*Treasury doesn’t care which one of you it gets,* he says at last.
Trouble smiles. *But you care, or you should. You don’t stop this one now, you don’t know what it’ll do next—could steal your names, your work and style, could just keep cracking the way it’s been doing, and upsetting the cops. But sooner or later you’ll have to do something. I intend to do it now.*
There is another silence, this one longer, and she takes the chance to look sideways at the lurkers. Fate is there, plaintext cartoon-icon of his scarred face, and next to him a shape that can only be Max Helling, bright among the rest. The old gang returning, she thinks, and can’t decide if she feels better for it. She thinks she sees van Liesvelt too, among the cluttering crowd.
Dargon says at last, If this newTrouble agreed to stop using your name, would you call a truce?
Yes, Trouble thinks, if it also agreed to stop using my programs, copying my style, made it clear it was someone else. But this is the net, and the rules are different; she can’t concede a position yet, not without losing status. She says, Has this person agreed to it?
Dargon hesitates, and the colors fade a little from his icon. No.
And that, Trouble thinks, will never do. She can’t afford to concede first, not when she’s always been on the outside, not quite of the community that polices the net, set apart by the brainworm, gender, and her choice of lovers. She shakes her head, enjoying the sense of the movement—a false sense, really, existing only in her brain, along the brainworm’s wires—says, If it agrees, talk to me then.
Dargon gives a little sigh—he had obviously expected no other response, would probably never even have asked if she hadn’t been a woman, a dyke, and on the wire.
Trouble goes on, not waiting for his answer, *Like I said, sooner or later this person’s going to have to be stopped.*
Stopped or shopped? a voice—Nova’s, she thinks—queries, sharp and amused, and Trouble nods her appreciation of the quibble.
Treasury will certainly buy, she says. *And I’m prepared to sell, if I have to. But I want my name back, and an end to this stupidity.*
She has declared herself, fully and completely, and she stops, waiting for their answers. The Postmaster is first to move, drifting back out of the line of icons, away from the wall, away from her, his message clear. He will not help, but he won’t stand against her, either. Arabesque steps forward, colors rippling along the sweep of her silken robe, the cloth flying as though she stood perpetually in a strong wind, steps past Dargon and comes to join her. Trouble smiles, and feels an unfamiliar sensation shiver through her—gratitude, certainly, and something more. Starfire backs away, joining Postmaster, and Rogue joins them; a heartbeat later, Alexi goes with them. From the lurkers, van Liesvelt steps forward, a big shambling bear-shape that carries his familiar grin. Blue Max, Max Helling, unmistakable even in the blue thunderstorm that has replaced his biplane, follows more slowly, and van Liesvelt turns to him in surprise. Katana and Jimmy-D turn away, brush past Postmaster, and are gone, lost among the lurkers. Fate steps forward without comment or change of affect, takes his place with Trouble’s friends. That she had not expected, a public affirmation of his private choice, and she is careful not to shame him with surprise. Dargon and Nova stand alone between her and the wall, and Nova laughs.
*Later, maybe, Trouble. But I won’t stand in your way.* The icon flips away, vanishes in a shower of smoke, and Dargon turns slowly, faintly green, the color of a nodded head.
All right. For now, he says, and steps aside.
Trouble hides her smile, mutes the triumph that sings through her, looks at the icons gathered around her. It is so like the old days that she could cry or dance, and she doesn’t know what to say, says instead of greeting, I have to get my mail.
Arabesque laughs, a muted sound, and van Liesvelt says, *So do it. We’ll wait.*
Trouble nods, strides away across the charcoal paving, takes the message down from the wall. Cerise’s once-familiar codes seethe against her hands, she matches them from memory, the responses buried in her toolkit, and the message falls open in her hands, a fleeting burst of words that burns itself into memory, TREASURY/ STARLING ARE LOOKING FOR YOU, TAKE PRECAUTIONS. That is unexpected, a warning from Cerise, after everything that’s been between them, and she walks back to the others as slowly as she dares, wondering what to do.
So, van Liesvelt says You got your mail.
Was it worth it? Fate says, and despite the inflexible icon, Trouble hears the irony in his tone.
It triggers her decision, and she nods, speaks before she can change her mind. Yeah, she says, *it was worth it—and does anyone know where Cerise is these days, or what she’s doing? *
Arabesque draws in a breath, says, in the sharp London voice that goes so strangely in Trouble’s mind with the black skin, What a welcome. Thank you, sunshine.
Sorry, Trouble says, and after a moment the other woman laughs, this time at herself.
*I’ve missed you, Trouble. *
*And I’ve missed you,* Trouble waits a moment, gauging her chance to ask again, and Helling clears his throat.
*Cerise is with a company called Multiplane. Chief of on-line security, I think. And she’s looking for Trouble—the new one, I mean.*
I see. Trouble didn’t mean to speak aloud, is vaguely startled when the words drop onto the net, shakes herself with a frown. I need to get a message to her, privately. Any ideas?
Arabesque’s mouth twists, but she says nothing. Helling says, slowly, *I have a—friend who’s in touch with her, but it wouldn’t necessarily be private.*
I know a route, Fate says Do you want the numbers or do you want me to do it for you?
There is a challenge, intended or not, in his words, and Trouble stiffens. Give me the numbers.
The icon does not change, but a moment later a silver wafer appears in the air between them. Trouble takes it, tucks it into memory without looking at it, feels the numbers vibrate in her mind. Arabesque says, *I thought you left her. That’s what she said.*
*I did.* Trouble doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to explain, and Arabesque laughs again, this time with genuine amusement.
*Trouble, you’re too much.* She steps back, her draperies gathering around her as though her private windstorm had changed direction, lifts her hand to find a gateway out of Seahaven. *I’ll keep in touch,* she says, and is gone.
Trouble stares after her, regretting the unasked questions—what are you doing these days, are you well, are you happy—then shakes herself, and turns back to business. She has to find Cerise—she owes Cerise the word she herself had gotten, that newTrouble’s in real-Seahaven.
Helling says, *It’s slick IC(E) at Multiplane, slick and very hard. And not all of it’s Cerise’s.*
The route I gave you takes you in obliquely. Fate says.
Trouble nods her thanks, feeling the numbers, address and direcionals, trembling in memory.
Good luck, Helling says, and starts to drift away.
Thanks,* Trouble says, softly, for more than just good luck, and she sees Helling’s face appear momentarily in the shadow of the thunderstorm, to show his smile.
*It’s good to have you back.*
Trouble grins in spite of herself. *—it’s good to be back—and looks at the others. *And thank you, too.*
*I don’t much like viruses,* Fate says. The icon does not change it never changes, he’s not
