Enter, it says, in its most sepulchral voice, and Trouble touches hand to forehead in mock salute. The door opens at her approach, and she steps through into Seahaven.
It is Venice, today, or perhaps Amsterdam—Trouble has been to neither—all tall, narrow houses lining a canal that reflects trees made of light. She smiles, acknowledging its genuine beauty, and walks on into the image, ignoring the door that closes and vanishes behind her. Light glitters from the black water at her left hand; more lights glow in the windows of the houses to her right. Overhead, grey on black, clouds flow too fast across a starless night. She doesn’t recognize these buildings, but some things never change in Seahaven, and she starts walking, following the slow curve of the canal, until, just where she’d expected it, she finds a bridge. She crosses that, still walking alone, her footsteps ringing on the stone, striking sparks, no sign of other visitors, turns left, and emerges abruptly into a crowded plaza. At its far end looms a terraced pyramid like an Aztec temple, winged lions and eagles poised in combat on each corner: always the same symbol, always the same place, here at the heart of Seahaven: the Mayor’s palace. She strides through the crowd as though they don’t exist—and most of them are pale, compared to her, unwired—ignoring the occasional surprised murmur, just her name, Trouble, like distant thunder, and walks up the steps until she stands under the arch of the Mayor’s palace.
Mr. Mayor She is playing to the crowd as well as to the presence that made the city, and enjoys it, enjoys their leashed interest, the pretense of indifference that deceives no one. There is a pause, and she wonders if the Mayor is going to make her wait, punish her for her presumption, and she resolves to rip a hole in the wall before she lets him do that to her. But then the arch lights, slowly, and a ghostly shape takes shape within it, wraith-thin, wraith-pale even without the black drapery, crowned in black and the pale blue-silver of stars.
So the voice says, too soft to be heard beyond the portico, and an instant later she feels the air congeal as the Mayor seals the space behind them, surrounding them with a cool sphere of opal light. It is you. I heard you were dead.
Hoped, maybe, Trouble thinks—they were not enemies, but were never friends, she was wary of Seahaven, respectful but not adulatory, and the Mayor has always preferred something close to worship She says, *It’s me. *
And what does Trouble want here? the Mayor asks *I’m not at all sure we want trouble. * He isn’t wired, or his icon would have smiled, still, his tone points up the double meaning, childish though it may be.
I have business. Trouble says, *and as a courtesy, I thought I’d give you notice .*
Fair warning? the Mayor murmurs
*If you like. Someone’s been using my name, causing me problems—Treasury’s down on me, from the old days, and I’m not happy. Maybe this new Trouble thinks I’m dead, thinks the name’s free for use, maybe it’s just stupid, I don’t know. But I want my name back. No one uses my name for the kind of shit this new Trouble’s been pulling. * She stops, pulling back from the anger, continues more calmly. *This is fair warning, and I want to make sure this punk sees it. I’m back, I’m the only Trouble there is, and I don’t take kindly to imposters. *
There is another silence, the Mayor’s icon looking down at her with the same faint, unchanging, superior smile she remembers with annoyance, and then he says, Why come here?
He wants his tribute, and she gives it, grudging *Because Seahaven’s still the center of the business—always has been, probably always will be. Because I know everyone who’s anyone will come through here, in time. This—new Trouble—will get my message if I leave it here.*
The icon bends its head in regal thanks, complex display for someone not on the wire. Showoff, Trouble thinks, says nothing. The Mayor says, *I’ll post it myself, red-line warning, if you’d like*.
Trouble lifts her head, surprised—it’s not like the Mayor to offer anything, much less something actively useful, and least of all to her—and the icon gestures stiffly with its working hand.
*The new Trouble, as you call it, has been attracting too much attention. I’ve had to shut down for a couple of days myself—I’m only just up again. It’s time it was warned to behave. *
*I’d appreciate it.* Trouble says
“Then give me a name-sign. *
Trouble reaches into her toolkit for the seal she hasn’t used in three years, wakes the program and waits while it churns a tiny image out onto the net It is her icon, the dancing harlequin, imbedded in the image are more fragments of code that by their presence identify it as hers alone and by their absence betray any attempt to tamper. She hangs it in the air in front of her. The Mayor waves his hand, and it shrinks, he makes a gesture like putting it into his pocket, and the shimmering image vanishes.
*I’ll post that message* he says, and Trouble answers, Thank you.
The opal sphere dissolves. She steps back through the last wisps of it—they cling to her for an instant, cold and damp as fog, then curl away—and sees the others watching, openly now, as she walks back across the square. She doesn’t recognize many of the icons— it’s been three years since she’s walked the shadows, and three years is long enough for most of her peers to have vanished, the hands behind the icons retired, imprisoned, or dead—but they know hers, and they make way for her, no one quite daring to question. She walks back out of the crowd, out of the plaza, feeling the old joy singing in her, the old delight at her mastery, and turns left across another illusory canal. A few of the icons follow, slipping discreetly after her, she grins to herself, readying a program of her own—just let them try to follow me home—and gestures, looking for the nearest outbound node. It has always been easier to leave Seahaven than to enter it, a door appears almost at once, and she opens it, steps back out into the hubbub of the BBS. Two icons follow, with an attempt at stealth. She laughs and makes no attempt to conceal it, sets her program free, and in the same instant cuts her connection, letting the prepared retrieval snatch her home.
TROUBLE STRAIGHTENED SLOWLY, shrugging her shoulders against the inevitable stiffness. One foot had gone to sleep, despite her precautions, she made a face, working her ankle until the pins- and-needles faded to a distant buzz. Then she unplugged herself from the system and began breaking down the machines. The euphoria was fading rapidly, curdling to melancholy, an inevitable reaction. The coffee in the thermos was still warm, and she drank it in gulps, more for the liquid and the caffeine than for the taste. It was late, but she still had time and to spare to make her rendezvous with van Liesvelt. If he gets the message, a voice whispered in her brain, but she pushed the thought aside. You could rely on Butch—she could rely on Butch; that had been demonstrated a dozen times in the past, and the fact that he’d come up to the co-op to warn her only proved that nothing important had changed. But of course it had: all the important things had changed. She wasn’t with Cerise anymore, wasn’t even legal anymore, despite her best efforts, and Carlie was dead and David was in jail and the survivors, the old gang, all van Liesvelt’s and her friends, Cerise and Helling and Aledort and Arabesque and Dewildah, scattered God knows where— She shook the memories away, angry with herself now for indulging her mood, the down side of her net triumph. Better to stay angry, she thought, and slung the bag of components up onto her shoulder, leaving the thermos and the cup for someone else to deal with.
As promised, Jesse had the trike ready for her in the back lot, complete with temporary registration and jane-doe ID chip, and a secondhand helmet that carried a heads-up display and a datacord. She loaded her bag into the cargo box slung between the rear wheels and pulled on the helmet, plugging herself in to the machine’s limited control system. Lights flashed green, and she felt the faint buzz of pleasure that confirmed the diagnostic’s report. For a moment she hesitated, wondering if she should try to make the drive tonight, but she was still tense and angry from her conversation with the committee—and besides, she told herself, you made a deal with Butch. Might as well use the adrenaline. She kicked the trike to life, and swung it out of the crowded lot before she could change her mind. It was a heavy machine, stiff in the steering, but reasonably powerful, and she knew she had the hang of it by the time she’d worked her way through the tangled streets to the entrance to the main flyway. Lights
