“Pull out,” Vapor said. “They’re going to render you.”

“No,” Sprite said.

“They’re going to find your input signal!”

“You’re in the red,” Darkholm announced, situation escalating.

“Ling?” Sprite said.

“I’m masking your output and rerouting the signal to analog. You’ll see a significant drop in speed, but it’ll mess up their trackers.”

Helen watched Vapor pull out her goggles. She flipped the green visor down and plugged a thick cord into a jack in her system.

“You’ve got private!” Scotty said.

“Dark?” Sprite said.

“You’re silent, but it’s wavering,” Darkholm said.

“Don’t say that, Darkholm!”

“I’m leveling you off.”

“I know,” Scotty said, continuing to hack away on the keys.

“It’s moving,” Vapor said, flipping several switches and changing monitors. “I’m reading a collision course at your current trajectory, velocity mark twelve five.”

Helen was terrified. She knew trying to dagger was dangerous, but she didn’t know much else. The art was way beyond her league. And she felt helpless now, being able to do nothing more than watch and pray.

“You’re glowing,” Darkholm said.

“Ling!” Sprite said.

“I’m working on it,” Ling said, dragging sliders down. “I’m dampening your signal, but you’re still getting read. I don’t understand!”

Helen’s heart started thumping rapidly in her chest. Another ghost? In Sprite’s same sector? Sure, it could be a coincidence, but the chances of another cloaked diver seemed unlikely. Sprite lay on the raised table, stone still, but she was already deep into her dagger.

“Where?” Sprite asked, just the slightest bit of concern in her tinny sounding voice.

“To your left,” Vapor said, “eighty degrees.”

“You’re still silent,” Darkholm said, “but I’m reading a blue and yellow aurora.”

“Let me know when it hits red,” Sprite said. “Scotty?”

Scotty’s fingers flew over his keyboards. “You’re elite.”

“I need private!”

“Admit is ahead,” Sprite said.

Scotty started hammering away on a keyboard, and Helen immediately perked up. She didn’t trust him. She looked around the room, but no one showed signs of concern.

“You’ve got general admission right,” Scotty said, still hammering away, his voice a soft echo in Helen’s headphone. “I’m working on member status next.”

“Vapor, how’s traffic here?” Sprite asked.

“Lower but still heavy. I’m getting numbers around 650.”

“Stealth?”

“Still silent,” Darkholm answered.

“Scotty, how we looking?” Ling asked.

“General member’s covered. Elite is next.”

“Hang on,” Vapor said. “I’m reading another ghost in your sector.”

Then finally Sprite’s fingers twitched. Though her lips were eerily still, her voice crackled over the headset, as if through a long cavern. “I’m in,” she said.

“Great,” Ling said, her voice a quieter, delayed echo over the earphone. “Tell us what you see.”

“I’m in public domain. How’s my stealth?”

“Silent,” Darkholm said.

“Ok. I’m moving through this glut of information,” Sprite said. “No surprise, probes aren’t picking up anything of interest.”

“Don’t bump into anything,” Vapor said. “I’m seeing a lot of activity in your sector.”

“Understood.”

Helen kept an eye on Scotty. Something about him appeared duplicitous.

Ling flipped several toggles; Vapor turned two large knobs. The two made eye contact; Vapor nodded.

Ling said, “Sprite.”

Sprite flipped down two differing eyepieces over the front of her compuglasses and turned up a slide along the edge. She reached her gloved hands forward and made a distinct flicking motion with her hands above her. Power sources hummed, booting up; the long florescent bulbs in the room dimmed, some flickering briefly to black.

Helen held her breath, hand resting on her dog’s head.

The aces watched their monitors, flipping through readouts.

Helen watched Sprite, but she was not moving.

“Scotty? You in the green?” Ling asked.

Helen eyed the thin man closely. He had only been awoken from his rest a couple hours ago. The man still looked tired and angry. Helen thought he had dark, beady eyes that couldn’t be trusted.

“I’m ready,” he said, and Helen wasn’t sure if she had imagined bitterness in his voice or not. He was not a far cry from the scared, sniveling creature only a few hours ago as his guardian was running rampant.

