Steel Sleet

STEEL SLEET

Eric Del Carlo

® www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Steel Sleet Eric Del Carlo This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com

Copyright © December 2007 by Eric Del Carlo All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-583-8 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Olivia Wong Cover Artist: Anne Cain

Dedication To Samala Ray, who has stuck with me as things have started to get interesting.

Chapter One

It’s a hunter’s city. Phosphorous rounds rattled the street like dice thrown across a coffin lid. They left glowing hallucinatory streaks in their wake, raked the glistening pavement, and punched holes here and there into the obsidian faces of the indifferent towers. Nickerson was on that street, in the clammy night, his heart jiggering and jaggering with the feline-level adrenaline pumping through his veins. Enriched reflexes moved his lean, hard body, but one of those phos slugs -- sloppily, desperately sprayed into the nighttime -- might find him, no matter how fast he could snap, dodge, leap, and sprint. But he was determined to elude his hunter. His every instinct, human and cat alike, demanded he survive. The sky was a fungal glow of neon, a gruesome mix of pollutants and aggravated weather. It was the only sky the hardcore inhabitants of this city ever saw, if they ever saw it at all, those who were born here, lived (such as it was), and soon enough died -- sometimes violently, at the least unpleasantly. Nickerson wasn’t an urbie, though. Not any longer. Sure, he’d been born here and had spent years in the turbulent city, but he had also gone off-rock,

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traveled, had experiences, and beheld sights that your typical city rat probably couldn’t conceptualize. But now, he was again on the streets of what could only quaintly be referred to as his hometown, and he was in serious jeopardy. That noxiously glowing sky didn’t illuminate much at the bases of the soaring towers, for which Nickerson was grateful. However, the mist in the air made for a kind of canvas on which the phosphorous rounds painted their white-hot splashes. Nickerson narrowed his eyes, pupils closing to vertical strips as a crazy quilt of shadows played across the wide, otherwise empty boulevard. City life was indoor life. Or underground life. Urbies wouldn’t be on the surface streets at this dead small hour. Nickerson had paused, the wait tense and brief, while the fusillade played out. He had gone onto his belly, atop the damp aging concrete, the scent of wet moldering stone thick in his nostrils. This was an older district, with fewer strata of urban buildup, but it was still part of the same industrial smothering that was so unlike many of pristine places he had seen in his travels. With a jack-knifing movement at once efficient and graceful, he was back on his feet, those feet moving immediately. He flashed across the open street, barely splashing the puddles. His coat was long, too warm for the sticky air, but it was laced with the camofibers that sent heatseek systems into convulsions by spiking temperature outputs into extreme ranges, convincing those programs that they were misreading. An uncustomized syst would automatically shut down, restart, give him -- the target -- a chance to escape. But his hunter had fired blind, or near enough, once already; as Nickerson streaked across the vacant lanes, heading for the foot of the monolithic tower there, another salvo of phosphorous made ugly patches of daylight overhead and skittered deadly steel across the nighttime urban plain. The fire distribution seemed no more organized than before, but a lucky shot would still be a lucky shot. Nickerson wouldn’t even think himself cheated if he stopped a round or two. Indeed, it was quite impressive that he’d evaded his death so far

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tonight -- and he had to assume that that was what was intended here. His death, not his capture. An instinctive impulse, bright and instantaneous, lit somewhere inside him. A jerk of muscles he was barely aware were being called on got his head to snap a few scant centimeters to the right. In the next instant, a hot whiteness had passed over his left shoulder before his overstimulated heart could squeeze half a beat. A shell rang on the pavement nine meters ahead, and a flying speck of gravel gouged his cheek, but he never broke his lithe, legpumping stride. There was some traffic above, black ovals against the sickly sky, but no police lights lit, no sirens yowled. A gunfight on the street below just wouldn’t call that much attention. A social order existed on the city’s street level, and if urbies wanted to kill each other, no one was going to make any great efforts to prevent them from doing so. Let them Darwin it out, went the thinking of those on this planet who controlled the money and power. Corrupt governments and merciless corporate entities worked well together, as, historically, they always had. Those reflexive cynical thoughts barely flickered through Nickerson’s consciousness, so ingrained were they. This wasn’t a philosophy he’d picked up on his exotic journeying to various off-planet locales, after all. No, he’d thought like this when he was growing up in the city, where just about every day was a scrabble, a scrap, and a scrape. Urbies knew what they were. But Nickerson still had the streets’ pulse. He didn’t feel like an alien as he ran toward the tower’s base. His chip warmed his right palm as he activated it with a micro-muscular twitch. He passed under the looming structure’s outer overhang, out of the uneven phosphorous glare, and the shadow-darkness fell like an axe. Again, he was grateful. Here on this sheltered fringe, there were only the ground-level service lights, markers for the various entrances to the commercial or residential reaches of the great black spire, which was one of hundreds in this particular city cluster.

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His hand opened outward, and his chip ’faced with the sentry program. The neutral liqui-display on the metaplastic slab door blinked to streaming static. Steel sleet. No access. Nickerson still hadn’t broken stride, was flitting past in the same eye blink that the entry revealed it was barred to him. He hadn’t expected it to admit him. Or to lock him out. Hadn’t expected anything in truth. His planning hadn’t taken him that far, which was the proper combat mode. You didn’t act on conditions until you were in them. Right now, he was attempting to shake off this current situation, which had him fleeing his hunter with the phosphorous weapon. That was plenty to keep him occupied without adding speculations about the immediate future. The tower base was lined with similarly lit entrance alcoves, stretching off into the distance. Inside this mighty black spire were any number of places he could hide, mazes where he could lose just about any pursuer. But he had to gain access first. He was sprinting beneath the overhang, hand out, open, catching each sentry’s interface as he passed. Those ’plastic doors were virtually medieval in their size, durability, and function: they were meant to hold off outward encroachment, whatever form it took. Steel sleet. Steel sleet. He was denied, again and again, as he ran down the line. Four refusals for access in a row were enough, the pattern evident. This was more than a hunter he’d picked up by chance; it was a coordinated effort. He had suspected as much, of course. Those wild volleys of gunfire weren’t a specific indication of the talent on his tail, but the systematic lockout

was. It meant his chip, which contained his identity, was worthless. Worse than that, really, he thought as he pivoted sharply away from what undoubtedly would have been the fifth barred entrance along the tower base.

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Suddenly, he spun at the hips, a ball and socket of fluid movement, landed low and in motion, hands out and fingers stiff to bounce his upper body out of its plunge toward the ground; then he was up and racing again, back across the wide-open boulevard, with only the fact this was his least likely maneuver working in his favor. As he did, whirring dark objects sped through the damp night toward that fifth entryway. A plasma discharge stank like a fused circuit; it was followed by another and another. Nickerson had already deactivated the palmchip. It was cooling under his skin. Naturally he wouldn’t try to use it again, no matter what the situation was -- not until he had a clearer idea of who was hunting him and why…though these questions were luxuries right now. And, honestly, who and why might not ever make much difference. He had enemies, because someone who did what he did for a living always made enemies. The plasmadarts had launched from the same general vicinity in which the phosphorous rounds had been fired, but that didn’t mean it was the same hunter. Still, no new overbright bursts lit the misty street. Nickerson’s already enriched feline senses were heightened even further. His limbs felt lighter than the moist air, and his blood rushed in his arteries. He heard a new mechanical sound and focused on it, even as his fast nimble feet carried him back across the street in a zigzag that put at least some distance between himself and his pursuer or pursuers. The whir wasn’t from a ’dart’s servos this time. It was a much heavier buzz, slow,

vehicular. Nickerson’s gaze snapped toward the sky. Air traffic was illegal below the loftiest levels of the towers of course, except for police and emergency crews. Ground traffic consisted of the pedal and foot variety, depending on daytime temperatures and exposure levels, but all that scuttling was long since done for this day. Nickerson certainly hadn’t been planning to be on foot on these streets at this hour, but when his transport had suddenly lost altitude, careening downward among the black spikes of the city night, he’d been grateful to manhandle the controls well enough to touch down on the urban surface. He had thought

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the malfunction a spontaneous event -- though such a breakdown was rare. Since stepping out onto the ground level pavement and drawing fire, however, he had reconsidered his transport’s unexpected failure. The vehicle above him now was on a swoop that would take it low over the center of the boulevard. Its running lights were off. The camofibers of Nickerson’s long coat would probably confound any but the most specialized heatseek systs on board, but an aerial vantage would be the best means of spotting him visually. And he had no doubts that the craft was involved in his pursuit. Hunters, then. Truly a coordinated effort. Still, they weren’t strict professionals, else -- simply enough -- he’d be dead already. His air transport from the off-planet port where he’d landed tonight would have been rigged to detonate, not malfunction. Or there would be somebody lethally accurate on the trigger on the far side of the street. Nickerson hadn’t drawn any weapon yet. The situation had been straightforward until now: no target, no need for a gun. Spraying a street blindly wasn’t his style, not when he’d needed every bit of concentration to keep moving and evading. Now, with the car buzzing down on him, he reached a hand into his coat flap, flipped his arm back up over his shoulder and head, and gave the throw the full benefit of his lean tight muscles and cat-precise aim. The flywire was weighted at either end, its molecular filament stretched quite invisibly in between. Nickerson knew from off-rock experiences with bacteria and hull breaches that “invisible” didn’t mean “harmless” -- not by any means. He didn’t watch his throw; there would be nothing to see and he trusted in his own accuracy. He was rewarded a scant instant later when the building drone of the swooping vehicle was sharply interrupted by a violent rending sound. The car might have had military magnetic armor, but it didn’t. Whatever assault those inside the vehicle had been planning for him was no doubt immediately forgotten as the sudden screech of a haywiring vehicular system echoed out over the gulch formed by the towers bordering the street. It sounded like the cry of a prehistoric bird.

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Nickerson dove again. He wasn’t trying to reach the second tower or the dubious cover of its overhang; his chip wasn’t going to be any more successful opening any of those entryways than it had been at the first tower. Without any guidance now, the car he’d disabled was falling toward the street, probably in more than one piece. He had only seconds before its messy impact. But he was already at his goal, strong agile fingers prying at the edges. Grit, gunk, and nameless urban goo had accumulated in the crack, but the hatches weren’t built to keep out invaders. Not just anybody could gain access to the imposing black towers, but no one in authority cared who got into the sewers, the bowels, the city’s underworld. That was where the police wanted the hardcore urbies anyway, if they wanted them anywhere at all. It seemed like a long, deliberate process -- the steady application of muscle, the intelligent use of leverage; then the hatchway would give way as it eventually must, and Nickerson would slide down through the aperture. In other words, a carefully considered procedure. But the truth of it was a man on all fours tearing loose a gutter grate and diving inside, just as chunks of accelerated metal burst thunderously on the pavement, rocking the city night. But Nickerson was down the hole.

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Chapter Two

BlaqJaq was dealing with one who wanted to talk first. He got this often in his particular field of work -- the pleaders, the bribers, the ones that motormouthed right up until he put a stop to it. It was best, of course, not to give them the chance to say anything at all. But BlaqJaq was not on the job just now. His muscular body was thrumming with desire, with pent-up physical impulses awaiting their release, when he wanted most of all to

act, to do. It was a feeling quite unlike what he experienced when he worked, actually, which was good. You didn’t want to like the work. Being streetmuscle was a livelihood for the cool-headed. Not for a lump of brawn who just wanted to bash brains. One had to think, and one had to think smart; this, more than anything, saved everybody a lot of bother. Sex, though, wasn’t a thinking man’s sport. Not the kind of sex he wanted right now, the only kind he’d ever known, fast, unapologetic, anonymous…or as close to anonymous as he could get. Which was usually a lot closer than this. “Well, I usta footwork for Bazil an’ that bunch, but the jobs started dryin’ up. Now times I mostly do scuts for…”

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They were pressed into an old service alcove off the North/South Red Run 2, scrunched tight into a niche, where there wasn’t much traffic and nobody was going to bother them no matter what they were doing in the oily shadows. A vent was clattering nearby in its metaplastic frame, bringing meat smells from somebody’s stove or cooking fire. It wasn’t vermin meat, though it didn’t smell especially choice either, but the aroma was further stimulating BlaqJaq nonetheless, a sensual primal triggering. His cock was blazingly stiff inside his leathers, waiting to be loosed, wanting to penetrate, to release all of his simmering need in a great sticky gushing. He felt his overwrought impulses hurtling toward that steelhard organ, his essence desperate to pour out in that eruption of ultimate freedom. “So, after that I had to go…” And still the man went on. BlaqJaq wouldn’t normally have bothered, not if it was going to be this much hassle, but this was fine stuff here, just how he liked. Maybe too much of what he liked, if the guy was going to put him through this. Hell, he felt like he was some oldie trying to notch someone half his age, offering food and trinkets to lure the young stuff.

Fuck. BlaqJaq wasn’t that old, not even close. In fact, he was barely past that prime age when anybody wanted you just because you had that youth glow. He was still fine stuff himself, wasn’t here to wheedle or beg for sex -- or to listen to another word of this. BlaqJaq suddenly lurched hard against his prey, jamming a leathered thigh between his legs, pressing his solid upper body against his partner’s slighter frame. His mouth was abruptly hovering directly over the other man’s. The run-on chatter stopped. BlaqJaq could see the other man’s eyes widening in the dimness. “Now I know all about you,” he said in a firm whisper. “And all you need to know about me is this…” BlaqJaq crushed his lips onto the younger man’s. Somehow during all that yammering, his partner had neglected to mention his name, and BlaqJaq was glad. The oversight

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preserved at least the illusion of anonymity, which was part of the turn-on. Bodies as identity-less sockets, receptacles. But there was nothing brutal about it. He didn’t go for forced sex, had never seen the point of it. Still, this male plainly wanted what he wanted, else he wouldn’t have stepped into the alcove with BlaqJaq. Maybe all that talk had just been nervousness. Whatever, he wasn’t talking now. He was responding to BlaqJaq’s mouth on his, at first with a kind of soft passivity, then reacting with violent hunger a heartbeat later. His mouth opened; the tongue stabbed. A moan squeezed out of him as he slurped at BlaqJaq’s own tongue. It felt good. The happy fury was rising in BlaqJaq as he pressed his thigh tighter against the man’s crotch. There was a growing eager hardness there. BlaqJaq humped his own swollen meat against the other’s pronounced hipbone. These were the preliminaries. They were to be enjoyed, not lingered over. Their wet mouths stayed busy. BlaqJaq’s strong hands were roving over the svelte form, feeling lean shoulders, a fatless torso, then delving into the raggedy bodystocking’s top. He found the sharp little nipples, snapped each in turn between thumb and finger, and twisted. His partner groaned harder, apparently not caring what was heard by anyone passing along North/South Red Run 2. Hands grappled around, seizing BlaqJaq’s ass, squeezing, pulling his crotch harder onto the hip. Runaway heat quivered through BlaqJaq. His flesh tingled wildly beneath his leathers. He wanted to consummate this thing -- right now. The younger man was already half out of his ’stocking. With an ungentle, deft snap, BlaqJaq shucked the garment down to the man’s knees, leaving the rest of him bare in the grease and meat smell among the shadows. His partner was a beauty, lean and young and creamily complected -- and delectably hard. Backed up against one tight wall of the service niche, he left just enough room for BlaqJaq to take to his knees and seize that savory organ, to take it into his hungry mouth and let his lips and throat ride it with all the frenzy his need

