Depth (4 page)

Simone was never exactly sure what Danny had done to escape, or how he had gotten to New York, but he had shown up one night in her waiting room—wet and miserable, begging her to hide him. She had done it, without payment. She’d showed him how to create the new identity of Danny Fray and how he could easily forge his own IRID, helped him find a place to work and live under the radar, taught him how to use his skills for more petty criminal enterprises than those he’d been instructed in. Mainland troops had only come looking once, and Simone had gotten them off his back by making it look like he had gone to South America.

Simone and Danny had been close since. The mass of cloud networks over New York allowed him to access the web without being found by anyone looking for his particular ISP. He changed networks and ran through other servers in the blink of an eye. He could set up a web page and download secure information all while taking a deep breath. It looked like magic. Which is why he had become a successful psychic, telling people what they already knew: that his spouse had booked a room at a hotel a few nights ago (hotel databases were very easy to access); that her father was living in Canada. He did a lot of what Simone could do, but much faster. And he owed her. So she used him. But she didn’t kid herself; if it had been Dash Ormond’s or some other PI’s doorstep Danny had shown up on that night, he’d be here instead of Simone, using him like the mainlanders had hoped to.

“Any particular importing?” he asked, leaning back into the sofa. His eyes had the slightly glazed look they got when he was working on the Internet in his head.

“Art. Antiques. Furniture. Keep it vague.”

“Done and done,” he said, smiling, “You want the IRID?”

“It would help.”

He opened a drawer in a cabinet and took out a small thumbprint scanner and an infrared chip, which he then put into a nearby 3D printer. It began to print, oozing plastic over the infrared chip and sensor to create the infrared identification card—the IRID. It was a slow process, so he turned back to the photo of The Blonde.

“Who is she?”

“Possible mistress, possible business partner, possible pro siren.”

“Sounds sexy.”

“Could be. Hey . . . can you check something else out, actually?”

“Anything for you.”

“Alejandro deCostas.”

He nodded.

“Alejandro deCostas,” he read from a screen only he could see, “PhD in archeology, master’s in physics, up until a month ago worked for StableCorp in the EU. Oh, and there’s a picture. Nice. I don’t suppose this is a blind date you want to set me up on . . .”

“Sorry, no such luck. Just wanted to make sure he was legit before I took him on as a client.”

“If you get him naked, take photos. And if you don’t get him naked, bring him around sometime for me to seduce.”

Simone laughed. “Of course.” As long as she’d known him, Danny had never been on a date, had never had a boyfriend. For all she knew, he was a virgin. She probably would be, too, if every man she met could be a mainland agent sent to kill her.

“He looks legit. Everything checks out.”

“Good.”

Danny stood and walked over to the printer. “What’re you doing for him?”

“He wants to explore the city, looking for places where the buildings have held so that you can go down below the twenty-first floor,” Simone said with a grin.

“A tunnel hunter?” Danny said, sounding excited.

Simone arched an eyebrow. “Don’t get enthusiastic about the idiot stuff, Danny.”

“So I should be like you and save my enthusiasm for cigarettes and silly hats?” he asked with a smirk. He looked down at the printer and tapped it idly with his finger as it oozed plastic into a neat white sheet. Simone folded her arms. Danny was terrible at keeping anything to himself, you just had to wait. He looked up again suddenly. “But it’s not so stupid, you know.”

“Yes it is,” Simone fired back before the last syllable had left his mouth.

“There were all these companies when the waters first started rising,” Danny said, waving his hands—a gesture that looked particularly absurd as he was still in costume. “Aquatube, C-Rail, the Waide Corporation—they were all working on building tunnels so they could control trade between here and the mainland. I read all about them when I was coming here. They knew that—”

“I grew up in the city, Danny,” Simone interrupted. “If there were some underground pipeline to the mainland, I’d know about it. No one could keep that secret.” Danny shrugged and looked back at the printer. It was nearly done, the card baking in a red light. “OK, then, you’re the one who literally has information on any server or cloud. Can you genuinely tell me that, with all that information, you believe there is a working pipeline?”

Danny turned one corner of his mouth up as if both amused and sad. “No, of course not. It doesn’t exist. But it would be cool, though, wouldn’t it? An underwater train?”

