Jonathan Lobo nudged his cycle into the passing lane and opened the throttle wide. As he sped north, along Intercity 5, the sky above was rapidly changing from murky slate to gun-metal gray. Gonna rain soon, he thought and shifted the Blitzen into a higher gear.

He couldn't believe they'd recalled him--before he'd even started his vacation. They had hundreds of operatives, a dozen or so alone worked in his department. But Brackhaus wasn't a man to be trifled with, that was chip-truth. Ten minutes later he approached the collection of buildings that made up their Northwestern Divisional Headquarters--home. At the south gate, he slowed down just long enough for security to make a visual. Then he gunned the engine again, splintering the striped, plastic crossbar. The guards simply looked stunned as he roared past, towards the main building. Sure they'd call in the incident. Let 'em. He was having a bad day, they might as well have one, too.

Inside the garage level, he created a parking spot next to the elevators, secured the bike, and punched for a car. It didn't matter which, as long as it was empty. The first to arrive was. Still fuming, he entered. Once the doors had closed, he slotted his corp ID and keyed in a sequence from memory, granting him access to one of the complex's many sub-basements. Ironic, he thought as he began to descend, hundreds of employees ride these cars every day to all twenty floors, never suspecting that the majority of the building lies below ground.

As the elevator gained speed, he absentmindedly drummed the fingers of his left hand along the stainless-steel railing. In the enclosed space, the metal on metal made a deafening echo: "pa- pa-pa-pang, pa-pa-pa-pang, pa-pA-PA-PANG!" He was beginning to leave dents.

At 23, Johnny Lobo had been the flashiest up-and-coming officer of Desert Wars. Only his fourth consecutive duty tour and he'd already been promoted to Captain, commanding their only Engineering Company. He'd lead numerous successful campaigns and his troops had saved the battalion's face on more than one occasion. But that had all been prior to his involuntary expulsion, courtesy of that fraggin' grenade and, more importantly, prior to that blasted deal, that had sold his soul to the corp.

Now at 34, he was playing errand-boy to ex-fraggin-Major Durak, and occasionally doing real work for Brackhaus, in between the required filings of fore- and after-actions reports. Sure, in the grander corporate structure of things he had an official title, but all it actually meant was more autonomy than the average security grunt. He was a "Company Man" or in corporate lingo, an operative, as in Black Operations. "Deputy Director of External Security"--really! Well, at least he wasn't a wage-slave.

The car ground to a stop at sub-level 28. Its doors opened to the sea of desks and VDT's, that made up Security Department's mission room. Lobo stepped out and surveyed the room for signs of a crisis. Everything seemed to be in order. The op center more closely resembled an efficient trid-net's news room. The two dozen, hand-selected, wage-slaves were busy, gathering and correlating mission data. No one looked up at him.

Instead from across the room, he was greeted by Durak. "Lobo, get your tin hoop in here!" His boss was standing in conference room's doorway.

Back in the 30's, during the height of Euro Wars, Klaus Durak had similarly distinguished himself in the corp's army, ultimately attaining the top position of Battalion Commander. He was vehement and callous, a human of Germanic descent, evidencing the classical "Aryan" traits: blonde hair and blue eyes.

And many agreed, albeit behind his back, he would have fit right into his homeland, a century ago. After peace had inexcusably broken out, Durak had been transferred directly into the corp's fledgling Security Department. By 2040, he'd been appointed, the Northwestern Division's "Director of External Security."

Lobo bolted towards Durak. "This had better be good," he snarled, shouldering his way past the older man--only to find the room empty.

Then in a blinding motion, available only to those with modified reflexes, he spun, facing the director, eye-to-eye. "Where's Brackhaus?" He demanded.

Activity in the outer room came to an abrupt halt.

The two men were nearly the same height, both just over 1.8 meters. "Mister Brackhaus is away in Europe on business," Durak replied coolly, gesturing towards the vacant room, "now sit down and listen up."

Neither moved. "No. Not 'till you tell me what's so world-stoppin' crucial, that I got called in here off of leave!" Lobo's forearm tensed, causing the carbide steel blades to extended audibly.

