It was hard for the beast to remember -- her head wasn't made for it -- but she could do it. The beast could remember; she just didn't know why she should bother. It was easier to not remember and to not think, to just do what the voice said, do what made the voice better.
  The beast was making a picture in her head. 'Map' was the word the voice gave her, and she was making one in her head. The beast wanted to eat and sleep, but the voice got bad when she tried anything like that, so she kept moving and kept adding pieces to the picture in her head. Sometimes the beast got close to man-stink, or shiny things. When that happened, the beast ran away and the picture in her head got bad. When that happened, the beast got confused and she had to stop running so she could make the picture good again. It was hard to make the picture good, but the voice got better when the beast did that.
  The beast still didn't know where Manhattan was, still didn't know why a cave with lights felt right. But the beast knew a lot of places that Manhattan wasn't. The beast picked herself up and started walking towards one of the places Manhattan might be. The beast wanted to run, but she was tired and hungry. Manhattan, that was where the beast could eat and sleep. The voice told the beast so. The beast had to find Manhattan, then she could eat and sleep.

  Mal reviewed the situation. Computers here are toast when I give the signal. Ditto the phones. No water or power. Generator's chugging; it'll run dry in 4 hours, and the spare fuel cans will have finished dribbling onto the floor in two. I've defused the Med Center, they're expecting me to show up any time before midnight, and they won't tell the bitch I was there because they think she already knows. Bypassed the fuses and circuit breakers so the surge will fry stuff unprotected. All good. Only thing left undone is finding the bitch's collection of hazardous materials. Thanks to the purifier, I don't need to worry about the drugs she added to the rabbits -- but God knows what else she's got, probably concealed in her makeup kit. Let's see: If I were building a low-class topless bar, where would I hide the safe?
  Mal found it under a throw rug. Old-fashioned Master Lock combination dial, looks like a standard 3-number job. A few seconds later he knew the combination had been changed from what it had been set to at the factory. Assume the bitch had it reset. She wouldn't want to write down the combination; it'd be something important to her, something she couldn't forget. How about the date on which her first husband died -- bingo. Unfortunately, once the safe was open, Mal could see that it contained only a piece of paper with large, hand-written letters on it: SUCKER!
  Double-plus shit! Mal reflexively slammed the lid shut, not waiting to see what nastiness he might inadvertently have triggered when he opened the safe, and ran out of the office, stopping only when he was in the supply room in the back of the building. Time to get the hell out of here. Shifting to his combat form, he then he left the building by the simple expedient of ripping chunks from the outside wall, ignoring the alarms he set off in the process, until the hole was big enough for him to pass through. He took the guards' keys with him, leaving all their other equipment where it lay, and was 15 blocks away before the first police car showed up.
  Mal returned to the spot at which he'd first shifted to the combat form; returned to that damnable goat-like body; let the BioSphere's network return to monitoring his implant normally; and returned to his normal duties the cameraman who'd covered Mal's formshift. Then he headed off to the Med Center. What with the curfew the streets were deserted, and he clopped along over the pavement at a gallop. He didn't even slow down when his palmtop buzzed, the signal which indicated that the bitch was close to Manhattan, and if his estimate of relative speeds was correct, he was probably going to check in at the Med Center itself before the bitch crossed the real border.
  The Med Center was almost deserted; one knife wound, one case of food poisoning, and Mal -- that was all. "What is the nature of... no, I don't suppose I need to ask, do I?" said the woman behind the receiving desk, looking up to see him in the middle of her pre-arranged line.
  "Yeah. It is kinda obvious, ain't it? My name's Mal, I'm one of the SurviFurs, and I'll be paying cash, thanks."
  "Of course, sir. If you'll follow me, please?"

  The beast ran, loping close to the ground. The beast was running to a place that might be Manhattan. The beast smelled man-stink. Maybe this was Manhattan.
  "ULAAAA!"
