. Where?"

"In Moxa."

"Where?"

"'Bout 15 miles outside of Galvez town."

Sam licked his lips and tried to think. His hands and feet were bound. He was on the same table he had had the stranger restrained. The table rose slightly and he was vertical. A large furry beast landed on the table just outside his vision. He could feel the tail lashing back and forth striking his head.

"Gear." Deckard loomed over him as he slipped back into his black shirt.

"It's on the table upstairs."

"Guarded."

"What?" Sam was sweating and not because he was fat either.

His head jarred, as Deck had just smacked the top of it.

"Outside. It's guarded by...." his voice was louder and irritated.

"No, no one, I swear!"

"It's locked?" Mystified.

"No."

"Tripped?"

"What?"

Another blow. Kitka crawled over him, and began kneading her claws on his crotch.

"There are alarms. How many? Where are they? Stop screwing around here, before I get mad!"

"No! There are none! There's nothing! Think this is Fort Knox? We're just bootleggers."

Silence. A sharp pain in his tenderest of areas.

"Ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh," He mumured.

"What?"

"Please." His eyes flicked towards the affected spot. "Please."

"Kitka."

The subtle weight moved off of him and appeared in the corner of his vision.

"Why was the night crawler rigged? Why detain us?"

"That crawler was done with its brew. Ready to be shipped. It was rigged to keep winos and other leggers off it." He licked his lips. "Usually when we find someone aboard, we rough 'em up and throw 'em in the drink."

He paused. Nothing happened. "When we found you, with all that fancy stuff, we thought you might be TACB or something. We brought you back here to find out."

Deck nodded. He might be reading too much into this.

He hissed between his teeth twice and thumbed towards the door. Kitka shrouded. He eased towards the door and opened it slightly and he felt Kitka slip out. Pausing, and listening intently, he heard no sounds of mayhem or chaos.

Deckard went through the door and up a flight of concrete stairs to a small room that was done in early alcoholic junk heap. A metal table near the door held his pack and gear. It was spread out all over, everything out of its case or holster. Deck clicked his tongue in irritation and began sort it out, and put it on or put in his bag or vest. Outside was dark and warm, with crickets and frogs keeping the tempo. Moxa was outside of Galvez town, what might be Galveston. Kitka rubbed up against his legs while he worked. A step in the right direction, he didn't know, but it was the step they were going to make.

# Chapter Eight

It was four months into training for team. They had still not come to reach the meshing point. Channelle Kitka was the name that Blaine had given his animal, or Secondary. She was only responding to his commands half the time. Growing at an amazing rate, her abilities were astounding. Blaine, on the other hand, was becoming disorientated, irritable and unstable. His eating habits were irregular, as were his sleep patterns. A scaffolding was constructed to put the team through some rudimentary paces. The team, at first code named Echo, then renamed Ultra Seven. Blaine was referred to as Ultra Seven One. Kitka Was referred to as Ultra Seven Two.

Ultra Seven One was having problems with the exercise from the beginning. He claimed to be afraid of heights, and not comfortable with Ultra Seven Two so close while he climbed. The scaffolding was purposely constructed so that in order to get from platform to platform, several leaps were required. At every platform, a monitor was placed to take notes and observations. The monitors were employees rather than vid links. Dr. Sorvino and Hancock preferred human input on the spot rather than video dissection later.

Despite the trouble that Ultra Seven One was having with the exercise, he gradually got more adept at it, mostly in part to the implants and hypno therapy. Thus, the next stage was decided upon. Obstacles were put in place, broken glass, greased poles, small vats of oil set afire, and others were put into place. A run was conducted, with no time restraints. Ultra Seven One climbed and scaled, leapt and landed, with Ultra Seven Two in front and sometimes behind.

If he took too long at any given part, she would rush ahead, lag behind, or simply sit down and groom herself. When he got to the first vat of fire on the seventh platform, he stopped and just looked at it. The monitor reported that his breathing was labored and that he was flushed and sweating.

"Four minutes." The monitor said into a headset.

Slowly, Ultra Seven One looked up at the monitor. His eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. With one fluid movement, he seized the monitor by the coat, tore off the headset and flung him around. With the aid of his enhanced muscle structure, he was easy for him to hold him over the edge, seven stories high.

"ENOUGH!" He bellowed. He was breathing through clenched teeth and foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog. His pupils were almost totally dilated. His tongue rasped around his lips several times.

"Get this out of my head!" He held his prisoner higher and shook him like a rag doll. "Out of my head!"

"I'll drop this, if I don't get some quiet!" Ultra Seven One turned and kicked the oil vat over the side. The flames splattered all over the platform and sides.

He shut his eyes hard, broke out into a musky sweat, his face turned red. He was almost panting. "The screaming in my head!" His eyes opened and darted about manically.

Yells of anger and pain. The flames got higher. A moment in time was frozen. No one could explain what had happened. The condition was something Seven One had never exhibited before. They were dumbfounded. The monitors hit the panic buttons. Security was on the way. Would it be in time? Who would die now? Just the subjects, or would the monitors die too? How many of the guards would get here in time to be victims? The silence was pierced by the pulsing warning siren, the crackle of the fire and Seven One's labored breathing.

Then as suddenly as Ultra Seven One had freaked out, he seemed to calm. His breathing became almost normal, but his gaze was far away, as if he were listening to a voice that only he could hear.

"Mreow." A small voice by his ankle.

"Moow." Again.

"Mereooow."

He looked down. Ultra Seven Two had stood up on her hind legs and placed both fore paws on his thigh, with one paw up, as if gesturing at him. Her clear yellow eyes were looking up at him in total frankness. Understanding. Honesty. Love. He turned his head, as he was held completely in her gaze. Both ears were angled towards him. Her entire attention was focused on him.

The observation team quickly grasped the situation and slapped off the alarm. They radioed the guards to make a subdued entrance. There was a chance to salvage this, yet.

The blood began to pound less furiously in his head, less and less. The minutes the two were looking at one another, gave the observation team time to hustle up the scaffolding to put out the flames. The guards slipped in and went up the scaffold, weapons pointed. Two of them gently relieved Ultra Seven-One of his prisoner. He never looked up from Kitka, not registering their presence. Lowering his hand, he stroked the underside of her chin. She began to purr loudly and he sat down. Kitka curled up in his lap, taking up all of it and then some.

The two then dropped off to sleep for three hours right on the spot. When they awoke, yawning and stretching lazily, the program was executed in perfect form. From that moment on, they were Ultra One-Seven, executing the exercises with precision and speed, surmounting all obstacles with ease and flair. The training was completed sooner than expected and Ultra One-Seven was activated. They were never referred to again as Ultra Seven One and Ultra Seven Two. They were always Ultra One-Seven. They were one. Deck and Kitka had completed the bond between them. They developed a private system of communication. Before they were examined by the medical staff separately, ate separately, sometimes slept separately, but now they were never apart.

Some months after the scaffolding incident, an examiner discovered the reason behind it through subtle methods. The treatments that had left Deckard Blaine augmented, caused all of his senses to be hyped up. His hearing, normal before, could now pick up sounds that he couldn't before. He was having trouble sleeping and concentrating. This was unexpected and these sounds drove him to distraction, then finally to near madness. It was only the calming presence of the Ultracat that had saved the project from another disaster. Word came down from the top that Ultra One-Seven was to be given leeway on the training and mission schedules. After a number of failures and only one success previously, the project leaders were anxious to have another. Ultra One-Seven was to be treated with kid gloves, but it was no longer necessary. They were ready to perform any task that was given them.

.

Deck and Kitka strolled down the dark gravel road with ease. There was no moon and the sky was cloudy. The gravel crunched under Deck's feet with a snappy rhythm. Kitka paced by him, occasionally leaping after some small unsuspecting animal that foraged by the road. Early after their rotation out, Deckard attempted to stop her from nailing everything that flew, crawled or walked.

Deckard was getting tired of cleaning out the bed and sofa of her numerous "gifts". She wouldn't relent, so he persuaded her to deposit them in a basket in the back room, that he would empty out, after minutes of praise and treats, of course. After all, he didn't want to inhibit her hunting instinct.

The gravel road let way to a paved road and the bright lights of Galvez lay ahead. Here, with the oil fields and access to the gulf, ground cars were far more common. A flatbed truck loaded down with hay bore down on them, headlights glaring. A sidestep, a dash for the truck, and a jump provided them with a comfortable, if scratchy, ride into town, the driver unaware. Deckard changed from his creeper to jeans, ropers, T-shirt, and cap. He fastened a Texas pet tag onto Kitka's collar.

Texans were found of taking their dogs with them to stores, bars, and restaurants, and they were allowed under the law, but tags were required. A man and a cat wouldn't be as noticeable here in the Lone Star as other places. Particularly if that cat looked like a wild animal tamed off some ranch. The black sky zipped along above them. Ten more minutes and they would be in town, time enough for a quick nap.

The truck squeaked to a slow stop and waking Deckard, who woke Kitka. They were outside the main strip, the Strand. Deck remembered it as a cobbled stone street full of "quaint" little shops. Every year, they did a sort of street festival at Christmas, he recalled. They bailed out and stood on the corner, watching the natives. Cars, trucks, and vans of all types slid by. Some looked as if they had been made out of spare parts or forced together from separate models. A slick looking motorbike group slid by, their engines burbling noisily. Several people were on foot as well. He drew a lot of looks.

Deckard could see why. Every person that walked past was clad almost completely in black, even his or her hair. They were decked out in black shirts, pants, vests, shirts, dresses, boots, shoes, sandals, coats, cloaks, capes, jackets and ties. Their hair was long, cropped, shaved, pointed, spiked, mohawked, landsharked, trihawked, and swept over. Deckard drew a deep breath and turned towards where he hoped there might be a back alley.

Clearly, Galveston had changed more than its name.

In the alley, Kitka rubbed up against his leg in sympathy, as he donned his creeper once more. That would pass well enough. He had fit one of his wrist rockets with a 10mm slug thrower, the other with the grappler. Slicking back his hair once more and stuffing his misbegotten disguise back in his pack, he again went out into the light. It would do but he wondered if he should have put some blackout under his eyes. Heavy eye makeup seemed to be the trend with both males and females.

As the Strand neared, foot traffic increased and car traffic decreased. The quaint little shops had been replaced with nightclubs, tattoo studios, dance halls, pool parlors and the like. Windows boasted all types of chains, bracelets, earrings, nose rings, lip rings, T-shirts with band names with gory pictures, posters, records, and "alternative" garments of all makes.

Deckard stopped to watch a woman with an immense sweeping mohawk pierce a man's lower appendage with a silver spike with two steel balls on either end. The man, a medium sized fellow in all respects, was sweating and seemed to be gritting his teeth. Kitka leapt into Deck's arms and rested her head on his cheek, as he stroked her tail. Her rumbling purr stopped as the man let out a loud yelp, as the point was driven home.

A mouth guard hit the window with a wet slap that Deckard was looking through. The woman turned to fetch it, saw him and winked one glittery eye. Deckard smirked and turned down the street. The Strand was alive with a low thumping music with low electric chords and distortion. The doors to all the clubs were open, even in the chill of the night, with menacing looking bouncers on both sides. He peered into one, then another. Kitka leapt off and pounced on a large rat in a flash. She carried this prize in her mouth as they walked along.

The bands were like their customers, only more so, as they belted out lyrics of tragic death and love, spurned or otherwise. It would take a month to sort through this mess. He felt like he'd been invited to the gunfight at the O.K. corral and had wound up at Dracula's funeral. He decided to park and observe. They would get the feel of this place then peel back the layers until they found the Texas Tri, or someone with the answers.

Picking a bar at random, he went down a short flight of steps to the large entrance of a cheery little spot name of "Impaler's pointe" The stainless steel letters, large and pointed, were bathed in a red glow. He eyed the bouncers, two large specimens, and walked in. They seemed like they wanted to pat him down, but his stare kept them by the doors. The music was subdued, as well as the customers, and scent of burning cloves hung thickly.

The oblong joint was done in black, naturally, with black lights outlining the floors and various steps and booths. Green and red neon paint had been splattered about and lashed around the floors, walls and ceiling. The end of the bar with a wall at his back is where Deckard finally sat, after giving the place a good casing. Bathrooms in the back, booths up against the wall, opposite the bar, old TVs here and there linked up to run some old B&W horror flick.

He realized the black lights around the ceiling made his stripes stand out. It was shock of panic, which made them stand out even more. Glancing around to see if anyone was staring at him, he relaxed. A number of them were marked with tattoos, brands, and body paint. The bartender waltzed up and looked him over as he pulled over another stool and Kitka settled into it, rat in mouth. The rat, alive still, began to squeak softly, He looked over at her with resignation and then looked to the bartender.

She was clad in a black leather bustier and skirt with small pointed boots with devil skull buckles up the sides.

"Drink with your rat?" She asked bemusedly.

"A saucer of milk would be fine," Deckard replied, massaging his temples with one hand.

"And for the gentleman?"

Looking at the price list above the bar, he shook his head, and then changed his mind.

"A Bloody Mary and a beer, please."

She nodded, smiled and waltzed away under the faint wash of overhead lights. She was a small girl, pale and delicate, made more so by the lighting, or lack thereof. Setting his beer before him, she lifted an eyebrow.

"Anything else?"

Deck looked up and spotted a window above the back sink.

"Does that window open?"

"Yes."

"Would you open it, please?"

"Why?"

Please?"

She shrugged and opened it. With a lightening flash, he nabbed the rat out of Kitka's mouth and tossed it out the window.

"You can close it, now, thank you."

"That's some cat you've got there."

"I wonder who's got who, sometimes."

What's her name?"

"Channelle Kitka. I'm Deckard Blaine."

"I'm Daria Coyote."

"Nice to meet you,"

They shook hands.

"First time in town?" She asked, leaning on her elbows, showing off a modest amount of cleavage.

"I guess."

"Who are you looking for?"

He was surprised. "What makes you think I'm looking for someone?"

"Well," She smirked. "I could say something romantic like 'everyone is looking for someone.' but, the truth is, it's that kinda town."

"Well, I am on the lookout, you got an angle?"

"Everybody winds up here eventually."

This might be easy. "I'm looking for a guy who speaks in an accent and has a snake."

She laughed. "You're gonna have to narrow that down." A sweep of the hand pointed out several tall skinny guys with large snakes draped over their shoulders. "All doing their best Lugosi too."

Triple damn. Daria was called away to fill some glasses. Kitka lapped up her milk then curled on the bar next to the wall, her head resting on her back feet, as her eyes became mere slits to the world. Deckard sat and watched and waited. There were a number of guys and girls with snakes. No other cats.

One of the other bartenders had a Rottweiler, but Kitka and he just sniffed noses politely and then he went to sleep under one of the tables. Daria swayed back over to him with the rest of his order. Kitka set her front paws on the bar and began to drink. Deck took the celery out of his glass and offered it to her. Rubbing on it first, she took a delicate bite.

Daria lifted her arched eyebrows.

"So," Deckard took a large bite. "Whole town like this?"

She laughed. "No, just central. It's called Cen, as in the seven deadly? Southie is for the dockworkers, West is full of Fishermen, and Eastside, is the nice part of town."

"North?"

"Cowboys."

"Was there a treaty drawn up?"

"No, that just how things are kept."

That sounded like puppet master work somewhere.

"So, whose the keeper?"

Daria gave him a sly look and then walked away to serve someone else.

The music that lay below the din of conversation was full of angst and watchfulness.

Kitka licked her lips and gazed about. So did Deckard.

The crowd was skilled at apathy. Poses were struck, small talk was animated, gestures were flung like daggers, but no one gave them a second glance. He was amused by their rapt inattention.

He got up and pointed at Kitka.

"Stay here."

She lowered her lids slightly and yawned broadly in reply.

He made his way through the crowd to the bathroom and went in one of the stalls. The other one was occupied by pale slender couple in pursuit of the art of passion. He leapt up on top of the toilet tank lightly, and got a very interesting view of a black lace bra being undone by a prosthetic hand. Moving aside one of the acoustic ceiling tiles, he lifted himself up.

Being careful to step on the support beams, he coved a few paces and activated his watch. Kitka was leveling her gaze through the room, giving him a near panoramic view.

"I'm in the ceiling, stay on." Deckard spoke into his watch.

The view centered in on Daria approaching, she bent over to rub Kitka's chin, as her cleavage swelled on the screen.

Clicking his tongue, he covered the building dead ceiling space. Checking what was down below periodically. He stopped and lifted up a tile. An empty room. Sticking his head through space, he put on his specs and flicked on infrared. An office, right across from the bar, behind what sounded like the DJ's booth.

Deckard got back to the bathroom and lowered himself back down. He checked his watch. Everything normal, although the natives were glancing at his spot at the bar now. The boy and girl in the stall next to his were on the edge of advent, to judge by the screaming. Deckard went to the sink, wet his comb down and slicked his hair back. The screaming lost its momentum and subsided into heavy panting.

"If it's a boy, name it after me." He whispered as he left. Weaving around the crowd, he waited for the right moment, and then with a small burst of speed and a pivot, he was back in his stool. Returning the stares of the crowd, as they quickly glanced away.

"Ah, youth," He commented as he downed his drink.

Later, after this place closed, which would be at dawn most likely, he would rifle through the office for information. For now, he would blend, relax, and make plans to infiltrate the other sectors of this corpulent city.

.

It was near dawn, at five, when the place began to clear out. Deckard and Kitka had tired out earlier and decided to camp out on the roof. Deck stretched out and dropped off. Kitka prowled about and then curled up near him. She began to twitch in her sleep when the crowd began to empty the streets. Deck also stirred and looked over the ledge, chin on arms, watching. Finally the place was empty and the bouncers went off down the street. The way cleared, they vaulted over the side, down the stairs. Once there, a sense of danger and they eased off. Deckard put one set of fingertips on the door, closed his eyes and listened. Nothing. Still, instincts were never to be ignored. He signaled and they went around back and through a window. Kitka cloaked and sniffed around, as Deck waited. She scanned about, as he kept watch. The way was clear and Deckard went in. The first thing he checked out was the door. The lock was simple, but it was wired to fire off four shotguns, if picked, or forced open. They left the setup alone and went to the office. Infrared specs on, Deck went through the files and various papers.

Standard office paperwork, really, it turned out that Daria Coyote was part owner with a guy named Starkweather. His name was on all the permits and ownership papers. Only Dario's name was on the inventory forms and suppliers lists. She ran it, but they both owned it. Looking about the office, one wall was covered with photos of bands and customers of affluence or importance with Daria. Only her, not Starkweather. Karl Starkweather. Further examination, revealed several checks made out the Starkweather for enormous amounts.

More than this place was capable of generating. Payoff? Blackmail? Money laundering? Whoever he was, he had to be connected, and as it was, he was the thread to pull and see what would unwind. His watch switched on, his infrared cutting out. Kitka had picked something up. Deck darted out the office door, closed it and froze. Someone was coming in the front door. Daylight streamed in and a woman was silhouetted. It was Daria and she had a pistol raised. Reflexively, Deck's wrist rocket slid into his ready hand.

"Whoever's in here, show yourself, now." She called out hesitantly. "I have a gun,"

He cursed sub-vocally.

She came down a step. Kitka was behind her now. Waiting for the code to attack or to fly.

"Look, I know you're in here, so just come on out." Her gun trained from left to right. Blown. Nothing left but to clear it and find out how. Daria peered into the darkness, her pistol before her, cocked and safety off.

A high-pitched tone, a small flash of light, and a thin wire cable wound around her gun and yanked her suddenly forward. The gun flew out of her hand and she began to fall forward, as a solid weight slammed into her back. Crashing into the ground, her head cracked sharply against the thinly carpeted floor.

Deckard stepped from the darkness, Daria's gun in one hand, and the cable in the other. A slight flick of his wrist and it was retracted. Kitka uncloaked as she sniffed around Daria's hair.

"Is she unconscious?" He said in surprise and knelt down. "Wow."

.

Daria woke up on her office sofa, a wet napkin over her eyes. Her head thumped horrendously. She groaned.

"Here, drink this." A cup was held to her lips.

Steam wafted into her nose, it was peppermint tea.

She sipped and her pain abated. The napkin was removed and Deckard Blaine's face slowly focused.

"What happened? Where's my gun? Dammit! I should've called Zeke and Dave." She lay back.

"I was hanging about, and your door was open, so I came in, and you were on the floor. Your gun was near by." He pause and tried to gauge her face, to see if she bought it.

"Hanging out? Where?"

"On your roof."

"Why?"

"Well, we don't have a place to stay, and your roof looked pretty comfy, so we lit up there and crouched, er, crashed out for a while. We heard the door open up, so we decided to check it out. We came in, and there you were." He tilted his head and watched her expression.

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

"I don't believe it." Tension. "I've never been jumped before. And in my own place." She took her tea that he held out to her and sipped it.

"Well, thanks for looking after me." Daria sat up and put her pale face in two white hands.

"Let me ask you a question." Deckard eased to the edge of the chair.

"Ok,"

"Why did you come back? I mean, did you get an alarm code, a MIL call, what?"

"No, nothing like that, I just got a feeling that someone was here, so..." She let her sentence trail off, as she caressed her injured skull.

Ah. Well, can't account for ESP, Deck reasoned. It had hurt his professional pride that after scores of break ins at hi-tech insulations with loads of ultra modern detection and alarm equipment, that a simple shotgun trapped dive would get them tipped off.

"Well, I checked the place out, and there's no one here, so maybe you want to go back home and rest up before the witching hour, huh?"

Daria stood up woozily and then sat back down.

"I'd better see you home, I think," he took her arm. Kitka had been waiting by the door, and upon seeing them, went out the door. As they reached street level, she was sitting on top of an ancient black convertible, across the street.

"Your car?" Deckard asked politely. Daria nodded as she locked the doors. It was nearly eight now, and life was returning to the Cen. The various stands were being propped open, deliveries were being made, and stores being readied for customers.

Kitka sat impatiently, her tail whipping about.

Deckard handed Daria into the passenger side and then got in, as Kitka settled between them.

Daria began to pet her, but Kitka uttered a low growl.

"Channelle!" Deck rebuked. "She just hungry," He added to Daria.

Kitka widened her eyes and softly hummed.

"Okay, don't pout, just be polite to the lady, she's had a rough morning." Kitka blinked and curled into a ball, her eyes bright, her tail wrapping about Daria's left wrist.

Daria smiled at this, as Deck started up the car and eased into the light morning traffic, the dawn raking the skies with beams of yellow light.

"You talk to her as if she can understand," She remarked.

"Well, we've been together for a long time." His eyes were intent on the road.

"Did it take long to train her?"

Deckard barked out a short laugh, then composed himself.

"About a year, for the, ah, training."

"I get the feeling you two are having joke at my expense!" She smiled ruefully and stuck her arm out the window.

"It's long story." He shook his head, as she indicated a right turn.

.

Her house was a one story, low affair, with a modest yard and garage in an average neighborhood. As she opened the door, two small spiny looking balls scurried over. She knelt and cooed to them. Kitka was very intrigued, as was Deckard. Daria turned her head to look at Deck, as she gathered the two in her arms.

"She won't hurt them, will she?"

"No, she'll be cool." He examined them closer. "What are they?"

"My hedgehogs," She let them down. Kitka approached, and the spines began to expand. She sniffed them both, and then sneezed twice. The two spinny critters scurried off.

"Well, I can get the both of you anything?"

"Yeah, and I have a few questions, if you can answer them."

"About Starkweather, I can assume?"

Astonishment.

He opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again.

"You want to know how I know right?"

He had forgotten her ESP, and said so.

"Well, in this case, it was more of an informed guess." Daria smirked, as she swayed into the kitchen. They followed her. It was small homey affair, a far cry from the spider-webbed crypt that he had been expecting. She stopped at the stove, hands on hips.

"Let's see, stranger in black and a power cat, perched at my place, has no interest in music, alcohol, or girls, has no idea how Galvez is cut up, then asks who's in charge...." She tilted her hips, her pale composure growing slightly pink. "I'm not stupid, you know."

"Okay, I didn't know I was that obvious." Oh, well, blending in with the crowd had never been his forte. "Power cat?" He added.

"We've heard stories about the Corp war, you know, after the boarders were closed, repats came back with stories, about the OSS, about men with power animals that would spy, sabotage, and kill for their masters." Her eyes widened, as her eyes took him in. His stripes had darkened, his hair had began to rise, his whole visage changed from a normal man's to one of an animal about to attack.

"I thought it was just a trick of the light last night, or body paint." She took a step back. "Maybe make-up, or..." Her voice trembled as fear splashed across her face.

Kitka, sitting near Deckard, stood, folded her ears down, and furred up, in tune with Deckard.

"Take it easy, we don't mean any harm," He said hastily, he picked up Kitka, and sat down, smoothing out her fur. Deckard had to keep better control of himself. He had no wish to intimidate or scare her.

"And we don't have masters."

"Then why are you here, after Starkweather? Are you here to kill him?" Daria was still alarmed, but regaining her nerve.

"No, we just have some questions to ask him, about some people that work for him, or used to, anyway."

"Who?" She thought the better of it. "Never mind, I don't want to know. AND I can't answer any of your questions either."

He sighed and let Kitka down.

"All I want to know is where I might find Starkweather, or anyone in, the, ah, same, club that he's in.

"You mean the Tri, right?

"Yes."

"Well, everyone knows which spots are theirs,"

"I don't." Deckard pointed out. And if everyone knows, then it won't matter who tells me, like you, for example."

She went over to the refrigerator and poured two glasses of iced tea. A dish of tuna was placed on the floor for Kitka, and two bowls of chili, with chips were placed on the table. During this, Deckard watched her expression intently. Daria's expression grew calm and impassive. She was thinking it over. Finally, sitting, a few sips of tea, a couple of spoonfuls of chili, and she spoke.

"Okay, you could've found this out anywhere, so I don't guess they could blame me, anyway. Just don't you tell them about me, or the Pointe, or anything about Cen for that matter."

"You have my word that we don't talk."

"I'm sure you've had a lot of practice at not talking." She eyed the two.

"Okay, down at the docks, there's a spot called Tubby's Chapeau, not the big Tubby's, that's on the Sea-wall. This place is a "club house" I guess you would call it. Only Tri members, their guests, or prospects go there, anyone else goes in, and they get the brush off about reservations, or being booked up. Angry brush-offees are referred to the complaint department, two thugs with saps and brass knucks. I suppose if you go in there, and ask for Starkweather, you'll get a swift reaction."

"I imagine a swift reaction indeed."

"Look, you go in there, you're gonna get trouble."

Deckard raised his eyebrows. "Oh, trouble is our specialty.'

"You're not even worried about this, are you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say worried, exactly."

Daria stood up and raised her palms up in resignation.

"Okay, fine. I'm beat, and I've been beat, so I'm gonna crash." The Pointe opens at half past nine, and I gotta get there by ten, so there's that." She walked past him, and went down a hallway to the left.

"You can doss on the couch if you like."

He turned to watch her go. As she went down the hall, she kicked off her shoes, unzipped her dress and let it fall. Her black lacy bra was unfastened and let fall. Her pale back was bare to him, as she turned to enter her room. She folded her arms to cover herself. She tossed her mane of black hair over her shoulder and winked at him.

"Nighty-night." Daria smiled back at him and vanished from view. The door softly clicked shut. Deckard had no doubt that she was now nestled, very naked, between silken sheets. Very comfortable. He finished eating and went down the hallway to the left, then left again. Into the bathroom. He had a quick wash. Deckard paused in the hallway. Kitka was sitting at the door of her bedroom. He made a face at her and indicated the living room.

It was done in early 50's sitcom, and the couch was large and soft. Clad in black knit shorts, he lay down, looking at the ceiling. Stretching out, he thought about what lay in wait for him at Tubby's Chapeau. He thought about what lay in wait for him in the back bedroom. Daria said she had wanted sleep, though, and then shut her door, so she was just teasing him. It was a good joke. He fell asleep, a gentle smile crossing his face, and Kitka turning about at his feet.

When he awoke, it was night, close to midnight, he guessed. Daria was gone, but she'd left a note:

Remember to keep your mouth shut!

_Good luck and try_ _not_ _to be murdered._

Daria

P.S. I slept very soundly last night.

He mused over the note, as he fed his hungry Kitka. Towards the dock, too, he thought. Maybe some good fish down there. He sat and thought. How should he approach this?

# Chapter Nine

The initial mission had been one of infiltration, but had been redefined at the last moment. The reason for the last minute switch was not revealed. Deckard figured the Section had discovered what was inside the compound by other means and did not like what that was at all. The personnel inside were to be contained, the compound destroyed. To do that, mines would have to be placed at key locations, without alerting the massive force within. The perimeter guard would have to be skirted, mines placed, exit made, and the compound obliterated. This was the first time Ultra One-Seven would be working in tandem with Ultra Team Alpha.

The two teams had met on base before in passing, but nothing close up or official. Alpha team's missions had been more along the lines of Commando raids. Light assaults on positions, diversions, demolitions, and operations requiring more direct force fell into the hands of Ultra team Alpha. This time, Alpha team would be escort and guard, escort to the edge of insertion, guard the exit in case One-Seven was discovered.

The mission had been going on target, almost all the mines had been placed, forty-one, to be exact. Alpha had perched, just out of sight, with a sniper rifle watching the scene. A guard had moved off his position, but One-Seven had seen him and stayed put. Now, One-Seven was edging their way back to Alpha's position. After that, a leisurely walk through the woods, blow the mines, then await pickup. Then it happened. A man with a large machine strapped to his chest, a tech of some type. His ears were covered with a large headset.

The technician meandered through the courtyard, swinging the front end of the machine to and fro. Bowen kept a bead on him through the scope. His features were quite plain in the scope-light. The man's face took on a look of surprise, he looked quickly up. Right in the direction of One-Seven's exit route. A millisecond to decide. Bowen decided. The suppressed crack of the rifle could've been passed off as a snapping tree branch. But only one thing could explain the tech's sudden crash to the ground, his eyes wide and empty. There were two guards near him, as he fell, and both went for the alarm. Bowen dropped one before he made it, but not the other. Shouts, a general calamity of armed figures streamed out of the main structure, and high piercing shriek filled the air.

"One-Seven, check, One-Seven." Bowen breathed into his throat mike. Static echoed through the headset twice. One-Seven was active, but keeping silent. Then, one of the mines on the far side of the compound went off. Screams, shouts and sounds of destruction increased against the canvas of black, oily smoke. Bowen was mystified; the mines had been wired to go off all at once. He picked his targets and sent them down, each one with a third eye.

Murphy, meanwhile had been stirring restlessly at his side, howling softly. At One-Seven's approach, he gave a small bark. Bowen gathered his gear, as the Ultra team went racing by.

"Time to leave the party, Alpha!" Deckard said as he ducked into the trees. Alpha followed suit. They caught up with One-Seven, keeping a steady, quiet, pace through the thick of it.

"Why did the mine go off?" A hushed pant.

"When that tech came out, I knew we were tipped, so I rewired. Thanks for taking him down before he pointed and yelled." One-Seven stopped. "Better duck down, some of the mines had haz-mat/NBC decals on them,"

The two teams squatted behind cover and the detonator was clicked seven times. The explosion was so loud, it seemed the very air was shattered and blown away. The shock wave blew in a concentric ring twenty meters above their heads. The forest caught fire, and the wreckage began raining down on their heads.

Without a word, they turned and ran towards their extraction point, Kitka point, Murphy tail gun. They cleared the forest, with billows of black smoke pouring into the heavens. They stopped on a small cliff, as Murphy followed a path down to the beach. The sense of urgency was gone from their composure. Slowly and silently, they filed down to the beach. Nothing in the compound survived, above it or below it. The facility, the men in it, the clearing, the whole compound, and the forest were burnt to cinders by now, the entire area, contaminated. On the beach, a small amphibious jet copter was waiting for them. It would take them to a ship, or submergible fort for decontamination and debriefing.

.

Deckard and Kitka hailed a cab and rode down to the docks, where "Tubby's hat" lay. He had decided to dress in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He had seen a mob movie where all the characters wore it. Even if it just a movie, the outfit was anonymous and good cover. They stood on the edge of the dock where the club way, watching.

"Wait in the alley, that's where they'll probably go."

Kitka hummed, blinked and trotted off. He then went into Tubby's Chapeau. There was a maitre'd at a podium. Inside was white tablecloths, red velvet wallpaper, red and white tiles, candles in wine bottles on the tables. There were a number of people, men and women inside. Clinking plates & glasses, soft piano music filled the gaps between throaty conversation and high feminine laughter.

"May I help you, sir?" Which sounded more like "You're making a big mistake."

"Yes, I have a message to give to Karl Starkweather." Hands folded in front of him.

"I'm sure I can relay it to him."

Deckard stepped closer. "I have to give it directly to him."

"Mr. Starkweather is not here." The maitre'd hands stole under the podium

"Oh, I'll wait."

"I'm afraid that would be impossible." A sniff. Clearly, a signal had been sent. Two goons who'd seen the same movie Deckard had approached.

"What's the trouble here," Said the brains of the two, glaring at Deckard.

"This gentleman would like to be shown to the door." He noticed that they didn't wear ties, though.

Flanking him, each seized a bicep and walked him to the door and out to the alley, where Kitka was waiting for them.

Deck swiveled his arms, broke the holds and caught both of them with nerve pinches under their arms. They gasped in sudden pain and he squeezed harder. One of them struggled to break out, while the other just stood there and gasped. He let go of the gasper and planted his right foot square in the solar plexus. As he fell back and down, Deck rammed his palm into struggler's throat. The man choked, his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell to the dock. Pivoting, he faced Gasper. Kitka had made her move and had dug her claws into his nose, holding him there. If he tried to get away, his face would be laid open like a Danish sandwich. Her shadow fell across his chest faintly. Deck bent over and felt around on the fallen man, Kitka growling loudly. He had a gun, Vector 9mm, and a switchblade. He broke the switchblade and tossed the gun into the water.

