Eye

EYECATCHER by Frank Roger 1 All at once the burning man vanished, as if he had never been there. As a matter of fact that was probably very much the case, Cynthia thought. She let her gaze roam about the glimmering cityscape. Most of it didn't seem real. Much of it wasn't real. None of it felt real. All around her the city sprawled. It extended to the horizon and beyond, a vast, amorphous expanse of concrete and stone and metal. It was teeming with life, although at times it looked deceivingly empty and quiet. As the gigantic megalopolis grew, it extended its fingers and pushed its limits further and further, greedily gobbling up other cities and incorporating them within its boundaries. After some time it proved no longer useful to refer to them as mere cities. They were now labeled Urban Areas, as opposed to Desert Areas and Woodland Areas. As more and more people fled the south and flocked towards the Urban Areas, their growth continued unabated. Not all was well in the Urban Areas, though. Only the happy few lived in the rich City Center. Around it was a series of concentric rings. In the one closest to the Center, the "rim area", there was still a semblance of wealth and a spark of hope. Further down things grew bleaker and poorer. The inhabitants of these slums had dubbed their part of town Nowhere City, probably because it bore a striking resemblance to the slums around all other Urban Areas. Nowhere City could be anywhere. As long as you weren't in the city center, it didn't make a difference in which particular Nowhere City you happened to be. They were probably all exact lookalikes. And feelalikes, she added grimly. If you lived here, there was a fat chance your life was going nowhere too. Despite all it had meant to her in its better days, now sadly gone by, she was glad she had been offered a chance to leave this neighborhood and move into the Real World, as she saw it. The endless stream of holograms and all sorts of visual effects had never been able to fascinate her, but now she had really grown sick and tired of their unrelenting presence. A few minutes ago a hooded mugger had darted from behind a portico, had rushed towards her only to pass straight through her. It had been a hologram, obviously, in all probability not more than a warning sign. Some inhabitant had constructed it to warn all passers©by that his dwelling©place was best left alone. The thing was that you were never quite sure what was real and what was a hologram. Some of the cyberpets, as all sorts of mechanical and computerized watchdogs were affectionately labeled, who were roaming this neighborhood were quite real, for instance. They could inflict genuine injuries which caused real pain. Some of the cyberpets were quite smart, others were dumb machines, some were malfunctioning. Of the latter you could only expect the unexpected. A few moments ago she had seen a limping wolflike pet crash into a wall, crushing its skull in the process. Its legs had kept on thrashing and twitching, as if in unbelief. So both the creature and the wall had been real © unless the whole scene had been a holographic projection.

She had no idea what the burning man might have been. Another warning device? A malfunctioning piece of art? An elaborate joke? Solid proof of someone's bad taste? Actually, it didn't really matter. As long as you survived you didn't ask too many questions in Nowhere City. You simply had to accept the fact that the streetscape was mostly fake and that you weren't likely to figure out what was real until it was too late. Some living experience here did help, though. Cynthia took a sharp intake of breath and set off again, carefully picking her way through the debris and obstacles scattered all over the place. Even if it wasn't real, it was better not to take anything for granted. Some of this social twilight zone's inhabitants she passed by, both human and otherwise, were quite real. Lots of street vendors were peddling their wares, a great variety of stuff, most of it probably either illegal or stolen. There was quite a bit of hardware and all sorts of high©tech equipment. Stacks of disks and computerªrelated stuff. Loads of e dible and drinkable material, depending on your definition of those terms, and not all of it good for your health © or your survival, for that matter. The sales raps weren't the only sounds to rupture the silence. You often came across street bands playing live music in this part of town. Most bands enhanced their high©energy act with holo setups, and solicited audience participation. She was under the impression that she hadn't seen all that many bands strutting their stuff in recent times. That was a bad sign. Had they become victims of the recession? Or had they drifted off to other parts of town, or other Urban Areas where there was still room for street musicians? That was hard to imagine. This place was as good as any © or as bad, to put it more correctly. Maybe they had just gone out of business, had grown discouraged, and were now waiting for the right time to reappear on the scene. Who knew what these guys would be forced to do in the meantime. It reminded her very much of her own situation, and the sullen fate she had been given the chance to escape. I've been lucky, she thought. I shouldn't complain. Just as the going was getting tough she had been discovered by an Iªcatcher, a talent scou t, of Eyescape Inc., who had been quite impressed with her artistic endeavors. This had to be her chance to strike it big, and she had grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Times were getting lean and mean as the War grew bigger and harsher. A recession had become inevitable, and the inhabitants of Nowhere City were among the first to suffer from the ensuing crisis © and among the most fiercely stricken. She had been a professional visual artist all her life, but recently her shoestring budget had dwindled away into a no©budget. Life was becoming impossible ; she would have had to look for another job, horrifying as that prospect was to her, if the offer from Eyescape Inc. hadn't arrived, as if heaven sent. The megabuck bio©business was prospering as never before. Eyescape Inc., the I©catcher had proudly informed her, was the leader in that particular field and was expanding at an astounding rate. They were hiring new forces all the time © and she had been singled out especially. Eyescape Inc. could use creative artists for a variety of purposes, the man had explained her. We need people with a vivid imagination, people who had a fresh outlook on things, people who came up with new insights and approached projects from unusual angles. He used a lot of words like "bold" and "daring" and "startling". He had

sounded so very convincing. Of course she had accepted the offer. She realized it was her only way out of the mess her life threatened to become. And, at least she hoped, she would still be an artist. A commercial one perhaps, but an artist all the same. The life she left behind was a shambles. She had severed the links with her relatives long ago. She just didn't fit in with that crowd, and had preferred quitting rather than being rejected. Her artistic ambitions had always been frowned upon by her parents. "It's a tough world out there," they used to say, "and you better get hold of a decent job instead of whittling your life away with so©called art." No one among her family had any artistic talent. No one accepted the fact that she had. Her parents had fought a lifelong struggle to work their way up in society © the wealthy City Center with its awe©inspiring business district was at the core of their dreams and hopes. Only hard and serious work could get you there. Art didn't lead that way. Art was part of life's seedier side, and the brand of art she was into flourished too much in the squalid streets of Nowhere City. So her choice had been a simple one : drop her artistic endeavors © or drop her family. It had taken her some time to make that decision © a time filled with friction and conflict © but she had never regretted her decision. It had changed her outlook, however, on "normal" work and the struggle uphill in the real world it supposedly made possible. If she ever made it "up there", it would be on her own terms, through her art, otherwise she would rather stay down where she was. At the time this had seemed to be solid thinking. The world she would now leave behind was one of crime, unstability, loneliness and fake surroundings. She hoped that one day she would never have to set foot in Nowhere City again. She detested its garishness, its hopelessness, its emptiness. She cast furtive glances all around her as she went along. She had passed through here on many occasions, and each time it had changed beyond recognition. Nothing lasted long in Nowhere City. Or maybe they changed the holograms a lot. This was a world where continuous change was the only constant. And she was glad to move on. She was supposed to present herself at The I©Site, the headquarters of Eyescape Inc. She had been provided with special passes, for one didn't simply stroll from Nowhere City into the privileged City Center. A face to face in©depth talk with a highªlevel executive had been scheduled, she had been told. Be there at 1100 on Monday morning. And so here she was, on her way towards bigger and better things. Well, she presumed they surely couldn't be much worse than what crisis©ridden Nowhere City had in store for her. At the very least it would feel more real. Holograms and other eye©deceivers were frowned upon in the Real World. That was one thing she would be glad never to run into again. Slowly, carefully, methodically, Cynthia Raythan kept going on her way out of glimmering, ever©changing Nowhere City, into her future. 2 "So," Sergeant Scrimshaw said, "you've all made a very wise decision. There should be more people like you. If we are to survive at all, we will have to make a statement. A very eloquent statement at that. It will be up to people like you to go and

make that statement. And you better make sure it is heard loud and clear." Words, Jim Reicher thought, words, as Sergeant Scrimshaw rambled on. That wasn't what he had joined the War Force for. He had a vision of the future, a bright and promising future, and he had felt to the marrow of his bones that something had to be done in order to safeguard that future. Responsible people had to stand up and show some action. His father, a City Center Councilªlevel politician, had backed him all the way. It was nice to see his vision and ambitions supported from ground level onwards. He had been allowed to build towards this ambition, and was determined to go all the way now that the first hurdles had been successfully taken. After he had gotten his degree, his selected curriculum being a well©balanced mix of science, history and sports, he had embarked on an extensive War Force preparation course. It had certainly proven to be well worth the time and effort spent on it. He had passed the tests, as he had known he would all along. He was eager to start the military training program now. Fortunately that wouldn't take up too much time, thanks to the state©of©the©art©technology the Special War Institute had at its disposal. The old time©consuming approach to military training was now a thing of the past. Things went ever so more smoothly now with custom©made VRTs, Virtual Reality Trips, which yielded better results in a shorter period of time without any loss of personnel due to injuries and all sorts of accidents. Only the psychologically unfit would drop out © if any had made it, surprisingly, through the preliminary tests. The first few days in the Institute had been filled mainly with all sorts of introductions and speeches. Lots of speeches, way too many words. Jim hadn't been told anything he didn't know already. He knew very well why he was here and what he had set out to do. He didn't need the Scrimshaws of this world to point out the obvious. So there was a war going on, labelled the War because of its tremendous importance. Africa seemed like a faraway place where a local war wasn't likely to influence world affairs let alone daily life in the civilized world. But this was no petty local guerrilla war. It didn't merely send ripples through the African jungle © it shook the very foundations of western civilization. The war had to come to an end © and it had to be won. That was why he was here. The enemy consisted of a motley crew of outcasts, a loose consortium of anti©western forces. About any species of antiªcivilized scum was repr esented in this slapdash army : it included former terrorist groups, drug gangs, left and right wing extremist revolutionaries, oppressed ethnic and religious minorities, criminals and native population grouplets threatened with extinction. There was not one enemy. The enemy was an amorphous many©faced force. That didn't simplify the task of the War Institute's divisions, centered in the Lower East Coast area of the United States of North America and in Great Switzerland in Europe respectively. There was one more thing of vital importance and of ominous proportions to be taken into account : the cause of the war, and the effect it had had on the battlefield. Colonel Scaglione had devoted his entire speech to this topic, central as it was to Operation Eye Witness, as their part in the War was to be labelled. Recollections of various documentaries came flooding back to him.

Some ten years ago something had been discovered in the heart of Africa. Its true nature or origins had never been clearly explained, as far as he could recall. Most of that kind of information was strictly classified. Scaglione, however, had told them a fully detailed account would be given them at the start of Operation Eye Witness. Whatever the cause might have been, the face of Africa had been changing ever since at a constantly increasing rate. Both flora and fauna were touched as the "bio©catalysts", as they had been labelled, exerted their ongoing influence. The bio©catalysts appeared to be byproducts of new strains of mutant vegetation that had sprung up in Africa in an everªwidening area now ref erred to as the Afflicted Area. Most people didn't know how they had come into existence or how their capabilities could be explained, nor did they really care. All that mattered was that the bio©catalysts speeded up or enhanced cell growth and cell differentiation, and allowed tissue regeneration, drastic damage repair, and the development of newer and more efficient techniques for a variety of purposes. Because of their characteristics they were used in the field of medicine and bio©technology. As they presented certain risks in their raw, natural form, Research and Development Centers had been created in the Afflicted Area for study and refining. One thing had been very clear to all concerned : the bioªcatalysts were hot prop erty. And more than that, everybody had found out soon enough and had set out to reap this miraculous harvest. The remnants of the original population of the stricken area quickly fled, leaving the place to a variety of foreign interested parties. A specially created trust of western companies had claimed sole rights to the bio©catalysts © but soon an irregular army of dubious intentions had countered the claim. Trouble had started brewing, tensions had evolved into conflict, skirmishes had escalated into war, war had finally led to the War. Everybody knew it had to be brought to a stop before it devolved into utter madness. After the first few days of general introductions in the Institute they had been split up into groups of twenty. These units would be trained as quickly and efficiently as possible, and be dispatched to the Afflicted Area in due course. The purely physical exercises merely intensified Jim's impatience to get down to serious business. The first VRT was what he had been looking forward to ever since he had arrived here. He was familiar with some commercial ones, but these tailor©made military trips were said to be gritty, realistic and quite "different". As he and his nineteen cohorts plugged in for the first one, his eagerness soon changed into mild disappointment. The landscape they found themselves into was the old unchanged African jungle. The battle they fought was a traditional armed combat raid against a comparatively weak enemy. They won an easy victory. It had felt real enough © but this couldn't be the War. They had discussed it afterwards in the Institute bar. "It was just an introduction, to get into the spirit of things," a guy named MacLyle had suggested. "Wait till we're launched into the rest of the series. You'll see." "Don't be silly," Jim had said. "Didn't we get enough introductions already? What are they waiting for? Who do they think we are? Why do they think we're here?" "The real thing would piss us off," a man called Giancarlo Frianelli had said. "You don't realize what we will be up

against. There's something real ugly out there, something badly depressing. It would turn us into jelly. Believe me; I should know. I've been told. I talked to a lotta people about this, I haven't been wasting my time, I picked up a lot of stuff from guys who know the things they won't be telling us." Jim had shrugged it off. Each group of twenty people was bound to include one of these goddamned cynics. Those guys thrived on this sort of paranoid crap. Better to let them babble on and ignore their ramblings. He wouldn't let these bastards interfere with the job at hand. It didn't matter what they decided to do © he would get on with it and end up where he wanted to be. With the second VRT came second thoughts. They had been told to expect a "more realistic background, more fully developed in tune with the current situation in the Afflicted Area". It wasn't to be a pure combat situation, rather a reconnaisance mission with some skirmish scenes. It was supposed to offer them a glimpse into the universe that was to become theirs soon. There was only one aspect of the briefing that pissed him off : Frianelli's sardonic grin. If only he could wipe it off the man's face. Preferably forever. So they had plugged in, expectantly. This time it wasn't possible to tell if this was the changed jungle or not. Heavy mist swirled around them, obscuring the lush vegetation. Undefinable, dull sounds reached their ears. They had been split up into groups of four. MacLyle, Carvalho and Frianelli accompanied him. They wore the custom©made protective clothing that was said to be a necessity here. They carried light but effective modern weapons, called MH©38s, unofficially labelled Molly Hatchets. They carefully picked their way through the shades of gray and green the junglescape consisted of. Their feet made eerily squishing sounds with each laborsome step. When they exchanged words, their voices sounded muffled and warped. After a few minutes Jim could no longer tell apart his three cohorts. They had become as alienated, as unreal as the fog©draped foliage around him. All at once Carvalho (no, MacLyle, or perhaps Frianelli) lifted his hand and they stopped in their tracks. Jim squinted in order to see better, to no avail. Something moved in front of Carvalho, or whoever the first man was. Jim wished he could see more clearly. He tried to sweep away the shreds of mist, but his sudden arm movement only made the whitish streamers swirl around him furiously. He took a hesitating step forward, peered at what now vaguely appeared to be a vine©encrusted tree in front of which Carvalho was standing motionless. The tree was changing shape and color. As green and brown were turning into pink, it slowly and mesmerizingly took on an increasingly human shape, as if mimicking the figures in front of it. A torso was becoming visible, limbs, a crudely shaped head. As more details became apparent, he could recognize the shape as a sensual naked woman. The four men stared, unmoving, silent, uncomprehending. The figure wasn't totally human; the hair was tendril©like, and instead of arms pseudopodlike extensions protruded towards Carvalho. Jim wanted to shout a warning, but proved unable to utter a sound. The pseudopods had now reached Carvalho's immobile figure, coiled around it, engulfed it. Soon it was totally enveloped, and was pulled toward the tree©creature. Carvalho didn't resist, fell heavily to the ground. The pseudopods rippled and coiled around the motionless body, as if caressing it. Now Carvalho started to

change, his figure became a blurry image. Under their very eyes Carvalho dissolved into an amorphous blob, which in its turn collapsed into a bubbling puddle spreading across the mossªinfested ground. By now the pseudopods had crawled and twisted towards the two other soldiers. Jim was glad he was at the back, but proved unable to retreat further. The process seemed to repeat itself with the second soldier, although the enveloping process this time around bore a striking resemblance to love©making of a very esoteric kind. As the third soldier also started to be affected Jim noticed something stirring in the foliage all around. He noted that various plant lifeforms had started to mimic parts of the ongoing process. Leaves, twigs, vines and trunks were now interspersed with uncoiling and shapeshifting limbs, faces, breasts, sexual organs. Especially the faces were an unsettling sight : pouting lips appeared for an instant and vanished quickly, replaced by a sardonic grin here, a soundlessly screaming mouth there, terrorized eyes and bared teeth, evil stares and voluptuous lips begging for kisses. The most blood©curdling sight was a replica of his own stunned face. He shifted his gaze back toward the dissolving soldiers, as all at once everything disappeared. The VRT had come to an abrupt end, for some reason as yet unknown. Afterwards, in the bar, Jim and his three partners huddled together around a table to discuss the matter. They had been told they had been exposed to a "damaged" VRT, and that such an accident was unlikely to produce itself again for the remainder of the training period. The three others had had a similar experience, but each had been the guy at the back. No solid explanation of the details had been given. The matter would be looked into, they had been told, and eventually everything would be sorted out. "I can't for a moment believe that this was anything like what they had in mind," Jim said. "I know we were supposed to expect something different, something changed beyond recognition, but there's no way this was a solid reflection of the real thing. I'm just not buying this story." "You bet you're right," Frianelli said. At last that sickening grin had disappeared from his features. He was looking dead serious now, clasping his beer tightly, locking eyes with Jim's. "I've been told some of the VRTs have been tampered with." "Tampered with? By who? Is that what they meant by "damaged"?" "Exactly. The guys responsible for this know how to do their job properly. These hackers are cyberspace wizards, know what I mean? We were the first to find out this particular VRT had been "infiltrated". It'll be wiped now, but those hackers won't care. It's done its job already." Jim mulled it over. It sounded too much like Frianelli's usual paranoid nonsense, but he couldn't think of another explanation right now that made sense. "Who are these hackers?" he asked. "And what are they trying to do?" "I've been told they're war opponents," Frianelli said, and the grin started coming back, to Jim's dismay. "They're trying to disrupt the training programs. They hope we'll be scared shitless and end up demoralized and will drop out of the War Force, or if we don't we'll be worthless once we've been shipped over there." "Goddamn fucking bastards," Jim said. Whatever the case might be, he wouldn't let them have their way. He would allow

nobody to stand in his way. Whoever they were, whatever their means or purposes were. They were bound to fail. He was a winner, a survivor. They would find out sure enough. Still he had some nagging doubts. Was Frianelli right? Or had all this been supposed to happen? Was it a test in order to find out how well they could cope with something unexpected, something unreal, something unsettling? Were they trying to find out who was psychologically able to live through these experiences? There was only one thing he was sure of : it was no reflection of actual reality out there. Those bio©catalysts had admittedly lots of capabilities, but they couldn't come up with the special effects extravaganza he had witnessed. He concluded they had merely been tested on their reactions to all©out weirdness. At least that theory made some sense. Yet, Frianelli's idea of infiltrating hackers hadn't been completely dispelled. It sounded too downright bad, too sickening to be dismissed out of hand like that. Anyway, they were bound to figure out the truth about it soon, so he shouldn't allow these ideas to disturb his peace of mind. He would continue his training program as best he could. Whatever they would throw in his way, he wouldn't be deterred.

Ã**Ã3 Invigorating sunlight came slanting through the window. There was a barely audible buzz in the room, the sound of office equipment living its electronic life. "Welcome to Eyescape Inc.," art director Gene Kirzowski said. He looked remarkably normal for a "new©lifer", as someone belonging to the newly established jet©set of bio©technology users was referred to. She had supposed this type of people were all scarcely recognizable as human beings, but as usual her preconceptions didn't turn out to be a good reflection of reality © unless Kirzowski was an atypical example of Eyescape Inc.'s employees. She was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt on that score. "The pleasure is mine," she said, easing back in her comfy chair. The furniture in this office probably cost more than what she had earned in the past year or so. Kirzowski spread his hands wide, made a well©rehearsed smile appear on his face. "Well," he said, "I suppose we both have a lot of questions to ask, a lot of background to discuss, a lot of expectations to unveil. So allow me to start off with a concise description of Eyescape Inc.'s line of work. We're on the cutting edge of biotechnology and all related fringe areas. The discovery of the renowned bio©catalysts and our control thereof have boosted us to our current number one position, which we will of course try to consolidate. Right now we're expanding at a stunning rate. Business is in full swing, and we're hiring a lot of bright new talent. You, miss Raythan, are foremost among these." You probably say that to each and every interviewee, Cynthia thought, but then again what else could the man say? She nodded encouragingly, decided not to say anything for now. She waited for him to continue. "You'll probably want to know what exactly we expect from you, why you got hired in the first place. Well, the I©catcher of ours who spotted you had been following your work for some time

already. Your artistic and commercial successes didn't go unnoticed, as you will no doubt be pleased to hear. I'm afraid I've only been handed a brief survey of your career, so if you would care to add some in©depth comment..." He let his voice trail off, looking at her expectantly. Nicely done, she thought. Let the interviewee tell you everything you already know so as to make her feel more involved, as if she's in control to a certain extent. Turn this situation into a dialogue, so as to give it that ever so important human touch. It'll make the interviewee look upon Eyescape Inc. more kindly, make her feel as though she's about to join a family rather than an impersonal business monolith. Oh well, I'll play the game according to the rules, for the time being at least. With as much enthusiasm as she could muster, she said, "I've been an artist for as long as I can remember. I started off doing black and white illustrations for magazines, the old printed©on©paper kind that is no longer around today. I quickly switched to computer©driven graphical work for advertising agencies, and from there I moved on to all types of work for the movie and video market. As my work grew more mature and more popular I jumped onto the VRT bandwagon that happened to come along at precisely the right time for me, and I think I can say I was fairly successful." "I've been told your creations often reached high positions on all major VRT charts," Kirzowski said. "I've seen a number of representative samples of it and was quite impressed, I must admit. Frankly, I think you're a major talent which will only now be allowed to reach its full potential here at Eyescape Inc." "I sure don't stand much of a chance anymore as a freeªlancer," she admitted. "T he recession struck us all some firm blows. I had considered getting another job, in another line of work entirely." "It would have been a terrible waste of talent. But I understand your choices were limited. However, all that has now changed. You will be able to pursue your career with our advertising branch. We need creative people for it, and as we're not afflicted by the recession you'll be pleased to hear that you can go for the no©holds©barred approach. As I said, we tend to stretch people to the limits of their capacities, taking things as far as possible. We've set up a number of new projects for a new array of products, about which you will be told more soon. We hope you will tackle these endeavors with renewed hunger and passion." A wide grin slashed open his features. "We don't settle for anything less than first©rate here at Eyescape Inc." "I think I feel at home already," she said in an even tone, gazing coolly into his eyes. Of course she had signed on the dotted line, as they had known all along she would. It was her only way out of misery and poverty in a neighborhood which was deteriorating every day. The contract that had been offered her was a new lease on life. A guided tour of selected parts of The I©Site had followed the interview with Kirzowski. She had seen what she had expected to in the way of equipment, but not in the way of employees. Apparently the people she was supposed to meet on this first day had been carefully selected as well. Maybe it had been done not to put her off. Or, possibly, not to put them off... It was well known that the typical look of new©lifers wasn't appreciated by the mere mortals of this world © and vice versa. As a rule the members of these two very different castes hardly ever met. Their

lives didn't intersect. A guy who had been introduced to her as the scientific advisor of her team had told her about the new product they were developing and for which her team would design the advertising VRT. "We're in the process of developing a new kind of artificial skin," the man explained her. His features had been accentuated with a sort of bioluminescent material that made him look unreal. She realized the effect was mainly due to her being unfamiliar with people using state of the art bio©technology, and anyway to new©lifers' standards this guy was probably very moderate. "Actually it's part organic, part artificial, and it has miniaturized computerized parts integrated in it. It's one of our more daring products, and once it's ready to be commercialized it ought to be a runaway success. That's where you come in, of course. There'll have to be an advertising VRT to outdo all that has gone before, something out of this world, some utterly mindªblowing stuff, kno w what I mean?" "What exactly is this new skin supposed to do?" she asked. The man smiled a gleeful little smile which sent a shiver down her spine. "It's supposed to be able to make a visual scan of its surroundings, and to pinpoint the face its owner is looking at or addressing. It then goes on to mimic the features of that face on the basis of its scan as realistically as possible. The scanning process is continuous, so that the mimicking process can be perfected as it goes along. Don't you think that's marvellous? You're talking to some guy and your face turns into his?" "I'm afraid I don't see the point of it all," she said, and cursed herself immediately for saying those words. She knew what the answer would be. She would have to learn to keep her thoughts to herself, now that she was employed here. The answer was what she had expected: "The point is that it will sell like crazy. What other point should there be? What do you think Eyescape Inc. is anyway?" He looked dismayed at her implied criticism. She would never make that mistake again. The rest of the guided tour was very much a routine job. She was sure she had been shown everything she needed to know and nothing she was not yet supposed to lay eyes on. There had been only one incident that had drove home the point this was a totally new environment for her she would have to adapt to. At an intersection of corridors she had seen a giant potted fern. As real plants of that type had become virtually extinct in the densely populated Nowhere City slums, she had taken for granted that it was a hologram. By trying to walk through it she had found out rather unelegantly that it was actually quite real. She had to keep in mind that holograms simply didn't exist here. This time people had pretended not to notice her stumbling through the plant, but they wouldn't keep on doing so indefinitely. After the tour she had exchanged some more words with Kirzowski. He had said her actual training would begin tomorrow, and that he would drop by at her place that night to discuss certain matters more informally. She had managed to refrain from making some cutting remarks. So Kirzowski would venture into Nowhere City at night. What a joke. Of course she lived in the rim area of Nowhere City, where notions like safety and stability and relative normality hadn't yet become dim memories of a distant past as in the heart

of the slums. Still there was little chance Kirzowski would make it to her apartment. Did the man realize the risk he was taking? Later that night, at home, she mulled over what had happened today. This was the end of her old life, and hopefully the start of a new one. She hoped to be able to move into the affordable parts of the center of town with the money she would be making at Eyescape Inc. Leaving this neighborhood behind was top priority right now. The war and the resulting recession would only make matters worse. This place would become unlivable all too soon. Thoughts of the war made her switch on the TV, an old©style 2©D set. She picked an all©news channel, took in the sounds and images. The war seemed to be getting worse. It kept expanding and was on its way to getting completely out of hand. But, a newscaster announced joyfully, more and more young people enlisted in the Special War Force to receive a short but efficient military training and be shipped to the war zone. The Force would see to it that the situation was kept under control. Still she had her doubts. If everything was really under control there ought to be more TV crews out there shooting tons of footage. That wasn't the case, and she took it as a bad sign. The only combat scenes shown were clearly footage from earlier conflicts, and all other material was talking head stuff, politicians commenting on the state of things and stuff like that. So it was definitely getting real bad out there, she could sense that alright. As usual no hard facts were given. How exactly the war had been going, what the losses were on both sides, what degree of progress was being made if any, what current expectations were. There hadn't been any new combat footage for several weeks by now, and there had to be a reason for that. People weren't told and most people seemed to accept this. It reminded her somewhat of the equally skewed and incomplete coverage of the discovery of the bio©catalysts which had sparked off this war. Nobody seemed able or willing anymore to ask serious questions. She hoped her landing this job would clear at least part of the mystery, as Eyescape Inc. was smack in the middle of this whole bioªtechnology upsurge. News reports kept coming in and were enthusiastically delivered, interspersed with commercials, but the more news she assimilated the less clear her overall picture of the war seemed to become. She switched off the TV in disgust.

Ã**Ã4 "Riff!" He was wide awake in an instant, his slumber pushed aside. You could only survive here if solid sleep wasn't necessary for you. Solid things weren't in vogue here anyway, Riff thought, locking eyes with Jigsaw who had called his name. "There's a van coming this way." "Fine. We better make sure it's ours soon." "Do we pop 'em the regular ones?" "Sure thing. Bound to work. Are the others on the job?" "Yup." He nodded approvingly. So there were still people from the outside who dared to venture into Nowhere City. Or maybe they didn't know it was wiser not to do so. In that case, they would soon find out. Those occasions were getting rare though. Bad times were hitting hard the population down here, and the border

of the city center and Nowhere City was crossed by fewer people all the time. It had been some time since a vehicle had been driving up here. Alright, so these were only the outskirts of Nowhere City, they were still within walking distance of the border, and the van probably wouldn't venture much further. So they should lose no time if they wanted to lay hands on it. He and Jigsaw would supervise from nearby and would remain out of sight, cloaked by holos. Meanwhile Axe and Marshall Stack would man the holo rig, guiding the van to where they wanted it and cloaking him and his buddy. Riff smiled. This was a sure win. No sweat. The van driver didn't stand a chance. The two men set off towards their goal. A few instants later they were looking at the van, which was slowly picking its way through the debris©cluttered road. A holographic wall camouflaged them. Riff carefully studied the van. It had a logo on its sides reading EYESCAPE INC. Apparently there were two people in it. The one behind the wheel was looking scared like hell, and not without reason. Riff saw trouble coming as a cyberpet came lumbering from between a house in ruins. It was clearly not one of their appliances and could ruin their plans. The van braked to an abrupt halt as the driver noticed the half©mechanical creature. Riff snorted with contempt. Had the guy stopped because he was afraid to knock down the thing? That meant their plan was in serious trouble. The dog ran straight through the van and disappeared into a wall at the other side of the street. Riff could hear the two men's voices now. "Did you see that, mister Kirzowski? How on earth©©" "It was clearly a hologram," the other man said. "This area is infested with them. Only thing is, you can't know what is real and what isn't before it's too late." "So what do you do?" The other man gesticulated vaguely. "Ignore them. Just keep driving. But steer clear of the debris." "What if they're holos as well?" "Possible. But we can't risk to wreck the van. This isn't the place to take a stroll." The van got moving again, slowly, hesitatingly. The driver wasn't liking this one bit. "About time some of our stuff is let loose," Jigsaw remarked. "Damn right," Riff said. "Should be coming up any second now." "Aw, there it is," Jigsaw said. "They finally made up their minds." Apparently their buddies had opted to start off proceedings with the burning man. If these two guys were indeed unfamiliar with holos then this one was a good choice. It would scare them shitless and things would start rolling. The burning man appeared from behind a door and staggered toward the van, arms milling about, mouth wide open in a silent scream. The van picked up speed, as the driver wanted to get out of the way of the burning man. At the end of the street he was forced to turn right, as on his left a holographic wall had popped up to camouflage an off©street and straight up ahead piles of partly holographic, partly real junk and debris made a pass impossible. Some distance away the van was forced to turn right once more. It had picked up speed again, as it had been attacked by a bunch of cyberpets, all holos of course, but the driver wasn't willing to take any chances. He simply wanted to get out fast, which was what Riff's gang wanted him to attempt. More and more holo creatures attacked the van from all angles, and each new batch was more bizarre than the previous

one. They were the stuff nightmares were made of. As a matter of fact most of these designs had probably been inspired by nightmares. There were metal©clad and armor©plated monstrosities, glinting in the harsh sunlight, red eyes sparkling like dashboard telltale lights, running awkwardly and stumblingly because of their supposed weight ; cyborg creatures sporting bizarre combinations of flesh and metal, each one trying to score high marks for originality and weirdness, with special attention to the latter ; beasts inspired by ancient mythologies, glittering with shiny scales, breathing bursts of fire through grotesque tusks, flapping leathery wings, sporting twin heads, dragging along multi©legged bodies ; deformed and mangled beings, as if knocked over by cars, the tire tracks still clearly showing across their blood©dripping carcass©like bodies, uncoiled intestines trailing along behind them ; some of the holo creatures were malfunctioning, flickering and shimmering, so that anyone could clearly see what they were but people too scared to notice that kind of thing. All of them, without exception, were silent, not that this characteristic helped in any way to put their prey at ease. Quite on the contrary, it seemed to enhance the aura of menace emanating from this dismal flock of modern© day bloodhounds. At each turn the driver was forced to turn right by carefully placed holos. As panic was rising the two guys probably hadn't noticed they were going in circles. The driver was gradually losing control over his van. It was about time they ended this madcap race. Axe and Marshall Stack must have figured that much out too. The van was guided left for a change and was then directed head©on towards a brick wall camouflaged as a tunnel entrance. The moment the van hit the wall all holos were switched off. They had served their purpose. The van crashed into the wall. Splintered glass and warped metal were scattered in all directions. The two men clambered out, one of them seriously injured. The driver was still in reasonable shape and ran off. Some of the holo pets were switched back on and sent after him. The injured man limped in the opposite direction, disappeared in a doorway. The driver fell, struggled to his feet again and screamed in panic. The pets were all over him then, and through him. As he realized he had been chased by holos he went nuts and started yelling and thrashing about and flailing his arms. Riff saw how a cyborg creature approached the man. It wasn't one of their creations, but he bet the guy wouldn't see the difference. Indeed the man tried to run straight through the creature only to find out it was very real indeed. The dog©sized contraption, shaped like a giant ant, had a flickering neon sign on its back reading "One of THEM". Its metal jaws slashed through the man's flesh and tore him apart, then retreated, its job done. It went scrambling back to wherever it had come from. The man was left, heavily bleeding, on the pavement. He would probably die there. The other guy was nowhere to be seen. Sure enough he would run into some cyborg creatures as well and undergo a similar fate. Riff and Jigsaw considered this part of the job done and ran towards the totalled van. There should be enough parts and scrap metal here to make some serious dough. Not to mention all the computerized parts which they would have to disassemble carefully. As a rule these ought to be crash©resistant. With a bit of luck some state of the art hardware and software could have fallen into their hands here. They would make a proper study

of their trophy and angle for as high a profit as possible. Potential buyers weren't exactly in short supply in the darkest recesses of Nowhere City. Hackers were always begging and grovelling for more stuff to feed their special kind of hunger. Some moments later Axe and Marshall Stack arrived too and they all started the work of disassembling the van into manageable pieces. The two poor bastards had really made their day. Too bad they hadn't lasted long enough to go and say thanks to them.

Ã**Ã5 Jim emptied his glass in one gulp. The beer was terrible, utterly tasteless, but probably this was their last chance to have some. Once they had reached their destination they weren't likely to get hold of "luxury consumer products" as Sergeant Scrimshaw had warned them. Transformed Africa was no theme park, boys. They would be there for a mission which would demand their complete attention. The military training program had sped past with a rapidity comparable only to Jim's eagerness to get down to serious business. He had passed every test with flying colors and the program had left him wanting more. As far as he was concerned they could send him to Africa yesterday. He had been through a few other "damaged" VRTs, but nothing as spectacular as the first one, nothing that had managed to steer him off©course. There had been one occasion where they had run into a batch of a dozen enemy soldiers. They had opened fire at close range, but to their astonishment the soldiers simply didn't seem to notice the loads of ammunition that were blasted through their bodies. They continued their march relentlessly, sardonic grins smeared across their hysteric faces. As the shooting went on and blood poured more and more abundantly from scores of wounds that just had to be lethal, they slowly turned into an army of walking dead, spouting fountains of blood, puddles and rivulets of blood gathering at their feet, organs and shreds of tissue dangling from their quickly decaying frames and dropping viscously to the ground. They trudged and lumbered onwards through the jungle, a nauseating mockery of armed combat. They didn't even put up a fight; they simply didn't give a damn, allowed the enemy to blast them to kingdom come without so much as paying notice. Military training had deteriorated into a splatter©and©gore extravaganza. On another occasion they had all at once come across a glade in the forest. A line of enemy soldiers was awaiting them. As they stopped dead in their tracks, the line broke and the soldiers came rushing towards them. They barely had the time to open fire and when they did so it had no effect whatsoever on the oncoming force. Before they fully realized what was happening, the attackers were upon them and flashed right through them. So they had been holograms. This mockery of his training disgusted Jim more than the first one, paradoxically enough. Blood and dripping organs can easily be ignored when you presume they're not real. But holos were different : they reminded Jim and his cohorts of the slums around their former home towns. Holos were frowned upon in the upper or middle classes where they came from. Holos were the trademark of lower class populace in their glittering ever©changing slums where human life was cheap and a privilege for the quick and the remorseless. Or so at least they had been told. What was wrong with holos was that they were

fake, and hence not worth the trouble having them made. If you needed something, you had the real thing made, not a mere image of it. That was considered to be bad taste. So the holo enemy soldiers had shocked Jim; not visually, like the blood©dripping corpse©like creatures, but socially, culturally, emotionally. It had taken him quite some effort and moral strength to shrug this episode off. Still, he couldn't allow even this to get in his way. Not everybody had turned out to be that strong, however. About one third of his group had dropped out for several reasons. Some had grown severely depressed with what they had gone through. Others had become uncontrollably rebellious because of these unsettling experiences. The cases that struck Jim the most were those guys who had still seemed to be okay, but who had been dismissed because the military thought they could no longer be trusted. It was rumored those guys were infiltrants whose cover had been blown. Jim wondered what their purpose was. What the hell were they trying to do? And, another unsettling thought occurred to him, could it be that Frianelli was one of those infiltrants who had managed to slip by unnoticed? But then why did he give vent to his criticism so openly? That probably meant he was an ordinary cynic, not an infiltrant. Still he had his doubts about the man. In the meantime he had become friends, for want of a more applicable term, with a number of others whom he had grown to view as strong personalities, different as they were from him. Frianelli was among these, the diehard cynic, but perhaps the cynicism was but a facade. Who knew what lay hidden behind it? Carvalho and MacLyle were also among them, quiet but apparently trustworthy buddies, and a strange but okay guy called Van Zant. They were in the bar at the military airport, waiting to check in for the flight to the Afflicted Area as it was officially referred to, discussing things for the last time. The last time in this part of the world, to be more precise. Carvalho ordered another round of beer. As the drinks arrived, Frianelli raised his glass in mock salute and declared in a solemn tone of voice, "To the survivors. So far, we've made it. Admit it, we're the chosen few." Carvalho laughed, MacLyle and Van Zant sniggered a polite snigger, Jim was unable to appreciate Frianelli's brand of humor, as usual. "Well, some of us haven't made it this far, have they, Jim?" the man asked, putting his already half empty glass back down. "You make it sound as if all of us were supposed to make it through the training program. I believe one of the aims of this program was to weed out all unstable elements. I think they were counting on a certain number of dropouts. Guys who couldn't take the strain. Guys who weren't nearly as tough as they thought they were. Guys who©©" "Guys who were weaker than you, that's what you mean. You're a tough one, aren't you, Jim? You take no shit, eh? Nothing will be allowed to get in your way?" The grin was firmly back in place again. "What about you then?" Jim retorted. "Why are you here? If you know so goddamned much as you claim, if you're so aloof, so looking down upon everything and everyone, what are you here for then? Is this your idea of a large scale practical joke?" "No, it ain't, Jim. I'm here for the same reasons you are. Only thing is, I just don't accept anything they tell me. I've got a critical mind, and I like to keep my eyes and ears open. I refuse to be blinded by my own ambitions, Jim." He raised his

hand as he saw Jim was about to retort again. "Don't say anything, Jim. Just think about it. And let's change the subject, alright? This is our last hour in the old world. These are our last beers. This may be our last chance to have fun the way we know it. So let's enjoy it instead of bickering." Jim looked away from the others. Carvalho struck up a conversation about sports cars and racing, apparently a passionate concern of his. Jim's attention drifted back to his own concerns. He still had his doubts about the "damaged" VRTs. He was still inclined to think they had been "damaged" on purpose by the military to test the recruit's strength of character. If, so the reasoning must have been, they were unable to take these mild irritants, than what would they be worth in Africa where worse things awaited them? Frianelli's theory sounded plausible, but still he thought his own explanation was closer to reality. It fit in perfectly with the workings of the military mind as he knew it. The conversation went from sports cars via crude jokes to contrived humor about their training. Jim took little or no part in it, preoccupied as he was with his own musings. It was a relief to hear they were to check in for the flight. The plane was of the New Hercules type, an elegant modern military craft which would take them direct to their main base in the Afflicted Aera, or to be more precise, at the rim of the Area. He knew the base was called Nairobi, but there was no relation with the old city of that name in what used to be Kenya. All military Bases in the Afflicted Area were named after capitals of the former African countries before the catastrophic breakup, speeded up if not caused by the appearance of the bioªcatalysts and the t ransforming process resulting from it. A full briefing would be given them there, they were told. He hoped that this time around it would indeed be a "full" briefing. After all there was no need to bother about security leaks and classified information in the Afflicted Area itself. Or so at least he assumed. Frianelli would probably have his doubts. The flight proved to be uneventful. They all plugged into one of the in©flight VRTs. Jim opted for the action©adventure format rather than the sports spectacular or the erotic extravaganza. He failed to see the point of it all. Why not pass them some final instructions VRT or anything that could be useful ? The VRT didn't simply fail to enthrall him; he was bored shitless. As they unplugged they were already nearing the landing site, but were still too high in the air to have a clear view of the landscape underneath. As the plane lost altitude everyone tried to peer outside to catch their first glimpses of the transformed jungle. However, there was nothing clearly "different" from what could be considered normal. For some, this was a relief. Others turned out to be sorely disappointed. Jim failed to understand the people in the latter category. Did they take life for a glossy VRT? Weren't they convinced of the seriousness of the situation? Were these guys here to have fun ? If so they would be in for some surprise. The true nature of war would become very clear to them soon enough, Jim thought. He was pleased to see that the rest of the day went according to schedule. They landed, disembarked, were shown to their quarters and submitted to a short paperwork routine. After that they were given a reasonably decent meal in the cafetaria and were then to be present for a formal welcoming and briefing session by Captain Dos Santos. Jim appreciated the atmosphere of

military orderliness and routine they had slipped into already. He was glad to see that the rumors Frianelli and his ilk seemed to thrive on were nonsense, or at least greatly exaggerated. Dos Santos would address them in Hall C of Nairobi Base. Hall C turned out to be a squat, rectangular building, its interior design not unlike an old cinema theater. As military formalities were over, the long awaited briefing finally began. "Your presence here," Dos Santos was saying, "is an integral part of Operation Eye Witness which is already firmly underway. You will reinforce troops currently on the verge of a major breakthrough, poised as they are on the brink of an event which may well change the evolution of this war. The total defeat of a rebel army in Sector E17, a sector at the rim of the Afflicted Area, is but a few days away. Your arrival here may well prove to be the decisive factor in this particular battle. As there is no time to waste you will join the action with the smallest possible delay. Your training has provided you with a solid foundation on which to build. Still, it is but a foundation. Your real training will be the on the job training that is to commence shortly. Specific details will be given you tomorrow morning by the platoon leaders. It goes without saying that©©" Captain Dos Santos was interrupted by a variety of things happening simultaneously. The lights in Hall C flickered a few times, dimmed, flared up again to their previous level. Deep rumblings and rapid gunfire staccato could clearly be heard even here inside. An unseen phone on the lectern made angry beeping sounds. Dos Santos answered the phone, excused himself and departed. A lower ranking officer turned up to tell them the briefing session had to be postponed because of "unforeseen incidents." Jim cast a glance over his shoulder, locked eyes with Frianelli who was sitting behind him. The man nodded, as if all this merely confirmed the doubts he had been harboring ever since the beginning. See, I told you so, he seemed to be saying. I've known it all along. This doesn't come as a surprise to me at all. They were returned to their quarters, where all sorts of material was handed out to them : detailed maps of the area, a map of Nairobi Base, a booklet featuring all information on anything they needed to know about life in the Base : from medical matters through recreation and home contact regulations. They all started studying the material as had been required. Evening gradually stretched into night. Nothing of any importance seemed to be happening anymore. If this was supposed to be a focus of military operations bristling with feverish acitivity, then Jim would like to see the resort areas in the neighborhood. One of their group, a thin Portuguese guy whose name he hadn't caught, had tried to find out what the "unforeseen incidents" had actually been, but he had returned without solid answers. It all would be made clear in tomorrow's briefings. Everything seemed to be always in tomorrow's briefings. I'll have to watch myself, Jim thought, or I'll turn into another Frianelli. Or maybe cynicism was contagious. Later, as the lights had been switched off and they lay in their cots, sleep didn't come (it must have been postponed till tomorrow's briefings, Jim thought smugly) and whispered conversations were started all over. Jim had Frianelli to his right (another irony of life; why did fate keep cutting him these raw deals?) and the man, a barely perceivable shape in the darkness, called his name. "Well, what do you think, Jim?" "You want to know my first impressions?"

"The second ones too. No seriously, do you think this place is what it is supposed to be?" "It's more or less what I expected it to be." "You can't be serious. Let me tell you, my first idea was that this place which ought to be in full swing right now from what they've been saying rather gives me the idea that a slow buildup of armed forces is aimed for here. But of course that doesn't make any sense. So©©" "So what?" "Well, then I started thinking that it could be like some last©ditch effort to try to save at least something. The game has pretty much been lost, only they're not willing to accept that idea, know what I'm saying?" "I know very well what you're saying. You're jumping to conclusions, and your theories are based on vague impressions and wild theories. Why can't you just wait till you've got some hard facts?" There was silence for a moment, then Frianelli's voice was back again, a bit huskier now. "Look up, Jim. At your right. There's one of your hard facts." Jim looked in the indicated direction. An eerily glowing spot was climbing up the wall, easily seen despite the dimness of the room. It wasn't a glowing spot : it was a fluorescent lizardªlike shape, casti ng a greenish pall around it as it slowly moved upward. Its eyes were red beads, like a car's taillights dimly perceived through a misty haze. As the creature halted its progression for a moment, Jim sat upright and took a closer look at the animal as his eyes had now fully adapted to the low light level. In disbelief he noted that the lizard's body appeared to be pearl©encrusted, covered with dully shining scales. Suddenly it continued its ascent, planting its webbed feet higher and higher. Frianelli's wrong, he thought. This isn't a hard fact, it's a symbol. It symbolizes the fact that we're smack in the middle of a major league metamorphosis the nature of which we haven't yet fathomed and we're not likely to put a stop to it. The creature's presence here was living proof of that. He leaned back, elbow resting on his pillow. Pull yourself together, Jim, he then thought. You shouldn't get carried away with your imagination, you shouldn't allow yourself to be so influenced by this Frianelli guy. That guy's mind was too feverish, too critical, too downright paranoid. The lizard was perhaps an innocent byproduct of the transforming process. Better to keep a critical eye on Frianelli. The guy was a victim of his own imagination, of his paranoid delusions. Apart from that, he talked too much. He was a liability. Anyway, Frianelli was drawing the wrong conclusions : if the situation was indeed that desperate, then they ought to stay determined and give it their best shot instead of succumbing to despair. Still, he felt disturbed despite himself. He looked up, but the greenish glow had disappeared now. Frianelli was lying back and breathing regularly, possibly asleep. Most conversations seemed to have died down. Were they the only ones to have seen the weird creature? He sighed, comforted himself with the thought that everything would become clear soon enough. Better to get some sleep now. Suppose the all©revealing briefing session did come up tomorrow and he missed it because he had dozed off after a sleepless night. Then he'd be at a loss. Worse, he'd be at Frianelli's mercy. Sleep came quickly after this sobering thought.