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summoned from him. It didn’t take long. BlaqJaq’s wet mouth was rewarded and warmed as the man shuddered pleasingly against the wall. BlaqJaq rose to his booted feet once again, tongue slick, throat hot, a grin of seething anticipation on his handsomely cut features. With another neat movement, he spun the spent male about, meeting no resistance. The man’s head was turned, cheek pressed to the wall, breath still heaving. BlaqJaq finally freed his aching cock, milky liquid already drizzling from the tip. He set himself into place, boot heels planted, grasped the bony hips -Which was when the entire corridor and maybe the whole world around it shook like a struck gong. BlaqJaq was inside that gong, and he was thrown back hard against the wall, his head hitting there, a disorienting blow. He lost his careful footing. The other half-naked occupant of the alcove let out a frightened yelp, barely heard over the enormous thud that accompanied the violent jolt. BlaqJaq winced at the pain from the blow to his skull but didn’t lose consciousness. Already he was switching modes. Whatever had just happened, it was something out of the ordinary. He was probably in jeopardy. He had been in too many crises not to know how to react, which was why he was still alive and in good working order. He was smart streetmuscle, successful streetmuscle, and he would be smart in this situation, too, whatever it turned out to be. Of course, that meant forgoing the critical release he had promised his straining cock. How brutal was that? That sweetly molded ass right in front of him and his own hard meat just about to plunge… Bouncing around inside the niche had left him on his knees, but unfortunately, this time it wasn’t to administer another sucking. His partner had rolled right out onto the floor of Red Run. BlaqJaq heard him scrabbling onto his feet, continuing to make scared yelping sounds, then dashing away, still probably hanging half out of his ’stocking. With a sigh BlaqJaq levered himself back onto his feet, wedging his unhappy and deflating hard-on back

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into his leather pants. Whatever else happened, he promised himself, he was going to fuck

somebody before the night was through. The thought flicked away as he assessed the situation. The concussion had passed, but it must have been something big to shake the metal, concrete, and metaplastic infrastructure of this vicinity. That meant an explosion, which might occur in a number of ways, though the odds dropped off sharply if you discounted a deliberately set bomb. However, there just wasn’t enough power running through the veins of this place to provide an overload with a big enough bang. Which left the other major possibility, an impact on the surface. It would have to have been very close -- Red Run 2 was high up -- and whatever it was also had to have been huge. Something falling off one of the towers, perhaps. Or a vehicle crash. Reviewing the incident in his head, coolly analytical about it now that the first shock was past, he determined the direction the impact wave had traveled from. Northward up the run, a little west. Depending on how close, he could get there from one of maybe three junctions crossing Red Run 2. That left the question: what did he have to gain by going to investigate? But BlaqJaq was already in motion, racing north up the run, steps steady and surprisingly light for someone with a body as brawny as his. You had to have mass to work how he did; it was just part of the job. But he wasn’t one of those hulks, gen-stimmed monstrosities that belonged in a nightmare. He used his muscles, but like everything else he did, he used them smart. He smelled nothing burning, which was a strike against the explosion theory. Whatever had happened, it had certainly disrupted the normal routines of the night. North/South Red Run 2, usually pretty empty at this hour, was now bustling as people stepped out into the corridor, frightened and noisy, everyone wanting to know what was going on. BlaqJaq seemed to be the only one making an active effort to find out. He dodged

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nimbly through the bystanders, unaffected by their growing hysteria as some among them made fearful noises about bombs and gangs on the rampage. Not likely, BlaqJaq thought, nearing the first juncture that might lead him to the scene of whatever the calamity might be. This wasn’t a part of the undercity that had much of anything a gang would be interested in. And a gang would only bomb something to scare off another gang -- or to deliberately destroy some resource. BlaqJaq was pleased with his own logic. Despite the circumstances in which he’d been born, he knew he had a keen mind, and he was proud of it. He paused at the intersection, looking down the connecting westward run. Some distance down, several of the corridor markers were out, but every run everywhere had at least a few lights that were on the fritz. There were no civil engineers to come and replace them, after all; the residents of the run had to see to such things themselves. Equipment was patched and repatched, parts endlessly recycled and cannibalized. Black market goods were used to best effect. BlaqJaq pondered a moment, trying to remember if he had been down the East/West lately and how it had been lit. He couldn’t remember. He had come to this part of the ’city tonight specifically for sex because these runs were usually quiet, and he didn’t want to jockey in the busier districts where flesh traders operated. You never knew if the prey you wanted to notch was there to rob you or not. After quick deliberation, he raced farther north on the Red Run. A woman whose face was still half bleary with sleep hopped out of his way, throwing a curse at his back. The run was lined with converted living spaces. Generations of retrofitting had changed these arteries beneath the city’s surface into more or less habitable warrens. The undercity had the look of something temporary that had become permanent out of necessity, which, BlaqJaq thought wryly, was a perfectly correct history of the place. Many of the largest oldest cities on Earth had these underworlds. They were part sewer, part ancient bomb shelter, part subway rail system, and they had been modified in the

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distant past as a haven for the cities’ inhabitants against the Earth’s climate and UV light when those conditions had first demonstrated their intense hostility to human life. That had been a time of panic, centuries ago now, when people had thought extinction was in the offing. They had been like primitives back then, terrified, thinking the hand of some tribal god or other was striking. It was a wonder the population had survived their own primal stupidities, just as it wasn’t surprising that the smarter ones had worked out the means of survival on the surface. Precautions had been taken, eyes and flesh protected, and a new way of life had emerged, as had the undercity dwellers from their holes. Well, most had emerged. The subsurface network remained, and it offered its own temptations, an unmonitored domain, one the authorities showed no interest in regulating or even policing. A new culture grew under the streets of the old big cities, and it became a convenient dumping ground for the societal losers and dropouts who, for whatever reasons, couldn’t cope with life up top. Such had been the way of it for many, many years now. The paradigm was ingrained. Undercity held the hardest of the hardcore urbies. Another junction was coming up, and now he saw lights flickering farther along Red Run. Flicker, then die, a whole segment, which didn’t necessarily mean the failure had been caused by either an explosion or a surface impact. Outages happened. Startled cries erupted ahead. It wasn’t just the lights, of course. Cutting the power meant cutting the vents. Not that anybody was going to asphyxiate anytime soon, but anyone who grew up in undercity was educated real quick about the realities of the environment. And part of that reality was that to survive underground one needed circulated air to breathe. BlaqJaq came to a full halt at the juncture, not at all winded. Hell, sexing that nameless chatterbox had exerted him more than this dash down the corridor; if only he’d had the chance to finish off, to put his cock into --

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He quashed the disappointment with a sharp mental effort and silently renewed his vow to get himself some sex before the night ended. He looked westward down the new run, saw another segment in thick shadows. People were milling confusedly about in the corridor. Something lay just at the fringe where the unlit section started; a hatchway had fallen out of its frame. He mentally reviewed the force of the concussion. It might well have been powerful enough to cause serious structural damage, whatever its source turned out to be. This was the undercity. No police were going to come, no rescue workers. Everybody down here was on their own. There was no formal protection, but there was just as little official interference. That was the trade-off some people lived with; well, those few who had the palmchip identities to live up top but who chose to stay below anyway. Someone, say, with a price on his head might consider this place the perfect hiding hole. Undercity had its advantages. BlaqJaq didn’t have the option to live on the surface. Undercity born, undercity bred. So be it. He had a life down here, and he had brains, and he was as worthy as anybody up there. He turned off Red Run 2, heading west. Still no sight or smell of smoke; that was good. But the panic around him was mounting, especially once he’d reached the blacked-out segment. He saw he’d been right about structural damage and was forced to slow down. A very young child threw his arms around BlaqJaq’s leathered leg and wouldn’t let go, mewling against his thigh until a parent came to pry him off. BlaqJaq stepped over debris. The run’s ceiling had partially collapsed. As he moved along with ever-increasing slowness and caution, he heard the low ponderous groans of beams and struts, of layers of steel and ’plastic, their alignments knocked loose, their stability in serious question. This level of the ’city was up near the surface, but there was still plenty of mass stratified overhead to crush much of this district if a large enough portion gave way. Why

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had he come here, put himself in danger? The answer was simple and came in an instant. Without any civic organization, the inhabitants of the ’city had to take care of each other. That didn’t mean letting someone take what was yours or going without so someone else could eat. But in a crisis like this, he didn’t see that there was much choice but to help. There were still people farther along this run; he would make sure the way was clear for their escape. Nobody deserved to be squashed flat like a rat. He was very close to the source point of the concussion; the battery flash that he carried and used only for emergencies was in his hand, its precious charge now lighting his way in otherwise near-total blackness. He directed people back down the run, away from the mounting sounds of overtaxed structural members. He himself felt fear but not panic. What he was doing was right. Ahead, the ceiling had buckled completely, and rubble had tumbled into the corridor. He might be able to get past it, but he might also dislodge more if he tried. He didn’t want to be buried alive any more than he wanted to see anybody else suffer it. Squinting into the dust-roiling darkness, he called out for anyone who might be trapped deeper in this part of the run -- not that he could guess how he would effect a rescue. Enough. Time to go back. A particularly loud whine of abused metal sounded overhead, and he started to retreat. Which was when the man shambled through the debris, face colorless with dust except where a bead of blood marked his cheek. He had a gun in one hand, and he aimed it with professional precision at BlaqJaq’s head.

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Chapter Three

Nickerson had the man in the leather clothing dead if he wanted him so. The male, at whose head Nickerson’s sleek light pistol was aimed, had an attractive face, was half his age, and was quite brawny. He also had hair that was much darker than Nickerson’s and which overgrew to his jacket collar. Nickerson had recently had his fortieth birthday off-planet. Dates like that were always strange when you were off-rock and calibrated to whatever the local time was, to a peculiar solar cycle. Celebrations required more than a single individual, but he’d made an effort to celebrate -- or at least to acknowledge the age milestone he’d reached; forty years of life, at least as the time was reckoned on Earth. He had done a lot with those years, traveled far and wide, achieved much, and made a difference for the greater good. So he thought anyway. And certainly he had changed over those years, grown, transformed. His cat-conditioning was very physical evidence of that. “You hurt?” the younger man asked. He stood poised, not panicking despite the weapon leveled at his head. His stance was good; he had balance. Not just a mass of muscle, then.

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Nickerson had been assessing his own damage. “Not badly enough to matter.” Why was this kid asking? “What happened here?” The stranger’s eyes flicked toward the partly caved in ceiling. “An accident.” “Glad it wasn’t on purpose.” Nickerson had drawn a weapon because he hadn’t known if this man was one of his hunters. More than one person was after him, and the force that had been used against him on the surface indicated that the hunt was meant to end in his death. How widespread that hunt was he didn’t know. But this leathered individual might not be a part of it, he decided. Again the eyes flashed to the ceiling just as it made a dire rumble, as if debris was resettling after being violently shifted. Nickerson had once nearly been smothered in a cavein on another world. He knew those sounds. So did the stranger, evidently. “Look, glad you’re not hurt. I don’t know why you got a spike drilled on my skull, but I know the way out of here. All you got to do is follow. Say?” Nickerson recognized the funky rhythms of undercity speech, but there was intelligence in this kid’s eyes, and he had the only local light source, a handheld flash. Nickerson had dived blindly down the hole, only his feline vision and reflexes saving him when he hit the bottom, which had been some distance down. The drop had spared him the worst of the concussion as the car he’d wrecked hit the street above, but the impact had bounced him about with stunning violence anyway. Afterward, he’d crawled and dug his way through the nearest tunnel he could find, knowing he had to get clear of this damaged section of the underground. What hadn’t collapsed in the initial impact might do so at any time. Around them, the earth groaned in discomfort. Right. Collapse at any time. Like right

now.

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Nickerson lowered his “spike” -- he had other weapons and means of killing, of course -- and said, “You go, and I’ll follow.” The leather-clad kid didn’t even waste a nod. He turned and started down the wreckage-strewn passageway, moving with a sprightly ease, his handheld light aimed to help Nickerson with his footing as well. Ahead there was more light and a lot of commotion. The roof of this underworld had just sustained a rude thump, after all. It was like stomping an anthill, Nickerson thought; then, a moment later, he had reason to regret his rather flip analogy. Staggering out of a doorway was a girl no more than ten. Blood was dripping from a scalp wound, soaking her hair and flowing over her pale, shocked face. She seemed entirely unaware of her surroundings, one shoulder bumping the jamb as she emerged from the compartment and twirling her in the direction from which Nickerson and his guide were coming. She took two more tottering steps; then the young man stooped, caught her around the narrow waist, and had her over a strong shoulder without hitching his stride. Nickerson, still following, saw her eyes staring blankly through him. It was a bad wound but probably not immediately fatal. Keep infection off and she ought to heal. Had anybody died down here when the vehicle he’d disabled had crashed onto the surface street? He’d come through some seriously damaged tunnels. Though it had been years since he’d been below the streets like this, Nickerson knew people lived in the tunnels underground, in every cubbyhole that could be made into a place to squat. There must be fatalities, and more casualties like this girl. But it was hardly his fault; he hadn’t asked to be hunted, hadn’t provoked whoever had fired at him up above or been at the stick of that diving vehicle…or had he? In his field one did antagonize people. Dangerous people. People who might have revenge in mind -No. He wasn’t going to take on the blame for this disaster. Brushing the coating of dust off his face, he followed the booted heels of the young native toward the gathering light. Here the power was on, the damage barely noticeable -- though certainly these were dingy

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environs, with shabby walls, shabby denizens, and that undercity smell you either got used to or never did. People were churning about at an intersection of passageways. The kid had switched off and pocketed the portable light. Nickerson, in his camofiber longcoat and suntanned face, stood out in this crowd. That wasn’t to his advantage, not if his pursuers decided to come underground after him -- a possibility he had to consider. He hadn’t expected his dive through that opened grate to solve his predicament; he’d just been looking for time. Well, he seemed to have gained some, precious little though it probably was. He was also presented with opportunities here. Now was the time to pursue the best of them. The people crowding the intersection recognized the child his guide was carrying, and a great useless ruckus arose. As the girl was gently set on the ground, Nickerson stepped forward. “It’s Deeb! Oh, Deeb! Oh, oh, oh, baby girl. No, no, no --” Nickerson knelt over her, and the muscled kid looked curiously down at him. “Got to clean out that gash. Won’t bleed to death, but it might pus bad later on.” “That’s right,” Nickerson said, as others gathered around, raising more worried noise. He didn’t care how loud they got, so long as they didn’t interfere. “I can do it.” Out of his coat came his palm-sized medkit, as sleek and modern as the pistol he’d returned to its concealed holster. The kid met his eyes. “Do it.” Nickerson infused an appropriate painkiller, then flash-shaved the bloody hair from around the long furrow. He applied the sterilizer, then pasted the wound, and it was done. The onlookers had fallen silent. Nickerson didn’t look at them; he eyed the kid. “That was a service,” the young man said. “It was.” “You’re not from here, right?”

