Angel Cycle

intro-

this is of course the only thing I can think of to do at times like this - sit in the diner and write and watch the words come from my fingers and go to the paper or in this case the screen which is paper as paper is the backdrop of informational art and the thoughts we hide within so too the screen is the receptacle for those thoughts which we don't wish to make public until the time we slam them down in a stream of electrons or photons across the hard/soft bright white/black surface where they only exist at our whim and the vagaries of Con Edison, maybe that's why such things can be put down on a screen, because we know that were any one of a million possible minor catastrophes to happen, one of a million possible thermodynamic miracles then the screen would betray the thought and dump the words and shock the heart and the information art would go away to slide away to become yet another drop in the strobemotion chain of memory.

The angel the Angel the Angel Passing the Angel which I feel is somehow embedded in me to rear up from the depths of mine own consciousness except except that when I want to mime a conduit to funnel the thought and words and pictures onto the fragile hummingbird eggshell concrete steel immutable backdrop of the screen then the Angel passes, aptly enough, into yet a deeper region of memory, into the depths of soul and won't come forth even when coaxed with a drink.

Damn it.

As if that could affect it the worldly invocation of a deity which no one can prove exists without resorting to the leap of faith which they claim is the holiest part which in fact seems to simply deny one's own responsibility for absolutely anything in the world and anything at all at all.

On to the Angel which in this case is sliding sussurating just below the conscious level with no hint of a plot but with a hint of a story in the offing, nosing just slightly of self-indulgence and wishful think/writing.

-entre-

Shan waited for the humming to begin it was almost time for the humming to begin and when he looked down at the farlightnearcircle he could see the hazing glow of the approaching time bouncing tinkling from the hard bright darkened surface of his sunglasses which somehow weren't that dark at all-

Some know the ride but do not ride, and this pains them in times when they spring from a sleep or from the little dead and scream at the loss when a Ride tears them from their closed in worlds and they turn and try to believe that it is not a deeper call that it is merely a dream and roll over again to lie on their backs staring at the ceiling and wondering deep in the secret place who the Angel has touched tonight-

Mtubi cried and felt the tears rolling down his cheeks as he crumpled the sheet uselessly futilely desperately purposefully in his clawed hands and stared from his bed at the ceiling and wondered what had been done to him, and ached in his bones for the subharmonics that even then had lightly flexed his small square World locked into its bigger world and locked into the World above the City which is above the Web which is below the World.

-the world goes away in sections, Shan noted, amused, as the Ride began and the wrenching in his shoulders signaled the recharge refill answerment of all his days, and the Angel danced backward past him laughing its shortwave song.

The Web blurred to a grey composed of the myriad colors of the rainbow; additive color klein-bottling itself into subtractive as if someone had turned out the lights and mixed the paint of the world when no one else was looking

-the SLAM of subjective love and loss as the colors began to run in his head, to slide together into not the grey of the web but the starbow of achieving superluminal on a wing and a prayer and a clear mind's eye and he felt himself drifting up through the roof of the World through the floor of the World and the upabove and touched for a moment the other one the larger one the stronger one and reached out a questing hand to find only a smear of purple. Looking back, Shan can see the dreams dripping from him like forgotten paint as he curves through the pavement and the ground and feels himself staring at the ring of the Angel sliding away from him and gently letting him down to whisper in his ear with the screaming of tortured metal that it was time it was time it was time and the colors came back with a snap to the same featureless grey of concrete that surrounded the spiderweb of Transit and alone in the crowded City, Det. Sgt.Mtubi felt the snap of touch and dream and rushed forward to find himself lying on the pavement of Uptrans with his arms outstretched and no one in sight or sound but his own sobs coming from the sides of the buildings which even now watched him with patient eyes of nothing set in their concrete visages and waited for him to pick himself up.

He did. They made no move to help him.

Looking about, he found himself two blocks from his flat and wearing only his night clothes and a smear of asphalt and grime where his nightshirt had been lovingly abrading itself against the top of the bottom of the world. It wasn't raining. He walked home quickly, not for fear that anyone would see him, but that he would dream them.

Skylight and crystal, and time's arrow embedded in the heart of a lover of the beast. No way to tell the front of the arrow, save one: Shan felt his life sliding across the slippery plane of time with the single directional cue the decaying of a K-meson into pions, sometimes one, sometimes two, and no one knows why. The only way. The only random slide in radon life and time and place with the touch of the little worlds cosmic raining down on your face, this is the kind of place where those who Ride live, to live their whole lives in the shadow of the newlife which you feel blooming around and between if only for a split fractured and technologically diced moment of the quantum foam. These, then, these are those with whom you must converse if you would find yourself behind/in front of the Angel.

Shan walked timelessly through the Web, watching the Dreams play themselves out on the crystalline facets of his world, seeing his shades dim them and brighten them in different shifting segments as they swam and danced past his laughter, shot through with the deliciously chromatic tinge of the others, of Marren, and of her song. He reached-

-the wind was sweet and tasted of cold and the time of day that one who sleeps when one doesn't want to never finds, and the Angel rushing ahead of her skipped as it ran its unreal hands over her body, playing in lines of isotropic force and feeling the picture of the Ride which even now bears her forth, and with a sudden glaring slit of Silver the Circle opens beside her and Shan paints himself into existence in the midst of the slipstream blasting of the Angel's grip .

-now-

-then-

-after they have finished, and the Angel has once more receded in to the forwardwhere it lives on another plane from them, one that recedes at something less than thought and more than light, they roll to their feet and move from the Web into the grey and iron and rust and soil of the World that holds their dreams within itself to touch and wonder and wish, and the stroll down the tunnel is a silent screaming one of aching colors and glowing love and two disparate hands gripped tightly against the yanking splayed futilely prying fingers of the nighttime darkness.

It wasn't, he decided, a thing that had happened with any sort of suddenness, or with any sort of warning, it was more a morphology of character over the time period of a midlife crisis. Of course if it was that easy, if it was a midlife crisis, then he would have absolutely no trouble simply turning to another line of work or leaving his job and taking a long vacation or getting married or any one of the thousand things that men do/are meant to do/are rumored to do to deal with such shifts in their lively priorities.

Being single, he couldn't leave his wife.

He contemplated his pencil which was, interestingly enough, in exactly the same place as it had been when he'd put it down about two minutes before. That wasn't the problem.

It wasn't, he reflected, as if he didn't like his job. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. This didn't help; it simply removed one more option from his diminishing list of solutions to a poorly defined problem. Mtubi didn't like losing options; it made him irritable. Twelve o'clock noon and midday. Lunch.

Going out was easier. It made the mind-numbing load of paperwork he'd been put on since the Transit case almost worthwhile, for it made those times he got out of the shop almost a period of ecstasy which is the natural result he supposed of working in a colorless brown and earthtone office while colorless others scurried about and through it all one couldn't see the blueshade bottom of the longdark.

"Hey, Mister Policeman! Long time, no see. Sandwich, hah?" Velasco greeted him with a wide grin as he crossed the plaza to the hotcart which stood as it had for as long as he could remember underneath the large drooping elm tree that spread two-thirds of its canopy protectively over the short wall and benches below. His customary lunch stop, Velasco's cart had been the first lunch he'd eaten on the job as a beat rookie.

"Hi Velasco. Yah, um...falafel, please. White sauce."

"Coming up. Been busy? Haven't seen you around in a while."

"Well, you know, man has work, even if nothing else, right?"

Velasco shrugged. "Maybe." He deftly forked three of the chick-pea balls into a pita pocket with the ease of years of practice. Mtubi found that even if he watched closely, he still couldn't quite make out exactly what the other was doing. His fingers and the food flew with precision and grace, and in the dance Mtubi saw the seventeen years of the work that had settled into the long fingers as a salve, or a cream- easing the motion and smoothing the actions into a long hypnotic pastiche of kinetics and poetry and in the end his lunch.

Mtubi fingered the bills in his hand and waited as the white sauce was smoothly laid over the top of the sandwich, and the paper wrap brought out.

"Work been keeping you that busy?" Velasco obviously hadn't finished his conversation.

"Hmm. Well, occupied, if not busy."

"I don't see you going in and out like you do most of the time. You got promoted?"

"No. Just...shuffled. I'm doing paperwork for the moment. Too damn much paper."

Velasco handed him his lunch, and took the proffered currency, making change without really noticing. "You take care, Mister Policeman. You look like that paper don't agree with you." He smiled, and turned to the next customer.

Mtubi walked a short distance down the wall and sat, opening his soda and placing it on top of his paper napkins to keep them from blowing away in the brisk breeze that was caressing the plaza. As always, before biting into the sandwich, he made the futile gesture of examining it to see if there was a way to eat it without it coming apart when he was halfway through, but he'd been trying that for fifteen years and he still hadn't managed it, so it was unlikely he would today. He bit into the bread-wrapped salad-

-noticing as he did so the younger man across the plaza speeding up slightly and hunching his shoulders as he came up behind another pedestrian, noticed the cosh come up, and was on his feet and moving, the sandwich lying in the dust near the base of the wall as the cosh came down on the other's head, and the figure crumpled and the assailant turned to see Mtubi some fifty feet from him, then bolted, legs pumping as he ran from the plaza.

"Get help!" Mtubi had time to yell as he passed Velasco, whom, he noticed, was already punching code into his phone. He skidded around the corner of the nearest building in pursuit, and saw his quarry perhaps seventy-five feet ahead and running hard. People about had stopped with that sort of curious interested look that he saw all too infrequently on folks nowadays, especially in everyday life, but he was past the first of them, shouting "Police!" at the top of his lungs. In response, those passers-by in his path began to draw back. For the first time he had a clear view of the other's back as he dashed around another corner, but Mtubi was gaining finally.

As he turned the corner he had time to throw himself flat as the gun spat live hatred, the air burning with the blue discharge which seared above his head. He heard the flat crack behind him as some piece of building facade, flash heated beyond tolerance, exploded.

Powergun. There was enough adrenaline left for a chill at that, and he tugged his own weapon from beneath his shoulder as he rolled up to one knee, seeing the gunman turn and make off again, gun clutched in his fist. It reflected sun back at Mtubi for a split second, seeming to wink with a malicious grin as it waved back and forth in its owner's grip.

There were no civilians between them or behind the other, and Mtubi raised his gun and fired twice, although the range was a bit far for a running target. The other ducked reflexively, although of course too late, but both bullets missed and plowed into the wall a hundred feet beyond.

Mtubi jumped smoothly back into a run, striding after the other who appeared to be losing his breath. He apparently realized the cause of Mtubi's selective fire, and began dodging and weaving through clumps of people on his way down the street. Mtubi, still yelling for everyone to get down or out of the way, was less than fifty feet from him when he suddenly vanished down the yawning well of a Transit entrance. Mtubi skidded to a halt, looking quickly over the edge before dodging back- with a snap of superheated air, the blue lance of a powergun bolt blazed up from the stairwell, burning one side of his face with its proximity. He waited two beats, then risked another brief look, in a different spot. The stairway was empty, and Mtubi was on the verge of running down it when he stopped in memory and gasped at the sudden rush of intensity and color and space and time and dream, dreams of speed and void and rush and ride and he was taken to his kneesto find himself in front of the Transit staircase with his gun pressed to the pavement beneath his palm which was supporting his outstretched arm which was supporting him. Sobbing, he dragged himself upright and shouted as he crashed through the fear and memory to stumble down the stairs to the platform below.

Reaching the turnstiles, he vaulted them while shouting "Police!" at the still stunned clerk. He landed on the platform side, and frantically looked left, then right, then - there. Almost to the end of the platform, jacket flapping wildly, the mugger was running flat out. Mtubi turned to follow, screaming at the fifty or so bystanders to get back or down. There were no people past his target, and there was time for a snap shot. The exulting shout of the gun bounced from the steel and ceramic evoking an answer in the tinkling crash from shattered tile at the end of the platform. Without bothering to return fire, his quarry grabbed one of the support pillars which hid the station's induction rings and swung down onto the track level. Mtubi had time to see him duck beneath one of the supports of the track's guidelines before he vanished into the darkness of the tunnel itself.

Just as Mtubi was slowing for his own jump, there was a rush of air and an almost subliminal basso rumble as the bullet nose of the Transit capsule sighed to a halt next to him, effectively blocking the tunnel. The quartz windows of the operator's compartment were empty and dark as he drew abreast of them, indicating that the machine was running on automatics; he leaned against a pillar, cursing and gasping in breath as passengers went through the ancient urban dance of the doors behind him.

Finally, as he was about to scream from sheer frustration, the sensors decided that enough was enough and closed the doors. The capsule lifted perhaps a centimeter as the field came on, and there was a slight wash of colored glare and the machine shivered and slid out of sight into the tunnel. Mtubi looked back, and not seeing another capsule, jumped down from the platform to swng into the web. The running lights of the capsule were disappearing around a bend perhaps a quarter mile from the station as he began to run once more.

Once out of the station area into the slightly wider tunnel itself, he swung back out of the support tracks and began to run along the dimly lit concrete walk that sided them. The tunnel was too dim for him to make out anyone ahead, but he kept at it. After perhaps three or four blocks, there was an intersection, as another track passed above and at right angles to the one he was following.

