"—speak to you."

  Tristan shook his head. She might look like some pathetic freezone free-loader, but her voice had an unusual quality. She moved closer.

  "You didn't hear me?" The voice was now clear, the transmission unhindered. "I am Okasan. And I must speak to you."

  The word OKASAN appeared above her head in wavering script; an ideogram hovered below her feet.

  Okasan! Tristan had heard the name, the myth of Okasan. Other mimes whispered a story about a woman who was the mime savior, a woman who rescued mimes and gave them their freedom. Tristan always thought it was tale born from the hopelessness of the Arena. When all you face is death and terror, maybe faith in something else is indispensable.

  "I will have someone contact you...someone to bring you to me—"

  "Don't worry, Tristan,” Cyrill said. “Security is zeroing in. We'll have this bitch in a minute."

  The image flickered again, the old woman's words once again garbled.

  She reached out to Tristan with a ghostly hand as if to touch him. "When my messenger comes to you—I can't tell you where or when or who—you must follow him."

  Tristan said nothing.

  "You must follow him, Tristan. Follow him..."

  The words broke up again, and the image shattered into tiny cubes that reassembled for one brief second before vanishing completely.

  And then he and Cyrill were alone again.

  Cyrill's face was angry, his lips pulled back, baring his teeth. "Mute! How the hell did she get in here?"

  "That woman," Tristan started to say, "the sign said she was Okasan—"

  Cyrill swept the air with his arm. Tristan sensed that if this were a real room, Cyrill might have started pulling things off the walls, ripping down pictures, sweeping media shelves.

  "Okasan? Look, Tristan, you're too smart to fall for that idiocy. Okasan? There is no such person. There is no 'mime Savior.'" Cyrill took a breath, obviously trying to compose himself. "Do you want to know who she really is?"

  "I have a feeling you'll tell me anyway..."

  "More humor? It's not exactly an appealing trait in a mime, Tristan." Another breath. "I'd keep a watch on it if I were you."

  Good advise, Tristan admitted. His mouth had got him in trouble before.

  "Understood," he said.

  Cyrill nodded. "This...Okasan is actually an agent of Church of the True Shape. She's an Imagist. You know what that means."

  Tristan did. The Church of the True Shape’s main tenant was the sanctity of the human form. It called for the end of all designer genes and nanoforming, and the termination of all mimes. “Mime genocide."

  "Correct. Forget about Selfhood...or the integration of mimes into society. These people think it’s their holy duty to rid the planet of mimes.”

  "Just like the Sibs." It was great to be loved.

  “The Sibs are just a violent hate group. The Imagists want to change the law, want to make it illegal to clone mimes, to destroy all the mimes that exist. They’re a far greater threat to us all in the long run.”

  “And this Okasan’s one of them?”

  "Indubitably. How she broke in here, I don't know. But Security assures me she heard nothing. She used only a projection thrust—no receptor feed capability. So at least our systems are secure on that count."

  "But why?"

  "I haven't the vaguest. I saw her lips moving but her audio feed was blanked. I don't know what her purpose was. Most likely she didn't have one—just random harassment."

  No audio feed? Tristan thought. But I heard her. He was just about to mention this when Cyrill spoke.

  "Good thing she couldn't hear, because otherwise we'd have to abort. Nothing must interfere with this assignment, Tristan. Nothing."

  Tristan decided to keep the old woman's words to himself. If he mentioned that Okasan knew he was headed on an assignment, he'd be pulled, and someone else—someone like that mutagen Argus—would get it.

  "Ready for your briefing?"

  Tristan nodded.

  "Watch the bubble..."

  A map of the Kaze Glom popped up, but the view started receding, revealing a sprawling expanse that included the large freezone that sprawled north of the Kaze Quarter. Once great cities rose along the coast, grew, and merged...but after the Collapse they became the jumble, ruled by destruction and chaos and riots…until the gloms restored order.

  Or so went the official history.

  Now the sprawling gloms' centers dotted the jumble, armed pockets of power and order that represented a new world government based on economics and a secret war.

