Trouble nodded. “All right.”
“Butch says Treasury’s on to you. They know you’re in Seahaven, so if you’ve put your name on anything, stay away from it.” The kid took a deep breath, visibly recalling a memorized message. “He says he’ll do what he can, but that isn’t much. You’re on your own.”
“Shit.” Trouble bit back the rest of the comment, thinking of the hardware left in her rooms—and it would have to be abandoned, she didn’t dare go back—and managed a nod for the kid. “Thanks—tell Butch I appreciate the warning.”
The kid grinned suddenly. “He also sent a call-card.” He held out the silver rectangle, and Trouble took it, nodding slowly.
“Thanks,” she said again, and meant it: the cards were as good as cash to gain access to the dataphone system; if she’d been given a card like that, at that age, she would have been sorely tempted to keep it. The kid’s grin widened, as though he’d read the thought, and he slipped his hand out of the pocket of his jacket.
“I get a gold card as payment.”
Trouble laughed. “Tell Butch thanks,” she said again, and the kid nodded.
“I’ll do that,” he said, and turned away into the crowd.
Trouble watched him go, losing himself expertly among the strolling pedestrians and the knots of shoppers that eddied in front of the tiny storefronts, tried to think what she should do next. Try to retrieve her hardware, if she could: that was the obvious first step, probably too obvious. But she couldn’t afford to lose the equipment without a struggle. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, started slowly back along the avenue toward the streets that led to the hostel. She stayed with the crowds most of the way, calling up old skills to hover always at the edge of a large group, so that at first glance she seemed to be part of it. A block from the hostel she turned down an alley that led between two fry-shops, stepping carefully over the broken boxes and the rotted vegetables that slimed the pavement. It was a narrow space, narrowed further by the heaped trash, so that there was barely a clear path between the buildings. She walked carefully, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, and paused at the end of the alley to survey the street. The alley did not quite meet the end of Marcy Street, where the hostel stood, but came in at an angle to the cross street; the continuation of Marcy formed a dogleg in the opposite direction. From the mouth of the alley, she could just see the hostel’s entrance and the runabout parked illegally across from it. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought there were people sitting in the runabout, slumped low in their seats—even if there weren’t, its very location betrayed it as a cop car. A good deal of the town’s income came from parking fines; no local would be stupid enough to wait there, in a blatant no-stopping zone, without a guarantee of immunity.
She retraced her steps, wondering if she could get into the hostel through the back lots. It wasn’t likely, but she had to try. She threaded her way along a residential street crowded with parked runabouts—all with bright-orange resident’s stickers prominently displayed—and found a doorway at the end of the street, the alcove lamp not yet lit. She stepped into the shadows, pretending to examine the address board, and let her eyes travel beyond it to the street. From the alcove she could just see the wall that surrounded the hostel’s small backyard—just sand, really, and brick paving—and, above the wall, the windows of the back rooms. Only a couple were occupied, the curtains drawn closed, light showing just at the edges of the rectangle, but she waited anyway, frowning into the dark. The stairway that ran from the yard to the main floor was dimly lit, as always, a single weak bulb burning behind amber glass, and she fixed her eyes on that, waiting. For a long time nothing moved, and then, quite suddenly, a head appeared, vanished again, as though someone had stepped up onto the bottom stair, and then stepped down again. Trouble swore under her breath, turned out of the alcove, and headed back down the narrow street, keeping close under the shadow of the houses. It could just be a resident of the hostel, out for a last smoke or a drink or waiting for a connection before the dealers stopped making deliveries, but this was not the time to take that chance. She would have to abandon the hardware, at least for now.
And that didn’t leave her many options at all. She smoothed her frown with an effort, walked back down Ashworth toward the Parcade and the bank of phones that stood beside the palace, opposite the Ferris wheel. That was taking a risk, too, but Tinati didn’t like the cops, used his influence to keep them off the Parcade as a matter of principle. She didn’t think he would abandon that for her—she wasn’t worth it, it wasn’t worth it to him to meddle in what was, still, the net’s affair. With the call-card and the telepad she carried in her pocket, she could contact Cerise, get her to help—unless it was Cerise who’d sold her.
