Cerise felt her own mouth twist, stared at the top of Trouble’s head as though she was trying to memorize the way the hair grew from the other woman’s scalp, the short almost-curls springing from a straggling part, tumbling heavily across her skull and over the tips of her ears. “We might’ve cracked that IC(E) together,” she said, in spite of herself, and Trouble looked up sharply.
“Or we might’ve both gotten caught.” It was the old argument, the one that had driven them apart, or as near as made no difference, and she took hold of herself, said, carefully, “I screwed up, I admit it, but that was three years ago. We can’t change it.”
“No,” Cerise said, still with the twisted almost-smile, and then she made herself relax. “I suppose we can fight that out later. What matters now is to find this impostor of yours.”
“Not mine,” Trouble said instinctively, and was glad to see Cerise smile. “So what have you got on it?”
“Let’s trade,” Cerise said, and this time it was Trouble who grinned. “You first.”
Trouble’s grin widened, as though she might refuse, but she said, “I don’t know a whole lot, actually. The first thing I heard of it was Treasury showing up on my doorstep—literally, I was working as a syscop for an artists’ co-op—”
“You’re kidding,” Cerise said, and Trouble shrugged.
“It seemed the thing to do at the time. I stayed off the net for eight months after I left—and then I stayed in the bright lights, got myself syscop’s papers and got a real job.”
“A syscop,” Cerise said, and shook her head. “Well, set a thief to catch a thief.”
Trouble said, “But, like I said, I’ve been keeping a low profile. The first thing I knew about it was John Starling and his partner, what’s his name, Levy, I think, showing up to interview me about somebody using my local net as a springboard into the big BBS. I’m pretty sure that was just an excuse to check me out—my records were clean, and I’d’ve known if someone was screwing around on my boards.”
“What happened to the co-op?” Cerise asked.
Trouble poured herself another cup of coffee, buying time. “I—left—at their request. They said they couldn’t afford my problems.” She held up the pot, eyebrows rising in question, and Cerise shook her head. “So Butch van Liesvelt had showed up on my back porch the night before Treasury came down, to warn me they were interested, and when I had to run, I looked him up. I got an updated implant, and then we did some snooping around. Fate—remember Fate?—has had some dealings with newTrouble, and he told me he was based in Seahaven. This one, that is. He was not real happy with newTrouble. I guess he’d spent a couple of days mopping up Treasury watchdogs and snoops after the last time newTrouble was in his system.” Trouble took a deep breath. “He did tell me one other thing, though. NewTrouble’s on the wire.”
“Is he, now,” Cerise said softly. “That’s very interesting.”
“So what do you have?”
“Interpol doesn’t know he’s on the wire,” Cerise said, as if the other hadn’t spoken. “They’re worrying about viruses at this point.” She shook herself, frowning as she tried to organize her thoughts, said, “Hand me an English muffin, will you?”
“You’re eating before noon?” Trouble asked, but found one of the still-warm muffins in the bread basket. It oozed butter—Eastman House didn’t skimp on cholesterol, it seemed—and she found a plate to set it on before handing it across. Cerise took it with a nod of thanks.
“Help yourself, there’s plenty.”
“No, thanks,” Trouble said, but picked a strawberry from among the garnishes. It was out of season, but tasted better than she’d expected, and she ate another. “So what’s this about viruses, and Interpol?”
“I gather that newTrouble’s been playing games in Europe,” Cerise said, indistinctly, through a mouthful of bread. “But let me start at the beginning. We—Multiplane, that is—had an intrusion. I was on line and tracked it, but lost the intruder in the BBS.”
“Naturally,” Trouble muttered, and Cerise nodded.
“My programs, and the later autopsy of the icepick that was used, suggested it was your work—I think it was a sixty-five or seventy percent probability, something like that—but it didn’t really feel like your hand.” She smiled thinly, remembering Coigne’s response. “My boss, Coigne, disagreed, said it was you, so I started looking for myself. I didn’t talk to Treasury personally, my people did that, but I ran into Max Helling on the net and he put me in contact with someone from Interpol. And he—Mabry, his name is—gave me what they’d picked up, mostly code fragments and the occasional virus. Apparently newTrouble’s been doing some cracking in the European nets, and was leaving a few viruses behind him. None of them were really damaging payloads, but the corporations have been—concerned.”
