My view of the world is purified.

I feint to the left and try to scramble around the Brain. My lunge doesn’t fool him. With a mauling grip he catches the back of my shirt, twists me up into the air. My shirt collar gags me and then rips, and I slip out of his grasp, hitting the concrete hard on all fours.

A black motorcycle boot lifts out of my vision and I roll, knowing that the boot is coming back down like a pneumatic hammer. I almost make it. The heel mashes the fingertips of my left hand. Grinding pain corkscrews into me and I gasp, remembering the time I caught my fingers in the hinge of a car door and wondering how this could be so much worse. Then I tune it out. Yank my hand from under his boot, leaving bloody finger paint on the street.

Grabbing the Brain’s trunk of a leg, I yank myself upright and keep going, climbing up his back. It’s like mounting an angry elephant, the smell of sweat and heat coming off his neck in waves. Muscles slither under his skin as he swings his arms at me.

The first blow sledgehammers into my shoulder blades, and I squeeze my arms tighter around his chest and suck wind. His fists are dense as a sack of ball bearings. I reach up and wrap a hand around his forehead where he can’t bite me. The next fist thuds into me and the light starts doing funny things in my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. With one hand I grip his forehead tight, and with the other I dig my thumb directly into his port. A dirty move. Dirty as sewage. Twisting, I cram my thumbnail into the puffy flesh of his temple. His head twists violently and that arm rises again, and I tense for impact. But something gives. The tip of my thumb sinks in a quarter inch. The arm wavers and then drops, hesitant. I let up.

The Brain coughs a couple times, the choke of an old car that won’t turn over on a cold morning. He stumbles, arms out for balance. Finally he collapses to his knees like a dynamited building.

I slide off the Brain’s back and quickly check his face. Even kneeling, he’s as tall as I am, staring vacantly ahead. He sneezes once, expelling a cannonball of air from his lungs.

“Brain?” I ask. “You okay?”

He takes a halfhearted swipe at me, eyes still unfocused. I take that as a yes and leave him, hurry across the empty street. Just after I cross, four police cars whiz by in a line behind me. Doppler-shifted sirens pushing and then pulling me along.

Toward the mayhem.

Running hard, I leap over cracked pavement, charge past roll-top doors and beige commercial warehouses. The thrum of several thousand people rolls toward me from somewhere up ahead, but the streets are oddly empty. Plastic bottles and discarded flyers stalk each other in the breeze. Locked doors and closed garages. Hazy clouds and the faint smell of smoke.

A half-fallen wooden roadblock slants across the street ahead.

I hear the shouts before I see anything. Sporadic gunshots and the edge of naked panic, unrestrained anger in the cries. Two women and a man appear and hobble past me. One of the women is holding a blood-soaked shirt against the man’s face. She shrinks away when she spots my temple.

Rounding the corner, I stumble into a full-blown melee.

I’m too late. Way too goddamn late. Every one of Lyle’s amps is here and they are attacking Pure Priders with anything on hand: rebar from the construction site, two-by-fours, rocks, and fists. Some have guns and some carry scavenged riot shields. The amps are charging in from the side streets, trapping reggies in the intersection. Other reggies are making a run for it. It’s a slaughter.

In seconds, I see an overweight amp smash another man’s cheekbone with one fist and keep on running, catching another guy in a sternum-crushing bear hug. A group of four reggies have got another amp by the arms, his shirt ripped mostly off; he slithers out of their grasp and sets about taking them apart with his fists and elbows.

Other people are lying facedown, not moving.

A burning car throws smoke over a cluster of reggies in front of the stage, back-to-back against the onslaught. These people are bloody, scared to death. Their signs are forgotten on the ground, trampled underfoot along with those who are hurt. Homemade T-shirts with angry slogans have been ripped into strips, turned to bandages.

Black uniforms intermingle with the group. Police separated from one another. On their own, defending the demonstrators and themselves with nightsticks and Tasers and sidearms.

And then there’s Lyle.

For just an instant, I spot the cowboy standing on the stage itself, above the scrum. He takes in the havoc with his knuckles resting on his hips, fingers curled up like feathers. Scans the crowd, eyes flickering past me without settling, and turns. Speaks to someone behind him, neck tensing with a shout.

Lyle leaps off the back end of the stage.

I fall forward into the fray, and the Zenith guides me as I shove and dodge my way toward the cowboy. The fighters batter my body back and forth. Rolling off sweaty backs and ducking fists, I skirt the defensive line of reggies and mount the stage two steps at a time.

Craning, I spot Lyle sprinting down a backstreet, away from the fight.

I cross the stage and leap down, follow Lyle as fast as I can. Flatten my palms and let my knees pump like pistons. Behind me, the concussion of multiple gunshots boomerangs around the intersection. I press onward, accelerating even as my lungs ignite with pain. The cowboy is so goddamn fast and everything is on the line and I can’t help sliding backward, going deeper into myself.

Level three just isn’t cutting it anymore.

Level four. Man-portable weapon systems. Small arms. Infantry support. Lethal organic fire support. Obstacle breaching. Do you consent? Do you consent?

Yes.

Ears trained on the plock-plock of Lyle’s boots, I let my vision collapse. Feel my eyes go dead around the edges even as every follicle and nerve ending of my body buzzes with life. My movements smooth out and gain a liquid flow. Running silent and smooth and swift as a tsunami on the open sea.

When I come upon Lyle, it’s all I can do to stop.

In a blind alley, the cowboy is leaning against a black town car with its door open, talking to a guy in a business suit. Lyle sees me and winces and at that moment I realize who he’s chatting with.

Senator Joseph Vaughn.

The leader of the Pure Human Citizen’s Council is taller than he appears from a distance—an athlete. Under his expensive suit, he’s muscular. The politician stands next to the car, relaxed and disheveled. He’s sweated through his suit. Tie half on. His hair is mussed and his cheeks are flushed.

“No, Lyle,” I say. “No.”

The laughing cowboy grins at me, shrugs his crow-bitten shoulders.

Lyle is standing here in this alley, chatting with Vaughn like they were old friends. These two should be worst enemies and they’re not at all and the meaning of that puts a sag into my knees. Who’s paying for all this?

The boss, man, who do you think?

“You’re working for the Priders?” I ask Lyle, my voice flat with blank disbelief. “You did this for them?”

Lyle stands up off the car, sighs.

“The Brain still alive?” he asks.

I nod.

“Thanks,” he says, then turns and I see his eyes have gone dark and blank. My body leaps away before I’m aware of it. Lyle hits the space where I was standing like a torpedo, fists stuttering in the air. His boots scrabble over the gravelly pavement as he gets his balance. He turns back, eyes half closed.

Now I’m between him and the senator.

Lyle smiles, dead eyed. He’s given himself up to the implant. Gone all the way into his deep place and put himself on autopilot.

“Whole fuckin’ hog, Gray. Level five. World opens up to you in ways you can’t imagine.”