The arcology was still being built. It stood to reason that certain security systems had to be installed during construction. Installation meant plans, and to Dodger, plans meant a map. He ran a path through the elevators’ maintenance monitors, to the systems used by the installers, and back up their lines to the master plan.

Dodger slid into a subprocessor and satisfied himself that the pattern of energy pulsing in the walls was the one he sought. Fingers tapped display instructions as the ebon boy waved his hands in pseudomystical gestures. A map of the control system for security monitors glowed into existence. Another gesture, and the image scrolled and expanded, highlighting the intermediary junction between his current location and the subprocessor overseeing slaved security nodes guarding Landing Pad 23. He scanned the path and set out again, leaving his handiwork to dissolve back into nothingness.

Two nodes later, he noticed an odd translucency to the constructs. Everything appeared as though overlaid with a deep, almost mirrorlike, polish. The ebon boy halted and stared at his own reflection in the walls of the message center. The pulsing circuitry characteristic of the architecture’s construct imagery seemed to be retreating, vanishing under the glare of reflective surfaces.

Turning to flee, the ebon boy came featureless face to featureless face with an ivory girl, her jet cloak sparkling with highlights as though made from inky diamond.

“For myself, there was hope of your return.”

Dodger could not find words.

Fingers flew, seeking the correct program initiations to escape the node, as the ebon boy’s head twisted in search of an exit. A hand slapped at the escape pad, but the mirrors only flashed brighter.

“For myself, there was desire of your company,” the girl said, her voice more seductive than any Dodger had ever heard from a fleshly woman. She reached out a hand to caress his cheek. “Come.”

And they were elsewhere.

The new construct was walled with myriad jet dark mirrors, each a small segment of the walls, floor, or ceiling. There was no apparent entrance or exit. The ivory girl, her slim Elven body hidden by the folds of her cloak, was almost invisible where she stood in the center of the chamber. All he could see clearly was her elegantly shaped head. Though the head had neither hair nor definite features, Dodger was unassailably convinced of its beauty and femininity. She was a cyber siren, calling to his soul, anima to his animus, a part sundered from him by flesh but now here and waiting.

If only he could move and take her in his arms.

“He’s not all there, you know,” a new voice said.

Dodger was suddenly aware of another persona in the construct. On the far side of the chamber stood another female figure, her outlines blurred and refracted as though encased in water ice. She looked to be wearing biker leathers, though made of chrome rather than black synthleather. Her long platinum hair hung in a sheet down one side of her face, obscuring the left lens of her golden wraparound sunglasses.

“Who are you, Maiden in Ice?”

“My friends call me Jenny. You must be the Dodger.”

“Guilty, Lady Jenny. Have you any idea where we are or what she is?”

“She?”

“Our lovely hostess.”

“Your interface circuitry’s gone bad, Dodger. Lovely is hardly the word I’d use for the most wizard hunk of beefcake I’ve ever seen.”

Dodger listened to her words, staring the whole time at their hostess. This was not an ordinary manifestation of the Matrix. “I believe my circuits are fine. Jenny, I begin to suspect that we are in the presence of history.”

“Swell. I just want to go home.”

“Home,” a lovely contralto voice said, but Dodger suspected that Jenny heard a bass, masculine voice.

One mirror panel of the wall lit up, a brilliant white that focused into an image of Holly Brighton, international simsense star. “I’m so glad you could join me tonight,” Holly’s face said before her image froze.

Another panel on the opposite wall flashed on, and an aged, flabby man stood on a bare stage backed with curtains. “We have a really big shew for you tonight,” he announced as the image locked into immobility.

A third panel blinked on, This time it was an intense-eyed young man in what looked like turn-of-the-century chic. He stood in some kind of conference hall and pointed at the picture recorder as he said, “Evil pure and simple, by way of-”

The rest of the panels flared to life, images flickering on and off with eye-searing speed. Dodger couldn’t make sense of any of them until, after a few moments, they slowed. Each panel flashed its own random series of images from the arcology’s security cameras and internal broadcast channels. One slowed further, picture rolling over picture, until it settled on an image of a flight deck. Another flickered to a halt on the identical scene. A third followed and a fourth until all had frozen on the same picture. Surrounding him as completely as had the mirrors were thousands of images of Landing Pad 23.

51

On Landing Pad 23, Crenshaw was getting a little nervous. It was 10:38 and still no sign of Verner, “Addison,” she called on her communicator “any sign of Matrix penetration?”

There was a delay before he answered. “Don’t think so. A few glitches in the system, but nothing that looks like an enemy decker. Nothing’s tripped the triggers in the subprocessors around the pad.”

“Contact me the minute anything shows. Crenshaw out.”

Verner’s team was running a deep enough game that by now they should have a decker in place on overwatch. Could Verner’s decker be so good that he’d slipped standard arcology IC and Addison, too?

She stepped out onto the landing deck where she could crane her head around to check the observation deck. The wind whipped her hair across her face, but the strands did not sting her replacements as they would meat eyes. A slight adjustment reduced the glare of reflections and let her view the small group of people watching the pad from the warmth and safety of the Transparex-shielded lounge. Sato stood next to the brass rail, hands clasped behind his back. To his left were his special bodyguards, and to his right were Marushige and Silla. Crenshaw frowned at the unwanted presence of the security director. This was supposed to be her show.

A squad of white-uniformed ground crew scurried out of the operations control room, heading for their stations. The shuttle would be on its approach. A slight stir traveled among the passengers waiting behind the boarding barrier. Anticipation, she thought, but not that of tourists eager for vacation. Except for Hutten, every one of those people was a Renraku security agent, substituted for the real shuttle passengers at Crenshaw’s orders. They had been told to expect runners before or during the shuttle landing.