Helen decided to keep a close eye on him while Sprite daggered.

“Ok,” Ling said. “Let’s go.”

Helen pet her dog, afraid that Sprite may not make it out alive, but not knowing what else to do. She didn’t know a lot about daggering other than these other aces wouldn’t do it. She didn’t understand what sort of danger could happen to someone simply scouring the waves, but there must have been more to it that she just didn’t know.

“Are you ready, Sprite?” Ling asked, tuning her monitors, contrasting readings.

Sprite drew in a long breath. “Yeah,” she said, stretching. “Let’s do it.”

“Darkholm?” Ling asked.

He nodded, eyes glued to his screens.

“Vapor?”

“You bet.”

There wasn’t much for Helen to do. She stood out of the way, bull Dober at her side. The headsets were wireless, but there were dozens of other cords and wires streaming everywhere, hardquipping the setup for minor speed enhancement and to avoid wave interferences. Some of the monitor reads were wired in parallel, but the majority of techquipment was direct connect with the tech aids Sprite wore.

She had on interact gloves, large, opaque compuglasses, and oversized earphones. She was in white underwear and a sports bra and had many monitor pads and needles on and under her skin.

Three and a half hours later, Helen was looking down on Sprite lying on a raised bed in the infirmary. The room was loaded with techquipment hastily brought in to prepare for Sprite’s dagger. Vapor, Ling, and Darkholm had chairs with wheels, watching several monitor reads. Scotty was set up in his own bed, back raised to a seated position, his own handful of monitors mounted in front of him.

Helen and these four aces wore headsets to stay in contact with Sprite during her dagger, though Helen’s only had audio active, to avoid added static on the strained lines.

“Not I,” Darkholm said.

Sprite nodded, walking to the door and trying to hide a small smile. Of everyone here, Darkholm seemed to be the least afraid of her and what the poisoning may mean.

The large man continued. “Do you have any hint as to why you’ve been black marked?”

“None,” Sprite said. “But I’ll face this mystery later, after finding Ran.”

“Perhaps I will find him in a den,” Darkholm offered.

Sprite nodded again. “Perhaps,” she said, but not allowing herself to hope. She would have to expect daggering if she wanted to make it out without mar.

“You may stay,” Darkholm said.

“No,” Sprite said. “I need you at your optimal on the wire. I will rest for a couple hours in the lounge, and if we don’t have anything by then, I’ll dagger. But I’ll need you all watching my back. I plan on going in clean and coming out with the data we need to find Ran.” She paused and added, “I’m going to need Scotty there too.”

Darkholm eyed her. “I am sorry for what he did.”

“I’m marked for poison. I don’t know how, but anyone would have responded the same.”

“Not anyone.”

But not even pulling a dagger was a guarantee, even by an ace of Sprite’s skill. It was all just too much to deal with right now. She could pull a dagger. No problem. She would dagger in and find something on Ran.

She sat up. “All right. Darkholm, you get back on the wire when you’re ready. If you don’t find anything in those dens, then I’ll go in with a dagger to find him.”

Darkholm was silent, watching her, then said, “If that is what you must do.”

Sprite nodded then rose. “Thank you for letting me rest.”

“It does feel good to rest,” she admitted, though it was a little strange staring up at the ceiling. Sprite tried sitting up to make eye contact, but Darkholm didn’t even have a pillow. Finally she gave up. “Thank you,” she said, staring upward. “So were you able to find anything on the wire?”

“Nothing,” Darkholm said. “But I will keep searching. I still have some dens to dig through.”

Sprite sighed and closed her eyes, unsure of what to do next. It was looking more and more like she would have to dagger into the snarl to find Randal.

Sprite stopped just short of the bed. “I’m fine, Darkholm, really,” she said. “You use the bed. Keep working. I’ll take a break in the lounge.”

“No, no. I insist. You rest.” He tried to make her sit with a gentle pressure. “At least while we chat, yes?”

Sprite hesitated, but finally gave in. “Ok, but just while we talk.” She sat down and with Darkholm’s continued push at her shoulder, she allowed herself to lay back.

