Route 666

Daughters of the American Revolution.

Sweetcheeks, plump and adorable in leopard-print leggings and a monumental fakefur jacket, wiggled her butt as she zapped into a wraparound screen, her head insectile under the VR helm. She was playing Mambo Massacre, a game program combining dancersize and combat; kidstuff until Level Nineteen, when the player faced Fred and Ginger with chainsaws. Some of the others fooled with games but most just sat on out-of-order consoles and looked out at the sand. Varoomschka was triple-coating her nails with a hammer-and-sickle motif, working as meticulously as if she were putting the final touches to a Faberge Easter egg.

So Long Suin's shower radio hung from the frame of one of the cars, tuned to Radio Moscow. Petya Tcherkassoff put his tormented soul into 'The Girl in Gorki Park'. Jazzbeaux was over her queensize crush on the Soviet musickie but still found it hard not to sway when she heard this song. It was about the singer's beautifully pale ex-lover; in the last verse, it turned out she was pale because she was dead. When Petya threw her over, she lay herself naked in the snow and willingly hypothermed. According to Moscow Beat magazine, the girl was based on a real person, Natalia Ludmila Someonova, but Jazzbeaux felt the song was just for her. She resented sharing it with the rest of creation.

Her life had not presented unlimited opportunities. She'd bought the gangcult package early and worked her way up from Shrimp to Acting WC. In her early teens, when Papa Bruno was alive and kicking, she did time as warehouse gladiatrix, racking enough brownie points to make her a chapter leaderine. She lost her left eye in a rumble with the Gaschuggers, and Ms Dazzle, her sponsor, personally paid Doc Threadneedle for the augmentation surgery. The Psycho-pomps were more a family to her than her late, lamented daddy and long-gone mama ever were. No 'Pomp had ever tried to sell her; well, not lately…

Jazzbeaux knew the ganggirl scene was stupo, but – hey? – what else did she have to do? She could read and type, so her basic education was taken care of. No way was she going out for indenture to a Japcorp; she didn't want to turn tricks for scuzz like her Daddy, thank you very much; and there weren't many other career opportunities for a fillette from the Denver NoGo in These Here United States, so she'd taken a vacation and was opting to hang out for the rest of her life.

She'd be seventeen in November. If she made it, maybe she'd take a look at her life-pattern and change it. Or not. Nichevo, as they said. It didn't matter, much. Everything was going to end one day. Probably soon. Five years from now, when the odometer ticked over all those zeroes, there'd be a big bang. Everybody said so.

She didn't pay tax but according to Andrew Jean her cut of last anno's yield put her on a salary par with a mid- level exec with an American multinat. If today's negotiations settled favourably, she'd be up there with a fast-track Japcorp software samurai. She wondered if any of the shoulderpad dolls who strode through offices on business soaps started out in gangcults. That wouldn't be for her; she'd never wear a suit.

Sometimes, they'd burn money. Literally. It became a drag to haul it around in paper or negotiable gems. When they couldn't jam the trunk shut, they'd scatter stuff for the sand-rats. The 'Pomps were wild like that.

Andrew Jean hunched over a Virtualsex Machine, cockatoo beehive dipping, pretending to interface. The game was hooked to other locations on the VDU chain; you could virtually rut with anonymes. This model was sneakily altered to function as a terminal for a one-time message. It was part of the II service. Word had been sent to the DAR that the 'Pomps could be reached in the Painted Desert and word had come back that the Daughters were agreeable to one-on-one negotiation.

Jazzbeaux was bored. Until the Daughters approved a site, she was hung up on this spot. The others kept their distance, as always when a negotiation was in the immediate offing. She understood. No one liked to be too close to someone who might shuffle. After, they'd cluster around like amorous octopi and throw her a party.

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