He ducked back in time to feel the breeze from struggler's kick. Rolling back and flipping upright, Deckard stabbed at his eyes with outstretched fingers. The man swayed back to avoid them, but not far back enough to avoid the sole of Deckard's boot as it swung upwards and connected with his chin. His head bobbed up and down, as he sank to his knees and then fell face forward. Deck turned him over with his foot to search him. Brass knucks: into the water, sheath knife of cheap and shoddy make: into the water, Glock 19 about forty years old. He stood to examine it. It was a .40 cal with tritium night sights. It would make a good present to Bowen, so he stuck it into his pocket. He went out of the alley, leaving struggler out, and gasper mumbling about ghost monkeys.

The maitre'd was speechless, as Deckard went up to him.

"Mr. Starkweather back yet?" Only slack jawed silence. "No? Okay, well I can't wait any longer. I'll be back tomorrow, at nine, with the same message."

More silence. Deckard squinted and snapped his fingers in front of his face. The maitre'd came out of it long enough to nod slightly, jerkily.

Pausing by the alley, Deck hissed twice and Kitka materialized by his leg, leaning against it. He heard nothing but groans from the alley. They went towards the edge of the dock. Deckard picked up his pack where he'd stashed it and disrobed. The suit was stuck in along with the gun. A pair of swim trunks on and off the dock into the water. They swam slowly, parallel to the beach for a couple of miles, then went up and dried in the warm, night air, lying on the sand. Deckard hesitated to go back to the Impaler's pointe, or to Daria's house.

They used the public showers and wall mounted blow driers, and hunted up an all-night coffee shop. Back in the Before time, coffee shops just served coffee, but now coffee was just the cover name. Now they were ad agencies for the Infra-web, hardware and software companies. For the price of a cup of Joe, you could bang away at a keyboard, web slinging for hours. The place was typical, shabby, low light, good coffee, and the latest equipment. Computer companies would murder to supply a busy shop with its wares. Most people got their first taste of newer technology in shops like this one. If a company could get a person to use their equipment first, chances are that they would buy one for their homes or businesses, after that, they were hooked. If they used MircoPact first, they would buy one. And all the upgrades for the rest of their lives. They would become zealots; try to get their friends and neighbors to buy one and become members of their cult. It was the best form of advertising possible: practically free.

Deck bought a cup with cream on the side and logged on. He avoided using his MIL in the field as much as possible, someone with right equipment and know-how could pin point his location. Deckard sent the information that he'd discovered to Bowen and his next move. It was all in code, a code that he and Bowen had worked out years before. There was an E-note for him on a collector netwindow. The site was devoted to Toy racing cars.

An employee of the Section had opened the netwindow, years ago, with a special code word at login; agents could pass messages back and forth. It wasn't connected to X by an official means. In fact, the employee had been fired right after it was discovered he had used company time and equipment to build it. It was curious to note, however, right after he was fired, a distant relative of his, died and left him a substantial trust fund. It was so substantial, that he was free to do nothing else but maintain his site. Very convenient.

Kitka lapped up the cream, as Deck tapped keys. Bowen had no new info for him. There was a post sub-station near, so he wrapped up the gun and shipped it to Frank Meriwell, one of Bowen's nom de guerre. They went to a fish stand by a carnival that looked like it had come out of another time zone and settled. The lights and the people made good scenery while they munched on the catch of the day. Kitka sat on the wooden picnic table, nosing out the air.

It was a tourist crowd, keeping the clip joints, gambling dens, pawnshops, bars, pubs, taverns, and gaming halls busy taking their money. There were a few French and English sailors that had staked out a place called The Soap Bar, giving each other baleful glances. Some Imperial Marines were scattered about as well, but everyone was behaved as the Lone Star Shore Patrol moved in. Heavy with green shiny body armor and helmets, they hefted their power shields and clubs off the HCV car. The power shields were capable of giving shocks up to lethal doses.

Deckard watched two SPs test their shields against each other: their body armor was insulated. They then stationed themselves right across from The Soap Bar. The HCV rumbled away, to deposit SPs elsewhere. Deckard strolled past them and snapped off a sharp salute. They saluted back with their clubs. Smirking, he made his way off the beach front, Kitka trailing ahead and behind. There was a small over pass ahead out in the streets, with a large tractor-trailer under it. It was turning in the director he wanted to go. With a burst of speed, they were on top of the overpass and off of it. Deckard landed with a slight thud on the trailer. Kitka landed beside him, and the trailer took off, taking him back to Cen.

.

It was nearly four in the morning when they got back to Cen. They scrambled along the tops of roofs and high wires of the telephone poles until they got to a roof across from the Impaler's pointe. The telephone poles were an anachronism in the days of wireless communication, but some people still clung to the old ways. The black clad fellowship numbers fell a bit during the waning hours of the morning, as Deck rigged up some equipment. Kitka sat on top the buildings low roof wall, watching two Christopher Lee types scuffle drunkenly. Kitka's eyes were wide, whiskers were forward as she tested the air rapidly.

Glancing over his shoulder at her briefly, he turned to the pole and hooked into the line with two alligator clips. Activating the handset, he waited for the operations computer to come on the line. A voice recognition menu identified the number he wanted and dialed it for him. Twenty rings later, Daria's voice answered.

"Yes, I understand you've had a problem sleeping," He asked her.

"Justa sec." She replied. He heard her scream into the background noise: "I found out what was ringing!"

"Hello, who's this?"

"I understand you've had a problem sleeping lately." He said again.

"Deck? Is that you?"

He didn't answer.

She caught on. "It's okay to talk on this, no one would ever think of it." Daria giggled. "The guys and I didn't even know what the sound was a first. The last time I talked on one of these was at my Gram's house."

"I just called to ask if you're all right. See if everything is all right."

"Yeah, sure, I....wait a minute, Wills Carmichael, one of Stark's errand boys, was in here earlier, just picking up the cut, but he stayed longer than usual." There was a pause. "He could've been asking about you, everyone was sure wondering where you were tonight."

"What? Why?" He was making all the wrong moves out here in the real world.

"Take it easy, Peter Gunn, this is a small town acting like a big one, you know. People just talk. You are kinda unusual after all. These guys just talk the talk. You're walking the walk, sweetheart."

"Does this mean you still like me?"

She gave a low murmur on the phone. "Probably too much for my own good."

"And you're safe?"

"No one is going to go out on a limb for those guys, and they'll want very little help, too. There afraid of looking weak, you know."

Deck shifted the handset to his other ear and leaned up against the pole.

"Weak, eh? They're fixing to look really weak, weak as kittens as a matter of fact," Kitka twined around his knee.

"Be careful, they'll be ready for you this time."

"No one is ready for me, I guarantee it."

"I know I wasn't," Daria sighed into the phone. Longing and loneliness coupled and sifted through the line.

"Don't worry, I'll be gone soon and you'll forget all about me."

"I seriously doubt that," She sighed again in resignation.

Grinning, he disconnected the line.

"C'mon girl, let catch a few winks, and then we'll shake the tree and see what falls out." Kitka opened her eyes very wide and meorred in a low tone. They left Cen and went to near where the "tree" was.

A small, unoccupied bungalow on the beach provided them with a shower, a laundry, food and rest. It belonged to a Mr. and Mrs. Maddox, who lived in Chicago and took their summers here. They had four children, all blonde, according to the photos on the walls. A large desk filled with papers told the whole story. His job, his car, her tennis tournaments, children's weddings and grandchildren, their whole life together. Deckard gazed on the rich tapestry of a normal person's life. A life that he may or may not have had.

He shut the desk drawers slowly, reflecting. Kitka was curled up on the desk, asleep. Stroking her sleek fur without waking her, Deckard shut the light off overhead. He took a running start and leapt into the air, spread eagled and landed on the queen-sized bed, bouncing slightly. He turned over, removed his shorts and flung them away and was soon fast asleep. The next night would be pay dirt, he hoped.

.

He dreamed about his other life, a life that would never exist. One where he had made all the right moves, avoided the bad mistakes and led a peaceful productive life. His dreams, for some reason, were incredibly lucid, in color, complete with sound track. Deckard never dreamed like this before the Section got a hold of him. He assumed that it was an unintended side effect of the treatments. He understood why cats were able to sleep any given time or place. He understood why they seemed to sleep 23 hours a day. There was another life waiting for them, one that was better, happier. Sometimes when he woke, it was hard to distinguish which reality he was in. It varied, to be sure. Sometimes he was himself, sometimes someone else. Sometimes he was in the past, sometimes in the future.

This time Deckard dreamed about the past, way back to the beginning of another century, the end of a war, the war of great, great grandfather Blaine perhaps. In large city, foreign, church bells were pealing like mad. The vision swept away from him miles and miles, it faded into the distance. He was in a hole, looking over the top of a destroyed field. No, it was bigger than a hole, they're were others in the hole with him. They had long rifles with knives, bayonets, at the end of them. They were wearing green uniforms of wool and metal helmets, spattered with mud and grime. They were all smiling. One by one, they left the hole and he followed. The land was a smoking ruin. Men were coming towards them. They had on helmets and carried rifles too, their uniforms were gray. They looked tired and sick. The men he was with rushed upon them, shaking their hands and pressing cigarettes into them. A movement caught his eye to the far left. A man was approaching him. He wore a helmet with a metal spike on the top, a big brass eagle on the front. A large bushy mustache and a pair of red eyes were the only features he could make out. The spiked helmet man drew a pistol out of his holster and slowly pointed it towards Deckard.

Blaine sat upright in the purloined bed. His heart was racing, his breath came in short shocks. Looking about swiftly, he spotted Kitka sitting calmly atop a wardrobe, looking at him, with something like distain. She after all was a real cat, and no dream, no matter what it's content, would have woken her out of a sound sleep. Deck leaned back, exhaling his relief.

Looking at the window, he saw that night was falling. Time to go. They covered their tracks and made their way to the Chapeau. The "Hat" was a longish sort of building, half of it sat over the water, with outside eating area. The roof, low with a slight rise to it had several skylights on it. They were crusted with salt and residue. Blaine dropped his pack and went to each of them, peering into each of them. The place was practically deserted inside. There were three men on the balcony, two out front and four in the front room.

They all seemed to be wearing pea coats. It could be counted on that all of them had guns, probably auto caseless models. There were three dogs as well. Dobermans, from the look of it. Augmented. Flipping out his monocular, he dialed them into view. The scope readings blinked out the distance in green. Thumbing the control, it zoomed in on their collars. They were sonic collars to keep the dogs in control. There was a possibility on that. Something about their eyes. They looked strange. Another zoom showed them to be implants, infrared, or relays, maybe.

The men were alert, but waiting. It was not quite eight yet. A man, Starkweather, he guessed, came into the place, and began issuing orders. Deckard could barely hear him through the skylight. A muffled, slightly high pitched voice jabbering out. One of the dogs and its handler went out to the balcony. Starkweather was thinking that wherever trouble came from it would come in through the back door. He kept the other two dogs in the main dining room, with two handlers.

"You two check out the roof." Deckard heard through the glass.

He looked around for Kitka; she was near the last skylight, sniffing around it. She looked up at him, and faded from sight. Deckard crept over swiftly and looked at the skylight. It was hinged. They would come through here. This would have to be quiet, otherwise, dogs and gun fire.

The light opened with a creak and a man's head poked up, with a gun barrel alongside. It then flopped all the way open and he came up, looking warily around. The second man came through. They split up and looked it over. Nothing. The first man looked over the roof to the balcony and waved to his counterparts there. The other man did the same with the ones up front. He then went to the long end and looked down into the alley. Rubbish and the dock was all that he saw.

"I dunno, Chucky, all this trouble for one guy?" He muttered. No reply.

He turned around, gun up. The roof was empty. Then pain crashed across his calves in bright flashing waves. He buckled over, feeling the raw red pulp stripping down his legs. The man looked up, tears of agony spilling from his eyes. He took a deep breath to cry aloud and then blacked out. Deckard stood over the crumpled form, fist cocked for a second blow, if necessary. Kitka faded back in, ears back and trotted to the balcony edge. It was all quiet. The wind favored them, so the dogs had not smelt them or the blood that was seeping out all over the roof. Deck searched through his victim's pockets. Stun gun, wallet, MIL, and a small rod. His automatic lay near his hand. Deckard emptied it and flung the rounds into the surf. The other guard had been subdued then the quietly released into the crashing surf. He had gone to check out the remaining roof edge, where Deck had been hanging off. When he knelt down, Deckard grabbed him and head butted him into oblivion. This accomplished, Deckard slipped back onto the roof and made his way to the other guard, who had just been attacked by Kitka.

Perfect. The small rod turned out to be the control stick to the sonic collars. It was just was he had hoped to find.

The guards on the balcony were walking back and forth, keeping their eyes towards the water. One of the dogs had been sent out, growling unceasingly. Suddenly, the dog fell to the deck, whimpering and yowling unmistaken cries for help. The men gathered around him in alarm.

"What are you doing?" One of them said, with panic in his voice.

"Cut that out!"

"I'm not doing anything!" The handler exclaimed, reaching for his control rod. A small report from the roof made them all look up. A loud metallic clatter made them all look back down. The dog's control collar had been shot off. The large Doberman scrambled to his feet and took his pain out on the only ones he knew was responsible for it.

Above, Deckard shook his head. As he turned, the sounds of brutal mauling, men jumping into the water, shots going off behind him. It was a shame to cause animals pain. By now, the men in the main room had heard the commotion and were now by the glass door near the outside. Deckard kicked the top of the skylight off and he and Kitka leapt down.

As soon as she landed, Kitka cloaked and went after the two dogs. Deckard landed on the balls of his feet, crouching, firing both guns at the two men inside. A 10mm hit one square in the chest, blowing him backwards on to a table full of dishware, which tumbled over. The grappler splattered through the remaining man's left hand, thunking in the wall behind. At the touch of a button, the wire retracted back, pulling the man off his feet. The returning hook clicked back into its housing with blood and gristle on it.

During this, Kitka had attacked both dogs. Thrown into a frenzy by their invisible assailant, the two began attacking everything, including one another. The front door opened, and the two remaining guards stormed through. A bullet plowed into the post that Deckard stood by, and he pivoted, firing back. His man went down, as more bullets tore by him. The last man went down as the two dogs set on him, tearing and rending. Hoarse cries and snarling filled the air. The control rod was activated and the dogs squealed briefly and then sat down. The guard lay there, not moving.

It was now quiet in Tubby's Chapeau, but where was Starkweather?

There was a large padded door off in the corner. First things first. The man with the torn hand had been pulled off his feet was out, having struck his head on a cement beam. The immobile man was not going to be doing anything, except wonder where a lot of his skin, part of one arm, and some of his face had gone for a long time. Still, he got a blow to the top of the head. On the balcony, the dog had taken care of things there, and was now lying the corner, exhausted from his ordeal.

He growled when Deckard appeared, but he didn't get up. Deck imagined that all the dog wanted was to be left alone. The other two dogs, bearing several wounds from Kitka's attacks, were sitting quietly, as they had been trained to do. Deckard showed them the control. The still sat, but looked anxious. A silent agreement came between them. _He who has the control, has our loyalty_. These dogs might even be rented. Unreliable, as he'd just proved. The hold on them was released. The two dogs sprawled apart, and immediately began to lick their wounds.

Kitka was on a table, drinking out of a glass of ice water. She sat and licked her chops, as Deckard came up. He stroked the length of her.

"Into the dragon's lair, girl." Deckard angled his head at the door, then picked up the glass of water and drained it.

Kitka leapt from the table and made for the door, her long ropey tail high. Deckard paused at the door. What was waiting on the other side? A trap? A gun? What kind of gun? Would it be on a trip beam or wire? Would Starkweather be holding it himself? Holding the 10mm ready, he slowly opened the door, ready.

Inside was a plush office, done in red leather and oak. Behind a large oak desk was Starkweather, sorting through papers, reading glasses on the end of his nose.

He grunted as Deckard swung the door wide.

"Well, spill it," he said without looking up.

Deckard entered glancing about. Kitka stole in and got a good position for trouble.

"Dammit, I..." Starkweather looked up and gaped.

His 10mm leveled, Deck approached.

The man behind the desk did nothing.

Two sharp hisses brought Kitka onto the desk, poised to strike.

"Don't move." Deckard said, rapidly checking above the door, beneath the desk, and elsewhere.

Finally, he grew tired of it.

"Where is it?"

Nothing but disjointed stuttering mumbles.

"Where," He pointed his gun right at Starkweather's face. "Is it?"

"Where is what?"

"Kitka,"

At his word, Kitka got into Starkweather's lap, ears back & hissing. She put her front paws on his shoulder and slowly dug in her claws. Her mouth was bare millimeters from his face, and he began to shake. She growled and hissed suddenly, loudly, so that he could see each one of her white razor like teeth.

Satisfied that he was subdued, Deck began to make a more vigorous search of the office. Drawers emptied, desk cleared away, chairs overturned, pictures knocked off walls.

"There's nothing here,"

"What, the safe?" a voice shaking.

"No, not that." Deckard righted one of the chairs and sat in it.

"Didn't you hear all that?" He waved in the direction of the recent chaos.

"No, I heard nu-nothing."

"Why not?"

"My, my office is sound proof," At this last word, Starkweather sneezed, much to the displeasure of Kitka.

"Please, I'm, I'm allergic," He was trying to contain another sneeze.

Kitka retreated to the desktop and washed her face.

"You mean to tell me, that you have nothing in here like a gun or laser emitter, or anything?

"No, all that's out there." He was looking shaken and red in the face. "I didn't think you make past them, why should I have anything in here?"

Deckard stood, put both hands on the desk and leaned forward.

"Because it would've been smart."

"Would I have been able to use it, to get you?"

Deck considered this. "Doubtful."

"Then I guess it doesn't matter."

"Well, against _another_ operative..." This was getting him off the subject.

"Never mind, what I want is some information." He un-slung his pack and set it on the desk.

"Information on why you set one of your hit men to take out Jeordi LesPaul."

"What makes you think I have hit men, or have anything to do with them?"

Karl Starkweather was getting some of his nerve back.

His limit being reached, Deckard reacted. He put one hand one the desk and flipped it sideways. It crashed into the wall and the remaining pictures fell, glass shards sprinkling the floor.

"Okay, tough guy," He grasped Karl by the collar and hauled him out of the office.

"See all this?" The bullet pocked and bloody ruin of the club lay before them.

"I did all this when I was totally calm," Deckard spat through clenched teeth.

He pulled Starkweather out to the balcony.

"And now you're making me mad,"

The dog was still in the corner. It opened its eyes and regarded them balefully.

Kitka positioned herself between them and the dog, but he did little more than bare his teeth. He had had enough, it seemed.

"Now you want to act like a jackass." Deckard peered over the edge of the railing. It was about thirty feet up. He shoved the bigger man into the corner and drew out his grappling hook.

"Fine with me." He wrapped it around Starkweather's leg. "I hope you make a lot of money, Karl."

With an angry snarl, Deckard threw him over the railing.

Starkweather screamed all the way to the bottom. Well, not quite. Just before he struck, Deckard tapped the reel button, stopping him.

Sure that his intentions had been made clear; he let him dangle for a few minutes, then reeled him up. Then hanging upside down, gibbering with fear, Starkweather spilled his guts.

.

The Tri had been responsible for several of the hits on the "Jaybird" industrial heads. Some of them were sponsored by rivals, others by foreign business, and still others by the victim's own employers. The LesPaul contract had not come to Starkweather directly: He'd been ordered to have it done by the Tri head in Houston. Leila Mawson, the daughter of Eugene "Cowboy" Mawson, had taken over his Tri status when he died.

The hit man, Tuscarora was a regular in the stable, and good with tricky set-ups. He'd been on LesPaul's tail for almost a month, and had been asked to step it up.

Starkweather knew both Mallos and Wouk. Wouk had helped them out from time to time with equipment, and had masterminded the defection of Mallos. Wouk was anxious about the arrival of Mallos, saying that he held the key that Wouk needed. It was way over Starkweather's head, but he knew it had something to do with gene-manipulation. Mallos and Wouk spilt Lone Star after Mallos' arrival, and Starkweather never heard from either one of them again. However, he _did hear_ that Mallos had been spotted in the Port Arthur swampland. He'd been pulled over by highway patrol because they had spotted him smoking. Mallos had mentioned Starkweather's name and they let him go. All the same, they called up the Galvez Tri to ask about it. Deckard nearly let go of Starkweather then. He'd known in his gut that Mallos had been alive, with Goramund, out there, waiting to tell him what he wanted to know.

Ignoring the pleas from Karl, he let him dangle there, contemplating the ramifications. There were several possible leads to chase down. Mawson, to the north, Mallos to the east. Monica and home were to the west. South? Nothing.

# Chapter Ten

During the middle years of his service, Deckard and Kitka were lounging about in a holding area, one close to an actual combat zone. The corporations were suffering from the effects of the conflict and were beginning to play a little rough. It was the end of the Infowar and the beginning of the Corpwar. The rules had changed and subtlety gave way to brute force. They adapted a commercial concept to one that more fitted their needs. The "AATV" or Armored All Terrain Vehicle, was insulated against energy and solid projectiles. They had ground contact treads and hover kinematics. Gas shells, N-beams, and 40mm shells were some of the hazards that they exposed people to. The section had come up with its own "AATV". The concept was based on plans that Deckard had acquired months ago. Several of these were in the camp with him.

Camp C-11 was its official designation, but the troopers there called it Fort Apache. This name came from the fact that the Apache Helicopters, flying machines of ancient design, were for the most part, mothballed there. The obsolete flying machines sat, stripped of their ordinance, like the bones of extinct bird of prey, in the rear of the camp. Troopers often ran exercises through there. The hulks provided excellent cover. The shielding absorbed the simulated rounds, as well as any sensor rays being used.

The tanker crews were young and energetic. They played baseball and football in their off time, and oversaw the repair, refueling and outfitting of their machines. The machines themselves were low squat hexagonal things with long barrels. Their sides were complex rotating plates. Deck understood them to be a fractal armor system.

The spinning plates that revolved around the whole machine were filled with a liquid core. This core became solid when not in motion. The plates, each of them with a heat sensor in them, upon picking up an incoming projectile, would stop spinning. The core would become solid and the projectile would hit the plate and shatter the core.

After detonation, the plate would begin its rotation; the shattered core would become liquid again, ready for another blow. They made the most god-awful noise when it happened. The plates had to be constantly adjusted; or they would react to the wind, or tree branches, or what-not. As a result, the tanks let off an audible hum all the time.

The crews called the tanks "Mitts".

"Get your Mitt and let's go!" The commander would yell. They would pile in and crank them up. Deckard peeked into one once. It was painted a light green inside. Fiendishly complicated control boards and yokes surrounded leather, papa-san type seats. It was the chairs that gave the tank its name. They looked just like huge baseball gloves.

Each tank carried a crew of two, driver and gunner. The tanks hovered above the ground about a meter, and would speed off into the forest. Deckard sometimes heard explosions deep in the woods. After about an hour or a couple of days, they would return, battered and smashed. The crews, tired and silent, would pile out.

After a day or so, they would start playing baseball or football again. Life continued in this way. His assignment that led him here had been to escort a defecting board member to a safe location. The board member was senior enough to provide a gold mine of intelligence. It was a tedious process, involving many slow deliberate moves. Fort Apache was not his first choice, but it was the closest. The defector was not used to being on the run and made that plain. Blaine made the decision to make for the closest available spot, C-11. The board member, Wayne Loehr from Jenset Inc, was now being extensively debriefed. It seemed that a rival in Jenset Inc had decided to get an easy promotion by having him killed. When the attempt failed and Loehr complained to the board of directors, they did nothing. That really burned him up. He defected soon afterwards.

Blaine had been given almost no information on the defecting board member, only the place, time and description of pickup. His orders had been explicit about one thing: in the event of capture, terminate pickup and escape and evade. Ultra One-Seven was briefed by an officer he had never seen before and never saw him again. The officer seemed tense and nervous, stressing over and over again how important it was to bring in the pick-up. It seemed he thought that Ultra One-Seven would elect to kill the pickup at the first difficultly. It was _only_ in the event of inevitable capture that he was to terminate the pick-up. After that, Ultra One-Seven was free to use their talents to escape, evade or whatever.

Once the pickup was made, Deckard could see why he had been given so explicit instructions. Loehr was a certified slack-jawed idiot. He was fifty-seven, fat, had brought two suitcases, and didn't like cats. Loehr didn't like sweating or being dirty. He complained and whined the entire way about everything, to the point of giving their position away a couple of times. That was when Ultra One-Seven made contact and requested a change in drop points.

Now Blaine and Kitka had nothing to do. It seemed that they had been forgotten in the excitement of things. He supposed Loehr had been a pretty big deal. The pre-mission dossier had revealed nothing towards that end. His own debriefing had been punctual and short. No questions were asked or taken. In addition, nobody knew anything either, at least no one that he met. The tanker crews were not sure why their position was being attacked.

The regular troopers were rotated in and out everyday, so he never got to know any of them. The general staff would tell him nothing. Really, it wasn't so bad. He and Channel explored the forest and a small creek during the day. He had to learn passwords and they made him carry a rifle. Nighttime, there was a canteen open to officers. There was a limited bar, a jukebox, and a SV with two channels: News and Sport news. There was also a piano, which a young cyber cryptologist was good at playing. It was just an episode of the conflict. For some reason, Deckard always looked on it as one his fondest memories.

.

After the "Unrest" was over, he saw a "Mitt" cruising a downtown drag. It was painted in day-glow purple and lime, with neon lights detailing it. He could read 'Devastator' in small silver, deco letters across the side of the hood. Apparently, they had gotten to the civilian market after all. It was near dusk, it was crawling along, lights flashing, a low bass thump rattling nearby windows. Deckard was sitting in a busy sidewalk café, across from a target of his from the past. It was on the west coast. He had come to have a look around at a city that he only knew clandestinely and at night. The twist on this one had been that it was four floors below the surface. It was a change from his usual thirteenth floor entrance. He was lost in memory as he thought about the solution he'd finally reached.

Sipping on soft drinks and eating mixed nuts and thinking, he heard a second Devastator approach. The same low hum from long ago. The people on the sidewalk knew something he didn't though, because they began to scramble off the streets. Some cars ran the red light on the corner, and others went down wrong way streets to get away. The white-aproned waiter, who had just come outside, dropped his tray.

"Hey sir, get inside!" He darted back to the door and opened it, looking up and down the street.

Deckard gathered a sleeping Kitka off the table and went in the door. Unlike the others, who sought refuge at the back, he stayed by the window. The first devastator stayed put, music blaring. A second devastator hummed up to the side of it. It was flat black, full tint job, with red detailing. Even the headlights were tinted black. At some prearranged signal, the two gunned their engines and released the brakes and tore down the street. They really _tore_ down the street. The heavily armored vehicles knocked down lampposts, mailboxes, and trees.

The cars in their way were run right over, sparks and glass shards flying and a horrible screeching noise. The two AATVs slammed and side swiped each other as they sped along with no apparent damage. Their hover capability kept them from being stopped by any obstacle, just as it was meant to. The police arrived in ordinary cars to assess the damage, but the perpetrators were long gone. Life on the street began to resume.

"What was that?" Deckard asked the waiter, as he righted the tables on the walk. They were made of high impact polystyrene and were undamaged.

"About a year ago, these new recreational trucks were put out." He set the chairs in place. "They were really expensive, so there was only one around. Then another showed up, they raced and this happened." The waiter said, looking at the police take down names and addresses. "Since then, they began showing up from all over to race each other. The police can't stop 'em and they don't wreck, so they just destroy everything in their path."

Deckard sat back down, setting Kitka back on the table. She'd remained asleep the whole time.

.

Deckard had been uncertain what to do with Starkweather. Leaving a Tri chieftain alive, alive to take revenge, seemed unwise. He couldn't leave him dangling there, he needed his hook back. In the end, Deckard hauled the man up and put him back in the office with two of the Dobermans. A quick search revealed that the men that had been sent over the side either were dead, or had run for it. From what he had seen of the sheep-like populous, they were used to easier targets. He knew that the police wouldn't respond to any alarm raised about the activities here. Starkweather sure wasn't going to call them. However, he could call Leila Mawson and tip her off to his coming. Houston could be a problem.

The locals called it "Little LA" and that was not a compliment. The city itself had been divided up into racial quadrants, even before Deckard had been born. He'd been there before. The job itself had gone smoothly, but the skyscraper district, over five square miles had been creepy. Highrises surrounded streets and business parks. Powerful floodlights had made the place seem like broad daylight. Only the borders of pitch black surrounding it told otherwise. Deckard and Kitka walked along the deserted streets, seeing no one. No bums, no cops, no G's, not even bats were about. Channelle slunk along, her tail flayed out, her eyes watchful. He could hear his quiet footfalls echoing off the buildings. It was if the entire area was some enormous malevolent beast, too lazy to reach out and smash them as they passed. They bolted for the shadows and made their way up a high building, running from an invisible predator.

Shaking off the memories of dread, he opened up Starkweather's door. The man sat there, looking worn and impotent. The dogs sat, panting. A wave of pity came over Deckard and he fetched a first aid kit and treated their gaping slashes. They sat there, looking apprehensive, but did nothing otherwise, as he tended them. Tossing the kit on the large desk, he sat.

"What are you going to do now?" Deckard asked. "Remember what happened the last time you weren't forthcoming."

The tri chief licked his lips and then put his head in his hands.

"I don't know." A huge shuttering sigh. "Maybe I'll try to make it to the Keys." Another one. "I've got friends there, from my legging days. They'd hide me for a while."

Deckard was mystified. "What do you mean 'hide'."

Starkweather looked up. "I'm all through here." He put his head back down. "When the Tri commission finds out..."

Deckard thought he had it figured out now.

"This incident is going to cost you your kingdom here, huh?"

"Yes." He looked up again, this time with a look of relief on his face. "Unless you plan to kill me."

"No." Deckard shook his head. It was too late for that now. Starkweather would have to make a move, and it didn't look like he was up for it.

"Well, what if they didn't find out about it?"

Confusion. "How could they not know about _this_." He stood up. "You showed _me_ remember! Oh, God." He sat again.

How did this man ever become a Tri chief? Maybe he was somebody's something or someone.

"Look, Karl, you're going to have to show a little more backbone here. I can't work this thing without you."

"What do you mean, you already got what you came for." Tears began to form at the edge of his voice. "I broke in the first second, like a little girl." He quavered.

"I still need you for one other thing." Deckard said, thinking of several little girls that he'd known that were way tougher than Karl.

A pause. "What?"

"I need you to clear the way for me to meet Mawson." Kitka strolled in and leapt upon the desk. Deck leaned forward to stroke her.

"Are you going to kill her?"

If he had to, but, "No, I just want a more complete story than I got from you."

"Why do you want to know?" The man leaned back in his chair, his eyes bloodshot.

"Because I'm writing your biography, all right!" Sarcasm spat out. For such a self-evident wimp, this guy was real pain.

"Okay, okay. If we cover this up, and I introduce you and you kill her, then I have no chance to run at all." He seemed to be calming down now. "I wouldn't be able to hide anywhere."

That seemed to make sense, but Deckard was still wary. "It really has nothing to do with the Tri at all, just people that you did business with, a while back."

"All right, but what story do you think we can come up with for that mess in there?" Starkweather reached into a box that was one his desk and pulled out a cigarette.

Anger surged through Deckard _. His men were either dead or maimed and this man calls it a mess._ His wave of anger subsided quickly, when his conscious came back with the reply of: _Yeah, and_ _who did all that anyway?_

"How about this: Eight of your men form a conspiracy to discredit and destroy you. Following up on their actions, you invent a threat against you life; get them all here and then deal with them. Your club gets a little trashed,"

"A little trashed?" Cynicism.

"A little trashed," Deckard repeated. "But you dealt with them and now you're stronger than ever." It sounded thin, but Starkweather loved it.

He got up, pushed his chair back, alarming Kitka. He was in the moment and did not notice.

"Yes, Sharky's been a little insubordinate lately, every one follows his lead, it's perfect." He began to pace back and forth behind the desk. Kitka watched him carefully, but was soothed by Deck's hand.

He stopped pacing. "What if one of the live ones saw you?"

No imagination. "Tell them that I was a," Deckard had heard this title somewhere. "Security consultant. Brought in from the outside. Kept it real secret."

That ignited the fire again.

"Of course! That was how you managed to subvert the collars from underneath them. That's how I'll introduce you to Mawson, then you can go see here. She'll think it's about other attempts." Starkweather sat down and flipped up a portion of the desk. A MIL cradle and screen were beneath.

"I'll E her and tell that this might be a more far reaching attempt, and that you looking into it for me." Deckard could hear keys clacking away under the desk.

"Sissy's very paranoid and superstitious to boot, she'll buy it, hook, line, and sinker." "Sissy? Deckard inquired.

"Yes, that's Mawson's nickname, but don't call her that to her face."

.

An hour later, Deckard made to leave. He stopped at the front, and signaled Kitka. She darted up, tail whisking about. He signaled again, and she cloaked. Through his watch video link, he tapped the sides, which would convey to Kitka which way to look. The collar she wore had corresponding vibration relays in it. The dock was empty except for seagulls and rats. A shabby stumbling figure was coming towards her, but he was no thug, only a drunk. Kitka checked him out anyway.

A grizzled old man in a captain's hat and faded pea coat with a set jaw and glassy eyes that had seen better days. Kitka uncloaked in front of him. He took a step back and then bent down murmuring "Kitty, kitty, kitty,"

She sniffed his outstretched hand and then recloaked. He did a double take, shrugged, and resumed his unsteady journey. No one else around. She came back to the front and they left.

Starkweather had made several calls. A crew was coming by to clean up the mess, another to fix the place up. By noon tomorrow, there wouldn't be trace of anything that had happened there. The diners and patrons would never guess. They would eat shrimp scampi and drink long flat red in the exact spot where Deckard had killed or maimed how many men? Now that it was all over, he couldn't remember. In any event, Mawson's people had been informed of his desire to talk with her. They apparently bought the story about security and conspiracy. He had an open invite to see her at an address that Starkweather wrote down for him.

