With a swell of honor, Michael realized that he would hate himself for doing any less. He was making excuses not to go after Diomedes and trying to pass them off as wisdom. His issues were his own. His commitment to the AoA would not suffer for them.
"So, assuming you're up for finding Diomedes," Michael said finally, "let's do it."
Marc stopped in the kitchen doorway and turned. "Holes, get Abigail Brittan for us again, please. Coded link."
CHAPTER 12
Their search continued.
Felix returned from Caitlin's kitchen with a half-full glass of water to stand behind her chair. She sat, one foot tucked under her, searching the screen of her laptop. Felix watched her silently for a moment and took a sip. The screen displayed six-month-old news features. She chose one, shook her head, and then went back to choose another.
Felix took another drink, this time holding the glass to his lips so that his voice burbled through the water. "Ahnd now," he whispered in a mangled French accent, "vee join zee intrehpeed Caitlin Danae een her undahr-sea search forr zee eeloosive projects ahv zee great white Mees Ondrea No-bel."
Caitlin turned, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, dear. Gone daft, have you, ducks?"
"What makes you say that?" Felix burbled.
The corners of her mouth turned up in a barely unhidden smile. She caressed her fingertips along his cheek and down to his knuckles on the glass. Then she grinned like a pixie and tipped it to dump its contents over his chin.
"Hey!" He laughed. "Not a Jacques Cousteau fan, are you?"
"I fear I don't even know who he is. Frenchman?"
He nodded, fruitlessly trying to dry his shirt. "Twentieth century oceanographer. Did a lot of narrating."
She leaned back to smirk with one elbow behind her on the desk. "You're charming when you make references nobody gets."
"Charming enough to get me soaked, it would seem. Look at this! Nothing gets water out!" he joked before rubbing her shoulders. "You're going to pay for that."
She turned back around. The screen reflected her subtle grin. "Oh, I'm quite certain."
He continued the massage a little longer, still smiling. As tempting as it might be to distract her further, he'd feel bad for taking her away from the search. Then again, she was relaxing a bit. Was he ascribing more distress to her about their search for answers about Gideon than she felt? Maybe he was treading too lightly.
Caitlin sighed.
"What's wrong?"
"We're really not making much progress, are we?"
"Searching?" He sat down beside her. "Well. No. But you've had a real job taking up your time and I've, well, I've just been unlucky."
"You've done alright. I don't know that I'd call riding horses a 'job' when I enjoy it so much. I should have passed."
"Movie opportunities don't come up often, Caitlin. You know you'd have kicked yourself later for turning it down."
"We might know more now if I hadn't taken those few days, Felix," she said, staring at the screen. She was kicking herself now, too, it seemed.
"Maybe. But you are new to this stunt rider thing. Like you said, you have to take it when it comes. And we've turned up a little."
"Not much."
"Some."
The first thing they had done was try to verify Gideon's death. Caitlin had already kept an eye on his body in the days immediately after Diomedes shot him. At the time, Gideon had been buried and his next of kin notified, though identities were kept confidential as normal. She never knew his full name, but there was only one body found at the site he'd been shot that night, and it wasn't difficult to be sure it was his.
Just to be safe, in the past week they'd double-checked her findings and gotten the same results. There was no extra evidence that Gideon was dead, but nothing to show that he wasn't. Again, the severity of his wounds made it hard to believe otherwise. If Caitlin hadn't been the one to see him last week, Felix wouldn't have believed it.
As for Ondrea Noble, they had managed to turn up a few things around Marquand. One of Ondrea's first projects there involved helping to develop cyberware utility upgrades. Since then, they'd moved her to something in biotech. According to a gem that Caitlin overheard while tailing a Marquand employee on lunch, Ondrea spent a great deal of time in the biotech labs recently.
Yet further information had eluded them. Even Noble's home address seemed out of reach and, to their observation (which Felix had to admit wasn't constant), she'd not even left the Marquand building at all. They'd yet to see her, at the very least.
