Chrysalis

33

Numerous other entertainments were also under way at the Complex. The eight basketball courts in the Tower recreation complex had been converted into a vast dance floor, where a swing competition was currently under way. Nautilus — the large, popular seafood restaurant whose balcony deck overlooked the northern side of the valley — was offering all-you-can-eat lobster, shelled tableside. Sprinkled elsewhere throughout the Complex were the usual smaller diversions common on Saturday night, including an informal jazz concert being held in the public plaza where the Western Skyway joined the Torus. A band was belting out “Muskrat Ramble” in true Dixieland style, always threatening, but never quite, collapsing in confusion.

Wing Kaupei stood in the center of the gathered throng, swaying gently in time with the music, when a short, somewhat overweight man approached her out of the crowd.

“Here you are,” he said. “I didn’t expect we’d have to meet in—”

“Don’t look at me,” she said. “Look at the band. And keep your voice down.”

“If I do that, you won’t be able to hear me.”

“I can hear you fine. You’ve got two minutes before I wander off into the crowd. Now: What’s so urgent that we had to break protocol and meet like this?”

“You wouldn’t respond to my messages.”

“Doing that would be a greater breach of protocol. You know the conditions: no communication once the operation begins.”

“Tell that to Peyton.”

Hearing this, Wing almost paused in her swaying.

“What about Peyton?”

“He grilled me today for, like, half an hour. About why I spent a day supervising the Omega line in addition to my usual job.”

“So? You knew that was always a possibility.”

“I think he suspects something.”

Applause started up as the tune ended, and Wing joined in enthusiastically. This plaza, like all public and most private spaces in the Complex, was infested with cameras and microphones, but she knew even the best sonic algorithms could not extract meaningful conversation if it was buried amid enough overlapping chatter.

“Did he say anything specific? About the Omega units?”

“No.”

“Had he detected any anomalies?”

A pause. “No.”

“In other words, he was just trying to intimidate you. That’s his job in a situation like this. And if you run to me like a scared rabbit, then you’re doing his job for him. Just calm down. Two days, and you’ll get the rest of your money.”

“That’s the other thing. I don’t think I’m being compensated enough.”

“You’re being compensated exactly what was agreed on — a hundred K up front, and two upon completion.”

“I know. But this isn’t what I expected. This is turning out to be a lot bigger — and riskier — than you promised. I inserted the payload with hardly a moment’s notice. And I’m starting to feel—”

“Listen to me. You’ve already done what you had to do. Now all you need to do is your normal job: the same thing you’ve done every day for the last two years. Except later this week, you’ll be a whole lot richer.”

“But I’ll still have to come back to work. Every day.”

“For six months. As agreed. When the dust settles, you can quietly take a job elsewhere.”

“But—”

“There’s no more to discuss. For you, the hard part’s already done. Nobody’s going to link you to anything — unless you keep breaking protocol like you did, calling for a crash meeting.”

And with that, she moved away slowly, as if she’d never met, or conversed, with the overweight young man. She swayed with the band as they segued into “Cakewalking Babies from Home.” She did not look in the man’s direction, but in less than a minute she knew that he’d left the assembled throng and was gone.

“…So what did that fat fuck Prawn want?”

The new voice in her ear was so unexpected, it was all Wing could do not to turn toward it. But long training came to her aid, and she stepped forward slightly so the gangly, bearded man speaking to her was behind her rather than beside her.

Doing so gave her a moment to think quickly.

“Standard procedure,” she said after a brief interval. “I had to meet with him one last time before op completion.”

“Why? I thought it was hands-off from now on.”

This one, at least, knew enough not to look at her; pretend not to know her… even though he, too, had broken protocol — and in perhaps a worse way, by coming upon her unexpectedly. “Why are you here?”

“Because something’s starting to stink about all this.”

She clapped, swayed. “Spit it out.”

“I was looking over the internal feeds this morning. I came across one that implied the messages you’ve been sending weren’t what we agreed on… and, worse, that the board member, Bridger, didn’t just ‘get a little sick.’ He crashed.”

It took all her effort to stay relaxed. “First of all, you agreed to keep off the feeds.”

“Easy for you to say. I gave you the keys to the kingdom, performed risky single-client interventions, and you’ve left me in the dark—”

“Don’t you remember this is a lot bigger than you? Than me? Everything is unfolding as I promised it would.”

“You never promised me anything about a message threatening to—”

“Because it’s not part of your brief. Okay? You play your role; I play mine. Just like Prawn’s played his. At the end of the day, everyone gets fat and happy.”

“What about Bridger? The feed said he died in that plane.”

“You’re just parading your gullibility. Those feeds that you aren’t supposed to look at might be bait. Don’t you think they’ve guessed that a hacker’s involved here — maybe one on the inside? Of course they’d send phony information across that internal network, looking for a reaction. That’s why you’re supposed to keep hands-off. Unless you want to expose us both.”

“What about your message telling them—”

“I told you: we’ve each been given a part to play. You weren’t told everything in advance, because the planners probably guessed you’d do something foolish like this if you got ahold of wrong information. We’re compartmentalized for a reason. Do you think Prawn knows what you’ve done? What do you think he’d say if he did?”

For a moment, just music. Then the bearded young man spoke again. “That makes sense.”

“I’m glad. Because rehearsal’s behind us and it’s showtime. And in a couple of days, that will be behind us. Now, Ben, you’ve got to leave.”

She felt his hand brush the small of her back. “I’ve got to?” His voice turned silky. “I’m off shift. What if I come by your suite? It’s been how many weeks now since—”

“Work first. Play after. Okay?”

After a moment, the answer came. “Okay.”

Applause rose as the piece ended, and she used it to end the conversation. “When it’s time, I’ll be in touch.”

And then she began to applaud with the rest of the crowd as she moved slowly toward the rear. This double meeting — one expected, the other not — had been disagreeable. However, it was over now — and for the best. Both men, she felt, could be expected to keep up their ends… at least until they were no longer necessary.

As it happened, all this might, in fact, have an unexpected benefit. She turned away from the crowd. To her left was New Eden; to her right, Arc C and Carewell.

And in a small breakout area between them, sitting in a lounge chair, was the man who had registered yesterday as Reginald Bryant. He was relaxing, letting the music float over him. She did not stop as she walked past, but their eyes met briefly and she lazily tapped her chin: once, twice.

He blinked slowly in return, like a lizard.

He’d seen both men. That was good: it would make things easier later on.

And as Wing walked on, past Carewell and toward BioCertain security, she decided the interlude had been valuable, after all.