She stumbled over a board that had worked itself loose from the walk, swore as much at the thought of betrayal as at the pain in her toe. But Cerise wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t shop her to Treasury; no matter how angry she was, no matter how long she’d worked for Multiplane, she was still loyal to the shadows, and this was shadow business. She would settle it on the net, and personally, not through the law. Trouble made herself keep walking, through the patches of light and shadow that swept across the sandy street in front of the palace, joined the crowd that hovered beside the bank of phones, forming a ragged queue. She took her place at the end, jammed her hands back into her pockets, running her fingers over the smooth case of the telepad. It was a busy night, maybe a dozen people waiting, another dozen hanging out, looking for work or just waiting for something to happen. She looked toward the palace, and saw Aimoto waiting in the shadow of the doorway: Tinati wasn’t having any trouble tonight, that much was clear.
The line moved slowly, as it always did. A street vendor came by, selling cones of fried vegetables; she bought one and ate its contents piece by piece, feeling the greasy paper disintegrate under her fingers. Then at last she was at the head of the line and a phone came free, and she moved toward it without haste, crumpling the paper cone in one hand. She set the wadded paper on the ledge beneath the phone, tugged the cord to draw the baffles down into place, and reached for the telepad. She plugged it in, checking automatically for visible bugs, and touched a key to run a quick scan from the pad itself. It came up clean—she had expected nothing else; Tinati would make sure that the obvious bugs were dealt with, and anything else would be in the main system anyway—and she fed the call-card into the access slot. The miniscreen at the top of the phone lit, displaying a series of branching menus; at the same time, the image in the telepad’s display shifted, showing a new series of codes and options. Trouble took a deep breath, and touched keys to route herself into the main phone system.
She found the subexchange she wanted quickly enough, for working blind, off the wire, and set her call chasing itself through the system, hoping to tangle any lurkers, before she typed in the codes that would give her access to The Willows and to Cerise’s phone. Her screen flashed white instead of the expected green, and she felt a heartbeat’s panic before she recognized what had happened. The white screen shifted, displayed voicemail codes, and she lifted the handset to hear the words.
“—named Sasquatch wants to sell you to Treasury, contact me ASAP.”
The mechanical voice was unrecognizable, just a construct of the system, but the codes at the end of the message were perfectly familiar. Cerise, Trouble thought, and was surprised by the strength of her own relief. She had been almost certain that Cerise wouldn’t sell her out, but it was good to know for sure. Then the other name hit her: if Arabesque was to be believed, “Sasquatch” was the Mayor, acting through another icon, another identity—and why the hell would he want to shop me? Trouble wondered. Not being respectful—that’s not enough, not unless he’s really crazy. I’ve got enough friends on the net who’ll act for me,. make his life miserable once they know it’s him—and if Rachelle knows, the rest of the shadows will know soon enough.
The screen went green suddenly, her r
outine complete, contact made, no tracers sighted, and she lifted the handset again to hear the buzz of a hotel teleset.
Cerise answered on the fourth ring. “Yes?”
“Cerise,” Trouble said, and didn’t bother to hide the relief in her voice.
“Tr—” Cerise broke off before the word was even formed, said, smoothly, “There you are. I was hoping you’d call tonight.”
“I got your message,” Trouble said. “I’m afraid it came a little late.”
“Did it, now?” Cerise was silent for a moment. “Do you need a ride, then?”
“And a place to stay,” Trouble said.
“I figured.”
There was another long pause, and Trouble looked uneasily at the telepad’s screen. So far she didn’t show any tracers, or any tap routines, but the telepad wasn’t sophisticated enough to pick up anything more complicated than an active search. Passive monitors were slow, took a while to return the information they had gathered, but she would never know if one had been on her line.
