"Listen," he said. "I know you are all doing outstanding work. Our projects thus far have been on target and very effective. However, due to the actions of Net Force, as well as other minor security agencies, our successes have not been as great as we'd hoped they'd be."
Nobody was happy to hear that, but it wasn't telling them anything they didn't already know.
"There are real world contingencies; of course, those have always been in place, and those in charge of such matters will go forward as necessary. Some efforts have already been made in that direction."
This drew a disappointed murmur.
He could understand that. It had been his hope all along that the programmers and weavers could do the job without resorting to cruder methods. That would be the real victory, to use the very tools of that which they sought to bring about and nothing more. The reality of it was, however, that there were still limits on what could be done electronically. The future had arrived, but there were still people out there who not only refused to log into it, they seemed to be heading back to the past. There were groups who still used typewriters, for God's sake. Fountain pens were making a comeback. Handwritten letters weren't going to replace e-mail, of course, but there were people who still corresponded that way. There were even people in the United States who not only refused to have answering machines or services, they didn't have telephones^.
You couldn't reach people like that, couldn't frighten them with worries of Internet problems. They didn't care.
Fortunately, these Luddites were in the minority; but the computer revolution was not yet complete. Some things still had to be done the old-fashioned way. That's why men like Santos were necessary. If you were doing surgery, you needed a laser scalpel, but now and again, despite medicine's advances, you had to have a bone saw. Or, perhaps more accurately, a leech…
He was wandering. He drew himself back to the meeting at hand. "We are going to have to push up our deadline on Attack Omega," he said.
That drew louder grumbles.
"I know, I know. You are already running as fast as you can. There is no help for it—the decision comes from on high. We will be coordinating with the other agents of change on this, and we can't slip the deadline even by an hour. Whatever we have when Omega launches is what we have. I'd like for it to be as much as possible. Okay, let's put on our question hats and get them all out in the open…"
Later, after they had filed out, Keller sat at the table, idly tapping his fingertips on the wood, thinking. His team would give him all they had. And he would roll up his ' sleeves and help them—Jay Gridley was the linchpin around which Net Force's security operations revolved. Throw enough sand at Jay, and he'd grind to a halt, and if Jay was stymied, much of Net Force's interference would also be slowed, maybe stopped.
Whatever Santos thought of him, all it would take would be for Keller to point a finger at Jay, and he'd be a dead man. That was the surest way of removing him from the picture. And probably it was safer for Cyber-Nation to do it that way.
But…
Where was the honor in that? The skill? The knowing that he could take Jay on and beat him, using the weapons they had developed with their brains. Any thug could crack somebody over the head with a club. Beating Jay Gridley mano a mono, VR against VR, computer to computer, that was something to make a man feel good.
Kill Jay? No. Not with a gun or knife. Beating him at his own game, that was how he would do it. Defeating him intellectually, shattering his confidence, taking away what he thought he was, that was worse than death for a man like Jay Gridley.
Nothing less would do.
He took a deep breath. Well. Might as well get started. He had a couple of things he could give Jay to chew on. He smiled. Yes, indeed.
Santos finished his exercises. Drenched in sweat, he headed for the shower.
The workout had been good, but he was getting stale. It had been too long since he had trained against an expert. The solo dances were okay for maintaining muscle tone, to stay flexible and to keep alive the basics, but you did not learn to fight men by practicing alone. Mirror warriors were no threat. To keep a skill sharp, you had to hone it against another player of equal or better skill. Timing, distance, position, those could only be learned against dangerous opposition. The flow had to be there.
Soon, he would have to find players of enough ability to challenge him. There were none on this ship, none within easy travel range. Maybe in Cuba—he had heard there were some old-line players still there, hiding in the cane fields, practicing by moonlight, since the art was still frowned on, even after the Old Man was gone—but finding them would be the trick. There were some in the U.S., of course, even in Florida, but to get a real challenge, he would need to go home, that's where the best players still were, and that was not in the cards in the near future—not until this job was finished.
He sighed. A man had to learn to put off his wants to deal with his needs.
He turned the cold water on full blast, shucked his pants, and stepped into the shower. The cold needles made him catch his breath, but it was a good feeling.
Then there was the problem of Missy Chance to consider. She was sleeping with Jackson Keller, at least, maybe others—who knew? One of the barmaids in the casino had told Santos this while she had been enjoying his body in her room, after he had returned from dispatching the vice president of the server company.
Santos soaped the long-handled and stiff-bristled brush and began to scrub his face and neck.
He saw no irony in finding out that his mistress was sleeping with another man from a woman he was screwing. Men were allowed to be with more than one woman, God had made men that way, but a woman who was unfaithful? That was wrong. He could not blame Keller for wanting Missy, though he, too, would have to pay. But if it was not rape, and he could not imagine that happening to her, then Missy must be made to… atone for her action.
He moved the rough brush down, scrubbed his shoulders, his armpits, his back.
Missy was expert in bed, but she was too sure that such ability made her superior to other women. It did not. In the dark, they were all the same, true?
She must be made to understand that some things could not be allowed by a man such as Santos. Not allowed.
Washington, D.C.
"A nightclub?"
