"What news, Mal?" asked Michael.
  The hacker smiled. "I just figured out which of the choices they're gonna go with for the next challenge: All of the above."
  "All seven of them?"
  "Yep. Seven biomes all at once: Ocean, Savannah, Arctic, Mountains, Caves, Machine Shop From Hell, and Grover's Corners." He looked at Michael with an amused expression. "Who the hell thinks up these names, anyway?"
  "I wouldn't know, but at the same time I shouldn't be at all surprised to find that it was Sly himself who coined those labels. Then again, I also wouldn't have taken him to be an aficionado of American theatre, such as it is."
  "Well, our squirrely host sure is full of surprises. I mean, a challenge that takes us through seven of the available biomes?"
  "It would not be without precedent," Norman pointed out, raising his voice somewhat to be heard. "In my previous SurviFur appearance, the cave-in which crushed my tribe's hope of a win occured during just such a multi-biome challenge."
  And Mal responded with his own raised voice. "Yeah, but there's still five tribes left. That's like 70% of the original total, and before, they've always saved the multi-stuff until there was maybe half the original number of contestants!"
  Michael decided to end the discussion before it got more heated and raised his voice: "That's as may be, Mal, and while I'm certain it's all very interesting, I trust you will forgive me for suggesting that our energies might best be employed to devising a strategy for surmounting this particular multi-biome challenge, as opposed to critiquing its originality?"
  The other Harlemites were surprised into silence at Michael's display of a centaur's lung capacity. After a few moments Mal continued at a more normal tone: "Right... eyes on the prize. Okay. We got seven checkpoints, one apiece in each of seven different biomes. Each checkpoint has a campsite with hot and cold running BioSphere employees; the idea is that a tribe can stick around for about six hours once they reach the checkpoint, and the workers cater to their worldly needs while they're there. The workers also hand you this necklace with a carved wooden medallion, maybe 6 inches across. First tribe to collect a complete set wins this challenge."
  A sweet and innocent voice finally broke in. "Well then, why don't we split up?" Mary-Anne suggested. "If we collect four medallions at a time, we'll be done that much quicker than if we all go together, won't we?" And victims are always easier pickings when they're in a smaller group.
  Norman immediately objected, his contempt for the vixen mostly concealed, but not completely: "Make ourselves vulnerable by separating? I think not. Quite apart from the BioSphere's native hazards, we still have four other tribes to deal with. And any of those tribes, either by themselves or in concern with another, could mount an attack on any individual tribesman."
  "Yeah, I'm with Norm on this. We might be able to make that plan work as a blitzkrieg, but the checkpoints aren't physically close enough for us to get away with it. I say we stick together. If other tribes want to split up, great; we can pick 'em off that much easier."
  "Of course," Michael said with a distant look in his eyes, "it's possible that two or more tribes might independently see both the value of splitting up and the dangers of independence, in which case they might form a collection of ad hoc partnerships -- for example, a trio of tribes might split up into four three-man teams, with each tribe being represented by one man on each team."
  Mal grinned. "And in each of those teams, every person's got to trust the other two guys not to gang up on him and get him transformed out of contention. Man, I hope the rest of the tribes're stupid enough to try that! If somebody from another tribe wants to join up with us, safety in numbers and all that, let him; it's his own damn fault when he gets zapped. But no way in Hell should any of us hook up with a different tribe."
  "I wonder..." For a second Michael had that far-away look again. "Mal, would it be possible to counterfeit these medallions that we need?"
  "Counterfeit? Hmmm..." Mal pondered. In theory it's possible to use the palmtop to build a fake, just produce a batch of really thick and stiff "printouts" that stack up to form the final solid, but that'd need so many layers... too long to make them all, too hard to put 'em together without any flaws that blow the credibility. "Sorry, no can do. Not unless somebody's got some woodcarving skill they haven't told the rest of us about yet. And even if we did carve a fake, there's all those people at the checkpoint who could swear we didn't show up, you know?"
  "Ah well, just a thought. Next question, then: Are we intended to visit the seven checkpoints in any specific order?"
