Never Fade Away

"He's coming out of the Hammer, about midnight, and he sees them. Three punks, mohawks bright and bristly with reflected neon, wearing high-collared jackets; gang colors."
"Yo! Rockerboy!" one of them yells, "Good show! Good noise!" Johnny Silverhand waves absently. Fans. They're right; the gig was good. He'd rarely been better. But the show's over. They start walking towards him. One waves a bottle; the light strikes oily yellow tequila sloshing to and fro. "Yo, Silver-rocker!" he says. The smaller one, with the face scarred in African tribal tattoos. "Join us! Share some! Fair price for a good gig, eh?" The distance is closing, Johnny steers Alt, his girlfriend, to his bad side. The one without the Hand. "Hey, Icebrothers," he says, noting the gang's colors and speaking in a temporizing tone. "Your offer's solid, but it's been a long gig. I'm nearly flatlined as it is. How 'bout a replay, next night?" By that time, they're almost on him. He lets the 9mm Federated Arms X-9 drop from the spring holster, settling into the Hand. Probably nothing, he thinks. ''Yeah. Replay next night," the big one says enthusiastically, and that's when they hit him. This fast, they're a blur. The X-9 booms in the close confines of the alley; whines as spent rounds ricochet off into nowhere. There is a metallic "snick" as the smaller punk brings up his arm—light reflects off the fistful of razors that pretends to be a hand; then an excruciating impact lifts Johnny off the ground. Blood sprays over wet concrete. Silverhand hits with a bone wrenching impact. His pale eyes stare blankly at the sky. Alt's terrified screams recede swiftly into the dark. Sixty to zero in eight seconds flat.
Johnny comes to. There's something like broken glass in his guts. Red fire blots out the cool blue neon. He rolls over in a pool of something greasy. Blood. His. A cat topples off the dumpster, picking a cautious pattern around his body. No fool, this cat. A survivor. Not going to get involved. Its eyes are tiny red LEDs moving upalley; Johnny watches it. Smug bastard, he thinks. And closes his eyes. Behind his eyelids, red digitals feebly clock out his remaining moments. Bio-clock running down. Cars whispering past on the filthy, rain-wet street beyond. A Trauma Team ambulance in the distance, siren screaming. But not for him. He's checking out. He stares blankly up at the flat black ceiling of the city. Overhead, there's the shimmer of distant heat lightning interacting with the pink actinic glow of the City lights. The stars look painted in. A VTOL passes overhead, giant propblades thrashing the night. Johnny tries reaching up to it. He can see the Hand etched against the sky; slick, superchrome winking back at him. He balls the Hand that is his trademark into a chromed fist, servos clicking in one by one. He thrusts it into the gaping belly wound, gasping at the shocking pain. Somehow, he gets to his feet; staggers to the alleyway. He leans his feverish face against the cool, wet bricks. He makes a decision. He's not going to die. They're going to die. Closing his eyes, he pitches forward into the streak of passing traffic blur. Something stops him. Hands firmly grapple him, holding him up. Silverhand has just enough strength to open his eyes. There's a face looking intently at him, thin, bearded. "Lord Almighty," the face says. "They really did you, didn't they?" Fade to black.

Trauma Team

Something is screaming when Johnny wakes up. Fine. Just as long as it isn't him. He must have missed the ambulance ride to the hospital, but here in the trauma ward he can hear the sound of jet engines. That's the screaming. It mounts higher and higher, while the ward fills with warm air and the smell of ozone. From his stretcher, he can see the bulky AV-4 vehicle spin on its fans and hurtle upwards. The din dies down and he can hear screaming for real all around him; casualties of the regular firefights around the City. The doctor puts him back together. The same doctor who did his transparent Kiroshi eyes; his trademark silver hand. The same doctor who "plugged" him for interface and installed the software chips in the back of his skull. Johnny considers taking out a service contract. Microsurgical waldos cut through the perforated guts, swabbing, tying off, prepping. The doctor stitches in three feet of glistening wet, tank-grown intestine; plugs the punch holes with synthetic skin and muscle. Airhypos inject the area with speeddrugs, fasthealers, endorphins and antibacterials. Microscopic stitches hum off the serrated teeth of a mini-closer, bonding flesh together almost as well as the original. In a month or two, there won't even be a scar. Let's hear it for newtech. The doctor's hands are quick and sure. He has done this a thousand times. He has a German accent. "Ach... Johnny… Johnny," he says, over and over as he works. Over his head, the sterilizer lamps glitter like an insect's multifaceted eyes. "Johnny... When are you going to give this up?" says the doctor. When it ends, thinks Silverhand, from the fog of the dorphs and general anesthetics. "Johnny," says the doctor sadly. Silverhand is a second son to him. His first son was Johnny's best friend. His first son was killed in an inter-Corporate war eight years ago. No man should lose more than one son in a lifetime. Thanks, thinks Johnny. I owe you one, again. His alleyway benefactor is named Thompson; a thin, reedy type, wearing an armorjack trenchcoat three sizes too large. He packs no visible hardware. But a minicam mount straddles his head like an over-sized headphone; a mike loops in front of his mouth, the camera itself coming around the right side of his skull and hardwiring into a startlingly bright-green cyberoptic. He's a Media; a one-man team of cameraman and reporter, direct feeding to some Mediacorp downline. "Hey, Rocker," he says, leaning over the table as Silverhand recovers under the sterilizer beams. "Ready for a little vengeance?"

