by Jaine Fenn
She nodded as though she understood, though such a phobia was at odds with everything else she knew about him. His aversion to travel did support her assumption that his movement operated locally, one cell per hub, with little or no overlap. As she lay in her comabox, the numbing chill of stasis creeping over her, she wondered if the existence of such an organisation explained the lack of Sidhe influence on the hubs. If so, the implication was that while she knew nothing of Tierce’s people, the Enemy did. And they apparently steered clear of them.
She worried at that thought again in the fuggy aftermath of stasis, before deciding to put the possible connection - or disconnection - to one side for the moment. The mutual exclusivity of the hub rebels (as she had come to think of them) and the Sidhe was significant, but she lacked the intel necessary to work through the full implications.
A transit away from Gracen, the elation from her success should have passed, but she still felt a residual warmth, as though some dark, hard place deep inside had lightened and softened a little. She resolved not to let this unexpected emotional weakness affect her judgement. While she had to acknowledge Tierce’s usefulness, she did not share his assumption that they were automatically allies.
She was also starting to find his physical presence disconcerting.
She refused an invitation to eat with him, and took the post-transit meal in her cabin.
The starliner made a stopover after the first transit. The system was not a hub-point but it had good shifts pace connections and natural features of interest to tourists. She took the chance to despatch a few messages, preparing the way for the deployment of the Sidhe ID data. She needed to secure more funds soon but that was best done in the busy heartland of the hubs, where the subtle skims she used to siphon off credit could pass undetected amid the welter of legitimate transactions.
She was mildly surprised to find a message in her permanent datadrop. She anticipated it might be from Captain Reen, still trying to convince her that he was on her side, but it was from a storage company on Xantier hub. The decrypted text was succinct: An unsuccessful attempt was made to access your package: we have responded as per your standing orders.
The package in question was the original memory-core of the Setting Sun, as - apparently - liberated by Captain Reen. Bez had spent several intense days decrypting the core, which was designed to only be accessed by the Setting Sun’s own compo When she finally cracked the memory-core, she had copied everything she could get off it. Retaining the original device had been a failsafe; while she thought she had all the data, the necessity of bypassing normal access methods had resulted in a chaotic download of unsorted files. There was a risk she might need to return to the source later.
And now, apparently, someone had attempted to get their hands on the memory-core. But who? Who even knew it was on Xantier?
The answer to that was simple: Jarek Reen. She had originally suggested he keep the core on his ship, but he had refused. One logical reason for him coming after it now would be that, having subsequently fallen under the sway of the Enemy, he was having second thoughts. But she had given him a full copy of everything she had extracted. Unless she had missed something vital and he had recently discovered this and was after the core itself, either to stop her getting it or because it contained info he now needed.
She spent a while considering alternative scenarios, but no other explanation fitted the facts.
Reen hadn’t succeeded in accessing the core: the storage company she chose was Hawk Consignia, who prided themselves on discretion and security. Hawk had been instructed not to release her sealed package to anyone unless that person arrived with a recorded voice authorisation from her, speaking a prearranged code phrase. Failure to follow this protocol resulted in the message she had just received, and in increased security on the package. As a result, Hawk Consignia would only release it to her in person now. If she wanted the memory-core back, she had to fetch it herself.
The timestamp on the message was four days ago, which meant there was a risk Captain Reen was still at Xantier, but her success on Gracen had banished some of what she now thought of as her excessive timidity. She would be using a persona he had no knowledge of, and she would plan carefully before making her move.
If she was going to Xantier she needed to switch ships here, rather than head back towards Tarset. She checked some local message boards and found a freetrader going the right way; the trader’s scheduled run would take her within two transits of Xantier, so Bez should only have to change ships once. Even so, the journey would take several days and eat up the last of this persona’s credit. That was acceptable: Xantier’s infoscape was well suited for credit skimming and redistribution.
She made the initial reservation, and had just started packing when she remembered Tierce. She commed him; he answered quickly.
‘Hi, Bez, changed your mind about letting me show you the sights? We’ve still got a few hours here.’
‘No, I’ve changed my mind about going back to Tarset.’
‘What?’
‘Something’s come up.’
‘What sort of something?’
She tried not to sound smug when she said, ‘You’ll be safer not knowing.’
‘Touche. Can you at least tell me where you’re going?’
‘Xantier.’ She trusted him enough to tell him that.
‘Xantier? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’ He sounded alarmed.
‘Why not? What’s the problem with Xantier?’
‘Nothing, probably.’
‘Tierce - Imbarin - if there was something you thought I needed to know, I hope you’d tell me.’
A pause. ‘Perhaps if you explained why you need to go to Xantier…’
‘It isn’t anything to do with you.’
‘But if it’s something we can do from Tarset, then I’ve got access to considerable resources there, so maybe-‘
‘There is no “we”.’
‘All right, I’m being a bit forward. But even so, Tarset’s safe ground, the nearest you have to a home. I like to think it’s somewhere you feel comfortable.’
