The carpet on the staircase was charcoal-toned and thick,engulfing his sloshing shoes as he took the steps one at a time. He gripped themetallic banister, pulling himself upward. Waiters passed him with silver traysand clinking martini glasses, ascending and descending without giving him asecond glance. More synthetics, probably. They didn't know any better.
He reached the second level of the club just as the band finishedits number and the crowds applauded, the dancers turning to face the stage, thepairs rising from their tables to show their appreciation. In the corners,shadows stirred. Even people of influence enjoyed good music and those whocould perform it well.
At one table at the far end of the room, the shadows remainedstill. But the boy's father could tell that someone sat there. Maybe it was him.
Things were about to change in his life, and while there was noway he could possibly know the details of what was to come, he was aware enoughof his current place in time and space to feel that he was about to set hislife on a new course. He needed it to be true.
He needed to see her again. More than anything.
The squishing from his shoes was all he could hear as he carefullyapproached the table, his hands clasped in front of him in an unconsciousgesture reflecting his own self-doubt. What would he say?
The band struck up the next number below, and the dancing throngsresponded in turn, this time with even greater fervor as the rhythm sprintedinto a faster time signature. The shadows in the corners seated themselves ashe passed. He kept his eyes to himself, his shoes silent again beneath theall-encompassing blanket of music. He glanced up at the table before him.
"Hello?" His voice sounded weaker than he would haveliked. He shuffled his feet, keeping almost a meter between himself and thetable's edge. "Are you...?"
His mind was jumbled. Why hadn't he planned out what he would say?
"Sit down." The voice from the dark was commanding,but low enough to avoid attracting attention.
Theboy's father obeyed, faltering with the chair as hepulled it back from the table and took a seat. He blinked, wishing his visioncould pierce the gloom.
"Are you...the one I'm looking for?"
The shadows stirred. A martini glass rose from the table anddisappeared into preternatural dark."That depends," the voice replied afterswallowing. "Whom do you seek?"
The glass returned to the table half-empty.
"The BackTracker," the old man whispered it likea prayer.
Silence. He noticed that he was holding his breath. The musicthrobbed inside his skull.
The voice returned, calm, in control. "And you think he ishere, at The Pearl. Tonight."
"Yes." He felt his heart thumping. Too loud. Toodesperate. "I believe so. I was told—"
"By whom?"
"I don't know, really. They're on the Link. They'vegot a whole site devoted to him."
A slight chuckle emanated from the shadows. "You reallyshouldn't believe everything you see online, Mr. Horton."
How does he know my name? He got to his feetquickly—too quickly, knocking into the table and spilling the martini glass.
"And now look what you've done," the voice chided in anironic tone. "These tablecloths don't come cheap, you know."
It wasn't him. This was the wrong table. Everything about this was wrong.
"Pardon me—I must have been mistaken. I'm sorry..." Hebacked away, his breath coming in short gasps, his heart shuddering against hisribcage. "Excuse me."
Laughter erupted from the shadows as he turned on his heel andhurried toward the stairs. This was a very bad idea. He never should have comehere.
Downstairs he went, sloshing, dripping a trail behind him,clutching onto the banister and pulling himself along. He dared not look back.He could feel eyes fixed on him, their attention following him. Not a goodfeeling.
The tuxedos and sparkling dresses were only a blur, the music onlybrash noise as he reached the foot of the stairs and proceededpast the coat counter. He didn't stop. The claim ticket was still crumpled inhis pocket when he shuffled out through the crowded exit and into the downpourbeyond.
The cold hit his lungs like crushed ice and he gasped, folding hisarms across his chest to shield himself. The line of tuxedos anddresses under the awning caught sight of him and stared. The umbrellas on theirway out knocked into him from behind, sending him off balance toward the alley.There he stood, swaying, defeated.
He had failed, and now he would have to face his son and tell him.
The boy could see him from across the street. He knew the truth.His father tried to hide such things from him, but it never worked. He wasn'tstupid. He could tell that the old man was struggling these days, unable tofocus—except when it came to obsessing over the boy's lost mother. A woman hisfather described incessantly in glowing terms but whom the boy had never met.Not that he could remember, anyway. His father hadn't been able to stop talkingabout her for the past two weeks. Hadn't been sleeping or eating. He was ahaunted man.
"Just come back, Dad..." He pulled his soaked coat tight across his middleand watched.
The old man had somehow lost his own coat. That wasn't good on anight like this. He stood there in the alley, looking displaced. Was he crying?Or was it the rain? The fancy folks heading into the club ignored him. He wasnothing to them. He staggered forward, holding his forehead, losing his way.Why was he going farther into the alley?
The boy tried to call out to him, to bring him back, but thesplashing automobiles were too loud and drowned out his voice. Blinking againstthe rain, he looked for a break in the traffic. He would have to run across thestreet. He could do it, he was fast enough.
Shapes stirred in that alley—two large ones. They towered over theboy's father. Mandroids? What were they doing?
The boy emerged from the shadows and headed for the curb. Umbrellaspassed, almost knocking him over. He had to get across the street. But there weretoo many cars. One sped by closer than it should have, sending a dark wave ofrainwater