The Naming of Names

Johnny pulls on a red T-shirt. The shirt has the logo of his last band, Samurai. The shirt drags over the freshly stapled wound; hangs up on the bandages. He curses in Japanese. He pulls an armor jacket over his shoulders. He pulls the autoshotgun out of his battered bedroom dresser, checking the load and weight. He slips it carefully into the worn under-arm holster, under the jacket. He stuffs shuriken into pockets on the outside of the jacket. He picks up the heavy S&W Handcannon and slides it into his back holster. There is a fury behind glittering pale eyes. "So," he says. "Tell me.

"Thompson leans back into the wall, body bracing against Johnny's intensity. He grins; takes a slug of Silverhand's tequila. "They didn't want you. They wanted her. She's an extraction. Business as usual." Johnny's eyes are blank. "No surprise", he comments shortly. He gathers up a ragged handful of shells and begins to stuff-load the S&W's spare clip. Only the trembling of his hand—the meat hand–betrays any emotion. "So, why'd they do me?" he asks. "You was home," grins Thompson. It's an old line. They both smile like friendly sharks. Thompson stops smiling. "They wanted you flatlined, so it'd look like a gang job. Boostergang sees the high and mighty Mister John Silverhand out strolling with his input; decides to slash him a bit. You go down, they grab her; they're gone like vapor. Real convenient when the cops find her body in an alley 'bout a week later. They'll have motives—lots of ugly motives, but they'll be those of high-powered boosters, not pros." "Pros." Silverhand finishes loading the second clip. He stuffs the remaining shells in the armorjack's pockets. You can never have enough ammo. "Yeah, pros," repeats Thompson. "You got shredded for fine, bro. At least a clean ten thousand Eurobucks of hardware on those boys. The speed they hit you with took maybe a seventy percent reflex boost, and those were custom rippers. The type that fold out along the fists. That sort of hardware isn't something you pick up on The Street." "You saw them on me?" Thompson's eyes are cold, slate-like. You could write anything you wanted in them. "Get real," he grates. "These were pros. If I'd jumped in, we'd both be dead." The eyes appraise him. "You've been off The Street too long, Rocker. You think everyone has a nice agent, a couple Solos covering their butts, and a comfy apartment like this somewhere. I let you take it, because I knew it would take at least five minutes for you to bleed yourself dry. I waited for them to move on, then used my Trauma Card." There is a longish silence. Then, "Look, Rocker. You want to guilt-loop, or you want to get your girl back?" "So, name names," says Johnny. He sits down on the edge of the bed, favoring his stapled side. He reaches out for the tequila and takes a slug. "Good news/bad news," says Thompson. He's unlimbered the cybercam unit from around his head and set it down on the table between them—the only indication of hardware is the silvermounted skull plug drilled through his right temple. The cam's cellular link through the NET is off. Thompson says, "Good news is, it isn't one of the really big guys, like Eurobusiness Machines." "Fair enough," says Silverhand, taking another swig from the bottle. "Bad news is, it's Arasaka." "Jesus H. Christ!" explodes Johnny. The Hand, resting on the edge of the table, convulses. There's a rending noise and splinters fly in all directions. "Your input was playing with hotdeck materials, Rocker. You know she ran for ITS, right?" "Yeah. So, you gotta work somewhere. Alt didn't talk much about her work." "True. But your Alt was ITS's pet Netrunner. She moved info up and down the NET and handled their security as well. She made a lot of classy software just for them." Long pause. "She built Soulkiller, you know. Or maybe you didn't. Like you said, she didn't talk much about her work." Johnny sits back on the couch, the bottle halfway to his lips. Even the normally disconnected Silverhand has heard of Soulkiller, the legendary black program that sucks the very soul from its Netrunner victims. Soulkiller. What a joke. Soulkiller is a memory intensive AI superroutine that can track an intruding Netrunner's cyberlink faster than a boostergang snorts drugs. It tears out the cyberpirate's brain with brutal force, recreating it in a frozen storage matrix inside the mainframe. The word is on The Street that Soulkiller may be the closest thing to Hell on Earth, and these days, that's saying a lot. And Alt made that? Johnny bites down a momentary wave of revulsion, superimposed over Alt's big green eyes, her tousled mane of hair. "No wonder she didn't talk about her work," he says finally. "I was following her, Rocker," says Thompson. "Word's out that Arasaka is working on its own version of Soulkiller. Something that can walk the NET freely, getting up close and personal with people Arasaka doesn't like." "A black-program assassin for a security company?" Johnny is up and pacing now. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it. "You probably believe in Santa Claus too," says Thompson, reclaiming the dregs of the bottle. "Your Alt is the missing link. I figured they'd have to recruit her sooner or later, whether free or forced. Soulkiller's main programming is buried in her head somewhere. So, I followed her." "Thanks for the concern.'' "You don't get it, Rockerboy. I want Arasaka. I want them bad. I'll put anyone and anything on the line to get them. Even myself—if I have to broadcast this story from the grave, I'll do it. They're mine. You get in my way, you're flatlined. You go with me… " Thompson lets it trail out. Johnny stops pacing. The room goes still. Only the Hand moves, like something alive; silver metal joints clicking, takeup reels whirring, tiny pistons shooting in and out in simulation of a pulse. The Hand turns Johnny to face the media man. It makes him say, "How long do we have?" Thompson smiles lopsidedly. "How long will it take your input to rewrite Soulkiller? A day? Two?" "Yeah." Johnny turns, scoops up the keys to the Porsche. "You chipped for a smartgun?" he says. Thompson reaches down to his feet; draws up a long black, nylon bag. "FN-RAL assault," he says, standing up. "I was in the War. I like lead. Lots of lead." Rain runs down the front of the speeder. A wall of Corporate glass and steel looms to either side as they pull out into the down-town traffic. The Porsche whistles slightly in the chill air, its CHOOH2 power plant throwing it against the City night. "So where are we going, Rocker?" says Thompson. Johnny grits his teeth. "I've got a marker I have to pull in," he says.

