They are inside a preliminary wall, she realizes, at the edge of a major system. This is the space that you could reach most easily from the outside world, where the daily exchange of business takes place; no one cares much about that, and she catches herself looking ahead, toward the central core, a tall cylinder walled in with IC(E) so tight it looks like seamless glass. Light refracts from it, the core of the codewall invisible within the dazzle, only a thin line of purple, close to the base, to indicate that there is access at all. It is even more familiar, there is something about it, about the look of it, the taste of steel in the wind, even the brightness that flares back from it, that catches in her memory. It feels a bit like Cerise’s work, she thinks, but then there’s something more.
*This is Multiplane,*she says aloud, and sees icon-Cerise nod its cartoon head.
*I need to pick up something,* she says, and turns away. Trouble feels her invoke a mail routine, sees the packet flash from her hand and vanish against the cylinder, absorbed through its gleaming skin. She feels the IC(E) respond, too, and this time she knows what it is. It’s been remade, more than once, but this is the wall, the design that first caught Cerise’s eye. She hadn’t bothered to find out, then, whose IC(E) it was that Cerise wanted to crack; it hadn’t mattered, not after Evans-Tindale passed. But this was it, or its granddaughter program: Multiplane’s IC(E), Multiplane’s security, and that explained, more clearly than any words, how Cerise had come to work for Multiplane, and why.
She opens her mouth to say something, anything, she’s not sure what, just something to say, I know, I’m sorry—to say once again, I let you down. I screwed it up—but the IC(E) flickers again, and there is something in icon-Cerise’s hand, briefly visible before she stows it again in her toolkit. And the time for words is past, at least for now. Trouble sighs, and follows Cerise, close enough that their icons make a single shadow, back out of the IC(E) to the main roads of the net.
Outside Multiplane’s enclave—dim to the eye, here on the outside, unexpectedly discreet, now that she knows what, who, lies within—Cerise hesitates for the first time, turns to face her, the cartoon-woman shading to pink against the neon-streaked sky.
*Where away?*
Trouble shrugs, sees and feels the mock-uncertainty appear on the net, carried by the brainworm. *The BBS? Or shall we try Seahaven?*
The cartoon-woman grins, pale shadow of Cerise’s smile. *Seahaven sounds like fun,* she says, and her voice is sharp and feral.
She has always liked a challenge, Trouble thinks, maybe even more than me. But the Mayor’s mine. She doesn’t say it—doesn’t need to say it, she thinks, but knows it’s more that she doesn’t dare, for fear Cerise will claim him too. She swings away without speaking, finds a line of light and lets herself fall into the datastream, carried away in its embrace. Cerise moves with her, less than a heartbeat behind, and they are carried together down toward the BBS.
As the streams slow, joining together, the competing flow and press of data filling every available channel, Trouble lets herself slide free, dropping down into the main plane of the Bazaar. She feels the virtual floor beneath her feet, and in the same instant the filters cut in and she is standing among the icon-shops, a swirl of adverteasing winding around her body. Cerise is there in the same moment, batting idly at a too-importunate image. It bursts in a shower of chaff, black and white confetti-shapes spelling out a manufacturer’s name, and Cerise brushes them away as well.
*Where was it last?* Trouble asks, delighting in the old ease, that she doesn’t have to be specific, and Cerise slants a smile to her, the icon-face sweeter than the tone of her voice.
*I went through Maggie-May’s. But I doubt he’ll let us in.*
*We could be subtle,* Trouble says, and lets her tone carry her preference. *Try to fake him out. Or we could force it.*
*Subtlety’s wasted on the Mayor,* Cerise answers. *Besides, you’ve never been subtle in your life.*
*So let’s go and see if he’ll let us in,* Trouble says.
They move along the corridors of the Bazaar, past glowing tents and boards where messages, images and text and sound, each overlaid with an icon or a name-sign, bloom like flowers against lightless walls. Trouble feels her muscles tense, relaxes with an effort, working her shoulders against the constraints of a chair she cannot truly feel. She sees Cerise’s image flicker, and guesses she is doing the same. The Mayor’s IC(E) is always good, some of the best; as she told Mabry, there are places where the interface alone, the structure of his dictated reality, is enough protection. To think of cracking it is maybe crazy, but it’s every cracker’s dream.
