The Noise Revealed

by Ian Whates

  He snorted laughter at a sudden thought, jostling her head as his chest lifted.

  "What?"

  "Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that your friend Simon is going to hate me when he finds out about us."

  She groaned. "Please, don't even go there, not right now." She hugged him tighter. A few seconds of silence followed before she said, "Are you still wide awake?"

  "Yes."

  "Good, me too. So, why don't you put the lights out again? We could maybe work on giving Simon even more reason to hate you."

  He didn't need asking twice.

  The hour was late, but Catherine's partial, Cath, made no reference to the fact and didn't attempt to forestall him. Instead Malcolm found himself ushered into Catherine's presence with only a minimum of delay. Her hair was down, falling in platinum strands around her face, and she wore a light, pearlescent nightdress, so either his arrival had roused her from bed or disturbed her preparations for getting into it.

  "Sorry," he said.

  She waved the apology aside. "Don't worry, I realise you only have limited opportunity to slip away from Philip."

  Good, which meant he could get straight to the point. "I take it you've heard about what happened today?"

  She nodded. "I've spoken to Tanya and studied her report."

  "So, where does this leave us?" He wasn't talking about the bigger issue - the Byrzaen landscape spilling out of the club, Veils - which could keep for another time. He was talking about his son.

  "Under siege," she replied. "Viral attacks on Virtuality have increased significantly since you two returned from New Paris, and I don't think that's a coincidence. We've bolstered the already robust defences with KI expertise and that's held everything out so far - which is why, I suspect, they resorted to using an avatar - but there's no guarantee that'll last forever."

  Malcolm realised that. He was desperate not to lose his son again, but at the same time didn't want Philip's new life to be dominated by fear and paranoia, which was why he was sneaking off to see Catherine like this, to shield the lad from the full implications of the situation if at all possible. He felt certain that Philip's assassination was linked to the Byrzaens and their presence in Home's Virtuality, where they had no right to be. The timing was too convenient otherwise. The only way to safeguard his son in the long term was to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. Understanding would make clear their alternatives, might even give them some leverage. Until then they were shadow boxing, fighting an opponent they couldn't actually see.

  "Do you want me to arrange more bodyguards?" Catherine offered.

  "No, Philip wouldn't stand for it. He's accepted Tanya. He doesn't like what she is, but he's accepted her presence as necessary, especially following today's events. I don't see him putting up with a whole squad of Tanyas, though."

  "Really? I seem to recall him having quite an eye for the ladies. He takes after his father in that regard."

  Malcolm smiled. "True, but you know what I mean. Besides, you've got the rest of the board to think about."

  "Pft... them!" Catherine gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

  Her glib gesture didn't alter the fact that if she squandered too many of KI's resources on keeping them alive, questions would be asked. Not that Catherine Chzyski had ever been found wanting when it came to appropriate answers, but at the same time Malcolm felt it important she keep the realities of their situation in mind.

  "One aspect that none of us have really discussed yet, something that bothers me..." Catherine said, a little awkwardly.

  "Go on."

  "Well, there's no question in my mind that there is some heavy intrigue being played out within the government. Things that are illegal, immoral, and dangerous for everyone. However, I've yet to see any evidence that the Byrzaens are involved in any of it. All right, their arrival has sparked off all the nastiness, but so far everything we've seen has been human against human, just like the War."

  "I know what you're saying," Malcolm agreed. "We've all been very quick to cast the aliens as the villains."

  "When they might be nothing more than innocent bystanders. Exactly. Our culture, our ways, are all going to be new to them. They could just be standing back letting humans be humans, oblivious to the backstabbing and violence going on behind the scenes, or maybe assuming this is simply how we do things."

  "They could be," Malcolm agreed.

  "But you don't think so."

  "No, to be honest, and nor does Philip. Don't get me wrong, I'm willing to be proven wrong, but for now let's go forward on the basis that they are involved. Then we'll have all the bases covered."

  "Fair enough."

  Malcolm was about to leave, when Catherine said, "You do realise, don't you, that despite all that we're doing, whoever's behind these attempts might still get through to him?"