He skidded to a halt, looking in all three directions, but couldn't see anything. He shouted in anger, then, and as if in answer there was a snapand flash as a powergun bolt reached for him from down the rightward tunnel. Throwing himself flat against the wall, he fired, the bullets whining down the tunnel towards an unseen target. In the silence that followed, he lifted his head, and heard the sound of footsteps receding. Placing them at least a hundred yards ahead of him, he got to his feet, and pulled his phone from his belt. The red call light indicating a local net was lit.

Punching the Active key, he headed off down the tunnel as the dispatch computer's ready chime came in reply. Lifting the phone, he punched the Active key twice and raised it to his lips as he ran.

"This is Detective Mtubi. I'm...in the Transit system in pursuit of...mugging suspect; he's armed with a cosh and a powergun...at least. He's on the..." -Mtubi paused, getting his breath and his bearings- "...in the Green line tunnel headed for Green Commercial One, that's Golf Charlie One. Endit."

The computer responded in its usual calm female tones. "Detective Mtubi, assign callkey Tango Poppa One. Units in pursuit list Tango Poppa Two, Tango Poppa Three, Sierra Poppa One and Sierra Poppa Two. Sierra units are westbound on Vigo, Tango Poppa One is on platform at Red Plaza Eight, and Tango Poppa Two is on Transit capsule inbound to Green Commercial two from Green Commercial one. Indicate action."

Mtubi swore, realizing that of the two men in the tunnel system nearby, one was on a train outbound from the station he was chasing towards and the other was just reaching the platform he had left. "Tango Poppa One, continuing in pursuit, get some units to Golf Charlie One now, endit." He clipped his phone with the ease of years of practice and ran on.

The lights of Green Commercial One were visible up ahead. His quarry was not, although footsteps were still audible, indicating that the other had not crossed into the station area. As he ran, wincing now at a cramp in his side, the tunnel glowed a dim red as warning lights came on along the ceiling. His phone beeped twice, then:

"All units, a Transit lockdown is in effect on the Green line from Green Commercial Two to Green Riverside Nine. Repeat, a Transit lockdown..." Mtubi punched the silencer as he ran.

There was another blue flash from up ahead; hoping that the other was having as much trouble seeing as he was, Mtubi didn't dodge. The bolt didn't reach him, impacting on some unknown surface between the two men. He could see the mugger, now, light from the station at Commercial One washing over him as he ran past the platform. Mtubi reached the near end of the platform as the other was halfway down; ignoring the surprised murmur from those waiting above, he pelted on. As he reached darkness again, there was a shout, and he cursed as two shots not aimed his way flickered out. Hoping whomever the other had run into had had the sense to duck, he came charging up to the scene to see his quarry holding his gun on two people from a distance of perhaps two meters. They were standing quietly. Both wore leather jackets and blue jeans, dark, and as they turned to him he noticed that they both wore shades. The memory almost took his senses again; he wavered, but did not fall. Both were wearing leather jackets and sunglasses... he brought his attention to the present with an effort, panting.

The mugger was swaying a bit too, he noticed as the other spoke.

"O...okay. Stop right there." Redundant, since Mtubi wasn't going anywhere. "Now throw me your gun."When the detective made no move to do so, the other's face darkened. "Stop fucking around! Throw me your goddamned gun or I fry this chick's face!"

One of the two hostages was female. Mtubi slowly extended the gun, butt first, watching the powergun. The other shook his head. "Drop it there, man. Okay. Now four steps back." Mtubi did so. The other picked up the gun, keeping his eyes on Mtubi, and stuffed it in a pocket. "Okay. Now, me and the girl are gonna take a little walk. You don't follow, she don't get hurt. I'll let her go in a station somewhere. First you open the trains so I can get out of here, and then I'll think about letting her go. I see one cop on the train, and that means one or more, and she's crispy." He moved towards the girl, turning his gaze from Mtubi to her.

It was difficult to see what happened next; in the dim light and reflections shining from the powergun and two sets of mirrored sunglasses, Mtubi just saw the male hostage raise his hand. There was a brief confused moment and a flash of silver, and the mugger was sprawled against the wall of the tunnel, and the male hostage was holding the powergun.

Mtubi lurched forward, and the boy (it wasa boy, he noted, maybe seventeen but no older) turned to him. Mtubi's heart stuttered in fear of the powergun in the boy's hands, but it was held awkwardly; the other was not familiar with it. There was a silent moment, and then he extended it to Mtubi, butt first, as Mtubi had extended his. Mtubi took it gingerly, set the safety, and stuck it in a pocket of his jacket, still staring at the boy across from him. It was the same boy; the one he'd seen in the Transit station just prior to the bomb.

He'd seen this boy in midflight down a Transit web before he'd vanished into a silver circle, and the bomb had erased Mtubi's consciousness.

The boy turned to the mugger, and they all looked, but he was out cold, apparently. Mtubi moved to him and checked for a pulse; there was one, and strong. Relieved, the detective stood, and turned to the other two with questions aching in his mind only to see the girl tugging at the boy's jacket. The boy nodded, turned to Mtubi, gave him a questioning look before waving at the Web.

Mtubi shook his head. "No, you can't go, the Web's out. Besides, I'm going to have to bring you back, so you can press charges..." he ran down as the other shook his head, waved at the web again. They stood for a moment, and then, without knowing quite why he did so, Mtubi brought his phone to his lips.

"Dispatch, this is Tango Poppa One. Reporting collar of suspect, endit."

"Tango Poppa One, acknowledged. Do you require support at this time, endit."

"Negative, Dispatch. Release local net, endit."

"Local net...released. All units released to normal stations. Awaiting instructions regarding Transit lockdown, endit."

Mtubi looked at the boy. The boy smiled and waved at the induction ring that stood stolidly near. Mtubi said to himself this is crazy.Aloud, he told his phone "Dispatch, Tango Poppa One, release Transit Lockdown, repeat release Transit Lockdown on Green line."

"Tango Poppa One, acknowledged. Releasing lockdown, endit."

Mtubi put his phone away as the red lights dimmed back to darkness. Down the tunnel past the Commercial One station, there was almost immediately an audible whine as a Transit capsule powered up to resume its aborted journey. The boy and girl smiled at him, then began to silently climb the induction ring. Mtubi stared after them, fascinated, as they reached the top some seven or eight meters above him and crouched down, facing away from the oncoming Capsule. Mtubi heard it sigh to a halt in the station perhaps a hundred meters behind him, then the thrumming of the Web as it powered up again. The boy smiled at him, waving him back. Mtubi backed up until he was against the wall, at which point the boy's face split in a grin, and he waved before turning back to face his companion. The thrumming grew in pitch and volume until there was a SLAP of compressed wind and a flash of lights and Vectorfield as the capsule blasted past them.

Mtubi just barely caught the two figures dropping from the top of the ring to flare with colored light as they accelerated at what looked to be a crushing rate off down the web before the wind took him from his feet and he ended up against the wall himself, laughing and laughing as the worlds settled again.

He stood and dusted himself off.

The mugger still lay where he had fallen; Mtubi cuffed him, retrieving his own pistol before hoisting him up in a fireman's carry to tote him off down the tunnel towards the nearest station.

The Ride was long, and far, and in the middle he felt Marren wave gaily and Vector, her circle opening for her as she slipped from his grasp to the silver of Mag and repainted herself in another place. He turned his attention back to the web, to the silver/colored/tinted/bloody wash of sensation as the Angel began to slow, waiting to enter its lighted place. Shan called up the circle, and as he began to near the slowing, tiring Angel, flicked through it to come up in Red, purest red, watching the flickering of the Web as his residual energies woke it from its fitful slumber to grasp at his ankles and wrists and waist in a pseudopoding of electromagnetic love to bring him slowly to a halt, sinking to the floor of the Web and the grey Steel that waited there for his studded jacket to find and rasp against as it pushed him back into the speed of the world.

Shan stood and dusted himself off.

He stepped between two Rings of the Web and began to wander aimlessly down the tunnel, feeling the dreams course through him with the wailing cry of disturbed electrons and the hotter dirge of dying photons as they spun from him to him within him to strike the world around him and return redoubled,bringing with them the other senses one can see in Dreams, tasting the flavor and knowing the strangeness and turning the spin of the quark that hit his mind's tongue.

The Planar had been familiar. Shan had touched him in the night, felt the purple dreams erupt from within him to paint Shan's (hand) with the thickness of mind, to almost yank Shan from the tight locked optimal open free craze of the ride. He had been willing, Shan realized, to place himself at risk of actual harm for him and Marren. Belatedly, Shan understood that the Planar had not been lit by Mag, and that he had no way of touching the Planar with the gun. Shan knew of guns. He didn't know why they were, but he knew how they were, and what they were, and what they did.

He kicked at a glittering piece of mica stone that crouched alone on the floor of the tunnel. The clearest thing he knew about the first Planar, the one who dreamed, was that he was Good, and that he dreamt but did not Dream, and that it was probably because he had no Circles to Dream with, although Shan was sure that the other now understood how the Dreams occurred. If this was the case, then Shan needed to point the way. Smiling, Shan moved off down the Web in search of iron.

He found enough over several miles of Web, and settled down to watch for the Angel. When the song began in his head, almost achingly loud now because of the Dreams still there, Shan placed his iron on the Web in the correct fashion, and stood back with his arms outstretched as the Angel passed.

It Passed with a slap of noise and thunder and wind and light as it always did when one wasn't riding it but merely standing and experiencing/watching/living the Dreams from the side of the Web, thankful to the Angel for the Dreams it brought.

The last of the noise of the Angel subsided around a far-off corner with a sighing rush, leaving only the tinkle as the first Circle rolled gaily down the floor of the Web, laughing in silvery chimes of metal and math as it came to a stop.

Mtubi came back from Medtech with a salve on his face from the powergun burn, and a large glass of water for his adrenaline dehydration. He fell into his chair with a satisfied groan and punched up Booking on his desk.

Sipping the water, he scrolled through the reports, finally finding his collar under a John Doe listing- ah, he hadn't woken up yet. Medtech, according to the report line, was "unsure as to his condition." Mtubi snorted, and waved the Desk off. He reached for Velasco's replacement sandwich (which Velasco had had waiting for him as he reached the plaza) and froze as he did so. Carefully sitting up, he sifted aside the top layer of paperwork to expose the intruder on his desk.

Four thick circlets of shiny metal and a larger hoop, almost a wire, lay there winking.

Mtubi sat back. He wasn't sure it he was confused or afraid. Confused, for he hadn't put them there. Afraid, because he wasn't sure how whoever had had gotten into his office without leaving any trace in the desklog.

He picked up one of the thick ones tentatively. There was nothing abnormal about them, other than their sudden appearance in his office. They were extremely shiny; mirrors flawed only by their distortion from the flat.

Shrugging, he put them in his jacket pouch next to his badge, save for the hoop which he placed in a drawer, and continued on with his paperwork.

The Dead Tree Scrolls, as an early partner of his had been wont to call paper duty, took him right up until five. Mtubi rubbed his brow, surveyed his desk (only slightly shallower than the morning; who knew what the next day's bin would bring?) and threw a dart at a colorful promo poster on his wall he kept for that purpose. "ComLink Introduces the Paperless Office," it proclaimed, impaled, as he shrugged on his coat. Before leaving, he stopped, returned to the desk, and removed the large metal hoop, turning over in his fingers as he left the room.

Once out in the dimming light of the Plaza, he turned to walk towards his home, before stopping to think for a moment and then determinedly tracing his steps for the Transit station at Blue Metro One.

Blue Metro One was crowded with commuters at five-twenty, all with that slightly weary look commuters wear as a shield from conversation or interaction of most any kind. Mtubi made his way to a vacant pillar side and parked his back.

The murmer of the transit system lulled him slightly, and he did not hear the Capsule approaching. It wasn't until it swept into the station and came to rest that he opened his eyes, yawned and entered. A lucky seat beckoned, and he sat, resting his head against the flat glasteel of the window. He felt the doors slide shut behind him, and the Capsule lifted itself slightly to resume its journey.

The anxiety was almost gone. He didn't see, this time, the tumbling disintegration of his Transit, but the quivery feeling in the back of his neck showed up right on schedule. Mtubi stared fixedly at the back of the head of the passenger in front of him and put the idea of 'bomb' as far from his mind as he was able without actually saying the word to himself. The Capsule hummed along, and ten minutes later the nunciate was intoning quietly 'Magenta Residential Four. Magenta Residential Four. Please watch your step exiting the Capsule. Thank you and have a nice day from Transit. Please watch your step--'

Mtubi stood, hurriedly, and slid out the doors as they slid shut. He turned from the platform, gripping his collar and preparing to shield his face from the departure of the Capsule.

Although he wasn't sure why he did so, he waited for the Capsule to leave the station. Obligingly, the machine raised itself and slid back into the underdark night. Mtubi, watching it go, was aware of the wind tugging at him slightly. He shifted his weight, but it failed to fade as it had so many thousands of times before, and he realized that it was specifically affecting his jacket.