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Nickerson saw no point in asserting his native origins. It wasn’t what he was being asked anyway. “No.” “Then you’re owed double.” It made a certain street-code sense. An outsider who helped a local and did so without being prompted by native custom or debt. It could be seen as a purely altruistic act. Yes, Nickerson thought. It could be seen so; he saw no reason not to cash in on his good deed. “I can ask for something?” Someone came and gathered up the girl, whom Nickerson pronounced free of concussion. There would be other wounded, no doubt; and these people had seen his medkit. As soon as they calmed down enough, they were going to want him to tend to others. He was no medic, but the ’kit was idiot proof. His eyes stayed locked on the man in the leathers. Nickerson’s question still hung between them. Finally, the man said, “Ask.” “Take me out of here.” Nickerson’s voice was soft. The two of them were sharing a private conversation there at the busy intersection. “Out of sight. Down. There will probably be people coming after me.” There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation. Evidently, the kid had already worked out the equation of service/payback. “I’ll take you. Let’s go.” Nickerson turned and slapped the medkit into the nearest open palm. It remained activated; the liqui-display could explain the functions to a child. The ’kit’s surprised recipient let out a squeal of sudden delight. Once more, Nickerson was on the kid’s boot heels. This time they were moving much faster through better lit, though still dilapidated, passageways. Nickerson had indeed been in the undercity before, although not since he’d been younger than his guide. Conditions were bad on Earth in general, Nickerson knew. He was aware of this only because he’d been to places that were far removed from this sort of decay and squalor. But

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undercity was magnitudes of order rougher than life up top. And now Nickerson was going deeper. He had no choice, what with his palmchip giving him only steel sleet when he tried to interface with any of the official mechanisms of the surface city. The world above was locked tightly against him for now. They descended by way of a sliding pole. Nickerson had waited until the kid called back up, then wrapped knees and an elbow around and dropped. It was some ways down. When his feet touched the bottom, he saw raw walls of aged concrete, painted here and there with code numbers so faded they were probably put there by the tunnel’s constructors. The passage was empty and more poorly lit than the ones above. Nickerson’s eyes could handle lighting much worse than this, of course. His guide was looking at him again. “My name’s BlaqJaq.” A name like many undercity names. “I’m Nickerson.” He didn’t want to pause for a chat, but he did have a question. “You’re streetmuscle?” “Yeah.” Nickerson knew the breed. They were freelance enforcers who usually worked for individuals rather than gangs and put a hurt on whoever they were told to. If someone cheated you or refused to honor a debt, and if doing it yourself was beyond your physical means, you could hire a streetmuscle to settle the score. Gangs handled their own affairs, of course, having the strength to do so, but streetmuscles could act as equalizers, giving the individual a chance. Some of these types employed an honor code, reserving the right to reject any job if it didn’t seem justified. Nickerson wondered what sort this one was. He had rescued that girl, but -“You’re a catjob?”

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Nickerson almost started. He hadn’t expected this BlaqJaq -- or anybody else down here -- to know about his gen-stimming. It had been a top-quality job, nothing like you might find in the undercity or even on most of the planet. He saw no reason to lie. “That’s right.” BlaqJaq nodded. “I can tell by the eyes.” Nickerson’s vertical pupils were common enough modifications, but the kid, perhaps recognizing the carefully balanced manner in which Nickerson moved, had seen deeper, to the full feline conditioning. He felt the start of a pleasant tension between himself and the streetmuscle. Nickerson might have said something more, but at that instant, a beam lanced its way down the vertical shaft behind him, near enough to singe the hair at the nape of his neck, very hot and bright. His reflexes responded as they had been wired to, hurtling him away from the danger. His hand flashed out to grab the kid, but BlaqJaq was already moving, looking like he had a good idea of where to go from here. That was good. It had been too long since Nickerson had been down here to know his way through this maze. Besides, the retrofitting of the undercity was a ceaseless activity. Corridors changed from year to year. New walls went up; old ones came down. Alone, he would’ve blundered around; his life was more or less in the hands of this streetmuscle. The beam continued to cut the stone behind them, searing and deadly, searching for him.

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Chapter Four

BlaqJaq raced the catjob to the run’s bend. If that beamer got into this corridor while they were still in sight, they were both dead; for the moment, his fate was linked to this visitor from the overcity -- or wherever it was the light-haired, older male had come from. A beamer was a hell of weapon to bring down here, much more serious and advanced than just about anything anybody else had. You could settle a lot of disagreements with that thing. But it was also -- not to be funny -- overkill. You could kill off your enemies with it, but you’d wipe out your surroundings too. The hot, purplish beam had chopped through stone back there. Not that whoever was wielding it probably cared about damaging the ’city. Maybe that huge impact earlier had been a bomb after all, one detonated on the surface, like a missile or something. Whoever wanted this catjob dead obviously wanted him very dead. They reached the bend in the corridor without getting smoked. Nickerson was a halfstep behind him, not because he couldn’t keep up -- not with his gen-stimmed speed -- but because he was following. He trusted BlaqJaq to lead. BlaqJaq took him left. There were alcoves along this segment of the run, and a lot of them were skraw dens. You could tell by the smell without needing to poke your head into

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them. At least these skraw-heads weren’t likely to step out into the corridor. Of course, just as that thought flitted through his head, one did push out through a rag curtain, a far-gone, diseased creature with a leper’s skin and a look of bone-gnawing need on his face. The run was wide enough for BlaqJaq and Nickerson to go around, but this skrawer threw open his arms to block the way. Incredible! He barely had the muscle mass to stand upright, but he was going to try to jack them. “Gimme…gimme…gimme,” he gibbered. BlaqJaq was going to shoulder through him. If he hit him right, the skraw-head would carom right back into his reeky den, the right place to be if the person with the beamer came this way -- which BlaqJaq had to assume was going to happen. Suddenly, in a blur of movement, a hand chopped the skrawer across the nose, the sound of breaking bone barely preceding the creature’s dead tumble to the ground. Nickerson had very likely killed him. “Why’d you do that?” BlaqJaq leaped over the body. “I don’t know who my hunters are,” Nickerson said, falling back into his following position. It was something of an answer, he supposed. The skrawer was no loss, not even to himself, yet BlaqJaq had never been casual about death, even though it was an easy enough mind-set to fall into. But life had to mean something, it had to have value. There was no currency in the undercity, nobody trading bank balances on their palmchips. Barter kept what passed for an economy in motion. It was being alive that was the worth here. You lived, you had value; dead, you were worthless. Of course, living with honor was the ultimate worth. Or at least that was how BlaqJaq saw it. Nickerson had just devalued that skraw-head with as neat and expert a move as BlaqJaq had ever seen. Who the hell was this man?

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Didn’t matter right now, however, and maybe he’d never know. Nickerson might be dead before this was through, and if BlaqJaq wasn’t careful, he might be joining him. For an instant, he regretted agreeing to take the man lower into the ’city, but he tossed away the petty thought. Nickerson had mended the girl, and a debt was a debt. He’d had the right to call in that debt, then and there. The loathsome smell receded. BlaqJaq ducked through an open hatchway, the hatch having been pried off generations ago, and into dimness that probably needed his battery flash for safe navigation. He didn’t want to take it out, though. It was cramped in this tunnelway, they were still moving fast, and he didn’t want to drop the device. Besides, he was sure of his own footing. Then he remembered that Nickerson would have a catjob’s keen eyesight. BlaqJaq was very impressed by the gen-stim work done on the man. Except for the eyes, Nickerson looked perfectly normal -- an extremely fit male, features healthy, body well-toned. Good looking too. It was the way he moved with such natural/unnatural precision and balance that had given him away to BlaqJaq’s keen perceptions. BlaqJaq’s boot heels rang on the tunnel floor. This was actually a pipe, and maybe it had had some function long ago as an actual sewer, but now, it was just another undercity thoroughfare. The pipe jogged right about ninety meters in, then started sloping downward a short distance after that. By this time, it was totally dark, but BlaqJaq wouldn’t stumble unless they met someone coming the other way. He heard no sounds but their own, Nickerson gliding quietly behind him. BlaqJaq had a sudden vision of what a blazing purple beam would look like lighting up this space, but it was another thought he jettisoned. The downward grade continued. There were many ways into what qualified as the heart of the ’city, but this had been the nearest and least traveled one. Nickerson had said he had pursuers, and BlaqJaq hadn’t wanted to lead any hunters through a crowd of residents. He hoped whoever was toting that beamer hadn’t cut loose in any of the runs just to clear the way. Nickerson’s hunters might be anybody, but it was probably best to assume they

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were ruthless. Judging by what Nickerson had done to that skraw-head, he sure thought they were. BlaqJaq was eager to deliver him to the ’city’s lower reaches because once he did, he would have fulfilled the debt, done what he’d been charged with, and then he could get the hell out of the line of fire. The pipe leveled, and light shone ahead where it opened into a circular space. The rest of the tunnel was clear, and they put on an added burst of speed. Emerging, BlaqJaq saw that the area was not unpopulated. A bunch of people had set up a wanderers’ camp here, seven in all, four of them adults. BlaqJaq noted the scorched spot where they’d had set a fire, bones scattered beside it. Vermin-eaters. Well, BlaqJaq had dined on his share in his time, hadn’t he? He hadn’t been born into his livelihood, after all. He’d had his struggles just like everybody. The gyps had heard them coming down the pipe, and they were all on their feet, watching intently. No one had a weapon, but that skrawer hadn’t had one, either. BlaqJaq took a full step ahead of Nickerson now, facing the encampment. “Passing,” he said. “No stopping.” One of the adults, a woman with a stony face, was eyeing him especially close. “You streetmuscle?” It was partly his size, partly how he carried himself, partly the clothes he wore. All were advertisement. BlaqJaq wanted to be recognized, of course. At the moment, however, he wasn’t available for hire. Not that anyone from a group like this -- people who wandered the undercity, who had no sort of home -- would have enough barter to engage him. He was edging across the circular space, keeping Nickerson behind him. There were several exits from the vatlike room, and he was heading for a particular one. “That’s right,” he said to the woman. “You bang on a ratter name Cyro?”

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Bang on. There were lots of terms for what he did for a living; that was one of them. “Maybe. Say?” Her stony face grew darker, flushing with emotion. It looked like she might actually move on him, which would only end badly for her, even if the whole bunch joined in. But she stood where she was, and none of the others moved. “Cyro my kid. He a banged-up ratter now. No good ever again.” He and Nickerson had reached the aperture BlaqJaq wanted. He didn’t know the name Cyro, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t worked him over at some time. He hesitated only a second at the exit, then said to the gyp woman, “He shouldn’t’ve done whatever he did.” Then he ducked out of the round chamber. The woman hadn’t known him, had only seen he was streetmuscle, but she was nursing some terrible bitterness over what had happened to her son. But BlaqJaq had told the truth, harsh as it was. He shouldn’t’ve done whatever he did. Even if this Cyro had gotten banged on for unfair reasons, he must have done something to set it in motion. He’d gotten in someone’s way, insulted the wrong person. There were many reasons for hiring a streetmuscle to assault an individual, but BlaqJaq didn’t take just any job that came along. He was smarter than that. Some jobs were too risky; some might have backlashes that he didn’t want to deal with. Some… Well, some he couldn’t stomach. None of the gyps followed them out. He and Nickerson stepped onto a network of ancient interlocking metaplastic grates that webbed their way through a wide cavern, which must have once been a huge storage facility or shelter. There were many paths downward, leading deeper still into the ’city. Traffic moved on these grates, people crossing back and forth, up and down. It was the undercity in motion, alive and lively. BlaqJaq glanced at the other man, saw Nickerson taking in the vista. “Quite a sight, ain’t it?” “Actually…yes.” The older man was studying the busy pathways.

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BlaqJaq could’ve asked if he’d ever seen anything like it before to get some clue regarding the man’s origins, but interrogation wasn’t his business. If he had some curiosity about this man -- and he did -- it was best kept to himself. At least for now. And, considering that there likely wouldn’t be a later, that curiosity would no doubt go unsatisfied. Still, he felt a kind of pull toward Nickerson, who was undeniably exotic. Several times before they got to the lower reaches, he snuck peeks back at the older male, admiring how lithely he carried himself, how taut his physique appeared even underneath that long coat. His movements were almost sensual. BlaqJaq had never seen a catjob like him. The genstimmed types that usually turned up in the undercity were more like monsters. He flashed on the nameless male who’d wasted so much of his precious time up in that dim alcove off Red Run 2 just a short time ago. BlaqJaq had gotten him off with his mouth, then gone wanting and unsatisfied himself. Not fair. But he had promised to even things out before the night was over. And this night certainly wasn’t over yet. Too bad Nickerson here didn’t qualify as a potential sex partner. Obviously, the man was preoccupied at the moment. Too bad, indeed. His physicality and strange feline sexiness drew BlaqJaq. Desire nagged at him, even as it was finding a new focus. BlaqJaq cut their way downward. The ’plastic grates were set at various angles and very old, but they had held up well and hardly ever collapsed. There were no railings; if you fell, you might hit another walkway farther down, or you might not. BlaqJaq danced nimbly along, feeling the springy give underfoot. Behind, Nickerson seemed to pass weightlessly over the grates, showing no uneasiness about this precarious means of travel. No, not this catjob. He was a pro, whoever he was, wherever he came from. They passed others traveling the grates. This cavern served as a sort of main interchange. Here, you could put yourself en route to just about any destination in the widespread undercity, which had nooks and territories of every description. Of course, there were also any number of places and ways to get yourself hurt or killed, but that went for the overcity as well, didn’t it? That was life…except maybe on the paradisiacal worlds off-Earth,

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places that were clean and tame, so he’d heard. On those planets, a person could expect to live the full extent of his or her years. Not that BlaqJaq was complaining, and not that the undercity was some kind of hell. Sure, it was violent -- and he was a contributor to that violence -- but there were ways to live well and honorably down here. He eyed the people moving about the walkways. They were just folk, wanting and trying to live untroubled lives. They didn’t mean harm. They weren’t the scum of the planet. Not most, anyway. Here and there, he saw a face he knew and was recognized in turn. No time for greetings, though. It was obvious he was working by the speed and single-mindedness of the path he was making downward. More eyes were turning to Nickerson anyway, to the fancy coat he wore. Maybe a very few of these people even discerned what BlaqJaq had earlier -that this man was a sophisticated gen-stim job, that he had been infused with a feline essence that gave him strength, agility, and heightened senses. Undercity went even deeper than this cavern, so BlaqJaq would take this man farther still, although leaving him at the lowest walkway would probably satisfy the street debt. Strangely, he found he wasn’t ready to part company just yet. Maybe he could find out the man’s secrets, but this was more than curiosity, and he knew it. The air was noticeably thicker as they followed the switchbacks of the walkways to the bottom of the grate-filled cavern. Circulators reached everywhere in the ’city, but this air had a long way to go. It was warmer down here, but BlaqJaq was used to moving around in his leathers. He glanced at Nickerson to see if he was showing any signs of discomfort. Nickerson’s cat eyes caught his. “How much farther?” BlaqJaq heard the extra meaning in the question. Nickerson must realize that the obligation was nearly paid. He wanted to know when his guide was going to abandon him. “It’s a ways yet,” BlaqJaq answered, giving the reply an equal measure of deeper meaning. He wasn’t going to quit on Nickerson. Not now, at least.

