Now what? Hank Thompson thought as he strolled the hall of the Lodge that served as Kickerdom headquarters.

He was bored out of his skull. Worse than that, he was still pissed that the Internet was rebounding so quickly from the meltdown. His Kickers had busted their asses blowing up the infrastructure while Drexler and his Order attacked from the inside. The one-two punch was supposed to cause a KO.

But no. A couple of days of chaos, and then things started getting back to normal. Amazing how fast they'd come up with a fix for the Jihad virus, disrupting the botnet. Even more amazing was how fast they'd repaired those blown fiber-optic cables. He'd wanted the 'Net down for good. Without all that constant networking, people would be forced to realize that their so-called interconnectedness was a trap. And that would push them one step closer to dissimilation, one step closer to him and joining the Kicker Evolution.

But the 'Net hadn't been down near long enough for that. In no time their chat rooms and facebooks and myspaces and all that crap were back up and running. Still lots of glitches and bandwidth problems, but pretty much business as usual.

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

"Hey, boss," said a passing Kicker, a burly guy named McGrew. He carried a red toolbox emblazoned with a Kicker Man.

A tattoo of the same figure adorned the web between his thumb and forefinger.

Lots of Kickers had asked Hank why he'd never got himself inked with the symbol. He always gave the same answer. Because I am the Kicker Man.

Hank nodded and kept moving, thinking about the Kicker Man. He was more than a symbol to Hank. Years ago the Kicker Man had appeared in one of his dreams and led him to write Kick, the book that had put him on the map and started the Kicker Evolution. He'd appeared from time to time to guide him.

Maybe his frustration in real life was behind that weird dream he'd been having the past few nights, wherein the Kicker Man seemed to be in trouble - attacked by a flock of birds. At least they looked like birds. Hard to tell because it was happening in the dark. Hard enough to see the Kicker Man in the dark, let alone what was attacking him. Whatever they were, they swarmed him, buzzing him from all sides. He couldn't seem to drive them off.

What the hell did that mean?

He knew it meant something, because the Kicker Man never appeared unless something was in the offing. Sometimes it was good, sometimes not. This didn't look good.

Hank needed a little distraction. Maybe Drexler was in. Been a while since he'd hassled him. The uptight dickhead was always good for a laugh. Couldn't tick him too much, though. He was the Order's head honcho around here, and the Order let Hank use this Lodge as Kicker HQ. Push Drexler too far and he might kick them all out.

He entered Drexler's office without knocking - Hank knew he hated that - and found the man standing at one of his windows, looking out at the street. The Kickers who hung out at the Lodge called him the Ice Cream Dude because of the white suit he wore year in and year out.

When Drexler didn't turn, Hank said, "How goes it?" When Drexler still didn't turn, Hank raised his voice. "Hello? Anybody home?"

Finally the guy turned and Hank felt a little jolt of surprise when he saw his face. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it had changed somehow. The swept-back black hair with the widow's peak and the bits of gray at the temples were the same. So were the hawk nose and thin-lipped mouth.

The eyes ... that was it. As blue as ever, but the Master of the Universe look was gone. Their usual ice had melted, leaving just ... eyes.

"Yes, Thompson? What is it?"

His itty-bitty German accent hadn't changed, but what happened to "Mister"? Ever since they'd met he'd called him Mister Thompson.

Hank shrugged. "Just stopping by to see what's new in the world of the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order."

Drexler's eyes widened as he took a quick step forward. "Why do you ask? Have you heard anything? What have you heard?"

Whoa. His face was all uncertainty and hunger now. What the hell was going on?

"Nothing. Just sort of wondering if you folks have any more Internet tricks up your sleeve. One that'll last a little longer. Like maybe permanent."

"It wasn't a 'trick.' And it wasn't designed to be permanent, just long enough..." His voice trailed off.

"Yeah, just long enough for what? At first you said the Internet was all that was standing between the One and the Change. Then you mentioned some lady. Which was it?"

"It didn't work. That's all that matters."

"No, it's not. Not by a long shot. Things are pretty much back the way they were. My Kickers are just hanging around instead of going out and gathering up converts who don't know what to do with themselves without the Internet."

"Your precious Kickers," Drexler said, looking like he'd just bitten into a lemon. "They're just tools. As are you."

That stung - maybe because it hit a little too close to home.

"Watch it. We don't answer to anyone, especially your lame Order."

"We all answer to someone. And we expect at least a modicum of loyalty in return. But sometimes it turns out to be a one-way street, and expectations aren't met."

What was he talking about?

"You mean the Change?" Bringing the Internet down was supposed to clear the way to start the Change. But it hadn't. "You telling me there's gonna be no Change?"

That would mean all that Internet business had been for nothing. The Change was supposed to be bad news for everyone except those who helped bring it on. Like Hank and Drexler and the high-ups in his Order. They were supposed to be the One's right-hand men when he took over.

Drexler's thin smile was pure condescension. "Oh, the Change will come. There's no stopping it. It will take all of humanity by surprise." He took a step closer. "And you, Hank Thompson, might be the most surprised of all."

Hank felt like he'd been punched.

"What? What are you talking about?"

Without replying, Drexler turned away and removed his white suit coat from the closet. He shrugged into it, grabbed his black rhino-hide cane, and strode to the door. Hank grabbed his arm as he passed.

"Hey, I asked you something - "

Drexler batted his wrist with the silver head of the cane, sending a shock wave up to Hank's shoulder. Hank released his grip and stood rubbing his arm as Drexler stepped out into the hall and disappeared without a backward glance.

But his final words hung in the air.

And you, Hank Thompson, might be the most surprised of all.

What the hell did that mean?