“No. Sorry.” He looked down the bar. “Hey, Millie, what do I have to do to get served?”
“Sorry,” the bartender said, wearily. “That’s another gin-and-tonic, and a scotch, up?”
“Right.”
Trouble lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. The bartender worked her machines, produced two more short glasses, and set them down in front of the stranger. He took them with the care of a man who’s already had too many, and turned away without leaving a tip. The bartender’s mouth tightened, but she looked away. “You wanted coffee?”
Trouble nodded. “Please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black.”
The bartender nodded, and headed back down the bar toward the coffee machine. Trouble leaned against the heavy display top, watched the menu flashing under her elbows. This was what she hated most about the on-line world, the shadows as much as the bright lights of the legal nets: too many men assumed that the nets were exclusively their province, and were startled and angry to find out that it wasn’t. They were the same people who feared the brainworm, feared the intensity of its sensations, data translated not as image and words alone, but as the full range of feeling, the entire response of the body, and, rather than ever admit fear, they walked with raised hackles, looking for a fight. It had gotten worse since Evans-Tindale: the new laws had broken the fragile alliances that had held the nets together, rewarding one set of netwalkers over the rest. Behind her, she could hear the conversations slowly starting up again; she could also hear the edge to them, ready to tumble into mockery or hostility. She loosened the belt of her coat, let it hang loose over her jacket and the open-necked shirt, and reached for the mug that the bartender slid toward her.
“You said you wanted a phone?” the bartender asked.
“Yeah,” Trouble said, and took a cautious sip of the coffee. “Can you run it here?”
“Sure.” The bartender reached under the counter, came up with a familiar black-and-silver comset, set it in front of the other woman. Trouble took it, smiling her thanks, and reached around the side for the datacord. This was precaution more than necessity, and she was not surprised to feel a faint pressure, the trace of another presence haunting her line. She blinked once, saw familiar icons overlaid on her vision, let herself fall into the fast time of the net—
—and sees lines running silver across her eyes, weaving through the bar, sees a stranger on the line, an unknown icon, generic in shape—there to listen? to spy? simply to harass? She carries nothing more than utilities in her bioware, runs the rest from hardware—and cuts that thought as useless. The phone system is there, and the local machine that drives it, and that’s weapon enough, in her hands. She reaches for the phone buttons, fingers impossibly slow, touches four keys to override the local system—syscop’ s privilege—and then she’s in the heart of the system. She finds a dormant tracer, long unused, and launches it. It strikes gold at once, and as the numbers come up in front of her eyes, she repeats them, ties herself to the stranger’s phone and sets her fingers on two buttons at once, letting the shrill noise echo painfully through her ears, into the nerves where the brainworm can amplify it to the point where even the unwired can hear, and feel—
—and blinked away the silver lines, the blinding icons, to see one of the men at the corner table, a young man, spike-haired in a leather jacket draped with chains, jerk the cord out of his head, wincing at the feedback.
“Wired, by God,” someone said, not quite softly enough.
Trouble smiled, very slightly, and nodded toward the spike-haired man. She could feel herself falling into the old stance, all lazy confidence, one thumb hooked into the pocket of her jeans, the open coat swinging from her shoulders like a cape, and disciplined herself to show no further sign of the delight that bubbled up in her. It had been a long time since she’d had to play that game.
She turned back to the bar, certain now that no one else would try to bother her, and keyed in van Liesvelt’s codes. There was a little pause, the signal pulsing in her head, and then the machine clicked on.
“Hi, this is Butch. I’m not home right now—”
She cut it off, knowing—hoping, anyway—that van Liesvelt was on his way, and pulled the cord free of the dollie-slot, letting the hidden spring tug it back into its housing. She was suddenly very tired, but didn’t dare relax, not yet, not in front of this crowd. She took another swallow of the hot coffee, and the bartender slid a plate onto the counter in front of her. Trouble nodded, and looked around for the chit to thumbprint.
The bartender waved a hand, the gesture screened from the rest of the bar. “No charge,” she said softly.
