Agency

by William Gibson

  “Just in it for the shits and giggles?” Virgil asked, looking at the drone.

  “Ash,” sharply announcing herself. “Time to go.”

  “Why?” Verity asked.

  “Someone’s put up an image of you on something called Instagram. Taken last night, as you entered the hotel with Virgil. They recognized him as part of Howell’s inner circle. They didn’t recognize you, else they’d have identified you in the post, but others have in the meantime. I’ve sent you both the link.”

  Virgil groaned. Consulted his phone. “They’re stretching it, IDing you in that hoodie. Could be anybody.” He showed Verity the photograph. She was on his far side, in the lobby’s lilac gloom, hood up, no more than a quarter of her face visible, and that with sunglasses.

  “Pack,” said Ash. “It doesn’t look as though they have anyone in the lobby yet.”

  “How do you know?” Virgil asked.

  “We’re using Followrs, through a proxy,” Ash said. “We have one in the lobby now.”

  Verity was already headed for her Muji bag, in the bathroom.

  64

  MINIMUM OF DRAMA

  What’s happening?” asked Rainey, close by Netherton’s head, startling him. He, or rather the drone, was just then being hauled rapidly out of the hotel suite in San Francisco.

  He muted. “Leaving the hotel,” he said, “hurriedly.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone’s revealed Verity’s whereabouts, on a public medium. Ash is concerned that Cursion will find her here.” They were passing that alcove, with its mirror, acrylic chair, and asymmetrical floor lamp. Virgil was pulling the drone behind him in its wheeled travel corset. The squashed-circle format gave Netherton a sense of what was going on but, with the drone in motion, was simultaneously disorienting. “Sorry,” he said, “best I concentrate.”

  “Do,” Rainey said, squeezing his shoulder, which felt peculiar while he was accessing the drone. He unmuted.

  “So we’re hauling ass,” said Conner, now evidently back from the Rose Garden. Conner was louder than the others accessing the drone, a larger presence.

  “Someone put Virgil on Instagram,” Verity said, “someone else identified me.” She was carrying the large black case with their controller in it, big enough to require both hands but evidently not very heavy.

  The elevator door opened. Virgil pulled the drone into a confusion of brownish-red reflections. “Who’s expected, downstairs?” he asked.

  “We don’t know,” said Ash. “We hope to get out before anyone arrives.”

  “Liable to get kinetic if we don’t?” Conner asked.

  “Optimally,” Ash said, “we exit the lobby with a minimum of drama, and immediately board our transport, attracting as little attention as possible. Should it go sideways, Mr. Penske, please remember that we don’t want headlines about a bipedal drone attacker. Far too exotic, here.”

  “Roger that,” said Conner, as the elevator stopped, its door opening, Virgil hauling them both out. Behind them, Netherton saw Verity quickly slip on a pair of large black sunglasses and step out.

  65

  ONE-SHOT

  The first thing Verity noted, past Virgil’s shoulder, was the Candy Crush Saga girl from 3.7, seated against a backdrop of floor-to-ceiling mauve drapery, thumbs busy on her phone.

  “Our new hire, there,” said Ash, via the burner phone’s earbuds, “the one on her phone.”

  “Cursion had her on the lookout for me, in a coffee place where I went with Eunice,” Verity said quickly, under her breath. “Knows me on sight.” The girl, having now seen her, stared, startled, thumbs gone still.

  “Don’t look as if you recognize her,” said Ash. “She must live locally. Assignment overlap would be a problem, with that business model.”

  Virgil was headed toward Geary now, pulling the drone.

  Verity hurried to catch up, the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder with the added weight of the charger. She reflexively gave the girl a distracted smile, in spite of Ash’s order, as she and Virgil rounded the corner, making for the entrance. Saw nothing in the lobby suggestive of Cursion, though she supposed anyone could be a Followr. She saw Virgil slip the doorman some folded bills as they went out, and bowed her hoodied head over the controller case.

