Then Spanner went into the bedroom and closed the curtain behind her.
Lore was alone. Alone in a room filled with shadows of furniture she had never seen before, things that belonged to a woman she did not know, in a city that was strange to her. Alone. A nobody with nothing, not even clothes. It was like being kidnapped again, but this time she had no escape to dream of, nowhere to run to. Her sister had killed herself. Her father was a monster who had lied to her, year after year after year.
She stood in the middle of the room, aware of the strange smells and temperature, and knew clearly that she needed this woman, Spanner; depended upon her, in a way that was shocking. Lore’s fear was sharp, undeniable as a knife pressed against her cheek. It woke her up a little from her dreamy shock state. She was thirsty.
The bathroom was enormous, its window bare. It was too dark outside to see much, but she thought there were perhaps walls, and the remains of a path. She did not want to put the light on, but she could make out a yellowing, old-fashioned tub and huge, cracked black and white tiles. The water ran from the bulbous taps under low pressure, twisting like crossed fingers. She let it pour over her fingers automatically, tasted with the tip of her tongue. Salty. Ions: probably chloride and fluoride and bromide . . . and suddenly she was crying.
Her fingers turned cold under the tap as she wept. She would have to drink this water that wheezed out from old lead pipes, would have to accept what she was given from now on, and she would have to like it.
When she had finished crying, she splashed her face with water and dried herself with a towel—
Spanner’s water, Spanner’s towel
—and went back into the living room.
In the street twenty feet below, a freight slide rumbled to a stop but everything else was quiet. She looked down at the judo mat and imagined trying to sleep on it, facedown, back toward the closed curtains of Spanner’s bedroom. Horribly vulnerable.
The judo mat probably weighed less than twenty pounds but it was awkward to handle. In the end she had to drag it behind her like a travois. Several things fell as she barged fifteen feet over to the east wall. She lay on her stomach facing the shadows. The freighter moved off again. She counted to two hundred and fifty-one before another passed. In the silence, she heard the creak of a tree limb rubbing up against the bricks of the outside wall.
As the streetlights faded and the sun came up, the red eyes glowed less insistently and the shadows before her shifted. An electronics workbench, she thought, and tools . . .
Lore dozed on and off until around ten in the morning, when the noise of passenger slides and people passing by on the street filled the room with a bright hum. There was no sound from the bedroom.
The living room was big, twenty by twenty-five at least. The centerpiece of the shorter south wall was an elaborate fireplace, cold and empty now. A variety of leafy green plants stood on the hearth and on a low tin-topped table nearby. There were some books, but not many. A rug. Then the couch and coffee table, all well used, not exactly clean. The carpet was rucked up where she had dragged the mat over it last night in the dark. Squares of bright sunlight pointed up the wear in its red and blue pattern. The tree outside cast shadows of branches and shivering leaves over the wall behind her. From this angle, all she could see of it was the glint of low morning sun through leaves already beginning to turn orange and red, but the leaves looked big and raggedy, like hands. Maybe a chestnut. She lay under its shadow and tried to imagine she was at Ratnapida, lying on the grass. The birdsong was all wrong.
A large proportion of the room at the north end was taken by two tables and a workbench, all covered with screens, data-retrieval banks, a keyboard and headset, input panel, and what looked like some kind of radio and several haphazard chipstacks, all connected together by a maze of cable.
She could not figure out what it was all for.
In what Lore would come to realize was a pattern, Spanner woke up around midday. She went straight from bed to the connecting bathroom, and about twenty minutes later emerged into the living room via the kitchen door, carrying two white mugs of some aromatic tea. The silk robe she wore had seen better days, and in the daylight her hair was the color of antique brass. “Jasmine,” she said as she held out a mug.
Lore reached for the tea. The red scar between her thumb and forefinger showed up clearly against the white ceramic. Moving hurt. Spanner nodded to herself. “I called the medic. He’s on his way. And don’t worry. He won’t report this. Or you.”
Lore felt as though she should say something, but she had no idea what. She sipped at the tea, trying to ignore the pain.
“I know who you are,” Spanner said softly. “You were all over the net.” Lore said nothing. “I don’t understand why you’re not screaming for Mummy and Daddy.”