“Not unreasonably,” Trouble said.
“And Max and Mabry seem to be a couple,” Cerise said. “For what it’s worth.” She leaned forward, holding out her plate. “Would you hand me another muffin? I have a disk for you, if you want to look at it.”
Trouble did as she’d asked. “Yeah, I’d like to get a look at this person’s work.”
“My setup’s there,” Cerise said, and pointed to the modules laid out on the shelf at the front of the media center. “The disk is loaded and cued, hit any key to run it.”
Trouble picked up a slice of melon, crossed to the media center. “Can I keep this?” she asked, and touched a key to start the display.
“It’s yours if you want it,” Cerise answered, with another of her thin smiles. She watched as Trouble stared down into the screen, still gnawing delicately on the slice of melon, brows drawing down into the faint, familiar thoughtful frown. And it was strange to think of that expression as familiar even now, and not entirely pleasant like another, unexpected, betrayal, and Cerise looked away, poured herself another cup of coffee that she didn’t want.
“That’s interesting,” Trouble said, in the controlled voice that had always boded ill for someone. “This person’s using most of my old routines.”
“Yes,” Cerise agreed, with enough mild amusement that Trouble turned to look at her. “Well, what’d you expect, Treasury pulled the match out of thin air? Of course it’s using your routines.”
Trouble grunted an acknowledgment, her eyes already back on the screen and the scrolling text. “A fair number of modifications, though—and he wasn’t working from first-generation copies. Looks like he got them second- or third-hand, with modifications already in place—I think there’re two hands in this, at least, or else he’s really careless.”
“Mabry said, and I agree, from what I saw in the autopsy, that it’s immature work. This person—you said he?—doesn’t like to do tidy work, only does it when he has to.”
Trouble nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s a he, or so Fate said.” She ran her hand across the control ball, recalling a section of text, stared at it for a moment longer before going on. “You know, I could be offended that anyone thought this was me.”
“And you used to complain I was arrogant,” Cerise said.
“Well, you are.” Trouble grinned, and Cerise smiled back in spite of herself.
“But I’ve earned it.” She uncurled herself from the chair, stretched legs and arms, and realized with a certain pleasure that Trouble was watching her, enjoying the play of muscles under the thin black tights. And that was playing with fire, she knew, but she had never been able to keep away from matches…. “So, what are your intentions?”
Trouble’s eyebrows rose in mute question, pointing the double meaning, and Cerise waved it away.
“Regarding newTrouble.”
Trouble looked at her for an instant too long, an imperceptible hesitation before she answered, “The word I have is, he lives here, somewhere in town. I’ve already stopped by Mollie Blake’s—you remember Mollie—but I thought I might take a walk along the Parcade, see if anyone wants to tell me where he’s at.”
Cerise sm
iled again, picturing Trouble’s styles of questioning. “Mind if I tag along? I want this guy, too, you know.”
“Dressed like that?”
“I can change.”
“Don’t tell me you got suited up just for me.”
Cerise pushed herself up out of the chair, heard the note of challenge in her voice as she answered, “I thought you should know where I stand these days.” She went into the bedroom without looking back, shedding her jacket as she went.
Trouble said behind her, “Head of on-line security for Multiplane. I’d heard. Sort of a glorified syscop—set a thief to catch a thief?”
It was only what she herself had said, her own jibe thrown back at her, but Cerise flinched anyway, and didn’t answer. She left the door open, worked the tight skirt down her hips, exaggerating the movements with deliberate anger, walked in tights and heels and thin chemise to the suitcase that stood open on the dresser top. She found jeans and a T-shirt, and looked up again, to see that Trouble had disappeared from the doorway. She could see the other woman’s reflection in the grey surface of the media center’s monitor, however, and knew Trouble could see her, too. She stood still for a moment, then made herself move away, out of the line of sight.