Ã**Ã6 "Hi, I'm Denise DiMarzio, and you must be Cynthia, right?" "I am," she said, looking in confusion at the voluptuous blonde who had apparently taken possession of Kirzowski's office. She wore a transparent dress so as to reveal her triple©breasted chest, a favorite among certain types of new©lifers she had been told. The girl flashed her a bright smile. "I suppose you had wanted to see Mr. Kirzowski?" "I had been told to come up here to his office." "Of course, I see. The thing is, Mr. Kirzowski will be absent for a few days and in the meantime I will replace him. He'll be out of the hospital very soon, though. There's nothing to worry about." "The hospital?" "Yesterday night he ran into some trouble. Apparently he had ventured into the slums area and his van must have been attacked by a mob of locals. You know how things are out there." So the bastard had actually done it, she thought. He had told her he was going to pay her a visit. Well, he shouldn't have been so goddamn foolish. Strangers, and especially new©lifers, weren't exactly welcome in Nowhere City. "He should be glad he made it out alive," she said. "Well at least he did," Denise replied. "The driver didn't. And the van was lost too. Gene managed to find his way back on foot. Incredible, isn't it? Really some guy! Hard to put his kind down!" "Was he badly injured?" "Very badly. But that doesn't really matter. Eyescape Inc.'s personnel is quite privileged as far as medical matters and surgery in particular are concerned. He'll be up and running in a matter of days. As a matter of fact you will be able to see how fast he's making progress. You're supposed to visit him in the hospital later this afternoon. He asked for you to come too specifically. It'll give you a chance to see our line of work in a real©life situation. Add to that the fact that you'll see the effects on somebody you know and you'll understand everything more intimately. It will provide you with an outlook on us with a personal dimension. The human angle, know what I mean?" "I think I do," she said quietly. I should have expected something along these lines, she thought. There was an uneasy silence for a lingering moment, then Denise inhaled heavily and said, "Well, let's see what you're supposed to do right now. Mr. Alan Lundlow will discuss this new project with you at some length, what you're supposed to accomplish, how to go about it, which elements to take into account, how your work ought to be organized and so on. Oh, there's one more thing : don't be put off by his eyes. I know your background and your reactions to that kind of thing." Denise chuckled, somewhat condescendingly. "Wait," she continued, "till you've seen Nelson O'Donnell, chief executive of budget control and a real over©the©top new©lifer. You may well raise an eyebrow when you're introduced to him. Or, for that matter, to Jordan Haggles himself. Oh, I'm sure you'll just love him." This time she produced a downright smug chuckle. Cynthia hadn't yet been introduced to Haggles, Eyescape Inc.'s Number One and the incarnation of everything New Life entailed. She shuddered at the very thought. So everyone here was very much aware of her background and

didn't quite appreciate it. She would have to live with that. She could expect quite a number of references to it, some bound to be rather sarcastic or even downright vicious, and she'd better get used to it. If she allowed that kind of remarks to bother her, life would be sheer hell at the I©Site. The sight of Alan Lundlow turned out be quite a shock to her despite Denise's warning. His left eye was a bulging blood©red orb, glistening and sparkling, no doubt designed to send shivers down the spines of those who had to look into it. His right eye didn't make matters easier : a bright metallic©looking disc showing not the least amount of human emotion or even giving the impression of being part of an organic entity. It could well have been part of a scanning device. Together the two eyes turned Lundlow's features into a parody of a human face. She wondered if the eyes had any special optical capacities normal eyes lacked, or was this merely plastic surgery done in extremely bad taste? And who knew how hideous the changes inside his body were... At least those weren't so mercilessly apparent. The unnatural, inhuman eyes filled her with revulsion, and she had some trouble keeping her face straight. Lundlow appeared to find her illªconcealed reaction qui te amusing judging from his smirk. "So you're the bright young talent," he said. "Welcome, Cynthia. I'm sure we'll make a splendid team." "No doubt about it," she answered. She was asked to follow him into the studio that was to become their work©shop for the weeks to come, known as the I©lash. They picked their way among pieces of equipment to a desk and a couple of chairs where they sat down. Lundlow turned his nauseating face in her direction. "If I'm correctly informed," he began, "you've already been told the basics. Our research department is in the final stages of producing a new type of artifical skin whose characteristics have been explained to you. Here at the I©lash we'll have to back up this achievement with an advertising campaign that will have to outdo everything that has gone before. Our new product shouldn't be just another runaway success like many of our previous products. It ought to set new standards, ought to present the public out there with something of groundbreaking proportions. We'll have to come up with a VRT that is not merely sensational, not simply brilliant, but a genuine milestone in virtual reality history. Would you care for a drink?" He reached for a cabinet behind him, produced two cans of a drink unknown to her named Pop©I and popped open both of them without waiting for an answer. She gladly accepted it, took a gulp from the can and found it to be quite bland. But then again what else could she expect in this utterly tasteless environment? Not to mention the face of her host... Lundlow leaned back in his chair, looked her in the eyes with his two atrocious vision©constructs (she couldn't bring herself to view them as eyes proper) and gesticulated vaguely. "Now I'm not too sure what you're working methods were when you developed your own VRTs but it isn't really of any importance. You'll have to adopt our working methods instead. So let me explain this to you. We start from a storyline, to be discussed at some length with me and Gene. Once it has been okayed you can turn it into a storyboard which will form the basis of the actual work. This too, like every other single step of the process, has to be okayed by the people in charge of your department." "Gene Kirzowski?" "Yes, but you'll also deal with me and possibly Denise. Gene

isn't always here. As a matter of fact he's not here right now. He has a lot of business to attend to." "I know," she said. "I mean, I know where he is now. I'm supposed to visit him this afternoon." And, she added in thought, I know what kind of business he had in mind when he ventured outside of the safe haven that the I©Site and the city center constituted for him. "I see," Lundlow said, "you've been told more than I presumed." She was unable to read his facial expression, due to the mock©eyes that totally warped his features. She would have to rely on his tone of voice or his smiling/non©smiling or his gestures. Or his words, for what they were worth. "Well," he continued, "the finished product, once okayed by all of us has to pass a final test. And when I say final, I very much mean final. You see," he said, placing his forearms firmly on the desk and moving his head closer to hers, thereby sticking the two horrible eyes way too close to her face, so that it took her some serious effort and massive self©control not to recoil in horror. "our leading man mister Haggles himself has taken an enormous interest in this new line and insists on inspecting it himself, down to the tiniest detail. That includes, of course, the promotional VRT that you'll be developing for it. Now that isn't exactly standard policy but it shows how crucial this new baby of ours is to the development and expansion of Eyescape Inc. It also should keep you on the edge of your seat, make you realize how truly important this job is, urge you to really give it your best shot. Am I making myself perfectly clear?" He leaned back again, therewith mercifully moving those dreadful eyes away from her, emptied his can of Pop©I with a final gulp, crumpled the can in his hand, dropped it onto the desk. "Absolutely," she said. "You're a very eloquent man, Alan. When do I start?" "As soon as possible. This is what I suggest you do right now : plug into a VRT ad for one of our previous products. Study it carefully, with a professional eye. It's the best and easiest way to get acquainted with the sort of work that's expected from you. After all, we used this method to get to know your work. We've recently been given the opportunity to plug into some of your stuff and I must say I for one was quite impressed. I'm curious what you will come up with now that you're backed with the resources and financial means of Eyescape Inc. It's my opinion that we're in for a real treat. So, put very simply, your task now is to prove me right. Are you up to that?" She stared him into the eyes for a moment, trying to detect some glimmer of humanity, some shred of emotion, and failed utterly. "No problem," she said, and he nodded approvingly. "When do I start?" "What about right away?" he said. "I'll give you the basic version of a recent VRT ad of ours. There's an extended version too, but that won't tell you more, it'll just take more time. I'll show you." A few moments later she had plugged into the VR rig. Business was good at Joe Chioppo's Pizzeria and getting better every day. The place was crammed, and activity was ultraªhectic in an unpre cedented way. She had been very lucky to find a seat at one of the tables in a brightly lit corner. It was a table for four, at which five people were already wolfing down their meals. Mr. Chioppo had his own definition of the free seat

concept. A waiter popped up as if out of nowhere and she ordered a Venetian lasagna, a new item recently added to the menu she was eager to try out. As it took about a complete minute to micro©wave a dish to a level that could be described as edible (according to Mr. Chioppo's criteria) she observed the other customers at her table. One of them, a Mexican type judging from his dark©hued skin and the special glint in his eyes that gave away Mexicans in cheap VRTs, suddenly put down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair and groaned. He closed his eyes, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Oh boy," he said. "Oh my God." He burped, concluded his monolog with "Aw shit," and began to shake and shudder all over his body. The trembling kept growing worse, and blood started to seep from cracks in his skin, which was being ripped apart by the forces wreaking havoc inside his body. In the meantime her lasagna had arrived, and she got down to eating it right away. If it took you more than ten minutes to finish your meal, you had to pay twice the rate. It was Mr. Chioppo's way to encourage fast eating, the idea being that slow eaters occupied their seats for too long which was detrimental to good business. Mr. Chioppo had a special type of humor too. A Venetian lasagna turned out to be an ordinary lasagna half©drowned in salt water. Well, it cost considerably less than what she usually selected, so she didn't complain. As she munched and swallowed as fast she could (several customers were already queuing up behind them to take their seats) the Mexican guy emitted his final burp and burst apart completely into a sticky mass of fractured bones, ripped skin, blood©dripping organs and shredded tissue. She tried not to watch it, but still the guy's death had spoiled her appetite somewhat. The girl next to her commented, "Lucky man. He died before he paid the bill." "Food poisoning," another girl added. "Happens every once in a while." The first in line behind them was glad to see a seat vacated earlier than expected and sat down without bothering about the blood and bits still clinging to the chair. As she was halfway through her lasagna, having poured the salt water onto the floor, the sound of shattering glass diverted her attention for a moment from her meal. She cast a glance over her shoulder and saw a man clad in black, face concealed behind a hangman's mask, hand clutching a small object apparently about to be thrown in the middle of the pizzeria. "Justice at last!" his muddled cry came from within the mask. "We will prevail!" With these words the man threw his gas grenade (she had recognized the object the moment it had left the man's hand) into the far corner of the pizzeria and hurriedly left through the front window he had shattered on his spectacular entry. Of course, she thought as she continued eating. This is the second Tuesday of the month, the day allotted to the Anti©Tourist Agency as far as terrorist outrages were concerned. But wasn't there a second organization in the same day©slot, she wondered. The thought had barely entered her mind as the back window also burst apart into splinters when a terrorist representing the Anti©Journalist League (now she remembered!) came crashing in, carrying an automatic rifle. Most of the customers went on eating, fearing the double rates if they slowed down too much. A number of customers at the other end where the gas grenade had exploded were already dying, madly thrashing about on the floor, faces contorted beyond recognition, arms flailing and windmilling, veins bulging up and bursting apart, mouths

screaming and raving in agony. Fortunately the shattering of the back window had caused a strong draft blowing most of the gas out of the pizzeria, to the displeasure of innocent passers©by. The people in her part of the area could continue their meals without much inconvenience. The newcomer, however, hadn't brought along his automatic rifle merely as a demonstration model. After shouting the antiªjournalist manifesto in a curiously high©pitched voice he opened fire at random on the remaining customers. Unabashed carnage was the result. As, once more, bits of fractured bone and ripped flesh and shreds of clothing began flying all around her, she swallowed her last mouthful of lasagna, shot a glance at her watch, noted with relief that she had managed it all in a mere eight minutes. That meant she had escaped the dreaded double rate, so she left the money on the blood©covered counter and hurried outside in a desperate attempt to escape imminent death as well. She was lucky, but she wasn't the only one. Mr. Chioppo himself was waiting for her, standing among the dead bodies of the unfortunate passers©by who had been killed by the gas. He smiled as she came out of the wrecked pizzeria, arms spread wide as if welcoming a long lost daughter. "So glad to see you made it, ma'am," he said, genuine relief in his voice. "You've been very lucky, but do you realize that won't always be the case? Look at these poor devils at your feet and inside my little place. Next time you could be one of them. A terrifying prospect, don't you think? Well, it will no doubt interest you to hear there's a graceful way to eliminate these dangers from your life. Have you already considered Eyescape Inc.'s new line of bio©products at affordable prices?" He was silent for a second, an effective dramatic pause, and resumed his sales talk before she had the chance to say something. "Take the food poisoning, for instance. Are you familiar with the array of digestion©related items Eyescape Inc. is offering? Extra©strong stomachs, poison©resistant, able to digest substances dangerous or even lethal to man, not to mention the additional opportunity to have a set of spare copies of these organs tailored to your needs and custom©made to your specifications stored safely away for you to avoid delays and waiting periods in emergency situations. Why pass up this chance to enhance your pleasure in life, to boost your freedom to go and do as you wish? "Take the gas attack. Eyescape Inc. is also offering lungs and assorted organs able to deal with a variety of unpleasant situations, and spare copies can also be pre©ordered as is the case with all the items offered by this humanitarianism©driven organisation. Take the gunfire attack. No longer any need to worry about bullets riddling your gorgeous body, about the destruction of vital organs, about injuries or loss of blood or scars marring your perfect features. Fast©cloned replacement parts can be ordered, 'natural' or 'modified' according to your wishes and your budget, and if you're really smart and affluent you have copies of everything you care about pre©ordered and stored safely to minimize your displeasure. This is truly a death©defying offer! Don't pass it up. Contact your local dealer as soon as possible for prices and full catalogs. Don't hesitate. Tomorrow it may be too late already! Go now!" Mr. Chioppo winked gleefully and disappeared in a puff of smoke. "Well?" Lundlow asked as she had plugged out. "What do you say?"

"Nice work," Cynthia said. "Very much tongue in cheek, but that's the sort of thing that people seem to want these days." "Damn right," Lundlow said. "Realistic or moderate stuff is definitely out. People who plug into commercial VRTs expect to have their imagination tickled, they like to plug out chuckling and sniggering, they have to end up with fond memories of their trip and hence of the advertised products and its manufacturers. That, of course, is the whole point." "I had gathered as much," she said. "Still, I think it's perfectly possible to add some depth and punch without cutting down on the absurdism and the over©the©top humor. That's the direction I'd like to take my work in here." "No problem," Lundlow said, nodding appreciatively, "I'm looking forward to your proposals. I really am." The Silverwing Hospital was only a block away from the IªSite, and it had tak en only a short drive with a company bus to get them there. The group included Denise and two other persons she hadn't met before. She had been briefly introduced but had forgotten their names almost instantly. The hospital was an enormous many©tiered structure, a complex piece of architecture with helicopter landing pads, suspended gangways between blocks and pavillion©like constructions attached to the main buildings. The hectic activity all around the buildings and the surrounding area formed a sharp contrast with the tranquillity and clinical serenity which reigned inside the hospital. A guide, clad in immaculate white and silent as if his life depended on keeping this place quiet, led them to Kirzowski's private room. As she had been told that Kirzowski had been seriously injured, she had prepared herself, braced herself for a terrible shock. Would he still be recognizable? Would he be fully conscious? Would this visit be more than a formal courtesy call? The answers to these questions were given by Kirzowski himself as they entered the room. The man was sitting in a comfortable chair next to the window, leafing through a stack of papers on his lap. As they filed into the room he greeted them with mock©solemn words: "How very nice to see you all in good health. Especially you, miss Raythan." He shot her a gleeful little smile, put the stack of papers onto a table next to him. "Afternoon, Gene," Denise said, "you seem to be doing just fine." "Had you expected anything else?" "No, of course not. But I have the feeling that Cynthia here did, judging from her astounded looks." "Well, actually," Gene said, "that's one of the reasons why I asked for her to come along. There were a few things that I would like to drive home, things that I thought she didn't yet understand properly." He shot a glance at Cynthia, returned his gaze to Denise, and added in a pressed voice: "I suppose you have business to attend to? I suggest you deal with it first and leave us alone for a few minutes so that we can discuss these matters in private. That okay with you?" Denise exchanged a few quick glances with the other two men, who had remained silent up to now, and then said, "No problem." As they made their way back outside Denise looked over her shoulder at him and said, "Enjoy these precious moments, Gene. Maybe they'll be few and far between." Gene didn't bother to comment.

"Well," he said, as they were alone at last, "I suppose this isn't quite what you expected?" The gleeful grin was back all of a sudden. "Not quite," she acknowledged. "I'd been told you had been seriously injured, so I had presumed©©" She let her voice trail off, gesticulated vaguely, groping for the right words. "You had expected a living wreck, right? A corpse, hooked up to some elaborate rig keeping it alive artificially? Something barely recognizable as the old Gene Kirzowski? Am I right? Of course I am, and that shows that you're still not fully aware of what our bio©products can do." "I had gathered as much by now," she said. "I did know about them, only I wasn't aware of the speed they enabled the users to recover with. I was quite taken by surprise." "Surprise was written all over your face," he said. "Let me tell you, I was pretty much beaten up and bleeding heavily. I needed hours of surgery. My life has never been in danger though, even in the old days I would have survived. But, and this is the issue I would like to draw your attention to, state of the art biotechnology has provided us with fast and easily cloned organs, tailored to specific instructions, and with fast tissue healing and regeneration, not to mention user©friendly cyborg implementation methods. Look at me. Isn't it amazing?" "Yes, of course. But so are Alan Lundlow's eyes." "Aw, yes, that's the fun part. Why wait to fool around with your body till they've clubbed you over the head?" "As long as you can pay for it. Which most of us can't." She felt her self©control slipping, breathed heavily, managed to get her rising anger in check. "Well, that's life. You'll have to accept that. Anyhow, you're on the right side now, aren't you? So why should you worry? The moment you joined us you left the recession behind and the misery of Nowhere City. You have a future now, don't forget that." "You're absolutely right," she managed to say. It took her considerable effort to get these words out in a normal tone of voice. She hoped he would change the subject; this conversation was veering into dangerous territory. He seemed to have sensed that much too. "You know why I got into trouble in the first place?" he asked, his voice toned down to a restful level now. "You came to see me," she said. "Only you weren't too familiar with the neighborhood." "No, I guess I wasn't. And we got mugged, as perhaps we should have expected. But then again, that's not the kind of thing I happen to be afraid of. I knew very well that as long as I made it back alive I would be patched up in a matter of days thanks to the biotech stuff at our disposal over here. I knew very well right from the start that there was a definite risk involved, but I was willing to pay that price to get to you." Gene chuckled, leaned back in his chair. "You know, I like you, Cynthia. You're something special, you're so fresh, so totally different from the rest of us. I must say I find you quite fascinating. There's this wild streak in you, rebellion always boiling under the surface, barely kept under control, constantly threatening to burst loose. Don't deny it. Anyway, I don't disapprove of it. I would even like to get to know this aspect of you better. May I ask a personal question? Were you planning to stay in the area where you're living now? Hadn't you envisaged to move into a more decent place? Well,

consider this offer : I'd like you to move in with me. I really do. No need to accept or decline now. Think about it. Think about all the advantages of new©life. You've only seen some random examples of it, but once you'll get used to it you won't be able to do without anymore. It's the ultimate freedom, the liberation from everything you used to be stuck with for life. You wanna change eyes? Your face? Your heart? Reshape your features? Or go for something really radical, like©©" "I'm getting the picture," she said quickly. You filthy son of a bitch, she thought. Who do you think I am? But of course there was no way she could tell him to go to hell. As a matter of fact, there was little she could say right now without ruining her life. So she opted for, "I'll think about it. I really will." "Fine," he said. "I'm sure you'll make the right decision. Well, I guess our colleagues are about to get back here by now." He pressed a button on a tiny console next to the bed, reclined back in his seat. "If you'll excuse me," she said, "I have to go to the ladies' room. I'll be back in a minute." "Down the corridor," he said. "You'll find it." She left the room, glad and relieved to be alone for a short time. She strode down the corridor, fled into the ladies' room and splashed some cold water against her face. She looked into the mirror, stared straight into her own eyes. Just imagine, she thought, staring into a different pair of eyes sometime in the future. That wouldn't simply mean changing eyes. It would mean giving in to this whole set of attitudes known as new©life and everything it stood for. And she wasn't too sure new©life was her kind of thing, as far as she was familiar with it. She was however going to get more familiar with it, would be given the chance to observe new©life from within, and that just might alter her perspective on things. On the other hand, it might equally well enhance her distrust and her revulsion. There was little else to do but to wait and see and take things as they came. Of one thing she was already sure, though : she wouldn't allow Kirzowski to have his way with her life. She had accepted a job, not an offer to have her life and personality revamped. It would soon become clear if her employers shared this opinion of hers. She left the ladies' room and as she found herself back in the corridor an idea struck her. What if she went the other way, just out of curiosity? Exploring part of this hospital might be a good idea. Maybe there was a whole lot of interesting discoveries to be made here. She could always pretend she had gotten lost while trying to get back to Kirzowski's room if she ran into guards or security personnel. She liked the idea and strode off down the corridor. At the end she ran into some hospital personnel who ignored her, which meant that her presence here didn't arouse any suspicion. At the following intersection of corridors she noticed three elevators and a staircase. She quickly went up a flight of stairs, briskly walked down a few other corridors, went up more stairs and continued on till she had reached another section of the hospital. She had encountered several people who hadn't reacted in an unusual way, meaning that she was still in a section where visitors weren't considered dangerous. She knew this was no longer true as she went through a number of doors with signs reading "Restricted Area" on them. She went on all the same, but now she was on her guard. Each time she heard voices or footsteps she tried to be out of sight by darting into a side corridor, a doorway, the ladies' room or anything

else that happened to be there at the right moment. At one such occasion she took refuge in an unused room of which the door was open. As she waited till a group of three people had disappeared down the other end of the corridor, she looked outside the window which presented a view of the hospital's inner structure. As the sound of footsteps and voices diminished another sound became audible and quickly drowned all the others. It was the familiar chop©chop©chop of a helicopter, losing altitude and probably preparing to touch down on one of the landing pads scattered all over the hospital area. As she gazed out of the window she saw the chopper arc slowly through the air, hover above one of the pads nearby and lower itself onto the pad. A number of people clad in white came running to the chopper, as the pilot and a few paramedics jumped onto the ground, shouting words she couldn't understand from this distance. She watched in fascination as a number of injured people were carried away on stretchers into the hospital. What struck her most was that the paramedics as well as the pilot were wearing military uniforms. That could only mean that the victims were military personnel too. But this was no military hospital. And she couldn't see any reason why injured soldiers would be brought here. Of course there might be a lot of things she didn't know about this place. Or for that matter about the military operation in question. She would definitely try to find out more about this fact. So it had been a good idea after all to take a look around here. Now if only she could get back unnoticed. Her survival experience in Nowhere City had provided her with the proper skills to steal through this place without attracting undue attention. There was also the fact that this hospital wasn't open to the general public. Anyone inside it was by definition authorized to be there. That would explain why there was only security personnel outside to keep onlookers out. Inside there was little or no reason for a massive security force. As she finally got back into Kirzowski's room where the three others had by now returned to she only had to account for the long time she had been away. "Ik took me some time," she said. "I got lost, but fortunately a nurse directed me back here. There was no need to worry." "That's just fine," Gene said. They discussed some more topics of a very general nature, but Cynthia understood that the really important things had already been said, between Gene and her as well as between Gene and Denise. She had no clue as to what role the two other guys had played. Probably they had been here for the business that had been conducted while she was alone with Gene. Anyway the rest of the conversation didn't yield any interesting bits of information anymore. She was glad when they finally returned to the I©Site for a brief brainstorming session with Alan Lundlow that was to form the basis of her VRT storyline. That night, back home, she switched on her old TV©set for the news bulletin with renewed interest. At first the war reports seemed to differ in no respect at all from previous ones in their vagueness and their sensationalism. Reporters tended to speak in frantic tones without saying much. It was hard to get a clear picture of the facts as the news was interspersed with commercials, usually from advertisers too small to invest in glossy but expensive VRTs. Virtual reality technology had caused

a substantial drop in TV advertising rates, without therefore improving the quality of what was being shown on the screen. But then TV was a rapidly dwindling industry, and few people seemed to care how it fared. A haggard looking reporter, gripping the microphone as if his life depended on holding on to it, exclaimed in a high pitched tone, "We managed to get some sensational footage which will change your outlook on this war. Brace yourselves! Images of this nature have never been shown before, making this a sensational revelation! Moreover these are very very recent images, so you'll get the chance to see, to really see what is happening over there in the war zone right now, and I mean at this very moment!" As usual the sensational part was mainly to be found in the reporter's words. The images that followed were of a disappointingly poor quality. The camera was constantly waving back and forth, tilting in curious angles, zooming into a particular feature without ever properly focussing onto it, then swinging back to another part of the junglescape. The overall picture she got was blurred, vague, a succession of fleeting views of mist©enshrouded foliage through which darker hued figures seemed to be slipping. It was impossible to make out any details : who those people were (our boys? the enemy? perhaps transformed jungle inhabitants?), what activities were being carried out (armed combat? training routine? random movements of unidentified jungle dwellers?), what the allegedly transformed jungle looked like (were those the changed plant life©forms? or perhaps changed animals creeping around?), or even how the war was progressing (supposing that it was). Another commercial followed, and then the newscaster announced an exclusive interview with War Force officer Jeff DuChesne, chief commander of Harare Base, one of the bases at the rim of the Afflicted Area. Cynthia leaned closer, hoping this feature would yield some more substantial information. "How are things going, commander?" the invisible interviewer was asking. "We're getting reports that we're on the verge of a major breakthrough." "Those aren't just rumors," DuChesne declared, "we've recently made progress at a downright stunning rate, and the resistance is growing weaker and weaker every day. They're simply no match to us. Of course they're poorly organized, they're using obsolete equipment and they're having considerable problems with their food and arms supply. As these problems are likely to increase in the days to come our chances of a major victory are increasing accordingly." "Does this mean the end of this war is finally in sight?" "No, of course not. This is but one battle in a multiªfaceted war, but I bel ieve our upcoming success here is representative for the entire military operation that is being carried out here all over the Afflicted Area. Our job here isn't done yet, but we are making considerable progress and we intend to continue with unfailing commitment on this path that will ultimately lead us to a shining victory." "Im sure we'll hear more from you in due course," the reporter said, and the grimacing image of DuChesne, cold hard stare right into the camera, eyes glinting in the glare of the crew's lighting rig, tiny beads of sweat clearly visible on his face, was quickly replaced by another commercial, after which the newscaster turned his attention to matters of local interest only. Cynthia switched off the set in dismay.

It had struck her once more how little had been said. It took those people several minutes to issue forth a stream of sentences that ultimately conveyed nothing at all. If anything their words were supposed to have a comforting effect. Everything was just fine, but they would be quite busy for a while. Nothing to worry about. And she knew very well that when you were told that there was nothing to worry about then it was usually high time you started worrying. Why did they go to such lengths to avoid giving them some solid information? The footage that had been shown was actually a perfect illustration of the empty words that accompanied them : they showed nothing at all. That meant that either there was nothing to see or that they weren't supposed to see what was going on out there. She couldn't imagine there was nothing interesting to tell or show about the war zone. She was sure they were deprived of some vital information and she didn't like it one bit. There had to be a way to find out more about the war and everything connected to it. How did the transport of injured troopers she had observed tie into this situation? Would her job at Eyescape Inc. provide her with the opportunity to find out more about all this? Or perhaps her relations with Gene Kirzowski and others? She would see what she could do.

7 "Well, Jim, whaddaya say?" Reicher halted for a moment, let his gaze roam around the foliage around them, dense in certain spots, elsewhere thin and allowing shafts of harsh sunlight to beat down upon them. He was no botanist, of course, but there was nothing here that struck him as odd or unusual, let alone radically different from what could have been expected. "Pretty tame," he said to Frianelli, and resumed his walk through the jungle, followed by the others. "But then this is the rim of the Afflicted Area," Frianelli commented from behind his back. "So this doesn't prove anything. Apart from that there's the fact that we're likely to overlook all but the sensational changes as we're no biologists specialized in tropical lifeforms." "I had gathered that much," Jim said. "What are you trying to say?" "That it's too early to draw any conclusions. We can't say anything for sure yet." "In that case why don't you keep your mouth shut for a while?" A number of the men sniggered, most however ignored their conversation and concentrated on their surroundings. After all this was supposed to be a dangerous area, and they were on a combat mission. At least that much had been made clear during the long©awaited briefing which had turned out to be a bitter disappointment for Jim. Of course an explanation had been offered: the previous night's unforeseen incidents had disrupted the scheduled course of events. An on©the©spot decision had to be made, a raid scheduled for the end of the week had been rescheduled for today. Dos Santos had explained everything in a briefing session which was "short for obvious reasons. A string of events at an alarming rate has made it necessary for us to

match its pace, hence this hastily organized and seemingly haphazard mission. We realize very well," he had insisted, "that it's a bad thing to be rushed into a mission, but no valid alternative is open to us. We have to act now and act efficiently or we risk being annihilated." Dos Santos had taken the time however to briefly sketch the current situation to them. A map of the area had been drawn and was posted at his right side. "In recent days several small centers of enemy interest have gathered in the vicinity of Nairobi Base and have managed to deliver us a firm blow last night. At this moment a sizable portion of our troops are fighting this force. Information has reached us recently that these armed forces have again split up into their constituent segments, making them at once weaker on their own but harder to track down. Our men are in the process of annihilating two of these segments, and in order to put an end to this threat a third party should do the same with the final segment of this enemy force. Their current position is here," Dos Santos said, indicating a spot not too far from Nairobi Base, but further into the Afflicted Aera. "They are said to be weakened and running short of supplies. We should have little difficulty in exterminating them completely. After successful completion of this mission you are to return to Nairobi Base where normal proceedings according to our regular schedule will be resumed." They had been split up into various groups, each with their own squad leader, were provided with ammo and survival kits and had soon set off into the jungle. Jim had avoided eye contact with Frianelli, who was right behind him. He could guess what the man was thinking and didn't quite feel like discussing it right now. He didn't know too well what to think of it himself. Anyhow there were other and more pressing problems at this moment. There was an enemy out there bent on their destruction and there was really no time to gape awe©stricken at the lush foliage that now formed a virtually impenetrable backdrop on all sides. They proceeded in silence. Jim hoped that the people at the front knew where they were heading. He found it impossible to orient himself here. There were simply no points of reference, which meant that if ever they would get separated from the rest they would be totally lost. Of course there was always basic training and procedures to fall back onto, but that was very much theory that he had never had to put into practice. Somehow VRT experience had lost some of its near©authenticity ever since he had set foot in this steaming jungle. The thought didn't bring much comfort. As the foliage became less dense again and they approached what appeared to be a clearing in the forest Jim felt that battle could be sparked off any second now. The tension had become virtually tangible, and apparently he wasn't the only one to have sensed it. They took cover as the order came, not unexpectedly, arms held ready, waiting for the commencement of their first live©action in the War. They didn't have to wait long. All at once they saw movement at the other side of the clearing, and a flurry of hoarse shouts and gunshots went up. Jim felt more relief than anything else; at last he found himself back in a familiar situation now. The training VRTs had at least that much effect on you. The stroll through the jungle hadn't exactly been a nerve©healing experience. It was hard to catch more than fleeting glimpses of the enemy, but he could see enough to tell that they were indeed a motley crew who didn't stand a chance against a well©trained

group of men equipped with MH©38s and wearing protective clothing that turned out to offer genuine protection as they were happy to find out. The battle was over in a matter of minutes. Jim could hardly believe they had done it as they stood in total silence staring down at the casualties at their feet. Three enemy soldiers were still alive and taken as POW. There were no losses on their side. Two people, MacLyle among them, had suffered minor injuries and one person, a blond giant called VanderMeer, was heavily sick and was apparently suffering from a mild psychic shock. Still Jim thought it had been too easy, it couldn't be true. Life just wasn't like that. An inspection of the makeshift enemy base revealed nothing of any importance. It had clearly been a very temporary job and had been carried out as sloppily as the rest of the enemy operations. As they walked among the remains, casting glances all around, hushed conversations were struck up. Frianelli came up to him, as had become a habit. Jim didn't mind anymore. He still didn't like the man, but he had come to know him as dependable and that was a valuable asset in these circumstances. "Look, Jim," Frianelli said. "The jungle's taking over already again. See that?" Jim looked at what the man indicated with his gloved finger. Tiny greenish rootlets were crawling and creeping all across the campsite. It was unclear where they were coming from. He could trace them back to clumps of moss and low bushes and foliage hanging down low but that still didn't reveal their source. As they stood watching the rootlets and tendrils continued their work, a small but steady flow of green and brown covering more and more territory, multiplying itself at an alarming rate, generating new strings of offshoots continuously which immediately set about conquering new territory, wriggling and coiling and enveloping everything they encountered. "Well?" Jim asked. "Would you care to explain?" Frianelli shook his head, retreated a few steps as one of the tendrils crawled around the tip of his boots. "Never said I had an explanation ready, Jim. I just wanted to draw your attention to this." He reteated a few more steps, as the tendrils appeared to be inclined to follow what they had discovered. "Very thoughtful of you," Jim replied. "If it hadn't been for you I'd probably never have noticed." "You're turning into a cynic," Frianelli grinned. "Soon you'll be despised by everyone. You should try to stop this dreadful process now that it's still possible." "That's the first time I get some sound advice from you." By now everybody had noticed what was going on, and the squad leader called for a quick retreat. One of the three POWs had insisted on their getting out of here. "Can't you see it's getting unhealthy?" he had erupted when addressed by one of his captors. His voice had been a rasping shout that ripped apart the relative stillness of the jungle. Jim for one was glad they could leave the area. He didn't feel at ease with the rippling carpet of green and brown strands underfoot. There was a different atmosphere as they made their way back, looser, more relaxed, or perhaps "healthier". For one thing, it was easier on a strictly physical level, in that their path had been cleared already and the vegetation hadn't reclaimed it yet. There was also less tension, as the enemy had been wiped out, although they still had to maintain standard precautionary measures. And of course, there was a strong feeling of relief as their mission had been carried out successfully. That was always

a good way to make your debut. Conversations were again struck up during their march back. "Spooky stuff," Carvalho said to Jim who was walking right behind him. "And this is only the rim area. Who knows what it's like deeper down into the heart of this place?" "Hard to tell," Jim said. "You can't rely on the rumors they've been feeding us. Most of those were either over©the©top sensationalist stuff or the vaguest of news reports. I guess we'd do better to ignore all that and see for ourselves." "They seemed right about the enemy, though. The guys didn't really put up a fight." "True enough." "Wait a minute," Frianelli said from behind him. "Don't judge too fast. Maybe this band was a weakened remnant from a greater force that may well have been quite impressive. You guys are drawing too many conclusions based on virtually no evidence. I say we take this step by little step and eventually we'll get a full picture of the situation down here." "Makes sense," Jim said. Frianelli's critical faculties were well©developed and maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. "But the most important aspect is that we've had a terrific moraleªbooster. Don't underesti mate its effect. It's been proven on many occasions that©©" He halted in mid©sentence and they stopped dead in their tracks as one of them, in front of the line, emitted a shrill shout. "Take cover!" someone yelled, and a few other men shrieked commands they couldn't understand. Something was going on, and it sure wasn't part of the plan. As they got nearer to one another in an attempt to adopt battle positions Jim tried to catch some of the questions and answers that were being thrown back and forth. "It's VanderMeer. He's been hit." "Didn't hear any gunshots. Anyway didn't his clothing protect him?" "It was damaged in the fight, ripped in several places." "He should've been more careful. He should've realized he was more vulnerable now." "Of course you heard no gunshots. He's been hit by an arrow. See it sticking out of his arm?" "Arrow? You mean there's natives around here?" "Ain't no more natives around here. Anybody can use arrows though." "Especially if they don't want to make any noise when they're attacking." "You mean this is an ambush and we walked right into it?" "Sure ain't no ticker©tape parade." "The guy's in shock." "He already was. Guess this won't help him a lot." "Who's attacking us?" "No way to tell. They're virtually invisible among this vegetation." "So what do we do?" "Shoot when you think you see something. Can't think of another way out." More hushed conversations were taking place, and at irregular intervals rounds of fire were shot. Yet there was clearly an enemy out there. At one point one of them was brave enough to rise to his knees to get a better view and a sharpened stone was shot at him at tremendous speed. It made him topple

backward, but his clothing protected him well enough. The main problem was that they didn't know who was attacking them and where the enemy was. Apart from that they were unsure of the enemy's armament. They had seen an arrow, a stone, and every now and then a gunshot was heard. When they returned fire they didn't seem to hit anything, and they saw no movement among the vegetation or any other useful indications. There was nothing to do but wait and fire the odd round of ammo at a barely perceived target. Not a lot of progress was made that way, and more and more time went by. Dusk finally approached and very little had happened on the positive scale of things. The enemy still hadn't shown his face, which hadn't kept him however from striking them some serious blows occasionally. It hadn't been possible to keep track of everything, but several of their men had been hit, and despite the protective clothing, even injured or killed. The precise nature of the injuries and the causes of the casualties, if any, were as yet unclear. At one point Frianelli, who was lying next to him, whispered into his ear, "Didn't you mention something along the lines of a morale©booster?" "I did," he said. "You can ignore my remarks from now on." "I'm glad you share my views." "I wanna hear some more about your views. What do we do now?" "Stay put here, try to survive till daybreak. Then we'll see what we can do. My guess is that the enemy will get tired of this game and steal away in the night." "After killing us all first?" "That's a risk we'll have to take. Unless you have any better suggestions?" "Wouldn't count on it." They lapsed back into silence, and time went slowly by. Nightfall quickly turned out to be outright nightmare. The sounds of enemy fire became more and more infrequent as the night dragged on. Still they didn't feel any safer, and certainly not safe enough to try to get away. The fact that they were enveloped in total darkness wasn't exactly stimulating either. There was a lot of noise they thought was produced by night animals stalking the jungle, but none of the creatures got to them, at least as far as they could tell, and they certainly didn't see any of them. What they could dimly perceive through the dense foliage were the glowing spots, not dissimilar from the lizard©like creature they had spotted in their barracks at Nairobi Base. They still weren't sure what these were. The darkness lasted only for a few hours, to be replaced by an eerie spectacle of transformed jungle lifeforms. All around them the vegetation burst into fluorescent life. Vines, leaves, trunks and stems emitted faint glows, with greenish and yellowish hues predominant. The light wasn't strong enough to provide them with a clear view of their surroundings, but bright enough to exert an unsettling effect on them. The intensity of the glowing spots changed continuously. Some all at once exploded into relative brilliance, then slowly dimmed into nothingness as the night went on. Other glowing parts pulsated in a lazy rhythm, with varieties in intensity alternating with varieties in rhythm. Yet others gradually changed colors and hues in never©ending cycles. Meanwhile the fluorescent lizards, or whatever they were, kept climbing and descending across this dazzling, scintillating backdrop, which didn't remain the same for a single minute. Although no direct

danger seemed to emanate from it, it didn't bring them peace of mind either. Sleep too turned out to be impossible. Jim and the troopers close to him tried to install a semblance of a shift routine, but it was too difficult to get anything working. Their uncomfortable position, their poor means of communication, the deafening background noise and the semi©darkness eerily lit by all the fluorescent creatures and manifestations rendered their case hopeless. They all had to make do with short periods of slumber from which they were abruptly jerked away as some animal let loose a blood©curdling shriek or when a deep rumble rippled through the jungle. It was at once the most frightening night Jim had ever had and the most fascinating one. Daybreak didn't bring much to rejoice over. It brought a relative silence, but then again perhaps it was exactly the same sound level that had seemed to be a lot louder at night. The day brought some unpleasant revelations : some of them had been killed, but it wasn't clear by who or what. Some of them were injured or ill. VanderMeer was very feverish and was raving constantly, a nerve©racking drone. Two of the POWs had either managed to escape or had disappeared. One of them was still with them, glassy©eyed, his face sickly white, muttering incomprehensible words under his breath. He didn't reply to the questions they asked him, even seemed hardly aware of them. Some of their own men had disappeared as well. The nature of their disappearance was unclear : had they ventured into the jungle on their own in the heat of the night? Had they been killed and dragged away? Had they been captured by the enemy? Or were they devoured by predators? There were no indications whatsoever. There was one more pleasant revelation : the enemy was no longer there. For whatever reason, the fifteen of them that were left had been spared. One of the casualties was their squad leader. "We need a new leader," Jim pointed out. "Walking around here as a disorganized bunch of troopers doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. Any suggestions?" "Any volunteers?" Carvalho replied. "What about me?" Jim said. He had been planning to take command as soon as he'd seen the dead squad leader. Somehow it had come natural to him. What a way to become aware of the fact that you're a born leader, he thought grimly. "Any objections?" There were none, to his surprise and pleasure. "Well, Jim," Frianelli said. "What do we do?" "We go back to Nairobi Base as fast we can." "We leave them here?" MacLyle asked, pointing at the corpses. Some of these looked like typical battlefield victims, slumped down in awkward angles, limbs flung wide, faces contorted with terror or rigid with despair. Others appeared to be entangled in strands and clumps or vegetation and looked as if they had suffocated, strangled to death, deprived of life in surreptitious ways. The sight sent shivers down their spines. "We take them with us," Jim said. "They'll slow us down. We'll stand a better chance of making it without them. What's the use anyway?" "We'll have them examined at the Base. We'll have to find out who or what killed them. That may help us in our fight against this enemy. The more we know about him the better." "You got a point there," MacLyle conceded. Frianelli contributed some points as well: "We better get moving. This ain't no safe place. The faster

we move out of here©©" His voice trailed off. He waved about his gloved hands, encompassing the jungle all around them. "Right," Jim said. "Pick 'em up. And if necessary, help the injured guys along. Will you manage on your own?" He had addressed VanderMeer, who vaguely nodded approvingly but kept on raving deliriously. The sole POW left also indicated he was willing to follow them. "Staying behind unhealthy," he muttered. Nobody asked him to elaborate on this theory. They got off toward Nairobi Base in sullen silence. To their relief the enemy didn't bother them anymore, and they were able to cover the distance in a reasonable time. As they finally arrived at their destination relief quickly made way for horror and despair as they saw the surprise Nairobi Base had in store for them. The Base was deserted and almost completely destroyed. The fatal blow must have been struck without warning and with immediate success during the relatively short time of their mission. They all looked at Jim expectantly. "Follow me," he managed to say feebly. "We're moving in regardless. At best we'll stay here temporarily. Right now there is no valid alternative. Come on." The line of men followed right behind him into the shambles that used to be Nairobi Base. They remained silent as if ordered to; the shock had been that severe, had struck deeply into their already battered souls. A quick inspection of the Base revealed that there was no imminent danger. It was totally deserted and would be a safe haven for them, for the time being at least. Their stay would have to be limited for a variety of reasons. For one thing, whoever had destroyed the Base had done a thorough job. There wasn't any equipment left which was even only partially functioning. Communication with other Bases was impossible. Food, water and ammunition supplies had been taken away. Energy and electricity could no longer be generated. Most buildings and barracks had been damaged to the extent that they could only serve as makeshift shelter for the night. The chopper landing pads had been rendered useless. Maybe, Jim thought as his men had taken refuge in one of the least destroyed buildings, I shouldn't have taken command so rashly. Now they'll expect me to deal with a situation that is a lot more serious than I could possibly have imagined. But then again, if I bow out of these responsabilities, who will follow in my footsteps and bring this to a satisfying end? So ultimately it was perhaps a good thing he had volunteered for leadership. No doubt time would tell. Time always did.

8 "Hear that, Riff?" Riff merely nodded, scanned the sky, then pointed his finger. "Coming this way, Marshall. Better get ready." Marshall Stack looked in the indicated direction, but as he wanted to say something Riff made a cutting hand movement and the man swallowed whatever he had wanted to say. A smile appeared on Riff's face as his predictions were confirmed. "Real bad sound, Marshall. Real bad. They won't make it, I can tell. This baby's gonna be ours with a bit of luck." In recent times they had heard and seen a fair number of choppers pass overhead this part of Nowhere City on their way to the city center, and they had grown familiar with the sound of the

engines of these giant helicopters. This one, however, hadn't sounded right as soon as the sound had registered in their ears. It wasn't so much a different sound, but rather the fact that it was irregular had struck them. The engine wasn't running smoothly. And that meant trouble, but not for them. As the chopper came into full view it became clear that it was in serious trouble. Puffs of black and greyish smoke trailed behind it, and the engines' sound grew more and more erratic. By now Axe and Jigsaw had joined them. All of them peered at the giant insect coming in, its engines finally faltering. "Come on," Axe said. "Make our day." "It's coming down," Riff said. "Emergency landing. Right in our lap. Ain't that a swell idea, guys?" "Nice of them to do us a favor. Will we give them a warm welcome?" Axe smiled her most unsettling of smiles. "You bet," Riff said. "Come on. Figure out where they're likely to touch down, and be there as they hit the ground. We better make sure we have a front row seat." They got up and went for the likely touchdown area, ready as usual to take what came in their direction. This was how Nowhere City worked, and visitors, unwilling or not, would have to live by these rules. Riff knew that being fast wouldn't do. Other people had eyes and ears too and would by now also be on their way. But then that was life. You accepted the fact that you never got the whole cake, but that shouldn't keep you from angling for as big a piece of the cake as possible. Their estimate had been correct © but then so had a lot of other people's, as a whole flock of scavengers and onlookers had gathered where they had guessed the chopper would come down. Riff told his friend to move back, to their surprise, as the helicopter was about to land. "What's the matter, Riff?" Axe asked, incomprehending. "You quitting? Something wrong?" Riff nodded. "Don't feel right. Don't ask me what it is, but something ain't right. I can feel it." "So what do we do?" The others exchanged glances, were growing restless, uncertain whether they should follow Riff's orders or their instincts. Strong as these instincts were, they opted for Riff's proven track record of survival and retreated into a portico from where they could overlook anything that happened in relative safety. They hoped they wouldn't have to leave empty©handed, but when Riff had some doubts there usually was a reason. They waited and watched attentively. The helicopter had touched down by now. The engines had been turned off, but still a fair bit of noise was produced, and black smoke was still billowing up from various spots. Some of the onlookers retreated a few steps, others came near to take a closer look. Most of these chose to withdraw too when the pilot and a few paramedics jumped out of the cabin, all of them armed. The pilot wore a military uniform. The crowd retreated further, as if obeying an unheard command. It soon became clear they weren't giving up but rather changing strategy as some nightmare creatures and a burning man, writhing and struggling in his cloak of flames, advanced towards the baffled men. They opened fire on the creatures, and as they saw that bullets had no effect whatsoever they quickly recognized the holos for what they were and ignored them. The burning man lumbered straight through one of the paramedics who didn't even flinch, as if he were used to this kind of behavior from his fellow men. These guys were apparently well©trained military

types, taught to adapt quickly to new conditions, however radical or unsettling these were. So things wouldn't be all that easy. Maybe Riff had been right after all. The pilot waved about his gun, shouted at the top of his lungs, "What's going on here? What are you guys trying to do? This is an emergency situation. I want all of you to leave the area immediately. Go back! Now!" He fired over their heads, and the crowd retreated a few more steps, hesitatingly. In the meantime another batch of holo creatures had walked and crawled unhindered through them and the helicopter. So the pilot didn't pay too much attention to a cyberpet creeping up to him. He found out too late this one was very much a real construct. The paramedics watched in horror as the pilot was ripped apart by the metal jaws and steel teeth, crying his lungs out, thrashing madly about, collapsing in a pool of blood. They fired round upon round of bullets at the cyberpet, but its job had been done. More creatures advanced towards them, but now they were no longer sure which were harmless holos and which were dangerous killers, so they fired at all of them and tried to dodge all of them. As more and more of the creatures were unleashed this strategy proved unworkable, but the paramedics realized too late their cause was lost by now. The three of them had separated and no longer had their chopper behind them. This vulnerable position proved fatal to them. Within a few minutes all three of them succumbed to either killer cyberpets or human attackers. The area was clear, and the crowd surged forward. But still Riff had his doubts. "We're moving in," he said, "but be careful. Let the others go about. Watch and look. I don't trust it. Don't think it's safe." Much as they were eager to go and loot, they accepted Riff's directions. It had proven wise to do so on many occasions in the past, and there was no reason to believe this occasion was an exception. The rest of the crowd had no Riff to hold them back, however, and merrily went ahead on their looting spree. Activity around the chopper quickly became hectic. Riff's troupe thought they understood now why their leader had ordered them to wait. A purring sound still emanated from the engines, and occasionally puffs of greyish and black smoke were spewed into the air. A fair number of the scavengers seemed to be doubtful and had come nearby without however entering the chopper. Some were brave or foolish enough not to be deterred by anything and boldly ventured inside, immediately starting their disassembling job, like locusts pillaging the crops. As they came clambering back out, carrying armsful of equipment and parts and anything that seemed worth the trouble of taking along, Axe and Jigsaw cast inquiring glances at Riff, but he firmly shook his head. "Hey, what's that," Marshall Stack whispered, as he saw some bodies being dragged out. "Time to move," Riff finally said. "Look at those bodies. Ignore all the rest, take a real good look at them." "Looks like total death to me," Axe said, squinting. They slowly picked their way towards the chopper, which appeared to be as if under siege by a colony of ants crawling all over it. The bodies turned out to be injured soldiers, probably on their way to a city center hospital, a destiny they would now never reach. They had been dragged away and put down some way off on the sidewalk. Most of the scavengers didn't pay too much attention to them. One of the soldiers appeared to be dead, or at least comatose. Another had struggled up to his knees, leaned clumsily

against a wall, and was rambling feverishly, uttering a string of incomprehensible words and groans and mutterings. The deranged look in his eyes was a whole lot more eloquent. "Look at those two," Riff said, pointing at a couple of bodies which had attracted his interest. They all gazed at the two soldiers, lying motionless on the pavement. "Something's eating them. Look." Riff couldn't possibly be serious, although the soldiers were mutilated in a way they had never witnessed before. One of them was covered with a film of moss©like vegetation, which seemed to emit a faint glow and pulsated regularly as if it was a living structure. The soldier's face was unrecognizable, his features were warped, ripped apart, dehumanized. The second soldier appeared to be encrusted or enveloped by a web of tendrils or vines or root©like organisms, which were in constant movement. There was no doubt in their minds that this was a lifeªform of some sort . The second body was swollen out of proportion, as if ready to explode. It didn't lay still for a second, and the wriggling and creeping mass all over it turned it into a nightmare come true. "What the hell is this?" Axe asked, at once appalled and fascinated by the sight of these hulks which were no longer human to her eyes. "Wrong question," Riff replied. "You should ask instead, Can we sell this? Does this have any value? My guess is that it has. This has got tremendous worth. Forget the chopper and its bits and pieces, this is our big thing." He stared at the bodies in awe and wonder, greed in his eyes. As some of the tendrils ventured off the body and started encircling Riff's boot tip he shook them loose, not without some difficulty, and took a few steps back. "Suckers have got good taste," he chuckled. "These guys must be victims of some biological weapon," Jigsaw said. "They can be anything," Riff replied. "Victims, guinea pigs, innocent bystanders, or just plain fools. Only sure thing is that they've been in deep contact with that transforming thing back in the war zone. Don't ask me how or why. Whatever they are, they're valuable property, which is what matters to us." "So we take 'em with us?" "Yeah, but asking them to stroll back along with us won't make a big impression. You Marshall and Axe go get something to carry these corpses with. And real fast." The twosome hurried off. Riff and Jigsaw remained to keep an eye on their loot, and kept watching the by now frantic activity around the chopper. Most of the onlookers had joined the scavengers and were swarming all over the place. Greed had swept away fear entirely. "Look," Jigsaw said, pointing at a spot over at the other side of the street, where a handful of people stood watching the proceedings from a safe distance, just like them. "Ain't that the girl you talked about?" Riff narrowed his eyes, peered in the indicated direction. "Sure enough, that's her. Name's Cynthia. I've kept an eye on her." "What for?" "She no longer works in her apartment, but in the Center. That means her place is open for inspection. I've thought about taking a look. Might be worthwhile." Riff shifted his gaze back to the chopper. "Something's wrong there." They exchanged looks, stared at whas was going down among the seething mass of

scavengers. The faint sound still emanating from the helicopter all at once turned into a shrill whine, and smoke appeared from a variety of outlets. It didn't seem to deter the shoppers much. "It's clear to me now," Riff said, nodding. "It's gonna blow up. I felt it coming. Take cover." There were several minor explosions in rapid succession rather than one big blockbusting bang. It made for a visual spectacle of inferior quality, but the destruction it caused wasn't any less thorough. To their satisfaction Riff and Jigsaw found they were out of range of the debris being thrown around in all directions. The only part of them that suffered was their eardrums. The two soldiers didn't seem to notice anything. The enveloped one stirred and trembled a bit, but maybe that was merely a reaction to the shockwave which fortunately hadn't been all that massive, as far as their knowledge of shockwaves went. A wide grin appeared on Riff's face as he let his gaze roam about the scene of destruction. "Look," he said to the equally enraptured man next to him, "ain't that wonderful? The colors! Fires and smoke and raining debris. And over there, that's real awesome!" Jigsaw looked at what Riff had singled out for his special attention. Among the smoldering remains of the helicopter, (some of the biggest humps still producing columns of black smoke, most of its smaller fragments engulfed in flames), among the mutilated and charred bodies strewn on the scene of the blowup, among the less seriously injured crawling and stumbling and staggering to a place of greater safety, crying and groaning in pain and agony, among all the props in this sick theater play being put on here Riff had spotted some burning men, shrouded in cloaks of fire. As some of the holos were still operative, and strolling in their unperturbed way through this inferno, it was at times impossible to distinguish the real burning men from the holographic ones, and Riff thought this a stimulating and invigorating experience. The burning man holo was a recently developed concept and could be seen in this part of town with increasing frequency. Most of them were slightly different variations on the same theme, so probably they were all based on the same guy's creation. The funny thing was, Riff now thought, that there was hardly any difference in outlook and behavior between the holos and the real thing. This aspect gave the whole scene a striking beauty that somehow touched him deeply. The sad thing was that the real burning men were so ephemerous. They quickly fell down to the pavement and burned up to a lifeless heap of cinders. By and large Riff preferred the holo versions. Somehow they suited their surroundings better, looked better equipped to function in this environment so hostile to traditional old©style flesh©and©blood life. "Cute," Jigsaw said, nodding in appreciation. "They should do this more often." "Glad to see you're a man with good taste," Riff said. "By the way, there they are." Axe and Marshall Stack were coming up behind them, carrying a makeshift stretcher wide and hopefully strong enough to carry the two soldiers © or however they should be labeled in view of their present condition. As Axe glanced at the battlefield some way off she asked Riff, "Are you alright?" "No, we were killed in the blast," he said. "You don't look any more dead than you used to." "That's my way of staying alive. Come on, let's move the buggers." The two soldiers were hoisted onto the stretcher and carried

off to their quarters, not without a full series of grunts and panting and swearing. Still, they all realized they may well have struck serious paydirt here, and that realization always tended to ease the pain. Usually, however, there was too much pain and not enough pay. If these poor devils could change that situation they would gladly sink to their knees and kiss the creepyªcrawling tendrils now be ginning to dangle from the stretcher.

