MIGHT BE BAD LUCK—BUT YOU PROBABLY WON’T BE HIT BY A TRUCK “What?” Targer looked sharply at Rack Nidd. “You said he had the thing. I assumed you meant he had it with him, right there, on stick.” Targer was standing with Rack and the brawny, dark skinned Slakon-liaison LAPD back-up Officer, Sergeant Tonio Bleeker, the three of them staring down at Danny’s body. The body of the one-time rock star was twisted in the filthy VR webbing; blood trailing from the corners of his mouth. Eyes staring. Bruises on his bared chest. “No,” Rack said. “I didn’t say that. He said he was going to take me to it. I didn’t know what was going on in there, I had earmites in, I was listening to a tech-cast. I heard him yell some but people yell in VR all the time and I couldn’t tell what the fuck he was saying. How’d I know he was gonna die? He never did before and he’s done my V-rides a lot. I don’t understand how the program he was running got into the system, anyway. I looked at some clips after it went through and—I don’t recognize any of it.
