Idolon (23 page)

"What about Yukawa?" Zhenyu al-Fayoumi asked. A chill had crept into the air as the sun sank over the Santa Cruz Mountains to the west, into the roiling bank of fog spilling over into the Santa Clara Valley

The damselfish drifted closer, gliding past the side of his face, then pausing next to his ear.

Al-Fayoumi fought the urge to pull back. His shirt bunched under his arms, bound his neck. He ran a finger under the collar.

"His real name is Uri Titov," the damselfish said over al-Fayoumi's earfeed. "He's a skintech with Iosepa Biognost Tek."

"IBT?" he said. "Not Siglint?"

The damselfish swam back into view and appraised him coolly. "You haven't been given all of the information you need to know about the project you're working on. If completed, a lot of innocent people will be harmed."

"Including you, I suppose."

The damselfish flapped fins and wings, arcing away in an ellipse. Sunlight flashed, rippling off its scales. "What makes you think I'm innocent? Or a person, for that matter?"

"If you're not a person, what are you?"

The damselfish paused in midair for a second, as if debating. "What do you think?"

Al-Fayoumi shut his eyes for a beat. "Sageware. A datician—or many daticians, perhaps—animating distributed nanoware." He opened his eyes.

"Perhaps." The fish's lower fins quivered. "If Yukawa—Titov—is successful, then all programmable matter will become the same matter. All 'skin will become the same 'skin. All philm the same philm."

"You're already quantum-entangled," al-Fayoumi said. That was how the image was acquired, how the idolon was xferred from one fly to another. "That's why you are afraid. If the entanglement spreads, you'll be part of it. You'll no longer be independent."

"No one will be free." The damselfish twitched, slipped sideways, steadied. "The net being cast is a wide one. Eventually, everyone will be caught in it."

Al-Fayoumi pursed his lips. "Is there more sageware out there like you?"

The damselfish rephilmed, and a girl's face replaced the head of the fish. The girl was young. She had long black lashes and loose-curled hair that fell in ringlets over her smooth brow.

Al-Fayoumi didn't recognize the philm. He had no clue who the girl was—if she was real or imagined.

"Her name is Lisette," the damselfish said. "She is ten years old and has no one to look after her."

Al-Fayoumi frowned. He shifted his gaze from the damsel to the pink scarf of sun trailing along the horizon. "What about her?"

"She needs your help."

His focus returned to the damsel. "What kind of help?"

"Protection. A safe place to stay."

"Protection from whom?"

"Titov." The damsel dropped suddenly, landing on his arm, close to the spot where it had emerged.

Al-Fayoumi flinched under the sharp myelin tickle of the nanomal. "Why are you telling me this? What do you expect me to do?"

"Save her." The damsel fit itself back into the shallow indentation. "And yourself."

As the evening deepened, so did Mateus's urgency.

He was running out of time. He could feel the seconds slipping through his tightly clenched fists. From his vantage point on the roof of the parking garage across the street from the TVs' hotel, he watched the copters prep for flight. It wouldn't be long now, he figured. An hour, maybe less.

He hadn't been able to determine where the copters were headed. If they left and Nadice was on one of them, his chances of finding her dropped to fuck-all. Once the copters were in flight, he had no way to track them. That meant the copters couldn't leave. It was as simple as that. He was working on getting more muscle, putting together an assault team, but that wouldn't happen for another few hours at the earliest.

He couldn't wait that long. He needed to act now. Uri had agreed. He'd even offered to rephilm Mateus's boyz for the job. "Just get her. Do whatever you need to do."

"It could get messy," Mateus warned. "It's already messy!" Uri snapped. "You fuck this up, it's going to get a helluva lot messier."

"You care if she's alive?" That always made things tougher. It was a complication he'd rather do without.

"Just make sure she's in one piece." Uri didn't bother to grin, a bad sign. "If she's not all there, if any part of her is missing, parts of you are gonna end up missing."