“Right,” Cerise said abruptly, and Trouble jerked herself back to attention. “I’ve got a couple of things to take care of first, but then I’ll meet you—say by Joe’s on the beachfront?”
Trouble frowned—Joe’s was long gone, had been just a recent memory when she and Cerise had first come to Seahaven—and hoped she was getting it right. “I’ll be there. When?”
“Give me an hour,” Cerise said, sounding grim, and cut the connection.
Trouble shut down her system, more slowly, trying to give herself time enough to think. She would go to the storefront where Joe’s had been—it was as good a code as they could hope to come up with, on short notice—in an hour, and hope Cerise showed up. Or, more precisely, she thought, folding cables into a neat package, I’ll hope I understood. Cerise will be there; that I can count on. All I have to do is stay out of sight for an hour.
She tucked the telepad and the call-card back into her pocket, and stepped out from under the baffles. The Parcade was still busy, would stay busy until well after midnight; she could lose herself in the crowds here. She walked slowly away from the bank of phones, turned into a video garden where the heavy music warred with the arrhythmic beep and jangle of game consoles. She found a table in the central space where she could watch the door, and settled herself to wait.
Cerse runs the net like a bloodhound, head down on the scent of her own tracker. She sees it spark ahead of her, flickering red against the black-and-silver sky, follows its course along the datastreams. It was a good routine to begin with, and she has customized it, and knows her target intimately on top of that: it signals success within minutes, and she sweeps down to join it, sees Helling’s icon on the horizon.
*Max,* she says, and the icon shifts, turns to face her. She throws a sphere around them, shutting out the net and his protests, overriding him with casual force. There’s no time to be subtle, or even polite, and she seals the sphere against his reflexive attempt to break it. *I need Vess Mabry’s realworld codes.*
*What?* Helling stops then, icebreaker half ready.
*I need to talk to Mabry—I need his help, it’s urgent.*
*Trouble,* Helling says, with absolute certainty, and dismisses the icebreaker.
*How’d you guess?* Cerise takes a breath. *I need those codes, Max.*
*I heard there was trouble from Seahaven, someone talking Treasury,* Helling says.
*Someone’s shopped her,* Cerise says, and bites her tongue to keep from saying more. Helling will help in his own good time, or not at all; she’s already pushing him as far as she dares.
*Do you really think Vess can help?* Helling asks, and Cerise takes a breath, controls her response with an effort, clamping down on the brainworm’s output.
*I hope so. I want to make it Interpol’s case, if I can—I’ve got some authority, through Multiplane.* I hope, she adds silently, I hope it will be enough. But Mabry doesn’t like Starling: she holds to that, and waits.
*Shit,* Helling says, half under his breath, and the icon gestures as though to dispel a lurking watchdog. *Do you know who did it, shopped her, I mean?*
*The codes, Max—* Cerise stops herself abruptly, answers, *Maybe. There was someone called Sasquatch who was advocating it. I imagine he or one of his friends went through with it.*
Helling shakes his head. *I don’t know the name.*
*The codes.*
*All right.* Helling takes a deep breath, audible even over the net, reaches into memory to come out with a series of mail and phone codes displayed as a plain white square. Cerise accepts them, feels the numbers fizz against her fingers as she slides them into her own memory.
*There’s business codes there,* Helling says, *and the home code. At this hour—* he glances sideways, conjuring an internal display *—try home first. Tell him I told you to.*
*Thanks,* Cerise says, and lifts her hand to dismiss the sphere.
*Hang on,* Helling says, and she stops, routine not yet invoked.
*If you want,* Helling goes on, *I can check out this Sasquatch. If he shopped her, I can put the word out.*
*Trouble is not universally loved,* Cerise says, and hears herself bitter: the same dislike is turned against her often enough. *Do you think it would help?*
*There’s a lot of people who think she’s right, this time,* Helling answers, and this time Cerise nods.
*Thanks, Max,* she says. *I appreciate it.* She lifts her hand again, dismisses the sphere, but to her surprise Helling does not immediately speed away.