Rogue and Santiago

"A black-program assassin for a security company?" Johnny is up and pacing now. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it. "You probably believe in Santa Claus too," says Thompson, reclaiming the dregs of the bottle. "Your Alt is the missing link. I figured they'd have to recruit her sooner or later, whether free or forced. Soulkiller's main programming is buried in her head somewhere. So, I followed her." "Thanks for the concern.'' "You don't get it, Rockerboy. I want Arasaka. I want them bad. I'll put anyone and anything on the line to get them. Even myself—if I have to broadcast this story from the grave, I'll do it. They're mine. You get in my way, you're flatlined. You go with me… " Thompson lets it trail out. Johnny stops pacing. The room goes still. Only the Hand moves, like something alive; silver metal joints clicking, takeup reels whirring, tiny pistons shooting in and out in simulation of a pulse. The Hand turns Johnny to face the media man. It makes him say, "How long do we have?" Thompson smiles lopsidedly. "How long will it take your input to rewrite Soulkiller? A day? Two?" "Yeah." Johnny turns, scoops up the keys to the Porsche. "You chipped for a smartgun?" he says. Thompson reaches down to his feet; draws up a long black, nylon bag. "FN-RAL assault," he says, standing up. "I was in the War. I like lead. Lots of lead." Rain runs down the front of the speeder. A wall of Corporate glass and steel looms to either side as they pull out into the down-town traffic. The Porsche whistles slightly in the chill air, its CHOOH2 power plant throwing it against the City night. "So where are we going, Rocker?" says Thompson. Johnny grits his teeth. "I've got a marker I have to pull in," he says. Santiago's eyes grin in his dark face. He scratches his bristly chin with his free hand. His partner has a real mad on about this guy. But he's a Face—he's got credit; that pulls weight in Santiago's world. "How long?" "Two days max. I need an extraction. And I won't haze you— it's Arasaka." A long pause, "I'll understand if you think it's too much for you." Santiago's eyes narrow. On The Street, their team is known as the best. Who does this choob think he is? Then the Nomad realizes he's being baited. Silverhand's already figured the score between the two partners. If Santiago backs up on this, it'll be all over The Street tomorrow. If he goes with it, Rogue's going to have to back his play. Rogue's right— Silverhand is a bastard. Santiago grins. He can take this punk with one hand behind his back. "It's going to cost you thirty thou, Rocker." "Done." Santiago grins and raises the stakes. "And you come with us," he finishes. From her side of the booth, Rogue's eyes smolder at her partner. She'd object, but the rule of the game is, "You don't let personal caca get in the way of business." When Johnny pulled out his wallet, as far as Santiago was concerned, it became business. "Done," says Johnny. He is reaching out across the table to match grips with the big Nomad when one long shadow falls over the table, then another. "Ah, Mister Silverhand," the bigger shadow says, leaning close. Johnny can see red LED light scrolling behind his optics, forming crosshairs as he brings the smartgun up. Rogue reacts, her chipped reflexes kicking into overdrive. Her hand is a blur as it stabs up off the table, the bunched knuckles smashing the Solo's nose back into his face. He's dead before he hits the floor, but spasmed muscles tighten on the trigger of the big Malorian. There's a deafening BOOM! in a very small space, but Johnny's boosted reflexes have already thrown him up and over. There's a scream as the slug rips through the back of the booth and blows through the chest of a Corp sitting on the other side of the thin wall. Rogue's other hand fires the silenced Automag from under the table, ripping the smaller Solo in half. Santiago rolls, hitting the floor. Over by the bar, three figures in armorjackets stand up, weapons in hand. Santiago's Minami 10 hammers a short burst. The figures go flat; one staggers back into the window and falls through in a shattering sound like

a hundred dropped chandeliers. Thompson brings up the FN-RAL with studied nonchalance, covering the two remaining, prone figures. "Gotcha," he says. Johnny hits the bar floor; gun high, and eyes scanning the corners. Patrons keep their hands away from weapons—everyone plays cool. The disemboweled Solo on the floor whimpers. Back-to-back, the four of them edge out of the bar.

Runaway

"We are seriously tagged," gasps Rogue as they hit the sidewalk. "They must have tracked my Trauma Card," grunts Thompson. "Guess they wanted to finish the job. You know some nice people, Rocker." They reach the Porsche just in time to see the shadow of an unmarked AV-4 sweep over it. Garbage, oil, and filthy water explode into steam as the jet exhausts hit the pavement. Rogue is already down, drawing a bead on the cockpit with her .44. Above her head, Santiago's Minami 10 roars in deafening staccato. The tiny red spot of her laser scope pinpoints the AV-4 pilot's forehead, even as she sees the minigun sweep around towards them. She's not going to make it. The canopy's got to be armored. She doesn't even have time to watch her life flash before her eyes. Then the laser dot is eclipsed by a screaming WHHHHHOOOOMMMMPPP! as something slams into the AV-4. The entire canopy—the entire front of the aircraft—bells out in a horrible slow-mo inferno—a rancid smell of hot metal, melted plastic, and seared flesh gusts against her as the AV tilts to one side and drunkenly impacts the street. A fireball shatters the night. "Love those grenade launchers," smirks Thompson, lowering his steaming FN-RAL. "We gotta get out of here," grits Johnny from behind a parked car. Rogue looks into his eyes—she can see the faint red etching of a targeting pattern flickering in their pale depths. "Right," she says, already up and moving. Her breath catches ragged in her throat as they run back into the shadows. Santiago takes point; he knows all the best boltholes in the area. Thompson is next, the big FN-RAL sweeping their way like a flashlight. Johnny keeps his S&W close to his body; his nerves are tingling with booster effects; he's running like he's on speed. Alleyways streak by as blurs—he compensates his time sense. Rogue is covering the rear, and he can hear her breathing behind him. He says over his shoulder to the breathing dark shadow, "I'm sorry, Rache." Her voice is flat, "Never call me that," she says, "Never again." He keeps running. "Okay," he says finally, "fair enough." She stops running. She says, "Why Johnny? Why now? Couldn't you have gotten anyone else?" She can hear him slow ahead of her. He says, "I needed the best. And you're still the best, Rogue." The best. Damn him.