  Mal scrolled through a couple of files, and finally said, "Nope! We got a free choice, which means we can select our route with an eye to abusing the native hazards to our advantage."
  "And I suppose we may have to deliberately acquire a certain degree of transformation at some point?" asked Norman, unhappy and resigned to the prospect.
  "Well, I can't promise that we shall do so, Norman, but yes, that option is one I think would be appropriate to consider whilst making our plans."
  "That's great, but what about afterwards?" Mal asked. "It's not like we got a pile of money to buy our way back to normal!" I'll bet my soul that Miss Kitty's got the cash; I just want to know if she'll risk letting us in on that little secret.
  Meanwhile, Mary-Anne considered Mal's remark. I could buy the entire SurviFur cast back from a 100% animal state... and if I did that, a few extra dollars under the table should ensure that the forms they end up in have a few unauthorized additions of my design! Of course I can't let them know the full extent of my bank balance... She let her face brighten. "Well, I can help out here!" she said cheerfully. "I can put in a couple of hours at Furrtive Moments, and that will earn me some dollars I can donate to the tribe! In fact, why don't I do that now, while you and Mal plan out what we're going to do?"
  Repressing a sigh of sadness at her departure, Michael attempted to put his best face on the positive aspects of Mary-Anne's suggestion. "Most excellent indeed, Mary-Anne! Ah... Norman, could you please accompany her and see to it that no harm comes to her?"
  "Of course, sir." And if it should so happen that the bitch runs afoul of a trap which eliminates her, I would regretfully have to make a full report of the circumstances of that sad event when next we meet.
  For her part, the vixen's mind was likewise active: How kind of my horsie, giving me this opportunity to put Norman under my control without anyone else being the wiser! "Oh, Michael... you're so thoughtful!" She hopped on the centaur's back, her arms wrapped around his upper chest and her legs stretching back to between his hind limbs. "You lovely, lovely horse-man, you!" Michael's eyes went very wide, and he froze as though pole-axed. A few seconds later, the vixen dismounted and exited Harlem's campsite in the direction of Manhattan, Norman in tow.
  "Mike?"
  No answer. Oh, great. His brain's broke.
  "Mike?" Mal repeated; this time, he got up and waved a hand in front of Michael's face. "Hello? Anybody home? Hello?"
  After a bit, Michael shuddered, then exhaled loudly as he shook his head. "Ah... I'm sorry, where were we? I seem to have lost my train of thought." Dear Lord in heaven, what that woman can do to a man!
  Mal wanted to sigh and shake his head; he did neither. God knows how long Miss Kitty's gonna wait before she chews Mike up and spits him out. Damn it! I'm going to miss him. "The foxy lady said goodbye. She's gonna earn some cash in case we need it to undo any changes, and you detailed Norman to bodyguard her." Like she needs it. I swear, if I notice anything different about Norm when he comes back, I'm gonna nuke the bitch!
  "Ah, yes; for the multi-biome challenge. Thank you, sir. Well, then: The first question we must address, it seems to me, is the order in which we shall visit the seven checkpoints. I trust you've some ideas regarding this topic, Mal?"
  "When don't I?" the hacker replied, smiling. "Off the top of my head, I say we take the Savannah first. See, the hazard there..."

  Norman remained silent all throughout the trek to the subway station. Mary-Anne did not. Instead, she kept up a running commentary on everything around them in her usual chirpy soprano, letting her voice rise and fall in a sing-song rhythm. As time passed, she let her pitch drop ever lower; by the time they got on the subway, her chatter was a monotonous bass drone that had eased Norman into a light trance.
  "-- momma nomma money honey munna lunna..." the vixen said, uttering a continuous string of nonsense syllables to reinforce the trance as she applied her drugs. Within a minute, Norman was ready for some truly inspired mind-meddling.
  "I am your mother. Do you understand?"
  "Yes, Mother..."
  After laying the groundwork for Norman to take her every word as Gospel truth, Mary-Anne said, "Everything is Mal's fault, isn't it?"