  What would it have been like, Tristan wondered, to travel to the old cities before the Collapse, before there was a North American Federation, ruled by a puppet government that merely served the gloms? The cities in the old vids seemed so exciting, filled with energy and life... not like the gloms.

  "There. You see the freezone north of here. I'm about to clear your neuronet for travel through that zone. Your tracer will be off and no one will know that you're a mime." He looked at Tristan. "Unless you tell them, of course."

  The screen zoomed closer to the freezone map.

  "We're uploading this directly into your neuronet, by the way."

  "I figured as—"

  "Now, see that building there? That's Smalley's.”

  Tristan knew it well. A huge smart bar, hangout for spies, wet heads, and black market dealers from every glom, including his own.

  “It's dangerous territory, Tristan, especially for a loose mime. So watch what you say."

  "Right. No jokes..."

  A sigh. "You will be contacted by our agent there—"

  "And he is...?"

  "Can't tell you. Too risky if it's loaded in your neuronet. But the contact will have a codekey that will guide you through Flagge Quarter to the next contact point."

  "And what happens there?”

  "You'll meet a team of in-house agents. They will have kidnapped a Flagge datameister—"

  "For true?"

  "I don't joke, Tristan. You will use the writable template to copy the datameister's genome. No telling who or what it will be. I don't have that information yet. And you know that Flagge IDplant you were fitted with? You will copy everything from the datameister's IDplant onto your own. From that point on, as far as Flagge Security will know, you will be that datameister. Our agents will then dispose of the datameister and you can enter the Citadel...taking the d-m's place."

  He remembered a line from a vid....

  "Piece of cake."

  Cyrill shook his head. "As I said...too much free time, Tristan. But that's all about to change, eh?"

  The screen presented the assignment plan in text format.

  "Once inside the Citadel, you follow your VR training, enter the datacenter, sample the eye, and get out. Simple, no?"

  "Sure. Especially the part about walking off with a piece of this irreplaceable datasphere. That should be real easy."

  "Easy if you're a datameister."

  "And if I'm caught?"

  "We’ll disavow any knowledge of you, of course. You know the rules: This is a war and you are a soldier...our soldier... But only we know that. So expect no rescue parties or help of any sort that might compromise Kaze Glom’s pristine image. Once you leave here, you’re on your own.”

  The story of my life...

  “But why dwell on that? Better to remember that this will be your last assignment. Imagine....being part of this world. No more tracers for you. You'll be identical to humans."

  Identical to humans. Integration. Selfhood. No implants, no more fluxing. He would live as a human. Free.

  And then what?

  Tristan knew exactly what he’d do, what he’d always wanted to do: travel. Go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, see the beautiful exotic places…climb the mountains, hike into the jungle…Just thinking about it made him dizzy.

  Except for this one fear. He could do all that—

  Only if any beautiful exotic places still existed.

  But they had to still be here. Places with tall trees that blew in the wind, and endless seas of blue-green water under even bluer skies. Beautiful places like those he saw in the vids. And he’d start looking for them the instant he was free.

  A world to explore once he was free.

  But right now, simply the thought of Selfhood, and how close it was, was almost too wonderful to contemplate.

  Cyrill backed away. This conference was almost over.

  "But the clock is running. You meet our agent at the Smart Bar at oh-nine-hundred. That doesn't give you much time. He will wait one hour...and then assume the worst."

  "Why such a tight schedule? I'd think with an assignment this important I'd have a little more slack."

  "The final pieces have only come together in the past day or so. The window of opportunity—the availability of the codekey and the time when datameister can be snatched with no one missing him—will only last so long."

  "Why not give me a master key?"

  "Master key? No, I’m sorry. That is impossible.”

  "Don't you trust me?"

  "Implicitly."

  "Then give me a master key. I may need it."

  Cyrill shook his head. "If it were up to me I'd do it. You'd have it in an instant. But it can't be done. My superiors would worry about never seeing you again. Neither of us is completely free, you see."