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They came to the lowermost walkways, which diverged toward half a dozen different runs. It was a rougher section of the ’city, a place where BlaqJaq often did business, but this was a new kind of job for him. Protecting wasn’t what he did, yet surely he was protecting this man. Nickerson’s feline gaze flickered upward, no doubt scanning for hunters whose identities he apparently didn’t even know. BlaqJaq wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into…though he didn’t really wonder why anymore. “This way,” he said, and together they raced toward one of the runs. Whatever else, BlaqJaq wanted to get out of the cavern before another lethal purple beam -- or worse -started tearing its way down through the grates.

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Chapter Five

Nickerson had been momentarily astonished by the people on the move through the grotto full of catwalks. Once more, an anthill analogy had sprung to mind, and again, he’d dismissed it. These people weren’t ants; he’d been startled by their ordinariness, actually. They looked like folks who were merely going about their daily business. Granted, they were a rougher looking lot than one would find on the surface, but certain civilized dynamics seemed to be in effect here. After all, if everyone below were a cutthroat or a savage, they would’ve all killed each other off generations ago -- which was probably the unacknowledged final solution slash social plan that those up top had hoped would keep these people living in this underworld all these years. The official societal structures above had no use for this population, and so these hardcore urbies had been literally buried away, out of sight. Nickerson had no right to be startled by any of this; he himself had started from here, though more than enough time had passed to have erased the immediacy of his memories. Without a palmchip, he had boldly taken his chances on the surface long ago, determined to escape the undercity or die trying. Luck had been with him. Fantastic luck. He’d been spotted by a man who operated clandestinely for the off-Earth authorities and who had recruited Nickerson and sent him for training and gen-stimming. Nickerson had never looked back.

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As he and BlaqJaq entered another passageway, still moving fast, Nickerson noticed the predatory gazes they drew and the ambience of danger. The walls were scrawled with complex designs that he guessed were gang markings. Things were more primitive down here, more tribal, but that might help him in eluding, or at least slowing, his pursuers. BlaqJaq moved along without any hesitation or obvious misgivings. No doubt he fit in just fine on this level of the underground city. As they crossed into a new passage, Nickerson saw two or three others in garb similar to the kid’s, with brawny bodies and ready-to-fight bearings. Streetmuscles. It was a better living than some professions down here. The air was denser, warmer. He wasn’t tiring, not yet, but eventually, even with his enriched stamina, he would need to rest. He wouldn’t be caught that way, however, he vowed silently. He’d stay on his feet until this hunt was over, one way or the other. He glanced at his right palm, not activating the chip that was invisible beneath the skin. It would do no good here, of course. It still seemed incredible to him that he had been steel-sleeted. It took extraordinary measures to lock out someone from all systems, something only the higher levels of government were supposed to be able to effect. No person or agency that far up should have any interest in him; he’d spent most of the past twenty years off-rock. Besides, he was no criminal -- quite the contrary. But he was being hunted in extreme fashion. Had it been a mistake to come back to Earth? But what choice had he had? This corrupt world, with its crime cartels, with the strong feeding on the weak… They came to a kind of plaza, and BlaqJaq slowed, halted. Nickerson paused at his side. The area was a bazaar, with goods being traded among a few hundred people. It wasn’t as organized as a marketplace would be even in an aboriginal village, but it functioned nonetheless. There were a lot of people in the plaza, and doubtless there was a near-infinity of tiny crannies, holes, and other hiding places throughout this extensive underground.

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Nickerson wondered if this was as far as the kid was going to take him. Surely, he’d already made good on his word to deliver Nickerson deeper into the undercity. Actually, it was odd that BlaqJaq had made this much effort, even for the double debt Nickerson had earned by being an outsider who’d aided a local. “What you think about hiding?” The streetmuscle was breathing hard from their travels but not winded. “Remember that beam that almost minced us earlier?” The kid returned him a wry smirk. “Let’s say I remember.” “Whoever’s controlling that beamer found me after I’d jumped down a conduit from the surface. And after I’d picked my way through a half-collapsed tunnel. And after you’d taken me along several passageways and down a slide pole.” Nickerson’s expression was grim. “They’re tracking me by sophisticated means. Hiding isn’t going to help.” BlaqJaq didn’t appear disheartened by the news. “Well, we got more places to run to…”

We, Nickerson noted. There seemed to be a meaningful resonance in the kid’s tone. “…and we can be smart,” the younger man went on. “How smart are the ones chasing you?” Nickerson thought of the firefight on the street above, the scattered phosphorous rounds, the car that had dived on him. “They’re good, but I don’t know if they’re true professionals. Maybe not soldiers or assassins.” If they were, he might not have made it off that street. “Soldiers. Assassins.” BlaqJaq whistled softly. “You attract some interesting friends.” They had been lingering at the fringe of the bazaar almost a full minute. Nickerson realized he’d needed this brief break. His heart rate had leveled. His head felt clear. He found he liked talking to this kid. But there was no time for it, of course. “Coat.”

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Nickerson had remained aware of his surroundings even during the respite, though it wasn’t likely that any of these people at this improvised market would be one of his hunters. But then again, it hadn’t been probable that that wasted-looking male -- some kind of drug addict no doubt -- who’d made the blundering attempt earlier to stop them was hunting him either. Yet, without hesitation, Nickerson had acted with deadly force all the same. He pivoted neatly now, a hand ready to fall into his coat to retrieve one of his weapons. “Coat. Say? Coat.” It was a man at least a decade older than Nickerson. His hair stood in colorless tufts, and his features were shrewd and deeply lined. Behind him stood a pair of muscular youths, though neither looked as strong as BlaqJaq. Was Nickerson being told to surrender his coat? That wasn’t going to happen. He could kill this elder -- considering local life expectancy, he was surely quite the old-timer -- with a single blow, and he wasn’t especially worried about the man’s escorts, either. But quick analytical instincts told Nickerson they weren’t a threat. Not exactly. This was commerce, and commerce was conducted aggressively here. “My coat’s not for sale.” The elder’s eyes glinted with amusement and calculation. “Sale?” He made a sound of disdain. “Something you want, you get. Something I want -- that coat.” Nickerson recognized the words as a sales pitch of sorts. The man was a merchant, and he was successful enough that he had grown old in his profession. There weren’t many resources in the undercity, though some semi-illicit flow of goods must come from above, meaning there were off-chip profiteers operating on the surface. Mostly, however, commodities would just change hands again and again in a tireless cycle until they wore out completely and were useless. All the clothing he’d seen, including BlaqJaq’s leathers, was worn, used, patched, and repatched. Evidently, Nickerson’s camofiber coat had a look of newness, and this old trader was determined to have it.

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“You don’t have anything I want,” Nickerson said. Already they’d wasted time with this exchange. He and BlaqJaq had had their brief pause; it was time to go. In a rapid-fire spiel, the old man rattled off the trade merchandise he represented. Nickerson couldn’t help but almost be swept up in the enticing inventory of goods, so alluring did the merchant make his wares sound. It was little wonder the old-timer was a success. But there was no time to admire the quaintness of this mercantile system. He and BlaqJaq broke away in the middle of the huckstering and cut straight through the busy plaza, heading for one of a series of openings on the far side. He heard a commotion and thought the merchant had set loose his two muscled escorts; that would be bad luck for them. But even before he’d turned for a look, he realized the ruckus indicated a larger disturbance. Frightened cries ensued, the sound gathering on the periphery of the plaza where they’d been, the crowd’s noise swelling and sweeping in their direction. His glance back only showed him the churning of that crowd. There were too many people in this space. If the beamer were activated now, it would simply cut through the living mass, reaching Nickerson without difficulty. But he and his guide were closing in on the mouth of a passageway. BlaqJaq had already picked up the pace, and Nickerson was sprinting behind. They needed only a few more seconds, which was all the time that the military-grade beamer would require to chop in two every person on their feet in this plaza. Dive for the ground? No. He saw no convenient nearby escape holes underfoot. If the hunt ended now, he was determined he’d be on his feet for it. That appealed to the warrior in him, an aspect of himself that he didn’t often give much regard to. He’d been trained to be cool-headed and professional, but his job called for a certain primitiveness of personality. His was a violent trade, one that had existed throughout humankind’s history. He was a civilized warrior, but he was a warrior nonetheless. The tunnel mouth was a few racing steps away when the scent reached him. Automatically, he pushed the air from his lungs, drew no further breaths. He couldn’t

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identify the gas, but it would be either the type that tranquilized or the sort that exterminated. It had an acrid flavor, which meant that he had ingested some of the particles. He didn’t let that panic him. The passageway’s entrance was only a meter across, and others besides he and BlaqJaq had run for it. Two raggedy people were jammed there now, each making more of an effort to shove the other aside than would be necessary for them both to slip through cooperatively. BlaqJaq was slowing, Nickerson doing the same behind him. The two blocking the entry were tussling harder and succeeding only in wedging themselves tighter. He or the kid could wrestle the pair out of the way, but that meant stopping altogether, unclogging the way, then racing off again -- a serious loss of time. Nickerson used precious seconds for another glance behind them, and this time he saw the band of hoverdrones gliding across the rapidly emptying plaza. People were tearing toward the various exits or else staggering, then dropping to the ground. He saw in that quick look that the units weren’t military issue but the sort of hoverdrones game hunters would use on an off-rock luxury resort, the kind of place that bred and gen-stimmed animals to order. The units were fanning out, not all arrowing straight toward him, but they would have this area saturated very quickly. He checked the passageway and saw that BlaqJaq was no longer in front of him. That sent a jolt through Nickerson, one that was perhaps out of proportion to how he should have reacted. “Up here!” Nickerson looked. The kid was a few meters off the ground, hanging by his hands from the lip of what was probably a ventilation duct directly above the tunnel entrance. With a deft twist and wriggle, he slid his brawny body into the narrow tube. Nickerson watched his boots disappear from view, and for a single instant he froze, unable to deduce how the

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streetmuscle had gotten up there. No ladder rungs, no handholds. Too far to jump. But Nickerson’s strategically trained mind snapped on the answer. He hadn’t stopped moving entirely, so, breath still held, he used his forward momentum to bear down on the two squabblers at the mouth of the passage. Nickerson leapt, put a foot onto the tangle of bodies, found the purchase of a hip or elbow, and kicked off and upward. He propelled himself, hands raised and reaching; then his fingers caught the brim of the duct, even as his knees banged into the lintel. His weight swung back, and he gained the leverage he needed to haul himself into the duct. It was quite tight inside, but he squirmed forward on his knees and elbows, moving fast. His heart was beating hard, and his vision was reddening, then blackening in the darkness of the tube. Finally, lungs burning, he had to draw a breath, which brought relief swooning through him. It was a giddy sensation, but he didn’t linger over it. He hadn’t encountered BlaqJaq’s body in the duct, which meant the younger man must have escaped the effects of the hunting gas. Nickerson could hear him ahead, still worming along. Air flowed in the conduit, streaming back toward the plaza, which was a good thing -and not just because it would keep out whatever gas the hoverdrones had released. It was hot in the tube, and Nickerson’s flesh was quickly damp beneath his coat. Nickerson considered the unwieldy tactic of sending hoverdrones into the undercity after him. How did that make any sense? Were the hundreds of gassed bystanders perfectly acceptable losses? He didn’t know the thinking behind this operation, but it was never wise to underestimate the ruthlessness of your opponent. So, either there were hundreds dead behind him, or there were heaps of tranq’ed bodies that would eventually stir back into consciousness. He’d probably never know which. He continued to wriggle along blindly. Eventually, they would reach an exit point, but this was a good route for now. Those hoverdrones wouldn’t fit in here.

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His forehead butted something; he realized it was the treads of BlaqJaq’s boots. The kid had stopped. “You okay up there?” Nickerson put a hand to the kid’s ankle, shook. Once again, that overstated fear he’d felt earlier came to him. Why did he care so much about BlaqJaq’s wellbeing? “I…I…uhmmmmm…” BlaqJaq sounded groggy. Clearly, he had ingested a larger portion of the gas, maybe the sufficient parts per million to cause a reaction, whether it was unconsciousness or death. Nickerson’s hand tightened around BlaqJaq’s ankle. There was no room to squirm up beside him. “I…don’t…feel…so…uhmmmmm…” In the dark that even Nickerson’s feline eyes couldn’t do much to penetrate, BlaqJaq let out a final grunt, then was silent.

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Chapter Six

Heightened surreal dream imagery flapped about his skull. Faces rose from his past, identities mixing and melding. Too many of them were people he’d been hired to handle. The ones who had wanted to talk beforehand were all talking now, making a nauseous babble that finally drove BlaqJaq back into consciousness, just for relief from the noise. For a moment everything was gray, without perspective, but he’d lived too long in the ’city not to instinctively take immediate stock of his surroundings upon rousing. You never knew if you were going to awaken to trouble.

This was trouble. His instincts cut sharply through the mental murk, even as he realized that the nausea had followed him out of the dream. Whatever he’d last eaten shifted precariously in his gut. His hands flailed outward. He blinked repeatedly, realized that this place was lit, and was eager to focus his vision and determine where he was. Light…that meant they were no longer in that air duct -They? Nickerson. He shoved himself upward from where he was lying, but hands caught him gently. BlaqJaq’s vision swam crazily at having sat up so fast, then cleared. He was in a tight space, with Nickerson crouched over him. “Easy, easy. You flop around like that, you’ll hurt yourself.”

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“Where…rrrrr…we?” The question slurred out of him. BlaqJaq tasted something bitter in the back of his throat. “Off the airway.” BlaqJaq saw that they were in a cramped maintenance nook. He also saw that the light was coming from his battery flash. Nickerson followed his eyes. “Don’t worry. I recharged it with this.” He plucked a glowing thumb-sized device from his coat pocket. The luminescence diminished as BlaqJaq looked at it. “You’ve got full battery life again, though it’s just about drained this recharger.” It was quite a gift. The flash was the only piece of hardware BlaqJaq owned, and it was precious. “How long was I out?” “Fourteen minutes.” “Feels like days.” Nickerson was visibly fighting the relieved smile that wanted to cut across his face. “I’m just glad you woke up. How do you feel?” BlaqJaq was able to maintain his sitting position without the nausea worsening. Nickerson remained hunkered nearby; the close quarters didn’t allow for much else. It was something of a wonder that no one was using this space for a squat. “Feel like I ate something bad.” “If I still had my medkit, I could give you something to clear it up.” And now a corner of his mouth did tug toward something resembling a smile. “There’s something ironic in that, I suppose.”