  “This way,” Sevrin said, suddenly beside her, taking the controller case. Head still down, she made no eye contact, recognizing his fancy bus-driver shoes and zero-accent accent. He led her around what seemed to be an identical van, white this time but with windows equally dark. He slid open the passenger door, helped her up and in. Virgil climbed in behind her, Sevrin passing him the helmet case, which he placed on the second row of passenger seats.

  Choosing the window seat behind the driver, she shrugged off her bag, putting it on the seat behind hers, beside the black case. Virgil was helping Sevrin get the drone up now, and onto the seat beside her. Over their shoulders, through a momentary gap in passing vehicles, she saw someone emerging from the bagel restaurant across the street. Short hair, wire-rimmed glasses, forty-something. Seeing the look of recognition as he saw her, she instantly knew that it had been the back of his crew-cut head she’d seen as he’d surveyed the junk on Joe-Eddy’s worktable.

  “Across the street,” she said, “crew cut, glasses. Works for Cursion.”

  “On it,” said Conner, as Sevrin scrambled over the console, into the driver’s seat, as what she thought of as the projector hatch in the drone’s carapace opened, something neutrally colored and vaguely cylindrical lifting out of it on quad rotors, more noisily than Verity’s drones from their Pelican case, to whisk out the open door.

  In the center of the street now, something like an explosive exhalation of vape. She couldn’t see the man with the wire-rims.

  Then Sevrin was driving them up Geary, away from a growing chorus of irritated horns. Virgil, who’d fallen back into the seat beside the drone, was fastening his seatbelt.

  “What did you do?” Verity asked Conner.

  “Fentanyl analog,” said Conner, “aerosol.”

  “You killed him?” she asked.

  “Might have gotten him run over,” Conner said, “but more likely he just blacked out. Ash’ll be pissed, but his records indicate he has some moves. Didn’t want him getting across the street.”

  “Trimethyl phentanylum?” Ash asked, not sounding particularly angry to Verity.

  “They got it on a darknet,” Conner said. “Right drone and aerosolizer, you’re good to go. Installed thirty minutes before Verity turned up.”

  Sevrin, having taken a left, took another, headed in the direction opposite the one they’d departed in, on a street parallel to Geary, driving as though nothing had happened. Sirens seemed to be converging, but then she realized the van was directly behind the Clift.

  “Who was that?” asked Wilf.

  “Someone Cursion sent to bug Joe-Eddy’s,” Verity said, sitting back and buckling her seatbelt. “Eunice showed him to me in a feed, when he was up there. He saw me getting in the van, recognized me, started to cross, but Conner zapped him.” She looked at the drone, which Virgil and Sevrin hadn’t had time to belt in. “Thanks, Conner.”

  “De nada.”

  “Where are we going?” Verity asked.

  “For a change of license plates and the application of decals,” Ash said. “We had planned to take you back to the Bertrand-Howell project site, but that’s been scratched, given media have a link between you and Stets’ star assistant.”

  “‘Star assistant,’” said Virgil, who hadn’t opened his mouth since climbing into the van, from his seat beside the drone. “You write for tabloids?”

  “Quoting one’s site, two minutes ago,” said Ash.

  66

  NONNEURAL

  What are they doing now?” Rainey asked, sounding as if she were in the kitchen. He
was watching the surprisingly graceful movements of the men Ash said were applying decals to this vehicle’s exterior.

  Netherton muted. “A Cursion operative spotted Verity. Someone she recognized. He tried to get closer to us as we were about to leave. Conner used a small drone, knocked him out with an aerosol.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In a vehicle like the one that brought us from Oakland, presently in a parking structure, not far from the hotel. A section of the place has been curtained off for privacy. Men are applying large decals to the top, back, and sides.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Verity, Virgil, and Sevrin, the driver. And money launderer, according to Ash. She and Conner are accessing the drone with me.”

