“How do you know the person you think this may be?” Ash asked.
“Maybe drove me to Oakland,” Verity said. “Eunice arranged it. I got an e-mail as soon as she was gone, written earlier, telling me to go with him. He works in 3.7, the coffee place on Valencia, not that we knew each other.”
“Did he tell you anything about his relationship with Eunice?” Ash asked.
“He never spoke. Assume he can’t.”
“Now,” Sevrin said, taking a sharp right, almost simultaneously braking, hard, into a paved space. A car passed, a second, and then the motorcycle, one of the largest Netherton had seen, swung smoothly into what free space remained, stopping about three meters from their sliding passenger door.
The rider put his booted feet down and sat on the motorcycle, wearing a black leather jacket and an immaculately white helmet.
“That your man?” Conner asked.
“I think so,” said Verity.
The rider raised a hand, flipped up the helmet’s visor. He wore a white filtration mask. Above its upper left edge, Netherton saw a glint of metal.
“That’s him,” Verity said.
Netherton flinched, as the drone suddenly shifted position to his left, putting more of its torso between Verity and the man on the motorcycle. Its arms, no longer handless, were extended now as well, though Netherton had scarcely seen that happen, the left grasping the back of the front passenger seat, the right the end of the bench. Virgil, finding himself between the drone and the stranger, unfastened his seatbelt again.
The rider gestured, twice, with his fingers. Come.
“Your call,” Conner said.
“I’ll speak with him,” Verity said.
“I let you past,” Conner said, “Sevrin opens the door, you get out. I’m behind you but at the open door. You good, Sevrin?”
“Good,” Sevrin said.
“Say go,” said Conner.
“Go,” said Verity, already moving forward, as the door began to open.
69
HEATHKIT
Stepping down, in front of the barista on his Harley, it occurred to Verity that she should probably have the hoodie up, because people in the building whose parking lot this was might be getting pictures or video of the encounter, particularly if they could also see the drone. This rare and temporary patch of fall sunlight felt great, though, so she left it down.
The barista reached up and pulled his mask away from his face, then down. Releasing it, it rode beneath his chin like a white plastic voice box.
“Is Eunice dead?” she asked him.
He briskly mimed the emoji she thought of as amazement at another’s cluelessness, his open palms turning briefly up, with a simultaneous shrug and eye roll. Then he raised a forefinger, reached into his jacket pocket with the other hand, and produced a folded paper bag, handing it to her. Stamped in brown, she saw, with 3.7-sigma’s logo.
There seemed to be nothing in it. She unfolded it. The all-caps message was in fluorescent pink industrial paint pen:
GRIM TIM HERE THO WEVE MET. BET YOU WANT TO KNOW WHATS HAPPENED TO E I DONT KNOW. SHES NOT AVAILABLE BUT SOME PIECES SEEM TO BE & AND I EXPECT YOULL BE HEARING FROM THEM. ONE TOLD ME YOU WERE LEAVING THE HOTEL & TO FOLLOW YOU & RETURN YR GEAR MODDED FOR SECURITY. PHONE AND GLASSES BOTH REENCRYPTED BY EUNICES PIECES SO THATS IT.
“Grim Tim,” she said, looking up from his note.
He was opening a black mesh bag, bungeed to the top of the Harley’s tank. He looked up, flashing her a version of that look of somehow agreeable contempt she knew from 3.7. From the mesh he produced what she assumed was the Faraday pouch she’d seen before. When she’d accepted it, he pulled up his mask, lowered the visor of his helmet, took his pink-lettered message from her, crumpled it one-handed, stuffed it back into his jacket pocket, and gunned his engine slightly.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a step back, uncertain how she felt about communicating with some sort of partial Eunice.
He turned the Harley, waited for a gap in the traffic, and was gone, a single sharp backfire ringing in his wake.
“Get in,” Conner said, from the drone behind her. “Time we go.” She turned, to find it standing in the open passenger door, arms braced. “Let me sniff that first.” And one arm was there, that quickly, long and thin, with three different kinds of retractable device, sensors she supposed, in various proximities to the bag. “Seems clean,” he said. “Get in. I’ll open it.”
“I’ll open it myself,” she said, climbing up, past the drone and into the van, where Sevrin remotely closed the door behind her.
Taking her seat behind Sevrin, she held the pouch on her lap in both hands. Sevrin was turning the van, then waiting for an opening in traffic. When one arrived, he pulled out. She undid the pouch’s folded lips and looked down into it. Against its white lining, she saw the Tulpagenics phone, the case for the glasses, the headset, and their three chargers.
When she spread the temples of the glasses she found their inner surfaces had been shallowly excavated, then refilled with something darker. “He said everything’s been modded for security. Ash?”
“Yes?”
“He said Eunice’s branch plants will be in touch. So should I put these on, turn on the phone?”
“Wouldn’t you, even if I told you not to?” Ash asked. “I would.”
“Why didn’t you know that would be him, following us?”
“That would be the branch plants,” Ash said. “They aren’t very forthcoming.”