Fourteen minutes. Again, BlaqJaq was jolted as full awareness caught up to him. There had been that commotion at the market plaza, people yelling and scattering. The hunt was still on, wasn’t it? He’d gotten into that duct, and Nickerson had followed. Then…then… “We got to keep moving,” he said decisively.

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Nickerson put a hand on him once more, this time to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Give yourself another minute. That’s hunting gas you breathed.” “How did you get me here?” “You lost consciousness in the duct. I had to push you ahead of me until we got to this hatchway.” Nickerson nodded at the opening behind him. “That must’ve been some chore.” “There was literally no way I could leave you there.” Once more that mouth moved toward a smile’s configuration. He’d been lying useless and unconscious for nearly a quarter of an hour, and incredibly, this man hadn’t left him behind, as he no doubt should have done. BlaqJaq leaned forward and put his own mouth to those lips, feeling Nickerson’s surprise and hearing his sharply indrawn breath. Nickerson’s scent was manly, clean, and his lips were moist, warm, with a tentative stubble ringing them that softly abraded BlaqJaq’s chin and upper lip. The kiss ended, and BlaqJaq hunched back against the wall that was supporting him. “Been wondering for an hour what that would feel like,” he told Nickerson. “Got sick of wondering.” A heat flushed through him, surging from his groin to his extremities. By the light of the flash, he saw Nickerson’s cat eyes shift, choose a point on the wall over BlaqJaq’s right shoulder, and fix there. His face was immobile. In that truly terrible instant, BlaqJaq realized his mistake and felt a crushing disappointment, not to mention a certain unavoidable embarrassment; he wasn’t so adult as to be unable to feel adolescent mortification. Apparently, this just wasn’t his night for carnal adventures. He was still feeling his earlier frustration from that miscarried encounter up on Red Run 2. Now this. And this was much worse, since he was drawn to this stranger, and he really had wondered what kissing this man would be like.

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BlaqJaq’s throat tightened, and he realized with profound surprise that tears were about to fill his eyes. When was the last time he’d cried? When was the last time he’d cared enough about anything to do so? Before the tears could come -- which would’ve been even more embarrassing -Nickerson tilted his head forward and lowered his lips purposefully onto BlaqJaq’s. That mouth moved on his, grinding sensually, and BlaqJaq eagerly returned the kiss. Heat sweltered anew inside him, tingling his flesh, hardening his cock in his leather pants. Nickerson’s lips slid apart, and BlaqJaq met his tongue. It was a wet and playful tangling. BlaqJaq liked the sounds they made together. He pressed his mouth harder on the other man’s, enjoying the harsher scouring of stubble, inhaling the male scent deeper, all nausea forgotten, replaced by a fierce and urgent hunger. He breathed out a low lustful moan when they broke the kiss. There was a similar hunger on Nickerson’s face. “I was wondering too,” he said, voice hoarse, mouth wet. “I’ve been wondering about other things as well…” BlaqJaq reached for the man again, put his hands on that leanly muscled body. He wanted him. Bad. This was more than the promise he’d made to himself to get some sex tonight; this was a driving desire born of something deeper than the need for random fucking. Knowing that Nickerson wanted him, too, magnified that extreme desire. As BlaqJaq’s hands roamed over him, Nickerson put his fingertips to BlaqJaq’s cheek. The touch was very gentle, and longing was clear in his exotic feline eyes. “There’s no time. There --” But his voice shook itself silent. BlaqJaq knew there was no time. But one urgency was fast eclipsing the other. The carnal heat rose, searing; desire was ravenous in him. His hands groped, found Nickerson’s crotch, and discovered the enticing hardness there. They were kissing again, mouths wild and hungry, tangled into an awkward knot of limbs and bodies. Nickerson, with sudden force, undid BlaqJaq’s pants. A hand dove, seized. BlaqJaq’s furiously hard cock was in the

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warm male fist, being pumped earnestly. Excitement ran amok over BlaqJaq, through him, finding its focus, pouring all senses and sensations toward his cock as it was lovingly and fiercely handled. Then, like rage released, he was jetting, the pleasure overflowing. BlaqJaq’s spunk gushed, wetting and slicking Nickerson’s skillful hand. An exquisite heat settled over BlaqJaq. It had been satisfying, but not fulfilling. He wanted more. Much more. He wanted time with this man. Already his cock, half-wilted and slippery, was stirring again toward hardness. He languidly groped at Nickerson’s crotch again. The other man shifted back onto his haunches. His cock remained unloosed from his pants. “There’s no time,” he repeated, tone firm now. “Sorry.” Once more, BlaqJaq’s throat tightened with disappointment, but he understood. He forced a smile as he stuffed his still-needy cock back into his leather pants and redid the catch. “I’m sorry too.” It wasn’t an apology per se but regret of a kind he didn’t think he’d ever experienced before. What if this swift encounter was all the two of them ever got? How could that ever be enough? As Nickerson moved to wipe off his glistening hand, BlaqJaq suddenly and impulsively grabbed it, tugged it toward his mouth. With efficient swipes of his tongue, he cleaned Nickerson’s fingers, swallowing his own still-warm juices and tasting the sting of salt. Nickerson watched with wide cat eyes, not breathing as BlaqJaq finished and released his hand. It was time to go. But when he started to push off from the wall, Nickerson again touched his shoulder. It wasn’t a caress. “Wait a minute more. If you exert yourself too quickly, you’ll just pass out again.” His recent stimulations had indeed left him woozy. BlaqJaq sat back again.

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“That is…” Nickerson was more hesitant now. “That is if you’re coming with me. You’d do better to stay right here, you know.” “I never would’ve figured that out on my own.” That won a short laugh out of Nickerson. But there was still concern on his handsome face. BlaqJaq assuaged it. “Yes,” he said firmly, softly. “I’m staying with you.” Nickerson sagged with a released breath. So, they were going to linger here another minute or so. BlaqJaq would make use of the time, though it wasn’t time enough for the fastest or hardest of fast, hard fucks. Besides, he wanted to do it slow with Nickerson, if they ever got to really do it at all. “Where are you from?” BlaqJaq asked. Nickerson looked briefly reluctant to part with the information, then shrugged, as if the response was automatic. “Here, actually. I’m an urbie.” It was BlaqJaq’s turn to snort a laugh. “An urbie? Wow, okay, but from a long time back. Nobody says urbie anymore. Might as well spout maxo or bluck or --” “All right. So it was street jargon a long time ago. I’m older than you. I’m glad you understand that.” “I didn’t know I could hurt your feelings so easy. I’ll be sure not to do that again.” Nickerson was shaking his head, but he was amused. BlaqJaq liked talking with him. There was an easy natural flow between them. “But you’re not an urbie anymore. So where do you stay now?” “I spend most of my time off-rock. Off the planet.” BlaqJaq’s brows lifted, though he wasn’t entirely surprised. “Knew you were something strange. What’s it like up there?”

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Nickerson was eyeing him as if to gauge how much he’d understand, but it didn’t offend BlaqJaq. Nickerson didn’t know how smart he was, how ripe his imagination. You didn’t have to see or experience a thing directly to be able to grasp it. Nickerson finally settled on, “It’s not like here.” That wasn’t good enough for BlaqJaq. “Tell me about it. Say?” Nickerson pursed the lips BlaqJaq had been kissing passionately moments ago. “It’s clean up there. There’s space to live, and the people who live there don’t antagonize one another. There’s food to eat, and the atmosphere isn’t spoiled. Those places up there -- the stations, the colonies -- they stay that way, because no one brings the problems of this world there. It’s not allowed.” BlaqJaq considered, knowing their time was running out quickly. “Who doesn’t allow it?” Those feline eyes went still once again, this time centered directly on BlaqJaq’s. “I don’t allow it,” he said finally. “I’m paid to keep any unwanted parties from taking root, from creating conditions where crime could prevail.” So he was a catjob killer, BlaqJaq thought, however he might want to describe his profession. There was more to know, like how he’d gone from being an urbie (an urbie -really!) to living off-rock as a hired assassin. No doubt it was a fabulous tale, and BlaqJaq hoped to hear it some time. But that time wasn’t now. They had loitered too long already. He wasn’t supposed to be the one slowing this man down; he was the native guide, after all. He knew the ’city, and Nickerson still needed his help. Once more, he pushed himself toward the maintenance nook’s opening. His head swam a bit, but he wasn’t going to lose consciousness or puke or anything. “Let’s move,” he said unnecessarily. Nickerson was already following him back into the duct. BlaqJaq slid onto his belly and commenced crawling. He hadn’t actually been inside this network of conduits before, but he knew where the circulation vents were in this

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general area and could logically deduce the layout. Nothing seemed to be following them in the ducts, but that wasn’t much reassurance. Whoever was after Nickerson was employing serious hardware. BlaqJaq had his recharged battery flash in hand, and it showed him the tight tunnel ahead. Some people got weird about narrow places like this, but he’d never felt the touch of that particular phobia -- or any other exaggerated fear. The undercity was hostile enough; no sense in being unduly scared of your environment if you couldn’t do anything about it. Nickerson’s brief description of the off-planet worlds had sparked BlaqJaq’s vivid imagination. Of course it had. He’d already had some idea of the conditions up there. Just because he lived in squalor beneath a modern surface city didn’t mean he couldn’t conceptualize beyond his boundaries. After all, he’d been up top a handful of times in his life, just for brief excursions. He’d seen sky -- or what passed for sky. He understood that other parts of Earth were nothing like the undercity or the overcity, but to have been all the way up there, to the stars… To have traveled among the clean, colonized places. To have enjoyed those comforts. What experiences those must have been for Nickerson. It did bring up another question, though, which BlaqJaq had not had time to ask: what was Nickerson doing back on Earth? BlaqJaq heard him close behind. No worries about the one-time undercity resident keeping up. BlaqJaq had a good notion of where they should head. This hunt was serious, and they had to be smart. When they crossed a juncture, ducts flowing with air disappearing right and left, BlaqJaq heard a tip-tap sound on metaplastic that made him think immediately of rats. As it turned out, he was wrong. There was indeed something else in this system of conduits, but it wasn’t any sort of familiar vermin.

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Chapter Seven

They weren’t alone in the ducts. If Nickerson had had the triangular-shaped ears of the cat species with which he was genetically blended, those ears would have swiveled about, alert, pinpointing the new sound. These couldn’t be the hunting hoverdrones -- they were too bulky to get inside here -but tonight had already proven he had more than one hunter trailing him. His lips were still tingling from the deep kisses he’d shared with BlaqJaq. That moment had been so unexpected…and yet it had felt inevitable too. He couldn’t deny his intense attraction to the younger male, nor would he have kept that desire in check under other circumstances. It was unfortunate that he had met him here, now, but he couldn’t regret the quick, bright moment of passion they’d had, the feel of the younger man’s cock so briefly in his hand. He could only hope there would be more. But that wouldn’t happen if he didn’t survive this deadly night. He and BlaqJaq had just crossed another junction. The kid’s flash beam spilled along the metaplastic conduit ahead, but the sound of movement had come from the duct on their left. It was the tap-tap-tap of scurrying, like claws or fingernails, something without much mass -- and moving quick.

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Nickerson didn’t have the physical ears of a cat, but he did possess feline-level aural capabilities. The catjob, as BlaqJaq had put it, he had undergone had been top of the line, of course. No substandard gen-stimming for him, not for someone who was entrusted by the highest levels of off-rock authority to secretly enforce their unwritten policies. His profession was historically clandestine, and for good reason; it wasn’t strictly legal. Still, he had acted to the best of his enriched abilities, operated for the greater good, and kept the offplanet worlds free of those criminal elements that might infect them. On the other hand, in a sense, he himself was a criminal too. Although he had a palmchip and a legitimate identity, he existed outside the normal flow of the societies he was dedicated to preserving. He didn’t regret revealing all this to the young streetmuscle, though it was a flagrant violation of the secrecy he’d maintained for half his lifetime. He’d just wanted to share something of himself with BlaqJaq. Wanted to share everything, really. For with secrecy came loneliness, and it had been a lonely life. “We need to get out of these airways,” he said to the bottoms of BlaqJaq’s boots, which were all he could see of the other man as he wriggled onward. This was no place for a fight. These quarters were much too close. Nevertheless, Nickerson twisted a hand into his coat and drew his gun; he could do nothing with any accuracy under these conditions, but the tap-taps were approaching. Nickerson pressed his arm flat against the duct’s ceiling and aimed back the way they had come. He would have to take care not to shoot off his own foot -- or any other crucial part of himself. He couldn’t even crane his neck to give himself a view. It also wouldn’t be wise to pause here. He had to keep up with BlaqJaq and get out of these ducts. He touched the trigger stud, programmed to respond only to his print. The sleek pistol fired, and a controlled implosion crumpled the duct behind him. The tortured metaplastic groaned and popped, and the effect was close enough that Nickerson felt his segment of the conduit buckle slightly. It was an alarming sensation, like being squeezed in a giant’s fist.

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Nickerson was thankful that BlaqJaq didn’t waste breath asking what had happened but continued to squirm forward, moving with a nimbleness that belied his size. Nickerson himself stayed quite literally on his heels. The tapping sounds had stopped with the implosion, but that wasn’t entirely reassuring. His pursuers almost certainly knew he had escaped into these airways. He had to get out of this maze soon. They crossed two more junctions. Nickerson listened for more sounds of pursuit. They had been crawling for a while now, and he was starting to experience a back-brain reaction to being so enclosed. He wouldn’t panic, not outright, but some primal human fear was working deep in him. His instincts were telling him, Out. Out. Get out of here! Abruptly, he butted against BlaqJaq’s boots and stopped. Had the kid lost consciousness again? No. The flash was moving, searching ahead. “What’s wrong?” He kept his voice tight, controlled, refusing to let any of his fear spill out into his words. BlaqJaq was silent for three heartbeats. “This isn’t leading where I thought. We’ve got to back up, go another way.”

Back up? Nickerson considered the physical mechanics of that. It wouldn’t just be awkward; he’d be moving feet first in the direction from which his pursuers were most likely to come. But it appeared there was no choice, which both simplified and complicated the situation. Many times in his career, he had been faced with the no-options scenario. He had persevered and succeeded then. He intended to do so again. Wriggling backward was even more clumsy than he’d guessed. He had to put his hands to the sides of the duct and use the slippery leverage there to push his mass along. That meant holstering his pistol. He also couldn’t use his legs for anything, and his long coat was bunching up underneath his rump. Moreover, in addition to the inevitably increasing sense of claustrophobia, the sustained warmth was having an effect on him as well. His hands were damp, making the going even more difficult. He listened intently for those scurrying sounds,

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hoping they only indicated rats. It was a strange hope to harbor, considering how unpleasant it would be to encounter a rodent under these circumstances, but such creatures would almost certainly be the lesser of two evils. Nickerson didn’t blame the younger man for the detour. How could anyone know every passageway of this extensive underground? Some who lived down here spent their entire miserable lives in one district or even on a single level. But BlaqJaq, being streetmuscle, would have a broader experience of the undercity.