"Not exactly," she said. "More like a… roadhouse," she said.
Michaels looked at Toni and raised one eyebrow.
They were in the living room. The baby was asleep, and so was Guru.
"We haven't been out since Alex was born," she said.
"Yes, we have," he said.
"Not by ourselves," she said.
"We didn't have a baby-sitter," he said. "And if we had had a baby-sitter, we wouldn't have trusted her."
"Well, we do now," she said, smiling. "Guru."
"She's a witch, you know. She's put a spell on our son. No baby should behave that well."
"Alex…"
"So, what is the attraction of this roadhouse exactly?"
"The food is supposed to be terrific, and they have a great live band."
"As opposed to a great dead band?"
"Has anybody ever told you how funny you are?"
"All the time."
"Yeah, well, they lied."
"Now who's being funny?"
"Anyway, the band is called Diana and the Song Dogs."
"What kind of music do they play?"
"Well, it's kind of, well, uh… country/rock/folk/blues fusion."
"Oh, please. Not another of those new-age bands playing touchy-feely elevator music—"
"No, no, nothing like that. It's just the kind of music you can listen to while having a beer. Foot-stompin', bug-squashin' music."
"Had a lot of that in the Bronx, did we?"
"We had radio. We had television. Why, we even had transportation that could take us to places outside our neighborhood."
"Ah. I see."
"No, you don't. But you will."
"Are you sure you wouldn't just rather stay home and enjoy the quiet? Just the two of us in the house? Alone?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Guru can take Alex to the park for a couple of hours—"
"We are going out. I am not going to become one of those women who, if she ever gets the chance to talk to anybody, prattles on about what color her little darling's last poop was when she changed his diaper."
"What color was it?"
"Go get dressed, Alex," she said. Her tone was ominous.
The roadhouse was called the Stone Creek Pub and Grill, and it was far enough out into the Virginia countryside that it took a while to get there. There were a lot of trees, so there was plenty of oxygen in the air when they found a parking spot in the crowded lot. And there were animals living in the area, too—less one skunk somebody had run over, adding a fragrant stink to the evening breeze.
"Jeez, what an odor," Toni said.
"You wanted to come here."
The place appeared to be a converted barn, lots of open woodwork and bare walls with old metal signs and horse harnesses and such hung on the walls. They managed to find a table, and it was noisy, filled with people, and busy. Still, Michaels was fine once he had gotten up and past the inertia. Toni was right; they needed to get out more. Having her back at work was good, but hardly restful. Becoming parents had put a big crimp in their lives. Michaels really didn't mind, since he would usually just as soon stay home as go out after a hard day at the office. But it was all too easy to turn into a couch potato who stayed home all the time, warm and secure in the nest. The baby hadn't helped that. It was easier to be where they had everything they needed; if they went out, they had to pack diaper bags with bottles and clothes and rat-ties and stuff, and it was a hassle. He had gone through that with Susie when she'd been a baby, but he had forgotten, it had been so long.
The waitress came, took their orders for pints of beer. Toni got something called Ruby—beer "with a hint of raspberry," ick—and he got one called Hammerhead, which seemed appropriate. The waitress promised to be back for their sandwich orders in a few minutes.
The band consisted of a woman in jeans and a work shirt with a guitar slung around her neck, a guy with a fiddle, another on a double bass, and one more with a mandolin. They cranked up and started playing a lively tune that did have a folksy-bluesy sound to it. The harmony was pretty good, and the song was something about doing cartwheels on a gravel road or some such. The woman singer—Michaels assumed she was Diana and the men were the Song Dogs—had a pleasant voice and an animated face. When she sang lead, she belted it out pretty cleanly, and she sang a nice harmony for the bass player in a couple of places.
She had her web page address painted on the front of her guitar.
Well, you could hardly get away from that, even here in the country. Hank Williams would have been amused.
The beer came, and as she promised, the waitress dutifully took their sandwich orders. Michaels went for the barbecued chicken, Toni got the Reuben, and they decided to split a small order of fries.
The band began another song. The words were hard to hear, given the noise of the diners, but everybody seemed to be having a great time. And, Michaels had to admit, he was feeling pretty good himself. It had been a long time since he and Toni had been out together.
The band got through another tune and the food arrived. The basket of fries was huge, the sandwiches also generous, and the waitress brought catsup and vinegar and mustard and plopped them onto the table. Along with a ream of napkins.
"I'm glad we decided to get a small order of fries," Toni said.
He saw why they had gotten all the napkins as soon as the barbecue sauce squished out of the sandwich and ran down his chin.
For the band's next number, a harmonica player appeared from somewhere to sit in; the Song Dogs sang about traveling on the railroad and long stretches of empty prairie, and the blues harp wailed like a train whistle, long and mournful.
Michaels watched Toni, enjoying the look of pleasure on her face as she watched and listened to the band. This was what life was all about, wasn't it? Watching your woman have a good time, and being a part of that? Drinking beer, eating greasy fries, listening to a band—how much better did it need to be? He could do this. Definitely.
And maybe that's what part of your problem has been lately, Alex, hmm? Too much willingness to drop work and go home to play with the baby? To lie in bed with Toni when before you'd have been up and at work before anybody else got there?