Alt

She wakes with her mouth full of cotton wool. She's smart enough to keep her eyes closed; to stifle any urge to scream. Boosterboys like it when you scream. They like it so much, they'll do anything to make you scream over and over again. Alt silently triggers commands to redline her senses to maximum. She's relieved to find herself still clothed and relatively unharmed. Not typical booster, but she won't complain. Her enhanced hearing picks up breathing nearby; the click of glasses and ice, computer terminals. Definitely not boosters. Alt takes a chance and opens her eyes, spits out the gag. A slender, Asian-looking man is watching her. Neat, well-tailored suit. A glass of real Scotch in one hand, which he offers towards her. "Welcome, Ms. Cunningham", he says, his mouth smiling and his eyes frozen. "I am Toshiro." He gestures towards another man; a hulking presence lounging by the bar. "This is Akira", he says. Alt sits up slowly, cautiously, her boosted senses giving her clues. The comforting weight of her plastic autogun is missing. But she still has her cybered arm. "Can I get a drink of that?" she says, gesturing towards the glass in Toshiro's hand. "Certainly" he says. A gesture to Akira, and the hulk turns obediently to mix a drink. Alt is surprised at the grace of the big man's hands. He moves like an athlete. He moves like a professional killer. Akira brings her the drink, and Alt doesn't even think about making a break for it. "Thanks." The drink cools the pounding flame in her head. "Certainly. It is the least we can do for a promising new associate." Bingo! she thinks. She's been grabbed by Corporate headhunters. Fine. Great. She can deal with it. Just learn the rules, play the game, and go to work. After a week, it'll be just like checking into work at the ITS offices. "So... " she says cautiously. "What kind of work do you have lined up for your new... um... employee?" Toshiro leans forward, setting the drink down. "So." He says, smiling, "Ms. Cunningham. I wish for you to tell me all about the program you call... Soulkiller." Her blood freezes like a silenced scream.

A Gathering of Hosts

Johnny, Santiago, Thompson, and Rogue. They are perched two hundred feet in the air on a rusting fire escape. From their vantage point on the blackened brick side of the old MarLux Hotel they can see ten blocks in any direction. Rogue's eyes are switched to infrared, scanning for AVs and airogyros. Johnny is watching the street below. Thompson is scanning the radio chatter and Santiago is talking. "We go in," he says. It's been two hours since the firefight. "Fair enough, " replies Rogue. "But we do it ASAP." Santiago grins, "You got a reason?" "Getting shot at always pisses me off," she grins back. "Besides, I figure they're combing The Street right now, looking for us. They'll expect us to be trying to ditch them— they'll be putting their best out to find us. Meanwhile, the second stringers are guarding the offices." "How you figure they're holding her in the Arasaka office complex?" says Johnny. The Hand is in standby mode, running a test routine. Servos click and whir and silver fingers spasm and flex of their own volition. Thompson speaks up. "Makes sense. The only mainframe big enough to run Soulkiller is in the main Arasaka building. Either that, or in Tokyo. We're not a big enough problem to rate flying her all the way back to Japan." "Thanks." "So this means we've gotta punch into the main offices of the most rabidly paranoid security company in the universe." considers Santiago. "Homeboy, you pick some great places to lose your women." "Stuff it," cuts in Rogue. "Here's the plan."

