Jack Yeovil - Route 666

If she shuffled, she hoped Petya Tcherkassoff would sing a song about her. "The Girl in the Ground"?

A dust devil rose out in the Des, coming this way. A heavy machine. Sleek enough not to sound a whisper.

So Long came out of lotus and looked at the silent tornado. She was the kar krazy of the chapter.

"It's a V12," she said, "G-Mek."

Very heavy machine.

Jazzbeaux shut her good eye and lifted her patch. Her optic fed a heat picture to her brain. It was blurry but hot dots told her the V-12 was loaded for bear.

The DAR couldn't know they were here. Virtualsex was guaranteed secure. Both gangcults were laying out a cool ten thou to Irving's Intermediaries, ensuring mutual mystification.

The Daughters should be loitering at some other site, waiting for the window to open.

So Long hefted a rocket-launcher and drew sight on the car. She initiated a countdown.

"One pop and bye-bye," she said.

Jazzbeaux shook her head.

"Stand down, tovarich. It's just a solo cruising through. We need no hassle today. 'Member, we've an appointment."

Also, from the V12's heat pattern, she doubted So Long's hatpin missile would dent its hide.

"I think it's an old girlfriend."

So Long triggered an abort sequence, pissed-oft It wasn't good for deathware to get boiled up but not let off.

The ve-hickle made an elegant curve, dropping rpms, and smoothed to a halt by the porch of the VDU Arc. Close up, it hummed like an electric appliance. As dust settled, Jazzbeaux clocked the Turner-Harvest-Ramirez tag. An antique pin-up was stencilled on the fuselage: a girlie in a bathing suit posed on a knobby little bomb with fins, showing one shaved armpit and a Pepsodent gleam. Everyone knew 'Nola Gay. And the machine's owner.

There was an uncomfortable shifting among the 'Pomps. PMS. Pre-Massacre Syndrome. Weapons eased out of sheaths, safeties switched. Andrew Jean remained intent on Virtualsex but 'Cheeks hauled out of cyberdisco and put the helm down.

The V12's door opened silently. A long, long leg slipped out, and touched a dainty boot-toe to the dirt. On the hip was an empty holster. Then the driver got out, holding up a side arm. She wore her naturally red hair long, a rare affectation.

Redd Harvest, the H in T-H-R. Probably the most-profiled Sanctioned Op in the Enforcement Sector, despite her publicity-shyness. The only woman with whatever it takes – sheer guts, colourful psychoses, qucensize deathwish, elephantiasis of the ego – to declare war on the Maniax.

"Hello, Jessamyn," Harvest said. "Still pissing it away with these panzer pussies?"

Jazzbeaux didn't remember Rancid Robyn, her alleged real mother, but Harvest always came on like a mix of Mom, High School Principal and long-suffering Big Sis. They had History back to the '80s.

"Hi, Rachael," Jazzbeaux said. She knew Harvest didn't like to be reminded that she no more used her real name than anyone else. It made her too like the gangbangers who were her prey. "Neat outfit."

Harvest wore a functional one-piece, with a flakjak and a utility belt. Her hair was held back by an Alice band, but frizzed out a lot around her shoulders. It must get in the way in fights.

"And cool gun, ma'am. Real horosho killing piece."

The Op bolstered her side arm. It was something sensuous, with a big kick. She looked over the 'Pomps, probably totalling rewards in her head. Everyone in the krewe had paper hanging over them in some state or other. Most had gone federal and were just wanted.

"Small-timers," Harvest said, snorting. "We'll get down to you someday, but just now we've got a moose to fry."

"Got away, did he, Rachael?"

The Op shrugged.

"If there is a he."

The Grand Exalted Bullmoose of the Maniax was probably a mythical being. No one had ever seen him and lived. Jazzbeaux reckoned it was a revolving office; the Maniax were basically Anarcho-Capitalists, so their hierarchy was about as stable as a lavalamp. That was what made them hard to stamp out; like ticks, cutting off the body wasn't enough, you had to dig the head out of your skin and burn it.

Harvest looked Jazzbeaux up and down, not showing her opinion in her face. If she wore make-up, she'd be a pretty woman. With her legs, she'd even look good in a dress. Once, in previous lives, they'd got close. Too close for mutual comfort.

Jazzbeaux pouted and leaned on a Blood Bowl console. She let her tongue play over her lower lip and fluttered her single eyelash.

"You should have more fun, Rachael," she said, meaning it.

Harvest looked blank.

"Fun is not an early priority."

Before she went into the private sector, Rachael Harvest was a Denver beatcop. She'd rounded up Jazzbeaux back in her gladiatrix days and they'd played Mama-Daught games neither wanted to remember much in the harshness of the '90s. But the Op always made Jazzbeaux feel twelve.

"How's blat, Jessamyn?"

Jazzbeaux shrugged. She knew the woman cared (under the armour plate, the Op was a dogoodnik) but she'd never understand. For her, everything was right or wrong and pick-yourself-up. She'd never had a Daddy like Bruno Bonney. And she'd never have a daughter like Jessamyn Amanda…

"Must be business openings this anno," Ms Harvest mused. "Especially in pharmaceuticals supply. If I were a smart fillette, I think I'd pass them up. Prospects are strictly short term."

Out of the Op's sightline, Sleepy Jane hefted a blowpipe and took aim. She usually packed tranks but she had a variety of interesting psycho-active darts.

"I wouldn't exhale if I were you, Miss Porteous," Harvest said, not turning her head. "If someone were to give that thing a good shove, you'd lose those expensive steel-core teeth."

The blowpipe went down.

"How do you do that, Rachael? A pineal peep implant?"

Harvest didn't crack a smile.

"Jessamyn, Jessamyn, what to do about you?"

"Here's a radical concept, how about getting off my back and leaving me the freak alone?"

Jazzbeaux fancied a wind of disappointment blew across the Op's smooth face. Jazzbeaux would have killed for Harvest's complexion.

"One day, my dear," Harvest said, "there'll be a reckoning 'twixt thee and me."

"Won't that be something to see, though?"

Jazzbeaux knew she was flouncing like a lolita, shoving hips against her skirt and blowing bubbles with non-existent gum. It was uncanny how far back the Op took her.

"Jessamyn, grow up," the Op said, a feeble parting shot. She slipped back into 'Nola Gay and the door descended. The windows were one-way opaque.

The 'Pomps drew fingers and popped off gun-noises at the V12, thumbs recoiling. Sweetcheeks had a bad case of hiccough-giggles and had to be slapped on the back.

Jazzbeaux wondered why she let Redd Harvest get to her.

"Dance on my finger, ladylove," she said, not loud enough for the car's sensors to pick up.

"Attention," a computer-generated speaker said, "your warrant status and current locale have been down-loaded with the nearest node of the Highway Patrol net."

"I'm so scared," So Long said, exaggerating. She'd kept quiet and hung back while Harvest was out of her car.

'Nola Gay did its famous nought-to-ninety trick and zoomed off for the desert horizon.

"Thank Cristo for that," Andrew Jean said. "I've been sitting on the message for minutes. How does Moroni, Utah sound to you? It's up near Silver City and Spanish Fork. Ghost town."

"Snazz."

Moroni? Irving specialised in ghost towns with silly names. II would have scouted the site. The commission was to find absolutely neutral territory for negotiations. Somewhere, the DAR rank equivalent of Andrew Jean would be receiving the same message.

Jazzbeaux gave Andrew Jean the nod.