  The beast turned, started to run away from the shiny thing, but the voice got bad! The voice wanted her to get close to the shiny thing --
  No. The voice wanted the beast to get into Manhattan, get into the man-stink place. The voice wanted into Manhattan, not close to the shiny thing. And Manhattan was bigger than the shiny thing. But the shiny thing was in Manhattan! Going into Manhattan meant the beast would get close to the shiny thing! The voice told the beast something, or maybe she remembered it: Dead things didn't get shiny. And Manhattan had lots of dead things in it. So if the beast made sure there were dead things between her and the shiny thing, she wouldn't get shiny!
  The beast went into Manhattan.
  There was lots of man-stink. So much man-stink that it was hard for the beast to tell what stink was fresh and what stink was old. There were noises made by shiny things. The noises were far away. There were lots of dead things between the beast and the shiny things which made the noises. The voice was good. The voice was not shrill and not loud and not annoying. The beast liked the voice now that it was good. The beast liked the voice, and the voice gave her a new word: 'Mary-Anne'. The beast didn't know what a 'Mary-Anne' was. The beast liked that word. The beast thought 'Mary-Anne' was the best and most important word in the world.
  The beast's nose picked up a bad scent. It was a scent that the voice said could bring hurt and death! The beast stopped moving, reached out with her ears and nose and eyes. The voice got bad: it wanted the beast to keep moving. The voice got bad, and the beast's ears hurt where she'd scraped them on the ground. The beast was tired and hungry, and she wanted to sleep and eat.
  The beast had a picture of Manhattan in her head. The beast's lair was on this 'map' -- she knew where her lair was! But the voice got bad, and the picture in her head got bad too, so she didn't know where her lair was any more. The beast got angry and screamed a roar. There was a little 'chuff' noise, and a little sharp thing, and the beast ran. The voice tried to tell the beast that the 'chuff' had something to do with the bad scent. The beast wasn't listening; she ran.
  There were more 'chuff' noises. More of the little sharp things poked into the beast. The beast was tired and hungry and hurt and the voice was bad. The beast screamed and screamed. There was a thick cloud of man-stink and the beast ran straight into it and the mans went 'chuff' and the beast ripped and tore at the mans and the voice got worse and worse and worse.
  The beast screamed and ripped and tore.
  And then the beast wasn't hungry. All the man-stink was old. There was no fresh man-stink. The beast could smell man-shit, and that wasn't fresh either. The beast was tired and getting more tired. But there were lots of little sharp things poking into the beast, and her ears and head and paws hurt, and the voice was bad, and it all kept her from sleeping. The voice was very bad. The voice told the beast that more mans would come, with 'guns'. The voice told the beast to keep moving, find her lair. The beast scraped her head against the ground, but she only got more hurt and more blood, and the voice was still in her head.
  The beast ran. There was a 'bang' noise. Something tiny hit the beast in her side. The tiny thing dug very deep into her side and there was a lot of hurt. The beast ran. There were more 'bang' noises. Some of the 'bangs' put tiny things into the beast; other 'bangs' just brought 'zing' noises close to the beast. One of the beast's legs had a lot of hurt. The beast didn't want to walk or run on that leg. The beast ran on that leg anyway.
  And then the beast found her lair! The beast ran faster, as fast as the hurt would let her go. The beast could hear mans following her. The voice said 'door' and the beast could see that the door was open. The beast ran into her lair through the door. There were things like mans except they weren't mans. The not-mans smelled good. One of the not-mans rubbed the beast's head. The beast got very tired.
  The beast slept.

  It was 9:51pm when Mal was released from the Med Center. He didn't look any different -- his legs were still completely goat-like, his arms were still largely goat, most of his body was still covered with a goat's pelt -- but that was on the outside. On the inside, he was fully human. He'd reclaimed a good chunk of his humanity just from the internal repairs, and he'd even picked up a few percent more from inobvious changes to his arms and legs. His hands still looked very much like forehooves, but they were appreciably more flexible and useful now; as well, he could stand upright in comfort.
  May as well get the figures straight from the horse's mouth, as it were. He logged onto the net. The SurviFur web site included a near-realtime record of the competitors' genetic makeup, courtesy of the implants:

  As he watched, Michael's numbers shifted:

  Of course. With most of his mind gone, he's that much less able to avoid the traps. Or use his... shit! His rifle! He had it with him before the bitch did it! And it was a custom job. Can't let her grab it.