"Your attitude gives me a real headache, you know that?" Durak said, turning towards the conference table.

Lobo fought down the overwhelming impulse to carve an answer into Durak's retreating back. Not here, not now, too many witnesses. Instead he slashed the door as it closed.

*
*
*

Three hours later, Lobo stormed out of the conference room, leaving Durak alone. The older man smiled behind him, while collecting his site maps and intel reports. Lobo had thrown a royal fit, but in the end realized that there was little choice. Yes, though Durak, he'll do this one, last, little job for me, then we can both rest easier.

The wage-slaves pretended not to notice as Lobo slapped the wall impatiently for a lift car. After a short wait, he rode it up to parking level.. There, he mounted his cycle, fired the engine, and sped out of the garage. Durak or someone must have notified the gate guards. They simply raised their hastily-repaired, crossing bar, before he'd even turned onto South Gate Road. Good for them. Lobo had no intention of slowing down. With a burst from the throttle, he was through the gate, off company property, and racing towards the Northgate Mall, all at once.

The Mall sped past and he hit the I-5 on-ramp, smoothly slipping into the traffic stream. The open road had always helped him to think, and Lobo needed to clear his head. One thing was certain, he was going to need help.

Without meaning to, Lobo rode south along Intercity-5, all the way into Tacoma. Since he was down here anyway, he decided, maybe it was time to call in an old favor. Lobo took the exit into downtown Federal Way. He'd probably put off this call long enough. Besides, he thought, steering his bike up to a public comm, what's the worst that'd happen? He'd hang up on me? Luck must have been on his side. He found a working comm, connected with directory assistance, and received the correct number, all on the first try.

Back when he was leading Desert Wars troops to victories, back before the grenade--back when he was happy, Lobo's circle of friends and confidants was primarily made up of officers and high-ranking security types. Chief among them was his company's Maintenance Warrant, Gislan the Wrench.

He hadn't seen Gislan, since before his own wounding and after the expensive "rebuilding," Lobo discovered that Gislan had retired from the corp, but had been denied the majority of his pension over an internal dispute. It was this guilt that had primarily kept Lobo from contacting his friend, these ten long years. Never mind the fact that, Gislan had been living here, in Tacoma, the whole time.

Lobo punched in the number and waited apprehensively. Eventually the screen flickered into focus and he was greeted by the face of a brown-haired dwarf. Lobo searched for any signs familiarity behind the dark blue eyes.

"Bayside. Can I help you, chummliechen," the dwarf asked, "or are ya gonna stand und stare at me?"

Hearing that voice clinched it. "Gislan, it's Lobo, from Engineering Co. I know it's been a long time, but I need to talk to you."

"Yonny?" The dwarf peered hard into the screen. "Vhere are you?"

"Up in Federal Way, off I-5."

"Vunderbar, you're practically in my backyard. I'm almost finished for today, vhy don't you come down here, to Bayside Salffage, und ve can talk in person. Here's the address." Gislan hit a button and stylized, sea-blue letters appeared across the comm's screen.

"Got it," Lobo said, "and Gislan, thanks."

"See you in a bit. Ve haff much to talk about." With that, the dwarf ended their connection and it began to rain.

So much for luck, Lobo thought sourly and pulled his long coat out the Blitzen's sidebox, before heading off towards Commencement Bay.

The trip to the Bay area took Lobo no time at all, but locating Gislan's business, or even anyone who remotely knew any English took well over an hour. Finally, he found a rain-soaked dockworker that gave him directions to the place, in Cityspeak, no less.

Lobo rode back up the coast along Marine View Drive, the old Highway 509, and wondered for the fiftieth time, in as many minutes, what he'd say to his old war-buddy. The guy on the docks had said, "look for a lighthouse." Lobo remembered and headed into Browns Point. Humm, nice, quiet community. As he rounded what he hoped would be the last corner, Lobo was greeted by a large, blue billboard, that read:

The sign sat atop an eight-meter pole, which was firmly planted at one end of a half-hectare lot. The lot, itself was surrounded by a five-meter high, metal fence, topped with razorwire. Lobo rode cautiously towards the main building, which was situated street-side. It was long, made of bricks, and centered in the lot.