  "You're not a slave. You're not a mime."

  "No, but you...you're Kaze property, Tristan."

  I am well aware of that, thank you.

  How could he forget? Cloned with the Goleman chromosome, that magical complex of synthetic genes that occupied the locus of the normal human sex chromosome and controlled his DNA, his special mDNA, and allowed it to mimic any other. He’d been specifically created by Kaze Glom, to work for Kaze Glom, to exist for Kaze Glom as a mime agent—

  You own me, but damn it, you owe me.

  "I know, I—"

  "And as such, your movement has to be restricted. Until Selfhood, of course."

  Until death or Selfhood do us part...Selfhood…a carrot on a very long stick.

  Just one more assignment, and I get it...

  "You've only 36 hours. That's our window before the target datameister is rotated off access to datasphere 87342J. I expect to have a sample from that cat's eye by nightfall tomorrow." Cyrill raised a hand, and made the gesture of good will used by all the Kazes. "Thirty six hours...good luck."

  "I'll be back. With the cat's eye."

  But Cyrill was already fading, his image dissolving in a swirl of color. Tristan was alone in the room, then his connection terminated and he was back in his compartment.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Regis stood by the mirror.

  "This sounds very exiting, Lord Tristan. But before you go, I should—"

  "Off, Regis," Tristan said.

  Regis vanished.

  If Tristan needed him he could always access him on his net. Now he had to move.

  Filamentous! he thought. I'm getting out of here. Out!

  He was almost giddy with anticipation.

  But how best to get to the freezone? The tubes were fast, but sabotage was a recurrent problem. Some splinter group always seemed to have a bone to pick with one of the gloms, or was bored, or simply crazy. So they took it out on the tubes.

  He went to the door leading to the main hall of the mime warren. The interior walls still maintained their wood texture and Tristan was glad of that. He found a warm beauty in the natural look of wood, even if there wasn’t an ax in the world sharp enough to hack into it. Real wood was rare and expensive. But anything could look like wood…

  Outside was different. The current “orgallic” rage sweeping the gloms didn’t appeal to him. Why grow a building of wood as tough as steel, and then alter its outer layer to look like steel? Didn’t make sense. If you want to nanoform a building that looks like steel, build the damn thing with steel, real steel.

  But Tristan knew that he was in the minority. ‘Real’ wasn’t important anymore. The word had become an archaic concept.

  The cylindrical mime complex hovered on the edge of the Kaze residential complexes, sealed off from the surrounding buildings and the rest of Kaze Glom—sealed off from the rest of the world—by layer upon layer of protection that screened everything from pulser beams to viruses.

  Separate and unequal, a luxurious prison...

  Suddenly a hand locked on his shoulder, grabbed him hard, and shoved him into an alcove. Tristan's head smacked against the smooth wall with a painful crack.

  He whirled to see who'd struck him.

  The face was close to his, and Tristan smelled his breath, the stale odor of SynFood from teeth that hadn't been brushed in too long.

  "How's your mother, Tristan?"

  Tristan recognized Argus's home masque—his day-to-day warren identity. And if ever there was proof that psychseep among mimes was real, this creature was it. Argus had worn too many bad-ass templates, done too many rough assignments for Kaze Glom.

  What did one Imagist leader call mimes?..."monstrosities without a past, without a future."

  But that was wrong.

  We have a past. And it grows with every template we use. Bits and pieces seeping in, a kaleidoscope of phenotypes and personalities.

  Argus went to push Tristan's head against the wall again, but now Tristan flung up an arm and blocked the shove. Argus's face registered surprise.

  "Oh, so you've got a strong masque this time, eh? Maybe you'd like to test just how strong it is."

  Argus tried another jab, but Tristan was once again too quick. Only this time, instead of merely pushing Argus's arm away, Tristan grabbed the other mime's wrist and, without a thought, gave it a sharp twist to the right.

  Argus grunted and yanked his wrist away.

  "How's your mother, Argus?" Tristan had always found the mime greeting pathetic. "And how long have you been lurking outside my door?”