And then again, she thinks, it may not be necessary. The Mayor may still let them in, at least to the main volume; the point, she supposes, is to prove that she, that they, she and Cerise together, are still the best, are back better than before. They reach Maggie-May’s together, to find the space dark and empty, a hole in the illusion where the shop icon had been. There is no notice, just the haze of black-and-silver static, but Cerise turns, circling, calls to an icon Trouble doesn’t recognize. She directs her message, shutting out other ears, and Trouble bridles, but then the stranger answers, uneasy, flicks away as soon as icon-Cerise nods.
*She had some trouble with Treasury,* Cerise says, and Trouble imagines the twist of her smile.
*So any word on a doorway?*
*The usual suspects,* Cerise begins, and then the air opens in front of them, through the hole where Maggie-May’s had been. Through the oval, bright as a window, they can see the streets of Seahaven—a dry place today, bathed in a hot, hard light.
*A dare?* Cerise murmurs, and the icon cannot match the hunting note in her voice.
*Certainly that,* Trouble says, and steps through before she can change her mind.
The hole seals itself instantly behind her, a soundless thump and concussion of hot air that emphasizes the finality of the closing.
Trouble wastes a single second on a curse, anger at her own stupidity, the sheer arrogance that tempted her to take this chance, then swings in a quick circle, surveying this Seahaven. It is remade today in stark simplicity, dirt road and sunlight and flat-fronted wooden buildings, a double line of them along the single road, the only road today, that leads straight to the Mayor’s Aztec temple. If there are other netwalkers, she doesn’t see them, though she thinks she feels a passive presence, watchers lurking beneath the shell of the images. But if they are that far buried, they can neither hurt nor hinder; she dismisses them from conscious thought, lifts her head to survey the temple. The Mayor will be waiting there— And then she has the image, belatedly, the grade-B western’s final scene, and she grins in spite of herself, wishing her icon remade as she could remake it, given time, and starts walking, slow and easy, hands at her side, up the dusty road toward the Mayor’s citadel.
Cerise swears as the door slams shut against her, reaches out to catch the codewall, and swears again as IC(E) sparks against her fingers, driving into the receptive nerves. She pulls back instantly, stands for a moment with numbed hands, wincing at the sensation of blood rushing back into damaged tissue. And there may be real damage this time, not just the illusion of it, detached pain flowing along the wires from the brainworm: it was serious IC(E), the kind she knows enough to fear. She works her fingers cautiously, feeling pain beneath the tingling, then reaches for a program. Her hand fumbles for an instant with the toolkit, briefly clumsy, and then the brainworm’s override cuts in and she feels clear sensation return. She chooses an icepick, and then a couple of lesser routines, frowns and peels the illusion away so that she is looking at the code symbols that make up the wall of IC(E) itself. It is complex, definitely the Mayor’s work, his best work, maybe, and despair touches her, cold beneath the adrenaline high. But she’s good herself, and knows it, has become something of an expert on IC(E) in the years with Multiplane, and she knows where to begin unraveling. She touches probe to code, and watches the patterns dance, marshaling forces to repel her p
retend-invasion. She touches it again, differently, and sees a different pattern respond, a new defense writhing across the symbols. She touches it a third time, betting with herself that she knows what will happen, and the IC(E) answers as she predicted, a flash of light that would have shocked an unwary netwalker off the nets, overloading the cutout circuits. She knows the system now, knows its important parameters, and that means she can break it. All she needs, she thinks, and it becomes a kind of mantra, all she needs is time. There may not be time, Trouble may not have the time to spare, but she puts the fear aside, concentrating entirely on the codes in front of her. All she needs is time.