He parked his Blitzen behind an old Willy's Nomad. The truck had obviously been modified with a wrecker package. Its heavy winch looked capable of hauling a Mobmaster.

The rain seemed to be abating, so Lobo stowed his duster and secured the bike, before approaching the door, noting the heavy bars on the windows as he walked past. Maybe this wasn't such a "quiet community," after all. In one window was a small, metal sign. Its laser-engraved letters spelled out:

The shoppe was already closed for the evening, but Lobo punched the comm anyway.

After a considerable pause, the speaker cracked, "Ya, sorry ve're closed."

Lobo cleared his throat. "Gislan, it's me."

"Yonny? You made it. Come in, come in." The door's maglocks clacked open.

Here goes, he thought and entered the shoppe. There was a chem/weapon sniffer set into the door's metallic frame. He passed through, without so much as a 'blip.' Odd. Lobo wasn't sure if its alarms were simply deactivated or relayed to some other part of the building. Behind him he heard the maglocks reactivate.

Lobo stepped into the main room, which seemed to activate the interior lighting. Now what, he though, taking in his new surroundings. Cases and cases of pawned items. Plenty of consumer electronics, here. Sim-stim chips, no new titles. Rusting tools. Junk jewelry. And nach, firearms.

A ceiling mounted speaker sparked to life, "make yourself at home. Dher's soykaf on der burner. I vill be up in a yiffy."

Lobo made his way behind the counter, towards the guns. As he neared them, he noticed that one part of the building had been converted to an indoor pistol range. Well, he thought, producing a pick, Gislan said "at home." Lobo fiddled with the display's lock, but it was no contest--the tumblers yielded and the lock sprang open, revealing the case's bounty.

The first pistol was a Czech-made vz/120. It had a built it smart-gun system. As soon as his palm made contact with the butt's sense-pad, a small red targeting spot played on the inside of his retina. At the same time, electronics in his head showed that the gun was empty. He put it down in search of another model, but a sign on the counter caught his eye. It proudly proclaimed this location, an Official Weapons World Dealership.

"When did you buy into Weapons World?" He asked the ceiling.

"Last year," came the reply, "it allows me access to ..." The unmistakable sound a wrench bouncing off plasti-crete drowned out the rest. "Oh, fer drek!" Gislan swore, "maybe you'd better come down here, instead. Yust go back behind dhe counter und follow dhe hallvay outback. Dhen, cross dhe courtyard to dhe garage."

The hallway took him past a crowded workshop full of unrecognizable bits of disassembled electronics. Next he passed a narrow stairway leading up, presumably to Gislan's living quarters. Then it spilled into a huge holding room, that looked much like the main room, only more intense--more haphazardly stacked display cases, larger piles of hand tools, heaps of electronic novelties. These items weren't for sale, not yet.

At the far end was a heavy fire door. Its outline and the word "EXIT" were stenciled in friendly international red.

"Outback" consisted of a fenced-in junkyard full of slowly rusting, vehicles and major appliances. All in various stages of disassembly. The courtyard turned out to be a mere path--the only space between the shoppe and the garage, not occupied by Americars and food processors.

As Lobo approached the warehouse-sized garage, he noted that it was built partially over the bay. Inside lay half a dozen vehicles in various states of disrepair. He made his way between a Ford Bison and the front half of a Citymaster.

"I'm back here," Gislan's voice echoed.

Lobo followed it to its source. At the back of the garage was a dry-docked fishing boat and a wrecked GMC Patroller. Gislan emerged out of the hovercraft and extended a grease-stained hand saying, "How haff you been Cap'n? Hey, nice arm."

His eyes played up and down his former commander's Lo-reflect cyberlimb.

"Busy," came the reply. Lobo accepted the outstretched hand and shook it warmly, taking full measure of Gislan the Wrench. He was wearing a pair of khaki, grease-stained coveralls over a stocky, meter-and-a-quarter frame. Although he appeared to be a bit rounder at the middle, little else about the ex-warrant seemed to have changed.

