David Gabbiani -- known in some circles as DaVinci, the Renaissance Hacker -- sat in a dusty motel room somewhere in the lower levels of the Great Codex System.  His hair was disheveled as he sat on the edge of the small and stained bed in the room.  His jacket was thrown over the back of a chair and his sunglasses lay on the bedside table as he miserably massaged his temples.  He kept his eyes closed as he moaned to himself.

"This is not happening," he muttered under his breath.  "This is not happening."

What's the big deal, DaVinci? the sick little voice in his head inquired.  I figured you'd be happy to have me back.

"Happy?!" DaVinci spat.  "I hate you.  You represent everything I hate."

No, I don't.

"And how would you know that?"

Because Lazarus represents everything you hate.  He is racist, he is narrow-minded, he is obsessive, and he is self-righteous.  He'd never stoop to help the fallen man.

"Last time I checked, much of that could have been applied to you as well."

That's because you've forgotten that when Dr. van der Waals bombed the Resonate, I was right there, helping you kill him.  When Lazarus' men were closing on your Hacking Parlor, I was the one who cut them off and gave you more time to crash TruPharm-Net.  I even sacrificed myself.

"You didn't sacrifice yourself.  You got ambushed."

A mental shrug.  Same difference.  The point is, I do have some measure of goodness in me.

"I don't know how you got in my head, Lean, but I'm going to get you back out."

Once again, I'm shocked.  You have no idea of the gift you've been given.

"Gift?!"

Yes.  Surely you should have realized how you were able to knock out Archer and her pet virus.

"What?"

Oh, you're an intelligent boy.  I'll leave you alone for a bit.  Just call if you need anything.

DaVinci's head snapped up as he heard someone knock on the door.  Hastily, he put his sunglasses back on and smoothed out his hair before he unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door to the limit of the chain latch.  He peered out.  A small, nattily-dressed Rachallian looked up at him.  "Yeah, Gabbiani?" he asked.  A tag on his attire read 'Manager.'

"What is it?" DaVinci grumbled, trying to keep his voice low enough to hide the viral resonance that had come into it.

"Yeah, I need more money for your room," the manager said.

"I'm paid through Thursday," DaVinci growled.

The Rachallian smiled a bit.  His teeth were rotten and yellow.  "Riiight.  Sure you are.  If you don't want me dropping your name to the nearest Apocalypser or something, I suggest you pay up."

The Rachallian manager gasped as DaVinci's hand shot out of the crack and grabbed him by the throat.  Showing uncanny strength, the hacker lifted him up to eye-level.  Then, DaVinci lowered his sunglasses, exposing his eyes.  Rather than showing his normal dark eyes, two glowing blue-gray orbs stared out.  The Rachallian screamed and jittered in fear, trying to free himself.

"You whisper one word of my location to anyone," DaVinci said evenly, the resonance now audible, "and I swear to whatever God it is you believe in that you'll not live to regret it."  He pulled the Rachallian closer, then hissed, "Got it?"  When he got a hasty nod, DaVinci dropped him, then shut the door.  He peered through the peephole, watching the Rachallian pick himself up, rubbing his sore behind, then scamper off in fear.

I think you're starting to like this, the voice said amusedly.

"Shut up, Lean."

Quinn sighed as he leaned back against the arm of the sofa he was lying on.  His legs were in a tangle in front of him, an uncomfortable-looking tangle that should have hurt considerably, but the dead nerves in his legs prevented him from feeling anything, even from the still scabbing pulse-wound on the shin of his right leg.  He grabbed the bottle of disinfectant alcohol off the table behind him, took a rag, then wet the rag with the alcohol.  He disentangled his legs, pulled up his pants' leg and dabbed at the ugly-looking wound.

Across the room, Naught looked at this and winced. "Ouch, that looks painful, Quinn."

The writer shrugged.  "I can't feel a goddamn thing, so it doesn't hurt.  But I don't want this thing to fester."  He finished cleaning it and patted the wound with the dry part of the rag, then tossed it away.  He picked up an Ace bandage and slowly wrapped it around the wound.  Once he was done, he fastened it in place, rolled his pants' leg back down, then looked over at Niente.  "How's it look, Niente?"

The biker was seated beside Quinn's bionic brace, which had a blackened pulse-mark on it, a hole in the center.  Niente was examining this damage with a critical eye.  "Well," she said after a moment, "I don't think the shot damaged the mobility of your brace, but I don't have the tools to fix that ugly hole."  She looked up.  "By the way, this stuff makes pretty decent armor.  That pulse should've taken your leg off, but your brace blunted the blast."  She stood and dusted off her hands.  "Nothing I can do."

Quinn sighed again, this time in exasperation.  "Well, shit.  How am I supposed to make it to that meeting with Martin and the producers now?"

"Why not use your hoverchair?" Naught asked.  "They'd understand, wouldn't they?"  Quinn gave him a look.  "What?"

"I left it at home, Naught," Quinn replied.  "I didn't think I'd need it."

"Well that was kinda dumb, wasn't it?" Naught replied.  He ducked as Niente threw a spanner at him.  "Hey!"

