“But is such coldness beyond his capacity?”
“Master Speaker, I haven’t a clue. The spooks—the federal investigators—all believe this mode of attack is perfectly consistent with Alex’s psyche profile.”
“And you?”
“As I’ve often been reminded, Kymri, I’m just a Second Loot. I’ll probably get another medal for last night, and maybe my pick of Earthside assignments, but that’s as far as things go. They certainly don’t guarantee that anyone’ll listen to what I have to say. Assuming I had anything to say.”
He twitched his lips, as if to say, but you are not satisfied. Which she answered with a tilt of the head, before wishing him well and taking her leave, pausing on the street front outside the ivory fortress of the medical center to muster her thoughts, taking temporary refuge in a simple stroll along the avenue, watching the rest of the world rush purposefully by.
There’d been a sea change over the last generation, as many of the high-rise towers of the late twentieth century had reached the end of their useful lifetimes, aided by a deliberate policy intended to downscale the city’s skyline. Gradually, the low-rises were coming back, three-story brownstones (or rather, their modern equivalents since those original materials had become prohibitively expensive to quarry) mixing with five-story apartment buildings, the idea being to restore as much as possible the sense of community that had always existed in the Outer Boroughs, and once upon a time even here in Manhattan itself. There were still skyscrapers, the Millennium Tower foremost among them, but they were restricted now to Midtown and the Financial District, which relieved the oppression many had felt around the turn of the century, that they were living at the bottom of some ever-deepening rat’s maze of canyons, with more and more people concentrating in less and less space. Now, the pace remained as fast and furious as ever, but somehow the pressure had grown less intense.
York Avenue, as ever, was a company street north of the Queensboro Bridge—gearing up for its bicentennial amid perennial predictions of its imminent collapse—defined and dominated by the phalanx of world-class medical centers and hospitals that lined the East River all the way to Spanish Harlem. She’d put in some time of her own here not so long ago, one more stop on her road back to the Frontier. And a twinge of phantom pain deep inside her right thigh made her limp slightly a half-dozen steps. A couple of times on her way up to Seventy-second Street, a man would catch her eye and offer a smile—flattering to part of her awareness that she should be found attractive, never a decent consideration given to the proposition that it might actually be so—and she would respond on automatic, with a smile that never went beyond her lips, totally at odds with eyes that were scanning a reality that had nothing whatsoever to do with the street and people she passed, a trio of faces rotating one after the other, over and over in succession, like a visual mantra she chanted in hopes of some miraculous revelation.
Her leg was still being a pain, so there wasn’t much grace to her stride as she dashed across the avenue to beat the crosstown skimmer to its stop, something on the order of a running hop, but the driver took pity on her and overruled the guidance system, holding the bus long enough for her to clamber aboard. At Fifth, she made a connection downtown, alighting after a nominally sedate procession (some things never changed, primarily the inability of surface traffic to get around) at the main reference library on Forty-second. For luck, as she climbed the steps, she patted one of the guardian lions, just as she had as a kid, wishing she had the time—not to mention chutzpah—to swing herself on its back and ride the great stone beast.
She brought her own PortaComp, which interfaced with ease into the library’s primary database—that she could have done from anywhere, and often had—but there was another aspect that made the MRL invaluable. Its hard-copy archives. Possibly the most complete collection outside of the Library of Congress.
Both parents were long-time patrons. That, plus her mother’s stature as a double Pulitzer winner, plus what Nicole discovered was her own not inconsiderable clout as one of those who’d saved the President last night, got her dispensation to stay past the six o’clock closing time. Although her somewhat disreputable appearance got her a share of scandalized looks from staff and patrons both. She’d had enough of uniforms for a time—her formal suit ruined by Matai’s blood—and dressed instead purely for comfort, in a pair of knockabout jeans worn through at the knees, plus a sleeveless top, with a sweater in her carryall as protection from the library’s air conditioning.
However, as the ancient tick-tock out in the hall began chiming closer to twelve she realized she’d outstayed her welcome. No matter really, she’d found pretty much all she’d looked for. Amazingly easy, in fact, once she laid out the pieces of the puzzle before her and started seeing where they might connect. Manuel had taken his cue from Edgar Allan Poe and laid out the most private—and potentially damaging—secret of his life in plain sight, confident that, because of the reputation and ground rules he’d spent a lifetime establishing, nobody would look for it. Or would simply refuse to see what was patently there.
One set of answers, not that they meant much. All they provided was insight into Alex. Beyond that, they weren’t any help.
The first thing she did when she stepped out of the plane and onto the Nantucket Memorial Airport tarmac was stand stock-still and smell the sea. There was a stiff breeze blowing in off the Atlantic—a crosswind that had made landing a particular delight, demanding a level of skill rarely required in military aircraft—chill and clean, accented with sea salt and the faintest hint of a dawn that was barely three hours distant, making her instantly hungry for a boat and the feel of spray on her face.
She shook that fantasy out of her skull most emphatically, time enough for such indulgences by daylight. Bed was called for at the moment, and even that remained a good half hour away—assuming, of course, her message had gotten through and the caretaker had left wheels in the airport lot.
