“I took the liberty of ordering appetizers,” Kryzinski mumbled as Michael continued through the small print. The waiter had already vanished.

“Wonderful,” Michael replied impassively, ladling a first small portion of bean sprouts and white fish with a smear of ginger and plum onto his plate. He ignored the chopsticks and settled for the silver spoon. If you can’t do something well, don’t do it at all, he thought. Stuff the chopsticks.

“We’ve suffered a certain violation of our computer systems,” Kryzinski said carefully, watching in fascination as Michael, mouth still and eyes closed, allowed the contrasting textures of the crisp vegetable and soft fish to entice his senses. The sauces were perfect, sharp enough to stimulate the taste buds and smooth enough to warm the throat.

“Um-hum,” Michael vocalized through closed lips as he allowed the last of the mouthful to slither down his throat. Whatever the job was, lunch was just fine. He set his spoon back on his plate and reached for the quarter-bottle of champagne. He wrapped the cloth around the cork and twisted the bottle to extract it slowly, with the proficiency of the habitual champagne-drinker. A gentle hiss of escaping carbon dioxide and the biscuity delight of Dom Perignon’s bouquet prefaced the pouring of perfection into his fluted glass. He took a first sip of the drink and gave the sigh of the satisfied hedonist appropriately pleasured.

“An intrusion into the second-level CPU here at Chiba,” Kryzinski continued. “An instantaneous system crash.”

Michael was instantly alert. “For how long?”

“Some fifteen seconds.”

“Any warning?”

“Absolutely none.”

“I shall need a complete sysmon report.”

“The system monitoring was rendered inoperative.”

“Really?” Michael was impressed.

“Until the end-state of the crash. We have end-state reports for the systems and all peripherals.”

“If there was no warning, you presumably have some end-state data. Did your decker leave any message or demand?”

There was just the lightest hesitation on the American’s part. Though sensing it immediately, Michael hid it behind the act of spooning more food onto his plate.

“There’s been a monetary demand. There was also an icon left within the system. A signature, if you will. Someone’s ego getting oversized,” Kryzinski said contemptuously. He handed over a chromalin, glossy and almost wet in appearance. The Englishman’s eyes narrowed at the peculiar, strangely familiar image lying on the silk tablecloth before him.

“This is a rum do,” he said finally.

“Unfortunately it’s the only lead we have,” Kryzinski said miserably.

“What?” Michael jerked his head up. “There must be more. Surely you must have gained something from system traces. No one could have gotten into and out of the system and promulgated a CPU crash, even at second level within your system, without something more than this.”

“It’s all we’ve got,” Kryzinski said, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Fine. That’s wonderful,” Michael said through gritted teeth. Liar, he thought; you have more than this. You’ve got to. All those billions and a staff second only to Fuchi and you can’t trace a crash? Bull.

His elegant fingers turned over the chromalin, and he gazed intently at the image. The body was naked hands crossed over the genitals, the right hand gripping the left wrist; a man’s body, lean and gaunt. The image was monochrome, and it looked odd, like a photographic negative. Startingly, atop the body was the image of a face that was not in negative, or so it appeared at first sight. Then Michael realized that the oddly smiling face gazing out at him was that of a black woman. She seemed to have some kind of headdress or crown, and there were dark streaks on the forehead. Likewise, there were dark streaks, droplets, on wrists and feet and what appeared to be a ragged tear on one side of the chest of the torso, low down and near the hip bones.

“You must already have some data on this,” he said.

“Not much. The crash was only twenty-four hours ago.”

“Then give me what you have so far.”

Kryzinski hesitated. “We want you to work up a report on what you can ascertain from it.” he said slowly.

“Don’t play games,” Michael said angrily.

“I’m not,” Kryzinski shot back. “It’s simply that I have to be able to demonstrate to certain other parties that you have the investigative skills that are vouched for elsewhere in the company. Please bear with me. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you not to show this to anyone.”

It sounded weak, but Michael was intrigued. His reputation was good with Renraku. They’d paid him nearly three and a half million nuyen over the last four years, and if someone was suddenly having doubts, it had to be up there at the highest levels. That told him he wasn’t being given everything the corp knew, and that didn’t mean just about the iconic image he was staring at. Second-level CPU systems? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m out of here to do some checking on my employer, he thought.

“Do we have a time limit?”

“The demand for payment specified the second of May,” Kryzinski told him. “We need whatever you can get as fast as possible.”

“Well, then, bugger lunch,” Michael said amiably. “I’m sure they’ll put it in a doggie bag for me. I’ll eat on the hoof.” He was about to get up from the table when he realized there was still a glass worth of champagne remaining. He fastened the silver stopper over the neck of the bottle and slipped it into his pocket, and then deposited the chromalin into his briefcase.

“I’ll arrange it,” Kryzinski said at once.

He’s glad to see the back of me, Michael thought. This is a man under extreme duress. How interesting.

“Oh, and the advance on expenses, please. If you would be so kind,” Michael said smoothly as he carefully flicked some imaginary crumbs from his lap as he stood up. The American reached into his briefcase and handed over the credstick without a word.

“Ivory-handled, now that is tasteful,” Michael said appreciatively. “I shall run out of pockets to store your largesse, Mr. Kryzinski.” With the boyish smile that still somehow disarmed any irritation people might sometimes feel toward him. Michael Sutherland turned on his Italian-shod heel and headed for the exit.

Within thirty minutes, he’d checked into a coffin hotel and slipped the seemingly featureless gray disk into the vidphone, canceling the vidlink and scrambling the signal and its origin hopelessly.

If Renraku tries to trace this, he thought with a grin, the decaying Strontium-90-based random switches will tell them I’m in Bogota one instant and Johannesburg a millionth of a second later. And while I was calling my Aunt Agatha in Peru to start with, it was my financial adviser in St. Petersburg that same split-second afterward.

The signal engaged and he heard the familiar rich Welsh voice of an old acquaintance. a member of the British House of Nobles; a politically powerful man, and one with financial interests pretty much everywhere in the world.

“Geraint, hello,” Michael said affably. “How’s Laura?”

“I have no idea. Don’t you mean Dinah?”

“I can’t keep up with your affairs,” Michael lamented. “Look, I think I’m into something extremely interesting. Crashed Matrix systems. Big-time. I think we should talk.”

“Where are you now?” The voice had just an edge of Concern to it.

“Don’t worry,” Michael reassured his friend. “In Chiba right now, but I’ll be back in Manhattan before you can say, ‘Renraku hired me’. I’ll call you from there. Oh,” he added as if in afterthought, turning the chromalin over in his fingers, “Do we know someone who knows weird drek?”

“What type of weird drek, exactly, did ‘we’ have in mind?”

“Occult stuff. Obscure religions, hermetic. Who can we trust?”

“Well, there’s Serrin,” Geraint, otherwise known as Lord Llanfrechfa. “Of course. Where is he?”