Numerous candles set into candelabras and lanterns hang from the ceiling. Real candles, not electric bulbs like those in the hall. They shed a warm golden light in the room, which does little to chase away the chill and the dampness of the place. On the floor is a heavy Oriental rug stretching nearly from wall to wall. There are several pieces of furniture that would not have been out of place in the house of somebody's grandmother: a red velvet settee, several overstuffed chairs, and a few small tables of dark wood and clawed feet. Bunches of fragrant herbs hang from racks along the wall, filling the room with a strong scent of musk and spice. On one of the small tables sits an antique record-player holding what looks like an actual vinyl record grinding out some slow and quiet classical music with a great number of violins and mournful cellos. I don't recognize the piece. One of the curtains on the far side of the room is lifted to the side by a skeletal hand, and then Mama enters. She is small, probably no higher than my shoulder, and painfully thin. Her body is wrapped in a long, dark dress, and a dark-colored shawl covers her head and shoulders. Only her hands and face are visible and they are old and wrinkled. Her bony hands, pale and touched with dark splotches, clutch the ends of the shawl while her face is like a fairytale witch. It is long and pointed, with a sharp nose and chin. Her thin lips part to reveal sharp and yellowed teeth. Her eyes are small and dark beneath pale brows, not pale and lifeless like Crawley's, but almost as cold, like lumps of coal. Wisps of brittle, white hair escape from her kerchief and she sweeps the room with her gaze. Despite her aura of great age, this crone is not feeble or senile. She moves with a wiry grace, like a huntress or a spider negotiating her web. Her dark eyes have a fierce intelligence and a gleam that seems to catch and reflect the glow of the candles. I feel her staring at me as if she were looking into the depths of my spirit to learn my every secret. "Well, well, well," she says in a crooning voice, caressing each word and drawing it out. "What have we here?"

There is a slight accent to her speech that I cannot identify, like something from the Old World that cannot be overcome, even with years of speaking English fluently. She glides over toward me as if barely touching the ground and brushes my cheek with the caress of one bony hand. Her skin is dry and brittle like the many old, yellowed news-faxes scattered over the streets and alleys of the Rox. I fight down a shudder and stand perfectly still. "What is your name, boychik?" she asks. "I am called Babel." I pause, then add, "Grandmother." Mama's lips purse and her sunken cheeks become even more hollow. Her mockery of an almost girlish pout is hideous. "What a polite boy. A lovely boy. Is that your only name, Babel?" "The only name I can give." "Can give or will give?" she asks with a tone of menace. "Can give," I reply. "That is the only name I have, the only one with any meaning for me now." That is not entirely true. There is the street name, Rook, I once used. And I am still curious about my other name, the name I had from my life before the streets, before I found the Net-walkers and became a shaman. "Names have power," Mama says, speaking as much to the shadows as to me. She turns her gaze from me and begins pacing slowly toward the phonograph. "Once all people kept a secret name that they shared with no one and another they told to the world. Discover a man's secret name, and you held power over him. Do you believe that, boy?" She spins suddenly and fixes me with her dark gaze again. I nod. "Yes. Names have power. I have learned many secret names in the world of the Matrix. Passwords, systems, and codes." The old crone waves her thin hand in a dismissive gesture, turning back to caress the ornate metal horn of the phonograph. "Smoke and shadows, mere child's games with no touch of real Power." She waves her hand, and a darkling sprite, formed from candle flame and shadow, leaps from one of the candelabras on the table nearby. It flutters into the air on burning wings and I feel a quick stab of jealousy at the sight of it. When the Sixth World began almost fifty years ago, the power of magic returned to the world. Some people suddenly gained the ability-the Talent it is called-to shape the magical forces flowing around the Earth, using them to cast spells and summon spirits. I know when I see the fire sprite leap from the candle flame at Mama's command that the gift, the power of magic, is something I have always wanted. Dim memories stir inside me of dreams of becoming a powerful sorcerer; casting spells and binding spirits to my will. But then, isn't that what I am now? I consider my apprenticeship and my initiation into the Netwalkers, all I have learned in the other-world of the Matrix, and draw myself up to face the old crone. "I have seen power in the electron world, grandmother. I have danced with spirits and fought soulless creatures as dark and cold as any demon. I have taken their secrets from them and put them to my own use. That is real." The old hag smiles her hideous smile and looks at me, looks through me. With a flick of her wrist, the small sprite vanishes in a puff of flame and a small popping sound, making the room seem a bit darker and colder. "Is that so?" she says, like she is humoring a little child. "Do you believe you have touched real power, little machine-worker? Do you think you have danced with real spirits? Do you believe you know what it is to fight a true demon? Do you think you know power to equal the secrets of the Arts and Crafts of a humble old woman… Michael?" The sound of the name goes through me like a power surge, stiffening my muscles and making me gasp slightly as I look at the dark humor in those eyes. That name, that name has meaning for me. Somewhere in the back of my mind the thought blooms like a dark flower. She knows, she knows who I am. "What? What did you say?" I hear myself whisper. "You heard me, Michael. Why? Does that name have some meaning to you, to Babel the mighty technoshaman?

You said you had no other name. Do you, Michael? Is Babel the only name with meaning for you?" I hesitate and cannot seem to find my voice. I only hear the name repeating over and over in my head. Michael, Michael, Michael. I know it does have meaning to me. I know it is my other name. Mama is right. Knowing a man's true name does give you power over him. I have to know what else she knows about me. No matter what she wants. "How do you know that name?" I ask, and Mama smiles at me like I am a schoolboy who has just asked a patently obvious question. "I know because it is my business to know," she says. "I know a great many things, my boychik. I know all that goes on in my realm and many of the things that go on above. Knowledge is power, something you should know well. Didn't your Papa Lo teach you the value of knowledge and secrets?" I nod somewhat dumbly. "You are quite valuable yourself, Michael. Word has reached my ears from many quarters of those who are interested in you." I think immediately of the sorts of people who might want to know about me. Who could they be? Friends? Family? Enemies? Mama reads all of my thoughts and feelings as if I spoke aloud. "I do not fear the spirits you traffic with, little Babel, the spirits of the machine. Their power is limited and nothing compared to the ancient powers of magic. Still, they are not without power of their own and can still make some profit for me and my children here. That is why I have found it useful to deal with your tribe from time to time through others. Information is valuable, and I traffic in all things of value. Your corporate masters want you back, but they don't yet know what I know. They don't know where you are or what you have become. It is knowledge they will pay handsomely for, but not yet. In fact, you can be worth more to me than even that, you will be able to make your grandmother a tidy sum, yes indeed. But I do not wish you to be troubled, my boychik. You must rest and conserve your strength. You will need it in the times ahead." Her dark eyes focus on me and I feel a deep lethargy pour down my body like the heavy, honeyed words she croons. "Yes, my boy, that's the way, rest your tired eyes and sleep, sleep the sleep of the innocent, the sleep of the little lambs, sleep, sleep…" I do not hear the rest of Mama's crooning song as I slip into a deep and dreamless blackness, wondering if I will awaken again to discover the truth of who I am.