  "I know," Malcolm replied, and he did; but what more could he possibly do?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rain splattered the pavement. Droplets darted across the pools of illumination cast by the streetlamps in serried ranks like swarms of migrating insects. Night fell early, here in the tropics. Terri Gilkes pulled up her collar, hunched her shoulders, and tried to walk faster without lifting her eyes from the section of sidewalk immediately in front of her feet. On the whole, Terri didn't mind the rain. Prior to this deluge the air conditioning might have protected her from the afternoon's oppressive humidity but she'd still known it was there. She could feel it bearing down on her when she ventured outside at lunchtime, as if some giant hand were pressing all the moisture out of the sky. No, rain was fine by her - it held the promise of relief, of cooler, fresher air to come. But why, with all the day to choose from, did the rain have to fall now, when she was walking home? She was tired, damp, too warm, pissed off, and thinking of applying for another job. Oh, she knew she'd never match the current salary, but there were more important things in life than money. Actually having a life, for example. She hated shift work, hated her job, and hated the honeycomb.

  As a rule, she didn't hate the fact that she lived outside the towering complex - only those of real importance had quarters within the building itself - since at least she got to escape once work had ended. Although today she might have made an exception.

  Her waterproofs were doubtless working, but they could easily have been porous for all the good they were doing. Heat and humidity had never been her favourite combination, and perspiration was taking care of what the rain couldn't. You'd think in the age of artificial intelligence, shimmer suits and interstellar flight someone would have come up with a cheap and simple system of clothing that let sweat out while holding the elements at bay, but apparently not.

  She didn't see the collision coming and was both startled out of her wits and almost knocked from her feet by the jarring impact.

  "What the f...?" Somehow her bag had been dislodged from her shoulder and went spinning to the ground. She watched in horror as its contents spilled out onto the sodden pavement. "Shit, shit, shit!" She could have sworn the bag was closed.

  "I'm so sorry," said the woman, a slight thing who'd been hurrying in the opposite direction, apparently as oblivious to her surroundings as Terri was. They both crouched down and started scrabbling to gather Terri's escaped possessions. The woman grabbed her bag, was holding it out to her. She snatched it back ungraciously. It was on the tip of her tongue to bawl the girl out, to tell her to watch where she was going in future, but in fairness Terri was probably as much to blame as the stranger, so she contented herself with a grunt that was neither a complaint nor thanks, as her belongings were unceremoniously shovelled into the bag, soaked through, all of them.

  God. Despite any earlier thoughts to the contrary, she hated the rain.

  Without further ceremony Terri forced the bulging bag shut, stood up and continued on her way, with home now only a short distance ahead. Her shoulder throbbed painfully and would almost certainly bruise by the morning. It was difficult to believe that s
uch a slight thing as that woman could have hit her so hard. She must have been running. Stupid cow.

  Mya clung on for dear life, limbs splayed, keeping her body as flush to the ceiling as possible, all the while praying that they didn't look up. Smart boots and gloves held her in place, the tips of toes and splayed palms infiltrating the very fabric of the ceiling, but it was her own muscles and willpower that kept her flat, that prevented her bum from sagging downward. A few things worked in her favour: the two men currently walking below her were deep in conversation, their concentration elsewhere; they weren't alert; and this was a high ceiling. None of which guaranteed a damn thing, but it gave her cause to hope. She held her breath as they passed, felt the sweat gathering, trickling through her hair, and hoped fervently that they'd be gone before the first drop fell. She gritted her teeth as her muscles burned - the legs and thighs were the worst. Smart pads at her knees would have made things a whole lot easier right now. Why hadn't she thought to wear them?

  Because she hadn't expected to be hanging from the ceiling, that was why.

  Finally they were past, their banal conversation mercifully cut short as a door swung shut behind them. She dared to move again, allowing her body to relax as she prised one foot free and then the other, moving them closer together and bringing both hands in as well. Like some clumsy lizard she made her way to the wall and eased herself a little way down it before dropping to the floor. Only then did her muscles report anything approaching relief.

