about it.
“You done with that?” Cerise asked, and Trouble turned, to see the other woman standing in the bedroom doorway. She had changed into something like her old style, black jeans, nearly black T-shirt, black jacket, and walking boots, and the vivid makeup was a shocking contrast.
“Yeah,” Trouble answered, and stood aside to let Cerise close down the system. “It’s got to be a kid, newTrouble does. It doesn’t make sense any other way.”
Cerise looked up curiously, her hands slowing on the keys. “Why? I think I agree, but why?”
“You first,” Trouble said, automatically, and Cerise laughed.
“Give it up.”
Trouble grinned. “Because this isn’t profitable—none of this that your Interpol buddy found, and none of what I’ve heard about here, and most certainly not hassling Fate.”
Cerise nodded, folding the screen back over the keyboard. “That’s more or less what Mabry said, and certainly the intrusion we had was pretty pointless—more to prove he could do it, as far as I can tell, than to get anything to sell. He was in the wrong place—that particular volume belonged to a subgroup that didn’t have anything at a crucial stage.”
“Besides,” Trouble said, “it feels like a kid’s work.”
Cerise nodded again, slipped a folder into her jacket pocket. “And where best to find a kid but on the Parcade?”
They walked back across the Harbormouth bridge. The tide was coming in now, rising over the flats, and a few gulls were waiting at the edge of the mud, heads cocked to watch something under the shimmering surface. Cerise shook her head, seeing them, said, “I don’t know how they survive, given what the fish have been eating. And swimming in.”
Trouble shrugged. “Scavengers evolve, too, I guess.” But there had been more gulls around when she was younger, she thought, or maybe that was just a trick of memory. She frowned slightly, annoyed at the irrelevance of her thought, and fixed her eyes on the continuation of the avenue ahead. The streets were more crowded now, night workers just starting their day, and the arc of the Ferris wheel showed neon above the rooftops.
The Parcade lay perpendicular to the beach, had once connected almost directly with the beach itself, but the stairs that breached the seawall had been barricaded, riprap piled behind the new concrete walls, and only the occasional plume of sand now passed that barrier. Cerise looked away from the barricades, brighter concrete against the weathered grey, said, “Where to first, do you think?”
Trouble shrugged again, surveying the low-slung buildings. They lay in two long rows, facing each other across the much-mended street; the ones closest to the beach were sand-scarred, the pastel paint scratched and blistered, but the more distant ones were in fairly good repair, only the sun to fade the gaudy colors. The Ferris wheel and its battered control shack lay at the end of the northern arcade, but even its brilliance was dwarfed by the pink-and-green palace that stood across the end of the road. The mostly green trim was picked out in yellow and white, and purple banners streamed from all six turrets. They would have to end up there, whether they wanted to or not, and Trouble grimaced, thinking of the warren of dealers behind those walls. Not just grey- market there, but black, software, and even hardware, dragged out of the deepest shadows, plus drugs and arms and just about anything else that one could want, and the man who presided over it all with genial contempt was a deeply connected player. Or at least he had been: he might be dead by now, she thought, and said, “Mollie’s first, and then work our way down the arcades.”
“Leave the palace for last?” Cerise asked, but there was no malice in her smile.
“It’ll give them a chance to take a good look at us,” Trouble said, and Cerise nodded.
“Yeah. Tinati was always a little trigger-happy for my taste.”
“So he’s still running things?” Trouble asked, and stepped up onto the boardwalk that ran the length of the arcade. It was cooler under the sheltering roof, and she drew her vest closed again. Across the street, in the other arcade, a skinny kid in jeans and a sweatshirt came out of one of the storefronts, began sweeping sand off the boardwalk into the street.
Cerise nodded. “I had some—dealings—with him about a year ago.”
Trouble glanced at her. “I thought reputable corporations didn’t make deals with the shadows.”
“It was a buy-back,” Cerise said, indifferently. “Anyway, who told you Multiplane was respectable?”
Trouble laughed. “There’s Mollie’s.”
Mollie Blake had a single storefront toward the beach end of the north arcade, a narrow, dimly lit public room presided over by a thin girl with teased hair piled high over a frame. The shelves to either side of the central desk were piled with a random array of hardware, toys, and useless gadgets mixed with genuinely practical items. Trouble found her eyes drawn to a simple-looking data-dome, wondering if its interior works really matched the manufacturer’s name on the touchplate. The override lock she had bought had been top-of-the-line, and Blake’s price had been better than fair.
“Can I help you?” the girl said, not moving from behind her desk, and Trouble brought herself back to the business at hand.
“I want to talk to Mollie,” she said. “Would you tell her Trouble’s here?”
The girl’s eyes moved to Cerise, and Cerise said, “We’re together. My name’s Cerise.”
This time the girl’s eyebrows rose in open amazement, and she touched something under the edge of the desk. “Ms. Blake? You have visitors.” There was a little silence, and Trouble looked again, found the thin wire of an earpiece running down the girl’s neck. “Trouble and Cerise.”
There was another silence, this one longer, and Cerise glanced sideways, unable to repress a quick grin. It was all too like the old days, and she had forgotten, almost, how much fun those days had been…
“Ms. Blake says go on back,” the girl said, and her surprise was audible in her voice. She reached under the edge of the desk again, and an unobtrusive door popped open on the back wall.
“Thanks,” Trouble said, and stepped around the desk. She pulled the door open—it was heavier than she had expected, backed with armor sheathing, and the locks were extra-heavy-duty—and stepped through into a narrow stairwell.
Cerise followed cautiously, wrinkling her nose a little at the dust that had drifted behind the threshold.
“Come on up,” Blake said from the top of the stairs, and Trouble did as she was told.
They emerged into a bright and pleasant room tucked under the eaves. Twin skylights were open, the armored shutters propped up to let in light and air, and there was furniture, foam-core chairs and a pair of low tables, drawn up around a central test table. Another woman, heavyset, big-breasted and wide-hipped, sat in one of the chairs, one ankle resting on her thigh.
“You know Nova,” Blake said, and the heavy woman nodded in greeting.
Trouble nodded back, did her best to hide her surprise, and could see the same startled realization flicker across Cerise’s face. She had never met Nova off the nets, neither of them had; she had thought Nova was a man, like most of the crackers who affected that style. Nova smiled crookedly, as though she recognized and did not entirely enjoy that response.
“So,” Blake went on, and waved them to the nearest chairs. “What do you want from me now, Trouble?” She looked at Cerise. “Or is this Multiplane’s business?”
“Both,” Cerise said, gently, and sat down in a patch of sunlight.
Trouble said, “I’m looking for information, Mollie.”
Blake made a face, and Nova said, “And Treasury’s looking for Trouble.” Her tone was absolutely familiar, sharp and ironic, and Trouble knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was the person she had sparred with on the net.
“I’ll tell you what we’re after,” she went on, as though Nova hadn’t spoken, and fixed her eyes on Blake, who stood with one hip leaning against the edge of the test table. “Then you can think about it and give me an answer. I’d rather you said you didn’t know or wouldn’t tell me than lie to me—and I’ll find out any lies.”
“Oh, I know exactly what this is about,” Nova said, and Blake said, “Wait.” She looked at Trouble. “Go on.”
Trouble said, “Word is that this newTrouble, the person who’s stolen my name on the net and who’s causing a lot of trouble for all the shadows, lives in Seahaven. If he buys hardware, and he must, no one goes without hardware, he’ll have come to you. I want his name, and an address.”
“He might not have come to me,” Blake said, tonelessly. “Not everyone has your high opinion of my