Interface the Music

Headfirst in the NET, Alt weaves magic. They've studded her into the Arasaka mainframe, given her room to run, hemmed in only by three Arasaka Netrunners who watch her every move. Her body lies comatose on a contour couch, linked by cables to a cybermodem. She's pulling down subroutines, crunching the compilers, getting comfy with the CPUs. From memory and notes, she's recreating Soulkiller, the eater of minds. Soulkiller is a stationary program, locked to a part of the system architecture. The challenge Toshiro has given her is to give it movement—the ability to navigate the NET on it's own It's a subtle problem—navigation data and decision subroutines take up a huge amount of memory; the reason free roaming programs are so limited in scope. Soulkiller already eats a lot of megabytes; to make it free running will take more memory than any normal computer can handle. The problem excites her professionalism even as the creation revolts her humanity. God, they know her so well. The original Soulkiller started as a matrix to contain artificial personalities. She'd studied the concNow Alt looks over her options. If she doesn't build Arasaka's monster, they'll torture or kill her. If she builds their horror, they'll keep her alive. But. But once it's built, they'll put her into itept, worked out the parameters for creating a storage matrix. She'd been fascinated and awed to discover that the same matrix could contain living engrams; transfer them from computer to body and even back again. It was immortality. ITS had taken it from her to build a killer. And she hadn't known how to stop them. Now Alt looks over her options. If she doesn't build Arasaka's monster, they'll torture or kill her. If she builds their horror, they'll keep her alive. But. But once it's built, they'll put her into it

A War Party

A plan hinges on strange elements. Rogue leaves their motel bolthole at nine. She moves fast, travels light, moving from place to place. Here, she picks up five pounds of plastic explosives; there, flash-bombs, timers and tripwires. Santiago covers her. He picks up more explosives, a combat assault cyberdeck, and a long, bulky black sniper rifle. Johnny's on the cellular, working the connections. He pulls his bandmates in from around the City, carefully dodging the phone taps, shadowers, and snoops. He sets the time and place and the gig is on. Thompson is on The Street, working hard. A phone call here, a tip to the screamsheets there. A Fixer picks up a little euro on the side, and passes the word down. By 10 a.m., The Street knows there's going to be a party. By noon, the word is all over The Street—the band is Samurai, the time is sundown, and the Smash is free. By one, The Street knows the party is going to be on the edge of town at Industrial Park. Arasaka's twenty two story office compound faces Industrial Park. Like a single, hungry thing, the mob converges.

Sorcerers Apprentice

7:29 p.m. The twisting construct spins, a blazing pillar of white fire, sparkshowers of stars. A glowing DNA chain, a whirling dervish takes shape and form, in the construct reality of the interface, towering above her, looming like fear itself. Dazzling, it exudes the palpable scent of terror. It speaks in a voice like crystal, and momentarily Alt's breath is taken by it's perfect, murderous beauty. "I am." it sings triumphantly to the cold stars. "I am your Controller." Alt replies. "You will follow my commands." A slight hesitation in her voice. "As always," it says, as though doubt had never existed in the universe. "What is your bidding, Mistress?" Alt lets out a long, exhausted breath. She's gotten the Controller override past her watchdogs. Now she has a chance. "This is what I want you to do," she begins