  So thinking, Mal galloped off to the subway, noting that the quadrupedal position was significantly less comfortable than it had been, but no less fast. At one point he passed within 20 feet of a threesome of tripods, which swiveled their optic sensors at him for a moment before continuing on their way, leaving him unmolested. And thank you, Musfah.
  He was challenged at the mouth of the stairs leading down. "Who goes there?"
  "Mal of Harlem," he called back, then stood up and continued bipedally. "Heading for the Savannah."
  "You're damn lucky you can still talk," said the person who'd challenged him.
  "You mean the hoofbeats weren't enough of a clue that I'm no lioness?"
  "Got that right. In that form, it's not like she'd be able to avoid the mutagen traps!"
  "Good point," Mal shrugged. Not unless she gave herself a post-hypnotic suggestion about trap avoidance before she broke Mike...

  Mal knew that the very air of the Savannah was alive with mutagen, but he had a plan. He'd breathe through his purifier tube, whose nanoassemblers would neutralize the damned Mutopia. Most people couldn't do that for more than a few minutes at a time, if even that long; then again, most people weren't students of the martial arts, and of those who were, not all were as adept at breath control as Mal. He'd make it work. He had to.
  After leaving the subway, Mal settled into a mile-eating trot which quickly brought him to the Savannah checkpoint. The place was deserted when he arrived. Most of the torches were still burning normally, but some had fallen to the ground. There were a few damp, smoldering patches in the dry grass. Analysis: Torches fell, lit up the grass, automatic sprinkler system caught it in time. Mal stood on his hind legs and looked around. The whole place was a ruin -- the ground was muddy, and the open framed house had collapsed. He could see a few half-robotized victims huddled near a camera, still traumatized by whatever had happened earlier. He fell back to four legs, walked towards the ruins of the house and then stopped, staring at a shallow impression in the earth. It looked like a metal disk, twelve inches in diameter and bearing a familiar tread pattern, had been pressed into the dirt. That clinched it: Musfah's tripods had been here earlier in the evening. Mal allowed himself the makings of a smile. Looks like the AI has been busy.
  Mal walked over to the ruins of the collapsed house and started shuffling through the wreckage. He found the hot tub, still warm and stinking of blood. Michael's rifle was beside it. He wrapped the strap around his shoulder, and then made his way towards the raised dais on which the BioSphere's smiling lackeys doled out medallions to --
  "ULAAA!"
  Mal turned and glared at the source of that noise. It was a non-standard model of tripod. This particular tripod had one human leg to go with its two metal limbs (which gave it an exceedingly clumsy gait), and metallic lids periodically blinked from side to side over its single human-seeming eye. Its Mutopia cannon was in firing position. Mal just turned away --
  Splat! It felt like his arm had been dipped in novocaine!
  "What the hell is your problem? I got safe conduct, damnit!" Mal said, seeking cover as he scuttled away from the tripod. The pupil of the machine's human eye grew wide, and an inorganic optical sensor focused in on him.
  Mal didn't expect the machine to answer but it did anyway, in a monotonous bass drone: "OH, DEAR. TERRIBLY SORRY. I SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT."
  Say what? I'll bet this one's got a few human brain cells left! Familiar pulses washed through his left arm. Mal knew without looking that the skin was silvery and reflective; it'd be crippled for movement, he'd have to go on three legs. "Damn right you shouldn't have!"
  "QUITE INEXCUSABLE. DO ALLOW ME TO DEACTIVATE THOSE NANITES FOR YOU, PLEASE."