“Thanks,” Trouble said, startled, but the other woman was already looking away.
“You done with the phone?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Trouble said, and the bartender carried it away. Trouble shrugged to herself, and turned her attention to the food.
She realized that she was hungry as soon as she took the first bite of the hamburger. The meat was rare, the way she’d always liked it, and seasoned with coarse black pepper; the tomato tasted of summer. She finished it quickly, along with the first cup of coffee. The bartender, silent, still not meeting her eyes, refilled the mug, and Trouble started on the fries. The club seemed to be getting used to her presence: the conversations resumed, and once or twice she heard ordinary laughter, though the men who came to the bar for drinks gave her a wide berth. She ignored them, and they ignored her; still, she knew a few of them were staring when they thought she wasn’t looking, not entirely hostile, now, but curious and, maybe, just a little bit afraid. The unregenerate shadow-walker in her rejoiced at the thought.
She was finishing the last french fry when the door opened again, and she looked up to see van Liesvelt standing silhouetted against the dawn light. She lifted a hand in greeting, and pulled herself up from against the bar. Van Liesvelt came to meet her, holding out his arms in greeting. It was done for effect, she knew, to annoy the watching netwalkers, who held back from physical display off the nets, fastidious to the point of prudishness. She returned the embrace with interest, was enveloped in his familiar smell.
“So you’re back in the game. You look,” van Liesvelt said, “like a gunslinger.”
Trouble laughed softly, not entirely displeased by the image. “I’m back,” she agreed, loudly enough for the entire bar to hear, and reached for the bag she had left at her feet. “I appreciate the favor.”
“No problem at all,” van Liesvelt said, and held the door.
Trouble walked past him into the morning light, the rising sun throwing shadows the length of a city block. The air smelled of oil and dew. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the rumble of an early train; closer at hand, a truck engine whirred and finally caught, settled into a steady rhythm.
“Sorry about the short notice,” she said, “but I’m in a bit of a bind.”
“It’s all right,” van Liesvelt said. “I’m sorry I’m late.” He looked around, blinking a little in the strong light. “What are you driving?”
“I bought a trike.”
“Bring it,” van Liesvelt said. “I bought a place with parking last year.”
“That’s new.” Trouble started toward the tricycle, reaching into her pocket for the security remote, and van Liesvelt grinned.
“The fines were getting expensive.” He stopped beside a rust-mottled runabout, tugged the door open. “You can follow me. There’s not enough traffic this time of day to complicate things.”
Trouble nodded, and deactivated the trike’s security field. She slung her bag back into the carrier, thumbed on the engine, and then sat, motor idling, while van Liesvelt coaxed the runabout into reluctant motion. She followed him along the uncrowded main street, back past the park, and then along the edge of the district until they came to the black-glass walls of the Interbank complex, and finally turned down a side street she didn’t recognize. At its far end, they turned again, into
a cul-de-sac that was still entirely in shadow. Van Liesvelt pulled his runabout to a stop outside a tired-looking wooden door, popped the driver’s door, and climbed out. Trouble pulled the trike in behind him, lifted off her helmet.
“What’s this?”
“My place.” Van Liesvelt snapped open an ancient padlock, and hauled at the door. “Give me a hand, will you?”
Trouble came to join him, put her own weight against the door. It resisted for a moment longer, then slid open, the unoiled hinges shrieking. She winced, and said, “You could fix that, you know. You could even get a motor, and a remote hookup.”
“You can jimmy electronics a lot easier than you can fiddle this,” van Liesvelt said, and stepped back into the runabout.
That was true enough, Trouble thought, and went back to the trike, waiting for him to roll the runabout into the darkness. The machine vanished, and its engine cut out; a moment later, a light came on inside. Trouble sighed, and pushed the trike into the garage, edging as close to the walls as she could. There was just enough room. “So, what have you been up to, that you need that kind of security?”
“Stuff,” van Liesvelt answered, and grinned. He was standing at another door, this one opening onto a stairway.
