“Yeah, well, she was luckier. She let some West Coast clinic harvest her in exchange for enough cash to set up and study in Seattle. Point is, I went across there with Ethan to see her.” Sevgi knew she was staring off into space, but she couldn’t make herself stop that, either. It was the last trip they’d made together. “You wouldn’t believe some of the shit she told us she went through, purely based on the color of her fucking skin. And that’s a single generation back.”
“You’re talking about Jesusland, Sev.”
“Oh, so who’s pulling Union rank now?”
“Fine.” For the first time, anger sharpened Norton’s voice. “Look, Sev, you don’t want to talk about this stuff, that’s fine with me. But make up your mind. I’m just trying to get a lock on our newfound friend.”
Sevgi held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. She sighed. “No, you’re not, Tom. That’s not it.”
“No? Now you’re a telepath?”
She smiled wearily. “I don’t need to be. I’m used to this. From before, from when I was with Ethan. This isn’t about Marsalis. It’s about me.”
“Hey, a telepath and modest, too.” But she saw how he faltered as he said it. She shrugged.
“Suit yourself, Tom. Maybe you haven’t spotted it yet, maybe you just don’t want to see it. But what you’re really trying to get a lock on is Marsalis and me. How I’m going to react to him, how I am reacting to him.”
Norton stared at her for a long moment. Long enough that she thought he would turn away. Then he gave her a shrug of his own.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “So how are you reacting to him, Sev?”
Norton was on the money about going home, if nothing else. It took the rest of the day to get clearance, and when it finally came, the crowds were still at the gate. Someone had set up big portable LCLS panels along the road, jacked into car batteries or run off their own integral power packs. From the tower, it looked like a bizarre outdoor art gallery, little knots of figures gathered in front of each panel, or walking between. The chanting had died down with the onset of night and the eventual arrival of three cherry-topped state police teardrops. They were parked now in among the other vehicles, but if the officers they’d brought were doing any crowd control, they were keeping a low profile while they did it. And the media had apparently all gone home.
“Seen it before,” said the tower guard, a slim Hispanic just on for the graveyard shift. “Staties usually chase them off, so there’s no adverse coverage if the shit hits the fan. Shit does hit the fan, everyone runs the same sanitized broadcast the next morning. Tallahassee got deals with most of the networks, privileged access to legislature and like that. No one breaks ranks.”
“Yeah,” rumbled Marsalis. “Responsible Reporting. I’m going to miss that.”
The night wind coming off the sea was cool and faintly sewn with salt. Sevgi felt it stir strands of hair on her cheek, felt cop instinct twitch awake inside her at the same moment. She kept herself from turning to look at him, kept her tone casual. “Going to miss it? Where you going then?”
He did turn. She offered him a sideways glance, clashed gazes.
“New York, right?” he said easily. “North Atlantic Union territory, proud home of the free American press?”
She looked again, locked stares this time. “Are you trying to piss me off, Marsalis?”
“Hey, I’m just quoting the tourist guide here. Union’s the only place they got Lindley versus NSA still in force, right? Still got their statue of Lindley up in Battery Park, defender of truth chiseled on the base? Most places I’ve been in the Republic, they’ve pulled those statues down.”
She let it go, let the cop twitch slide out of view for the time being, tagged for later attention. For the rest, she didn’t know if she’d misread the irony in his voice or not. She was irritable enough to have done so; maybe he was irritable enough to have meant it. She couldn’t be bothered to call it either way. After a full day of waiting, none of them was in the best of moods.
She shifted to the other side of the tower, swapped her view. Out at the far side of the complex, partially occluded by the towering bulk of the rack, the landing strip lights burned luminous green. They were far enough off for the distance to make them wink, as if they were embers the sea wind kept blowing on. COLIN were sending a dedicated transport, flatline flight so they’d be waiting awhile longer, but it was on its way and home was only a matter of hours away. She could almost feel the rough cotton sheets on her bed against her skin.