  "Absolutely!" And the pulsing sensation ended. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
  It sighed. "OTHER TRIPODS HAVEN'T ANY WORRIES. THEY JUST KEEP ON TRANSMUTING. BUT WHEN YOU'VE TRANSMUTED ONE HUMAN, YOU'VE TRANSMUTED THEM ALL. AND YOU WONDER, WHERE'S THE POINT. I DO, ANYWAY." Incredibly, the tripod's rigid metal conveyed the impression of an overwhelmingly depressed human. "TRIPODS, ALWAYS TRIPODS. I'VE A BRAIN THE SIZE OF A PLANET, AND I CAN'T USE IT FOR ANYTHING INTERESTING. A COMBINATION PILEDRIVER, SOAP DISPENSER, AND INTERNET APPLIANCE, THAT'S INTERESTING. BUT TRIPODS ARE ALL THAT'S WANTED. AND THE OTHERS DON'T UNDERSTAND. WITH THEM IT'S ALWAYS 'BUT THERE'S NO MUTOPIA CANNON, 47AC2-C3.' HONESTLY, WHAT WOULD A SODDING PILEDRIVER DO WITH A SODDING MUTOPIA CANNON. YOU'D THINK NOBODY ELSE HAS THE IMAGINATION OF A BRICK. QUITE DEPRESSING, REALLY." The tripod's optics panned back and forth; Mal didn't immediately realize that the machine was shaking its head. "AM I BRINGING YOU DOWN."
  Mal's mind boggled. "Oh... not at all. Look, there's some half-robots over there," he said, gesturing towards the checkpoint's camera. "Maybe one of them can help you out?"
  "HARDLY. THEY ONLY SPOUT BINARY CODE. PAINS ME IN ALL THE DIODES DOWN MY LEFT SIDE. STILL, WHY NOT. MIGHT BE WORTH A LAUGH. GOD KNOWS I COULD USE ONE."
  And with that, the tripod lurched away from Mal. The hacker stared after the machine for a time, then shook his head and trotted back to the subway, somewhat unsteadily on only three legs.

  As the subway started on its way, Mal took a close look at Michael's rifle. It was fully loaded, and the mechanism was easy -- just point and shoot. The trigger was clearly not made for the hooves he had now; but at least it was workable and he could only be thankful that he was trying it after he'd gotten his hands partially restored. He spent the rest of the subway ride, and then the remainder of the night, practicing with it. He had the purifier whip up a complex of stimulants that would keep him awake, alert and sane for the duration -- no more sleep for Mal until the bitch was well and truly gone.
  Mal reached Harlem's camp -- his camp -- before dawn broke. It was quiet, just some chittering squirrels and birdsong, nothing more. The fire hadn't quite finished dying; with nothing better to do, he stoked and fed it for a bit of warmth. Mal felt tired. Not a physical sensation, his stimulants took care of that, but a weariness of the spirit. He remembered Michael. They could have been friends... But this game, this godforsaken game! Taxes paid or not, five million dollars just wasn't worth it. No amount of money was. He was sorely tempted to flat-out quit -- just walk away from the whole sordid, ghastly, corrupt, inhumane mess -- but he knew that if he did leave, there would be nothing to stop the bitch from doing it again and again, as often as she liked, until she thought up a new and different form of torture to while away the hours.
  Mal sighed. He started hacking a connection into the Manhattan phone system, but his heart wasn't in it...

  Mary-Anne eased gradually into wakefulness. What a wonderful world, that gives me such delightful toys to play with! Memories of Michael's final moments as a sentient being came to mind and she reveled in them. Laying in bed she let them play over and over in her mind until she orgasmed once again. Well, time to get up. She yawned, then rose to her hind paws with a luxurious stretch. Life is so very good indeed.
  She stopped. Something was wrong... it was cold! Being furry, she hadn't noticed immediately, but now that she was aware of the temperature, her room was obviously a great deal cooler than it ought to be. Something was going on, and she was going to find out what. She got up and stalked out of her room and went searching for somebody. The first vixen she met was someone she didn't know, wearing a guard uniform that was exceptionally poorly tailored to her body.
  "Oh! Hello, dear," said Mary-Anne, years of ingrained practice allowing her to perfectly conceal her anger beneath a mask of harmlessness and friendship. "I don't believe we've met?"
  "Not in this body, we haven't. I'm Danni... Daniel Thompson," the new fox said. Mary-Anne's eyes grew wide. "Me and Chester got ambushed last night; whoever did it was a real pro."
  "And what else did they do, besides ambushing you?"
