Family...maybe he could play on that.

  "You could simply help me. One mime brother to another."

  And then someone new entered the room—a portly, colorful figure.

  "Krek! I heard there's a mime named Tristan here. Where is he?"

  Mung. What did he have to do with Proteus? Maybe he could get him out.

  "Yes, Mung," Tristan said. "It's me. I'm here."

  *

  Somewhere in this dungeon, this warren of tunnels and caves, they took Tristan to an empty room, and now he sat with Krek and Mung...and Mung's saur, who crouched beside its master as if awaiting a command.

  Tristan looked around. This room was probably a storage area at some time, but whatever it held had been pillaged ages ago.

  Mung turned to him. "Tristan, where did you get this masque you're wearing?'

  "Flagge Glom." He had to be very careful here.

  "So you were successful?"

  "No. My cover was blown as soon as I reached the Datacenter. I didn't even get to see the cat's eye, let alone steal a sample from it."

  Mung looked disappointed, then he grinned. "But I'm sure you were going to bring the sample to Okasan, had you acquired it."

  Tristan returned the smile. "Of course."

  Then Mung turned back to Krek. "I wonder if I could have a few words with this mime agent...privately."

  Krek said, "He wants to go back to Kaze, back to slavery. Talk him out of it. He should join his brothers."

  "That may not be the best thing for him right now," Mung said. "Or for Proteus. Let us talk."

  The Proteus leader stood and walked to the door.

  "Family should come first," he said.

  When he was gone, Mung leaned forward.

  "Now, listen, my mime friend. I don't know whether to believe you or not—"

  "I didn't get it,” Tristan said. “I'm sure Kaze will send me back. But I'll need new codes, new templates."

  "I hope you're telling the truth, Tristan. Kaze wants the data in that cat's eye to use against Flagge. But we—meaning Okasan, of course—can use it against both gloms." He took a breath. "I'll try to convince Krek to get you to a tube."

  "He'll listen to you?"

  "We all fight the same battle. Of course, Proteus is a rather extreme group. But we have common goals." Mung's eyes narrowed. "I'll help you, but I want your word, a pledge that when you get to the eye you will bring the sample directly to Okasan. Will you make that promise?"

  Tristan thought of the deal—and what he'd have to give up. This was the mission that would bring him Selfhood. How could he abandon that hope, especially after Lani?

  He knew he couldn't.

  But he said to Mung: "You have my word."

  Mung shook his head. "No. More than that. If you don't bring the cat's eye sample to us, I will get revenge, Tristan. Believe me. You will be a traitor to the family. And in this family, traitors don't live long."

  Mung walked to the door and called Krek.

  "Listen to me," he said when the Proteus leader returned. "I've spoken to Tristan and made a deal, an important deal for all mimes. He says that he will certainly be sent back for this cat's eye. And then he will deliver the sample to us."

  "And why is this cat's eye so muting important."

  "Okasan is convinced that it holds secrets that can hurt the gloms. She can use those secrets."

  "Why not us? We want to hurt the gloms as much as Okasan. We revere her but she's not a mime, not family. Why not bring the cat's eye here?"

  Mung shook his head. "My friend, would you know what to do with it, how to use it? Your mimes are warriors, fighters. Let us deal with the cat's eye." Mung slapped the leader's back. "But first we must get it. And for that to happen, we have to get this mime agent back to his glom—and fast."

  Krek didn't look completely convinced, but finally he shrugged and nodded.

  "All right. We'll get him back to Kaze. But he'd better not let his brothers down. If he doesn't return, I will personally track the motherless mutagen down"...Krek turned to Tristan and leaned into his face..."and I will rip out your interface and shove it down your throat."

  I believe you, Tristan thought.

  And he wondered what Krek would do if he knew that the data from the eye was only inches away, resting against the inside of his thigh.

  "You have my word," Tristan said.

  Which, he guessed, showed how worthless his word was.

  But he’d told worse lies in his career…for less.

  Mung raised his hands. "Let's get going then. Time is important. Every day more mimes die, and the gloms grow stronger."

