As soon as the Checker had backed far enough away from the doorway, Leo bolted. Blake slipped the knife into its sheath at the small of his back and slid down from the cab’s hood. “We need a story,” he said, sticking his head in the taxi’s window.
Blake reached into the taxi and retrieved the briefcase he’d dropped on the floor. “The guy tried to rob me. You came to my rescue—that’s when he shot at you. You almost had him trapped, but he got away.”
The first police car, a sleek powder blue hydro—no quaint antiques here—whistled to a halt as the police chopper settled in to hover overhead. Blake watched the cops approach, faceplates down, shotguns leveled. At this rate, who knew which side they were on?
After almost two hours’ interrogation, the police let Blake go. He got off the subway in Tribeca and walked toward his parents’ home, past columns of steam issuing from manhole covers, down deserted asphalt streets where the robotaxis prowled like jungle beasts. Manhattan had become a showplace in this century, an exclusive enclave of the wealthy, and here and there the atmosphere of old New York was maintained for amusement’s sake.
Things were busier at the waterfront entrance to his parents’ building. Blake nodded at the guard captain as he punched the code into the lock of the private elevator to the penthouse. The other guards were out of public view.
He stripped off his torn jacket and soiled shirt and tie and gingerly applied Healfast salve to his blistered neck. The growth factors went to work immediately. By afternoon there would be little evidence of his second-degree burns.
A scatter of tiny black chips and two micro-supercomputers, their housings cracked where he’d pulled them out of the system . . . he hoped he hadn’t fried them in their own heat. For micro-supers—not unlike men encased in impermeable plastic suits—generated copious amounts of heat; if they weren’t vigorously cooled by water or some other fluid, they could burn in seconds.
It took Blake a quarter of an hour to get the first of the two little machines operating; for input he used his father’s keyboard, and the output was displayed on the desktop via his father’s holo unit. But after another hour’s concentrated tapping Blake gave up trying to extract anything from that machine. Nothing he tried got more than a scramble of standard code symbols on the holo projection, and he suspected that the thing was indeed fried.
He had more luck with the other machine, but only just: after forty minutes of increasingly frustrating play—it kept telling him he was an unauthorized user—he got up and went to stand in front of the window, staring with unseeing eyes into the haze, looking across the lower Hudson to the smoky Jersey shore. He tried to empty his mind of everything except the experiences of the night. It was a species of self-hypnosis, in which he tried to see and hear again everything he had seen and heard inside the lodge.
No message appeared, however, neither a welcome nor a warning. Instead, an animal writhed there in three dimensions. It was a lizardlike creature with a thick tail and a wide triangular head, with tiny gleaming round brown eyes. Its awkward thin legs had splayed toes ending in thick pads. The thing’s moist skin was coppery brown, with a bright yellow underbelly.
He sat bolt upright, and as soon as he remembered where he was and what he had been doing, he threw himself flat on the floor. But the steady
whuff whuff whuff
of the helicopter outside the window neither increased nor diminished. He crept across the floor and raised his eye to the level of the sill.
A black silhouette, a hole in the sky, diffuse and without detail against the bright haze in the west; the thing just hung there in space, eighty-nine stories above the streets of Manhattan, twenty meters away and exactly opposite the window of his father’s office. A Snark. A Snark as Boojum.
Blake didn’t move. There was nowhere to run or hide. The Snark carried enough firepower to wipe the penthouse right off the skyscraper on which it sat. The metropolitan police should have been here by now, within seconds of the Snark’s arrival. That they were nowhere in evidence spoke volumes. Blake could reach for the controls to the apartment’s private defenses—they were inside his father’s desk—but even if he reached them alive, he doubted the rooftop rockets could put a dent in a Snark.
Then the machine lazily arched into the air and slid away, peeling off toward the river. Within seconds Blake had lost sight of it in the dazzling bounce of light from the plain of wet algae. It left an unspoken message in its wake:
The next move is yours
.
Blake walked back to the desk. He carefully unplugged the functioning computer and put it and the machine he’d probably scragged into an express envelope, along with all the stolen black chips. He took a thick pen from his father’s drawer and wrote in bold block letters across the face of the envelope, “ATTENTION SALAMANDER, C/O NORTH AMERICAN PARK SERVICE, GRANITE LODGE, HENDRIK HUDSON PRESERVE, NEW YORK ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT.” The address wasn’t complete but it was more than sufficient. If they controlled the police, no doubt they had some clout with the postal service.
He swung a windbreaker over his arm, covering the envelope, then left the penthouse and took the elevator to the bottom of the tower. If anything went wrong, he wanted it to go wrong at some distance from his parents’ building. This package he would mail from some anonymous neighborhood box.
As he walked the windy streets toward uptown, Blake faced the fact that he was not a happy man. The woman he’d thought he loved wanted nothing to do with him. All the physical possessions he’d valued had been destroyed.
So the Salamanders were former Initiates, were they? Heretics. Rivals to the
prophetae
, and like them, deep into the workings of the system. Blake had thought he could make himself so visible he couldn’t be hit without scandal. A forlorn hope. Even if the Plowmans offered him that job at Vox Populi, he owed it to them not to accept.
