Rita left the Klub by 08:30 and used her well publicized, cycling skills to slice through the morning traffic. The roads were a little misty, but the spray felt good and helped to clear her head before the confrontation with Steiner. What did she really know about him?

Raymond Steiner: mulit-millionaire, Ares Predators Brawl Team Owner, Ares Macrotech shareholder, and recluse. He'd personally signed her up and she'd played on his team for the past seven years. But other than the initial interviews, she hadn't actually spoken with him--except at those nauseating p.r. parties. She knew that he'd sanctioned her other work, but aside from that, Rita didn't know much about the man at all. Well, she was pretty sure that Manny would accompany her up to Steiner's office. He, at least, had experience dealing with the team's owner.

Presently, the bulky shapes that made up Ares' Seattle Sports Complex came into view. The gate guard looked up and waved her through with a smile, which was good she thought, not really wanting to discuss the previous day's match. She slowed a bit as she rolled past the fitness center, wondering how she'd gotten here from there. Turning the corner, she passed the spot where she'd abruptly left Bryce's limo last night. Nice skid!

Rita parked her cycle among the team's other bikes, at the rear of the arena. It should be okay, she thought, as long as no one gets too nosey. In the world of pro brawl, Rita's was one of the few cycles not fitted with a rigging harness. After arming it, she casually crossed the lot to the locker room door and placed her Ares pass-key in the reader.

"Access denied," it showed.

She checked the 'key and tried again -- still denied. "Damn it, Bryce!"

She was still holding it out, when one of the cleaning wage-slaves pushed the heavy door open from the inside, and set a large trash can down to hold it that way. The man tried to rasp a greeting, but failed. He appeared to be out of breath.

"Oh, thanks," she smiled and, brushing past him, smoothly pocketed the worthless piece of plastic.

Immediately, Rita understood the reason for the custodain's discomfort, plus the need for added ventilation. The smell of stale synthol and bodily functions nearly knocked her over. To say that the locker room was trashed, would have been a gross understatement--heavy on the "gross." Must have been one hell of a party, she decided and carefully side-stepped a pool of something chunky. She had a scary thought, but a quick check showed that, no, Derf wasn't still stuffed in his locker.

By keeping her breathing shallow, Rita carefully made her way across the rest of the room, while contemplating the merrits of implanting olfactory, toxin filters. Not for a while at least, not until she could afford things like that, again. Finally, she reached the door and stepped into the adjoining hallway. There, a few deep breaths later, she rode the elevator up two floors to the management offices.

Rita stood in a doorway reading its polished, metal name-plate: Manuel DeCostra, Manager, Ares Predators. "Hello Manny," She said at last.

"Rita?" He looked up from what he was doing, momentarily startled. "Come in, come in," he gasped, hopping up from behind his desk. Manny was a stocky, Latino human from Detroit, with shiny, black hair and onyx-like cyber-eyes. He was not much taller than Rita, but their weight was the same, if one didn't count his cyberware. In his day, he'd been a professional weightlifter, before he'd gone chrome, turning to the more lucrative profession of Urban Brawl.

He nervously escorted her to a hopelessly overstuffed chair. The kind, Rita thought with bemusement, that you practically merged with as you sat in it, while sinking to the floor. It would make all serious conversation impossible. Instead, Rita sat on the puffy arm and looked at the trophies and awards which literally lined the walls. How many had she added, during her tenure? And these were just satellite offices, here in Seattle. She'd been to Manny's real office in Detroit many times.

His voice brought her back. "... so glad you're here. We've been tryin' ta find you since last night." He was speaking rapidly and didn't notice Rita's frown. "Heck," he continued, "I came in here first thing this mornin' and was about ta ..."

"Manny," Rita said dryly, "I know."

"Aw Rita, I'm sorry." And he really was Rita saw and dropped her 'tude. "I wanted ta be the one ta break it. Who leaked?"

"ESPN. It was on the early-morning trid cast. WSB picked it up, later."

"How?" He looked genuinely surprised, "nobody, but nobody knows, except Mr. Steiner and he agreed I should tell you." Now he frowned and collapsed with a defeated sigh back into his chair.

"Bryce knows," Rita supplied.

