Certainly that, Trouble says, and steps through before she can change her mind.
The hole seals itself instantly behind her, a soundless thump and concussion of hot air that emphasizes the finality of the closing. Trouble wastes a single second on a curse, anger at her own stupidity, the sheer arrogance that tempted her to take this chance, then swings in a quick circle, surveying this Seahaven. It is remade today in stark simplicity, dirt road and sunlight and flat-fronted wooden buildings, a double line of them along the single road, the only road today, that leads straight to the Mayor’s Aztec temple. If there are other netwalkers, she doesn’t see them, though she thinks she feels a passive presence, watchers lurking beneath the shell of the images. But if they are that far buried, they can neither hurt nor hinder; she dismisses them from conscious thought, lifts her head to survey the temple. The Mayor will be waiting there—And then she has the image, belatedly, the grade-B western’s final scene, and she grins in spite of herself, wishing her icon remade as she could remake it, given time, and starts walking, slow and easy, hands at her side, up the dusty road toward the Mayor’s citadel.
Cerise swears as the door slams shut against her, reaches out to catch the codewall, and swears again as IC(E) sparks against her fingers, driving into the receptive nerves. She pulls back instantly, stands for a moment with numbed hands, wincing at the sensation of blood rushing back into damaged tissue. And there may be real damage this time, not just the illusion of it, detached pain flowing along the wires from the brainworm: it was serious IC(E), the kind she knows enough to fear. She works her fingers cautiously, feeling pain beneath the tingling, then reaches for a program. Her hand fumbles for an instant with the toolkit, briefly clumsy, and then the brainworm’s override cuts in and she feels clear sensation return. She chooses an icepick, and then a couple of lesser routines, frowns and peels the illusion away so that she is looking at the code symbols that make up the wall of IC(E) itself. It is complex, definitely the Mayor’s work, his best work, maybe, and despair touches her, cold beneath the adrenaline high. But she’s good herself, and knows it, has become something of an expert on IC(E) in the years with Multiplane, and she knows where to begin unraveling. She touches probe to code, and watches the patterns dance, marshaling forces to repel her pretend-invasion. She touches it again, differently, and sees a different pattern respond, a new defense writhing across the symbols. She touches it a third time, betting with herself that she knows what will happen, and the IC(E) answers as she predicted, a flash of light that would have shocked an unwary netwalker off the nets, overloading the cutout circuits. She knows the system now, knows its important parameters, and that means she can break it. All she needs, she thinks, and it becomes a kind of mantra, all she needs is time. There may not be time, Trouble may not have the time to spare, but she puts the fear aside, concentrating entirely on the codes in front of her. All she needs is time.
Trouble walks, and readies her programs, her best defense and the needle-sharp icepick that doubles as a disrupter, her best tool to unravel other people’s work. She calls them to hand, but leaves them uninvoked. She can feel the tingle of IC(E) to either side, hidden behind the false-front buildings, smells the cold, damp-metal tang of it, incongruous beneath the dry heat that bathes her. She ignores it, however—disdains it, really, wouldn’t deign to escape, to walk away from this challenge—and keeps going, and at last the Mayor comes out to meet her, a thin black-clad shape of a man, a shadow against the bright stone of his stair-stepped temple. He stands on the first platform like a priest, high enough to dominate, not so high that he cannot reach her, and Trouble curls her lip at him, lets the worm carry her contempt, strong enough that even he must feel it.
She sees she’s struck home as the worm carries his response, a deepening heat, and then the flattening of the light, as though he’s exerting himself to keep control.
Hello, Trouble, he says, and despite the apparent distance his voice is close and conversational.
Hello, Mayor, she answers, and keeps her voice equally calm. She stops where she is, perhaps forty virtual meters from the base of the pyramid. The first platform, where he stands, is four meters above her head, and if she goes much closer, she will have to crane her neck to see him properly. Quite a greeting.
*You’ve earned it,* the Mayor says grimly, and Trouble manages a grin she doesn’t feel.
