Trouble and Her Friends

The mechanical voice was unrecognizable, just a construct of the system, but the codes at the end of the message were perfectly familiar. Cerise, Trouble thought, and was surprised by the strength of her own relief. She had been almost certain that Cerise wouldn’t sell her out, but it was good to know for sure. Then the other name hit her: if Arabesque was to be believed, “Sasquatch” was the Mayor, acting through another icon, another identity—and why the hell would he want to shop me? Trouble wondered. Not being respectful— that’s not enough, not unless he’s really crazy. I’ve got enough friends on the net who’ll act for me, make his life miserable once they know it’s him—and if Rachelle knows, the rest of the shadows will know soon enough.

The screen went green suddenly, her routine complete, contact made, no tracers sighted, and she lifted the handset again to hear the buzz of a hotel teleset.

Cerise answered on the fourth ring. “Yes?”

“Cerise,” Trouble said, and didn’t bother to hide the relief in her voice.

“Tr—” Cerise broke off before the word was even formed, said, smoothly, “There you are. I was hoping you’d call tonight.”

“I got your message,” Trouble said. “I’m afraid it came a little late.”

“Did it, now?” Cerise was silent for a moment. “Do you need a ride, then?”

“And a place to stay,” Trouble said.

“I figured.”

There was another long pause, and Trouble looked uneasily at the telepad’s screen. So far she didn’t show any tracers, or any tap routines, but the telepad wasn’t sophisticated enough to pick up anything more complicated than an active search. Passive monitors were slow, took a while to return the information they had gathered, but she would never know if one had been on her line.

“Right,” Cerise said abruptly, and Trouble jerked herself back to attention. “I’ve got a couple of things to take care of first, but then I’ll meet you—say by Joe’s on the beachfront?”

Trouble frowned—Joe’s was long gone, had been just a recent memory when she and Cerise had first come to Seahaven—and hoped she was getting it right. “I’ll be there. When?”

“Give me an hour,” Cerise said, sounding grim, and cut the connection.

Trouble shut down her system, more slowly, trying to give herself time enough to think. She would go to the storefront where Joe’s had been—it was as good a code as they could hope to come up with, on short notice —in an hour, and hope Cerise showed up. Or, more precisely, she thought, folding cables into a neat package, I’ll hope I understood. Cerise will be there; that I can count on. All I have to do is stay out of sight for an hour.

She tucked the telepad and the call-card back into her pocket, and stepped out from under the baffles. The Parcade was still busy, would stay busy until well after midnight; she could lose herself in the crowds here. She walked slowly away from the bank of phones, turned into a video garden where the heavy music warred with the arrhythmic beep and jangle of game consoles. She found a table in the central space where she could watch the door, and settled herself to wait.

Cerise runs the net like a bloodhound, head down on the scent of her own tracker. She sees it spark ahead of her, flickering red against the black-and-silver sky, follows its course along the datastreams. It was a good routine to begin with, and she has customized it, and knows her target intimately on top of that: it signals success within minutes, and she sweeps down to join it, sees Helling’s icon on the horizon.

Max, she says, and the icon shifts, turns to face her. She throws a sphere around them, shutting out the net and his protests, overriding him with casual force. There’s no time to be subtle, or even polite, and she seals the sphere against his reflexive attempt to break it. *I need Vess Mabry’s realworld codes.*

What? Helling stops then, icebreaker half ready.

*I need to talk to Mabry—I need his help, it’s urgent.*

Trouble, Helling says, with absolute certainty, and dismisses the icebreaker.

*How’d you guess?* Cerise takes a breath. I need those codes, Max.

I heard there was trouble from Seahaven, someone talking Treasury. Helling says.

*Someone’s shopped her,* Cerise says, and bites her tongue to keep from saying more. Helling will help in his own good time, or not at all; she’s already pushing him as far as she dares.

Do you really think Vess can help? Helling asks, and Cerise takes a breath, controls her response with an effort, clamping down on the brainworm’s output.

*I hope so. I want to make it Interpol’s case, if I can—I’ve got some authority, through Multiplane.* I hope, she adds silently, I hope it will be enough. But Mabry doesn’t like Starling: she holds to that, and waits.

Shit, Helling says, half under his breath, and the icon gestures as though to dispel a lurking watchdog. Do you know who did it, shopped her, I mean?

*The codes, Max—* Cerise stops herself abruptly, answers, Maybe. There was someone called Sasquatch who was advocating it. I imagine he or one of his friends went through with it.

Helling shakes his head. *I don’t know the name.*

The codes.

All right. Helling takes a deep breath, audible even over the net, reaches into memory to come out with a series of mail and phone codes displayed as a plain white square. Cerise accepts them, feels the numbers fizz against her fingers as she slides them into her own memory.

*There’s business codes there,* Helling says, *and the home code. At this hour—* he glances sideways, conjuring an internal display, *—try home first. Tell him I told you to.*

Thanks, Cerise says, and lifts her hand to dismiss the sphere.

Hang on, Helling says, and she stops, routine not yet invoked.

If you want, Helling goes on, I can check out this Sasquatch. If he shopped her, I can put the word out.

Trouble is not universally loved, Cerise says, and hears herself bitter: the same dislike is turned against her often enough. Do you think it would help?

There’s a lot of people who think she’s right, this time,* Helling answers, and this time Cerise nods.

Thanks, Max, she says. I appreciate it She lifts her hand again, dismisses the sphere, but to her surprise Helling does not immediately speed away.

Just like the old days, he says, and she can’t tell, in the darkness of his thunderstorm, whether he is amused or angered by the thought. And then he’s gone, icon snatched away on the datastream, and Cerise turns her attention to the codes he’s given her.

The on-line address isn’t far away, by common net reckoning. She sends a query, searching for him in the open pool, and is not surprised when the routine returns unanswered. Helling had said he would be at home, and he should know; better to try that address, offline, and she turns up and into the nearest datastream, lets it carry her home.

The codes were waiting on her screen as she straightened in her chair and reached to detach the dollie- cord. She blinked at them, and switched out of the interface mode, running through files until she found the program she wanted. It was military in origin, grey-market in provenance, and very effective, would disguise the source of her call and give her a readout on anyone who tried to track her. She set it running, and found a cable to plug into the phoneset’s i/o jack, then touched keys to route the call through the program. She pulled the yukata tighter around her, suddenly aware of the environmental system’s chill, and ran one hand through her hair, vaguely startled to find that it had dried already. But there had been ample time for that; she had lost track of time on the net and worrying about Trouble. Numbers shifted on the screen—the program was having difficulty tying into the main trunk lines, was switching to a secondary system—and she wondered if she had time to dress.

A new icon appeared at that instant, and the handset beeped, signaling that her call had connected. She picked it up, feeling the sudden adrenaline surge tighten the muscles of her belly, and heard Mabry’s voice saying, “Yes? Max, is that you?”

“It’s Cerise,” Cerise said. “Max gave me this number.”

“Cerise.” There was a little silence, and Cerise imagined the big man sitting up in bed, blinking and