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It took about forty minutes for Promise to get back to her apartment. She walked in slowly, feeling the emptiness of the rooms, eyes fixed on the vidcube on her mantel. She adjusted its position, frowning absently. It played a continuous tapeloop of her with Maxine. Both were laughing, both dancing in their Saturday-night finery—two dark pretty women without a care in the world. Good times. Party people.

  She went into the kitchen and punched out a meal. The white enamel dispenser hummed, and a thin stream of rich nutrient broth trickled into her cup. She drank, but her mind was far away.

  What was it that Max had said about another drug? Something stronger than grubs? Impossible. Promise squelched a shiver of revulsion as she remembered the days, thankfully years in the past, when she had been a slave to that addiction. She remembered spending her last dollars, earned by theft or the renting of her body. How long ago was that? Eight years? Nine? How old had she been, twenty?

  But the price of chemical ecstasy was a dear one, paid in flesh and spirit. At last, desperate, she turned herself in to Dr. Cecil Kato's detoxification clinic. After three months of searing agony she found real freedom at last.

  And now Max, who had been there herself, who had struggled through the same process for the better part of a year, said that there was something better.

  Impossible. She had gone back to the grubs, that was all.

  Still, something in Promise that was frighteningly strong and hungry, even after a decade, wondered—

  Fright wig? Promise had loaned Max one of her old wigs three weeks before. Max had returned it, laughing, calling it a "fright wig."

  Promise dropped her cup of broth and ran into her bedroom, to the closet. She threw the door open, gasping as a severed head glared down at her from the shelf. She shook the image out of her mind and took the styrofoam dummy down, peeling off the shaggy afro wig. There was nothing on the dummy, so she turned the wig inside out.

  And there it was. A small, dark bottle and a glassine envelope with a slip of paper inside. She opened it and unfolded the letter. It was a note, which read simply:

  "Promise. It's the best I've got, and the least I can do. Max."

  At the bottom of the paper was a dark watermark or an emblem of some kind. It was circular and looked rather like a ribbed doughnut, with a blank spot in the center. An inkblot? She rubbed her fingertip across it thoughtfully, vaguely surprised when the mark smeared. She folded the paper and replaced it in the envelope.

  She examined the bottle next. It was opaque, so she shook it, listening to the contents rattle. Something in there, all right.

  A hand fell roughly on her shoulder and Promise gasped in surprise as she was swung around. Automatically, her knee came up for a groin blow, but a calloused hand brushed it easily aside, and the back of the same hand landed brutally across her face.

  She spun back and fell to the carpet, looking up in shock.

  There stood two men. Neither was dressed like a cop. One was a Latino, heavy with muscle and only a slight swell of paunch detracting from the image of a massive man in extremely good condition. He wore an elasticized stretchsuit that fit snugly into every crevice and around every bulge. He grinned her as he picked up the bottle and twisted it open.

  "You don't know nothin', huh?" he sneered. The other man was perhaps in his early forties. His twisted little face was deeply lined. It showed Oriental, Black, and hard, fast living. He was shorter than the Latino, but seemed in better condition. In his right hand he carried a gun, the bore of its needle-projector trained directly between her eyes. "Well, lookee here, Chango. The lady who didn't know nothin' about nothin' has some nice little tablets."

  The little man seemed skittish, maybe high on something. "Think there's more, Devon?"

  "Ain't paid to think." He held the bottle up to the light.

  Devon looked at her, his smile a thing of gentle menace. "No rush. I think we better take her back to the Palisades. Luis will want a word with her before she goes."

  Promise found her voice. "Just what the hell are you doing in my apartment?"

  The smaller man regarded her evenly, bringing the gun closer to her face. "The time you're living isn't even borrowed, Sweetmeat. It's trespassed on. I'd quiet up if I was you."

  Devon hauled her roughly to her feet. As he raised her she rode the pull in and jabbed for his eyes. Devon twisted out of the way so that she only scored shallowly along the side of his face. He grinned, backhanding her a shot that brought fresh blood to her mouth and new pain to an already throbbing head.