Trouble walks, and readies her programs, her best defense and the needle-sharp icepick that doubles as a disrupter, her best tool to unravel other people’s work. She calls them to hand, but leaves them uninvoked. She can feel the tingle of IC(E) to either side, hidden behind the false-front buildings, smells the cold, damp-metal tang of it, incongruous beneath the dry heat that bathes her. She ignores it, however—disdains it, really, wouldn’t deign to escape, to walk away from this challenge—and keeps going, and at last the Mayor comes out to meet her, a thin black-clad shape of a man, a shadow against the bright stone of his stair-stepped temple. He stands on the first platform like a priest, high enough to dominate, not so high that he cannot reach her, and Trouble curls her lip at him, lets the worm carry her contempt, strong enough that even he must feel it.
She sees she’s struck home as the worm carries his response, a deepening heat, and then the flattening of the light, as though he’s exerting himself to keep control.
*Hello, Trouble,* he says, and despite the apparent distance his voice is close and conversational.
*Hello, Mayor,* she answers, and keeps her voice equally calm. She stops where she is, perhaps forty virtual meters from the base of the pyramid. The first platform, where he stands, is four meters above her head, and if she goes much closer, she will have to crane her neck to see him properly. *Quite a greeting.*
*You’ve earned it,* the Mayor says grimly, and Trouble manages a grin she doesn’t feel.
*Nobody messes with me,* she says, and, remembering the lurkers,*not even you—Sasquatch.*
It is a shot at random, following Arabesque’s word, and she is remotely pleased when the Mayor waves his working hand, waving away the charge without denying it.
*You’ve done quite enough, Trouble,* he says. *This has to stop. This time I’m giving you fair warning, and if you don’t listen, I will bring you down.*
*That’s been tried,* Trouble says, the anger swelling in her. *You tried to shop me, and you blew it. And the worst of it is, I’m the one who’s been wronged here. It was my name your little friend stole, my programs he tried to use, me he tried to blame. The only thing I’ve done is to defend myself.* She shakes her head. *I didn’t start this, Mayor, and you know it. But I will finish it.*
She hears her own absolute certainty reflected across the net, feels the distant stirring, like indrawn breath, as that same certainty reaches the lurkers. The Mayor’s icon cannot frown, but she senses the change of expression in the air around her.
*I’m making this my business,* he says at last. *NewTrouble is my business, and I will deal with it. But in my own way, not yours. Leave it to me.*
Trouble shakes her head, too angry to think of conciliation. *No. You had your chance, Mayor, you don’t get another one.*
*And who do you think you are?* the Mayor demands, stung at last into real response. *You’re nobody, just another half-competent bitch queer who thinks she’s good because she has a brainworm. You haven’t earned what you have, you haven’t worked for it the way the rest of us have, the real crackers, you just had it handed to you direct-to-brain. You don’t have any right to dictate to me.*
*Fuck you,* Trouble says, and then regrets it, the easy, unthinking answer, shoves the mistake away as unimportant and irretrievable. She takes a breath, mastering her own anger, looking for the words that will reach beyond him, that will touch the lurkers. *You know damn well that’s not how the wire works, and if you weren’t afraid of it, you’d have one yourself. It’s just the same as the implants, just like the dollie-slots, but it gives me an edge, yeah, because I’m not afraid of it, of what I can do with it. Or of you.* She stops then, breathing hard, pins him with her best glare because she’s told a lie. She is afraid—she’d be a fool not to be, he’s maintained Seahaven in the face of the law and the bright lights for ten years, and she’s never been entirely a fool. *NewTrouble’s a menace,* she says again, one last attempt at rational argument even though she knows it’s useless, at least if Mabry’s right. If newTrouble is this boy the Mayor’s been keeping—and he must be, there’s no other reason for him to behave this way, no matter how much he hates, fears, the wire—then he’ll do whatever he can to protect him, no matter what. *The Eurocops know who he is, you know, they’ll have him—*
*You sold him,* the Mayor says.