Ã**Ã9 At least I'm working again, she thought as she was escorted to the Molinari Restaurant where she was to have lunch with Jordan Haggles. Eyescape Inc.'s Number One had expressed the wish to see her and talk about her work. Already? she had wondered. I've barely started work on the damn thing. "Why at this ultra©posh restaurant?" she had asked Denise. "Why not in his office?" She didn't like the idea of facing the man in a place utterly alien to her. Food was already being rationed in Nowhere City, and here she was, out to lunch in a ridiculously high©priced place with a man she by all accounts was bound to find totally despicable. Denise had chuckled, contempt in her eyes. "Let's put it this way. If Jordan Haggles has an office, it's his exclusive table at Molinari's. Now there is a room here labeled Haggles' office, but he can only be found here on those very rare occasions when he's not at Molinari's. Do you understand?" "Not quite," she had said. "Is the man manacled to his table or something?" "In a certain sense he is," Denise had answered, the chuckle still going strong. "Don't worry about it. Everything will become clear soon. You'll love him, I'm positive about that. And, one more thing : Mr. Haggles has a healthy appetite. I'm sure you'll find it quite stimulating." Cynthia wasn't sure what that final remark meant, but she would no doubt find out. She was glad Denise and Alan were quite enthusiastic about the rough storyline she had proposed, the wealth of tiny but important details she had worked out, and they had applauded her tentative title for the new VRT, "The Ship That Launched A Thousand Faces". Surely this lunch with Jordan Haggles couldn't possibly be a painful anti©climax. She had expected Molinari's to be a giant piece of architecture, a towering structure of overwhelming grandeur and awe©inspiring splendor, but this time her guess had been way offªtarget. The restaur ant was quite small and fairly inconspicuous, intimately tucked away among clumps of colorful vegetation, in stark contrast with the rather arid cityscape all around it. Surprisingly enough she didn't spot any armed guards in the area. That could either mean that these were hidden well out of sight or that they weren't necessary. Somehow she couldn't accept the latter, even though the City Center was a relatively safe place to her standards. Her identity was quickly and unobtrusively checked at the entrance of Molinari's by a man who could either be a waiter dressed up as a security guard or vice versa. "You are expected," he said in an emotionless tone of voice. "Please follow me." Molinari's place was perhaps toned©down in its outward appearance, inside it was the epitome of new©lifers' opulence and

excessive wealth. Most of the interior seemed to consist of moving parts, totally computerized, constantly and slowly being changed and rearranged, a continuous landscaping process conceived with the idea in mind that the interior should never be the same, however long you chose to stay in here. And some apparently spent quite a bit of their waking moments in here. An elaborate lighting rig was also constantly reshaping itself in synchronization with the interior landscaping process, lighting every part of the restaurant from a different angle and in different colors and hues and intensities as time went by. It made quite an impression on her, she being a visually oriented artist, and more so because this was a totally new experience to her. Nowhere City didn't exactly abound with this type of exclusive places. It felt like one of those artsy VRTs to her, too refined and delicately executed to be true. As they wound their way towards Haggles' private table she noticed several people, customers rather than restaurant personnel judging from their informal dress, plugged into VRT rigs in discreetly lit corners and recesses. What were these guys up to? she wondered. Did some people perhaps plug in between courses? She knew about VRT overindulgence, about people spending most of their leisure time plugged in, some ending up addicted to the damn trips and spending just enough time outside VRTs to survive. There had been cases of VRT junkies ending up as plugged©in corpses. What a terrible way to die, she thought, not knowing if you're really dead or if it's all part of the trip. They finally arrived at Haggles' table, and her escort bowed and quickly made his way back. She had expected a monster, an instant revulsion©generating creature, but on first sight Haggles didn't look all that weird. Actually, he looked quite normal as new©lifers went. He did have a paunch of stunning proportions, but then that had never been unusual among certain types of people. She tried her best to look unprejudiced and flashed him a bright smile as she was about to take her seat opposite him. "Miss Cynthia Raythan, I presume," a smug voice addressed her. "Please take your seat. I feel privileged to be in your presence." I wish I could say the same about you, she thought as she focussed her eyes on Jordan Haggles. So this the man. This is the guy calling the shots. Perched here at his own private table, with no other customers in sight, thanks to the clever landscaping computer's programming which had no doubt been tailored to Haggles' wishes. This was the kind of customer whose every whim was unquestioningly attended to. Probably a good deal of what she saw around here had been paid with his money. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Haggles," she said in as neutral a tone as possible. "Well, what would you like for starters?" he asked, all smiles. "May I recommend the toast hawaienne? It's utterly delicious. And I should know, I've tried it so many times I lost count." The smile intensified, and she thought it wiser to accept his recommendation. "Seems like an excellent suggestion," she said, and Haggles nodded appreciatively, pulled a keyboard towards him and tapped a key sequence. She wondered if every customer could enter his orders directly into the kitchen computer or if this was another of Haggles exclusive privileges. "Well, young lady," he said, reclining comfortably in his chair, "I've been told you've come up with some really bright ideas for us, so let's hear them." He steepled his fingers

together on the table in front of him, looked her expectantly in the eyes. "I must confess I selected the story type with several aspects of this business in mind. For one thing, I wanted to do something at which I excel, something for which I can rely on past experience. That's the best way to guarantee top©quality results. Furthermore I wanted something of epic proportions, something the user can really sink his teeth into, get totally engrossed in. So I decided to really go for the no©holds©barred approach and come up with something devastating." "Keep talking like that. You sound dedicated, purposeful, eager to achieve something new and groundbreaking, to take things just that much further. The quantum leap approach, know what I mean? I like that in the women I work with. Ah, at last, our orders." Cynthia looked up as a four©armed waiter silently approached, gracefully put down the dishes in front of them and disappeared. Haggles attacked the toast hawaienne voraciously, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. He had finished before she was halfway through. "You may have been told about some of the bio©surgery I've had done," he said, stating it rather than asking her about it. "You see, I'd had this reinforced extra©large stomach installed able to take in more food than the average human needs or is physically able to take in. It soon turned out that didn't do the job I was aiming for. You just can't go on eating, however large your stomach. Your body can't handle food beyond a certain limit, you know. So I had to look for another way. You finished? Would you care for soup? I can recommend the 'crá áme alsacienne'. Absolutely wonderful. Your palate will never be the same again. That alright with you?" Of course it was. Who would dare to thwart Haggles in his selection of gourmet food? The man tapped some more keys, reclined again, said, "So what's your basic story©line then? Can you give me a rough outline?" "Well, basically it's a futuristic space©oriented story. There's this alien spaceship cruising through the interstellar void on its way to earth, and©©" "Wait a minute. Didn't you include this part because it allows you to design all these flashy backdrops and alien scenery and stuff? Wasn't that one of the things you're famous for?" "Sure enough. As I said, I tend to aim for the things I do best." "So do I : there's the soup I've ordered for us." Once again Haggles had finished before she had barely gotten started. "As I said," he continued as she was working her way through her soup, "I had to solve this food take©in problem. We tried out several options, but then ultimately settled for what they labeled food treatment chambers. These are artificial organs, where food is automatically transferred to and broken down without however entering the metabolism, as soon as a certain level of food intake has been reached, the level at which a normal human being can simply no longer eat. The stomach is bypassed, so there's no digestion process involved. Excess food is 'dealt with' rather than 'digested'." At that moment a man walked up to their table, excused himself and handed Haggles a slip of paper. He nodded, glanced at the note and frowned, all at once lost in thoughts. Meanwhile she watched the islets loaded with fake vegetation slowly encircling their table, and for the first time noted that as the light

intensity diminished the petals closed and opened up again as the lights came back up again to their previous level. This had to be one hell of an intricate program. The simulated night©and©day cycle only lasted a few minutes, night being just a few shades darker than day. The islets were already being rearranged, veering away from their table in a lazy swirl, to be replaced by some pieces of fascinating miniature architecture, catching and reflecting lightbeams shot at it from carefully selected angles as it was moving into place. Haggles seemed to have made up his mind, entered some more messages through the keyboard and pushed it out of the way. "Business," he explained to her. "When an important highªlevel decision has to be made I am immediately consulted. My decision is downloaded to the Eyescape Inc. mainframe for maximum efficiency." "Why isn't the note downloaded into Molinari's computer?" she asked. "If speed and efficiency are so important?" "Good question. Look at it this way : the downloading process might just interfere with for instance my entering an order to the kitchen. Delays, interference, we just can't have that. There are priorities to be observed. It's one of my idiosyncracies, and I'm sorry if it bothers certain people. By the way, speaking of orders, may I offer another suggestion?" He did, and once more she accepted. What else was there to do? "Oh yes, your story," he reminded her as they waited for the main course to arrive. She was relieved he hadn't totally forgotten about it. "The spaceship lands on earth, and it appears the aliens aren't too pleased with the human population infesting this nice planet. They decide to wipe 'em off the face of the earth. So they start exterminating mankind and destroying everything in their path, and©©" "Does that include restaurants? Barbarians!" Haggles chuckled uncontrollably. "They don't deserve this planet." "Then they run into these people equipped with this new artifical skin, this face©mimicking gadget, and it turns out to work with these aliens' faces too with far©reaching consequences. Being confronted with someone who sports your own face reminds them of an ancient myth from their own culture." "Hold on right there. The main course is arriving. Tell me more afterwards. Fascinating stuff, by the way. Oh, this really looks terrific." Food once again demanded his full attention, and she joined in somewhat less passionately. As he had finished he continued his own line of conversation. "We had cracked the food©intake problem, but there was another matter. When you've had enough, you lose your appetite. You no longer feel like eating anymore, even though you've been altered physically to deal with yet more food. This problem required some gland reconstruction, and I must say the results are awesome. Our people even managed to enhance the enjoyment of food by developing a refined set of taste buds implanted in great quantities on the tongue. This solved most of the major problems. There were of course a few minor problems to be dealt with, but these were standard procedures. I'm referring here to the replacement of vital organs like my liver every six months, but organ replacements and fast custom©made cloning have become trivial matters these days." If you can pay for them, she thought. If the possibility is at all open to you. Which isn't the case for most people, actually. As you know all too well, Mister Taste Bud.

"You could say that I'm a walking Eyescape Inc. advertising campaign," he said, chuckling that irritating chuckle again. "A walking and talking one at that." Well, she thought, I'm not too sure you manage a lot of walking what with the paunch and the never©ending appetite and all that. And as for the talking, wouldn't it be a good idea to consider cutting down on it? "Well, where were we? Oh yes, dessert. I'll order dessert for both of us and then you can tell me some more about that story of yours. Should be shaping up nicely. Count me in. I'm fully behind you on this, you know. I'll tell you more : as soon as the rough cut of your work is finished I want to be the first to plug into it. I want to check it out personally. I have that kind of trust in you, and I take that kind of interest in this new project of ours down to the advertising stage. I may be high up in the hierarchy but that doesn't mean I can't see or don't wish to see what's happening at ground level. Call me unorthodox if you want. Call me unconventional. Call me whenever you feel the need. And by all means call me when you feel like having dinner in outstanding company." A quick chuckle, and he was serious again. "I'm sure you'll agree with my choice as far as dessert is concerned." He tapped some keys again. I guess I'll have to agree with all your choices, she thought. And I'll call you Mr. Taste Bud. Suits you better than your own suggestions. As she saw he felt ready to hear the rest of her story, she picked up where she had left. "The story's protagonist, obviously equipped with the gadget, gradually becomes aware of his or her powers and starts a rebellion that will ultimately manage to defeat the alien enemy." "Hmm. Sounds okay to me, but a bit serious. Of course I'm judging from a rough outline which may not reflect the tone of the story. Were you considering a mix of extravagant action and wild comedy?" "That can be arranged. Actually I had considered making a variety of cuts in different tones to suit the needs of different types of customers. I never could do that in the past due to budget restrictions, but©©" "You can scrap that word from your vocabulary with us. Ah, there's the desserts. If only you could enjoy them as much as I do, but of course, what with you still being out of touch with our habits of what I label self©improvement that's just not possible. But as you grow familiar with our lifestyle you will no doubt follow us." Haggles diverted his attention to his food once more. The four©armed waiter had come and gone, as did the scenery and the backdrops around them. She toyed with the undefinable items on her plate rather than eating them. Haggles didn't seem to notice or didn't care. As she had finished he told her he knew what he wanted to know and would get back in touch with her when necessary. As the man ordered some more loads of gourmet food, for himself alone this time, she was escorted out of Molinari's and back to the I©Site. That afternoon she continued basic work on story development and practical matters with Alan and Denise and felt she had made quite some progress. News reached them that a bomb had landed in the City Center, causing considerable damage and killing a number of people. They were told the bomb had been launched somewhere in Nowhere City and the mounting crisis and resulting social unrest were to be blamed for it. Hope was expressed that this would be an isolated incident rather than the harbinger of a major scale social upheaval with repercussions even in the rich City Center.

As she got home that evening she found to her dismay that her apartment had been broken into and all her equipment had been stolen, along with assorted items of varying worth. Had anybody mentioned a mounting crisis and social unrest? As she had employment now at the I©Site which had its own equipment this burglary wasn't a total catastrophe for her, but still she would try to figure out who was responsible and what could be done about it. And, it occurred to her, maybe the time had really come now to seriously consider severing all the links with Nowhere City and moving to an affordable place in the City Center, if at all possible. She had a lot to think about.

Ã*)Ã10 "Now look," Reicher said to his men, a dreary©looking bunch of demoralized soldiers cut loose from the War Force they were supposed to support, from their world, from about everything apart from their very existence. "As I see it there are two possibilities open to us. Either we try to make contact with the nearest Base, or we set out to reach Monrovia Base, the headquarters in the center of the Afflicted Area, where our presence may perhaps be appreciated more. I'd like to hear your opinions, of course." Frianelli was the first to offer something. The man might be a cynic, but in desperate situations his contributions were highly valuable. "There's a problem with going to the nearest Base," he said. "We can't get in touch with them, so they don't know about our predicament. We don't even know if they're aware of what happened to Nairobi Base. As far as we can tell maybe all the Bases in this area have been destroyed. Just suppose that's the case, and knowing there's no way to find out anything beforehand, all our efforts to reach them will have been futile and we would be worse off than we're now. I say we can't take that slim a chance. Heading towards Monrovia Base on the other hand may look like foolhardy nonsense but at least we can assume they're still there. It sure won't be an easy stroll, but my vote is firmly for Monrovia Base." "He's right," Carvalho said. "Monrovia Base it'll be if you have any sense left in you." "I just don't know," MacLyle said. "Can't see how you're so sure Harare Base, which is the nearest one if I recall correctly, is so damn likely to be wiped off the map. Who says the destruction of our Base can't have been an isolated event?" "Let me put it this way," Jim said. "If the enemy forces have the power to thoroughly obliterate one Base, they're not likely to leave it at that. So the areas around Harare Base and Mogadisciu Base may be extremely dangerous right now. Those places are probably crawling with enemy forces. Going there could be suicide, especially as we can't get in touch with them, as Carlo just pointed out. Maybe those Bases have withstood an enemy attack or didn't even suffer one, but how can we know before it's too late? We would be running an awful risk. "Going all the way to Monrovia Base may sound crazy, but I think it's a safer bet. For one thing, we won't be crossing any high©danger areas according to the information we were given. Now I admit that can only be relied on to a certain extent, and the situation is likely to change within very short notice." Jim shook his head. He sounded adamant as he continued. "Yet I tend

to agree with Frianelli. It'll be a longer journey to Monrovia Base, but we'll stand a bigger chance of making it © and if we do, we'll probably be more useful over there than in this miserable madhouse area here. They're bound to have better organisation, and no doubt we'll be properly reintegrated into the War Force. So my vote is for Monrovia Base. If any of you disagree, please let me know your opinions." The others merely nodded or shook their heads. Either they didn't have an opinion or they preferred to keep it to themselves. VanderMeer was gazing dazedly in front of him, murmuring incomprehensible words. The man would be a liability. "What do we do with them?" MacLyle asked, pointing towards the spot where they had left the casualties. They had studied them, but not having had any decent medical training had learned nothing. Reicher sighed. "I'm very sorry, but there's nothing we can do for them. We leave 'em here. What else can we do? Anybody else?" He looked at the faces surrounding him, but nobody seemed inclined to add anything anymore. "What about you, pal?" he said, addressing the POW who had been silent most of the time ever since they had captured him. The man shrugged resignedly, and even uttered a few words. "Not staying behind alone. Go with you." He lowered his gaze to the ground, lapsed back into brooding silence. "Right," he said. "Monrovia Base it'll be then. For whatever it's worth. We only have a slim chance, but it'll have to do. To hell with the odds, stacked high against us as they are. To hell with©©" His voice trailed off, he shook his head. He was glad Frianelli took over from him. "Better to leave right now," he said. "We've lost enough time as it is. So get ready everybody. Off your asses, get moving. To hell with the odds." Off they went, the fifteen men now under Jim's command. Make that fourteen. You couldn't seriously consider the prisoner as one of his men. Maybe it would have been wiser to leave him behind. The journey proved to be rather uneventful. As the vegetation wasn't too dense in this part of the jungle they managed to cover quite a distance. Every now and then Frianelli or Carvalho, who kept close to him, pointed out some striking specimens of the local flora and fauna. None of these were too disconcerting or mind©boggling. Their curiosity was aroused, oh yes, but they looked upon the creatures with what could be labeled scientific interest. Maybe, Jim thought, we're simply getting used to the neighborhood. And we better make sure we fit in completely before it's too late. At some passages they had to avoid tendrils dangling down from the treetops, groping around with mouthlike extensions like hungry children's hands begging for food. At one occasion they were able to determine that the tendrils were carniverous : a few bird©sized butterflies got caught by the dangling and bouncing tendrils, were crushed mercilessly and digested. Some of the tendrils had already finished their digestion process and dropped the undigestible remains to the ground. The large butterflies they saw on various occasions were striking creatures as well. They had delicately structured bodies, coated with shiny armorªplates, and reminde d Jim of small helicopters with diaphanous wings. They rather flew like choppers too, and the wings gave the impression of having ornamental value only. The creatures were quite curious about the intruders picking

their way through the jungle, but they appeared harmless. On one occasion, as they had reached a glade, they had seen a vast swarm of the chopper©butterflies swirling around. The clearing had to be a gathering place of theirs. As they stood watching the gracefully spinning swarm it suddenly dissolved into a string of individual creatures heading off on a course through the upper layers of the vegetation. The most remarkable specimen they encountered during their trek was a giant turtle©like creature striding majestically past them on spindly spider's legs without paying them any notice. For once Jim was grateful for being ignored. The animal's eyes, on stalks like a crab's, were constantly waving back and forth so as to allow their owner a complete overview of its surroundings. On its broad back it carried a load of parasitic or perhaps symbiotic passengers entangled in the moss©like covering. Some of these reminded Jim of anemones, swirling as in a strong current, others appeared to be of insectoid nature, or wore shells. He even detected a handful of tiny rodents among them, busily scurrying about on their hunt for food. "This guy is a world on his own," Frianelli commented. "Carrying an entire ecosphere with him. How do you explain that, Jim? How can it survive? How do the guys on its back survive? How for that matter did this constellation of life©forms evolve?" "I don't explain it," Jim replied. "I ignore it and hope it returns the favor." "Don't tell me you're not curious." "I am. Just don't expect me to have an explanation ready for everything I see. This guy is obviously part of the transformation process going on here©©" "I had gathered that much, Jim." "©©and there's little for us to do but to acknowledge that fact and get on with the job we're supposed to be doing. Got that?" "Reading you loud 'n clear." For the rest of the day only a few words were exchanged between them. Basically walking and watching demanded their complete attention. As night came they set up camp in as safe a way as was possible under the circumstances. He decided that half of them should stay awake at all times, and a shift schedule was quickly organized. Jim opted for the first shift, curious as he was to see how this part of the jungle would look as the night dragged on. He had expected a repeat performance of the fluorescence spectacle supported by the overpowering background noise, but no such phenomena manifested themselves. The quietness and normalcy didn't really reassure him however. As a matter of fact, he found them highly suspicious, and he reminded the others who had guard duty to remain alert and expect the unexpected. Nothing was to be trusted © especially not things that did their best to look normal. As the end of his shift came nothing alarming had happened, and he went to sleep with relative peace of mind. Maybe they still stood a serious chance after all. Sleep came fast, and he spent a dreamless night until he felt someone shaking him about, a strong hand on his shoulder. "Jim, Jim," he heard the man whisper. He looked up, shook the remnants of sleep off of him, blinked a few times, caught his breath as he recognized the man who had awoken him in the pale light of dawn. "Dad?" he asked in a hoarse voice, stricken with unbelief. "Dad...? This is ridiculous." All at once he sat up straight, threw glances around him. All of his men were sound asleep, those

on guard weren't within sight. He wasn't dreaming. This was reality, and still he didn't believe it. "How are you doing boy?" his dad asked him. "You look scared shitless, as though something dreadful has happened. Tell me. What's the problem? No doubt I can be of help." His dad stared into his face, the well©known features, greying hair, the smell of expensive after©shave overwhelming him. "How's the war going?" he insisted, still clutching him by the arm. "Come on, Amanda, say hello to uncle Jim." Amanda? His niece, here in Africa's Afflicted Area, in the middle of the goddamn war zone? This was sheer nonsense. A dream. A fucked©up nightmare. His brain had gone haywire. A total nut case. Farewell, Jim. Say goodbye to your brain. It's gone forever. But then Amanda was in his arms, and she felt as real as she had ever felt in the old days at home, her tinkling laughter, the bright blue eyes, the blonde curls stroking against his face, the smell of freshly ironed clothes, the invigorating warmth of a six year old girl pressed against his chest. "Uncle Jim?" He stared at her numbly, still unable to say a word. It took him a few minutes to get his act together. "Can I speak to you in private, Jim?" his dad asked him, and he nodded. How could he refuse? Your dad turns up in the middle of the African jungle where he can't possibly be and you would refuse to talk to him in private? His dad took him by the arm, led him some distance away, leaving Amanda behind, playing merrily on her own. "My God, Jim," he said as he faced him once again, calming him down simply by the look in his eyes as so many times in the past, "you look haggard, you must be in real bad shape. Don't tell me things aren't going right. I won't buy that story. You're not a loser, you're bound to win in the end and you know that. Come on, boy, spill it out. What's bugging you?" Jim swallowed a few times, still too numb to realize what was happening. Could Amanda and this dad©creature be part of this transformation process? Not too damn likely. Was this a hallucination? If so it was a godawfully good one. It felt real, unlike most of this place. Meanwhile his dad was still waiting for a reply, genuine concern and impatience now creasing his face. He shook his head, patted Jim on the shoulder. "Now listen, Jim, I can see you're in trouble. But allow me to tell you this. Whatever happens, however ugly the situation you're in, however dark the future might look to you, always keep in mind the ideals that got you here in the first place. You know very well that the bio©catalyst Research and Development facilities are threatened by a group of criminal armed forces trying to undermine the foundation of our welfare system. Someone has to stop them before the situation deteriorates to the point where really drastic measures become inevitable. We need idealistic, heroic young men like you Jim to straighten out matters. We're counting on you, Jim. Don't let us down. Don't let those scumbags dictate us their laws. We just can't allow everything to fall to pieces, we can't allow our lives to slip through our fingers. These remarkable phenomena occurring in the Afflicted Area can be turned into a benefit for mankind. We shouldn't allow organized crime and guerrilla forces to take over control of it for their own purposes. So don't let us down, Jim. Get your act together and kick the shit out of 'em!" He slapped him encouragingly on the back, and started to walk back to the spot where Amanda was still playing. "How did you get here, dad?" The moment he uttered these

words he realized how absolutely foolish they sounded, but he couldn't keep the question back. Amanda jumped into his arms and he caught her, caressed her blonde locks. "What do you mean, Jim? I thought I just had to tell you this, so I came over to support your cause. My God, Jim, you're in worse shape than I had imagined. My God." His dad sighed, shoulders drooping, suddenly sobbing with grief and despair. "Jim, Jim," another voice was now shouting in his ear, a voice equally well©known to him, and a strong hand was thumping him on his back. He turned around, and all at once Amanda was gone as if she had never been there in the first place and he was looking straight into Frianelli's excited face. "Get up, Jim. We've got company. And we've lost some company. Shit, man, how can you sleep through all this? Get the the hell on your feet, man." He rose to his knees and looked all around. With mounting despair and a feeling of rising sickness he noted that night had once again taken its toll. "What happened?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "What happened? You mean, you can't see what happened?" "Tell me anyhow," he said. "I stopped believing what my eyes tell me." "I know what you mean. You've been seeing things too. You're not the only one. But what you're seeing now is very much real, Jim. This disaster isn't dreamed up by you, Jim. You're smack in the middle of it. And we'd better figure out how to get the hell out of it before it gets us too." He rose to his feet now, tried to clear his head, inspected what was left of their camp. Only seven of them were still there. The others had disappeared, had been killed or kidnapped or eaten alive or for all he knew been turned into knee©high pink mushrooms. There was a mass of these all over the place. He didn't remember seeing them last night when they had picked this spot for setting up camp, but then jungle vegetation was known to flourish and wither at an amazing pace. Only over here it wasn't just the pace that was amazing. Most of their equipment had been stolen too. They had only a few guns left, a small amount of ammunition, virtually no food or water. They were pretty much left to their own devices now. Carvalho and MacLyle were still among them, as was VanderMeer who was still mumbling to himself in a state of semi©consciousness. Their POW was gone. Jim locked eyes with Frianelli, and asked, "So what happened?" "Nobody knows. Those who had guard duty are among the ones who're gone. And all of us were apparently under the influence of something. So were you, I guess." "I was. Any idea what it was?" "I don't. But these people claim to know. Look behind you." Jim looked over his shoulder and noticed a group of four people standing there, almost hidden among high ferns and broad leaves hanging down from the trees. Two middle©aged men, a woman, and a girl in her twenties, all sporting enigmatic smiles. They appeared to be Hispanics, they wore no uniforms and were apparently unarmed, and he had no clue as to what they were doing here in the middle of the war zone. He shot a glance at Frianelli. "Who are these people?" "Not the ones who inflicted all this on us. They don't belong to any military or guerrilla group. They, ah, live here. If you want more information I suggest you ask them."

Jim shifted his gaze back to the four people. One of them, the girl, came up to them, eyeing him intently. She pointed at the pink mushrooms and said in heavily accented English, "Can't stay here. Have to go now. Dangerous. They will make you dream again." "If I understood this correctly," Frianelli interrupted, "these mushrooms release hallucinogenic spores at regular intervals. That's what caused our troubles. I'm not sure if they're also the cause of the other guys running off, but suppose they were having a bad trip?" "Did the mushrooms also take the equipment and guns?" "Well, I haven't frisked them. Feel free to do so." "Cut the crap, Carlo. Do these people©©" "Follow us," the girl interrupted in her turn. "Many creatures and people around here to steal what you have, including your life. Come to the village. We will tell you more." Without further words the four of them took off, and Jim and the others quickly collected their few belongings left and followed them. What else was there to do? It took them about twenty minutes to reach the village via a meandering trail across the jungle only perceived by their four guides. Three of them were unwilling to speak to them. Maybe, Jim thought, they didn't speak English but were okay people apart from that. The girl was his only hope and during those twenty minutes he was able to elicit a minimum of information from her. It struck him she never answered questions in any usual way, and her answers were always accompanied by wry smiles. "What's your name?" he had asked her, as good a starting point as any, he had presumed. "Don't know," she had said after a moment's hesitation. "But you can call me Liberaciá¢án." "I can hardly believe you people live here, what with the war and everything going on here. You must be in mortal danger every minute of the day. What keeps you here?" She had shot a piercing glance at him, dark©brown eyes trying to get through to his very essence, scanning the darkest recesses of his soul, her expression changing from inquiring into condescending. It took awhile before she deemed him worthy of a reply. "You know nothing of this place. We're safe here." "What a load of crap. And the war?" "What war? Maybe you're the war." "You mean you hadn't noticed there's a war going on? Oh that's real cute, lady. I like that. It's all so very much in the background, eh? Whole Bases are wiped off the map, most of my buddies are dead or missing, we're constantly under attack of an invisible and practically unconquerable enemy ticking us off one by one and you're wondering what war we're talking about. Maybe we're just taking all this too seriously, that what you mean? Maybe we should simply sit back and enjoy the countryside and©©" "©©and keep our stupid mouth shut," Frianelli finished his sentence, thumping him on the back. "You're talking way too much, Jim. Wait till we get to that village. Let's see what these people have to offer and go from there. We'll have to face this situation as it is anyway, so we'd better stay cool and levelªheaded." Little was said after that. Only VanderMeer's incessant mumbling could be heard. To his amazement the village turned out to be a fairly peaceful©looking place indeed. It seemed on all accounts to be a permanent settlement rather than the makeshift affair he had

expected. It was primitive, but workable. He now heard the people speak in their own language, which he thought was Spanish. They were welcomed without too much enthusiasm, but then there was no reason to expect otherwise. They were given food, a substance unknown to him which was pretty tasteless but it seemed to fill their stomachs and right now they didn't ask for more. They were also given canteens of a bitter liquid which they gulped down avidly. As their most pressing needs had been attended to Jim thought it was now time for a full round of questions. "I noticed you speak Spanish," he said to Liberaciá¢án. "I take it you're from South America?" The girl nodded, and a few locks of curly black hair dangled before her eyes. She didn't move them back into place, preferred watching him from behind the locks partially obscuring her eyes. "We're from Colombia," she admitted. "We fled the war." "Fled the war?" he asked. There had been, a few years back, a bloody civil war in Colombia, which had caused an exodus of refugees into neighboring countries. But why had these few dozens fled into another war zone? That was sheer madness. "Isn't this war even worse?" he asked. "You're the war," she said once again. "You don't understand. We live in peace here. See? We're unarmed. No danger for us. Only you are in trouble." He shook his head. This was utter nonsense of course, but somehow her words rang true. This tiny village looked pretty peaceful. These people seemed quite laid©back, enjoying a pastoral life in a jungle unspoiled by human civilization. He decided to play the game along with her. "What about this transformation process? Doesn't that bother you? Weird creatures? Dangerous plant©life? Or maybe these too are rumors greatly exaggerated?" "We live with it," she stated matter of factly, as if that explained everything. "You guys use it, steal it, cause trouble, fight and kill, and it strikes back." "I should have known this was all our fault," he said, but apparently she didn't have a sense of humor, or else the irony was beyond her. "Tell me more," he said. "I'm curious. I know so little of this place. What's all this about then? Please, I'm serious. You're our only hope, Liberaciá¢án. We're at a loss, and we're counting on you to get us back on our feet. Give us a perspective again. Make the world make sense again. Liberaciá¢án? You reading me?" He looked her pleadingly in the eye, and after a pause she did release some information at last. They had arrived in Africa some years back and had settled here after some wandering. This was the rim of the Afflicted Area and the war had just gotten off the ground. It hadn't bothered them too much apparently. (Jim thought that perhaps they had been misinformed about the war's nature or its size all along. Maybe Frianelli had been right all the time after all.) They had found out you could live with the transforming jungle as long as you "went with the flow" as she put it. Jim wasn't too sure what that was supposed to mean. She told him what the bio©catalysts really were. They were mutations caused by radioactive contamination. Someone had dumped these toxic wastes in the jungle, and the effects of the radiation were spreading on and on at an ever©increasing pace. First Jim thought it was hogwash. A complete ecosphere radically transforming in a nearly unearthly way simply couldn't be a mere mutation. But then again the girl probably wasn't lying, he

realized. Maybe this was an explanation they had picked up somewhere along the line, a way of making sense out of all this chaos, an attempt to explain rationally what was going on around them. For all he knew there was an element of truth in this explanation. And the war then? Well, admittedly, they ran into it every now and then but didn't suffer much from it. They were innocent passersby, no more than that. Most of the heavy fighting occurred either around Monrovia Base in the heart of the jungle or around the Bases scattered all over the Afflicted Area, many along its rim. As long as you didn't take part, she claimed, you could virtually ignore the war. This didn't sound too convincing to Jim, although he had to admit that the village was very much there and that these people appeared to live here in relative peace as far as he was able to tell. He had to accept what she was telling him until he had proof of the opposite. "So what about us?" he asked her finally. "Wat do we do now? There's only a handful of us left. Any suggestions?" "You can live here," she said. "Forget the war. Stop fighting. Accept all this as it is." She made a broad sweeping gesture encompassing the entire jungle. "Impossible," he said. "We're here on a mission. We're trained soldiers. We'll never give up. We'll carry on no matter what happens." "You will die," she stated as if it were an established fact. "Our best bet," he continued, "is that we try to make it to Monrovia Base. That's our only hope to get out of here and pick up the thread where we left it. Our only chance to complete our mission." She shook her head, and more locks came dangling down, now obscuring half of her face. She finally ran her hand through her hair, moving it roughly back into shape. She scrutinized him, her eyes once again penetrating deep into his soul, and she smiled that wry smile again, only this time he had the distinct feeling it was more natural, an expression of human warmth and empathy. "You will die," she repeated, then added, "Unless..." "Unless what?" "Unless I go with you." The smile intensified, and inside him the warmth kept spreading.

Ã*)Ã11 "Basically you've done a good job," Cynthia said to the handful of assistants clustered around the table, watching her intently. They had written a number of scenes, the opening segments of her story, following her specifications. This was a luxury she had never been granted : not having to do all the writing herself. She would do the crucial parts, of course, but having a crew of assistants allowed her to work as efficiently as possible. She had total control over them. She had plugged into the scenes they had done so far, and was reasonably pleased. "Still, a number of details bother me," she continued. "I'm not too glad with the colors. Especially in the opening segments these should flash and sparkle, blind and dazzle the eye. The customer's mind is supposed to be boggled. I'd like you to speed up the pace a bit too. This isn't some romantic drooling part, it's supposed to grab the attention and run off at breakneck

speed. So get to work and hand me your disks as soon as you're finished." The conference was over and the assistants nodded and headed back to work. As they left someone else entered, and it took her a few seconds to recognize him. "Good to see you," the man said. "I'm back, as you've clearly noticed. Do you remember me? Need I introduce myself? Well, that can only mean I got my money's worth." He chuckled smugly. "There's no need to introduce yourself, mister Gene Kirzowski. Anyway, your voice hasn't changed. It would have given away your true identity no matter what. So what do I say now, something like 'Good to have you back with us?'" "Never mind. How do you like my new features? As I was convalescing in the hospital, I was told I could have my face surgically rearranged for a modest sum. Couldn't say no to that. It's one of the reasons why I choose to run physical risks every now and then. It's become a hobby. I get everything shaped up again and change a few bits as I go. To be honest, most of these improvements are on the inside of me, and you won't get to see those. Unless you get to know me real intimate, ha! Well, what do you say?" "You still look better than Jordan Haggles." "Thanks for the compliment. But I wouldn't say that too loud or too often in here. He's highly respected by a lot of folks around here. To some he's become an icon, the incarnation of newªlife. But let's c hange the subject. I've been told you've had problems?" "That's right. You came back." "Seriously, your place has been broken into? Lots of stuff taken away or destroyed? Listen, I can help. I've been thinking and I came up with some ideas. One possibility is that you move in with me. And don't you for a second think that I'm not taking this seriously. I know you weren't too keen on that idea, but I urge you to reconsider." "Next possibility, please." "Well, what about this setup : the guys who stole your stuff are out to sell it to the highest bidder, right? So you better be that highest bidder. Buy back your stuff, and at the same time you find out who the thieves were. Don't worry about the money. It can be provided. Well?" "I have to admit it," she said after some quick thinking. "I might go along with that. Fill me on the details. In the meantime I need some stuff right away. Any bright ideas on that score?" "I'm willing to extend a helping hand," he said in mockªgrandiloquence. "After wo rk I'll go with you to this nearby shopping mall. That should do the job. As for payment, I think Eyescape Inc. will agree to cover some of it. I'll cough up the rest. That a deal?" After the day's work was put behind them, they went on a shopping spree in a nearby shopping mall, a giant multi©layered structure that ran several stories both up and down ground level. Overwhelming and awe©inspiring as it was, it left a bitter tang in Cynthia's mouth because of its stark contrast with Nowhere City's poorly stocked ramshackle stores, not to mention the countless vendors, as haggard as they were greedy, who roamed the corners and market squares peddling their wares. Lots of stuff was being rationed, and more low©quality bootleg merchandise was changing hands in Nowhere City. There was no sign of all this here. This was the throbbing heart of new©lifers' welfare

society, consumerism at its paroxysm, opulence at its most glittering. People swarmed in and out of the many halls and corridors and gangways, giving the mall the look of a human anthill. Scattered among the multitude of large chain©stores and smaller shops and boutiques were a surprising number of VRT arcades, chockful of people happily plugged in and tripping out of their minds. Any possible doubts lingering in Cynthia's mind as to the popularity of her line of work in the rich City Center were now definitely dispelled. All the VRT rigs in these arcades were credit card operated. Free, "commercial" VRTs were only to be found in the larger shops, installed for waiting customers or parents whose children were busy bying or browsing (or vice versa, as some VRT producers catered to children). This had to be sheer heaven for the growing numbers of VRT junkies, plugged in for as long as their credit cards would allow. As they had purchased some clothes and some other personal items, they became aware of a commotion just outside a nearby exit. People flocked towards the scene of the action, and they allowed themselves to be carried with the flow. It turned out that another missile had been launched from Nowhere City's rim area and had exploded in a street packed with shoppers and people going home from work. A number had been more or less seriously injured. Most of the attention, however, was drawn to two victims who had borne the full brunt of the onslaught. They were sprawled on top of each other, bleeding from deep wounds and probably doomed. They thrashed and flailed furiously about, wriggled and squirmed in a sequence of violent convulsions. To Cynthia's surprise one of them, the fat man underneath, appeared to be actually absorbing the maimed nearªcorpse that had been thrown upon him by the concussion. It was as though these two people were actually two halves of one creature which had been separated by accident and were now trying to reassemble themselves. The man on top, a lifeless hulk despite his twitchings and shuddering about, appeared to be sucked into the larger man's frame, flesh and tissue and bones and blood merging, losing shape, vaguely assuming another ill©conceived unhuman shape, then something went wrong and the quavering mass trembled and shook, blood and other less definable liquid spilling out in increasing quantities until at last all life seemed to flee from the twin©bodied creature and the whole structure sagged and started to fall apart. There was no longer any trace of its human origins. Only a clump of organic waste was left as a reminder of the two humans who had fallen prey to the bomb. "I think I understand what happened here," Gene said, gently putting his hand on her shoulder as they turned away and walked off. "One of these guys, the fat one underneath I suppose, must have had some bio©surgery applied to him. I gather he'd had installed some intensive healing and regenerative faculties which got hit by the bomb and were no longer functioning properly. So this one guy's altered metabolism failed to interpret what had happened correctly. It failed to distinguish between the two people involved. It thought there was only one person who had to be put together again, and when it noticed that in doing so it didn't end up with anything resembling the template it had been programmed with it fucked up altogether and broke down." "Resulting in both of them dying?" "Exactly." "This new technology of yours is really wonderful, Gene. Was

that an Eyescape Inc. commercial we witnessed just now?" "You're very funny, Cynthia. How could we take into account the effects of a physical attack like this? Seriously, can't you see the benefits? If the other guy hadn't been thrown onto the new©lifer he would have stood a decent chance of survival. His enhanced healing faculties would have done the job. How could they have foreseen the effects in the case of another injured person smeared all over the first victim?" "They couldn't foresee that. Still I think this whole business sucks." "You're prejudiced. You're unwilling to accept the merits of state of the art bio©technology." "And you're unwilling to see the reasons behind these attacks that caused the deaths in the first place." "This argument is getting us nowhere, Cynthia." "Because you're refusing to listen to me." "You're getting carried away by your preconceptions. Your background muddles your perception, you're biased and simply unwilling to even©©" "Aw, come on, Gene." After that they exchanged few words. She said she would do the rest of her shopping some other time. She wanted to go home and think. She wanted to leave the City Center behind for now and retreat to the haven that Nowhere City's rim was, despite its unpleasant side. After all it was home; imperfect, dangerous and rundown, but very much home. On one hand she had hoped to leave it behind ; on the other hand she now doubted if she could bring herself to make that move. The City Center no longer seemed to be that much©vaunted better world. Later that night, her few new belongings stacked safely away, she watched the news on TV. The war was still going strong, the reporters claimed, but no details were given, and she had the distinct feeling once again that the footage that was shown wasn't new. It looked like recombined footage of earlier news broadcasts. The information given was the flimsiest and least revealing stuff they could get away with. They weren't ready to admit it yet, but the war was definitely not going according to plan, that much was clear. There was so much she would like to find out. What was really going on in the Afflicted Area? Why were soldiers transported over here without anybody explaining or even paying attention? What were the bio©catalysts? Had anybody ever given any solid answers to these questions? Weren't they supposed to get these answers? Weren't they perhaps even supposed to ask these questions? A host of other questions of a more personal nature had surfaced in her conscience. Would it be a wise thing to relocate to the City Center, accepting financial help from Gene or other Eyescape Inc. personnel? How would she go about working for them without losing her true identity? At least Gene had offered one sensible suggestion she was inclined to accept. Bying back her stolen property was an interesting idea with promising ramifications. It might get her in touch with some of Nowhere City's less appetizing denizens. But then again these might turn out to have helpful relations or capabilities. She could definitely sense possibilities there. Perhaps a deal could be struck. She would have to go about this matter very carefully and get as much out of it as she could. Once again her mind was flooded with thoughts.

12 Jim felt Frianelli's hand on his shoulder and heard a faint hiss. They all ducked and took cover. "Recognize those uniforms?" Frianelli whispered into his ear. "I sure do. But does that mean they're on our side?" "Not necessarily. Whatever our side may be, for that matter." He slapped Jim on the shoulder. There were only four of them left now. Carvalho and MacLyle had decided to stay in the village. They were exhausted, both physically and morally, and were simply unable to continue much further. VanderMeer, however, was still with them. His condition, physical or mental or otherwise, was a total mystery to them. They didn't even know whether he was an asset or a liability. There wasn't the merest shred of contact with him. Yet now he had taken cover along with them. Did that mean he could still evaluate a situation and act accordingly? Or had he unthinkingly followed their example? There seemed to be no way to find out. The fourth person of their group was Liberaciá¢án. She was also a mystery, but of a totally different kind. At least they would still have a chance to find out more about her as they continued their trek through the forest. Right now more pressing matters were at hand. They had run into what appeared to be a guerrilla force, a slapdash army consisting of fighters of various kinds. What had surprised them was that some elements of this motley crew sported War Force uniforms. Perhaps these were simply stolen uniforms. Or maybe these guys were renegade War Force types. They all acted very casually. Either this was no combat mission, or if it was they lacked a proper authority figure. But then, Jim thought, what else could be expected of a bunch of ragtag guerrilleros? How could Frianelli for a moment believe these men were on their side? Probably he was trying to tell him©© His train of thought was interrupted as VanderMeer rose from behind them and lumbered in the direction of the soldiers who stopped dead in their tracks, staring at this unholy sight. VanderMeer was windmilling his arms about, the vines and tendrils and fluffs of vegetation he was covered with waving and flapping merrily along. He uttered a string of totally unhuman sounds, fell down to his knees and planted his palms firmly on the ground, remaining motionless in this position as the onlookers exchanged glances and decided he was just another harmless spawn of the transforming forest. Some of the soldiers however had cast inquiring glances in the direction VanderMeer had come from, and soon the three of them were detected and rounded up. Their guns and ammo and food supplies, or what was left of it, were taken. One moment Jim thought that they would be taken captive or even get killed. After all this was a war zone, and they were regular army troopers. He was ready to face whatever was in store for them as the leaders of the gang walked up to him and Frianelli. Liberaciá¢án hadn't been bothered. She had exchanged some words with the men in a language he was unfamiliar with (Spanish? It hadn't quite sounded like Spanish) and they had ignored her from then on. Jim hoped she would put in a good word for Carlo Frianelli and himself. "Who are you?" one of the men said, addressing them both. A

tanned face, proud smile, probing eyes, casual stance, hands planted firmly on hips. As Jim was pondering what the safest answer would be in view of the circumstances, Frianelli said sneeringly: "We were about to ask you the same question." The man studied Frianelli through narrowed eyes, then his smug smile grew wider and he said, "Hey, I like you. You got character. Maybe we shouldn't kill you." "I tend to agree with you there." Jim groaned; the man chuckled. Why was Frianelli doing this? Had he gone out of his mind? Or was this some devious plan to get them out of this predicament? "Tell you what," the man said, "there'd be no point in killing you two. You don't matter anyway. Why bother?" "I'll take that as a compliment," Frianelli replied. So that's it, Jim thought. We're of no importance in the overall scheme of things. Whether we get killed here or are allowed to roam about this forest, unarmed and without supplies, for a little while longer won't change the course of history. These guys aren't enemies, nor are they friends. They're simply ignoring us, which, let's be honest about this, is more than we could have asked for. "We'll let you go," the man said. "You and your guide. And, of course, your friend." He nodded in the direction of VanderMeer who had risen to his feet again and was taking in the scene. "He's the only one of you guys who's in tune with the forest," the man laughed. "Maybe you should follow his example. I know what you are. You're War Force guys who fucked up and now drift aimlessly around. Maybe you'll see the light, one day, and switch sides. Joining us is your only hope. But we won't ask you to. You'll have to decide for yourselves. Or let the forest make the decision for you, like it did for your friend." VanderMeer slowly turned around his head, as if he had overheard the conversation and was keen to find out what was being said about him. His face was totally expressionless, his features barely noticeable under the dirt and grime. "Alright, time to leave now. But first, we'd like to have some fun. We don't have this opportunity nearly enough. Boys!" He turned around, gave a signal to his men who got ready to have some fun. One second Jim thought they were going to get killed after all, but the guerrilleros limited themselves to some cheerful pushing about, kicking and stomping and fist swinging, taking everything they had on their bodies that might be of some use, and finally left them dazed and bruised but not seriously injured on the ground. They got up again, faced each other, then looked up as they saw Liberaciá¢án coming back to them, an enigmatic smile on her face. "You were lucky," she said. "They gave you a chance. Don't throw it away. You'll never get a second one." "Thanks for the advice," Jim mumbled. "Any other suggestions?" "Why don't you simply continue on your way? Aren't you guys soldiers, out on a combat mission, unstoppable as long as you haven't reached your goal?" "I guess we are," Jim said, sighing. "I guess we were," Frianelli countered. VanderMeer said nothing, but stumbled in their direction, barely able to keep himself from toppling over. "Thanks for your help," Jim said to him. "What would we do without you?"

