Trouble and her Friends

by Melissa Scott

  “He doesn’t seem to care,” Cerise said. “And I still don’t know why.”

  Trouble said, slowly, “I don’t mean to be naive, not being corporate myself, but setting me up for this would seem to be counterproductive. Word’s bound to get around that he got the wrong person, and that’ll only make him look like a fool on the nets.”

  “Make me look like a neo, too,” Cerise agreed. Could that be it? she wondered. To get rid of me? It didn’t sound like Coigne—for one thing, she was still useful, and it wasn’t like Coigne to waste any resources—but it was the best, the only, explanation she’d been able to come up with so far. Not that there was anyone currently in Multiplane’s security division who could replace her…. Or was it Trouble he was really after, not so much as a cracker, but as the symbol she had been in the old days, the time before Evans-Tindale, of the worm and its carriers? Or, maybe even more, of the symbol she was becoming, of the net acting to police itself? No, she thought, that couldn’t be right, Coigne had wanted Trouble caught before all this started.

  “You think that’s the point, getting rid of you?” Trouble asked, and Cerise shrugged again.

  “It could be, I suppose. But, let’s face it, I’d be hard to replace.”

  “God, you’re arrogant.”

  “But truthful,” Cerise answered, and saw Trouble grin, baring white teeth. “I suppose it could really be you he’s after,” she went on. “You’re making quite a stir these days, got the nets cooperating again, almost.”

  “The timing’s off,” Trouble answered. “So, other than your boss maybe trying to get rid of you, you like working in the light?”

  “Other than that, it’s a great job,” Cerise said, and stifled a sudden yawn. “How was life among the artists?”

  “All right.” Trouble felt her own face stiffen as she fought to suppress an answering yawn, and gave up, stretching awkwardly against the seat and the door of the car. “I spent a lot of time fiddling with printer drivers.”

  “So what did they do, these artists?” Cerise asked, after a moment’s sleepy hesitation.

  “Lot of different things,” Trouble answered. “A lot of printmakers, graphic artists—one fractalist. Then there were a bunch of potters and a quiltmaker, a couple of writers, too.”

  “Must have been interesting.”

  Trouble shrugged, wondering if she would be able to explain. It had been, well, dull, but that wasn’t quite the word, either. More that she’d missed whatever it was she’d had in the shadows, whatever it was she’d had with Cerise—and that, she realized suddenly, was the real problem. She had missed Cerise, not just the work, the netwalking, though they had been good at that, but also the time off-line, the sex and the shared living. There had been nothing, or more precisely, no one, not even Konstenten, who had been able to provide her with that necessary partnership. She realized abruptly that Cerise was watching her through the dark, her posture more alert, and said, “Interesting enough, some of the time. There was a lot of politics.”

  “There always is,” Cerise said. “Still, I bet you found someone to keep you company.” In spite of her attempt to sound cheerful and offhand, the words came out charged with a vague jealousy she hadn’t known existed.

  Trouble glanced warily at her, wondering if she’d heard correctly, said, “A few dates here and there, nothing serious. Nothing even close to serious.” There was a bitterness in her own voice that startled her, even as she watched sidelong for Cerise’s reaction. “How about you?”

  Cerise felt her own half-admitted uncertainty fade slightly. “Corporate life doesn’t exactly make it easy for queers.”

  Trouble made a skeptical noise, and Cerise said, hearing herself defensive, “You know what I mean. Marriage or nothing, that’s what they want—somebody they can check out, make sure is reliable.”

  Trouble nodded. There didn’t seem to be much else to say, and she glanced at the security display—still nothing moving, except the random flicker of wind in the straggling shrubs at the edge of the pavement—and then at the sky. It was still very dark, no sign of even false dawn, and she suppressed another yawn. “You should maybe try to get some sleep,” she said.

  Cerise looked at her, sounded surprised when she answered. “I suppose I ought.”

  “Even an hour or two might help,” Trouble said, and could see the movement of Cerise’s head that meant the other woman had made a face at her.

  “I know you’re right,” Cerise said, after a moment. “And I’m just tired enough to be annoyed about it.”