Dropping his hands from his eyes, he searched hurriedly through his pockets, and was rewarded almost immediately with the four metal circlets he had found on his desk. Now, however, although still mirror-bright, they were radiating colors in a gentle glow which shifted as he moved them in his hands. They, in fact, were the source of the pull, and even as he held them he felt the tug fade away. Looking in the direction of the force, he found himself looking at the entrance to the tunnel which his Capsule had just entered. Looking down again he found that the circlets had faded to silvery bright once more.

There was an interminable moment of time, propitiously silent and still.

Mtubi moved to lean back against a support column, and experimentally slid one of the circlets onto his wrist.

It fit, not surprisingly (but, he discovered, terrifyingly) perfectly. The other slid over his other hand with little contortion; seemed, indeed, to meld itself to his wrist when touching skin. There was little to do, then, but step out of his shoes, ignoring the strange looks that those just reaching the platform were giving him, and place the remaining circlets over his ankles. Replacing his shoes, he fingered the large hoop, wondering only for a moment, before pulling it up over his legs to circle his waist. It fit beneath his shirt, warm against his skin.

Mtubi walked to the edge of the platform, standing on the carmine warning strip while ignoring its gently pulsing warning field in his feet, and looked down the tunnel into the Web. It was dark; an indik on the wall counted down the time until the next Capsule's arrival, four minutes and seven seconds.

The fear drove the laughter from him, out his throat and into the dark. Walking towards the downline end of the platform, his feet attempted to skip.

He disciplined them firmly, for half the distance, and finally ceded control to the impulse, dashing the remaining twenty meters or so to the small metal stairway with its red and white warnings that led down to the floor of the Web.

Among the gloomy silent metal of the Web was a feeling. Home, it sang, hereherehereherehere. Mtubi stopped, his footsteps fading into muffled black, but the keening whisper faded quickly with them. He continued on, blindly, walking now, not sure at all of what he was about.

There was a brief thrumming behind him, a basso song, and dust settled gently into the air as the Capsule touched Earth at the platform.

The hurry hurry hurrywas soundless, but none the less real for it. Mtubi turned to the nearest confinement Ring, and sought with his eyes for the access ladder on its side. His trenchcoat flapping about him, he clumsily ascended the Ring as he'd seen the two young people do that afternoon. The coat caught at a protrusion and he flung it off, quickly, only part of his mind despairing the two weeks' salary it had cost him as he crested the top. The song had begun again, behind him, and he waited at the top of the Ring in the growing dissonant color and wondered what in Heaven or Hell he was doing. Looking back, the Capsule's blunt grey nose was in view now, horizontal bars of reflected Vectorfield projectors' light washing across the darkened windshield. Mtubi waited, his toes curling slightly in readiness, and as the blur of power blazed by beneath him, he sobbed once and dove forward off the Ring into its wake.

The shock nearly dislocated both his shoulders; he had not thought to put his arms in front of him, and the circlets on his wrists yanked his arms out straight in a painful fraction of a second. He reflexively stiffened his knees against the push, and scarce had time to note that he hadn't hit the ground before he opened his eyes to see...to see...

The Dreams, the dreams that came and teased and taunted licking slow tendrils of immortality across your heels to dash you breathless through the realm of chromaticity and imagination, swirls of space and time, reality's very stuff, flung past in whorls of delight and laughter as the silver disk pulls you through the firmament. The Angel calls, it cries, and those who can hear the sound sing from the pull of it, from the passion and the power, and the Angel pulls them forward through the wasteland of the night with tender hands of steel and Mag, Vector gently clearing space for the rushing Ride of silver metal oilslick and the variable refractory illusion of the colors within that run across the surface of the Dreams in whole pure hues to mix and run and slowly leach to pastel reals and heres and nows and settle you gently, quickly, down to the floor of the world to feel the pain as his body caught the smooth tracked floor of the Web and his clean rushing slide became a hard and sudden roll which ended up with a sharp impact against a Ring side.

Mtubi lay there for a moment, surprised into stillness, the longing and agony of the ending of the Dreams wrenching him until he opened his eyes again in this the grey cold plane and saw that they had not left him, not really; colors danced about the edges of the things he saw, and he could see the power flowing within the walls, the floor, the Ring, all of it, in whirlpools of electronic harmony.

He sobbed again, for the second time.

He stood, and watched the colors run.

He made his way from the Web, and the last remaining practical element of his mind lamented the loss of his trenchcoat. Frustrated even in elevation, he swung his arms disconsolately before him as he walked, aimlessly, down along the Web back towards his starting point, of whose location - he realized all at once - he had no idea.

His arms swung on, however, and the air behind them was rent with small and tiny whorls of reds and silver. The walls behind the whorls wobbled slightly, and Mtubi laughed metallic shiny charms of blue which danced beyond the Rings nearby in scintillating ballet. He swung his arms more carefully, in a circle, now, and watched the walls behind the circle become hazier still, then, for no reason he could imagine he though of his missing trenchcoat, tan and broken in , with endless ranks of secret pointless British pockets, loops and buckles, and the circle became Circular, allowing at last the walls behind to vanish into a greyish floor with a swirl of brown, at right angles to reality. Mtubi stopped his arms, but the Circle remained; reaching through, he retrieved the trenchcoat from its resting place, feeling gravity tug against his hand and the coat, and then the coat was through the Circle, which, its purpose done, evaporated into tricks of light and color then was gone.

Mtubi sat against the wall clutching the garment and sobbed until tears ran from him, then laughed instead, watching the colors run from his face and fingertips until the ground before him pooled in rainbow chaos.

He found himself sitting in his flat with the circlets arranged neatly on the table before him, the coat discarded on the floor of the hallway closet. Five circles of silvery impossibility; he shook his head and watched the colors swim slightly in response.

Everything had changed, by now. Colors he had never seen but tasted in a dream leapt out from walls and floor and furniture; colors of sun and desert sand, of sea and coral floor, of space and cold hard stars. Traces and filigree of power and radiation flecked the walls, betraying what lay behind. Mtubi let his gaze linger on the bright parabolic glare of an electric outlet before returning to the circlets. They hadn't moved, and in fact seemed now to be less colorful than the rest of the room, their power gone into him. Conduits only, they lay there quietly waiting for him.

Picking them up in order and in step, once twice thrice and fourth through fifth, he replaced them on his body. Warm grasp of friendly familiarity, they touched his skin and flowed quickly softly and invisibly to clasp it. He undressed and made ready for bed, smiles cresting his face.

Brushing his teeth, Mtubi watched silver drip from his mouth to follow coriolic patterns counterclockwise in the basin and plunge eagerly into the Downbelow. He smiled in return, and wished it well, drying his face upon a towel that had once been magenta but now flicked his retinae with glares of greenish jade. His bed welcomed him; laying back, he closed his eyes and waited for the Dreams to change to those of nighttime and of blackest late from those of day, to which he had become accustomed.

Shan considered, in midair, once, that there is not ever such a time for touching as when smiling. He smiled, experimentally; the Angel laughed in response and teased his hair. It began to slow, then, and he Circled away to a darker place and sank to the Floor of the world, his body's light flickering restlessly over the Rings of the Web nearby. Coming to a stop, he pulled himself upright and examined his jacket. Studs were wearing thin, now, and he resolved to remember the problem in the nearest future when time and means and places were aligned in such a way that it might be remedied with least and quickest fuss.

Walking was a treasure. He continued onward towards the darkness, and as he did there was a rustle. Stopping, Shan turned to the right and waited from his vantage within the Web as a small and dirty figure emerged from a drainage niche in the wall beyond and extended a hand.

"Master?"

Shan waited.

"Master, it is you, is it not?" The hand swayed with uncertainty, and Shan grinned once more and put out his palm. The figure smiled in relief return and for joy, and touched his hand to Shan's. "Master, please, I must speak with you on matters most now and fast. Hardness comes and darkness follows, and ere we Silver once more and all things must be met that come but once a frost. Here in Downbelow the trouble stirs, and Master, in Upabove must it be set aright."

At these words of trouble and foreboding Shan's grin left him, but he nodded and followed the other into the niche and thence into the tunnels that lay beyond, a different world from Web. Shan was not a Waterman; he did not know the twists and turns and spins of this darker wetter world. The walls glowed silently here but not with stuff of dreams; rather with cold dim glow of Pusher fields to keep the swirling wastes from clinging to the walls. They moved through six inches of muck and detritus; Shan's guide with the fluid textured walk of the veteran wader and Shan in a field of six inches of dry barren tunnel that followed his feet, leaving silver ripples behind on the murky waters.

After perhaps ten minutes, they reached an intersection and the figure paused, then motioned to Shan. Obligingly, Shan raised his hand; a silver blossom of actinic radiance lit the tunnels in all directions for the briefest moment then faded to ocher and to reds, but by that time the other had set off resolutely down one passage, assured that all was well and all was alone.

As they walked, Shan passedhis time by counting and illuminating individual myriad united impossible fragile immortal waterdrops as they performed their kinetic trade of height for speed, energy slipping across the barriers from potential to kinetic with no hesitation of resistance, to meet the waters below in bursts of crowned jeweled elegance of microseconds' length and ripples of chaos echoes.

Mtubi awoke with a gradual realization of the light in his room. Although the blinds were drawn, they were passing a diffuse luminescence which, he realized shortly, was abnormal. Sitting up, he scrubbed his hands over his face, yawned thrice, and stretched before examining the window again. It was still glowing. The color, however, was not one which he could recall ever seeing before, and it took a shocked moment for the memories of the previous night to rush through his head. Once they had settled, the answer became clear; infrared radiation from the material, warmed by the sun, was flooding the room.

He went to shower and dress, thoughtfully.

On the way to the station, Mtubi experimented with his vision. Apparently he could revert to 'normal' human vision through a slight conscious effort. If he relaxed, however, the strange new colors of his new spectrum would ripple into his vision, showing him heat and cold, electromagnetics and the strange pulsing movement of the blood behind the skin of his fellow passengers.

There was no response from the Circles on his skin inside the Transit capsule; apparently the shielding designed to protect the passengers from the Magfield prevented them from reacting. They had reacted weakly on the platform; the weaker station shields apparently leaked enough of the field effect to reach him.

"Red Plaza Eight. Red Plaza Eight. All passengers please be cautious of Capsule doors." The nunciate softly intruded, chivvying him from the Capsule onto the platform. Mtubi moved towards the exit along with the rush, and winced as the scanning laser seared across his newly sensitized retinas. The doors slid back; he ascended to the Plaza and waved at Velasco, who was dispensing egg-base breakfast sandwiches to customers. Velasco grinned in reply, making change, and Mtubi continued on into the stationhouse.

His office had failed to tidy itself since he'd left. So had his desk. The result, naturally, was several pounds of paper which he spent three hours working on, and was astonished to note that the level had apparently dropped as he was heading out for lunch, before realizing with chagrin that the office mail had not yet arrived. Sighing, he went for his sandwich. Velasco was waiting.

"Hey, Mister Policeman. Better from yesterday?"

"Hi Velasco. Yeah, better. No worries." Mtubi traded bills for the sandwich, juggled it with his soda for a moment before settling on to the low wall near Velasco's cart. Business, for the moment, was slow; Velasco turned to him, leaning against his livelihood.

"You look hungry,eh? Maybe need another," the vendor grinned as Mtubi wolfed down half the sandwich in rapid order.

"Mmmph. Mmmhmm," was all he could get past the falafel. Velasco turned to prepare seconds. Mtubi leaned back, moving slightly to put his back against a nearby tree. Looking up at the canopy, he watched the newfound colors of the sun flickering through the branches and smiled hugely.

Absentmindedly, he finished the sandwich and crumpled the wrapping paper, pausing to rub the Circle underneath his sleeve. It was cool to his touch, despite feeling warm to the wrist.

He regarded the wrapping paper. The garbage can was perhaps fifteen feet down the wall from his seat. Experimentally, he tossed the paper in the air lightly, willing it to move. Nothing unusual happened; the paper fell gracefully back into his grasp. He frowned at it, then laughed at his reaction to finding a limitation in his talents. Paying Velasco for the second sandwich, coins flickered in his hands, a brief cold rush of silver threading the needle of reality and Dreams while tumbling down the gravity well; tinkling in compressive impacts as they clash in e air and in his palm. Silver winks back, reflecting yellow Sun and blue Sky and ultraviolet from the glare above. Silver. Something about a flash of silver...the boy.

Remembering the sudden discontinuity in the Transit tunnel when the boy in leather had disarmed the mugger, Mtubi tossed the paper again. When it was at the top of its arc, he thought Silver. Reflection. The feeling of silver rushed through his head, unbidden once begun  in a flow of light and bending of photons into translucent arcs of mirrored scenery ; tracing the energy flows between the hand and the tree and the can and the paper which bounced slightly, upwards, and remained steady in the air, a silvery flicker beneath it. Mtubi jerked upright, startled, then hastily dropped the paper (without being quite sure, as he did so, how he did it) as Velasco turned at the sudden motion. By the time he had gotten around, however, the paper was safely back in Mtubi's hand.

At Velasco's curious look, Mtubi grinned sheepishly. "Must have dozed off. It's nice out here."

"Oh yah, you betcha. This is the season for working outside, no question. You done with that?" Velasco motioned at the crumpled paper in Mtubi's hand, and Mtubi tossed to to him nodding. His paper ball vanished into the garbage in a practiced flicker, and he turned to his second sandwich.