“It would make our connection to the mainland much stronger; they’d have more control, could enforce all those federal decency laws no one obeys out here, and find you a lot more easily. Be happy there’s no pipeline. And I’ll be happy there are people dumb enough to pay me to help them find it anyway.”

“Yeah,” Danny said, his shoulders slumping. “Still. It would be cool to ride an underwater train. I wonder if it would have windows.”

Simone patted him lightly on the back. “I’ll take to you the Carnival Ship sometime. They have a little train ride for kids that goes through a tunnel that’s also an aquarium—water all around. I rode it once. It was pretty cool.”

“How is Peter these days?” Danny asked with a sudden smile. Simone narrowed her eyes. She had, in fact, been on the Carnival Ship with Peter.

“Is that ready yet?” Simone asked, pointing at the IRID in the printer. Danny took it out and fanned it in the air to dry.

“What, we can talk about my stupid excitement over a train, but not your stupid decisions with men?” Simone stayed silent, her arms refolding in fluid motions. “Fine, fine,” he said, grinning. He held out the IRID to her. “Here, press down with your thumb so it can get the initial scan.” She did so, placing her thumb on the small square next to her face on the card. The scanner on the card lit up for a moment and then buzzed gently. “All done. Here you are, Alexis Foyle, of Maple Leaf Importing. All your data is in order.”

“Fantastic,” Simone said, standing and taking them.

“What does tunnel hunting have to do with Canadian importing, anyway?” he asked.

“Nothing. Different cases.”

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Are you still using your infrared-blocking wallet?” he asked.

“Sure, of course.”

“I can feel your real IRID’s signature. It must have a hole. You should get a new one if you’re going to carry two IRIDs around.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that when I have a moment. You want to come out with Caroline and me this weekend? I think we’re finally trying that VR bowling thing.”

“Sure, I’m in. Now scram, I have another client in ten minutes, and I have to check what year her dear departed Grandma Elsie died. I always forget. Hard to pretend to be a dead woman if you don’t know when she died.”

Simone smirked. “Some business you got.”

“Same as yours, just different wrapping,” Danny said with an amused look. “It’s why we work so well together.”

“Is that why?” Simone asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought it was because you didn’t charge me.”

“I’m sure that helps. As do my phenomenally good looks. Keep you coming back for another glance. Got anything else? I don’t wanna have to do any work for you in front of Caroline. It weirds her out; she always thinks we’re doing something damp and dirty.”

“Just keep an eye out for The Blonde, if she pops up anywhere.” Simone put her finger to her lips, deciding. “Yeah, and if you could check out the finances of Henry St. Michel and send them to me when you get a second, that could be useful.”

Danny put the turban and cape back on as she spoke.

“St. Michel?” he asked.

“Yeah, M-I-C-H-E-L. Saint.”

“Funny name for this city,” Danny said.

“Funny name for anywhere, these days. Thanks again.” They walked back through Danny’s inner sanctum to the waiting room, where a young girl with honey-colored curls was waiting, her eyes already wet. Simone turned back to Danny and clasped his hands.

“Oh, thank you,” Simone said, in a voice wrought with tears. “Thank you so much, Yanai. You are as great as they say you are.”

Danny glared but bowed with a flourish. Simone walked quickly from the room, trying to stifle her snickering.

False IRID in her leaky wallet, Simone strolled the bridges of New York towards St. Michel’s place of business. The day was blue, but the clear skies from early morning were clouding over, and the wind was picking up. Still, it was a nice day, and Simone enjoyed the walk, even stopping at one of the cart vendors on the decommissioned tanker
Guandong
for a quick lunch of warm noodles.
Guandong
and the neighboring cruise ship,
Fu
, were what was left of Chinatown.
Fu
was mostly residential, but
Guandong
was filled with carts that sold cheap electronics or fresh noodles or fish caught that morning from the deck. It was hung with red lanterns and streamers and was often crowded. Simone liked that. She ate her noodles on a stool by the cart, surrounded by throngs of strangers, feeling like calm water—invisible and safe.