  They dragged her to the door and Chango went out into the hall first, gun hidden under his coat. Devon threw her purse in her face and then dragged her out and into the elevator. It sank to the parking level.

  It was cool in the basement, and quiet. Most of the cars were hooked up to the charging posts that sat at the head of every space, current trickling into the batteries powering the electric engines. One dark blue sedan stood against the far wall unattached to any post. Promise knew that it was her destination.

  She tried again to twist free, but Devon anticipated her. His grip sank brutally into her arm. Conscious only of her pain and fear, Promise could hardly recognize the bubbling sounds that rose in her throat as her own.

  Chango moved forward to the car and pressed the tip of his index finger against the photocell on the door handle. It opened. Fast.

  The door slammed into Chango's body, and he was thrown back, the needle gun spinning from his hand and clattering across the floor of the garage. Out of the car exploded a dark figure that rammed a shoulder into Chango so that the man stumbled and fell, skidding on his butt, face slack with shock. Devon tossed Promise out of the way like a plastic puppet, and charged the new man. They ran directly at each other for a few steps, then the stranger hit the ground and spun, cutting Devon's feet out from under him.

  The stranger stumbled getting back to his feet, and his next inhalation was painfully choked. Promise saw something like sick alarm clouding his face. He gulped air and wrapped thick arms around his midsection.

  Chango got to his feet and said, "Aubry?" shaking his head before charging in.

  Sweat had broken out on the stranger's face, as if he were fighting with weighted limbs. As Chango came in, the stranger spun, his left heel burying itself in Chango's chest with a terrible crunching sound. Chango smashed back into the wall.

  The stranger was wracked with spasms now, and he bent over the hood of the car, retching.

  Devon staggered to his hands and knees, eyes on the attacker. He reached into his pocket for a knife, and never saw Promise pick up the gun and turn, face twisted with hate. He heard the hiss of the projector an instant after the expanding needle ripped into his chest. He was dead in less than two seconds.

  She swung to cover the stranger, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering. He wiped his mouth and walked unsteadily to Chango.

  He knelt down and spat on the concrete floor. "Where is he?" His voice was ragged.

  Chango shook his head slowly and coughed, a bubble of blood sliding from his lips. The stranger bent nearer. "Where's Luis? You're dying, but I can make it harder for you." He reached out a shaking arm and placed the ball of his thumb on Chango's right eyelid.

  The wounded man gurgled and swallowed, whispering, "No."

  The big dark man stood, staring at Chango almost vacantly. Softly, he said, "You're a better man than he deserves."

  A smile flickered on Chango's lips for a second, and he tried to say something. Then his body stiffened in a convulsion and he died.

  The victor turned, to look directly into the barrel of the needle gun. Promise's hands shook. "Wh-who are you?"

  He was still breathing hard, perspiration spattering on the floor as he shook his head. "Give me that."

  She took a step backwards. "Just who the hell are you? What is all this about? Who were they? Who the hell is Luis?" Her eyes swept the carnage in the garage, and she shuddered.

  He wavered, stumbled to catch his bala
nce.

  She winced empathetically. "What's wrong with you?"

  His mouth opened and he collapsed towards her. As he did his arm snaked out impossibly fast to pluck the gun from her hand. In the same instant, he regained his balance. Promise stood unmoving, shocked speechless.

  "Listen." He was still fighting for breath. "Would you rather talk or survive?"

  The gun wasn't pointing at her. She breathed a sigh of relief. "What do you mean?"

  "Luis knows who you are and where you live. He might even have a picture of you. You're in deep shit, lady."

  She dug her fingernails into her palms, fighting for control. "But why? What did I do?"

  He staggered to the car, fitting his massive body behind the wheel. "You coming?"

  "Do I have an option?"

  "Sure, baby. Live or die. That's it."

  He was regaining control of himself quickly. He could make me come, but he isn't playing it that way. She ran the variables through her mind as quickly as she could, filed the unknowns for later reference, and made her decision.

  She looked into his expressionless black eyes. When she spoke, her voice was a careful mixture of caution and vulnerability. "I can't trust you..." She let a touch of desperation onto her face. "Can I?"