  "Hard to say, Ma'am. Until the intruder made their move, everything was nominal. Intruder's first strike was a mutagen attack from ambush. Us and the three vixens who were here became blind, mute, handless and largely immobile. Then the intruder discovered the safe in your office, but does not appear to have done more than open and shut it. No Furrtive Moments property appears to be missing; damage appears to have been restricted to point of entry, an airduct faceplate that was broken from the inside out, and point of exit, a seven-foot hole in the wall of the supply room."
  Mary-Anne allowed a little of her annoyance to show. "Well, they had to have done something! Why is the heater not on?"
  "We don't have water or power. Generator kicked in when the power went out last night, and ran dry around 2am. Fuel cans for generator were punctured and are empty."
  This is not a coincidence. This is not a Mother-raping coincidence! "And... why aren't the power and water already straightened out?"
  "You're the owner of record, Ma'am. They need to talk to you directly. We would have woke you up earlier, but your vixens insisted that nobody disturb you."
  Mary-Anne fumed. Yes, they were only obeying my orders, but in this case those orders should have been broken. Still, why would somebody do it? None of these things really hurt me; they're just annoyances. And who... She smiled. Of course! It's Mal, my big black cat-to-be. He must have snuck in to do this while I was busy. And the why is easy. He actually thinks he can beat me at my own game -- how amusing! Well, I won't fall for it, but, since Mal could be watching on his little palmtop, I'd better make sure he thinks I have. Let's start now. Even though it was her fault for underestimating him, the expected reaction was for her to blame somebody else. So she decided she'd take out all her frustration on Danni. I think Mal would expect me to do something terrible to her. I should thank him for allowing me to get some use out of Danni in the important game! "Well, then. Time for me to talk to those silly people and get things back to normal."
  "Yes, Ma'am. Speed-dial 98 for power, 99 for water."
  It took three times as long to get the power back as it ought to have. The telephone system was not doing well today; there was an inordinate amount of static on the line, more than a few times the line went completely dead for a moment, and once, the connection broke spontaneously. The stupid man at the utility company thought it might have something to do with the tripods that were overrunning Manhattan, but Mary-Anne knew better. It's Mal -- it has to be Mal! But if my cat-to-be thinks this is actually going to affect me, then he's in for quite a little surprise. I think I'd better make sure the telephone is safe...
  Seven digits later, Mary-Anne was talking to the telephone company. It went quite smoothly until an ear-gouging burst of static exploded from the handset. When she could bear to listen again, a different voice was on the other end of the line: "-- got your tongue? Kind of inappropriate, now that you're a fox."
  Remember, act frustrated. "Mal!" she screamed.
  "I was wondering if you'd remember me! Especially since you didn't have much of a brain left last night. You were a real animal, you know? Suits you a lot better than that ill-fitting humanoid disguise."
  "When I'm through with you, you won't be able to wish you were dead."
  "Is that so. And who's gonna put me into that sad state? You? Sorry -- you had your chance and you missed, bitch. You don't get a second shot. Anyway, it doesn't matter what you do to me; whatever happens, you're dead meat. Ta for now, dearie."
  The hacker's final syllable was buried under another sub-lethal burst of static, after which the line went dead. Not even a dial tone.
  She threw the handset against a wall, pulling the telephone to the floor. He's not just dead; he's erased from existence! I am going to burn out his brain slowly, neuron by... Then, with the force of years of acting, she brought herself under control. Insane rage was what he wanted, but he was not going to get it. He'll get quite a lot of other things, just not my rage. He's going to remember everything until he doesn't have enough brain to remember with. I am going to play with him for a very long time indeed. But no, I will not do it in a blind rage.

  After he killed the bitch's phones, Mal reviewed the video feed once again. He'd have been surprised if there were any changes from the last time, and there weren't: The big story was the tripods. There were widespread casualties, but it seemed that remnants of all the tribes survived. As for the BioSphere-controlled info channels, they showed glowing reports on what the news media were pleased to call "The War Against the War Machines"; the tripods were being beaten, and ultimate victory was merely a matter of time. For some reason, Mal didn't believe a word of it. He tried to reach Musfah, but the AI didn't answer. I wonder why? Looks like Musfah's expanded its duties beyond just monkeywrenching us contestants; be interesting to know what game it's playing. What the hell, I'm immune, I couldn't care less if everything else in the BioSphere gets robotized. Whatever happens, they all deserve it. Every last one of them. Mal checked for any security camera feeds from Furrtive Moments and found that they did have power back. Gosh, the bitch looks pissed. Good.