  Mya was still a long way from optimum condition but she was getting there. Both strength and fitness were improving daily, thanks to a rigorous exercise regime and proper diet. No, she wasn't quite there yet, but close enough. She had to be.

  Terri Gilkes' ID card, cloned in a split second via a sleight of hand as she helped the woman gather her things from the rain-sodden pavement, had done the first bit, enabling her to penetrate the building's outer skin, but it could only take her so far. The honeycomb never slept. This vast complex of a building, which nestled partially underground and thrust towards the heavens in a pillar of tinted glass, concrete and metal - was the nerve centre of ULAW's intelligence services and covert operations. Human space never slept, at least not all at the same time, so nor did the honeycomb. There were, however, periods when the building was quieter than others, dark hours when whole sections of the place shut down while others remained busy as any hive of insects. Mya had chosen her moment carefully, timing her intrusion to coincide with a quieter period while avoiding the quietest. It was a trade off, as so many things in life tended to be: the fewer people around to see her the better, but while there still remained some people wandering the corridors she didn't have to worry about under-floor pressure sensors or motion alarms.

  Her legerdemain and the brazen bluffing that followed had played their part but she was now well beyond the point where Gilkes' ID was of any use at all. The woman - a lowly clerk in Media Analysis - would never have ventured into the areas of the honeycomb she was currently invading, would never have gained access to them had she wanted to. All Mya had at her disposal from this point on were her own wits and skills. Hopefully, they would prove enough.

  Her goal lay towards the very crown of the honeycomb, the penthouse apartments reserved for the VIPs. The roof was out, unfortunately, even though it was a great deal closer to her target than the ground floor access she'd used. Being the most obvious place from which to infiltrate, the honeycomb's roof was a mess of alarms, cameras and automated weapons placements. Attacking that way wasn't impossible, but doing so quietly was.

  Methodically and efficiently, Mya wormed her way into the building, walking boldly at first, but as she steadily infiltrated the more rarefied areas she took to avoiding people and their awkward questions, clinging to walls or ceilings when required, twisting nimbly around infrared beams and dodging cameras as necessary. She daren't wear a shimmer suit - its use would trigger every alarm in the building the second it was activated - and the hi-tech visor linked to her intelligent gun might be denied her, but the goggles the habitat had provided served their purpose, seeing clearly into the infrared.

  Finally she stood before the door. A plain, unimposing slab that mimicked wood but was actually built of steel plate sandwiching layers of polycarbon fibre, it was loaded with alarms and even the odd nasty surprise to deter unwanted visitors. But she knew this door, knew how to placate its dormant defences and how to sidestep its impressive lock; knew how to open it so that the sensors wouldn't even register that anyone had passed through.

  Less than a minute later she was easing the door open and slipping inside. Darkness here, but light spilled from the open doorway at the far end of the hall, as did the soft strains of music. Nothing she recognised, something orchestral and light. She padded forward, confident that no one suspected her presence and intent on getting some answers. Up until this point, Mya had kept a lid on her emotions, battening them down in order to concentrate on the demanding business at hand, but now, as she trod on the soft carpets, having all but reached her goal, she relaxed control just a little and allowed her feelings to boil forth; a heady cocktail of extremes, with anger chief amongst them.

  He stood with his back to her, contemplating the view from the window - the night, with its stars and mystery, the glow of streetlights and uncurtained windows far below. His left profile was bathed in an orange glow from the totally convincing yet wholly false fire that burned in the hearth, while his right side reflected the steadier light from the single wall lamp. He always had liked subdued tones and radiance.

  She drew her gun slowly and pointed it at him, realising that she could kill him where he stood and he'd never know who was responsible, wouldn't even have a chance to recognise that he was dead. Perhaps he deserved such a fate... but perhaps not. Instead, she stepped into the room, knowing that her movement would be mirrored in the window he was staring out of.

  He turned around sharply and on cue, and smiled as if this were the most natural thing in the world, as if he'd been standing there just waiting for a psychotic woman to enter his room and threaten him with a gun.