Shan followed the Waterman with only a trace of curiosity as to their destination. He knew, the other knew, and the Dreams told that they would arrive in time, shortly, and before long; he played with molecules around his hands to pass the time as they walked. Flickers of excited particles flamed about his hands to bounce light from water and walls, and the Waterman turned excitedly. When Shan saw his face, he hurriedly doused the Dreamlight; but when he gestured in inquiry the other hushed him and turned to continue.

Shrugging, Shan followed as they traversed the waters.

Perhaps two klicks later, the Waterman slipped into a side passage, motioning. Shan slid in after. Worming through perhaps five meters of narrow passageway, they emerged into a medium-sized circular chamber within living rock. Within were gathered several of the Downbelow. They turned as Shan entered, and quieted their discussions, moving to the walls before seating themselves in a semicircle and turning to face the center. Shan's guide motioned him to the middle and seated himslef against the wall in the last empty spot.

Shan moved to the center of the circle and sat crosslegged, shifting his jacket into a more comfortable position, and waited.

There was a moment of silence while the Watermen looked at each other. Finally, they all finished by looking at Shan's guide, who shrugged resignedly and turned to Shan. "Master, there are things awry in the underdark. Things we cannot heal; things we cannot feel; things we cannot guide or channel. We ask your aid."

Shan looked at each of them in turn, thinking. He felt the Dreams leave him momentarily, and his self center fully in the chamber. They were his responsibility, really; there were no others to whom they could turn. If they were to touch the Upabove, the Planars would come in fear and confusion, and silence the Web until they had found a way to remove those who dwelled within its embrace. He raised a hand, and received silence as they watched him. He looked once at the ceiling, then back at his guide, and nodded once, firmly.

Although there was no speech, there was a palpable whisper of relief from those around the room. Shan held up his hand once more and pointed to his guide, then gestured. Name?

"My name, Master? Theole. Theole of the Blue." Shan nodded again, then signed wait. When there was a pause, he stood and called a Circle, reaching through it to touch a soft palm. The hand beyond vision and reality clutched his, then Marren stepped through the Circle into the soft glow of the chamber, her leather and shades winking back the greenish hue of the room. She smiled, once, and silver light flashed from behind her shades. Shan hugged her to him, and she kissed him once, teasingly, beneath his ear. She was shorter than he. Releasing her, he gestured at Theole, and sent her the man's name.

"Theole?" Marren asked. When the other nodded, she patted Shan's hip, and he returned to his cross-legged position. Marren sat next to him, snuggled slightly against his side, and they returned their attention to the Waterman. He leaned forward to elaborate on his pronouncement.

"Riders, there have been times in recent past when all that was has been put astray. The dance of chaos little in the Web that caught Master Shan was but one; there have been others. There are Planars among us, perhaps, or others whom we know but cannot see. They are not Trogs; they tend not the Web. Rather they hide from those above, and in their flight seek to rend and smash. Much light has left the Web since they have come; and though those above have long since sped to restore to it the silver, yet there may come a time when to do so they may be forced to enter the Web in numbers, weights and light we cannot dispel. If 'twere to come to pass then all that we have, have become, and will be, all will be as for naught; the Angel having passed us by a-night, never to return."

"Master, Rider, we ask that you journey among us and the Web in silver and in flame until the wound in Angel's realm is healed and gone, and those from whom we hide are gone into the light and the dark is sealed and safe once more." He bowed his head, and settled back against the wall.

Marren looked at Shan. He jerked his head, inviting her to continue. She smiled once; turned back to Theole.

"Theole, you must pardon me; I speak as Planar-become-Rider, and my words are not as you are accustomed to." Theole held his hands out in polite protest; she smiled, waved him down and continued. "Honored Waterman, Rider Shan and myself swear to you now that we will do what we are able and what we must to protect you and yours. We ask for any information you and the others have or may come across on where these incidents occur; and anything else you might find. You can reach us in the usual way. Is that acceptable?"

Theole smiled, nodding. There was a rustle as the company stood, and Theole approached to clasp first Shan's, then Marren's hands between his own. Shan smiled, and held out his palm. Theole's face lit, and he produced from within his cloaks a small glass phial filled with blue liquid.

Shan turned, gesturing, and although surprised, the others present drew forth similar phials, with fluids of varying hues within. When all were held out to him from the walls, making a smaller semicircle within that of the company, Shan closed his eyes and called the dreams up within him, giving what he had been gifted with by the Angel in a silent roaring glacial fire of the Ride; the energy pulsing from within to Light the chamber in swirls of Silver and of Gold. Metal hues, flickering, passing through nonexistent mighty prismatic foldings to emerge in all the colors of the spectrum plus a few others besides, to strike the phials held by the Watermen in a spray of colors and heated firmament as the phials glowed, a brilliant display of power and hue, and the Watermen tucked them away within their cloaks once more. Shan staggered slightly, spent, and Theole approached to lay his hand against the Rider's cheek.

Shan's smile, undiminished by his effort, answered him, and the Watermen filed silently from the chamber. Marren dropped the shield of Silver that she had thrown up to avoid interfering with the transfer, and hugged him.

"Love, that was beautiful. As always." She drew back far enough to see into his eyes. "We need to get you a date with an Angel, now now now." Shan nodded, still smiling, and she led him from the room, through her Circle, into the metallic slumbering world of the Web, where they waited atop a Ring.

An Angel Passed.

The Riders dropped, and it pulled them along at breakneck hurtling frozen velocity through the grey and Vector-lit tunnel of the Web.

"Sarge?" The head poked in the doorway and assumed a look of horror at the stacks of paper on his desk.

"Yes, Harris, what is it?" Mtubi gratefully shoved aside the current stack and dropped his stylus, flexing cramped fingers. The other entered and closed the door, then looked about bemusedly. Mtubi gestured at a chair, and his subordinate shrugged, then slid a stack of paper from the offered bit of furniture and sat.

"Um, sarge, it's about the skell you brought in from Transit."

"Have they ID'ed him yet?"

"Nope, that's one problem; the other is that he seems to have no idea who he is."

"Bullshit. He's not going to get away with that one."

"Well, it looks like he is gonna, 'cause the Medtechs all say he's not faking."

"Why? He didn't get more than a bump on the head-" Mtubi drew up short, and remembered-

-there was a brief confused moment and a flash of silver, and the mugger was sprawled against the wall of the tunnel- He shook his head.

"Boss? What is it?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Ah, have they gone through his personals?"

"Yeah, 'course. First thing. Nothing, though."

"How about the powergun? Was there a serial number on it?"

"No, it was filed off, no mean trick in itself; the damn thing's impressed into the diamond flashguide in the main chamber. The techs say it's a miracle he didn't flaw the guide and have the whole damn thing blaze up on him. Apparently the flashguide was narrowed, which erased the number but kept its shape correct. Bronstein in Arms told me that you lose some range and power due to a less efficient 'packetizing' of the plasma, but-"

"Skip it. Who made the thing, then?"

"It's a Raytheon SA Nine/Five. That's for sure. Problem is that without the serial number…" Harris trailed off and shrugged.

"Right. Send a full set of pix of the thing to Raytheon anyway; maybe the models differed enough they can at least give us a lot number. In the meantime, who was the cit that got coshed?"

"Oh, that's an easy one. His name is-" Harris fumbled his notebook out of his pocket, flipped through it- "Sanderson. He's District chief for Transit Ops; maintenance, tunnel work, etc. etc. He's okay; got off with a bump on the head, nothing taken."

Mtubi looked up from thought at the last. "Nothing taken because the skell had no time? Or nothing taken because he was supposed to get worse, and that was the point of the whole thing?"

"No idea, boss. As far as I know, you were there too fast for it to have gone any further either way."

"Okay, but why in the middle of the Plaza like that? Whoever this guy is, he had to know that he couldn't get away with anything serious that took more than a couple of seconds, and there's always off-duty cops hanging about there."

"Maybe he was going to cry for a medic, call it a heart attack, take his wallet?"

"That's damn thin. Why not just pick on someone in a safer place?"

"Dunno. What d'you think?"

"I think this guy was targeted." Mtubi stood and moved out from behind the desk, pausing to rummage in a precarious pile of forms balanced atop a defunct copier. Finding one in the middle, he skimmed it, still talking. "Here. List of muggings in the Central and Plaza districts over the past month; we got a memo because Transit people seem to be getting hit with much greater frequency."

"Okay, playing advocate here, is that because Transit HQ's across Plaza from us? Maybe they're just a lot of them around."

"Nope. They put in the logs for the past-" Mtubi flipped pages &endash;"eight weeks. The Transit personnel hits have only happened in the past two. In the six weeks prior to that, one Transit employee was mugged out of a total of fifty-six incidents of all kinds, four violent. In the last two weeks, fourteen have been hit, fifteen with our boy yesterday."

Harris leaned back, looking a bit disturbed. "Christ, I hate it when the things are late too, but that doesn't mean I'm going to take it out on the guys that run the system. What about the perps?"

"No information. Only caught two of them; both small-time…wait a minute."

Harris rocked forward at the pause. "Something?"

"Yeah. Look." Mtubi passed over the form, pointed to a line. Harris read it quickly aloud, brow furrowing:

"Blah, blah, unknown ID, blah, powergun? Filed off serial number? What the hell's going on?"

"That," said Mtubi grimly, "is a very, very good question. Where the hell are they getting these things anyhow? I see maybe two a year; they're hot, and the military doesn't let Raytheon build that many of them. Now two street hitters have them? Both attacking Transit employees? Within two weeks? No way."

"I'm with you. Hey, it says the gun from this prior hit got stuck in Evidence. His court date hasn't come up yet. Think it's still there?"

Mtubi smiled toothily.

Harris sighed. "Yeah, I know, I know, I'm going. Gawd, boss, I hate the forms down there." He broke off as Mtubi theatrically surveyed his desk. "Okay, okay, but I'm a grunt, and you're the boss. Seems like you should pay for that somehow…" his voice faded as he left the office, eager body language belying his griping as he headed downstairs for Evidence.

Tunnel walls reflecting the pinkish coolness of his hue, Varien of the Rose crept along the storm drain. One hand, within his robes, was clutched tightly to the warm pulsing heat of a phial, his hand blocking the hard-edged glow that emanated from it. The other pulled him slowly along the rough concrete floor of the tunnel, pebbles and gravel within the cement matrix slowly shaving skin from his hand.

He held the phial against his side, where the blood issued forth in slow pointless rivulets that stained the robes beneath him and the floor behind him with trails of darkness deeper than and hidden by the gloom. A rat (or mouse, Varien couldn't tell) flushed from the shadows ahead of him and darted past, headed for the safer dark of the tunnels through which he'd come. Varien smiled ruefully, pressing the phial tighter. The blood was slowing, rosy light weaving the injured tissues and coagulated fluids together into scarred but whole tissue; but the light from the phial was fading as its energy was spent in reckless floods. Varien struggled to a sitting position against one wall of the drain and lifted his robe to inspect his side.

Almost done. Closing his eyes, he pressed the dimming phial to the few remaining spots, wincing as the torn flesh wrinkled and flowed together. Finally, his wound healed, he gasped in relief and tucked the phial away in a pocket within the robe before staggering to his feet and continuing on his way with one hand remaining in contact with the solidity of the wall to guide and support him. For the thousandth time, it seemed, he closed his eyes and Called, but there was no answer. Whether this was due to the weakening of his power, or the fear of his brethren, he did not know; charitably, he assigned the blame to his reduced circumstances and pressed on.

The water avoided his feet, with studious feigned indifference. The rivulets and ripples of the cold rush parted several inches before his toes and spun around his feet before reflooding the area immediately behind his boots. The clear area was slowly shrinking, he noted, as his power waned further. With a slight relaxation of his frame, the water poured eagerly forth to break against his boots rather than avoid them. The energy saved from this small economy was of a miniscule scale, but at the present it seemed to throb in readiness as it built within him.

Behind him some several hundred meters, the intruders followed. He could, through long familiarity, hear the soft splashing of their march. Turning his head rearwards in the now pitch darkness, his retinae flared slightly with the impact of stray photons from their portable floodlights despite the many twists and curves which separated them. They were coming steadily closer, and Varien turned determinedly about and continued to stumble down the drainage tunnel.

So intent was he on the wall with which he navigated, the tree branch caught in the current passed entirely unnoticed, and as his ankle turned on it, he barely had time to clutch frantically at the pocket holding the phial before falling heavily to the floor and hearing the sickly crack of his skill against the unyielding surface.

There was silence for a moment while the stars cleared from his vision leaving a darkness shot through with whorls and streaks of phosphenic color. They failed to fade, and he realized as if from a great distance that the reason for this was that they weren't artifacts in his vision, but the flickering reflections of the floodlights drawing closer back down the tunnel. He made a single herculean effort to rise, but failed and lay back instead, gasping as the frigid water passed around his head in burbling chaos patterns.