  Trouble smiled in spite of herself, in spite of her own exhaustion and the still-present tension. Cerise had never been very good about rest, had always been unbearable without enough sleep…. She said, “Get some sleep,” and heard rather than saw Cerise shift again, so that she hunched down further in the driver’s seat. There was a brief silence, and then Cerise twisted sideways, struggling to reach the catch that controlled the seat. She found it at last, fingertips just able to hook around the slick metal of the lever, lowered the seat back until it stood at a near-forty-five degree angle. She hesitated then, wanting to lower it completely—the runabout, bought on a corporate account, had the expensive seats that could convert to an uncomfortable sleeping platform as needed—but decided that it would mean taking too much of a risk. If there was trouble, if anyone challenged them, here in the Plantation, she would need to be able to drive out instantly. She could drive with the seat at this angle, but not with it stretched out into a sort of bed. She settled herself more comfortably, turning herself half toward Trouble, and let her eyes close. She had been more tired than she had realized, could already feel herself drifting into sleep, and stirred half in protest.

  “Easy,” Trouble said, and reached across the gearbox to touch Cerise’s outflung hand. “Don’t worry, just get some sleep.” She ran her hand lightly along the other woman’s arm. Cerise smiled, not fully sure if she was dreaming, the gentle touch the product of her own imagination, but let herself be reassured. There would be time enough to worry later, to sort out her own feelings, if there was anything that needed to be sorted out; for now, she needed to sleep.

  Trouble watched her burrow deeper into the unyielding padding, heard her breathing shift almost at once toward sleep. Cerise’s skin was cool under her touch, the fingers almost cold, and she ran her hand back up toward the other woman’s elbow. Cerise did not stir, not even when Trouble ran one finger lightly over the other’s forearm, feeling for the lump where the bone had been broken and grown back thicker than before. The once-familiar bump was there, oddly reassuring, and Trouble ran her thumb along the other side of Cerise’s arm, feeling for the other bone beneath the skin. She could barely feel the bone, couldn’t find the second lump that she knew must be there—Cerise had broken both bones that night, when the runabout finally missed a turn—and Cerise shifted uneasily under her touch, mumbling an incoherent protest. Trouble released her, but did not take her hand away completely. The feeling of Cerise’s skin beneath her fingers was too pleasant, too comforting, to be lightly given up. Cerise shifted again, this time with a noise that might almost have been pleasure, and stretched her arm out along the gearbox. Trouble ran her fingers lightly along the offered arm, wished with sudden intensity that she could do more. This was not the time for sex, she knew that perfectly well, wasn’t even sure it was sex she wanted, more like some way just to hold her, lie with her, feel the whole length of their bodies wound together, like in the old days after a job had gone wrong, or well, or they hadn’t had work at all…. And if they had been somewhere safe, Trouble admitted, they would have made love. She wanted it even now, distinctly, memory as well as the sensation of Cerise’s skin beneath her fingers arousing her, wet warmth spreading between her legs. She closed her eyes for an instant, remembering the touch of Cerise’s lips—the simple, deceptively chaste kiss, just the touch of lips against her own that never failed to send her, send both of them, wild. I want her back, she acknowledged silently, a
nd shook her head at the inadequacy of those words. It’s not just that I want her back, I want her to want me back, too. I want what we had, the old days, when we were perfectly matched and the world knew it. When no one could challenge us, and we’d never challenge each other.

  She shook the thought away, annoyed that she was getting maudlin in her old age, made herself look back at the security readouts. Nothing had changed, nothing was moving outside the car, though the sky was growing faintly lighter, back toward the ocean, but she made herself watch three cycles through, concentrating on the readings. Then she looked deliberately away from Cerise, made herself concentrate on the deal with Mabry. It wasn’t impossible, at least not on the face of it: she could probably give him newTrouble without too much hassle, especially if people like Helling and van Liesvelt and Arabesque, and even Fate and Nova, backed her up on the nets. Most of the net would simply be glad that someone had solved the problem, however it was done; the important people in the shadows would know that she was right, the newTrouble was the real danger—taking someone’s name and programs, cracking for the sheer joy of it, without thought of profit or consequences, running viruses, too, if Mabry was right—and would let Fate and Butch convince them of it, no matter how much they might dislike her. And maybe, just maybe, she could use even that grudged agreement to make a new place for herself on the changed nets, in the bright lights.

