“She,” Lanessi said. “Then you have an ID?”
“A possible ID,” Cerise said, overriding whatever Coigne would have said. “A rumored ID. We have a name, nothing more.”
“And a sixty percent match in the autopsy,” Coigne said, soft and deadly. ‘To a name that matches a known cracker. I consider it a little better than possible, Cerise.“
Cerise smiled at him blandly, wondering which of her people had leaked the autopsy report. “I’d prefer to say possible until I’ve confirmed it. There are some important discrepancies involved, as well as the sixty percent match. It’s better to be conservative in this, I think.”
“Who is this person?” Koichiri leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. Age spots showed on the backs of his steepled hands.
Coigne looked at Cerise, visibly passing the question to her. Cerise chose her words with care. “Rumor says it’s someone calling themselves Trouble—Trouble was a big name on the nets three or four years ago, but dropped out of sight, hasn’t been heard of since. There was some talk that she was dead. This person, this new Trouble, may be the old one returned, or just someone using her name and programs: as I said, this doesn’t match the old Trouble’s style in some significant ways.”
Coigne lifted an eyebrow at that, a fleeting gesture, but said nothing. Koichiri said, “You’ll pursue this.” It was not a question.
“Of course, sir,” Cerise said, and allowed herself a faint note of injury.
Guineven said slowly, “I’m more concerned that this episode might lead to further attempts on the system. What can we do to prevent it?”
“We’ve already set up extra security,” Coigne said, “and we’ll maintain it for as long as necessary. And catching the intruder should discourage any further attempts.”
“How will that extra security affect the net?” Guineven asked, and Rabin nodded.
“Yeah, we’re already high-loading—” He stopped abruptly, as though he hadn’t meant to speak.
“It’s going to run a little slower,” Coigne said. “It can’t be helped.”
“Mr. Rabin,” Koichiri said. “What would the intruder have been looking for?”
Rabin gave a suppressed shrug, as though he wanted to be more expressive and didn’t quite dare. “We have the MADCo station shuttles on the boards, and the estimates would be worth something to anyone else making a bid on the project. Or there’s the Genii design.”
Guineven shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s so close to production that it wouldn’t benefit anyone anymore.”
“Derrick,” Koichiri said. “I think you should also look into who would benefit from such a theft. You might be able to find your intruder that way.”
Coigne hesitated, as though he wanted to refuse, and Cerise bit back the desire to grin. Looking into potential rivals’ activities would keep him busy, away from her investigation, and give her a chance to handle things her way. Lanessi said, “I can give you what we know about competitors’ bids, Derrick. If that would help.”
“Thanks,” Coigne said, and sounded sour. There was no refusing either the offer or the order. “I’d appreciate it.”
Koichiri nodded once, decisively. “Thank you, gentlemen. I think you are well on your way to controlling a potentially troublesome situation.”
It was unmistakably a dismissal. Cerise sighed, worked her remote to close down the pocketbook, then reached to work the machine clear of the display stand. The others were gathering their belongings, too, collecting papers and mini-boards. Koichiri pushed his chair back and started for the door. Lanessi and Guineven followed more slowly, but Rabin hung back, paused to lean over Cerise’s shoulder.
“I wonder if I could talk to you at some point about what the intruder got into?” he asked, softly.
Cerise nodded, but before she could say anything, Coigne said, “Cerise. I’d like to talk to you now, if you can spare a minute or two.”
Cerise sighed again—she had been expecting that command ever since Koichiri had brought up rival firms —and looked at Rabin. “I’ll try to get in touch with you this afternoon, Bren, if you’ll be free.”
“I’ll be available until three,” Rabin answered, with a wary glance in Coigne’s direction, and eased away.
“I’ll talk to you before then,” Cerise said, and looked at Coigne. “All right, what is it?”
“My office,” Coigne said, softly, though the room had emptied around them. Cerise nodded, and slipped the pocketbook back into its case.
“Fine.”
She followed Coigne down the three-level staircase—supposed to be reserved for fire access, but everyone used it— and then around the curve of the building to his office. The two rooms faced directly east, over the ocean, and the windows were darkened against the morning light. Coigne seated himself behind his massive desk, ran his hand across an edge-mounted control bar to light the displays beneath the polished surface. Cerise settled into the chair opposite him, crossing her legs to display stockings and the bright-heeled shoes to their best advantage.
“What do you mean, this doesn’t match Trouble’s pattern?” Coigne asked.
Cerise blinked. “This person—even if it’s calling itself Trouble, it’s not behaving the way Trouble used to. Boasting, for one thing: that’s something Trouble never did.” The memory caught her unaware: Trouble pacing the length of their two-room apartment, swearing in rhythm with her drumbeat walk, all because a friend had boasted once too often, and now he was dead, another body rotted in the harbor water. “She said it was stupid, it used to infuriate her when other people did it.” Especially friends.
“Maybe,” Coigne said. “Or maybe, since she’s been off the nets so long, she feels she needs the advertising.”
That was plausible—if you didn’t know Trouble. Cerise said, “All right, but even granting that, the program autopsy isn’t conclusive, either. It’s like Trouble’s hand, but there are some tricks she never used.”
“Again, she’s been off the nets a while,” Coigrte said. “Why shouldn’t she have learned some new tricks?”
“Where?” Cerise asked. “And besides, these aren’t new tricks. It’s old stuff, stuff she did differently— routines she always sneered at.” And it feels different, she wanted to say, it doesn’t taste or smell or feel like Trouble’s work. But that was arguing from the brainworm’s evidence, and she still didn’t know for sure that Coigne knew she had one installed. She was almost certain that he did—he would almost have to know—but until she was sure, she didn’t want to betray herself unnecessarily.
“Could she be covering her trail?” Coigne asked.
“Possible, but unlikely,” Cerise retorted. “Why is it so important for it to be Trouble?”
There was a little silence, and then Coigne looked away, conceding. “It’s not so much that I want it to be Trouble,” he said, “as I want to be sure you’d tell me if it was Trouble.”
“I do my job.”
“If it is Trouble,” Coigne began, and let the words hang. Cerise watched him, unblinking. She had never wasted time justifying herself to him, refused to begin now.
“At any rate,” Coigne went on, “I expect you to deal with the intruder. Which brings me to my next point.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “I want this person stepped on, and stepped on hard. In other words, Cerise, this isn’t something that I want to take to court. Find me the intruder, and give me the location. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Cerise sat very still, not daring to move for fear of betraying her anger or the sudden fear. It had been years since the corporations had felt safe acting as their own law, since well before Evans-Tindale—since the Amsterdam Conventions, in fact—years since it had been necessary. For Coigne to be trying those tactics now—it could only mean that there was something not quite right about Corvo’s project, something that wouldn’t stand the scrutiny of a proper trial. And if she was wrong, if Trouble was involved… If any shadow folk were involved, they still had more claim on her loyalty than Coigne did. And at the very least, they deserved a trial, not Coigne’s goons jumping them from some back alley. She said, her voice carefully expressionless, “You’re taking a lot on yourself, Coigne.”
Coigne looked back at her, pale eyes, grey as ice with a darker ring at the edge of the iris, utterly
