It had taken me the better part of an hour to reach the surface from Sub-Level 38 of the Sea-Tac Residential-Industrial Urboplex. It took less than fifteen minutes to make the trip back down. Not to Sub-Level 38, but to Sub-Level 35, which is almost the same thing. A fact which I found to be rather interesting, since it meant the entire transportation system was intentionally rather than accidentally screwed up. I had just started to ask myself why when my call sign surfaced in the middle of the mumbo-jumbo that had passed through my ears but missed my mind. “Is that okay with you, Lurch?”

I had absolutely no idea what Norris was talking about and decided to take a chance. “Umblepop. I mean, yeah, sure.”

“Good,” Norris said smoothly, “then come up here with me so you’ll be handy when the time comes.”

I groaned internally, worked my way forward, and joined Norris at the head of the column. “Never volunteer for anything.” That’s the second or third maxim of every military organization I ever heard of, and I had somehow managed to violate it.

A pair of Zeebs approached. The Zeebs take their name from the skin-tight suits they wear. Suits that are white with diagonal black stripes. They look great on Olympic athletes and terrible on everyone else. Including this pair.

Norris motioned us against the wall. The first cop, a nasty piece of work with meaty thighs, started to say something but bit the words off when Norris flashed some interactive I.D. It recognized the Zeeb, read out some code, and the police continued on their way. I don’t know about the others, but I was impressed.

I waited for the order to move out, but Norris stared into space, listened to a voice via her earplugs, and subvocalized a response. She nodded, said something else, and turned to us. “Okay, boys and girls, take five but stay off the air. We’re waiting for teams three, eight, and sixteen to reach their launch points.”