Deckard decided that Mallos was his best lead for now. If found and taken alive, he could perhaps unravel this whole tale, and lead him to the plans of the pulse cannon. Since he was alive, Goramund would also be alive. Facing the two of them would be tough, tougher than anything he'd come up against so far. The thought of snakes unnerved him. What was it that Bowden said? _The rattle sounded like a machinegun going off in your ear_.

The thought of machine guns unnerved him even more. The sound made his blood clench in his veins. He'd been shot at enough, it was true, but in the arena that he operated in, they just weren't that common. Pistols and _Sub_ -machine guns mostly. A lot of those were fitted with silencers, too. Silent and barely noticeable. Soft popping sounds and the action slamming home, then the tear of the bullets and the shower of debris as they ripped into walls, furniture, and office equipment.

Deckard heard them afar often enough, but close up it was another matter. The explosion of the weapon, the intense flash, the scream of the bullets as they mauled everything around them. It was a violation of all the senses at once. You were deafened, blinded and shattered by it. Sometimes, when you realized that the blast was over, you were dead. Sometimes it had taken something from you, like an arm, or leg, or liver, or life. The Devil's paintbrush one solider had called it long ago. He was right. The devil painted in blood and gore. He painted pictures of agony and misery. As Deckard contemplated it, he could almost hear the sound, smell the acrid wind.

Up ahead was the boardwalk, with its lights sounds and smells. Kitka stopped suddenly and fell over on her side, twisting on her back. Deckard stopped and watched her squirm for a moment. She spoke several times. Deck picked her up and slung her over one shoulder. Purring issued from her throat, as they walked along. She was tired and hungry. Shrimp tonight perhaps. It was midnight or beyond.

.

After dinner, near the carnival again, the two decided to go back to Cen. They could go to the Pointe without fear now, and Daria would be there to talk to. Maybe she'd let them stay at her place again. Perhaps they should actually check into a hotel. That was a novel idea. How would they go about that?

Hi, I'd like to check in to your fine hotel here in the middle of the night.

Oh, yes, and will that large cat be staying with you?

Yes, she's my operative acting strictly under my instructions.

I understand perfectly. Will you be breaking into any of the other rooms?

Only if they seem interesting enough.

I see. Do you have any form of ID?

No, but I just turned your local mob headquarters into a slaughterhouse, maybe he'd vouch for me.

Deckard stifled a chuckled thinking about it. Maybe they'd try it one day, just to see. Perhaps it'd be better go see Daria and see if that bridge was burned before anymore. Deckard smiled wryly at the thought of her bare back facing him, as she went to her room and closed the door. She'd let them stay, most likely. If she wasn't mad at him. People often got angry at Deckard. Sometimes he could understand why. Most of the times he couldn't.

Seeing what looked like trolley tracks in the road, they followed them to a station. A bench below a trolley map with colored lines held a number of people, some of them looking bone tired, others quite awake. The trolley was fun. It zoomed along the tracks at a modest speed. The passengers sometimes waited for it to stop to get off, and sometimes they just bailed out. Kitka sat in Deckard's lap, her forepaws on the brass railing, holding her head out into the wind.

After a couple of transfers, they were back in Cen-Cen. The crowd was as gloomy as before. Not as many of them, but the place was still busy, with just as many places open, maybe more. There were at least more vending carts out. Or maybe he'd didn't notice before.

A couple of teenaged girls stared at him from under a theater marquis. They looked incredibly young, in leather jackets and mini-skirts, trying to look older.

"Excuse me?" The taller one, the blonde, asked him as he went by.

He stopped. "Yes?"

"We were wondering about your cat?"

Deckard looked down, as his faithful feline sat, not looking particularly interested.

"What?"

"Well, " She began. Her eyes were fluttering as she looked into his. "Well, I mean..."

Clearly, it was not Channelle they were interested in.

"What she means is," The shorter brunette chimed in. She wasn't as thin as her friend, nor as pretty, but she was obviously the brains of the pair. "Is we were wondering if your cat was some type of Abbysianian-mix?" She looked hopeful, as that maybe wasn't too dumb a thing to say.

He smiled at them. They were cute as kittens, and just as clumsy.

Giving a short whistle under his tongue, He caught Kitka as she jumped into his arms. Resettling herself, as Deckard pet her, he answered.

"Yes, she's part Abbysianian, as well as others. She's sort of unique."

The blonde one reached out to Kitka, but she growled loudly. The blonde withdrew her hand quickly.

"Careful, she's a little high strung." A pause.

"Well, bye." He turned and walked down the sidewalk. He could hear them giggling at their bravery as he left.

He stopped in front of a shop with a sign in deco letters that read "Future Modern Furniture". It was across the street from the Pointe.

In the window were replicas of sofas, tables, and chairs from the post World Wars era. It looked authentic. They also had an assortment of old looking telephones that had been converted to cordless. The street was reflected in the big window in front of him. He'd stopped to have a look at it. The feeling that someone was following him was strong. He stood there until a large enough group went by. Going through the middle of them, he crossed the street, just as a trolley passed. Nodding to the bouncers, Deck went down the steps and ducked just behind the wall. Releasing Kitka, he gave the appropriate hand signal. She faded, and he turned on his vidlink. The stairs, someone came in. A guy with a girl, dressed to the nines. No. Kitka advanced up the stairs. The street, one way, then the other. No one seemed to be taking a great interest in anything. She swept the scene and leapt onto a windowsill of the club. The higher vantage point also revealed nothing but the usual unusual. Wait, just at the corner, a man. He was standing there trying to see something. He looked up one side of the street and then the other. He was too far away to be seen clearly. Kitka stood up and was about to move closer, when he mixed in the crowd and was gone.

So someone out was there. Deckard nodded and tapped the recall button. The vidlink flickered and powered down.

Kitka rubbed on his leg and then faded into view. The two returned to their spot from before.

Daria was in the back of the club and spotted them. She came up to them.

"Deckard Blaine!" She hesitated, then held out her arms. He looked at her, slightly confused.

She let out a noise of exasperation, and stomped her foot, then held her arms higher, smiling. Oh. He hugged her tightly, and she squeezed back. She was a warm and compact little bundle. He let go, and he knelt to exchange courtesies with Kitka. Holding out a finger, Channel looked at, nosed it, then ran her jaw along it and was scratched under the chin. Meanwhile, Deckard looked at Daria. She was wearing a dark purple knee length dress with hose and her buckle boots from before. It was very form fitting, made of some thick stretch material. Daria rose and laughed at him.

"I didn't think I'd see you again." She showed them to a round table in the back, where she'd been sitting. The club wasn't quite full as last time.

"What happened around here?" He asked as he sat. "Cen's a little emptier than before."

"Well, it is a weekday, but yesterday there was a gun fight a couple of blocks from here. That always spooks people." She picked up her glass of red wine.

"Nothing to do with me?"

"Oh, no. Sometimes people just get shot at."

"Hmmm." He folded his arms and drummed his fingers on the table.

"Yes," She rested her chin in her hand. "Hmmm."

Kitka got into Deck's lap, and poked her head above the table, looking about. This made Daria laugh again. Kitka then got on the table and began sniffing at Daria right eye. This made her laugh even more. When she tried to pull away, Kitka put her front paws on Daria's shoulders, and continued.

"I'd let her have her way, if I were you," Deckard said into his glass of beer that had been set in front of him. He smacked at the taste. "She can be determined."

Looking at him for a few moments, she stood up and drained her glass of wine.

"Deckard Blaine, you are going to take me out on a date."

He sat there. "I am?"

"Yes, you are going to take me out on a date tonight, and you are going to be my boyfriend all night."

This was going to get her hurt. Deckard caught her by the hand. "Daria, there's things that you don't..."

Silencing him, she looked down. "I know it'll be just pretend, but I want to do it anyway." Her voice was small and quiet. She looked back up. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

She led him out of the club, through the back, to his relief. Her car sat there. Flicking out her MIL, she spoke into it briefly.

"Okay, Sam's covering for me. The books'll be a mess tomorrow, but I don't care."

Walking over to the passenger side, her put her hands on the car roof, then her chin on her hands.

"Where are you taking me on our date?"

The last time he was in a situation like this, it was about a million years ago. It had not been a success either.

"Well," it seemed old fashioned. "We could go to the movies?"

"Perfect!" She opened her door and got in. Deckard opened the driver door and got in.

"We'll have popcorn and soda, and we'll go out for breakfast after, on the beach. I know just the place." Sadness crossed her face for a moment, but was replaced with all smiles.

"We won't think about what happens after that at all." She sat back.

"No," He agreed. "We won't." Kitka, following them, settled in the back window shelf, sitting right in the middle, swishing her tail.

Deckard started up the car and drove out of the alley.

.

Daria directed him to an all night movie house that specialized in film-noir. It was a grand old place that had seen better times. Big, red, velvet curtains and matching seats. The insomniac that took their tickets, also sold them their popcorn and soda, and ran the film. There were only about ten others in the whole place. Kitka curled herself into a ball on one of the seats and fell asleep. Daria held onto one of his arms and munched popcorn, making sighs of contentment. The movie was corny as all hell. He'd tried not to evaluate, but couldn't help it. A private eye had picked up a girl, who was naked in a raincoat on the highway. The checkpoint he crossed was ridiculously easy. During a gunfight, the hero fired his gun _17 times_ from a six shooter without reloading. The acting was all fem-fatale and square-jawed justice, but Daria seemed to like it. Deckard had to admit, for the first time in a long time, he felt normal. After, they drove to the beach, ate breakfast tacos and watched the sun rise. She was quiet during breakfast. They walked along the seawall in the morning brightness.

Back at her car, she got in to drive and drove him to her place. "Thanks for taking me out," Daria kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I know that I've kept you up, so I want you to crash out on my bed and then you go, okay?" She said this, while pretending to straighten his collar.

Deckard opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. She turned and went into the kitchen. He went down the hallway and into her room. It was a cozy room with a four poster bed and lots of old framed photos on the wall. Kitka crawled up on it and turned about several times before curling up. Lots of lace and whispy material. The mattress was real down and he was asleep in an instant. Dreams, when they came, were forgotten.

.

When Deckard awoke, he was bare. How had that happened? His clothes were cleaned, and neatly folded on a chest at the foot of the bed. His pack was also near. Kitka, lying on the pillow he was using, rose, streching. The house was quiet. Daria, perhaps not wanting to see him go, had already left. The sun was sinking below the horizon slowly, casting an orange glow in the small house. He showered off and dressed. Sitting on the floor, tailor fashion, he disassembled his wrist rockets, cleaned them with a kit from his pack and reassembled them.

Fitting them into place, he fit the spike thrower in place of the 10mm. The spike thrower used the same principal as the 10mm, but had a lower charge and with a smaller range. The darts were coated with deadly poison or a powerful sedative. The 10mm were not going to last, not after that firefight at Tubby's. The grappler and dart rounds could be reloaded with a fair amount of ease, but the 10mm were a little harder to get.

The actions were buttery smooth as he worked them and let them retract into their metal housing. Deckard stood, looking around. The bedroom was cozy and very homey. He and Daria could be very happy here, with her club to run. His leverage with the local Tri would make things easier for her. If they tried to reassert their control, he would make them see it his way. Daria and He and Kitka would go out to eat, and to movies, plays, out to see bands. Kitka could catch birds in her small back yard and eat tuna Daria opened for her. She would take very good care of him and Kitka. It was yet another life that he would pass by. There was something out there to find. He had to find it. He closed the door, locking it. Daria was sitting on the curb, waiting.

Deckard went to her. She stood and began to speak, but he took her face in his hands and kissed her slowly, passionately. She stood, limp in his arms, as they kissed, and he felt hot tears stream over his hands. Finally, he broke it off. Dark had fallen now. They locked gazes. Hearing a bus as it passed, He jerked around to look, shot her a knowing grin, then raced after it. Kitka sprinted by his side and they picked up speed. With a small leap onto the bumper and a big one onto the roof, they were away. The wind blew salty sea air in their faces, and it was uplifting. He stood and stretched his arms, careful to keep his balance on the moving bus. After a bit, Deckard looked back, the little house was far behind them. He took a deep breath and sat down cross-legged and grabbed Kitka. Roughing her up and stroking her fur the wrong way, she grabbed on to his hand with all four feet and bit around on his thumb, kicking her back paws. He murmured to her happily and straightened out her coat, as she purred and licked his hand. They were free again. It was time to get the hell out of here. Maybe the next place would make more sense.

# Chapter Eleven

Deckard and Kitka took the ferry off the island, once known as "the sinking sandbar". From there, they got train tickets to the west. They would take it as far as it would go, then begin the hunt for the missing ultra-team. At the train station, Deckard had spotted a coffee stall, and went on net. Bowden had some information for them. Jones and Blut were dead. They had been found at the base of their tree. It looked liked they had died of natural causes. Jones was lying up against his tree; Blut curled up next to him, his head on Jones stomach, Jones's arm draped over him. Bowden had included a digital photo. The two looked like they were asleep.

Deckard screwed up his eyes in sorrow, his mouth a hard line. Kitka meowed for attention on the floor. He picked her up and held her. As he stared at the photo, he wondered if that was to be his fate. Jones and Blut had been altered beyond their means to stand it. Their bodies, once blunt weapons of destruction, had given out, expired. They had died together, at least. Possibly in the same instant. When his own time came, would it be like that? Or would he not hear the bullet? Would Kitka savage those around until she avenged him or merely sit and cry out until killed? Maybe she would run away, released from her duty to mankind by his death. The thought of her death was too crushing a blow to consider. Sensing these feelings in him, in her uncanny way, she rubbed the top of her head under his chin, chirruping at him. Deckard sniffed and laughed shakily, as he looked into Kitka's honest eyes. He got a hold of himself and set her on the table that held the computer.

"No more sleepless nights," Deckard mumbled to himself.

The next bit of information was at least more cheerful. Bowden had liked the gun. He had been able to trade it for some BAR parts that he'd been looking for. Huh. Deckard had not known that BAR parts were scarce, or even what they were. The Section had not contacted Bowden, but there was a posting on the Racecar site for Deckard to get in touch with them, in code of course. That was it.

"To hell with that," He murmured, as he deleted the message.

.

It was near the end of the grip of the Corps. The Section had been doing significant damage in all areas. The Corps representatives in the government were being voted out at every election. The elections had always gone on. Better to let the peasants think they have some control, the thought was. If an election every two years between the candidates of corporate choosing gives people the illusion of freedom, then let them have it. They had succeeded in disarming the American people through a campaign of safety and the villianization of firearms. They were just a couple of sessions way from abolishing the electoral process once and for all. Most Americans had no means of defending themselves against the IAG. If mass demonstrations or riots came, foreign national IAG troopers would be deployed and able to quell it quickly. The press would be hamstrung to report and therefore helpless. Nevertheless, the thought remained that an illusion of popular control was necessary for a little longer. Now that thought was coming back to haunt them.

Several new political parties had sprung from the ruins of the old. No matter how much they hated one another, they hated the corporations even more. The UN, which became the Unified World Organization, had collapsed as the League of Nations did before them. The European Union still carried on, but its decrees were more often ignored than obeyed. The United States of America altered into splintered provinces. The free states wanted nothing to do with the reformation government, which was just coming into its own. The Neo-Confed was reluctantly cooperating, on a day-by-day basis. The assignments that Deckard was sent out on were getting easier and easier.

The guards were becoming more and more slack. The ones in the beginning were fanatics, determined to throw their lives away to stop him. Their kind was gone now. The newer ones wanted to be alive at the end of a week to cash their paychecks. One, confronting him, had surrendered his firearm without invitation. The alarms and sensors arrays were getting scarce or were badly executed. Deckard could see the changes, and sensed that the days of frenzied assaults on steel fortresses in urban wildernesses were ending. He could see it coming, but he had no idea what it would mean to him.

.

On the train, where they had tickets for a first class booth, they dozed off and on in the sunlight coming through the window. The soft clacking of the wheels kept them sleepy. Deckard had bought sandwiches, tuna on rye, and some magazines. Kitka picked all the tuna off the bread, while Deckard slowly picked through magazines. Galvez had taken too much emotional effort for Deckard Blaine. Then to find out the Jones and Blut were dead, it was almost too much for him. He needed to clear his head, keep his mind on where he was, what he was doing. Otherwise, while on some sentimental reverie, someone else would clear his head with one well-aimed shot. He and Kitka slept during the entire time on the train, except for waking for small moments to eat, or go down the hall.

It was a day and a night and then the train made its last stop on the loop before going back around. The two got off at the station, a dusty wooden stand in the middle of nowhere. There was a sign outside the station. It read "Port Arthur Township"

A crumbly road ran off to the east, but no sign of anything else. Whatever had been here recently, or long ago, it was gone now. Tracking Mallos would be harder than he thought. With a sigh, he hefted his pack and the two went down the crumbly path. It had once been a heavily trod road that led to a once well-traveled highway. Maybe it was here that the Highway patrol had pulled over Mallos. The giant green signs were faded and some illegible with time. Striding along the shoulder, he waited for traffic, but it never came, so they moved over to the middle. There were chirping birds and small animals about. Gophers and squirrels jumped for cover as they approached. The early morning fog melted away in the sunlight.

Instead of getting hotter and more humid, as he expected, the temperature dropped.

Deckard was led to believe that Texas was hot all the time, all over the state. The time that he had been here before, long ago, it was searing. The weather patterns must have changed, because there was a definite chill in the air. During the late afternoon, they spotted a number of structures far off to the left of the highway. There were few trucks and cars around now, all hybrids. A semi pulled out and took the crossroads going west. They turned towards them.

"Port Arthur the port is down by the coast." The man at a gas pump told them, pointing. "You don't want to go there." He declared.

"Why not?" The gas station was small, but clean and well kept.

The man pushed his hat back on his head, and put a foot up on the curb. "There are unsavory elements by the port. Smugglers and worse."

Deckard thanked the man, took his advice on eating at the nearby diner. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out, just a few farmers and ranchers cleaning out the rest of the coffee and pie.

The waitress was right out of a pulp novel, as she served in a pink uniform, chewing gun. No one said anything about Kitka either, not telling him that she was not allowed in, nor commenting on her size. Strange. But judging from the way that the other customers were keeping their heads down, avoiding his gaze, he got the idea that they were used to strange things and wanted no part of them. He paid the bill and left.

Smugglers and worse. That seemed like just the place for Mallos. It was a little cold around here for snakes, but Goramund was no ordinary reptile. Now that there seemed to be a chance of meeting up with the pair, Deckard reviewed the MIL file. According to it, Goramund could withstand extreme temperatures. Part constrictor; he had once swallowed a whole sheep and slept for the good part of a month. They also fed him cooked meat, hay, vegetables and anything else they could think of. Goramund would eat anything. Other spliced animals had been fussy about what they would eat, and that made them impractical. Deckard smiled when he read this. It was true about Channelle. She ate anything he did, and some things he would not.

Occasionally, she would leave her own food to sample his. If he refused, sometimes, she would jump up and take it right out of his hand, or spoon, or off his fork on the way to his mouth, purring the whole time.

There was little about Mallos' abilities. Deckard assumed that the two had faked their death and made their escape before his abilities could manifest fully. Thinking about how his own mirrored Kitka's, he tried to imagine what Mallos could do. His skin might be thick, hard to puncture. His arms and legs might be double jointed or elongated. He might have folding fangs, maybe tipped with venom. It seemed difficult to blend the characteristics together. He could understand what LesPaul meant about cold blood and warm blood. Snakes were deaf, would Goramund be deaf? Alternatively, did they try to cultivate hearing from the human counterpart? Would Mallos be deaf, as an accident of the genetic process, like his own rudimentary claws? How loud would that rattle be? Disgust at the subject ran through him as he considered it.

A thump of impact was heard in the distance. Small black clouds formed closed to the ground and were swept away by the wind. As it blew towards them, Deckard could smell gunpowder. The reports of small arms fires drifted to their ears. Deckard took a knee, shut off the MIL, and got out his scopes. Kitka went to his side. He could make out nothing. Just a large open field ahead, that looked as if it had been ravaged by an unnatural disaster. The highway, which had been declining in size, lead to the right of it. Motionless, scanning the horizon, he could still make out nothing. They were on a slight incline that might be blocking the total view. Deckard got up and advanced towards what he could recognize as the din of battle.

Unwilling to send Kitka forward in her shroud, he went slowly, the thumps of shells being fired, perhaps two kilometers away. Over the rise and off the highway, he took a knee again. They were in the field, which was overgrown, but showed signs of activity, as soon as a week before. Down in the glen, he could make out figures racing towards what looked to be a base camp dug into the earth, with trenches running to the sides and in front. What the hell? Was this a war? A civil war? Who was fighting it?

Kitka put a paw on his knee and leaned into the wind, but it had shifted towards the battlefield. Deckard decided to get a little closer. They moved on steadily, stopping every dozen meters or so to kneel and look. He had just put his pack back on when it happened.

"Up with your hands!" A tall figure in a gray uniform stood in front of him. A man, in a spiked helmet, pointed a long rifle at him with a long thin bayonet on it. Before he could consider a reaction, four other men stood up, pointing similar rifles. Kitka looked up at him, as he slowly raised his hands. They had been hidden well.

.

The men who captured him were clad in antique looking wool uniforms, with cuffs and braid on them. Their helmets were covered with canvas, with a hole to let the spike out. They had bolt-action rifles, bulky rucksacks and various bits of gear hanging off wide leather belts. The man in charge merely motioned for him to throw over his pack, so he did. Rather than going through it, he merely shouldered it, and gestured with his bayoneted rifle which way to go. The other four took up positions, two in front, facing him, and two in back. The soldier in charge led the way towards the bunker.

Deckard tried engaging them in conversation, but they did not reply, as if they hadn't heard. Kitka shrouded when they were confronted, but Deckard, seeing the odds, made no motions, so she faded back in.

She strode along beside him, meowing out her confusion. Clearly, she had been expecting a fight, and now none was forth coming. Getting the one in charge had been a certainty, but with the other four, that would have got him shot, maybe killed. The four other soldiers had stood far enough away to avoid being grabbed or hit. They had done this before, that much was obvious. Deckard had no doubt that one false move and they would shoot to kill. This was an open field, and they were holding their rifle steady and true.

The bayonets were another problem. If he had charged one, he would've been stuck, then he'd been shot by the others. Then the question of what Kitka would do in the event of his death would be answered. Nevertheless, he would still be dead or dying. Besides all that, he didn't feel like he was in imminent danger. Above all else, his curiosity was peaked. These uniforms and guns, what was _that_ all about? No army equipped it's soldiers with wool uniforms, much less the rifles they carried, which Deckard had identified as bolt action. Was this an insurrection force, making do with what they had? No, it must be a reenactment group of some type. He had read about them in half a dozen Netwindows that he'd stumbled upon. Weekend warriors would get on their costumes and pretend to rough it for a weekend or so. Still, they looked as if they meant business and Deckard didn't think of taking them lightly.

They would take him to their commander now, and Deckard would explain his position. The commander might know something of Mallos. In all likelihood, he would be let go after proving that he was just passing through. He made a clapping noise with one hand and Kitka jumped into his arms. The squad halted at this motion, and the two in front angled their guns up at his face.

Deckard assumed an innocent look. After a moment or two, they continued. As they got closer to the fortress, they entered the opening of the trenches. They were wide enough for three people to walk abreast, and eight feet high. In some places they were reinforced with wood, it more or less went right into the small fortress. It was cramped inside, with a low ceiling, all made out of rough timbers. There were several exits, presumably off to different trenches. Men in the same gray uniforms went here or there, or sat or lay where they were, looking at him. No one wore the spiked helmets inside, but rather wool hats with a red circle on the front.

To his surprise, everyone seemed to be smoking, just right out in the open. Smoking was illegal, but people still did it. Even big shots like Haining and his crowd had to purchase a permit for it, and that was only good for a certain number of hours. If a cop saw you with a smoke, he could search you, your house, your car, and get evidence from other crimes.

Just the same, if a person smoked, he or she did it at home, or a hidden place. No more than two people smoked at the same place and time. Here, they were dangling off the lips of almost everyone he saw. Not just men either, he saw quite a few women too, all wearing the same uniform. The smell was strong of boiling cabbage, smoke, soil, and humanity. It was dim, lit by a few kerosene lamps. The two front guards left them at the front of the entrance and the soldier in charge stopped him.

"My name is Sergeant Klaus Woller of Company B. I am taking you to my Commandant, Commandant Von Garcia. It is necessary to take you in to be questioned by him. You will not be harmed or interfered with in any way if you cooperate. May I have your assurance that you will not try to attack or run?" His speech was clipped and blurred with an uncertain accent.

Blaine considered this. "I will not attack if you do not and I will not run."

The other two guards left and the Sergeant shouldered his rifle.

"Then follow me." He swept aside a thick curtain and Deckard went through. It was Headquarters and no doubt. A radio operator was at the back left, manning an ancient set up. A cot was up near the entrance on the right, next to a table with several books on it. A central beam held up a network of wood slats overhead. Several hooks embedded in the ceiling held lanterns casting a yellow glow about the place.

In the middle was desk with a canvas-backed chair in front of it. Behind it sat a short chunky man of Hispanic background with a large walrus mustache. His uniform, gray in color, was more elaborate than those Deckard seen before. The seams, pockets and cuffs were outlined in intricate silver and gold braid. His chest fairly sparkled with badges and ribbons. Around his neck, he wore a blue Teutonic cross. The Commandant was bent over a map, marking it here and there with a pencil. Also on his desk was a riding crop, a chrome helmet adorned with a large detailed brass eagle, black leather strap and tall fluted spike and a heavy German pistol. Deckard signaled Kitka to get out of sight and stay out of sight.

"Prisoner to see you, Commandant." The Sergeant snapped up a salute.

The Commandant looked up and returned the salute. The solider turned on his heel and exited.

"Please sit down." The Commandant rose and gestured. Deckard took a seat, sitting back, folding his hands in his lap.

"May I pour you a drink? Schnapps? Brandy?"

Deckard declined.

"Welcome to the 3rd infantry battalion. I am your new Commandant, Commandant Von Garcia. I have distinguished myself and my command in numerous campaigns against the British, French and Belgians. I know you look forward to meeting your comrades and having a distinguished term of service."

Deckard Blaine leaned forward in his chair, mouth open in surprise. He regained his composure to make his protest.

"Commandant, I'm sure your cause is just here, but I don't meant to enlist, I was on my way to Port Arthur."

Von Garcia bristled at this. "Port Arthur is under our control. Any persons caught in our territory out of uniform are subject to conscription or execution by firing squad. It is your choice." He took his seat again.

"I might add," he went on, noting Deckard's posture getting ready to spring. "I have this bunker wired with laser emitters that will go off on anyone not wearing our uniform with the press of this button." He picked up the riding crop. On the butt end was a red button. "And my troops will shoot you down if you run." Von Garcia leaned back in his chair. Behind him was an iron potbelly stove with a chrome kettle was sitting on it, steam rising out.

"So you see, I know that you look forward to a distinguished term of service." He eyed Deckard. The Commandant had been through this chat with others like him.

After a moment, he stood up again. "I realize that the war has disturbed your life, as it has everyone's." He looked sad at his own comment. "But, if you stand by your comrades, and serve your unit with honor the quicker all this will be over." Confident. Satisfied. "Senior Private, take this man to this company, and see to it that he has been outfitted and supplied by our quarter master."

Deckard's emotions ran the gamut from disbelief to anger to helplessness. He sat there flexing his hands, staring at the Commandant. Running through several scenarios in his head, they all would up with his being dead. He could get Von Garcia and the private, but the men outside, who might number into the legions, would surely bring him down. If Bowden and Murphy were here, they could do it. This sort of situation was right up their alley.

"Come on, and I'll get you squared away." The private said, standing at his elbow. Deckard got up and followed him out of the bunker. Sure enough, right outside the door, was another officer with his pistol drawn, two others flanked him with rifles.

"Here's the new recruit," The private said to the officer. "Good luck," he said to Deckard.

The officer holstered his pistol and stuck out his hand. "I'm Lt. Vesthaus, B Company,"

Deckard shook his hand.

"You will be called Hans Muller. When you get outfitted, report for duty." He went off to the left hand side trench, one of the men went with him.

"Muller, I'm Sgt Steiner, your squad leader. Come with me." He was a youngish sort, with ancient expression. His uniform was worn and mended. Turning, he went down the opposite side. Small arms fire erupted up and down the trench along with minor explosions. Deckard followed, having no idea what else to do.

The network of trenches was intricate, making several turns. Some parts were thick with machine guns and soldiers. The noise of gunfire was everywhere, with men and women rushing back and forth. Some were wounded, but he never saw any dead. He asked Steiner.

"They'll be plenty of dead tomorrow, it's Verdun day. Today, its just Watch." They plodded on. Steiner seemed to be a regular guy. There was a certain frankness in his eyes.

"Verdun day, can I ask what that is, or is that some military secret."

Steiner made a sarcastic laugh. "Nothing is a secret here, Muller." They seemed to be going away from the fighting. The trench seemed to widen and shorten. "Tomorrow, you'll get all the answers you need." They were at some type of rear camp. There were several structures of wood or canvas, or both. A hospital, a depot, a mess tent.

"You can't tell me what's going on." Steiner never looked at him or stopped.

"I can tell you tomorrow." Pointing at a short green building. "Go in and get outfitted. When you're done, get back to B Company, first squad. The troops'll point the way." He walked off, but then stopped and turned and looked at Deckard.

"Sorry to be short with you, Muller, but the only thing that new men know how to do around here is die." He resumed his course.

Deckard watched him go and then went inside. Kitka stole in after him.

He was outfitted with a gray wool uniform and identification disc. It was the only thing that looked tech. It was a hard black plastic with his name and a serial number imprinted on it. It was serrated in the middle. Putting it on, Deckard decided it was also a tracking device. When activated, the laser emitters would send out a signal. The disc picked it up and replied with it's own. Any moving target of the right size without a reply signal would be zapped. He would have to remember that when an opportunity rose to leave.

Deckard also got two hats, wool uniform shirt and pants, a pair of hobnail boots and a metal spiked helmet. Other gear he got: a k98 rifle, 60 rounds of ammunition in leather pouches, a rucksack, a short shovel, a gasmask container with gasmask, a water flask, a mess kit, haversack, a belt to put all of it on and leather braces to hold it up. The quartermaster told him to put it all on and then surrender his civilian items. All non-issue equipment or non-period equipment discovered on his person would warrant a fine and/or punishment up to and including death. After this short speech, he turned back to his paperwork.

Deckard was not really watched, so he was able to put all of his important items in the haversack. He was told that he would be given back his personal effects at the end of hostilities. The gear was impressively antique. Each item looked to be authentic.

Kitka stared around wide-eyed at everything and was jumpy. Deckard didn't blame her. The whole place smelled like burning metal and rotting canvas. With everything on, he felt like he weighed 300 pounds.

Outside once more, he stood in a line to get a helping of Haricot beans, with bits of meat in it, and a hunk of bread. He locked this up in his mess tin and headed back towards the line. Kitka climbed up and sat on his backpack, as he made his way along.

The men and women that he spoke to about Company B, 1st squad, all blinked at him, and then pointed the way. Their faces were grim and smudged, their eyes either dead or fiery. The first squad was far forward, next to a row of heavy, belt-fed machine guns that seemed to go off at random intervals. He flinched at the noise and went inside. Three other squads shared the bunker, but only six or seven people were present. They all had attitudes mirroring Steiner's when he tried to talk to them, so he gave up.

Getting a bunk that was as far away from the machineguns as possible, he began to unload his new belongings. There was a small shelf above the bunk and Deck set most of items there. He decided to keep the shovel, the ammo pouches, the bayonet and the haversack. The helmet was cool, but it didn't seem to be very effective. Deckard lay down on the cot; hands behind his head, watching the others play cards, or sleep or listen to static filled band music through what they called a "wireless." Kitka settled on his chest, kneading at his uniform. He stroked her ears and thought.

This was some kind of reenactment of a world war battle. The uniforms were drab and there seemed to be a singular lack of fanaticism, so it must be the first part. Another soldier also sat alone at the other end of the bunk. Was he new here as well? Most likely not. He seemed bored and at ease with his surroundings.

Deck got up and approached him.

"Hi," He said looking down at the fellow.

"Hey,"

"Mind if I ask a few questions? I'm the FNG around here."

The guy considered this. "What do you have to trade?"

While not exactly friendly, it seemed he was at least willing to talk for a price. What would be of use to him, though?

"I've got some beans."

That brought a reaction. The man took a spoon out of his boot and stood up. Deckard went to his bunk and handed over the mess tin. The solider opened it and began to eat.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" He asked between mouthfuls.

"I assume that this is some sort of war reenactment, right."

"Boy, you don't know the half of it." Another mouthful, "This is all the work of Commandant Gerhard Von Garcia and Captain Sir Anthony Malkhart. They started this over ten years ago. It was a reenactment then, it's all real now." Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

"Now, it's the real thing. The blood, the bullets, the fighting. All real." He was finished and handed back the mess kit. "I left you the bread, you'll need it for breakfast." Licking his spoon clean, he replaced it in his boot, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.

"All of these men here, either volunteered or were drafted, like you and me."

"How did you know I was drafted?" Deckard asked.

"If you'd volunteered, you'd already know what was going on." He got a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket.

"Let's go have a smoke." He turned and left the bunker. Apparently, it didn't enter into his head that someone would turn down such an offer. Deckard followed, motioning Kitka to stay on his bunk. Outside, The man lit up his cigarette and offered one to Deckard. Deckard took it and let him light it.

"My name's Kropp."

"I'm Deckard, but also Hans Muller, so take your pick."

Kropp looked at him intently. "Another Hans Muller, The Lt. really likes that name I guess. Anyhow, these two jaybirds started this job a while back, and they got into an argument about how the battle of Verdun would go if changes were made." He blew out a plume of smoke. "They decided to put their theories to the test."

Deckard took a drag and resisted coughing.

"So tomorrow is Verdun Day."

"Ach ja. It's going to be messy. Might last a week."

"What the purpose of this?"