  "You have to decide that for yourself."

  Her glance moved from him back to the elevator, then to the inert bodies on the floor. This man was lethal—there was no question about that. But he was also sick in some way that she didn't understand. She clamped down on the thought— another variable for later.

  "All right," she said. "But only until I have a chance to think." She walked over to Devon and dug in his pockets until she found the letter and the vial, and slipped them into her purse.

  He looked at her curiously. "Is that what this is all about?"

  Promise narrowed her eyes. "You mean you didn't know? Why the hell did you buy in?"

  He offered no explanation, merely leaning over to unlock die passenger door. She ran around and hopped in. With an electric hum, the car lifted on its springs and glided out of the garage.

  She sat, huddled in her corner, dazed, watching the awesome man with the scarred hands smoothly pilot the car out of the garage and into traffic. "Who are you?" she whispered, fighting to retain balance.

  He turned to face her, the weakness washing out of his face with each new breath. "My name is Knight," he said. "With a K."

  He swung onto the CompWay, switching the car to automatic. He dialed southeast, into town. "I bought in because Ortega wants you. If you're valuable to him, you're valuable to me. And because you know Maxine."

  "Mouse? What has she got to do with you?"

  Despite the autopilot, his hands were heavy on the wheel. "Because of her, I did five years in stir." His eyes flamed, then clouded. "She set me up for Ortega, and I'm going to—" He had to swallow to get the words out: "—kill b t."

  Promise was silent. She looked out of her window at the other cars on the La Brea CompWay, at the climbing glass spires and dancing holobillboards she saw so often and paid so little attention to. Then she took the bottle out of her purse and held it, shook it, and heard the pills rattle, and felt hatred for them. Such small things, but important enough to kill for. She studied Knight's face, finally recognizing him from the hospital waiting room. "Did you follow me to my house?"

  "No, I followed Chango and his friend. They were at the hospital, although they didn't see me. When you went upstairs, they left. They looked like they knew where they were going."

  "You knew his name."

  "We used to work for the same man."

  Silent again, she watched the approach to Washington Boulevard, with its office towers and business people walking to their jobs and appointments. For most of them, the day was near to ending. They would go home to their tridees and chilled martinis. There would be love in their lives, and stability, and safety. Some would be planning vacations to Paris, or the Bahamas or Orbit II, and maybe a few would go to the Arcade to drown their troubles in sound and light and direct induction.

  Maybe she could tell Knight to stop the car, and she could get out and just blend into the crowd.

  But the weight of the bottle in her hand brought her back to reality, and she sat back stonily into her seat.

  She didn't know where she was or where she was going, but her only hope was to remain as calm as possible and play out the hand she had been dealt.

  Aubry watched her out of the corner of his eye. Promise glanced at him quickly, then turned away, showing nothing but a flash of fear and an exceptionally full profile.

  The car came to a gliding halt. The buildings around them were old but colorful, and there was sound in the streets, strange music that blended a dozen cultural rhythms into a pulsing melody. There were sharp, rich smells—tomatoes and pork and chicken and spices of innumerable kinds blending from a hundred windows, and she realized how empty her stomach was. Aubry jerked his head towards a peel-painted four-story building. "It's where I stay. Do you want to come in, or....

  "I don't have anywhere else to go." Her eyes fixed on the street ahead. "What do your friends call you?" She asked hesitantly.

  "I don't have any friends."

  "Maybe you just made one."

  He grunted without speaking and swung his door open. He paused outside the car and stuck his head back down. "Aubry'll do."

  "I'm Promise," she said, trying to find the right amount of warmth for her voice. She followed him from the car, so lost in a tangle of worry that she almost walked into a drone taxi. Its radar picked her up in time to shimmy to a halt. It squealed at her.

  "Watch yourself," Aubry said disgustedly, and led the way across the street.

  There was a tattered rooms-for-rent shingle projecting from the building, faded and weatherworn, creaking on its hinges in the wind. The building looked as if it had been cobbled together out of scrap pieces of wood and plastic and steel: riveted, glued, bolted, wired, dovetailed, and prayed into place.

