"That's what I mean about people not taking it seriously. Who came up with this crackpot scheme anyway?"

Bush made a face.

"As near as I can tell we did, but damned if I know why."

"There's some solid talk going around that it was an under-the-table agreement between the corporation hierarchies to weed out some of the management deadwood."

"The 'forced retirement' bit? Yeah, I've heard that, but I don't believe it. Corporations pull some pretty sleazy moves when it comes to personnel management, but I can't believe they'd sink that low. Three years on half-pay would really be rough. I'm not sure I could take it. Oh well, I suppose it could be worse. They could be using real bullets."

"That's happened, too," Pete retorted.

"It was in the rules at the start. After four shots with the quartz-beams, the assassin can use live ammo. If the players don't turn on their kill-suits, it's their own fault."

"Is yours turned on now?"

Eddie ran a hand inside his jacket to check the controls.

"It sure is."

"But you had to check to be sure."

"Yeah, I see what you mean."

"Besides, I wasn't talking about those kills. I was talking about the others. Did you hear what happened to Brumbolt?"

"Just a few rumors."

"They shot him down. With live ammo and real blood. You know why? Because he went to the theater the same night as a couple execs from his old department. They swear they didn't even know he was going to be there. In fact, they haven't even talked to him since he was `killed' and went on half-pay, all according to the rules. The assassins who spotted him thought he was trying to pass some notes or something, and cut him down in the parking lot. That's the kind of real-kill I'm talking about."

Eddie pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

"I haven't heard about that. That's weird. It's like...like..."

"Like we were in a war-that's what I've been trying to say. The big question is, what are we going to do about it?"

Eddie stiffened, his features hardening into a mask.

"Are we going to get into that again, Pete?"

"You're damn right we are. I mean, we are still on a team to submit recommendations, aren't we?"

"Only until we can be reassigned. The project is dead, Pete."

"But..."

"But nothing! It's dead! Marcus has already submitted his recommendations and they've been accepted. The corporation has already sunk a hunk of money into the new weapons, and they won't be looking for new ways to raise costs."

"Eddie..."

"So we are going to sit down and shut up because I don't want to make an ass of myself backing a set of recommendations that won't be followed."

"That's the part I don't buy. I think we'll be making bigger fools of ourselves if after spending all this time and money on our team, we don't come up with anything."

"But the cost..."

"Cost, hell. If there's one thing I've learned in my years with this corporation, it's that there's always money to be had for a good idea."

"And if there's one thing you haven't learned, it's when to keep your mouth shut. If you had, then I'd be answering to you instead of you to me. In theory you're right, but we're dealing with reality, and like it or not, that's the way it is. Now I'm telling you to back down!"

The two men glared at each other for several moments; then Pete forced a deep breath.

"Tell you what, Eddie. I'll make you a deal-no, hear me out. I've got something in my car that I think will change your mind. If it doesn't, then I'll shut up and go along."

Eddie considered him for a moment.

"All right, bring it in. But I honestly can't think of anything you can come up with that will change my mind."

"You'll have to come with me. It's too bulky to bring in."

"Okay, anything to get this thing settled."

He rose, and the two men headed out into the executive corridor. Stepping onto the conveyor, they rode along in silence for several minutes. Finally Eddie cleared his throat.

"Sorry about blowing up in there, Pete. I guess I just don't understand why you're fighting this so hard. There'll be other assignments."

"For you maybe. Oh, turn here, I'm parked on the street. Rolled in a little late and the exec lot was full."

"Okay, but what was that you were saying?"

"Hmm? Oh! Just that I'm not sure how many more assignments will get thrown my way."

"Is that what's bothering you? Hell, don't worry. From what I can see in the meetings, a lot of the decision makers know who you are. That idea you had for using a dummy terrorist group to explain the shootings was a stroke of genius. It really saved our bacon when it came to dealing with the authorities."

"But it didn't go out with my name on it. Oh, out this door."

"Yeah. That was a bad deal. Well, it didn't go out with my name on it either. But don't worry. The people who count know it was your idea. You'll get other assignments. Say, where's your car?"

"Up the block a bit. Can you honestly say you think I'm going to get another assignment from a corporate vp?"

"Well, maybe not directly, but if I get one, you can bet you'll be one of the cornerstones of the team. That much I can..."

The bullet took him in the center of the chest. It was the first time Pete had seen the effects of one of the exploding bullets. Eddie Bush kind of blew up, pieces of his body splashing over the sidewalk. There was no doubt he was dead before he hit the pavement.

Pete waved a hand at the assassin on the roof across the street even though he couldn't see him, then stooped over the body. Moving quickly, he reached inside Eddie's jacket and switched the killsuit controls to the "off" position. Then he stood and smiled down at the corpse.

Wha'dya know, another terrible accident. And Ed Bush wasn't even on the "kill list." Well, it was a risk he ran, wearing a kill-suit. It was only a matter of time before someone took him up on it. Terrible he had forgotten to turn his suit on.

Still smiling, he turned and ran back into the building to report the horrible incident.

Mausier smiled as he read the latest information request on the board. Someone was trying to find out how their security was breached. A hefty sum was being offered as well as immunity from prosecution.

Obviously this client was not as knowledgeable in the field of industrial espionage as Mausier. He briefly considered not even posting the offer, but then decided to go ahead with it. His field agents needed a good laugh once in a while.

Mausier constantly daydreamed about secret agents crawling through the darkness, picking locks, climbing fences, bribing guards, and taking pictures in the dark with mini-cameras hidden in belt buckles. He daydreamed, but he knew it wasn't real. This client had apparently not learned to differentiate reality from daydreams. Agents didn't climb fences, they walked in through the main gate or the employment office-that is, if they walked in at all. A hefty number of his most successful clients were call girls or waitresses. Most of the information holders would be astounded to learn the grateful little girl they impressed with a one-hundred-dollar tip was actually making three times their annual salary.

Secretaries, janitors, and shipping/receiving clerks were all potential key agents, if they weren't already actively engaged in it. But the field was not limited to the "little people." Many of his clients were high-placed trusted executives who felt that seventy thousand dollars a year wasn't enough to make ends meet. Mausier didn't feel this was strange. In fact, his own years in the corporate world convinced him that many of the white-collar spies were driven to it because of the financial pressures of maintaining a social front equal to or better than their job rating. It was a source of vague amusement to him that many executives turned to industrial espionage to be able to afford to keep up with other executives who were already supplementing their incomes as spies.