Despite the threat, Mateus felt calmer under the cover of darkness and the raucous glare of the Boardwalk. He had a plan. His boyz were on the way. Mateus checked their coords on his spex. They were less than a kilometer away. Another five minutes and they'd be here. Ten minutes after that, they'd be set up and in position. Ready to lock and load.

Taking the stairwell, Mateus made his way down to the street. By the time he got to the sidewalk, his boyz were making the turn onto West Cliff at the foot of the hill.

He watched the restored Benzy rumble up the slope, the hydrogen fuel cell pissing water out the tailpipe. 'Cept for that it was nicely candied up, with a wood-grain steering wheel, drop top, and blades.

The sedan pulled to a stop along the curb, between a couple of three-wheeled cars that were strictly for in-town use. They were pissant small, but they afforded a little cover from the casual passerby.

The passenger window slid down and Rafa glowered at him, indignant. "When we gonna get some treal philm for this new 'skin? This makes me feel starched up, like I'm the Lone Ranger, or sumthin'."

His boyz were totally reskinned, fresh out of the tank. Uri had philmed them as clean-cut private-security goons from Texasecure, out of Houston. They had the company's distinctive logo, a lone Texas star in the middle of a yellow rose, inscribed prominently on their foreheads. The starchiez uniforms looked authentic. Ditto the boots and ten-gallon hats. Not that it mattered. In the pandemonium, no one would ask questions. All people would see was the lone star rose on their foreheads and that would be enough to give his boyz free rein. There wouldn't be any of the trouble they'd run into at the homeless shelter, people asking questions and threatening to call the cops on them because of the way they'd gone into the place. This time, they were the cops.

"Dude's never satisfied," Tiago said from the driver's seat. "He scores ware that no one else has, and all he can do is complain."

"You got what I asked for?" Mateus said, getting down to business.

Rafa nodded. "In back."

Mateus looked back down the street, toward the Boardwalk and downtown. "You see any laws on the way in?"

Rafa shook his head. "No po pos to speak of. They all off lookin' for skull down at da Walk."

"You sure?" The last thing they needed was a police cruiser to swing by, checking shit out. Cops had access to all kinds of surveillance.

"We gonna do this, or what?" Tiago asked. His fingers pattered on the blond grain of the wheel, tapping out a staccato rhythm. He was a twitchy punk, throwed half the time. But he got it done when it counted, no ifs, ands, or buts.

"Bet," Mateus said. "Let's pop some trunk."

Rafa's grin widened. "I feel ya!"

Mateus went around to the back of the Benzy, waited until he heard the lock click, then opened the trunk. Zipped in three nylon boogie board bags were two Russian RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launchers and six rounds of ordnance.

You couldn't beat old Soviet-era weapons. Over a hundred years old, and the shit still worked. It was simple, reliable, and readily available. Peasants in Afghanistan, Syria, and Iraq were still digging up weapons stockpiles, hidden by Al-Qaeda and other raghead terrorists.

The RPG-7 was shoulder-fired, recoilless, and muzzle reloadable. It had an effective range of five hundred meters against a fixed target and could punch through twenty-plus centimeters of conventional plate armor. Mateus had practiced with one a few years back, outside of H-Town, when he was running with Fo-Fo. He'd used it to light up the junk cars they'd used as targets.

There were also a couple of compressed gas flechette pistols that fired needles or darts. Nice and quiet. He jammed one into the waistband of his pants, dropped the other into a mesh side pocket, along with a MEMS grenade.

Rafa and Tiago joined him. "Let's get a move on," Mateus said. He didn't like it, being out in the open.

They hefted out the bags, alarmed the Benzy, and climbed the stairwell to the roof, where they moved into position.

There were four copters. Mateus double-checked the distance with a pair of night-vision binoculars. Two hundred and twenty meters. It would work, no problem. Him shouldering the RPGs while Rafa loaded them and Tiago guarded the stairwell. He should be able to get off four clean shots in a minute or two.