Kropp looked somewhat surprised. "The purpose? Historical accuracy. The honor of B Company." He took a long drag. "Who knows?" He said after a pause.

"Why do these people stay? Why do you? Surely someone could wrest the control stick away from Von Garcia." Deckard said.

"You don't understand, do you?" Kropp bit his lip and tilted his head. "We have to stay here. What else would we do? Do you know what's waiting out there for us?"

"What?"

"The unknown, Muller. Out there, we're nothing! Here, we are men. The men of company B, 1st squad. We eat, we sleep, we fight, and we die. That's what we know." Kropp's voice had a tinge of sarcasm in it.

"You don't sound convinced."

"Well, I'm different. I have more of a head on my shoulders than most of these apes. I wasn't as affected by the beam either."

"What beam? You mean N-beams."

Kropp's eyes went glassy and he paled, as he shot Deckard a look of panic. "Never you mind about that." He started to go back inside.

"Tomorrow, we go over the top, and if you get back, everyone'll warm up and you'll feel different." He said over his shoulder.

Deckard went inside as well and back to his bunk. There were a couple of soldiers, a man and a woman near it, looking at Kitka. At his approach, they cast their eyes down and went away. Kitka had stretched out on her stomach, paws out, eyes mere slits. She gave a soft cry as he sat down and moved her over.

He thought he knew what had happened around here. The N-beams that had been used during the Info war had broad spanning effects. Of course, they had come up with a cure to the effects, but no one knew what the long-term residuals would be. Deckard thought he might be witnessing those residuals now. The N-beam left a person exposed to it forever crouching in a corner, shaking with fear. They had to be sedated in order to fed intravenously. Then some of them began walking out of mental wards. A treatment had been developed. The former victims were a little nervous, but able to function. So X began developing a vaccine that was proactive. After inoculation, a solider could withstand the N-beams, with just a facial tick, but the after-effects? No one could say. No one until now. Some of these people had obviously been exposed to the beam and then cured, others might've gotten the proactive dose, some might just be crazy. Whatever the reason, everyone was going over the top tomorrow, and he had no doubt that the other side was just as real. Deckard had confidence in his abilities, but what good was skill against mad men?

.

The predawn hours, Sgt Steiner had come in and lit all the lamps yelling loudly for them all to get up. Deckard had slept like a stone. The cot had been made of wood and rope, the pallet stuffed with straw. He rose, dressed and fell out with the others. Kitka shrouded and went out with him.

"Okay, people, listen up-" Deckard looked about. There were six others in the squad besides Kropp. Three other men and three women. Their faces were hard and grim. The other squads had been spread out further down the line. The morning air was crisp and cold.

"Today, we go up and over, through No man's land and onto the Tommie's side. We take the first trench and hold it until sundown."

He looked around and buckled his helmet.

"Okay, on my signal," The machine guns were silent. The squad went along the trench line, grabbing handholds and footholds to boost themselves up. Deckard took a deep breath. He wondered if this had actually happened at Verdun.

The signal was given and men and women all went up and over with hoarse cries, firing their rifles. The machineguns went off on cue.

Deckard leapt up the side of the trench and charged in the direction of no man's land. He fired his rifle once for conformity's sake and then dropped the clumsy weapon. The air was rife with the buzz of rifle bullets.

"Kitka, go, now!" He yelled as he ran along. Kitka was most likely at the Tommy's trench already. She would be of more use there anyway. They couldn't work in tandem out here. There was no subtlety out here. This was crude and wasteful insanity. Smoke and noise of guns and screams were thick. Deckard reached the barbwire that was the border and leapt over. The others were far behind him. No man's land was pocked with holes. He could see dozen or so Tommies rushing towards him in green uniforms. Deckard pulled out his entrenching shovel, picked up his pace and was among them. Using his shovel, he smacked the first one in the face with a two handed swing, side-stepped a plunging bayonet and sent it's owner to ground with a blow to the neck. A round whistled past him and he turned to see the shooter pull back the bolt of his rifle.

Covering the distance quickly, Deckard seized the barrel and pulled it towards him, and brought his spade across. The shooter fell and tumbled over, blood spraying out. A small object landed near him, and he gave it a good kick. It soared upwards and exploded about thirty feet away. Dirt showered him, as he realized that another grenade had landed near. He felt around on himself and was unhurt. The others were now with him and hand to hand combat ensued all over the field.

A Tommy, who had just sunk a knuckle knife into the ribs on one of his comrades, turned on him. Deckard chopped him in the knife hand with his spade. The knife fell to the earth and the Tommy scrambled for his side arm. Deckard kicked him in the gut and he doubled over. A bash on the back of the head and he crumpled. The way was open. He rushed the trench and jumped into it. Surprising a couple of British soldiers, he knocked one to the ground and looked for the other one. The other one had run for it. Taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, Deckard gave a low whistle. Kitka came around the corner. Dropping the helmet, he bent down and scratched the top of her head.

"What's here, girl? What's here?" He asked softly. She looked up at him and wound around his legs. The fighting was still going on up top. Deckard folded up his cuff enough to use his dart thrower and began to explore. The trench was not unlike the one he'd been in last night, except it was empty of all material and equipment. A couple of Tommies lay on the bottom of the trench with slashed throats. Kitka's doing. He turned the corner and encountered a Tommy Machine gun crew just setting up. He sent them each to sleep with a dart in the neck. Von Garcia must have surprised Milk-heart or whatever his name was, by attacking a non-fortified position. The men that were in this trench had climbed up to attack, but had no reinforcements.

Taking the machine gun off his tripod, he gave it the once over. He had an idea about how to operate it. If Bowden were here, he'd be able to field strip it, name the parts, and give lectures about it. Taking it along the trench with him, he came upon two other crews. They were also trying to set up one of the ungainly weapons and were easily made to surrender. Rather than take them prisoners, who he would have to watch over, he drove them off with a burst of fire at the ground. They would probably run right to their friends and bring them right back. He needed the rest of his squad to hold the trench. Where were they?

This was an idiot's business or a professional's, and he was no professional, not at this. Deckard put the machine gun over his shoulder and hefted another one and returned to where he'd come down. Kropp and one other had just jumped in. They wheeled about to attack, but saw who he was and stopped. They were panting and sweaty.

"Where are the others?" He asked Kropp. Kropp gestured with his thumb back toward no man's land.

What were they doing? He poked his head up to see his squad not far away. Steiner was waving his arm and yelling.

" _REEEETREEEEAT_!" He could hear.

Kropp climbed up, putting a cigarette in his mouth.

"You gotta to be kidding." He mumbled. "We almost made it!"

"Why are we retreating?" Deckard demanded. "We've got three machine guns here! If we get more men, we can hold this trench."

Kropp kept moving off towards Steiner.

"We can't hold it unless he reach the first trench in under twenty minutes with at least four men," He turned toward the solider that was with him. "Sorry, Sharon, you know what I mean."

The girl solider murmured that that was ok, but she also looked disgusted at what was happening. Cursing, Deckard dropped the guns and joined the other two. The three of them walked back to Steiner. The Tommies were gone, dead, wounded or run away, but Company B had apparently lost the morning's action.

Deckard whistled to Kitka, who scrambled up and kept pace with them.

Kropp noticed her. "Steiner's gonna be mad you brought a cat out here."

"What cat?" Deckard asked, innocently, as Kitka shrouded.

# Chapter Twelve

Steiner waited until everyone was gathered around. The first squad, the second, and the third, or what remained of them were rallied in the middle of no man's land. They were all tired, dirty, and some of them had wounds and were binding them up. They all had that hollow look that Deckard had come to associate with hopelessness. It seemed dangerous to be grouped up in the middle of No Man's land, but for reasons that Deckard just did not get, they were not being fired on or attacked.

"Okay, listen up," He looked at each of them in the eye. "We failed to take the first trench, so that means bombardment."

Groans from the squads.

"Yes, I understand, but I don't hesitate to remind you that if our attack had been more _coordinated,_ we would be resting in comfort right now."

Some members looked down at this, but Deckard spoke up.

"Sergeant, three members of first squad entered that trench and secured three machine guns. With those, we could've held it until the rest got there." He took a step closer to Steiner. "That's when _you_ sounded retreat." Deckard was sure that this would evoke anger and a fight would ensue. Then he could make his move.

"Look, Muller, I'm aware of what you, Kropp and Adler there accomplished, and I'm going to mention this to the Lt." He had a careworn and exasperated look on his face. "But we've got rules to follow, and that means bombardment." He shouldered a pack that was sitting on the ground.

"So take up good positions, all the old hands show the newer ones what I mean." He walked off to his own position. Deckard turned to Kropp.

Kropp was staring at the ground in frustration.

"What he means, Muller, is that no we have to lie in No Mans all night and let the Tommies drop shells on us." He looked up and looked about.

"Find some cover and wait until the shell hits, then crawl into the hole. The odds of two shells hitting the same place twice is high, so shell holes make good cover." Kropp began to wander around the field. "Remember that."

Deckard and Sharon Adler followed him. He was searching for a good spot. "Easier than digging your own grave, too." He flopped into crease in the ground and got out his shovel.

"Dig in, kinder, we've got a long night ahead of us." He told them. Deckard looked around and found that Adler was digging a hole next to Kropp, so he did the same on the other side.

Kropp had picked well, the soil was soft and churned up and he only had to dig out a little. Deckard dug his deep and wide. Kitka sat at the top of the hole, watching him.

"Tommy will have job bringing out his artillery; they never begin the bombardment on time." He lounged in his hole, certain of his opinion. "I'd say that we have 'til about noon for the rain to begin, so in the meantime," He shed his helmet and donned his cap, pulling it over his eyes.

Shannon was a tough looking girl with dark hair, a long braid hung down her back. She had taken off her tunic to resume the labor. She wore a white sleeveless shirt underneath. She had an ample frame under that thick uniform, and Deckard admired it out of the corner of his eye as he dug.

Her smudged face was narrow, while not beautiful, it did have charm. Her eyes were deep set and dark blue. She was crying silently as dug. Deckard recalled that she had been one of the two that had been looking at Kitka last night. The other was a man, her man maybe. Where was he now, Deckard wondered. Dead maybe.

.

Kropp had been wrong about the bombardment. They lay in their holes all day without incidence. Around one o'clock, Kropp stirred from his sluggish pose. Looking at the sun with one hand up, he judged the time.

"You two wait here." He ambled off towards their own lines.

Deckard had been wiling away the time looking at the sky. It was a deep gray, with a quilt of cloud cover. It was a snow sky. The air smelled of frost. If it went all day without snow, they would certainly get some tonight. Shannon was content to remain in her hole, hunched over. At Kropp's leaving, she leaned over the top of her hole, and placed her rifle where she could reach it quickly. She also set two stock grenades upright where they could be grabbed quickly. A veteran obviously.

"Been here long?" Deckard asked.

Shannon looked over at him, still sad looking.

"Just over three years now."

"What got you here?"

"I volunteered," Her voice was full of forfeiture. "With my boyfriend, Conrad Falkenhorst." At saying his name, she pulled a Luger out of a holster on her belt. For a lingering moment, Deckard thought she might shoot herself right then and there. The moment ebbed away. She just looked at it.

"This was his, his father had given it to him a long time ago." Shannon offered it over to him.

"Nice." Deckard said, looking it over. It was a regal looking weapon, built for a different time. The steel was polished and blue, the wooden checkered grips shone with oil. It was lacking all the basics that Deckard had come to expect in a handgun. It's magazine held only nine rounds, there was no intergrated laser or holographic sights, no comp ports or silencer attachments. It was from a time, he guessed, when men were supposed to kill each other with grace and dignity, face to face. He handed it back.

"Conrad was in one of the first attacks on the French." She holstered it. "He came back from the army after the beams hit him.' Shannon was barely keeping the tears in. "They said they'd cured him," Sobbing into her sleeve, she hid her anguish. After a minute, she composed herself and went on.

"He heard about Von Garcia and his plan and joined up. I asked him why, but he could not tell me. I joined up too, at least we were together. Then this morning..." Kropp walked up then, with a tin bucket full of the day's rations. Shannon quickly wiped her face of sorrow and grief. She and Deckard fetched their mess kits.

"Beans again, you two, but at least it's hot. Eat up." He sat on the edge of his hole to eat. He spotted the array of Shannon's weaponry.

"God, Adler, ready for some action? Don't be _that_ worried. Tommy won't come over the top until Malkhart has his precious bombardment." He resumed eating. Channelle rolled around in the dirt for a bit, and then ate some of meat bits from the beans, but Deckard knew she was not hungry.

She had killed quite a few rats the night before. They were incredibly brazen, climbing over people as they slept, getting on the tables, and poking into covers. Kitka let three or four of them get in before she nailed them. Deckard could hear her pouncing on them, breaking their necks or grabbing them by the tail. Some of them made a lot of noise when she caught them. The rest of the squads didn't seem to notice. They didn't stop coming until she had greased quite a few. He made the score at least twenty, but saw no evidence of them that morning. She might've eaten all of them, but that was doubtful.

Shannon ate her beans quietly. She did not move any of her lethal implements. Deckard ate his and used his bread from yesterday to mop up the grease. Locking the tin away, he turned to Kropp.

"So what the word down the line?"

Kropp was smoking and at ease.

"There's talk that the bombardment won't go at all. There's also talk that it might begin any moment. The Brits are a meticulous lot. They like to have clear weather before they start shooting. Like they can hit anything on a sunny day anyhow." He was facing the British lines, watching them closely. "It looks like it might snow, and that doesn't suit them at all, at all." He turned to Deckard with a grin on his face.

"That was some good work this morning, Hans! Sgt. Steiner's putting you in for a decoration, and maybe a promotion. Surprised those Tommys, I can tell you." He leaned in closer. "One of those you got killed Falkenhorst," He whispered. "Shannon will thank you for that later I'm sure." Kropp winked. He resumed his parade ground volume.

"That's probably why the delay. The machine gun crews are supposed to suppress our attack before the shelling. We're supposed to be digging in while little .303 birds fly over our heads. When they failed to report, I'm sure that Tommy got totally in a bind."

Deckard considered all this.

"You ever been captured before, Kropp?"

"Sure, yeah."

"What happens?"

"Well, they take away your rifle, grenades, and pistol if you have one, and sell 'em back to the other side's quartermasters. Same thing we do. Some of this stuff is hard to come by."

"But what happens to you personally?"

"Well, they put you in a prison camp until there's an exchange. Sometimes, you have to wait in the camp for a while, couple of months maybe. Why?"

"Just wondering."

Kropp grunted and returned to his vigil. The day wore on, and still no bombardment. It was near sundown, when Kropp stuck his head up, then dove into his hole.

"Here it comes!" He shouted. Sharp howls screeched through the air and crashed on the ground, spraying the three holes with dirt. It went on for about ten minutes. Deckard poked his head up and saw a large crater in front of him and to the right. He edged out of his hole, crawled towards it, and fell down into it. Kropp and Adler were already there. It was a large hole and they made room for him. None of them spoke during the shelling. The noise was shattering the air and corrupting the earth with each impact. Deckard held his position, but he wanted to run. Shannon kept her face covered as she hunkered down. Kitka squirmed under Deck's arms and lay under his neck. She opened her mouth and panted. Kitka was afraid and trying to create a larger scent picture. She was trying to understand what was happening.

"No one understands, girl, no one." He murmured. She responded by burying her head under his elbow.

Deckard looked over at Kropp. He was lying there chewing on something, calmly surveying the destruction. The shells seemed to getting closer, they would be on top of them soon. Then they thinned out. Eighteen became seven, then two, then zero. A smoky haze clung to the ground. The sun had set by now. Deckard began to feel bites of ice on his arms and face.

"It's snowing." Kropp said, taking off his helmet and looking up. "That's why they stopped." He exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath the whole time. "Lucky us, now we get to freeze to death, rather than getting blown to bits."

Deckard put on his wool cap. He grew angry at what was happening to him. He shed his belt and braces and all his equipment.

"You two wait here, I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Where are you going? Sightseeing?" Kropp demanded.

"I'm just going to get some stuff so we can enjoy our little camping trip." He crawled out and then, sniffing the air, stood up.

"Well, take this, you seem to handle it well enough," Kropp tossed his trench shovel at him.

Deckard caught it, said thanks and disappeared into the night. Kitka raced ahead, and they went back their bunker. They saw others holed up, but no one said anything. The trench was deserted of men, only the rats remained. Kitka routed them and while she was at work, Deckard scavenged through. He paid no mind about what belonged to whom, but just took what looked useful. Kitka was meowling and spitting as she pursued the arrogant rodents.

She was taking her fear out on them. They deserved it, Deckard thought. The little bastards would feast on the dead in No Man's Land after the shelling. The snow had postponed their feast. He whistled and she broke off her fight and trotted up to him. Deckard bent and scratched the top of her head, praising her for her work on the rodents. They made their way back to the shell hole. His booty consisted of four mess tins of beef and beans, two flasks of brandy, and three blankets. Kropp and Adler cried out his praise between mouthfuls of food and drink. The blankets were gathered about them. The sky gave them quite a bit of light and the snow began to accumulate.

When they were finished, full and slightly drunk, Deckard told them his plan.

"What would you two think about taking that Tommy trench?

They just gaped at him.

"Before you reply, I want to make my case." Deckard looked at both of them. They were listening at least.

"This morning, we three had that trench in our hands." He held out his hands and clenched them to illustrate his point. "We had the guns and we had the Tommys on the _run_. Then just because we didn't make it according to some rule, we have to come out here and spend the night getting shelled. Another rule working against us. In fact, there was probably another rule against my going to get this stuff," He gestured at his stolen goods. "Right?"

Kropp nodded. Adler just stared at him as though he were from Mars.

"Well, I say that I've had enough of these rules. There are no rules in love and war! Haven't you heard that before?" They nodded slowly. "I say that we get up, stroll over there and take that trench. If it's against the rules of war to win it, then the hell with those rules." Deckard stopped to take a breath. He felt like he was making a speech for political office. "It'll be easy. Those Tommies are just sitting in their bunkers smoking, joking, and listening to the wireless. While we lay here in the mud, waiting for them to get comfortable enough to kill us again. Kropp, you have anymore cigarettes?" Kropp didn't bother to look. He'd smoked his last one hours before.

"I'll bet you the Tommys got cigarettes. I say we go. We go for honor. For Glory. For the honor and glory of Company B!"

Neither one of them said a word. They just kept starring incredulously at him.

"Well?" He stood up. "What do you say?"

Kropp stood up too. "Okay, you've sold me. I'll go."

Adler stood as well. "Yes, let's go."

Deckard was stunned. He thought that that was going to be harder. He thought he might have to argue, threaten and cajole them into it. Well, if they wanted to go that easily, fine.

"Good," He said, trying to cover up his surprise. "This way, then," Deckard hissed out the signal to Kitka and slipped his watch out of his haversack.

They seemed to be the only ones so far forward in No Man's Land. They reached a section of barbed wire. Deckard was about to jump it, but Adler and Kropp hustled up and cut the wire like the pros that they were. They had gathered all of their gear. Deckard realized that he had left all of his behind, except for his trusty spade.

This realization made him roll up his sleeves to his elbows to expose the barrels of his wrist guns. The trench opening ahead was devoid of life. Deckard knelt and gestured for the others to do the same. Flipping over to DV on his watch, he saw that Kitka was looking up and down the trench. No one. The machineguns that he had taken earlier in the day were now set up and waiting for them. They were covered with a tarp.

There was a light from the nearest bunker, laughter and music too. Kitka crept up to it and went inside. Inside, a group of British soldiers were sitting or lying on cots about a large cook pot on a fire. One of them had a mandolin and was picking out a lively tune. Some of the others kept time by clapping their hands. They were sitting ducks playing war by the rules.

Waving the Kropp and Adler in, he surged forward and slipped into the trench. Deckard got to the opening of the bunker. He checked his dart thrower.

"Set 'em up." He whispered into his audio relay.

Eyes on his watch, he saw Kitka take up a place on a high shelf above the other bunker door. She unshrouded and let out a loud sound. All the soldiers looked up. Deckard burst in and shot the two nearest him in the neck.

"Hold it!" He yelled out. Covering the rest of them. "Don't move." Kropp and Adler rushed in, rifles up.

"Cover them." Deckard went around the room and took away all their pistols, knives and rifles. He dumped them on a bunk near Kropp. He even took the mandolin away, but after examining it returned it.

"Whoosh, thas better," One of them exclaimed. "I thought he was a music hater for minute." The others all laughed harshly. Deckard silenced them.

"Now, you all are now prisoners, got it?" Quiet defiance. Angry looks. "Look, your friends are okay, they'll come to." Deckard picked one of the ones he shot off the ground where he'd fallen. After some shaking, the man groaned and smacked his lips. Deckard set him on another bunk.

"See? Not dead." The Tommys looked somewhat relieved, but still silent. As soon as he let down his guard, they would jump on him, Kropp and Adler. Then he would have to kill some of them. He had enough of this senselessness.

"Look, all we want is to sit out of the cold and snow, and be comfortable. Technically, we have captured you, but we can start the hostilities in the morning. Can you handle that at least?"

There were mumbles of agreement.

One of them rose. "Kropp, is that you?"

Kropp looked at the man. "Smythe, is that you?"

Deckard looked at Kropp. "You know this guy?"

"Sure, played soccer with him last Christmas. It's sort of a tradition." Kropp set his rifle down and took off his helmet and coat. Adler, seeing this, did the same. Kropp took a seat near the fire and removed one of the flasks that Deckard had brought.

"Here's brandy, what have you boys got?" The company then became more relaxed. Adler sat down, nearest the door and the guns. The mandolin playing Tommy began a new song, a card game started up, and a barrel of porter was drug out from under one of the cots. Foaming mugs were soon distributed and everyone was soon chatting like old friends. Even Shannon nudged a little closer to watch the card game. The snow fell steadily outside.

.

All attempts to reach reason with the Tommys failed. They couldn't see what he was talking about any more than Kropp was able to. It would take more than just one man talking sense to reach them. They were fascinated with Kitka, as she cleaned out their rats. Bets were made on how fast she could kill one, how many she would get. Deckard had to admit she was lightening quick in the eradication of her prey. She gave out warning growls to everyone and flexed out here claws to let anyone near know that she meant business. Despite her attitude, she got quite a bit of their milk, which they seemed to have plenty.

Ironically, no one knew what had actually happened at Verdun, only that it was full of rules to follow and that it lasted a long time. The soccer game that Kropp had mentioned was indeed a tradition. It seemed that the respective commanders grew sentimental around Christmas time. If he remembered, and if he lived, he would have to look up Verdun and see what really happened later. Somehow, this didn't seem right. Perhaps this is what it had turned into after the years of reenactment. Making another attempt to make sense of the whole thing, Deckard turned his curiosity on the guns they used. The Enfield rifles seemed to be no big deal, but they were particularly proud of the Vickers and the Lewis guns. They were odd-looking guns with drum clips mounted on the top. They kept them well oiled and well cared for. They mentioned a rumor that a few old Sopwith Camels and Folkers might be obtained or built, then they could wage an air war.

For the German side, it seemed to be all about desperation. The Tommys seemed to think of nothing but how accurate they could be with their equipment.

"We've only got about a dozen Lewis guns working altogether. The Vickers guns we've got outside, which you saw this morning,"

One of the Tommys, name of Jones, commented. "The Vickers are tough, but the Lewis gun," He made a noise of appreciation.

"Jerry's call it the Belgium Rattlesnake, they do." Another Tommy, named Baker, said. Then realizing whom he was addressing, apologized. Deckard rolled his eyes. It was clear that none of them had even been to England by the sound of their affected accents.

"Why so few Lewis guns if you like them so well?" Deckard asked.

"The parts, mate, the parts." Jones took a drink of beer. "We got a shipment of 300 with the firing pins gone among other things. Then our connection found a batch for us."

Deckard pondered this and talk turned over to other matters. They called it the 'rattlesnake'. Perfect, a machinegun named after a snake. Inspiration struck. With a swift movement, Deckard placed a photo of Mallos on the table in front of him. He had printed it out a few days ago.

"Any of you ever see this man before?"

"That's him," Jones said. "That our connection."

"Are you sure?"

"I meet with him now and again. I'm the armory chief. I get the parts and put them in."

"When do you meet with him again?"

"Tomorrow or day after. He'll let us know. Supposed to have some 105mm casings for us. 'Course, we'll have to pack them ourselves."

Deckard replaced the photo and leaned back in his seat. The trail picked up at last. His curiosity hadn't led him wrong! Deckard needed to get the rest of his stuff back and he needed to get in touch with Bowden.

"What his name?"

"Mark Essex.' Jones reached into his breast pocket and drew out a card. He showed it to Deckard. It had a net address on it. Deckard made careful note of it.

On the pretext of going to the outhouse, Deckard slipped away into No Man's Land. Kitka followed, tail high. The weather suited her. The snow was falling steadily and it was very quiet. He sat down in shell hole and turned on his MIL. There was a strong signal and the Infranet came on line. He hated to use his own MIL, but the question now was one of speed. If anyone tracked his signal, he would hopefully be long gone before they showed up. He MILed Bowden about his findings and then put in the address for 'Mark Essex'. His web site was elaborate, with graphics and sound. Vintage goods for all needs. There was a full color graphic of marching armies from all nations. It gave no actual location of the site. He would have to get himself invited along for the ride when the Tommys went for the parts if Bowden didn't come through. His luck was in now, though, he had a feeling. Before dawn, Bowden would have the location for him, and he would fade like Kitka after an arrogant rat. He slipped back to the impromptu party. Everyone seemed to be having a little break from the carnage. The Jerrys that he passed in their shell holes had lit fires. They were huddled together over them, cooking food or warming body parts. Inside the bunker, Adler was asleep with her great coat over her. Someone had put a blanket over that. A few others were sleeping as well. Most of them were involved in a poker game. Kropp, seeing him, folded his hand and came up to him.

"Hey, Muller." He handed over a silver flask full of a warming alcoholic liquid. Deckard took a drink and handed it back.

"I've been talking with the Tommys here, and well," he looked uncomfortable. "I'm thinking about joining up with them."

Deckard closed his eyes for a while and opened one. Kropp still stood there.

"I mean, I'm sorry that this ruins your plans, but I won't join up yet. I've got to surrender and wait out a month in the clink before I can switch." Kropp looked sad, but eager to please. "They have better rations and quarters and their officers don't grind them down they way ours do."

Deckard wanted to laugh. Kropp thought no more of switching sides than changing his socks. All he knew now was fighting and it didn't matter for whom. It only mattered that he would be well treated and comfortable between bouts. His speech to them splattered with honor and glory now seemed bumbling and foolish. Nevertheless, there was Adler to consider.

"What about Shannon?" Deckard wouldn't have her captured if she didn't wish to be.

"She's with me on this. The Tommys don't let women fight in the front lines. They serve as nurses, doctors, or other jobs in the rear. After one year's service, they can leave. I'm sure you know she's had a rough time." He looked over at the sleeping girl.

"But, hey, you can go back when dawn comes. I know that you're looking forward to that promotion, you might get a squad."

Deckard felt real affection for the old vet. He decided to take him up on the offer. It would be easier this way. He had no way of knowing what these people would do if he revealed his true intentions.

"Okay, Kropp. In the morning, I'll beat it back to the line and tell Steiner that the two of you got blown to bits during the first few minutes. No hard feelings, eh? We at least spent the night out of the cold, huh?"

Kropp's face split with a huge grin. "Okay, then, let's get back to party." He hung an arm around Deckard and steered him over to the keg.

.

In the small hours of the night, his MIL finally beeped out. Deckard, the last one awake in the darkened outpost, seized it. The message was in. Bowden had dealt with Essex on a few occasions. Talk about coincidence! His message included a map where Deckard could find Essex's warehouse. Rising, Deckard shed himself of all his equipment, taking only his haversack. Kitka, alert to his movements, stole out of the bunker ahead of him. They went out onto the snow packed landscape and ran across no mans land and reached the German lines. Deckard was heading towards the quartermaster's hut to retrieve the rest of his belongings. After that, there was a lesson to teach.

His own clothes felt good back on his body again. The heavy iron bottomed boots went into a corner along with the heavy, itchy, uniform. Prudence required that he keep his ID disc on for a little while longer. It was a couple of hours to sun up, and the snow had kept everyone inside. The rules of this war had been adhered to quite well. Commandant Garcia was going to see what it was like to have those rules broken. Shooting all those he came across, Kitka picked out his path well, making good time. The Commandant's bunker was right before them. Two guards outside. One fell to the ground with a dart, the other keeled over, as he bent to inspect his fallen comrade. Deckard and Kitka walked in with stealthy quiet and went right up to his bed. His riding crop was right on his nightstand. Deckard picked it up, pressed the red button, broke it in half, and tossed the pieces away. The Commandant's snore changed its note and he turned over. Deckard clasped his hand over Von Garcia's mouth and wrestled him onto his back. Kitka, above his head, dug her claws into his scalp, and blood began to seep through his diminishing hairline.

"Don't move, Garcia, don't breathe." The Commandant's eyes popped open, but he quieted. Deckard bent over him.

"I'm here to ruin your little war, Garcia. I'm here to ruin your illusion." At a nod from him, Kitka dug her claws in deeper. Garcia wimpered. Blood began to flow into Garcia's eyes. He blinked rapidly.

"This is no war and you're not in charge. This is a fool's game. If I were a British commando, with ten others with me, you'd be dead and this whole camp would be ours now." Fear settled over Garcia's countenance as Deckard spoke. "As it is, I am only one man, but I've got your future in mind. I have activated the lasers in here. They'll fire on any man that does not have on one of these."

Deckard held up Garcia's ID disc, which he'd just jerked off. Showing it to Garcia, he snapped it in half and threw it to the corners of the bunker.

"Now if you don't move, don't speak, you might live until your senior private comes in to monitor the wireless. Until then, you have a lot to think about." Deckard twitched his head, and Kitka withdrew her claws and leapt off the bed.

"Among the things you consider, think about this little talk we had the next time you begin conscription. Others might not be as forgiving." With that, Deckard balled up his fist and smashed Garcia right in the face. His head lolled over to the side. He was out. The two then stole out of the bunker as quietly as they entered. Dawn was just beginning to break over the horizon as they left the two lines and No Mans Land behind them.

Kropp and Adler had switched sides, but were they any better off? Deckard didn't know and didn't care. If they wanted to go on butchering each other in their cruel demonstration, let them. They had warped history to suit their own gruesome purposes. It had nothing to do with him anymore. To underline this to himself, he reached up and pulled his ID disc off the thin chain around his neck. The flat black oval was dropped onto the road. With any luck, a truck would run over before the day was out.

Kitka and Deckard were now bound for the port area of Port Arthur. There, near the dock area, they wound find Mark Essex, or Yurgei Mallos, or whatever he was calling himself. He would provide them the answers. Wouk had stolen the plans, of that much he was convinced. He was now laid up somewhere, trying to build his brainchild or tying to convince someone else to build it. Wouk had been in charge of the Ultra project before the failure of Mallos and Goramund. A contrived failure to throw the track off himself. As he walked on, watching Kitka dart back and forth into the rush that was one both sides of the gravel road. Mallos had perhaps brought him the key research for both the pulse engine and the genetic splicing. Stolen from his homeland and offered up to his new friends for a price. The price was being spliced with a snake.

# Chapter Thirteen

The Section was put on the back burner after Deckard and Kitka were rotated out. Their rotation out was merely the first step. With the House and the Senate back in the control of the American public, the agency lost its level of influence and importance. It was defunded, it's personnel put in other departments or discharged, it's equipment mothballed or loaned out.

Section X was subverted to a glorified records facility with a few guards. The compounds built all over North America were reduced to the one in Colorado. John J. Spotta faded away like his agency. As far as the public at large was concerned Section X, or as they knew it, the OSS, was dismantled for good.

The ousted corporate lackeys that had taken office then voted out were largely unapologetic. They went back to their homes and resumed lives that were, overall, uninterrupted. Some had fat pensions, paid bodyguards, with money skimmed from taxpayers. They went on speaking tours, extolling the virtues of Corporate-run America. They built libraries and foundations named after themselves, as part of their enduring 'legacy'. Some people actually spoke about the virtues of the Corporate agents and helped raise money for them and their lawyers. A few killed themselves, but these deaths were covered up.

The foreign companies that had invaded America found themselves at the mercy of the unions, stockholders, and new regulations, which seemed to hinder them at every turn. A few large manufacturers moved their operations out of North America all together. This backfired, as the feelings against the corporations were harsh, and even more so when those corporations left entire towns unemployed. These companies found themselves without a market to sell to, no mater how little they sold their goods for. So prosperity had ended in some places, grew in others. The government had been run like a business, like so many had desired at long last. The problem was it was too efficient.

The freedoms that had been enjoyed by Americans had been taken away from them, as there was little profit in freedom. The freedom of the press had been regulated right out of existence. Printing an unfavorable story about a representative or senator or corporate head could get the publisher sued. Newspapers and magazines were little more than ad sheets for products, movies, and politicians.

The constitution had been the victim of massive amending. The military or police could come into a private residence, unannounced, search it or commandeer it without consent from the owners. All they needed was to suspect evidence of a crime. Laws had been imposed that if a person didn't possess an ID and a certain amount of money of them, they were considered to be vagrant. Vagrants were thrown into jail.

Their rights were not read to them, because they had none. Providing the poor with a lawyer cost money, and that was not in plans of the profit minded companies. They were not told that they could be silent, because they could not. To remain silent was to hinder prosecution, and that was a crime. The laws on the books multiplied by a hundred fold. The average citizen was breaking several laws just by walking outside, not that he or she knew. The laws were not made public, and ignorance of the laws was no excuse.

The politicians voted into office had a hard time reversing these laws, and after a while, they didn't really want to. It seemed that having an educated, informed, and armed public did not sit well with most public officials. However, the corporations were gone, the foreign ones were anyway, and that was enough for most voters. The ones that bothered to vote, that is.

.