The first light drew even with him; then another, and another, and finally five figures holding lanterns were circled about him. There were murmurs of a hurried consultation,; then, one lantern clicked off. As its owner brought up the Planar weapon, Varien closed his eyes, uncapped the phial within his robe, and in a smooth movement brought the phial out into the light, upside down. Rose lighting spilled from it, and this final expenditure of his energy shot through him in a sudden giddy burst. As he finished forming the Circle, the gun fired.

Varien died immediately, his head burnt beyond recognition; however, the powergun bolt hit the small silver section of space immediately before his forehead and scattered into thousands of actinic blue needles. While the majority of the bolt rushed on to sink its energy into Varien, the others lanced out and upwards at crazy angles. None of the surrounding victims remained unscathed, and shouts of pain and surprise coincided momentarily with the crazed strobing of swinging lantern beams, until one of the ricocheting energy spikes pierced the butt and magazine of the powergun stuck into one of the remaining four men's belt.

The resulting flare of plasma vaporized all liquids for fifty yards up and down the tunnel, including water, glass, and blood.

Then the steam receded and the water rushed back in to cover the blackened horror where the group had stood.

 Theole bowed his head at the sudden flat whoom from the tunnels, feeling Varien's last tight fierce triumph before the black. Weeping silently, he turned away and began to run as best he was able through the narrow passages, his help having been too late. The sadness was there, as expected, but Theole was shamed to feel the core of anger there as well, and he clutched his burning cobalt phial to his breast as he half ran, half stumbled through the underdark, wishing for the clarity of the Rider's dreams.

Master, he called through his tears, master? Master Shan? Help me, please, master, Varien is dead. Varien has been killed, master, oh, please, answer-

The answer, when it came, shocked him to the core, unfamiliar and tentative.

HELLO? WHO IS THIS?

Master? Theole stumbled around a corner into an alcove of darkness, wet and stones and settled down to his haunches. Hiding the phial's brightness with his body, he closed his eyes and called again. Master Shan?

WHO IS THIS?

Master, this is Theole of the Blue.

Theole OF THE…BLUE?

Yes. Varien has been taken by Planars; his water is mixed with the earth. Please, we need your aid.

There was no reply, and Theole hid, and wondered, and feared.

Mtubi, waiting for Harris' return from the evidence room, was leafing through the Transit muggings report when the voice came, shocking the paper from his grasp and causing him to reach out and grasp his chair arms in reflexive fear.

-Master Shan? Help me, please, master, Varien is dead. Varien has been killed, master, oh, please, answer-

"Hello?" Mtubi glanced at his phone; there were no indicators lit. He punched the Answer key anyhow. "Who is this?"

The answer came, but not from the phone. Mtubi finally realized that the words were forming in his head, and the regular background babble of the Bookings area outside had vanished. The voice sounded, querulous, and Mtubi repeated the question.

Master, this is Theole of the Blue.

"Theole of the-" he stopped, looking around the office, then continued without speaking. Blue?

The voice answered, speaking of wrongs, of death, and pain; Mtubi shuddered at the wracking grief before grabbing up his trenchcoat and bolting for the exit.

He burst from the lobby onto the Plaza, looking about him frantically, but there was no-one watching, or looking back. Pedestrians went about their daily business. Velasco's cart was gone, he noted; the hour was late, and lunch had passed. Forcing his breathing to slow, he made his way to the small park where he sat for luncheon, and sat back against the oak tree that sheltered the area. Looking around revealed no one watching, and Mtubi closed his eyes.

Help, he thought. What do I do? While thinking about it, he strained, listening inside for Theole's voice, but there was only silence. Frustrated, he cast about, but his new senses were dim and unfocused; there were no voices nor thoughts to be found. He opened his eyes. Without being exactly sure but at the same time feeling the positive direction of his answer, he got up and hurried off across Plaza, making for the Transit.

Reaching the platform, he slapped his badge against the reader and pushed through the gate. Something was missing; he couldn't feel. Cursing with realization, he tore off his coat and dug frantically into the pockets. The circles were there, jingling softly. Ignoring the studious disinterest of his neighbors on the platform, he slipped on the four circles. The fifth had remained on his waist. Slipping the coat back on, he turned right and ran for the end of the station. The indik clicked soundlessly, moving from 2 minutes to 1 minute until the next Capsule.

Mtubi reached the end of the platform just as the lights of the approaching Capsule appeared around a bend in the tunnels past the far end of the station. He jumped off, taking care not to turn his ankle, and sprinted into the darkness perhaps thirty meters. Behind, the hiss of pneumatics indicated the Capsule was taking on passengers.

Although he wasn't sure if he was far enough from the platform (three rings; this close to the station, they were spaced ten meters apart) he had no more time. Checking once more that his coat was securely belted, Mtubi reached for the nearest access ladder and began to scale the Ring. As he did so, he called out with his fading strength, but there was no reply from Theole or anyone else.

Atop the Ring, he cinched his coat once more before looking back. The Capsule had closed its doors. There was a swiftly rising whine as the Magfield came up, and he had time to note that the cockpit was lit, an engineer barely visible behind the smoked glasteel. Then the Capsule was moving, and he turned to face down the tunnel-

Whining, rising, enfolding him; the Capsule slips by beneath, moving slowly still but gathering speed. The Magfield is distorted, the demands of acceleration and inertia calling a higher color and sound from the Vector generators within the Ring. The glaring orange rings of the Capsule's outer field rings washes over him, and Mtubi drops into the space behind it.

-a rushing roar, a sound, a sight, a taste of colors and of wind, no time, no time, the field is weakening as the Capsule picks up speed, but it's still to o powerful and before he can react Mtubi feels his arms smash into the rear of the Capsule's hull. His elbows and wrists collapse in a white flare of pain, but the absorbed shock is enough, and no bones break; he reflexively pushes, hard, despite the agony which results, and then he is within the Ride, flaring into silver space and time four or five meters behind the Capsule. He can feel the power surging through the Circles into him, burning his skin with cool and icy fire. The streams of proton radiation flow past him; electrons smash into his skin and flare briefly into silver light. The Capsule is gaining, now, and receding slowly into the distance, strobelight from the passing Rings flickering in his peripheral vision, and Mtubi instinctively flinches back from the floor of the tunnel as it nears him. There is a flash of silver, and he bounces slightly back upwards before settling gently onto the surface at a blinding speed. There is a membrane, almost, between his coat and skin and the surface; he can feel the striations of the Webfloor, but there is no friction save for air resistance, and with a compulsive flexing of will the silver flares briefly into actinic light and then fades entirely, and he is sitting on the floor of the Web with the Dreams running from his mouth with the taste of cool purple and the texture of ozone, pooling on the ground at his feet.

Mtubi closes his mouth, deliberately; the power builds slightly in him, then there is a last almost-sigh of photons from his trenchcoat and the tunnel fades slowly to its normal gloom. His vision is normal until he lets go, then the flickering wash of radiation returns in impossible colors and shapes, and he stumbles off the edge of the Web, then tries once more.

Theole?

The answer is wordless but powerful. Nothing more than the essence of query, an inquiring push. He reaches for it, blindly, and with a flash, there is a silver circle in the air in front of him and the boy in the sunglasses and leather jacket steps out into the tunnel and gives him an unbelievably wide grin.

Mtubi moves to the tunnel wall, leans there, tries to force his heart rate down as he had his breathing. Instantly concerned, the other moves to touch his shoulder. The contact is cool, smoothing the turbulent flow of energy through him, and Mtubi feels the world reordering itself within him, the power falling into channels and reservoirs of his body and mind to leave his vision and senses clear. He raises his head to look at the other, to find the boy smiling slightly but still with a serious look of concern.

Raising his hand, Mtubi clasps his shoulder firmly. The grin flashes again, then the boy gestures to the ground. Slowly, they both sit.

  There came no answer, and Theole rose to his feet to continue on his way down the storm drain. The others in the tunnels would have heard the sound of Varien's last stand as well, and would converge on the spot. Even the familiar Planars, the Webtenders and the guardians may yet arrive with light and noise to investigate. Theole must be far away if such occurs.

Reaching an intersection, he consulted his phial; it glows blue fire when passed rightward, and to the right he went, tucking it back into his robes with a sure hand. The tunnel intersected with the Web some few meters along; the storm drain ceiling descended until Theole was crouching to walk, then suddenly the ceiling vanished and he was traversing the Web in a drainage trench that cut across the tunnel.

Not being comfortable in the Web proper, Theole hurried along the trench, comforting in the cool flow of runoff water along the bottom. The water sang softly to him, telling him of its turns and falls; he could feel the curves ahead in his path from the tinkling song of the flow about his feet. Concentrating, he reached forward, seeking out obstacles that he could not pass-

Which was when a hand roughly jerked him from his reverie, falling on his shoulder. He had time for a brief yelp of surprise before he was hauled roughly from the drainage trench to the level of the crossing tunnel. He was pushed to the ground; by the time he could turn his head to see his attackers, a bright lantern was thrust into his face, forcing him to throw up a hand to shield his eyes.

"Oh, look," said a sarcastic voice, "it's another damn monk." Before Theole could respond, a heavy boot smashed into his face, and the world went blessedly dark.

Mtubi jerked upright at the same time the boy next to him did so. Looking at the other, he saw a look of determination and almost, but not quite anger; Mtubi drew back involuntarily at the flicker in the other's eyes. Without knowing why, he blurted out "Theole!"

The other, startled, turned to him and grinned quickly, nodding, before his features lapsed back into a grim mask. He gestured for Mtubi's hand; when it was offered, he seized it and with the other began a quick pass through the air. Mtubi had no time to follow the pattern, as a silver circle appeared almost instantly. Then, with a strength that was astonishing for one so slender, the boy stepped through the circle, pulling Mtubi with him.

They stepped out into a darkness shot with reflections. Some three meters before them, a trio of shapes stood, aiming lanterns away from them at a fourth figure; a man, kneeling by a head of cloth.

No, not cloth, thought Mtubi, Theole. Anger was rising in him, now, and he clasped his pistol preparatory to stepping forward, but his arm would not move. Looking down, he saw the other was holding his wrist, shaking his head. Without understanding, Mtubi nodded and released the gun butt. His companion turned to the scene before them as the kneeling man straightened and brought his boot back to kick the sprawled figure.

Before he could complete the motion, there was a hot flash of silver. The boy stood beside him, in full glare of the lanterns, and the four men shouted in surprise at his appearance. Before they could react further, however, the boy reached to his side and gently touched the kicker on the shoulder. That one shuddered, then flew backwards into the wall of the tunnel, despite the fact that the boy had not visibly moved his hand. Sunglasses winking in the glare, he turned to the other three, who were recovering; their motions told Mtubi that they were reaching for weapons.

Remembering the admonishment of his companion, Mtubi leapt onto the back of the leftmost man, crying out a kiai . As intended, his unexpected appearance from behind them caused the other two to freeze momentarily, and before they could react, the boy had touched both of them as well. They merely looked at him after the silver flash, then crumpled.

Meanwhile, Mtubi had borne his target to the ground, and smashed the other's forehead against the stone and dirt. Dropping the lantern, his victim collapsed bonelessly. Mtubi stood, brushing himself off, and nodded at the boy, who smiled back before turning to the sprawled figure in robes that Mtubi assumed was &endash; what was it? &endash; Theole of the Blue.

Whatever his name, Theole was decidedly unconscious. The boy gently touched his face and wrists, but there was no response. Mtubi noted that there was blood running from Theole's nose and lip; not quickly, but copiously. Apparently the boy's first victim had had time to deliver at least one blow.

Mtubi knelt beside Theole. The boy turned to him and nodded; at which, Mtubi gently turned Theole on his side to ensure that he didn't aspirate blood, and with his handkerchief began to wipe the blood from his face. Looking about, he spied the drainage trench. With an appropriated lantern, he looked down; there was water, and it appeared to be fairly clear. Since he didn't intend for Theole to drink it, he dipped the handkerchief in the cold flow and pressed it gently to the unconscious man's forehead. Theole stirred, moaning, and slowly rolled over onto his back, raising a hand to his nose. Mtubi sat back on his haunches.

"Well, now." The voice, from behind him, was completely unexpected. He started once, badly, then caught himself from toppling with an outstretched hand and turned, now sitting. A girl (the same girl as before, he noted somewhere) was standing with his companion, smiling. She stepped forward a pace and offered him a hand. When he reached out, she lifted him to his feet almost effortlessly and pushed the sunglasses up over her forehead.

"Who are you people?" Mtubi heard himself asking.

"We're…well, who or what we are will wait. My name is Marren."

"Marren?" The named was familiar. "Marren Kindart?"

"Yes." The girl (woman, actually; Mtubi noted that despite almost elfin features, she had mature eyes) frowned slightly. "How do you know my name?"

"You're a missing person. Reported as a missing person, I mean. I'm, uh, I'm a detective."

"You're police?" She seemed startled, and dismayed, and turned to his companion. The boy shrugged elaborately, and reached out to take Mtubi's hand. Pushing back his sleeve, the boy tapped deliberately on the circle of metal there.

"Oh, my God. Oh. Hang on." The woman sat, heavily, against the wall, and reached out a hand without looking. The boy released Mtubi and was instantly kneeling by her side. He tapped her knee until she looked into his eyes, and they were quiet for a moment. Then the woman nodded. He patted her hand, and they both stood, turning to Mtubi.

