Lower—he scraped pavement and saw a mother guiding a baby scooter across the street dead ahead. Her horrified, screaming face loomed in his windshield, and Tristan was screaming too as he yanked the cruiser into a 360-degree roll, missing her by millimeters.

  I’m not going do make it, he thought. I’ll never get out.

  Too low, no good, a little more altitude, and then a commuter shuttle gliding around a corner directly into his path. He saw the passengers ducking for cover as he rolled the cruiser onto its side and tried to slip past. He almost made it unscathed, but his passenger-side window grazed the shuttle’s upper rear corner and tore. Wind screeched through the slit opening.

  Abruptly, traffic thinned and the buildings began to shrink, high rises giving way to middle rises, then to the ugly sprawl of low-slung warehouses. And then the wall was dead ahead and he knew they were waiting for him. But would they shoot? Not just mere civilians all around and behind him, but fellow Security members in the line of fire as well. After what he'd seen so far, Tristan couldn't be too sure they wouldn't. All he could do was hope.

  Not that it mattered now. He was committed—he'd either go over the wall or into it.

  He thought of Lani then, his promise to return.

  Can't return to her if I'm dead, he thought. But I'm only a mime. Not like losing a real life, now is it? No worse than one of these machines exploding. I'm simply a more complicated machine.

  I’m disposable.

  And the only reason I have any value is because of the viral code I'm packing.

  Then why do I want to live so much?

  Can someone tell me that? Why do I care so damn much?

  A sound rose in his throat, starting as a low whisper and rising in pitch and volume as he hurtled forward, reaching a crescendo as he hit the wing toggle and yanked back on the stick a hundred meters from the wall. Every instinct demanded he squeeze his eyes shut for the inevitable impact but Tristan forced them to stay open as he swooped over the wall, barely skimming its top.

  He heard a loud thump and felt the cruiser lurch as its underside caught the outer rim of the wall, then—amazingly—he was out of the light, plunging into the relative darkness beyond.

  PART THREE

  INTO THE DARK

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  He'd done it. He'd hopped the Flagge Quarter wall before they could fire a shot.

  Tristan felt his heart still thumping as hurtled over the freezone.

  But too early to celebrate—a quick glance at his rear screen showed that he wasn't out of danger yet. Far from it. At least a dozen blips were fanning out behind him.

  Here come the Flaggers...

  Immediately he swooped left over the freezone’s lower rooftops onto a southeast course—his map said that was where he'd find Kaze’s northernmost border—and hit the toggle to retract the wings.

  He checked his readouts and noticed he was losing air speed. That shouldn't be. Alarmed, he checked his throttle—at max—and his power—plenty. What was wrong?

  “Regis!” he shouted. “Regis—why the hell am I losing speed?”

  A pointy-eared humanoid appeared. "I believe, captain, that you have already been informed that Regis is on hiatus. As for your question, logic would seem to dictate that there are three possible reasons why you would be losing air speed. A: you're running out of fuel; B: your engine has been damaged by pulser fire; or C: your wings are still extended. Since the control panel indicates engine function and fuel supply are both adequate, we are left with C."

  “My wings? But I retrac—”

  Tristan glanced out and saw they were still extended. He threw the toggle back and forth but the wings didn't respond.

  Mute! When he scraped the wall going over—that must have jammed the wings.

  And his rear screen showed the Security cruisers gaining on him fast.

  “Find me a place to land.”

  The chaotic layout of the freezone popped into view—nothing like the orderly grid of Flagge Quarter—showing Tristan’s craft and its pursuers as slowly moving red dots.

  “Judging from the rate at which the alien craft are gaining, captain,” the humanoid said, “I calculate that they will be in point-blank range in four-point-seven minutes. They will be in average marksman range within—”

  “Just tell me the best damn place to put down!”

  “As you wish. From your current position, there are suitable loci which afford relatively equal probabilities of escape in the Stebbins, Orsini, and Bascombe districts.”

  That last one rang a bell somewhere in his head. “Bascombe. Fast.”

  He watched the outline of that district begin to glow green on the map. Not a bad place to put down—lots of artists and performers in the area, attracted by all the real galleries and theaters and clubs.

  And on the map, a small block in the district pulsed with a brighter green.

  “Captain, the building indicated on the display appears to have a flat roof suitable for landing.”

  “Good work. Off.”

  As the PDA faded, Tristan saw a laser flash far to his right. He checked his rear screen—they were closing in. His air speed had stabilized but it was a lot less than what one of these cruisers could do with its wings retracted. He jiggled the throttle to see if he could coax any more speed out of the engine, but it was already giving everything it had.

  Crossing into the Bascombe district, Tristan brought his cruiser down to rooftop level, and as he approached the building the PDA had chosen, he slowed his airspeed—deliberately now. As the building hove into view, he slid open the cruiser’s door and looked down.

  Street level was a good hundred meters below, but the rooftop...a mere five-meter drop. He inched the throttle back a bit more...

  Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the step bar below the door and swung out into the night. And there he hung, waiting for the rooftop.

  The cruiser was almost down to glide speed now. He shot a glance back and saw the dogged Security ships high and behind. As he watched, a pair of the lead craft went into a dive, figuring to attack him from above. Could they see what he was going to do?

