stunstick. She gave him a questioning look—most netwalkers, even from the shadows, didn’t risk running afoul of the strict weapons laws—and he shrugged.
“I don’t think we’re heading into trouble, but Fate’s got some heavy friends. I’d rather be careful.”
Trouble nodded, accepting the necessity, and followed van Liesvelt down the stairs into the darkness of the garage.
Traffic was heavy, as always, but van Liesvelt was patient, easing the runabout through the tangle of cargo haulers and passenger vehicles at a steady pace, until at last they emerged from the District and he could turn onto one of the major cross-town arteries. Here the traffic was just as heavy, but the lines of runabouts and bikes moved more quickly, and they made better time toward the neighborhood where van Liesvelt said Fate had his bolthole. It wasn’t a bad area, mostly row houses and the occasional corner storefront complex—groceries, liquor, drugs-and-sundries, a couple of cheap-electronics shacks—and Trouble relaxed against the battered seat cushions. Van Liesvelt found a parking place along the street, beneath a streetlamp, and Trouble climbed out while he fiddled with his security system. The air was cool, the few stunted trees in their iron cages in front of the houses already turning yellow. Trouble fed a couple of foils into the meter, and turned to van Liesvelt.
“So, where is it?”
“About two houses down,” he answered, and tilted his head toward a house at the middle of the block, where an adolescent—at this distance, it was hard to tell the gender through the hunched body and the spiked hair—sat on the low steps, staring at nothing.
“That’s his security?” Trouble murmured.
“Probably,” van Liesvelt said. “Kids are cheap.”
Trouble nodded, and followed him toward the house. The boy—at least, she was almost certain it was a boy—looked up as they started up the stairs, but said nothing. The main door was unlocked, but gave only onto a grim-looking lobby, all grey tile and a cluttered letterboard beside the barred door. It looked impressive enough at first glance, but Trouble couldn’t repress a grin. The first thing she’d learned when she’d moved to the city was how to jimmy those boards…
“You want to do the honors, or shall I?” van Liesvelt asked.
“Oh, go ahead,” Trouble answered, and van Liesvelt produced a credit-card-sized databoard from one pocket. Its reverse was scarred with the lines where new chips had been inserted into the minimal systems. He flourished it once, and inserted it into the keyreader. There was a brief pause, and Trouble, leaning past his shoulder, could just see lights flickering in the tiny display square as the machine searched for a matching code. To her surprise, the lights stayed orange for a long moment, and then a voice crackled from the speaker above the lock.
“Christ, van Liesvelt, is that you?”
“That’s right,” van Liesvelt said aloud, quite cheerfully, and there was a sigh from the speaker.
“Then I suppose you’d better come up before you break something.” The mechanism clicked loudly, and Trouble pushed the door open.
“Only your codes, Fate,” van Liesvelt said, and they went up the stairs.
Fate lived on the third floor, at the back, where the fire escape led directly into a side street. Trouble saw the ladder plunging past the landing window, and was reminded of the last apartment she had shared with Cerise. They had wanted the near-impossible, a decent kitchen, quiet bedroom, at least two entrances or a good way out, and as few cockroaches as possible… She shook the memory away as van Liesvelt knocked on a rust-painted door, bracing herself for the meeting with Fate.
The door opened at once, but it was a stranger, blond and stocky in a cheap suit, who looked out at them. He grunted when he saw van Liesvelt, but scowled at Trouble. “What do you want?”
Van Liesvelt said, “Hey—”
Trouble smiled, said, in a voice soft enough to brook no argument, “We’re here to talk to Fate.”
The blond’s scowl deepened, and a second voice said, “Leave it, Phil. Let them in.”
Grudgingly, the blond stepped back, opening the door into a surprisingly pleasant apartment. The walls were painted dull cream to match the carpet, and there were a few pieces of good art scattered here and there. Fate was standing in the middle of the room, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, long hair caught back in an untidy ponytail. The scar on his face, running from cheek to chin, looked more prominent than before.
“Do you want me to stay?” Phil asked, and Fate shook his head, grimacing impatiently.
“No, I know them.”
“Do I search them?” Phil went on, and leered in Trouble’s direction. “I’d enjoy searching the double- dollie.”
“Go ahead,” Trouble said, with the smile she’d cultivated for just that insult, “and I’ll be in your records by morning. How’s your credit, straight boy?”
Phil flushed, and Fate said, “Don’t mess with the net, Phil.” His voice was flat, without emotion. “I told you, this was my business. I’ll deal with it. You can go.”
“Mr. Sinovsky’s going to hear about it,” Phil said, but turned toward the door.
“Fine,” Fate said, and waited. There was a little pause, and then Phil shouldered past, deliberately jostling van Liesvelt. The door slammed behind him.
“Didn’t know you were working for the mob these days, Fate,” van Liesvelt said.
Fate looked at Trouble. “I didn’t know you were back on line.”
Trouble nodded. “I hear you’ve been dealing—fencing for someone using my name. I’m not happy, Fate.”
“Your happiness,” Fate began, the southern accent suddenly strong again, “—ain’t my responsibility.”
“I’m making it your business,” Trouble said, and took a step closer to Fate. “Treasury made it mine.”
Fate stepped backward, maintaining the distance between them. “Treasury’s been down on me, too. That’s what goddamn Phil was here about.”
“Oh,” van Liesvelt murmured, “Sinovsky’s not going to be pleased about that.”
Fate darted an angry glance at him, but said nothing.
Trouble said, “I’m looking for this new Trouble, Fate. I want him, her, or it very badly, because I lost a damn good job because of it, and it’s going to pay. Now, you’re its fence, you can tell me where it works out of.”
Fate shook his head again. “I can’t do that, Trouble. I’m running a business now—”
“I don’t give a shit about your business,” Trouble said. “I’m prepared to bring it down, and you know I can.”
There was a little silence, Fate still unmoving, keeping three meters between them, and van Liesvelt said thoughtfully, “Sinovsky can’t be pleased by all this attention, not when he’s trying to keep a low profile after those shootings.”
Fate glanced at him again, grey eyes wary. Trouble said, “He really won’t be happy if I have to take action.”
Fate looked back at her, took a deep breath. “Trouble— newTrouble—works out of Seahaven.”
“Where else?” van Liesvelt murmured
“That doesn’t tell me very much,” Trouble said. “Hardly worth my time.”
“The other Seahaven,” Fate said. “His realworld address is somewhere in Seahaven.”
Trouble nodded slowly. That made sense: the offline Seahaven, or at least the beachfront Parcade, was the best source on this coast for grey-market electronics. Where better to live, if you dealt in stolen codes—and besides, from everything she had heard, the new Trouble would probably appreciate the obvious irony of having the same address on-and offline. “Right, then,” she said. “I think I’ll pay him a visit. Thanks, Fate.”
“Don’t mention it,” Fate muttered, and van Liesvelt grinned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Trouble smiled too, and turned toward the door, opening it for van Liesvelt. She was about to follow him into the hall when Fate called her name.
“NewTrouble’s on the wire. I thought you should know.”
Trouble turned back to face him, nodding slightly. “Thanks,” she said, and then, because that wasn’t
