flashed in the helmet display, warning her that the flyways were under grid control and urging her to tie herself in as well. She hesitated for an instant—jane-does, temporary registration, were just that, temporary, and could set off alarms; on the other hand, the surest way to get stopped by a traffic patrol was to stay off the grid—and touched the yes/no pad under her thumb. The machine steadied under her as she picked up speed, and the lines of the grid gleamed in her helmet screen. She leaned forward, letting the noise and the wind carry away the worst of her anger.
She reached the outskirts of the city a little after three, as the class-two bars were closing and the after- hours clubs were opening for business, rode the flyway in over the darkened suburbs, spiraling down the ramp at the Park exit as the gridlines vanished from her helmet. McElwee Park was as apparently deserted as always, but she gave it a careful berth anyway, knowing that the shadows hid a small army of dealers. The Park District was less busy than usual, only a few smaller trucks stopped outside an occasional shop, tired-looking crews slinging boxes down through the sidewalk hatches in the orange glare of the loading lights, but she drove cautiously anyway, paralleling the arch of the flyway. Most of the old landmarks were still there, though there was just the raw scar of a foundation where the Teleos Theater had been, and at last she turned onto the side street that ran into the shadow of the flyway. The club was there, just where it had always been, tucked into the shadow of one of the massive supporting pillars; she wondered, not for the first time, how Mickey had managed to bribe or beat the gangs away from his door. The business lamp was lit, casting a sickly yellow light onto the pavement. The street to either side was crowded with vehicles, inexpensive runabouts and cycles sharing space with bigger, meaner machines that glittered with security: Mickey’s Wild Goose was, unmistakably, still in business.
Trouble found a parking place between the streetlamps and set the unfamiliar security fields, then slung her bags over her shoulder and started toward the door. She was more tired than she had realized; the anger had worn off somewhere on the long drive, and the exhilaration of the drive itself was fading. She could feel a dull stiffness in her shoulders and down her back from the trike’s steering, and knew she would be sore in the morning. She sighed, laying her hand over the tiny call-plate, and waited, feeling the night chill creep over her, until the panel that covered the bulletproof peephole slid open.
“Private club.” The voice came from a speaker below the peephole. The panel started to slide closed again, but Trouble caught it, exerting all her strength to keep it open.
“I’m a member.”
“Yeah?” The voice was frankly incredulous. “Let’s see some ID.”
Trouble bit back a curse and reached into her pocket, came up with a silver disk engraved with her dancing harlequin. She had thought, before, that it had been stupid to keep it. She smiled, bitterly amused by her own assumptions, and held it in front of the peephole. There was a little silence, and then the voice spoke.
“Well, fuck me like a dog. I guess you better come in.”
The door opened, and a wave of smoke and sound came with it, so that she blinked and nearly stumbled on the high threshold. The main room was unexpectedly crowded, two dozen men, maybe more, gathered around the little tables, and all of the data towers along the walls were occupied: a very busy night, she thought, or else Mickey was running a promotion. Van Liesvelt was not among them. She made her way toward the massive bar at the center of the room, very aware that she was the only woman present, and the only person not wearing the cracker’s elaborate regalia, chains and leather or silk and suit. She could see herself in the dull gold mirror behind the bar: a tall woman, broad shoulders made even wider by the army surplus trenchcoat she wore over jeans and jacket, her silhouette made even more bulky by the bags slung over her shoulder. Her face looked pale in the uncertain light, pale and grim. She had forgotten, until just now, how much she had always disliked Mickey’s Wild Goose.
The senior bartender ignored her as she leaned against the bar, but the junior, a stocky woman with a worn, rawboned face, came sliding down to meet her. Trouble controlled her annoyance at the slight, but heard her voice rough and irritable anyway. “Get me a cup of coffee, please. And I’ll want to use a phone.”
The woman nodded, but made no move to reach for the coffee urn. “There’s a five-dollar minimum now,” she said, and glanced up, meeting Trouble’s eyes in brief, woman-to-woman apology. “Excluding services.”
Trouble looked at her for a long moment, but knew it would do no good to confront her. She could hear the silence behind her, the conversations not quite picked up where they had been left, the whispered speculation. “Is the kitchen still open?” She didn’t dare drink, not as tired as she was, but food could only help, might keep her awake until van Liesvelt arrived.
“Yeah,” the bartender said, and touched a hidden pressure point. A menu lit beneath the bar’s surface, displaying a dozen different items.
“Fine.” Trouble scanned it quickly: junk food, the kind of thing the shadows seemed to thrive on. “Give me a double burger with everything, fries, and the coffee. And I’ll still want to use the phone.”
The bartender nodded, her fingers moving on a hidden touchpad, and Trouble heard a snort of laughter at her shoulder. She turned, not fast, and saw a forty-something man in a decent business suit standing beside her. He had braced himself against the bar, and she could smell the gin on him.
“You’re not watching your weight, I guess.”
Trouble lifted an eyebrow at him, and his face changed, as though he’d realized that she might be someone, after all. “Not that you need to, of course.”
“And not that it’s any of your business,” Trouble said, quite gently, and laid her ID disk on the counter for the bartender, icon-drawing upwards. The man’s eyes flicked from it to her and back again, widening slightly in recognition.
“No. Sorry.” He looked down the bar. “Hey, Millie, what do I have to do to get served?”
“Sorry,” the bartender said, wearily. “That’s another gin-and-tonic, and a scotch, up?”
“Right.”
Trouble lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. The bartender worked her machines, produced two more short glasses, and set them down in front of the stranger. He took them with the care of a man who’s already had too many, and turned away without leaving a tip. The bartender’s mouth tightened, but she looked away. “You wanted coffee?”
Trouble nodded. “Please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black.”
The bartender nodded, and headed back down the bar toward the coffee machine. Trouble leaned against the heavy display top, watched the menu flashing under her elbows. This was what she hated most about the on- line world, the shadows as much as the bright lights of the legal nets: too many men assumed that the nets were exclusively their province, and were startled and angry to find out that it wasn’t. They were the same people who feared the brainworm, feared the intensity of its sensations, data translated not as image and words alone, but as the full range of feeling, the entire response of the body, and, rather than ever admit fear, they walked with raised hackles, looking for a fight. It had gotten worse since Evans-Tindale: the new laws had broken the fragile alliances that had held the nets together, rewarding one set of netwalkers over the rest. Behind her, she could hear the conversations slowly starting up again; she could also hear the edge to them, ready to tumble into mockery or hostility. She loosened the belt of her coat, let it hang loose over her jacket and the open-necked shirt, and reached for the mug that the bartender slid toward her.
“You said you wanted a phone?” the bartender asked.
“Yeah,” Trouble said, and took a cautious sip of the coffee. “Can you run it here?”
“Sure.” The bartender reached under the counter, came up with a familiar black-and-silver comset, set it in front of the other woman. Trouble took it, smiling her thanks, and reached around the side for the datacord. This was precaution more than necessity, and she was not surprised to feel a faint pressure, the trace of another presence haunting her line. She blinked once, saw familiar icons overlaid on her vision, let herself fall into the fast time of the net—
—