And so they sat, for the moment, sifting through old news reports and looking for a needle in a haystack until they could think of another plan. Felix had a favorite saying about needles and haystacks, but he'd already used it on Caitlin last week.
"Are you searching for stuff on Gideon, or Ondrea?"
"Ondrea." Caitlin shifted in the chair to switch the leg crossed beneath her. "Crikey, I'm starting to think we should just track her down and talk to her personally."
"Wait, wait, wait. You mean just come right out and ask her what she's up to? No snooping? No research? No deceptive midnight alley-crouching?"
"Well," she put with growing appraisal, "why not?"
"But—I mean. . . that's so boring!"
She turned, one eyebrow raised again.
"You're so dull," he teased, not without irony.
Her grin showed itself a moment. "This is assuming we can get in to see her. You may get to be devious after all."
"Ooh, how about clever? Can I be clever? I've heard it's less fattening."
"You're a strange one, ducks." She stood. "Shall we be off, then?"
The tiny neon sign outside the place read "The Flaming Pyre," but its regular patrons just called it "The 'Pyre." By and large, it was a freelancer bar, close enough to the Corporate District to attract the ones who swore fealty to a particular company, yet far away enough to draw the unaffiliated guns for hire. The latter were freelancers in the true sense of the word, Michael supposed, but the term extended to anyone, affiliated or not, in the unofficial caste of modern knights.
Knights, Michael mused. There must be a better word. Knights conjured thoughts of honor. Of valor. Of nobility. Michael had once bought into that dream. Freelancer had been a glorious label he'd put on his own dreams of making a positive contribution to the world before he found that few freelancers bothered with such ideals.
Michael glanced about the area as they approached the building. No one seemed particularly dangerous or out of the ordinary, much like the exterior of the building itself. The glowing orange sign was the only thing remarkable about the outside. Grey, windowless concrete, dirtier for the cloudy, late-morning daylight, hid the interior of the place. There was little to catch the eye or draw customers inside. It was just one of those places that everyone knew.
"I've never been in there before," Marc told him, wary.
"It's better inside. Or different, anyway. I haven't been in here since I left Diomedes."
"That's a while. Maybe he doesn't come here anymore?"
"He comes here," Michael said. "He's not one to change."
"He changed his phone number."
"Well, not most stuff, I guess." He took hold of the heavy door, pulled it open for Marc, and gave the street another glance for any trouble.
"Windows or not, I'm glad we're here in the daylight." Marc stood at the open door for a moment, and then entered.
"It's not too bad," Michael told him when the door closed behind them. He recalled the first time Diomedes allowed Michael to join them here, and the warnings Diomedes had given him. "Usually they'll leave you alone here if you leave them alone. Just try not to make eye contact with anyone unless you're prepared for them to hassle you. Try to use your peripheral vision if you—" He stopped as Marc turned back to listen. "I guess that visor of yours'll be good for that."
"That's what I'm hoping."
"You don't take that off much, do you?"
He shrugged and t
apped the book-sized computer at his hip. "Makes it easier to use the hip rig without drawing attention. Plus it's just, I don't know, comfortable."
"Come to think of it, Felix wore sunglasses in here when I first met him. I wonder if the bartender remembers me." Michael led the way toward the bar at the center of the room.
The late-morning crowd was sparse, and though conversations in the place had always seemed muted unless there was about to be a fight, it felt quieter now. Most were drinking alone. What talk there was got drowned out by the white noise of the metal rock that was as pervasive as the brown-orange light that dominated the establishment. The bar was one of the few spots in the place where a bit of white light shone. Portioned out by a few fluorescents tucked away in the rafters, it barely managed to cut through the rest.
The two men each took a stool and waited to catch the attention of the bartender, who seemed content to take his time pouring something for a sullen man on the other side.