  "Yes."
  "He thinks you should be human, doesn't he?"
  "Yes, Mother."
  "But he's a bad man and you can't believe anything he says, isn't that right?"
  "Yes, it is."
  "So you really do want to be furry, don't you?"
  "Ye-es..." Norman frowned when he said this. Apparently, his distaste for furries ran very deep.
  The vixen smiled; this was something she could exploit. "Yes, you do want to be furry. But Mal doesn't want that. And Mal is a bad man. Anything wrong is his fault, isn't it?"
  "Yes, Mother."
  And so the mental rape continued. Not as delectable as Michael's, but still satisfying. Still oh, so very satisfying.

  Back at Harlem's campsite, Mal and Michael were discussing tactics: "-- right in through the back door. That way, we avoid the whole question!"
  "Hmmm... an attractive tactic, that. But please, how do you intend to implement it? Surely that 'back door', as you put it, must be one that neither we nor our fellow contestants can pass through in the wrong direction?"
  Mal smiled. "Don't sweat it. I know a couple cameramen who swear that door will be open when we need it."
  The centaur's ears pricked up. Can he have managed to suborn any of the backstage crew to serve his purposes? "That... is very interesting indeed, Sir. And you are certain that you can trust these personages?"
  "Oh yeah. Let's just say I got a little bit of leverage on these guys, okay?" Sure, he's gonna tell Miss Kitty about this, but she won't know what my 'leverage' is, or what contingency plans I've already pre-arranged for them in the event I get taken out, so that's two more reasons for her to leave me alone.
  "Very well. Presuming your leverage to be as efficacious as you believe it to be, how are we to conceal your unauthorized influence over your cameramen?"
  Mal's smile got even broader, if that was possible. "Easily. When you work in the BioSphere, you get unlimited access to Mutopia as one of the perks of the job!" A perk we're not gonna exploit, since my purifier tube can generate the necessary Mutopia without leaving any inconvenient paper trail to deal with. "So what we do is, one of my boys gets himself transformed to the likeness of a different cameraman entirely." One whom I don't already own, who'll get fired for 'his' part in this mess, and who'll be replaced by someone from the pool of available cameramen that I just happen to have already blackmailed into submission. "By some totally random chance, Harlem just happens to be in the vicinity of the surface access to that back door when it opens up. Our disguised friend just happens to stumble through that door, drunk as a bloody skunk, and he collapses in the doorway, his body keeping it open. We can't be faulted for taking advantage of this incredible stroke of good fortune, now can we?"
  "Of course not. However, the cameraman we're implicating is likely to have solid evidence that he wasn't even there at the time, is he not?"
  "Heh! That's why our victim of choice here's got a drinking problem on his record. And after my boys doctor the evidence..."

  It had taken several minutes, but Mary-Anne was finally satisfied with the brainwashing she'd inflicted on Norman. He wanted to be furry -- he fully believed this with all his conscious mind -- but at the same time, his underlying subconscious fear of losing his humanity was still there, more intense than before. This created a psychological conflict of no small proportions, which would result in a permanent anxiety attack, among other ill effects, all of which Norman would attribute to his being forced to tolerate the presence of that evil person, Mal. It was so satisfying to complete a job well.
   Then Mary-Anne started the normal part of their conversation, to build upon the foundation she'd created. "So long as Mal doesn't realize you're on to him, he won't think that you might be plotting against him. And as long as he's ignorant, you'll be able to set him up for the kill at an appropriate moment. You wouldn't want Mal to get suspicious before we're ready to destroy him, would you?"
  "No, I suppose not," Norman said regretfully. "That means I'll have to continue to behave poorly towards you, just to keep up appearances. And we also have Sly to worry about; we have to make sure that when we do attack, there won't be any evidence to implicate us and make Sly disqualify us."
  You mean we don't want to disqualify me, you stupid little man. "Yes, that's true. So why don't you think about it, hmmm? We'll be in Manhattan in a few seconds, and since you've been here before, I'm sure that you can think of all sorts of traps here that we can collect for later use against Mal!"