The walk to the port was uneventful. Most people stayed away because of the battling armies, or by the unsavory reputation. The snow had stopped by now, making everything look new and clean. Deckard pondered to stake out the place and wait until night to strike, or just attack as soon as they found the place. The port township was a couple of dozen buildings near a series of long wood docks or stone jetties. Fog oozed off the water, giving everything a salty freezing grime. The seagulls wheeled about, diving and dipping, cawing out their intentions. The fishermen and sailors hung about and had dealings here, sized Deckard up and let it go at that.

This was not the lively and active piers of Galvez, but a district of trade, not all of it above the table. A few dockside taverns were open, their patrons grim and mostly silent. The back alleys looked like good places to either be knifed or get into a craps game. The ships looked like their crews, shabby and covered with barnacles, more or less.

A big warehouse at the end of the district was the place. Deckard was hesitant to go near it. The snake would be able to smell them out and alert Mallos. The two needed a good meal and a good sleep before they took on another ultra team. The last few days had been restless and nerve racking to say the least. Therefore, they turned about and went down to the other area of the township.

Discovering a pier of little use, they set up a rough camp and set to fishing. Kitka went off in search of bait, while Deckard rigged his grappler for the task. This seemed safer than one of the eating-places they had seen. Kitka trotted up with a small sea creature in her mouth. It looked like a crayfish or shrimp. On the hook and into the water it went. They caught a couple of fish and went to the beach to cook them.

As they grilled the fish on rocks heated by a fire, Deckard considered where they might sleep for four or five hours. They were no hotels or houses to break into. The crews slept on their boats and the warehouse workers probably drove in from somewhere else. A warehouse might work, if any were deserted. A boat just in and unloaded might work as well. He ate his fish his liberal sprinklings of salt. Kitka picked out the bones before eating hers. The sky was still cloud covered and tumultuous. Packing up his equipment, he and Kitka trudged off the beach.

Hanging out near several likely candidates, the pair finally stuck gold. Outside one of the more reputable looking taverns, a couple of sailors were discussing which boats were hiring and they ticked through the possibilities.

The ship "Gandolfo" had pulled in two nights ago and unloaded her cargo and paid off her crew. It would be a couple of weeks before she shipped out again with new cargo and a new crew. Her captain paid his docking fees and left town for the heady pleasures of Galvez Town. The ship was locked down, but unguarded. The two sailors went down the dock to sign up for the ship "Elsa".

Fifteen minutes later, Deckard and Kitka were aboard the Gandolfo and in the Captain's cabin. The shower still had a reservoir of water, but Deckard had to light the pilot for the gas heater. Then showered, shaved and dried off, Deckard dropped off to sleep, with Kitka across his knees, between starched sheets and scratchy blankets.

.

Deckard was jolted from sleep by nightmares. The World War battlefield had affected him far more than he thought. The mindless chaos of it, the horrid noise of death being spit out at 425 rounds per second, the smell of blood being burnt and singed away by shrapnel and bullets, all formed an unstoppable Frankenstein monster. A monster that bellowed and roared for more victims; victims to die in filth and misery. His eyes darted around, and his breathing was rapid. Ominous threats seemed to loom in the shadows of the cabin. His vision slowly came into focus and he settled down.

Kitka was lying at the foot of the rack, watching him. She yawned and stretched out her legs and toes and closed her eyes again. Deckard wiped his forehead. He was sweating. The details of his nightmare were lost and he was left with his sense of foreboding. He sat up and stroked Kitka and she began a sleepy purr. The sound worked better than drugs and he was soon in the arms of Morpheus again.

.

It was late afternoon when he woke up again. Completely rested, he ground his teeth together in anticipation of that coming task. Deckard rinsed himself off with cold water and dressed rapidly. Taking Kitka under one arm, they jumped ship and went towards Mallos' warehouse. The docks were busy with goods being loaded and unloaded. The atmosphere was not friendly, but no one seemed to want to turn away from their work to do him harm.

Picking an empty alley close by, Deckard sent Kitka to prowl the outer perimeter, as he monitored by his watch. It was two stories high, with three loading bay doors that faced the ocean, two on bottom, one on top. Small windows covered glass and wire mesh dotted the first floor, high off the ground. The windows on the second floor were larger. Kitka went up for a closer look. They were wide and looked easy to get into.

The watch face showed a charge of static and he knew that meant that Kitka had shrouded. She was not taking any changes. Good girl, thought Deckard. A look into the window showed a typical warehouse, dark and dank with lots of wooden crates and cardboard boxes. An alarm system was conspicuously absent. Deckard assumed it would be silent, one that would alert Mallos alone, rather than blaring klaxons. He pressed the retrieval button and Kitka soon joined him in the alley.

Taking a deep breath, Deckard tightened both straps on his pack. He ran for the back of the warehouse and took aim with his grappler. Once in range, Deckard fired. The hook sunk into the wooden window frame and he reeled himself up onto the roof. On the roof, he retrieved and reloaded his hook. Kitka caught up with him and, after he broke the lock on the window, they entered. Kitka went left and Deckard went right, around the crates that were stowed on the second floor.

The second floor covered only half of the warehouse space. An electric hoist hung from the second half roof, with a long chain reaching the first story floor. It was musty and the faint sunbeams that broke through the grimy windows lit up dust floating in the air. The wooden floor was full of creaks and groans, and Deckard made his way slowly to the edge and looked over. It was a tall building, more than just one story to the cement floor below.

More crates and boxes bearing strange labels and odd markings sat there, waiting to be shipped out. The truck loading dock was off to the right, two overhead doors. By a small entrance door by them was a black box with a keypad. On it, a red light was blinking. They had tripped an alarm. Mallos wasn't here, but on the way. The inside of the warehouse had no features other than lighting and support posts. It was devoid of rooms of any kind. There was a large desk in the middle with a small computer on it, stacks of papers; a glass full of pencils and several clip boards. Good. That meant no hidden office or room somewhere.

Staying as still as the dead, Deckard survey the scene. Nothing moved, shouted or began to take shots at him. He stayed like that for ten more minutes. Encouraged by lack of giant serpents bearing down or Russian defectors shooting, he doffed his pack and dug out his scopes. He went through all the settings twice, getting no readings. His watch blinked twice and he turned to it.

Kitka had gotten a position on the first floor and was watching the door. It opened and Mallos walked in. It was him, no mistake. Angled face, almost gaunt, sallow complexion, scar diagonally bisecting his mouth, leather mid length jacket, tan pants, work boots. Deckard reacted. He planted his grappler above the open door with a swift well-aimed shot and retracted down on full speed. The wind tore by as he whipped down.

Mallos looked up and pointed a handgun at him. The flashes of the muzzle sent slugs ripping by. Arcing in mid flight, Deckard detached the cable and hit Mallos with both outstretched feet. Both of them crashed into the tin covered wall behind them, the impact making a terrific clatter. Knowing he would have less than seconds until the snake entered and attacked, Deckard rolled over onto his back and flipped onto his feet. The dart thrower slid into his hand and he fired at the moving form of Mallos. Mallos, hit by several darts, rallied gamely and pointed his smoking pistol upwards. The drug was kicking in, and his movements were slower.

Deckard was able to snatch the pistol and haul Mallos to his feet. Holding him like a shield before him, Mallos' pistol in his hand, Deckard dragged him away from the door.

"Kitka, get over here!" He whispered harshly.

Mallos did not succumb to the sedative on the dart as quickly as most did.

"Mallos, call off the snake, get him in here, where I can see him!" Deckard growled in Mallos' ear. He backed up with his victim, until he hit a crate. Kitka deshrouded in front of them, fur spiked out, growling and spitting.

"There's no snake, no snake," He replied groggily. "It's not here."

Deckard dropped him on the floor and stood over Mallos, the gun heavy in his hand.

Mallos called the snake 'it'. Deckard had never referred to Kitka as _IT_ , had never known any of the ultra-team humans to think of their partners in such a way. This one word spoke in a single second had convinced Deckard that Mallos was speaking the truth better than a hundred words spoken under threat or pain. As inconceivable as it was, the snake was not there. Furthermore, Mallos had never been spliced with the snake, had never had a bond with it. The one person that could answer the questions had just posed more of them.

Contemplating this, he watched Mallos fight against unconsciousness and lose. When he passed out, Deckard set the pistol down and bent down to go through his pockets. Keys, wallet, MIL, lock blade, cigarettes, matches. He needed a place to keep an eye on him, where he could not run. Kitka was pacing like a tiger in a small cage. They had wound themselves up for the worst, and nothing had come of it. Deckard, watching her for a minute, picked up a small plastic covered washer that was lying on the dusty floor and chucked it against the far wall. It clanged against the tin. Kitka bolted towards it and brought it back in her mouth. Deckard threw it again, this time to the second floor. Kitka leapt onto one of the wooden beams and scaled it. Mallos lying there, face down, began to stir.

Deckard grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him over to the hoist. The chain was greasy and had a large hook on one end. Wrapping it around his wrists, he secured it and looked for a control panel or button. A red button set in a small metal box bolted to the wall with a black knob beside it was to the left. Deckard examined it, turned the knob and hit the button. The electric wench whined, drawing the limp form of Mallos up. Deckard hit the button again when Mallos was three feet off the ground and he jolted to a stop.

While he did all this, Kitka had returned with the washer and dropped it at his feet. When he ignored her, she picked it up again, followed him over to the wench, and dropped it again. When he still ignored her, she began chirping out her desire, then to howl it out.

"Just a minute, hold on, please!" He said to her, as she stood on her hind legs, doing a sort of hopping movement. Deckard picked up the washer and threw it for her again. They continued their game for a moment, when sense began to pervade.

"Let's check out the rest of this place," Deckard said, pocketing the washer. Kitka shrouded and they searched the outside.

Their search revealed nothing but a garbage bin filled with packing materials, an old red pickup truck, and a stack of wooden pallets. The truck, revealed to be registered to Mark Essex when searched, also was devoid of anything of interest. The warehouse was within the norm for a dealer of antique firearms. It was musty smelling, with spots of water that seeped through the bottom of the floor. The crates had all manner of rifles, pistols, revolvers, machine guns, submachine guns, and all their respective parts, accessories and ammunition.

Here a crate of AK-74s, there a box of Beretta automatics, the smell of gun oil and grease was strong in the air. All ordinance that had hit their prime at least twenty years before Deckard was born.

"Shall we have our talk now?" The voice was Mallos'. He was awake and had been watching them.

"Ok, let's have it." Deckard sat on the desk again.

Mallos hung by his wrists, eyes bright in their sunken housing.

"I need a question first. Also I would like to be let down."

Deckard considered this. He still considered Mallos dangerous, even if Goramund was not backing him up.

Looking around, he spied a chair and took it over. He lowered Mallos enough so that he could sit on the chair, but not lower his arms. Mallos settled in.

"Thank you. Could I perhaps get a cigarette, too?"

Deckard fetched his pack and drew one out. Deckard lit it and then stuck it in his mouth. Mallos inhaled deeply and held it. He let it out slowly through his nose. Deckard made to take it out of his mouth.

"No, that's okay, the smoke won't bother me."

"Okay, tell me where Goramund is."

"Yes, my supposed splice animal. I don't know. It could be dead or alive somewhere, I have no idea."

Deckard turned his head and stared at the ground.

"Look, you know what I want to know, so just tell me. I don't have the time for this retarded nonsense. I assume you know where we come from and what we're after."

Mallos sat there calmly, smoke trickling out of the corner of his mouth. "I've been waiting for something like you to come along for some time, now. You want to know about my involvement with Wouk and Section X. I have nothing to hide, but my name, and you already know that."

Taking another breath of smoke, he began.

"I was part of what you know as the Russian 'Mafia' before I came to this country. I ran booze and cigarettes and sold them without paying taxes to the Soviet United or to the Russian government. I also possessed a cunning talent for sports of all kinds. Eventually, I was sent before a judge I couldn't bribe. But he was a great sports fan, especially of the Olympics. He was from my hometown, and had seen me play hockey, track and field, that sort of activity.

The judge gave me a choice, get on the team or go to jail. I was able to secure myself a spot on the team with no trouble. This was long after the days of state run sports programs and so the track and field team really needed me. I ran Triathlon for them. It is really a shame that the Olympics aren't going anymore. The athletes want money for their skills, no profit in the Olympics for them, I guess. Anyhow, I found out where we were going and America looked profitable, but I needed a way to get protection from the Soviets and Russians when I defected.

There was a lot of talk about a new agency, the OSS, wanting scientific research and was willing to supply whatever you wanted to have it. I put out a few inquires at home about what I could get my hands on. I put a few inquires about what OSS wanted. They wanted it all. I got in touch with them through the Infranet and displayed the first pages of about eight different project dossiers I had managed to steal. I was given instructions about where to go and what to do. All the dossiers were reduced to microdot and concealed in metal capsules. The capsules were coated with gel and I hid them in a bottle of vitamins. After all, who would question an athlete having vitamins?

If I found out about a search, I could swallow them. The gel would dissolve, but not the capsules and I could retrieve the dots later. Nothing went amiss and I disembarked at Galvez and met up with Wouk. The criminal organization there facilitated the entire process. Wouk and I got into a car and were driven to the facility in Colorado. I was relieved of all my microdots and told I would be needed to be retained for a little while in order to invent a cover up. I had my part to play and they had theirs. I was to be a volunteer for a new gene-splicing program. The pretense was I thought it would improve my track time or something like that."

Mallos stopped and eyed his cigarette, which had ashed down. His eyes asked the question and Deckard replaced it with a lit one. Mallos continued.

"It sounded ridiculous to me, but everyone seemed to believe it. I watched the snake, Goramund as you call it, hatch and I was supposed to train with it after a time had passed. Wouk kept me out of sight many times, telling others that I was undergoing "gene therapy".

Deckard interrupted. "If you were not spliced with Goramund, who was?"

"I assume that it was part of the ruse, that no one was."

Deckard stood up. "No. To cover you up, that would've been easy. Escaped, shot while trying to escape, died on the operating table. There were a thousand ways to tuck you away without the involvement of a giant serpent. That cost money and time. Someone was being spliced. That's why they went through that part of the deception. Not to fake your death, but to fake Goramund's. Someone was being spliced to him."

Mallos considered this. "If that's the case, I can't tell you who. As I said, I was kept out of sight from everyone but Wouk for a lot of that time. The accident that I 'died' in was carefully orchestrated. Wouk was the only one on the floor at the time, the others were all monitoring by DV."

"Just you and Wouk?"

"Yes."

"Spotta wasn't around."

"No, I never met the Director of Section D."

"Okay, go on."

"Well, that's it, for the most part. The Snake was put in with me, we climbed up to these platforms and that was it. Wouk called the snake down and I got down. He showed me through a hallway, told me that a car would be waiting for me outside. The keys would be in it, along with credit chits, cash, several false IDs, everything I needed to begin a new life. I drove away and never looked back."

"How did you get set up here? The Texas Highway patrol pulled you over and you said you were in with the Tri. Did they just accept your application?"

Mallos lifted an eyebrow. "No, I bribed the Tri head in Houston to let me operate here. I was given a large payoff, and you need to spend money to make money, so I spent it. I had heard of the Texas Tri back in Pskov and was able to arrange a meeting. After assuring them that I was not bringing the Russian Mafia here, they gave me the credentials to drop in case of trouble and expected a cut every month. Which I give them."

"You behind that slaughter outside of town there?"

"Von Garcia and Malkhart? No. They are merely the insane trying to make sense of their existence. The N-beams and what it spawned are responsible for that. I merely supply them the goods in which they can pursue their cause."

"You talked to Leila Mawson to get set up."

"No, I spoke with 'Cowboy' Mawson. He has since died and Ms. Mawson and I have much the same arrangement."

"How did you know to expect us?" Starkweather might have tipped him off, no matter what he had said about Mallos before.

"Logic and experience. I wasn't expecting you exactly, but I knew when the Section lost its importance, someone would put the pieces together and come looking for me. I had little to do with it, and am in fact, more legal in this country that you are. I have nothing to lose by cooperating. You were looking for information and I gave it to you. I was under the gun back in Russia and needed a clean slate. An opportunity arose and I took it. Mark Essex is now my legal name, my business is well within the concordances of the law here. Even the graft that I send to the Tri is tax deductible. There is no hyper-intelligent snake with me, waiting to attack. I possess no superhuman abilities. I've seen the file which you probably have a copy of, and I tell you that it's a smoke screen, a lie. A complete fabrication made up to fool people just like you into thinking that the past is dead and buried."

Deckard walked over and hit the button on the hoist. It revolved down and Mallos/Essex freed himself. Deckard tossed his cigarettes to him. Mallos crushed out the one he was smoking, drew out another one and lit it.

"Just remember, Mr. Blaine." Mallos said, getting out of the chair. "The past is never dead. It is like a corpse at a birthday party. Everyone ignores it, but they can all smell it."

Deckard took a deep breath and began to hand back Mallos' wallet and knife. Mallos stretched out his hand for them. Deckard gave him a swift chop to the side of the neck and caught him before he fell. Easing him into the chair behind the desk, Deckard shook his head.

"I never told you my name." He put the wallet and lock blade on the desk. The warehouse was built for security so it was easy to secure. There was no cradle jack in the place, so Deckard locked it up with the security panel on the outside. He took out Mallo's MIL and ground it under his heel.

Deckard wanted to make sure that he was well out of Port Arthur and its ramparts before Mallos could do anything to stop him. The Russian may have told some of the tale but not all of it. He had been in contact with Starkweather, that much was for sure. Wouk remained the only lead left. The snake could have been spliced with him. That would explain his hasty departure from Section X and the feigned failure of it would insure that no one made a fuss about his leaving. But where to look for him?

His one option was to go and see Leila "Sissy" Mawson. She was expecting him sooner or later. It looked like it would be sooner. With Mallos' keys, they got into the truck and started it up.

"Corpse at a birthday party?" Deckard snorted. "Who says things like that, honestly?" The truck didn't sound too good, but it would get them out of town, and past Verdun day. They might have to walk to the train station after that. The truck fishtailed a few times on the slushy road. Kitka howled and stood in her seat, her claws firmly planted in the fabric.

"Sorry, but this heap isn't easy to handle, you know." Deckard snorted. Kitka kept up a running commentary as they went along. The tires must have been as bald as an eagle as they provided little traction. It was good camouflage though, he had to admit that. The heater worked well, too well in fact. He had to roll the window down to cool off a little. Deckard parked the truck well away from the station and put the keys under the drivers side floor mat. Kitka was now in a grumpy mood, and Deckard had to carry her the rest of the way.

"We'll get some food on the train." He promised her. The snow had dissolved into a chill fog. It clung to them and made their hair wet. Deckard stopped and dug around in his pack. He had hung on to his German field cap. He didn't know why, but he felt an odd attachment to it. After putting it on, he picked up his pack and his unhappy ultra cat and went on. The township was even more deserted than it had been. The gas station attendant had closed his garage doors and was sitting inside, next to a space heater.

The dinner had one car in front of it and that looked like the cook's, because the waitress was not there. Deck and Kitka stopped for some eggs, sausage, and coffee. The cook grunted at them as he served it.

"Crazy out there, eh?" He seemed to be in a cheerfully resigned mood.

"It always get this empty when it snows?"

"Yep. Believe it or not, twenty years ago, snow anytime, particularly in October, would caused news flashes and winter sporting. Now it just causes folks to stay at home. We've not gotten used to it yet, I guess."

Deckard savored his sausage. It was much better than he had expected.

"Why do you come out then?"

The cook pushed his watch cap back on his head and looked around.

"You're not from around here, right?" He asked. Deckard indicated that was so. "Then I guess I can tell you. I was born in Minnesota. Born and raised. This stuff is nothing to what I've seem. In fact, kinda makes me homesick." The cook turned to put more coffee on.

Deckard paid and tipped well. Kitka was now too full to want to move, so he had to carry her again. They went to the station. The conductor was not even there, but a timetable was tacked to bulletin board outside the office window, which had a _Closed_ sign in it. An hour until the next train. They lay on a bench, curled up, dozing until it arrived. The trained arrived and they got on, purchasing their tickets from the conductor as he came by. The cold weather had dampened everyone's spirit it seemed and he barely looked up as Deckard passed over his chit.

They slept the entire way to Houston. Deckard was troubled again by dark dreams. The images this time were much less coherent.

Standing on a hill, Deckard was surrounded by storm clouds. He could hear his heart beating and his breath was harsh, like he was sick or wounded. Then suddenly he was standing on a high pentacle, looking down on a huge city landscape. The aircars seemed to be going in slow motion. The pentacle was made of sharpened steel and it began to cut through his shoes into his feet. Deckard was losing his balance, and the he fell head first into the air traffic. The plummet was in slow motion. He could hear the whirr of the engines and long streaking honks of their horns as they swerved to miss him. As Deckard fell, a number of severed head fell past him, their mouths trying to silently voice the same warning. He could not make it out. The ground came up quickly and Deckard hit with a sickly thud. The dream faded into a smoky gray color.

Deckard, supine on the train seat, turned over, disturbing Kitka, whom he was using as a pillow. She opened eyes for a moment then slowly closed them.

.

Houston was a place that held memories of atrocities committed on its black asphalt. It was a sprawling behemoth of a city, more like its own nation-state. Growing at a geometric rate for decades, it encompassed all the smaller towns around it and industrialized them. Highways connected office buildings, malls, strip centers, and airports. It was also one of three cities that had legalized antigrav vehicles. Regulated by power levels, the antigrav pathways closely mimicked the roads below it. There were five separate pathways, each one on top of the other.

The lowest level was for the public antigrav transports called the Metro lift. Above that, was for private aircars. The more money an aircar cost, the higher it could go. Subsequently, the highest level was transversed by the wealth and greed disciples of the world. There was also an elevated track system and a subway. A haven for the corporations Deckard had combated against, he had only been here once before. There was too much security here.

The mission designers had preferred to infiltrate the Houston Systems through less guarded terminals in other quadrants. The one time that he was here to plant the "peek-a-boo" virus. An insidious program, it did not activate right away, but only spread.

It attached itself to every program in a computer, and to every E-mail, file, and download that was committed. There is lay quietly, bonding to every bit of hardware and software that it could. Watch pilots, MILs, cradles, mainframes, and everything else that could be plugged into the net were infected. The virus lay dormant until a year after its infiltration. Then it "ate" the programs it was attached to one by one. The only computers that did not suffer its attack were the ones that had the "Peek-a-boo" decorative graphic theme program.

Deckard never found out if the virus had actually worked as it was supposed to. He merely executed the parameters. It had actually been an easy mission in retrospect. He wasn't required to go inside a corporate building or even go near one. Just a remote programmer put in the hydroelectric plant's mainframe and it was done. Getting into the Hydroelectric plant provided a challenge, but it was not as guarded as, say, the MircoPact HQ.

Still, for being the world's largest Mega city, it was creepy at night. The dwellers of Houston scattered like mice when the sun set, fearing the dark. A long time ago, there had been viscous gangs that prowled the streets. One street in the heart of the city was nicknamed "Gunfighter alley'. A single policeman had been involved in 27 different shootouts in one year.

There was also a serial killer called 'The Head Thief'. He (It was assumed that the killer was a white male) killed his victims with an ax and then chopped off their heads, taking them with him when he left the scene.

The Head Thief claimed 13 victims before he stopped. He was never caught, the majority of his gruesome trophies never found. No one could explain why he stopped and several theories were batted around. The Houston press made a near folk hero out of him. This was a mistake, as copycat killers began to pop up. Usually, they managed only behead one or two before being apprehended. They all confessed to being 'The Head Thief'. Investigations disproved all their claims.

After some years had passed and 'The Head Thief' was forgotten, a contractor was knocking down an old house and discovered a human skull with a seven branded on it. It was determined to be the seventh victim of the infamous killer. The uproar flamed up again. It happened five more times, with the same set of circumstances, different builders. It got to the point that news crews would be on hand every time a 'Head Thief' era building was demolished or renovated.

Fan clubs sprang up in the mega city and grew in strength every time a new head was found. Some of these clubs brought old properties that seemed promising and searched through them in hopes of finding the grisly artifacts. The remaining heads were never found.

The victims were from a vast array of backgrounds and not connected in any way. They were just people out on the streets at the wrong time. This spoke out to the citizenry of Houston. It told them that anytime, anywhere, they could be horribly murdered by a bloodthirsty demon that walked like a man. Even the most reckless criminal, the most foolhardy juvenile delinquent, avoided being out in the open at night. The Head Thief did not discriminate between good or bad, rich or poor, those that deserved death and those who did not.

# Chapter Fourteen

The last physical at Section X, they had handed him his walking papers. A last medical check-up was required to set his pension level for any existing injuries. Deckard was still in a daze and kept Kitka close to him, closer than usual. He thought they might surround him with guards and tell him they changed their minds. Channelle was property of the Section after all and he must sign her back in at once. Deckard was determined that if any situation presented itself that was even remotely close to this, they would make a break for it. Deckard had no idea where to go and he had none of his usual equipment. They would probably be able to stop him at the gates, if not before. Now, if he could get a hold of his gear, it would be another matter. The guards would have guns; he would be able to take one from them.

Deckard formulated a basic plan as they were led along the tile-covered corridors to the medical wing by a lady in a white coat. There seemed to be no one following, no one paying any mind at all, in fact. The lady handed him over to the doctor who began the exam on both of them. Deckard relaxed a little, but then another thought came to him, one even more devastating. A problem that he could not fight his way out of nor think his way through it.

Parting with Kitka was inconceivable. She was closer to him than any family had ever been, closer than a lover, more important to him than an arm or leg. She was the projection of his inner most soul. His visible doppelganger, his conscious shadow that reminded him of who he was and what he was doing. Without her, he wouldn't be sure of what to do. Who would go ahead of him to check out the way? Who would lag behind to make sure that nothing was there? It made him tremble to think of her dead and gone, but he had to know. He asked the doctor.

"How long will Channelle live?" The words caught in his throat and made him shake. He was sitting on an exam table covered with white paper, shirt off. Kitka was nosing around the room.

The doctor was a Section specialist, skilled at both ultra-human and ultra-animal treatments, but one that Deckard had not seen before. The exam had already been completed for the first patient: Channelle Kitka. The doctor fetched a chart from off the counter, covered with Pyrex jars and containers. He flipped through the pages and looked up.

"While an ordinary cat might live to be fifteen years old or so, I think that we can put her age safely at, say, twenty five or thirty years." The doctor said with a small grin of confidence.

Deckard's heart sank in his chest. A human's lifespan had reached one hundred and twenty through medical science. He would live half his life alone, all alone.

"She _might_ even outlive you, Captain." He commented, replacing the chart.

Wait a minute. "What's that you said, outlive me?"

The doctor realized that he had overstepped his bounds. He had assumed the patient had been informed of the side effects of his "therapy". Weighing the repercussions in his head, he looked at Deckard. Deckard looked back at him. The patient did not know. The doctor made up his mind.

"Yes, Captain." The doctor said. "The genetic treatments have left you with an extremely shortened life span. You can expect to live to thirty five, forty at the most if you take it easy, but no longer."

Deckard sat there. The skin variations referred to as 'stripes' seemed to glow for a moment in the eyes of the doctor and he grew apprehensive. Subjects of the Ultra program were reputed to be unpredictably violent. Still this man was a patient and had a shock. He deserved compassion.

"Can I do anything? Do you need a tranquilizer? Water, maybe?" The doctor moved closer.

Deckard looked up to the ceiling. His expression was clearly one of relief. A single tear welled up and ran down his cheek. Deckard closed his eyes and made a strange vocal sound. Kitka leapt up to the table and head bumped his elbow.

"No, I'm fine, doctor, thanks." He grabbed Kitka and rubbed her head roughly, she pulled his hand to her mouth with outstretched claws and bit around on it.

The doctor watched them for a moment and then finished Deckard's exam. Kitka continued her investigation of the room. She knocked one of the Pyrex jar over and pulled out some of the swabs. When the Doctor looked over at her, she returned a look of complete innocence. He decided it would be best if he left her alone.

.

Houston had not changed from how he remembered it. The sun tried to break through the layer of smog that peppered the city with acid rain, but it usually failed. The acid rain was now splattering on the city in big fat drops. It was still daytime, but you could not tell from the sky. It looked like both day and night. The population that was on the sidewalks donned protective slickers in different colors and designs.

Kitka and Deckard went from the train station, which was underground, up to a store front with a red and silver awning. From there, they watched the crowd move up and down. The rain slickers were obviously a part of the Houstonian wardrobe. It was obvious from the make and design that someone was making a lot of money. Indeed, in the very store that they were in front of was a display. They came in all types of material and were all ranges of price.

The aircars zipped about, up above them. Deckard could hardly see the upper levels of the antigrav pathways. The street, by contrast, was almost empty of cars. There was a tram that zoomed along at the far lane, but private ground cars mostly seemed to be for the lower class. The newest ground car he saw was ten years old. The acid rain didn't do the paint any good either.

An air car sedan from the lowest level floated down and hovered before him. A gull-wing passenger door opened up and a dowager stepped out, clad in a teal slicker with geometric designs on it in red. She had a matching hat. She stepped from the car onto the walk. With a disdainful look at Deckard she went passed him and into the store. He entered the store and went down to the subway station that was within. All the high-class stores had subway stops inside them. The store, Niehmans, was packed with people. It was so crowded that one could hardly move, but with the flow of the crowd.

Deckard managed to get over to the station stop escalator and went down. He held Kitka in his arms; or rather, she lay in his arms, content to let him carry her. They squeezed in the first car and rode it for an hour and a half. The car cleared out slowly, as they left the shopping district and went into the business district. Deckard pondered how he would approach Mawson. He had a number to call, but that was it. The best way to find out where she was, without tipping her off seemed to be a GPS search. He would have to find a suitable rooftop and punch it in. First, though, he had to get a base to operate out of.

With a wry grin, Deckard decided on the Ambassador hotel. It had fifty-six floors. The subways last stop.

The staff was obsequious and attentive. They checked Deckard in and led him to the second to top floor. He checked in with one of many false credit chits that he had, as an actual credit card was out of the questions. The hotel would probably call the police if cash were used. The charges of the fake credit chit went to a subsection of Racecar site and were paid by the Section. It was one service that the Section had managed to hang on to, or maybe one they had managed to hide.

The DNA sample taken (from the residue of a users skin) would be altered by the chit itself from the customer to the vendor. This way, the actual user of the credit chit would be hidden from online snoopers. It was one of the few ways that the chit technology could be subverted, was fiendishly complicated and could only be used once.

Deckard dumped his pack on the bed. He had picked up a lot junk along the way; some matches from the train, an ashtray from the night crawler hideout, a bar towel from The Impaler's Pointe, a corkscrew, a small bottle of wine from Tubby's Chapeau, a scarf from Daria's house, and some other stuff. There was a couple of dead mice and a dead bird in there as well. 'Gifts' from Kitka, or maybe snacks. She regarded the pack as hers, too, after all.

Deckard picked up the scarf and pressed it to his face. It smelled somewhat flowery, like Daria did. Kitka sat on the bed, cleaning her tail. Deckard held up her 'gifts' one by one. She took no notice of them. Deckard tossed them into the trash bin by the dresser. He swept all of the souvenirs back into the bag. Deckard always seemed to wind up with small trinkets from where he had been. Souvenirs, knickknacks, or trophies, he didn't know.

It had been that way ever since his first mission. When checking his gear and equipment back in, there was a coffee cup bearing the corporation's logo that the mission had been run against. Deckard hadn't remembered taking it, he just felt mad when they took it away from him. He smiled at the loot he had collected so far. No one would take this away.

Everything would have to be accounted for, though. Rounds and charges spent, hooks, darts, charges, credit chits, the whole kit would have to be given the once over. The only piece of equipment he had checked over had been his wrist guns, so far. Sorting it all out, he got his MIL and a connecting cable. The controls were calibrated and the batteries were fully charged. The way to the roof was barred with a stoutly chained door. It was easily dealt with. Most padlocks were easy to get through with picks. Locks that could not be picked due to electronic protection were opened with a Morphing key. The key was a flat piece of thin metal implanted in a large black head. The metal part slid into a keyhole. A button pressed on the head. The metal rearranged its shape until it fit the lock. While the metal did this, the sensors in the head sent out signals until one was recognized. When this procedure was complete, a green light lit up on the head. The key was turned and door opened. The key could be used repeatedly. Deckard had at least five with him on any given mission.

The roof boasted a landing pad, a huge DV receptor, several dozen heat pumps, and a tall spidery antenna. They went to the antennae, found the repeater controls, and plugged into it. Kitka walked over and stood by the door, ready to warn and attack in that order. When the MIL was giving a locality reading, Deckard dialed the number that Starkweather had given him. The number rang on the other end, once, twice, three times. The GPS located the address and displayed it. A man's bass voice sounded on the other end of the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Wrong number." Deckard said and hung up the phone. The address was a high rise about sixteen miles away. The information reported by the GPS was not only the address, but also the layout of the building. Deckard went back down to his room to study it. The GPS report could be run through the DV unit to present a more distinct image. A little tweaking and the skeletal 3-D building became a little more fleshed out. The image could only display the floors and large pieces of furniture.

Deckard would find out about auto sentries, armed guards and alarm systems first hand. When to go was the question. Moreover, should she be alerted? That was another. Yes, The direct approach should work in this situation. Mawson had the answers, they wouldn't be in a safe or data base. No matter what she had to throw at him, he was confident he could handle it, but he was in no mood to play games. Deckard rang her up.

"Yeah," The male bass voice came again.

"I'd like to speak with Leila Mawson. This is Deckard Blaine. Karl Starkweather told her I'd be stopping by."

"Hold." Dead silence on the line. She could have sprung for a music program.

"Yes, Mr. Blaine? I'm Leila Mawson." Her voice was older. He placed it at late 40s.

"I have a few questions to ask you."

"Okay, go ahead."

Deckard brighten up at this. Maybe this would be easier than he thought.

"Okay, I'd like to ask you about Dr. Wouk and some dealings you had with him."

Silence. "Oh, well, that's a different matter. I thought this might be about Karl and some trouble he had."

Waiting.

"This has to do with that. I just have a few questions."

"Perhaps you had better come by my office tomorrow at around noon." There was faint talking in the background. "I break for lunch around then, I could give you a few moments."

