HALFWAY AROUND the world, in a cave that was hidden from the late-afternoon sun, Decimal River watched a blinking light flashing on his laptop screen. “They’re inside,” he announced, his eyes never leaving the screen.

      “Activate the trap,” Broken Ghost said, her voice a whisper just behind the man’s tattooed shoulder.

      Across from the ash-skinned assassin, Cloud Singer, the bloodred strips of cloth that she wore blending with the russet walls and dark shadows of the cave, felt a tiny shiver run up and down her spine in anticipation. To her irritation, the shiver reminded her of how it felt back when she could activate the implant, back when the dreamslicer still took the Original Tribe into the Dreaming World, before the Cerberus people had blocked their access with the master weapon, the Death Cry. Cloud Singer held her breath as she watched Decimal River’s nimble fingers race across the keyboard of his portable computer.

      Decimal River watched the numbers on his screen race toward zero as the mat-trans unit was activated in Tennessee.

      “They’ve primed it,” he said in a hushed voice. “Just a few seconds longer.”

      Beside him, her head jutting forward as she watched the countdown, Broken Ghost remained utterly expressionless. Her voice betrayed no emotion when the readout went to zero and she finally spoke.

      “Close the trap.”

      Chapter 4

      “And could there be any particular significance to the name that you chose for the operation, Magistrate?” a man’s voice, clear and sympathetic, was speaking close to his ear.

      Kane opened his eyes and looked around carefully. He was stretched out on a leather couch in a small office, the walls of which were painted a reassuring, rich butterscotch. He turned, looking at the man who sat in a chair beside his head, peering over his regulation glasses at Kane, a notepad resting on his crossed legs.

      “I’m sorry?” Kane asked, confused.

      Beside him, the man thumbed back two sheets of his notepad, and Kane saw the tiny scrawl that covered each page. “Cerberus, you called it, the hound of Hades,” the psychiatrist said, tapping the top of his pen against the notebook. “Do you think that has any particular significance?”

      Magistrate Kane shook his head. “I don’t really remember,” he said. “What were we talking about?”

      The psychiatrist offered a sympathetic smile. “Are you still perhaps confused after the gas attack? Magistrate Salvo told me that you were lucky to get out alive.”

      Kane closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him as he tried to remember. It had been a regular PPP—Pedestrian Pit Patrol—down in the Tartarus Pits, which sat at the very bottom of Cobaltville, surrounding the Administrative Monolith. He and his partner, Grant, had been accompanying some newbie, couldn’t remember the name, checking ID chips and generally making their presence known, when someone had launched a burning bottle of something flammable—a molly—in their direction. It had been a long time since the Pit dwellers had openly attacked Magistrates like that, and the newbie had asked why they had targeted them today.

      “We’re Mags,” Kane had said, the regulation helmet sitting low over his face, masking his features and adding to his stern appearance. “That’s reason enough.”

      There had been explosions and blasterfire, and a smoking canister had almost exploded in his face. After that it was all lost; he couldn’t remember anything.

      “How’s the newbie?” Kane asked, recalling the rookie’s name at last. “McKinnon?”

      The psychiatrist looked at him, his expression the well-rehearsed mask of sympathy that every psychiatrist on Cappa Level had been trained to employ in such situations. “I’m afraid Magistrate McKinnon died,” he said, holding Kane’s gaze.

      As he lay back on the couch, Kane’s eyes wandered around the room once more. Despite the relative safety of the surroundings, his point-man sense was alert. He felt as if he was being watched, and not just by the psychiatrist who sat patiently beside him. There, in the far corner of the ceiling, a little black blister, no bigger than his hand, contained a surveillance camera. You were never truly alone in Cobaltville, he remembered.

      “What about my partner?” he asked, still looking at the surveillance blister. “What about Grant?”

      “He was still in surgery when you came in here,” the shrink said. “Would you like me to go check?”

      Something was wrong, Kane knew. Some instinct deep inside him felt unsettled. Maybe the gas attack had affected him, just as the psychiatrist had said. And what was this Cerberus that the man had been speaking about? The name seemed familiar and, even as he thought of it, an image flashed in his mind: a woman’s face, her porcelain skin beautiful and clear, her hair a flowing tumble of red curls, her glowing eyes like twin emeralds reflecting flame.

      “That’s okay,” Kane said, pushing himself up from the couch and smoothing back his dark hair, gathering his thoughts.

      Beside him, the shrink checked his wrist chron. “We still have almost twenty minutes before the session is over, Magistrate Kane,” he announced as Kane stood.

      Kane looked at him, standing in the dark T-shirt and combat pants of an off-duty Mag, the muscles of his tanned arms flexing as feeling returned to them. He felt as though he had been sleeping and was only now awakening. “I think I’m going to skip out of this one,” he explained. “You’ve been a great help. I’m better now.”

      The psychiatrist looked about to complain, but Kane stared through him before placing the dark-lensed glasses over his eyes, becoming an emotionless Magistrate once more. The whole culture of the Magistrate system was built upon intimidation; everything they did, the way they dressed, the way that they carried themselves—even when off duty—was designed to instill fear in the people around them. They were the last bastions of order in a world that had tipped close to utter chaos, and their authority was absolute, their judgment incontestable.

      The psychiatrist stood up, and Kane could see the little beads of sweat forming on his brow as he peered into Kane’s dark lenses. “Well, I wouldn’t wish to waste any of your precious time, Magistrate,” he said in a shaky voice, visibly cowering before the larger man.

      “No,” Kane agreed, shucking into his regulation black, ankle-length, Kevlar-weave overcoat, the familiar red shield of office attached to the lapel,