  The front door looked like a metal security door salvaged from a fairly classy old hotel. Inside it was dusty but not filthy, and Promise gave thanks for the lack of crawling things.

  The halls were lit with low-wattage gloplates arid a series of burnished metal mirrors that relayed light down from the roof. The air didn't flow evenly through the building; it seemed to pool and eddy, collecting in stale pockets here, there distributed by a gust of wind whistling through the inadequate paneling. Behind some of the doors Promise could hear radios blaring the latest fusion of classical and Indo-Chinese music, or heartbeat-adjusted synthesizer jazz.

  Aubry led her up a set of stairs and opened a splintered wooden door for her. "Ain't much," he said flatly.

  And he was right. There was a rickety bed, a couple of straightbacked chairs, a little microwave oven with its solar panel flagging forlornly out the window, a dresser, and a dingy white refrigerator. An aged compactor toilet squatted in the corner. The room looked like a hundred cheap hotel rooms whose ceilings she could describe from memory.

  Promise sat down on the edge of the bed and watched as Aubry went over to the refrigerator. He pulled out a crudely made sandwich and held it up to her.

  She met his eyes squarely. "I want to know what's going on.

  He shrugged and shut the door, sat on a chair facing her and started to eat.

  She waited patiently, using the time to absorb as much about him as possible, distracting herself from the fear chewing at her nerves. She noted the scars that creased faint lines into his face, the strength of his blunt fingers, the compact massiveness of his body. An image of the garage fight flashed in her mind, its spectacular beginning and strange end.

  And on the tail of that image, Maxine, swathed in bandages.

  "What did Max do to you?" she asked, unable to hold the question any longer.

  Aubry shook his head. 'This is my game. What about you and the Ortegas?"

  "The Ortegas? Everybody hears talk, but I've never
dealt with them, thank God."

  "Then tell me about you and Maxine."

  "I helped her. I used her to pay a debt."

  "What kind of debt?"

  Promise carefully dropped her control over her plastiskin. It lost its dark brown hue and began to pulse with color. Aubry's jaw fell open. "Damn! What the hell are you?"

  Promise glanced quickly at her left hand, and turned it brown again. "What's the matter? Never seen an Exotic before?"

  "Yeah. I guess so." He nodded slowly. "I been away a while. You forget a lot."

  "I guess so." She paused thoughtfully. "I used to be addicted to grubs. A very good man got me off of them. He only asked that I pass the favor on, help someone else get free. She was my third try, the only one that worked."

  "When was this?"

  "About three years ago. After she got clean I helped her ... get work. Gibbs Agency. Party people."

  "That figures. Luis parties through them. He may even own 'em. You sure you never made one of his parties?"

  "He sounds like someone I'd remember. Anyway, she didn't trick too much. She had a steady old man—this guy Ornstein. She was trying to straighten out her act, as far as I can see."

  "Do you still work for Gibbs?"

  "No. I free-lance."

  "How'd you know Maxine was in the hospital?"

  "Dr. Patricks. I couldn't make much sense out of what Max told me when I got there. Something about some drug more powerful than Coal-Moth larvae. Told me where to find a sample. I came home—"

  "Did you tell anyone what she said?"

  "Hell, no. I came home, found the bottle, and got snatched. That's where you came in, and that's all I know." Her hands were trembling, and she interlocked her fingers to disguise it. "What about your—"

  "I used to work for Luis Ortega, until I made the mistake of thinking I wasn't a slave. I don't feel like going into it. All you need to know is that he set me up, and he used your little friend to do it."

  "W-won't you tell me about it?"

  "No."

  She wiped her hands on her dress. "So, you want Ortega?"

  "And your precious Maxine. I was tracing down a lead on her when I found out she'd put it to another boyfriend but got caught with her fingers in the cookie jar. I figured to hang around the hospital to see who came to visit her, and you showed up. Two of Luis's boys left as soon as you arrived. I followed them back and waited. Lucky you."