Virtual Light

She knew that Sublett was behind her, somewhere, or anyway that was how they’d worked it out before Rydell dropped them off at the entrance. She’d asked him where he was going then, and he’d just said he had to go and borrow a flashlight. She was starting to really like him. It sort of bothered her. She wondered what he’d be like if he wasn’t in a situation like this. She wondered what she’d be like if she wasn’t in a situation like this.

He and Sublett had both worked for the company that did security for this building, IntenSecure, and Sublett had called up a friend of his and asked him questions about how tight it was. The way he’d put it, it was like he wanted a new job with the company. But he and Rydell had worked it out that she could get in, particularly if he was following her to keep track.

What bothered her about Sublett was that he was acting sort of like he was committing suicide or something. Once he’d gotten with the program, Rydell’s plan, it was like he felt cut loose from things. Kept talking about his apostasy and these movies he liked, and somebody called Cronenberg. Had this weird calm like somebody who knew for sure he was going to die; like he’d sort of made peace with it, except he’d still get upset about his allergies.

Green light. Rising up through it.

They’d made her up this package at the motel. What it had in it was the glasses. Addressed to Karen Mendelsohn.

She closed her eyes, told herself Bu

“Yes?” It was one of those computers.

“Allied Messenger, for Karen Mendelsohn.”

“A delivery?”

“She’s gotta sign for it.”

“Authorized to barcode—”

“Her hand. Gotta see her hand. Do it. You know?”

Silence. “Nature of delivery?”

“You think I open them or what?”

“Nature of delivery?”

“Well” Chevette said, “it says ‘Probate Court,’ it’s from San Francisco, and you don’t open the door, Mr. Wizard, it’s on the next plane back.”

“Wait, please” said the computer.

Chevette looked at the potted plants beside the door. They were big, looked real, and she knew Sublett was standing behind them, but she couldn’t see him. Somebody had put a cigarette out on one, between its roots.

The door open, a crack. “Yes?”

“Karen Mendelsohn?”

“What is it?”

“Allied Messenger, San Francisco. You wa

“San Francisco?”

“What it says.”

The door opened a little more. Dark-haired woman in a long pale terrycloth robe. Chevette saw her check the badges on Ski

“They’re too slow” Chevette said, as Sublett stepped around the plant, wearing this black uniform. Chevette saw herself reflected in his contacts, sort of bent out at the middle.

“Ms. Mendelsohn” he said, “afraid we’ve got us a security emergency, here.”

Karen Mendelsohn was looking at him. “Emergency?”

“Nothing to worry about” Sublett said. He put his hand on Chevette’s shoulder and guided her in, past Karen Mendelsohn. “Situation’s under control. Appreciate your co-operation.”

“Wally Divac, Rydell’s Serbian landlord, hadn’t really wanted to loan Rydell his flashlight, but Rydell had lied and promised he’d get him something a lot better, over at IntenSecure, and bring it along when he brought the flashlight back. Maybe one of those telescoping batons with the wireless taser-tips, he said; something serious, anyway, professional and maybe quasi-illegal. Wally was sort of a cop-groupie. Liked to feel he was in with the force. Like a lot of people, he didn’t much distinguish between the real PD and a company like IntenSecure. He had one of those armed response signs in his front yard, too, but Rydell was glad to see it wasn’t IntenSecure. Wally couldn’t quite afford that kind of service, just like his car was second-hand, though he would’ve told you it was previously owned, like the first guy was just some flunky who’d had the job of breaking it in for him.

But he owned this house, where he lived, with the baby-blue plastic siding that looked sort of like painted wood, and one of those fake lawns that looked realer than AstroTurf. And he had the house in Mar Vista and a couple of others. His sister had come over here in 1994, and then he’d come himself, to get away from all the trouble over there. Never regretted it. Said this was a fine country except they let in too many immigrants.

“What’s that you’re driving?” he’d asked, from the steps of the renovated Craftsman two blocks above Melrose.

“A Montxo” Rydell said. “From Barcelona. Electric.”

38. Miracle mile

You live in America” he’d said, his gray hair plastered neatly back from his pitted forehead. “Why you drive that?” His BMW, immaculate, reposed in the driveway; he’d had to spend five minutes disarming it to get the flashlight out for Rydell. Rydell had remembered the time in Knoxville, Christmas day, when the Narcotics team’s new walkie-talkies had triggered every car-alarm in a ten-mile radius.

“Well” Rydell said, “it’s real good for the environment.”

“It’s bad for your country” Wally said. “Image thing. An American should drive some car to feel proud of. Bavarian car. At least Japanese.”

“I’ll get this back to you, Wally.” Holding up the big black flashlight.

“And something else. You said.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“When you pay rent on Mar Vista?”

“Kevin’ll take care of it.” Getting into the tiny Montxo and starting up the flywheel. It sat there, rocking slightly on its shocks, while the wheel got up to speed.

Wally waved, shrugged, then backed into his house and closed the door. Rydell hadn’t ever seen him not wear that Tyrolean hat before.

Rydell looked at the flashlight, figuring out where the safety was. It wasn’t much, but he felt like he had to have something. And it was nonlethal. Guns weren’t that hard to buy, on the street, but he didn’t really want to have to have one around today. You did a different kind of time, if there was a gun involved.

Then he’d driven back toward the Blob, taking it real easy at intersections and trying to keep to the streets that had designated lanes for electric vehicles. He got Chevette’s phone out and hit redial for the node-number in Utah, the one Godeater had given him, back in Paradise. God-eater was the one who looked like the mountain, or so he said. Rydell had asked him what kind of a name that was. He’d said he was a full-blood Blood Indian. Rydell sort of doubted it.

None of their voices were real, even; it was all digital stuff. God-eater could just as well be a woman, or three different people, or all three of the ones he’d seen there might’ve been just one person. He thought about the woman in the wheelchair in Cognitive Dissidents. It could be her. It could be anybody. That was the spooky thing about these hackers. He heard the node-number ringing, in Utah. God-eater always picked up on five, in mid-ring.

“Yes?”

“Paradise” Rydell said.

“Richard?”

“Nixon.”

“We have your goods in place, Richard. One little whoops and a push.”

“You get me a price yet?” The light changed. Somebody was honking, pissed-off at the Montxo’s inability to do anything like accelerate.

“Fifty” God-eater said.

Fifty thousand dollars. Rydell winced. “Okay” he said, “fair enough.”

“Better be” God-eater said. “We can make you pretty miserable in prison, even. In fact, we can make you really miserable in prison. The baseline starts lower, in there.”

I’ll bet you got lots of friends there, too, Rydell thought. “How long you estimate the response-time, from when I call?”

God-eater burped, long and deliberate. “Quick. Ten, fifteen max. We’ve got it slotted the way we talked about. Your friends’re go