I want to take him off-planet. The thought suddenly slashed through Nickerson’s mind, so clear and startling he almost halted in the conduit. He didn’t, of course, but the thought stuck, part wish, part solemn vow. I want to take him away from this, up to the clean good

places that humans have made for themselves. His hands slipped again and again on the duct’s walls, but after a full minute of awkward backward crawling he was at the last juncture they’d passed, BlaqJaq right behind him. “Go to your left,” the younger man said. Nickerson thought about backing himself into one of the other conduits, so the kid could get ahead of him. BlaqJaq was the guide after all, and Nickerson, with his weaponry, was supposed to be bringing up the rear. But there wasn’t time to jockey for position, wasn’t even time to get himself turned around head first. As directed, he took the passage to the left, hoping desperately that it would soon lead to an exit from this network. A few meters along, with BlaqJaq following, Nickerson’s ears once more perked up at the sound of light tapping, of fast movement. Whatever it was, it had found a way past the imploded segment of the duct and was pursuing them once more. Only this time Nickerson couldn’t collapse the conduit behind them; there was no way to get a shot past BlaqJaq.

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Nickerson cursed, silently and vehemently. He should have made the time to let the streetmuscle get ahead; it had been a stupid mistake, the sort of negligence that resulted in tragedy. Nickerson had always operated alone. In fact, he wasn’t accustomed to having colleagues at risk because he’d never met them, though he was sure they existed, other shadow people who kept the extraterrestrial environments clean and safe. But BlaqJaq was something more to him than even a colleague would have been. He could not allow this man to come to harm. The tap-tapping was closing in, loud enough now that BlaqJaq could probably hear it too. He hoped the younger man wouldn’t panic, doubted that he would. The kid was tough. Nickerson peered ahead into the dimness with his feline vision. He saw nothing but more of the ventway. The air had to come out somewhere; that was how the system had been constructed during those anxious days long ago when people had thought they could no longer inhabit the surface of the planet. But where was the outlet? Frustration was gathering, reaching a critical point. Then the scrabbling claw-sounds were in the same duct with them. BlaqJaq let out a yelp of fear or pain, and Nickerson had absolutely had it. Enough of this. He unholstered his gun once more, altered the setting, put the muzzle to the metaplastic floor underneath him, and touched the trigger stud. The ’plastic deck vaporized in a swirl of amber light, and Nickerson was falling through the meter-long hole he’d created. Still gripping the pistol, he whipped up his other hand and seized a leather pants’ cuff, then nearly lost that grip before his fingers locked. He yanked, using his downward momentum to drag BlaqJaq through the newly made hole with him. There might have been anything beneath this particular segment of conduit. Most likely, Nickerson would’ve merely cut his way through to the enclosing bedrock of this underworld, but as luck had it, they dropped through into free space. However, for that first dreadful instant as the two of them tumbled, he didn’t know if they were going to drop into

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a passageway or chamber -- or go plunging into a cavern like the one he’d seen earlier with all the walkways. That durable saw about cats landing on their feet had some truth to it, and enriching humans with feline capabilities had been a proven success. These were among the reasons that feline-based gen-stimming was common enough to have picked up the term catjob. Nickerson had spent half his life with these senses and reflexes at his disposal. To say he was accustomed to his augmented body was to make a gross understatement. To say he could scarcely remember his original self, with his purely human capacities, was perhaps nearer to the truth. He’d been to places where gravity was less of a factor, but this was Earth, and this world’s pull was encoded into his memory. He twisted as he fell, hauling BlaqJaq out of the ruptured duct with him. Nickerson didn’t know how far down they would go or how long he had to get his feet under him and prime himself for a landing. It turned out not to be much of a drop. That was good, as it meant he hadn’t cut his way into a grotto, but it also meant he’d had almost no time to position himself. He smacked into the ground, only one foot tucked properly underneath him, springing his weight down onto a single knee, his other leg stuck out at an awkward angle. He was lucky not to have twisted or snapped that leg, but his reflexes had saved him. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to brace BlaqJaq. He came down behind Nickerson, limbs flailing, his big body sprawling on the ground. His yelp was cut off on impact, but Nickerson now saw that there was something attached to the kid’s shoulder. Something that definitely didn’t belong there. It was, ironically enough, just about the size of a rat, but there was nothing ratlike or natural about it, even in this freewheeling gen-stim era where “natural” had lost many of its connotations. An unnatural thing was no longer something to be shunned; that was Dark Ages thinking. Humankind had taken evolution into its own hands.

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But the creature that had affixed itself to BlaqJaq’s shoulder put a thrill of horror through Nickerson just from looking at it. He could barely imagine how it must be to have the thing actually touching him; but of course it was doing more than that to BlaqJaq -- it was attacking him. With claws and teeth. Or what might be considered claws and teeth, if the thing had been created with any sort of terrestrial animal blueprint in mind. Instead, this was a purely imagined killer form, something devised without any ethical restraints whatsoever, the kind of gen-stimming that was outlawed even in the worst places on Earth. The creature looked like a cat’s cradle of bones and sinew, wiry, multi-jointed, lethally hostile. It might be loaded with venom. It might have cyber implants to deliver an electrocuting shock. It might just be designed to rip and burrow into flesh. BlaqJaq renewed his howling, hands scrabbling desperately at the creature. Nickerson’s hand closed on empty air; his gun had slid out of his grip when he’d landed. As he scrambled after his pistol -- the other weapons in his coat wouldn’t be accurate enough to guarantee BlaqJaq’s safety -- he saw that they had come down into a dim, dank passageway. There were few lights functioning, and the undercity stench was bad here; it smelled of longtime rot. The murky light was enough, nonetheless, to glint off the sleek body of Nickerson’s handgun, where it had come to rest at the base of a wall. BlaqJaq’s frightened wailing continued to fill his ears; every physical and emotional instinct in him demanded that he put a stop to it, that he rescue the young man who had become so important to him so quickly. BlaqJaq was thrashing about on the ground when Nickerson vaulted on top of him, knees closing about his chest, one hand pinning the streetmuscle’s brawny flailing arm. It was necessary that he be still for the single instant Nickerson needed to aim and fire the gun. But the creature that had dug into his shoulder had all of BlaqJaq’s attention, and he continued to writhe, all of his instincts no doubt telling him to get this evil thing off, right now, right now.

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The streetmuscle was stronger than Nickerson, but Nickerson had leverage going for him, and he kept the kid pinned long enough to light the corridor with amber radiance. When the light winked out, the creature was gone.

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Chapter Eight

The thing outstripped any nightmare BlaqJaq had ever had. He’d never be able to forget the sight and feel and downright horror of it. The creature had wounded him, tearing into his shoulder, shredding his leather jacket and digging into his flesh. He was bleeding, but he didn’t care much about the blood or the pain. It was the revulsion still surging through him that had him preoccupied. It occurred to him that the gen-stimmed creature had probably been designed not just to be a vicious little attacker, but also to be intentionally repulsive as a way of distracting and weakening its victim. It further occurred to BlaqJaq that right this moment, lying on the ground with Nickerson straddling him and the image of the just-vaporized creature still burning in his head, he was on the edge of some serious mental crisis. He could give in to the shock, let it really claim him; part of him wanted to dive right into it as a perverse “reward” for what he had undergone. Instead, throat still raw from all the terrified yowling he’d done, BlaqJaq put back his head and laughed. Loud. Long. It felt good, felt better than huddling in a numb ball of fear would have felt.

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When he finished, Nickerson was looking at him with an expression of concern almost comical enough to set him off again. Above, the duct along the ceiling was ruptured by the long gash through which both of them had fallen. It had all happened so fast. “Are you all right?” Nickerson eventually asked. BlaqJaq gave him a grin. “Exciting things happen when you’re around. You know that?” “Your shoulder’s bleeding. We need to do something about that wound.” He moved to unsaddle himself from BlaqJaq’s chest. BlaqJaq caught his hips playfully, grinned again. “I like having you on top of me.” For a moment, the older man looked stunned, as if wondering about BlaqJaq’s mental state. Then he grinned back helplessly, a glint in his eyes. “I like it too,” he finally murmured. He climbed off and did what he could to dress the wound. The bleeding was already stopping, and the pain didn’t get any worse. BlaqJaq knew he could stand it. It had been a pretty serious fall from that duct, but he’d been reasonably lucky in his landing, coming down flat, the meaty part of one thigh catching most of the impact. It would bruise, but again, it wasn’t the kind of hurt he couldn’t handle or hadn’t suffered before. Being streetmuscle didn’t mean you weren’t occasionally the one that got banged on. Finally, it was time to stand. Nickerson helped, wincing as BlaqJaq struggled. The older man was obviously feeling guilty about the harm that had come to him, BlaqJaq knew with a keen emotional instinct that he couldn’t recall experiencing with anyone else. “I’m okay,” he reassured him. After saying it, he realized that the immediate terror/horror of that creature had receded. He wouldn’t forget it, no, but he hadn’t let himself be traumatized. That was good. “Which way?” Nickerson asked. BlaqJaq took a real look at their surroundings. He recognized it as East/West White Run 14. Bad district. He spared another glance upward, to the burst duct, but it would be

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almost impossible for both of them to climb back up there, and anyway, he felt no urge to return to the ventilation system. When that ugly little creature had come at him in the conduit, tap-tap-tapping as it ran, it had been truly horrifying. Moving with a bit of a hobble, he led them west down the dingy, poorly lit run. This was territory competed over by several young proto-gangs, though it was hardly a choice region of the ’city. The claiming of turf was just an excuse for prolonged warfare, a place for the youngest warrior types to make their bones. It was a stupid exercise; most of the participants would end up dead or maimed, but it was romanticized among them. And what could you do about kids who wanted to kill each other and themselves? Nothing. BlaqJaq had never gone in for that kind of adolescent aggression. It had seemed a waste of time. He had a good physique and was developing a good mind, and he’d planned from a very young age to live wisely -- and thereby live longer than most did in the undercity. Then again, was this wise, partnering up with a man who was being hunted by some very sophisticated methods? Do I follow him all the way to his death? BlaqJaq shrugged the thought away as too profound and disturbing. He hadn’t abandoned Nickerson earlier; he sure wasn’t going to now. Nothing and nobody stirred out of any of the dark alcoves they passed. Some of these kids did skraw or any of the other drugs one could find in the ’city, several of which were locally manufactured, and others smuggled in from the overcity. The groups in White Run 14 weren’t like the better organized gangs in other districts, though. They weren’t trying to gain anything for themselves, except for these useless stretches of corridor. One bunch would conquer an area, lose it the next day, regain it, give it up to a different group later on. And all the while, the fatalities would just pile up…which accounted for the awful stink in these runs. Bodies were purposely left to rot, or the heads were collected as trophies. It was all a barbaric game. But game or not, it was still very dangerous. They had to get out of here.

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BlaqJaq squinted into the distance. Since Nickerson had great eyesight with those cat eyes of his, BlaqJaq told him to keep watch for anybody -- because anyone here really was going to be an enemy. However, BlaqJaq didn’t need Nickerson’s heightened senses to hear the war whoop that suddenly echoed in the run, didn’t even need him to know that the sound had come from ahead of them. He knew how sound traveled in these corridors. They halted, flattened against a wall. Nickerson had the spike out, and it would do the job, at least for a while, until the crazies realized that strangers had intruded into their war. Then they would probably join forces for the duration, just pour numbers at them, a continual onslaught. Nickerson might be able to kill them all; then again, he might not. The thought of such a possible slaughter sickened BlaqJaq. These dumb fuckers might be living their death wishes here, but they were at least doing it at their own pace. Eventually, some would give it up, maybe go on to live better lives elsewhere in the ’city. The two of them weren’t far from a set of stairs -- about twenty meters more -- that would take him and Nickerson down even farther into the undercity. It was the closest exit, but the war holler had come not too far past the niche that held those steps, where North/South White Run 14 intersected with this run. Should they make a dash for the stairs? Another wild cry echoed, the sounds of fast footfalls following after. He and Nickerson had to go this very second or not at all. BlaqJaq’s injured leg twinged, and that decided it. Even if he ran full out, they wouldn’t make the exit before they were spotted. BlaqJaq waved Nickerson back, both men keeping tight against the wall. They backed up to an alcove, slipped inside. This hidden spot, probably no more than a few meters across, smelled foul. He wouldn’t have been surprised if a corpse or two was rotting in the corner, but he didn’t switch on his flash to find out.

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As they moved out of sight, BlaqJaq saw the first of the young warriors streaming into the junction, turning onto the East/West line. They were coming this way, a dozen of them, spears and clubs in hands, raising a collective war cry and heading for some battle farther down the run. They didn’t see BlaqJaq ducking stealthily into the unlit alcove. The crowd made a terrible commotion as they charged past, and it was frightening having them pass so close. They smelled of fury and blood thirst, of pointless violence. They really were barbarians, the type that some who lived on the surface imagined all undercity dwellers were like. BlaqJaq knew where his people fit into the societal strata of Earth, of course. At the bottom. They were without the identifying palmchips, without money or official access to any of the surface services. They were urbies, and BlaqJaq imagined that there had been other such terms used throughout Earth’s history to dismiss entire categories of people. That was how things were. BlaqJaq had lived his life in the undercity; there was no place for him anywhere else and never would be. He and Nickerson waited until the war party was well down the East/West run. Then, in the blackness of the alcove, Nickerson whispered, “What the hell was that?” There was a note of frazzled frustration in the question rather than true confusion, as if this whole experience were finally becoming too much for him -- not that BlaqJaq guessed this man would crumble. “That was danger.” Nickerson snorted. “They sound like they’re well past. Shouldn’t we get moving?” BlaqJaq paused a moment. If there were enough light, he thought Nickerson would see the suddenly thoughtful expression on his face; then again, Nickerson’s enriched vision just might allow that anyway. Whichever, he waited until BlaqJaq spoke again. “Maybe it’s time we were smart, instead of just fast and lucky.” “Smart is always best.” Nickerson sounded intrigued.

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Briefly, BlaqJaq explained where they were and the details of this district of the undercity. “You think you got more than one hunter on you?” “I’d have to say so. Too much has been thrown at me tonight. Whoever was firing that beam weapon before, the hoverdrones, that…that thing in the duct. Also, on the surface before I dove down a hole, there was someone shooting phosphorous rounds and plasmadarts -- maybe the same person -- but a car came swooping --” “Right, right.” No wonder the strain was starting to show on Nickerson; he’d been like a rat chased by starving gyps. BlaqJaq groped, caught Nickerson’s forearm, and gave a tender squeeze, wanting to do more -- even here, even now, wanting this man so badly. “You said they’re tracking you by sophisticated means.” “I’d say that was a good guess.” Nickerson fidgeted, clearly eager to go. “But why did those -- what’d you say? Hoverdrones? Why’d they use gas? Why weren’t they rigged to detonate? Wouldn’t bombs be more likely to kill?” “Yes. Sure. But --” “So there’s some kind of rules to this hunt. Maybe they want you alive.” “Not the way they were gunning for me up on the surface streets. No.” “Then there’s restrictions. Rules. Like limited force allowed.” “You make this sound like a game.” “I think maybe it is.” BlaqJaq felt Nickerson stiffen, as if affronted by the notion. He went on, “I think there’re different hunters competing to see who can get you first. Maybe whoever brings back your head as a trophy wins this thing.” Nickerson let out an audible breath. From some distance down the run came renewed war whoops and the first sounds of battle. The warriors had found who they were looking for -- or whoever had gotten in their way. “You said it was time to be smart,” Nickerson said, voice icy calm now. “I think we can use this place, get some advantage. Say?”