  "Follow me." Krek said.

  Tristan walked to the door out to the great hall, but Mung stayed behind.

  "I'll be leaving the way I came in," Mung said, "It will be safer that way.

  Tristan nodded.

  "But don't worry Tristan. We will meet again."

  And then Tristan hurried to catch up with Krek.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tristan stood just inside Smalley’s exit.

  Tristan pressed his knees against one wall of the slender metal shaft.

  No dwellers had attacked as they made their way through a different set of tunnels to this point. Krek and his mimes had cut a hole into the shaft, providing—they said—a secret entrance to the tubes.

  Secret, but very tight.

  Tristan supposedly hung above the main tube platform, but he wasn't sure he could squeeze out of the shaft when the time came.

  For now though, he had to wait.

  Somewhere outside, dawn was approaching.

  At last here was respite...time to consult Regis—or whatever avatar was next on rotation.

  "PDA."

  A six-foot, animated, carrot-chewing rabbit appeared, as if both of them were sandwiched in the tight shaft.

  "Eh, what's up, mime? Didn't know you liked rabbit holes."

  Tristan thought he'd erased this avatar. He'd programmed it directly from the old animated flatties and hadn't liked dealing with the anarchic personality.

  "Anything urgent in the Ocean?"

  "Dis an' dat. Your mailbox is filled wit' requests for updates, Doc. All from some guy named Cyrill—whatta maroon."

  "Send a confirmation. Let Cyrill know that I'm returning."

  "Yeah, yeah. When I get to it. What about your assignment status, Doc? He'll probably want to know dat too."

  "Say nothing about that."

  "Heh-heh-heh. Keepin' it a secret, eh, Doc?"

  Just yesterday, Tristan couldn't have imagined missing Regis. Now...

  "Anything else I need to know? Do you detect anything to concern me in the tubes themselves?"

  "Well, dem Flagge Security yokels is still all over da freezone. Looks like mime hunting season is open. But I guess it's always open season on mimes, eh, Doc? But anyway, dey ain't havin' any luck, so I t'ink dey're packin' up dey're shotguns and headin' home."

  Good...because I'm close to getting out.

  "Done."

  The rabbit vanished.

  Tristan sat scrunched up in the darkness, waiting, hoping that Krek and his mimes didn't mess up. If they'd miscalculated where the shaft led, Tristan could drop down onto the head of Flagge Security, or he might have to crawl back through the shaft, back to the black tunnels...to play with the dwellers.

  He waited, listening to the muffled voices and noises.

  Come on. What's taking so long?

  As if in answer, an explosion erupted from below, shooting acrid smoke into the shaft, and Tristan's waiting was over. The gas and smoke made his throat close, and he hacked out a cough. Whatever he was breathing tasted deadly. The time had come to move.

  He kicked the panel in front of him, expecting the metal grate to tumble out and down to the tube entrance below. But the grate resisted his kick. And now the smoke was so dense he couldn't even see the damn grate.

  Another kick, and he thought he felt some give.

  Wouldn't it be just bloaty to wind up trapped and killed here by the diversion designed to get him out.

  He started kicking crazily at the metal grid, cursing at it, slamming the, hoping that Dohan Lee's muscles would prevail. No popping here—if the grate was going to come out, it would come off gradually, ripped loose from the screws holding it tight.

  And all the time he kicked he kept coughing, breathing the caustic mixture of smoke and stench.

  He began to feel lightheaded.

  How many more kicks did he have before he couldn't kick anymore?

  He heard a rip.

  He couldn't see anything, but the screech of metal prying loose was damn near musical. Despite the smoky claws that tightened their grip around his throat, he kept up his kicking, cursing at the grid, talking to it as if it were an enemy.

  "Move, you mutagen!" SLAMKICK! "Come on—and let me"—SLAMKICK!—"the hell"—SLAMKICK! —"out of here!"

  Another kick and—this time—his foot kept going into space. He let his body slip through the opening, sliding on the smooth metal, tumbling down to the ground below.

  He landed on his side, banging his hip. He sprang to his feet.