‘I thought that once. Then someone set me up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh come on! The first time we met? When you conveniently happened to stop hub-law from arresting me for databreaking?’
She hadn’t intended to mention it, because dwelling on those events undermined her decision to trust him, but she was riled now.
His image smiled unconvincingly. ‘Yes, that was lucky, wasn’t .I t.? ‘
‘Luck had nothing to do with it! If you’ve got the means to get a priority call placed to a First Detective at exactly the moment I’m walking past her in disguise, then you’ve got the means to shop me to the law while I’m virtual. Not to mention organising a real breakin at the Alliance offices to distract them from following up on me.
‘All right, I admit it. I arranged a few things that evening. But I went to all that trouble because I wanted to meet you. You are so elusive, Bez! And leaving aside my personal feelings, you have to believe that everything I’ve done is-‘
She cut the call.
He gave up trying to com back after the fifth attempt. She got a steward to give him the dataspike; however uncomfortable he made her feel, he had played fair by her, and she would do the same by him.
When she left the liner, Tierce was waiting for her in the departure lounge. She tried to get by with a farewell nod, but he spread his hands. ‘I’m really sorry about what happened on Tarset. Will you forgive me?’
‘One day, perhaps. But right now I’m going to Xantier.’
‘Is there any anything I can say to persuade you to change your mind?’
‘No.’
‘Right.’ She saw, for the first time, a twist of anger on his face.
‘You know, for someone so obsessed with the truth, you’re far too comfortable with lies.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your every per
sona is a lie. Do you even know who you are any more?’
This was not a discussion to be having in a public place. ‘I am an instrument of vengeance,’ she hissed, wincing internally at how pretentious that sounded.
Quietly, he asked, ‘And when your vengeance is done?’
She had no answer for that, so instead she looked him firmly in the chin and said, ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll be going now.’
Then she walked out.
ROUNDING ERRORS
Perhaps you’ve wondered about the odd requests I’ve made, when I’ve asked you to dig into an individual’s past or gather information on an apparently innocuous company or organisation. Now you know why: it’s because! suspected that person or group was involved with the Sidhe, perhaps a knowing part of their unseen web of influence, perhaps an ignorant too!. They were part of the problem: you’ve already been part of the solution. That’s why I need you to carry on my work now I’m gone.
The staff at Hawk Consignia’s Xantier office were embarrassingly helpful. Bez expected nothing less: she paid well for the company’s premium service. In fact she paid them several times over, via various personae, in order to maintain accounts with the company on a number of different hubs. She was probably their best customer, had they but known it.
The final section of the journey had been with a freetrader outfit that provided cut-price passenger transport as a sideline. In order to keep costs down, their refitted trade bird had dormitories not individual cabins. Rather than sleep in a room full of strangers, she had paid extra, signed the relevant waivers and spent most of the trip in stasis.
While the trade bird cruised in from the beacon, she had checked the public listings of ships currently docked. No sign of the Heart of Glass. Immediately after arriving and before switching identities to her preferred local persona, she did a little light hacking in the port authority system to find out if Captain Reen had visited Xantier in the last few weeks; this also drew a blank. He could have hired an agent to do his dirty work, although she wasn’t sure he had the resources for that.
Regardless of who was behind the attempt on the memory-core, she needed to move it to a new hub. Once relocated, she could examine the core at her leisure and work out what she had missed.
‘Did you keep any record of the voiceprint?’ she asked the Hawk Consignia clerk. She had already reviewed Hawk’s surveillance footage; it showed a man she had never seen before asking for the memory-core, apparently on Bez’s behalf. His ID claimed he was a local citizen who worked in the hub admin offices. That might even be true.
‘Unfortunately not, medame. However, although the voice authorisation was rejected automatically, the clerk on duty did make a note on your file saying he suspected the voiceprint was a composite.’
‘Composite as in someone had recordings of my voice from which they snipped out the relevant words?’
‘Precisely, medame.’ The woman leaned forward slightly.
‘Sadly, this does happen. It’s usually someone known to our client.’
Bez had spent several days on Reen’s ship; long enough for him to record her speech. At the time, excited by the prospect of getting her hands on the Setting Sun data and believing he was on her side, such duplicity had not occurred to her. But, if Captain Reen had recorded her voice while she was on his ship, that implied he had already been turned when they first met; and that threw the Setting Sun data into doubt again. But why record her on the offchance?
He didn’t strike her as someone who planned far ahead. Unless that was merely an impression he gave.
Still too many unknowns. Until and unless the Setting Sun data was proved unreliable - and it had been solid so far - she had to assume it still had value. The fact that someone was after the original core supported this supposition.
