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shapes of the furniture, and the flickering telltales on her hardware cast faint orange
light across the table where she d set up her system. She stared at it, noting
successful shutdown with one corner of her brain, thinking about Cerise. She had
expected Cerise to come to Seahaven herself that was Cerise s style, to step
briskly in when angels would think twice before acting but she had not expected
quite so rapid a response, if only because she had not expected Multiplane to be
able to act so fast. The fact that they had meant that Cerise had been
expecting something, and had set up her departure in advance. And will I go to
breakfast? Trouble thought, and smiled, seeing the icon again in imagination,
Cerise s cartoon-woman walking toward her under the green-glass dome of the
BBS. It had been a strange thing to see her again, to feel her presence, silk and steel
and taut-strung wire; stranger still to feel her own response, heart turning like a wheel,
rolling over into the familiar habit of trust, despite everything and that was foolish,
stupid beyond permission, as Cerise herself would say. Old habits die hard, but die
they must: I ll go to breakfast, she decided, but not without setting up some
fallbacks of my own first.
She turned back to the system, wincing a little at unanticipated stiffness in her
shoulders and back. She had slipped sideways at some point, come back from the
net to find herself slumped painfully against the side of the chair. The dol-lie-cord
slithered across her shoulder, and the healing flesh around the new socket was
starting to hurt again, a dull throb of pain at the back of her head. She would make
the fallbacks in the morning, she decided, when she was fresh and rested, and freed
herself from the system. She undressed in the dark, not bothering with the room
lights her eyes had adjusted now to the dimness, and it seemed pointless to put on
a light for the few minutes she would be awake and active used the toilet, and
crawled between the clammy sheets. She fell asleep watching the blink of the system
telltales mirroring the neon.
She woke to brilliant sunlight, slanting in under the imperfectly lowered shades,
lay blinking for a moment before she pushed herself upright. She was still stiff from
the previous night s work, and the back of her head felt bruised, puffy and sore to
an exploring touch. She grimaced, and swung herself out of bed, hoping that a
shower would help. Washed and brushed and dressed, she felt a little better, but the
muscles of her neck still twinged with each unwary move. She rolled her head from
side to side as she moved toward the media center, touched keys to call up
time-and-temperature. It was later than she had realized, well past nine, and she
swore under her breath. Cerise wasn t a morning person, and when she said
breakfast, she meant ten o clock and no earlier, but that barely left Trouble enough
time to reach Eastman House. I knew I should ve taken care of fallbacks last night,
she thought, and shook the anger away. It was too late, that was all; she d have to
chance it. But I must stop being stupid about Cerise. She shut down the sleeping
system, unplugged the central brain, and shoved it into her bag along with what was
left of her money and the disks she had collected her emergency kit, the absolute
minimum that would let her walk the nets then let herself out of the room, sealing
the room lock and the extra override behind her.
It was about a half-hour s walk into Seahaven proper, across the drawbridge that
spanned the Harbormouth. Trouble walked easily through the nearly-empty streets,
seeing only a few people gathered outside the waffle shop behind the beach arcade.
It was low tide, and the air smelled of salt mud, and oil, and, faintly, still, of
peppermint. It was cool, the breeze off the water cutting through her vest and jersey,
but the sunlight was warm. Crossing the drawbridge, it struck diamond highlights
from the water left in the central channel, and lay in sheets across the exposed flats,
where the mud was still wet from the receding water. A boat was moving along the
dredged channel, heading for the fish docks, and a trio of gulls wheeled behind it,
following the scent of food. They were very bright against the autumn trees that lined
the horizon. At the top of the bridge, the concrete changed to metal mesh, and
Trouble walked warily, careful of the slick surface. From that point, she could see
down into Seahaven and beyond, past the seawall that enclosed the town and even
out onto the beach itself. The sand lay in ugly patches, green and grey and oily
brown, sand changing to sludge at the tideline. Even at this distance, she could see
the heaped seaweed smoldering as the air hit it, releasing the chemicals it had
collected from the sea. The remains of the Pavilion Bandstand were very bright
against the blues of sea and sky, and someone had scrawled the beginning of a
word, K and O, in scarlet across the broken shell. She wondered vaguely what it had
been going to say, and started down the bridge into town.
It was more crowded here, runabouts moving along the narrow streets, and a bus
passed her halfway up the avenue, carrying the night shift home from The Willows.
She kept walking, moderating her pace so that she didn t seem too conspicuous,
turned at last onto the little road that led toward Eastman House and to The Willows
beyond. The sidewalk here was well repaired, like the roadway itself, and the grass
to either side was expensively maintained, the irrigation and fertilizer heads showing
like brass nails at regular intervals. There would be one-way filters buried beneath it
to keep the beach chemicals from leaching into the new-laid soil, Trouble knew, and
security devices laced into the neat hedges that bordered the property. For an instant
she wished that she could have approached it on the wire, so that she could see the
networked security blazing out of ground and trees, but that was beyond even
experimental capacity now.
She did not hesitate at the entrance to Eastman House, but marched between the
carved pillars as though she owned the place as though she d been invited, which
she had. The doorman eyed her warily, taking in the casual, uncorporate clothes, but
held the door open, and even offered a smile. Trouble grinned back, unable to keep
from enjoying his uncertainty, and crossed the lobby, her bootheels echoing when
they hit the strips of marble between the islands of carpet, to fetch up at the
reception desk.
The young woman behind the desk frowned slightly, then muted that expression
almost instantly, but her hand still hovered over a security button. May I ?
I m here to see Cerise, Trouble said, and smiled again. I m expected.
Of course, the young woman said. She took her hand away from the button to
punch codes into a keyboard, managed an uncertain smile of her own in return.
Who may I say is here?
I m expected, Trouble said again. That was a risk, but less of one, she
suspected, than giving her real name. Besides, when the corporations dealt with the
shadows, they dealt on the corporation s turf. Let them think that, let them think that
Cerise is buying grey-market goods, Trouble thought, and we re home free.
Of course, the young woman said. She was too well trained to show any hint of
annoyance in tone or expression, but Trouble could hear it in the click of fingernails
on keys. Ah, yes, the clerk went on, after a moment. Don ll show you up.
Thanks, Trouble said, and turned to face the doorman as he approached. The
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