It was the fourth elf, the fourth member of the group discussing ghosts in the Matrix, the one who hadn’t said anything. Faster than any metahuman had any right to move, he was on his feet, his right arm swinging up. He was pointing it straight at her Mr. Johnson, hand bent far back. And then a plume of fire burst from his wrist, the muzzle flash of an automatic weapon. A cybergun, implanted in a cyberarm.