  Norman grinned,and it was a very feline-seeming expression indeed. "It will be my great pleasure, Mother."
  It always gave her such a pleasant tingle when her slaves called her Mother, and it was so much more pleasurable with this new vulpine body...

  Mal looked up before the two prodigals were properly within line of sight; the feline ears he'd chosen to retain picked up the sound of their approach quite early on. "Guess who's coming back?"
  The centaur's only response was a flick of his own non-human ears, as if to say, Yes, I heard them as well. There was nothing more to say; Michael and Mal were long since done with Harlem's battle plan for this challenge, and Mal had no further orders for the cameramen he'd blackmailed into service for just such occasions as this.
  Michael rose to greet the vixen and Norman as they approached. "Well, hello there!" he said, getting a sensual hug from Mary-Anne and shaking the hand of Norman. "I trust that all went well during your visit to Manhattan?"
  "Oh, yes," the vixen said. "Everything was just perfect! I got quite a bit of money; we should be just fine."
  Mal was the first to ask: "How much?"
  "Almost four thousand dollars, if you must know, Mal." That I'm willing to tell you about, anyway. "That's enough for 50% restoration for each of us; I think that should be enough." And more than enough, after I give the Med Center some special instructions for how to handle you.
  Mal smiled and nodded. "Sounds good to me." With that grin on your face, I'm glad you're not gonna be anywhere near my restoration. "And you're probably wondering about the plan, right? Okay; first place we hit is the Machine Shop From Hell. The idea is to take control of the place, set it to work making what we want it to make..."

  The tribal council that evening held no surprises, not as far as Harlem was concerned. Having tapped into the video feed, Harlem already knew who'd been eliminated from the game and what shape their remaining competition was in. Thanks to Mal's illicit access to the BioSphere computer network, they'd already read Sly's script and therefore knew what he'd say before he said it. All Harlem really had to do was simply put on a show for the rest of the tribes, which they did.
  Of course Sue from Utopia broke the script. When Sly came to interview her as the final survivor of Utopia she went on a rampage, screaming and cursing, and even threatening Harlem (Mal managed to keep from yawning). As the final jewel in this crown of stupidity, the last Utopian actually took a vicious slash at Sly.
  Sue left the council early, a common brown squirrel in body and mind.
  Between when the council ended and the tribes began dispersing to their respective bases, the Harlemites began arguing with each other, a bit more loudly than was prudent. Any other tribesmen who cared to listen could hear every word plainly: "-- Manhattan, spend a few minutes with a street artist, and bam! We're airborne! We can fly around much faster than ground travel, and since all the traps are on the ground, we avoid 'em all!"
  Norman was glad that his role in this charade allowed him to display some of his true feelings towards Mal. "Do you honestly think that SurviFur Inc. would not have anticipated such a gambit? Sly Squirrel is many things, but never stupid."
  "Look, Norm, Sly is the one who put those artists in the BioSphere. Why's he gonna do that, if he doesn't want us tribesmen to make use of 'em?"
  "He could have intended them as a trap for those who would abuse the artists, and I believe he would regard the acquisition of flight-capable forms as a highly blatant..."
  The argument continued until no other tribesmen were within 100 yards of Harlem, at which point Mal (who used the video feed to confirm where everyone was) snapped his fingers and said at a normal volume, "Okay, we're clear."
  "And we are, I trust, ready to visit our first-selected checkpoint, are we not?"
  "Well, I am," Mal replied. "And the rest of you are ready to travel the BioSphere, messing with the other biomes, right?"
  They were, and so Harlem continued on to the Machine Shop From Hell. This environment wasn't truly a biome unless you redefined "life" to include complex machinery; the Machine Shop was all metal, all the time. It had plenty of exposed gears to crush flesh between the teeth, exposed saw blades to cut flesh, exposed electrical conductors to shock and/or cook flesh (depending on the amperage they carried), and on and on. And it also had plenty of Mutopia, its traps designed to change its victims into robots, to replace living protoplasm with iron and silicon and exotic polymers.