  He looked down again—almost to the rooftop now. As soon as he saw the coping pass under his feet, he dropped, hit the weather-pitted surface running, and ducked behind a vent as his cruiser glided away.

  He couldn't hang around to learn its fate. Hopefully Flagge Security would melt it out of the sky before it smashed into the crowds below...and then wait till the wreckage cooled before searching for his body. But if someone had spotted his drop, they'd be swarming through the building in minutes.

  Had to find a way off this roof and down to street level—now.

  Tristan yanked up on the grate atop the vent and found it wasn't locked. He crawled through the opening, pulled it shut after him, and crouched on a small ledge. And then he felt around in the dark.

  Mute. A soft ventilator. Metal or plastic would have made for an easier descent. These things were half alive, adjusting their gauge according to the heat and humidity of the space they served. At least it was wide open now, and the air flowing past Tristan was warm and smelled of people.

  A sudden burst of raucous laughter wafted up the pipe.

  Lots of people.

  Tristan braced his feet against opposite sides of the smooth, giving substance of the shaft, then did the same with his hands. At least it was dry—the inner surface drank most of the moisture flowing past it. Slipping off the ledge, he began a controlled fall.

  About forty meters down, the shaft split. He chose the right fork...it looked a little wider than the left. Twenty meters farther down he reached a plateau. Lateral shafts sloped away to his right and left. Which way to go?

  Another burst of laughter, louder now...closer. Just beyond the louvered vent before him.

  Tristan paused and pressed his face against the vent to peek through the openings. Some sort of a theater below, the seats full, the faces of the audience lit by the glow from the stage Tristan’s line of sight. Whatever was going on, the crowd seemed to love it.

  As they rose for a cheering ovation, Tristan turned and began to crawl along the shaft trunk that seemed to lead toward the rear of the building. He found an inspection port that let him out into a narrow, dimly lit hallway—an empty hallway. Good. He didn't expect to find any Security guards in here...but he didn't want any locals sending out an alarm.

  He hurried along the wall until he found a door. He pushed it open and stepped into an alley. The fetid stink that greeted him was like perfume. To his right, street traffic clattered past the mouth of the alley. He'd reached ground level.

  Almost home, he thought.

  “PDA,” he whispered—he'd given up calling for Regis.

  An angular man in a white T-shirt, dark vest, and pork-pie hat flickered into view.

  “Hey-hey, Tristy-boy! What can I do for you, ol' buddy?”

  Tristan sighed. Another old avatar. Was his PDA going to cycle through every single one?

  “Find me the nearest tube station.”

  The freezone map overlay appeared. As usual, he was the red dot. A green dot began blinking to the near southeast. The map expanded until he had a full-screen view of his immediate area.

  “There y'go, pal o' mine. By air it's a measly zeeero point-four kilometers"—he pronounced it KEE-low-meters—"to da nearest onramp. By street y'gotta travel a whole zeeero point-seven-five kilometers. Nuttin' to it.”

  “Filamentous.”

  All he had to do was make it to that tube station and he'd be back in Kaze Quarter within minutes.

  A truly amazing escape. Perhaps he would get to see Lani again, and perhaps he'd be a free mime when he saw her, not that much different from a human—

  “That’s all—but leave the map overlay.”

  "Anyt'ing you say, Tristy-boy!"

  Tristan headed for the street and turned left. As he wove his way through the freezone pedestrians, mingling with the happy crowd pouring from the theater he'd just left, he used the overlay to find the shortest route.

  *

  "His cruiser is empty, sir."

  "Mute!" Streig muttered.

  Everything had been going so well, and now...

  "Find him. I don't care who you've got to maim, torture, or kill to get it done, but find him!"

  "Yes, sir. We'll have him back in Flagge before—"

  "No, you retrogenomic plasmid! Don't touch him! Don't even let him know he's been spotted. Find him, then come to me. I'll take it from there."

  *

  Tristan was weaving through the freezone, making good time toward the tubes, when he overhead someone say, “Hey, what are those trisomies doing here?”

  Tristan followed the man’s pointing finger and froze. A Flagge Security cruiser was floating down the street behind him at ten meters. People booed and shook their fists as it passed, but the Security men in the craft ignored them and kept their eyes trained on the street, searching the faces below.

  Tristan whirled his head away from them and picked up his pace toward the tube station. Not too fast. Just continuing on his way.

  Minding my own business.

  What if they’ve got the tubes covered? he wondered.

  Flagge Security had no official authority in the freezone. But since the freezone had no police force of its own to speak of, and since he had no contract with a private security service, who was going to stop these thugs from picking him up and carting him back to Flagge Quarter?

  No one.

  Freezoners traditionally hated all security forces, and all gloms as well. They'd crowd around and shout and threaten if they saw someone being picked up by Kaze or Flagge Security, but they weren't brave enough or stupid enough to risk life and limb for someone they didn't know.

  Tristan was halfway to the next intersection when he spotted a second street cruiser round the corner ahead and float his way.

