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eBook Category: Science Fiction/Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: Someone, or something, demonic is stalking the brightest men and women in the computer industry. When it attacks, always without warning, it leaves its victims insane or comatose--or dead. Computer scientist Doug Carey knows that the killer is out there, and that his turn could come up at any time. What he doesn't know is that identifying the assailant will be only the beginning of his nightmare?

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Analog, 2002
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2002

This eBook is also available in the following bundle(s):

• Edward M. Lerner Bundle

30 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [227 KB], eReader (PDB) [78 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [69 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [62 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [99 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [134 KB], hiebook (KML) [176 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [109 KB], iSilo (PDB) [57 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [71 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [99 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [97 KB]
Words: 18932
Reading time: 54-75 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

"..."... a well-handled thriller"--BestSF.com Reviews

Thwock.

The bright red ball rebounded with a most satisfying sound, although the racquet continued on its arc without any apparent impact. Doug Carey hurriedly wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his racquet-less left arm, carefully keeping his begoggled eyes on the ball. Precisely as he'd intended, the ball passed through a translucent green rectangle suspended in the vertical plane that bisected the court. The ball instantly doubled its speed.

Across the court, his opponent grunted as he lunged. Jim Schulz caught the ball on the tip of his racquet and expertly flipped the orb back through the green region. The ball redoubled its speed. Doug swore as he dived in vain after the ball. It swept past him, obliquely grazed the floor, and careened first from the rear wall and then from a side wall. The ball winked out of existence as it fell once again, untouched by Doug's racquet, to the floor. "Good one," he panted.

Jim waved his racquet in desultory acknowledgment, his T-shirt sodden with sweat. "Pull," he called out, and a new red ball materialized from the ether. Jim smacked the ball to the court's mid-plane, just missing the drifting triple-speed purple zone. The unaccelerated serve was a cream puff; Doug ruthlessly slammed it through purple on his return. A red blur shot past Jim to a brown "dead zone" on the rear wall, from which the suddenly inert ball dropped like a brick. This ball, too, disappeared.

"Roll 'em." Yet another red ball appeared, again in mid-air, this time at Doug's invocation. He twisted the racquet as he stroked the ball, imparting a wicked spin. The serve curved its way across the court, rebounding oddly from the floor and side wall.

Not oddly enough. Jim pivoted gracefully, tracking the ball around the rear corner. He stepped behind the ball as it sailed off the back wall, from which position he casually backhanded it. The ball soared lazily to mid-court, aimed squarely at a drop-dead zone scant inches from the floor.

Doug dashed to center court, ignoring an alert tone as he crossed the warning line on the floor. He desperately swung his racquet into the slight clearance between the vertical brown region and the floor. He misjudged slightly: the body of the racquet swept effortlessly through the court's vertical bisection plane, but the handle struck with a thud. A loud blat of disapproval drowned out his sharp intake of breath, but not the jolt of pain that shot up his arm. All but the offending handle vanished as he dropped the racquet. "Damn, that smarts!"

"You okay?"

Doug grimaced in response, rubbing his left hand against his right forearm just below the elbow. He pressed a thumb into a seeming birthmark on the forearm, and was rewarded with a subcutaneous click. "I think we're done for today. Don't watch if you're feeling squeamish." The words, forced between clamped teeth, indicated his distress. He grasped firmly with his left hand, and twisted. The right forearm popped off, to be placed gently onto the court floor. Doug massaged the shocked area vigorously. "To coin a phrase, ouch."

Jim walked to center court, beads of sweat running down his face and glistening in his lop-sided mustache. He sported possibly the last long sideburns within western civilization. "Anything I can do?"

"Uh uh." The answer was distracted.

His friend pointed at the numerals glowing on the ceiling. "Twelve to ten, pretty close. Let's pick up there next time. I'll call you tonight. Abracadabra." The last phrase was directed at the court, not Doug. Jim disappeared as thoroughly as had the out-of-play balls earlier, but with the added touch of a puff of white smoke.

"Abracadabra," Doug agreed. Jim's half of the room promptly vanished, revealing at what had been center court the wall that had so rudely interrupted the game. He studied the quarter-inch-deep gouge in the plasterboard that indicated by how much his depth perception had failed him. Virtual racquetball with real divots: Maintenance would just love that.

Sighing, he reached for the Velcro buckle of his game goggles--and missed. Look, Ma, no hand. He was more successful with his left arm. The colored regions floating about the room, the glowing scoreboard, the lines on the floor--all of the ephemera--disappeared. Stark white walls now surrounded him, interrupted only by glass-covered, inset mini-cam ports and the thin outline of a tightly fitting door.

Doug laid down his computer-controlled goggles carefully, although its LCD eyepieces and stereo speakers weren't all that fragile, then wrestled himself back into the prosthetic forearm. Hopefully, the impact of racquet on wall hadn't injured the limb. He'd find out soon enough.

Doug glanced at his wristwatch, and it was as late as he'd feared. The more conventional part of work called.