A cone of orange light illuminated the agent's face as he reported, from soft rap, [There are indications that the GCS is withholding certain types of information—]
[So?]
[In nonconformity with standard guidelines.]
[Withholding from whom?] The question was spoken from the interior of an egg-shaped console where the coordinator, face lighted by a cyan glow, had withdrawn from several other contacts to give the agent his full attention.
[From the gnostic designers, and from WarOp.]
[Cause?]
[Unknown.]
[Tampering in the system?]
[Nothing discovered in the Gnostic Control System, although a fuller investigation is under way. But—] The agent turned his head slightly, and the glow that lighted his features glinted red. If there was an emotion visible on his face, it was puzzlement.
Impatience inflected the voice from the center. [Something else?]
[Perhaps. There is evidence of a recent intrusion in the central gnostic system. Accounting department. Or public relations.]
[Or public relations? Which?]
Holographic images were reflected in the eyes of the agent. [An accounting department designer, using PR clearance.]
[Nature of the intrusion?]
The agent's eyes moved and blinked, shifting the reflection like tiny bits of diamond. [Uncertain at this time. Gnostic investigation is working on it. They say it is difficult to trace.]
The impatience flared. [Why is it that gnostic investigation always finds such problems intractable? Doesn't the system cooperate?]
[The evolutionary flow tends to cover and blur. The system cannot always analyze changes within itself—]
The coordinator cut him off. [The question was rhetorical. Is there any possibility of connection with GCS anomaly?]
[There is always a possibility.]
[Do you have an identification of the intruder?]
The orange glow flickered. [Sergio DeWeiler, gnostic designer third-level.] Pause. [Accompanied by Ramo Romano, contract artist.]
[Evidence to arrest?]
[Marginal. At present, suspicion of corporate espionage, second-degree. It might be useful to wait for further activity.]
[At continued risk to the system? Negative. File for psych-scan warrants and arrest them immediately. Report when ready.] The figure shifted, a shadow changing position in the green illumination.
A few moments later, the agent reported, [Warrant completed.]
There was no answer. None was needed.
* * *
Kyd was in a foul temper. She'd spent most of the day with Pali trying to come up with a damage-control strategy—after sending Ramo and Sage home with instructions to lie low and stay out of trouble. There had been no reported problems with the gnostic system, so they at least had hope that the damage was minimal, and not some sort of massive rebellion of the gnostic system. Pali had decided in the end to discuss the incident discreetly with her friend Russell.
Once more, Kyd had found herself caught between loyalty to Pali and fear of exposing her agency interests. In Pali's shoes, she would probably have just kept quiet and hoped that nothing more happened—but she could hardly come right out and say that. Poor Pali . . . on top of everything else, her project was now apparently dead and she had to find something quickly to replace it. Maybe that was trivial compared to a secret war and disturbing gnostic events, but still it was her job that was on the line. Wouldn't that be a bitter irony, Kyd thought, if Pali lost her job over this and she was asked to step in?
Right now, all she wanted was to eat her dinner in peace. She had just scalded her fingers serving up a plate of steamed shrimp when the phone chimed. Somehow she knew that it was going to be trouble. Dropping a spoon, she hurried into the living room. "Phone on," she barked. George's face appeared. Oh no, not tonight . . .
"Are you alone?" George asked.
She took a breath. "Yes."
George's scowl was deeper than usual. "You've got to get them out. Right now."
She exhaled, startled. "Get who out?"
"Your friends DeWeiler and Romano. The ComPol has just issued arrest warrants. They're to be picked up at their homes, probably within the hour, unless you get them away."
Kyd opened and closed her mouth. "Wh—how? Where? Can you give them asylum?"
"Not directly. Now, listen to me—"
"But if you can't—"
"It takes time," George said impatiently. "Now I've made temporary arrangements. If they can get out immediately, they're to meet a man at this address . . ."