“Sorry,” Trouble said, and lifted her bags out of the trike’s carrier.
“I’ll tell you when you’ve had some sleep,” van Liesvelt said, and led the way up the stairs.
She was never fully sure, afterwards, just how she got into the apartment, woke at sunset to the soft sound of voices in the outer room. As she had expected, her shoulders were tight from the trike’s steering, and she stretched cautiously, working the muscles until they loosened. She sat up carefully, tilted her head to listen, until she was sure she didn’t recognize the voice of whoever it was with van Liesvelt—a woman’s voice, certainly, but that was all. She swung herself out of the narrow bed, scanning the room—landlord-white walls, the bed, her bags set on top of the only table, bare sof-tile underfoot, typical cheap city flat—and padded naked across the floor to collect her clothes. She wondered briefly if van Liesvelt had undressed her, or if she’d managed it herself, then shook the thought away and began pulling on clothing.
Dressed in jeans and loose pullover, she pulled the door open, found herself looking out into a hallway drenched in red light. The setting sun was framed in the window at the end of the hall, sinking into the jagged skyline; the voices were louder, van Liesvelt and the woman, and she started down the hall toward them, her bare feet silent on the tiles. She paused just outside the only open door, and heard van Liesvelt laugh, low and genuinely amused. That sounded safe enough, and she stepped into the doorway. Van Liesvelt was standing in the center of the crowded, brightly lit room, a small glass in one hand, a frosted bottle in the other, and a fat woman sat on the couch in front of him, looking up. The television flared soundlessly behind her, displaying a weather report. She saw the movement behind van Liesvelt, and leaned sideways, frowning. Trouble lifted both hands, displayed them empty, and van Liesvelt turned to face her.
“Good morning to you, Trouble.”
“Good morning. Or whatever.” Trouble came on into the room, aware of the fat woman’s eyes on her, and was careful to keep her hands very much in sight. There was something about the stranger’s stance, the controlled stillness of her heavy body, that made Trouble feel the need for caution.
“You want a drink?” van Liesvelt went on, and Trouble nodded. “Vodka all right?”
“I expect it’ll have to be,” Trouble answered, and van Liesvelt’s grin widened.
“It’s what I’ve got.”
“It’s fine.” Trouble looked sideways, saw the stranger still watching her, looked back at van Liesvelt. “It’d be nice if you’d make introductions, Butch.”
“Oh, yes.” Van Liesvelt filled another of the small glasses and handed it across. Trouble took it, feeling the cold of the vodka even through the heavy glass. “This is a good friend of mine from the nets, the lady you were looking for—she’s since your time, Trouble, but she’s very, very good. Michellina Huu.”
The fat woman nodded, gravely.
Van Liesvelt went on, “And this is Trouble—not the one you’re thinking of.”
Huu smiled at that, almond eyes narrowing. “I’m glad. No one needs that hassle.”
“That’s what she’s here about,” van Liesvelt said. “Am I right, Trouble?”
Trouble seated herself on the edge of the chair nearest the door, said, “That’s right. I don’t take kindly to someone usurping my name.”
Huu said, “Who does?” She was very well dressed, Trouble saw, a heavy silk suit that almost had to be bespoke, and a few pieces of what looked like carved jade. Her sleek black hair was cut in an angled cap that flattered her broad face, and Trouble felt distinctly plain by comparison.
“I told her you’d be wanting to do some business,” van Liesvelt said, and Trouble nodded.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ve been working in the bright lights for a few years,” she said, talking through him now to Huu. “It’s about time I had an upgrade.”
“Well,” Huu said. She looked from Trouble to van Liesvelt and back again, and her impassivity broke into a sudden good-natured grin. “You’re a closemouthed bastard, Butch. You might give me a little more warning. Exactly what are you looking for, Trouble?”
“I told you to bring your kit,” van Liesvelt said. “And a full set of spares.”
“That might have been for you,” Huu said. “God knows, you’re always blowing something.”