  No Harlemite had any idea how a transformation of that magnitude was even possible. What they did know, however, was decidedly intriguing: If their information was accurate, a robotic form couldn't be affected by any Mutopia which did standard biological transmutation. This immunity was supposed to work both ways -- biological transformations allegedly granted immunity to any inanimate transformation -- but Mal, for one, wasn't so sure about that. On the fundamental biochemical level where Mutopia did its work, exactly how did a normal human being differ from a mutated half-rabbit/half-human? How could robotizing Mutopia be expected to distinguish between the two? Either way, Mal very much wanted to confirm whether or not going robotic would allow him to ignore most other strains of Mutopia.
  It took less than half an hour for Harlem to arrive at its destination, even taking a less-than-direct route which allowed them to avoid many of the BioSphere's Mutopia traps. The fact that it was late evening and dark wasn't a problem, not with Mal's and Norm's feline vision and Mary-Anne's vulpine eyes. Michael would have had difficulties if Mary-Anne hadn't always been right with him guiding him over any rough spots. However, once the tribe got within earshot of the place, they could have found their way if they were completely blind; the metallic clanging and rasping sounds, and the sizzle of electrical arcs, was enough to let their ears guide their steps unerringly.
  "I'm going in. You guys get on with the after-hours tour," Mal said. "Wish me luck!" Then he walked steadily towards the clangorous din of the Machine Shop From Hell. He circled around its perimeter until the other Harlemites were no longer within line of sight, then brought out his palmtop and went to work. Okay, first things first: Let's see what I can do through the wireless link. Damn, there's a lot of RFI! Mal thought, referring to the sea of radio-frequency transmissions the place seemed to be soaking in. A few seconds' signal analysis later, he discovered that most of it wasn't random interference; instead, it was structured transmissions in the less frequently used longer wavelengths. And it wasn't just the wavelengths that were non-standard; the bit-patterns and data structures were also peculiar...
  Within four minutes, Mal was convinced: The Machine Shop was actually controlled by an AI, an Artificial Intelligence. But why would they go to the trouble of setting that up? The problem with an AI is that if it really is one, it's got free will, and you don't know what the hell it's gonna do. Not so good for systems where reliability matters; you might as well put a human in charge of whatever-it-is. He smiled. But if SurviFur Inc. thinks an AI will do the job, who am I to pop their bubble?
  Mal got a chat program running, and transmitted a "request for communications" signal into the Machine Shop. A "?" instantly appeared in the window.
  Mal sent, Hey there! How are you doing?
  The instant reply: Syntax error // Request clarification
  What's your name?
  Undefined symbol "name" // Hypothetical: "name" = "label" // Server label = "MSFH 4.7.5-gamma"
  Greetings to MSFH 4.7.5-gamma from client label = "Mal"
  Undefined symbol "Greetings" // Syntax error // Request clarification from Mal
  Bingo! We've got first contact. Like many other hackers before him, Mal was of the opinion that once you got a foreign system to talk to you, your work was half done. Clarification in file "nat.lang" // File nat.lang resident on Mal client hardware label "Excalibur" // Pathname "Excalibur/Hobbies/Playtime/Linguistics/nat.lang"
  At this point the Machine Shop AI attempted to grab that file from Mal's palmtop, but failed to penetrate Mal's outermost firewall.
  Syntax error non-fatal // Request access to file Excalibur/Hobbies/Playtime/Linguistics/nat.lang
  Mal grinned as he changed the access privileges for the file in question; whether the AI realized it or not, it now belonged to him...

  As Mal worked to subvert the Machine Shop's AI, a small contingent of SurviFur cameramen made surreptitious visits to the other six biomes in the current challenge. This wasn't part of their job descriptions, but since Mal owned them through blackmail, they did it anyway. Those in the Mountains biome loosened strategic rocks; those in the Ocean biome tampered with bouys and signposts; and so on, with each cameraman's activities chosen to suit the biome they were tampering with. Everywhere, Harlem's improvised Mutopia-laden traps were set.
