The sensory overload was impossible. The screens ran riot with fast strobing, and the sensurround amplification assaulted his mind. He was forced to his knees with the pain of it, desperately trying to shut it out. The avalanche subsided.

“It is interesting. Lady. Please hear me,” he managed to force out between clamped teeth. He began to explain, telling her of the murders and the coincidences between lives drawn apart for many years, She liked that, and the voxsynth purred at him.

“Oh yes, oh yes, pretty one. Your friend was right. Years ago, little one, BTL chips. Jack the Ripper, oh yes. I so enjoyed that.”

Better-than-life chips; someone had chipped up a version of the killer. Of course.

But they didn’t get it right, no, no.” She created a dancing hologram of her images, putting his imagery behind her where it continued to dance in silence. “Pretty Little whores, slash! slash! slash! Hee hee hee hee…”

The voice trailed into psychotic laughter, and then, most horribly, into a song, a child’s lullaby.

Serrin didn’t think even the word madness was adequate here. Not even schizophrenic could have fulfilled the task of describing this one. He didn’t even want to Look at the hologram, with its mutilated bodies in lace and chiffon.

“So he’s back, he’s back! Jack's back! Hee hee hee!” Again the high-pitched laughter reverberated around him. “Well, little one, is it pretty now? Have they done it well this time?”

Serrin nodded grimly. He wanted desperately to find out who had made a Ripper BTL chip, and he decided to risk her ire by asking outright.

“Oh, well,” she sounded fussy and mildly irritated. “Little people with big money in the shadows. Global Technologies made the chips. Little people used them. Hollywood people. Never know what they’re doing. Hollywood people, always so self-absorbed, never attend to details. We’re not stylish and we’re not pretty,” she half-sang in mockery.

For a split-second the withered form seemed to rock just a little further forward toward him. She gazed right though him with eyes the frequency of lasers. “Hollywood Simsense, little mage.’ she said simply. ‘Corporate warfare. But who was behind the Hollywood people? Who’s bigger than all of the Global world?”

“Go now.” The voice changed very abruptly. “I am bored now. I think I shall have a soiree.” Abruptly the screens as one flipped channels to show an endless array of celebrities. Politicians, artists, simsense stars, religious leaders, writers, sportsmen and women; Serrin recognized almost all of them. Almost all were silent, but to Serrin’s amazement the Russian president began reciting an old and especially obscene joke about a New York mayor and an actress. He looked quizzically at the expressionless elf.”

“They shall say what it pleases me to have them say. You will go now. But, oh, before you go, pretty one, you shall dance for us all. We shall applaud most politely. Dance for us.”

It felt as if he were being pushed and pulled throughout his body, and he lost all voluntary control. His mind went spinning across the possibilities; low-wave EM. quarkspin modulators, subliminals, photic driving… they couldn’t do this to him. But he had no choice as he skipped and swayed across the nightmarish room.

Afterward, though, Serrin did not remember anything of that nightmare dance. When the troll dumped him outside the door, he had a mechanism and some names. Better-than-life chips. Global Technologies continued for him, and Hollywood Simsense. It was far more than he’d hoped for. Walking dazedly along the sidewalk, he realized that he hadn’t had to part with a single nuyen, and he smiled. He even skipped a few steps, until his leg hurt him and he settled for an ordinary walking pace.

Thank you, Lady.

It was after midnight when he got back to the Hyatt. He just couldn’t resist the home-grown taste of some snacks from the Stuffer Shack on the way back. Real synthetics. He had eaten too much good food back at Geraint’s in London and it had begun to upset his system.

There was only one message on the telecom. It was one of his New York contacts getting back to him for a meet at eight the following evening. Of all the people he knew in this town, this was the one he’d hoped would come through. If anyone could tell him who might be the brains behind the BTL scene at Global Technologies and Hollywood Simsense, it was Shrapenter.

Serrin made his return flight arrangements. What he’d gotten was more than enough to take back with him.

26

Heading northeast, the Saab purred along the expressway. It had been a good morning. While waiting for Francesca to finish her software shopping and bag-packing, Geraint happened on a glitch in currency transactions across the major banking centers of three continents that netted him four thousand nuyen for about fifty seconds’ work. He’d learned that he could usually put one over on the Swiss satellite banking system by keeping his eyes on the South American and smaller Far Eastern markets. Even a gain no bigger than small change gave him that glorious feeling of bucking the system.

He’d decided not to bring his Tarot deck with him. No matter that he was a magical adept, the Oxford location was daunting. Being a center of English druidic magic, certain spots might be heavy with magical interference. Background count, the scholars termed it-places where powerful residues of emotion or repeated magical operations made most magical, or adept, work difficult. Ii was said that the druids knew how to harness the background count for their own purposes. Geraint deliberately avoided contact with most English druids, and wasn’t about to do anything that might alert them to his presence and activities now. Most of all, though, he never knew what the Tarot might reveal, so how could he guess what someone magically snooping might detect?

Still waiting for Francesca, he’d meditated awhile at his desk then shuffled the cards and spread them out for a reading. So engrossed and absorbed was he in his thoughts that he didn’t hear her open the front door with the magkey, only becoming aware of her presence when she crept upon him.

“Do I cross your palm with silver?” she said with a grin. She got a frosty glare in return.

“Don’t trivialize this, Fran. You know me well enough that I wouldn’t use it if it didn’t work.”

That chastened her. Eager to placate him, she asked Geraint to tell her what the spread meant, pointing to the first card with its explosion of yellow-red plumes surrounding a crackling pillar of energy.

“Ace of Wands. I wanted to know where we stood at this point. It doesn’t tell me very much. An ace is a starting point, wands are intuition, energies in a general sense. So the card says energies are unleashed, we are all expending energy in different directions. It’s vague, but it fits; we’re all in different places, and we’re all chasing leads, not sure where we may end up.”

“Who’s the old geezer?” she asked, moving onto the next card. Geraint turned to her with the hint of reproach in his expression.

“The Hermit. Me, actually. I asked where I was in all this. He’s rather solitary, introspective, detached from the world. I think he’s telling me to back my own judgment and not depend too much on others. If we get into an argument, my dear, I’m afraid you’re going to lose.”

She laughed and tossed back her hair. “You’re just saying that to intimidate me so I’ll give you your own way. I know you.”

“No, really. See,” he said. “This is you.” The card showed a green-cloaked figure seated atop a stone pedestal, waving a sword in the air in a defensive posture. Princess of Swords. The card shows you’re going to be very practical and down-to-earth, but you just might be missing something. Smart but not creative, the Princess. No offense meant, Fran. Bear with me.” He moved to the fourth card lying on the desk.