Trouble said, “I need a new processor, for a worm. I’ve been hearing about the Prior high-speed set, but I’m open to suggestions.”
“It’s a good set,” van Liesvelt said.
“Expensive,” Huu said.
“How expensive?” Trouble looked from one to the other, and van Liesvelt shrugged.
“It runs about thirty-five hundred, installed,” Huu said.
“I heard you were family,” Trouble said.
“That is the family price,” Huu answered.
Trouble lifted an eyebrow.
“That includes the board, and the plate, plus the linkage,” Huu said. “And everything’s new, straight-out-of-the-factory steriles, so you don’t have to worry about who had them last. And the BOSRAM update, of course. Plus installation. And I don’t take plastic.”
Trouble sighed, calculating. She could afford it, but it wouldn’t leave her much for other expenses. “I’ve got thirteen-fifty in citiscrip and twelve hundred in bearer cards. Another four-fifty in U.S. dollars.”
Huu looked at van Liesvelt, who nodded slowly. “I’ll cover the rest.”
“That’s not necessary, Butch,” Trouble began, and van Liesvelt waved away her protest.
“Yes, it is.”
Huu said, “Pay me three thousand up front, you can owe me the rest.”
Trouble nodded. “When can we do this?”
Huu spread her hands. “Butch told me to bring my kit. Now, if you’d like.”
“Worm and all?” Trouble asked sharply. The linkages were complex; even though the original installation had done the hardest work, running the molecular wires directly into the brain, fitting the new processor to the input channels needed painstaking care.
“I was trained in Europe,” Huu said, and grinned. “Amsterdam.”
Van Liesvelt nodded.
Trouble nodded back, reassured. Amsterdam was the great center for legal training. “You’ve got a Prior with you?”
“Everyone wants them,” Huu answered. “Of course I carry them.”
“All right.” Trouble looked at van Liesvelt, recognizing her own reluctance and impatient with it, but unable quite to control it. “Can I get something to eat?”
“Not until I’m finished,” Huu interrupted.
“I’ll put something in the nuke,” van Liesvelt said. “You want to use the bathroom, Doc?”
Huu nodded, but stayed in her place. Cash in adva
nce, Trouble thought, and pushed herself up out of her chair. “I’ll get the money.”
The hall was dark now, lights gleaming in the buildings beyond the window. She made her way back into the little bedroom, switched on the blinding overhead light, and rummaged in her bags until she’d collected the money. It was probably the best thing for her, doing the installation more or less spur of the moment, and she knew she should be grateful to van Liesvelt for setting it up like this. She hated the installation process, which he knew, hated it more each time she had to go through it, and it was better not to have to spend a night or two sweating over it. It wasn’t so much the risk of a screw-up. That was there, all right, less likely than an accident on the flyway but worse to contemplate, brain miswired, or damaged, leaving her a drooling idiot. It was a risk she’d learned to live with, faced every time she confronted serious IC(E) or even, on some level, every time she stepped out onto the net itself. Power surges happened, rare but real, overriding the inbuilt safeties of the implanted systems, and there was nothing you could do about it, except stay off the net altogether. No, it was the installation itself she hated, and tuning her reflexes to the new system, body given over to pure sensation, inflicted without passion, without feeling, by a stranger’s hands. Maybe that was why the serious netwalkers, the original inhabitants of the nets, hated the brainworm: not so much because it gave a different value, a new meaning, to the skills of the body, but because it meant taking that risk, over and above the risk of the worm itself. Maybe that was why it was almost always the underclasses, the women, the people of color, the gay people, the ones who were already stigmatized as being vulnerable, available, trapped by the body, who took the risk of the wire. And you are trying to put this off, she told herself firmly. Get on with it.
She went back into the main room, laid the money on the low table in front of Huu. The citiscrip foils glittered in the light, bright against the bearer cards and the crumpled wad of oldmoney. Huu counted it quickly, and slipped the pile into her jacket pocket.
Trouble and her Friends Page 13