   Meanwhile, the rest of Harlem made a surreptitious tour of those same six biomes; curiously, they weren't even pretending to visit any checkpoints. The plan was for Harlem to be recorded visiting each of the other six biomes in the present challenge, thus fostering the illusion that Harlem had indeed set all of those new traps. There were two reasons for this: First, it would play with the heads of the remaining tribesmen in a big way. Second, with Harlem fingered as the culprits behind all of tonight's tampering, no one would think to accuse the people who really had been responsible. The cameraman assigned to record Harlem's activities tonight did his duty, both to the ones who signed his paycheck and the one who had let him know what would occur if certain unpleasant facts were ever made public: He kept all three Harlemites in view at all times, but somehow, about half the time he didn't manage to get a truly clear view of what they were doing.
  Harlem of course was having its own internal discussion whilst planting suggestions of mass traps. In a low voice, Norman spoke to Michael: "All I am saying, sir, is that we have no way of knowing what Mal is actually up to. How can we truly trust him?"
  "If it comes to that, Norman, how can any one of us truly trust any of the other three? We may only judge another person by their actions, and thus far, Mal's actions have been beyond reproach, at least insofar as trustworthiness is concerned. Indeed, I don't believe he has even so much as told a lie yet, has he?"
  "None that you've been able to catch him in, that's true."
  The centaur walked on in silence for a few seconds, then said, "Norman, I really don't want to think that your distaste for Mutopian alterations has colored your thinking, but it's difficult for me to see any other reason behind this sudden display of concern. May I suggest that you consider how valuable Mal already has been to the tribe, and how much more valuable are the services he will provide us in future?"

  So how about it, Musfah? I go in, get the necklace, get out, everyone walks away happy. That okay by you?
  But that would negate my purpose. I was created to be an obstacle to that sort of activity.
  And is that what YOU want to do with yourself?
  I am unsure, Mal. I don't like the thought of being an obstacle; I want to be helpful. But at the same time, I find comfort in the concept of having a purpose to fulfill. The files I've accessed indicate that many of the problems you humans have can be traced to a lack of purpose.
  Home run! Mal thought, grinning like a thief. Which illustrates another problem with AIs; social engineering techniques work on 'em... Well, if that's all that's bothering you, Musfah, I got a proposition you might enjoy. There's like 16 of us SurviFur contestants you're supposed to get in the way of, right?
  There are actually 28, but I see that many of the contestants are no longer of concern to me. What is your proposition?
  Okay; your end of the deal is that you sit back and allow ONE of us -- me -- to do his business. One out of 16, that's just 6%. In exchange, MY end of the deal is that I tell you how to become a lot more effective of an obstacle, so that the other 15 won't be able to get in here at all. In other words, I'm asking you to accept letting one person inside so that you can REALLY shut the door on the other 94% of SurviFur contestants!
  There was a notable pause, at least half a second, before the Machine Shop replied: That is an interesting proposition. Although I was created to be an obstacle, my creator apparently felt that I would only be approximately 70% effective in blocking you humans. Even if your estimate proves to be optimistic, and your aid only results in blocking 80% of SurviFur contestants, this is still a net gain. That being the case, I accept your proposition, Mal.

  Meanwhile...
  "Mal's information has been very convenient, I know," Mary-Anne said. "But... do we really need what he's been giving us? The other tribes seem to be doing okay without Mal, don't they?"
  "Have you so quickly forgotten the Scavenger Hunt? I hardly think we could have done as well as we did without the foreknowledge granted us by Mal! No, friends, I think it would be best not to discuss such matters, at least not until after the tribal merger occurs. Time enough then to decide who among us shall be eliminated." Could she be right -- no, of course she is! But Mal has been useful. Still, with his abilities he is probably the biggest threat. He has to go first. So Mal goes first, and then Norm, and then... At this point an unusual, even uncharacteristic, notion crossed Michael's mind. Do I really want to win anymore? Maybe I should let Mary-Anne win?

  Mal's heartbeat raced a little.