"I'll give you a complete list of those activities," Frianelli said. "Are we going now? Hanging around won't lead us anywhere. Any suggestions?" They locked eyes, and before either of them could say anything Liberaciá¢án took over. "Follow me," she said, turned around and went off. They followed her, as requested. It soon became clear to them, as they wound their way through the vegetation, that they were following the group that they had just run into. Jim asked Liberaciá¢án a few times why they were heading in the same direction, but she simply urged them to follow her. After some time they reached a clearing, and the girl halted, indicated a gigantic organic cluster at their left side. Again she wore this enigmatic smile of hers. Jim found it quite irritating. Why couldn't she simply explain things if there was anything they needed to know? At first sight it had appeared to be a giant blob of intertwined foliage, stems, flowers, tendrils and vines, covered with a sticky liquid that shone dully in the sunlight piercing through the leaves overhead. As they peered closer they saw it wasn't strictly composed of plant lifeforms. Embedded in the mucky structure were a variety of small animals, rodents and snakes and the helicopter©like butterflies they had already seen, and also humans. This didn't come as a total surprise after everything they had encountered so far, but still it had a sickening effect on them. Jim turned away in horror, and Frianelli was clearly fighting down an urge to vomit. Some of the corpses were in the middle and could barely be seen. Others had body parts close to the surface. Had these people been caught by this thing? Had they been trapped and were they incorporated into it? Were they perhaps digested, did they serve as food for this thing? Were they helpless victims or willing participants? Was this a terrible accident or an experiment of various creatures trying to live together in harmony? For that matter, were these people dead or were they continuing their lives in a radically different fashion? He had seen enough already to know that jumping to conclusions was often wrong here. "Look!" Frianelli said, voice quavering. Jim looked at the indicated spot and noticed what had drawn Carlo's attention. The structure was moving, at first nearly imperceptably, but then the quivering and shuddering became increasingly noticeable. "What the hell is this supposed to be?" Frianelli asked. "Dunno," Jim said, "but I have this feeling this thing is alive. This whole cluster. I think none of these guys inside are dead. See those twitchings?" Frianelli nodded, stepped back, as though afraid the blob was about to burst apart into his face. "They're still alive in there," he mumbled. "All the damn animals, the plants. And those poor devils too, I guess. Aw shit, Jim, look at that. See those arms? And those eyes! Look at their goddamn eyes!" He turned away in disgust. Frianelli was right. The shaking and twitching movements were no longer random. It looked as if the hands visible within the clump of organic material were groping for them, reaching out, eager to touch them. Or perhaps, Jim thought, chilled at the very idea, trying to draw us into the structure as well. We're considered to be interesting additions to this multi©species conglomerate, eager to expand as it is. He too stepped back now. Was it his imagination or were the faces embedded in the

structure watching them? The eyes couldn't be seen too clearly; there was no way to be sure. Jim didn't know if he wanted to be sure. From behind him a grumbling and a muffled roar resounded. He looked over his shoulder and saw it was VanderMeer who was clumsily making his way toward him. Jim retreated further, only to find out that VanderMeer wasn't out to get him. He was heading straight for the blob. "Aw shit, Jim," he heard Frianelli say, "he's going to take a plunge. He's joining the crew, can't you see? A full member of the club. Why don't we get out of here, Jim, before they extend the offer to us? Let's turn down the special bonus rate now applying and get our asses©©" "Shut up," Jim said. "Look. I don't think there's any real danger involved here for any of us." They both watched with rising revulsion as VanderMeer flung himself headfirst into the organism, sank halfway in and remained stuck that way. Only his legs and his lower body were still outside. The blob shuddered and shook violently, made random movements and emitted vague blurping and squishing sounds. After a few minutes silence returned, only small stirrings made the surface of the multiple creature ripple gently. To their amazement VanderMeer started working his way out again, wriggling and kicking wildly. "They refused him," Frianelli said. "Or he changed his mind, or what's left of it. Maybe he can't afford the entrance fee, or he didn't meet the required standards. Maybe©©" "Cut the crap Carlo or I'll throw you in and tell them to keep you no matter what." The man cast him a vicious glance but kept his mouth mercifully shut. VanderMeer finally emerged fully from the organism. The part of his body that had been submerged in it was now covered with a thick layer of yellowish slime, various bits and pieces of the blob still embedded into it. He looked more nightmarish than ever. "This guy walked straight out of a low©budget horror flick," Frianelli mumbled to himself, at once fascinated and disgusted by the appearance of his former buddy. For a moment the three of them stood motionless. Liberaciá¢án's voice finally broke the spell. "Your friend has been unkind to the forest. Like the people inside the thing. For them it's too late. At least your friend is learning. There's still hope for him. I wish I could say the same for you, but I'm not sure. Let's go." She started off, and they followed her, unthinkingly. VanderMeer too joined in. Jim asked himself what could be happening within VanderMeer's mind. How would the man evolve? Had they witnessed only the beginning of a transformation process that would ultimately culminate into something totally alien to them? Would VanderMeer deteriorate even further, would he gradually lose everything that made him human? Would he become unrecognizable in the end, another addition to the ever©growing collection of new creatures the forest was turning out? A former human, having lost all links with his origins? Despite these soul©shaking encounters and his encroaching doubts about this whole operation (how was it officially referred to? To his utter amazement he appeared to have forgotten its code name.) Jim tried to work up some enthusiasm for their trek to the center of the Afflicted Area. He knew damn well they needed a firm goal or they would be driven out of their minds. There was a mission to be accomplished : that's what they had to keep in mind

constantly, if only to preserve their sanity. Or, for that matter, their lives. That was the main reason why he desperately tried to shut out all the doubts and questions that had started to plague him. Grim but determined he continued on his way. As they grew hungry and thirsty Liberaciá¢án pointed out to them what to look out for and what to ignore. Rather than simply supplying them with what they needed she taught them to check out the items themselves. Jim was pleased. He admired her way of thinking. This was the correct way to acquire survival skills. This girl was more than just a simple guide. She might well be their ticket to a future that seemed to be turning bright in comparison with the dark thoughts he had been harboring until quite recently. So they might stand a decent chance after all. She told them to look for dense clumps of thick gray©tinged rhombus©shaped leaves, squatted close to the ground in big clusters, surrounded by a short, rigid, grass©like stubble. Underneath they ought to find pinkish blob©like fruits in various stages of development. They were supposed to pick the biggest ones ; doing otherwise might disturb the whole breeding and growing process. She showed them how to tear off lumps of the fruits, which consisted of meaty substance and contained a high degree of moisture. It was rather tasteless stuff, but in sufficient quantities provided them with enough food and water to survive. The stuff was quite nutritious, had no undesirable sideªeffects and was r elatively easy to find. The only problem was monotony. She assured them there were other edible things to be found in the forest, but there was no way to teach them everything at once. Trying to find out on their own, using the trial©and©error method, could not be recommended. Error was more likely than success and could lead to instant death, or could turn them slowly into something like VanderMeer or worse. Some of the stuff in the forest was pretty weird or even lethal. The mentioning of VanderMeer drew their attention to his eating habits. They caught him trying out a variety of things, some looking quite unedible to them. It didn't seem to have any serious effects on him © as far as they could tell, his condition being already pretty weird to start with. Still he kept following them on their trek to Monrovia Base. They had no idea what he would do once they got there.

Ã*)Ã13 This had to be the place. Cynthia cast furtive glances all around her. Then she sat back and checked. At her left, from this vantage point, she saw a blindingly white marble sculpture, representing a huge, coiled snake topped with a shaggy lion's head. At her right, a glass statue of a voluptuous naked woman sporting eight rows of breasts. Right in front of her she saw a portico, a scaled down version of an ancient temple, its pillars replaced by replicas of twentieth century guitar legend Jimi Hendrix, ecstatically smiling as he struck a chord on his stratocaster. And, as indicated, she appeared to be standing with her back to a blank wall. Most of the elements of her surroundings were no doubt holograms, which all things considered was not such a bad thing. Now all she could do was wait. Probably the guys she was to meet at this designated place were watching her from a safe place, invisible from her position, waiting a

short time in order to find out if they could approach her in all safety. Of course that turned out to be the case. Anything even in the slightest suspicious could jeopardize the whole agreement. She didn't have to wait long, though. With a flicker the portico in front of her disappeared, and so did the sculptures at both her sides. So they had been holos alright, which were now switched off, revealing the four people who had been hiding behind the line of Hendrixes. Four typical slum dwellers cautiously made their way toward her, proud and streetwise looks on their faces. She greeted them casually, locked eyes with the short guy up front who had to be the leader of the gang. She quickly scanned him: malicious smile on a grubby face, slim but lean frame, tattered but gaudy clothes. And the three others: a broad©shouldered hunk towering over his cohorts, bland expression, clearly more brawl than brains, dressed in black; a short blonde girl, bare©breasted so as to proudly display the tattoos her upper torso and arms were covered with, especially the barbed wire her breasts were adorned with, tight leather pants and bright red boots; finally a dark©skinned girl, jet black hair hanging down to her waist, eyes scanning her with a fiercely penetrating stare, the brains of this group if there were any. "My name's Riff," the short guy said, smiling and thereby revealing a set of uneven, yellowish teeth. Pointing at the tall one, he continued, "This is Marshall Stack. We gave him that name cause he's so tall and broad and always makes such a hell of a noise." He sniggered, slapping his hand on his thighs, then introduced the two girls. "This is Axe," nodding at the tattooed one, "and this is our leading hacker lady Sick Joke." "Glad to meet you. My name's Cynthia. I hope we can strike a deal here." "That's why we came here. Follow me inside." She followed Riff into the building they had been standing in front of, which had to be his headquarters. The blank wall must have disappeared along with the other holos. The three others got in behind her. The interior looked quite luxurious, but then probably most of what she saw were holos too. Most of them were quite artsy, like the naked (again!) woman graciously floating in the air, wantonly stretching her arms and intermittently spreading her legs. There was a desk with a computer terminal © not something she expected Riff to have, but as he appeared to have hacker friends the equipment could be real. She'd rather not know how the place looked without all the holographic furniture. "Sit down," Riff invited her, indicating a comfy shapeªadapting swivel chair. As she lowered herself into it she felt there was but a rickety wooden contraption underneath the holo camouflage, and nearly slid off it. Big smiles appeared, accompanied by chuckles. She had only herself to blame for her clumsiness. She should have known what to expect. "Right," she said firmly, "let's get down to brass tacks. I'm not sure if you people know anything about me©©" "Oops!" Riff exclaimed. "Your first blooper. I was waiting for that one." "We have ways," the hacker girl said. Of course, she thought. If this hacker girl was worth anything (and if she wasn't she wouldn't have survived out here) they would have had access to various databases, maybe even Eyescape Inc.'s personnel database. They could lay hands on any information they needed, the hacker girl's expertise and equipment permitting. They were all sniggering and sneering now. Marshall Stack had positioned

himself behind the floating holo woman, and shoved his head through her back so that his eyes and nose and twirling tongue jutted out right above her vagina. He seemed to be enjoying this a whole lot. None of the others took notice of it. They probably were used to worse. "Right," Riff finally said, "let's really get down to brass tacks then. We took your stuff. You want it back. Of course there's a price to pay. What do you offer?" "A deal. A partnership. I think there's a lot at stake here for both you and me. There's a number of things I'd like to do for which I need help. And I think I'm in a position that could be interesting to you." A frown creased Riff's forehead. He exchanged a quick glance with Sick Joke. So she had been right: he was the leader, she the brains. The other two were mere backdrops. Marshall Stack might come in handy in case they had to put up a fight. What purpose Axe could possibly serve was less clear. "Maybe you're right," Riff said. "You had anything in mind? Tell me. I think we got something cooking here." She briefly sketched her plan, her background, her job at Eyescape Inc., the questions that had arisen concerning the war and the soldiers in the hospital, her ideas about the bioªtechnology business and the new©lifers' way of going about things. Riff was silent for a while, then he again exchanged a quick glance with Sick Joke. "Listen," he said. "Joke is gonna do some research. In the meantime I'll show you something." As the girl got down to work at her computer, Riff led the way through a wall she had supposed was real, and she followed him into a section of the room that turned out to be Riff's gang's treasure trove. He was beaming with pride as he explained what was kept here. "Wonderslime," he said. "It's sure to be the next big thing. And we'll make sure we'll ride the crest of the wave. We're right on top, we must have gotten it first. Well, what do you say?" She stared in disbelief at the newest source of income Riff was preparing : vaguely human©looking clumps of organic tissue, covered in shredded clothing and weird moss©like fluffy bits and other less easily definable growths. They appeared to be faintly fluorescent. "What the hell is this supposed to be?" she asked. "And what did you call it? Wonderslime?" Riff chuckled uncontrollably. "Each product's gotta have a brand name on the market," he explained smugly. "We managed to lay our hands on these©©" "These what?" she interrupted him. All at once she had a chilling sense of foreboding. She eyed the short man intently, demanding a satisfying reply. He licked his lips, said: "A chopper crashed some time ago. Lots of stuff were retrieved. People have used the engines and the board computer and the whole mechanical framework to manufacture all sorts of missiles and weaponry and funny gizmos. You must have seen some of them come down at the other side. The chopper also carried some wounded soldiers, fresh from the war zone. They were dead or dying. We took 'em. Here they are. They're not really dead, but they're not really alive either. You figure out what they are. It's the fluffy shining ooze around them that interests us. Turns out we can get work done on it. Grow it. Shape it. Make it fit our needs. That's what Axe and Jigsaw are doing these days. You'll get to meet Jigsaw soon. So now you know. Lady, you look

flabbergasted." "That's because I am. Hey, Riff, listen: I need to think." "We also need to talk some more. Isn't there a deal to strike? Wasn't that what you were after?" "I was. And still am. And more so than ever before. By all means count me in. But I have to do some serious thinking. I have this feeling we're onto something big here. Something of gigantic proportions." "Go ahead and think," Riff said. "We'll let Joke do some more checking and we'll let you know if she comes up with something. And we'll give you back your stuff in return for, ah, certain favors. We'll talk about that. Well? You ready to go and think?" It didn't really come as a surprise they wanted more than just some money. Money wasn't exactly despised in Nowhere City, but as the recession grew worse and living conditions harsher, it became increasingly fashionable for people to sell their stuff in trade for other goods or services. They tended to view this barter system as more direct and more certain than regular money which rapidly lost its value and was at times hard to buy something with. No doubt Riff would appreciate her "services" more than her money. She was allowed to go back, partially satisfied because these people had been willing to form a partnership with her and return her property, partially worried and even intrigued by the tantalizing bits of information she had garnered. She had the distinct feeling there were some major discoveries waiting just around the corner. She couldn't wait to get there. Lather that day, at her I©Site office, she continued work on her VRT, going over her assistants' work, suggesting rewrites and correcting details, doing some major program writing of her own and editing some finished parts. At the end of her work session Gene dropped by, eager to get some news out of her. She still had trouble accepting his new looks. His face didn't seem to belong to him, it was a mask that had come to life and had surreptitiously replaced the original face. Even his voice sounded slightly different. "Did it work out alright this morning?" "I was lucky," she said. "Those bastards were willing to sell me back everything. Money©wise it was okay. Thanks for helping me on that score." She was happy with that part. Gene had offered her to pick up the bill of the operation, and as Riff and his cohorts hadn't insisted on too much money she rejoiced at the idea of keeping some of it for herself. It might come in handy one day. Anyhow it was nice to see Gene parting with some money just for her sake. If only he knew! Yet she felt grateful. After all Gene had been instrumental in making all this possible. She didn't know how he had gone about it, whose services he'd had to buy and at what price, but, more importantly, he'd managed to get the job done, and done very well at that. Somehow he had found out who was responsible for the break©in, and he had gotten in touch with the gang. A meeting had been arranged. To Cynthia's surprise, the bastards only wanted to talk to her directly. That was fine with her : it would allow her to have complete control over whatever happened. "I'm glad you'll have your stuff back," he said, smiling contently. "The going is getting tough out there, isn't it? The news mentioned some more social unrest. And there have been some missiles again over here. Nothing serious, though. They're embarrassing, but cause no serious trouble. They don't disturb

our daily lives. One newscaster spoke of "minor social upheavals causing but faint ripples in society". Still, there's some talk of security measures being heightened. But don't let that interfere with your work. Ultimately that's what matters most." She agreed with him on that score : she wouldn't allow whatever happened to interfere with what she was trying to do here. Gene probably didn't realize the two of them had quite different things in mind when it came to defining the job that she was supposed to be doing. Later that night, she switched on her old TV set, so obsolete and on the verge of breakdown that Riff's boys hadn't even bothered to take it with them. The last few days she had been watching the news with increasing interest. The war reports were limited to the usual vague bits and pieces of "our boys desperately trying to cope with serious difficulties in obliterating the enemy, a task they would eventually accomplish against all the odds." The newscaster added that viewers could count on them for "further progress reports as major events unfolded in the war zone and the combined enemy forces were pushed further towards total oblivion." Meaning, she thought grimly, either that there was little to say, or nothing they were allowed to know. The next item on their list made her sit up and take notice. "Growing social unrest is creating an atmosphere of insecurity in the heart of some major urban centers," the newscaster proclaimed. His face was replaced by images of a recent missile attack launched by "poorly organized yet dangerous terrorist groups in the slums area." A rapid succession of fleeting glimpses of a dense crowd dispersed by a sudden missile attack, people hurrying off in all directions, trampling victims underfoot, fleeing at random. There were short closeups of injured people sprawled on the pavement, faces contorted in agony, then the camera cut to a wide©angle view of the scene of the assault, and in all too short a moment she noticed some greenish glimmering spots among the debris. The images were again replaced by the neswcaster, who briefly summarized worsening living conditions in the slums area. Food was being rationed, and food riots were becoming more and more frequent; crime was rampant; law and order were concepts of days gone by; the black market (in food and anything that could be sold or swapped) was thriving to an unprecedented degree; social unrest was taking on unsettling proportions. Cynthia scarcely listened. Her thoughts were off and running in a totally different direction. All at once a chilling realization had dawned on her: Riff hadn't taken the dying soldiers just for the hell of it. They weren't supposed to embellish his living quarters. His type only took what could be sold. So what was Riff selling? Hadn't he said his buddies were growing and shaping things? Could there be any relation to the greenish stuff she had just seen and Riff's new line of business, his "wonderslime" as he so elegantly labeled it? This opened up whole new vistas of speculation. What was this stuff, what would it do, how would it influence the current course of events? Who was Riff selling it to and what was these people's purpose? What did his buddies' work on the stuff amount to? And how did all this tie into the whole situation, the War, the bio©technology business and the social climate that was developing, the dichotomy between the pauperized slums and the city centers and their sybaritic new©lifers? There was a lot to find out. She felt her job, her real job had only just begun.

Ã*)Ã14 "Oh no, not again," Frianelli moaned. "Not another bunch of weirdos out to strip us of what we've left and eager to tell us their version of the absolute truth." "Come on, admit it. You relish these encounters. Actually you were looking forward to this." "You're very funny, Jim. You'll end up a hopeless cynic like me. Keep that in mind." "A fate worse than death. I'll agree with you on that score. Listen." Liberaciá¢án was conferring in a language he couldn't understand with some of the guys they had just run into. They had to be some paramilitary group, as they wore uniform©like clothing and carried old but efficient©looking weapons. They had eyed them with interest, mild suspicion, had sneered at VanderMeer and welcomed the girl. This seemed to be becoming a pattern. "They have an offer," Liberaciá¢án said after the discussion was over. "You were lucky. You're no longer wearing your uniforms, and nothing else indicates that you're on the other side. They mistook you for possible allies." "So? We're invited to a party?" Frianelli sounded as if he meant it. "In a sense. They said they could use a few men." "They can have VanderMeer." "I suggest you take this offer seriously. It'll be safer, and easier too. It's better to continue your journey as part of a group. They're going in the same direction, roughly speaking." "But," Jim said, "they're on the other side. We can't simply throw in our lot with these guys. Aren't they the ones we're supposed to be fighting?" "They are from your viewpoint. But one of the reasons I'm here guiding you is to make sure you change your mind. You'll have to join the other side one day anyhow, so©©" "Forget it." "©©why not do so right away?" "I said forget it." "You're a stubborn man, Jim. When will you open your eyes? When will you understand? When will you admit you're on the wrong side of the fence?" She shook her head, strings of black hair falling down to obscure her forehead and eyes. Frianelli found it necessary to add his comment. "Admit it, Jim. You're prejudiced. You came here©©" "Prejudiced?!" "©©with a frame of mind and outlook that were handed to you by the authorities back home and you've never for a minute even considered to look at them in an objective way, let alone a critical way. You just swallowed it all, took everything at face value, accepted it as the absolute truth. Doubt was furthest from your mind. And even now you're refusing to even listen to this girl. Maybe what she's saying is right, maybe it's not, but you're not even willing to find out. Aw, come on, Jim, you could at least give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you're right after all, but what's wrong with checking it out?" Jim sighed, trying in vain to read Liberaciá¢án's expression through the curtain of hair dangling in front of her face, shifting his gaze to Frianelli's vivid eyes instead.

"Well," he said, shrugging, "you've got a point there. Alright, I'll think about it. I really will." He couldn't believe he had said it. But then again what could he have said, considering the situation they were in? They decided to join the group. It would be safer, and would render their lives somewhat more comfortable. They would have more variety as far as food was concerned, and their sheer living conditions would improve. They could now sleep in a tent, spend their days in a way that was a few steps closer to what could be considered normal. The gang turned out to consist of Brazilian political extremists who had fled their country and were out to get their share in this, their new promised land, fighting another holy war, battling another sworn enemy. Jim cursed himself for lining up with them. As they continued their trek in the Brazilians' company, the vegetation around them appeared to become increasingly unified, giving the impression of being one giant multi©faceted organism rather than a harmonic ecosphere consisting of a multitude of species. Some of the creatures (or elements of the pan©organism) could be either plants or animals. Jim and his friend were particularly struck by anemone©like creatures sporting eyestalks that peered at them as they passed by, whereas others waved about tendrils ending in fingers eagerly groping for them. They avoided these carefully, but VanderMeer rushed at them as if he had spotted a long lost friend, grasped the tendrils with an enthusiasm approaching sheer ecstasy, apparently exchanging thoughts or feelings with these fellow forest dwellers. As they released each other VanderMeer stepped back, and appeared invigorated, flooded with energy and vitality. He locked eyes with the two of them for the first time in days, was clearly aware of their presence, but true contact still proved to be impossible. The gap between them was widening. Jim often wondered how VanderMeer would end up. Later, one evening Jim and Carlo Frianelli sat talking in the gloom of oncoming twilight. A campfire between them would have rendered the scene complete, only campfires weren't in fashion over here. Somewhat off in the distance, barely perceptible in the fading light, Liberaciá¢án was scurrying about, half©naked, a sex©starved soldier's dream come true. Frianelli suddenly shifted his gaze to Jim, broke the silence that had been building up between them. "Tell me, Jim. You've been sleeping with her for the last few days, you share a tent, you must know her better now. Is she still the mystery she used to be?" "More so than ever before. She's too good to be true. Words fail me to describe what I'm currently living. Hell, Carlo, if only you knew©©" "Knock it off, Jim. No use spelling it out for me. What did you say? Too good to be true? Who says she is?" A wide grin appeared on his face, baring his teeth, eerily visible in the twilight. "What the hell are you trying to say?" "Who says she's real, Jim? Maybe she's just a figment of your imagination. Maybe you're still inhaling some hallucinogenic spores. Remember those pink mushrooms? Who knows what we've got in our systems right now. How can we know we're back in reality? Admit it, Jim. She can't be real. Ignore her from now on. And leave her to me." Frianelli shook with laughter, nearly lost balance, slapped his thighs with uncontrollable glee. "No, seriously," Jim said, "I've been thinking along the

same lines. Earlier today we passed this grove, with heavy foliage at all sides, layer upon dense layer of it, and I had these brief glimpses of shapes appearing and dissolving within the vegetation, mostly genitals coupling or about to couple. I was thinking maybe my imagination had gone haywire. Maybe there were vague shapes and I was interpreting them, seeing in them what I wanted to see." "So this confirms my theory," Frianelli said, apparently serious. It was hard to tell apart seriousness and mockªseriousness in his case, t hough. "I've seen lots of faces among the leaves, staring at me, some with furious eyes, others like begging for mercy or pleading for help. Maybe we've seen the same things but interpreted them differently. You've been seeing genitals, of course, ever since you sleep with Liberaciá¢án. I have to stick to silly faces." "And no doubt they were making nasty remarks to you and getting on your nerves and©©" "Hell, Jim, you've changed! You've developed a sense of humor. This forest is really getting to you, buddy. You must by now be the most drastically transformed creature walking around here. Frankly, you scare me." Once again he erupted in wild ebullient laughter. As he calmed down again, he picked up his line of thought where he'd left it. "Seriously, Jim. I've been thinking. Consider this. You know, back home, that our training VRTs had been tampered with. Some of them were pretty warped. Fucked©up, over©the©top madcap weirdness. Some of what we're witnessing here reminds me of those things." "Meaning?" Was the man really serious this time around? "Suppose, just suppose, that we're stuck in one of those "infiltrated" VRTs? In reality we're still in training, we're exposed to this VRT some whacked©out hacker has been fooling around with and it's distorted our sense of time and everything and we can't even be sure if we're in it or not and if we'll ever be able to get back out of it again." "You mean©©" Jim's voice trailed off. Incredulous, he stared Frianelli in the eyes. Could the man possibly be serious? "Yeah! Yeah! None of this is real! It's all part of the program. This is a looped program and we're stuck in it. We'll never live to be unplugged. We're done with. Game over. No refund. We hit rock bottom." He shook his head as if in despair. "Maybe I'm not real myself. This hacker wrote me into the program, fed me to your imagination. In that case you made me up, Jim. I'm a product of your mind. You must be really sick to do this to yourself, you're really beyond help. Yet in a sense you must be relieved to hear that I don't exist." "Very true. I'm glad to hear some good news for a change. You can be quite comforting at times, Carlo." "Call me Giancarlo." Jim warily stared him into the eyes, feverishly glowing. Why did Carlo come up with all this gibberish? Whacky humor might be a fine way to relieve tension, but this guy didn't know where to draw the line. "You're out of your mind. Pull yourself together man. This despicable nonsense will lead us nowhere." "Right, Jim!" Frianelli had grabbed him by the arm, brought his face unpleasantly close to his, spoke in clipped words. "We're soldiers, remember? We'll have to fight our way out of this. We'll kick some serious ass. They can't keep us down. We'll show 'em. As far as we're concerned this war has only just begun."

"You're switching moods easily, buddy. Suddenly you feel part of the War Force again, all your doubts dispelled." "Not at all. You don't understand. We have to fight against what used to be our side. As the girl told you. I think she's right, Jim. I'm convinced." "I have this feeling you've been convinced right from the very start. You've had doubts ever since you joined the War Force. I still don't understand why you joined for that matter." "Sure, I had my doubts. I always had, about everything. So call me a cynic. Call me whatever you like. It doesn't change the fact that I have my convictions too, and right now I'm convinced we were on the wrong side and so we have to switch sides and pick up the fight. I'm positive, Jim." He let go of his arm. "And just a few minutes ago you weren't even sure if any of this was real. Now suddenly all is clear and you've made up your mind." He shook his head, rose to his feet. Time to get to the tent he shared with the girl. It was getting dark. The girl was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she had retired to the tent already. As he trudged back in the direction of their makeshift camp he thought about Frianelli. Was the man a mad prankster? Or their own homegrown philosopher? Or was he simply having fun? Whatever the case may be, night would bring rest and peace. At least they had achieved that much by joining this gang.

Ã*)Ã15 "Listen," Gene said, "I have important news for you. Jordan Haggles sent for me the other day. I had to meet him at Molinari's." "Of course. Where else?" "He's worried by what's recently been happening. He seems to think it might actually grow even worse and he feels our current security precautions are no longer sufficient. So we'll have higher security measures, and closely related to that, all executives will be more involved in these new policies. Somehow he feels Eyescape Inc. may become threatened or something. He says that any social disruption tends to be very bad for business." "Not to mention his appetite." "That means that we'll all have less time to deal with day to day business. So you'll have a lot more freedom as far as your work is concerned. We just won't have the time to supervise everything as planned. Haggles was hoping you'd have enough sense of responsibility to carry on with the job as if nothing had changed." "He can count on me." "He still intends to plug into your VRT as soon as the rough cut is finished, though. Don't think he's lost all interest. Anyway, I also have news of a more personal nature. Soon we'll be able to do something I've been looking forward to for quite some time now. You see, my wife is seriously considering a sex change for the standard six month tryout period. During that period I'm entitled to legally live together with another woman, provided I don't have a sex change myself. I can assure you I have no plans in that direction. So expect me to renew my offer to you real soon. And, need I repeat it, this is strictly legal." "I'll think about it," she said. And I'll turn it down, she added in thoughts. She had reached a point where staying in

Nowhere City's rim area had become absolutely vital to her plans. Relocating to the City Center, with Gene or elsewhere, would sever her links with Riff's gang, and she would be needing them. Right now she had to keep a foot firmly planted in both worlds if her plans were to have any chance at success. And those plans were unfolding fast. The news about decreasing control and supervision was more than welcome. It would make it easier to do all sorts of stuff on the side, use the I©Site's facilities for her own ambitions without anybody noticing. She continued the day's work with exceptional enthusiasm. Her assistants kept throwing astounded glances in her direction. They had never seen her this cheerful at work. She decided to have lunch with Alan Lundlow in the I©Site cafetaria, mainly to pry some more useful information out of him. They hadn't been in close contact for a few days and he seemed to welcome the occasion. "Hey, I have good news for you," he said in between bites of the synthetic but tasty food that was served here. "I'll have my eyes replaced. I really got bored with them." "You're not the only one." "I knew you were going to say that. I've been through this period where I really went for over the top garishness, but somehow I got tired of all that. So the eyes are definitely on their way out. I'll also have a number of other changes done. I'm considering a sex change. That seems to be getting real popular. And I'm thinking of some major internal revamping as well. I'll keep you posted. Anyway, how's your project coming along? I haven't been able to keep track of it these last few days as I'm working on a stunning array of projects right now and I'm having some trouble keeping on schedule." "It seems to be working out nicely. I have some really competent assistants here. There's no way I can take all the credit myself." "Still, it is your brainchild. They're just filling in the details, doing the dirty part of the job." "I've been told you guys would be getting even more work. Security precautions because of what's been happening on the street. Don't you think they're panicking? Is everything about to collapse at our feet?" She lowered her gaze to her plate, so Lundlow wouldn't see in her eyes she had more than casual interest in this matter. She spooned up some more food, eagerly awaiting his reply. "True enough," he said, swallowing another bite and washing it down with his favorite fake©wine. "Believe me, Haggles is very upset, not so much because a missile came down not too far from the I©Site, but because one nearly came down on Molinari's roof." "I see. I should've known his stomach was involved. If his food supply gets disturbed all hell will break loose." "There's a lot more to it than that, baby, believe me. Let me tell you, Haggles is mainly worried because of the nature of the things that are coming down. I'm not sure I can tell you this, although it's not strictly classified material©©" "Don't worry. I know what you're referring to. They've changed their approach, haven't they? They've added some spices to their brew?" They locked eyes now. She still loathed the hideous constructs that passed for his eyes. His hand, grasping the spoon, halted in mid©gesture. "I guess Gene told you," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, as if afraid of eavesdroppers. "You know, what upset

Haggles is not that a missile came down near Molinari's, but that as it exploded it blew a host of organic particles in all directions. These came down on walls, on the pavement, on vehicles passing by, also on people who happened to be around. There was no way to remove them. They quickly grew into moss©like patches, especially the ones that had landed upon life©forms, like trees or people. Trees or shrubs were quickly taken over by the rapidly growing stuff. Patches close to one another threw out tendrils and made contact, melding into a network. It's a highªspeed imperialist p arasite and it's hungry. We're not sure what it is, whether this is but the first of a new line of weapons coming from the slums and where this new trend will lead to." "How did they get their hands on this?" "We're not sure. Haggles told us bio©weapons are being manufactured in the Afflicted Area, bu so far only prototypes have been made. How did these slums types get them? Did they somehow, by pure luck, stumble onto the process to grow and shape them? Haggles appears to believe this. He says they may not know what they have and what we're seeing is just a load of random offshoots, not properly prepared and bound to wither away soon. There's little reason for panic at this stage, and most people carry on as if nothing happened. Still Haggles wants to play it safe. He knows all too well what's at stake here and isn't willing to take any chances. His main fear is that somehow these illegal users of military applications of bio©catalyst technology, as he officially refers to them, will cunningly acquire the knowledge and skills necessary to build an arsenal of these bio©weapons. He admitted that wasn't very likely, but, he said, you should never underestimate your enemy. He told us this looked like a harbinger of ominous things and he hoped he was dead wrong." "So that's why security will be reinforced? Just in case these things keep coming?" "Yep. And they're planning more direct actions in the slums area itself too. There's serious talk of a cleaning©up operation that is to descend down there and round up all the criminal elements and remove the cause of all this trouble at root level. There's also talk of posting more guards around the borderline. They're definitely determined to make a nice clean sweep." She knew there had to be a connection with Riff's "wonderslime" business. She would check that out tonight; she was supposed to meet him in a sleazy bar halfway between her apartment and his headquarters, a place called Mind's I. She had never heard about it. It probably didn't exist as such. She would find out soon enough. She spent the rest of the day working feverishly. She did the usual amount of editing her assistants' material, giving instructions and doing some writing herself. Some of the program writing was preliminary work for her own project, totally unrelated to the VRT ad she was supposed to exclusively concentrate her efforts on. She was reasonably sure, based on what she had just learned, that this unofficial work would go undetected. Later that night she set out to meet Riff. She followed the instructions she had been given, and arrived at Mind's I without running into trouble. That alone was reason for joy. The place was by no means a sleazy bar; it was merely dressed up like one, holo©wise. Mind's I turned out to be a damp bunker©like hideout, crammed full of an intricate set of holos giving the place the appearance of a shabby honky©tonk, down to the tiniest details.

There was a lot of blue smoke swirling lazily around, ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts were scattered all over the place, and a bartender rigorously going through a series of motions over and over again was the sole representative of the human race, holo division. Only two real people were present to greet her : Riff and the dark©haired hacker girl Sick Joke. "Welcome to Mind's I," Riff said, inviting her in with mockªgallantry. "Al low me to buy us the first round of drinks." He chuckled deeply, unmindful of the fact that he was the only one to appreciate the humor. The holo bartender ignored the order and stubbornly carried out his programmed activities. It must take a hell of a lot of energy to keep all this running © but then the energy was probably acquired in the same not©very©legal way as the equipment. "Joke did some solid research," he continued, suddenly serious. "And she came up with a lot of interesting material. A lot was just confirmation of what we already guessed and feared. Some stuff was new but neatly tied into what we already knew. There was some stuff that came really out of the blue. And we did some digging into your files too, but found nothing alarming or unsettling. As far as we're concerned you're known property, and the deal we struck still stands firm." "That's just fine. So what's the news?" "I was able to manoeuvre my way into the Silverwing hospital database," the girl said, "and checked out on what you told us. Turns out this is mostly a place for new©lifers who want their systems reworked. Apart from that it's a regular hospital for middle©class city center inhabitants, who can only afford standard medical care. Recently they've added a third category of guests, the ones you saw being shipped in. I found this hospital is only one of many that have been appointed as overflow hospital for war victims. Apparently there's an ever©increasing stream of War Force types that have been exposed to a new line of bioªweapons in the Afflict ed Area." "And they can only be treated in hospitals that cater to new©lifers who make use of the same bio©technology but for different reasons?" "Yeah, at least in theory. The reason only new©lifers make use of it is that only they can afford it. This new bio©thing is expensive like hell. Judging from their files most of the troopers have middle class origins. Only those with regular injuries can afford to be treated. The majority of them are pretty much left to their own devices. No money, no treatment. Everything's limited : time, equipment, surgeons and personnel with the required qualifications. These are dealt out to the highest bidders, and the new©lifers aren't content with a few slices of the pie. They insist on having the entire pie. That's the rule of the game. And the troopers are the losers of the game." "You mean they could be treated?" "If they had the funds, yeah. If they could pay as much, or preferably more than the average new©lifer, most of them would receive proper treatment. That's the way these hospitals operate. The poor devils would survive, if not totally cured, depending on the seriousness of their injuries." "You mean they don't survive?" "Most of them don't. So, in case you had been wondering, it didn't make any difference when we captured a few of them. They would have died anyway. So we're not responsible for their deaths. Doesn't that feel great for your conscience?" Her smile

bared a set of ruined teeth, marring an otherwise pretty face. "Is there anything we can do about it?" She was adamant. This whole system had to be wiped out. Somehow she had the feeling she was ideally placed to do that, being employed at Eyescape Inc. and having Nowhere City contacts like Riff. Her power as such wasn't all that overwhelming, but she could serve as a catalyst in the process. That's a nice touch, she thought, viewing myself in those terms. Wouldn't this qualify for pun of the week? "You gonna rattle and shake till it all drops at your feet?" Riff asked, smiling his wry smile again. "Good luck, lady. You're gonna need it." "I was hoping you would offer some help." "Help? I take things as they come, lady. Business is good and getting better everyday. Wonderslime customers are queuing up in front of my door. You wanna start a revolution? What's in it for us?" "Riff is very much a short©term thinker," the hacker girl said. "It's best if he sticks to the business part. You want some healthy subversion and sabotage and messing around in worldwide cyberspace? Count on us. We're on your side. Me and my friends have done some pretty decent work lately. You interested?" "I'm not," Riff said, and left. There was no way he could be serious about this. Probably he wanted the girl to take care of this part of the deal and showing disinterest was better for his image than flatly admitting this aspect was better left to the dark©haired girl. As he left he switched off the holos and the bartender flickered out of existence, along with all the rest of what turned a cold, empty hideout into Mind's I. "As I said," the girl continued, "we've been very active. We've even managed to infiltrate the training VRTs used for fresh War Force recruits, not to mention a host of other networks. One friend of mine, a guy called Neurodancer, has been especially successful. You'd be amazed to know how deep we can strike. We must have made a lot of people angry, driven a good bunch of them stark raving mad and totally pissed off the rest. So if you have any plans along this line, we'll gladly supply you with ideas and suggestions and even extend a helping hand." "As a matter of fact I had been thinking along these lines, and frankly, I've started work already on my own dirty plans. Some help would be welcome, of course." "I have an idea. I'll give you an example of something we've been working on, just to get the feel of it. It's a military training VRT that we've adapted. It's not yet finished, so it will end abruptly, but you'll find that quite merciful. I'll pass you a disk. You can use parts of the program if you like. Let me know wground to a halt. The lights had gone out. The sickening bulge on the riser that was Haggles stirred back into life, weakly attempting to crawl back onto his knees. Then the video circuit was cut off and the image went blank. Sick Joke turned to Cynthia, triumph glittering in her eyes. "Game over," she said. "Care for another try?" "I suggest we wait till they've rebuilt the place," she said. "In the meantime I'll get behind my own little games. At least Haggles has now had an introduction to the main course that's awaiting him." "I'm sure he would appreciate your imagery," Joke said. She switched off her computer, ready to discuss some more plans and discoveries.

18 "Here we are then," Liberaciá¢án had said with a sense of finality, as if they had arrived at their ultimate destination. To Jim it looked like any other of the villages they had passed through on their journey. "We're not going any further for now," the girl had explained. "We're close to the center of the Afflicted Area now. This is where I wanted to bring you. If your eyes aren't opened here, they never will and all will have been in vain." "You make it sound like a fairy tale," Frianelli had interrupted. "This place doesn't feel like being next door to the war zone. What about giving us some solid explanation? Aren't we entitled to know what all this was about, this whole journey, your decision to join us, which brought my friend Jim here a lot more fun than me, and now your merrily leading us into this umpteenth village as if it were the biggest holiday resort around. Care to explain, Liberaciá¢án? Please?" There was genuine emotion in his voice. Jim was surprised. Did the man have a soul after all? She had replied she had to talk to the village people first, and had returned with a man she had introduced to them as Dr. Dressler, a civilized looking man in his late forties whose presence here was uncharacteristic, to say the least. He did not seem to fit in with any of the various types they had encountered so far. "This young lady told me you needed some orientation, some background information enabling you to fulfill the tasks you were supposed to see to. May I suggest you join me poolside for dinner and conversation? I will see to it that you get everything you require. Follow me." The man had spoken purely British English in soft inflections, carefully selecting his words. It was clear he was an intellectual, a scientist perhaps. It was totally unclear how he had ended up in this godforsaken hellhole. Hopefully they were about to be told, and this time by a reliable source of information. "Poolside" turned out to be a rather euphemistic expression for a handful of rickety chairs and wobbly stools next to a small artificial pond, whose surface was covered with a greenish layer of floating fluff. Every now and then gentle stirrings could be detected in the drab water. This had to be the Forest equivalent of a cozy corner. Dressler kindly invited them to sit down, looked them silently in the eyes for half a minute or so, as if hoping this would lend him the air of a keen observer of all things human, then finally spoke. "I have been told you are former War Force soldiers, so I take it you have had some briefing with regard to the situation in this part of the world. However, I must hasten to add that whatever you have been told was probably somewhat removed from reality or at best seriously incomplete, as you may have noticed already. Allow me to introduce myself, as this will already answer some of your questions, I suppose. I am Dr. Anthony Dressler, a former scientific staff member of Monrovia Base's Research and Development Department. As you may have gathered

from my presence here, I have decided to give up that position and to join the resistance. I will tell you how I grew disenchanted with my former situation in a minute. There is so much to tell. My main problem is not so much what to tell you but rather where to start. Could you by any chance offer any suggestions?" "Tell us what the bio©catalysts really are," Jim said. "We've been told many explanations by as many people. We'd like to know the truth at last." Dressler sighed, as if already weary of the conversation. After some deep breaths he mustered the courage to continue. "The truth. I should have known you would ask for the impossible. What makes you think there is such a thing as the truth? Still, I will attempt to answer your question. The soªcalled bio©catalysts ar e actually byproducts of the metabolism of a group of new plant life©forms which originated in the heart of the Afflicted Area, as it came to be called. Their origins are rather unclear. Some claim it is a natural mutation, others that radioactive contamination or chemical waste deposits caused the mutation, or that it is the result of an experiment in biological warfare gone awry. One crackpot theory has it that they originate from another planet. Some of my colleagues maintained this theory could not be entirely ruled out, although I never found any indication pointing towards it. The truth, insofar as there is one, is probably to be found somewhere in the middle of this crop of theories. It may be a natural mutation influenced or speeded up by a variety of other factors. We have never found any solid evidence for one single theory. Different sets of data pointed towards different theories. An additional difficulty was that all these "new" specimens kept changing. Evolution is taking place here at an unprecedented pace. It is simply impossible to keep track of it all, especially as scientific research had to be carried out in a less than ideal situation. There is a war going on here, remember? You should. You were part of it not too long ago. And will be again soon, but on the other side I hope. Did that answer your question?" "I guess it did," Jim said, barely satisfied. "What do these things really do?" "Ah," Dressler said. "I suppose you must have encountered quite a few examples of their effects, both at home and over here. The bio©catalysts influence all biological functions of the life©forms they come in touch with. As they are spread widely throughout this forest the transformation process is proceeding equally fast. In its raw form, this results in pretty random transformations, both in the afflicted creatures and in their offspring. Many of these "new" species are one©shots. They cannot reproduce and are at once the first and the last generation of their evolutionary branch. The changes may be beneficial as well as lethal. They kill off a fair number of plants and animals they are introduced to. Others live on in their changed fashion, some of them produce offspring, only some of which is itself livable and fertile. The interesting thing is that the effects of the bio©catalysts, such as rapid cell growth, cell differentiation, regeneration, lowering or heightening or abolition of all sorts of thresholds, can be treated, shaped, pushed in a certain direction. This is both done by us and by the people who live here." "That was another question of mine," Jim interrupted. "These new natives in this forest." "Patience, patience, dear chap. Allow me to show you an

example of one of my creations I was able to take with me when I left Monrovia Base." He produced a big ladle©shaped utensil and dipped it into the pond, stirring its tranquil surface into ripples and breaking up the greenish fluffy carpet floating on top of it. He slowly moved the big spoon back and forth till he appeared to have caught something, and brought it back up along with its prey. "We called it a fishard," he explained, smiling proudly. "It has fish as well as lizard elements along with a few things we added for good measure. It is a perfect example of how beneficial the effects of bio©catalysts can be rendered. This creature is actually quite extraordinary. Its function will become clear to you in a second. Allow me to demonstrate it to you." Gently he scooped the fishard out of the spoon, a composite creature with a very large, bloated underbelly. It wriggled in his hand, but did not give the impression of offering serious resistance. With his other hand Dressler ripped off a slice of the white underbelly and ate it, savoring it as if it were a rare delicacy, eyes closed in gastronomical bliss. He swallowed, licked his lips, tore off another slice of underbelly, and offered it to Jim, who accepted it after a moment's hesitation. Its taste was absolutely exquisite. Frianelli was also offered a slice, and was equally pleased with its qualities. The creature did not seem to feel pain as slices of its underbelly were ripped off. Dressler noticed how they stared at the wriggling fishard and hastened to explain. "It doesn't suffer any pain. It merely feels uncomfortable in my hand and wishes to wriggle free from my grip. All it wants is to be returned to its pond where it will instantly start work on regenerating the parts we have just removed from its belly. You see, this creature was genetically engineered in our laboratories using the bio©catalyst option. The fishard was devised as a food©provider and I can safely say that it is a complete success. It was engineered in such a way that its underbelly expands into layers and layers of meat with a high nutritional value, and quite tasty to boot. The layers were to be easily removable without harming the creature in any way, as you have been able to observe." Dressler allowed the fishard to glide back into its pond, where it instantly disappeared under the surface after which the ripples died away and tranquillity was restored. "When parts of its underbelly have been removed, the creature regenerates those parts quickly, thanks to a speeding up of its metabolism. Of course it has to be in an environment where the necessary raw materials are present in ample quantities. That is why this fishard here is kept in a pond where all organic waste is dumped into. A small village could live on what a pondful of fishards could produce. Do you realize, gentlemen, what this means? This wriggling lil' fellow with the oversize underbelly is the answer to the world's food shortage problem. At least, in theory. Unfortunately, current reality being what it is, the bio©catalyst©exploitation industry is run by a handful of business monoliths catering to the highest©bidding customers. It is a well known fact that the world's starving masses have a rather poor cashflow situation. And it is equally well known that today's jet©set, or New Lifers as they choose to call themselves, have more pressing needs for the marvels of modern bioªtechnology. So all the heal ing and regeneration and modification techniques are used to please these people's whims and follies. Whereas people with more urgent needs..." His voice trailed off.

Dressler shook his head. "Speaking of other people," Jim said, "what happened to the natives?" "I take it you mean the original natives in Central Africa? Well, various things happened to them, and none of these were good things. The original population was decimated by AIDS and other killer diseases following in its wake, by a long period of drought, by countless civil wars and harsh political and economical regimes. As conditions worsened most of the remnants fled to North and South Africa or Asia Minor. Many tried to flee to Western Europe or America but met with serious resistance. Then, of course, the appearance and rise of the bio©catalystªdriven transformation s tarted attracting flocks of "new natives" to the Afflicted Area as they came to be called." "And it also attracted the business world." "It did, but these companies did not simply want their share of the crop. They wanted total control of the area and its products. It soon became evident that war would be inevitable. The companies which had set up research and development facilities over here lobbied a War Force into existence to fight the plethora of irregular armed forces that had by then manifested themselves to claim what they considered theirs. The rest is history. As a matter of fact, you are part of that history." "How do these new natives survive over here? Conditions must be pretty rough?" Frianelli put in. "They learned to live with their new environment by using the time©honored trial©and©error method. That is how they discovered what to eat and what not, which plants had healing powers and which were lethal, and so on. Of course, especially in the early days, there was a price to pay. Many lost their lives, and many more their minds. Soon however a new folklore had developed, which is changing as this forest is changing. And the knowledge was adapted to their needs. As foreign investors jumped onto the bandwagon and the war broke out to protect the research and development facilities in the center of the area, the knowledge was used to devise new©style biological weapons. Both sides did, actually, but the bio©weapons of the forest dwellers were darker, harsher, more unpredictable and are taking a heavy toll on the War Force. Isn't one of your friends a victim of one of these weapons? I have seen him lumbering around. Poor fellow. I am afraid there is nothing you can do for him. Or, in a certain sense, there is. You could join us. Actually I urge you to do so. That is why the girl led you here, as you must have gathered by now." "You'll have to come up with some really convincing arguments there," Jim said. "Oh, I will. I most certainly will. And I will introduce you to a few others who can even present you with considerably more eloquent arguments. But let me tell you this. I have no problem with Eyescape Inc. and their ilk exploiting this fascinating new bio©technology for the sake of a happy few. What bothers me is that they want all of it. There is no need for them to do so. There is enough for everyone. They do not understand this or do not wish to understand it. Maybe they are under the impression that a total monopoly is the only way to guarantee they will stay in business and maintain their leading position. Whatever the case may be, I find the current situation utterly disgraceful and absolutely unacceptable. As far as I am concerned it is the other side which represents true humanity, slipshod and rabble©rousing

and uncivilized as they may seem. This war must come to a halt, gentlemen. I am counting on you. This cannot go on." There was silence for a moment. Then Jim asked, "What made you defect?" "I chose to leave my position after a personal experience. I had been growing increasingly disenchanted with the whole system, and this experience turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back." Dressler sighed, looked Jim straight in the eye for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Frianelli, and continued in a calm voice. "I have a younger brother called Fred who had volunteered for the War Force. He was like you, in many ways. Eager to fight for the good cause, swallowing whatever they told him. Enthusiastic, uncritical, naive. But who could blame him? Most people with our background tend to believe what they like to hear. Even I did, in days gone by, although a scientist is supposed to have a critical mind and to stick to the scientific method of empirical proof and so forth and so on. Anyway, what is more important is that Fred's luck ran out sooner than any of us could have thought. Does the name of Abidjan Base ring a bell with you?" "It sure does," Jim said. "Abidjan Base was one of the first War Force Bases to be wiped out by guerrilleros. That was just before we joined. Actually, it was a decisive factor. It had a lot of consequences in a variety of fields. Due to it, the then Minister of Defense saw his power greatly©©" "I am very much aware of all that, Jim. There is no need for a lecture on recent history. The reason why I brought up the first major defeat of the War Force was because my brother was there at the time. He must have been one of the first victims of the bio©weapons the guerrilleros had started to breed. We had been able to stay in relatively close contact, and thanks to what he had learned from me Fred had a fairly decent knowledge of the whole bio©catalyst concept and all its ramifications. So he knew what he had been exposed to and he also knew there were techniques and enhanced methods that could cure him. He was flown back home along with the other injured soldiers, taken to a military hospital, only to discover that they stood but little chance to get cured. The army had by then been largely privatized, and its medical wing completely so. The booming bioªtechnology busines s had seriously invested in the hospital sector for obvious reasons and by then controlled most of it. "It turned out to be a question of money. Anybody could get proper treatment, provided he could afford it. In this respect the soldiers were not in league with the emerging class of "newªlifers" who used t he endless possibilities of state©of©the©art bio©technology for their own purposes. So the wounded soldiers who were sent back in ever greater numbers received only firstªline treatment, "ti me and funds permitting", and few received proper care. I have not heard from Fred for a while now. I suppose that he is either dead or dying, although the knowledge and skills to bring him back in near perfect shape are readily available." "What got your brother?" Jim asked. "Any clue?" Dressler nodded. "He must have been exposed to a brand of altered mushroom spores. I have seen them and their victims on various occasions afterwards. The spores encapsulate themselves into a human body, considering it to be breeding ground. They totally engulf the host's body, step by step, take over, finally gobbling it up as they start their own mushroom cycle. I am

certain a way could have been devised to spark the healing and regenerating process. Usually, however, the doctors limited themselves to amputating the afflicted body parts without thereby stopping the infection. What can I say? I turned away in disgust as things got worse. And so here I am now." He swallowed, not without some difficulty, and rose to his feet. "That will do for now. I no longer feel like talking. I want to be alone for a while. Go look for the girl. She was busy rounding up some more people she wanted you to see. What did you say her name was?" "Liberaciá¢án. At least that's what she called herself." "Typical. They never use their real names to strangers. Superstition. These are simple folk. Very much into symbolism. Liberaciá¢án, yes indeed. But go now. Leave me for a while, if you please. There will be ample opportunity to talk some more later on. Bye." He trudged off, glumly. The recollections must have flooded back with an intensity too searingly hot to bear.

