"Went out on s-1."
"Street exit, mall exit," Sheila said. "Via the Arlington lobby. Dave, we got you help coming in."
"Good."
"Private mech."
Adrenaline went up a notch. "That's help? That's help? Tell them—"
"I did, buns, sorry about that. Name's Ross, she's inbound from the other tower, corporate security . . ."
"Just what I need. Am I going out there? They want me to go out there?"
"You're clear."
He hated it, he hatedgoing out there, hated the stares, hated the Downtown monitoring that was going to pick up that pulse rate of his and have the psychs on his case. But he opened the door, he walked out into the lobby that was The Arlington's front face; and walked onto carpet, onto stone, both of which were only flat haze to his eyes. Bystanders clustered and gossiped, patched in like the potted palms, real people stark against the black and wire-lines of cartoonland, all looking at him and talking in half-voices as if that could keep their secrets if he wanted to hear. He just kept walking, down the corridor, following the faint red glow in the blue of Every-smell, followed it on through the archway into the wider spaces of the mall, where more real people walked in black cartoon-space, and that red glow spread out into a faint fanswept haze and a few spots on the floor.
Juvies scattered, a handful out of Parental, lay odds on it—he could photo them and tag them, but he kept walking, chose not even to transmit: Sheila had a plateful to track as it was. One smartass kid ducked into his face, made a face, and ran like hell. Fools tried that, as if they suspected there wasn't anybody real inside the black visor. Others talked with their heads partially turned, or tried not to look as if they were looking. That was what he hated, being the eyes and ears, the spy-machine that connected to everywhere, that made everybody ask themselves what they were saying that might go into files, what they had ever done or thought of that a mech might find reason to track . . .
Maybe it was the blank visor, maybe it was the rig—maybe it was everybody's guilt. With the sniffer tracking, you could see the stress around you, the faint red glow around honest citizens no different than the guy you were tracking, as if it was the whole world's guilt and fear and wrongdoing you were smelling, and everybody had some secret to keep and some reason to slink aside.
"Your backup's meeting you at A-3," Sheila said, and a marker popped up in the schema, yellow flasher.
"Wonderful. We got a make on the target?"
"Not yet, buns. Possible this guy's not on file. Possible we got another logjam in the datacall, a mass murder in Peoria, something like that." Sheila had her mouth full. "Everybody's got problems tonight."
"What are you eating?"
"Mmm. Sorry, there."
"Is that my cheeseburger?"
"I owe you one."
"You're really putting on weight, Sheel, you know that?"
"Yeah, it's anxiety attacks." Another bite. "Your backup's Company, Donna Ross, 20 years on, service citation."
"Shee." Might not be a play-cop, then. Real seniority. He saw the black figure standing there in her own isolation, at the juncture of two dizzying walkways. Saw her walk in his direction, past the mistrustful stares of spectators. "Get some plainclothes in here yet?"
"We got reporters coming."
"Oh, great. Get'em off, get the court on it—"
"Doing my best."
"Officer Dawes." Ross held out a black-gloved hand, no blues on the Company cop, just the rig, black cut-out in a wire-diagram world. "We're interfaced. It just came up." Data came up, B-channel. "Copy that." Ross was facing the same red track he was, was getting his data, via some interface Downtown, an intersystem handshake. He stepped onto the downbound escalator, Ross in his 360° compression view, a lean, black shape on the shifting kaleidoscope of the moving stairs. "This is a MarsCorp exec that got it?" Ross asked in his right ear. "Is that what I read?"
"Deader than dead. We got a potential gun walking around out here with the john-q's. You got material on the exec?"
"Some kind of jam-up in the net—I haven't got a thing but a see-you."
"Wonderful, both of us in the dark." The escalator let off on the lower level, down with the fast foods and the arcades and a bunch of ju-vies all antics and ass. "Get out of here," he snarled on Address, and ju-vies scattered through the cartoonscape. "Get upstairs!" he yelled, and some of them must have figured shooting was imminent, because they scattered doubletime, squealing and shoving. Bright blue down here with the pepperoni pizza and the beer and the popcorn, but that single red thread was still showing.
"Our boy's sweating hard," Ross said in one ear; and Sheila in the other: "We got a sudden flash in a security door, right down your way."
"Come on." Dave started to run. Ross matched him, a clatter of Cy-loprene soles on tile, godawful racket. The exit in question was flashing yellow ahead. A janitor gawked, pressed himself against the wall in a try at invisibility; but his presence was blue, neutral to the area.
"You see anybody go through?"
"Yeah, yeah, I saw him, young guy, took to the exit, I said he wasn't—" Supposed totrailed into the amped mike as they banged through the doors and into a concrete service hall.
"Sheila, you in with Ross?"
"Yeah. Both of you guys. I got a b&w following you, he's not meched, best I could do . . ." Red light strobed across his visor. WEAPONS ON, it said.
"Shit," he said, "Ross—" He stopped for a breath against the corridor wall, drew his gun and plugged it in. Ross must have an order too: she was plugging in. Somebody Downtown had got a fire warrant. Somebody had decided on a fire warrant next to a mall full of kids. Maybe because of the kids. "What's our make on this guy, Sheila? Tell me we got a make, please God, I don't like this, we got too many john-juniors out there."
"He's not in files."
"Off-worlder," Ross said.
"You know that?"
"If he's not in your files, he's from off-world. The Company is searching. They've got your readout."
"Shit, somebody get us info." The corridor was a moving, jolting wire-frame in the black. Nobody. Not a sign.
But the red was there, bright and clear. Sheila compressed several sections ahead on the wire-schema, folded things up close where he could get a look. There was a corner; he transviewed it, saw it heading to a service area. AIR SYSTEMS, the readout line said. "We got an air-conditioning unit up there, feed for the whole damn mall as best I guess . . . he's got cover."
"Yeah," Ross said. "I copy that."
"We're not getting any damn data," Sheila said in his other ear. "I'm asking again on that make, and we're not getting it. Delay. Delay. Delay. Ask if herkeyman's getting data."
"My keyman asks," he relayed, "if you've got data yet."
"Nothing new. I'm telling you, we're not priority, it's some little lovers' spat—"
"That what they're telling you?"
"Uh-uh. I don't know a thing more than you. But a male presence, female body up there . . . that's how it's going to wash out. It always does."
"Dave." Sheila's voice again, while their steps rang out of time on the concrete and the red track ran in front of them. She had a tone when there was trouble. "Butterflies, you hear?"
"Yeah. Copy." Sheila wasn't liking something. She wasn't liking it a lot. They reached the corner. The trail kept going, skirled in the currents from air ducts, glowing fainter in the gust from the dark. He folded the view tighter, looked ahead of them, didn't like the amount of cover ahead where they were going to come down stairs and across a catwalk. Something banged, echoed, and the lights went out.