Party Hard

Seicho Harada is second in command of Security for the Arasaka complex at Industrial Park. Seicho is afraid. Since early afternoon, the people have been pouring into the large, grassy park opposite his guard position; at first a trickle, then a stream, then a torrent. He can't figure it out. They don't do things like this in Tokyo. In Tokyo, people are consistent. They make sense. Here, people are animals. He thinks about calling the City Cops, but that would reflect badly on Arasaka. The world's largest security Corporation calling for help? What a loss of face. But there are six thousand people crammed into the tableau in front of him. Up on the makeshift stage, acting as though invulnerable, struts Johnny Silverhand, working the crowd up. Seicho wants him. He wants him dead. But Silverhand might as well be on Luna as far as Arasaka is concerned. A single gunshot could trigger a riot of unbelievable proportions. Seicho can feel the tension building. So can Johnny. An invisible thread binds them as adversaries, eye to eye over a battlefield of unwitting bodies.
Can you feel it Can you touch it Get ready cause here we go Can you feel it Can you touch it Get ready cause here we go My soul inserted with vital force Won't spare what I'm hunting for It's the animal in my blood Wouldn't stop it even if I could
Johnny smiles. He's got them, so far. The crowd is paranoid—they expect to be thrown out at any minute. He's been pumping them for the last hour with chromatic and metal rock, getting them edgy and irritable; in a party mood to scream and shout, kick some tail. The first uniformed idiot who interrupts their party is going to get himself hosed.
Seed is sown—I'm chippin' in Roll the bones—I'm chippin' in Embed that code—I'm chippin' in Mayhem flows Not backing down, never backing down Not backing down, yeah
It's like driving the freeway at two hundred miles per hour. The crowd swells and breathes as the first verse goes down, taking on the cohesiveness of a living thing. The bass player picks up the back beat and the two of them slam into the next turn of the song, dragging the crowd with them.
Can you feel it Can you touch it Get ready cause here we go Can you feel it Can you touch it Get ready cause here we go
Johnny's eyes scan the perimeter of the park. To one edge, he can see Santiago in position on the rooftop opposite of the Arasaka complex. Deep in the crowd, Thompson and Rogue are poised, ready to make the break. All he has to do is give them the chance; the diversion. All he has to do is turn around and lead six thousand people right into a wall of weapons.
Suits run when I come undone Can't kill me I'm zeroes and ones Add justice to the peoples math Blaze way down the rebel path Hear my call—I'm chippin' in Total war—I'm chippin' in Casings fall—I'm chippin' in Kill them all Not backing down, never backing down
Can you feel it Can you touch it Get ready cause here we go Can you feel it Can you touch it Get ready cause here we go, yeah
The moment freezes, hanging in air like a death. Punching his battered Telestrater over to "remote", Johnny leaps off the stage, pushing his way through the crowd. His voice holds solid over the radio mike; powerful, pleading, entreating, seducing, and the huge crowd turns with him; surges around him, swallows him. Its knife edge balanced—six thousand people teetering on the edge, chanting, singing. At

