“You did?”
“Of course. You aren’t likely to be spreading résumés around our government, are you?”
“I should hope not.”
“Your friend has odd taste. A very small place?”
“The interior of a large Mercedes.”
“A what?”
“A land-yacht, built to tour a Russian oligarch around the Gobi desert.”
“You’re riding in it?”
“No,” he said, “it’s in a garage. No idea how they brought it in. May have had to take it apart.” He sat down at the desk, facing the black mirrors that must once have shone with the data of Lev’s grandfather’s exponentially expanding empire.
“Claustro,” she said.
“Someone told me your given name is Clarisse,” he said. “Struck me, that I hadn’t known.”
“Only because you’re so utterly self-centered,” she said.
“Rainey,” he said. “That’s a lovely name.”
“What have you got listening in, Wilf? It’s enormous. It’s giving my security the cold grue.”
“That would be the family of the friend I’m staying with.”
“He lives in a garage?”
“He has one. Or rather his father does. It goes down and down. And so does their security, evidently.”
“It profiles like a medium-sized nation.”
“That would be them.”
“Is that a problem?” she asked.
“Not so far.”
“Daedra,” she said, after a pause. “You know she had a sister?”
“Had?”
“There’s chatter,” she said. “Back channel. The patchers. Retaliation.”
“The patchers?” That disgusting recovered plastic. Flynne Fisher’s description of the thing that had scaled Edenmere Mansions, to murder Aelita. “Who’s suggesting that?”
“Chinese whispers. Ghosts of the Commonwealth.”
“New Zealand?” He imagined everything they were saying swirling down a citywide funnel, into whatever unimaginable consciousness Lev’s family’s security module might possess. He was suddenly aware of valuing this pretentious, overvarnished space, finite and dull and comforting.
“Never told you that.”
“Of course not. But they were the last ones left, last we spoke, along with the Americans.”
“Still are,” she said, “in theory. But it’s all back to square one. We, or rather they, as I’m no longer officially involved, need to regroup, rebrand, reassess everything. See who emerges to replace the boss patcher.”
Lowbeer had used a name, too foreign to recall. “Rainey,” he asked, “why are you calling, exactly?”
“Your friend’s family is making me self-conscious.”
“Why don’t we meet, then? Same place.”
“When?”
“I’ll have to see-”
“Hello,” said Ash, from the door. She had a matte aluminum attaché in either hand, trimmed with pale leather.
“Have to go,” he said. “Call you back.” Rainey’s sigil vanished.
“Where is she?” Ash asked.
“Rear cabin. What are those bags?”
“Hermès,” said Ash. “Her factory-original kit.”
“Hermès?”
“Vuitton are always blond,” she said.
31
Shaylene had a box of cronuts for them, the salted caramel ones from Coffee Jones. When Flynne worked there, one of her jobs had been shifting the trays of freshly printed cronuts to the oven. If you didn’t do it right, the lattice of the salted caramel caved in, and you got a flatter, less special cronut, one where the topping might pull your fillings out if you chewed too fast. Still, it was nice of Shaylene to have gotten them for the meeting. She’d also gotten Lithonia, a woman who worked for Macon sometimes, to mind the front counter so they wouldn’t be interrupted.
“First question,” Shaylene said, looking from Macon to Edward to Flynne, “is how funny is this?” The four of them were sitting around a card table that had been used as a cutting board, its top frayed with repeated scoring.
“Agreed,” said Macon.
“And?” Shaylene opened the Coffee Jones box. Flynne smelled warm caramel.
“We can’t find patents that match up,” said Edward, “let alone products, so we’re not going to be counterfeiting. Looks like the thing we’re printing is for doing something that something a lot more evolved could do a lot better.”
“How can you tell that?” Flynne asked.
“Lotta redundancies. Obvious workarounds. We’re being paid to build something they have the real plans for, but we’re building it out of available parts that approximate that, plus other parts we print. Plus some other available parts we modify, print on.” He’d taken his Viz out and put it in his pocket, as had Macon. Professional courtesy.
Shaylene offered Edward the cronuts. He shook his head. Macon took one. “So?” she asked. “How funny is that? And if it’s not funny, why is somebody willing to buy me a pair of very high-end printers, just to run one off?”
“Run off four,” Macon corrected. “One and three backups.”
“Homes,” Shaylene said, “they set people up.” She looked at Flynne.
“It’s Burton’s deal,” Flynne said, to Shaylene.
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“Because Leon went and won the lottery this morning. Needs help dealing with the media.” Which had a top layer of truth to it, but latticed, like the caramel on the cronuts.
“Heard he did,” said Macon. “Money flooding into the Fisher clan?”
“Not that much. Ten mil, with taxes on it. This fabbing’s a job, though. These are people Burton’s been working for, on the side. I’ve done a little for them too.”
“Doing what?” Shaylene asked.
“Gaming. They won’t say what it is. Like we’re beta testing something.”
“A gaming company?” Macon asked.
“Security,” said Flynne, “working for a gaming company.”
“That would fit,” said Edward. “We’re printing hands-free interface hardware.”
“Sort of thing the VA might hook Conner up with, if they had the money,” Macon said, looking at Flynne. “Lets you operate things by thinking about it. Closest patent matches are medical, neurological.” He pulled his cronut apart, the caramel stretching, sagging. “Even the haptics Burton used in the Marines.”
“What’s it look like?” Flynne asked, taking a cronut as Shaylene offered them.
“Headband with a box on it,” Edward said. “Too heavy for comfort. Have to print a special cable for it. One of the two printers is just for doing that, the cable. That printer’ll only be the thirty-third in this state.”
“And fully registered,” Shaylene said.
“If we’re not fabbing funny,” Macon said, “registered is fine. And no way to get one, unregistered. We looked.”
“Both those machines’ll be here tomorrow,” said Shaylene, “if the goth’s telling the truth.”
“Goth?” Flynne asked.
“Wait up,” said Macon. “You agree to the job already?”
“I figure I’ve still got the option to not take delivery,” said Shaylene. Then, to Flynne, “English woman, dumb-ass contact lenses. You gave her my number.”
“Burton must have. I deal with a guy.”
“Said they’re in Colombia,” said Shaylene. “Printer order came out of Panama. Those printers each cost way over what I gross annually, both sides of the business. Once they’re delivered, they’re mine, and she didn’t seem to give a shit about the fee on top of that. Sounds like builders to me.”
“There’s a game,” said Flynne, “I’ve seen it, and the guy I’ve talked with says they’re security, working for the game company. Asked him if they were builders. Said no. They’ve got money, seem to not mind spending it. I know you’re particular about this, Macon, and so am I, but this isn’t like we’re taking money from people we know are builders.” She wasn’t doing that great a job of convincing herself, so she doubted she was convincing Macon. “That’s Burton’s take on it too.”
Nobody said anything. Flynne took a first bite of her cronut. They’d gotten the lattice just right.
“Colombia was a drug place before there were builders,” said Edward. “Now it’s a money place. Like Switzerland.”