  He looked no different. He was just as confident, suave, and maturely handsome as ever, his brown hair showing the same degree of grey at the sides, while the crow's feet around his eyes conspired to be gentling rather than aging. Somehow, after all that had happened to her, she felt that he ought to look different, older perhaps, but he didn't. It was the same disarming smile that greeted her, the same Pavel Benson who stood before her and said, "Hello, Mya."

  So calm, so composed, as if he was the one in charge here, despite the fact that it was her holding the gun.

  "You bastard!"

  Now the expression changed, to sorrow, remorse, perhaps even anguish. Yet she knew him to be the consummate politician, had seen him show the full gamut of emotions without ever being fully certain which, if any, were genuine.

  "I'm so sorry. There was nothing I could do," he said, hands outstretched with palms towards her, beseeching. He took a tentative step forward.

  "Don't!" She raised the gun a fraction and he froze. "You know what they do there, don't you? At Sheol. You let them do that to me."

  "I know, and that's something I'll always have to live with. I did what I could. I let the rebels know about Sheol and about you, made sure they learnt how important you were."

  "What?"

  "I realised there was a leak, although I didn't know it was the habitat - we'd forgotten all about them - but someone was being fed information. We kept the leak open to learn more and for the potential it offered to disseminate false intel in the future. I doctored an outgoing info package, made certain it contained enough hint and detail to lead them to you."

  She shook her head, knowing how devious he could be, not sure whether to believe him. "Why? What were you expecting to achieve?"

  "I don't know... a public exposure of Sheol, a rescue... something." Another shuffled step forward.

  "Crap, all of it. The habit
at had never shown their hand before, why would you think they'd do so now?"

  "It worked, didn't it?"

  "Only because they wanted to buy Jim Leyton's loyalty. If not for that, I'd still be rotting in that stinking piss hole."

  "Maybe, maybe not. Things are moving fast, Mya; the gloves are off. People are having to be bold just to stay alive. I think the habitat might well have made the move to gain you, irrespective of Leyton. You're one hell of an asset in your own right, and if that hadn't worked, I'd have come up with something else. I would never have abandoned you, not to Sheol, not anywhere. You know that."

  She wanted so badly to believe him. This was the man who'd mentored her since she was first recruited, who'd looked out for her through her entire career. If she couldn't trust him, who could she trust?

  He was suddenly there, standing directly before her with his chest resting gently against the muzzle of her gun.

  "If you're going to kill me, Mya, do it now. Shoot."

  For a tortured second she nearly did, feeling the muscles in her finger tighten as the urge to twitch that trigger finger vied with so many other considerations and came close to winning. She almost surrendered to the moment, could see in her mind's eye the bloody hole punched through the torso of the man who had betrayed her. Almost, but not quite.

  The gun felt abruptly heavy. Her arm sagged and the barrel slipped downward. He reached up to hold her wrist and gently move the hand and the weapon it held to one side.

  He took a deep breath. "For a moment there, I thought you were actually going to do it."

  "For a moment, so did I."

  His hands reached up to stroke either side of her face. "I'd never abandon you," he repeated, as if by saying it often enough he could make her believe him. Perhaps he was right.

  His hands reached behind her, drawing her to him, his lips lowering to meet hers, and she clung to that firm body, dropping the gun and responding to his kiss as all the grief and the hurt and the need rose up, threatening to overwhelm her. Mya felt herself picked up and carried into the next room, wondering if he'd always been this strong or if she'd lost more weight during her ordeal than she realised. Gently he lowered her onto the bed and she felt him lie on top of her. They were still clothed but she wished they weren't as she opened her legs and wrapped them around him, her heels pressing against his buttocks, drawing him onto her, into her. He shifted again, pulling back so that he could remove his top, revealing a toned body and near hairless chest. Her arms reached out to either side of her, opening herself to his mouth, his lips, his hands, as their clothing slipped away. She clasped at the black silk bed sheets as his tongue found a nipple, the same sheets she had clung to in the deepest recesses of her mind when Sheol unleashed its worst; her haven, her retreat. None of that seemed important anymore. All that truly mattered was here and now.