“I’ll never go back.”
“Why?”
Lore stayed silent. She needed Spanner, but she did not have to give her more ammunition.
Spanner shrugged. “If that’s the way you want it. Can you get any money from them?”
“No.” Lore hoped that sounded as final as she felt.”Then I don’t see how you’re going to repay me. For the medic. For the care you look like you’re going to need for a while. Do you have any skills?”
Yes,
Lore wanted to say, but then she saw once again the red scar on the hand wrapped around her teacup. How would she get a job designing remediation systems, how would she prove her experience, without an identity? “My identity. . .”
“That’s another question. You want to get a copy of your old PIDA?”
“No.” The pain was hot and round and tight. The infection must be spreading. Again, she thought of his blood mingling with hers.
“Then you’ll need a new one. That costs, too. And what do you want me to call you? I can’t go around calling you Frances Lorien van de Oest.”
“Lore. Call me Lore.”
“Well, Lore, if you want my help then you’ll have to pay for it. You’ll have to work for me.”
“Legally?”
Spanner laughed. “No. Not even remotely. But I’ve never been caught, and what I do is low down on the police list—victimless crime. Or nearly so.”
The only “victimless” crimes Lore could think of were prostitution and personal drug use.
Spanner stood up, went to her workbench, brought back a slate. “Here. Take a look.”
Lore, moving her arms slowly and carefully, turned it over, switched it on. Wrote on it, queried it, turned it off. She handed it back. “It’s an ordinary slate.”
“Exactly. A slate stuffed with information. What do you use your slate for?”
Lore thought about it. “Making memos. Sending messages. Net codes and addresses. Ordering specialty merchandise. Appointments. Receiving messages. Keeping a balance of accounts. . .” She began to see where this was leading. “But it’s all protected by my security code.”“That’s what most people think. But it’s not difficult to break it. It just takes time and a good program. Nothing glamorous. This one . . .” Spanner smiled. “Well, let’s see.” She sat down at her bench, connected the slate to a couple of jacks, flipped some switches. “Can you see from down there?” Lore nodded. On a readout facing Spanner numbers began to flicker faster than Lore could read them. “Depending on the complexity of the code, it takes anywhere from half a minute to an hour.” Lore watched, mesmerized. “I’ve yet to come across one that—” The numbers stopped. “Ah. An easy one.” She touched another button and the red feed light on the slate lit up. “It’s downloading everything: account numbers, the net numbers of people called in the last few months, name, address, occupation, DNA codes of the owner . . . everything.” She was smiling to herself.
“What do you use it for?”
“Depends. Some slates are useless to us. We just ransom them back to their owners for a modest fee. No one gets hurt. Often we couch things in terms of a reward for the finder. No police involvement. Nothing to worry about.”
“And other times?”
Someone banged on the door, two short, two long taps.
“That’s the medic.” But Spanner did not get up to let him in. “Better make up your mind.”
“What?”
“Do you want to work with me or not? Even if I don’t let him in, there’ll be a small fee for call-out, nothing you couldn’t repay when you’re able. But if he comes in here and works on you, then you’ll owe me.”
The medic banged on the door again, faster this time.
“Sounds like he’s getting impatient.”
Lore had no clothes and no ID; she doubted she could stand. “I’ll do it.”
Spanner went to the door.
The medic was not what Lore had expected. He was middle-aged, well dressed and very gentle. And fast. He ran a scanner down her back. “Some infection. It’ll need cleaning.” He pulled out a wand-sized subcutaneous injector.
“No,” Lore said. “I’m allergic.”
“Patches, too?”
She nodded. He sighed. “Well, that’s an inconvenience.” He rummaged in his bag. Lore heard a light hiss, felt a cool mist on her back, tasted a faint antiseptic tang. The pain disappeared in a vast numbness. She knew he was swabbing out her wound but all she felt was a vague tugging. “Clean enough for now.” This time he took a roll of some white material from his bag. She shuddered, remembering the plasthene. He paused a moment, then unwrapped a couple of feet and cut it. It glinted. Some kind of metallic threads.
