“Who is she?”
“She calls herself Silk.” In spite of herself, Cerise felt a flash of memory, pure sensation stabbing through her as though the name tripped something in the brainworm.
“I don’t know her,” Trouble said, shaking her head. “On the wire, I assume?”
“Do you think someone off the wire could hustle me?” There was arrogance in the answer, as well as a certain defensiveness.
Trouble shrugged. “You never know. Your tastes could’ve changed. A text-only interface is supposed to be fun—or so they tell me.”
“Fuck you.”
“Do you think this Silk would help you?” Trouble asked, ignoring the insult.
“That I don’t know,” Cerise answered. “She—was out to hustle me from the beginning, I’m sure of it, but I don’t know if I was a trophy or just for fun.”
“But you think it’s worth a try,” Trouble said, and suddenly wasn’t sure if she wanted Cerise to approach Silk after all. Before it wouldn’t have mattered, any more than the sex had mattered—and it doesn’t matter now, she told herself firmly. Their affair was over, had been over for years. But it didn’t feel as though it was over, felt more as though it had never ended, as though the time in between had been a suspension of reality, less than a dream. To be sitting here, in a car parked on the ruined paving of the old Plantation, discussing with Cerise how to sell another cracker to Treasury— to be in the shadows again, with Cerise. That was where she had always belonged, should always have been. Except that the shadows weren’t what they had been, any more than either of them had remained entirely the same.
“It’s always worth a try,” Cerise said, and Trouble dragged her attention back to the present, annoyed that she’d let her own exhaustion distract her so far. “Besides, even if she doesn’t help, she may lead us to newTrouble anyway.”
“You said she was good?”
“We’re better.”
Trouble shifted again against the door, searching for a more comfortable angle, and failed to find one. She hunched her shoulders and let her head rest against the chill glass, said, “So, how do we get back into Seahaven tomorrow morning?”
“Ah.”
“You haven’t worked that out yet,” Trouble said, with sudden certainty. She remembered that tone from the old days, the false confidence, and knew enough to dread it.
“I was more worried about keeping you away from Treasury tonight,” Cerise said. She took a deep breath. “I thought we could probably slip in with the morning rush—there seem to be a lot of people who live in the other towns who come in to work. Besides, the last thing they’d expect is for you to come back after you’ve got away.”
“True,” Trouble said, mostly appeased. It would probably work—would have to work, she amended silently, and smiled.
“What are you grinning at?” Cerise asked.
“Nothing,” Trouble said, and even in the darkness could see Cerise’s quick frown. “I just don’t believe we’re doing this, that’s all.”
Cerise paused, still frowning, and then, slowly, her expression eased. “Me neither, sweetheart.” She had spoken without thought, the casual endearment easy on her tongue, and for a heartbeat she didn’t realize what she had done. Then Trouble stirred, shifting against the padding, and Cerise made a face, looked away as though she could find some apology in the dark outside the car. The security crawl stayed monotonously clear, offering no change of subject, and the silence stretched between them.
“Do you know, I’ve fucking missed you?” Trouble said, and sounded at once surprised and annoyed by the thought.
Cerise looked back at her, surprised into laughter and the truth. “Well, I’ve missed you, too. Even if you did walk out on me.”
“I screwed up,” Trouble said, quite seriously. “And I know I screwed up. I’m sorry.”
And that, Cerise thought, was one thing you had to say for Trouble. She could make even the most inarticulate of apologies sound better than sincere. “It’s OK,” she said, vaguely, and thought almost that it might be.
“How is Multiplane to work for?” Trouble said, after a moment.
Cerise shrugged, even though the gesture would be all but invisible in the darkness. “The company’s all right, they let me handle the net pretty much the way I want. My immediate boss is a bit of a bastard, though. He’s got a real problem with this intrusion, and I don’t know why. He really wants you, or newTrouble; he doesn’t really care which.”
Trouble frowned. “But since I didn’t do it—”
“He doesn’t seem to care,” Cerise said. “And I still don’t know why.”
Trouble said, slowly, “I don’t mean to be naive, not being corporate myself, but setting me up for this would seem to be counterproductive. Word’s bound to get around that he got the wrong person, and that’ll only make him look like a fool on the nets.”
“Make me look like a neo, too,” Cerise agreed. Could that be it? she wondered. To get rid of me? It didn’t sound like Coigne—for one thing, she was still useful, and it wasn’t like Coigne to waste any resources—but it was the best, the only, explanation she’d been able to come up with so far. Not that there was anyone currently in Multiplane’s security division who could replace her… Or was it Trouble he was really after, not so much as a cracker, but as the symbol she had been in the old days, the time before Evans-Tindale, of the worm and its carriers? Or, maybe even more, of the symbol she was becoming, of the net acting to police itself? No, she thought, that couldn’t be right, Coigne had wanted Trouble caught before all this started.
“You think that’s the point, getting rid of you?” Trouble asked, and Cerise shrugged again.
“It could be, I suppose. But, let’s face it, I’d be hard to replace.”
“God, you’re arrogant.”
“But truthful,” Cerise answered, and saw Trouble grin, baring white teeth. “I suppose it could really be you he’s after,” she went on. “You’re making quite a stir these days, got the nets cooperating again, almost.”
“The timing’s off,” Trouble answered. “So, other than your boss maybe trying to get rid of you, you like working in the light?”
“Other than that, it’s a great job,” Cerise said, and stifled a sudden yawn. “How was life among the artists?”
“All right.” Trouble felt her own face stiffen as she fought to suppress an answering yawn, and gave up, stretching awkwardly against the seat and the door of the car. “I spent a lot of time fiddling with printer drivers.”
“So what did they do, these artists?” Cerise asked, after a moment’s sleepy hesitation.
“Lot of different things,” Trouble answered. “A lot of printmakers, graphic artists—one fractalist. Then there were a bunch of potters and a quiltmaker, a couple of writers, too.”
“Must have been interesting.”
Trouble shrugged, wondering if she would be able to explain. It had been, well, dull, but that wasn’t quite the word, either. More that she’d missed whatever it was she’d had in the shadows, whatever it was she’d had with Cerise—and that, she realized suddenly, was the real problem. She had missed Cerise, not just the work, the netwalking, though they had been good at that, but also the time offline, the sex and the shared living. There had been nothing, or more precisely, no one, not even Konstenten, who had been able to provide her with that necessary partnership. She realized abruptly that Cerise was watching her through the dark, her posture more alert, and said, “Interesting enough, some of the time. There was a lot of politics.”
“There always is,” Cerise said. “Still, I bet you found someone to keep you company.” In spite of her attempt to sound cheerful and offhand, the words came out charged with a vague jealousy she hadn’t known existed.
Trouble glanced warily at her, wondering if she’d heard correctly, said, “A few dates here and there, nothing serious. Nothing even close to serious.” There was a bitterness in her own voice that startled her, even as she watched sidelong for Cerise’s reaction. “How about you?”