"Hey, yourself!" Niente snapped.  "D'you honestly think Quinn expected to run into Tomasi or the True Force while he was here?"

"Yes," Naught replied matter-of-factly.  "Don't you remember how worried he was after he got the call from Mr. O'Brien?  He told us flat out that he knew Lans would try something.  And he did."

Niente looked ready to go over and wallop him, but Quinn sat up.  "Niente, he's right.  I knew the risks, but I didn't think my brace would get damaged."  He sighed again as he turned his legs out so he was sitting, and not lying down.  "Can't you put something over the hole, at least?  Just something to cover it?"

"Why not use some this, hey?"

All three of them looked at the door to their hotel suite to see a grinning sprite with dusky-gray skin standing there.  He wore, as always, green-tinted racing goggles over his eyes, and a dark longcoat.  He carried a duffle bag in one hand and a small piece of sheet metal in the other.  He dropped both and spread his arms.  "Hey, hey, never fear, the Zilch man's here!"

Naught and Niente stared for a moment before they both got up and ran to give their older brother a double bear hug.  He squeezed them back, grinning, then said, "Okay, that's enough, hey?  Lemme go."  The two other Aughts stepped back.  "Surprised to see me?"

"Yeah," Niente said.  "Isn't there a race at the Resonate Tracks tomorrow?"

"Nah," Zilch said.  "I told 'em I couldn't make the race and they actually cancelled it.  Can you imagine?  They said you and me're the biggest draw for the races, even though we win every time.  They figured without us, nobody'd come, so they cancelled the race for this month."

"But what're you doing here?" Naught asked. "What about the kids?  Don't tell me you left them with the twins."

"Nah," Zilch said.  "You know that nice Israel person?"

"Yeah."

"I left Blank and Zip with him."  Zilch shrugged.  "They'll be fine.  I think Nil and Void can take care of themselves for a couple days."

"Okay," Naught said uncertainly.  "But you go in the house first when we get back."  He ducked a swing from Niente and retreated tohis computer, where he was plugged into Great Codex Netwide.

"So what're you doing here?" Niente asked her big brother.

"I came to check on you guys," Zilch replied.  "I saw the news reports about the True Force attack on the set, so I came to make sure you guys are all right."

"Well," Quinn said from the couch, "aside from the pulse wound I got in the leg, that hole in my brace, and the damage to the set, we're all fine."

"Hey, Quinn man!" Zilch beamed.  "How's things?"

"See previous response," Quinn said dryly, but he was grinning.  "Not too bad.  Martin O'Brien's going to talk to the producers to see if he can get some more money to make up for the scene that True Force wrecked."

"Yeah, what about that?" the biker asked.  "How'd you guys pull off gettin' out alive?"

"Luck, skill, and a little help from Exley," Quinn replied.

Zilch blinked in surprise. "Tomasi?  He helped you out?"  He scratched his head.  "Damn, just when I thought I had him figured out."

"There's not much to figure out about him," Niente said.  "His brother got killed by a True Force goon.  He wants revenge on True Force.  Quinn is a True Force target.  True Force wants to kill Quinn.  The lout put two and two together.  He knew Lans would send goons to get Quinn and us, so he hung around till Lans made his move."

"Woulda thunk that Tomasi'd have the brains for that?" Zilch muttered.  "So where's Tomasi?"

"He grabbed one of the Crossie goons and spilt with a F'Val friend of his," Niente told him.  "We haven't seen him since, and frankly, I don't care to.  I don't like the bastard."

"I don't think we'll have to worry about Tomasi, or that Nails guy," Naught remarked.  He tapped a few keys on his computer, then looked up.  "I've been monitoring intranet traffic in TruPharm-Net.  It's increased since the attack.  I think Lans is planning something,and that's something to worry about."

"Be honest, Dr. Serran.  Can you do the job?"

Dr. Serran looked up at Lazarus, who stared impassively back, his arm wrapped in a bandage.  The True Force leader's cybernetic eye glowed harshly.  Dr. Serran looked down at the massively scarred face he was operating on.  He sighed.  "Sir, the tissue damage is extensive.  I can't repair it.  I'm not as skilled as Doctor Ar--uh, my predecessor.  My advisement is we send for a batch of medical nanites from the Saoras Salan Instititue to help with repair--"

Lazarus shot out a hand and grabbed Dr. Serran by the throat.  He pulled him close, eye glowing brighter.  "We don't have time, Doctor.  We are going forward with the Final Contingency immediately, and I cannot afford to have Mr. Kitz unable to help."

Dr. Serran blinked a bit.  "Th-the Final Contingency, sir?"

"Yes, Doctor," Lazarus replied.  "It's clear that the synthetics' evil is even more insidious than initially anticipated.  We have no choice but to implement the Final Contingency.  So, do what you have to in order to have Mr. Kitz ready to assist us.  I don't care what methods you use, but use them, and notify me the instant he is ready to move."

Dr. Serran swallowed and managed a nod.  Lazarus released him and jerked his head at the unconscious form of Hal Kitz.  "Get to work, then, Doctor."