"That's be fine, my secretary will provide you with the address and pass number." She switched over to the bass voiced man without so much as a good-bye.

Deckard listened to the address, made note of the pass number, and rang off. The pass number would probably be only good for that certain time and would not do anything more than permit him access to the first floor. Until then, he had some planning to do. Mawson wanted to talk to him, find out what he knew. That is, unless she wanted to keep him on the line long enough for a location lock. In that case, he could expect assassination attempts before the hour was through. This thought caused him to set up some surveillance on his floor. The Ambassador really was a nice place, the carpets felt nice and thick on his bare feet, as he placed DV pickups at both stairwell ends and one on the elevator. Using his MIL creatively, he tapped into the hotels security cameras in the lobby and displayed them on the split screen of the DV set in his room.

Kitka did not seem overly wound up, and that was always a good sign. Her sixth sense was tuned quite fine, and he nearly always had advance warning. Sure, sometimes it was nothing more bugs flying around the light post, but other times it was something more dangerous. The fact that she was twisting around on the hallway carpet, as he placed the cameras, was a reassuring sign. Deckard also set up some flashers here and there. They got back to the room and ordered up a feast. Beef Wellington and smoked salmon among them. The cameras worked perfectly. The waiter came and went without incidence. The whole hotel was somewhat empty. They spent the night watching and waiting.

The next morning dawned; such as it did, with no action taken against the pair. They slept until eight and then Deckard got up and put on his creeper, taking care to place his equipment in the correct leg or sleeve pockets. He loaded up the 10mm and the grappler. The rest of his stuff, he put back in the pack. Even if this turned out to be nothing, He and Kitka wouldn't come back here. This whole situation might be a set-up, but if they just wanted to kill him, they certainly would have come last night. She wanted to hear what he had to say, even if she planned to kill him afterwards. Starkweather may or may not have told her what happened at the club. Even if he did, he gave no indication that he knew the extent of Deckard's abilities and therefore Mawson didn't know either. In the lobby, he called an aircab and took it over to Mawson's headquarters. It was still overcast, but the drizzle had relented for the time being. He attracted a few looks, but they were coolly appraising, devoid of threat or malice. The air cabbie was behind three inches of plexar, which was badly scratched, distorting his features. Some comedian had added a heavy beard and glasses to his hack permit to make his true features hidden. He was dropped off a block before his target and walked the rest of the way.

Kitka had shrouded before getting into the cab, as most cabbies allowed only service animals. She became visible again, but was warned back by Deckard's signal. He did not know who would be watching them or how when they would start. They might be observed even now.

Mostly awnings and overhangs covered the wide sidewalk, and the pedestrians bustled under them, avoiding the near empty street. The high-rise was of a newer construction. Deco framed steel and reflective glass, it stretched up and up. Its lobby was wide and long, decorated with a fountain in the middle with large planters. Wide columns stood in lines by them. The plants were leaf oriented rather than ornamental flowers. The revolving door didn't budge when he pushed it.

"Can I help you?" An electronic voice sounded. Deckard glanced about a saw a speaker in the ceiling next to a small camera eye. Automated. Deckard repeated the number he had been told. The door began to revolve after a small beep. They went through and into the sanctorum of the Houston Triumvirate, at the end of the lobby was a single elevator, large enough to park in. It had no buttons. Deckard took a slow even pace to get to it, allowing Kita plenty of time to check out the nooks and crannies. The elevator doors swished closed and it rose with a hypnotic hiss sound. It did have an exit hatch in the roof, hidden behind a framework of light panels.

He felt Kitka brush unseen by his leg. He flexed his hands and cracked his neck. If was going to come, let it come in the first second or not at all.

The doors swished open to a large room. He stepped out slowly, eyes darting around. It was empty. The room had more leafy plants in pots up against the walls. The walls were covered with abstract paintings. He advanced forward, his creeper footwear making no sound. At the end of the room was a large doorway lined with metal. It was a weapons detector or an x-ray. He stopped in front of it. Nothing. He looked at his watch, signaling to Kitka with a tap. They entered together.

The metal frame glittered with lights and a man came out of a side door. He was a large man, the size of a linebacker. His immense form was sheathed in a brown sharkskin suit with a black turtleneck. Deckard tensed, but the man merely showed the way with an outstretched arm. Deckard replied with an after-you-first gesture. The linebacker shrugged and went first. The man was wearing cowboy boots, and the heels clacked along, echoing off the clean, white walls. _Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack_. The hallway wound around to a large open area. A few windows that they passed looked down upon the city of horror. It was a bleak and uninviting view. Leila Mawson sat a mahogany desk the size of a coffin at the end of it all. She was about 40ish, blonde hair piled up in a complex style. Behind here looked like a window, but the view was a mountainous terrain. The sun even shone through it, lighting up the haze in the room. Around the desk were several pedestals with vases on them. They looked like Grecian urns or Orientals. She was bent over a cradle screen that was slightly recessed in the desktop. The images flicked back and forth. Her chin was resting upon gracefully folded hands. Deckard guessed that she must have the point control by her feet. She looked up at her secretary and Deckard for a millisecond, the back to her screen. The guard clasped his hands behind his back and waited. So much the better, Kitka was eye balling ever inch of this place while this little game was being played out. Deckard clasped his hands behind his back in intentional imitation of the guard.

After a few minutes, the screen went dark. Leila Mawson looked up at her guard.

"Yes?"

"Deckard Blaine to see you, Ms. Mawson. He's the one that called about the matters you had me look into yesterday."

Her eyes became hard for a moment, the retained their mash of detached interest.

"Is he armed?"

"There were indications that he has some devices, some of which I would have to assume can be used lethal ends."

"Hmm, you know what they say about assumption."

"Yes, Ms. Mawson. I did not search him because of your standing rule. Shall I search him now?"

Leila stood up. Deckard got a better look at her. She was wearing a two-piece suit in French blue, with pearls at her throat. She had on high heels that made a _klek_ sound. _Klek, Klek, Klek._ She took a couple of step closer to him. She had on a lot of makeup and perfume.

"No," She stretched out the word. "I don't think he's all that dangerous. You may go, but stay close. He may be in a frisky mood." She waved him away. The man bowed slightly and backed out of the room, shooting Deckard a warning look.

Mawson returned to her seat and pressed a button under her desk. A single leg stool of metal rose out of the floor two meters from the desk.

"Please sit, Mr. Deckard."

"No thanks, Ms. Mawson. I've been in the hot seat before, I'll stand."

"As you wish." She tapped her fingers on the desk, chin in one hand.

"I've come to ask you some questions about Yurgei Mallos, or Mark Essex, as you know him, and Dr. Wouk."

"I've been in touch with Mr. Essex. He was not very happy that you detained him in the manner that you did. He would not have hindered your way out of his warehouse."

"He'll get over it. What can you tell me about him."

"He is a smuggler; he has ties to our organization. My father knew him through Dr. Wouk. I'm sure you know more about him, I only know that he pays his tribute on time."

Deckard was watching her. She was making no threatening gestures. She was just sitting there. He had an uneasy feeling just the same. He'd had it when they had gotten off the elevator and it had grown since.

"Okay, how about Dr. Wouk. What can you tell me about him?"

She did not alter her position.

"About the same, really. I know he worked for the OSS during the infowar and that he resigned one day and disappeared. He and my father had dealings. I used to see him out at the ranch house on weekends occasionally, but he never stayed more than an hour or so. He and my father made a lot of money together. He was a master at importing technology, either complete, or the plans for them. As I understand, he helped the Texas Guard get a hold of those laser guns used to free us."

Deckard nodded. OSS. She had used that term for Section X. She couldn't know more. No one on the inside called it that. Only civilians and outsiders called it that.

"Mr. Deckard, Have you ever heard of the 'Head Thief'? She asked suddenly.

"Yes, of course." He said, distractedly.

"Then I won't repeat the details, but there is something I would like you to see." She got up, walked over to the left wall, and hit a switch. A section of wall parted and a light came on. In glass display cases behind a thick barrier of plastex were four decapitated heads. They were perfectly persevered. Below each one were small signs bearing a name and a number. Number 1, 3, 12, and 5 were before him.

Deckard stared at them with incomprehensible horror.

"When I was younger, I thought my father was the 'Head Thief'. He seemed so capable of it, even though the real Head Thief was a long time ago. He came by the first head in an underground auction. He paid quite a lot for it." She _kleked_ back to her desk.

"I have just made arrangements to purchase the forth victims head. It's my hobby. It's always presented a fascination for me, so I've endeavored to collect all the heads." She sat down and the screen lit up again. She tapped it. "I've just now acquired it. I was so excited I had to share it with someone."

"Why me?" The feeling of apprehension had multiplied. He could feel Kitka near and as tense as he was.

"Well, that's what brings me around to it. Even the law enforcement agencies, which we work so closely with, would not stand for such a thing. Even I wouldn't be able to pay my way out of this one. But, I know that you'll never tell anyone of my little hobby." She sighed. "Dr Wouk _did_ leave a message for you. He left it by about three months ago in case you dropped by."

She waited for him to ask. One move by her and she would have a full clip of 10mm. It was coming, whatever it was.

"Okay, I'll spring it. What was the message?"

"Die!" She said it savory relish. Her image faded. It had been a hologram. The perfume had masked the lack of human scent! A four-barreled mini gun folded out from the ceiling above her desk and began to spin around. The bullets began to pump out with a high-pitched whistle accented by sharp shuttering reports.

As steel jacketed lead tore into the walls, Deckard dove under the mahogany desk and watched the fiery tongue 'walk' toward him with evident slowness. Mawson thought to get him with the first burst, but she hadn't counted on his speed. Deckard rolled out from the other side of the desk, and behind the mini gun. He sprang onto the desk and looked at the deadly weapon. There was control arm. Deckard ripped it out. There were sparks, but the gun kept firing. Deckard aimed it at the collection of heads.

The plastex cracked and shattered away and then the heads flew into millions of bits. Deckard turned slowly, blasting out all the windows. The elegant picture window that was displaying a forest path with deer calmly eating grass. It shattered and fell away, revealing the ugly landscape beyond. The ammo ran out and the gun wined to a stop. Thick gray smoke began to pour out of the four barrels bringing out the reek of cheap Baltic gunpowder. Deckard shook with anger and let out a barking laugh. With a quick tug, the mini gun broke out of its housing. A look of contempt and Deckard threw it out the window to crash on the street far below.

"Meooorr." Kitka sounded off. She was in the corner, close to the window. Deckard pointed his wrist gun down at the desk, pulled a flasher out of his leg pocket and hissed twice between his teeth. Kitka leapt invisible onto his shoulders, clinging on. Deckard snapped his hand forward and fired his grappler into the desk. The flasher detonated with a crack and begin to strobe out bright white light. The grappler hook plunked firmly into the desktop and Deckard launched himself backwards out of the broken window. He was ten feet out, fifteen, and then twenty. He hit the reel button.

The wire jerked them to a stop and flung them toward the glassed plated building. Deckard took steady aim, his feet out in front and fired his 10mm several times. The window he was hurtling towards grew eyeholes and a large chunk missing. His feet struck the weakened glass, breaking it out. He and Kitka landed just inside. Deckard released the hook. A swift hand swung forward and Kitka was off his back and prowling the room. Deckard's eyes swept the new surroundings. It looked to be an unused office, devoid of everything. He could count on being undisturbed for a moment, so he reeled in his wire and fitted another hook, locking it into place. To the door. Deckard opened it slightly and Kitka went out into the hall. His vid pickup showed an empty hallway. Out through the door.

The hallway was lined with office doors, nothing on the walls, and an elevator at one end. Too risky. They could stop him or let it fall if they choose. At the other end was door marked _stairs-use in case of fire._ It was a locked steel reinforced door with a small mesh-in-glass window. A morph key subdued the lock quickly. Kitka, cloaked, went down the stairway, Deckard keeping close eyes on his watch. No cameras. Just stairs with several landings. He hadn't known how far they had dropped. A sign on the back of the door read 34. The tri probably used these stairs to conduct the illegal business, like the disposal of his own bullet-ridden corpse. Mawson, thinking of her boiled his blood. He had destroyed her grisly collection and that would have to be enough for now. Starkweather either kept his mouth shut or was too stupid to figure out what was what. Most likely the latter. Starkweather might've had lied about how the death of Leila Mawson would affect him. Kitka reached the bottom of the stairs, and Deckard stole after her, being wary of the doors.

She was uncloaked, waiting for him. He kneeled down and rolled up his sleeve. The 10mm was bright and shiny. The segmented bracelet that held the rounds was undamaged. Deckard reloaded it, watching the door in front of him. It had no window. He placed an ear to it, but it was too thick. Placing his palms together. He pressed hard and took several deep breaths, holding them for seconds. His heartbeat slowed and his pulse beat at an almost sleepy thump.

Kitka rubbed against his leg with a purr. He scratched the top of her head vigorously; which she raised with closed eyes. The morph key opened the lock. He would have to leave it this time. Deckard ripped opened the door and charged out, 10mm in front of him. The lobby was full of Tri soldiers. They all had subguns; most of them were pointed towards the elevators. Deckard stopped, knelt and began targeting them. Two were facing him. They each fell with a shot to the head. The noise caused two more to turn. One of them fell to his knees, clutching his throat. The other fell backwards, screaming wildly.

Kitka had gotten him. His yells made the rest turn, some of them letting the bullets fly. They tore over his head. One more fell with a shot to the gut, falling back into the tickling fountain. Deckard moved forward to behind on of the pillars. The subguns rattled off, rounds digging into the stone. He heard a scream of agony, a clatter and another thug fall. Two for her. The remaining guards stopped firing, spoke to each other in low, harsh tones and spread out. They were fond of cowboy boots; he could hear the heels clacking along the floor.

Deckard looked up. The ceiling was fairly far up and appeared sturdy. He fired up his grappler and the hook sunk deep. Deckard reeled up slowly behind the pillar. From up here, he could see the rest of the guards. Five left. Two of them were coming for him at opposite ends. He could see the confusion on their faces. The one from the left made a gagging sound, as blood began to brighten his dark suit. The other one made a cry of alarm and lifted his gun. Deckard pressed the trigger and the man fell, third eye blind. Three to go. Two of them ran to help their bleeding comrade, eyes searching for him. They both fell from hits in the chest, neck and head. One to go.

Kitka was below somewhere. He wanted this last one alive, at least for a couple of hours. The wrist rocket was snapped back into place and he activated his watch and whispered into it.

"Alive. Alive."

The last guard seemed frozen on the spot. He was between the elevator and the stairway door. He yelled out suddenly and fell forward on his face. The subgun skittered along the floor out of his grasp. Deckard let his hook go and landed on all fours, slapped out his 10mm and was on the last guard. He turned him over. Kitka unshrouded near his head, making intimidating noises of anger. It was Mawson's secretary from before. Deckard kneeled on his chest and pressed his face close to secretary's, gun under the chin. The bass voiced man's face was covered in fear and tears. Kitka had shredded his calves.

"Tell Sissy there will be... a reckoning." He growled. He got off him and walked towards the door, watching for one last trick. Kitka trotted along before him, ready to be out of the building. There was a red button on the wall next to the revolving door. Deckard pressed it and the door began to revolve. Kitka shrouded and they walked through. The sky was just as gloomy outside as it had been before. It was quiet and also menacing.

Deckard crossed the vacant street, and they descended on him. Police air cars. Seven of them. They were marked in black and orange with stenciled letters proclaiming who they were and where they came from. Five of them landed around him, two staying afloat, keeping him covered. The cops deployed in a professional manner. Taking cover behind their machines, large guns were pointed. They were dressed in black jumpsuits and blue street armor and helmets. One with a gold badge decal on the left breast approached him. He had no gun. Deckard lifted his hands above his head and closed his eyes in disgust. The tri had set him up to fall either way. If Mawson's picture show didn't work, they'd just have the law sit on him and wait. In his head, he was trying to work out several different plans of escape and evasion. Kitka, no doubt, was scouting the police cars. It all started with taking the gold badge copper hostage. Gold badge halted ten feet away from him.

"Hit it, Ortiz!" He said over his shoulder.

Deckard felt several pinpricks in his chest. He looked down, but his vision was already un-focusing. His sense of balance tipped uncertainly and then slammed him on the ground. He could feel Kitka's form, but she was still hidden. His body felt like a wet sandbag. When he tried to move, he felt violently ill. It was better to lie still. He could hear the police discussing his fate.

"Okay, boys, get a wagon over here and let's chuck him into it."

"Aren't we gonna search him? What about booking him?"

"No." The man in charge declared. "I've got my orders and they say that we chuck 'em in the wagon and ship him to departures."

"Without searching him? Couldn't that be dangerous?"

"Dangerous to who? By the time the slappy juice wears off, he'll be on his way. And I told you; I've got orders from on high. He's to be chucked in, intact was the word they used. They can search him if they want."

Deckard stared into space and then closed his eyes. His rage of spirit of quelled, forgotten. He was torn between wanting Kitka to keep close to him and for her to run away and not share his fate. She was keeping near him, but staying quiet as well. Deckard felt rough hands pull at his knees and shoulders and place him on a bare metal floor. The floor was vibrating slowly; He was in the wagon they had referred to. Through a force of will, he turned his head around as the doors were shut and locked. Kitka uncloaked and crawled up on his chest, sniffing his eyes and mouth. They were caught and headed towards an unknown fate, but they were together. That calmed Deckard and he fell into a foul unconsciousness.

# Chapter Fifteen

Deckard was shaken awake. The first thing he was Kitka crouching on his chest with her paws tucked under her. She was watching him intently. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was secured to a top berth in a stack of three. There were straps across his ankles, knees, waist, chest and shoulders. His hands were under the waist strap. The berths were full of men and women secured as he was. They were all young and seemingly asleep. Deckard could see little of the room. Kitka began to purr and he was able to slip his hands out of the waist straps and stroke her.

"Get these straps." He whispered to her. She got up, but the entire room shook violently. She lay back down as they room tilted upwards, raising Deckard's feet high above his head.

"Back, get back." He hissed. She crawled back towards his hands slowly and he held her tightly.

An immense roar grew louder and louder and Deckard and Kitka shot forward at an incredible acceleration. His ears popped and he swallowed and worked his jaw. Kitka was wide-eyed and panting heavily. Pressure began to build against his chest as the cabin soared upwards, becoming increasingly vertical. The roar subsided and the cabin began to level off. Or did it just seem that way? The pressure was gone, but he felt extremely dizzy. A speaker near his berth gave a voice of static and then made an announcement.

"Crew to gravity stations. Grav-plus begins in four minutes."

Kitka suddenly gave a short meep and shrouded. Deckard could hear a door slid open behind him, but he couldn't contort his head around to see. A woman in what was obviously a flight uniform entered. She was floating through the air, using the berth handrails to pull herself along. She was checking on the passengers. He could hear low tones of speech.

"Are you sick, do you need a sick kit?" The soft voice said below him.

It was now Deckard's turn.

"Are you sick, do you need a sick kit?" She was sort of pretty in a beauty pageant sort of way and had a blonde bob.

Deckard shook his head and watched her float through the room.

Kitka faded back in. He looked at her as he contemplated what he had seen. There was only one conclusion that he could come to. They were in space.

.

Deckard sat on the floor in one of the larger passenger holds, with Kitka dozing on his lap. From asking around, eavesdropping and being observant, he was able to put the picture together. This ship, the Puttin Tane, was a prisoner transport ship. The crew, other than seeing that the prisoners knew how to use their sick kits and when meals were, had no interaction with them. The sick kit was essentially a plastic bag with a cardboard plate with adhesive on it. When ill from the effects of zero gravity, one peeled off the back and stuck it on his or her mouth. Then one could be sick without having to hold the bag. This allowed one to participate in other actives, such as writhing on the ground holding your stomach, or passing out from pain and exhaustion of dry heaves.

Deck didn't seem to be bothered by it. Plenty of others were. The ship itself could attain a gravity-like state through rotation. These moments were called Grav-plus. Grav-plus could last for several hours, days, or minutes. Null-Grav sometimes returned with no explanation. Deckard assumed it had to do with the piloting of the vessel.

It was not like real gravity, it was weaker. The suffering passengers were able to keep their meals down, though. Meals were hot, brown, eaten out of plastic trays with peel off tops and served three times a day. Other prisoners did the service, while crewmembers supervised. The ship was outbound for five different satellites, space stations really. At each stop, they would unload prisoners, supplies and equipment. The first one that they were stopping at was Dog Green. There was a roster pinned up in the eating area of who was to get off where. Deckard was tapped for Dog Green. The equipment drop list was also posted. It contained a number of odd items: electric and acoustic guitar strings, various electronic parts for amps, microphones, and speakers, and blank recording discs. He was in a stupor for a couple of days, as the tranquillizers had been strong. The other prisoners all seemed as doped up as he did. Faces were full of blank stares and idiotic questions.

They were the extremes of society. Those members that could not fit in, but had not quite committed a crime, not a crime worth jail time or death, so now they were being kicked off the planet, banished so to speak. Deck became somewhat friendly with one of the warders and found out that all of his gear, "baggage" the crewman called it, would be returned at the embarkation at Dog Green. Everything down to his watch had been stripped off him. Even the pockets of his creeper were bare of lint. The warder assured him his gear was secure in his pack. Everybody's was. It was standard procedure to strip a transportee because of Grav Plus.

"Why Dog Green? Is that some type of code?" Deck asked.

"Guy in charge up there changed the name. Usta be OSS 14a."

Icy fingers brushed Deckard's shoulders and ears.

"OSS?"

"Yeah, _Orbital Satellite Station_ , see? OSS."

"Ah."

"Yeah. Nice cat you have there." The crewman scratched Kitka's chin as she lay across Deckard's shoulders. His name was Tom Jackson. This was his forth trip out. The work was mostly boredom with a tinge of danger and excitement. It paid well, and kept him out of the army. Deckard nodded in understanding.

At first, Kitka kept shrouded when anyone else was around. Then Deckard noticed there were some other animals about. A silver tailed squirrel raced about the ship that belonged to an over weight bottle blonde girl with a tattoo on her arm of a heart with a dagger through it. There was a banner on the dagger had a word on it. Deckard thought it might be her name, but he never got close enough to read it. There was also a turtle that sat on its owner's bunk that stayed mostly in its shell, poking its nose out. He never found out whom it belonged to.

There was also a mallard that followed its goofy looking owner around, quacking in short bursts. The owner had a long neck, was slightly bald and wore glasses on the end of his nose. He looked like a college professor that might have crossed the wrong person and wound up here. The duck adored him. He would follow behind the professor, it wide orange feet slapping on the steel deck. When the professor stopped, it would wag his tail-feathers and let off a burst of quacking that sounded like a boisterous laugh. Maybe it was the duck that had been pitched off the planet and the professor was going along for the ride. Deckard could name quite a few people who would be offended by the obscene duck laugh.

After witnessing this occurrence a couple of times, he coaxed Kitka out of her shrouding. No one seemed to think it out of the ordinary.

.

After his full faculties returned, he asked and was told communication from the ship was impossible. There would be a way to communicate with earth from the station, but the station manager would control that. The stations had been abandoned by officialdom for the most part. They were run by a loose association of cliques, cadres, or gangs, depending on the satellite. The Phantom Tones ran Dog Green. More than that, no one could say. The crewman, Tom, supervised the docking and unloading procedures and the only ones that came out to meet the new "citizens" were two flunkies who never said much of anything. They dressed and behaved weird as well, Tom claimed.

"How do you mean 'weird'?"

"Well, they were on the dock, but one had on a suit, real shinny with sunglasses. The other guy, he had on real baggy jeans, an undershirt, and sunglasses. They watched the transportees go on board, giving 'em the eye. Then they both go after one guy and haul him back on board. I tell 'em that that guy is to go on, but they just stay quiet. I talk to the captain, he talks to the Head of the Phantom Tones and then tells me to let them have their way." Tom folded his arms and made a face of assertion.

'Huh," Deckard said, walking off. Once on the station, he would have to get in touch with Bowden. Bowden would be able to clear his way back home with the Section, quicker and easier on earth. Deck doubted that the station manager, the Phantom Tone leader, would let him send more than a short message. He had already composed it: Bowden, get me out of here! It seemed to be to the point. Meanwhile, he had nothing to do, but lie about and relax. He put everything out of his mind and split his time between sleeping, eating and sprinting around the cargo bay. With the lower gravity, he was able to get up some speed and run up the bulkheads and sometimes, if fast enough, across the overhead. The cargo chief was at first annoyed, but then amused. He was a big baseball fan and got Deckard to play catch with him as Deckard sprinted around. The chief would throw the ball up to the ceiling and Deckard would race over, catch it and throw it back. Kitka raced along side of him, sometimes going far ahead, sometimes going off in another direction. If the chief caught it, he would throw it to another part of the bay. The days passed along.

.

At last, the announcement came: "All passengers and crew to Null-Grav stations. Secure for docking at Dog Green." There was a general shuffling off to the berths and action stations. The Grav-plus cut off and with a few seconds, a few passengers groaned and he head the application of sick kits and the sounds of them being used. The speaker came on again.

"The following passengers will disembark at Dog Green as indicated by the lists."

The announcer read the names.

"Follow the instructions by the flight crew to get to the locks."

The blond that had come around to distribute sick kits at the beginning of the voyage appeared again. She obviously drew this type of duty because she was so graceful in Null-Grav. Gliding in, she reeled off a set of instructions. The disembarkees were to unstrap themselves and make their way along the cabins using the handrails. The handrails, chrome with black grips, were numerous and on every empty surface. Deckard, holding Kitka on his chest, unstrapped himself. Kitka dug her claws in and he vaulted out of the bunk and into the nothing.

The others were having more troubles however, and a lot of them were calling for help. As the blond crewmate went to their aid, Deckard propelled himself along with the handrails out into the corridor and into the cargo bay. The shipment for Dog Green had already been off loaded. A pile of various types of bag, cases and satchels was near the opening. The opening was a large circular tunnel. Small observation ports that were on either side and covered before were open now. Out of them, he could see Dog Green.

It was a monstrous construction. Several rotating gravity rings could be seen. It looked as if it were made of jade or topaz. Greenish blue and reflective, it spun at what looked like a rapid speed. The Grav-plus would be heavier on Dog Green, closer to normal. Deckard was the first on in the bay of the other passengers. Several crewmen were busy with assorted tasks in here. Tom was sitting in a funny looking chair near the exit. Handrails had been set up from the entrance to the exit at about four feet off the deck. Using these, he and Kitka, went over.

"Name?" Tom said, looking at a clipboard.

Deckard said nothing. Tom looked up, into Deckard's expression.

"Oh, sorry." He made a mark on the clipboard and after searching for a bit, handed over Deckard's pack. A cursory search revealed that everything was indeed there. He guessed that most of the gear was unrecognizable to the personnel who had stripped him and packed it.

"Good luck, buddy." Tom said, smiling.

"Thanks. You, too." Deckard turned and hand-over-handed through the air lock, into the boarding tube and into Dog Green. Behind him, the others had finally made their way in. Arguments were breaking out and noisy indignations over the conditions of luggage.

Deckard opened the lock to Dog Green and went in. As soon as it was shut, he felt the pull of gravity, and he set his feet down. He set his pack down, opened it, slipped on his wrist guns, his watch, and put his scopes in his sleeve pocket. Kitka climbed down from his chest and sat in a ball on the floor. Hefting his pack, he opened the interior lock and went through. There was a series of locks, and the gravity increased at each one until he stepped into the loading dock of Dog Green. Kitka shrouded as they went through.

The cargo was being handled by a couple of guys with greasy hair in green coveralls. There was an entrance ramp for passengers into the main station. The two characters Tom had spoken of were standing on either side. They were wearing sunglasses and without a doubt giving him the eye. He tensed without knowing exactly why, but did not slow his pace. Then a panel above the passage way blinked red. The two goons took their hands out of their pockets.

"Raise your hands." The suit said. The t-shirt stood there, arms folded, nodding.

"Why?" Deckard shifted his weight to his left foot.

"Just raise them. I gotta check you."

"No." Deckard said, wondering what they would pull out. He found out. Suit pulled out a weighted cosh as T-shirt pulled out a switchblade. It flew open with an audible click.

"Okay, take it easy." He lifted his hands above his shoulder.

Suit came closer. Deckard snapped his foot forward and kicked him in the chin. With a pivot, he planted a blow across t-shirt's nose. They both fell backward, suit crashing into the bulkhead, T-shirt, onto the floor. Deckard looked over at the dockhands. They were looking back, curiously, but said nothing, and then returned to their task. Deckard went through the passageway. It curved around. At the bend, there were five more goons, holding coil rifles of an older design.

"Stop!" One of them yelled out. They were all dressed in an odd type of uniform, same as the guy lying on the deck: T-shirts, baggy blue jeans, boots, greasy hair and sunglasses. It came to him, and Deckard made a noise of realization. The sunglasses. They must all be linked into a central DV processor. Cursing himself for thinking conventionally, he raised his hands. As he did, he felt, rather than saw, the two behind him.

"Set the bag down." Deckard did so. It would be easy to take them out, but the station manager would be unlikely to be on his side after such a display.

There was a commotion further back in the passageway. A towheaded man of impressive size pushed his way through the rifle bearers. He was wearing a white sport jacket, black pants with faint red specks on them, and a black shirt with a wide short red tie. The tie was decorated with images of martini glasses in gold. His shoes were also white, with gold buckles on them.

"Deckard, Deckard Blaine, hey, is that you?" The large man asked.

Deckard looked at his face, rather than his clothes.

"Ray Gibson?" Older, thinner, but the same.

The large man bounded towards him, the ramp shaking, large meaty paw outstretched. Deckard shook hands with him.

"Night-and-day Ray!" He exclaimed. "What's going on here?"

"I'm the manager." Night-and-day replied with a wide grin.

.

Ray called off the guards and sent the dock guards back to check out the rest of the newbies. He led Deckard out into the station. The entrance led to a large area. It had high ceiling. Off in the far left corner was a stage, with a wooden dance floor in front of it. The wall in front of him, to the left and right were shops, bars and restaurants. Neon signs in different colors and designs proclaimed their names. Behind him were booths. At the right side was the exit of the area. Small round tables with chairs dotted the area in between.

"This," Ray said, with a gesture, "Is the medina. If you have business to do, you can do it here."

The cargo that had come in was being tended to and hauled off to different stores. Some of them were simple stands, others were enclosed. From where he stood, he could see a dress shop, a music store, an egg roll stand, and lots of others.

"Let's take a booth, huh?

Ray steered him over to the left. They sat in upholstered booths with small lamps in the walls. As soon as they say, a waitress in a black and white mini-dress walked up and set a large cup of coffee down in front of Ray. Deckard shook his head when she looked at him inquiringly. Men and women were going along the ways of their lives in the medina, around them. Deckard realized that they were all, more or less, dressed in the same style, the style of Rhythm Swing. Ray Gibson had finally finished the Cosmic Club, but not on earth. He had built it into an empire.

After a minute of looking around and thinking of what questions to pose, Deckard gave up.

"Ray, what happened?"

"It's long story, first you tell me yours."

Deckard told him what he thought he might believe, but Ray was aware of more than Deckard might've guessed. In the end, Kitka was revealed to him, and Ray was not surprised.

"I'd read of stuff like this, but this is the first time I thought they were true." Kitka sat in the booth, calmly, next to Deck.

Night-and-day Ray in turn told of what had happened. The waitress brought them glasses of dark beer and nachos. After Deckard had disappeared, ("I was drafted." protested Deck. "Well, no one knew that," returned Ray.) The Club was finished up and rolling along fine. For a time, everything was gravy, then a new club, Venus, opened up, down the block. It was owned by White Mouse ltd, a subsidiary of Zydel Corporation. The operators of Venus offered to buy Ray out, lock and stock, but Ray turned them down. It was a few days after when the police came. Someone had reported the cigarette machine and the authorities used that excuse to raid the Cosmic Club. In between the time that Deckard had first visited the Cosmic Club and now, a law had been passed making tobacco a prescription-only drug. Night-and-day Ray was convicted of drug dealing. His club was shut down, his assets seized and he and Renee were kicked off the planet. They were sent to OSS 14a.

At first things were rough, but Ray managed to settle things down. Deckard had a good idea how he did that. The station officials began to be recalled, one by one. Ray was put in charge of one operation, then another. After every promotion, he put one of his friends in his old job position. He was made manager of the station, and began to run OSS 14a the way he liked it. Right down to the name and right down to who stayed and who went.

"So Renee's around here, then?"

"Yeah, she runs a couple of different places." Ray pointed around the medina. "The Atlas, that's a café, over there, and Socially Correct, the dress shop in the middle."

"Why Dog Green?"

"Because this place is a beach head." He refused to explain further.

"We have every type of industry that you can think of back home, just no undesirables."

"Undesirables? Like what?"

"Hippies." Night-and-day made a face. "They have their own damn satellite." He looked at his watch.

"Look, I've got some deals to set up, I broke off to come see you. Sit tight and I'll get Renee to come by and give you the grand tour." He was up and away, walking towards the far exit. Kitka got up on the table and walked around it, before curling up and casting her tail over her feet. The medina was quite the marketplace. The low stage had a number of fresh produce vendors selling their wares. There was a large analog/digital clock over the far exit, reading about nine twenty in the morning. Deckard wondered how they could tell. He also wondered about the fresh vegetables and fruit. No doubt they had a green house on the outer ring.

Then a familiar form entered the medina. She waved to a number of people, stopping to exchange a word or two with this one and that. She was wearing a mock poodle skirt, saddle shoes and a white sweater. Her hair was cut in a pageboy trim. She spotted him and gave a small wave. It was Renee Gibson. He admired her figure as she came towards him. She looked the same, except for the changes. Kitka stood up and made a silent noise.

"Hi Deck! My god it's good to see you." She bent over to hug his neck before he could get up.

"Who's this?" She put her hands on her knees to lean over and inspect Channelle, who was cleaning her left paw. Renee did not touch her.

"This is Channelle Kitka, she's my, err," he wondered how much to say.