the perimeter of the park, Arasaka police stand guard nervously, their eyes riveted on the mob. Silverhand starts towards them, and they choke on the decision— twenty guards facing down a wall of humanity, centered on one man whose voice holds them, binds them. An assault rifle comes up, and the crowd, like an irritable dog, notices the small army facing them down. The scene is set; the guards distracted, and on the rooftop, Santiago takes aim... Then it goes wrong. One of the faceless guards loses his nerve. The staccato sound of gunfire splits the air. But Johnny is already gone, faded back into a mob that howls like a wounded thing, then surges forward, shattering like surf against armored bodies, lobby doors, massed vehicles, guns. Screams. Gunfire. The strobe flash of the mob tearing a guard apart with vampyre teeth, and ripper claws. The sound of a sniper rifle high above the melee, as Santiago methodically picks out guards and blows them away with his Nomad Long Rifle. The lobby doors explode inwards as six thousand bodies slam against them. Rogue is already in—in when Santiago took out the pair of guards by the main doors. She's on the floor and rolling, a fast dazzle bomb palmed over the top of the security desk to fry the optics of the monitor team, followed by a frag grenade a second later. The deafening explosion goes unnoticed in the typhoon roar of the mob. Thompson's right behind her, his video rig and FN-RAL sweeping everything in his path. Both wear armor jacks with the colors of the infamous Iron Sights boostergang, a known Arasaka hit group. Rogue skids around the corner towards the elevator bank, moments ahead of the crowd. Rapidly, she opens each car, spray paints the monitor lens, punches a destination, then ducks out. The last car in line, she places a shaped charge explosive on the ceiling, wired to a microtransmitter. This one she sends to the twenty-second floor; the executive office suites. Then the rampaging mob hits and carries her along in the swell. Thompson is waiting for her by the stairwell. Moments later, Johnny shows up wearing an Arasaka company jacket he's pulled off a guard's body. The name tag reads Harada.

