"I'll come with you." Without removing his eyes from Morningstar, he added. "This is not the place or time for this kind of discussion, Morningstar."

"What, no reaction?" Morningstar smiled coldly. "It doesn't bother you? The difference between us and them?"

Suddenly, the red flash of my retina being scanned by three or more lasers blinded me. "Like any of you don't know who I am," I said, rubbing at my eye. "Come on, Mike, let's get a move on!"

Michael's eyes stayed locked on the gangster. Despite my insistence, he didn't budge. "They made their choice," Michael said grimly.

"Now that you're here in the Big Apple, what are you going to do? Maybe you've already bitten off more than you can chew."

Michael's eyes grew wide, and then he shook his head. "Lies."

I tugged his sleeve. "If you're coming, let's go..."

Morningstar raised an eyebrow and gave a little laugh. "That's your best? 'Liar.' Whoa, big insult. I'm hurting. Hey, look, I don't care what you do. Just stay away from me, capisne?"

"Deus volent." Michael looked like he wanted to say more, so I tugged him on the arm. With that, he let me lead him toward the door.

"My car's this way..." I pulled him in the direction of the car park. As the walkway's hustle and bustle surrounded us, I felt my shoulders relax. In a second we were at the car. "Get in."

The instant he closed the door, I started up the car. The engine sprang to life and I maneuvered us out of the car park and headed for the tollway. I glanced over at where Michael sat sullenly in his seat. He plucked at the peeling duct tape that held the glove compartment shut. Noticing my look, he said, "You followed me."

Just then, some Gorgon on a scooter cut across the traffic tube levels without so much as a "coming through" from Traffic Control, which was supposed to monitor all vehicles in the tubes. I leaned on the horn, and shouted after the punk.

"Stay in your own lanes!" I shook my head, and muttered, "Those Gorgons are going to give me gray hair of my own. What was he doing here anyway? It's not like there aren't traffic tubes expressly for bikes and boards."

"Hmmmm," Michael muttered, uninterested in my patter. His gaze tracked the scooter as it dodged around cars in the lower tube. "I know you followed me."

Before I could put on my "What, who, me?" face, he held up a hand.

"Don't bother making up an excuse," he said. "This thing is a relic, and anyway, you were the only car on the lower level."

I smiled, but wondered how he knew the Chevy was mine. Suddenly, I remembered: if he was a cop, then he had the LINK. "Yeah, I ought to get something built in this decade, I know. But, hey," I joked, "in another year this baby qualifies as a classic."

"Technically, sure." Returning my humor, he ran his hand along the scarred dash. "I doubt anyone'd mistake this for cherry."

The car in question hummed into the third level. I remembered gas-guzzlers from before the war. I'd been young, far too young to drive, but I had a strange nostalgia for them. Despite what it did to the classic status, I had it converted to electric years ago. It had cost me a month's salary to get a battery big enough to haul the Chevy's frame for more than a couple of kilometers, and to fit it to draw energy from the tunnel currents. I could've bought a newfangled, lightweight car for the same price, but I was a purist. I wanted a car to look like a car instead of the ugly, modern, supposedly aerodynamic things that passed for vehicles these days.

Following the entrance tube, we joined the line of cars that crowded on the seventh level. With one foot on the brake, I settled into the strangely comforting stop-start motions of a traffic jam.

"So ..." Michael's voice was hopeful. "Does this mean you're considering the barter?"

"I'd like more information first."

"Of course," he said. "What can I tell you?"

"Interesting guy this Morningstar," I told him. "What's his story? He's your brother?"

Michael raised his eyebrows, then smiled. "I suppose you could call him that. We share a father, that much is true."

"I gathered." I watched the traffic with disinterest. The bumper sticker in front of me proclaimed its owner as a voter for Grey, Letourneau's opponent, in the upcoming elections. I glanced over at Michael, "So you and Morningstar don't get along, eh?"

He gave a disgusted snort. "Forget about him, will you?"

"Forget him?" I oozed sarcasm. "Big guy, you've got to be joking. You can't tell me he's not part of your problem."

"He's not." Michael sighed. "At least not right now."

"No?" I tapped on the horn. My noise started a cascade of beeps and blares from fellow frustrated motorists. I gave Michael's profile a cynical smile. "Okay, if you say so."

He shrugged, as he continued to stare out the window.

"So, your family is Italian? Your half brother is in the business?" I tried to gauge how he reacted to my innuendo about Morningstar's Mafia connection.

"Italian?" He shrugged. "I'd prefer Roman."

I glanced at him to check if he was being serious. "Okay," I murmured, not sure how else to respond. "Roman it is. So, what was it you said to him?"

"I see what you're thinking." He shifted his massive frame, so he could look me right in the eye. "Look, it's nothing like that. You have to believe me; Morningstar has nothing to do with you and me. He's right. This time things aren't so black-and-white, I'm afraid. We have to think beyond the dualism of me versus him."

"What does that mean?" I said in Michael's direction, my eyes on the bumper in front of me.

"Eternal consequences, but mortal players." He said as if that explained everything.

"Right. Fine." Traffic stopped completely. The tubes felt claustrophobic at moments like this. "What is the problem here?" I yelled out the window, though no one could hear me behind their Plexiglas shields.

Michael stared out the window at the business-district sprawl. Tubes covered the skyline like a chaotic ball of yarn. I could see lights blinking all-around us, where several panels of the traffic tubes had been replaced with holographic advertising. Inching forward, we passed through the logo of cola being joyfully consumed by a drop-dead gorgeous Indian woman in a sari. The image stood partially over the stick shift. Michael's eyes were wide in wonderment, as though he'd never seen anything so fascinating. The advertisement faded as we moved forward another foot.

"You're not from around here," I said.

"Amish country," he murmured, looking out the rear of the car at the cola ad.

"Yet you're enhanced?" I asked, surprised.

"I'm sorry?" He gave me another one of his big, dumb-guy looks and a shrug.

"Cyberware," I supplied, with an arched eyebrow. What cop didn't know "enhanced"? Christ, half the guys on the force were ex-military, and those that weren't got special modifications under the table, or, at the very least, wore exoskeletons. With all the rogue wireheads out there, a cop couldn't be too careful. He still stared quizzically, so I added. "Your little dance around the table. The fight nearly broke the sound barrier. Impressive."

"Right," he said, as if reminding himself. "I wonder if that was a mistake."

I waved my hand to dismiss the idea. Then, I smoothly turned my momentum into a rude gesture as the woman in front of me hit the brakes for no apparent reason. I laid on the horn and repeated the gesture. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the responding traffic noise. "Don't worry about it. Almost everyone has some enhancement these days. It's not the sore thumb it used to be right after the war. So, what branch were you in?"

"Huh?"

Cute, I thought sadly, but not very on the ball.

"You and Morningstar served in something together, I'm figuring the last big one ... although you don't really look old enough. Anyway, he called you Captain. You're a lieutenant in the force, so you must've been a captain somewhere else. So, which branch of the military?"