*You sold me.* Trouble blinks up at him, staring into false sunlight burning down out of a dust-white sky. The Mayor’s icon loses all resolution against that sky and the white stone of the pyramid; even the lions and eagles that crown the corners of each step have lost their distinct outlines. She risks a backward glance, sees the storefronts fading, faintly translucent, a hint of the white light shining through. She hesitates, weighing her words, and strikes. *If you can’t hack the rules….*
There is no warning, not even a drawn breath, and the Mayor strikes. She is half expecting it, had known it would be now if ever, but even so the blow—icepick? clawhammer?—hits hard, sending electric shivers through her defenses. She winces, feels the effect like pins-and-needles all along her limbs, dispatches her own icepick more or less at random, buying time. It slides harmlessly off the Mayor’s IC(E), kicking back painfully into her palm. She feels the jolt of it to her elbow, but readies it, and another, a different program, heart jolting against her ribs. She can taste adrenaline, and fear, knows and doesn’t care that the lurkers will feel it, too. There’s no time to worry about it: the Mayor’s clawhammer probes again, and she calls a secondary codewall into existence, reinforcing her defense. It takes excruciating time, like a gunfight in slow motion, too much time, either to attack or defend. The trick, she knows, is to stay with her decision, never succumb to the temptation to second-guess, choose another program—that and knowing when to cut and run.
Crise worries at the Mayor’s IC(E), working alternately with her best icepick—a custom job, her own creation—and the lighter probes, assessing her progress. She’s getting there, the watchdogs muzzled or damped off, the alarms garroted, the traps spiked or circumvented, but there’s still a lot to do—meters of it, in the brainworm’s projection, and she hesitates for a moment, tempted to try an all-out assault. But common sense prevails—she’s good, but so is the Mayor; in an even match, the one who rushes first will, inevitably, lose—and she reaches for the icepick again, applies it to a stubborn knot of code. It resists, the feedback singing in her sore fingers, but then she’s found the inevitable weakness, and pries the program open. Its mechanism is clear, and she applies a routine from her toolkit, freezing it, and the section of the IC(E) that it controls, into immobility. That clears another meter or so of the IC(E), and she takes a cautious step forward, into the hollow she has cleared in the wall of code.
And then, behind her, she hears/feels a shift of air, a change in the net, and swings around faster than thought, sees a familiar shape hovering, on the verge of flight.
*Silk,* she says, and knows in that instant she is wrong, that this is newTrouble, the boy James Tilsen, as much as it is Silk. He, the icon, flinches, turns to run, and she reacts without thought, without hesitation, throws her sphere around them both, sealing them inside. She sees/feels him collide with the IC(E), rebound, his pain skittering briefly in echo across the net, and he turns to face her, eyes wide. She tastes his fear, the faint echo of it tainting the net, and then it’s gone, he has himself unde
r control, and there’s only the icon facing her across the silver sphere. It’s an ordinary icon, generic man-shape roughly clad in leather, and there’s no reflection at all of Silk, except perhaps the hint of sensuality, the scent of burnt-sugar sex bittersweet to the tongue. He waits, braced in case she lets the sphere drop even for an instant, and she smiles at him, covering her own anxiety. The icepick is working still, slower because she isn’t there to direct it, but it will work on until the wall is breached. Her concern now must be with him.
*Silk,* she says again, because it frightened him, and sees him flinch again. *Going to see the Mayor?* She gets no answer—as indeed she expected none, goes on anyway, needing to force the issue. *You can take me with you.*
*No way,* the icon answers, sounds almost indignant, and flings himself sideways, at the same moment loosing a disrupter against her.
She parries, awkward but effective, and her guardian watchdog pounces on the stunned fragments, neutralizing them as it begins to consume the code. Her sphere holds, too, and Silk shakes himself, turns at bay.
*Well,* Cerise says, and smiles, not nicely. Silk waits, says nothing. *Take me with you.*
There is another pause, and then Silk looks away, voice gone sullen. *All right. Loose the sphere.*
*Not yet,* Cerise says, grim, and pulls a long-unused tool from her kit. She flicks it into existence, tunes it to Silk’s icon, and feels the leash slap home. Silk winces, but she ignores it, makes sure the tie is fast, testing methodically before she releases the sphere. The sphere vanishes, and she sees the codewall exposed, her icepick still burrowing slow and stubborn into the knotted code.
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