"What?" Manny bolted upright. "That two-faced, snot-nosed, slimy, little ..." he began, but caught himself adding, "er, I mean, I guess you were bound ta dump him sooner or later."

Rita was about to correct this misapprehension and fill him in on the whole story, but then she decided, why bother? That was what had really happened, more or less. She'd finally gotten tired of putting up with Bryce's drek. Maybe Manny understod more than she thought he did. Speaking of which, "what is with this 'injured reserve' bulldrek?"

"You don't know the half of it. That's just the press release." Manny fidgeted in his chair. "I'd be the first ta agree that any day is a good one to loose Harlton, but unfortunately there was an owner's meetin' on for last night," he explained, pausing for emphasis.

He obviously didn't relish having to go into this much detail and was hoping that she'd catch on by herself. But Rita knew better and wanted to hear the whole story. "So?" She prompted.

Manny drew a deep breath. "So, you were found ta be in violation of the ISSV's rules, section 25-f, sub-paragraph 8."

"Like I have them memorized? What is that in English?"

"You possess restricted cyberware."

"What are you talking about? I have no ..."

"Your bones, Rita. Your metal-laced bones."

"'Aluminum lacing' is not on the restricted list. I checked before I commissioned the clinic to operate."

"'Till last night, they weren't even on the permitted list."

"Which no one ever checks," she challenged, "since it allows everything on the market."

"It used ta. I'm not blamin' you. There was never any reason for checkin' it. But at that meetin', Steiner and co. updated both lists, permittin' plastic bones and restrictin' both the aluminum and the titanium jobs. Now, you and three UCAS players are in violation. If there was anythin' I could'a done ta help you ..."

"Bryce! He is behind this. I know it!" Rita fumed, aloud, "he really did it. He found a way to bar me completely from ISSV brawl."

"I'd say the 'injured reserve' biz is nothin' but p.r." Now that it was out in the open, Manny relaxed a bit. "Mr. Steiner probably doesn't want ta be lynched by the fans for cuttin' his star outrider."

"Then," Rita asked incredulously, "what is there to keep me from finding a vidsnoop and going public with my story?"

"Barrin' incapacitation," Manny recited," your contract's good for two more seasons. They still have ta pay you, reserves or not."

"Hush money?! They are paying me off?" Rita laughed sarcastically, "I wonder how much Steiner will be getting to take on the Super Brawl, without me. And who would bankroll such odds?"

"Don't even remind me," he frowned and sank into his chair again, looking even more dejected than the last time. "What'n the Sixth World am I gonna do, Rita?"

"Well for starters, move Kenny up to outrider. At least he has a VCR." Ken McKay was the team's current second-string cyclist and among his cyber-mods was a vehicle control rig, which allowed him to jack-in to his bike--as most pro brawl teams' top cyclists did. Rita, who was a far better cyclist, prided herself on not needing one. In fact, she was one of the ISSV's few outriders who didn't.

Rita knew she was stating the obvious to Manny. It wasn't the conversation's content, but the interaction that mattered here. During important playoffs, he always became a bit neurotic. So, Rita reassuringly played her part.

"I guess you're right," he admitted, even though he'd stayed up most of the night thinking about the upcoming match. "What d'ya think our chances at the 'Brawl will be?"

"Against the Butches? Null perspiration." This lightened the gloom a little. "You'll murder 'em," Rita mimiced his speech and smiled, mainly at the recollection of Atlanta's not-so-killer "9-7" seasonal ranking, but partly to hide her thoughts. Since logically, the next topic (on which Manny was now doubtlessly worrying about) was the upcoming World Cup. Rita instinctively knew that without her skills assisting, the Predators wouldn't stand a chance against the Sweede's team or even the German's.

Manny, who knew this too, refrained from bringing the Cup Games up, either. Instead he broke the growing silence by asking, "what are you gonna do now?"

And Rita played her hold card, replying, "I had planned to visit Steiner, but I guess that is no longer an option. You said you would do 'anything you could to help' and Bryce nulled my Ares access." She paused briefly to read his expression.

Manny was growing more worried by the minute. "And I need to get back into my doss, one more time." But upon hearing this he was visibly relieved. He'd been expecting much worse--something involving excessive violence.

Rita could almost see this scrawled on his face. "Relax, will you?" She teased, "you are not even going to have to hurt anyone--much!"