  Empty.

  Any Flagge Security Guards stationed here before probably had gone to check out the explosion at the entrance. The cavernous corridor roiled with smoke...and it seemed to Tristan that maybe the rebel mimes had maybe used a bit too much explosive.

  He turned and started running for the tubes, passing people coughing and wiping their tearing eyes.

  Let's hope the tubes are still running, he thought.

  But as he waded deeper into the terminal, the smoke cleared, and now most of the travelers awaiting their tube to the gloms or to other freezones looked down toward the smoky entrance with only mild curiosity.

  Business as usual.

  Just another explosion.

  Ignoring stares at his battered face and filthy clothes, Tristan checked the schedule for the next Kaze-bound tube. He wasn't out of the woods yet. Flagge Security could still be here.

  But so far it looked as if the explosion had done its job. Not a Flagge uniform in sight. Tristan spotted the signs for Kaze Glom and now he ran, beginning to believe he was going to be able to pull this off.

  He thought of Selfhood...and Lani. The two thoughts linked. Was that what Selfhood meant, thinking of someone else, having someone else who mattered?

  He reached the platform. According to the digital readout, a Kaze tube was only minutes away. The area was deserted except for an old man.

  Tristan slowed his pace from a run, to a jog, his lungs still aching from the burning smoke. He passed the old man...who spoke:

  "E-excuse me—"

  Tristan stopped. He turned to the old man. Panic was this close. Who was he?

  "I have a message...a message from Lani Rouge."

  The old man extended a box to Tristan. It glistened under the brilliant tungsten lamps of the tube platform.

  A message from Lani? How did she find him? And what was in the box?

  Tristan took the box, flipped open the lid—and staggered back as a brilliant flash of light blinded him.

  Suddenly Tristan's Roam Grid appeared. The green and red trails glowed, flashed for a brief second—and then disappeared.

  "What?"

  A tube shot into the station, the clear cylinder gliding soundlessly along next to the platform.

  Tristan looked at his Roam Grid and saw that it was completely wiped. He couldn't go anywhere outside this freezone.

  So close...yet so far way.

  The tube opened.

  It was pointless to try to enter the tube. He'd white out the instant he set foot inside.

  As the tube slid away, sucking air from the platform, he looked at the old man.

  The old man looked at back and smiled...

  "You won't be going anywhere."

  "Who are you? What have you done?"

  Something very strange here. This guy obviously wasn't Flagge Security, and if he wasn't from Proteus, who—?

  "Your Roam Grid's been wiped, mime. You're trapped here in the freezone...with me. And I've got the reactivator key."

  The old man dangled a spherical object from one of his grubby hands.

  Tristan made a grab for it but the stranger snatched it out of reach.

  Moves awful quick for an old man, Tristan thought, but let it pass. He had to restore his roam grid, and he'd kill this lousy plasmid if he had to. Gladly.

  The old man grinned as if he knew what Tristan was thinking.

  Other people gathered on the platform now, waiting for the next tube.

  The old man laughed. "You don't know who I am, do you?" he said in a low voice.

  "And I don't care. I—"

  "But I know you, Mister Dohan Lee."

  "Who are you?"

  "Oh, you know me. You see—you're wearing my masque."

  Eel! This was Eel! Of course, there must have been a tracker in the wardrobe, and the gladiator obviously had more than one copy of his templates. The sleep disc had worn off, and Eel had tracked him down.

  Bloaty!

  Before Tristan could say anything, Eel turned and bellowed, "Mime fight!"

  Tristan backed away. Mime fight? Where? He couldn't mean...?

  Eel quickly slid a hand into his pouch, fingered his 'face, and in seconds the old man began to change.

  Grayish-green scales emerged for Eel's skin, while his head, grinning, leering, swelled to twice its size, the jaw tapering, shaping into a snout-like mouth lined with sharp, glistening teeth.

  "Your move," Eel said in a gravelly voice.

  People gathered around in a wide, cautious circle. Who wouldn't want free entertainment while waiting for a tube?

  My move?