19 Hell had to be a nicer place than this, Cynthia thought, as she looked down on the má álá áe from her high and well©barricaded vantage point. It had been Riff's idea to take shelter in a place he knew that was both safe and well©situated where they could keep track of what was happening. And right now quite a lot was happening. It hadn't been a total surprise, of course. There had been talk of Special Forces units to be sent out on a sweep through Nowhere City to restore law and order and to round up a number of key troubleshooters. Poverty©propelled 'bio©terrorism', as it had been labelled, was causing too much unrest and had to be stopped. Earlier this evening, around nightfall, Riff had come down to Cynthia's apartment to tell her it would be wiser not to stay there. He knew a safer place where they could spend the night and watch proceedings. Anyway, they had a lot of things to discuss. "It'll be just you and me and Sick Joke," he had said. "The others will either be hiding elsewhere or be taking part in the festivities." "Why aren't you taking part yourself?" she had asked. "Aren't you an active, card©carrying revolutionary?" He had grinned and replied, "I'm a survivor." They had ensconced themselves in Riff's Palace. Night had come. An unnatural calm had descended in the streets. Preparations were in full swing. The coming of the Special Forces units apparently wasn't a surprise to anyone. People here might be running out of lots of things, but information wasn't one of these. Then all hell had broken loose. The streets had been filled with people and vehicles and machines within seconds. The quietness had been shattered. At first the three of them had limited themselves to staring silently at what was going on, trying to keep track of it all and to understand the rules of the game.

It was hard to adequately describe this battle. It reminded her strongly of some of those artsy war VRTs she had plugged into a few years ago, when there had been a sudden upsurge in that line of work. She had never contributed to that particular field, preffering to stick to what she could do best, but she had plugged into a fair number of them out of professional interest. If this had been a VRT she would have congratulated its creator for his bold inventiveness : it had a lot of elements all previous work in the genre lacked. For instance, it was tricky for her to find out what was really there and what was a holo. Holos seemed to be a key element in the battle. The Special Forces troopers were facing exactly the same problem. Inexplicable, she thought. They should have known what they were up against. They knew about holos. They had also seen the bio©weapons in the City Center. Maybe it was the combination of these two unfamiliar adversaries with traditional armed opponents that proved to be too much for them. Whatever the case may be, this was not an uneven battle. She doubted there would be winners or losers, as far as she could determine the course the fight was taking. Nowhere City's irregular army had brought its entire arsenal. Holo walls and barricades flickered on and off, appearing and reappearing in different spots, so that even the general layout of the area was no longer a certainty. Tanks and armor©plated vehicles carefully picked their way through this ever shifting maze, at times uselessly avoiding a hologram, at other times driving straight into a solid wall. A host of cyberpets and creatures, some holos, some real, scurried across the streets, attacking (or walking straight through) anyone who crossed their path. Occasionally a burning man could be seen, writhing and thrashing underneath his shroud of flames. Cynthia wasn't sure that all of them were holos. Yet she had the distinct feeling that the holos and cyberpets were only there to add flavor to the game. They merely created a fitting atmosphere for the real weapons to shine in all their splendor : a wide variety of bio©weapons was being put to use here, bred from Riff's 'wonderslime' and other dealers' products who had apparently set up a similar business. It was definitely the onslaught of this transformed plant©life that did the most effective job here. Riff's thoughts must have been running along the same lines, as he started speaking in a soft voice, without taking his eyes off the spectacle below. "I sold lots of that stuff, an amazing amount really. And I'm not the only one dealing this kind of stuff. It's a booming market. Who knows what it will lead to, where all this will end. What did we set in motion? Well, actually we didn't. Somebody else did and we just took some of it. Axe and her friend have been doing a superb job. Brilliant ideas, fast thinking, smoothly carried out. It's miraculous stuff, really. Have you noticed, down there, what it can do, how it adapts, how it appears to lead a life of its own? It seems to nurture ambitions of its own too. They seem to have lost control of it. Had to work too fast, couldn't do the job properly. Or maybe it's impossible to control in this raw shape we're breeding it in. Axe told me she didn't really have enough of it to do decent work with. We don't have lots of time and facilities and have to make a quick buck. So we just improvised and went ahead and sold as much as we could without thinking too much. No wonder some of that stuff out there and in the Center got berserk and totally fucked up. Now look at

that. Just look at that!" He pointed downwards, and both Sick Joke and Cynthia craned their necks to see what had caught his attention. At their left, at an intersection of three streets, they now saw a huge clump of throbbing and still expanding vegetation, perched atop a jumble of trucks and smaller vehicles. It incorporated humans from both sides as well as cyberpets, still clicking and twitching, all wrapped up in coils and tendrils thrown out by the blob. It was a fitting synthesis of Nowhere City in turmoil, a powerful symbol of a city in the grip of chaos. What struck Cynthia most was that a number of holos walked straight through it, as if they wished to state they were above all this despicable nonsense. The ambitions and strivings of both organic and inorganic life left them indifferent. They simply carried on, relentlessly, uncaring, not even paying attention. Special Forces Units clustered around the throbbing mass, staying at a safe distance, trying to figure out a way to pry loose their buddies. Off in the distance, a handful of urban guerrilleros were doing the same thing. The onslaught seemed to go on forever. There was a certain ebb and flow to it, a pattern that was becoming apparent. 'Wild card' vegetation grew and expanded and wreaked havoc at a stunning rate, then quickly withered away equally fast as it ran out of fuel. It thrived on organic tissue, and as that came in short supply the vegetation was doomed. As fresh supplies of people appeared on the scene, fresh vegetation was let loose on its unsuspecting prey. As the battle started to diminish in intensity Sick Joke gently touched Cynthia's shoulder, and said: "I've been thinking about your plans. I've been doing some writing for you too. You should look at it and tell me if you can use it. I think you will. I have some experience in this line of work. I'll show you as soon as I can. Maybe it can be blended in with the work you've already done so far. I really think it's too good to waste. But there's more. I've been talking about this plan of yours with some friends and some guys came up with really terrific ideas. And I don't mean ideas for the VRT writing itself, but for the real world out there. The notion was put forward that a VRT alone would not be enough. Somebody came up with a wild idea that just might work." "I'm interested. What did you have in mind?" "This is the general plan : Haggles plugs into this VRT, believing this is the promo workout he's been expecting from you. As he's joyfully being taken around the pile of glorious shit you've prepared for him we put him on a plane and drop him in the Afflicted Area. We ought to make sure©©" "Wait a minute," Cynthia interrupted her. "You can't be serious. How can we possibly put Haggles on a plane and have him flown off? That's downright ridiculous." "Not as ridiculous as it may seem. Let me explain. The main thing is that Haggles doesn't really notice what's going on, what's being done to him. As he quits the VRT he has to be convinced he's still plugged in. Only afterwards he's supposed to become gradually aware he's no longer mind©tripping. So the VRT experience has to segue into reality seamlessly. Now that's the easy part, that bit has been covered by the writing I've been doing." "I'm still not sure I'm getting the picture." What were these people up to? This couldn't be a simple prank. These folk were too committed to their cause to lose their precious time with practical jokes. This had better be a damn good idea,

though. And, she added, one that would work. "This operation," the black©haired girl continued, "will require perfect timing. There will have to be an all©out attack on the I©Site as Haggles is plugged in. If we are to snatch him away without anybody noticing there will have to be a lot, and I mean a whole lot of action going on all around the site so that literally everybody will be too busy to understand what's going on." "What kind of action?" "Anything. Power failure, explosions, fires, conventional and bio©stuff attack, tear gas, computer network crackdown, you name it. It ought to be an ultra©hectic situation. So much will have to happen that only the day afterwards they'll find the chance to calm down and look around. Then, of course, it'll be too late for them to do anything about it." "Suppose we manage to haul Haggles away from his office. What happens next?" "While he's still plugged in and happily digesting what you've cooked up for him©©" "You choose your words well, I must admit that." "©©we put him on a military plane, destination Afflicted Area. There are flights about every day, and as a rule they're accepting and even solliciting payload passengers as this generates additional income, which they're always after. They tend to fill their planes whenever possible with journalists and scientists and all sorts of researchers. They're offering less comfort than regular flights, but their rates are lower and there are lots more flights to that particular destination. Some of us hacker whizkids will do all the bookings and phantom payments and identity forging and other red tape activities. There should be no problems as far as that part of the operation is concerned." "I see. Go on. You sparked my interest. Tell me the rest of the story." "During the flight no problems should arise. Passengers who spend the entire trip plugged in aren't exceptional. There's a good chance he'll go unnoticed, I mean not recognized for what he really is. We'll devise a way to get him to the Afflicted Area, put him to sleep, get him out of the VRT and leave him to his own devices. Our man will rush back with the next plane. Haggles will wake up convinced what he's experiencing is still the VRT and go from there. He should be in for a lot of fun and surprises. I'm sure the forest will take care of him in a fitting way. Well, what about it?" "I like the general idea. But I still think it's far©out freakin' nuts. Are you sure it will work?" "It should if we really get behind it. But I agree that we'll have to work at it some more. We will; be assured of that. Well? Are you going along with it?" Smiling fiendishly, Cynthia said, "Count me in." Sick Joke nodded in appreciation, returned her gaze to the scene below. The battle appeared to be drawing to a close. Columns of smoke rose up from various places. Heaps and clusters of dying vegetation were strewn all around, still embracing their victims in a grip of death. All Special Forces units seemed to have been withdrawn already, taking with them as many prisoners as possible. The fighters on the other side were also retreating to their quarters. Cyberpets were lumbering back to their owners, obeying electronic commands. Holos were switched off. A grim calm returned to the streets. Only now it would become possible to determine what the gains and losses had been.

As they prepared to leave their hideout a messenger presented himself and told Riff that some of his men had been captured. Marshall Stack was one of them. So was Neurodancer, one of Joke's friends. "Well," Cynthia asked the girl after the messenger had left and they were descending the rickety stairs on their way out, "is this very bad news?" "Let's just call it news," she said. "It's neither good nor bad. Maybe we'll lose 'em. Maybe we'll be able to turn this into an advantage. We'll have to see how the situation will develop and what opportunities arise, and just go along with the flow of things. Don't hope too much, but don't despair. Wait and see and rise to the challenge that may present itself. That's how we take things here. It's the only way to take them. Didn't you know that?" "I guess I did," Cynthia said. "It's just been driven home to me more forcefully than usual." They emerged onto the street, and carefully picked their way home amidst the debris scattered all over the battleground, silent but eloquent reminders of what had taken place here tonight.

Ã*)Ã20 "Look around you," Dressler said the next day, embracing the entire forest with a broad sweeping gesture. "Doesn't this strike you as a sane environment? Isn't it different from what you have witnessed during your trek to this haven? Do you have any idea what the reason for this phenomenon might be?" Drenas. Whatever they resembled m ost, their purpose quickly became apparent. VanderMeer was enveloped, hoisted up and encapsulated into the green wall. The rippling movements intensified into a series of convulsions, then the creature restored itself to its previous condition. VanderMeer had made no move to resist. "Well," Frianelli said, "I guess he's now where he wanted to be. For all I know he belongs there. He sure didn't fit in with us anymore." "I hope he's happy now," Jim said. "The concept of happiness as we know it probably has no longer any meaning for him," Dressler retorted. "He has adopted a new set of values. He has started a new life." "Maybe this was the only avenue open to him after he was hit." Jim sounded resigned. Their was little to do but accept what had happened. They all stared at the gently rippling foliage for a few more moments, in silence. Frianelli turned around and locked eyes with him. They both realized that they too now had decisions to make, goals to achieve, and lives to carry on.

21 Cynthia brought her fingernail up to her lips and kissed it tenderly. Magic fingers, she thought. Thanks so much for opening all these doors for me. She chuckled as she recalled a similar scene from one of her very first VRTs, where a gorgeous redªhaired girl had magica l fingertips indeed. She didn't know if she was gorgeous, but she definitely wasn't red©haired and no magic

was involved as far as her fingers' capabilities were concerned. Haggles had become quite paranoid after the attack on Molinari's and loads of new security measures had been taken. All doors, outer and inner ones, had been provided with a security device. All authorized personnel had had an encoded film applied on their index fingernail. They had to insert that finger into a slot for a door to open. The programming had been quite intricate. Each person could only enter a specific set of doors. It was now impossible to enter a room where one had no business. Bumping into a room by mistake was a thing of the past. She had been using her encoded fingernail all the time since entering the I©Site this morning, but had now reached a door that could only be opened by one person's nail or command : Haggles' office. She had been sent for as her promo VRT had been finished. At least that was what she wanted everybody to believe. After Molinari's had been pretty much demolished, Haggles had set up his new permanent headquarters at the I©Site. She had been told he was very, very much upset. Food was brought in constantly in outrageous quantities, even to Haggles' standards. That had to be his way to deal with anger. A tiny screen lit up. Haggles' face appeared on it, his dark, brooding eyes scrutinizing her. A shrill metallic voice told her to hold on a second as the corridor was quickly but thoroughly scanned. The voice then said everything appeared to be okay and she would be allowed in. The door swung open, and she entered. Haggles looked up at her, munching a mouthful of a rice dish in front of him. "Do sit down, miss Raythan," he said. "I believe you have good news for me." "As a matter of fact I have, mister Haggles. My work is finished. I hope it will be to your satisfaction." She produced a disk from her pocket and slid it onto the table. Haggles reached out and grabbed it eagerly, as if he had spotted a gourmet food item hitherto unknown to him. "You will be the first person on earth to plug into the final completed version," she assured him. "As you specifically requested." "I'm sure you won't let me down," the man said around another mouthful. "I'll give it my full attention. As you well know, there's a lot at stake here. A lot is riding on the success of the new line of products we're about to unleash on the unsuspecting public." He chuckled, spooned up another portion of food. "A whole lot of work went into it," she said. "I can safely say that this is my biggest achievement so far. So I hope you'll understand that I would like to have some feedback as soon as possible. Would you by any chance already know when you'd have the time to plug into my piece, so that I know when to expect your reaction to it?" Haggles pondered the question for a moment, meanwhile continuing his meal. To her relief he nodded and said, "I understand and even applaud your professional attitude. Let me think. I have a window in my schedule tomorrow, late afternoon. There's always urgent business of course, but then again your work is of prime importance to Eyescape Inc.'s future. Tomorrow, late afternoon it will be then. I'll let you know my first impressions as soon as I can. I suppose you deserve that much. I'm sure you've done a fine piece of work for us. It's a deal." She was dismissed. Haggles returned his attention to his next meal. As she was on her way to her own office, a variety of

thoughts was tossing about in her head. She was glad she had been able to find out when Haggles would be plugged in. This was a vital piece of information for Riff and Sick Joke and their crew. Their plans had been carefully prepared, but without proper timing chances of success would have been slim. She hoped they would have enough time to get the whole show on the road. Barely one day and a half would be a tough deadline to meet. Would Axe have been able, in this short time, to breed copies of her fingernail, down to the encoded film, with only the roughest of bio©catalyst techniques at her disposal? Only time would tell © and would do so fairly soon. Would all the disparate parts of the plan coalesce into a smooth operation? Would they be able to pull off the most foolhardy part of the entire scheme : get into Haggles' office and take off with the plugged©in man without him (or for that matter anybody else) noticing? Get him onto a plane to the Afflicted Area? Have him killed off in the most disgusting way possible? She had been assured all the preparatory work had been done. Somehow it sounded too bizarre to be workable. On the other hand maybe only a totally whacked©out scenario like this would stand a real chance. Anyhow, she had done her part. She could only wait now. Gene Kirzowski was waiting for her in her office. She saw right away he hadn't simply dropped by to chat some time away. No doubt he would get an innocent conversation going and then attempt to catch her with her guard down and pop another proposal at her to come and live with him. He would, of course, fail miserably. "How you doin'?" he asked. "Fine. How did you get in here?" "I have access to your office," he said, sticking up the finger that had gained him access. "How's your neighborhood? Did you have any trouble? We've been told law and order have been restored now. As has been the case in the City Center." "Everything's back to normal again," she said. These newªlifers were fools , she thought. But then again maybe it was a good thing they didn't realize this was only the calm before the storm. If enough of them were of this conviction, then the oncoming storm might stand a better chance to make a nice clean sweep. A fair number of people had been rounded up all right. A serious effort had been done to clean up the mess caused by the various bio©attacks in the City Center. At first sight, a casual onlooker might be tempted to think the problems were over. Only new©lifers with their typical and, in her eyes, despicable narrow©mindedness and spoiled brat outlook could fail to see that what had caused the problems in the first place had not been removed. Probably that realization would never dawn on them. For all she knew these people weren't even aware of the problems. "You didn't run into trouble yourself?" he insisted. "No," she said. "There was no damage, I wasn't rounded up and killed by Special Forces units, nor was I©©" "I like your sense of humor. Still, I'm glad it's over. I guess it was bound to come one day. Anger, frustration. The war, the recession. Then these riots and some unhealthy, dangerous fooling around with illegal bio©catalyst material. I'm glad the game's over." "You don't think there's anything substantial behind it?" she prodded. "I've heard some people claim there's an embryonic organization being formed. The riots would have a political character and be much more than some random social upheaval.

They claim to see a direction, these rioters would be out to achieve a certain goal rather than merely raise hell and scare the living daylights out of us. Frankly, I don't believe that. There's just no evidence pointing in that direction." "I suppose you're right," she said, relieved. It was a good thing he thought it had all been sickening but ultimately harmless hellraising. Still, it appeared at least some people were aware of the true nature of the situation. It would be wise not to ignore them, even if they constituted but a minority and were dismissed by most. Gene had reached the point where he felt he could change the subject in the direction he desired. "I can't say times are getting lean, though. The volume of work is increasing. Now we have these heightened security measures to deal with. And, to make matters worse, some key staff members chose this period to check into hospital for some surgery. Alan Lundlow, I was told, just had new eyes and a sex change. That should prove to be interesting." "He can't possibly come out worse." "Speaking of sex changes, did I tell you my wife has recently decided to have one too? Just a six©month tryout. After that, she told me, she'll see and make up her mind. That usually takes her six months anyway." He chuckled, in a rather contrived way. "My contract now leaves me with two options, legally : I can apply for a tryout sex©change as well, which I don't intend to do, or I can sign a six©month contract with another woman. As a matter of fact I was thinking along those lines." "Really," she said, as disinterestedly as possible. "I even had a candidate in mind," he said. "I suggest you reconsider the sex©change," she replied coolly. "I wasn't joking, Cynthia." "Nor was I." An uncomfortable silence hung between them for a few moments, then she went up to her desk, rummaged in one of the drawers and produced a disk she handed him. "A gift," she explained. "This will bring you consolation. At least it'll bring your restless mind at ease. It's quite harmless fun, you'll see." "Thanks," he said, storing the disk in his breast pocket. "I'll plug into it tonight." Brilliant, she thought. I'm sure you'll like this foray into extreme bad taste, the trademark of Sick Joke's universe. Maybe you'll start a fanclub devoted to her work. An active circle of admirers of Sick Joke's art, wallowing in the products of one of the most disturbed imaginations of the day. So long, Gene. Say goodbye to sanity. You'll be sorry for not taking the sex change. While they stood thinking what to say next, they heard voices in the corridor, loud, agitated and tinged with despair and rising panic. She was able to piece together the story from the fragments of shouted conversation she could catch. There had been a power surge up on the sixth floor of the I©Site. It probably was no accident. It was an attack. Some saw it as proof that social unrest was still brewing. Others claimed it was only a final spasm of the dying revolution, successfully nipped in the bud before it had had the chance to reach full bloom. The power surge in itself didn't have any catastrophic results. Precautions had been taken, and these had now proved to be quite sufficient. However, one Eyescape Inc. staff member had been absolutely powerless © and had consciously opted for that position. She had never met him before, but then she had never had any business

with the Accountants' Department where he worked. She had heard about him, of course. He was often cited as one of the ultimate new©lifers, pushing the philosophy and lifestyle to its very limits. It appeared that he now had been pushed beyond those limits. As they reached the sixth floor, picking their way amid people hurrying in all directions without any clear purpose, they noticed the doors of the Accountants' Department were wide open : they didn't have to bother about fingernails being denied access. "He didn't stand a chance," someone said, panting, as they entered Nelson O'Donnel's private office. "Death must have come instantly. There's just no way he can be brought back in shape. Even the most expensive guys can't deal with total wreckage like this." O'Donnel had deemed the possibility to plug into his computer system insufficient. He had decided to lend the concept of interface a new dimension. Some said he'd had himself hooked up to the computer, but Cynthia found this to be an imprecise description. It was more appropriate to say that O'Donnel and the computer had become one. O'Donnel had no longer had an independent nervous system. His brain had to be viewed as hardware of human origin © a wet disk. It was unclear what O'Donnel or the computer or, more accurately, the composite creature comprising both, had been doing at the time of the power surge. In any case, they had borne the full brunt of the attack and had succumbed right away. Fragments of computer hardware were scattered all over the office. What was left of O'Donnel was so thoroughly maimed that it was impossible to tell how he must have looked before the incident. More people came in, including an emergency unit who started cleaning up the mess and ushered everybody out. Business had to continue. On their way back they ran into Denise DiMarzio who offered them another piece of bad news. "You may not believe this," she said, "but yesterday night one of our employees, a girl from the Marketing Department, was raped on her way home. Did you get that? Rape! Know what that means? I think this tells us a lot. About the direction we're heading in. Or heading back to, to be more precise. Of course I hope this will turn out to be an isolated incident, and not©©" She gestured vaguely, unable to finish her sentence. "And not a harbinger of what's in store for us," Gene said. Rape. Even Cynthia was shocked at the very idea. Rape was a thing of the past. There hadn't been any cases of rape reported for a long time. The kind of people who used to take refuge to rape now had a variety of VRTs at their disposal that provided a degree of satisfaction impossible to achieve otherwise. Porn VRTs featuring all types of kinky sex in which you could act out your wildest and most unsavory desires were a flourishing market. Furthermore, there was no risk involved. Old©fashioned rape had not only become obsolete, but also dangerous for all parties concerned. Suppose you raped a new©lifer girl who'd had installed a number of bio©engineered protective systems that wreaked havoc with the rapist's metabolism or killed him right away. VRTs were so much safer and cleaner, and provided you with the exact response you required. Total satisfaction, however sick or deranged your sexual taste, at no risk at all. And now this. A case of old©fashioned rape. What did it mean? Did it announce a new era of savagery? Were they gliding back towards barbarian times? Was this the first sign of an approaching downfall of modern life as they knew it? Time would

tell. Time, she thought, would have an awful lot to tell in the near future. Her biggest fear right now was that this power surge attack might jeopardize their own plans. Their was little she could do about it. She wondered if this attack had been directed at the IªSite at random or perhaps consciously. In the latter case, that would mean others considered it their target too. If so, who could these people be? And what axactly were they trying to achieve? Her only hope was that Haggles would insist that business priorities prevailed and that hence everything should proceed as scheduled. In that case, Riff's plans would also be allowed to proceed as scheduled.

Ã*)Ã22 This one was different from all the others in one crucial respect. Jim watched in intense concentration as the composite forest creature dealt with the bio©weapon that had been used against it, a bio©infested dart shot at it at high speed. For a number of days now they had been testing out and expeoice, "I'll tell you what h is problem is. And it strikes me that you didn't notice it, or if you did it didn't bother you. The man views all this as a strictly scientific matter. It deserves to be studied. More research ought to be done." "The man's a scientist. What did you expect? You thought he'd become a ranting and raving guerrillero?" "No. But he should at least realize that all this isn't just a research facility. There is so much more at stake here. He fails to see the complete picture." "I don't think that's true. I think he's well aware of the situation. He's just sticking to what he's best at. As do we." "Listen, Jim." Frianelli took him by the arm and led him away. "Maybe I'm just overreacting. But then there's such a lot on my mind. I've been thinking a lot these last few days. I need to talk. And preferably right now." "All right. Just a moment." He made sure everything was proceeding as scheduled. The last pockets of resistance had been dealt with, Dressler had gone off to talk with some of his former colleagues he hadn't seen ever since he'd fled the Base and its scientific facilities. Jim and Frianelli took a seat in a small barracks, whose roof was threatening to collapse under the weight of a massive layer of vegetation, still in motion but quieting down as it was running out of energy. "Well?" Jim asked. Frianelli sat back, looking him defiantly in the eye. "Congratulations, Jim. You've achieved what you set out to do. This place is in our hands now. Fine. Excellent. Great job. But where do we go from here, Jim? Don't tell me we've reached the end of the line." "Honest, pal, I've been thinking along the same lines. No way to retire now and enjoy the countryside. I'm open for suggestions. What point are you trying to drive home to me?" "We've won a battle. Now we've got to continue this war. Till it's over. Till we're the winners of this war. We've struck the other side a firm blow, Jim, but it's still very much there." Jim sighed, wiped sweat off his forehead. There was silence for a few moments, as he gathered his thoughts and figured how to

put them into words. Frianelli had been right. This was a weighty matter, deserving to be discussed at some length. "All right then. I can see several problems looming on the horizon. The research and development facilities are in our hands now, but they've suffered some major damage, from what we've seen so far. It wasn't just the bio©weapons, but also the conventional attack. It will be a while before normal activities can be resumed here. And under whose aegis will that be? Who will be in charge here? Who will pay the bills and personnel? What about the relationship with War Force Headquarters? What about the shipments of finished product? Can they manage at all? Do they have to sever this link completely? There are so many questions still begging for an answer." "And they're not even the important questions I've had in mind," Frianelli retorted. "The real important issues are totally different ones. And they concern us, Jim. And our goal. Our ultimate goal." "Go on. You obviously have our future thoroughly mapped out. Let me hear your plans." "We've built up this momentum now, Jim, and we've got to forge onward. This was only a first step. We haven't changed anything vital. And I'm sure we can and we should. We have to go on and rip this whole structure apart. Get this goddamn war over with and see this bio©stuff distributed to everybody who needs it. Take it out of the hands that clutch it now so desperately. Wipe the floor with the whole new©lifer class back home. Kick their asses till they glow. Don't we owe it to the people who live over here in this godforsaken war©infested hellhole? Jim? Do you read me, Jim?" "Loud and clear. So let me get this straight. People over here use the bio©stuff for their own benefit. They've acquired a body of knowledge and skills and adopted their own techniques necessary to deal with the stuff. So far, so good. Now what? We go back home, raise hell and tell the new©lifers that we're very sorry but we gave all that wonderful stuff away? Other folk needed it. Too bad, guys. Care for something else?" "Cut the crap, JIm. You just don't wanna see it. You're being stubborn. These forest folk over here don't insist on a monopoly, as do the bio©bigwigs back home. There's enough for everybody. What we're supposed to be aiming for is fair distribution of the stuff. And not just here. A lot of people back home are missing out on things too. Not to mention War Force assholes like us, Dressler's little brother, you name 'em. This is a lousy deal, Jim, and we have a chance at rectifying that situation. Maybe we'll fail. That's no reason not to give it a try, however. What we have to do now is find a way to get back home with a small group of capable, determined men and hit the brains of the bio©industry hard." "Your words have a nice ring to them," Jim said, trying to get the sarcastic edge off his voice. "Do you have any solid plans yet?" "I've been thinking. I'll keep you posted. Don't think I'm daydreaming or being fuzzyheaded or plain deluded. We have to take this one step further, round up the people who support us and finish this job. Otherwise©©" Shrieks of terror and hoarse shouting made them dart out of the barracks, fearing the worst. One moment Jim was afraid that somehow his men had lost their stand and the regular troops had regained control. Fortunately, nothing of the sort had happened. He knew what was going on and what had startled his men as he saw

his dad emerging from the forest, some fifty meters off, and coming out into the open towards him. So there had to be hallucinogenics in the air. He knew for a fact that they hadn't used any of that stuff in their bioªweaponry, as it would ha ve complicated matters way too much. How can you conduct a military operation when you're not even sure what you're seeing is real? The stuff must have been produced by some plants in the area. There had to be quite some quantity in the air. The screaming and shouting indicated that most or all people here were being affected. Who knows what they're experiencing, Jim thought. People were falling prey to their own subconscious, freed and intensified and warped. Although he realized nothing of what he was observing was real he felt compelled to watch and listen. His dad didn't come up all the way to him, but halted when he had covered half the distance between the first trees and his son. He had never seen his dad this nervous and shaken up. Uncontrollable twitchings marred his face. Sweat stood out on his forehead. His eyes were burning feverishly. "You let us down, Jim," he said with a rasping voice, very uncharacteristically. "How could you?" He shook his head, helplessly. "You were our only hope. And now this. Utter, total failure. A disgrace, to us all. What got into you? Everything we gave you, your education, your training, the values and proper ways of thinking, you flushed it all down the drain. How could you do this to us? And why? Why? Why throw away your life and your future? I fail to understand, Jim. You broke our hearts. I'm sorry, I can't face this anymore, maybe it was dead wrong for me to come over here all the way and talk to you. You're clearly beyond hope, and we should give you up, as you gave us up. But then again, you're still my son. This is a terrible dilemma. It's tearing me apart. By all accounts we should forget about you for what you've done, but we can't. We're only human. Still that doesn't make your crimes any less unforgivable." He closed his eyes, shook his head once more. "I gotta go now, Jim. This is too painful for me. And, as I feared, leading nowhere. Think about it, Jim. Promise." He waited, then repeated, "Promise!" The entire scene started to evaporate, dwindled away into nothingness. The forest was shimmering, then everything seemed to have returned to normal, as far as that could be ascertained. He cast a glance at Frianelli, who was still standing next to him. "Were you affected too?" The man nodded, without adding a word. "What did you see?" "I'd rather not tell you. It's too personal." From the glum tone and the gaze cast downward it wasn't difficult to deduce the experience had been an unhappy one. "I understand. At least it all seems to be over now." "Are you sure? What about those critters, up there? Are you saying these guys are real?" Jim looked up, saw what had drawn Frianelli's attention. There was no way to be sure what it really was. It appeared to be a cluster of birds or bats, all interlocked, flapping about clumsily. It, or they, barely managed to stay in the air, a hideous parody of flight. The unfortunate creatures formed a scintillating mass, patterns of ever©shifting colors rippling and shimmering across their composite bodies. "You think it's real?" Jim asked. "Or are we still hallucinating? Spores lingering in the air are causing this,

perhaps?" "How can we know? The very nature of these hallucinations makes it impossible to determine when they begin and when they end. Will they ever end, for that matter? Suppose our victory is but a figment of our imagination running wild. Or perhaps the entire battle wasn't real. The whole works! Maybe we're still experiencing the effects of those very first spores! Everything that came afterwards was fake. So right now we're still roaming the forest, happily dreaming these dreams of conquest and success. Our minds have devised this game, the only way to stay sane in this realm of sheer madness. Psychologically it makes sense, Jim. You'll have to admit that much." "Knock it off." "There's just no way to find out," Frianelli said, suddenly laughing and giggling as if he had lost his mind. "Maybe none of this is real." "Maybe you aren't. Or at least your fucked©up theory." He turned away, went off to see how his men were dealing with the situation.

Ã*)Ã25 Chaos had never felt so good. Timing could not have been better. We've been lucky, Cynthia thought. We've been swept along by a movement at the exact moment. Maybe it wasn't pure luck. Maybe the time had been ripe for a counterblow from Nowhere City's malcontents. A plethora of actions had been undertaken against various targets in the City Center by a variety of loose organisations and grouplets. Many of these were out to liberate members who had been caught a few days ago and had been imprisoned. Others were just seeking revenge and had selected their target pretty much at random. There had been a certain degree of coordination. Everybody realized they stood a far better chance at success if they all worked in unison. For a change there had been an agreement. Common sense had prevailed. Everybody realized they could not simply overthrow those in power, but they could still act, do something that made a difference, something which had more than symbolic meaning. Although to casual onlookers it might appear to be random rioting by hordes of subhuman scum giving way to their lowest and most debased instincts, much of what was going on was wellªprepared and well©dir ected. True enough, some elements revelled in wanton destruction. A number of innocent bystanders were mugged. More importantly, the goals that had been set were being achieved. Prisoners were being located and liberated. Interesting bits of high©technology were gratefully being taken away in the process. Even more importantly from a personal viewpoint, it looked as though their own goals would be achieved as well. Their target had of course been the I©Site. Some of Riff's men and a group they had joined forces with led by a girl called JoyStyx were operating from their headquarters, as they euphemistically called their sleazy, rundown hideouts. All sorts of missiles were directed from there, and a fair amount of downloading was done into a number of computer systems. None of the downloaded material, if and when it managed to sneak past safety barriers, would be especially welcomed with open arms. Although it didn't really matter as far as her own plans and

ambitions were concerned, Cynthia was glad the action she was participating in was part of a generalized social unrest that had been brewing for some time. Her group's action and goals were not separated from the rest of society, but neatly fitted into a sociological pattern like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. It proved her she was on the right track, however much that was worth. Riff, self©acclaimed master strategist, had deemed it wiser to opt out of an all©out attack on the I©Site which would immediately have settled the score © but not necessarily in their favor. "We shouldn't come unannounced," he had said, chuckling. "My holo department has been hard at work with the preparations." The holo department were some of the guys he worked with. He now tended to refer with mock©formality to his various buddies, such as holo department, security staff, computer liaison and public relations team, rather than with the nicknames that were so popular down here. She hoped it wouldn't last. Mock©formality didn't become him, not unlike genuine formality. As they had entered the I©Site, it had quickly become apparent how successful Riff's strategy had been. Riff's men had been projecting loads of holograms into the I©Site's confines, and another team had let loose a number of cyberpets. The holo programs had been written with a specific goal in mind : they were supposed to scare the living daylights out of anyone running into them. The fact that people over here weren't too well©acquainted with holos was a bonus. There was a number of burning men, for instance, an improvement on the original design in that they looked much more realistic and terrifying. A whole batch of brand new types had been written, the most sensational one of which had been labelled Mr. DK, a man subject to a highly accelerated deterioration process. Before the onlooker's very eyes the poor sod's body rotted away, shreds of tissue dropping to the ground, sagging organs becoming visible, intestines alive with crawling maggots, disintegrating until the bones became visible, rotting and splintering in their turn, until only a slimy carcass was left, falling apart at the seams. Mr. DK was absolutely nauseating and bound to have a profound impact on the uninitiated passerby. He must have done a great job here. Immediately after the holos had become active, the cyberpets had been given the freedom to roam around the I©Site. Eyescape Inc. staff members who were under the impression that these were holos as well quickly learned they were very much real © usually too late to save them. The cyberpets came in various shapes and sizes. This particular lot had been selected because of their useful qualities in this operation : some sprayed toxins around them as they went, others produced a literally sickening stench, or dripped inflammable fluids. All of them tended to attack anything they ran into © that would include Riff's men too, so they would have to be careful. Holos and cyberpets were very nice, but they would not do the job. Their only purpose was to create a proper atmosphere for what was about to come. In the meantime the hackers, back in their "headquarters", hadn't been idle either. They had managed to infiltrate the I©Site's computer system and all its electronic circuits. Doors opened and closed in random patterns, making the entering or leaving of a room or corridor section a matter of life and death. Computers had gone berserk or given up. Hordes of autonomic cleaning devices had been activated and were adding a new dimension to the concept of cleaning, as they stalked the corridors and offices out to cleanse them thoroughly © the borderline between dirt and human life had vanished altogether

for them. Food and drink dispensers had started taking their jobs literally. Jets of scaldingly hot coffee were sent off at irregular intervals, and snacks and munchies were launched at high speed, turning them into fearsome projectiles. The airªconditioning was alter nating between swelteringly hot blasts of air and gusts of freezing wind. Water was running everywhere, forming rivulets and cascading down the stairs. Lights were blinking on and off in maddening patterns. When Riff's and JoyStyx' joint army arrived here (the general chaos and anarchy had simplified the journey from Nowhere City to this part of the City Center) they had been mightily pleased with the result. Without losing time they proceeded to Haggles' office. Cynthia was with them, as she knew her way around the I©Site, and also because she didn't want to miss this part of the operation. The climb to Haggles' quarters proved uneventful, considering the general atmosphere of localized Armageddon. A number of cyberpets and out©of©control devices had to be dealt with, but this was done with efficiency by Riff's crew, who were experienced at this game. The same could not be said of the Eyescape Inc. staff. Nobody was present in Haggles' office but for Mr. Tastebud himself. Outside in the corridor they had seen some casualties, fallen prey to cyberpets or cleaning devices or perhaps sheer madness. Only a small party had come up here with her. Most of the gang had gone hunting for high©tech treasures all over the I©Site. Here, however, was where vital business would be done, as far as she was concerned. She had felt relief as she had entered the room through the shattered door (an explosion?) and had immediately checked two things : Haggles was plugged in all right, and his personal computer rig was undamaged and functioning normally, as had been explicitly demanded. She still had her doubts. Sick Joke agreed it would be tricky, but it could be done. There was no way Haggles could be pried loose from his VRT drive. That would rupture the VRT experience and spoil their plans. Taking the entire computer system along with him was another option that would work in theory but proved far too impractical to carry out. Sick Joke had brought a device invented by her hacker buddy Neurodancer, a portable piece of equipment that would now be hooked up to the computer. The girl carefully went about her task bringing about the link between Haggles' VRT drive and her own gizmo. Its program then made it possible to copy the VRT program and all other potentially vital software on the mother disk, after which the connection with the computer could be broken off. Haggles would not be aware of anything. The VRT experience would go on without any interruption. To Cynthia's relief everything seemed to work out as planned. She found it annoying that she could do nothing but watch others do the job. Finally Haggles could be carried off, Neurodancer's invention strapped to his back. They moved back out of the I©Site, carrying their heavy burden. They met no resistance of any importance. A relative calm had been restored in the building, all autonomic devices and other facilities had either been destroyed or had burned out. They did encounter some cyberpets which were still active, and had to eliminate these. Every now and then holos would drift or lumber through them, but they paid no attention to them. Flames nor decomposition managed to raise an eyebrow with this lot. Outside on the pavement their paths separated. Cynthia was to go back to headquarters, whereas the others would take care of Haggles. She wished them luck and went on her way.

She wondered if it would work out alright. The plan seemed too daring to be workable, but these guys claimed to have some experience and they appeared quite confident. Bookings had been made, as had phantom payments. While on a plane to the Afflicted Area Haggles would remain plugged in. When the VRT program had run its course, a followup program in Neurodancer's rig would take over and have Haggles segue into this program which would keep him going till he was unplugged. This second program was nothing special as such. It didn't have a purpose apart from keeping an operation on the tracks. Cynthia had been told Haggles would have a sensation of falling asleep and waking up after a terrible night. Before disembarking he would be sedated, so that he would be sleeping in reality as well. Probably he would be unable to tell apart reality from VRT. The plan was for his companion to drop off Haggles at an interesting spot in the Afflicted Area, and come back alone. By all accounts Haggles should never be heard of again. The forest and its wildlife would take care of him in a way that would satisfy everybody © possibly excluding Haggles himself. She hoped everything would work out nicely. There were only two ways : either they never heard of Haggles again, which would mean they had been successful. Or he did turn up © and that would be hellishly catastrophical. Time, as usual, would tell.

Ã*)Ã26 Haggles woke up and the very same instant he knew something was wrong, fundamentally wrong. You never went to sleep in a VRT, nor did you wake up. Nobody took the trouble to plug into a VRT in order to experience the most boring of everyday routines like retiring to bed and waking up the next morning. He knew for a fact this was not a mistake in the program. That meant it had to have some purpose or other. He would have to find out which purpose exactly. He still had no clue as to what all this was about. What had the goddamn bitch been up to? What was the meaning of yesterday's pants©wetting episode? Had it been yesterday, for that matter? There was no way to be sure, and actually it didn't really matter. What was important was what today had in store for him. He'd have to blot out the memories of what had gone before. Forget the pain, until it had died down to a vaguely lingering sensation in the background of his consciousness. He sighed, decided he had done enough brooding and should start to look around. He seemed to be in a sort of jungle. Not without difficulty he rose to his feet. He felt tired and empty. Waking up as such was not so bad. Waking up without finding a full breakfast in front of you was. He studied the jungle more carefully now. He had to admit the girl had done a very fine job. She was a genuine artist in the true sense of the word. Too bad she happened to be battling on the other side. Painstaking attention had been given to an incredible amount of detail. There was a stunning variety of plant life all around him, a myriad shapes and sizes. But all these shrubs and bushes and trees didn't appear to be individual life forms. He had the distinct feeling they were all somehow interlocked, intertwined, forming a gigantic cluster. Clumps and conglomerations of shrubs and vines and mushrooms and parasitic creepers all blended harmoniously into each other, forming a virtually impenetrable

mass of vegetation, layer upon green layer, a multi©species unity bent on world domination. It took some serious effort to manoeuver himself through the dense foliage. After a while he reached an area with some more open space, where he decided to take a rest. Amazing, he thought. A stunning achievement. But what was the point? His stomach growled, alarmingly so. This was final proof, if any were still required, that something was wrong here. You didn't grow hungry in a VRT. The hunger, incidentally, felt painfully real. It was a highly unsettling sensation. Of course he hadn't been hungry for a long time. He had been used to taking in food constantly for quite some time. His body had been designed to have a never©ending appetite, which was great if you spent most of your life in an exquisite restaurant, but that was now sadly a thing of the past. And food was nowhere in sight over here. Unless, of course, some of these plants would turn out to be edible. Maybe he would have to give them a try. A sudden realization dawned on him, chillingly : maybe he would be forced to try them out, as his hunger grew worse. At this stage, he still managed to shrug it off and ignore it. But how long would he manage to do so? Still, that was no immediate concern and he'd better concentrate on the task at hand. Sweating profusely, and swearing equally profusely, he took step after laborious step through what seemed to be two walls of ominous green. How would this VRT segment end? In raw pain, like the previous one? More likely, a fine artist like this girl wouldn't resort to cheap repititions and would come up with more varied material. He would have to wait and see, let the damn program run its course. Even though he realized some new program elements were due to be introduced, he once again expected animals to drop into the scene any second now. Plants alone wouldn't do the job, that much was sure. In the meantime his stomach continued to make growling and gurgling sounds, until he could no longer ignore it. The growing feeling of emptiness had taken on menacing proportions. How long had he been without food now? He'd have to do something about it. Panting, he halted dead in his tracks, leaned against a vine©encrusted tree stem, thicker than his waist. After a few minutes he could think clearly again. This part of the story was maddening. Nothing was happening. It was no use to keep walking, as he didn't even know where he was going to. What was the point of all this? He could, from an objective point of view, understand and appreciate yesterday's events as a successful scary VRT, but this part was worthless. Two possible explanations offered themselves. The first one was automatically rejected : a malfunctioning program or VRT drive. But as a rule, those mishaps no longer occurred. VRT technology had about reached perfection on that score. So there was the other theory : this wasn't a VRT. He had slipped out of it somehow and was now back in reality. But then how had he ended up in this jungle? He had plugged in in his office. There was no way he could have arrived here, unplugged, wherever this was. So this theory had to be rejected too. Which left no possible explanation he could think of. His train of thought was interrupted as he noticed a creature, sitting on a branch of the tree he was leaning against. Dumbfounded he stared at it © and it stared back, equally surprised. He hadn't seen anything like it before © but then neither had the creature. It had the appearance of a rodent, but sported spider's legs with which it clung to the lightly swaying branch it was perched on. Its large, bulging eyes stared

at him with obvious hunger. The feeling was mutual, but his fear by far outweighed his hunger at this stage. Taking deep breaths, and with a feeling of despair as he seemed to hit the bottom of his energy supply with each intake of breath, he set off again through the vegetation©clogged forest. Exhaustion and hunger were now vying for his attention. He stopped. It was impossible to continue. He had run out of energy. He had to eat first. He just had to, one way or another. Anything edible in sight would do. There was no sense in being choosy now. His life depended on it. He would have to overcome his revulsion for uncooked plants, or, even worse, raw meat. It was a matter of life and death. But what could he eat? He looked around, spotted a vaguely fruit©like bulge on a bush a few steps away. Eagerly he tore it loose from the bush, took a bite, eyes closed. Too bad. This stuff was too tough to chew, or even to rip into more manageable pieces. Furious, he threw it to the ground. What about a small animal then? He looked around. Of course he would have to catch it © that was the trouble with animals. Anyway, there were no animals in sight right now. The rat©spider or whatever it was hadn't followed him. So he'd have to keep walking, painful and gut©wrenching as it was, and look out for something. Presently he spotted a lizard©like creature, but as he drew nearer it scurried away amid low vegetation. This would not be easy. Not only would his prey have to be small, it would also have to be sluggish. And, he added, edible. No poison. Easily removable skin or scales, high nutritious value, acceptable taste so he could keep it down. Surely all that wasn't asking too much? Being consumer©friendly was the least one could ask of wildlife in this godforsaken forest. No doubt some sloth was waiting around the corner to provide him with an excellent meal. Conscious of its taste, the creature would be proud to be eaten by gourmet wizard Jordan Haggles. It would be a rare honor. He shook his head, tried to clear it of these nonsensical musings that led nowhere. He forced himself to get back moving, on and on. Time went by. He didn't know how long he had been going and how much distance he had covered. Time and space had become meaningless categories, no longer applying to him in his current situation. There was hunger and exhaustion, and now a third sensation was being added to it : rising panic, resonating throughout his body just like yesterday's pain. He ran into a handful of small animals, but these all scurried or slithered away as soon as they became aware of him. Finally he spotted a creature that wasn't scared away as he entered its territory. It was larger than the other animals he had seen so far, definitely reptilian although its skin wasn't covered with scales and it didn't have reptile's legs. Its body reminded him of an alligator, a small one in this case, but it had the head and neck of a tortoise. It scrutinized him, possibly deciding whether this newcomer would make a decent meal. Haggles was glad that, whatever its motivation might be, it didn't run off. Maybe that very fact should be comforting, and he managed to fight down his rising panic by sheer willpower. He had found a willing prey. Unless of course I am the prey, and not the hunter, he coolly observed. Whatever the case may be, it would soon become apparent. After a moment's hesitation, he slowly moved toward the fallen tree trunk the animal was sitting on, edging closer step by little step. The creature didn't stir, expectantly. It kept its eyes locked with his, a cold, piercing stare. When he had

gotten within arm's length, he lurched out, trying to grab the creature by surprise. As he had feared he had grossly miscalculated his hunting skills, not to mention the speed of his movements. He didn't manage to grab the creature © it had caught hold of his arm, and didn't seem inclined to loosen its grip. Now that it had him firmly in its many©fingered paws, it started to study its catch from closeby, carefully and methodically. A long, slim tongue unfurled out of its mouth, and with it the creature examined his body thoroughly. The tongue must have considerable tactile qualities, and perhaps combined the function of a tongue and a set of feelers. All at once the creature emitted a series of high shrieks. Was it calling for assistance? Or merely notifying its family that dinner was served? To his alarm, the creature now carefully slashed the skin on his shoulders, his belly and his thighs and slipped its tongue into these slits. Haggles squirmed with pain, but strangely enough the pain quickly ebbed away, along with all other sensations. Was he being tranquillized? Sedated? Poisoned? Was this the end? What a way to die. What a terrible waste. At least he no longer felt his hunger, which had dwindled away along with all the rest. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a host of similar creatures appear, no doubt summoned by his captor's shrieks. They walked in a funny, rather clumsy way, but seemed determined enough. These weren't innocent passersby. As they eagerly reached out for him with their tongues, his vision blurred and was presently lost altogether. Finally, consciousness dimmed as well. Until nothing was left.

27 "Jim. Jim!" Dressler called him in an agitated voice, gesturing wildly. The man was alive with enthusiasm. Jim waited till he had covered the distance separating them. The vegetation all around them had quieted down. It was now no longer possible to distinguish the original plant life from the recent bioªweapons' additions. Not that it really mattered. "What's up?" he asked Dressler, who had come up to him by now. "What a day!" he exclaimed, as if he'd just found out a wild party had been thrown in his honor. "I just met my former colleagues. Oh, Jim. Words fail me. If only you knew©©" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the entire forest in a wide sweep of his arm. "I understand your feelings," Jim said. "You've been separated from your peers for too long. No doubt you were suffering from shoptalk withdrawal symptoms. I'm sure that very soon you'll have ample time to discuss their work with them. But for now©©" "Yes, yes," he replied impatiently, "but that's not the issue at hand right now. You need to be filled in, Jim. You've been cut off from news ever since you were separated from your War Force buddies. So much has happened. Some of it was new to me as well. You think the world has stood still while you were strolling through the park, Jim?" Of course, Jim realized. How could I have forgotten? He had been so wrapped up in his own plans and ambitions, his personal concerns and adventures, or put even more succinctly, his own very survival, that he had lost the world out there out of sight.