Michaels felt a stab of guilt at that thought. It was true. Yes, he still did a good job. But for the last few months, his heart just hadn't been in it the same way. He wasn't a company man the way he had been before. He wanted to enjoy this wife, this baby, in ways he hadn't enjoyed his first wife and child. He had put them second, behind work, and as a result, he had lost them. He wasn't going to lose Toni and the baby.
Was that fair to Net Force? Didn't the agency deserve a boss dedicated to it first, before anything? When he thought about it, yeah, maybe. Then again—who could do a better job than he was doing? Even at three-quarter speed, he was still faster than anybody else around, wasn't he?
Uh-huh. Now there's a great rationalization.
Come on, he told himself. Isn't it better for the company if I'm relaxed, comfortable, at ease with myself? Doesn't a happy worker do a better job?
There's an even funnier one, Alex, Give us another.
He was beginning to get seriously pissed off at his inner voice when his virgil cheeped. He and Toni exchanged looks. This was not apt to be good news.
16
Casablanca, Morocco June 1937
The wind off the desert was hot, dry, and carried in it a mix of powdery dust and fine sand that swirled through the alley as if alive, changing into an irritating-, gritty mud as it got into Jay's eyes.
A good touch, that, he thought. Even if he did have to think so himself.
Here in Northern Africa as in Europe, everyone knew war was on the horizon, if not exactly where and when it would arrive, and things were about to change, as they would change everywhere.
Jay stepped into the nightclub and out of the wind, amid the babble of half a dozen languages. There were well-dressed foreigners in their silk and linen suits, mostly men, a few women. Natives, dressed in colorful robes and hats designed to keep the sun and sand out, sat at some of the small round tables, drinking something mysterious from brown bottles.
It was almost like film noir: dark and moody with stark contrasts everywhere.
The ceiling fans twirled slowly, barely stirring the warm air. The piano player worked on some heartbreaking torch number, and a native bartender cleaned drink glasses behind a long, curved mahogany bar that had been age-polished to a dull gleam. A mirror behind the bar reflected the racks of liquor bottles: scotch, bourbon, gin, vodka, absinthe…
Standing at the bar drinking scotch neat was Jacques, Jay's contact. Jacques wore a double-breasted ice-cream suit with a red handkerchief in the coat pocket, spats over his white leather shoes. He had slicked-back black hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He was a spy, of course, Algerian, and probably too long out in the cold. Or the heat, as it were.
"Bon jour," Jacques said as Jay approached the bar. "Emile, a drink for my friend!"
The bartender gave Jay a fish-eye look. "What may I serve you, friend?"
"Absinthe," Jay said. What the hell, it wasn't going to drive him mad here.
The bartender shook his head and went to fetch the bottle.
"Hot day, no?" Jacques said.
"Hot enough."
The bartender returned with a dark green glass bottle. He poured a small bit of the liqueur, which was also as green as an emerald, into a glass. Then he poured a shot glass of cold water over a perforated teaspoon full of sugar and allowed it to drip into the container. The absinthe's green turned a smoky, opaque white as the sugared water mixed with it. Without the sugar, it would have been too bitter to drink, and even so, it still bit the tongu
e pretty hard.
Jay knew from his research that the drink, which was partially made from wormwood, was illegal most places, and was traditionally used by artists and writers. Van
Gogh had used it, and the theory was that absinthe was what had driven him mad enough to lop off his own ear. It was supposed to eat holes in your brain with regular use. How charming.
Jay raised his glass to Jacques. "Good fortune," he said.
"Bon chance," Jacques replied. They clinked glasses, then drank.
"You have some information for me?" Jay said, after they put their glasses down.
"Oui, my friend. I believe I have exactly what you want. At a price, of course."
Jay raised an eyebrow. "Whatever it costs, I'll pay it. Tell me."
But before he could speak, there was an explosion. A gunshot, Jay realized, as he saw the blood blossom on Jacques's chest, over the heart.
What the hell—? This wasn't part of the scenario—/
Jay dropped to the floor in a deep squat and looked around in time to see a native dressed in one of those funny Shriner hats and a white-and-blue striped robe run out of the club.
Jay got up and sprinted for the exit, chasing the man. Who was this? How had he breached Jay's VR construct?
In the alley, Jay saw the assassin running away. Bullshitl
Jay took off. Whoever he was, he wasn't nearly fast enough to outrun Jay Gridley in his own damned scenario!
But even as Jay gained on the running man, he realized he wasn't going to catch him. The reason—reasons, actually, at least six of them—appeared right in front of him.
Half a dozen men, bare-chested, in basketball shorts and shoes, holding baseball bats, chains, knives, and what looked like a pitchfork, stepped out of the shadows between Jay and his quarry.
"Yo, yo," one of the basketball players said. "What's your hurry, baby?"
These guys were anachronisms—they didn't belong here, weren't right for the time, even if they'd been Jay's constructs. And they weren't.
What the hell!
As they moved toward him, Jay realized he didn't belong here, either. He didn't have time to come up with any kind of effective defense. The scenario was blown.
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