Options

Akira turns from the security board. "It has started," he announces. "Instructions, Toshiro-sama?" Toshiro considers. It was a masterstroke for Silverhand to raise a literal army of fans against him. Toshiro is check-mated—Arasaka cannot gun down the crowd with impunity. But he does have options. He turns to Akira. " Send teams to the elevators. Guard the top and bottom of the stairwells, and kill anything in the elevator cars." He looks over at Alt's dormant form. "We have the program," he says. "If we do not have her body, there is no evidence." Seemingly oblivious, the plugged in Alt permits herself a brief smile. A lot he knows.
Elevators chime open on floors ten, eighteen and five. The fire teams on ten and eighteen throw a hail of lead through the doors. The elevators are empty. The team on five is warned, and opens the doors with greater caution. Empty. "It's a trick!" shouts the team leader. "To the stairwell!" On floor six, a panting Johnny and Thompson reach the stairwell landing, crack open the fire doors and scout the hall. They can hear other doors slamming open as the fire teams converge; they bolt for the elevator bank. Prying the doors open, they can see the top of the car on floor five. They drop down to its top. Thompson hotwires the motor, and they start up. Rogue can hear running feet behind her. She pauses from her vantage point on floor seven and fires a quick burst down the stairwell. How much time? she thinks. She judges the breathing and the heavy booted tread, and punches six seconds on the timer, then rolls out of the seventh floor fire door. She is halfway down the hall when the first of the charges go off, collapsing the stairwell in on itself and burying the pursuing fire teams. Jamming open the elevator doors with her gun butt, she drops down onto the rising car.
"Hold her'', says Toshiro. Dimly, through the interface, Alt can feel Akira's hands pressing her into the seat. She struggles as the techs strip her plug guards off and hold her wrists. "Can the program be run?" Toshiro demands. His Netrunners nod. Helpless in the grip of the interface, Alt can only sense Toshiro jacking himself into the cyberdeck, giving the command to RUN. Then her mind is ripped away.
The elevator streaks upwards, the shaft echoing to either side. They can hear explosions; the sound of running feet, the hammer of machine gun fire. They pass the burned out husks of the cars on floors ten and eighteen. At the twentieth floor, the elevator starts to slow. Just above them, they can see the bottom of the express elevator on the twenty second. "Duck and cover!" yells Rogue. She taps the transmitter button on her collar and the world blows up.

Angel Heaven

She floats naked in a sea of stars. Around her swirls the matrix of Soulkiller, towering into measureless space. Alt reaches out with her enhanced mentality, shaping and forming. A brief flare of thought, and Soulkiller sucks away the minds of her three guardian Netrunners, letting their bodies drop. From the mind of the head Netrunner, she pulls out the access codes to the mainframe's inner levels. She strips the memory of data, downloading it to her hidden files throughout the NET. Twenty million dollars vanishes from Accounting, to reappear in a subaccount under her name. Pulling Toshiro's signature from his checking account file, she signs his name with a flourish. Using the access codes, she activates the room monitor. She can see the three Netrunners slumped senseless in their chairs; her own unconscious body limply sprawled across the central console. Akira moves towards it. Alt triggers the room lasers and cuts him in two; his body hits the floor with a steaming thud. Toshiro's eyes widen in shock, then narrow as he realizes what has happened. "Congratulations, Ms. Cunningham," he says with mock formality. "It seems you have found a way to escape your demise." "You zaibatsu bastard," she says through the interface, a tiny voice in his ear. "You're going to sit right here with your hands on the table, where I can watch them. You move, and you're laser meat." She tracks the defense system onto him, locking it to fire at the slightest position change. Then she turns back into the Soulkiller construct, wrapping its power around her, gathering herself to transfer back into her body. The room staggers; lurches, as five pounds of plastique explosive slams through the ceiling of the elevator, creating an instant fireball. The lasers go wild; spilling a maze of ruby light in every direction. Toshiro throws himself flat, toppling the cyberdeck and breaking Alt's connections. She flails wildly with the Construct—too little, too late. Three figures burst into the room, smartguns laying down a pattern of fire through the maelstrom. IR suppressed, enhanced vision on, Johnny spots Alt's still form slumped over a contour couch. He bends down to her, taking her in his arms, trembling. Across the room, Rogue looks away. "Well, well, well," says Thompson, striding across the wrecked room towards the Corporate head. "What do we have here? Looks like kidnapping and maybe murder. They're going to put you away for a long, long time, Toshiro-chan." His green cyberoptic winks bright as he transmits live and direct to his news net; his head swivels right to left with practiced ease as he subvocalizes the opening to his story; the story he will use to break Arasaka in Night City. Johnny stares a long time at Alt's almost lifeless body. There is a feeble pulse. But Alt—Alt is gone; lost in the machine; trapped behind crystal. Lost forever. Gone. He stands away from the couch. "Cut transmission, " he says to Thompson. The green cyberoptic goes dark. Silverhand's own eyes are featureless white marbles. The Hand convulses in fury by his side, locking onto the S&W in its lowslung hip rig. The metal fingers lock to the butt, scrabble-clicking along the parkerized grip. He just doesn't care anymore. He's dead inside. To hell with it. Silverhand raises the big black gun. A red pinpoint centers on Toshiro's forehead. "Bang." says Johnny. The Hand convulses. "Bang" says the gun. Silverhand turns to gather up her still warm body in his arms. Behind the wall of monitors, a disembodied Alt screams to him. But he can't hear her as he walks away.