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“Tell me how.” So, in the stinking darkness of the alcove, BlaqJaq related the plan he’d rapidly put together. Nickerson made a soft sound of assent. Then, BlaqJaq, unable to check his curiosity any longer, asked, “What brought you to Earth?” If the question surprised Nickerson, it wasn’t revealed in his straightforward reply. “I was ordered here by my superiors.” “And all this started when you arrived?” “I was in an air transport heading from the off-planet port to my scheduled rendezvous. The car malfunctioned, dumped me onto street level.” BlaqJaq was nodding to himself. “Think maybe your own people betrayed you, set this hunt up?” Again Nickerson’s response was immediate and blunt. “I’m starting to think just that.” The suspicion rankled BlaqJaq. Betrayal was bad. There were things he had refused to do as a streetmuscle because the jobs had had no honor; they targeted the weak or defenseless. But there were also jobs he had taken strictly because they meant avenging a disgrace. If Nickerson had been betrayed, it was one more reason to stand by his side, no matter what happened tonight.

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Chapter Nine

Nickerson’s training had been intensive. It had, of course, been psychological as well as physical. The thinking warrior was more valuable than the brute, and he had taken justifiable pride in his ability to reason and control his emotions. This was an accomplishment for any being, but it was especially impressive for an urbie, one who had been born into such a volatile environment, where wild, unthinking strength often seemed most rewarded. Even so, despite all the rigorous mental composure he’d learned, Nickerson was cold with a rage he barely allowed himself to feel. The suggestion that he had been betrayed had been softly humming in the back of his mind for a while now, even before BlaqJaq had voiced it. But when the younger man had said it aloud, it had seemed to give the idea validity, substance.

Had his own people sent him into this hunt, set him up as the quarry? His superiors had ordered him to Earth, and it was here that this had all begun.

Why?

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Again, a question that might never find an answer and one he had no time to pursue. The immediacy of his and BlaqJaq’s survival obviously had to take precedence. Dead men not only told no tales, they also asked no questions. BlaqJaq’s plan was simple enough, but it showed intelligence. The kid was smart. He meant to use the terrain to their advantage. Those headhunters (it was another term from Nickerson’s youth, probably obsolete by now) who had passed through the corridor were a part of this particular landscape. He recognized the breed. Savage killers. If they had discovered him and BlaqJaq, Nickerson knew he would have had to kill them in self-defense. They wouldn’t have relented, wouldn’t have cared how outgunned they were. Their mission was always the same: kill the enemy. That enemy, BlaqJaq had said and Nickerson agreed, could swiftly become just about anybody. There was no doubt Nickerson’s hunters were still tracking him, however they were managing it. They’d reach this level of the undercity soon enough. The alcove into which they had ducked stank of putrid death. Nickerson didn’t want to think of what must be in here with them, and he purposely didn’t use his cat vision to examine their surroundings too closely. This wasn’t like being in that air-duct maintenance nook with BlaqJaq, where their passions had flared so hotly. They wouldn’t kiss now, maybe wouldn’t get the chance to ever kiss again, or do any of the rest of it, not even another hurried jerking off. But if they did… It was better entertaining these thoughts than brooding over his possible betrayal, but he had to stay alert. Fatigue was starting to work on him, though he was nowhere near collapse yet. He and BlaqJaq listened silently. Faint echoes from the battle continued, the clangs of improvised spears, clubs, and edged weapons clashing. It sounded fearsome, but it was the type of fighting that gained nothing. It was make-war, a category of senseless violence that was supposed to have been left behind when humanity had colonized off-rock. At first, such had been the case because the hazards of space travel simply didn’t allow for any kind of

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conflict. It was too easy to destroy a ship or an entire colony when the local environment was already too happy to see that destruction occur. Thus, a forward evolutionary stride had been forced. Cooperation was crucial for species survival off-rock, as it hadn’t been since humans had huddled around tribal fires, and that cooperation had led to a staunch moral code. Paradises had come of it, where people lived peacefully, honorably, ethically. Even if there were assassins working in the shadows to maintain that peace. There were new sounds in the corridor. Nickerson picked them out through the distant hubbub of battle. Footfalls. A single set, moving fast, coming down a side passage toward this corridor. The barbarians moved in packs; although that rule surely wasn’t an absolute, it was very unlikely that a lone individual would last for any amount of time in these circumstances. It was too dim in the alcove for BlaqJaq to see any sign Nickerson might give him, so he leaned close to the streetmuscle’s ear -- inhaling that male scent he’d already identified as strictly BlaqJaq’s and feeling a surge of inconvenient lust as he did so -- and whispered, “Here it comes.” He had pocketed his pistol; now he put a hand in his camofiber coat, ready to snatch whichever weapon would be appropriate. He edged to the alcove’s entrance, shoulder pressed to the jamb, a steady precombat tension thrumming through him. He liked the feeling. He had grown tired of being hunted; now he would strike back. He peered down the passageway, in the direction from which the warrior pack had come earlier. There was a perpendicular corridor past the stairway that BlaqJaq had been trying to get them to. Nickerson watched the junction, eyes sharply focused, ears trained tightly on the running footsteps as they neared. The footfalls halted abruptly, with no one in sight at the intersection. Whoever it was wasn’t showing themselves. Nickerson’s back teeth ground together in frustration, but he gave no other sign of how he felt. His hunters probably knew exactly where he was, given

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they’d been able to track him this far, which would mean that lying in wait like this was a useless tactic, but he had to try something. Then, there was the sound of movement again, very quiet, as of someone cautiously sidling. His eyes picked up the shape coming around the corner, a barely perceptible shifting of shadows. A camocloak! A camocloak was something a single guerrilla might employ, something light and easy to manage in the field. It was a variation on the camofiber technology that had created his own coat, though the disguising elements of this garment worked on the light spectrum, making it vulnerable to heatseek systs but almost impossible to detect visually. Without his feline eyesight and the fact that he had been looking at that very spot, Nickerson wouldn’t have seen anything. Still, why not go all the way with such visual defenses? Use military-strength magnetic body armor with a complete-spectrum invisibility capacity.

Rules of the hunt, BlaqJaq had postulated. This gave the theory some more weight. A smart kid, indeed. He felt a tiny smile move his lips. Having been lucky enough to spot the camocloaked figure, he kept his eyes riveted on it, aware that he could easily lose it in this dimness, his enriched vision notwithstanding. Of course, whatever weaponry the individual was carrying was hidden from view, so Nickerson didn’t know what would be best for a counterattack. He didn’t let it daunt him. Here, at last, was one of his pursuers in the flesh. This wasn’t a spray of bullets, a diving air transport, hoverdrones, or a gen-stimmed killer creature. This was a person. He was finally going to face one of his hunters. The idea was exciting. He was looking forward to the encounter. The figure had slipped near-invisibly around the corner into this passageway. At the far end of their corridor, the sounds of primitive combat persisted. The battling headhunters wouldn’t be able to see the camocloaked hunter. Nickerson kept the form painstakingly in sight as it moved a slow, edging step at a time along the corridor wall. Maybe it did have him tracked down to the exact square meter of space he occupied, or maybe the means of

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detection that were being employed were slightly more general. In either case, the hunter was coming this way.

I want to talk to this person. It was another of those thoughts that cut forcefully across his mind with the strength of a mystical revelation, just as it had when he’d suddenly realized he wanted to take BlaqJaq out of this place, take him off-planet. If Nickerson had indeed been betrayed by his superiors, that would be a difficult, if not impossible, undertaking. But one step toward that goal would be to interrogate an individual who was directly involved in this hunt. Find out what was going on and learn if there was any way to stop the pursuit. Nickerson recognized how chancy this strategy was. His pistol had no tranquilizer setting; after all, he wasn’t in the business of taking prisoners. The camocloaked figure was moving slowly and steadily, almost to the head of the closest stairwell now. Perhaps it was unaware that Nickerson had him or her spotted. Keeping his gaze locked, Nickerson spoke softly to BlaqJaq. “Come on.” No time to explain the sudden alteration to the plan the streetmuscle had proposed, but he was confident BlaqJaq could readily adapt. They stepped out into the passageway, which brought some immediate relief from the rotting stink of the alcove. Behind them were the sounds of fighting; ahead was the barely visible smear of camocloak shadow. BlaqJaq’s plan had been to let Nickerson’s pursuers run afoul of the local headhunters, preferably without the two of them putting themselves too much at risk. A good plan, clever. Nickerson didn’t want to think that this action was stupid, though breaking cover was counterintuitive. They were both no doubt visible to the hunter by now, if only as silhouettes in the dimness of the corridor. At that instant, Nickerson’s keen eyes saw the ’cloaked figure halt. BlaqJaq wouldn’t be able to see a thing, he knew.

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“Cover your eyes,” he said quietly, his hand finally whipping out of his coat, elbow like a spring. His other hand rose to cover his own eyes, just as the glitter grenade burst with a muffled whumff. He moved instantly, grabbed BlaqJaq’s wrist -- had almost seized the wounded shoulder but remembered in time, luckily -- and dragged him down the passageway in the direction of the hunter. The look of the corridor had changed. The ultra-fine aluminum particles of the grenade had coated everything. The passage now shimmered with a festive radiance, picking up the scant local light and magnifying it through millions of infinitesimal prisms. It was as though a mirror had exploded over the vicinity. The camocloaked figure was now quite defined, a perfectly dimensional shape in that glittering tunnel. BlaqJaq was making every effort to keep up with him, though the younger man’s leg was plainly giving him trouble. Nickerson was still confident that he would come through; it was now up to Nickerson to deliver him out of this predicament, just as the kid had done for him. The grenade’s white-out effect lasted only for the duration of the detonation, but Nickerson was sure he had blinded his target, however briefly. Inevitably, the sounds of combat further down the tunnel suspended for a moment; then, just as inescapably, a great collective war cry rose. Those savages would be streaming this way. He continued charging down the passageway, tugging BlaqJaq behind him. As Nickerson watched, the camocloak ahead of him was struggling to regain its invisibility, its fibers adapting, taking on the new sparkling complexity of the passageway’s surfaces. The individual under the ’cloak was rallying as well, seemingly grappling with a weapon of some sort beneath the folds. Nickerson had closed fast, but he was still several meters away. BlaqJaq shook off the grip around his wrist, shouted, “Go!” Obviously the streetmuscle had assessed the situation

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and knew Nickerson had a better chance without having to drag him along. A fierce grin cut Nickerson’s face. He had never fought by anyone’s side like this and abruptly understood what was meant by camaraderie, by esprit de corps. A ferocious war whoop sounded, and Nickerson was shocked to hear it coming from him. But he had already launched himself, his svelte, muscled body flying, feet off the ground, hurtling horizontally, just as the camofibers finished reconfiguring and the shape blended into the wild luster of the passageway. Too late. Nickerson was dead on target, even as sudden pain lanced into his arm, into the inner, upper meat of his left limb, just below where it joined the shoulder. He slammed into the ’cloaked figure; the ’cloak’s disguising fibers did nothing to protect against this kind of assault. The impact was brutal. Nickerson hadn’t taken any kind of safe landing into account, and he fell with his foe, making a hopeless tangle. Nickerson banged his skull hard enough to make it ring, even while the pain in his arm continued, but he scuffled with the figure, glad to feel a living human shape underneath the camocloak. He tore the covering free, the two of them rolling on the dank ground. He leveraged himself on top, jamming a knee hard into his opponent’s solar plexus, and laid a pair of blows to the face. The punches were meant to take the fight out of his opponent, and when the body went limp beneath him, Nickerson hoped that he hadn’t inadvertently delivered a killing blow. BlaqJaq caught up to him; behind him came the murderous calls and fast footfalls of the warrior youths. Nickerson had tackled his adversary near the stairs. He leapt to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head and the worsening pain in his arm. His erstwhile hunter, sprawled on the ground, let out a vague moan. A needlegun lay nearby. Which meant Nickerson might have been injected with just about anything. His immune system was enriched, and he was resistant to many poisons, but that hardly put the matter to rest. Well, no time to worry about it now.

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“We’re taking him!” he said to BlaqJaq, but the streetmuscle had already figured that out and was scooping up the hunter’s legs. Nickerson grabbed the torso under his good arm, and they headed for the stairs, leaving the needlegun and camocloak behind. The items would make interesting spoils for the headhunters. Nickerson hadn’t gotten much of a look at the hunter. He was male, hair shaved down to stubble, and he didn’t appear to have any other weapons on him. Down the stairs they went, BlaqJaq leading. The stairwell was almost as dark as the alcove had been. The war cries were getting closer. He and BlaqJaq reached the first landing -- there was no exit -- and rushed down the next set of steps. The hunter started to twist under Nickerson’s good arm, but he was still too dazed to put up a real struggle. The pain in Nickerson’s wounded arm was turning into a burn, a growing heat by his armpit, and still they raced downward in the darkness. The headhunters were in the stairwell now, their hollers echoing crazily, weapons clanging on the walls. Even with his gun on its most destructive setting, Nickerson wasn’t sure he’d be able to fend off all of them. When they suddenly came to a wall of rubble, he felt a moment of pure hopelessness. This was just too much; he wasn’t used to the odds being stacked so heavily against him. BlaqJaq had actually crashed into the wall in the dimness and staggered back. Nickerson, using his cat vision, examined the barrier. It didn’t look like a cave-in, more like the deliberate stacking of stones. The wall wasn’t solid; there was a gap along the top, room enough to get through -- if they had the time. Stampeding feet weren’t far behind them. Nickerson dropped the hunter’s body, grabbed BlaqJaq and boosted him up toward the gap. Then he seized the hunter, grappled him one-armed, and heaved him up and over the wall. Dust rained onto Nickerson’s face. The delay had been costly; the headhunters were only one landing above. He might get over the wall, but they’d come leaping through the gap

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after him. Maybe…maybe…he could hold them long enough for BlaqJaq to get away. He hauled himself over the wall of rubble, determined that, after all this, he wouldn’t be the cause of the younger man’s death.

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Chapter Ten

There was better light on the other side of the border wall, though this deep in the ’city, the already unstable -- and mostly pirated -- power supply was very sketchy. BlaqJaq’s shoulder wound hadn’t reopened, and he’d managed to clamber over the wall and onto the landing on his good leg. Nickerson looked like his left arm was hurting; he held it tightly against his side. The short-haired male they’d dragged with them was lying semiconscious, and BlaqJaq saw there was an animate tattoo around his neck, some kind of serpent creature that coiled again and again, the image appearing to move over the flesh. He’d seen such tattoos before. Nickerson had his spike out and was looking back up at the gap of the border barrier, face grim. The warriors had clamored down the last few steps before the wall, still banging their weapons. Nickerson turned his head, locked eyes with BlaqJaq, and snarled, “Get out of here.” Then he turned his attention back to the gap, the gun steady in his fist. Nickerson didn’t understand. BlaqJaq managed a smile. “You don’t have to --” he began. “I said go.”