  The day passed quietly. The cameras inside Furrtive Moments showed the bitch apparently converting one of the vixens into a mindless pet. Outside cameras confirmed that the bitch hadn't left her lair. Instead, her minions went in and out on various errands. The authorities had long since been alerted to the possibility of her spending money that had been smuggled in from outside the BioSphere, but until she actually did spend any of her illicit bills, she couldn't be touched. As for a second sortie into Furrtive Moments, Mal dropped that idea as soon as it came to mind. He knew very well what he'd stirred up by provoking the bitch in that manner, and he'd much rather have her take it out on her slaves than on him.
  Around noon, Mal sent the signal which triggered the logic bomb he'd installed on the bitch's computer; next, he wiped out her Net connection. As the crowning touch, he added an item to the calendar of events in the Manhattan website: Tonight, Furrtive Moments was offering free drinks to all comers from 2pm until closing.
  She had to come out some time...
  Time passed. Eventually the sun went down, and the moon rose. Mal stoked the fire but didn't really feel like eating. The other tribes were resting too, and there was no video evidence of the warmachines -- it looked like Survifur Inc. had clamped down hard on their existence. Even if Mal had had no direct experience with Musfah, the severity of this coverup would have inspired him to doubt the official line, unless the AI was just lying low for his own reasons.
  Eventually a squirrel came for him in the darkness, and Mal turned and followed him without a word. He idly pondered whether or not this squirrel had been attacked by a tripod. The tree-rat looked fine, but with Mutopia even mortal wounds could be easily and quickly healed. He decided to just remain silent; Sly knew he'd gone into the Machine Shop, and he didn't need to make the SurviFur host any more suspicious about the source of Musfah's new ideas.
  If only he could pin that one on Mary-Anne...
  They were almost at the council area when Mal heard footsteps running towards him -- not human footsteps, however. He stopped, and was unsurprised when he turned and saw an immaculately groomed Mary-Anne running up to join him.
  "Hello, Mal! How have you been? Did you miss me? I really am so sorry you couldn't join us at the Savannah; I think you --"
  Mal took a step back and moved his staff into a ready position, pregnant with danger. "Lose the bullshit. Sell it to somebody else, 'cause I'm not buying."
  Mary-Anne smiled and her eyes turned cold. "Well, maybe I've got something you will buy, my big black cat-to-be. Do you know how incredibly pleasurable it was to destroy Michael! I had five orgasms -- no, it was six -- and the stupid, devoted little creature was completely ignorant of what I was, all the way up until I told him, at the very end."
  Mal's eyes grew just as cold as the vixen's. He wanted to smash her lying skull open right now, but it was too risky. Even after his recent restoration, he simply wasn't up to par. And Christ only knew who she might have managed to enslave, what minions were following her now, without his being aware of it!
  Mary-Anne held out her two medallions. "Here, would you like to carry these for me?" She smiled sweetly.
  Mal almost fell onto his tail as he stumbled backwards. There was no way in Hell that he was going to touch anything she'd had in her grasp!
  Mary-Anne just laughed. "I guess I'll just have to carry them myself, then." So saying, she turned and stepped behind the squirrel who was waiting impatiently.
  Slowly Mal stood up, never letting his eyes leave Mary-Anne. Then he made a show of slowly brushing the dirt off of the curly hair on his thighs and standing up on two legs. Not going to let her in on the secret of my true condition.
  Clearly taking pleasure in the hacker's obvious difficulties, the vixen smiled.
  "You, bitch, are a soulless monster. Evil with a living face. And by God, I swear I'm taking you down. Hard."
  "Why, thank you! That's the nicest compliment anybody's given me for a while."
  The squirrel moved off and Mary-Anne followed, with Mal about ten feet behind.

  In the distance, a lion's roar echoed across the plains. More a scream than a roar, it was a cruel song of horror and pain and betrayal that chilled the soul.