*
*
*

Together and in silence, the two Predators crossed the courtyard, which seperated the gymnasium from the dormatories, amid the smell of freshly-cut grass. Manny, having accepted his part in this deception, was having second thoughts about working for men like Steiner. Rita, on the hand, was thinking that this was her last link to her parents and she was severing it. As they approached the stately, gray building, Manny broke into a smile and surrendered his 'key to the reader. He acted the part well, Rita realized and smiled too. There was a brief pause, while verification algorithms were accessed, then the reader flashed, "accepted" and the doors opened, admitting them to the official Ares dormitories.

They walked throught the two-tiered lobby, splitting as planned when they reached the ornamental fountain's dais. Rita eased herself into the small knot of employees that were present. And with practiced easy, she slipped through them and up to the elevator banks. At the same time, Manny headed conspicuously towards the receptionist's desk in order to distract its occupant.

The guard seated behind it was a former collegiate weightlifter, with a passion for urban brawl. And as the Predators' manager approached him, he literally bubbled over with questions, while completely failing to notice the corp's ex-"star outrider" standing in plain view. Which was a real pity, since he'd been hand selected to keep an eye out for and alert security in the event that she actually decided to come back for her things.

Rita smiled, keeping her face pointed towards the lobby's elevator bank. There was no one else waiting to for a car. She watched the floor indicators dance down to her, thinking that she really was going to miss this old building. Then as the doors opened with a hiss, she entered, without even glancing back at Manny.

The elevator's stark white walls felt clinically impersonal and reeked of hygienic solvents. As soon as punched her floor, the entertainment sub-processor began to bombard her with info-grams, about upcoming sporting events and night classes with available slots. The holograms played before Rita's un-interested eyes and she idly wondered, why they couldn't simply pipe in music, instead. Hell, even white-noise would be preferable to disembodied mouthes and dancing kittens. Well, here at least was one aspect of Ares life, that she would not miss at all.

After an excruciatingly slow climb, the car's doors mercifully slid open to her floor and Rita hastily exited to the relative safety of the hallway, amid a barrage of singing tulips. There, she checked her appearance in the wall's mirrored surface, forcing herself to relax. She looked harmless enough. Then she casually walked down the corridor, turning left at the first intersection, towards her former residence.

Upon rounding the next corner, Rita couldn't help noticing the two bored looking guards, who were posted outside her door. But she calmly approached them anyway. By intentionally keeping her movements subdued, she was able to get within three meters of her apartment before they reacted to her presence.

"Miss Moritaka?" The nearer one inquired, ever so politely, "Director Harlton requests your presence, immediately." Rita slowed her pace, and closed the gap between them to an even meter.

"You'll have to come with us, ma'am," the second guard added, with an equivalent display of manners.

They towered over Rita, both standing just under two meters in their medium-weight, security armor. They wore, she observed, the old-style helmets, and that meant no built-in radios. Each was armed with an Ares Viper flechette pistol--probably full of non-lethal, taser rounds. They made a cute couple! Rita mused as they smiled down at her with blatant overconfidence. Bryce should have briefed them better. It was really going to be a shame to beat these two up! But they obviously needed a lesson in security procedures.

Rita manuevered to a spot almost between them and replied with a shrug, "lead on," then she turned back towards the 'vators. But as the guards moved up on either side, Rita snapped into action, plunging backwards through her unassuming escorts. Her body tensed, while vat-grown muscles flexed in a blinding synthesis of accelerated synapses and shadow-clinic technology.

She swung her left fist down, slamming it into the first guard's groin, denting the protective cup inward. Then, as he doubled over, she snapped it back up to impact with his security helmet. The lexan faceplate shattered, while the combined force smashed the cartilage in his nose and pulped both cheekbones.

By this time, guard number two was fumbling for his Viper--wresting it from its holster--bringing it up in line with Rita. He had turned his body towards her, but his attention was fixed on his partner, who dropped to the floor, in a nauseating slow-motion display--unconscious.

"Hey!" Rita called, as the remaining, hapless guard swung his gaze back towards her. "Never ..." She punctuated her actions, slamming a measured crescent kick into his temple. The effect of her cyberleg connecting with his helmet was not unlike smacking him with a large sledge hammer.