Lobo had heard that once dwarves reached maturity, they stopped showing signs of aging. "It's great to see you, Chief."

Gislan, still examining Lobo's cyberarm, re-addressed, "I'd bet my best velder, dhat's at least alpha-grade vork."

Beta, actually, Lobo thought with remorse. His expensive chrome was really just another "pension benefit," that Gislan had been denied. Not knowing how to discuss this, sore spot, he changed the subject. "Don't tell me you're making a new Beachcraft out of that fishing boat."

"No, I'm a tech, not a vizard. I'm refitting my trawler vit parts from dhe GMC." He pried his eyes from the limb and back to his work. "Specifically dhe micro control circuits, turbocharger, und dhe vinch. Right now I'm transferring a rigger harness."

"I'll bite, chief: Why does a fishing boat need a heavy-duty winch? Seems like a lot of work, just to catch bigger fish."

"Since you got out," the dwarf asked, "haff you kept up your scuba skills?"

"Not much," Lobo replied, thinking of last year's run against United Oil's former, off-shore, refueling platform.

"Pity, haff you effer heard of Fort Levis' Dumping Grounds?"

"Well, not specifically, no. But I read that a lot of the old US's military hardware was submerged back in the twenties, to keep it out of the NAN's hands."

"Yes, dhat's true und dhey'ff continued dumping in years dhat followed." He let that sink it. "I'ff found it! Vell, part anyvay. It's here in Puget Sound, near Dabob Bay. I'll bet dhere must be at least seffenty fehicles submerged down dhere."

"No drek? I mean, are you sure?" Lobo began to do some rough calculations. "All that mil- spec equipment, just think what you ..."

"It's been dhere for a quarter of a century. It'll keep a bit longer. Now, I know you didn't come down here yust to discuss salffage ops vit your old maintenance chief, right?"

"You're, right. It's me. History time, here's the goto."

Lobo jammed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, and turned away from his old friend. "After that frag grenade resulted in my involuntary expulsion from our army," he continued, facing the bay, "they transferred my body to one of the company's hospitals in Berlin. I awoke, submerged in a tank full of nutrient fluid. For more than a week, I floated there in a state of semi-consciousness, loathing the world, life, --everything.

"But vhy? You could'ff written your own ticket, you had a hero's status."

"No. What I had, was a ruined military career and no future. To make matters worse, nobody seemed to even acknowledge my existence. From my tank I watched orderlies and tech's come and go. They made marks on clipboards, but I may as well have been a piece of furniture. I guess I'd given into despair."

"During this time, I received a visit from one of the company's Johnson's named, Hans Brackhaus. He offered me a way out. The slot had probably delayed the call a week, just to make sure I was ready to jump."

"As a representative of the corp's security division, Brackhaus had come on a recruiting mission. Apparently they were running low on functional company men. He said that pending his authorization, the corp would agree to pay for any modifications I desired, if I agreed to sign into their security division. Then he left me to think about it, but there'd been no need. When he'd told me that I'd have their finest body clinics at my disposal, how could I say no?"

"You made a deal vit a Dragon." Gislan just shook his head.

"And with all the proverbial results. Brackhaus approved my selections and transferred me to some nameless Chiban clinic, where I went under the knife. While I was recovering, I learned about the rest of the deal. First they'd added a number of items to my augmentation list, chief among these was a cortex bomb--just to make sure I remained loyal. Then they had me assigned under their former army commander, Major Klaus Durak. Heard of him?"

"Yes," Gislan spat. "I vorked under him, but dhat vas before your time."

"Right, I never served with him. Anyway, all of that was back in '41. Ever since, he's held the detonator, coercing me with the 'ultimate headache,' whenever I don't toe his line. Typically they're just empty threats, but today I think my luck ran out. There have been rumors of a departmental shake-up. I think the Major's out to remove his competitors."

"Normally all of our operations originate through Brackhaus, but he's currently away on business. So, today Durak unfolded a little mission of his own and ordered me to accompany him. But something about it felt wrong. I got the distinct impression that after it was over, he plans to ensure that only one of us comes back alive."

