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and backside, skidding hard into another two pedestrians in a heavy impact of falling bodies ... and felt the targeting sight brush her scalp, grabbed the pedestrian for a shield (don't panic man, they'll never shoot a pedestrian) then releasing and running backward, darting across to keep the dazed man between herself and the low, crouched figure with the small, black hand weapon ...
    And off up the next hallway, broad and marble, people in suits whom she blew past at inhuman velocity, coat-tails flapping. Skidded into a painful, controlled collision with an adjoining corridor's side wall then flying up the broad stairway eight steps at a time, turning the top corner at speed as a single shot cracked loudly off the side wall.
    Stun shot, was the thought that registered in her mind as she sprang up the next flight. They wanted her alive.
    Around the next corner, and the next, sending another pedestrian crashing to the ground as she skidded up the steps ... and registered double movement up ahead, planted her next foot and leapt hard at them. And hit, grabbing her target right-handed as he dodged, and threw him hard into the back wall while bracing her own legs, slid and hit, then threw herself back at the other man. Crack! and her left arm leapt back, Sandy spinning with the shot to collect him with a roundhouse hit to the ribs that smashed him hard into the wall two metres away then sliding limply down the steps up which she'd come.
    Running again, checking her linkups to confirm there was an aircab stand on this level, and scanning the layout ahead for possible tight points. Her left arm hung limply at her side, numb from the bicep down. She knew from the queasy feeling that it was chemicals. They knew what she was all right. She had to hold the arm as she ran, to stop it from flapping about. It slowed her down.
    Past more staring pedestrians, most now alerted to the commotion in the building and standing well back, except for one brave fool who tried to tackle her and bounced off like a rubber ball when she dropped a well-timed shoulder. Then hurtling down another corridor in time to see the safety door sliding to the ground at the far end, cutting her off from the waiting cab rank. She accelerated, was caught five metres short as the door came down, hitting it with full force. Crunch. Rebounded, half stunned, looking around dazedly, trying to regather her linkups and sort herself a new way around. Found there wasn't one — she'd have to retrace her steps or be trapped.
    She turned back to the door, wound up her best sidekick and unloaded with an almighty boom! that echoed down the corridor and rocked the half-ton alloy door in its tracks. Swivelled and repeated it, twice, and again, and again. The fifth time, and the left side railings broke away with an explosion of sparks and twisted mechanisms. The sixth half-ripped the entire door from its right-side runners. She squeezed quickly through the gap, torn metal clawing at her coat.
    And found herself in an empty cab rank, an open space in the wet, gathering wind. Now about seven storeys up, looking back at the shopping complex. But no sign of aircabs — all the ranks were bare, yellow-striped spaces spattered with rain. Her linkups assured her the rank was still operating — she even had an ID signal from an incoming cab moving about the tower's far side ...
    She scanned further, cracked the signal coding down with furious determination ... and found the feeder mechanisms, and the alternate subroutines that made it look so real for someone without the time to check it further.
    Doors opened on opposite walls, armed men and women walked out, weapons trained on her. Sandy stood and watched them, shoulders heaving, clutching her dangling left arm with her right hand. Realising all too well that there was nowhere left to run. Her legs felt weak, and she was frightened.
    One man in particular caught her attention, walking to the front. His face was young, his dark hair fell