"Seps?" Tom asked, just the hint of annoyance rising in his ocean-deep voice. He was unfamiliar with the English slang term for Americans. Serrin, knowing the derivation, didn't think the troll would take it too well. It wasn't what anyone would call complimentary.

"It's not important right now," the elf muttered.

"Interesting. Two of these kidnappings date from 2054 and, according to Zulu intelligence reports, have clear corporate links. But I don't think that's what we're after. Corporate abductions of company men aren't what we're

dealing with. Which leaves us only one. Exactly, um, twenty-three days ago. An attempted kidnap of a mage named Shakala in the Umfolozi Domains. Crikey. That's serious business."

"What are the Umfolozi Domains?" Tom asked fretfully. He couldn't follow half of what Michael was saying, but the Englishman always seemed to enjoy giving the details when he asked.

"Natural environment. An old wildlife reserve. Ever since the Awakening, it's become largely undisturbed terrain occupied by paranimals and semi-nomadic tribes. A lot of metahumans among them. Thing is, the mages among those people are powerful. Trying to kidnap one of them seems an extraordinary risk. Far more dangerous than trying to snatch Serrin off the streets of Heidelberg."

"So why do it?" Serrin queried.

"Good question, but one I can't answer right now. For one thing, I want to see what else the frames may have dug out of the other databases. For another, there aren't any notes in this file which might account for it. The intelligence analysis says there's no evidence of corporate involvement. The attempted abduction was, apparently, filed as a report by a government mage who just happened to be conducting some astral surveillance in the right place at the right time. No profiles of the kidnappers, though. Curses."

"You shouldn't call them 'the frames'," Serrin whispered with a smirk. "The children might be listening."

Michael ignored him and made preparations for plowing through the rest of his data. A beep from something in Serrin's jacket pocket startled him, and he groped for the downloader. Depressing the display button, the elf read the message while Michael looked on expectantly.

"There's a fax for me back in Seattle," he said. "I have a message forwarding number. If there's something there, it lets me know."

"Expecting anything?" Michael asked.

"Not really. Let's look into it so I can read it off. I could do it line by line on the screen, but if it's a long message, that'd be really tedious."

Michael had the short message printed out in seconds.

He handed it to Serrin without looking. The elf read the words and turned even paler than usual. He passed the sheet back to Michael without comment.

The Englishman then read the message aloud for Tom's benefit. Not sure whether or not the troll could read, he didn't want to embarrass him into having to admit it. The shaman took note of that.

" 'I seen your name in a list from a computer owned by a slag got killed. Two other people on the list are already dead. I will call you at this time tomorrow and give you a telecom code to contact me.' No name, no ID. There's an incoming fax number, obviously."

"I'm getting rather paranoid about anonymous messages," Serrin said.

"Let's trace the incoming number," Michael said, repairing to his array of machinery to begin his trawling.

Serrin and Tom didn't talk much during the brief time Michael conducted his electronic search. They'd had enough time for that over coffee and Serrin's cigarettes in the restaurant. The elf knew Tom was unhappy in this strange city, disliking it greatly. He was no street shaman, and even if he had been, he wouldn't have liked the streets of Manhattan. His only comment was that the place lacked any heart or kindness.

"Rerouted, of course," Michael said with a gleam in his eye when he was done. 'The original message was sent from Cape Town. Now, that's a coincidence, isn't it? Two shots at the Confederated Azanian Nations inside ten minutes. I'm tracing the address and the owner now. Ah, here we are." He worked on as he talked, his frames doing the donkey labor. "Now, let's see what we can find out about Mr. Manoj Gavakar. Obviously, he's a Cape Indian, but is he a mage or is he amp; " His voice trailed away.

"What've you got?" Serrin asked quickly.

"The message was sent nine hours ago. Mr. Gavakar's premises were burned to the ground within an hour of that. His body, or rather a body assumed to be his since it's in such a state that ID is pending, was found inside. That's in the public newsnet, so it isn't classified information."

Serrin looked at the Englishman, horrified by the implications of this information. Tom was leaning forward, hunched, thinking. Up to now, the troll had been operating purely in response to Serrin's paranoia. He hadn't felt really involved. But this was closer to the bone. Being present through all these developments made him feel that something was surely going on after all.

"Makes me think of that old saying: Just because you're paranoid don't mean they're not out to get you," the troll said.

"Or, like the saying goes now, anyone who ain't paranoid ain't paying enough attention," the Englishman said drily. "But this isn't paranoia. There's a charred corpse in Cape Town which definitely proves that. But all we've come to now is a dead end, literally. For the time being.

"We've got to search the databases for everything we can on Mr. Shakala, our Zulu mage, and anyone else we can turn up," he said, getting to his feet. "It's going to be a long night. Excuse me for a while. I need to get some rest. See you in half an hour." Michael retired to his bedroom, where he dropped into a well-upholstered armchair, closed his eyes and sank into the calm of meditation.

Kristen somehow dragged her bloodied and bruised body to Indra's back door. It was a miracle the police didn't pick her up on the way, what with all the blood on her clothes, but she kept to the dark back-alleys and secluded ways as she stumbled across town. She was badly shaken, and thought maybe a rib or two might be broken, but the blood was mostly from deep grazing than anything truly serious.

When the bouncer saw her, wild-eyed and bloody, he was about to throw her bodily back into the garbage-strewn alley until she screamed at him to fetch Indra, that this was family business, life and death. The ork hesitated and snarled a message into the intercom, keeping her at bay with some choice insults until the elegant Indian woman appeared in person. At that point he fell into sullen silence.

"Tsotsis killed Manoj," Kristen managed to say and then almost collapsed against the ork bouncer. He recoiled in disgust, but at a sharp word from Indra he dragged her into the back room.

While gulping down some harsh brandy, Kristen gave Indra the best description she could of the killers. She was aware that she was describing the Xhosa killers of an Indian to another Indian, and that she herself was half-Xhosa. It gave matters an edge she didn't like at all, but it was the same one she'd lived with for all her days. She just never got used to it. Kristen didn't know whether Indra would be grateful, since Manoj was one of her infinitude of cousins, or whether she'd beat the drek out of her.

"You can stay here. I'll get someone to see to you," Indra said emotionlessly. "Take her upstairs, Netzer. Put her in one of the girls' rooms."

"They're all busy," the ork said huffily.

"Then tell one of the customers his twenty minutes is up and kick him out," Indra said sharply. "I'll call Sunil," she told Kristen. "Go get cleaned up."

"Thank you," the girl said gratefully, forgetting that she actually had enough money to get a room where she could sleep safely tonight.

An hour later she had to be awakened when the soft-voiced old man arrived. She knew Sunil, though she could rarely afford his treatments. His gentle hands checked her over thoroughly, then he turned to Indra, standing impassively in the doorway of the garish whore's bedroom.