Not sure how continue, Lobo watched in silence as the waves lapped against the side of the dock. At last he turned and said, "look Gislan, I know this is really my problem, but I'm out of options. And I need your help."

"All you had to do vas ask," Gislan said grinning, "I fought in Euro-Vars under dhat son of a slitch und dhat's reason enough. So, let's go haff a look at dheir handivork."

He steered the younger man towards the courtyard, grabbing a shop towel on the way out. By the time they'd reached the fire door, he'd transferred most of the GMC's grease on to it.

Once in the workshop, Gislan set about examining his former commander. "Stand here," he said pointing, "arms outstretched, like dhis."

Lobo moved to the indicated spot, while Gislan rummaged over a cluttered desktop. The dwarf produced a gray, oblong box, not much larger than a flashlight.

"An airline metal detector?"

"Used to be," Gislan replied smugly and ran the scanner back and forth across Lobo's arm, then up and down the length of his body. "Now, turn, turn. Good."

When that was through, Lobo sat on the room's only free chair, while Gislan dug through a drawer. "If vhat you told me is so," he said over his shoulder, "dhey must haff implanted some biotechnology too."

Lobo was strangely silent, realizing just how little he really knew about what they'd done to him in those Chiban tanks nine years ago.

"Ah, dhere it is." He emerged with a modified chem-sniffer. "Dhis von't specifically pinpoint biovare, but if certain compounds are present, dhen it's a pretty good bet dhere's some in you. Besides, I don't know any other vay to boost reflexes."

After repeatedly obtaining the same confusing results, the dwarf put the scanner down. "I haff a feeling dhat ve should find out exactly vhat's inside you, und soon." Gislan dug deeply into a coverall pocket and produced a grubby, blue cell-phone. "Let me try someting," he said dialing. Surprisingly, within a few minutes, he'd made contact with some sort of receptionist. Lobo only half listed to the one-sided conversation. He was still weighing his options.

"Dhere," Gislan said at last, "you haff an appointment vit a street doc in an hour. Come on, ve'll take my Bison." He spent a moment fumbling with a remote to secure the building, then he lead Lobo back out to the garage, where the two of them climbed into the awaiting vehicle. Gislan "snacked" the control cable into his mastoid jack, started the engine, and pulled the van around front, stopping briefly to allow Lobo to load his bike through the rear drop door.

"A Blitzen '50," Gislan noted. "Is it stock?"

"Yes, why?" Lobo asked, taking his place in the passenger's seat.

"An older design, but definitely cleaner. It has a stronger frame und a better layout dhen dhe new 2053's do. Vit all dheir safety regs, BMW's cut back on power. If you bring it round next veek," he offered, " I should be able to turn it up, like it vas meant to be."

"Sure," Lobo said, thinking, if there's any of me left then.

Traffic was light once they hit I-5, but even though the sun had set, the sprawl's lights seemed to intensify the gun-colored sky. This only served to darken Lobo's mood. He was glad in a way that Gislan was jacked-in. Rigging took a lot of concentration and provided little in the way of conversation. Which was fine with Lobo, who really didn't feel like making smalltalk.

Gislan left the intercity for downtown Seattle. He deftly steered the van through the evening's traffic and parked it near the corner of Blanchard and Sixth. "End of the line," he said, removing the rig's control cable. "Dhere's our destination." He had pointed towards a burned-out restaurant. Lobo shrugged and climbed out.

The restaurant's interior lived down to Lobo's expectations: cracked floor tiles, stained, yellow walls, and rotting ceiling panels. Lingering in the waiting room's air was a pungent antiseptic tang, that seemed more of a taste, than a smell. Behind a cracked plastic desk at one end of the room, sat a tired looking receptionist wearing a deceptively cheery ID tag, which proclaimed, "My name is Bob. How may I help you?" In answer to Gislan's inquire, he had simply raised an arm and directed them to the only other piece of serviceable furniture in the room, which turned out to be a wholly uncomfortable and ancient, vinyl couch.