Trouble looked away from the big monitor, not sure whether she was glad or sorry, not sure exactly what had happened, either, except that she was glad the challenge had been withdrawn. She glanced again at Cerise’s machines, touched a key to recall the file, made herself concentrate on the Interpol report. Whoever had written it, this Mabry, presumably, Helling’s new lover, had known his business: the analysis was cogent, each step laid out so that anyone reading the file could follow the reasoning behind its conclusions. What was missing, and Mabry had known it, was a sense of why newTrouble had picked these particular targets, chosen to steal these particular bits of data and release his viruses in these particular volumes of the net. Trouble frowned, trying to remember everything Fate had told her. It wasn’t much, and most of it was unspoken, but she could assume that it was his dealings with newTrouble that had caused him enough problems to put him firmly on her side. And that was odd, too: any serious cracker would know better than to antagonize a data fence, especially someone like Fate, who worked for the mob. Of course, if newTrouble did all his business on the net, he might not know about that connection. But even so, she thought, you don’t mess with a good fence. And Fate is a good one, no question about it.
“You done with that?” Cerise asked, and Trouble turned, to see the other woman standing in the bedroom doorway. She had changed into something like her old style, black jeans, nearly black T-shirt, black jacket, and walking boots, and the vivid makeup was a shocking contrast.
“Yeah,” Trouble answered, and stood aside to let Cerise close down the system. “It’s got to be a kid, newTrouble does. It doesn’t make sense any other way.”
Cerise looked up curiously, her hands slowing on the keys. “Why? I think I agree, but why?”
“You first,” Trouble said, automatically, and Cerise laughed.
“Give it up.”
Trouble grinned. “Because this isn’t profitable—none of this that your Interpol buddy found, and none of what I’ve heard about here, and most certainly not hassling Fate.”
Cerise nodded, folding the screen back over the keyboard. “That’s more or less what Mabry said, and certainly the intrusion we had was pretty pointless—more to prove he could do it, as far as I can tell, than to get anything to sell. He was in the wrong place—that particular volume belonged to a subgroup that didn’t have anything at a crucial stage.”
“Besides,” Trouble said, “it feels like a kid’s work.”
Cerise nodded again, slipped a folder into her jacket pocket. “And where best to find a kid but on the Parcade?”
They walked back across the Harbormouth bridge. The tide was coming in now, rising over the flats, and a few gulls were waiting at the edge of the mud, heads cocked to watch something under the shimmering surface. Cerise shook her head, seeing them, said, “I don’t know how they survive, given what the fish have been eating. And swimming in.”
Trouble shrugged. “Scavengers evolve, too, I guess.” But there had been more gulls around when she was younger, she thought, or maybe that was just a trick of memory. She frowned slightly, annoyed at the irrelevance of her thought, and fixed her eyes on the continuation of the avenue ahead. The streets were more crowded now, night workers just starting their day, and the arc of the Ferris wheel showed neon above the rooftops.
The Parcade lay perpendicular to the beach, had once connected almost directly with the beach itself, but the stairs that breached the seawall had been barricaded, riprap piled behind the new concrete walls, and only the occasional plume of sand now passed that barrier. Cerise looked away from the barricades, brighter concrete against the weathered grey, said, “Where to first, do you think?”
Trouble shrugged again, surveying the low-slung buildings. They lay in two long rows, facing each other across the much-mended street; the ones closest to the beach were sand-scarred, the pastel paint scratched and blistered, but the more distant ones were in fairly good repair, only the sun to fade the gaudy colors. The Ferris wheel and its battered control shack lay at the end of the northern arcade, but even its brilliance was dwarfed by the pink-and-green palace that stood across the end of the road. The mostly green trim was picked out in yellow and white, and purple banners streamed from all six turrets. They would have to end up there, whether they wanted to or not, and Trouble grimaced, thinking of the warren of dealers behind those walls. Not just grey-market there, but black, software, and even hardware dragged out of the deepest shadows, plus drugs and arms and just about anything else that one could want, and the man who presided over it all with genial contempt was a deeply connected player. Or at least he had been: he might be dead by now, she thought, and said, “Mollie’s first, and then work our way down the arcades.”