"... take your eyes ..." She drove the heel of her right hand into his sternum, snapping a rib or two. The guard gasped and staggered back a little, dropping his pistol.

"... off your target!" Rita finished and followed through with a hydraulicly-assisted, snap kick to his exposed patella, forcing his leg to bend the wrong way and driving the fragments of the shattered kneecap, back through the protective tendons--effectively hamstringing him, with a sickening "POP!" He too collapsed to the floor, clutching the remnants of his leg. Thus ended the lesson.

A quick search of the first guard produced his pass key and Rita used it to let herself into her ex-apartment. Then she returned to the hallway and dragged the two guards in after her. She had planned to interrogate the second one, but he'd apparently passed out from the pain. What is Canterelli recruiting these days? Knight Errant's wash-outs?

After relieving them of their comm's and weapons, plus slapping on a couple of tranq-patches for insurance, she left them by the door and went about her work. At her bedroom's closet, she pulled out two durable, nylon duffel bags from the back. One of these was pre-packed for covert ops with enough kevlar, ordinance, and survival gear to make a G-man drool with envy. The other was empty, save for a trio of skin-tight, night suits. Actually, Rita wished she'd had time to hit one of the armories. After her last mission, she was, she remembered, a bit low on ammo. Oh well, a plan for another day.

She dropped the full bag on the bunk, then began to walk around the room, systematically 'passing judgement' on her accumulated possessions. Enduro and Brawl trophies, pictures of her parents, gymnastics awards, some miscellaneous consumer electronics, a plaque from the Fitness Center, and several high fashion garments went into the empty bag--salvation, hallelujah!

At the room's playback unit, she shoveled in her music cd's. Likewise, at her terminal, she spent a full minute copying her files on to optical chips, before dropping them into the bag. Then she punched up the reformat routine, wishing that she'd had more time. Her terminal's I/O port was hooked directly into Ares Arms' security sub-processor. Back at the closet, she picked through the clothes, taking three pairs of very high boots, selecting an outfit, here and there, then rejecting the remainder of her attire, especially the ones that Bryce had picked out for her.

After a quick check on the guards, she grabbed up both bags, then calmly left the room and walked down the hallway to wait for the elevator.

When it finally arrived and she was safely alone behind its thick, metal doors, she began to shake uncontrollably. This time the info-gram's messages were utterly wasted on her, as Rita was too lost in thought to notice them. I am really doing it, she shuddered. I am leaving Ares--leaving my home. I could surely have it back. All I have to do is go to Bryce and lower myself to him. Probably in more ways than one. Fat fraggin' chance!

Then, within the elevator's smooth surgical walls, her father's words came back to her. "Getting in to trouble is easy," he'd often joke, "getting out is the difficult part."

Thanks, dad, she mouthed, remembering a one-liner: 'Didja hear the one about the retired operative?' Much laughter. Roll on snare drum. "Yeah," Rita answered aloud, "she got away."

When the car's doors opened and the lobby slid into view, she was no longer shaking. She steeled her nerves and boldly walked across the checkered, marble floor to the exit, intentionally ignoring Manny, who was busy describing a last-minute play from earlier in the season.

Once he was sure Rita was safely out of the dorm, Manny deftly broke off the conversation with the desk guard, who was oblivious to the fact that it had no real point.

Rita was halfway across the courtyard, when he came puffing up behind her. "{Whoof} lemme get one a' those for you," he offered. She handed him the bag containing the diminutive arsenal. "Geez! What's in here? Your bowlin' ball collection?"

"Nah, just girls' stuff," she smiled, "plus a few mementos."

When they reached the gym, she held out her hand in a final gesture. Manny set her bag down and hugged her, in spite of himself. "Take care of yourself, kid."

"Believe me," she said, "I plan to."

"And don'cha worry, I'll make sure those slots upstairs credit your account." He let go, adding, "if that's okay?"

"Yes, I am not ready to join the ranks of the SINless," she told him, realizing that her answer was not entirely true. "But thanks, Manny, thanks for everything."

And then he was gone, leaving Rita alone on the well manicured lawn. With a last look around, she snatched up both bags, gritted her teeth, and headed for the parking lot.

Her cybereye displayed, "09:42." Good, she thought, I still have plenty of time before my meet with that decker kid. Her bike fired right up and she was decidedly clear of the Ares facility by the time the guards in her room painfully regained consciousness.