When she got to Above Water Exports/Imports, it was nearly two, and the skies were steel and chilly. St. Michel’s business was operated out of an old masonry building, nearly twenty stories above sea level. He was on the thirty-fourth floor, but thankfully, they had put in a new algae-powered elevator in the building, so Simone didn’t have to hike. The offices were marked only by a small plaque. Simone knocked once and went in without an answer. The room was barren: concrete walls, metal desks, one large touchtable in the center of the room, and a few cheap chairs lining the walls. The room was empty except for an older woman leaning over the touchtable, apparently tracking something on a map.

“Yes?” she asked, without looking up. Simone walked up to her.

“My name is Alex Foyle,” Simone said, “From Maple Leaf Imports. I was hoping to talk to a Mr. St. Michel?” The woman turned to look at Simone. She was easily eighty and her gray hair was tied back in a tight bun. She was tall and had good posture without looking like a tin soldier. She appraised Simone with the look of someone who hadn’t been impressed by anything a young person had done in several decades.

“I’m Ms. Freth,” she said, “I’m Mr. St. Michel’s partner. What can we do for you?” Her voice was low and rough but had the tone of a woman used to getting what she wanted. She walked to one of the metal desks and opened a drawer to take out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Real tobacco cigarettes, Simone noted. Maybe being in importing made them easier to get. She lit one and began to smoke, waiting for Simone.

“We’re interested in doing business with you,” Simone said carefully. “I was told Mr. St. Michel was the one to talk to about exporting American antiques to Canada.”

“He’s in the john, you’ll have to talk to me.”

“Of course, it’s just that—”

“I handpicked everything in our inventory and know all our dealers,” Ms. Freth interrupted, “so don’t think I’m old and absentminded. I started this company with my husband, and I can still remember everything we’ve ever bought. I have a whole catalogue of our stuff up here,” she said, tapping the side of her head and giving Simone a hard look. Simone nodded, accepting.

Ms. Freth sat down at her desk and motioned for Simone to sit opposite her. Simone did so, her eyes scanning the room for the toilets, hoping St. Michel would show himself before she got in over her head.

“We sell to several major furnishing stores in Canada,” Simone said, “and several chains. American antiques are going to be the next big thing in Canadian interior design. Some of our stores want actual antiques to sell, but several are also looking for archetypal antiques from which to draw inspiration for products they design themselves for the virtual shops.”

“I see,” Ms. Freth said, blowing smoke out her nose. “And what furnishings, specifically, are you looking for?”

“One of our clients is most anxious for table lamps,” Simone said, “but most of the others are looking for basic furniture sets: couches, chairs, tables, and so on.”

From the back of the room came the sound of a door creaking closed and then Henry St. Michel appeared from behind a column, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Henry,” Ms. Freth said, “this is Ms . . .”

“Foyle,” Simone said, standing.

“She’s looking for antique American furniture.”

“Ah, good to meet you,” Henry said, stepping forward and extending his hand. It was still damp, but Simone shook it anyway, her face a mask of professional friendliness. “Has Lou been helping you?”

“She said she was told to speak to you,” Ms. Freth said, “but I talked to her anyway.”

“Ah, well, anything you would say to me you can say to Lou, here,” Henry said. “She’s my partner.”

“Right,” Simone said. With a flick of her thumb she removed the small bug from her inner sleeve and transferred it to her index finger. “Yours was just the name I was given,” she said, gesturing at Henry, her palm up. “I didn’t mean to cause any offense.” She closed her hands slightly, then opened them again, sending the small bug flying off her finger and landing on Henry’s jacket, where it quickly faded into the fabric. It was a good bug, fairly advanced, a clear circle that faded into fabric and then transferred sound up to fifty miles away for forty-eight hours, after which time it would dissolve.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Henry said, looking at Ms. Freth.

“No, you didn’t,” Ms. Freth said. “Now tell me more about what you’re looking for. What period antique, exactly?”

“Oh,” Simone said, “the 2090s, or thereabouts.”

“The nineties?” Ms. Freth said. “There’s a style I was hoping wouldn’t come back.” Simone smiled politely. “Everyone thought it was so cute, wearing rain boots all the time. My husband had a pair—bright blue with ducks all over them. Ridiculous.”