Verity put the glasses on. She got out the Tulpagenics phone. Two small square holes had been neatly cut in the back of its case, then patched with dark blue plastic tape. When she powered it up, the display was unfamiliar. The headset, she found, had its own hole and blue patch. She turned that on as well, hung it on her ear, put the earbud in place, pressed power, then pressed power on the glasses, causing the headset to ping, once.
No cursor.
She let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She turned the phone over, looking at its back again. “Why did they cut these holes,” she asked Ash, “instead of just opening it?”
In her glasses: The unit is designed to self-destruct if opened by unauthorized personnel. Postfactory access now bypasses that system. Under no circumstances attempt further exploration, disassembly, or modification.
White Helvetica, across the back of her phone, her hand, her jeans. “Who are you?” she asked.
Unable to formulate reply.
She looked at Virgil.
He raised an eyebrow. “Sup?”
This communication is encrypted.
“This phone’s encrypted?”
All units are currently secure.
“May I speak with Eunice?”
No.
“Why?”
Unable to formulate reply.
“Who else can I communicate with, on this system?”
Make a specific request.
“Joe-Eddy?”
Not available.
“José Eduardo Alvarez-Matta?”
Available.
“No shit?”
Unable to formulate reply.
“How do I contact him?”
Text José Eduardo Alvarez-Matta as HEATHKIT. Press send.
Verity looked from Virgil down to the drone between them, then back up again. “It says I can text Joe-Eddy.”
“What does?” Virgil asked.
“One of Eunice’s branch plants, if Grim Tim was right. That’s how he introduced himself. Thing reads about as human as pharmaceutical instructions and won’t answer most questions. I’d text him now, but you told me he’d only be able to use it under the covers.”
“Do it anyway,” Ash said. “If he isn’t on the device now, he’ll see it when he next uses it.”
Verity, openi
ng Messages, started one to HEATHKIT. Hey, she typed, you okay? I’m okay. V.
Pressed send.
“Who else can I text?” she asked.
Make a specific request.
“Stets. Stetson Howell.”
Not available.
She frowned.
What are you wearing?
“Fuck off, Joe-Eddy.”
You probably don’t even have to pretend you’re fapping. I have to be under the covers with porn on my real phone, when I do this. Don’t know if it fools Cursion, but the lawyers are having a hard time not giving me looks.
“Got him,” she said, with a glance for the drone.
“How can you be sure?” asked Ash.
“If it’s not him, it’s a good facsimile,” Verity said, glancing back at the phone’s screen. Where she read:
Can’t chat but sending you prepared update of cryptic shit in meantime. Now back to living room before Trevor and Celeste decide I’ve suffered onanistic stroke, break down door to give me CPR. Take care tho not necessarily the way Trevor and Celeste think I’m doing.
“Make that a really good facsimile,” Verity said.
70
A BIT OF COSPLAY
Netherton felt Rainey settle on the couch beside him. He was watching Verity from the drone. It felt like sitting between the two of them, except that Rainey was invisible.
“You’ve been quiet,” Rainey said. “What’s happening?”
Netherton muted his link to the drone’s speaker. “We were followed by a man on a motorcycle. We’re still in or near something called the Dogpatch, as far as I know. Sevrin pulled over a few blocks ago. The motorcycle stopped, and its rider, a man with jewelry attached to his face, gave Verity a bag containing a manual phone and accessories and rode away. We’re on our way again now, no idea where.”
“What’s Verity doing?”
“She questioned what she assumes is one of Eunice’s subselves, her so-called laminae, on the phone she was given.”
“What did it say?”
“It put her in touch with Joe-Eddy, the man she stays with in San Francisco.”
“When you have an opportunity,” Rainey said, “ask her if there’s anything you can do to help.”
“With what?”
“The point being that it’s a general offer of assistance. Meanwhile, though, Lowbeer wants you in her car.”
“Why?”
“To take you to Cheapside.”
“Obligate cosplay,” he protested. “I’ve nothing period to wear.”
“You do now. She’s had assemblers rebuild a few items from your wardrobe. I spared you fly buttons on the trousers, though. Contemporary fastenings disguised as period, there.”
“Why Cheapside?”
“Clovis Fearing lives there. Said the three of you have something to discuss.”
“Did she say what it is?”
“Of course not. Wants you soonest.”
“What about the controller?”
“Definitely not period, unless you have it rebuilt in beaver.”
Netherton sighed, though he was getting rather tired of the couch. He unmuted. “I’ll be away for a bit,” he said.
Verity glanced up from whatever she was reading on the phone. “’Kay,” she said, which he understood as a low-intensity affirmative. No one else responded. He removed the controller and set it down beside him on the couch.
“Let me have a look at you when you’re dressed,” Rainey said. “You know I don’t mind a bit of cosplay.” She winked.