The island was mostly asleep—hardly a surprise, given the hour—and hers was the only car on the road as she wound her way westward down Madaket Road to the hamlet of the same name right at the end. As she climbed the steps after fumbling for the key under the porch, she had to fight to stifle a yawn that bid fair to split her face in two. She figured, if she couldn’t manage the door, she’d curl up on the porch; she was fairly certain by this point she hadn’t a dog’s chance of making her bed, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d collapsed on the couch.
The door squeaked open, first try, its noise drowned by a yawn that wouldn’t be stopped. She dropped her gear as she stepped inside and was in midcollapse when a familiarly sarcastic voice announced, “About fucking time, Shea. I was beginning to think you’d never show!”
She let herself bounce off the couch and flipped sideways onto the floor, gritting her teeth as she jammed a shoulder, desperately wide awake now and wishing for a gun.
“What are you doing here, Alex?”
“That’s obvious, sweetheart, waiting for you.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“Quite frankly, my dear, I couldn’t give a damn. I got troubles of my own. Or haven’t you heard?”
“Lucky me, I was there.”
“Each and every time. Quite a moment, I confess, having that Halyan’t’a nut case burst in on me, hot and eager to rip my lungs out, with you right behind her, waving a gun.”
“Seems to us, we had cause.”
“So I’ve been discovering.”
She tried to pinpoint his voice, somehow it seemed to be coming from all around her—and she wondered if he’d managed to tap into the stereo, except that all the system lights were out and the speakers still—finally deciding on upstairs, the sprawling second-floor living room.
“That, we have in common,” she said, wriggling her legs up under her, to give her better, faster leverage to her feet, the thought suddenly striking her that she had no way of knowing whether or not he was armed. Not, of course, tha
t the couch was any decent protection. There were handguns and shells on the market—legal and illegal—that would shoot with ease through the body of the whole house. “I’ve been making some discoveries of my own.”
“You really do look awfully uncomfortable huddled on your knees like that, L’il Loot; you’re free to get up, if you like, I won’t bite.” Her insides had turned to ice, head twisting ’round to scan the room behind and above her, searching—she knew in vain—for signs of EyeSpys or ScanCams. Or, worse, Alex himself lurking in a convenient shadow. But found not a sign of either.
“That better?” he asked as she groaned to her feet.
“Much, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Looks like I’m pretty well fucked, huh?”
She nodded. “Looks like. Feds figure they have motive—your hostility to Russell and his policies—means, the Virtual system back at Edwards and the effects it had on me and Simone Deschanel. And opportunity.”
There was a pause, and she could almost see him shaking his head in disgust. “Gimme a break. As though I’d leave them this nice, neat package.”
“It works for them, Alex. Arsenio Rachiim showed me the reports, there’s enough there that’s incontrovertibly legit to make the rest seem credible.” And, saying that, she didn’t bother editing the edge that slipped into her voice.
“I said you could stand, Nicole, not go wandering. Let’s leave things the way they are for the moment, ’kay?”
“I keep forgetting, you’re so much more comfortable when relationships are remote.”
“It allows for a time-lag, the opportunity to think, passions to cool, rationality to reassert itself. When someone’s face-to-face, things happen spontaneously; this lets everyone consider the consequences of such rashness.”
“Sometimes, Alex, that spontaneity adds spice to life.”
“Spare me the clichés, Nicole, I thought better of you. I also get the sense that you’d like very much to take a swing.”
“At the very least. As I said, I saw Rachiim’s report. He saw the actual tapes.”
A longer pause. A chastened tone to Alex’s voice when he spoke again, Nicole’s mouth turning down in irritation that bordered on outright anger at her inability to pinpoint where he was. She had the sense of him moving about, but how could he be doing so without making the slightest sound? This was an old house, scattered full of creaky floorboards, there should be at least some noise.
“I never meant... ” he started to say.
“They were pretty rude, Alex.”
“Fantasies are.”
“So leave ’em inside your head, where they belong. You had me playing scenarios I’ve never conceived of.”
“I never meant any harm!”
“You killed Simone Deschanel!”
“I never killed anyone!”
“You tried to condition me to do your dirty work with Russell and damn near succeeded with Matai. Another life you owe, Alex.”
“That wasn’t me,” he shrieked, Nicole taking advantage of the moment to sprint for the stairs, flattening herself into the shadows as she snaked her way up.
“Stop, Nicole,” he said, far more calmly, and she did. “The house has nice security internals—not state-of-the-art but then I guess you don’t get much call for it way out here, and the weather must dick up the electronics something fierce—it was no trouble at all patching into ’em. And piggybacking my own toys on top. Which are cutting edge.”
“Stop playing games.”
“When games are the only option, might as well enjoy to the max.”
“Now who’s spouting clichés.”
“To be honest, I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“Because it’s the last place anyone would look.”
“Not quite, but close. Hadn’t thought of that, really. I guess I thought it’s a place you’d show at eventually. I guess I felt it was important for us to talk.”
“I don’t like talking to myself, Alex, which is what this feels like.”