Marsalis, she’d worry about later.
After a couple of minutes, he left the tower top without comment and clattered back down the caged stairs to the ground. She watched him walk away in the flare of ground lighting, off toward the shore again. Casual lope, almost an amble but for the barely perceptible poise in the way he moved. He didn’t look back. The darkness down to the beach swallowed him up. She frowned.
Later. Worry about it later, Sev.
She let her mind coast in neutral, watched the lights.
And presently, the COLIN jet whispered down from the cloud base toward them, studded sparsely with landing lights of its own. It kissed the ground, silent with distance, and taxied in like a jeweled shadow.
She yawned and went to fetch her stuff.
In flight, she dozed off and dreamed about the Lindley statue. Murat stood with her in winter sunlight—as he had when she was about eleven, but in the dream she was an adult—and pointed at the chiseled legend in the base. from the discomfort of truth there is only one refuge and that is ignorance. i do not need to be comfortable, and i will not take refuge. i demand to KNOW.
See, he was saying. It only takes one woman like this.
But when she looked up at the statue of Lindley, it had transformed into the black-sketched perpetrator from the Montes CSI construct, and it leapt off the base at her, fist raised.
She fell back and grappled, one from the manual, cross-block and grab. The figure’s arm was slick in her grasp and now ended, she saw, not in a fist but a Greek theater mask cut out of metal. As she wrestled with the sketch, she understood with the flash logic of dreams that her opponent intended to press the mask onto her face and that once it was done, there would be no way to get it off.
Across the park, a mother pushed a baby in a stroller. Two kids sat in the grass and dueled their glinting micro-fighter models high overhead, fingers frantic on the controls in their laps, heads tilting wildly beneath the blank-faced headsets. Her own fight went slower, sluggish, like drowning in mud. The construct murderer was stronger than she was, but seemed disinclined to tactics. Every move she made bought her time, but she could do no damage, could not break the clinch.
The mask began to block out the sun on her face.
I have done everything I can, said Murat wearily, and she wanted to cry but couldn’t. Her breath came hard now, hurting her throat. Her father was walking away from her, across the park toward the railings and the water. She had to twist her neck to keep him in sight. She would have called after him, but her throat hurt too much, and anyway she knew it wouldn’t do any good. The fight started to drain out of her, tiny increments heralding the eventual evaporation of her strength. Even the sun was turning cold. She struggled mechanically, bitterly, and overhead, the mask—
The plane banked and woke her.
Someone had lowered the cabin lights while she slept, and the plane’s interior was sunk in gloom. She leaned across the seat to the window and peered out. Towers of crystalline light slid beyond the glass, red-studded with navigation flash. Then the long dark absence of the East River, banded with bridges like jeweled rings on a slim and slightly crooked finger. She sighed and sank back in her seat.
Home. For what it was worth.
The plane straightened out. Marsalis came through from the forward section, presumably on his way to the toilet. He nodded down at her.
“Sleep well?”
She shrugged and lied.
CHAPTER 17
B y the time they disembarked and came through the deserted environs of the private-carrier terminal at JFK, it was nearly 3 am. Norton left them standing just inside the endless row of glass doors onto the pickup zone and went to get his car out of parking. The whole place was full of a glaring, white-lit quiet that seemed to whine just at the edge of audibility.
“So what’s the plan?” Marsalis asked her.
“The plan is get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll take you over to Jefferson Park and get you hooked up with our chain of command. Roth, Ortiz, and Nicholson are all going to want to meet you. Then we’ll look at Montes. If your theory checks out, there’ll be some trace of a previous identity somewhere in the data record.”
“You hope.”
“No, I know,” she said irritably. “No one disappears for real anymore, not even in the Angeline Freeport.”
“Merrin seems to be managing.”
“Merrin’s strictly a temporary phenomenon.”