Daylight swelled from the entrance as the door swung open and a man and woman strode in wearing leisure street armor tagged with Aegis Security insignia. Michael gave them a sidelong glance and noted the stun grenades and auto-pistols at their belts. They looked over the area briefly and then made for a table.
Marc heaved a sigh. "Guns make me nervous when there isn't someone out to kill me."
"Relax," Michael whispered. "If anything, you're safer in here. Diomedes told me people here don't like to have their drinks interrupted by gunfire. I saw a brawl once. No one much cared until one of 'em pulled out a gun and I guess at least a dozen guys drew on him until he holstered it."
"Yeah, I figure no one likes a ricochet. Good news, I suppose. Hopefully ESA won't come at me with a crowbar."
Michael expected he could probably handle a crowbar, but the bartender approached before he could say so.
"What can I getcha?"
"Yeah, um, a pint of whatever's on tap," Michael ordered, guessing it was probably better to do that before asking for information.
Michael took the opportunity while Marc ordered to glance at the two freelancers who'd come in. Something familiar struck him. Was that? It was. They were in the booth he and Diomedes had shared in the last night he'd been here. It was there that his old mentor had first dubbed Michael a freelancer and allowed him to join him on a job. Then so much had happened in the few days that followed.
His eyes had been opened.
The bartender returned with the drinks and broke Michael from his reverie. He took a little time rummaging for his wallet to pay in order to stall while he tried to think of just what to say to the man. He put the cash down on the counter, plus an excessive tip. "Keep the change."
The bartender scooped it off the bar with barely a glance. "Who're you lookin' for?"
"How do you know we're looking for someone?"
The man shrugged. "Cause I ain't blind, and I ain't stupid. That's the kinda tip that either says yer lookin' for someone or ya broke somethin'." He glanced at Marc. "And I been wrong before, but you don't quite look in a breakin' mood."
Alright. "We're looking for Diomedes. I know he used to come here a lot. Any sign of him lately?"
"Diomedes?" The man said the name as if it meant nothing, with an expression and shrug to match.
"Don't know him?" Michael asked, doubtful.
"Why, he famous?"
Struggling to not scowl, Michael changed his approach. "I don't suppose you remember me? I used to come here with him sometimes."
The bartender sized him up. Marc sipped his beer and turned to look behind him while Michael waited.
The bartender stood a bit taller to look down on him. "Yeah, I think I do at that. You ain't been here in a while, huh?"
"So you do know him."
"Lots of freelancers come in here, kid. Freelancers got enemies. I start tellin' every punk that asks about one of 'em, pretty soon I either got no business or a slug in my gut." He wiped the counter absently. "Ain't seen Diomedes in a week or so. Maybe more. I don't keep count."
"Think you can do me a favor and get a message to him if he comes in?"
He scowled. "I ain't a bulletin board here, kid."
Michael scowled back this time. "Kid?"
Marc slid some more cash across the bar at the man. "It's just a message."
The bartender sucked his teeth, watching them a moment, and then took the money. "A short message."
Michael wrote his number down on a napkin and gave it to him. "Just tell him his old roommate is looking for him."
He pocketed the number without looking at it. "He'll get it. If he comes in. Bounty on 'im, so who's to say?"
"I appreciate it. You sure you haven't seen him? You don't know where we'd find him?"
"'S'all I know, kid. Yer the one that lived with him. 'Scuse me." The man across the bar was waving for him. With a nod, he left Marc and Michael to their drinks.
Michael took his first swallow of the beer. "Well, it's a start."
"Yeah." Marc looked around. "Think he'll get the message?"
"I don't know. He's right; Diomedes is wanted, maybe he'll lie low. But I think he was wanted before this started. I guess it might depend on how much heat he thinks is on him."
Marc nodded and then held up his glass. "You know I don't even like beer?"
A short while later, Lars picked the half-empty glasses off the bar and wiped it down as he watched the two men leave. No one was trying to get his attention. He wiped his hands and picked up the phone. The number was dialed and ringing a moment later.
