You should be flattered, Trouble says.
*If it’s mine,* Cerise answers. It could be an illusion, trying to sucker us in.
*That’s a nasty thought,* Trouble says, and Cerise shrugs.
*I’ve some mirrors of my own—to make you think my IC(E) is set like yours, not the kind we’ve been playing with—in our inner walls. It tends to confuse people.*
That would be an understatement, Trouble thinks, trying to imagine reaching for what should be a familiar program and feeling the jolt of hard IC(E). She says, *I’ll watch it, then,* and she keeps walking, on toward the place where the fabric of the Mayor’s world shimmers and turns back on itself. Underfoot, the silver ripples are brighter, and she catches an occasional glimpse of their light toward the end of the walkway, as though all the wavelets that they have set dancing have collected there beneath the surface of the walk.
As she slides a cautious foot into the first turn, she finds herself reaching once again in the wrong direction, tries to pull back as she has done before, and finds herself suddenly trapped, her outstretched leg jogging back and forth without making any progress. Cerise reaches to steady her, a comfortable weight, hands rock solid on her shoulder and waist, and Trouble struggles to bring herself into alignment with the walkway. Her foot obstinately refuses to move the way she wants it; instead, she slides closer in spite of herself to the edge of the walk.
Easy, Cerise says, her own voice strained, and Trouble feels the hand on her shoulder move to her waist, Cerise’s weight thrown backward to anchor them both.
Trouble doesn’t answer, tries again, and again stands frustrated, muscles knotting as she tries to bring her foot back to the left. It’s worse than any force field, because she knows there’s nothing there, nothing really blocking her way—but then, none of it’s real. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and edges her foot forward a dozen centimeters, opens her eyes again to see that she has gone in the right direction, has actually taken a step the way she wants to go. And that gives her the answer.
*We’ll have to crawl,* she says, and Cerise releases her.
*You’re going to have to guide me,* she says, and Trouble nods.
I can do it. She drops to her knees without waiting for an answer, and Cerise copies her, wraps a hand tightly in the skirt of the icon’s long coat. Trouble nods, grateful for the protection—one good thing about iconage, you don’t have to worry about your clothes being ripped away when they should protect you; they’re an integral part of any image—then reaches forward, eyes open, and sees her hand stray to the edge of the walk. She flattens her hand against it, careful not to put her weight on it, to avoid the jagged edge of the unfinished program, then closes her eyes and runs her hand forward, keeping the edge centered in her palm. She brings her hand in again, until she can just feel the edge of the walk against the edge of her hand, and draws her body up to meet it, Cerise’s weight heavy on her legs and hips. She opens her eyes again, half afraid to look, half afraid that in spite of the evidence of her senses she will be off the path and falling, careening down into the black fog, and finds herself perhaps half a meter further along the walk, not quite past the turn. She closes her eyes again, reaches out, the program edge scratching along her palm, draws her body after, and checks her position. Still safe, still making progress, though without dignity or grace, and she manages a breathless laugh before she starts again. She reaches out again, repeats the process, and this time she’s through the perceptual mirror, Cerise still clinging to her coat. Trouble turns back, grabs the hand that is clinging to the icon-coat, and pulls her through. Cerise, eyes closed tight, accepts the help, comes scrambling through, silver light radiating from her.
What the hell were you laughing about? she demands, scowling, pushes herself up onto one knee.
Us, Trouble says, how we must look.
Cerise gives her a sour look. *Yeah, I bet the Mayor thinks it’s funny, too.*
That stings, and Trouble has a sudden vision of how they must look from outside, two cowboy-hatted icons crawling, more clumsy than children, on a grey-and-silver bridge through a black-and-grey geometric universe. It is silly, and she hates looking foolish— and then she laughs again, acknowledging the absurdity. It may look stupid, they may look like clowns, unskilled mimes trying to act out some strange disaster, but they’ve come further into the Mayor’s world than anyone else has, than anyone she’s ever known or heard about in all the years she’s been on the net. *I don’t think he’s laughing,* she says, and knows absolutely that it’s true.
Cerise looks sour for a heartbeat longer, then, slowly, returns the smile. She pushes herself upright, holds out her hand to help Trouble to her feet. He better not be, she says, and looks left, off the edge of the walkway. The smell of IC(E) is stronger now, and she can feel its dank weight, but no corresponding icon stands visible. She considers probing it, trying to force some image to emerge, but decides against it. There are still two more turns to the walk, and logically it will eventually lead to the wall of IC(E), and whatever it is the IC(E) protects: she’ll wait until then to try her probes.
The next turn is much the same, the distortion perhaps a little more complex, and Trouble feels her way along the walk with her hand. Cerise follows, eyes closed tight, letting the other woman pull her along through the mismatch of vision and sense that leaves her seasick, and then, as she crawls, dragged at Trouble’s heels, she catches a first faint sound, the rustle and stir of watchdogs, search-and-destroy programs moving somewhere in the distance.
Trouble, she says, and Trouble says, I hear.
She pulls herself to her feet, turns to pull Cerise up as well, and the first of the programs pops into sight. Cerise studies it, goes intent and still, analyzing the taste of it. She reaches into her toolkit, selects a counterroutine and sets it loose, releases a second and a third copy as well to patrol the space between them. The first copy churns toward the watchdog, meets and tangles it; the programs fall, turning slowly end over end, but she doesn’t bother to watch the end. She reaches into her toolkit again, evokes another version, and then her own icepick, queues them ready for use. She has movable IC(E) as well, a variation of the privacy sphere, and far more effective, but she holds it ready, not yet deploying it.
How many? Trouble asks, and Cerise shrugs.
Five that I can be sure of, maybe more. Now what?
Trouble takes a deep breath, looks over her shoulder at the final corner, where the walkway seems to turn back on itself and the smell, the cold of IC(E) is strongest, then looks back at Cerise and the watchdogs, arrowing down on them. Why the hell did he wait until now? she says, and is briefly angry at the irrelevance. To her surprise, Cerise grins.
*I think we’ve got him worried,* she says. *Those aren’t part of the main program.*
*That’s something,* Trouble says, looks back at the final corner, deceptively ordinary. She knows what will happen if she tries to step through it, to walk the path as it stands, she’s tried it before, practiced it all along the length of this walkway, and that means, she thinks, that this one will be different, somehow. The Mayor would have to be a fool to use the same method, the same kind of program, here where it matters most, and the Mayor has never been a fool. And there was the IC(E) to deal with, as well. Can you watch my back? she says, and Cerise glances at her.
How do you mean?
Keep those off my back until I can figure out how to turn the corner, get to the IC(E) so I can break it.
Cerise nods. I can do that.
Thanks, Trouble says. Stay close.
She moves cautiously toward the last corner, testing each step, ready to throw herself backward as soon as she finds the point where the mirror’s reflection begins. Cerise follows, walking backward so that she can keep an eye on her own counterroutines and on the approaching watchdogs. They are swarming in from every direction now, more and more of them visible in the distance—the Mayor has evoked multiple copies, more copies than she’s ever seen before in any one volume of the net, and she spins a few more copies of her counterroutine into the air around her. The second watchdog engages a counterroutine, and then the third; the programs are well matched, the counterroutine damaging the watchdog beyond function even as it itself is destroyed. She looses another copy, and another, eyeing the oncoming wave of watchdogs: the icons, simple half-spheres, coded red and yellow for warning, brighten the dark volume.