Kyd took the information and signed off. She kept her fingers crossed as she asked the phone to call first Sage, then Ramo. Please be home, she thought—we're in this thing together. And Ramo, don't be your ornery self, not tonight . . .
* * *
Just outside the shopping district, Kyd had said. Sure, and purgatory was just on the other side of heaven, Ramo thought. He just kept moving, glancing back periodically to see if he was being followed. He didn't like this a damn bit, but what choice did he have? Kyd Metango might be a teasing bitch, but she obviously had her sources. When she called and said that the ComPol were on their way to arrest him, he took it seriously. Company police, you did not mess with. He'd known that the business with DeWeiler and the core was going to mean trouble, but it was a little like being damned for a forgotten sin. He still wasn't sure what had happened back in the core; the bits and pieces of it that had come back to him still didn't make much sense.
My man, you have stepped into something damp and smelly. If you intend to continue your illustrious career, you had better take a care where you step.
The subway had taken him as far as 89th NW. That, to his mind, was the edge of the city. From there he'd walked west past a crumbling Woolworth's and a Neiman-Marcus Bargain Outlet, and turned southward. The neighborhood went from poor to poorer: abandoned storefronts, trash in the gutters, people loitering, papers fluttering on the breeze—and a strong and persistent smell of garbage. It was actually the smell that led him to the diner; a large dumpster beside it stank to high heaven. Ramo looked skeptically at the building—a chrome-sided, round-cornered structure with dirty windows—and read the name: Eddie's Comet. He pulled open the door.
Inside was another world. The dining room smelled of moke and fried potatotes and yucca. A haze of greasy smoke clung to the ceiling. Ramo scanned the diner, trying to find someone who matched the description he'd been given. There were some teenagers and one old man sitting in a booth. He frowned. Was he early? Had he gotten it wrong?
He felt a nudge at his elbow. "Mr. Romano?" said a deep, soft voice. Ramo turned with a start and blinked at a large man with shiny black hair, burnished bronze skin, and quizzical eyes. He looked vaguely like an American Indian. Before Ramo could think of anything to say, the man stuck out a hand. "The name's Silverfish. I've been asked to help you out."
Ramo nodded slowly and shook the man's hand. "You mean you're supposed to save me from my own stupidity?" he asked dryly.
Silverfish laughed. The sound echoed in his throat like a cat's purr. "I guess that's right, Mr. Romano."
"Ramo. Only my creditors call me Mr. Romano."
"Ramo, then. Where's your friend?"
"Friend?"
The man frowned. "I was told to expect you and a Mr. DeWeiler."
Ramo sighed. "Oh."
Silverfish chuckled. "We'll wait here." He ushered Ramo to a corner booth. "Would you like a cup of moke?"
* * *
"Mother, I have to make this fast," Sage said, even before her face came into focus on the screen.
Loretta DeWeiler blinked and stared at him in puzzlement. "What, Sergio? What happened? You were talking about Tony, and then—"
Sage flexed his fingers nervously. "I'll have to explain later." No time now! He had to get moving. I'm scared! he wanted to say.
"Sergio, please tell me what—"
"Mother, don't ask!" She lapsed into startled silence, and he clenched his fists. He wasn't doing this right. But Kyd had told him to leave at once, and here he was . . . "Mother, please. I have to leave now. I might not be able to call you for a while—but don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll call you when I can."
"Sergio, wait!"
"Good-bye, Mother!" He cut the connection. He put his hands to his face and sat shaking; then he stood up and strapped his belt pack around his waist. With a last look around, he ran out the door.
It took him half an hour on the train to reach the edge of the city. He emerged to stubby, grubby buildings and tattered blocks. He had never been to such a poor section of the city, at least not alone and on foot, and it terrified him. Don't be a simpleton, he thought, straightening his shoulders. It's still the city. But he could see more of the sky than he was used to, bluish grey over his head, and that made him nervous. Evening was coming on, and that made him nervous. Everything made him nervous: the unfamiliar street names, the disreputable-looking people who scuttled and clotted in groups and looked at him as though they knew something he didn't. In a short half-hour, he had left behind the entire world as he knew it.