Someone picked up, answering only with silence.
"Hey, it's Lars."
"Yeah?"
"Two guys just came askin' for ya. One said he used to be yer roommate."
"Was he?"
"Could be. Been a while since I seen him, but yeah, think so."
"And the other?"
"Didn't recognize him. Data visor, kinda scrawny. Didn't say much. If he was a freelancer, I'm a damn nun."
"Anything else?"
"Just a message. Roommate left a number. Want it?"
Silence.
"You want it?"
"No."
The line clicked dead.
CHAPTER 13
Diomedes set his phone down on the passenger's seat. The car's engine rumbled. Idled. Traffic moved slowly, when it moved at all. He gripped the wheel and squeezed, waiting.
Paying off Lars had been smart. Diomedes needed assets. Eyes. Ears. He'd been betrayed. He was wanted. Lars would likely betray him sooner or later too, unless he took revenge on the one who'd sold him out. Only the woman who hired him knew. Only she could have placed the camera. She'd regret it.
Michael was looking for him. Why was Michael looking for him?
The voice came, deep and large like always, to guide him. The same reason everyone else is looking for you, it told him. Just like the others, come to find you for the same reason: there's a reward. He betrayed you before. Pulled a gun on you, after all you did for him. Now he's coming back to do it again and cash in.
Of course that was it. Diomedes nodded to himself, to the voice. He'd learned to trust it, so much so that when the second voice came, it was barely a whisper.
Michael let you go before, it said.
What?
He let you go. He could have shot you. He let you go.
Michael betrayed you! shot the large voice.
But he let you go. He's a friend. You need a friend.
That's what you said the last time. Protected him, taught him, and he betrayed you. Friends die. Friends betray. Friends invite weakness. Trust is weakness! You trusted the woman who hired you, and look what happened. You'll take care of her, find out what she knows. Then you'll take care of Michael, like you should have done already.
The traffic moved. Diomedes pushed the car forward.
No, came the small voice. Not Michael.
Why not?
No.
The voices drifted away to argue. The Marqua
nd building was ahead. He'd seen her enter there, days ago. He'd guessed, he'd looked, and she was there. He couldn't take her in the Corporate District. Too many eyes. But he could watch. He could wait until she left it. Today, he waited.
Up the street, a delivery truck had crashed. Traffic oozed its way around it. He would find a vantage point nearby. He would wait. He would find her. And then, he would find Michael.
No. Not Michael.
Within an elevator inside, the lights changed as Ondrea waited for her floor. The procedure had been successful. Of that there was no question, and the part that mattered most to her was, aside from a few surmountable obstacles, complete. Yet what mattered to Marquand was proving more difficult to achieve. She'd told them this, of course. She had warned them that it would take patience.
Fine, so she may have oversold the possibility of success in order to accomplish what she wanted. But what did they expect? The more humanity learned about the brain and the minds it could hold, the only thing that became truly certain was that it was far more complex than anyone could dream. Marquand wasn't working with muscle and bone anymore; neurons weren't so straightforward. Even if they were frustrated with the sluggish progress, they were committed.
Or perhaps they had known it was a gamble. By taking his alien secrets elsewhere, Joseph Curwen forced them to choose between a gamble and nothing, but that didn't mean they would accept defeat any more lightly. Management was itching for more intensive hypnosis sessions, but they were patient enough to listen to her and the other specialists on the project team. So far.
She wasn't sure if Gideon could take any more right now.
He was still confused from time to time. It was definitely Gideon—in that, at least, she was confident—and in some ways he was actually more stable and willing to listen than he had been. . . before. Ondrea was tempted to say Gideon almost seemed like he'd been before his cybernetics pushed his sanity closer to the brink. But he wasn't yet confident in that identity, even as it struggled to assert itself.
A Memory in the Black (The New Aeneid Cycle) Page 8