  “Can they hear us?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Ash and Conner are silent. Our three locals have their phones out and seem to be catching up on the news.”

  “How is the news?”

  “They strike me as gravely concerned, but not speechless with horror.”

  Verity, to the drone’s left, looked up from her phone. “More Russian jets down?”

  “Two,” Virgil answered, on the drone’s right, “but Syrian, not Russian.”

  “I should go now,” Netherton said to Rainey, deciding not to share this with her immediately.

  “Go,” Rainey said, “bye.”

  He unmuted. “Is it worse, then?” he asked.

  “Definitely not better,” Verity said. She seemed to be watching water sluice down the windshield. Coveralled decal-appliers were working to either side, while two more, on ladders, apparently did the roof, plus another at the rear. “They look choreographed,” she said, just as the water stopped flowing and small electric motors started in unison.

  Heat guns, Netherton saw, through the window tint, like antique hair dryers. “Where to next?” he asked.

  “Waiting for instructions,” Ash said.

  “How would you know that it isn’t Cursion giving you directions?” Netherton asked.

  “Because they’re given to Sevrin by his brother, in Moldovan, and they have their own security signals. In the meantime, Verity can visit with me in E8, if she likes. Verity?”

  Verity turned to the drone. “Is the peripheral there?” she asked.

  “No,” said Ash, “and I haven’t much to offer you in the way of a telepresence device. Barest bones.” Netherton wondering if she meant that last literally.

  “Won’t that leave me frozen on the seat here?” Verity looked questioningly at Virgil. “What if something happens and we need to get out?”

  “There’s no neural cut-out for this device,” Ash said. “It has no moving parts. You’ll be able to hear what’s going on around you there, and take the controller off yourself, if need be.”

  “Okay,” Verity said.

  “Virgil,” Ash said, “could you please help Verity with the controller? This won’t require the saline paste.”

  Virgil loosened his safety belt and turned, taking the case from the seat behind the drone. He placed it on his lap, then removed its top and sides. Seeing the stub-built controller a second time, it struck Netherton that it wouldn’t stand out at all, on the table next to Ash’s yurt.

  “I don’t want that goop in my hair again,” Verity said.

  Virgil helped Verity settle the controller on her head, reaching over the top of the drone.

  “You’ll have audio-visual,” Ash said, “but no control, other than asking me to point it in desired directions.”

  “Nausea?” Verity asked.

  “No,” said Ash, “it’s neurologically too low-res to readily induce it. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Virgil reached over again, to touch a switch on the side of the controller.

  “Hello,” Verity said.

  “Welcome,” said Ash.

  For Verity’s sake, Netherton hoped they weren’t meeting in the flesh-yurt.

  67

  COLLAGE MINUS GLUE

  Is this the same year?” Verity asked Ash, who had a tangle of ultrablack hair, gray eyes below it, and wore a pale, acidy greenish-yellow shade of lipstick. She appeared to be about ten feet from Verity, while behind her stretched a single long room, its white walls windowless, the floor gray and smooth, the look of gallery space repurposed from something else.

  “It is,” Ash said.

  “I can’t move my head,” Verity said, having just tried.

  “You haven’t a neck or shoulders,” Ash said. She came forward, wearing motorcycle boots, flowing dark pants tucked into them, and a smoothly iridescent brown carapace. She reached out, picked Verity up, and flipped her over.

  “Whoa.”

  “Sorry,” said Ash. “I promised you a nausea-free visit.”

  They were in front of a long table, as cluttered as Joe-Eddy’s workbench but very differently textured. Ash panned Verity’s point of view the length of it, right to left. Past its end appeared what Verity took to be a hut, looking as though it had been composted from something else. In front of this was a large black-and-chrome motorcycle, old-fashioned but gleaming. “This is where you live?” Verity asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “In the yurt.” Ash swung whatever Verity inhabited back to the table, stopping at an antique vanity mirror on a tarnished silver base, then raised her, directly in front of the mirror. Verity saw the head of a doll, china, its wide eyes gray.