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Nickerson wasn’t even looking at him. BlaqJaq limped a step closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. Nickerson’s eyes, with those exotic vertical pupils, snapped toward him, and anger slashed across his face. He was about to bark another order when the war cries immediately on the other side of the wall abruptly ceased. Weapons no longer clanged. Nickerson appeared deeply confused by the abrupt silence. BlaqJaq’s smile warmed, and the urge to laugh tickled through him, but he kept it in check. Instead, he pointed. “That’s the border that seals them off from the rest of the undercity. It’s…sacred. They don’t go past it. If they did, they’d be intruding on somebody else’s turf, and the gangs of this area would go after them. Nobody cares about those crazy fuckers so long as they stay in their own territory.” Nickerson looked like he wanted to believe that but couldn’t quite manage it, not until he heard the sounds of a muttering, shuffled retreat back up the stairs, the war lust apparently forgotten, or more like temporarily suspended. Relief showed on Nickerson’s features, even as he grimaced in evident pain from his arm. He crouched by the tattooed man, tore strong strips of fabric from the hunter’s bodystocking, and bound the man’s wrists and ankles. “Can you get us someplace where I can talk to him?” “This way.” BlaqJaq took the legs again and descended the rest of the stairs to one of the ’city’s lowest levels, exiting into a gaping tunnel. It was an old tunnel, once meant for vehicular traffic that had run on rails. Those transports were long gone, but the twin rails were still there, rusting into powder. These big vaulted passageways had always captured BlaqJaq’s imagination. He could picture the ancient vehicles howling through the underground, in a time when the undercity had been connected to the overcity, to the world at large. Despite the size of the tunnels, this level wasn’t heavily populated. The air here was very thick, and most of what passed for commerce and socialization in the ’city took place some distance above. Still, no place was uninhabited, but he and Nickerson didn’t encounter

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anyone as they made for a quiet bend in the tunnelway, where they were mostly hidden from view. Nickerson must have hit the man hard; he was still groggy when they set him down. BlaqJaq lit his recharged battery flash and shone it in their prisoner’s face. Eyes blinked; the tattoo writhed. Fear was dawning. Nickerson stood over him. “Why are you hunting me?” That got more blinks. The man tried to sit up, found himself bound and helpless. The fear in those eyes swelled. “No words for you,” the hunter said, his accent strange, harsh. It must have had its origins in some foreign Earth tongue. The planet had never been successfully homogenized, languagewise. Of course, those foreign locales were almost as exotic to BlaqJaq as the off-rock places Nickerson had visited. “Why are you hunting me?” Nickerson repeated. “Who are you?” The mouth clenched tight. Their prisoner struggled against the ties at his wrists and ankles, but it was hopeless. Nickerson continued to stare down at him, supporting his injured arm against his body. “If you think your needle’s going to kill me,” he said, “you’re wrong. My enriched metabolism is already processing the toxin.” BlaqJaq, standing back, looked at Nickerson’s face and saw that some of the pain there had eased. Of course, he might just be toughing it out. Nickerson repeated his questions. The hunter either said nothing, or reiterated “No words” in that severe accent. Plainly, Nickerson wanted answers, and just as plainly he had no experience in interrogation. Even aiming his spike at the hunter’s stubbly skull produced nothing but a further tightening of the man’s mouth. Finally out of patience, BlaqJaq switched off the flash so that they were in the tunnel’s deep shadows. “I can get him to talk. You want me to?”

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There was a brief pause. The hunter sucked in a breath. Then, Nickerson said, “Do it.” BlaqJaq asked nothing of the man. He merely applied his physical resources, backed by his years of technique in inflicting bodily damage. He wasn’t sloppy; he wasn’t unprofessional. He took no relish in what he did to the hunter, but neither did he feel pity, even though the man lay bound and defenseless. It was a credo of BlaqJaq’s livelihood: the victim shouldn’t have done whatever he’d done to get himself worked over by a streetmuscle. In this case, the victim had been trying to harm someone very dear to BlaqJaq. Even so, he didn’t make it personal. And in a matter of minutes, the hunter, still conscious, was ready to answer Nickerson’s questions at last. “It…it’s the Hunt of Nine,” the hunter said, pausing to spit out a gob of mucus and blood. “You are…prey. This hunt, it happen ’bout once every three years. Always someone like you. Killer man from off-rock. They send you.” Nickerson stood very still, hands in the pockets of his long coat, face inert. “Who are

they?” His voice was once again icily calm. The hunter somehow managed a wry look, despite the bruises starting to swell his face. “You know. Your bosses.” Nickerson’s sinewy body stiffened almost imperceptibly. It was several beats before he said, “The Hunt of Nine. So, there are eight more of you?” “We the Nine. The best.” The hunter said it with a note of pride. Nickerson asked a few more questions; then it was over. He knelt beside the hunter and struck an open-handed blow across his face; the man stopped moving. However, the serpent tattoo around his throat continued to coil and writhe, which BlaqJaq found very disturbing for some reason. When he glanced at Nickerson, he saw the fine blade the other man had produced from his coat. With it, he sliced into his right palm, teeth only baring slightly at the pain,

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working determinedly. A moment later, he held something small and dripping between thumb and finger, contemplated it a while with an unfathomable expression on his face, then flicked the thing away into the vaulting dimness of the tunnel. BlaqJaq heard the palmchip land, roll, still. Nickerson heaved a breath that was not quite a sob, not quite a gasp of relief. He tore another strip from the dead hunter’s bodystocking and wound it around his hand. When he finally looked at BlaqJaq, there seemed to be a gleam in his feline eyes. “Can you take me farther?” “Far as you need to go.” “We only need to get away from here. They won’t be able to track me anymore.” Along the tunnel and over the rusting rails they went. It had the feel of routine by now. BlaqJaq took forks onto other branches of the ancient and labyrinthine subway system. They encountered no trouble from the sparse inhabitants. BlaqJaq wanted to rest his leg but was determined to say nothing until Nickerson decided they’d gone far enough. Finally, after perhaps an hour, Nickerson did. This was the deep ’city; the air remained thick and stale, but stopping was a luxury all its own, and BlaqJaq gratefully dropped to the ground. They had reached an old station, the platform empty of everything but a sifting of debris. The ways up to the surface were all long since sealed shut. A few stubborn lights glowed in their housings; longevity powerpacks kept them alive. Now and then, there was a scuttling of rodent feet, but they gave the two humans a wide berth, either uninterested or frightened by the intruders; BlaqJaq didn’t care which. He lay back, stretched, and idly massaged his thigh. It had been a long, long night, and he was in that state of glowing tiredness that was peaceful and tranquil. Nickerson sat nearby, flexing his arm with deliberate motions. Apparently, he hadn’t been lying about his catjob metabolism handling poison. BlaqJaq had overheard the entire

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interrogation, of course, once the hunter’s tongue had been loosened, but he hadn’t understood everything that had been said. “You were betrayed.” That much, at least, was clear. And it rankled BlaqJaq to think of that sort of dishonor being committed against this man. “But…why? I don’t --” “I was a sacrifice. I was paid to secretly kill criminals who tried to set up operations offrock. The crime cartels here on Earth have never been able to establish themselves anywhere else, but they could try much harder than they do. They could make things much more difficult for the colonies, the other worlds. But once in a while, the off-planet officials who control shadow people like me give one of us up, probably the ones who are getting older, past their primes. It’s a sport, with rules, just like you said. They send their best nine killers, and we become the prey of this Hunt of Nine. It’s not only a big event, but also serves a couple of other purposes. To appease the cartels, who get a little revenge. To get rid of one of us for our superiors, without the cost and bother of retirement. It has evidently become a…tradition.” BlaqJaq heard the pain behind the words despite Nickerson’s careful monotone. Tonight, his lover had lost everything. His palmchip, too, was gone, the key a person needed to function in the overcity -- or anywhere official on the planet, probably. The palmchips regulated identity, money. And Nickerson’s had been turned into a tracking device. Without it, the Hunt of Nine was over. There was no going back to the life he’d led, but where could he go from here? Pushing himself onto his elbows, BlaqJaq regarded Nickerson, who was sitting crosslegged on the shadowed station platform. BlaqJaq ached for him. An ache of sympathy, of pity, yes, but also… Tentatively, he reached out and brushed his fingertips over the man’s cheek, just like Nickerson had done to him earlier. The touch felt just as gentle as his lover’s had been.

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Nickerson’s cat eyes were dilated in the dimness, appearing almost normal. “I’m originally from the undercity, but I got out, I got up. I did what I had to do to survive down here; then I reached for something better. I met a recruiter on the surface, someone who worked unofficially and who saw potential in me. He made me an offer and I took it. I got a palmchip and a formal identity and a ride off-rock. Then I was gen-stimmed. I was glad to do what they trained me to do, proud of my work; I thought it was honorable. I thought…” Then, the pain finally closed around his words, choking off his voice. Nickerson’s shoulders shook. BlaqJaq moved closer, enfolded the sinewy body in his arms, felt the quaking of soundless sobs at last. Empathy surged in him, his own eyes grew moist, and tears spilled down his cheeks. He had never known such feelings for another person. The intensity was fantastic, almost scary. Was this normal? Should he be feeling so much, should his heart be breaking for a man he’d met only tonight? But BlaqJaq no longer wanted to question his feelings. Raw emotion poured through him, and he gave himself up to it. He held Nickerson tighter, the embrace fierce. He kissed Nickerson’s cheek and tasted salt. Then, the sobs were ebbing, and Nickerson’s lips were on his, the kiss tender. It stayed soft like that for a moment, but the sorrow burned away. Something stronger -- something more useful, more heated, more alive -- replaced it. Nickerson’s fingers were in BlaqJaq’s longish hair. The kiss intensified. Tongues met and twined. Their mouths were grinding against each other’s now. BlaqJaq’s hands went exploring beneath Nickerson’s coat. He found the beautiful male shape there, perfect, luscious. It was too hot for the leathers he wore. Mindful of his shoulder and his leg, he stripped his clothing away, Nickerson aiding him with wordless eager growls. His lover’s long coat slid off his shoulders; the rest of his clothes followed. On a bed of their shed garments they lay, one atop the other, naked bodies mutually heating, hands groping, mouths busy.

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BlaqJaq writhed under Nickerson’s sleek hard musculature, one hand grasping a taut hemisphere of ass, fingers digging in passionately. Theirs cocks were pressed together, straining lengths of rigid meat. He turned his head, rolled a palm over his open mouth, then worked the hand between their flexing hips and closed his fingers around both organs. He squeezed and made a double-full fist. Nickerson set nipping teeth to his throat. It took an effort to urge Nickerson off of him momentarily. BlaqJaq pressed his own shoulder blades harder to the cushioned ground, raised his hips a few centimeters, then drew back his knees, legs spread. Nickerson’s feral grin was just visible in the dimness as he covered BlaqJaq’s body once more, this time angling himself for penetration. BlaqJaq felt the spit-wet crown of his lover’s cock touch his sensitive ring, linger there, and hesitate, the head just probing the hole. BlaqJaq reached out, seized those succulently firm buttocks and pulled Nickerson down onto him, into him. Nickerson’s cock entered, joining them, filling BlaqJaq in ways that went beyond the physical for the first time in his life. There began a sweet thrusting, sending pleasure radiating through his groin, trunk, limbs. Nickerson built a deliberate rhythm; then the tempo went awry, became a wild tussling. Sweat fell from his forehead onto BlaqJaq’s face, into his open, moaning mouth, the sweat sweeter than his tears had tasted. Sticky liquid heat flooded his depths as Nickerson’s cry reverberated off the ancient station’s walls. The moist, leanly muscled body poised stiff and taut atop BlaqJaq a moment, then fell; BlaqJaq embraced the older man again, feeling the other’s speedy heartbeat gradually slow against his chest. Sometime later, in a tranquil stillness that seemed to pass through both their bodies, Nickerson slid damply down BlaqJaq’s form, descending between his legs, shoulders pressing apart brawny thighs. A hot wet band enclosed BlaqJaq’s still stiff cock. And descended. And rose. He didn’t even lift his head, too sated to watch Nickerson’s mouth working on him. The sensations were enough, the perfect suction and the steadfast rhythm; this time the rhythm

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held, increasing only when BlaqJaq’s hips lifted once more, pelvis thrusting. Nickerson’s tongue was alive on him, lips cinching him down to the hilt. He emptied into his lover, as his lover had emptied into him. They slept on the platform, on the bed of clothing, nuzzled together. Later, they woke, made love again. Slept. Woke. Made love.

***** They stood on the platform, dressed, rested. Nickerson claimed his left arm felt fine except for some stiffness. BlaqJaq’s injuries were also less painful than they had been. He was arguing against what he wanted, what he knew was right. But he couldn’t help it. What Nickerson proposed was so drastic, so life-altering, so big. It was a huge, wide-open world up there. “The best I could hope for,” BlaqJaq said, “would to be recruited like you were. Go offrock. Become…well, whatever it was you called yourself, but without the same nasty surprise at the end. Say?” Nickerson’s voice was soft. “I didn’t call myself anything. I just did my job.” BlaqJaq understood that his lover had come from this place, these circumstances; taking up his life here again was impossible, but BlaqJaq had known only the undercity. How could he exist anywhere else, without a palmchip, without official membership in any Earth society? “How would we survive…up there?” “It’s a big planet. We’ll find some way. I’ve gotten very used to the sun.” Nickerson’s cat eyes looked into BlaqJaq’s. His tone shifted, became either wry or forlorn as he added, “Maybe we could travel farther. Maybe I could…take you up to the other worlds. Somehow.”

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The thought shivered a thrill through BlaqJaq, yet he heard himself saying, “But I’m streetmuscle. I do what I do with honor. If I give it up, some ratter fills the slot and does a bad job, hurts people more than’s needed.” BlaqJaq shook his head sharply. “I don’t know why I’m saying all this. I want to go with you.” There was sympathy on the older man’s face. “I’m afraid too.” They stood a long moment more. Each had memories of the other now, BlaqJaq knew; each was a more fulfilled being than before they’d met. But both wanted more. Both needed more. Finally, BlaqJaq decided, his heart beating hard. “I’ll go with you, catjob.” A wide grin appeared across Nickerson’s face. “Then let’s get going, streetmuscle.” Nickerson stepped off the platform, heading into the tunnel. They would find a way to the surface. BlaqJaq climbed down as well, limping off with him toward their entwined destinies.

Eric Del Carlo Eric Del Carlo is the coauthor, with Robert Asprin, of the fantasy series Wartorn. His short science fiction, fantasy and horror have appeared over the years in Talebones, Happy, various Circlet Press anthologies, and other publications. He has a new novel of contemporary fantasy, this one coauthored with his father Victor Del Carlo, coming out through Curious Volumes Publishing. It is titled The Golden Gate Is Empty. Eric is a onetime Hurricane Katrina refugee who is glad to be living back in California's earthquake country.