I could use a news roundup now, he realized. He said, "Of course you're right. So tell me the most important bits." "Follow me," Dressler said. "I've been out of touch myself. You should talk to a former colleague of mine. Why do I still call him a former colleague, for God's sake? We're back together at last! If only you knew how good it feels! I'm like reborn. It's not that I fail to realize we're in dire straits, but this reunion has really put me on the tracks again. Follow me. Hank is probably still in the Main Lab. That's where they were all hiding when we came bursting in. They had been prepared for something like this. It appears they've run into a number of problems these last few weeks, and they decided not to take any chances. Follow me," he said once again, as if Jim had made several attempts already to shake him off and flee into the forest. Hank turned out to be a biologist in his late thirties. He looked tired, as did all the other staff members Jim saw. They hadn't been through the easiest of times lately. Most of them nodded when Dressler introduced him, but few seemed inclined to engage in a conversation or even to pay attention. They probably had more pressing concerns at this moment. Tired and haggard as he was, Hank Ashton seemed willing to assume the role of staff spokesman and the three of them sat down at a table in a quiet corner. Jim shot a glance at Dressler, who indicated he was here to listen rather than to talk. "I suppose you're the man in command now," Hank said, "or at least the person who has taken command." "Somebody had to," Jim said. "So fill me in, Hank. What's been going on while we were busy?" Hank chuckled. ""While we were busy". I like that." He sighed, collected his thoughts for a moment, then looked Jim in the eyes and said, "Quite a lot has been going on, actually. The War Force has been dealt some serious blows by a number of these irregular armies. You know who I mean. I suppose you're on their side now. Well, various Bases in the Afflicted Area have been attacked, and some have even been wiped off the map. You could say that the war effort is faltering now. They clearly cannot cope with the present situation, and for a variety of reasons. General Headquarters must by now admit they have lost control over the situation and fail to adapt to the changing circumstances. Of course they have come under attack from all sides, even on the home front." "Don't tell me the war has spread that far afield?" "No, it hasn't. Or in a certain sense, yes, it has been right from the very start." "I don't think I'm reading you loud and clear there." "Aw, come on. Don't tell me you never experienced anything odd in training. Right from the outbreak of the war the training centres in both the United States of Europe and the United States of North America have become the target of shadowy underground subversive types. They had a knack for "infiltrating" training VRTs and they inflicted a fair amount of sabotage activities on all War Force operations. Whatever measure the military computer and VR security guys cooked up, these hackers swiftly and efficiently countered them. And as time went by and their knowledge of the military network increased their actions became more and more successful. Hacker sabotage has now become a cancer, causing the War Force body to rot from within. For all I know they'll get the system on its knees in the end. Apparently they can't be stopped. They're too powerful." "True enough." Jim nodded understandingly. "When I was in

training I've been exposed to some samples of their work. Quite impressive, I must admit. I didn't let it get to me, though." "But something else got you, later on. Or else how do you explain your presence here and your current position?" "We'll come to that," Jim said, impatiently waving the remark away. "What about the evolution here in the Afflicted Area?" Hank chuckled. "Reluctant to talk about your own evolution, are you? We'll come to that, oh yes we will. Well, then. Over here things gradually deteriorated as well. More and more groups and grouplets of guerrilleros rose to the challenge of defeating the War Force. They had an edge, and they knew it and used it to their full advantage. The forest, maddeningly transforming as it was, was their home, and its wildlife was their ally. Furthermore their was no such thing as 'the enemy' for the War Force. The myriads of groups, working on their own or together intermittently, were too faceless and diversified to deal with on a generalized basis. Training proved insufficient, and I'm sure sabotage©free training wouldn't have made a difference. The forest alone was hell to cope with © would have been so even without a war. As War Force troopers felt control slipping from their fingers, morale sank and utter demoralisation set in, only to make the problem worse. Things inevitably went downhill from there." "I think that process may have set in at around the time we were separated from our Base." "It had set in earlier. As a matter of fact, you could say this war was doomed right from the start. They should never had decided to go ahead with it in the first place." "Too late to worry about that, I'd say. What else?" "As Bases were substantially hit or even obliterated, the communications network started to fail too. Contact between Bases and General Headquarters became irregular, and people in command no longer had a clear picture of the state of affairs. If they had a picture at all, it was an incomplete one, consisting of various contradictory pieces of information." Hank fell silent for an instant, lost in thought. "How was the situation over here at Monrovia Base? This wasn't just another army base, was it? You must have been better protected, better equipped to deal with whatever came up. This area is supposed to be a vital one. Yet I had the feeling we could walk all over you. So what happened?" "We've had our share of problems. At first we had a massive security force over here. As you pointed out this is a vital area, of the highest strategic importance. There were more troopers than scientists and other non©military personnel combined. If there is a prime target in this war, this is it. But an endless string of small©scale attacks and skirmishes wore us down, and then contact became irregular and supplies stopped coming according to schedule. Quite a bit of the soldiers and workers were either killed or disappeared. Maybe they fled in panic, maybe they defected to the other side. Most of us had by then understood the end was in sight." "So what did you do?" "There wasn't all that much to do for us. The Research and Development facilities themselves were the first to be put on ice. There was a variety of reasons. As I said we suffered personnel problems. Then there was the trouble with irregular supplies, and linked with that, we could no longer ship our finished products due to the reduced number of flights reaching

us, and off schedule at that. At first we decided to reduce the volume of finished product we averaged per day. But recently we had to shut down the development facilities altogether. There was no point in going on. Research too ground to a halt for the same reasons. An additional problem was that we were so poorly informed. The only thing we were told repeatedly was that all was well and there was no need to worry." Hank chuckled. "Of course any reasonable person knows that when he's told there's no reason to worry, he'd better start running. "So in the end this place was like another army Base with a lot of non©military personnel and a lot of unused buildings. We had been making plans when you came bursting in at the exact moment." "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means that if you had come any earlier, we might still have been strong enough to wipe you out or at least drive you back. If, on the other hand, you had come later, it might have been too late. Maybe there would have been nothing left to salvage. It was getting that bad." "What about those plans you mentioned?" "Well, at one point we all realized it would be better for all concerned if we left for home before it was too late. So we sent for a number of planes to fly us back home, us being the few dozen of scientists you've seen here. These planes are to arrive in the near future, if they are scheduled to come at all. We've had confirmation, but there's no way to be sure under the current circumstances." "And what are you going to do now?" "Frankly, I don't know. Things have of course radically changed. We'll have to discuss this at length." He sighed, avoided Jim's gaze, appeared once again lost in thought. "Just suppose you would all have left. How would the situation have developed from there?" Hank merely shook his head. "It would have been up to the military guys, I guess. We were desparate, wanted to get out at all cost." "You think the planes are on their way?" "Possibly. They should be. Don't ask me when. Don't ask me anything for a while. I'm tired. If you will please excuse me." The man rose to his feet and trudged off to where his colleagues were. Jim exchanged glances with Dressler, who had been silently listening all along. "Well? Any bright ideas, Jim?" "This was interesting," Jim said. "And this news opens new perspectives. I'll have to talk to Giancarlo. I have this feeling he'll work out a cunning strategy once again."

28 I shouldn't see this as the end, Cynthia thought, as she walked home. I should regard Eyescape Inc. as a stepping stone on the road to wherever I'm bound to end up. In retrospect there was no way I could be stuck there forever. I just had to move on. Only now it has come quicker than expected. So in a sense a good thing has happened. It's important to always concentrate on the

positive aspects of everything, however dismal the things that were happening to you were. It was just no use to let it get to you. Grab a foothold on your new vantage point, head straight for your goal and keep going. I'd better face it, she thought. At one point Eyescape Inc. had been her only chance © now it was a thing of the past already, a phase she had gone through. A necessary one, perhaps, one she would have to use as a background in the times to come. Her time at the I©Site provided her with credentials and experience, and she had gotten to know a bunch of people she might like to work with again. She was thinking of the lowerªranking people she ha d worked with, rather than revolting newªlifer types such as Gene Kirzowski and Al an Lundlow. The latter had escaped all of the fun, as he had been in hospital at the time for "body©improvement" and some "fashion©conscious rearrangements." The former had suffered serious mental troubles due to the all©out psychotic VRT she had handed him. Sick Joke's work turned out to be quite effective. Over at the I©Site the damage had been repaired as quickly as possible. Stolen equipment was replaced. Business had to go on. The fact that Haggles was missing had caused quite a buzz. No explanation had been given and was withheld until they would have some firm news of his whereabouts. As a number of chief executives were absent temporary replacements had been appointed. The company would not achieve its normal work rate before a week or so, but they were determined to struggle back whatever the cost. That left her with some pretty important questions : where would she go from here? Staying at the I©Site with its sickening new©lifers was out of the question. Anyway Kirzowski wouldn't like to see her face again there © when he was back in shape. She had been looking into the possibility of starting her own company, a small©scale affair. If she could manage to lure away some of the Eyescape Inc. people she had worked with, she might give it a try. She didn't feel like going back to work on her own, as before. Insecurity would be just too high. The city seemed to be on the verge of a change, but that didn't mean all problems had been solved. Her train of thoughts was interrupted by a sudden outburst of deafening noise, an amalgam of deeply reverberating riffs, high whining shrieks and blares and rapid©fire drumming. A street band had just started a "gutter gig", and already flocks of people were gathering around them. It wasn't the first of these gigs she had run into these last few days, but it certainly was one of the most elaborate ones. No doubt these guys had done some serious "shopping" in the City Center during the recent riots. The band used two guitars, a synthesizer and some less recognizable electronic instruments, together producing a blur of sound, an aural barrage of pounding rhythm, bludgeoning riffs and ear©piercing sound effects. Yet all this was merely a backdrop : the real show was a set of holo images flickering on and off at very short intervals, matching the pace of the music, and creating a maddening visual inferno that blinded the eyes and racked the nerves. Most of the audience didn't seem to bother much about that, though. Mind©numbing as the pattern of flickering holos was to them, they threw themselves with wild abandon onto the imaginary stage and matched the pattern with jerky movements, not without some initial mishaps. Soon a swirling mass of people had formed, thrashing and flailing and jumping in unison, as if a group of puppeteers were

pulling the strings in perfect harmony. Weaving their programmed way in between and through the participants were the holos, constantly appearing and disappearing. There were several types: an ancient warrior, his axe poised, ready to strike; a variety of mythical animals, none very peaceful looking; a number of abstract shapes and structures, all somehow sinister and menacing. On and on the merry©go©round went, swept along by the sonic onslaught. So gutter gigs are back in force, she thought, as she continued her walk. Up ahead she could see another band putting their show on the road, attracting people and creating general mayhem. Their music couldn't be heard. From this distance it was drowned by the noise produced by the band she had just turned her back to. This sudden revitalization of street music had to mean something. Bands had recaptured their drive, were perhaps drawing renewed strength and fresh inspiration from the events that had shook the city these last few weeks. And it's typical, she thought, so very typical for the whole Nowhere City scene. Out there in the "civilized world", a vast array of music VRTs had killed off live music. It was so much nicer to plug in and be right among the audience, participating in an excellent concert, suited to your tastes and conducted in perfect conditions. You could also be one of the musicians on stage, if you so desired. So the success of music VRTs had closed the market for live concerts © but not in Nowhere City. Over there a lot of live music was still being performed, but out on the streets rather than in concert halls. Many people here detested the clean artificiality of VRT music, and preferred their music raw and rough, sweat©soaked, cranked out at high volume on street corners and market squares. As a rule the musicians were backed up by artsy holos which turned these "gutter gigs" into multiªmedia events. A broa d range of styles was represented, musically as well as visually. The majority adopted an over©the©top all©out mayhem approach, such as the band she had just witnessed. No doubt some City Center critics and sociologists would come up with elaborate theories about the deeper meanings of all this. She wondered how these bands survived. On the street you weren't paid for your work, although most of the people participating in the event gave them some stuff in trade. She had never been particularly attracted to this scene. But it wasn't just music that brought Nowhere City's streets alive. These last few days lots of activities had found their way back to those streets. Whole flocks of vendors could now be seen all over the place. Apparently many people who had done some serious "shopping" during the recent riots were now selling some of their acquisitions. She could see that business was flourishing. Nowhere City vibrated with newfound activity, as if this part of the Urban Area had finally awoken from a long slumber. And she had the distinct feeling it wasn't inclined to go back to sleep soon. It seemed committed, now that it was wide awake at last, to get some serious action going. It must have a lot to do, lots of things it had always thought or dreamed about that now seemed within reach. Eager and hungry as it was, Nowhere City could now no longer be stopped. When she got home, she found her apartment was invaded by the sound of yet another band operating nearby. There was little else to do but to switch on her antique TV set and turn up the volume. Maybe it would be easier to think that way. She switched channels, hoping to find something that would form a suitable backdrop for her thoughts, but as TV station

after TV station flicked past her attention drifted away from her plans for her own future to what she saw appear on the screen. Most of what she saw were news bulletins. That seemed to be the thing to expect, only she realized it had been different not all that long ago. One day TV had been mainly about entertainment. The rise of VR technology had quickly caused a collapse of entertainment in all other media, which either had to adapt to changing circumstances or were pushed back into oblivion. TV had managed to adapt, although it had lost ground considerably. It now delivered what VRTs could not or found uninteresting to deliver. News and reportage rose to prominence. Movies were still being shown. She would have thought movies would by now be a dead art form, totally unable to compete with VRTs, but they still had their aficionados. There would always be a minority interested in old, obsolete art. She changed channels once more, watched for a few moments an interview in progress. "This," a man in an old©fashioned suit was saying, "is what I call the copy©book effect. I can't say these recent phenomena came as a surprise to me. It's a law of sociology. The moment I saw the first reports of the riots in the city center of Lower East©Coast Urban Area I just knew this copy©book effect would take place." "So," the interviewer interjected, "you knew in advance the riots would spread to a number of other Urban Areas in the United States of North America. Would you care to explain? Are these riots in any way different from the original ones?" "The underlying cause of all this social unrest is of course the socio©economic climate of the Urban Areas. The gap between the rich upper class and the poverty©stricken masses is widening, and these masses are increasing in number. The Urban Areas are still expanding. Social unrest had been brewing for some time. Then all that was needed to make everything burst into flames was a lit match. As to you second question, yes there is a noticeable difference." "In what sense?" "After careful analysis I found that the original riots in Lower East©Coast Urban Area were a well©directed effort, with a political approach and a clear goal in mind. Those aspects were missing in other Urban Areas, where a more random rioting took place. People just caused mayhem, but there was no leadership behind it, it was not a "movement" in action out to achieve a specific goal." "What are your predictions for©©" The interviewer was cut short as she switched to another channel. An idea had struck her. She should have noticed it earlier, but now after glimpsing a number of channels in rapid succession she had the distinct feeling she had discovered something of major importance. Just to be sure, she scanned all channels again, watching each for ten seconds before moving on. She leaned back, frowning. She had been right. All the channels showing news or interviews or reportages were covering the riots and everything connected with them. One subject, however, that had been prominent in the news until recently, was no longer being mentioned, let alone covered. The War, she thought. Are they trying to drive it out of people's minds? And what did all this ecaxtly mean? Was there a deliberate attempt to divert attention from the War? Was something going on they were not supposed to know?

It could for instance mean the War was not progressing according to plan. This simply had to be bad news. She had to admit they were playing the game cleverly, though. Attention was directed to something which was happening at home, something in which everyone felt involved. As long as people were flooded with information about pressing and personal concerns, there was hope they would forget about the War. If they managed to do so long enough, they might be successful in eliminating the War from the collective consciousness. If all her speculation was correct, it left one burning question : what the hell was going on in the War Zone? And how would she ever find out? She switched to a few more channels, then turned off the TV, preferring the cacophony still being produced out on the street. All things considered, it proved to be a more fitting backdrop for her musings.

Ã*)Ã29 "You can't do this to us," Dressler said emphatically, his voice rising in pitch. "Oh yes we can," Jim countered. "And as a matter of fact, we will. You'll have to understand this course of action is in the best interests of all parties concerned. And that includes you." "That's only your opinion." "You know very well that it's more than just an opinion of ours. In the long run you'll benefit from what we're trying to achieve." Dressler leaned back in his chair, sighed, disgust and resignation alternating on his face. "I suppose you're right. Still this would mean we are stuck here, and who knows for how long? Perhaps forever. We had set all our hopes on the planes my colleagues sent for. It was the only way to cast off total despair, the only way out left. And now you come stumbling in, take over and as if that isn't enough you claim these planes for your own purposes and leave us here in the middle of chaos and madness, all our hopes shattered, our lives endangered, our future obliterated. What do you expect us to do here, now that everything has ground to a halt? What can our presence here possibly mean?" "What you have to do here is to carry on as best you can. I know this won't be easy, things being what they are, but it's your only option." Dressler laughed, a contrived, unnatural©sounding snort. "Oh, I really like that, Jim. We're free to do whatever we like, aren't we? Really very kind of you gentlemen. We feel privileged. Now, let's see, what could we do?" He frowned, as if in thought, then said in mock©serious tone, "We might for instance open up this place for tourists. That could well develop into a decent source of income. If all goes well we may in the near future even expand our business and©©" "Listen," Jim interrupted him, "I fully understand the reasons for your sarcasm, but I'm afraid I haven't got the time for it now. We know your choices are limited, but then so are ours. There is simply no other way for us to finish the job we've tackled." It was of course Frianelli who had come up with the idea, as soon as news had reached them that a number of planes were on their way and scheduled to arrive soon. This is our chance, he

had told Jim. We'd better grab it with both hands, for it may be our only chance. They had sat down and Frianelli had unfolded his plans. "Our job isn't finished," he had told Jim. "We've merely completed the first step. Now we should move on to the second step. If we want to do something that is more than a symbolic gesture, if we want to hit the big boys hard, then we'll have to strike where it hurts. I've given this matter a lot of thought, Jim, and I'm sure you'll agree with my conclusions." "So let's hear 'em," he had said. "These last few days," Frianelli had said, twirling around his fingers a dried©up string of new plant©life culled from the decaying battlefield all around the Base, "I've talked to a lot of the personnel, scientific and otherwise, and learned a whole lot. I think that by now I have a fairly complete and wellªbalanced picture of the real situation out there." "You mean the War?" "The War, its underlying causes and all its ramifications. So I guess I finally know what we're up against, and what our chances are of doing something about it. We have to be realistic, of course. There's no way a handful of people, however determined and well©equipped and lucky they are, can overthrow the whole system. We have to take our limitations into account when defining our goals." "So what do we do?" Jim found his friend's rhetoric admirable. He must have prepared his speech carefully. "We can serve as a catalyst here, no pun intended, and push things in a certain direction. We can pave the way for others, open the gates and let the tide of evolution roll in." "How very elegantly put. But that's all theory, dear general, and up to now you haven't told me what you intend to actually do." "Well, Jim. We've just received confirmation that a number of planes are scheduled to touch down here, to drop off supplies and to pick up the scientists on their request. Apparently they are to be flown back to a hospital in the Lower East©Coast Urban Area for standard medical examination. It shouldn't be too difficult for us to take their place and continue our mission over there." "Who's "us"?" "You and me and all the men we can convince to join us. We'll take a carefully selected batch of bio©weapons with us, work out a strategy and kick some serious ass." "Whose ass?" "Good question, Jim. You're the perfect audience. We should do this more often. Did you know that the whole bio©technology business is in the hands of only a few people, and that the General Headquarters of Eyescape Inc., uncontested leader in its field, happen to be located in Lower East©Coast Urban Area? That means that these planes will take us right where we'll have to be. They're not aware of our coming. If we strike hard and fast where it hurts and meticulously carry out our plans, our effort may well make a difference. It'll be our contribution to a better world, Jim." "Unusual words for a diehard cynic." "You're opting out?" Frianelli sounded defiant, challenging. He clearly hadn't liked Jim's remark. "I didn't say that. Still I'd like to see how we're going to wipe out Eyescape Inc." "We can't do that, sure enough. But we can weaken them, take

their monopoly from them, distribute some of the bio©stuff we take along among strategically chosen parties. Make sure it falls into the hands of certain groups so that a normalization of the situation can commence. We could be instrumental in that respect. I've always wondered why such a process didn't happen before, in a more natural way." "Any explanation?" "Maybe. Some of the scientists here had some interesting ideas on that score. Some thought that each time some smaller competitor in the field of bio©catalyst applications arose it was immediately bought and controlled by Eyescape Inc. Those who refused to be bought were pushed out of the market. They had very, very tight control of the entire field. That's why we have to spread the stuff all over the place and smash their monopoly to smithereens." "New©lifers won't appreciate this, I'm afraid." Frianelli snorted contemptuously. "They're not supposed to. And I guess I'm not the only one who wouldn't mind if their importance decreases." "So what do we do now?" "I'll start work immediately on bio©weapons and related stuff. You go and ask who's willing to follow us. And tell Dressler and his cohorts that they'll miss their plane, but that they're welcome to extend their stay in this exhilarating resort area at no additional cost at all." "They'll be thrilled." Jim had found a number of men willing and ready to join. Not surprisingly many of the men preferred to return to their villages in the forest to attend to their regular duties. A fair number, however, wanted to leave this place behind, and for the time being this was the only opportunity to do so. A number volunteered to help with the bio©weapons and bio©catalyst material Frianelli wanted to take along with them. Jim set off to tell Dressler the good news and wasn't surprised by his reaction. Disappointment must have come like a shattering blow. His duties accomplished, Jim wanted to be on his own for some time and went out, strolled around without a clear purpose in mind, his thoughts diverging in all directions. The former battleground at his feet formed a fitting backdrop for his musings : decaying plant©life in various stages of decomposition, a tapestry of interwoven roots and stems, leaves and tendrils, blossoms and flowers, all victims of a desperate but successful struggle towards mutual destruction. The regular forest vegetation, insofar as the term regular could still be applied here, had started its invasion of this carpet of death, eager to reclaim the ground it had lost. It didn't know it was doomed to fail. The area around the Base had to be kept vegetation©free, and both the decaying masses of bio©weapons and the new conquerors were to be removed soon. Jim's thoughts meandered on but ultimately returned to their starting point : Giancarlo Frianelli. He still thought there were sides to the man's personality he couldn't quite fathom, although both of them had been together for a considerable time now. He had always viewed him as a cynic ; now the man had turned out to be a cynic with a cause. But what drove him? What made him refuse leadership and leave it to someone else who might not be totally trustworthy, or at least not totally won over for his cause? I'll have to admit it, he thought, there's a lot more to him than originally presumed. Who knows what the next days and weeks would reveal? What's in it for him personally, for instance? Frianelli

might be a lot of things, but a fuzzy©headed do©gooder he definitely wasn't. On the other hand, maybe this was what he had been working towards all the time. Initially he had harbored doubts, had seen these confirmed and had taken the required action to rectify the situation. Maybe he'd had this complex plan, carefully and warily hidden under layers of wry humor and cynicism, a protective armor of razor©sharp wit. Personal glory couldn't be his prime motivation, his reluctance to take on leadership was ample evidence of that. Was he an idealist after all? It just didn't make sense. There was but one way to find out, of course : go ahead with the plan, and observe the man's every move, analyse his every word. He'd have to delve deeper into his soul and try to complete the picture of his psyche. Incidentally, there seemed little else to do but to go ahead with the plan. It was the logical thing to take the action one step further. The only alternative was to turn back and live out his days in one of these forest villages. Perhaps track down Liberaciá¢án or whatever her real name was and carve out an existence here. But somehow that prospect didn't appeal to him. It would be an escape from what he felt to be his responsabilities, an escape from an active life in the real world. Not only would he sever the link with his past, but he would also be cut off from his future. He kicked against the brittle tapestry underfoot, and fragments broke off and whirled away. Giving in to a sudden impulse, devoid of all reasoning, he allowed himself a few moments of uncontrolled frenzy, kicked and kicked the unresisting vegetation until he had cleared a fair spot. Panting with the effort, he watched all the fragments and particles fall back to the ground, and felt satisfied, cleansed. His thoughts went back to the early days of the operation. Whatever happened to the other guys, he mused. Carvalho, MacLyle, and all the others whose names were already forgotten. Had they died? Casualties of this unreal War, or victims of the forest? Were they living, happily and freed of their past, in some peaceful forest village, kindly accepted by the New Natives? Or had they ended up like VanderMeer, as a part of the forest in a way more intimate than they could have imagined? And, come to think of it, which of these three possibilities was the most fulfilling, the most appropriate, the one to pick if a choice were offered? He shook his head, as if trying to clear it from these thoughts he knew to be futile, turned around and headed back to the Base's research and development buildings, and allowing himself the occasional kick against an outcrop of fragile dead vegetation. He would go with the flow, and find out what road to take as the future unfolded itself before him. Whatever future awaited him in the Lower East©Coast Urban Area, with Frianelli at his side, and a lot of trouble on his hands. Was a new and better world beckoning? Could the gap between the new©lifers and the teeming masses be bridged at all? Was it wise to throw in his lot with his starry©eyed friend who mocked the entire universe? Maybe, he concluded, it would be better not to think about it too much and plunge straight ahead into whatever the future had in mind for him.

30 "I'd like to talk to Riff," Cynthia said. "Is he in?" The girl, whose name she remembered to be Axe, nodded. The barbed wire tattoos on her breasts glistened with sweat. It was a hot day, and Riff wasn't likely to have an air©conditioned dwelling. "Sure," Axe said. "Welcome to the Palace of Wonderslime." Inside Riff was enjoying some moments of rest, while two of his hacker friends were busy at a computer terminal. As Cynthia entered, they turned around to say hello and she recognized Sick Joke and Neurodancer, the latter still wearing the scars of his short©term imprisonment following the raid on Nowhere City. No doubt he had been set free during the riots in the City Center. A huge holographic eye was floating in the middle of the room, shedding an enormous tear every dozen seconds or so, which dropped to the ground and dissipated like genuine liquid. "As you can see we're being watched," Riff said smugly. "And it doesn't like what it sees," Cynthia added. "Riff, I'd like to talk with you." "I'm listening." "A serious talk." She threw a glance at the two hackers' backs. Riff understood. "Let's go to the other room then." He rose to his feet, and crossed the room, passing straight through the giant eye and reappearing on the other side of it. At the very same instant a tear fell, and smiling wickedly Riff pretended to rinse his feet in the puddle which formed and quickly vanished. "Refreshing," he said. "I urge you to join me, Cynthia." "I would never shove my feet into your eye, Riff." "I appreciate your concern, lady. Follow me then." As they sat down together in the adjacent room, they continued their talk face to face. To Cynthia's relief this tiny room was free of holos © as far as she could determine. "Look, Riff. I desperately want to get back to the work I really feel like doing. I can't picture myself going back to Eyescape Inc. after all that's happened recently. Unfortunately I'm not strong enough at this stage to make it on my own. So I'd like to strike a partnership with any parties that might be interested." "The best of luck," Riff said in an even tone, emotionlessly. "You know very well what I was trying to say." "Of course I did. Well then." He shifted in his chair, let the aura of emotionlessness fade away. "I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere. We're in different lines of business, Cynthia. I liked working together with you, and will do so again when and if the opportunity arises, but a partnership is out of the question." "And that's final?" "Pretty much final. But hey, I'll extend a helping hand when needed. What are you out to do?" "Get back to work, perhaps with some other people who would want to leave the I©Site." "Seems like the thing to do to me. I wish you the best of luck. Maybe you'll need it." "Thanks." Before an uncomfortable silence could build up she changed course. "How's your business going?" "Wonderslime still reigns supreme," Riff cried out, ebulliently. "We're selling more and more of the stuff. My buddies are working on our source material like crazy, feeding it, experimenting on it, turning out more and more product, all

different kinds of stuff, including some very weird bits. It's hard to keep track of, for me. I'm more involved with the business side. So much for the good news." "Meaning there's also bad news?" "There always is. You see, more and more competitors are arriving on the scene. I don't know where they got their source material. Maybe they simply stole it." "Just like you." "I like your style. Casually dropped hints. Cool understatements. Tactful prodding." "Are you being driven out of business?" "It's not that bad yet. But the number of wonderslime dealers is increasing every day, and I'm worried. How long will this go on? One day the market will be saturated. We'll still be able to sell some stuff, but not enough to make a living. Prices will go down drastically. Maybe it's our own stupid fault. I guess many of our customers became dealers. So we're at least coªresponsible for t his happening to us. Just to be on the safe side we saw fit to move our wonderslime factory to a bigger and safer place. We're not too keen on visitors and souvenir hunters. As I said, I'm starting to get worried, although right now all is still going fine." "You think this place is calming down? Both the Center and over here?" Riff chuckled, cast down his eyes and shook his head. "No chance. I got this feeling it's only just beginning. Some real turmoil is brewing. It's lurking below the surface, not to be seen at first glance. And then there's these rumors spreading like wildfire. Just don't know what to think of it." "I've heard some of those rumors. Fill me in, Riff. I'm sure you know more about them." "I was told there's been some heavy trouble in the Silverwing Hospital down in the City Center, the one you paid a visit. Any fond memories of that trip? They must have had some violent action over there. Different sources tell different stories, though. My hacker buddies did some work and came up with yet other stories. So it's hard to know what's real." "Tell me anyway." "Well, some say there was an uproar of the hospital's war victims, due to their poor treatment. I don't buy that one. These guys are too far gone to work up anything even remotely menacing. On to the next : the Hospital has been attacked by rioters. That seems more likely, although I have my doubts on that one as well. You just don't walk in there. Nobody managed to even at the height of the riots. I see no Nowhere City group capable of getting away with that kind of action. Onwards to another set of rumors. Persistent ones, incredible and farfetched and so damn unlikely they may well be true, reality usually being what you least expect. The Hospital was invaded from the outside. A terrorist group that fell out of the blue, carrying out some arcane military operation. Well©equipped and well©trained to the point where they wiped the floor with Hospital security. They're the talk of the town. Mysterious bunch. Major ass©kicking hellªraisers from another dimension or at least further away than a couple of blocks. Rumors, wilder and wilder. I don't buy that one either. I'm a strict non©buyer in this respect. But something must have happened. We'll find out in the end. There must be some shreds of truth among this pile of nonsense." "I see. One other thing. What about the War? There's no official news on that score. That usually means there's actually

a lot of news we're not supposed to know." "Bull's eye, lady. We did some research on that subject too. Didn't come up with much, though." "Tell me anyway." "We couldn't discern any overall pattern. Parts of the War Zone appear to be controlled by the War Force, whereas other parts are in the hands of the resistance. In yet other parts fierce battles are being fought for hegemony. It's pretty hard to obtain a clear picture. The military situation is shifting constantly. Some of the reports are contradictory." "Do you think the War effort is crumbling?" "It might be. But there's no way to be sure. Maybe it'll pick up speed again and the resistance will be wiped out. Who knows? One of my buddies, who is an acknowledged expert on international military affairs," (bellowing laughter and serious thigh slapping before he could go on), "told me that the War Force just can't win but can't simply withdraw either and admit they've lost. So they will fight on doggedly, until the whole thing grinds to a painful halt." "And would that be the end of the bio©catalyst industry?" "Not necessarily. But it sure would be a major change. It would be a severe blow for the new©lifers." "Sounds fine to me." "Couldn't say what the outcome would be for us. Anything is possible. I guess we'll have to wait and see." "Are new troops still being sent out there?" "No idea." There was a silence, which she hurried to break with a quick change of subject: "Do you have any other bright ideas that might be of interest to me?" Riff smiled, a broad lecherous smile. "What about sex?" He leaned closer to her, his twinkling eyes peering into hers with what she hoped was mock©lust. "Thanks. I've got a decent collection of erotic VRTs that satisfy me pretty much completely. As a matter of fact I wrote some of them myself." "You sound scornful of the real thing. It doesn't attract you then?" He leaned back, mercifully. "No, it doesn't. For one thing it isn't safe in these times. For another thing it doesn't give me the same level of satisfaction as the VRT type." "So good clean old©fashioned fun has become obsolete, has it?" "You mean you still have a taste for it?" "Oh yes, I do. Mind you, I do plug in one of those erotic VRTs on occasion. I like to have the best of both worlds. Still, the pleasures of the flesh are special. There's no risk involved in my case. I know my girls, they know me. Make that pleasures of the non©plugged©in flesh. So you don't want to be one of my girls." "Count me out." "Hah! You're shaking all over at the very thought. You're recoiling in horror. Skin to skin contact! My God! Remember? Any dim, ancient memories on that score?" She rose to her feet. "Guess I'd better be on my way. Before lecherous thoughts overwhelm you and escape is no longer possible." Riff chuckled. "Good luck then. I'm sure we'll meet again. For business, I hasten to add. Or just saying hello. Strictly

innocent dealings. Bye bye." He was still sniggering as she left the Palace of Wonderslime. Or maybe it was the Palace of NonªPlugged©In Love?

Ã*)Ã31 "We should have become interior decorators," Frianelli said, chuckling his dreaded chuckle once more. Jim didn't bother to comment. He was tired and happy he could take it easy for a while. Things had happened at an incredible pace these last few hours. The long flight had tired his men, but they had all realized there would be no time to lose the moment they touched down. So they had acted with merciless speed and accuracy © and had pulled it off. Frianelli had once more proved to be a good strategist, although right now he seemed quite pleased with his recently discovered gift for interior decorating, as he labeled his tactics of infesting buildings with destructive bio©weapons. They had had luck on their side, Jim realized. Hospital personnel hadn't expected them to arrive here, and were by no means prepared for their actions. The Hospital did have its own security force, but these people hadn't really been expecting trouble from within. They were paid to keep unwelcome visitors out, not to hold back an evasion of malcontent patients © which wasn't a perfect description of Jim's gang anyway. The Hospital itself hadn't been their prime target. It was a stepping stone at best. They wiped the floor with the handful of security people they ran into, and took hold of the Hospital's vehicles. They would need those for the rest of their plan, not only because they allowed them to get fast where they had to be, but also because they wouldn't be too conspicuous in them. They hoped to be mistaken for Hospital personnel © when their true nature would be revealed, it wouldn't matter anymore. According to Frianelli's plan, they split up into several groups, and each group set off in its own vehicle to its destination : a number of big names in the bio©technology field had their headquarters here, including Eyescape Inc., leader in that particular field. The time had come to pay them a visit © and they were bringing presents. It was the I©Site Jim and Frianelli had singled out for their own group, as it presented the biggest challenge, a challenge they gladly rose to. So they had split up, not knowing if they would ever see the guys in the other groups again, not knowing what the exact consequences of their actions would be © providing they were successful at all. As they drove around the City Center on their way to the I©Site, they saw evidence that they were not the only ones to harbor rebellious ambitions. There must have been riots, and quite serious ones at that. Some of the damage hadn't been repaired. Some of it had, but it was still evident something had happened here. That meant there either hadn't been enough time to do the job properly, or that the riots weren't over and only the most urgent of repairs could be carried out, and not in the most meticulous of ways. As a matter of fact they zipped past a few places where minor riots seemed to be taking place, but they didn't have the time to check out what exactly was happening. The I©Site turned out to be an imposing structure, an architectonic marvel, a fitting home for what it contained. Amazingly, it too bore the marks of recent trouble. This could

make their task easier, if this meant the new©lifers' empire had started to crumble. On the other hand, it could make matters more difficult if in the light of these troubles security precautions had been reinforced. Fortunately they weren't out to take over the building. They merely had to gain entrance and let loose their presents © souvenirs from the transforming forest the IªSite was so dependent on for its success. How ironic the same forest might now be responsible for the I©Site's ultimate downfall. The set of bio©weapons Frianelli had decided to bring over for this purpose consisted of batches of specially bred insects. As soon as they were let loose within the building, they would multiply at an astounding rate and consider the building their nest. They would lay eggs by the thousands and realizing lebensraum would be required soon, they would undertake to remove all intruders from their nest © and that included the original inhabitants. The creatures were tough and determined, and could go to extreme lengths to achieve what they had in their collective mind. In the unlikely event of failure to gain total control, they would opt to destroy the nest rather than to give up and leave. (Insects, Frianelli had explained to him with massive mock©seriousness, are notorious for failing to grasp the difference between an inhabitant of a building and an employee working in his office. This failure could well be a serious handicap if the insects were to integrate themselves into human society. However, if their aim was to eliminate representatives of human society from the premises, it might well work in their favor. Jim had applauded this bold new insight in socioªentemology.) The I©Site turned out to be well©guarded, but that wasn't an insurmountable problem for Jim's group, a small but well©oiled war machine operating at top efficiency. Realizing swiftness was a decisive factor, they drove their vehicle right into the IªSite's entrance, wher e it came to crashing, glass©splintering halt. Security forces barely had the time to react as Jim and his cohorts bounded out of the van and darted inside, each man in a different direction, rushing up a flight of stairs, throwing themselves down again, flitting in several directions and hurrying back out again, without forgetting to toss boxes of presents around. As these crashed onto the floor, the insects were set free and would start their work © a fine example of bioªenhanced interior d ecorating, as Frianelli would no doubt put it. The security forces were now aware they were facing an invasion, and hence they were not prepared to hold back Jim's men who now were back on their way out already. The real invasion was taking shape slowly, and was being discovered now. Hopefully by now it would already be too late to stop the chitinous hordes. Jim's men jumped back in the van, and off they went to their next stop : the seedier parts of town, graciously labeled Nowhere City. That had been Frianelli's idea, who had spent much of his childhood in one of these slums. Jim came from a different background, a middle class family from a City Center in an Urban Area up North. He wasn't sure he shared Frianelli's ideas about their duty awaiting them in Nowhere City, but went ahead with the plan anyway, trusting his buddy. So far his strategies had turned out to be solid, well thought©out constructions. Jim's main concern for now was the fate of the other groups. Would these men have known as much success? He hoped contact would eventually be restored. The plan now was to distribute some stuff they had brought from the forest among various groups in Nowhere City. Not insects

or other bio©weapons this time, but raw materials that would allow the owner to start a small bio©catalyst company. Nothing of enormous proportions or vast importance, but enough to carry some weight if a sufficient number of people were involved. According to Frianelli it was absolutely necessary that as many groups as possible from all over the Urban Area had access to the new bioªtechnology, and th at included Nowhere City. He hoped that the process they intended to set in motion here would spread to other Urban Areas as well. Distributing the stuff shouldn't prove too difficult : interested parties would be on their trail anyway, as always on the lookout for whatever they might lay their hands on. They would simply serve them, as long as stocks lasted. Then they would consider their mission accomplished. They would take a break and do whatever they felt was the thing to do. Everything had gone as planned © more or less. They had found out you couldn't simply drive from the City Center to Nowhere City, even if you happened to be driving a Silverwing Hospital van. There had been a roadblock and armed guards. The Hospital logo on the van's sides allowed them to get quite near without attracting undue attention. When Jim, who sat behind the wheel, saw the guards cast wary glances into the van, he put the pedal to the metal and the van roared straight through the roadblock. They were shot at, but not much. Attempting to break through the roadblock into the City Center would probably be a lot more difficult © and the bullets would keep coming until they stopped you. The van had suffered considerable damage, both from the roadblock and the bullets, but it still did the job. They soon find out they had only the easy part behind them. Driving through Nowhere City proved to be driver's hell. The holos drove Jim mad. He didn't know what to dodge and what not. He made a few mistakes and dented the van even more. He knew it wouldn't last much longer. He cut the engine when Frianelli told him this was where they had to be : a fairly large square, populated by lowlife figures and mechanical oddities scurrying about, holograms flickering on and off, and at the far end some street band producing a hell of a noise that passed for music with the milling crowd around them. Frianelli did most of the talking. He felt at home here, and seemed to know what he was doing. Jim was glad he could simply watch and observe the street and its garish inhabitants. Business was over in a matter of minutes. They had gotten some food and drink supplies in return for the van which they no longer needed © especially since the engine had broken down. They had settled down in a quiet spot © quiet according to Nowhere City standards © had filled their stomachs and felt the time had come for some serious talking. "So what are you going to do now, Carlo? Now that we finished the job?" Jim leaned back against a brick wall, resting his head against the rough surface, staring Frianelli straight in the eyes. He looked tired, but his eyes were still ablaze with an inner fire. "What makes you think the job is finished?" Frianelli asked after a moment of thought. "I think I'll go on fighting. It's turned out to be the thing I can do best, and isn't that what you have to do in life if you want to be successful?" "I guess it is. So the fight isn't over for you?" "It sure isn't. Right now I feel like settling down in this neighborhood and join some rabble rousing gang with a clear goal in mind and a serious commitment. I feel this burning ambition inside of me, I'm propelled by this unresistable drive. I've seen

enough bullshit happening. I'm sure I'll find my niche here. Maybe some of the other guys will follow me. They're free to do as they please of course. And what about you, Jim? You did a fine job once you'd seen the light." Jim shook his head. "Count me out, Carlo. I'm fed up with this whole thing now. Right now I want to lapse back into a normal life. Go and visit my relatives, to start with." "They may not like to see you back after what you've done to their cozy little world." "I'll have to live with that. And so will they." "Well, I haven't really got anyplace to go back to. That's an additional reason to keep going." There was a pause, and they heard only the noise produced by the street band at the other side of the square. "Tell me," Jim said after a while, "why didn't you do everything on your own? What did you need me for?" Frianelli smiled his wicked smile again. "I like drawing plans and cooking up strategies. But I'm not too keen on spearheading the realization of those plans myself. I gladly leave that to guys like you. I suppose we complement each other. I'm just an incurable cynic with feverish plans tossing about in the back of my head, Jim. It's up to your type to get the show on the road. I'll go along with the ride, but not in the driver's seat." "Yes," Jim said, nodding. "I can see that now. I underestimated you all along, ever since the start. You had these doubts right from the beginning, but it took solid evidence to convince you. Empiric proof. The scientific method. And now I understand why you kept up this cynical stance, this vitriolic humor you directed against everything in sight. It's just an armor, a carapace. An efficient form of protection against a basically hostile world. It allows you to stay sane, to get through life unscathed, to survive. So after all it was a good thing I had you at my side. Who knows what might have happened otherwise? I could have died. Liberaciá¢án's urging might have been insufficient. I might not have taken on leadership and struck the fatal blows that I did now. I think I can safely say that I'm starting to see things as they really are now." "Maybe the hallucinogenic spores are wearing off at last." A wide grin appeared on Frianelli's face. "I should kill you for that remark." "Wouldn't the world be a poorer place without me?" "It would also be a quieter one." "Kill me in silence then. The difference won't be too striking that way." "You're a very thoughtful man, Carlo." Once again they lapsed into silence, unless you counted the dreadful noise still coming from the other side of the square. After a while it even managed to drown their thoughts.

32 "I really think this is something you should see, Dr. Dressler," the blonde girl said. He searched his memory for a moment, then managed to retrieve her name : Susan Jenkins, a minor lab assistant. The interruption irritated him beyond measure. Who had sent her to him anyway? He threw down his pencil with a tired gesture, pushed back

his chair, and sighed. "What is it now, Susan?" "I'm afraid I can't explain. You'll have to follow me to the forest." "You mean now? It can't wait? It's that important?" "So they told me. Please?" Despite his fatigue and his unwillingness to venture into the forest, he gave in. He knew they wouldn't send for him for some trivial matter. Due to his massive field experience concerning all forest life©forms, they relied on him often when encountering new specimens. Just to be on the safe side he had some armed guards accompany him, although these last few days there had been no signs of imminent danger. Ever since the day Jim Reicher and his gang of roving madmen, as they were kindly referred to here, had swept through Monrovia Base and taken off to the American East Coast, calm had returned to this area. The War seemed far away now. He wondered how long this situation would last. If only this were a harbinger of better times to come. But deep down he knew this to be selfªdelusion. The armed guards who accompanied him were part of what was left of the Monrovia Base military personnel, and that wasn't much. They were perfect in the current situation © where their presence made you feel secure although there was no real menace. If and when trouble would rear its ugly head they would be completely useless. Ever since the attack the soldiers had been flung back between hope and despair. They seemed to realize control was slipping through their fingers, and most of them hardly seemed to care anymore what was happening. Despite occasional flickerings of hope there was an atmosphere of morose gloom. The only times the soldiers succeeded in fighting off their apathy was when they embarked on killing sprees, venturing into the forest and exterminating all creatures that happened to cross their path, a sort of belated revenge for their dismal misfortune. Only the Research Department of Monrovia Base had managed to rekindle its activities, on Dressler's initiative. It kept the scientists busy, fooled them into believing things were at last reverting to normal. He was sure they realized they were only fooling themselves, but had gone ahead with the idea to ward off the encroaching apathy they had seen the soldiers fall victim to. The development facilities remained closed down for the time being © there simply was no work to be done. Off they went, Dressler, three guards, and the girl, to the place where the discovery had been made. It took them the better part of an hour to reach their destination. When they finally got there he saw three colleagues examining the discovery they had deemed sufficiently important to send for him right away. "Over there," a man called Stevens said. My God, Dressler thought. They were right to come and haul me out here. This is about the weirdest thing I've ever seen around here. He turned to the man who had discovered the thing. "This can't simply be another transformed forest creature. Have you found out anything about it yet?" "We haven't studied it properly as such. Do you think we should conduct an autopsy on it?" "An autopsy? That's impossible! It isn't dead yet. I mean, he isn't dead yet. We're talking about a human being here." "A former human being," Stevens corrected him. "He may not be dead yet, but he is no longer alive either in the traditional sense of the word." "Sounds like a fair enough description to me." Dressler took a few more steps so he could observe the man from closer by. He was, or had definitely been, human at one point. A rather fat

male person. His features were barely recognizable now. It would be hard to identify him, if that would be possible at all. How had he ended up here? And what had happened to him? He seemed to be incorporated into a greater organic structure. But why? And by whom? What purpose did he serve? This appeared too complex to be simply some forest transformation that had gone haywire. "I think part of the answer is approaching," Stevens told him. "Look over there." They all turned in the indicated direction. A group of small, rodent©like animals had appeared from among the dense foliage, and stopped dead in their tracks as they noticed the handful of human intruders. They emitted a series of shrill shrieks. They're scared, Dressler thought. Or perhaps angry because we've invaded their territory. A further, more sobering thought struck him : maybe they're communicating with each other, discussing what to do now. Some of these new forest creatures had developed crude forms of intelligence and were capable of such feats. "What do we do?" the girl asked. "I suggest we retreat, far enough to lead them into thinking we're gone, but still close enough for us to observe what they're doing. That might yield some interesting bits of information about them. And about it." They exchanged quick glances and all agreed. Presently they were watching from a respectable distance what the furry creatures did with their prisoner © if that was indeed what he was. With rising astonishment they saw how two of the creatures went up to the man, penetrated the vaguely gelatinous structure in which he was embedded like a misshapen embryo in a womb, and slid their long, tapered tongues into cables protruding from the man's swollen paunch. They appeared to suck for a minute or so, then were replaced by two other creatures who repeated this remarkable ritual. "They're feeding," Stevens said in a hoarse whisper. "I think I'm beginning to understand. He isn't simply held captive. He's being used as a food dispenser. We'll have to look into this more closely of course, but they appear to use his digestive organs to process their food for them." "What do you think made them do this?" "There's no way to tell at this stage. I suggest we cut him loose, or at least the entire structure of which he seems to form part, and take it all back to our lab." "The creatures are clearly intelligent." "I suppose they are to a certain extent. Mere survival instincts and cunning wouldn't allow them to carry out such a mind©boggling undertaking. I gather something along the following lines must have happened : a colony of these furry animals run into this guy, wandering around in the forest for God knows what reason. As is typical for all intelligent beings, their curiosity is raised and they capture and examine him. They find out he has something that may be of interest to them and use it to the best of their possibilities. They make sure he cannot escape and stays alive, without bothering to preserve his consciousness, which has no use at all for them. What we now need to know is, what is so special about him that drove them to do this?" "I'm sure we'll find out about that in due course," Dressler said. "Let's see how we can cut him loose without killing him, or what's left of him, and get the hell out of here." "I'm not sure our furry friends will appreciate our cutting off their food supply," Stevens said, a contrived smile on his face. Nobody seemed to find it particularly funny, but one of the soldiers, who all had remained silent up to now, offered an idea:

"I suggest we leave 'em a note, saying the restaurant will be closed for reconstruction." The two other soldiers erupted in bellowing laughter. Dressler and his fellow scientists were already on their way back to their newly found study object. It's an interesting discovery in more than one sense, Dressler thought. Apart from its intrinsic scientific interest, this find would give them something to do, both fascinating and worthwile. It was exactly what they needed at this stage. The man was a godsend. Make that a forestsend, he corrected himself. Oh boy, he thought. I'm starting to react like those dimwitted soldiers. Let's hope I can turn around that evolution before I drop to their level from which rescue is no longer possible. He joined his colleagues, busily discussing how to carry out the job at hand.

Ã*)Ã33 "Welcome to Eyecatcher," Cynthia said. "This is a brand new company. Actually it's an extension of what I've been doing before. As a matter of fact you could say that everything I've done before led to this, the culmination of my career in VR art. I used to work on my own, but that was too small a project to carry much weight. I did have some success, though, both commercial and artistic success. But now I'm finally on the right track, I can feel that I'm ready to take off in a big way. A handful of former Eyescape Inc. colleagues chose to follow me, so we're a small bunch of committed people here at Eyecatcher. And then there's a couple of fresh recruits like you." She looked at the young man in front of her. He was called Jim Reicher, a supposed War Force dropout and City Center troubleshooter. He looked like the archetypal military man : short©cropped, black hair, firm jaw, strong nose, hard, piercing stare. As a matter of fact he looked a bit too much like a soldier was supposed to look. She would have to redesign his looks if he was to serve as a lead character in a VRT, make him more individual. His real©life looks, authentic as they were, wouldn't be accepted by the audience or the critics. They would find them too clichá ád, too predictable. And at this early stage in her career, or rather her Second Period as she had started to refer to it, she couldn't risk bad reviews. She had hired him mainly as a story consultant. He had been through some experiences that should by all accounts make a fascinating VRT. There definitely was an audience for that kind of thing. She doubted everything he had told her was authentic, but that didn't really matter. VRTs weren't supposed to be true stories anyway. The guy had told her he had joined the War Force, had gotten lost in the War Zone with a number of buddies and had gone through a gradual process of understanding. Once he had found out the Truth he had led his troops right to the heart of the forest and had knocked the Enemy off his feet. Then they had jumped on a plane to this Urban Area, had wreaked some considerable havoc and had retired. Or in his case, opted for a career change. The last parts of the story appeared to correspond with what had really happened. "I must say I don't see this as a long©term project," the man now said. "The thing is, I need to make some money before I go back to where I used to live, and this seemed like a job cut out for me. In the meantime I'll work on a number of safety

precautions. I'd like to have a new identity, just to be on the safe side. A friend told me that was absolutely vital, considering my past. Not everybody is overwhelmed with joy by what I've done. My dad, for instance, may well be prepared to turn his back on me and blot me out of his memory, sever the link completely." "I have friends who can help you with that," she said. "Even down to entering your new identity into major databases. Don't worry about that. Any further questions?" "Actually, yes. Do you have any news about your former employer? As you know we dropped by for a courtesy call and handed over some presents." "So I've been told," she said, chuckling. The raid by the mysterious terrorists had been well covered in the media. "You did a thorough job." "You mean my six©legged assistants who are overseeing the, ah, reconversion of the site." "Last thing I heard was they had killed off half of the exterminators' team that had been sent." "Only half of them?" "The others managed to escape." "What happened to the Eyescape Inc. people?" "They were forced to relocate their headquarters, at least temporarily. Only there was a power struggle at the top. The company's big boss had disappeared, and there were just too many candidates eager to assume his role. So inevitably the company split up. As far as I know, Eyescape Inc. no longer exists as such. It appears to have dissolved into a number of smaller companies. I don't know what repercussions this will have for its branches in other Urban Areas. There must be some serious reshuffling of the cards in the making." "That's exactly what we wanted," Jim said. "It was central to Frianelli's original plan." "Whose plan?" "One of my War Force buddies. We were together right from the very start. At first I heavily disliked him. He had this cynical stance, mocking everyone and everything, doubting everything we were told. I only got to know him as time went on and were knee©deep in the shit together. He was the guy who came up with most of the ideas, who kept me on my toes. You could say he got me where I am now. At one point there was a girl involved as well. A good©looking, dark©haired girl. As a matter of fact you remind me of her." "Don't use those silly old tricks on me, Jim. Cut the crap. For all I know this gorgeous beauty exists only in your sexªstarved imagination. C ome on, admit it." She leaned back in her chair, stared at him defiantly. "Come to think of it, Frianelli had this theory which he kept firing at me, very much tongue©in©cheek, at least so I hope. Your question reminded me of it. Let me tell you," he said after a moment's hesitation. "At one point, as we were picking our way through the forest, we inhaled hallucinogenic spores that caused a series of illusions. My friend claimed that after inhaling these there was no way to know when the effects had worn off completely, and hence no way to be sure what we saw was real. So maybe, he theorized, our entire experience out there was only an illusion, including that girl I mentioned. Even what I'm experiencing at this very moment might still be an illusion. He would doubt, for instance, that you are real." "Some friend. A good thing you parted company with him. And

let me assure you that I feel quite real." "Fine. I'll believe in your existence for the time being." "That seems like a good starting point. Now I suggest we dump this crackpot philosophizing and get back to the business at hand. I've been thinking about those insects you brought along. The I©Site wasn't the only place you infested them with, was it?" "No. We split up into several groups, and each one hit a particular target. All the selected companies were connected with the bio©technology business. That's where Frianelli and I thought our disruptive influence would be most efficient." "I don't doubt it for a minute. My question is : what will these insects do once they've taken over the buildings they were put in? What will be their next goal? Will they stop? Will they ever stop? Are they capable of taking over a whole block? A part of the City Center? The entire Urban Area?" "I don't think they're that ambitious." "But you said they can't be stopped?" "Not until they've achieved what they set out to do." "And that's limited to one single building? Their nest, as they view it?" "I guess so." "You're not absolutely sure?" "You think we had a couple of years to test those suckers in simulated environments? Time will tell when they'll stop. I'm sorry if that's not what you wanted to hear, but it's all I can offer." "In that case we'll have to wait and see. And hope time tells some good news."