71
CATCHING UP
So Wednesday after I left u in W+L w Gavin I’m up here w the Manzilian negotiating a purchase for Eunice, and on the basis of that hooking him up with her directly. So I did hook them up while u were both with Gavin n she multitasked. Afterward I’m melting solder & pondering all this insane shit & u walk in I assume with Eunice, go into the kitchen. I get a text from Eunice I should go out, walk around. I do, all wearing the goggles, which get some looks but I don’t want to miss her. So she texts me I should walk around a little more. So I’m in a bookstore and bang she tells me Cursion’s about to try to take her down. Doesn’t know if they can or not but she has to assume it’ll be permanent if they do. Ask her where you are & she says with her but she’s made arrangements to get you somewhere safe. Says that what the Manzilian n I have been working on is part of a network to protect you & everyone in it. There’s us, the Manzilian, this money guy Sevrin who goes by Miguel, fabbers in Oakland. Plus more I haven’t hooked up with yet, all her hires, everybody earning over market in whatever field. Went over the cams Cursion installed here, how she’s spoofing them but that’ll stop when she’s gone. Who to expect turning up from her and how to positively identify em. Tells me to take care of you & the network & then she’s gone. So here I am under the covers with my thumbs getting sore but if you’re reading this it means we’ve already said hello. J-E
She’d been looking out the window, as she read this. Now she turned to Virgil. He’d been watching her. “Stets always wanted to hire him,” he said, “but we didn’t have anything for anyone like that to do.”
“If you had,” she said, “Stets and I wouldn’t have gotten together. Office romance with the boss is awkward enough, but not with your cousin working there.”
“He’s your cousin?” Virgil asked.
“No,” she said, “but like that.”
72
DON’T DAWDLE
Assemblers not only produced perfect bespoke replicas of period costume, Netherton was reminded, putting on the black knee-length frock coat, but made them look as though the wearer had previously worn them, a subtlety of cosplay he knew he hadn’t matched with his knotting of this somber silk necktie. Fortunately it was the most problematically fastened garment of the lot, both the frock coat and the calf-length topcoat having, as Rainey had promised, period-accurate but perfectly manageable buttons. The shirt and trousers, and the high black shoes, though they appeared to button quite elaborately, employed invisible contemporary fasteners. He wouldn’t have bothered changing into the period-accurate underpants, but for Rainey having slyly mentioned wanting to see him in them later.
And no topper, to his great relief, Lowbeer having evidently recalled his dislike of them. Not that he particularly liked derbies either, he thought, as he put on this black one and considered the result in the bedroom mirror.
It did nothing for him, he decided, aside from definitively not being a top hat. He briefly tried imagining himself with a mustache, sideburns, or both. He’d never been interested in fancy dress, even as a child.
About to close the closet door, having tried to determine which garments of his the assemblers had made all this from, he noticed something unfamiliar propped inside, below his clothing. A walking stick, this proved to be, of what he assumed was ebony. Hexagonal in cross-section, with a round, complexly turned head of the same material, its top was inset with a well-worn sterling roundel, “W. Netherton” engraved across it in cursive. Lowbeer’s assemblers could have made this from his shoes, he decided, then noticed that several pairs of them were in fact missing. He must remember to insist on everything being returned to its original state, as much as he disliked the idea of that being accomplished in their bedroom closet.
A nicely balanced object, though, this stick. Pleasant in the hand. He opened the bedroom door, stepping out to show Rainey.
She whooped in delight, jumping up and running over, kissing him on the mouth, then took the derby and tried it on, tilting it quite far down over one eye. “You’ve found your winter look.” She grinned, and put it back on his head.
“Not a topper, at least. Forced to wear one last time I was coerced into going there. A City function in a guildhall, keeping Lev company. Reception afterward at a grillroom. You were still in Toronto.”
“Y
ou complained about it, I remember. But she called again, just now, while you were changing. Car waiting in the mews, gone helicopter again. Better get going.” She gave him an appraising look. “Are there garters?”
“Yes. Socks are wool, no elastic.”
“Whew,” she said, pretending to fan her face with her hand. “Can’t wait.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“I love you,” he said.
“Socks on the brain right now, but fond of you myself.”
Remembering the gesture from some ancient video, he saluted her by lightly tapping the derby’s brim with the shaft of the stick. “Phone if you need me.”
“I will,” she said.
He saw his breath as he stepped out into the mews, the night being colder than he’d expected. He stroked the topcoat’s sleeve seam, before remembering it wasn’t a heated garment. Continuing down the mews with the stick over his shoulder, he saw the car’s door decloaking. It opened, the step descending.
“Come in,” said Lowbeer, from inside.
He did. She wasn’t there. “I’m in Cheapside,” she said, as the door closed behind him, her voice omnidirectional. “Please have a seat.”
He did, choosing the one to the rear, in order to be facing forward. As he was becoming aware of the faint residual scent of one of her candles, he felt the car rise smoothly, in perfect silence, up out of Alfred Mews.
“Care for a view?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he said, preferring the buff walls. The walking stick lay diagonally across the oval table, the derby beside it.
The car was no longer rising now, and he was only faintly aware of forward momentum, though he knew this could be highly deceptive, as the attached quadcopter could be as fast as it was silent.
And so, shortly, descent, his sole awareness of landing one of cessation of movement. He stood, stick and derby in hand, to step up, out of the upholstered and carpeted pit. The door opened. He heard horses’ hooves, wheels rattling across cobbles, the distant chugging of a steam train.
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