  “You both have gray eyes,” Verity said.

  “I had mine altered recently,” Ash said, “though this is the gray I was born with. I bought the doll before I had it done, to help me decide.”

  “Can I see what’s on the table again?”

  Ash swung the doll head to the right. “Collage minus glue, Wilf says.”

  Verity glanced over decorated gourds, bundles of feathers, basketry, ethnic musical instruments both stringed and wind, ceramics, rolled tapestries, candlesticks, a tall samovar, and, most distinctively, what appeared to her to be a completely rusted submachine gun, covered with the dingy yellow plastic letters of fridge-magnet alphabets, spelling nothing Verity recognized. All of it absent anything Joe-Eddy could have de-soldered. “Is Joe-Eddy okay?” she asked, reminded of him.

  “Appears to be,” Ash said. “He assumes they keylogged him, when they bugged the place. He’s right, of course.”

  “Shit,” said Verity, “my laptop,” then remembered that Eunice had had someone take it from the apartment before the bugging, along with her passport.

  “Guilherme,” said Ash, “has delivered, via the current pair of lawyers, a phone encrypted in a way even the aunties can’t break. Joe-Eddy can use it in bed, under the bedclothes.”

  A higher purpose for black sheets, Verity thought. “The Manzilian,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That’s what Joe-Eddy calls Guilherme. What happened to the guy Conner gassed?”

  “Kevin Pryor,” Ash said. “Ex-Army, Intelligence Corps.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He wasn’t alone. Colleagues got him off the scene before police or the ambulance arrived. We assume he regained consciousness immediately, no injury when he collapsed. One of Eunice’s branch plants has quite a bit on him. He isn’t part of Cursion, but a freelancer they’ve used before. None of the principals at Cursion has an intelligence background, though neither do they assume they need one. They do, however, which is why they’ve repeatedly hired him. Lowbeer regards him as more dangerous than they are.”

  “Why?”

  “Intelligence background, of course, but also he’s differently ambitious. He isn’t wealthy, and she assumes he’s not satisfied with being a freelancer. She thinks he likely poses as much of a threat to the
m as he does to us.”

  “Would he know what even hit him, back there?”

  “Not necessarily, but we assume he knows quite a bit about you, given his current assignment. So we’re keeping an eye out for him.”

  “Where are we going now?” Verity asked. Sevrin had showed her the van’s new decals on his phone. Logo of a vegan wholesaler in Chico, stylized vines and swirling leaves, the roof entirely green.

  “Dogpatch, according to Sevrin,” said Ash. “Which may change, now that he thinks he’s spotted someone following the van on a motorcycle.”

  “Shit,” said Verity.

  “Best get used to it,” said Ash. “Would you like to go back to the van now?”

  “Yes,” said Verity, and instantly was.

  68

  DOGPATCH

  Netherton was watching Verity in the drone’s left peripheral display as she turned to look back.

  “Where are we?” she asked. “Where’s the motorcycle?”

  “Dogpatch,” said Sevrin, which meant nothing to Netherton. “They’re four cars back.”

  Verity unfastened her safety belt and turned completely around, to kneel on the seat. Netherton watched her profile. Virgil, he saw in the opposite display, was similarly kneeling, peering back.

  “We stop for red,” Sevrin said, “they get closer. Like now.”

  Netherton reflexively squinted at the display’s narrow rearview band as the van came to a halt, producing, to his surprise, the sudden enlargement of a motorcycle, coming up behind them along the street’s centerline, its driver’s face hidden by a white helmet.

  “Slows, when getting closer,” Sevrin said. “Never right behind us. Technique.”

  “I may know who that is,” Verity said.

  “Sit down,” Sevrin said, “buckle up.” The light changed and he drove on.

  Verity and Virgil, on either side of the drone, turned back around and fastened their belts.