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ultrasonic harmony. More than one knife. That really made me think.
    I slowly advanced, listening carefully, until I came to the opening from which the sound came. I peered in, ready to jump back. My heart beat like a trip-hammer. Blood roared in my ears. A short corridor lay before me, empty. Beyond, dim light flickered. Sound came from there also.
    I crept along the corridor. It opened into a small park, complete with benches and foliage. Luminescent sea swirled against persplex overhead, flooding the chamber with flickering green light. The sailor stood in the center of the park, surrounded by three pepheads. Each held a sonic knife. Ultrasonic fire sang from crystalline blades,
    Pepheads normally resorted to less violent types of crime to support their addiction. Mugging usually required too much energy. But it was known to happen. The three pepheads surrounding the sailor looked typical enough. They were thin and cachectic with bodies wasted from too many forgotten meals. Their faces were hollow and gaunt, with sunken eyes. Hair hung in scraggly patches from their heads. They appeared too frail to even protect themselves, much less attack someone else. Yet they seemed agile enough and were surprisingly quick. Must be hopped up on endocaine or endophetamine. Those peptides gave synthetic strength and courage.
    The sailor was good. He seemed to anticipate his assailants’ thrusts, and easily parried them. But he was outnumbered. And surrounded. There was no escape. Just as there was no doubt what the outcome of the fight would be. But I had to admire his skill. It was like watching ballet. He leaped and twisted and turned, slashing with his knife, parrying the others’ blades with his wrist and ankle bands. I flashed to the halos of my childhood, of sailors fighting pirates hand to hand in the riggings of gravships. This was better. This was in person,
    One of the pepheads slumped to the ground. His throat was slashed. The other pepheads and the sailor continued fighting. Their leaps and lunges slowly moved them away from me. Now was my chance to get the L.A. out.
    I was about to leave, when I noticed something peculiar about the fallen pephead. I moved closer until I stood over him. My legs weakened; I sank to my knees. My stomach felt queasy.
    He was changing! As I watched, the pephead was changing appearance. His face and body were fleshing out. He was dead. I was sure of that. But he was changing anyway. His skinlost its sallowness. Nose and ears became a little different. Dead eyes changed color. Soon I saw a face no one had seen for many years. I knew then he was dead. Only in death would that face be seen. You know as well as I what creatures fought the sailor. Not real pepheads. That was just a disguise to keep any witnesses from realizing who the attackers actually were. Quite simple, really. Chameleons could wear much more elaborate masks. They were quite sensitive about their anonymity.
    But now I knew who they were, I knew what that meant. If I ran, they’d follow, as soon as they were finished with the sailor. The chameleons of the Intelligence Corps wouldn’t stop following me until they found me. I knew what would happen then. I didn’t need that kind of heat.
    I had no choice. I mean, what else could I do?
    The chameleon was still grasping his knife in his dead hand. I pried it from his fingers, then looked up. The sailor looked horrible, bleeding from numerous slashes. There was a stab wound in his belly—already his abdomen was becoming distended with bloated viscera. He still fought furiously, though. He was backed up against the persplex wall of the park. Phosphorescent bubbles streamed by on the other side, as bright as space dust. The two remaining pephead/chameleons closed for the kill. I would be next.
    My heart beat out of control. Cold sweat ran under my arms. My vision blurred around the edges. But I knew what had to be done. And I’d seen enough holos to know how to do it.
    I quickly ran