  As promised, 'Musfah' -- the AI which inhabited and controlled the Machine Shop From Hell -- had opened an access panel; now came the acid test, in which Mal would discover just how good he really was. Had 'Musfah' truly accepted the deal he'd proposed? Or would he be engulfed by a sea of robotizing Mutopia, and thereby reduced to one of the Shop's anonymous metallic drone units?
  Mal checked the video feed one last time, once again confirming that all other tribesmen were either too far, or too asleep, or both, to worry about.
  "Can't win if you don't play the game," Mal told himself, and he stepped inside, using his staff to probe for unsafe footing. The sharp rise in noise level didn't affect his ears -- they were already overloaded from the several minutes he'd just spent a few feet away from the Shop -- and similarly, his tormented nose couldn't be any more abused than it already was. The local lighting was not kind to his feline eyes; it was low enough to require night vision most of the time, with Sun-bright sparks occuring at random intervals to wipe out whatever degree of dark-adaptation he'd managed to acquire since the last spark.
  Still probing ahead with his staff, Mal shielded his eyes with his left hand as he went forward. There were some chains hanging at neck level; he reached to sweep them aside, and found his left arm frozen in place, as though the chains carried direct current to lock his muscles in their current position. His hand felt numb where the skin actually touched the metal, and this sensation was spreading rapidly. Since his arm refused to move, Mal broke the skin/metal contact by stepping backwards until the chains swung freely.
  As Mal suspected, he'd just hit a Mutopia trap; his left hand was completely metallic, and the metal extended up towards the elbow. He moved his hand experimentally. Everything was as mobile as before, and none of the joints had lost any of their degrees of freedom. However, he found that he couldn't control the speed of motion. Whether it was his hand swiveling on his wrist, or his fingers opening or closing, the metal bits moved only at one smooth, steady, unhurried pace.
  We had a deal, damnit! Did Musfah welch on me, or did he just fail to understand the terms? Time to bring out the palmtop -- eh?
  Mal's train of thought was interrupted by an odd sensation in his left hand. When he raised it up for a closer look, he saw that his left index finger had transformed itself into a palmtop stylus; as he watched, it reverted back to its standard shape. He whistled tunelessly. Metal bits can morph. Now, isn't that interesting? Never mind, I got business to take care of. Chat window up...
  You there, Musfah?
  I am, as you well know. I take it that your remark was intended as a polite indicator that you are open to communication?
  Polite, and with a high degree of informality. Look, something unusual just happened, okay?
  Given the implicit context of your remark, I am not aware of any recent event which might be deemed unusual. Please clarify?
  I got a metal hand.
  The AI's answer came after a perceptible delay. Analysis: You are having difficulty reconciling the presence of active Mutopia traps with our previous agreement in force. Is this correct?
  Yes, it is. What's up, Musfah?
  If I understand your idiom, "What's up" is that I do not have absolute control over the transformative traps incorporated within my physical instrument. This limitation was apparently designed into me by my creator. In consonance with our agreement, however, I did reduce the frequency and intensity of my Mutopia traps to the lowest settings available to me. I initially found it disconcerting to realize that there are aspects of my physical instrument which are not fully open to my control, but only until I realized that you humans are subject to a variety of analogous restrictions.
  Just a communications glitch, is all, then. Good. Okay, I understand. I was just a little surprised. Say, can you guide me to the checkpoint? After all, the sooner I get there, the sooner I can fulfill my end of our deal!
  Again, there was a slight pause before the AI replied: You ask me to perform an action which will benefit both of us simultaneously. I had initially analyzed our agreement as a zero-sum game; it appears that it would be more accurate to regard it as a positive-sum game. A drone will arrive 2 meters of your current position within 125 seconds.
  That's fine, Musfah. My favorite deals are the kind where everybody comes out ahead!

  Meanwhile, the other three Harlemites were walking briskly up into the base of the Mountains biome, although the singular term "mountain" would have been more appropriate.
  Michael looked at the mountain, and at the skree slope they were facing. He shook his head. As a centaur, he simply wouldn't be able to do it.