"Shan says you're a good man, and I go by his word."

"Shan? Is that his-"Mtubi gestured at the boy-"name?"

The boy nodded, smiling widely. Marren nodded as well. "Yes. His name's Shan. Just Shan. You may hear him addressed as Master Shan from time to time."

"By who? And why?" Mtubi was increasingly lost, but struggling gamely for understanding. "Wait, shouldn't we get Theole to a more comfortable place…" He turned to find Theole sitting up, one hand to his bleeding face. There was a blue glow coming from behind his palm. Mtubi trailed off to silence, and simply stared. A few seconds later, Theole lowered his hand to tuck something back into his robes. His face was unmarked save the remains of some dried blood; Mtubi offered him the handkerchief, unsure of what to do. With a smile of thanks, Theole took it and began to scrub the stains from this face. Mtubi turned back to Shan and Marren.

"Yes, Detective, we should." Marren glanced at Shan, and when he nodded, turned back. "Shan tells me you've seen us travel."

Mtubi nodded. "I've done it, I think…I'm not sure. I was a bit confused. But I made a circle-" he waved his hands somewhat vaguely- "and when I went through, I was, well…"

Marren raised her eyebrows. "I see. That's quite good, actually. Wonderful. Then we needn't walk. Love?" This last was directed at Shan, who nodded and closed his eyes. A now-familiar silver circle opened, and Marren took Theole's hand. Shan looked at Mtubi's offered hand, then grinned and shook his head, gesturing. Mtubi looked at him, then grinned back and stepped through the circle to

Somewhere else.

They were on a mathematically flat plain, so large that Mtubi could see no deviations or distortions. The sky was black, the ground silver; stars sprinkled above them shone brightly and steadily. Before he had time to panic, hands took hold of him from both sides, and he looked about to see Shan and Marren grinning at him. He swallowed, then grinned back, nodding, and the four of them (for Marren still had Theole with her other hand) stepped forward once and were

Somewhere dark.

This persisted for a moment, until there was a cool blue flare of light. In the illumination, Mtubi could see a medium-sized room, with equipment whose familiarity was a shock in his present state. Several hammers, a bin of spikes, three rigs which had to be argon welders, and a shelf full of various metal parts crowded the walls. A single door was visible, closed; Mtubi assumed, from the color of the floor and an unknown feeling, that it would open into the Transit Web,

The light was coming from Theole's hand. Mtubi moved to the door and threw a switch; with a comfortingly familiar tinkle and click, flourescent fixtures came on. Theole nodded at him and tucked his hand back into his robe, the light dimmed; in that brief moment Mtubi saw that the object he held was a small transparent phial, filled with a clear blue liquid.

The others were making themselves comfortable on what seats there were available. Theole sat cross-legged on the floor, while Shan and Marren, arms tightly linked, sat on a heavy metal cart whose platform rode on low wheels. Mtubi sat back against a wall before speaking.

"Is someone going to explain to me what's going on?"

"I suppose we must, now," said Marren, still holding Shan's hand. She held their clasped hands up, examining them as she spoke; she wouldn't meet Mtubi's eyes. "I have to ask a favor, first."

"What?"

"You can't tell anyone where I am. Who filed the missing persons report, anyhow?" With the last, she looked up.

"I don't remember. One of my men mentioned it to me in connection with an explosion in the Transit system last year."

Shan looked up, his face somber; Marren squeezed his hand tightly. "We remember that."

"That's right, I saw you, Shan, right after it happened."

"Were you there?" The words were sharp, and Marren was looking at him intently now.

"Yes, I was on the platform. I was hit in the head by a piece of debris; it took some time before I could go into the Transit without thinking about it." Mtubi shuddered involuntarily at the memory. "Anyhow, I saw Shan in midair &endash; were you riding that Capsule?"

Shan nodded, his face still serious.

"Anyhow, I saw him, and one of my detectives mentioned that someone had seen Marren-" he nodded to her "-behind another capsule some weeks before."

"Shan and I stopped riding through stations shortly after that." Marren's voice was slightly absent; Mtubi guessed that she, too, was remembering. "Shan was behind that one because he wasn't able to drop once the Angel came apart."

"Angel? Is that what you call the Capsules?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why not? Because it's clothed in light, and because it's powerful and good, and because we follow them." She smiled. "And, of course, because it's romantic. Riders of the Angel. Better than Hitchhikers of the Transit Web, don't you think?"

Mtubi had to grin, he couldn't help himself. "Yes, I see what you mean. Still, this doesn't answer nearly all of my questions."

Marren sighed. "Yes. Well, sit back, this might take awhile."

By the time she'd finished, Theole was listening with eyes closed in rapt attention; Shan was still sitting beside her, his expression a small smile, and Mtubi was leaning forward in fascination. He realized with a start as she finished that his legs were asleep. While massaging them, he spoke.

"That's…extraordinary, you know."

Marren shook her head. "After what you've experienced, you can call it that?"

Mtubi was silenced, struck by her words. Finally he nodded. "You're right. I'm not sure what I've experienced. But that's extraordinary, nonetheless."

"You can call it whatever you want. I don't even call it anything, anymore. It's just who I am."

"What did you do, before, that is, up there?" Mtubi waved at the ceiling.

"When I was a Planar, you mean." Marren grinned suddenly, the elf laughing, and Shan grinned with her.

"What's a Planar?"

"Planar. From plane. The surface is a plane."

"Am I a Planar?"

"Yes. For now."

"What decides it?"

"How you use the gift you've been given by the Angel and the Rider."

"The Angel is the Transit capsule, of course."

Her anger was sudden and sharp, the cracking of a silken whip. "If it is, then you'll be Planar until you die."

Mtubi raised his hands in defense. "Peace, peace. I'm still a Planar, yes."

Marren looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Maybe not forever." The admission was soft and half to herself.

There was a brief silence, during which Mtubi absentmindedly retied the belt of his trenchcoat. The coat was showing wear at the rough treatment, he noticed sadly, but was still familiar, and perhaps that was what was important. He looked up.

"Does anyone tell me how to use what I've been given?"

Shan grinned fiercely, and shook his head. Marren laughed, as did Theole. Mtubi had almost forgotten about Theole, so silently had he been sitting with his knees up and arms around them. Marren answered.

"Nope. You figure it out. That's the secret, down here, for all of us. You have to tell us who you are."

"I'm…" Mtubi started, but Marren cut him off.

"No. Not who the Planar is. Who you are, down here. We know you're a Rider. Which one, we have to wait and see. There are several kinds of people down here. You, I, and Shan, we're Riders, for obvious reasons. That gives us power. With power comes responsibility. Theole-" the other nodded, "-Theole is a Waterman. His power is the water; his gift is in the water. He cannot talk to the Angel, though; that's not his path. From time to time, a Rider gives unto him, unto his Water. Theole is of the Blue."

"Of the Blue? He said that, before, but I'm still not sure what it means." Mtubi glanced at Theole, who sat up suddenly, gaining presence among them without growing in size. Marren gestured to him.

"Theole, tell him."

Theole stood and reached into his robe. His right hand came out holding the phial Mtubi had seen before; this time, he held it between thumb and forefinger so that it was visible to all. The clear liquid within was deep blue, as was the glow from the phial; the reddish brown of Marren's trousers washed to dark grey in the cyan light. Theole held the phial out to Mtubi, whose new vision was a chaos of flux lines and fields emanating from the phial at the center of his view. Tentatively, he reached out a hand. Theole placed the phial gently in his palm, and all three looked at him expectantly.

Puzzled, Mtubi examined the phial. It wasn't, he noted, stoppered; rather, it was a continuous smooth unbroken shape, whatever the material. Whatever was in it wasn't coming out without breaking the phial. The phial rested in his palm, the warping of space around it slowly flowing to match the contours of his hand. The sight was disturbing; it seemed to Mtubi that the phial's shape, in the impossible color and field of his sight, was melting into his. He looked up to see Theole nodding, satisfied. Dropping his vision to normal, he could see the phial's glow increasing, and his hand was faintly reflective with the Silver flickering around it.

Hastily, he returned the phial to Theole, who laughed. Marren spoke up. "You're a Rider. Theole's a Waterman. The Angel speaks to him through you."

"I am Theole of the Blue." The voice was unexpectedly deep, different from the smaller one he'd heard in his head. "Listen, Planar, Rider; I will tell you my story."

Mtubi sat back as Theole began to flicker blue shades from his robe, and glanced at Marren and Shan to see them listening solemnly. He turned his ears and eyes back to Theole as the other began.

"Do you understand now?" Theole asked gently.

Mtubi shook his head slowly. "No."

"Good. Then there is hope that you will."

Mtubi looked up at the other three. "Look, tell me this- are there more like you? How many? What do you di down here?"

Marren smiled. "We live. We Ride. We heal. We play. Does there have to be anything else?"

"I suppose not. I'm just snowed under. All right," said Mtubi, drawing himself up and stretching, "can you at least tell me what the system is like down here?"

"What system?" Marren grinned again.

"You. Theole and…others like him. Others like you. Others like me. How does it work?"

"Well enough."

"Damn it-"

Shan held up a hand, and Mtubi subsided. Although the other didn't speak, his brow furrowed as if he was turning over explanations in his head. Finally he shook his head, and pointed at Marren, then and himself.

"I don't understand. Her and you?"

Marren stood, moved to the other side of the room and faced the wall before speaking. "No. He's the reason it all started. How it came to be was my idea." She spun, fixing Mtubi with a piercing look. "This is my world, Planar. Do you understand? Mine. I didn't start it. I didn't even create it. But I defined it. It's the way it is because of me."

Shan, Mtubi noticed, was looking at her as she spoke with a troubled look. Theole had reseated himself, and seemed once more to be the slightly smaller person he remembered from their first meeting. Marren continued.

"I was an engineer. A Planar. Shan came to me, like I told you, and he brought me here. He showed me what I could do. So I did; and he did. The rest came later, when I realized that I didn't ever want to go back up there. I couldn't bear the thought of being alone down here; even with Shan, it's not the same. I needed- I needed-" she broke off, frustrated.

A purpose, Mtubi silently finished, but waited quietly.

"Anyway, I thought about what it would look like. All the lost children. She smiled suddenly. "Did you ever read Peter Pan, detective?"

Caught off guard by the subject change, Mtubi shook his head. "No. Child's book?"

"Yes. One of the earliest; written long ago in England. When there was an England. It's a story of three children taken away to live with the Lost Children on a magical island, led by the icon of the child who never grows up. Peter Pan. Shan isn't Peter; that's for sure, but this place- " she spun, arms outstretched to take in not only the small room but the endless klicks of tunnel and Web and passage around them, under City, under the bottom of the top of the world- "this place, this is Never-Never Land, Peter's Island. There are lost children here, too; Theole is one, his compatriots are others; I'm one, Shan was the first. There are adventures, and you can fly; there are galleons and fairies and all that."

Mtubi looked at her as she stopped and turned back to face him. She was smiling, and there was a point of color in her cheeks, a slight flush. "I know, that sounds like a romantic fantasy. But it's true, and there's an important reason we created it. There is evil, too; up there, mostly, but recently, down here as well. We have to stay together, detective, and watch the Pirates carefully, for if we don't, they'll surely win the next battle."

With that, she sat back down next to Shan. The latter clasped her arm strongly, a slight worried look wiping itself from his face as she turned to him and smiled before resuming her story.

"Look, I know it sounds crazy. But the only way to stay down here was to build a society; otherwise, there wasn't much point to being an AngelRider. Without what comes with the title, the Dreams aren't any good except for escaping; illusion and fantasy. That's fine in small doses. But like it or not, we have to return to this world from time to time in order to stay ourselves; and when there, you can't just wander the tunnels. I can't go back up, either; I'm changed too much to understand or tolerate it. I'm used to darkness, now, and colors they've never even dreamed of. I can hear them in my head, wherever I am; the rushing, and the blindness and the deaf ears that can't hear me and the Angel. I can hear Shan and the others, as well, but that's a song; the Upabove is a cacophony."

"This brings me back to my original question," Mtubi put in as she paused for breath. "What does this society look like?"

Marren sighed. "This will take a while. Let's start with the basics. Shan and I are Riders, AngelRiders in full. You've seen &endash; and done &endash; what that means. We dance with the Angel, and bring the power back from the Web." She raised a palm, and a flickering silver fractal shape spun above her open hand for a moment before evaporating into flashes of varicolored light. Mtubi sat back, startled and then fascinated by the steady glow of changing color that replaced it. "This is something I just learned to do. I don't know what the Dreams are for; I don't even know what they can do, except for a few tricks. So I experiment. So does Shan. I suspect you have too. Shan mostly works on the Ride; the transfer and the storage; I work on manifestations that don't require props or people…art, I guess. There are others; they all work with the Dreams in their own way. And now you're here."

There was a brief silence. Mtubi broke it. "What does that mean?"

"Just that. You've been given the Gift of the Circles; you're an AngelRider too, now. Not everyone can Ride; very, very few. Perhaps a tenth of a percent of the people Up there."