Ã*)Ã34 It's been some time since I could describe the days as hectic, Dressler thought. Could this mean the old times are coming back? Could it mean new and better times are looming on the horizon? Whatever the case may be, the situation was definitely changing fast. As he was sitting at his desk in "his office", as he chose to call the small room that had been allotted to him, he was well aware of the frantic activity that was causing such a buzz at Monrovia Base's Research Department. People were running on and off. Instructions were being shouted, questions asked. People were arguing and bickering, joking and swearing, the whole gamut of human interaction. The general atmosphere was a mixture of hope and uncertainty. Hope that a major change was forthcoming. Uncertainty as to what that change would entail. At least, Dressler thought, the mind©numbing apathy had gone. He had loathed that frame of mind in his colleagues. At one point it had driven him to consider the possibility of making his way back to the forest village. Fortunately, that was no longer necessary now. His thoughts drifted back to the events of the past few days. They had received some official reports about the War that had sounded like genuine reflections of reality out there © and this was something he found promising. He was under the impression that the entire War effort was faltering. There was no official cease©fire, yet a certain status quo seemed to have been reached. The War Force had been struck some serious blows, and the "enemy" now controlled parts of the forest. There were still

some War Force strongholds centered around a number of Bases. Persistent rumor had it that in some areas fierce battles were still being fought. He wondered what was at stake in these battles, considering the current status of Monrovia Base, whose interest had sparked off the conflict in the first place. Monrovia Base seemed to have evolved into a sort of neutral zone, untouched by the War for the time being. This was highly ironical, as it was the prime target of the war because of its priceless Research Department and development facilities. As far as he knew this situation had been reached by pure chance, by a combination of unrelated factors. The War seemed to have gathered momentum and now just kept going on its own accord with little regard to its original intent, the defense of Monrovia Base and its precious facilities. And, added to that, the construction of a ring of Bases to ensure total control of the entire Afflicted Area, which eventually was to be rendered free of all "unofficial" armed forces. That goal now seemed to be hopelessly out of reach, perhaps forever. As if the situation was not remarkable enough, more unsettling news had followed. They had received orders to resume activities as normal. It had sounded sufficiently official to be taken seriously. Yet they had all had the feeling something wasn't quite right here. They couldn't quite pinpoint what had been wrong, but somehow the news hadn't rung true entirely. Could it have anything to do with Jim's gang of madmen? Could these guys possibly have achieved anything? They had been determined enough, of course, but also overly ambitious. For all he knew they had been shot the moment they arrived at their destination. As a matter of fact anything else would be hard to believe. But then again the same thing could be said of everything that had happened these last couple of years. Whatever the case may be, they had discussed the situation at length and had all agreed it would be a good thing to resume their activities, in however limited a way as was forced on them. Personnel, supplies and power were all lacking to a certain degree. The Research Department was the least vulnerable part of the Base and the easiest one to get back on its feet. Hopefully the other departments would follow one day, depending on a further normalization of the situation. Regular contact with whoever was in charge now and the restoration of an unmannedªplane shuttle service for personnel, supplies and finished product would be a strict necessity. There was a general feeling that things were shaping up at last and that most of the trouble was behind them. The day after the discussion had as if by miracle realized some of their wishes. Communication with the overseas General Headquarters had been restored, but for a very brief moment only. They had been able to get in touch with a couple of Bases apparently still intact and functioning, but at this stage these contacts were highly irregular. Still, it would be possible now to get some first©hand news for the first time since quite a while. Back in his forest village Dressler had been entirely cut off from official news sources. When he got back here he had found they'd had their share of problems in this respect. During their brief contact with GHQ they had been told an unmanned plane was on its way to them. At once amazed and relieved, they had seen the plane come in at the announced time. It carried a limited number of supplies, and was to be returned with finished product © a demand that came too early, as he hoped they (whoever "they" were out there right now) would understand.

Still, it had been taken as a good omen, a sign that they were back on the right track. Then there was the man they had found in the forest. He had been the object of careful and meticulous study. The man had turned out to have an incredibly sophisticated digestive system. It had to be some state©of©the©art application of bio©technology, affordable only by new©lifers in Urban Areas overseas. It was a mystery how this guy had wound up over here. There was no way he had been living around here. As a rule this type of people stayed well hidden in their rich neighborhoods, hardly ever venturing outside. Still, here he was. He had been discovered by a bunch of smart creatures who had somehow understood what made him so special and had found a use for it. They had captured him alive, and had hooked him up in an organic structure that supported his life functions and kept him immobilized. His life was allowed to go on © only his useless consciousness had been eliminated. It served no purpose at all for his new "owners". Life support was all that was required. The man had been turned into a food factory and did an excellent job. Too bad he had been rediscovered by his fellow humans © make that former fellow humans. There was little human about him left. He would be kept here as a curiosity. As things gradually went back to normal, he would no doubt fade into the background with the rest of the gruesome details of life during the war. An assistant came rushing into his office, handed him a number of sheets. "Faxes. They just arrived. Better read 'em right away. Could be important." The man rushed back out of the office, too much in a hurry to give further explanation. Dressler flattened the rumpled sheets, turned his attention to the messages, his reminiscences already forgotten.

35 "I guess this is the end of the line for me," Riff said, "and at the same time the start of a new line of business. See? This is what I'm doing right now. I'm making some decent money now. And I'm enjoying this like hell." Cynthia studied the sample of Riff's work, his new line of business as he put it. Part of it was mechanical. It consisted of a metal frame representing a stylized human shape, which moved its arms up and down and shook its body as if trying to throw off something that bothered it. The metal statuette was planted in a soil container. "Now watch," Riff said. Green tendrils crawled up from beneath the soil, eagerly groping for anything within grabbing distance. As soon as they reached the legs of the metal skeleton they coiled around it and left the soil completely. The tendrils grew thicker and wriggled and shuddered constantly. It soon became clear there was a method and a purpose to their movements: the plant was climbing upwards, despite the obstructive movements of the human figure. Up the green clump went, enveloping the abdomen, the torso, the flailing arms and finally the head. There, inevitably, the plant had to stop its ascent, and prepared itself for its next step. At its extremities the green suddenly burst into red and white as the plant quickly developed blossoms. These rapidly sprang into full bloom. Seed pods became visible, grew large and were let loose. As the plant

started withering away, the pods dropped into the soil. The plant had barely deteriorated into wisps of brown dried©up wood or the next generation reared its head already, and tendrils came peeping through the soil. "It repeats its cycle over and over again," Riff explained, "as long as the soil contains enough nutrients to keep it going. It's very adaptable. It can thrive on anything organic, and it's very generous in its definition of "edible". The quality and quantity of the nutrients in the soil determine its speed and its total running time. When it's exhausted its supplies, it doesn't die. It just goes dormant and reawakens as nutrients are added." "Fascinating stuff." "I call it organic art, although it has a mechanical part, and some others even feature holo displays. All of them work in cycles and are based on the same principles. More importantly, they're selling like hell. I can barely meet the demand. About time too I discovered a hole in the market. My previous business was really swept from under my feet. It just disappeared overnight." "What happened to your gang?" "It's disbanded now. Only a few of my former buddies still work with me, developing and growing and finetuning these little babies." He pointed at his organic work of art which was still going through its cycle. "Most have gone their way. There's a whole lot of wonderslime companies now, scattered all over the place. There's cutthroat competion. I don't think all of them will survive. I wouldn't have if I had continued. So this idea really saved my hide." "Things sure are changing fast." "Let's just hope they're also changing for the better." "I'm not too sure about that. Reality just doesn't work that way. A lot of the stuff that's now being produced over here as well as in the City Center is dangerous, out of control, illegal." "But it's a beginning, a sign that times are changing. No doubt things will smoothen out after some time." "I hope you're right. I also hear your new company is doing fine." "I sure have high hopes for it. Speaking of my company, wouldn't you like to join us? You're an artist now. You'd fit right in." A wide grin slashed his face. "I knew that was what you had come to ask. As a matter of fact I had been expecting that question. But the answer's still no, much as I appreciate your offer. I value my independance too highly. I just can't work in somebody else's shop. I'll go my own way, no matter what. I'll roll with the changes, go with the flow, and see where I end up." "Guess I should have known," she said, resigned. His reply didn't come as a surprise. She knew him well enough now to predict his reactions. Why then had she bothered to come over to ask him that question in the first place? Maybe she had merely needed an excuse to pay him another visit. Did she know herself enough to predict her own reactions? She shifted her eyes to the holo that was going through its cycle in the middle of the room. Riff followed her gaze and explained, "It's a present. A farewell gift from Neurodancer and Sick Joke and some hacker types they gave me when we parted company. They created it especially as decoration for my hideout. They know I go for that kinda thing. Don't you like it?" Cynthia watched as it went through its entire cycle. A

slender woman was floating in mid©air, making slow and gracious movements, languidly like an underwater ballet dancer. An expression of sheer panic appeared on her face as her body suddenly erupted into flames. She now thrashed and flailed in agony, her face a warped mask of pain and terror. Within a few moments her entire body was enveloped in a rippling shroud of flames. As the fire finally died down, only a charred clump remained. In its turn this structure fell apart into a layer of ashes. Then nothing happened for a number of seconds. All at once the ashes stirred. Life seemed to have returned to the gray inanimate debris. Something came rising up from the ashes, phenix©like. As the shape unfolded it became clear what it was: a butterfly©girl fluttered upwards, flapping about its multiªcolored, fragile©looking wi ngs to keep the slim girl's body suspended in the air. A beckoning smile appeared on her face, then the wings moved with more power to propel the creature away. It struck Cynthia as a bio©engineer's idea of an angel. The butterfly©girl turned around, poised to fly off to whatever her destination might be and flickered out of existence. Its cycle was finished. "Well?" Riff asked. "Impressive," she said. "It's a symbol for the end of an era," Riff explained. "And the beginning of a new one," she completed. "And, incidentally, I think I just found out where you got your ideas for your organic art. Don't you think there's a certain similarity, Riff? Come on, admit it. You've been plagiarizing." "That's ridiculous," Riff exclaimed. She wasn't sure if his indignation was authentic or not. "Be reasonable, Cynthia. You know very well that I'm no longer a businessman. I'm an artist now." "Meaning?" Riff chuckled. "Businessmen steal. Artists are influenced." "Of course, Riff. My apologies. I won't make that mistake again." "I applaud your insight," Riff said, grin widening. They tried to keep their conversation going, but it soon became clear to them that little remained to be said. So Cynthia decided to leave Riff's hideout before the rift that had opened up between them became too painfully apparent. At this stage it was still possible for each of them to go his own way while remaining on amicable terms. So they said goodbye, without any hint of unease, let alone hard feelings. The image of the butterfly©girl was still before her mind's eye when, a few moments later, she was back on her way to the IªLash, as she had c hosen to call her Eyecatcher offices. Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part or simply her imagination, but the Nowhere City streetscape looked different already. She felt the winds of change blowing into her face. And whether it was all a figment of her imagination or really out there, it sure felt good. For now, that should be enough. A Nowhere City inhabitant just didn't have the right to ask for more.

EPILOG "You've changed," Cynthia said to the man sitting across the table. "Is anything left in there of the old Jim Reicher, the guy who went out to fight for some heroic ideals?" The man leaned back, and smiled. "So I've changed, that's quite true. But then the entire City, the whole world has changed. I guess I just went along with the general change." "Uh huh." She stared him into the eye for a few seconds, noticed how an expression of mild surprise and wonder appeared on his face. "And that's it? Come on, Jim. You know very well there's a lot more to it than that." He cast down his gaze, toyed with his knife and fork, then nodded. He appeared lost in thought for a moment, then shifted his gaze back to her eyes. "You're right of course. Everything has changed, but I may have changed more radically and more unexpectedly than the rest." He shrugged. "What can I say?" "You worked you way up at Eyecatcher. I remember you saying you would only stay there for a little while until you could go and join your relatives." "That was my original intention," he said. "But things just haven't worked out that way. It wasn't my fault. My dad©©" His voice trailed off, and he gesticulated awkwardly. "Don't simply blame someone else. That's the easy way out. You've changed a lot, Jim. So has your dad, and so has the rest of your family. Only thing is, you've all changed in wildly diverging directions. There's no way you could get back together and ignore everything that has happened. And bear in mind that you are at least partly responsible for that evolution." "I guess you're right," he said. "Let me tell you about how I found out about my dad's activities while we're waiting for our meals to arrive." "I'm afraid it's too late for that," she said, as she saw the cyberpet©waiter arrive, carrying their orders. It had been her idea to go and have lunch at Mex©Mech Ristorante, a typical representative of the new breed of Hybrid Restaurants that were growing ever more popular in Nowhere City and to a certain extent in the City Center. This particular one served a variety of meals that were partly synthetic, partly traditional Italian and Mexican, not to mention some rather undefinable elements. Still the meals weren't all that much off©the©wall. Some of the wilder Hybrid places offered genuinely weird mix©ups and appealed only to people with highly unconventional tastes. Some even advertised their philosophy that having lunch or dinner had nothing to do with fulfilling certain needs, and even less with health or even survival. Somehow she had the feeling those warnings weren't completely given tongue©in©cheek. "I'll tell you all about it around mouthfuls of this, ah, food," he said, "if that's what it is. If my mouth can cope with it, I mean. Just eating this may be too much already." "It can't be worse than what you've swallowed already." He noticed her faint smile, and raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean that literally or figuratively?" "Both. Would you mind if I started eating before my meal gets cold?" "You mean this stuff actually cools down?" he said in disbelief, staring through the swirls of fume rising from the dishes. "It may even be somewhat edible," she pointed out.

"This place will never fail to amaze me," he exclaimed. Then he picked up his knife and fork, ready to attack his meal at last. "Should I keep my eyes closed?" he asked. "If you want to play it safe I suggest you even keep your mouth closed." "You're the ideal woman to have lunch with," he said, and swallowed his first mouthful of slightly synthetic Italo©Mexican food©like substance. It appeared to go down well © or else his metabolism had by now adapted to Hybrid cuisine. They ate in silence for a few moments. In the meantime Jim collected his thoughts about his relations with his family © or, to put it more properly, his lack of any relations. A small cyberpet came scurrying in their direction, and its voice circuits said, "Please pay attention to the following presentation while you are enjoying your meals. It may be of interest to you. Be assured that it is to us." It buzzed off to the other customers and repeated its announcement, then disappeared into an alcove. Whatever was to follow, they would not allow it to disturb their meals. From out of a nearby wall, a giant mouth protruded, as if it had been hiding there all along. Most customers recognized it for the holo feature that it was and hardly paid attention, continuing their meals and their conversations. The mouth now had manoeuvered itself into the middle of the restaurant, where it hung in mid©air. Saliva dripped from the thick lips and formed puddles on the floor. The lips started to make smacking movements, producing viscous liquid in ever greater quantities. Then the disgusting drooling stopped and the mouth yawned till it hung wide open. A spasm went through it, and the mouth convulsed and all at once disgorged a multitude of small objects that spilled out onto the floor. Jim cast a glance at the quivering carpet now covering the floor, and saw that it consisted of shrimp, crabs, small lobsters, chicken wings and legs, slices of fish and meat, vegetables and fruit and assorted sweets and pies. All of these were still alive, or at least shaking and quivering as if alive. They spread out, wriggling and squirming, until they covered a sizeable part of the restaurant's floor, passing straight through the customers' feet. Jim knew this couldn't be the end of it, and it wasn't. Most of the 'complete' creatures, such as the shrimp and the lobsters, started gobbling up their fellow gourmet items. As they did they grew larger and changed shape. This process went on until the floor had been eaten clean and only a dozen of the predators were now left. These were pretty large, cat©sized creatures, but they had totally lost their original forms. They now were hybrid creatures incorporating elements of various species. Without an exception they all had large, flat flanks, however. The reason behind this phenomenon became clear as letters and logos and drawings started to appear on the creatures' flanks. As these had become fully prominent, the dozen creatures paraded around the restaurant, proudly displaying the ads on their flanks. Jim saw they were all ads for Hybrid restaurants in the area. Once again the creatures were growing larger, and the ads were flashing on and off in bright colors. One after another they grew menacingly large until they exploded in puffs of smoke. Only one creature remained, a cat©headed armadillo with crab's legs, which sported an ad for this particular restaurant, winking on and off on both its flanks. The creature then dissolved into a shapeless blob, lost touch with the floor, slowly drifted up and into the wall the giant mouth had sprung from. The display was over. Jim's

biggest fear now was that this would be a holo display that repeated its cycle till it was turned off. He was afraid the advertisers wouldn't be satisfied with one single showing. Cynthia had finished her meal. She had barely put down her knife and fork or a cyberpet came whizzing past and snatched her plate and cutlery away. She picked up the thread where they had left it before the holo presentation began © somehow it had seemed unwise to tackle a sensitive subject while a holo commercial of dubious taste was going through its cycle. "I remember you telling me your dad frequently appears on TV these days." "He does," Jim said, still chewing away. "To my dismay, I must hasten to add. I was quite shocked when I first caught sight of him. It hurt. It really did." "Do you feel like telling me more about it? Or is this a subject you'd rather keep to yourself?" "I do," he said. "But on the other hand it may be better to talk about it anyway. It may relieve some of the tension that's been building up inside of me." With a few large bites he finished his meal, recoiled as a cyberpet rushed past to clear the table, then leaned back at ease, closed his eyes for a second, pondering the best way to tackle this difficult topic. "As I told you," he said, "I intended to go back and join my relatives as soon as I felt fit to do so. I only needed some time to pull myself together and to make some money. This would make the reunion both psychologically and practically more feasible. It was my assumption they craved this reunion as much as I did. The world had changed, so had I, and I thought so had they. But then I saw my dad on TV, by accident. He may have appeared there before, in which case I missed him. Maybe that was a good thing. If I'd seen him immediately after my arrival the blow might have been too much for me to bear. Now it's still painful, but I can live with it. I'm reconciled with the situation as it is. I'll survive." He was silent for a moment, no doubt reminiscing. In the meantime the holo had reinitiated its cycle and the giant mouth was now pouring its thick stream of gourmet food items onto the floor. Most customers ignored the spectacle. Jim shook his head, licked his lips and resumed talking without looking Cynthia into the eyes. "It turned out my dad had embarked on a major political career. Of course he had always been involved in City Council politics, but something had prompted him to go for bigger things. He wanted to play a major role, leave his mark on the political map, nationwide rather than locally. The world he loved so much had started to crumble © and in the fight against the forces of destruction he had lost a son. It left him an embittered man. But also a dedicated and determined one. The first time I saw him on the screen I barely recognized him. He was so different from the person I remembered. The way he spoke. His sweeping gestures. The rage and passion smoldering in his eyes. He filled the screen with his presence. It was so intense and powerful. "He mentioned he'd lost a son in the War, and he always seems to do when he makes a public appearance. It must have been quite traumatic an experience." "And," Cynthia interrupted, "in a sense he's really lost a son in the war." "I know what you mean. Let's say he lost the son he used to know." "Do you think the complete truth would make him feel any better?"

"Not in the least. If he would know me as I am now and find out what I've done he would be absolutely horrified. Shocked to the marrow of his bones. I personify everything he rejects and detests. The moment I discovered that, I knew I just couldn't go back. It would be better for all concerned if he kept believing he's lost his son in the War." "Does this loss explain everything?" "I guess it doesn't, but it may have been a decisive factor. The upper classes to which he belongs deplore the way society has been changing. The old way was much more comforting for them, despicable as it was. They used to be well off. A changing society, and I'm not even mentioning a revolution, could only work against them. Nobody willingly gives up his power and his petty privileges, even if the bulk of the population benefits from the change. Common sense doesn't count here. It's a terribly narrow©minded viewpoint, but that's how it is. It's nothing new. It's only driven home rather painfully when your father turns out to be one of Them." "At one time you were heading off in that direction too. Remember the old Jim Reicher? The guy who joyfully joined the War Force, itching to blow the enemy to kingdom come?" "I remember him all right. But didn't he get it right in the end? My dad, on the other hand, took his attitude one step further. So society had changed in an undesired direction? Well, he'd do anything in his power to return to the old order. He'll do whatever it takes to achieve his goal." "And he'll fail miserably." "No doubt he will. But that won't keep him. He has the support of a group of people who are fully behind him and backing him financially. They're all in similar situations. Many have lost sons or relatives in the War. Other haven't, but feel their position in society is threatened. They've formed a political party, and call themselves Radical Democrats." "Cute name," Cynthia said, looking down at the holo creatures parading once more around the restaurant and straight through her legs, delivering their messages proudly and forcefully. "I suppose they're convinced of the logic and wellªfoundedness of thei r ideals?" "You bet they are." "Will you go and fight them?" Jim shook his head, cast a sideways glance at the preposterous holo creatures now once again disappearing in puffs of smoke. "No, I won't. I've done my share of fighting. I'll gladly leave that to others now. It would be too painful and tiresome anyway. Apart from that, I've grown to like the job I've found here, and the life I'm leading. My new identity isn't just a new name and some forged IDs. I'm a genuinely new person. It's strange when you compare it to what happened to my former buddies." "You're still in touch with them?" "I never heard of most of them once we settled down here. Nowhere City's vast, really vast. They all went their own way and disappeared without a trace. Apart from Carlo Frianelli, the one I told you about before. I knew where his hideout was, and we managed to see each other occasionally. He used to be this intrepid guerrillero type, always fighting some battle against some enemy. Enemies aren't in short supply in this world. He's joined various gangs successively, but when we last met he seemed to have grown battle©weary. It was the last thing I expected to happen to him. He said he was considering to go back home and

join his relatives. Isn't that ironical? He was planning to do what I had intended to..." "And you ended up staying here, which was originally his plan." "Exactly. I guess that means, that, different as we are, we're also very much alike. Does that make any sense?" "It does in Nowhere City. This is where all the unexpected things happen." "I guess that sums it up." For a while they were silent. To the dismay of both of them, the giant mouth bulged forth from the wall, ready to go through its cycle once again. "I've had enough of this," he said. "I have to go now." "I'll pay this one. I suggest we go somewhere else next time around." "Will it be any better?" "No, just different." "I guess I'll have to make do with that. Next time you choose the venue and I'll pay. Goodbye." "Bye." He jumped off his seat and quickly left the restaurant, walking straight through the giant mouth as it was about to spill its load of gourmet food items. He spit into the mouth, saw his spittle go straight through the palate and splash onto the floor, and as the shrimp and crabs and lobsters and the rest fell through his chest he briskly stepped outside. He still had some time left, and on the spur of the moment he decided to go and talk to Frianelli. His hideout was within walking distance of this restaurant, at least to Jim's standards. When you had done a trek through the forest like he had, you had a different definition of "walking distance" than most people. He set off, picking his way through the bustling activity of Nowhere City. It was evident that the recession was over © at least in this part of town. The outer rings of the Urban Areas would no doubt always remain poverty©stricken, underdeveloped slums, however flourishing the economy became. But this part of town, where he had chosen to live for maybe the rest of his life, had been growing more prosperous steadily. You could live a normal life here (normal to Nowhere City standards) if you played your cards right and if you had a bit of luck. Life was still rough and harsh, but a lot less so than had been the case in recent years. Struggling uphill, however laborsomely, felt so much better than tumbling down. Yet, it was still very much Nowhere City as it had essentially always been. The rich City Center was a wholly different ball of game altogether, and different people (the newªlifers foremost a mong these) were busy carrying on their very different lives. The gap between these social classes would never be bridged. The streetscape looked blindingly luxurious. Buildings were lavishly and lovingly decorated © or so the casual onlooker would be tempted to think. A more attentive observer would soon find out that there was something wrong with the glittering facades, heavily covered with sculptures and ornaments in a myriad styles, oriental, baroque, cubist, gothic, hyper©modern or plainly surreal. Most of the buildings' appearances clashed with everything in sight. Garishness and over©the©top designs were enough to drive any architect mad within a few heartbeats. Mythical beasts, gargoyles, caryatids and a plethora of creatures with pouting faces and squirming limbs all vied for living space. Facades and rooftops were crawling with movement and life © all of it fake. Every now and then there were short power failures or

malfunctionings that revealed what was real and what was holographic in nature. Very little was real. Whenever reality was revealed, it turned out to be painfully different from its glittering and glamorous decoration. The holos covered decrepit buildings, gray, sagging structures, coaked with dirt, crumbling and giving way to decay. This was a city of deception © and judging from the depressing looks of the real streetscape, most of its inhabitants tended to prefer being deceived. As he continued on his way, he was constantly approached by street©vendors peddling their wares. He turned down all the offers. Anything could be bought on the streets of Nowhere City, most of it at your own risk. One man came up to him, claiming the disks he offered were so "mind©bendingly soul©ripping you can't afford to miss out on them. As long as you haven't given these a try, you haven't been alive. You can't refuse this offer. You can't do that to yourself. It'd be worse than dying." He was about to tell the man that he was of a slightly different opinion, but he wasn't given the opportunity to do so. Somewhere up ahead a street band had picked this instant to start their gig. They did so by producing a barrage of sound that made all attempts at communication impossible. The peddler gave up and trudged off. Jim was about to run away from the sonic onslaught when he caught sight of the visual part of the gig, and he stopped dead in his tracks. It looked so interesting and typical of Nowhere City's current cultural climate that he decided to stay and watch, while trying to cope with the eardrum©shattering sound level as best he could. The four musicians, two with strapped©on guitars and two with portable keyboard©rigs, all wore elaborate costumes and masks that made them appear like a gang of insectoid mutants. The designs were highly effective, lending a menacing, even fearªinspiring aspect to t heir stage presence. As he watched them amid a quickly gathering crowd, the music was mercifully quieting down, and strands of melody were being interwoven between the blasts of pure noise. Gradually the melodies began to dominate the overlaying brute sound, until after a minute or so only a couple of interlocking melody lines could be heard. A rhythm was added, a slowly but steadily quickening pace that added power to the melodies without returning to the monolithic wall of sound that had served as an intro. Probably it had merely been used to draw people's attention in as large an area as possible. Now the backdrops became visible, a combination of painted curtains that were lowered, a lighting system and some holo effects. The stage represented a glade in the forest. Although it was a highly stylized and 'artistic' rendition, Jim recognized it for the forest of the Afflicted Area that he knew a lot better than the guys who had designed this stage act. Still they had done an admirable job. The scene showed a lush junglescape, and managed to convey an aspect of impending danger. The music slowed down, became gloomier and heavier. In its turn the forest scene grew more threatening and more oppressive. A strong pounding rhythm was added to the music, and a string of disharmonic sounds was interspersed with the melody. A city skyline became vaguely visible through the jungle scene. Each view alternatingly dominated the other one, until they finally blended into a bizarre jungle©encrusted cityscape. The melodies had now been drowned out by the disharmonic sounds, and the rhythm unrelentingly picked up speed until it evolved into a blur. The music was now matching the backdrop in weirdness, and

Jim no longer found it amusing. He felt even somewhat nauseated. Most of the audience seemed to lap it all up eagerly, but then they hadn't lived through his predicament. The musicians no longer were standing still. As the music deteriorated into a whirling vortex of warped sound and their visual show into an equally warped urban©jungle panorama, the four band members joined in a seemingly random series of antics. Their choreography of chaos matched the other elements of their show in gut©wrenching intensity and sheer weirdness. The audience, hungry for strong sensations and eager to participate as ever, quickly adopted the musicians' madcap movements. Within a few seconds a throng of perhaps a hundred people was transformed into a seething mass of bodies, limbs thrashing and flailing out of control, crashing into and careening off each other. Jim managed to push his way out of the madhouse before he had suffered any injuries © he wondered why none of these people ended up seriously hurt or maimed when 'participating' in a street gig. Maybe, he thought, only the ones who could survive this kind of behavior were still alive to perform their craft. Relieved, he left the milling crowd behind. In recent times he had seen a lot of street art of all kinds, music, holo displays, graphics, organic art and VRT material, and he had clearly noticed two recurring motives that were becoming increasingly prominent. One was a fascination with jungle vegetation, more precisely the bio©catalyst©enhanced plant life of the Afflicted Area, often in combination with an Urban Area setting. The other was that of insect life©forms in all possible variations. The reason behind this phenomenon was easy to figure out. Firstly the insectoid bio©weapons they had introduced here a number of years ago had never been completely exterminated. Many parties had tried to do so, but the critters were tough and determined and genetically tailored to withstand just that. The areas where they had found a home had been sealed off hermetically from the rest of the city. Rumor had it, though, that future expansion couldn't be ruled out entirely and that only fools and VRT junkies thought they were safe. Secondly, some of the bio©catalyst©produced plant©life that had been imported here over the years, had either on purpose or by accident evolved out of control. Of course it had been tampered with by many local enthusiasts who had used it for their own ambitions and who had lacked both the knowledge and the proper techniques to perform a decent job. It was no wonder then that the situation had gotten out of hand. Most of the troubleªmaking plant©life had been effectively dealt with, but some of it had been given free rein. In some cases because it had proven invincible and resistant to anything local authorities had come up with. In other cases the green coup had taken place in a part of town where local authorities didn't bother to interfere, such as the outer rings of Nowhere City. By now there were several areas where New Vegetation reigned supreme, taking over without tolerating any other life forms © unless they were willing to serve as food. These Green Zones weren't sealed off officially. They were simply considered to be off©limits and people fled the area as the green tide expanded. Nobody knew when it would stop ªif it had that in tention at all. As he walked, the music behind him grew dimmer and faded into the general background noise that constantly filled the air over here. He found this 'natural' noise more bearable. The street he was now walking down led into a sort of market square, at this time of day totally occupied by street©vendors, all busy

selling and trading. Money was but one of the ways to settle payment in Nowhere City. He slowed down his pace as he passed a large display of organic art works by this genre's rising star, a guy called Riff that Cynthia had told him a lot about. The dealer stated that he was an authorized representative of Riff. He would probably say anything that could boost his sales. Organic art really was in vogue now, and had achieved that status in a mere few years. It was a new art form, and a typical one for the milieu in which it had come into being and risen to prominence. As an exotic, transformed life form, successively changed into a bio©weapon, illegally introduced over here, greedily taken hold of by local interested parties and ultimately turned into works of art, it was a typical product of its niche, Jim thought. It showed that Nowhere City's inhabitants, of which he now was one, tended to roll nature and war and business and art all into one and veer off from each of these elements of life into any possible direction. This Riff guy had to be an archetypal character. A low©life figure, a criminal, a gang leader, a rebel, an unscrupulous dealer, and now an artist. Like Nowhere City itself, he grabbed everything in sight, absorbed it, and threw it back out again in whatever shape the absorbing process had given it. Nowhere City meant life on the cutting edge. It was a dreadful place, dangerous and unpredictable, menacing and volatile. It was also endlessly fascinating. And it happened to be the only place where at this moment he was willing to live. And, he reminded himself, I need to talk to Carlo Frianelli. And leave this damned organic art behind. It brought back his recollections of the transformed forest way to vividly. He speeded up his pace. The building where Frianelli had located his General Headquarters, as he tended to refer to his modest ramshackle apartment, was dazzling and overwhelming as ever, a baroque superstructure of impossible proportions that could have been plucked right out of an educational VRT on architecture. Jim shuddered to think what it looked like under its layer of holos. An armed guard blocked the only entrance to the building, a tall and broad©shouldered heavyweight, clad in a one©piece silver uniform, his face hidden behind the reflecting faceplate of his helmet. Jim knew him for what he was and walked straight through him. Inside was very much the opposite of the baroque splendor outside. Jim briskly ran up a flight of creaking stairs, down a scarcely lit corridor, and knocked on the door of Frianelli's GHQ. "What's up? If you're tired of life, come in." It took some time for the words to register. Whoever this guy was, he definitely wasn't Giancarlo Frianelli. What had happened? This meant bad news, no doubt about that. In the meantime, a total stranger was staring him morosely in the eyes from Frianelli's doorway. "Who are you?" he finally managed to say. "What are you doing here?" A leery smile slowly appeared on the man's face. "I was about to ask you the same questions." "All right." Jim took some deep breaths, held up his hand, swallowed. This might turn out to be pretty difficult. "Let me explain. I don't know who you are or what you're doing here, but a friend of mine lives here." "You mean used to live here. I moved in here a week ago or so. Does that answer your question? Does this mean you can leave now?"

"I can't believe this." Jim shook his head, desperately tried to think clearly. "My friend can't just have left. That doesn't make any sense. Carlo would have gotten in touch with me. Or left a note, anything." "No, he couldn't do any of those things, and with good reason. Carlo, you said? I bought this shithole from a guy called Carlo who lived here until I moved in. I liked this place because it's further away from the desolate outer rings where I used to hang out and cheap © Carlo had to go fast and accepted the first offer to come his way. Hey, look. Why don't you come in for a second, so we can talk about this? You look confused and you clearly know this Carlo type. You can call me ShiverShade." Oh no, not another nickname, Jim thought. Not another typical Nowhere City lowlife type. But then again who else could you expect here? Once inside, he recognized Frianelli's place. Nothing had changed. Carlo had left everything he possessed. The new occupant hadn't had the time, or the money, to bring in his own stuff, apart from some high©tech equipment on a sagging desk. "So who are you?" Shade asked. Jim remembered the hackers who infiltrated and 'damaged' official VRTs like the military training programs he had been exposed to called themselves Shades. Probably this guy was one such hacker. "My name's Warner," he said, careful to use his new identity. "I'm an old buddy of Carlo. We used to fight together, ended up in this place and drifted apart, although we still saw each other occasionally." "I see. Let me tell you this : I wasn't a close friend of Carlo or anything. I met him a couple of times, mainly for arranging to buy this place. But he was pretty well©known among certain people so I have some info on him. I guess you know a whole lot more about his background than me, so I'll stick to the most recent bits. What made him decide to leave and why it had to be done quickly the way he did it." "Fine." Jim, alias Warner, nodded. "I'm all ears." "It appears your buddy got tired of the life he was leading here. It got to him. He used to be this tireless fighter, the eternal rebel who always found a cause. He was a member of these gangs, you know? Pretty dangerous games these guys played. Only thing is, these people don't take it if one of them wants to quit. Once you're in, you don't get out. At least not alive © unless you can run very fast." "I think I'm getting the picture." "Once Carlo had dropped out he discovered he'd better get the hell out of here. He'd finally gotten this restlessness out of his system, wanted to bow out and settle down. Live a quiet and peaceful life here, reminiscing about the good old days. Telling tall stories about his battles and victories to an enraptured audience. But he hadn't realized his former buddies wouldn't let him. So he had to leave fast, make some money by selling this place and everything in it to the first interested buyer and run like hell. He did, and on time. I don't think they got him. And they never will, cause he was clever. He covered all his tracks. There's no chance they'll track him down, wherever he's fled to. That's too bad for you, though. It means you're not likely to track him down, either. You'll have to live with that. It's the way of the world. Better face it, pal." So that's it, Jim thought. We're separated for good now. Certainly that was bound to happen one day, only it had arrived so abruptly and unexpectedly. But as Cynthia had said, Nowhere City was where all the unexpected things happen. He'd better get

used to it. "Now that I've got you in here anyway," Shades continued, "There's something I'd like to hear your opinion about. I need some impressions from an unbiased observer on my latest creation. Just a second." He turned around, grabbed a keyboard and typed a series of commands. He turned back again, and explained. "I used to be a hacker, but I switched to designing holo shows for street bands. Tell me what you think about this one. It's only a preliminary design for a new band called Clash Of Symbols. Watch." Jim watched as a rose flickered into existence, hanging in mid©air in a corner of the room. It remained motionless for a few seconds, then its petals began to wave and the flower grew larger and larger. Its bright red color diminished in intensity. The rose also started to change shape now. Both the red flower and the green leaves and stem underneath were now turning grayish, then stabilized as a dark brown tone, a very unrose©like color. The rose, however, had now swollen and changed beyond recognition. As its transformation continued its new identity became visible, and Jim wondered why he hadn't guessed what was about to emerge. It fitted right in with the new mythology that was developing in Nowhere City, and was so blatantly typical he'd soon have to consider the theme as traditional. The rose had been turned into an insect, leaves and petals had shifted color and substance into chitin. Faceted eyes, waving antennae and clicking mandibles of an enormous size now filled the corner of the room. Then the creature mercifully winked out of existence. "Well?" Shades asked. "Are you impressed?" "Quite frankly, I'm disgusted," Jim said. "Excellent," Shades exclaimed, clapping his hands with glee. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear. These Clash Of Symbols guys have embarked on a real horror trip. You should hear the music they've come up with. These guys will rip their audience apart. And they want to have a visual show that matches, or if possible, surpasses their music in brain©numbing terror. This rose©into©insect thing is of course only one aspect of a fullªscale show." "I'm sure they'll be hugely popular in no time," Jim said. "Audiences these days love to be ripped apart." "It's a booming market," Shades said. "I joined in at exactly the right time. And I must say I'm pretty pleased with my current state of affairs." "You used to be a hacker?" Jim prompted. "I sure was. I used to work my way into these military VRT programs and wreak some serious havoc. I used to break into official networks and sell the classified information I dug up. That went fine for a while, but there's more fun in what I'm doing now, so I moved on. You get stale if you don't do that. Who knows what I'll be doing next." An idea occurred to Jim. "Would you be willing to part with some of that classified information? Carlo and me were in the War together. I'd like to know how it all ended. The real, undiluted truth. If there is something like that. Otherwise give me anything that comes close." Shades nodded, lost in thought for a moment. "I guess you guys deserve to find out how the war was put to an end © or put on ice, to be more exact. I suppose you know what's generally known?" "I do. But that doesn't satisfy me. Tell me everything." "The War has never been officially declared over. Yet there's no longer a War going on out there. But they're still

fighting. Does this make any sense?" "Nope. Go on." Shades sat back, ran a hand through his hair and was silent for a few moments, collecting his thoughts. His hand movement had revealed a socket©like gash above his right ear. It wasn't the first instance Jim had seen of a Nowhere City dweller who'd had some bio©surgery, but for one reason or other it had struck home quite forcefully. Maybe it was because he had witnessed it in what used to be Carlo's quarters, or because he was in some special mood or because of what they were discussing here. Whatever the case may be, it was a powerful telltale sign of the winds of change sweeping across the entire Urban Area and, no doubt, beyond. "The War wasn't stopped," Shades said. "It simply ground to a halt. A certain status quo has been reached and all parties concerned seem to be intent on consolidating their positions. Some skirmishes and conflicts are inevitable in such a situation, but there no longer is any overall strategy or major military activity. Basically everybody's waiting and holding their breath as the situation unfurls and gradually becomes clearer." "Are new troops still being sent?" "No, they seem to have put the recruitment and training programs on ice. But they're not yet calling troopers back © at least not officially. It's impossible to tell how many of them defected to the other side or just left the army or were swallowed by the forest or whatever. I think this War will end with a whimper. It will peter out slowly, and if those men return it won't be in triumph. They'll come scuttling back slowly, hoping not to draw too much attention, planning to slip back into society's waters without causing too many ripples. But somehow I doubt we'll see them back. I think they all had a one©way ticket to Forest Forever." "Has the overall situation changed drastically?" "From a certain viewpoint, yes. I mean, what's been happening now isn't all that spectacular, but it may turn out to have far©reaching repercussions. It's all tied in with what happened over here a couple of years ago. You can't separate the two worlds, far apart though they seem. Over here things have been shaken up. The whole field of bio©industry used to be in the hands of a few people who controlled everything. Their customers were also limited to a privileged happy few. The riots and "shopping trips" of a couple of years ago changed all that. Not to mention that infamous invasion of a special guerrilla unit, the same guys who imported those damn insects. We're not likely to forget them." Neither will I, Jim thought. "The result is that bio©industry is now in the hands of many © not only have the leading companies been broken up, but it has fallen into a lot of Nowhere City hands as well. Some of those hands were pretty careless or downright clumsy. Go and stroll through one of these Green Zones for more details." "And how does this tie in with the War in the Afflicted Area?" "Well, the bio©catalyst production appears to have been resumed, although it wasn't brought up to its former level. Also more clients are being served, as there is no longer a monopoly. There seems to be a sort of unwritten agreement of how much exactly each client can order. And some of those clients are local ones. Don't ask me how they pay, how deals are struck. It's hard to obtain enough solid facts to piece together a complete

picture." "So the New Natives are no longer left out?" "Well, not all of them. I don't think the place has been turned into paradise overnight, though. You'll find sons of bitches and thieves and con©men everywhere. What do you expect? They're all still human. Still, things are changing both here and there, and on the whole I'd say it's not a bad thing." "It's a beginning," Jim said. "A step in the right direction." And, he added to himself, I was among those who set it all in motion. Of course, I wasn't alone and the times were ripe for the change I helped bringing about. Still I think I deserve some credit here. As does Carlo and the others. And all those who knowingly or unwittingly led us onto this path. Such as Liberaciá¢án. Whatever happened to her, he wondered. Let's hope she's among the ones who benefitted from the change over there. Probably he would never find out. And, he realized, I will never be able to claim the fame I'm entitled to. Officially, Jim Reicher is missing in action. It left his father a broken man. But it also left Jim himself free to pursue whatever goal he now wished to pursue. There was such an awful lot to achieve. So the question was not, What to do now?, but rather, What to do first? And of course you had to take into account the fact that the change had only just begun. There was no way to tell where things would go from here. There was a social evolution over here, as well as a natural one in the Afflicted Area. The forest was still being transformed and expanding under the influence of its raw bio©catalysts, and God knew how it would end © if it ever would. The forest dwellers would have to wait and see, and, if necessary, run. The same was true for the Urban Area dwellers © although finding a place to run to might be more difficult for them. Shades had then said they had been talking for too long already and he really had to get back to work. So they said goodbye and Jim left, walking straight through the armed guard again and turning back to kick through the high©duty machine gun he levelled at passersby at random intervals. Although it was high time he got back to his place, he didn't quite feel up to it. His mind was in turmoil. He needed time to think it all over. He felt like walking aimlessly through the garish, holo©splashed streets of Nowhere City, bursting with feverish activity, crawling with cyberpets and other fake life forms, flickering with deceptively real©looking non©life forms, brimming with noise disguised as music or vice versa, saturated with colorful madness. As he went on his way, dodging what looked real and passing through the rest, he let his thoughts roam freely. Hope and despair, so close together here. Hope for a bright future amid bleakness and poverty in the Area's outer rings. Take Cynthia Raythan's case for example. Now she was typical for what could be achieved however humble your starting point was. It took character and determination © and a whole lot of luck. You also had to be in the right place at the right moment. Running into the right people when it mattered tended to help too. The girl used to be this would©be artist puttering about in her tiny little room with everyone believing she was going nowhere fast and bound to fail. But she had just kept going, honing her talents to perfection, climbing higher and higher, finally leaving her tiny little room behind and eagerly reaching out for bigger and better things. Crawling yet a few rungs higher up the ladder hadn't been sufficient for her, though. That wasn't

what she was out to get. It was merely a stepping stone towards her ultimate goal. So she had toiled onwards, had left that stage behind as well, had messed up her bosses' brains in the process, and now here she was, still on her way to what she felt was her share. Who knew where she would end up? And who knew where he would end up if only he went about his business as she had been doing? This was an interesting avenue of thought he'd like to explore further. But right now something else had caught his attention. He had barely realized how quiet it had become all at once. He stopped dead in his tracks, observed his surroundings. He was wrong. It hadn't quieted down. He must have been walking for longer than he had realized, and had simply ended up in an abandoned neighborhood. Up ahead there had to be a Green Zone, which was what everybody had run away from. Without flashy and artsy holos to cover up the gritty reality, this was Nowhere City at its seediest and most run©down. Slowly, step by step, he walked down this street lined on both sides with sagging and crumbling buildings. There was no life here. Neither real fleshªand©blood life, nor any of the fake varieties. And yet still another life©form was on its way. He turned a corner and saw the aggressor. The contrast was quite a shock, although he knew what to expect. A dense mass of foliage and jungle vegetation taking possession of a chunk of the city. Of course its relatively quick expansion couldn't be simply observed, but it was evidenced by the empty ring of buildings around it, which was constantly pushed farther back, a bufferªstate of decaying, d esolate grayness. There was no stopping the green tide. This was nature at its greediest and most resilient. One could but flee and surrender whatever one had constructed. The intruder, this interlocked mass of jungle vegetation that formed an impenetrable whole, was sparkling with its newfound vitality and satisfied, in its collective plant mind, of its power to expand and engulf this virgin area so far from home it could never have reached it on its own. Contemplating the vegetation©smothered buildings, barely visible under the layers of foliage and moss and vines and tendrils, Jim thought, This forest is following me wherever I go. There's just no escaping it. It'll keep crawling and growing and swallowing everything in sight till this Urban Area has been transformed into a Forest Area. And who says it'll be satisfied then. Maybe it will consider its victory as a first step towards worldwide supremacy. But long before that it will make life unendurable for us. It will drive us stark raving mad, total fuckin' nuts. One day we'll notice these curious pink mushrooms among the vegetation, and before we realize what's going on we'll be breathing in massive amounts of hallucinogenic spores. From that point onwards we'll completely lose our grip on reality. He could be standing here, as he was now, and see Liberaciá¢án emerge from the forest and come walking up to him, smiling her inviting smile, and he would think it was actually happening and go along with it and let the girl lead him by the hand into oblivion. But for now it would be better if he'd cast away these crazy ideas. No dark©haired girl would appear as if by miracle. He was alone here. Very much alone even. It wasn't just Liberaciá¢án who had disappeared from his life. As a matter of fact, about everybody had. He had hardly any links left with his past. His dad, his relatives. Not really gone, but they were no longer part of his life. Old friends, from before he joined the War Force, he doubted he would ever see again. Carlo Frianelli and his War

Force buddies had all vanished without a trace © sadly enough, in Frianelli's case. In a sense, he had even lost himself, good ole Jim Reicher. A total stranger called Warner now occupied his place. A guy who had mysteriously appeared from nowhere, and had started his life as a story consultant at Eyecatcher. That company had known a meteoric rise to success, thanks to Cynthia, that girl he'd met who had ultimately become his boss. His success had matched the company's : the story of his life, in a highly edited and fictionalized version, had proved to be quite a hit. He had gone on to cook up more story ideas, and had branched out to designing VRT outlines. His stuff seemed to work well. If this continued, he might have a bright future after all, albeit vastly different from the one he had always had in mind. My future, he thought, waking up from his reverie. Shouldn't I be working my way towards that possibly bright future of mine instead of losing my time here, standing at the rim of this Green Zone, lost in futile thoughts and meaningless speculation. Well, he corrected himself, not all that futile and meaningless. The idea of the last humans fighting against a worldwide Green Tide had something going for it. He'd make a note of it, toss around the idea for some time trying to come up with a story line and a general framework for a new VRT. He turned around, suddenly determined, and briskly walked back to where he had come from. So much to do, so little time. He really had to get back to work now. He left the Green Zone and the moat of empty buildings and quietness behind without looking back. Presently he found himself in familiar territory. A malfunctioning cyberpet doggedly tried to drive its mechanical head into a wall. Peddlers tried to get his attention, desperate for a sale. A booming noise slowly grew more and more audible, possibly another street band presenting their brand of creativity. A handful of children were playing a game, shouting and shrieking in shrill voices. They tried to jump through a burning man as many times as possible before the holo had gone through its cycle. He walked around the children in a wide arc, and kept going hurriedly. No time to play games for him now. He had a lot to do. With renewed eagerness and drive, he rushed onwards. own, wherever he's fled to. That's too bad for you, though. It means you're not likely to track him down, either. You'll have to live with that. It's the way of the world. Be bottle left now, and a few wafers. Enough for today, perhaps, but we'd better not wait till we run out of supplies before we try to get hold of some more. I'll go and try where I found this yesterday. Maybe you can go down to that service station, just in case they have something to offer by now. You never know. This isn't the time to pass up a chance." "You're right," he admitted. "Let's go." It took him some effort to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. As he walked, he noticed with mounting disgust that many people had relieved themselves between the rows of cars, and the rain hadn't washed it all away. He had to walk carefully to avoid the faeces, as well as the clumps of debris now cluttering the relatively narrow aisles between the cars and trucks. Lots of people were still asleep in their cars. As Robert appeared from behind a row of trucks he suddenly noticed a column of black smoke billowing up from the service station. A small crowd had gathered nearby, watching and talking. He stopped dead

in his tracks, disbelief and incomprehension freezing him. As it started to dawn on him what must have happened he shook off his paralysis and ran towards the group of men and women. He recognized one of them, the man he had met yesterday who was going to attend a conference. "What happened here?" he asked nobody in particular. "Was it an accident? An explosion?" "I don't think so," the conference man said, smiling and nodding as if to indicate he had recognized Robert as well. "Go and take a closer look. You'll see." Robert didn't have to go up to the station to see what had happened. It turned out most of the complex had been destroyed. Part of it had been set on fire. This had clearly been no accident. A massive act of violence had caused this. But who was responsible for this senseless destruction, this display of sheer madness, this ominous slip back into barbarism? "This is so typical," the conference man said from behind Robert's back. "Ever so typical. I'm not a sociologist or anything, but I have this theory. There are behavior patterns emerging here. I think I can see the underlying motivations for all this, which must at fisrt sight appear like pure madness. By the way, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Harrold Rothery. I believe we've met before, yesterday?" "Robert Mayers," Robert said, shaking the other man's hand. "We did indeed meet very briefly. Weren't you supposed to attend a conference? I seem to recall..." "I was indeed. But I'm afraid I won't make it to that conference. It's no longer relevant. What has happened here is my main focus of interest now. I mean, not so much the act itself, but rather what drove people to commit it." "I see," Robert said, glad to have found an educated person to engage in meaningful conversation with. "So what happened here?" "This is absolutely fascinating, my friend. Right here we seem to be having a situation in which tension builds up until it reaches critical mass, and then this tension is sublimated as aggression and violence. The isolation we're now living in only intensifies this process. People are growing restless and impatient, their anger and frustration grow uncontrollable and end up being directed against specific targets. This service station, for instance, is a typical such target. People tended to view it as a haven, a source of supplies, the only place in the area to offer sanitary facilities, an oasis in a desert of despair and distress. When suddenly they find themselves firmly locked out of this haven, people promptly react by annihilating it. I don't think it was a conscious, deliberate effort. It was rather an action taken on impulse, by people blinded by raging fury, people who were beyond reasoning. I suppose the same thing will happen to other such targets." "Uh huh. So what can we expect next?" "There's no way to be sure, but I think this won't be the last act of senseless destruction we've seen here. I can only see this situation deteriorate further, unless of course the cause of the problem is removed." "We're not all raving madmen," Robert countered. "Of course we're not," Harrold admitted. "But let me put it this way : there's enough of us here who are. I'm in perfect control of myself, as I'm sure you are. I realize very well that I missed an important conference that would have been of great importance to my career. But I also know that, whatever I do, I

have no chance to get there in time. It's too late. However unfortunate it may be, I know I'd better accept the situation as it is. And so should you. I'm sure your forced stay here has serious consequences for your career as well." "Absolutely," Robert admitted. "I hate to think what all this will mean for my office. And not just for me personally. Who knows how many of our people are being held up somewhere. There's no way to find out. Maybe I'm the only one and they can carry on without me. On the other hand they may be faced with major absences and be close to bankruptcy by now. Who can tell?" "I suppose your work is vital for your office?" "Well, I do occupy a top level function. One way or another, this situation is really catastrophical for my employer, believe me. We're losing vast amounts of money here. Who knows how much time it will take to recover from this loss? Besides, I'm losing my time here. Yesterday was so empty. We spent most of the time sitting in our car, waiting, watching nothing in particular. The contrast with my active life is really painfully sharp. My function is a commercial one. That has always attracted me. I can't get any satisfaction from a desk job, I have little patience with paperwork. I want to meet people, I like to be in the heat of the action, I love the rush of success like a wave washing all over me instead of quietly studying reports, sitting behind a desk, leafing through stacks of paper, with the humming of the air©conditioning as the only background noise. I'm sure you can understand what a letdown this situation is to me. Add to that the fact that we're powerless to do anything about it. We can only sit back and watch. And bide our time until it's all over." The two men started to walk back, silently, thinking about what they had seen and what had been said. Behind them the small crowd fell apart as people made for their cars too. There was nothing for them here to do anymore. "Look," Harrold said suddenly, pulling him from his musings. "This is what I meant. I don't think this bodes well for the future." It was a bright red Mercedes which had attracted Harrold's attention. It was dented in several places, and its windshield was broken. Its owners were nowhere in sight. As the two men came up close to it, they saw one of the side windows had been completely shattered. Robert shook his head, disgusted. "What could have happened here," he murmured, still finding it hard to believe what he was seeing. "We can only speculate," Harrold said. "Suppose there was an argument and one driver chose to seek refuge in his car." "A question of food and drinks, perhaps?" "That's a logical assumption. Suppose he had some supplies stacked away and refused to sell or give some of it to people who badly needed it, say for their children. I can imagine a situation where a fight ensues, and the car is broken into to get at the supplies." "That would explain why the car is empty." "True enough, but of course there's a dozen other explanations possible. Still, it's very much a fact that©" "Oh my God," Robert interrupted the other man, as he suddenly remembered his wife had gone out to buy some food and water. If only she hadn't run into trouble. Maybe it would be safer from now on to go together. A woman alone didn't stand a chance against a group of crazed aggressors. "If you'll excuse me," he said to Harrold. "I'm worried

about my wife. I really have to go and see if she is all right." Robert hurried off. To his relief he found Miranda sitting in their car, a supply of chocolate wafers and some bottles of water at her feet. "Are you okay, darling?" he asked, still panting, as he got into the car. "I've been worried. Tell me." "What's wrong?" she asked, incomprehending. "There was a slight incident, but everything turned out all right. I©©" "You were attacked?" he said, his voice rising in pitch. "This woman kept saying I bought too much, and if I was allowed to do so there would be problems for all of us, and it just wasn't fair and that sort of thing. She even tried to keep me from leaving. Look at my coat. See?" She showed him her coat, the right sleeve of which had been torn. "That's it," Robert said, clenching his fists. "Next time I'll go with you. We just can't take any chances. And we'd better stack our supplies away where passersby can't see them. It's way too dangerous." "Robert!" She frowned, failing to understand his unusually emotional response to what had happened. "Aren't you getting a little paranoid there? What's gotten into you, dear?" "Listen," he said, and told her about the two incidents he had seen and what he thought it meant for them. "I can only see this getting worse," he added, "so we'd better be prepared. I wouldn't take this too lightly, darling. I'm afraid the worst is yet to come." She shook her head. "I still think you're overdoing it, Robert. But if it makes you feel better, we can go together from now on. And I'll put all this stuff somewhere out of sight." "Fine," he said. "That should do the job. At least for now. I hate to think what will come next. And what we'll have to do about it." They sat in silence for a while. Every now and then Miranda checked to see if the pent©up tension and grimness were fading from his face. They weren't. Ã**Ã4 "My parents will be terribly worried," Miranda said. "And all the rest of them. Our friends, everybody we know." She pushed a knitted, unruly lock of hair out of her eyes. Her hair had dried at last, but her hairdo was ruined beyond repair. "I suppose they can guess where we are. And who knows where they are? Do you think we're the only ones who happen to be stuck out here?" He found he was trying too hard to sound reassuring. "I seriously doubt it. But it's driving me mad all the same, Robert. It's not just the fact that we're stuck here, but also this being isolated from the rest of the world. We're cut off from all sources of information. What's happening out there? Will all this be over soon? What's happened to our house? Have burglars taken advantage of all these empty houses and apartments and pillaged everything within sight? Are the cities on fire? Is there widespread rioting, blood and anarchy in the streets, chaos all over the country? Anything may have happened!" "For our own sake we'll have to assume everything will be all right. The police will see to that. Or in the worst possible case, the army." "If they're not on strike as well, that is." Her voice was rising in pitch. "That's just wild speculation on your part, Miranda." "The police don't seem to be too active over here."

