"It's Eagle Security," she said, wide-eyed. "They've found Mitch!"

"Are they sure?" asked Mrs. Truman, suddenly breathless.

Hanna nodded. The retinal ID matches!"

“Where is he?" asked Truman. "Where's my boy?"

“Is he all right?" cried Mrs. Truman.

Hanna paused and spoke quietly into the phone. "He's at Harold Washington University Hospital," she reported. Then her voice caught suddenly and she stared at the Trumans before she could finally get the words out.

"They've put him in the psychiatric ward."

The man stuck out his hand as the Tniman entourage entered the hospital lobby. "Lieutenant Breslin," he said, "Eagle Security."

Daniel Truman took shook his hand, and then held on to it "Lieutenant, I want to see my son." The rest of the group entered quickly behind him, looking very out of place alongside the streeters and squatters already waiting there.

"Of course," Breslin said and motioned to an older, dark-haired woman approaching them in the distinctive white coat of a doctor. Her hands were in her pockets and they stayed there. "This is Doctor Stansfeld. She's been examining your son."

"Doctor," said Truman.

"Mr. Truman, I'm sorry to report that there's very little I can tell you about your son. Eagle brought him in about four hours ago and we've run just about every one of our passive tests on him, with little result."

"I don't understand," said Mrs. Truman.

"He's-your son, I presume?-in a unresponsive state. All indications are that he is conscious, possibly aware, but unable or unwilling to respond."

"How can that be?" Daniel Truman seemed barely able to restrain his anger and pain. "What happened to him?"

"I don't know for sure. Any number of possible mental or emotional traumas. He's been physically abused, beaten perhaps, but beyond those bruises and scrapes he's relatively uninjured. It may have been something he saw or experienced."

"Can we see him?" asked Mrs. Truman.

The doctor nodded. "Of course. Come this way." The two Trumans followed Stansfeld out of the lobby, leaving Kyle, Hanna, two staff assistants, and three Knight Errant guards standing there with Lieutenant Breslin. Facile of Knight Errant was off trying to locate Melissa Truman.

"Lieutenant Breslin," Kyle said, extending his own hand, "I've been part of the investigation on this. Might I ask you a few questions?"

The police lieutenant laughed. 'That's usually my line." He was a short man, a head less than Kyle, with a mop of brown-red hair and a short mustache. His gaze was clear and direct. "I take it you're with Truman's staff?" He eyed the three obviously armed troopers surrounding the group. "Or is it Knight Errant?"

"Neither. I was called in to find the boy."

The lieutenant smirked. "Guess we made your work a little easier."

"Up to this point," said Kyle, "but I strongly suspect Mr. Truman is going to want to find out how this happened."

The officer nodded. "He was picked up on the northside, near Western and Irving Park. Squad car reports he came mad-dashing out of an alley and ran straight into the car. He fought them at first, then just collapsed. A crowd had gathered and they checked around to see if anyone knew him, but no one would admit to anything. Not a surprise in that neighborhood."

"What was he wearing?" asked Kyle.

“Jeans, shoes, and a shirt," said Breslin. "The hospital's got it all."

“Was he carrying any IDs or money?"

Breslin shook his head. "Nope, or we'd have ID'd him faster. Had to run prints and retinals to tag him."

"And his injuries?"

“Like the doc said. But I only came on the case after he'd been ID'd. All I saw were cuts and scrapes, which he could have gotten from hitting the squad car. Nearly broke the window, I hear.”

"Did he say anything to anyone?"

“No. Nothing. The report said that up until he collapsed he was trying to yell through clenched teeth. But it wasn't words, just yelling. Seems pretty obvious to me."

"Oh?" said Kyle.

The lieutenant shrugged. "Sure. Wacko behavior, then catatonia. He beetled his brain to Mars."

Kyle nodded. Mitchell's description did fit the template for someone who'd burned his brains out on BTL chips. Better Than Life, a high-powered, technological hallucinogenic that was the high of choice for many on the streets. The problem was too much or the wrong kind that could fry the user's mind. Permanently.

Kyle thanked Breslin for his help, then walked back to Hanna. "Do you know of Mitchell having a chip problem?" he asked her quietly, suddenly, feeling terribly weary.

She shook her head. "No. The only simsense gear he had in his apartment was stuff the company made. All within legal limits. He hated it and rarely used it. Maybe it was because of who his father is."

"That would be the ultimate irony, wouldn't it?" Kyle said. "His father is the owner of one of the biggest multimedia conglomerates in the world and his son turns out to be a chiphead."

"I suppose," she said, but he could tell she didn't believe it.

"Mr. Teller?"

Kyle turned to see a nurse standing there in a starched white uniform and cap.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Truman would like you to join him."

"All right." He turned to Hanna. "Check with Facile and see if they've located Melissa yet. If not, see if you can find out whether she knew about any chip habits Mitch might have had."

Hanna said she would, and then Kyle followed the nurse down the corridor. The room was brightly lit with virtually no shadows. It contained little else besides a bed and the three people clustered around the figure lying on it.

Mrs. Truman was obviously distraught, but to Kyle she seemed to be holding up better than her husband. Looking as pale and battered as his catatonic son, Daniel Truman was like a man whose life had been torn away from him. Only their eyes differed. Daniel Truman's were full of sadness and fear. Mitchell Truman's eyes were empty. He simply stared.

"Mr. Teller," the elder Truman said as Kyle entered. "Please tell me that you can do something for him."

Doctor Stansfeld also turned toward him. "Are you a doctor?"

Kyle shook his head. "No, I'm a mage."

Her lips tightened slightly. "I see. Are you certified?"

Kyle stopped. "Certified?"

"By the UCAS Medical Association," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'To use healing magic."

Kyle almost laughed. "No ma'am," he said. "I wasn't aware that there was such a thing." That was a lie, but Kyle knew that licensing was rarely enforced except as a requirement for employment in an institution like this. He had always considered it mainly a safeguard against charlatans and quacks.

"Well, there is." She turned brusquely to Truman. "I'm afraid this man can't use magic on your son while he's a patient here. It's against the rules."

"Against the rules?" echoed Mrs. Truman, aghast.

The doctor nodded. "We're not insured for noncertified magicians operating within the hospital."

Truman was practically shaking. "If you think I'm going to let your damn rules stand in the way of my son getting the treatment he needs-"

The doctor took an involuntary half-step back, but held her ground. "Mr. Truman, if you wish to take your son elsewhere, that is your right. But while he is here, he will not be treated by a non-staff mage. And you can rattle the rafters as much as you wish, but when you finally get to the top of the pile you'll find that Harold Washington University Hospital is ultimately owned by Fuchi Industrial Electronics. And, with all due respect, Mr. Truman, I don't think you'd have much success intimidating them."

Truman's eyes narrowed and he leaned in toward the doctor. "Very well. We'll move my son to where he can be cared for properly. But I don't think you'd like to know just how much hell I could raise with Fuchi. And regardless of the fact that we're leaving, I am going to rattle the rafters till they fall down on your pretentious head."