"How can you tell? I mean, before you try it? What happens if…"

"…if you're not a Rider and you try?" Marren finished where Mtubi broke off. "It depends. Usually you just fall to the ground from the Ring; the Mag and Vectorfields don't flex in the peculiar way that they do if a Rider is wearing the circles."

She grinned wryly at Mtubi's surprised look. "I told you, I was, or am, an engineer. I know how the Web works. I did a project on it in school for my first degree. But I still don't know what makes some people different. We've gotten better and telling, though."

"How? I remember someone touching me, at night, Dreaming."

"Yes. Shan found you during a Ride. He recognized you when we met in the Web with the mugger, and he gave you the Circles because he knew you could hear the Dreams."

Mtubi raised his wrists and turned them over, appraising the metal circlets on them. They were still mirror-bright, unmarked by fingerprints. Experimentally, he touched one; no print showed. The other three laughed. He looked up, confused.

"It's okay." Marren sobered, but was still smiling. "We've all tried. We don't even know what they are, really; Shan can make them, using the Web itself, but I don't know what happens to them that makes them into this. As near as I can figure, when the metal distorts, it traps a curent of Vector energy in it, and freezes it like a superconductor can trap a current and hold it there. I believe the things are some measurable percent energy by mass, but I haven't experimented. Probably I never will; there are some things that it's more fun to have than understand."

Mtubi considered this. "Is Theole's phial made of energy?"

Marren grinned. "You're getting it. We don't know. But we want to. That's the whole point! Can we take the power with us away from the Web? Yes. For how long? We don't know; not long. Shan keeps trying to find ways to 'store' it, but he doesn't leave the Web much at all. Neither do I. Some Riders do, but very few. Imagine if you could take this into space! Think of what you could do, what you could accomplish, with just what we know already. And we don't know anything, really."

"Will you ever try that?"

"I don't know." The words fell upon the room, silenced it. "I don't leave the Web either. Maybe we never will, and the point will be moot. But now you're here."

"So what?"

"You're the first one of us who, and I'm assuming this, wasn't running from something. You don't have a reason to avoid the Upabove. Maybe you'll be able to come and go. Besides, we were waiting for you."

Mtubi held up his hands in a warding motion. "Waiting for me? What do you mean? For how long?"

"Since the evil started. We had learners, healers-" she nodded to Theole-" and Riders, but no Guardians. That's you. Guardian. You're a policeman, right?"

Mtubi nodded.

"The you're the first. The Guardian of the Angel."

"Says who?"

"Me." A mischevious grin. "I just made it up."

Theole, up to this point silent, got to his feet. The others fell silent, waiting. After a few moments with his eyes closed, Theole moved to Mtubi and held out a hand. Mtubi shook it, confused. Theole smiled. "Welcome, Guardian. Welcome, Rider. My fellows call me, and I must go. Will you succor me?"

"Succor… what?" Mtubi looked to Marren, behind Theole's back. She mimed holding a small object; the phial, Mtubi guessed. Looking back at Theole, he nodded guardedly. Theole's smile returned; grew broader, if that was possible. Reaching into his robe, he produced the phial and held it out towards Mtubi. When Mtubi moved to take it, he pulled it back slightly; when Mtubi retreated, abashed, he smiled and held it out again."

Ah. Mtubi remembered Marren saying that the Riders brought the power; but how was he to do that? He'd never tried. Ah well.

Closing his eyes, Mtubi visualized the phial. It glowed slightly in noncolors, field lines surrounding it. He could taste its' surface; see its presence in the air near him. He tried to see a bridge between himself and the phial, a bridge of silver. Nothing happened, although he could feel the power build. Think. I'm missing something. Theole's phial. Theole…aaahhhhh. Theole of the Blue. He built a filter in his mind; placed it in front of the silver glow in his hand. He imagined it stopping the red, the green, the yellow; the slot in the spectrum that was Blue coursed through him, and his body flowed through it-

The room spun back and away in crazy shards, the stone and concrete and steel and energies of the Web coursing around him in comforting reality while the Dreams laughed and ran races in his head. The two blazing points nearby were, he could feel, Shan and Marren; they waited quietly to see what he would do. Theole was a calming darkness, a sink of energy; he held in his hand an empty space. The colors burst from Mtubi in whorls of impossible hues to mix and swirl and flutter around his head with the longtime Dreamtime Webcrazed energies and as his head began to pulse with the power of it he felt the filter flex and surge and the energy pour from his as through a hose; his vision dimmed into a reddish hue as the silver halo that surrounded him stretched itself and extended to the phial and Theole's form. Inches from Theole's body, it shifted cured convoluted chromomorphed into a rain of cyan, indigo, lapis, almost turquoise; the many shades of the color that Theole wore about his body in this strange otherlit darkened basement of a world, and Theole glowed faintly as the power sank in to him and into the small spot of space enclosed by the phial and as Mtubi's vision faded down , washed from red to dark red to brown to black he felt himself falling forward, energy gone, but a bright shining cool hand touched his arm and Marren bore him back up to his feet; helped him sit against the wall, sweating and shivering with the sour taste of lactic acids and broken ATP in his mouth as the muscle exhaustion reached up and claimed him. Struggling, he kept his eyes open for a moment, long enough to see Theole tuck away the phial and move to him to lay his palm across Mtubi's forehead leaving the thanks and wonder stained there in patterns of aqua regia scarring and improbable reflective sparkles and then he left and the blackness opened and Mtubi felt his toes sink as the edge of the abyss crumbled; falling, it was a grateful feeling, and finally there was nothing at all-

He awoke alone, in the darkness. A chill air touched his brow; he would have shivered but for the knowledge that once started the spasms would not stop until they had taken his control completely away. Sitting up, Mtubi sniffed the air to find the now familiar traces of burnt granite and unused hallways touched with the bright tang of unfinished metals that was the Web.

The Web was never this dark, however; at least, not to his knowledge. He stood carefully, the weakness in his limbs not surprising but still shocking. Once sure he was able to remain upright, he turned in a complete circle, listening. There were faint sounds, as if from a long way off; however, they were all around him and provided no answer.

Mtubi tried to change his vision, but found that the effort left him shaking and nauseous. Fright overcame him for a moment as he was unable to name his ailment; he fought it down and bent over, hands on knees, to ease the spinning of his head.

Hungry was perhaps the only word which could, in his experience to date, describe what he felt; however, his stomach offered none of the familiar clues of privation. No aches, no roiling. The emptiness, however, was familiar; the only difference was that it rested somewhere else within him, in a place to which he could not put his name.

With a sudden clarity unusual for memory, he recalled as a child trying solemnly to look in a mirror and point to the spot where his head hurt. Unable to touch it, he tried triangulating, using two fingers; where their imaginary lines crossed was the ache. It never worked to his satisfaction, though, for the ache was elusive and dynamic. No sooner had he worked out where it lay then suddenly the location would change, with no memory of it moving in between.

No memory of in between. Standing once more, the dizziness lessened, Mtubi forced a smile. That's how I came here. No memory of the in between. Still, regardless of how he had come to this place, there had to be a way out of it. Sighing, he began to slowly shuffle forward, his feet moving slowly and close to the surface to guard against imbalance were he to hit an obstacle.

This technique paid dividends some moments later when he barked his shin painfully (although not as bad as it would have been at a normal pace) against an unyielding barrier. Stopping instantly and windmilling his arms to stay balanced, Mtubi put out a questing hand to find a ridged metal surface. A grating. Pushing against it caused it to move slightly, with a squeak. The cart. He hadn't moved, then, at least in space. Sitting gently on the cart, he tried to remember from which direction they had come.

After several moments thought, he realized that he had no idea of his orientation or position anyhow, so this information was useless.

The only thing he could think of to do was to lie down, so he did. Bunching up his coat into a poor pillow, he lay out on the cart's bed and drifted off to sleep, feeling he peculiar pattern of the bumps and ridges of the grating slowly impressing themselves in the skin of his back, legs and buttocks.

When he awoke again, there was light; dim and faint, it filtered down from above him. Looking up revealed a small glow; looking carefully revealed a bare fraction of a mil of visible grating above him, almost entirely hidden by pipes, conduits, concrete and steel. Climbing to it required perhaps half an hour and most of the loose objects in the room; when he reached the top of the last pipe, he found himself crouched beneath a grate which yielded to his shove. Climbing out, Mtubi found himself in the oubliette of a Web access manhole.

The ladder revealed the Planar world, and he rose slowly to join it, aches and fatigue toxins vying for place in his blood.

He was on the street in front of his apartment. Without bothering to ask himself or the nonexistent others why or how, Mtubi made his way upstairs to his own bed and promptly dropped off into deepest slumber.

He awoke alone, in the darkness. A chill air touched his brow; he would have shivered but for the knowledge that once started the spasms would not stop until they had taken his control completely away. Sitting up, Mtubi sniffed the air to find the now familiar traces of burnt granite and unused hallways touched with the bright tang of unfinished metals that was the Web.

The Web was never this dark, however; at least, not to his knowledge. He stood carefully, the weakness in his limbs not surprising but still shocking. Once sure he was able to remain upright, he turned in a complete circle, listening. There were faint sounds, as if from a long way off; however, they were all around him and provided no answer.

Mtubi tried to change his vision, but found that the effort left him shaking and nauseous. Fright overcame him for a moment as he was unable to name his ailment; he fought it down and bent over, hands on knees, to ease the spinning of his head.

Hungry was perhaps the only word which could, in his experience to date, describe what he felt; however, his stomach offered none of the familiar clues of privation. No aches, no roiling. The emptiness, however, was familiar; the only difference was that it rested somewhere else within him, in a place to which he could not put his name.

With a sudden clarity unusual for memory, he recalled as a child trying solemnly to look in a mirror and point to the spot where his head hurt. Unable to touch it, he tried triangulating, using two fingers; where their imaginary lines crossed was the ache. It never worked to his satisfaction, though, for the ache was elusive and dynamic. No sooner had he worked out where it lay then suddenly the location would change, with no memory of it moving in between.

No memory of in between. Standing once more, the dizziness lessened, Mtubi forced a smile. That's how I came here. No memory of the in between. Still, regardless of how he had come to this place, there had to be a way out of it. Sighing, he began to slowly shuffle forward, his feet moving slowly and close to the surface to guard against imbalance were he to hit an obstacle.

This technique paid dividends some moments later when he barked his shin painfully (although not as bad as it would have been at a normal pace) against an unyielding barrier. Stopping instantly and windmilling his arms to stay balanced, Mtubi put out a questing hand to find a ridged metal surface. A grating. Pushing against it caused it to move slightly, with a squeak. The cart. He hadn't moved, then, at least in space. Sitting gently on the cart, he tried to remember from which direction they had come.

After several moments thought, he realized that he had no idea of his orientation or position anyhow, so this information was useless.

The only thing he could think of to do was to lie down, so he did. Bunching up his coat into a poor pillow, he lay out on the cart's bed and drifted off to sleep, feeling he peculiar pattern of the bumps and ridges of the grating slowly impressing themselves in the skin of his back, legs and buttocks.

When he awoke again, there was light; dim and faint, it filtered down from above him. Looking up revealed a small glow; looking carefully revealed a bare fraction of a mil of visible grating above him, almost entirely hidden by pipes, conduits, concrete and steel. Climbing to it required perhaps half an hour and most of the loose objects in the room; when he reached the top of the last pipe, he found himself crouched beneath a grate which yielded to his shove. Climbing out, Mtubi found himself in the oubliette of a Web access manhole.

The ladder revealed the Planar world, and he rose slowly to join it, aches and fatigue toxins vying for place in his blood.

He was on the street in front of his apartment. Without bothering to ask himself or the nonexistent others why or how, Mtubi made his way upstairs to his own bed and promptly dropped off into deepest slumber.

Waking, now, was an entirely different experience. Mtubi rolled from his bed to walk shakily towards the kitchen in search of water. Finding a glass, he filled it and drank greedily, then refilled the glass and did it again. With his third cup, he wandered out into his living area, where he thought to look at the clock. The accusing hands told him that he was a half hour late; muttering, he finished his water and dressed hurriedly. He didn't realize until he was out the door, tying the belt on his second-best overcoat (the other rested, today, in his closet; he tried not to think of the rents and tears he'd found when deciding on this one) that he had donned his Circles without thinking of it, in between fastening his watch and shoving his Memory in its customary inside pocket. The thought brought a tight grin, smothered quickly as he moved downstairs and towards the Transit stop at the corner.

Descending the stairs brought no rush of memory- at least, not of any memory that was disturbing. Flashing his badge, Mtubi made his way through the turnstiles and on the platform. Leaning against a wall, he began trembling. Unable to determine the cause, he tried to wait it out; after a few minutes, however, he was hugging himself with both arms while trying not to slide down the pillar against which he was leaning to end up on the floor in a heap.

Something's wrong. The thought was insistent, and despite the rush of instant sarcasm it brought (No, no, I llike sitting on Transit floors, it's good for the hips) Mtubi stopped and slowly tucked himself deeper into his coat.

