Halting State

misleading.”

Huh? “Okay.” You look around. Everyone else has already left the briefing room, off to their various tasks. “What do you want me to do now?”

“I want you to get yourself over to the West End Malmaison hotel and find them as soon as they show up. Then stick to them like glue. That clown Michaels is up to something, and while everyone else is running around looking for terrorists under the bed, I want someone competent—you—on the spot.”

“You think Jack and Elaine are going to piss on our patch, skipper?” You don’t bother to hide your scepticism.

“No, Sue, I think they’re very likely the target!” And she doesn’t bother to hide her urgency either.

“But I haven’t done the course—”

“You think I don’t already know that? Jesus, Sue, we’re at full stretch here; do you think I’d put you on protection duty if I had someone qualified? If you need advice, call me. Now get moving.”

You’ve never seen Liz that close to losing her rag, and it’s not a pretty sight—especially when you’re on the receiving end of it. She must be close to doing her nut. “Reet! Right! I get the picture! I’m off.”

“Take Bob with you, he needs the education!” she calls as she strides off towards the incident control room.

That’s you telled off. You’re about to IM Bob when you remember: TETRA’s been pwn3d. So you ask yourself, If I were Bob, where would I be right now? Ah, that’s where. And you head down to the back yard.

Mary badgered you unconscionably until you gave up the habit a year or two ago, but Bob’s still young and unencumbered by health insurance worries. And he is indeed having a furtive fag out round the bike rack. “Bob. Got yourself a cheap mobie? Then send me your number.”

“My number—” He twitches nervously. “Really? You want my number?”

“Bob. Bob.” You lean closer. Technically, smoking isn’t allowed anywhere on the station, even outdoors in the car-park, but nobody in their right mind’s going to push the button that suspends half the force and leaves the other half pulling double shifts, as long as the tobacco junkies are prudent enough to keep their filthy habit out of the public gaze. “I’m your sergeant, Bob. Which means I need to be able to contact you at all times. Are you with me?”

Bob nods reluctantly.

“And you got the message to buy yourself a prepay mobie this morning, like everyone else. And now I want your number. Yes? So show me.”

He glances around anxiously. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?” He stubs the fag out on the underside of his size twelve and pulls the phone out. It’s pink and has frilly unicorns frolicking on it.

You take a moment to get your coughing fit under control. “Whae did ye get that?” you splutter.

“It was all they had left, Sarge, honest—it was in Toys “R” Us, see? Because all the big phone shops had already sold out.” You roll your eyes: He’s right, now you think about it—it’s not going to be just the Polis who’re tooling up with prepays for today’s big switch-over. He looks mortified as he punches up his pin number and shows it to you. (The display has little explodey pink love-hearts, twinkling and falling to either side of the multi-coloured numbers.)

“Aw, Jesus.” You haul your own playground special out—it’s a big boy’s model, black and chunky with yellow chevrons—and pair it with his. “You poor bastard.”

“It was down to either My Little Unicorn or the Hello Kittie Ballerina Special when I got there,” he confesses.

“Just put the bloody thing away, before anyone sees it!” He obeys with alacrity. Look on the bright side, if you get called to deal with any hypo diabetics, he’s got just the right thing. “Has Inspector Mac given you anything to be doing today? Or just the general…?”

“Me? Nothing, Sarge. Why?”

“Just checking. Alright, you’re assigned to me today—by Inspector Kavanaugh. Yeah, I know she’s not in your line, but you’ve met Mr. Reed and Ms. Barnaby this morning, I gather? Our job’s to stick to them like glue today. They haven’t done anything, but the skipper figures they’re trouble magnets, and with the upcoming disruption, she wants humans in contact all the way.”

“Wow.” His eyes go wide. “I haven’t done the protection duty course, Sarge.”

“Between you and me, neither have I,” you confide. “But we know the targets, and we’ve got our orders, so we’re going to have to wing it.” So much for ISO9000-certified policing. You head for the door to see where your driver’s gotten to. “Come on, I’ll tell you what we’re supposed to be doing on the way.”

Traffic is heavy out on Corstorphine Road, and the van’s full of irritated constables fiddling clumsily with their unfamiliar mobies, swapping numbers and muttering voice dialling tags. Even though CopSpace is going down in a couple of hours, and they’ve been ordered in the most fearsome terms to keep their fingers out of the files, most of them are still wearing their goggles: an old protective reflex, tinted windows to keep the compromised world at bay. You’re an old enough sweat to remember a time before policing was something you did through augmented reality—a time when it wasnae just stumbling-down drunks who were dumb enough to swear at cops—and you’re not looking forward to today’s fun and games. It’ll be okay if they get CopSpace rebooted before chucking-out time, but the Council’s going through one of its usual barkingly stupid attempts to get all the pubs to close simultaneously on the stroke of half past midnight, and you’re not looking forward to Friday night once the local pissheads realize that the cops’ liferecorders aren’t running, and the cameras overhead are unmanned. It’ll be extra pepper spray and tasers all round, with double paperwork on the morrow when you go to explain the festivities to the hard-faced sheriff sitting in court: like a throwback to the nineties.

The van pulls in opposite the hotel, and you hop out. Bob bumbles along after you like an obedient puppy. You head for the front desk, where the polished-looking receptionists are handling the morning’s fall-out of crumblies— the problem cases who’re too old to cope with the automated checkout, or whose requirements don’t fall in one of the neat boxes in the business work flow. You slide deftly round the shambling sequential headache and slot yourself in at the end of the desk. Finally, one of the receptionists finishes processing a coffin dodger and comes over to get you off her plate before you lower the tone of her lobby. “Can I help?”

“Yes.” You smile politely. “I’m looking for one of your residents, a Ms. Barnaby. I believe she’s leasing an office suite from you? Dietrich-Brunner Associates?”

She looks at you as if you’re something that’s died under her nose. “Is there a problem?”

It’s time to tighten the smile and go a little glassy-eyed. “No problem. But I need to see Ms. Barnaby immediately. Police business.”

The two magic words finally sink in: You can almost hear the gears and cam-shafts engage in her head. “Oh, in that case…” She bends over her terminal. “Room 402, second floor, the lifts are over to your left. She was in there a minute ago.” Then she turns to the next tourist. “Can I help you?”

You can tell when you’re not wanted. “C’mon,” you mutter to Bob. “Let’s go upstairs.”

It’s a plush wee hotel, to be sure; the lifts have indirect lighting and subtle forest scents, and when you go out onto the landing, you see a strip of glass running floor to ceiling embedded in one wall, overlooking the high street. Room 402 isn’t far off the landing, and you approach it cautiously. The door’s not locked, so you open it and barge on in, regardless.

Here’s Jack! Sitting at a table, playing some kind of game. You glance over his shoulder at the big, unfolded screens of his laptop: some kind of cavern, luminous green text marching across the left-hand screen. “Mr. Reed,” you say, quite loudly, and he jumps and spins round, wincing as he nearly pulls his headphones out of their wired socket.

“You!” he says, for all the world like one of the villains in those cheesy Saturday-morning cartoons Davey keeps downloading. For a moment you think he’s about to freak on you, but he’s looking past your shoulder, with his face slowly crinkling with worry. “What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up—” you begin, but someone behind you is speaking: the librarian, Barnaby.

“Someone’s been in my room,” she says, angrily. “And it wasn’t room service. They don’t make up the rooms until after check-out.”

You turn round. She’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket and that’s an expensive kit-bag she’s got there.