Renee stood up, hands on hips. "Save your breath, Ray told me not to ask. She squeezed into the booth across from him.

"Well, you look the same." Deckard commented.

Renee cocked an eyebrow at him. "You look better."

This surprised him and he said so.

"Well, you do. You're better looking."

"Oh, thanks, meaning I wasn't much to look at before?"

"No," She leaned over and put her hand on his. Kitka stopped her cleaning and bent her ears back at this. "You were - handsome, but not the way you are now. You were more a ruggedly handsome than a pretty handsome." She said with a blush.

Silence between them. Deckard finished his beer.

Renee gasped and put her hands to her mouth.

"What?"

"Your eyes,"

"Yeah, they changed them." The therapy had elongated the pupils. They were able to dilate quicker and wider. Most people didn't notice right away. Trust Renee to.

"They've changed _color_." She stared right into them.

"No, they haven't, have they?" Deckard looked around for a reflective surface. Renee slid a makeup mirror over to him from out of her purse. He looked in. His eyes, all right, pupils a little larger with faint points. They were green.

"They're green."

"Yes," Renee said. "They were brown before. You forgot, didn't you? Whatever happened to you, it was bad, wasn't it?"

Deckard looked at Channelle. She had edged over nearer him. She returned his gaze and made a sound of inquiry.

"It's nothing, girl, don't worry about it." She went back to cleaning her face.

Renee watched this with a feeling of loss. It was if Deckard Blaine had died and this stranger with his memories had taken his place. Now he was sitting across from her, able to communicate with a cat, better than with her. She, who was once his loving confidant. She was glad that she hadn't mentioned the stripes. She rose from her seat, her face betraying nothing.

"Well, Ray wants you to get the Grand Tour. He also told me to tell you, that he's going to relay your message, but the next supply ship won't come for at least a month."

"And that's my only way off, right?" Deckard stood, keeping one hand on the table. Channelle ran up his arm and perched on his shoulder.

"I'm afraid so."

"Deckard rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands.

"That's just great." At least up here they might be safe from the pulse cannon if anyone had built it yet.

Renee led him to his quarters first and he dumped his pack. The Grav-plus rings on Dog Green were all connected, making a large spiral that spun around the stations main machinery. On the south side (as they called it) was the docking area and Medina. Further in were living quarters and support services. The outer spiral rooms were reserved for the greenhouses and animal pens and aquariums.

Dog Green had a plethora of vegetables and fruits that flourished. It also served as an oxygenating surplus in addition to the filters and combination units. These were units filtered the carbon dioxide into the greenhouse areas and took out the oxygen, combined it more oxygen and other elements and released it back into the station. They had no cattle, mostly chicken, sheep and fish with a spattering of other animals. Every area they went through had men and women tending them and working them. Kitka had jumped down and was stalking her way through.

"There are a lot of cats, actually." Renee said as they toured through the aquariums. "Rats and mice always find there way on board through the cargo, so we need the cats to control them. We cannot risk poisons of any kind. It might get into the food areas or to the other animals and that would be disastrous."

"Do they just wander through the station, or do they stay in certain areas?"

"Well, we did have an area for them to sleep, eat, drink and so forth, but when we started getting so many people in and clear out the, ah,"

"Undesirables?"

"Yes, them. Anyway, most people don't mind having a cat or two and they feed them, so the station takes care of only the litter boxes now."

"Why?"

"We compost and recycle everything we can."

They were in the orchards. They had to wear heavy sunglasses, as that section was on the sun side for now.

They wound up back at Deckard's quarters.

"Well, I'll let you get settled. You have the run of the station and no work, so enjoy it. I have to get back to the shops. Lunch is soon and that'll be a bust couple of hours."

"What about the rest of the station?"

"Oh, well, it's just mostly construction and some of it's in Null-Grav and some of it's outside, and no one but workers are allowed to go there. We're constantly expanding. If you really want to see, I could ask Ray, but mostly it's just loud and dangerous."

"No, that's okay. Listen, Ray mentioned Jake, is he here? Is anyone from the old days here beside you and him?"

Renee tilted her head, thinking. "Well, a lot of the people from the club wound up here, but I don't know if you know them or not. I think a few of them are, but I can't remember who right now. Well, it doesn't matter, just come down to the medina tonight, there's always a show."

"A show?"

"Yes, the Phantom Tones play almost every night. That's Ray's band. A few other bands play too. If I don't see you before then, just tell them at the bars you're on the list, that'll run you a tab."

With that, she was gone, walking off down the hallway. Her heels made no noise on the floor, as it covered in a dimpled non-slip rubber. There were also no corners, no sharp ones anyway, the floor ran up the wall with shallow curves. The whole place was a construct of burnished metal. Deckard stood in the hallway for a while, looking at the walls, ceiling and floors. Kitka finally meowed loud enough to be let in. Deckard followed her. His cabin was about the size of a piano box, but it had a shelf that was either a bed or a couch, a sink, mirror, closet, telescreen, bathroom that was a combination shower/toilet, and a small desk. Deckard turned on the telescreen. It was the local station feed. A man and a woman dressed in cocktail era clothes ran through elements of stations doings, including the incident that he had caused. He went to the sink, pulled the stopper up and ran the tap. Kitka jumped up and began drink immediately. It looked so good; he had several handfuls of water himself.

The movie tonight would be "The Deadline of Blood." It starred Humphrey Bogart A and Myrna Loy A. The 'A' after their names indicated that it was a movie built around body imaging and not an actual Bogart movie. It was a common enough happenstance, but it disturbed Deckard, who considered himself a purist when it came to Bogart. The movie itself might have been constructed here on the station. Bogart's body image had been in public domain for some time now. With the proper imaging programs and a good computer, it could be done quite easily. Deckard flipped through the channels of the screen, six of them, until he came to a schedule that was slowing scrolling by. 'The Deadline of Blood' was, in fact, a Dog Green production. A number of technical staff were named, and a writer. The writer's name was Michael Flannery. Deckard knew one from way back when, if they were the same. Everyone called him 'Chevy', though no one knew why. Deckard turned off the screen and flopped on the couch. He began sorting out his equipment. Kitka jumped from the sink to the bed and curled up.

"You're right about that, girl." He sighed. "We might as well make ourselves comfortable.

# Chapter Sixteen

Deckard wiled away the afternoon time, watching the telescreen. One channel was a schedule, another was community bulletin board. The exiled population had certainly made the most of their situation. The bulletin board ran announcements, want ads, and events of importance. Inside one of the drawers was a newspaper. It was thin, but it was a newspaper. Dated a couple of weeks ago, it had a story about the new recording equipment that had come on board. In three days, the article stated, anyone that wanted to do a recording only had to audition to get a spot. The new recordings on DD would be available at Lucky's Records.

Another article was on the newest book by Michael 'Chevy" Flannery. This newest thriller by local boy was reputed to be his best yet. There was a picture of him. It _was_ the Flannery he had known. Chevy looked like he had been through a rough time. A scar slanted up towards his hairline on his face. He wore glasses in the picture, a single lens that covered his line of sight. His complexion was red, like sunburn. His hair was a deeper red, cut short on the sides, but long enough to fall over his forehead.

Deckard had palled around with Chevy a long while ago, but then got distracted by other matters. Chevy was a straight shooter and trustworthy. If anyone would tell him what was really going on here, it would be Chevy. Deckard had sort of just broken off contact with him. There was no falling out, Deckard had just gotten, well, involved. He wasn't sure how Chevy would receive him.

Deckard got up and looked in the mirror. He might think about getting some other clothes. He did not exactly blend. His cowboy clothes that had gone over so badly in Galvez might do here. He had seen others wearing similar duds. However, he'd chucked them somewhere along the way. Deck doubted that they took regular chits here. He'd have to figure out how to get around this.

Kitka made up his mind for him. She had been sitting near the door for some time and now she meowed to get out. She wanted to explore unsupervised. So did he.

"Let's go, then." He bounced off the bed and grabbed his creeper jacket. It was cold here on the station. The room he was in had a thermostat but no numbers on it. It was a switch with two positions: warmer and colder. He had flipped it to warmer an hour ago, but it didn't seem to make any difference. The door had a keypad with a set of instructions by it. After puzzling them out, he was able to code lock it. It was a cheap set up, but it would keep people from just wandering in and out.

Deckard followed Kitka through the spiral. The gravity seemed earth normal at first, but he could tell that it was weaker. In addition, if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could feel out the curved pattern, which they were walking. People passed him going the same direction and back from where he came. The girls made eye contact with him and smiled. The guys made eye contact and gave him a curt nod, sometimes followed by a greeting like: 'Howdy.' or 'S'up?' or 'Hey man.'

They were all walking swiftly towards their respective destinations. They all seemed to be in a big hurry. Some of them wore Pressure suits, others wore Atmosphere suits. The P suits, he knew were for working in an enclosed area that had no air or gravity. An A-suit was for working in unprotected environs sans air or gravity. His first assessment had been correct, though. They all dressed as if were five o'clock in Las Vegas about a million years ago. Night-and-day Ray was behind this. He was using his power to create a perpetual Cosmic Club, where it was always happy hour. Deckard wondered what happened to those who weren't happy.

.

The Medina was now in full swing. The cargo boxes had been unloaded and hauled away. The shops that had been closed had set up their stands or turned on their lights. The low hum of dozens of conversations made up just part of the background noise. On the stage, two guys dressed up in cool jazz were playing just that on a xylophone and an upright bass. The girls all seemed to prefer the pageboy cut in jet black. The guys leaned toward slicked back ducktails. The mode of dress varied from evening wear to jeans and boots. Deckard stood there with Kitka taking it all in. He spotted a store that sold what he was looking for and went over to it. It was a small-enclosed shop with the name 'Rivits' done in purple neon above its glass door. He went inside and up to the front counter. It was somewhat cramped inside, as racks of clothes were standing in every available spot. A foxy strawberry blonde in a film-noir fem suit gave him an inviting look.

"I can see that you need help." She suggested. "Renee told me that she might send you by, and here you are." His arrival on the station had clearly been noted.

"Is this her shop?" He asked. If it were, he might arrange some credit.

"No, but we all co-operate around here. I'm Raquel Rivit." The red head opened up her register, another relic, and handed him a slip.

"Renee told me to give this to you if you wandered in." She handed over the slip. It was a voucher signed by Renee.

"Good for one set of clothes, sweetie. You can pick them out, or I can help you, it's up to you." Raquel told him. Kitka was investigating the corners, poking her nose into the clothes.

"And if you can help it, tell her," Raquel indicated Kitka with a nod. "Not to sharpen her claws on anything, or you'll have to buy it."

"But I haven't got any money."

She put her chin in her hand and leaned forward. "Oh, I'm sure that we could work it out in trade."

Deckard turned his back with widened eyes. He told Kitka to knock it off, who gave him a hurt look. Mumbling an apology, he scratched her ears, and began to dig through the racks of clothes.

After a quarter of an hour, he walked out with a green sharkskin suit, black oxford shirt, and thin green tie with red designs on it that looked like bubbles popping. He also got a black pair of shoes. They reminded him of the ones that he wore with his Section dress uniform, except they had buckles. This was the way to stay inconspicuous, he thought wryly.

He learned from Raquel the most common way to earn money was to join the work crews that maintained the station and the satellite that it was built around. A few master technicians taught the rest of the workers how to do the simpler repairs. It was somewhat dangerous, as most of the work was outside. The next best way was to start a band, but it took a while before you could rely on that alone and if you had the talent. The jobs in the Medina were hard to come by, as they were the safest and best paying, so people rarely quit. Deckard might try selling something, if he had anything to sell, she suggested, with a wink.

"But seriously, we're always crazy about anything new. I mean, cargo days are great, but the stuff isn't really all that unique. Even if you find something that you like, every place in the Medina has the same thing. So if you have something to sell, you might not get any money, but you can always get credit, and around here, what else do you need?" Raquel spoke, confirming her faith. "I mean, you can lose money, but credit's always there."

He went back to his room to change so he could case the place in relative peace, or at least have a drink in the Medina without drawing so much attention to himself. Not that it showed of course. The Dog Greeners were showing him about as much attention as they did back in Cen. Right now, he had an overwhelming urge to find Michael Flannery. He shucked off his creeper, the jacket and the shoes and put on the suit.

It was obnoxiously flamboyant, and he looked and felt like a crooked blackjack dealer. All he needed was a diamond pinky ring and he could go ask Karl Starkweather for a job. He put his creeper back in his pack along with all the vitals.

The collection of junk lay on the bed. Credits, eh? Something in this pile had to be worth something. He finally decided on the ashtray he had gotten from the bootlegger hideout. Wondering if either of them had lived, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. It round, glass, and had the name and logo of an oil company, long since gone bankrupt, bought out, or simply went out of business. Back to the Medina. Kitka had disappeared from his side on the way back. He signaled her with his watch and she joined him near the entrance. She was licking her lips and he bent down to see what she had been up to. Eating something, from someone or somewhere.

"Try to restrain yourself, huh?" He smoothed down her whiskers.

The crowd was a little thicker now, and he could read by the clock it was seven, the xylophone and upright bass had been joined by a horn. Deckard worked his way around the crowd and spotted a bar with four stools, all taken. Channelle bounded onto the bar with a leap.

"What can I get you?" The bartender asked. He wore a white tuxedo shirt with a black tie and vest.

"What do you take in trade?"

The bartender took the toothpick out of his mouth.

"What 'cha got?" He asked. Deckard responded by placing the ashtray on the bar with a clink.

The bartender's eyes stared at it. The four other patrons turned to look at it with various comments.

"Ah, look," The bartender held up his hands. "I hate to say this, but you'd get a better deal from one of the clothes places, they could set you up big time."

"Are you saying that you can't take it?"

"No, I'm not saying that, it's just that I only serve drinks, pretzels, olives, that kind of thing. You could get a set of new threads for this. I can't really cover it."

"I can't trade this thing for drinks?" Deckard was having trouble understanding.

"Yeah, but I'd have to give you drinks for a year!"

"How about a month?"

The barman put the toothpick back in his mouth.

"Just you? No buying the station a round."

"Just me and maybe a friend or two, but no more than that."

"Okay, that sounds good." The bartender held out his hand. "Let's see your drink ticket."

"Oh, I don't have one." Deckard remembered. "Renee Gibson said I could set up a tab." He gave the guy his name and a fake story behind it.

"You're Deckard Blaine?" He reached over behind the bar, and handed him his ticket. "You get free drinks anyway." He said sadly, pushing the ashtray towards him.

Deckard pushed it right back. "No, I don't like free drinks, they're too expensive. The ashtray is yours."

"Thanks, man! You're a-ok!" The bartended quickly put the ashtray out of sight. "If you have anything else to trade, come to me, and I'll tell you who'll give you the best deal."

Deckard acknowledged this and got a beer. The bartender poured in a large pint glass and gave his ticket a single notch. Deckard looked at the ticket, a thin piece of black plastic. Kitka jumped down and sat between his feet. That's when he saw him. It was Michael Flannery. He was sitting at a table with what looked like an old word processor. Deckard went over.

"Hey, Chevy, how've you been?"

Chevy kept pecking at the processor and then stopped. He removed his odd looking glasses and looked up.

"Deckard!" He stood up and shook his hand and sat right back down. "Have a seat." Chevy replaced his glasses, completely unsurprised. "Well, sit down." Deckard did so. Kitka got into his lap and put her front paws on the table. Chevy was wearing a brown suit, white shirt and a brown tie with silver stripes. The table was full. The word processor was designed to look and sound like an old clockwork typewriter. It was on the table as well as a brown snap-brim hat, a pack of gum, an electronic dictionary/thesaurus, a plate with a half eaten sandwich and an empty glass. Chevy devoted his full attention on the screen, as if he were watching a movie. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Then he tapped the return key twice, typed two more words, and hit a large button marked 'send'.

Chevy leaned back, wrung his hands and exhaled loudly.

"Well, that's done." He removed his glasses again and set them on the table. "Wait here, I gotta get a drink." He put his hat on and walked over to the bar that Deckard had just dealt with. Chevy had a weird walk. It was more of a rolling saunter, as if he were a gunfighter from the old west, his hip weighted down with an invisible gun. Deckard knew his walk was because his right leg was a little shorter than the other, an accident from a long time ago. His skin was so pale it showed the blood pounding beneath the surface, so his visage was a deep red.

Several guys and girls went up and exchanged words with him. They all went away laughing. Chevy ambled back over, dropped himself in his chair, and took a big drink of beer.

"So, you're here on Dog Green, eh? You get kicked off for bad manners?"

Deckard knew what he was referring to.

"Look, I'm really sorry about just taking off like that but,"

"Spare me the sob story, Romeo. I already know about Cassandra and what happened after. I've been keeping tabs on you."

Deckard winced at the sound of the name.

"So don't worry about it, chief, I'm not offended, you just owe me, so I put this one on your tab." He took another gulp.

"Just finished my nineteenth book. 'The Killing Jar' it is called."

Chevy preceded to tell him about the book in detail. Deckard told him more or less about his travels and involvement with X. Chevy was someone he trusted completely. Channelle even went over to him and rubbed on him. Chevy was able to pick her up and scratch her chin and neck. She closed her eyes to slits and purred. Chevy had a way with animals of all kinds.

"Yeah, I've got about five of the station cats that hang out at my place, the little bastards. I can't move in there with stepping on someone's tail, so I usually work out here." He said, Kitka sprawled across his lap, making small noises.

Chevy filled him in on the scene at Dog Green. Anyone that did not live up to the unwritten code was dealt with swiftly. Long hair, long beards, unwashed appearance and dope smoking were some of the violations that could get someone in trouble. Great pains were taken to make sure transportees off the ship fit the profile Night-and-day Ray had given them. Dope smoking was a violation that could be over looked if one provided the station with an indispensable service and kept quiet about it.

"The Phantom Tones' guitar player is big stoner, but he can play well, so everyone looks the other way. He's a sacred cow around here, you know."

"What about you? You seem to be a driving cultural force, are you a sacred cow?" Deckard asked.

"Me? Cultural? Is this sarcasm?" Chevy said into his glass. He never touched anything stronger than beer. An incident with something stronger, long ago, resulted in Deckard and two others talking him out of a tree. Chevy set his glass down and continued. Night-and-day Ray ran Dog Green, but there were several factions that were around. The Swing Lords, the Lonely Kings, the Southside Senders were just a few. They had fistfights, but nothing more was tolerated. The toughest guys were the Dog Green constabulary. The last fight happened out on the dance floor and a girl was hit in the eye. The constabulary waded in with jimmy sticks and put a few of the participants in the medical bay.

A striking woman with platinum blonde hair in intricate curls walked on stage to a round of applause and whistles. She was wearing a low cut evening gown made of sequins. It looked like she had been sewn into it. She went to the microphone and thanked the audience. Deckard looked at her closely.

"That looks like, like," He could not place the name.

"Cynthia Dane?" Chevy asked politely.

"Yes, her."

"That's because it is her." Chevy got a piece of gum and popped it in his mouth.

"She's a big star, though. What's she doing here? Sympathy tour?"

"Nope. It seems she sold her body image to Gygax entertainment about three years ago. They made a movie with it, "Love is death", I think or whatever. She got famous, or rather her body image did. Instead of paying her the royalties, they had her busted for not recycling or something and shipped up here. Cheaper that way. Now they don't have to deal with their movie stars holding up liquor stores. Convenient."

Cynthia Dane began to coo out the words to an old sexy swing tune with body language to match. Gygax entertainment. They used to be a major force back in the war, now they were pushing around young girls for profit. The war, it seemed had not changed anything, just moved some of the chess pieces around. Was he himself a pawn, or a knight? Mulling this over, he got up and got them two more beers. He and Chevy drank their beers, watching Cynthia Dane seduce the audience with her voice and her eyes.

The entire Medina seemed to come to a standstill. Deckard had to admit, Gygax Entertainment could really pick 'em. Even if they did screw them over really bad in the process. The sex symbol finished her song and bowed gracefully to the audience, who gave her a standing ovation. Ms. Dane exited the stage, as someone handed her a fur shoulder wrap.

Chevy's processor blurred a burst of colors and then went black.

"Dammit!" Chevy exclaimed, slamming the keyboard with his fist.

"It's a good thing I finished before that one hit." He turned off his machine and folded the screen in. He looked around. A few other people around had lost their tempers at their equipment.

"What's the problem?" Deckard asked, sipping along on his beer.

"Stupid piece of junk keeps blanking out. It's the pulse, I swear. Night-and-day's gonna have to get more shielding before they finish that thing! I can't work like this."

"Finish what?"

"Oh, it's this thing that Ray is letting some earth worms build. They're paying up front and the facility is supposedly going be upgraded, but every time they fire it up, something goes dead around here."

Deckard could hear his own heart beating. His hands began to flex slightly of their own accord.

"Where are they building it?"

"At the far north end."

Deckard shot off toward the north end, whistling for Kitka. Kitka bolted after him, her claws digging into Chevy's legs. He cursed and stood, watching the pair dart away.

"What the hell was that all about?" He put on his hat and went for another beer.

.

Deckard raced along the spiral at a brisk pace passing by a work gang in P-suits. One of them called after him as he went by, but he paid them no mind. He came to an airlock and opened it. Kitka squeezed by him as he heaved the door to. Inside, he looked around for warning labels, instructions, anything. A panel above the door was blinking yellow. A metallic button near the lock had sign above it indicating instructions. Deckard pushed the button. A generic female voice stated that yellow meant Null-Grav, red meant zero pressure and no gravity. Null-Grav was something he could deal with. He opened the lock and went out into it. It was a work bay or landing bay. Crates were secured to the floor with straps and bolts. There were several magnetic workbenches to keep tools and delicate machinery from floating away. Deckard kicked off against the wall and shot towards the workbenches. Kitka had difficulty with Null-Grav and she clung to him, nervous and trembling slightly. Moving along the workbenches using his hands, he found the Grav-plus controls. The work crew obviously shut it off when their shift was done. He activated it, heard the gears work, and slowly floated to the ground. Deckard plucked Kitka off his back and set her down. He knelt and comforted her and she regained her confidence.

"Keep watch." He whispered and she faded from sight. Now for a quick look around and to figure things out.

This was a workstation, he reasoned. They assembled the components and larger pieces of equipment in here. Then they would down tools and turn off the Grav-plus. Then, wearing P-suits, they would float the completed machines and devices out to another assembly crew. That crew, in A-suits, would guide them to their various completion points and attach them. A through search revealed a safe at the back of the bay. It was a dial combination lock with no other features.

Deckard had no equipment for opening a dial lock. After searching the benches for a tool that would do the job, he found a laser pick. He burned through the inner hinges with it. Sparks shot off from the door as he worked through it. With one hand, he held the pick; he kept his eye on his watch for intruders. Done. Deckard shut off the pick, laid it atop the safe, and tore off the door with both hands. Inside was a number of items he could not identify, a handgun, and a black canister, the size and shape of a large coin.

That was what he was after. It was a data disc. There was a viewer on one of the benches. He went to it, checking his watch frequently. The viewer was an older model, but it would suffice. He inserted the disc and looked for the activator. The viewer burst into light and what was on the disc was displayed in a 3-D image above him. A dial spun the image around, another top over bottom. A series of buttons gave out critical data and measurements. The machine would also produce a flat hard copy of the disc. Deckard did so. The machine spat out the pages in quick order.

It was the pulse canon plans and they were building it. From the plans, he could recognize the completed and uncompleted machines bolted to the floor. The next shift would come in, finish them up and float them out.

"Hey, you, freeze!" Two guards were at the end of the bay, with heavy rifles brought to bear on him. The work gang he had passed had obviously put in a call to them. Maybe the reactivation of the Grav-plus had alerted them. He had been careless with the excitement of his find. They wore green steel composite armor, boots and helmets over their gray coveralls.

As Deckard slowly raised his hands, he could see his watch face blinking like mad. He had forgotten to keep an eye out upon his discovery. He then pivoted and fired. The projectile hit the Grav-plus button. The machines ground to a stop with a clank. The guard, unprepared, lost their coordination and began to float upwards. Deckard angled his arm towards them and fired his grappler into the wall near the lock. The hook flew out and penetrated deep into the wall. Hitting the reel button, he zoomed toward them, feet first. They had gotten a grip on the situation and were firing at him, with poorly aimed shots.

Deckard could hear the bullets ricocheting behind him. One of the guards dropped his guns and made guttural choking sounds. Deckard pinned the other to the wall with his feet. The impact caused the man to lose his grip and his rifle floated away. Deckard tore off the helmet and gave the guard a viscous head-butt to the face. He could hear the crush of bone reverberate in his head. The blood splattered out and floated away in droplets. The other guard was still struggling. His armor made it difficult to reach his back, where Kitka had locked her back paws. Her front paws had locked onto his face and throat. There were deep furrows on his face and throat. Deckard put out some slack on the cord and kicked over to him. He ripped the invisible Kitka off the guard and placed her on his shoulders, where she reattached herself and faded back into view. Satisfied the guard was not interested in detaining them, he reeled back to the wall and got to the lock, which they had left open. He closed it and the Grav-plus kicked in. Kitka making sounds of displeasure climbed down and began to groom herself as far away from Deckard as she could be in the lock.

"It was the easiest way." He told her. "I'm not going to apologize." The Grav-plus was now at full strength. He opened the other airlock door. Kitka trotted out and away from him.

"Okay, I'm sorry!" Deckard jogged after her. "It just came to me, I should've let you take both of them!"

She increased her pace as she went down the spiral.

"Oh, come on!" He protested. They came back into the Medina. It was now in full swing. The crowd had doubled in size and there was dancing, drinking and carousing. Kitka ducked through their feet and went back to Chevy's table. He sat there, leaning forward in his chair, speaking to a girl in a tan sweater and pink skirt. Or rather, he was listening to her. She was speaking very fast, with lots of hand gestures. More than once, she put her hands on his arm, his shoulder, or leg. Chevy still had a way with animals of all sorts. He had a way with them, but did not understand them at all. This girl was doing everything but issuing a hand engraved invitation back to her place. That would be exactly what she would have to do. Chevy was on the dim side when it came to interpreting behavior. Kitka leapt into one of the chairs, and the girl transferred her attention. Deckard came up and he could hear Chevy warn her off touching Kitka.

"She's not exactly tame." He said as Deck came up and sat in the other chair.

"Where did you run off to?" Chevy demanded. The girl looked frustrated.

"Don't worry, I won't be long." Deck told her. "Where is Night-and-day Ray?"

"Back stage or at the coffee bar." Chevy indicated with a flip of his hand.

"Thanks." Deckard drank the rest of Chevy's beer. "The next five rounds are on me." He slapped down his drink ticket and got up. "He's all yours." He said to the girl. Kitka was sniffing the air, ignoring Deckard.

"Coming with me?" He asked her. She looked over and yawned. He clicked his tongue twice. She hummed and then jumped down. Deckard leaned over the girl and put his mouth close to her ear.

"You may have to be a little more direct." He breathed. He walked away and Kitka following him. He stopped and picked her up. She let out a loud _Meoorrr_ as he did so.

Ray was tuning his guitar back stage alone. The back stage was a small room with wooden chairs and a metal desk. Graffiti covered every square inch of it.

"Ray, I have to talk to you.'

"Yeah, okay." Ray said absent mindedly, not looking up from his task.

"What do you know about the construction going on at the North Bay?"

"I know the guy's paying me a lot of money to let him use the space. I also know he's paying the work crew double what they usually get to have it finished on a tight deadline." Ray squinted at his guitar strings and strummed one of them.

"Do you know what he's building?"

"Nope."

"What's his name and where is he?"

"He told me to call him _Doctor_ Wouk, so that's what I call him. He should be in the north work bay. He has a rack in there and never comes out of it."

:"I just came back from there and it was empty _." Well, except for a couple of hapless guards requiring hospitalization._

"Were you in bay A or B?" Soft notes from the guitar.

"In the one where they built all the stuff."

"That's A. B is where he usually is. Where they adjust the machines and test them out before they float them to the outside." Ray finally looked up. "Why do you want to know?"

"Look, Ray, It's important you not tell him that I'm coming." Deckard said. "He's building a weapon out there, a terrible weapon, with your facilities and your people. I've been sent here to find him and stop him." Deckard turned to go, then turned back. "Don't try to get in my way. Get everyone out of the north work bays and keep them out. There's going to be trouble, big trouble." He left Night-and-day Ray sitting there, mouth agape.

.

As he went along the spiral, he shed his fancy suit and shoes and slipped back into his creeper. His wrist rockets were checked over quickly. There weren't enough 10mm rounds left to use; so he put in the dart thrower. He was given a few stares but he ignored them. The chase was about to culminate and it was not the time for modesty or polite manners. As he knelt to run over his guns, Kitka wound around him, purring loudly. He picked her up and squeezed her tightly.

Whispering nonsense into her ears, he smoothed down her fur and scratched her chin and neck thoroughly. Deckard rose, cracked his neck and back, flexed his hands and went to north work bay B. The doors hissed open and Ultra team Seven walked through.

The Grav-plus was on, but the bay itself was devoid of anything. It had a window overlooking the semi-completed Habakkuk II, and a spider walk that surrounded the bay wall. In front of the window, stood a man in white. He was tall and his back was to Deckard. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back, as he gazed out to the Pulse cannon. Kitka hissed softly and the two of them approached, Deckard looking all about, guns in his hands. He was twenty feet away when he stopped and called out.

"Rymar Stoltz, Turn around."

Rymar Stoltz turned around. A handsome man with aristocratic features, faintly condescending look. His suit was white and expensive with a short waist jacket. His features, legs, arms, body were all long and thin.

"So you figured that out. Good, it means I choose well."

Deckard was standing on the balls of his feet, attack posture. "Let's see your hands."

Rymar ignored him, turned sideways, and walked a few paces to the left.

"Deckard Blaine, the best and brightest of the lot. How long did you know?"

"I didn't until now, but I suspected as far back as Haining ball. Where you had LesPaul assassinated. As I found your Tri connections and then Mallos, it all began to fit together. No one that I talked to had ever seen but one of your incarnations: Wouk. The ones that did know you as Stoltz only saw Wouk by Digital Vid links, where you could easily modify your appearance. Spotta was never seen any other way, but he was head of a secret organization, so it was expected that he keep a low profile, but in truth, they were both you.

You controlled every aspect of D and X sections from two different personalities and the Ultra Project with one more. You controlled the government like a puppet and now you're working to destroy it piece meal. For what reason, I can only guess. I'm sure you're about to tell me, though it adds up to the same thing: power and control."

Stoltz flashed in anger.

"Yes, for power and control! I dragged the US government back from the brink of extinction and they repay me by taking away all I created! I made them a formidable power, a force once again in the world of Corporations and they throw it all away because of an idea that they control themselves." Stoltz laughed.

"So now you're going to disable those of your choosing one by one, until they submit." Deckard held his aim steady.

"No. You see, you were misinformed about the nature of the Habakkuk II. It does not place a small electromagnetic pulse here or there and disable planes, computers, or watches. It delivers a tyrannous blast that will disable everything all over the world, forever. I'm not going to put the American government out of its misery, but everything out of my misery for all time."

Deckard's scowl deepened. "What will that accomplish?"

Stoltz looked around at him for the first time.

"I thought you would've figured that out as well. Perhaps it's the effects of space. Sometimes it takes while for the metabolism to get back up to optimal speed. What that will accomplish is they will be helpless, and then they will be dead.

'Dog Green' as your friend Mr. Gibson calls it, is in fact a beachhead. A beachhead for the retaking of the world. All of the technology down on earth will be destroyed; all of the technology up here will be spared. I control twelve such stations as this. My lieutenants run them even if they don't know they are as such. Each one had a viable system for running the station by using people and a subculture. It was I that engineered this whole idea. My defunct organization, the OSS, is not named for the Office for Strategic Services, but for Orbital Space Stations. This was always the back up plan in case we lost the infowar. Ironic that it will now be the base of its destruction. Where I might shore up my strengths and unleash it on the fools in control below. The satellites that hook the entire world together will be the targeting devices. The pulse cannon will be activated and left activated until there are no more signals. They we will go down and reclaim what is rightfully ours."

"No. I'm going to stop you." Deckard's own reply seemed weak. Stoltz just laughed again.

"Do you think that you found your way here by chance or skill? I led you here. Step by step. I planted the appropriate clues that led you to where you went, here to meet me. Granted, you did not follow the clues in order I thought you might. In fact, I thought you might have gotten what you wanted out of LesPaul before he was dealt with. To be sure, you were in mortal danger in places, but that was part of the test. I need no weaklings or mental incompetents at my side."

"Then that transmission that you sent when I was at the Meadows was broadcast from here." Deckard said "You provoked me, as you provoked all the others to do exactly as you wanted. But why lead me here?"

Stoltz took a step closer and Deckard crouched and realigning his aim. Stoltz took no notice and he began to pace back and forth.

"You were the pinnacle of what the future will be. The most successful man to animal splice ever. In the future, they will be no normal men, as we know them, they will be supermen, augmented by the animal instincts and made better, stronger, than they are now. With the first success and then the summation of the splicing project with you, I realized what my destiny must be. I brought you here to rule with me. Together we shall forge a path into the history of the future, where all will know our names and proclaim our greatness."

"If I refuse? What then? Does the future look so bright? Who will you get to take my place in your world?' Deckard's heart began to beat with a thudding slowness. His skin felt hot.

"Oh you won't refuse. I have a guarantee that you will not." Stoltz stopped pacing. "How long since you were rotated out? How long since you found out about how long you would live? How long do you have left? Five years? Six? A little longer? I can help you with that. I have made progress on that since you and the others were made. You can lengthen your years beyond that of ordinary humans. You and I would be near immortals, ruling throughout time."

Deckard stood and considered. He thought about Daria and her silly club. He thought about the Maddox's and their stupid life with vacation homes. He thought about Monica and the ridiculousness of it all. How insignificant they seemed in the face of absolute rule and infinite life. How insignificant it all seemed. Kitka let out a howl of anxiousness. Deckard wanted to howl to. What he wanted was something that Rymar Stoltz couldn't give. It was something that he didn't know he wanted or even what it was. If offered, he wouldn't know if he would take it or not.