  Without missing a step he turned into the narrow alley directly to his left and slipped into its comfortable darkness. He thought he’d been pretty smooth, but when he looked back he noticed a cloaked figure staring at him from across the street.

  As he watched, the figure turned and hurried off.

  Had he been spotted? What was the purpose of the cloak? Some sect? An Imagist?

  That was the last thing he needed now.

  Hurrying along the length of the alley, Tristan tried every door he passed...and found each one locked. And not one muting window.

  And then the alley dead-ended in a tiny cul-de-sac.

  The glow from a few lighted second- and third-story windows provided scant illumination as Tristan squatted in a corner and considered his two options.

  Wait here until Flagge Security either found him or gave up the search...

  Or walk out of the alley as someone else.

  Could he risk another flux now? Maybe. He'd be weak, but he could probably handle it. The big question: Should he risk it with unknown templates?

  Tristan popped open Eel’s wardrobe case and stared at the contents.

  He knew the middle one: Lani Rouge. Couldn't use that one. The rest were mysteries.

  And one of them was certain death.

  Unfortunately, Eel had not marked the meltdown template with a skull and crossbones.

  What did these damn symbols mean? Switching from Dohan Lee to some strange breed of fighting mime might not get him past Flagge Security scrutiny, but he'd have a better chance of breaking free if they tried to nab him.

  But he still ran the risk of choosing the meltdown disk. If he did...well, at least then all his troubles would be over.

  “My, my...what have we here?”

  Tristan snapped the case closed and shot to his feet. The voice had come from the mouth of the cul-de-sac. He heard shuffling feet, saw a cluster of indistinct figures silhouetted against the backwash from the street. How many there? He strained to see in the darkness and thought he could make out four or five.

  The voice said, “That, er, wouldn't happen to be a template case you're clutching so intimately to your breast?”

  “Yes-s-yes!” a second, higher-pitched voice hissed. “He’s a mime! I know it!”

  Other voices picked up the word...

  “A mime!”

  ...and it rustled through the group like a gleeful wind through leaves.

  “A mime...”

  Sibs...only Sibs would be this happy to discover a mime. Happy to have a mime to beat and torture and kill.

  “No,” Tristan said, fighting to keep his voice calm. “You're wrong. Sorry. I'm no mime. Not me.”

  Could his luck get any worse? Of all the types he could possibly run into here in the Bascombe district, he wound up cornered by a group of Sibs.

  “Not true! He’s got a wardrobe case!” the second voice said. “I saw it!”

  “Flux for us!” said a third voice. “Do it. We want to see you flux.”

  Tristan slipped the case into a pocket. “No, really, I'm just like you.”

  The snickers and laughs that rose from the group sent a chill through his veins.

  “Oh, I doubt that very much,” the first voice said slowly. “I doubt you're like us at all.”

  As they began edging forward, Tristan braced himself against the wall, poising to spring. No way around them. How about straight through them? Maybe if he attacked first...

  Running feet down the alley behind the group, and a voice said in a harsh whisper: “Redheads all over the district! They're looking for someone but they won't say why.”

  “That wouldn't be you, would it, Mister Mime?” said the first voice. “You wouldn't be a Flagge runaway, would you?”

  What to tell them? The tender loving custody of Flagge Security might be preferable to being torn to pieces by Sibs.

  “They're offering a reward,” a new voice said.

  “A reward!” The first voice laughed. “We wouldn't think of turning him in, no matter what they were offering. Would we, my friends?”

  Murmurs of assent from all around Tristan as they moved closer, into the dim light of the cul-de-sac. He could see them now, and they weren't Sibs.

  Tristan found himself surrounded by nightmare figures.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tristan stood just inside Smalley’s exit.

  The one who’d spoken last had a male voice but his face tapered to a long, golden beak; the arms and legs protruding from his tunic were covered with feathers, and a small set of wings lay folded against his back.

  Next to him stood a guy with a green face, fungus for hair, and arms that looked like mossy vines.

  Behind that pair—were they a couple, perhaps?—someone with the head of a bat-eared moth peered at him with multi-faceted domes.

  Circling at the rear was a woman with the head of a hammerhead shark. Watching her eyes scan all sides of the cul-de-sac at once made Tristan a little queasy.

  Weren't hammerheads killers?

  But the strangest of them all clung to the shoulder of the birdman. He...she...it looked like the end product of the worst imaginable meltdown. A blob of protoplasm in a thin-skinned sac that revealed its internal organs. The living goo moved by sending out pseudopods and flowing along behind. The blob regarded him with its floating pair of eyes.

  Tristan watched a sac just beneath the blob’s skin fill with air. It decompressed wheezily as the blob spoke to him.

  “Are you really a mime?” it said in the hissing voice Tristan remembered from a few moments ago.

  Tristan hesitated, more out of habit than anything else. He was an agent. You trusted no one, you told no one.

  But they’d seen the wardrobe case. And obviously these were not Imagists or Sibs or anyone with reservations about altering the human form. Still...to let those words pass his lips outside the warren...

  “You have nothing to fear from us,” the birdman chirped.

  All right...he'd say it.

  “Yes. I'm a mime.”

  He heard appreciative, almost awed murmurs from the group.