She had a choice when it came to relocating the memory-core: deception or force. She could either have the package loaded onto an outgoing ship quietly and discreetly, or she could take advantage of Hawk’s ‘escorted delivery’ service to ensure it left obviously but securely. Generally she preferred. deception over force, and that was also the cheapest option. However, if Reen’s agent was local and was still keeping watch, an attempt to spirit away the memory-core might come to his attention. He would definitely see it go if she chose the less subtle approach, but unless he wanted to pick a fight with armed security, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
Hawk Consignia were happy to oblige. From the moment it left their offices at Xantier until it reached the Hawk storage facility on the next hub, the item would be watched over by a pair of guards licensed to use lethal force. Bez herself would travel independently and pick up the package at Catherli, the adjacent hub she judged safest as a repository for the core.
After making the booking she found a cheap hotel in the vertigo district, where prices were low. Xantier was a hollow earth, though cylindrical rather than spherical. Most visitors preferred the ‘floor’ of the massive cylinder because although the habitat’s real estate wrapped itself around you wherever you were, at the bottom your view was across other buildings, with a ‘sky’ above you. The further upslope you went, the more disconcerting the outlook, until the periphery of the habitable zone provided a choice of looking ‘down’ over the sprawling sweep of buildings or ‘up’ across a thin band of crops and parkland into the artificial sky.
Bez, having spent her late teens in a hollow earth, was not overly concerned about this.
She had three days until the memory-core was due to be despatched. She began honing her plans, mentally assigning each compromised Sidhe ID to a trusted agent. She also geared up for some serious financial hacking; remembering Imbarin Tierce’s reaction when she said she was coming to Xantier, she made all her enquiries virtually, and stuck to her secondary persona for any transactions aside from those with Hawk Consignia.
While she would have preferred to see the memory-core safely despatched before doing any databreaking, she needed credit in order to book her onward passage. Once she had the core she could work her way back towards Tarset. Despite his excessive influence on the station, there was some truth in Imbarin Tierce’s assertion that Tarset was somewhere she thought of as a safe haven.
She decided to address the problem of her credit balance the evening before the core was due to ship out, taking advantage of the nightly data propagation routines.
Although she had no specific virtuality ingress points on Xantier, she knew what she was looking for: somewhere quiet, anonymous and private near the physical and virtual heart of the station. The obvious choice, and one she had used before, was an elsewhere suite in the downtown district.
She booked a premier booth at the Vision Tree franchise on the edge of Xantier’s congested downtown. Unlike a lot of elsewhere suite operators, Vision Tree catered for customers seeking full-immersion virtuality for reasons other than the obvious. They also had a rep for respecting customers’ privacy; even so, when she had been passing earlier, Bez had taken the chance to look them over virtually from the cafe across the way, double-checking that none of the booths had any monitoring equipment beyond the legally required health feeds.
She paid for three hours. Although she should automatically be alerted if anyone opened the booth door, she set up spotcams to watch over her. Then she sat on the couch, using a careful finger to push the various attachments out of the way. Another thing she liked about Vision Tree was that they cleaned their booths properly. The place smelled faintly floral, without a whiff of bodily fluids.
Going into a veebooth and not actually running anything would look suspicious, so she picked a near-orbit freefall over a world with, so the hype claimed, spectacular scenery. Her body would be subject to odd gravitational and temperature effects as the booth added subtle physical enhancements to the program, but she would be tuned into the local virtuality by then, free of fleshly distractions. The program was just over an hour long; the sort of databreak
ing she was about to engage in was time-consuming, and there was a risk she would still be deep in the virtuality when the program finished. She hesitated then selected a second option, labelled ‘Demon Lover’. After all, that was what most people used these booths for. Perhaps, if she finished in time, she might enjoy the program herself, by way of a small celebration. She eyed up the relevant apparatus, wondering how many other women had used it. Perhaps not.
She sat back, forcing herself not to tense as the couch reclined.
She ran through her current head ware set-up, performing a last systems check on the hacking suite. Then she pulled the booth’s headset down onto the cushion beside her head, started the program timer, and went virtual independently.
Xantier’s virtuality did not employ the standard architecture but mapped closely onto the real. There were differences - the streets and buildings were brighter and more stylised, and the icons representing people floated above the streets rather than walking along them - but the structure was the same: a huge, hollow cylinder.
Bez ramped up the anonymity setting on her icon; the infoscape wasn’t crowded but anyone who happened to look her way would see an already unexceptional icon become pale and translucent.
Her real weaponry was hidden too well for anyone to spot. She drifted for a while, running subtle sweeps to pick up any interest.
All was quiet.
Time to change the game. So far she had been skating on the surface. When ~he saw the brightening in the ‘sky’ that indicated the arrival of the nightly updates, she sank towards and then through the ‘ground’, venturing into territory most virtual denizens had neither the skill nor inclination to enter.
As the illusion of Xantier city dissolved, so did the comforting biofeedback from the surface virtuality: the crackle of data, the sharp scents indicating different flavours and strengths of system security. She felt as though she were falling, the wind in her face - an illusion possibly backed up by her body’s current experiences in the veebooth.