"Got some activity," Rafa said. He had the grenades neatly lined up. In the open bags, they looked like cone-tipped spears or javelins.

Mateus took the night-vision binoculars and peered through them, the world going grainy and monochrome green. Several TVs stood next to the copters, gesturing. The fuselage doors to the copters were open; it looked as if they were going to start taking on passengers. Sure enough, a service entrance to the roof opened and a close-bunched group of women spilled out, looking confused and frightened. They huddled together as they were herded to the nearest chopper.

He looked for Nadice, but he was too far away to make out individual features or clothing.

One of the women broke away from the group and ran. A couple of TVs sprinted after her. There was a waist-high wall topped by a Kevlex fence around the building. No place for her to go, but that didn't stop her from trying.

Bitch had spunk, he had to give her that. Maybe she'd be grateful if he saved her ass. Maybe a lot of them would. He'd heard pregnant women were horny all of the time, something to do with—

"What we waitin' for?" Tiago said.

Mateus wet his lips and lowered the binoculars. "Nothing," he said. "Let's get to it."

"It's still pretty windy" Atossa said. "I don't know if I can make it."

"It will work," Pelayo said. At least now the breeze was blowing in the right direction.

They stood in line for the Sky Tram. The tram's cars—little blue, red, green, and yellow buckets suspended from tower-supported cables—followed the seawall, running between the Santa Cruz pier at one end and the Ferris wheel at the other.

"What if she's not there?" Atossa said.

Pelayo puffed out his cheeks. "Then I'll let it go."

"Even if she is, I might not see her. No matter how close I get."

"I know," Pelayo said. He massaged his face. It felt tight, vacuum-sealed by the mask. The microvilli that held it to his 'skin itched.

The line inched forward a few steps, up the ramp to the loading platform. Below them, the Boardwalk seethed with activity. Arcade games flashed, signs blinked, philm scrolled, and kids screamed in fear and delight. Carnival music pummeled them from all directions. Ad balloons and masks trawled between the tightly packed kiosks, schooling like barracudas under the palms.

A message tone squealed over his earfeed. The call was flagged urgent and a red subject line blinked on over his eyefeed, indicating a pop-up d-splay. Pelayo groaned.

"What?" Atossa said.

"Call from Uri." The subject line continued to blink, baleful and insistent:
NEED YOU IMMEDIATELY
.

"About what?" she asked. "He wants to see me again."

 "Now?"

Pelayo shook his head. "It's not going to happen," he said. "I'm busy." He was tired of being constantly on call.

"You're not going to go in?"

"It can wait," he said. It was probably nothing. Uri yanking his chain over some minor bug.

"What if there's a serious problem with the 'skin?" Atossa asked.

They inched forward a couple of steps, forced from behind by the line wending up the access ramp.

"With Uri, everything is crucial."

An updraft from the still-warm concrete of the Boardwalk stirred the 'skin's thick hair, blowing it across the ad mask.

"Maybe you should see what it's about," Atossa said. "It couldn't hurt."

"No!" he said, exasperated as much by the slothlike progress of the line as Uri's call or Atossa's second-guessing.

"Fine," she huffed.

Pelayo closed his eyes for a moment, willing calm. This was not the time for an argument. "It'll be all right," he said, "I feel fine. I'll go in as soon as we're done here."

"Your turn, asshole," a voice said. The ride operator, some kid philmed as X-F! from the "Solonauts."

An empty car swung around. Pelayo sat and the restraining harness folded down over his chest and legs, securing them firmly in place.

Half a second later the car jolted forward, rocking back and forth as it lifted him above the seawall and the Kevlex fence that kept people from falling or jumping into the seaweed- and kelp-choked beach that had once been home to beach towels, lawn chairs, and volleyball nets.