*
*
*

Rita spent the next hour running errands and seeking out the few street contacts, she'd accumulated in Seattle. That would have to change. Tracking them down had taken longer than she'd planned. But at five minutes to 11:00, she rolled up to her spot, behind the Big Knobi Klub, killed the bike's engine, and lugged her belongings in through the rear enterance. In the kitchen, she bumped into Gus, who insisted on taking the duffel bags upstairs for her.

Twenty minutes later, she was seated at the bar collecting her thoughts, over some of his soykaf. As it turned out, she realized, she'd had plenty of time to stow her gear and access the Klub's terminal. Gus had said that Buzz would show around eleven. And at 11:36, the outer, front door opened and a snaggletoothed teen entered it, deftly wrestling a Euro-model bicycle in after him. He parked it behind the bouncer's station, which was a small booth, that served as ID window, checkout, and armored bunker. It wouldn't be manned until later in the evening.

Rita watched as he made his way across the Klub's floor, stopped to place an order at the far end of the bar, then selected an out-of-the-way table. Once the waitress had brought his drink and he'd had a chance to settle himself, Rita approached and held out her hand. "Hello, Buzz, I am..."

"Ricochet Rita," he finished, rising to shake. Up close, Rita noticed that he had large, soft eyes, bushy, unkempt hair, and a real-leather bomber's jacket--all of which were a deep shade of near-uniform brown. And even though she later learned that he'd been born in 2031, he looked to be about fifteen years old. With a nod, he indicated the chair across form him and they both sat down.

"I have a problem," Rita opened. "Recent events have left my life in a potential turmoil, financially." She picked her words with care, "right now I have a chance to turn it around, but there is some electronic researching involved and I am too much chrome and meat, Buzz. So, I am going to have to hire a decker to do the actual digging. Interested?"

"In the research? Sure. But I'm not really much of a decker."

Rita was taken aback. "Oh? My sources dubbed you a technowiz--a real heavy hitter."

"As a juggler, yes, but not as a console cowboy."

Juggler? She had heard the term before, among some of the younger set, but had written it off as just more guttertalk. "I thought jugglers were deckers."

"We can be," he smiled mischievously.

"Okay, I will bite. What is the difference?"

"You want the long or the short version?"

"Short, please."

"Alright," he began, "a juggler is a specialization of the broader, archetypical decker--as is decking, the way you say it. One of the earliest applications of the Matrix was real-time, interactive games--especially unimaginably diverse, role-playing scenarios. Have you ever heard of the Game Grid?"

Rita nodded. "That's the jugglers' playground," he continued, "every major LTG has one. If you know where to look, but they vary greatly. Probably because our Grids were overlooked by Tokyo, back in '39."

"Overlooked?" Rita interjected.

"Yea," he embellished, "in the spring of 2039, Fuchi sponsored a mega-meet for a bunch of suits and stiffs to decide once and for all, how the Matrix should look. Over 7000 of 'em showed up for the free food. And the whole thing lasted about three months longer than it should have. In the end they decided to leave the Simlinks, Telecomms, and Game Grids un-universalized--probably because Fuchi was tired of footing the catering bill. You must have heard about it. 'Twas all the rage--made all the best history banks..."

"You are talking about the Universal Matrix Spec's Conference," Rita correctly deduced, ignoring his patronizing remarks. "I was there. My father was providing security for one of those attending stiffs and he took me along. But did it not last just over three months?"

"My point, exactly. Anyway, the basic physical laws which govern the Grid are different from the rest of the Matrix's. As a juggler, perhaps I am a heave hitter, but as a decker, I'm strictly minor league." Buzz swirled his drink to re-combine the synthetic mix.

"Okay," Rita said at last, "I thought that a decker, as I say it, was a contraction of cyberdeck-hacker?"

Buzz nodded, "that's where the word came from."

"Then exactly what is a juggler?"

"Well as I said, in the Grid, the laws are different, or rather they can be. It depends on where you are."

"You are losing me, Buzz. Pretend that I have logged fewer than thirty hours, jacked-in, okay?"