*Just like the old days,* he says, and she can’t tell, in the darkness of his thunderstorm, whether he is amused or angered by the thought. And then he’s gone, icon snatched away on the datastream, and Cerise turns her attention to the codes he’s given her.
The on-line address isn’t far away, by common net reckoning. She sends a query, searching for him in the open pool, and is not surprised when the routine returns unanswered. Helling had said he would be at home, and he should know; better to try that address, off-line, and she turns up and into the nearest datastream, lets it carry her home.
The codes were waiting on her screen as she straightened in her chair and reached to detach the dollie-cord. She blinked at them, and switched out of the interface mode, running through files until she found the program she wanted. It was military in origin, grey-market in provenance, and very effective, would disguise the source of her call and give her a readout on anyone who tried to track her. She set it running, and found a cable to plug into the phoneset’s i/o jack, then touched keys to route the call through the program. She pulled the yukata tighter around her, suddenly aware of the environmental system’s chill, and ran one hand through her hair, vaguely startled to find that it had dried already. But there had been ample time for that; she had lost track of time on the net and worrying about Trouble. Numbers shifted on the screen—the program was having difficulty tying into the main trunk lines, was switching to a secondary system—and she wondered if she had time to dress.
A new icon appeared at that instant, and the handset beeped, signaling that her call had connected. She picked it up, feeling the sudden adrenaline surge tighten the muscles of her belly, and heard Mabry’s voice saying, “Yes? Max, is that you?”
“It’s Cerise,” Cerise said. “Max gave me this number.”
“Cerise.” There was a little silence, and Cerise imagined the big man sitting up in bed, blinking and reaching for the light. Then Mabry laughed, not without humor, and said, “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with a certain Treasury operation that’s going down tonight.”
Cerise revised her mental image, erased the bedroom, replaced it with office space, then killed that as well. “I don’t suppose you’re involved in that operation, Mr. Mabry?”
There was another, shorter pause, and Mabry said, “In point of fact, I’m not. My input was refused, with thanks.”
Cerise drew a deep breath. If the Eurocops had been cut out of Treasury’s pla
n, she might be able to use that old rivalry to her—and Trouble’s—advantage. “Are you still interested in finding Trouble, then?”
“It depends on which one,” Mabry said, dryly. “After all, you were pretty convincing that your Trouble wasn’t the one causing the disturbances.”
“Not—” Cerise bit off the rest of her comment—not my Trouble, she would have said, and that was beginning not to be true anymore, if it ever had been—and said instead, “But my Trouble knows where your Trouble is.”
“Does she.” Mabry’s voice was flat, not quite openly skeptical.
“Close enough,” Cerise answered, and crossed her fingers against her thigh, grateful for the blind connection.
“What’s the deal?”
Cerise took another deep breath. “Trouble—my Trouble—is willing to deal with you, give you what she knows, since she knows you’ll find out it wasn’t her causing all the trouble, and she can walk away clean.”
“The statute of limitations hasn’t run out on your earlier activities,” Mabry said. “Didn’t you know that was what this was about?”
“What?” Cerise made a face into the handset, annoyed that she’d betrayed her ignorance.
Mabry said, as though he’d expected her surprise, “Three years isn’t long enough to reach limitations, Cerise, and Evans-Tindale didn’t offer any amnesties. You—both of you—are still liable for—well, for quite a lot of things, if Treasury speaks true. Starling thinks he’s got proof of a couple of them. Or someone gave him proof.”
“What we did wasn’t exactly illegal then,” Cerise said. “The courts have ruled against retrofitting the laws.”
She could hear Mabry shrug. “John Starling seems to think he can make it stick.”
“Fuck him.” Cerise made a face, regretting the betrayal, and Mabry laughed shortly.
“No, thank you. What do you want from me, Cerise?”
“I’m offering you a deal,” Cerise said, as calmly as she could. “All you have to do is keep Trouble—my Trouble—out of Treasury’s hands. You can have newTrouble. Even the Conventions give you plenty to charge him with.”
Trouble and her Friends Page 26