Music gusted up from the dervish rides and the fun-house arcades, bringing with it the smell of caramelized popcorn, cotton candy, and spicy batter-fried
nopales.
This section of town, including the Beach Flats a couple of blocks to the east, was nothing but philmscape: the 1849 Gold Rush; Paris in the 1890s; 1920s Coney Island. There were no cracks, no chipped corners, no peeling paint. Everything looked fresh and new, the past flawlessly reminted, shinier and more desirable than the present. If there was a future, it was cast from the past, perfectly configured to gloss over the defects of the here and the now with a collage of collective, mass-mediated nostalgia.

The conference center loomed a few hundred meters behind them. The helicopters were lit by Klieg lights, the glare bright and urgent.

Pelayo twisted in his seat, facing the moonlit water of the Bay. He pinched one corner of the mask, slowly peeling it from his face. Free of his body heat, the ad mask stiffened as it cooled, lapsing into its default shape. "Ready?" he said.

Atossa let out a breath. "Iguess."

Pelayo held the mask at arm's length, away from the chair. The breeze snatched at it, trying to pluck it from his fingers. "Keep eyefeeding me. I want to know what's going on."

"I'll do my best."

Pelayo let go of the mask. The wind caught it, flipped it, and sent it tumbling back in the direction of the pier and the hotel. He watched it swirl away into ink-black air before switching to an eyefeed d-splay.

The mask was still tumbling out of control, sending him kaleidoscopic glimpses of the Boardwalk, the Beach Flats, silver-bellied clouds. He took a deep breath to quell his motion-sick stomach. Finally, the mask righted itself and the image stabilizers kicked in, giving him a relatively steady view.

"You're heading too far right," he said.

"I know!" Atossa snapped.

The onshore breeze had shifted. It was a little more westerly than it had been ten minutes earlier. She was going to miss.

"Try less altitude," he suggested. There would be less wind closer to the ground, less shear.

No answer. The mask passed over the pier and the seawall at the base of the hotel rushed toward them.

"Toss—" he began, when suddenly the eyefeed cut out and the d-splay inset went blank.

Now what? He was trapped. Short of leaping fifty feet to the ground, there was no way to exit the tram. All he could do was wait.

A beat later a message tone beeped. No visual. Pelayo answered it immediately, thinking it would be Atossa.

"Say," Lagrante said, his voice saxophone smooth. "What it do?"

______

"Make it quick," Pelayo said. "I'm in the middle of something."

The tram had reached the far end of the Boardwalk, turned, and was heading back. The conference center loomed in the distance, barely visible above the lights of the merry-go-round.

"That gurl of yours keeping you busy?" Lagrante said.

"You could say that."

Lagrante forced a chuckle. "I hear ya."

Pelayo said nothing. The tram was halfway to the debarkation point and his mind was racing, planning his next move, whether to go to the hotel or Model Behavior.

"Right," Lagrante said, taking his cue. "I'll get to the point, then. I found what I was looking for. If you're still interested, I can take care of biz. But it's got to go down quick."

"When?"

"Tonight. No more than a couple of hours from now. If you're not too busy to make it, that is."

"Where?"

"Place we first met. Got a band playin' I want to catch. Some of that nouvogue I been hearin' about."

_______

Pelayo was three blocks from the hotel when the eyefeed from the ad mask came back online and the d-splay inset reappeared.

He blinked and found himself staring into an empty hotel room that looked as if it had been hastily vacated. "Where are you?" he said.

"Third-floor window on the east wall," Atossa said.

"What happened?"

"Technical difficulties. I ran into some interference."

Which could mean almost anything, literally or euphemistically. When she didn't elaborate, Pelayo let it drop. There was no sense getting off on a tangent, especially one that might lead back to him. Next time, he'd keep his mouth shut and let her do her job.

"How many rooms have you checked?"

"Three. They're all like this."

"Empty?"

"Yeah. I think it's a waste of time to keep checking. I'm going to head up to the roof, see if I can figure out where they're taking them."

And why,
Pelayo thought.