  The only question that remained, then, was whether she could do it. And that would be no problem, she admitted silently. Maybe once she would have had regrets, but not now. It wasn’t just that it was him or her, not even a question of revenge, really, though she was angry enough still to look forward to seeing him fall. It wasn’t even that she resented him dragging her back into the business, though God knew she ought to be; if anything, she was grateful, glad in spite of herself, in spite of everything, to be back in the shadows, back with Cerise for however long. It was more—it was simply that newTrouble was a danger, not just to her but to the shadows, and, in the end, to all the nets. There were still too many people who were afraid of a technology that eluded them, still more who would never have access and resented and feared it in equal measures. Mobilize those groups just once, find a demagogue who could lead them—and there were always demagogues—and the nets would find themselves destroyed. Given enough incentive, the nets could be regulated, access deliberately slowed and stifled, checkpoints at every intersection. The hardware existed; it would be expensive, monumentally expensive, but if enough people could be frightened badly enough, it would seem cheap in the end. If the net did not police itself, did not, in the end, declare that there were limits, things that were by definition unacceptable, the rest of the world would do it for them, and that would be the beginning of the end. Evans-Tindale had been a step toward outside control. It was time that the nets created a standard of their own—the Amsterdam Conventions had been of the nets, not just about them.

  And listen to you, she chided, and managed a crooked smile. You’ve been out in the bright lights too long, sweetie, taken your syscop’s license entirely too seriously. At the very least, you’re more tired than you ever thought, to be thinking like that. But the quirked smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. You had to draw lines, and that choice was in itself dangerous; all boundaries had a double edge, were like swords that could always be turned against you in the end. But you still had to choose.

  She made a face again, annoyed at her own pomposity, more angry at her fear. There were no other choices; Cerise and the Treasury between them had seen to that. More than that, newTrouble himself had guaranteed it. She looked again at the readouts crawling along the base of the windscreen, watched a full cycle without really seeing the flickering symbols, then looked back to the east where the first signs of dawn were beginning to appear. Whatever else happened, she’d made her choice.

  What was left of the night passed without incident. Trouble fought to stay awake, and lost, caught herself more than once dropping toward full sleep, but managed to keep half alert, slipping only into an eyes-open drowse. As the eastern horizon grew lighter, waking grew easier, and she was aware, belatedly, that she was hungry. She turned stiffly in the seat to see if there was food in the back seats, but found nothing. Beside her, Cerise shifted slightly, settled again to sleep. There was no point in waking her yet; it would be hours before they could leave the Plantation—before there would be enough traffic on the roads to cover their departure—but Trouble suppressed the urge to reach for her hand again. Then Cerise opened her eyes, smiled sleepily, and reached out to take Trouble’s hand in her own. Before Trouble could move toward her or away, she was asleep again. Obscurely comforted, and perversely more awake, Trouble settled back to her watch.

  She woke Cerise when the runabout’s chronometer read six o’clock, waited patiently while Cerise stretched and grumbled, rubbing at puffy eyes. Trouble let her complain for a few minutes, listening to the semicoherent muttering, said at last, “Yeah, well, I’m hungry, too, sweetheart, and I need to pee, which is something I really don’t want to try here, given what happens when ammonia hits chem-sand. So, when do you think we can get moving?”

  Cerise reached down to adjust the seat, brought it back to a normal driving position. “Switch on the radio, will you? Find something with traffic reports.”

  Trouble did as she was told, trying to ignore the pressure in her bladder, fiddled with the communications console until she found a local radio station. Traffic reports were already being broadcast—light traffic on the access roads, getting heavy on the flyways, no serious delays at the border tolls or the bridge tolls into the city—and Cerise nodded thoughtfully.

  “I think we can chance it.”