After a fifteen minute wait, the doctor entered, crossed to "Bob's" desk, and began talking to him. She was nothing like Lobo expectations: thirtyish and short, only about 1.6 meters, and couldn't have weighed much over 50 kilos. She had neat delicate hands, an extremely forceful presence, and close-cropped red hair, that reminded him of a cute lieutenant from his second desert tour. Now that had been a woman.

"Hey!" The doc interrupted, "I said, 'you're next.' "

Startled out of his reminisce, Lobo blurted, "me, doctor?"

"No," she replied, "me doctor, you patient. Now walk this way."

"I'll yust vait out here."

"No," Lobo insisted, "I want your input, too."

With a snapping sound, that only cracked vinyl can produce, the two men rose to follow the doctor. She led them down a narrow hallway and into one of several cramped examination rooms. Her name was Mary Dacia, known on to streets as "Doc Dicer." After initial intro's, she directed Lobo to strip down.

"I thought you'd never ask," he replied with a feral grin.

"Down boy," she repelled, "I don't make house calls." With that, she began the examination. For the next hour, Dicer spared no expense examining nearly every square centimeter of the company man. She took blood and cell samples. She ran him through imagers. She used both hand-held and table-sized scanners. She poked and prodded, much more extensively than any military physical he'd every been through. After an eternity, the exam was over and Dicer started entering her findings into the office's terminal, while Lobo re-dressed.

Finally, the correlation algorithms finished sifting through the raw data and a printer began to chatter. Dicer tore off the hardcopy and read aloud, "According to this, 60% of your body is covered with scar tissue and you seem to possess an awfully lot of beta-grade cyberware, most of which is illegal in just about all of the UCAS."

Gislan shot Lobo an incredulous look.

"I've got a permit."

"Somehow I figured you did. Considering all of your reconstructive surgery," she continued, handing Lobo a printout, " it's a wonder you aren't a walking zombie. These are the mods I've identified."

Lobo scanned the list, his eyes coming to rest on the last line:

• Thoraxial cybernetic replacement: left scapula & clavicle
• Cybernetic left arm, low-reflective chrome alloy
• Medium-grade Dermal Plating
• Titanium Skeletal Lacing
• Smartgun links, terminating in right and left palms
• Thermographically sensitive, chrome cybereyes, high optical magnification, with display links
• Natural fleshtone cyberears, internally tunable hi/low, sound filtration and amplification with display links
• Cosmetic facial reconstruction
• Cosmetically enlarged canine teeth
• Low transfer rate datajack
• Nonstandard datasoft port
• Headware memory
• Beta-grade cerebral detonator

"You also have an unusual cybernetic implant at the stem of your brain," she added.

"That's a pain dampener," Lobo explained, "Sort of like a dimmer-switch, but it's a trade off-- reduced pain for dulled senses and reactions."

"Right, so you can bleed to death and not know it," Dicer scoffed. "Now, I'm no expert in biotech most of it just hasn't hit the streets, yet. But here's what anomalies the computer found."

She consulted another hardcopy. "Your muscles have been augmented. There are Teflon braids interwoven throughout your existing tissue."

She looked up at Lobo in question.. He nodded slowly, but his expression betrayed nothing.

"Your left wrist set off the chemical detector." She tried to make sense of the data. "You've got cybergun containing a jellied petroleum compound?"

"Something like that," he half-confirmed.

"Also, the nerves leading away from your spinal cord have been artificially thickened," she read on, "and you have more neural tissue, there. This probably increases your reflexes, the data path to the brain would be wider. Speaking of which, you have an organic implant at the base of your thalamus gland. But, I have no idea why."

Lobo gave a shrug and the doctor proceeded. "There's a fair amount of foreign silicon in your head. Some of it connects your datasoft to your display system."

"That's a mapper," Lobo confirmed, at last.

"Der production name ist, 'orientation system,' " Gislan supplied.

"The other chips are anybody's guess, but they appear to route most of your senses and your smartgun links back to your display systems. Does that make any sense?"

Lobo knew exactly what that was, but shook his head, better than trying to make something up, he thought.

Dicer frowned and handed him the remaining sheets.

"What about the bomb?"

"You're kidding, right?. I've never even heard of the successful removal of an alpha. I'd be afraid to look cross-eyed at your beta. I'd say, you're best bet is to have it deactivated electronically."