They went back to staring averted angles around the terminal space until Norton rolled up in the snarl-grilled Cadillac. He’d held off putting the top up until a couple of weeks ago, but there was no way to avoid it now. The early-hours air beyond the terminal doors had a snap in it that promised the raw cold of the winter ahead.
“Nice ride,” said Marsalis as he got in.
He’d taken the front seat. Sevgi rolled her eyes and climbed in the back. Norton grinned at her in the mirror.
“Thanks,” he said, and gunned the magdrive as they pulled away. It didn’t quite have the throaty roar of the vehicles from the period road movies he occasionally dragged Sevgi to at art-house theaters in the Village, but the car thrummed pleasantly enough and they took the exit ramp at rising speed. Norton drifted them across into the curve of the citybound highway. The airport complex fell away behind them like a flung fairy crown. Norton raised his eyes to the mirror again. “What are we doing about accommodation, Sev?”
“You can put me in a hotel,” Marsalis said, yawning. “Wherever suits. I’m not fussy.”
Sevgi faked a yawn of her own and slumped back in the seat. “Let’s sort that out tomorrow. Too much hassle coordinating it all now. You can stay at my place tonight. Tom, I’ll bring him in and meet you at the office for lunch. Somewhere on the mezzanine. Say about twelve?”
Peripheral vision showed her Norton trying to make eye contact in the mirror. His face was the carefully immobile deadpan she associated with his witnessing of mistakes made. He used it a lot in briefings with Nicholson. She gazed steadfastly out of the side window.
“He could stay with me, Sev. I’ve got the space.”
“So do I.” She made it come out casual. Still watching the dull metal ribbon of the crash barrier as it whipped smoothly along beside the car in the gloom. A teardrop taxi blipped past on the opposing side of the highway. “Anyway, Tom, it’d take you the best part of an hour just to clear out all that junk you keep in the spare room. All I have to do is crank down the futon. Just drop us off, it’ll be fine.”
Now she turned and met his eyes in the mirror. Matched him deadpan for deadpan. He shrugged and punched up some music on the car’s sound system, ancient Secession-era punk no one played anymore. Detroitus or Error Code; Sevgi never could tell the two bands apart despite Norton’s best efforts to instruct her. She settled back to the outside view again and let the vitriol of it wash over her, lulled by the familiar high-stepping bass lines and the stuttering, hacking guitars. She found her mouth forming fragments of lyrics:
Got what you want at last, got your
Closed little world
Got your superhero right and wrong
And your fuckin’ flag unfurled
Marsalis stirred, leaned forward to read the player display, and sank back again without comment. Guitar fury skirled out of the speakers. The car slammed on through the night.
When they pulled up outside Sevgi’s building, Norton killed the engine and got out to see them to the door. It was a nice gesture, but it felt wrong—Harlem hadn’t seen serious crime in decades, and anyway, in among the carbon-fiber skeletons of the market stalls, figures were already moving around with crates, setting up. The place would be coming to noisy life in another couple of hours. Sevgi made a mental note to make sure the windows were all tight shut before she slept. She smiled wearily at Norton.
“Thanks, Tom. You’d better get moving.”
“Yeah.”
He hesitated.
“See you on the mez, then,” she said brightly.
“Uh, yeah. Twelve o’clock?”
“Yeah, twelve’s good.”
“Where’d you want to eat? Henty’s or—”
“Sure. Henty’s.” Backing away now. “Sounds good.”
He nodded slowly and went back to the car. She raised a hand in farewell. He pulled out, looking back. They watched him out of sight before Sevgi turned to the door of the building and showed the scanner her face. The door cracked open on a hydraulic sigh.
“Sixth floor,” she said, hefting her shoulder bag. “No elevator.”
“Yeah? Why’s that then?”
“Period charm. You coming?”
They took the stairs at a trudge. LCLS panels blinked awake on each floor as they climbed, then died to dimness in their wake. The bright white glow shone on pre-Secession grafitoform murals and embedded holoshots of the building in its various stages of growth. Sevgi found herself noticing them for the first time in months as consciousness of the man at her back lit everything for her the same way as the LCLS. She bit back the impulse to play tour guide.