“Good, yes?” the large man asked, smiling broadly and taking the seat she had occupied. He again rested his hands on his stomach.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Sprite said, rubbing an eye with the back of her hand. Apparently she was more exhausted than she had realized. That knife wound must have really taken its toll on her systems.

“It’s all right, my dear,” Darkholm said, standing over her. “You were injured. You fought that hardwired monster. Here, take my cot. Rest, rest.” Darkholm directed her toward the bed. She had noticed his white hair was receding to a widow’s peak, but only now saw that it was also pulled back into a ponytail.

She thought it somehow made him distinguished.

Covering each of Darkholm’s eyes were tiny black goggles, a cord running from them to his hub in the corner.

His stomach continued to rise and fall with each breath, his mind buried deep, scouring the wire.

Sprite knew he could only stay in the wire for so long, so she sat down in a chair and waited, making herself comfortable.

“Did you need something, Sprite?”

It seemed like only a moment later when Darkholm’s voice startled her awake. She had dozed off.

“I’m sorry, Darkholm,” she said, opening her eyes and sitting up. “I wanted to check on you.”

Sprite left the room, and Ling didn’t protest further.

Further down the hall of the derelict sub, Sprite came upon the open door of Darkholm’s room.

She peaked her head in, not wanting to disturb him. The room had a plush rug and a number of ornate lamps. In one corner sat four unused monitors on a desk, a hub beneath. In another corner, Darkholm lay on a simple cot.

He was older and heavy, with a white beard and hair. He breathed slow and steady, his chest and large belly rising and lowering, hands resting on his rotund stomach.

“He’s special,” Sprite said.

“Are you in love with the guy?” Ling asked, still not willing to believe her fellow ace would risk something as insane as daggering.

“Hardly. He’s important, though. That’s all.”

“Important? Important how?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Sprite said, turning to leave. “Let me know if you get any matches. If not, I’ll need some rest and then I’ll need you and the rest to back up my dagger. In case something goes wrong.”

“If something goes wrong? When something goes wrong, Sprite! Daggering can hardly even be considered a science anymore.”

“It is what it is.”

“Sorry, Sprite,” Ling said, her dark eyes watching the screens. “I’m hardly getting a bite on the guy.”

“Don’t feel too bad,” Sprite said, trying to hide her own disappointment. “I wasn’t getting anything on him either. If you guys can’t pull anything off the waves and if Darkholm can’t find something on the wire, I might have to try pulling a dagger.”

“A dagger?” Ling said, not believing what she heard. “Are you crazy?” she asked, finally exhibiting some emotion.

“It may be the only way.”

“But you could get lost in there. Is he really worth that?”

“Yes.”

Each monitor had an image of Randal’s face candidly captured from different angles and with different expressions. Ling’s scan crosschecked these images with various captures across public domain or through encrypted security feeds. The records went back several months, but Randal was a professional. He had optic camo. He could blend into crowds. He knew routs that took him out of the public eye. He even carried himself in a way to avoid direct cam connect.

The guy was good. Unfortunately for him, if he really was in some sort of trouble, it would be this that got him killed.

“Ling, how’s it going?” Sprite asked the camera.

There was a buzz and a bass thunk, both announcing the door’s unlocking. Sprite opened the hatch.

“It’s going,” Ling said. She had narrow eyes and spiky hair, died pink. Her pierced navel was exposed and had a sun tattooed around it. She looked tired, leaning back in her chair, a small, unmade bed behind her, and several boxes of parts and projects scattered about. “Close the door,” Ling said. Sprite complied.

The room had little in the form of accoutrements except for the dozen large monitors mounted in front of Ling.

“No,” Sprite said, “the doctor said my wound was fine. Besides, we should get back as soon as we can. If these digs don’t uncover something definitive about Randal, I’ll have to run a cumulative exam on my own equipment.”

Helen nodded, concern for Randal showing on her face. No doubt she was saying another silent prayer for the missing mercenary.

“If you need anything, let me know,” Sprite said. Helen nodded, setting her book on her lap as Sprite left.