"As for your bioware," Dicer concluded, "no one is really certain how it affects a body when mixed with so much cyberware. I'd refer you to Universal Omnitech, if I had any contacts left there. They're responsible for the majority of its development and testing. All the papers I've read on bioware point to the probable dangers of system over-stress. And in my opinion you're a prime candidate."

Dicer indicated dryly that there was nothing more she could tell them, without exploratory surgery. But at least she had the tact not to ask where the original vatjob had been performed. They thanked her and headed back to the receptionist's deck, where Bob was happily computing the bill.

Lobo was about to slot his cred-stick, when Gislan stopped him. "If you're planning vhat I tink you are, dhen you don't vant dhis traced to your cred-stick." He paid for the visit saying, "besides, I'll yust add it to dhe bill for fixing your bike."

Once back at the van, Gislan helped unload the Blitzen, indicating that he might be able to help deactivate Lobo's cortex bomb, but he needed to know what it was that Lobo had held back from the doctor.

"Well," he smirked, "I could tell she wanted me."

Gislan frowned, "you know vhat I mean."

"Alright, my vatjob, courtesy of Hans Brackhaus, included an integrated tac computer. I'd learned of their existence, prior to my 'early retirement.' They're nearly impossible to obtain in the private sector."

"No vonder she'd neffer heard of one," Gislan said when he'd finished. "Dhat's strictly mil-spec firmvare, und classified, besides."

"It's also illegal in the UCAS," he said, mimicking Dicer. "I've got a permit for that too."

"You do for now..."

"Gislan, if I read all this right, I've got ten year old, state-of-the-art tech and I don't know what to make of it."

"Vell, a lot of new tech is purposely suppressed by your corps. Maybe ve can use dhat to our adffantage. Look, Durak's run isn't for two days. Come by tomorrow und I'll see vhat I can do."

*
*
*

The following morning, Lobo arranged to be out of the office, with an excuse about gathering intel for Durak's run. Once past the security check point, he rode directly to Bayside Salvage. This time Gislan met him at the door.

"Come on, come on," the dwarf said. "I vant to show you someting."

"Nice to see you, too," Lobo muttered,

Gislan ushered him back to the workshop. There, he handed Lobo a narrow headband. "I can see that you've been busy," Lobo remarked, examining his friend's handiwork. Around the band's inside ran a set of trodes. They looked like a streamlined pair of hitcher-jacks.

"Vell, put it on your head," Gislan prompted.

Lobo complied and his display links started scrolling static and random numbers. "Un oh!" He replied, "my targeting computer's gone out."

"I vas afraid of dhat. It's a trade off. Dhis rig produces a dampening field around your head. Your computer is experiencing feedback." Gislan turned to a table and picked up a pair of Ares Predators. Both pistols were equipped with smart-systems. "Here," he said, handing them over. "How's your veapons link?"

As soon as they made palm contact, a tiny cross-hair appeared on each of Lobo's retinas--one red, one blue. "Works fine," he answered, aiming the guns at a worktable.

Gislan reached up and pulled the headband off. "Und now?"

Instantly the static disappeared and was replaced by range and trajectory data concerning the ill-fated piece of furniture. " 'Puter's back on-line."

Gislan turned the headband inside out and pointed to a wide spot at the back. "Dhis microprocessor vill detect und analyze any E-M signals dhat you encounter, sending all data back, to here." He pointed at an old computer terminal in the corner.

"But, I don't follow..." Lobo began.

"It's like detectif vork. Ve must discofer vhat signal is being used for a trigger, dhen ve can consult references for a model und vit luck, find a disarming code. Look, yust vear dhese trodes on your run, put a bandanna or someting on top of dhem."

"Not that I'm questioning your work, but are you sure about this?" Lobo asked, dubiously turning the headband over in his hands.

"Hey, who made dhat anti-drone screen to shield your hoop during Desert Vars? It'll vork. Don't vorry your head ofer it."

Was that a joke? Lobo wondered, "easy for you to say."

"Yust relax. All ve need now is a plan."