  Tristan knew he couldn't fight Eel with the body of "Mr. Dohan Lee." It would be over in minutes, with Tristan ripped to pieces. He had to try something else.

  "Eel, I'm sorry. I know I took your wardrobe, but I—"

  "You stole it, mime. And is there anything worse than stealing another mime's templates? Fortunately, I had a back-up case. So now—pick one from the collection you wanted so badly."

  "Eel—"

  "Pick!"

  Eel had a right to be pissed. Like in the those old vids they called westerns, where good guys wore white hats and bad guys dressed in black, and the worst thing you could do was take another man's horse.

  In this new west Tristan had done the worst thing you could do to a mime.

  "Go on," Eel said, a long tongue flicking over the dagger teeth.

  Tristan tried once more to explain. He'd feel the same as Eel if situations were reversed. But there were extenuating circumstances.

  "I wouldn't have done it if there'd been another way. But I was trapped, cornered."

  Eel lashed out with an arm, smashing a leathery fist into Tristan's head. The shock sent him flying, and some of the crowd cheered.

  "Now!" Eel yelled.

  Tristan leaped to his feet. If he didn't pick a masque now he was sure the lizard king would unceremoniously kill him. And rightly so...

  Tristan didn't want to flux in public, but he wanted to die even less.

  He pushed open his wardrobe and stared at the templates.

  Russian roulette.

  Six choices: one of them the writable with Lani's genome, one of them a melt-down template. Maybe more than one. Eel might like the extra security of having two killer templates.

  The mime gladiator took a step closer.

  Whatever Tristan was going to do, he had only a few seconds to do it.

  His fingers danced over the different templates, each marked with an icon, a coding that only Eel would understand. Tristan noticed that one icon was a tiny, three-pointed crown. Wasn’t Eel’s award-winning pitsaur named Rex? And Rex was a fighter. Worth a try. Especially with no clue about the others.

  He removed his current template and inserted the one with the crown icon…and immediately began ...to flux.

  He fought a surge of nausea as a savage feeling coursed through his body. Was this what a melt-down felt like? Was his entire genetic structure about to collapse, responding to a code that would turn him into a mass of formless protoplasm?

  His stomach heaved...his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. But when he looked down at his hands, they were now massive, the hands of a fighter, with wicked little horn-like protrusions on his knuckles.

  Not melting…

  But that joyful thought was cut short by a curse and a grunt from Eel, who sent another fist crashing toward Tristan's new face, this time with claws extended. Tristan jerked back and felt the claws rake his cheek. He tasted his blood.

  Obviously Eel was disappointed with Tristan's lucky choice.

  Tristan rammed both his fists up into Eel's lizard gut—the force of the blow knocked the wind out of Eel and sent the lizard-fighter staggering backward.

  The crowd cheered, but the moment passed quickly as Eel reared back, then leaped like a spring, flying into the air. Tristan backed up, but not nearly fast enough—he’d had no time to adjust to this new masque.

  He watched Eel's lizard snout curl into something like a smile.

  Or maybe he was imagining that.

  Eel landed, slamming Tristan's new body to the pavement.

  "You're pathetic," he said, straddling Tristan and pinning his arms with his legs. "This isn't even a contest."

  "You've got more experience," Tristan grunted. He felt as if his chest was being crushed.

  "Yes, I do. But here's an experience I don't have: being ripped apart...by an expert."

  Eel opened his right fist, displaying the sharp claws at the ends of his fingers. He cocked his arm, bringing the claws back, ready to rip Tristan open.

  Tristan wiggled and got one arm free. He shot a hand up and grabbed Eel's wrist.

  Eel's tongue snaked out and licked Tristan's face.

  Which is when Tristan saw that he had been tricked. Eel raised his other hand, claws poised to dig into him. No time to deflect the blow, no time to do anything except wait for the agony of those claws digging into his chest.

  A flash.

  From somewhere behind Eel.

  Tristan looked back to Eel who was still squatting atop him. But now the clawed hand had slowed its descent, sputtering to a stop only centimeters from Tristan's throat.