Blacklists were illegal, but everyone knew they existed, and why not? After all, why would a corporation use a freelancer who opposed them? And not in regard to one particular issue but on everything. Because that’s where the greenies were coming from. They advocated the complete demechanization of society and a return to the land. Land owned by-you guessed it-the corporations.

The two groups came together and exploded. A greenie hit a bullet-catcher, the latter hit back, and the brawl was on. I stepped forward into the thick of the battle.

A woman with hollow cheeks, bad teeth, and fire-filled eyes swung at me. I hit her harder than I should have. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell. It was only as she went down that I realized she was a bullet-catcher. Somebody hit me from behind. It was a glancing blow and didn’t hurt, but I fell anyway. Once on the floor, and hidden by the tightly packed bodies above, it was easy to undo the velcro fasteners and pull the Trans-Solar poncho over the woman’s head. I had it half on by the time I stood.

One of the lifer’s bodyguards, a Hispanic woman with muscles on her muscles, pistol-whipped a boy and attempted to rally the troops.

“Come on! A fifty-credit bonus to everyone who makes it to the Trans-Solar checkpoint!”

Most of us would have murdered our mothers for fifty credits. We staggered, then surged forward, pushing our way through the greenies. The protesters fell away, hopeful their demo had changed some minds, knowing it hadn’t. The status quo was the status quo, and a lot better than some vague “return to the soil” movement. Especially when most of the soil is covered with concrete, contaminated with chemicals, and completely worn out.

Though unable to stop us, the greenies gave chase. We moved down the corridor at a pretty good clip, took a right into a hallway marked “PRIVATE TRANS-SOLAR PERSONNEL ONLY,” and headed for a rather elaborate checkpoint. It consisted of a partition made of steel bars, a “kill zone,” and another partition of steel bars. It was personed by rent-a-cops, and they were armed with everything short of antitank weapons.

A bodyguard shouted, “Open the gate!” and waved an I.D. card in the air. Laser beams scanned it, a computer approved it, and the gate slid open. We rushed through and it closed behind us. Those towards the rear tried to stop, shoved those in front, and pushed them against a second gate.

I turned to find that the greenies had pushed the man in the green sports coat up against the bars. Our eyes met, and he yelled something, but the crowd noise drowned him out.

A beacon flashed, a buzzer buzzed, and I turned in time to see a female rent-a-cop point towards me from the far side of gate two. “He has a gun! Grab him!”

The.38! Like the idiot I am, I had entered the checkpoint packing a gun. The autoscanners had found it and were busy spreading the word.

I shoved a middle-aged man with long scraggly hair towards the Hispanic woman. He tripped and fell against her chest. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Her gun went off. A bullet hit the ceiling and screamed away.

I took two blows to the chest and heard the gunshots that went with them. I staggered backwards and knew I’d been shot. I looked down, expecting to see a big mess, and realized that the Trans-Solar poncho was bulletproof. Of course! The longer the bullet-catchers stayed alive during an ambush, the longer the lifer would be protected.

The second bodyguard, a white dude with tattoos all over his face, fired as I stepped behind a fat guy. Having raised his hands in protest, the bullet-catcher took a round through the palm of his left hand before it hit the center of his poncho and bowled him over.

I dodged the falling body and felt the gun fill my hand. I brought the weapon up, put a round through the white dude’s left thigh, and flinched as a bullet whipped by my ear. The third bodyguard, a twin to the second, corrected his aim. I shot him in the shoulder, realized that his bulletproof underwear had blocked it, and put a round through his gun arm. His pistol clattered as it hit the floor. I was still alive but couldn’t understand why. The fourth bodyguard should have nailed me by now but hadn’t. I turned, saw the crumpled body, and figured her for a ricochet.

The rent-a-cops, still penned behind gate two, tried for a clear shot but couldn’t find one. Bullet-catchers scattered every which way. The lifer did his best to get behind them, but it didn’t work. A pair of women pushed him forward. “Here…shoot the bastard and leave us alone!”

I grabbed the sonofabitch, put the gun to his head, and marched him towards the second gate. The rent-a-cops shuffled their feet and wondered what to do. The smell of expensive cologne filled my nostrils. I spoke into his right ear. “Open the gate and do it now.”

Sweat trickled down his temple and his hands fluttered helplessly. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll double what they’re paying you!”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Lepforg gortnoy. Open the gate!”

A well-manicured hand came up, hesitated for a moment, and stabbed the keypad. The gate started to move, and the rent-a-cops surged forward. I took the gun away from the lifer’s head long enough to bounce a round off the floor in front of them. They backpedaled in a hurry.

“Place your weapons on the floor and do it now!”

The ranking rent-a-cop, a woman with a blue Mohawk, looked doubtful. The rest waited for orders. I shoved the.38 into the lifer’s ear. He got the hint. His voice quavered. “Do what the man says.”

Blue-hair frowned unhappily, did a squat, and placed her handgun on the floor. Her troops did likewise. I figured most of them for backup weapons, but didn’t plan to push my luck. I edged the lifer around until the rent-a-cops were between me and the cage. I waved the.38.

“All right…into the cage.”

The rent-a-cops backed into the cage palms out. A snarl hurried them along. I kicked the door closed, hoped it would take them a few minutes to get it open, and motioned towards the far end of the corridor. “Come on, pretty boy…let’s run.”

He did as ordered, huffing and puffing after the first hundred feet or so, expelling the words one at a time. The floor was cleaner than most of the plates in my apartment, and our shoes made squeaking sounds as we ran. The corridor turned to the right, and we followed.

“What”-pant, pant, pant-“are”-pant, pant-“you”-pant, pant-“going”-pant, pant-“to”-pant, pant-“do”-pant, pant-“with”-pant, pant-“me?”

“Well,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder, “cross-country competition is out, and that being the case, I’ll trade you for a girl named Sasha.”

He looked at me sideways. His eyes grew bigger. “Sasha”-pant-“Casad?”

“That’s the one. Where the hell is she?”

“And your name”-pant-“is?”

I started to get annoyed. The tables had turned somehow, and he was interrogating me. I reached out, grabbed his collar, and skidded to a halt. The.38 wouldn’t fit inside his left nostril, but I did what I could to shove it there anyhow. “My name is ‘tell me where the girl is or I’ll blow your sinuses out through the top of your head.’“

His eyes grew even bigger. “I know who you are! Please, forget the girl, and listen to what…”

I turned the gun to the right and squeezed the trigger. The bullet went out through the side of his nose instead of up through his brain. Blood sprayed all over the place and the lifer screamed. He covered his nose with his hands and I rammed the.38 into his gut. “Now listen, asshole, I’m done playing patty-cake with you. Take me to the girl, or I’ll drop you right here.”

I wouldn’t have dropped him right there, but he didn’t know that, and did as he was told. His voice was muffled. “All right, all right, just leave me alone.”

There was a shout from the other end of the corridor. It was the Hispanic bodyguard. She was pissed, and so were the rent-a-cops.