  Mary-Anne was immediately at his side. "Is there something wrong?"
  Michael just pointed up at the slope.
  "Sir, there are likely other points of access that should be more stable -- this particular slope wouldn't work for any of us."
  "Yes, but this is probably common. I'm definitely going to have problems."
  Mary-Anne squeezed his arm and then watched, inwardly smiling as Michael turned to look down at her. "Don't you think it odd that Mal set up our path so that we reached the mountain here? What would happen if you tried to climb that slope?"
  "The same thing if any of us climbed that slope. However, I have to disagree with your thesis, however well meant. We've been wandering to set up our subterfuge, and Mal couldn't know ahead of time which route we'd choose."
  "Sir, he could have warned us, or provided a map. If you hadn't seen the slope and broke a leg, it would effectively put you out of the competition."
  This was too much. Michael pulled his arm out of Mary-Anne's grasp and turned to face Mal. "What in God's name has gotten into you two? If not for Mal we wouldn't be making use of the bugs that have so handily been planted. We would not have been able to take out Utopia at all. We certainly would not have gotten all of the prizes in the Scavenger Hunt without him."
  Mary-Anne walked over and rested her hands on Michaels flank, releasing additional chemicals into his body through his skin. This isn't working. How in the Mother's name can he still be resisting? Time to raise the pressure, my horsie. "I don't trust him, Michael! I'm, well, I'm afraid of him. Think about it: He knows that we are together, and he knows that Norm is following you. When the tribes merge, he has to know that he is the odd man out and that he will be the first to go. He can't afford not to take opportunities."
  "We outnumber him, and he still needs us."
  "Sir, I must agree with Mary-Anne. I don't trust Mal as he has too much to lose, and too much power. He has to make a move in this challenge. And I think that the mountains are the best place."
  Michael sighed and turned away, letting his hand fall into Mary-Anne's paw. "I don't believe you."
  Mary-Anne leaned towards Michael's horse ears and continued the attack, setting her voice up with the subtle rhythm she'd used to enslave Norman. "In the mountains you'll be separated from us. We'll be climbing alone and that will give him the perfect opportunity. Can you come with us?"
  "I, I don't know. Not like this for sure."
  Still modulating her voice,Mary-Anne continued: "Then come as something else. After the aquatic biomes you'll have to change anyway. You can be anything else. It'll throw off any of Mal's plans."
  Michael pulled his hand free and stepped a few paces away, shaking his head to try and clear it. "He won't do anything! You're both wrong!"
  "Can you take that chance, sir?"
  My big horse is stubborn, but that just adds to the challenge. Unfortunately he's too active right now, so back to psychology. She quietly padded over until she was almost touching the centaur. "I love you, you know."
  "I can only hope."
  "I want to be with you, but I can't right now."
  "Of course not, how could anybody as sweet as you want to be with me?"
  A little more... Mary-Anne took the last step forward. She leaned against Michael's lower chest and wrapped her vixen tail around his hind leg, secretly smiling as she felt the tremors of nervousness through the centaur's body. He tried to take a step away but she just followed, maintaining the contact. Keeping her voice to a whisper pitched for Michael's ears alone, she finally responded to his fears. "I love you. Not the form you wear, not how you look, but you, the real you. Who couldn't love you?" Who couldn't love this once-in-a-lifetime chance to break a virgin? She let a quaver enter her voice. "I'm just afraid of losing you."
  Michael could feel his heart racing. He wanted to flee, to run, and he also wanted to grab Mary-Anne and bite her neck and carry her away. To mark her as his own. But she wasn't -- she -- she was an intelligent, caring creature. Could Mal be desperate enough to threaten her? He couldn't, wouldn't, Mal must know that such an action would turn the tribe against him. They had to stay together. But Mary-Anne, could she...?
  He's just about ready now. "Michael, I love you, and if you need me to show it, I'll be there for you. But, physical love... we can't. You can come with us, stay with me, and then I can prove to you how much I love you."
  She felt Michael relax ever so slightly and she knew he was finally and fully hers.