State of War

“You changed lanes back there without signaling.”

Junior blinked. Was this guy serious?

“I’m sorry about that, officer,” he said. “I thought I hit the blinker. I must have not pushed it down hard enough.” That’s what a citizen would do, try to talk his way out of it. Not that Junior cared about the ticket. He wasn’t going to be around when the ticket came due. But he didn’t want to make the cop suspicious by acting out of character.

The cop nodded absently, looking at the Alabama license.

“Wait right there,” the cop said. He walked back to his bike to do a radio and computer check.

The license wouldn’t come back on him, because he hadn’t done anything with it in Georgia, and the rental agreement at the car company matched the license, if they had any way of checking it. There was no way they would be hooked into a net that would let them access the Alabama Department of Transportation or whatever that fast, and even if they could, the fake was supposed to be good enough to come up no- want, no-warrant, and a legit name and number.

He’d take the ticket, smile, and be on about his business.

The cop came back in a minute, and sure enough, he had a ticket book his hand, Junior’s fake license clipped to it.

But when the cop got there, he said, “You’re not carrying anything illegal in that car, are you, sir? No guns or explosives?”

“Me? No. Why would you say that?”

The cop said, “Can’t be too careful these days. You, uh, of Middle Eastern descent, Mr., uh, Green?”

Junior was insulted. “Do I look Arabic to you?”

“Well, sir, yes, you do a little.”

Junior almost blurted out that he was a Cajun, but that wouldn’t have been smart, since he was supposed to be a redneck named “Green” from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

“Well, I’m not. I’m as American as you, pal.”

“I wasn’t trying to insult you, sir.”

“Yeah, well, you did. Just write the goddamned ticket and let me get on about my business, would you?”

That was a mistake. He knew it the second it left his mouth. It rubbed the cop the wrong way. Never tell a cop what to do, especially if you have the slightest whiff of ex-con on you.

“Step out of the car, sir.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Step out of the car.’ ”

That was bad. Junior was wearing the fishing vest over his T-shirt. If the guy patted him down, and he was definitely going to do that, he’d find Junior’s guns. Even though they’d be clean — a new barrel in the left one and a whole new one on the right since he’d shot anybody — well, except if he hit anybody at the bar. But even so, it would be an automatic trip to jail, and once they got his prints and started poking around, they’d realize pretty quick that Junior was not named “Green,” and who he really was. Felon, firearms, fake ID. That would be bad all the way around.

“Okay, okay, don’t get riled, I’m sorry. I’m getting out right now.”

The cop had his hand on his pistol, but it was still holstered, so Junior kept his hands raised and away from his body as he carefully and slowly stepped out onto the warm macadam.

The cop got a better look at him and nodded. “Assume the position,” he said. “You look like a man who knows it.”

“You got me wrong, officer. By the way, how’s your sister?”

The cop had time to frown, and when he saw Junior move, he pulled his piece, but Junior had the beat and he was faster. The guy was five feet away, he couldn’t miss.

Twice in the face—pap! pap! — and the cop went down. Lights went on inside the houses closest to them, and people started opening window shades and doors. It was a pretty good neighborhood, they probably didn’t hear a lot of shooting around here. Some of them had probably noticed the bike’s flashing lights when it had first pulled in.

Go, Junior, now!

He jumped back into the car and floored it.

As he drove away, he kept shaking his head. How much worse could things get?

32

Washington, D.C.

Jay was bugged. He’d spent several hours ripping apart his code for that superhero scenario he’d written, the one that he’d used to locate the inflow of CyberNation money into the country, and he just couldn’t find anything wrong with it. Which was what he’d expected, of course, except that he still couldn’t explain that weird patch of fog he’d run into, and Jay didn’t like things he couldn’t explain — especially not in code he’d written himself.

The problem was, he was almost out of options. The only other thing he could think of to try, now that his software had checked out, was replacing some of his hardware. He kept duplicates of most items on hand — he couldn’t very well tell Alex Michaels that some bad guy had gotten away because his DVD drive had broken down. He also tried to keep up with upgrades in the industry, both because it was his job and because it was his passion, and usually ordered new models as soon as he heard about them. With some companies, ones he’d worked with for years and had a lot of confidence in, he had standing orders to ship at least one unit of everything they made.

And there were a few companies he helped out by serving as a beta tester, getting a chance to try out some items before they were even ready to hit the general market.

It always helped to stay ahead of the game, especially in this business.

He’d gotten a new reeker in the other day, an Intellisense 5400 olfactory presence generator, guaranteed accurate to within 500 PPM, and he wanted to try it out. This seemed as good a time — and as good a reason — as any.

He opened the box. The new reeker was a little slimmer than the one he had, a brushed-aluminum finish with tiny air intakes and little nozzles where the chem was mixed to make smells.

He smiled as he looked at it, all shiny and modern and new. His best guess was that almost all this hardware would be gone within five years, replaced by direct stimulation of the brain through induction. In the meantime, however, you used what was available.

Jay moved back to his computer, removed the old one from his VR rig, and plugged the new one in. Pulling on his gear, he toggled his hardware-room scenario.

Instantly, he was in a huge space, dimly illuminated by hundreds of readouts — old analog dials, LED projections, backlit LCDs, and various screens. Over in the corner, under a large blue-neon nose-shaped icon, a red light was flashing. A computerized voice sounded an alert.

“Warning. New hardware detected. Initializing virus hardware check. Warning. New hardware detected —”

Jay snapped his finger and the voice went silent. A few seconds later, the drivers for the new reeker loaded, and he was ready to calibrate.

A green light shone near the nose.

“Let’s try some… candy,” Jay called out.

A moment later he was in a old-fashioned candy store, filled with hundreds of huge glass jars of every kind of sweet, tooth-rotting treat imaginable. He went to a container of fat red-and-white-striped peppermints and lifted the lid. The distinct smell of mint blossomed as he inhaled. Ah. Nice.

He took a deeper breath and was pleased to note an increase in the odor’s intensity.

Must have an airflow rate sensor.

He tried several other pleasant-smelling jars, noting each time that the scent was as close to the real thing as he could recall.