“What’s that?”
“You’ve never seen this before?” Spanner asked. Lore shook her head. The numbness was wearing off. “Here.” Spanner passed her a hand mirror. “Watch. It’s interesting.”
The medic, who did not seem to resent being cast as entertainment, was smearing the edges of her wound with a cold jelly and carefully laying the light material over it. Then he unwrapped a few feet of electrical wire, attached it with crocodile clips to the material.
“What—”
“Stretch as much as you can.”
“It hurts.”
“Do the best you can. When this sets, it sets.”
She did.
He plugged in the wires. Lore felt a quick, tingling shock around her wound, and the gauzy material leapt up from her back and formed a flexible, rigid cage over the gash, still attached to her skin where the medic had applied the cold jelly. He put away the roll and the wires, took something else out of his bag. She watched him carefully in the mirror. He held it up. “Plaskin.” This time the spray was throat ier, lasted longer. When he was done, the raised white material, the jelly, and a two-inch strip of skin around the wound were all that pinkish bandage color that marketers called “flesh.” She looked as though she had a fat pink snake lying diagonally along her spine. He tapped it experimentally, nodded in satisfaction. “You won’t be able to lie down on it or lean against it, but you should be able to wear clothes in an hour or two, and the wound can breathe. For the next ten days bathe as normal. The plaskin will protect it. I’ll come back to take it off, make sure everything’s all right.” He put two vials of pills on the floor by her face. “This is all I have for now in the way of antibiotics and antivirals in pill form.” She could feel the drying plaskin begin to tug at the healthy skin on her back. “Is the pain very bad?”
“Yes.”
He knelt and Lore felt a cold wipe, then the sliding pinch of a needle in the muscle at her shoulder. She could feel the drug spreading under her skin, like butter. He stood and said to Spanner, “This cream is for when the plas comes off. It’ll need rubbing into the scar three times a day to keep it supple. I don’t have any painkillers at all in pill form.”
“I’ve used needles before.”
Lore wondered how Spanner knew about needles, but it did not seem to worry the medic. He pulled out his slate. “What name do you want to use?” He looked from one to the other.
“Lore Smith,” Spanner said.
He scribbled. “This prescription is for the drug and disposable needles.” He looked up. “Which pharmacy—the Shu chain do?” Spanner nodded, and he pressed the send button, tucked the slate back in his pocket. “They’ll keep it on file for seven days; after that it’s invalid. Keep the dosage down if you can. And don’t give it to her more than every six hours.”
Lore did not like being discussed as though she were not there, but the painkiller was coating her face with ice and her brain with cobwebs. She lay in a daze as they moved off toward the door, still talking. He seemed unsurprised by her injury. She wondered what kinds of trauma he was used to dealing with, and how people usually got the kind of hurts that they did not want disclosing. Knife wounds, gunshots. . .
She fell asleep, woke up to swallow the two pills Spanner held out; a needle, in her buttock this time. She slept again. When she woke properly it was dark and she was covered with a soft quilt. She breathed quietly. Where the cloth touched the plaskin covering her wound, it did not hurt. She smiled at that. Such a simple thing, to not hurt.
Spanner was working at her bench, sharp halogen light pooling in front of her. She reached out, took a data slate from the pile in the shadow, hooked it up to a small gray box, read something from the screen, laid it aside, took another slate.
Lore watched her for a while. This woman knew all about her: her name, age, family. If she cared to check, she could get information on education, hobbies, friends. Yet Lore knew nothing about her, did not even know if she had had any school, if she had ever been hurt, ever seen a medic under her real name. If she even had a real name. Some people, she knew, were illegitimate from birth—the fact of their existence not recorded anywhere. But that line of thought was too frightening. She yawned loudly.
Spanner swung round in her chair. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d given you too many pills. How do you feel?”
“Thirsty. And I need some clothes.”
“Both easily fixed.” She stood up and disappeared into the shadow. Red power points glowed from the dark. She brought back an old, soft shirt, some underwear, trousers. No shoes, Lore noticed, but then she doubted she would be going anywhere for a while.
“We’re about the same size, I think.” Spanner went into the kitchen.