In the apartment, she went from room to room, showing him where things were. He went to use the bathroom as soon as she was done. She checked the windows while he was in there, set the locks, organized herself. Fetched sheets and a quilt from the cupboard in the en suite. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she took the bed linen down, and didn’t recognize the look on her face. There was a warm, irritable confusion rising in her as to how she should do this. Back in the living room, she powered up the futon and remote-extended it. She was putting on the sheets when he came out and joined her.
“All yours,” she said, finishing and standing back up.
“Thank you.”
They stood looking at the crisp, clean sheets. He seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe in response, a circuit clicked shut somewhere inside her. She put her hands in her jacket pockets and hooked his gaze.
“The door’s double-locked,” she said. “It’s DNA-coded.”
His brow creased. Silent query.
Ah fuck it, here we go. “You may as well know this now, Marsalis. You’re going to find out sooner or later, so it may as well come from me. My last relationship was a thirteen. He’s dead now, but I know how that shit works.” She tapped fingertips to her temple. “I know how you work up here. Right now, you’re probably mapping the shortest possible route across town to East Forty-fifth and First.”
No visible reaction. She plunged on.
“And you’re right, it’s not far. Three, four klicks and cross the lines, you’re home free. UN territory, right here in the heart of New York. I’m not sure how they’d get you out after that, but my guess is the powers-that-be here in the Union wouldn’t kick much. They’ve got a better working relationship with the UN than with COLIN most of the time. Truth comes down, they don’t like us much better than they do the Republic.”
“That must be very upsetting for you.”
“You’re too kind. So, like I said, I know what’s in your mind. I don’t even blame you much. It’s not like you’re a free actor here—you’re locked into something you’d probably rather not be a part of. You’re under duress, and I know how badly that plays in the thirteen mind-set. You’re looking for a way to pick the locks or smash down the door.”
Ethan’s words. He used to grin as he said them, that something-burning grin.
She waited to see what he’d do. If he’d move.
He didn’t. He raised an eyebrow instead, looked down at the open blade of his right hand. She recognized the displacement training, and a faint shiver ran through her.
He cleared his throat.
“Well, it’s nice to know I’m so well understood. But you see, Ms. Ertekin, there seems to be a major flaw in your procedures here. If I’m the ravening, duress-shattering thirteen motherfucker you—”
“I didn’t say—”
“—have me down as, then what’s to stop me caving in your skull here and now, slashing you open to get some warm blood for your precious DNA locks, and then doing my predawn sprint across town after all?”
“The lock only works off saliva.”
He stared at her. “I could always scrape it out of your dead mouth.”
“Do you think you’re going to scare me, Marsalis?”
“I couldn’t care less if I scare you or not.” For the first time since she’d met him, his voice tightened toward anger. “You were fucking some burned-out genetic augment who said he was a thirteen, and you want to delude yourself I’m him, that’s your problem. I don’t know what I symbolize to you, Ertekin, what you want me to symbolize, but I’m not up for it. I’m not a fucking number, I’m not a fucking gene code. I’m Carl Marsalis, I think we met already.” He stuck out his hand bluntly, mock-offer of a clasp, then let it fall. “But in case it hasn’t sunk in, that’s all I am. Got a problem with that, then fuck off and deal with it somewhere I don’t have to listen to you.”
They faced each other either end of the stare, a couple of meters apart. To Sevgi, the room seemed to rock gently on the axis of their locked gazes.
“This is my house you’re in,” she reminded him.
“Then book me into a fucking hotel.” He held her eyes for a moment, then looked down at the extended futon. “One with room service that doesn’t lecture the guests.” Another pause. “And an elevator.”
Out of nowhere, the laugh broke in her. She coughed it up.
“Right,” she said.
Thirteen Page 22