  "Long enough, Tristan. Even watched your dive this morning. Of course, I couldn't get into the ice house, but I know you were meeting with Cyrill."

  "It's a possibility. So what?"

  Argus risked coming closer again. He lowered his voice.

  "It's like this. I'm only a couple of assignments away from Selfhood. Cyrill told me that. But he gave this one to you.” He looked Tristan up and down, checking out the new template. "New masque and all...strong, fast. Should have been mine.”

  Tristan pushed away from the wall. “Why don’t you come along?”

  “Don’t think I couldn’t if I thought it was worth it.”

  Could he? Tristan wondered. He’d heard rumors about mimes with hot code keys that could bypass roam grid restrictions. But he’d never been offered one–not that he’d ever take it, not when he was this close to freedom.

  "So long, Argus.”

  Argus raised a fist. Was he stupid enough to want to push this further? Tristan would love to accommodate him, but the clock was running.

  "It was mine, dammit."

  He grabbed Tristan by the collar of his one-piece and Tristan responded without thinking. Again he grabbed Argus' arm but higher up this time, by his elbow. Then he twisted it inward and back, until Argus was on his knees, head down.

  "Let me up!" Argus gasped.

  "Fine," Tristan said. "But I don't want to see your retrogenomic face again. Got it?"

  An extra push on the awkwardly bent arm emphasized his point, and elicited another groan from Argus.

  I like this masque, Tristan thought. Oh, yes…good fight reflexes. A certain amount of aggressiveness was genetic, and could be useful. But that was no accident, of course. He had to wonder what other advantages it held for the assignment.

  Argus stood slowly. He backed away, and his mouth curled into a sneer. "We're not through, Tristan.”

  He turned and disappeared down the curved hallway.

  Tristan took a breath. I could have killed him, he thought. That would have ended my problems with him.

  And something else...the idea of killing Argus felt good, as if he might enjoy it.

  He'd killed before...when it was part of a assignment. Sometimes it had to be done. He'd killed other mimes, and he'd killed humans. Business...simple necessity…

  But the thought of killing Argus felt good.

  Tristan took the down chute to ground level, then hurried along the walkway toward the tube station. Anticipation buzzed through every axon. Yes, he was starting his last assignment, but even more exciting was the immediate prospect of getting out of Kaze Quarter and into the freezone.

  The freezone—even the name was exciting.

  He stepped on the ramp to the tubes and—

  —the world and everything in it lost color as if soaked with cosmic bleach, then the outlines faded to a white limbo with no up or down or left or right.

  A white out! Mute! This shouldn’t be happening. Cyrill had extended his roam grid.

  Tristan shot out a hand and found a railing. Fighting the vertigo and hanging on like an overdosed Hhhelll freak, he pulled himself hand over hand, back down the ramp.

  And as soon as he stepped off the ramp, the world returned.

  “Regis!” he whispered.

  His PDA appeared on the ramp. “Yes, Lord Tristan?”

  “Why did I just have a white out? Cyrill downloaded the new key while we were in the Ocean.”

  “Yes, m’lord. But the code wasn’t installed into your grid. I was suggesting that you allow me to do that when you ‘offed’ me.”

  Tristan closed his eyes and steadied himself. Yes, he had done that, hadn’t he. In such a damn big hurry to get out of here...

  “Would you kindly install the code now?”

  “Done, m’lord.”

  “Thank you. Anything else I’ve forgotten?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  “Off, Regis.”

  Just to be sure, he executed his eye-blink sequence and a strip of icons appeared across the top of his visual field: one for accessing his Roam Grid; another to let him record and retrieve events; a personal history file; and finally his Logic icon, a direct link to Regis and the Ocean's databases. He activated the Grid icon.

  His Roam Grid spread across his vision. Kaze Quarter, the expanse of the freezone, Smalley's Smart Bar were masked in green. Anything beyond...the other freezones, Flagge Quarter, all outlined in red. All still closed to him.