“Leave the palace for last?” Cerise asked, but there was no malice in her smile.
“It’ll give them a chance to take a good look at us,” Trouble said, and Cerise nodded.
“Yeah. Tinati was always a little trigger-happy for my taste.”
“So he’s still running things?” Trouble asked, and stepped up onto the boardwalk that ran the length of the arcade. It was cooler under the sheltering roof, and she drew her vest closed again. Across the street, in the other arcade, a skinny kid in jeans and a sweatshirt came out of one of the storefronts, began sweeping sand off the boardwalk into the street.
Cerise nodded. “I had some—dealings—with him about a year ago.”
Trouble glanced at her. “I thought reputable corporations didn’t make deals with the shadows.”
“It was a buy-back,” Cerise said, indifferently. “Anyway, who told you Multiplane was respectable?”
Trouble laughed. “There’s Mollie’s.”
Mollie Blake had a single storefront toward the beach end of the north arcade, a narrow, dimly lit public room presided over by a thin girl with teased hair piled high over a frame. The shelves to either side of the central desk were piled with a random array of hardware, toys, and useless gadgets mixed with genuinely practical items. Trouble found her eyes drawn to a simple-looking data-dome, wondering if its interior works really matched the manufacturer’s name on the touchplate. The override lock she had bought had been top-of-the-line, and Blake’s price had been better than fair.
“Can I help you?” the girl said, not moving from behind her desk, and Trouble brought herself back to the business at hand.
“I want to talk to Mollie,” she said. “Would you tell her Trouble’s here?”
The girl’s eyes moved to Cerise, and Cerise said, “We’re together. My name’s Cerise.”
This time the girl’s eyebrows rose in open amazement, and she touched something under the edge of the desk. “Ms. Blake? You have visitors.” There was a little silence, and Trouble looked again, found the thin wire
of an earpiece running down the girl’s neck. “Trouble and Cerise.”
There was another silence, this one longer, and Cerise glanced sideways, unable to repress a quick grin. It was all too like the old days, and she had forgotten, almost, how much fun those days had been….
“Ms. Blake says go on back,” the girl said, and her surprise was audible in her voice. She reached under the edge of the desk again, and an unobtrusive door popped open on the back wall.
“Thanks,” Trouble said, and stepped around the desk. She pulled the door open—it was heavier than she had expected, backed with armor sheathing, and the locks were extra-heavy-duty—and stepped through into a narrow stairwell. Cerise followed cautiously, wrinkling her nose a little at the dust that had drifted behind the threshold.
“Come on up,” Blake said from the top of the stairs, and Trouble did as she was told.
They emerged into a bright and pleasant room tucked under the eaves. Twin skylights were open, the armored shutters propped up to let in light and air, and there was furniture, foam-core chairs and a pair of low tables, drawn up around a central test table. Another woman, heavyset, big-breasted and wide-hipped, sat in one of the chairs, one ankle resting on her thigh.
“You know Nova,” Blake said, and the heavy woman nodded in greeting.
Trouble nodded back, did her best to hide her surprise, and could see the same startled realization flicker across Cerise’s face. She had never met Nova off the nets, neither of them had; she had thought Nova was a man, like most of the crackers who affected that style. Nova smiled crookedly, as though she recognized and did not entirely enjoy that response.
“So,” Blake went on, and waved them to the nearest chairs. “What do you want from me now, Trouble?” She looked at Cerise. “Or is this Multiplane’s business?”
“Both,” Cerise said, gently, and sat down in a patch of sunlight.
Trouble said, “I’m looking for information, Mollie.”
Blake made a face, and Nova said, “And Treasury’s looking for Trouble.” Her tone was absolutely familiar, sharp and ironic, and Trouble knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was the person she had sparred with on the net.
Trouble and her Friends Page 23