Geosynchron (39 page)

"But I know Natch. He'll see us coming from kilometers away."

"Perhaps," said Taylor. "But that might be inevitable. Our best
strategy may be to present ourselves openly and see if Natch is receptive to our inquiry. If you can make him aware that his friends are
trying to get in touch with him ... well, he could decide that he
wishes to speak with you after all."

Horvil rubbed his fleshy jowls. "Or we might inspire him to disappear for good."

"I suppose that is a chance we will have to be taking."

"He'll suspect the Council put us up to it."

"If your friend has the wherewithal to avoid them for this long,
surely he will be able to ascertain that such is not the case, don't you
think?"

Vigal returned a few hours later, restless from wandering through
the corridors of Sixth Ring and scouting out feckless software entrepreneurs. None of Infogather's leads had panned out so far.

Regardless, Vigal wholeheartedly approved of Richard Taylor's
idea of setting a trap for Natch-and had an idea of his own about how
that trap might be set.

Renting street space on the colony's central corridor cost Horvil a small
fortune. He scanned the contract from the business arm of the 49th
Heaven L-PRACG and quickly grew incensed at the outrageous provisions they ramrodded down vendors' throats. But Vigal reminded him
that they weren't intending to stay long. If this plan worked, it would
work in a matter of days. If it didn't, they would pack up and move on.

Horvil squeezed into the rickety booth he had been assigned
between a tarot fortune-teller and a seller of bondage paraphernalia.
Why anyone would purchase actual faux-leather gear when they could
don it virtually on the Sigh for free was beyond Horvil's grasp. He
looked around his booth, frowned at the strange and colorful molds
skulking in the corners, and activated a piece of smell-deadening software from Bolliwar Tuban. He decided that this might be tolerable for
forty-eight or even seventy-two hours.

But when Horvil turned around to face the crowd, he realized that
this was money well spent after all.

The booth, odorous and cramped as it was, stood at the major crossroads of 49th Heaven: the passageway that connected the ultrapopular
Sixth Ring gambling dens with the orbital colony dock. The walls and
ceiling were vibrant with soft blues and yellows in an impressionistic
take on the deep sea. Standing in the midst of all this, you could see a
veritable cross section of humanity circa Year 360 of the Reawakening.
Keen-eyed tourists itching to fritter away Vault credits, businesspeople yammering and making deals as they walked, sex entertainers
in scanty costumes, parents herding their children to the familyfriendly hotels down the way in Seventh Ring, politicians and bureaucrats engaged in polling and census-taking operations, graduate students conducting sociological experiments, wasted black code addicts
looking to shake someone down. And all of them were walking
directly past Horvil's booth, unable to avoid the garish marquee the
engineer had cobbled together in an authoritative sans-serif font. The
sign read:

THE PROUD EAGLE

Hive of the Bio/Logic Entrepreneur
Prepare YOUR child for a life in programming

"If this doesn't attract Natch within a week," Horvil told Serr
Vigal confidently, "then he's not here."

Horvil and Vigal took turns manning the booth and chatting with
interested pedestrians while Richard Taylor went off and explored the
colony. The engineer had expected that he would spend most of his
time studying the outlandish insect population that seemed to have
chosen this corner of 49th Heaven as its metropolis. But there was a
surprising amount of traffic to the booth for an orbital colony where
children were in scarce supply. He found himself fielding actual questions from actual parents, and had to scramble quickly to come up
with some real, verifiable information to dispense. By the end of the second day, he was convinced that he had actually sold a few parents on
the hive.

On the dawn of the fourth day, Josiah Surina's manifesto hit the
Data Sea.

Serr Vigal read the entire thing aloud to him that morning, incredulous. Another Surina in the world-and not only that, but he was
Quell's son, of all people. Suddenly so many of the hints Jara had
dropped over the past week made sense. Jara and the fiefcorp had been
hired by Quell for a consulting job; Quell's son had been about to
unveil his identity. Horvil couldn't quite figure out how the two facts
meshed, but he was sure there was a connection.

The engineer tried to get the scuttlebutt directly from Jara, but it
took him almost two days to reach her. Even then, she only had a
minute for him. "Things are crazy here, as you can imagine," she said
over Confidential Whisper.

"I can," said Horvil. "I'm good at imagining."