Meet a man named Silverfish, Kyd had said. Get out of your house—now!—and don't call anyone and don't go back. The ComPol will be coming within the hour.
He let out a frightened breath as he remembered the urgency in her voice. How could he have been so stupid as to hang around calling his mother? What if he was being followed right now? He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder, knowing that the action made him conspicuous; but he couldn't help it.
Damn you, core, for getting me into this!
The faster you move, the sooner you'll be someplace else.
He took a deep breath and hurried past aging storefronts. He didn't see the diner until he was almost past it; then he saw the sign, wrinkled his nose, and went cautiously to the door. The smell of fresh-fried food hit his nostrils, and he suddenly realized how hungry he was. Maybe, he thought, there would be time to eat. He wandered hopefully among the tables.
"Over here, Mr. DeWeiler."
He froze. Who had spoken? Then he heard a more impatient voice: "Over here, dimwit," and that one was familiar. He turned and saw Ramo sitting in the far corner with a tall stranger. He sighed softly and went over.
The stranger rose to introduce himself. Sage fumbled to shake hands and sit down at the same time. He shifted his belt pack and glanced uneasily at Ramo, who was slouching in the booth as if he were at home here. Sage looked back at Silverfish, who was dressed like some sort of wilderness guide in a loose-fitting checkered flannel jacket. He seemed to be appraising his clients.
"We didn't think you were going to make it," Ramo said, breaking the silence. "What'd you do, stop off to see your mommy?"
Sage blushed with anger. He deliberately ignored Ramo and said to Silverfish, "Who do you work for?"
The stranger chuckled. His eyes danced between the two. "That's not the sort of question you're supposed to ask."
"Oh." Sage frowned. "Why not?" That brought a laugh from Ramo. Sage glowered at him. "I suppose you know all about this. Why don't you tell me what's going on?"
Before Ramo could answer, Silverfish raised both hands. "Gentlemen—not here." His eyes scanned the diner as he talked. "I can tell you this. I was asked by a friend of a friend of yours to look after you, to keep you out of circulation until certain matters are . . . resolved. Does that help?"
"But why? We only did what—"
Silverfish's hand came back up. "Don't speak of it."
"But—"
Silverfish was suddenly on his feet, urging them both into motion. "Let's go," he murmured. "Into the kitchen." He spoke calmly, but Sage could see muscles tensing in his neck. Sage rose uneasily, following his directions. Silverfish sauntered behind them as they walked back through a swinging door. Once they were in the kitchen, Silverfish hurried them to the rear exit, then told them to wait. He turned and looked back until a man in a white apron waved them on. "Let's go, gentlemen," Silverfish said, pushing the back door open. "Just move quickly and act as though nothing is happening."
Sage followed Ramo, his heart pounding. Silverfish was right behind him, nudging him along without seeming to be hurrying at all.
They emerged from an alley a block over, and soon they were hiking westward. Block by block they moved toward the real outskirts of the city, and the ruins of civilization. It looked like a lunar landscape here. The sun was going down over the slumburbs, and Silverfish was taking them straight toward the setting sun. Silverfish whistled and hummed, simultaneously, the melody and harmony lines of an old pop song. Sage recognized the tune—"Scatz 'n' dames." At first he found it vaguely reassuring, but he began to wonder if it wasn't making a target of them. Everywhere he looked, he seemed to see people lurking, predators among the ruins.
Silverfish stopped whistling. "Don't worry," he said, slapping Sage on the shoulder. "They're not all enemies—there are some friends here, too. We'll be all right." Sage nodded, not reassured.
Silverfish resumed whistling, slapping his hip to keep time. Sage hurried silently to keep up.