# Chapter Seventeen

"If you are thinking of refusing me, I have one more reason why not to." Rymar inclined his head. The outer air lock rolled open and an obscenity to creation was there. Thirty meters long and as thick as two men covered in green scales with orange markings lay Goramund. The monster snake god slithered in, its eyes curiously human. It kept its venomous gaze locked on Deckard and Kitka. Kitka hissed loud and long, tacking growls on the end of it. Deckard could feel each single hair on his body stand and quiver in horror. Ice water formed in the base of his spine and spread to his fingers and toes. The blackened split tongue darted in and out.

The snake coiled up and raised his head. Looming before them, he spread his hood open like a massive bat-wing and then let loose a volley from his rattling tail. It sounded like human skulls shaking around in a metal garbage can.

Deckard stared at the immense size, as it dwarfed him under its aggressive stance.

"So you see, Mr. Blaine, the odds are in my favor." Stoltz stood there, hands behind his back, chuckling softly without mirth. "You've been curious for Goramund for some time, I think. Curiosity, Mr. Blaine, killed the Cat."

Deckard stared at him. His overbearing confidence made the decision easy.

"But satisfaction brought it back," Deckard spat back at him, leveled his dart thrower, peeling off shots. Stoltz ducked under the hurtling spikes and the order of battle was decided.

He sharply whistled to Kitka, and she leapt to attack Stoltz fading from view as she did. Deckard fired his grappler above him and Goramund struck as he sailed upwards. He felt the slipstream of the beast as he rose. Deckard sent a burst of darts towards him. He could hear them thunk into the olive colored scales below him. Goramund moved up quickly and slashed sideway into Deckard. The hook snapped loose and he crashed into the bulkhead in a heap. Deckard scrambled to the balls of his feet, shaking his head to clear it. A look around. Goramund was slithering up, carefully setting up his next strike. That's how it would come, rapid deliberate moves. Deckard would have to gauge the movements and deliver the killing blow with just as much deliberation. The snake was quick and deadly, but not as smart as Stoltz thought he was.

Kitka was engaged in close combat with Stoltz, from the look of it. She was using the same strategy. Stoltz had been able to fend off her best move: a bound to the neck with claws laterally tearing open the jugular. He had several slash marks on his fine white suit, blood seeping through the fabric. Shrouded, she would assault him, doing as much damage as she could, she break it off before he had a chance. Eventually, she would wear him down and then kill him, if he didn't get in too many swipes of his own. Stoltz was crouching and circling around, searching for his adversary, electric stiletto whips in his wiry hands. They crackled and sparked as he slashed out with them.

Deckard pulled out some flashers and threw them behind him as he ran towards the spider walk. Goramund stuck out and bashed Deckard with its arrow shaped head as the flashers went off with loud pops. Goramund was shaking his head violently and snapping all around. Deckard fit another hook and loaded his grappler. It was blinded for the moment and judging from its reaction it relied on its sense of sight rather than on smell or hearing. Deckard ran towards it, firing wildly. The darts stuck in the bulkheads, in Goramund, in the floor, everywhere. Unseeing, the giant serpent snapped all around itself. Flaring out it hood, Goramund's eyes blazed red. It gave out an earth shaking roar, and Deckard could feel and smell its foul reptilian breath. The fangs were as long as his forearm and dripping with poison. The darts were sticking in the thick scales and had done minimal damage at best. Deckard was paralyzed by the roar and the awesome display of ferocity. Goramund whipped forward and struck. Deckard snapped out of it at the last moment, leapt backwards, firing two darts into the open maw.

The snake jerked back and uncoiled to surround him. Goramund let off another rattle, freezing Deckard to the core. It struck and sunk its right fang four inches into Deckard's leg. He gave out a shout of pain and anger. It was a spear of acid violating his flesh. The venom burned, but it broke the grip of fear that had encompassed him. Deckard caught the tooth, stepped on the bottom jaw, and pulled the trigger on the dart gun. The darts sprayed out with short whistles, sticking in the nose, mouth and right eye.

Goramund whipped his head back and forth, tail rattling, lifting Deckard off the floor and he was thrown off. He landed on the floor with an impressive impact. His leg had been ripped open and was injected with poison. Deckard had underestimated the serpent's abilities to inflict fear and distraction.

The pain was a fiery seeping grip that he could feel spreading quickly. Deckard would have to end this soon, or never. From the floor, he aimed his grappler above Goramund and planted the dart there. He reeled up and over Goramund's writhing. Deckard was already beginning to feel ill. His head was light and his leg was now numb. The snake lessened it erratic movements to scan for moments from his prey.

The neck, it would have to be the neck! One try would be all he would get. Deckard waited until the right moment and released the hook. Falling through the air, he landed on the behemoth serpent. His claws flexed out, his finger tips stiff and he buried them into the mammoth snake hide. Goramund was crashing through the bay now, roaring out his impotent anger. Deckard ripped his left hand out and sunk his claws into the top of Goramund's head.

The monster snake slammed his head on the ceiling, on the wall and on the floor. Deckard was dazed from the blows and the poison. He had no idea how much damage he was under going, but it was severe. Mustering his strength, Deckard retracted his right hand claws and brought his dart thrower to bear on the remaining eye and fired. He spent the rest of his darts on the eye.

The darts sunk below the surface of the sickly orbs again and again with sharp whistles. The eye burst and black ichors spilled out. Deckard could smell the combination of his blood and Goramund's filth. His thrower spent, but the snake was finally feeling the effects of Deckard's attack. Deckard grasped under Goramund's chin. He whipped the empty wire from his dart thrower around his and grabbed the loose end, locking in the mammoth garrote. He concentrated all his remaining efforts on crushing his spine, blocking the blood, anything, anything that would kill it.

His grip was slipping, ripping through the scales, and warm putrid liquid spurt out. Deckard wrapped the wire around his hand again to maintain his grip. His eyes closed as he maintained his Sisyphean hold. Goramund stopped his thrashing slowly and with one last phantasmagoric roar, fell to the bay floor, the vibration shaking the whole area.

Deckard lay there gasping for breath and then rolled off the head. Goramund's tail was quivering but it soon stopped. Deckard's legs were now numb, and breathing was painful. He dragged himself over to the wall, where he could sit up. His chest was on fire with agony and his breaths were short heaves of effort. Several ribs must have been broken and were now slicing into his vitals. Blood seeped from his forehead and down his cheeks. Deckard felt a weight crawl on his lap. Kitka unshrouded, greeting him with a small voice. It was full of agony and knowledge. Blood was coming out of her mouth, ears, and nose. Her beautiful fur was missing in patches and was matted with wounds and burn marks. She was missing part of an ear and some of her whiskers. Her claws were covered in blood and more than two of them were torn out.

Deckard could see Rymar Stotlz's body was still and silent not far from where Goramund lay. His white suit was now mostly crimson. Tears sprang into Deckard's eyes as he stroked her face. Kitka curled up weakly in his lap. She was tired and would now sleep. Deckard's vision was blurred and shadows rose up from the corners of the bay.

Deckard thought about what gods might take them into the afterlife. The ancient Egyptians worshiped cats, maybe Kitka could speak to them for him and they would be together there. Maybe they would go through to the fields of the Nifhelm to forever rest. They had been in the army, perhaps they could take solace at Fiddler's Green with the other soldiers that had gone before them.

A cat had kept the Christ child warm in his manger one night and purred for him, maybe it would be there they would find refuge. It was said cats would not enter the kingdom of heaven without their master. They would wait by the gates, year after year until finally joined.

Cats were favorites of Muhammed, who once cut off a part of his robe in order not to disturb a sleeping kitten. Perhaps they could lie in the garden, one of the lower of the seven. Did there exist a place for them, marred by science and man, after death? Who would hear their petition for entrance into whatever reward or punishment they deserved?

Deckard realized with dread that Kitka had stopped purring, had stopped breathing. She was dead. He wept bitterly, shaking with overwhelming sorrow. He looked up and saw her shade sitting before him. Her ghostly form was shinning in the darkness that was falling. She was restored, her beautiful fur was sleek and smooth, her whiskers were long and twitching at him, her delicate peaked ears were unmarred and pointed at him. Her whole calico being seemed to shimmer in the dark.

Kitka knew where they could go and would lead him there, as she had always led him, from the front and behind. He had nothing to fear now. Where she was leading them, they would be at each other's side, and that was enough. Kitka stood and trotted away from him to a bright light. She had left her body behind. Kitka stopped and opened her mouth to ask him to come along. He could not hear the sound, but only felt it.

"Wait, wait for me, girl, I'm coming, coming." He managed to say. Deckard's heart slowed and then stopped. He breathed out his last breath and rose, leaving his own body behind and joined his beloved pet. Deckard's shade knelt and rubbed her forehead with his, scratched her ears, and smoothed out her whiskers. Then they went through the light together.

.

Dog Green had buzzed with activity after that. A United States Space Corps ship had docked and a dozen Corpsmen had rushed in, armed and ready. It was a newly formed agency designed to keep peace among the space stations. It was the military arm of the recently formed EarthNet, the latest successor in world government. Clearly more had been happening down on the big blue marble than anyone had realized.

Ray Gibson was cooperative with the commander of the Space Corps. He was a large figure in fatigues with a crew cut accompanied by a huge German Shepherd. The commander had the North Bay sealed off completely while his team worked around the clock to dismantle the Pulse Engine. He himself put the plans to the torch. The message Ray Gibson had sent for Deckard was acted on as soon as it had been received. The bodies of Wouk/Stoltz/Spotta, and Goramund were jettisoned into space. No mention was made of Deckard Blaine or Channelle Kitka.

Ray and Renee Gibson inquired about them, as well as Michael Flannery. The commander shook his head and gave them his condolences. They had gone in but had not been able to come out. The commander told them Deckard Blaine and Channelle Kitka had accomplished their mission, even if they had not been able to save themselves.

"They sacrificed themselves for the safety of Earth." The commander said, his eyes looking towards the blue orb that rose like the moon each night. "As his friends, you should be proud that he was able to fulfill his destiny and be known as a hero forever afterwards." Night-and-day put his arm around Renee, who buried her face in her hands and cried. He bit his lip, his own eyes brimming with tears.

"As he had no family back home, I think he would like you to have this." The commander held out a small black box. Inside was a medal of gold and a ribbon of red. The legend on it proclaimed it to be the Medal of Victorious Honor.

"The highest medal that the USSC and the EarthNet can bestow." The commander said.

The operation was wrapped up in a week and the Space Corps cleared out, leaving Dog Green almost as it was before. The Dog Greeners were fascinated by the whole incident and treated the arrival of the USSC as a sort of holiday. The USSC soldiers were treated to great hospitality and the businesses had a surge of profits and goods in trade. Then the USSC troops and their commander left. Right before they did, the whole command gathered in formation. They turned towards the bay where Captain Deckard Blaine and Commander Channelle Kitka had died, saluted, held it for one minute. Then they broke ranks, disembarked Dog Green and their ship left.

.

Michael Flannery sat at his usual table, his processor on, but was not doing any writing. Renee Gibson joined him. They sat in silence.

"Well, Chevy, are you going to be writing about this whole thing?" Renee asked.

"Naw." Chevy replied.

"I guess not." She let out a sigh. "I can't believe he's gone."

"Yeah." Chevy smirked. "I don't believe it either."

Renee looked at him as the implication sank in. "What do you mean? What have you found out?"

"Nothing, really." He said with dark satisfaction. "I only know what I saw, what I heard. Some of the equipment taken out of the North Bay was in an oxygen tent. Two USSC medics were attending it. Couldn't see what it was, it was covered up. It was about seven feet by four, I think. Big enough, in any case."

"The Space Corps said was because it was delicate equipment. It wouldn't function right in the stations atmosphere. And how do you know they were medics? All their uniforms looked alike."

"Yeah, you go right ahead and think that, that's fine with me." Flannery tossed Deckard's drink ticket on the table. Renee could see from the numerous notches it was empty. "Those USSC boys sure can drink, and after they do, they'll fill you in on all sorts of things. Like how to tell between uniforms. Who does what. How many medical specialists were attached to them, including former OSS doctors." Flannery cracked his knuckles. "Like I said, believe what you want, but you know what they say about cats."

Renee thought. "They always land on their feet?" She answered, tilting her head.

Chevy nodded and leveled his sardonic gaze at her.

"They have nine lives."

#

Deckard Blaine and Channel Kitka will be back in

### Intrigue Submarine

Read a sample from the newest Deckard Blaine and Channel Kitka adventure:

.

Deckard and Kitka sat at the window watching the rain pound down. The sky was lit with streaks of lightening, and punctuated with low rolls of thunder. It had been six months since the incident on the Orbital Space Satellite: Dog Green. It had been a year altogether when the harrowing events sent Ultra team 7 from one end of the country to the other, facing corporate assassins, mob bosses and their underlings, insane armies of the past and finally, almost their match in genetic science gone horrible wrong. Their former boss and his hideous snake beast had played a game of literal cat and mouse to lure them into his deep space stronghold. Once there, he had made a deal that Deckard and Kitka couldn't refuse. But they had, and had survived, but just barely. Their injuries had been massive, Kitka had been savaged by the reptilian Stoltz, and Deckard had been poisoned with Goramund's nerve numbing venom.

Hallucinating that he and Kitka had died and passed beyond the veil, he was puzzled to find himself awake in a hospital berth on a United States Space Corps space craft. It was rocketing back to earth, where more than one thing had changed. Kitka was resting on his left side, nearly as covered in bandages as he was. The damage they had sustained defeating Stoltz and his monster snake was repaired and was healing. Bowden was in command of the newly formed USSC. It seemed that his I'm-just-an-ignorant-grunt was just that: an act. After he had retired from the Section, he began to look more closely at it and other world events. He had quickly realized what was going on and why. That's when the mission to go after the plans for the Impulse Cannon had dropped neatly into his lap. He deferred the mission to Deckard and Kitka, who he knew would not fail. At the end, he was there to scoop them up and save their lives. Deck realized he had been manipulated again, but Bowden had come clean about the entire thing. He couldn't risk flipping his hand. But now that was all over with. Deckard and Kitka had been nearly recovered by the time that they had arrived back at Earth. They spent some time in the hospital, mostly sleeping, and then went home. Monica had been informed of their injuries and had come to see them in the hospital, a little red eyed and weepy. She petted them both, and told them she was glad they were home. The doctors, who Blaine had been expecting bad news from, told him while his augmented form had shorted his lifespan dramatically, he had been able to stave off those effects with his adopted metabolism. In short, he was able to slow his aging due to his relaxed feline nature.

Now they both sat, watching the rain tumble from the sky. At times like this, Deckard's heart rate fell to less than 55 beats a minute, his breathing slow and constant. His metabolism sank into serenity, along with the slow purr of Kitka. Then a loud knock at the door shook them both out of their state. Deckard could hear the tension behind the pounding. He jerked the door open. There, drenched with rain, was Jack Haining, without a jacket or a tie, his tears mixing with the rain running down his face.

"My daughter," He croaked. "They took my daughter." He looked desperately with red rimmed eyes at Deckard. Deckard took him in and got the whole story. Jack Haining was the town's resident celebrity billionaire and Deckard owed him one.

After the assassination at Haining's Midwinter ball, where Ultra Team 7 was present, he and his wife Tracy had been shocked into a revitalization. Their marriage suddenly improved and things were confessed and forgiven on both sides. Just about the time that Deckard was slipping into Texas, Tracey became pregnant with their first child, to the delight of both of them. Jack went into proud father mode, instantly, attending to his wife's every whim, telling everyone that he could the good news. When asked if it were a boy or a girl, Jack stated he would be happy with either. It didn't matter, he and his wife were in love like never before and now his life would be complete. The child was born, a girl, and christened Vesper Lynn Haining at about the time that Deck and Kitka were trapped by the mob boss Sissy Mawson at her Houston HQ. The entire town celebrated along with Jack and life continued. Until tonight. Jack had arrived home to find his wife unconscious on the floor, his child gone. He had called for the doctors who had to sedate Tracy once she discovered what had happened. Jack had got a text on his phone with a picture of little Vesper: One million by midnight.

Jack had attempted to get the money, but the lightening had knocked down key elements in the grid, making the electronic transfer impossible. He could not get the money, now with four hours to go, he stumbled into the rain and wound up at Deckard's house.

"You've got to get her back," Jack cried out, his tears boiling out and over. "If something happens to her..." The thought was too terrible and was dismissed by Deckard.

"Don't think about that. Go home and take a sedative. I'll go get her and bring her to you by the morning, okay?"

"Just like that?" His voice quavered, but had a touch of hope in it.

"Just like that." Deckard helped him up and took him to the front door. "Go home and see to your wife. Everything will be okay. I'll be at your place a little later with Vesper. She'll be just the way she was this morning."

Jack smiled under his grief ridden face a little, then frowned. "How do you know? If anything happens to her, anything..." He broke down again. Kitka wound around his legs and Deckard put his hands on his shoulders.

"Because that's the way it is. These guys are not pros. Pros would've come to you first, and if there were pros, I would have known they were in town and dealt with them already. Here's what's going to happen: You're going home, taking a sleeping pill. When you wake up, your wife will be holding your baby daughter again. Believe me?" As Deckard said this, Kitka wound tighter about Jack's legs and began to purr loudly.

Jack nodded. A look of dark danger pervaded his features. "If they hurt her, or, oh, God," the thought was too horrible to contemplate. "Kill them. Make them SUFFER." He choked these last words out.

Deckard nodded. "Okay, I will. But it's not going to come to that. Go home, I got work to do." Jack nodded again and stumbled off to his car. After a lengthy pause, it started up and drove slowly off. Deckard closed the door and went to his office, where all of his monitoring equipment was. After a brief bit of thought, he zeroed in on the time he wanted. It was true what he said. They were amateurs. Pros knew that a person couldn't get that much money in that amount of time. It just wasn't done that way. It had to be someone who was local and was on the inside. Deckard ran the camera feeds from inside the Haining Manor from noon to present. Ultra team seven had long ago put down heavy surveillance on the major spots of interest in the town. That included the Haining estate.

The house was empty except for a maid and Mrs. Haining. The maid went home at three. Tracey Haining and her daughter were the picture of family bliss. Tracey was fed and changed and played with and then put in her crib for a nap. Tracey lingered until her daughter fell asleep and then went downstairs. Then a white truck pulled up, a diaper service. Two men got out, and one went to the back of the house. While Mrs. Haining oversaw the diaper delivery and takeaway, the other man waited. The delivery man tipped his hat and left the house, driving away. The other man slipped upstairs and nabbed the baby. He then left the house and got into the truck that waited by the gate. It was at least thirty minutes before Mrs. Haining went upstairs to check on her daughter. Finding that she was not there, Mrs. Haining screamed and screamed. Then as a result, passed out, striking her head on the marble floor. Deckard observed all this in fast motion with no sound. The delivery service had an address that he crossed checked when the van had pulled up.

Deckard sighed. "I _told_ him to fire his security company," Grabbing his black outfit designed for mobility, comfort and concealment, he flung his clothes away and dressed on the way to his own car. The equipment was in each pocket, and Kitka galloped after him. The car started with a roar and sped out into the night.

.

The Burpee diaper service was in an innocuous building on the west side of town. The two kidnappers sat, apprehensively. Another two were around, one outside, smoking and another wandering the building. One fiddled with a phone while the other shifted his weight. Both of them looked up and the faint cry of a baby could be heard. An argument insued and the smaller of the two went to attend the crying child. Deckard watched all this with his scopes from a second story ledge. The rain had let up slightly, but was still failing. Close ups of the windows revealed the contents of each room. Deckard used his Multi-integrated Link to call up the floor plans from the infranet.

"Kitka, I want you in the room with Vesper. The closer the better. When I make my move, if one of them even turns towards her, kill them." Deckard stroked her back and tail. Kitka vanished under her stealth collar. Deckard slid off the ledge and walked silently up to the one outside with deadly intent. Deck could feel the man's collarbone break as he slammed his fist on the side of his neck. He dropped in a heap. Deckard glanced at him dispassionately. Blood was trickling out of his nose and one of his eyes opened with the pupil dilated to the max. Deck waited near the back entrance of the Burpee diaper service for Kitka's signal. The back entrance was a solid door, with a deadbolt that was not thrown. When his watch face flashed three times, signaling the Kitka was in position. Deckard knocked as loud as he could. Using a fiber optic camera, he watched the larger of the two men approach the door cautiously. A third hung back, near the door where little Vesper lay.

"Yeah," a deep voice sounded.

"Hey, open up." Deckard said quietly.

"What?" The man asked harshly., moving closer to the door. The camera showed the other man in the room, standing up and half turned, as if to go into the other room.

"OPEN. UP." Deckard said loudly.

"We're closed." The harsh voice said.

Deckard took a lunge back and planted his foot above the door knob, slamming it open and off it's hinges slightly. The man was knocked over and Deckard was through the door, pointing both wrist guns at each of the men closest. The one man near the door bolted. Deciding that he hated child-nappers, Deck shot the man left standing through the throat, severing the spinal cord. He gurgled and fell to his knees and toppled over slowly. Deckard focused his attention on the downed man.

"Give it up." He shook his head. "I'll let you live." This guy was too stupid. He would make a move.

"If I were you," The man said angrily, "I'd be thinking how I was going to explain how you let my partner shoot the Haining brat." He nodded. "He's going to come back in here with her and then we're going to leave. Then the price tag will be two million. If you're lucky, I'll keep that pervert off her as well." He smiled with malicious delight. The smile faded as a strangled scream echoed throughout the building.

"Your partner is dead." Deckard stated dismissively. "Give it up or I kill you where you lie."

The man's body became a blur of motion, quicker than Deckard would've thought. But still way too slow. As the glint of steel flashed in his hand, Deckard squeezed the trigger and shot the man between the eyes. The man's head thudded on the pavement with a wet smack. Blood began to quickly pool around. Deckard let his wrist gun snap into its housing and went into another room. It was all dark. He could see the body of the other man, his throat torn out. Close to that was a large wicker basket. Inside was Vesper, sound asleep, with Kitka curled up close, her bright eyes glittering out, her tail wrapped around one of Little Vesper's arms. Kitka began to purr deep and loud . Vesper woke up and looked at him, yawned and then went back to sleep. Kitka yawned even wider, causing Deckard to yawn too. Deckard checked his watch. It was an hour and a half until midnight. He picked up the basket with them both in it and walked to his car, leaving the grisly scene for the police.

.

Jack Haining woke up in his darkened bedroom. He could see a dark figure walking away from the bed, toward the window.

"Hey!" He meant to shout, but all he managed but a short grunt. The figure turned around. It put a finger to it's lips.

"Shhhhhhh." Deckard Blaine's face became visible in a faint flash of distant lightening. He turned and went out the window without a sound. For a moment, Jack thought that he could see the faint outline of a cat. She flicked her tail and then was also gone.

Jack looked to his wife, who was asleep on her side, where little Vesper had been placed, twined in her arms, also asleep. His face split with a wide grin and tears and he hugged his wife with a happy sound. She woke, with a puzzled forlorn expression, but then realized her daughter was back. Tracey gasped and looked at her husband. He shook his head and no more words were needed. The Haining family was back together and safe, thanks to their phantom protector.

.

Monica Domentta studied the canvas. She was a photographer that specialized in antiquing portraits. She would take a portrait photograph, then transfer the image onto canvas. With a few touch-up, it looked like an oil painting. She did all other types of photography, but that was what paid the bills. She also freelanced for about three different papers and magazines. Her studio was right on the town square. The large picture window held some of her most impressive work. The face of a child gasping up at red balloon in a field of green grass, a large and stately bridge lit up for the night, with fireworks above it, and the top of a building, covered in fog, with a concealed figure, his back to the camera, looked as if he were thinking about jumping off, all filled the windows. Inside, the finished portraits of this man or that woman, or a family, or their children and sometimes a pet hung on the walls, ready for pickup. She inspected the canvas, making touchups here and there. The bell in the door tinkled softly. She looked up to see an elegant looking woman, looking somehow out of place in such casual clothes in the store. Monica smiled and said hello, then it was back to the subject at hand. The woman took a good look around the store, inspecting every photograph. Monica rubbed the bridge of her nose and looked up. The woman was mesmerized by a shot of an assembly of townspeople during the millennium celebration. It was in black and white and the shot took place in the town square. Monica went to stand by her, as she looked at the shot.

"It's so detailed." She murmured. It was then that Monica realized she had a baby cradled in her arms. The baby was wide awake, looking about curiously, stopping to blink and smile at everything.

"Yes, I love that shot. It was taken about 85 years ago. I found it when I bought this old camera store three years ago."

"Was it that big?" The woman could not take her eyes off it. The crowd was very animated and every face had an expression of amazement of something that was taking place just off camera.

"No it was a snapshot, about 8 by 12. It was old and stained, but it just seemed to call out to me. So I enlarged it, cleaned it up, clairifed it, fixed it."

The woman turned to her for the first time. "It's gorgeous. You have real talent I can see." The woman shifted her weight to support the child and held out a hand to her. "I'm Tracey Haining."

The two women shook hands. "Monica Domentta," Monica said, dazed. She knew of Tracey Haining, but never met her. Gosh, everyone knew the wife of the richest and most well known figure of Jack Haining. Jack Haining, who turned a small town into a cultural mecca, that had also retained it's small town feel.

"This shot is amazing." She turned to look at it again. "How much are you asking?"

"I've never thought of a price, it's just for show mostly. You're the first person to even ask."

"Well, then think of one, because I surely want it. I don't know if I want to hang it in the lobby of Jack's office, or keep it for myself. It seems a shame to have it all to myself, but right now I feel like I want to look at it everyday!" Tracey gushed and the quickly changed the subject. "But that's not why I'm here. You know Deckard Blaine, right?"

Monica was taken aback. "Yes, he's, well, he's my boyfriend." She didn't think anyone but her knew Deck.

"Well, he did a giant favor for me and Jack." Here, she looked at the child in her arms, and her eyes glistened for a moment. "But since then, he's disappeared. We can't get him on the phone, he doesn't answer his door and he doesn't have an email or MIL address that we can find,"

"He sometimes can get preoccupied." _By which I mean he can sleep for days on end, if the favor that he did for you is like other things he's done._ "But if you need to get a message to him, I'm your girl."

Mrs. Haining dipped a hand into the giant purse that she had around her shoulder and came up with an envelope. "We want him to come to dinner on Friday night, at our place. Nothing fancy, but it's important to Jack and me. And this includes a guest, too, so be sure and point that out to him."

Monica took the envelope. "I think I already know who he'll take." She grinned wryly, without remorse. Kitka and he were a team, she knew and accepted that.

"Oh, no, it's an invitation to both Deckard and Kitka," Tracey smiled conspiratorially. "So you see, you can come too, if you want. And I sure would like you to." Monica reeled with that sentence. Clearly, whatever the favor that Deck did for the Hainings had been VERY big indeed if they knew about Kitka. Deck tended to keep to himself and Kitka never showed herself to strangers, which at last count was everyone but three people.

"And if you have other plans, don't worry, it's all casual. Jack and I are very Casual these days." Tracey put an accent on the casual like it was an inside joke. "But whatever you decide, I still would love to have this photograph. So starting thinking of a price, or I'll have to." She made some more small talk with Monica and then breezed out of the store and across the street. It was lunch time and the building across the way was where Jack Haining's office was. To think of having one of her photographs in that building! VIP's and celebrities were in and out of there all day. It could mean a lot. But what price? She had done it merely to stretch her abilities. It was a hard project, and for a while had had the original next to it in the window. But she had the other photographs. But what about Deckard? What was the thing that he had done for them?

.

Deckard droused on the sofa, supine and breathing slowly. Kitka was slapping something across the kitchen tile. Her ears pricked up and she ran to the front window and looked out. Monica stood there and waved at her. Kitka jumped down and pawed the door control so that it unlocked. Deckard had everything rigged so that she could operate it. Monica stepped in.

"Hi, Channel baby," Monica knelt and exchanged courtesies with her. Kitka bumped her shin with her head then looked over to Deckard then back to Monica.

"Sleeping huh?" Monica looked down at her. When she looked up, Deckard was standing in front of her in a flash, scratching sleepily. "Hey, what's up." He hugged her, leaning on her too slightly, and kissing her neck. He then stood up.

"Is it morning?"

"It's night." Monica followed them into the kitchen where she explained her meeting with Tracey Haining, while Deck drank a glass of water, a glass of milk, a glass of soda, and another glass of water. She looked at him expectantly. He blinked.

"You want to go? Because if you don't want to go, then I don't either. But if you want to go, then I want to go."

"Well, yes I want to go. The Haining mansion is supposed to be breath taking. Tracey Haining has flawless taste and decorated it along with a majority of the town. But that's not what I want to hear about. I want to hear about the favor you did for them."

Jack blinked again. "Oh, that." He began to fill up a glass of water. "I can't really say. I mean that." He looked right at her, his eyes suddenly steel. "The situation is complex and you don't want to know about it. I don't think the Haining's would want me to say. BUT, I think I can tell you that it involved the safety of their little girl."

Monica thought briefly for a moment. She read the papers and though it was downplayed in the news, she thought she could figure it out. "Okay. But now I want to go shopping for a new dress to wear on Friday." She took his hand and led him into the bathroom. There she began to take off all of his clothes. When he was naked she turned on the shower and put him in it. He took a face full of water and opened his eyes, now quite awake. She was in the shower with him.

"But, first," She wrapped herself tightly about him with a wide smile.

.

The doorbell sounded and Jack Haining, dressed in kakis, sneakers, and an untucked blue Oxford, swung the door open wide. Deckard stood there dressed all in black, as usual, hands in pockets. His expression was one of the ultimate predatory cat: Alert and deadly, but at ease. A slim tall girl, with slight oriental or Arabic features, had her arm hooked on his elbow. She was dressed in an elegant summer dressed, silk and colorful, her face was alight with excitement and she was nearly exquisitely beautiful. Jack took a step forward, grinning, noting how the two of them went together very well. Tracey had said Deck may have a surprise for them. After shaking hands and introductions, Jack led them into the large kitchen that had somehow become the center of the Haining home. It was big enough for a small living area, as well as a porch entrance and a wetbar. Tracey was there, stirring something in a large pot. Vesper was in a crib nearby, with a Doberman pincher lying underneath it. Tracey looked up as they entered.

"Deckard! Monica!" She crossed the space, arms open for greetings and hugs. She hugged Monica first, kissing her on both cheeks, European style. Deckard had heard she had spent the first part of her life abroad. "I am so glad that you came! There is so much I want to talk to you about! And Deckard!" Tracey hugged him slowly, kissing him on both cheeks as well. "Deckard, forever our friend. But where's Kitka?" At this Jack coughed, as if to point out his wife's faux paux.

"No, it's okay," Deckard looked sleepily over at Jack. "She's already here. Kitka," He called, as he looked over to the crib. Kitka appeared like turning on a lamp. She was sitting in it, washing her ears. The Doberman thumped his tail on the floor a couple of times.

"Sorry about that. Ever since, well, that night, she's grown fond of little Vesper. She thinks she's her kitten," Deckard shrugged as Kitka bounded over to him from the crib. Jack and Tracey giggled at the imagery.

Jack ushered them to seats at a round tile table and gave them both a glass of red wine.

"New dog, eh?" Deck asked. It seemed that Kitka and the Doberman had already met and come to an understanding.

"Ajax. Yes, well, it seemed logical after what happened. I got him from the shelter. He was a guard dog in a warehouse that went out of business. I went in for a puppy, but he needed a home. I don't know, it just seemed..." As he said this, the dog came over to Jack and put his head under his hand, as it sat on the arm rest. Jack scratched his ears.

"Yes, I understand. Believe me." Monica watched as the three of them exchanged an understanding.

"But enough of our sorrid family past!" Tracey said. "Monica, tell me that you've reached a price for the picture for your work. I've thought of little else. I'll want it reframed, something to match the interior of Jack's foyer. Be sure and include that in the price. Just tell me when you can get it done, but I'll like it as soon as possible."

Deck looked at Monica and then Jack, who shrugged.

"As a matter of fact, I haven't thought of a price. I went from my shop to Deck's and then we went out."

Tracey pulled out her purse and handed her an envelope. "I thought as much. Sometimes artists just don't think about these things, so here."

Monica opened the envelope and gasped. She made to protest, but was stopped by Tracey.

"No, I have an idea of what you were going to say, and I say you were even thinking about just giving it to me." Monica's expression gave her away. "Ha, as I thought. I can tell you that price is the price I would gladly pay in New York or even Paris for such a work, a bargain, in fact. We _cannot_ have our local artists working for nothing. It would give the whole town a folk art name."

Monica appealed to Jack. "Mr. Haining, do you know how much of your money your wife is about to spend?"

"Call me Jack. No, I don't know, and I don't care. Trace has been going on and on about it since she saw it. I have absolute faith in her judgement. Her talent and eye for talent has made this city what is it today. If she is prepared to spent one dollar or a million, then it's worth it, I'm sure."

"Deal, then. I'll have to look at the lobby and see what will work. Then I can get you some samples and you can decide from there." Monica shrugged. Appetizers were served and then some light appertifs. The main course seemed to come and ago admist light talk of the new shows, Jack's work in town, and all the details. Deckard's vanishing act was carefully not mentioned, as well as anything about him. Deckard nodded and listened, and occasionally brought out some stories of his own, with names and dates omitted, of course. He and Kitka enjoyed themselves immensely, it was rare for them, almost unique, to have such a domestic evening. Monica was led away to examine the house in detail, as well as the number of art works. Jack drew closer to Deck.

"Deck, I want to talk to you about something. You too, Kitka." He looked around for her, and she leapt up on the table.

"One of my business partners died recently and left me all of his old business contact and files. I've been going through it bit by bit, but it seems that at some point he worked for your old company." At this he raised an eyebrow. "The same one as Les Paul,"

Deckard leaned in. "I'm listening,"

Jack Haining leaned closer. "What do you know about Ultra Team Four?"

