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of the Vector, fogging the highway.
     
    The Monkey King made the little tutting noise again as the smoke
enveloped the car, and he tapped a control on the steering wheel. A
glimmer of light washed over the windscreen and suddenly the highway
ahead was rendered in computer-generated gridform, data feeding from the
hood’s radar sensors to the head-up display. He turned the Vector into
the fugitive car and rammed him a third time, pressing the arcing
electric probes into the exposed innards of the vehicle. The thief
swerved again and slammed on the brakes, dropping away past the driver’s
side. In the back seat Frankie saw a blur of silver vanish behind them;
then they emerged from the smoke cloud and into a glitter of red
targeting lasers.
     
    The police drones lost the stolen vehicle just for a moment in the swath
of blue mist, the metallic particulates in the discharge baffling their
sensors. But traffic control had given them a target sillhoutte to look
for, and, when the shape of a sliver Mercedes Vector flying YLHI colours
presented itself, both the robots fired without hesitation. The first
harpoon went wide, clattering uselessly against the crash barrier; the
second struck the bonnet and locked, a combination of molecular glue and
magnetic coils holding it fast. The dense capacitor in the harpoon’s
head released a massive bolt of power into the engine and killed it
instantly. The Vector turned into an uncontrolled skid that rammed it
into a bridge stanchion. The car described a seven hundred and twenty
degree spin before coming to a shuddering halt in the nearside lane.
    The drones started to bark pre-recorded phrases, ordering the people
inside to remain where they were and not attempt to leave their vehicle.
Neither unit spent any time scanning the other silver Mercedes Vector
that raced away past the stalled vehicle, the horn sounding three times
in a rude salute.
    In the back seat of the dead car, Frankie Lam watched the other Vector
vanish toward the city and fought down the urge to laugh.
     
    Rikio had an Ushanti sub-machinegun in his hand as Ko stepped out of the
sedan. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, waving the weapon around,
taking in the whole of the dockside warehouse around them with an
exasperated gesture.
    “Reckon you might like it.” Ko showed teeth, keeping his tone fast and
light. He knew better than to underplay it when dealing with triads,
even low-level Red Poles like Rikio. “Mostly intact, bit of bumper
damage…”
    “I’ll say,” said the gunman, craning his neck to look at the wounded
rear end. “Why’d you bring this trash here?”
    “Trash?” Ko spat. “How many of these you get to see, Rik? It’s hot off
the highway, man. Hell, even if you chop-shop it, this sweet ride will
make you your bonus for the month—”
    “Hot is right,” said the other man, letting his free hand wander through
his five-toned punch-perm. “Get this outta here. I don’t know you. I
ain’t seen you.”
    All at once, Ko’s studied cool disintegrated in a jolt of anger. “The
fuck? What did you say to me?” He grabbed a handful of Rikio’s green
silk shirt and snarled at him, oblivious to the machinegun. “You just
cut me off ’cos you’re too chickenshit to take this?” In a flash, the
adrenaline rush and the latent anger he’d been nursing all day came
together in a single outburst. “We came up together, man! Now you act
like you don’t know me?”
    “Back off.” Rikio pushed him away with the muzzle of the Ushanti.
“You’re not 14K, Ko. You could be, but you’re not. You’re a loner. That
means I don’t have to do you any favours—”
    “What’s going on here?” The voice halted both of them. Ko’s anger froze
solid. The man approaching them was a small, wizened figure. In his
youth, the elderly fellow had probably been a big guy, heavy but
dangerous with it. What he had lost to age, he’d replaced with presence.
Rikio’s manner was instantly