Halting State

disturbing.) “This isn’t the Great Game as it was played in the 1870s, in the high plateaus of central Asia; it’s the extension of diplomacy by other means into the medium of virtual worlds. It wouldn’t be necessary if those virtual worlds didn’t have entry points back into the net at large, or if we used virtual realms only for gaming—but you get the picture.”

And indeed you do. It’s a heady mixture of blackmail, flattery, appeals to your idealism, and a play for your self-interest, all rolled into one. You’d resent it even more if you weren’t compelled to sit back and admire the sheer brass-necked cheek of his approach. “You forgot to mention the kitten,” you say.

“The kitten?” Michaels looks nonplussed.

“If we don’t help you, you’ll have to drown the cute widdle kitten, and it’ll all be our fault.” You glare at him, but it just glances off the glacis of his self-confidence. Michaels’s confidence is disturbing, almost religious in its unshakable faith. Never trust a man who thinks his religion gives him all the answers. “Never mind. What are you trying so hard to get us to do?”

“What you’ve already been doing. You’ve already spooked one of our security problems into running and given us a handle on another.” He contrives to look innocent as one of the bar staff slopes by and deposits a bowl stuffed with small condiment sachets on your barrel top.

“But you’ve been penetrated—”

“Not just us, the entire country. Which is why there’s a very quiet panic going on today as the police go onto a civil contingencies footing and couriers distribute new one-time pads to all the telcos. Once that’s done, we can re-authenticate the entire backbone, and at that point we’ll have locked out Team Red. The trouble is, someone on the inside—and I doubt it was Wayne, he wasn’t clueful enough to pull a stunt like that—sold them a copy of the old pad via the blacknet, and I want to know who. If we don’t identify them, the whole operation’s a waste of time. But I think there’s a very good chance that if you just keep doing what you’ve been doing, you’ll make them break cover.”

The waiter is back, with two portions of coronary artery disease and a heart attack on the side. Michaels waits while he slides the traditional Scottish cuisine under your respective noses, then clears his throat. “Someone inside Hayek Associates used the Nigel MacDonald sock-puppet as a safe house for a criminal blacknet, then sold the crown jewels.” He bares his teeth as he hacks away at something that looks like a square of deep-fried sausage meat with his steak knife. “None of us is safe until they’re out of the way.”

Jack glances at you and silently shakes his head. There’s something speared on his fork, waiting in front of his open mouth—the naked cooked Scottish breakfast. You don’t want to look at it.

“Why?” you persist.

“Because…” Michaels looks confused.

“Why us? As opposed to any other specialists you might have on tap, already working in your department?”

“Oh.” His face clears. “Because you’re not part of the core intelligence group—sorry, but that’s the fact of it. You don’t know enough about us to give anything significant away: You’re outsiders. Skilled, highly trained outsiders. Just like Team Red, actually. Nobody sends real spies these days; everything’s very hands-off. Anyway, once the mole is out of the way and the backbone is secure, their controls will realize that Team Red are blown, and they’ll withdraw. We want to send them a message—don’t mess around on our patch.”

It sounds superficially plausible, but you’ve got a feeling that things are never simple where Michaels is concerned. The strange cross-linkage between Jack’s ID and the non-existent Nigel MacDonald tells you there’s more to this than meets the eye, as does the business in the taxi, and Chen’s terror. Not to mention Jack’s Elsie. “You expect me to swallow that whole?” you ask, holding up a forkful of slowly congealing baked beans.

“Of course I don’t!” Michaels carves away at an egg that appears to have been fried in sump oil and lard. “But I can’t tell you everything. It’d be a hideous security breach for starters, despite the variable EULA you signed…What I can assure you is that your role is significant, your co-operation is highly desirable, and if you do what we want, you will be rewarded, both financially and with the knowledge that you’ve helped secure your country’s borders against a probe by an unfriendly foreign agency.”

“Which country?” Jack asks helpfully: “Scotland, England, the British Isles Derogation Zone, or the EU?”

“All of the above.” Barry taps his fork on the side of his plate, as if it’s a gavel. “Do you want fries with that?”

You put your knife down carefully. “What if I just say ‘no’?”

Michaels looks at you with jailhouse eyes. “You can’t. So I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

You’re getting really fucking sick of slick public-school boys telling you what you do or do not want to do, and saluting the flag and being constructive is nearing the point of diminishing returns; but you get the message. Chris and Maggie and Brendan and the gang can just fire your ass and make sure you never work in the forensic accounting field again, but Michaels can really screw you if he puts his mind to it: He can screw you as thoroughly as only a vindictive civil servant can. On the other hand…“On the other hand, you can’t get my willing co-operation if you twist my arm. If you want that, you’re going to have to pay.” You pick up the coffee cup that came with your breakfast. “Like this: I quit Dietrich-Brunner Associates. Retroactively, with effect from yesterday morning at 9:00 A.M. And you hire me on a freelance basis and pay me the same rate you’re giving Jack. Also retroactive, with effect from yesterday morning at 9:00 A.M.”

Michaels picks up his coffee cup. “You enjoy living dangerously, do you?”

“You need her, don’t you? You need her as much as you need me.” Jack flashes a worried look at you from behind Michaels’s shoulder.

Your mouth is dry. You take a sip of coffee to moisten it, as you realize what you’re gambling for. “Do you want me motivated, Mr. Michaels?” (You’ve just demanded two months’ pay, minimum. Your instincts are yelling don’t give up the day job!—but logic tells you that if he agrees to pay you this once, he’ll pay and pay again for what you can do for him. You and Jack, if you’re sensible about it. Because the agency behind Hayek Associates clearly need you far more badly than Dietrich-Brunner ever did. If only you knew why!) “You know what I can do for you, that’s why I’m here.”

Michaels grunts as if someone kicked his ankle, then looks away. “That falls within my discretionary allowance.” He puts his empty coffee cup down and winces. “But don’t push your luck.”

“And I want you to do something about Elsie,” says Jack. His guarded expression promises many more words for you, when Michaels isn’t around to hear them.

“Right,” you agree. “Or we go to the police.”

“Really?” Michaels gives you a very odd look. Jack is frantically trying to tell you something without moving his face or his lips, but it’ll just have to wait. “I said we were making enquiries, yesterday. I can ask our SOCA liaison how things are going, but they don’t appreciate having their elbows jogged.”

He might as well be wearing an LED signboard flashing PHONY, but there’s nothing more you can demand right now—and Jack looks as if he’s about to explode, which would be bad, so you nod and finish your coffee, then smile. “So that’s everything settled,” you say. “So how about we go someplace where there’s some signal and place some calls?”

JACK: Schrodinger’s Girl

You emerge from the depths of Bannerman’s blinking like a hung-over bat, and glance up and down the canyonlike length of the Cowgate. Someplace where there’s some signal indeed: The stone tenements to either side are nine stories high, and they predate lifts and indoor plumbing. Michaels spots an on-coming taxi (subtype: one with a human driver) and flags it down without waiting for you, so you glance over your shoulder at Elaine, who is glaring at her mobile and fuming. “Come on, let’s take a walk,” you propose.

“We’ve got work to be doing,” she points out.

“Well, the hotel is about a mile and a half that way”—you point along the canyon towards the Grassmarket and beyond, in the direction of Tollcross or maybe the West End—“and we need to talk. Might be a good idea to take the battery out of your phone first.”

“Right, right.” She fiddles intently with the plastic case of the gizmo, then shoves it in a back pocket. “What