“Fine,” he said, stepping into view at the far end of the hall. “Satisfied.”
She straightened, and froze once more as the barrel of a very nasty-looking piece of work swung up to meet her.
“I’m not a great shot, outside of Virtual”—self-deprecating smile—“but this has a full-auto capability and explosive SeekerSlugs. You’re a nice person, Nicole, and this is a real nice house, I’d like to leave both the way I found them, ’kay?”
“No problem. May I sit?”
“Please do, top of the stairs. But”—the gun stirred for emphasis—“keep your hands in view.
“It’s something you can do in Virtual,” he went on, “physicalize the imagination. Bring your dreams to life.”
“We’ve had this conversation before. What happens when you lose your taste for the real thing? You lock yourself into a pattern of behavior, Alex, a way of looking at the world. How do you cope when the world doesn’t follow your script? Remember what happened when we went sailing? You responded according to your programmed preconceptions, which had nothing to do with the conditions at hand. You can’t reset and reboot and start again. You’re stuck with what is.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m not even sure I want to. I’m flesh-and-blood, I’m a person. Your Virtual scenarios took the form of me and made it your pet BoyToy. That’s bad enough. But then they tried to do the same with me!”
“It wasn’t,” he was pleading, “my doing.” Then he shook his head, shoulders slumping. “But why should you believe?” He sank down on his heels, back flat against the doorjamb. “Should’ve said yes, Nicole, could’ve sailed after the sun, put all of this behind us.”
“You really believe that?”
“Maybe some illusions are easier to hold on to.”
“And if not, what, make better ones?”
“Got to admit, it’s a family trait. What are you looking around for?”
“Just thinking about what you said, about having the house wired.”
“Afraid I’ll play with your head?”
“It’s been done before.”
“It’s your house,” he scoffed, “you know better than me how old it is. Place doesn’t have a fraction of the potential your Edwards quarters did.”
“So you’re saying if s safe.”
“I can say anything I like, L’il Loot, you’ll simply have to trust me.”
“Why send me out to kill you at the end?”
“Hmnh?”
“I still can’t put many of the pieces together. The scenarios are like dreams, it’s hard to tell what actually was from the bits you add on afterward, but we were always in conflict.”
“Art mimics life. But think about it. With me dead, who’s to stand in my defense? Lee Oswald and Jack Ruby all over again. The neat package gets even tidier.”
“Doesn’t seem so tidy to me.”
“You’re looking from the inside. Deschanel wasn’t supposed to happen. Maybe you weren’t supposed to happen? Maybe the Pussy was the focus all along? Slips out, slips back, I’m found dead, who’s to see a link?”
“Plausible.”
“And impossible to prove.”
“I’ve been reading at the library.”
“I know. I was following your search paths.”
“You and who else?” God, is there anything he can’t tap into?
“Did you a favor, cleaned up after you. Any snoops go looking, most they’ll come up with is my tag.”
“Thanks.”
“No need to be nervous. There’s nothing you could do with the information.”
“Yeah, my mom told me that story, about the London paper.”
“I’ve never seen my mother, you know that? She and Dad split right after I was born, but that part of things was no big deal, there was nothing really between them. Emotionally. What was called, in the bygone, a marriage of convenience. When I got old enough to ask, I was told Dad got custody and Mom wanted not
hing to do with me. When I got old enough to go check things out for myself, I never got past the door. Goons had my pix and orders they weren’t about to disobey. Managed to get her on the phone a couple of times, she hung right up. Went in overline through a data net, same thing. With her account changed the next morning. After which I stopped trying.”
“That sucks.”
“Not from her perspective. I was the offspring”—he grinned, without the slightest humor—“of a business collaboration. However she may have actually felt, she was being well paid to cut me off completely. Which, when you look back on it, has more than its share of irony. Once the Old Man saw his personal, private mene mene tekel upsharin on the wall—the moving finger having writ, moving on, unable to be recalled—he probably would have been better served to cut me loose and move on along alone. But he’s the kind who hates giving up even more than losing. He tinkered in the womb, he tinkered more after. For all the good it did him. And me.”
“Genetic engineering. Mostly venture capital investments in small, idiosyncratic nanotech firms; university grants funding pure research... ”
“With codicils granting him exclusive access to any discoveries that fit the specified parameters.”
“Is he that afraid of dying?”
Alex chuckled. “Not in the conventional sense. At least, I don’t think. I suppose he’s like any man who’s built an empire. He wants it to go on. And the sad fact of history is that personal empires don’t last. Maybe a generation, maybe two, but sooner or later, genetic entropy sets in. A person who grows up enveloped by a life of wealth and privilege has a totally skewed outlook from someone who doesn’t, or the one in a billion who starts with nothing and builds from there. They take for granted things their father had to work and fight for.”
“The arrogance of accomplishment versus the arrogance of position.”
“Exactly. You ever feel that way with your mom?”
Nicole shook her head, giving the house a sweep of the eyes. “The stuff I did best, she couldn’t compete in”—a half shrug of acknowledgment—“or perhaps chose not to, for my sake. And what she did best, I really wasn’t interested in.”
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