Jara acknowledged the salacious undertone in his voice with an
amused sniff, then continued. "Magan Kai Lee's people are moving
into the warehouse district, and there are protests all over the place.
Peaceful so far, but who knows for how long. Not only that, but General Cheronna decided to move the main Islander army right next door
to Magan's. They're practically on top of each other."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. Maybe to prevent Magan's armies from getting out of
hand. Whatever the reason, it's proving to be something of a problem."

"What does Magan have to say about it?"

"Who knows? He's disappeared."

Horvil decided not to expend too much mental power resolving
the problems of world politics. He and Serr Vigal continued to keep
vigil at the booth, (artificial) night and (artificial) day. By the end of
the ninth day in the Proud Eagle booth, even Richard Taylor was
starting to reconsider their strategy.

And then Horvil received a peculiar visitor.

The man looked like your typical hired muscle. Sculpted abdomen,
stone-stiff biceps, head as bald as a newborn's with the exception of his
porcupine eyebrows. He approached the Proud Eagle booth, claiming
that his son wanted to transfer to a more challenging hive. He asked
Horvil and Vigal to meet him for a private appointment.

"What's your son's name?" asked Horvil suspiciously.

"Nohwan," replied the brawny interloper.

The engineer rubbed his chin. "No One? What kind of a name is
that?"

"It's his name." Then, in a fit of impatience: "Just come to the
Treble Clef in Sixth Ring already. Two hours. Okay?"

Richard Taylor suspected a trap and didn't want Horvil and Vigal to
go.

"Do you not admit that he could be trying to appear he has information about Natch, when in fact he has none?" said the Pharisee in
their hotel room. "What if this Molloy attempts to hold you for
ransom? Or what if he attempts to rob you?"

"We'll go in multi," said Horvil with a shrug.

Despite their nonchalance in the presence of the Pharisee, Horvil
knew there was real potential for danger. What if the man had taken
his Aunt Berilla or his cousin Benyamin captive and threatened harm
to them if his demands weren't met? What if he was attempting some
kind of blackmail scheme? A reminder that the virtual world was as
fraught with risk as the flesh world.

Horvil and Serr Vigal walked into the Treble Clef right on time. It
proved to be a thoroughly unmemorable place: one long bar made from
fake mahogany, several booths of a much blonder fake wood running
along the other wall, and an assortment of mismatched tables in between. The only distinguishing characteristic was a large sculpture
of the bar's namesake hanging in the far corner of the room, which
Horvil suspected someone had salvaged from the colony's earlier incarnation as a religious retreat.

The burly man who had summoned them sat at the end of the bar
sipping something dark and fermented. "He's over there," said Molloy
casually, hitching a thumb over his shoulder at a booth next to the
treble clef.

Where Natch sat patiently in the shadows. His hair was a different
color, and his eyes had changed too, Horvil could see by the power of
a telescopic program. But it was definitely him.

Horvil and Serr Vigal barely had time to form happy expressions
of surprise on their faces before they each felt a hand clasp them on the
shoulder and sensed a short presence coming between them.

"Thanks for your assistance," said Lieutenant Executive Magan Kai
Lee. "I'm not sure I would have found him without you."

27

Natch watches Magan Kai Lee stride up to him in full uniform,
dartgun holstered at his side, uncaring who sees him pass. Magan
observes the steaming carafe and two empty cups on the table and
takes a whiff. The lieutenant executive does not often indulge in
alcohol, Natch's research tells him, even with metabolizing OCHREs
at full blast. But when he does drink, hot sake is his beverage of choice.
"You're not surprised to see me," says Magan, stating the obvious.

"Tell me how many officers you brought with you," Natch replies
coolly, without transition.

Magan quickly recovers his equanimity. Natch has caught him off
guard, but the lieutenant executive is not one to stay flat of foot for
long. "Ample," he says.

"Good. You're going to need them. There's an empty storefront
two blocks down, towards the dock. This side of the street. You'll find
Halloran Kushida and five of his men there with at least a dozen crates
of Chomp and Chill Polly. They're only going to be there for another
half an hour. If you hurry, you can catch them. Careful, though-he's
a coward, but he's usually armed to the teeth."

"Who-"

"Trust me, you want Halloran Kushida. Don't worry, I'll be here
when you get back."

The lieutenant executive casts a distrustful eye at the rococo treble
clef and the carafe of sake. He's been burned too many times to take anything Natch says at face value. "How do I know that I can trust you?"

"You don't. But unless you brought more firepower here than Len
Borda brought to the Tul Jabbor Complex, you're going to have to."