"Well they can't be everywhere. And maybe they haven't been notified of the situation over here. I really don't think there's any reason for panic." "But how can we be sure about that?" "I have to admit that we can't. But I'm sure of one thing : driving ourselves nuts won't get us anywhere. So we'll have to stay put and make the best of it. One way or another this mess will eventually be solved. There's no doubt about that. Until then we'll just have to cope with whatever we're faced with." "I wish I was as sure about all that as you seem to be. I must say that I haven't seen too many signs today telling us that we're close to a solution of this problem." Robert merely shook his head and banged his hands on the steering wheel. Miranda was right, of course. Today had begun peacefully enough. Watching the sky turn into increasingly lighter shades of grey, they had eaten their meager breakfast and left the car to stretch their legs and inhale some fresh morning air. The road was shrouded in silence : most people were still asleep in their cars and trucks, the few who were awake didn't produce any noise. Not one single engine or other machine©made sound could be heard. The quietness was unnatural for this type of environment which was supposed to buzz with metallic activity. The air should be filled with the sound of revved up engines and irritated horns, swirls of exhaust should cover the scene with a smothering pall of smog. The sight of the roadscape with its endless rows of immobilized cars and its dirt©strewn aisles reminded Robert of a scene from a movie he had seen a number of years ago, about a man trapped in a world frozen in time. Finding himself now in a position similar to that movie's protagonist filled him with a curious blend of unease and hopelessness. As people started to rise from their sleep and were leaving their vehicles, Miranda suggested they went to buy food as quickly as possible, before it would get too crowded. This time they went together, as they had promised to do from this point onwards. They wound their way between the cars until they reached the place where she had bought her supply of wafers the days before. "Oh my God," she exclaimed as she saw the van. "So that was the one," Robert said, a statement rather than a question. He walked around it, studying it carefully from all angles. Miranda had covered her eyes, unable to look anymore, and muttered something to herself, too quietly for him to understand. The van was empty. Its driver was nowhere in sight. Its supplies had either been sold or taken away © whatever the case may be, they would have to look elsewhere for food from now on. But it wasn't the sudden lack of supplies that had struck Miranda so forcefully. It had been the shattered windows, the doors that had been forced open, the smashed headlamps. There was nothing left now but a battered, empty hulk. Robert wondered for what reason the damage had been inflicted. Had there been a fight to get at the last supplies? Or had frustrated buyers, who had arrived on the scene when the last supplies had already been sold, sublimated their disappointment into unreasoning violence? Of course it didn't really matter. What did matter was that they would now have to find another source of supplies. "Come on," he said to his wife, "we'd better hurry. There's no point in staying around here anymore. I would say we've seen enough." Miranda merely nodded, and trailed behind him as he trudged off. More and more people were on the move now, probably

all looking for food and water. Some five minutes later they reached what clearly had to be most of these people's destination. Up ahead he could see a line of trucks, embedded between strings of cars. As the road was gently sloping down here, they had a perfect view of what was going on. A number of people, probably the truck drivers themselves, were standing on top of their vehicles, shouting messages or instructions at one another. From this distance he could not understand any of it. The men were armed with jacks, wrenches and various car parts that could serve as weapons. All around the trucks, partly hidden between the cars, a dozen of men were waiting, talking among themselves, and also armed with makeshift weapons. Miranda edged closer to him, took his hand in hers, stared him incredulously in the eyes. "Robert?" He hugged her, caressed her hair. "I'm afraid this is exactly what you think it is, darling." More and more people arrived, like spectators piously gathering to observe a religious ceremony. They didn't have to wait a long time for the ritual to begin. One man, no doubt the leader of the pack, emitted a high shriek and thrust out his monkey wrench, and his followers darted from between the cars and stormed the trucks. Robert assumed the vehicles contained food, and their drivers had so far refused to part with their supplies, whatever their motivation might be. Did they really think the situation would soon be back to normal and they deemed it therefore advisable not to surrender or even sell their wares? Or, another possibility dawned on him, chillingly: these people have grasped how serious and hopeless the situation really is and want to keep these vital supplies to themselves, giving priority to long©term survival plans instead of a quick but ultimately useless profit now. And the other group, evidently, wanted to lay hands on these supplies, equally vital to them for exactly the same reasons. Miranda had turned away her face as soon as the onslaught had begun. Children were starting to cry, or ran off to take shelter from this madness they failed to understand. Torn between disgust and fascination, Robert watched as the truck drivers hacked and slashed with their improvised but apparently effective weapons. The attackers had clearly underestimated their opponents: maybe they were weakened by a few days of hunger, or perhaps they were simply too poorly trained and inexperienced for this kind of action. Robert saw how one of them was hit on the head with a monkey wrench and sank onto his knees, blood seeping from a wide gash running from his forehead to his temple. Two of his friends tried to retrieve the injured man, but the truck drivers didn't allow them to do so. The attackers retreated to reassess their strategy, and discussed the problems at hand with frantic gestures. The injured man soon collapsed into a shivering heap, the pool of blood around him widening, staining his clothes. A light rain began to fall. The crowd of onlookers remained remarkably silent and unmoved as the attackers launched their second assault. This time it seemed as if they would be more successful : the windshield of the first truck was shattered and one of the men managed to climb into the cabin. The truckers' leader shouted some new instructions, and some of his guys jumped onto the tarmac and concentrated their efforts on just two of the attackers. Both of them quickly fell prey to the ferocity of their assailants. A shock went through the gathered crowd, hoarse

shouts and cries could be heard as the two victims were mercilessly clubbed and kicked to death. For a moment it seemed as if this dismal climax signalled the end of this nauseating display of aggression, especially since the crowd had now ruptured its silence and was giving vent to its feelings of horror and disgust. But their shouts seemed merely to incite the truckers to more mindless violence. Now all of them, in perfectly executed unison, converged on their enemies, determined to finish their unsavory job. As the remaining attackers finally understood they didn't stand a chance against this well©organized lot, they fled into the crowd of onlookers. For the man who had managed to clamber inside the cabin of one of the trucks it was too late. As he desperately tried to escape he was caught and met the same fate as his less fortunate colleagues. Still the truckers were of the opinion they had not yet stated clearly enough that the stretch of road occupied by their trucks was their territory and that they were adamant about protecting it against any invader. As the rain started pouring down, as if to indicate that the weather was on their side, the truckers followed their fleeing enemies into the crowd, wildly whipping and sweeping about their weapons at targets seemingly chosen at random, vehicles as well as innocent bystanders. The crowd panicked, and was dispersed in a matter of seconds. People fled, bumping into each other, crushing one another against cars, trampling underfoot those who had fallen in the melee. Some tried to take shelter in the cars they passed, but the doors remained firmly locked. "We'd better go," Robert said to Miranda, still relatively safe from their distance. "Who knows where they'll follow those poor devils." "And we're getting soaking wet," she replied. All the way back they ran, trying to avoid other people who were seeking refuge from both the torrential rain and the violent madmen. No more shouting or crying could be heard. The only sound was that of the rain splashing down on the car roofs they passed. As they finally got back to their own car, they were wet through. Robert doubted the rain would also wash away the impressions of what they had just witnessed. It took a few hours for the rain to slacken. It would take their shock more time to wear off, and hunger was becoming a nagging presence. They hadn't said all that much, had mostly limited themselves to staring through the side windows. The windshield was by now too dirt©smeared to allow a clear vision of what lay ahead. As there was little to see Robert didn't feel tempted to go out and wipe off the grimy film obscuring their view. They were finally torn from their reverie by a gentle rapping on the window at Robert's side. It was Harrold Rothery, the man he had met on a few occasions already. Robert allowed him to get into the backseat of their car, eager to hear what he had to say. If Harrold had gone to the trouble of locating their car to get in touch with them, the news was bound to be important. "Robert, excuse me for disturbing your privacy and barging in like this, but we have serious matters to discuss. I don't quite know how to begin." He ran a hand through his hair, leaned back in his seat, groping for words. "I think I know what you came to talk to us about," Robert said. "Did you see what happened earlier today, Harrold?" "No, but I've heard about it. And I've been thinking,

Robert. We'll have to organize ourselves too. There's just no other way. You've seen what happened out there : an individual would be totally unable to defend himself or even to mount an action. Soon individuals will be forced out of the picture here. Listen." He leaned forward, took Robert by the arm. "Do you have something in mind?" "As a matter of fact I have. I've been talking to several people, exchanging viewpoints and insights and ideas. We're about to form our own group. And you and your wife are welcome too. Actually, I would urge you to join us. We can use you. And what can you do on your own, without food, without protection, without anything? Do you realize what you would be up against? Imagine both of you, facing powerful, armed groups out to get whatever it is you have that might be of interest to them. Food or clothes, or your car. Or, come to think of it, your wife! Robert! Be reasonable!" Harrold now held his arm in a painfully tight grip, as if that would render his arguments more convincing. "You do have a point there," Robert conceded. "We'll think about your proposal. What do you say, darling?" He turned his attention to Miranda, who had remained silent throughout their conversation, scarcely paying attention as if they had been discussing matters far removed from her field of interest. Now she merely shook her head, weary of the entire situation, sick of the position they were now being manoeuvered into, even if out of necessity. Robert understood it was better not to insist, and looked over his shoulder into Harrold's eyes. "I wouldn't think too long if I were you," the man said, his voice now back to a normal tone. Robert nodded, took the steering wheel firmly in his hands, as if he had just decided to drive off and leave the traffic jam behind. "Count us in," he then said, barely loud enough for Harrold to hear. "I knew you were a sensible person, Robert," he said, obviously pleased. "Believe me, we don't really have a choice." For a few moments there was silence. Then Harrold said they would get in touch as soon as possible and left their car to go back. Silence returned. There was little to say, and anyway Miranda didn't seem to be in the mood for talking. Later that afternoon they saw the first of the trekkers, as they were to call them. They stared at the three figures, carrying about everything they possessed wrapped in blankets or stuffed into bags, and wondered what drove these people to continue their journey on foot. Were they simply tired of the endless waiting? Were they perhaps convinced they could cover the distance separating them from the next exit leading to a city relatively nearby? As far as he knew, there wasn't one such exit within reasonable walking distance. Still, these people had to have a reason to leave everything behind. Suppose this trek hadn't actually been a deliberate choice of theirs? Suppose they had been chased away by armed groups like the one they had seen in action, hungry and desparate and ready to take whatever they needed? Maybe their car had been destroyed, or it had been taken over by a group of crazed aggressors? On the other hand, they might well be the survivors of such a group who had lost a battle and had managed to avoid certain death by running off. But whatever the case might be, a few questions lingered in Robert's mind. What could these people possibly expect up ahead the road? How would they spend their nights? How would they support themselves? What was the ultimate goal of this trek? They saw more trekkers before it grew too dark to see

anything. The nights on the road were shrouded in total darkness. Ã**Ã5 The decision to opt for drastic measures had been taken when they had found their car occupied by complete strangers, who showed no signs of any willingness to return it to its rightful owners. They were on their way back from a short trip to Harrold's group, which still had a reasonable supply of food, if rapidly dwindling, they were as members entitled to share. They had rushed back to Harrold and had explained the situation. It had subsequently been discussed with all the group members. They had agreed that the time had come to act forcefully, in their own interest, appalling as the idea might have appeared to them in earlier days, now sadly gone by. There were several factors to be taken into account. Firstly, there was an overall rise in violence and crime, and there was no indication whatsoever that this was a temporary phenomenon. If they weren't ready and willing to fight against the tide, they would be washed away. It was as simple as that. Secondly, there was the fact that their first forays, as a group, to find food and water had yielded very little. The main reason was of course that there wasn't all that much to hunt for on this particular stretch of road. Another reason was that a steadily growing number of people organised themselves into clans with the same intentions as theirs, and all defended boldly whatever meager supplies and equipment they possessed. Thirdly, there was the fact that they noticed an increasing number of trekkers. They rarely saw any individual trekkers; most of them were trekking in groups, or clans as they preferred to present themselves. They all understood this was more than a trend. It was evidently becoming a necessity. Staying wherever you were had become pointless. One had to move, explore new stretches of road, rise to new challenges. Nobody knew whether things would be better up ahead the road, but they certainly couldn't be a lot worse than here. "The time has come," Harrold had told them, "to leave sedentary life behind, and start a new nomadic one. We're about to enter the age of life©on©the©road. In a certain sense this is a backward evolution, but at this point it seems to be the only workable solution. I would say this is definitely the thing to do for us." So off they had gone, determined and hopeful. Theirs was a small but tightly©knit clan, certainly able to stand its ground. Its nucleus consisted of Harrold Rothery, a bank employee called Matthew Rutherford, an accountant called Neil Parker, an architect called Geoff Archer, and of course Robert himself. Besides these adults the clan also included Miranda and a few other wives and some children in their late teens. No member of the group had any small children with them, aged people or pets. Harrold had insisted upon these membership conditions. Some people, unfortunately, had a wife and children at home, or possibly caught in another jam elsewhere. They had scarcely started their trek as they passed the line of trucks where Robert and his wife had witnessed the first of the clan clashes, a mere few days ago. The trucks had by now been reduced to empty, burned©out hulks. The truckers were nowhere in sight. Probably they had gone off on their own trek, supposing they had survived the confrontation which had led to the burning of the trucks. As they passed the charred carcasses, Robert noted

that they were a fitting symbol for the evolution that was now beginning to unfold. To their relief, the start of their journey turned out to be promising. After having walked for fifteen minutes or so, they noticed that the vehicles up ahead the next stretch of road had been totally rearranged. Cars had been moved to the sides to create an open ring around a large van. Armed guards were mounted all over the area, and at first they thought that this particular clan had large supplies they were defending against interested parties. That conclusion turned out to be wrong, as they discovered by simply watching what was going on. They quickly understood that interested parties were quite welcome, unless they were out to steal the supplies. The armed guards were only there to see to it that everything ran as had been arranged. The clan owning the van and its supplies were actually selling their stuff, mostly canned food and drinks. Buyers had to line up, and were allowed into the van one by one to conduct business. Only one representative per clan was admitted, and accompanied by two armed guards. Once the deal had been struck and the supplies had changed hands, the clan in question was asked to move on, so as not to disturb the proper order of things or clutter the space required for supervision. Harrold was appointed as their representative, and while he was waiting for his turn the rest of their clan stood a short distance away, silently watching the proceedings. "It makes sense to me, in a bizarre kind of way," Robert said after a while to Miranda. "As no outside solution for our problems was forthcoming, we had to come up with a solution of our own. I think that's exactly what these people are doing. I'm not sure how they're doing it or if this idea can have any long©term success, but at least it clearly shows that we're not beyond hope out here. This should at least restore our hope in ourselves and our abilities." "But where do they get their supplies?" she asked. "How will we pay them? We have a very limited amount of money with us, and once we'll have spent it..." She let her voice trail off, making a vague gesture. "I suppose that idea will have occurred to Harrold as well. No doubt he'll return with supplies as well as the answers to our questions." When Harrold returned at last, he carried an armsload of supplies, but he had very little to offer in the way of answers. He had of course been anxious to find out where these people got their supplies from, and had indeed asked them that question. They had been willing enough to provide the answer © but these people demanded payment for anything they could sell, and that included information. Harrold had preferred to save their money for more urgent needs, the answers to their questions not being all that vital. They had accepted to offer one explanation free of charge, though : in anticipation of Harrold's next question, they had told him that money wasn't the only kind of payment they accepted. They all realized that everybody would soon run out of banknotes and that money would eventually lose its value, relative as it had always been. To Harrold's question what else they accepted, they had simply stated, "You'll find out what has value and what hasn't. And if you don't, it won't matter." That had ended their conversation. Harrold had been asked to make room for the next customer in line, and his clan was urged to move on. Loitering was strictly forbidden. So they walked on for another ten minutes, then sat down on

the ground to enjoy their first decent meal in days, the first meal they had bought on the road, their first transaction in this new road economy which seemed to be coming into existence. Any rosy©colored ideas that might have nestled into their minds about their future were quickly dispelled by an attack they had to ward off by a group of three men out to grab their supplies. As they largely outnumbered the trio this turned out to be fairly easy, but they were now very much aware of the fact that they would have to be constantly on their guard to protect what was theirs. Miranda wondered what the threesome's motivation might have been. "Maybe they don't have any money left and have nothing else to buy food with," Matthew offered. Robert chose to disagree. "Every economy has its criminal elements," he stated. "Each society has a certain percentage of people who turn to crime and violence instead of following the proper procedures. I don't see why we would be different in that respect." Most other clan members didn't accept this view of his, but he was sure that time would prove him right. Harrold reminded them that there were more pressing concerns to attend to than Robert's abstract theorizing. They had to agree on a course of action for the rest of the day : what distance to cover before taking rest, how and where to spend the night, how to protect their precious supplies. They all realized their life©on©the©road had only just begun. Ã**Ã6 Robert awoke, yawned, tried to stretch his arms within the narrow confines of the Pontiac's passenger's seat. The others were still sound asleep, apart from Geoff who had guard duty and was sitting rather uncomfortably on the hood outside, balancing an exhaust pipe in one hand. As he noticed Robert was awake, he made the thumbs©up sign. So there had been no incidents this night. He rolled down the window, and the morning cold bit into his face. A grey dawn greeted him. All was quiet. Lone figures could be seen perched atop cars, clan members with guard duty who were keeping an eye on everything, as Geoff was now doing for their own clan. Robert closed his eyes again for a few moments, allowing his thoughts to roam freely before tackling today's activities. Like most clans who were now on the move, they used the empty cars to spend the night. Most cars were deserted anyway, left behind by their owners, so they felt they might as well take advantage of them. Depending on the number of clan members, one or more vehicles were required. Robert's clan had opted this time for three rather large cars, had pushed them closer to one another to render guard duty easier and more efficient and thereby increase their safety. Guard duty was performed in shifts. While the cars were being prepared for the night (cleaning, if necessary, stocking their supplies, rearranging the interior), the kids checked them for parts and items that could serve as payment. They had virtually run out of money by now, and were trying out a barter system. By observing what other clans did, as well as applying the time©honored trial and error method, they were gradually discovering what worked and what didn't. Still Robert felt they were often groping in the dark. There had to be a more efficient way to solve the problem of supporting the clan. They agreed to discuss the issue at length today, at the first opportunity to present itself. Judging from the groans and stirrings coming from behind

him, the others were now waking up as well. As he opened his eyes again he saw Neil Parker clamber out of the car next to theirs, a somewhat damaged Buick, stretch his arms and legs, and lean closer to him. He said, "It's my turn this morning, fellas, in case you forgot. And this Pontiac here seems most suitable for the job. So come on, get out. I'm pretty much impatient and the rest of us don't have a lot of time to lose either. Out, out." He hammered a few times on the car roof, so as to lend more weight to his demand. Robert and the others got out of the car. A few moments later Neil and his wife had taken positions on the spacious back seat and were making love, and quite passionately so judging from the sounds coming from the Pontiac. They all pretended not to notice what was going on. It was the only way to preserve a semblance of privacy, and apart from that, there seemed to be no other way to allow couples to have intercourse in a safe way. Allowing them to retreat to an empty car further away would render them too vulnerable to attacks. So intercourse had to be conducted where safety could be assured, and at a moment of the day when the clan's regular activities wouldn't be disturbed. So they had installed another shift system and a set of rules. At least it left the clan operable, which was what counted. By the time their supplies had been inventoried and today's breakfast portions had been allotted to each member, Parker and his wife had finished their activities and joined the others for their meal. "I need more calories than you," Parker said between bites, sniggering in a childlike way. "If only you knew how much energy I've spent already." Nobody bothered to comment. Nobody did so much as smile. Judging from mrs. Parker's dour expression and cold stare, this was a wise decision. As soon as they had finished their meal they went on, slowly and carefully picking their way between the cars and trucks. Some of these were occupied by other clans, or perhaps (highly unlikely as it appeared to them) the original owners who still hadn't decided to begin their trek. Most clans simply allowed them to pass on, as long as they did so quickly and without causing trouble. For some reason, certain clans refused any intrusion of what they considered their territory, and in those cases they had to make a detour to avoid those clans' defensive actions. It struck Robert how big some clans were. They could occupy up to a dozen cars and vans, all arranged on the road in such a way as to maximize their safety. He wondered if it was worth the trouble, knowing that clans didn't stay anywhere for a long period of time, merely needing a place to rest before they resumed their trek. They soon found out how the system worked as they stopped short at the border of yet another clan territory, marked by two vans effectively blocking every passageway. A man appeared from behind these, red bandannas and scarves wrapped around his head, waist and wrists, and a Mercedes star dangling from his neck, obviously his clan's insignia. Most clans had adopted them to stress their group's identity and as a warning sign to keep obtrusive passersby at a safe distance. "That's all of you?" the man asked, brandishing a fire extinguisher, a dreaded weapon. "Thinking of a resting place for a couple days? This one is up for sale. We're leaving as soon as the deal is struck. Any offers?" Harrold, who had gradually taken on the leadership of their clan, stepped forward to discuss the sale. So that's how it works, Robert thought. These encampments are continuously sold and passed on from one clan to another. It made sense, if you

could grasp the logic of the road. Harrold came back, said they couldn't afford this spot, interesting as it might have been. "I have this feeling," Parker said as they continued on their way, "that we're not quite strong enough to compete with the big boys here. Our position in the road economy is just too weak. We'll have to do something about it." "Do I hear a voice of protest?" Harrold asked, snorting. He very much took his leadership for granted, and didn't like any signs of protest, however mildly put. Parker excused himself. The other men exchanged worried glances. "My wife isn't feeling too well," Parker suddenly added, as if this was the key to the problem. To everyone's bafflement Parker's son Nigel offered some of his views too, in a way blunt enough to shock Harrold to the marrow of his bones. "Who gives you the right to order us around anyway? What makes you think you're better than us? You're just a..," he hesitated, considering the havoc his words might wreak, then decided to utter them against his better judgment, "a boring old fart and we can't put up with you any longer." They all halted dead in their tracks, paralyzed at the thought of the counter©attack that would now inevitably be launched. They needn't have feared. Maybe their leader realized he was dealing with teenagers, notoriously rebellious by nature. "We?" Harrold asked, one eyebrow raised, seemingly in perfect control of himself, but probably boiling with rage underneath his outward appearance of calm. "Me and Jim," Nigel answered, indicating Geoff's son who hadn't said a word up to now. By taking position right behind his friend, the boy made clear whose side he was on. "We've decided to leave this clan," Nigel continued. "The way you're going about it you're getting nowhere. Or perhaps to hell. Send us a postcard when you get there." For a moment there was silence, while Nigel and Harrold stared each other in the eyes. Then Harrold turned around, as if the spell had been broken, and told the clan to follow him. As far as he was concerned, the case was closed. The incident was over. They all understood they were not even supposed to refer to it, however indirectly. Robert followed Harrold along with the others. He noticed that the two boys were lagging behind, and no doubt they would soon go their own way. The atmosphere didn't brighten until they ran across the band of musicians whose joyful playing filled the air in an invigorating way that reminded them of better days © Robert had never been into music, but now he found it strangely enthralling, perhaps because it contrasted so sharply with the other aspects of life©on©the©road. The band consisted of four men and two women, and they had improvised a stage by pushing two pickupªtrucks along one anot her. A black man sat behind a small drumkit, a woman and a man were strumming guitars, one man was playing a saxophone and a black girl was doing lead vocals, while occasional backing vocals were supplied by the guitarists. A fair crowd had gathered around them, all members of various clans, judging from the wide variety of insignia. It had been some time since they had seen people belonging to different groups intermingle so peacefully. The power of music, Robert thought. I had never imagined it to be this strong. But here it is, shining out brightly for all to see. The band played three songs in a row, took a short break, and then did three more songs, and so on. The songs segued into each other by means of jazzy improvisations, which crept into the melody towards the end of

one song and meandered on well into the next one. During the pauses some people cheered and clapped their hands, and donated all sorts of stuff to the band members. No payment was demanded, but everybody felt morally obliged to give something in return for this wonderful and unexpected gift. Many chose to give food or drinks, some gave trading items. In the meantime Harrold and Matthew were off to buy some more supplies at a nearby dealer's, who had clearly chosen this spot to do business because so many people were attracted by the music and lingered on for a while. Business had to be very good for this clan. Strangely enough there weren't any other dealers around. Maybe, Robert thought, this clan makes sure no one else tries to set up a business. There was just no other plausible explanation, and this type of preventive action was perfectly in tune with the logic of the road. During one of the pauses between the band's short sets, he walked up to the musicians, hoping he could get them to talk. "Do you have a moment?" he asked the saxophone player. "I have a few questions. How much?" The man waved away that last question. "Don't bother with payment," he said to Robert's amazement. "We don't go for all that. Give what you want for the music. The rest you're getting free." As he noticed Robert's incredulous stare, he added, "Hey, we're musicians. We don't care too much about established rules and all that. Well?" "What's the idea behind this show of yours?" Robert asked. "Playing music for everyone who happens to come along. I liked it fine, but I'm not sure I see the point of it all." The man laughed, shaking his head. "We've always been a touring band. As a matter of fact we were on tour when we got stuck here. That's why we're together here, with all of our equipment. We can't use the amps and the electric guitars, of course. We're just playing our music because that's the only thing we can do to make a living. We're doing reasonably well here, considering the circumstances. We survive, and we're not harmed. What more can you ask for, out here on the road?" "I guess that makes sense," Robert said, pondering these people's philosophy, simple and pragmatic, but above all highly efficient. "So what are you guys doing?" the man asked. "Are you with a big clan? What line are you in? Dealing? Protection? Anything special?" "We're picking up some stuff along the way and selling or trading it. Nothing special. Somehow I don't think there's any long©term idea behind it." "You really should consider doing something special, something that sets you apart from other clans. There's just no other way to make it on the road. Living from day to day won't work forever. What did you do before the jam, anyway? Were you in an office? You definitely look like the office type to me." My office, Robert thought. The days before the traffic jam? Dim memories came flooding back, fleeting images of his old active life, too fragmentary to be assembled into a clear picture. Strange, he thought, how the daily worries and concerns of life©on©the©road have managed to push all of my old life into the background. That information is no longer relevant and hence there is no need to keep it stored in the memory banks. "Let me think," he said. "My office. Hmm." "I understand," the sax player said. "Most people tend to forget the old days. Too busy surviving and thinking about what

lies ahead, I suppose. Anyway, what are you guys up to?" "I don't really know," Robert admitted, and added on impulse, "Any suggestions?" To his amazement, again, the man nodded. "Go further down the road," he said. "There's this giant clover©leaf junction up ahead, where three highways intersect. There's a high concentration of people there, a wide variety of clans all doing their thing. That part of the road is bristling with activity and if you guys don't find any ideas there about what to do then I'm afraid you'll never find them." "Thanks," Robert said. "We'll go and take a look. Take care, man." "Bye," the musician said. "Good luck. Don't let the road swallow you." When he got back he noticed that Harrold and Matthew had bought new supplies and were waiting for him to continue their journey. They set off right away, despite repeated complaints from mrs. Parker that she really felt too sick to continue. Harrold ignored the remarks, and they all knew that little could be done about sickness anyway. Robert observed the woman at regular intervals, and she didn't seem to be in good shape indeed. Ã**Ã7 A good night's sleep, in guaranteed safety, for all of them. It had sounded too good to be true, and yet there it was, within easy reach as long as your clan could afford the price. As they had reached the rim of the clover©leaf junction area, mrs. Parker had become so ill that she could simply not go on. They had spotted a bus, guarded by armed men. They had at first assumed it was another supply store or some clan's dwelling place, but then one of the guards had hollered at them, "Need a place for your clan to spend the night? In complete safety? No trouble, no more guard duty? This bus and our services can be yours. Any offers?" They had agreed on a price, although their clan had barely enough trading items left to pay for a night's stay including protection. The night had been a blessing. Now the morning had scarcely begun and things were turning sour. The two kids, Nigel and his friend had disappeared. That was not a big surprise, but it left a bad taste in the mouth all the same. Robert presumed the boys had joined one of these youth©gang©type clans, where they would probably fit right in and be allowed to make their own decisions. This way they would be happier. Still, most adults tended to frown upon these clans' often irresponsible activities. Mrs. Parker was now raving feverishly, balancing on the fine line between consciousness and coma. It was clear they would have to find a solution for this problem. And still that was not all, as Robert found out when they were all awake and Harrold looked all his clan members in the eyes and told them, "We've been reduced now to a handful of men and one woman. I'm not counting mrs. Parker anymore. She's clearly beyond help. And that one woman is yours, Robert." He stared him coldly in the eyes. Miranda said nothing, didn't even look up, as if this statement was of no interest whatsoever to her. "So what?" Robert asked. He could feel the bad news coming. "You'll have to share her with us." "Out of the question," he stated as firmly as he could.

"That's completely unthinkable." "I'm afraid you're wrong, Robert." Harrold sounded menacing. "The current situation isn't fair. You don't deserve to be privileged." "Privileged? Miranda happens to be my wife. I can't see why anybody else would feel entitled©©" "She's no longer your wife. Admit it. You both joined a clan. She's the only female member. She owes her services to all male clan members." "Services! Harrold, that's a barbarian idea! Do you realize what you're saying? Have we lapsed back into the Dark Ages? What's next? Ae we going to burn witches? Will we©©" "He's right," Geoff interrupted him. "Admit it, Robert. We're not saying this out of self©interest." "You bet you are. You just want to go to bed with my wife and you've found a way." "That's nonsense, Robert, and you know it. Why do you cling to the obsolete notions of the old days? You know they're meaningless on the road. New rules define the game now, and you'll follow them if you want to survive. Look, let's settle this dispute once and for all." Calmly, in perfect control of himself and with a complete lack of emotional involvement, Harrold dropped his pants, helped Robert's wife undress and had intercourse with her. She didn't resist. Nobody said a word. They all observed the ritual that was being performed, maintaining a respectful silence. Afterwards Harrold turned to Robert again and said, "As you've been able to witness, there was no lust or any inappropriate emotion in my behavior. I merely took something I was entitled to as a full member of this clan. Is that clear, Robert? Are there any more questions you would like to ask?" Robert shook his head. Harrold nodded. The dispute had been settled. They could now go on with whatever had to be dealt with next. It came as no surprise to Robert that this next issue turned out to be the problem of mrs. Parker. What did come as a surprise was the way this particular problem was resolved. It was Geoff who suggested the idea, pointing out to Harrold that Parker's wife had little to contribute to the clan anymore. It was difficult enough to keep the clan going as it was © in her present condition mrs. Parker would only jeopardise their survival. "You're absolutely right, Geoff," Harrold was quick to agree, clearly pleased somebody had finally expressed an opinion he was happy to support. "Well, what do we do about this problem? Let me know your opinions, all of you. Apart from you, Parker. You're too emotionally involved with this woman. You can't possibly take an objective view, so you're excused." "I'm excused?" Parker asked, baffled. "How can we expect reason from you, unclouded by emotion? We're talking about your wife here." "I'd say that's exactly why my ideas count." "I'm afraid you've got it wrong there. Don't make me explain my views twice, Parker." Harrold shifted his gaze to the three other men and Miranda. "Any suggestions? Geoff? Matthew?" "We'll have to leave her behind. Really, I can't see any other solution." "Get rid of her. Try to get something in return for her. Maybe she still has some value for somebody." "Hm. Robert?" "I don't believe this," Robert said. "You're out of your

mind, all of you. What's gotten into you? Has the pressure driven you nuts or something? Do you realize what you're saying? How can you allow yourselves to degenerate into barbarism like this?" He noticed his voice was rising in pitch. "Listen, Robert." Harrold appeared to be in control of himself, but Robert could sense the boiling rage underneath the man's deceptively quiet appearance, ready to burst forth at any instant. "It's about time you began to adapt to our new living conditions. There's no reason to cling to the old ways. They're obsolete, they serve no useful purpose here. You really ought to shed all that ballast. You're so sentimental, so unrealistic. Can't you see that this sentimentality of yours will only get you into trouble?" "He's right, darling," Miranda said to his utter amazement. She was the last person he had expected to join sides with Harrold, especially after what he had done to her earlier this morning. He stared at her in disbelief as she continued, "Don't be so unreasonable, Robert. You'll have to admit the best we can do is to leave mrs. Parker behind, God bless her soul. We simply can't afford to drag her along, however much we'd like to." Robert shook his head, but as he was about to retort Harrold cut him short. "Listen you two," he said, addressing both Parker and Robert. "I won't put up with any more resistance from both of you. I want you to pay me the proper respect a clan leader is due. Got that?" "I don't remember you being elected as our leader," Parker said, and was instantly rewarded with a punch in the face by Harrold. "Am I making myself perfectly clear?" Harrold asked. They all stared at Parker's face, at the blood dripping from his nose. There was silence for a while. So that's how far we've come, Robert thought. Our self©appointed clan leader decides and takes care of dissidents in typical time©honored tyrant's fashion. And, strangely enough, we seem to accept this state of affairs, if somewhat grudgingly. As a matter of fact, it might be wise for them to go along with it. Putting up a fight would lead to nothing, and leaving the clan (and his wife, however much she seemed to have changed) and trying to make it on his own would be foolish. So when they finally left to continue their trek their number had been reduced to six : the two boys had left the clan, and one of the women had been disposed of in an elegant way, as Harrold had put it. They had indeed received a form of payment in return for the ill woman from the clan which owned and rented the bus. Harrold had been immoderately pleased with this achievement. He applauded its being "highly in the spirit of the road, where nothing is free and can therefore be simply given away. Only fools leave free gifts behind. Sane people on the other hand deal with goods in a practical way. Goods are bought or traded, their value can be examined and discussed, deals can be struck." Robert could see that Parker was about to make some incisive remarks about his wife being described as "goods", but the man kept his thoughts to himself. If I were in his shoes I'd probably do the same thing, he thought bitterly. Apparently we're all too scared to question Harrold's authority, we all accept his leadership against our better judgment. But won't this stimulate his bent for despotism? Shouldn't Geoff, Neil, Matthew and me start discussing plans to take over when we feel the time has come? He would have to talk about this with his fellow clan members at the first opportunity to present itself. Needless to

say, it was unthinkable Harrold would find out about these intentions. Onwards they went, Robert's mind a turmoil of slowly burgeoning ideas and nagging worries. The musician had been right : if this stretch of the road, with its beehive©like activity and endless streams of people going to and fro constantly, wouldn't spark off ideas in their minds, there would be no hope for them. Here the road expanded into an intricate construction of converging and diverging lanes and flyovers. The confluence of highways was a natural place for the road's equivalent of a commercial center to grow into existence. All types of business were flourishing here. So were all kinds of crime. Countless clans were staying here, for shorter or longer periods of time. Some appeared to have taken permanent residence. All over the area cars and trucks had been rearranged in a remarkably orderly fashion, to allow a smoother organisation of life in the clover©leaf area. People could move more freely, business was easier to conduct, protection could be guaranteed in most circumstances for those who could afford it. The entire area looked as if it had been painstakingly designed by specially appointed architects and choreographers with an inclination for the bizarre. It was up to the clan now to explore this place © and use the knowledge they would gain to their full advantage. Ã**Ã8 The idea came during the cloudburst. As a rule they didn't mind a little rain, but they tended to avoid getting soaked through. When rain started to pour down seriously, most people who were away from their clan's dwelling place took shelter in unoccupied, unclaimed cars that could be found with a bit of luck. This time, however, they had waited too long. The clouds had grown thicker and darker, and with scarcely a warning a rainstorm burst loose that soaked them within seconds. They darted left and right, hoping to find a spot that would serve them as shelter, casting quick glances in all directions, but in vain. Then all at once Harrold turned around and shouted, "Over there!" indicating the hulk of a burned©out truck he had spotted. The metal carcass was too far gone to hold any interest for anybody, so it was theirs for the taking. It provided them with a rudimentary form of shelter only. Mere moments later the five of them were huddled under the remnants of the truck. They weren't exactly out of the firing line of the sudden gusts of wind and the torrents of water that came now bucketing down, but at least they no longer bore the full brunt of the onslaught. Robert studied the faces of the others as they waited for the storm to take out its anger on the road and its inhabitants and then calm back down. They stared at the curtains of water slashing down, eyes squinting against the biting wind, shivering with cold, strands of wet hair smeared across their foreheads, beards dripping with icy raindrops. Miranda had pressed her body close to his, for the first time in a long while showing some form of affection for him. Perhaps, Robert thought, this means all is not lost. When hardship strikes, we turn out to have some shreds of humanity left. Life on the road hasn't turned us completely into savages. The road was gently sloping down here, and water came washing down in ever larger quantities, forming rivulets that quickly swelled into a foaming tide, rushing past and

transforming into eddies and rapids as it met obstacles on its way. The tide swept along all the accumulated debris and detritus that had been scattered across the road. After the passage of this rainstorm, the road would be cleansed. Too bad, Robert thought, that all this precious water will flow down and be lost forever. Unless of course, the idea struck him, with a force as sudden as unexpected, unless we catch it in whatever comes in handy. He sat upright, startling Miranda in the process. That's it, he thought. We can catch more than we need and sell the rest. We can become a clan of water gatherers and sellers. We would fulfill a vital function here, support ourselves, perhaps develop into an economically strong clan with a healthy amount of buying power and the social status that goes with it. This is the idea we've been looking for. He rose to his feet, smiled, spread his arms wide and gratefully allowed wind and rain to beat down freely on him. "What are you doing?" he heard Miranda ask, and then Harrold joined in, shouting, "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Robert? Get back down, you idiot! Have you completely lost your mind? Get your ass back here with us! Robert!" He crouched back down with the rest of his clan, thumped Harrold on the shoulder, who was staring him in the eyes in utter amazement. "Let me explain something to you, Harrold. I've just stumbled onto our way out of the hopeless mess we're in. You will all be grateful for this. Mark my words, Harrold. This is the beginning of a new era for our clan. From now on we're on our way up." "The rain has washed away your brain," Harrold mumbled, perplexed, incomprehending. "Why don't you keep your mouth shut, Robert, before even more water gets into you." They stared into each other's eyes for a few more moments, and as the rainstorm showed its first signs of abating Harrold asked him, "Are you sure you're all right?" "It's been a while since I've felt this good." It took Robert some time to convince Harrold he had something important to say. To his relief he discovered that Harrold, tyrannical as he might have become, still had a keen mind for suggestions that the clan might turn to its advantage. Harrold was very quick to see the market possibilities for clean, drinkable water (or at least as close to drinkable as possible under the present conditions) and accepted Robert's proposal. Typically enough, as soon as Harrold had taken that decision, he referred to the plan as "ours", as if Robert's role had been a marginal one at best. Robert chose not to comment on this attitude, despicable and arrogant though he found it. This was not the time to irritate Harrold or to question his authority. No doubt a more suitable opportunity would present itself one day © and then Robert and any others willing to join in ought to be sufficiently prepared to rise to the challenge with a decent chance at success. Later that day, as the road's normal activities were resumed after the storm had completely died away, Harrold's clan began its preparations for its newfound vocation. They started collecting car parts and all sorts of objects suitable for catching and transporting water. For the time being they all worked in unison, executing Harrold's every command without even the merest thought of rebellion crossing their minds. After all, the clan's survival and welfare were at stake. Once those goals had been achieved, they would have ample time for less harmless endeavors, Robert consoled himself. Frantically, they continued

their search for the tools of their trade. Ã**Ã9 A Charred Area, Robert thought. They had heard about them, but this was the first time they actually crossed one. It was totally deserted. Not one living soul could be seen between the burned out hulks of cars and trucks which clogged this stretch of the road. Too tired to continue, Miranda dropped to her knees, sobbing. Harrold nodded, indicating they were all allowed to rest for a while. Geoff, Matthew and Neil turned out to be so exhausted that they were asleep within moments, curled up against rusting car wrecks. Harrold was also taking it easy for a while, and chose to remain silent. The man seemed to grow increasingly taciturn with every passing day. So, Robert thought, even our indefatigable leader can no longer work up any energy. Miranda's sobbing died away slowly until only a labored breathing indicated she needed more than a light rest. Robert felt tired as well, but was not on the verge of passing out. He sat back, closed his eyes, and allowed the caleidoscope of thoughts and memories spinning beyond control in his mind to ease back into a more tranquil and manageable flow. Their future as a water©gathering clan had looked so bright and promising. Life in the densely populated cloverleaf area with its bristling economic activity had seemed so invigorating. They had finally discovered their true ambition and had worked hard at realizing it. Robert was convinced they would have done so with flying colors, but the outbreak of the first of the Clan Wars had shattered their dreams. The War had not come as a total surprise of course, but the actual outbreak had been quite sudden and they had been forced to escape at an instant's notice. More and more clans had joined the cloverleaf community, whereas few chose to leave and explore other parts of the road. Soon the constantly swelling population rendered a normal social and economic life impossible. Tension rose. Crime and aggression between clans intensified. And, to their bitter disappointment and rising apprehension, they had witnessed the appearance of inflation, its steady growth and its eventual culmination into a destructive phenomenon destined to bring all the clans to their knees. At first they had tried to cope with the problem by catching and selling more water, but they had quickly found out that this method, similar to the ones used by other clans, merely speeded up the inflation rate. Whatever they did to generate more income, they invariably received fewer goods in trade than the previous day. As key elements of life on the road such as food and protection of living quarters began to grow scarce, it became clear that the carefully balanced road economy was heading towards disintegration. Theft and murder became everyday affairs. Certain clans turned into professional criminal gangs, organizing robberies or killings against payment. Their actions were met with yet more extreme violence. The search for food became every clan's prime concern. The source of the food supplies had always mystified Robert. He was convinced that by now all the supplies stored in trucks blocked on the road must have been exhausted. Of course he had heard the tales sung by various travelling bards, about stretches of road close to cities where food and all other necessary items were bought and distributed along the rest of the

road, but he wondered if the bards were dealing with facts or myths. Whatever the case might be, food had been growing desperately scarce to the point where skirmishes and riots between clans erupted almost everyday. Social and economic life in the cloverleaf area was shaken on its very foundations and would soon no longer be possible. As there was no solution on hand for the problem, a full©scale all©out war had become inevitable. Although they had all felt the cataclysm hanging in the air, they had been taken by surprise by the outburst of the hostilities and had managed to escape only in the nick of time. They left behind a raging battlefield smothered in blood and ravaged by fire. And now they were here, lost and lonely on a deserted stretch of the road which bore the traces of an earlier conflict, a Charred Area as they were referred to by the road's travelling bards and singers who had become their only source of news and stories © if there was still a difference. As soon as they had rested enough to get back on their feet, they decided to continue their trek. There was no point in hanging around this depressing cemetery of cremated cars and trucks, weather©beaten carcasses whose only future was one of continued decay until the roadscape would be reduced to rusting particles scattered across rubbish and debris. Although they were hungry and thirsty and barely recovered from their hasty retreat, they left this part of the road behind them as quickly as possible. Harrold had not yet unveiled his plans, but they realized very well there was only one possibility open to them. They had to travel onwards until they reached a part of the road which could still sustain a level of social and economic activity of a certain standard. They knew very well it would be hard to find the equivalence of the cloverleaf community that had been such a heart©warming experience, in many ways the highlight of their life on the road so far. They quickly discovered they had been spoiled by the cloverleaf area, a haven of orderliness and civilization when compared with the rest of the road. Once they had left the Charred Area behind, they reemerged on a "normal" stretch of the road, where life turned out to be harsher than they had become used to, less well organized, and more violent. They did not have the feeling a Clan War was about to erupt here, though. It took them some time to start back up their waterªgathering trade, but a t least they were a functioning unit again with a goal in mind, and determined to achieve that goal. All the thoughts of rebellion Robert had at one point harbored against Harrold had been repressed these last few days, as the clan members all seemed to have more important business on their hands. Once they were smoothly practicing their trade again, however, Robert's vague plans to overthrow their leader resurfaced in his mind. He would only have to wait for the right opportunity to turn his ideas into solid reality. The opportunity didn't take long to present itself, and when it did it turned out