"Alright, in the Matrix," he said slowly, "if you see an object shaped like an apple, it could be anything--yield data from an orchard, a doctor's appointment schedule, a deli's menu, or something entirely unrelated to produce. And you wouldn't know till you skimmed it. About the only constant is its relative size." Rita still looked confused.

"Um, an apple icon this big," he gestured by holding his fingers a decimeter apart, "could contain, say, a hospital's personnel files, where as an icon this big," he held both hands about a meter apart, "could be the entire system architecture for a small computer company. But relative size can also be deceiving. It can be suppressed, for example. Now in the 'Grid, an apple icon normally represents an apple. Or in generic terms, a food unit. And its size is consistent and proportional to its power. A big apple represents more units."

"But here's the big difference," he continued, "in the Matrix, if you let go of the apple, either it just hangs there or it vanishes as the data-store re-absorbs it."

"In the Grid, if I release an apple, it falls--every icon has a simulated mass and volume. Partially because our decks have a lot more sim-stim gear that a regular decker's does. I can pick up the apple and carry it with me, if there's room left in my pack, then eat it later, which credits my icon with its food value. However, it could be booby-trapped or poisoned."

Buzz paused to take a sip of his drink. "And this is the short version?" Rita inquired before he could continue.

"You asked. Anyway, the point is that I'm a wiz at dealing with the effects of simulated gravity, with objects that behave as they look, and at Grid-borne, personal combat." The last he said with a wry, inward smile. "And the reason that I'm so wiz is that I learned to juggle with my icon. And I'm not talking about writing some lame algorithm to simulate an icon juggling, any decker can do that. I mean the actual concentrated effort, like this." He demonstrated with his hands again, by tossing and catching imaginary objects. "That's the key. The more proficient I am at manipulating icons, the better my chances for survival. 'The Juggler' was one of the Grid's first VR interactives and the name stuck. Sure there're newer and flashier routines now, but I'm a purist."

Rita sat back frowning. She was grappling with this new wrinkle and trying to fit it into her plans. "So," she began slowly, "you spend your time, what, role-playing in the Game Grid?"

"Yes, mostly teaming up with other jugglers to run through pre-generated adventures, or competing against them in personal combat, for points in both cases."

"And you can make nuyen at this?"

"Only if you're good," he smiled to himself, again. "Actually, we only slot for big yen at sanctioned tourneys, but the competition's really intense, there. We can run pregenerated archetypes or program our own . Here's my best character." He reached into the bomber jacket and handed her a high-quality, digitized holo-pic.

It was a thin wafer-like disk made of some unrecognizable type of plastic. On it was a terrifyingly realistic icon, that was a cross between an eight-limbed wasp and one of those hive warriors from Aliens XVI. "It usually pays enough for software upgrades. As you may know, I also race bicycles professionally, which mostly pays for the rest."

She indicated that she did and handed the disk back to him, adding, "but you have decked, before." Rita hadn't meant to make it sound like such an accusation. Apparently Buzz got the message.

"Yes, I have. On several occasions," he admitted, somewhat distastefully. "I have freelanced, but I was out of my element."

"Well, how about this?" Rita asked as she slid an envelope across the table. "Inside you will find a high density storage diskette. It contains sensitive shipping info, but I need specific schedules and protocols. And I need them by tomorrow. I do not believe that it will require any ice-breaking, but I will pay the standard bonus, if it does. Tomorrow, if you are interested in more, we can re-negotiate. If not, just dig up the name of someone who is." The envelope was also filled with Ares corporate script. "Here is half up front, plus a finder's fee on that other decker."

"Which I keep," Buzz concluded, slipping the bills and holo-pic into his jacket, "either way."

"Of course. Although out of fairness, I should warn you," she said, "once you realize the potential payoff, you will want in."

"I accept that risk." He held out his hand and Rita shook it, then signaled the waitress, who had been hovering discreetly out of earshot. Buzz didn't order much. In reality, he was far too stressed to eat. But owing to tradition, Rita paid the tab, anyway.

During the meal, he remembered the names of two freelancers, non-deckers, who might be interested in her run. One was a gillette, but nothing like Rita, the other was a Dwarven technician. He scribbled their address on a napkin and gave it to her, for free.

Afterwards as she excused herself, Rita (who, if the truth be known, was at least as nervous as Buzz) fervently hoped that her next meet would not be as draining as today's.