Nobody messes with me, she says, and, remembering the lurkers, *not even you— Sasquatch.*
It is a shot at random, following Arabesque’s word, and she is remotely pleased when the Mayor waves his working hand, waving away the charge without denying it.
*You’ve done quite enough, Trouble,* he says. *This has to stop. This time I’m giving you fair warning, and if you don’t listen, I will bring you down.*
*That’s been tried,* Trouble said, the anger swelling in her. *You tried to shop me, and you blew it. And the worst of it is, I’m the one who’s been wronged here. It was my name your little friend stole, my programs he tried to use, me he tried to blame. The only thing I’ve done is to defend myself.* She shook her head. *I didn’t start this, Mayor, and you know it. But I will finish it.*
She hears her own absolute certainty reflected across the net, feels the distant stirring, like indrawn breath, as that same certainty reaches the lurkers. The Mayor’s icon cannot frown, but she senses the change of expression in the air around her.
*I’m making this my business,* he says at last. NewTrouble is my business, and I will deal with it. But in my own way, not yours. Leave it to me.
Trouble shakes her head, too angry to think of conciliation. *No. You had your chance, Mayor, you don’t get another one.*
And who do you think you are? the Mayor demands, stung at last into real response. *You’re nobody, just another half-competent bitch queer who thinks she’s good because she has a brainworm. You haven’t earned what you have, you haven’t worked for it the way the rest of us have, the real crackers, you just had it handed to you direct-to-brain. You don’t have any right to dictate to me.*
Fuck you, Trouble says, and then regrets it, the easy, unthinking answer, shoves the mistake away as unimportant and irretrievable. She takes a breath, mastering her own anger, looking for the words that will reach beyond him, that will touch the lurkers. *You know damn well that’s not how the wire works, and if you weren’t afraid of it, you’d have one yourself. It’s just the same as the implants, just like the dollie-slots, but it gives me an edge, yeah, because I’m not afraid of it, of what I can do with it. Or of you.* She stops then, breathing hard, pins him with her best glare because she’s told a lie. She is afraid—she’d be a fool not to be, he’s maintained Seahaven in the face of the law and the bright lights for ten years, and she’s never been entirely a fool. *NewTrouble’s a menace,* she says again, one last attempt at rational argument even though she knows it’s useless, at least if Mabry’s right. If newTrouble is this boy the Mayor’s been keeping—and he must be, there’s no other reason for him to behave this way, no matter how much he hates, fears, the wire—then he’ll do whatever he can to protect him, no matter what. *The Eurocops know who he is, you know, they’ll have him— *
You sold him, the Mayor says.
You sold me. Trouble blinks up at him, staring into false sunlight burning down out of a dust- white sky. The Mayor’s icon loses all resolution against that sky and the white stone of the pyramid; even the lions and eagles that crown the corners of each step have lost their distinct outlines. She risks a backward glance, sees the storefronts fading, faintly translucent, a hint of the white light shining through. She hesitates, weighing her words, and strikes. *If you can’t hack the rules…*
There is no warning, not even a drawn breath, and the Mayor strikes. She is half expecting it, had known it would be now if ever, but even so the blow—icepick? clawhammer?—hits hard, sending electric shivers through her defenses. She winces, feels the effect like pins-and-needles all along her limbs, dispatches her own icepick more or less at random, buying time. It slides harmlessly off the Mayor’s IC(E), kicking back painfully into her palm. She feels the jolt of it to her elbow, but readies it, and another, a different program, heart jolting against her ribs. She can taste adrenaline, and fear, knows and doesn’t care that the lurkers will feel it, too. There’s no time to worry about it: the Mayor’s clawhammer probes again, and she calls a secondary codewall into existence, reinforcing her defense. It takes excruciating time, like a gunfight in slow motion, too much time, either to attack or defend. The trick, she knows, is to stay with her decision, never succumb to the temptation to second-guess, choose another program—that and knowing when to cut and run.