Further down the hall, Sprite stopped in front of Ling’s quarters and faced the camera mounted above the door.

Earlier Helen had insisted the physician examine Sprite as well, despite her insistence that she had already bandaged herself and felt fine. Helen attributed this to adrenaline and finally Sprite consented to seeing the doctor, but only in private.

“Doctor, really,” Sprite said, “I’m fine.”

“Your friend certainly sees things differently. Why don’t you just let me give you a quick examination?” The doctor reached for Sprite’s side.

“Why don’t you let me worry about my health? As thanks, perhaps a dozen creds wired when I get home?”

The doctor stopped. “Six now, and you’ll have any diagnosis you want.”

Sprite would have to consider reimbursing the physician fees. Despite Scotty’s running, he didn’t double cross her once he had no other option.

Sprite ducked in the lounge before going any further, finding Helen on a couch, ignoring all the techquipment and instead reading a book. Her Dober pit lay at her feet, its sides wrapped. The same physician diagnosed the dog too. Broken ribs. Guess that can happen when facing an antique on the rampage.

“You ok?” Sprite asked.

“Yeah, I commed Turtle. Said we’d be back by tomorrow. But if you need time to let your side mend?”

Sprite shut the hatch, unnecessarily keeping her head low in the hall. The place was an old museum, rundown and closed several years. It had once been a functioning submarine from the old days. Days well before even Sprite’s time.

This crew had been calling this home for seven or eight weeks now, many of the rooms currently only housing backup equips as hacks and aces were notoriously a nomadic bunch.

Sprite passed the infirmary, glancing in. Scotty was drugged and on the mend, his wounds patched. Someone had already placed some equipment within reach for when Scotty woke up.

“But you’re poison, right?” Vapor continued, eyes rapidly tracking through data on the various monitors in front of her and the virtual displays in her old fashioned monitor goggles. “So I can understand why he ran, owing you or not.”

Sprite gave her a dirty look, but the girl didn’t see. “Just keep me posted. When do you think you’ll be done?”

“Another twenty-five minutes.”

“Great. I’ll check on Ling in the meantime, see how her public facial reads are coming.”

Vapor only nodded, her ponytail bobbing slightly.

Sprite opened the hatch to Vapor’s room, ducking to enter the hall.

“And what happened to Scotty?” the girl asked, her fingers flying over the various keyboards she had in front of her and other virtual boards she saw only in the oversized monitor goggles she wore. She had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her moniker was Vapor. Sprite had only met her once before, but if Scotty’s crew vouched for her, she was good.

“Scotty’s an idiot,” Sprite said. “He owed me and ran away when he saw me.”

The girl continued her data mining, logging interesting bits for future analysis.

“Yeah, you keep saying that he owed you.”

The man left and Randal’s cell went dark. He closed his eyes, willing his body to rest and to heal. He wouldn’t have long. They would play with the mini flood lights while Temmins was away, but if he didn’t show any response, they might get bored.

And of course there was the water. They may turn the sprinklers on again. And they liked to follow that with the fans. Randal was face down on a table without any clothes. It didn’t take much to chill him to the bone.

But he would wait. He would have his time again.

“Gireson doesn’t get mad at my methods when you don’t talk,” Temmins said. “So what shall we try next?” He mocked waiting for a response from Randal, leaning in close for an answer. “What was that?” He leaned in closer, and Randal could smell the man’s bitter odor. “Did you say something?” He waited again. “You are twisted, aren’t you?” Temmins said with a laugh, replying to an unspoken answer he may have actually heard in his own head. “Very well.” He scratched his scaly scalp. “We’ll try your suggestion. Get your beauty rest; I’ll wake you when I’m back.”

“But Gireson says to let up if you give us something, and he does pay the bills, after all. And you should see the quarters he sets up for his employees.” Temmins tweaked another dozen bamboo stalks, one in the shoulder, another in the calf, one deep in the trigger finger of Randal’s left hand, each a random expression of agony.

Temmins stifled a giggle.

Randal was strapped to a table, unable to move, various configurations of mini flood lights lighting him up. It was best when someone else was in the room with him.

“No? Nothing to share? Goody.”