Sparta found a job at J. Swift’s, a large travel agency in the City of London whose computers were rather better connected—for someone of Sparta’s leanings—than the firm’s managers suspected. They readily hired the girl with the sparkling green eyes and the Irish lilt who called herself Bridget Reilly, and who produced an impressive resume of service in the travel industry.
For the next weeks and months her life was too tedious to contemplate: long hours in front of a flatscreen, speaking into a commlink with clients and other agents, booking and endlessly rebooking flights and rooms and ground transportation for people who couldn’t seem to make up their minds or abide by their agreements, and cheerfully accepting responsibility for atrocities over which she had no control—many of them stemming from the middle-class, middle-aged English tourist’s desire to experience foreign culture as if through a tea-room window, most of the rest resulting from the young English tourist’s conviction (like that of youth everywhere) of personal blamelessness and immortality.
Bridget Reilly was the soul of friendliness at work, but her coworkers, male and female, soon learned that she had not the least interest in getting to know them better than her job required. When the workday was over, Ms. Reilly rode the underground to a tiny, ugly apartment in a dirty, ugly neighborhood, where prudence suggested she keep indoors, away from her neighbors and other strangers. She thawed dinner each night in an autochef; after she ate she went straight to her narrow bed. Six hours later the room’s tiny videoplate would brighten the predawn darkness with the BBC’s morning news, waking her to another day.
By night, there were dreams. Night after night she descended into the vortex of lurid clouds. She knew they were the clouds of Jupiter; more than that she did not know. The wind sang to her in a language she could not name, and although she seemed to understand it perfectly she could never remember a word of what had been said when she woke up. All she could remember were the tumbled emotions of ecstasy and fear, of ego-dissolving hope, of poisonous self-hatred.
By day, her intellect was the very edge of Occam’s razor. While she booked group tours to Port Hesperus and Labyrinth City with one hand on the keyboard, her other hand rested with PIN spines extended, penetrating her computer’s ports, running other programs in the interstices of processing. She needed no screen except the one in her head.
Not even the commander knew where she was or who she pretended to be. She maintained tenuous contact with him through untraceable circuits to his office at the Board of Space Control—somehow he was never in his office—but on the rare occasions they actually conversed, she made little pretense of heeding his suggestions; she was not running
his
programs. Indeed, although she said nothing of this to the commander, she had deferred her researches into Howard Falcon’s affairs while he investigated a deeper mystery, the contents of her own mind. . . .
Seated at her travel agency computer, she absorbed whole encyclopedias of neuroanatomy, neurochemistry, drug lore. Using the infolinks, she arranged prescriptions for women who did not resemble each other and did not resemble Bridget Reilly in the least; late at night, in neighborhoods filled with people of wealth or people of color, these women collected their medicines. Sparta’s pill and patch collection grew into a pharmacopeia.
At the safe house they’d used drugs on her in an attempt to penetrate her dreams. But she’d refused to work with the commander on his terms; perhaps because of that, perhaps for some deeper reason, the commander had refused to share everything they’d learned from that part of herself she could not reach. Now she used drugs on herself, trying to crack her own subconscious.
Amphetamines and barbiturates and psychedelics acted on her just as a century’s documentation said they would; they were useless. Metal salts changed her behavior and threatened to poison her internal organs and left her mind reeling. Alcohol increased the rate of dreaming but reduced the cogency of the dreams and left her nauseated in the morning, with burning eyes. The known neurotransmitters— dopamine and the rest—seemed to add vivid flourishes to familiar dream scenes, but did nothing for her insight or her memory.
Her researches took her farther afield. One taste of a chemical on her tongue and she knew what she was ingesting, for its precise formula spread itself across the screen of her mind. Of the estimated 30,000 significant proteins and peptides in the brain, a comparative handful had been characterized. Still, it was a long list. Methodically she worked her way through it. She recorded the effects of her selfexperimentation with clinical accuracy.
But she became ever more isolated. Her coworkers thought she disdained them, and they developed a cordial, low-temperature hatred for her in return. Still, her sacrifices were not in vain. After weeks of horrific nights, she stumbled upon a result.
A short-chain peptide, some nine amino-acid residues long, known to play a role in the formation of the striped columns of the visual cortex, seemed to release an image from her dreams, allowing it to be held in memory.
She took more of the peptide, a cheap and simple preparation that in the previous decade had been a favorite of some aggressively inclined psychotherapists, the type who liked roughing up their clients in the name of love and were inclined to become impatient with the slow unfolding of the talking cure. Cutely, they’d called the stuff Bliss. Bliss had started in the designer drug labs on L-5 as an analogue of controlled substances, not itself illegal. But it quickly made its way to Earth, where it soon developed that Bliss had unfortunate “side effects.” A few suicides were enough to get it banned for all but controlled experiments. A single pharmaceutical company manufactured it for the use of researchers, under the brand name Striaphan.