  She touched the switch that brought the runabout’s motor off standby, eased the machine into gear. The low sun glared through a thin haze of cloud, starting a headache behind her eyes; she made a face, and swung the runabout out from the shadow of the ruined building. She needed sleep, she knew, and a shower, wondered briefly if she could pass any remaining roadblocks in this state. She would simply have to, though: there weren’t any other options. Hopefully, the traffic would be heavy enough to hide one more runabout—and it should be, she thought. The locals who worked in the city, people from the Sands and Southbrook and all the other little towns along the coast, not just Seahaven, would have to leave now if they were to make the usual eight-thirty starting time. There should be plenty of traffic to obscure their presence. You hope, she added silently, and carefully did not smile. Trouble would not, in her current mood, be much amused.

  At the entrance to the Plantation, Cerise slowed the car, checking the line of traffic feeding toward her. As the radio had promised, it wasn’t too heavy as yet; there were breaks in the line of runabouts and light trucks, and she slid her own runabout into a gap, matching the general speed with practiced ease.

  “I wonder what they think we’re doing?” Trouble muttered.

  “More like what they think we’ve been doing,” Cerise answered, her attention on the controls. “People do go to the Plantation, you know.”

  “Yeah, for sex, drugs, and suicide,” Trouble answered.

  “Well, we weren’t killing ourselves,” Cerise said, and to her surprise, Trouble grinned.

  “And nobody much cares about the rest, yeah, I know. Except maybe the cops.”

  “They shouldn’t be worrying about commuters,” Cerise said, with more confidence than she felt. “After last night, they should be too short on manpower to worry about commuters.”

  “You hope,” Trouble said, and shifted uncomfortably against the seat.

  “Yeah,” Cerise said, and opened the throttle as the line of runabouts picked up speed.

  They crossed the causeway through the marsh in silence, only the inconsequential babble of the radio rising above the noise of the runabout’s engine. As they approached the rotary, Trouble held her breath, but the fast-tank parked outside the cop-shop stayed motionless, only the revolvin
g blue light at the top of its carapace to remind drivers that it was manned and ready. Cerise took the runabout through the rotary at an unexpectedly decorous pace, did not pick up speed again until they were on the main road that led back to the flyway. She stopped at the first truck plaza they came to, this one just outside Southbrook proper, where they paid for the use of shower and toilets. Clean again, Cerise refused to eat there, claiming that there was a better plaza further along the flyway, and Trouble was too tired to argue. To her surprise, however, Cerise was right: the Eight-Ball Café, built on a median set between the two lanes of the flyway, proved to be both clean and relatively friendly. The food was good, too, as was the coffee, and Trouble gorged in silence. It was trucker food, thick and greasy sausage and fried bread, fried eggs and potatoes, unhealthy and enormously satisfying; she looked up at last, dredging the last slice of toast through the runnels of egg yolk, to find Cerise grinning at her.

  “Feel better?”

  “Some,” Trouble admitted, and added, with cheerful malice, “I didn’t get any sleep last night, remember?”

  “Someone had to keep watch,” Cerise said, without apparent guilt.

  “So now what?”

  Cerise shrugged. “Kill some time, I suppose—you could always eat another breakfast—until we can head back to Seahaven.”

  Trouble refused the offer of food, and Cerise paid their bill without complaint. After that, they found themselves in the deserted game room, and spent ten in citiscrip learning the Super-Lyrior table. Once they’d figured out the rules—imperfectly explained on the casing display and in the single help screen—they spent another five in citiscrip before they’d mastered the system, and embarked on a series of free games that lasted until the manager, free of the breakfast rush, arrived to suggest they move on. It was past nine by then; Cerise accepted the order meekly enough, and Trouble followed her back out onto the paving. The lot was all but empty now, a couple of big rigs parked to one side, windows opaqued to let the drivers sleep; the sun, finally free of the early morning fog, was startlingly warm. In the distance, on the western horizon, the trees glowed red and orange against the sky. Trouble glanced back once, looking east, and saw the sea like a wide blue line beyond the housetops. From here it looked pristine, the pale rim of the beach bleached by distance, and she looked away again, made uncomfortable by the knowledge that it was all illusion.