Oh, lord. Of course. He bared one wrist, touched the Circle there with the fingers of his other hand. There was no reaction save a slight feeling of chill; Mtubi could see, dimly, flows of energy moving into the Steel. The damn thing's taking my…whatever, energy. I didn't realize this flow was two-way. Why the hell would it start that? I was just fine yesterday, until I-

Realization came with a twisting frown at his own slow brain. Damn it. Theole. Theole's phial. Mtubi forced a grin, thinking but I gave at the office! before slowly walking down the platform (nonchalantly) towards the far end, where this Capsules vanished into the tunnels once more.

There were things about this station that he noticed, now, that he hadn't before. The walls weren't even, for example; there was a distinct rough variance in the surface as whatever was beneath pushed outward against the duracrete with hydraulic pressure and the weight of the earth above.

The steps down to the floor of the Web were metal, even, regular; save the last, which left him to jolt the last (longer) step from the metal to the duracrete and earth. The impact made itself felt in his knee and ankle; a sudden sharp image of cartilege and bone deforming slightly to dissipate the energy blinked through his mind.

Walking down the Web was almost sexual; he could feel the anticipation of the Circles grow. Or was it his anticipation? Mtubi wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if the demanding need from the Circles was normal, either; just figuring things out as he went along.

Some two or three hundred yards from the station, he ascended a Ring and waited. Moments later, the song starting up again in his head, he watched the bright cone of yellowish arc brilliance from the Capsule's headlamps light the tunnel wall as I crested a curve back beyond the station platform; then, with only a slight delay, the song rushed to the forefront of his mind, emerging from the depths of his foramen magnum to sizzle into his frontal lobes and pulse just behind his forehead-

Mtubi dropped, his second-best overcoat flaring about him in a perfect weightless parabolic shell.

SLAM

-the ride came again, it came again, it brought him in and up and down and in, his arms and shoulders aching with the laughing joys of Mag and Vector. Circles, Circlerider, drink drink drink, it said; have have have. Drink he/they did, greedily pulling in the colored tendrils of dreamstuff that swam about him in the web, and as he did so Mtubi realized his thinking was clearing slightly, and although still present the normal hazy everlong dreaming wordless shout that was there during the Ride was lessened, somehow; not in volume, but he could now ignore it to some degree allowing some measure of reasoned thought to return. It cost effort, to resist the laughing pull, but Mtubi glanced forward through the lessened but still fierce slipstream as it pushed its way back past Vectorfields behind the capsule just in time to catch him traveling behind.

There was, he realized, a station ahead of him on the course, and while he could simply drop to the floor, he found that he didn't wish to, for his weakened state left him still able to absorb the power he was drifting in; but what to do? The Angel itself would slow, then stop, then drop as commuters boarded and debarked, what else could he-

Answers, sometimes, come in a flash; at times, they happen so smoothly that you cannot honestly remember, later, when it was that your conscious brain recognized the concept being insistently kicked up the mental staircase by a frustrated subconscious. Looking up again at the back of the Angel in all its stroboscopic glory, Mtubi

-reach and drew and pulled and turned and the Circle grew in space ahead of him, black and silver-edged. As he brought the Circle back down around his body, Mtubi wondered for a brief panicked moment where he was going, but it was too late for that as he slipped through it, flicked out-

-to blaze into a crystalline and quicksilver landscape of smoothly mirrored panes and infinitely darkened sky, move gently down (he might still be moving forward but the surfaces were too smooth to see any motion) and then bump gently on the surface with no force whatsoever.

Experimentally, he settled down onto the surface, and pressed the palm of one hand flat down, hard, against it; there was a small pale flickering glow of blue around his palm, and a slight intimation of rushing energies, moving surfaces, sliding floors, below his palm, beneath a layer of frictionless oil that he was in danger of displacing. Hurriedly, he drew his hand back, to stand as best he was able and look about him. Nothing was familiar; nothing was threatening, and he was mildly amazed to discover a total lack of fear despite his intrusion into a place or dream that only a few days before he would have classed as grounds for complete psycheval.

  They had been here before, he realized; the details of the previous trip, although fuzzy in this newfound world of rational dream, were nevertheless present and clearing. Moving experimentally with a skating motion, Mtubi drew a circle in the air.

Nothing happened.

A panic welled up in him, the thought of forever living on the mirrored cold surface-

Then he tried again, visualizing the Webline as it approached the Plaza stop; a faint shimmering- again, with calmer mind, and this time a Circle opened into a vision of blasting dust light and noise, the barely-recognizable view of the Angel's stern holding steady in the flickering light of the Magfields. Mtubi stepped forward, into the circle, felt himself snap forward ninety degrees until his arms were once more outstretched ahead. Before he could shout in surprise at the wrenching motion, the flush of Dreams flowed into his head and out his pores and pooled in his shoes in whorls of iridescent color and joy, and then the lights were slowing, slowing, and he dropped from the cradling paw of Mag to touch the smooth floor and scrape along before momentum transformed his motion into a painful roll. He had just time to think now I see why Shan wears those ridiculous-looking studs before he crunched to a stop against a ring. He could see the Capsule, now several hundred meters ahead, settling into a station.

Wincing at the pain, he stood and began to walk towards the light.

Oh, hell. The thought came unbidden and unwanted. I'm an hour late.

As if it mattered.

Climbing from the tracks, Mtubi found that he'd ripped his second-best overcoat in the small of the back and inside the left breast.

The message light was blinking on his com when he came into the office. Whoever it was hadn't been forwarded to his phone &endash; which was (he checked) still in its holster &endash; so either it wasn't an internal call or it wasn't important. Despite wanting to sit and look at things without moving for perhaps two or three hours while his muscle aches receded and his vision settled back towards normal after the Ride, Mtubi sighed, hung his coat and sank into his chair. "Com, messages."

The com voice, a smooth contralto, responded quickly as always. "Two messages, Sergeant. First message is…from a Mr. Raul Phaesos at Raytheon Small Arms. Second message is…from Detective Harris."

They'd never gotten the thing to list messages without that little pause which reminded you of its mechanical nature. Of course, maybe that was the point. Mtubi dug on his desk for a notepad and pen while talking to the machine. "Okay, play first message."

"Sergeant, my name is Raul Phaesos. I'm calling you in response to a message left for me be a Detective Harris from your department…I have some information here he had requested." A slight pause; the rustling of paper on the line. "Ah. Yes, the photos he sent us show a standard Nine/Five Personal CEP. There is not enough information to resolve lot or serial number &endash; we checked the two other locations for possible recovery of serial number data- and there were around fifty thousand of the units made. All were sold to U.S. military buyers; mostly the Army and Air Force as officer's sidearms, I believe."

There was a pause, allowing Mtubi time to swear feelingly at the lack of specific information. There was no chime indicating end of message, however, and he refrained from hitting 'delete' long enough to hear Phaesos continue, as if he'd been talking to another person in the room with his hand over the receiver and just now resumed his call.

"There is a small chance, however, that if the weapon is returned to our labs we may be able to give you more information. For technical reasons which aren't worth discussing here, the diamond flashguides can sometimes be traced to lot numbers through a careful analysis of the trace minerals in that particular 'guide. That will sometimes allow us to determine which manufactured lot of diamonds produced it, and that would give us a pool of at most five hundred weapons to examine. In any case, please call me if you have any further questions; my contact is appended to this message."

The recording stopped. Ignoring the machine's query of what to do with the message, Mtubi snatched up the small stack of offprints in the com's bay and sorted through them until he found Phaesos' business card. Putting messages on hold, he ordered the com to dial the number. After answering, a secretary put him through, and Phaesos picked up the phone.

"Detective Mtubi?"

"Yes, Mr. Phaesos. Thank you for your message."

"No problem, Detective. I presume you're interested in having the weapon examined."

"We definitely are. What would you need us to do?"

"Well, let me see. There's the standard lab fee- don't worry, it's not going to break budgets, it's only about twice a standard ballistics test fee- and the gun would need to be returned to our facility here in the Framingham quad. You're in the Manhattan quad?"

"Yes; Manhattan Eight. I can have it routed up there in a few hours. How long will the test take?"

"Oh, the tests are fairly quick, perhaps by tomorrow if we get the gun before the shift ends. However, you should be aware that the process of extracting a sample from the flashguide is a destructive process. The weapon's geometry will be irrevocably changed. Any attempt to match the weapon to a plasma impact later would be futile; we can take records of the flash pattern before testing, but they will be a weaker legal exhibit."

Mtubi shifted a bit, finally relaxing into his chair. "I'm impressed with your knowledge of our procedures, Mr. Phaesos. Not all contractors are as up-front as this."

The other chuckled. "The others probably aren't trying to sell your department another lot of twenty thousand sidearms. No, really, I've been through the legal testing loops before; the regional D.A.s will occasionally call my office for this test. Should I expect the gun today?"

"There are two of them, and yes, I'll have them sent out now. Maybe two hours. Will that be in time for results tomorrow?"

"Oh, sure. No problem. Should they be sent to your office? And do you want the guns back?"

"Yes to both counts. Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Phaesos."

"Raul, please, Detective. My pleasure. I'll look for the shipment."

Mtubi rang off, and remembered the second message. It turned out to be Harris looking for a time to come chat about the muggings; Mtubi told the com to schedule him for that afternoon and page both of them. The com agreed, and Mtubi was left to hunt through his desk for the forms required for Evidence to ship the powerguns to Raytheon, several quads to the north in Old Massachusetts.

As he was making the last call necessary to complete that task, Harris stuck his head in the door quizzically. Mtubi waved him in to a seat while he finished. Hanging up, he turned to his subordinate. "What's up?"

"Oh, I heard that you'd sent the guns north."

"Yes, just now, in fact."

Harris nodded once, then looked around almost &endash;Mtubi couldn't find a better word &endash; furtively. Getting up, he closed the door and returned to his chair with a somber face. Mtubi waited silently, and after some seconds of obvious hesitation Harris cleared his throat and looked up.

"Boss, I've been finding some strange stuff in the Transit system."

Mtubi sat back slowly. "Strange? Strange how?"

"Oh, I don't know…just strange. Usually you get one or two crazy stories about any case where there's anything odd, and I know I did come to you originally with a pretty weird story…" He trailed off. Mtubi nodded at him and waited again until he continued.

"Boss, remember I told you about that woman, Marren Kindart? The missing persons case? How someone saw her flying through a Transit station?"

"Yes, I do."

"I've been talking to a bunch of the Transit maintenance crews. Some of them spend most of their time in the system anyhow, I thought I'd check and see if anyone had heard or seen anything. Well, they have. At least, I think they have. They tell these stories…stuff that sounds absolutely like some bored guys making up fairy tales to lighten the job. There's just one problem."

"And the problem is…" Mtubi prompted.

"The problem, Boss, is that I ran a couple of them under the verifier. Informal, you know, in the tunnels while we were talking-"

"You ran a verifier on them? With their knowledge?"

Harris looked sheepish, flushed slightly. "Well, no, but I figured that since I wasn't actually taking this stuff down as a legal interrogation, just checking around, you know, that it wouldn't matter."

Mtubi hung his face in his hands for a moment, then looked up. "Harris, damn it, you are not to use that thing without informed consent. Do you have any idea how hard we had to fight to get the courst to let us carry them? Do you know what kind of thin strand we're holding on to them with? If this gets back to an officer of the court, they'll yank that permission so fast you won't be able to say 'Miranda.' And we won't have a leg to stand on."

"Boss, I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Look, I'll leave mine in the station if you want. I just had to know, 'cause the stories were all so weird and they all matched up so well, even among guys from different sectors and crews and shifts. So either there's some sort of group mythos going here, or these guys have actually seen some of this stuff."

"All right, I'll bite. What stuff?"

"All kinds. Flying people. Magic. Monks running around underground. A weird bunch of homeless guys that seem to follow them around all the time when they're making repairs, and just watch them. They never interfere, they never follow them out; the just always appear when something's being done to the Web systems themselves, and they watch, and don't blink, until you go."

"I think they're brewing something down there out of industrial lubricants that they shouldn't be drinking. And I think you've had a shot too."

"Come on, Boss, that's not fair," Harris returned angrily, sitting up straight. "You sent me out on this damn chase, remember? After you saw something during the bombing! So don't tell me there's nothing there, damn it, 'cause I've been down there looking, and you haven't." He ran down, then looked a bit embarrassed and sat back in his chair. "Sorry, Boss."

"That's okay, Harris." Mtubi swiveled his chair to look at his comunit for a moment, since he didn't' have a window. Then he swiveled back and leaned forward. "Okay. Here's the drill. I believe you. I've been doing some work on this as well, but not in this direction. Here's what I want you to do. Take all the time you have allotted to this case, and use it to develop a clear picture of what these guys say is going on down there. I want to know exactly what each of these people they're seeing looks like, what they do, where they are, and when they come out. Don't use the verifier, just get their stories. And don't go over your case hours on this, 'cause if I have to fill out an overage request we're going to get cut off at the knees. Take an hour here, an hour there. Let me know when you have some concrete stuff written up. If you have a problem doing this, tell me now, okay?"

Harris grinned. "No problems, Boss. Beats looking at dead people." He took Mtubi's nod for a dismissal, and swung from the office. Mtubi watched through the glasstic partitions as Harris slung his verifier into his desk drawer and headed out the door, then turned to his own work.

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...This is obviously a work in progress. check back, it will expand. :-)

-The Custodian